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# Bello: ## hidden talent rediscovered! Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books. At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future. We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences. _About Bello:_ www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello _About the author:_ www.panmacmillan.com/author/royvickers # Contents * Roy Vickers * Chapter One * Chapter Two * Chapter Three * Chapter Four * Chapter Five * Chapter Six * Chapter Seven * Chapter Eight * Chapter Nine * Chapter Ten * Chapter Eleven * Chapter Twelve * Chapter Thirteen * Chapter Fourteen * Chapter Fifteen * Chapter Sixteen * Chapter Seventeen * Chapter Eighteen * Chapter Nineteen * Chapter Twenty * Chapter Twenty-One * Chapter Twenty-Two ## Roy Vickers # Murder of a Snob # Roy Vickers Roy Vickers was the author of over 60 crime novels and 80 short stories, many written under the pseudonyms Sefton Kyle and David Durham. He was born in 1889 and educated at Charterhouse School, Brasenose College, Oxford, and enrolled as a student of the Middle Temple. He left the University before graduating in order to join the staff of a popular weekly. After two years of journalistic choring, which included a period of crime reporting, he became editor of the _Novel Magazine_ , but eventually resigned this post so that he could develop his ideas as a freelance. His experience in the criminal courts gave him a view of the anatomy of crime which was the mainspring of his novels and short stories. Not primarily interested in the professional crook, he wrote of the normal citizen taken unawares by the latent forces of his own temperament. His attitude to the criminal is sympathetic but unsentimental. Vickers is best known for his 'Department of Dead Ends' stories which were originally published in _Pearson's Magazine_ from 1934. Partial collections were made in 1947, 1949, and 1978, earning him a reputation in both the UK and the US as an accomplished writer of 'inverted mysteries'. He also edited several anthologies for the Crime Writers' Association. # Chapter One Samuel Cornboise was murdered because he was a snob. Not the harmless kind of snob who wants to be admitted to ever more exalted circles—indeed, it is doubtful whether he could conceive of a circle of which he was not the centre. His snobbery was of the mystical kind. He believed in "birth and breeding." In defiance of biological science and social history, he believed that a small percentage of the population possesses the power of transmitting to its descendants certain moral qualities which make them a natural aristocracy. "Take my case!" he would insist. "Born in a London slum. Finished schooling at fourteen. Slipped over to Africa when I was sixteen. I was fifty-six before I found out that I was heir to a barony, and it cost me thirty thousand to establish my claim in the courts. 'The Bell-Hop Baron' they call me in Africa—and why not! When I really was a bell-hop I knew I was the stuff of which barons are made!" Bell-hop, diamond miner, steeplejack, and whatnot! Yet at thirty he was a substantial man, and at forty a millionaire. He discovered in himself a talent for finance—the most mysterious of all talents to those who do not possess it. Though he could never interpret a menu with any confidence, he was at one time a hotel king. In one of his own hotels—if such words have meaning—he was nearly killed by an accident to an elevator. By a process which the initiated will accept without wonder, he brought and won an action against himself, damages being inflated by the fact that, for the rest of his life, he would have to wear a wig to conceal a silver plate set in his skull. After his convalescence, he abandoned hotels, to become something imperial in Ladies' Footwear. He never directed these enterprises. He never organised anything, except figures on a blotting pad—generally someone else's blotting pad. He went into a score of trades and out again, leaving behind him, not men thirsting for his blood, as one might suppose, but an ever-widening circle of admiring friends. He even seems to have 'gone into' himself—Cornboise Investment Trust Limited—and strangest of all, we must believe that he went out of himself as irrevocably as if he had been Ladies' Footwear. When he retired and returned to England he had the greater part of three million pounds, most of it already converted into Government Stock. To make all that money in that way without going in fear of an accountant—or of a gunman—connotes a man of remarkable enterprise, intelligence and shrewdness. Behind his financial jugglery there must have been an acute sense of economic values. But human values were beyond his power of analysis. He sacrificed his personal happiness to an adolescent dream of an aristocracy that had never existed outside melodrama—the first sacrifice being his wife. Before he had floated his first company he married a respectable, buxomly attractive girl, who provided the domestic background he needed but was unable to provide an 'heir.' He separated from her, after discovering that her religious principles forbade divorce. In later life, his dream-interest centred on his nephew, the son of his elder brother, head potman of the _Goat-in-Flames_ , an historic but otherwise obscure tavern in north London. When his brother was accidentally killed, Samuel, in effect, adopted the twelve year old boy, sent him to an expensive school, thence to Oxford with a fantastic allowance and every possible encouragement to get into mischief. It was Samuel's idea of grooming him for inheritance of Samuel's fortune. No doubt, Samuel's delusions in the matter of blue blood would have remained an amusing foible, but for his freak inheritance of a dormant barony. It was Andrew Querk, his agent in England, who discovered the thin thread of evidence—Querk who engaged a team of lawyers and lineage experts. The thin thread was doubled and re-doubled on itself until it became a cable, which hoisted Samuel Cornboise into the peerage. The romantic nonsense about birth and breeding seemed to be translated into reality. On his retirement, he decided to 'go into' aristocracy as he had gone into Ladies' Footwear, using much the same technique. The result was immediate disaster. Cornboise—the hero of so many financial epics—now correctly entitled Lord Watlington—had been in England scarcely a month before he set the stage for his own murder. In the interval between finishing lunch and taking his afternoon doze, he made three dangerous mistakes, the first of which was a witless under-estimate of Claudia Lofting, a vivacious brunette of twenty-six engaged to marry his nephew and sole heir. She was herself a sprig of impoverished aristocracy; she possessed, in addition to physical beauty and intelligence, most of the qualities which he fondly imagined to be aristocratic. Yet he thought he could afford to tell her to her face, in the presence of his nephew and Andrew Querk, that she was not up to the standard he required—thought it safe to offer to buy her off on liberal terms. By way of proof, he confronted them with letters written by Claudia before she had met Ralph—letters which seemed to Watlington to destroy her reputation. So that his trustees should make no mistake, he sealed the letters in an envelope containing his Will, which stipulated that his nephew's bride should be "a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation." Hitherto, he had been successful in dealing with humanity because both associates and rivals had been dominated, like himself, by the single purpose of making money. Claudia Lofting, as it happened, was dominated by a purpose that is much older and much more relentless than the purpose of making money. Ralph Cornboise, the nephew and sole heir, was equally lacking in the desire to make money. He desired, primarily, to live. He believed, with slightly more justification than is usual in such cases, that his life would not be worth living without Claudia. Thus, his uncle's technique, which was based on converting opponents into allies, was doomed to fail. In this case, the technique followed the usual pattern of conciliation, beginning with an invitation to Claudia, also to Ralph, to spend a weekend at Watlington Lodge, _'with me and my old friend, Andrew Querk, and to meet a few new friends at dinner on Saturday night.'_ On Saturday night, the guests duly arrived. But there was no dinner party because, by that time, the host was dead. In the county police headquarters at Kingsbourne, Colonel Crisp, the Chief Constable, had been kept at his desk throughout Saturday afternoon preparing evidence in a river smuggling case. As the Town Hall clock boomed seven he touched the bell push which summoned his aide, David Benscombe, a presentable, eager junior in the early twenties. "Let me have what you've done and you can knock off now." "Thank you, sir. Have you finished?" "No. But I shan't need you any more tonight. Better go, boy, while the going's good... There! You've lost your chance. Take that call will you?" Benscombe took up the receiver. "The Chief Constable is in conference—I'm speaking for him... Oh-h!... Are you quite sure it's murder?... Right, we'll come along. Who are you, please? Hullo? Damn!" The last under his breath as he turned to his chief. "Lord Watlington murdered, sir. At Watlington Lodge. He's that South African millionaire featured in the local paper three weeks ago. Shall I call Detective-Inspector Longley? As a matter of fact, I know he's not at home—told me he was going up river to fish. There's Inspector Bassett?" "No. I'll go myself. You've lost your weekend, boy. Tell Bassett to call up the team. We'll go in my car. They can follow us." Colonel Crisp had held his present post for a few weeks only. He was, as it were, a permanent temporary Chief Constable, being seconded by the Home Office to any county that had need of his services. Behind him was a distinguished military career as a leader of guerilla troops. To look at, he was unimpressive. A little above medium height, he was broad and stocky. He slouched: all the pockets of his uniform bulged, so that he barely escaped slovenliness. His hands were noticeably large and seemed to have more than the natural complement of knuckles. During the war years he had become one of the world's greatest experts in leading hand-picked bands of intelligent, civilised men in the dreadful business of inflicting death and destruction. His disciplined desperadoes had consisted mainly of ex-shop assistants, bank clerks and students; for he had discovered that the tough-guy type of humanity is not even tough. He was himself mild and unassertive in manner. He would speak with the same informal friendliness to judge and criminal, to the lowest and the highest, which sometimes astonished the highest. At twenty past seven, piloted by young Benscombe, he turned through the scrolled gates of Watlington Lodge—a late eighteenth-century manor house, with five acres of garden, some dozen miles from London, which had belonged to the family with which Samuel Cornboise had successfully connected himself. The house had been unoccupied for forty years. Arriving in England a month ago, Lord Watlington had moved straight in. The caretaker was still in residence. She had been supplemented by a temporary cook and two housemaids while he postponed the tricky business of engaging a domestic staff. A short, semi-circular drive brought them into full view of the house, an undistinguished rectangular block, the rectangle broken on the west side by the stables, built on to the rear of the house—rococo stables of tortured design, including a chiming clock set in an irrelevant turret. The garden—more grandiloquently, the home park—lay to the west of the house, from which it was screened by a tangle of yew hedges, clipped here and there into conventional shapes which had gradually become grotesque under years of inexpert maintenance. As the car rounded the bend of the drive, young Benscombe's attention was caught by what he saw on the terrace. "Good lord, sir! I believe it's a hoax!" The calm of a hot summer evening hung over house and garden. On the terrace was a score or more of wicker armchairs, flanked by an outsize cocktail cabinet. Three of the chairs were occupied. Between two men—one young, the other middle-aged—Benscombe saw an attractive girl in a light evening cloak. He stepped out of the car and hurried to the terrace. "The Chief Constable is here," he announced. He paused a moment for their reaction, noted that the girl put her hand on the young man's sleeve. The middle-aged man, Andrew Querk, beamed on him. "We are only guests," he explained. "Lord Watlington will be here in a moment. In the meantime, on behalf of our host—" "We have had a telephone message that Lord Watlington has been murdered." "Upon my soul!" mouthed Querk. "The Chief Constable, too, you said! This is most serious. I can only suggest that there must be some confusion of names. I would hesitate to suspect a practical joke." In the meantime, the Chief Constable had entered the house by the front door, which was open. Bessie, the housemaid, was waiting in the hall to announce the guests. "Will you please tell Lord Watlington that the Chief Constable of the county would like to see him." "Yes, sir. I expect he's still dressing." Bessie, who was willing but untrained in the niceties of her calling, scampered upstairs, to scamper down again. "He must be in the library after all," she puffed. She crossed the hall, tried the door of the library, knocked and rattled the handle. "It's locked. You'll have to wait, sir, while I go round by the window and tell him—p'raps he's still asleep." "Don't bother," said Crisp. "Does he generally lock himself in?" "No, sir. He wouldn't need. No one ' ud dare go in while he was taking his nap." Crisp saw a waiter carrying a load of table silver to the dining-room. "What exactly is going on here?" "A dinner party, sir. Those waiters and cooks have come down from London, as there's only the caretaker and me and cook and another girl in the house. There's cocktails at seven thirty, and dinner at eight." "Right! Just carry on, will you. Don't take any notice of me." Benscombe had joined Crisp. "Those three outside are guests. They expect Watlington in a few minutes," he reported. Crisp nodded. "Don't let anybody follow me." He went to the door of the library, bent to examine the lock. From one of the bulging pockets he took a small pair of double-action pincers, which gave him a firm grip on the protruding end of the key. He turned it and entered the library, closing the door behind him. Watlington was sitting in the swivel chair, which had been swivelled some forty-five degrees, as if he had been turning towards the wall-safe when death overtook him. That he was indeed dead was obvious from the face, the left side of which was contorted into a fantastic wink, while the right side was normal. The left hand was across the breast, the fingers and thumb bent at the joints so that the whole hand had a spiderlike appearance—a nightmare spider with a signet ring. By contrast, the right hand rested on the knee, relaxed—the natural position for the hand of a man who had dozed off in his chair. The left leg was bent at knee and ankle so that the toes alone touched the floor. The right leg was normally relaxed. Crisp's eye travelled back to the face, which looked like the halves of two separate faces welded together by a maniac. Added was a certain gruesome rakishness, due, Crisp thought, to the fact that the scalp itself was awry—until he realised that he was staring at a wig, slightly displaced. There was no obvious sign of external violence. "Looks like some kind of seizure," ran his thoughts. "Probably while he was asleep." All the same, he would have to proceed on the assumption of murder until the doctor had given a lead. He took in the objects immediately surrounding the body. Long writing table: telephone: three upright chairs at the opposite side of the table, with three writing pads in front of them. A small pearl-handled penknife on one of the writing pads. The wall safe. On the mantelpiece a hand-operated die-stamp. Why on the mantelpiece instead of the writing table? Go into that later. Mechanically, he ticked off the small detail of the objects. Watlington's writing pad at an angle, liberally scrawled with pencil, the pencil lying on the pad. The pencil was of ordinary pattern, except that it had a white enamelled barrel, with the South African maker's name impressed in red. Similar pencils lay beside each of the three blotting pads on the other side of the table—no, by the middle pad there was no pencil! Yet the middle pad, alone of the three, had been touched with a pencil—incomplete geometrical patterns—the handiwork of a 'doodler. Last, he observed the room itself. Three walls were lined with bookshelves, heavily curtained, in the Victorian style. There were no books behind the curtains. The furniture, like that of the hall, was not old but merely out-of-date. There was a single window frame with sash windows ten feet high and five feet wide, counterpoised so that they could be raised or lowered with a light movement of the wrist. "The team is arriving, sir," called Benscombe without entering the room. He added: "And the dinner party guests too!" After a glance round the room, during which he noted that the window was open at the top only, Crisp returned to the doorway. "Get a screen for this door," he ordered Benscombe. The team was pouring into the hall. They knew their work and needed no shepherding. But there was a small point to be cleared up at once. "Do the key in the door first, and check with the finger prints of the deceased." Out came a powder spray. When the powder had settled: "There's no print on the key, sir. There's a lot of scratches on the stub—the part that sticks out on the other side." So Watlington had not locked himself in. It was theoretically possible that some innocent person wearing gloves had done so. But it was extremely unlikely. The scratches, Crisp reflected, had probably been made by himself. Nevertheless: "Wrap the key for microscopic examination," he ordered. He left the fingerprint man, the doctor, and the photographers to their work and went to the terrace. More than half the guests had arrived. Bright sunlight was streaming on the white shirt fronts of the men, making them look like foreigners at a wedding. They were clustered round Querk, questioning and even heckling him. The presence of the police in numbers had produced a variety of reactions, chief of which was the dread of being associated with a financier who had broken the law. Most of the guests were well known in fashionable and sporting circles. In one way and another, they had been profitably entangled in Watlington's massive financial movements. They had received invitations to dinner at short notice, couched in terms that were almost peremptory. Those who had previous engagements cancelled them. They felt for Watlington that gratitude which is a lively sense of favours to come. They all turned as Crisp approached. "It's the Chief Constable himself... That looks serious... What's it all about, Colonel?" "I am sorry to tell you that Lord Watlington is dead," said Crisp. The collective gasp was broken by Claudia Lofting. "Has he been murdered?" "We don't know yet. I imagine that those who have been asked here to dinner will not care to stay. I would be obliged if you would kindly give your names to the constable at the door before you go. And please don't walk about the garden." Thank heaven it had nothing to do with the accounts! The guests, chilled by Crisp's method of kicking them out, began to drift back to their cars. Some of their chatter reached Crisp. "They say he married in South Africa, but no one has ever seen her. Perhaps she was waiting behind the door with an assegai—or is it a tomahawk? What is a tomahawk?" Then a deep, self-assured voice: "It's either natural causes or murder. I happen to know it can't be suicide." Crisp swooped. The speaker was a distinguished looking man in the middle thirties. His face was long and thin: his eyes, large but deep set, were framed with thick, curving eyebrows. In contrast to the evening dress of the others, he was wearing baggy flannel trousers and a sports coat of somewhat elaborate cut; it was pleated, back and front, and had special side pockets, from one of which protruded the edge of a leather-bound sketch-book. On his left hand, unexpectedly, was a dun-coloured, cotton glove. "How d'you know that?" asked Crisp. The other looked Crisp up and down. He was unimpressed by the badges of rank, paid more attention to the bulging pockets. "Because he told me he intended to make an announcement tonight about his nephew's engagement to Miss Lofting. And because he made an appointment to sit for me next Tuesday." He added, with some surprise: "I say—don't you know who I am?" Crisp admitted ignorance. "As a matter of fact, I'm Arthur Fenchurch!" "Thank you, Mr. Fenchurch," said Crisp and lost interest. While Crisp was talking to Fenchurch, Claudia sought Ralph Cornboise. "More people are turning up," she warned him. "I don't think we need bother to break it gently." The newspaper descriptions of Claudia in court, by emphasising her physicality and writing up every detail of her dress, contrived to suggest a type of mindless play-girl who would do most things for money, including murder if necessary. Actually, her appearance did not justify the superlatives of the special reporters. She was a smallish woman, but so well proportioned that no one would have called her short. Her disciplined body gave her unusual poise and gracefulness—missed by the reporters. Her hair was dark, as were her wide-set eyes: her skin fair, so that she looked fragile, which she was not. Her features escaped the regularity demanded of the standard glamour girl. Her nose had the hint of a tilt, and her mouth was dynamic. In sum, not a ravishing beauty but a good-looking girl with a physical individuality. From an artist's point of view, her weak spot was her hands, which were a shade too large and lacked femininity. As Ralph showed no sign of taking action, she added: "Hadn't you better go and head them off?" Ralph Cornboise, to look at, was any schoolgirl's ideal. He was tall and athletic, with crisp gold curls and long eyelashes, which concealed the slight prominence of his eyes. Claudia approved of his appearance, much as a woman approves of a man's clothes and with as little emotion. She had been drawn to him by that element in herself which she had not tried to understand—a desire to protect and sustain a neurotic whose nature needed hers. This desire had grown to a dominating passion. "Very well!" He was reluctant. "If you think I ought to." "I'll join you in a minute." Claudia raised her voice for the benefit of some laggards. "We're awfully sorry, everybody, but we're afraid you'll have to go." Crisp approached her. "Are you hostess for Lord Watlington?" he asked. "No. Not officially. I'm Miss Lofting. I'm engaged to his nephew—Mr. Cornboise. He and I and Mr. Querk—the one bowing people out over there—were asked to stay for the weekend. I must hurry and help Ralph—that is, Mr. Cornboise. He's a bit shaken." Crisp told Benscombe to find out all about the imported waiters and to get rid of them, too. "Have their names and addresses taken. And pass the word that those three—Miss Lofting and Cornboise and that fleshy chap who has just sat down over there—are not to leave the house until I give the word." Crisp went back to the house, taking note of the groundfloor rooms. As you entered the house, through a lobby, the dining-room was on your right, the east side: behind it, the onetime 'smoking room' and a second small room, which the caretaker called the gun-room. Opposite the dining-room was the drawing-room: next to it, the library, then the morning-room. Tredgold, the doctor, came out of the library and approached Crisp. "Better take the morning-room, sir," suggested Benscombe, who was passing Crisp's orders to the sergeant in charge of the hall. As was his duty, he followed Crisp and the doctor into the morning-room. "It's murder right enough, Colonel—and that doesn't mean that I'm trespassing on your ground. A good many years ago, deceased had a trepanning operation. There was a silver plate set in the top of his skull. Over it he wore a wig. The plate was crumpled and driven in." "Smashing the brain?" "Piercing the brain. That would account for the distortions of the body you noticed. The wig was, as far as I could see, undamaged." "How many blows?" "By the appearance of the plate, only one." "Heavy blow required?" asked Crisp. "N-no. I'm no metallurgist, but I should say an eight or ten pound blow would do it. A child of ten could certainly exert enough pressure to smash that plate—using a blunt instrument, of course." "A ten-pound wallop! Wouldn't that have damaged the wig?" "It would indeed. All the same, he was not wearing the wig when he was struck. It's very unlikely that he himself had previously removed it—trepanned patients are always cautioned never to leave the head uncovered." "Then the murderer removed the wig, delivered his blow, then replaced the wig?" asked Crisp. "I don't see how it could have been done otherwise," answered Tredgold. "Anyhow, I can positively assure you that the blow was not struck through the wig." While Crisp pondered the doctor's statement, young Benscombe cut in: "Could he possibly have done it himself, doctor?" "Hardly!" The doctor smiled. "Anyhow, he couldn't have replaced the wig, because he'd have been dead." "How long has he been dead?" asked Crisp. "About a couple of hours. I can't get nearer than that. Call it between five and five thirty." "Can you give us a lead as to the weapon?" "I'm afraid not. The condition of the plate might help you there. It might have been any object in the room weighing a pound or two—or a fair-sized spanner carried in the pocket. If you don't want me any more at the moment, I'll go and get everything ready for conveyance to the mortuary. Awkward that all this should happen on a Saturday evening!" "Thanks, doctor," said Crisp after a short silence. "You might have that plate ready for us as soon as possible You've given us plenty to start on." When the doctor had gone, Crisp asked Benscombe: "Who was it who spoke to you on the phone?" "I don't know, sir. As I told you at the time, he cut off." "It was a man's voice, then?" "I remember _supposing_ it was a man." Benscombe stared down at his feet while his face flushed. "But now—I can't swear it wasn't a woman with a lowish voice—or a man with a softish voice." As Crisp scowled, Benscombe added: "I'm very sorry, sir. At the police college we had that very test, and no one ever got one hundred per cent." Crisp turned his back, looked out of the window. "Come here a minute, Benscombe." Benscombe exclaimed as he stared at a grouping of three grotesque shapes, clipped out of the yew trees. A vaguely heraldic figure that might have been a two-headed serpent menaced a huge, impossible fowl, which was curtseying to a green octopus. The trees stood at an intersection of the avenues of yew hedges. Under the two-headed serpent, some fifty yards from the window, was a stout woman, unfashionably dressed and apparently elderly. She was sitting on a rustic bench, knitting. "Shall I go and quizz her?" "No. Keep an eye on her while I see what they're doing next door." In the library, the doctor was bending over the corpse, as if continuing his examination. The upper part was already covered. The photographers had completed their preliminary work and were waiting for the finger-print man. "We've got a lot, sir," said the latter. "All over the writing table, two or three on the window, and two on the sash outside." "Just a minute, Colonel!" The doctor seemed to have increased in stature. "I suggest that you try this signet ring for prints." He paused to rivet Crisp's attention. "It was removed after death and replaced. I missed that point the first time." " _After_ death? You're sure of that?" "I oughtn't to say I'm sure, but I am. The ring is a very tight fit. He would probably have needed soap to coax it off himself. Soap was not used. A small knife was used—as a shoe-horn is used—possibly that little pearly knife on the table. The flesh is perceptibly cut in two places, but the incisions have not bled." The powder was applied, but with negative result. The ring had been wiped clean. The table had been dealt with for finger prints. Across the blotting pad opposite the swivelled chair, covered with a maze of notes in pencil, was a sheet, torn from a writing pad, all four sides of which were dotted with embossments of a crest—a two-headed serpent. "Have the notes on that blotting pad typed out," ordered Crisp. Laid on an oilskin cloth and ticketted were the contents of the deceased's pockets. A gold cigar case, a slim wallet containing notes, a toothpick, several pencils, a bunch of keys, a gold watch and chain, with a key on the end of the chain. Crisp glanced from the key to the wall safe, then picked up watch and chain and applied the key to the safe, hoping to find a significant document. He at once found what he sought—indeed, the safe contained nothing but a long envelope with a printed address to a firm of solicitors. He picked it up, found that it had been lying on a similar envelope, empty, with the same printed address. On the back of the topmost envelope was a liberal blob of red sealing wax. Crisp took the sealed envelope by the edges. "Try this for a finger print." This time the powder gave a clear result. The prints were immediately photographed. Next, Crisp examined the sealing wax on the envelope. Imprinted was the crest of the two-headed serpent. To make sure, he dropped wax on a writing pad and applied the signet ring. The imprints were identical. He ran his fingers the length of the envelope. It certainly was very slim—if indeed it was a significant document. It seemed to contain a single folded sheet. # Chapter Two Inspector Sanson, who was superintending measurements, approached Crisp. "We've taken the prints of Harridge's waiters and of the three resident servants," he reported. "There's a lady and two gentlemen staying in the house—" "Take those, too," ordered Crisp, and added: "As soon as your log is ready bring it to me in the little room behind this." Crisp strode on to the terrace. Benscombe was at the west end. "The old girl is still knitting," he reported. "I think she's watching points, sir. That bench is at the crossing of four avenues. She doesn't catch the eye herself, but she can see this terrace and the side of the house. By the way the hedges run, she could probably see anyone coming to the house from the garden." "Right! I'll tackle her myself." As he crossed the strip of lawn and entered the nearest avenue, the woman placed her knitting in a large canvas handbag. Crisp noted that she was probably about sixty, that her dress, though dowdy, was by no means shoddy. She was a big woman and even stouter than she had appeared to be when seen from the window of the morning-room. Yet her face was thin and boney, her skin excessively wrinkled, so that her large, well-shaped eyes created the eerie effect of having been filched from a younger woman. "Good evening," she said in the tone of one who has been kept waiting. She shifted her position on the bench, to make room for him. Crisp echoed her greeting and sat beside her. Unexpectedly, she opened the canvas bag and took out the knitting she had just put away. "D'you mind telling me," he asked, "what you are doing here?" "I guessed you'd want to know. That's why I waited until you came." Her words were well formed, but the intonation was unmistakably Cockney. Her voice might once have been a pleasing contralto, but with the years it had dropped almost to tenor. "I told myself it doesn't matter talking to the police because they don't tell the newspapers anything they don't have to. And it wouldn't be fair to him—" she nodded in the direction of the house "——to put me in the papers. And fair's fair, whatever a man has done!" "Quite so!" agreed Crisp. In her conversational stance he recognised the recluse. She was not talking directly to him. She was talking to herself and allowing him to listen. "Will you begin with your name, please?" "I had better begin with my name." Crisp observed that even his question registered as her own thought. "I'm a married woman. Agnes Julia Cornboise." She added her address. "Cornboise," repeated Crisp. "Are you related to that young man staying in the house?" "So that's his name is it!" The old lady seemed deeply impressed. "Well, I never! He must be that nephew of his he's told me so much about. Then, of course, I'm his aunt by marriage, though there's no need for him to know that." Again she nodded at the house. "I'm his wife, though we're separated these thirty years or more." "D'you mean that you're Lord Watlington's wife—that you're Lady Watlington?" For a moment, Crisp suspected her mental balance. "Oh, I don't take any notice of all that! And it certainly wasn't why I came and sat in his garden." She was amused. "Me setting up as a ladyship at my time o' life and living in Kilburn—I'd never hear the last of it!" She became abstracted. Crisp gave her time. "Did I say thirty years? It's thirty-two years, come next October, since we parted, because he wanted to. He never told me why, though I guessed. It wasn't another woman. Though it's wrong to say so, I wish it had been, because he'd have got tired of anybody but me. He never did get tired of me. Why in thirty years, I've got more than twenty big bundles of his letters—the nice ones, I mean: I didn't keep the other sort. "Nice letters," she repeated. "You'd think we'd gone on living together and only parted a week or two before they were written. I suppose I ought to have known better at the time than to marry him. But there it is! What's done can't be undone. At least, it oughtn't to be, when it's marriage." She showed signs of drying up. She began to knit, somewhat clumsily. Crisp had already winnowed two small points and wanted more. "And you wrote nice letters back to him?" he prompted. "I never wrote to him at all. Only picture post-cards, saying I'd got the letters. He'd write when the mood was on him, sometimes three letters in a week and sometimes none for a couple of months. Used to write about me as if I was still a young woman." "That's very unusual," said Crisp. "Why did he desert you?" " _Who_ said he deserted me!" She was indignant. "If I said anything to make you think that, I did wrong. Fair's fair, whatever I've suffered. He always sent me the money he said he would. And lots of extra, sometimes. But the extra was because he wanted to bribe me into going against my principles and have a divorce. Those were the letters I didn't keep. And now you've made me forget what I was saying." "You were telling me why you are here in this garden, said Crisp. His eye was caught by the van from the mortuary, which was drawing up at the front door. He added: "We—er—began with your marriage some thirty years ago." "That's right!" she applauded. "In Jo'burg, as they call it, meaning Johannesburg. In South Africa, y'know." She mentioned a politician who was once well known in Empire politics. "He had a delicate stomach—died of it in the end—and when he had to go to Africa for the Government he took his cook with him. The cook was me. "Samuel was just finishing being a miner then. I don't remember what he was at the time. In the fifteen months we lived together he must have had half a dozen different kinds of job, but he always brought home good money. That was the ruin of him, if you ask me." She was looking towards the front door. Without change of tone, she went on: "They might have used some sort of makeshift coffin, just to take him away in." "Mrs. Cornboise! Who told you Lord Watlington was dead?" "Nobody told me. Where did I get to?—oh yes!—when we were walking out, he told me he could see I was of good family—mind you, there's nothing wrong with my family—better than his, come to that—only it wasn't what _he_ meant by a good family—and it came out that he thought I was a sort of paid companion, or something, to her ladyship. And I didn't let on I was only the cook. Maybe I did wrong, but I was in love with Sam and I was twenty-eight and hadn't had many chances, so though I didn't tell him a single untruth I let him think what he liked and we got married almost right away." She looked wistfully at the mortuary van. "And now it's all ended like _that!_ There you go, then, Sam! It seems hardly decent." She watched the van turn the bend in the drive, then resumed: "We had a little boy, but he died almost before he was born. I believe that broke Sam's heart. Not that men are often fond of babies at that stage. But he said something about losing his heir—talking as if he was Henry VIII! It was to do with his talk about good families and the rest of it. It turned him against me. He said he still loved me and always would, but he wanted a divorce—which, of course, I wouldn't agree to. There wasn't any quarrel—he just sort of asked me to go. "So back I came to England, all alone. I've been alone ever since, in a manner of speaking, and I've never really got used to it. I took to knitting about ten years ago—undervests for Sam, as he has to have wool next the skin. I must've sent him fifty or sixty. And he's never once mentioned them in his letters—not even to say 'thank you.' "What I was saying was, the money didn't really help at all, when you wanted company. When I heard he'd had to have the top of his head sliced off, I went to Johannesburg, thinking they might have cut out his senses and he'd need me to look after him. But he wouldn't even see me. And after I'd been back in London a couple of years, he wrote to say he was making a lot of money and he was sending a gentleman called Mr. Querk—I think I saw him this evening, over there with the others—he took me to an insurance office. Something was signed, which meant I was to have a nice little income all my life, whether Sam lived or died, or whatever happened to him, provided I didn't molest him." "So you still have the income?" put in Crisp. "That's what I'm coming to, if you give me time," she answered. "I couldn't stand having no one to talk to, so I went back to cooking, for company. I saved most of what the insurance company paid me—and all the money Sam sent as extra presents, hoping for divorce. I reckoned I'd have a nice tidy sum ready for him if—" she glanced meaningly at Crisp's uniform—"if anything went wrong through all that money making. When I read in the paper that he'd set himself up as a lord, I knew something 'ud happen. You can laugh at me, but I had a feeling in my bones this morning that it was going to happen today." "I shan't laugh," Crisp assured her. "I've known many cases of that sort of thing." "Well, so I had a bite o' lunch at home then came along here with my knitting and a few sandwiches, meaning to wait about quietly, in case he should go for a stroll in the garden. You couldn't call that molesting him. And even if I was wrong about something bad going to happen, I thought maybe he'd like us to spend our old age together and live simply and comfortably, as soon as he's tired of playing at being a lord. Why, he doesn't even know what the gentry eat!" With the last words, she turned towards him. Crisp observed that the large eyes suggested not only vigour but also intelligence. Yet she had rambled on in the manner of a person who has no sense of proportion. She had not even asked him the usual irritating questions as to whether it were a case of murder and if so who was the murderer. "I've told you all about Sam and me because I didn't want you ferreting about and getting it all wrong. He gave me much more money than he need have done. All the same, he spoilt my life as well as his own, and now he's gone it won't really make any difference. He didn't want me, whatever you say. For one thing, I ought to have told myself he'd get a shock at seeing me an old woman." Crisp made a leap in the dark. " _Was_ it a shock to him when he saw you, Mrs. Cornboise?" "I don't care for that kind of question!" She drew herself up primly, as if he had made an obscene remark. "If I'd seen him I'd have mentioned it. If you ask me in a straightforward way what you want to know, I'll give you a straightforward answer." "Thank you, Mrs. Cornboise." Crisp contrived to look like a penitent schoolboy. "Here's a very straightforward question. What time did you get here this afternoon?" "About ten past two. I could see the time from the stable clock—let alone it keeps on striking. I found this nice seat where I can see two sides of the house and anybody coming up from this side of the garden, though I will say these awful shapes gave me the creeps at first." "You must have seen a good deal in that long time?" "There was nothing to see until you came. Unless you mean the other people in the house. And I'm one to mind my own business." "Come, Mrs. Cornboise!" Crisp was changing tone. "I think you know as well as I do that this is your own business." "I'm sure I've got nothing to hide, except from the newspapers. Well then, a bit after it had struck half past two, I saw that window open—look down this alley—one of those big windows, I mean." She indicated the library. "And a young lady came out. And that young man you say is my nephew by marriage came after her. It looked to me as if they were having a tiff and she was in the wrong, because she put her hand on his arm and he shook it off; then she put it there again and he let it stay and they walked across over there, only it wasn't any good. They must have had a good long quarrel. And she was unlucky, by the look of it." "Did you hear what they said, then?" "No. But more'n a couple of hours later she came back without him. And she walked right past me without seeing me and went into the house." "What time did she go into the house?" "Five, as near as makes no matter." According to the doctor, Watlington had died between five and five thirty. "What about young Cornboise?" asked Crisp. "He gave her a good start. It was a good ten past before he showed up. And then he didn't go in by the front door, as she did. He went in by the window he had come out of, pushed it up from the outside. I think she must've been in that room—or else he had some trouble with Samuel. It hadn't finished striking the quarter past before he came out again—wiping his face with his handkerchief he was, as if he'd been crying. Then he walked across that bit o' lawn, but caught his foot, or something, and fell down. When he'd picked himself up he turned round and went to the stables—but it's the garage, really—then he came out in one of those big cars that only seat two—silly, I call ' em—and drove himself off. All painted up, the car was, like it belonged to a circus." "But he came back?" "I'm telling you. He came back a little after half past six. He'd left it late, I suppose, because he fairly ran from the stables to the front door. "I didn't see either of those two again until just before you came. Then they came out together, him in his evening dress and her wearing a cloak. They hadn't hardly sat down before that Mr. Querk—if it _is_ Mr. Querk—joined them. You saw the three o' them when you came, before all those others turned up." "And you saw nothing else at all?" "Well unless you count the maid, bringing out tables and chairs and things, about seven. Oh, and the postman—about a quarter to four, that would be. With a registered parcel I expect, because he waited while the maid signed for it." Crisp had made a rich haul of important little items, invaluable in checking the statements of others. And for this he was indebted to the vague, rambling old woman who had suddenly converted herself into an ideal witness. "You've helped me a lot, Mrs. Cornboise, and I'm grateful." He added in the same tone: "And you yourself have been sitting on this bench continuously for more than six hours?" "Seven hours, come another few minutes. Didn't you hear it strike nine just now? There'll be the dew presently and I think I'll be getting home, if there's nothing else you want to ask me." "As a matter of form, Mrs. Cornboise," said Crisp, "I must ask you to let me look inside that canvas bag of yours." "Well, I never!" Again she had the air of being shocked. "Like the police in the pictures." She handed him the bag, adding gloomily: "In a picture I saw last week, a policeman put a revolver in somebody's bag so that another policeman could find it there and make a lot of bother." "You watch me and see that I don't cheat," grinned Crisp as his hand groped in the bag. He removed the topmost articles—a novelette with a lingerie jacket, a sixpenny packet of stationery, and a pair of gloves. After a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a woollen stocking. Inside the stocking, at the toe, was a hard, heavy substance. He tumbled it into his palm. It had the appearance of a duck's egg. It was solid and was made of earthenware. "That's a nest-egg," she explained. "I tried keeping chickens at one time, but they weren't really company. I use it now for stretching the stocking and holding it steady while I darn it—in case you're wondering." "I was wondering," said Crisp, "why you carry this darning device in a stocking that has no hole, has never been darned and is, in fact, a new one." "There now!" exclaimed Mrs. Cornboise. "I must have brought the wrong pair. You have got sharp eyes, I must say!" He opened the bag to its full extent, found two more stockings, making a total of three. "I shall have to keep these for the present," he told her. "I'll give you a receipt." When he had calmed her protests he passed her to young Benscombe, telling him quietly to send her home and have her address checked. # Chapter Three Inspector Sanson, a pompous little man who had gained promotion for his desk work, had already given the Victorian morning-room the semblance of an office at headquarters. On the breakfast table, from which the patterned cloth had been removed, were all the portable objects which had been examined for finger prints. Crisp dropped into the only easy chair. "Give me the log of the witnesses first, Sanson, then your stuff." "The only witness of any account so far, sir, is Bessie Walters, temporary maid, who has been in the employment of the deceased, as have the other two, for three weeks. At nine this morning, when Bessie Walters brought deceased his breakfast in the room we are now occupying, deceased told her there would be three guests to luncheon—which he said the cook could serve out of tins—and twenty all told to dinner, for which arrangements had been made with Harridge's. The three to luncheon were to stay till Monday morning. "Mr. Querk arrived shortly before noon, when he _re_ -paired to the library. He remained there closetted with deceased until about a quarter to one, when Mr. Cornboise, his nephew, and Miss Lofting, the nephew's intended, also arrived. The four I have mentioned consumed cocktails on the terrace until luncheon was served. After luncheon, all four _re_ -paired to the library, where they remained closetted until a quarter to three, approximately, when Walters saw Mr. Querk going up to his room. She did not see the other two guests between luncheon and about seven, when they came downstairs together in evening dress and _re_ -paired to the terrace. A few minutes later Mr. Querk added himself to their company. "Walters last saw the deceased at luncheon. It was his habit to sleep after luncheon in the library, where he would remain closetted until dinner, and orders were that he was never to be disturbed until dinner was served. Having lived abroad, he did not take afternoon tea. "There had been no orders for tea for the guests. But at four, Walters went in search of the guests. She found only Mr. Querk in the house. He was in his room, and she said she thought he also had been sleeping in his chair. She offered to bring him tea, which offer having been accepted, she came back with a tray and put it on the table by the window where he was sitting. "At four fifteen approximately, Walters _re_ -paired to her bedroom where she remained closetted until a quarter to six. At six, Messrs. Harridge's employees arrived with a mobile kitchen unit and all Walters had to do was to show them the dining-room. The cook and the under-housemaid not being required to—to exercise their respective functions, sir—had leave of absence from four until ten. Walters remained in the staff sitting-room until seven, when, after putting some chairs on the terrace, she took up a position in the hall in readiness for the arrival of the guests. That completes the essentials of the log of the witnesses." "There's a detail missing," said Crisp. "Benscombe, find out whether Bessie Walters was called to the front door between lunch and our arrival. Get details, but mind you don't lead her. Carry on, Sanson." "Finger prints, sir, ignoring those of deceased." The Inspector turned to a separate sheaf of notes. "Miss Lofting: On exterior and interior hand plates of the door of the library. On the edge of the writing table: on some brown wrapping paper, sent through the post and post-marked London this morning ten-fifteen, found in the waste paper basket—Exhibit Two: also on the woodwork of the east window of the library, internal. "Mr. Cornboise: Interior handplate of door: writing table: woodwork of window, interior and exterior. "Mr. Querk: On interior handplate of door: on writing table: on an address die-stamp found on the mantelpiece—Exhibit One: On sealed envelope which you took from the safe—Exhibit Four. The sealed envelope also bears prints of deceased. That's all of what you might call the major prints, sir. The rest is check-up—including the prints of Bessie Walters all over the place, as you might say." Exhibit Three was the little pearl-handled pen-knife, on which no prints had been found. "Blurred, I suppose?" asked Crisp. "No, sir. Wiped clean." Wiped clean, like the signet ring and the key of the safe, bearing out the doctor's guess that the knife had been used to ease the ring off the finger and replace it. Nothing else of note, except that Querk had apparently put the die-stamp on the mantelpiece. Crisp got up and looked at the die-stamp. From a metal base, two by three inches, a lever of some eight inches operated a copper stamp, the whole weighing a little over two pounds. Crisp inserted a piece of paper and pressed the lever. "I guessed it wasn't an address stamp—the copper is too short. It's a stunt for embossing the family crest. Two-headed serpent." "Relevant to Exhibit Two," said Sanson, "the postal wrapping paper previously referred to, sir—here it is—bears the name of a firm of lithographers and die-cutters." "It probably came by this afternoon's post, sir," cut in Benscombe, who had returned a minute or so previously. "Bessie says the postman came about a quarter to four with two parcels, one registered and marked personal." "This die-stamp wasn't registered," said Crisp, after a glance at the wrapping. "Find out where the registered parcel is. Don't ask anybody but Walters." So far, the information received tallied with that given to Crisp by the old lady in the garden. While Crisp was making his own note of the known whereabouts of the servants and guests between two and seven o'clock, a constable brought him a package. "From Dr. Harris, sir." The package contained the silver plate from the skull of the deceased. Enclosed was a memo from the doctor: _'I have taken scrapings for analysis elsewhere. On outer side of plate was substance which, with my own small microscope, I could recognise as dust of plectyt—a finely processed canvas used as the foundation for wigs.'_ Friction, presumably, decided Crisp, since the wig had been removed by the murderer before the blow had been delivered. The plate itself had been puckered and driven inwards. He bent low over the die-stamp, examining the edges of the base, which were clean. The new paint gleamed, but there was a chip of about an eighth of an inch on one side, which might have been made by impact on the silver plate on the skull itself. He picked it up by the lever, fitted a corner of the base to the puckerings of the silver plate. "That's the weapon!" he said aloud. "And it only struck once. Well, Benscombe?" "Blank on the registered parcel, sir. Can't get a thing out of Bessie—disclaims responsibility, but is worried about having signed for it. I tried to calm her down, sir—" "I'll have a go," said Crisp. "Ask her to come here—don't tell her." In mistaken self-defence Bessie launched a counterattack from the doorway. "If its about that registered parcel, sir, all I want to know is what you say I ought to have done with it, having signed for it, as I've owned up, and put it where the old man—where Lord Watlington—would be sure to see it as soon as he'd finished his sleep—meaning the table in the hall." "Quite so!" said Crisp soothingly. "That was the proper thing to do." "Then I'm glad that's settled, sir." The words were spoken at Benscombe. "Only, with the young gentleman asking me all those questions, I was beginning to wonder." "He doesn't think you pinched it, Bessie—he isn't such a fool!" smiled Crisp. "We have to find that parcel, and we hoped you'd be able to give us a hand." "Well, I'm sure I'll do all I can, sir, but I don't see how it'll help." She related the known facts. "The last I saw of that parcel was when I took Mr. Querk his tea—reminds me, I forgot to take his tray away." "That was the last time you saw it, eh?" " _Oo!_ Your saying that makes me think o' something. It _was_ the last time, but it didn't ought to 've been—that is, not unless something woke him up and he took it himself, if you understand me." "I understand perfectly," asserted Crisp. "You expected to see that parcel again. When?" "When I came downstairs a bit before six, so as to be ready for those Harridge's men. But there wasn't neither of the parcels on the table then. The one that wasn't registered had gone, too. I'm sure of that, sir, as I'm standing here, because I remember what they looked like before they'd been moved. There was the unregistered one, heavy and standing up like. The registered one was flattish and felt as if it had cardboard under the paper." "Thank you very much, Bessie! You've helped us a lot," said Crisp. "Let's see if I've got it right. You noticed both parcels on the hall table when you went upstairs at about four fifteen?" "Yes, sir. And when I came down a bit before six, they'd both gone." "You heard what that girl said. That parcel must be accounted for." Crisp spoke to Sanson, who made a note. Presently he turned to Benscombe. "Come with me on a tour of the house. You can make a sketch plan so that we can locate everybody." In the century and a half of its existence the Manor House had suffered two fires and five barons of varying tastes and fortunes. The original staircase survived in a broad flight which failed to reach the first floor. "This landing has been built in," remarked Crisp. "So has this bow window." From the landing there were but three stairs to the first floor. The first bedroom, smaller than one would have expected, was evidently allotted to Ralph Cornboise. It was dingily but adequately furnished in satinwood, with an easy chair of old leather, which must have strayed some fifty years ago from a downstairs room. Crisp looked round, finding nothing to rivet his attention. "This is part of a large room," he said. "Done on the cheap, too!" He tapped the dividing wall, which resounded as if he had tapped a drum, revealing itself as match-boarding. In the next room, the dinginess was even more pronounced. A cheap iron bedstead, a gimcrack wardrobe of stained deal and a bamboo dressing table with a spotted mirror. On either side of the dressing table, the two men looked down on the terrace, obtaining a foreshortened view of Claudia, who was apparently consuming tea and sandwiches while her companion smoked. "Miss Lofting and Cornboise working out how much they'll tell us, sir?" remarked Benscombe. "If you stand here, you'll see it isn't Cornboise. It's an artist called Arthur Fenchurch. Ever heard of him?" "No. A dinner guest, eh? He ought to have buzzed off when you told ' em to. Shall I—?" "If we leave him alone, we're more likely to find out why he's hanging around." Crisp lingered, taking note of the layout of the garden. Nearly the whole five acres of it sprawled on the west side of the house. On the east side, only a narrow strip at the foot of the brick wall separated it from a side road. He was about to move on, when he heard Ralph Cornboise entering the adjoining room. He motioned Benscombe to silence. "Can't remember... Can't remember!" It was a muttered undertone, but the words came distinctly through the matchboard partition. "Don't run your hands through your hair. All right dear, I forgot... I can't remember. Can't remember." The sound of a male head being brushed became audible—then of the brushes being replaced—after which Ralph left the room and went downstairs. "Talks to himself without saying anything," remarked Benscombe. The tour of the house became perfunctory, Crisp's purpose being merely to absorb background detail. In the kitchen quarters he observed that there was no window on the west side, which was blinded by the stables. The last room they entered was the dining-room. Alone at a table intended to seat twenty sat Andrew Querk, before him a large helping of lobster salad. Querk was a large, fleshy man early middle age, who moved like a sleek cat and spoke in sonorous platitudes. His clothes, of the most expensive material, were cut with a conscious provincialism, so that one hardly needed to be informed that he was a mayor. In so far as he could be said to have a profession, he was a financial agent. He had qualified as a solicitor, but had never practised. Early in life, he had discovered that the English mistrust an obviously clever man, but open their hearts to a fool who can be relied upon to make a fool of no one but himself. Like Watlington, though working along a different line, he had imposed upon himself a personality which in time acquired reality. He had sensed that the business man, secretly afraid of modern trends, looks backwards to the beginning of the century as the golden age. While adopting modern methods, he steeped his mentality in the mannerisms and thought-forms of fifty years ago, thereby subtly creating an atmosphere of stolid security. Except that he had made three unsuccessful attempts to marry, Querk could count himself a successful man in his own sphere. Over the lobster salad, Querk beamed a welcome. "Oh, pray come in!" he invited. "I feel that my poor old friend would have wished us to behave as normally as possible. The young people maintained that food would choke them—a somewhat hysterical attitude. You are under no strain, Colonel. Won't you join me while we have our talk. I will ring for Bessie." "No thanks. Don't let me disturb you. I'll see the other two first." "You will find them a charming couple," said Querk. "And I have no need to emphasise to you, my dear Colonel, that if they should seem to you evasive on one or two matters of a purely personal nature, their reticence will have nothing whatever to do with the manner in which poor Sam—I should say Lord Watlington—met his death." Crisp spoke from the door. "Perhaps you would be good enough to wait in this room, Mr. Querk, until I send you word." "Certainly—by all means! As Mayor of Taunchester I have worked with our own Chief Constable. I am familiar with the routine, and I need not say I am wholly at your disposal, Colonel." Crisp thanked him as if this were a special concession. In the hall he spoke in an undertone to Benscombe. "You've got to keep your temper with that chap, young man. If I catch you smacking his face, there'll be trouble. Keep him in there until I've seen the other two. Bring the girl in first, then put her in the drawing-room. Don't let her talk to Cornboise before I've seen him. Nor to Querk." In the morning-room, Inspector Sanson was gathering up his papers. "I've assembled my requirements in that somewhat diminutive room they call the gunroom, behind the dining-room. I thought I would make that my office _in situ_ , sir." "Right, Sanson. If Benscombe brings you anybody, keep 'em there until I give the all clear." "Miss Lofting, sir," announced Benscombe. # Chapter Four In the matter of women, Crisp was not afraid of himself. He knew that there are uncharted cross-currents of sympathy between the sexes which are likely to upset the judgment. His formula was to let himself be impressed, then rub out the impression. In something under a second, he made a preliminary assessment of Claudia. Her dress he saw as a wisp of an evening frock in a blue that was insistent when you looked at the frock but ingenious when you looked at the girl. A cloak that contrived to seem part of the frock. A physically attractive woman who was intelligently aware of her attractiveness. From her style, he guessed that she was typical of her class—probably ill-educated but well informed, shallow but well disciplined, loyal only to her own set and unscrupulous outside her own code, dignified and well mannered, but fundamentally tougher than any gun moll because she was sure of herself. With the ghost of a bow, she acknowledged his position. Her eye ran over the exhibits on the table, stopped at the pearl-handled penknife. "Your knife?" asked Crisp. "Yes. I think I left it in the library." "When d' you think you left it there?" "Some time during the afternoon. It must have been about five." Typical of her class. No evasion, no apologetic explanation. She might or might not know that Watlington had been killed between five and five thirty. She turned to the one easy chair. Crisp watched her sit down, an act which defeats the majority of graceful women and makes them self-conscious. When Claudia sat down, Crisp knew that she must have served an apprenticeship at all the light games—tennis, squash and probably fencing—that she took little or no alcohol and that she slept well. She had not even fussed with her dress, as most of them did. She could sit, too, without fidgetting. Her hands, slightly over-developed, were still. "What was the knife being used for?" Claudia smiled. "It will take hours this way, Colonel. Wouldn't it be better for me to recite my little piece first?" "Much better," he agreed. "Let's begin with your arrival." "A bit before that, if you don't mind. Ralph—that's Cornboise, my fiancé—drove me up from my home in Wiltshire to meet his uncle, for the first time. Ralph was worried because he was expecting a stormy interview about his extravagance. He has spent an awful lot—but that's because his uncle kept sending cheques and writing him nonsense about keeping up his position. Watlington had the gipsy fortune-teller's idea of the peerage. The point is, Ralph was in a state of hopeless nerviness. That explains the odd way we all behaved." "All—including yourself?" Crisp gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. "Including me! Lunch went off fairly well. Watlington was quite good company when he wasn't thinking about the peerage. Ralph was gloomy, so Querk and I had to laugh at all the jokes. After lunch we all trouped into the headmaster's study. There was a bit about Ralph's extravagance, but not much. Then we got back to the peerage _motif_ —founding a family and all that. Watlington read us his Will. You've got it there on the table in that sealed envelope. Or haven't you?" She seemed to have lost her way. The long summer day was fading. Crisp turned on the light. "This may be the Will," said Crisp. "We always avoid opening sealed documents if we can." She came out of her abstraction. "Anyhow, the Will said that, provided Ralph married a suitable sort of woman, he'd get a million, apart from the trimmings—which may be another million or so, for all I know. That was how the trouble started." Again she lapsed into silence. "Trouble?" he prompted. "Not about the suitability of yourself as a wife, surely?" "It was, though! Now, I might turn out a ghastly flop as a wife, but I _am_ suitable by Watlington's standards, if by no one else's. He said something about modern girls being too broadminded about love affairs, meaning that I personally was once in love with another man, as Ralph knows." She paused. "He had somehow got hold of some letters I had written to this man. That'll give you a sidelight on Watlington." "Very special letters?" asked Crisp. "They seemed so, when I wrote them." She smiled ruefully. "But if they were read aloud in court, I'm afraid they'd sound as awful as other people's do." "What became of those letters?" "He kept them as evidence for the trustees that I was not 'of unblemished social position'—as I think he called it in the Will." She went on: "Watlington didn't say anything which was not true. But Ralph, being nervy, made a scene. "When I had damped Ralph down, Watlington said he was sleepy and he would see us all at cocktail time. He made us watch while he put the Will in an envelope and sealed it with sealing wax. He sealed it with the family crest on his signet ring. Peerage _motif_ again!" "Did he seal up the letters with the Will?" asked Crisp. She took time over her answer. He was uncertain whether she were trying to remember, or thinking of something safe to say. "I didn't notice. I was watching Ralph. He's a bit of an invalid." "What sort of invalid?" "Oh—just nerves, as I told you. Having all that money thrown at him when he was an undergraduate unbalanced him a bit. Before we left the library, he did break out again—I forget quite why—said I had been insulted and that we would both leave the house and never enter it again—and he would be heroic and keep me on his earnings, when everybody knows he couldn't earn anything, poor dear! "I said I didn't feel insulted—which I didn't. If I had felt insulted, I wouldn't have stayed on for the week-end. In the library, I said perhaps a bit more than I meant to Ralph—that I couldn't marry him if he were to quarrel with his uncle, because I didn't think I could hold down the job of harrassed housewife. Then I went into the garden and Ralph followed me—rather huffily at first. I told him it was all very dramatic and silly, and that, by dinner time, Watlington would have forgotten what he had said. Ralph agreed, and we talked of other things. But he kept harking back to the insult nonsense. So I said I'd go and talk to his uncle myself, and I left Ralph in the garden. This was about five o'clock. The stable clock struck as I reached the house. "I went in by the front door. On that table in the hall I saw a couple of parcels, one registered. The other had the printed label of a lithographer. I picked it up, as a good excuse for butting in on Watlington. In part of the peerage talk, he had told us he was waiting for—that thing on the table there, to stamp the family crest on things when you couldn't use sealing wax. "I fancy he was only pretending to be asleep. I sat down quietly at the writing table opposite him. I took that knife from my bag and cut the string. With the crackle of the paper he had to admit he was awake. He made a pleased noise and grabbed the stamp, like a child grabbing a toy. I gave him a piece of paper and we both played with it. He asked me whether there was another parcel in the hall. I didn't want another diversion, so I said I hadn't noticed one. As soon as I could, I said: 'Ralph is being rather hysterical because he thinks you don't want us to get married.' And he said 'Hysterical! You've said it. The boy's soft. You'll have to toughen him up, my dear, if you want to make anything of him.' "When I pointed out that I couldn't do anything, if it were to be made impossible for us to marry, he said. 'Forget all that. I said most of it because Ralph was getting my goat. He explained that when he was told Ralph had become engaged to me he had made inquiries. He heard that I had been 'entangled,' as he called it, with another man, but he was now satisfied that he need not have bothered himself. After that, he became complimentary—quite definitely so—the burden of it being that he was very glad I wanted to marry Ralph." "He didn't give you back those letters you had written? Did you ask him for them?" "No. He had forgiven himself and me and everybody, and was making courtly little speeches. It would have spoilt the atmosphere to remind him of what a horrible cad he had been over the letters." Crisp could not gauge whether it was true or untrue. She had a compelling honesty of manner—which might be only manner. "Will you tell me the name of the man to whom those letters were written?" "Of course I won't!" Of course she wouldn't, reflected Crisp. That sort of thing was protected by the code—no earthly good pressing her. He smiled and asked: "After you had left Watlington?" "I went upstairs to my room, had a bath, and stayed in my room until it was time to dress for dinner. That's all!" Crisp made a swift analysis. The girl's story contained a feasible explanation of every fact which an intelligent person might assume to be already in the possession of the police. "What time did you leave the library?" "On my way to the bathroom—after picking up my things in the bedroom—I heard a quarter past five strike. That would be about three minutes after I left the library." "That's a precise answer—you'd make a very good witness." She looked as pleased as a schoolgirl when the music master has expressed approval. Crisp asked: "Was Watlington's objection to you—possibly—a bit stronger than you've implied?" "Possibly!" She laughed. "You mean that—as I didn't know he was going to change his mind about me—I ought to have murdered him myself, recovered the letters and married Ralph on the million and trimmings?" "That was in my mind," grinned Crisp. "Then for heaven's sake don't let it wander out of your mind when you're grilling Ralph. I mean it, though I've put it stupidly. I mean that, if you drop the slightest hint that you suspect me of murder, he'll promptly confess and demand to be hanged." Her eyes searched his face—her tone changed and her self-possession vanished. "Please be gentle with him, Colonel." She assumed that he had no more questions for her, and got up. He went to the door and let her out—then, on an afterthought, turned, as if to bar her way. "I don't suspect Cornboise of murdering his uncle," he said, watching her eyes. "But you do!" "I do not!" Her voice held both surprise and reproof. "But he's so nervy. As soon as he gets frightened of you, he'll bluster and say silly things and contradict himself." "Why should you think he'll 'get frightened' of me?" Crisp was puzzled, "I haven't bullied you, have I?" "No—but I've told you ten times as much as I meant to." She added: "You're the only formidable man I've ever met." That last bit was inverted flattery, he told himself when she had gone. Most civilian men liked to be thought formidable—she had taken a bet that the same applied to himself. But he had to admit that she had not tried any tricks while she was giving evidence. He found himself approving her. She had given straight answers, told her tale without trying to lead him in this direction or that. The tale was consistent with the known facts, corroborated in detail by Mrs. Cornboise and by Bessie, the maid. At the back of his head was the suspicion that there was a catch in it somewhere. "That Will is the catch!" he exclaimed. As before, he ran his fingers over the envelope, wondering at its slimness. One would expect a millionaire's Will to be a complicated, bulky affair. He was certain now, that there was only a single folded sheet inside the long envelope. "If Cornboise gives me the same tale I'll open it in his presence." He was about to call Benscombe, when the latter came in. "That artist, Arthur Fenchurch, sir. Do you want to see him before he goes? He gave an address about half a mile from here." "All right! I'll see him before I see Cornboise." Arthur Fenchurch registered elaborate indifference. Crisp recognised his type too—the poseur who explains that he is posing. "I'd like to know your business here this evening, Mr. Fenchurch?" "Businesss? None. That is, not directly. I consented to come in order to kow-tow to a wealthy client. I was to paint him, including—my God!—his wig." He added: "I have to do portraiture to make a living. My portraits are very vulgar, and so I am becoming very popular." Crisp eyed the sports coat and flannel trousers—noticed that the leather-bound sketch-book was no longer in the side-pocket. "D'you mean you were asked to dinner?" "Yes. I never wear evening dress. When I turn up like this, people think I'm much better known that I am. That helps to stiffen my prices." Crisp consulted the list of dinner guests. _Mr. Fenchurch. Mrs. Fenchurch_ , followed by a local address and telephone number. "The other guests had all left by about eight at my request. It's now ten." "I apologise. I lingered partly out of morbid curiosity, partly in the hope of publicity, and partly because I know Ralph Cornboise and Miss Lofting very well." "But Mrs. Fenchurch went home alone? I take it the lady is your wife?" "Yes—but not legally, of course! Everybody knows we're not married." "And she was asked to dinner as your mistress?" Crisp was sceptical. "In effect, yes. People who can afford to have their portraits painted always expect an artist to have a mistress. As a matter of fact, my relations with the fair Glenda are what you would probably call blameless. She believes she's my secretary—she's actually my domestic help. She likes people to think she's living in sin, so the arrangement pleases everybody. Only, for some reason, she funked turning up tonight." Crisp was framing a question, when the explanation came of its own accord. "She cried off yesterday on the ground that Watlington was a nasty old man who had—er—I think you call it?—made advances to her. It may or may not have been true. She is very pretty and very vain. I adore her vanity but detest her prettiness." Putting himself over, thought Crisp. He let a silence hang, knowing that this type could rarely endure inattention. His eye lighted on the dun coloured cotton glove on the other's left hand. "In hot weather, I am afflicted with a slight eczema—due to excessive drinking," he explained, and added: "By the way, am I suspected of guilty knowledge of the murder and—that kind of thing?" "Theoretically, you are—until we have checked you out. Where were you between lunch and dinner?" "Heavens, have I to produce an alibi? I must take fantastic care not to contradict myself." He possessed himself of one of the pencils exhibited on the table and made notes on the back of a typewritten letter. "I remember trying to go to sleep after lunch, but it was too hot. I went out alone and wandered by the river. I lay down under that oak near the lock until I began to bore myself. Then I came on here, apparently arriving at the right time." "Perhaps someone saw you during that time who could identify you?" suggested Crisp. "Undoubtedly! People tend to point me out to each other. But I myself don't know a soul in these parts. We might advertise in the local paper, asking all those who stared at me to come forward. Otherwise, I warn you, I can't prove a word of my story." "In your case, I don't think we need worry you about proof." Crisp surprised an unguarded look of relief on the other's face. "If you find you can remember anything for us to check, you might ring me at headquarters, will you? Goodnight!" "I wonder," said Fenchurch as he rose to go, "why people think the police subject them to third degree or whatever it is. I've enjoyed our chat immensely." "So have I. Would you mind returning that pencil which you have pocketted?" "Oh, sorry! I'm so glad you told me! People generally hate to mention it. My studio is littered with other people's pencils and fountain pens—mostly belonging to autograph hunters." When Fenchurch had left the room, Crisp summoned Benscombe, gave him the list of guests. "Before Fenchurch can reach home, ask Mrs. Fenchurch—that's what she's called—what time he left their flat this afternoon, and where he was going. She may not know that Watlington is dead. She may not know that you are in the Force. Her name is Glenda, in case she mistakes you for a cocktail party boy friend." Benscombe made for the telephone. Crisp called an orderly. "Tell Mr. Cornboise I'd be obliged if he would come to the morning-room." Before Cornboise appeared, Crisp put the envelope containing the Will on the mantelpiece, seal downwards. # Chapter Five Ralph Cornboise seemed to Crisp to be no more nervy than any young man might be in the circumstances. He made a graceful response to condolences on the death of his uncle. As the hard light from the Victorian chandelier fell full on his face, Crisp spotted signs of a sedative drug, and suspected the hand of Claudia. A playboy, Crisp decided, but of the kind that takes itself seriously—floating through life with highfalutin' intentions but never actually breaking free from a routine of trivial amusements, which might include the amusement of playing at work. Strange that a woman like Claudia Lofting could be attracted to such a man—and to the extent of asking other men to be gentle with him. Rather impertinent of her, now he came to think of it. "As you probably know," said Crisp, putting it as gently as Claudia could wish, "we have to tick off everybody's movements." "Where d'you want me to begin, Colonel?" "Begin at the point where you last saw your uncle alive, and work backwards." Ralph Cornboise nodded, while he weighed his words. "I last saw him alive at a quarter past five this afternoon. In the library." Crisp was surprised. That was the time given by the old lady in the garden. Ralph Cornboise had made a good beginning. "Give the full circumstances, please—how and why you went to the library, and so on." "That will be difficult without dragging in family matters." He spoke as if Crisp's convenience were his sole concern. "After lunch, Miss Lofting, Querk and myself went with my uncle into the library, where we were occupied with family affairs for half an hour or so, after which Miss Lofting and I drifted into the garden. "As a matter of fact, Miss Lofting and I were discussing a rather offensive remark of my uncle's which, in my opinion, implied that she was not a suitable woman for me to marry. You never met him? He used to make a point of being rougher than he really was—and that was a lot! Miss Lofting thought I was exaggerating the importance of the remark. After a couple of hours, she said she would go at once to my uncle and get him to define his attitude. I told her I hoped she would not do so, as it could only make matters worse. I asked her instead to come with me to a swimming pool—the Three Witches, a roadhouse ten minutes' drive from here. She said she did not want to. My last words as she left me were: 'Please don't go to the library'." Benscombe came quietly into the room and sat down. Ralph continued: "I saw her go into the house by the front door, not the window, which was nearer. I hoped she had decided to take my advice and do nothing. I hung about a bit. I admit I was rather worked up about it. When I felt I could stand the suspense no longer, I went to the library window and opened it." He paused, looked Crisp in the face, and added: "Then I was very relieved to see that Miss Lofting had not gone to the library after all." That was Crisp's second surprise—that Ralph and Claudia had not put their heads together and agreed on their tale, though they had had ample time and opportunity to do so. "How could you tell? She might have gone to the library and left before you arrived?" "My uncle was asleep." Ralph's tone had become sulky. "He wouldn't have had time to go to sleep if she had been talking to him a few minutes before I came in." "Go on. Don't leave it to me to pull the facts out of you." "You want such tiny details!" Ralph sank back in the easy chair and covered his eyes with his hands. "I was uncertain what I wished to do. It's a bit of an effort to remember every single thing... I saw a metal thing on the floor, near his feet, as if he had knocked it off the writing table. I picked it up. It was an address die-stamp, I think." His voice tailed off into silence. "Was it this one on the table here?" asked Crisp. Ralph did not remove his hands from his eyes. "Yes. I saw it just now. That's the one." He added querulously: "Why shouldn't it be?" The effect of the sedative drug seemed to be wearing off, leaving him irritable and suspicious. "What did you do with it?" "I'll tell you in a minute—it's no good hurrying me! I put it on the table with a bit of a clatter. But it didn't wake him up. Then I hoped he wouldn't wake up, as I'd forgotten what I meant to say to him. I went out by the window just as that beastly clock was chiming a quarter past five. I tripped on the lawn and fell down. Then I remembered that I had decided to have a swim. So I went and had the swim." "That's better!" approved Crisp. "I gather you were in a somewhat agitated state from about two-thirty onwards, weren't you?" "I certainly was!" _"Why?"_ Ralph dropped his hands and stared at Crisp. "Why?" repeated Crisp. "You've told me that your uncle made some disparaging remark about Miss Lofting. It must have been a very mild remark, or Miss Lofting would have walked out of the house. But she intended to stay on for the weekend. Surely the remark can't have been worth all that hullabaloo! She didn't seem to think herself insulted when she was talking to me just now." "In my own mind I may have exaggerated the insult element," admitted Ralph. "But I didn't exaggerate the practical element. If his Will left me penniless in the event of my marrying Miss Lofting—" " _If!_ But I understand from Miss Lofting that he read the Will to the three of you: then locked it up and put it in his safe, sealed and addressed to his solicitors?" Ralph groped for an answer. "You don't understand the atmosphere—" "I don't!" Crisp frowned. "But that Will is growing more and more mysterious. Do you object to my seeing it?" "Yes, I do!" cried Ralph. "I'm very sorry, Colonel, but I definitely object. I can tell you the contents!" "Then why not let me read 'em?" Ralph pouted and fidgetted like a resentful child. "I wish we could leave that Will alone!" he whined. "Besides, I don't know where it is. You're talking as if I had it in my pocket." Crisp took the sealed envelope from the mantelpiece. "Is this the Will?" Ralph stopped fidgetting. _"That?"_ He took the envelope, ran his fingers the length of it, as Crisp had done in the library. "No," he said. "At least—that is—I don't think it is." And then that vacuous little question again: "Why should it be?" Crisp's eyes were on the envelope as he asked: "Did your uncle produce some letters written by Miss Lofting?" "Yes. An abominable trick! But there was nothing in it as far as I was concerned. Miss Lofting had told me all there was to tell." "What did he do with those letters?" "I don't know." The words were uttered with sulky defiance. "We'll see what's in that envelope." Crisp opened the door and called Inspector Sanson. "You and Benscombe witness this," he ordered. "I'm going to open a sealed document." The envelope was still in Ralph's hand. "Perhaps you would prefer to open it yourself, Mr. Cornboise?" Ralph made no move. His expression was vacant and listless. Crisp took the envelope from his fingers, slit the flap and removed the contents, a single folio sheet, folded. He unfolded it, spread it on the table. He read the Will aloud, in summary, addressing Ralph. "Hm! Residuary estate left to you, Mr. Cornboise, 'provided that... he shall hold himself in readiness to marry and shall so marry before his fortieth year a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation.' Witnessed by the housemaid and the caretaker two days ago." Crisp looked up. "I don't see that that is an insult to Miss Lofting." The remains of the sedative drug proved ineffective. From Ralph Cornboise came a burst of high-pitched laughter—and another. Crisp watched him with almost clinical interest. So this was why Claudia had begged him to be gentle—she knew that he was subject to hysteria. Moreover, the hysterical attack had been brought on at sight of a Will, of which Ralph already knew the contents—taken from an envelope in which he had, presumably, seen the Will sealed up. Ralph had recovered and was lighting a cigarette. His cheeks glistened with tears he had already forgotten. "You're steady enough now to answer a question. You expected me to find something in that envelope beside the Will—" "That's not a question. It's a statement. And it's not true." "My mistake," grinned Crisp. "Here comes a proper question for a plain yes-or-no answer. But take your time." "Go ahead, Colonel." Ralph had swung to the other extreme, and was now unnaturally calm. "When you entered the library through the window, at a quarter past five—" Crisp held himself ready for another outburst "—was your uncle _already dead?_ " There was no more than a slight catch of the breath before Ralph answered: "No. He was not dead until I killed him." "Ah!" sighed Crisp. "I was afraid you'd say that!" "The worst of it is," continued Crisp, "I have to pretend to take you seriously. Benscombe, you might bring the typewriter in here for Inspector Sanson." Ralph was wearing an expression of arrested determination, so that he suggested the still photograph of a film star in his big scene. Crisp knew that the hysteric perpetually dramatises himself and that his statements should not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, the young man was forcing police procedure along a line Crisp had wished to avoid. "Well, Cornboise, how did you do this murder of yours?" "So you don't believe me!" "My dear fellow, you can't stop a police investigation by accusing yourself. What's to prevent you withdrawing your confession when we've packed up?" Sanson inserted paper and carbon in his typewriter. "I'll make you believe me. I'll give all the tiny details you're so fond of," said Ralph. "My uncle was asleep, as I said he was. That thing—" he pointed to the die-stamp—"was on the floor, as I said it was. I picked it up. At first I intended only to put it on the table. And then—well, I didn't see any red as is supposed, but there was the illusion of a kind of mist: yet the physical eye could see through the mist." "Well?" prompted Crisp. "What did you _do?_ " "I swung that die-stamp thing to his head and killed him instantly." "Did you indeed!" grinned Crisp. "What did he look like the moment after you killed him?" "Oh—" Ralph shuddered elaborately. "The blow damaged the wig. It stuck out behind his ears like—like a bat's wings." Crisp glanced at Benscombe before asking his next question. "Apart from the wig, what did he look like?" "I don't know. I felt—spiritually sick. I wanted to run away from myself." "What did you do with the thing you call the diestamp?" Ralph's mouth twitched violently. "I don't remember. Oh yes, I do! I let it drop on the floor—where it was when I picked it up!" "Before you left—by the window—did you lock the door?" "No!" "Dear me!" exclaimed Crisp. "A most unfortunate thing has happened. I forgot to warn you, when you started confessing, that what you said might be used in evidence. That means we can't use any of your confession. The judge would strike it out." "I don't know why you're fooling with me, unless it's sadism," whined Ralph. "Anyhow, you've warned me now. I'll dictate to that officer what I've said." Crisp let him dictate and sign his confession. "I still don't understand why you murdered him," continued Crisp. "I hadn't any clear cut motive. I was a swine to accept his money, because I've always hated him. But surely the confession lets me off all this catechism!" Crisp shrugged. "Very well, Cornboise. We shall have to detain you on suspicion, pending further investigation." He turned to Sanson. "Take him with you, please. Let him pack his things, but send an orderly with him." When Cornboise had left the room with Inspector Sanson, Crisp lit a cigarette—a comparatively rare occurrence. No one had ever seen him smoke one to a finish. His eye rested on Benscombe. "Did you get anything out of that artist's girl?" "Nothing striking, sir. Fenchurch left their flat about three, telling her he was going to Watlington Lodge to rout out Ralph. Presumably, he changed his mind." "Why presume it? He may have come here and murdered Watlington." He became aware that Benscombe was watching him like an expectant puppy. "Well, boy, what is it?" "Are you sure that confession is only a stunt, sir?" "Not sure, but extremely suspicious," answered Crisp. "Work it out for yourself. His account of his movements, outside the library, is true. He says Watlington was asleep when he went in. Possible but unlikely, because Cornboise must have entered by the window within two minutes or so of Miss Lofting leaving by the door." He outlined Claudia Lofting's evidence. "Next, he says he struck through the wig. Untrue. The doctor says the wig was removed and replaced after the fatal blow had been struck. Also, I saw the wig myself. It was a bit awry, but undamaged. I was looking for signs of violence and found none. "Next, he says he dropped the die-stamp on the floor. It was found on the mantelpiece. Admittedly, he revealed knowledge that death had been caused by a single blow, but he dodged my question about the appearance after death. "Further, my question as to whether Watlington was already dead when Cornboise entered the study suggested that Miss Lofting might be guilty. As she warned me, he promptly confessed." "Yes, sir. But assuming he's innocent, he wouldn't know about the murder until we turned up. I'm putting myself in his place and assuming I'm innocent. The first thing I'd do when the police turned up would be to talk it over with my fiancée—there were about a couple of hours for this purpose. I'd say: 'The police are bound to quiz us. Where were we when it happened? We'd better tell 'em the same tale or they'll think we're fishy.' That's what I'd say, sir—if I were innocent. But if I were guilty I'd avoid discussing it with her. Cornboise did avoid discussing it with her." "That would equally prove her guilty instead of him," Crisp pointed out, "since she did not discuss it with him. The only inference you can draw from the fact that their tales conflict is that they are not in conspiracy." "And another thing, sir!" continued Benscombe unabashed. "What about that Will? When you handed him the envelope he fingered it and said it wasn't the Will. When you opened up and showed it was, he threw his laughing fit. There was something there that shook his nerve. And it wasn't the text of the Will." "Hm! You've got something there, boy!" It was part of Crisp's policy to encourage bright juniors. "We'll have to get to the bottom of this Will business—see who that is knocking." Benscombe opened the door to Andrew Querk in an advanced state of alarm. # Chapter Six "Pray forgive me for this intrusion, Chief Constable. I have just seen Ralph Cornboise going upstairs, apparently in—ah—custody. As he passed me he called out: 'Goodbye, Mr. Querk. I'm done for.' My imagination attached an appalling meaning to those words—" "He has confessed that he murdered his uncle, and has signed the confession—" "I feared it! I _knew_ it!" wailed Querk. "Lacking a shred of proof, I was nevertheless positive, though I refused to admit it to myself." "Come in, please, Mr. Querk." Querk came in, but not as other men come into a room. He walked as a man walks when he is leading a procession. He came to a halt when he had reached a position from which he could address the. Chief Constable and his aide as an audience. "This is tragedy. Stark tragedy!" he proclaimed. He removed his pince-nez, deemed to have been obscured by the effects of his emotion. When he replaced them, he abandoned his office as a symbolic figure and became a provincial mayor in distress. "Forgive me! We were old friends, Lord Watlington and I. I was 'dear old Andrew' to him and he was 'old pal Samuel' to me—though, of course, he was considerably my senior in years." "Quite! Will you sit here, Mr. Querk. There are one or two questions—" "Ask me anything you like, Colonel. Anything! There can be no fear now of betraying professional confidence. His vast fortune has become meaningless. The family he had hoped to found is already destroyed. It is saddest of all when a successful life ends in undeserved squalor. Don't you think!" "I do!" said Crisp. "Will you tell me how you knew Cornboise was guilty before we knew it?" "My fear—my intuitive knowledge—was based on a premonition." Querk sat down with an air of one conferring an honour on the company. "In the library after lunch, my poor friend made a questionable remark—I prefer not to repeat it—which seemed to cast doubt on Miss Lofting's status as—ah—a lady of reasonable education and unblemished social repurtation. His own phrase, used in his Will, to describe an essential prerequisite in his nephew's wife. I happened to be watching Ralph's eyes. What I saw there positively frightened me, Colonel." Benscombe writhed and received a scowl from his Chief. "Is that all, Mr. Querk?" " _Everything_!" said Querk with profound satisfaction. "I am keeping nothing back. Nothing whatever. It would be very difficult, Colonel, to exaggerate the unease I subsequently suffered. When I retired to my room at about a quarter to three, I was unable to rest, though the heat almost invariably makes me drowsy after lunch. I sat wide awake by the window which, I may remark, permits an oblique view of the window of the library." "Ah!" Crisp permitted himself a sigh of relief. "And you saw something?" "I did indeed. Something, however, which merely served to increase my anxiety. I saw poor Ralph approach the window and enter the library. Within, say, a couple of minutes, he emerged. As he did so, the stable clock struck a quarter past five. In such circumstances, a striking clock gives an almost uncanny emphasis. Don't you think?" "We can safely agree on that," said Crisp. "What did you _do?_ " "I did everything possible," answered Querk, "to persuade myself that my fears were groundless. When Ralph came out, however, his outline was, to say the least, alarming. He seemed to totter blindly away. He actually fell prone on the lawn, then picked himself up, and hurried to the garage. I take no shame in confessing to you, Colonel, that my own state of mind was not far removed from panic." "But you still did nothing!" snapped Crisp. "On the contrary, I took immediate action. Action which I fondly believed, had ended the whole unhappy incident. To be precise, I closed the book I had been trying to read, and went down to the library." _"What!"_ The exclamation had burst from young Benscombe—a terrible breach of etiquette. Querk looked at him in some surprise, was about to comment, when Crisp cut in. "What did you see in the library, Mr. Querk?" "Nothing noteworthy," answered, Querk. He glanced again at Benscombe, as if expecting another interruption. "My first impression was that Lord Watlington must have dozed off again. I shut the door with deliberate clumsiness, so that the noise should wake him. Then I became aware that he was _not_ asleep." "What did he look like?" rapped out Crisp. "I confess that I did not notice his appearance, though, had it been in any way remarkable, I should doubtless have done so. I was about to speak to him when he—er—made a noise at me." "Are you sure?" Crisp was puzzled. "What sort of noise?" "A deplorable noise," answered Querk. "Made by pursing the lips and blowing through them. In the same breath—if that is possibles—he said: 'What do you want, you old horse thief?'—a playful idiom much used in Africa among intimate friends." The Chief Constable and his aide exchanged glances of secret astonishment. "So he—started a conversation, did he?" "No! I think I can claim to have taken the initiative. 'Samuel, old pal,' I said, 'you have never yet been the loser by taking my advice. I advise you now to tell Miss Lofting you are glad—as you know you are in your heart, Samuel—tell her you are glad she wants to marry Ralph.' "At first he refused point blank. Leaning heavily, I fear, on our friendship, I pressed my point. To my intense gratification, he yielded his judgment to mine and promised to tell Miss Lofting at the first opportunity." The unctuous voice came to a temporary halt. Crisp reflected that, on the pivotal point—the time at which Ralph left the library—Querk was corroborated by Watlington's wife. "I have told you, Chief Constable, at some length and in some detail—" "That's how we like it," said Crisp hastily. "What time did you leave the library, Mr. Querk?" "Let me see if I can recall the time by the aid of external circumstances," mouthed Querk. "Almost as soon as I entered the library I heard Ralph's car leaving the garage. The exhaust has a noticeably high-pitched, piping note. There followed our brief but important conversation, as I have reported. My poor friend then referred to some business matters we had discussed before lunch. He mentioned—somewhat pointedly, I must confess—that he was expecting a trunk call at five-thirty. Taking the hint, I went back to my room to prepare some notes for our next business conference. I was—I remember now—in the act of removing the cap from my fountain pen some two or three minutes later when that very strident clock struck the half hour—half past five." Young Benscombe was making notes. Crisp contemplated the deadlock. Ralph's confession that he had killed Watlington before five-fifteen—Querk's statement that he was talking to Watlington between five-fifteen and five-thirty. Add Claudia's warning that Ralph would confess if he were frightened on her account. There was every reason to believe Querk—every reason to disbelieve Ralph. But there were more facts to be sifted before drawing any major inference. "When you were in the library, Mr. Querk," asked Crisp, "did you notice the position of this die-stamp?" "Indeed I had good reason to notice it, for it twice caused interruptions while I was talking to Lord Watlington. And if there is one thing more than another I dislike, it is being interrupted!" "Where was the die-stamp?" "Near his left elbow, in the first instance. In the very act of greeting my arrival, he knocked it to the floor and I had to wait while he retrieved it and put it back, unfortunately, in the same place. A minute or so later, his elbow precipitated it sideways into the ash-tray. As I daresay you have discovered, he kept an office duster in the right hand drawer. With this, I removed the ash from the die-stamp and placed it—rather pointedly, I fear—where it would not be likely to interrupt me again!" The die-stamp, Crisp reminded himself, bore one set of finger-prints only. Querk's not Cornboise's. Another point in support of Querk. The duster incident, too, explained why Claudia Lofting's prints—as well as Watlington's—had disappeared. "When you were all in the library after lunch were you shown certain letters written by Miss Lofting?" "Lord Watlington handed the letters in question to Miss Lofting. It was, as you can imagine, an extremely embarrassing incident in which, I fear, my old friend's dignity suffered. Miss Lofting made a scornful remark to the effect that the letters proved she had been living with a man—ah—without benefit of clergy. But I have not allowed myself to take her words literally." There were small items to be checked. Querk had not noticed a registered parcel on the hall table; his mind being occupied with other matters. He knew nothing of the arrangements for the dinner party, nor of the movements of other persons. There remained the old lady in the garden, whose credentials Crisp had taken for granted. "I've been given to understand that Watlington was married?" "An unfortunate episode in early life," answered Querk sadly. "They separated by consent very shortly afterwards. A very embittered and—I say it with reluctance—and ungrateful woman. Lord Watlington bought her an adequate annuity yet she continued to pester him to return to her, on the ground that she suffered from——er—lack of company. At his request I wrote to her explaining the nature of molestation, with the result that she has ceaselessly importuned me to use my influence to effect a reconcilition. But why need we talk of that no doubt well-meaning woman who—" "We needn't," said Crisp. "Do you know anyone called Fenchurch?" "Fenchurch!" repeated Querk. "The name is familiar, though I cannot for the moment recall—oh yes! An artist who was to paint Lord Watlington's portrait. He was, I believe, among the dinner guests." Crisp glanced at the typed copy of notes which Watlington had pencilled on his blotting pad. "Do these words mean anything to you, Mr. Querk? 'Casa Flavia': 'Tarranio'; 'Fabroli'?" "Casa Flavia I know as a small town in Italy. The other words are meaningless to me." Before Crisp could ask another question, there came from the hall the sound of a woman's voice in energetic protest. Benscombe, hurrying to investigate, was accosted in the doorway. "I _must_ see the Chief Constable. It's ever so important, and I won't keep him a minute." Querk got up. "If I can be of any further help, Chief Constable, do not hesitate to send word. I shall not be retiring for another hour." From the doorway came Benscombe's voice in protest. "I say, you know, you simply must wait until I have asked whether the Chief Constable will see you." "Oh! I recognise your voice! You asked me all those questions on the phone about Arthur. Why didn't you tell me you were the police? Why didn't you tell me Watlington was dead? You played a trick on me. I shall report this." "Let her come in," called Crisp. An entrance was made—a lamentably self-conscious entrance—by a willowy blonde of about thirty, who could probably have made a reasonable living as a mannequin or showgirl. 'She is very pretty and very vain' Fenchurch had said, and Crisp agreed with him. The vanity would waste time, so he decided to eliminate it. "You have a complaint against one of my officers," he barked. "What is the complaint?" "Oh, it's nothing _really!_ Only, that man pretended to be one of us." "A policeman often has to slander himself in the course of his duty. Anything else?" "Slander himself! Well!" The willowy blonde looked a little like a spoilt child in a first encounter with a stern governess. "I must say I didn't expect this kind of treatment from a Chief Constable. I may as well tell you, before we go any further, that I have a friend who's a cousin of the Home Secretary." "Then I must be careful!" said Crisp. "What is your name?" "I'm Mrs—Arthur—Fenchurch!" "That's your occupation. I asked your name." _"Ooh!"_ The vanity had become as remote as the Home Secretary. Her outward covering had been ripped off, leaving her to face the fact that she was not, never had been, the Pampered Pet she desired to be. She lived in a world where 'a girl has to look after herself'—a slogan that was both her creed and her theory of the universe. She had sense enough to perceive that her long, beautiful legs and her curly, conventional prettiness were useless weapons in her present emergency. "All right, then—Glenda Parsons," she admitted sulkily. "What's that you're carrying?" asked Crisp. "Mr. Fenchurch's sketch book." "May I see it, please?" She handed him a leather bound sketch book. Crisp opened it and turned the pages, some of which contained line notes. Crisp recognised the leather—no doubt the same which he had seen protruding from Fenchurch's pocket when he spoke to him on the terrace. "Where did you get this?" "Miss Lofting handed it to me when I was waiting in the hall. She said Mr. Fenchurch must have dropped it." Crisp returned it to her. "Sit down, Miss Parsons." With every sign of unwillingness, she drew an upright chair from the table, removed a piece of wrapping paper from the seat. The chair was the one farthest from Crisp. "Why have you come here?" As she seemed to find the question difficult, Crisp added: "What do you want?" "Only something that belongs to me. Lord Watlington said if I would slip in here into his study about half-past ten he'd give it to me." "That sounds a very odd arrangement. You were invited to dinner, weren't you?" "Yes." She answered with reluctance, fidgetting with the wrapping paper. "Why didn't you turn up?" "Lord Watlington said he would ask me, but I was to make an excuse to Arthur and not turn up." As if protecting her dignity, she was nervously folding the sketch book into the wrapping paper. The noise irritated Crisp. "I wish you would stop making that crackling noise while I'm trying to talk to you." "I'm sorry. But everything is so upsetting." "Why did you have to accept, if it was agreed you were not to come?" She pushed the sketch book from her as if to remove the temptation to crackle, then spoke with a frankness which carried conviction: "He didn't want me to meet his guests, but he was a bit overawed by Arthur, who likes showing off with me." "What was he going to give you?" "Only an envelope with my name on it—'Mrs. Fenchurch' I mean. If it wasn't found in his pockets, I expect it's in his study somewhere, and I asked the police in the hall to let me go in and look—and they wouldn't." Crisp nodded to Benscombe, who left the room. In the silence that followed, Glenda reached for the sketch book and Crisp had to endure the crackling, which lasted until Benscombe returned. In his hand was a small correspondence envelope, addressed 'Mrs. Fenchurch.' "In the drawer of the writing table, sir." "Oh! _thank_ you!" cried Glenda. "I'm ever so sorry I said that about you. It was nerves, really." "That's all right—please forget it!" smiled Benscombe. But he handed the envelope to his Chief. "What does this envelope contain, Miss Parsons?" asked Crisp. "It's personal," she answered. "Please give it to me. You know it's mine, because it's got my name on—I can see." "I am investigating a murder," said Crisp. "What's inside?" "It's nothing to do with the murder—really it isn't. It's just personal." Crisp slit the envelope, took out a folded cheque. "'Pay Bearer five hundred pounds'," he read aloud. Glenda hung her head. "Can I have it, please?" "I still don't see," said Crisp, "why he didn't give it you—er—at your last meeting—or your next?" "He couldn't. There were reasons." Already she had grasped that it was useless talking to Crisp like that. "The fact is, I had some diamonds which my mother left me. And I asked Lord Watlington, and he said he'd very kindly sell them for me. And so he couldn't give me the money at our last meeting because he didn't know how much they'd fetch. And I didn't want it sent by post, because Arthur opens everything, and he's awful with money. That's reasonable enough, isn't it?" It might be reasonable, thought Crisp, but it wasn't true. "I wish you'd let me have it, now you know it's nothing to do with the murder." "Take it, if you wish," said Crisp indifferently, handing it to her. "But you can't cash it, you know. The banks stop payment at death." "Then I shan't get a penny?" It was a horrified whisper. "Oh yes, in time! Provided you can satisfy the executors. Of course, they'll probably want you to prove the bit about the diamonds before they pay." Benscombe suspected her of intending to throw a faint. With a deft compromise of police officer and dancing partner, he removed her. "That's a side-line, isn't it, sir?" he asked. "I don't see where she fits in," answered Crisp absently. "Mother's diamonds, eh! It might be worth while finding out whether Fenchurch knows anything about that five hundred. You can look after that yourself as soon as you get the chance." He glanced at the copy of Ralph's confession. "This confounded fellow has made a mess of the Regulations. We can't ignore the confession unless we're satisfied it's a hoax. It may or may not be a hoax, but your hunch that it's genuine has been scuppered by Querk." Benscombe looked sheepish. "There's still a chance, sir. Assume that the confession is substantially true—" "But it isn't. He says he struck through the wig, and he didn't." " _Substantially_ true, sir, though inaccurate in detail. I'm thinking of the Sefton-Lyle case. Sefton confessed that he had shot Ashwin. But the bullet was found in the garden, Ashwin having pretended to be hit. And it was Lyle who shot Ashwin nearly an hour later." "Two bangs and two bullets!" grunted Crisp. "Here we have one blow only. And that blow killed Watlington. Also, what about the time?" "I'm assuming a deliberate lie in the matter of time. That would rope in your theory, sir, that he is trying to protect Miss Lofting." "No luck, boy! Watlington's wife has corroborated the time from that bench in the garden. Cornboise left the study at five fifteen—was out of the place in his car a few minutes later, and did not return until after six thirty." "But look here, sir! Given that Cornboise is lying and Querk telling the truth, the murderer must have entered the library almost as soon as Querk left it. That points to Miss Lofting, which is absurd." Crisp chuckled. "Attractive girls don't commit murder, do they, laddie!" "If they're really attractive, they don't have to," grinned Benscombe. "I was going to say that, if you have Cornboise in again and let him see you know he's lying—then with Querk's evidence up your sleeve—" "A rotten place to keep your evidence. We don't need all that diplomacy. We'll put Cornboise in a bag with Querk and shake 'em up together until something drops out. Trot ' em in." Querk did not trot. He had by now imposed upon himself the stance of a man who is attending a funeral. "I am glad, Chief Constable," he said with a hush in his voice, "that you have taken me at my word. I always feel—bless my soul!" He broke off as Benscombe appeared with Ralph Cornboise. "Sit down, Mr. Cornboise," said Crisp. "I am under your orders." Ralph sat down. "But I shall not answer any more questions." "Then you can listen. In your confession you state that you left the library at five fifteen after killing your uncle. Your statement as to time has been confirmed by two independent witnesses, one of whom is Mr. Querk." "You have discovered that I am not a liar! Congratulations, Colonel!" Crisp turned to Querk. "Mr. Querk, did you enter the library after you had seen Mr. Cornboise leave it?" As Querk assented. "Did you then have a conversation with Lord Watlington lasting until approximately five thirty?" "I did, Chief Constable." Ralph sprang from his chair. Crisp motioned him to silence. Querk seized the opportunity to go on talking. "But surely my friend, Mr. Cornboise, does not maintain that he did this dreadful deed _before_ five thirty?" "What's the good, Querk!" groaned Ralph. "I know you think it's kind of you—it _is_ kind! But they'll prove you're only trying to save me. And I don't even want to be saved!" "Ralph! You want us to believe that you killed your uncle? Before five fifteen? Come, my dear boy!" Exasperated, Ralph dropped back in his chair without answering. "He does believe it, Chief Constable!" exclaimed Querk. "It is the clearest possible case of hallucination. He can even persuade himself that I am telling a deliberate falsehood." "Oh, shut up, Querk!" snapped Ralph. "It's no good, I tell you!" "You observe," said Querk with triumph, "how irritably he addresses—er—myself. Because I am menacing the hallucination. There can be no question whatever of my friend's sincerity. I gladly pardon his brusquerie. Such cases are well authenticated. The patient first wishes he had killed a given person. I grieve to admit that he wishes he had killed his uncle, but before all else, Chief Constable, we must be realistic. The patient—" A snort of ill-temper came from Ralph. "Can't you let me off this, Colonel? I've saved you a lot of trouble—you might treat me decently!" "The patient," boomed Querk, "becomes terrified of his own wish—it is his secret fear of himself that gives the nightmare the semblance of reality." "I'm not a patient, damn you!" shouted Ralph. So far the process of shaking them up together had yielded little but noise. Crisp decided to give it direction. "Cornboise, wouldn't you like to ask Mr. Querk a few questions?" "About that psychological nonsense? No thanks. I've had a bellyfull of the subconscious from—others. I'll ask _you_ a question, Chief Constable. I happen to know as well as you do that a doctor can tell how long a chap's been dead. What time did my uncle die?" For a second only, Crisp hesitated. "Between five and five thirty," he said. "Chief _Constable!_ " gasped Querk. "There you are, Querk!" Ralph laughed contemptuously. "If you prove I didn't do it, you prove you did." Querk constructed a smile—the smile that suffocates opponents with understanding and forgiveness. "I think, my dear boy, that I can safely leave the Chief Constable to deal with _that_ little dilemma!" There fell a short, intense silence. "I don't know the answer," said Crisp. With tolerance, with dignity, the saintlike smile faded. Querk coughed, gave a little deprecatory laugh. "Can it be, Chief Constable, that you think it is I who am suffering from hallucination? That Mr. Cornboise did indeed kill poor Lord Watlington?" "I don't believe you're suffering from hallucination," answered Crisp. "And I don't believe Cornboise killed Watlington." "That's torn it!" shrieked Ralph Cornboise. The hysteria was coming back. "He thinks you killed uncle! You old fool, you've brought it on yourself! I told you to shut up! Oh my hat!" The words came quickfire, on a high-pitched shout. "They'll hang you, and I shan't care a damn. And after it's over they'll find out you were only being a noble fathead and they'll hang me. Then it'll be Claudia's turn. They'll find something in that room—something I couldn't see and can't remember looking for." The voice rose to a shrill scream. _"They'll use a microscope!"_ Crisp caught him as he flopped forward. He laid him on the floor, whipped out a knife and cut his collar and tie. "He's coming round! Stand by to take him upstairs, put him on his bed and ring for the doctor. The arrest is washed out." When they had taken Ralph away, Querk spoke in the manner of one proposing a vote of thanks. "I am sure, Chief Constable, we shall all be grateful that you have taken that course!" he declaimed. "Young Cornboise is as sane as you or I, but he is definitely neurotic. He needs a prolonged course of treatment in sympathetic surroundings. You observe how the dear boy is torturing himself with visions of myself being hanged—hanged forsooth!—in his stead. For a crime he himself committed in his imagination." "Imagination didn't kill Watlington—between five and five thirty," grunted Crisp. Querk wore an expression of reproof. "The force of your remark is not lost upon me, Chief Constable. Before we can claim any progress, we must probe the movement of every person who was in the house, who might have been in the house, or who might have been concealed in the garden. The golden rule—" "Quite so. Let's get back to your leaving the library—" "The golden rule in a case like this—don't you think, Chief Constable?—is for everyone concerned— _everyone_ —to avoid saying anything which he might later come to regret." For the moment, Crisp was flattened out. In that moment an old guerilla maxim flashed up: 'Avoid engaging the enemy until you know his immediate objective.' "I trust that no word of mine—" began Crisp. Realising that he was beginning to talk like Querk, he broke off. "Look here, Mr. Querk, I'm sure you appreciate my difficulties. I—" "Of course I do, my dear Colonel! Perhaps some of the difficulties will disappear if we put our heads together. Onlookers, as we know, often see more of the game. Confess, now—you are whipping up courage to ask me for proof that I did not myself murder my poor old friend." An explosive cough from young Benscombe delayed Crisp's agreement. "As a matter of routine—" "Precisely!" agreed Querk. "For that very reason there need be no hesitation on your part. Lord Watlington was killed between five and five thirty, says the doctor, and while we know that such statements can be at best an approximation, we know in fact that, on my own admission, I left around two or three minutes of five thirty." "Excellent! You're lightening my load, Mr. Querk. Did one of the maids or anyone see you leave?" "I cannot say. And it is hardly worth our while to ask them. It would carry our investigation no further, unless the maid entered the library as soon as I had left it." Crisp nodded, acknowledging that Querk had made a point. The latter continued: "On the fantastic hypothesis of my guilt, we have to consider motive and behaviour. As to motive, I have lost not only a dear friend, but also my most valuable client who, as you are aware, has left me nothing in his Will." "Good! That disposes of motive." Crisp wanted to get on to the behaviour. "Not wholly, if I may say so!" corrected Querk. "We must shrink from no absurdity, Colonel. Have I perchance we must ask ourselves—have I robbed my client? Was I on the verge of exposure? In the course of more than twenty five years, securities have passed backwards and forwards through my hands, aggregating tens of millions. Have I helped myself to an illicit half per cent? That is an avenue which routine must surely forbid us to leave unexplored. You will not ask me to be judge in my own cause. I will refer you to the National and Mutual Bank, through whom every single transaction was effected." He was making a mayoral address of it. Behind the platitudes, Crisp suspected, lurked a technique. The watery eyes were not the eyes of a fool. They were watching his reactions and missing nothing. "To continue our little charade, Colonel, I must claim that, in my rôle of murderer, my behaviour has a certain—ah—originality. Another man confesses to my crime. Do I thank my guardian angel? On the contrary, I positively lay information against myself, information which neither you nor anyone else possessed, my dear Colonel—that I was myself on the scene of the crime at a relevant time. I stultify the confession by asserting, as it were, my own prior right to conviction." Crisp laughed, prolonged the laugh for diplomatic reasons. This unusual man was using the police as his stooge, making them ask the questions he wished to be asked. Or was he, after all, the ponderous idiot he appeared to be? "As a red-handed murderer, I am somewhat miscast. That does not prove that I am innocent. We have yet to consider the question of conspiracy. Is mine the mastermind directing the nefarious activities of others? Do I receive a furtive—er—rake-off—from the large fortune of which the young couple will presently take possession—following their marriage, of course?" "That's a good point," stooged Crisp. "But I expect it'll only give you another laugh at the expense of the poor policeman." "Oh come now, Colonel—we are laughing together! We are jointly propounding absurdities in order to clear them from our path. On the indictment for conspiracy—presumably with the same young couple—we encounter the difficulty of time and place. The remark about Miss Lofting's suitability as a bride was made in the study after lunch. Assuming that remark to have inspired the murder, we find that my master mind was not in contact with its subordinates until, approximately, one hour and a half _after_ the murder had taken place." "Bravo!" applauded Crisp. He decided to take a risk. "Dammit, Mr. Querk, your evidence sweeps away all the cobwebs. It practically proves that there has been no murder." "A jest that contains a truth!" mouthed Querk. "In my opinion, there has been no such murder as we have been discussing. Our weak spot, Colonel, is to be found in our motivation. Almost as if we were of the common herd, we have allowed ourselves to be dazzled by money. We see a large fortune and we say: 'There is the Motive.' Now, I ask you—excluding gangsters and other habitual criminals—what proportion of murders are committed for money?" Crisp glanced at his aide. "In the case of persons not previously convicted of an indictable offence," answered Benscombe, "the motive of gain preponderates in thirty-seven per cent of indictments for murder followed by conviction. I'm quoting the Manual, sir." "That's what it sounded like," smiled Crisp. "Less than forty per cent!" orated Querk. "I suggest that we entrench ourselves behind the sixty per cent, and search for a more subtle motive. We can safely exclude the motive of revenge. My poor friend had no enemies—unless, of course, you feel you could count his disgruntled wife. Hell—Shakespeare tells us, Chief Constable—holds no fury like a woman scorned. Even though our suspicion of the unfortunate lady be at the moment purely Shakesperian, it could do no harm to check her movements at the relevant times. Where was Watlington's wife at—say—five-thirty-five this afternoon?" So that was his first objective, thought Crisp. Incidentally, _he had made the tactical mistake, commonly made by murderers, of nominating a suspect_. "I will give you her address," offered Querk and dictated it to Benscombe. "Dear me! A quarter-to-eleven!" "We are going back to Headquarters," said Crisp. "You've given us a good deal to think over." Querk interrupted his own progress to the door. "One little matter before we say goodnight. A trifle, but perhaps a tremendous trifle, my dear Chief Constable. Touching the doctor's statement as to the time at which death occurred—have we asked the Exchange whether a call was in fact put through at five-thirty? And whether my poor friend answered it?" "Thank you for reminding me," said Crisp. "Benscombe, see to it, will you?" In a spate of compliments to himself and the police, Querk bowed himself out. In a few minutes, Benscombe returned. "Trunk call from Edinburgh was put through at five-thirty-four, sir. It was not answered and the call was not charged." "Which very strongly suggests that Watlington was dead by that time, Querk caught us out there, Benscombe. Contact the caller and see if he can tell us anything." Crisp went on: "Did you notice that, while talking like a blithering idiot, he actually shattered the case against himself as nimbly as a first-class lawyer? And did you notice that not a single platitude was wasted?' "The only thing that feller doesn't know we know," he continued, "is that the signet ring was removed from Watlington's finger after death—and replaced. Go on from there, Benscombe." "The murderer destroyed the original envelope containing the Will. That is, he wanted to get hold of the Will—or put another Will in its place." "That didn't happen, boy! The Will we found was the Will Watlington read to the three of 'em in the study after lunch." "Then the murderer wanted something that was in the envelope with the Will." "That's more like it—at a guess, something about Miss Lofting—probably those letters. I may guess—you mayn't! But why all that how-d'ye-do with the wax and the signet ring? There was another empty envelope addressed to the solicitors. Good quality envelope. Good gum on the flap. If he felt he must use sealing wax, why add the family crest?" Benscombe wrinkled his brow. "I've got it, sir! Watlington sealed up the original envelope in the presence of the three of 'em as you say. So the substituted envelope had to be sealed too." "Again, why? No one outside those three knew that the seal had been used." "The answer to that one, sir, is Miss Lofting. She had seen the original envelope sealed. She would not have stood for murder, so she—" "Nonsense! You must try to leave your incurable romanticism out of your work, Benscombe." "All right, sir! The inference is that the murderer acted on his own without consulting the others—which lines up with their telling different tales." "You're getting tired, my boy, and a bit woolly. The inference is that there _must_ have been one innocent person and that there _may_ have been two. If there's one innocent person, the evidence to date indicates not Miss Lofting but Ralph Cornboise." Benscombe would have protested but was given no chance. "Querk's evidence clears Ralph," said Crisp. "It's corroborated in part by Watlington's wife and negatively by Ralph's own mis-statements—notably the statement that he struck through the wig, which we know he did not." "Let's have the other half, sir! Suppose there are two innocent persons?" "Most probably there are! There's the difference in their respective tales. And there's Querk's point that they had no time in which to conspire. Yes—I think it'll turn out to be a one-man job—or let's say one-person job." "You mean, sir, that Miss Lofting might have returned to the library after Querk left it?" "She might have. We know only that she was having a bath, round about five-fifteen. What's a bath?—a couple of hours or a couple of minutes. She had opportunity plus motive. Querk had opportunity, but no motive, so far as we know." "All I can say," announced Benscombe, "is that if Miss Lofting is the chief suspect, I'm ready to follow Querk and plump for Watlington's wife. That 'woman scorned' stuff!" "Women get scorned every day, but they don't often commit murder about it. And don't forget the penknife and the signet ring—which becomes an elaborate and pointless act from the wife's point of view. To say nothing of ringing us up some hour and a half after the murder." "But we don't know that she did that, sir!" "We don't. But it's a working hypothesis that the murderer did, so as to get us bogged up with all those guests. Something may have happened then, which you and I missed. There's a corker for you. But we don't want corkers—we want facts. And we shan't get any more here tonight. Come along!" As he gathered up the Chief Constable's personal paraphernalia, Benscombe harked back. "I hope, sir, you don't take your own little joke seriously. Miss Lofting means nothing to me. I don't care tuppence whether she's innocent or guilty. I just feel sure that she isn't the type." "Oh, I feel that too! That's because we're human. But, you know, there's no such thing as a murderer type." In the hall, Claudia Lofting was waiting. As Crisp came out of the morning-room she approached him. She had discarded the evening dress, was wearing a morning frock and an apron, presumably borrowed from Bessie. "Ralph is ill," she said. "I want to take him away from here tomorrow. Is there any objection?" "What sort of 'ill'?" asked Crisp. "That confession! He's a bit delirious after his excitement. He keeps telling me—over and over again—how he killed his uncle." Again Crisp lapsed into the perilous business of assessing a human being on appearances. If she had been putting on an act, that apron would be free from stains, which it wasn't. She looked tired and pre-occupied. So he took her words at their face value. "I have no authority in the matter," he told her. "I suggest that you leave the decision to the doctor. We've a lot of spadework to do yet. And perhaps it would be in his own ultimate interest if he were to stay close at hand." Claudia nodded. Some of her fatigue vanished and she smiled. "And in my ultimate interest too, Colonel?" "Since you ask—yes. Goodnight, Miss Lofting." With Benscombe beside him, Crisp drove back with more dash than was decorous in a Chief Constable. "Good women," he remarked, "may conceivably commit crime for what they believe to be a good motive." Benscombe was irritated into an outburst of respectful agreement. # Chapter Seven On the following morning, an hour before he was due to report at headquarters, Benscombe was knocking at Arthur Fenchurch's flat. Eventually, Fenchurch himself appeared, in a dressing gown which most courageous young men would have liked for their honeymoon, and pyjamas which had passed beyond effeminacy to surrealism. "Only the police would dare!" he exclaimed. "Please come in. My flat is yours. I will give you a latch-key. What do you want of me?" "Sorry to disturb you," said Benscombe. "I want to see Mrs. Fenchurch." "How disappointing!" They were in the hall. Fenchurch raised his voice. "Glenda! Glenda, darling, damn you! A really nice policeman has called for you!" He turned to Benscombe. "I believe she's gone." He opened the door of a bedroom. "Yes, she has. With suitcases. Come and see my studio before you go." It was a top floor studio flat. The studio impressed Benscombe. Against the walls was a litter of unfinished canvases, some upside down. Those that were right way up were all pretty portraits of women, except those which were pretty portraits of men. Prominent was a nude without a face. There was a general effect of studied bohemianism and a good deal of untidiness, but the divans were roomy and well sprung, and the screens worked on electric rollers, controlled from a panel built into the easel. "Perhaps you would give me Mrs. Fenchurch's address?" "I don't know it. I don't even know her name. I don't know when she went. I last saw her about midnight. After that, I heard her packing." "Then at least you knew she was going?" "Because she was packing?" Fenchurch laughed. "Why, during the few months we've been together she must have packed dozens of times, just as noisily as that. It was a sort of last-word technique, after a row. Good lord, she hasn't left any coffee in the thermos! You'll have to wait while I make some." "Don't bother about me, thanks! I say, Mr. Fenchurch, this is on the serious side. We shall have to winkle her out." "What a pity! If you find her, please don't bring her back here. Frankly, the poor darling outstayed her welcome. Pray help yourself to any clues you want. I must heat up some coffee if I am to parry your deft questions." Fenchurch disappeared kitchenwards. Benscombe went to the room that had been Glenda's. He was surprised to find it so tidy. And so empty. Except that the dressing table was fitted with side mirrors, there was nothing to indicate that the room had been occupied by a woman. Glenda had cleaned up thoroughly, presumably in order to remove the kind of evidence for which Benscombe was looking. The scent of gardenia still hovered about the chest-of-drawers, which was as empty as the wardrobe. Sheets had been removed. The mattress was folded on itself. Through the springs, he saw, under the bed, a large cardboard dress-box, of the kind costumiers use to deliver dresses. He stooped down. The box was larger than any of its kind that he had ever seen. It was tied with thick string and the knots were sealed. As he pulled it from under the bed, he perceived that it did not contain dresses. He had left the door open. He could hear a faint, distant clatter of crockery. "Funny how fond these chaps are of coffee!" he muttered, as he cut the string and removed the lid. The next moment he caught his breath, but not as policemen catch their breath—if, indeed, they ever do. "God, he can paint! You can recognise her at once, though it isn't really like her to look at." Claudia Lofting gazed at him out of the canvas. As a picture, it had nothing in common with the pretty portraits lying about in the studio. Benscombe, who knew nothing of art idioms, became aware that this artist could paint personality. Mood, too, subordinated to personality. In the first, Claudia was gazing at him as if he were her lover. In the second, a full-length study, with an Italian background, showed her an attractive, everyday girl, thinking of amusing trivialities. Two more had the same kind of background: on one of them, which might have been symbolic, the words _'Casa Flavia'_ were scrawled across the corner. Casa Flavia sounded familiar. He closed his eyes, visualised the Chief Constable in the morning-room reading to Querk, from the typed sheet, a row of figures and words pencilled on Watlington's blotting pad. Watlington — Querk — Fenchurch — Claudia — Casa Flavia? Work that out later. The last of the canvases stung him to anger. Claudia in the nude! Some devilishly clever trick with shadow made her body seem hard as armour, her hands the hands of a strangler, while the eyes, indubitably hers, looked out of the picture with fierce contempt—as if at something she had killed. In the corner was scrawled: _'O madre mia.'_ "Mothers aren't murderers. The thing doesn't make sense!" He replaced the canvases in the cardboard dress box, turned it so that the uncut string was outermost, and slid it back under the bed. He went back to the studio, had to wait a couple of minutes, during which he composed himself, before Fenchurch came in, with a breadboard acting as a tray for two cups of coffee. "Thanks awf'ly!" Benscombe accepted the cup out of policy. "I found nothing I was looking for in that room. I suppose she has some friends, or a family or something?" "She must have," agreed Fenchurch impartially. "She used to tell some obvious lies about the social standing of her people. I never listened. She picked me up one evening at Clapham Junction, where I had no defence. Her past did not interest me, as she had no future. D'you mind keeping still for a minute?" Fenchurch, forgetting his coffee, was making line-notes in a sketch book. "There's no sense in your painting my portrait—" Benscombe began. "Portrait be damned!" He was sketching rapidly. "You can't suppose, my dear fellow, that I am touting you for a commission. It is I who should offer a fee. I can get into the Royal Academy on your head. Under a fancy title. 'Streamline.' The modern policeman. Science, poise, breeding! Don't be offended with me. If a doctor were to tell you that your liver was marvellously interesting, you would not quarrel with him." "Go ahead—I'm not quarrelsome on duty," said Benscombe. "As you've spoken pretty freely about Glenda, you won't mind telling us what her relations were with Watlington?" "There weren't any relations. I don't believe he wanted her. And I'm certain she wasn't trying for him... Can you look a tiny bit to your left? Thanks... One acquires an ability to read women's intentions by what they think they're doing with their dress. Few have the sense to employ an artist to advise on how to dress for seduction. If it's any help to you, I'm sure Glenda didn't murder Watlington. She was too lacking in temperament." Benscombe, forgetting that he had been overawed by the skill revealed in the pictures of Claudia, now discovered in himself a sneaking respect for this man who was so adept at slithering off the point. To nail him down it would be necessary to take a risk. He waited until there came a pause in the sketching. "Last night," said Benscombe, "we found a cheque to her, signed by Watlington, for five hundred pounds." "God damn the dirty little crook!" The sketch book went flying. A half second later, Fenchurch looked ashamed at having made a fool of himself. "Crook?" echoed Benscombe. "No—no, of course not! Mercenary, not crook! Evidently I was wrong in what I said about her relations with Watlington." "I'm taking a bet you were _not_ wrong," said Benscombe. "And another bet that you wouldn't care tuppence if she had sold herself to Watlington, or anyone else. Yet you jumped out of your pyjamas when I mentioned that cheque. What did she sell him for that five hundred?" Fenchurch stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown as if he were hiding them. "How the hell do I know!" "Weak!" scoffed Benscombe. "If you'd known nothing, you wouldn't have damned her so energetically." "My reaction, surely, was obvious! If she did succeed in nobbling Watlington, I felt she ought to have split the cash with me." "Thanks, Mr. Fenchurch," grinned Benscombe, rising. "I'll be getting along." "Possibly—" began Fenchurch "—with your more regular way of life and unsmirched ideals—you're revolted?" "Not revolted—a bit sore because you think I'm so green that I don't know a gigolo when I see one." "Science, poise, breeding!" muttered Fenchurch. "God, I must paint that picture!" "Good luck, then! You've helped us a lot." "By trying to mislead you?" "By just that! You would rather brand yourself a so-and-so than tell us what Glenda sold Watlington. That narrows the field down splendidly. Cheerio!" # Chapter Eight The Chief Constable was waiting for Benscombe on the steps of the Town Hall. "Sorry, sir! I've been chasing Fenchurch's girl and tumbled on something else. She's bolted, by the way." "Let's have the 'appreciation' first," said Crisp, as they got into his car. "Appreciation!" echoed Benscombe. "Fenchurch didn't know Glenda was doing a deal with Watlington. Glenda sold Watlington something belonging to Fenchurch. Probably letters proving that Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting knew each other pretty well. On one of the many pictures of Claudia—some with an Italian-looking background—Fenchurch had written 'Casa Flavia'." "Watlington's blotting pad! Good!" said Crisp. "Now the details!" Benscombe reported everything, except the nude study of Claudia. "Does it add up, sir?" "You've earned your pat on the back." Crisp was pondering as he spoke. "It's a loop-line, of course. If you can find out when and why Watlington noted Casa Flavia, you'll come back to the main line. You see what the main line is, don't you, boy?" "To discover who had the greatest interest in Watlington's death." "Not a bit of it! The main line is the clock. That's what we keep barking our shins on. There's a catch somewhere in all these clock-times, and so far we haven't spotted it." He negotiated a corner and continued: "Look how we've had our noses rubbed in the time! That chiming stable clock works out as a sort of ballet master. Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia, Ralph, Querk! Each of 'em hears it strike before or after doing or seeing something, so that we can fit everything into place. The wrong place! It strikes five o'clock and the curtain rises, with Claudia going into the library. We hang on to that clock until it strikes five-thirty—when we find we've by-passed the murder." About to turn into the drive, Crisp was held by a Rolls coming out. "That's probably the specialist she sent for to look at Cornboise," said Crisp. "Sanson phoned me about it. Maybe she's playing for insanity—prevent him giving evidence." The front door was open, as usual. In the hall, they heard Querk's voice coming from the first, floor landing. "I would never have suggested it, my dear Miss Lofting, if I had the slightest fear that I would excite him. On the contrary, I feel confident—absolutely confident—that I can help the poor fellow to clarify his thoughts. Sir William has told us how important that is. I'm so glad he was able to come to our help—I admit I had to put it to him as a special favour." "Very well, Mr. Querk. I don't want to be difficult, especially as you've been so kind about Sir William. But I do think Ralph ought to rest this morning. Say four o' clock this afternoon. I'll take tea to his room for the three of us." Crisp passed to the gunroom, Sanson's office. After hearing a routine report, which included the stalling of Pressmen, he asked: "What about that registered parcel? Nothing eh? Stir up the servants. Send a man with them to search every room again—except Cornboise's. Lock all unoccupied rooms, label the keys and bring 'em to me." "Very good, sir." Sanson added: "There's a message that Miss Lofting would be grateful for an interview at your convenience." "As soon as she likes—in the other room." Benscombe followed him into the morning-room, opened the dossier and log book. "I want the blotting pad—not the typed notes," said Crisp. Benscombe stood over him as he studied it. When the figures were grouped, they were in neat columns. But the columns were set at various angles, due to Watlington's habit of twiddling the blotting pad. _'Girl bosses Ralph'_ was at right angles to the most recent column of figures. At right angles again, appeared (1) _Tarranio:_ (2) _Fabroli: Casa Flavia_. This was in one line, except for the last word, which had been partly written then struck out and rewritten in full underneath the cancellation. Below 'Flavia' was a date in May of the previous year. "Now, let's see how far we can time this stuff. Check what I say. Querk says all the figures were made before lunch. After lunch there's _'Girl bosses Ralph.'_ That marries up with what she told us about her smoothing Ralph after the alleged insult to herself. "Now this Italian stuff! Watlington had turned the pad again. I think he took this note at dictation, because it's written much more carefully than anything else, and he didn't know how much space it would take. He wrote 'Fla' of 'Flavia,' then saw he was going to crash into the 'ph' of Ralph. So he struck out the 'Fla' and re-wrote the word in full underneath. _Therefore_ —therefore what, boy?" "Therefore the Italian note was made after the note about Ralph." "Right!" approved Crisp. "Hold that! Check it if you can. Maybe the girl will help." In a few minutes, Claudia appeared. In the same morning frock, but without the apron, she threw the suggestion of a social adequacy which was not only a protection to herself but a challenge to others. Herself a normal woman in abnormal circumstances, she demanded to be taken at her own valuation. Crisp found himself addressing her as a social acquaintance. "Good morning, Miss Lofting. I hope the doctor was encouraging?" "He has told us how we stand," she answered. "I called Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist." She smiled. "Mr. Querk lent me his enormous fee for coming out here. Turvey said that it wouldn't affect the hallucination whether we moved Ralph from here or not. So that washes out my request." "Then Turvey confirmed that it was hallucination and not—well, a plumb lie?" asked Crisp. "We told him—that is, Mr. Querk and I—that Ralph had confessed, and that you had rejected the confession because you had evidence that it was not true." She gave Crisp a chance to protest and continued: "When Turvey had finished with Ralph, he explained to us that hallucination is only a symptom. It's not a thing you can have by itself. Like any other symptom, he said, it remains until the cause is removed." "Hm! But as the cause happens to be the murder of his uncle—" "The cause," interrupted Claudia, "is his fear that I murdered his uncle. Turvey said it would be idle to look for any other cause until that has been eliminated to the patient's satisfaction. That is where I hope you will be willing to help us, Colonel." Crisp permitted himself to show irritation. "You would like me to hurry up and find the murderer for you?" Claudia was better at that kind of thing than Crisp. "I expressed myself clumsily—and I have been punished." Benscombe came near to feeling sorry for his Chief. "I meant—it might take you some time to complete your investigation," continued Claudia. "I hoped you would be willing to tell me if you have proved that I did not kill Lord Watlington. And to give me the proof." Crisp's glance held something of admiration, though it was as uncompromising as her own. "I will gladly give you that proof," he answered, "as soon as I have it." "Oh!" For a moment she looked grave; then, in a quick little laugh, her defensiveness vanished. "How stupid of me! I thought I had been struck off the list. I suppose the weak spot is whether I dashed into the library, after Querk left it. There would have been just time." "So you've been discussing the case with Querk?" "Yes. After you had gone last night. He raised that point, and this morning I tackled Bessie. She remembered hearing the bath taps running. But I couldn't get her to admit she had heard the water running out—which, as it was at about twenty to six, would have carried me over the hurdle. It's one of those awfully noisy bath wastes, too. But Bessie simply would not rise." "The next time you attempt to suborn a witness," said Crisp, with stage severity, "don't tell the Chief Constable all about it. Can you pin down any of your movements after turning on the water? I have no personal doubt that you behaved as described. But, theoretically, you might have run the water as a blind, then slipped downstairs, hiding somewhere, and waiting your chance." "Yes, of course!" agreed Claudia. "The wretched Bessie is useless—she was probably asleep. I didn't hurry in the bathroom, and when I was back in my own room I pottered a little, and then lay down. There's nothing we can catch hold of." "Nothing through yourself. We may be able to cover the period through other evidence. Things dovetail conveniently sometimes—that's why we ask so many questions. Now, I have here Watlington's blotting pad. On it there is a puzzling note. 'Casa Flavia.' Can you throw any light?" Benscombe found himself hoping she would not lie—with the evidence of those pictures against her. "N-no!" Benscombe sighed. As Crisp was about to ask another question, Claudia added: "It's a small market town on the Bay of Naples. I've stayed there and know it very well. But it didn't crop up in the conversation after lunch." Crisp glanced again at the blotting pad. "'Tarranio'. Does that mean anything to you?" "It means to me a wine merchant in Casa Flavia." "And 'Fabroli'?" She repeated the name, groped in memory. "Why, yes! He is also a wine merchant in Casa Flavia." "Can you give us a helpful guess why all that should be noted on the blotting pad, followed by a date—May 2nd last year?" "I was there from April to June last year." Her eye roamed the room, resting for a moment on Benscombe. "Yes!" she exclaimed. "I see what must have happened. Only, you've obviously got the wrong time." "Time again!" Crisp's remark was for Benscombe. "The man who can probably tell you all about it is Arthur Fenchurch, the artist," said Claudia. "He was asked to the dinner last night—he was going to start painting Watlington next week. He was at Casa Flavia when I was there—he painted me. Probably he mentioned it to Watlington. But the note must have been made before we were all in the study." _"Before?"_ challenged Crisp. "How otherwise?" she countered. "Unless you suppose that Arthur Fenchurch turned up after we had left the study—without anybody knowing—and that he woke Watlington out of his afternoon snooze for a chat about smalltown Italian wine merchants." She added: "It simply must have been made before." But it had not been made before. Benscombe, who had yet to complete his second year in the Force, felt his pulse quickening. Claudia's evidence was changing the whole perspective of the case. His Chief was asking another question. "Can you suggest why Watlington should want to make a note of these two wine merchants, local men? And add a definite date of more than a year ago?" "I haven't the least idea. Unless it was part of the peerage campaign to lay in a stock of Italian wines." Her gaiety passed as quickly as it had come. "I'm afraid all this won't help you to strike me off the list." Crisp nodded to Benscombe, who understood and slipped from the room. "I'd like to run over the evidence you gave yesterday and see if you can add or subtract anything," said Crisp. By this device he detained Claudia until Benscombe returned. As soon as Claudia had left the room Benscombe reported. "I got Fenchurch on the phone, sir." Benscombe was jubilant. "He said he last saw Watlington last Wednesday Watlington came to the studio. Fenchurch had not been in this house since last Thursday week. He was quite certain. Nailed his colours to the mast. Burnt his boats—" "Crossed the Rubican and Cast the Die!" cut in Crisp. "Let's see how it fits in." "Breaks the spell of the stable clock, sir. Fenchurch was in the study between the others leaving it after lunch and—" "How do you know that note was dictated by Fenchurch?" challenged Crisp. "You think you know it because an attractive girl told you so. She is attractive. Did you notice how she hit back at me for trying to put her in her place?" "Yes, sir. But I don't call that particularly attractive. She's at her best when she—" "She is," agreed Crisp. "Querk told us he could fit no meaning to the Casa Flavia stuff. Claudia fits Fenchurch into it and your job o' work this morning dovetails. All this suggests that Fenchurch is in it. But it leaves us short of certainty." "He can't prove his movements on Saturday afternoon. What about my quizzing him, sir?" "Leave him alone for the present. If he's in it, he can't afford to bolt. He'll rely on talking himself out of it. We'll work round him. Pick up that girl of his and find out what she did sell Watlington. Tomorrow, ask the Italian consulate whether those chaps really are wine merchants." A constable entered with a collection of house keys, labelled, and put them on the table. "That registered parcel has not been found, sir." "This afternoon, Benscombe," continued Crisp, when the orderly had gone, "you can find out whether Querk, Claudia and Ralph attach any importance to this Casa Flavia stuff." Benscombe was at a loss. "Sorry, I don't see how to set about that, sir?" "You can attend that conference they're going to have at four—but you don't need to report present." Crisp pointed to the collection of house keys. "In that room, we heard Ralph brushing his hair. That means they will hear you if you try to take notes." "Good Lord, sir, it's a fine assignment! I ought to get something out of it!" "You mean you think you will get everything out of it. You won't. If the murderer is one of the party, that murderer will be speaking in the presence of two innocent persons—which equals two policemen." # Chapter Nine The only physical difficulty in the assignment was to get in and out of the room unobserved and to manipulate the key without being heard by Ralph. Querk had gone out, but might return at any time. It was necessary to locate Claudia and each one of the servants. By three fifteen, Benscombe was in the room, the door locked behind him. The window was a nuisance. The Victorian curtain pole, with its brackets of scrolled brass, was bare of curtains. The dressing table and washstand were set at an angle—which would not protect him from chance observation from the garden. There was nothing for it but to get down on the floor. On the other side of the matchboarding, Ralph turned in his bed. To Benscombe the springs registered as if the bed were immediately behind him. From sundry small noises made by the other, he observed that audibility varied, part only of the matchboarding acting as a sounding board. While he was still groping for the best spot, he heard the door of Ralph's room open, then Claudia's voice: "Would you like a wash and brush up before tea?" "No, thanks! Are the police still nosing about?" "Not up here. They've locked every unoccupied room above the ground floor." There came the vague noises of a room being tidied before Claudia spoke again. "I came up to tell you that Querk wants to have tea with us. I said he could. We mustn't snub him—he has been so helpful." She was winding the clock on the mantelpiece. Benscombe heard her tilt it to start the pendulum. "Ralph, dear, did you hear my little piece about Querk?" "Yes! Who was that doctor man you forced on me?" Ralph's tone was that of a fractious child. "Sir William Turvey. It's unkind to say I forced him on you." "I've heard of him somewhere. Is he a mental specialist, Claudia?" "Not in the ordinary sense." Her tone was placatory. "He's a physician specialising in psychiatry." "And he's collected a knighthood for it. That means that if he says I have an hallucination, people will believe him. That might turn out all right. If the police were to believe I was merely lying they'd reason that I might know you had killed him." Benscombe had not been in the Force long enough for the human being to be sunk in the policeman. He waited with painful anxiety for Claudia's reaction. Instead, there came the squeak of castors and the thumping of a cushion. That confounded tidying process! Then Ralph's voice again: "They haven't got anything definite against you, have they, Claudia?" "Ralph, dear, _don't_! You're torturing yourself for nothing. I had another chat with the Chief Constable this morning. He did _not_ treat me as if he thought I might be guilty of murder. I am in no danger whatever." "That doesn't mean a thing!" "I know you think I'm merely trying to stop you from worrying. Talk it over with Querk and let him tell you what he thinks. I'll see if he has come back." The sound of the door being opened and shut. The groan of Ralph's bed springs. Benscombe glared at the matchboarding as if it had betrayed him. "That's absolutely consistent with her innocence," ran his thoughts. "And nearly as consistent with her guilt. And his! Oh, damn!" Behind his exasperation was the conviction that Crisp would have little difficulty in interpreting the words of one or the other. He set himself to memorise the words, discovered uncertainties at crucial points, mainly grammatical. The mood and tense of verbs were of paramount importance. The only positive thing Claudia had said was that she was not in danger. In danger of being caught? Or only in danger of being unjustly suspected? There had been no strain in her voice when she used the word 'murder.' Surely real murderers always dodged that word! He had not been a policeman long enough to know. Absorbed, he failed to hear the stable clock strike four—did not know the tea party had started until he heard Querk's voice. "And how is the patient? Ready to sit up and take nourishment, I hope. Miss Lofting, let me take that tray from you. It must be very heavy!" Fussing with the tray was followed by Claudia asking Querk the irritating questions about sugar and milk. Then Ralph's nerve-racking voice crashing through the pretence. "Querk! Why did you risk your own neck by lying to the police? If they find out the truth they'll charge you with being my accessory." A spoon was laid precisely in a saucer—two clear cut clinks. Benscombe felt that in the next few minutes his own career in the Force would be made or marred. "With those words, my dear Ralph, you have forced an issue I had hoped to avoid. I shall speak to you frankly, and, I fear harshly. But I shall be harsh, only, my dear boy, in order to be kind." "It would be kind if you would co-operate and tell me what the devil you're aiming at." "'Co-operate'! You have given me the very word I wanted. Let us co-operate in this awkward little problem of your—ah—alleged mental state. Hallucination or no hallucination. That, in the words of Hamlet, is the question." Incredibly to Benscombe, Claudia interrupted with an offer of sandwiches. When the confusion had died down, Ralph demanded querulously: "Go ahead, Querk. What's the best tale to tell 'em?" "You cannot believe that I am suggesting the—er—telling of a tale! I myself enjoy, in no small measure, the confidence of the Chief Constable. I would not dream of lending myself to any abuse of that confidence in the form of an untrue or misleading statement. We must tell the truth, Ralph, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And what is the truth that we must tell? What is the only truth about yourself that your fellow man can perceive, and so believe?" "That I am either a liar or a lunatic. And dammit, I'm beginning to believe they're about right!" "Then you are beginning to believe—as I do—that there is only one way of telling your truth. A liar will not admit that his statement may be untrue. A lunatic is not conscious of his lunacy. But you—you know in your heart of hearts that your account of your—er—murderous exploit will not survive the test of cross-examination. Quite apart from my own direct evidence, you must already be harbouring some doubt as to whether things _could_ have happened as you believed last night they _had_ happened. "Very well! All I am now advising is that you manfully admit your own doubt. Admit that the circumstances of your uncle's death were a supreme shock to you. Admit that, for emotional reasons on which we need not dwell, your emotional logic convinced you that it was you yourself who had murdered him. Admit that this emotional conviction remains firmly planted in your consciousness—that nothing that any of us can say will dislodge it. But admit, too, that your _intellect_ accepts the assurance of the Chief Constable that, in fact, you did _not_ murder your uncle." In the pause that followed, Benscombe could sense the crushing effect of Querk's preposterous oratory. Through a mist of unctuousness, the fellow was talking horse sense. Then Claudia's voice: "It does seem to me that Mr. Querk has solved the problem. You can stick to everything you've said, if you want to, provided you don't fly out at the police when they show they think you're mistaken." Benscombe felt that for once the Chief had failed him—had he not said that a murderer would be speaking in the presence of two innocent persons? Querk and Claudia were pulling together. The two innocent persons? And Ralph the guilty one? But, in that case, the two innocent persons were trying to persuade the guilty person that he was an innocent person—which seemed wrong, somehow. Moreover, if Ralph was indeed the murderer, Querk's evidence that Watlington was alive after five fifteen must be false. This would tend to make Querk the murderer or accessory—which was absurd. Therefore Querk and Ralph must be the two innocent persons. Therefore— "If you wangle Turvey into putting over the hallucination for you," Ralph was saying, "the police will be left free to concentrate on you and Claudia. You, no doubt, can look after yourself. What about Claudia?" "And _what_ about Claudia—if Miss Lofting will pardon me! Let us face that problem with the same frankness. Within these four walls, Ralph, will you admit that you secretly suspect Miss Lofting of having killed your uncle?" Benscombe unconsciously held his breath. But he had to let it out before Ralph answered: "What I do suspect is that if I am dropped out of the case, the police will muck about with microscopes and cigarette ash and the rest of it until they've put her in the dock." "But why," demanded Claudia, "should they want to put me in the dock? There's no reason why I should kill the poor old boy. When we were playing with that die stamp together, he was charming. He dropped all that nonsense about objecting to our marriage." "You're talking like a kid, Claudia. How can you prove all that? If they ever get hold of the Casa Flavia story, they'll make a bee line for you." "Oh, nonsense! They've got hold of it already. Your uncle had noted it on his blotting pad. Colonel Crisp was talking about it this morning. I told him I had stayed there and that Arthur Fenchurch was there too and had painted me." "You told him that!" shrieked Ralph. "Oh Claudia, then they _have_ got something definite against you! At this moment Crisp and that grinning Yesman of his are probably shaking the whole story out of Fenchurch. Casa Flavia, my god! A motive the size of a haystack!" So Casa Flavia was the key to the murder! Benscombe contemplated the fact that he had now completed his assignment. Claudia and Ralph were both speaking at once, and Querk was trying to cut in. "I must beg a moment's attention!" boomed Querk. "Look here, Querk! Claudia never mentioned Casa Flavia. How could it have been written down by uncle?" "We do not know. We are not interested!" Querk's words held the finality of a Royal dismissal. "We can safely leave such questions to be answered by the police—if indeed they are worth the answering. The intervention of amateur investigators can but hinder them in their task. I may claim without boasting that I myself am not wholly unversed in the principles of scientific detection. I can assure you that Miss Lofting is in no danger. "In the first instance, a purely theoretical suspicion is directed against the three of us. Against two of us—Miss Lofting and yourself—suspicion is supported by an extremely strong motive—but by nothing else. You, Ralph, are known to have been out in your car at the essential time; Miss Lofting, it is true could conceivably have entered the study after I had left it. That truth does not place Miss Lofting in peril of arrest unless and until the police can prove that in fact she did so enter the study. This, I happen to know, they are not even attempting to prove. "If you cannot restrain yourself, my dear fellow, from thinking of this tragedy in terms of innocent persons being accused—what about, I ask you, _myself_! I am known to have been alone with the deceased within a few minutes of his being killed. I am betraying no confidence when I tell you that the Chief Constable called upon me—in fun, of course!—to clear myself. I was compelled to admit, in effect, that I was unable to do so. In the spirit of the joke, I added that, if I were in his position, I would certainly regard myself with grave suspicion. I can safely say that I have never heard a man laugh more heartily." Ralph was trying to speak, but was drowned in the tidal wave. "And now, Ralph, old man, I feel sure you will give earnest thought to what I have said. We must have another little chat tomorrow. Little by little, step by step, we will together sweep away the cobwebs, eh, Miss Lofting? Thank you for a most enjoyable tea." "I shan't play!" shouted Ralph. "The Casa Flavia business makes it too dangerous. Whenever the police come near me, I shall tell them what I told them last night." The door was opened and shut behind Querk. Benscombe could hear him padding contentedly along the corridor to the staircase. Three stairs taken at leisure, to the long window at the landing. The footsteps died as Querk continued his descent. "Isn't he ghastly!" This from Claudia. "And the most ghastly thing about him is that he's always right." No answer from Ralph. The tinkle of crockery again. Claudia, Benscombe judged, was packing the tea things on the tray. He would slip out while she was taking the tray downstairs. "Please stop fiddling with that tray!" "I'll take it downstairs and out of the way." "Wait a bit. Please wait." The tray was set down. "Claudia! The hallucination theory is nonsense. But it is true that I don't remember clearly all that happened. It's nothing to do with my particular brain. People who've been in accidents and air raids and the like very rarely remember exactly what happened. Part of it is vivid—but part is blurred. And there's a gap. It's the gap that's making me ill." "Then let's talk about it, dear. We may be able to fill it in together." "We've got to talk about it. But first I want to talk about you. There's something I've never told you." There was another long pause and then: "The night I first met you—when I got home, I tried to gas myself. I mugged it." Inwardly Benscombe squirmed. This, apparently, was not going to have anything to do with the assignment. He had no taste for eavesdropping on a lover's confidences. Ralph was explaining. "It wasn't a thought-out act—it was a reaction. We danced, didn't we! Dancing always bored me, but it didn't that night. I remembered only a second or so of it, in which I was aware of your body close to mine. It didn't make me want to make love to you. I can only say that it made me feel I had suddenly become myself—and a jolly decent self too! "I suppose we talked the usual tosh to each other that night. But the way you talked—linked on. I felt that, living with you, I could sort of take hold of life. And that I never could without you. I didn't want to go on rotting about in the old way. So I thought I might as well chuck living, as you obviously wouldn't want a one-sided arrangement like that." "It wasn't a one-sided arrangement. And I did want it. And I do!" "Soon you and I got together. In my mind, we went on from the point I had reached that first night while dancing. Meaning I didn't want to live without you. That's all!" Silence. Benscombe supposed that Ralph was collecting his thoughts. But the silence continued until Claudia prompted: "Well, dear? You were going to tell me about the gap." "Uncle said that if I married you there would be no money. To me that didn't matter much, at first. But when you pointed out that poverty would change us both—that you wouldn't be you—I panicked. I don't remember much of what we talked about in the garden, but I do remember struggling all the time with a desire to go and smash Uncle Sam to bits. For killing you—the real you. You had changed already, and you weren't in love with me any more. Uncle had pushed me back where I was when I tried to gas myself. So I went berserk and killed him." Another long silence. "Yes, Ralph? We've agreed to label it 'the hallucination.' What about the gap?" There was no answer. A minute or more passed. Then a sound that told Benscombe that Claudia must have been sitting on the bed. "You're tired, old man. We'd better not go on talking. It's nearly time for your medicine. You might as well take it now." A cork being drawn, a clink and a guggle. Then Ralph speaking as if there had been no interval. "In my presence, that Chief Constable opened the Will. It was in an envelope exactly like the one Uncle used. It was sealed with his signet ring. The police gave me the envelope before they opened it. I held it in my hand. I thought it couldn't be the Will because the envelope didn't bulge. But it _was_ the Will." Another stop. Another prompting from Claudia. "Yes, Ralph? Colonel Crisp opened the envelope. There's no gap there, is there?" "The gap is—I don't think I can go on with it, Claudia." "Try, darling! It would be so much better for you to drag it all out into the light of day." Benscombe felt the tenderness in her voice, a strange tenderness that was yet hardly that of a lover. "The gap is—?" "The gap is that I don't remember taking your letters out of that envelope. And destroying them. And putting the Will in another envelope. And sealing it with Uncle's ring after he was dead. As I see it, I wouldn't have had time. I was out of the library when that clock struck a quarter past." "But why do you suppose you did all that? I mean, why do you want to 'remember' that you did it?" "Because someone did it. That means there must be this gap in my memory. Although it seemed hours to me. I've worked out that I couldn't have been in that room for more than a minute or so." "That's reasonable. I'll ask Colonel Crisp—" "No- _no_!" A shrill shout that was almost a scream. "I don't want it proved. Leave it alone. D'you hear! I wish you hadn't made me tell you. I was a weak fool to tell you!" "What are you afraid of?" "Leave it alone! I want my medicine. You poured it out. Give it to me." "Ralph, you must tell me what you're afraid of!" "I can't talk any more," he whined. "You don't know how tired I am. My head aches." "Dear, what are you afraid of?... Tell me... Tell me what you are afraid of." The answer came as if gasped out under an anaesthetic. "If I did not tamper with those envelopes— _you did_!" "Oh Ralph! I come into the room, find him dead, take the letters and seal the Will up again with his seal, How could I get at the signet ring? And if I could—it's all rather tooth-and-clawish, isn't it? D'you really think I'm like that?" "I don't know—I don't know anything about you! I don't know what you've done—or what you might do!" The next moment, Benscombe felt acute discomfort. Never before had he heard an adult man crying like a forlorn child. He could not endure the sound of Claudia comforting him. Policeman or not, he thrust his hands over his ears. Presently Claudia began to speak rationally and Benscombe listened. "When we danced we were—like this—werent we! _Now_ —don't you feel you're becoming yourself again—'and a jolly decent self too!'" "No—not any more. Everything's changed." His voice was tear laden. "You've been kind to me. But you don't feel as I thought you felt. I've no grievance against you. It was I who fooled myself." "That's another hallucination, darling. Now listen. Tomorrow, I'm going to give notice at the registrar's and we'll be married to-morrow week. You'll find that I do love you and that it's worth while going on living." She repeated: "To-morrow week. That will be lovely, won't it?" "Yes, Claudia." To Benscombe, the assent sounded mechanical and meaningless. "And once we're married you won't be worried by those awful little thoughts about me. Murders and tamperings and not loving you and heaven knows what else, darling. Now you simply must rest... I'll get your medicine. "Here it is. Shall I steady the glass, or can you manage by yourself?... Those letters that have upset you! I believe your uncle destroyed them himself and put the Will in a new envelope and sealed it up. He quite changed his mind about me, you know. But don't worry about that now. Try to go to sleep and think of tomorrow week." She picked up the tray and left the room. Benscombe could hear her firm, clear-cut footsteps along the corridor. Three stairs down to the landing. Through the long window at the landing, Claudia caught sight of Querk in the garden. She set the tray on the window sill and watched him, with profound mistrust. But his behaviour in the garden, she was compelled to admit, was merely that of an elderly man sunning himself. She heard a faint movement in the corridor behind her. She turned and saw Benscombe coming out of the room next to Ralph's. # Chapter Ten As Benscombe completed his elaborate precautions for silence, he caught sight of Claudia on the half-landing, watching him. He felt like a village constable in a comedy—hoped she would have the tact to pick up the tray and move on. Instead, she waited for him—intending, he supposed, to find out how much he had overheard. Girls like that, with their nerve and their lucky appearance, tended to think that men were easily managed. She could try it on if she liked! As he drew level with her on the landing, she gave him a half smile of recognition. Her first words outflanked his defences as an official. "It must have been rotten for you!" she said. "It was!" he agreed, too fervently. "And it's rotten being found out." "I shan't tell anybody. In fact I hope it won't be necessary for you to let Ralph know the police were listening." "That's a matter for the Chief Constable. I'll put your request before him." To himself he sounded stuffily formal, but she seemed not to notice. "Thank you—I hoped you would! You see how obsessed Ralph is. In his poor, overwrought brain he thinks he's running a campaign to protect the police from themselves. Suppressing this bit and lying about that bit. If he feels he has given damaging evidence against me over that envelope business, I'm afraid he'll become very ill indeed." "D'you mean insane?" She smiled sadly. "He is perfectly sane. But he's in a low state of nervous health—he was, before this dreadful thing happened. Like most people in that state, he is subject to the suicide impulse. That's why I'm going to marry him at once." "A sticky job for you!" he ejaculated. "As to what I've overheard—well, I'm about as junior as it's possible to be and I can only promise to do my best." "And I'll do my best for you—now! If there's anything we said which you didn't hear properly or didn't follow, I'll fill in the blank. Ask me anything you like." Direct questioning of so important a witness was a job for the high-ups. But this was an opportunity too good to be missed. "Did Watlington put those letters of yours in the envelope with his Will? You seemed to agree with Ralph that he did." "He may have. All that time, my attention was on Ralph. I told Colonel Crisp all I could remember, except the name of the man to whom I had written. And now you know it, I expect?" "No," lied Benscombe, and thought that she believed him. "I wanted to keep him out of it for his sake, but I can't take care of two men at once. I must throw him to the lions to save Ralph... Arthur Fenchurch, the artist. But you knew it! You looked surprised because I didn't invent a name." "We had a finger pointing that way," he admitted, "but we needed a check-up." "Any more check-ups?" "That hallucination! Why do you believe Querk's story? And not believe Ralph's?" It was almost a chance question, but it fired a hidden charge. For an instant he saw her as Arthur Fenchurch had seen her—her body hard as armour, her eyes raking him with fierce contempt. ' _O madre mia!_ ' He was beginning to see what Fenchurch meant. "The action taken by the Chief Constable convinced me." She had relaxed, which only meant that she was on guard. "I suppose that's not a fair answer. I would have felt the same, even if the police had believed that absurd confession. I know how ill Ralph is. He hasn't enough—well, moral pluck—to kill a man, however much he might want to." And yet, reflected Benscombe, as he went on down the stairs, she wanted to marry him—a sub-murderer type, by her own analysis. "If they get away with all this, she'll be the wife of a rich man, whom she can boss as if he were a kid," ran his thoughts. But those thoughts did not fit in. That picture of Fenchurch's was nearer the mark. In the nude too—to make it all symbolic! After all, the very qualities that made a mother gentle would also make her fierce under provocation. And mothers who had never had any children—phew! In the hall, he stopped for a friendly chat with the constable on guard, then returned to headquarters, to find the Chief Constable at work as on a week-day, his broad shoulders bent over the desk as if he were about to claw his way up to the pigeon-holes. "Well, Benscombe?" "I listened-in all right, sir, but I was caught by Claudia as I was coming out." Before the Chief could comment he hurried on. "Appreciation: Querk and Claudia believe in the hallucination, Ralph himself does not. Letters written by Claudia to Fenchurch, in Watlington's possession, were placed by Watlington in the envelope with the Will and sealed up. Ralph thinks that either he himself or Claudia removed the letters after the murder. He can't remember doing it—thinks that he couldn't have done it in the time—so he fears Claudia did. Claudia told Ralph she believed that Watlington removed them himself, having changed his mind about her suitability. Claudia is going to marry Ralph to-morrow week, because he has what she calls the suicide impulse." He followed up with a detailed report, ending with his meeting with Claudia and her request regarding Ralph. "Why she wants him is a mystery all to itself. She practically admitted to me that she thought him a poor fish." "Clever girl!" remarked Crisp, but Benscombe missed the point. "The funny thing is, sir, that when they thought they were alone together they talked very much as they talk to us—except for Ralph's raving about those envelopes." "The other funny thing," said Crisp, "is that Querk and Claudia are contradicting each other on a substantial point." He opened the dossier. "Here's Claudia speaking of her interview in the study _before_ five-fifteen: ' _He became complimentary—quite definitely so—the burden of it being that he was very glad I wanted to marry Ralph_.' Crisp turned a few pages, then continued: "Querk, speaking of his interview _after_ five-fifteen, says he advised Watlington to withdraw his objection to the marriage and to tell Claudia so at once. But Watlington does not reply that he has already done so—some ten minutes previously. According to Querk, he refuses, yields to persuasion, then promises to tell Claudia—what he has already told her. If he did tell her!" "Personally, I prefer Querk's version," put in Benscombe. "Then you've changed your opinion of the girl. Why?" Because a picture had awakened him to the potentialities for violence latent in a good woman. The Chief answered his own question. "You're judging by character. Claudia, you think, would do anything to protect that lame dog of hers. Querk is comparatively disinterested. Hm! Over-simplification, boy! Character will sometimes give you a hunch on where to look for evidence. More often it leads you up a blind alley. Leave out what they all _might_ have done and let's see how much we know of what they _have_ done. Take the main items on that typewriter, while we run through them. Leave out corroborative matter." Thus would Crisp clarify his own thought by explaining to his junior, a process valuable to both sides. "Take the killing first. Of the murderer—who may be more than one person, by the way—we know that he did not strike through the wig—that he removed the signet ring after death. He knew that Watlington had been trepanned. He wanted to open the envelope containing the Will and seal it up again. "How many persons knew about the trepanning? You can write down Querk, Ralph, Claudia, Mrs. Cornboise, Fenchurch. How many, in point of time and place, could certainly have committed the murder? All except Fenchurch. Put a query against him, because he can't prove his movements between three and seven o' clock, nor can we. "The Will. There must have been a total of three envelopes printed with the address of the solicitors. Watlington used one—which was opened and taken away by the murderer. If Watlington had torn the envelope up himself, as Claudia suggested, we should have found the pieces. "Assuming that envelope No. I contained nothing but the Will, who could have wanted to tamper with it? None of the three who were in the study after lunch—call them the Big Three—because they all knew its contents. Rule out Fenchurch. Leaves only Mrs. Cornboise. "Assume that the envelope contained also love letters written by Claudia to Fenchurch—I'm going on what you found out this afternoon. That yields Claudia and Ralph, interested in destroying the letters and preserving the Will." "And Fenchurch?" suggested Benscombe. "He might have heard Watlington had got those letters and determined to get 'em back. Especially if Glenda pinched them from him." Grisp was doubtful. " _Only_ if Glenda pinched them," he amended. "As soon as the bank is open to-morrow that girl will have a shot at getting her cash, in the hope that I'm wrong in saying the banks won't pay a dead man's cheque. Pick her up and squeeze out of her whether she did. "Next item. Persons known to have gone to the library between, say, three and seven o'clock. The Big Three plus the person who telephoned us—who may be one of the Three. Anything I've missed there, Benscombe?" "The person who gave Watlington the note of Casa Flavia and the two names and the date." "Right! Go on!" "The only one of the Big Three who could have given it is Claudia. And she could have lost nothing by admitting it to us." "Agreed. But why do you exclude Ralph?" "Time, sir. Querk and Mrs. Cornboise agree that Ralph was only in the library for a minute or so. Look at that note! A town in Italy: two local tradesmen: a date. Nobody hopped in there, hurled all that at him and then hopped out again. It must have been a fairly lengthy conversation, with question and answer: several minutes at least—allowing for the dictating of the note. We know that Fenchurch possessed the information contained in the note, and that it was given to Watlington after the Big Three left the library—that is after about two forty-five." Crisp nodded with satisfaction as the other confirmed his own deduction. "After the Big Three left the library at about two forty-five!" he repeated. "But before, or after, each of the three re-entered it separately?" "No data, sir." "And we shan't get any data by questioning Fenchurch. We'll leave him alone until we've managed to get a card or two to play. "Now those letters. Give 'em a separate heading. In telling their separate tales to us, the Big Three all suppressed the fact that the letters were put in the envelope with the Will. Let yourself go on that." "Claudia was telling the truth when she said she didn't notice," suggested Benscombe. "Querk shut up because he wants to smooth everything over and lead a quiet life. Ralph, knowing that he himself had not touched the envelopes, assumed that Claudia had. He assumed it the moment you opened the Will-envelope and he saw the letters weren't there. Assuming his confession is a fake, he became dead certain Claudia had scuppered the old boy and burnt the letters. I don't think he said: 'I will now nobly sacrifice myself for the woman I love.' I think he just lurched from one horror to the other. And I don't see that it matters to us whether he has an hallucination or is just lying. From his tone of voice, it struck me that he's more than a bit afraid of Claudia." "But you said they're going to marry in a week." "I said _she_ said it, sir. He didn't gurgle with delight when she—well, it wasn't love-making—thank heaven!—but a sort of crooning over a panicky child. He agreed obediently—I suspect because he was too exhausted to argue. I don't think he has much staying power." Crisp rose from his desk, looked over Benscombe's shoulder while he completed his notes. "Good! You've cut the character talk and taken the facts. Querk leaves the library at approximately five twenty-eight. At five thirty-four the telephone rings and Watlington does not answer. By the way, did you contact the caller?" "A socialite called Tremayne. Knows very little about Watlington. He was asked to the dinner party, but had to fly to Edinburgh because his wife was injured in a street accident. He was ringing Watlington to explain that he couldn't turn up." "Hm! That buttons him up. Anyhow, the call came at five thirty-four. With the doctor's evidence, we may infer that by that time Watlington was dead. That gives the murderer a maximum of five minutes for the job." "Which would take about five seconds, sir. Then he could lock the door and take his time over the signet ring." "So at five twenty-eight the murderer enters the library. But he can't get on with the murder, because he wants to get that Casa Flavia conversation off his chest. And see that the man he's just going to kill makes a note about it. And gets the spelling right. In order to give us a headache. Hm! We may have got the facts, but we've got 'em in the wrong order, somehow." He went on: "That means more spadework. And there's plenty of small stuff to be cleaned up. We want a note on that die-stamp. And remind Inspector Sanson to enquire at the post office about that registered package. That's disappeared." Crisp checked the clock-times and then: "Now try your hand at the Appreciation," he invited. "Take it that Querk and Ralph cancel each other out as principals." "But is that logical, sir?" "Logic only works when both sides know the rules and can be relied on to obey them. Most crimes are a jumble of intelligence and stupidity, of careful planning and hasty improvisation. When our facts are insufficient, we have to work on probability with what common sense we have. "Now, Ralph asserts that he killed Watlington. But he mis-describes the method of killing, and protests that he did not notice the distortion of the body—which would be as striking to any non-medical man as it was to me. "Querk's evidence is two-edged. If Watlington was dead when Querk entered the library, then Querk becomes compassionate accessory against the will of the principal. I don't think compassion is in Querk's line o' business—especially when it means taking such an enormous risk. "The other edge touches Querk as hypothetical murderer. As he himself has pointed out—horrible chap, isn't he—as a murderer he is also an incredible fool, because he volunteers extremely damaging evidence against himself which we should not otherwise have possessed. I'm pretty sure Querk is not a fool. So you can leave those two out." Benscombe inserted a fresh sheet and typed the word 'Appreciation.' Crisp was watching the paper. Benscombe typed on: _'Opportunity: Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia Lofting and (?) Fenchurch._ _'Opportunity and Motive: Claudia Lofting.'_ Crisp grunted with approval. "If you hadn't insisted otherwise, sir, I would have included Querk under 'opportunity.' Mrs. Cornboise and Fenchurch would have been awful fools to kill Watlington." "Isn't that an argument for cutting them out," As Benscombe said nothing, Crisp added: "We'll leave them in, then, and see if we can collect enough evidence to eliminate them. That will isolate Claudia." # Chapter Eleven By Monday morning the routine work on the murder of Lord Watlington had spread fanwise throughout county headquarters so that every constable on point or beat was checking some detail. A steady stream of reports filled the wire baskets, to be summarised and indexed for reference. At half-past seven, Benscombe drove a police car from the garage at Watlington Lodge to the Three Witches, the road-house with the swimming pool. He filed a report that it had taken eleven minutes, and added a comment that Ralph's Reindert could probably cover the distance, under normal traffic conditions, in eight minutes. At five minutes to ten he was hovering near the City branch of the National and Mutual Bank. Glenda was already waiting outside the locked doors. Watching her from a safe distance, he was amused to notice that no fewer than three business men stopped short on their way to the office in the hope of picking her up, averaging two minutes apiece to discover that there was nothing doing, Glenda's interest being concentrated on her hope of cashing Watlington's cheque for five hundred pounds. When she came out, flushed after an ill-advised effort to persuade the manager that he was misinterpreting the law, she did not recognise Benscombe until he took her arm. "Tough luck, Glenda! A cup of coffee will pull you round." " _Oo!_ It's you! I didn't know you out of uniform. And I don't want any coffee, thanks." "Don't be tactless, darling! When the police offer you coffee in that tone of voice, it means they're trying to keep you out of clink if you give ' em the chance. There's a place round the corner. Come along!" The bank manager had done the ground work. In Glenda's life there were axioms for most emergencies, offshoots of the golden rule that a girl must look after herself. When your luck is out, don't start something. And Glenda's luck was indisputably out. "Mother's diamonds and all that!" remarked Benscombe when they were seated. "All right when you want a gag for your friends. When you give _us_ a tale that isn't true—well, the first stage is a cup of coffee. The second is not." The arrival of the waitress gave her time for reflection. Benscombe observed that she was quietly dressed in a tailormade, and looked like a business girl in difficulties. "I don't see how I've broken the law." "In strict confidence, Glenda, we don't care tuppence whether you've broken the law or not. For other reasons, we intend to have the whole story of that cheque." He added: "We shan't give you away to Fenchurch." "Oh well, then!" On her lips the phrase meant that she would comply, but in her own way. "Arthur was as mean as they make 'em but he always expected me to be decently dressed and keep the housekeeping down. "There was something going on between him and Watlington, and I don't know yet what it was, on Arthur's side. We used to live in Hampstead. As soon as he heard that Watlington was coming to the Lodge, Arthur took that flat so as to be near, had it all fitted up as if he meant to stay there for years. "After we'd settled in, and only a few days before Watlington turned up at the Lodge, a man came to see me one night when Arthur was at a party. Not a gentleman—oily sort of man. It came out he wanted to know whether I knew anything about Arthur and a Miss Claudia Lofting. Well, I didn't. But I knew there'd been a Claudia because more than once, when he was sleepy and absent-minded and a bit drunk, he had called me Claudia. The oily man got that much out of me before he went. "He turned up again about a week ago and said Lord Watlington wanted to see me privately. Well, I said I wouldn't go, and then I did, he was so pressing about it and saying it would be to my advantage. "Watlington dragged out of me about Arthur calling me Claudia. It pleased him and he called me a good kid, which I thought common, coming from a real lord, as I understood he was. Then he got on to asking me whether there were any letters in the flat from the real Claudia, thinking I'd know. He was a very coarse man—asking that sort of question. "As a matter of fact, I did happen to know there were some letters. Arthur kept them tied up in one of those tin boxes, like lawyers have. Only, the lock didn't work and I had a perfect right to look there one day when a man came to the door with a bill which Arthur'd given me no money to pay. There wasn't any money in the box—only these letters signed 'Claudia,' and some oddments. "So Lord Watlington said he'd give me five hundred for the letters if they were any good to him, which of course I knew they would be. Come to that, I was surprised at a real lady writing like that to a man she wasn't married to. And Watlington said how he'd pay me and what was to be done, just as I told you the other night, only I said diamonds and it was really those letters. I daresay you think it was mean of me. But you don't know Arthur. And what I say is that a girl has to look after herself." "Quite right, Glenda!" applauded Benscombe. "You're doing fine. Did you leave Arthur suddenly because he found out what you'd done?" "He didn't find out I'd done it, but I was afraid he would," she admitted. "It seems luck was against me from the start. First thing, there came a letter from Miss Lofting on the very Saturday morning—day before yesterday—I could see it was from her though I didn't read it, as I knew the handwriting. He read the letter over breakfast, then put it in his pocket and went straight to that tin box. She must have asked him to burn her letters or something. Anyhow, he came back looking very ugly. 'Glenda,' he says, 'have you been to my deed box?' "I made out that if he had lost anything it was probably when we moved, as the box wasn't locked, and he seemed to believe it. But he didn't do any work that morning, and after lunch he said, same as I told you, that he was going round to see Ralph Cornboise. "I didn't see him again until about ten that night. When he came in he stared at me, almost as if he was trying to think who I was. Then he said: 'Watlington is dead. Puts us in a tight spot.' I thought he meant he'd lose the money for painting his lordship's portrait, as he didn't tell me about it being murder. "Of course, I was worrying about my cheque. And when I thought Arthur had settled down to drink himself sleepy, I slipped round. That policeman in the hall told me I'd have to wait. I was a bit put out when Miss Lofting came up to me, all pleasant. She had heard me give the name of 'Mrs. Fenchurch' and she asked me if I'd mind taking Arthur's sketch book back, as he'd left it. It's a posh book in art leather covers, with his monogram. He carries it in a special pocket to make line-notes when he can borrow a pencil, as he never remembers to carry one himself. I said I didn't mind, but I did mind, because I didn't want Arthur to know where I'd been. "When I got back to the flat I just had time to hide the sketch book when he popped out of the studio. He asked me where I'd been, but he didn't listen to the answer. He said: 'When I left here after lunch, did I tell you where I was going?' And I said: 'Yes, you told me you were going to Watlington Lodge.' He said: 'Forget it. I changed my mind and went for a walk by the river, because it was too hot to sleep.' I remembered how you'd wheedled the truth out of me on the phone, so I said: 'I wouldn't say that if I were you. Ralph might give you away.' And he got ugly again and he said: 'I wasn't asking you for advice.' And then—well, I think that's all that matters." "No, it isn't," said Benscombe. "Keep going." "I don't like to," she simpered. "He started talking about my face." "Let's have it," prompted Benscombe. "It's waste to be shy of me when I'm on duty." "Well, I'm only telling you what _he_ said, mind! 'Your saccharin prettiness,' he said, 'which you're so proud of, depends on the balance of your features.' Of course, being an artist he says things like that, and he knows all about women's dress, which is awkward sometimes. Only I'm sure nobody could call me proud." While Benscombe was trying to fit it in, she continued: "'A comparatively light blow with the open hand,' he says, 'would give you a cauliflower ear. Then you'd look like a prizefighter's auntie, and no one would notice your legs. And that's what you'll get if you tell anybody I was going to Watlington Lodge'." Glenda broke off and tapped the table. "It's no use you looking as if you thought he'd committed the murder," she warned him, "because I happen to know he was counting on Lord Watlington's money for the picture. It's my belief the talk about Ralph was just a blind, and he was really going to see Miss Lofting and he didn't want it talked about." That was one to Glenda. By an unguarded expression he had stopped her in mid-stream. He remembered Fenchurch's rot about admiring her vanity. "I think you're right, Glenda. And it's obvious you can read that feller's mind like an open book. But why did you walk out on him?" "That was your fault, getting me to say what I did on the telephone. I knew it would be sure to come out sooner or later, and Arthur would know. You see, artists know a lot about what the body is made of. And of course, I don't think I'm at all pretty and no one else does, and, besides, it's a silly word. But I've seen a girl with a cauliflower ear. So I quarrelled a bit and said I'd had enough and I was going to pack and I did pack, and I slipped away by an early train while he was sleeping it off." Benscombe decided that her words rang true. She might be a spineless little cheat, but she was very unsubtle. He remembered how feeble had been her attempt to lie to the Chief. "If you'll give me your address, we probably shan't trouble you again," he said. "And you needn't worry about Fenchurch. As a matter of fact, you don't know that he did go to Watlington Lodge until about dinner time." "I may not know, but I'm sure, all the same," she retorted. "For one thing, there was all that fuss he made about telling me what to say about the river. And for another, while he was storming about at night and saying what he'd do to my face, I saw one of those funny pencils of Lord Watlington's, sticking out of his top pocket, which wasn't there when he left the flat." That was a point, thought Benscombe. Not one of the dinner guests had been permitted to enter the house after the arrival of the police. Fenchurch had not entered until he had been escorted to the interview with Crisp. But Glenda did not know this, and he was not going to tell her. "But he might have picked that pencil up when he was there at dinner time. After all, he had his sketch book with him." "I never thought of that," said Glenda indifferently. In order to be ready for the Coroner's inquest at eleven, the Chief Constable had to start work at eight—beginning with the wire basket on his desk marked 'urgent,' now overflowing. True that all reports went into that basket, even those which merely confirmed earlier reports. But as a check-up by one man would sometimes affect the report of another, the sorting could only be undertaken by a principal. Among the new reports was one—marked 'N,' meaning negative—which concerned the missing registered package delivered at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon. Beyond stating that the package had been dispatched at 10.30 a.m. on Saturday from the Western District Office, the officials could not help. There had been the usual queue at the counter, and the clerk was unable to remember even the sex of the sender. That registered package, in short, promised to become a first class nuisance. It was but one of a score of trifles that had to be checked, on the minute chance of something important emerging. "Probably somebody knocked it off the table in the hall and later one of the waiters spotted it and mopped it up—which means an expensive check-up," reflected Crisp. He was already using a lot of men on the case and would soon have to use more. Another new report contained a duplicate copy of the ticket handed to every patron of the car park at the Three Witches, showing that a Reindert two-seater, registered number noted, had been parked by Mr. Cornboise at five forty-six. A covering note by the constable explained that the time stated could be taken as being within a minute of the actual time of arrival. Pinned to it was Benscombe's note estimating eight minutes for the journey. Given that Ralph had left Watlington Lodge not later than five-twenty, that left a margin of some sixteen minutes to be accounted for. From a bulging pocket, Crisp brought out a wad of unused postcards, secured with a rubber band. On the topmost was his own private chart of the peak features of the case. Querk was assumed to have left the library at five twenty-eight, some eight minutes after Mrs. Cornboise had seen Ralph depart in the Reindert. Suppose Ralph had driven to a point, say, a couple of minutes walk from the house—and then come back? Assuming that he could have entered the house unobserved by Mrs. Cornboise, he would have had at least five minutes for the murder and two minutes in which to return to the car—leaving eight minutes for the journey to the Three Witches car park. He wrote a slip for Benscombe on the points to be checked. At ten-thirty he was revising the notes of the evidence to be given at the inquest, when an orderly reported that the Registrar would like a word with the Chief Constable. Crisp's guess as to the Registrar's business was proved correct. "Young Cornboise, the old man's heir, and a Miss Lofting were in my office five minutes ago giving statutory notice. I'm to marry them to-day week. It seems a bit surprising in the circumstances, and I thought you might like to know before it gets about." "Officially, of course, it's no affair of ours," said Crisp. The Registrar nodded. "I came for my own sake as much as yours, Colonel. As you know, we're supposed to keep our eyes open. And I didn't quite like the look of those two! I wondered whether you'd give a tip, off the record. Is young Cornboise a sane man?" "Difficult to give you a straight answer," replied Crisp. "He's neurotic. He did some funny business with us—though we're not taking any action about it. His friends called in Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist. He might give you some information. Anyhow, I think she is a bit frightened about his mental condition, and that's why she's marrying him at once." "She's marrying him all right!" said the Registrar. "Practically led him in—it was like the music hall joke, except that she's not the man-chasing type. All the same, she pushed him and prompted him, told him his name and address—" "Was he as bad as that!" "Oh not really, I suppose. But when I asked him his name he glared at me. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Possibly Cornboise, possibly Watlington.' Then he laughed like a hyena. 'That's a knotty point of law, Mr. Registrar, with more in it than meets the eye,' he said. I explained the legal difference between a name and a title, and that they could leave the title out if they wanted to, and that seemed to please her. I suppose, as far as you know, she isn't 'dominating' him is she? Those cases always mean a lot of bother for us. Especially when there's a peerage and a good deal of money hanging to it." "I don't think she is 'dominating' him within the meaning of the Act." The interview satisfied the Registrar, but left Crisp uneasy. "She ought to have seen the folly of rushing it like this!" ran his thoughts. "The newspapers will make a splash. Also, it throws the whole thing out of focus for us. And it's bound to upset the coroner's jury." He snatched up the house telephone and rang the head of the legal department. "There's been a new development," he announced. "I want you to stall the inquest. Go all out for formal evidence only, and a fortnight's adjournment." A coroner rarely refuses a police request for adjournment. The actual hearing occupied but a few minutes. While Crisp was giving the formal evidence as to the finding of the body, his eye lit on the bench of witnesses—who would not be called. The Big Three and Bessie Walters. Ralph whispered to Claudia, then, at a nod from her, crept out of court. After the court had risen, Crisp had an informal chat with the coroner then returned to the office, to find Benscombe waiting to report on his interview with Glenda. "Good! The Glenda sequence is buttoned up and we can forget her," approved Crisp. "It adds up to corroboration of the existence of those letters." "What about Fenchurch, sir?" "Not much there about him, if you analyse it. He told her he was going to Watlington Lodge. He may or may not have gone there. Bullying her into denying what he'd said could be attributed to reasonable anxiety on his part." "But the pencil, sir?" "Yes—if you like. As it stands, it only means that she noticed the pencil at one time and not at another. He might have been carrying that pencil around since his last call on Watlington some ten days ago. Still, when you've time it wouldn't do any harm to drop in on him and, if you find the pencil, see what lies he tells you." Benscombe felt that he had failed to put his case over. The Chief was talking about Ralph Cornboise. "It might rattle him less if you were to see him without any formality. Find out why he took more than twenty minutes to get to the Three Witches. He's knocking about the town. You might spot him before he goes back." "Very good, sir. Querk is in the waiting-room. He's in a bit of a lather. Says he fears he unconsciously misled you. I got two or three minutes of his fears. Shall I stall him?" "No. Never stall Querk. Let him pour it all over you every time. Send him in as you go out to find Ralph Cornboise." Querk came in, bringing, as ever, the sense of occasion. "Ah, my dear Colonel, I am fortunate to catch you with a minute to spare. For my part, I have not been idle since our last meeting." He bowed himself into a chair. "I have, in fact, had an important—a most important—conversation with Mrs. Cornboise." "Indeed!" Crisp was annoyed. If the infernal fellow was going to tamper with witnesses there would be trouble. "Let me guess what is in your mind!" mouthed Querk. "You wish to remind me that a co-operator—if I may presume so to style myself—is by no means the same as a colleague. Had I the privilege of being your colleague you would have told me—as soon as I mentioned the existence of poor Lord Watlington's wife—that you had already encountered her and obtained from her what appeared to be important evidence." Confound the fellow, what did he mean by 'appeared to be' important—when it _was_ important! "It is perhaps not you but I, my dear Colonel, who should apologise. I had the presumption to examine that evidence somewhat more closely. Mrs. Cornboise—as she prefers to be called—was most helpful. She reacted to my little tests—particularly in regard to the movements of Ralph's car. The Reindert! With its highly tuned engine, if you remember." "You don't tell me that Mrs. Cornboise knows anything about the tuning of engines?" "Ah! I fear that I seriously misled you as to Mrs. Cornboise's nature. I represented her—I regret to say—as ungrateful and embittered. I have since discovered that she has a mature mind and a generous temperament. If she suffers the pangs of loneliness, that should have evoked my pity, not my criticism. I blame myself and shall do all in my power to make amends." Crisp's curiosity overcame his impatience. He had grasped Querk's technique of throwing a net of platitudes over his opponent and striking through the net. And he had begun to suspect that Querk never wasted a platitude. "I am all attention, Mr. Querk." Crisp scowled as he said it. Querk's manner was catching. "You are most kind, Colonel. I have to remind myself that you have a great many calls on your time. So I must not weary you with the details of my amateur investigation. Instead, I will give you my conclusion. As my poor dear friend, Lord Watlington, used to say so often—'it's the totals that count.' My conclusion, Chief Constable, is that Ralph—in a state of dementia, of course, poor fellow!—in all probability killed his uncle at approximately five-thirty—that is, after I had left the library." This, from Querk, was startling. In an intuitive flash there came to Crisp the conviction that opposite him, in the guise of a fatuous busybody, sat a formidable antagonist—the more dangerous because his objective was a complete mystery. In future, he would double his precautions in dealing with Querk. "You have changed your opinion of Ralph, Mr. Querk?" "Superficially, yes. Substantially, no. From the first, I suspected that the hallucination was too sharp in outline to be wholly without some foundation in fact. Both you and I were a little bemused, if I may say so, by the crushing weight of my own evidence. It made the poor boy seem to be raving like a madman. Yet the only impossible element in his self-accusation was the element of time. The position of the hands of the clock when he murdered his uncle." Querk was wrong there, reflected Crisp. Ralph said he had struck through the wig. If he remembered the murder at all, he would remember removing the wig and replacing it— _if_ he committed the murder. "Let's get it clear," said Crisp. "In the hallucination, he went once to the library—about five-fifteen. You are suggesting that, in fact, he went twice?" "Tentatively suggesting!" amended Querk. "The unhappy conclusion to which I have been driven requires confirmation. 'Check-up' is, I believe, the technical term. Would it be possible for your staff to find out from the Three Witches—the road-house of that name—what time he arrived there in his car?" Crisp nodded. He was willing to believe now that Querk had worked with his own county Chief Constable—willing to believe anything Querk said, because the man was too clever to tell any lie that could be exposed. "You were going to say something about that car, weren't you—something about a test with Mrs. Cornboise?" "You have again put your finger on the exact spot! Now, you will remember that I told you that I myself heard Ralph's car leaving the garage and passing down the drive while I was talking to Lord Watlington at, say, between five-fifteen and five-twenty. I stressed, I think, the high-pitched, whining note of the engine. "Re-enacting those painful incidents in my mind as I lay seeking sleep, I became conscious of a break in the logical sequence of events. The whining note of that engine! It did not fade away. It _stopped_. I imagine, at the Lodge gates." "Or your consciousness of it stopped?" put in Crisp. " _And_ the consciousness of Mrs. Cornboise? Without revealing my purpose—without her being aware of what I was doing—I induced her to reconstruct her memory on that point. She came to precisely the same conclusion. She was able to go further than myself. She was able to remember that, some five minutes later, she again heard that very individual note of the engine and thought that the car must be coming back to the garage. In her quaint phrase she said the engine made a 'mingy sort of noise'." The amateur investigator and the man who remembers things afterwards, twin nuisances to the police, were combined in the person of Querk—who obviously never forgot anything he intended to remember! "If there is anything in your theory, Mr. Querk, it hardly leaves room for the hallucination, does it?" "The hallucination—as I think Sir William Turvey will tell us—would lie in the fusing of the two mental images so that the poor fellow honestly believes that he went to the study only once." And a separate hallucination that he had struck through the wig, thought Crisp to himself. Aloud, he thanked Querk for his help, listened to Querk's protestations of his own pain in giving testimony against Ralph, and got rid of him. When Crisp was leaving for lunch, Benscombe reported. "I haven't contacted Ralph yet, sir. He's gone off by himself in his car. Claudia says she expects him back at the Lodge for lunch." # Chapter Twelve Claudia's Expectation that Ralph would be back for lunch was falsified, as Benscombe found out by telephone. He spent the bulk of the afternoon on deskwork for the Chief Constable, and at about five drove over to Watlington Lodge. When the constable informed him that Ralph was still absent, he sent Bessie to find Claudia. She came running down the stairs. "If he's had an accident tell me quickly, please," she said. "We've no information. I've come to ask you how I can get at him. The Chief wants me to check-up." "There's no reason why he should have had an accident," said Claudia, half to herself. "He's a competent, steady driver. And he was in good fettle this morning after a long sleep. Can I give you the check-up you want?" "Afraid not, thanks! It wasn't exactly urgent, but we'd like to know where he is." "I wish I could tell you. This morning he said he would take the car to a garage to get the windscreen wiper adjusted, and that as he felt he wanted some air he would go and see a mutual friend, if there was time before lunch. I'll ring and see if he went there." She turned the extension switch and spoke on the instrument under the staircase. From her half of the dialogue, Benscombe could tell that Ralph had not called on the friend. "Don't worry," he said as she returned. "If he had a smash, we should know at headquarters. I expect he just felt he must have a bit of time away from this place. It must be rather depressing." "It's certainly been grim since Saturday evening!" She added: "I've arranged with the trustees to stay on here until we are married." At her last words, he caught her eye. He was thinking that she was marrying a man she thought a poor fish. "You see him at a great disadvantage," she said, startling him by interpreting his thoughts. "I was thinking it was rotten for you—for both of you—starting up in these conditions." "Thank you!" she said. He was still in plain clothes, and looked like any young man of her acquaintance. "When we're married, I hope you'll come and see us. And it won't be in this nightmarish place." She left him elated by her friendliness. The Chief Constable's belief that one sought an affair with every girl one liked the look of, was, he decided, old-fashioned and absurd. There were lots of ways of liking attractive women. Lots of ways of admiring them. It was character that fascinated you. When a girl possessed enormous potentialities of good and evil all mixed up together— _'O madre mia!'_ He put the damper on his imagination and drove to Fenchurch's flat. He knocked and rang without result. He would have to go back to the Chief and say: 'I couldn't find Ralph, and I couldn't find Fenchurch either'—and grin like an imbecile. After the third attempt on the door knocker, Benscombe was compelled to remind himself that Regulations were extremely clear on the subject of forcing an entry—equally clear in the matter of searching private premises without the owner's consent. On the other hand, suppose one had a sort of open invitation from the owner? Suppose the owner had offered—as in fact Fenchurch had offered—to provide one with a latchkey. True, the offer had been in the nature of a bluff—but if the bluff had been called, Fenchurch would have handed over the latchkey, to save his face. It was, in a sense, a mere accident that the bluff had not been called, that the latchkey was not in his pocket—an accident whose effect could easily be neutralised. The police college, strangely enough, had provided instruction covering the next step. Inside the flat, Benscombe shut the front door and called Fenchurch by name. He repeated the call as he tapped on each door except the door of the owner's bedroom, which was open. Having been brave enough to take the risk of a substantial setback to his career, he found that Fortune favoured him with almost suspicious alacrity. In a few minutes, evidence was positively shovelled upon him—evidence that was important enough to be unnerving. At the lowest assessment, it would save him from disciplinary action. On Fenchurch's telephone he reported in detail to the Chief Constable. "You've destroyed the value of the evidence by forcing an entry." Crisp's voice was wintry. "Stay where you are. Put everything back where it was. I'll be there in about twenty minutes." That, Benscombe thought, was a needless risk. He was wondering how to pass the twenty minutes, when Fenchurch himself walked into the studio. "Hul-lo! How perfectly splendid!" exclaimed Fenchurch. "But why did you dump your uniform?" "I had to go up to Town—" "It won't really matter for the first sitting. It's frightfully good of you to come. The light's right for colour. If you'll hop on the dais and get comfortable, I'll have everything fixed in a few seconds." Fenchurch flung off his coat, dropping it on the floor. There came a whirr and a rattle as the electric motor rolled and unrolled screens in the glass roof. "Look straight at my finger, will you... Chin the tiniest bit up. Good!" Benscombe had promised to sit for Fenchurch as lightly as Fenchurch had offered a latchkey. Yet the artist's urgency now impacted upon him—almost banished memory of the Chief's impending arrival. Benscombe could even feel a sitter's self-consciousness. "My dear fellow, please don't cook up an expression. Forget the easel and what I'm doing. Think of the murder. Finger prints! Clues! Flying Squad! Good! Hold the thought and the pose will hold itself. Keep as still as you can for a few minutes. Then we'll have a short rest, if you feel you want it." They had a rest of one minute. Benscombe was feeling that another was about due when he heard the door bell, followed by a knock that was indubitably Crisp's. Fenchurch took not the slightest notice. The knocking was repeated. "I say, Fenchurch, there's someone at your door." "Never mind that!" snapped Fenchurch. Remembering that a measure of politeness was due to a voluntary model, he added: "I've trained myself not to hear when people knock. They soon go away." The knocking stopped; but the Chief Constable did not go away. A couple of minutes later he opened the door of the studio. "Shut the door, please, and sit down somewhere," said Fenchurch without looking from his easel. "We're going to rest in a minute." Crisp obeyed as if he were a social acquaintance who had dropped in for a chat. He sat behind Fenchurch where he could see the canvas—satisfied himself that here was an artist absorbed in his work. "You can talk to Benscombe if you like. It won't disturb me." "Thank you," said Crisp. "Benscombe, I've got a warrant to search Mr. Fenchurch's flat." "Oh damn!" exclaimed Fenchurch, and stopped painting. He blinked as if trying to get his caller into mental focus. "I thought Benscombe searched it yesterday. I don't suppose Glenda left any traces." "That was informal," said Crisp. "This will be formal. If it isn't interrupting you, I'd be obliged if you would take us over the flat." "Right-ho!" It was a barely concealed groan. "But I shan't be the slightest use. I can never find anything in this flat." He followed them sulkily into the corridor. "You'll get a shock in the kitchen," he warned them. "No one has come today to clear up the mess I made yesterday, and my bedroom's no use for clues. As I think I mentioned she and I—" "We want to see everything, please," said Crisp. In pursuance of his policy of always letting a man take his own line, Crisp accepted Fenchurch's view of himself as an artist who had been interrupted in his work. He made a superficial examination of the kitchen, then turned to the bedroom, which was furnished in modern style, and, unlike the studio, was clean and tidy. On the top of a revolving bookcase at the bedside was a litter of pencils and fountain pens. Benscombe nodded to his Chief. "You've already confessed that these belong to other people, Mr. Fenchurch," said Crisp amiably. He picked up a pencil which had a white enamelled barrel and the name of a South African maker embossed in red. "Where did this one come from?" "That's an easy one. It's Watlington's. I hope you aren't going through the lot like that. I don't suppose I know any of the others." "When did Watlington give it to you?" "You can't give a man a penny pencil! He didn't know I'd got it, any more than I did." Crisp contrived to look as if he had asked a foolish question. In the room that had been Glenda's, Crisp's eye was caught by the cardboard dress box under the bed, in which Benscombe had discovered the paintings of Claudia Lofting. As Fenchurch followed his gaze, the thick, curving eyebrows lifted. "I wonder what that is!" exclaimed Fenchurch. He pulled the box out, tried the weight of it. "It feels like canvases. But I don't remember packing anything in a box like this. D'you mind if I just see what it is? Can either of you lend me a knife?" "The string is loose," said Benscombe hastily, remembering that he had cut it himself. Fenchurch removed the lid of the box. "Oh— _yes_!" Oblivious to the others, Fenchurch gazed at one after another of the pictures, emitting grunts of self-approbation. "Yes! God, yes!" He put the canvases back and was about to replace the lid. "Mayn't we see them?" asked Crisp. "Certainly, if you're interested in pictures." Fenchurch passed them, one by one, to Crisp. The last was the nude of Claudia. _'O madre mia.'_ Crisp looked long at the picture and then: "You know Miss Lofting very well, I see!" "Good lord!" Fenchurch, who had been kneeling by the box, sprang up. His eyes sparkled like the eyes of a happy child. "D' you know, that's the first time I've ever had a genuine, honest-to-God thrill out of someone's comment on my work! My dear fellow, you've no idea what we put up with! They say: 'Oh that's very clever—I recognised him at once'—as if one were very nearly as good as a beach photographer." He clutched Crisp's arm and overwhelmed him. "Make no mistake, Colonel! When I take a fee from a philistine, I deliberately compete with the photographer—and beat him hollow, because I make 'em look pretty, when they're damned ugly—all of 'em! But when I'm allowed to do a bit of honest work—look at this pose on the bench in the cemetery at Casa Flavia—! I don't paint the flesh. I paint the spirit." "This nude study!" ejaculated Crisp, dodging a technical comment. "Hah! It flashed on me when we were coming back from the cemetery! A peasant started walloping his small son, making the kid scream. For a millionth of a second I saw Claudia's soul—her gentleness, her sophistication turned to blue murder like that!" To Fenchurch, the Chief Constable's presence had suddenly become interesting. "Look here, we've finished with all this clueage, haven't we! I don't suppose anybody will ever hear of Glenda again. Let's have a drink. If you're interested in these, I've got some other stuff you might like to see." A search warrant, thought Benscombe, was evidently a meaningless term to the artist. They returned to the studio, where Fenchurch scrabbled in a cupboard for canvases to show Crisp. Benscombe indicated a litter in the far corner, made up of shopping bags, corrugated cardboard and brown wrapping paper. In a few seconds, Crisp found what he was looking for. "Mr. Fenchurch!" "Hullo! Found something?" "Yes!" When he had secured the other's attention: "This." Crisp handed him a piece of brown paper, about eighteen inches square, too crinkled to yield a finger print. "What d' you want me to do with it?" "Look on the other side." Fenchurch turned it over. "Addressed to Watlington. Came by registered post," announced Fenchurch. He turned it over again. "Can't see anything about Glenda." Crisp persuaded him to leave the cupboard, to sit down and to concentrate on the matter in hand. "For the moment, we must put aside our enjoyable conversation about pictures," said Crisp. "Fix your mind on the fact that we are investigating the murder of Lord Watlington. This piece of brown paper is what you contemptuously call 'clueage.' Now—please make every effort to tell me how it came into your flat." "A piece of brown paper!" echoed Fenchurch. "I don't know how to start making the effort. Pieces of brown paper are always coming into the flat. They accumulate. Some theory of Glenda's that the stuff is rare. Why, there must be millions of pieces of brown paper in the corner over there!" "Look at the postmark on this piece." Fenchurch sulkily complied. "It was posted in West London on Saturday at 10.30 a.m. That doesn't tell me how it got here." "The housemaid at Watlington Lodge signed for it at about four on Saturday afternoon. The parcel, of which that was the wrapper, lay on the table in the hall until five. Watlington was dead by five thirty." Fenchurch stared at the Chief Constable. His quick receptivity had failed him. Very slowly, he absorbed the Chief Constable's words. "This is devilishly awkward for me!" he muttered. "That's an understatement," remarked Crisp. "The irritating part is that I have no recollection whatever of picking up a piece of brown paper. I never do pick up pieces of brown paper. The stuff crackles and creaks, and what the hell should I want it for!" Crisp let him blow off his own steam, and presently asked: "You were at Watlington Lodge, then, on Saturday afternoon?" "This fantastic piece of paper apparently proves I was. And I particularly did not want you to know I had been there. I say, what else does this brown paper prove? Does it prove that I killed Watlington? You might just as well tell me. Everything is running your way. There's surely no need for you to play Brer Rabbit?" The man's genuine absorption in art, reflected Crisp, and his exaggerated egotism, together made him less able than other men to appreciate his position. His active intelligence operated only in the sphere of his own interests. He had an infantile conception of the police and their functions. "You told us you went for a walk by the river," Crisp reminded him. "Oh, that was a purely social lie!" protested Fenchurch. "I didn't want to drag Claudia Lofting into it. I expect she's told you by now that we were lovers? She said this morning that the pace was getting pretty hot." "I wouldn't tell any more lies if I were you, Mr. Fenchurch," evaded Crisp, "social or otherwise." "In future, we must weigh every word," agreed Fenchurch. "Everything I tell you will be true. But I'm damned well not going to tell you everything." "Then suppose I damned well put you in clink?" grinned Crisp. "That would only be detention, wouldn't it—I'd wear my own clothes, and so on? It's penal servitude I'm afraid of. But not for murdering Watlington. A nice, fat philistine like that! After all the trouble I'd taken to nobble him! Besides, he didn't annoy me. I rather liked him. A cad, invariably coarse, never vulgar. That aristocratic stuff of his was charming. But we can't talk about that sort of thing now. I've got tangled up in your clues, and it's not a nice feeling, I can tell you!" Crisp let him collect his thoughts and take his own line. "We'll start the truth-telling from zero," announced Fenchurch. "On Saturday morning I received a letter from Claudia asking me to destroy any letters of hers I might have kept, as it wasn't fair to her or Ralph to run that kind of risk. I couldn't find those letters. I thought at first Glenda had pinched them—then that she hadn't, because I reminded myself that she was never jealous. When Benscombe told me yesterday that she had collected five hundred quid from Watlington, I realised that she had sold him my letters. Rotten little rat! I wish you could find her and run her in." "Hi! You're jumping ahead," warned Crisp. "Keep your mind on Saturday morning." "On Saturday morning I had a conviction that those letters were lying about somewhere, making trouble. In the course of the afternoon, it seemed to boil down to Watlington as the trouble maker. I hopped over to the Lodge. I went in by that gate in the west wall—" "Was it unlocked?" put in Benscombe. "It was locked. But if you kick it, it opens. Don't interrupt, old man—it cramps the word-weighing. I had got as far as those yews when I spotted an elderly woman, obviously a lunatic, sitting on a bench. So I skirted round behind the stables and burgled the house through the open window of the dining-room. If I had walked on to the front door, she would have seen me." "Why were you so anxious not to be seen entering the house?" asked Crisp. "Because I've had some experience of lunatics. She might have come in with me. Some of them hang on to your arm and tell you the story of their lives. I'd worked out how to tackle Watlington—" "But why on earth did you assume she was a lunatic?" "In your own jargon, there was _prima facie_ evidence. A very large, elderly woman playing a childish game with a stocking. She had stuffed a ball or something into the toe. She was swinging it to and fro and goggling at it, as if she were afraid of it. To her disordered brain it was probably a symbol of something definitely nasty." Benscombe glanced at the Chief, but learnt nothing from his expression. Fenchurch resumed: "In the hall, I could hear Watlington snoring. He was one of those heavy sleepers who keep saying: 'What's that?' when you wake them. I had to poke him. Fortunately, he had a coughing fit, which woke him up enough to attend. When we'd got each other into a good temper—a bit of schoolboy smut would always make him laugh—" "What time was this?" "I don't know. I taxed him with having procured those letters—" "Didn't you hear that stable clock? It chimes every fifteen minutes." "Yes. Horrible, isn't it! I didn't count the strokes, because I didn't care what time it was. I couldn't foresee that someone would want this extraordinary kind of information about garden gates and lunatics and stable clocks." There was something besides the clock which could tell the time. "Did you notice a die-stamp on the writing table?" " _And now a die-stamp_!" His voice rose to a shrill, exasperated whine. "I did not notice a die-stamp. But pray do not conclude that there was therefore no die-stamp there. There may have been a dozen die-stamps—a hundred—I would still not have noticed even one of them. I don't know what a die-stamp is, and I have not the very smallest curiosity. Forgive me—I am feeling the heat! Do you still want to know whether I murdered Watlington, or have we left all that behind?" For the nervous outburst, Crisp was magnanimous enough to blame himself. To give the other time to pull himself together he asked for a match. "So Watlington admitted being in possession of your letters?" "Not at once. I had to blackguard him a bit first." "By talking about Casa Flavia and Tarranio and Fabroli?" suggested Crisp. "However did you manage to guess that?" Fenchurch's astonishment was soon dissipated. "I know. You must have been reading the private notes Watlington made on his blotting pad. No doubt, you have to do that sort of thing in your profession." "We do," said Crisp. "What does the note mean?" "Casa Flavia is a town in Italy. I met Claudia there and we fell in love, after I had painted her. There's no need for any secrecy about it, now that Watlington has been eliminated. But I cannot see how it concerns you in your official capacity." "And what about Tarranio and Fabroli?" "I can't tell you anything about them without incriminating myself in another direction. You will not ask me to do that." He paused: "I can give you this information. They are Italian wine merchants." Again he paused. "And I can tell you definitely that at no stage in my conversation with Watlington did either of us produce a piece of brown paper." "As a result of that conversation," said Crisp patiently, "Watlington admitted that he had letters written to you by Miss Lofting?" "Certainly not. That was merely preparing the ground. I told him what I can't tell you—to show I wasn't afraid of him. I _am_ afraid of you, because of your unfortunate duty. I had to kick him hard and show him what a fool he was, outside finance, before I got my letters out of him." Benscombe appeared to sneeze. Crisp leant forward in his chair. "Are you telling me, Mr. Fenchurch, that Watlington _gave you those letters_?" Fenchurch took a deep breath: his mouth twitched: he began with laboured patience: "I told you, my dear sir, that I suspected Watlington had those letters. Clear? I told you that in the course of the afternoon I went to Watlington Lodge with that suspicion in my mind. Clear?" The shrill, exasperated whine returned. "I did not go to Watlington Lodge in the course of the afternoon in order to congratulate Watlington on stealing my letters! I did not go in order to tell him he could keep them as long as he wanted them! I went there to get my letters back or burn the house down! If Watlington had not cowered under my blackguarding and given me the letters, I see now that I would have murdered him _and_ burnt the house down." This time, Crisp ignored the artistic temperament. "Where were the letters—before he gave them to you?" "In the safe behind him. I know what you're going to ask next. The answer is No—they were not wrapped in brown paper. They were in a long white envelope with a printed address and sealed with wax. He ripped the sealed envelope with his thumb. Claudia's letters were inside, in a separate and smaller envelope. When he gave me the letters I put them in my pocket. I thought he was keeping one back, but he explained that it was only his Will—" "What did he do with the Will?" "Put it in another envelope of the same kind and locked it in the safe." "Did he seal the envelope?" "No. He wanted to, but I camouflaged the sealing wax—it takes a long time to seal things and I wanted to keep his attention on me. When you interrupted, I was going to tell you—" "What did he do with the envelope he had ripped up with his thumb?" "Oh, my God!" Fenchurch dropped his head in his hands. "I do not know what he did with the old envelope. What do people do with old envelopes? I have never given proper thought to that problem. I am ready to believe that he wrapped it in that piece of brown paper and put it in my pocket, if you say so. Let us look for it without delay. The two clues may cancel out, and I shall be a free man... I'm being damnably rude again, Colonel. For heaven's sake, let's have a drink and hang on to our sanity." He rushed from the room. In his absence, Crisp did not speak. Benscombe became aware that his Chief was preparing one of those pivotal questions, like the question that had driven Ralph to his abortive confession. "Sorry I've no soda," said Fenchurch returning with whisky and glasses. "The fair Glenda had her uses." "On the distinct understanding that I may have to run you in, I'll be glad to drink your whisky," said Crisp. "I don't suppose you'll really run me in," said Fenchurch. " _The Times_ said the other day that it's virtually impossible to hang the wrong man—though it didn't explain whether that's thanks to the police or the lawyers. After all, you can't say to me: 'If you didn't murder Watlington, who the hell did'!" "True! But I can say—what did you do with the letters after you left Watlington?" Crisp added: "You'll find, Mr. Fenchurch, that it's much the same question." "Thanks! Better get back to the word-weighing!" "While you're weighing your words, I'll tell you that you left the house by the way you entered it." "Skirting the lunatic woman," agreed Fenchurch. "And then I really did go down to the river. And I really did go to sleep under that tree near the lock. You see, getting those letters back was a great load off my mind." "What did you do with those letters, Mr. Fenchurch?" repeated Crisp. "Burnt 'em, as she asked me to." Crisp pondered the answer. Fenchurch anticipated the next question. "You're going to say—'where are the 'ashes?' The answer is that I've burnt love letters before, and I know that you can often read quite a lot from the ashes. That's why I went down to the river. I burnt them on those landing steps, and I dropped the ashes into the river. I told you it would be impossible to prove anything. I suppose my whole yarn is trumped by that piece of brown paper?" "I wouldn't worry my head about 'clueage' if I were you," said Crisp, rising. "I want to take away those studies of Miss Lofting under the bed in the other room." "They're not for sale." "If they were, I couldn't afford them. I'm taking them officially. You'll get them back before long. Benscombe, write out a receipt." # Chapter Thirteen "I want you to drive," said Crisp, when they were outside. "I don't know the road to Kilburn. We're calling on Mrs. Cornboise to find out whether Querk prompted her about Ralph's car." Benscombe stowed the box containing the pictures of Claudia, too full of Fenchurch to feel interest in Mrs. Cornboise. "If you had been on your own," said Crisp, as they drew clear of the neighbourhood, "you would have detained Fenchurch on suspicion, wouldn't you?" "Yes, sir. The weak link was where he pretended to think Mrs. Cornboise was a lunatic." "Wrong, boy! He may or may not have thought her a lunatic. But he couldn't have faked the story of her swinging the stocking with a weight in it. There was an earthenware duck's egg in her bag and three stockings, none of which needed darning. I took them. But as the report on them was negative, I returned them to her." The traffic demanded Benscombe's full attention. In the next clear stretch Crisp resumed: "Your line on the pencil is washed out by his admission that he saw Watlington on Saturday afternoon. That's bad luck on you—you were right to follow it up." "Doesn't the registered wrapper tie down the time, sir?" "Not by itself. You must always distinguish clearly between evidence, corroborative evidence, and what he calls 'clueage.' His statement to Glenda that he was going to the Lodge was a clue—it wasn't evidence of anything. The pencil was a second clue. Both point to a truth without establishing it. The brown paper would be corroborative evidence if there were any direct evidence that he was in Watlington Lodge after five o'clock. It is not itself direct evidence, because there are many possible ways in which it might have reached his flat between five on Saturday and six today, when you found it—nearly forty-eight hours later. By itself, the brown paper is little more than a clue." When the Chief became academic, Benscombe knew that it was better to pipe down. "Aylesbury Mansions, Marydale Road," Crisp told him as they reached Kilburn. Turning the corner of Marydale Road, Benscombe braked hard. "That's Querk's car, sir—parked about eighty yards ahead on the left there." "Get back around the corner." Crisp drew a macintosh from the boot to conceal his uniform, then himself kept unobtrusive watch on Querk's car. Within five minutes he was back in his car. "Going that way! Catch him and hang on to him. Mrs. Cornboise got in with him." The chase was short. A double turn brought Querk's car into the high road. A quarter of a mile on, he turned into a garage. "Get out and tail them," ordered Crisp, glad that Benscombe was still in plain clothes. Crisp waited. Obviously they were going to some local address, or Querk would not have garaged. In less than ten minutes, Benscombe re-appeared, wearing a grin. "Charlie Chaplin, sir. Two three-and-sixpenny seats. In the foyer, I heard the lady giggle. I gather the gentleman had said something arch." "Well, I'm damned!" exploded Crisp. "Boy meets girl, eh! You drive back while I think this out." The Chief Constable thought it out all the way back. There was the fantastic hypothesis that Querk was spontaneously attracted to a rather formidable woman in advanced middle age. Alternatively, he was seeking some material advantage. Not her money, because she would not benefit under her husband's Will: her annuity, to him, would be negligible. Was he flattering her in order to suborn her as a witness? If so, where did his material interest lie? Again, Querk's objective was indiscernible. "We'll have those pictures in my room," said Crisp as they reached headquarters. When the cardboard dress box had been placed on the table, he asked: "Do you know anything about art, Benscombe?" "Not a thing, sir." "Nor do I. So we can't tell whether Fenchurch is only a glib scoundrel, who is clever with paint brushes. Or whether he's a born artist, who sees life mainly in terms of line and colour—who is genuinely puzzled and exasperated when I ask him what the time was and what became of an old envelope. I shall get some men who understand art to come and look at these pictures." "As to the head-in-the-clouds stuff, sir—did you notice that he knew we could deal with ashes? He had his feet firmly planted, that time." Crisp grunted and took out a canvas. Claudia sitting on the bench in the cemetery. He set it on a long empty shelf, upright against the wall, and looked at it. "That bears out what he said about his not being a photographer," remarked Benscombe. "By the outline it might be almost any girl of that type. But if you look at it as a whole, it's Claudia and no one else in the world." Claudia gazing at her lover came out of the box and was set up, leaning against the wall, beside the other. "That one certainly has a quality of its own you can't miss," muttered Crisp. Both men were paying unconscious tribute to the artist. At police headquarters, at an anxious stage in a murder investigation, they were pre-occupied with the problem of his art. "If Fenchurch is lying, he may be the murderer." Grisp was thinking aloud. "The strongest indication that he is lying is that he accounts for too much. He states that Watlington retained his Will. Now, whatever Watlington did with the old envelope, he would have sealed up the Will himself in a new one—or left the Will unsealed. Then why should someone remove his signet ring after death—and put it back? "If Fenchurch is telling the truth, the only value of his account is that it may affect Ralph Cornboise." "Even if we can't fix the time, sir?" "Nothing to do with the time! Ralph's hallucinations—or his lying confession, if you like—is inspired by the fear that Claudia removed the letters. If Ralph is convinced that she did not, the hallucination ought to be scuppered. Ring up and ask if he has come back, will you?" While Benscombe was telephoning, Crisp brought out the remainder of the pictures, set them in a long row on the shelf, glancing from one to another, trying to form his own opinion. "Not back yet, sir." "A pity. He's hanging us up." Crisp, mentally reviewing the details in Fenchurch's account, presently added: "We must check the statement that those fellows are wine merchants in Casa Flavia. If you don't get a letter from the consulate tomorrow, answering your query, go and see them." Benscombe failed to acknowledge the order. His attention was concentrated on the nude study. When he spoke, it was not as a disciplined junior to his Chief. "When you and I looked out of that window on Saturday night, we saw Fenchurch and Claudia talking. Why didn't he tell her he had rescued the letters? Because he hadn't? He was lying to us. Look at those five gorgeous pictures. All true! And look at this horrible one! It's as true as the others. That man can see into her mind. And he saw that she had killed Watlington. He's not such a cissie as he looks. He's still in love with her, and he's going to save her if he can. So he put on an act for us!" "That makes two of 'em anxious to be hanged instead of the lady!" Crisp's tone was discouraging. "I can't help it, sir. If you hadn't arranged those pictures I wouldn't have seen it like that. But I do see it like that, even if I'm talking through my hat." Crisp looked from the pictures to Benscombe. "I'm beginning to believe that fellow must be a big artist. I admit that I get a reaction from that work which I've never had from pictures before. Now, look here, Benscombe. What you're saying may turn out to be true, for all I know at present. But when you make a wild guess like that—in this office—on the strength of your reaction to a picture, it means that you should have a meal and get a good night's rest." Benscombe flushed. Crisp went on: "I'll see Ralph Cornboise myself when he gets back. I shall be here until midnight anyway, but I shan't need you. You've done a good day's work and you can take delivery of a pat on the back. But go home now, my boy. Goodnight." "Goodnight, sir. I'm sorry I said too much." After a modest meal at a nearby hotel, Crisp returned to his desk to cope with a fresh pile of reports. Shortly after nine, the house telephone rang from the charge-room on the ground floor. "Miss Lofting is here, sir, and asks to see you." "Show her up right away." Not until Claudia was being shown in did Crisp remember that Fenchurch's pictures were still on the shelf, upright against the wall. From the doorway her eyes sought him. She came directly to his desk, not noticing the pictures, a letter in her hand. She was in a state of tension: if she had been any other woman he would have suspected that she had been crying. "This came by the evening post. It's from Ralph. Will you read it, please?" He placed a chair for her, so that her back was towards the pictures. From the envelope he took a single sheet. _'Goodbye, Claudia. You were wonderful while you were alive and I loved you with all my strength. As you are dead, I cannot live with you. And it is still true that I cannot live without you. Ralph.'_ There was no address. The letter had been posted in West Central London early that afternoon. "I must ask you to let me keep this," said Crisp. "The handwriting is steady, though the words are maniacal." "The words are self-conscious and slushy. But the meaning is unpleasantly clear. He is not insane, Colonel. But I don't think he is well enough to be roaming about by himself. That threat of suicide—" "Such threats are very common." "But he did try to kill himself once. And he may try again." "The meaning doesn't seem very sensible to me—that was written within three hours of his going with you to the Registrar." "That was my fault. I practically dragged him along. Because I was afraid of his suicidal impulse." "Is he sane enough to realise that if he doesn't tell us where he is by to-morrow morning, we shall have to take measures?" "He is perfectly sane!" she asserted doggedly. "But everything to do with the murder is out of proportion in his mind. It's as if he felt that, after offering a confession and having it rejected, you and he washed your hands of each other. That's stupid, but it isn't insane, when you remember how the hallucination distorts everything." While she was speaking he was watching her face—unconsciously trying to see it as the artist saw it. 'I paint the spirit, not the flesh.' Studio jargon, meaning one must not be misled by appearances. The disturbing thing about this girl was that her appearance always bore out whatever she was putting over. Her voice, her muscles, her very features seemed to dress the part. At the moment, she looked almost plain, hard-up, stranded through no fault of her own, but courageously determined to ask nothing for herself. "When someone makes a statement to us," said Crisp, "we try to prove that the statement must be true—or must be false. Sometimes a statement, proved to be false, has been made in good faith—you can call such a statement an hallucination if you like—we don't care." He dropped the dogmatic tone as he continued: "I wish you would tell me—does Ralph honestly believe he killed his uncle—as and when he says he did?" "I think there are moments when he doubts it," she answered thoughtfully. "When you say something you're sure of and everyone says you're mistaken, you begin to have doubt of yourself. But, of course, he wobbles between the two extremes. That letter to me is a wobble." Crisp glanced down at the letter. The moment he took his eyes off her he felt that she was leading him. Let her go on leading him until she tripped! "Why does he pretend in this letter that you are dead?" "Dead to him, he means. It's a wobble over the hallucination. The sense of it is—if he didn't kill his uncle, I did, and he doesn't want to see me again." "But we don't take that line. Why should he?" "Because he believes I stole those wretched letters from the safe. If you could only prove that I didn't, I believe we could dispel the hallucination." Crisp held his breath as she put to him the very case he had intended to put to her. There came to him, too, the reflection that the two men who had loved this woman both believed her capable of murder. "Couldn't you have settled his doubts about those letters?" "No, because my own good faith was in question. To begin with, Ralph thought I was lying when I said I didn't notice that Watlington put them in the envelope with the Will. I made it worse when I said later that I did remember it—after Querk had reminded me of exactly what happened." She was putting up a smoke screen, he decided. If Fenchurch's story was true, he must surely have told Claudia he had destroyed the letters. "Leave Ralph's mentality for a moment. Haven't you yourself any theory as to how those letters vanished?" "I still think Watlington destroyed them himself. Otherwise, he would have given them back to me when he told me he had dropped his objection to our marrying—even though I didn't ask for them." Crisp could afford to ignore that explanation. If Watlington had destroyed them he could only have burnt them. And there were no ashes in the library. She was losing ground, letting him work her into a corner. "I can tell you definitely that Watlington did not destroy those letters." "Oh?" She registered eager surprise. "I am glad you have found out something about them. I know I mustn't ask you who did destroy them." "I am asking you, Miss Lofting." "But I can't even begin to guess. As I see it, only Ralph and I would have cared whether the letters were there or not." "What about the man to whom the letters were written?" "Arthur? Oh no! He would have told me. Apart from a telephone chat this morning, I had a long talk with him in the garden on Saturday night. That was before you interviewed us and brought the murder into the family, as it were. I told him Watlington had got the letters, that they were in his safe, and that, now that he had been murdered, they would probably be read by all sorts of people. He was very apologetic, and said he didn't think they would be read, and that he'd see you and ask you to keep them out." Crisp had the sensation of falling over himself. With it he became aware of an unreasonable resentment. Fenchurch's infernal cleverness with a paint brush was making this girl seem larger than life size—a spiritual chameleon, able to colour her personality from the colour of those about her. For young Benscombe a straight sex appeal, the more potent for being screened with modesty and good manners. For himself a naif defencelessness, a subtle flattery of his powers by treating him as a kind, clever uncle who would make everything turn out nicely for her, provided she trusted him without reserve. "Suppose he did recover those letters? And didn't want to tell you for fear of alarming you?" "That isn't Arthur's style!" She laughed. "He never wonders what others think. He doesn't take any notice of persons as persons. Even when he was in love with me he hadn't the least idea what kind of person I was." "Hadn't he?" Without intention, Crisp's eyes were drawn to the picture. Claudia followed his glance. She looked back at Crisp, revealing her astonishment. He was prepared for the obvious question. Instead, she found her own explanation of the presence of those pictures at police headquarters. "So Watlington got hold of those, too?" Crisp did not correct her assumption. "That explains a lot!" "Not to me!" Crisp was puzzled. "He must have assumed that I sat in the nude. That would set a man like that sniggering and telling dirty stories. That kind always thinks that artist's models are immoral. I wish he had mentioned it—we'd have had none of that dreadful bother with Ralph." "But it _is_ you, isn't it?" Crisp got up and went over to the shelf. Claudia followed. "The head is mine. And I'm the inspiration, in a left-handed sort of way. One day, I saw an Italian beating a child, and I felt sick. Arthur raved about my expression and made several charcoal sketches. They weren't very successful. But he couldn't leave the idea alone. Months later, back in London, he 'saw' it as an allegorical study, and set to work in the ordinary way with a professional model. He actually used two. So there are three of us in that picture." "I don't believe you looked sick." She turned sharply, surprised and resentful of his tone. His eyes met hers. "Fenchurch admitted this evening that he was at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon and that he recovered those letters." At last! With profound satisfaction, he watched her crumple under the blow, watched bewilderment give way to fear. She was making no attempt to conceal her distress. Her colour had gone. She moved one foot unsteadily. He took her by the arm, led her back to her chair. "When you feel well enough, perhaps you will tell me what really happened." "I am trying to think." Crisp would not prompt her. "Why didn't he tell me? Because of the murder, of course! He didn't want anybody to know he had been there. I expect he only told you because you frightened him." "I never frighten anybody!" bellowed Crisp. She ignored him, continued to utter her thoughts aloud. "He got my letter in the morning, and felt ashamed of himself. He guessed what had happened to the letters. _Oh!_ " The exclamation was so sharp that Crisp jumped. "I see what must have happened!" she cried. "I don't want to know what you think must have happened. I want to know what _did_ happen." She looked at him with mild reproof. Her confidence had come back and gaiety had been added. "What did happen was that at about half-past two I was the kind of hussy who will sit about in the nude to oblige her male friends. And at about five past five I had become a thoroughly nice girl, in every way suitable to be the ancestress of a long line of barons Watlington. That's what _did_ happen. "If I were allowed to tell what _must_ have happened, I would point out that Arthur must have left Watlington a few minutes before I turned up. He explained about the nude, and made Watlington see that it is not a social crime to fall in love twice—consecutively, of course—nor even to write the sort of letters that sound appalling when read out in court." Crisp drew down the corners of his mouth. "Preceded or followed by a discussion of rival wine merchants in Casa Flavia?" "Arthur will tell you when you've made him see there's nothing to be afraid of. This is splendid, Colonel. When Ralph sends you his address, I hope you will let me go to him at once. Then we can try to clear that up, too!" "We have cleared nothing up." Crisp let the silence lengthen. The only evidence that Watlington had changed his mind about her by five o'clock was her own statement—virtually contradicted by Querk's statement. For the rest, it was certain that she would talk to Fenchurch, and that he would tell her that his flat had been searched. "Miss Lofting!" He swivelled in his chair so that he faced her, directly. "You stated that, when you picked up that die-stamp from the hall table, there was a registered package beside it. Do you confirm that statement?" "Yes." Her voice held apprehension. "That was at a few minutes past five?" "Yes. Please hurry on." "This piece of brown paper—as you will see if you care to examine it—was the wrapping of that registered package." He paused for emphasis. "This piece of brown paper was found in Fenchurch's flat." Again, her reaction startled him. "How perfectly ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "As if Arthur would steal somebody's parcel! He never steals anything. When he's hard up, he borrows money. And he isn't particularly hard up now." "I didn't suggest that he stole the package. I said only that this piece of brown paper—" "Did he tell you what he wanted a piece of brown paper for?" "He did not," said Crisp. "That is beside the point—" "Not with Arthur Fenchurch! He never wraps anything up. He'll walk through the streets with the most blush-making things in his hand, if you let him." "Will you kindly fix your mind on the time at which—" "I can't, Colonel! If you were to tell me that you thought Arthur had murdered Watlington, I should be horribly afraid you might be right, even if you were wrong. But if the whole thing begins with Arthur picking up a piece of brown paper, I just laugh until you stop." "You are very rude!" grunted Crisp. He was having no luck with that brown paper clue. She gave him an apology that was very nearly demure. It was she who ended the interview, and it was he who got up and bowed her out, not having intended to do anything of the kind. When she had gone, he took stock. Following the formula, he had let himself be impressed and must now rub out the impression. Not too easy! His impression of honesty on her part might turn out to be justified. To reject a good impression blindly would be as unreasonable as to accept it blindly. On the other hand, if Fenchurch had phoned her that the police had been quizzing him about a piece of brown paper— "Pure guesswork!" ejaculated Crisp. He turned to the basket of nominally urgent reports. "Better have another dip in the fact box!" Presently, he was studying a report marked with the code number of Ralph Cornboise, with a cross reference to the Three Witches. ' _Statement by John Elderman, 16, cycle delivery boy_ —' There were details of the boy's parents and employers. _'I was passing the gates of Watlington Lodge in company with my friend, Albert Saunders, who was also delivering, when we saw a large two-seater car with gold and red bodywork standing just inside the gates. I recognised it as a Reindert which is a rare car which my friend did not know about. We stopped and looked at it from our cycles. I did not see anybody in the car nor standing near. When it struck half past five my friend said he must be getting on and I said I must, too.'_ _'Confirmatory statement, independent, by Albert Saunders attached._ Querk, reflected Crisp, could hardly have suborned two local errand boys. Therefore his statement and that of Mrs. Cornboise were true. Therefore Querk's cultivation of the society of Mrs. Cornboise must be because he was attracted to Mrs. Cornboise. Which, as Claudia Lofting would say, was perfectly ridiculous. # Chapter Fourteen On the following morning, as no communication was received from Ralph Cornboise, a description was sent to the _Gazette_ for circulation to all stations. The report from Watlington Lodge stated that it was possible to walk from the gates to the west side of the house without being observed from the terrace. "Possible!" said Crisp. "But that doesn't prove that Ralph did in fact go back to the house. Still less does it prove that he killed Watlington by striking through that wig." "No, sir," said Benscombe obediently. "Shall I prepare a message for broadcast?" "Yes. But ask the B.B. C. not to say 'the police are anxious to get in touch with'—just 'missing from his home,' with that bit about losing his memory." The police message was broadcast at six and at nine, yielding no result. Next day, through the _Gazette_ , information reached Scotland Yard, which was telephoned to the Chief Constable. "At two o'clock on Monday, Ralph Cornboise sold his Reindert car for seven hundred pounds, paid in notes, after Cornboise had been identified by his branch bank manager. There is reason to believe that Cornboise at the same time drew some three hundred pounds in cash from his account." "That young fool is forcing our hands again," grumbled Crisp, after dictating a note of the message to Benscombe. "By the book of the rules, I have to apply for a warrant now. Get statements signed and witnessed from those two boys and from Querk and Mrs. Cornboise. And if you _can't_ contact Mrs. Cornboise today, it'll leave our hands free for another twenty-four hours." Benscombe loyally failed to contact Mrs. Cornboise. That night the evening papers took up the chase, and on the following morning two of the dailies carried a photo of Ralph, which the police had been unable to obtain. "We can't hold up that warrant any longer," said Crisp. "Come with me and take a statement from Mrs. Cornboise." They were at the flat in Kilburn by half past nine. The front door was open, while a teen-age maid polished the brasswork. "Missis hasn't only jest started dressin' herself," she explained. "P'raps you'd step back later." Benscombe bent down and spoke confidentially: "Don't you think Mrs. Cornboise would like to ask the Colonel to wait in the sitting-room?" he suggested. "I didn't know he was a Colonel!" Crisp, who was in plain clothes of doubtful fit, was subjected to a sceptical scrutiny. "P'raps it'll be all right. Pass right down the hall, please. I'll tell her, so's she can hurry up." It was a trim, modern block of lower middle class flats. In the sitting-room, Crisp had expected a certain physical fustiness, in line with the personality of the tenant. Instead, he found a mental fustiness which startled his imagination. Facing him was a kitchen range, such as he had not seen since he was a small boy, with iron-doored ovens on either side of a fireplace. Along the opposite wall was a dresser, laden with willow pattern chinaware, with teacups hanging on hooks. In the centre was a white kitchen table with a wooden wheel-backed armchair at its head. A rocking chair, an upholstered wicker easy chair and three corner cabinets, crowded with photographs and knick-knacks, completed the compromise between kitchen and sitting-room of the late nineteenth century. "Look at this, sir!" whispered Benscombe. A red fire glowed and flickered in the fireplace until he switched it off. "You couldn't so much as boil a kettle on that plant. The whole room is a stage set." "I've heard of a cook pretending to be a baroness," muttered Crisp. "But I've never heard of it the other way round." "Pictures! An oleograph of Queen Victoria!" Benscombe passed on to the next. "This one strikes a new note." Set in a large picture frame were some forty or fifty photographs of different shapes and sizes cut from newspapers. "All of Watlington! In the pre-baronial era! Telling 'em the tale at Board meetings, banquets, flower shows!" Crisp's attention was on one of the upright cabinets where a buxom wench sat hand in hand with a flamboyant young man against a Johannesburg photographer's back-cloth. On a lower deck of the cabinet was another framed cutting, with the fragment of a letter pasted beside it. The photograph was of a public house: the printed underline read: _'The Goat-in-Flames Tavern, North London, now offered for sale after passing from father to son for five generations.'_ With difficulty Crisp deciphered the faded handwriting: _'We lived in a slum behind this. My brother became head potman. Makes you think.'_ It made Crisp think that, if ever a woman lived in her past, that woman was Mrs. Cornboise. As a cook she had met and been loved by Cornboise. The kitchen became a psychological bridge to the happiness she had lost. After thirty years of it, she still wanted him enough to go uninvited to his garden— "Good morning! I'm sorry you've had to wait. Mr. Querk told me you might call, but I must say I didn't expect you as early as this!" Mrs. Cornboise had adorned herself in a dress of black satin. While Crisp assured her that he had not been inconvenienced, she sat in the wheelback chair. "Please be seated, both," she invited. From her manner it was plain that she had lost any sense she might have had of the room being unusual. "Mr. Querk said you'd want to talk about what I told him about Mr. Ralph's motor car. Only, I can't see why you've bothered if he's told you already." Thus she shattered Crisp's plan for approaching the subject. "He didn't tell me much, Mrs. Cornboise, but it seemed to be not quite the same as you told me." "Well, I didn't tell you I _thought_ I heard the car coming back, because it didn't come back. If I'd told you all I thought we'd never have finished. I wish now I'd never mentioned it. No one is sorrier than Mr. Querk that it's kicked up all this dust. It all came of him saying to me: 'Now, Mrs. Cornboise, I want you to close your eyes and listen to that car again.' Then I remembered how it had stopped instead of fading away. It makes a mingy sort of noise, that car—sets your teeth on edge. So I noticed it when it started up again. And now you know as much as I do." "How long afterwards did you hear it start up again?" "That's what Mr. Querk wanted to know and I couldn't tell him. It may have been ten minutes or it may have been a bit more. But you won't be able to make bother out of that," she added. "It's my belief that, when he got to the gate, he remembered he was short of petrol and took some out of his spare can." "Ten minutes or more would be a very long time for a job like that," suggested Crisp. "Not if he'd never done it before and didn't know how the screws worked that held the spare can. I know. Because it happened once with a gentleman who was giving me a lift. In the end, I could have done better in a bus." "Let's see if I've got it right," said Crisp. "Shortly after five fifteen, you saw Ralph Cornboise drive out of the garage. The car stopped—as you suppose—at the end of the drive. Did you see Ralph Cornboise again?" "No—else I'd have told you in the first place. Wait a minute! Mr. Querk told me something to say if you talked like that. Oh yes! 'I have nothing to add to my previous statement covering the events observed by me!' That's right—I haven't!" Unaware of any inconsistency, she went on: "And there's something else I'll tell you—with you hounding that poor boy when he's innocent! He's not run away for what you think he has—asking me questions about his petrol can taking too long! If you want to know, he's running away from that Miss Whatsername. She'd got her claws in, so's she was going to marry him next Monday. P'raps you didn't know that. And what's more, it's no use that young man you've brought with you looking as if he didn't believe me. You ask at the district registrar's and they'll tell you." "Really?". Crisp was treading carefully. "Have you seen the notice on the registrar's board. then?" "I don't say that I've seen it with my own eyes, but you'll find it's true, all the same." Someone had told her. Not Querk. There was only one other likely source. He waited while Benscombe finished typing the statement about Ralph Cornboise's car. Mrs. Cornboise, forewarned by Querk that this would be required of her, signed without protest. "Now, Mrs. Cornboise. You have seen Ralph Cornboise since he disappeared from Watlington Lodge." Mrs. Cornboise showed neither surprise nor alarm. "Why shouldn't I!" she challenged. "It's a free country, who you speak to. Or it would be if it wasn't for the police." "It's no use talking to us like that, Mrs. Cornboise." Crisp was in some doubt as to how to proceed. "You don't seem to understand that if Ralph Cornboise were charged with the murder of Lord Watlington—as he well may be—you would be in a very awkward and humiliating position. What you have done is called harbouring and succouring—" "Well, it didn't ought to be! I never did any such thing! And I'm surprised at your saying it!" She glared at him, scandalised and indignant. "It's only law language," cut in Benscombe. "It means you might be put in prison for being friendly with a man who is hiding from the police." "Oh well! It's a pity that wasn't made clear in the first place." Mrs. Cornboise was mollified. "He isn't hiding from the police. He's hiding from that girl. And I promised I wouldn't do anything to help her find him." "If he is not hiding from us, there is no harm in our knowing where he is," pleaded Crisp. "That girl would worm it out of you and I'd never forgive myself." Mrs. Cornboise was weakening. "Besides, you're bound to find him as soon as they listen to the wireless. And with his photo in the papers and all. If you hadn't said that about his wandering and losing his memory they'd have seen it was him before now." "If you feel you can't tell us," said Crisp, "we shall have to see whether Mr. Querk will." "I don't want him dragged into it. Apart from that, he doesn't know." The threat was effective—Mrs. Cornboise betrayed anxiety. "If I tell you, I don't suppose you'll believe me unless I tell you how I found him. Well, if you must know, it was like this. I asked myself what you do when you're worried and unhappy." She paused and looked round her own room. "You go back to where you started from! I reckoned, if he was like me, he'd go back to where he was before Samuel started him on all that nonsense of being gentry. I happened to know where his father used to work and where the family lived. His father was potman at the Goat-in-Flames—" "And Ralph Cornboise is there?" interrupted Crisp. "He's got the best bedroom in the hotel where his father used to be potman. There's only four bedrooms, it being a commercial connection. And if you're going there to see him, you might mention that it's as well to be careful with the drink, though he wouldn't have told me about the girl if he hadn't had a drop too much." The lift was out of order. As they walked down the stairs Crisp said informally: "Funny old girl. What did you think of her?" "All on the surface, I should say, sir." "Hm! P'raps you're right. Remember Fenchurch's little yarn about a lunatic woman swinging a stocking? Here, put this in your pocket, will you. Can't get it into mine—they're full." Benscombe received from the Chief Constable a large earthenware duck's egg. "If you charge her with murder," said Benscombe, "she'll only say: 'Why shouldn't I? He did me wrong!'" "A jest that contains a truth, boy." Crisp blinked. "Is that a bit of Shakespeare?" "No, sir. A bit of Querk." "So it is! Hm! Dangerous man, Querk. If we find young Cornboise waiting for us, we'll have a smack at that hallucination of his before we do anything drastic." # Chapter Fifteen They arrived at the Goat-in-Flames substantially before opening time. At an apologetic side door labelled 'Hotel Entrance,' Crisp spoke to a potman in shirt-sleeves, disturbed at his work of cleaning the bar. "There's a young man staying here—I've forgotten his name—" "That'll be Mr. Carr. There's only one room booked." "Take me to him, please." "I'll have to ask—" The potman took another look at Crisp. "This way, sir." On the first floor he thumped a door and shouted: "Couple o' gentlemen to see you, Mr. Carr." The potman hurried back to his work. Crisp was about to try the door when it was opened by Ralph Cornboise. "I guessed it must be you." With something approaching pride, Ralph invited them into a large bed-sitting room. He fussed them, like a houseproud host, until Crisp was settled in a saddlebag armchair and Benscombe on a horsehair sofa. "Would you fellers like a drink?" "A bit too early, thanks!" answered Crisp. "We've brought a spot of news. About those letters!" Crisp went through the business of lighting a cigarette while he watched the effect of the last words. Ralph sat down very slowly on the edge of the bed and waited. Crisp waited the longer. "You were about to tell me something about some letters?" prompted Ralph. "What letters?" "Much better talk straight to us, Cornboise, and then we may get somewhere," said Crisp. "The letters written by Miss Lofting to Fenchurch. The letters enclosed with your uncle's Will. The letters which you're afraid Miss Lofting took out of the safe, after jiggering about with the envelope." Again there was a long silence. Benscombe noted the titles of three heavy volumes on the sofa beside him. All three were medical works on insanity. "I'm afraid I'm not rising, Colonel. You're waiting for me to ask questions about the letters. But I'm not frightfully interested." "The police are satisfied that Miss Lofting did not take those letters. We are satisfied that someone else did. Now you're waking up, aren't you?" "Thank you for giving me that information," he said ironically. "You might just as well have said that Fenchurch himself took them!" So the revelation was a flop, thought Crisp. Ralph, obviously, regarded it as a police trap. Crisp ploughed on: "Fenchurch has admitted doing so." "He would!" Ralph laughed as if with genuine amusement. "And he'd enjoy every minute of admitting it. But I bet your microscopes and whatnots don't bear it out. I don't suppose you believe it any more than I do." That was unanswerable. Ralph was warming to his theme. "I'm not running Fenchurch down. In spite of what you may think, I've no grievance against him. He's a good chap, but he simply can't keep out of the limelight. If there were a fire in his neighbourhood he'd pretend he had caused it or that he had rescued everybody. I might have guessed that he world horn in on this horror." Ralph's restrained tone carried the conviction that at least he believed what he was saying. Crisp observed that he was steadier than he had been at Watlington Lodge. There were fewer obvious symptoms of neurasthenia. "So you brush us aside and stick to your belief that Miss Lofting took those letters?" "I don't stick to any belief about it, because I don't care whether she took them or not. At one time, I thought she must have taken them, and that it was terribly important to know. But that was because she and Querk were persuading me that I had hallucinations—that I was more or less insane, which I was not." "Then why have you bolted away and used a false name, after raising all the cash you could?" "Because I no longer wished to marry Miss Lofting, but found it impossible to give any reason she would accept." As Crisp shrugged, Ralph explained: "Oh, I could give a reason _you_ would accept—if you'll try to stop believing I'm a lunatic. On Saturday, when I signed that confession, I reckoned that my life was at an end. I was content. I did not wish to go on living. All the same, I had to screw myself up a bit to—well, to face the gallows. Next, you reject my confession because it seems to conflict with your evidence. You compel me to go on living, I dare not destroy myself lest some innocent person be involved in the murder. That meant that I had to screw myself up all over again—on a different screw. At any time, you may find out something that will make you believe my confession—you may not. Would any sane man want to get married in such circumstances?" "That's understandable," admitted Crisp. "But I still don't see why you had to bolt?" "I tried to put that understandable point of view to Miss Lofting. She did not find it understandable. She said, in effect, 'My poor boy, marry me and you will soon be cured of your various obsessions.' Now, Miss Lofting has been extremely kind to me—literally too kind! I see now that she has always treated me as a poor creature who needs mothering. It may be true, but it's not attractive. Since Saturday it became clear that she thought me practically insane and believed that she alone could restore me to sanity. "When someone honestly and sympathetically believes you're insane, it shakes you up, even if you know you're not. To put it crudely, I could not endure another moment of her society—or I might indeed go mad. You'll say that's unreasonable. I don't claim to be any more reasonable than anyone else whose feelings for a woman have taken the wrong turning. "It was not enough to run away. I had to change my whole background. That's why I came to this particular spot. I was born within a hundred yards of this place. My father used to work here as potman. I felt I must get back to it, to clear my head. In the last few days I've not only read a bit about my psychological condition. I've also consulted three doctors independently. They agreed that I'm not insane, but that I have inherited certain nervous disabilities, and that I must avoid any special excitement for a bit. They did not explain how I'm to avoid special excitement. I just have to do my best." That accounted for his new steadiness. He spoke with such clarity that Crisp accepted his words at their face value. "Didn't it strike you as foolish to hide when you knew the police were searching for you?" "It may have been. But making an ass of yourself has nothing to do with being insane. Anyway, with what I'm going through, I claim a bit of discount." "You're quite right there, Cornboise," agreed Crisp. "You have enough on your plate to upset most men. But you seem to me sane and steady. So you will realise that the next questions are very important indeed. Benscombe, give me that note of those times." He glanced at the note and continued: "Carry your mind back to five fifteen on Saturday afternoon, when you left the library by the window, got into your car and drove yourself out of the garage." "As I told you, I went to the swimming pool at the Three Witches." "Did you go straight from the garage to the Three Witches?" "Yes." Crisp glanced at Benscombe. That answer would mean an arrest on the charge of murder. He tried again. "Did you stop at all on the way?" "Not on the way out. I had a clear run, with very little traffic. I stopped on the way back, for petrol." One more effort. "When did you discover you were short of petrol?" "When I brought Miss Lofting up from Wiltshire in the morning. I was running on my reserve for the last few miles. As I started for the Three Witches I remembered. So I stopped in the drive and filled up from the can, if that's what you mean." "So you did stop!" ejaculated Crisp. "At what point in the drive?" "Close to the gates." "That would have been, at latest, about five twenty?" As Ralph nodded, Crisp added: "How long did it take you to fill up?" "I don't know. Rather a long time. I'd never used the can before, and I got bogged with the anchorage." That was what Mrs. Corboise had suggested. Why didn't she say that Ralph had given her that explanation—if he had. "Did you, at any point, walk away from the car?" "No." "Your car was seen by two witnesses who were loitering by the gates of the Lodge for some minutes, ending at five thirty. You yourself were not seen. Can you explain why you were not seen by those witnesses?" "No—unless I was bending down over the tank, or sitting on the near-side running board, resting. I can't see why it's important." "This is why it's important! Querk was talking to your uncle at five twenty-eight. By five thirty-four your uncle was dead. How do you combat the suggestion that, around five-thirty—entering through the dining-room window on the east side—you went back to the house and killed him? Take time over your answer, Cornboise." "I don't need time. Because I don't combat the suggestion." Crisp turned to Benscombe. "See if you can make him understand what he's saying." "Rather lost my way over 'combatting suggestions'!" said Benscombe, with forced breeziness. "The point is, Cornboise, did you leave that car and go back to the house?" "As a matter of fact, I didn't. But if it's suggested that I did, I'm not going to deny it." "Now look here, old man. A few minutes ago you convinced us you're sane. Don't go and spoil the good work. I mean—you put up a confession the other day that you killed Watlington before five fifteen. You aren't offering another confession that you killed him all over again a quarter of an hour later?" "You choose to joke about my sanity!" Ralph essayed the grand manner. "Is it so very difficult for you to understand my position? Insane or not, I killed my uncle. Insane or not, I did not wish to escape the penalty. After a short period of animal fear, I confessed. By some freak of circumstance, my confession was disbelieved. By a counteracting freak of circumstance, you are now ready to believe that I did kill him. Can it make any difference to me that you fix the time some fifteen minutes later?" Benscombe wanted to carry on, but Crisp intervened. "I was wrong, Benscombe—he does understand what he's saying. Cornboise! I'll put my question in another form, and it'll be my last attempt. Can you give me a simple explanation of what you were doing between five fifteen and five thirty-five?" "So, it has to be simple!" Ralph laughed, but the laugh was free from the high-pitched note of hysteria. "Right-ho! My belief that I spent all that time putting two gallons into the tank is hallucination, the fact being, no doubt, that I was murdering my uncle. You can't have anything simpler than an hallucination—it always explains away everything." "Only a man who is insane would make childish jokes when he knows he is about to be charged with murder!" snapped Crisp. "You mean only a foolish man—not an insane man!" corrected Ralph. "And am I so foolish? What happens to murderers who try to lie their way out, once the police have got hold of them? One lie is no good. You have to cook up a hundred in support, ninety-nine of which are knocked down by the police and the lawyers. For weeks, you cling to that one little lie, hoping that it will do the trick with the jury—then that it may have a technical twist that will get you off on appeal. Hoping and despairing a dozen times a day for weeks on end! Am I a fool to cut out all that?" "You'll be a fool if you don't shut your mouth," said Crisp. "I'm going to arrest you and give you the official warning." Crisp gave it with dramatic emphasis. Ralph listened with every sign of satisfaction. "That's a great relief—no innocent person will suffer. Do you think I'm mad to say that?" Receiving no answer he went on: "I shall be sorry to leave this place! Have I to be handcuffed, or may I pack? I have only one suitcase here." Crisp himself went over to the chest of drawers, opened each one, to satisfy himself that there was no gun hidden in the clothing, then returned to his chair. Ralph Cornboise emptied the drawers on to the bed. From under the bed he pulled his suitcase. From the suitcase he took a revolver. Crisp, who was nearer than Benscombe, was some dozen feet away. Ralph, aware that the police do not carry firearms, calculated that he had plenty of time. "Cheerio!" he called. He had turned the muzzle on himself—his mouth was half open to receive it before pressing the trigger—when Mrs. Cornboise's earthenware duck's egg whistled across the room, landing full in his face. As Ralph fell, the revolver went off. The bullet brought a shower of plaster from the ceiling, most of which fell on the Chief Constable, who was on the spot before Benscombe. "Good boy!" muttered Crisp. "Take the gun while I mop him up. And don't forget that egg. It's rolled under the bed." Presently, Ralph sat up, bleeding and dishevelled but in full possession of his faculties. He turned his head to Benscombe. "No ill feeling!' he said, with a wan grin. "But you'll wish you hadn't been such a good shot!" Within a few minutes, Ralph was able to clean himself up and walk downstairs to the car. Arrived at police headquarters, Crisp drove straight into the courtyard, to avoid giving the arrest premature publicity. Then he went to his room, leaving Benscombe to make the formal charge. He had completed his own notes of the interview with Ralph Cornboise before Benscombe appeared. "You did a thundering good job with that duck's egg, Benscombe. I'm putting it in the record." "Thank you, sir." "I've some notes here which you can work up into a report. Personally I'm convinced that Cornboise was telling the truth when he said he did not leave the car. After fiddling about with the can, I expect he sat on the running board and mooned about until something reminded him that he meant to go to that swimming pool. Remember the finger prints on that die-stamp? Querk's. Very clear too. Made _after_ Cornboise handled the die-stamp—if he did handle it." "Yes, sir." "His lawyers will find their way through that, even if we don't produce something concrete. But, of course, we shall produce something before he goes for trial." "Yes, sir." "We'll borrow that Reindert from the people who've bought it and have an on-the-spot test of visibility from the road." "Yes, sir." Crisp scowled. What was the matter with young Benscombe saying 'yes, sir' like a parrot? The next moment, he knew. "When I made the formal charge, sir, Cornboise said he intended to plead guilty." Crisp swung round in his swivel chair. "Sergeant Willocks went through the routine. When he asked whether Cornboise wished to make any statement, I jumped in and splashed about, but it was no good. Cornboise said: 'To save time I will state now that I killed Lord Watlington. The Chief Constable has a signed confession in which I made a mistake about the time. If you will produce a corrected copy, I will sign it." "So there'll be no trial!" Perhaps for the first time in his life Crisp looked afraid. "I put in a bit of propaganda," added Benscombe. "But he was very firm." "Very firm, was he!" Crisp echoed the words savagely. "Now, look here, Benscombe! Police work in a murder case is based on the assumption of a competent defence. The defence protects us as well as the accused. By the time counsel has finished with our witnesses, the public knows there's been no dirty work on our part. To insist on a plea of guilty against the wishes of the police, in order to gratify a suicidal impulse, is a form of cheating." "Yes, sir." "If that young blackguard is going to cheat us, I'm going to cheat him." "By pressing the attempted suicide charge instead, sir?" "Can't do that, unfortunately, in the face of those statements by the errand boys and Querk and Mrs. Cornboise. No, I shall make use of the woman." "But how will Mrs. Cornboise—" "Mrs. Cornboise, you young fathead! I mean Claudia Lofting. He's frightened sick of her. Remember the picture of Fenchurch's. Tooth and claw stuff! If I drop a tactful hint to her she'll make blue hell for everybody until there's a team of lawyers lined up behind her pet lunatic. Get her on the phone and say I'm on my way." # Chapter Sixteen First of all, reflected Crisp, Claudia would have to be told that Ralph had been arrested and charged with murder. He would tread carefully—give her just enough time to absorb the shock, then catch her on the rebound and harness her energy. At Watlington Lodge, to his annoyance, he was 'received' by Andrew Querk. After gracious patronage of the weather, Querk lowered his voice. "I don't think we need anticipate any trouble." He spoke as one slightly superior medical man to another. "She is taking it very bravely—very bravely indeed." "Taking what?" demanded Crisp. "I refer, of course, to the arrest." Querk's tone was touched with severity. "I do not pretend, Chief Constable, that the task of breaking the news to her was a light one. I explained, as was only just, that you had been driven to that course by the poor fellow's own action in running away. When I described our suspicions, centring on the movements of the car, she became, I think, resigned." Crisp did not want her resigned. He wanted her furious. Querk was graduating from a nuisance to a menace. Incidentally, he could only have known about the arrest through Mrs. Cornboise. "Thank you," said Crisp drily. "You have been most helpful. And now—" "I ventured to tell her that it would be better for her to go home to-morrow, as we would not be likely to need her again until the trial—if then. Ah, here is Miss Lofting!" Claudia was coming down the stairs—Claudia, thought Crisp, in another facet of herself. He could not have sworn that her clothes were different from those she had worn at their last meeting. They certainly were not black, yet they contrived to indicate bereavement. Or was it nothing to do with her clothes? "Shall we use the morning-room?" she said with a formal brightness which forbade condolence. Querk opened the door and bowed them in. Crisp thanked him and took unequivocal possession of the door. "If I should be wanted," Querk whispered, "you will find me in the drawing-room." By the time Claudia was seated, Crisp had abandoned the idea of a tactful approach. "When we arrest a man we have to make a formal charge against him. Generally, we advise him to say nothing. The next step is that the accused man sees his lawyers and prepares his defence. Ralph has cut all that out. He has made a statement incriminating himself, and says he intends to plead guilty to the charge—against our advice." She was sitting like a schoolgirl, her hands folded in her lap. Not the hands of a schoolgirl, though. She didn't even move—just inclined her head a little to indicate that she had heard. He supposed that she had not grasped the actualities. "That means," he continued, "that there can be no trial in the ordinary sense of the word. No sifting of the evidence against him. He will shortly go before a judge who will sentence him to death after formalities taking only a few minutes. Are you following me, Miss Lofting?" "Yes. I quite understand." That was all! A dead calm, with no wind for his sails. He waited until she looked up at him. "I want you to persuade him to withdraw the plea of guilty." She shook her head. "I couldn't do that. It would be no use trying. He doesn't even want to see me, does he?" "I don't think he does,' admitted Crisp. "Nevertheless—" "You could force him to see me? Then I should jib. Sorry!" "I never force anybody!" snapped Crisp. "There is a routine which enables you to be in the same room with him, with myself and others present. That would at least give you a chance to persuade him to apply for a personal interview with you. Then you could talk to him." "But I've nothing to say to him." For the moment, Crisp was beaten. He paced the little room, while her words echoed in his brain. She had nothing to say to Ralph! Then what the devil had been happening? "I seem to have got the wrong end of this stick!" he exclaimed. "The other night at headquarters you were in a hurry to find him. To tell him that it was Fenchurch who had reclaimed those letters. You said you thought it might dispel the hallucination—" "That was before I knew that Ralph had stopped his car in the drive." Crisp broke his stride, to stand by her chair. "You are not telling me that the evidence about the car has suddenly made you think him guilty?" "N-no." The hesitation vanished as she went on: "It has made me see that it was possible for him to be guilty. It seemed impossible before." Suspicions were crowding upon Crisp. She was changing sides! She could not gain a penny by Ralph's conviction. But she could punish him for jilting her. Oh nonsense!— that was gun-moll morality! "Admitting that it is physically possible for him to be guilty—do you therefore believe that he _is_ guilty?" He read the answer in her face before her words drove it home. "Yes." She added: "Nothing that I say can harm him now." Then she _had_ changed sides! But whose side had she taken instead? "Questions and answers can make anything look lopsided," she was saying. "By Monday I had the moral certainty that he was guilty. But I clung to Querk's evidence to prove that I must be wrong. I simply had to squash the moral certainty—to try to pretend it wasn't nagging away at the back of my mind." "But why did you have that moral certainty?" demanded Crisp. "I have a moral certainty that he's innocent—backed up by something just short of proof." He dared not tell her about the wig, but he was ready to go a long way. "Listen to this! Suppose Querk had not been in the house. Without any Querk, I would still not believe Ralph guilty, because I have certain objective information about that murder which only the police possess." He seemed to be holding her attention. With all the force he could muster, he went on: "That information would be given to the defence. Able lawyers on both sides, umpired by the judge, would extract the truth from that evidence. They would convince not only the jury but also you and me—convince us of his innocence or his guilt. To me it does not matter which. Without that process, what guarantee have I, as a policeman, that I am not procuring the conviction of an innocent man? I—I'm asking you to help me." He had revealed his secret dread, had said more than he intended. No doubt she would laugh at him for his indiscretion. Not that he cared, provided she would help. "I can understand how you feel!" There was no laugh. She was looking at him with quickened interest. "If it makes you feel any better, I am in a worse position. I ought not to have left him for a moment that afternoon. If I had gone with him to the Three Witches, as he asked me, it wouldn't have happened." _"It!"_ The word was rapped out in a shouted whisper. "How can you permit yourself to speak like that! I tell you that I have strong reasons for believing he may not be guilty. You continue to take his guilt for granted." Perceiving that his indignation was wasted, he shifted ground. "Do you know something that the police do not know?" "Of course I do!" He glared at her, challenging her to justify her words. "It isn't what you would accept as evidence," she said. "I've told you everything that can be of any use to you in your official capacity. Have you forgotten that you made a rather personal appeal to me to help you?" That was true enough, confound her! His whole handling of her had been spoilt by Querk's interference. "I doubt whether I can help you. But I will try." She paused. "Won't you sit down, Colonel?" Yes, he would sit down, because she told him to. She had the air of not knowing she had scored off him, of not caring whether she scored or not. Her eyes were preoccupied. There was gentleness in the set of her mouth. One could never be unaware of her physicality, which could create the illusion of speaking to the mind. "On Saturday I went to bed, shortly after midnight. I was then convinced by Querk's evidence that Ralph's brain had played him some trick, though I didn't fully adopt the hallucination theory until after Turvey had seen him the next morning. "I had left my door open. I had been in bed a few minutes when I heard Ralph in the corridor. I caught him at the top of the stairs. I don't know whether he was sleep-walking or half awake, resisting the sleeping draught. He knew who I was, but in a muddled sort of way—as if he were very drunk. "I piloted him back to bed. I didn't return to my room. I sat in the chair in the dark and dozed. When it was beginning to get light, Ralph got up again. He was in much the same condition, though the drug was wearing off. "While I was coping with him he said: 'I must go and see if he is dead.' I begged him not to. In the same drunken sort of way, he agreed not to go downstairs. He said: 'Tell you what! We'll work it out together. You be uncle, and I'll be me.' "It was a bit thick for me, but we went through with it. The awful part was that it was convincing. It made me certain that he was describing what had actually happened. Absolutely certain! "Eventually, I'd got him back to bed and he fell asleep. I'm afraid I blubbered like a child. Then I stopped crying and nearly laughed out loud. Absurd though it sounds, Ralph had made me forget Querk's evidence. But now I told myself, that, however certain I might be that Ralph had killed his uncle, the fact remained that he hadn't. I was so relieved that I went to sleep in the chair. But I woke up suddenly with a new fear. Suppose the whole thing had happened at a different time and Ralph had simply muddled the times? Suppose he had gone back to the library? "Fortunately, Querk gets up early. I button-holed him at the bathroom door. Then he told me that Ralph was known to have left in the Reindert a few minutes after Querk entered the library. So that put me at ease again. But the ease did not last long. The feeling that Ralph had been reconstructing a reality remained just as strong. With all that talk about hallucination, I was beginning to suspect myself. Part of me was believing something which had been proved to be impossible. "And now it has been proved possible," she concluded. "So I believe it." Once again Crisp found himself unwillingly impressed with her honesty. Yet the fact remained that she was trying to convince him of Ralph's guilt. Out of kindness to himself? "But you wish you didn't feel obliged to believe in Ralph's guilt?" he asked. "My attitude to him is unchanged. I don't feel any horror of him for what he did. I only feel that I've failed him—as I have. If I could save him from the consequences I would. But I can't. If I were to ask him to plead not guilty it would make him the more determined to refuse. "You see, he used to jump at the chance of doing anything to please me. I made use of that—to get him to steady up in his habits. But he stopped wanting me, quite suddenly, and rather to my surprise. For a few minutes at a time—when he momentarily accepted the hallucination theory—he may have suspected me of murder, though I doubt it. But he did suspect me of what I had actually done—that is, of using whatever appeal I had for him to get him to do things for his own good. And I believe men hate that, more than they hate being fooled and cheated by a woman." That was fairly close to what Ralph himself had said about her. She had observed Ralph very thoroughly, almost clinically. Obviously, she had never been romantically in love with him. With something of a shock he realised that she was convincing him—pushing him into the fallacy that, because she was reasonable, she must be right. "I don't see how you could have taken a different line," he conceded. "The weak spot is that you cannot check whether Ralph was telling you the truth in that bedroom. Your belief in his guilt pre-supposes that he was reporting and not imagining." "He was reporting," she replied. "I can remember everything he said and did—I shall never be able to forget." Urged by Crisp, she told him—reproducing the substance of the statement made by Ralph in his original confession. Crisp let her words slide through his consciousness, waiting for the essential item. "Then he showed me how the wig was cut and knocked out of shape. At the sides. Sticking out behind like bat's wings, he said. He lifted my hair behind my ears—like this—to show me." But the wig had _not_ been cut and had _not_ stuck out at the sides like a bat's wings, nor like anything else. Ralph was inventing. Or Claudia was lying—a pointless lie, unless she knew the significance of that wig. He let her continue with details of Ralph dropping the die-stamp on the floor—after striking through the wig!—and going out by the window. "So you believe he did all that, not at five-fifteen, as he stated, but about five-thirty—after slipping back to the house from the car?" "Yes—but he believes he only went once to the library." "Wait! After killing his uncle, he left the library by the window, according to your present version. We know that he did not go out by that window at five-thirty. Further, we found the library door locked on the inside." "There are probably lots of discrepancies besides the discrepancy of time," she said. "I wish I could believe that they added up to something." Ralph's finger prints had not been found on the die-stamp. But he must not tell her so, any more than he must tell her about the wig. She had changed sides. Only her personality—only the impression of honesty she made upon him—prevented him from assuming that she was shielding the real murderer. Who might be herself. He thought of Benscombe's 'appreciation': _'Motive and Opportunity: Claudia Lofting.'_ He did not know that he was scowling. "You don't agree with me about Ralph," she was saying. "I wish you could make me agree with you." Crisp blinked. What was she driving at now? "So much depends," she continued, "on whether you feel in your bones that a person is telling the literal truth. That's the way I felt that Ralph was neither lying nor building a fantasy." He sensed that she was edging up to something—kept silent so that she should take her own way. "Facts are stronger than feelings-in-your-bones," she went on. "Not little facts about locked doors and the times you went out by doors and windows. Big facts. Did Ralph really make that dreadful swing of his arm with the die-stamp? Was he building a fantasy when he lifted my hair at the back—to show how the wig had stuck out?" Crisp was certain only that he must get away from her. Whatever answer he might make, she would extract from it what she wanted. "We've tried to help each other—and we haven't been very lucky." He was forcing a breeziness of manner which could hardly have deceived her. "I'm sorry you don't want to try to get Ralph to alter his plea, but there it is!" Back in the office, Benscombe was waiting with a report from the Italian Consulate. "Tarranio and Fabroli, sir. Wine merchants in Casa Flavia, as stated. Nothing is known to the detriment of either. Tarranio has a branch in London—Soho—and comes over several times a year. I've found out that he's expected at any time." "We can tick them off, then," said Crisp indifferently. "That Casa Flavia sequence never promised very much." "I thought we were going to quarry it for a motive against Fenchurch." "Too late to worry about motives!" ejaculated Crisp. "Unless motive puts you on the right line within a few hours it will probably mislead you. Work it out yourself. As soon as something goes wrong with the original plan—as soon as we start working on a line unforeseen by the criminal, his motive changes into that of cutting his loss and saving his skin. Neither Ralph's confession nor Querk's refutation of it can have been planned. You may take it that, at this stage, everybody's motive is to get clear. "Look where motivation landed you with Claudia. You gape at Fenchurch's picture and kid yourself that she's a saint and a devil and a nice girl and an arch humbug all done up in one parcel. You then assume that she scuppered Watlington in order to make sure of being able to nurse the young man for life. True or not, that motivation has petered out. At this moment she says she believes Ralph is guilty—because he described to her so vividly how he struck Watlington through his wig!" Benscombe had been waiting to get a word in edgeways. "Yes, sir. Because the part of the original plan that did _not_ go wrong is the bit where the two innocent persons—Ralph and Querk—let us know that the Fenchurch letters were enclosed with the Will. The murderer had an answer ready for that one." As Crisp made no comment, Benscombe continued: "The murderer's answer was given by Claudia, when she said that Watlington had changed his mind about the marriage—with the inference that he destroyed the letters himself. Querk's evidence comes very close to a denial of that. When Claudia tells Fenchurch that 'the pace is getting hot'—Fenchurch's own words—we find a piece of brown paper which leads to Fenchurch counteracting Querk's statement and himself coming very close to confirming Claudia's statement. And now we find that Claudia believes in Ralph's guilt! Does she believe it, sir, or is she 'cutting her loss and getting clear'?" "I don't know. But one can be too clever at this game of guessing what people are thinking. Because a person appears to be transparently honest, it doesn't follow that that person is a crook. Unless we can unearth some solid fact about Fenchurch—" He broke off as the telephone rang. "Take that call, will you," he ordered. Benscombe picked up the receiver. A couple of seconds later he caught his breath. "Yes, hold on a minute, please. I'll put you through to the Chief Constable." He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and then: "Sir! Have this call traced while I stall him," he whispered. Crisp slid noiselessly to the instrument on Benscombe's desk, while the latter embarked on the stalling process. "Hullo? I'm afraid I shall have to keep you waiting a minute or so. The Chief Constable is himself speaking on the telephone. I'm his aide—his secretary, you know. Is there anything I can do for you?" The answer was a still greater surprise to Benscombe. "D'you mean you're the young man who was with him in my flat this morning?" "Yes," gasped Benscombe. "Who are you, please?" "I'm Mrs. Cornboise, of course. Now, you know what you did at the Goat-in-Flames this morning!" "Yes, _Mrs. Cornboise!_ " Benscombe had passed the news to Crisp. "Well, I've been round there and they wouldn't let me into his room. They didn't mind for themselves, but they said you'd sealed the room up." "Quite correct, Mrs. Cornboise." "I'm not so sure it's all that correct. You've sealed up something of mine I left there when I went to see him. I want it." "I'll see what can be done if you'll tell me what it is... Hullo! Are you there?" "Of course I'm there! I was only collecting my thoughts. It's a bag, not my ordinary one, because I brought that back. Now I come to remember, it must be the small handbag with a handle." With soothing remarks, Benscombe cut off. Crisp looked up. "Are you sure it's the same voice, Benscombe?" "Yes, sir. It's two tones lower on the telephone. I thought it was a man at first." "As you are sure—come along." The way to Kilburn lay past Watlington Lodge. Ahead of them as they approached, a car came through the Lodge gates and turned on to the London road. "That's Querk's car, sir. He may be going there too. Shall we race him?" "No. You could only beat him by a few minutes. Trail him." # Chapter Seventeen Led by Querk's car, they took the main London Road. Benscombe closed up to within fifty yards. "There's someone beside him sir." Benscombe drew out, to get an angle on his view through the back window of Querk's car. "A girl!" "Claudia?" "Can't tell. I don't think they're Claudia's shoulders." In time, Querk turned north to Kilburn. Near the corner of Acacia Road, Benscombe stopped. Crisp took out his watch. "They've had two minutes—that's long enough. We'll join the party." Having rounded the corner, Benscombe suddenly put on speed. "He's left the girl in the car." A moment later: "It's Glenda Parsons—Fenchurch's girl. And she didn't look up—hasn't seen us." A couple of hundred yards on, he turned into a side street. "You stay in the car," ordered Crisp. "Trail Querk when he comes out. I'll take a taxi back." Crisp walked along. About to enter the building, he turned to Querk's car. "Good afternoon, Miss Parsons." " _Oo!_ " wailed Glenda. "Good afternoon." "Is this your car?" "No—it belongs to a gentleman friend who's giving me a lift." She added: "If we oughtn't to have parked here, I'm ever so sorry, and I'm sure he won't be long." So she thought that a Chief Constable would go on the prowl for parking offences! Anyhow, she had given him an idea. "I shall have to send your gentleman friend a caution. What's his name and address?" "Well, he's a Mr. Harris, as a matter of fact," said Glenda. "I'm not sure of his address, as he moved the other day. If it's only a caution, you can send it care of me and I'll see that he gets it and tells you he's sorry. My address—" "We have your address," said Crisp. Under her eye, he turned into the building, having learnt that she was up to some little racket with Querk in which his name was not to be mentioned. After some delay, Crisp's knock was answered, not by the teen aged maid, but by Mrs. Cornboise herself. "What _again!_ " she exclaimed. "I expect it's my fault for bothering you about that bag. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure." She held out her hand as if she expected him to produce the bag from his person. She was still wearing the black satin dress, but her appearance had changed. With something approaching awe, Crisp became aware that her face had been made up—apparently by her own inexpert hand. There were uneven smears of rouge on her cheeks: incredibly, too, she had toyed with lipstick. With her incongruously youthful-looking eyes, the total effect was one of rather gross disreputability. "You'll excuse me not asking you to step in, as I have company," she added. She was waiting for that bag. "You shall have your bag, Mrs. Cornboise, as soon as we've found it—and examined the contents." Crisp had pitched his voice to carry into the flat. As he expected, the door of the sitting-room was opened by Querk. "My dear Mrs. Cornboise! Colonel Crisp and I are already acquainted. I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of inconveniencing either yourself or the Chief Constable. Won't you ask the Colonel to join us?" Behind the gush, Crisp perceived the challenge. Querk had taken charge of this witness and intended to keep charge. That meant he was running a little racket with Mrs. Cornboise, as well as with Glenda. "Well of course he can come in, if he wants to!" said Mrs. Cornboise in manifest disappointment. She was not good at taking a lead. He did not envy Querk his task. "It is most fortunate that you happened to call at this time," Querk was intoning as they drifted into the stage-property kitchen. "Mrs. Cornboise was saying only yesterday that her position as a most reluctant witness is a somewhat unenviable one—even, in certain contingencies, an ambiguous one. For that reason, we agreed that, in any future interview desired by the police, it would be in the interests of—er—both sides, if Mrs. Cornboise were represented by—ah—myself." " _Did_ we!" Mrs. Cornboise, sitting upright in the wheel-backed chair, looked so astonished that Querk was forced to add: "Not in those words, perhaps. But I think that was the burden of our little talk. As the Chief Constable is doubtless aware, I happen to be a qualified solicitor, though I have not sought regular practice. So if you feel you have sufficient confidence in my poor abilities, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—" "You don't need to ask me that, Mr. Querk. You know I have all the confidence in you anybody could possibly have in anybody else!" The harsh, deep-toned voice had softened to a simper. The mis-decorated face puckered into a smile. In fact, the suspicion entertained by Benscombe was justified. Boy meets girl. Or, at least, Girl Meets Boy! But what the devil was Querk up to, he wondered. "As you please," said Crisp. "You gave me certain information, Mrs. Cornboise, as to what you observed from that seat in the garden. This morning you added information about the car. Have you any other information to give us which you, for your own reasons, have held back?" "I think, Chief Constable," cut in Querk, "that we are entitled to ask that questions should be of a specific nature." Querk, of course, knew that the power of the police was limited to the power of arrest on suspicion, which had to be justified—that in no circumstances could he demand an answer to his questions. Crisp perceived that he would find out nothing about Mrs. Cornboise that Querk wished to be concealed. The point of interest was—what did Querk wish to conceal? "Specifically, Mrs. Cornboise, did you leave the garden at any time and enter the house?" "Do not answer that question!" Querk had almost shouted. Crisp grinned. "Mr. Querk, I'm wondering what an innocent person could possibly lose by answering that question?" "Innocent!" Querk registered surprise. "My dear Colonel, can you believe that I am concerned with the _innocence_ of Mrs. Cornboise in the matter of the _murder?_ Surely that is too obvious to merit our attention! I am concerned with the difficult question of molestation. If Mrs. Cornboise had entered that house uninvited, her entry might well be construed by the trustees as an act of molestation. Under the terms of the Trust she would then be in danger of losing her income." Crisp, amused, wondered what the next excuse would be. "On that afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise, did you see Lord Watlington—whether alive or dead, did you see him?" "By connotation," cut in Querk, "that is the same question, since it would have been impossible to see my poor friend—living or dead—from the garden." "My next question is not the same," said Crisp. He noted that Mrs. Cornboise was looking aggressive. Querk maintained the outward serenity of a cat at a mousehole. "At about seven o'clock on that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise—" Crisp dragged out the question, then finished with a rush—"did you telephone the police that Lord Watlington had been murdered?" "Why shouldn't I?" Mrs. Cornboise had spoken before Querk could stop her. " _Ex_ -cellent!" ejaculated Querk. "If she did, why should she not have done so? A rhetorical question which, for our purposes, Chief Constable, is tantamount to saying that Mrs. Cornboise will neither deny nor affirm that she gave that information to the police." "Tantamount," echoed Crisp, "to a refusal to answer. The negatives are mounting up, Mr. Querk. Did she enter the house? Did she see Watlington? Alive or dead? Was she aware of the fact of murder at seven—before anybody else? Answers refused on all points, each of which closely touches the murder." "Each point closely touches the murder!" repeated Querk. "And. you wonder why I object to a palpably innocent woman giving you a simple, straightforward yes or no on each point. Have you forgotten, Chief Constable, that the defence will be entitled to treat Mrs. Cornboise as a hostile witness? Imagine depositions containing those straightforward answers—that simple yes or that equally simple no. It would not matter which. On any statement made by Mrs. Cornboise, counsel would subject her to a devastating cross-examination, barbed with innuendo. You and I both know how an innocent person can suffer in health through the suggestion of guilt, dishonesty, evasion, reiterated endlessly in open court. Moreover—" "If they said all that about me, I'd answer them back." "Moreover—" "You're ignoring that she can be cross-examined on the statements already made to us." " _Moreover_ , Mrs. Cornboise is anxious to observe the wish of her late husband—unwarranted and even cruel though it may be—to avoid courting publicity for the circumstances of her marriage." "That will come out on her identity," Crisp reminded him. "The fact of marriage will come out, but not the circumstances of their separation," asserted Querk. "Cross-examination on an assertion—or a denial—that she had entered the house would drag out the full story of their relationship—a story which is necessarily painful to a lady of sensitiveness, who—if I may say so, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—has a very proper pride in her own womanhood." He was orating exclusively at Mrs. Cornboise, and Crisp noted that the oratory was effective. She had been frightened enough to keep her mouth shut and flattered enough to make her glad to obey Querk and refuse to talk to the police in future. Before Crisp reached the corner of the road, Querk drove past him, Glenda turning her back to the pathway. A couple of hundred yards behind came Benscombe, on Querk's trail. Crisp walked on to the High Road, where he took a taxi to the Goat-in-Flames. In the room that had been occupied by Ralph, the only personal belongings were the books on insanity. He found Mrs. Cornboise's bag in one of the drawers—a small brief bag of the kind commonly carried by business men forty years ago. Back in his own headquarters, after fumbling with the complicated catches, he opened the bag. Inside was a package of plain white paper. "That woman must have a starvation phobia," he mused. "A fifteen minute bus ride—and she carries sandwiches." There was a litter of picture postcards, a hymn book and a pencil and pencil-sharpener. Protruding from a slit in the lining was a limp card, of the kind used in an index. "Here we are!" he ejaculated. On the card, which served as a memo slip, had been typed five questions, numbered: '(1) _Where did the car stop?_ (2) _For how long?_ (3) _Did R. leave the car?_ (4) _Any witnesses while car was stationary?_ (5) _Did R. proceed straight to Three Witches?_ ' When Benscombe came in he was invited to inspect the card. "I don't think Mrs. Cornboise can use a typewriter," he remarked. "And I don't think she would use the word 'stationary'," supplemented Crisp. "In fact, our Mr. Querk is running his own private C.I.D. With your passion for motivation, you can get your teeth into that one. What did he do with Glenda?" "Took her to a block in Westminster, where he has a small office. He kept her there for half an hour. She came out without him. I didn't trail her." "What's the office like?" "Two rooms in an expensive block. Very small nameplate—just 'Mr. A. Querk.' The porter told me it's unoccupied most of the year. Querk turns up for two or three days at a time, bringing his typist with him. That's all I got, sir. I went up and listened outside the door, but couldn't hear anything except the typewriter—sounded as if the typist were taking direct dictation." "He was probably taking a statement from Glenda. Can't do much with him until he shows his hand. If he has a hand! He's certainly running Mrs. Cornboise. Advised her not to answer my questions." Benscombe went to his desk, surveyed the arrears with dismay. "D'you think, sir, he's working with Claudia?" "Working for what?" "I'm thinking of what you said about motivation changing once we get on the trail. To start with, both of 'em seemed to be working overtime to get Ralph out of it. Now they both seem to be helping to push him in." "Ingenious, except that we aren't on the trail, but clean off it," grunted Crisp. "We're where we were when Ralph dished out his confession." He added, meditatively: "We haven't dug out a single fact of major importance. The tracks have been confused, so that they all lead back to the starting point." The house telephone buzzed on Benscombe's desk. As he picked up the receiver, he said: "And who confused the tracks, sir?... Hullo." "Mr. Fenchurch," said Sergeant Willocks, "is in the waiting-room asking for the Chief." "Tell them to send him up, Benscombe," ordered Crisp. "If he hands out any lies, I shall see if I can frighten him. The experts who looked at those pictures agreed that he is an artist. That may explain his manner, but it doesn't explain his tale—which you think is a plant to prop up Claudia, don't you?" "Well, sir, we have to take his word that Watlington himself opened that envelope and gave him the letters. Whenever we ask for a spot of proof, all we get is some more artistic temperament." Fenchurch at police headquarters was something without precedent. Suspicion was excited by his too imaginative sports coat, the dun coloured glove on his left hand, his air of not understanding the nature of a police force. His escort showed a tendency to hover. "Well, Mr. Fenchurch!" Crisp's tone was frigid. "You've brought me some information, I hope?" "About the murder? Why, I thought that was all over! Claudia told me that you had arrested Ralph and that he accepted full responsibility, poor devil! Doesn't that wash out the brown paper and all those other things we got gummed up with?" "If you thought that, why have you come to police headquarters?" "There's the difficult problem of Benscombe." Fenchurch realised with a shock that Benscombe himself was behind the other roll top desk. "I say, old man, I hope you don't resent my going over your head to the higher authority, but I honestly don't see any other way." "I don't resent it," said Benscombe, "because I don't know what it's about." Fenchurch turned back to the Chief Constable: he spoke as one resolved to state a grievance in moderate terms. "I have rung Benscombe no fewer than five times to ask him for another sitting. Four times he was out: when I caught him, he said he had urgent duty. I don't doubt he was speaking the literal truth. In the conception of the modern policeman, which I am trying to paint, the idea of lying or any kind of counter-criminality is excluded. But how can we get anything done if he's always on urgent duty!" "So you want me to release him from his duties here so that he can sit in your studio?" asked Crisp. "That's exactly what I was going to suggest," beamed Fenchurch. "With reasonable luck, another three sittings ought to be enough." Benscombe was waiting for the explosion which did not come. "I'd be very pleased to do that for you, Mr. Fenchurch. Benscombe, hold yourself ready to go to the studio when required." It seemed mere irony until Crisp added, with significance: "You will be on duty." "Thanks most awf'ly!" The long face was illumined with boyish pleasure. "I suppose I'd better buzz off now. You chaps look awf'ly busy. Cheerio and thanks again! I'm sorry about poor old Ralph. Could I have a word with him before I go?" "Yes—if he's willing to see you," answered Crisp. "But you realise that a police officer will have to be present?" "Really? I'm afraid that kills it stone dead. You see, I wanted to say something terrifically private." As if that were not sufficiently ingenuous, he added: "And it's rather tied up with the murder." "Then why not write to him—I'll see that he gets it," offered Crisp, who had grasped the wisdom of taking the artist's point of view, since the artist seemed incapable of taking that of the police. "Thanks, I will. I want him to get it before they salt him away in Broadmoor. Of course, you've spotted that he's stark mad, like Watlington. A good chap, though! Very decent of him to own up. I'll admit now that I was horribly scared when you were asking me all those questions about clocks and things. I don't suppose you believed a word of what I told you about those letters!" Fenchurch laughed at a danger passed. "Remember how hot-and-bothered we got over what people do with their old envelopes?" He spoke on his way to the door. "Funnily enough, I found that particular old envelope. Cheerio!" Benscombe got to the door first. He held the handle as if he feared the other might slither away. "Do you mean," asked the Chief Constable, "that you have found the envelope in which Watlington sealed up your letters with his Will?" "That's it! I knew it was the same, because it had his seal on it, more or less intact. I thought you'd be amused!" He had the air of being pleased that he had amused the Chief Constable—a little acknowledgment of his kindness in the matter of Benscombe's duty. "I am amused," said Crisp. "Where is that envelope now?" "Oh I say, Colonel!" Fenchurch was disappointed. "I must have an answer, Mr. Fenchurch." "But don't you see it's the same question that upset us all last time? 'What Becomes of Old Envelopes?' We don't want to start that again!" "I want to," said Crisp. "But let's both be amiable about it this time, shall we! To begin with, where did you find that envelope?" "In my pocket." Fenchurch added brightly: "The one place we never thought of searching!" Crisp remembered that they had not searched for it at all, because he had not believed Fenchurch's story of Watlington ripping up the envelope himself and handing over the letters. He was no readier to believe the present statement that it had been found. "We shall have to begin at the beginning," sighed Crisp. "The first step is to ask yourself when and where you put it in your pocket." As Fenchurch looked blank and miserable: "Come now, you must have put it in your pocket yourself." "That's the devil of it! If someone else were to put something in my pocket I'd notice and remember. But surely it must have been when I was talking to Watlington!" That, of course, was what he wanted the police to believe. Crisp was determined to find that envelope or compel Fenchurch to admit that he was inventing the whole incident to support Claudia. "Start at the other end, then. Visualise the moment when you surprised yourself by finding this very important envelope in your own pocket. Where were you?" "In the flat. After breakfast this morning, I pulled it out—noticed how bad the design of the seal was. Then I noticed the other end where Watlington had ripped it open. I immediately thought of you!" Crisp turned on him fiercely. "Are you going to tell me that you thereupon burnt that envelope?" "Oh no! I remember trying to work out whether it proved me innocent or guilty. I knew you had woven that envelope into your fantasy on that piece of brown paper. So I thought I'd better not burn it, in case it turned out to be on my side. Of course, I didn't know then that poor old Ralph was carrying the baby. As it is, I can't remember what I did with it." For twenty years, Crisp had schooled himself in keeping his temper. "But you remember that you decided not to burn it but to keep it," he said. "There's nowhere to keep anything in that flat," muttered Fenchurch. "Then perhaps you remember wishing you had a safe place in which to keep it?" Fenchurch clutched his hair excitedly. "You've _got_ something there, Colonel! Keep it up, if you can. Ask me some more questions, quickly!" "You locked it in a drawer?... You took it to your bank?... You stuffed it at the back of one of your pictures?" Exasperated by the other shaking his head at each question, Crisp cried: "Dammit, Fenchurch, did you put it back in your pocket?" Fenchurch's hand shot to his side pocket. The child-like smile dawned again and spread over his face. He drew out and unfolded the long envelope, sealed at one end, ripped at the other, bearing the printed address of a firm of solicitors. "Absolutely amazing!" he exclaimed, as he handed it to Crisp. "I never thought you'd pull it off!" Crisp was examining the back of the envelope on which was a pencilled note in a round, immature handwriting. ' _Tarranio: "Casa Flavia," Caversham Street, Soho, W.'_ Fenchurch seemed to be expecting congratulation of some sort. "I say, Colonel, would it have proved anything about me if poor old Ralph hadn't spoilt all the clueage?" "I don't know yet. Would you mind sitting at that other desk for a moment. Give him a pencil, Benscombe. Now, Mr. Fenchurch, will you please write the following: 'Tarranio, Casa Flavia, Caversham Street—" "Caversham Street! That's what I couldn't remember. He must be in the telephone book as a limited company or something. I couldn't find him. That address is written on the envelope, isn't it?" Crisp made no answer. Fenchurch, with a touch of unease, chattered on: "Tarranio is the Italian wine merchant who fascinated you. I didn't know until the other day that he has a restaurant in Town." Benscombe removed the sheet on which Fenchurch had written part of the address, in his bold, ornate script. "That address, as you surmise, was pencilled on this envelope," said Crisp. "Did Watlington give you the information?" "You're losing touch, Colonel! Watlington had never heard of Tarranio until I mentioned him on Saturday afternoon. Don't you remember sleuthing his blotting pad?" "Then who wrote this address for you on the back of this envelope? You didn't write it yourself." "Didn't I? Then Ralph must have written it for me. It was he who mentioned Tarranio's restaurant. That was while we were loafing about on the terrace on Saturday night, waiting to hear which of us would drop in for the murder." "Take time before you answer the next question, Fenchurch," warned Crisp. "Here's this envelope. Look at it, Watlington's envelope. Watlington's seal. Who produced this envelope on the terrace for note-taking purposes? You —or Ralph?" "Presumably, I did." "Did you indeed! May I take it that, when you were interviewing Watlington, you picked up this—old envelope —and put it in your pocket? While you're pondering your answer, let me remind you that you have been very sarcastic about old envelopes and old pieces of brown paper. In effect, you refused to account for the piece of brown paper. You'll have to account for this envelope, Fenchurch." "This is rapidly becoming horrible!" moaned Fenchurch. "Look at the size—feel the thickness of this envelope," pressed Crisp. "Did you say to yourself, 'at some future time I might want to make a note, so I will take this very awkward envelope, fold it up and put it in my pocket'?" Benscombe expected an outburst. But Fenchurch controlled himself—answered with strained amiability. "Aren't we rather losing our sense of proportion? I don't know how, or when, I first became possessed of that envelope. Moreover—if you don't think me unsympathetic —I don't care." Crisp, about to invite Benscombe to intervene, decided to make one more effort. "I seem to have failed to make you understand, Fenchurch, that you yourself are under grave suspicion and that I am doing my utmost to help you clear yourself." "And why the devil should I bother to clear myself!" exploded Fenchurch. "With all respect to your official position, Colonel, I warn you that you've let this unfortunate murder get on your nerves. You're beginning to see life as a tapestry of clues to the murder of Watlington. Suspect me as much as you like, if you find it restful. But when you come down to earth, you'll realise that Ralph's confession will prevent the court from listening to your feverish little discoveries." "The trouble is," said Crisp, when Fenchurch had gone, "that fellow is right. We're hamstrung by that confession." "A bit o' law sandwiched in with the artistic temperament, sir?" As Benscombe received no discouragement, he went on: "And the net result of that bid of comedy-business-with-pocket is that we're left to conclude that Ralph handed it to him. Mrs. Cornboise, Querk, Claudia, Fenchurch—all contributing little items in support of Ralph's confession!" # Chapter Eighteen The Plea of guilty came into formal existence on the following morning when Ralph Cornboise was brought befor the local magistrates. After evidence of arrest, he was committed for trial, to be lodged in the meantime in the county gaol. "The dates are against us, Benscombe," remarked Crisp when they were back at their desks. "He'll be up at the Old Bailey in a fortnight. Gives us very little time-" Information and reports continued to pile up, though the torrent was spent. Ralph's bachelor flat in the West End had been combed, yielding a couple of diaries and a drawer full of bills and receipts, which Benscombe was sorting. Half an hour later, as if there had been no break, Crisp added: "I don't know whether Comboise is innocent or guilty. But if he's hanged it will be because he's a liar—or because he's had an hallucination." "Or because he can't get Claudia out of his system?" suggested Benscombe. Crisp's attention had drifted. But he remembered the words when the afternoon post brought a letter to Ralph from Fenchurch, addressed care of the Chief Constable. "This must go straight to the prison governor," said Crisp. "And we shall have to wait for a typed copy." Benscombe took the letter and placed it in the appropriate basket on his own desk. "I'm sorry, sir," he said a minute later. "I've opened Fenchurch's letter by mistake." "Extremely careless of you!" grinned Crisp. "Bring it here." "Do you think, sir, that Fenchurch has too much artistic temperament to know that we read prisoners' letters?" "That's the kind of thing you'll have to find out while you're sitting for him." Crisp opened out the letter. The texture of the paper— the handwriting, the spacing, the phrasing—were those of a man who has his own scale of values. 'Dear Ralph, I tried to see you yesterday, but there's some ghastly ritual involving a policeman as chaperone. I think it's going to be all right about Claudia. She definitely changed in her attitude to me after your departure. But obviously nothing can happen until you have settled down in Broadmoor. This sounds callous. But you know that I am not so, where my friends are concerned. While feeling a little tragic about you, I admire you tremendously for facing the music. Also, I am personally grateful, as I have been virtually arrested myself more than once. My peril seemed to distress Querk—I was civil to the oily bounder for your sake. I still fear complications over Tarranio. If he and that nervously energetic Chief Constable get together, I shall probably have to go formally mad, too. And join you in Broadmoor! I know a very good sort who has been there for a long time and likes it—I'll write him to look out for you. You can have quite a decentish time there if you can do without women. I'll keep in touch with you as long as I'm at large. Yours ever, Arthur Fenchurch. P.S.—I believe my policeman's head is going to be good, though conventional—anyhow, it's time I placated the critics.' Crisp passed the letter to Benscombe. "I was being too clever again, sir. He might want to feed us that he means to marry Claudia and provide for her future. But he wouldn't give us the tip to tackle Tarranio." "When will Tarranio be in London?" "Scheduled to arrive last night." "Come along then!" Crisp delayed only to take from the dossier the relevant note: ' _Tarranio, Fabroli: Casa Flavia: May 2nd'_ copied from the pencilled scrawl on Watlington's blotting pad. An hour later they were outside the Casa Flavia, a large restaurant for Soho, with some forty tables. Tacked on was a wine shop and a staircase leading to the wholesale department, which they ascended. They were received by a Cockney typist, who presently showed them into the proprietor's room. Except for his colouring, Tarranio would have passed for a London stockbroker of the old school. He wore a morning coat: a silk hat graced the top of a filing cabinet. His accent was good, though his idiom wavered. "Good morning, gentlemen. Seat yourselves, please. If the law has been broken by my business the mistake is mine I'm sure." "We have come to ask your help, Mr. Tarranio. I believe you are acquainted with a British subject who has spent some time in Casa Flavia—a Mr. Fenchurch?" "Arthur Fenchurch—artist, painter and artist?" Mr. Tarranio made it sound like a firm of solicitors. "Oh yes, I know him backwards and forwards. If you desire recognisances—or is it bail?—you count me in for a reasonable sum, please." There came a faraway look in his eyes, then a reminiscent smile. "Assuredly, it is not a grave matter but only of a scandalous nature, eh? He is no criminal, though he owes me a little money." "He is no criminal," agreed Crisp. "But we have to find out what he has been doing—for his own sake, perhaps. I wonder if you would be kind enough to tell us all you know about his life at Casa Flavia." "All I know? You will ask me to stop! He comes first to Casa Flavia when he is fourteen, with his father, who is also artist, sculptor and artist. The boy comes alone to my restaurant and becomes very drunk. Because he is so young and because he is so drunk, he brings me into public disgrace. That was the beginning of our friendship. "He comes often to Casa Flavia for his holiday. What is a holiday? For him a holiday is an extensive matter, you understand. He becomes one of the attractions to the tourists, because he is so rude to them, but to the Italians he is always polite. He eats at my restaurant and drinks much wine. At that of my neighbour Fabroli also, but that is Fabroli's affair. At one time, he owes me what-is-in-sterling thirty-five pounds. For the debt, he paints a portrait of me. The portrait is scandalous and would seem to be intended for insult. I break our friendship. But a tourist sees the picture and offers me what-is-in-sterling fifty guineas. So our friendship is renewed and he again owes me what-is-in-sterling forty-two pounds. But I do not mind, for he does not understand business." Here was an indulgent friend and admirer of Fenchurch, a fact which was not in itself helpful. Why should Fenchurch be afraid of him? Further probings produced only stories of ribald and riotous behaviour—of dreadful pictures painted on restaurant tablecloths with mustard and lipstick. "Thank you very much, Mr. Tarranio," said Crisp, concealing his disappointment. "His life seems to be blameless, as far as my profession is concerned." "Ah yes! Crime is not for him. He would think it a game with the police, and he would tell you first how clever he was going to be. Before you go, Colonel Crisp, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me, may I ask, how is the health of Madame—Mrs. Fenchurch?" For Crisp, this was a trial in tact. Did Tarranio mean Glenda? Benscombe came to his rescue. "When I went to Fenchurch's flat, sir, he was living alone." "That is bad. But we feared it would be so!" sighed Tarranio. "The lady, I hope is not too distressed. She also is much admired in Casa Flavia. Courtesy. Charm. Even beauty also. That, thought Crisp, was not the impression which Glenda would make on an Italian. "Perhaps we are not talking about the same lady," he said. "So already there are others! The boy is a fool!" exclaimed Tarranio. "And he calls them all 'Mrs. Fenchurch,' for insult. The lady, before her unfortunate marriage to him, is called Miss Lofting. 'Miss Claudia' they called her, because that is an Italian name also and is easy for the tongue. Fabroli, for instance, would find himself unable to say 'Lofting.'" "I don't imagine Fenchurch is a faithful sort of man." Crisp had risen and was offering his hand. Tarranio grasped it and in his agitation kept hold of it. "Even the mayor, who was also a friend of Arthur Fenchurch, says to her, before he put on his robe of office, that marriage with such a man is a hazardous matter." "The _mayor_!" echoed Crisp. "Assuredly! In Italy, if one is not of the Holy Church, it is the mayor only who performs the marriage. Myself, I heard him give the warning, which, alas, Miss Claudia did not heed! I am a witness of the ceremony. My neighbour, Fabroli, also. Arthur Fenchurch asked him because he owed Fabroli money and wished to flatter him. But me he did not ask because of what-is-in-sterling only forty-two pounds." Absently, Crisp reclaimed his hand. "Was there a legal marriage ceremony?" he asked. "Do I not say so, Colonel! On the certificate is the name of the mayor and that of myself and, unavoidably, that of my neighbour Fabroli also. Did I not myself kiss the bride in the English fashion, with sadness, and upon the cheek only. But Fabroli, who cannot speak English—" "When did this marriage take place?" asked Crisp. "On the second day of May last year. Is it in your mind, Colonel Crisp, that I delude myself?" "Not at all, Mr. Tarranio., But I must have that certificate. If I cable the mayor—" "He has retired. It would be a pleasure to cable for you to the proper quarter and send you the certificate, because I am angry. If Arthur Fenchurch has treated such a wife with insult, that is again the end of our friendship." Benscombe was delayed for handshaking, then followed his Chief down the stairs. "I say, sir! We've got something there, haven't we?" "Yes." Crisp was gloomy. "But I can't see yet how to make use of it." "Legally married!" enthused Benscombe. "Claudia to marry Ralph, pop him in the asylum, administer the million and share the loot with secret husband Fenchurch!" "Fine!" said Crisp. "Except for Watlington's blotting pad! Why did Fenchurch give him the name of those two witnesses?" The silence lasted until they were within a few minutes of headquarters. "When you're sitting in that studio, confine research to his movements on Saturday afternoon." Presently Crisp added: "That confession flops on us like a wet blanket. The D.P.P. will take no notice until we have followed up the marriage certificate with proof of some act on the spot. Whatever Claudia and Fenchurch were planning to do— unless we can prove that one of 'em was in that library around five thirty, we can't upset the confession." Three days later, Crisp received a copy of the certificate of marriage between Arthur Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting. By the same post came a private letter from the Director of Public Prosecutions, who was a personal friend. 'My dear Crisp, By this post you will receive an official intimation that your recommendation that Ralph Cornboise be medically examined will not be implemented. In view of your letter to me, in which you revealed anxiety, I will give you the reasons. Accepting the (apparently rather provisional) opinion of Sir Wm. Turvey that accused suffers an hallucination, the latter is, on your own showing, a _post factum_ hallucination. It came into existence after the crime had been committed and is therefore irrelevant to the state of mind of the accused at the moment of committing the crime. This disposes of the possibility of a verdict of guilty but insane, should the accused withdraw the plea of guilty. The only line upon which the (assumed) hallucination can become relevant is the following, viz: Does the hallucination render the accused incapable of understanding the nature of the charge against him and the nature of his confession? If the answer is 'yes' he could be so certified and would then be declared 'unfit to plead.' But it is so obvious that the answer would be 'no' that the Department would have no justification for ordering an examination at the public expense. As you are aware, the governor of the prison has the duty to order medical examination if he has reason to suspect the sanity of a prisoner. I will pass to the points of evidence which seem to have raised doubt in your own mind as to the guilt of the accused. The mis-statement as to the time at which he says he committed the murder was subsequently corrected by the accused himself and can therefore be ignored. The other points, viz: the absence of accused's finger prints on the die-stamp and the mis-statement that he struck through the wig seem to me nugatory. Substantially truthful confessions often contain such inaccuracies of detail. Your own point that he could not have left the library by the window about five thirty without being observed by Mrs. Cornboise and that he could not have left by the door—as that was found locked on the inside —is answered by an item in your report which describes how you turned the key with a pair of pliers. The accused could have turned the key in the opposite direction by the same means and has not denied having done so. True that in the hands of a brilliant counsel, able to play on the superstitious fears of the jury, these points might conceivably procure an acquittal. But, of course, unless the accused withdraws the confession and pleads not guilty this possibility will not arise. As prosecuting counsel is required to 'act in a semi-judicial capacity' he may decide to put these two points to the judge. But I must admit that it will be _pro forma_ only. Faced with a plea of guilty, the judge would have no power to take cognisance. In general, the only counter to a plea of guilty is the production by the police or other agency of an incontrovertible alibi, which might take the form of a very strong _prima facie_ case against another person not associated with the accused.' "That shows us where we get off, Benscombe," said Crisp. "Note that bit about public expense. It's very doubtful whether I have the right to give any further orders in the case." "Try calling for volunteers, sir, and see what happens. I'm volunteering to do a spot of work on that lock. Fenchurch blew off a long-winded yarn yesterday, the burden of which is that he has quarrelled with the lock people." Crisp nodded approval and returned his attention to the letter. "I don't fancy myself on principles of law. But there's the principle that a jury is entitled to draw inferences from the demeanour of a witness or a prisoner. From Ralph's demeanour when he was telling me how he struck with the die-stamp and the effect of the blow on the wig, I drew the inference that he was describing something he was seeing in his mind's eye. Something which did _not_ happen, but which nevertheless he was convinced _did_ happen. And there are other, smaller points. That's why I'm ready to accept the hallucination theory. The D.P.P., of course, is bound by the rules of evidence. And there we are!" He got up. "I'm going to the prison with this certificate. I'll get the governor to let me see Cornboise. If he's still chivalrously inclined towards Claudia—this may change his mind about pleading guilty." The governor disliked a plea of guilty as much as the police, and was anxious to give every assistance. Ralph was brought to his private office. The escort was instructed to wait in the corridor. Ralph's appearance had undergone perceptible change. The nervous restlessness had vanished. He had gained poise and the outward signs of serenity. His eyes were steady, his lips set in a half smile. His calm, thought Crisp, might be the false calm of the higher hysteric, but he certainly looked amenable. "We can relax the formalities, Cornboise," said the Governor. "The Chief Constable has brought something for you." "This will do my talking for me," said Crisp. He unfolded the certificate and offered it. Ralph took the certificate and read it. The half smile did not falter as he folded it and returned it to Crisp. "Thank you, Chief Constable." Ralph glanced at the Governor as if to suggest that the interview was over. "Did you read it?" cried Crisp. "Did you realise that it's a certificate of marriage between Fenchurch and Miss Lofting?" "Of course!" Ralph's calm was unshaken. "I hope it will not get into the papers. It would involve them in scandal. People would remember that she was engaged to me." "Does it mean nothing to you? Did you know she was married?" demanded Crisp. "I think I told you that Miss Lofting had been wholly frank with me about Fenchurch, and so had he," answered Ralph with the first hint of impatience. "I did not inquire into the material conditions of their association. If they went through a form of marriage, and if it was a legal marriage, I have no doubt that Miss Lofting made the necessary arrangements for the divorce. She would not cheat me—in that way." "Divorce could not take effect for another couple of years," snapped Crisp. "She meant to marry you three weeks ago." "It hardly matters now," answered Ralph. The patient half smile returned—the same expression of saintly resignation which Crisp had seen more than once on the faces, of men serving a life sentence. "You were very forbearing with me, Colonel, before I came to terms with myself. I hope you will add to your kindness now by leaving me alone. I have everything settled in my mind in preparation for what is before me. It is not helpful to be disturbed." He turned to the Governor. "May I go now, sir?" Crestfallen, the Chief Constable returned to H.Q. He had barely recorded the prison interview in his official diary when Benscombe turned up, ushering into the room a man whose appearance suggested an unskilled labourer. "This is Albert Jenkins, sir, who has something to tell us. He is employed at the lock, mainly in keeping the sluices clear of obstruction. A few minutes ago he identified—Mr. Tarranio's English friend—as a person he knows by sight but not by name." Crisp gave Jenkins a chair and a cigarette. "I say, Jenkins," said Benscombe, " will you tell the Chief Constable your little tale. Don't bother to put it into posh language. Talk as if you were talking to me." "Righto! It's like this, sir. This gent here asked me to go along with him and dodge round a pillar-box while the other gent come out of his flat. I reckernised him as a gent I'd had trouble with, because he likes to walk along the platform over the sluices, which isn't allowed. He never gave no trouble, except that he'd come back again. All he ever did was look at the water. Seemed a bit loopy to me, the way he talked. That's all, sir." "There's a bit more, Jenkins," chirped Benscombe. "When did you last see this gent before you saw him this afternoon?" "In the afternoon last Saturday week, day o' the murder. Saw him standin' on the landin' steps jest below the lock. I was up on the sluices, clear in' up the better part of a sack of straw that had drifted down. When I was taking a breather, I looked round and saw the gent. That's how it was, sir." "What was he doing on the steps, Jenkins?" "Makin' a sort o' bonfire, to amuse some kids. He'd light some paper and wave it about until it burnt his fingers and then drop it in the river. Like a kid himself." "Could you see what sort of paper it was that he was burning?" asked Crisp. "No, sir. The steps must be close on a hundred yards from where I was muckin' up that straw." "Had he got a bundle of newspapers under his arm?" "No, sir. It was small bits o' paper—took the bits o' paper out of his pocket. Lit each bit with a match." "What time in the afternoon was this?" "Must've been close on six o'clock, which is my knock-in' off time. After I'd finished my breather, I took my time over packin' that straw in the basket. When I got back and was dumping it in the bin the lockkeeper says: 'You must be feelin' unwell,' he says. 'You've done nigh on five minutes' overtime by mistake,' he says." "Good work, Benscombe!" said Crisp when Jenkins had gone. "Thank you, sir! But is it any _good_?" "In the face of that confession, I don't know that anything is any good unless it turns the whole layout upside down," grumbled Crisp. "As that confounded artist told me to my face, the judge won't take any notice of that sort of thing." "If there had not been a confession," persisted Benscombe, "there'd be more now against Fenchurch than against Cornboise." "Hardly! All we've got is that Fenchurch was with Watlington at some time during the afternoon, and that he obtained his letters and destroyed them. Where do we go from there?" "Destroyed 'em about six o'clock. It's some five minutes walk to the river from Watlington Lodge. Add that brown paper—which was wrapped round a parcel in the hall as late as nearly five fifteen—" "Huh! You're roping in a clue as evidence, in spite of my little homily. Besides, I don't like that brown paper any more than Fenchurch does." Crisp went to a cabinet and produced it. "And what the devil was in the parcel? You'd think that anybody who had sent Watlington a registered parcel would be personally, interested enough to read the Press stuff about the murder. All the papers emphasised that we wanted to get in touch with the sender." He turned the paper over and contemplated the typewritten address. "Not even handwriting to help us!" He added: "All the same, I'm glad you dragged it up again. If the worst comes to the worst, I'm going to spring that brown paper on Querk and see what happens. There may be something in your idea that he is anxious that the confession should not be upset." "I've sheered off that idea, sir," confessed Benscombe. "Querk is going to lose a packet—according to those two diaries of Ralph's. Checking the diaries on the correspondence and bills and random notes, I reckon he owes Querk about fifteen thousand pounds, possibly a bit more." "So Querk gains nothing by Ralph's conviction— definitely loses. Claudia and Fenchurch gain nothing. Art for art's sake, eh?" "Cutting their loss and getting clear, sir." The worst came, at leisurely gait during the next ten days, to the worst. The investigation continued, as it were, of its own weight. The test with the Reindert yielded the negative result that it would have been possible for a man sitting on the near side running board to escape observation by the boys standing in the roadway outside the gates. The prison governor, acting on informal pressure from Crisp, ordered a medical examination by Sir William Turvey and another eminent alienist, who reported that Ralph Cornboise was not insane. On the last day of the month, which was a Wednesday, Ralph would be brought before the judge for sentence. On the Monday, Querk returned to Watlington Lodge, after spending a week in the provinces in discharge of his mayoral duties. # Chapter Nineteen It was nearly nine and pleasantly cool when Crisp turned into the drive of Watlington Lodge. Querk had dined and was awaiting coffee on the terrace. At sight of Crisp he exhibited delight. "On such a perfect evening, it would be positively ungrateful to stay indoors," he gushed. "Bessie has seen you and will bring us coffee. Do sit down." "That would be very pleasant!" Crisp was resolutely genial. "When I heard you had returned, I thought it would be only civil to see you informally and tell you about the next move." Querk would know that this sort of thing was mere sparring for position. But the last words had caused a flicker of his eyelids. He was not expecting a 'move.' "I cannot tell you why I have come back to this house of tears," gushed Querk. "There is nothing I can do for the poor boy. I am steeling myself to the fact that, in little more than thirty-six hours, he will come before the judge. I felt I must be near at hand in case he should express some wish." "You were something of an uncle to him." Crisp caught sight of Bessie with a tray. "I may be able to tell you that you are making yourself needlessly unhappy." That would play up his nerves while Bessie was footling with the coffee, thought Crisp. He delayed the girl with polite enquiries, while he watched Querk. The watery eyes were fixed on the distance. With a start, Querk realised that Bessie had left them. "I am so sorry, Colonel! Do please help yourself. I fear I am a sadly inattentive host. It is hard to tear one's thoughts away from Wednesday morning." "Speaking off the record, Mr. Querk—there is a chance that, on Wednesday, nothing at all will happen of any importance." Querk helped himself to coffee. "I dare not allow myself to entertain the faintest hope unless it is your kindly intention to give me specific grounds." He was talking to steady his own nerve. "Surely the proceedings could only be stayed by a writ of _nolle prosequi_ —legally a very complicated matter." "No writ will be ready by Wednesday," admitted Crisp. "But you know, doubtless better than I do, the circumstances in which the D.P.P. can delay proceedings." "If a somewhat rusty memory serves—" Querk stirred his coffee with concentration—"it is essential that there should be a strong _prima facie_ case against a person not associated with the accused." Querk, Crisp noted, had thoroughly primed himself on the law of Ralph's position—it was as if he had quoted the D. P.P.'s letter. "Quite so!" Crisp waited until Querk raised the coffee cup to his lips. "Did you know that Fenchurch and Miss Lofting were married last year by the Mayor of Casa Flavia?" So he did not know! A good teaspoonful of coffee had slopped on to his tie. He put down the cup, mopped himself up in silence. He was, Crisp noted, taking an unnecessarily long time over the mopping up. "You would not say that, Colonel, unless you had proof. I can only confess that comment is utterly beyond me." Crisp gazed over the rambling bedraggled garden, leaving Querk to take the initiative. "But how, may I ask, does this affect poor Ralph's position?" Querk's assurance was creeping back. "Such a fact, astounding and shocking though it is, would hardly seem to bear on the confession." "We're both speaking confidentially, Mr. Querk, and there are no witnesses, so we can let ourselves go. I know you are aware that Fenchurch visited Watlington on Saturday afternoon and that he obtained those letters which he subsequently destroyed. "Very well! What Fenchurch did not tell you is that, at that interview, Watlington dragged out of him particulars of that marriage, including the date, place and witnesses of the ceremony. Of that we have incontrovertible proof— I have personally interviewed one of the witnesses." "My dear Colonel, you take my breath away!" It had some literal truth. Querk was panting. With satisfaction, Crisp observed the false move—he had revealed consternation when he ought to have jubilated at the suggestion that someone other than Ralph might be guilty. "If Watlington had lived another few minutes he would have confronted Claudia— _Mrs. Fenchurch_ —with the facts. The Fenchurchs' attempt to grab the Watlington money with a fake marriage would have failed. But he did not live another few minutes. And when Cornboise learns that Claudia was deceiving him, I think he'll withdraw that fake confession." Crisp had the instant impression that he had himself blundered. Querk perceptibly relaxed. Moreover when he spoke, the rich, unctuous tone had come back. "A truly amazing sequence of events! If I may say so without impertinence, my dear Colonel, few men in your position would have striven, as you have striven, to save an accused man from the consequences of his own confession. But before I can relate these facts to poor Ralph's position, I have to remind myself that you have not yet arrested Fenchurch. He was here a couple of hours ago, with Miss Lofting. May I surmise that the weak spot in the case is that, although all this might have happened, there is no proof that it _did_ happen?" "That's for the jury to decide," countered Crisp. "When you say there is 'no' proof I don't follow you. There is very strong circumstantial evidence. There is, for instance, the matter of time." "Pre-cisely! The matter of time!" mouthed Querk. "Now I do hope you are not going to produce—from your sleeve, as it were—a piece of brown paper?" Another flop, reflected Crisp. Every time he tried to use that piece of paper, it crackled back at him. "That's what I'm doing," said Crisp stolidly. "And I'm showing it to a jury." Querk shook his head with profound sadness. "I fear that no jury will ever inspect that piece of brown paper. Fenchurch, of course, told me about it with—er—a certain regrettable ribaldy. Miss Lofting confirmed that you attached an importance to it which she found hard to credit. So I took it upon myself to investigate the peregrinations of that piece of brown paper." Querk bent down for the attache case which was always within his arm's reach. When he lifted the lid, the interior opened like a concertina—a portable file. "You will find in this document, signed and witnessed by Miss Glenda Parsons, that she herself introduced a piece of brown paper which had wrapped a parcel registered to Lord Watlington—into Fenchurch's flat. On Saturday night, Miss Lofting had asked her to take back Fenchurch's sketch book, which he had left lying about here. So she wrapped the sketch book in a piece of brown paper which she found here and furtively unwrapped it at the flat, leaving the sketch book to be discovered in the flat in a manner calculated to deceive her—er—protector." Crisp glanced through the typed statement, noted that no mention was made of where the brown paper had been found by Glenda, but did not indicate the omission to Querk. He remembered, too, that when he had been interviewing Glenda, she had irritated him by crackling brown paper. Doubtless, it had been this half-memory which had given him his initial mistrust of the clue. His purpose had been partly achieved. He had now not the least doubt that Querk had been shoring up the case against Ralph. His motive was at present an insoluble riddle —unless he was playing for safety only. "I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Querk. I'll keep this, if you don't mind." "By all means. Does that destroy the case against Fenchurch?" "It only shortens the chain by one link." Crisp put on his unsatisfactory little act of lighting a cigarette. "Mr. Querk, you are convinced of Ralph's guilt. I wish you could convince me. If the case against Fenchurch should fail— you can imagine the feelings of a policeman who believes he has procured the conviction of an innocent man." "I could imagine your feelings if I could imagine your reasons for believing in his innocence." Querk believed that he had gained the upper hand. His tone was nearly patronising. "When we came on the scene," said Crisp, "we found that door locked on the inside. We know from Mrs. Comboise that Ralph did not go out by the window at five thirty, How did he get out of the library?" Querk contrived to look disappointed. "That, surely, is unimportant in itself. If you are inviting me to speculate—is there not some mechanical means of locking a door on the outside while the key remains inside? The object being, of course, to throw dust in the eyes of the police." Crisp made no answer. Querk was unruffled. He was sitting with his fingers arched like the traditional consultant, unaware of his danger. "Our experts agree that the die-stamp was the weapon that shattered the plate in Watlington's skull and that the assailant was standing in front of his victim when he struck. The die-stamp was found on the mantelpiece, where you placed it shortly after five fifteen. You remember telling us why you removed it from the table and put it there?" "Perfectly. Pray continue, Colonel, I am all attention." "At about five twenty eight— _if_ Ralph came back after you had gone upstairs—he must have walked round the writing table to pick up the die-stamp, walked round to the other side of Watlington to strike him, and then walked back again to replace the die-stamp on the mantelpiece before making his escape." "Indeed! I had not realised that it was as complicated as that. In moments of such febrile excitement man will behave strangely and even irrationally." "The remarkable thing is this!" Crisp spoke as if in deep perplexity. "In spite of the febrile excitement and the rest of it, Ralph left no finger prints on that die-stamp." "Remarkable, but not unprecedented, I think!" said Querk. "At moments of emotional storm, a part of the brain often remains cool enough to take protective action. Presumably he wiped off his finger prints with his handkerchief." "On that metal, the prints would be invisible to the naked eye." "Obviously, he would wipe the whole thing, not merely the part that he believed he had touched." "Hm! Yes! Of course he would!" Crisp put his empty cup on the tray and rose, creaking, from the wicker chair. "Your finger prints were found on that die-stamp!" Their eyes met and for an instant the barriers were down —but only for an instant. "That Ralph failed to wipe the part of the die-stamp which I had touched," beamed Querk, "is a vagary of chance I cannot hope to explain. You speak almost as if it were _necessary_ that I should be able to explain that—er— vagary of chance." "Mr. Querk, you don't believe any more than I do that he came back at five thirty and murdered his uncle!" The smile broadened until it threatened to engulf the entire expanse of face. "In the spirit of your little joke, my dear Colonel—what does it matter what I believe, since Ralph's confession—" "What if the plea of guilty is withdrawn and the confession negatived?" "Let me see, now!" Querk spoke as one consenting to play make-believe with a child. "Mrs. Cornboise, I think, would be safe. Not so, Fenchurch, Miss Lofting, and myself. Possibly it would be a joint charge—wouldn't it, Chief Constable?—for the guilt of one would rivet the guilt of the two others as accessories. "But I think you will find," continued Querk, "that the confession will not be negatived. Tell poor Ralph that Miss Lofting was deceiving him—that she is really the wife of that excessively exuberant young man—and I doubt whether he will be as shocked as I am. I even doubt whether he will express surprise. He will certainly not withdraw the plea of guilty." # Chapter Twenty After leaving Querk, Crisp returned to headquarters to clear up a few oddments of desk work. He dropped Glenda's statement into the basket for Benscombe to file in the morning. Not until he was leaving did he suddenly snatch up the statement and stare at it—at the typescript itself. He held it up to the light and looked through it, then examined the back of it. "The full stops cut the paper. But that's fairly common." From a cabinet, he brought out the piece of brown paper that had made Claudia laugh and Querk chortle. The blue pencil, marking registration, crossed the gummed label on which the address had been typed, blurring one or two letters. The face of the type was the same. In itself, that meant only that the same make of typewriter had been used for both. Was it the same typewriter? The full stop had cut the label also. In ten minutes he had established four additional points of resemblance. The spacing after capital 'W'—the blurred curl of the small 'r'—a 'g' blind in the lower loop but not in the upper—most valuable of all, the uneven impression of the capital 'L,' the horizontal stroke barely registering, though the vertical stroke showed but little wear. "Short of evidence, but invaluable as a clue!" he said aloud, as if Benscombe were present. "If we do want it for evidence, Scotland Yard will see us through." The next morning he rang Benscombe from his flat. "I shan't be at the office until the end of the morning. I want you to go to Querk at Watlington Lodge and delay him until I've had time to go to his office and get clear. Talk any poppycock you like—or crock his car." At a quarter to ten he was in Querk's office. Miss Randle was of the type that likes being a secretary and will obviously remain one all her life, at very slight periodic increases of salary. "Miss Randle, have you read any of the Press reports of the murder of Lord Watlington?' "No!" Miss Randle shuddered. "I never read that kind of thing. I can find better employment for my limited leisure." Crisp believed her. "On the morning of Saturday, the fifth, you sent a registered parcel to Lord Watlington, I believe?" "Wait a minute, please." Miss Randle consulted a diary, opened a drawer and produced a registered receipt slip, which she handed to Crisp. "Thank you, Miss Randle. What did the parcel contain?" "I have no knowledge. I collected it at Mr. Querk's instruction and forwarded it unopened." "Where did you collect it?" "Wait a minute, please." There was the same business with the diary. This time the methodical Miss Randle copied an entry on a memo slip. ' _Brieux et Cie, 318 Turl Street, W.1_ ,' read Crisp. "What are Brieux et Cie?" he asked. "I have no knowledge," answered Miss Randle. Crisp 'derived no knowledge' from contemplating a discreet brass plate in Turl Street. On the first floor, in a small but expensively furnished office, an expensively dressed girl with a Cockney intonation astonished him by saying: "What-is-your-pleasure-please?" Crisp, who was in plain clothes, produced his official card and asked for the manager. In a still more expensively furnished office, which still gave no clue, an expensively tailored man bowed and begged him to be seated. "On Saturday, the fifth, Mr. Querk's secretary called here for a package. Will you tell me, please, what that package contained?" "Why, a wig, Colonel!" He added: "We are posticheurs." "I couldn't tell that from the outside," remarked Crisp. "Three men out of four are as sensitive as women about their wigs. They would never come here if we were to hang out a sign," the manager explained. "The wig was made for Lord Watlington. Mr. Querk originally ordered a wig for him many years ago, when he was 'Mr. Cornboise.' He was not content with the service he received in Africa. We moulded the original from the measurements of a wig made in Johannesburg." The registered package on the table in the hall had contained a wig! A fact known to Querk—almost certainly known to Querk alone. Crisp knew next to nothing about wigs. With half a dozen questions he obtained more knowledge than is possessed by most wearers. The manager, flattered by the intelligent interest of a Chief Constable, offered to show him the workrooms. He was taken through an outer workroom where two men and five girls were treating hair in the crude form in which it was received from the factory : thence to the room, part workshop part studio, where three highly skilled operatives were engaged upon the final stages. Each man was sitting at his own bench, before him a wooden head, faceless, like the head of an artist's lay figure. The walls of the room were lined with tiers of numbered lockers, each containing the dummy of a client's head. At one of the benches an operative was leaning over his dummy, stroking the wig with an instrument looking very like a domestic flat-iron. He stopped working, to explain to Crisp what he was doing. But Crisp was not listening. He was staring at the wig. The colour was iron grey, but the shape and the set of it reminded him vividly of Watlington's wig. Suddenly he picked up the flat iron, swung it with moderate force and crashed it onto the crown of the wig, cracking the crown of the dummy. "Hold him—he's mad!" cried the operative. The manager gaped with horror, convinced that he had been entertaining a man with a perverted mania. "I'm quite safe. I'm a police officer investigating the murder of one of your clients in one of your wigs. I'm sorry I've spoilt your careful work. Before long you'll know why I did it, and perhaps you won't mind." Crisp studied the dummy. The sides of the wig jutted out over the temples of the dummy. "Why does it stick out like that over the temples?" he asked. The operative explained how the plectyt mounting for the hair is shaped. Crisp asked a few questions and made another experiment with the remains of the wig. Having made satisfactory arrangements covering the cost of the damage Crisp departed in a state of mind not far removed from jubilation. The next item on his programme was Glenda Parsons. He drove to the flatlet in Brondesbury, which she was sharing with another girl who was in employment. Glenda was 'resting' and was found at home, unglamorous in a cotton house frock,, which served as a dressing gown. " _Oo_! Has anything gone wrong?" Taller than Crisp, she looked down at him with stupidly frightened eyes. "I don't know yet." This woman had been the indirect cause of the murder—a non-moral creature, the prey of ansemic fear and an equally anaemic greed, too vacillating to exploit her physical beauty with any consistency. He ascertained that there was no one else in the flatlet. "I have seen the statement you signed for Mr. Querk!" "There now! He promised faithfully he wouldn't show it to anyone!" "He lied to you. As you lied to me when you told me you were waiting in that car for an imaginary Mr. Harris." "I was only being tactful." "Well, don't be tactful again or you may have reason to be very sorry for yourself. Was that statement you signed true?" "Yes. He questioned me again and again about it, and all over again when we got to his office," "Where did you pick up that piece of brown paper?" "In that awful little room where you were going on at me. It was in the chair. I pulled the chair out from the table and sat down without looking. There was something hard, and that paper. And as I wanted the paper—" "What was the something hard?" "I don't know. I pushed it down behind me while you were talking. It's one of those carpetty chairs, if you remember—brocade—and I suppose it slid down into the fold at the back. Don't you remember you told me not to crackle with the paper?" That was all Crisp wanted. "It's safer to lie to Querk than to lie to the police," he remarked. "If he asks you whether I've seen you, you'd better deny it. Just say 'no.' Don't try and prove it, or he won't believe you." On his way back to headquarters, Crisp turned into Watlington Lodge. Querk had gone to his office and the servants were in sole possession. Claudia, he knew, was staying at the Red Lion. He went into the morning-room, pulled one of the upright chairs from the table—a brocaded chair, with the tail of the back folded under the seat. He worked his fingers under the fold and produced a pair of pliers. He wrapped the pliers for microscopic examination and placed them carefully in his pocket. "Bessie, I want a pair of pliers. Can you help?" "Yes, sir." Bessie went to the hall table, pulled out a rather ill-fitted drawer. "There _was_ a pair here, sir, but it's gone. Now I come to think of it, one of those Harridge's men's probably borrowed it for keeps. I'll ask cook if she knows of another pair." "Dont bother, thanks," said Crisp. "I'll manage without." That, Crisp reflected, clicked into place. On the telephone, he spoke to headquarters. "Chief Constable speaking from Watlington Lodge. Ring me back here in two minutes, and keep ringing until I answer." He switched the extension so that the bell would ring in the library. Then he went upstairs to the bedroom occupied by Querk. In case Bessie might be roving, he locked himself in. The imprint of Querk's personality was immediately obvious. On the dressing table a stolidly liberal toilet equipment, including an eau-de-cologne spray and a bottle of smelling salts. A framed photograph of Watlington, to which a crepe surround had been fastened—a fashion that was disappearing in the 1890's. On a bedside table, leather bound editions of _Simple Thoughts_ and _Alice in Wonderland_. In five minutes he had satisfied himself that the room had been deliberately prepared for his inspection—that he would find nothing he was not meant to find. On the way back to the hall, he chuckled with profound satisfaction. He was so well pleased with himself that he evolved a boyish riddle: 'I searched your room and found nothing. But in your room I found what I sought.' He sobered up in the hall when he heard faintly the regular burr of the telephone bell. No sign of Bessie. Crisp went into the library, lifted the receiver and announced himself. "You told me to ring you back, sir." "Oh yes! How long have you been ringing?" "Six-and-a-half-minutes from the first ring, sir." "All right. I don't want anything, now. You can hang up." Six-and-a-half minutes. That clicked into place, too. But nothing could now prevent Ralph from appearing before the Judge tomorrow morning. # Chapter Twenty-One The Half smile remained unshattered during the time Ralph Cornboise was in court. The serenity with which he received sentence of death had nothing in common with the sullen, unimaginative courage of the tough. It impressed the Judge. It deceived the warders. In a room off the court sat potential members of a jury, to be empanelled should the plea of guilty be withdrawn at the last moment. The potential witnesses waited in another room—Claudia Lofting, Fenchurch, Mrs. Cornboise, Querk and Bessie, together with medical and police personnel. Crisp, with Benscombe, was in the well of the court, to give formal evidence of the murder, of the arrest and of the confession. There are forms to be observed, even when there is no trial. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before Treasury counsel laid down his papers and directly addressed the Judge. "As your lordship is aware, a plea of guilty to the charge of murder is sometimes an embarrassment to the Prosecution. I would like to acknowledge that both the police and the governor of the prison have made unremitting efforts to persuade the prisoner to plead not guilty. "In case your lordship should feel inclined to add your own persuasion—and what I have to say is relevant to that possibility only—I would point out that, apart from several inaccuracies, there are two major mis-statements in the revised confession signed by the prisoner. One is that the prisoner struck deceased through his wig. There is incontrovertible evidence that the wig was undamaged, from which we may infer that the wig must have been removed and replaced after the blow. The other concerns the die-stamp—undoubtedly the weapon used. There is evidence that the die-stamp was not handled in the manner described by the prisoner. "There is the further fact—extraneous to the prisoner's statement but strikingly inconsistent with his account of the crime—that, by means of a pen-knife, a signet ring was removed from deceased's finger after death, and replaced. In short, my lord, there is enough debatable material to provide a basis for a feasible defence in the hands of learned counsel. Thank you, my lord." The Judge turned to the prisoner. "You have heard what learned counsel said to me. Do you understand that you can make, at this moment if you wish, a technical plea of not guilty, which would enable you to have a fair trial?" "Yes, my lord. But I do not wish to be tried." "Do you further understand that a trial would enable me to take notice of any mitigating circumstances and possibly to reduce the charge from one of murder to one of manslaughter?" "Thank you, my lord, but there are no mitigating circumstances." The judge seemed to be considering a further appeal to the prisoner and to decide that it would be futile. "I see that your purpose is fixed. I have before me the statement of two eminent alienists that you are of sound mind and capable of understanding your position. It is therefore my duty to pass sentence upon you..." "I know that there can be no question of appeal or commutation. But I've still got more than a fortnight in which to correct one or two mistakes." Crisp had been detained in the corridor by the D.P.P. himself, who had been conducting a case in another court. "Correcting mistakes will get you nowhere." The eminent lawyer raised his wig to take advantage of the welcome draught. "A confession, followed by sentence, takes the effect of a jury's verdict. That is to say, there can be no re-examination of fact." "'No re-examination of fact!'" snorted Crisp. "That's a bit of law I shall never understand!" "There are other bits, old man, if you don't think me rude," laughed his friend. "Don't cut my birthday party next Thursday, or you'll never get any more help from me." Crisp strode gloomily out of the building. On the steps he stopped. "Benscombe! Nip back inside and see if you can scrounge a pair of handcuffs from one of those warders. Sign for it and pledge your word and mine that he shall have them back this afternoon. I'll wait for you in the car." Within five minutes, Benscombe rejoined the Chief. "I got 'em from Hendricks," he explained. "They don't expect any trouble from Ralph." After removing a number of articles to make room, Crisp stowed the handcuffs in his hip pocket. "Dump me at Watlington Lodge—I'll get a taxi back," he ordered. "I got it from Bessie that Querk is going back there." Arrived at the Lodge, Crisp learned that Querk had not yet returned. He found this out by walking through the open front door to the kitchen and asking the cook. In turn she asked when the servants would be paid their board wages and from whom they were supposed to take orders. Was she herself standing, if he would pardon the question, upon her head or her heels? The house had acquired a quality of ownerlessness. He drifted into the dining-room, idly surveyed the window by which Ralph was deemed to have entered the house around five twenty-eight. The window had told them nothing. The long spell of fine weather had made the soil hard and dusty. If there had been a heavy shower on Saturday morning, he reflected, Ralph Cornboise might not have been where in fact he was. Behind him the door was opened. He turned and faced Fenchurch. Claudia was behind him. "Hullo!" said Fenchurch amiably. "We're looking for Querk." "So am I." They both came into the room. Crisp felt himself shrinking from Claudia's presence. If she had made any parade of grief, he would have had the satisfaction of telling himself that she was humbugging. She was self-possessed as ever, looking slightly pre-occupied, as if with troublesome business. That she should be in Fenchurch's company at such a time was outrageous. "If Colonel Crisp wants to see Querk officially, Arthur," said Claudia, "we'd better wait elsewhere." "He can't want to see him officially. It's all over, isn't it, Colonel?" "Not altogether!" said Crisp. He felt an overpowering desire to shatter the composure of these two. "I think you may— _both_ —be interested to know that I have had an illuminating conversation with Tarranio." "Good Lord, have you!" Fenchurch made no attempt to conceal his dismay. "What a fool I was to show you that envelope with his London address on it!" "You were!" agreed Crisp. "I say, when you saw Tarranio—" "Arthur! You'll make a fool of yourself all over again if you talk about it." "Excellent advice— _Mrs. Fenchurch!"_ snapped Crisp. "He had better keep his mouth shut until his solicitor tells him how far to open it." "By all the gods, Colonel, you've pulled it off again!" cried Fenchurch with boyish delight. "That's almost exactly what Watlington said!" "Arthur! _Don't talk!"_ "I must tell him this bit, dear. He was so frightfully sarcastic about my picking up an old envelope in case I might want to make a note on it. 'Solicitor' is the key, Colonel. I don't possess a solicitor. I told Watlington I needed one who wasn't squeamish, and he gave me his own. The envelope had the name and address printed on it—yards of it. So I bagged the envelope." To Crisp, the explanation was no longer important. Everything would now depend upon how much he could frighten out of Querk. In the meantime, Fenchurch might conceivably provide another weapon, since he could never resist answering a question. "It's stuffy in the house, Arthur. Let's wait in the garden." "One question before you go!" Crisp found himself addressing Claudia. "Were you two working with Querk in this scheme for a fake marriage to Ralph Cornboise?" Fenchurch spun round, virile and aggressive. "What the blue hell d' you mean, Colonel Crisp!" "Arthur! Be quiet!" Claudia dragged at his arm. "There's no need to say anything. Come into the garden." "Garden my foot! Chief Constable or Lord Chief Justice, he's going to explain that offensive question—oh lord, darling, I see the explanation myself! He thinks—" Claudia had thrust her hand over his mouth—the hand that was unexpectedly large and strong. "Arthur, you _must not!_ It's madness! What does it matter what he thinks!" Fenchurch removed her hand, which was actually suffocating him—held her by both wrists as if he expected further assault. "Sorry, darling, but I must!" he exclaimed. "It's no good my trying not to be a fool. I could never paint again if I let that pass. Rank sentimentalist, I know. Goodbye!" He kissed her violently. "Now get out!" "No," said Claudia. "I want to see whether he'll arrest you." "You want to cry over him. It's no good with his kind." Fenchurch turned his back on Claudia. "Sorry I lost my temper, Colonel! Stand by for a spot of exhibitionism. Manly confession. I married Claudia bigamously. I lied to her. She didn't know my wife was alive, until she died. Then the ass of a doctor—who knew we'd been separated for years—sent a cable to Casa Flavia marked 'urgent.' It was so phrased that I couldn't possibly explain it away to poor Claudia. Then she felt that, because I had pulled her leg, she couldn't stay with me. Tarranio doesn't know that. If you don't mind, don't tell him. Because after I've been to quod for bigamy, we shall probably get married and we might want to go back to Casa Flavia." "Listen to me—" began Crisp. "No, you listen to me, Colonel! Watlington gave me some errand-boy stuff about her being a 'kept woman'— the sort of thing you said just now in all innocence. I lost my temper and showed him the marriage certificate. I also showed him—dammit Claudia, I wish you had cleared out when I told you to—I showed him the letter Claudia wrote when she left me, because it carried complete conviction to any sane man, even Watlington, that she hadn't known it was bigamy." "But why did you tell Watlington?" demanded Crisp. "Did you _want_ her to marry Ralph?" "Don't be absurd, my dear fellow! I didn't _want_ it. But I was naturally distressed that Claudia had found out I'd swindled her. She told me she was through with men like me, and that she was dedicating herself to this poor devil who needed her—which I thought rather ridiculous. But it was a wealthy marriage. And I felt I owed it to her to co-operate! So I made Watlington understand that she had thought herself legally married to me. "By Watlington's odd code, she was promptly transformed from a trollop to an Innocent Girl. My hat, Claudia! Then he gave me fatherly advice on how not to go to quod for the bigamy—which, unfortunately, I've forgotten. Anyhow, part of the advice was not to tell anybody else." Claudia moved from behind Fenchurch and faced Crisp. "That was why Watlington changed his attitude to me so suddenly and so completely," she said. "Poor Ralph knew, because Arthur had told him. Ralph wanted me to tell his uncle when we were having that scene in the library. But I was afraid Arthur might go to prison." "So am I!" said Crisp. He had got a weapon from Fenchurch—that Querk had lied in describing his conversation with Watlington about Claudia. "What's the next move, Colonel? Can I have bail, or something? It would be a pity not to finish Benscombe's head before we start the quod programme." Crisp turned to Claudia. "I understand that the mayor of Casa Flavia warned you against marrying this man," he said. "I echo that warning. Why, he hasn't even the sense to tell me that he thought his legal wife was dead, so as to give me a colourable excuse for not running him in! Take him into the garden—take him anywhere—before I remember my duty." "By the window—before you say another word!" cried Claudia. She pushed him out and shut the window after him. When she turned round and faced Crisp, he had the illusion that she had grown older. "Thank you," she said. "And—and I congratulate you. Prison would turn him into a very dangerous criminal." He looked at her with detachment, his mind on Querk. In all his encounters with her she had never lost her dignity. "You are a very strange woman," he said. "Because I can love two men?" "Lots of women can do that. But you manage to make it seem decent. Anyway, love doesn't interest me." "But it often explains people's queer behaviour!" A car purred in the drive, presumably Querk's. Crisp looked out of the window, saw Fenchurch sitting on his haunches, sketch-book in hand. "Fenchurch may have genius. But he's a lame dog, like the other one." "Yes. But he has the charm of not knowing it. He's too conceited ever to find me out, as Ralph did. Here's Mr. Querk!" Querk paused in the doorway, the more effectively to confer his presence. "Ah! Chief Constable. At last I've run you to earth. I tried to find you at headquarters. Don't go, I beg, Miss Lofting—stay and hear me abase myself. On the telephone this morning, Chief Constable, my secretary informed me of your call at my office yesterday. How can I ever apologise for giving you all that trouble! The matter had passed completely out of my mind. I'm talking about that registered parcel, Miss Lofting. Can you believe that it was dispatched by my secretary acting on my instructions! And it contained—" he finished in an arch whisper "—a new wig for poor Lord Watlington!" Querk, Crisp reminded himself, had not been present in court, and so had not heard counsel's reference to the wig and the signet ring—he could have no suspicion of their importance. Claudia was slipping past Querk to the door. "And now," said Querk, "if the Chief Constable will accept my heartfelt apology, I must fly to keep a personal appointment before lunch—" "Mr. Querk!" said Crisp. "I came here to see you." "Indeed? Of course, if it is important—?" "It is." Because Querk looked elaborately surprised, Crisp added: "I am investigating the murder of Lord Watlington." Querk sighed heavily. He removed his glasses and polished them. His response was interrupted by the appearance of Bessie. "Can you gentlemen let me have the room now, so's I can lay for lunch?" Following Querk to the morning-room, Crisp was halfway across the hall when for an instant he stopped. In that instant he grasped the full significance of Fenchurch's statement a few minutes ago. It came to him that the statement was true in every detail. Fenchurch had become a background against which Crisp could see the movements of every person in the orbit of the murder. "I think the library would be better, Mr. Querk," said Crisp. # Chapter Twenty-Two Normally Querk would have waited, bowing in the doorway for Crisp to precede him. Instead, he walked abstractedly into the library and sat in an upright chair at the table, facing the wall safe and the empty swivel chair. Crisp shut the door, then locked it noisily. "Would you like me to begin, Mr. Querk?" "If you please!" Querk inclined his head in a bow. "I am so glad you locked the door. Perhaps it would even be wise to shut the window." Crisp went to the window. While he was shutting it, his eye strayed over the border of lawn to the yew trees. He stared with a sense of shock. At the intersection, under the green octopus and the preposterous fowl, Mrs. Cornboise was sitting, as she had been sitting when he and Benscombe had first seen her through the adjacent window of the morning-room. It was as if she had never moved. But now she was not knitting, and the voluminous bag was missing. He knew it was his own fancy that gave her the appearance of mocking him. He strode from the window, dropped into the swivel chair, in which Watlington had sat. His confidence was at an ebb as he faced Querk. He rallied, decided that his best chance lay in surprise. "When you removed the signet ring with Claudia's penknife, you cut the skin. Did you know that?" "I did not know it. But now that you mention it, I am not wholly surprised. Throughout this very unhappy business I have had to combat a certain physical clumsiness. Let me see now! The absence of blood enables you to infer that the ring was moved after death." Querk had the air of a man lost in his own thoughts. Crisp waited. Presently the other looked up at him with a little start of surprise. "Forgive me! I was wool gathering, I fear. Well now, as you are obviously inclined to discuss this in a friendly manner, you will not, my dear Chief Constable, find me lacking in responsiveness. Tell me what else you have discovered, and then we will see if we can jointly put two and two together." Crisp felt a grudging respect for the man who could sustain his technique when he knew he was in deadly peril. The sword might yet be caught in the net of platitudes. "Your conversation with Watlington in which you persuaded him to approve of Claudia did not take place. You invented it on the supposition that Ralph Cornboise had taken the letters from the safe. You did not find out until too late that Watlington had given them to Fenchurch." "Correct!" said Querk encouragingly. "Pray continue." The frankness of the avowal disconcerted Crisp. He was lolling in the swivel chair. The handcuffs in his hip pocket hurt him and he sat upright. "Before I go any further," said Crisp. "I intend to guard myself against the accusation of tricking you into making admissions. You are well aware that on this conversation will depend whether a charge is made. I will therefore warn you well in advance that anything you say may be used in evidence." "My dear Colonel! Your intention is most friendly and, believe me, I appreciate it. But—come now!—what charge do you think you could possibly make? That of being accessory to the murder of my poor old friend?" Crisp evaded the question. "In dealing with persons like yourself, Cornboise, Fenchurch," he said, "it would be absurd to adopt the procedure followed with the uneducated criminal. I am going to tell you what I know about your actions, and how I know it. As you are aware, I don't know everything, or I would have arrested you without talking about it. "My starting point is the moment in which Watlington handed those letters to Fenchurch. That fact was unknown to the murderer and his associate, if any. Their ignorance of that fact vitally affects the logic of the murder. The murderer enters, strikes, and goes to the safe intending to destroy the letters. But the letters have already gone. "Now, Ralph confessed to the murder. Whether he had an hallucination or not about the murder, he certainly had no hallucination about the letters. He was surprised when I handed him the sealed envelope containing the Will, because he detected that the letters were not inside. Further, in a conversation which we eavesdropped, he revealed that he was himself hopelessly puzzled as to what had become of the letters, fearing at that time that Claudia had taken them. So I was able to infer that Ralph was not the one who removed the seal from the dead man. If Ralph did not, I asked myself, who did? "Now, removing that seal and re-sealing the Will had one purpose only—to convey to an innocent person, present in the library with Watlington after lunch, that Watlington had re-sealed the Will himself after destroying the letters. "Claudia did not remove the seal. It would have been a senseless action on her part, because Watlington had already given her his blessing. That meant that only you could have removed the seal. From which it is a safe inference that you are either the murderer or an accessory of the murderer." "Not the murderer, my dear Colonel! Are you not forgetting the wig? That surely was the device of an accessory, not a principal!" Crisp was momentarily immobilised. He was groping for the technique concealed in this apparently foolish tactic of making unnecessary admissions. "The wig must have given you the clue to much that originally mystified you," continued Querk, his tone suggesting that he was encouraging a promising youngster. "Now, _I_ will tell you what I actually did and _you_ shall tell me how near you came to solving the puzzle without my help! Well, when I reached the library, I saw Lord Watlington crumpled up in his chair, the sides of his wig protruding from behind his ears, like—like a bat's wings. I mustn't pass off that very expressive phrase as my own. I am plagiarising Miss Lofting. Ralph, in one of his semi-delirious moods had, by lifting her hair behind her ears, shown exactly how the wig appeared. The outline was very vividly impressed on the poor boy's memory and I confirm that his recollection is correct. "I feel no shame in confessing, Chief Constable, that my first thought was that Ralph owed me a considerable sum—seventeen thousand three hundred, to be precise—which I could not then afford to lose. His running from the room suggested that he hoped to escape the consequences of his act. But I knew well that he would quickly break down under the police questioning and blurt out the truth. So I proceeded _to make his truth untrue_. He would say that he used the die-stamp, then lying on the floor. I wiped it and put in on the mantelpiece, leaving my own finger prints upon it. He would say that he struck through the wig. I remembered that package on the table in the hall. I unwrapped it in the morning-room—accidentally leaving the wrapping on a chair, a piece of carelessness, which, I fear, put you to some further trouble. I removed—and subsequently destroyed—the old wig, putting the new one in place—a little awry, to suggest haste on the part of the murderer who, I thought, would never be found. "You have already described my actions with the Will—and with an accuracy which has certainly earned full marks. I have only to add that when I left the room I turned the key on the outside with a pair of pliers which I found in the drawer of the hall table, knowing that Ralph would deny that he had locked the door. I think you have found those pliers?" As Crisp made no answer, Querk resumed: "I was, of course, wholly unprepared for his repudiation of the alibi which I had so laboriously provided. Laboriously—and at no small personal risk! 'The best laid schemes of mice and men,' my dear Colonel. And if any of my own calculations had 'ganged agley,' I might well have found myself in a highly unenviable position. Fortunately, nothing did go wrong! Indeed, I had 'builded better than I knew.' The alibi remained unshaken by the repudiation. My plans, as we know, carried everything by its own impetus. Sir William Turvey was led to provide a convenient formula for saving everyone's _amour propre_ by—er—discovering an hallucination." "Then you admit the whole bag o' tricks?" cried Crisp in amazement. "You admit being an accessory? And _you_ are going to plead guilty too?" "I admit the—er—whole bag o' tricks, as you choose to express it—but, of course, in confidence." "Confidence be damned! I'm on duty!" "I must point out, if you will not think me impertinent—that you have neglected to provide yourself with witnesses. Do not blame yourself, Chief Constable. I assure you that the question of my pleading to anything at all will not arise." As Crisp glared at him, Querk continued: "Remember, poor Ralph repudiated the alibi which I provided, nor was he aware that I had deliberately performed a single act to protect him." "That won't get you off!" snapped Crisp. "It will not be required to do so. I mention it merely to emphasise that I am not quite the social type that conspires with another to break the criminal law." "I can prove that wig sequence," said Crisp. "If you will pardon me, you can prove a great deal more than that. My clumsiness with the penknife, my absentmindedness with the pliers and the brown paper, my forgetfulness that typescript can be identified—all can be welded into a formidable chain of circumstantial evidence, forged by my amateur efforts to deceive the police. Altogether, a vindication of the old adage that the cobbler, my dear Chief Constable, should stick to his last. "Now, my own last is, as it were, a twin-last. Law and finance! Finance and the law!" He waited for Crisp's assent, which was not forthcoming. He continued, with a touch of asperity: "Your wig, your penknife, your die-stamp are merely corroborative evidence. Your charge would have to be that I gave Ralph a false alibi by stating that Watlington was alive at five fifteen when, in fact, he was dead." "You're pushing my barrow," grunted Crisp. "But in the opposite direction! As you will find when you consult your legal department. They will tell you that a confession followed by sentence is the equivalent of a verdict returned by a jury. There can be no re-examination of fact." Again Querk had unconsciously echoed the words of Treasury counsel. "The proceedings in court this morning, my dear Colonel, have established that the murder was committed at approximately five thirty. In law, my statement that Lord Watlington was alive at five fifteen is therefore unassailable." Crisp got up and paced the room. He had begun by manoeuvring for position and had so far failed. And now Querk had tripped him with a legal conundrum. "You've been successful all along the line, Querk. You've crowned your success by admitting to me that you are an accessory, by snapping your fingers at the police and strangling the law in its own red tape. It must be the most elaborate monkey-trick in the history of crime. Yes, I said monkey-trick! By faking that alibi you saved Ralph—and your own seventeen thousand. By trotting up that car evidence you destroyed Ralph—and your own chance of collecting the seventeen thousand. It doesn't make sense!" "Must we always look to money, my dear Colonel, to rationalise human behaviour. Should we not sometimes look to—love?" Crisp gaped at the preposterous echo of Claudia's words in the mouth of Querk. "Remember, I did not know that Miss Lofting was already a married woman, herself contemplating a bigamous marriage with fraudulent intent. I saw only a sweet English rose cruelly jilted by a selfish young man—who would probably marry a woman of no position and so fail to benefit under his uncle's Will. On the other hand, I thought of the lady who had every right to call herself Lady Watlington, who had also been cruelly treated—er—having regard to the special circumstances, of course." "How on earth does Mrs. Cornboise come into it?" demanded Crisp. "A man, as you know, may not profit by his own crime," explained Querk. "When the Judge pronounced sentence this morning, poor Lord Watlington's Will became null and void—he is deemed to have died intestate. His property will pass to his widow. After deduction of Crown dues, she will receive about a million and a quarter." Crisp looked out of the window. Mrs. Cornboise was still sitting on the bench. So that funny old baggage was now a very rich woman! "Does she know that?" "Not yet." Querk picked up his attache case, preparing to leave. On his way to the door, he joined Crisp by the window. "She has suffered much from loneliness—but that, I hope, is at an end. We were married this morning." Crisp did not conceal his astonishment. "At the registrar's close to the Old Bailey," added Querk. "After sentence had been pronounced." "A million and a quarter!" Crisp relaxed as if with personal relief. "And you will take care of her fortune and see she is not robbed. Magnificent!" "Your congratulations, my dear fellow, are extremely acceptable. During the short time we have worked together—" "I was congratulating myself!" interrupted Crisp. "You've taken a load off my mind. Frankly, the Ralph Cornboise business shook my nerve. I never actually believed in his innocence, but I was not convinced of his guilt. The same applied to you until a moment ago. I had built up a very strong case against you, but I needed a motive for my own satisfaction. I could see no reason why you should want to hound that boy to the gallows. Now I've got a million and a quarter reasons. You're under arrest, Querk." "I am intrigued," said Querk. "You must have discovered loopholes in the rules of evidence which have eluded me." Crisp grinned, and in the grin there was no pity. "Querk!" There was a perceptible pause. "You've admitted to me that the conversation with Watlington at five fifteen did not take place, because Watlington was dead. In that imaginary conversation—which figured in your depositions—Watlington told you he was expecting a telephone call at five thirty. The conversation did not take place. But the telephone call _did_ take place—at five thirty-four. How did you know Watlington was going to be called round about five thirty?" Querk's benevolent smile was undisturbed but his hands betrayed distress. Both hands were gripping the attache case as if he could barely sustain the weight. "No doubt, he mentioned it to me earlier in the day." "He did not. We contacted that caller. His name is Tremayne. He was coming to the dinner party. On Saturday morning he flew to Edinburgh because his wife had been seriously injured in a street accident. Shortly after five, he remembered the dinner. He tried to ring Watlington to explain why he couldn't turn up. So neither Tremayne nor Watlington knew that the call would be made." "Then let us say, my dear Colonel, that it was a little—er—constructive retrospection. From my bedroom, I heard the telephone ring—" A second and a half later, there came a double click, as the handcuffs snapped into position. The attache case thudded mildly on the carpet. "Our depositions will describe a test proving that you can't hear that telephone in your bedroom. You knew about that telephone because you were in this room when it rang—at the time when Ralph was supposed to have left his car and come back here to commit the murder. It must have taken you a good twenty minutes to get that signet ring off and back again and change the wigs. The Home Secretary will dish out a Royal Pardon for Ralph on that telephone call alone. That will leave the field clear for your trial!" "My trial as accessory—to a principal whom the Royal Pardon will have declared to be factually innocent?" "Your trial for the murder of Watlington." With one eye on Querk, Crisp dialled headquarters. "Chief Contable, speaking from Watlington Lodge. Send an escort here to take away a prisoner!" Querk had listened in pained silence. "I had hoped, Chief Constable, to preserve your dignity no less than my own. Whatever the charges you may prefer against me—conscientiously if mistakenly—can you honestly say that you believe I would attempt to run away? Escort! Prisoner! Handcuffs! I will not allow myself to suspect that you are animated by a malicious desire to inflict personal humiliation." It had been the soldier in Crisp rather than the policeman that had whipped out the handcuffs—an intuitive sense of danger to come, of the exact moment at which to avert that danger. "You're such a tough customer, Querk, that I'm not risking anything." "Yet you seem to my ignorance to be risking your whole career. For instance—if I may ask—what proof have you that I killed Watlington?" "Bat's wings!" ejaculated Crisp. As Querk registered only anxious bewilderment, Crisp went on: "You accused yourself of physical clumsiness. You are not particularly clumsy. But you are physically uneducated. A man wears a wig. Hit him on the head, you think, and the sides of the wig will stick out like a bat's wings—and that's the end of your speculations about the wig!" "But I described what I saw with my own eyes! I do not press the simile of the bat's wings—" "Bat's wings is good enough. Only you put 'em in the wrong place. Plectyt, the canvas stuff on which the wig is mounted, is cut on a double cross. If you hit a man on the crown of the head—where the silver plate is, and smash the plate—the wig juts out at the temples. If you hit him on the back of the head—the occiput—the wig juts out _behind the ears_ —which is what you saw when you entered the library after Ralph had left it." The sword had cut through the net. Crisp drove it home: "It's what Ralph saw when he thought he had killed his uncle. He will be convicted of attempting grievous bodily harm, but he'll get off lightly. He will tell _your_ jury all about the bat's wings." Querk had lost awareness of the handcuffs. His hands were folded on his chest. He was nodding his head as if in agreement. "We've taped out the sequence of events pretty closely, Querk. First, Ralph probably did not know where the plate was located. In a fit of hysteria, he swung blindly at the head and struck the occiput. The wig muffled the blow, which did no injury to that very strong bone. It was as if he had punched it with a boxing glove. But concussion followed. "You came in, saw the bat's-wing effect, but you also saw that Watlington was breathing. You reckoned that, when Watlington recovered consciousness, his first act would be to disinherit the nephew who had tried to kill him. Bang would go your seventeen thousand. So you struck the unconscious Watlington where you knew the plate was—and killed him within a couple of minutes of Ralph's dud blow. "You unlocked the wall safe with Watlington's key, The sealed envelope—bulging with Claudia's letters enclosed with the Will—had gone. In its place was another of those same printed envelopes. But it was gummed, not sealed. You could feel that it contained a single folded sheet—obviously the Will. "You drew the reasonable conclusion that Ralph had taken the letters and forgotten the significance of the seal. So you tackled the job of sealing it yourself, with Watlington's signet ring—what've you got in that waistcoat pocket, Querk? Keep your hands still!" Crisp swooped—had time to spare, for Querk was slow-moving, even when unencumbered with handcuffs. Crisp captured a tiny phial—held it to the light for inspection. "Cyanide!" explained Querk. "How can I ever thank you, my dear Colonel! At this very moment, as we stand looking at each other, it has broken upon me that I have a priceless asset in the person of Miss Lofting. Every essential act of the murder _might_ have been committed by her. When _'my'_ jury learn that she was about to contract a bigamous and fraudulent marriage with Ralph—that she had equal opportunity with myself—you will find that they will give me the benefit of the doubt." Claudia's fraudulent intent! So that was the straw at which the drowning man clutched! The task of snatching it away could be left to Querk's lawyers. For the moment, it would be only decent to allow him to save his face. "I think I hear my escort." Querk, beaming with resurgent self-satisfaction, had placed himself in charge of the proceedings. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to unlock the door for them. We must not keep them waiting. Mrs. Querk can join us at the police station, where I feel sure you will give me an opportunity to allay her anxiety on my behalf." # Copyright First published in 1949 by Faber & Faber This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello www.curtisbrown.co.uk ISBN 978-1-4472-2478-5 EPUB ISBN 978-1-4472-2477-8 POD Copyright © Roy Vickers, 1949 The right of Roy Vickers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. 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Produced by David Widger AMONA; THE CHILD; AND THE BEAST Plus THE SNAKE AND THE BELL and SOUTH SEA NOTES From "The Strange Adventure Of James Shervinton and Other Stories" By Louis Becke T. FISHER UNWIN, 1902 LONDON AMONA; THE CHILD; AND THE BEAST' Amona was, as his master so frequently told him--accentuating the remark with a blow or a kick--only "a miserable kanaka." Of his miserableness there was no doubt, for Denison, who lived in the same house as he did, was a daily witness of it--and his happiness. Also, he was a kanaka--a native of Niue, in the South Pacific; Savage Island it is called by the traders and is named on the charts, though its five thousand sturdy, brown-skinned inhabitants have been civilised, Christianised, and have lived fairly cleanly for the past thirty years. Amona and Denison had the distinction of being employed by Armitage, one of the most unmitigated blackguards in the Pacific. He was a shipowner, planter, merchant, and speculator; was looked upon by a good many people as "not a bad sort of a fellow, you know--and the soul of hospitality." In addition, he was an incorrigible drunken bully, and broke his wife's heart within four years after she married him. Amona was his cook. Denison was one of his supercargoes, and (when a long boat of drunkenness made him see weird visions of impossible creatures) manager of the business on shore, overseer, accountant, and Jack-of-all-trades. How he managed to stay on with such a brute I don't know. He certainly paid him well enough, but he (Denison) could have got another berth from other people in Samoa, Fiji, or Tonga had he wanted it. And, although Armitage was always painfully civil to Denison--who tried to keep his business from going to the dogs--the man hated him as much as he despised Amona, and would have liked to have kicked him, as he would have liked to have kicked or strangled any one who knew the secret of his wife's death and his child's lameness. And three people in Samoa did know it--Amona, the Niue cook, Dr. Eckhardt, and Denison. Armitage has been dead now these five-and-twenty years--died, as he deserved to die, alone and friendless in an Australian bush hospital out in the God-forsaken Never-Never country, and when Denison heard of his death, he looked at the gentle wife's dim, faded photograph, and wondered if the Beast saw her sweet, sad face in his dying moments. He trusted not; for in her eyes would have shown only the holy light of love and forgiveness--things which a man like Armitage could not have understood--even then. She had been married three years when she came with him to Samoa to live on Solo-Solo Plantation, in a great white-painted bungalow, standing amid a grove of breadfruit and coco-palms, and overlooking the sea to the north, east, and west; to the south was the dark green of the mountain-forest. "Oh! I think it is the fairest, sweetest picture in the world," she said to Denison the first time he met her. She was sitting on the verandah with her son in her lap, and as she spoke she pressed her lips to his soft little cheek and caressed the tiny hands. "So different from where I was born and lived all my life--on the doll, sun-baked plains of the Riverina--isn't it, my pet?" "I am glad that you like the place, Mrs. Armitage," the supercargo said as he looked at the young, girlish face and thought that she, too, with her baby, made a fair, sweet picture. How she loved the child! And how the soft, grey-blue eyes would lose their sadness when the little one turned its face up to hers and smiled! How came it, he wondered, that such a tender, flower-like woman was mated to such a man as Armitage! Long after she was dead, Denison heard the story--one common enough. Her father, whose station adjoined that of Armitage, got into financial difficulties, went to Armitage for help, and practically sold his daughter to the Beast for a couple of thousand pounds. Very likely such a man would have sold his daughter's mother as well if he wanted money. * * * * * As they sat talking, Armitage rode up, half-drunk as usual. He was a big man, good-looking. "Hallo, Nell! Pawing the damned kid as usual! Why the hell don't you let one of the girls take the little animal and let him tumble about on the grass? You're spoiling the child--by God, you are." "Ah, he's so happy, Fred, here with me, and----" "Happy be damned--you're always letting him maul you about. I want a whisky-and-soda, and so does Denison--don't you?" And then the Beast, as soon as his wife with the child in her arms had left the room, began to tell his subordinate of a "new" girl he had met that morning in Joe D'Acosta's saloon. "Oh, shut up, man. Your wife is in the next room." "Let her hear--and be damned to her! She knows what I do. I don't disguise anything from her. I'm not a sneak in that way. By God, I'm not the man to lose any fun from sentimental reasons. Have you seen this new girl at Joe's? She's a Manhiki half-caste. God, man! She's glorious, simply glorious!" "You mean Laea, I suppose. She's a common beacher--sailor man's trull. Surely you wouldn't be seen ever speaking to _her?_" "Wouldn't I! You don't know me yet! I like the girl, and I've fixed things up with her. She's coming here as my nursemaid--twenty dollars a month! What do you think of that?" "You would not insult your wife so horribly!" He looked at Denison sullenly, but made no answer, as the supercargo went on: "You'll get the dead cut from every white man in Samoa. Not a soul will put foot inside your store door, and Joe D'Acosta himself would refuse to sell you a drink! Might as well shoot yourself at once." "Oh, well, damn it all, don't keep on preaching. I--I was more in fun than anything else. Ha! Here's Amona with the drinks. Why don't you be a bit smarter, you damned frizzy-haired man-eater?" Amona's sallow face flushed deeply, but he made no reply to the insult as he handed a glass to his master. "Put the tray down there, confound you! Don't stand there like a blarsted mummy; clear out till we want you again." The native made no answer, bent his head in silence, and stepped quietly away. Then Armitage began to grumble at him as a "useless swine." "Why," said Denison, "Mrs. Armitage was only just telling me that he's worth all the rest of the servants put together. And, by Jove, he _is_ fond of your youngster--simply worships the little chap." Armitage snorted, and turned his lips down. Ten minutes later, he was asleep in his chair. ***** Nearly six months had passed--six months of wretchedness to the young wife, whose heart was slowly breaking under the strain of living with the Beast. Such happiness as was hers lay in the companionship of her little son, and every evening Tom Denison would see her watching the child and the patient, faithful Amona, as the two played together on the smooth lawn in front of the sitting-room, or ran races in and out among the mango-trees. She was becoming paler and thinner every day--the Beast was getting fatter and coarser, and more brutalised. Sometimes he would remain in Apia for a week, returning home either boisterously drunk or sullen and scowling-faced. In the latter case, he would come into the office where Denison worked (he had left the schooner of which he was supercargo, and was now "overseering" Solo-Solo) and try to grasp the muddled condition of his financial affairs. Then, with much variegated language, he would stride away, cursing the servants and the place and everything in general, mount his horse, and ride off again to the society of the loafers, gamblers, and flaunting unfortunates who haunted the drinking saloons of Apia and Matafele. One day came a crisis. Denison was rigging a tackle to haul a tree-trunk into position in the plantation saw-pit, when Armitage rode up to the house. He dismounted and went inside. Five minutes later Amona came staggering down the path to him. His left cheek was cut to the bone by a blow from Armitage's fist. Denison brought him into his own room, stitched up the wound, and gave him a glass of grog, and told him to light his pipe and rest. "Amona, you're a _valea_ (fool). Why don't you leave this place? This man will kill you some day. How many beatings has he given you?" He spoke in English. "I know not how many. But it is God's will. And if the master some day killeth me, it is well. And yet, but for some things, I would use my knife on him." "What things?" He came over to the supercargo, and, seating himself cross-legged on the floor, placed his firm, brown, right hand on the white man's knee. "For two things, good friend. The little fingers of the child are clasped tightly around my heart, and when his father striketh me and calls me a filthy man-eater, a dog, and a pig, I know no pain. That is one thing. And the other thing is this--the child's mother hath come to me when my body hath ached from the father's blows, and the blood hath covered my face; and she hath bound up my wounds and wept silent tears, and together have we knelt and called upon God to turn his heart from the grog and the foul women, and to take away from her and the child the bitterness of these things." "You're a good fellow, Amona," said Denison, as he saw that the man's cheeks were wet with tears. "Nay, for sometimes my heart is bitter with anger. But God is good to me. For the child loveth me. And the mother is of God... aye, and she will be with Him soon." Then he rose to his knees suddenly, and looked wistfully at the supercargo, as he put his hand on his. "She will be dead before the next moon is _ai aiga_ (in the first quarter), for at night I lie outside her door, and but three nights ago she cried out to me: 'Come, Amona, Come!' And I went in, and she was sitting up on her bed and blood was running from her mouth. But she bade me tell no one--not even thee. And it was then she told me that death was near to her, for she hath a disease whose roots lie in her chest, and which eateth away her strength. Dear friend, let me tell thee of some things... This man is a devil.... I know he but desires to see her die. He hath cursed her before me, and twice have I seen him take the child from her arms, and, setting him on the floor to weep in terror, take his wife by the hand----" "Stop, man; stop! That'll do. Say no more! The beast!" "_E tonu, e tonu_ (true, true)," said the man, quietly, and still speaking in Samoan. "He is as a beast of the mountains, as a tiger of the country India, which devoureth the lamb and the kid.... And so now I have opened my heart to thee of these things----" A native woman rushed into the room: "Come, Amona, come. _Misi Fafine_ (the mistress) bleeds from her mouth again." The white man and the brown ran into the front sitting-room together, just as they heard a piercing shriek of terror from the child; then came the sound of a heavy fall. As they entered, Armitage strode out, jolting against them as he passed. His face was swollen and ugly with passion--bad to look at. "Go and pick up the child, you frizzy-haired pig!" he muttered hoarsely to Amona as he passed. "He fell off his mother's lap." Mrs. Armitage was leaning back in her chair, as white as death, and trying to speak, as with one hand she tried to stanch the rush of blood from her mouth, and with the other pointed to her child, who was lying on his face under a table, motionless and unconscious. In less than ten minutes, a native was galloping through the bush to Apia for Dr. Eckhardt. Denison had picked up the child, who, as he came to, began to cry. Assuring his mother that he was not much hurt, he brought him to her, and sat beside the lounge on which she lay, holding him in his arms. He was a good little man, and did not try to talk to her when the supercargo whispered to him to keep silent, but lay stroking the poor mother's thin white hand. Yet every now and then, as he moved or Denison changed his position, he would utter a cry of pain and say his leg pained him. Four hours later the German doctor arrived. Mrs. Armitage was asleep; so Eckhardt would not awaken her at the time. The boy, however, had slept but fitfully, and every now and then awakened with a sob of pain. The nurse stripped him, and Eckhardt soon found out what was wrong--a serious injury to the left hip. Late in the evening, as the big yellow-bearded German doctor and Denison sat in the dining room smoking and talking, Taloi, the child's nurse entered, and was followed by Amona, and the woman told them the whole story. "_Misi Fafine_ was sitting in a chair with the boy on her lap when the master came in. His eyes were black and fierce with anger, and, stepping up, he seized the child by the arm, and bade him get down. Then the little one screamed in terror, and _Misi Fafine_ screamed too, and the master became as mad, for he tore the boy from his mother's arms, and tossed him across the room against the wall. That is all I know of this thing." Denison saw nothing of Armitage till six o'clock on the following morning, just as Eckhardt was going away. He put out his hand, Eckhardt put his own behind his back, and, in a few blunt words, told the Beast what he thought of him. "And if this was a civilised country," he added crisply, "you would be now in gaol. Yes, in prison. You have as good as killed your wife by your brutality--she will not live another two months. You have so injured your child's hip that he may be a <DW36> for life. You are a damned scoundrel, no better than the lowest ruffian of a city slum, and if you show yourself in Joe D'Acosta's smoking-room again, you'll find more than half a dozen men--Englishmen, Americans and Germans--ready to kick you out into the _au ala_" (road). Armitage was no coward. He sprang forward with an oath, but Denison, who was a third less of his employer's weight, deftly put out his right foot and the master of Solo Solo plantation went down. Then the supercargo sat on him and, having a fine command of seafaring expletives, threatened to gouge his eyes out if he did not keep quiet. "You go on, doctor," he said cheerfully. "I'll let you know in the course of an hour or two how Mrs. Armitage and the boy are progressing. The seat which I am now occupying, though not a very honourable one, considering the material of which it is composed, is very comfortable for the time being; and"--he turned and glared savagely at Armitage's purpled face--"You sweep! I have a great inclination to let Eckhardt come and boot the life out of you whilst I hold you down, you brute!" "I'll kill you for this," said Armitage hoarsely. "Won't give you the chance, my boy. And if you don't promise to go to your room quietly, I'll call in the native servants, sling you up like the pig you are to a pole, and have you carried into Apia, where you stand a good show of being lynched. I've had enough of you. Every one--except your blackguardly acquaintances in Matafele--would be glad to hear that you were dead, and your wife and child freed from you." Eckhardt stepped forward. "Let him up, Mr. Denison." The supercargo obeyed the request. "Just as you please, doctor. But I think that he ought to be put in irons, or a strait-jacket, or knocked on the head as a useless beast. If it were not for Mrs. Armitage and her little son, I would like to kill the sweep. His treatment of that poor fellow Amona, who is so devoted to the child, has been most atrocious." Eckhardt grasped the supercargo's hand as Armitage shambled off "He's a brute, as you say, Mr. Denison. But she has some affection for him. For myself, I would like to put a bullet through him." Within three months Mrs. Armitage was dead, and a fresh martrydom began for poor Amona. But he and the child had plenty of good friends; and then, one day, when Armitage awakened to sanity after a long drinking bout, he found that both Amona and the child had gone. Nearly a score of years later Denison met them in an Australian city. The "baby" had grown to be a well-set-up young fellow, and Amona the faithful was still with him--Amona with a smiling, happy face. They came down on board Denison's vessel with him, and "the baby" gave him, ere they parted, that faded photograph of his dead mother. THE SNAKE AND THE BELL When I was a child of eight years of age, a curious incident occurred in the house in which our family lived. The locality was Mosman's Bay, one of the many picturesque indentations of the beautiful harbour of Sydney. In those days the houses were few and far apart, and our own dwelling was surrounded on all sides by the usual monotonous-hued Australian forest of iron barks and spotted gums, traversed here and there by tracks seldom used, as the house was far back from the main road, leading from the suburb of St. Leonards to Middle Harbour. The building itself was in the form of a quadrangle enclosing a courtyard, on to which nearly all the rooms opened; each room having a bell over the door, the wires running all round the square, while the front-door bell, which was an extra large affair, hung in the hall, the "pull" being one of the old-fashioned kind, an iron sliding-rod suspended from the outer wall plate, where it connected with the wire. One cold and windy evening about eight o'clock, my mother, my sisters, and myself were sitting in the dining-room awaiting the arrival of my brothers from Sydney--they attended school there, and rowed or sailed the six miles to and fro every day, generally returning home by dusk. On this particular evening, however, they were late, on account of the wind blowing rather freshly from the north-east; but presently we heard the front-door bell ring gently. "Here they are at last," said my mother; "but how silly of them to go to the front door on such a windy night, tormenting boys!" Julia, the servant, candle in hand, went along the lengthy passage, and opened the door. No one was there! She came back to the dining-room smiling--"Masther Edward is afther playin' wan av his thricks, ma'am----" she began, when the bell again rang--this time vigorously. My eldest sister threw down the book she was reading, and with an impatient exclamation herself went to the door, opened it quickly, and said sharply as she pulled it inwards-- "Come in at once, you stupid things!" There was no answer, and she stepped outside on the verandah. No one was visible, and again the big bell in the hall rang! She shut the door angrily and returned to her seat, just as the bell gave a curious, faint tinkle as if the tongue had been moved ever so gently. "Don't take any notice of them," said my mother, "they will soon get tired of playing such silly pranks, and be eager for their supper." Presently the bell gave out three clear strokes. We looked at each other and smiled. Five minutes passed, and then came eight or ten gentle strokes in quick succession. "Let us catch them," said my mother, rising, and holding her finger up to us to preserve silence, as she stepped softly along the hall, we following on tiptoe. Softly turning the handle, she suddenly threw the door wide open, just as the bell gave another jangle. Not a soul was visible! My mother--one of the most placid-tempered women who ever breathed, now became annoyed, and stepping out on the verandah, addressed herself to the darkness-- "Come inside at once, boys, or I shall be very angry. I know perfectly well what you have done; you have tied a string to the bell wires, and are pulling it. If you don't desist you shall have no supper." No answer--except from the hall bell, which gave another half-hearted tinkle. "Bring a candle and the step-ladder, Julia," said our now thoroughly exasperated parent, "and we shall see what these foolish boys have done to the bell-wire." Julia brought the ladder; my eldest sister mounted it, and began to examine the bell. She could see nothing unusual, no string or wire, and as she descended, the bell swayed and gave one faint stroke! We all returned to the sitting room, and had scarcely been there five minutes when we heard my three brothers coming in, in their usual way, by the back door. They tramped into the sitting room, noisy, dirty, wet with spray, and hungry, and demanded supper in a loud and collected voice. My mother looked at them with a severe aspect, and said they deserved none. "Why, mum, what's the matter?" said Ted; "what _have_ we been doing now, or what have we not done, that we don't deserve any supper, after pulling for two hours from Circular Quay, against a howling, black north-easter?" "You know perfectly well what I mean. It is most inconsiderate of you to play such silly tricks upon us." Ted gazed at her in genuine astonishment. "Silly tricks, mother! What silly tricks?" (Julia crossed herself, and trembled visibly as the bell again rang.) My mother, at once satisfied that Ted and my other brothers really knew nothing of the mysterious bell-ringing, quickly explained the cause of her anger. "Let us go and see if we can find out," said Ted. "You two boys, and you, Julia, get all the stable lanterns, light them, and we'll start out together--two on one side of the house and two on the other. Some one must be up to a trick!" Julia, who was a huge, raw-boned Irish girl, as strong as a working bullock, but not so graceful, again crossed herself, and began to weep. "What's the matter with you?" said Ted angrily. "Shure, an' there was tirrible murders committed here in the ould convict days," she whimpered. "The polace sargint's wife at Sint Leonards tould me all about it. There was three souldiers murdered down beyant on the beach, by some convicts, whin they was atin' their supper, an' there's people near about now that saw all the blood and----" "Stop it, you great lumbering idiot!" shouted Ted, as my eldest sister began to laugh hysterically, and the youngest, made a terrified dart to mother's skirts. Ted's angry voice and threatening visage silenced Julia for the moment, and she tremblingly went towards the door to obey his orders when the bell gave out such a vigorous and sustained peal that she sank down in a colossal heap on the floor, and then went into violent hysterics. (I assure my readers that I am not exaggerating matters in the slightest.) My mother, who was a thoroughly sensible woman, pushed the whole brood of us out of the room, came after us, shut the door and locked it. _She_ knew the proper treatment for hysterics. "Let her stay there, boys," she said quietly, "she will hurt the furniture more than herself, the ridiculous creature. Now, Ted, you and your brothers get the lanterns, and the little ones and myself will go into the kitchen." We ran out into the stables, lit three lanterns, and my next eldest brother and myself, feeling horribly frightened, but impelled to show some courage by Ted's awful threats of what he would do to us if we "funked," told us to go round the house, beginning from the left, and meet him at the hall door, he going round from the right. With shaking limbs and gasping breath we made our portion of the circuit, sticking close to each other, and carefully avoiding looking at anything as we hurried over the lawn, our only anxiety being to meet Ted as quickly as possible and then get inside again. We arrived on the verandah, and in front of the hall-door, quite five minutes before Ted appeared. "Well, did you see anything?" he asked, as he walked up the steps, lantern in hand. "Nothing," we answered, edging up towards the door. Ted looked at us contemptuously. "You miserable little curs! What are you so frightened of? You're no better than a pack of women and kids. It's the wind that has made the bell ring, or, if it's not the wind, it is something else which I don't know anything about; but I want my supper. Pull the bell, one of you." Elated at so soon escaping from the horrors of the night, we seized the handle of the bell-pull, and gave it a vigorous tug. "It's stuck, Ted. It won't pull down," we said. "Granny!" said the big brother, "you're too funky to give it a proper pull," and pushing us aside, he grasped the pendant handle and gave a sharp pull. There was no answering sound. "It certainly is stuck," admitted Ted, raising his lantern so as to get a look upwards, then he gave a yell. "Oh! look there!" We looked up, and saw the writhing twisting, coils of a huge carpet snake, which had wound its body round and round the bell-wire on top of the wall plate. Its head was downwards, and it did not seem at all alarmed at our presence, but went on wriggling and twisting and squirming with much apparent cheerfulness. Ted ran back to the stables, and returned in a few seconds with a clothes-prop, with which he dealt the disturber of our peace a few rapid, but vigorous, blows, breaking its spine in several places. Then the step-ladder was brought out, and Ted, seizing the reptile by the tail, uncoiled it with some difficulty from the wire, and threw it down upon the verandah. It was over nine feet in length, and very fat, and had caused all the disturbance by endeavouring to denude itself of its old skin by dragging its body between the bell-wire and the top of the wall. When Ted killed it the poor harmless creature had almost accomplished its object. SOUTH SEA NOTES I That many animals, particularly cattle and deer, are very fond of salt we all know, but it is not often that birds show any taste for it, or, if so, the circumstance has not generally been noted. In 1881, however, the present writer was residing on Gazelle Peninsula, the northern portion of the magnificent island of New Britain in the South Pacific, and had many opportunities of witnessing both cockatoos and wild pigeons drinking salt water. I was stationed at a place called Kabaira, the then "furthest-out" trading station on the whole island, and as I had but little to do in the way of work, I found plenty of time to study the bird-life in the vicinity. Parrots of several varieties, and all of beautiful plumage, were very plentiful, and immense flocks of white cockatoos frequented the rolling, grassy downs which lay between my home and the German head-station in Blanche Bay, twenty miles distant, while the heavy forest of the littoral was the haunt of thousands of pigeons. These latter, though not so large as the Samoan, or Eastern Polynesian bird, formed a very agreeable change of diet for us white traders, and by walking about fifty yards from one's door, half a dozen or more could be shot in as many minutes. My nearest neighbour was a German, and one day when we were walking along the beach towards his station, we noticed some hundreds of pigeons fly down from the forest, settle on the margin of the water, and drink with apparent enjoyment. The harbour at this spot was almost land-locked, the water as smooth as glass without the faintest ripple, and the birds were consequently enabled to drink without wetting their plumage. My companion, who had lived many years in New Britain, told me that this drinking of sea-water was common alike to both cockatoos and pigeons, and that on some occasions the beaches would be lined with them, the former birds not only drinking, but bathing as well, and apparently enjoying themselves greatly. During the following six months, especially when the weather was calm and rainy, I frequently noticed pigeons and cockatoos come to the salt water to drink. At first I thought that as fresh water in many places bubbled up through the sand at low tide, the birds were really not drinking the sea-water, but by watching closely, I frequently saw them walk across these tiny runnels, and make no attempt to drink. Then again, the whole of the Gazette Peninsula is out up by countless streams of water; rain falls throughout the year as a rule, and as I have said, there is always water percolating or bubbling up through the sand on the beaches at low tide. What causes this unusual habit of drinking sea-water? Another peculiarity of the New Britain and New Ireland pigeon is its fondness for the Chili pepper-berry. During three months of the year, when these berries are ripe, the birds' crops are full of them, and very often their flesh is so pungent, and smells so strongly of the Chili, as to be quite uneatable. * * * * * On all of the low-lying islands of the Ellice, Kings-mill and Gilbert Groups, a species of snipe are very plentiful. On the islands which enclose the noble lagoon of Funafuti in the Ellice Group, they are to be met with in great numbers, and in dull, rainy weather, an ordinarily good shot may get thirty or forty in a few hours. One day, accompanied by a native lad, I set out to collect hermit crabs, to be used as fish bait. These curious creatures are to be found almost anywhere in the equatorial islands of the Pacific; their shell houses ranging in size from a pea to an orange, and if a piece of coco-nut or fish or any other edible matter is left out overnight, hundreds of hermits will be found gathered around it in the morning. To extract the crabs from their shells, which are of all shapes and kinds, is a very simple matter--the hard casing is broken by placing them upon a large stone and striking them a sharp blow with one of lesser size. My companion and myself soon collected a heap of "hermits," when presently he took one up in his hand, and holding it close to his mouth, whistled softly. In a few moments the crab protruded one nipper, then another, then its red antennae, and allowed the boy to take its head between his finger and thumb and draw its entire body from its shell casing. "That is the way the _kili_ (snipe) gets the _uga_ (crab) from its shell," he said. "The _kili_ stands over the _uga_ and whistles softly, and the _uga_ puts out his head to listen. Then the bird seizes it in his bill, gives it a backward jerk and off flies the shell." Now I had often noticed that wherever hermit crabs were plentiful along the outer beaches of the lagoon, I was sure to find snipe, and sometimes wondered on what the birds fed. Taking up two or three "hermits" one by one, I whistled gently, and in each case the creature protruded the nippers, head and shoulders, and moved its antennae to and fro as if pleasurably excited. On the following day I shot three snipe, and in the stomachs of each I found some quite fresh and some partly digested hermit crabs. The thick, hard nippers are broken off by the bird before he swallows the soft, tender body. *** In a recent number of _Chambers's Journal_ the present writer was much interested in a short paragraph dealing with the commercial value of the skin of the shark, and, having had many years' experience as a trader and supercargo in the South Seas, desires to add some further information on a somewhat interesting subject. In all the equatorial islands of the North and South Pacific, shark fishing is a very profitable industry to the natives, and every trading steamer or sailing vessel coming into the ports of Sydney or Auckland from the islands of the mid-Pacific, always brings some tons of shark fins and tails and shark skins. The principal market for the former is Hong Kong, but the Chinese merchants of the Australasian Colonies will always buy sharks' fins and tails at from 6d. to 11d. per lb., the fins bringing the best price on account of the extra amount of glutinous matter they contain, and the which are highly relished by the richer classes of Chinese as a delicacy. The tails are also valued as an article of food in China; and, apart from their edible qualities, have a further value as a base for clear varnishes, &c.; and I was informed by a Chinese tea-merchant that the glaze upon the paper coverings of tea-chests was due to a preparation composed principally of the refuse of sharks' fins, tails, and skins. All the natives of the Gilbert, Kingsmill, and other Pacific equatorial islands are expert shark fishermen; but the wild people of Ocean Island (Paanopa) and Pleasant Island (Naura), two isolated spots just under the equator, surpass them all in the art of catching jackshark. It was the fortunate experience of the writer to live among these people for many years, and to be inducted into the native method of shark-catching. In frail canoes, made of short pieces of wood, sewn together with coco-nut fibre, the Ocean Islanders will venture out with rude but ingeniously contrived _wooden_ hooks, and capture sharks of a girth (_not_ length) that no untrained European would dare to attempt to kill from a well-appointed boat, with a good crew. Shark-catching is one of _the_ industries of the Pacific, and a very paying industry too. Five-and-twenty years ago there were quite a dozen or more schooners sailing out of Honolulu, in the Hawaiian Islands, to the isolated atolls of the North Pacific--notably Palmyra and Christmas Islands--where sharks could be caught by the thousand, and the crews, who were engaged on a "lay," like whalemen, made "big money"; many of them after a six months' cruise drawing 500 dollars--a large sum for a native sailor. The work is certainly hard, but it is exciting, and the writer will always remember with pleasure a seven months' shark-fishing cruise he once had in the North Pacific, the genial comrades--white men and brown--and the bag of dollars handed over to him by the owners when the ship was paid off in Honolulu. II It is not generally known, except to scientists and those who are acquainted with the subject, that a large percentage of the various species and varieties of sea snakes are highly venomous. These snakes must not be confounded with the very numerous species of sea eels, which, though exceedingly savage and armed with strong needle-pointed teeth, are all non-venomous, though their bite produces high inflammation if not at once properly attended to and cleansed by an antiseptic. The sea snake is a true snake in many respects, having either laminated scales or a thick corduroyed skin resembling rudimentary scales. The head is flat, and the general structure of the body similar to that of the land snake. Whether any of them possess the true poison glands and fangs I do not know, for although I have killed many hundreds of them I never took sufficient interest to make a careful examination; and I was told by a Dutch medical gentleman, long resident on the coast of Dutch New Guinea, and who had made some investigation on the subject, that he had failed to discover any poison sacs or glands in any one of the several snakes he had captured. Yet in some instances he found what at first appeared to be the two long front teeth common to venomous land snakes, but on detailed examination these always proved to be perfectly solid; nevertheless a bite from one of these sea serpents was generally regarded by the natives as fatal; in my own experience I know of two such cases, one at the island of Fotuna in the South Pacific, and the other in Torres Straits. In Sigavi Harbour, on Fotuna, there is a rock to which vessels occasionally make fast their stern moorings. In the boat which I sent away with a line to this rock were several boys, natives of the island, who went with the crew for amusement. One of them, aged about ten, jumped out of the boat, and in his hurry fell on his hands and knees, right on top of a large black and white banded sea snake, which at once bit him savagely on the wrist, causing the blood to flow from a score of tiny punctures. The boy at once swam on shore to be treated by a native; in the evening I heard he was suffering great agony, in the morning the poor little fellow was dead. The second instance was near Raine Island, in Torres Straits. A stalwart young Kanaka, one of the crew of a pearling lugger, was diving for clam shells on the reef, when a snake about three feet in length suddenly shot up from below within a foot of his face. In his anger and disgust he unthinkingly struck it with his hand, and was quickly bitten on the forefinger. A few hours later he was in a high fever, accompanied with twitchings of the extremities; then tetanus ensued, followed by death in forty-eight hours. Although these sea snakes are common to all tropical seas, they are most frequent about the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. On any smooth day they may be seen disporting themselves on the surface, or rising suddenly from the depths, erect their heads and some inches of their bodies clear from the water, gaze at the passing vessel, and then swiftly disappear. In nearly all the Pacific Islands the natives hold them in detestation and horror, and when one is seen lying coiled up on a rock sunning itself or crawling over the surface of the reef in search of food, a stone, accompanied by a curse, is always hurled at it. In the Ellice Oroup, when catching flying-fish at night, one (or more) of these horrid serpents is sometimes swept up in the scoop-net before it can be avoided. They range from six inches to nearly four feet in length, and all have one feature--a blunted tail-end. Quite recently much further light has been thrown on the subject by Sir James Hector, of the Philosophical Society of Wellington, New Zealand. At one of the Society's meetings, held in April last, Sir James showed several specimens of _hydrida_, some from Australasian Seas, others from the Atlantic. The usual habitat of sea snakes, he said, were the tropical seas generally, but some had been captured in the comparatively cold waters of the New Zealand coast, at the Catlins River. These latter were all yellow-banded; those from the islands of the Fijian Oroup were black-banded, and those taken from the Australian coast grey-banded. There were, he said, no fewer than seventy species, which, without exception, were fanged and provided with glands secreting a virulent poison. In some of the mountainous islands of the South Pacific, such as Samoa, Fiji, &c, there were several species of land snakes, all of which were perfectly harmless, and were familiar to many people in Australia and New Zealand, through being brought there in bunches of island bananas--it was singular, he thought, that the sea snakes alone should be so highly venomous. "They were all characterised by the flattened or blunted tail, which they used as a steer oar, and were often found asleep on the surface of the water, lying on their backs. In this state they were easily and safely captured, being powerless to strike." The present writer, who has seen hundreds of these marine snakes daily for many years, during a long residence in the Pacific Islands, cannot remember a single instance where he has seen one of these dangerous creatures asleep _on the water_, though they may frequently be found lying asleep on the coral reefs, exposing themselves to the rays of a torrid sun. They usually select some knob or rounded boulder, from the top of which, when awake, they can survey the small pools beneath and discern any fish which may be imprisoned therein. In such case they will glide down into the water with astonishing rapidity, seize their prey, and after swallowing it, return to their sun bath. The natives of the Paumotu Archipelago informed me, however, that they are most active in seeking their prey at night-time, and are especially fond of flying-fish, which, as is well known, is one of the swiftest of all ocean fishes. The sea snakes, however, seize them with the greatest ease, by rising cautiously beneath and fastening their keen teeth in the fish's throat or belly. A snake, not two feet six inches in length, I was assured, can easily swallow a flying-fish eight inches or ten inches long. With regard to their habit of lying asleep on their backs on the surface of the water, it may be that Sir James Hector is alluding to some particular species, but whether that is so or not Sir James's statement must of course be considered authoritative, for there is, I believe, no higher authority on the subject in the world. Apropos of these venomous marine serpents I may mention that the Rev. W. W. Gill in one of his works states that he was informed by the natives of the Cook's Group that during the prevalence of very bad weather, when fish were scarce, the large sea eels would actually crawl ashore, and ascend the _fala_ (pandanus or screw-pine) trees in search of the small green lizards which live among the upper part of the foliage. At first I regarded this merely as a bit of native extravagance of statement, but in 1882, when I was shipwrecked on Peru (or Francis Island), one of the Gilbert Group, the local trader, one Frank Voliero, and myself saw one of these eels engaged in an equally extraordinary pursuit. We were one evening, after a heavy gale from the westward had been blowing for three days, examining a rookery of whale birds in search of eggs; the rookery was situated in a dense thicket scrub on the north end of the island, and was quite two hundred yards from the sea-shore, though not more than half that distance from the inside lagoon beach. The storm had destroyed quite a number of young, half-fledged birds, whose bodies were lying on the ground, and busily engaged in devouring one of them was a very large sea eel, as thick as the calf of a man's leg. Before I could manage to secure a stick with which to kill the repulsive-looking creature, it made off through the undergrowth at a rapid pace in the direction of the lagoon, and when we emerged out into the open in pursuit, ten minutes later, we were just in time to see it wriggling down the hard, sloping beach into the water. Instinct evidently made it seek the nearest water, for none of these large sea eels are ever found in Peru Lagoon. Many of the rivers and lakes of the islands of the Western Pacific are tenanted by eels of great size, which are never, or very seldom, as far as I could learn, interfered with by the natives, and I have never seen the people of either the Admiralty Islands, New Ireland, or New Britain touch an eel as food. The Maories, however, as is well known, are inordinately fond of eels, which, with putrid shark, constitute one of their staple articles of diet. In the few mountainous islands of the vast Caroline Archipelago, in the North-western Pacific, eels are very plentiful, not only in the numberless small streams which debouch into the shallow waters enclosed by the barrier reefs, but also far up on the mountainsides, occupying little rocky pools of perhaps no larger dimensions than an ordinary-sized toilet basin, or swimming up and down rivulets hardly more than two feet across. The natives of Ponape, the largest island of the Caroline Group, and of Kusaie (Strong's Island), its eastern outlier, regard the fresh-water eel with shuddering aversion, and should a man accidentally touch one with his foot when crossing a stream he will utter an exclamation of horror and fear. In the heathen days--down to 1845-50--the eel (toan) was an object of worship, and constantly propitiated by sacrifices of food, on account of its malevolent powers; personal contact was rigidly avoided; to touch one, even by the merest accident, was to bring down the most dreadful calamities on the offender and his family--bodily deformities, starvation and poverty, and death; and although the natives of Strong's Island are now both civilised and Christianised, and a training college of the Boston Board of Missions has long been established at Port Lele, they still manifest the same superstitious dread of the eel as in their days of heathendom. I well remember witnessing an instance of this terror during my sojourn on the island when I was shipwrecked there in 1874. I had taken up my residence in the picturesque little village of Leasse, on the western or "lee" side, when I was one evening visited by several of the ship's company--a Fijian half-caste, a white man, and two natives of Pleasant Island. At the moment they arrived I was in the house of the native pastor--a man who had received an excellent education in a missionary college at Honolulu, in the Hawaiian Islands--instructing him and his family in the art of making _taka_, or cinnet sandals, as practised by the natives of the Tokelau Group. Just then the four seamen entered, each man triumphantly holding up a large eel: in an instant there was a united howl of horror from the parson and his family, as they made a rash for the door, overturning the lamp and nearly setting the house on fire. In vain I followed and urged them to return, and told them that the men had gone away and taken the _toan_ with them--nothing would induce them to enter the house that night, and the whole family slept elsewhere. One singular thing about the eels on Strong's Island is that they hibernate, in a fashion, on the sides or even summits of the high mountains, at an altitude of nearly two thousand feet. Selecting, or perhaps making, a depression in the soft, moss-covered soil, the ugly creatures fit themselves into it compactly and remain there for weeks or even months at a time. I have counted as many as thirty of these holes, all tenanted, within a few square yards. Some were quite concealed by vegetable _debris_ or moss, others were exposed to view, with the broad, flat head of the slippery occupant resting on the margin or doubled back upon its body. They showed no alarm, but if poked with a stick would extricate themselves and crawl slowly away. In the streams they were very voracious, and I had a special antipathy to them, on account of their preying so on the crayfish--a crustacean of which I was particularly fond, and which the natives also liked very much, but were afraid to capture for fear their hands might come in contact with the dreaded _toan_. One afternoon I was plucking a pigeon I had just shot by the margin of a mountain stream. After removing the viscera, I put the bird in the water to clean it properly, and was shaking it gently to and fro, when it was suddenly torn out of my hand by a disgustingly bloated, reddish- eel about four feet in length, and quickly swallowed. That one pigeon had cost me two hours' tramping through the rain-soddened mountain forest, so loading my gun I followed the thief down stream to where the water was but a few inches deep, and then blew his head off. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Amona; The Child; And The Beast; And Others, by Louis Becke *	{'short_book_title': 'Amona; The Child; And The Beast; And Others by Louis Becke', 'publication_date': 1902, 'url': 'http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24952'}
Produced by Chris Curnow, Harry Lame and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) A TREATISE ON ETCHING. "Amongst Frenchmen Claude is the best landscape etcher of past days, and Lalanne the best of the present day."--P. G. HAMERTON. [Illustration: Frontispiece] A TREATISE ON ETCHING. TEXT AND PLATES BY MAXIME LALANNE. * * * * * AUTHORIZED EDITION, TRANSLATED FROM THE SECOND FRENCH EDITION BY S. R. KOEHLER. WITH AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER AND NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR. * * * * * BOSTON: ESTES AND LAURIAT, Publishers. _Copyright_, BY ESTES AND LAURIAT. 1880. UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. So much interest has of late years been shown in England in the art of etching, that it seems hardly necessary to apologize for bringing out an English edition of a work on the subject from the pen of an artist whom a weighty English authority has pronounced to be the best French landscape-etcher of the day. It might be urged, indeed, that more than enough has already been written concerning the technical as well as the aesthetic side of etching. But this objection is sufficiently met by the statement of the fact that there is no other work of the kind in which the processes involved are described in so plain and lucid a manner as in M. Lalanne's admirable "_Traite de la Gravure a l'Eau-forte_." In the laudable endeavor to be complete, most of the similar books now extant err in loading down the subject with a complicated mass of detail which is more apt to frighten the beginner than to aid him. M. Lalanne's _Treatise_, on the contrary, is as simple as a good work of art. It may, however, be incumbent upon me to offer a few words of excuse concerning my own connection with the bringing out of this translation; for, at first sight, it will, no doubt, appear the height of presumption, especially on the part of one who is not himself a practising artist, to add an introductory chapter and notes to the work of a consummate master on his favorite art. But what I have done has not, in any way, been dictated by the spirit of presumption. The reasons which induced me to make the additions may be stated as follows. It is a most difficult feat for one who has thoroughly mastered an accomplishment, and has practised it successfully for a lifetime, to lower himself to the level of those who are absolutely uninformed. A master is apt to forget that he himself had to learn certain things which, to him, seem to be self-evident, and he therefore takes it for granted that they _are_ self-evident. A practised etcher thinks nothing of handling his acid, grounding and smoking his plate, and all the other little tricks of the craft which, to a beginner, are quite worrying and exciting. It seemed to me best, therefore, to acquaint the student with these purely technical difficulties, without complicating his first attempts by artistic considerations, and hence the origin of the "Introductory Chapter." Very naturally I was compelled, in this chapter, to go over much of the ground covered by the _Treatise_ itself. But the diligent student, who remembers that "Repetition is the mother of learning," will not look upon the time thus occupied as wasted. The notes are, perhaps, still more easily explained. M. Lalanne very rarely stops to inform his reader how the various requisites may be made. Writing, as he did, at and for Paris, there was, indeed, no reason for thus encumbering his book; for in Paris the Veuve Cadart is always ready to supply all the wants of the etcher. For a London reader, Mr. Charles Roberson, of 99 Long Acre, whom Mr. Hamerton has so well--and very properly--advertised, is ready to perform the same kind office. But for those who live away from the great centres of society, it may oftentimes be necessary either to forego the fascinations of etching, or else to provide the materials with their own hands. For the benefit of such persons, I have thought it advisable to describe, in the notes, the simplest and cheapest methods of making the tools and utensils which are needed in the execution of M. Lalanne's precepts. By the arrangement of the paragraphs which I have ventured to introduce, M. Lalanne's pleasant little book has, perhaps, lost something of its vivacity and freshness, especially in the fifth chapter. But this dull, methodical order will be found, I hope, to add to the convenience of the work as a book of reference, which, according to M. Lalanne's own statement, is, after all, its main object. It is due to the English public to say, that the additions were originally written for the American edition of this book, published by Messrs. Estes & Lauriat, of Boston, Mass. To free them from the American character which they very naturally bear, would have necessitated the resetting of a great part of the work, and a consequent increase in its cost. It has been deemed advisable, therefore, to leave the whole of the text in its original condition, more especially as the changes are such that they can easily be supplied by the reader, and do not in the least affect the value of the information conveyed. S. R. KOEHLER. BEECH GLEN AVENUE, ROXBURY, BOSTON, July, 1880. CONTENTS. PAGE TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE v INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.--THE TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF ETCHING xiii Paragraph 1. Definition of Etching xiii 2. Requisites xiv 3. Grounding the Plate xviii 4. Smoking the Plate xviii 5. Points or Needles xix 6. Drawing on the Plate xix 7. Preparing the Plate for the Bath xx 8. The Bath xx 9. Biting and Stopping Out xx DESCRIPTION OF THE PLATES xxiii LETTER BY M. CHARLES BLANC xxv INTRODUCTION (by the Author) 1 CHAPTER I. DEFINITION AND CHARACTER OF ETCHING. Paragraph 1. Definition 3 2. Knowledge needed by the Etcher 3 3. Manner of using the Needle.--Character of Lines 4 4. Freedom of Execution 4 5. How to produce Difference in Texture 5 6. The Work of the Acid 5 7. The Use of the Dry Point 5 8. Spirit in which the Etcher must work 5 9. Expression of Individuality in Etching 6 10. Value of Etching to Artists 6 11. Versatility of Etching 7 12. Etching compared to other Styles of Engraving 7 13. Etching as a Reproductive Art 7 CHAPTER II. TOOLS AND MATERIALS.--PREPARING THE PLATE.--DRAWING ON THE PLATE WITH THE NEEDLE. 14. Method of using this Manual 9 A. _Tools and Materials._ 15. List of Tools and Materials needed 9 16. Quality and Condition of Tools and Materials 10 B. _Preparing the Plate._ 17. Laying the Ground, or Varnishing 12 18. Smoking 13 C. _Drawing on the Plate with the Needle._ 19. The Transparent Screen 14 20. Needles or Points 14 21. Temperature of the Room 15 22. The Tracing 16 23. Reversing the Design 16 24. Use of the Mirror 17 25. Precautions to be observed while Drawing 17 26. Directions for Drawing with the Needle 17 CHAPTER III. BITING. 27. Bordering the Plate 20 28. The Tray 20 29. Strength of the Acid 20 30. Label your Bottles! 21 31. The First Biting 21 32. The Use of the Feather 22 33. Stopping Out 22 34. Effect of Temperature on Biting 22 35. Biting continued 23 36. Treatment of the various Distances 23 37. The Creve.--Its Advantages and Disadvantages 24 38. Means of ascertaining the Depth of the Lines 24 39. The Rules which govern the Biting are subordinated to various Causes 25 40. Strong Acid and Weak Acid 25 41. Strength of Acid in relation to certain Kinds of Work 26 42. Last Stages of Biting 27 CHAPTER IV. FINISHING THE PLATE. 43. Omissions.--Insufficiency of the Work so far done 29 44. Transparent Ground for Retouching 29 45. Ordinary Ground used for Retouching.--Biting the Retouches 30 46. Revarnishing with the Brush 31 47. Partial Retouches.--Patching 31 48. Dry Point 32 49. Use of the Scraper for removing the Bur thrown up by the Dry Point 33 50. Reducing Over-bitten Passages 33 51. The Burnisher 33 52. Charcoal 34 53. The Scraper 35 54. Hammering Out (Repoussage) 35 55. Finishing the Surface of the Plate 35 CHAPTER V. ACCIDENTS. 56. Stopping-out Varnish dropped on a Plate while Biting 37 57. Revarnishing with the Roller for Rebiting 37 58. Revarnishing with the Roller in Cases of Partial Rebiting 38 59. Revarnishing with the Dabber for Rebiting 39 60. Revarnishing with the Brush for Rebiting 39 61. Rebiting a Remedy only 39 62. Holes in the Ground 39 63. Planing out Faulty Passages 40 64. Acid Spots on Clothing 41 65. Reducing Over-bitten Passages and Creves 41 CHAPTER VI. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FLAT BITING AND BITING WITH STOPPING OUT. 66. Two Kinds of Biting 43 67. Flat Biting.--One Point 44 68. Flat Biting.--Several Points 44 69. Biting with Stopping Out.--One Point 44 70. Biting with Stopping Out.--Several Points 44 71. Necessity of Experimenting 45 72. Various other Methods of Biting 45 CHAPTER VII. RECOMMENDATIONS AND AUXILIARY PROCESSES.--ZINK AND STEEL PLATES.--VARIOUS THEORIES. A. _Recommendations and Auxiliary Processes._ 73. The Roulette 49 74. The Flat Point 49 75. The Graver or Burin 49 76. Sandpaper 50 77. Sulphur Tints 50 78. Mottled Tints 51 79. Stopping-out before all Biting 51 B. _Zink Plates and Steel Plates._ 80. Zink Plates 52 81. Steel Plates 52 C. _Various other Processes._ 82. Soft Ground Etching 52 83. Dry Point Etching 53 84. The Pen Process 54 CHAPTER VIII. PROVING AND PRINTING. 85. Wax Proofs 55 86. The Printing-Press 55 87. Natural Printing 56 88. Artificial Printing 56 89. Handwiping with Retroussage 57 90. Tinting with a Stiff Rag 57 91. Wiping with the Rag only 58 92. Limits of Artificial Printing 58 93. Printing Inks 59 94. Paper 59 95. Epreuves Volantes 60 96. Proofs before Lettering 60 97. Epreuves de Remarque 60 98. Number of Impressions which a Plate is capable of yielding 60 99. Steel-facing 61 100. Copper-facing Zink Plates 62 NOTES. By the Translator 63 LIST OF WORKS on the Practice and History of Etching 75 A. Technical Treatises 75 B. Historical and Theoretical 77 C. Catalogues of the Works of the Artists 77 a. Dictionaries 77 b. Individual Artists 78 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. THE TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF ETCHING. As explained in the Preface, this chapter has been added to enable the beginner to master the most necessary technical elements of etching, without complicating his first attempts by artistic considerations. Let him learn how to use his ground, his points, and his acid, before he endeavors to employ these requisites in the production of a work of art. All the materials and tools necessary for making the experiment described below can be bought at the following places:[A]-- NEW YORK: Henry Leidel, Artist's Materials, 341 Fourth Avenue. PHILADELPHIA: Janentzky & Co., Artist's Materials, 1125 Chestnut Street. BOSTON: J. H. Daniels, Printer, 223 Washington Street. But any one living within reach of a druggist, a paint-shop, and a hardware-store can do just as well with the exercise of a little patience and a very little ingenuity. For the benefit of such persons all the necessary directions will be given for making what it may be impossible to buy. [A] In London, Mr. Hamerton recommends Mr. Charles Roberson, 99 Long Acre. * * * * * 1. =Definition of Etching.=--To be able to get an impression on paper from a metal plate in a copper-plate printing-press, it is necessary to sink the lines of the design below the surface of the plate, so that each line is represented by a furrow. The plate is then inked all over, care being taken to fill each furrow, and finally the ink is cautiously wiped away from the surface, while the furrows are left charged with it. A piece of moist paper pressed against a plate so prepared, will take the ink up out of the furrows. The result is an impression. In _engraving proper_ these furrows are cut into the plate by mechanical means; in _etching_ chemical means are used for the same purpose. If nitric acid is brought into contact with copper, the acid corrodes the metal and finally eats it up altogether; if it is brought into contact with wax or resinous substances, no action ensues. Hence, if we cover a copper plate with a ground or varnish composed of wax and resinous substances, and then draw lines upon this ground with a steel or iron style or point, so that each stroke of the point lays bare the copper, we shall have a drawing in lines of copper (which are affected by nitric acid) on a ground of varnish (which is not thus affected). If now we expose the plate to the action of nitric acid for a certain length of time, we shall find, upon the removal of the ground by means of benzine, that the lines have been _bitten into_ the plate, so that each line forms a furrow capable of taking up the ink. The depth and the breadth of the lines depends upon the thickness of the points used, and upon the length of time allowed for biting; or, in other words, by varying the size of the points and the time of exposure the lines may also be made to vary. This is the whole of the _science_ of etching in a nutshell. 2. =Requisites.=--The following tools and materials are the only ones which are absolutely necessary for a first experiment:-- 1. A COPPER PLATE on which to execute your etching. Do not waste your money on a large plate. A visiting-card plate is sufficiently large. If you happen to have an engraved plate of that kind, you can use the back of it. If you have none, get one at a card-engraver's. The price ought not to be over fifteen cents. If you do not live in any of the large cities named above, or cannot find a card-engraver, send fifteen cents in stamps to Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, 45 Gold St., New York, N. Y., who will forward a plate to you by mail. Be very particular in giving your full and correct _post-office_ address. These plates only need cleaning to fit them for use. 2. BENZINE, used for cleaning the plate, sold by grocers or druggists at about five cents a pint for common quality. 3. WHITING or SPANISH WHITE, also for cleaning the plate. A very small quantity will do. 4. CLEAN COTTON RAGS.--Some pieces of soft old shirting are just the thing. 5. ETCHING-GROUND, with which to protect the plate against the action of the acid. This ground is sold in balls about the size of a walnut. If you do not live in a city where you can buy the ground, you may as well make it yourself. Here is a recipe for a very cheap and at the same time very good ground. It is the ground used by Mr. Peter Moran, one of the most experienced of our American etchers. Buy at a drug-shop (not an apothecary's) or painter's supply-store:-- Two ounces best natural asphaltum (also called Egyptian asphaltum), worth about ten cents. One and a half ounces best white virgin wax, worth about six cents. One ounce Burgundy pitch, worth say five cents. Break the wax into small pieces, and reduce the Burgundy pitch to fine powder in a mortar, or have it powdered at the drug-shop. Take a clean earthenware pot glazed on the inside, with a handle to it (in Boston you can buy one for fifteen cents at G. A. Miller & Co.'s, 101 Shawmut Avenue), and in this pot melt your asphaltum over a slow fire, taking very good care not to let it boil over, or otherwise you might possibly set the house afire. When the asphaltum has melted add the wax gradually, stirring all the while with a clean glass or metal rod. Then add the Burgundy pitch in the same way. Keep stirring the fluid mass, and let it boil up two or three times, always taking care to prevent boiling over! Then pour the whole into a pan full of tepid water, and while it is still soft and pliant, form into balls of the required size, working all the while under the water. If you touch the mass while it is still too hot, you may possibly burn your fingers, but a true enthusiast does not care for such small things. You will thus get about eight or nine balls of very good ground at an outlay of about thirty-six cents in cash, and some little time. Nearly all recipes order the wax to be melted first, but as the asphaltum requires a greater heat to reduce it to a fluid condition, it is best to commence with the least tractable substance. For use, wrap a ball of the ground in a piece of fine and close silk (taffeta), and tie this together with a string. 6. MEANS OF HEATING THE PLATE.--Any source of heat emitting no smoke will do, such as a kitchen stove, a spirit lamp, or a small quantity of alcohol poured on a plate and ignited (when the time arrives). 7. A HAND VICE with a wooden handle, for holding the plate while heating it; price about seventy-five cents at the hardware-stores. But a small monkey-wrench will do as well, and for this experiment you can even get along with a pair of pincers. 8. A DABBER for laying the ground on the plate. Cut a piece of stout card-board, two or three inches in diameter; on this lay a bunch of horse-hair, freed from all dust, and over this again some cotton wool. Cover the whole with one or two pieces of clean taffeta (a clean piece of an old silk dress will do), draw them together tightly over the card-board, and tie with a string. When finished the thing will look something like a lady's toilet-ball. The horse-hair is not absolutely necessary, and may be omitted. 9. MEANS OF SMOKING THE GROUND.--The ground when laid on the plate with the dabber, is quite transparent and allows the glitter of the metal to shine through. To obtain a better working surface the ground is blackened by smoking it. For this purpose the thin wax-tapers known to Germans as "Wachsstock," generally sold at German toy-stores, are the best. They come in balls. Cut the tapers into lengths, and twist six of them together. In default of these tapers, roll a piece of cotton cloth into a roll about as thick and as long as your middle finger, and soak one end of it in common lamp or sperm oil. 10. STOPPING-OUT VARNISH, used for protecting the back and the edges of the plate, and for "stopping out," of which more hereafter. If you cannot buy it you can make it by dissolving an ounce of asphaltum, the same as that used for the ground, in about an ounce and a half of spirits of turpentine. Add the asphaltum to the turpentine little by little; shake the bottle containing the mixture frequently; keep it in the sun or a moderately warm place. The operation will require several days. The solution when finished should be of the consistency of thick honey. 11. CAMEL'S-HAIR BRUSHES, two or three of different sizes, for laying on the stopping-out varnish, and for other purposes. 12. ETCHING POINTS OR NEEDLES, for scratching the lines into the ground. Rat-tail files of good quality, costing about twenty cents each at the hardware-stores, are excellent for the purpose. Two are all you need for your experiment, and even one will be sufficient. Still cheaper points can be made of sewing, knitting, or any other kind of needles, mounted in sticks of wood like the lead of a lead-pencil. Use glue or sealing-wax to fasten them in the wood. 13. AN OIL-STONE for grinding the points. 14. AN ETCHING-TRAY to hold the acid during the operation of biting. Trays are made of glass, porcelain, or india-rubber, and can generally be had at the photographer's supply-stores. A small india-rubber tray, large enough for your experiment, measuring four by five inches, costs fifty-five cents. But you can make an excellent tray yourself of paper. Make a box, of the required size and about one and a half inches high, of pasteboard, covered over by several layers of strong paper, well glued on. If you can manage to make a lip or spout in one of the corners, so much the better. After the glue has well dried pour stopping-out varnish into the box, and float it all over the bottom and the sides; pour the residue of the varnish back into your bottle, and allow the varnish in the box to dry; then paint the outside of the box with the same varnish. Repeat this process three or four times. Such a tray, with an occasional fresh coating of varnish, will last forever. For your experiment, however, any small porcelain (_not_ earthenware) or glass dish will do, if it is only large enough to hold your plate, and allow the acid to stand over it to the height of about half an inch. 15. A PLATE-LIFTER, to lift your plate into and out of the bath without soiling your fingers. It consists of two pieces of string, each say twelve to fifteen inches long, tied to two cross-pieces of wood, each about six inches long, thus [Illustration]. It is well to keep the fingers out of the acid, as it causes yellow spots on the skin, which remain till they wear off. 16. NITRIC ACID for biting in the lines. Any nitric acid sold by druggists will do, but the best is the so-called chemically pure nitric acid made by Messrs. Powers & Weightman, of Philadelphia. It comes put up in glass-stoppered bottles, the smallest of which hold one pound, and sell for about sixty cents. 17. WATER for mixing with the acid and for washing the plate. 18. BLOTTING-PAPER, soft and thick, several sheets, to dry the plate, as will be seen hereafter. 19. SPIRITS OF HARTSHORN OR VOLATILE ALKALI.--This is not needed for etching, but it is well to have it at hand, in case you should spatter your clothes with acid. Spots produced by the acid can generally be removed by rubbing with the alkali, which neutralizes the acid. 3. =Grounding the Plate.=--Having procured all these requisites, the first thing to do will be to clean the plate so as to remove any oil or other impurities that may have been left on it by the plate-maker. Wash and rub it well on both sides with a soft cotton rag and benzine, and then rub with whiting, as you would do if you were to clean a door-plate. Take care to remove all the whiting with a clean rag. Now take hold of your plate by one of its corners with the hand-vice, wrench, or pincers, between the jaws of which you have put a bit of card-board or stout paper, so as not to mark the plate. Hold it over the stove, spirit lamp, or ignited alcohol, and see to it that it is heated evenly throughout. Hold the plate in your left hand while heating it, and with the other press against it the ball of ground wrapped up in silk. As soon as you see the ground melting through the silk, distribute it over the plate by rubbing the ball all over its surface (the _polished_ surface, as a matter of course), taking care the while that the plate remains just hot enough to melt the ground. If it is too hot, the ground will commence to boil and will finally burn. The bubbles caused by boiling are liable to leave air-holes in the ground through which the acid may bite little holes in the plate; burning ruins the ground altogether, so that it loses its power of withstanding the acid. After you have distributed the ground tolerably evenly, and in a thin layer, lay the plate down on the table (keeping hold of it, however, by the corner), and finish the distribution of the ground by dabbing with the dabber. Strike the plate quickly and with some force at first, and treat it more gently as the ground begins to cool. If it should have cooled too much, before the distribution is accomplished to your satisfaction, in which case the dabber will draw threads, heat the plate gently. The dabber not only equalizes the distribution of the varnish, but also removes what is superfluous. An extremely thin layer of ground is sufficient. 4. =Smoking the Plate.=--While the plate is yet hot, and the ground soft, it must be smoked. Light your tapers or your oil torch, and turn the plate upside down. Allow the flame just to touch the plate, and keep moving it about rapidly, so that it may touch all points of the plate, without remaining long at any one of them. If this precaution is ignored, the ground will be burned, with the result before stated. The smoking is finished as soon as the plate is uniformly blackened all over, and the glimmer of the metal can no longer be seen through the ground. Now allow the plate to cool so that the ground may harden. _Avoid dust as much as possible_ while grounding and smoking the plate. Particles of dust embedded in the ground may cause holes which will admit the acid where you do not wish it to act. 5. =Points or Needles.=--The plate is now ready for drawing upon it, but before you can proceed to draw you must prepare your points or needles. Two will do for this first experiment, a fine one and a coarse one. For the fine one you may use a sewing-needle, for the coarser one a medium embroidery needle, both set in wood so that the points project about a quarter of an inch. If you are going to use rat-tail files, grind the handle-ends on your oil-stone until they attain the requisite fineness. Hold the file flat on the stone, so as to get a gradually tapering point, and turn continually. See to it that even the point of your finest needle is not too sharp. If it scratches when you draw it lightly over a piece of card-board, describe circles with it on the board until it simply makes a mark without scratching. The coarse needle must be evenly rounded, as otherwise it may have a cutting point somewhere. [Illustration: Plate A.] 6. =Drawing on the Plate.=--As the purpose of your experiment is simply to familiarize yourself with the _technicalities_ of etching, that is to say, with the preparation of the plate, the management of the points, and the action of the acid, it will be well to confine yourself to the drawing of lines something like those on Pl. A. It is the office of the point simply to _remove_ the ground, and _lay bare the copper_. But this it must do thoroughly, for the slightest covering left on the plate will prevent the acid from attacking the copper. You must therefore use sufficient pressure to accomplish this end, but at the same time you must avoid cutting into the copper by using too much pressure. Wherever the point has cut the copper the acid acts more rapidly, as the polished coating of the surface of the plate has been removed. It is evident from this that an even pressure is necessary to produce an evenly bitten line. Do not touch the ground with your hands while drawing. Rest your hand on three or four thicknesses of soft blotting-paper. When you desire to shift the paper, _lift it_, and _never draw it_ over the ground. Hold the point, not slantingly like a pencil, but as near as possible perpendicularly. The point is a hard instrument, with which you cannot produce a swelling line, as with a pencil or a pen. Therefore your only aim must be an _even_ line, produced by _even pressure_. The minute threads of ground thrown up by the point you must remove with your largest camel's-hair brush; otherwise they may clog your lines. Before commencing to draw read the description of Pl. A given under the heading "Description of Plates." 7. =Preparing the Plate for the Bath.=--If you were to put the plate into the acid bath in the state in which it is at present, the acid would corrode the unprotected parts. To prevent this paint the back, and the corner by which you held the plate while grounding it, and the edges with stopping-out varnish. If you are not in a hurry (_and it is always best not to be in a hurry_), let the varnish dry over night; if you cannot wait so long an hour will be sufficient for drying. While the plate is drying you may lay it, face downward, on a little pile of soft paper, made up of pieces smaller than the plate, so that the paper may not touch the varnished edges. 8. =The Bath.=--The preparation of the bath is next in order. Ascertain the capacity of the dish or tray you are going to use by pouring water into it to fill it to half its height, and then measuring the water. Pour _one half_ of this quantity of water back into the tray, and add to it the same quantity of nitric acid, stirring the mixture well with a glass rod, or a bit of glass, or a bird's feather, if you happen to have one, or in default of all these with a bit of stick. The mixing of water and acid induces chemical action, and this produces heat. The bath must therefore be allowed to cool half an hour or so, before the plate is put into it. Nitric acid being a corrosive and poisonous fluid, it is well to use some care in handling it. Otherwise it may bite holes into your clothing, and disfigure your hands, as before noted. By the side of your bath have a large vessel filled with clean water, in which to wash the plate when it is withdrawn from the bath, and your fingers in case you should soil them with acid. 9. =Biting and Stopping Out.=--The bath having been prepared, and the varnish on the back and edges of the plate having dried sufficiently, lay the plate on the plate-lifter, face upward, and lift it into the bath. In a few minutes, in hot weather in a few seconds, the acid will begin to act on the copper. This is made evident to the eye by the bubbles which collect in the lines, and to the nose by the fumes of nitrous acid which the bath exhales. The bubbles must be removed by gently brushing them out of the lines with a brush or the vane of a feather; the fumes it is best not to inhale, as they irritate the throat. After the biting has gone on for three minutes in warm, or for five minutes in cold weather, lift the plate out of the bath into the vessel filled with water. Having washed it well, so as to remove all traces of the acid, lay it on a piece of blotting-paper, and take up the moisture from the face by gently pressing another piece of the same paper against it. Then fan the plate for some minutes to make sure that it is absolutely dry. If you have a pair of bellows you may dispense with the blotting-paper as well as with the fanning. The lines on the plate, having all bitten for the same length of time, are now all of about the same depth, and if the plate were cleaned and an impression taken from it, they would all appear of about the same strength, the only difference being that produced by difference in spacing and in the size of the needles. This is the point where the stopping-out varnish comes in. With a fine camel's-hair brush _stop out_, that is to say, paint over with stopping-out varnish, those lines or parts of lines which are to remain as they are. If the varnish should be too thick to flow easily from the brush, mix a small quantity of it in a paint saucer, or on a porcelain slab, or a piece of glass, with a few drops of benzine. The varnish, however, must not be too thin, as in that case it will run in the lines, and will fill them where you do not wish them to be filled. If it is of the right consistency, you can draw a clean and sharp line across the etched lines without danger of running. When you have laid on your stopping-out varnish, fan it for some minutes until it has dried sufficiently not to adhere to the finger when lightly touched. Then introduce the plate into the bath again, and let the biting continue another five minutes. Remove again, stop out as before, and continue these operations as often as you wish. But it would be useless to let your accumulated bitings on this experimental plate exceed more than thirty minutes. Having finished your last biting, clean the plate with benzine. Then apply the same process to your hands, and follow it up with a vigorous application of soap and nail-brush. This will leave your hands as beautiful as they were before. It is hardly worth while to bother with taking an impression from this trial plate, unless you happen to have a printer near by. The plate itself will show you how the acid has enlarged the lines at each successive biting, and it stands to reason that the broader and deeper lines should give a darker impression than the finer and shallower ones. If, however, you have no printer at hand, and still desire to see how your work looks in black and white, you may consult the chapter on "Proving and Printing," p. 55 of M. Lalanne's "Treatise." * * * * * You have now gained some idea of the theory of etching, have acquainted yourself with the use of tools and materials, and have mastered the most elementary technical difficulties of the process. You are therefore in a position to profit by the teachings of M. Lalanne which follow. In conclusion, let me assure you that the home-made appliances described in the foregoing paragraphs are quite sufficient, technically, for the purposes of the etcher. Plate B, Mr. Walter F. Lansil's first essay in etching, was executed according to the directions here given, and the artist has kindly consented to let me use it for the special purpose of illustrating this point. [Illustration: Plate B.] DESCRIPTION OF THE PLATES. PLATE A. _A Trial Plate._ This plate is given to show the effect of difference in length of biting. The lines in the eight upper rectangles were all drawn before the first immersion of the plate, those on the left with a fine point, those on the right with a somewhat coarser one. After the plate had been in the bath for three minutes, it was withdrawn, and the upper rectangle on the left stopped out. The upper rectangle on the right, however, had hardly been attacked by the acid, as the lines had been drawn with a blunter point, which had not scratched the copper, while the fine point had. It was therefore allowed to bite another three minutes before it was stopped out. The other rectangles were allowed to bite ten, twenty, and thirty minutes respectively, by which means the difference in value was produced. The figures _a_, _b_, _c_ perhaps show the results of partial biting still better. The three were simply lined with the same point. After the first biting they all looked like _a_. This was then stopped out, together with the corners of _b_ and _c_. After the second biting _b_ and _c_ were both as _b_ now is. The whole of _b_ was now stopped out, and part of _c_, allowing only the inner lozenge to remain exposed to the acid. It is evident that the difference in color in these figures is not due to the drawing, but is entirely the result of biting. PLATE B. _Vessels in Boston Harbor._ A first essay in etching by Mr. Walter F. Lansil, marine painter, of Boston. The artist has kindly given me permission to use this plate, for the purpose of showing that the home-made tools and materials described in the Introductory Chapter are quite sufficient for all the technical purposes of the etcher. It is eminently "home-made." The ground was prepared according to the recipe given; the points used were a sewing-needle and a knitting-needle; the tray in which it was etched was made of paper covered with stopping-out varnish; even the plate (a zink plate by the way) did not come from the plate-maker, but was ground and polished at home. PLATE I_a_. _Etching after Claude Lorrain._ _Unfinished plate_, or "first state" (see pp. 23 and 29). This, however, is not the etching itself; it is a photo-engraving from the unfinished etching. But it does well enough to show the imperfections alluded to by M. Lalanne in the text. PLATE I. _Etching after Claude Lorrain._ _Finished plate_, or "second state" (see pp. 36 and 56). Clean wiped. PLATE II. _Etching after Claude Lorrain._ Printed from the same plate as Pl. I, but treated as described on p. 57. The difference between the two plates shows what the art of the printer can do for an etching. The difference would be still greater if Pl. II. were better printed; for it is not printed as well as it might be, although it was done in Paris. PLATE III. _A plat, une pointe_--flat biting, drawn with one point; that is to say, the plate was immersed only once, and the lines are all the result of the same needle, so that the effect is only produced by placing the lines close together in the foreground, and farther apart as the distance recedes (see p. 43). _A plat, plusieurs pointes_--flat biting, several points, that is to say, one immersion only, but the work of finer and coarser points is intermingled in the drawing. _Par couvertures, plusieurs pointes_--stopping out and the work of several points combined. PLATE IV. _Fig. 1._ See p. 27. _Fig. 2._ See p. 45. _Figs. 3, 4 and 5._ See p. 46. PLATE V. _Fig. 1._ Worked with one point; effect produced by stopping out (see p. 44). _Fig. 2._ Mottled tint in the building, &c., in the foreground; stopping out before biting, in the sky (see p. 51). PLATE VI. _Soft-ground etchings._ See p. 52. PLATE VII. _Dry-point etching._ See p. 53. PLATE VIII. _A Seville._ A sketch, given as a specimen of printing (see p. 58). PLATE IX. _A Anvers._ _Le Haag, Amsterdam._ Sketches from nature, to serve as examples. PLATE X. (Frontispiece). _Souvenir de Bordeaux._ To be consulted in regard to the manner of using the points and partial bitings. MY DEAR MONSIEUR LALANNE,[B] [B] This letter preceded also the first edition of 1866. If there is any one living who can write about Etching, it must certainly be you, as you possess all the secrets of the art, and are versed in all its refinements, its resources, and its effects. Nevertheless, when I was told that you intended to publish a book on the subject, I feared that you were about to attempt the impossible; for it seemed as if Abraham Bosse had exhausted the theme two hundred years ago, and that you would be condemned to repeat all that this excellent man had said in his treatise, in which, with charming _naivete_, he teaches _the art of engraving to perfection_. I must confess, however, that the reading of your manuscript very quickly undeceived me. I find in it numberless useful and interesting things not to be found anywhere else, and I comprehend that Abraham Bosse wrote for those who know, while you write for those who do not know. I was quite young, and had just left college, when accident threw into my hands the _Traite des manieres de graver en taille douce sur l'airain par le moyen des eaux fortes et des vernis durs et mols_. Perhaps I might have paid no attention to this book, if I had not previously noticed on the stands on the _Quai Voltaire_ some etchings by Rembrandt, which had opened to me an entirely new world of poetry and of dreams. These prints had taken such hold upon my imagination that I desired to learn, from Bosse's "Treatise," how the Dutch painter had managed to produce his strange and startling effects and his mysterious tones, the fantastic play of his lights and the silence of his shadows. Rembrandt's etchings on the one hand, and Bosse's book on the other, were the causes of my resolution to learn the art of engraving, and of my subsequent entry into the studio of Calamatta and Mercuri. As soon as I knew how to hold the burin and the point, these grave and illustrious masters placed before me an allegorical figure engraved by Edelinck, whose drapery was executed in waving and winding lines, incomparable in their correctness and beauty. To break my hand to the work, it was necessary to copy on my plate these solemnly classical and majestically disposed lines. But while I cut into the copper with restrained impatience, my attention was secretly turned towards Rembrandt's celebrated portrait of Janus Lutma, a good impression of which I owned, and which I thought of copying. To make my _debut_ in this severe school--in which we were allowed to admire only Marc Antonio, the Ghisis, the Audrans, and Nanteuil--with an etching by Rembrandt, would have been a heresy of the worst sort. Hence to be able to risk this infraction of discipline, I took very good care to keep my project to myself. Secretly I bought ground, wax, and a plate, and profited of the absence of my teachers to attempt, with fevered hands, to make a fac-simile of the Lutma. I had followed the instructions of Abraham Bosse with regard to the ground, and I proceeded to bite in my plate with the assistance of a comrade, Charles Noerdlinger, at present engraver to the king of Wurtemburg, at Stuttgart, whom I had admitted as my accomplice in this delightful expedition. You may well imagine, my dear Monsieur Lalanne, that I met with all sorts of accidents, such as are likely to befall a novice, and all of which you describe so carefully, while at the same time you indicate fully and lucidly the remedies that may be applied. The ground cracked in several places,--happily in the dark parts. My wax border had been hastily constructed, and I did not know then, although Bosse says so, that it is the rule to pass a heated key along the lower line of the border, so as to melt the wax, and thus render all escape impossible. Consequently the acid filtered through under the wax, and in trying to arrest the flow, I burned my fingers. Furthermore, when it came to the biting in of the shadows in the portrait of Lutma, the greenish and then whitish ebullition produced by the long-continued biting so frightened me, that I hastened to empty the acid into a pail, not, however, without having spattered a few drops on a proof of the _Vow of Louis XIII._, which had been scratched in the printing, and which we were about to repair. At last I removed the ground, and, trembling all over, went to have a proof taken, but not to the printer regularly employed by Calamatta. What a disappointment! I believed my etching to have been sufficiently, nay, even over-bitten, and in reality I had stopped half-way. The color of the copper had deceived me. I had seen my portrait on the fine red ground of the metal, and now I saw it on the crude white of the paper. I hardly knew it again. It lacked the profundity, the mystery, the harmony in the shadows, which were precisely what I had striven for. The plate was only roughly cut up by lines crossing in all directions, through the network of which shone the ground which Rembrandt had subdued, so as to give all the more brilliancy to the window with its leaded panes, to the lights in the foreground, and to the cheek of the pensive head of Lutma. As luck would have it, all the light part in the upper half of the print came out pretty well; the expression of the face was satisfactory, and the grimaces of the two small heads of monsters which surmount the back of the chair were perfectly imitated. I had to strengthen the shadows by means of the roulette, and to go over the most prominent folds of the coat with the graver; for I had not the knowledge necessary to enable me to undertake a second biting. Bosse says a few words on this subject, which, as they are wanting in clearness, are apt to lead a beginner into error. He speaks of smoked ground, while, as you have so admirably shown, white ground must be used for retouching. I therefore finished my plate by patching and cross-hatching and stippling, and finally obtained a passable copy, which, at a little distance, looked something like the original, although, to a practised eye, it was really nothing but a very rude imitation. It is needless to say that we carefully obliterated all evidence of our proceedings, and that, my teachers having returned, I went to work again, with hypocritical compunction, upon what I called the _military_ lines of Gerard Edelinck. But we were betrayed by some incautious words of the chamber-woman, and M. Calamatta, having discovered "the rose-pot," scolded Charles Noerdlinger and myself roundly for this romantic escapade. If my plate had been worse,----the good Lord only knows what might have happened! All this, my dear M. Lalanne, is simply intended to show to you how greatly I esteem the excellent advice which you give to the young etcher, or _aqua-fortiste_ (as the phrase goes now-a-days, according to a neologism which is hardly less barbaric than the word _artistic_). When I recall the efforts of my youth, the ardor with which I deceived myself, the hot haste with which I fell into the very errors which you point out, I understand that your book is an absolute necessity; and that the artist or the amateur, who, hidden away in some obscure province, desires to enjoy the agreeable pastime of etching, need only follow, step by step, the intelligent and methodical order of your precepts, to be enabled to carry the most complicated plate to a satisfactory end, whether he chooses to employ the soft ground used by Decamps, Masson, and Marvy, or whether he confines himself to the ordinary processes which you make sensible even to the touch with a lucidity, a familiarity with details, and a certainty of judgment, not to be sufficiently commended. Having read your "Treatise," I admit, not only that you have surpassed your worthy predecessor, Abraham Bosse, but that you have absolutely superseded his book by making your own indispensable. If only the amateurs, whose time hangs heavily upon them; if the artists, who wish to fix a fleeting impression; if the rich, who are sated with the pleasures of photography,--had an idea of the great charm inherent in etching, your little work would have a marvellous success! Even our elegant ladies and literary women, tired of their do-nothing lives and their nick-nacks, might find a relaxation full of attractions in the art of drawing on the ground and biting-in their passing fancies. Madame de Pompadour, when she had ceased to govern, although she continued to reign, took upon herself a colossal enterprise,--to amuse the king and to divert herself. You know the sixty-three pieces executed by this charming engraver (note, if you please, that I do not say _engraveress_!). Her etchings after Eisen and Boucher are exquisite. The pulsation of life, the fulness of the carnations, are expressed in them by delicately trembling lines; and I do think that Madame de Pompadour could not have done better, even if she had been your pupil. At present, moreover, etching has, in some measure, become the fashion again as a substitute for lithography, an art which developed charm as well as strength under the crayon of Charlet, of Gericault, of Gigoux, and of Gavarni. The _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_ is the fruit of this renaissance. The art, which, in our own day, has been rendered illustrious by the inimitable Jacque, now has its adepts in all countries, and in all imaginable spheres of society. Etchings come to us from all points of the compass: the Hague sends those of M. Cornet, conservator of the Museum; Poland, those which form the interesting album of M. Bronislas Zaleski, the _Life of the Kirghise Steppes_; London, those of M. Seymour Haden, so original and full of life, and so well described in the catalogue of our friend Burty; Lisbon, those of King Ferdinand of Portugal, who etches as Grandville drew, but with more suppleness and freedom. But after all Paris is the place where the best etchings appear, more especially in the _Gazette des Beaux-Arts_, and in the publications of the _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_. Do you desire to press this capricious process into your service for the translation of the old or modern masters? Hedouin, Flameng, Bracquemont, will do wonders for you. You have told me yourself that, in my _OEuvre de Rembrandt_, Flameng has so well imitated this great man, that he himself would be deceived if he should come to life again. As to Jules Jacquemart, he is perfectly unique of his kind; he compels etching to say what it never before was able to say. With the point of his needle he expresses the density of porphyry; the coldness of porcelain; the insinuating surface of Chinese lacquer; the transparent and imponderable _finesse_ of Venetian glassware; the reliefs and the chased lines of the most delicate works of the goldsmith, almost imperceptible in their slightness; the polish of iron and steel; the glitter, the reflections, and even the sonority of bronze; the color of silver and of gold, as well as all the lustre of the diamond and all the appreciable shades of the emerald, the turquoise, and the ruby. I shall not speak of you, my dear monsieur, nor of your etchings, in which the style of Claude is so well united to the grace of Karel Dujardin. You preach by practising; and if one had only seen the plates with which you have illustrated your excellent lessons, one would recognize not only the instructor but the master. Hence, be without fear or hesitation; put forth confidently your little book; it is just in time to help regenerate the art of etching, and to direct its renaissance. For these reasons--mark my prediction!--its success will be brilliant and lasting. CHARLES BLANC. INTRODUCTION. Since the year 1866, when the first edition of this treatise appeared, the art of etching, which was then in full course of regeneration, has gained considerably in extent. The tendencies of modern art must necessarily favor the soaring flight of this method of engraving, which has been left in oblivion quite too long. It remained for our contemporary school to accord to it those honors which the school of the first empire had denied to it, and which that of 1830 had given but timidly. At the period last named some of our illustrious masters, by applying their talent to occasional essays in etching, set an example which our own generation, expansive in its aspirations, and anxiously desirous of guarding the rights of individuality, was quick to follow. The _Gazette des Beaux Arts_ comprehended this movement, and contributed to its extension by attracting to itself the artists who rendered themselves illustrious by the work done for its pages, while, by a sort of natural reciprocity, they shed around it the prestige of their talents. The _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_ (Etching Club), founded in 1863 by Alfred Cadart, has also, by the united efforts of many eminent etchers, done its share towards bringing the practice of this art into notice, and has popularized it in the world of amateurs, whose numbers it has been instrumental in augmenting; while at the same time, owing to the nature of its constitution, it has given material support to the artists. Private collections have been formed, and are growing in richness from day to day. Two royal artists, King Ferdinand of Portugal and King Charles XV. of Sweden, have, through their works, taken an active part in the renewal of etching; they were the happy sponsors of a publication which, under the name of _L'Illustration Nouvelle_, follows in the footsteps, and continues the traditions, of the _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_. Similar societies, organized in England and in Belgium,[1] are prospering. On the other hand, a great number of art journals, of books, and of albums, owe their success to the use made in them of etchings. This is true also of those special editions which are sumptuously printed in small numbers, and are the delight of lovers of books. Etching has thus taken a position in modern art which cannot fail to become still more important. "Everything has been said," wrote La Bruyere, concerning the works of the pen, "and we can only glean after the poets." The literature of two centuries has given the lie to the assertion of the celebrated moralist, and it may also be affirmed that etching has not yet spoken its last word. Not only has it no need of gleaning after the old masters, but it may rather seek for precious models in the works of our contemporary etchers. In their experience may be found fruit for the present as well as useful information for the future. [Illustration: AN ETCHER'S STUDIO. From the Third Edition of Abraham Bosse's "Treatise," Paris, 1758.] A TREATISE ON ETCHING. CHAPTER I. DEFINITION AND CHARACTER OF ETCHING. 1. =Definition.=--An etching is a design fixed on metal by the action of an acid. The art of etching consists, in the first place, in drawing, with a _point_ or _needle_, upon a metal plate, which is perfectly polished, and covered with a layer of varnish, or ground, blackened by smoke; and, secondly, in exposing the plate, when the drawing is finished, to the action of nitric acid. The acid, which does not affect fatty substances but corrodes metal, eats into the lines which have been laid bare by the needle, and thus the drawing is _bitten in_. The varnish is then removed by washing the plate with spirits of turpentine,[2] and the design will be found to be engraved, as it were, on the plate. But, as the color of the copper is misleading, it is impossible to judge properly of the quality of the work done until a _proof_ has been taken. 2. =Knowledge needed by the Etcher.=--The aspirant in the art of etching, having familiarized himself by a few trials with the appearance of the bright lines produced by the needle on the dark ground of smoked varnish, will soon go to work on his plate confidently and unhesitatingly; and, without troubling himself much about the uniform appearance of his work, he will gradually learn to calculate in advance the conversion of his lines into lines more or less deeply bitten, and the change in appearance which these lines undergo when transferred to paper by means of ink and press. It follows from this that the etcher must, from the very beginning of his work, have a clear conception of the idea he intends to realize on his plate, as the work of the needle must harmonize with the character of the subject, and as the effect produced is finally determined by the combination of this work with that of the acid. The knowledge needed to bring about these intimate relations between the needle, which produces the _drawing_, and the biting-in, which supplies the _color_, constitutes the whole science of the etcher. 3. =Manner of Using the Needle.--Character of Lines.=--The needle or point must be allowed to play lightly on the varnish, so as to permit the hand to move with that unconcern which is necessary to great freedom of execution. The use of a moderately sharp needle will insure lines which are full and nourished in the delicate as well as in the vigorous parts of the work. We shall thus secure the means of being simple. Nor will it be necessary to depart from this character even in plates requiring the most minute execution; all that is required will be a finer point, and lines of a more delicate kind. But the spaces left between the latter will be proportionately the same, or perhaps even somewhat wider, so as to prevent the acid from confusing the lines by eating away the ridges of metal which are left standing between the furrows. Freshness and neatness depend on these conditions in small as well as in large plates. 4. =Freedom of Execution.=--It is a well-known fact that the engraver who employs the burin (or graver), produces lines on the naked copper or steel which cross one another, and are measured and regular. It is a necessary consequence of the importance of line-engraving, growing out of its application to classical works of high style, that it should always show the severity and coldness of positive and almost mathematical workmanship. With etching this is not the case: the point must be free and capricious; it must accentuate the forms of objects without stiffness or dryness, and must delicately bring out the various distances, without following any other law than that of a picturesque harmony in the execution. It may be made to work with precision, whenever that is needed, but only to be abandoned afterwards to its natural grace. It will be well, however, to avoid over-excitement and violence in execution, which give an air of slovenliness to that which ought to be simply a revery. 5. =How to produce Difference in Texture.=--The manner of execution to be selected must conform to the nature of the objects. This is essential, as we have at our disposition only a point, the play of which on the varnish is always the same. It follows that we must vary its strokes, so as to make it express difference in texture. If we examine the etchings of the old masters, we shall find that they had a special way of expressing foliage, earth, rocks, water, the sky, figures, architecture, &c., without, however, making themselves the slaves of too constraining a tradition. 6. =The Work of the Acid.=--After the subject has been drawn on the ground, the acid steps in to give variety to the forms which were laid out for it by the needle, to impart vibration to this work of uniform aspect, and to inform it with the all-pervading warmth of life. In principle, a single biting ought to be sufficient; but if the artist desires to secure greater variety in the result by a succession of partial bitings, the different distances may be made to detach themselves from one another by covering up with varnish the parts sufficiently bitten each time the plate is withdrawn from the bath. The different parts which the mordant is to play must be regulated by the feeling: discreet and prudent, it will impart delicacy to the tender values; controlled in its subtle functions, it will carefully mark the relative tones of the various distances; less restrained and used more incisively, it will dig into the accentuated parts and will give them force. 7. =The Use of the Dry Point.=--If harmony has not been sufficiently attained, the _dry point_ is used on the bare metal, to modify the values incompletely rendered, or expressed too harshly. Its office is to cover such insufficient passages with a delicate tint, and to serve, as Charles Blanc has very well expressed it, as a _glaze_ in engraving. 8. =Spirit in which the Etcher must work.=--Follow your feeling, combine your modes of expression, establish points of comparison, and adopt from among the practical means at command (which depend on the effect, and on which the effect depends) those which will best render the effect desired: this is the course to be followed by the etcher. There is plenty of the instinctive which practice will develop in him, and in this he will find a growing charm and an irresistible attraction. What happy effects, what surprises, what unforeseen discoveries, when the varnish is removed from the plate! A bit of good luck and of inspiration often does more than a methodical rule, whether we are engaged on subjects of our own invention,--_capricci_, as the Italians call them,--or whether we are drawing from nature directly on the copper. The great aim is to arrive at the first onset at the realization of our ideas as they are present in our mind. An etching must be virginal, like an improvisation. 9. =Expression of Individuality in Etching.=--Having once mastered the processes, the designer or painter need only carry his own individuality into a species of work which will no longer be strange to him, there to find again the expression of the talent which he displayed in another field of art. He will comprehend that etching has this essentially vital element,--and in it lies the strength of its past and the guaranty of its future,--that, more than any other kind of engraving on metal, it bears the imprint of the character of the artist. It personifies and represents him so well, it identifies itself so closely with his idea, that it often seems on the point of annihilating itself as a process in favor of this idea. Rembrandt furnishes a striking example of this: by the intermixture and diversity of the methods employed by him, he arrived at a suavity of expression which may be called magical; he diffused grace and depth throughout his work. In some of his plates the processes lend themselves so marvellously to the severest requirements of modelling, and attain such an extreme limit of delicacy, that the eye can no longer follow them, thus leaving the completest enjoyment to the intellect alone. Claude Lorrain, on the other hand, knew how to conciliate freedom of execution with majesty of style. 10. =Value of Etching to Artists.=--Speaking of this subordination of processes in etching to feeling, I am induced to point out how many of the masters of our time, judging by the character of their work, might have added to their merits had they but substituted the etcher's needle for the crayon. Was not Decamps, who handled the point but little, an etcher in his drawings and his lithographs? Ingres only executed one solitary etching, and yet, simply by virtue of his great knowledge, it seems as if in it he had given a presentiment of all the secrets of the craft. And did not Gigoux give us a foretaste of the work of the acid, when he produced the illustrations to his "Gil Blas," conceived in the spirit of an etcher, which, after thirty years of innumerable similar productions, are still the _chef-d'oeuvre_ and the model of engraving on wood. And would Mouilleron have been inferior, if from the stone he had passed to the copper plate? It would be an easy matter to multiply examples chosen from among the artists who have boldly handled the needle, or from among those who might have taken it up with equal advantage, to prove that etching is not, as it has been called, a secondary method. There are no secondary methods for the manifestation of genius. 11. =Versatility of Etching.=--The needle is the crayon; the acid adds color. The needle is sometimes all the more eloquent because its means of expression are confined within more restricted limits. It is familiar and lively in the sketch, which by a very little must say a great deal; the sketch is the spontaneous letter. It all but reaches the highest expression when it is called in to translate a grand spectacle, or one of those fugitive effects of light which nature seems to produce but sparingly, so as to leave to art the merit of fixing them. 12. =Etching compared to other Styles of Engraving.=--By its very character of freedom, by the intimate and rapid connection which it establishes between the hand and the thoughts of the artist, etching becomes the frankest and most natural of interpreters. These are the qualities which make it an honor to art, of which it is a glorious branch. All other styles of engraving can never be any thing but a means of reproduction. We must admire the knowledge, the intelligence, and the self-denial which the line-engraver devotes to the service of his art. But, after all, it is merely the art of assimilating an idea which is foreign to him, and of which he is the slave. By him the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of the masters are multiplied and disseminated, and sometimes, in giving eternity to an original work, he immortalizes his own name; but the part he has assumed inevitably excludes him from all creative activity. 13. =Etching as a Reproductive Art.=--These reserves having been made in regard to the engraver, whose instrument is the burin, justice requires that the reproductive etcher should come in for his proportional share, and that his functions should be defined. Some years ago, a school of etchers arose among us, whose mission it is to interpret those works of the brush which, by the delicacy and elegance of their character, cannot be harmonized with the severity of the burin. This school, to which Mr. Gaucherel gave a great impulse, has been called in to fill a regrettable void in the collections of amateurs. Every one knows those remarkable publications, _Les Artistes Contemporains_, and _Les Peintres Vivants_, which, for the last twenty years, have reproduced in lithography the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of our exhibitions of paintings. To-day etching takes the place of lithography; it excels in the reproduction of modern landscapes, and of the _genre_ subjects which we owe to our most esteemed painters. It is not less happy in the interpretation of certain of the old masters, whose works make it impossible to approach them with the burin. The catalogues of celebrated galleries which have lately been sold also testify to the important services rendered to art by the reproductive etcher. His methods are free and rapid; they are not subjected to a severe convention of form. He may rest his own work on the genius of others, so as to attain a success like that of the painter-etcher; but the latter, as he bathes his inspiration in the acid and triumphantly withdraws it, finds his power and his resources within himself alone. He is at once the translator and the poet. CHAPTER II. TOOLS AND MATERIALS.--PREPARING THE PLATE.--DRAWING ON THE PLATE WITH THE NEEDLE. 14. =Method of Using this Manual.=--As the general theory given in the preceding chapter may seem too brief, and may convey but an incomplete idea of the different operations involved in etching, I shall now endeavor to formulate, in as concise a manner as possible, such practical directions as I have had occasion to give to a young designer, and to different other persons, in my own studio. I shall provide successively for all the accidents which usually, or which may possibly, occur. But the beginner need not trouble himself too much about the apparent complication of detail which the following pages present. They are intended, rather, to be consulted, like a dictionary, as occasion arises. In all cases, however, it will be well, on reading the book, to make immediate application of the various directions given, so as to avoid all confusion of detail in the memory, and to escape the tedium of what would otherwise be rather dry reading. A. TOOLS AND MATERIALS. 15. =List of Tools and Materials needed.=--To begin with, we must provide ourselves with the following requisites:[3]-- Copper plates. A hand-vice. Ordinary etching-ground and transparent ground in balls. Liquid stopping-out varnish. Brushes of different sizes. Two dabbers,--one for the ordinary varnish, the other for the white or transparent varnish. A wax taper. A needle-holder. Needles of various sizes. A dry point. A burnisher. A scraper. An oil-stone of best quality. A lens or magnifying-glass. Bordering-wax. An etching-trough made of gutta-percha or of porcelain. India-rubber finger-gloves. Nitric acid of forty degrees. Tracing-paper. Gelatine in sheets. Chalk or sanguine. Emery paper, No. 00 or 000. Blotting-paper. A roller for revarnishing, with its accessories. To these things we must add a supply of _old_ rags. 16. =Quality and Condition of Tools and Materials.=--Too much care cannot be taken as regards the quality of the copper, which metal is used by preference for etching. Soft copper bites slowly, while on hard copper the acid acts more quickly and bites more deeply. It is to be regretted that nowadays plates are generally rolled, which does not give density enough to the metal. Formerly they were hammered, and the copper was of a better quality. Thus hammered, the metal becomes hard, and is less porous; its molecular condition is most favorable to the action of the acid, the lines are purer, and even when the work is carried to the extreme of delicacy, it is sure to be preserved in the biting. English copper plates, and plates that have been replaned, are excellent. It is a good plan to buy thick plates, of a dimension smaller than that of the designs to be made, and to have them hammered out to the required size. The plates thus obtained will not fail to be very good. The vice must have a wooden handle, so as to prevent burning the fingers. To meet all possible emergencies, lamp-black may be mixed with the liquid stopping-out varnish (_petit vernis liquide_). Some engravers find that it dries too quickly, and therefore, fearing that it may chip off under the needle, use it only for stopping out; for retouching, they employ a special retouching varnish (_vernis au pinceau_).[4] For brushes, select such as are used in water-color painting. The silk with which the dabbers are covered must be very fine in the thread. In order to protect his fingers, an engraver conceived the idea of smoking his plates by means of the ends of several candles or wax tapers placed together in the bottom of a little vessel: they furnish an abundance of smoke, and can be extinguished by covering up the vessel. The smoke of a wax taper is the best; it is excellent for small plates. The needle-holder holds short points of various thicknesses, down to the fineness of sewing-needles. To sharpen an etching-needle, pass it over the oil-stone, holding it down flat, and turning it continually. When it has attained a high degree of sharpness, describe a large circle with it on a piece of card-board, holding it fixed between the fingers this time, and go on describing circles of a continually decreasing size. The nearer you approach to the centre, the more vertical must be the position of the needle. The fineness or the coarseness of the point is regulated by keeping the needle away from, or bringing it nearer to, the central point. The dry point must be ground with flat faces rather than round, so as to cut the copper, and penetrate it with ease. If the burnisher is not sufficiently polished, it scratches the copper, and produces black spots in the proofs. To keep it in good condition, cut two grooves, the size of the burnisher, in a piece of pine board. Rub it up and down the first of these grooves, containing emery powder; and then, to give it its final lustre, repeat the same process, with tripoli and oil, in the second groove. The stones which are too hard for razors are excellent for the scrapers. Having sharpened the scraper with a little oil, during which operation you must hold it down flat on the stone, pass it over your finger-nail. If the touch discloses the presence of the least bit of tooth, and if the tool does not glide along with the greatest ease, the grinding must be continued, as otherwise the scraper will scratch the copper. You are at liberty to use two troughs,--one for the acid bath; the other, filled with water, for washing the plate. A glass funnel, and a bottle with a ground-glass stopper, will be necessary for filling in and keeping the etching liquid. Various substances are used for finishing off the copper plates; the most natural is the paste obtained by rubbing charcoal on the oil-stone with oil. Then comes the fine emery paper Nos. 00 or 000, rotten-stone, tripoli, English red, and, finally, slate. Powdered slate, produced by simply scraping with a knife, is excellent, used with oil and a fine rag, the same as other substances. The varnish for revarnishing is nothing but ordinary etching-ground, dissolved in oil of lavender. It must be about as stiff as honey in winter. The rollers for revarnishing, which can be had of different sizes, are cylindrical in form, and are terminated by two handles, which revolve in the hands. The roller ought, if possible, to cover the whole surface of the copper.[5] As soon as it has been used, it must be put out of the way of the dust. These various recommendations are by no means unnecessary, as the least material obstacle may sometimes hinder the flight of the imagination. It is well to be armed against all the troublesome vexations of the handicraft; for the difficulties of the art are in themselves sufficient to occupy our attention. B. PREPARING THE PLATE. I shall now proceed to give the various talks which I had with my young pupil. 17. =Laying the Ground, or Varnishing.=--You have here a plate, I say to him; I clean it with turpentine; then, having well wiped it with a piece of fine linen, and having still further cleaned it by rubbing it with Spanish white (or whiting), I fasten it into the vice by one of its edges, taking care to place a tolerably thick piece of paper under the teeth of the vice, so as to protect the copper against injury. I now hold the plate with its back over this chafing-dish; but a piece of burning paper, or the flame of a spirit-lamp, will do equally well. As soon as the plate is sufficiently heated, I place upon its polished surface this ball of ordinary etching-ground, wrapped up in a piece of plain taffeta; the heat causes the ground to melt. If the plate is too hot, the varnish commences to boil while melting; in that case, we must allow the plate to cool somewhat, as otherwise the ground will be burned. I pass the ball over the whole surface of the copper, taking care not to overcharge the plate with the ground. Then, with the dabber, I dab it in all directions; at first, vigorously and quickly, so as to spread and equalize the layer of varnish; and finally, as the varnish cools, I apply the dabber more delicately. The appearance of inequalities, and of little protruding points in the ground, indicates that it is laid on too thick, and the dabbing must be continued, until we have obtained a perfectly homogeneous layer. This must be very thin,--sufficient to resist strong biting, and yet allowing the point to draw the very finest lines, which it will be difficult to do with too much varnish. 18. =Smoking.=--Without waiting for the plate to cool, I turn it over, and present its varnished side to the smoke of a torch or a wax taper, which I hold at a distance of about two centimetres from the plate, so as not to injure the varnish. I keep moving the flame about in all directions, to avoid burning the varnish (which latter would take place if the flame remained too long at the same point), and thus I obtain a brilliant black surface. All the transparency is gone; we see neither copper nor varnish, and this is a sign that our operation has succeeded. All we need do now is to allow the plate to cool and the varnish to harden, and then you can commence making your drawing. You call my attention to the fact that the varnish, in cooling, loses the brilliancy which it had in its liquid state. This is always the case. And see the perfect neatness and evenness of the varnished and smoked surface! Here is a plate which was spoiled in the smoking. The first thing that strikes us is that we see the marks left by the passage of the taper. At a pinch, these marks might, perhaps, be no inconvenience to us in working; but here the brilliant black is broken by very dull spots. These are places in which the varnish was burned; it will scale off under the needle, and has lost the power of resisting the acid. We must therefore clean this plate with spirits of turpentine, and commence operations afresh. The ground is blackened, because its natural transparency does not permit us to see the work of the point. This work produces what might be called a negative design; that is to say, a design in bright lines on a black ground. This is rather perplexing at first, but you will soon become accustomed to it. C. DRAWING ON THE PLATE WITH THE NEEDLE. 19. =The Transparent Screen.=--You must place yourself so as to face this window, and between you and it we must introduce, in an inclined position, a transparent screen made of tracing paper stretched on a wooden frame, which will prevent your seeing the window. This screen will soften and strain the light; it will reduce the reflection of the copper, and will allow you to see what you are doing. In designing on the plate out of doors, the screen is unnecessary, since, as the light falls equally upon the copper from all directions, the reflection is done away with, and the copper does not dazzle the eye as it does when the light emanates from a single source. 20. =Needles or Points.=--You may use a single needle, or you may use several of different degrees of sharpness, even down to sewing-needles, as you will see later on; but your work on the plate will always look uniform, without distance and without relief. The modelling and coloring of the design must be left to the acid. The point must be held on the plate as perpendicularly as possible, as the purity of the line depends on the angle of incidence which the point makes with the copper; furthermore, it must be possible to direct it freely and easily in all directions, and it is, therefore, necessary that the needle should not be too sharp. To make sure of this, draw a number of eights on the margin of your plate, or simply an oblique line from below upwards in the direction of the needle. If it does not glide along easily, if it attacks the copper and catches in it, you must regrind it. This is important, as in principle the function of the needle is to trace the design by removing the varnish from the copper, while it must avoid scratching it. By scratching the metal we encroach on the domain of the acid, and inequality of work is the result, since the acid acts more vigorously on those parts which have been scratched than on those which have simply been laid bare. We must feel the copper under the point, without, however, penetrating into it. The opposite effect is produced if we operate too timidly. In this case we do not reach the copper. We remove the blackened surface, and it seems as if we had also removed the varnish, since we see the copper shining through it. But we shall find later, from the fact that the acid does not bite, that we did not bear heavily enough on the needle. At first there is a tendency to proceed as in drawing on paper, giving greater lightness to the touch of the point in the distances, and bearing on it more vigorously in the foregrounds. But this is useless. There are certain artists, nevertheless, who prefer to attack the copper with cutting points in the finer as well as in the more vigorous parts of their work, and to bite in with strong acid; others, again, dig resolutely into the copper wherever they desire to produce a powerful tone. Abraham Bosse, in applying etching to line-engraving, advises his readers to cut the copper slightly in the lines which are to appear fine, and to dig vigorously into the plate for those lines which are to be very heavy, so that delicate as well as strong work may be obtained at one and the same biting. As it is necessary in this sort of engraving to retouch the heavy lines with the burin, we can understand that in the way shown the work of the instrument named may be facilitated. 21. =Temperature of the Room.=--In summer the temperature softens the varnish, and the needle works pliantly and easily; in winter the cold hardens the varnish, so that it is apt to scale off under the point, especially at the crossing of the lines. It is advisable, therefore, to have your room well heated, or to supply yourself with two cast-metal plates or two lithographic stones, or even two bricks, if you please, which must be warmed and placed under your plate alternately, so as to keep it at a soft and uniform temperature. Practice has shown that work done at the right temperature is softer than that executed when the varnish is too cold, even if it is not sufficiently so to scale off. 22. =The Tracing.=--According to the kind of work to be done, we shall either draw directly on the plate, or, in the case of a drawing which is to be copied of its own size, we shall make use of a tracing. Many engravers emancipate themselves from the tracing, and accustom themselves to reversing the original while they copy it. The manner of using a tracing is well known. We shall need tracing-paper, paper rubbed with sanguine on one side, and a pencil. The tracing is made on the tracing-paper, and this is afterwards placed on the prepared plate; between the tracing and the plate we introduce the paper rubbed with sanguine; then, with a very fine lead-pencil, or with a somewhat blunt needle, we go carefully over the lines of the design, which, under the gentle pressure of the tool, is thus transferred in red to the black ground. It is unnecessary to use much pressure, as otherwise your tracing will be obscured by the sanguine and you will find neither precision nor delicacy in it. Furthermore, you run the risk of injuring the ground. The tracing is used simply to indicate the places where the lines are to be, and it must be left to the needle to define them. 23. =Reversing the Design.=--Whenever your task is the interpretation of an object of fixed aspect, such as a monument, or some well-known scene, or human beings in a given attitude, you will be obliged to reverse the drawing on your plate, as otherwise it will appear reversed in the proof. You must, therefore, reverse your tracing, which is a very easy matter, as the design is equally visible on both sides of the tracing-paper. Gelatine in sheets, however, offers still greater advantages when a design is to be reversed. Place the gelatine on the design, and, as it is easily scratched, make your tracing with a very fine-pointed and sharp needle, occasionally slipping a piece of black paper underneath the gelatine to assure yourself that you have omitted nothing. The point, in scratching the gelatine, raises a bur, and this must be removed gently with a paper stump, or with the scraper, after which operation the tracing is rubbed in with powdered sanguine. Having now thoroughly cleaned the sheet, so that no powder is left anywhere but in the furrows, we turn the sheet over and lay it down on the plate, and finally rub it on its back in all directions, for which purpose we use the burnisher dipped in oil. The design, reversed, will be found traced on the varnish in extremely fine lines. 24. =Use of the Mirror.=--The tracing finished, place a mirror before your plate on the table, and as close by as possible; between the plate and the mirror fix the design to be reproduced, and then draw the reflected image. For the sake of greater convenience, take your position at right angles to the window instead of facing it, so that the light passing through the transparent screen on your left falls on the mirror and the design, as well as on your work. When drawing on the copper from nature, if the design is to be reversed, you must place yourself with your back to the object to be drawn, and so that you can easily see it in a small mirror set up before your plate. This is the way Meryon proceeded: standing, and holding in the same hand his plate and a little mirror, which he always carried in his pocket, he guided his point with the most absolute surety, without any further support. 25. =Precautions to be observed while Drawing.=--Before you begin to draw you must trace the margin of your design, for the guidance of the printer. To protect your plate, it will be necessary to cover it with very soft paper; the pressure of the hand does no harm, provided you avoid rubbing the varnish. If you should happen to damage it, you must close up the brilliant little dots which you will observe, by touching them up, very lightly and with a very fine brush, with stopping-out varnish. 26. =Directions for Drawing with the Needle.=--I might now let you copy some very simple etching; but your knowledge of drawing will, I believe, enable you to try your hand at a somewhat more important exercise. Let us suppose, then, that you are to draw a landscape, although the practice you are about to acquire applies to all other subjects equally well. Will you reproduce this design by Claude Lorrain? (Pl. II.) It is a composition full of charm and color, and very harmonious in effect. Use only one needle, and keep your work close together in the distance and more open in the foreground. (See Pl. I^_a_.) That appears paradoxical to you; but the nitric acid will soon tell you why this is so. I shall indicate to you, after your plate has been bitten, those cases in which you will have to proceed differently, or, in other words, in which you will have to draw your lines nearer together or farther apart without regard to the different distances. I cannot explain this subject more fully before you have become acquainted with the process of biting in, as without this knowledge it must remain unintelligible to you. This remark holds good, also, of what I have told you on the subject of the needles of different degrees of sharpness. "It is curious, my dear sir, to notice how at one and the same time the point combines a certain degree of softness and of precision; those who draw with the pen ought also to be admirers of etching. It seems to me, however, that my lines are too thick; I have already laid several of them, and the varnish is no longer visible; I am afraid I have taken it up altogether." You need not feel any uneasiness about that; it is simply owing to the irradiation of the copper, the brilliancy of which the screen does not completely subdue. The bright line is made to look broader than it really is by the brilliant gloss of the metal. But if you lay a piece of tracing-paper on the plate you will see the lines as they really are; that is to say, with plenty of space between them. By the aid of a lens you can convince yourself still more easily; you will often have occasion to avail yourself of this instrument to enable you to do fine work with greater facility, or to give you a better insight into what you have already done. As the irradiation of which we have just spoken is apt to deceive us in regard to the quantity of the work done, we may happen to find less of it than we expected when the plate has been bitten. Plates which to the beginner seem to be quite elaborately worked, present to the acid lines widely spaced and insufficient in number, thus necessitating retouches. It is essential, therefore, in principle (except in the special cases to be pointed out hereafter), to give to our work, in its first stages, all the development that is necessary. I forgot to tell you that you must provide yourself with a very soft brush, say a badger, which, from time to time, you must pass lightly over your plate so as to remove the small particles of varnish raised by the needle. Otherwise you will not be able to see properly what you have been doing. Continue, and follow your own feeling; work away without fear of going wrong; some of your errors you will be able to remedy. Thus, if you have made a mistake, you can lay a thin coat of liquid varnish over the spoiled part by means of a brush; in a few seconds the varnish will have dried, and you can make your correction. You can employ this method for the correction of a faulty line, or to restore a place which should have remained white, but which you have inadvertently shaded. Here I shall stop for the present, and shall close by saying, May good luck attend your point, as well as your acid! There is nothing more to be said to you until after your plate has been bitten. CHAPTER III. BITING. 27. =Bordering the Plate.=--This work took some time. Our young student, impatient to see the transformation wrought by the acid, came back without keeping me waiting for him. "Hurry up! A tray, acid, and all the accessories!" Instead of using a tray, I tell him, we can avail ourselves of another method, which is used by many engravers, and which consists in bordering the plate with wax. This wax,[6] having been softened in warm water, is flattened out into long strips, and is fastened hermetically and vertically around the edges of the plate, so that, when hardened, it forms the walls of a vessel, the bottom of which is represented by the design drawn with the point. To avoid dangerous leaks, heat a key, and pass it along the wax where it adheres to the plate; the wax melts, and, on rehardening, offers all possible guarantees of solidity. We now pour the acid on the plate thus converted into a tray, and as we have taken care to form a lip in one of the angles made by the bordering wax, it is an easy matter to pour off the liquid after each biting. This proceeding is useful in the case of plates which are too large for the tray. Otherwise, however, I prefer a tray made of gutta-percha or porcelain. 28. =The Tray.=--Let us now install ourselves at this table, and let us cover the margin and the back of the plate with a thick coat of stopping-out varnish. As soon as the varnish is perfectly dry, we place the plate into the tray standing horizontally on the table, and pour on acid enough to cover it to the height of about a centimetre. This depth, which is sufficient for biting, allows the eye to follow the process in its various stages. 29. =Strength of the Acid.=--This acid is fresh, and has not yet been used; bought at forty degrees, I mix it with an equal quantity of water, which reduces it to twenty degrees. This is the strength generally adopted for ordinary biting. Its color is clear, and slightly yellow; but as soon as it takes up the copper it becomes blue, and then green. As, in its present state, it would act too impetuously, I add to it a small quantity of acid which has been used before. You may also throw a few scraps of copper into it the day before using it; the old etchers used for this purpose a copper coin, larger or smaller, according to the volume of the bath.[7] 30. =Label your Bottles!=--One day, one of my pupils, having a bad cold, did not notice the difference between the smell of the acid and that of the turpentine, and so plunged a plate which he desired to bite, into a bath of the latter fluid. "It's queer," he said, "this won't bite, and yet the varnish scales off.... The lines keep enlarging, and run into one another! What does this curious medley mean, which appears on the plate?" It was simple enough. The spirits of turpentine had dissolved the ground, and consequently the plate developed a shining and radiating surface before the eyes of our wondering student, as if it had just left the hands of the plate-maker. Advice to those who are absent-minded, and who are liable to mistake fluids which look alike for one another,--Label your bottles! 31. =The First Biting.=--Let us make haste now, I say to my pupil, to do our biting. As the heat of the day abates, the acid becomes less active; and besides, to judge by the delicate character of the original we are to render, we shall need at least two or three hours, all told, for this operation. The task before us consists in the reproduction of a given work, the merit of which lies in the gradation in the various distances. It needs time and attention to be able to carry all the necessary processes successfully into practice. It will be plain to you, from what I have just said, that the operation you are about to engage in is one of the most delicate in the etcher's practice. There is the plate in the acid; the liquid has taken hold of the copper; but your sky must be light, and a prolonged corrosion would therefore be hurtful to it. Hence we take the plate out of the bath, pass it through pure water, so that no acid is left in the lines, and cover it with several sheets of blotting-paper, which, being pressed against it by the hand, dries the plate. We shall have to go through the same process after each partial biting, because if the plate were moist, the stopping-out varnish which we are going to apply to it would not adhere. 32. =The Use of the Feather.=--You noticed the lively ebullitions on the plate, which took place twice in succession. After the first, I passed this feather lightly over the copper, to show you its use. Its vane removed the bubbles which adhered to the lines. This precaution is necessary, especially when the ebullitions acquire some intensity and are prolonged, to facilitate the biting, as the gas by which the bubbles are formed keeps the acid out of the lines. If these bubbles are not destroyed, the absence of biting in the lines is shown in the proofs by a series of little white points. Such points are noticeable in some of the plates etched by Perelle, who, it seems, ignored this precaution. 33. =Stopping Out.=--The two rapid ebullitions which you saw may serve you as a standard of measurement; the biting produced by them must be very light, and sufficient for the tone of the sky. You may, therefore, cover the entire sky with stopping-out varnish by means of a brush, taking care to stop short just this side of the outlines of the other distances. The importance of mixing lamp-black with your stopping-out varnish to thicken it, comes in just here; because if it remained in its liquid state, it might be drawn by capillary attraction into the lines of those parts which you desire to reserve, and thus, by obstructing them, might stop the biting in places where it ought to continue. Wait till the varnish has become perfectly dry; you can assure yourself of this by breathing upon it; if it remains brilliant, it is still soft, and the acid will eat into it; but as soon as it is dry it will assume a dull surface under your breath.[8] 34. =Effect of Temperature on Biting.=--Let us now return the plate to the bath, to obtain the values of the other distances. The temperature has a great effect on the intensity of the ebullitions, and it is hardly possible to depend on it absolutely as a fixed basis on which to rest a calculation of the time necessary for each biting, as its own variability renders it difficult to appreciate the aid to be received from it. In winter, for instance, with the same strength of acid, it needs four or five times as much time to reach the same result as in summer, so that on very hot days the biting progresses so rapidly that the plate cannot be lost sight of for a single moment without risk of over-biting. [Illustration: Pl. I_a_.] 35. =Biting continued.=--We have now obtained several moderate ebullitions, and as it would not do to exaggerate the tone of the mountain in the background, it is time to withdraw the plate once more. Uncover a single line by removing the ground, either with the nail of your finger or with a very small brush dipped into spirits of turpentine, to examine whether it is deeply enough bitten for the distance which it is to represent. If the depth is not sufficient, cover it with stopping-out varnish, and bite again. This is not necessary, however, in our present case, and you may therefore stop out the whole background. Remember, if you please, that the line must look _less_ heavy than it is to show in the proof; for you must take into account the black color of the printing-ink. With your brush go over the edges of the trees which are to be relieved rather lightly against the sky, as well as over that part of the shadow in this tower which blends with the light. There are also some delicate passages in the figure of the woman in the foreground, in the details of the plants, and in the folds of this tent (Pl. I_a_). Stop out all these, and do not lose sight of the values of the original (Pl. II.). Make use of the brush to revarnish several places which are scaling off on the margin and the back of the plate. The temperature is favorable; the ebullitions come on without letting us wait long, and the plate is bluing rapidly. I do not like to see these operations drag on; in winter, therefore, I do my biting near the fire. We soon acquire a passion for biting, and take an ever-growing interest in it, which is incessantly sharpened by thinking of the result to which we aspire. Hence the desire of constant observation, and that assiduity in following all the phases of the biting-in. I notice that the acid does not act on certain parts of your work; you will find out soon enough what that means. 36. =Treatment of the Various Distances.=--"I am thinking just now of what you told me in regard to the background:--that more work ought to be put into it than into the foreground." Nothing, indeed, is simpler. You understand that the background, which is bitten in quite lightly, must show very delicate lines, while in the middle distance and in the foreground the lines are enlarged by the action of successive bitings. When it comes to the printing, the quantity of ink received by these various lines will be in proportion to the values which you desired to obtain, and in the proofs you will have a variety of lighter or stronger tones, giving you the needed gradations in the various distances. It follows from this that, if you had worked too sparingly on the distances which receive only a light biting, you could not have reached the value of the tone which you strove to get, and if you had worked too closely on those parts which require continued biting, you would have had a black and indistinct tone, because the lines, which are enlarged by the acid, and consequently keep approaching one another, would finally have run together into one confused mass, producing what in French is called a _creve_ (blotch). In an etching the space between the lines must be made to serve a purpose; for the paper seen between the black strokes gives delicacy, lightness, and transparency of tone. 37. =The Creve.--Its Advantages and Disadvantages.=--In very skilled hands the _creve_ is a means of effect. If you wish to obtain great depth in a group of trees, in a wall, in very deep shadows, you will risk nothing by intermingling your lines picturesquely and biting them vigorously. In this way you can produce tones of velvety softness, and at the same time of extraordinary vigor. Similarly, you may strike a fine note by means of running together several lines which, if sufficiently bitten, will form but a single broad one of great solidity and power. It is, indeed, only the exaggeration of this expedient, which, by unduly enlarging the limits of the broad line just spoken of, and thus producing a large and deep surface between them, constitutes the _creve_ properly so called; the printing ink has no hold in this flat hollow, and a gray spot in the proof is the result. I have warned you of the accident; later on you shall hear something of the remedy. We will now continue our biting. Plunge your plate into the bath again, if you please. 38. =Means of ascertaining the Depth of the Lines.=--"My dear sir, I see that my drawing turns black; it disappears almost entirely, and is lost in the color of the ground.[9] I am quite perplexed. My mind endeavors to penetrate beneath this varnish, so as to be able to witness the mysterious birth of my _oeuvre_. See these violent ebullitions! What do you think of them?" Let them go on a moment longer, and then withdraw your plate. We have now arrived at a point where the eye cannot judge of the work of the acid as easily as before; henceforth we must, therefore, examine the depth of our bitings by uncovering a single line, as, for instance, this one here in the ground. Or we may even lay bare, by the aid of spirits of turpentine, a part of the foreground, provided, however, that we must not forget to cover it again with the brush. This will give us an idea of the total effect so far produced by the biting, and we can then regulate the partial bitings which are still to follow, either by a comparison of the time employed on those that have gone before, or by the intensity of the ebullitions, the action of which on the copper we have already studied. You perceive that, while it is difficult to fix a standard of time for the bitings at the beginning of the operation, it is yet possible to calculate those to come by what we have so far done. 39. =The Rules which govern the Biting are subordinated to various Causes.=--In reality, it is impossible to establish fixed rules for the biting, for the following reasons:-- 1. Owing to the varying intensity of the stroke of the needle. The etcher who confines himself to gently baring his copper must bite longer than he who attacks his plate more vigorously, and therefore exposes it more to the action of the acid. 2. Owing to the different quality of the plates. 3. Owing to the difference in temperature of the surrounding air:--of this we have before spoken. 4. Owing to difference of strength in the acid, as it is impossible always to have it of absolutely the same number of degrees. At 15 deg. to 18 deg. the biting is gentle and slow; at 20 deg. it is moderate; at 22 deg. to 24 deg. it becomes more rapid. It would be dangerous to employ a still higher degree for the complete biting-in of a plate, especially in the lighter parts. 40. =Strong Acid and Weak Acid.=--It is, nevertheless, possible to put such strong acid to good service. A fine gray tint may, for instance, be imparted to a well-worked sky by passing a broad brush over it, charged with acid at 40 deg. But the operation must be performed with lightning speed, and the plate must instantly be plunged into pure water. As a corollary of the fourth cause, it is well to know that an acid overcharged with copper loses much of its force, although it remains at the same degree. Thus an acid taken at 20 deg., but heavily charged with copper from having been used, will be found to be materially enfeebled, and to bite more slowly than fresh acid at 15 deg. to 18 deg. To continue to use it in this condition would be dangerous, because there is no longer any affinity between the liquid and the copper, and if, under such circumstances, you were to trust to the appearance of biting (which would be interminable, besides), you would find, on removing the varnish, that the plate had merely lost its polish where the lines ought to be, without having been bitten. It is best, therefore, always to do your biting with fresh acid, constantly renewed, as the results will be more equal, and you will become habituated to certain fixed conditions. Some engravers, of impetuous spirit and impatient of results, do their biting with acid of a high degree, while others, more prudent, prefer slow biting, which eats into the copper uniformly and regularly, and hence they employ a lower degree. In this way the varnish remains intact, and there is not that risk of losing the purity of line which always attends the employment of a stronger acid. 41. =Strength of Acid in relation to certain Kinds of Work.=--Experience has also shown that, with the same proportion in the time employed, the values are accentuated more quickly and more completely by a strong than by a mild acid; this manifests itself at the confluence of the lines, where the acid would play mischief if the limit of time were overstepped. Another effect of biting which follows from the preceding, is noticeable in lines drawn far apart. Of isolated lines the acid takes hold very slowly, and they may therefore be executed with a cutting point and bitten in with tolerably strong acid. The reverse takes place when the lines are drawn very closely together; the biting is very lively. Work of this kind, therefore, demands a needle of moderate sharpness and a mild acid. Hence, interweaving lines and very close lines are bitten more deeply by the same acid than lines drawn parallel to each other, and widely spaced, although they may all have been executed with the same needle. If, in an architectural subject, you have drawn the lines with the same instrument, but far apart on one side, and closely and crossing each other on the other, you must not let them all bite the same length of time, if you wish them to hold the same distance. It will be necessary to stop out the latter before the former, otherwise you will have a discordant difference in tone. There will be inequality in the biting, but it will not be perceptible to the eye, as the general harmony has been preserved. (See Pl. IV. Fig. 1.) In short, strong acid rather widens than deepens the lines; mild acid, on the contrary, eats into the depth of the copper, and produces lines which are shown in relief on the paper, and are astonishingly powerful in color. This is especially noticeable in the etchings of Piranesi, who used hard varnish. 42. =Last Stages of Biting.=--But let us return to our operation. You noticed that I allowed your plate to bite quite a while; this was necessary to detach your foreground and middle-ground vigorously from the sky and the background. You may now stop out the trees, the tower, and the tent in the middle-ground, and the vertical part of the bridge, which is in half-tint, and then proceed. Note that the number of bitings is not fixed, but depends on the effect to be reached. "In that case it is to be hoped, for the sake of my apprentice hands, that I shall never have many bitings to do. Just look at my fingers! They are in a nice state. The prettiest yellow skin you ever saw!" Oh, don't let that color trouble you; it will be all black by to-morrow. "Much obliged to you for this bit of consolation!" Besides, it will take you a week to grow a new skin. In future you must soak your fingers in pure water whenever you have got them into the acid. You might have used india-rubber finger-gloves; they are excellent to keep the hands clean, but it is not worth while to trouble about them for the present, as we are almost done.[10] I think you may now stop out all that remains, with the exception of the darkest places in the foreground, to which we must give a final biting. There! Now we've got it! Withdraw your plate for the last time, and as there are some very widely spaced lines in this tree in the foreground, you will risk nothing by giving them a final touch with pure acid. The strongest accent in the landscape rests on this spot; it determines the color of the whole. By this application of pure acid we shall get a vigorous tone, a powerful effect. I may as well tell you here that it is sometimes advisable to add a small quantity of pure acid to the bath towards the end of the operation, so as to increase the activity of the biting on certain parts of the plate without running into excess. But as the place now under consideration is restricted, we shall adopt another means, so as to limit the action of the acid to the given point. See here: I let fall a few drops; the pure acid eats into the copper with great vehemence; the metal turns green, and the ebullition subsides. Now take up the exhausted liquid with a piece of blotting-paper, and let us commence again. Under these newly added drops of fresh acid, the varnish is ready to scale off, the lines sputter, and assume a strange yellow color; these golden vapors announce that the operation is finished. What follows, is the task of the printer; his press will tell us whether we have won, or whether we have been mated. Clean the plate with spirits of turpentine, using your fingers, or with a very clean old rag (calico, if possible), if you are afraid to soil your hands. Be sure to have the plate well cleaned, but take care not to scratch it. The acid, which may be of use hereafter, we will turn into a glass bottle with a ground stopper, and will store it in some safe place. CHAPTER IV. FINISHING THE PLATE. 43. =Omissions.--Insufficiency of the Work so far done.=--The result you have obtained, I tell my pupil, as he shows a proof of the _first state_ of his plate to me, is not final. Your work needs a few retouches and slight modifications, not counting the little irregularities which I had foreseen, and which it will be easy enough to repair. We will proceed in order. (See Pl. I^_a_). To commence with, here are certain parts which are sufficiently bitten, and which, nevertheless, are indecisive in tone, and do not hold their place. I allude to the columns and to the trees in the further distance; one feels that there is something wanting there, which must be added. You must, therefore, re-cover your plate, in the manner already known to you, either with transparent ground, or with ordinary etching-ground, just as if the plate had never yet been touched by the needle. 44. =Transparent Ground for Retouching.=--The white or transparent ground or varnish[11] admirably allows all previous work to show through. It is preferred to the ordinary ground for working over parts that have been insufficiently bitten, on account of its transparency, which leaves even the finest lines visible, while under the ordinary ground these lines might be lost entirely. It will be an easy matter for you to combine the new work with the old; the very slight shadow thrown on the copper by the transparent ground will give a blackish appearance to your lines, which may serve as a guide to you, and, with your proof before your eyes, you will readily succeed in finding the places which need retouching. To make assurance doubly sure, you can indicate the retouches on your proof with a lead-pencil. The transparent ground has occasionally been found to crack and scale off, when left in the bath for a long while, or when strong acid is used. But as you are only going to use it for light and, consequently, short biting, you need not fear this danger. Another inconvenience, which may easily be prevented, consists in the presence of small bubbles of air, which appear on the varnish as soon as it begins to melt. Heat the plate just to the proper point of melting, and dab it vigorously for some length of time, until the varnish cools; then hold the back of the plate flat to the fire; the varnish melts again, and the rest of the bubbles disappear. If some of them should prove to be obstinate, cover them very lightly with the brush, as otherwise the acid will penetrate through the passages thus left open, and will make little holes in the copper, which, on removing the varnish, will cause an unpleasant surprise. You shall hear more of this further on. 45. =Ordinary Ground used for Retouching.--Biting the Retouches.=--Ordinary etching-ground, such as we used in the first instance, does not show the work previously done as well as the transparent ground, but the later additions are seen all the better on it. It may be used in its natural state, or it may be smoked. It is preferable to the transparent varnish, whenever the work already achieved is deeply bitten, and hence easily seen. In the present case my advice is that you use the ordinary ground. Having made your retouches, introduce your plate into the bath, and proceed as before, by partial biting, endeavoring, as much as possible, to obtain the same intensity of tone. These additions, thus bitten by themselves, will mingle with the lines previously drawn, and now protected by the varnish. It is hardly possible to judge of the additions, especially on transparent varnish, until they have been bitten in. But, if you should then find that you have not yet reached your point, you can revarnish the plate once more, and complete the parts that appear to be unfinished. I must also call your attention to the fact, that all lines drawn on transparent ground seem to thicken most singularly, as soon as the acid begins to work. But do not let that deceive you. Now look at this spot in the immediate foreground (Pl. I^_a_), which has a somewhat coarse appearance. It is much softer in the original (represented by Pl. II.). You must add a few lines, and must bite them rather lightly; they will mingle agreeably with the energetic lines of the first state. You may put the large trees through the same process, and you will find that they gain in lightness by it. Later on, when you have acquired more experience, you will occasionally find it handy to make these additions between two bitings. You will thus reach the desired result without the necessity of regrounding your plate. Sometimes, when using strong acid for these retouches, the lines first drawn are also attacked by the liquid. In that case, stop the biting immediately, and rest contented with what you have got. It is not difficult to understand why these revarnished lines should commence to bite again, more especially if they are deep: the acid, finding the edges of the lines (which are sharp and angular, and therefore do not offer much hold to the varnish) but indifferently protected, attacks them, without going into their depths. The ravages thus committed along the edges of the lines may be quite disastrous; and it is well, therefore, whenever you revarnish a plate, to give additional protection to those parts which are not to be retouched, by going over them with stopping-out varnish. 46. =Revarnishing with the Brush.=--Instead of revarnishing with the dabber, the ground may also be laid with the brush. For this purpose you can use the stopping-out varnish mixed with lamp-black. Spread a coat of varnish all over the plate, using a very soft brush; if the copper should not be perfectly covered on the edges of the deeply etched lines, add a second coat of varnish. Do not wait till the varnish has become too dry before you execute the retouches, which, of course, must also be bitten in as usual. Mixed with lamp-black, the stopping-out varnish allows even the finest lines to be seen, which would not show as well if the varnish were used in its natural state. Many engravers use this varnish instead of the transparent ground. 47. =Partial Retouches.--Patching.=--For partial retouches and for patching the stopping-out varnish is also used, but in a simpler and more expeditious way. Cover the part in question with a tolerably thick coat of varnish, and when you have finished your retouch, slightly moisten the lines with saliva, to prevent the few drops of acid which you supply from your bath with the brush from running beyond the spot on which they are to act. If pure acid is used,--which is still more expeditious,--the effervescence is stopped by dabbing with a piece of blotting-paper, and the operation is repeated as long as the biting does not appear to be sufficient. For very delicate corrections it is advisable not to wait until the first ebullition is over; but it must be left to the feeling to indicate the most opportune moment for the application of the blotting-paper. If you proceed rapidly and cautiously, you can obtain extremely fine lines in this way, as you have had occasion to see under other circumstances (see paragraph 40, p. 25). You may recollect that I spoke of lines which had not bitten: I alluded to this spot in the middle of the bridge (see Pl. I^_a_). You did not bear on your needle sufficiently, and hence it did not penetrate clear down to the copper; consequently, after having compared the proof of the first state with the original (Pl. II.), you must do the necessary patching according to the instructions just given to you. 48. =Dry Point.=--Whenever it is necessary to retouch, or to add to very delicate parts of the plate, such as the extreme distance, or any other part very lightly bitten, it is safer to use the _dry point_, as in such cases retouching by acid is a most difficult thing to do. The tone must be hit exactly, and without exaggeration. Your plate offers an opportunity for the use of the dry point: the sky and the mountain are partly etched; you can improve them by a few touches of the dry point. The dry point is held in a perpendicular position, and is used on the bare copper. It must be ground with a cutting edge, and very sharp, so that it may freely penetrate into the copper, and not merely scratch it. You cut the line yourself, regulating its depth by the amount of pressure used, and according to the tone of the particular passage on which you are working. For patching, it is more frequently used in delicate passages than in others, as, even with great pressure, the strength of a dry point line will always be below that of a line deeply bitten. In printing, the dry point line has less depth of color than the bitten line, as the acid bites into the copper perpendicularly at right angles; while the furrow produced by the dry point, which offers only acute angles, takes up less ink, although it appears equally broad. This inequality disappears if a plate in which etched lines and dry point work are intermingled is re-bitten; the difference in tone is then equalized. On the other hand, the difference in the appearance of etched lines and dry point work produces curious effects. Thus, if a passage which is too strong and appears to stand out is to be corrected, a few touches of the dry point will be sufficient to soften it, and to push it back to another distance. The dry point is not only used for retouching; it is sometimes employed, without any etching, to put in the whole background. 49. =Use of the Scraper for removing the Bur thrown up by the Dry Point.=--The dry point work being finished, the _bur_ thrown up by the instrument must be removed. The bur is the ridge raised on the edge of the line, as the point ploughs through the metal; you can satisfy yourself of its existence by the touch. In printing, the ink catches in this ridge, and produces blots. The bur is removed by means of the _scraper_, an instrument with a triangular blade, one of the sides of which, held flat, is passed over the plate in the opposite direction to that of the stroke of the point, and so as to take the line obliquely. You need not feel any anxiety about injuring the plate; the touch will tell you when the bur has disappeared. In the case of dry point lines crossing one another, each set running in a different direction must be drawn as well as scraped separately, in the manner just described; otherwise you will run the risk of closing the lines which cross the path of the scraper, by turning the bur down into the furrows. 50. =Reducing Over-bitten Passages.=--So much for the additions. We will now pass on to the very opposite: the shadow thrown by the parapet, and the ground between the man and the woman, have been _over-bitten_. These parts do not harmonize with the neighboring parts, and are stronger in tone than the corresponding parts of the original. To remedy this, there are four means at your command:-- The Burnisher. Charcoal. The Scraper. Hammering out. 51. =The Burnisher.=--As these passages are limited in extent, and not very deeply bitten, you may use the burnisher to reduce them. Moisten it with saliva, and take only a small spot at a time, holding the instrument down flat. If you were to use only the end, you might make a cavity in the copper. The burnisher flattens and enlarges the surface of the copper, and consequently diminishes the width of the line. The tone, therefore, is reduced. On fine, close, and equal work the burnisher does excellent service, the effect being analogous to that of the crumb of bread on a design on paper. It is less efficacious on deeply bitten work, because it rounds off the edges of the lines as it penetrates into the furrows, and thus detracts somewhat from the freshness of tone,--an unpleasant result, which, in very fine work, is beyond the power of the eye to see. You may use the burnisher to get rid of certain spots produced in the foliage by lines placed too closely together, and by the same means you can reduce those exaggerated passages in the stone-work of the right-hand column. You can also burnish these useless little blotches in the mountains. 52. =Charcoal.=--Whenever it is necessary to reduce the whole of a distance, the use of charcoal is to be preferred. Charcoal made of willow, or of other soft woods, which can be had of the plate-makers, is used flat, impregnated with oil or water; it must be freed from its bark, as this would scratch the plate. It wears the metal away uniformly, and does not injure the crispness of the lines. Rub the passage to be reduced with the charcoal, regulating the length of time by the degree of delicacy you desire to attain. At the beginning soak your charcoal in water, so as leave it more tooth; then clean it, and continue with oil, which reduces the wear on the copper. The eye is sufficient to judge of the wear; the way in which the charcoal takes hold of the copper, and the copper-colored spots which it shows, may serve as guides. As the effectiveness of the different kinds of charcoal varies, these divers qualities of softness and coarseness are utilized according to the nature of the correction to be made. It is well to know, also, that it takes hold much more actively if used in the direction of the grain, than transversely. You may, according to circumstances, commence with a piece of coal having considerable tooth, continue with another that is less aggressive, and wind up with a somewhat soft piece. The heavier the charcoal the coarser its tooth, the lightest being the softest. The plate must be washed, so as to keep the charcoal always clean; as otherwise the dust produced, which forms a paste, will wear down the bottom of the furrows, and the result, in the proof, will be dull and reddish lines. Charcoal is also used to remove the traces of the needle in those parts of the plate in which changes were made while the drawing was still in progress. 53. =The Scraper.=--The scraper is more efficacious than the burnisher in the case of small places that have been deeply bitten. If the scraper is sufficiently sharp, it leaves no trace whatever on the lowered surface of the copper. To sum up:-- _Charcoal_ and _scraper_ are used to remove part of the surface of the copper. The furrows, having been reduced in depth, receive less ink in printing; the lines gain in delicacy in the impressions. The _burnisher_ simply displaces the copper; _charcoal_ and _scraper_ wear it away. It follows that they must be used with discernment. 54. =Hammering Out (Repoussage).=--These three means are employed when a moderate lowering of the plate is required. When it becomes necessary to go down to half the thickness of the plate or more, the result will be a hollow, which will show as a spot in printing. In that case recourse is had to the fourth means; that is to say, to hammer and anvil. Get a pair of compasses with curved legs (_calipers_); let one of the legs rest on the spot to be hammered out; the other leg will then indicate the place on the back of the plate which must be struck with the hammer on the anvil. In this way places which have been reduced with charcoal or scraper may be brought up to the level of the plate; but if the lines should be found to have been flattened, which would result in a dull tone in the proofs, it will be best to have the part in question planed out entirely, and to do it over. 55. =Finishing the Surface of the Plate.=--The charcoal occasionally leaves traces on the plate, which show in the proof as rather too strong a tint. You can get rid of them, by rubbing with a piece of very soft linen, and the paste obtained by grinding charcoal with oil on a fine stone. By the same process the whole plate is tidied. It is likely to need it, as it has undoubtedly lost some of its freshness, owing to the abuse to which it was subjected in passing through all these processes. Our young pupil, having executed these several operations, and bitten his retouched plate, submits a proof to my inspection, which I compare with that of the first state (Pls. I^_a_ and I.). Now you see, I say to him, how one state leads to another. You have come up to the harmony of the original; your _second state_ is satisfactory, and so there is no need of having recourse to varnishing the plate a third time. [Illustration: Plate I.] [Illustration: Plate II.] CHAPTER V. ACCIDENTS. 56. =Stopping-out Varnish dropped on a Plate while Biting.=--You are just in time, I continued, to profit by an accident which has happened to me. I dropped some stopping-out varnish on a plate while it was biting; it has spread over some parts which are not yet sufficiently bitten, and of course it is impossible to go on now. I took the ground off the plate, and had this proof pulled. It is unequal in tone, and does not give the modelling which I worked for. "What are you going to do about it? Is the plate lost?" 57. =Revarnishing with the Roller for Rebiting.=--Oh, no, indeed, thanks to the _roller for revarnishing_! My first precaution will be to clean the plate very carefully, first with spirits of turpentine, until the linen does not show the least sign of soiling, and then with bread. Or, having used the turpentine, I might continue the cleaning process with a solution of potash, after which the plate must be washed in pure water. I then put a little ground, specially prepared for the purpose, on a second plate, which must be scrupulously clean, and not heated; or, better still, I apply the ground directly to the roller itself by means of a palette-knife. I divide this second plate into three parts. By passing the roller over the first part, I spread the ground roughly over it; on the second part I equalize and distribute it more regularly; on the third, finally, I finish the operation. By these repeated rollings a very thin layer of ground is evenly spread over all parts of the surface of the roller, and we may now apply it to the plate which is to be rebitten. To effect this purpose, I pass the roller over the cold plate carefully and with very slight pressure, repeating the process a number of times and in various directions. This is an operation requiring skill. The ground adheres only to the surface of the plate, without penetrating into the furrows, although it is next to impossible to prevent the filling up of the very finest lines. Having thus spread the ground, and having assured myself that the lines are all right by the brilliancy of their reflection as I hold the plate against the light, I rapidly pass a burning paper under the plate. The ground is slightly heated, and solidifies as it cools. The varnish used in this operation is the ordinary etching-ground in balls, dissolved in oil of lavender in a bath of warm water. It must have the consistency of liquid cream; if it is too thick, add a little oil of lavender.[12] Both the plate and the roller must be well protected against dust. It is not necessary to clean the roller after the operation; only take care to wipe its ends with the palm of your hand, turning it the while, so as to remove the rings of varnish which may have formed there. If the lines are found closed, too much pressure has been used on the roller; if the ground is full of little holes, the plate has not been cleaned well, and wherever the surface of the copper is exposed the acid will act on it. There is nothing to be done, in both cases, but to wash off the ground with spirits of turpentine, and commence anew. My plate is now in the same state in which it was when I withdrew it from the bath. I stop out those parts which are sufficiently bitten, and, guided by my proof, I can proceed to continue the biting which was interrupted by the accident. 58. =Revarnishing with the Roller in Cases of Partial Rebiting.=--You will find this method especially valuable whenever you desire to strengthen passages that are weak in tone. And furthermore, having thus revarnished your plate, you may avail yourself of the opportunity of giving additional finish. But if, before revarnishing, you should have burnished down some over-bitten lines in a passage which needs rebiting, you will find that the shallow cavity produced by the burnisher does not take the ground from the roller; such places are easily detected by the brilliant aspect of the copper, and good care must be taken to cover them with ground. Again, if, before proceeding to rebite, you should notice certain passages which are strong enough as they are, either because the copper was cut by the point, or because the lines in them are very close, you must cover them up with the brush. The same thing is necessary in the case of the excessively black spots which sometimes manifest themselves in places covered by irregularly crossing lines, and the intensity of which it would be useless to increase still further. This recommendation is valuable for work requiring precision. 59. =Revarnishing with the Dabber for Rebiting.=--For partial rebiting the same result may be reached by applying the ground with the dabber. Heat your plate, and surround the part to be rebitten with a thick coat of ordinary etching-ground. Now heat your dabber, and pass it over the ground. Finally, when the dabber is thoroughly impregnated with the ground, carry it cautiously and little by little over the part in question, dabbing continually.[13] 60. =Revarnishing with the Brush for Rebiting.=--Let me also call your attention to an analogous case which may arise. If you desire to increase the depth of the biting in a part of the plate in which the lines are rather widely apart, you may cover the plate with the brush and stopping-out varnish, and may pass the needle through the lines so as to open them again. You can then rebite in the tray, or by using pure acid, or by allowing acid at 20 deg. to stand on the part in question, just as you please. 61. =Rebiting a Remedy only.=--Etchers who are entitled to be considered authorities will advise you to avoid as much as possible all rebiting by means of revarnishing, as it results in heaviness, and never has the freshness of a first biting obtained with the same ground. A practised eye can easily detect the difference. Never let the rebiting be more than a quarter of the first biting. Use the process as a remedy, but never count on it as a part of your regular work. 62. =Holes in the Ground.=--Having once taken up the consideration of the little mishaps which may befall the etcher, I shall now show you another plate in which the sky is dotted by a number of minute holes of no great depth (_piques_). This plate has, no doubt, been retouched, and the ground having been badly laid, the acid played mischief with it. It is very lucky that the lines in the sky are widely separated, as otherwise these holes would be inextricably mixed up with them. We can rid ourselves of them by a few strokes of the burnisher, and by rubbing with charcoal-paste and a bit of fine linen. The burnisher alone would give too much polish to the copper; in printing the ink would leave no tint on the plate in these spots, and the traces of the burnisher would show as white marks in the proofs. To avoid this, the copper must be restored to its natural state.[14] "What would happen," asks another of my pupils, "if these little holes occurred in a sky or in some other closely worked passage? Here is a plate in which this accident has befallen some clouds and part of the ground. What shall I do?" To begin with, let me tell you for your future guidance that this accident would not have happened if you had waited for the drying of the ground with which you covered this sky after you had bitten it. The acid, which never loses an opportunity given it by mismanagement or inattention, worked its way unbeknown to you through the soft varnish in the clouds as well as in the ground, and went on a spree at your expense. Remember that nitric acid is very selfish; it insists that it shall always be uppermost in your mind, and all your calculations must take this demand into account; its powers, creative as well as destructive, are to be continually dreaded; it likes to see you occupy yourself with it continually, watchfully, and with fear. If you turn your back to it, it plays you a trick, and thus it has punished you for neglecting it for a moment. "Thank you. But you are acting the part of La Fontaine's schoolmaster, who moralized with the pupil when he had fallen into the water." 63. =Planing out Faulty Passages.=--And that did not help him out. You are right. Well, you must go to some skilful copper-planer,[15] who will work away at the spoiled part of your plate with scraper and burnisher and charcoal, until he has restored the copper to its virgin state; then all you've got to do will be to do your work over again. "That is rather a blunt way of settling the question. Seeing that we are about to cut into the flesh after this fashion, might it not be as well to have the whole of the sky taken out altogether? I am not satisfied with it, any way." Certainly. By the same process the planer can remove every thing, up to the outlines of the trees and the figures in your plate; he will cut out any thing you want, and yet respect all the outlines, if you will only indicate your wishes on a proof. In this passage, where you see deep holes, scraper and charcoal will be insufficient; the planer must, therefore, hammer them out before he goes at the other parts. As regards the little holes in the foreground, since they are not as deep as the lines among which they appear, you can remove them, or at least reduce them, by means of charcoal, without injury to the deeply bitten parts. You may follow this plan whenever you are convinced that a lowering of tone will do no harm to your first work. In the opposite case, you must either have recourse to the planer, or put up with the accident. If you are not too much of a purist, you will occasionally find these _piques_ productive of a _piquant_ effect, and then you will take good care not to touch them. "That's a 'point' which you did not mention among the utensils! You have ingenious ways of getting out of a scrape." We cut out, or cut down, or dig away, whole passages, according to necessity. I have seen the half of a plate planed off, because the design was faulty. 64. =Acid Spots on Clothing.=--Here comes one of my friends, who is also an etcher. I wonder what he brings us! His clothing is covered all over with spots of the most beautiful garnet; he ought to have washed them with volatile alkali, which neutralizes the effect of the acid. But he does not mind it. 65. =Reducing Over-bitten Passages and Creves.=--"Oh, gentlemen, that is not worth while speaking of! But you must see my plate. I drew a horse from nature, which a whole swamp-ful of leeches might have disputed with me. But I do believe it escaped the _biting_ of these animals only to succumb to mine. Judge for yourselves!" The fact of the matter is, that you have killed it with acid. There is nothing left of it, but an informal mass, ten times over-bitten. Fortunately there is no lack of black ink at the printer's! It is a veritable Chinese shadow, and looks as if the horse had gone into mourning for itself. However, although the carcass is lost, I hope you may be able to save some of the members. The wounds are deep and broad; but we can try a remedy _in extremis_: first of all, your horse will have to stand an attack of _charcoal_; if it survives this, we shall subject it to renewed and ferocious _bitings_. All this puzzles you. Therefore, having treated your beast to the charcoal, and having had a last proof taken, you place the latter before you, and re-cover your plate with a solid coat of varnish. With a somewhat coarse point you patch those places which show white in the proof, taking care to harmonize your patches with the surrounding parts. In this way you replace the lines which have disappeared, and then proceed to bite in, doing your best to come as near as possible to the strength of the first biting. The result may not be very marvellous, but it will be an improvement, at all events. If I were in your place, I should not hesitate to begin again. The process which I have just described is best suited to isolated passages. In closely worked and lightly bitten passages, blotches (or _creves_) are more easily remedied, as they are less deep. Rub them down with charcoal, very cautiously and delicately, and let the dry point do the rest. There, now! There's our friend, again, using acid instead of spirits of turpentine to clean his plate! That'll be the end of the animal. It is against the law, sir, to murder a poor, inoffensive beast this wise! Fortunately we can help him out with several sheets of blotting-paper, in default of water, which we do not happen to have at hand. We were in time! The copper has only lost its polish; a little more charcoal,--and Rosinante still lives. [Illustration: Plate III.] CHAPTER VI. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FLAT BITING, AND BITING WITH STOPPING-OUT. 66. =Two Kinds of Biting.=--Now that you have become familiar with the secrets of biting, I say to my pupil, and are therefore prepared to be on your guard against the accidents to be avoided when you go to work again, I can make clear to you, better than if I had endeavored to do so at the outset, the difference between the two kinds of biting on which rests the whole system of the art of etching, and the distinctive characteristics of which are often confounded. The work thus far done will help you to a more intelligent understanding of this distinction. As it was impossible to explain to you, at one and the same time, all the resources of the needle as well as those of biting, between which, as I told you before, there exist very intimate relations, I had to choose a general example by which to demonstrate the processes employed, and which would allow me to explain the reasons for these processes. There are two kinds of biting,--_flat biting_ and _biting with stopping-out_. (See Pl. III.) These two kinds of biting resemble one another in this, that they involve only one grounding or varnishing, and consequently only one bath; they differ most markedly in this, that in _flat biting_ the work of the acid is accomplished all over the plate at one and the same time, and with only one immersion in the bath, while in _biting with stopping-out_ there are several successive, or, if you prefer the term, partial bitings, between each of which the plate is withdrawn from the bath, and the parts to be reserved are stopped out with varnish as often as it is thought necessary. It follows from this, that, with flat biting, the modelling must be done by the needle, using either only one needle, or else several of different thicknesses. 67. =Flat Biting.--One Point.=--With a single needle the values are obtained by drawing the lines closely together in the foreground and nearer distances, or for passages requiring strength, and by keeping them apart in the off distances, and in the lighter passages of the near distances; furthermore, to obtain a play of light in the same distance, the lines must be drawn farther apart in the lights, and more closely together in the shadows. A single point gives a hint of what we desire to do, but it does not express it. It is undoubtedly sufficient for a sketch intended to represent a drawing executed with pen and ink or with the pencil; but it cannot be successfully employed in a plate which, by the variety of color and the vigor of the biting, is meant to convey the idea of a painting. 68. =Flat Biting.--Several Points.=--When several points of different thickness are used, the coarser serve for the foreground and near distances, the finer in gradual succession for the receding distances. They are used alternately in the different distances, and the lines are drawn more closely together here, or kept farther apart there, according to the necessities of the effect to be obtained; the depth of the biting is the same throughout, but the difference in thickness of the lines makes it an easy matter, by more elaborate modelling, to give to the etching the appearance of a finished design. With a single point, as well as with several, the pressure used in drawing must remain the same throughout, so that the acid may act simultaneously, and with equal intensity on all parts of the plate. If there has been any inequality of attack, the values will be unequal in their turn, and different from what they were intended to be. [Illustration: Plate IV.] 69. =Biting with Stopping-out.--One Point.=--In biting with stopping-out, it is the biting itself, and not the needle, which gives modelling to the etching. In this case, also, one or several points may be used. The simplest manner is that in which only one point is used. The stopping-out, and consequently the biting, is done in large masses. (See Pl. V. Fig. 1.) 70. =Biting with Stopping-out.--Several Points.=--As a very simple example let us take a case in which it is necessary to have certain very closely lined passages in a foreground alongside of very coarse ones. In that case the first, or close, lines must be etched very delicately, while the whole force of the biting must be brought to bear on the latter (see Pl. IV. Fig. 2). In the same way the values of two different objects may be equilibrated; by employing close lines slightly bitten in the one case, and spaced lines more deeply bitten in the other. Biting with stopping-out, combined with the work of several points, requires more attention and discernment than any other. If the first biting is not successful, the plate is revarnished, and the work of repairing and correcting commences. Summing up the advantages offered by these various means, you will see what results the combination of the work of one or of several points with partial biting may be made to yield, either in giving to objects their various values, their natural color, and their modelling, or in disposing them in space, and thus producing the harmonious gradation of the several distances. 71. =Necessity of Experimenting.=--If you will now call to mind our preceding operations, and will hold them together with the explanations just given, you will be able to appreciate them in their totality. The necessity of arriving at truth of expression, with nothing to guide you but these rules, which are influenced by a variety of conditions, will compel you to experiment for yourself, with special reference to the combination of _the surrounding temperature, the strength of the acid, the number of partial bitings, the pressure of the point, the different thicknesses of the points_, and _the various kinds of work that can be done with them_, on the one hand; and on the other, with regard to _the length of the bitings_. If you are called upon to imitate a given object very closely, you must proceed rationally, and your work must be accompanied by continual reflection. To familiarize yourself with these delicate operations, you must experiment for yourself; don't complain if you spoil a few plates; you will learn something by your failures, as your experience in one case will teach you what to do in others. Self-acquired experience is of all teachers the best. 72. =Various other Methods of Biting.=--The two preceding methods, which, in a general way, comprehend the rules of biting, do not exclude other particular methods of a similar nature. Thus, it may be well sometimes to etch at first only the simple outline, biting it in more or less vigorously, according to the nature of the case (see Pl. IV. Fig. 3); and then, having revarnished and resmoked the plate, to elaborate the drawing by going over it either in some parts only or throughout the whole. Rembrandt often pursued this course; and we may follow the several stages of his work by studying the various states of his plates. We see that he took great pains to work out some part of his subject very carefully, without touching the other parts; he then took a proof, and afterwards went over the same part with finer lines, and passed on to the other parts, treating them according to the effect which he desired to reach. This method is often imitated; it is employed when it is necessary to lay a shadow over a passage full of detail, as, for instance, in architectural subjects, in the execution of which it is easier, and tends to avoid confusion, to fix the lines of the design first, and then, having laid the ground a second time, to add the shadows. (See Pl. IV. Fig. 4.) "Pardon me! But might not this result be obtained by the same biting, if the lines of the design were drawn with a coarse point, and the shading were added with a finer one?" Certainly; and in that case we should have an instance of work executed with several needles, such as I pointed out to you before. From the explanations previously given, it will be clear, also, that, the nature of the subject permitting, it may be advantageous sometimes to execute a plate by drawing and biting each distance by itself. Thus you may commence with the foreground, and may bite it in; having had a proof taken, revarnish your plate, and proceed in the same fashion to the execution of the other distances, and of the sky, always having a proof taken after each biting to serve you as a guide. This mode of operation--essentially that of the engraver--is of special advantage in putting in a sky or a background behind complicated foliage. You can draw and bite your sky or your background all by itself (see Pl. IV. Fig. 5), and then, having revarnished your plate, you can execute your trees on the background. As the trees are bitten by themselves, it is evident that we have avoided a difficulty which is almost insurmountable,--that, namely, of stopping out with the brush the lines of the sky between intricate masses of foliage. But we can also proceed differently. We can commence with the trees, drawing them and biting them in, and can finish with the sky, having revarnished the plate as usual: the sky will thus fall into its place behind the trees. You need not trouble yourself because the lines of the sky pass across the lines of the trees. The biting of the sky must be so delicate that it will not affect the value of the foliage, and you may therefore carry your point in all directions, and use it as freely as you please. Some etchers find it more convenient to commence with the sky and the background, on account of the points of resistance encountered by the needle in the more deeply bitten lines of the trees, which destroys their freedom of execution. They are correct, whenever the sky to be executed is very complicated; but if only a few lines are involved, it will be better to introduce them afterwards. It is, besides, an easy matter to get accustomed to the jumping of the point when it is working on a ground that has previously been bitten. What I have just told you applies also to the masts and the rigging of vessels, &c., and, indeed, to all lines which cut clearly and strongly across a delicately bitten distance. An etcher of great merit has conceived the original idea of executing an etching in the bath itself, commencing with the passages which need a vigorous biting, then successively passing on to the more delicate parts, and finally ending with the sky.[C] The various distances thus receive their due proportion of biting; but it is necessary to work very quickly, as the biting of a plate etched in the bath in this manner proceeds five to six times more rapidly than if done in the ordinary manner. Every etcher ought to be curious to try this bold method of working, so that he may see how it is possible to ally the inspiration of the moment with the uncertain duration of the biting, which in this process has emancipated itself from all methodical rule, and follows no law but that imposed upon it by the caprice of the artist.[16] [C] The bath, in this case, is composed as follows:-- 880 gr. water. 100 " pure hydrochloric (muriatic) acid. 20 " potassium chlorate. All this goes to show you that there is ample liberty of choice as to processes in etching. It is well to try them all, as it is well to try every thing that may give new and unknown results, may inspire ideas, or may lead to progress, neither of which is likely to happen in the pursuit of mere routine work. CHAPTER VII. RECOMMENDATIONS AND AUXILIARY PROCESSES.--ZINK AND STEEL PLATES.--VARIOUS THEORIES. A. RECOMMENDATIONS AND AUXILIARY PROCESSES. 73. =The Roulette.=--The latitude which I gave you does not extend to the point of approving of all material resources without any exception. There is one which I shall not permit you to make use of, as the needle has enough resources of its own to be able to do without it. I allude to the _roulette_, which finds its natural application in other species of engraving. 74. =The Flat Point.=--Employ the _flat point_ with judgment; it takes up a great deal of varnish, but gives lines of little depth, and of less strength than those which can be obtained by prolonged biting, with an ordinary needle. 75. =The Graver or Burin.=--"And the graver: what do you say to that?" The graver is the customary and fundamental tool of what is properly called "line-engraving." Although it is not absolutely necessary in the species of etching which we are studying, there are cases, nevertheless, in which it can be used to advantage, but always as an auxiliary only. If, for instance, you desire to give force to a deeply bitten but grayish and dull passage, or to a flat tint which looks monotonous, a few resolute and irregular touches with the graver will do wonders, and will add warmth and color. A few isolated lines with the graver give freshness to a muddy, broken, or foxy tint, without increasing its value. The graver may also be employed in patching deeply bitten passages. The graver, of a rectangular form, with an angular cutting edge, is applied almost horizontally on the bare copper; its handle, rounded above, flat below, is held in the palm of the hand; the index finger presses on the steel bar; it is pushed forward, and easily enters the metal: the degree of pressure applied, and the angle which it makes with the plate, produces the difference in the engraved lines. The color obtained by the burin is deeper than that obtained by biting, as it cuts more deeply into the copper. If extensively used in an etching, the work executed by the graver contrasts rather unpleasantly with the quality of the etched work, as its lines are extremely clear cut. To get rid of this inequality, it is sufficient to rebite the passages in question very slightly, which gives to the burin-lines the appearance of etched lines. In short: use the graver with great circumspection, as its application to works of the needle is a very delicate matter, and gives to an etching a character different from that which we are striving for. It seems to me that to employ it on a free etching, done on the spur of the moment, would be like throwing a phrase from Bossuet into the midst of a lively conversation.[17] 76. =Sandpaper.=--As regards other mechanical means, be distrustful of tints obtained by rubbing the copper with sandpaper; these tints generally show in the proof as muddy spots, and are wanting in freshness. Avoid the process, because of its difficulty of application. Only a very skilful engraver can put it to good uses. 77. =Sulphur Tints.=--I shall be less afraid to see you make use of _flowers of sulphur_ for the purpose of harmonizing or increasing the weight of a tint. The sulphur is mixed with oil, so as to form a homogeneous paste thick enough to be laid on with a brush. By the action of these two substances the polish on the plate is destroyed, and the result in printing is a fresh and soft tint, which blends agreeably with the work of the needle. Differences in value are easily obtained by allowing the sulphur to remain on the plate for a greater or less period of time. This species of biting acts more readily in hot weather; a few minutes are sufficient to produce a firm tint. In cold weather relatively more time is needed. The corrosions produced in this way have quite a dark appearance on the plate, but they produce much lighter tints in printing. If you are not satisfied with the result obtained, you can rub it out with charcoal, as the copper is corroded only quite superficially. Owing to this extreme slightness of biting, the burnisher may also be used to reduce any parts which are to stand out white. This process, as you see, is very accommodating; but it is too much like mezzotint or aquatint, and, furthermore, it can only be applied in flat tints, without modelling. I have, nevertheless, explained it to you, so that you may be able to use it, if you should have a notion to do so, as a matter of curiosity, but with reserve. It is better to use the dry point, which has more affinity to the processes natural to etching. [Illustration: Plate V.] 78. =Mottled Tints.=--You may also make use of the following process (but with the same restrictions) in the representation of parts of old walls, of rocks and earth, or of passages to which you desire to impart the character of a sort of artistic disorder:--Distribute a quantity of ordinary etching-ground on a copper plate sufficiently heated; then take your dabber, and, having charged it unequally with varnish, and having also heated your etched plate, press the dabber on the passages which are to receive the tint; the varnish adheres to the plate in an irregular manner, leaving the copper bare here and there. Now stop out with the brush those parts which you desire to protect, and bite in with pure acid; the result will be a curiously mottled irregular tint (see Pl. V. Fig. 2). Properly used in the representation of subjects on which you are at liberty to exercise your fancy, this process will give you unexpected and often happy results. 79. =Stopping-out before all Biting.=--Before we proceed, I must show you an easy method of representing a thunder-storm (see Pl. V. Fig. 2):--Work the sky with the needle, very closely, so as to get the sombre tints of the clouds; and, before biting, trace the streaks of lightning on the etched work with a brush and stopping-out varnish; being thus protected against the acid, these streaks will show white in the printing, and the effect will be neater and more natural than if you had attempted to obtain it by the needle itself, as you will avoid the somewhat hard outlines on either side of the lightning, which would otherwise have been necessary to indicate it. You can employ the same process for effects of moonlight, for reflected lights on water, and, in fact, for all light lines which it is difficult to pick out on a dark ground. B. ZINK PLATES AND STEEL PLATES. 80. =Zink Plates.=--So far I have spoken to you of copper plates only; but etchings are also executed on zink and on steel. Zink bites rapidly, and needs only one quarter of the time necessary for copper, with the same strength of acid; or, with the same length of time, an acid of ten degrees is sufficient. The biting is coarse, and without either delicacy or depth. A zink plate prints only a small edition.[18] 81. =Steel Plates.=--Steel also bites with great rapidity. One part of acid to seven of water is sufficient; and the biting is accomplished, on the average, in from one to five minutes, from the faintest distance to the strongest foreground. Free, artistic etchings are very rarely executed on steel, which is more particularly used in other kinds of engraving. C. VARIOUS OTHER PROCESSES. 82. =Soft Ground Etching.=--There is a kind of etching known as _soft-ground etching_, and but little practised at present, which was successfully cultivated about thirty years ago by Louis Marvy and Masson. The engravers of the last century used to call it _gravure en maniere de crayon_.[19] [Illustration: Plate VI.] Take a ball of common etching-ground, and melt it in the water-bath in a small vessel, adding to it, in winter, an equal volume, and in summer only one-third of the same volume, of tallow. Let the mixture cool, form it into a ball, and wrap it up in a piece of very fine silk. Ground your plate in the usual way, and smoke lightly. On this soft ground fix a piece of very thin paper having a grain, and on the paper thus attached to the plate, execute your design with a lead-pencil. Wherever the pencil passes, the varnish sticks to the paper in proportion to the pressure of the hand; and, on carefully removing the sheet, it takes up the varnish that adheres to it. Bite the plate, and the result will be a facsimile of the design executed on the paper. (See Pl. VI.) If the proofs are too soft, or wanting in decision, the plate may be worked over with the needle, by regrounding, and then rebiting it. The first state can thus be elaborated like an ordinary etching, and the necessary precision can be given to it whenever the idea to be expressed is vaguely or insufficiently rendered; or the same end may be reached by the dry point. In either case, however, all the retouches must be executed by irregular stippling, so that they may harmonize with the result of the first biting. Otherwise there will be a lack of homogeneity in the appearance of etchings of this sort, in which the grain of the paper plays an important part. Smooth paper gives no result whatever. The paper used may have a coarse grain or a fine grain, at the pleasure of the etcher, or papers of different grain may be used in the same design. This style of etching requires great care in handling the plate, on account of the tenderness of the ground. In drawing, a _hand-rest_ must be used, so that the hand may not touch the plate. [Illustration: Plate VII.] 83. =Dry Point Etching.=--The _dry point_ is also used for etching, without the intervention of the acid-bath. The design is executed with the dry point on the bare copper; the difference in values is obtained by the greater or less amount of pressure used, and by the difference in the distance between the lines. (See Plate VII.) The brilliancy of effect which etchings of this kind may or may not possess, depends on the use made of the _scraper_ (see paragraph 49, p. 33). You will find it convenient to varnish and smoke your plate, to begin with, and to trace the leading lines of your design on the ground, taking care to cut lightly into the copper with the point. Then remove the varnish, and continue your drawing, guided by these general outlines. It is best to commence with the sky, or other delicate passages, and to remove the bur from them, if there are other stronger lines to be drawn over them. You can see perfectly well what you are doing, by rubbing a little lamp-black mixed with tallow into the lines as you proceed, and cleaning the plate with the flat of your hand; in this way you can control your work, and can carry it forward until it is finished, either by removing more or less of the bur, or by allowing all of it to stand, or by the elaboration of those passages which seem to need it. The lines show on the plate as they are intended to show on the paper. You can therefore bring out your subject by shading; you can lay vigorous lines over lines from which the bur has been removed; you can take out, and you can put in. The effect produced in the printing is velvety and strong, similar to that produced by the stump on paper. Rembrandt employed the dry point, without scraping, in some of his principal etchings. 84. =The Pen Process.=--I must now speak to you of a process which offers certain advantages. Clean your plate thoroughly, first with turpentine, and then with whiting, and take care not to touch the polished surface with your fingers. Execute a design on the bare copper with the pen and ordinary ink. You must not, of course, expect to find in the pen the same delicacy as in the needle. The design having been finished and thoroughly dried, ground and smoke your plate without, for the present, taking any further notice of the design; but be sure to see to it that the coat of varnish is not too thick; then lay the plate into water, and let it stay there for a quarter of an hour. Having withdrawn the plate, rub it lightly with a piece of flannel; the ink, having been softened by the water, comes off, together with the varnish which covers it, and leaves the design in well-defined lines on the copper, which you may now bite. You may work either with one pen and several bitings, or with several pens of various degrees of fineness and one biting. As in the case of soft ground etching, you may make additions with the needle to give delicacy. It is necessary to ground the plate and to soak it in water as soon as may be after the finishing of the design. At the end of two days, the ink refuses to rub off. CHAPTER VIII. PROVING AND PRINTING. 85. =Wax Proofs.=--Our first desire, after the ground has been removed from the plate, is to see a proof. If you have no press, and yet desire to take proofs of your work after each biting, you may employ the following process to good advantage:-- Take a sheet of very thin paper, a little larger than your plate, and cover it with a thin layer of melted wax. The latter must be real white wax. Then sprinkle a little lamp-black on your engraved plate, and distribute it with your finger, so as to rub it into the lines; clean the surface of the plate by carefully passing the palm of your hand over it. Now lay the sheet of paper on the plate, with its waxed surface down, and be sure to turn the edges of the paper over on the back of the plate, so as to prevent its moving; then rub with the burnisher in all directions. The lamp-black sticks to the wax, and is sure to give an approximate image, sufficient to guide you in the further prosecution of your work, if that should be necessary.[20] 86. =The Printing-Press.=--These proofs, however, as well as those which were hurriedly printed for you so far, give only a mere idea of your work, without conveying its full meaning. If you desire to become acquainted with all the resources of the printing-press, you will have to go to a plate printer. It is well worth your while to acquire this knowledge, also, after you have familiarized yourself with the various processes at the command of the etcher. Here, then, is the printer at his press: at his side there is a box made of sheet-iron, enclosing a chafing-dish; there are also printing-ink, a ball for inking, rags, and paper.[21] He is about to explain the use made of these things to our young student, who delivers his plate to him, and is anxious to be instructed in all that relates to the taking of impressions. 87. =Natural Printing.=--The printer now begins his explanations as follows:-- I place the plate on the sheet-iron box (the plate-warmer); it there acquires the necessary degree of heat, and I then spread the printing ink over it by means of this ball; the ink penetrates into the lines, and completely covers the whole surface of the plate; I remove the excess of ink with a coarse muslin rag, precisely as this is done in all other kinds of plate printing; I now clean the plate with the palm of my hand, so that no ink is left on it anywhere but in the lines; I finally wipe the margins of the plate evenly, so as to leave a delicate tint on the etched part only, and then I put the plate into the press. The plate is laid on the travelling-board or bed of the press, which runs between two cylinders of iron or hard wood; on the plate I lay a piece of paper, slightly moistened, and I cover the whole with several thicknesses of flannel; I turn the wheel of the press, and the cylinders, turning on themselves, carry along the travelling-board, which, in passing between them, is subjected to great pressure. The paper is thus pressed into the lines on the plate, and this process is facilitated by the elasticity of the flannel. You see now that your plate has come out on the other side of the rollers (or cylinders): we have given the press only one turn, although, as a rule, the plate is passed through the press twice, by making it travel back again under the rollers. This imparts strength to the impression; but occasionally the lines are not rendered as delicately and with as much precision, as with only one turn. I remove the flannel, and very carefully lift the paper; it has absorbed the ink: we have before us a _natural proof_, which shows the exact state of the plate (see Pl. I.). Line-engravings are printed in the same manner; with this difference, however, that the tint, more or less apparent, which is preserved on an etching, is not allowed to remain on a plate engraved with the burin. 88. =Artificial Printing.=--The printing of etchings very frequently differs from the simple method just described. It must be varied according to the style of execution adopted by the etcher; and, as much of the harmony of the plate may depend upon it, it sometimes rises to the dignity of an art, in which the artist and the printer are merged into each other,--the printer losing himself in the artist, as he is compelled to enter into the latter's ideas; and the artist giving way to the printer, to avail himself of his practical experience. The proof from your plate, for instance, has a dry look (see Pl. I.); it needs more softness, and this can be given to it by the printer.[D] (See Pl. II.) [D] It would be a great advantage if every etcher could print his own proofs. Rembrandt is the most striking example, as he was the author of many of the devices in use even to-day. A press can easily be procured. The firm of Ve. Cadart, Paris, has had a little portable press constructed, especially for the use of artists and amateurs. All the necessary accessories for printing can also be obtained of this firm. (See Note 22.) I will now explain to you some of the various artifices which are employed in printing. 89. =Handwiping with Retroussage.=--Having _wiped the plate with the palm of the hand_, we might _bring it up again (la retrousser)_ by playing over it very lightly with a piece of soft muslin rag rolled together. The muslin draws the ink out of the lines, and spreads it along their edges, so that, in the proof, the space between the lines is filled up by a vigorous tint. But this process can only be used on plates in which the lines are evenly disposed throughout, and, more especially, scattered. To produce the proper effect the _retroussage_ must be general; because, if the rag passes over one passage only, and not over the others, or, if it is brought into play only on the dark parts, and not in the lights, there will be discordance of tone, and consequently want of harmony. In the present case, therefore, _retroussage_ would be unsatisfactory, because the work on your plate, while it is broadly treated in some parts, is so close in others that there is no room left between the furrows. It follows that there is no place for the ink, drawn out of the lines, to spread on; the result would be a muddy tint,--one of those overcharged impressions which bring criticism upon the printer, because he has applied _retroussage_ to a plate which did not need it. 90. =Tinting with a Stiff Rag.=--Let us now try another means. The proof will gain in freshness if we soften the lines by going over the plate, _after it has been wiped with the hand_, somewhat more heavily with _stiff muslin_. Owing to the pressure used, the rag, instead of carrying away the ink which it has taken up out of the lines, retains it; a tint like that produced by the stump is spread over the plate, and envelops the lines without obscuring them; the proof is supple and velvety. (See Pl. II.) 91. =Wiping with the Rag only.=--Here is another variety. I am just printing a number of original plates by different artists. Being true painter's etchings, some of these plates are boldly accentuated and heavily bitten; the lines are widely apart, and significant. If these plates were printed _naturally_, they would yield bare and poor-looking proofs. Wiping with the hand would be useless. I therefore go over the plate with _stiff_ muslin. In the same manner I continue and finish, so as to give the greatest amount of cleaning to the luminous passages, while a tolerably strong tint is left on the dark and deeply bitten ones. Or I might have wiped the plate energetically with soft muslin, and then might have brought up again certain passages with a soft and somewhat cleaner rag. This method of wiping, which leaves on the surface of the plate a tint of more or less depth, must not be confounded with _retroussage_. Here is a proof of one of the plates of which I spoke to you: it is well sustained at all points; the lines are full and nourished; the general aspect is harmonious and energetic; the lights are softened; the strongly marked passages are enveloped in a warm tint. One might almost say that the effect of painting has been carried into etching. This method is employed for plates which have been deeply bitten, but upon which stopping-out has been used but sparingly, for works in which there is sobriety of expression, or for sketches (see Pl. VIII.). It is all the more necessary, sometimes, for the printer to take the initiative, the simpler the plate has been etched; it is left to him, in short, to complete the intention merely indicated by the artist. [Illustration: Plate VIII.] 92. =Limits of Artificial Printing.=--These examples have shown to you that difference in tone depends on the amount of pressure, and the variety of texture in the muslin. It is oftentimes necessary--and this is an affair of tact--to make use of these diverse qualities of the muslin on the same plate,--now reducing an over-strong tint by more vigorous wiping; now giving renewed force to it, in case it has become too soft. These various means constitute the art of printing etchings. But, while fully recognizing their efficiency when they are used to the purpose, we must also keep in mind the dangers which arise from their being applied without discernment. Plates produced by an intelligent combination of bitings, must be printed naturally, if they are not to lose the absolute character given to them by the needle and the acid. If they are at all wiped with the rag, so as to impart more softness to them, it must, at least, be done with the greatest of care. The artist has every thing to gain, therefore, by watching over the printing of his plates, and instructing the printer as to the manner in which he desires to be interpreted. Some etchers prefer the simplicity of the natural state; but the great majority favor the other method of printing, which, for the very reason that it is difficult, and on account of the many variations in its application, ought always to be an object of interest to the printer, and the aim of his studies. It is, moreover, the method which is generally understood and adopted by our first etchers.[22] 93. =Printing Inks.=--The quality and the shade of the ink, as well as the way in which it is ground, are of great importance in the beauty of a proof. Inks are made of pure black, slightly tempered with bistre or burnt sienna, and the shade can be varied according to taste. A plate like yours needs a delicate black, composed of Frankfort black and lamp-black; the bistre-tint, which, in the course of time, loses its freshness and strength, would not answer. This tint is always best suited to strongly bitten work, but in your case it would be insufficient. A very strong black, on the other hand, would make your etching look hard. This last shade--pure, or very slightly broken with bistre--is preferable for strongly accented plates.[23] 94. =Paper.=--_Laid paper_ is the most suitable paper for printing etchings; its sparkle produces a marvellous effect; its strength defies time itself. Some artists and amateurs ransack the shops for old paper with brown and dingy edges, which, to certain plates, imparts the appearance of old etchings. _India paper (Chinese paper)_ promotes purity of line; but, as its surface is dull, it furnishes somewhat dry and dim proofs. _Japanese paper_, of a warm yellowish tint, silky and transparent, is excellent, especially for plates which need more of mystery than of brilliancy, for heavy and deep tones, and for concentration of effect. Japanese paper absorbs the ink, and it is necessary, therefore, to bring up (_retrousser_) the plate strongly, and to wipe it with the rag. This paper is less favorable to sketches, the precise, free, and widely spaced lines of which accommodate themselves better to the tint of the laid paper. _Parchment_ may also be used for proofs; nothing equals the beauty of such proofs, printed either naturally, or wiped with the rag; they are the treasures of collectors.[24] 95. =Epreuves Volantes.=--On Chinese and Japanese paper, as well as on parchment, so-called _epreuves volantes_ (flying proofs) are printed; that is to say, loose proofs, which are not pasted down on white paper. They are simply attached to Bristol board by the two upper corners, which brings them out perfectly. 96. =Proofs before Lettering.=--All of these various kinds of paper, each of which has its own claim for excellence, and especially Japanese paper, are by preference used for artists' proofs and proofs before lettering, which are printed before the title is engraved on the plate. It is customary to print a greater or less number of such proofs, which, being struck off when the plate is still quite fresh, show it at its best. After that, the plate is lettered, and an ordinary edition is printed from it. It follows from this that the possessor of a proof without title has the best the plate can afford to give. But, as the pictures by the masters do not stand in need of a signature to be recognized, so the proofs before lettering may well do without the guaranty which is found in the absence of a title; even without this guaranty an amateur knows how to recognize the virgin freshness of an early impression, which is still further augmented by the extreme care bestowed on the printing of these exceptional proofs, but which cannot be kept up through a long edition. 97. =Epreuves de Remarque.=--_Epreuves de remarque_ (marked proofs), showing the different states of the plate, and the various modifications which it underwent, are also sought after. Their rarity increases their price.[25] 98. =Number of Impressions which a Plate is capable of yielding.=--The number of impressions which a plate can yield is not fixed, as the power of resisting the wear and tear of printing depends largely on the delicacy or the strength of the work. The quality of the copper must also be considered, a soft plate giving way much faster than a hard plate which has been well hammered. The plates prepared to-day do not resist as well as those formerly made; and as the popularity of works of art multiplied by the press has considerably increased, it became necessary to look about for means by which the surface of a copper plate may be hardened, and be made to yield a large edition. This has been accomplished by 99. =Steel-facing.=--_Steel-facing_, which was invented by Messrs. Salmon and Garnier, and which M. Jacquin undertook to render practicable, consists in depositing a coating of veritable steel, by galvanic action, on the face of the copper plate, or, in other words, by the superposition of a hard metal on a soft metal. This mode of protection, which perfectly preserves the most delicate passages, even down to the almost invisible scratches of the dry point, not only guarantees the copper against the contact of the hand and the rag, which would tell on it more than the pressure of the rollers, but at the same time makes it possible to print a thousand proofs of equal purity. Certain plates, owing to the manner of wiping used on them, do not reach this figure; others, more simply printed, may yield three to four thousand proofs, and sometimes even a still larger number. As soon as the plate shows the slightest change, or the copper begins to reappear, the coating of steel is removed by chemical agents, which, acting differently on the two metals, corrode the one, while they leave the other untouched. The plate is thus brought back to its original state, and is therefore in the same condition as before to receive a second steel-facing. In this way plates may be _de-steeled_ and _re-steeled_ a great many times, and the proofs printed from them may be carried up to considerable quantities. As a rule, the plates are not steel-faced until after the proofs before lettering have been printed. Soft-ground etchings, the biting of which is quite shallow, must be steel-faced after two to three hundred impressions. The delicacy of the bur thrown up by the dry point hardly permits the printing of more than twenty or thirty proofs on an average; steel-facing carries this number up to a point which cannot be fixed absolutely, but it is certain that the bur takes the steel quite as well and as solidly as an etched line. Dry points may, therefore, yield long editions; the steel-facing must in that case be renewed whenever necessary.[26] 100. =Copper-facing Zink Plates.=--Zink plates cannot be steel-faced, but they can be copper-faced.[27] Steel-facing has been adopted by the Chalcographic Office of the Louvre, and by the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_, that remarkable and unique publication which is an honor to criticism and is found in all art libraries. Steel-facing, in fact, is universally employed; it preserves in good condition the beautiful plates of our engravers, and makes it possible to put within reach of a great many people engravings of a choice kind, which but lately were found only in the _salons_ of the rich and the collections of passionate amateurs. [Illustration: AN ETCHER'S STUDIO. From the Third Edition of Abraham Bosse's "Treatise," Paris, 1758.] [Illustration: Croquis d'apres nature, pour servir de modeles, 1877. Le Waag, Amsterdam.] NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR. [1] (p. 2.) To these associations may be added the German Etching Clubs at Duesseldorf and at Weimar, which issue yearly portfolios of plates executed by their members, and the American Etching Clubs at New York and at Cincinnati. The New York Etching Club was organized in April, 1877, with Dr. L. M. Yale as its first president. At this writing Mr. James D. Smillie is the presiding officer of the club, which has about twenty-four members, including many of the leading artists of New York. The Cincinnati Etching Club is composed almost entirely of amateurs. Its president is Mr. George McLaughlin. Quite lately an Etching Club has also been formed in Boston, with Mr. Edmund H. Garrett as president. [2] (p. 3.) Benzine is preferable to turpentine for most of the operations of the etcher, but more especially for cleaning soiled hands. It is advisable to use turpentine only when the benzine proves insufficient to remove the last traces of ground or ink from the lines. [3] (p. 9.) Something about tools and materials has already been said in the Introductory Chapter, p. xiv. What is left to be said follows here:-- _Copper plates_, from visiting-card size (at $1 per dozen), to any required size can be bought of, or ordered through, the firms named on p. xiii, or of Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, 45 Gold St., New York. Mr. Sharp will send price-lists on application. The plates usually sold, at least of the smaller sizes, are made of an alloy, not of pure copper. These alloy plates are cheaper and bite more quickly than those of pure copper, but it happens occasionally that they do not bite evenly, owing to want of homogeneity in the metal. Still, they are extensively used, and amateurs will find them preferable to the more expensive copper plates. _Etching-ground._ A recipe for a cheap and yet a very good ordinary ground has been given on p. xv. The transparent ground consists of 5 parts, by weight, of white wax. 3 " " gum-mastic. Gum-mastic costs about thirty-five cents an ounce. Melt the wax first, and add the gum-mastic in powder gradually, stirring all the while with a clean glass or metal rod. _Stopping-out varnish._ (See p. xvi.) There is a varnish sold at painters' supply-stores under the name of "Asphaltum Varnish for Sign-Writers' Use," which does very well. In Boston Asahel Wheeler sells it at fifteen cents a bottle. _Needle-holders_ are unnecessary if the points described on p. xvi are used. _Burnishers_ are sold at the hardware-stores, or by dealers in watchmakers' materials. They ought not to cost above fifty cents apiece. _Scrapers._ Same as burnishers. Price not above $1. Some dealers ask $2, which is exorbitant. _A lens_ can be obtained of any optician. In Boston they can also be had of A.J. Wilkinson & Co., hardware dealers, 184 Washington St., at prices varying from $1 to $1.50. _India-rubber finger-gloves_ are unnecessary if you use the "plate-lifter" described on p. xvii. _Nitric acid._ Messrs. Powers & Weightman's "Nitric Acid, C. P." (i. e. chemically pure), recommended on p. xvii, is 42 degrees, and Messrs. P. & W. inform me that the strength is tolerably uniform. If you are an enthusiastic etcher it will be best to buy a seven-pound bottle, which is the next largest to the one-pound bottles. _Tracing-paper_, _gelatine_, _chalk_, and _sanguine_ can be obtained at the artists' material stores. _Emery-paper._ Hardware-stores. Price four cents a sheet. _Roller for revarnishing._ See Note 5. To the tools and materials mentioned by M. Lalanne the following must be added: _Whiting_, _benzine_, _turpentine_, _alcohol_, _willow charcoal_. The last-named article can be supplied by Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, of 45 Gold St., New York, before mentioned. [4] (p. 11.) I wrote to M. Lalanne to find out the ingredients of the _petit vernis liquide_ and _vernis au pinceau_, but he says that he does not know, and that the recipes are a secret of the maker of these varnishes. The asphaltum varnish mentioned on p. xvi and in Note 3 does excellently well, however, both for stopping out and retouching. After it has been fanned (see p. xxi) until it has thickened sufficiently not to stick to the finger when touched, but before it is quite dry, it can be worked upon with the point. If not dry enough, which will manifest itself readily as soon as you have drawn the first line, fan again. If it were allowed to dry absolutely, it would chip off under the needle. There is a liquid ground, made by Mr. Louis Delnoce of the American Bank Note Company, New York, which--so Mr. Jas. D. Smillie informs me--is used for retouches by the engravers of the company, is applied with the brush, is a very quick dryer, tough, and resists acid perfectly. Mr. Delnoce sells it in ounce bottles at seventy-five cents each. [5] (p. 12.) The roller for revarnishing, spoken of by M. Lalanne, and also recommended by Mr. Hamerton, cannot be bought in this country. Nor--with all due deference to the great experience of M. Lalanne--is such a large and expensive roller necessary. The rollers used by our most experienced etchers--Mr. Jas. D. Smillie, for instance--are little cylinders of India-rubber, about one inch in diameter and one and one-half inches long. They cost from 50 cents to $2 each. _But these rollers cannot be used with etching-paste._ The oil of lavender in the paste attacks the rubber and destroys it. As to the manner of using the India-rubber roller see Note 12. [6] (p. 20.) The use of bordering wax is not advisable. But as some etchers still employ it, I add a recipe for making it, which was kindly communicated to me by Mr. Peter Moran of Philadelphia:-- 3 lbs. Burgundy pitch. 1 lb. yellow beeswax. 1 gill sweet oil. Melt together and then form into strips. [7] (p. 21.) Etching is the most individual of the reproductive arts (or rather of the _multiplying_ arts, the German _vervielfaeltigende Kuenste_), even in its technical processes. Therefore nearly every etcher has his own ways of doing, and few agree on all points. Many etchers do not think it necessary to weaken the acid as described in the text. But be sure to let it _cool_ after it has been mixed with water, before you immerse your plate! [8] (p. 22.) It would take altogether too long to wait for the _perfect_ drying of the asphaltum varnish, nor is it necessary. Fan it, as described in Note 4, and as soon as it ceases to stick you can again immerse your plate. [9] (p. 25.) I have never been able to notice this turning dark of the lines, although I have had plates in the bath for several hours, and some of my artist acquaintances whom I have consulted on the point, have confirmed my experience. Possibly the phenomenon described by M. Lalanne may be caused by impurities in the acid. [10] (p. 27.) If the reader will make use of the device for lifting the plate into and out of the bath, which I have described on p. xvii, there will be no necessity of burning his fingers. With a little precaution, and a plentiful use of benzine for washing and cleaning, the daintiest lady's hand need not suffer from etching. [11] (p. 29.) For directions for making this ground see Note 3. [12] (p. 38.) To make the varnish, or rather etching-paste, recommended in the text, a warm-water bath is not absolutely necessary. Take any small porcelain or earthenware vessel (a small gallipot is very convenient, because the etching-paste can be kept in it for use), and set it upon a metal frame, easily made of wire, so that you can introduce a spirit lamp under it. Break up a ball, or part of a ball, of ordinary etching-ground, and throw it into the pot. Heat the pot carefully, so as just to allow the ground to melt. When it has melted, add oil of lavender (worth thirty-five cents an ounce at the druggist's), drop by drop, and keep stirring the mixture with a clean glass rod. From time to time allow a drop of the mixture to fall on a cold glass or metal plate. If, on cooling, it assumes the consistency of pomatum, the paste is finished. As I have said before, this paste cannot be used with the India-rubber rollers recommended in Note 5. With these rollers the regrounding must be done with the ordinary etching-ground with the aid of heat. Warm your plate so that you can just bear to touch it with the hand, and allow some of the ground to melt on a second, unused copper plate. Also warm the roller slightly. Then proceed as M. Lalanne directs in his fifty-seventh paragraph. The slight changes in the proceeding, which grow out of the differences between cold and warm ground, are self-evident. It is hardly necessary to say that the roller can also be used for laying the first ground. _But it is of no use on any but perfectly smooth, straight plates, as it cannot penetrate into hollows._ When it is not available the dabber must be employed in the old manner. [13] (p. 39.) Some engravers prefer the dabber to the roller even for regrounding entire plates. In that case the ground is spread on the margin of the plate, if that be wide enough, or on a separate plate, and is taken up by the dabber. The plate to be regrounded must of course be warmed as for laying a ground with the roller, and care must be taken not to have the dabber overcharged with ground. [14] (p. 40.) In default of the charcoal-paste, rubbing with the finest emery-paper will do to remove the polish. [15] (p. 40.) I cannot direct the reader to a copper-planer, and therefore it will be best to give some directions for removing faulty passages. The following paragraphs are copied bodily from Mr. Hamerton:-- "The most rapid way is to use sandpapers of different degrees of coarseness, the coarsest first, and then the scraper, and, finally, willow charcoal with olive oil. The charcoal will leave the surface in a fit state to etch upon. "This scraping and rubbing hollows out the surface of the copper, and if it hollows it too much the printing will not be quite satisfactory in that part of the plate. In that case you have nothing to do but mark the spot on the back of the plate with a pair of calipers, then lay the plate on its face upon a block of polished steel, and give it two or three blows with a hammer (mind that the hammer is rounded so as not to indent the copper)." [16] (p. 48.) The process here alluded to is the one used by Mr. Haden. The mordant is the so-called Dutch mordant, and the manner of making it is thus described by Mr. Hamerton:-- "First heat the water by putting the bottle containing it into a pan also containing water, and keep it on the fire till that in the pan boils. Now add the chlorate of potash, and see that every crystal of it is dissolved. Shake the bottle to help the solution. When no more crystals are to be seen, you may add the hydrochloric acid. Make a good quantity of this mordant at once, so as always to have a plentiful supply by you." For a full account of the Haden process see Mr. Hamerton's "Etcher's Handbook," or the second edition of his "Etching and Etchers." This Dutch mordant is preferred to nitric acid by many etchers,--even when working, not in the bath, but in the ordinary way, as taught by M. Lalanne,--because it bites down into the copper, and hardly widens the lines. "From my experience," writes Mr. Jas. D. Smillie, in a letter now before me, "I unhesitatingly prefer the Dutch mordant for copper; it bites a very fine black line, it is not so severe a trial to the ground, and it does not need constant watching." Mr. Smillie, however, uses the mordant much stronger than Mr. Haden. He has, in fact, invented a process of his own, which, in a letter to me, he describes as follows:-- "I draw and bite as I progress; that is, I draw in the darkest parts first, give them a good nip with the mordant, wash the plate and dry it, and then draw the next stage. I can thus, by drawing lines over a part that has already been exposed to the mordant, interlace heavy and light lines in a way that I could not by any other process. I etch upon an unsmoked ground, and as the Dutch mordant bites a _black_ line, I see my etching clearly as it advances, By holding the head well over the plate, the lines can be very distinctly seen as they are drawn. After a little experimenting, the etcher will find the angle at which he can see his unbitten work upon an unsmoked ground without trouble. Mr. Hamerton's formula seemed to me too weak, so I am experimenting with Muriatic acid, 1 ounce. Chlorate of potash, 1-5 " Water, 5 ounces. "This is the mordant I am now using, and I have found it to work well. Still, as I am not a scientific chemist, and my knowledge is entirely empiric, I am prepared to believe any chemist who may tell me that I might do as well, or better, with more water. "Generally I do not get all the color I wish by the first process, as I can see without removing the ground; so, when my etching is finished, I reverse the engine and begin stopping out and biting upon the original ground, as it is ordinarily done. I do not use the black asphaltum varnish for stopping out, but a transparent varnish that is simply white resin dissolved in alcohol. If applied very carefully, and allowed time to dry, it is perfectly clear and transparent, and the relations of all parts of the plate can be seen,--the stopped out as well as the bitten lines,--but to a careless worker it presents many troubles. It is so transparent that it is hard to see what is stopped out and what is not, and if washed with very warm water, or before it is thoroughly dry, it turns cloudy and semi-opaque. I have no trouble with it, and could not get along without it. I make it myself,--have no formula,--adding alcohol until it is thin enough to flow readily from the brush. It has a great advantage over asphaltum varnish, as it does not flow along a line. It is viscid enough to remain just where it is put, and is as perfect a protection as any asphaltum varnish." Mr. Smillie heats his bath on the plate-warmer, but not to exceed 80 deg., or at most 90 deg. Such a bath of hot mordant acts much more quickly than a cold acid bath, less than two minutes being sufficient for the lightest lines. [17] (p. 50.) Gravers are of different shapes, according to the nature of the line which they are intended to produce. They are sometimes kept at the hardware-stores, as, for instance, by A. J. Wilkinson & Co., 184 Washington St., Boston. This house also issues an illustrated catalogue of engravers' tools. [18] (p. 52.) M. Lalanne, it seems to me, does not do full justice to zinc plates. Very delicate lines can be bitten on zinc if the acid is sufficiently weakened. I have found that one part of nitric acid to eight parts of water, used on zinc, is about equal to one-half acid and one-half water, used on copper for about the same length of time. Zinc plates can also be bought of Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, 45 Gold St., New York. As to the length of edition that can be printed from a zinc plate, see Note 27. [19] (p. 52.) This is not strictly correct. The "maniere de crayon," as practised by Demarteau and others, differs materially from soft-ground etching. A ground was laid and smoked as usual, and on it the drawing was produced, by a variety of instruments, such as points, some of them multiple, the roulette, the mattoir, etc. [20] (p. 55.) There is another method of getting what may be called a proof, i. e. by taking a cast in plaster. Ink your plate and wipe it clean, as described in Note 22, and then pour over it plaster-of-Paris mixed with water. When the plaster has hardened it can easily be separated from the plate, and the ink in the lines will adhere to it. To make such a cast you must manage a rim around your plate, or you may lay it into a paper box, face upward. Mix about half a tumbler full of water (or more, according to the size of the plate) with double the quantity of plaster, adding the plaster, little by little, and stirring continually. When the mixture begins to thicken pour it on the plate, and if necessary spread it over the whole of the surface by means of a piece of wood or anything else that will answer. Then allow it to harden. [21] (p. 55.) The chafing-dish and the ball (or dabber) are now replaced by the gas flame and the inking-roller in most printing establishments. But if you desire to do your own proving, you will have to use a dabber, the manner of making which is described in the next note. [22] (p. 59.) If there is no plate-printer near you, but you have access to a lithographic printing establishment, you can have your proofs taken there. "Lithographic presses," says A. Potemont, "give perfectly good and satisfactory proofs of etchings." Not every printer can print an etching as it ought to be printed. A man may be an excellent printer of line engravings and mezzotints, and yet may be totally unfit to print an etching. I would recommend the following printing establishments:-- New York: Kimmel & Voigt, 242 Canal Street. Boston: J. H. Daniels, 223 Washington Street. If you desire to establish an amateur printing-office of your own you will need, in addition to the tools and materials already in your possession:-- A press, A plate-warmer, An ink-slab, A muller, A dabber or ball, Rags for wiping, Printing-ink, Paper. _The press._ The presses used by professional plate-printers will be thought too large and too costly by most etchers. There is a small press sold by Madame Ve. A. Cadart, 56 Boulevard Haussmann, Paris, of which a representation is given on the next page. This press, accompanied by all the necessary accessories,--rags, ink, paper, plate-warmer, dabber, etc.,--sells in Paris at the price of 150 francs (about $30). There is an extra charge for boxing; and freight, duties, etc., must also be paid for, extra, on presses imported to this country. The publishers of this book are ready to take orders for these presses, but I cannot inform the reader what the charges will amount to, as no importations have yet been made by Messrs. Estes & Lauriat. There is also a small press invented by Mr. Hamerton and made in London by Mr. Charles Roberson, 99 Long Acre, which sells on the other side, for the press only, at two guineas for the smallest, and four guineas for a larger size. These presses are smaller than the Cadart presses, and, according to Mr. Hamerton, are "very portable affairs, which an etcher might put in his box when travelling, and use anywhere, in an inn, in a friend's house, or even out of doors when etching from nature." A small press has also quite lately been introduced by Messrs. Janentzky & Co., of Philadelphia, which costs only $16.50 (without accessories), and is well recommended by those who have used it. [Illustration] The press is not complete without the flannels spoken of in the text (p. 56, Sec. 87). There is a kind of very thick flannel specially made for printers' use. But if this cannot be had (of some plate-printer) any good flannel with a piece of thick soft cloth over it will do well enough. In adjusting the press care must be taken that the pressure is neither too great nor too small. This is a matter of experience. _The plate-warmer_ is a box made of strong sheet-iron, into which either a gas-jet or a small kerosene lamp can be introduced. If you happen to have a gas-stove, and can get an iron plate of some kind to lay across the top, you will have an excellent plate-warmer. _The ink-slab._ Any _smooth_ slab of marble, slate, or lithographic stone, about a foot square, will do. _A muller._ This is a pestle of stone, flat at the bottom, used for grinding colors or ink. _A dabber or ball._ Take strips of thick cloth or flannel, about four or five inches wide; roll them together as tightly as possible, until you have a cylinder of two or three inches in diameter; bind firmly by strong twine wound all around the cylinder; then cut one end with a large sharp knife, so as to get a smooth surface. After the dabber has been used for some time, and the ink has hardened in it, cut off another slice so as to get a fresh surface. _Rags for wiping._ Fine Swiss muslin and the fabric known as cheese cloth make good rags for wiping. They can be bought at the dry-goods stores. As they are charged with some material to make them stiff and increase the weight, they must be washed before they are used. When they have become too much charged with ink they may be boiled out in a solution of potash or soda in water. The Swiss muslin costs about twelve cents a yard, the cheese cloth about five. I had a lot of rags specially sent to me from Paris, as I wished to see the difference between the soft and the stiff muslin. The parcel contained a collection of pieces of a sort of Swiss muslin, evidently old curtains, and some pieces of old cotton shirting, some of which had done duty at the Hotel des Invalides, still bearing its stamp! _Printing-ink and paper._ (See Notes 23 and 24.) To _ink the plate_, place it on the plate-warmer and allow it to become as hot as your hand can bear. Then take up the ink from the ink-slab with the dabber and spread it all over the surface, moving the dabber along with a rocking motion, but not striking the plate with it. Take care that the lines are well filled. Sometimes, in the first inking of the plate, it is necessary to use the finger to force the ink into the lines. In _wiping the plate_ the first operation is to remove all the superfluous ink from the surface by means of a rag. What follows depends on the kind of impression you desire to get. If you want a _natural_, _clean_, or _dry_ proof, as these impressions are variously called (i. e. an impression which shows only black lines on a perfectly clear white ground), charge the palm of your hand with a _very little_ whiting or Spanish white, and with it finish the wiping of the plate. This operation will leave the surface of the plate perfectly clean and bright, while the ink remains in the lines. If you desire to have an even tint left all over the plate, avoid the use of the hand, and wipe with the rag only. Plate-printers use their rags moist, but for printing etchings a dry rag is preferable, as it leaves more of a tint on the plate. Note, also, that the rag must be tolerably well charged with ink to enable you to wipe a good tint with it. The margin of the plate, even if a tint is left over it, must always be wiped clean. This is best accomplished by a bit of cotton cloth charged with whiting. For the rest, nothing is left but to experiment according to the hints given in the text by M. Lalanne. [23] (p. 59.) If you can, buy your ink of a plate-printer or of a lithographer. That used by book-printers will _not_ do! The trouble is that the ink used by ordinary plate-printers is of a disagreeably cold cast, as it is mixed with blue. Etchings ought to be printed with a warm black, and sometimes, especially in the case of somewhat over-bitten plates, with an ink of a decidedly brownish hue. Inks are made of linseed-oil varnish (i. e. linseed oil that has been boiled down or burned), and the blacks mentioned in the text. There are various qualities of varnish according to its consistency, varying from thin through medium to stiff. If you wish to mix your own ink, you must try to procure the materials of some plate-printer or lithographer. For varnish use the medium, for black the Francfort. The burnt Sienna (which you can buy at any paint-shop) is used only to warm up the black. Lay some of the dry color on your ink-slab, add a very little of the varnish, and mix with the muller. Then add more varnish until the ink forms a tolerably stiff paste. The grinding must be carefully done, so as to avoid grittiness. Besides, if the color is not thoroughly well incorporated with the varnish, the ink will not stand. To preserve the ink for future use, put it into some vessel with a cover, and pour water over it. The water standing on top of the ink keeps it soft. Otherwise the varnish would harden. [24] (p. 60.) The heavy Dutch hand-made papers are still preferred by most people for etchings; but it is very difficult, if not impossible, to procure them in this country. The paper known as Lalanne charcoal paper, which is likewise a hand-made paper, can be bought at the artist's material stores. Good drawing-paper will also answer. The worst, because most inartistic, of all, is the plain white plate paper. The paper used for the etchings in the AMERICAN ART REVIEW, first made especially for this journal according to my suggestions, has excellent printing qualities, although, being a machine-made, unglued paper, it lacks some of the characteristics of the Dutch hand-made paper. But its texture is very good, and it takes up the ink even _better_ than the Dutch papers. Japanese paper can be procured of the firms named on page xiii. Dry paper will not take a decent impression, and the sheets to be used for printing must therefore be moistened. To prepare the ordinary paper, take three or four sheets at a time, and pass them slowly through clean water contained in a pail or other vessel. Wet as many sheets as you may need, lay them on top of one another, place the pile between two boards, and allow them to lie thus under tolerably heavy pressure for at least twelve, or, better still, for twenty-four hours. The paper will then be ready for use. To prepare Japanese paper, lay each sheet between two wet sheets of ordinary paper, and let it lie as before. [25] (p. 60.) _Epreuves de remarque._ The _remarque_ usually consists in leaving unfinished some little detail in an out-of-the-way corner of the plate. After the _epreuves de remarque_ have been printed, this detail is finished. A person who cannot tell a good impression from a bad one, or does not know whether a plate is spoiled or still in good condition, without some such extraneous sign, has slight claim to be considered a connoisseur. [26] (p. 62.) New York is, for the present, I believe, the only place where steel-facing is done in America. I can recommend Mr. F. A. Ringler, 21 and 23 Barclay Street, New York. [27] (p. 62.) Zinc plates _can_ be steel-faced, but the facing cannot be renewed, as it cannot be removed. The zinc plate on which Mr. Lansil's little etching, given in this volume, is executed, was steel-faced. It is feasible also, the electrotypers tell me, to deposit a thin coating of copper on the zinc first, and then to superimpose a coating of steel. In that case the steel-facing can be renewed as long as the copper-facing under it remains intact. LIST OF WORKS ON THE PRACTICE AND HISTORY OF ETCHING.[E] [E] This list is very far from being complete, especially in the last section, "Individual Artists." I have made a few additions, which have been marked by an asterisk. Those who desire to pursue the subject will find a very full bibliographical list in J. E. WESSELY'S _Anleitung zur Kenntniss und zum Sammeln der Werke des Kunstdruckes_, Leipzig, Weigel, 1876, p. 279 et seq.--_Translator._ A. TECHNICAL TREATISES. _De la gravure en taille-douce, a l'eau-forte et au burin_, ensemble la maniere d'en imprimer les planches et d'en construire la presse, par ABRAHAM BOSSE. Paris, 1645. _Traite des manieres de graver en taille-douce sur l'airain_ par le moyen des eaux-fortes et des vernis durs et mols, par le s. ABRAHAM BOSSE, augmente de la nouvelle maniere dont se sert M. LECLERC, graveur du roi. Paris, 1701. * _De la maniere de graver a l'eau-forte_ et au burin, et de la gravure en maniere noir ... par ABRAHAM BOSSE. Nouvelle edition.... Paris, 1758. Small 8vo. Ill. * _Die Kunst in Kupfer zu stechen_ sowohl mittelst des Aetzwassers als mit dem Grabstichel ... durch ABRAHAM BOSSE.... Aus dem Franzoesischen ins Deutsche uebersetzt. Dresden, 1765. Small 8vo. Ill. _The Art of Graveing and Etching_, wherein is exprest the true Way of Graveing in Copper; allso the Manner and Method of that famous Callot, and M. Bosse, in their several Ways of Etching. Published by WILLIAM FAITHORNE. London, 1662. 8vo. Ill. _Idee de la gravure_, par M. DE M * * . Without place or date. 12mo. (This essay appeared originally in the "Mercure" for April, 1756, and was afterwards printed separately. See, also, in the "Mercure" for 1755, a notice, announcing the publication of a print by de Marcenay de Ghuy after the elder Parrocel. This notice was also printed separately.) _Idee de la gravure_ ... par M. DE MARCENAY DE GHUY. Paris, 1764. In-4 de 16 et 10 pag. (This is a second edition of the work last mentioned.) _Anleitung zur Aetzkunst_ ... nach eigenen praktischen Erfahrungen herausgegeben von JOHANN HEINRICH MEYNIER. Hof, 1804. 8vo. Ill. _Lectures on the Art of Engraving_, delivered at the Royal Institute of Great Britain, by JOHN LANDSEER, Engraver to the King. London, 1807. 8vo. _Three Lectures on Engraving_, delivered at the Surrey Institution in the Year 1809, by ROBERT MITCHELL MEADOWS. London, 1811. 8vo. _Manuel du graveur_, ou Traite complet de la gravure en tous genres, d'apres les renseignements fournis par plusieurs artistes. Par A. M. PERROT. Paris, 1830. In-18. _Des mordants, des vernis et des planches dans l'art du graveur_, ou Traite complet de la gravure. Par PIERRE DELESCHAMPS. Paris, 1836. In-8. * _Vollstaendiges Handbuch der Gravirkunst_, enthaltend gruendliche Belehrungen ueber die Aetzwaesser, die Aetzgruende, die Platten und die Gravir-maschinen.... Von PET. DELESCHAMPS. Deutsch, mit Zusaetzen, von Dr. CHR. H. SCHMIDT. Quedlinburg und Leipzig, Basse, 1838. Ill. _The Art of Engraving_, with the various Modes of Operation.... By T. H. FIELDING. London, 1844. 8vo. Ill. _Lettre de Martial_ sur les elements de la gravure a l'eau-forte. Paris, 1864. (Etched on 4 fol. plates, illustrated.) _Nouveau traite de la gravure a l'eau-forte_ a l'usage des peintres et des dessinateurs, par A. P. MARTIAL. Paris, A. Cadart. 1873. Ill. * _The Etcher's Handbook_: giving an Account of the Old Processes, and of Processes recently discovered. By PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. London, Roberson, 1871. Ill. (See also Mr. Hamerton's _Etching and Etchers_, 2d edition.) * _Mr. Seymour Haden on Etching._ Lectures delivered at the Royal Institution, reports of which were published in "The Magazine of Art," 1879, and in the London "Building News," 1879. * _The Etcher's Guide._ By THOMAS BISHOP. Philadelphia, Janentzky, 1879. Ill. _Grammaire des Arts du Dessin_, par CHARLES BLANC. In this work (of which there is also an English translation), there is a special chapter on Etching. _Charles Jacque._ Articles by him on Etching in the "Magasin pittoresque." _Gravure._--Article extrait de l'Encyclopedie des arts et metiers. In-fol, de 9 pag., fig. B. HISTORICAL AND THEORETICAL. * _Anleitung zur Kupferstichkunde._ VON ADAM VON BARTSCH. Wien, 1821. 2 vols. 8vo. Plates. _Des types et des manieres des maitres graveurs_, pour servir a l'histoire de la gravure en Italie, en Allemagne, dans les Pays-Bas et en France, par JULES RENOUVIER. Montpellier, 1853-1856. 4 parties in-4. _La gravure depuis son origine_, par HENRI DELABORDE. 1860. (These articles appeared in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ for Dec. 1 and 15, 1850, and Jan. 1, 1851.) _Histoire de la gravure en France_, par GEORGES DUPLESSIS. Paris, 1861. In-8. (This work was crowned by the French Institute [Academie des beaux-arts].) _Etching and Etchers._ By PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. London, Macmillan, 1868. 4to. Ill. * _Etching and Etchers._ By PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. (Second edition.) 1876. London, Macmillan. Boston, Roberts Bros. * _The Origin and Antiquity of Engraving_.... By W. S. BAKER. Boston, Osgood, 1875. 4to. (Second edition. Ill.) _La Gravure a l'eau-forte_, essai historique par RAOUL DE SAINT-ARROMAN.--_Comment je devins graveur a l'eau-forte_, par le comte LEPIC. Paris, Cadart, 1876. * _Anleitung zur Kenntniss und zum Sammeln der Werke des Kunstdruckes_, von J. E. WESSELY. Leipzig, Weigel, 1876. 8vo. * _About Etching._ Part I. Notes by Mr. SEYMOUR HADEN on a Collection of Etchings by the Great Masters.... Part II. An Annotated Catalogue of the Etchings exhibited. 148 New Bond Street (London), 1879. (Second edition, which has some additions.) * _About Etching._ By SEYMOUR HADEN. Illustrated with an original etching by Mr. Haden, and fourteen facsimiles from his collection. Imperial 4to. London, The Fine Art Society, 1879. C. CATALOGUES OF THE WORKS OF THE ARTISTS. (_a._) DICTIONARIES. _Le peintre-graveur_, par ADAM BARTSCH. Vienne, 1803-1821. 21 vol. in-8 et un atlas in-4. * _Le peintre-graveur._ Par J. D. PASSAVANT. Leipzig, 1860. 6 vols. 8vo. (Continuation of Bartsch's work.) _Le peintre-graveur francais_, ... par ROBERT DUMESNIL. Paris, 1835-1874. 11 vol. in-8. _Le peintre-graveur francais continue_, par PROSPER DE BEAUDICOUR. Paris, 1859. 2 vol. in-8. * _Le peintre-graveur hollandais et flamand._ Par J. P. VAN DER KELLEN. Utrecht, 1866. 4to. (Continuation of Bartsch's work.) * _Le peintre-graveur hollandais et belge du XIX^e siecle._ Par T. HIPPERT et JOS. LINNIG. Bruxelles, 1874 (first vol.) et seq. 8vo. * _Der deutsche Peintre-graveur._ Von A. ANDRESEN. Leipzig, 1864, et seq. 5 vols. 8vo. * _Die Malerradirer des 19. Jahrhunderts._ Von A. ANDRESEN. Leipzig, 1866-1870. 4 vols. 8vo. * _Die Malerradirer des 19. Jahrhunderts._ Von J. E. WESSELY. Leipzig, 1874. 8vo. (Continuation of Andresen's work.) (_b._) INDIVIDUAL ARTISTS. _Beredeneerde catalogus_ van alle de prenten van NICOLAAS BERGHEM ... beschreven door HENDRICK DE WINTER. Amsterdam, 1767. _Catalogue de l'oeuvre d'Abraham Bosse_, par GEORGES DUPLESSIS. Paris, 1859. In-8. (From the "Revue Universelle des Arts.") _Eloge historique de Callot_, par le P. HUSSON. Bruxelles, 1766. In-4. _A Catalogue and Description_ of the whole of the Works of the celebrated JACQUES CALLOT ... by J. H. GREEN (attributed to CLAUSSIN). 1804. 12mo. _Eloge historique de Callot_, par M. DESMARETZ. Nancy, 1828. In-8. _Recherches_ sur la vie et les ouvrages de J. CALLOT, par E. MEAUME. Paris, 1860. 2 vol. in-8. _OEuvre de Claude Gelee_, dit le Lorrain, par le comte GUILLAUME DE L. (LEPPEL). Dresde, 1806. In-8, fig. (For the engraved works of Claude Lorrain, see also the "Peintre-graveur" of M. Robert Dumesnil, vol. i., and the "Cabinet de l'Amateur et de l'Antiquaire," by Eugene Piot, vol. ii. pp. 433-466.) _Eloge historique de Claude Gelee_, dit le Lorrain, par J. P. VOIART. Nancy, 1839. In-8. _A Description_ of the Works of the ingenious Delineator and Engraver, WENCESLAUS HOLLAR, disposed into Classes of different Sorts; with some Account of his Life. By G. VERTUE. London, 1745. 4to, Portr. _De la gravure a l'eau-forte et des eaux-fortes de Charles Jacque._ By CHARLES BLANC. In the "Gazette des Beaux Arts," vol. ix. p. 193 et seq. _Les Johannot_, par M. CH. LENORMANT. Paris (1858). In-8. (From Michaud's "Biographie universelle.") * _Essay on Meryon, and a Catalogue of his Works_, by FREDERIC WEDMORE. London, Thibaudeau, 1879. (Announced as about to be published.) See also _Meryon and Meryon's Paris_, by F. WEDMORE, in the "Nineteenth Century," for May, 1878. * _P. Burty's Catalogue of the Etchings of Meryon_, revised from the Catalogue in the "Gazette des Beaux Arts," and translated by Mr. M. B. HUISH, is announced to be published by the London Fine-Art Society. _M^e. O'Connell, Meissonier, Millet, Meryon, Seymour Haden._ Articles on these etchers by PHILIPPE BURTY in the "Gazette des Beaux Arts." _Catalogue raisonne_ des estampes gravees a l'eau-forte par GUIDO RENI, par ADAM BARTSCH. Vienne, 1795. In-8. _Catalogue raisonne_ de toutes les estampes qui forment l'oeuvre de _Rembrandt_, ... par ADAM BARTSCH. Vienne, 1797. 2 vol. in-8. _A Descriptive Catalogue of the Prints of Rembrandt_, by an Amateur (WILSON). London, 1836. In-8. _Rembrandt and his Works_, ... by JOHN BURNET. London, 1859. 4to. Ill. _Rembrandt._ Discours sur sa vie et son genie, avec un grand nombre de documents historiques, par le Dr. P. SCHELTEMA, traduit par A. WILLEMS. Revu et annote par W. BURGER. Bruxelles, 1859. In-8. (From the "Revue universelle des Arts.") _L'OEuvre complet de Rembrandt_, remarquablement decrit et commente par CHARLES BLANC. Paris, 1859. 3 vol. in-8. * _Rembrandt Harmens van Rijn._ Ses precurseurs et ses annees d'apprentissage. Par C. VOSMAER. La Haye, Nijhoff, 1863. * _Rembrandt Harmens van Rijn._ Sa vie et ses oeuvres. Par C. VOSMAER. La Haye, Nijhoff, 1868. (A second, revised edition appeared some years ago.) * _The Etched Works of Rembrandt._ A Monograph. By FRANCIS SEYMOUR HADEN. With three plates and appendix. London, Macmillan, 1879. Medium 8vo. * _Descriptive Catalogue_ of the Etched Works of _Rembrandt van Rhyn_. With Life and Introduction. By C. H. MIDDLETON. Royal 8vo. London, 1879. _Pictorial Notices_; consisting of a Memoir of _Sir Anthony van Dyck_, with a Descriptive Catalogue of the Etchings executed by him.... By WILLIAM HOOKHAM CARPENTER. London, 1844. 4to. Portrait. * _The Works of the American Etchers._ In the "American Art Review." TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Obvious typos and inconsistencies corrected/standardised: Bruxelle to Bruxelles, Nitrid Acid to Nitric Acid, i.e. to i. e., Societe des aqua-fortistes to Societe des Aqua-fortistes (as elsewhere in text), Epreuves to Epreuves (as elsewhere in text), cardboard to card-board, overbitten and over bitten to over-bitten, travelling board to travelling-board (as elsewhere in text). Other inconsistencies generally left as in original: Zinc/zinc v Zink/zink, facsimile v fac-simile, nowadays v now-a-days, India-rubber v india-rubber, Rembrandt van Rhyn v Rembrandt van Rijn. The oe-ligature (as in oeuvre) is represented as oe. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. Likewise passages in bold are indicated by =bold=. The carat character ^ is used to indicate superscripts (as in Fig. 1^a). Table of Contents: expanded (compared to original book) by including all sections in the List of Works. Note that the section headed My Dear M. Lalanne in the text is called Letter by M. Charles Leblanc in the Table of Contents. Plate IX and page xxiv: the writing on the plate is not very clear, but the building is actually called the Waag, this has been used in the text. Footnotes (A, B, ...) moved to end of paragraph, endnotes (notes from the translator, 1, 2, ...) left together in separate chapter, as in original. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Treatise on Etching, by Maxime Lalanne ***	{'short_book_title': 'A Treatise on Etching by Maxime Lalanne', 'publication_date': 1880, 'url': 'http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33751'}
# Sir Alf ### Leo McKinstry A Major Reappraisal of the Life and Times of England's Greatest Football Manager _This book is dedicated to the memory of Dermot Gogarty, 1958-2005_ _Another man of dignity, courage and leadership_ # Table of Contents Cover Page Title Page Dedication Preface Introduction ONE Dagenbam TWO The Dell THREE White Hart Lane FOUR Belo Horizonte FIVE Villa Park SIX Portman Road SEVEN Lancaster Gate EIGHT Lilleshall NINE Hendon Hall TEN Wembley ELEVEN Florence TWELVE Leon THIRTEEN Katowice FOURTEEN St Mary's Bibliography Index Praise Copyright About the Publisher # _Preface_ Wembley, 30 July 1966. Amid scenes of jubilation, Geoff Hurst slams the ball into the top left-hand corner of the West German net. After a pulsating match, England are only seconds away from winning the World Cup. But as wave upon wave of ecstatic cheering echoes throughout the Wembley stadium, the England manager remains seated on the bench, showing not a flicker of emotion. Sir Alf Ramsey's almost superhuman calmness at the moment of victory has become one of the iconic images of the glorious summer of 1966. For all his outward imperturbability, no one had greater cause to rejoice than him. He was the true architect of England's triumph, the man who had moulded his players into a world-beating unit. The experts and press had mocked when he had declared, soon after his appointment to the national job, that England would win the World Cup. After 1966, he was never laughed at again. Yet Ramsey was acting entirely in character on that July afternoon at Wembley. In his behaviour, he demonstrated the very qualities that helped to make him such a superb manager: his majestic coolness under pressure; his natural modesty which meant that he always put his players' achievements before his own; his innate dignity and authority. Since the World Cup victory, Sir Alf Ramsey has rightly been regarded as the greatest of all British football managers, winning at every level of the game. Through his tactical awareness, motivational powers and judgment of ability, he not only turned England into World Champions, but also, perhaps even more incredibly, he took unfashionable Ipswich Town from the lower reaches of the old Third Division South to the First Division title in the space of just six years. No other manager has been able to equal this record. Sir Alex Ferguson may have won a boardroom-full of trophies at Old Trafford, but he has been almost untested on the highest international stage. Similarly Sir Matt Busby, Brian Clough and Bob Paisley all gained the English championship and the European Cup, but none of them managed any national side, in Clough's case to his bitter regret, having been turned down for the England job in 1977. Bill Shankly, the legendary boss at Anfield, and Stan Cullis, the iron manager at Molineux, each won three league titles and two FA Cups, but, again, their excellence was confined to the domestic arena. Of international British managers, Jack Charlton may have worked a near miracle with the Republic of Ireland but he could not do the same with any of his clubs, nor could Billy Bingham, who took modest Northern Ireland to successive World Cups in the eighties. Perhaps the man who comes closest to Ramsey was one of his successors at Portman Road, Sir Bobby Robson, who in his long and honourable career won the FA Cup and UEFA Cup with Ipswich Town, the Cup Winners' Cup with Barcelona and two domestic championships with both PSV Eindhoven and Porto, as well as taking England to the semi-finals of the World Cup in 1990. But the greatest prize eluded him. For all his extraordinary breadth of achievement, however, Sir Alf Ramsey has always been an elusive figure, an enigma whose life story has remained shrouded in mystery. A private, shy man, he was never at ease with the limelight and throughout his career had an awkward relationship with the media. Even those who worked with him for years, such as his secretary at Ipswich, Pat Godbold, or his longest-serving England player, Bobby Charlton, say that they never got to know him. Partly because of his insecurities about his humble upbringing, he built a protective shield around himself. In contrast to the expansive Sir Bobby Robson, who has written at least four versions of his autobiography, Alf never produced any memoirs, nor did he give many revealing interviews to the press. There have been three previous books about Sir Alf, of varying quality. In 1970, the journalist Max Marquis wrote a thin, viciously skewed account, _Anatomy of a Manager,_ which was based on recycling negative press stories about Sir Alf. It was hysterical in its vituperation, limited in its scope. Another book, _England: The Alf Ramsey Years,_ by Graham McColl, published in 1988, dwelt entirely on his record as manager of the national team, though it did have the seal of Ramsey's approval. A more comprehensive biography, _Winning Isn't Everything,_ was written in 1998 by Dave Bowler, who has also produced a superb life of Alf's nemesis at Tottenham Hotspur, Danny Blanchflower. Bowler's portrait was balanced and used much original testimony, and was particularly good on Alf's tactical innovations. Yet it still left many aspects of Sir Alf's life and career uncovered. By dint of extensive research and interviews, I have sought to provide a fuller, more rounded portrait of this remarkable figure. I have been able to unearth new information about his upbringing, his marriage, his early social life, particularly when he was a player at Spurs, his relationship with his England team and the circumstances surrounding his sacking. During my research, I was intrigued to learn of the real reasons why England were knocked out of the World Cup in Mexico in 1970, when Sir Alf displayed a rare but disastrous neglect of certain logistical arrangements. I have aimed to write more than just a conventional biography. By placing Ramsey in his historical context, I have also sought to analyse professional football and the fabric of British society over the span of his life. One of the many appealing features of Sir Alf's story is the way it covered a revolution not only in soccer but also in social attitudes. The labourer's son from Dagenham witnessed the end of the age of deference, the abolition of the maximum wage, the rise of the superstar player, the demise of amateur administrators, the collapse of rigid class structures, the first majority Labour government, the arrival of the permissive society and the disappearance of Empire. Ramsey himself, as a traditionalist in his personal outlook but a revolutionary on the soccer field, appeared to embody that fluid climate of resistance and change. In helping me to cover this material, I owe a large debt to many people. A great number of ex-England and Ipswich footballers, who were managed by Alf, agreed to give interviews for this book, so I would like to record my thanks to: Jimmy Armfield, Alan Ball, Gordon Banks, Barry Bridges, Sir Trevor Brooking, Allan Clarke, Ray Clemence, George Cohen, John Compton, Ray Crawford, Martin Dobson, Bryan Douglas, John Elsworthy, the late Johnny Haynes, Ron Henry, Norman Hunter, Brian Labone, Jimmy Leadbetter, Francis Lee, Roy McFarland, Ken Malcolm, Gordon Milne, Alan Mullery, Andy Nelson, Maurice Norman, Mike O'Grady, Terry Paine, Alan Peacock, Mike Pejic, Ted Phillips, Fred Pickering, Paul Reaney, Joe Royle, Dave Sadler, Peter Shilton, Nobby Stiles, Ian Storey-Moore, Mike Summerbee, Derek Temple, Peter Thompson, Colin Todd, Tony Waiters and Ray Wilson. I must also express my gratitude to the many Southampton, Spurs and England footballers who gave me the benefit of their views about playing alongside Alf: Eddie Baily, Ted Ballard, Ian Black, Eric Day, the late Ted Ditchburn, Terry Dyson, Stan Clements, Bill Ellerington, Sir Tom Finney, Alf Freeman, Mel Hopkins, Tony Marchi, Arthur Milton, Derek Ufton and Denis Uphill. Ed Speight, a Dagenham-bred youth player at Spurs during Alf's last days at White Hart Lane, generously showed me some of his correspondence with Alf. I am, in addition, grateful to those journalists who gave me their views of Alf: Tony Garnett, Brian James, Ken Jones, David Lacey, Hugh McIlvanney, Colin Malam, Jeff Powell, Brian Scovell and Martin Tyler. I am especially indebted to Nigel Clarke, who knew Alf for more than 30 years and cowrote his column for the _Daily Mirror_ in the eighties. Key figures at the FA during Alf's reign, David Barber, Margaret Fuljames, Wilf McGuinness and Alan Odell, gave me many fascinating insights into Alf's style of management, while I further benefited from speaking to Hubert Doggart, son of Graham Doggart, who chaired the FA committee that appointed Alf as England manager in 1962. Dr Neil Phillips, the national team doctor in the second half of Alf's England career, could not have been more helpful with his advice and frank testimony. Information about Alf's early days in Dagenham was given by Cliff Anderson, George Baker, Jean Bixby, Phil Cairns, Charles Emery, Father Gerald Gosling, Pauline Gosling, Beattie Robbins, Joyce Rushbrook, Gladys Skinner and Tommy Sloan. Invaluable assistance about other aspects of Sir Alf's life was provided by Terry Baker, Mary Bates, John Booth, Tommy Docherty, Anne Elsworthy, Peter Little, Margaret Lorenzo, Matthew Lorenzo, Bill Martin, Pat Millward, Tina Moore (widow of Bobby) and Bernard Sharpe. Several experts were extremely generous in providing me with contact numbers and historical details: David Bull, author of an excellent life of Southampton stalwart Ted Bates; Rob Hadcraft, who wrote a fine study of Ipswich's Championship-winning season in 1961-62; Kevin Palmer, amongst whose many works is a history of Spurs' two titles in 1950-51 and 1960-61; and Andy Porter, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of ex-professionals' careers. Pat Godbold, still working at Ipswich after more than half a century, not only gave me an interview about her time as secretary to Alf but also helped with Ipswich contacts. Roy Prince, archivist with the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry Association, shed some light on Sir Alf's army career. For all their help with other research material, I am grateful to staff at the BBC archives, the ITN archives, the British Newspaper Library, Southampton Central Reference Library, the Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths, the Probate Division, the Press Association, the library of the _Daily Mail,_ Tottenham Hotspur FC, the Barking and Dagenham Record office at Valence House Museum, the _Barking and Dagenham Recorder_ and the Football Association. Lady Victoria Ramsey, Sir Alf's widow, felt she could not co-operate with this book, though she did write to me expressing how devoted she was to her late husband. I would like to thank Tom Whiting and Michael Doggart at HarperCollins for overseeing this project and giving me endless encouragement and support. Finally, I owe a huge debt to my dear wife Elizabeth, who put up with the many, isolated months I spent in research and writing without complaint. I can never thank her enough for putting me on the path to becoming an author. _Leo McKinstry_ _Coggeshall, Essex, April 2006_ # _Introduction_ 15 May 1999. The ancient Suffolk church of St Mary-le-Tower in Ipswich had never previously held such a large or distinguished congregation. Three hundred mourners were crowded tightly on its polished wooden pews, while hundreds more lined the streets outside. England's greatest living footballer, Sir Bobby Charlton, sat near the front, looking more sombre than ever. Alongside him were colleagues from the World Cup-winning team of 1966, including the bald, bespectacled Nobby Stiles, the flame-haired Alan Ball and Bobby's own gangly brother Jack, who had left his Northumberland home at first light to attend the event. They had gathered on a bright afternoon to pay their last respects at the memorial service of Sir Alfred Ernest Ramsey, the former England and Ipswich manager who had died at the end of April after a long illness. The venerable provincial setting was appropriate to the man whose life was being honoured, since modesty was one of the hallmarks of his personality. For all his success as both player and manager, for all his brilliance as a leader, he continually shunned the limelight and was uneasy with public adulation. The august Gothic expanse of Westminster Abbey or the classical grandeur of St Paul's would not have suited a farewell for this least bombastic of men. The personal qualities of Sir Alf were referred to throughout the service. Afterwards, outside the church, former players spoke of his loyalty, his essential decency and his strength of character. 'He was an incredibly special manager. I just loved being with him, because I knew everything was straight down the line,' said Alan Ball. 'He was responsible for the greatest moment I had as a footballer and I will never forget or be able to thank him enough for that,' said Jack Charlton. In a moving eulogy, George Cohen, another of the 1966 Cup winners, described Ramsey as 'not only a great football manager but a great Englishman'. Highlighting the way Sir Alf would stick by his players, Cohen gave the example of the occasion when Sir Alf refused to give in to pressure from FA officials to drop Nobby Stiles from the 1966 side after a disastrous challenge on the French player Jacques Simon. Though the tackle, according to Cohen, had been 'so late Connex South East would have been embarrassed by it,' Sir Alf supported Stiles to the hilt and even threatened to resign if the FA ordered him to change the team. In a voice cracking with emotion, Cohen continued: 'Sir Alf established a strong bond with his players who stood before every other consideration. We all loved him very much indeed. What Alf created was a family that is still as strong today in feeling and belief as it was thirty-three years ago when we won the World Cup.' Cohen then speculated as to how Alf might have reacted to such words of praise. 'If he is looking down at this particular moment, he is probably thinking, "Yes, George, I think we have had quite enough of that." Finally, Cohen turned in the direction of Sir Alf's grieving widow, Lady Victoria. 'Alf changed our lives, not just because of what we achieved with him but because our lives were richer for having known and played for him. He was an extraordinary man. Thank you for sharing him.' Though the memorial service had been billed as 'a celebration' of Sir Alf's life, it was inevitable that the day should also be wreathed in sadness at his loss. 'I could not be more upset if he was family,' said Sir Bobby Charlton. Big Ted Phillips, one of Ipswich's strikers during Ramsey's years at the Suffolk club, told me: 'At Alf's memorial service, I could not speak. There were tears rolling down my cheeks. They wanted me to say a few words, but I told them I couldn't do it. Alf meant so much to me. He was a superb guy. He was unique. Under him at Ipswich, we were like a big family.' Yet the sense of sorrow went much deeper than merely regret at the passing of one of England's modern heroes. There was also a mixture of guilt, disappointment and anger that, during his lifetime, Sir Alf had never been accorded the recognition he deserved. He might have been the man who, in the words of Tony Blair, 'gave this nation the greatest moment in our sporting history,' but he was hardly treated as such by the football establishment. Throughout his career as England manager, many in the FA regarded him with suspicion or contempt. He was never given a winner's medal for the 1966 World Cup victory, something that rankled with him right up to the moment of his death. His pay was always pitifully low, far worse than most First Division managers of his time, and when he was sacked in 1974, he was given only a meagre pension. The last 25 years of his life were spent in a sad, twilight existence. The lack of money was compounded by the refusal of the football authorities to make any use of his unparalleled knowledge of the game. While football enjoyed an embarrassment of riches from the early nineties onwards, Sir Alf was left in uncomfortable exile, isolated and ignored. As late as 1996, the FA denied him any participatory role in the ceremonies to mark the opening of the European Championship in England. 'I sometimes look back and become bitter about it. I achieved something perhaps no manager will ever do again, yet the wealth of the game passed me by. I would have liked to have retired in comfort, and have no worries about money, but that has not been the case. And I couldn't understand why, after I left the FA, nobody there was prepared to let me work for my country,' he said in 1996. This neglect of Sir Alf was symbolized by the absence from his memorial service of a host of key figures from the football world, despite the attendance of most of the 1966 side. Invitations were sent to all 92 Football League clubs, but only five of them were represented. Neither the then England manager Kevin Keegan nor any Premiership manager were present, though there were no fixtures that Saturday. Not one current England player showed up. As Gordon Taylor, Chairman of the Professional Footballers' Association, put it afterwards: 'It is amazing. If we cannot honour our heroes, what is the point of it all – and was there ever a greater hero for our game than Sir Alf? Everyone in the English game who could have been here should have been. It is a matter of simple respect.' But in truth, outside the confines of his England squad, respect was something that Sir Alf had rarely been shown. The reluctance to honour him was not confined to the FA. Ever since the triumph of 1966, he had been the subject of a stream of criticism for his approach to football. His manner was condemned as aloof and forbidding, his methods as over-cautious and ultra-defensive. He was widely seen as the leader who hated flair and distrusted genius, a dull man in charge of a dull team. 'Ramsey's Robots' were said to have taken all grace and romance out of football. 'Alf Ramsey pulls the strings and the players dance for him. He has theorized them out of the game. They mustn't think for themselves. They have been so brainwashed by tactics and talks that individual talent has been thrust into the background,' claimed Bob Kelly, the President of the Scottish FA. The 1966 triumph was belittled as the fruit of nothing more than perspiration, dubious refereeing and home advantage. Indeed, many critics went even further, claiming that winning the World Cup had been disastrous for British football in the long-term, because it encouraged a negative style of play. Particularly regrettable, it was said, was his abandonment of wingers in favour of a mundane 4-3-3 formation, which relied more on packing the midfield than in building attacks from the flanks. Sir Alf's enthusiasm for the aggressive Nobby Stiles was seen as typical of his dour outlook, as was his preference for the hard-working Geoff Hurst over the more creative, less diligent Jimmy Greaves in the final itself against West Germany. In Alf's England, it seemed, the workhorse was more valued than the thoroughbred. The doyen of Irish football writers, Eamon Dunphy, who played with Manchester United and Millwall, put it thus: 'Alf came to the conclusion that his players weren't good enough to compete, in any positive sense, with their betters. His response was a formula which stopped good players.' Similarly, the imaginative Manchester City coach Malcolm Allison argued that 'to Alf's way of thinking, skill meant lazy'. This chorus of criticism reached full volume in the early seventies, when Sir Alf became more vulnerable because of poor results. He was the Roundhead who kept losing battles. As England were knocked out of the European Championship by West Germany in 1972, Hugh McIlvanney summed up the mood against Alf: > Cautious, joyless football was scarcely bearable even while it was bringing victories. What is happening now we always felt to be inevitable, because anyone who sets out to prove that football is about sweat rather than inspiration, about winning rather than glory, is sure to be found out in the end. Ramsey's method was, to be fair, justifiable in 1966, when it was important that England should make a powerful show in the World Cup, but since then it has become an embarrassment. Some of the attacks grew vindictive, with Alf painted as a relic of a vanishing past, clinging on stubbornly to players and systems no longer fit for the modern age. His old-fashioned, stilted voice and demeanour were mocked, his lack of flamboyance ridiculed. In early 1973, soon after England had beaten Scotland 5-0 at Hampden, with Mick Channon performing well up front, the satirical magazine _Foul!_ carried a cruel but rather leaden article entitled 'Lady Ramsey's Diary', parodying the _Private Eye_ series of the time about Downing Street, 'Mrs Wilson's Diary'. One extract ran: > He's terribly worried about this Mr Shannon _(sic)._ 'You see, my dear,' he told me (it's amazing how different he sounds after those elocution lessons), 'we just can't afford to have individuals playing so well. It undermines the whole team effort. Besides, people will start expecting us to score five goals in every game, and we can't have that.' The critics had their way in April 1974, when Sir Alf was sacked as manager after eleven years in the post. The FA's decision was hardly a surprise, given England's failure to qualify for the World Cup the previous autumn. But it still fell as a painful blow to Sir Alf, one from which he never really recovered. He once explained that only three things mattered to him – 'football, my country and my wife'. Football had turned out to be a fickle mistress, and for the remainder of his years he carried a feeling of betrayal. 'Football has passed me by,' he said towards the end of his life. Since his sacking, no other England manager has come near to the pinnacle he climbed. When he departed in 1974, it seemed likely that England might one day reach that peak again. In the subsequent 30 years and more, however, the national side has endured one failure after another, with just two semi-finals in major championships during those three decades. Yet it should also be remembered that before Sir Alf's arrival as manager in 1963, England's record was equally dismal, having never gone further than a World Cup quarter-final; indeed in 1950, the national side suffered what is still the greatest upset in the history of global soccer, losing 1-0 to the unknown amateurs of the USA. Set in the context of England's sorry history, therefore, the extent of Sir Alf's achievement becomes all the more remarkable, putting into perspective much of the carping about his management. He might not have inspired electrifying football, but for most of his reign he achieved results that would have been the envy of every manager since. Nobby Stiles told me: 'I cannot say enough in favour of Alf Ramsey. His insights were unbelievable. I would have died for him.' It is a telling fact that the 1970 World Cup in Mexico is the only occasion when England have ever gone into a major tournament as one of the favourites to win it – in 1966, England, still living with the burdens of their past record, were regarded as outsiders. The status that England had earned by 1970 in itself is a tribute to the supreme effectiveness of Ramsey's leadership. Moreover, his success in 1962 in bringing the League Championship to Ipswich Town, an unheralded Third Division club before he took over, is one of the most astonishing feats in the annals of British football management, unlikely ever to be surpassed. Yet even now, as nostalgia for the golden summer of 1966 becomes more potent, the memory of Sir Alf Ramsey is not one treasured by the public. He is nothing like as famous as David Beckham, or George Best or Paul Gascoigne, three footballers who achieved far less than him on the international stage. In his birthplace of Dagenham, he seems to have been airbrushed from history. There is no statue to him, no blue plaque in the street where he was born or the ground where he first played. No road or club or school bears his name. The same indifference is demonstrated beyond east London. When the BBC recently organized a competition to decide what the main bridge at the new Wembley stadium should be called, Sir Alf Ramsey's name was on the shortlist. Yet the British public voted for the title of the 'White Horse Bridge', after the celebrated police animal who restored order at the first Wembley FA Cup Final of 1923 when unprecedented crowds of around 200,000 were spilling onto the pitch. With all due respect to this creature, it is something of an absurdity that the winning manager of the World Cup should have to trail in behind a horse. As one of Ramsey's players, Mike Summerbee, puts it: 'Alf Ramsey's contribution to international football was phenomenal. Yet the way he was treated was a disgrace. We never look after our heroes and in time we try to pull them down. I tell you something, they should have a bronze statue of Alf at the new Wembley. And they should call it the Alf Ramsey stadium.' Part of the failure to appreciate the greatness of Alf Ramsey has been the result of his severe public image. He was a man who elevated reticence to an art form. With his players he could be amiable, sometimes even humorous, but he presented a much stonier face to the press and wider world. The personification of the traditional English stiff upper lip, he never courted popularity, never showed any emotion in public. His epic self-restraint was beautifully captured at the end of the World Cup Final of 1966, when he sat impassively staring ahead, while all around him were scenes of joyous mayhem at England's victory. The only words he uttered after Geoff Hurst's third goal were a headmasterly rebuke to his trainer, Harold Shepherdson, who had leapt to his feet in ecstasy. 'Sit down, Harold,' he growled. Again, as the players gathered for their lap of honour, they tried to push Alf to the front to greet the cheers of the crowd. But, with typical modesty, he refused. This outward calm, he later explained, was not due to any lack of inner passion but to his shyness. 'I'm a very emotional person but my feelings are always tied up inside. Maybe it is a mistake to be like this but I cannot govern it. I don't think there is anything wrong with showing emotion in public, but it is something I can never do.' Nowhere was Ramsey's awkwardness more apparent than in his notoriously difficult relationship with the media. Believing all that mattered were performances on the field, he made little effort to cultivate journalists. 'I can live without them because I am judged by the results that the England team gets. I doubt very much whether they can live without me,' he once said. Hiding behind a mask of inscrutability, he usually would provide only the blandest of answers at press conferences or indeed none at all. He trusted a select few, like Ken Jones and Brian James, because he respected their knowledge of football, but most of the rest of the press were given the cold shoulder. He also had a gift for humiliating reporters with little more than a withering look. As Peter Batt, once of the _Sun,_ recalls: 'There was a general, utter contempt from him. I don't think anyone could make you feel more like a turd under his boot than Ramsey. It is amazing how he did it.' This hostile attitude led to a string of incidents throughout his career. Shortly after England had won the World Cup, for instance, Ramsey was standing in the reception of Hendon Hall, the team's hotel in north-west London. A representative of the Press Association came up to him and said: 'Mr Ramsey, on behalf of the press, may I thank you for your co-operation throughout the tournament?' 'Are you taking the piss?' was Alf's reply. On another occasion in 1967, he was with an FA team in Canada for a tournament at the World Expo show. As he stood by the bus which would take his team from Montreal airport to its hotel, he was suddenly accosted by a leading TV correspondent from one of Canada's news channels. The clean-cut broadcaster put his arm around England's manager, and then launched into his spiel. 'Sir Ramsey, it's just a thrill to have you and the world soccer champions here in Canada. Now I'm from one of our biggest national stations, going out live coast to coast, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. And, Coach Ramsey, you're not going to believe this but I'm going to give you seven whole minutes all to yourself on the show. So if you're ready, Sir Ramsey, I am going to start the interview now.' 'Oh no you fuckin' ain't.' And with that, a fuming Coach Ramsey climbed onto the bus. Such dismissiveness might provoke smiles from those present, but it ultimately led to the creation of a host of enemies in the press. When times grew rough in the seventies, Alf was left with few allies to put his case. The same was true of his relations with football's administrators, whom he regarded as no more than irritants; to him they were like most journalists: tiresome amateurs who knew nothing about the tough realities of professional football. 'Those people' was his disdainful term for the councillors of the FA. He despised them so much that he would deliberately avoid sitting next to them on trips or at matches, while he described the autocratic Professor Harold Thompson, one of the FA's bosses, as 'that bloody man Thompson'. But again, when results went against Sir Alf, the knives came out and the FA were able to exact their revenge. The roots of Sir Alf's antagonism towards the media and the FA lay in his deep sense of social insecurity. He was a strange mixture of tremendous self-confidence within the narrow world of football, and tortured, tongue-tied diffidence outside it. He had been a classy footballer himself in the immediate post-war era, one of the most intelligent full-backs England has ever produced, and was never afraid to set out his opinions in the dressing-rooms of Southampton and Spurs, his two League clubs. Performing his role as England or Ipswich manager, he was the master of his domain. No one could match him for his understanding of the technicalities of football, where he allied a brilliant judgement of talent to a shrewd tactical awareness and a photographic memory of any passage of play. 'Without doubt, he was the greatest manager I ever knew, a fantastic guy,' says Ray Crawford of Ipswich and England. 'He had a natural authority about him. You never argued with him. He was always brilliant in his talks because he read the game so well. He would come into the dressing-room at half-time and explain what we should be doing, and most of the time it came off. He was inspirational that way.' Peter Shilton, England's most capped player, is just as fulsome: 'From the moment I met Sir Alf I knew he was someone special. He was that sort of person. He was a man who inspired total respect. Any decision he made, you knew he made it for the right reason. He had real strength of character. I have been with other managers who were not as strong in the big, big games. But Alf could rise above the pressure and dismiss irrelevancies.' Yet Sir Alf never felt comfortable when taken out of the reassuring environment of running his teams. All his ease and self-assurance evaporated when he was not dealing with professional players and trusted football correspondents. He could cope with a World Cup Final but not with a cocktail reception. 'Dinners, speeches,' he used to say of the FA committee men, 'that's their job.' Amongst the Oxbridge degrees of the sporting, political or diplomatic establishments, he felt all too aware of his humble origins and lack of education. Born into a poor, rural Essex family, he left school at fourteen and took his first job as a delivery boy for the Dagenham Co-op. To cope with this insecurity, Sir Alf devised a number of strategies. One was to erect a social barrier against the world, avoiding all forms of intimacy. That is why he could so often appear aloof, even downright rude. From his earliest days as a professional, he was reluctant to open up to anyone. This distance might have been invaluable in retaining his authority as a manager, but it also prohibited the formation of close friendships. Pat Godbold, his secretary throughout his spell as Ipswich manager from 1955 to 1963, says: 'I was twenty when Alf came here. My first impression was that he was a shy man. I think that right up to his death he was a very shy man. You could not get to know him. He was a good man to work for, but I can honestly say that I never got to know him.' Sir Alf guarded the privacy of his domestic life with the same determination that he put into management. The mock-Tudor house on a leafy Ipswich road he shared with Lady Victoria – or Vic, as he always called her – was his sanctuary, not a social venue. Anne Elsworthy, the wife of one of the Championship-winning Ipswich players of 1962, recalls Sir Alf and Lady Ramsey as a 'a very private couple. After he retired, I would occasionally see them in Marks and Spencer's in Ipswich, but all they would say would be 'Good morning'. They were not the sort to stand around chatting in a supermarket. When Alf went to play golf, he would just go, complete his round. He would not hang around the bar.' Another strategy was to reinvent himself as the archetypal suburban English gentleman. The impoverished Dagenham lad, who could not even afford to go to the cinema until he was fourteen, was gradually transformed in adulthood into someone who could have easily been mistaken for a stockbroker or a bank-manager. The pinstripe, made of the finest mohair, was a suit of armour to protect from his detractors. When he went to Buckingham Palace to collect his knighthood in 1967, he went to extraordinary lengths to ensure that he was dressed in the exactly the correct attire. But by far the most obvious change was in his voice, allegedly the result of elocution lessons, as he dropped his Essex accent in favour of a form of pronunciation memorably described by the journalist Brian Glanville as 'sergeant-major posh'. Like Eliza Doolittle in _Pygmalion,_ Sir Alf occasionally betrayed his origins when he slipped into the vernacular of his childhood, as on the embarrassing occasion in a restaurant car travelling to Ipswich when, in the presence of the club's directors, he told a waitress during dinner, 'No thank you, I don't want no peas.' Tony Garnett, the Suffolk-based journalist who covered Ipswich's great years under Sir Alf, told me: 'He did drop some real clangers when he was trying to talk proper, as they say. One of the best was when Ipswich went abroad after they had won the championship and Alf began to talk about going through 'Customs and Exercise.' Nobody dared to correct him. He could not do his 'H's properly, nor his 'ings' at the end of a word.' With his attempts at precision, his lengthy pauses, his twisted syntax and his frequent repetition of the same phrase – 'most certainly' and 'in as much as' were two particular favourites – it seemed at times that he was almost trying to master a foreign tongue. The Blackpool and England goalkeeper in the 1960s, Tony Waiters, who led Canada to the 1986 World Cup finals and has wide experience of working in America, says: 'It was always worth listening to Alf. But occasionally he would fall down on his pronunciation or would drop an "H" every so often. As a coach myself, I am aware that if you say the wrong thing, it could come back to haunt you. And sometimes Alf would give an indication that this was not his natural way of speaking. He was very deliberate in what he said. I work with a lot of people who are coaching in their second language. Generally speaking they slow down because they are thinking ahead and almost rehearsing in their own mind what they are going to say. With Alf, it was always good stuff but maybe he had to do a bit of mental gymnastics as he prepared to speak.' For all his anxiety about his accent and his appearance, Sir Alf could never have been described as a snob. Just the opposite was true. He loathed pretension and social climbing, one of the reasons why he so disliked the fatuities of the FA's councillors. David Barber, who has worked at the FA since 1970, beginning as a teenage clerk, recalls Alf's lack of self-importance: 'Right from the moment I first took a job there, I was not in the slightest bit overawed by him. Though he was the most famous man in football at the time, he was down to earth. He was very nice, treated me like a colleague, not an office boy. He was uncomfortable with the press and FA Council members and in public could be a shy man, but with people like me, whom he worked with on a daily basis, he could not have been more friendly.' Utterly lacking in personal vanity, Alf deliberately avoided the social whirl of London and was unmoved by fashionable restaurants and hotels. His knighthood did not change him in the slightest, while he always retained a fondness for the activities of his Dagenham youth, such as a visit to the greyhound track accompanied by a pint of bitter and some jellied eels. As reflected by his penurious retirement, he refused to exploit his position for personal gain, unlike most of his successors; in fact, it was partly his repugnance at commercialism that led to his downfall. Alf's favourite self-preservation strategy, though, was to ignore the world outside and retreat into football, the one subject he really understood. Since his childhood, he had been utterly obsessed with the game. He was kicking a ball before he was learning his alphabet. It was the great abiding passion of his life. When he was truly engaged with the sport, his introversion would disappear, the barriers would fall. Apart from his wife, nothing else had the same importance to him. As his captain at Ipswich, Andy Nelson, remembers: 'He was a very private, quiet man, very unhappy to have any conversation that was unrelated to football. When we went on the train, we used to have a little card school. Roy Bailey, our goalkeeper, was a big figure in that. Alf would come into our compartment and start talking about football. And then Roy would say, "Anyone seen that new film at the pictures?" You would literally be rid of Alf in two minutes. He'd be off, gone.' Hugh McIlvanney told me that he could see the change in Alf's personality as soon as he shifted the ground onto football. 'Alf liked a drink and he could get quite bitter when he was arguing about football. That front of restraint, which was his normal face for the public, was pretty superficial; he quite liked to go to war. All the insecurity he so obviously had socially did not apply for a moment to football. He was utterly convinced of his case – and with good reason. He was a great manager in any sense.' It is impossible to deny that, in his obsession with football, Sir Alf was a one-dimensional figure. He had a child-like affection for movies, especially westerns and thrillers, enjoyed pottering about his Ipswich garden and was genuinely devoted to Vickie. But he was uneasy with any discussions about politics, current affairs or art beyond privately mouthing the conventional platitudes of suburban conservatism. An unabashed philistine, he turned down an offer to take the England team to a gala evening with the Bolshoi Ballet during a trip to Moscow in 1973; instead, he arranged a showing of an Alf Garnett film at the British Embassy. He had an ingrained xenophobic streak, and had little time for any foreigners, in whose number he included the Scots. In fact, his dislike of the 'strange little men' north of the border was so ingrained that one Christmas, when he was given a pair of Paisley pyjamas as a present, he soon changed them at the shop for a pair of blue and white striped ones. Nigel Clarke, the experienced journalist who worked more closely with Sir Alf than anyone else in Fleet Street and wrote his column for the _Daily Mirror_ in the 1980s, provides this memory: 'Alf was certainly conservative with a small 'c'. But he was not a worldly man and we never really talked about current affairs or wider political issues. He was just happy talking about football. I think that was partly because he knew the subject so well. He could talk about football until the cows came home. He never wanted to discuss governments or religion or anything like that. His life revolved around football. He had little conversation about anything else. His face would lighten up when you mentioned something about the game. We would be sitting in the compartment of a train, going to cover a match for the paper, and Alf would be dozing. Then I might refer to some player and his eyes would open, he would sit up instantly, and say, 'Oh really, yes, I know him. I saw him play recently.' He just loved football, loved anyone who shared his passion for it.' When it came to football itself, Sir Alf Ramsey was anything but a one-dimensional figure. Beneath his placid exterior, the flame of his devotion to the game burned with a fierce intensity. It was a strength of commitment that made him one of the most contradictory and controversial managers of all time. He was a tough, demanding character, who could be strangely sensitive to criticism, a reserved English gentleman who was loathed by the establishment, an unashamed traditionalist who turned out to be a tactical revolutionary, a stern disciplinarian who was not above telling his players to 'get rat-arsed'. His ruthlessness divided the football world; his stubbornness left him the target of abuse and condemnation. But it was his zeal that put England at the top of the world. # [ONE _Dagenbam_](004-toc.html#ch1) The Right Honourable Stanley Baldwin, the avuncular leader of the Conservative Party in the inter-war years, was not usually a man given to overstatement. But in 1934 he was so impressed by the new municipal housing development at Becontree in Dagenham that he was moved to write in an official report: > If the Becontree estate were situated in the United States, articles and newsreels would have been circulated containing references to the speed at which a new town of 120,000 people had been built. If it had happened in Vienna, the Labour and left Liberal press would have boosted it as an example of what municipal socialism could accomplish. If it had been built in Russia, Soviet propaganda would have emphasized the planning aspect. A Pudovkin film might have been made of it – a close up of the morning seen on cabbages in the market gardens; the building of the railway lines to carry bricks and wood, the spread of the houses and roads with the thousands of busy workers, gradually engulfing the fields and hedges and trees. But Becontree was planned and built in England where the most revolutionary social changes can take place and people in general do not realize they have occurred. The Becontree estate was certainly dramatic in conception and scale. It was first planned in 1920, when the London County Council saw that a radical expansion in the number of homes would be needed to the east of the city, in order both to provide accommodation for the men returning from the Great War and to alleviate the terrible slum conditions of the East End. This was to be Britain's first new town, a place providing 'homes fit for heroes'. The scheme to convert 3000 acres of land into a vast urban community was, as the LCC's architect boasted, 'unparalleled in the history of housing'. The establishment of the Ford motor works in Dagenham in 1929 was a further spur to the urbanization of the area. By 1933, with the building programme reaching its peak, the LCC proclaimed that, 'Becontree is the largest municipal housing estate in the world.' Right in the midst of this gargantuan sprawl, untouched by bulldozer or bricklayer, there stood a set of rustic wooden cottages. These low, single-storey dwellings had been built in 1851, when Dagenham was entirely countryside. For all their quaintness, they were extremely primitive, devoid of any electricity or hot running water. And it was in one of them, Number Six Parrish Cottages, Halbutt Street, that Alfred Ernest Ramsey was born on 22 January 1920, the very year that saw the first proposals for the Becontree Estate. The row of Parrish Cottages remained throughout the development of the estate, an architectural and social anachronism holding out against the tide of modernity. They did not even have electricity installed until the 1950s and they were not finally pulled down until the early 1970s. In one sense, the cottage of his birth is a metaphor for the life of Alf Ramsey: the arch traditionalist, modest in spirit and conservative in outlook, who refused to be swept along by the social revolution which engulfed Britain during his career. For much of his early life, Ramsey was not completely honest about his date of birth. In his ghost-written autobiography, published in 1952, he stated baldly that he was born 'in 1922', without giving any details of the month or the day. Now the reason for this was not personal vanity but sporting professionalism. When Ramsey was trying to force his way into League football at the end of the Second World War, a difference of two years could make a big difference to the prospects of a young hopeful, since a club would be more likely to take on someone aged 23 than 25. In such a competitive world, Ramsey felt he had to use any ruse which might work to his advantage. His dishonesty was harmless, and it passed largely unnoticed until after he received his knighthood in 1967. Having been asked to check his entry for _Debrett's Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage and Companionage,_ Sir Alf decided not to mislead that most elevated of reference works. As Arthur Hopcraft put it in the _Observer,_ 'Alf Ramsey the dignified, the aspirer after presence, could not, I am convinced, give false information to the book of the Peerage.' But by then the issue of his age had ceased to matter; in any case, because of the stiffness of his character, he had always seemed much older than his stated years. Parrish Cottages may have become outdated with the arrival of the Becontree Estate, but when Alf Ramsey was an infant they were typical of rural Dagenham, where farming was still the main source of subsistence. 'Dagenham was like a little hamlet. It was much more countrified until they built the big estate. There was a helluva lot of open space here in the twenties,' says one of Alf's contemporaries Charles Emery. 'Most people think of Dagenham as an industrial area. But until I was six there was nothing but little country lanes. I saw Dagenham grow and grow,' Alf wrote in 1970. A reflection of that environment could be seen at the Robin Hood pub in the north-west of the borough, where customers drank by the light of paraffin or oil lamps, and the landlord had to double as a ploughman. As one account from 1920 ran: 'A customer would enter the bar and finding it empty, would shout across the fields for the landlord. After a time he would arrive, and wiping his hands free from the soil, would draw a pint of beer, have a talk about the weather, and then depart again to the fields.' A striking picture of life in Dagenham in the early twenties was left by Fred Tibble, who died in 2003 after serving as a borough councillor for 35 years. He grew up with Alf, often playing football and cricket with him, and remembered him as 'a very quiet boy who really loved sport'. The late Councillor Tibble had other memories: > We were very much Essex, we were country people. Many people came to the village selling things. There was a muffin man, who would come to the area once a week, ringing a bell with a tray of muffins on his head. The voluntary fire brigade was based in Station Road in the early 1920s, and when the maroon sounded, men would have to leave their jobs and homes to man the appliances. It could be difficult in the daytime, as they would have to try to get the horse which was being used for the milk round. At the weekends and summer evenings, the police used a wheel-barrow to take drunks from the pub to the police station. The drunks would be strapped into the barrow. We always found that amusing. Sometimes we would climb up the slaughterhouse wall to take a look at cattle being pole-axed. We often hoped to get hold of a pig's bladder, which we could stuff with paper and play football with. It was a country life that young Alf relished, especially because it provided such scope for football. He wrote in _Talking Football:_ > Along with my three brothers, I lived for the open air from the moment I could toddle. The meadow at the back of our cottage was our playground. For hours every day, with my brothers, I learnt how to kick, head and control a ball, starting first of all with a tennis ball and it is true to say that we found all our pleasure this way. We were happy in the country, the town and cinemas offering no attractions to us. But it was also a deprived existence, one that left him permanently defensive about his background. 'We were not exactly wealthy,' he admitted euphemistically. His later fastidious concern for his appearance stemmed from the fact that his family was poorer than most in the district, so he was not always dressed as smartly as he would have liked. If anyone commented on this difference, he retreated further into his shell, 'We grew up together in Halbutt Street. Alf was very introverted, not very forthcoming. I sometimes went to his house, a very old cottage, little more than a wooden hut. His family were just ordinary people. He was not especially well-turned out as a child. That only came later, when he bettered himself,' says his contemporary Phil Cairns. Alf's father, Herbert Ramsey, made a precarious living from various manual activities. He owned an agricultural small-holding, while on Saturdays he drove a horse-drawn dustcart for the local council. He also grew vegetables and reared a few pigs in the garden at the front of Parrish Cottages. He has sometimes been described as 'a hay and straw dealer', though it is interesting that when Alf married in 1951, he referred to his father's occupation as a 'general labourer'. Others, less generously, have said he was little more than a 'rag-and-bone man'. Alf's mother, Florence, was from a well-known Dagenham family called the Bixbys. Pauline Gosling, who was a neighbour of the Ramseys in Parrish Cottages, recalls: > The cottages had outside toilets and no hot water. If you wanted a bath, you had to heat up the water in a copper pan and then fill a tin tub by the fire. Friday was usually bath night. There was no electricity, so you had to use oil lamps. If you wanted to go out to the toilet at night, you had to take one of those. Alf's mother was a lovely lady. She and my mother were very close. They were a quiet family, very private, like Alf. They had worked the land for years around Dagenham. My own great-grandfather used to work on the land with Alf's great grand-dad. Gladys Skinner, another former neighbour, says: > There was an outside loo in a little shed in their back garden. You could see their tin bath hanging up on the wall outside. They were never a family to tell other people their business. Alf's mother was a dear old thing. When they were installing electricity round here, she wouldn't have it, said it frightened her. Alf's father was also a very nice man. He sometimes kept pigs and we would go round have a look at the little piglets in the garden. Alf always maintained that his was a close family. 'My mother is in many ways very like me. Like me she doesn't show much emotion. She didn't, for instance, seem very excited when I received my knighthood. But she is very human and I like to think I was like her in that respect,' he wrote in a 1970 _Daily Mirror_ article about his life. He also felt that, despite the lack of money, his parents had taught him how to conduct himself properly. 'He told me that he was brought up very strictly and that is why he was such a stickler for punctuality and courtesy. He said that it was part of his upbringing to be courteous and polite to people,' says Nigel Clarke. Alf was one of five children. He had two older brothers, Len and Albert, a younger brother Cyril, and a sister, Joyce, though he was the only one to go on to achieve public distinction. Cyril worked for Ford; Len, nicknamed 'Ginger', became a butcher; and Joyce married and moved to Chelmsford. Albert, known in Dagenham as 'Bruno', was the least inspiring of the siblings, utterly lacking in Alf's ambition or focus. A heavy drinker, he earned his keep from gambling and keeping greyhounds. Alf himself was always interested in the dog track, liked a bet and was a shrewd gambler. But he never allowed it to dominate his life in the way that Albert did. 'Bruno was a big chap. I can picture him now, with a trilby turned up at the front. He had a great friend called Charlie Waggles and the two of them never went out to work. At the time I thought that was terrible. They just gambled on the dogs,' says Jean Bixby, who grew up in Dagenham at this time. In later life, Bruno's disreputable life would cause Alf some embarrassment. From the age of five, Alf attended Becontree Heath School. Now demolished, Becontree Heath had a roll of about 200, covering the ages of four to fourteen. Alf was neither especially diligent about his lessons nor popular with his fellow pupils. 'I was never particularly clever at school. I seem to have spent more time pumping at footballs and carrying goalposts,' Alf once said. 'He was a year above me but I remember him all right. Know why? 'Cos he looked like a kid you wouldn't get to like in a hurry,' said one of them in a _Sun_ profile of Sir Alf in 1971. For all his introspection, Alf was not a cowardly child, as he proved in the boxing ring at school. 'I weighed only about five stones, but I was a tough little fighter. I won a few fights,' he later recalled. But when he was ten years old, he was pulverized in a school tournament by a much larger opponent. 'He was about a foot bigger than I was and I was as wide as I was tall. I was punched all over the ring.' That put a halt to his school boxing career, though for the rest of his life he retained a visible scar above his mouth, a legacy of that bout. Alf was also good at athletics, representing the school in the high jump, long jump, and the one hundred and two hundred yards. And he was a solid cricketer, with a sound, classical batting technique. But, as in adulthood, football was what really motivated Alf Ramsey. 'He did not have much knowledge of the world. The only thing that ever seemed to interest him was football,' says Phil Cairns. 'He was very withdrawn, almost surly, but he became animated on the football field.' From his earliest years, Alf demonstrated a natural ability for the game, his talent enhanced not only by games in the fields behind Parrish Cottages, but also by the long walk to and from school with his brothers. To break the monotony of the journey, which took altogether about four hours a day, the boys brought a small ball with them to kick about on the country lane. On one occasion, Alf accidentally kicked the ball into a ditch, which had filled with about three feet of water after heavy rainfall. He was instructed by his brothers to fish it out. So, having removed his shoes and socks, he waded in, soon found himself out of his depth, and was soaked to the skin. On his return home, he developed a severe cold and was confined to bed for a week. He wrote later: 'That heavy cold taught me a lesson. I am certain that those daily kick-abouts with my brothers played a much more important part than I then appreciated in helping me secure accuracy in the pass and any ball control I now possess.' Alf's ability was soon obvious to his schoolmasters. One of his teachers, Alfred Snow, recalled in the _Essex and East_ _London Recorder_ in 1971: 'I was teaching at Becontree Heath Primary and I taught Alf Ramsey for two years. I remember him particularly well because he was so good on the football field. It didn't really surprise me to see him get where he has.' At the age of just seven, Alf was placed in the Becontree Heath junior side, in the position of inside-left. His brother Len was the team's inside-right. Alf's promotion to represent his school meant that, for the first time, he had to have proper boots. His mother went out and bought him a pair, costing four shillings and eleven pence – with Alf contributing the eleven pence from the meagre savings in his own piggy bank. 'If those boots had been made of gold and studded with diamonds I could not have felt prouder than when I put them on and strutted around the dining room, only to be pulled up by father. "Go careful on the lino, Alf," he said, "those studs will mark it,"' Alf's ghost-writer recorded in _Talking Football._ By the age of just nine, Alf, despite being 'a little tubby', to use his own phrase, had proved himself so outstanding that he was made the school's captain, commanding boys who were several years older than himself. He had also been switched to centre-half, the key position in any side of the pre-sixties era. Under the old W-M formation which was then the iron tradition in British soccer, based around two full-backs, three half-backs, two wingers and three forwards, the centre-half was both the fulcrum of the defence and instigator of attacks. It was a role ideally suited to Alf's precocious footballing intelligence and the quality of his passing. His performances brought him higher honours. He was selected to play for Dagenham Schools against a West Ham Youth XI, then for Essex Schoolboys, and then in a trial match for London schools. But in this match, Alf's diminutive stature told against him. He wrote: > I stood just five feet tall, weighed six stone three pounds and looked more like a jockey than a centre-half. In that trial, the opposing centre forward stood five feet, ten and half inches and tipped the scale at 10 stone. After that game I gave up all hopes of playing for London. That centre-forward hit me with everything but the crossbar, scored three goals and in general gave me an uncomfortable time. Compounding this failure, a rare outburst of youthful impetuosity led to a sending-off for questioning a decision of the referee during a match for Becontree Heath School. The Dagenham Schools FA ordered him to apologize in writing to both the referee and themselves. He did so promptly, but it was not to be his last clash with the authorities. For all such problems, Alf had shown enormous potential. 'He was easily the best for his age in the area,' says Phil Cairns. 'He was brilliant, absolutely focused on his game. He was taking on seniors when he was still a junior. Everyone in Dagenham who was interested in football knew of Alf because he was virtually an institution as a schoolboy. He was famous as a kid because of his football.' Jean Bixby's late husband Tom played with Alf at Becontree Heath: 'Alf was a very good footballer as a boy. Tom said that he had great control and confidence. He always wanted the ball. He would say to Tom, "Put it over here."' Yet Alf's schoolboy reputation did not lead to any approaches from a League club. He therefore never contemplated trying to become a professional footballer when he left Becontree Heath School in 1934. 'I was very keen on football but one really didn't it give much thought. There was no television then, and football was just fun to do,' he told the _Dagenham Post_ in 1971. Instead, he had to go out and earn a living in Dagenham to help support his family; this was, after all, the depth of the Great Depression in Britain, which spawned mass unemployment, social dislocation and political extremism. Alf first applied for a job at the Ford factory, where wages were much higher than elsewhere. But with dole queues at record levels, competition for work there was intense and he was rejected. Following a family conference about his future, he then decided to enter the retail trade, beginning at the bottom as a delivery boy for the Five Elms Co-operative store in Dagenham. The occupation of a grocer might not be a glamorous one, but at least it was relatively secure. People always needed food, and the phenomenal growth in the population of Dagenham in the 1930s provided a lucrative market for local businesses. In addition, there was a high demand for grocery deliveries in the area, because public transport was poor. Alf immediately demonstrated his conscientious, frugal nature by giving the great majority of his earnings to the family household. 'Every day I'd cycle my way around the Dagenham district taking to customers their various needs. My wages were twelve shillings a week. Of this sum, I handed over ten shillings to my mother, put a shilling in the box as savings and kept a shilling for pocket-money,' he wrote. After several years carrying out these errands, Alf graduated to serving behind the counter at the Co-op shop in Oxlow Lane, only a short distance from his home in Halbutt Street. He later claimed to be happy in his job, but what he missed was football. For two whole years, he could not play the game at all, since he had to work throughout Saturday and there was no organized soccer in Dagenham on Thursdays, when he had his only free afternoon. But then, in 1936, a kindly shopkeeper by the unfortunate name of Edward Grimme intervened. Grimme had noticed that a large number of talented Dagenham schoolboy footballers were being lost to the game because of their jobs. So he decided to set up a youth team called Five Elms United. Because of his excellent local reputation, Alf was soon asked to join. He had no hesitation in doing so, despite the weekly sixpence subscription, which left him hardly any pocket money. But he did not care. He was once more involved with the game he loved. Grimme's Five Elms United held their meetings on Wednesday evenings and played on Sunday mornings in a field at the back of the Merry Fiddlers pub. Playing on the Sabbath was officially banned by the FA in the 1930s. Strictly speaking, after breaking this rule, Alf Ramsey should have been obliged to apply for reinstatement with the Association, once he became a League player, by paying a fee of seven shillings six pence. 'I was most certainly conscious that Sunday football was illegal then but it presented me with the only opportunity to play competitive football. Technically, I suppose, never having paid the reinstatement fee, I should never have been allowed to play for England or Spurs or Southampton,' Alf wrote later. So, in effect, the World Cup was won by an ineligible manager. Playing again at centre-half, Alf showed that none of his ability had disappeared, despite his two-year absence from the game. In fact, he was physically all the more capable because of his growth in height and his regular exercise on the Co-op bicycle. Tommy Sloan, now one of the trustees of the Dagenham Football club, saw Alf play regularly before the war on the Merry Fiddlers ground: 'It was quite a good pitch there. All the lads played in the usual kit of the time, big shin guards and steel toe caps in their boots. Alf was a very impressive player. He used to tackle strongly, but fairly. He had a very powerful kick, especially at free kicks. He was subdued, never threw his weight about and was a model for any other youngster.' Alf himself felt he benefited from the demanding nature of those teenage games with Five Elms, 'I have often looked back upon those matches. Most of them were against older and better teams but we all learnt a good deal from opposing older and more experienced players. They were among the most valuable lessons of my life.' It is interesting that many of the traits that later defined Alf Ramsey, including his relentless focus on football, his taciturnity and his attempt at social polish, were apparent in his teenage years. For all the poverty of his upbringing in Parrish Cottages, he had nothing like the usual working-class boister-ousness of his contemporaries. George Baker, who grew up near Halbutt Street and later became head of the borough's recreation department, told me: 'I was born within two years of Alf and I knew him and his brothers. As a lad, he was not like the locals. He somehow seemed a bit intellectual, a bit distant. He spoke a little bit better than the rest of us. He was pleasant, but he was different.' Beattie Robbins came to know him in the thirties, because one of her relatives worked with him in the Co-op: 'I remember him as well spoken, just as he was in later life. He was very nice, but seemed quite shy. I knew him best when he was about 17. He was polite, dignified, a very reserved person. We once went on a coach trip to Clacton with the Five Elms team and he sat quietly on the bus at the front. He did not play around much like some of the others. His life seemed to be just football.' As he grew older, Alf appeared only too keen to distance himself from his Dagenham roots. The journalist Max Marquis wrote sarcastically in his 1970 biography of Ramsey, 'There are no indications that Alf is overburdened with nostalgia for his birthplace...in fact the impression is inescapable that he would like to forget all connections with it.' His Dagenham contemporary Jean Bixby, who worked with Alf's brother Cyril at Ford, argues: 'The trouble with Alf Ramsey was that he tried to make himself something that he wasn't. He went on to mix in different circles and he tried to change himself to fit in with those circles. Yes, even as a child he was slightly different, but he was still ordinary Dagenham. Then he went away and changed. He was not one of the boys anymore. He became conservative, not like the others who all stuck together. He was one apart from them.' At the heart of this unease, it has often been claimed, was a feeling of embarrassment not just over the poverty of his upbringing, but, more importantly, over the ethnic identity of his family. For Sir Alf Ramsey, knight of the realm and great English patriot, was long said to come from a family of gypsies. This supposed Romany background was reflected in the family's fondness for the dog track, in the obscure way his father earned his living and in Alf's own swarthy, dark features. 'I was always told that he was a gypsy. And when you looked at him, he did look a bit Middle Eastern,' says his former Tottenham Hotspur colleague Eddie Baily. Alf's childhood nickname in Dagenham, 'Darkie Ramsey', was reportedly another indicator of his gypsy blood. 'Everyone round here referred to him as "Darkie" and it was to be years later that I found out his name was actually Alf,' recalled Councillor Fred Tibble. Even today, in multi-racial Britain, there is less tolerance towards gypsies than towards most other ethnic minority groups. And the problems of prejudice would have loomed even larger in the much more homogenous Britain of the pre-war era. In a _Channel Four_ documentary on Sir Alf broadcast in 2002, it was stated authoritatively that 'Alf had to put up with casual racism. Dagenham locals believed that he came from a gypsy background and so inherited his father's nickname, Darkie Ramsey.' There is no doubt that Alf was acutely sensitive about these claims and this may have accounted for some of his habitual reserve. The journalist Nigel Clarke, who knew him better than anyone else did in the press, recalls this incident on tour: > The only time I ever saw Alf really angry was when we were going through Czechoslovakia in 1973 with the England team – in those good old days the press would travel with the team. We were all sitting on the coach as it drove past some Romany caravans. And Bobby Moore piped up, 'Hey, Alf, there's some of your relatives over there.' Alf went absolutely crimson with fury. He would never admit to his Romany background and hated to discuss the subject. He used to say to me, 'I am just an East End boy from humble means.' But it was always accepted in the football world that he was a gypsy. The rumours might have been widely accepted but that did not make them true. Without putting Sir Alf's DNA through some Hitlerian biological racial profile, it is of course impossible to be certain about his ethnic origins. Indeed, the whole question could be dismissed as a distasteful irrelevance were it not for the fact that the charge of being a gypsy seems to have played some part both in Alf's desire to escape his background and in the whispers against him within the football establishment. Again, Nigel Clarke believes that the issue may have influenced some snobbish elements in the FA against him: 'Alf had a terrible relationship with Professor Sir Harold Thompson. An Oxford don like that could not stand being lectured by an old Romany like Alf. That's when he began to move to get his power back and remove Alf's influence.' Yet it is likely that much of the talk about Alf's gypsy connections has been wildly exaggerated, even invented, while the eagerness to turn a childhood nickname into a badge of racial identity seems to have been based on a fundamental error. According to those who actually lived near him, Alf was called 'Darkie' simply because of the colour of his thick, glossy black hair. In the 1920s in the south of England, 'Darkie' was a common moniker for boys with that hair type. 'The Ramseys were definitely not of gypsy stock,' says Alf's former neighbour Pauline Gosling. 'That is where that TV documentary got it wrong. I used to call him 'Uncle Darkie'. Alf got his nickname at school, only because he had very dark hair as a young child. It was nothing at all to do with being a gypsy. I know that for a fact.' Jean Bixby is of the same view: 'His brother Cyril and I worked in the office at Fords and he was a quiet, decent chap. I have heard it said that Alf was a gipsy, but to know Cyril, I could not believe it. Cyril did not seem to be from gypsy stock at all.' Nor did the family's ownership and farming of the same plot of land in Dagenham for several generations match the usual pattern for travelling people moving from one area to another. In fact, some of the land used for the building of the Becontree Estate around Halbutt Street had originally been owned by Alf's grandfather and was sold to the council. As Stan Clements, who played with Alf at Southampton in the 1940s, argues. 'I never thought Alf was a gypsy. I cannot see that at all. When I first met him, his entire appearance was immaculate. And gypsies don't own land for generations.' Alf's widow denied that he was gypsy. 'That wasn't true. I don't know where that came from,' Lady Victoria has told friends. And Alf himself, when asked about his origins in a BBC interview, snapped, 'I come from good stock. I have nothing to be ashamed of.' Yet, despite this protestation, there always lurked within Alf a sense of distaste about his Dagenham upbringing. He went out of his way to avoid the subject and seemed to resent any mention of it. Terry Venables, who also grew up in Dagenham and later was one of Alf's successors as England manager, experienced this when he was selected for the national side in 1964, as he recalled in his book _Football Heroes:_ > When Alf called me into the England set-up, my dad said to me, 'Tell him I used to work with Sid down the docks. He was Alf's neighbour and he'll remember him.' It sounded reasonable at the time. Now picture the scene when I turned up for my first senior England squad get-together. For a start, I was in genuine awe of Alf, who came over and shook my hand. 'How are you?' he asked. 'Fine, thank you very much,' I replied. 'By the way, my dad says do you remember Sid? He was your next-door neighbour in Dagenham.' Had I cracked Alf over the head with a baseball bat he could not have looked more gob-smacked. He stared at me for what seemed like a long, long time. He didn't utter a single word of reply; he simply came out with a sound which if translated into words would have probably read something like, 'you must be joking'. He must have seen I was embarrassed by this but he certainly did not make it easy for me. Ted Phillips, the Ipswich striker of Alf's era, recalls a similar incident when travelling with Alf through London: > We were on the underground, going to catch a train to an away game. And this bloke came up to Alf: > > 'Allo boysie, how you getting on?' He was a real ole cockney. Alf completely ignored him, and the bloke looked a bit offended. > > 'I went to bloody school with you. Still on the greyhounds, are ya?' Alf still said nothing. > > When we arrived at Paddington, we got off the tube and were walking through the station when I said to Alf: > > 'So who was that then?' > > And he replied in that voice of his, 'I have never seen him before in my life.' It was the change in Alf's voice that most graphically reflected his journey away from Dagenham. Terry Venables, like several other footballers from the same area, including Jimmy Greaves and Bobby Moore, always retained the accent of his youth. But Alf dropped his, developing in its place a kind of strangulated parody of a minor public-school housemaster. The new intonation was never convincing, partly because Alf was a shy man, who was without natural articulacy and could be painfully self-conscious in public, and partly because his limited education meant that he lacked a wide vocabulary and a mastery of syntax. Hugh McIlvanney says: > Alf made it hard for some of us to like him because of the shame he seemed to feel about his background. We all understand there can be pressures in those areas but the voice was nothing short of ludicrous. There were some words he could not pronounce and the grammar kept going for a walk. That could be a problem for any human being but, for Alf, it almost became a caricature. In his gauche attempts to sound authoritative, particularly in front of the cameras or the microphone, Alf would become stilted and awkward, littering statements with platitudes and empty qualifying sub-clauses. One extreme example of this occurred when he was being interviewed on BBC Radio in the early sixties: 'Are you parents still alive, Mr Ramsey?' 'Oh, yes.' 'Where do they live?' 'In Dagenham, I believe.' In his 1970 biography, when Ramsey was still England manager, Max Marquis gave a vivid description of Alf's style. Describing his language as 'obscure and tautological', Marquis said that Ramsey > is unable to communicate with any precision what he means because he will never use a single-syllable word when an inappropriate two-syllable word will do and he dots his phrases with some strange, meaningless interjections...His tangled prose, allied with his capacity for self-persuasion, has made for some of his quite baffling pronouncements. In public he lets words go reluctantly through a tightly controlled mouth: his eyes move uneasily. Because Ramsey never felt in command of his language, he could vary wildly between triteness and controversy. He could be absurdly unemotional, as when Ipswich won the League title in 1962, perhaps the most astonishing and romantic feat in the history of English club football. 'How do you feel, Mr Ramsey?' said a breathless BBC reporter, having described him as 'the architect of this miracle'. 'I feel fine,' replied Ramsey, as if he had done nothing more than pour himself a cup of tea. Yet this was also the man who created a rod for his own back through a series of inflammatory statements, like his notorious description of the 1966 Argentinian team as 'animals' or his claim in 1970 that English football had 'nothing to learn' from the Brazilians. As Max Marquis put it, 'Ramsey is like a bad gunner who shoots over or short of the target.' A serious-minded youth, always striving for some kind of respectability, Alf did not have as strong a working-class accent as some of his contemporaries. Nevertheless, his speech could not help but be influenced by his surroundings. 'Dagenham had its own special brogue, and Alf spoke with that,' says Phil Cairns, 'It was a sort of bastardized cockney. He certainly had that accent as a child. I did notice how his voice changed when he got on in life. It was so obvious. When he had a long conversation, you would hear that he made faux pas.' Eddie Baily, who was Alf's closest friend at Spurs, told me of the difference he saw in Alf once he had gone into management with Ipswich Town: > He was cockney to me but I noticed his voice changed after he left Tottenham. When I saw him after that, his voice was refined. I would say to him, 'What are you doing? Where did all this come from? You're speaking very well, my old soldier.' He would just laugh at that. I could always have a go at him. But I think the position that he took made him want to be a little bit better when he had to do negotiations and all that. It has always been alleged that this distinct change in Alf Ramsey's voice was as a result of his taking elocution lessons in the mid-fifties. Indeed, the idea of Alf's elocution lessons has become more than just part of football folklore: it is now treated as a fact. Both Ramsey's previous biographers, Max Marquis and Dave Bowler, state without any reservation that he underwent such instruction. The late John Eastwood, who wrote a massively authoritative history of Ipswich football, reported that 'it was well known that Alf took himself off for the two-hour elocution lessons to a woman at the ballroom dancing school near Barrack Corner in Ipswich'. Another, far less believable, version has been put forward by Rodney Marsh, the charismatic striker of the seventies and later Sky TV presenter, who has claimed that Ramsey took 'elocution lessons, paid for by the FA, around the time of the World Cup in 1966'. Anyone who knew about either the parsimony of the FA or Alf's contempt for the Association's councillors would know that this assertion was nonsense. Yet the absurdity of Marsh's statement only exposes the weakness of the conventional wisdom that Alf underwent elocution training. The fact is that ever since his youth, Alf was on a mission to improve himself – and a key element of that was to change his speaking voice, adopting the received pronunciation he heard from BBC broadcasters on the wireless, from officers in the army and from directors at League clubs. There was nothing reprehensible about this. Before the mid-sixties, working-class boys of ambition were encouraged to believe that retaining their accents could be a barrier to progress in their careers. Edward Heath, the son of a Broad-stairs carpenter, adopted the elevated tones of Oxford before embarking on his rise to the top of the Conservative party. With Alf there was no sudden dramatic switch in his voice from 'Cor Blimey' Dagenham to his imitation of the plummy vowels of the establishment; rather it was a gradual process, beginning in his teenage years and climaxing when he became manager of Ipswich. Over a long period his accent, never the strongest, grew milder until it was subsumed within his precise, artificial style of speech. From his earliest years as a professional footballer in the 1940s, Alf was seeking to improve himself in manner and appearance. Stan Clements, who was training to become a civil engineer when he knew Alf at Southampton and was therefore more socially perceptive than most footballers of the time, says: > I always thought all those stories about his having elocution lessons were a load of old codswallop. His voice had a slight accent but it was controlled. It was not cockney but Essex. I would have said that when he was in the army and became a sergeant – and in those days there was a big difference in class between non-commissioned staff and the officers – he would have got to know the officers and there is no doubt that this influenced his speech. Other Southampton contemporaries of the 1940s back up Clements. Pat Millward, whose husband Doug played for the Saints and then under Alf at Ipswich, recalls: 'Alf always spoke very nicely, even at Southampton. He did not use slang much, unlike the others. I'm sure he never had elocution lessons.' Eric Day, who played up front for the Saints, agrees: 'He was so taciturn, self-effacing. He always spoke in that very clipped sort of way. He thought his words out before he spoke them.' Mary Bates, who worked at the Southampton FC office during Alf's time, makes this interesting point: 'Even during his time at Southampton, his voice changed, not noticeably at first but certainly there was a difference. If I look back from 1949 to 1945, there was a marked change.' The same story can be told when he went to Tottenham Hotspur, where again he was no loud-mouth shouting the odds in a broad vernacular. 'He sounded as if he came from the country. He spoke very slowly with a rural twinge in his accent, a sort of country brogue. It was the same as you would find in people from Norwich, a burr,' remembers Denis Uphill. Equally revealing is the memory of Ed Speight, who himself was born in Dagenham and joined Tottenham in 1954: 'He was a gentleman. He always spoke very quietly; rarely did I hear him swear. When he spoke, the top lip did not move. It was all from the lower mouth. Very clipped, staccato stuff.' Tony Marchi, who was another young player at Spurs in the early fifties, goes so far as to say that, in his memory, 'Alf had much the same voice when he was at Spurs as when he became England manager. It never really altered.' The reality was that, by the early fifties, Ramsey was already beginning to demonstrate those concise, somewhat convoluted tones which were to become so much a part of his public character. Through listening to the radio and reading improving texts, he sought to acquire a more refined voice. In 1952, when he was still at Spurs, he had written about his lifestyle in _Talking Football:_ > In the evening I usually have a long read for, like Billy Wright, I have found that serious reading has helped me develop a command of words so essential when you suddenly find yourself called upon to make a speech. People, remember, are inclined to forget that speechmaking may not be your strong point. With this in mind, I always try hard to put up some sort of show when asked to say a few words. Even the keenest advocate of the Victorian philosophy of self-help could not have put it better. And by the time he reached Ipswich in 1955, his voice only required a more few coats of varnish, not an entire rebuild. It seems likely that the varnish was provided, not by elocution lessons, but by more self-improvement allied to his connection to the most aristocratic boardroom in the country, whose number included a baronet and a nephew of the Tory Prime Minister. Though some did not believe him, Alf was always adamant that he had not undergone any course in elocution. He stated in that _Mirror_ article of 1970: > I must emphasize that I am not a cockney. I make the point because I have been accused of taking elocution lessons. And told that it is to my credit that I had taken them. The truth is that I have not had elocution lessons. I wish I had. They might have been a help to me. All this business, however, is not important to me. I've nothing to be ashamed of. I'm proud of my family, my parents and of all that has happened to me in my life. As Alf indirectly admitted there, if he had really taken such lessons, it is improbable that he would have found communication so difficult. Nigel Clarke says: > I once pulled his leg about the rumour of his so-called elocution lessons, and he bristled and said, 'That is absolutely not true.' He then explained that he used to listen to the BBC radio announcers and modulated his tones to match theirs. I am sure that is true. I mean Alf would not even have known what the word elocution meant. # [TWO _The Dell_](004-toc.html#ch2) A local government study of Dagenham in 1938 described the local population thus: > Many are rough diamonds, but still diamonds. There is a general readiness to help each other when in trouble, a readiness to support various causes (but only after protracted and heated argument), an appreciation of good music, the usual fondness for Picture Palaces and an undue attachment to the Dance hall. Eighteen-year-old Alf Ramsey could not easily have been described as a Dagenham 'rough diamond'. He showed no interest in dancing, was shy with women despite his dark good looks, had few musical tastes and avoided arguments except when they involved football. He had, however, developed an enthusiasm for the movies, one that was to stay with him all his life and would cause much amusement to the players under his management. He saw his first film when he was fourteen, a jungle adventure with Amercian B-movie star Jack Holt in the leading role. Alf soon had acquired a particular fondness for westerns, which so often revolved around the theme of a tight-lipped heroic outsider triumphing over the natives, the bad guys or the corrupt authorities. But his first love remained football. During the 1937-38 season, he was playing better than ever at centre-half with Five Elms United, as he recorded himself: 'Since leaving school I had developed into quite a hefty lad, and in my heart I knew I had improved my football.' His exploits in the Five Elms defence brought him to the attention of Portsmouth, one of the country's senior League clubs. He and two other Five Elms players were approached by experienced scout Ned Liddell, who was for a time manager of Brentford, and asked if they might be interested in signing for Portsmouth as amateurs. Before this, claimed Alf, the thought of becoming a League player 'had never entered my mind. After all, I was too modest to think I was anything much as a footballer. I just played the game for fun and the exercise that went with it.' For a young man obsessed with the game, the chance to play at the highest level was a glittering prospect. But he hesitated for a moment. Apart from some natural uncertainty about his ability, Alf was also worried about the financial insecurity of life in League football. After all, hundreds of youths were taken on every year by the 88 League clubs but very few of them made a decent living. Alf already had a secure job in the Co-op store in Oxlow Lane near his home; by 1938 he had graduated from delivery boy to counter hand and bill collector, the latter a role which required a certain amount of toughness. 'Going out to collect the bills occupied Monday morning as far as I was concerned. There were no embarrassing moments when collecting money. People either paid or they didn't, but in the main they paid.' But when Alf met Ned Liddell again, he was assured that there would be no problem about keeping his Co-op job if he signed as an amateur. Moreover, Alf's family were not opposed to the idea. 'Well, son, it's up to you,' said his mother. So Alf, now relishing the thought of joining a top club, filled in the forms and sent them off to Fratton Park, Portsmouth's ground. He waited eagerly for a reply. None came: not a letter, a card, a telegram, a word from Ned Liddell. The weeks passed in silence until Alf gave up hope. 'No one, it seemed, was interested in young Ramsey of Dagenham,' he wrote later. Portsmouth's gross discourtesy was a seminal experience for Alf. It left him with a profound distrust of the men running football, the club directors and officials who treated players with such haughty contempt and undermined careers with barely a thought. He came to share the view of Harry Storer, the hard-nosed Derby County manager who once questioned the right of a certain director to be an FA selector. Having been told that this director had been watching the game for 50 years, Storer replied: 'We've got a corner flag at the Baseball Ground. It's been there for 50 years and still knows nothing about the game.' As Stanley Matthews, who suffered from the administrators' arrogance as much as anyone, ruefully commented: 'Players were treated as second-class citizens. Football was a skill of the working class but those who ran our game were anything but.' Portsmouth's rudeness ensured that Alf, when he became a manager, never acted in such a cavalier manner; his concern for the well-being of professionals was one of the reasons he always inspired such loyalty. Ignored by Portsmouth, Alf carried on working at the Oxlow Lane Co-op for the next two years, playing football in the winter, cricket in the summer. Nigel Clarke recalls: > I happened to mention to him one day that my son loved cricket. The next time we met at Liverpool Street station he turned up with a bat. It was a 1938 Gunn and Moore triple-spring, marked with the initials of his club, The General Co-operative Sports and Social Club. Alf said to me, 'Make sure he uses it well. This one made plenty of runs for me.' He also occasionally went with his brothers to League matches at Upton Park; the first ever match he saw was West Ham against Arsenal, during which he was particularly impressed with the Gunners' deep-lying centre-forward and play-maker Alex James, 'a chunky little fellow in long shorts'. As with millions of other Britons, the quiet routine of Alf's provincial life was shattered with the arrival of the Second World War. In June 1940, ten months after the outbreak of hostilities, Alf was called up for service in the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry and was despatched to a training unit in Truro. It is a reflection of the narrowness of Alf's upbringing that he looked on his first journey to Cornwall with excitement rather than trepidation. Taking 'so famous a train as the Cornish Riviera was in itself a memorable experience for me. As a matter of interest, until I travelled to Cornwall, the longest journey I had undertaken was a trip to Brighton by train,' he wrote. The thrill continued when he arrived in Truro and was billeted in a top-class hotel, which had been commandeered by the army. 'This proved another memorable moment for me. It was the first time I had ever been into a hotel! Even with us sleeping twelve to a room on straw mattresses could not end for me the awe of living in a swagger hotel.' Throughout his life Alf frequently appeared to be a naïve, other-worldly character, oblivious to political considerations, and that was certainly true of his delight at his surroundings in Cornwall. At the very time Britain was engaged in a life-and-death struggle for its survival as a nation, Alf was writing to his parents about the joy of 'living in a luxury hotel'. Yet that set the tone for Alf's war. He was luckier than most soldiers, spending all his years of active service up to VE Day on home soil. Never did he have to endure any of the brutal theatres of conflict like North Africa, Italy or Normandy. Attached to the 6th battalion of his regiment, his duties were in home defence, 'guarding facilities, manning road blocks, and preparing against German paratroop drops,' says Roy Prince, the archivist of the Duke of Cornwall's Regimental Association. In retrospect, it was not dangerous work, though it was demanding, as Alf recalled: 'The physical training we were so frequently given added inches to my height, broadened my chest and in general I became a fitter young fellow than when I reported for duty as a grocery apprentice from Dagenham.' Unlike so many whose lives were ruined by the genocidal conflict of the Second World War, Alf found military service almost wholly beneficial. It brought him out of his shell, and helped demonstrate his innate qualities of leadership. In 1952 he wrote: > I have since reflected that to join the Army was one of the greatest things which ever happened to me. From my, to some extent, sheltered life, I was pitchforked into the company of many older and more experienced men. I learnt, in a few weeks, more about life in general than I had picked up in years at home. The Army, in short, proved a wonderful education. The aura of authority that Alf always possessed – which had seen him become captain of his school's team at the age of just nine – led to his promotion to the rank of Quarter-Master Sergeant in an anti-aircraft unit. Nigel Clarke has this memory of talking to Alf about his army service: > He told me that he absolutely loved it and that his greatest times of all were down on the Helford River in Cornwall. It was in the army, he said to me, that he first really learned about discipline and about being in charge of people, taking command and giving orders. He used to say, 'I have never been very good at mixing with people but you have to in the army or else you are in trouble.' The greatest benefit of all was that it enabled Alf to play more football than he had ever done previously – and at a higher class. Within a few months of arriving in Cornwall, he had been transferred to help man the beach defences at St Austell; there he became part of the local battalion team, captaining the side and playing at either centre-half or centre-forward. He was then moved to various other camps along the south coast before reaching Barton Stacey in Hampshire in 1943, where he was fortunate to come under the benign influence of Colonel Fletcher, a football obsessive who had played for the Army. Because of the war, several League professionals were in Alf's battalion side, including Len Townsend of Brentford and Cyril Hodges of Arsenal. Impressed by such strength, Southampton invited the battalion to visit the Dell for a preseason game on the 21 August 1943. The result was a disaster for Ramsey's men, as they were thrashed 10-3. 'The soldiers are a very useful battalion team but they had not the experience to withstand the more forceful play of the Saints,' reported the _Southern Daily Echo._ It was Alf's first experience of playing against top-flight players and he found it something of a shock. 'At centre-half I was often bewildered by the speed of thought and movement shown by the professionals we opposed.' Despite the depressing scoreline, Ramsey's men had shown some promise, for a week later they were invited back to the Dell to play against Southampton Reserves. This time Sergeant Ramsey's side provided much more effective opposition, winning 4-1. Ramsey's performances in these two games had aroused the interest of Southampton. More than a month later he was summoned to Colonel Fletcher's office. Initially believing that he had committed some military office, Ramsey feared he was about to be reprimanded. 'Sit down, Sergeant,' said Colonel Fletcher when Ramsey arrived in his office. Alf was at once relieved, knowing that the Colonel would hardly have been so friendly if he was about to punish him. 'I have just had a telephone call from Southampton Football Club,' continued the Colonel. 'Apparently they are short of a centre-half for their first team tomorrow and would like you to play for them. Well, Sergeant, how do you feel about the idea?' Ever cautious and modest, Alf then muttered something about his 'lack of experience'. Colonel Fletcher had little truck with such diffidence. 'This is a big opportunity, Ramsey,' he said, looking hard at the raven-haired sergeant. 'I suppose you have at some time or another considered becoming a professional footballer.' Alf, ignoring his abortive connection with Portsmouth, claimed untruthfully that he had 'never given it a thought'. But he assured the Colonel that he was 'prepared to give it a try'. Without another word, Fletcher was back on the phone to Southampton, reporting that Sergeant Ramsey was available for the match against Luton Town at Kenilworth Road. Alf admitted that, once he left the Colonel's office, he 'did a little tap-dance with delight. Even the orderly sitting behind a small desk forgot that I was a sergeant and joined in the laughter'. Alf was instructed to report at Southampton Central railway station the following morning before the train journey to Bedfordshire. When he turned up that Saturday morning, 9 October 1943, he was met by the elderly, bespectacled secretary-manager of Southampton, Jack Sarjantson, a figure rare in the annals of League history for both the longevity and the range of service to his club. He had been appointed a Southampton director as early as 1914, had become club chairman in 1936, then resigned during the war to act as secretary-manager, before returning to the boardroom to serve as chairman and later vice-president in the 1950s. For all his advanced years, he was also something of a ladies' man, who, in the words of the Southampton historian David Bull, 'had a way of flirting with the young wives and girlfriends at the club's social functions'. After introducing Alf to the other Southampton players, Sarjantson then asked Alf about his expenses. According to his 1952 autobiography, Alf told his manager that his only claim was for his 'twopenny halfpenny tram fare from my billet'. In response, Sarjantson 'dived into pocket' and pulled out the exact amount. But later, in 1970, Alf gave a much more convincing version, one that reflects the flexible attitude of clubs towards expenses in the days of the maximum wage: > I told Mr Sarjantson that since we were stationed in Southampton I did not have any expenses. He said, 'Well, if I give you thirty bob is that enough to pay for your taxi fare?' I said it was more than enough. It was the first time anyone had given me any money for playing. Alf was equally flexible about his age. In his 1952 book he claimed that when he played against Luton, 'I had just reached the age of twenty-two'. In fact, he was only three months away from his 24th birthday. Having sorted out Alf's expenses so generously, Sarjantson then produced a set of forms for him to sign as an amateur. After his last experience with Portsmouth, this time Alf was only too glad to know that his signature would definitely be followed by a match. 'As the London-bound train swished through Eastleigh station, I signed for Southampton Football club,' recorded Alf. On the train up to Luton, he sat beside the Saints inside-forward Ted Bates, later to be manager at the Dell, and who, like Alf, had been a grocery delivery boy in his teens and whose wife Mary was soon to become the first female assistant secretary in League football. 'Throughout the journey, he told me what I could expect from football: the kind of teams we would be meeting and other little facts which meant a great deal to a new recruit,' wrote Alf. His first appearance for the Saints was a tight match, one that left him disappointed with his own performance, which he felt was far below the standard of the rest of the side. Ten minutes from the end, Southampton were winning 2-1, when Alf gave away a penalty. 'I remember tackling someone rather hard,' he said in 1970. Luton scored from the spot and Alf sensed that 'several of my colleagues were giving me black looks'. Fortunately Don Roper restored the lead for Southampton soon afterwards, so Alf's first outing resulted in victory. And he had perhaps been too hard on himself: the view of the _Southern Daily Echo_ was that 'the defence as a whole functioned satisfactorily'. They did far worse in their next game, when Southampton were beaten 7-1 by Queen's Park Rangers in the League South, the makeshift wartime replacement for the Football League. 'Ramsey at centre-half rarely countered the combined skill of the opposing centre-forwards,' said the local press. But Sarjantson, with stretched wartime resources, did not drop the faltering defender immediately. Alf played three more League South games in that 1943-44 season before being posted with his battalion to County Durham. Despite his mixed fortunes, he had enjoyed his brief spell with the club. 'What fascinated me was meeting the players, sitting with them, having lunch on the train, talking football. All very interesting. It left a great impression on me, and probably started my ambition to become a professional footballer,' he wrote in 1970. Yet Alf, with such limited experience, was still plagued by lack of belief in his own ability and worries about finance. It is striking that when he was stationed in Durham, he played little senior competitive football. He turned out for his battalion in one match at Roker Park against Sunderland, but failed to do enough to persuade Sunderland's manager, Bill Murray, to invite him to play in any wartime games, even though the relaxed registration rules of the period allowed a soldier to guest for almost any club he wanted – one reason why the garrison town of Aldershot was packed with star servicemen like Tommy Lawton. And when Alf was posted back to Southampton at the beginning of the 1944-45 season and performed well in a trial match, he once more hesitated about becoming a professional after Sarjantson had offered him a contract with Southampton, earning £2 per match. Alf was never one to make swift decisions. He told Sarjantson, with a touch of boldness that masked his inner doubts: 'Although I've played in professional football as an amateur, I know practically nothing about it. And what if I don't like the club?' Sarjantson replied that if Alf wanted to leave the club at the end of the season, Southampton would not stand in his way. Having received that assurance, Alf agreed to sign. He was finally a professional footballer Just before the start of the 1944-45 season, Alf picked up an injury, playing for his battalion against – ironically – Southampton. It was therefore not until Christmas that he had his first game as a professional. And it could have hardly been a bigger fixture, as Arsenal took on Southampton at White Hart Lane, Highbury having been badly bombed. Facing the legendary centre-forward Ted Drake, Alf had the best game of his career to date. He admitted he was a 'little overawed' at the start, but, according to the _Southern Daily Echo,_ 'Ramsey, stocky and perhaps an inch shorter than Drake, did much that pleased, although the Arsenal leader scored two goals.' Ramsey, for the first time, had proved that he could make it at the highest level; his confidence soared as a result. And it went up even further when, as a result of injuries to other players, he was switched from centre-half to inside-left. When Southampton beat Luton 12-3 in March 1945, the second highest score in the club's history, Alf scored four times, with the _Echo_ commenting that 'he can certainly hammer a ball'. Altogether Alf made 11 League South appearances that season. At its close, Sarjantson asked him to sign again for the club. Alf agreed to do so, but 1945-46 turned out to be a frustrating season, as he made little real advance on the previous year. He played just 13 of the 42 League South matches, and was frequently asked to play up front as centre-forward, not his favourite position because of his lack of speed. 'I was nothing else than a stop-gap and was happier playing at centre-half. ' But his natural football ability shone through wherever he played, in the front line or in defence. He scored a hat-trick in a 6-2 win over Newport and was lethal in two successive games against Plymouth. The writer and Southampton fan Bob Holley has left this account of Ramsey as a dashing striker, scoring twice in a 5-5 draw at the Dell in August 1945, delighting Saints fans in the painful aftermath of the war: > It is difficult now to picture how drab everything was in the summer of 1945, the bombsites, the shortages, clothes 'on points' and food rationing still in force, and how deprived we all felt of professional sport. Small wonder that, in the first post-war season, so many fans crammed through the turnstiles each Saturday despite the fact that there were only two makeshift Leagues – the pre-war First and Second Division clubs divided geographically, north and south. Turning to the game against Plymouth, he wrote that it > left us breathless and excited and not particularly bothered that we had dropped a point. Their centre-forward scored a hat-trick. Our centre-forward, however, had bagged two. He was a tearaway sort of player, shirt sleeves flapping, hair all over the place, not particularly skilful as I remember but able to 'put himself about' as centre-forwards were expected to do in those days. His name? Ramsey, Alf Ramsey – or 'Ramsay' as the programme for this game, and indeed many thereafter incorrectly put it. The biggest cause of frustration, however, was not programme misspellings or positional changes, but the fact that in December 1945, when most of Britain was trying to return to peacetime normality, Sergeant Ramsey was shipped off to Palestine by the War Office. He was there for six months, and once again his gift for football leadership quickly emerged, as he was asked to captain a Palestine Services XI, a team which contained such distinguished players as Arthur Rowley, who scored more goals in League football than any other player, and Jimmy Mason, the brilliant Scottish inside-right. On his return home in June 1946, Alf found a letter from the new Southampton manager, Bill Dodgin, the former Saints captain who had taken over from Sarjantson at the end of the war. Dodgin told Ramsey that he wanted to meet to discuss the terms of a new contact. At the same time, the Dagenham Co-op were offering Alf a return to his old job behind the counter. It may now seem absurd that Alf could have even been tempted by this latter offer, yet, as he admitted himself, a sense of vulnerability ran through his blood. 'What folk forget to mention,' he told his mother, 'are the failures. Football is not as easy as some would have you think. Anyway, I'm not convinced that I am good enough to earn my living at the game.' Alf agreed to meet Dodgin in a sandwich bar at Waterloo, just the sort of mundane venue with which he was most comfortable throughout his life. Dodgin told Ramsey that they were prepared to pay him the weekly sum of £4 in the summer, £6 in the season, and £7 if he got into the League. With his characteristic mix of self-confidence and wariness, Alf told the Southampton manager that the offer was not good enough. 'I wanted to start a career in football – but not on £4 a week,' he explained later. It is a measure of Alf's importance to the club that his strategy worked. He was invited down to the Dell and offered enhanced terms: £6 in the summer, £7 in winter and £8 if he got into the League side. This time he accepted. But immediately after he signed, his concerns about money again came to the surface. Because in the summer of 1946 he was still officially in the armed forces, awaiting demobilization, Alf did not receive the £10 signing-on fee to which professionals would normally be entitled in peacetime. In his 1952 book, _Talking Football,_ Alf claimed, 'That did not matter.' The reality was very different. Alf was actually furious at missing out on his £10. Mary Bates, who had taken up her position as Southampton's Assistant Secretary in August 1945 after working for the Labour Party in Clement Attlee's landslide general election victory, has this recollection: > £10 was quite a lot at that time. And this day he came to sign as a professional. When he arrived in the office he was in his infantry gear. > > 'What are you doing in your uniform?' > > 'I haven't quite left the army yet.' > > 'Well, until you do, I can't pay your signing on fee. You'll have to wait until you're demobbed before I can officially sign you on. Those are my instructions.' > > He nearly went beserk at those words. He was so upset. He had obviously been expecting the money. It was very unlike Alf, who was normally so calm. He was usually very nice, gentlemanly. But he did almost lose his temper on this occasion. He was usually very pleasant, but he was not very pleasant about losing his £10. After seven years of disruption, the Football League officially resumed in August 1946. But, after all the drawn-out negotiations over Alf's contract, it was hardly a glorious return to professional football for him. Still unclear about his correct position, he began the season in the reserves. In the autumn, however, coach Bill Dodgin and trainer Syd Cann made a crucial move, one that was to completely change Alf's playing career. Sensing that Alf was uncomfortable at both centre-forward and centre-half, they suggested that he moved to right-back. It was exactly the right place for Alf, one that exploited his ability to read the game, to judge the correct moment for intervention and to make the telling pass. Though he had been a fine footballer in his youth, he had never been blessed with the sort of exceptional natural talent which defines true greatness. After all, he had never fulfilled his ambition to play for London Schoolboys; nor had any League club shown any serious interest in him before the war; and his performances with Southampton since 1943 had been inconsistent. His prowess on the field had lain more in his mental strengths: his coolness under pressure, the respect from other players and his gift of anticipation. Now, with a characteristic spirit of determination, Alf set about moulding himself for his new role at full-back. He sought to improve his technique with long hours of practice on the training ground, working particularly on the accuracy and power of his kicks. He raised his fitness levels, not just by training in the gym, but also by taking long walks through the Southampton countryside. Above all, he strove to develop a new tactical awareness. Fortunately for Alf, the trainer at Southampton, Syd Cann, had been a full-back with Torquay United, Manchester City and Charlton, and was therefore able to pass on the lessons of his experience through practice sessions and numerous talks over a replica-scale pitch – measuring one inch to the yard – in the dressing-room at the Dell. The master and pupil developed a close relationship, as Cann later recalled in a BBC interview: > My first memories of Alf were as a centre-forward. He played several times there in the reserves, not too successfully, and I felt that perhaps he had better qualities to play as a full-back. And after discussions with the manager Bill Dodgin, we decided to try him in this position. We spent a lot of time in discussions, Alf and I. He was a very keen student. He wanted to learn about the game from top to bottom. We had a football field painted on the floor of the dressing-room at Southampton and Alf came back regularly in the afternoons, spending hours discussing techniques and tactics. I have never known anyone with the same sort of application, with the same quickness of learning as Alf Ramsey. He would never accept anything on its face value. He had to argue about it and make up his own mind. And once he had made up his mind that this was right, it was put into his game immediately. I spent hours on the weaknesses and strengths of his play. He accepted, for instance, that he was inclined to be weak on the turn on and in recovery. So we worked on that so he became quicker in recovery. Very rarely was he caught out. He was the type of player who was a manager's dream because you could talk about a decision and he would accept it and there it was, in his game. Ramsey's diligence soon had its reward. On 26 October 1946 Alf was selected for Southampton's Division Two game at home to Plymouth, after the regular right-back Bill Ellerington had picked up an injury. Eight years after that fruitless approach from Portsmouth, Ramsey was finally about to play League football, and he was understandably nervous. When Saturday afternoon arrived, however, he was helped by the reassuring words of his fellow full-back and Saints captain Bill Rochford: 'You're not to worry out there. That's my job. It's another of my jobs to put you right, so always look to me for any guidance.' That encouragement was very different to the ridicule often accorded to debutants. But then Rochford was very different to the cynical old pro more worried about his own place than the fortunes of the side. Uncompromising, passionate, selfless, he was hugely admired by his fellow Southampton players. 'He was the Rock of Gibraltar,' says Eric Day. Bill Ellerington, Alf's rival for the right-back position, reflects: > Bill Rochford was my mentor. We called him Rocky. He was a good captain. It's easy to be a good captain when you're winning. But when the chips were down, Bill was great at keeping us going. He could tear you off a few strips. Once against Bradford we were winning 3-0 with only about ten minutes to go and I flicked the ball nonchalantly back to the keeper and it went out for a corner. 3-1. Then they had a free kick. 3-2. We managed to win with that score but afterwards Bill tore me to shreds for being casual. He was right. Rochford's guidance helped Alf through his first game, as Southampton won easily. 'Steady Alf, I'm just behind you,' the captain would shout during the game. But Alf quickly recognized how deep was the gulf between the League and the type of soccer he had previously experienced. Alf wrote in _Talking Football:_ > It dawned on me how little about football I know. Everybody on the field moved – and above all else thought – considerably quicker than did I. Their reactions to moves were so speedy they had completed a pass, for instance, while I was still thinking things over. After one more game in the first team, Alf was sent back to the reserves once Bill Ellerington had recovered. It was inevitable that Alf should find it a struggle at first to cope. The only answer was yet more practice, learning to develop a new mastery of the ball and a more sophisticated approach. Again, he was indebted to the influence of his captain Bill Rochford: > Playing alongside him made me realize that there was considerably more to defending than just punting the ball clear, as had become my custom. During a match I made a mental note of how Rocky used the ball; the manner in which he tried to find a colleague with his clearances; the confidence he always displayed when kicking the ball at varied heights and angles. The great difficulty for Alf was that, no matter how much he improved his game, his path back to the first team was blocked by Bill Ellerington, who was one of the best full-backs in the country and would, like Alf, win England honours in that position. 'Bill was a great tackler and a terrific kicker of the ball. He could kick from one corner flag to the opposite corner, diagonally, a good one hundred yards – and that was with one of those big heavy old balls,' says Ted Ballard, another Southampton defender of the era. Alf managed to play a few more first-team games that year but his big break game in January 1947, in rather unfortunate circumstances for Bill Ellerington. That winter was the bitterest of the 20th century. Week upon week of heavy snow hampered industry, disrupted public transport and so seriously threatened coal supplies that the Attlee government was plunged into crisis. More than two million men were put out of work because of the freeze, while severe restrictions were placed on the use of newsprint. Football, too, was in crisis. In the Arctic conditions, 140 matches had to be postponed. In the games that went ahead, the lines on the icy pitches often had to be marked in red to make them clear. Such was the public frustration at the lack of football that when Portsmouth managed to melt the snow at Fratton Park using a revolutionary steam jet, the club was rewarded with a crowd of 11,500 for a reserve fixture. The freeze also had a direct effect on Alf's career. Towards the end of January, Southampton went to the north-east resort of Whitley Bay, in preparation for a third-round FA Cup tie against Newcastle. Alf, as so often at this time, was a travelling reserve. One afternoon, the senior players went out golfing. In the cold weather, most of them wore thick polo-neck jerseys – except Bill Ellerington, who braved the course in an open-neck pullover. That night 'Big Ellie' felt terrible; he woke up the next morning wringing wet. He was rushed to hospital, where he was quickly diagnosed to be suffering from pneumonia. 'I completely collapsed and ended up in hospital for three months. I did not come out until April,' says Ellerington. One man's tragedy is another's opportunity. Alf was drafted into the side against Newcastle, and he showed more confidence than he had previously displayed, though he was troubled by Newcastle's left-winger, Tommy Pearson, as the Saints lost 3-1 in front of a crowd of 55,800, by far the largest Alf had ever experienced. With Ellerington incapacitated, Alf was guaranteed a good run in the side, and he kept his place for the rest of the season, growing ever more assured with each game. In February 1947 the _Daily Mirror_ predicted that 'only a few weeks after entering the big time, Alfred Ramsey is being talked of as one of the coming men of football'. The paper went on to quote coach Bill Dodgin, who paid tribute to Alf's dedication: 'You can't better that type of player. The player who thinks football, talks football and lives football is the man who makes good.' One particularly important match for Alf took place at the Dell in April against Manchester City, when he had the chance to witness at first hand City's veteran international full-back Sam Barkas, who, at the age of 38, was playing his last season. Ramsey was immediately captivated by the skills of Barkas and decided to make him his role model. 'It was the most skilful display by any full-back I had seen,' he told the _Evening News_ in 1953. 'The brilliance of Barkas' positional play, his habit of making the other fellow play how he wanted him to play, all caught my eye. What impressed me most of all was Sam Barkas' astute use of the ball. Every time he cleared his lines he found an unmarked colleague,' he wrote later. Exactly the same attributes were to feature in Ramsey's play over the next eight years; one of Alf's greatest virtues was his ability to absorb the lessons of any experience. In his quest for perfection, he was constantly watching and learning, experimenting and practising. As Ted Bates put it in an interview in 1970: > Alf was very single-minded. He would come to the ground for training and he wanted to get on with it – no messing about. I believe he was a bit immature then but you could not dispute his single-mindedness. He sole interest was in developing his own game. He was the original self-educated player – all credit to him for that. But he always had this polish – it is the only word – and it made him stand out in any team. Alf's soccer intelligence, allied to a phenomenal dedication to his craft and an unruffled temperament, made him a far more effective player than his innate talent warranted. Eric Day says: > He had a very, very good football brain. If he hadn't, he would not have played where he did, because he was not the most nimble of players. Not particularly brilliant in the air, because he did not have the stature to jump up. But he was a decent tackler and a great passer. He could read the game so well, that was his big asset. That was why he became such a great manager. Ted Ballard has the same assessment: > He was a great player, a super player. He was a quiet man, very strict on himself, very sober and trained hard. The only thing he lacked was pace; he could be a bit slow on the turn because he was built so heavily round the hip. But he made up for it with the way he read the game so well. Stan Clements, who played at centre-half and was himself a shrewd judge of the game, told me: > He was two-footed. You would not have known the difference between one foot and the other. He was a tremendously accurate passer. When he kicked the ball, it went right to the other player's foot. All the forwards in front of him always said that when Alf gave them the ball, it was easy to collect. They liked that because they could pick it up in their stride. His judgement of distance, his sense of timing was just right. The point about Alf was that he was so cool. One of the remarkable things about him was that at free-kicks and corners, when the goalmouth was crowded, he seemed to have the ability almost to be a second keeper on the goal-line. He seemed always to be able to read exactly what was going on. His anticipation was superb. He was always in the right position to chest the ball down and clear it. He must have saved us at least a goal every other game. He understood football better than most people. I always knew he would make a good manager, because of his ability to size up the game. Bill Dodgin and Syd Cann, the trainer, used to have this layout on the floor of our dressing-room, with counters for the players. And they would use this to analyse our tactics, especially in set-pieces. Alf was always very good at understanding all that; he would take it all on board quickly. Alf was so dedicated that, even at the end of the 1946-47 season, when he returned to Dagenham, he carried on practising in the meadows behind his parents' cottage: 'I used to take a football every morning during those months of 1947 and spend an hour or two trying hard to "place it" at a chosen spot.' Alf knew that only by developing his accuracy would he be successful in adopting the Sam Barkas style of constructive defence. The hard work paid off, and Alf did not miss a single game during the 1947-48 season; indeed, he was the only Southampton player to appear in all 42 League fixtures. Such was the strength of Ramsey's performances that Bill Ellerington, who had gradually recovered from his illness, could not force his way back into the side, though, as he told me, that did not lead to any personal resentment: > I was working hard to get back. I am not being heroic but it was either that or packing the game in. But Alf was playing really well. He was a good reader of the game, a good player of the ball in front of him. A bit slow on the turn but he was made that way. On tackling, he knew when to go in and not to go in. And he made more good passes than most players. He was always cool. There was no personal rivalry between us. I never even dreamed about animosity or anything like that. We were just footballers. Mind you, looking back, Alf was ambitious. He was a hard lad to get to know. He was not stand-offish, but you could never get at him. He was not one of the boys. We travelled everywhere by train in those days, and I was part of a card school, but Alf did not join in. He never got in trouble, because he was not interested. As Bill Ellerington indicates, Alf's personality did not change much once he became a successful professional. He remained undemonstrative, reserved, unwilling to mix easily. 'He would not go out of his way to talk to anybody,' recalled Ted Bates, 'but if you wanted his advice, he'd give it. When we played, early on, I roomed with him, and he was always the same, very quiet, getting on with his job.' Eric Day, the Southampton right-winger, used frequently to catch the train from Southampton to London because his parents lived in Ilford: > I saw him a lot but there was never much conversation. I am not a great talker and Alf certainly wasn't one. Whenever we chatted, it was only ever about football. He could be a bit short with people, though he was never rude. Alf didn't suffer fools gladly, I'll tell you that. He was a bit secretive; he just didn't chat. Maybe that's because he was a gypsy. Gypsies are extremely close-knit; they keep it in the family. You never heard him shouting, not on the field or in the dressing-room or on the train. If he had any strong feelings about anyone, he just kept them to himself. He was a very honest bloke. He did not like talking about people behind their backs. You never heard him tear anyone to shreds. He was very modest. There was nothing of the star about him. The Southampton goalkeeper of the time, Ian Black, highlights similar traits: > Once he had finished training, you seldom saw him. That is fair enough. People are made in different ways. But it did not make him any the less likeable. I think he had quite a shy nature; he was friendly enough but he did not like much involvement with others. Though he would talk plenty about the game, he was not much of a conversationalist otherwise. Throughout his time at Southampton, Ramsey lived in digs owned by the club, which he shared with Alf Freeman, one of the Saints' forwards. The two Alfs had served together in the Duke of Cornwall's Regiment, though Freeman had seen action in France and Germany in 1944-45. Now in his mid-eighties and with his powers of communication in decline, Freeman still retains fond memories of living with Alf: > We had good times together in the army. We were pretty close then. In our Southampton digs, we were looked after well by our landlady. Alf was a lovely man but he was very, very quiet. He was shy and never talked much. Unlike most of us players, he did not smoke or drink much. He always dressed smartly. He liked the cinema, and also did a lot of reading, mainly detective stories. The late Joe Mallet, who was one of Southampton's forwards, told Alf's previous biographer in a powerfully worded statement that Ramsey and Freeman had fallen out: > They were close but they had a disagreement and though they lived together Alf would never speak to Freeman. If you got on the wrong side of Alf, that was it, you were out! You couldn't talk him around; he would be very adamant. If he didn't like somebody or something, he didn't like them. There were no half measures! He was a man you could get so far with, so close to, and then there was a gap, he'd draw the curtain and you had to stop. I don't think he liked any intrusion into his private life. Alf wouldn't tolerate anything like that. He'd be abusive rather than put up with it. But today Freeman has no recollection of any such dispute: 'There was never any trouble between us. I don't know where Joe Mallet got that stuff about a disagreement. That just wasn't true. I always got on well with Alf. He was a good man to me. I liked him very much.' Pat Millward came to know Ramsey better than most through Alf's friendship with her husband Doug, who played for both the Saints and Ipswich. Though she recognizes that Alf's diffidence could come across as offensive, she personally was a great admirer: > People used to think that Alf was difficult because he did not have a lot to say. He would just answer a question and then walk away. A lot of people did not like him. They thought he was too quiet, too pleased with himself. 'He fancies himself, doesn't he? Who does he think he is?' they would say, without really knowing him. But I loved him. He was just the opposite of what some people thought. He was down-to-earth, never bragged, never put on airs, never went for the cheers. And he was such a gentleman, always polite and well-mannered. I remember I was working in the restaurant of a department store in Southampton, and the store had laid on an event for the players, where they were all to receive wallets, and their wives handbags. The gifts were set out on two stands and the players could take their choice. Alf was among the first to arrive. But he held back until all the rest of them had taken what they wanted. > > 'Shouldn't you get your wallet?' I asked. > > 'No, Pat, it's fine. Let the others get theirs.' > > He was a special man. Doug thought the world of him. He was never a joker, but if he liked you, he showed it. On the other hand, if he didn't like you, he had a way of ignoring you. Revelling in professional success, Alf was more fixated with soccer than ever. But he still enjoyed some of the other pursuits of his youth, like greyhound racing and cricket. Bill Ellerington recalls: > We would often go to the dog track near the Dell on Wednesday evenings and Alf would come with us. Looking back, he was a very good gambler. There would be six races, six dogs each, and Alf would just go for one dog. Whatever the result, win or lose, he finished. He was not like most of the boys, chasing their money. He was very shrewd. At the time, I just accepted it, but looking back, it showed how clever he was. I always felt there was a bit of the gambler about him, even when he was England manager in the 1966 World Cup. He had this tremendous, quiet self-confidence about him. Stan Clements also remembers Alf's enthusiasm for the dogs, but feels that Alf's lack of social skills has been exaggerated: > Alf was a nice fella once you knew him, easy to get on with. He had worked for the Co-op and was good with figures. His family were involved in racing greyhounds, in fact some of them used to live on that, so he knew about gambling. At that time in the late 1940s, dog-racing was extremely popular; it was a cheap form of entertainment for the working-class. Alf would usually go to the dogs on a Wednesday with Alf Freeman. He was also good on the horses. He was very quick at working out the odds. He was not tight with his money, or anything like that. He was quite prepared to open his wallet. He was a cool gambler; you never saw him get excited. He would put his bets on in a controlled manner. He would assess the situation. He could lose without it affecting him. In everything he did, he was never over-the-top. He always had control of himself. He enjoyed a drink, but he was not a six pints man. Speedway racing was another interest of Alf's and he would regularly visit the local track at Bannister Court near the Dell. He became good friends with the local racer Alf Kaines, and he persuaded Southampton FC to allow Kaines to join the players sometimes for physical training during the week. Stan Clements also remembers that Alf displayed an innate sense of co-ordination in every sport: > He was the sort of individual who was always good with the round ball. Some of us began to play golf. We had a little competition and the one who made the lowest score got a set of clubs. And who won? Alf, of course. When we were playing snooker, he was very controlled, so he did not miss many shots. The same was true of his cricket. We were once playing a match in Portsmouth and the opposition had a couple of good bowlers who were attached to Sussex. Our team was put together at the last minute, just from those who wanted to play – and Alf was not one of them. But all of us went down to the match, some of us, like Alf, just as spectators. Soon the opposition were running through us like anything. Then Alf Freeman told us that Alf had been a good cricketer in the army, so he suggested that Alf go in. Alf was a bit reluctant, as he was wearing a navy blue suit at the time. But we persuaded him to don his pads over his dark trousers. So he went out to bat like that. And immediately he stopped the rot, scoring a half century. It was not wild stuff, but controlled, sensible hitting. Nothing silly but he played all the shots. A couple of beers, a day at the cricket, a night at the dog track, these were the main forms of entertainment for the footballers of the late 1940s, just as they were for most of the working class. In contrast to the multi-millionaires of today's Premiership, most professionals then remained close to the ordinary public in terms of earnings and lifestyle. None of the Southampton players, including Alf, owned a car, while most of them lived in rented accommodation. Almost all their travel was undertaken by rail and if they had to change trains in London, they took the tube, with their kit following in a taxi. Their official wages were not that far divorced from those of clerical staff. The average pay in the League in 1948 was just £8 a week and the maximum wage was set at £12, despite the fact that the clubs and the FA were enjoying record-breaking attendances. That year, 99,500 people paid £391,000 to see England play Scotland at Wembley, yet the 22 players involved received just £20 each, their payments amounting to little more than 1 per cent of the total gate. Even worse, they were punitively taxed on their earnings by the Labour government, so they actually received only £11 in their pockets. Looking back, former Saints winger Eric Day comments: > It was not a very glamorous life. I was paid £6 a week in the winter, £4 in the summer, £2 for a win and £1 for a draw. Plus the club charged me 30 bob a week for rent. So I did not have much left over. Certainly I could not have dreamt of having a car. But I felt I was lucky. I had been in the forces for six years, and to come out as a free man, and then to be paid for playing football was something beyond my imagination. Goalkeeper Ian Black shares the same view about the effect of the war: > The wages were decent compared to manual work. I think footballers of my generation were more concerned about conducting themselves properly. Most of us had been in the forces, not the best times of our lives, and I suppose coming from that environment created a deep impression. Many of us just felt lucky to be playing football and did not want to spoil it. Apart from the dismal financial rewards, the other drawback that the players of Alf's generation had to contend with was the poor equipment and facilities. The bleak, down-at-heel atmosphere of post-war Britain extended all too depressingly to football. Training kit was poor, pitches were a mud-heap – when they were not frozen – and the cumbersome boots were more fit for a spell in the trenches. The classic English soccer footwear remained the 'Mansfield Hotspur', which had first been designed in the 1920s and made a virtue of its solidity, with its reinforced toe and protection for two inches above the ankle. The two main types of ball, the Tugite and the Tomlinson T, were equally robust. Both tended to absorb mud and moisture, becoming steadily heavier and larger as a match progressed. As goalkeeper Ian Black recalls: 'There was not much smacking in the ball from a distance then. When it was wet, if you managed to reach the half-way line, it was an exceptional kick.' Bill Ellerington says: > The ball was so heavy in those days. Beckham could not have bent it on a cold, damp February night. The ball used to swell right up during a game. If you did not hit it right, you'd have thought you'd broken your ankle. If you headed the ball where the lace was, you felt you'd been scalped. You had to catch it right. Our shin pads were made of cane and the socks of wool so they got heavy in the damp. The facilities were terrible at the Dell. We had a great big plunge bath and just one or two showers. In February, when the pitches were thick with mud, the first in got the clean water. At the end, the water was like brown soup. On a cold winter's day, the steam from the bath would make the walls drip with condensation. You did not know where to put your clothes. If you had a raincoat, you would place it first on the hook so your clothes did not get wet. But you just accepted it. But this was the environment in which Alf was now proving himself. By early 1948 he was in the middle of a run of 91 consecutive League games for Southampton, and was winning increasing acclaim from the press. After a match against West Bromwich Albion, in which he twice saved on the goal-line, he was described in the _Southern Daily Echo_ as 'strong, incisive, resourceful'. The team were pushing for promotion and also enjoyed a strong FA Cup run which carried them through to the quarter-finals before they were beaten 1-0 at home by Spurs on 28 February. The _Echo_ wrote of Alf's performance in this defeat: > Alf Ramsey is playing so well that he is consistently building up a reputation which should bring some soccer honour to him. He certainly impressed highly in this game and is steadily and intelligently profiting under the experienced guidance of partner and captain Bill Rochford. Of Alf's burgeoning influence, Ian Black says: > The spirit of our side was first class and my relationship on the field with Alf was very good. He was such a great reader of the game. He always seemed to know what was going to happen next. He lacked a bit of pace but he made up for it with his wonderful positional sense. He was a first-class tackler because he had such a good sense of timing. He never went diving in recklessly. He was never a dirty player. He hated anything like that. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle him. He was always very smart, conducted himself impeccably. Unlike some players, he was never superstitious. He never caused upsets or became aggressive. He was very confident of his own ability, which is half the battle in football. Alf had a natural authority about him. His approach, his knowledge of the game would influence players. So it was no surprise to me that players responded to him when he was a manager. He was the boss; they would understand that. There was no messing about with him, even when he was a player. I don't mean that he was difficult, but he was able to impose his views and because they were often so right, he was all the more respected. At the end of the 1947-48 season, the _Football Echo_ described Alf as Southampton's 'most improved player'. Though Southampton had failed to win promotion, as they finished behind Birmingham City and Newcastle, the sterling qualities of Alf attracted the interest of the national selectors. In May, Alf received a letter from Lancaster Gate informing him that the FA were 'considering' him for the forthcoming close-season tour of Italy and Switzerland. Then a few days later, as he sat in his digs listening to the six o'clock news on the BBC Home Service, he heard to his joy that his place in the sixteen-strong party had been confirmed. Alf was rightly thrilled at this elevation; 'I could not believe my good fortune,' he wrote later, and for the first time in his life he was the focus of intense national media interest, with photographers and reporters turning up at the Dell to cover the story of the delivery boy made good. 'While his choice as the sixteenth member of the party will occasionally surprise in many quarters, Ramsey nevertheless deserves the honour. He has had only one full season in League soccer and has made such rapid progress that the selectors have watched him several times,' reported the _News Chronicle._ He came down to earth when he reported for duty at the Great Western Hotel in Paddington, prior to England's departure for the continent. To his surprise, on his arrival at the hotel, he was completely ignored, not just by a succession of England players like Billy Wright, Tommy Lawton and Frank Swift, but also by the England management. 'For a very long time, in fact, I sat in that lounge waiting for something to happen.' Eventually he went up to the trainer, Jimmy Trotter, to introduce himself. Even then, Trotter did not recognize Ramsey and it took him a few moments before he grasped who Alf was. The humiliating experience, reflective of the shambolic way England was run before the 1960s, taught Ramsey an invaluable lesson. When he became national manager, he made sure that he personally greeted every new entrant to his team, as Alan Mullery recalls: > My first meeting was with Alf in 1964 when I turned up at the England hotel in London. It was a very nice introduction. He came straight up to me, shook my hand and said, 'Welcome to the England squad. Make yourself at home.' He did it extremely well. From the first moment, I found his man-management superb. The next day, Alf travelled with the England party to Heathrow Airport, which had opened less than two years earlier and was still using a tent for one of its terminal buildings. It was the first time Alf had been near an airfield, never mind an aeroplane, and he was initially an anxious passenger as the 44-seat DC-4 Skymaster took off. But as the plane flew over the Alps on its way to Geneva, Alf forgot his nerves and admired the breathtaking views of the snow-capped mountains. At Geneva, the England party was transferred to a pair of DC-3 Dakotas, before flying on to Milan, whose airport was too small to accommodate the Skymaster. From Milan, the squad was then taken to the lakeside resort of Stresa, prior to their game against Italy at Turin. It was a world away from the austerity of post-war Dagenham and Southampton, and Alf found it a shock to see 'the apparently well-fed and beautifully clothed people' of northern Italy. The Italian football manager, Vittorio Pozzo, appeared to understand the severity of food-rationing in Britain, for when he greeted the England team to the Grand Hotel in Stresa, he gave every member a small sack of rice. What today might seem an offensive present was only too eagerly accepted by each player, for, as Alf put it, 'in those days rice was almost as valuable as gold'. Later in the trip, he was given a trilby hat, an alarm clock and two bottles of Vermouth as gifts, which he handed to his mother on his return to Dagenham. Given his limited experience, Alf never expected to be in the full England team for the game at Turin. It was, thought Tom Finney, 'the best England side I played with'. And this was to be one of England's finest post-war victories, winning 4-0 thanks largely to some superb goal-keeping by Frank Swift and two goals from Finney. What interested Alf most, watching on the sidelines, was that because of the England team's fitness, their players lasted the pace much better than the Italians. It was something he would remember when it came to 1966. The England team then travelled to Locarno, where they stayed in another luxurious hotel and enjoyed a full banquet on the evening of their arrival. Again, Alf could not help but be struck by the contrast with the drabness of life in Britain. Amidst all this splendour, Alf had another cause for celebration: he was picked to play his first representative game for his country, turning out for the B side against Switzerland. The result was an easy 5-1 win. Alf himself felt that he had 'played fairly well', while the _Southern Daily Echo_ announced that he had 'pleased all the critics'. When the England squad arrived back in London, most of the players returned to their homes. But Alf Ramsey had another, far more arduous journey ahead of him. For Southampton FC had agreed to undertake a tour of Brazil at the end of the 1947-48 season, the trip having been promoted by the strong links between the City Council and the Brazilian consulate in Southampton. The rest of the squad travelled out to Rio aboard the cruise liner _The Andes,_ on which they were treated like princes. All the petty restrictions of rationing were abandoned, like the weekly allowances of just 13 ounces of meat, one and half ounces of cheese, two pints of milk and one egg. 'We had food like you never saw on the mainland. We had five- or six-course meals laid in front of us. And the training on board was pathetic, just running around the deck, so by the time we arrived we were hardly in peak condition,' says Eric Day. 'We could eat all we wanted. A lot of us put on half a stone in ten days,' remembers Ted Ballard. Alf did not have it nearly so easy. With the Southampton tour well under way in Brazil by the time he returned from England duty, he had to fly out on a circuitous route to Rio via Lisbon, Dakar and Natal in South Africa. When he arrived at Rio, no one had arranged to meet him and, without any local currency or a word of Portuguese, he spent two hours wandering around the airport looking for assistance, before an official from the local Botafogo club – which had helped to arrange the tour – finally arranged to have him flown on to Sao Paulo, where the Southampton team was currently based. It was hardly the smoothest of introductions to Latin America, and subsequently Alf was never to feel at ease in the culture. His presence, however, was badly needed by Southampton, who had been overwhelmed by the Brazilians and had lost all four of their opening games on the tour. 'The skill of the Brazilian players really opened our eyes. We had never seen anything like that. The way some of them played shook us,' says Ian Black. The Brazilians' equipment also appeared to be light years ahead: 'They laughed at our big boots because they had such lightweight ones, almost like slippers,' remembers Bill Ellerington. It is a tribute to Alf's influence on the team that, almost as soon as he arrived, both the morale and the results began to pick up. 'When Alf came out there, he made a big difference. We were all down, because getting beaten on tour is no fun. Alf was great on encouragement, at getting us going. He was a terrific motivator, an amazing bloke,' argues Ted Ballard. Alf's influence lay not just on the motivational side; he also helped to devise a tactical plan to cope with the marauding Brazilian defenders, who, in contrast to the more rigid English formation, played almost like wingers. Alf felt that the spaces that they left behind, as they advanced up the field, could be exploited by playing long diagonal balls from the deep into the path of Eric Day, the outside-right. It was a version of a system he would use with dramatic effect a decade later with Ipswich. Assisted by Alf's cool presence, Southampton won their next game 2-1 against the crack side Corinthians in Sao Paulo. But, in the face of victory, the behaviour of the crowd – and one of the Corinthian players – fed Alf's nascent xenophobia. At one stage, after a black Corinthian player had been sent off for a brutal assault on Eric Day, the crowd erupted. Fireworks were let off. Angry chanting filled the stadium. Then, as Alf later recorded, 'just when I thought things had quietened down, some wild-eyed negroes climbed over the wire fencing surrounding the pitch and things again looked dangerous'. A minor riot was only avoided by the intervention of the military police. The banquet with the Corinthians was just as awkward for Alf, as he had to sit beside the player who had been sent off. The event, said Alf in 1952, was > among the most embarrassing I have ever attended. I tried to speak to him and in return received only a fixed glare. Even when my colleagues tried to be pleasant with him all they received for their trouble was the same glare. There was something hypnotic in the way this negro stared at us. He certainly ranks as the most unpleasant man I've ever met on or off the football field. The Southampton team then went on to Rio, where again they won, with Alf captaining the side for the first time when Bill Rochford was rested. They were installed in the Luxor hotel overlooking Copacabana beach, but their stringent training regime prevented them enjoying too much of the local life. 'Brazil had the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life,' says Bill Ellerington. 'They used to parade up and down the beach, though they always had one or two elderly women with them. And by the time we finished playing and training, we were too tired to think about anything like that.' The last two games of the tour ended in a draw and a defeat, before the players took the plane, rather than the boat, back to Southampton. The tour had been a revelation for Alf. On one hand it had enhanced his footballing vision, encouraging him to think in a far more original way about tactics and his own role. He now saw, he wrote, that 'a defender's job was also to make goals as well as stopping them'. But on the other it had given him a negative opinion of Latin American crowds, administration and the press. He was astounded, for instance, when walking on to the pitch for the match at Sao Paulo that 'radio commentators, dragging microphones on to the field, rushed up to us and demanded – yes, demanded! – our views'. It was the start of a not very beautiful relationship with the world's media. # [THREE _White Hart Lane_](004-toc.html#ch3) At the start of the 1948-49 season, Alf Ramsey's progress seemed assured. He was a key member of the Southampton side, sometime captain, and an England B international. His growing confidence was reflected when he was called up for another representative game, on this occasion playing for English Football League XI against an Irish League XI at Anfield in September. His room-mate in that game was another debutant, the Newcastle striker Jackie Milburn – cousin of the Charlton brothers who were to play such a central role in Alf's managerial career. Milburn was struck by the intensity of his colleague, who wanted to sit up late into the night talking tactics. 'Alf was never a great one for small talk when he was with England parties,' said Milburn later. 'Football was his one subject of conversation. He was always a pepper-and-salt man, working out moves and analysing formations with the cruet table.' The English League XI, which won 5-1, was captained by none other than Stanley Matthews, the ascetic, dazzling Blackpool winger, who, since 1932, had been captivating spectators with his formidable powers of dribbling, swerving and acceleration. A cold, emotionally taut man, whose rigorous training regime included a weekly fast on Mondays, he was not universally loved by his professionals; many of them felt that his trickery on the wing did more to please the crowds than win games for his side. In an amazingly harsh passage about his team-mate, England captain Billy Wright wrote in 1953 that Matthews 'made most of us foam at the mouth because he held up the line and allowed opposing defenders to cover up'. He went on to attack Matthews' brand of 'slow-motion football', adding that Matthews, 'although giving joy to thousands of fans, was sometimes nothing but a pain in the neck to colleagues who waited in vain for the pass that never came.' Coming from someone who failed dismally as a soccer manager because he was 'too nice', those words of Wright's could hardly be more brutal. Alf, however, developed a good understanding with Matthews during the English League game. And he soon had the chance to play alongside Matthews again, when in December 1948 he was called up to the full England side, after the long-serving Arsenal right-back Laurie Scott suffered a knee injury. The match took place at Highbury on 2 December and resulted in an easy 6-0 win for England over Switzerland. Alf refused to be overawed on his debut. During the match Alf made a pass to Matthews and then, to the astonishment and amusement of the rest of the English League team, shouted 'Hold it, Stanley!' at the great man, who had never been used to taking orders from anyone, least of all a young defender with only one full season behind him. The words from Alf were instinctive, lacking in any self-consciousness and were born of years of practice with the Saints' right-winger Eric Day. Yet they smacked of youthful arrogance, something compounded when Alf wrote in _Talking Football:_ 'To my surprise, Stanley Matthews played football as I believed it should be played between winger and full-back. Stanley took up position perfectly to take my clearances.' To his detractors, that remark was a symbol of Ramsey's arrogance. 'It was rather like a new racing driver out for a spin with Jackie Stewart telling him to change gear at the next bend,' claimed Max Marquis, always on the lookout for anything to drag down Alf. But to Ramsey himself, he was just being realistic; he had found another player who preferred thoughtful, constructive defence rather than the meaty hump into the crowd. 'I was in a better position than Stanley to see the situation so naturally I advised him,' Alf explained to England's captain Billy Wright. Indeed, Matthews soon became an admirer of Ramsey. In an article in 1950, he praised the way Alf relied 'on positional play, interception and brainwork to beat his winger. I know which type I would rather face. The man who rushes the tackles is easier to slip than the calculating opponent who forces you to make mistakes.' What was so impressive about Alf on his debut was his calmness, even under severe pressure. 'Ramsey looked as suave and cool as a city businessman – particularly when he headed from under the bar in the second minute,' thought the _Daily Mail._ It was a view shared by Alf's captain Billy Wright: > I must admit I found it a little disconcerting at first to have a full-back behind me who was always as cool as an ice-soda. Ramsey's expressed aim was to play constructive football: I soon learned that nothing could disturb this footballer with the perfect balance and poise, no situation, however desperate, could force him into abandoning his immaculate style. But then, just as Ramsey's fortunes appeared to be taking off, disaster struck. On 15 January 1949, Southampton visited Home Park to play a friendly against Plymouth, both teams having been knocked out of the FA Cup. 'One minute before half-time, I slipped on the damp turf when going into a tackle with Paddy Blatchford, the Plymouth Argyle outside left. A terrible searing pain went through my left-knee...the most agonizing I have ever experienced,' wrote Alf. In fact, as he was carried from the field, Ramsey feared that his professional career was over. Fortunately, an X-ray showed that he only had badly strained ligaments and should be able to play again before the end of the season. Whether he would return to the Southampton side was another matter. For Alf's position was immediately filled to great effect by Bill Ellerington, who had waited patiently in the reserves after recovering from his bout of pneumonia, playing just 12 League games in the previous two years. Just as Alf had done in January 1947, so Bill now seized his chance, producing such solid performances at the back that he was to win two England caps before the end of the season. But Ellerington's success spelt problems for Ramsey, particularly because Southampton were pressing hard for promotion. In March 1949, while Alf was still limping badly, manager Bill Dodgin came up to him at the Dell and warned him that he was 'going to find it very hard' to regain his place in the first team. Alf was appalled at this comment, regarding it as a calculated insult. The sensitive side of his nature led him to brood obsessively about it, as he sunk into a period of mental anguish. 'The world did indeed appear a dark and unfriendly place. For one fleeting moment I seriously contemplated quitting football,' said Ramsey later. He certainly wanted to quit Southampton, now that Bill Ellerington appeared to be the favoured son. More ambitious than ever, Alf – unlike Bill – was not content to wait months in the reserves. Despairing of his future at the Dell, Alf wrote to the club's chairman J.R. Jukes requesting a transfer. Initially Jukes tried to dissuade Alf, but to no avail. As Jukes reported to a special board meeting on 8 March, 'Ramsey was adamant in his desire to be transferred to some other club, his stated reason being that he felt he was lowering his chances of becoming an international player by being played in the reserve side'. The entire board then called Ramsey into the meeting and told him that 'it would be far more to his advantage and future reputation if he remained at the club and went up with them, as we all hoped would be the case, into the First Division'. But Ramsey would not budge and told the directors that he was 'willing to go anywhere'. Ramsey's opinion of Bill Dodgin had plummeted during the row. He felt that the Southampton boss should have shown 'more understanding of my personal feelings'. Even if Ramsey appeared excessively touchy, his criticism of Dodgin was mirrored by a few of his colleagues at the Dell. Known to some as 'Daddy', Dodgin was a former lumbering centre-half who spent four years at the Dell as coach and manager, but, despite a strong team, failed to win promotion. He was generally liked by the players, especially for his decency and sense of humour, but some felt he lacked sufficient authority, especially on the tactical side. 'Technically, he was not a good manager,' says Eric Day. 'We did not have much in the way of team talks. I never found him good on motivating. I doubt if Alf ever learnt much from Bill. If anything, it would have been the other way round.' Ted Ballard largely agrees: > Bill Dodgin was a decent bloke, but he wasn't perfect. His weak point was his knowledge of the game. He could not really put his views across in those vital moments, like the ten minutes before half-time. I think he suffered a bit from lack of confidence. Players like Bill Rochford were stronger than he was. But Alf's view that Dodgin had done him a cruel injustice was not shared in the Southampton dressing-room, where there was strong admiration for Bill Ellerington. Another of the Saints' full-backs Albie Roles, who appeared briefly in the 1948-49 season, was inclined to think that Bill was the better player in comparison to Alf: 'He tackled harder. He was more direct, more decisive with his tackling. And he could hit the ball right up along the ground. He didn't have to lob it. Alf Ramsey may have been the better positional player, but Bill was a good footballer.' Joe Mallet had this analysis: > Bill Ellerington had things that Alf didn't have and vice-versa. Bill used to clear his lines whereas Alf used to try and play the ball out of danger – which sometimes wasn't the right thing to do. Bill's all-round defensive game was better than Alf's. Alf Ramsey was always beaten by speed and by players who took the ball up to him – tricky players, quick players. But he was a brilliant user of the ball. That's how he got his name, on the usage of the ball: good passing, very good passing; but sometimes he used to take chances with short ones, in the danger area around the goal. In fact, Mallet believed that Alf's incautious approach, allied to his lack of pace, which was a central reason why Dodgin did not fight to keep him. Just a week before Ramsey had incurred his knee injury at Plymouth, Southampton had travelled to Hillsborough for an FA Cup tie against Sheffield Wednesday. As the Saints came under fire in the first half, they reverted to using the offside trap. But according to Mallet, Ramsey wrecked this tactic through his over-reliance on captain Bill Rochford. Over the years, said Mallett, Ramsey had grown so used to the effectiveness of Rochford's sense of timing, moving forward on the left flank at just the right moment to catch any attack offside, that Alf was inclined to 'take liberties'. Even when Alf was beaten on his own right flank, he had got into the habit of shouting 'offside', because he presumed Rochford would have moved into an advanced position to thwart the opposition. In this particular match at Hillsborough, according to Mallet: > Sheffield Wednesday had an outside left who was a quick small player. Alf went up, 'Offside!' They broke away. They scored. And at half-time in the dressing-room there was a row – between Alf and Bill Rochford, who said, 'You've to keep playing the man. You've got to run. Even if you think it's offside, you've still got to go with him.' So this was the reason that Alf Ramsey took umbrage and left the club. Alf always took offence easily, as his later tetchy relationship with the press testifies, and there can be little doubt that the row at Hillsborough contributed to his desire to go. Several clubs, amongst them Burnley, Luton and Liverpool, expressed an initial interest in buying him but there was now the additional pressure of the looming transfer deadline for the season, which fell on 16 March, just eight days after the board had accepted Ramsey's demand for a move. By the morning of the 16th, however, only Sheffield Wednesday had come up with a definite offer. Ramsey, as a southerner, did not want to move north, fearing that he 'might never settle down in the provinces'. Moreover, Wednesday, despite a richer pedigree, were less successful in the 1948-49 season than Southampton, finishing five places lower in the second division table. What Alf did not know was that, by the late afternoon, Tottenham Hotspur had suddenly also come forward with an offer. At half past four, he was sitting in his digs, contemplating his failure to get away from the Dell, when the trainer Sam Warhurst turned up in his car and immediately rushed Alf back to the ground, where he was brought into Bill Dodgin's office and asked if he wanted to become a Spurs player. Alf instantly wanted to accept. Sadly for him, it was now too late to beat the transfer deadline. The potential deal fell through. Alf was stuck at the Dell for the remainder of the season, a disastrous period in which the Saints gained only four out of a possible fourteen points and missed out on promotion behind Fulham and West Brom. But once the season was over, the Spurs offer was revived, partly as a result of personnel changes at White Hart Lane. At the beginning of May, Joe Hume, the Spurs manager who had presided over the abortive deal, was sacked by the board on the rather unconvincing grounds of ill-health. His replacement was not some big managerial star from another top-rank club. Instead, the Spurs board chose Arthur Rowe, a former Tottenham player who was then manager of lowly, non-League Chelmsford City. But the Spurs directors had shown more perspicacity than most of their breed. For Arthur Rowe possessed one of the most innovative football minds of his generation. He was about to embark on a footballing revolution at Tottenham, one that would send shockwaves through the First Division. What Rowe immediately needed were thinking players who would be able to help implement his vision. And it was soon obvious to him, after talking to Spurs officials who had tried to sign Ramsey in March, that Alf fitted his ideal type. So on 15 May 1949, Spurs made another bid for Ramsey. This time there were no difficulties. Alf was only too happy to move to Tottenham, not just because it was an ambitious and famous institution, twice winners of the FA Cup, but, more prosaically, because the club agreed that he could live at home with his parents in nearby Dagenham. For a hard-pressed family and a frugal son, this was a real financial benefit. At the very moment Alf left Southampton, so too did the manager he had come to so dislike, Bill Dodgin, who, much to the surprise of the Saints players, had agreed to take up the manager's job at newly promoted Fulham. It has often been claimed that Dodgin's departure was prompted by his annoyance at Alf's transfer. Nothing could be further from the truth. When Rowe was about to sign Alf, Dodgin was on another tour of Brazil, this time as the guest of Arsenal. As David Bull recorded in his excellent book _Dell Diamond,_ the biography of Ted Bates, Bill Dodgin was in the reception of his hotel in Rio when he was handed a telegram from the Southampton directors informing him of Arthur Rowe's offer for Ramsey. He immediately cabled back, 'go ahead – dodgin.' In truth, Dodgin had fallen out badly with Ramsey and had no wish to keep him at the Dell. It was other issues that led to Dodgin's decision, such as his urge to return to his native London and manage a First Division side. Two other myths were circulated about Ramsey at the time of his move. The first was that the transfer cost Spurs £21,000, making Alf by far the most expensive full-back in soccer history; the _Southern Daily Echo_ was moved to describe it as a 'spectacular deal'. The reality was less exciting. The actual cash sum Spurs paid was only £4,500, the £16,500 balance made up by swapping Ernie Jones, their Welsh international winger, for Ramsey. The second was that Ramsey, as widely reported in the press, was only 27 at the time of the move. In fact he was 29, an age when many footballers are starting to contemplate retirement. For Alf, the best was still to come. In addition to moving to Tottenham, Alf's private life was about to undergo an enormous change. The request to live with parents may have implied that he was planning to live a life of strict celibacy, in keeping with his reserved character, but that was far from the case. During his time at Southampton, he had met and fallen in love with a slim elegant brunette, Rita Norris, who worked as a hairdresser in the city. With a degree of embarrassment, Alf later described how their romance began: > We were introduced by a friend at a club, nothing whatever to do with football. Immediately we had what one must call a special relationship. I don't know why I had this particular feeling only for her. I don't think anyone can describe such a thing. It is impossible to put into words. Alf emerges as touchingly human in his awkward confession as to how love was awakened within his reticent soul. It was Alf's first serious affair, as his fellow Southampton lodger Alf Freeman recalls. 'Alf was very shy, and I don't think he had any girlfriends before her.' During the late forties Alf and Rita started courting regularly, going to the cinema, the theatre, even the speedway and dog tracks. These venues in Southampton were owned by Charlie Knott, a big local fishmonger and a friend of Rita's. 'I lived in Portsmouth then,' says Stan Clements, 'and I used to get them tickets for the Theatre Royal. He would take her there once a week, usually on a Thursday. They did not have a car, so they came down by train. They were a very nice couple. She was like him, quiet and polite'. Here Clements highlights one of the reasons why Alf was so immediately drawn to Rita Norris. As well as being darkly attractive, she had the same serious temperament as Alf. Like him, she was determined to better herself, having been born in humble circumstances: her father, William Welch, was a ship's steward who later became a lift attendant. Rita had higher ambitions. She was keen on the ballet, had good taste in clothes and was well-spoken. 'She was a very good ballet dancer. Just as Alf was a gentleman, she was a lady, with nice manners, though some of the Southampton players thought she was a bit strait-laced,' says Pat Millward. Given the depth of their romance, it was inevitable that the subject of marriage arose. 'We were engaged for some time before we were married. I don't recall how long. It is not important,' said Alf in 1966. Alf, as occasionally before, was being somewhat economical with the truth, for the tenure of his engagement turned out to be extremely important. The fact is that Alf was unable to marry Rita Norris when he wanted in the late forties – because she was already married to another man. Alf, the most loyal and upright of football figures, was – in the eyes of the law at least – helping his girlfriend to commit adultery for years. On Christmas Day 1941, Rita Phyllis Welch, aged 21, had married Arthur Norris in a Church of England ceremony at the Nelson chapel in Southampton, the more impressive nearby St Mary's Church, the usual venue for such occasions, having been bombed by the Luftwaffe. By trade, Arthur Norris was a fitter, like his father, and he was soon employed working as an aircraft engineer in the Fleet Air Arm. Within less than two years of their marriage, in February 1943, Arthur and Rita had produced a daughter, to which they gave the rather unusual artistic name of Tanaya, though she was generally called Tanya. But as with a huge number of wartime marriages, the union between Arthur and Rita broke down and in 1947 they separated. Under the more strict law of the period, Rita could not officially gain a divorce until a period of at least three years had elapsed. And even after her divorce, she would not be able to re-marry for another year. So she and Alf, even though they were deeply in love, were trapped. Pat Millward recalls: > Alf told me privately he was waiting, waiting all the time for her to get her divorce. He was a little nervous that people in Southampton might throw it at him that he was involved with a married woman. But I never heard anyone say anything about it. Mind you, Alf was always very secretive about her. He never talked much about the relationship. The first moment I think I was aware of it was that time when my department store was giving out the wallets and handbags to the Southampton players. Alf was very uptight about getting the right handbag for her, so I chose it for him. Rita's divorce finally game through on 30 November 1950, the official grounds given that Arthur Norris had 'deserted the Petitioner without cause for a period of at least three years immediately preceding the presentation of the petition'. Little more than a year later, on 10 December 1951, Alf Ramsey, aged 31 years – he always gave his true birth date where officialdom was concerned – was married at the Register Office in Southampton, before going on to a brief honeymoon in Bournemouth. The wedding was sandwiched between an away fixture at Blackpool and a home game against Middlesbrough. In line with the reclusive nature of the affair, Alf kept quiet about his marriage and it therefore came as a surprise at Spurs. 'Secret wedding honeymoon ended today for Alf Ramsey, Spurs right back and first choice for England and his bride who was formerly Rita Welch of Southampton,' announced the _Daily Mirror_ on 12 December 1951. 'He kept the wedding so secret that even Spurs' manager Arthur Rowe did not know of the ceremony at the Southampton Register Office. On the train returning from Blackpool Ramsey asked for "two or three days off" to be married.' It would be wrong to exaggerate the impropriety of the circumstances surrounding Alf's marriage. Divorce, though still far less common than it is today, was becoming increasingly prevalent, partly because of the high rate of failure in wartime marriages. In 1920, when Alf and Rita were both born, there were just 3,090 divorces in England. By 1939, the figure had risen to 8,254. By 1950, however, the divorce rate had soared to 30,870 a year. So it is hardly as if Alf and Rita were causing a public scandal. Though the true nature of Alf's marriage has never before been revealed, there have occasionally been wild rumours in the football world about his relationship with Rita. It was whispered breathlessly, for example, that she was 'the daughter of an admiral'. Others said that Alf had 'stolen his bride from his best mate'. Neither is remotely true. Rita was, like Alf, born in the working class and had merely contracted an unfortunate first marriage. 'There was no sense of Alf stealing her,' says Pat Millward. 'When they met, she was already waiting for a divorce.' Nevertheless, Rita Norris' past undoubtedly heightened Alf's sense of wariness about discussing his private life. It was another uncomfortable subject that he would prefer to avoid, like his father's job or his alleged elocution lessons or his supposed gypsy background. After his marriage, the barriers were put up even higher, as Margaret Fuljames, his secretary at the FA for many years, recalls: > He hated any intrusion into his private life. Like the _Daily Mail_ would ring almost every year on his birthday, looking for a diary piece, a light little comment from him or his wife, and Alf would never have anything to do with that. He felt it was nothing to do with who he was or his job as England manager. For all its inauspicious beginnings, Ramsey's marriage proved a successful one. Rita changed her name to Victoria, though Alf always knew her as Vic, and she was happy to concentrate on building their home and supporting Alf. In typically practical terms, Alf once set out the proper role of a player's spouse: > A footballer's wife needs to run the home completely so that he has no worries; give him the sort of food he likes and should have; and to work only for his good and the good of his career. She must know that she will rarely see him at weekends – and the better player he is, the less she will see of him. A footballer could be ruined by a wife who let him have all the household responsibilities, fed him the wrong diet and gave him no peace of mind. My wife has been splendid. I have been very lucky. In her turn, Vickie returned the compliment. 'I was privileged to have met and married Alfred and I enjoyed a very wonderfully happy life with a kind and generous man,' she wrote to me. Alf proved a loyal, honourable husband, giving her not the slightest moment's suspicion that he might stray. Unlike a lot of successful sportsmen, who revel in the flash of a knowing smile or a whiff of perfume, Alf was too innocent to be at ease with sophisticated femininity. 'I don't know much about women and the only women I know are footballers' wives,' he said, at a time when the phrase 'footballers' wives' had yet to become the embodiment of predatory lust. His love for Vickie was certainly genuine. 'He's the nicest man in the world. Never quarrels or loses his temper. He even listens to _my_ views on football,' Vickie told the _Daily Mail_ in 1962. They never had any children of their own, but Alf proved a good step-father to Vickie's daughter Tanaya, who went on to marry an American and settle in the USA. Pat Millward says: 'They were a very close couple. Alf was devoted to her.' Despite his comments about a wife's duties, Alf was not the stereotyped husband of his generation, treating all housework as the preserve of women. Ken Jones has this recollection of the domesticated Alf: > In 1974 I was doing some magazine pieces with him and Brian James, the _Daily Mail's_ football writer. So I picked him up at Liverpool Street and took him over to my house. We did some work in the morning, and then sat down to lunch cooked by my wife. All went well and we had a few drinks – Alf liked a drink. Then after lunch, I said, 'Right, back to work.' > > To which Alf immediately said, 'Hold on, what about the washing up?' > > 'The washing up?' I said in astonishment. > > 'Yes, the washing up.' And he went off into the kitchen to help with my wife. There he was, with his elbows in the sink. From that day on, he was always a hero to my wife. John Booth, who became a close friend of Alf after his retirement, says: 'Everything always had to be spotless with Alf. He liked everything clean and tidy. He once came into my kitchen and started cleaning the sink and kettle.' Whatever his virtues of fidelity and domesticity, it could not be claimed that Alf was the most romantic of men. Even Victoria, in one of her rare comments to the press, expressed her desire for her husband to show more emotion. 'I wish he would let his hair down occasionally and throw his cap over the moon. It would do him a power of good. There is nothing spectacular ever in his reactions,' she said in 1965. Early in his marriage, his relentless tunnel vision about football could be hurtful. On one occasion, when she was waiting outside the Spurs dressing-room after a game, he came out, completely ignored her because he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, and proceeded to walk down the corridor until he was reminded that he had forgotten his wife. Ron Reynolds, the Spurs deputy goalkeeper of the early fifties, recalled meeting Alf and Vickie at a social event: > We had a meal and afterwards there was a dance. Alf came over to me and said, 'I want you to meet somebody.' He took me along and introduced me to Vickie. Within a matter of thirty seconds, he said, 'You won't mind having a dance with her, will you?' Alf didn't want to dance, he wanted to talk about football to the people there and so he lumbered me! She was very nice, but I was just a country lad, twenty-two years old, a bit out of my depth. I was practically speechless: His innate lack of demonstrativeness stretched into his marriage. He famously explained that if he and his wife ever had a row, he liked to 'shake hands and make up'. Nigel Clarke says that he 'never, ever saw he and Vickie touch each other, embrace or be tactile. They would shake hands when they saw each other. I always had the feeling that Alf was not very worldly wise in sexual matters.' And though he was a loving step-father, he could not always get excited about his daughter's youthful activities. Tony Garnett, who covered all of Alf's Ipswich career, told me of this incident: > Alf was a shrewd man but he was very limited in anything bar football. I remember I ran into Tanya on the train at Liverpool Street. She had just been to the ballet. She was keen on that, like her mother. And I said to her, 'You know your dad is just two compartments ahead.' > > 'Oh, I don't want to go and sit with him. He won't be interested in what I have been doing.' For all his carefully cultivated refinement, Alf could occasionally be crudely masculine. Roy McFarland, the Derby and England defender, remembers an incident in December 1971, when England were on tour in Greece. There was the usual banquet after the game, which the players imagined would be followed by the usual boring speeches. Instead, a ravishing, scantily clad belly-dancer appeared before them. McFarland recalls: > All the lads started coming back from the bar for a closer look. Once she had finished her act, some of us went out to get some fresh air, and then we got on the bus. Alf came out of the reception, sat down in his usual seat, then turned to us and said: 'Lads, what about that belly dancer! Fucking great pair she had, didn't she?' It was so unexpected. We could not stop laughing. He said things like that, which made him all the more endearing. It was a warm feeling to be part of that humour. George Cohen, the Fulham full-back who knew and understood Alf better than any of the 1966 winners, gave this thoughtful analysis of their marriage: > Alf was, no doubt, a product of his times and when they had passed few men would ever have had more difficulty in adapting to a new style – and new values. His marriage to Vickie was a perfect reflection of this. He worshipped her but he also expected everything of her. She served him, as so many women did their husbands in those days and in return he adored her. If ever anyone walked in a man's goals in the process. Stoke were crushed 6–1, Portsmouth 5–1 and, most remarkably of all, Newcastle United 7–0, witnessed by a crowd of over 70,000 at White Hart Lane. The _Daily Telegraph_ gave a graphic description of how Tottenham operated: > The Spurs principle is to hold the ball a minimum amount of time, keep it on the ground and put it into an open space where a colleague will be a second or two later. The result is their attacks are carried on right through the side with each man taking the ball in his stride at top pace, for all the world like a wave gathering momentum as it races to the far distant shore. It is all worked out in triangles and squares and when the mechanism of it clicks at speed, as it did Saturday, with every pass placed to the last refined inch on a drenched surface, there is simply no defence against it. Ron Burgess described it as 'the finest exhibition of football I have ever seen.' Eddie Baily, who scored a hat-trick in that Newcastle game, later recalled: 'Our style commanded a lot of respect from others because of its freshness, because of the way it was played and the men who played it. You felt that you were helping to lift the tone of the game and so you got that respect from the crowds as well.' By December 1950, Spurs were at the top of the First Division table and held on to the lead through January and February, though Manchester United were close behind. Then in March they tore away again with another burst of fine victories, including a 5–0 destruction of West Bromwich Albion. Throughout these months, Alf was playing the best football of his life. His captain Ron Burgess wrote that Alf was 'in grand form that season. He not only scored four goals himself, but his perfectly placed free-kicks led to a number of goals.' He went on to describe Alf as 'a brilliant defender under any condition and circumstance' who was 'a player for the big occasion'. The quality of Alf's vision was central to the success of push-and-run in the First Division. Such was his authority on the field that he became known to his colleagues as 'The General'. He was the master of strategy, the lynchpin of a side that built its attacks from the back, the scheming practitioner who put Rowe's plans into action. George Robb, who joined Spurs in 1951, told author Dave Bowler: > Tottenham became a great side through push-and-run, which was tailor-made for Alf. There was no long ball from him, and he was one of the crucial members of the side, along with the likes of Burgess. Alf played a tremendous part in setting the pass pattern, which wasn't typical of the British game. It was a revolutionary side, very well-knit. Robb recalled The General's influence off the field as well: > In team talks Alf certainly played an important part – he was full of deep thinking about the game but very quietly spoken. He was appreciated by the rest of us as being a cut above, tactically calm and unruffled. You'd go in the dressing-room for training and you'd have Eddie Baily, a tremendous clown, making a terrific row and Alf would just sit there, taking it all in, occasionally coming in with a shrewd observation, a cooling statement; he was ice-cool, just as his game was. Alf was looked upon as classy, constructive, so he set a new pattern. Spurs were still top of the table by mid-April 1951 and when they met Sheffield Wednesday on Saturday the 28th they needed only two points to clinch the title. The match kicked off at 3.15 pm, as was traditional in this period, and for most of the first half, Spurs were unable to break down the Wednesday defence. Then, as the clock was about to reach 4 pm, Eddie Baily went past three defenders, then fed Len Duquemin, who hit a rasping shot into the net. 'I have heard the Hampden Park roar and the Ninian Park roar, and they were mere whispers to the roar that greeted that goal, and that pulsating din of excitement did not diminish from then until the end of the game,' wrote Spurs captain Ron Burgess. Despite many frantic goalmouth moments at both ends in the second half, the score-line remained the same at the final whistle. Spurs were the champions, the first time they had won the title in their long history. 'The crowd went crazy, and I don't think many of the players were too sane at that particular moment,' said Burgess. There was one more game left in the season, and Tottenham celebrated in style, beating Liverpool 3–1. After the game, Burgess was presented with the League trophy by Arthur Drewry, the President of the Football League, who said of the champions, 'I not only congratulate them on having won it but also on the manner in which they did so.' A couple of days later, all the Spurs players and staff were invited to a 'Grand Celebration Dance' at the Royal on the Tottenham Court Road. Supporters had to pay 10 shillings 6 pence for a ticket to the event, where they were promised four hours of Ivor Kirchin and his Ballroom Orchestra. It was a happy end to Alf's second season in Spurs colours. But on other fronts, the prospects were darker. # [FOUR _Belo Horizonte_](004-toc.html#ch4) Within months of transferring from Southampton to Spurs in the summer of 1949, Alf had justified the move by regaining his place in the England team after he had lost it to his Saints full-back rival Bill Ellerington. Languishing in the Saints reserves, his cause would have been hopeless. But his superb form for Tottenham soon attracted the England selectors, and he was picked for the match against Italy at White Hart Lane. England managed to win 2–0, but the result was harsh on the Italians, who had dominated much of the game and had only been prevented from scoring through a memorable display of goalkeeping by Bert Williams. Alf himself had a difficult match, not just in coping with the Italian winger Carapellese, but also in working with right-half Billy Wright. The _Daily Sketch_ commented: 'Wright could not be satisfied with his performance. There were times in the game when he went too far upfield, leaving Alf Ramsey exposed to the thrusting counter-attacks of the quick and clever Italian forwards.' But, as always, Alf was learning, and the key lesson he took from the game was the importance of positional play. 'That November afternoon I realized more than ever before that it is sometimes more important to watch the man rather than the ball, to watch where the man you are marking runs when he has parted with the ball,' he wrote. Alf had performed creditably enough, however, and soon became a fixture in the England team, winning 31 caps in succession. One of his fellow players in that Italian game was the revered Preston winger Sir Tom Finney, who was immediately impressed by Alf: > I felt he was a really outstanding full-back, with a good idea of how the game should be played. He was very good at using the ball; unlike some others, he never seemed just to punt it up the field and hope that it got to one of his own side. He always felt that the game should be played on the floor. But he was not particularly fast, and I don't think he liked playing against people who were clever on the ball and quick. Like most of the Tottenham players, Sir Tom never found it easy to mix with Alf; > To be honest, he was a bit of a loner. He was not easy-going. He did not suffer fools gladly. He was a theorist who had his own ideas on how the game should be played, but he kept those ideas to himself. He had a very quiet personality, never swore much. I always got on all right with him but I never found that he was a fella who wanted to talk a lot. I would not say that he had many great friends in the England set-up. Unlike some less experienced players who have just broken through into the international team, Alf never felt the need to link up with anyone. According to Sir Tom, though Alf was generally 'very serious' he could display an odd, dry sense of humour. On one occasion, when Spurs had drawn with Preston at Deepdale in the FA Cup, Sir Tom popped his head round the corner of the Spurs dressing-room to say hello to Alf, who was, after all, an England colleague. In his account in his autobiography, Finney wrote: > Alf, who was standing close to the door, seemed quite animated. > > 'Not much point you lot coming all the way to London for the reply,' he barked. 'There will be nothing for you at Spurs.' > > I was taken aback, not so much by what had been said but more by who had said it. I looked Alf in the eyes for a moment but it was impossible to tell whether he was being aggressive, jocular or simply mischievous. He was dead right though – four days later we lost by a single goal at White Hart Lane. It was always an absurdity that Sir Tom Finney, one of the finest footballers in history, should have to run a business as a plumber in Preston because his earnings from the game throughout the forties and fifties were so meagre. When he and Alf played against Italy in 1949, the maximum wage stood at just £12 a week, while England players received a match fee of just £30, plus £ 1-a-day expenses if the team were playing abroad. It was a semi-feudal system, one where players were tied to their clubs even against their will, since the clubs held their registration and no move was possible without the directors' permission. Yet this oppressive relationship was only a reflection of the deeper malaise in football at the time. England was the nation that gave football to the world in the 19th century, but it had failed to progress much since then. Complacently living in the past, the game's administrators and journalists still told themselves that English football was the finest in the world. The evidence for this global supremacy, it was claimed, lay in the fact that England had never been beaten by a foreign side at home. It was not strictly true even in 1949, when the Republic of Ireland won 2–0 at Goodison Park, but, despite all the years of bitter enmity across the Irish Sea and Ireland having competed in two World Cups as a sovereign state, Eire was transformed into a home nation for the purposes of maintaining the undefeated record. Alf's trip with Southampton to Brazil in 1948 had shown him the rapid developments that were happening elsewhere in the world, especially in terms of tactics and equipment. But England clung to the reassuring, outdated certainties of W–M formations and ankle-wrapping boots. Training was hopelessly unsuited to a modern, fast-moving game. Indeed, many coaches still clung to the grotesque notion that professionals should be deprived of the ball during the week, so that they would be more hungry for it on Saturday. In place of perfecting their ball skills, they had to carry out endless laps of the track. 'The dislike of the ball was pretty universal in training. I thought it was crazy,' says Sir Tom Finney. The physical treatment of players was equally primitive. It was usually carried out by a former club stalwart who knew nothing of dealing with injuries. The paralysis within English football was perhaps most graphically highlighted in the antique way the FA and the Football League were run. Both were managed more like a somnolent Oxford college than a professional sports body. The Football Association, which was composed largely of representatives from the counties and old universities, had a certain contempt for men who earned their living from the game. Snobbery, poor record keeping and amateurism were rife throughout the organization. When Stanley Rous first became secretary in 1934, there were complaints about his inappropriate dress for matches. 'I would remind you,' said one old councillor, 'that your predecessor would go to matches in a top hat and frock coat.' This kind of nonsense was still carrying on after the war, with FA members more worried about protocol than performance. The Football League was just as bad. The Yorkshireman Alan Hardaker, who was later to be compared to a cross between Caligula and Jimmy Cagney because of his autocratic methods, arrived at the League's headquarters in Preston in 1951, as deputy to the secretary Frederick Howarth. Hardaker was shocked at what he found. Housed in an old vicarage, the League kept no proper records and stored files in the attics. Like some Victorian colonialist, Howarth relied on telegrams rather than the telephone. His loathing for the press equalled that for modern technology. 'Howarth was against change of any sort, particularly if it meant more work for him,' wrote Hardaker. As a result, 'The League was like a machine that had been lying in a corner for three quarters of a century.' The antiquated approach extended to the selection of the national team. What should have been the job of the England manager was instead in the hands of a group of opinionated, often elderly, figures who had absolutely no experience of international football. The eight FA selectors were inordinately proud of their role and enjoyed their trips abroad, but they disastrously lacked judgement or any long-term vision. Riddled with prejudices, often displaying blatant bias towards players from their own clubs, they showed no consistency, no understanding of the needs of modern football. 'There was always this chopping and changing. Someone would have a tremendous game for England and then be dropped, for no reason,' says Sir Tom Finney. At their meetings, the selectors would go through each position in turn, seeking nominations and then holding a vote to decide the choice if there were a dispute. On occasions, they could be breathtakingly ignorant. In his first games for England, Bobby Moore was frequently mistaken by one selector for the Wolves midfielder Ron Flowers, purely because they both had blond hair. Similarly, John Connelly, the Burnley winger, recalled talking to a selector during the 1962 World Cup in Chile: 'All the time it was Alan this, Alan that. He thought I was our reserve goalkeeper, Alan Hodgkinson.' The man trying to grapple with this system was Walter Winterbottom, who had been appointed England manager and FA Director of Coaching in 1946. The very fact that these two enormous jobs were combined in one individual only demonstrates the indifference that the FA showed towards the management of the national team. In the face of his burden, Winterbottom fought hard to bring some rationality to the chaos. Before the war, he had been an undistinguished player with Manchester United before a back injury ended his career. Having paid his way through Carnegie College of Physical Education, he served as a PT instructor in the Air Ministry during the war, rising to the rank of wing-commander. His military credentials, earnest, academic manner and plummy voice appealed to the socially conscious chiefs of the FA. But Winterbottom was no cypher. As passionate and obsessive about football as Alf Ramsey, he had analysed the game in depth and, through his position as Director of Coaching, he aimed to start a technical revolution in English football by raising skills and tactical awareness. Many of the future generations of top managers were inspired by Winterbottom's coaching. 'Walter was a leader, a messiah, he set everyone's eyes alight,' said Ron Greenwood. Sir Bobby Robson was moved to call him 'a prophet. He was my motivator in terms of my staying in football.' Alf himself wrote of one of Winterbottom's team talks during his first England tour in 1948: 'His tactical knowledge of Continental teams, and his outlook on the Italian methods and temperament left a lasting impression on me.' But, as well as the vicissitudes of the selection process, Winterbottom was faced with two other major problems. The first was the reluctance of some major stars to accept any degree of instruction, especially from someone who had never played international football. With a narrowness typical of the period, certain players believed that fitness and ability were all that mattered, with coaching regarded as alien and demeaning. In an interview with the BBC, the centre-forward Tommy Lawton recalled an early pre-match session with Winterbottom: > He said to us, 'The first thing we'll do, chaps, is that we'll meet in half an hour. I've arranged a blackboard and we will discuss tactics.' > > I looked at him and said, 'We'll discuss WHAT?' > > 'Well, how we're going to play it and do it.' > > So I said, 'Are you telling me that you've got a blackboard downstairs, and, God forbid, you're going to tell Stan Matthews how to play at outside right and me, you're going to tell me, how to score goals? You've got another think coming.' For all its arrogance, Lawton's contempt illustrated the deeper, long-term problem with Winterbottom: his failure to command automatic respect from players. Winterbottom was too remote, too theoretical to motivate his teams. His lack of top-class experience told against him. Once, on a coaching course, he asked a group of professionals: 'Can you give me a reason why British players lack environmental awareness?' 'Because we didn't get enough meat during the war,' came the cynical reply. Unlike Alf, he did not have that natural, intangible aura which incites devotion. 'Walter was a likeable fellow,' says Roger Hunt, one of the 1966 winners, 'but he didn't instill the same degree of discipline as Alf did later. Somehow, he came across more like an old-fashioned amateur.' Alan Peacock, the Middlesbrough and Leeds striker, is even more scathing: > Alf was very different to Walter Winterbottom. I was not impressed with Walter at all. He was like a schoolmaster. That's how he came across. It was so much better under Alf; he knew how to set teams up. But Walter was more like a cricket coach from the Gentlemen. He had little understanding of the way professionals operate. Walter was too scared to upset anyone. Some players need a kick up the arse, others can be talked to. Bobby Charlton, who played for four years under Winterbottom, felt that > there was no sense of belonging in the team. Walter had this impeccable accent, whereas football's a poor man's game, players expect to be sworn at, a bit of industrial language. Through no fault of his own, Walter used to make it seem an academic language. He used to go through things in discussion that I felt were obvious to people who were supposed to be good players. It was theory all the time. Jimmy Greaves, who like Charlton began his England career in the late fifties, has this analysis of the difference between Winterbottom and Ramsey: > Walter was a joy, although I never understood a word he said. I used to think, what on earth is he talking about, but I loved him all the same. I had the same respect for Alf, but the fun did go out of it. The thing about Walter was he could smile quite easily in defeat. If I wanted a manager who'd make friends, it would be Walter. If I wanted a winning team, I'd take Alf. He brought atmosphere and spirit. This was something Walter failed to do. Too often during Walter's era, teams were like strangers, on and off the pitch. The consequences of Winterbottom's inadequate leadership, inconsistent selection policies and poor administration were made clear in the most dramatic fashion in 1950, when England entered the World Cup for the first time. Until then, the FA had refused to enter the competition, deeming it too inferior for England. Indeed, between 1927 and 1946, the British associations were not even members of FIFA, having withdrawn after a series of disputes over issues such as separate membership for the Irish Free State. In a signal of FIFA's welcome for Britain's return from isolation, it was generously decided that the 1949–50 Home International series could be used as a qualifier for the tournament in Brazil, with the top two teams going forward to the finals. England topped the table easily, having beaten all three of the other nations. But the Scottish FA had previously announced that they would not be going to Brazil unless they won the Home International championship. Travelling as runners-up would not be good enough. Despite pleading from England and FIFA, Scotland stuck with this self-denying, pig-headed decision, and remained at home. It was a move that only fuelled Alf's growing dislike of what he came to call 'the strange little men' north of the border. Despite never having competed before, England were one of the favourites for the World Cup, largely because of the lustre of their name. But it was obvious, almost as soon as the party had gathered, that the preparations were inadequate. Instead of heading to South America a few weeks early to acclimatize, the England team held some practice sessions on the ground of Dulwich Hamlet FC at Dog Kennel Hill. 'I would have preferred to have gone to Brazil, got accustomed to the conditions and, of course, had a series of trial matches under the conditions we should have had to face,' said Alf, adding ruefully that the FA's finances did not stretch to this. In fact, England flew out barely a week before their first game. The Lockheed Constellation took off from Heathrow early on 19 June at the start of a journey lasting 31 hours, with stops on the way at Paris, Lisbon, Dakar and Recife, before landing in Rio on the 21st. 'The whole thing was a farce really, a shambles. We had a week's training in Dulwich, then the journey to Brazil seemed to take for ever. By the time we stepped off the plane, everyone was knackered,' recalls Alf's Spurs team-mate Eddie Baily, who was making his first England trip. Baily was also disturbed by the absence of any proper medical support. 'Can you believe it? All that way across the world and no bleedin' doctor.' Exhausted, the players made their way to the Luxor Hotel by the Copacabana beach, where they were shocked by the conditions they found, as Winterbottom later recalled: > Probably it was my fault because we should have gone into things more thoroughly but the Luxor was hopeless for our needs. As soon as we arrived, I knew there would be problems. When I inspected the kitchens, I was almost sick; the smell went up into the bedrooms, the food was swimming in oil and it was practically impossible to arrange suitable meals. Nearly all the players went down with tummy upsets at one time or another. As Stanley Mortensen, one of the team's wits, put it, 'Even the dustbins have ulcers.' The players encountered further difficulties as they practised in the South American heat, as Alf, who prided himself on his fitness, wrote: > During our training spells two things quickly impressed themselves upon me. The first was that during practice matches, I found it very hard to breathe. Secondly, at the conclusion of even an easy kick-around, I felt infinitely more tired than after a hectic League match at home. But for all their problems, England did not seem to face a difficult passage to the next round, having been drawn against Chile, the USA and Spain. And progress seemed assured when England defeated Chile 2–0 in their opening game. Next came the apparent formality of beating the unknowns of the United States, a country that had no more interest in soccer than England had in baseball. For this game, the team had to fly 300 miles inland from Rio to Belo Horizonte, a modern city whose layout impressed Alf from the air: 'such a beautifully planned city with "baby skyscrapers", much loftier than any buildings we have in this country.' Alf was not so enamoured by the coach-ride from the airport to the team's base at the British-owned Morro Velho gold mine 16 miles from Belo Horizonte. According to Alf, this involved 'the nightmare experience of being driven around the 167 hairpin bends on a road which seemed to cling to the side of the mountain'. Nor was the accommodation, a series of chalets on a miners' camp, a great improvement on the Luxor Hotel. 'They stuck us in wooden huts. It was really primitive. We couldn't sleep at night,' recalled the goalkeeper Bert Williams. Even so, on the eve of the match, the players were in high spirits, enjoying a sing-along led, inevitably, by Eddie Baily, whom Alf often compared to the cockney comic Max Miller. No one doubted what the outcome would be the following day. One old miner at the camp asked Alf, 'Tell me, how many do you think you'll win by?' Back home, the _Daily Express_ argued that the American team was so hopeless that England should give them a three-goal start. Double figures were possible, thought John Thompson of the _Daily Mirror._ Arthur Drewry, the Grimsby fishmonger who added to his duties as President of the Football League by serving as the chief selector for the England XI in the World Cup, was so confident that he decided the US game should be treated as little more than a practice match before the real contest against Spain. With barely a word of explanation, he overruled Winterbottom, who had wanted Stanley Matthews picked. But the mood of optimism was dampened when the players reached the Belo Horizonte stadium, where they found a narrow pitch with coarse grass and a sprinkling of stones; 'I'd known better playing as a kid on the marshes,' says Eddie Baily. The dressing-rooms, which had only just been completed and reeked of building materials, were so dingy that Winterbottom took the players off to change at a local athletic club, ten minutes' bus ride away. On their return, the England team were greeted by a large hostile crowd of 20,000 gathered behind the 12-foot high concrete wall that surrounded the pitch. The atmosphere was intimidating, claustrophic. 'This is the first time I've ever played in a prison,' said Bert Williams to Alf. Still, they were only playing the USA. And within minutes of the kick-off, England – wearing blue shirts to avoid a clash with the white of the Americans – were already on the attack, scything through the inexperienced American defence. It seemed only a matter of time before there would be a goal from England's front line, which included such legends as Tom Finney, Stan Mortensen of Blackpool and Wilf Mannion of Middlesbrough. But, after half an hour of missed opportunities, the scores remained level. Then, in the 37th minute, came the truly unexpected. A long, speculative shot was hit towards England's penalty box. There seemed little danger, for Bert Williams had it covered. But just as he was moving for it, the American centre-forward Joe Gaetjens – who later died in a prison in Haiti after taking part in the attempted coup against the corrupt regime of Papa Doc Duvalier – burst forward instinctively. As he dived, the ball appeared to hit the back of his head, took a wicked deflection and flew past Williams into the net. The English thought it was a freakish goal; the Americans praised Gaetjens' heroism. England went into half-time still 1–0 down. Winterbottom reassured them that the goals were bound to come, but as one of the forwards, Roy Bentley, commented, 'It had begun to feel as though we could play for a week and not score.' It was the same sorry story in the second half. England squandered a wealth of easy chances, frequently hitting the woodwork or blasting over the bar. 'I was sitting alongside Stan Matthews, and he kept saying, "Bless my soul, bless my soul," remembers Eddie Baily. England captain Billy Wright later recalled how frustrated Alf became: 'Even Alf Ramsey, who used to be expressionless throughout a game, threw up his arms and looked to the sky when a perfect free-kick was somehow saved by their unorthodox keeper.' The England players even felt the referee was conspiring against them, especially when, in the dying minutes, another of Ramsey's free-kicks was met firmly by Stan Mortensen's header and appeared to cross the line, only for the referee to disallow the goal. There was to be no reprieve. After 90 minutes, England had lost by that single Gaetjens' strike. 'I have never felt worse on a football pitch than at that final whistle,' said Billy Wright. The crowd erupted in disbelief and ecstasy, setting fire to newspapers on the terraces and letting off a barrage of fireworks into the blue sky. When the result was flashed to newsrooms in England across the wires from Reuters, there was incredulity. It was widely thought that a typing error had been made, with the real score being England 10, USA 1. But the players were all too aware of the catastrophe. 'The dressing-room was like a morgue. It felt like a disgrace to lose to a team of no-hopers. I think it was the darkest moment of my career,' says Sir Tom Finney. In attempts to lessen the shame, a number of legends grew up. One was that England had been desperately unlucky, since nothing more than fate had prevented a deserved victory. 'I think a fair result would have been 12–1,' says Bert Williams. Alf Ramsey himself summed up this attitude: 'So far as we were concerned there was a gremlin upon that football and it was not our day, the United States running out winners by that "streaky" goal.' Another complaint was that the USA had fielded a team of ineligible players from overseas; the florid, faintly ridiculous Desmond Hackett of the _Daily Express_ wrote that the American eleven 'seemed to have come straight from Ellis Island because there was not an American-born player in the side'. This is nonsense. Eight of them were born in the US, while the other three, whose number included the former Wrexham midfielder Eddie McIlvanney, were cleared by FIFA under the residency rule. It was, in any case, a pitiful charge. Why should England have had anything to fear from a group of journeymen, no matter where they came from? From an American viewpoint, however, England were far less dominant than was later suggested. An interesting article in the magazine _Soccer America_ highlighted how poorly England played – and not just the forwards. The US full-back Harry Keough, for instance, felt that 'England took us too lightly and tried to come in too close early in the game before shooting'. Keough went on, in reference to Bert Williams' argument that England should have won 12–1: 'He isn't telling it all. He had to tip over one from our left-winger, Ed Souza, with 15 minutes to go. And with three minutes left our right-winger Frank Wallace took off on a breakaway and only had Williams to beat, which he did, but Alf Ramsey followed the play and saved it.' But Ramsey, claimed Keough, 'had otherwise a bad day, with Ed Souza beating him frequently'. And even the _Daily Mail_ admitted that Souza 'played a victory march against Wright and Ramsey'. In _Talking Football,_ Ramsey described Ed Souza, with a hint of mournful euphemism, as 'a truly great player who possessed a pair of educated feet in addition to a pair of broad shoulders which he used fairly and often.' To this day, England's defeat by the USA remains the greatest upset in the nation's sporting history. It haunted the players for years, a stain on their reputations. The supposed champions of the world had been turned into an international laughing stock. 'I hate thinking about it even now,' Bert Williams said recently. For Alf Ramsey, the defeat rankled deeply. One journalist, who mentioned the match years later, recorded that 'his face creased and he looked like a man who had been jabbed in an unhealed wound'. Educated in the days when there was still an Empire, Alf was a ferocious English patriot, one who always described his nationality on official forms as 'English' rather than 'British'. His almost visceral attachment to his country was one of the cornerstones of his existence. And when the chance came more than a decade later, he was determined to avenge this humiliation. Broken and bewildered, England played their last group game against Spain, needing a win to gain a play-off place. Brought into the side alongside Stan Matthews, Eddie Baily did his best to raise morale: > Walter said to me before the kick-off, 'Just settle in and give Stan the ball.' > > 'Is he going to give it back?' I said. There was nothing funny about the result. England were beaten 1–0 and crashed out of the World Cup. Again, there were complaints about the refereeing and the conditions. 'I have never played in a game so hot. The temperature must have been 105 degrees. At half-time, we went down into the dressing-room and had to put on oxygen masks,' says Eddie Baily. 'The referee allowed an unbelievable amount of obstruction and shirt-pulling. I remember Alf, who had this thing about fair play, being furious.' Alf even claimed that the Spaniards must have thought they were playing basketball, such was their propensity to use their hands. With the kind of patronizing insularity that was to become his hallmark, Alf said in 1952 of the referee's interpretation of the rules, 'It is going to take a considerable time for the whole world to see football as we do.' In truth, it was going to take England a long time to catch up with the rest of the world. Convinced that their team had been the victims of nothing more than bad luck, the self-satisfied football establishment learnt little from the Brazilian fiasco. The illusion was maintained that England were still the best in the world. There were to be no changes in policy or structure or playing style. The attitude was captured by the statement of Bob Jackson, manager of Portsmouth, the club which won successive championship titles in the late forties: 'What suits Continentals and South Americans doesn't necessarily suit us. We have a way of playing that has stood the test of time. Given more favourable conditions and a fair crack of the whip, we can beat anybody.' England may have been failing, but for Alf personally the years immediately after the American debacle were the best of his international playing career. Now in his thirties, he was at the peak of his confidence, his understanding of the game enhanced by experience. It is a tribute to his effectiveness that in an era of fluctuating selection policy, Alf was not to lose his place for three seasons. His own captain, Billy Wright, was glowing in his praise of his right-back. He once described Alf as 'the coolest player I have ever seen in an international match' and 'one of the greatest of modern defenders. He brought with him into the game tremendous thought and initiative.' Playing in front of Ramsey, said Wright, 'I have come to appreciate the tremendous accuracy of his passes. He strokes the ball along the grass with radar-like accuracy.' He went on to refer to Alf's unique understanding of the game: > I could sit for hours and talk football with Alf Ramsey. He has the priceless ability of being able to put over new ideas in a splendid fashion, encourages his colleagues to reveal their own theories and in every way is a remarkable character whose contribution to the game has definitely helped to improve the standard of defensive play. As an example of Alf's thinking, Wright cited his tactics playing for Spurs against the Newcastle and Scottish winger Bobby Mitchell, one of those quick players who always worried him. Before the match, Alf examined the pitch at White Hart Lane, looking closely at the two ends where he would operate. He said little, but proceeded to have one of the best League games of his life, continually forcing Mitchell into the dampest areas. 'Even the world's greatest ball-players cannot play in mud,' said Alf afterwards. Ramsey had become such a central figure in the English team that when Wright was dropped in the autumn of 1950 because of poor form, Alf was chosen as the England captain for the Home International against Wales, a game which England won easily 4–2. Alf, in the words of Tom Finney, was 'an ideal captain, very methodical. He studied the game a lot and knew so much about it.' With Wright still absent, Alf retained the captaincy for the next match, against Yugoslavia. England's vulnerability was becoming more apparent than ever, as Ramsey's team were held to a 2–2 draw, the first time that a continental side had achieved a draw on English soil. Making his debut in that game was the brave-hearted Bolton centre-forward and former coalminer Nat Lofthouse. 'From the start, Alf did all he could to make me, the only new international in the side, feel at home,' said Lofthouse. 'His great knowledge of soccer and his ability to discuss the game in an interesting way, made a profound impression on me.' Talking of his wider qualities, Lofthouse called Alf 'the greatest driver of an accurate ball I have ever seen. When he makes up his mind to send a clearance to you, the ball invariably finds its target. The tremendous accuracy and faith that Alf has in himself also gives confidence to others.' After a solid game against Yugoslavia, Alf had a far more painful ordeal: his first major after-dinner speech. To the end of his life, Alf found such appearances difficult. An awkward, stilted speaker, he was unable to enliven his performances with either humorous anecdotes or powerful delivery. 'I don't think he took kindly to public speaking. He was not very good at it; he was very clipped,' says the journalist Ken Jones. Alf confessed that, at that 1950 banquet, 'I was extremely nervous. I would rather take a penalty at Wembley than again go through such an experience.' He managed to get through it, however, with 'a few words of thanks'. Fortunately for Alf, he would give up this ambassadorial role, when Billy Wright returned to the captaincy in early 1951, having recovered his form. Ramsey showed no signs of any decline in his. He had become so cool that even with England he would retain the Spurs approach, often trapping clearances deep in his own half, inviting a challenge from his opponent before pushing the ball to a colleague. One of his increasingly important gifts was his deadliness at set pieces, as Nat Lofthouse recalled in 1954: > Another of Ramsey's intelligent moves, developed because of his beautifully controlled kicking, has brought many goals from free kicks. Ramsey and I have practised this move for hours before international matches. He possesses an uncanny knack of being able to place a football almost on a pinhead. Such accuracy is, of course, the outcome of years of hard work, a factor people are inclined to forget when they see the master soccer-man in action. It is, however, only when you have been out on the pitch with Alf Ramsey that you appreciate his greatness. In 1953, Billy Wright wrote of Alf's quest for perfection: > For hours Alf Ramsey and Nat Lofthouse practised this move. I have rarely known Ramsey to be completely satisfied with his efforts and although early on he was placing the ball on Lofthouse's napper eight times out of ten, Alf, we all knew, would never be content until he could do it ten times out of ten. Alf's manager, Walter Winterbottom, in a BBC interview in 1970, emphasized his importance as an England player, praising him for being 'so consistent'. Winterbottom went on: > We always felt confident in him. He was a thinking full-back, one who believed in precision passing. He was good with his drives; he could hit the ball very true. He was also precise in those long, floating lobs, about forty yards up the field. He could put an absolutely precise centre which would allow someone like Nat Lofthouse – who was a bit like Geoff Hurst – to run in at an angle and meet the ball at the right moment to outwit the keeper. Alf was already then forming opinions around this idea of concentrated defensive work, of never losing the ball when you had possession and of this all-round playing and hard working of the team. The things coming through now I could see when he was playing. A profile in the _Daily Mirror_ in February 1951 called Alf 'the soccer intellectual'. It stated that > to Ramsey, football appears as a succession of chess problems, an exercise of the intellect. For all that, he can produce a lustiness and strength in the tackle when needed. He passes the ball with supreme accuracy and precise pace. He spends as much time in practice as any inside-forward might. These are the qualities of Ramsey's game reflected in himself. He dresses quietly, immaculately. In conversation, he is reflective. He said one very significant thing to me: 'I don't care too much to be told that I have had a wonderful game. I prefer it when someone points out a fault. Then I can do something about it.' Alf was particularly impressive in the match against Argentina, when England looked incapable of breaking down the South Americans until his calm assurance pulled them through to win 2–1. Bernard Joy of _The Star_ described Alf's performance as > the finest full-back display I have seen in many years. Ramsey played as though there were no Argentinos within miles. He refused to be stampeded into helter-skelter methods and particularly in the second half sent forward a stream of precision passes. Ramsey it was who realized that the only way to draw the Argentine defence from goalmouth was to start short passing bouts in midfield. And his brainy free kick with the ball to the far post instead of into the centre of the crowded penalty area won the match. Alf's authority was even more crucial in the match against Austria in November 1951, when England's unbeaten record against continental sides came under its most severe threat yet. Led by their brilliant attacking centre-half Ernst Ocwirk, Austria were one of the most powerful teams in Europe at the time, and with only 25 minutes to go, as they led 1–0, they seemed to be on the verge of a famous victory. But then Eddie Baily won the ball, weaved his way through the Austrian defence and was about to shoot when he was brought down. The referee instantly gave a penalty. The eyes of the huge Wembley crowd instantly turned to Alf, whose unflappable temperament had made him the chief penalty taker for Spurs and England. As he walked up to the spot, Eddie Baily said to him, 'I've done all the fuckin' hard work for you, Alf, now make sure you score.' A silence descended around the stadium, everyone knowing that England's long cherished record depended on the 'The General'. Preparing to take the kick, Alf exuded his usual steadiness, behaving as casually 'as if he were taking a stroll along Bournemouth Front,' said Billy Wright. But Alf was always good at covering up his feelings. Inwardly, recorded Alf, 'my heart was beating madly and the goal appeared to have shrunk to about half its normal size'. The tension grew while Alf placed the ball slowly and deliberately on the spot. As in everything else in football, he was a master of detail when it came to penalties. 'In the course of practice I have noticed that if you kick a football with the lace facing the sky it invariably rises high and, after making some experiments, I discovered that the best way to place the ball for a spot kick is to make the lace face the keeper.' Finally satisfied with his placement, he took a few steps back and then, on the referee's signal, moved towards the ball. Just as his right foot was about to make contact, he saw the Austrian keeper move slightly to his right. 'At once, like a boxer going in for the kill, I side-footed the ball into the other side of the net.' A vast, echoing roar went round the terraces as the ball sped across the lush Wembley turf into the corner. Three minutes later England took the lead, again thanks to Alf. All the hours of practice with Nat Lofthouse paid off, as one of his perfectly flighted free-kicks sailed over the Austria defence and straight onto the head of Nat Lofthouse, who knocked it down into the net. But Austria refused to give up and late in the game scored the equalizer through a penalty. To England's relief, the score-line finished 2–2. The unbeaten home record against Europe remained intact. With little sense of perspective, the _Daily Mail_ praised England for 'a glorious fighting display that completely rehabilitated the reputation of English international football, threadbare since our World Cup defeat'. This may have been an exaggeration, but Alf certainly deserved the plaudits. He was, according to the _Mail,_ England's 'ice-cool hero'. Alf himself described the game as 'my greatest international'. One England player making his debut in that historic game was the young Arsenal winger Arthur Milton, who also played cricket for Gloucestershire and England; indeed, he was to be the last ever double international. Today, Milton has interesting memories of playing alongside Alf: > Alf was very quiet in the dressing-room, very quiet. But I was the new boy, so he came and had a chat, telling me to go out and play my game and enjoy it. I found him reassuring, comforting. Walter Winterbottom, the manager, was not all that forthcoming. Billy Wright was the captain, but I found Alf the most reassuring of those three. I could see that he was very in control of himself. He did not make a fuss. To be honest, I got lost a bit in the game, not having had much experience, but I got no ball from Billy Wright. I always felt that Bill Nicholson was a much better wing-half than Billy Wright. Now Alf, he was a real class act. He stood out. Not perhaps such a good defender as a distributor of the ball. He was good in defence but nothing exceptional. But his use of the ball was always fantastic. Lovely mover he was. Throughout 1952, Alf remained a fixture in the England team, playing in all seven internationals, including the famous 3–2 win against Austria in Vienna, when Nat Lofthouse ran half the length of the field to score the winner. In the crowd at the Prater stadium, there was a large contingent of British soldiers, members of the multi-national Forces of Occupation, and at the final whistle they poured onto the field in celebration. A surprised Alf was hoisted on the shoulders of one khaki-clad Tommy, who told him, 'We ain't half pleased mate. The local lads have been telling us for months what they were going to do to you. Well, you well and truly done 'em, mate.' For all his obvious class, Alf allowed occasional errors to creep into his play. Against Portugal at Goodison in 1951, for instance, he mis-hit a backpass which allowed the Portugese to equalize 2–2, though England eventually ran out winners 5–2. Even worse was his howler against Northern Ireland in Belfast in November 1952. The Celtic forward Charlie Tully, one of the quick mercurial wingers who always troubled Alf, took an inswinging corner. On the near post Alf seemed to have it covered and was preparing to head the ball away, when suddenly he swerved outside its path. The ball sailed into the net, 'as if pulled by some magnetic force', to use the phrase of England goalkeeper Gil Merrick. Afterwards, with typical conviction and no word of apology, Alf told Merrick, 'I let it go because I thought it was going to hit the side netting.' Alf kept his England place in the first half of 1953, though during a tour of South America in the summer, he succumbed to dysentery, another reason why he came to distrust the continent. Moreover, he was not taken with what he felt was the poor behaviour of both the fruit-throwing crowds and the ankle-tapping, shirt-pulling players. By the autumn, there were signs that his age was beginning to catch up with him. Due to a series of minor injuries, he had to miss games against Wales and Northern Ireland, thereby ending his long-unbroken run of England appearances which stretched back to 1949, a heroic achievement considering that the likes of Stanley Matthews, Jackie Milburn and Nat Lofthouse were regularly left out because of selectoral whims, while Arsenal defender Leslie Compton, brother of Denis, was picked for his first cap in 1950 at the age of 38. Alf had recovered sufficiently to return for the match against the Rest of Europe in October 1953, held to celebrate the 90th anniversary of the founding of the FA. Just as against Austria two years earlier, England's unbeaten record at home was under the most stringent challenge – and, once again, it was Alf who prevented defeat. In the dying minutes of an exciting, open game, England were losing 3–4. But then, with just 60 seconds left, Stan Mortensen was brought down in the penalty area. As collected as ever, Alf picked up the ball, showing no sign of the intense pressure he was under. Nat Lofthouse continues the story: > Alf took his time in arranging the ball with the lace facing the goalkeeper in order to keep it low. Then he stepped up to the ball, sold a perfect dummy to Beara and as the Yugoslav goalkeeper threw himself to the right plonked the ball past his left hand. I have never heard the crowd go quite so mad at Wembley as they did that afternoon. As he turned away, Alf gave me a wry smile. That was about the height of public emotion he ever showed. Derek Ufton of Charlton played his only game for England against the Rest of Europe, and says that he can > remember the game like yesterday. The Europeans all had great skill, great pace; they kept the ball, left us chasing shadows and we were lucky to get out of it 4–4. Alf was superb to me. Billy Wright was the captain. He was lovely off the field, but on the field he played his own game, ran about and led by example. I got no help from him. Walter Winterbottom was a terrific guy, but we did not really have proper team talks, tactical discussions. As regards Alf, I cannot speak highly enough of him. He may have been quiet, but it's a funny thing on a football pitch. You might have 100,000 in the crowd but they are at a distance. So you get this constant hum but you can actually talk to each other in whispers. During the match, Alf spoke to me as quietly as he always did. So we just talked through the game. He was a tremendous help to me. Everyone regarded him highly in the England team. He was always what they called a cultured defender. He took his time with everything, and always had time on the ball, a great touch and great delivery. He was incredibly cool about his penalty. Despite winning Derek Ufton's approval, the day of reckoning was rapidly approaching for both Ramsey and England. At 33, Alf did not have long left at the highest level. And it was inevitable, given England's worrying recent form, that the unbeaten record would soon be broken. After all, they had performed dismally in the World Cup and had drawn four of their last seven games at home. Nevertheless, a depressing complacency still hung over the game. 'I remain convinced that we still lead the world in the matter of technical knowledge and in our approach to the game,' wrote Billy Wright in 1953. That mood was about to be shattered by the visit of the Hungarians on 25 November 1953. The Marvellous Magyars had set the world of football alight with their fluid, attacking formation, their captivating ball skills, their intuitive understanding and their daring unorthodoxy. Ostensibly amateurs with other employment in the communist state of Hungary, they actually trained with more purpose and rigour than most English club professionals. The Olympic champions of 1952, they had been unbeaten for two years. Unlike the England team, the Hungarians continually practised as a unit. As Winterbottom, the principal victim of England's erratic approach to selection, said later with a justifiable note of regret, 'They all played in Budapest, training week in week out as a national team, playing against club sides at home and abroad, so they were constantly together, knitting to perfection.' The clash was billed by the British press as 'The Match of the Century'. It turned into a walkover, as England were thrashed 6–3. The gap in class was evident even before the kick-off. In contrast to the English tradition of coming out from the dressing-room just five minutes before the start, the Hungarians were on the Wembley turf warming up for twenty minutes. Malcolm Allison, later a revolutionary coach himself, was a youthful spectator in the crowd. He later recalled watching in admiration as two players 'volleyed the ball to each other eight times over 25 yards without it touching the ground'. The Hungarian dominance immediately manifested itself once the match started. A few short passes down the field, and Hungary had scored within the first minute. England never recovered from that crippling start. Utterly perplexed by the pace and tactics of the Hungarians, they were swept aside and conceded a three-goal lead before they scored their second. England's bewilderment was symbolized by the unfortunate experience of Blackpool centre-half Harry Johnstone, who had not a clue how to deal with the deep-lying centre-forward Hidegkuti. If he tried to go with Hidegkuti, then he left space for other Hungarians to exploit. But if he stayed in defence, Hidegkuti was free to act as play-maker. Nor did England's captain Billy Wright know how to cope. In one memorable moment, he ended up on his backside after trying to tackle his opposite number Ferenc Puskas, just as Puskas, in the England penalty area, pulled the ball back with his right foot before slamming it into the goal with his left. As Puskas later explained, the Hungarian system was not dissimilar to Spurs' push-and-run: > We didn't nurse the ball, but kept passing it so quickly that an onlooker might have thought the ball was burning our feet. But however quickly we got rid of it, we saw that it usually went to one of our own side. This quick game, combined with the fact that we had freed ourselves from the burden of the old-fashioned rule of staying in one's original position, did much to tire the England defence. Puskas also stressed the importance of positional play, one of Alf's guiding principles: 'Throughout the game we demonstrated the golden rule of modern football and that is: the good player keeps playing even without the ball.' Alf believed in this so strongly that, early in his England career, he had the nerve to lecture Billy Wright: 'I suggested to him that perhaps he was watching the ball too much rather than the man.' With the kind of blinkered partisanship that later became a feature of his management, Alf refused to concede that England had been outclassed: 'Four of those goals came from outside the penalty area. We should never have lost.' And Alf had some support in that analysis from Walter Winterbottom, who agreed that Gil Merrick, the moustachioed Birmingham keeper, had a poor game: 'Merrick was my disaster; nice fellow, strong, good at club level, but for England he sometimes lost his nerve. Against Hungary I felt they were stoppable shots, but he got nowhere near them.' Merrick himself, who six months later suffered an even greater mauling when England were beaten 7–1 in Budapest, thought that the explanation lay with 'deadly football to which we had no answer because we simply couldn't match them for speed'. In his 1954 book _I See It All_ he gave this insight into the Hungarian approach. His views are fascinating for the way they predicate the England team of 1966, which famously eschewed traditional wing play. From the kick-off, wrote Merrick, > any man in the line can and does appear in any position...The wingers, like the rest of the team, do not hold the ball and dribble with it; they don't have to because they are always given the ball either in the clear or when they are racing past a defender...In complete contrast to the Englishman, the Hungarian wingers hardly ever cross the ball...The overall picture is one of a side moving at speed, individually working the ball almost as quickly and with great accuracy and with every man knowing what his partner is doing. Alf suffered even more than Merrick from the fall-out over the 6–3 defeat at Wembley. He was finished as an England player. One of the finest of post-war international careers had come to an end. And the curtain would soon start to fall on his days at Tottenham. # [FIVE _Villa Park_](004-toc.html#ch5) 'In due course the day comes – there's no dodging it – when some of the regular players pass their peak and start on the downhill journey,' wrote Alf in 1951. That moment arrived for him around 1953, when the physical weaknesses in his game were no longer outweighed by his intelligence. Throughout his career, he had suffered from a lack of pace and an inability to turn quickly because he was heavily built around the hips. The journalist and broadcaster Michael Parkinson always stuck to the theory that Alf disliked wingers because of his own experience of playing against them. He cited the example of watching Alf, when he was a Southampton full-back, being tormented by Barnsley's 'galloping magician' Johnny Kelly. According to Parkinson, Alf > never recovered from the trauma of trying to stop Kelly that wet and windy afternoon at Oakwell when Southampton were the visitors. Kelly was inspired that day. There was something about Ramsey that put him in a devilish frame of mind. He turned the full-back inside out to the point where Ramsey was humiliated. Parkinson then claimed that 'Kelly so unhinged Ramsey, making him hate wingers so much, that when he became coach he embarked on a mission to ban them from the game'. Parkinson's amusing thesis bears little relationship to the reality of how Alf set about building his England teams. Yet there is no doubt that a fast player could brutally expose him. 'If someone really came at him, that was the thing he hated,' said Ted Ditchburn. Billy Liddell of Liverpool and Bobby Mitchell of Newcastle were two wingers he found especially difficult. And it was the Hungarian captain Ferenc Puskas who wrote that Alf had 'the fault of turning too slowly'. These deficiencies were becoming more glaring as the great Spurs Championship-winning side began to go into decline. They finished second to Manchester United in 1951–52, but fell to tenth place the following season and 16th, close to the relegation zone, in 1953–54. Push-and-run was a style that could only be operated by players of supreme fitness, and, along with Alf, Ron Burgess, Bill Nicholson, Les Bennett and Ted Ditchburn were all in their early and mid-thirties. During this time, Alf was also hampered by an abdominal injury, which further slowed him down and occasionally caused him intense pain. The advice of the Tottenham physiotherapist was that he should continue to play as much as possible, since movement on the field could provide the equivalent of an internal massage. In effect, Alf was told to 'get on with it', even if he was more restricted than ever. Spurs fans started to complain about Alf's preference for ball play rather than clearing his lines. Certain players felt that a staleness was creeping into some of his moves, like the delayed back pass to the keeper, followed by a run up the touchline to receive the throw. As Ron Reynolds, who was playing more regularly in the Spurs goal by 1953, put it, 'Alf could not see that it was the same thing all the time, it was stereotyped and that, as the goalkeeper, you had a view of everything in front of you, which might give you better options'. The problems with Alf's approach were highlighted in the FA Cup semi-final against Blackpool at Villa Park on 21 March 1953, which turned into one of the darkest days of Alf's career. Until the last minute, he had enjoyed a superb game, completely neutralizing the Blackpool left-winger Bill Perry. Then Blackpool won a free-kick near the half-way line. The ball was sent over to the left flank, where Alf seemed to have easily won the chase against Bill Perry. Goalkeeper Ted Ditchburn told me what happened next: > He tried to be a bit clever. As the kick came across, he ended up facing his own goal. He was trying to judge the ball as it fell over his shoulder, then play it when it bounced. But it struck his knee and then ran away from him. Jimmy Mudie, the Blackpool inside-forward, latched on to it immediately and put it in the back of the net. We were out of the Cup. I was not too pleased with that, though I did not have much of a go at Alf. Even in the last minute of a vital Cup tie, when most other defenders would have just tried to belt the ball into the crowd, Alf wanted to play elegant football. But his mistake had cost Spurs a place at Wembley. 'We just sat and stared into space. There is nothing worse than to lose in a semi-final, and to go out to a goal like that was just unbearable,' said Bill Nicholson. Alf had to endure a barrage of criticism from fans and press alike for weeks. One Spurs director said bitterly: 'Ramsey stupidly gave the goal away. He could have easily kicked the ball out of play.' In public at least, Alf was contrite but dignified. In an interview with the _Daily Express_ the day after the defeat, he said: 'I don't think any man must lose himself in self-pity. Football is my craft and as a craftsman I am paid not to make mistakes. I miskicked it. There it is. I can only say I am terribly sorry.' Alf then told the paper of his movements in the immediate aftermath of the game: > I travelled home with my wife and a friend by car. Perhaps it was just as well I was not with the team – it would have been hard to know what to say. Usually Sunday is a happy day for my wife and me. I like to do a bit of gardening and in the afternoon we usually go for a drive. But today my wife and I have just stayed at home. In the privacy of the Spurs dressing-room, however, Alf demonstrated that obstinate, hard-headed streak which would later, as England manager, win him matches but make him enemies. Rather than wallowing in remorse, he insisted on analysing the move that led to the Blackpool goal, handing out criticism to other players. In particular, he attacked Eddie Baily for disputing the referee's decision over the free-kick. Baily recalled: > Alf reckoned I was gesticulating at the time. The kick was taken quickly and then the next thing Jimmy Mudie was in front of goal and had scored. So when we got into the dressing-room, he said, 'What were you bloody arguing about out there?' > > 'What are you on about? What were you doing?' I replied. > > That's the way we talked. Alf felt that if Eddie had not stopped to argue with the referee, then he could have provided more cover in defence at the free-kick. 'Alf could patronize you. He would not really say sorry. He wanted to look like he was not in the wrong. He hit a poor ball and he somehow ended up blaming me. That was his way, claiming it was my fault.' Ted Ditchburn also recalled, 'It was one of those things. But I don't recall Alf ever saying he was sorry.' For all his reluctance to accept the blame in front of his colleagues, Alf knew he had made a terrible error. It was one that haunted him for the rest of his life, 'an awful moment in my career,' he once said. The East Anglian journalist Tony Garnett gained an insight into how much Alf was pained by the memory of that day: > Alf had a certain sentimentality about him. Once Ipswich were playing Aston Villa and about an hour before the kick-off he said, 'Come with me, I want to show you something.' So we walked out onto the pitch and then he pointed to a little area of turf. He said, 'You know, that's where I lost the ball in the FA Cup semi-final and gave away the goal which led us to lose.' He was pointing to the very spot of ground where it happened. The incident must have haunted him. For someone as coldly rational as Alf, it was no consolation that, without his mistake, there would have been no Matthews Final in 1953, that most romantic of club games when the 38-year-old winger inspired Blackpool to a 4–3 victory over Bolton. In the following season, 1953–54, when Alf was dropped from the England team, there was widespread speculation that his days at Spurs were numbered. One rumour was that he would return to Southampton, then in the Third Division, to take up a player-coach role. 'Ramsey himself has not yet made any statement but I know that he and his wife Rita, a Southampton girl, would be happy with the appointment,' wrote Frank Butler in the _News of the World_ in April 1954. By then Alf was 34, yet the ageing process appeared to be slowing down, for Butler unknowingly knocked off three years: 'At 31, Ramsey, one of soccer's most intelligent players – he is known as The General – is naturally looking to the future.' Later that year, Wolves were said to have expressed an interest in acquiring Ramsey as a coach to assist their manager, the explosive, controversial, devout Christian Stan Cullis. 'My news will be greeted with mixed feelings by Tottenham followers,' wrote Roy Peskett in the _Daily Mail._ 'Since Spurs hit a bad patch this season, much criticism has been levelled at Ramsey's slowness.' And Peskett believed that Alf could have a great future in this new role: 'Ramsey, a fine type on and off the field, is the ideal coach. I have seen him demonstrate to schoolboys, putting them at their ease and showing them the basic principles in simple, convincing fashion.' All this talk was unfounded. Ramsey did become a coach in 1954, but only in a small part-time role at the minor non-League club Eton Manor. He was not yet finished as a Spurs player, even as the title-winning side began to break up. Indeed, when Ron Burgess left in the 1954 season to join Swansea, Arthur Rowe appointed him as the new club captain, a job in which his single-mindedness soon made itself felt, as George Robb recalled: > Alf wouldn't stand any nonsense, so that was a good thing for a potential manager. If he thought someone wasn't pulling their weight during a game, he'd let them know! He wasn't disinclined to reproach somebody. In team talks, he would be more forthcoming, putting his own ideas forward. Alf's asperity could lead to fierce arguments within the club. One such occasion was later recalled by Arthur Rowe for the BBC: > We were in a team meeting. It had gone quite peacefully and I said, 'We should do the things we agreed to do, and we shouldn't do the things we agreed not to do.' And then I asked quite calmly, 'So why do we do it?' And at that, Alf suddenly exploded, 'Yes, WHY do we do it?' I quickly realized that beneath his peaceful, bland exterior was a volcano of passion and ambition and loyalty and fierce enthusiasm. This is how it was.' Though Arthur and Alf never descended to rows, the same was not true of Alf's relationship with Bill Nicholson, who played right-half in front of Alf. 'Bill was a typical Yorkshireman and his attitude did not always go down too well with Alf. I don't mean in a nasty way but they would not see eye to eye,' says former inside-forward Denis Uphill. In the same vein, Ron Reynolds told his biographer, Dave Bowler, that he could remember > some absolutely enormous blazing rows between Alf Ramsey and Bill Nicholson, which was odd really because both didn't have much to say most of the time – unless it was to have an argument. Alf was terrible like that – he didn't suffer what he saw to be fools gladly and he would quickly chew you out if he disagreed with you – but Bill could give as good as he got. Typically dour Yorkshireman, very blunt. He got fed up that Alf would cut him out of the game, he'd bypass him and go straight on to the forwards, he'd race upfield and just expect Bill to slot in behind him. Bill only got one England cap where Alf got dozens and I think Bill sometimes thought that he was winning them for Alf and not getting himself noticed. One journalist who came to know Alf in the early fifties was the writer Ralph T. Finn, who covered games at White Hart Lane and wrote two books about Spurs. A man of monumental self-importance, he was inclined to exaggerate his closeness to Alf. Nevertheless, having watched Alf in action and talked to him at Spurs, Finn left this compelling portrait in 1966, based on his own experiences of more than a decade earlier: > Our Alf was a student of the game. He didn't just play it: he lived it. He had playing principles and was prepared to abide by them. There was his own superb confidence in his own ability, his own judgement, his own decisions. He seldom believed, even then, that he could misread a playing situation. He had superb positional sense fostered, I would suppose, by the fact that his superior mind could read the ones of most of the players who opposed him. I'm not saying he was or is brainy. Or intellectual. Or even cultured. But there was a certain shrewdness, a certain air of assurance, a certain quiet faith in his own words that lifted him out of the rut of people who say things without conviction or say them expecting to be contradicted. Alf never looked for or expected contradiction. His own team-mates called him The General. He skippered them off the field as well as on. He was with them but never really of them. Aloof is the word for it. He was, and still is, aloof. It is not, as I remember, a quality he has affected, though he might well have developed it. But he was always apart from the herd as if he'd been born on a better side of the bed than they. Let me not give you the impression he was disdainful or class-conscious or arrogant. Proud, yes; but arrogant, no. In another passage Finn recalled that he often gave lifts to Alf and other players from Tottenham: > I remember having Alf and his wife and about half a dozen others in my car one evening. So full was it that she sat on his lap. I used to have three-cornered chats with Arthur Rowe and Alf Ramsey when I travelled to away matches with them. Alf was always intelligent. A deep thinker. A man with ideas of his own. Despite this image of aloofness, many of the younger players at Spurs have affectionate memories of a kinder side of Alf. Ron Henry, who later played for England under Alf's management, told me: > I joined Spurs in 1954. I can remember going into the dressing-room on my first morning and old Cecil Poyton, the trainer, said to me, 'Use that peg there, Ron, will you?' > > 'Well who's next to me?' > > 'Alf Ramsey.' > > I could have fallen through the floor, because I'd been supporting Tottenham since I was nine years old. But once I'd met him, I got on well with him. He used to take me aside and give me little pieces of information on what to do. Some pros can be very hard on young players but it was not like that at Spurs. He was a quiet man but when we were going to away games, he would come up to me on the bus and give me advice. 'Son, if you behave yourself, and keep going as you are, you'll be a good player. But you've got to get experience first.' > > He was a good bloke. I always thought he would make a good manager. He had something special about him. He loved football. That's all he wanted to talk about. He seemed to have no interest in anything else. But he never showed off. He would come into the dressing-room, have his shower, get dressed, get in his car. He was a gentleman through and through. But, away from football, he was very shy. He did not like speaking in front of strangers. He would almost seem to start blushing then. He had his own little circle and that was it. A conversation with him would be, 'Yes, yes, now off you go.' Like Ron Henry, Terry Dyson has a similar recollection of Alf's decency, this time manifested by concern over playing gear: > I joined Spurs just as Alf was coming to the end. I remember he was injured one time and I was changing for the game, trying to get my socks on. In those days, the white of the Spurs sock was almost as long as the blue. 'Bloody hell, these are a bit long,' I thought to myself, because I couldn't get the white bit turned down properly. Then Alf came over with a pair of tie-ups, and did it for me, so the socks looked at lot neater. His reputation was very big in the club – and I could see why. Ed Speight was another who joined Spurs in 1954: > We were going to Cheshunt for training on my first day and Arthur Rowe tells me, 'Go and sit over there,' gesturing half-way down the coach. So I go down and this guy gets up, 'How do you do, my name is Alf Ramsey.' > > I am a quivering mass. I am meeting God. I sit down beside him. > > 'And where do you come from?' > > 'Dagenham." > > 'Oh, that's good.' > > I thought afterwards, Arthur Rowe must have deliberately put me beside him. But Alf did not say anything about Dagenham, even at that first meeting. He lived in Barking then. Syd McClellan, another Dagenham lad, and myself would take the trolleybus from Dagenham Heathway to Barking and then Alf would give us a lift to Tottenham in his Ford Anglia. He was always well-dressed and had this presence about him. He looked a little Mediterranean in appearance but he never talked about his background, not in the car or the coach or at the training ground. I would not say Alf did not speak, for that would be wrong. But he was always more likely to react to a conversation than instigate it. He was always on guard, always. He had this mask and would never reveal much. If Alf made a comment, everyone listened because he had something to say. > > I remember one of the few times I ever saw Alf lead the conversation. We were at lunch after training and Alf had been at some reception the night before. > > 'Yesterday I met the most beautiful woman in the world.' > > Everyone stopped. If that had come from one of the younger players, we would not have thought much of it. But from Alf, it was different. He was talking about the actress Ava Gardner. Denis Uphill shared a cabin with Alf on a Spurs trip to Canada in 1954: > Alf was officially my minder, that's what Arthur Rowe said. Unlike a lot of the rest of passengers, Alf and I did not get seasick on the crossing of the Atlantic. I remember one time we were training on deck when Alf and I got a call to go back to our cabin, because water was coming into it. What had happened was that Les Medley, who was in the cabin next to ours, had left the porthole window open during a rough patch and the sea came straight in, flooding out the place. There was some cursin' then. Alf was all right to share with, but he was ever so inward. Not nasty. You never heard him say a bad word about anyone but if the conversation wasn't about football he would just switch off. He did read the papers a bit; he liked the _Express,_ especially the crossword puzzles. Canada was terrific, very different to post-war Britain, much more open. We travelled across the country by train and usually stayed in these big log cabins. If we stopped off somewhere to have a drink, Alf would usually just have a quiet one, nothing serious. Despite acquiring the captaincy in 1954 it was obvious that Alf's playing career was drawing to a close. Arthur Rowe was such a supporter of Alf that he wanted him to remain at the club in a coaching role, though Bill Nicholson also had eyes on such a post and had more direct experience, having served as the coach of the Cambridge University football team. This was another reason why Alf and Bill clashed so bitterly towards the mid-fifties, said Ron Reynolds: 'There was a very strong rivalry because I think they both had come to the conclusion that they were going to stay in the game after they'd finished playing and I think they both had designs on Tottenham.' The problem for Alf was that Arthur Rowe's influence at the club was on the wane. An emotional, intense man, he felt so keenly about the decline in the club's performances that he was plagued by ill-health throughout the 1954–55 season. The nadir was reached in February when Spurs, looking in danger of relegation, were knocked out of the FA Cup by York City from the Third Division North. The glory days of push- and-run were definitely over, and Rowe was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Jimmy Anderson, Rowe's long-serving deputy, took over as manager on a temporary basis during Rowe's sick leave. Anderson, who had never been a top-class professional, had little of Rowe's tactical awareness – or his admiration for Alf. Anderson preferred a more robust, traditional approach to defence than Alf's sophistication. 'He was no great lover of Alf,' says Eddie Baily. A further blow to Alf's hopes of staying at Tottenham occurred when Danny Blanchflower was signed from Aston Villa in December 1954 for £30,000, to replace the ageing Bill Nicholson. The move made Blanchflower, the Belfast-born midfielder, the most expensive wing-half in English soccer history. Ed Speight says: > I'll always remember being in the back of car, driven by Alf. Syd McClellan was in the passenger seat. We were driving to Tottenham. Alf was silent for a while then he said, 'I don't know what's going to happen because I think I'm finished.' > > 'What do you mean, Alf?' > > 'They're about to sign Blanchflower.' On the face of it, Blanchflower and Ramsey should have made a richly creative duo, for both were strong personalities with fresh ideas about the way the game should be played. Like Alf, Blanchflower made up for his lack of speed with tremendous vision. Over the coming years he was to prove one of the most adventurous figures in British football as he captained Spurs to the first League and Cup Double of the twentieth century in 1961. But on the field, the partnership could never have worked, even if Alf had been at his peak. Unlike Bill Nicholson, who provided defensive cover when Alf advanced up the field, Blanchflower was an attacking player on the right himself. He would have refused to play the Nicholson role, falling back while Alf charged past him. Off the field, with all the insecurities and sensitivities bred of his background, Alf disliked yielding his position as Tottenham's primary strategist. Natural human pride left The General feeling jealous towards this loquacious Ulsterman. 'Alf and Danny were never going to get on,' said Ted Ditchburn. 'Danny was a great guy, you could not help but like him. And he used to talk a good game as well, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. But Alf could not put up with another bloke talking tactics.' Eddie Baily remembers an occasion at a hotel in Manchester when Alf's dislike of Blanchflower became evident: > Danny was a type of player like Alf, he wanted to influence what was going on around him. Danny was talking to Alf and me for a while, and then went off. Immediately Alf said to me, 'Who does he think he is?' > > 'He's exactly the same as you. That's the way you used to carry on,' I replied. > > Alf and Danny were never going to hit it off because their personalities were too much the same. As a manager, Alf was no warmer towards Blanchflower, who went into journalism at the end his playing career. When Blanchflower, working for the _Sunday Express,_ asked Alf for an interview just after he had taken over the England job in 1963, Alf told him, 'I don't give private interviews', which was untrue, as he spoke frequently to the likes of Ken Jones and Brian James. Writing about this rebuff, Blanchflower noted in his _Express_ column, 'Alf Ramsey has always seemed a distant man to me, slightly withdrawn and easy to misunderstand.' Later, during the World Cup of 1966, Blanchflower was trenchant in his criticisms of Alf's England, even after victory. 'In intention England were as defensive as any team in the tournament. Persistence and stamina were the qualities that carried the team through. England endured.' His musings against Ramsey prompted outrage from the public. 'Traitor, go back to Germany or Northern Ireland,' one England supporter told him. Frank Magee of the _Mirror_ called Blanchflower 'a mouth on two legs'. Alf himself once rounded on Blanchflower at a Football Writers' Association dinner: 'You're a bloody liar. What gives you the right to say what you like?' Rowe's illness and Blanchflower's arrival spelt the end for Ramsey. From the turn of the year, now aged 35, his hold in the Tottenham side was weaker than ever. In March 1955 he was injured at Preston and missed a couple of games. When he returned to the side in late April in the game against Leicester at Filbert Street, he suffered 'a terrible roasting at the hands of a winger named Derek Hogg,' to use his own words. He was dropped for the remainder of the 1954–55 season. At its close, with Spurs again finishing in 16th place, Rowe retired permanently from White Hart Lane on the grounds of ill-health, though he was later to enjoy managerial success at West Brom and Crystal Palace. Jimmy Anderson now took over full-time, and immediately made his feelings about Alf clear. His first act was to install Bill Nicholson as his coach. Then, when Spurs went on an end-of-season tour of Hungary, Alf, still nominally captain of the club, was left out of the party without any warning. Whatever the mixed feelings towards Alf, there was shock at the way the senior professional had been treated. 'It was a bitter blow for Alf, and all the players agreed it was a rough trick to play on him, turfing him out like that,' said Ron Reynolds. Alf recognized that he was finished at Tottenham. If he wanted to continue in football, he would have to look elsewhere. 'I was 35-years-old and obviously concerned about my future. I really didn't know what was going to happen to me. I knew my days as a player were numbered, and there was only one way things could go for me in this respect – downhill,' Alf wrote in 1970. During the summer of 1955, he undertook a coaching job in Southern Rhodesia, bringing Vickie and Tanaya with him to Africa. When he returned, still nominally on Tottenham's books, he was informed by Jimmy Anderson that Great Yarmouth wanted him as their player-manager. Alf wrote to the club to say he was 'flattered by the offer' but had to turn it down because 'I want to stay in League football'. Fortunately for Alf, another East Anglian club were also interested in him. Ipswich Town FC were looking for a new manager to replace the present 67-year-old incumbent Scott Duncan, who had decided, after almost 18 years in the job, to concentrate on his duties as secretary. One of Ipswich's directors, Ned Shaw, the owner of a local greyhound stadium, knew the Ramsey family through his dog-track connections, so he was aware that Alf was seeking a new position. Ipswich were always a club for following correct procedures, so the Chairman Alastair Cobbold approached Spurs in July for permission to speak to Alf. Only too keen to offload Ramsey, Jimmy Anderson agreed immediately. 'Ramsey has always impressed me as a fine type and just the man for us,' announced Cobbold, explaining why he wanted Ramsey. On his return from Africa, Alf met the chairman and his nephew John Cobbold at the Great Eastern Hotel in Liverpool Street. The meeting went well, with Alf impressed by the sense of purpose that the Cobbolds demonstrated. The only sticking point was over Alf's role. 'They wanted me as player-manager but I told them I would only concentrate on one job. As far as I was concerned, it would be impossible to play with the players I would be coaching,' said Alf later. This issue settled, it was announced to the press on 9 August 1955 that Alf would be the new manager of Ipswich Town. John Cobbold, who soon succeeded his uncle as club chairman, once said, 'Persuading Alf Ramsey to come to Ipswich was one of the more successful things I have done in my life.' It was a typical English upper-class understatement. But at the time of Alf's appointment, it might have seemed that the Suffolk club was taking a risk with a complete novice, for Alf had no managerial experience whatsoever nor any coaching qualifications. In fact, according to Walter Winterbottom, Alf had deliberately avoided trying to acquire an FA badge, despite some impressive work coaching schoolboys. 'Alf didn't want to go through the coaching scheme. There were a lot of players who didn't want to be embarrassed by taking examinations and tests, which was natural – they felt they were First Division players, why should they be examined? It was an idea that filled them with horror. Alf wasn't too keen on that, but he was a student of the game.' The Board had based their decision purely on Alf's reputation as a high-class, intelligent player, yet football is littered with examples of such stars failing disastrously in management. Not one of Alf's England colleagues during the 1950 World Cup became successful bosses; Billy Wright, for instance, sunk into alcoholism after a woeful spell in charge of Arsenal, while Stanley Matthews was sacked from Port Vale over making irregular payments to young players. On the other hand, Ipswich hardly had a glittering pedigree or status. They had only been in the League since 1938, having gone professional just two years earlier. Most of these years had been spent in the Third Division South. In 1954, they had been promoted to the second, but after just one season were immediately relegated again, a few months before Alf joined. 'I was surprised when he went to Ipswich because at the time they were nothing really and they didn't seem to have much potential,' said his Spurs team-mate George Robb. Nor could the club claim any strong footballing tradition. Ipswich in the mid-fifties was a rural town of 100,000 inhabitants, far more isolated than it is today. Its countrified nature was not unlike Dagenham in the 1920s. There was literally a cattle market on the way to Portman Road, and sometimes a cow would stray from the rest of herd, though Alf would never allow such an event to upset his equilibrium, as his Ipswich secretary Pat Godbold recalls: 'Occasionally on market day a cow would come into the ground. But if Alf saw one, he would merely go to the trainer, Charlie Cowie, and say, "Charlie, there's a cow on the pitch. Please deal with it." He never got cross or excited.' The rusticity of the town was reflected in the primitive facilities of Portman Road. Though Ipswich had one of the finest, smoothest pitches in the country, tended by the devoted groundsman Freddie Blake, this horticultural excellence was not matched elsewhere. The stands and terracing were poor, the dressing-rooms were primitive, and the club offices, including the manager's, were little more than wooden sheds. Andy Nelson, who became captain during Alf's reign, recalls: 'Ipswich was a lovely old town then. It was almost like a village, with one big high street. I had never been there before and I must admit I was a bit shocked at the state of the club when I joined in 1959. Tiny little wooden stands, sleepers everywhere, including behind the goal. It was not the most attractive place in the world. The dressing-rooms were terrible. The wind came howling through.' Ray Crawford, the centre-forward of the Ramsey era, has this memory: 'The actual playing surface was perfect. There was a good stand on one side and the other was like a shack. The dressing-rooms were a total joke. They were like an old run-down cricket pavilion with bare boards on the floor. You had to be careful when you stepped out of the bath otherwise you were liable to get splinters in your feet. We often had to put our clothes over the windows, otherwise the spectators could look in. Because we stood on the benches to change, avoiding the floorboards, they could have seen our backsides.' Pat Godbold, who joined Ipswich as a secretary in 1954 and, more than half a century later still works there, says that the offices were just as bad. 'When I was here with Alf, there were just four of us on the office staff. Today there are about 140. Our office then had actually been a Nissan hut during the war. It was partitioned off into five sections, with coconut matting on the floor. The roof leaked so we had to put out saucepans to catch the drips.' Even the medical facilities were inadequate, recalls Ted Phillips. 'When I wrecked my knee in one practice match and had to go to hospital, the transport was Alf's car. His old Ford Anglia was the ambulance.' Ipswich might have had run-down facilities, but it had one of the grandest boards in the League, dominated by the Cobbold family who had made their money in brewing. Lady Blanche Cobbold, widow of Lieutenant-Colonel Cobbold – who, as club chairman had used his influence to secure League status in 1938 and then was killed by a German flying bomb during the war – was the sister-in-law of Harold Macmillan, the senior Tory politician. In 1957, the year that Macmillan succeeded Anthony Eden as British Prime Minister, John Cobbold, one of the sons of Lady Blanche, took the place of his uncle Alastair as chairman of the board. Aged just 29, he was by far the youngest chairman in the League. He was also one of the most eccentric – and tragic. A failed Conservative politician who had twice been beaten in the contest for the Ipswich seat by Dingle Foot, brother of Michael, Cobbold cut a bizarre figure around Portman Road, dressed in tennis shoes and a shabby old fur coat, bound up with tape and full of miniatures. His high-spirited enthusiasm often descended into tiresome immaturity, his fondness for drink into chronic alcoholism, his sense of the absurd into foul-mouthed obscenities. Regularly banned from driving because of his drink problem, he often had to hire a chauffeur to ferry him round in his Rolls-Royce. He adored his role as Ipswich chairman but he knew almost nothing about football. One time at Leicester during the Bobby Robson era, Ipswich were losing 2–0 when Cobbold turned to Robson. 'Well done, what magic words have you been saying to the lads?' Robson was puzzled for a moment. Then the truth dawned. 'Mr John, Leicester are in blue. We're in our away strip.' Stories of outlandish behaviour abounded. 'He was the one who would always start the bread-roll fights in restaurant cars. He always had a glass of Scotch in his hand,' says the Ipswich midfielder John Compton. During a visit to Bloomfield Road, he hired a monkey from a local entertainer and introduced him to the Blackpool board as one of Ipswich's new directors. According to Robson, Cobbold was once due to make a speech at a football dinner in a London hotel. As usual, he had been imbibing heavily throughout the day: 'Eventually it was his turn but when he stood up, he swayed, closed his eyes and sank gracefully to the floor. He disappeared under the table and never said a word. He was carried out to a standing ovation.' The journalist Tony Garnett recalls a trip to Stoke, when the Ipswich team were installed in the North Stafford hotel: > Johnny was in such a state that he was just being frivolous, throwing bread rolls at other diners. The Head Waiter comes in and says, 'Mr John, there's a call for you,' which of course there wasn't. So Johnny crawls out on all fours, right across the foyer and into the lounge on the other side, where he starts trying to climb up the curtains. At times, John Cobbold could be downright vulgar. Bobby Robson was once in the Gents with him at the Great Eastern Hotel when he noticed that Cobbold did not wash his hands: 'Mr John, where I was brought up we were taught to wash our hands after using the toilet.' 'Bobby, where we were brought up, we were taught not to piss on our hands in the first place.' In keeping with his aristocratic status, Cobbold had a large elegant home at Kirton near Felixstowe, and on the 2000 acres of land he kept a family of donkeys as pets. Once when Ipswich were anxious to sign a Portsmouth star, Cobbold had the player and his wife to tea at Kirton, thinking that the impressive surroundings would help to secure the deal. But as the couple sat down, Mr John's wicked eye noticed his pets on the lawn. 'You don't fuck donkeys, do you?' he said nonchalantly to the outraged player, who subsequently refused to sign for Ipswich. When Ipswich won the title under Alf, a _Daily Mirror_ reporter said to Cobbold, 'I suppose it's been one long season of wine, women and song for Ipswich?' to which the Chairman replied, 'I don't remember much singing.' But with Cobbold there would not have been many women either, for he was a lifelong bachelor and almost certainly a homosexual. At the time, homosexuality was not only a social taboo but a criminal offence; in November 1958, just a year after John Cobbold became Ipswich chairman, the Tory foreign minister Ian Harvey had to resign after being caught in the bushes with a guardsman. It was particularly forbidden in the masculine, traditionalist world of football, so Cobbold sought an outlet for his sexual interests elsewhere. 'John Cobbold was a strange character. There was no question that he was homosexual, but he used to go to America for his recreation,' says Tony Garnett. Ted Phillips told me that the players knew of his inclinations: 'We were all aware that he was a bit the other way.' Though he liked being with his team, he was too aware of his position to proposition any of them. But his troubled sexual nature must have contributed to his alcoholism and loneliness. 'When he was with his friends and drinking, everything was all right. But when it was time to go home, he was a very sad man,' believes Brian Scovell, the distinguished journalist who has written a book about the Cobbold family. His craving for company was reflected by an incident when he was having a drink in Portman Road with a reporter, who explained, after several large gins, that he had to leave. 'So soon. Where are you off to?' said Cobbold. 'Well, to be honest, I have to get up to London because I'm flying to Paris tonight. Got to cover a European game tomorrow.' 'Really? I'll join you.' Despite his sexual orientation, the Ipswich players of Ramsey's time adored Mr John for his openness, generosity and humour. Ray Crawford says: > He was a great chairman. He was about the same age as me. When we were away, he used to come round to our hotel for a drink. He loved company, loved sitting up late having a drink. He would just say to the landlord of wherever we were, 'Oh just send me the bill', and someone from the Cobbold firm would sort it out. But he didn't talk football much. 'Go and sit with Alf if you want to talk about football,' he would say. John Cobbold had a powerful sense of respect for Alf, especially when Alf started to prove his qualities as a manager. 'He is a dedicated professional in everything he does,' Cobbold once told the BBC. Yet there is a suspicion that Cobbold, always looking for some puerile amusement, found the studious Alf something of a bore, as Andy Nelson, captain of Ipswich during the golden era, remembers; > John was a lovely man. He loved Alf to death, though he would sometimes take the mickey out of him behind his back. When we were away, John would come up to me with, say £20, and say, 'Don't let Alf see this but get the lads a drink.' Once we were on tour in Denmark and we were sitting around the dining room of our hotel. John came in and whispered to me, 'Where are you off to tonight? Please don't leave me with Alf.' In his turn, Alf would grow weary of Cobbold's antics, especially when they detracted from the focus of the team. A restrained man himself, he disliked Cobbold's encouragement of heavy drinking. Tony Garnett recalls being in the boardroom at Derby County with Alf, John Cobbold and Harry Storer, the Derby manager: > Harry has a bottle of gin in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. He's pouring out Johnny's stuff which is going straight down his throat and Alf's stuff which is going straight into a nearby vase of flowers. Alf didn't want to go back and embarrass himself in front of his players. One of Cobbold's tricks was to pass around the miniatures from his coat, something that infuriated Alf. Ted Phillips has this memory: > Alf didn't like Mr John's attitude. The only time I have heard Alf really swear was when we were on a train coming back from Plymouth. Mr John called us into his compartment and was dishing out the Scotch for the lads. Suddenly Alf burst in. His language was pretty ripe. He told us all to leave, then told Mr John to 'Fuck off.' That was about all Mr John would have understood in his state. Tony Garnett recalls, 'The Chairman would sit next to Alf at matches and would sometimes be a bit silly. Alf used to bollock Johnny Cobbold for interrupting him. "Listen, I'm trying to concentrate, Mr John," he'd say.' John Cobbold might not have known much about football or personal self-discipline. But he gave successive managers his unequivocal backing. Unlike most other clubs, the Ipswich board were not in the habit of threatening their manager with the sack, even when results were poor. As the saying went at the club, 'The manager's name is not chalked on a board with a wet sponge attached.' From Scott Duncan through to Bobby Robson, managers were allowed the crucial ingredient of time in which to build their teams. Because of this attachment to stability, it was joked that the only moment that the Ipswich directors ever recognized a crisis was when the boardroom was short of good sherry. Stability was also one of Alf's greatest virtues. Unlike so many managers, who come into a club and want to sweep out every vestige of the previous regime, Alf remained loyal to those who had served under Scott Duncan, such as the two trainers Jimmy Forsyth and Charlie Cowie. His extreme modesty and dislike of intimacy meant that he never surrounded himself with a band of acolytes, following him from post to post. Essentially a conservative, he preferred improvement to revolution when it came to personnel, trying to work with the raw materials that he had been given. But he was not too impressed with the material he had to work with on his arrival. The board had organized for him a practice between two teams made up of members of the playing staff. Alf, who went to watch with Vickie, was shocked at the low standards: > I had no plan for Ipswich when I went there. In fact the first thing I had to do was to forget my set ideas on how football ought to be played. My experience had been in the First Division. I soon found that what I faced at Ipswich was very different. In fact the club put on a trial match for me to see what talent I had available. At half-time my wife turned to me and said, 'Let's go home.' The trial, by comparison with what we had been used to, was as bad as that. Matters hardly improved a fortnight later, when Ipswich had their first game of the 1955–56 season and lost 0–2 at home to Torquay, 'as poor a performance as one can recollect at Portman Road,' said the _East Anglian Daily Times._ But Alf still refused to panic. 'The team certainly cannot play any worse than they did on Saturday, but I simply must give them a fair crack of the whip,' he told the _EADT_ reporter. It was a tough baptism, as Ipswich only gained four points from their first three games. But soon the influence of Alf was felt. He was not only a superb judge of technique and of tactics, but he also knew how to bring the best out of any player with potential. Almost as soon as he stepped into Portman Road, the squad knew they were dealing with a naturally gifted manager. Wilf Grant, who had been at Southampton with Alf and was one of the Ipswich staff when Alf arrived, had been asked by Scott Duncan what Alf would be like when he took over his appointment. 'He'll be good, but he will be the boss.' Grant later said of Alf: > We were not much of a side when he took over but he gave us a chance. One thing immediately impressed me: we trained hard, tried hard and were still thrashed at home to Torquay. We expected wholesale changes in the team and a dressing down. But Alf merely analysed the faults and kept the same team for the next match. That started us on a run of success. The big Welsh left-half John Elsworthy, who had been at Ipswich since 1949, recalled that: > Things immediately began to change under Alf. He introduced training drills for free-kicks and throw-ins. We had done nothing like that before. It was great. Everything Alf worked on had a purpose. From the moment he arrived I knew he was someone special. Scott Duncan was a mean manager. He was really more of an administrator. From the first morning Alf was out in his tracksuit. He would join in the training. We got playing a lot of five-a-side, using three or even just two-touch rules, which was terribly difficult. If the ball came to you from a height, you had to chest it down and hit it immediately. Three-touch was better, because you could chest, trap and then play it. But it was all great practice. Alf laid tremendous emphasis on passing. We all realized immediately how good he was as an organizer. He taught us simple lessons, like he told us, 'Keep possession. Get them chasing you. Don't go chasing them.' All he asked you to do was the easy thing well. So he encouraged us to hit the ball with the inside of the foot; that way you can either slice it or pull it. He got us passing like that. Before him, we had just gone through our own routines. We were a struggling side when he came, but he quickly pulled us together. He was amazing. When I first saw what he was going to do, I really looked forward to training and playing. By far Alf's most significant tactical move, which took place in January 1956, was his decision to convert the Scots-born Jimmy Leadbetter from an inside-forward to a left-winger. Leadbetter, who had previously been with Chelsea and Brighton, was languishing in the reserves when Alf arrived, but the new manager, with his instinctive recognition of talent, saw how Jimmy could be properly utilized. As with Alf, what Jimmy lacked in pace, he made up with the phenomenal accuracy of his passing – 'he could land a ball in a bucket from 60 yards,' says the journalist Brian James. And Alf felt that Leadbetter's usage of the ball from the deep could tear apart defences, just as Alf had done in the glory days of push-and-run. Today Jimmy recalls how Alf broached the change with him: > I was out training and Alf came over and asked how I fancied playing outside-left. I told him that I hadn't played in that position since school. And then I said: > > 'You know I'm not fast Alf.' > > 'Yes, but you know what to do with the ball.' > > 'Oh aye, I love passing the ball.' > > Alf had sprung all this on me, but he was clever that way. He got me thinking. He put into my mind the idea of going to outside-left. And not being so fast, compared to other boys, did not bother me. It's what you do with the ball, not your pace, that's important. All the time, Alf was letting me do the talking. > > 'How would you go about it?' he asked. And so we discussed how I did not need to beat the full-back and get to the byline. Instead I could hit the ball into the space in front of the forwards. It was great man-management by Alf. One of the secrets of his success was that he never asked a player to do what the player didn't want. He understood professionals completely. He was a deep thinker about football. He could recall incidents from matches weeks earlier and would say, 'You remember that, Jimmy?' And I could not even remember last week's game. Alf's skilful leadership began to bear fruit as Ipswich stormed up the table. Surprisingly, in contrast to his later years with England, Alf's first managerial side was noted for its flair rather than its solidity, as John Eastwood and Tony Moyse remarked in their official history of Ipswich: 'They were without doubt the classiest side in the division, and their natural attacking tendencies were shown by the fact that they scored four or more goals on no less than nine occasions.' But Alf did shore up the defence with the purchase at Easter 1956 of the new goalkeeper, Roy Bailey, the father of Manchester United and England keeper Gary Bailey. At a time when the players cycled to the ground, the flamboyant Bailey raised some eyebrows when he arrived at Portman Road in a sleek Ford Prefect, complete with personalized number plates. Pat Godbold, Alf's secretary, explains: 'Roy was the first player to have his own car, as Scott Duncan had not allowed it. But this rule had nothing to do with Alf, so he didn't have a problem with Roy's car.' Alf's first season was such a success that the club missed promotion from the Third Division South by just two points, having been cruelly hit by injuries; at one stage towards the end of the 1955–56 season, six players were in plaster. As a result of this achievement, Alf looked forward to strengthening his position. Never someone who relished interference, Alf had grown frustrated with Scott Duncan who was still the club secretary despite his advanced years. Described by one former Ipswich player Ken Malcolm as 'a miserable little Scot', Duncan could not relinquish the reins of his old job and was on the ground every day. But when Charlton Athletic tried to lure Alf to The Valley as their new manager, following the resignation of Jimmy Seed, the Ipswich board realized how valuable Alf was for the future of the club. Alf turned down the Charlton offer, saying characteristically that he had to honour his Ipswich contract. But the board at Portman Road also decided that Duncan would have to interpret his job description in a less expansive way. Two years later, in 1958, Duncan finally retired, going home to his native Scotland. Alf assumed the role of secretary–manager, giving him the total control he had always sought since he first arrived at Ipswich. 'He is a man who likes to have everything at his fingertips,' John Cobbold said when Alf took over the secretaryship in addition to management. Apart from enhancing his authority, Alf also strengthened his squad in the close season of 1956. In the position of right-back he signed Larry Carberry, an ex-sheet-metal worker who had just completed two years National Service in the King's Regiment. And up front, he brought back Ted Phillips from loan with the Suffolk non-League club of Stowmarket. Phillips, a tearaway country youth who made his living as a forester, had been on Ipswich's books but, before Alf's arrival, had done nothing to persuade the club to retain him. Once more, Alf's judgement proved shrewder than others. Phillips turned out to be a devastating striker, one with an even more ferocious long-range shot than Bobby Charlton's, and he immediately justified Alf's decision by scoring a record-breaking 41 goals in his debut season at the club. Phillips was impressed by Alf from their very first meeting: > He was a bit shy but I remember, after the first speech I heard him make, I thought to myself, 'We've got a good bloke here.' He really sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. I felt he was someone special. He was brilliant at giving instructions. Like if we had been short of a player on a Saturday, Alf could just go out to a bloke in the street and have a chat with him, explaining exactly what he wanted. And that bloke could play well, just on the basis of what Alf said. He always wore a tracksuit and he used to play a lot in practice matches. He was still a good player, with two good feet. He used to order the first-team squad onto the pitch to practice manoeuvres. We would often be out there for two hours doing them. Remarkably, every time we practised one of Alf's tactics, we seemed to score on a Saturday. Phillips' awesome striking was to be a crucial ingredient in Ipswich's improvement in the 1956–57 season. 'Big Ted, he could hit a ball – and that was with the big old heavy thing. I wonder what he'd have done with the balloon they play with today,' says Jimmy Leadbetter. 'He often had no idea where it was going, he just hit and hoped. But he scored some cracking goals, many of them from a distance.' Journalist Tony Garnett gives this indication of the power of Phillips: > Ted had his simple way of playing, which was to hit the ball bloody hard. I remember once being on the ground when Ted was training. I said to him, 'Bet you I can save some of your shots.' It was a stupid thing to say really. So Ted starts firing these bullets at me when suddenly a window opens in Alf's office and Alf pokes his head out, 'Stop that immediately, Ted, you'll kill him.' Tony Garnett believes that Ted could also have been a first-class cricketer, for he was a good enough fast bowler to have led the attack for Suffolk. 'He was a very quick bowler, one of the quickest around at the time. His temperament might have let him down. He once opening the bowling for Suffolk, and for the first ball of the day he sent down an apple, a nice, red, shiny apple. He got reported to Lord's for that. Furthermore, as Ted himself testifies, 'Alf disagreed with the idea of my becoming a professional cricketer. He said that I might get injured.' Ipswich, playing in new continental-style V-necked shirts, made a poor start to the 1956–57 season and after seven games were bottom of the table. In fact, so dismal was their form that there was even speculation that Alf might be sacked. As he later admitted: 'Things were very bad indeed. I became unsettled and unhappy. But more important I became infuriated because one can only do one's best and I felt I was doing my best without the luck that is necessary to get results.' Beneath his passive exterior, Alf was a highly sensitive man and he was so worried about the rumours against him that he decided to have a confidential word with the chairman Alistair Cobbold. Cobbold proved more sagacious than his frivolous nephew might have been: > Alastair Cobbold's remarks I have never forgotten. He told me, 'Well, I thought you were a little braver than that, that you knew you had to grow an extra skin.' You must expect setbacks in life and you must grow these skins to protect yourself from criticism and rumours that are not true. Alf tried to do just that – and the media were to feel the consequences for the next two decades. Some journalists might have said that Alf did not just grow an extra skin but created his own impenetrable suit of armour, such was his contempt for the press. In fact, the writer Ralph Finn said that he saw a dramatic change in Alf's attitude once he became manager of Ipswich. In one anguished passage, Finn wrote that Alf had developed > the self-satisfied preening of the introverted cat rather than the extroverted exhibitionism of the prancing dog...I am sorry to say that Alf has ceased to know me. When he was manager of Ipswich I first noticed that his normal aloofness had grown even more distant...Alf Ramsey and his aloofness make me feel inferior. Of course I hate being made to feel this way. Everybody does. I hate the thought that this man can make me feel like a grubby little boy. I resent it. Alf, however, always remained sensitive, as Walter Winterbottom recalled: 'He found it difficult to take any kind of personal remark. I remember some official of the Sports Council made a fairly inoffensive point about the England team, when Alf was manager, as a conversation opener at a dinner and Alf was upset and taut for the rest of the evening.' The day of Alf's meeting with the Chairman, Ipswich won 2–1 at Plymouth. It was to be the turning point in their season. Once the team found their stride in the autumn, they were unstoppable, racking up a series of heavy victories. Torquay were beaten 6–0, Newport 5–0 and Shrewsbury 5–1. Alf's guidance was crucial in inspiring the drive to the top of the table, as Ken Malcolm, one of the full-backs, remembers: > Alf was a great man, with great tactical sense. If you played on Saturday and maybe made a couple of mistakes, then on Monday you might be running round the track and Alf would creep up to you and whisper, 'We'll soon get that out of you.' He was very quiet. He never shouted or swore at us. I remember once we were on the training ground and Alf said to me: > > 'You're timing your jumps wrongly for heading.' > > 'OK, Alf.' > > 'Listen, I'll pump some balls up to you. Take your time and knock them back to the keeper or into touch.' > > So Alf's hitting all these balls to me, encouraging me all the time, getting me to clear them properly. It was hard work with the big old leather ball, but it was great practice, really improved my heading. On the last day of the season, Ipswich had to win at Alf's old ground of The Dell in order to be sure of promotion and the Third Division South championship, provided that Torquay, their main rivals, did not win at Crystal Palace. Ipswich duly beat Southampton 2–0, but then had to wait for the result from Palace, where the game had kicked off 45 minutes later. 'It was terrible,' remembered Jimmy Leadbetter. 'We had all these rumours coming through that Torquay had won. Then we found out it was a draw. We went up on goal average. Coming home, getting near Ipswich, the train driver was pulling the whistle all the way, and we had a great reception.' 3,000 supporters had gathered at the station to welcome the team. Such was the density and enthusiasm of the crowd that Alf had to be escorted by the police from the train onto the team coach. There followed a party organized, inevitably, by John Cobbold, who had taken over from his uncle. For once, Alf dropped his guard and joined in the drink-fuelled event. With some relish, John Cobbold later told Bryon Butler of the BBC: > Alf is not the dour inaccessible man he sometimes likes to make out. He can be the greatest fun at a party. When we won the Third Division Championship at Southampton, we obviously thought we'd better have a little celebration. I know Alf does not like this story but I am going to tell it. At one moment he was under the table, singing, 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'. Ipswich's only previous foray into the Second Division had ended in immediate relegation. Alf Ramsey was determined that this would not happen on his watch. 'We are at the moment a small club, but we have big ideas,' he told the _Daily Mail_ in August 1957. Just how big they were would soon become apparent. # [SIX _Portman Road_](004-toc.html#ch6) Ramsey's first two seasons in management had ended in triumph. The next three were to be a time of consolidation rather than glory, as Ipswich hovered around the middle of the Second Division table. It was a solid but hardly dazzling achievement, and towards the end of the fifties attendances at Portman Road actually began to fall as the club failed to make the rapid progress that the fans had hoped for, with gates actually sinking by 4,000 to an average of 14,000 between 1957 and _1960,_ despite the building of a new stand. One major problem for Alf was that his limited resources meant that there was little cover for injuries. Thus when Ted Phillips was forced to miss most of the 1957–58 season with a cartilage problem, Ipswich suffered a worrying shortage of goals. Moreover, several of his signings during this period, such as Len Garrett from Arsenal and Jimmy Belcher from Crystal Palace, turned out to be disappointing. Jimmy Leadbetter admits that Ipswich initially found it tough in the Second Division: 'You get some very good players but you also get hacked a bit more, kicked up in the air and no questions asked! It took us some time to adjust.' But, given Ipswich's previous record, it would be wrong to exaggerate the sense of failure. In none of the first three seasons after their promotion did they look like being relegated, and they often had significant results, such as defeating both Liverpool and West Ham in their first meetings with these renowned names. And they also enjoyed some memorable days in the FA Cup. At Old Trafford in January 1958, just a few short poignant weeks before the Munich air crash, they put up a heroic performance against the Busby Babes in front of 53,000; 1–0 down, they almost equalized in the last five minutes, when Jimmy Leadbetter hit the post, only for Bobby Charlton to score at the other end. It was Alf's first glimpse of the United forward who would later become the key figure of Ramsey's England. Alf was not just consolidating Ipswich's tenure in the Second Division; he was also tightening his grip on the club, becoming secretary-manager on the retirement of Scott Duncan in the middle of 1958. Determined to wield absolute control at the club, Alf had fought hard for this post, overcoming the concern of directors about his lack of any administrative experience. And he soon made his authority felt, as he later explained: > When I became secretary-manager, most certainly nothing was done on the ground without me knowing about it. If there was a screw needed in or a lock or a bolt to be put on a door, the maintenance staff would check with me to see if it was all right to go ahead. It was simply a question of me knowing everything that was going on. The journalist and former footballer Tony Pawson wrote that Alf was 'a good administrator' with a 'Civil Service impeccability of manner'. That is also the memory of his secretary throughout this period, Pat Godbold: > He was well-organized and went quietly about his work. He was usually into Portman Road about nine o'clock. He took the training in the morning on the practice pitch, then in the afternoon he would do the paperwork, making arrangements for away games, booking hotels and so on. He was very fluent in dictating letters, mainly because the subject was usually football, where he had such confidence. He was a gentleman to work for, courteous in an old-fashioned way. If he gave me some letters to type at a quarter to five, knowing I usually left at five, he would be very apologetic for having kept me late. He did not do much in the way of public relations. He was very different in that respect to Bobby Robson, who always kept a hectic schedule. Alf did not like to accept any appointments for supporters' functions or openings or anything like that. I don't know that I should call him aloof, but he was certainly very shy. He did not like to join in conversations – except about football. He was not someone to talk to about football if you weren't prepared for it. I came into the office on a Monday morning after a good victory on Saturday and said happily, 'What a great goal Ted scored.' Alf looked up from his desk and then talked the whole movement through from start to finish in the greatest detail. After that I decided I could not talk about football to him any more because I just could not keep up with him. But he was never inclined to open up about anything except football. He was always immaculate, never without a collar and tie in the office, but he was never flashy. Alf claimed in his 1952 book to be a non-smoker, but Pat tells a different story, one that indicates how the trials of management may have forced him into the habit: > I once went into his office and began talking to him over his roll-up desk. Suddenly all this smoke started to billow from behind it. I could not believe it. Another time his wife came down to the ground and asked me to get some cigarettes from his office. She said they were in the pocket of his jacket. I don't think Alf liked anyone to know that he smoked a bit. Jimmy Leadbetter has a similar memory. 'I did not know Alf smoked but I caught him one day in his office with a cigarette – he was sort of hiding it. I didn't say anything.' Even though he was not under the same media pressure at Ipswich that he was later as England manager, Alf still had an innate suspicion even of the local press. Tony Garnett joined the _East Anglian Daily Times_ as a reporter in 1958: > My sports editor Alan Everitt had a fairly short fuse and Alf had a habit of keeping him waiting for interviews, for no particular reason. Alan Everitt always maintained that Alf would be in his office just reading _Charlie Buchan's Football Monthly,_ keeping him waiting through sheer bloody-mindedness. One day Alan lost his rag about this and said to me, 'You do the football.' I was only 19 then. It was a huge break. I saw a lot of Alf, but he was a difficult man to get to know. I remember once when I volunteered that a certain player had a good game, he just said to me, 'You would think so.' He was implying I did not know anything about it. That was a big put-down. If I had been older I might have taken the hump. Through his work on the _East Anglian Daily Times,_ Tony ended up ghosting Alf's programme notes for Ipswich Town. 'He didn't even look at them. All I had to do was make sure that I said nothing that was quotable. Absolutely bland so there could be no comeback, that was the order; he didn't want to know about that at all.' It was during these early years at Ipswich that Alf was supposed to have undertaken elocution lessons. It is an unlikely claim, given that Alf's drive for self-improvement stretched right back to his childhood. Jimmy Leadbetter, a huge admirer of Alf's, doubted the rumours but felt they were, in any case, an irrelevance: > One or two of the players used to take the mickey out of him because of his voice. They thought he was la-di-dah. I've always hated that, having a go at someone just because of the way they talk. The important thing was that you could always understand exactly what Alf was saying. Yes, he could be awkward with people. No one is perfect. But if Alf wanted to better himself, you have to respect him. He was a fine man. It has been argued that Alf felt he had to change his voice in the fifties because he believed he would be hampered in his career in management by his Dagenham tones, especially now he was surrounded by the Old Etonians of the Cobbold family. Yet this is greatly to exaggerate the strength of Alf's working-class accent and the social rigidities of 1950s Britain. There is an historical tendency to imagine it was only in the sixties when class barriers began to come down, thanks to the arrival of Harold Wilson and the Beatles. In truth, Britain has always been a highly fluid and mobile society. After all, another famous man of Ipswich, Cardinal Wolsey, had achieved the summit of political power in the 16th century, despite being born the son of a butcher. In Alf's own life before his arrival at Ipswich, Britain had a Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, who was the illegitimate son of Scottish crofter; a Foreign Secretary, Ernie Bevin, who had been a Somerset labourer and never lost the aitch-spraying accent of his youth; and a Health Secretary, Aneurin Bevan, who was a former miner from Tredegar and always spoke with a high-pitched Welsh voice. Contrary to the myth that it was not until the sixties that there was a flowering of working-class culture, in Alf's formative teenage years in the 1930s a wide range of working-class life had been celebrated: through the entertainment of that pair of Lancastrians, George Formby and Gracie Fields, by far the biggest two British film stars of their generation; through the comedy of Max Miller; and through novels like Walter Greenwood's _Love on the Dole._ The Labour landslide of 1945 demonstrates that England was not a rigid society. In football, there was no BBC-voiced, well-bred archetype for managers. They came from all types of social and geographical backgrounds, whether it be working-class Merseyside – Stan Cullis at Wolves – or Scottish coalfields – Matt Busby at Manchester United. Alf's mentor, Arthur Rowe, never abandoned the north London accent of his upbringing, while Alf's predecessor at Portman Road had such a broad Scottish accent that he could be almost incomprehensible, as Ted Phillips recalls: > Scott Duncan once spoke to me and I looked at him with a complete blank. > > 'Didn't you hear what I said?' > > 'I heard you but I didn't understand you.' Yet Duncan could work happily with the Cobbolds for 20 years without modifying his voice. So Alf's long-term reincarnation as suburban gent was driven far more by his own personal insecurities than by any wider professional need to conform. For Alf, football was always a refuge from the complexities of the wider world. The training pitch and the stadium were his domain, the place where he did not need to justify himself to anyone. This was the environment he loved and knew best, where he was free to be himself. By the end of the decade, his innate excellence as a manager was starting to yield results. He not only introduced new training regimes, which helped to improve the standards of the players he had, but he also made a number of shrewd purchases in the transfer market. A vital element in building a more successful team was to acquire a centre-forward to partner Ted Phillips up front, and in the autumn of 1958 he found one at Portsmouth. For the bargain price of just £5,000, he purchased 22-year-old Ray Crawford, a dashing striker who had done his National Service in the Malay jungle but had fallen out with Pompey's manager Freddie Cox. Crawford had just got married and moved into a new flat in Portsmouth, so he was reluctant to switch to East Anglia, especially because it would mean dropping down one division, but Cox's intransigence meant he had little choice. When he and his wife Eileen arrived in Ipswich, they were immediately impressed by the decency of Alf: > He met my wife and I at the station and then drove us round the town, showing us the club houses we could rent. The one we chose was beautiful, almost new, with three bedrooms. I think we paid £1 and 10 shillings a week in rent for that. Alf could not have been more charming. He went out of his way to help us. I soon found that all the Ipswich wives loved Alf, because he appreciated them. I don't think you would find one of them that didn't like Alf. He had something of a film star about him – always immaculate. I wouldn't say he was a ladies' man, not at all, but he always stressed that a good marriage was a big part of being a happy player. During this time, Alf himself lived in an Ipswich club house on the Crofton Road with Vickie and his step-daughter Tanaya, who went to a local Catholic school before taking a series of secretarial jobs in London. Crawford was equally impressed with Alf as a manager, particularly in comparison to what he had previously experienced: > At Portsmouth, I was never told anything. But Alf would come out and talk to you. And if you wanted to be successful, you listened. Because of Alf, moving to Ipswich was the best thing I ever did. On Fridays he would give a talk to us about the previous Saturday's game. He would start with Roy Bailey and then go round everyone, talking us through the match. The man's memory was amazing. It was like he was replaying a film of the entire match in his head. Every incident he would recall, every mistake would be analysed. Then he'd move onto the game coming up. He'd tell us the mannerisms of the opposition; again, that was something I'd never heard at Portsmouth but Alf always made you aware of what your opponent would be up to. So, if we played Sheffield United, I'd be against Joe Short and Alf would say, 'Don't be misled by his size. He's good in the air. He might only be around five foot seven but his timing is perfect. He can pass the ball as well.' Details like that. When things went wrong, he did not slag us off. All he would say was, 'You didn't do very well today, boys, and you did not deserve anything.' Just the look on his face would cut right into you. If he came in and said, 'Well done lads,' it was like being given £100. The key point about the Ipswich team was that we always tried to carry out what Alf said. That's what he liked. If you gave it a try and did what he said, he would back you. But if you went your own way, he did not have much time for you. I had to work at my game. I was full of energy, ran my heart out and Alf told me what to do. 'Get the ball wide to Jimmy and get in the box,' he'd say. Alf never got into confrontations. You didn't argue with him, you just listened. Ray Crawford scored 25 goals in 30 games in his first season of 1958–59, which helped to ensure safety for Ipswich. Alf saw that Crawford was rapidly developing an effective partnership with Ted Phillips, so when Liverpool made a bid for Ted, it was instantly rejected. But Alf also knew he needed to strengthen the defence, so in the summer of 1959 he bought from West Ham the big, self-assured centre-half Andy Nelson. It was another of Alf's clever buys, costing just £8,500, and Nelson soon proved his value by appearing in every match of the 1959–60 season. Within a year of his arrival, Alf had made him club captain, taking over the reins from Reg Pickett. Like Ray Crawford, Andy Nelson was astonished by the depth of Alf's grasp of football: > He had this photographic memory of every position, every move, right throughout any game. If he said to you, 'This fella is totally left-sided. Don't worry about his right-foot', he was speaking with real understanding. He knew everything about the assets and weaknesses of everyone you were playing against. I never once saw him lose his temper, which is unusual in football. But he could put his finger instantly on what had gone right and wrong. His concentration in the main was on passing. He could not stand it if someone just whacked the ball up the field. He wanted someone on the end of every pass. Andy Nelson was also struck by the way Alf retained his own footballing gifts: > He would often join in our practices and five-a-sides. There was nothing he loved more than that. He was still a beautiful passer of the ball, out of the top drawer. Sometimes I'd watch him hitting a ball against the wall at the end of the training ground. He'd be there for ages, repeatedly hitting it first time, which is not always easy. He never lost his talent. At the end of the 1959–60 season, Alf bought three more players to complete the construction of a team which could mount a realistic bid for promotion. In true Ramsey style, all three were languishing in obscurity before they were transformed by Alf's alchemy; not for nothing did John Arlott describe Alf as 'The Rescuer of Wasted Talent'. The Scottish defender Bill Baxter, who was in the middle of National Service at Aldershot, was bought for just £400 from the Scottish non-League club Broxburn Athletic. The winger Roy Stephenson came from Leicester for £3,000 and wing-half John Compton moved from Chelsea for just £1,000. Compton has these recollections of his arrival at Ipswich: > I had nine years at Chelsea but had not really made it when Alf bought me. I remember my first meeting with him to sign the forms. His office was just a little shed with a tin roof. It was June and there was a sudden thunderstorm. The rain was pounding so hard that we could not even hear each other talk. My first impression was that he seemed a nice man, down to earth, though he spoke rather well, not like a Londoner. He was a football man through and through. I had played under Ted Drake at Chelsea and there was a lot of cup-flying in those days. He was very fiery. If you did not play well, you really got it from him. With Alf there was nothing like that. He did not go in for big noisy speeches. He preferred to tell individual players what he wanted. He taught me a lot, putting me in at left-back. He used to say to me, 'Show the winger the line, make him go down the line.' It is surprising the number of good wingers who never came inside. Because I was a bit quick, it was no problem for me to catch them. Being a Londoner himself, born and bred in Poplar, John Compton has one special memory of Alf: > We both liked our jellied eels. So when we were coming back through Liverpool Street from an away game, he would say to me, 'Come on John, let's go round to Tubby Isaacs.' Tubby was big friendly man who had this stall near the station and had known Alf since his Tottenham days. He and Alf would have a little chat and then we'd get our two dishes of jellied eels. Alf always loved that. With his team assembled, Alf now started to develop a revolutionary strategy. And it was here that he showed his real managerial genius. In _1960,_ English football was still largely wedded to the traditional W–M, 3–2–5 formation which had predominated since the introduction of the centre-half and the pivoting defence in the 1920s by Herbert Chapman, the far-sighted boss of Huddersfield and then Arsenal. There had been a few departures from this approach, such as Arthur Rowe's push-and-run style at Tottenham, based on smooth passing, or Stan Cullis' more bludgeoning system at Wolves, where opposition defences were put under constant pressure by long balls pumped into their area. But generally English managers gave little thought to innovations. The most famous manager of the fifties, Matt Busby, was typical; the blend of his teams was more important to him than their methods. 'Go out and enjoy yourselves' was often the sum of his instructions to his players. But Alf did not have players of the calibre of Manchester United. To succeed, he would have to utilize his material in a radical new way. The central attacking feature of Alf's scheme was to play Jimmy Leadbetter and Roy Stephenson as deep-lying wingers, feeding the striking partnership of Phillips and Crawford. The great advantage of this plan was that it exploited the accuracy of Stephenson and, even more so, of Leadbetter, whom Alf had intuitively recognized as one of the most gifted distributors in English football. Leadbetter would not have to beat the full-back and get to the byline before crossing, the traditional way that wingers operated. Instead he could hold his position, sometimes even in his own half, before guiding another missile in front of the two rampaging forwards. The strategy minimized Leadbetter's defect, his slowness, and maximized the quality of his passing. It also gave a permanent dilemma for the defenders supposed to be marking Jimmy. If they were drawn into midfield to keep with him, they created space in their own area for Phillips to exploit. If they held back, then Jimmy was free to spray around the ball unhindered. Jimmy told me: > It was a great system and it foxed so many teams. I was a great believer that if you were in control of the ball you were in command of the game. I loved passing, giving a ball for someone to run onto. I always felt that if I hit a ball past the full-back and there was someone to connect with it and put it in the net, then I had done my job. Yet the full-back, at the final whistle, might be quite happy because he thought I had not actually beaten him. Jimmy Greaves once gave a good description of Leadbetter in appearance and action: > The comic actor Sid James looked old when he was in his early twenties, but in his sixties he didn't appear any older. That was the case with Jimmy. His gaunt features, receding hairline and thin, bony frame made him appear more like the man from the Pru collecting the weekly insurance money than a top-flight footballer...Appearances can be deceptive. Jimmy was a highly gifted, mercurial player with a very sharp football brain...He probed and prodded and used his astute vision and superb distribution to create numerous openings for his forwards. Alf was never a man to indulge in excessive praise, but he did so when he talked about Jimmy's influence, 'He is 33 years of age,' said Alf in 1962, 'and does not look much like a footballer but as a person, there is no one better and as a player, there is no one greater. In my own mind, I don't think there will ever be another Jimmy Leadbetter.' Alf's use of deep-lying wingers, allied to a striking duo, was a synthesis of various ideas he had absorbed during his playing career: the Hungarians' fluidity of 1953, the Brazilians' unorthodoxy during Southampton's tour of 1948 and the World Cup of 1950, and Tom Finney's penetration with England when he played deeper than he usually did for Preston. As the FA Secretary of the fifties, Stanley Rous, recalled: 'Tom Finney often told me how much he enjoyed playing for England, as he was allowed to lie deep with the full-back not daring to follow him. This gave him all the space he needed to confuse defenders.' But all Leadbetter's brilliance with the ball would have achieved little without the firepower up front from Phillips and Crawford. They were a complementary pair: Crawford, the cool, clinical poacher who was deadly from a short distance; the explosive Phillips creating mayhem with his thundering blunderbuss. Andy Nelson, the captain, reflects on the attacking formation: > Neither Jimmy Leadbetter nor Roy Stephenson were outstandingly quick but Alf was a thinker, more than any manager around then. At the time, wingers would just stand by the opposition full-back and usually do bugger all. But Alf had Jimmy and Roy withdrawn so they were in limbo land. They were both intelligent players and they would murder people because other teams could not work out who should pick them up. Then you had Phillips and Crawford. Ray was fantastic in the penalty box but could not really get a goal from outside. Ted could get them from anywhere within 35 yards of goal. He had unbelievable power. So they were a good partnership. Ray Crawford says: > Ted and I just clicked. I was an 18-yard player. I never shot from outside the box, but for Ted 30 yards was nothing. He just used to smash them in. Ted would have these long-range shots and I always expected the keeper to drop it. If he did so, it was in the net. I might get in five times in a row, and nothing would happen, then on the sixth the keeper would spill it and I would score. That's how I got so many of my goals. John Elsworthy, a clever, mature midfielder with great positional sense, was another to benefit from the space created by Alf's system: > The opposition just did not know what to do. I would be going through, causing trouble. I would play it to Ray, who laid it off to Ted, who could be lethal from a distance. It was all down to Alf. He was a tremendous reader of the game. He would come in at half-time and pick up on something that was going wrong. Or during practice matches, if someone made a mistake, he would stop the game and explain what had gone wrong and what they should have done. He was so precise. You didn't make the same mistake again. Alf was unique. He just appeared on the horizon and transformed the club. That transformation was driving Ipswich towards the First Division, something that would have been unthinkable when Alf joined in 1955. 1960–61 was Ipswich's silver-jubilee season as a professional club, and they celebrated in style. In September 1960 they climbed to the top of the table and were never out of contention for the rest of the season. Between 10 December 1960 and 18 March 1961 they went unbeaten, dropping only three points, and their run included some superb wins, especially the 3–1 defeat of Sheffield United at Bramall Lane. Promotion was secured with a 4–0 victory over Sunderland in April, and the following week the Second Division Championship with a 4–1 crushing of Derby County. Crucial to Ipswich's triumph had been the duo of Phillips and Crawford, who hit an astonishing 70 goals between them, with Crawford netting 40 and Phillips 30. Throughout the run-in to the title, Alf retained his usual composure, one of his many qualities as a manager. There was no over-hyped talk about promotion, no extra pressure put on the players. As John Compton remembers, 'He was always calm. There was none of that stuff you get from other managers, "Come on lads, you can do it."' That almost superhuman restraint was demonstrated on the afternoon that Ipswich won promotion against Sunderland. About an hour after the game finished, John Cobbold wandered out of the boardroom, the inevitable bottle of champagne in hand, and found Alf still sitting in the stand, watching a schools cup match between Ipswich and Norwich. 'Fancy a glass?' said the gregarious chairman. 'No thank you, I'm working.' This may, of course, have been an example of Alf's parchdry sense of humour. In a football environment, he was not the stern, forbidding leader that the public usually saw. Yes, he kept a distance from his team – all successful managers have to do that and Alf's natural reticence, once a social problem at Spurs, became an advantage at Ipswich – but he could also be warm-hearted and relaxed at the appropriate moment. A cold autocrat could not have engendered the sort of spirit that Alf brought to his Ipswich and England teams, nor would he have inspired the near universal affection that players felt for Alf: > 'He was a sincere man, not a hard one,' says John Elsworthy, who recalls how devoted Alf was to his players. 'I'd just come back from a cartilage operation and was playing in the reserves at Brighton when I clashed with a centre-half and fractured my skull. It was agony. But I came back by train, and Alf, who had been with the first team, met me at the station, and then went with me in an ambulance to hospital. He was brilliant that day. He said to my wife, "Don't worry Anne, I'll look after him."' Because Alf treated professionals as adults, he did not feel he needed to be a ruthless disciplinarian. As Ray Crawford puts it: > It was a great club under Alf. He was a fantastic man. Everyone was treated the same and he made you feel at home. We all were very loyal to him. When we were travelling away, on a Friday or after a game, he would allow us to have a beer. We also had a darts team that would go round pubs in the local villages, meeting supporters. Roy Bailey would arrange the visits. Most of the lads would turn up, though we were bloody awful at darts. We would have a few drinks, sensible stuff. Alf knew we went out. It was never a problem with him, though he never came out with us. So we had a social club as well as a football club. But all the players grew used to his myopia about football. 'He was not really interested in anything else,' says John Elsworthy. 'If we were on the train, Alf might be reading the paper. But the moment we started talking about football, down went the paper and he was with you. It was his life.' As John Compton recalls, 'If there was a group of you in a compartment, Alf would listen and talk as long as the subject was football. As soon it went onto something else, he would get up and go into another compartment.' Tony Garnett has an interesting example of Alf's leniency: > He was a very good manager in that he could turn a blind eye to things. I remember once I was totally out of order. Ipswich were playing in Manchester and I had driven up there in my old Ford Special, fibreglass body, V8 engine. It was Alf's habit to take all the boys to the cinema on a Friday night. Andy Nelson said to Ted Phillips and me, 'Let's sit behind Alf in the cinema and as soon as the lights go down, let's get out and go for a game of darts and a drink.' The three of us drove out to a pub in the country. We got back to the hotel just before Alf, but he'd known what was going on all the time. 'So you didn't like the film then, Andy?' was all he said. John Compton remembers Alf's warmth coming out in practice matches, when Alf would sometimes play against the first team. 'He used to get some stick from the lads. There was a lot of banter, especially from Ted. Ted would go up and barge Alf over in the mud, and then we'd all jump on top of Alf. He could take all this, even took it with a smile.' But at other times, the players felt protective towards Alf, who could be a physically courageous man if the occasion demanded it. Ted Phillips remembers this incident: > Alf spoke his mind where the needs of the team were concerned. We were travelling to an away game by train and someone else had got our compartments. We were standing in the corridor when Alf came along. He went straight into the compartment, used some pretty ripe language and soon had the other passengers out. He nearly had a fight with them but he soon kicked them out. When we got off the other end, there was a bloke waiting for Alf. So we all surrounded Alf and walked him safely through the station. We felt very protective towards him. He was able to inspire such loyalty. In turn, Alf had a soft spot for Ted, his rollicking, rustic forward. 'Ted was a comedian and a character. Alf knew what he was like and just took it all in his stride,' says Ray Crawford. He was often drawn to such types, whose open, playful cheeriness was in such contrast to his own innate reserve. The cheeky Eddie Baily had been his closest friend at Spurs; noisy, blunt Jack Charlton was to become one of Alf's favourite England players. Acting the clown or the comic, all three of them felt free to poke fun at Alf. But the crucial point, Alf knew, was that there was no maliciousness about any of their antics. What Alf despised was the sly sarcasm with a cruel edge that he occasionally experienced from the likes of Jimmy Greaves, Bobby Moore and Rodney Marsh. Such was Alf's fondness for Ted that he gave him a great deal of leeway. One of Ted's most bizarre tricks took place during a Boxing Day match against Leicester: > I'd got hold of this ginger wig, so I put it on in the dressing-room and as I ran out onto the field, a big groan went round the ground. Everyone was saying, 'Who's that ginger bloke?' And I kept up the joke by not shooting at goal in the warm-up. The Churchman's end was moaning because they could not make out who I was. But when I took off the wig just before the start, the roof nearly came off the stands. Alf had a good laugh about it. Another trick was played more directly on Alf: > We were having lunch in a hotel in Southport. The soup was being passed along and I took note of which bowl was Alf's, and then I dropped a plastic cockroach in it. Alf called over the waitress, 'I'm afraid that there is an insect in my soup.' Of course we were all giggling down my end of the table. And Alf glowered in my direction, 'What is so funny then, Ted?' > > 'Oh nothing Alf, my soup was all right.' > > He knew immediately I was to blame. Ted continues proudly: > I think I am the only bloke ever to chuck cold water over Alf. One day after training he was lying in his bath, which was in the referee's room, and I got this big bucket of water, crept in, slung it over him and ran out. He shot up immediately, wondering what had happened. He didn't know who it was – but he probably had an idea. Another of Ted's ruses was to take footballs from the store and then hide them around the ground, in places like a floodlight gantry or the pile of coal behind the boiler or under Alf's bath: > One time Alf took us up to Chantry Park for a run. I tucked a ball under my tracksuit and started jogging. Then, as we went round, I quietly took it out and kicked it towards Alf, 'Where on earth did that come from?' he said in surprise. Then he looked over at me. Training runs often brought the worst out in Ted. During a cross-country exercise, Ted and Andy Nelson, after a heavy darts session the night before, had fallen so far behind the rest of the pack that they decided to hitch their way back into Ipswich on the back of a sugar-beet lorry. Unfortunately, unbeknown to them, Alf happened to see the pair as they jumped off the vehicle outside Portman Road. They were summoned to his office on their return. 'I'm very disappointed in you Ted.' 'Why's that, Alf?' 'Because you're usually out in front, leading everything like you do on Saturday. And there you are today, riding on the back of a lorry.' 'Who told you that?' 'I saw you.' The two were ordered to come back to the ground at two o'clock for extra training. Ted takes up the story: > We had lunch in town, then it started to belt down. We waited for the rain to clear so we did not get back until after half-two. Alf was standing there, with a bag of balls. 'You've got five minutes to get your kit on and get out here,' he said. We went out, did a few laps, then started crossing the ball, while Alf went in goal. Andy was chipping these balls to me and I was running in and really hitting them hard. After about five shots, Alf started to rub his hands in pain. 'Right, that's enough of that, let's go in.' Alf would occasionally become exasperated with Ted, as when Ted walked straight into a lamp post just outside Vicarage Road before a game against Watford. 'I had bought a local paper and was reading it as I went along. I cut my head open and nearly knocked myself out. Alf went beserk because there were no substitutes allowed in those days. "Couldn't you watch where you're going?" he said.' But Alf could be humorous with Ted as well. 'We were playing Sheffield Wednesday at home and I got caught in terrible traffic on the A12. I nearly missed the kick-off but actually got a hat-trick in the game. "Come late next time," said Alf.' Alf also accepted that Ted, a totally instinctive player, did not need to pay too much attention in team talks. 'I must admit that I would sometimes nod off and Alf would have to wake me up. "Sorry Alf, I'd say." It was widely believed that the likes of Phillips, Nelson, Leadbetter, Crawford and Bailey would not last long in the First Division, given that hardly any of them had experience of the top flight. The view in Fleet Street was that Ipswich would be 'a one-season wonder'. The only question was which team would share the other relegation berth. It would have been absurd to argue that 'Ramsey's Rustics', as they were known, might challenge Manchester United, Burnley or Tottenham, who had just completed the double. In August 1961, the odds quoted for Ipswich winning the title were 100 to 1. And even Alf was privately a little apprehensive, as captain Andy Nelson recalls: > One day in the summer of 1961, I went to see Alf in his office, still all pleased that we had won promotion. The fixture list had just come out and we had Bolton away, then Burnley away, then Burnley at home soon afterwards. > > 'It looks very good, doesn't it?' I said to Alf. > > He turned to me and smiled, 'It frightens me to death.' Yet Alf retained faith in his squad. Contrary to expectations, he did not go out on a spending spree to prepare for the First Division. The one player he bought was inside-forward Dougie Moran for £12,000 from Falkirk. This parsimony was not just because of lack of resources – though that was certainly an issue, with gates still below 15,000 – but also because Alf believed he had the system and the men to enable Ipswich to hold their own. His experience of the Spurs push-and-run side of a decade earlier taught him that a strong unit and an unorthodox approach could defeat well-established opponents. The year of 1961 was one of huge change in football. The maximum wage was finally abolished thanks to the campaigning of the Professional Footballers' Association under the energetic and eloquent leadership of Jimmy Hill. The threat of a strike by the PFA, allied to fears of an exodus of top players overseas, had forced the League to remove that oppressive, unjust relic of soccer's feudal past. Contrary to the scaremongering by the traditionalists, the end of the maximum wage actually led to clubs raising professional standards as they pruned their playing staffs to meet higher costs. 'It made clubs get rid of all the crap and the people who were not going to make it,' says Ray Wilson. 'We had five teams at Huddersfield. We are talking about very ordinary sides at an ordinary club. It was ridiculous. There were people at the club who had more years than games. I don't think the people running football were very professional.' Individually, all players benefited. Some of the biggest stars saw an explosion in their earnings: Johnny Haynes' weekly pay at Fulham went up to £100 a week, while the gifted Irishman Jimmy McIlroy won a rise from Burnley to £70 a week. Ipswich's more modest squad saw their average pay increase from the old maximum of £20 to £25, with some of the top players, like Ray Crawford, earning £30. Alf himself, as secretary-manager, was responsible for collecting the club's entire £700 wage bill in cash from the bank and distributing it in small brown envelopes to staff. Beyond football, the British public was enjoying a new era of consumer affluence after the hardship of the post-war years. The mood was perfectly captured by Harold Macmillan's 1957 speech in Bedford when he said that 'most of our people have never had it so good'. Commercial television arrived; home ownership hugely expanded; for the first time ordinary Britons could afford to own cars and refrigerators, and travel by air to the Continent. Alf was one of those who took advantage of the new freedom by going to Majorca for a two-week break with Vickie and Tanya in the summer of 1961. Yet Ipswich were reluctant to submit to the 'winds of change', to use another phrase of Macmillan's. Like much of provincial Britain in the sixties, both town and football club remained anchored in the past. John Cobbold, for instance, refused to allow advertising hoardings around the perimeter of the pitch, on the grounds that they were vulgar. The quaint atmosphere was reflected by John Elsworthy's memory that even in 1960 the players used to have a weekly lunch at the department store of Footman and Pretty on Thursday, paid for by the club, and then many of them would disappear early to the cinema, because admission before 1.30 pm was just one shilling. Nor did the facilities come into line with the modern age. Ray Crawford. says: > Our training kit was vile. The trainer Charlie Cowie used to come in with a big pile of kit and just drop it in the middle of the floor. I would not know whose shorts I was putting on. You'd have socks with holes in them, shirts with tears in them. I'm sure local clubs had better training kit. In the season we were promoted, we were allowed to buy our own boots – the new lightweight styles were coming in – but only up to a certain amount. My own boots cost about £7 but the club would only pay half of that. Our treatment room was comical. It just had one heat lamp. Ted once picked up an injured seagull on the training ground. Charlie put it under this lamp, though it probably had a broken wing. Ted Phillips has this example of Charlie Cowie's rudimentary methods: > In one practice, Alf and Jimmy smashed into each other. Both were flat out. We were shouting for Charlie, who ran on and went to Alf first. 'Get away, Charlie,' said Alf. He would not let him touch him. If Charlie gave you a massage, he'd rub the skin off your legs. It was this sort of atmosphere that led cynics to question whether Ipswich would survive long in the First Division. But from the start of the season, Ramsey's team defied expectations. The opening game saw a draw at Bolton. Then, the following Saturday, Ipswich put up a heroic fight at Turf Moor against Burnley, League Champions of 1960 and regarded as Spurs' greatest rivals for the title. Three times Ipswich came from behind to equalize, before going down 4–3. Alf described it as 'the greatest performance I have ever seen from any Ipswich team since I have been connected with the club'. Tony Garnett, travelling with the team, gained an insight into Alf's inspirational qualities as a manager: > I had imagined that it would be a struggle for Ipswich to stay up. But then Alf allowed me to sit in on his team talk before the Burnley game. It was bloody brilliant. I thought I could have gone out and beaten Burnley myself. He was able to impart this amazing confidence into his players. And he told people exactly what he wanted them to do, how the opposition would play, who they would be marking. It was extraordinary really. I thought to myself, 'Bloody hell, I fancy this game.' The talk was not long but it was absolutely to the point. Ipswich really woke up the press and the British public when they slaughtered Burnley 6–2 at home in the return game a week later. By October, the team had reached fourth place in the table; by November, they had climbed to second. Among their notable victories was a 3–2 defeat of Spurs at home and a 4–1 triumph over Manchester United. Yet their superb form was regarded as nothing more than a bubble that was bound soon to burst. As Roy Bailey, the keeper, said, 'Our tactics might be simple but most sides come here and say, "You won't catch us out," and then get hammered.' According to ex-Liverpool and England footballer Gordon Milne, later a distinguished manager, even Bill Shankly had some of this disdain: 'Shanks used to say of them, "Jimmy Lead BEATER – he always called him Lead BEATER – can't walk. A good tackle will cut him in half. And they have two farmers playing up front."' Chelsea, visiting at the beginning of December, also had a typically complacent attitude. Their striker Barry Bridges, later to play for England under Alf, recalls: > We had a young side at Chelsea then and we were doing quite well. We were in the dressing-room before kick off. We were really cocky, boasting how we would chase Ipswich off their legs. We had a guy called Harry Meadows, who used to play with Jimmy Leadbetter at Chelsea and was now our trainer. There was a knock on the door and this fella comes in and says in a Scots voice, 'Is Harry about?' So Harry goes out into the corridor to talk to Jimmy. And he comes back in, about ten minutes later. We said to him, > > 'Who was that, Harry?' > > 'That was Jimmy Leadbetter. He's playing today.' > > 'What? He's bloody fifty. He must be fifty if he's a day.' > > We really gave Harry some stick. We had a laugh about it. Then we went out, got absolutely stuffed 5–2 and Jimmy was the best player. He sat in the middle of the park and pinged balls to the big strikers. Absolutely skinned us alive. That was Alf's team, he was a great reader and thinker. Ray Wilson, one of the 1966 winners, warned Bobby Charlton about Ipswich just before Manchester United's first visit to Portman Road: > I'd been playing against them for years in the Second Division. We would have the ball most of the time, and then we would come off the field having lost. When United were about to play Ipswich, Bobby said to me, 'What's this Ipswich like?' > > 'I'll tell you this, Bobby. If you're not careful, you'll have the ball about sixty per cent of the time and you'll come off scratching your head because they'll have made a fuckin' arse of you.' > > That's what happened. Ipswich beat United 4–1. And I could understand it. Man U went forward and got stuffed. I later ran into Bobby and he said, 'Well, Ray, you were wrong about one thing. We didn't have sixty per cent of the ball. We had seventy-five per cent of it.' George Cohen of Fulham was another future England player who was perplexed by Alf's methods. 'We lost at Portman Road 2–1 in February and they were playing something I just didn't recognize and didn't know who I should be marking. Jimmy Leadbetter hardly went outside his own bloody half, yet he was lobbing balls behind me for Crawford and Phillips.' Ipswich enjoyed good fortune as they avoided any injuries to key players throughout the season; all of their first eleven played at least 37 games in the 1961–62, and nine of them played 40 or more. This leant an iron consistency and a deep understanding to the team as a playing unit. Ray Crawford, who went on to score 33 goals this season, was playing so well that he was called up to the full England team against Northern Ireland. But Crawford, who was only to win one other cap, was disappointed by Winterbottom in comparison to Ramsey: > Alf just inspired you. It was such a contrast to playing for England under Walter Winterbottom. I played twice but nothing was ever said to me. There was no team, no tactics, no talk about the opposition or what we would do. I came away so disillusioned by it. I'm playing for Ipswich and Alf Ramsey is sharing things with me. Then I go to England and nothing is happening. Alf is teaching me things yet then I go to the man who is supposed to be the top coach in the country and I am left thinking to myself, 'Why did he not have the ability to stand up in front of senior players and tell us what he wanted?' I remember talking to Walter one Saturday afternoon at Ipswich. He was not saying one good word about Jimmy Greaves and yet he's the coach. He was saying to me, 'Jimmy is very lazy. Jimmy won't do this and Jimmy won't do that.' And I thought to myself, 'You should be telling Jimmy what to do.' I thought that was very poor by Walter. As well as producing excellent football, Ipswich also gained a reputation under Alf for fair play. As a professional himself, he had disliked dirty tactics. Tommy Docherty, who came up against Alf while at Preston, told me: 'He was rare for that era, the early fifties. He would not foul the winger. He would take the ball off by clean and legal means. He was an absolute gentleman as a player. If there is such a thing, perhaps he was too nice.' Those were the standards he generally kept as manager at Ipswich. During the 1959–60 season, for example, Ipswich did not have a single player booked all season, a feat achieved by only one other League club. When Ipswich visited Eastwood that year, the Bristol Rovers programme recorded, 'Ipswich are now regarded as one of the most sporting and attractive teams in the Second Division, which is not surprising when one thinks of the members of the Cobbold family being on the board and Alf Ramsey being manager.' Again, during the 1961–62 season, the FA Disciplinary Committee noted that Ipswich were one of only two League clubs which received no unfavourable reports. But Alf should not be thought of as some saintly paragon of sportsmanship. Winning was more important to him than the pursuit of some Corinthian ideal, as he was to show as England manager by his loyalty to Nobby Stiles and his words to the notorious Leeds hard man Norman Hunter: 'Norman, you do what you have to do.' And, with tough figures like Andy Nelson, Dougie Moran and Billy Baxter, Ipswich were no soft touch. 'Dougie and Billy, they were bloody hard nuts,' says Andy Nelson. Nor did Alf show any fastidious regard for FA rules about approaching players at other clubs, what today is known as 'tapping up'. Ron Reynolds, who had moved from Spurs to Southampton, recalled this incident after Ipswich had visited The Dell in February 1961: > After the game I ended up having a chat with Alf. I'll never forget this, because Alf was not the type of player you could converse with, so this was out of the ordinary. He was a very odd one, a loner. As I came out of our dressing-room and approached the visitors' dressing-room, Alf came out and walked along with me, and it was as near to an invitation as any player could get to join them, which was, of course, completely illegal. He was tapping me up for a move to Ipswich without having talked to Ted Bates or anybody else at Southampton. Reynolds believed that Alf feared Ipswich's keeper Roy Bailey might be returning to his native South Africa, so he would need a replacement: > He was full of questions, very solicitous, asking me, 'How do you like it at Southampton? Are you enjoying your football down here? We would give you a lot more pleasure from the game. We could give you First Division football next season.' In the end I just told him, 'Sorry Alf, I'm happy where I am.' Bailey stayed in England, however, and in 1961–62 was helping Ipswich to dominate the First Division. It was typical of Alf that he turned Bailey, who had been rejected by Palace, into a top-class keeper. By the spring, Ipswich were in second place, with the Championship developing into a two-horse race between themselves and Burnley. Spurs' hopes were effectively ended by defeats at home and away to Ipswich. Before the match at Portman Road in October, Bill Nicholson had wanted to change tactics to cope with the Ramsey method but, as he later recorded, he failed to convince his key player, Dave Mackay, at his team meeting: > I suggested that our midfield players should mark Stephenson and Leadbetter, leaving the full-backs to move inside to take care of Crawford and Phillips. Blanchflower agreed with me but Mackay didn't: he said we had just won three matches playing the way we wanted to play. 'Why change just to suit them?' he said. 'We're good enough to beat them playing our normal style.' It was one of the few times I bowed to the players' wishes. We lost 3–2 and when the return match was played at White Hart Lane later in the season we went down 3–1 playing the same way. Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ was in the press box that day: > It was an astonishing game to watch because Ipswich were playing exactly the way they wanted and Tottenham were occupying spaces where the game was not being played. Spurs had players out there marking nothing but empty space, with no one picking up the two Ipswich front men who were thundering in at the far post. For Alf, the victory at White Hart Lane was one of the sweetest of his career. It was a form of revenge for the way he had been treated by Spurs seven years earlier. He had outsmarted two of the men, Nicholson and Blanchflower, who had been behind his departure. For one of the few times in his life, he displayed some emotion, as his Ipswich skipper Andy Nelson recalls: > We played superbly that night. It was a game I will never forget. Alf was so keen to go back there and for him it was an absolutely marvellous result. Afterwards, he went round the dressing-room shaking hands with everyone, and you could see his eyes glaze up. He was having a little cry. At the end of March, soon after this victory at White Hart Lane, Ipswich went to the top of the First Division. But even then it seemed unlikely they could win the title, as Burnley, in second place, had three games in hand. But Burnley then suffered a dramatic collapse, allowing Ipswich to stay in the lead. Ipswich went into their last match of the season, against Aston Villa at Portman Road, knowing that if they won, Burnley would have to gain maximum points from their last two games. The Ipswich-Villa contest was a scrappy affair, with the Ipswich team displaying a rare bout of nerves. At half-time the score was 0–0. But then in the 72nd minute there was an opening. John Elsworthy has this memory: > It was the most tense game I ever played in because we had to get a result. We were drawing for quite a long while and then we got a corner. I'll never forget it. As soon as it was hit, I went into the box and suddenly I found that I had a clear header. I was only six yards out and I was confident of scoring. But as I leapt I was level with the cross-bar and I headed it straight. I can see it now. The ball hit the underside of the bar and came out. I nearly died. I thought I'd blown it. But the next thing I knew was Ray Crawford getting hold of it. He was one of the biggest poachers I ever knew, anything loose was his. As the ball bounced, he dived and put it in the net. That was it. We were on our way. And Ray then got another goal in the final minutes. Ipswich had won 2–0, and when the news came through that Burnley had been held at home by Chelsea, they knew they had won the Championship. A large section of the 28,000 crowd rushed onto the field, hoisting Crawford and Phillips on their shoulders, while in the directors' box John Cobbold was already hard at work on a crate of champagne. In the dressing-room afterwards, the little bald trainer Jimmy Forsyth was thrown fully clothed into the bath. But amidst the scenes of jubilation, Alf remained an impassive figure. He pushed the players forward to accept the cheers of the crowd, remaining in the background himself. 'He did not want any praise. When people congratulated him, he gave all the credit to the players,' says Jimmy Leadbetter. But once the crowd had departed and Alf was left alone he did indulge in one expression of pure joy. Just as in the previous year, after Ipswich had gained promotion, he was sitting in the stand, gazing out on the pitch, when John Cobbold turned up. With barely a word, Alf took off his jacket, handed it to Cobbold, walked down onto the pitch and then, on his own, proceeded to do a lap of honour in front of the empty terraces, wearing collar, tie and highly polished shoes. It was a private, endearing, very human gesture from someone who was too embarrassed to show his feelings in public. In Alf's memory, Cobbold 'cheered every stride I took'. Cobbold, who was by his own admission wreathed 'in a fog of alcohol', described it as 'a bloody marvellous intimate moment'. Ipswich were the first side in League history to win the Championship in their initial season in the First Division. They were also only the second club after Wolves to win Third, Second and First Division titles, though Wolves had taken thirty years over such an achievement, whereas Ipswich had taken just six. Alf was rightly showered with praise. The BBC, in an interview after the game, called him Ipswich's 'great manager' who had promoted 'the real virtues of simplicity and team spirit'. _The Times_ described Alf as 'probably the one great genius the game has produced in recent years'. For the _East Anglian Daily Times,_ he was 'the Miracle Man'. In its tribute, the paper said: > The Town's triumph is his and his alone. He knew that his basic idea of football, directness and simplicity was the right one. He cares deeply for the footballers in his care and knows far more of their capabilities and limitations than they know themselves and we have seen them blossom and react to his coaching. Completely unemotional, never overexcited or deeply depressed, he has performed a modern miracle in football. They were justified words, for Alf had shown a unique talent for squeezing the best out of players through motivation and technical advice. His Championship-winning side had cost only £30,000. As always, though, Alf downplayed his role, telling the BBC: 'I cannot make a player improve. That is really up to the player. I have been fortunate at Ipswich in that, though we did not have any great players here, we have men of very high character, and I think that shows in the way they play.' But, warned the _East Anglian Daily Times,_ there was 'just one small shadow' over this moment of glory: 'It is that Mr Alf Ramsey may feel that he has done enough with Ipswich Town and may cast his eyes around on other fields to conquer.' # [SEVEN _Lancaster Gate_](004-toc.html#ch7) Soon after Ipswich had won the title, Alf was interviewed by the BBC and inevitably was asked about the possibility of managing the national side. 'The England job has never entered my mind. I have never considered the England team at all, not at all. I have a job at Ipswich and I still have a lot of work to do here.' Then, in a prescient comment about the role of the England selectors, he added, 'I could not imagine anyone taking on a job with such responsibilities without having a completely free hand.' The question had been put because that summer Walter Winterbottom had finally resigned as England manager after 16 years in the job. For all his dedication and intelligence as a technical coach, he had never been an inspirational leader. 'He was not really equipped to be England's team manager,' said Alan Hardaker, Secretary of the League. 'He had no experience of football at international level or management at any level. His way of expressing things was not a way readily grasped or appreciated by many players.' The 1962 World Cup in Chile had been the last straw, as England gave another disappointing performance and limped out in the quarter-final. The organization for the trip was characteristically shambolic; because of the absence of any team doctor, the Sheffield Wednesday centre-half Peter Swan almost died of a throat infection, having been given the wrong treatment. Winterbottom had hoped to become Secretary of the FA, with Sir Stanley Rous having been elevated in 1961 to the Presidency of FIFA. But Winterbottom had his enemies within the FA, so instead the job went to an officious mediocrity, Denis Follows, who had previously been Secretary of the British Airline Pilots' Association. 'He was not an impressive man. He was what I would call a wishy-washy sort of a person,' says Dr Neil Phillips, who was team doctor under Alf. The FA initially hoped that the Burnley captain, Jimmy Adamson, would take on the England job. A deep thinker and a recent Footballer of the Year, Adamson had been Winterbottom's coaching assistant during the 1962 World Cup. But during that tour, he grew disillusioned with the pessimistic, griping attitude of several of England's internationals. In addition, Burnley were not keen to let him go and he was reluctant to move from his northern home. The offer was rejected, so the FA then decided to advertise the post. It was vital that they hired the right man, for in 1960 FIFA had decided that the 1966 World Cup finals should be played in England. There could be no repeat of the humiliations of previous decades. While awaiting responses, the FA's International Committee approached several other leading figures in the game, including Alf's old Tottenham rival Bill Nicholson, who said that 'the England job wasn't for me'. Others, like Billy Wright and Stan Cullis publicly expressed their lack of interest. More disappointment followed when the FA saw that out of the 59 applications received in response to the advertisement, not one was remotely suitable. At a meeting of the International Committee on the 1 October 1962, it was agreed that FA Chairman Graham Doggart should ask permission from the Ipswich board to approach Alf Ramsey. Surprisingly, given Ipswich's record, Alf's name had not been mentioned before, though Winterbottom had resigned as early as July. Winterbottom himself had never envisaged that Alf would be right for the post. 'There is no real link between the skills you need to run a successful club and those that you need to run a national side well,' he said, a comment that hardly reflects well on his judgement given the comparison between Ramsey's subsequent record and his own. The languid, aristocratic flavour of Ipswich is captured by the way the club responded to the FA's request. Hubert Doggart, the son of Graham, told me: > My father wrote to John Cobbold, the Chairman of Ipswich, seeking permission to approach Alf Ramsey. But he received no reply for a fortnight. By this time the press were becoming increasingly agitated about the appointment. So, not having heard anything, my father rang Kirton, the Cobbold home. The phone was answered by a butler who explained that the Chairman was unavailable because he was shooting for three weeks up at his lodge in Scotland. Well, the FA could not wait that long. My father impressed on the butler the importance of the matter and the butler then read out the FA's letter over the phone to John Cobbold in Scotland. Cobbold returned to Ipswich immediately and convened a meeting of the board at which, according to Cobbold's account, 'we reluctantly agreed that it was entirely up to Alf and that we would certainly not stand in his way'. As authorized by his committee, Graham Doggart travelled to Ipswich on the 17 October, where he was met at the station by John Cobbold and was then taken to meet Alf at Portman Road. At this meeting, Doggart told the FA, 'we talked together for about two hours and I was most impressed by his attitude to the challenge which the post of England team manager presented'. Alf said he needed to think about the offer. On the afternoon of 24 October, after a lunch in London with Doggart and Winterbottom, he accepted the post. It has often been claimed that Alf 'took a month' to make up his mind about the England offer, with some of his critics implying that his pride had been ruffled by the fact that he had been the FA's second choice. The slightest glance at the chronology will show that this is untrue. Alf actually accepted the offer in little more than a week of Doggart first making it. The gap between the FA Committee authorizing the approach to Ipswich on 1 October and the announcement to the press on the 25th was due entirely to John Cobbold's pheasant shooting. But Ramsey always was a methodical man, not one given to impulsive decisions. Claiming that the job offer was 'a tremendous surprise,' he explained that he took eight days to make up his mind because 'I wanted to discuss it with my wife, consider our position and complications for a moment'. There were two chief concerns for him. The first was his association with Ipswich Town. Loyalty was one of his most powerful personal traits – indeed, it was to help cause his downfall in 1974 – and he felt a debt to the club that had given him his first job in management. Moreover, on the playing side, Ipswich were in serious trouble by October after all the euphoria of the previous season. Alf believed it would be wrong to walk out suddenly on his team at a moment of deepening crisis. He therefore stipulated that he would only take the England job at the end of the 1962–63 season. 'I have a responsibility to Ipswich, especially in view of their position in the First Division table. I must remain here for the rest of the season and see us safe,' he told the _East Anglian Daily Times._ His second concern was the influence of the FA selectors. If Alf was to have charge of the England team, he needed total control over its affairs, just as he had at Ipswich. For all his faults, Winterbottom had never been allowed to do his job properly because of the interference from these prejudiced, often ignorant officials, as Alf had directly experienced in the 1950 World Cup when Arthur Drewry had personally insisted on the exclusion of Stanley Matthews from the game against the USA. Even the FA's own Secretary throughout the 1950s, Stanley Rous, admitted the selection committee was an absurdity. 'The committee would discuss each position in turn and vote on it if necessary. Invariably personal preferences intruded and positions were considered in isolation, rather than thought being given to the team as an entity.' Bobby Moore believed that Winterbottom was broken by the selectors. 'I could not understand how he allowed himself to be messed about by the amateurs of the committee. I felt he lost the will to fight the system.' Alf decided he would not put up with this nonsense, and the FA, becoming increasingly anxious about filling the post, were in no position to negotiate. Alf was given the control he sought, while the selectors were reduced to the role of scouts whose advice the new manager could happily ignore. The international committee would still meet, though only as a formal body, much like the constitutional monarchy in a democracy. The real power had passed to Alf. David Barber, an official at the FA during the later part of the Ramsey era, recalls how much members of the committee resented the loss of authority: > I took some of the minutes at the committee meetings and if there was a match coming up the Chairman would ask Sir Alf to read out the squad. And as Alf did so I could feel the members shuffling uneasily in their seats because they were denied any input. After all those decades of choosing the teams, they now had to bow to the manager. And I sensed some awkwardness there. Alf was rarely motivated by money – as he once said to Ray Crawford, 'You can only eat three meals a day and you only need one bed to sleep in' – and he was still living in an Ipswich club house and driving a Hillman in 1962. His annual salary paid by the FA was only £4,500, more than double what Winterbottom had been earning but less than the £5,000 he received from Ipswich. For him it was an honour to be asked to take charge of the national team. He was effectively to be England's first professional manager after decades of ineffectual amateurism. And the press generally welcomed his appointment. 'Soccer has seen nothing like him since Herbert Chapman masterminded Arsenal in the thirties,' wrote Mike Langley in the _Daily Express:_ > He is a man with a brain like a combination of camera and computer. A man intensely loyal to his players. A man able to persuade a camel that it is really a Derby winner. He is an adaptable man, a cockney kid now as well spoken as an Earl. And if England should win the World Cup in 1966, how about the story ending 'Arise Lord Alf of Wembley'. _The Times_ commented, 'Ramsey, as a man, a player and a manager, has already proved himself. Ramsey the man is not demonstrative. He is reserved, but a deep thinker. Like some scientific boffin, he can appear detached, immersed in figures and equations and not given to grandiose statements.' Perhaps the most personally revealing profile was written by Michael Williams in the _Daily Telegraph:_ > Alf Ramsey does not smoke and he drinks with discretion. He wears smart, sober suits, black shoes, clean collars and ties with rather large knots. He speaks slowly, chooses his words with care and always has a half-smile on his face. He has an attractive wife and daughter, a nice car and lives in a pleasant house in a road just off the Ipswich by-pass. He is not a spontaneous man, indeed his self-control is almost something to be wondered at. He is the same in defeat as in victory, hiding his thoughts behind steady, dark eyes. Essentially he is a serious man. He forms his own opinions and sticks to them. He is not afraid to disagree with his club chairman and directors. Indeed, it is they who turn somersaults to agree with him. His dedication to the game is utter and complete. Once I recall, when Ipswich were returning from some northern match on a Saturday night, he bumped into Arthur Rowe, under whom he learned so much at White Hart Lane. Four or five hours lay ahead before we arrived in London. Throughout, Ramsey and Rowe talked and talked and talked football. Nobody else entered the conversation; there was no opportunity. And rarely, if at all, did they smile. They were lost in a world of their own. Rowe himself commented of the appointment, 'If you looked the whole world over, you couldn't have found yourself a better man. He is a shining example of what you can make yourself from application and honest effort.' But Frank Magee of the _Daily Mirror_ later reflected on the private circumspection that existed within journalistic circles. In an interview in 1970 Magee said: > I suppose the best way to sum up my own reaction and the reaction of most press men to Alf is to trace the whole affair right back to the beginning. To be quite honest, we viewed his appointment with dismay. This was essentially because Alf was not a communicator himself, quite unlike his predecessor Walter Winterbottom, who was always a marvellous subject no matter how his team had done or how he himself was criticised. And I think press relations are the one aspect of his job that Alf still does not completely understand. He is only really relaxed when he is with his players. Within the town of Ipswich, the mood was one of sadness at his departure, but pride at the honour bestowed on the club. Alf's appointment was announced during the week of the Cuban missile crisis, when the world stood on the brink of nuclear annihilation. As the _East Anglian Daily Times_ wryly commented: > In this particular part of the world, the talk gets round to Cuba only after all the possibilities involved by Mr Ramsey's promotion have been exhausted. This is sometimes referred to as a sense of proportion or a sense of balance. And the fact that Mr Ramsey shares the same headline space as Messrs Khrushchev and Kennedy would be regarded as a considerable compliment – to Khrushchev and Kennedy. On a more serious note, the _EADT_ believed that Alf was sure to succeed in his new post, because one of the primary lessons of his career was 'his determination to see a thing through. Once he has set his mind on a task, he will not give up until his objective has been reached.' Alf's standing within the club was reflected when John Cobbold gathered all the staff in the dressing-room to break the news of his elevation. According to Cobbold: > All of them wondered what the hell I was doing there. I had never addressed them as a group in my life. I said, 'Alf is going at the end of the season', and they were stunned, simply stunned. So I said, 'It's all right, we've not sacked Alf. He has been appointed England manager', and everyone just cheered and clapped and cheered again. It was a marvellous tribute but Alf deserves it. He made Ipswich Town. Later, Kenneth Wolstenholme, the respected commentator, revealed that Cobbold 'was in tears' when Alf was appointed. For all the applause given to Alf, his Ipswich team suffered a disastrous loss of form for most of 1962–63. Even before the season had begun, Ipswich were experiencing problems. After winning the title, they had embarked on a summer tour of Germany, only to find themselves booked into a brothel in Hamburg. As Tony Garnett recalls: 'It was the only time I ever saw Alf genuinely lost for words. The Ipswich party had to stay in a hotel of ill repute just a stone's throw from the notorious red light district. There was nothing Alf could do about it but he was less than happy, while John Cobbold thought it highly amusing.' More seriously, back in England, the system which had won the Championship had finally been rumbled by the more astute First Division managers. In the traditional opening match of the season, the Charity Shield, Ipswich had been beaten 5–1 by Spurs. On Nicholson's instructions, the two deep-lying Ipswich wingers were marked by the midfielders Blanchflower and Mackay, while Crawford and Phillips were taken by the Spurs full-backs and the centre-half. Maurice Norman, one of the Spurs defenders, recalls, 'It could have hardly gone better. Very little came from the Ipswich flanks and there were three of us to deal with the two centre-forwards. It was almost a doddle.' This start set the pattern for the following months, as Ipswich slid to 21st place by November. Performances were not helped by a series of injuries and a bitterly cold winter, which meant that Ipswich did not play a single League game between 26 December 1962 and 23 February 1963. The stresses of First Division football were also beginning to tell on several ageing members of the squad. Because of lack of money and Alf's instinctive loyalty to his players, he was reluctant to freshen the squad. 'There's no doubt Alf was a mastermind, but we struggled because we were stuck with what we had,' says Ray Crawford. As he was to show with England, Alf was brilliant at forging a winning unit, but where he was much weaker was in rebuilding. He could create, but he could not sustain. His stubbornness drove him to stick with the players and tactics that had first brought him success, even when they were no longer working. 'We will defend our League title in the same way we won it,' he announced, words that would find a painful echo with England in the seventies. In the summer of 1962, Alf bought just one new player, Bobby Blackwood from Hearts for £12,000, keeping all 28 of the previous season's squad, an act of almost reckless loyalty. Concentrating on the coaching of first-team players, he had never shown much interest in scouting or developing a youth team, which meant that there was little playing material in reserve. The absence of any infrastructure came as a shock to the man appointed by Ipswich to succeed Alf Ramsey. Jackie Milburn, the legendary Newcastle striker who had recently finished a three-year stint as player-manager of the Belfast club Linfield, arrived at Portman Road in January 1963, believing that he and Alf would co-operate until April, when Alf officially took up his post with England. But Milburn did not find much of a welcome from Alf, who bore him a grudge from his playing days. During a practice match within days of his arrival, Milburn found himself being tackled brutally by Alf. 'I had been fouled at Spurs eight years earlier and had got up in a terrible rage and pushed over the man nearest to me – who happened to be Alf Ramsey. I'd forgotten all about it until then but the way Alf looked at me, I knew he hadn't forgotten it,' recalled Milburn. That incident set the tone for an icy relationship. Alf did not think much of Milburn's behaviour as a player or his ability as a manager. Milburn claimed that not only did Alf refuse to give him much influence at the club, but he even barred him from team talks. When Milburn sought advice from his old Newcastle team-mate Joe Harvey, he was told, 'Take no more bloody shit.' As a result, Milburn aired his grievances at a meeting with John Cobbold. According to the account left by Milburn's son, 'Dad was patted somewhat patronisingly on the shoulder and reassured that Mr Ramsey's shadow would only hang over him until the end of the season.' But matters did not improve, especially as results on the field remained poor and Ipswich hovered above the relegation zone. Inspired by the all-too spectacular example of the club chairman, Milburn sought comfort in drink. 'He would splash out on a bottle and sit alone at the club or in a hotel room when away scouting and sip until he'd blotted the parts of his mind he'd intended,' wrote his son. Milburn was not the only one at Ipswich exasperated with Alf. In April 1963, Eric Steel, an Ipswich director and manager of a Suffolk firm of newspaper wholesalers, resigned from the board, complaining about Alf's excessive powers and unwillingness to invest in the club's future. Steel said he had continually urged the club to buy new players but had been told by the chairman, 'Let's leave that to Mr Ramsey, shall we?' Steel also felt that Ipswich's reserves were 'poor' but 'here again nothing was done. The management has been negligent.' Warming to his theme, Steel described the board as a 'bunch of Ramsey yes-men' and went on, 'Alf won't like me anymore and I'm sorry about that, but I'll not be a yes-man.' Contrary to Steel's worst fears, Ipswich scraped to safety in 17th place thanks to a run of wins towards the end of the season. But even after Alf's departure, Milburn, now manager in his own right, found him as unhelpful as ever. On one of Alf's visits to Portman Road, Jackie asked him if, in his capacity as England manager, he knew of any players he could recommend to Ipswich. Alf replied with a monosyllabic 'No' and walked away. 'That really puzzled me, coming from a man who was purported to care so much about his former club,' he told his son. The slide continued in 1963–64, leading to Ipswich's relegation and their worst ever defeat, 10–1 at the hands of Fulham. Jackie Milburn resigned soon after the start of the following season and then launched into a very public diatribe against Alf. In a _Sun_ article headline 'Ramsey Gave Me No Help', Milburn said: > I want to get one thing clear right from the start. Ipswich are a good club and the directors are gentlemen. But I accuse Alf Ramsey! He gave me neither help nor encouragement when I took over from him. I worked with him for ten weeks and the only advice I got was that I'd have to become thick-skinned to make a go of it. I inherited a team that was over the top and going downhill fast. I knew it, the directors knew it and the most disastrous thing of all, the players knew it too. Ramsey's attitude to me didn't help either. In the first few weeks I was there I was never invited to a team talk!...Ramsey's attitude convinced me I was on my own in a ruthless jungle. Milburn's wail would have had more justification if he had not been such a weak manager. Once Alf had left, he had been given the chance to run the team and had failed dismally. A decent man, he was far out of his depth in management. As Ray Crawford puts it: 'He had no understanding of how to get the best out of us, none at all. His team talks were poor. He could not inspire us. He could come in and say anything and nobody cared. To be fair, Alf was a very hard act to follow but Jackie did not help himself.' Jimmy Leadbetter shares that view: 'Jackie was the nicest man you could meet but he was not a manager. I felt sorry for him. He was chicken-hearted. He let people get away with things he shouldn't have.' Andy Nelson is even more harsh. 'From the moment he arrived, it was clear he did not have much idea about what was going on. Alf refused to leave until the club was safe and he was right, because within twelve months Jackie had devastated the place. He was absolutely clueless. He had no tactical sense at all.' Still, Alf does not emerge with any great credit from this episode. There was a cold, jealous streak in him, born of pride and insecurity, that prevented him warming to any of his successors in any job. The same had happened when Danny Blanchflower took over the captaincy from him at Spurs. Years later, he fell out bitterly with England manager Bobby Robson. Despite relegation problems, Ipswich Town released Alf to preside over England's game against France on 27 February 1963 in Paris. It was a qualifier for the European Nations Cup, the forerunner of today's European Championship. Shortly before the trip to Paris, journalist Ken Jones gave a lift to Alf from central London to Liverpool Street. He was immediately impressed by the new England manager: 'We set off through heavy-afternoon traffic. Alf was amiable; he spoke freely in a precise way, careful with his diction. "I have a great deal to learn about international football," he admitted. "I will have to look closely at players and settle on a system that suits the best of them."' Alf was so open that he revealed to Ken the make-up of most of the team, something that he would never do in future as Alf became more withdrawn. 'I was listening to him speak about various things and I thought I had it all figured out for myself. This is a guy, I was thinking to myself, who has only one objective, who will stand or fall by England's efforts in the 1966 World Cup. As at Ipswich, his thoughts were entirely concentrated on the production of a winning team. The wider aspects of English football, so dear to Winterbottom, held no interest for him.' That was a point that Alf had reinforced when he was appointed manager, stressing that he had no wish to take on Winterbottom's old job of Director of Coaching as well. The trip to Paris confirmed for Alf the need to ditch the selection committee, who had chosen the team for the game since Alf was not officially to take control until May. Several of them, including Graham Doggart, Chelsea Chairman Joe Mears and Joe Richards of Barnsley, accompanied him on the journey. As Alf told Ken Jones: > I could see right away how difficult things had been for Walter Winterbottom. In their way they were enthusiasts but they had no judgement I could respect. Doggart struck me as a nice man. But none of them could offer a worthwhile opinion. From my first meeting with them, I knew I'd been absolutely right to seek the authority I had been given at Ipswich. The team the committee picked gave Alf the worst possible start to his England career, though in mitigation it should be said that the big freeze in England had prevented any players gaining much match practice over the previous two months. And the Continent had also been affected by the weather. On a bitterly cold night in Paris, England were beaten 5–2, with goalkeeper Ron Springett giving a woeful performance. Ron Henry, who had been with Alf at Spurs in 1954 and won his only cap in this game, has these memories of Alf's first match in charge: > In his talk before the kick-off, he just said, 'If you behave yourself and work hard, you'll get on all right with me.' He did not talk tactics much that night. He just said, 'Go on, you know what you have to do.' It was an awful night, terrible. We hadn't played for about eight weeks because the winter was so bad. The pitch had a covering of snow. Ron Springett was in goal and he might as well not have been there because he was frozen and didn't move. It was so cold that when we had finished we had to sit around the edge of a big square bath and dangle our boots in the hot water because our laces had frozen solid. Alf could not really say much afterwards but he came round and shook your hand. Brian Labone, the Everton centre-half, also has unhappy memories: 'Obviously I did not play very well. You have a result like that, you look at the keeper and the centre-half because they're meant to be the backbone of the side. I remember after the game going down to some nightclub and getting really sloshed.' But Bobby Moore was impressed by the new manager in the face of a heavy loss: 'There was none of the ranting and raving you might have got from some managers.' Jimmy Armfield was Alf's captain that night: > The match should have never been played. You could hardly stand up and the floodlights were poor. I remember in the dressing-room afterwards Alf looked round for inspiration and could not find any. So he walked to me and said, 'Do we always play like that?' > > 'No.' > > 'That's the first bit of good news I've had all evening.' We were on the plane coming back and he said more to me in those three hours than he did for quite a while afterwards. He was on about players, our priorities, what it meant to get a group of players together. He said to me that it was important to get the unit right, that it was not always the best players that made the best unit. Springett's nightmare led Alf to drop him for the next England match, played in April at Wembley against Scotland. His place was taken by Gordon Banks, the Leicester keeper who, as much as Bobby Charlton and Bobby Moore, was to become one of the catalysts for the greatness of the Ramsey era. But his debut was not a happy affair, as Scotland won 2–1, with Jim Baxter 'strolling arrogantly around Wembley as if he owned the place', to use the words of Banks. It was Baxter who scored Scotland's first, as a result of a mistake by Jimmy Armfield, who hit a square ball across the defence, only to see it intercepted by Baxter and then drilled into the net. 'It was a killer goal to concede on your debut and I took my anger and frustration out on Jimmy, who conceded the mistake had been his,' said Banks. Having endured his second defeat in a row, Alf also confronted Armfield: > After the game he was walking towards me and I said, 'My fault, I know, I know.' > > 'You're not going to do that again, are you?' > > 'I'm not, Alf.' > > 'No, you're not.' > > That was the end of the conversation. He could be a bit cutting. Alf's faith in Jimmy Armfield's defensive qualities was never to be quite restored. Gordon Banks himself suffered a tongue-lashing from Ramsey after the next game, against Brazil at Wembley. The match, Ramsey's first since taking up the post full-time, was a creditable 1–1 draw for England, but he was furious with his defence, and especially his keeper, for ignoring his warnings about how dangerous the Brazilians could be with a free-kick near the box. In the first half, Pepe hit a vicious curling shot from 25 yards which went into the corner of the net with Banks completely stranded. Later in the dressing-room, recalled Banks, > Alf fired daggers at me with those piercing blue eyes of his. 'Don't say I didn't warn you,' he said. 'I gave exact details of what they do from their free-kicks, but you fell for the three-card trick.' I explained that it had moved in the air twice as violently as I had been led to expect, but I could tell from Alf's tight-lipped expression that he thought I should have saved it. In his own account written in 1970, Alf admitted that > this was the first time that England players realized I could show anger. Before the game I had discussed repeatedly with Gordon Banks the free-kick technique of their left-winger Pepe. Obviously Gordon couldn't have understood because the first free-kick Pepe took finished in the back of the net. I was furious because I had gone to such lengths to guard against such a possibility...After the match I went for Gordon. It is most unusual for me to vent my feelings against an individual but in this case it proved its value because he has become the greatest goalkeeper I have ever seen. A tough Yorkshireman, Banks never resented Alf's approach: > I admired him enormously. I thought he was a great manager. He went about his job so thoroughly, and put over his views very well, telling us how we should operate against certain opposition. For instance, there might be a winger in the opposition and Alf would say to me, 'This guy is very, very tricky. He has got a good right foot and can cross a good ball, but if he gets to the edge of the box and cuts in on the inside of the full back, he also has a good shot with his left foot.' So I would be looking out for this. If he tried it, I would be off my line in a shot. It is a sign of Alf's enormous self-confidence that in the first trio of games in charge, he should feel free to lay down his authority in such harsh terms to captain and goalkeeper. Unlike Winterbottom, he did not flinch from challenging his players. Ray Wilson, who played in those early games, told me this story which illustrates how eager Alf was to exert himself: > I'd had a game with Huddersfield on the Monday night and he came to meet me just outside the changing rooms on the training ground. He walked towards me, stopped me and began to chat. > > 'Hello, I'm Alf Ramsey,' he said. > > 'Yes, I know,' I joked. > > We talked for a moment and then he said, 'How would you like to play?' > > 'Well, when I nick the ball off somebody, I then try to find one of our players. I try to keep it as simple as I can. That's how I like to play.' > > 'You will bloody play as I want you to play.' He had met me, just to let me know that he was in charge. The central problem for Alf, however, was to devise the best formation in which to use his players. This was the issue that was to preoccupy him for the next two years, until, early in 1965, a mixture of insight and good fortune gave him the chance to create the system he wanted. In the meantime, he adopted the basic 4–2–4 style which Winterbottom had used, with two wingers and two strikers. Greaves seemed the obvious choice for one of the striking roles, but Alf had endless difficulty filling the other, while he also despaired of the talent of England's wingers. He wrote: > A vital requisite for successful 4–2–4 is two attacking wingers with the ability and speed to take on defenders, to get past them, take the ball to the goal line and pull it back...It became apparent that we hadn't got the wingers who could give us this service we wanted. One of those wingers was Bryan Douglas of Blackburn: > Alf was a thinking sort of a guy. But not as far as I was concerned. He thought me out of the game. Frankly, I don't think I did the job that he wanted. When he first came into the England set-up, he had a bit of a learning curve. And it was a bit of a joke that he could not get the names of some of the foreign players right – and even those of some of our own players. There might be a chuckle or two when he was going through the opposition. I suppose that was to be expected. But he had a natural authority about him, firm without being bombastic. I did not think he had much of a sense of humour, perhaps because he was a shy man. But then I was used to Walter Winterbottom, who had been a schoolmaster and was used to speaking in front of people. In the summer of 1963, England went on a three-match tour of Europe beginning against Czechoslovakia in Bratislava. Just after they arrived, Alf made a crucial decision, one that was to have huge long-term significance. Jimmy Armfield, the holder of the England captaincy, was injured so Alf had to appoint a new man to the role. Now the England captain during the 1962 World Cup had been the Fulham midfielder Johnny Haynes, the most elegant passer of a ball in English football, but he had suffered a serious car accident and struggled for much of the season to regain fitness. Nevertheless, many felt that by the end of 1963 Alf should bring back Haynes, who was still in his twenties and had been the lynchpin of club and country for several years. Alf would have none of it. Even a year later, in 1964, Alf still felt Haynes was not fit enough for international football. Fulham's George Cohen, who had established himself as England's right-back, was approached by Alf after a training session. 'How's Haynes?' 'Tremendous. He's snapped back into the game with all his old assurance and bite.' Alf then shook his head slowly. 'I don't think he's quite right. I don't think he's fully recovered from his injury.' Later, Cohen told Haynes of the conversation and Haynes just said, 'Alf's right'. Johnny Haynes was never to play for England again. At the end of his life, realism rather than resentment was displayed by Haynes towards Alf. 'He was right because when I returned I had a bit of a struggle. I was sort of playing on one leg,' he told me. What struck Cohen, however, was how shrewd Alf had been in his judgement of a player's fitness. But there may have been more to the Haynes issue than just the physical question. For Alf, a strong believer in the team ethic, may have felt that Haynes was too much of an individualist and perfectionist to be supportive of others. Alan Mullery, who played with him at Fulham, said: 'Johnny Haynes ruined more players' careers than anyone I can remember with his attitude of belittling colleagues. If you let him he would crucify you in the middle of a game.' With no Haynes or Armfield against Czechoslovakia, Alf turned to the 22-year-old West Ham defender Bobby Moore who had only come into the England team a year earlier. He was England's youngest ever skipper in 91 years of international football. Again, Ramsey's choice of Moore showed remarkably perceptive judgement. He had instantly recognized in Moore that calm, almost regal stature that distinguished him from other players. And he had also been struck by the way Moore handled himself in the defeat in Paris; on the coach to the airport after that game, Ramsey had sat beside Moore, 'asking me a million things about the way things had been done under Walter'. From that moment, Alf came to regard Moore as his lieutenant. In his turn, Moore was only too pleased to take on the captaincy: 'I was thrilled. I liked being a captain. I like the feeling of responsibility, that if something happens on the field I have to make a decision,' he said in 1966. Yet theirs was to be a purely professional relationship, one based solely on mutual respect and not on any deeper friendship. In fact, there were to be times over the next three years when Moore's behaviour off the field would lead Alf to re-examine his decision. Bobby's reign started in fine style, with a 4–2 win over Czechoslovakia, the mercurial Jimmy Greaves weaving his magic in the penalty box to score two goals. 'It seemed like the start of a new age of hope and ambition for England...Somehow England had found a new courage, a head-high pride and an unflinching spirit of battle. If new manager Alf Ramsey has done this, then his achievements are already of high merit,' wrote Desmond Hackett in the _Daily Express._ Before the match, Greaves gained an insight into the character of the new manager. Alf was explaining to the players that the coach would be leaving 45 minutes after the final whistle, and he stressed that the entire party would go back to the hotel together, fixing the players 'with that unblinking stare of his that gives listeners the feeling they are being hypnotised,' in Jimmy Greaves' description. Greaves continues: > There was an uneasy shuffling of feet and I could sense that my drinking pals in the England squad were waiting for me to act as their spokesman. 'A few of us were wondering, Alf,' I said, 'whether we could nip out for a couple of drinks before going back to the hotel...?' Alf studied me for a moment. 'Gentlemen, if some of you want a fuckin' beer, you'll come back to the hotel to have it.' He had made himself perfectly understood. It wasn't said in a nasty way and there was a hint of a twinkle in those cold blue eyes of his as they fastened on to me beneath those rich, thick eyebrows. Alf was just letting me know that he was in charge. From that moment on, Alf had me marked down in his photographic memory as a ringleader of the drinking squad. But it was Alf's determination to keep his team together that was later to pay such dividends. For Gordon Banks, the Czech match 'did the most to lay the foundations for the club-style spirit that was always in evidence for the remainder of Alf Ramsey's reign as England manager'. The tour continued to go well, as England racked up further victories over East Germany and Switzerland, who were hammered 8–1. _The Times_ commented at the end of the trip: 'Here was an England side buoyant, full of confidence...May we hope that the tide which has been channelled so successfully will be continued next season and beyond to 1966 and the World Cup. But maybe that is too big a dream.' It certainly was not for Alf. In the euphoric aftermath of the success of the tour, Alf gave a press conference at which he made a notorious remark that was to hang over him like the Sword of Damocles for the next three years. On his appointment in October 1962, Alf had told the _Express_ that England had 'a wonderful chance to win the World Cup in 1966'. But in June 1963 he went far further. 'England WILL WIN the World Cup,' he told the startled journalists. Bryon Butler, one of the most respected of all football correspondents, wrote in the _Daily Telegraph:_ 'It was a forecast that might have been anticipated; but Ramsey, a compact, urbane man who speaks slowly and picks his words adroitly, made his point emphatically enough to suggest that he passionately believes it to be true.' In reality, this was far from the case. This was no calculated attempt to boost morale after the Winterbottom era. In a rare moment of incaution, Alf had just blurted out the statement without thinking of the consequences. 'I don't think I really meant it when I said it,' he later confessed. 'The pressures at that time were simply enormous. It was probably just a question of saying the first thing that came into my mind, something I don't normally do.' But Alf felt that his words ultimately did more good than harm. 'Whilst it was an embarrassment over the years leading up to the World Cup because I always had to repeat myself, in a sense it was not a bad thing to have said, particularly from the players' viewpoint because if I showed confidence in them they would have confidence in me.' Ray Wilson certainly is of the view that it helped: > I remember hearing him on the radio when he said, in that voice of his, 'We will win the World Cup.' And like most of the lads I thought, 'For Christ's sake.' It was a hell of a pressure, that was. But Alf was great at passing on self-belief. I think we needed that at the time. Fortunately for Alf, England's excellent form continued through the rest of 1963, with further wins over Wales, the Rest of the World and Northern Ireland, so the press could not yet taunt him with his comment. Indeed, Alf's first year had been an almost unqualified success. Often cynical about managers, Bobby Moore said of Alf's start: 'For the first time since I'd come on the scene, England were really getting organised. I don't mean that to be disrespectful to Walter but I'd come in at the end of his reign, when he'd done it all. Alf was fresh and full of ambition.' Another admirer was Bobby Charlton, playing on the wing for England in 1963 before his productive switch a year later to an attacking midfield position: > The most fundamental difference between him and Walter was that Alf talked about the game like a real club pro. He'd been one. He never said an opponent was good unless he was. He was difficult to approach with opinions but that was probably right. The players didn't know best. Alf was never influenced by any player. He was always after what made a team rather than individuals. He made you feel you were picked because you were a good player, and he talked about what you needed. In Bratislava, he made me train in the area of the pitch where I would be playing, try the corner kicks to get the feel of the run-up. He was meticulous. After the defeat of Northern Ireland, Alf had to wait an awkward five months before his next international. It was in spells like this that he badly missed the day-to-day management of his role at Ipswich. A football obsessive, he disliked being away from the training ground, his sanctuary from the compromises of everyday life. He travelled into Lancaster Gate four days a week, working ten till four in a cramped, starkly furnished office, measuring thirteen feet by eight, 'a room utterly without character. In the days of Regency riches, it might have been part of the servants' quarters,' said the _Daily Mail,_ unwittingly reflecting the way the FA Council felt about the new England manager. Trapped in this soulless third-floor eyrie, he struggled to fill his hours. In 1970, he said: > There were times in the early days when it was so difficult for me to adjust that I could well have walked out saying 'this is no use to me'. I didn't feel involved enough. I wasn't active enough. I sat in my office with practically nothing to do, nothing except think about international football. I looked at players, checked through the files – such as we had – and studied as much as I could about foreign teams and so on. But the biggest contrast to my club days was the fact that I was not dealing with players day in and day out. Alf's spirits did not greatly revive when, in 1964, England travelled to Hampden Park and lost 1–0, their third defeat in a row to Scotland. This result only fuelled Alf's already ferociously anti-Caledonian spirit, which had burned brightly since his days as an England player. Not since the Duke of Cumberland has any Englishman had a more visceral dislike of the Scots. So strong was this emotion that it broke through his wall of reserve and he became more demonstrative, more voluble. Alan Hardaker, Secretary of the League, left this account after watching an England defeat by Scotland at Wembley: > Attempting to say something tactful to Alf, I merely observed that if England had to lose I'd rather they lost to Scotland than any foreign team. The effect on Alf was remarkable. His face clouded, he seemed to have difficulty in speaking and for a moment I thought he was going to explode with rage. He was beside himself but eventually, very deliberately, he ground out his reply, 'I'd sooner anybody beat us than the bloody Scots. He was just as intense with his players. Barry Bridges, the Chelsea striker, immediately noticed the change when a Scottish encounter was looming: > Alf was not one to show his feelings. But I remember, before we played Scotland in 1965, Bobby Moore said to me, 'You'll see a different Alf today.' And it was true. Alf was fired up, he really was. But after that, when we played the next few games, he was back to his normal self. The great Derby defender Roy McFarland told me that Alf's passion had not waned by the seventies: > For me, it was the only time I heard him swear. Just before we went out on the field, as we were going out the door, he'd say, 'Come on boys, let's beat these Scots fuckers.' It was a bit of a shock to me. Christ Almighty. It was the first time in my experience that he had shown emotion towards the opposition. He was letting us know what he felt about the game and the Scots. There is no doubt that the Scotland was the game that mattered. John Connelly, the Burnley winger, has this memory of Alf's anger at any concession to Scotland: > Once, when the ball ran out when we were playing at Hampden, I went and fetched it and threw it at a Scot. They took a quick throw, went down the line and damn near scored. Watching the film of this afterwards, Alf said to the rest of the lads, 'Just watch this pillock. What do you think of that, running after the fackin' ball for a fackin' Scotsman?' Alf's antipathy to the Scots did not stop him admiring individual players, as he showed with Jimmy Leadbetter, probably his favourite out of all the footballers he managed. Ken Jones tells this story of a banquet at Hampden after a game: 'I was there talking to Billy Bremner when Alf came past. He looked straight at Billy and said, "You're a dirty little bastard, aren't you? But by Christ you can play."' In return, Bremner was impressed with Alf as a manager when he served under him in a match between Wales and the Rest of Britain, held to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the Welsh FA. 'I could have played for him,' Bremner told Ken Jones. Jones was present at another moment in February 1968, when he was travelling back to London after England had been held to a draw at Hampden. The sleeper train had not yet left Glasgow, and Jones, armed with a couple of bottles of whisky, walked along to Alf's compartment, accompanied by Reg Drury of the _News of the World:_ > Alf is in his pale blue pyjamas and sitting on the edge of his bunk as we go in. Then a Scots fellow comes along the corridor looking for his own berth. He puts his head round the door and sees Alf. > > 'I thought you were a bit lucky today, Sir Alf,' he says, and then walks off in search of his compartment. > > Alf jumps off his bunk, and, still in his pyjamas, rushes out to the corridor and calls out to the disappearing figure. 'I say...' The Scotsman turns round and looks at Alf, who continues, '...piss off.' Alf used even stronger language on the immortal occasion when he and the England team were greeted at Prestwick Airport by the Scottish reporter Jimmy Roger: 'Welcome to Scotland, Mr Ramsey.' 'You must be fuckin' jokin'.' All of the journalists I have spoken to about this tale have said that it is certainly not apocryphal. Hugh McIlvanney, a Scot himself, says: > Alf would get irritated, but then Scots really can be pests. I fell out with a few of them during my National Service. The story about Alf at Prestwick gains more if you knew Jimmy Roger, who could do a very good impression of Uriah Heep. He was an ex-miner but he spent his whole life trying to ingratiate himself with players and managers. He used to get on my nerves, wee Jimmy. The defeat against Scotland at Hampden in 1964 was Alf's first since he had taken over in May. Immediately, the optimism of the previous year evaporated, as is so often the way in British sport where wild mood swings prevail and, in the absence of any sense of perspective, the slightest setback can lead to an onset of gloom. The _Guardian_ called the performance at Hampden 'pathetic'. And the response of the media and public was hardly improved by a 2–1 win over an ultra-defensive Uruguay in May, with the _Daily Telegraph_ reporting that Alf's side were 'booed and slow-clapped by a crowd whose patience had been tested to the limit by slow-motion football'. Alf had the chance, however, to improve the side's reputation during an extensive programme of matches in the summer of 1964, which began with a trip to Portugal and ended with an international tournament hosted by Brazil, known as 'the Little World Cup'. This competition was ideal preparation for the main event two years later, especially because the other three participants were Brazil, Argentina and Portugal, all leading contenders for 1966. Before the trip began, Alf had to show that he was in charge. He had never experienced any trouble with discipline at Ipswich, largely because, in the words of Tony Garnett, they were 'a well-behaved team'. But with England it was very different, because in the side in the mid-sixties were three of the heaviest drinkers ever to wear the white shirt: Jimmy Greaves, Bobby Moore and Johnny 'Budgie' Byrne, the West Ham forward. John Charles, who was one of the first top black footballers in the League and sadly suffered from alcoholism once he retired, said of the drinking culture that Moore and Byrne inhabited at West Ham: > We'd go to and from away matches to places like Newcastle by first-class train. By the end of the journey home the bottles of miniatures were piled up in a big heap and we'd thrown half out the window. We were always on the piss. We went from club to pub. Mooro was as good as gold on the field and off the field, but he was a piss-head. He liked a gin and tonic. He liked a lager too. You couldn't get him drunk. He was one of the best drinkers I knew. He was on a par with Oliver Reed! God could he drink. Another former West Ham player told Johnny Byrne's biographer that > Byrne was the best in the country by 1965, but he chose to mess about and piss away all that ability. He had all the confidence in the world but he couldn't do what Bobby did. Mooro would come in after a night on the lager and sweat it all off. Budgie wasn't going to have any of that. This was the culture that Alf decided he had to confront before it infected England. One of Alf's first acts as England manager had been to insist that the entire squad stay together in the same hotel; he said he had been 'really astounded' that London players had been used to sleeping in their own homes while on international duty. 'From a team point of view this had to be changed. And it was.' So the day before flying to Portugal, all the players gathered at White's Hotel near the FA headquarters at Lancaster Gate. They were then taken by coach down to the Bank of England's sports ground at Roehampton, which was to become the traditional England training venue during Alf's reign. After some light practice, they spent half an hour at the club's bar, with Alf buying the round, and then took the coach back to the hotel for dinner. It was a warm evening, and Bobby Moore suggested to some of the players that they join him for a stroll into the West End. Greaves and Byrne, of course, jumped at the idea, knowing that alcohol would be a key element of the itinerary. They were joined by George Eastham, Ray Wilson, Gordon Banks and, surprisingly, Bobby Charlton, by far the quietest member of the party, The magnificent seven set off down Bayswater Road, had a few beers in a pub near the hotel, and then ended up in a bar called the Beachcomber, a favourite haunt of Greaves. All those involved agree that there was no outrageous drinking; 'nobody was drunk or anything like that,' says Ray Wilson. Accounts differ, though, as to when the group got back to the hotel. Jimmy Greaves claims it was 'nearly midnight', whereas Gordon Banks, perhaps more convincingly, believes that it was 'past 1 am'. Whatever the actual time of their return, they were all greeted by the same sight when they reached their rooms. Each one found his passport lying on his pillow. It was subtle gesture, but its message was strikingly clear for players who were used to management keeping their travel documents. They all knew they were in serious trouble with Alf. 'It was his way of saying, "Any more of this and you won't be travelling with England," ' recalls Greaves. He had imposed no formal curfew, but it was clearly intolerable for players to saunter back to the hotel in the early hours after a night's drinking on the eve of a major tour. If the players had asked to go out he would have probably refused them permission, but they had not bothered to do so, which made him all the more infuriated. At 11.30 that evening, he had gone round the hotel corridors with the England trainer Harold Shepherdson to check on the rooms and it was then that he discovered the absence of the seven miscreants. Alf could have confronted the players on their return from Mayfair, but that carried the risk of creating a public scene, which could have reached the press. So he decided on a more sophisticated course of action, one that let the players stew for a while. 'None of us slept well that night,' admitted Bobby Charlton. Alf said nothing the next morning as they flew off to Lisbon on the Thursday. Nor was anything said on their arrival, nor the next day at training. It was not until after training on Saturday that he finally dealt with them. 'You may all go and get changed,' he announced, 'except for the seven players who I think would like to stay and see me.' The rest of the squad walked out, wondering what was happening, for none of the seven had spoken outside their circle about the incident. 'We felt like little boys who had been found scrumping in an orchard as we shuffled with embarrassment in front of an obviously angry Alf,' says Gordon Banks. Once he had the seven in front of him, Alf began in a low-key tone. 'Now what is going on, gentlemen? When you come away with me I don't expect to see you disappearing in the middle of the night.' George Eastham was the first to speak, 'Well, Alf, it's the normal thing. We normally go out and have a few drinks. After all, the game was still four days away.' Alf looked round the room for a moment, and then really let it rip: > You can count yourselves lucky to be standing here right now. If I had enough players with me, I would have sent you all home when we were back in London. All I hope is that you have learned your lesson. I will not tolerate this sort of thing again. You are here to do a job for England and so am I. Gentlemen, the matter is now closed. This had been Alf at his most ferocious. His anger was certainly not synthetic. Budgie Byrne later remembered it as 'the most severe and punishing reprimand' he had ever experienced. 'His face turned white. He lost it and gave us a right bollocking.' Alf put all seven players in the side for the game against Portugal. His message about their responsibilities to their country seemed to have been heeded, as Byrne scored a hat-trick and Bobby Charlton one other goal in England's 4–3 victory. Certainly, for the majority of the players, Alf had shown he was the boss, a very different, much tougher manager compared with Winterbottom. 'He went a bit over the top but he was telling us, "I am the man in charge now," ' says Ray Wilson. The news of his verbal assault spread through English football like wildfire, creating his image as an unforgiving disciplinarian. As George Cohen puts it: > He was an old pro, he wanted everybody to know and he was not about to miss a trick. His basic attitude was that if players couldn't act like adults for the limited time they were with the team there was wasn't an awful lot of point in them being there. You couldn't really go on the piss and be sufficiently focused to represent your country. But there was one man who did not take the reprimand too seriously: his own captain Bobby Moore, a far more complex, difficult man than the blond hero of 1966 mythology. Superficially, there were some similarities with Alf. Both were born into East London working-class families and went on to captain club and country. Both possessed a natural, cool authority on the field. As players, both lacked pace but were tremendous readers of the game and distributors of the ball. Both had a quiet charisma, which could be interpreted as aloofness. Neither man was an easy conversationalist, especially when in the company of strangers. 'There was always a distance. You felt that there was always another door inside him that you could never reach,' wrote Hugh McIlvanney of Bobby, words that could equally have applied to Alf. Both were always immaculately dressed; indeed Bobby was something of an obsessive about his appearance – he even arranged his jumpers in his wardrobe in order from dark to light. Yet there were huge differences as well. Alf was an intensely private man, whose only two worlds were football and his domestic life with Vickie, whereas Bobby revelled in the glamorous life of a soccer star, especially the drinking and the nightclubbing. Alf rarely visited bars; for Bobby they were almost a second home. Outside football, Alf had an awkward diffidence, and was uneasy with public recognition, whereas Bobby enjoyed his fame in a stylish way. Jack Charlton was once deeply impressed when Bobby took him to a club behind Grosvenor House Hotel. Bobby drove up to the club in his Jaguar, climbed out of his seat, handed the keys to the doorman and went inside. 'I'd never seen anybody do that before and ever since I've always wanted to have a big car and be well-known enough to give the keys over and have someone park it for me,' said Jack. Alf's preferred mode of transport was the underground and the afternoon train to Ipswich. Alf, modest and conservative, disliked being photographed, and was once deeply embarrassed when he was forced to pose for a publicity picture with that tempestuous Hollywood couple Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. 'I wish they wouldn't shoot me from this angle. It makes me look bald,' said Alf to his wife during one of his hated photo sessions. 'Never mind, dear, you're doing very well,' replied Vickie, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. In contrast, Bobby was only too delighted with his image as a fashionable sixties icon, and after 1966 was regularly photographed by celebrity artists like Terry O'Neill, featuring in magazines with his attractive wife Tina. Alf was not interested in the trappings of wealth and fame; Moore revelled in them. Alf remained a xenophobe all his life; Bobby was a global figure. Alf called the Argentinians 'animals'; Moore embraced Pele. But perhaps the biggest difference was the streak of cynicism that lay at the core of Bobby Moore, something that Alf utterly lacked. Naïve and earnest, Alf clung to the values of the era into which he had been born. He was no moralizer and was capable of deceit and ruthlessness – as he showed in tapping up Ron Reynolds or in lying about his age – but in his old-fashioned, often derided, way he strove to be an English gentleman. Bobby was far more worldly, more irreverent. Keenly aware of his status, he was capable of inflicting humiliation on others, often through a barbed comment or a withering look. It is one of the paradoxes of this golden era in English football that Moore is seen as the shining knight, the epitome of English decency and warmth whereas Alf is so often regarded as the iron-hearted pragmatist. On the afternoon of the 1966 victory, Moore was pictured kissing the Jules Rimet trophy, a beaming smile on his handsome face, while Alf remained distant and stony-faced. But in truth, beneath his diffident exterior, Alf was a cauldron of seething passion, driven by intense loyalty and patriotism. Yet Moore, behind his front of charm, was calculating, cold, even cruel at times. When he was secretly conducting the affair which ultimately ended his marriage in the early eighties, his wife Tina, unaware of his infidelity but disturbed by his indifference, asked him tearfully why she always seemed to come second to football. 'What makes you think you're as high as second?' replied Moore. Alf, for all his fixation with soccer, would have been incapable of making such a remark. In fact, once he retired, Alf completely devoted himself to Vickie. Where Alf's distance was caused by a sense of insecurity, Bobby's was due to a feeling of superiority. As Brian James, the former _Daily Mail_ chief football writer, says: > People would gravitate towards Bobby because, in a quiet sort of way, he could be a hell of a mickey-taker. He could be pretty sly in his comments. And around him in the England team there was a London gang, with Budgie Byrne and Jimmy Greaves. They were like the troublemakers at the back of the class, nudging each other and having a giggle. Nigel Clarke agrees with this judgment: > Like Alf, Bobby was a bit cold and diffident. But unlike Alf, Bobby was a bit of a piss-taker. It was Bobby's way of showing that he was as important as Alf. He would never detract from Alf's brilliance but sometimes the relationship became a bit strained because Alf was aware that Bobby was sending him up. Alf hated that; he always hated anybody doing that. Sometimes Bobby would do it in public to get a laugh from the players and that really grated with Alf. His eyebrows would furrow and he would stare at Bobby. Socially, they were completely incompatible. Bobby's own manager at West Ham, Ron Greenwood, wrote of Moore: > I even wanted to sack him at one point and our relationship became unhappy and strained. There was an icy corridor between us. He was very aloof, locked in a world of his own. He even started to give the impression that he was ignoring me at team-talks. He would glance around with a blasé look on his face, eyes glazed in a way that suggested he had nothing to learn. It was impossible to get close to him. There was a big corner of himself that would not or could not give. It hurt that he could be so cold to someone who cared about him. As Tina put it, 'When you were on the icy side of Bobby – on the outside and not able to get in – it was horrible.' Jeff Powell of the _Daily Mail,_ who was probably closer to Bobby than anyone else in football, says that Bobby's early experiences at West Ham under Ted Fenton bred in him a contempt for all managers, a pattern that led to 'an artificial relationship with Alf Ramsey'. Moore's irreverence would occasionally come out in jibes at the England manager, as in the time during the Mexico World Cup, when the England players were trooping into dinner and Alf, worried about infections in the humid climate, asked if they had washed their hands: 'Why, are we not being given any knives and forks?' Back in 1964, Moore was just as cynical. 'Alf scared the shit out of most of us! But I'm not sure Bobby bought it. He could read Alf like a book,' said Budgie Byrne. Indeed, according to Jeff Powell, Bobby thought the whole affair was nothing more than a storm in a beer glass. 'It would have been ridiculous if some of the great players had not gone to the 1966 World Cup just because we had a few beers four days before a match.' Moore, in alliance with Greaves and Byrne, maintained this attitude once the team left London for a match against the USA before journeying to South America for the Little World Cup. On the plane across the Atlantic, Alf initially allowed the players to drink only orange juice. But once he had gone to sleep, Moore and Byrne surreptitiously ordered champagne and gin and tonics. In New York the team was booked into the Waldorf Astoria and immediately on their arrival Alf imposed a curfew. But within the hotel, several of the pressmen were holding a party in a suite on the 25th floor, to which they invited the England team. Barely the moment the first drinks had been served, the England doctor, Alan Bass, acting on Alf's instructions, telephoned the suite to warn that Alf would be there in 15 minutes and did not expect to find any of his players present. It is a reflection of the fear that Alf now inspired, after the Beachcomber episode, that immediately almost all of the players vanished. Typically, Budgie Byrne counselled a show of defiance: 'Forget Alf. If he comes in and finds us all here he can't send all of us home.' But the rest of squad preferred not to take such a risk, and charged back to their rooms twenty storeys below. Byrne was the last to leave. But even after this incident, Bobby Moore remained as insouciant as ever, deliberately flouting Alf's curfew at the Waldorf Astoria, as Jimmy Greaves, who was sharing a room with him at the time, recalls: > It was about 11.45 pm and Mooro said, 'Come on, we're going out.' > > 'Where are you going?' > > 'I want to see Ella Fitzgerald.' > > When you're room-mates, you have to go along. Down in the lift we go and we get to this bar where Ella Fitzgerald is performing – we couldn't get in, the place was packed. So we poked our heads around the door so we could say we've seen her sing. We were back within an hour. But it wasn't the best thing to do, and Alf got to know about it and wasn't happy. Mooro got me into a lot of scrapes. Yet Greaves' tongue could be just as cutting as Moore's towards Alf. One time in the England dressing-room, a discussion arose about the merits of various club chairmen. Jimmy, feeling bored with the conversation, contributed little: 'Haven't you anything to say on the subject, Jimmy?' said Alf. 'Not really, there's little choice in rotten apples.' 'Come on Jimmy, I would have thought you, of all people, would have something more articulate to say. "Little choice in rotten apples?" We are English, Jimmy. We speak English, the language of Shakespeare,' said Alf. 'That was Shakespeare.' Another time, in 1965, when England were in West Germany, the party had boarded the coach waiting to go to the cinema. Greaves and Moore were standing in the lobby of the hotel, talking to trainer Harold Shepherdson. 'Harold!' shouted Alf, and Shepherdson obediently ran onto the coach. But Greaves and Moore carried on chatting, indifferent to Alf. 'Mr Moore and Mr Greaves, we'll go when you're ready.' There is no doubt that Alf grew weary of this mocking double act in the run-up to 1966. Barry Bridges, the Chelsea and England striker, says: > Alf was great if you were doing the business for him, the straightest guy you could ever meet, but you would not want him as an enemy. If you crossed him, he would not get you straight away but he would get you in the end. You would get your comeuppance. I sometimes wonder if that's what did for Greavsie. Cohen agrees: 'Greavsie never seemed to grasp the principle of discipline and the value of it and that was always going to be a point of conflict with Alf.' In the same vein, Ken Jones told me: 'I remember after one match in 1963, Moore and Greaves were giggling on the back of the bus about something and Alf, who did not trust either of them, said within my earshot, "I'll win the World Cup without either of those two."' It is a remarkable line, showing both Alf's confidence about 1966 and his bitterness towards the two Londoners. But there was little sign of England's championship pedigree during the Little World Cup in 1964. Alf's team arrived in South America after thrashing the USA 10–0, a result which wiped away some of the pain of the 1950 defeat. As Gordon Banks recalls: 'Alf got quite worked up in his team talk before this game. He told us how he had never been allowed to forget that he was one of the England team beaten by the United States.' Roger Hunt scored four and Fred Pickering of Everton got a hat-trick, though he was only to play twice more. Pickering says today: > Alf was great with his players, but he was experimenting a lot then and he obviously decided I was not right for him. There was a great atmosphere in the England camp. He did not have any favourites. A lot of managers try to alter you, but Alf just let you get on with your game. He said to me that he'd picked me for what I was doing for Everton, so I should go out and play the same way for England. Maurice Norman, the Spurs defender, was another who saw Alf at close quarters and liked his management style: > I quickly saw how very strong on discipline he was. He would not put up with players who did their own thing outside training. He wanted us to get to know each other and concentrate solely on the next game. Playing for England was for him the ultimate distinction. He demanded more for the team in every way but he also expected more from it. This made you want to give more, to try harder. He made you feel good about yourself, your game; he inspired you to give more. I felt I could have run through a brick wall for him. Many found him cold and aloof but I always got on well with him. He was always fair, never slated you in team talks but took you aside and discussed your mistakes privately. He was a perfectionist, believing that to develop the team's understanding you needed frequent meetings, discussing all aspects of the game and opposition. These qualities were not enough to inspire victories in the Little World Cup in June 1964, as England were beaten 1–5 by a rampant Brazil in their first game, with three of the Brazilian goals coming from free-kicks. Tony Waiters was England's keeper in that match: > It was a strange game. We actually did very well for the first sixty minutes. The score stood at 1–1 and then the floodgates opened. Because of the accuracy and creativity that the Brazilians had at free-kicks, it was decided that we put six players in the wall to make it difficult to score. But I ended up trying to get a look at the ball because most of the players were blocking my view. Then suddenly a missile would enter the net. Waiters, who went on to become a successful international coach, taking Canada to the World Cup finals in 1986, says he learnt a great deal from Alf: > I was in the squad for four years up to 1966 and I saw that Alf was very different in the sense that he was much more tactical than other managers of the time. It was a privilege to see him in action. He was very well-organized in terms of his practices and team talks. I remember Jimmy Armfield, who was with me at Blackpool, saying to me when Alf started, 'This is a bit different.' His talks lasted about an hour. They were never boring. They never lost their tension or concentration. It was all good stuff, very thorough, all given by Alf. Harold Shepherdson, the trainer, would always be there but it was pretty well all Alf. In fact it was a bit of a joke with the players because Alf would say at the end, 'Anything you want to add, Harold?', and Harold would always reply, 'No, Alf.' I had a few good one-to-one talks with Alf and it was nearly always on the tactical side. Like I remember once I had a discussion with him about my throwing. He wanted my throws to go to feet, but I had a way of throwing the ball to the player in front of him so it would reach him right in his stride. He nailed me on it because he feared that such a throw could be intercepted and then we would be in trouble. I would not call him a defensive coach but defensively his teams were very well-organized. What also struck me – from a man-management point of view – was that he gave responsibility to players. So at our hotel in Rio he did not stop us having a beer. In fact, he encouraged us to do so, partly on the grounds that a glass of beer was less likely to do you harm than a glass of water. Soon after this heavy defeat, Alf and the team watched the key match of the tournament, Argentina against Brazil. Again, Alf saw the volatility of the South American crowds which he had first experienced during the Southampton tour of 1948. 'It was like being front-line observers of a world war,' said Banks, sitting with his colleagues along the touch-line. 'It was one of the roughest games I've ever seen. Before long practically every player on the field was putting the boot in,' said Cohen. The Brazilian spectators grew so incensed at the treatment meted out against Pele that they started to fire rockets into the air and hurl fruit and debris onto the pitch. When a half-eaten apple smashed into Alf's back, he stood up and said, 'Gentlemen, I'm ready, shall we go?', before ushering the team to the comparative shelter of the tunnel exits. Following a 1–1 draw with Portugal, England then had to face Argentina in their last game of the tournament. Argentina adopted an ultra-defensive, often brutal approach, and managed to win 1–0, having scored with one of their few forays into the England half. George Eastham recalls: > They pulled eight players back behind the ball, and if you got past the first line of defence, down you went. Alf told us not to get involved if Argentina cut up rough, just to look after ourselves. He didn't have to tell me twice. I remember looking up from the floor to see Rattin standing over me. He made as if to stamp on my leg, then stepped over me. Goodness knows to what lengths Argentina would have gone if they'd needed to win the game. It was amazing, really, because they were a terrific team. They let us have most of the ball and won 1–0. In the end, I think Alf was just glad to get out of there. He detested them. For all his dislike of the Argentinians' methods, Alf knew that there was still a huge gap in class between them and England. They had shown more organization in defence, soaking up the pressure and then scoring on the break. It was a valuable lesson for Alf, who knew he would have to develop the same tight coherence in his England unit if they were to compete against the best. So far he had used 31 players in his first 17 games, no great advance on the vagaries of the selectors, and, to outsiders, he had fixed on neither settled personnel nor an effective system. Danny Blanchflower wrote in the _Sunday Express:_ > There has been no gradual build-up to a peak with the conviction growing and getting stronger for the future. I think that Alf is experimenting too much. Of course you have got to experiment from time to time. But not experiment every game. Otherwise you build nothing. And England's results hardly improved with disappointing draws against Belgium and Holland and narrow wins in the Home Internationals against Wales and Northern Ireland. 'The task Alf Ramsey set himself, to coach the abundant but ill-organised soccer talent to win the World Cup, is facing failure,' said the _Daily Mail_ after the game with Belgium. So lacklustre were England's performances that John Cobbold cheekily offered Alf his old job back as manager of Ipswich on the departure of Jackie Milburn. Alf never gave the idea a moment's consideration. 'It was worth the try but Alf's decision did not surprise me – he is not the kind of man to leave a job half done,' said Cobbold. Even at the highest level, the lack of intelligence and foresight in his players regularly frustrated Alf. Tony Waiters remembers Alf giving Terry Venables a lecture after his debut against Belgium: > Terry was running from one player to another, trying to pressurize the opposition on his own. And afterwards Alf gave him a bollocking, in a very nice way. He said, 'That's great, Terry, that you're putting so much effort in but it's got to be shared by the team. You do your job and then drop off, let some others come in. Gordon Banks also recalled Alf fuming after England had been 4–0 up against Northern Ireland in Belfast, and then had conceded three goals in the second half. 'He confronted us in the dressing-room afterwards and demanded to know what had gone wrong. "If you can't cope when you are four goals in the lead, what's going to happen when you are a goal down?"' In mitigation to the England team, however, what had gone wrong was a certain genius called George Best. But Alf had his own genius from Manchester United: the balding, blond winger Bobby Charlton. During the early part of Alf's reign, Charlton was an enigma, delighting crowds with his surging runs but all too often losing his way in a game. Some questioned whether he would ever fulfil his enormous natural talent. Alf himself grew frustrated at Bobby's carelessness: 'Bobby would listen, talk about my ideas and agree that they would improve his performance. Everything we had spoken about would last for five or ten minutes on the field – then it would go completely out of his head.' Then, against Northern Ireland in Belfast in October 1964, Alf made a crucial tactical decision, one that allowed Charlton to blossom. He switched him from the wing to an attacking midfield position, something Charlton had already been doing with Manchester United. At a stroke, Charlton was given more freedom – and more responsibility. Charlton repaid Alf's tactical intuition by giving an excellent performance against the Irish, though it was not until early 1966 that he realized his true greatness. Soon Alf was to make an even bigger tactical move, one that would change the face of British football for ever. After the Northern Ireland game, the _Daily Mail_ wrote: 'Ninety minutes of shambles in Belfast ought to be enough to end the eighteen month reign of amiable Alfred. England's team manager should and must feel angry enough to become Ruthless Ramsey.' Alf was about to do just that. # [EIGHT _Lilleshall_](004-toc.html#ch8) The key moment in the Hollywood classic _The Glenn Miller Story_ occurs when the lead trumpet player in Miller's band cuts his lip open in rehearsal. Without one of their most important players, it looks like the band will have to abandon its forthcoming programme of concerts. At first Glenn Miller, brilliantly portrayed by Jimmy Stewart, is sunk into gloom. Then he has a flash of inspiration: why not have a clarinet play the lead trumpet's part? Right through the night, Miller sits up re-writing all his arrangements to incorporate the lead clarinet's new role. The next morning, the band rehearses. From almost the first note of _Moonlight Serenade,_ Miller knows he has hit upon a unique sound, one that would revolutionize big band music. That night, as the band play in their new style for the first time, the audience stands and applauds. And Miller, as modest and cool as Alf Ramsey, gives a shy smile and an almost imperceptible wink to his wife. Alf's own Glenn Miller moment arrived on 8 February 1965. He had called the squad together at England's rural training venue of Lilleshall in Shropshire, which England used when based outside London. It quickly emerged that the perennial problem of club versus country, which has dogged English football since the dawn of international competition, had arisen once more. As so often before and since, the League managers had made soothing noises about assisting Ramsey in his task, but it when it came to the crunch, they still gave priority to their clubs. Some felt that Alf was not being tough enough. In the _Daily Mail_ Brian James wrote: > Ramsey should start to demand that he has the entire squad together two days a week to work for England, leaving Wednesday, Thursday and Friday for training with their clubs. Not every manager will accept this easily. But one, who supports Ramsey, told me, 'He has got to start demanding what he needs. He has been too soft. He must start picking fights with people if we are to get anywhere.' If Ramsey is not prepared to fight the hindering legions of 'League Soccer First', then he must select several players from the same side. The draining influence of clubs was particularly stark this February morning. Alf turned up expecting to work with his 22 players for three days. Yet six of his chosen players were absent, including Gordon Banks, Bobby Charlton, Terry Venables and the skilful Liverpool winger PeterThompson. All six of them were fit, but their clubs had FA Cup ties on the following Saturday. Alf was frustrated at this obvious lack of co-operation: 'Players will have to be available when I want them next season – even before cup ties, if I think it necessary. It is as simple as that.' The mass absenteeism, however, gave the Alf the chance to indulge in tactical experimentation. It is one of the paradoxes of Alf that he was such a conventional suburban Englishman – once, when the Queen was making a visit to Portman Road, he went out and bought a bowler hat – yet such a radical innovator on the football field. He had been the lynchpin of push-and-run at Spurs and the creator of Ipswich's deep-wing system. When he took over as England manager, he complained about English football being 'so rigid', sticking to 'set ways of playing with a particular player tied to his position'. For some time, Alf had been dissatisfied with the 4–2–4 formation he had inherited from Winterbottom, which had achieved mixed results and had looked woefully inadequate in the Little World Cup. He had been thinking about the bold departure of playing 4–3–3, using midfielders rather than wingers to mount attacks. For Alf, the great advantage of this method was that it strengthened the defence, since midfielders were much more used to tracking back than wingers. In addition, it allowed more flexibility in attack, given that modern international defences, like Argentina's, covered so well that it was almost impossible for a winger to break through. Alf believed that, since his playing days, 'defenders have tightened up. Nowadays when a winger has got past a full back he is always confronted by another covering player'. With Bobby Charlton – who still played largely as a winger in the 1964–65 season, despite the successful trial in midfield in Belfast – and Peter Thompson away, Alf told the full senior side to play 4–3–3 in a practice match against the England Under-23s, who were instructed to hold to the normal 4–2–4 formation. The result far exceeded Alf's expectations: > I played what amounted to a rather cruel trick on the younger players, in that I gave them no advance warning of the tactics the seniors were about to employ. The seniors, with three recognised outstanding footballers in midfield – Bryan Douglas on the right, Johnny Byrne in the middle and George Eastham on the left – ran riot with the young lads. They didn't know what it was all about. The senior team enjoyed it tremendously. They were full of enthusiasm. Contrary to some opinions I was not influenced by the tactics of the Argentinians during the Little World Cup in Brazil in 1964. The Argentines, for me, played with five players, sometimes more, in the middle of the field. Their object seemed mainly to avoid defeat. Mine had always been to win. The 'wingless wonders', so derided by traditionalists, were born that day at Lilleshall. After two years of frustration, Alf had finally hit upon a system that would challenge the world. He had been far-sighted enough to see which way football was moving, and to devise a strategy to cope with that change. A cold realist, he knew that nostalgia for the era of Matthews and Finney was not going to win England any trophies in the new defence-minded climate of international football. Like the cavaliers of the 17th century, those who called for dazzling wing-play were romantic but wrong. As Dave Bowen, the former manager of Wales, put it: > Of course we've all followed Ramsey. The winger was dead once you played four defenders. Alf saw that and it just took the rest of us a little longer to understand. With three defenders it was different. The back on the far side was covering behind the centre-half so the winger always had space from the cross-field pass. With four defenders the backs can play tight on the winger and he's lost his acceleration space. Without that, the winger's finished. He's got to keep looking for an opening. So it's better to opt for work-rate, for a player who will go again, show his courage and not be confined to the touchline. Like a spin bowler trying out a mysterious new delivery, Alf was initially sparing in the use of 4–3–3. He was not sure if it would be suitable in all conditions, nor did he want to advertise it too widely. He first unveiled it in a match situation during a brief summer tour of Europe in 1965, when England beat West Germany 1–0 in Nuremburg, with Mick Jones of Leeds, Derek Temple of Everton and Alan Ball of Blackpool playing up front. He then followed this up with a 2–1 victory over Sweden in Gothenburg four days later. As Jimmy Armfield recorded, there was some scepticism in the squad about the new method: > When he first talked of 4–3–3, a lot weren't too sure, including some of the players. My attitude was to see what happened first. We got into a rhythm with it and handled it well, because prior to that we'd had 4–2–4 with two wide men, but Alf thought we had to move on and you had to move with him. It helped that we all liked him and trusted him. I know he wasn't everybody's cup of tea, he'd have never got a job in PR but he stood up for his players and we liked him for that. Derek Temple remembers Alf as > very thorough. He was a deep thinker about the game. He was self-deprecating and could have a laugh against himself about the old days when he played. But when he wanted you to be serious, that was it, you had to be serious. He understood professionals. I was never the most confident player and Alf would always try to build me up. I tell you one thing, he hated unpunctuality. If he told you to be somewhere at a certain time, you'd better not be late. He would get really angry then. A late arrival would get a real rollicking from him in private. Mick Jones, who made his debut in Nuremburg, was another impressed by the England manager: 'Alf was fantastic; he really made me feel at ease. He was extremely knowledgeable and never got flustered. He simply asked you to do what you did at club level.' Alf's growing faith in 4–3–3 was confirmed when, in the autumn of 1965, he reverted to 4–2–4, and saw a dismal run of results, including a narrow win against Northern Ireland, a 0–0 draw against Wales and a defeat at home by Austria, Alf's first loss at Wembley since he took full control of the side. This last result prompted an outpouring of indignation from the press, which poured scorn on Alf's repeatedly stated belief that England would win in 1966. Brian Glanville wrote in the _Sunday Times:_ > It was John Wilkes who said that the Peace of Paris was like the Peace of God; it passed all understanding. He might just as well have been talking about Alf Ramsey's teams. He is pursuing a course which is as obstinate as it is inexplicable, a course which leads one to doubt if the team is being picked on any rational basis. J.L. Manning was just as scathing in the _Daily Mail:_ > Mr Ramsey's electioneering is no more relevant than it would be if he went around regularly kissing babies instead of occasionally drilling his team. He will go out as he came in. France knocked his side out of the European Nations Cup in 1963 and be sure some other country will do that in the World Cup in 1966. But the situation was not nearly as dark as this vituperation suggested. In his column, J.L. Manning argued that 'England under Ramsey is the same as England under Winterbottom. And for good reason. The footballers are all the same.' This was nonsense. Alf was not only changing his tactics; he was also bringing in new personnel. Over the previous two years Alf had been struggling to find the right blend of players, without much success, but by 1965, some of his choices were looking more fruitful. Against Yugoslavia in May, he picked the livewire 19-year-old Alan Ball, the son of a League manager and a player of tireless commitment who was so fixated with football that he did nothing to cure his adolescent spots, hoping that they would drive the girls away and allow him to concentrate on his football. Alf, the ultimate football obsessive, would have understood that. And, like all of the 1966 team, Ball remains today full of admiration for Alf: > Everything I achieved in the game I owe to him. I loved Alf to death. He gave me my opportunity. I remember my first call up to the squad. Before the game against Yugoslavia he took me to one side and said, 'I think it is about time you played for your country. So let's see what you can do.' I thought I had gone on that tour of Europe for the experience, not imagining I would play. But I had great confidence in my ability. I was not nervous on the big stage. I had this drive in me. I wanted to be the best. It got me into lots of shit, lots of bother because I was that keen. But Alf seemed to like that way about me. He liked my attitude. He was a really special man. He was not a big motivational speaker. Not really gung-ho, like some – indeed myself, he was not that type of manager. But he got you to do exactly what he wanted. The only time Alf ever really rocked me back on my heels was in a Football League game against the Scottish League. We were winning at Hampden Park and I thought I was playing really well. We came in at half-time. He was walking over towards me in the dressing-room and I thought he was going to say something like, 'Well done.' He sat down beside me and said very quietly: > > 'Do you think Bobby Moore can pass the ball?' > > 'Yeah, sure Alf, he's a great passer.' > > 'Well then, why do you keep going back and taking the ball off him? If Bobby Moore passes the ball to you 20 yards up the field, you are 20 yards nearer the enemy. And with your passing ability, you can hurt the enemy 20 yards further up the pitch.' > > I never, ever went back and took the ball off Bobby Moore again. I always tried to play an extra 20 or 30 yards further on. Alf never had to tell me that again. That is how he was. He knew the best way to handle me, to get the best out of me. When I was younger, I was thirsting for knowledge on the big stage. My father, who was my Svengali, used to say that he could see the influence that Alf had on me. My father said that I was a rough diamond but Alf polished me. Two other crucial introductions were made in the first half of 1965. By this time, most of the defence had been settled, with Banks in goal, Ray Wilson and George Cohen the full-backs and Bobby Moore in the centre, having dropped back from the midfield position he held at West Ham. Maurice Norman of Spurs had been playing as the other centre-half up until the end of 1964, but Alf was not entirely satisfied with the way the unit was operating. Against Northern Ireland in October, George Best had run rings around Norman, who, according to Banks, 'knew he had not played well in the second half and was very dejected at the end'. Alf brought in the tall Leeds defender Jack Charlton, Bobby's elder brother, having been impressed with the way Jack handled the big Celtic centre-forward John Hughes in a representative match for the Football League against the Scottish League. They were the first siblings to appear together for England in the 20th century but they could not have been more different in personality or playing style. Where Jack was obstreperous and opinionated, Bobby was withdrawn and serious. On the field, Bobby was all flowing elegance, Jack awkward ruggedness, 'looking like a big giraffe', said Bobby Moore. Their approaches to the game were diametrically opposed. Jack's whole outlook was geared towards stopping goals, Bobby's to scoring them. Jack was the rebel, regularly in trouble with the authorities as when he notoriously announced on television in 1970 that he had 'a little black book' in which he kept the names of enemies. Bobby was the conformist, rewarded by the establishment with a knighthood, a directorship of Manchester United and an exalted role as England's sporting ambassador. They were not even close as brothers. A bitter dispute arose between them, caused by a rift between Bobby's wife Norma and his mother, the Ashington matriarch Cissie. As a result Bobby drifted away from his family, something that deeply angered Jack, who claimed that Bobby hardly visited his mother in the last years of her life. Jack, who never had the same natural talent as Bobby, had been a wayward, inconsistent player at Leeds in the fifties. But he was transformed under the influence of Don Revie, who arrived at Leeds as player-manager in 1960 and with a mixture of threats and cajoling brought a new discipline to Jack's game. Even so, few thought of Jack as international class. Alf, however, always had a deeper insight than a host of more superficial judges of the game. He saw that Jack was not only powerful in the air but could be the perfect foil for Bobby Moore on the ground. Again, Jack's selection highlighted Alf's belief in the importance of a well-functioning unit, as he once told Jack over a drink in a hotel bar. The conversation encapsulates the philosophy of Alf, as well as a certain waspish humour: > I asked Alf what made him pick me for England. > > 'Well,' he said. 'I have a pattern of play in my mind – and I pick the best players to fit the pattern. I don't necessarily always pick the best players, Jack.' > > That was his way of boosting your confidence! Later he explained a bit further. 'I've watched you play, Jack and you're quite good. You're a good tackler and you're good in the air and I need those things. And I know you won't trust Bobby Moore.' > > I said I didn't know what he meant. Bobby Moore was a tremendous player. > > 'Yes, Jack,' he replied with a superior smile, 'but you and he are different. If Gordon Banks gives you the ball on the edge of the box, you'll give it back to him and say, 'Keep the bloody thing' – but if Gordon gives the ball to Bobby, he will play through the midfield, all the way to a forward position if he has to. I've watched you play and I know that as soon as Bobby goes, you'll always fill in behind him. That way, if Bobby makes a mistake, you're there to cover it.' Jack has this further analysis of Alf: > He was very much the Boss – you didn't argue with Alf. But he never shouted at us either. If he was disappointed with the way you'd played, he just wouldn't speak to you – and if he came over and smiled, you knew you'd done all right. One of the most disconcerting things about Alf was that you never knew if he was serious or not. That night I talked to him in the hotel bar, for example, I was just standing there having a quiet drink when Alf came in and said, 'We're still on the pints then, are we, Jack?' I didn't know how to react. I've never been a big drinker and I was just having a quiet pint before going to bed. Maybe he didn't mean anything by it – maybe he did. I never thought he liked me, to be honest. But I learned a lot from him. Jack Charlton may have felt unsure about his standing with Alf, but that never inhibited him from showing his argumentative side. And Alf allowed him a leeway that he would not have given to others, as Alan Ball recalls: 'He could be contentious. He was never afraid to speak his mind and I think Alf admired him for that.' George Cohen recalls that Jack was > never intimidated. He had tremendous front and on one occasion, after an England work-out at Highbury, he declared, 'Alf, you're talking shit.' Alf's expression didn't change. He paused for a moment before saying, 'That's as may be, Jack, but of course you will do as I say. Peter Thompson, the Liverpool winger who was in and out of Alf's teams in the sixties, was amused by Jack's quarrelsome attitude: > Nobody ever messed Alf about, except Jack Charlton. Whatever Alf did, Jack would object to it. So Alf would say one night in the team hotel, 'Right, gentlemen, tonight we'll go to the pictures, then come back, have some toast and tea and then to bed. Everybody happy?' > > And Jack would put up his hand and say, 'I don't want to go to the pictures.' > > Then the next night, Alf would say, 'Gentlemen, this evening we will stay in and watch the television. Everyone all right with that? Yes Jack?' > > 'I want to go to the pictures'. We had a laugh. Also making his debut against Scotland was Nobby Stiles, another player who was to become a key member of Ramsey's England. Like Jack Charlton, Stiles was not an obvious choice. To many of Alf's critics, he was no more than a brutal hard man, one whose supposed lack of footballing vision was symbolized by the fact that he had poor eyesight and therefore had to wear contact lenses. But the qualities that Alf admired in Nobby were his ball-winning ability and the strength of his passing. With his usual foresight, Alf recognized that Nobby could be invaluable in feeding the ball to his Manchester United team-mate Bobby Charlton. And for all his image of chivalric virtue, Alf did not hesitate to encourage Stiles in his ruthless tackling. Nobby was first picked by Alf to play for England's Under-23s against the Scottish Under-23s in Aberdeen, and Alf soon showed his determination to get a result, even at the expense of fair play. 'At half-time,' recalls Nobby, 'Alf got very specific. He said, "Nobby, Charlie Cooke is giving us a lot of problems. Sort him out." I asked him what he meant. "Well, put him out of the game." ' Nobby followed the instructions to the letter. Early in the second half, he scented the opportunity for a typically crunching tackle and left his victim rolling in agony on the ground. Satisfied at a job well done, Stiles marched away from the scene of the assault. Suddenly Norman Hunter, the Leeds defender, came charging up to him. 'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' 'I'm doing exactly what Alf wanted, taking Charlie Cooke out of the game.' 'You'd better look again, you stupid bastard,' replied Hunter. Before the match, Nobby had realized that he had forgotten to bring his contact lens fluid up to Aberdeen. With his impaired sight, he had gone for the wrong man. 'You didn't do Charlie, you did Billy Bremner.' Though he had nailed the wrong Scot, Nobby impressed Alf with his ferocious competitive spirit. When he was considering Nobby in the full England team against Scotland, Alf approached Wilf McGuinness, the former United player whose career had been finished by a broken leg. McGuinness had subsequently become a coach at Old Trafford and with the England Under-18s, and Alf respected his judgement. 'Will Nobby be as hard and determined as he was in the Under-23 game when he comes up against team-mate Denis Law at Wembley?' Alf asked McGuinnness. 'No fucking danger, Alf,' was the reply. And McGuinness was proved right, as Nobby played his heart out in England's 2–2 draw. Gordon Banks said of his performance: 'He came into the team like a tiger. The way he tackled his Manchester United team-mates Pat Crerand and Denis Law made Alf realize that here was a player totally committed to the England cause.' That is certainly the way Nobby felt, saying, 'When I went out in that England shirt, with the three lions, it was brilliant.' And his devotion to Alf is unstinting: > I cannot say enough in favour of Alf Ramsey. I would have died for him. We all loved him. He was such a man of his word. I could not see a single weakness in his approach as a manager. He treated you like an adult. He never hectored or laid down the law. But he was an Englishman through and through. He hated the Scots. I remember, just before I made my debut, asking Budgie Byrne what was the difference between Alf and Walter Winterbottom. > > 'The difference is that when we're playing Scotland, Alf will say, "Get into these Scotch bastards." With the introduction of Jack Charlton in the centre and Stiles as a deep-lying midfielder just in front of the defence, England were now well-organized at the back. The trouble was in the forward line. Though many in the press saw Bobby Charlton as an enigma, Alf had long decided that his genius made him central to the attack. Ray Wilson says that Bobby's welfare was always one of Alf's primary concerns. 'I was generally Bobby's room-mate and I sometimes wondered if I was in the side for my ability to play or for looking after Bobby. So whenever we were leaving the hotel, Alf would say, "Has Bobby got everything? Everything all right?" "Oh yes," I'd tell him.' Alf's real problem was not Bobby Charlton but who would play alongside him. In the three years up to the World Cup he was continually trying different permutations, sometimes with wingers, sometimes without them, but he felt that none quite worked. His experimentation left some of these forwards disgruntled. The Scots-born Joe Baker, who played for Arsenal was one of them. After a few games in 1965, he found himself out of favour, with the likes of Greaves or Roger Hunt of Liverpool preferred to him. > 'I don't know what happened. I just disappeared out of the picture,' said Baker. 'That's what I didn't like about Ramsey, that he didn't explain things man to man. If he'd said, "Look Joe, I've decided on the system I'm playing and I think Roger and Jimmy play it best, I'm the one who gets the stick if it fails, so I am sorry I can't have you," I could accept that but not to get a call or a letter was awful. Like all managers he had his favourites, and my face didn't fit. Maybe he didn't like my accent! But I couldn't relate to him. I call a spade a spade but he wouldn't talk back to you after a game, to tell you what you'd done. He wouldn't say, "Right, you were crap", he'd just quietly drop you out of it without telling you what you'd done.' Johnny Byrne, the West Ham forward, was another who did not fall under Ramsey's spell. One night, after he had retired, he told Bobby Moore: 'I can hear his talk now. The same old talk. Let's face it, Bob. He didn't hold a candle to Ron Greenwood in his knowledge of the game. Not in the same street.' But Baker's and Byrne's were hardly representative views. Barry Bridges of Chelsea, who also played in 1965, says that Alf was > a fantastic manager, the best I ever worked with – and I worked with Stan Cullis and Tommy Docherty. I have nothing but respect for him; he was absolutely top-class. He was not a ranter and raver, he was a thinker. I have a story which sums him up. I was picked for the English League game against the Scottish League at Hampden and Alf was in charge. It was the first senior game I played and I remember putting on my shirt in the dressing-room, thinking to myself, 'I've got to be a bit special. If I do well here, I could be playing for England.' I had speed and I could score goals but I was not anything more than that. So I go out in the first half and play like an absolute idiot. I am trying all the tricks, doing all the things I could not really do. So I came in at half time, ready for the team talk. And Alf immediately sat down beside me, > > 'What are you trying to do, Barry?' > > 'Well, I...' > > 'Look son, I have picked you to play the way you play for Chelsea. Don't pretend to be something you're not. Just be yourself.' And with that, he walked away. I went out in the second half, got a goal and was picked for England a few weeks later. Bridges was another who failed to consolidate a place. Indicative of Alf's worries about the front-line is the fact that in the three years to 1966, he used no fewer than nine centre-forwards. There is a view that Alf, if he had embraced flair, would never have needed to feel so uneasy, since he already had one of the finest strikers in the world in Jimmy Greaves, a player who scored an astonishing 44 times in just 57 games for England. Alf's suspicions about the effectiveness of Greaves were allegedly part of his wider dislike of brilliance – or, as Brian Granville once wrote, his 'distrust of genius unless it came wreathed in perspiration'. But it is all too easy to criticize Alf over Jimmy Greaves using the benefit of hindsight. The reality is that in the mid-sixties, Alf was not the only one who feared that Greaves was unreliable. Many journalists and even his own team-mates were disturbed by his fluctuations in form, his reluctance to raise his work-rate and his regular failures on the international stage. Greaves had played poorly in the 1962 World Cup in Chile, when it was written of his performance against Brazil in the quarter-final that 'his only contribution was catching a stray dog'. Alan Mullery, who played with him at Spurs, described him as 'the most undisciplined footballer I have ever known'. Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ has this telling analysis: > Jimmy was a smashing guy and a wonderful goal-scorer. But he could be madly unpredictable. I remember covering one League match, when Spurs were playing in Sunderland, and Jimmy was coming back from an injury. We'd all built this up in the press, saying that this was the match where Jimmy would prove what he could do. On the day, the pitch was like stone because of frost. Jimmy went out, said to himself 'sod this', and did not run a yard. And we were all flabbergasted at the way he seemed not to give a shit about the team. So there was always this feeling, 'Which Jimmy are we going to see today? Is he really up for it?' With Bobby Charlton it was completely different. You never doubted his temperament, that he would give his all. You never saw him walking back slowly when the attack broken down. He never took a rest. In England's defeat against Austria in October 1965, the _Daily Mail_ described him as 'a pale, spasmodic shadow'. In his drive to create a team of world beaters, Alf had no patience with those who did not give their full dedication in every game. As George Cohen put it: 'Alf liked players who'd take a bad knock but still get up and play, the player who was absolutely knackered but would draw himself up for the next run. He could see through a person's character, which gave him a big edge over other managers.' With his limited application, Greaves was never Alf's sort of player, and when he failed to score consistently, as he did in his last three games of 1965, his position was vulnerable. What made it all the worse for Greaves was that towards the end of the year, he suffered a debilitating bout of hepatitis, which put him out of soccer for three months and left him struggling to regain fitness in the spring of 1966. For England's final match of 1965, against Spain in Madrid in December, Roger Hunt came in for the absent Greaves. Renowned for his phenomenal dedication and selfless running, Hunt was much more likely to appeal to Ramsey, though he was no mere workhorse – in a 401 match career for Liverpool under Bill Shankly, he scored 245 League goals, while before the Spanish game, he had won six caps for England since 1962 and hit the net seven times. Importantly, Ramsey's England players were big admirers of Hunt. 'There was always this pressure from the southern press about Roger but he was so highly regarded in the England squad,' George Cohen told me. 'He was a terrific guy, a terrific footballer. He never stood still and was quite happy to rough it.' Nobby Stiles says: > People today are still talking about Jimmy Greaves. But if you asked the squad who they wanted, they'd have said Roger Hunt because Roger just never stopped working. He was very unselfish, always there. He would makes runs across field for other people. Alf knew what Roger was. That was the great thing about Alf: he understood players. Apart from Alf's psychological gift for reading character, what Nobby Stiles and most of the England squad also admired about Alf was the way his hard, earthy background as a soccer professional would occasionally explode to the surface. They loved his rare, foul-mouthed outbursts because they showed that, beneath the carefully manufactured veneer of gentility, he was really one of them, something Wing-Commander Winterbottom never was. And the cursing was all the funnier because it was such a shocking departure from his usual painfully measured enunciation. George Cohen had two classic examples of this. The first occurred when Alf, his wife Vickie and several of the players were having tea in White's Hotel at Lancaster Gate prior to a foreign trip. George had volunteered to do the serving, but was having some difficulty with the crockery. Suddenly Alf blurted out, 'For heaven's sake Vickie, pour the bloody tea before he scalds us all.' The second incident was far more incendiary. It took place when England were training in Madrid in December 1965, prior to the match against Spain. As was customary, the team was holding a five-a-side game and Alf decided at the last minute to join in. Cohen continues: > It was a bloody cold morning in Madrid and there was some ice in the ground. All I saw was a figure in a tracksuit and I went into the tackle. Unfortunately, it was Alf. I caught him with his feet together. He went straight up in the air and landed bang on his head. He lay on the ground groaning for a while, then he looked me in the face and said, 'George, if I could find another fucking full-back you wouldn't be playing tomorrow.' Cohen was horrified at the time, fearing he had damaged his chances of appearing in the World Cup, but looking back, he now feels that Alf's authentic reaction only helped to build England's spirit: 'That was Alf, the way he won players over. His occasional swearing brought the team together.' Gordon Milne, the ex-Liverpool player, has this interesting angle on Alf's language: > He had a ripe tongue at the right time. Sometimes players want their managers to come out and say something. I think his accent somehow worked in his favour. No one expected football sense to come from such a voice, the voice of the FA, and it made his words all the more powerful. The lads sometimes had a snigger but they would love it when he came out with a choice phrase. It was so funny when he would say, 'Fuck it.' It was great for morale, especially when he laid into the press. He did not do it to gain favour with the players but to show them that he was interested in what they said and wrote. He would say to us, 'Well, what does he fucking know about the game? Take no notice.' Another occasion that caused laughter among the England players occurred after an English League game against the Irish League. The English League won easily, but Alf had been disappointed, towards the end of the game, by the failure of the wall to stop an Irish free-kick requiring a sprawling save from Banks onto the woodwork. 'Gordon, what happened at that free-kick?' 'I touched it onto the post.' 'I know that, Gordon, I'm not fucking blind. I mean what happened to the wall?' The match against Spain, though a friendly, was seen as a particularly difficult one for England, since the Spanish were the holders of the European Nations Cup. But on a bitterly cold, wintry night in the Bernabeu stadium, Spain were torn apart in daring style, the 0–2 scoreline hardly reflecting England's total dominance. The secret of England's success was the use of the 4–3–3 formation, the first time Alf had tried it since Gothenburg. The trio in England's front-line were Roger Hunt, Joe Baker and Alan Ball, with the midfield comprising Bobby Charlton, Stiles and Eastham. When Alf announced his team, the absence of any wingers was greeted with puzzlement and derision in the press. 'Alf was slaughtered because everyone still believed that the way to win matches was with wingers,' says Nigel Clarke. But the mood changed once the match started and the superiority of England's tactics became apparent. With goals from Baker and Roger Hunt, this was the night that Alf sent a shudder through the football world. 'It was 4–3–3 in all its thoroughness and finest. The Spanish and foreign press particularly were rightly complimentary about our 2–0. I think really this was when it was first registered firmly in my mind as a system that could win the World Cup,' said Alf later. The Spanish coach Jose Villalonga almost purred with admiration: 'England were just phenomenal tonight. They were far superior to us in their experiment and their performance. They could have beaten any team tonight.' The British media, always inclined to see everything in the starkest black-and-white terms, were just as enthusiastic. Only a month earlier, Alf had been condemned as a failure. Now he was being hailed as a genius. One of Alf's biggest critics, the _Express's_ self-important, bowler-hatted Desmond Hackett, who combined overblown prose with hysterical switches of opinion, waxed lyrically: > England can win the World Cup next year. They have only to match the splendour of this unforgettable night and there is no team on earth who could master them. This was England's first win in Spain. But it was more than a victory. It was a thrashing of painful humiliation for the Spanish. Gone were the shackles of rigid regimentation. The team moved freely and confidently and with such rare imagination that the numbers became mere identification marks on players who rose to noble heights. In abuse or adulation, Hackett was never taken too seriously by Alf, who felt – with some justification – that Hackett had little real understanding of football. Once Hackett was covering an Arsenal match in Oslo, for which the programme had been misprinted with the wrong numbers on the Arsenal players. Rather than cause more confusion, Bertie Mee, the Arsenal manager, told his players to wear whatever shirt numbers the programme stated, but keep to their normal positions. At the end of game, Hackett, who never allowed incomprehension to undermine his self-confidence, wrote, 'Last night Arsenal conducted the boldest experiment in the history of European competition.' He then proceeded to invent a quotation from Bertie Mee. A sharp letter was sent from Highbury to the _Daily Express:_ 'We don't mind Hackett making an idiot of himself but don't try to make an idiot out of our manager.' As Brian James puts it: 'Not only did he not know what was going on, he did not even know what he was seeing. There was certainly no love lost between him and Alf.' On this occasion, however, Hackett reflected a surge of optimism that swept through British football after this result. It is telling that nine of the side that beat Spain that night were to feature in the World Cup Final seven months later. Alf now had the right system – and the right blend. The players themselves recognized that something special had happened in the Bernabeu. 'They settled in that night just as Alf wanted them and you could sense the exuberance and mutual pleasure they got from each other's play,' wrote the trainer Harold Shepherdson. 'Suddenly we all sensed that we had found a style that could win us the World Cup,' said Banks. 'It was a brilliant performance, free, strong and positive,' thought Cohen. Perhaps the most powerful display was given by Alan Ball, just turned twenty, who ran hard and showed huge confidence on the ball. Today, Ball gives this insight into Alf's methods: > What I loved about Alf was that he never told you what to do. He always asked you if you were comfortable doing something. Before the match in Spain, he said, 'Have you ever played centre-forward?' > > 'No, Alf.' > > 'Well, do you think you could play with Joe Baker and Roger Hunt as part of a three-man partnership? With your touch, I am sure you can cause them all sorts of problems. We're not going to hit long balls. We are going to pass the ball to you. I want you coming off defenders and playing around them. Do you think you can do that?' > > 'Of course I can, Alf.' > > So I played right up front in Madrid and we absolutely wiped the floor with them, we really did. During the match, Alf stuck to 4–3–3, even when Baker had to limp off with an injury. Instead of bringing on a winger, he moved Bobby Charlton forward and replaced him in midfield with Norman Hunter of Leeds, who became the first substitute used in an English international. One of the reasons for this move was that he distrusted Bobby Charlton's defensive capabilities. 'I don't want him messing around our penalty area,' explained Alf. For Hunter, the perennial deputy to Bobby Moore throughout most of his career, it was a rare chance to put on the white shirt for England: > I was fortunate that I played under two great managers, Don Revie at club level and Alf Ramsey at international level. They differed tremendously in personality, since Alf was not as intense as the Gaffer, but they had two things in common. The first was their attention to detail. Alf might say, 'Norman, you're playing on the left-hand side at the back. Get out there and familiarize yourself with the pitch. Have a look where you will be spending most of your time.' No-one had ever said anything like that to me before. The second was their man-management. They were both excellent at it. Alf was absolutely top drawer. He was a shy, quiet man but he had great self-confidence; he immediately inspired respect. When he spoke, you listened. He was very brave the way he picked the team, but he knew what he was doing. Tactically, he was very, very good. Nine times out of ten when I turned up for England duty, I knew I was not going to play because of Bobby, but that never bothered me. I just enjoyed being with Alf and the squad. He always made time to talk to me, and would say at the end, 'I know you haven't played, Norman, but thank you for coming.' He made you feel very special. He had a lovely sense of humour. He once gave us the weekend off and described it as a 'bit of remission for good behaviour.' Alf was so excited with the display against Spain that after the game he invited some journalists for a drink in the Fenix hotel in Madrid to explain his thinking, a rare event given his innate hostility to the press. 'He sat us down in the lounge and I think there were about six or seven of us,' recalls Ken Jones. 'He went through what he was trying to do with 4–3–3 and then answered questions. I never figured out why he took the trouble to do that. There were people there, of course, who did not know what he was talking about.' The more expansive Geoffrey Green of _The Times, a_ prodigious drinker, vivid writer and closet racist who was once heard to shout on a train, 'Hitler was right!', left this account of the evening: > As the champagne corks popped so the temperature rose and the verbal exchanges sharpened and slurred. The giant crystal chandelier overhead sparkled like the milky way and Alf was on cloud seven. Laying aside his glass every now and then – every quarter hour on the quarter hour I would judge – he cupped his hands in front of an enigmatic smile to murmur, 'This precious jewel.' Each time he repeated the action I tottered to my feet, raised my champagne goblet and gave a Russian toast, 'Here's to the four corners of this room.' So the wee small hours unwound happily. It was only the next day, following a massive dose of Alka Seltzer, that I came to realize two things. The room I had been toasting was entirely circular; and Alf's 'precious jewel', caressed in imagination, was football! Alf emphasized that 4–3–3 was not purely a defensive system. As well as the six in the forward line and midfield, the two full-backs, Wilson and Cohen, would take their share of thrusting upfield and of delivering crosses. Bobby Charlton was taken with the offensive possibilities of the new system: > Before Alf, we'd never really had a plan away from home and this new development was really something. When Alf made the switch to 4–3–3 he particularly made the point that we weren't going to become a defensive team, that the three up front wouldn't be alone, that we would have six up front. Yet, just as had happened earlier in the year, Alf was determined not to play 4–3–3 in every England fixture. Such a move would only reduce its potency and surprise element. It was to be reserved for the biggest matches and, in the meantime, would remain shrouded in secrecy. As Alf explained to Brian James just a week after the Madrid victory: > I think it would be quite wrong to let the rest of the world, our rivals, see exactly what we are doing. I think it is my duty to protect certain players until the time we need them most. This was a step and a very big one in our education as a football party. My job will be to produce the right team at the right time and that does not always mean pressing ahead with a particular combination just because it has been successful. In early 1966, as Alf reverted to a more conventional style, his England team did not look so impressive. There was a draw in the mud at Goodison against Poland, followed by a dreary 1–0 defeat of West Germany at Wembley, which left the crowd so bored that slow-handclapping and booing echoed round the stadium at the final whistle. In the dressing-room afterwards, as the jeers continued outside, Alf said to his players: 'Listen to them moan. But I'll tell you this: they'll go mad if we beat West Germany by one goal in the World Cup Final.' To the press, Alf adopted his characteristic one-eyed Nelson approach which refused to acknowledge any deficiencies in his side, telling journalists that the crowd had actually been booing the Germans. This failed to convince the _Guardian_ which attacked Ramsey for producing 'a travesty of football'. Peter Thompson, the gifted Liverpool winger, had particular cause to regret this game: > Bertie Vogts marked me. I had about five kicks – and they were all in the warm-up. In the dressing-room afterwards, Alf sat down beside me, put his hand on my knee and just said, 'A little disappointed, Peter.' That hurt me much more than Shankly screaming and shouting. Shanks would throw things at you, ranting, 'You're fucking useless, I'm fucking dropping you.' Alf was the exact opposite. I respected him so much. I can still remember the hurt of those few words that day. A couple of months later, Alf had the satisfaction of seeing England beat Scotland for the first time under his reign, though he was concerned that England – without Ray Wilson in defence – had conceded three goals in the 4–3 win. A more solid performance in England's last home game before the World Cup saw England beat Yugoslavia 2–0, with goals from Bobby Charlton and Jimmy Greaves, who appeared to have recovered from his bout of hepatitis. These mixed results created little sense of euphoria in the run-up to the World Cup. The excitement generated by the Spanish result had evaporated, replaced by a sense of anxiety and even pessimism. 'England will not win the World Cup,' claimed Jimmy Hill. 'But don't blame Alf. No-one could win it with this lot.' And this was mild compared to some of the other commentaries. There has been a trend, since the sixties, to decry Alf's achievement, claiming that England were bound to win the World Cup with home advantage. 'We'd have done bloody well not to win,' wrote Rob Steen in _The Mavericks._ Yet it is fascinating to look back and see how little faith there was in Alf's leadership before the summer of 1966. Chelsea manager Tommy Docherty, perhaps reflecting some Caledonian prejudice, called Alf's World Cup preparations 'chaotic, misguided and full of half-baked theories'. In the _Scottish Daily Mail,_ John Fairgrieve argued: > There are those few who contend Alf Ramsey is an unappreciated genius. There are many more who regard the team manager of England as the biggest threat to his country's prestige since Bonaparte. My own view is that England do not have the smallest chance against either Brazil or Italy in July. Against several other finalists, like Hungary, Russia and West Germany, they could not be fancied. And if I were being really harsh, I would say England are lucky to be in the World Cup finals at all. Many Englishmen already believe this and say so. Then, having said it, they seek a scapegoat. Alf Ramsey is the obvious choice and he has been duly chosen. John Moynihan of the _Sunday Telegraph_ wrote this: > Perhaps we of the press and all supporters of England would like rather more communication from him and less of an attitude that the England side is his and his alone. It is not his alone. Haven't we waited long enough for a team to win this competition? Ramsey is not always a man to arouse confidence in the task. Is he trying to build a team with or without Jimmy Greaves; is his plan a mere flash in the pan relying on hard workers, players like Roger Hunt and Nobby Stiles, merely following the plough? England's team will have to be a team of eleven Rolls-Royces, average runners will not do. And surely he must play at least one established winger? Alf wearied of the febrile attitude of public and press, which never seemed satisfied unless England demolished an opponent in a festival of attacking football. He was particularly exasperated by the widespread belief that he should give up experimentation and instead play the best team in every game. Such a policy, he argued, would provide no basis for long-term planning. 'Since I took over,' Alf said in May 1966 before the Yugoslav game, > I have insisted over and over again that I have never had a team but merely a squad. It is no use to me having a first team and a number of reserves. They have all got to be ready to step into any match or they're worthless to me. I have picked a team against Yugoslavia because I want to see what certain players and certain combinations can achieve. Alf learnt two invaluable lessons from the win against Yugoslavia. The first was the effectiveness of Martin Peters on the left side of midfield. The young West Ham player, on his debut in that game, had been a surprise selection, having made just one Under-23 appearance two years earlier and never been mentioned in the press as a possible senior international. But once more, Alf had shown what a superb judge he was of a player. With his excellent control and anticipation, his strength in the air and his perfectly timed runs into the penalty area, Peters was to be the ultimate modern footballer, one who could play in almost any position and was to be famously described by Alf as 'ten years ahead of his time'. Peters now says of Alf, 'he was the very best of managers, a players' man through and through. He had an unrivalled knowledge of the game and could communicate that to players. If you gave of your best to him, he would never forget you, but he had no time for slackers.' The second lesson was the maturity of Bobby Charlton, who had finally grown to be comfortable with his attacking midfield role. Alf said that 'this was the day when the penny dropped, when everything clicked into place.' Alf went on to explain, at one point during the match, 'instead of following the ball, Bobby came back and picked up the danger man working on the blind side of our defence. This was the moment when I thought he became a great player.' For Alf, the exhausting, drawn-out job of construction was almost complete. But the striking formation was not yet settled, with Greaves still fighting to regain his sharpness after his illness. 'My greatest problem is in attack', Alf told the French press in January 1966. Despite the success of 4–3–3, he was still flirting with wingers like John Connelly of Manchester United and Terry Paine of Southampton. Nor was he fixed on his central strikers – Bobby Tambling of Chelsea, for instance, was picked against Yugoslavia, having won his only previous full cap three years previously. But it was against West Germany earlier in the season that Alf had made his most significant decision about the front-line by bringing in the West Ham number 10 Geoff Hurst. As with other members of the England team, Hurst, who had been converted by Ron Greenwood at West Ham from a right-half into a forward, was hardly a natural selection, and even Hurst confessed he was 'flabbergasted' at his inclusion in the England squad. But Alf saw that his ability to act as a powerful target man, holding onto the ball in attack or making space for others, could be crucial in the more fluid, wingless system. Just as importantly, he had the sort of dedication and discipline which Alf admired and which was so conspicuously lacking in Greaves. Hurst first met Alf in November 1964 when he was chosen for the Under-23s in a match against Wales at Wrexham. 'The first sight of him was a bit of a shock, for he didn't seem like a football man at all. He was so carefully dressed, so quietly spoken that he seemed more like a businessman or bank manager. He had nothing about him of that casual air you usually find with ex-players,' he wrote later. Throughout the train journey from Paddington to Bristol, Ramsey asked Hurst and his colleagues a barrage of questions about their opinions on football: > I found it a bit frightening. A two-hour quiz when you are not sure what sort of impression you should be making can be very hard on the nerves. Alf didn't make it any the easier with his disconcerting habit of tearing through a gentle conversation with a brutally frank opinion of his own. You would be warming up nicely, describing how such a player had 'done quite well, though of course, some of the tackling didn't suit his style' when Alf would interrupt you with something like: 'The man's a bloody coward.' The fact that this was exactly what you meant, didn't make his direct approach any less startling. I was damn glad when the journey ended. And my first impression of Alf wasn't exactly favourable. This bloke was, I'd privately decided, a bit of a cold fish. Hurst found his introduction to the full England party in 1966 almost as intimidating: 'Bobby Moore and I, although we were at West Ham, were never close socially. He was slightly older than me. I found it quite hard to settle into the England side at first. I didn't know anybody apart from Bobby. He wasn't a great help.' But Hurst was struck by the respect in which Alf was held, for all his remoteness, 'What surprised me slightly was the manner in which the players accepted Alf's authority. The atmosphere was comfortable, but even Bobby seemed on his guard in Alf's presence. This, I came to realize, was how it was in public places.' And Hurst immediately saw the effectiveness of Alf's man-management once the squad were out on the training ground: > Alf decided to work on set-pieces and wanted a couple of players to help him demonstrate the point that he was making about free-kicks. He looked at the crowd of players around him and began calling out names. I instinctively took a step backwards, anxious not to be selected on my first morning. Alf spotted me. He said nothing at the time but later in the training session, when no other players were near, he said to me quite firmly, 'I've got no use for blushing violets. I've picked you for what I know you can do. It's now up to you.' It was only a small incident but it did a lot for my confidence. It made me realize that I had to have a positive attitude both on and off the pitch. It also demonstrated to me that Alf had belief in my ability. That, more than anything else, convinced me that I was good enough to play for England. One of Alf's secrets was to make players believe in themselves. Hurst was about to witness the fullest expression of Alf's skills as a man-manager, as the squad were brought together for the final preparations in advance of the World Cup. On 7 May 1966, two days after the Yugoslavia game, Alf named his initial party of 28 players, from which the final 22 would be selected. He then said that, following the FA Cup Final and the end of the domestic season, all the players could take three weeks off, before assembling for intensive training on 6 June at Lilleshall, the sports venue in rural Shropshire. 'I will take them out to the country and brainwash them about what we are going to do,' Alf told the press, a hint of menace in his clipped tones. The menace was justified, for the regime that Alf had planned at Lilleshall was to be the toughest that the players had ever experienced. And out of it would emerge the most formidable unit ever to take the field for England. Appropriately enough, the start of training at Lilleshall on 6 June was the anniversary of D-Day. The rustic tranquillity of the setting hardly matched the professional rigour that Alf imposed on the squad members, whose number had fallen to 27 with the withdrawal of Evert on defender Brian Labone through injury. 'If there was a point when Alf could be said to have changed from second gear into top, and faced the last, hardest lap of all, it was when he met his team at Lilleshall,' wrote Harold Shepherdson. Over the next fortnight, their entire lives were regimented, something of a culture shock for footballers who were used to having their afternoons and evenings free. After breakfast, there would be hard physical training and football practice, followed by a self-service lunch, then non-contact sports like cricket, tennis and basketball. In the late afternoon, the players had a bath, then came down for their dinner, after which they would have a lecture or a film. Nine o'clock was bedtime, for which most of the exhausted party were only too grateful. There was no sense of luxury about the stay. The players were divided into groups of four or five to a room, which they were expected to tidy themselves, while they queued up for all their meals from a self-service counter. They were subjected to frequent medical tests and weight checks, as well as being given advice in all aspects of personal healthcare – even in how to cut their toenails. 'We've got athlete's foot down to thirty per cent of what it was when the players came together,' said one of the England team doctors, Alan Bass. 'And we've got them cutting their toenails properly. There were only five out of the twenty-seven who knew how. It's incredible. You wouldn't get that sort of thing with ballet dancers, yet these fellows get far more money than all the top dancers.' One of Alf's central aims was to bring his players to the peak of physical fitness, and his assistants Les Cocker, Harold Shepherdson and Wilf McGuinness were each taskmasters in the fulfilment of this goal. As McGuinness told me: > The training was strong and physical for the end of the season. The players were all divided into groups and we passed on each group after 15 minutes of hard slog. Every group was trying to outdo the other in the circuits and in the ball work. It was punishing stuff but the players really took to it. By the end the players knew they were really fit. Alf wanted it that way. He wanted everyone to give everything. Les and Harold were ideal for what was needed. Les came from Leeds, bit of a hard man. Harold had been in the job since Winterbottom's time, very experienced, well-respected. Dr Neil Phillips, who succeeded Alan Bass as England team doctor after 1966 but who also worked at Lilleshall, says: > I don't think Alf ever trusted Les as much as Harold. Harold was the best number two you could have in an organization. He hated making decisions himself but if you told him to stand on his head three times a day he would do it for you. He would always carry out instructions to the letter. Les was much more confrontational, seeking to discuss things and argue his point. The regime was certainly effective on the physical side. 'It is the hardest training I've ever done in my life,' says Nobby Stiles. 'Like we would have to run, get to Harold and then jump as if we were heading the ball. Twenty times in a row. Fuckin' hell, that was something else. The fitness was incredible.' Others have the same memories. 'We worked incredibly hard at Lilleshall,' says Terry Paine, the former Southampton winger, now a TV analyst in South Africa. 'When you looked at the England squad, we probably had four or five world-class players, and the rest of the team solved the puzzle. Alf knew how much fitness would tell when it came to the World Cup.' George Cohen remembers Les Cocker continually driving him through the pain barrier: > It was bloody hard work. I was coming back from injury, having had a bad gash at the end of the season and been in hospital for ten days. I loved training but Les really put me through the ringer to make sure I was fit. He was a tough little guy. He would have me bent double, and I would come in from training seeing black and white. Alf had no sympathy. He came by one morning just after Les let me take a breather. He looked across and said, 'George, I don't want you slacking.' Bobby Charlton was impressed with the way Alf varied the intense routine to prevent monotony: > In the matches, no one played on the same side or in the same position twice; one day for the Reds, the next day for the Whites, one day at inside-forward, the next on the wing. It helped each of one of us to familiarize ourselves with the capabilities of others. To begin with, we were afraid of ruining someone else's chances with an untimely tackle or over-enthusiastic charging. Alf would have none of it. He gave us a dressing down and told us to get on with it. After that we all wore shin guards and played for our lives. This approach helped to create an ultra-competitive edge, as Alan Ball remembers: 'Whatever task was set, I gave it all my heart. So if it was a team-building exercise, I was always the first to go forward, knowing that Alf was watching every move we made. I was driven by a fear of failure, and I think Alf understood that.' The intensity of competition could lead to friction, but this too only helped to reinforce the team spirit. Like soldiers in the heat of battle, the players were drawn together by the fierce pressure they were under. Geoff Hurst recalls a fiery argument in one training session between two of the biggest characters in the party, Nobby Stiles and Jack Charlton, which for all its abuse helped to inspire a growing feeling of unity. > At half-time these two really sailed into each other. They didn't mince words. It really was pretty brutal stuff. For myself, I was delighted. I realized then that if we had players who felt they knew each other well enough to tear strips off each others' carcasses, then we certainly knew each other well enough to sort out the problems and act together. Alf's reaction during the row was interesting. He could have stopped it with a word as soon as Stiles turned on Jack. He didn't. He could have parted the two when they began again later. He didn't. He let them have a real go at each other, and waited until the insults were starting to come around for the third time before saying, 'Right, I think that's enough. Now let's get this sorted out.' It was, I now realize, a great piece of man-management. If he had cut them off short, the feelings would have bubbled along beneath the surface, resentment would have taken the place of reasoning. Wilf McGuinness saw the same outcome: > There was many a time I thought to myself, 'This is not going to work.' There would be loud discussions, especially when Jack Charlton was around. Big Jack would disagree with most things, just for the sake of it. He was a bit contrary. And he and Nobby were such competitors on the training ground. It was like a pair of peacocks showing what they were made of. At first I was worried about the effect of their argument but in fact the team fed off their make-up. It helped to build the right spirit. Yet the unity fostered by Lilleshall was built on far firmer foundations than rows between Nobby and Jack. By requiring all the players to join in every activity, whether it was watching westerns or playing golf, Alf inspired a sense of togetherness that would have been the envy of most League sides. They played practical jokes on each other and adopted silly nicknames. There was endless laughter, as when Alf tried to referee the basketball matches without having a clue about the rules and Nobby Stiles would be barging and tripping up his opponents. Or when George Eastham took the umpire's chair in a tennis match and mimicked a prim Wimbledon official: 'Miss Wilson to sairve...' Or when Ron Flowers volunteered to be the local hairdresser. 'I had the worst haircut in my life. Ron had only one style,' says George Cohen. Or the night when the team settled down to watch a new murder mystery and as soon as it started, Ray Wilson called out from the back of the room, 'Oh, I've seen this. Dalby did it.' As they joked and argued, the players developed that rarest of concepts: the club spirit in a national side. This was perhaps Alf's greatest achievement, beyond even his strategic vision and his uncanny judgement of a player. He made England a cohesive unit, rather than a collection of talented individuals. Wilf McGuinness says: > Alf was much warmer than his public image. I found him very thoughtful about the players and the people who worked for him. He felt responsible for us. But he was also a man of natural authority. He might ask my point of view – and would then do it his way. We would have a meeting every evening, going through all aspects of the day's work, then we would gather again the following morning and Alf would say, 'Right, we talked about it last night. This is how it's going to be.' And it all went like clockwork. I think the players felt good about it all. Dr Neil Phillips, the England Under-23s doctor who would become full England team doctor after 1966, was also involved in Lilleshall. The government had refused to give Alan Bass leave of absence from his post in the NHS for the full period at Lilleshall, so Phillips had to take his place. It was an experience that left him full of praise for Alf: > He was an incredible man. His talks were absolutely unbelievable. He was brilliant at communicating what he needed. As you can imagine, in my profession I have worked with leading consultants and surgeons but I have never, ever worked with someone like Alf Ramsey. He could go through in exact detail any incident that had occurred in a match or training session. Alf was always very keen that the team doctors should be integrated with the players. Whatever they did, we did. When they were training, we joined in. I was lucky because I started with the England team when I was thirty-one. So I was young enough to do some of the five-a-sides and be kicked to death because the players thought it was a big joke to have a go at the doctor. Lilleshall was fantastic because Alf was so well-organized. He just had the four members of staff with him, Les, Harold, myself and Wilf; he knew exactly what he wanted. It is a point reinforced by Ken Jones: > The great thing about Alf was that he did not feel any need to surround himself with people. Throughout his entire England career, he just had two trainers, Les and Harold. He did not have all the modern huge staff, with coaches, scouts, psychiatrists and all that. Alf did not want any input. He just wanted to control it all himself. Lilleshall should not be painted as some footballing idyll. For all of Alf's efforts to keep them preoccupied, many of the players became inevitably frustrated with the strict discipline. Jack Charlton nicknamed the place 'the gulag' and later said: 'At times I felt it seemed just like an exercise in pushing the human mind and frame to the utmost level of endurance – and then some. This was a test of stamina, skill and mental ability to cope with.' So desperate were some of them to get out that they cast envious glances at the Catholics like Nobby Stiles who were allowed out for Mass on Sunday. Their yearning for freedom stronger than Anglicanism, they asked Alf if they too could go to church on Sunday. 'No need for that,' said Alf. 'The warden of Lilleshall happens to be a lay preacher. If you want, I shall arrange for him to conduct a service.' With those words, the enthusiasm for religious worship suddenly disappeared. Another possible escape from the prison was across a nearby golf course to the club-house bar. Alf had allowed a visit there by the entire party, but it was normally out of bounds. Surprisingly, Nobby Stiles and Alan Ball, two of Alf's most dedicated young players, joined the Lancastrian John Connelly on a furtive trip for a pint one evening, a decision that Stiles now looks back on with horror: 'Like schoolboys playing hookey, we sneaked off to the bar but, of course, we had no sooner got there than we started feeling guilty. We swallowed our pints, turned on our heels and headed back to the training complex and the authority of Ramsey.' Unfortunately for the trio, Wilf McGuiness was waiting at the door for them. 'Where the hell have you been?' Ball and Stiles owned up to having a pint. 'We just drank it down and came straight back.' 'You ought to know you're in deep shit. Alf knows all about this. He wants you to go to his room.' Panic-stricken, Ball and Stiles made their way there, followed by a surprisingly relaxed John Connelly. Alf came out of his office with a solemn expression. Ball and Stiles looked at their feet in shame. 'I didn't say you couldn't go to the bar. I didn't say you shouldn't go. I just expected you wouldn't go. We are here on serious business and I thought you all understood that. We are going to win the World Cup.' Ball and Stiles were uttering profuse apologies, begging forgiveness for their abject error and promising that nothing of the sort would ever happen again, when John Connelly butted in: 'What the fuck are you two talking about? We only had a pint, which isn't going to do us any harm after all the training we've been doing.' 'Get out of here, all of you. Get out,' Alf exploded. Ball and Stiles spent a sleepless night, wondering if they were about to be sent home, their international careers ending in disgrace. But Alf was a far shrewder pragmatist than his tough image sometimes suggested. An excellent reader of footballers' characters, he could see the regret that overwhelmed Ball and Stiles. The very fact that they were so embarrassed was an indicator of their respect for him. There was nothing to be gained by upsetting his carefully laid plans for the World Cup just to prove a disciplinary point. Alf contented himself the next morning with this warning to the assembled players. 'We are here for a purpose. I just want to say that if anyone gets the idea of popping out for a pint, then they will be finished with the squad for ever.' No one tried to put that statement to the test. On the last day at Lilleshall, Alf had to whittle down the squad from the original 27. The final 22 would then undertake a brief tour of Eastern Europe – in which Alf promised that all of them would get a game – before the commencement of the World Cup itself on 11 July. The knowledge that five of them were facing the axe created a degree of nervousness in the camp, as Les or Harold went round summoning the unlucky ones to Alf's room: > It must be a terrible thing for a manager to have to do,' says Terry Paine. 'Look at what happened with Glenn Hoddle and Paul Gascoigne before the 1998 World Cup.* Nothing like that went on with Alf, of course. We all respected him too much. The funny thing was that when you went up to your dormitory, you sort of wanted to hide in the cupboard. You just didn't want to hear that knock. And there was a huge sense of relief when you realized you had not been called. The unfortunate quintet were Keith Newton, Peter Thompson, Johnny 'Budgie' Byrne, Bobby Tambling and Gordon Milne. Today, Milne still has a clear memory of how Alf broke the news: > Alf had this way with him – a bit like a headmaster, a bit cold. What he had to say was over in a couple of minutes. Maybe my disappointment made it seem colder than it really was. But certainly it was pretty clinical. It all stemmed from his simplicity. Later, when I became a manager myself, I saw that there was no room for sympathy. You had to take your decisions and give the player a few words of explanation. Some managers waffle on too much and miss the whole point of what they are trying to get across. Peter Thompson recalls his personal sadness alleviated by a typical moment of Budgie Byrne humour: > I thought it was an honour to be in the 28. Alf was firm, knew the game inside out and was a great tactician. Like all top managers, he had a ruthless streak, which meant that we were all a little bit frightened of him. He did not rant and rave but you always listened to what he said because you knew that's what he meant. You could argue with Shanks, he was effing, all the players were effing. Alf just told you and you accepted it. He had that bit of steel about him. It was one of my biggest disappointments to be left out of the 22. The five of us trooped into his office and he just said. 'Thank you so much for turning up and for working so hard. But I have made my decision.' The thing was that at Lilleshall all of us had been given our England kit and sports jacket, plus a white Burberry mac. So we were standing there and Alf was about to finish. 'I know you're all disappointed but that is my verdict. Any questions anybody?' Budgie Byrne immediately piped up: > > 'Can we keep the coats, Alf?' Before he finished at Lilleshall, Alf had one, more pleasant, task to perform. He summoned Dr Neil Phillips and Wilf McGuinness, both of whom thought they had finished their duties with the England camp and would not be involved in the actual tournament. But Alf had other ideas. 'I want to thank you both for what you have done for the England team to get us to the stage where we are now. When we get to the World Cup Final, I shall send for you two because I want you there when we win it.' 'But Alf,' replied Dr Phillips, 'you can't be sure we're going to win.' 'I am sure we're going to win. And I shall send for you both in the last stages of the competition.' * * * * Gascoigne launched into a tearful drunken diatribe against Hoddle on hearing that he had been left out of the squad, and even threatened the England manager with a table lamp. # [NINE _Hendon Hall_](004-toc.html#ch9) The name Bobby Moore has become synonymous with the summer of 1966. So it is amazing to think that in the weeks leading up to the World Cup finals, Alf had quietly given the impression that he was planning to drop Moore, not just from the England captaincy, but even from the national team. Alf's trust in Moore had been badly undermined by the events of 1964, when Moore proved rebellious over discipline and training. The incidents at the Beachcomber Bar in Mayfair and the Walfdorf Astoria in New York had been compounded by a row during the Little World Cup in Brazil, when Moore attacked Alf for imposing too big a burden on the players with his harsh training schedules. As leader of a recalcitrant clique, Moore approached Dr Alan Bass to complain that the team was being over-worked after a long season. To Alf, this smacked of little short of an open challenge to his authority, especially as Moore had not shown the courtesy to speak to him directly. But Alf, still feeling his way in his job, was not yet powerful enough to abandon one of his most talented, publicly admired players. He therefore tried to reach an accommodation with him. That autumn, after a game against Northern Ireland, he took Moore aside to discuss the role of the England captain in the build-up to the World Cup. 'Alf asked me to join him for a few minutes. We talked about being ready to commit ourselves to the objective of winning the World Cup in 1966. We sorted out our priorities on and off the pitch and agreed we would back each other up. Alf made it clear he expected the captain as well as the manager to conduct himself in a responsible manner and that was that. No problem as far as I was concerned.' Well, not for a while anyway. But by the beginning of 1966, Moore was slipping back into his old ways of cockiness and complacency, especially when in the company of his East London drinking partner Jimmy Greaves, who said of Moore, 'there are not many footballers who could match him in a drinking contest; he's got hollow legs'. Alf grew irritated when the two of them would sit at the back of the England bus and start to sing, 'What's it all about, Alfie?', the hit Burt Bacharach song of the time from the Michael Caine movie of the same name. He was also disturbed by the high priority Moore attached to his own monetary value. Every year, Moore was the last member of the West Ham squad to sign his annual contract, a form of financial pressure that ensured he received the largest possible salary increase. Alf, brought up in the age of the maximum wage and post-war rationing, had no empathy with this kind of free-market bargaining. In the period before the World Cup, this situation was proving serious for England, since Moore was being more difficult than ever about his contract, hinting that he might move to another club. Frustrated by Moore, Alf decided that he had to be taught a lesson. In May he was left out of the England team for the match against Yugoslavia, with his place taken by Norman Hunter and Jimmy Armfield, playing only his second game in three years, assuming the captaincy. It was widely assumed that Moore was merely being rested, but when England began their tour of Eastern Europe in June with a match against Finland in Helsinki, Moore was again on the sidelines and Armfield was captain. Sadly for Armfield, he broke a toe towards the end of the game, was sidelined for the rest of the tour and never played for England again, though he remained part of the 1966 World Cup squad. Alf never talked to Armfield or Moore about his plans for the tournament, but he did nothing to dampen speculation in the press about Moore's future. Brian James of the _Mail_ recalls: 'Bobby had not been playing that well and when they went on the tour of Europe, there was a shadow over him. I don't think there is any doubt that Alf by then had had enough of Bobby's nonsense and smirking and was considering dropping him before the World Cup.' Alf certainly fed this line to some journalists, and Bernard Joy, the former Arsenal centre-half, ran a story in the _Evening Standard_ saying that Bobby's position was under threat. But many writers think Alf was only giving Bobby a warning, and never seriously contemplated going into the World Cup without him. Hugh McIlvanney told me: > Alf's relationship with Bobby was quite strange. Bobby was a bit of a mickey-taker and this annoyed Alf. There were widespread suggestions before the World Cup that Alf was thinking of not playing Bobby. Bernard Joy, who was big on ingratiating himself with people who he thought would do him good, was claiming that Norman Hunter would play instead. And I believe that Alf was quite happy for this idea to be spread because of the way that Bobby was irritating him. In Alf's eye, Bobby was inclined to take his status for granted, treated the whole business of the World Cup too lightly and joined in the piss-taking with Jimmy Greaves. But I told Bernard that there was no chance that Bobby would not play. It was part of Alf that he would spread disinformation. There was no chance Alf was going to drop Bobby. It was so obvious. He liked to give the impression he was considering dropping him but there was no way he would do it. Bobby was a strange case. He was smashing in many ways, but you could not really have a proper conversation with him – he just asked questions all the time. You could not get to know him. He would keep you off balance. I introduced him to Joao Saldanha, the Brazil manager, and they sat together on the plane. I saw Joao later, and asked him, 'How did that go?' > > 'I don't know much about Bobby Moore but he knows a lot about me.' Alf's tactic worked brilliantly. Bobby Moore was shaken by his exclusion for two successive matches. As he later confessed: > It made me sit up. From that day, I never expected to be in an England squad until the letter from the FA dropped through the letter box, never took it for granted that I would be in the team until I saw my name on the sheet or heard Alf call it out. Alf was driving home to me that there are always enough players for any team to get by without any one player. I was so disappointed. So sick. I'd gone through all those games. The preparation had become really intense during the training camp in Lilleshall. Bobby was all the more worried because England easily beat Finland 3–0, with the defence looking solid. So he was relieved to be brought back for the next game against Norway in Oslo. 'No one was more on his toes,' Moore said. Except, perhaps, Jimmy Greaves, who had also been left out against Finland. For the first time in a year, Greaves looked back to his sparkling best, hitting four goals in a 6–1 win. 'Out of chaos came football of a quality that has eluded England for so long,' trumpeted the _Guardian._ Greaves' position as the leading striker seemed all the more secure when, in a 2–0 win against Denmark in Copenhagen, Hurst gave a woeful performance, showing poor control on a dry, bumpy pitch and failing to combine well with Greaves. For Ken Jones, the aftermath of Hurst's sorry outing again highlighted the originality of Alf's thinking: > The ball was bouncing all over the place and Geoff could hardly get hold of it. The next day I was walking with Harold Shepherdson across the concourse to catch the plane. > > 'What did you think of him last night?' said Harold. > > 'Who?' > > 'Geoff Hurst. He'll never make an international player, never make it.' > > For me, that just shows what a special manager Alf was. He did not write off Geoff. He took the conditions into account and the way Geoff had to expend such an enormous amount of energy just getting hold of the ball. Hurst, however, was left out for the final match of the tour in favour of Roger Hunt, when England took on Poland in Katowice, a grim industrial town typical of the bleak communist Eastern bloc in the sixties. The team's journey there tested their resolve almost as much as Lilleshall had done; it involved a flight to Warsaw, followed by another flight to Cracow, and then a seven-hour road trip by a battered old coach through a series of bleak villages in a grey wasteland. At one point on this meandering, laborious voyage, the Polish interpreter made the mistake of trying to engage Alf in conversation. 'And what do you and the team plan to do later in the evening, Mr Ramsey?' 'Get to Katowice – I hope,' he replied. When the bus finally arrived at its destination, and the stiff players clambered out, Jimmy Greaves took one look at the depressing skyline of tower blocks and chemical plants, over which hung an acrid yellow smog, and said, 'OK, Alf, you've made your point. Now let's piss off home.' But there was little room for joking about this game. The players were convinced that the team chosen was Alf's first eleven, the one that would take the field at the start of the finals themselves. That was good news for Roger Hunt, who had initially seemed to be out of favour, lagging behind Hurst and Greaves, but was picked against Poland in place of Hurst. When Alf had announced his squad of 22 to the press on 17 June, Jimmy Greaves had been at Number 8, Bobby Charlton at 9, Geoff Hurst at 10 and John Connelly at 11, while Roger Hunt had been given the Number 21 shirt, implying that he was only seen as a reserve. 'I am not making the slightest criticism of Alf, who always treated me fairly and did what he thought was right for the team. But I had done pretty well as Jimmy Greaves' deputy and especially after the Scotland game, I fancied I might be in the first team,' says Hunt. When he saw the shirt numbers, he felt a wave of disappointment but received no explanation from Alf. 'That wasn't Alf's way. He probably thought I'd be delighted just to be there.' The misleading impression that Alf gave with the squad numbers was just another example of Alf's campaign of disinformation, designed to leave everyone – press, opposition and his own team alike – guessing about his intentions. And he pulled off another surprise at Katowice when he named Martin Peters, rather than John Connelly, at number 11. Alf had decided to use 4–3–3 for the first time since Madrid the previous December, and the long-striding, versatile Peters, who could play equally well in attack and defence, was perfect for the role on the left-side of midfield. But Alf was not about to give away anything to the media about his tactics. When he announced the team at a press conference, he made a theatrical pause before stating the name of Peters at number 11. There was an audible gasp of surprise among the journalists, given that Peters had won just two caps previously. Then Frank Magee of the _Daily Mirror_ asked: 'Can you tell us the thinking behind the selection of Peters?' 'No Frank,' replied Alf with a wry smile, before walking out of the conference. A lot of the reporters did not see the amusing side of Alf's brusqueness, and complained about his being deliberately awkward. But Ken Jones felt it was 'the way the England manager should behave. He shouldn't be expected to give indications of what he intends doing before the game.' Both Peters and Hunt played well in a strong England performance, which saw them win 1–0. It was Hunt who scored the only goal with a 25-yard shot hit sweetly on the half-volley, prompting a moment of rhapsody from Desmond Hackett – 'this thing of splendour', he wrote in the _Express._ Hunt's brilliant strike, his twelfth goal in just thirteen appearances, appeared to confirm him as the partner for Greaves. England's victory gave them a 100 per cent record on the tour and their seventh consecutive win, their best run since 1950. Against Poland, Bobby Moore gave a masterly performance, banishing any doubts that he might not play in the World Cup. The defence had conceded just one goal in four games, emphasizing how settled it had become. Ray Wilson, one of its stalwarts, says: > I would go into games for England and for half an hour I would not even have a touch of the ball. That's how good the system was. What we did was that we each had an area that we played in, and when an opposition player moved into someone's zone, we made sure he was picked up. We would talk to each other a lot, 'Have you got him? He's coming across.' It was a zone of about twenty square yards; that was your area and whoever came into it, you picked him up. You never let anyone get behind you. As long as you could keep your back four across the field, you would be all right. We would not break until about thirty yards from goal. We didn't really mind if someone tried to shoot from that distance. You couldn't imagine anyone beating Gordon Banks from there. For Wilson, the trip to Eastern Europe had been crucial: 'The tour made me realize we could do it. We'd moved into a different league.' His fellow defender Jack Charlton felt the same: 'Among the England team, there was a tremendous spirit of confidence as the aircraft skimmed through the skies towards home, and the real thing at Wembley.' Ron Flowers, the Wolves midfielder, agreed. Turning to Jimmy Armfield after the Poland game, he said, 'Jim, I can't see anyone beating this team.' On their return to England on 7 July, the players were given a two days off by Alf to see their families, and then instructed to reassemble at Hendon Hall, the hotel in north-west London which was to be the team's base throughout the tournament, chosen for its proximity to Wembley and its oak-beamed tranquillity. The one disadvantage was that it was a long coach ride across London to the training venue at the Bank of England's sports ground in Roehampton. Fed up with the traffic, the players formed a delegation to ask Alf if he could switch to a training camp nearer Hendon Hall. He politely but firmly refused. There was more to this than mere stubbornness. Alf reckoned that keeping the players together, even in the jams on the North Circular, would deepen their sense of mutual belonging. At other times, Alf simply laid down his authority. It was almost four years since his appointment, and, after a number of difficult incidents, he had shown clearly that he was in charge. 'Alf Ramsey was the common denominator,' says Geoff Hurst, 'the cement that bound us all together. He was all powerful and one of the things that made his job possible was the willingness with which we all accepted his authority.' A good example of this occurred over the England squad's formal attire. The players had been issued with heavy grey flannel suits, totally unsuitable for the summer months. So Bobby Charlton, who was the senior member of the squad, was persuaded to approach Alf to ask if the squad might be allowed to travel to and from training in lighter, more casual gear. 'I'm always open to suggestions,' said Alf. He then paused for a while before telling Bobby, 'We'll stick with the suits.' On another occasion, at a banquet following a home international, Alf approached Bobby Moore: 'Robert, I think we ought to go.' Bobby pleaded with Alf to allow the players one more round. With a nod, Alf agreed. The beers were ordered and the players sat chatting away until they had finished their drinks. Moore then went over to Alf again to tell him the squad was now ready to depart. Without a word to Moore, Alf summoned the waiter and ordered himself and Harold Shepherdson a pair of large brandies, forcing the players to hang around longer. 'Alf knew exactly how to put us in our place. The next time he said it was time to go, we would not be asking for another drink,' says Alan Ball. It is easy to imagine that in the days before the opening ceremony, the England of 1966 was gripped – as it would be today – by a mood of World Cup fever, with a carnival atmosphere spreading across the country. We now look back on the event through the prism of history, imbuing the World Cup with the spirit of the sixties' liberation. It is now part of an uplifting narrative that takes in the Beatles and Carnaby Street, a moment when the nation threw a giant party to celebrate the abandonment of the starchy class-ridden, oppressive values of the fifties. Mini-skirts were in. Deference was out. Like that other cockney lad Michael Caine, Bobby Moore, East End working-class and proud of it, is now regarded as one of the symbols of this exciting social change. 'England in the summer of 1966 was a good place to be,' says the actor Terence Stamp. But it did not necessarily feel like that at the time. Britain was still a fundamentally conservative country in the middle of the decade. The sense of social revolution has been exaggerated. With all his insecurities and anxieties about correct behaviour, Alf Ramsey was far more representative of the British public than, say, John Lennon. Indeed, as the historian Douglas Sambrook has pointed out, the influence of the Beatles has been hugely overblown. _The Sound of Music_ sold twice as many copies as the Beatles' most popular album, Abbey Road, while Cliff Richard had 38 top-twenty hits compared with just 22 for the Fab Four. Britain in 1966 was a place where homosexuality and abortion were still illegal, drug-taking was almost unknown and the vast majority of teenagers were virgins. It was an overwhelmingly white country, where 20 million viewers tuned in every week to watch _The Black and White Minstrel Show_ and few troubling questions were asked about national identity or monarchy. Capital punishment had been officially abolished only a year earlier, a decision deplored by the great majority of the public. It was a land of Morris Minors and Angus Steak Houses, of Vickers Viscounts and Blackpool boarding houses, of Sunday closing and corner shops. In the Britain of the mid-sixties, public emotion was still frowned upon, something that Alf understood well. The sombre dignity of the crowds at the state funeral for Winston Churchill in 1965 was in stark contrast with the mass hysteria that surrounded the death of Princess Diana almost 33 years later. And football largely reflected that restraint. It is amazing to look at the footage of 1966 and see how many of the male spectators are dressed in collar and tie. With little violence on the terraces, there was no need for segregation. Nor was football the business juggernaught it later became. The FA's organization for 1966 bore the whiff of amateurism, a reluctance to exploit commercial opportunities. The organizing committee failed to find any sponsor for their ticket and sales brochures, one million of which were distributed in 1965. The official mascot, a cartoon lion wearing a Union Jack, known as World Cup Willie, was a puerile, half-hearted design that failed to inspire the public, as did the feeble song 'World Cup Willie', performed by the fifties skiffle artist Lonnie Donegan, which sold well in Japan but nowhere else. There were also an array of souvenirs, like World Cup Willie stockings for women and a five-foot-high glass Wellington boot, though, in the words of one retailer, David Walker, 'It was crap merchandise.' Poor security led to the World Cup trophy itself being stolen on the eve of the tournament when it was on display at a stamp exhibition. Understandably, there was severe embarrassment within the FA, which changed to relief when the trophy was found by Pickles the dog in a bush in south London. The absence of any marketing consciousness was reflected in the absurdly low prices of seats. It was possible to buy a block of tickets for the best seats at all ten London games (nine at Wembley, one at White City), including both the semi-final and the final, for just £25, which even then was not much more than the average weekly wage of £20, while a season ticket to stand on the terraces cost just £3.87. But football was living in the past, refusing to exploit its potential earnings from gate receipts and television rights; it was still possible in 1966 to watch a game for only five shillings. In consequence, the players' pay was far lower in real terms than the earnings of today, despite the abolition of the maximum wage. During the World Cup finals, the match fee per game was just £60. Nor was football the dominant cultural force it was to become by the end of the century. It was not _de rigeur_ for politicians to take an interest in soccer. The TV schedules were not filled with evening games – indeed, FA Cup games were often the only televised games in a season. To parts of the establishment in the media and civic life, football was just a working-class pursuit of little wider consequence. It was not woven into the fabric of society as in Italy, Spain or Brazil. Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ gives this insight: > Until 1970, sport was confined to the back pages. It was not taken seriously at all. Football writers were just called 'Sport' at the _Daily Mail,_ in tones dripping with contempt. It was an attitude of condescension. And it was not until after 1966 that big business had any idea about football. Then marketing men woke up to the importance of football. After '66 I was constantly being asked for advice from companies about sponsoring players. It was often absurd. You'd go to a meeting in the boardroom and a director would say, 'Now we ought to get one of these players on board. The man I know is Matthews, Stanley Matthews.' The whole thing was bizarre. The lack of media interest in soccer was graphically illustrated by the _Daily Mirror,_ by far Britain's biggest-selling paper, on the day of the World Cup Final. 'This is the crunch. This is judgement day,' screamed an editorial on the front page. But the paper was not talking about a football match; it was referring to the government's economic policy. The lead story, filling most of the page, was about the Economics Minister George Brown's attempts to uphold a pay, prices and dividends freeze. The World Cup did not feature until page 13. Initially, some of this indifference extended to the footballing public itself, with many of the matches outside London played in front of disappointing crowds – just 24,000 turned up to see Hungary against Bulgaria at Goodison Park in Liverpool. Even England's first match of the 1966 campaign, against Uruguay on 11 July, was nowhere near a sell-out. With 87,000 spectators in the stadium, Wembley was 10,000 short of capacity. England's preparations before the match were interrupted by two administrative problems. The first was that Bobby Moore had still refused to sign a new contract with West Ham, and was therefore technically ineligible under FIFA regulations to play in the finals. In the midst of all his other work, Alf was not pleased by this distraction, especially because he had to conduct frantic negotiations with Moore and FA to find a solution. The difficulty was overcome by Moore agreeing to a temporary one-month contract to cover the tournament. Ron Greenwood was summoned urgently to Hendon Hall, where he was greeted by an impatient Ramsey. Pointing to a dark, panelled room off the foyer, Ramsey said, 'You can have him in there for just one minute.' Moore signed the relevant form in seconds, saying barely a word to Greenwood, who then hurried back to Upton Park. The second, more heart-stopping, problem arose barely an hour before the kick-off. The Hungarian referee, Istvan Zsolt, came into the England dressing-room and asked to check the FIFA identity cards of each of the team. These little red cards, similar to passports with the name and photograph of the holder, were intended to stop teams surreptitiously fielding ineligible or suspended players. To Harold Shepherdson's horror, he realized he had forgotten to confirm with the players that they were carrying their cards. And sure enough, seven of the eleven had left them behind at the Hendon Hall hotel. 'I am sorry, Mr Ramsey,' said Zsolt, 'but these seven cannot take part in tonight's match.' Alf remained astonishingly calm amidst the mounting drama, and, with the co-operation of the police, instructed one of their motorcyclists to go to the hotel to pick up the missing cards. Typically, Jack Charlton relieved some of the tension: 'Man, they don't need identity cards at Leeds. Everyone knows me up there.' The police rider returned with just forty minutes to go, having travelled most of the route on the wrong side of the road to avoid the heavy traffic around Wembley. Harold Shepherdson's admiration for Alf was only increased by the way he handled the incident: he wrote in 1968, 'Although this was my fault, for after all I am the team's baggage master, there was no time for recrimination, and to this day Alf has never given me the right rollicking he should have done for forgetting such an important item'. It was an inauspicious start to the evening, and the match was hardly more inspiring, once the opening ceremony was out of the way and Alf, looking his usual dapper self in a charcoal grey suit, had presented his team to Queen Elizabeth. Alf had warned his players that the Uruguayans, winners of the World Cup in 1930 and 1950, would be difficult to beat. 'They are very good at getting men behind the ball but more important is what they do when they get there. They engage you. They don't just let you have the ball, they come for you and force you into mistakes,' he said in his pre-match talk. His judgement was correct. The Uruguayans, having set out to achieve a draw, packed the defence. It was a frustrating experience for England, who never really looked like scoring. Alf had played a version of 4–3–3, with Stiles, Bobby Charlton and Alan Ball in midfield, and Hunt, Greaves and Connelly in the front-line. Martin Peters' replacement by Connelly was the only change from the Poland game on the European tour, Alf believing that a conventional winger might be more successful in cracking a side bent purely on stalemate. Connelly said: > I was surprised, and glad, to be back in the team because I knew Alf had an admiration for Peters, who was a very good player. But Uruguay was a bad one to come back for. They were determined they weren't going to lose. I hit the bar and scraped the post. The crowd had applause for Bobby Moore, playing at the back with Jack, and I remember thinking, 'He should try it up here.' Up front, we were three against eight some of the time. I couldn't believe it. The match ended 0–0, the first time England had been goalless at Wembley since 1938. 'We ran relentlessly, but only into an ever deepening road-block,' says George Cohen. The players trooped off the field in disappointment, the boos of the crowd ringing in their ears. Yet again, Alf showed his gift for man-management once they were back in the dressing-room. Instead of the rollicking they were expecting, he gave them whole-hearted encouragement: > You may not have won, but you didn't lose, and you didn't give away a goal either. Wonderful, we didn't give them a kick. How many shots did you have to save, Gordon? Two? That's the stuff. Whatever anyone says, remember you can still qualify, provided you keep a clean sheet and don't lose a game. Ray Wilson remembers: 'These were the words we wanted to hear, the sentiments that really counted. The fans and critics could talk all day. Our faith was with the manager.' In public, Alf said he was 'disappointed with the result, but not the performance'. It was not a verdict shared by much of the press. Ken Jones recalls that the outcome sparked bitter abuse against Alf, long seen as too arrogant in his behaviour and too rigid in outlook. 'Answering my press-box telephone, I heard a _Mirror_ executive say, "You can hear what the people think about this man's team and his bloody playing tactics, so take him apart."' The foreign press were just as dismissive. _La Stampa_ of Italy believed that 'this was a bad England team. They did not look like scoring tonight.' The Dusseldorf paper _Sport Informations Dienst_ predicted, 'England will not win the World Cup.' Alf recognized that relaxation would be better for his team than yet more training, so the day after the Uruguay match he took them for a visit to Pinewood Studios. At a buffet lunch where the wine and beer flowed generously, the players mingled with stars such as Sean Connery, Yul Brynner, Britt Ekland and Norman Wisdom. Bobby Charlton chatted to the rotund Robert Morley, who was 'amazed that our wives are not allowed to stay with us'. Afterwards they gathered to watch the filming of a scene from the new James Bond movie _You Only Live Twice._ A well-lubricated Ray Wilson took a seat off camera just a few yards from Sean Connery. Silence fell on the set as the cameras began to roll. Then, half way through the scene there was a loud clatter. 'Cut,' shouted the director. All eyes turned on the sprawling figure of Wilson, who had toppled backwards and smashed his chair against the floor. Wilson and the rest of the England party looked at each other sheepishly as the shot had to be re-taken. When it was time to leave, Alf strode onto the set, and gave a few words of thanks to the studios and Sean Connery for their hospitality. Unfortunately, this was one of those classic moments when Alf's mixture of unworldliness and artificial elocution let him down. Instead of pronouncing Connery's name correctly, he said, 'Thank you, _Seen.'_ Inevitably, Bobby Moore and Jimmy Greaves could not resist having a laugh. 'Now I've _shorn_ everything,' said Moore. It was soon back to the serious business, as England prepared for their next qualifying match, against Mexico on the 16 July. Alf stuck with 4–3–3, but he made two changes to the team, with Peters coming in for Ball and Terry Paine replacing Connelly, who had lacked penetration if not effort against Uruguay. Because of his fiercely competitive fiery nature, Ball could not easily handle rejection. When Alf had broken the news of his exclusion, he returned to his room uttering all sorts of curses against Alf. After collecting some winnings from a bookmaker, recalls his room-mate Nobby Stiles, Ball came in, 'throwing fivers on the floor and dancing on them, saying "Fuck Alf Ramsey".' Ball even spoke for a while about walking out of the England squad. Jimmy Greaves helped to talk him out of such a drastic move. 'Ballie was sick with Alf but over a lager we helped him see the sense of staying on.' For the first half hour against Mexico, it looked like England were heading for the same dismal result as against Uruguay. The Mexicans had shown their intentions right from the start, hoofing the ball straight from the kick-off deep into England's territory, then retreating into defence. But in the 38th minute, the deadlock was broken by a moment of magic from Bobby Charlton, the player that Alf had regarded as his potential match-winner from the moment he had been appointed England manager. Charlton picked up the ball in midfield, kept advancing, switching the ball from foot to foot as he surged past the Mexicans, and then suddenly unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot from 25 yards, which screamed into the net past a bewildered keeper. Charlton hit the ball so hard that it was still rising like a rocket even as it crossed the line. 'The nearer it got to goal the more it seemed to speed up,' says Ray Wilson. 'If the keeper had tried to save it he would have been carried straight through the net and into the back of the stand.' It was a moment of genius that pulled England out their torpor and set the crowd alight. The ever reliable Roger Hunt, whose run had opened up space for Charlton by dragging a defender with him, added a second goal fifteen minutes from the end. The England campaign was finally under way. But for one member of the England team against Mexico, the World Cup was over. Terry Paine had enjoyed even less luck than John Connelly: > I got hit in the back of the head when I went up for a ball. I was badly concussed but there were no substitutes in those days so I played on. I must be the only guy who played in a World Cup but cannot remember much about it. I did not actually wake up until I was sitting on the table in the dressing-room itself; then things came back into shape. But I was groggy for a few days after that and Alf was one of those managers who ruled you out if there was a suspicion of an injury. I suppose if I hadn't had that injury, things might have been different. That is something I would never know and Alf would never tell. So Alf ended up trying a third winger, Ian Callaghan of Liverpool, in England's final qualifying match. A draw against France would almost certainly be enough to carry England through to the quarter-final, and Jack Charlton claims that 'we were never really worried about this game'. Nevertheless, England played poorly, their football lacking any rhythm. Callaghan was no more effective on the wing than Paine or Connelly had been, while Greaves, for the third game in a row, looked out of touch. In fact, just twice in his last ten games for England had he been on the score-sheet. His poor form was made all the worse by a nasty shin injury he received from the boot of Joseph Bonnel. Though Greaves, like Paine, had to carry on playing because of the absence of substitutes, he later received four stitches in the wound. It was only through two well-taken goals from Hunt that England secured their victory. In public Alf praised his team's march to the quarter-finals. In the privacy of the dressing-room, he was more critical, singling out Ray Wilson. 'There were one or two people tonight who thought they were good players. And you were one of them,' said Alf. Wilson thought for a moment of arguing back, but quickly decided that would be pointless. It was, he thought, just Alf's way of trying to puncture any complacency. Yet in the dressing-room Alf had avoided any mention of a far more serious miscreant, Nobby Stiles, who had perpetrated an outrageously late tackle on the skilful French midfielder Jacques Simon. In the last quarter of the game, Stiles hacked Simon down after the Frenchman had received the ball from a throw-in, turned and passed it on to a colleague. 'I was aware that it was late, a terrible tackle,' says Stiles. George Cohen, who was nearby, calls it 'the tackle from hell, one that from the moment of its inception was destined to land somewhere between the Frenchman's thyroid gland and his crotch. I recall grimacing and saying to myself, "Jesus, that looked bad." It was. Jacky Simon had to be carried from the field and France were down to ten men. Strangely, England were not reduced to the same number, for the referee did not even book Stiles for the challenge, never mind send him off. The incident cast a shadow over England's victory. There was uproar in both the British and international press, with Stiles accused of having heaped embarrassment on the hosts. Alf's arch-enemy, Danny Blanchflower, claimed Stiles had 'ruined the game'. Joe Mercer, later to succeed Alf as temporary England manager, said Stiles had committed a 'terrible foul, one to shame English football'. FIFA was moved to announce that 'if this player were reported to them again by a referee or other official, they would take serious action'. For many critics, the incident also reflected badly on Ramsey. Stiles was seen as emblematic of his sterile, negative managerial style, where work-rate was cherished above artistry. For the FA councillors this was a golden opportunity to put their unaccountable manager in his place, having had to endure years of his dismissiveness. Alf had caused them offence on his very first overseas tour in the summer of 1963, when, at the end of the trip, he mockingly thanked them for 'staying out of my way'. And he had continued in the same vein, sneeringly referring to them as 'those people'. The commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme recalled an incident when he asked Alf about the arrangements for accommodation at a certain match. 'The players will be at the Hilton, so will I. I don't know where the FA officials are staying. They are nothing to do with me.' Nobby Stiles remembers an incident on tour in Sweden, when he realized he had run out of contact lens fluid. Alf immediately phoned Denis Follows, Secretary of the FA, and made arrangements for more fluid to be put on the next flight to Gothenburg. While Alf was giving his orders, he was interrupted by an FA councillor, asking him about an official reception. Instantly, Alf barked: 'To wear his contact lenses Nobby needs this fluid. That is important. Receptions and cocktail parties are not.' Now, thanks to Stiles, Alf was summoned to Lancaster Gate, where the International Committee was ready to grill him. Alf bristled with indignation as he went into a meeting which he regarded as an utter waste of his time. If the FA thought that Alf might be on the defensive and willing to give some ground, they were mistaken. Prompted by the public outburst from FIFA, the Committee members told Alf that Stiles was an embarrassment to the good name of English football and should be dropped, if not for the rest of the tournament, at least for the next game. Alf fixed them with his coldest of stares: 'Most certainly Nobby Stiles can be thrown off the team,' he said, 'but I must tell you that I see him as a very important player for England, one who has done very well since he was first selected, and if he goes, so do I. You will be looking for a new manager.' That brought the meeting to a sudden close. Soon afterwards, unsurprisingly, rumours of Alf's threat to quit reached the press, forcing Alf to issue a statement of denial, in which he claimed, rather unconvincingly, that 'at all times I have received the utmost co-operation of the members of the Senior International Committee'. For the rest of his reign as England manager, he maintained this stance, saying in 1970, for instance, that 'there was no pressure on me to eliminate anyone at the time. And I don't remember having a disagreement throughout the competition.' But in an interview in 1991, long after he had retired, Alf finally admitted the truth as he poured out his bitterness against the FA: > It was quite extraordinary. It seemed that they could not accept Stiles as an international and made it clear that they didn't want him. I just told them that if Stiles was to be dropped, they could find a new manager. And I meant it. I would have walked out there and then. None of this was known by Stiles or the rest of the England team, who carried on with their preparations for the quarter-final against Argentina. On the Friday morning on the training ground at Roehampton, Alf pulled Nobby to one side and asked him a simple question: 'Did you mean it?' 'No Alf, I didn't. I mistimed the tackle.' 'You're playing tomorrow.' Then Alf, just to rub it in with the FA, made a powerful public defence of Stiles, calling him 'a great young Englishman who is proud to play for his country and has done it very well. He is not just a good player but a great player.' Nobby told me that when he heard Alf's words: 'I felt tears coming to my eyes. The press had been slaughtering me all week, that's the way they are. Then Alf defended me. He was a great man, such a strong man.' Loyalty is perhaps the most precious commodity any leader can enjoy. But it has to be earned. It cannot be demanded. And with his robust support for Nobby, Alf had earned it from his team. They knew that when he talked of loyalty, he really meant it. He had put his job on the line for one of his players. He had unequivocally sided with his team against the media, the FA and FIFA, giving his players a powerful boost to morale. In pressurized situations, a siege mentality can be beneficial for team spirit. 'Everyone felt that was great,' said Bobby Moore. 'All right, we were biased. All right, Nobby was there first and foremost to spoil, to mark people, to niggle and upset people. But he could still play the game.' Stiles was primarily a defensive player, whose central job was to win the ball and give it to Bobby Charlton. Indeed, Nobby argues that the system Alf played was not 4–3–3, but 4–1–3–2, with himself as the linkman between the defence and midfield. Because the opposition had been so geared to holding out for a draw in the first games, Nobby had not had the chance to shine in the tournament. But Alf knew he would be vital in the harder rounds against more attacking sides. Apart from standing by Nobby, Alf had two other important decisions to make before the Argentina game. The first was about the formation. Alf had tried three wingers in three different games, none of whom had made much impression. With Argentina likely to be far more creative than any previous opponent, Alf believed he had to strengthen the midfield, so he brought in Alan Ball in place of Ian Callaghan. Gordon Banks says that Ball and Peters were the perfect pair to operate within a 4–3–3 system: > I thought at the time that the decision to dispense with wingers was a good one. Alan Ball and Martin Peters were highly intelligent players. They worked tirelessly, dropped back and helped out in defence, were good when going forward, and, particularly in the case of Martin Peters, could make quality crosses into the opposition penalty area. Possibly their best assets were their lungs, which must have been like sides of beef, so much ground did they cover. Today, Ball remembers how Alf approached him on the Friday before the game: > He came up to me on the training ground and said, > > 'How are you, young man? You don't look as if you are enjoying yourself.' > > 'Well, Alf, I've missed my chance, I suppose. I'm very, very disappointed. I don't think I played that poorly against Uruguay. I can understand what you have done. But I'm still disappointed.' > > 'Well, I wouldn't be. Because you're going to play tomorrow. I'm, giving you a job on the right hand side. They have a very good young full-back, Marzolini, and you are going to stop him. I don't think he's the fittest of their players and that will suit you right down to the ground. Do you think you can do that?' > > 'Alf, I will die doing that.' > > Silvio Marzolini was a really good player going forward and Alf wanted me to stop him. No disrespect to Terry Paine, John Connelly and Ian Callaghan, who were all wide right players, but Alf thought I was the person to be a nuisance to this guy, get up his nose and get around him. The other key duty of Ball, working alongside Stiles, was to open up opportunities for Bobby Charlton, England's most creative player. 'Don't forget,' says Ball, 'Bobby was not a big tackler or ball winner. We scrapped so Bobby could live. Nobby and I worked all day just to get the ball to him in the right areas, knowing that Bobby would produce.' At Roehampton, Alf illustrated this with a canine metaphor. 'Do either of you have a dog?' he asked the pair. 'I do,' said Ball. 'You know how when you throw a ball your dog chases after it? Well, that's what I want you both to do for Bobby. Win the ball and give it to him.' Alf's second big decision was more straightforward. Jimmy Greaves' shin injury had, in his own words, 'opened up like a red rose towards the end of its bloom'. There was no way he would be able to take the field. But it is doubtful he would have done so even if he had remained fit since, in Alf's view, his lack of goals had already ruled him out. When Greaves was not scoring, he was not contributing. Alf later stated, 'Jimmy Greaves had not shown his true form to substantiate his position in the England team and would not have been selected for the Argentina match.' In Geoff Hurst, Alf had a replacement who would not let him down in terms of commitment. Though playing in a revolutionary wingless system, Hurst was in one respect a throwback to the English tradition of the strong, bustling centre-forward. Jimmy Armfield recalls a late-night conversation with Alf at Hendon Hall which centred on this very issue: > Harold Shepherdson, Alf, myself and Bobby Moore were sitting up one night, talking about the old days, and I happened to say, 'You know, all the times I have watched and played with England teams, I have never really seen a successful side without a big target man, an old-fashioned centre-forward.' I quoted the example of Bobby Smith, and we mentioned others like Dixie Dean and Nat Lofthouse. Then I said that the only big striker we had in the squad was Geoff Hurst. The simple truth is that Roger Hunt was a workaholic; Bobby Charlton was a workaholic; Alan Ball was a workaholic. Alf had the runners but he needed someone who could hold the ball. Geoff had always been able to do that. I played against him and I knew what it was like when he had his back to me, a big bulk that you couldn't get round. I said, 'Well, that's my opinion,' and I just left it. Bobby Moore, who knew Geoff well, said, 'No, it's a good idea.' Ironically, Geoff was in soon after that conversation. Argentina were the team that Alf most feared in the World Cup finals, partly because of their magnificent skill on the ball, partly because of their epic cynicism. He had long regarded them as more likely champions than Brazil; during England's tour of Eastern Europe just before the finals, Alf had taken the chance to watch Brazil in action in Sweden and had returned to the England camp with the news that 'Brazil are no danger. They're too old.' Disorganized and demoralized, Brazil failed to qualify for the quarter-finals, though they were subjected to savage treatment at the hands of Portugal, with Pele literally kicked out of the tournament. Argentina, however, were a more daunting prospect, an intimidating mix of the ruthless and the sublime. Having watched them in action in the Little World Cup in 1964, Alf sensed that they would be England's toughest opponents. As his captain Bobby Moore put it: 'We knew how difficult it would be to beat them. From all we'd seen of them, we knew they were often scruffy and untidy, but that they had enormous skill.' On the Friday afternoon, Alf gave his usual purposeful team talk. Nobby Stiles gives this insight into the way he promoted a feeling of inclusion: > Alf went through their side, and then said, 'But the player who really makes them tick is Ermindo Onega. Do you think we should man-mark him?' All the lads said, 'Yes'. Now we did not usually man-mark with Alf, using zonal marking instead. Alf continued, 'So who should do it?' Ray Wilson was the first to say, 'Nobby.' That was Alf. He was going to do it anyway but he wanted to give us the feeling that we all shared in the decision. Harold Shepherdson also talked privately to Nobby at Hendon Hall that night, giving him a lecture about his duty towards Alf. 'I told him that he owed a great deal to Alf, who had stood by him against very strong newspaper criticism, and that if he did anything silly, he would be letting down the man who had faith in him.' After all the criticism and apathy of the previous few weeks, the public mood appeared to have swung in England's favour once the team reached the quarter-finals. From villain, Nobby was transformed into national hero. As the England bus approached Wembley, a banner could be seen bearing the slogan 'Nobby for Prime Minister'. In the dressing-room, however, the atmosphere was more sombre. 'We accepted in our guts it was going to be hard. Maybe brutal,' said Bobby Moore. Just before the kick-off, Alf confined himself to one harshly realistic sentence, 'Well, gentlemen, you know the sort of game you have on your hands this afternoon.' But no warning from Alf could have prepared England for the depths to which Argentina sunk. Potentially a fine team, they simply refused to play football and instead tried to foul their way to the semi-finals. The hardened professionals of England, used to the physical contact of the League, were surprised at the naked hostility they encountered. 'I quickly discovered that whenever I beat an Argentinian I could expect to be tripped, bodychecked, spat at or dragged to the ground,' said Bobby Charlton, one of the most chivalrous performers in international football. 'Never, in any other match, had I been kicked when the ball was at the other end as I was now. I'd look round, and one of their fellows would make a gesture of innocence! It was the worst behaviour I'd ever experienced,' argued Roger Hunt. His companion up front, Geoff Hurst, compared it to 'walking down a dark alley late at night in a strange town'. Ankles were kicked, hair tugged, eyes poked. 'The tackles were flying in, and so was the spittle,' jokes George Cohen. In the 36th minute, the match reached boiling point. The Argentinian captain Antonio Rattin, one of those naturally commanding players, like Bobby Moore, who always seemed to have time on the ball, had spent much of the game arguing with the German referee, the balding, diminutive Rudolf Kreitlein. The last straw for Kreitlein occurred when Rattin, described by Cohen as 'a natural bully', began yet another dispute over one of his decisions. The German's patience suddenly snapped, he reached for his notebook, waved his right arm and ordered Rattin from the field. The Argentinian could hardly believe it. For a full eight minutes, he stood in front of Kreitlein, alternately threatening, pleading and remonstrating. A sense of anarchy prevailed over Wembley, as other Argentinians joined in the protests. Bobby Charlton described the scenes as 'degrading' and a 'nightmare' as the 'Argentinians went berserk. They all piled into the ruck, arguing, gesticulating, pushing, shoving and fighting among themselves to get in on the act. The referee was disgracefully manhandled and at one time I thought the match would have to be abandoned.' As Hugh McIlvanney memorably commented, this was 'not so much a football match as an international incident'. Rattin eventually left the field but his departure did not make the game any easier for England, as the ten remaining Argentinians rallied in defence and kept up their spoiling tactics. It should be said England were not above retaliation and indeed, during the game, they were deemed by Kreitlein to have committed more fouls than the Argentinians. Even Bobby Charlton was booked for the only time in his international career, when he ran to the aid of his brother when he saw Jack being assaulted. There were moments when Alf grew worried that Nobby would lose his composure in the mayhem. After Nobby was spat on for the seventh time, Alf buried his face in his hands, fearing the worst. He then looked up to see Nobby being led quietly away by Ray Wilson. 'There was more to it than just relief. Regardless of Nobby's will to win, the tremendous job he did for England, those people would have happily kicked him out,' said Alf. In all it was an ugly, dispiriting spectacle, 'the worst I have ever seen England involved in,' said Harold Shepherdson. The match looked to be heading for a draw when, in the 77th minute, Peters picked up the ball, went down the left wing and then hit a curling cross towards the near post. Geoff Hurst, who had timed his fifteen-yard run to perfection, met the ball with a glancing header, sending it across the keeper and just inside the far post. It was a beautifully worked move, simple yet devastating, one that Peters and Hurst had practised thousands of times on the West Ham training ground. 'We'd worked on near-post goals till it became an automatic action,' says Peters. 'I wouldn't even have to look. I knew Geoff would be there.' The West Ham connection was another advantage of Hurst's presence over Greaves, just as the Manchester United partnership of Stiles and Charlton worked so instinctively for England. Hurst's goal decided the result. England were through to the semi-finals. But Alf's mood was one of outrage rather than pleasure. The Argentinians had confirmed all the negative views he had held about the over-excitability and underhand methods of South American football since he had first toured Brazil with Southampton in 1948. In his fury, he let his usual mask of impassivity slip, giving an almost unique public demonstration of the fire that burned within him. When he saw George Cohen about to swap shirts with his opposite number, Alberto Gonzalez, he ran twenty yards onto the field, grabbed the sleeves and, with real venom in his voice, told Cohen, 'George, you are not changing shirts with that animal.' Alf's outburst was fully justified, given the behaviour of the Argentinians once the game was over. First of all some of them were so threatening towards Kreitlein that he had to be escorted from the pitch by a quartet of police officers. Once they were off the field, they kept up their antics, urinating in the corridor outside their dressing-room and threatening to smash down the door of the England dressing-room. 'Let 'em in. I'll fight them all,' shouted Jack Charlton. Alf was still seething when he was interviewed on television by Kenneth Wolstenholme, and his bitterness was to prompt one of the most infamous remarks of his career: 'We have still to produce our best and this best is not possible until we meet the right type of opposition and that is a team that comes out to play football and _not act as animals.'_ The implication that Argentina had acted like animals caused uproar in South America and consternation in FIFA and the FA. Just days after the Nobby Stiles affair, Alf was in serious trouble with the authorities again. When the disciplinary committee of FIFA met, they first decided on some tough punishments for Argentina, including an £85 fine and the suspension of Rattin for four matches, then turned their attention to Alf. It was agreed to write to the FA, drawing attention 'to the unfortunate remarks made by Mr Ramsey in a television interview'. In FIFA's view, 'such remarks do not foster good international relations and it desires the FA to take appropriate disciplinary measures'. So soon after being bitten by Alf over Stiles, the FA were not prepared for another full-scale confrontation and merely asked secretary Denis Follows to have a quiet word with the manager. Anxious to avoid more distractions, Alf gave an apology in a half-hearted way, one that revealed his unease at dealing with the press: 'I was unfortunate in my choice of words. I am placed in the position of answering questions under the conditions because of my job. It does not excuse my choice of words.' That was good enough for the FA. But Alf's comments would haunt him for the rest of his time as England manager, reinforcing his image as sour, insensitive and undiplomatic, and creating a well of resentment against him in Latin America, which would work against him in the 1970 World Cup. For the South Americans, his outburst smacked of old-fashioned British imperialism, a not entirely unjustified belief in Alf's case; as Brian Glanville once wrote of him, 'his own xenophobia was a kind of cloven hoof, which he could not help but show'. So offended were the Argentinians that the British Ambassador in Buenos Aires, Sir Michael Cresswell, had to be given a special police guard. On a deeper level, the row strengthened the South Americans' belief that the entire 1966 World Cup was biased against them. For the first time in history, all four semi-finalists were European: England, Portugal, West Germany and Russia, while the refereeing – typified by Kreitlein – was said to favour the Europeans. In one respect, this represented a clash of football cultures. Tactics which the Europeans regarded as abhorrent, such as arguing with the referee, diving or spitting, were quite normal in South America, whereas the Latins were appalled at the northern referees' leniency towards brutish tackling, especially from behind. Alf did not care what Argentina or FIFA or the FA thought. He was unconcerned about wider developments in world football. All that ever mattered to him was his team, and now they were though to the last four, a far greater achievement than his critics had suggested was possible. That Saturday night in Hendon Hall, he allowed his players to celebrate: 'It was a smashing night. We had a few bevvies and a big sing-song. Most of us got pretty drunk, but Alf didn't say a word, he just sat in the corner.' Alan Ball remembers. 'It was that night, over a few drinks, that we began to realize the enormity of what we had done.' * * * Only about £250 in today's money. # [TEN _Wembley_](004-toc.html#ch10) 'I knew there was a certain cynicism among fans and critics alike at the early stage. Not a lot of people gave us any great chance of winning,' says Ray Wilson. Reflecting on this climate of negativity, Brian James, the _Daily Mail's_ former chief football writer, tells an extraordinary story which illustrates the huge prejudice in the press against Alf that existed in the summer of 1966: > Half-way through the tournament, I was taken for a walk in Hyde Park by Jim Manning, then the sports columnist on the _Daily Mail._ He was acting on the instructions of the Editor, who had told him, 'Brian has got to stop saying that England will win the World Cup because he is making us look stupid. He's backing the wrong man. And you can tell him that if England do not win the World Cup, then he may have to look for another job.' In part, this was because quite a few journalists simply did not understand what Alf was trying to do with his wingless formation. Trapped in their stereotyped thinking about W–M, the old guard in the media turned their incomprehension into scorn. 'Alf, you give me the World Cup Willies,' wrote Desmond Hackett. But the deeper reason was that Alf made it so obvious that he viewed the press largely as an irrelevance. 'If they get in touch with me, it's always because they want something – there's nothing I ever want from them,' Alf said. It was players, not public relations, that achieved results. His unco-operative attitude left journalists aggrieved, but it actually strengthened the spirit of his team, as Nobby Stiles recalls: > He could not give a shit about the press, really, it was great. Budgie Byrne told me that when Walter Winterbottom was in charge and England were training, the interviews with journalists could drag on for two hours. But with Alf, it was very different. When we were at Roehampton, the press would be gathered there, wanting interviews and photographs. And Alf would say to the lads, 'How long should we give the press, half an hour, twenty minutes?' 'Twenty minutes,' we'd reply, though Ray Wilson did not want to give them a second. 'They know fuck all,' he'd say. So Alf goes to the press, 'Gentlemen, before we start, you may have twenty minutes with the lads.' At the end of that time, Harold Shepherdson would blow the whistle and that was it. It didn't matter if you were in the middle of an interview. Alf understood that we didn't want to be wasting energy talking for hours to journalists. You can lose energy that way. I'm sure the press didn't like that but we loved Alf for it. Under Walter, the press would rule. Under Alf, he was in charge. Contrary to the widespread gloom in the press before the 1966 finals – and again after the Uruguay game – Alf had taken England further than they had ever been before. In fact, his team was in the middle of a phenomenal run, having lost just one of their previous 21 games, and conceded just one goal in their last nine. If not the most elegant or explosive side, they had almost become unbeatable. Sepp Herberger, who had managed West Germany when they won the World Cup in 1954, said that 'England are justified in reaching the semi-final. As a team, they have no weakness, which is rare.' With the introduction of Hurst, Alf had achieved exactly the right balance in his team – it had strength, industry, hard-running and attacking options. For all the moans about the 'wingless wonders', Alf had really lost nothing down the flanks, since Martin Peters and Alan Ball were so industrious and such good users of the ball. The two full-backs, Wilson and Cohen, were also exceptionally quick when going forward, though the quality of Cohen's crosses left something to be desired – it was joked that the spectators behind the goal should have been given gum shields because they were in more danger than the opposition keeper. In an interview in 1978, Alf explained the thinking behind his dropping of orthodox wingers: > Terry Paine, Ian Callaghan and John Connelly all had one game each. To accommodate them, I had to leave out either Alan Ball or Martin Peters. And when it came to the moment of decision, I felt I needed the best players regardless of their acceptable positions. A manager's job is to pick his best available team. That is exactly what I did for the quarter-final against Argentina. What I will readily admit is that I do not favour old-fashioned wingers, the type who were stationed out on the touchline and waited for the ball to be served up to them. To have two players stuck out on the flanks is a luxury which can virtually leave a side with nine men when the game is going against them. Ray Wilson has this analysis of the tactical success of Alf's system: > Most of the England team was solid. The goalkeeper and the back four never changed. We were always secure there. Once Alf had established the defence, we were there for ever. The only guy Alf gave any freedom to was Bobby Charlton. Every other player on the field had a job to do. They all had to come back; they all had to put defenders under pressure; they had to tackle, making the opposition play square balls. But Bobby was allowed to run loose – and quite right. Who else could have scored a goal like his against Mexico? Ray Wilson further argues that the arrival of Hurst made a big difference: > Jimmy Greaves was bloody useless in the air. The chances we were going to get at Wembley would be mainly in air because the other teams were so outrageously defensive. There comes a time, in that situation, when you have to start hitting 50–50 balls. And that's where Geoff was so good. You could hit balls up to him and he would hold on or knock them down for people like Martin Peters or Bobby. The change from Jimmy to Geoff certainly suited me because it meant that if I was under pressure, with two opponents against me, I could get it to Geoff and he'd keep it, putting their defence under pressure. Jimmy couldn't do that. Alf's long-period of team building, sticking with the same team – especially in defence – also paid dividends. Jack Charlton gives this example: 'With George Cohen, you knew that if anyone took him on the inside, he struggled. But over a year, you learned how to cover for that sort of thing.' England's progress was based on more than just a constructive tactical approach. Since his appointment, Alf had laid great stress on building a team of strong personalities. It was not enough to have technique or skill. A player with Ramsey's England also had to have the right temperament, one that would not buckle under fire or put self-interest before the needs of the team. In the band of brothers he forged, there was no room for show-offs, slackers or complainers. Roger Hunt says: > It strikes me that every member of that team was an honest trier, irrespective of ability. It seems clear now why Alf chose the men he did and it is a tribute to his acumen and judgement of character. Alf knew that, no matter what the circumstances, he could rely on a certain level of performance. Character was a central feature of Ramsey's England, and his final eleven in 1966 reflected the values that he cherished: honesty, dignity, application, courage and selflessness. Several of them had come through harrowing personal ordeals: Bobby Moore survived testicular cancer at the age of just 23; Bobby Charlton saw the loss of most of his mates in the Munich air crash of 1958. Others had been written off, an experience that only added to their steeliness. Alan Ball, for instance, was twice rejected by other clubs before finding fame at Blackpool, while Jack Charlton had been told by Don Revie at Leeds, 'You'll never do for me,' a comment that only made Jack determined to prove Revie wrong. Most of them had experienced tough upbringings which hardened them as men: Gordon Banks' father was a Sheffield foundry worker, Hurst's an Essex toolmaker. This tribute from Nobby Stiles to his colleagues George Cohen and Ray Wilson perfectly captures the essence of Alf's side. On Cohen, Stiles says: > If there was ever a better-hearted, fitter, harder-running, more professional footballer than George Cohen, well, I never got to play with him. I have never met a more honest, more decent man, and the fact that he so quickly became an integral part of Alf's grand plan can be easily explained. Alf knew that, if he asked him to, George would run through a brick wall, partly for fun. He gave so much strength and energy along the right side. Of Ray Wilson, he says: 'He had moral courage to burn. I never saw him do once what most of the greatest players I have played with or against have done from time to time – he never blinked or flinched at a moment of heavy pressure.' By the World Cup finals, Alf was at the peak of his powers as a manager. He had come up with a formidable blend of players operating in a strong defensive system. After three years in the job, he had established a masterful authority over all his players. Partly as a result of his own naturally reticent personality, he had pulled off the rare feat of maintaining his distance while incurring affection. Among the players, fondness and respect for Alf were mixed with a degree of fear. One time Geoff Hurst was wearing his official England suit, but had decided not to wear the enamel England lapel badge with it, sensing this would make him look like a school prefect. Alf spotted the omission immediately: 'Geoffrey, where's your badge? You're improperly dressed without it.' 'Sorry Alf, I think I lost it.' 'Not to worry, Geoffrey.' Alf dipped into his pocket, pulled out another badge and pinned it to Hurst's lapel. 'Now don't lose that one.' At Hendon Hall, when he told the players at night that it was time to go to bed, he encountered no arguments, as Hurst remembers: > At 10.30 each evening Alf walked into the TV lounge, where the players spent most of their time after dinner. 'Good night, gentlemen,' he used to say. That was enough. Very often we'd be at the critical stage of a movie but everyone got up and went to their rooms. On one occasion, Alf allowed the players' wives to come up to Hendon Hall briefly in the evening – though there no question of any visiting their husbands' bedrooms. Tina Moore recalls: > We were all having a chat in the players' lounge when Alf came in. > > 'Goodnight ladies, goodnight gentlemen.' > > 'Why, Alf, are you going to bed?' said Bobby. > > 'No, gentlemen, you are.' > > So off we were all swept. Alf looked dour but there was often a sparkle in his eyes. He delivered his lines with this deadpan voice, but behind that façade there was real humour. Tina says that she found Alf > always very courteous and polite. Generally, I thought he was great. He was charming but words never gushed out of him. Bobby and Alf were different people, but they both aspired to what they considered were the finer things in life. Bobby, like Alf, groomed himself. I think Alf was very aware of his image and how he came across. He wasn't totally natural and everything he did was studied. She believes that by _mid-1966,_ the relationship between Alf and Bobby was on much stronger ground than it had sometimes been in the past. 'There was a mutual respect between them. Bobby would talk to me about Alf. He admired him as a man and liked him though he did tease him, as in that time with Sean Connery.' Alf's dry humour could also come out on England's training ground at Roehampton, as Ron Springett, the deputy goalkeeper found: > Jimmy Greaves had asked him if he could nip home but Alf refused. 'We are a team', he said, 'and we are going to stay as a team.' I pointed out that I lived no more than fifty yards from the Bank of England club at Roehampton, so one day, after a training session, Alf said, 'You can go home for a cup of tea.' I took him up on his offer but, knowing Alf, I didn't stay longer than it takes to drink a cup of tea. When I got back to the Bank of England Club, the first shot that came my way went right through my legs into the net. 'That's the last time I'm letting you go off home for any tea,' was all Alf said. It was at Roehampton that Geoff Hurst gained another insight into the sensitivity of Alf's man-management. At West Ham, Hurst was in the habit of training in a tracksuit, so that when it came to match day, he felt much lighter. But with the England squad, he was sure that Alf, a stickler for correct dress, would not allow this; all the players trained in red and white bibs. When he was out of the team, Hurst had not bothered too much about this, but once he had replaced Greaves, he felt he had to ask for permission to train in his tracksuit: > Alf looked at me for what seemed ages, then said quietly, 'All right, Geoffrey, if this matters to you, go ahead.' I should have trusted Alf to know the difference between someone just trying to be awkward and someone genuinely worried about breaking an old habit. Back at Hendon Hall, Alf had arranged for special television lines to be installed, so the squad could watch whatever live match he chose. Predictably, the players always wanted to view the most potentially exciting games, such as Brazil against Hungary at Goodison, but he insisted on matches involving their opponents. 'By the time we played Germany in the Final, we had seen them several times and we knew what every player would do. It was as simple as that,' said Bobby Charlton. On other evenings or free afternoons, Alf preferred to make a group trip to the local cinema, not only because he retained a child-like affection for westerns and adventure films, but also because he felt it was a good bonding exercise for the team. Sometimes, as Jimmy Armfield remembers, Alf's announcement of a cinema outing could be quite abrupt; > We would be sitting in Hendon Hall Hotel after lunch or dinner, then Alf would suddenly say, 'Harold, John Wayne is on at the Odeon.' > > 'Very good, Alf.' > > 'I think we should go. What do you think?' > > 'Yeah.' > > 'Then tell the lads we're going to the Odeon.' By then, he's picked up his gear, got his coat and is almost out the door. And we have to run up the stairs, get our coats, and then chase him to the Odeon. So we have the sight of the England football team running down the hill after our manager. As he gets to the ticket office, we would all pile in behind him. And he would say, 'I want 26 seats.' We would always go upstairs. It was dark, the film would often have started and we would be noisily clambering into our seats and Alf would say, 'Shut up, John Wayne's on.' That was Alf. He loved his Westerns. As they fought their way into the last four, the team of 1966 were aware of their huge debt to Alf. Gordon Banks reflects on his qualities: > He was in a class of his own. Some managers are tactically aware. Some excel at coaching. Others are good at motivation and man-management. Alf was superb at everything. That's what made him so special. Always fair to his players and scrupulously honest, he was a man of unyielding integrity and absolute loyalty. Alf put his job on the line for Nobby Stiles after the game against France, as he would have done for any of us, and his loyalty was reciprocated. He was devoted to the team ethic, yet at pains to point out that no one was indispensable. He bore no grudges and had no favourites. Even those who were outside the final eleven, like John Connelly, were filled with admiration: > He did what he thought was right and Alf was almost always uncannily right. He was a brilliant manager. It was he who fostered such a spirit among the lads and he made sure that being in the squad was just like being in a club. He was out on his own when it came to man-management. He knew every one of his players inside out, their strengths and their weaknesses. What is more, he knew exactly how to get the best out of his players. Alf never took anything for granted. He believed you never got anything without working for it. I've heard it said that he was sometimes a bit aloof with the lads. Maybe he was, but you knew that he would never let you down. All of us respected him. He was a brilliant tactician and he wasn't afraid to experiment. He was such a brave manager, determined in his own selection and then determined to make his selection work. In the build-up to the Portugal game, Alf had no selection problems. With Jimmy Greaves' recovery not yet complete, there was no question of his playing. The only issue of immediate controversy was the venue. It had originally been stipulated that if England won their quarter-final, they would travel to Goodison for the semi-final, but at the last minute, FIFA decided the game should be played at Wembley because of its bigger capacity. The move led to anger on Merseyside and more accusations of favouritism towards England. But Alf was pleased not to have to leave Hendon Hall, where he had established a well-ordered regime. Before the tournament, Portugal had not been thought likely to qualify from a group which included Brazil and Hungary, but they had marched through with a mixture of expansive skills and occasional brutality. Their biggest threat was their striker Eusebio, the 'Black Panther' from Mozambique, who was already the tournament's leading scorer. To counter his power, Alf again gave Nobby the job of shadowing him. 'I want you to mark Eusebio,' said Alf. 'Do you mean for life, Alf?' joked Nobby with a gap-toothed smile. As it turned out, Nobby did the job superbly, closing Eusebio out of the game by continually forcing him to operate on his weaker left foot. 'Nobby had his best game for England. Eusebio got so fed up he went out on the wing,' says George Cohen. But this was no repeat of one of Nobby's more violent earlier performances. In fact, after the horror shows of England v Argentina and Brazil v Portugal, the match was played in a magnificent spirit, and it was not until the 23rd minute that the first foul was committed. Portugal did not even concede a free kick until the 57th minute. Moreover, Portugal's emphasis on attack, by opening up space across the field, freed England from their shackles. For the first time in the finals, England proved they could play captivating, positive football. Bobby Charlton, all grace and elegant power, was at the top of his form, revelling in his freedom to burst through from midfield. 'This was the best match we played because it was against a team that allowed you to play football. The game flowed from end to end,' said Charlton. It was Charlton's dynamism that brought England both their goals. The first came in the 31st minute, when he seized on a rebound from the keeper Pereira and stroked the ball across the lush Wembley turf into the net. The second, which came in the 79th minute, showed the importance of Geoff Hurst to the side. Hurst took a long pass from Cohen near the byline, beat one man, held the ball up for a moment, then hit it neatly into the path of Charlton who struck it first time without breaking his stride. It was a goal of simplicity and beauty, highlighting both Charlton's genius and England's team ethic. 'It was a wonderful education to play alongside Bobby Charlton. He was the greatest footballer I ever played with,' says Alan Ball, 'That night against Portugal, Nobby and I got the ball to him all the time and he was incredible.' In the dying minutes, Portugal gained one back, when Jack Charlton handled in the area and Eusebio scored from the spot. Twice more they almost equalized, Stiles making a crucial tackle and Banks pulling off a finger-tip save. But the score-line finished 2–1. England were through to the Final. Because of his focus on the team, Alf rarely singled out individuals for praise. But he was so moved by Nobby's subjugation of Eusebio that he broke with the long-held practice of his management. In the privacy of the dressing-room, he said: 'Gentlemen, I don't often talk about individuals. But I think you would all agree that Nobby has today turned in a very professional performance.' Critics of Ramsey might point out it was Nobby's defensive display rather than Bobby Charlton's attacking one which earned Alf's most effusive approval. Back at Hendon Hall, Nobby was not able to join in the alcoholic celebrations for England's victory. He had been accidentally punched in the head by Gordon Banks when going for a high ball, and Dr Alan Bass had given him an injection to prevent the development of a cauliflower ear. But Nobby clearly remembers Alf's words to his triumphant team as they gathered round the bar: > Gentlemen, congratulations on a fine performance and on making the final. Tonight you may have two pints – and I mean two pints. Not like last Saturday night after the Argentina game when, how shall I put it, some of you were rat-arsed. But not tonight, gentlemen. Just two pints. Because on Saturday, you are going to win the World Cup. And when you do, I shall see to it that you are permanently pissed. For the first time, the country was gripped by World Cup fever. The manner of England's victory over Portugal had created a new mood of excitement and expectation. As the football historian Clive Leatherdale wrote: 'Before the semi-final, patriotism had been blurred by doubt. After it, the clouds lifted and a buoyant nation could barely wait for Saturday to arrive.' Amid the rising enthusiasm for Alf's team, a debate was raging as to whether the manager should bring back Jimmy Greaves. This was widely seen as by far the toughest decision of Alf's three-year-reign, and Alf later admitted that it was his 'most controversial'. After all, Greaves was England's finest goalscorer of modern times, a far more naturally talented player than the pedestrian Hunt or the laboured Hurst. With his awesome acceleration over a short distance, his uncanny positioning and swiftness of shot, he could transform a game with a moment of sublime skill. 'He was the best goalscorer we ever had. I played behind him for England and he would be running at the opposition and it was as if they were opening up to let him through,' Jimmy Armfield told me. Most of the southern public and London press favoured the return of Greaves. This piece by Brian James in the _Daily Mail_ was typical: > The game is bound to be hard, and though I do not think it will be dirty, strength will be vital. Yet for all that, I would play Greaves. His skill is undeniable. Only his application has ever been suspect, and in a World Cup Final EVERYBODY works...today, for the first time in this tournament, England can only win if they are more skilful than their opponents. There is no doubt that Greaves had fully recovered. He had been training hard without any ill-effects; Harold Shepherdson wrote that 'when it came to the Final, Jimmy was completely fit and raring to go'. The problem for Greaves was that England had been playing better without him. The team had looked more balanced, solid, and dangerous. 4–3–3, or, more accurately, 4–1–3–2, was a style that required the hard running of Hunt and Hurst rather than the mercurial unpredictability of Greaves. Moreover, both had proved effective in front of goal, Hunt scoring three times in five games, Hurst once in two. In the England camp, there was a near universal feeling for the current striking pair, though Bobby Moore did stick up for his room-mate and fellow East Londoner. Bobby Charlton, with a rare degree of stridency in his voice, thought that the Greaves debate had been 'blown out of all proportion and I was confident that Alf would do the right thing. Hurst was better suited to the competition as it was. I don't think Greaves' reputation meant so much to Alf – that was part of Alf's quality.' In another interview, in 1973, Bobby was even more scornful of Greaves: > Jimmy was a bit of a luxury, I always felt. He'd score five if you won 8–0, but in matches where a single goal would decide, it was better to have someone like Hurst. You never saw Jimmy much in a game, he was waiting up there to score, and I suppose that's why he never materialised for Alf. Alan Ball echoed Bobby's sentiments: 'With Geoff, I could always bounce the ball off him, build something. He would help to get you into the team. With Jimmy, you had to play for him. Geoff could do more for our team.' The German manager, Helmut Schoen, agreed with this assessment, as he later told Ken Jones: > Was Greaves still in the picture? He was a brilliant scorer, a quick dribbler, with outstanding anticipation, but he was not a good team player. And he'd missed two games with an injury. My feeling was that Ramsey would select the team that defeated Portugal. In an interview with the BBC in 1995, Alf said: 'Jimmy was a good player and I admired him. He came from Dagenham, like me, but I had to decide if I was going to leave out one player for him. I probably spent four or five nights worrying about it.' This is an unconvincing exaggeration. Alf had probably decided to keep with the winning team as soon as they left the field against Portugal on Tuesday night. There was no chance he was going to refashion a side that had brought him to the brink of glory. It is telling that at training on Wednesday and Thursday, Alf kept the same first eleven separate from the remainder of the squad. Alf had already decided to drop Greaves before the Argentina game, even without any injury. He had no reason to bring him back now. In an interview with the commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme, Alf explained his thinking: > The team had performed magnificently in his absence. We had beaten two fancied teams in Argentina and Portugal, so I could not have asked for anything more. Geoff Hurst, who had come into the side, had done a great job. It was him or an injured Jimmy Greaves. After a lot of thought, I decided to leave well alone. As they say, if a thing isn't broken, don't try to mend it. I had a clear conscience. I had to make a decision, and a decision that was best for the team and their chances of winning the World Cup. In his heart, Greaves had known that he was doomed: 'At the end of the semi-final I felt in my bones that Alf was not going to select me for the Final. My dream of helping England was about to be smashed.' Greaves sensed the truth about his omission all the more strongly on Thursday when he was sitting beside Harold Shepherdson on the coach back from training: 'I said casually, "I suppose it's going to be difficult to get back" and he turned away and looked out the window. I was close to Harold, he'd been there ever since I came into the squad. Alf had obviously confided in him and he was too embarrassed to answer me.' Years later, in his retirement, Alf was sitting watching a game with Roy McFarland, one of the most intelligent footballers of the seventies. McFarland asked him why he didn't play Greaves. And Alf replied: 'I was thinking to myself one day that I had played Jimmy Greaves with Geoff Hurst, with Bobby Smith, with Roger Hunt and many others. It had never quite worked. Then I realized that the problem was with Jimmy Greaves, not the man he was playing with. That was the conclusion I came to.' In the first three days after the Portugal game, Alf had said nothing to any of his players about the team selection. It was a period of mental agony for several of them, especially Hurst and Hunt, who both feared that they might have to make way for Greaves. Hurst wrote: > I wanted nothing more in my life more than I now wanted to play for England in this Final, I wanted it so badly I literally ached at the thought of not being in. I found myself watching Alf with a sort of scared fascination, to see if I could get some tiny hint of encouragement. He had only to pass me the sugar at tea to start some fantasy about wanting to build up my strength for Saturday; he had only to leave a newspaper on the chair beside me for me to snatch the sports page to see if he was trying to break the news through a hint in some reporter's guess that I was about to be dropped. On the eve of the Final, Alf brought the torture to an end. The squad travelled by coach to the local Odeon to watch _Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines_ and, as the players stepped into the theatre, Alf discreetly told each of his selected team that they would be appearing the next day against West Germany. As Alf later revealed: > I varied the way I told them. To one or two I said, 'If it will help you to sleep tonight, you'll be playing tomorrow.' To Nobby Stiles I said, 'Well, are you ready for tomorrow?' > > 'I hope so,' he replied. > > 'You bloody well better be.' Alf asked the players to keep the information confidential, but inevitably some of the room-mates, like West Ham colleagues Peters and Hurst, could not resist telling each other. 'Risking instant death at the hands of Alf had the rooms been bugged I blurted out, "Martin, old mate, I'm in, I'm playing." "Great," he replied, "And so am I." We rolled over and looked at each other, then together we had one great whoop of utter jubilation,' said Hurst. One man whom Alf did not inform was captain Bobby Moore. This was partly because it would have been such a formality – 'If Bobby Moore didn't know he was playing without me telling him, he's not the Bobby Moore I know,' said Alf, but more importantly because Moore was actually a doubt for the Final, not because of form but because of fitness. Soon after the semi-final, Moore had contracted tonsillitis, a potentially serious health problem. Fortunately, it was diagnosed early by the team doctor Alan Bass and, with the right treatment and diligent care, he had recovered by Saturday. 'If we had let matters go for a day, the tonsillitis would have got such a hold on Bobby that it would have taken five days to clear up. That is how near he was to missing the Final!' wrote Harold Shepherdson. The players were kept in the dark about Bobby's ailment, and remained so for years afterwards. It was at a reunion in the mid-nineties, after Bobby Moore had died, that George Cohen revealed how, one evening in Hendon Hall, he had overheard Alf in discussion with Harold Shepherdson and Les Cocker about Bobby's prospects of playing. According to George's account, Alf had asked Les, 'How do you think Norman would do?' Geoff Hurst, among others, greeted this news with astonishment. 'None of us at the time realized how close Bobby was to losing his place in the team.' But the reason for these talks was misinterpreted. Alf was not thinking of dropping Moore; instead, he was hoping for his recovery but preparing for the worst. To Alf's relief, Moore was fine by Saturday morning. But Jimmy Greaves was shattered. He had gone down to breakfast and had sensed Alf being 'very distant' with him. He knew then he was out. He went back up to his room and started packing his bags. 'What are you doing, Jim?' asked Moore. 'Just getting ready for a quick getaway once the match is over.' 'You can do that tomorrow morning. We'll be on the bevvy tonight, celebrating our World Cup win.' Greaves could not bring himself to say any more. At midday, Alf confirmed his fears, when he told Jimmy that he was going with an unchanged team. But, according to Greaves, Alf expressed the hope that Jimmy would understand his reasons for doing so. 'Sure Alf, they'll win it for you,' said Greaves. 'I think so,' replied Alf, who then disappeared to talk to other members of the squad who had not made the final XI. As Greaves later recorded: 'Alf couldn't have said a lot more to me. He knew I was choked and disappointed but he was doing what he thought was right for the good of the team.' Greaves has always maintained that he felt no bitterness towards Alf for the decision, yet he has often given out contradictory messages. Sometimes, he has said that he could not have played in the Final because he was injured, while at other times he has accused Alf of using fitness as an issue to drop him. The journalist Nigel Clarke has this fascinating recollection, which differs from some of the accounts Greaves has given: > After 1966 the relationship with Alf was never the same again. That killed Jimmy. I was on holiday with him in Portugal sometime around 1970. He was a funny little man in some ways because his wife Irene ruled the roost. I think she was fundamental in turning Jimmy against Alf. Jimmy is an honest lad but he also had a big ego and he thought he could have done the same role as Geoff did. He told me in Portugal that he could not get over the fact that Alf had said to him, 'I don't think you're fit.' He felt that Alf used the injury as an excuse. Jimmy thought Alf should have been more honest and told him he was going to use a certain system which worked better with Geoff. I remember Jimmy said: 'Alf should have just come out and told me straight. He hid behind the fact that I'd had that shin injury.' Geoff Hurst, who played at West Ham with Greaves after 1970, says that during their time at Upton Park, 'Jimmy was still impishly humming the tune "What's It All About, Alfie?" I don't think he ever forgave Alf for the way he discarded him.' Despite denials from Greaves, it cannot be disputed that Alf's decision had a disastrous effect on his career. He won just three more caps and was finished with England at the age of just 27. He soon went into premature retirement and then plunged into chronic alcoholism, which saw him regularly getting through 18 pints and a bottle of vodka a day, though he subsequently fought a heroic battle against the grip of drink to become a much-loved TV personality. For all the controversy surrounding Greaves, it had been a straightforward tactical decision for Alf to make, purely on a football level. But in terms of public relations, it was much harder, because of the huge following for Greaves. It would have been easy to court popularity by picking Greaves, yet Alf was a strong man precisely because he wasn't interested in popularity. If he had got it wrong, if Hurst and Hunt missed a string of chances, he would have been crucified. A weaker manager might have regarded the selection of Greaves as his personal security blanket in the event of defeat. With his remorseless focus on the interests of his team, such considerations would have never occurred to Alf. He was the personification of the epigram of the American football coach Vince Lombardi, 'Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing.' Apart from his moral strength, one of Alf's other attributes was his almost Zen-like calm in moments of the most intense pressure. Though not a religious man, he could have almost been a Buddhist monk for the aura of stillness that enveloped him. 'If he was at all nervous or tense during the tournament, he did not show it, but then he has amazing self-control,' said Geoff Hurst in 1967. No one in British sport had ever experienced the burden that he was under in the days before the World Cup Final, yet he gave no indication of any anxiety or any doubt about the outcome. Instead, he was a man at peace with himself. On the Friday evening, he sat happily through _Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines,_ describing it as 'the greatest film he had ever seen'. In his room at Hendon Hall, he enjoyed a restful, contented night: 'My own job was done. The responsibility was now theirs, and I was able to sleep well that night – even though I normally don't sleep well in strange beds away from home.' On the Saturday morning, he went through a final briefing with the team. Again, he was his usual cool, authoritative self, running through the opposition without undermining the confidence of his own team. 'As always,' says George Cohen, 'Ramsey avoided loading up the pressure – or bombarding us with his sure-fire master plan. His concern was always to make sure that individuals were in the best possible frame of mind, alert but not weighed down with responsibilities.' Alf was not deceived by the fact that Germany had never beaten England since the nations had first met in 1901, nor could he have found it reassuring that, since the Second World War, no hosts had won the Cup. A well-organized, combative outfit which had beaten Spain and thrashed Uruguay 4–0 on the way to the final, the Germans had several outstanding players, including Willi Schulz as sweeper, the resourceful captain and striker Uwe Seeler and the tall, powerful winger Lothar Emmerich, who had a ferocious left-foot shot. But from Alf's point of view, the most worrying player was their young wing-half, Franz Beckenbauer, already emerging as one of the stars of European football. It is testament to the threat of Beckenbauer that Alf gave Bobby Charlton the job of making sure he had no freedom of movement. Conversely, Helmut Schoen, the German manager, was so concerned about Charlton that Beckenbauer was instructed to mark him. In the game itself, therefore, these two maestros cancelled each other out, though this ultimately worked to England's advantage. After his talk, Alf then led the players in for a light lunch of chicken, poached eggs or beans on toast, though the growing tension meant that few of them were hungry. At 1.15 the bus left the hotel for Wembley. Along the route, thousands of people came out to cheer and wave their Union Jacks, something that had never happened before at an England international. The urge for victory was almost palpable. As they looked out on the vast throngs packed along Wembley Way, the players could feel how much this match meant to the country. Bobby Charlton was struck by the 'incredible enthusiasm generated by a traditionally conservative people. Fire engines rang their bells, factory sirens hooted and car horns blared; it seemed as if the whole of London wanted to be in at the kill.' At 1.45 the bus arrived at the ground. While some of the team went straight to the dressing-room, others walked out onto the pitch to savour the atmosphere. Already the terraces, full of eager fans, were buzzing with anticipation. The volatile, stormy weather matched the nervous electricity pumping through the stadium. One minute the sky would darken and crackle with thunder, the next Wembley would be bathed in warm sunshine. Alf might have been calm, but the England dressing-room was not. In the hour before the kick-off, it was packed with the TV crews, officials, reporters and well-wishers. Even the man who made the tea at Wembley was wandering around with an open autograph-book. At 2.15, chaos still prevailed, with scores of people milling around the players. Geoff Hurst was surprised that Alf, usually so attuned to the needs of his team, did not throw out the whole circus. 'It was very un-Ramsey like,' he says. Moore was equally shocked, though he felt Alf may have had an ulterior motive in allowing the bedlam to drag on: 'Perhaps he hoped it would give us something to occupy our minds.' But Moore was disgruntled that he had not been allowed his usual period of quietness to collect his thoughts. Just before 2.45, as the team prepared to go out, Alf shook each one by the hand and said, 'Good luck.' In their red shirts, the players then went along the tunnel and out onto the field, their entrance greeted by a deafening roar from the 97,000 capacity crowd. They were followed by Ramsey, who was wearing his blue England tracksuit, white socks and strange black semi-brogues. The presentations to the Queen and various other dignitaries went on for what seemed an interminable fifteen minutes, heightening the tautness of the players. There was a sense of relief when the referee, Gottfried Dienst of Switzerland, finally blew up for the start, with Alf looking stony-faced from the bench. The Germans soon saw the power of Hurst as he went up for a high ball and collided with the keeper Hans Tilkowski, leaving him badly winded. It was England, however, who in the 13th minute made the biggest early mistake. A long innocuous ball hit upfield by Siggi Held seemed to be going nowhere except out of play, when Ray Wilson inexplicably and uncharacteristically headed it straight into the path of Helmut Haller, whose tame shot was deflected off Bobby Moore and squeezed into the net between Jack Charlton and Gordon Banks. It was the first goal England had conceded in open play during the tournament, and, as Alf said later, the first error made by Ray Wilson in four years. 'I made a right bollocks,' he told me. 'I was back-pedalling and I could not get enough height on the ball to get it away. It was a poor header. I read now that the only thing the matter with Ray Wilson was that he was poor in the air. That is nonsense. I was brilliant in the air for a small man.' On the bench, Alf's expression did not change. There were no histrionics, no scowls. In his certainty of victory, he later revealed he felt no great concern. 'I was not particularly worried when they scored their first. It was a bad goal defensively but these things do happen. It meant nothing in the fact that the Germans had not actually beaten the defence.' Alf's optimism was justified when, six minutes later, England were given a free-kick. Bobby Moore quickly took it and hit the ball into the penalty area, where Hurst, making another of his perfectly timed runs, nodded it into the corner. It was another goal made on the West Ham training ground. Alf still sat poker-faced on the sidelines. For the rest of the half, England looked increasingly dominant, mixing a short passing game in midfield with long crosses into the box. But after 45 minutes the score-line was still 1–1. In the dressing-room, Alf was as calm as ever during the interval. 'He agreed with our consensus that we should be winning,' says George Cohen. 'Alf's main concern was the mood of excessive optimism that seemed to have gripped the forwards. No doubt if a long shot had gone in, he would have been delighted, but he felt that we were giving away the ball too easily on such a sticky day. Retaining possession was one of his reigning principles.' He took Roger Hunt, who'd had a quiet game, aside for a word. As Roger Hunt recalls: 'Alf wanted to know what was going on and why I was not doing as I was told, pushing up on the German sweeper. I didn't actually blow up but I replied that I wasn't getting involved. Then Bobby Moore stepped in and said to leave it as it was.' As the players went out again, Alf gave them another word of encouragement, 'You're doing very well, but you can improve. And if you do, you will win the World Cup.' Yet in the second half, England still struggled for a time to translate their ascendancy into goals. Only half-chances were presenting themselves. But with just 12 minutes remaining, Alan Ball, whose non-stop running was exhausting the German defence, took a corner. It reached Hurst, who fired a speculative shot from outside the penalty box. The ball spun off the boot of Horst Hottges, looped up in the air and as it fell to earth was met on the volley by Martin Peters. 2–1 to England. It seemed that England must win now. With four minutes to go, Alan Ball sent yet another superb pass through to Hunt, who raced towards goal and then laid it off for Bobby Charlton. But the great marksman scuffed it. 'Hunt's pass was too square and my shot too weak,' he said. As the hands on the clock ticked by, it did not seem to matter. England were still ahead with one minute left. Then West Germany were awarded a free-kick when Jack Charlton was deemed to have leant on Siggi Held. England for once seemed to lose their concentration, making a mess of the wall and the marking. Emmerich hit his kick into the area; it bounced around like a pinball before reaching Wolfgang Weber who side-footed it over the outstretched leg of Ray Wilson and the diving hands of Gordon Banks. 'Ray tackled fresh air, I grasped at nothing and the ball shot over both of us into the net,' recalls Banks. 2–2. According to Harold Shepherdson's stopwatch, there were just four seconds left from the restart. After just one kick from England, referee Dienst blew his whistle. Not since 1934 had the World Cup Final entered extra-time. Soaked in perspiration, their socks round their ankles, most of the England players slumped to the ground. Their morale had been broken. Bobby Charlton looked close to tears. 'We thought we'd blown it,' says Ray Wilson. Roger Hunt remembers: > I think we were all in shock. No one could believe what had happened. There was an immediate feeling of emptiness. We thought we had it won and then it was snatched away at the death. Stamina had always been one of my strongest suits but now I felt unbelievably tired. 'It was like being pushed off Everest with just one stride to go to the top,' says Banks. As dejection, weariness and bewilderment spread through the team, the figure of Alf Ramsey could be seen striding purposely across the turf. In the lives of most successful leaders, there is a single moment which can define the essence of their heroic stature. One statement or an action, usually made in the burning heat of crisis, can crystallize the qualities that made them triumph. For Alf Ramsey, that moment occurred at 4.50 pm on 30 July 1966, when he knew that what he said to his team could fix the destiny of the World Cup. The paradox was that Alf's chances of lifting his crestfallen players depended entirely on his ability to find the right words, yet all his life he had been fighting a running war with the English language. He was a man more renowned for his silence than his eloquence. Today, however, the fate of the great non-communicator depended on communication. Alf reached deep inside himself. Always more confident with footballers than anyone else, he found the words. This was to be his finest hour, when the power of his speech changed the mood of his team. He was resolute, defiant, inspirational. 'Get up, get up,' he said calmly as he arrived among his bedraggled troops. As they rose to their feet and gathered round, he looked them in the eye. 'Forget it. Forget what's just happened. You've been the better team. Look at the Germans.' The team glanced over at the white-shirted figures stretched out in the other half. 'Look at them. They're finished. They've had it. They're gone. Down on the grass. Having massages. Flat on their backs. You're fitter than them. They can't live with you, not for another half hour, not through extra-time.' And then he concluded with the immortal line, 'You've won the World Cup once. Now go out and win it again.' Alf's message transformed the atmosphere. Weariness was replaced by determination. The men had been made ready for battle once more. George Cohen says: > Perhaps we might have crumbled but for Alf. He was angry and magnificent in those spirit-dredging moments before extra-time. He was animated in a way we had never seen him before. Animated, urgent and emphatic. As he spoke, you could see little Bally's eyes shining and Nobby's redoubled determination and you could see a whole team's shoulders lifting at this confirmation of what they felt in their bones to be true. Alf had hit exactly the right tone, banishing any lingering sign of self-pity or resignation. 'Make no mistake,' recalled Hurst, 'if the wrong thing had been said during those tense seconds, we could have lost the Cup.' Even the normally detached Bobby Moore was won over. Moore had feared that there might be a note of recrimination for conceding a last-minute goal: 'If he'd gone on about that right then, he could have killed half our team stone dead. They were gutted enough as it was. You never know absolutely and for certain how people are going to react until the really big moment comes. Alf was unbelievably good.' Alf later explained that he had deliberately suppressed his anger as he marched onto the pitch: > I was absolutely furious. I knew exactly how many chances of scoring we had missed. But I knew that I must not show my anger. I also realized that I must not indicate either by word or expression the least degree of sympathy for the team because they had to go on playing. I knew they could do it; they knew they could do it. But even a casual 'hard luck' might have put doubt in their minds. The thirty minutes of extra-time were Alf's justification as a manager. All the months of preparation, the long, hard hours in 'Stalag Lilleshall', paid off as England comprehensively outran the Germans, with Alan Ball setting a wonderful example in endeavour. 'I could have run until nightfall,' he says. It was Ball, typically, who provided the England breakthrough, chasing a long ball in the 100th minute, curling a low cross into Hurst, who pulled it down, turned and then shot, the ball hitting the underside of the crossbar and then bouncing down in the region of the goal-line. After consulting the Soviet linesman Tofik Bakhramov, the referee pointed to the centre spot, much to the Germans' angry despair. Whether Hurst's second goal should have actually been given has been debated ever since, and neither contemporary testimony nor modern technology has been able to settle the issue, though it does appear unlikely that the whole of ball crossed the line. Nevertheless, it stood. England were 3–2 ahead. Both sides were almost spent. Nobby Stiles told me of this incident with just eight minutes to go, which shows his depths of exhaustion: > I'll never forget it. I went on an overlap with Ballie. He was the best player on the park in that last period. He plays me a ball, just level with the six-yard box, and as I went to strike it, I felt my legs go whoosh. Honest to God, I'll never forget it, I thought I'd crapped myself. And the ball trickled off my foot. Everything had gone. I had nothing left. And I heard the crowd groan. But instantly Ballie was there, shouting, 'Move you bastard, move.' Honest to God, I felt like I was running in slow motion, like when you're in a dream and your legs are made of lead. With just seconds remaining, Bobby Moore, still composed even after 120 minutes, took the ball deep in his own half. But instead of trying to 'belt the fucking thing' into the stands, as Jack Charlton was urging, he looked up, saw Geoff Hurst near the half-way line and hit him a beautifully weighted 40-yard pass, the sort that epitomized Alf during his playing days at Spurs. Hurst ran most of the German half, chased heroically by Wolfgang Overath, and then, with his last dreg of strength, hit the ball into the top left-hand corner. It was the final kick of the match. England were emphatically the world champions. Immediately, the crowd began to chant _'Ramsey, Ramsey'._ But the labourer's son from Dagenham remained impassive as tens of thousands of voices shouted his name. Even at the moment of Hurst's hat-trick, he had shown no sign of emotion, while all around him the England squad erupted with joy. His only words were, 'Sit down, Harold', directed at Shepherdson for obscuring his view of the goalmouth. Alf was the personification of the masculine ideal in Kipling's 'If', keeping his head while all around him were losing theirs. When Moore and his team had lifted the trophy, to an ecstatic roar from the crowd, Alf still refused to take part in the celebrations. They tried to persuade him to join in their lap of honour, but he refused, telling them, with more modesty than truth, 'This is your day. You have done this.' The journalist David Miller, in his excellent history of the summer of '66, wrote, 'It took my mind back to that spring day in 1963 when I had given him a lift back from Crystal Palace to catch his train home to Ipswich and he said self-effacingly, "It's not my team, you know, it's England's team." ' George Cohen has this theory: > My own feeling was that Alf was mentally and emotionally done in. He was drained of everything he had because he had done what no one in the country believed he could. He had taken on the FA, handpicked his own players and been absolutely unswerving in his convictions. Everyone in the stadium was jumping about but he sat still, gazing into the middle distance. He had done, as one of his heroes once said, what a man had to do. In fact, Alf was full of emotion at the moment of victory, but his extreme self-consciousness meant that he was incapable of showing it, as he later confessed: 'I realized I had to be sensible but inside I was completely drunk. I was dancing.' There was one other member of the squad who displayed little joy: Jimmy Greaves. 'Even in this moment of triumph I felt a sickness in my stomach that I had not taken part in the match of a lifetime. It was my saddest day in football,' he later wrote. Instead of joining in the celebrations that night at the official banquet in central London, Greaves went home and got drunk. Alf told Moore that he felt Greaves had deliberately snubbed him, though Greaves said that was far from the case: 'I did not want to spoil his moment of glory by seeing the hurt in my eyes.' Once his triumphant team had reached the dressing-room, Alf became more open. Ever the perfectionist, he lectured Bobby Charlton about giving away the ball: 'What the bloody hell do you think you were doing out there? Shooting when you should have been looking around for other people. We should have sewn it up,' he barked. As Charlton later told Ken Jones: 'You don't expect a rollicking after winning the World Cup. I mumbled something about the ball being wet, but Alf was in no mood for excuses; he never was.' Having got that off his chest, he then started to beam with pleasure and to congratulate the players fulsomely, as Geoff Hurst recalls: > He wandered about the dressing-room slapping players on the backside and grinning at them. This was a bit flamboyant for Alf, though by the time the press burst in twenty minutes later he was standing there accepting congratulations as calmly as though he'd just won third prize at a flower show. Indeed, Alf's equanimity in front of the press that afternoon was remarkable. Four years earlier, when Ipswich had won the title, he had merely said that he felt 'fine'. On 30 July 1966, he was no more excitable in front of the microphones and cameras. When asked to describe his feelings, he replied in his usual deadpan voice: 'I don't know. The tremendous desire to win the Cup rubbed off on the players. You have this tremendous feeling of satisfaction and I thought that extra-time might prove which team was the fitter.' Then a journalist asked him, 'You are the hottest property in football. You are the man who trained the World Champions. What about your future?' Alf replied, 'I have not thought about it. And when you said that I am the hottest man in football, that is certainly true, with all these lights in front of me.' The final, perhaps most revealing, exchange went: 'Do you feel you have been misjudged, that there was any malice towards you?' 'I am not sure there was any malice. Yes, I have been furious with people but if you carry these troubles on your shoulders, you'll get a stoop. I'll always remember that after a year at Ipswich, the chairman said to me, "As a manager, you'll have to learn to grow a few extra skins." This I have done.' But Alf was not going to let all the journalists off so lightly. As he walked out of Wembley, one of his more persistent critics, drunk with euphoria, said to him, 'Well done Alf, I always knew you would do it.' Alf fixed him with a cold glare: 'That's not what you said before the competition.' The England squad went back to Hendon Hall to change into their formal suits. While they were there, they all drank a huge jeroboam of champagne which Alf had been given by a well-wisher. 'It was really terrific. We had a lot of laughter and fun before we piled into the coach,' he recalled. They then travelled to Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington, where the official banquet was held. London was in the mood for a gigantic party. Tens of thousands gathered round the fountains in Trafalgar or thronged the Royal Garden Hotel, while all along the route between Hendon and the West End, people cheered the England coach until they were hoarse. There had been nothing like it in the capital since VE Day. The little jig that Nobby Stiles danced at the end of the match perfectly captured the feeling of the country. Alf later gave this description of the coach trip: > Everywhere there were people lining the pavements and waving and shouting. There were more and more and more as we neared the centre of London. One man stood in the middle of the road with his arms in the air and ran towards us until we had to stop. Then he climbed up, put his head through a window and all he could say was, 'I love you all, I love you all.' It was about fifteen minutes before we could move on. He was quite a chap. Further along, our way was barred by a car parked slap across the road like a barricade and a young girl in a very bright red mini-skirt danced on top of it. And there was a public house with about forty customers outside; everyone one of them holding up a pint mug of beer in a toast. I felt the excitement then and there is nothing quite like it. Alf later told Nigel Clarke that out of the whole amazing day, these were the moments when he was at his happiest: > Alf never wanted to say much in public because of his shyness. But when the public did show him affection, he was genuinely, terribly moved by it. He said to me, 'I shall never, ever forget that journey. That meant as much to me as winning the match, the fact that our team had given so much happiness. That was the thrill.' At the Royal Garden Hotel, Alf and the players appeared with the Jules Rimet trophy to greet the acclaim of the massive crowd. That prince of political opportunists, Harold Wilson, also muscled his way into the scene. 'The government wanted to milk the situation for all it was worth, with Harold Wilson out there blowing bubbles,' says Terry Paine. For the players themselves, the banquet was something of a dampener. Not only was it packed with FA officials and their hangers-on, the 'unnecessary' type that Alf despised, but, more depressingly, their own wives were not allowed to attend and were catered for in a separate dining room. It was a cruel, class-ridden act typical of the male-dominated conservative British establishment in the mid-sixties, and one that would be unthinkable today. Understandably, the players themselves thought it was a disgrace, having seen their spouses only once in the previous six weeks – as George Cohen jokes, 'after such a long period, even Jack Charlton starts to look attractive'. It was with some relief that they left the stuffy occasion and trooped off to venues like the Playboy Club and Danny La Rue's nightclub, though Jack Charlton – whose wife Pat was at home in Leeds expecting a baby – went out on a bender with the journalist Jimmy Mossop and ended up in a stranger's house in Leytonstone. The Playboy Club was not exactly the sort of venue that would appeal to Alf. Instead, he stayed on the Royal Garden later than his players, chatting to some of the genuine football folk that he admired. It was not until two o'clock that he arrived back at Hendon Hall, where Vickie was waiting for him – she had gone there straight from Wembley. It was almost the first time he had seen her in two months. He and Vickie sat up talking and drinking for two more hours, and did not finally get to bed until about four. As he later revealed, Alf was not the automaton he was often portrayed as: 'We could not stop talking. I don't know what I thought as I lay in bed that night. I know I didn't sleep much. I can't remember my thoughts – they were just a jumble. I kept wondering if it were really true and if we really had done it.' It was no dream. The next day Alf and Vickie, accompanied by Tanya, were the guests at a celebratory lunch organized by television company ATV at Elstree, at which the Jules Rimet trophy stood proudly in front of the top table. The rest of the England team attended and after the meal was over, Bobby Moore, all past differences forgotten, proposed a toast 'to the greatest manager in the World'. Alf looked suitably embarrassed. Later that afternoon he returned with Vickie to their modest house in Ipswich. As he arrived home, he was overwhelmed by total exhaustion. Having held himself together for so long under such remorseless pressure, he was unable to face the world. For seven days he cloistered himself with Vickie: > We put the telephone in a little room where it was difficult to hear it and we determined that we wouldn't answer it for a week. We probably lost a lot of calls we would have liked but it couldn't be helped. It was the only way we could get any peace. We could hear a faint buzz all day every day and there was a television team camped outside the door for 48 hours but we didn't want to see anyone. We opened letters and enjoyed reading them together and answering them. When there wasn't anybody about we went out. It wasn't too difficult. It was typical of Alf that he should retreat into seclusion after masterminding the greatest triumph in the history of British sport. But one footballer, Peter Osgood, who was to play for England in the next World Cup, had this prophetic insight: 'I remember thinking as I watched Alf's amazing self-restraint during the celebrations after the game, "Enjoy it, Alf, because it doesn't get any better than this." ' # [ELEVEN _Florence_](004-toc.html#ch11) Two incidents that took place on the Sunday after the World Cup Final illustrate the contradictions of Alf's character. The first occurred just before the ATV lunch at Elstree, when Alf arrived with Vickie and Tanya. As Alf walked towards the studios, he was approached by three journalists: Ken Jones of the _Daily Mirror,_ Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ and Clive Toye of the _Daily Express._ This trio had been Alf's most loyal advocates in the press over the previous three years. When all the rest were sneering at his promise to win the World Cup, they were defending him. They had understood, far better than anyone else in the media, what Alf was trying to achieve. So, not without some justification, they believed that Alf might reciprocate their support. Ken Jones was the first to speak, 'Well done, Alf. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?' Alf's reply was perverse in the extreme, given that he was dealing with his three most loyal voices in the press: 'Sorry, it's my day off, and I've been working for nine weeks.' Jones pointed out that they had been working just as hard. Vickie, standing nearby, rolled her eyes, a gesture that seemed to make Alf relent. 'All right, just a few minutes then.' Later that day, Alf, Vickie, the players and their wives were taken to a small theatre at Elstree to watch a Pathé news film of the World Cup Final. The team, of course, were engrossed in the footage, reliving England's glory, but Kay Stiles, wife of Nobby, saw a discreet gesture from Alf which showed him at his most chivalrous: > Kay noticed that early in the running of the film, Alf got up and went to the elderly lady usherette who had shown us all to our seats. She was standing to one side. All the seats had been taken. Alf took her by the hand and led her to his seat. He watched the rest of the film standing up. The quality that helped him become such a great manager, his rare combination of passion and detachment, could also make him appear contradictory. Alf could either be graceless or charming, well-mannered or hostile, depending on his mood and the situation. During England's visit to New York in 1964, before the Little World Cup, the team was staying in the Waldorf Hotel and the US team boss Joe Barriskill was waiting to be introduced to him. After he had sat there for 20 minutes, Alf appeared. But he barely acknowledged Barriskill, sweeping past him with the single phrase, 'Hot, ain't it?' On the other hand, Alf's former tailor in Ipswich, Peter Little, tells this story which illustrates Alf's courtesy and modesty, even after he had won the World Cup. 'I came back from lunch one day to my premises to find two men on the landing, both of them wanting fittings. One was Sir Alf. The other was a young man for whom I was going to make a wedding suit. I went up the stairs and said, "Oh gentlemen, I am very sorry for keeping you waiting there." "That's quite all right. We have not been here very long," said Sir Alf. So I unlocked the doors to my office. But I was in a terrible dilemma, wondering which of them should go first. So I decided to let them decide. "Gentlemen, to whom should I give the first fitting?" The young man said, "Sir Alf Ramsey was here before me." Alf said, "I have finished my work for the day. No doubt you have to get back to yours. You should have the first fitting." Boy did that stick in my mind. Sir Alf Ramsey waited in my foyer while the young man was fitted. How many others would have done that? But Sir Alf was that sort of man. I said to him afterwards, "That was very nice of you." "It was absolutely fine." ' The journalist Brian Glanville, who was never a Ramsey enthusiast, was working in Italy in 1962, soon after Alf had been appointed England manager. Through his work there, he had grown close to Gerry Hitchens, the former Aston Villa centre-forward who was playing for Inter Milan and had recently appeared for England in the 1962 World Cup. When Ipswich were playing AC Milan in the European Cup, Hitchens went with Glanville to see the game, partly because he wanted to remind the new national boss of his presence. 'Must say hallo to Alf and wish good luck to the lads,' he told Glanville. So Hitchens went down to the Ipswich dressing-room. 'Hallo, Alf.' 'Oh yes,' said Alf condescendingly. 'You're playin' in these parts.' As Glanville recorded: 'Gerry couldn't get over it. He sat beside me during the match in which, under teeming rain, Ipswich were thrashed 4–0, muttering, "Prat! Prat! Playin' in these parts." He never played for England again.' Stan Cullis, the iron manager of the great Wolves side of the fifties, also complained that Alf could appear witheringly condescending. 'One has the feeling when talking to him that he is a brilliant mathematics professor explaining a mundane problem to one of his duller pupils.' Once more, however, England youth coach Wilf McGuinness and Neil Phillips, England's doctor after 1966, tell of a very different side of Alf during the World Cup. After Lilleshall, Phillips and McGuinness had gone back to their respective jobs, as a Middlesbrough GP and an Old Trafford trainer respectively. But just after the semi-final, they were both surprised to receive a call from Alf, fulfilling his promise made at Lilleshall to ask them down to Wembley for the Final. 'With everything else that was going on,' says Neil Phillips, 'for him to remember that he told Wilf and I four weeks previously that we would be invited down to Wembley was unbelievable.' Today McGuinness confesses: > I worship Alf. I found him such a thoughtful man, especially what he did for me in the World Cup. He phoned me up and asked me and my wife to come down for the final. My job was to look after the players' wives and on the Friday night we all went off to see the West End musical _Charlie's Girl_ with Joe Brown – it was bloody awful. But Alf insisted I be with the players, have breakfast with them on the Saturday and come into the dressing-room after the game. Alf was much warmer than his public image. I found him very caring about the people who worked for him. Alf could be sensitive, as when Gordon Banks' father died during an England trip to South America in 1969 and Alf made the arrangements for Gordon to fly home for the funeral. 'Alf was very understanding. He offered me comfort and condolence. He was a fabulous guy.' When Alan Ball was sent off against Poland in Katowice, Alf showed him nothing but sympathy. 'He sat up half the night with me. He realized how distraught I was. He just knocked on the door and he was there. He knew how I felt and he did something to ease it. A marvellous man.' But even with footballers he knew well, he could be hurtful, as Eddie Baily, his old colleague from Spurs, recalls: > I did not see Alf for a period of time until he won the World Cup. At one stage I was in a restaurant at Wembley and Alf came through. I was rather disappointed in him that day because he never came up to me and said, 'How are you going?' I would not say that he ignored me but he gave me nothing more than a nod. He had been my mate for years at Spurs. I think he was carried away by whatever was going on around him and he had a different group of people with him. Years passed, and I would excuse it, but I must admit I was a bit disappointed in him that day. At Ipswich he could be caring on one occasion, distant the next. When the club held a dinner at the Savoy Hotel in London to celebrate winning the League, Alf insisted that all the staff be invited, including the youth players and even two old-age pensioners who swept the ground. 'I don't care that other clubs only invite the players. Everyone's coming to our dinner. If they don't, then I won't go,' he announced. Yet Pat Godbold, the manager's secretary, has this memory of Alf's unsociable side: > Jackie Milburn had taken over as manager and was talking to one of our staff, Freddie Blake, when Alf drove into the ground. 'Look, there's Alf, he'll probably come over and talk to the boys.' > > 'He won't, you know,' said Freddie. > > And Alf didn't. Geoff Hurst left this description of Alf's behaviour at Lilleshall: > His attitude to visitors was curious. People in football, managers, coaches and some journalists, were greeted in a friendly enough manner. Alf would soon be sitting down with them talking about the game, nothing else. But the others, the officials, the foreigners, the people outside the game, would be greeted with very correct respect, dealt with efficiently and politely, then edged smilingly on their way. I doubt whether they would have been made to feel like long lost brothers exactly. It was the press who probably felt most keenly his enigmatic, contradictory nature. As Mike Langley of the _Sun_ put it: 'He is rude and polite. He is uncommunicative and a great talker. He's deep and straightforward. He's aloof and friendly. He's relentless and relaxed.' His natural suspicion was tempered by good – if fluctuating – personal relations with several leading journalists. Ken Jones, who was at the receiving end of his rudeness at ATV, gave me several examples of Alf's personal kindness: > In the summer of 1973, the England team were making two trips to Eastern Europe, first to Czechoslovakia and then to Poland and Russia. We had only been back a day in Czechoslovakia when my father died. So I obviously cancelled the trip to Poland and I flew out to Moscow after the funeral. It was a sunny day and I was sitting on the steps of the hotel in Moscow. Alf came up to me: > > 'I was very sorry to hear about your father.' > > He was very comforting, sympathetic, though he had so much else on his mind. On another occasion, my oldest daughter Lesley was desperately ill with a burst appendix and peritonitis, and the doctors feared that she might not live. I was due to take a trip to Madrid with England at the time but I had to cancel that. And Lesley came through the crisis when she responded to penicillin. My wife suggested that I go to Madrid to take my mind off it. So I flew to Madrid and got to the hotel just before the England team were leaving for the ground. I saw Alf in the courtyard of the hotel and he gestured to me to come over: > > 'Why are you here?' > > 'I've come to see the game.' > > 'You should be at home. There are more important things in life than football.' > > It turned into a sort of mild bollocking. But that is the sort of caring person he could be, unlike so many other managers, who just live in their own hermetically sealed world. Brian James was another who saw the friendlier side of Alf most of the time: > He was always a mixture of shyness and self-confidence. He never enjoyed being in the public eye but I rarely found him unco-operative. I could not understand why people were always complaining about how horrible he was. Like in the 1970 World Cup, he allowed a British press team to play against England, though I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life when I shouted, 'Don't worry about fuckin' Hurstie, I've got him,' just as Bobby Moore passed Geoff the ball. Geoff went straight through me and it took about twenty minutes to re-assemble the pieces. So Alf was not difficult there. I got quite close to him in the 1974 World Cup, after his sacking, when we were both staying in the same hotel on the outskirts of Frankfurt. We used to have breakfast together and he was always very polite. He was reasonable company, never a bundle of laughs but always interesting about football. He had an amazing knowledge of the world game and could give insights into almost every player in the tournament. But James could also find him exasperating, writing in the _Mail_ in 1973 after a difficult tour of Europe: > The writers do not know what he is trying to achieve with his teams for he seldom theorises and never explains. Equally, he is so absorbed in his own function that he simply does not pretend to comprehend the pressmen's pre-occupation with deadlines, communications or their nagging necessity to have something fresh to write about every day. Brian Glanville of the _Sunday Times_ once saw a playful side of Ramsey: > I recall sitting in a railway compartment with him and several other reporters. 'I don't know why you telephone me,' he said and went round the carriage. 'I never telephone you, I never telephone you, I never telephone you' – till it came to myself – 'you never telephone _me_!' When he was a starting out as a journalist with the _Daily Mail,_ Jeff Powell had this exchange with Alf outside Hendon Hall during the 1966 World Cup. > Alf was quite fun to have around. You could have your jousts with him but you had to be prepared to give as good as you got. The first time I spoke to him was after Bobby Moore had hinted to me that there might be a slight fitness problem with Bobby Charlton. So just as the players were boarding the team bus, I went up to him. > > 'Mr Ramsey?' > > 'Yes.' > > 'I'm Jeff Powell from the _Daily Mail._ I wonder if I could have a minute.' Alf looked at his watch. > > 'It's now down to 50 seconds.' > > 'There is a thought that Bobby Charlton might be injured.' > > 'Is there? I never discuss the injuries or personal situations of my players. We are now going to the cinema.' And off the bus went. Yet, because of his defensiveness, Alf's career was littered with less friendly altercations. Alf himself admitted, when he had long been in retirement: 'I probably did not do too well with the media. I made a lot of enemies, although it may well be that some of them were intentional. But if I had my life over again I think I might do better in that department.' Once, during a row with Eric Cooper, the _Daily Express's_ 'Voice of the North', Alf stood up from his seat, started to take off his jacket and invited Cooper to step outside. Cooper declined the offer. In January 1966, Alf travelled to London to give a television interview about the draw for the World Cup. The TV company sent a representative to meet him at Liverpool Street Station and take him to the studio. As Alf came down the platform from his train, the young man went anxiously up to him. 'Excuse me, are you Alf Ramsey? 'What's that got to do with you?' The _Guardian_ and _Sunday Telegraph_ writer John Moynihan was travelling to Sheffield by train to watch Wednesday play Everton, a game in which the Everton winger Derek Temple, on the verge on England honours, was likely to be prominent. Moynihan entered the restaurant car and was surprised to find that Alf was the only other guest: > As the landscape turned into the industrial tattoo of the north, Ramsey gazed out of the window at the fields and factories, giving the waiter a slightly embarrassed smile when he was recognized. I asked Mr Ramsey if it was indeed Temple he was going to see. He looked up at me as if I was mad. The coffee cups tinkled and tried to sprint across his table. He looked just as edgy. 'Could be,' he said in a slightly refined tone. 'Now, if you'll excuse me.' He rose and walked away towards his compartment. 'That's Alf Ramsey,' said the dining-car attendant. 'I know,' I said. Elsewhere, Moynihan wrote that Alf's 'cold, withdrawn expression, as impersonal and mysterious and vaguely hostile as a duty officer marching up to inspect a fire piquet, hides a burning fanaticism and surely a trace of anxiety'. While England were winning in the sixties, Alf's relations with the press were largely an irrelevance to his position. Results gave him a wall of protection. But once the tide turned in 1970, he grew more vulnerable to criticism and hence even more hostile. A classic example of this prickliness occurred at the press conference on his return from the Mexico World Cup, when he was asked about his dealings with the media. Visibly angry, his nostrils flaring, he spat out his words: > Have I been rude to you at press conferences? Can anyone turn round and say to me that I have been rude to them? Tell me what approach has been made. It seems to me that I am told I am rude, yet I am treated with rudeness. They stick their faces in front of me. They stick these microphones in front of me, yet I am being rude. I don't think there has ever been a word invented to describe some of the mannerisms I have been confronted with. Yet I am rude. Little wonder that Bobby Charlton, one of Alf's greatest admirers, described his public relations as 'pretty diabolical'. Because of his xenophobia, Alf could be even colder with foreign journalists. During an England tour of Latin America in 1969, Alf was at a party in Montevideo, when he was introduced by a British reporter to a cultivated Brazilian writer. 'You know Jose Werneck, Alf, don't you?' 'Yes, he's a pest.' It was remarks like that which led the _Sunday Times_ to comment that 'on his travels, the England manager is liable to seem more like Alf Garnett than Alf Ramsey,' drawing a parallel between Alf and the notorious cockney bigot created by the TV writer Johnny Speight. It was Bryon Butler, one of the most respected journalists in British football, who said that 'at best Alf could tolerate journalists, at worst he would cut them off at the knees'. But Butler believed that this attitude was born out of an underlying shyness. Rob Hughes of the _Sunday Times_ has this analysis: > He frightened the life out of me. He answered my questions but he had no warmth at all. The wall between him and us was almost unbreachable. It would be almost impossible for him to do the job today, trying to shut the door on the whole media. Before he was ill, a foreign journalist had to do a story for his paper. I said to him, 'I'll tell you where Alf lives in Ipswich, but that is the furthest you'll get.' So he went along, knocked on the door, spoke to Lady Ramsey, who invited him in, spent three hours with him, showed him some scrapbooks. And just as he was leaving, he heard a sound in another room. He realized that Alf was there and he said, 'Can I speak to him?' > > 'No, no, he's far too shy with foreigners.' > > So he never got the interview. He only got the ambience of the home and place, and this delightful woman, and there was Alf in the back room, presumably with his ear pressed against the door. He was a man of his time. Not one player ever complains about being mistreated by Alf. It is the press who complain. Part of the reason for this contradiction was that Alf's instinctive diffidence was combined with his overwhelming devotion to football. He had such strongly held feelings about the game, such deeply fixed ideas, that he could not tolerate what he regarded as sloppy or ill-conceived opinions, especially from those who had never played international or professional football. At such moments, his politeness came into conflict with his intensity. Hugh McIlvanney has a good illustration of this: > Alf liked a drink and he could get quite bitter when he was arguing about football. He liked to go to war. He was always utterly convinced of his case – and with good reason: he was a great manager in any sense. My biggest row with him was after a Sportsman of the Year lunch in Fleet Street and Alf was about to get a train back to Ipswich. I knew Alf was seething with me about something I had written criticizing his relationship with the press. I disliked the way Alf picked and chose who he'd talk to, though they all do that; I mean Bobby Robson was always with Bob Harris, a great big blunderbuss of a man. So this time I knew Alf had been saving up for this row. He was getting very worked up and said: > > 'How many caps did you ever win?' > > 'Alf, I was never within light years of a cap. No one respects experience more than I do – but experience is only relevant in relation to the intelligence which is exposed to the experience. If you send a turnip round the world, it will still come back a fucking turnip, not an expert in geography.' > > 'Words, words, words.' > > 'Alf, you'll find that they are very handy if you want to say something.' > > That was about as bitter as it got. It was sharp, but did not become anything silly. Another problem was his insecurity. He had diligently constructed an outward image, with refined voice and immaculate appearance, to protect himself. But when he felt that his armour of civility was being punctured by a well-educated journalist or FA official, he would react with brusqueness. He was always more relaxed with footballers because he felt no social threat from them. This is why Alf remained such an intensely private man, happy only in management or domesticity or the provinciality of Ipswich. Venturing beyond these confines brought risks to his self-esteem. Early in his England career, he and Vickie considered buying a house in London nearer Lancaster Gate, but he eventually rejected the idea, fearing he would always be ill-at-ease in the more sophisticated atmosphere of the capital. At heart, for all his polished veneer, he was still the rural Dagenham lad. 'I can't accept that people on newspapers, on radio and on TV have the right to criticise me as a private person,' he said in 1970. 'I value privacy enormously and it is fortunate that I can go virtually unmolested in Ipswich, where we have been living for the last fifteen years. I am accepted there. I can walk out in the street without anyone worrying me. They are used to me.' To further protect his privacy, Alf put his phone number ex-directory and grew a high hedge at the front of his Ipswich semi-detached house. 'Occasionally we see coaches stop outside our house and go slowly past the windows. We get a lot of people peering in, but it doesn't worry us because they don't see us anyway.' World Cup glory did not bring the slightest alternation in Alf's character. He relished victory for its own sake, not for any kudos it brought him. 'In football, he's obviously changed, because from a player to a manager the responsibility is so much greater. But personally and around the home, no, he has not changed at all,' said Vickie in 1969. Luxuries were of no interest to him. The FA awarded him a bonus of £6,000 for winning the World Cup, and he used the money to pay off the mortgage on their house in Valley Road, though he also had to pay a crippling tax bill of £3,350 on the sum, which would have done nothing to undermine his innate conservatism. Away from football, he and Vickie led a very quiet existence, partly because he had few interests outside sport and the idea of a hectic social life repelled him. He revealed in an interview in 1967: > I always make a point of being home on Sunday. I am away so much that I feel that my wife should be able to rely on me being home for one day a week; this is the least I can do. When I am there we don't do anything very much. She is fond of gardening and I am not; but I like to see a garden tidy. We potter about together. During the week, unless he was involved in a match, Alf would generally commute back to Ipswich in the early evening. 'The best part of the day is the first half-hour when I get home. Then we have a drink, generally a glass of sherry, and we sit in armchairs and talk.' Inevitably, football was usually the subject. 'My wife knew nothing about football when we first met but she takes a tremendous interest in it and now she has certainly more knowledge than the average fan,' he said in 1967. Like many shy people, Alf found it easier to demonstrate affection for his dog than for most humans. His beloved pet was a little dachshund called Rusty, which he took for long walks around Ipswich and the local golf club. 'I didn't like dogs before we had him, but he's a lovely little fellow. He hasn't a bad thought in him,' he told the _Dagenham Post_ in 1971. Alf's fondness for Rusty meant that his favourite newspaper was the _Daily Mail,_ because of the Fred Bassett cartoons. When he and Vickie went on holiday in the summer, it was generally to Majorca or Kyrenia in Cypus. Alan Odell, who was in charge of the International Section at the FA, remembers Alf's fondness for the latter resort: > On Alf's recommendation, my wife and I used to go to Kyrenia. The first time we went, our holiday overlapped with Alf's and we shared some evening meals together. He and Vickie went there a lot because it was quiet and peaceful and not many people knew who he was, which is what he liked. He hated to be hounded by the press or the public. He did not enjoy the trappings of fame at all. In London, he would occasionally go to a good restaurant, though usually for the purposes of work. Ken Jones recalls: > When he had a tie-up with the _Sunday Mirror_ I would take him out to lunch at the Eccentric Club in St James. Some of the members were extremely eccentric but Alf liked it because the members would not bother him; he would not be pestered. He never had any small talk. It was always football. I never heard him express a political view. Over lunch, he liked a gin and tonic and some wine. He loved a glass of port. He was always immaculately turned out: waistcoat or three-piece suit, shiny shoes. He was always very proper. I'll never forget the time we were coming out of the Eccentric Club one day and a very smartly dressed man with a walking stick shuffled up to him. > > 'I say, it's Ramsey, isn't it?' > > 'Yes it is.' > > 'Ramsey, I saw you play in the 1927 FA Cup Final. Good luck to you, sir.' The receipt of a knighthood in the New Year's Honours in 1967 did not change Alf either. A genuinely unassuming man, he debated with Vickie for some days as to whether to accept it. But eventually, he decided to accept, convincing himself that it was an honour for the whole of the game. Besides, it was not very likely that Alf Ramsey, the conservative patriot, would turn down the Queen. Alf was only the second professional England footballer in history to be knighted, after Stanley Matthews in 1965. 'I shall clobber the first player who calls me Sir Alfred on a football pitch. I accepted this honour because the fact that somebody else in the game is now a "Sir" should lift the whole of football a little bit,' he said. For his visit to the Palace, Alf was determined that he should adopt absolutely the correct morning attire, so he went to his tailor Peter Little for advice. Little then approached Moss Bros and the official trade organization Tailor and Cutter, and they both came back with the same written instructions as to what Alf should wear. As Little recalls: > They wrote to say that although Sir Alf might feel he was not dressed properly, this in fact was true sartorial correctness. What Alf wore were the usual striped trousers and black tail jacket, but two things were different: first, a black waistcoat, not a silver one, and second, a black silk hat not a grey one. We had to practise a few times with the top hat – it had to be worn exactly the right way, not at a jaunty angle. At the final fitting, just before he left for the Palace, he said to me, 'You know that letter from Moss Bros. Can I have it for my top pocket, so I can touch it when I get there and see all the others dressed differently? I can tap it and think I am dressed properly.' That is the way Alf was. He wanted everything done correctly. And the day went off perfectly. All the headlines said he was 'immaculate'. Peter Little, a gold-medal winning tailor, has several other interesting memories of Alf, including details of his dimensions: > I made suits for him for about ten years. Alf had a difficult figure. He was powerful on top, a big-square-shouldered man with a great chest and big chunky legs. I still have his measurements from the mid-sixties: 42-inch chest, 37-waist and 44-inch hips. The thing about Alf was that he liked turn-ups on his trousers, though I tried to persuade him not to have them. When he asked why, I explained to him, 'Because you have not got very long legs, and our height is really determined by the length of our legs. So if you have turn-ups it tends to give an illusion of a shorter leg.' He also liked a centre-vent in the back of his suit. I told him that this was quite old-fashioned, more in keeping with a sports jacket or an old hacking jacket. But that's what he wanted. I would have said he was a shy man, but he was such a gentleman he commanded automatic respect. I never had to tell Alf anything. There are some people who don't know how to wear clothes. Alf was not one of them. He was wonderful to work with. He relied on me in the sense that if I said, 'Shall we take a quarter of an inch off the sleeves,' he would just say, 'If you're happy, then I'm happy.' I did not have many clients like that. Others were far more demanding. Some of our fittings would take about half an hour and we would have a chat – usually about football. He was very good with my two boys if they came into the workshop, signing autographs and such. He gave them one of his World Cup badges. This man, Alf Ramsey, he was my hero, I just loved him so much. For a knight of the realm and a World Cup winner, the depth of Alf's modesty was astonishing. He never put on any airs, never revelled in his position. On Wednesday afternoons he regularly visited his elderly mother Florence, who continued to live in Parrish Cottages in Halbutt Street after the death of Alf's father in January 1966. Like her son, Mrs Ramsey guarded her privacy even after his success. Maintaining her frugal lifestyle, she shunned the limelight, and never gave interviews or attended football functions. One neighbour of Alf's from Dagenham, Joyce Rushbrook, remembers: 'I worked in a clothes shop near Halbutt Street and would see Alf most Wednesday afternoons as he waited for the bus to go back to the railway station. He would stand there, in his fawn raincoat, and he always looked quiet, respectful. You would not have known how famous he was.' Ken Jones recalls that Alf was not too proud to get his hands dirty: > I was giving him a lift back from Manchester Airport when I got a flat tyre. That did not faze Alf at all. We got out, he jacked up the car and changed the wheel at the side of the road. That is not something you could imagine Alf doing but he thought nothing of it. That's the way he was, very modest. Alf's own office at Lancaster Gate reflected his asceticism. It was a small, bare-walled room, without a single cup, souvenir or photograph. Apart from a desk and a chair, all it contained were some newspapers and back copies of FIFA reports. Alf may have frequently clashed with journalists and officials, with whom he felt under constant scrutiny, but his own staff within the FA testify to his essential decency. Margaret Fuljames, née Bruce, was his secretary for many years at Lancaster Gate, earning just £11 a week when she started in 1967: > I worked directly with Alf, doing all his correspondence and paperwork. He was brilliant to work for, absolutely brilliant. He was lovely. I cannot tell you how nice he was. He was reserved, quite old-fashioned, but ever so thoughtful. He would come in, sit down and have a little chat with me. When the team was abroad, he would send me a postcard. When I was getting married, he gave me a cheque as a wedding present, which I thought was brilliant. He answered every single piece of correspondence, unlike dear old Joe Mercer, who came in afterwards and would just glance at some of them and say, 'Oh, bin those.' Alf sometimes dictated letters, but would more usually handwrite them out. I have to say that his handwriting was not very easy to read. He was well-organized. I never knew him to miss an appointment. You always knew where you were with Alf because he was so calm, whatever he was doing. People were in awe of him but he was really very modest. My brother once saw him at a restaurant in Liverpool Street. So, after a little hesitation, he went in and spoke to Alf, explaining that I was his sister. And he later told me that Alf was really nice and polite. But Alf was a very strong man. If he did not like someone, he would leave no doubt in your mind about it. David Barber, now the FA's chief historian, with over 100 book titles to his credit, started work as an £8.60-a-week clerk in the FA's international section in 1970. At the time the FA was still a slim-line operation, with only around 30 staff, compared with 250 today. Barber recalls: > Alf used to come in Monday to Thursday by train from Ipswich, getting the tube from Liverpool Street to Lancaster Gate. He would arrive about ten and I would make his tea, which he always had in a pale green cup. He would then read all the papers. We would get the regional ones as well so Alf could check on the scores and see who was doing well. Right from the start, I was not in the slightest bit overawed by him. He was very down to earth. He was the most famous man in football at the time, but he treated me like a colleague, not an office boy. He was uncomfortable with the press and FA Council members, but with people like me, who worked with him on a daily basis, he could not have been more friendly. He was well-organized but he was not a paperwork sort of person. The only piece of paper I ever actually saw written by Alf would be the squad, which he would handwrite out in pencil and then give to us so we could officially inform the press by letter. One thing I remember about him was that he walked very slowly. I always thought he looked a bit like Jack Benny who walked serenely across the stage. There was an air of grandeur about it. David Barber's immediate boss, the man in charge of the International Section, was Alan Odell: > I always equated my role to that of a secretary at a football club, with my club the England team. Alf was obviously responsible for picking the team and training, while I was responsible for the administration: the hotel bookings, flights, liaison with the other associations and so on. It was more difficult in those days before modern communications, especially dealing with the Eastern Bloc countries, who could take weeks or even months to respond to a letter or cablegram. From 1969, I travelled with Alf all the time. The FA was not flush with money, so we always went by scheduled flights, never by charter. He was very meticulous and a good organizer, though I would not have said that he was demanding. He just told us what he wanted and we got on with it. He was always very appreciative. He would say thank you to everyone for anything they had done. He was well-liked in the FA offices, though he was not a big mixer. I would say that he did not make friends easily. Anyone he met, he initially treated with a bit of reserve or suspicion. On away trips, the FA staff would share a table with Alf. He enjoyed a drop of wine or a glass of brandy. Football was the great passion of his life. I don't think he was interested in anything else apart from that and his family. I never heard him say anything about current affairs, though there was so much happening at the time: strikes, Northern Ireland, the Vietnam War. He certainly could swear. He had quite a good turn of phrase and would sometimes fly back into Dagenham talk. He was not a good public speaker, mainly because he detested the press, apart from one or two journalists, like Ken Jones. Alf's problem at the FA was not with the staff but with the councillors, whom he treated with disdain. Alan Odell says: > He felt that most of the Council were a bit of a waste of space. He did not have much time for them and did not think much of their knowledge about football. And I supposed they resented the way he had taken away their power. David Barber thinks that much of Alf's attitude was justified, given the incompetence and irresponsibility of many of the FA's leading figures. 'We used to send out the agenda for the international committee meetings and once Maggie Bruce accidentally stapled a copy of a _Woman's Own_ article to the papers of Len Shipman, the Leicester City Chairman. He did not even notice. We called J.W. Bowers 'Jumping Jack'. I once had to spend the night in his flat in Wanstead because he got so drunk at an amateur game at Vicarage Road that I had to take him home in a taxi. Dick Wragg was a terrible scrounger. Very jolly, friendly, but always going to banquets and receptions where he could get pally with foreign dignitaries. Denis Follows, the Secretary of the FA, was known as Big D. He was a throwback to an earlier age. He was like a schoolmaster and we were his pupils. In fact, the FA's contempt for its staff was reflected, not just in the dismal rates of pay, but also in other offensive gestures. Neil Phillips, the England doctor, is scathing about the attitudes that prevailed: > Even after 1966 we were treated as upstarts who did not know anything. Alf's relationship with Denis Follows was awful from the start. There was so much petty jealousy in the FA. The conflict went on all the time and it was just ridiculous. It stemmed from the central problem that Alf had been used to running the whole show at Ipswich but then found at the FA that lots of things were being kept from him. And Denis Follows took great delight in keeping it that way. To give you one indication of what was wrong, several months after we had won the World Cup, Alf, Les, Harold and myself were in the bowels of the FA putting away some England kit. Alf pointed to some blue, goldcrested boxes on the shelves and then, moments later, Denis Follows came in. > > 'Denis, what's in those blue boxes?' he asked. > > 'Oh, those are the table mats we had made for the World Cup.' > > 'What table mats? I didn't know there were any table mats.' > > 'Oh yes, Alf. We had aerial photographs taken of all the World Cup grounds in England and then we had them made into table mats. And we had drink coasters made as well to match them. In each box, there are eight place settings.' > > 'Can I see a box?' > > 'Yes, of course.' > > So Denis got down a box. And inside there were these absolutely magnificent colour photographs sealed into the mats. They were superb. There must have been more than a hundred of these boxes on the shelves. So Alf said, > > 'Could you give each member of my staff a set?' > > 'Oh no, Alf, you and your staff don't qualify. These mats are only for the directors of the Football Association and visiting dignitaries. You can't have any.' > > That was that. Remarkably, Dr Neil Phillips was not even paid a penny by the FA for his work as team doctor. During the 1970 World Cup, he had to take unpaid leave to join the England team in Mexico. He got £2 a day in expenses, so his 42 days brought in £84. But he also had to employ a locum in his practice, for which the FA promised to pay the wages but failed to do so promptly: > In the fourth week out in Mexico, my wife rang me up and said, 'We have a problem. I have paid out four weeks' salary to the locum but I have not received anything yet from the FA, even though I have sent them the receipts.' So I had to ring up the FA to make sure my wife was not destitute while I was away. Phillips reveals that Alf, towards the end of his reign, grew fed up with this absurd, unpaid situation and approached the FA Chairman, Andrew Stephen, demanding a change: > On an England tour in 1973, I saw Alf and Andrew Stephen huddled in a corner. Alf beckoned me to go and join them. > > 'Neil, Alf has been telling me he thinks you should get a salary for the England team job.' > > 'Yes, that's right, I've discussed it with Alf.' > > 'But Neil, even if we paid you £30,000 a year, you could not do a better job than you are doing now. So why should we pay you?' > > There's no answer to that. And Phillips never did receive a salary until he left the job in disillusion when Revie took over. The FA's bizarre attitude to money was further demonstrated by the fact it made a profit of over £3 million from the 1966 World Cup, yet handed over most of this to the Treasury. There was a bonus of just £22,000 for the 22-strong squad, which the players decided to split evenly, ending up with just £1,000 a man, a sum further eroded by the 80 per cent supertax rate. 'I told my father I was never going to vote Labour again,' says Alan Ball. It is little wonder that Alf, with all his insecurities, felt no affinity with the FA's rulers. And he could make his annoyance explicit when he wanted. After Alan Mullery was sent off during a pre-World Cup tour in Mexico in 1969, three FA councillors had a meeting with Alf and one of them, Sid Collings, asked if he might have a report on the incident in writing. Alf blithely said, 'No' and then, looking over at Denis Follows, continued: 'He's the secretary. He can deal with your report.' Francis Lee, the Manchester City striker, recalls that that > one thing Alf liked was putting the FA in their place, if he got the chance. The blazer brigade used to come into the dressing-room before the game. When I made my debut against Bulgaria in 1968, I was Number 7 and Nobby Stiles was Number 6. Nobby had just put his boots on and gone to the toilet. And this guy from the FA came in, looked at the programme and said, 'Who's 6?' This was about Nobby, a World Cup winner. Alf would say, 'Right, gentlemen, hurry up please, thank you.' He had no time for them. Ken Jones, who witnessed some of Alf's behaviour with the FA, says: 'At times I thought Alf was deliberately provocative. Some of it was unnecessary. He made it obvious that he did not think the FA councillors made any useful contribution.' Nor did Alf take any interest in wider FA issues beyond the immediate needs of the England team. Unlike Winterbottom, he played no role in development, as Allen Wade, the English director of coaching at the time, who had also been appointed to his job in October 1962, recalls: > He was always courteous but I was never made to feel that he was keen to share his thoughts. Alf never once asked me about the work I was doing. He never showed any inclination to speak at our courses. He wasn't interested in coaching as such, just playing ideas. He was keen to find out how the game was developing in other countries and he had this trick of putting a provocative question so that he could count on an objective response. And if Alf had his teeth into something, he could be brusque to the point of rudeness, if anybody intruded upon the conversation. Wade was once surprised, however, that on one of their few lunches together in London, Alf – 'in that clipped way of his' – expressed his anger at the lack of professionalism among many of the players touted by the press as potential internationals. 'It bothered him that some of those who were up to standard had a poor attitude. It was beyond Alf's comprehension that a footballer could not be relied on to give every last drop of sweat for his country.' Alf's self-containment, allied to his enormous self-confidence in football matters, meant that he bristled at any interference with the England team. But it also meant that he could easily cope with the pressure of making decisions. Without any army of hangers-on, he felt no need to consult widely. Selection and tactics were entirely in his hands. He once gave this insight into the way he worked: > There is this feeling of loneliness about my job. It's not like being a club manager at all. There, you have regular matches. In my case, there are frequent lulls. I pick England teams on the basis of what I see in many matches. It isn't a hurried or last minute choice. Headlines don't influence me at all. I do it myself and have no hesitation in dropping a player if I feel it has to be done. In another interview, with Brian James in 1965, Alf explained: > Sometimes the team comes quickly, sometimes it takes days. I make a lot of decisions on the train from my home in Ipswich. I don't talk my teams over with anyone. I just think the problems out myself. I have grave doubts, of course. Grave doubts. I make mistakes and I know it. But often thinking back on what I am sure has been a mistake, I know that I would have to do the same thing again. It is one thing to reach the summit; it is another to stay there. As he had shown at Ipswich, Alf was always better at building a winning team than maintaining its championship status. Indeed, soon after 1966, Alf, reflecting on his future, said, 'It would be rather fun to build up from scratch like I built Ipswich and England.' But there was no chance that Alf would give up the job he loved by going into club football again. Besides, he wanted to prove that England under his leadership were the best team in the world, wherever they played. 'There is another World Cup in four years' times. You see, we had the advantage of playing in this competition at home. It would be rather nice to have a go elsewhere,' he announced at the press conference on 30 July 1966. In addition, Alf had a point to prove to his critics in England, whom he felt had failed to recognize the extent of his achievement and preferred to focus on the negativity of his methods. 'I can't help thinking that there are people in England who did not want us to win the World Cup,' he once complained. And he was absolutely right. Alan Hardaker, the pipe-smoking, opinionated, Hullborn, Secretary of the League, recorded that an FA official told him on the eve of the World Cup finals, 'If England win this championship, it may be the worst thing that could ever happen to English football.' Such a grotesque outlook was based on the belief that the premium Alf put on organization and stamina would close down the robust, open physicality of the English game, and, even worse, would destroy the role of wingers. And Hardaker himself was no supporter of Alf. He virtually suggested that the World Cup was an irrelevance to English football and, on a more personal level, said of Ramsey: 'I have never met another man quite like him in the whole of my career. He was difficult to work with and difficult to understand.' But it was the blinkered attitude of the Football League and their managers that continued to impede Alf's determination to keep England at the top of world football. Within less than a year of England winning the World Cup, clubs were bleating about players being released for international duty. Bowler-hatted Len Shipman, Chairman of the FA's International Committee, in a statement which sums up the lack of co-operation that has bedevilled English football, said in early 1967, 'Although the League clubs are completely behind England, they must look after themselves first.' This spirit infected the biggest names in football. During their time as club managers, Don Revie tried to stop Norman Hunter playing for England, while Matt Busby of Manchester United once slammed the phone down on Nobby Stiles when he stated his preference for England duty rather than turning out for United. Clubs continually complained about lack of consultation, but when Alf organized a meeting in late 1969 of the eleven leading clubs – from which most of England's players were drawn – to discuss mutual problems, just three of them turned up. In the _Daily Sketch,_ Laurie Pignon wrote that this showed 'a complete disregard for the man who has laid the golden egg. Ramsey deserves better support than this. Football at every level has cashed in on the World Cup win.' Alan Hardaker himself, the League Secretary, was at the centre of obstruction-ism, complaining about Alf's belief that he had 'divine rights'. In the run-up to the 1970 World Cup, Hardaker said: > I do not regard Sir Alf as God. He is a very good colleague, a good manager, but he's got to realize that other people have problems as well. The whole thing is very simple. There's all this talk by the FA and Sir Alf, but the whole thing comes back here – where we decide the fixtures – whether they like it or not. I am prepared to do everything I can to help but it does not mean that the Football League programme is going to be set aside for the whim of any international match. Apart from problems with the League, Alf was also hindered by the break-up of his superbly cohesive unit of 1966. George Cohen and Ray Wilson both had to bow out of international football because of injuries. Early in 1968, Roger Hunt also told Alf of his wish to retire from England, unable to commit himself to another World Cup. 'By then I would be 32 and I didn't have the burning ambition to go through it all again. My role in the 4–4–2 system was taxing and I didn't really relish it. It offered invaluable experience but was very hard to fulfil, both mentally and physically.' When Hunt told Alf of his decision, 'he accepted it graciously and thanked me for all my efforts in the past. There was no extravagant reaction. He didn't show any emotion and I wouldn't have expected any. That was never the nature of the man.' There was a less amicable departure when Jimmy Greaves told Alf he did not want to be considered for international service any more. After 1966, Alf had included Greaves in several of England's squads, only to leave him out of the final eleven. Having won just three more caps in 1967, Greaves grew fed up with this. 'What I said to Alf during my last training session with his squad at Roehampton was that I would rather not be called up unless I was going to play,' explained Greaves. Alf found it intolerable that any player should seek to impose a condition on his playing for England. Throughout most of 1968 and 1969 Greaves' high scoring for Spurs led to pressure on Alf to include him. Eventually in March 1969, after complaining with a degree of self-martyrdom that the 'campaign to bring back Greaves is crucifying me,' Alf revealed the truth that Greaves 'did not want time away for training without having a game'. Greaves admitted that this is what he had told Alf. He was never picked for England again and left Spurs at the end of the 1969–70 season. But there were brave competitors coming into the England team at this time, like the midfielder Alan Mullery of Spurs, who gradually supplanted Nobby Stiles, and the bustling, sharp, intelligent Francis Lee of Manchester City up front. Mullery says: > His man-management was absolutely superb. He did it extremely well. He was very sincere and extremely close to his players, closer than some club managers were to their men. The greatness of Alf lay in his simplicity. I remember we were once at Wembley Town before a home international, practising our free-kicks. He was watching us from the side, doing our ball work, and we were trying out various types of kick: we had one type at Tottenham, Bobby Moore had another at West Ham, Alan Ball had a certain method at Everton. Eventually Alf came onto the field and said, 'Gentlemen, you look as if you are a bit confused. Why don't we tonight, instead of trying a West Ham one, or an Everton one, instead just knock it square to Bobby Charlton.' > > 'Okay, Alf.' > > It came to the evening. We got a free-kick 25 yards out. Mooro said, 'We'll do the West Ham one.' Alan Ball weighed in, 'No, the Everton one.' Then quiet Bobby Charlton said, 'Shouldn't we just do the Alf one first?' So we did. And Bobby smashed it into the back of the net. That was Alf Ramsey for me. He worked out things simply where the players complicated it. > > His language could be quite strong. We were coming in from Troon to play at Hampden, and there were all these Glaswegians, giving us the fingers and swearing at us. I was not a good traveller and I was sitting next to Alf. As we went through all these places like Kilmarnock, I kept looking at my watch. Eventually Alf said, 'Alan, if you don't stop looking at your bloody watch, I'll stop this coach and you can get out and walk. You're driving me mad. We'll get there on time and we'll beat this lot.' I stopped looking at my watch for the next 25 minutes. Francis Lee made his debut against Bulgaria in 1968: > He took me aside and said, 'I want you to play for my team in exactly the same way you play for Manchester City. That is the reason I have picked you.' That's all he said, nothing else. Later on, all his talks followed the same pattern. He would speak to Banksie about the forwards, who was good in the air and so on, then he would deal with the back four and the midfield. Then, to Geoff Hurst and myself, he would often say nothing more than, 'Geoffrey, Francis, I don't need to tell you anything. You know what you are doing.' His manner was slightly arrogant, to be honest, though he knew how to swear. The funny thing was – and Jack Charlton will never admit this – when we had seven- or five-a-sides, the next to last player picked was always Alf. And the last was always Jack. Jack would go mad, but it was a way of winding him up, 'We'd rather have Alf on our side than you, Jack.' Alf would enter into the spirit but you could only go so far with him. He had his rules that kept you in place. Once I was having a great run in the England team during the Home Internationals, and I was getting good write-ups in the press. Alf took me to one side and said, 'I don't know whether you are a player who gets big-headed but if you are I'll drop you like a stone. Forget how well you've done and think about the next game.' He was a disciplinarian. He would often say to me the next time we met after an international: > > 'I had a report that you were in Tottenham Court Road the night after the game.' There were a couple of clubs there. > > 'It wasn't me, Alf. I went home.' > > 'Are you sure?' > > 'It must have been someone who looked like me.' > > But he always had this doubt in his mind that I was out clubbing after games, which I wasn't really. He did not approve of players going out getting bow-legged, though he did not mind them having a few drinks. Francis Lee was impressed by Alf on the training ground and on trips: 'He stood there watching, assessing what you were like in skill and pace. Until you actually watch players close up, you don't really know what you are getting. When we were travelling, Alf would move you around, make you share with different players. He disliked cliques developing.' But he also remembers that Alf could be ruthless: > I once took two penalties in succession for England and missed them both. Previously, I had not missed for five seasons. I took one against Portugal at Wembley in 1969. The ground was very loose and I did not even hit the photographers – I missed them. Then in the Home International against Wales I hit the underside of the crossbar and saw it bounce out. I could not believe it. After the game, Alf came up to me and said, 'Francis, I don't believe that taking penalties is your vocation any more.' Fair enough. If you miss two in a row, you have to pack it in. Yet Alf, Lee found, was no dogmatist and could listen to a player's viewpoint: > Malcolm Allison at City was a great tactician, analytically brilliant, even better than Alf. He would see things that no one else could. I learnt a lot from him. I remember once England were playing Scotland and though we were winning at half-time, Alf was still worried. > > 'We have to do something about Charlie Cooke. He is running riot. He's here, there and everywhere. Someone has to pick him up.' > > And I said, 'To be honest, Alf, he is getting the ball deep in his own half on the right-hand side and he is running across players to wide on the left and vice-versa. He has not had a shot yet – and he has not made a cross yet.' That is the way Malcolm would have analysed it. > > 'I take your point, Francis.' But part of me feared that I had overstepped the mark. Like Francis Lee, Mike Summerbee, Manchester City's forward, made his England debut in 1968. He comments: > Alf was a quite remarkable man. He was a one-off, very much a players' man. I had my first game against Scotland. It was pretty nerve-racking playing in front of 100,000 people but Alf made me feel at ease. We were all equal under Alf, no matter how many caps you had won. He was certainly no lover of Scotland. I remember on the bus into Hampden he said, 'We're going to beat these Scottish bastards.' He was someone you instantly looked up to. When he came into a room, he had that aura about him. On the training ground, he would watch and then whisper something in your ear. 'Never give the ball away' was one of his lines. He was a very funny man, a dry man. When we were at Roehampton, we used to have a great roast beef lunch. Then we would go into this room to hear a tactical talk from Alf. It was cold outside; the heat was on in the room and we were sitting in these beautiful, big, plush leather chairs. Bobby Moore would be feeling the effect of the lunch and the warmth. Alf was talking and suddenly he said, 'By the way, Michael, could you wake up Bobby so we can include him in this.' Brian Labone, the Everton centre-half, is another who remembers Alf's sense of humour. He had recovered from his traumatic game against France in 1963 and was a regular by 1968, often taking the place of the ageing Jack Charlton: > Alf was the archetypal Englishman. His man-management was superb. He seemed remote to everyone, especially journalists but he was warm and loyal to his team. He would take you to one side and let you know what he wanted you to do. He kept things simple. He didn't give out a ten-page dossier like Don Revie, but he would let you know what he expected. He would extol your virtues rather than the guy you were up against. One of the funniest things I remember about Alf was when we were playing Scotland at Wembley in 1969. We were watching the experts on TV: Joe Mercer and Jimmy Hill. They were saying that Alan Gilzean of Scotland would give me a hell of a hiding and that Alf had made a big mistake in picking me. The pundits were giving me 5 out 10 before I had even stepped onto the field. But we thrashed Scotland, Gilzean was taken off and I had a pretty good game. I remember coming off the pitch and Alf grabbed me and said, 'Some fucking mistake I made.' In a previous game against Scotland, this one at Hampden, the Everton keeper Gordon West had been drafted into the side. Always a nervous individual, who dropped out of the 1970 squad because of homesickness, West had been going to the toilet when, to his horror, he saw the bus leaving the team hotel. He eventually caught up with it as it stopped soon afterwards. But then, on reaching the ground, he realized that in the rush he had left his boots behind. 'Sir Alf did not bat an eyelid but promptly despatched someone back to the hotel. With just five minutes to go, I got my boots,' recalled West. Alf later said to Brian Labone, tapping his head, 'Is Westy a bit slow up there?' One less happy introduction was that of Mike O'Grady, the prolific Leeds striker, who won his only cap under Alf against France in 1969. He is one of the rare group of players who was not enamoured of Alf's style: > I never disliked him but I found him a very serious guy, very dour. I don't think he had much of a sense of humour and he never seemed to smile much. I was quiet myself and I think Alf, even though he was dour, liked people who were a bit extrovert and more outgoing than himself, such as Jack Charlton. I could not understand why I was only picked for that one game. After all I had scored the first goal in a 5–0 win. What annoys me is that I was the only player in that game who was never, ever selected gain. Alf never said anything to me. When I later went to Wolves from Leeds, the first thing the manager, Bill McGarry said to me was, 'I was at that game. I can't believe that was your last for England. When I next see Alf, I'm going to ask him. Apparently Alf's answer came back that I only tried when England were in front. That's what I was told. I said to Bill, 'That's a bit odd, cos I scored the first goal.' I just feel Alf disliked me. It might have been my name. The passage of the World Champions in the period after 1966 was not an easy one. In only their third game after the World Cup Final, England were beaten 3–2 by Scotland, with Jim Baxter giving another of his sensational performances. It was a result that was particularly painful to Alf, given his loathing for the Scots. After that setback, he led an FA XI – though it was virtually the full England team – for a tournament in Montreal to coincide with the Expo 67 World Fair, held to mark the centenary of the Dominion of Canada. The trip threatened to descend into a fiasco because of the dismal quality of the soccer facilities and the accommodation. Alf was shocked to find that he and his squad, most of them World Champions, had been put up in a college for divinity students. For eighteen people, there were just three toilets, three urinals and three showers in a communal room. On his first arrival in this residential hall, Alf went into the toilet area where he found a Mexican washing his feet in one of the basins. 'How bloody appalling,' he remarked as he walked out. 'This isn't good enough, we're going home,' he told Harold Shepherdson. But he could not carry out the threat, since there was no spare hotel accommodation available in Montreal, nor any seats on any flights back to England for three weeks. So he told the team that they would just have to put up with it. But the fiasco deepened when he saw the state of their pitch, which only three weeks earlier had been used for a circus and was covered in elephant dung. 'Doctor,' he called out to Dr Alan Bass, 'can players get tetanus from elephant shit?' Only after some urgent repairs was the pitch brought into a state fit for play. Then, in training, Alf was firing in some shots at makeshift goalkeeper Ray Wilson when he misjudged a kick and badly sprained his ankle, leaving him hobbling about for days, though fortunately no bone was broken. 'I hit the ball correctly. It is just that the ground was too high!' claimed Alf, only half joking. There was one moment of humour on the tour, when Alf was handing out daily expenses to the players in brown envelopes. Ray Wilson insisted on the players lining up, army style, to receive the money, giving Alf a salute as they did so. Ex-Sergeant Ramsey entered into the spirit of the occasion, giving a smart salute each time in return, though he did not have a clue what to do when George Cohen decided to salaam him in Arab style. Despite the elephant dung, the FA XI won the tournament, beating Borussia Dortmund 3–2 in the final. But Alf was only too relieved to get home. The following season, 1967–68, England still struggled to set the football world alight. They were beaten by West Germany for the first time, in a friendly in Hanover, when Alf was furious with several of his players for wearing new boots, the gifts of their sponsors, which ended up blistering their feet. As Peter Thompson recalled, 'When Alf saw our feet afterwards, he just said, "If anyone ever wears new boots for England, I'll never pick them again." ' England did better in the 1968 European Championship. The Home Internationals of the previous two seasons had been used as the qualifiers and even after their defeat by Scotland, they still sailed into the final rounds. In the two-legged quarter-final again Spain, England won 1–0 at home, with Gordon Banks making a miraculous save in the last minute, and then triumphed 2–1 in Madrid. The victory in Spain was all the more impressive because England were without several key players, including Geoff Hurst, who had a poisoned toe. The Hurst injury led to a rare row between Alf and the team doctor, Neil Phillips, who had taken over from Alan Bass. During the trip to Spain, Phillips felt that his job was to be with England, but to his surprise, Alf acceded to a request from the FA chairman Sir Andrew Stephen that Phillips attend a reception hosted by the Spanish Football Federation. When Hurst cried off on the morning of the match, Alf asked him why he had not reported the condition earlier. 'I tried to but I couldn't find the doc,' was Hurst's reply. Instead of feeling defensive, Phillips had a go at Alf, 'It was the first time I ever went against him, but it was his fault and I let him know that he should have told Andrew Stephen that my place was with the team, not at the reception. "Don't ever do that again," I said.' After the Spanish game, Alf was so thrilled with the performance of England that he made another of his ill-judged, overblown statements. Wondering aloud whether this was the best team that England ever had, he asked, 'This must end some time. But where, and who is good enough to do it?' He was about to find out. In the semi-final in Florence, England took on Yugoslavia. It was a bad tempered, often vicious game, which England lost by a single goal. Alan Mullery became the first English player to be sent off while playing for his country, though the reaction of Alf, supposedly the stern disciplinarian, was interesting. Mullery became fed up with what he called the 'strong-arm tactics' of the Yugoslavs and, as he recalls: > My concentration finally cracked when Bobby Moore played a pass to me and an assassin called Trivic, who had been kicking lumps out of us the entire game, went right down the back of my legs with his studs. I cracked and with the referee only five yards away, kicked him straight in the groin.' The referee, Mullery admits, had no alternative but to send him off. After Mullery had reached the dressing-room, 'I was expecting the biggest roasting any player has had, when the door burst open and Alf came in, grim-faced. He looked at me and shouted, "If you hadn't done it, I would have." ' Afterwards, fuming about what he saw as a raw injustice, Alf said, 'I have never seen anything like that. I don't think even the Argentines in the World Cup were worse. We _are_ hard – when we go for the ball. But the ball is always there to be won. These people do their worst when the ball is away. It is evil.' There was little sympathy for England. Many felt that, given the record of the likes of Jack Charlton and Nobby Stiles, they only had themselves to blame. Even the FA Chairman Andrew Stephen admitted: 'I am afraid our reputation precedes us into these matches, that our opponents are so scared of what they have heard about us that they come out to meet any trouble more than halfway. All football is moving to a bad and dangerous position.' Indeed, the entire mood about the national team turned sour in 1968 as England stumbled. As so often, the British public and the press showed themselves to be remarkably fickle. The glory of 1966 was quickly forgotten as Alf came in for a barrage of criticism over his approach. He was seen as too defensive, too unimaginative, too dour, encouraging brutality rather than flair. Far from being a moment that invigorated English football, the World Cup win was followed by a prolonged spell of introspection, in which Alf was blamed for undermining football as a spectacle. Goals were drying up thanks to Alf, it was said, while defences and midfields were packed. In 1961, when Spurs won the title, they scored 115 goals. In 1969, Leeds won the Championship after scoring just 62 goals. Denis Law, the Manchester United and Scotland striker, claimed that though 'you can't blame Alf for the decline of British football, you must blame the people who followed his example'. Law believed that England had largely won the World Cup because of home advantage: > The system worked in that limited context for England, in favourable circumstances, but to play football like that on a permanent basis would be fatal. With no wingers, attacks were coming just from midfield, negative to watch and negative to play. The year of 1966 saw the start of eight or ten years of bad football. It took a couple of seasons to work its way thoroughly into the League system, but within a few years, British football had become, for the most part, boring and predictable. Skill was stifled at birth. In the same vein, J.L. Manning wrote this article in the _Daily Mail_ in January 1969, headlined 'Ramsey's Company Far Too Limited,' which coldly analysed Alf's record: > There is a mounting case against Alf Ramsey's football methods. In 1965, his teams never scored three goals in any match. Since 1966, three goals were scored only once against a foreign side – Sweden at Wembley in 1968. In the past ten matches, there have been 11 goals, and only four were won. Performances in all but two of the World Cup matches were disappointing and since then 30 goals have been scored _in 19_ matches. Those are the facts. Ramsey drives in low gear. In addition, the public is losing enthusiasm for his methods. In game after game opponents are gobbled up without being swallowed. Ramsey's players merely chew the cud of football. Jimmy Greaves, not of course an unbiased critic, believed that Alf had undermined originality through his emphasis on hard professionalism: 'Each player had a job to do within a game-plan. There was no place for a player who might want to stamp his own idiosyncratic course on the game, no place for a maverick with a penchant for playing to the crowd.' The nadir was reached in March 1969, in a friendly against France, when England were actually booed onto the field after two dull draws against Romania. The subsequent 5-0 win for England did little to stifle the jeers. The only way of doing that would be to retain the World Cup in 1970. # [TWELVE _Leon_](004-toc.html#ch12) A few months before the England team left for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Alf had a staff meeting with his loyal lieutenants: Harold Shepherdson, Dr Neil Phillips and Les Cocker. 'We have a problem,' said Alf. 'What's that?' asked Phillips. 'Some of the players from London have been doing promotional work for various companies and, as payment, they have arranged for their wives to be flown out to Mexico.' The four players concerned were Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Bobby Moore and Peter Bonetti. As Neil Phillips recalls: > Well you could have knocked us down with a feather. We were absolutely shocked. I will always remember Les Cocker saying, 'You shouldn't pick them, Alf. Think of the effect it is going to have on the rest of the squad, when just four wives appear and all the others' wives are back in England, with no chance of their coming out. I just don't think it should happen.' But Alf said that there was nothing he could do because it had all been arranged and in any case it was a private matter. Besides, Alf was on weak ground, because his wife Vickie was due to fly out to Mexico with a friend, though she would not be staying with Alf in the England headquarters. Today, when players are encouraged to bring their partners on international trips, it may seem odd that Alf's aides were so concerned about the presence of four wives in Mexico. But the fact is that the England management saw them as a distraction to the team, with the potential to break the harmony and concentration of the outfit. Geoff Hurst, who says that 'tact was not high amongst Alf's list of qualities', recounts an incident when he and his wife Judith ran into Alf during a trip to Belgium in February 1970: > He turned to Judith and poking her in the chest with his finger, said, 'I hear you're going to watch us in Mexico this summer. I want you to know that we're not going there for your enjoyment and we're not going there for my enjoyment. We're going there to bring back the pot and I don't want any interference from you or anyone else.' And events were to justify these fears. The anxiety caused by one wife in particular was to help lose England the World Cup. What was aggravating about this issue for Alf was that he believed that he had assembled the best-prepared squad ever to leave these shores. He knew that they would be facing an arduous tour in alien conditions in Mexico, especially because the intense heat and high altitude would undermine the English players' stamina, one of their greatest strengths. To counter this, Alf had taken a number of steps. First of all, he arranged for England to undertake a tour of South America in 1969, so his team could acquaint themselves with the conditions. They first flew to Mexico City, where Alf managed, typically, to incur local hostility by complaining about the Mexicans' lack of respect for his team, which was demonstrated, he claimed, by the absence of a promised motorcycle escort for the team bus and the unfriendly reception accorded to the England players in their first match against a Mexican XI. It was Alf at his most pompous, sounding almost like a colonial governor. Trying out two substitutes in that game, he ordered Alan Ball and Martin Peters to run themselves into the ground in the first half, before he replaced them with Bobby Charlton and Alan Mullery in the second. Unfortunately, Mullery was again sent off for retaliation, and this time Alf was not so sympathetic. 'You always have to put your big nose in. You've always got to be there. It always has to be you. Why don't you keep away from trouble? Anytime anything is going on you have to be part of it.' After drawing 0–0 with the full Mexico side, England moved on to Montevideo, where Alf experienced more problems. Gordon Banks' father suddenly died so the keeper had to return home, though he returned before the game against Uruguay. Again, the flight only deepened Alf's contempt for the FA, when he discovered that Banks had made the trip economy class, while an FA official had gone first-class. 'Is it any wonder I have no respect for these people?' he was heard to mutter. But Alf's own public relations did not help. His notorious 'animals' remark after the Argentina game in 1966 was still reverberating on the continent, and the arrogant, insular image of his England team was reinforced in Uruguay, when almost all the players refused to eat any food at a barbecue laid on by the Uruguayan football federation, the fare including such local delicacies as sheep's kidneys and entrails. Jack Charlton was the only exception, and he was sick for the entire day afterwards, thereby justifying his colleagues' caution. But some of the Uruguayan hosts were deeply offended, and soon exaggerated rumours circulated about the Englishmen's loud and drunken behaviour at the event. Alf attacked the stories as nothing more than the 'products of a vivid imagination', a view supported by Mullery who said that they were 'ridiculous' and 'blown out of all proportion'. There was another difficult moment in Rio, just before England's final game of the tour, against Brazil, when Alf was furious at attempts by the Brazilians to delay the kick-off for their own advantage. It was a trick that had been pulled on him in 1964 during the Little World Cup, but Alf was not going to put up with it a second time, as Francis Lee remembers: 'A Brazilian official came up to Alf and said, 'The team is not ready yet. It will be another ten minutes before they can come out.' And Alf replied, "You can tell them that if they don't fucking well come out now, there won't be a game."' The match started on time. But Alf's undiplomatic approach had not enhanced his international reputation. On the football side, England beat Uruguay 2–1, and then, in another impressive performance, lost narrowly to Brazil 2–1 in front of 200,000 fans in the Maracana, with both the Brazilian goals coming late in the game. Alan Mullery recalls this incident, which gives an insight into Alf's understanding of his players: > Just before the kick-off in Rio, I was walking up and down the dressing-room and Alf stopped me and said, > > 'Are you OK, Alan?' > > 'Yeah, I'm fine.' > > 'You look a bit nervous.' > > 'Well, I am bit nervous. You've given me the job of marking Pele, the greatest footballer in the world.' > > 'Look Alan, if you weren't the best player at doing this job in the country, you would be sitting at home watching this game on television. I know you're good enough. So get yourself out there and do the job.' And I went from five foot five to six foot five. The central reason for England losing their early advantage against Brazil was simply exhaustion. So severe was the heat that Bobby Moore, who heroically played in all four games on the tour, was physically sick after the final whistle, while Mullery and Bobby Charlton also suffered badly. It was useful experience, however, for the main event the following year. At first Alf had not been too worried about the heat, believing that the World Cup matches in Mexico would be played at a cool time of the day. But then, to his annoyance, he learnt that they would be played around noon when the sun would be at its peak, in order to satisfy the scheduling demands of the European TV companies. For Alf, this made it all the more important that the England team had exactly the right medical back-up; he therefore instructed Dr Neil Phillips to make whatever arrangements were necessary. At first, Dr Phillips was somewhat daunted by the task, especially after a visit in 1968 to Romania, who would be drawn in the same group as England. Phillips had been to the Romanian Institute of Sports Medicine and had been amazed at the quality of the facilities and the number of staff focused on the needs of national sides. > I went back to the hotel and spoke to Alf. I said to him, 'Alf, I've had a wonderful morning. I've learnt that Romania has 22 full-time doctors looking after their national team. And I am a part-time GP on my own in Redcar. How on earth can I provide the England team with the same sort of cover as the Romanians get? It is impossible. I just cannot do it.' > > Alf's eyes narrowed into that steely look he had from time to time and he said, 'I don't mind how you do it, but just make certain that our medical preparations and cover are far better than the Romanians'.' Alf was one of those people who could make you feel terrible if you ever let him down. I have worked for surgeons and at times I have made a mistake and it has not really bothered me. But if you made a mistake with Alf, it was something that really hurt. Determined not to disappoint Alf, Neil Phillips set about his task with zeal. He spoke to the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine about diseases in South America and to Roger Bannister about altitude training for athletes. He sought out advice from Griffith Pugh, who worked at Hammersmith Hospital and had been the physiologist on Hillary's climb of Everest in 1953, and from St Mary's Hospital in London on conducting blood tests. 'Would you believe that before 1968, no one had ever carried out proper blood tests on England players?' The London School of Tropical Medicine assisted with the provision of vaccines and immunizations. Phillips continues: > Another thing we did was get a consultant from the National Orthopaedic Hospital to examine the teeth of all the players because we did not want them visiting Mexican dentists while they were out there. One of the England internationals had eleven, yes eleven, decayed teeth in his mouth; he had not been to a dentist since he left school. But what concerned Neil Phillips most was the loss of salt in the tremendous 110-degree heat in Mexico. And then he had his greatest stroke of luck. Alf was being interviewed one evening on television about the problems his team would face in Mexico, particularly salt deficiency caused by fluid loss. It so happened that the interview was watched by Hugh De Wardener, the professor in the renal unit of Charing Cross Hospital. De Wardener had been working for some time on a revolutionary new tablet to counter salt loss, since one of the consequences of a dialyser is to remove not just waste products but also salt from the body. De Wardener rang Alf the next day at Lancaster Gate and was immediately put in touch with Phillips, who went down to Charing Cross Hospital. He was deeply impressed with the prototype salt pill that De Wardener had developed. It was like a miniature honeycomb of salt cells, with the walls made of a soluble material. Because the walls were of variant thickness, the salt would be released into the body at different times. De Wardener hoped that this tablet would save dialysis patients from having to be put on a saline drip. But it was also perfect for footballers, because it would allow them to absorb salt over a period. 'We worked out the best absorption pattern and found the maximum effect came from taking the tablet two or three hours before the game. We never had any problems with salt deficiency during the World Cup.' Dr Phillips remembers Alf taking a keen interest in the medical side of the preparation. 'I used to sit down with him and explain everything. He was very, very bright. I had absolutely no problems in discussing medical matters with him from a technical point of view.' Alf's biggest influence, of course, was on the selection of the squad. Again, as in 1966, he picked an initial 28, which would be whittled down to a final 22 in Mexico. With Cohen and Wilson gone through injuries, and Jack Charlton fading, only Bobby Moore remained from the iron defence that had won in 1966. Those vying for places at the back in 1970 included Terry Cooper of Leeds, Emlyn Hughes of Liverpool, and the Everton trio of Brian Labone, Keith Newton and Tommy Wright. Gordon Banks had firmly established himself as the world's finest keeper by 1970, so barring a disaster his deputy Peter Bonetti of Chelsea was unlikely to play. Bobby Charlton, Alan Ball and Martin Peters were still at the core of the midfield, with Mullery now filling the role of Nobby Stiles, though Alf still insisted on bringing Stiles along to Mexico, mainly as mascot to raise the team's spirits. 'Nobby is good for the party, good for the team,' claimed Alf. But the news of his selection inspired little enthusiasm. 'It takes no great imagination to capture the world-wide groan of dismay as the news was released in a dozen languages,' wrote Brian James in the _Daily Mail._ Since 1966, Alf had generally been playing 4–4–2, and he planned to use Hurst and Lee as the two main strikers. There were other contenders up front, such as Jeff Astle of West Bromwich Albion and Peter Osgood, the flamboyant, individualistic star of Chelsea. Alf was never sure what to make of Osgood, a perplexity that gave ammunition to the critics who claimed he was suspicious of brilliance. Brian James recalls this incident when England were training at Roehampton: > Alf had this habit of occasionally sitting down beside me to discuss football. We were watching England practising and Peter Osgood was out there, doing something extravagant and silly, beating men, then keeping the ball up in the air. And Alf turned to me and said, > > 'What the fuck am I going to do with this Osgood?' > > 'Well Alf, he can play.' > > 'I know he can play, but he's a bloody idiot.' > > Alf just could not get his mind around someone who enjoyed fooling around. Can you imagine Alf fooling on the training ground? Never. Training was a serious matter for him. Osgood remembers Alf tackling him directly on the subject during one of his first spells in the England squad in 1969. > I was stepping off the coach for morning training when he greeted me with, 'Well, Ossie, how do you fancy training today?' > > 'Not a lot, Alf,' I unwisely but truthfully replied. > > 'Well, you're going to fucking well enjoy it!' he told me in those clipped, plummy tones. I was shocked. It was like catching the Queen kicking one of the corgis up the arse. Allan Clarke of Leeds was another potential striker. In fact, he had first been called into the squad in 1967, yet by the time of Mexico he was still waiting for his first cap. He had gone on the tour to South America in 1969 without playing, his strongest memory being Alf's words to him on the plane journey to Mexico. Alf came up to him in the cabin of the aircraft and asked Allan if he was enjoying himself. 'Yeah, Alf, great, thanks.' 'Don't, son. You're here to work.' Allan took this as an example of Alf's sense of irony. Ian Storey-Moore, a winger and a lethal finisher with Nottingham Forest, made his debut against Holland in early 1970 and would have won more than his one cap if it had not been for injury. 'I was with the squad and the Under-23s a few times,' he told me, 'and I found Alf very knowledgeable, mild-mannered, never seemed to raise his voice.' Despite Alf's renowned dislike of wingers, Storey-Moore found Alf more flexible than his rigid image: > I was always a winger, but unlike John Robertson, who stuck to the touchline so tightly he had chalk on his arse, I used to have a wander every now and then – that is how I scored so many goals. Alf said to me, 'I know you're playing Number 11, but just play how you do for your club.' So I had a licence to roam, which was comforting. Alf was very quiet in the dressing-room. He would have a talk on the morning of the match, setting out what he wanted. Then he would come round, talking to people individually. As you went out, he shook you by the hand and wished you luck. I had enormous respect for him, though I was very surprised when I first got in the squad and found that Jack Charlton talked to Alf as if he were his best mate. 'Come on, Alf, we're ready for you now,' he'd say. I think Alf liked that. I did OK against Holland at Wembley. It was probably the worst surface I played on because it had just been used for the Horse of the Year show. I did OK, had a goal disallowed and could have scored another couple. Alf said I had done well and would soon have another game, but then I had a bad injury. Ian Storey-Moore's injury prevented his selection in the initial squad of 28, Peter Thompson serving as the only genuine winger. Among the other inclusions was Peter Shilton of Leicester City as one of Banks' deputies. He remembers: > He made me feel welcome. From the moment I met Sir Alf I knew he was someone special. He had something different about him. He had that presence that dominates a room. Any decision he made, you knew he made it for the right reason. What I really liked about him was he treated international players properly, with respect and intelligence. I have been in England squads where players are screaming and shouting and banging doors, all that sort of thing. But that never happened with Alf. It was a composure thing. You went out focused. I remember, though, one time I did see Alf really riled. We were on an Under-23 tour in Europe and we were travelling to Russia. We got to our hotel at about three in the morning, but the Russians appeared to have made a mess of the bookings. We were standing around the lobby for ages, waiting to go to our rooms, when suddenly we were told that we'd been taken to the wrong hotel. It almost seemed as if the Russians were trying to make us as late as they could. Alf completely blew his top. He had a right go, saying 'Bastards'. It was the first time I had seen him like that. It was brilliant in a way because you felt Alf was really sticking up for you. He turned the whole situation around, made us even more determined. Some of the players of 1966, like Nobby and Jack Charlton, may have been in decline, but several of England's biggest stars, including Banks, Bobby Moore, Alan Ball and Geoff Hurst, were at the zenith of their careers. Alf always maintained that the 1970 England team was actually stronger than that of 1966. 'I find myself thinking that it's going to be hard, tremendously hard for us out there. Then I think about what we've got and I say to myself, "It's going to be bloody difficult for anybody to take this World Cup from us," ' he told Hugh McIlvanney. In the weeks before departure, England's spirits were raised further by the release of their World Cup single 'Back Home', which flew straight to the top of the charts. Most of such records, like Lonnie Donegan's dire 'World Cup Willie' of 1966, are instantly forgettable, but 'Back Home' was of a far higher standard because of the strength of its melody and lyrics. Written by the successful duo of Bill Martin and Phil Coulter, who had previously created such hits as 'Congratulations' for Cliff Richard and the Eurovision Song Contest winner 'Puppet on a String' for barefooted Sandie Shaw, it managed to evoke the poignant heroism of wartime. This was the songwriters' aim, as Bill Martin explains: > As a good Scotsman, I was not interested in England. But before the 1970 World Cup I thought to myself that there had never been a song done by a football team. 'World Cup Willie' had been a lot of nonsense. So I said to Phil: 'We should do this. We should write a song that shows England as World Champions going off to war, like troops.' So the pair sat down in their office in Denmark Street in London, and soon Martin knew he had a winner on his hands. But if it was going to be a success, it would have to be sung by the England team – and that meant winning the support of Alf Ramsey, not a man renowned for his love of pop music. But Bill Martin, an amusing, twinkle-eyed Scot, felt he had the ideal card to play if Alf proved uncooperative. Alf's brother Albert, he sensed, was the England manager's vulnerable spot. Bill Martin understood a bit about the Ramsey family because his father-in-law, the advertising manager of the _Daily Sketch,_ knew about the seamier side of East London and had told Bill stories about Albert's drinking and gambling. Albert's behaviour had long been a source of unease for Alf. It was rumoured that Albert occasionally would turn up at Portman Road, when Alf was manager there, begging for cash. Just to be rid of him, Alf would send him away with a tenner. Tony Garnett, the Ipswich journalist, says: 'Alf could wash his hands of people. He did not really want to know his brother Albert, the dog man. He was embarrassed by him.' Bill Martin had seen Albert in action himself. One evening he called on a pub in Dagenham, having been with the singer Sandie Shaw, who hailed from that district, and to his astonishment he thought he saw the figure of Sir Alf Ramsey slumped up at the bar. He could not resist going up to the man, who turned out to be Albert 'Bruno' Ramsey: > He was the absolute double of Alf. Once I saw it wasn't Alf, I thought it must be his twin. We got drinking and talking. He did not say a word about Alf but then drunks don't talk family. Having the most famous brother in England meant nothing to him. He did not want to talk about Alf, only himself. Soon after this experience, Bill Martin used his friendship with the top football agent Ken Stanley to arrange an appointment with Alf and the England team at Hendon Hall. > Ken Stanley ushered me in to see him. The minute I opened my mouth, Alf knew I was Scottish and he didn't like me at all. He did not get out of his seat or shake my hand. He just sat there. I said, > > 'I've got this idea for a song for the World Cup.' > > 'How dare you come to the England hotel to discuss show-business with my boys who are World Champions.' > > 'It might be good for them and we could all have a laugh.' > > 'We don't have laughs,' continued Alf in that very slow, deliberate voice. 'I have no idea why you have even entered this room. Ken, I'm amazed you have brought this man along.' > > 'Alf, I'll tell you what. I had more fun with your brother Bert the other night in the pub, even though he fell over and was lying in the gutter when I left him.' > > Alf replied immediately, 'I beg your pardon. Go and see the boys. I have absolutely no interest in this conversation. Speak to the footballers.' Alf cut me short because I recognized his Achilles' heel, his brother who was a serious drunk. Martin then went to see the players, who turned out to be much more receptive to the idea of the song, especially when Bill told them he could guarantee that it would get to Number One and be on _Top of the Pops._ As Martin predicted, 'Back Home' became a massive hit, at one stage selling over 100,000 a day just before the World Cup. The players, who appeared on _Top of the Pops_ in their tuxedos, adored it as much as the public, and it became their anthem on the journey in Mexico. Sir Alf, however, remained unmoved. Martin says: > He did not join in any of this. He did not want his picture associated with it in any way whatsoever. He never, ever spoke to me again. I met him a few times afterwards and he always gave me the cold shoulder. He wanted nothing to do with me at all. Showbusiness and Scots were not for Alf. Funnily enough, John Lennon once told me how much the song meant to him, that it made him think of home in Liverpool. I got more from John Lennon than I ever did from Alf Ramsey. England arrived in Mexico on 4 May, almost exactly a month before the tournament began on 2 June. These four weeks, felt Alf, would be vital for players to acclimatize to the altitude and baking climate. Based in the Parc de Princes Hotel in Mexico City, 7,349 feet above sea level, the team started gently with some cricket and golf at the Reforma Sports Club, as well as their own mini-version of the Olympics, which was hardly a competitive success as super-fit Colin Bell, the Manchester City midfielder, won all the events. But even Bell felt the strain of the conditions: 'It was very hard to breathe. It was a week before you could think about training. You'd run ten yards and put your hands on your knees, you couldn't go for a one-two. It was frightening.' Alf took other measures to deal with the problems. The players were only allowed brief spells of sunbathing by the pool; they would lie on one side for fifteen minutes, then Harold Shepherdson would blow a whistle, and they would turn over and lie on the other. It was a faintly ludicrous arrangement but, as Geoff Hurst put it, 'Alf had absolute power. He was the boss, his authority was never questioned and his word was law.' Not quite. Peter Thompson once went up to the roof of the hotel for some illicit sunbathing, only to find Bobby Moore up there in sun-glasses and trunks, showing his customary indifference to Alf's injunctions. To combat dehydration, the players each day took a litre of an American drink called Gatorade. Mexico had imposed an import ban on Gatorade in liquid form, but the US company that made it gave Neil Phillips a large supply of crystals which could be mixed with water. The task of producing the Gatorade in drinkable form each day fell to Neil Phillips: > Every day we were in Mexico, I used to get buckets of ice delivered to my hotel room at six in the morning. We had taken with us 25,000 bottles of Malvern Water and I would make up 30 litres of Gatorade, using the crystals and the Malvern Water, pour them into thermos flasks and then pack them in ice in the bathtub before taking them training. But it was Alf's elaborate preparations that were to land England in serious trouble. Fearful of stomach upsets, Alf had decided to import not just Malvern Water but the squad's entire food supply for duration of the tournament. He had negotiated a deal with the frozen-food giant Findus, whose shipment to Mexico included 140 pounds of beefburgers, 400 pounds of sausages, 300 pounds of frozen fish and ten cases of tomato ketchup. Many other countries were following this pattern, giving their players the diets they were used to. Helmut Schoen, the German manager, explained after the tournament, 'we took along our own chef, sent enormous quantities of equipment months in advance to cover any contingencies and generally turned our hotel into a small German province'. This was exactly the same insularity that was so condemned in Alf. But the huge difference was that the Germans did not make a virtue of it, whereas Findus, for commercial reasons, boasted of their work with England. Feeling slighted, the Mexican authorities announced that no meat or dairy products could be brought in from England because it was a foot and mouth country. A vast bonfire was held on the quayside of all the steaks, beef, sausages and butter. 'I had to go down to the docks and certify that it had all been burnt,' says Neil Phillips. For the rest of the tour, England had to subsist on ready meals and fish. 'It was absolutely dreadful. All the time we were having fish-fingers with salad or fish-fingers with chips. You know I have not had a fish-finger in my life since then,' says Alan Mullery. One of the leading TV commentators of the time, Hugh Johns, thought Alf was to blame for the fiasco: 'England did not do themselves any favours at all. It was all "the nig-nogs the other side of the channel", "don't drink the water", typical Anglo-Saxon nonsense and, of course, the natives didn't like it and I don't blame them.' Alf worsened the mood in other ways. He decided to import England's own team bus, the unintended implication being that the Mexicans were still struggling to come to terms with the internal combustion engine, then found that the British vehicle struggled to cope with the intense heat. And he also imposed a strict ban on any of his players speaking to the press, which only encouraged a siege mentality. At one stage, when a gaggle of Mexican journalists came into the England dressing-room, he threw them out, ensuring their exit was accompanied by some Dagenham vernacular. Nor did Alf bring with him any Spanish-speaking press officer, an oversight that only widened the gulf. 'We were about as popular with the Mexicans as an outbreak of plague,' said Bobby Charlton. If England hoped a change of scenery would enhance their standing, they were mistaken. The team flew down to Colombia for further acclimatization, training and two friendly matches at an even higher altitude than Mexico City. But it was in Bogotá that the greatest off-field drama of the tour took place. England were based at the Hotel Tequendama and soon after their arrival, the squad were milling, in rather bored fashion, around the foyer. To pass the time, Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton and Dr Neil Phillips went into a small jewellery shop near the reception, Charlton thinking that he might find a present for his wife Norma. But all the gifts were too expensive, so the trio walked out and sat together on a settee opposite the shop. Suddenly, the glamorous young assistant, Clara Padilla, came rushing out, started rummaging between the cushions on the settee and then openly accused Moore of having stolen a bracelet. She was quickly joined by the shop-owner, who made the same accusation against Moore. Dr Phillips jumped to his feet: 'You two stay where you are. Don't say anything. I'll go and find Alf.' Phillips was immediately suspicious, because the night before a jeweller had come into the England hotel in Mexico City, flogging his wares, only to claim that an Omega watch had been stolen. Alf, anxious to avoid a scandal, had offered to pay for it himself, but instead the players had held a collection to meet the cost. By the time Alf reached the scene of the alleged crime in the Hotel Tequendama, the place was buzzing with police officers, cameras, curious by-standers and England players. Simply by his authoritative presence, Alf calmed down the situation. He spoke to Moore, Charlton, the shop-owner and the police, arranged for statements to be taken, stressed that the players believed it was all a misunderstanding and, it seemed, brought the issue to a close, with Moore apparently left a free man. 'Alf handled it like an expert and everyone thought it was done and forgotten the minute Bobby and I finished making our formal statements to the police. But there was something about Alf that made me feel that he was upset. He already sensed that something was up. Felt it there and then,' said Moore. Alf was right to sense some foreboding. England played their two friendlies, beating Columbia 4–0 in Bogotá and Ecuador 2–0 in a match played in Quito at 9,300 feet; the results showed that the players seemed to be adapting well to the conditions, though Alan Ball spoke of the continuing difficulties caused by altitude. 'Normally, Alan Mullery makes a lot of noise on the field, always shouting. Well, when he tried that out there all that came out was a sort of gurgle and a mouthful of froth. Nobody had enough breath to run, let alone shout. I thought the talk about altitude were crap, me. But I found out different today.' Any reassurance Alf felt about these two results was soon shattered by an almighty row about the naming of the final 22 players in the squad. For one of the few times in his career, Alf decided to co-operate with the press, yet the behaviour of the papers only succeeded in reinforcing all his prejudices. Alf felt he owed the journalists a favour, because of the restraint they had shown so far over the Bobby Moore bracelet story; not one word of this potentially enormous scandal had so far been printed. But his generosity backfired horribly. In order to meet weekend deadlines made difficult by the eight-hour time difference, he gave the football writers on the Sunday papers the names of the six men who had been left out – Peter Shilton, David Sadler, Ralph Coates, Bob McNab, Peter Thompson and Brian Kidd – on the strict understanding that no comments would be sought until he had spoken to the six players involved. The sports reporters themselves did not break this embargo, but the news-desk of the _Sunday Mirror_ immediately contacted the wife of Dave Sadler, the Manchester United defender, asking for her views. Inevitably, she was straight on the phone to her husband. As Sadler recalls: > I basically heard from my wife that I was out of the squad. I was playing well, felt good, was optimistic. It was a blow, a real downer. I went straight to confront Alf. I caught up with him and we had words in front of people. I was blazing, very angry. I was fairly handy with the language. Alf was defensive, of course, and was at pains to say, 'Come on, let's go and talk about this in private.' We did. We sat in a room. He explained what had happened. He was big enough to apologize, as you would expect in a man of his standing. I was starting to calm down a little bit. I realized he had done it to try and help the press, but once again they had let him down, confirming all he thought about them. We sorted it out. The official announcement was made and I fully accepted that it was the last thing that Alf would have intended. My relations with Alf were fine after that. It was not in my nature to fly off the handle and I think Alf accepted my situation. But Alf's relationship with the press was never to recover from this incident. And his mood worsened as the international explosion over Bobby Moore erupted. After defeating Ecuador, England planned to fly back to Bogotá, and then on to Mexico via Panama. At a staff meeting in Ecuador, Neil Phillips suggested that the flights should be rearranged to avoid Bogotá and the Bobby Moore problem, which had still not been satisfactorily resolved. According to Phillips: 'Alf went off to discuss this alternative with Bobby. But the two of them agreed that such a move would only encourage a belief that a bracelet really had been stolen.' So the team, accompanied by the press, flew back to Bogotá, and even returned to the Hotel Tequendama during a five-hour gap while changing planes. A film showing of the old American Civil War epic _Shenandoah_ was arranged for the players, while the press party was taken on a visit to the tourist attraction of a local salt mine – 'perfect for you lot,' joked Jack Charlton. During the film, two plainclothes officers from the Columbian police entered the room, tapped Bobby Moore on the shoulder and beckoned him outside. The players thought that he had just been instructed to carry out another of his duties as England captain and continued watching the movie. Even when they left the hotel and made their way to the airport, they were still only dimly aware of Bobby's absence. But they were more disturbed when Alf turned up on his own shortly before take-off. Once the plane was airborne, he gave them the news that Bobby had been formally charged with the theft of a bracelet from the Green Fire jewellery shop at the hotel. The team was thunderstruck. It was unthinkable that Bobby Moore, a man of supreme dignity, England captain for seven years, leader of the World Champions, would descend to such a petty crime. 'Alf might just as well have said that Mother Teresa had been arrested for child abuse; it was that outlandish and unbelievable,' says Gordon Banks. When the news filtered down the plane, the journalists were equally shaken, though their distress was caused by the fact that they were sitting high in the air, unable to handle the biggest football story for years. Peter Batt of the _Sun_ thought to himself that 'all the agencies are going to have this story, oh my God. The news-desks will think we have sat on it. By now I'm having the last will and testament.' After the shambles over the squad announcement, Alf could not have cared less about the professional fate of the pressmen. Ken Jones watched Alf as the plane flew towards Panama: 'He's sitting there, transfixed in his seat, impassive throughout the whole flight. Never said a word.' When the plane stopped in Panama for refuelling, the press rushed out to try to phone London, while Alf went deeper into introspection. 'Alf was a man possessed. He paced the airport like a caged lion, his face inscrutable but his mind obviously on the fate of his captain,' recalled Banks. For all his past differences with Moore, Alf knew he could not afford to lose him on the eve of the finals. But as he paced the departure lounge, Moore was holed up in Bogotá, awaiting further questioning. Because of the special status of the prisoner, the Columbian courts decided that Moore could be placed under house arrest rather than thrown into jail. So he was allowed to stay in the home of Alfonso Senior, the Director of the Columbian Football Federation, with two armed guards by his side. 'I felt like the captured hero from one of Alf's westerns,' he later said. It was not an unfair analogy. Moore showed true grit in coping with his ordeal, never once giving the slightest indication of the pressure he was under, joking with his guards and going for early morning runs to keep himself fit. If Alf thought the storm could be contained, he was badly mistaken. On arrival at Guadalajara, which was England's base for the opening round, Ramsey's party were greeted by scenes of mayhem, with reporters and TV crews rushing across the tarmac towards the plane. What made it all the worse was that Jeff Astle, never a good traveller, had spent most of the long journey drinking to calm his nerves, and by the time of his arrival he was, to quote Brian James, 'pissed out of skull'. A few England players tried to hide his state of inebriation from the Mexican press, propping him up as he went down the steps and then covering him up in the lounge with a coat, but it was a hopeless task. 'He was looking as if he had not changed his clothes for a fortnight,' recalled Gordon Banks, who also felt that in the midst of the crisis, 'Alf was not his normal cool, calm self.' The next day, one of the Mexican newspapers described England in a headline as 'a bunch of drunks and thieves'. Ramsey later told Ken Jones that the whole sorry business had been the worst thing that ever happened to him in all his years of football. England were staying at the Hilton Hotel in Guadalajara. Though well appointed, it was in the centre of the city, meaning that it could easily become the focus for the anti-English sentiment that was sweeping through the country. The string of difficulties, from burnt meat to Bobby Moore, only fed Alf's instinctive hostility to foreigners and the press. At times, he was in danger of being gripped by a form of paranoia, as he muttered about secret plots against his team. And he may not have been wrong in the case of the Moore bracelet, for the evidence points to an attempted set-up by the shop to extort money. Soon after Moore's arrest, Joao Saldanha, the former Brazil manager, explained that a similar trick had been pulled on him when he was in charge of the Botafogo team. 'The jewellery had been hidden in a drawer. It was an attempt to embarrass us into paying up to avoid a scandal. The allegations against Bobby Moore are disgraceful. This is slander,' argued Saldanha. The flimsiness of the case against Moore was exposed when he was brought back to the hotel jewellery store for further cross-examination. Ms Padilla claimed that Moore, clad in his England suit, had slipped the bracelet into his left-hand pocket. Triumphantly, Moore raised his left arm to show that his suit had no such pocket. Ms Padilla also changed her story about the bracelet's value. Faced with such evidence, the Columbian judges eventually decided that he would not have to stand trial. On 29 May he was granted conditional release and flew up to Guadalajara, though the case was not formally dropped until 1972. The story of the set-up always seemed the most likely version of events, but the journalist Jeff Powell revealed after Moore's death that the truth may have been more complicated, for Moore had said to him, 'Perhaps one of the lads did something foolish, a prank with unfortunate consequences.' Rodney Marsh also claimed that Moore had confirmed this story to him. There are several younger players who might have fitted the role as possible culprit; Emlyn Hughes and Peter Thompson both said that they went into the shop at some stage that afternoon, and Thompson actually told Alf that he was the third man. 'They're not after you, Peter, it's a set-up,' said Alf coolly. Peter Osgood was another who says that he followed Charlton and Moore into the store, but dismisses the idea that he was the thief as 'complete and utter bollocks'. All this speculation is treated with great scepticism by the two people who probably were closer to the truth than anyone else. The first is Tina Moore, who was still to be married to Moore for another decade: > All I know is that when I was with Bobby, we did not have any secrets. Bobby told me that there was not a bracelet. And would Bobby really have allowed himself to be put under arrest, with no certainty that he would be released in time to play for the World Cup, just to protect a kid who had played a prank? Why would he let himself be slammed up it if he knew someone else did it? It is ridiculous. The second is Neil Phillips, who was actually in the shop with Moore and Charlton at the time of the alleged theft and thinks claims of another player being involved 'are a load of codswallop. I was there with the two of them. There was no one else in the shop whatsoever.' Phillips is a particularly reliable witness because, as a doctor, he was used to taking notes. Alf had said to the press that 'you won't see a smile on my face until I see Bobby Moore'. Nor had he had the slightest doubt about Bobby's total innocence. 'I should have thought that the integrity of this man would be enough to answer these charges. It is too ridiculous for words.' When Bobby walked into the Hilton on the 29 May, Alf gave him a greeting that was as close to a hug as he could manage. Yet for all the mutual respect that had developed between them, Moore confided to Jeff Powell that he had been a little disappointed in his manager, leaving him in Bogotá to be supported by Denis Follows, the Secretary of the FA, and Andrew Stephen, the FA Chairman. 'If there was a man I believed was as important to me as Alf said I was to him, then there's no way I could have walked on to that plane without him.' After the 1970 World Cup, Bobby reflected on this sense of mild disillusionment: > Despite what the outside world thought, I would never regard myself as being the same as Alf. Not at all alike. The only Alf I knew was the football manager. We were together maybe a total of a month or two out of every year. That didn't mean I knew him as a person. Alf never drew me into his social company. It became quite clear that Alf and I were different personalities outside our working relationship. Apart from football, Alf would never talk in depth about anything at all. In company the conversation might flit across the usual small talk about cars and holidays but would invariably settle on football. Socially, I like people who are interested in what you do but can also relax you and take your mind off your own line of business once in a while. Alf had just two worlds: his players and his home. And they were kept strictly apart. But Moore, who had a good understanding of human psychology, recognized that Alf was far more sensitive than his hard public image: 'Unless you knew him closely, you would not have noticed when he was hurt. He had great control of his emotions and never showed it outwardly when he was under stress. He would just carry on. Yet you sensed he was hurt. Alf would be deeply upset if a member of the press expressed a damaging opinion.' And Moore always retained a profound admiration for Alf's ability as a manager: 'He was a players' man. We were attracted by his loyalty. He shared our desire for success. Alf's first thought was for his players so there was never any problem about getting the players to do what was asked of them.' After all the problems of the previous weeks, it was a relief for England when the competition finally got under way on 31 May. England were drawn in a group containing Brazil, Romania and Czechoslovakia, none of them easy opponents; England had not beaten Brazil in six encounters since 1956, while there had been two dull recent draws against Rumania, the same result that had been achieved in their last game against Czechoslovakia in November 1966. Nevertheless, two sides went through from the qualifying round, so England were not facing any great obstacle on the path to the quarter-final. The first game, against Romania on 2 June, was a brutal, uninspiring affair, with England winning by a single Geoff Hurst goal and Keith Newton having been forced off by a vicious challenge. The next day, the England team went to watch their next opponents, Brazil, demolish Czechoslovakia 4-1. The skill and verve of the Brazilians left a deep impression on Alf. 'By Christ, these people can play,' he told Ken Jones. On the Saturday night before the crucial game against Brazil, a large crowd of Mexican and Brazilian supporters gathered outside the Hilton, where England were accommodated on the 12th floor. In the sultry tropical air, for hour after hour, the crowd kept up an incessant racket, blaring horns, banging drums and blowing whistles. The Mexican police did nothing to move on the trouble-makers. 'It sounded like a thousand West Indian cricket supporters in full cry,' said Emlyn Hughes. Unable to sleep, the England players started throwing water and cartons of milk at the crowd. When that failed to achieve anything except to pump up the volume, they moved to different rooms at the back of the hotel, but the noise still penetrated. 'We didn't get a wink of sleep,' said Brian Labone. Bleary-eyed, the England team reported on Sunday morning for their final talk with Alf, who had lodged a formal protest with FIFA and the Mexican government about the previous night. Alf began his address in cryptic fashion, 'Do you like gold, boys?' Puzzled looks were exchanged round the dressing-room; Alan Ball thought Alf was making a reference to a possible win bonus. He was soon disabused of that idea. 'Well, the ball's a lump of gold today. So don't give it away.' As Alf ran through the opposition, one player sat disconsolately in the corner, barely able to listen to a word. Having come on as a substitute for Francis Lee, Peter Osgood believed that he had a strong chance of making the starting line-up against Brazil, especially because he felt in good form and had worked hard in training. Moreover, during the week Bobby Moore had confided in him that he was likely to be in the side. So when Alf announced that 'the team to face Brazil will be the same team that finished against Rumania', Osgood was overjoyed. But his excitement soon turned to confusion as he listened to Alf referring to the role of Francis Lee against the Brazil defence. Bobby Moore immediately spoke up for Osgood, 'Excuse me, Alf, you're talking about Francis, but Ossie came on for Francis and he finished the game against the Rumanians.' Alf looked over at Osgood and just said, 'Oh, I'm ever so sorry Ossie, I meant to say that the team which _started_ against Rumania will play against Brazil', before calmly resuming his talk. As Osgood later recalled: > I was devastated and wanted to walk out there and then but I felt paralysed. That evening, against all the rules, I hurried out of the hotel alone and hit the first bar I could find, and then the next, and the next. I got myself paralytic with drink and have only vague memories of sharing my misery with the groups of England fans. In the morning, I would not get out of bed and missed training. Alf tried to see me but I shouted at the door. 'Go away. Don't say a word. You can't excuse what you have done to me – you slaughtered me in front of the entire squad – just leave me alone!' The incident showed how preoccupied Alf was with the endless series of crises on the tour. Normally so good at man-management, he had been casually insensitive towards Osgood, though there is little doubt that the player also over-reacted. Alf was never to pick him again after Mexico. The altercation was the precursor of an increasingly difficult time Alf would have with the self-styled mavericks of seventies football. England's reputation was at a low point as they took the field against Brazil at noon in the shirt-drenching, 98-degree heat. But they went some way to rebuilding it with a magnificent performance against the Brazilians, today widely regarded as the finest team in the history of soccer. England were undaunted, with Moore giving the performance of a lifetime and Banks producing a heroic save at the far post when he dived full-length to stop a powerful Pele header. Pele, who shouted 'goal' the moment he connected with the ball, called it the greatest save he had ever seen. England actually finished the game more strongly than the Brazilians, and should have equalized when Jeff Astle, who had come on for Lee, missed a sitter with an open goal in front of him. From the stands, Osgood muttered that he would have never missed a chance like that. But even in defeat, England had shown the quality of champions. 'It really is what the game at the top level is all about. There was everything in it, all the skills and techniques, all the tactical control. There really was some special stuff played out there,' said Bobby Charlton. England only needed a draw in their final game against Czechoslovakia to go through to the quarter-final. Several of the players were feeling the heat – Alan Mullery lost 12 pounds against Brazil – so Alf decided to rest Hurst, Ball, Lee and Labone. But after reaching the heights against Brazil, England plumbed the depths with a laboured display against the Czechs. Clad in unfamiliar light-blue shirts, they continually gave the ball away and only scraped through 1–0, thanks to a penalty from Allan Clarke, who was finally making his England debut after spending three years in the squad. Today Clarke recalls: > The day before we played Czechoslovakia, Alf comes over – I will remember his words to my dying day – and says, 'I'm going to play you tomorrow, Allan.' > > 'That's great,' I replied, feeling elated. > > 'Yes, because I think you're ready now.' > > 'Alf, I've been ready for three years.' In the dressing-room before the kick-off, Alf asked presciently about penalties. No hands went up so Clarke volunteered. 'Good lad,' said Alf. When the moment arrived in the match, Alf turned nervously to his trainer Les Cocker, who also worked at Leeds. 'Will he score, Les?' 'Put your mortgage on it, Alf.' England had hardly emerged triumphant from the opening rounds, scoring just one goal in open play. For Danny Blanchflower, their lacklustre methods epitomized the worst of their manager; he wrote: 'There is no way that Sir Alf Ramsey or anyone else can justify the present England tactics. He has found a way to destroy the game rather than glorify it...Ramsey makes a potentially good team look like a bad one. They survive despite their tactics – not because of them. The team has lost the sense of going forward.' Whatever the disappointment caused by their industrious style, England had reached the last eight, and were due to play their old rivals West Germany in Leon on 14 June. But it was now that England's trip really began to fall apart, partly due to a series of organizational oversights by Alf and his staff. For someone who was usually so meticulous about his preparations, Alf had been strangely slapdash about certain aspects of the Mexican adventure. He had obsessed on one issue, the medical arrangements, yet had overlooked others or made poor decisions. He admitted, for instance, that he had been wrong to choose light-blue shirts against Czechoslovakia, because, in the burning glare of the Mexican sun, they were virtually indistinguishable from the white of the Czechs. But, as the quarter-final approached, he was guilty of far more serious errors. Remarkably, given that England were the reigning World Champions, Alf had neglected to ensure that any accommodation or flights were booked beyond the opening rounds. So instead of flying to a comfortable hotel in Leon, England had no choice but to accept the accommodation organized by FIFA. Moreover, the Mexican authorities refused England permission to fly into Leon on the grounds that the runway was too short to take a large aircraft. This was plainly nonsense, since the Germans had flown to Leon two weeks earlier. It was just another example of the extreme anti-English sentiment that Alf managed to provoke abroad. But Mexican obduracy meant that England had to make the 170-mile trip to Leon by coach, another strain on the squad's already overstretched nerves. Dr Neil Phillips believes that the shambles over the transport was another consequence of the poor relationship between management and the FA: > The Mexicans insisted we travel by coach, which was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. But we did not have any power with the local Mexican authorities because Denis Follows was in Mexico City looking after Lord Harewood, the President of the FA. Alan Odell tried to sort it out but he did not have the standing that Denis would have had as Secretary of the FA. And our hotel was reputed to be terrible. Bulgaria had stayed there and it was said to be surrounded by prostitutes. Having heard these rumours about the dismal standard of their hotel, Alf instructed Harold Shepherdson and Neil Phillips to travel ahead by taxi to check out the place and report back to him by phone. As always believing that he should be with the players, Phillips strongly objected: 'I didn't like the idea of not being with them on that road journey.' But Alf insisted, so at 4 am Harold and Neil left Guadalajara for Leon. As it turned out, Neil's presence was badly needed back in the England camp, for Gordon Banks suddenly went down with a severe bout of stomach poisoning. He managed to stagger onto the bus and hold himself together for the journey. 'I sat at the back of the coach praying for it to end. I was suffering from terrible stomach cramps and in imminent danger of letting go at either end. I was in a clammy sweat yet shivering with cold,' says Banks. As soon as he arrived in Leon, he went straight to bed, though he did not get much sleep, spending most of the night on the toilet. As his room-mate Alex Stepney, the Manchester United keeper, later remarked, 'Montezuma was extracting his revenge with the strike power of a cobra.' England players, including Bobby Charlton, Keith Newton and Peter Osgood, had suffered before with stomach upsets on this trip, despite all the medical precautions. But this was on a different scale. And both the violence of the ailment and the importance of the player gave rise to all sorts of rumours about a conspiracy against the England team. Becoming more paranoid by the day, Alf himself did not discount the theory that Banks was the victim of a sinister overseas plot. Nigel Clarke recalls Alf once telling him: 'It may have been done by the CIA, those American people or whatever you call them. I know Gordon was got at because we took all our own water and food.' But Neil Phillips believes the truth is more prosaic. He fears that Banks may have been struck down as a result of England's own celebrations after the victory over Czechoslovakia. With Alf's permission – but Neil's disapproval – the players held a small party at their hotel, to which the four wives were invited. An infected sandwich or beer consumed at this event may have been the cause of the trouble, as Neil told me: > I wasn't too happy about that party. Months later, I ran into the Leeds manager Don Revie, who had been working out in Mexico as a pundit. He said to me, 'Neil, never blame yourself for what happened out there. The players, contrary to your instructions, were having sandwiches delivered to their rooms. I know what you had told them: no drinks or sandwiches in the rooms. You can take it from me, Neil, that some of them had room service.' I did not see any of this myself. Gordon Banks was of the opinion that someone put something, maybe ice, in one of his drinks. Neil Phillips feels that if he had been able to treat the infection, then Banks might have recovered quickly, as Charlton and Newton had done. Sadly, he was not on the bus. The less disciplined atmosphere of the England team, compared to 1966, was reflected in the aftermath of that party. Hurst took his wife Judith back to her hotel, though Alf warned him that he had to be back by midnight. 'Geoffrey, you do know when midnight is, don't you?' 'Yes Alf, we know,' said Judith with a withering look. 'It's when both hands are pointing upwards.' That was a curfew hour that Emlyn Hughes was unable to meet by some margin. After going out drinking with his father and drowning his sorrows over his non-selection for the England side, he did not stagger back into the hotel until 1.30 am. Following training the next morning, Alf gave him a dressing down: 'What were my instructions to you last night, young man?' 'You're right, Alf, I was out of order. But surely you must understand how I feel. I'm here and you know how much I love the game and how keen I am, how much I want to play.' Alf looked at Hughes coldly and said, 'I understand your feelings perfectly, young man. I pick the team. I pick the subs. I am the boss of this outfit. You'll do as I say, or, believe me, you'll be on the next plane home. Now piss off.' 'Look Alf, I have let you down. I really am sorry. It won't happen again.' 'Son, you haven't let me down. But if any of the journalists had been just a little bit naughty they could have written a hell of a story about England players drinking after a curfew. You would have only let yourself down.' On the eve of the quarter-final, Alf had a far bigger problem than the consequences of Hughes' misbehaviour. The loss of England's premier goalkeeper through illness would be a disaster. Alf was so desperate to retain Banks that on the morning of the match, he and Harold Shepherdson gave Banks the most feeble of fitness tests. Banks told me: > It was so silly, it was no test at all. It was just a bit of jogging for a few yards, and then Harold Shepherdson rolled a ball either side of me. I was just picking it up, not even diving. 'How do you feel?' said Harold. 'OK', I replied. But I had been expecting someone to be banging in balls at me. At the subsequent team meeting, Banks suddenly felt ill again and had to retire to his room, where he was violently sick. It was obvious that his deputy Peter Bonetti of Chelsea would have to play. Bonetti had been put on standby the night before, as his room-mate Dave Sadler recalls: > You could just feel the tension coming into Peter when he realized he might have to perform. He'd had the odd game, but by and large, he was happy to be second string to the best keeper in the world. When he was told he might have to go in, the nerves started immediately. Those nerves were exacerbated by the anxiety gnawing away at Bonetti over the state of his marriage. It was in the enforced selection of Bonetti that the foolishness of bringing wives to Mexico damagingly revealed itself. Though they stayed in separate hotels, they were undoubtedly a distraction for the four players involved. This was partly because the players, understandably, wanted to make regular contact with their wives, and would often get on the phone straight away once they had returned from training – Peter Osgood recalls that Geoff Hurst 'seemed preoccupied as to where Judith was at any given time'. Just as importantly, the cohesion of the team was fractured in a way that never occurred in 1966. Those who were unaccompanied would regularly tease the quartet, as Neil Phillips remembers: > When the players were trying to ring their wives, the others would take the mickey out of them. 'Oh, they're still in bed' or 'They're swimming nude in their hotel pool, having a whale of a time – why would they want to speak to you?' It was all jocular stuff. But it showed that the 18 players in the squad without their wives were not happy with the other four. Of the breakdown in unity, Alan Ball said to me: 'As a squad, I thought 1970 was miles stronger, but not as a team. All-round we were definitely stronger, but not as a team.' And any sense of togetherness was not helped by the fact the Mexican press, eager to acquire any dirt on the England team, sought to exploit any tales of exuberant partying. Brian James has this interesting memory: > The Mexicans loved spreading rumours, telling the players, 'Your wives are screwing everybody at the hotel.' I got friendly with some of the Mexican journalists out there and one of them rang me one day, saying 'I have a good story.' So I went to see him and he told me, 'At their hotel, the wives of the England players are hanging out with loads of men. We are going in tonight with some lads, and a few photographers, and we're going to get some pictures of them. It will be a big front-page story tomorrow.' > > 'Oh, fuck.' > > So immediately I ran out, got into a taxi and made my way to their hotel. Sure enough, there were the wives at the poolside bar – where they usually were. I went up to Judith Hurst and explained what was happening. She understood immediately and grabbed Cathy Peters and Tina Moore. 'Right, we've got to get out of here, go, go, go. Come on.' And the Mexicans turned up thirty seconds later, gigolos, girls, cameramen. It was all a set-up. The uxorial problem was particularly acute with Peter Bonetti. A devout Roman Catholic, he did not take easily to the dressing-room banter about his wife's hotel activities. 'Peter was a much more sensitive person and could not laugh it off the way others could,' says Neil Phillips. But his anxiety was not entirely unfounded, as Brian James explains, 'Frances Bonetti was very, very pretty but she was one of those girls who used to come on to everybody. I think it was just her nature.' James continues: 'Peter was very upset when he heard people talking about his wife. On the night before the big match in Leon, he was tearing round looking for her.' Jeff Powell confirms that 'without a doubt, Bonetti was distracted because he had heard rumours that something might be going on. Frances lost the plot. The other footballers' wives, like Tina, were used to travelling, they kept their head, but Frances lost control of her emotions.' From the England camp, Dr Neil Phillips says he remembers that Bonetti was 'genuinely upset' about what he had heard. And Allan Clarke told me that the rest of the side were aware of the reports of frolics: > Yeah, we heard the rumours. Billy Bremner and Johnny Giles were fronting the World Cup coverage for ITV, and they were staying in the same hotel as the wives. Billy came to me and said, 'We're having a great time at our hotel. There's a great night life. Mooro's wife, Peter's wife, they're all there.' It seemed that they were having a better time than we were. Alf would have been worried bloody stiff if he had known. Geoff Hurst doubted whether Peter Bonetti was in a fit mental state for such a crucial encounter. 'Peter was no slouch between the posts, but he had never played in a match as remotely important as the one now facing him. My own feeling at the time was that Peter's mind was not wholly on the job. It was across the city, with his wife Frances. Peter was a man who took his family responsibilities seriously.' If Alf had known Bonetti's predicament, he might have played Alex Stepney of Manchester United, regarded by many in the England squad as a better keeper than Bonetti. 'I thought on the day that Alf would have played Alex Stepney, because he was more of a big-time keeper than Peter. He had played through a European Cup Final, so he was more experienced in the big time atmosphere,' argues Francis Lee. 'I agree with Franny,' says Nobby Stiles. 'Peter was very nervous that day, great lad, smashing lad, but very nervous. I remember Denis Law saying to me that the difference between Peter and Alex was that "Peter will dive for the ball, whereas Alex will get across if he can. Every time Peter dives, I'll be in."' In fact, as Neil Phillips revealed to me, Alf himself had real concerns about Bonetti's big-match temperament. 'I remember discussions taking place between Alf and Dave Sexton, the manager of Chelsea. Dave would be saying what a marvellous keeper Bonetti was and Alf would reply, "Yes, when he's playing for Chelsea but I have real doubts about him when he's playing for England." ' The doubts about Bonetti turned out to be fully justified. England played superbly for the first 50 minutes against West Germany, going 2–0 up with goals from Peters and Mullery, who was having the game of a lifetime. No England team under Ramsey had ever lost from such a position and once more, as in 1966, the threat of the finest German player, Franz Beckenbauer, had been nullified by his duties in marking Bobby Charlton. 'When the second one went in I ran round the field shouting to the Germans, "Goodnight, God bless, see you in Munich,"' recalls Alan Ball. The celebrations were premature. Ramsey's team appeared to be cruising into the semi-finals. Then, with just 20 minutes to go, England suffered a dramatic reversal of fortune. Beckenbauer, breaking free for a moment from the shackles of Charlton, advanced towards the penalty box but was driven wide by the wonderfully dogged Mullery. It seemed like the attack had gone nowhere when suddenly Beckenbauer tried a shot. It was a vapid strike, one that should have been easily saved by Bonetti but somehow, as he dived, he allowed the gently rolling ball to squirm under his body. Bobby Moore was later scathing about Bonetti's error: 'Franz's shot was nothing special. If Peter is going to be honest with himself, he had to be disappointed. Psychologically, it was a desperate goal to concede. It was the sort of goal which cut your confidence from the back.' It was soon after Beckenbauer's goal that Alf made probably the most controversial decision of his reign as England manager. With England still 2-1 up, he brought off Bobby Charlton, replacing him with Colin Bell. Alf's aim was to save Bobby, then 32, for the semi-final but the move backfired. Charlton had kept Beckenbauer quiet for two successive World Cup ties. Suddenly the great German, one of the most gifted playmakers of all time, was liberated. As Beckenbauer proceeded to dominate, England grew increasingly ragged and exhausted. To shore up his side, Ramsey brought on the hard-tackling Norman Hunter in place of Martin Peters, hoping to counter the insurgency of Jurgen Grabowski. It was too late. In the 76th minute the inevitable happened. From a mis-kicked England clearance, Uwe Seeler flicked the ball with the back of his head over Bonetti, who was left flailing in no-man's land. 2-2. 'England are throwing it away,' bellowed BBC commentator David Coleman. The game was about to enter extra-time. There is a compelling symmetry about the 1966 final and the 1970 quarter-final, given the score-lines after 90 minutes, only in 1970, Alf could not produce the same inspirational rhetoric at the full-time whistle. By definition, a finest-hour speech can only be given once in a lifetime. By 1970, the grandeur of Alf was fading. He made a half-hearted attempt to rouse the troops, telling them, 'You did it in 1966, you can do it again,' but this time Alan Mullery, England's star of the match, said cynically, 'Yeah, but it wasn't 100 degrees in the shade at Wembley.' Mullery was instantly ashamed of his comment: 'I don't know why I said it and I have regretted opening my mouth ever since.' But his words summed up the exhaustion of his team. England could cope with the heat when they were winning. After conceding two sloppy goals, they were broken. In extra-time, Gerd Muller, 'der Bomber', won the game by hooking a close-range volley past the hapless Bonetti. England were out of the World Cup. It was an unbelievable result, given England's total superiority for most of the first 90 minutes. Alf gave a rather forced handshake to the German manager, Helmut Schoen, and then retreated with his distraught side to the team hotel in Leon. Like most of his players, Alf was barely able to speak. 'I never want to go through that again in my life,' says Alan Ball. 'Alf was as shell-shocked as the rest of us. We were so, so disappointed.' Brian Labone told me that 'losing that game was the most upsetting time of my life. It was thirty-five years ago, but it is still with me to this day.' Francis Lee has always refused to watch any video of the game: > I would find it too painful. Even now I look back on that day with real regret. The atmosphere after the German game was absolutely terrible because we knew we had them down and should have finished them off. Alf was so morose after the game. He was terrible. I saw him shaking hands with Helmut Schoen and he hardly knew what to do. On the coach back to the hotel, we hardly spoke. We hardly spoke for two days. It was the worst anti-climax of all time. It still affects me to this day. Ken Jones tracked Alf down to the hotel two hours after the final whistle. He was sitting disconsolately at a table on his own. 'I couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing would have made any sense,' says Jones. 'Do you want a drink?' asked Alf. Jones nodded. 'Pour it yourself,' he said, handing over an opened bottle of champagne. 'You were so close...' said Jones. Alf was not listening. 'I still can't believe it. Of all the players to lose, it had to be him.' Alf was, of course, referring to Banks. In 1973, Alf gave this vivid description of his feelings after the final whistle: > I think I lost 15 years of my life in one afternoon. I was shattered but I couldn't show that in front of the players. I remember forcing myself to go and congratulate the German manager Helmut Schoen. It was necessary to do that but, by goodness, it wasn't easy. Our dressing-room was like a morgue. My job was to pick the players up off the floor. Jack Charlton wasn't playing that day but I can hear him now, telling me to let myself go. I couldn't. It's not in me to do that. In the tortured aftermath of the game, Alf came in for a deluge of criticism about his substitutions. If he had not taken off Charlton, it was averred, Beckenbauer would never have been free to move forward. There is some truth in this. Alf had made the fatal mistake of planning for the next game before victory had been achieved. Beckenbauer himself added support to this view: 'When England were leading 2–0, we were completely dead. After I scored what I thought was a rather soft goal, Alf Ramsey decided to substitute Bobby Charlton, who we felt was the heart of their game. Ramsey made such a mistake in taking him off.' It was a view that captain Bobby Moore shared: 'As soon as Bobby Charlton walked away, it was like a ton weight had been lifted off Beckenbauer.' Not usually prone to confessing his errors, Alf privately admitted that he may have got it wrong. He told Bobby Charlton on the plane back to England that it was 'a mistake I shall always regret' to have taken him off. According to his secretary at the FA, Margaret Bruce, one of Alf's first actions on his return to Lancaster Gate was to express his annoyance at what he had done. 'He told me that he rued the moment he took off Bobby Charlton. "I shouldn't have done it," he said.' But Alf was being too hard on himself. The reality is that, in the context of the match, his substitutions were perfectly sensible, given the boiling conditions of Mexico and the age of Bobby Charlton. Far from undermining England, the introduction of Bell and Hunter could have reinvigorated the side. As Alan Ball says: > When Alf took Bobby off, I thought to myself: 'Great, fantastic, Alf, bit of help in the middle of the pitch.' They were fabulous substitutions at the time. Colin Bell and Norman Hunter were two great lads in the middle of the park, great runners, great lungs. Bobby Charlton himself said he 'never blamed Alf for the substitution. When he pulled me off, I did not doubt if for a minute. I was disappointed only in that I felt really full of running.' Francis Lee believes that the 'effect of the substitutions has been overdone. Colin came on and played well and at that heat and altitude you have to use the subs.' In truth, the entire debate about the substitutions is something of an irrelevance, for England would have almost certainly won 2–0 if Banks had not been indisposed. No matter how well a team plays, if the keeper makes a series of howling errors, they are doomed to defeat. And that is what happened in Leon. 'No way would we have lost with Gordon in goal,' says Ball. 'Gordon would not have allowed the first to go in and he would have caught the cross on the second. I felt sorry for Peter but ultimately he cost us.' From the press box, Brian James agreed: > Going back to the England hotel was almost like attending a funeral. There was not anything you could say. I avoided Peter Bonetti's eye. People blame the substitutions. It was nothing to do with the substitutions. In fact the substitutions were quite right. Bobby Charlton had worked his bollocks off in the heat. The goals were the keeper's fault. Alf certainly believed that Peter was so shaken up before the game because of the rumours about his wife. Tommy Docherty jokes that Bonetti acquired the nickname 'The Cat' because 'he was always pissing in the back of the net' and that was the way some England players felt about him in June 1970. 'Peter's role in our downfall is beyond argument,' says Geoff Hurst. Similarly, Brian Labone, according to Osgood, 'slated Catty', while Allan Clarke teased the Chelsea keeper. > We'd been away from home for more than six weeks, which is a long time. Peter was as sick as a parrot, but I actually went up to him and said, 'Thanks a lot, Peter.' > > 'Why's that?' > > 'You've got us all home early.' I made him feel even worse.' Alf also blamed Bonetti, though he would not say so in public. Nigel Clarke remembers this revealing conversation when they were working together on Alf's column in the _Daily Mirror:_ > He told me that he had not seen how England could lose to West Germany. He said to me, 'I knew my biggest test was coming up in three days in the semi-final and I had to have fresh legs. And Bobby was not getting any younger. But what I did not bank on was Peter throwing in two goals.' There was a pause and then Alf said, 'You're not going to put that in, are you?' > > 'Not if you don't want me to. It's up to you, Alf.' > > 'Well, Peter did throw two in but I would hate to put that in print.' > > So Alf went on shouldering the blame for the defeat because of his substitutions. As so often, the brilliantly perceptive Hugh McIlvanney went to the heart of the matter, writing in the _Observer:_ > Sir Alf Ramsey's team are out because the best goalkeeper most people have ever seen turned sick, and one who is only slightly less gifted was overwhelmed by the suddenness of his promotion. Those who ranted smugly in distant television studios about the tactical blunders of Ramsey were toying with the edges of the issue. Errors there were and Ramsey in private has acknowledged one or two but the England manager is entitled to claim that his side were felled by something close to an act of God. Such wise words brought little reprieve. Alf came home to an inevitable torrent of criticism. He had been a manager who lived by results, not by quality of football, and for the first time in his career since taking over at Ipswich he had experienced a real setback. If he had been better at public relations, he might not have been so vulnerable. But now the vultures were circling. He was condemned for his stubbornness, arrogance and negative tactics. When he said at a press conference on his return that England had 'nothing to learn from the Brazilians', he was only stating an objective truth, in the sense that everyone knew that Brazil, the winners of 1970, were the outstanding team of the tournament. But it sounded like gross provincial complacency. Joe Mercer, manager of Manchester City, complained that Alf had ignored him throughout his stay in the same hotel in Mexico: 'It's the art of a manager's job to foster friendship. As a public-relations man Alf is the worst in the business.' Malcolm Allison attacked Ramsey's caution, especially in the game against Germany. 'If you play defensively, the opposition start getting confidence, they start to feel you aren't so fearsome after all. So instead of saying, "We're the champions, come and take it off us", you're saying, "We're as worried as you are." ' Alf had to hope that he could improve England's performance. But he was entering new territory. For the first time in his international career, England would have to qualify for the World Cup finals. # [THIRTEEN _Katowice_](004-toc.html#ch13) England players of Alf's era love to tell of the moments when he appeared to rebuke them for taking their places in the national side for granted. Gordon Banks says that after playing Yugoslavia in May 1966 he breezily called out to Alf in the Wembley car park, 'See you next time, Alf,' only to be greeted with the stern reply, 'If selected, Gordon.' On another occasion, Ken Jones was giving a lift to Alf and Geoff Hurst. Alf was, as usual, left at Liverpool Street station, and as he stepped out of the car, Geoff said to him, 'See you at the next game, Alf.' 'Yes, Geoffrey, I'll send you a couple of tickets.' Such statements have usually been taken as examples of Alf's determination to prevent his players becoming too complacent about England duty. Gordon Banks said of Alf's remark, 'It was a lesson to me that I had to fight for my England place no matter how well I had played in previous games.' But the greater likelihood is that they were only a demonstration of Alf's dust-dry sense of humour. The truth is that Alf remained almost obsessively loyal to the footballers that had brought him success in the past. Rather than experiment, he preferred to surround himself with those he trusted. This inability to rebuild, to create a long-term culture of continuing success, was one of his weaknesses as a manager. It had happened at Ipswich, where the failure to replace ageing limbs or change outmoded tactics saw Ipswich in severe danger of relegation only months after winning the title. And in the early seventies, following the shock exit in Leon, the same process started to happen with England. Alf built one great side for 1966, but he struggled to do so again for 1974. Alf is often portrayed as a ruthless, cold-hearted realist, whose expressionless face reflected his inner hardness. But this is a false picture. In fact, Alf was something of a sentimentalist. There was little of the cynic about him. The love of westerns, of his family and of his nation showed a man of simple but profound feelings. And he extended that mix of nostalgia and affection towards his teams. In 1963, for instance, when he had to drop his favourite player, Jimmy Leadbetter, from the Ipswich side, he was distraught. 'This was a terrible moment. After all Jimmy had done for this team, he took it well, better than I did,' said Alf. Like Prime Ministers, managers have to be good butchers, but Sir Alf was too loyal to be one. Loyalty, of course, had been one of the virtues that helped to create the spirit of 1966. 'Loyalty was his massive strength. It served him well for years. It won him the World Cup,' says Alan Ball. But once the Cup had slipped from his grasp, he still remained cautious in his selections and systems, reluctant to embrace wholesale change. As Peter Osgood put it, 'After 1970, he should have started to rebuild right away, because if we qualified for 1974, it was obvious that Bobby Moore would be too old, and Mullery, Hurst and Lee weren't going to be around. He left it too late. Mooro played until 1973, which was too long.' There was some inevitable speculation that, after the failure in Mexico, Alf's position might be in question. But the FA quickly quashed any of that talk. 'We acclaimed Sir Alf in 1966 as probably the best team manager in the world. As far as I am concerned, I have no reason to alter my opinions in view of our performance in Mexico,' said Sir Andrew Stephen, Chairman of the FA. And Alf himself had no intention of resigning, telling a press conference that any talk about his departure was 'pure invention on the part of newspapers, television and radio commentators'. But what the press were clamouring for was not a change in manager but in playing personnel. 'Now, not next year or the year after, is the time to look at fresh faces,' wrote Frank Magee in the _Sunday Mirror._ In Alf's first competitive game after Mexico, against Malta in Valetta in a qualifier for the European Championship, Alf did make a few introductions of new players, though the spine of the team was still built around Banks, Ball, Peters, Hunter and Mullery. One of the enforced changes was Roy McFarland of Derby County for Bobby Moore, who had been suspended by his club for a late-night drinking session on the eve of an FA Cup tie. McFarland immediately sensed the spirit of loyalty that Alf had built in the England camp. 'The bond with the players had to be close because of the World Cup, but it was easy to come into it. You felt so much part of the camaraderie. There was a real bond there. Perhaps that was part of Alf's problem. Maybe he was too loyal for too long. Maybe he took longer than he should have done with the transition to younger players.' For all that, McFarland was deeply impressed with Alf as a manager from the moment he came into the squad. > Alf would come and speak to you privately on the training ground. The only piece of direct coaching advice he gave me, which really helped me improve as a player, was this, 'Roy, I have noticed that when you run and jump to head the ball, nobody will beat you. But from a standing jump, people do beat you. Practise doing it and you will improve. You may work with light weights and practise springing, but you have to do it from a standing position.' That shows how good Alf was. He honed in on one problem. He did not give long team talks. He spoke in the same manner in the dressing-room as everywhere else, no great emotion. I did not find him aloof. For me, he was quite warm. He was very modest, never boasted, never gloated about what he had achieved. His focus was completely on the players – that's why he would get annoyed with the press. When you were away with England, one person could not go off on his own. Whatever we did, we did together. If we went to the pictures, we all went together. He loved his cowboy films. I remember one hilarious time when we were going to see _Hang 'em High._ Alf just could not get the words out properly. He kept saying 'Hang Hem High' or 'Ang Em Igh'. He must have done this about a dozen times, until Ballie said, 'Oh come on Alf, for fuck's sake, it's _Hang 'em High._ Now let's get to the pictures.' England were expected to enjoy a rout against Malta, but on a grassless, rutted pitch, they limped to a 1–0 win. So poor was the pitch that when Gordon Banks went to make a save, he ended up with a badly cut leg and torn shorts. Paul Reaney, who won the third of his three England caps in this game, remembers how Alf dealt with this problem: > It was an awful, dreadful pitch, rock hard. I will always remember Alf saying before we went out, 'Gentlemen, I understand the situation. If there is anyone who does not want to play, please tell me now before you go out.' Of course no one put their hand up. But Alf was ensuring that no one could come in making excuses at the end. It was a good tactic to stop the moaning. That was typical Alf. There was no ranting. But the quality of the ground was of no concern to Alf's critics. The pressure on him was ratcheted up another notch. It was then eased somewhat as England proceeded to enjoy a string of decent results for the next 14 months. This better form saw England reach the quarter-finals of the European Championship, hammering Malta 5-0 at home, defeating Greece home and away and remaining unbeaten against Switzerland. Much to Alf's pleasure, Scotland were also crushed 3-1 at Wembley in May 1971. The worrying point, however, was that these performances had largely been achieved by the old guard. When England defeated Switzerland in Basle in October 1971, for instance, seven of the side – Banks, Cooper, Mullery, Moore, Lee, Hurst and Peters – were of pre-Mexico vintage, while England's 1–1 draw at Wembley in November against the Swiss prompted more complaints about 'Alf's old faithfuls not doing it any more'. In the _Daily Mail_ Jeff Powell wrote of the need for Alf 'to pump fresh blood into his ailing team...The alternative is for all of us to sit and watch a once great international team dying slowly on its feet.' Despite qualification, a campaign of assassination against Alf was in full swing by the end of the year. 'Sir Alf would have to be stone deaf not to hear the knives being sharpened, the ammunition stacked and the verbal damnation being rehearsed,' wrote Ian Wooldridge in the _Mail._ 'You can hardly glance at a sports page or tune into a radio or TV debate without hearing the man demolished as though he were Public Enemy Number One and his methods dissected as if they were wholly responsible for the loss of the Empire.' And Wooldridge concluded prophetically: 'What you are witnessing, I suspect, is a classic story of the human race: of people waiting for the man who went up to pass them on the way down again. Had Sir Alf spent a little more time on personal relationships down the years, it might all be reading differently.' Much of the press were clamouring for Alf to inject more excitement, youth and adventure into the team by promoting some of the daring individualists, like Osgood, Alan Hudson of Chelsea, or Rod Marsh of QPR, who were setting League football alight with their dazzling skills. Alf's refusal to integrate them into his side was widely seen as another indicator of his inherent dourness. Once more, it was said, he was putting a higher premium on industry than artistry. When Alf sent Marsh on for seven minutes in the home qualifier against Switzerland, Frank Harrington ruefully commented in _Reveille,_ 'It's like putting a stopwatch on Casanova.' Waxing about Marsh's ability, Harrington described > how the crowd love those weaving figure-of-eight dribbles, that shrug of the hips that sends defenders shuffling the wrong way. If Alf has a fault, it is perhaps that he is too professional, that he has forgotten what draws spectators. Ramsey must experiment, chance his arm. Now is the time to go not only for style but youth. Yet the picture was more complicated than the simple image of brilliant stars damned by a stubborn, blinkered manager. The reality is that in almost every case, Alf was willing to give these mavericks a try, but felt let down by their indiscipline, self-indulgence and absence of any team ethic. Alf knew that trophies are not won by a few crowd-pleasing moments but by hours of sacrifice for the team's cause. At the highest level, mere colourful talent was not enough. It had to be allied to professionalism, determination and moral courage. And this was not the judgement of Alf alone. Alf's successors with England, and other club managers often shuddered at the self-destructive irresponsibility of these men, as did their fellow professionals. As Geoff Hurst argued: 'With the greatest respect, there's flair and then there's genius. And perhaps Alf didn't think they were the right sort of characters for him and his side of secure, solid, tougher players. The flair players of the seventies weren't in the same class, and he couldn't trust them with a free role in the way he could Bobby Charlton.' It was said of Peter Osgood, for instance, that he would not run five yards for the ball but he would run fifty for a fight. Mike Doyle of Manchester City, the club which Rodney Marsh joined in 1972 from QPR, blamed Marsh for losing City's title bid in 1972-73: 'It was clear he just wanted to do his own thing. You don't win anything with players like that in your side.' Malcolm Macdonald has this memory of Alf's fury at Marsh during a match against Scotland: 'I was substitute that day and I could see Alf fuming on the bench. He was getting madder and madder until you could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. In the end, he couldn't contain himself, "Harold, get that fucking clown off!"' Perhaps the most extreme example of petulance came from Alan Hudson, whom Alf tried to pick for the Under-23s in 1972. Annoyed at being left out of the full side, Hudson told Ramsey over the phone he would not join the Under-23s for a tour of Eastern Europe because he was putting his home life and club first. 'I was damned if I was going to put him before my family if that's the way he was going to treat me,' said Hudson later. Alf told Hudson: 'Your problems are no concern of mine. Be there in the morning. You'll take the consequences if you don't come.' To which Hudson replied, 'In that case, you'd better start now, because I won't be there.' Hudson never played for England under Alf. According to Ken Jones, he was no great loss, since he was an overrated footballer in the early seventies as a result of an injury: 'In 1970 he missed the Cup Final, missed Mexico and was never the same.' Moreover, Hudson showed a monumental indifference towards his personal fitness, sometimes drinking a bottle and a half of vodka and six pints of beer in the evening before going training the next morning. 'He was phenomenal, absolutely phenomenal,' says his Chelsea team-mate Ian Hutchinson of Hudson's capacity for drink. It was not a gift that Alf appreciated. Nevertheless, it is fair to say that Alf felt far less connection to the colourful stars of the seventies than he had to the more solid, mature figures of the mid-sixties. There was an affinity of outlook between Alf and men like George Cohen, Ray Wilson and Bobby Charlton. They had all done military service for their country and experienced the maximum wage. Modest and dignified, they had a sense of privilege about earning their living as a professional footballer. They belonged to an era when extravagant emotions were frowned on. But Alf was a man out of time by the early seventies. His fifties demeanour, clothes and voice had looked reassuringly old fashioned in the mid-sixties. A few years later, he was in danger of becoming an anachronism. The fabric of Britain was starting to change dramatically. Authority was collapsing in every aspect of society, whether it be in the classroom or on the bloody streets of Belfast. The old post-war consensus broke down, with the trade unions asserting their own power in an unprecedented, often bullying manner. Politicians of all parties seemed impotent and bewildered. The country was in a state of near permanent crisis, reaching the nadir under Edward Heath of the three-day week in 1973, designed to cope with the shortage of power supplies. The traditional family unit was under threat, with divorce and lone parenthood on the rise. And Britain was on the road to becoming a multi-racial society, provoking an often anguished debate about national identity that continues to this day. Questions of national self-confidence and authority had never troubled Alf before. Now he was in an alien environment, one that had infested football. Believing in hard work rather than hedonism, sacrifice rather than self-indulgence, he could not relate to a new generation that mocked the conservative values he held dear. Long hair and kissing on the field were an anathema to him. His enemies suggested he disliked flares just as much as flair. 'We used to take the mickey out of Alf Ramsey for being so straight and proper but not to his face because he didn't have a sense of humour, or at least not one I could see,' said Rod Marsh, the prince of the seventies glamour boys. 'As players became more affluent and they had outside interests, advertising and boutiques, I don't think Alf ever adjusted to that. I don't think he adjusted to the pop-star image of footballers. Alf and myself didn't get along.' A new amoral football culture was being built, one that was a world away from the stability and fidelity that Alf understood. As Neil Phillips put it: 'The attitude of players throughout the League was changing. A lot of them had picked up the showbiz thing and were therefore harder to discipline.' Ian Hutchinson of Chelsea once related that his manager Dave Sexton told his players to refrain from sex the Friday night before games: > On Saturday morning, Ossie would promise that he hadn't made love the previous night, omitting to mention the fact that he'd got his leg over with an air hostess that morning. Free love, it was the in-thing. We went to a party in Sweden after playing Atvidaberg in the Cup Winners' Cup and our full-back bedded three different birds in one night. As Arsenal's Peter Storey recalled: 'From the first time I kicked a ball as a pro, I began to learn what the game was all about. It's about drunken parties that go on for days: the orgies, the birds and the fabulous money. Football is just a distraction, but you're so fit you can carry on all the high living in secret.' It is impossible to think of any statement which more violently differed from the essence of Alf. His puzzlement at modern attitudes was beautifully captured in June 1972 when he picked the young Huddersfield striker Frank Worthington for the Under-23s. Worthington turned up at Heathrow Airport in high-heeled cowboy boots, red silk shirt, black slacks and a lime velvet jacket. Peter Shilton, also on the trip, recalls that Alf took one look at Worthington and said, 'Oh shit, what have I fucking done?' The mood of self-interested rebellion sweeping the country was mirrored in football, where top clubs became ever more defiant of Ramsey's needs. Players were withdrawn from the England squads not just for major League and Cup games, but even for less important tournaments like the League Cup and the forgotten Texaco Trophy. Throughout this period, Alf had to conduct draining, sometimes bitter negotiations with club managers over the availability of their internationals. Norman Hunter says that Don Revie 'often found ways of keeping his players back from international matches'. Alf later claimed in an interview in 1986 that once, when he was on the phone to his wife from the England hotel, 'I heard Norman Hunter pleading with Revie to release him for England. Revie refused. Hunter broke down in tears.' In November 1971 after his preparations for the European qualifier against Switzerland were badly disrupted by a number of League Cup ties, there were rumours that Alf was so angered by the endless squabbling that he was on the verge of resignation. In an interview with Frank Magee in the _Sunday Mirror_ he denied this but made clear how difficult his job had become. Having explained that he wanted to 'bring the right attitude in soccer about international football', he said, 'It is easy to say "I'm fed up" and quit. It is far more important to establish for the future the right of the England manager to have first call on the services of any player.' The _Daily Mail_ was sympathetic to Alf's plight: 'At a critical time in English football development, Ramsey is pinned to the doorposts of his Lancaster Gate office by a number of very sharp league knives.' Even Alan Hardaker, the parochial League Secretary, admitted that Ramsey 'did not get a fair crack of the whip', though he also said that Alf 'failed to appreciate that there were times he also had to co-operate'. An indication of Hardaker's dismissive attitude towards Alf was reflected in this exchange, when Hardaker was making the case for the Newcastle striker Malcolm Macdonald to be allowed to play for his club rather than England. 'But you're not qualified to pick an England team,' said Alf. 'Well, after reading this morning's papers, I gather you're not either,' replied Hardaker. Taking their cue from the League, several young players showed scant respect for an England call-up. Tommy Smith and Chris Lawler of Liverpool were selected for an Under-23 tour but said they wouldn't go, because they were too tired after a long season. As Smith recalls: 'Alf called us a couple of prize prigs. I'm afraid all we did then was go around the corner after he'd gone and have a good laugh.' The nadir for Alf was reached in April 1972, when England played West Germany in the home leg of their European Championship quarter-final. Shortly before the game, the Derby manager Brian Clough withdrew Roy McFarland from Alf's squad, claiming he was injured. Yet just 48 hours later McFarland played in a crucial championship match for Derby. Alf was furious: 'This man calls himself a patriot but he has never done anything to help England. All he does is criticize us in the newspapers and television.' Because of the huge differences in their personalities, it was unlikely that Alf would have ever been close to the theatrical, alcoholic, loud-mouthed socialist, but after this incident, Alf barely spoke to Clough again. In McFarland's place, Alf picked Norman Hunter to play alongside Bobby Moore, but this left the central defence unbalanced because Moore and Hunter did not easily complement each other, particularly because Moore was uncomfortable at being asked to play the kind of hard-tackling, aerially powerful centre-half role that Jack Charlton used to fulfil. 'I was made uneasy by the lack of cohesion between Mooro and Hunter,' said Banks later. But England's other difficulty was directly Alf's fault. Ignoring the threat of Günther Netzer operating from an advanced midfield position, he failed to give anyone the role of marking the brilliant but erratic young German. According to Francis Lee, Netzer's name was barely even mentioned in the team talk. But on the night, he tore England apart with his precision passing and incisive runs. At one stage he was wreaking such havoc with England that Hunter yelled at Moore, 'Let me have a chance to get the bastard,' only for Moore to reply, 'This is the way Alf wants it and that's how it's going to be,' a demonstration of how Moore still respected Alf's authority. West Germany won 3-1, England's worst defeat at home since Hungary in 1953. 'They murdered us, they couldn't do a thing wrong,' said Alan Ball. Alf's strategy and selection were now under severer attack than at any time since he was appointed a decade earlier. 'Have the methods of the only man to win the World Cup for England become as dead as a dinosaur? Does not Ramsey's ponderous system based on prodigious work-rate, no wingers and endless, top-speed running also burn up players?' asked Alan Hoby in the _Sunday Express._ Francis Lee, who played his last game for England that night, agreed that Alf's tactical rigidity was undermining the team's effectiveness: > We were still playing 4–4–2 in the seventies. I don't think Alf was trapped. He just believed in 4–4–2. By then the system was becoming outdated. I am a great believer at international level that you have to play with three at the back and five in midfield, because you cannot have your four at the back marking one player. You must have three at the back to give you the flexibility in midfield. You'd have a great player like Cruyff who would start off in the front, then drop back, giving the Dutch six in midfield and he would have freedom. That is where we did not readjust. We could have played three at the back and had more strength in midfield. The reason we got beaten by Germany at Wembley was because we got murdered in midfield. It did not matter how much effort the lads put into midfield, because they were outnumbered. And when you are outnumbered by class acts, there is a problem. Alf's next move only further damaged his already plummeting reputation. When England played the away leg of the German tie in Berlin in May, Alf appeared desperate merely to save face rather than gain the substantial victory that was needed. To resolve the midfield problem, he brought in Peter Storey, one of the toughest, most cynical tacklers in the game, as well as shifting Norman Hunter from central defence. To Alf's critics, it was the distillation of everything that was wrong with his stodgy, joyless, narrow approach, with its emphasis on closing down opponents rather than encouraging good football. Predictably, the game ended in a goalless draw. Afterwards, the Germans complained, with some justification, about the violence of England's methods. 'The whole England team has autographed my leg,' said Günther Netzer. Many thought that the German defeat should have spelled the end of Alf. 'Most managers have a finite usefulness and Ramsey was no exception,' wrote Brian Granville. 'By 1972, he was not the same man. This was plainly the time for Ramsey, who had achieved so much, to go.' But Alf was not a man to walk away from a challenge. From his earliest days in Dagenham, he had battled against being tainted by failure. The next World Cup represented the chance of redemption. Besides, he still retained the support of most of his players. Rod Marsh had little time for Ramsey, saying that 'I didn't feel suited to play in the England set-up; Alf wanted me to be another Geoff Hurst, and that wasn't me at all,' but Marsh was very much an exception. The noise from the press and public only drew the Ramsey camp closer together. 'The knives were out for Alf,' recalls Peter Shilton. 'I did not think within the team there was any decline in his authority. I personally did not see that at all. There was still great loyalty and respect for him.' Mike Summerbee, who played in most of the games in 1972, strongly disagrees with Marsh about Ramsey: 'Rodney is that type of person and he does not like the disciplinarian thing. I don't feel that Alf was out of touch. He was still a great manager, still in tune with football. I always found him very supportive, very loyal to his players. He was a person you always looked up to.' Younger players who came into the side also testify that there was little sign of Alf's influence on the wane. Colin Todd, who won the first of his 27 caps in 1972, told me: 'His style was not outdated. There was a tremendous authority about him. As a youngster coming into the dressing-room, I found him wonderful: calm and controlled. While I was with the England team under him, it was like a close-knit family.' Joe Royle, now manager of Ipswich, won two caps under Alf, the second of them against Yugoslavia: > Alf said something in the team talk which really lifted me. He reminded the players that while I was a centre-forward with a decent head, I was equally receptive to the ball played to my feet. So we must not get pulled into a long-ball game just because we had a big striker who could head the ball. That made me feel really good about myself. It shows his gift for saying the right thing. He was a man of few words but every word counted. He was a very calming influence, a very dignified man. He hid his passion well but there is no doubt that he was a passionate and proud man. I was not intimidated going into the England set-up. Everyone was met with a smile and a handshake. He always made a great play for reminding players that they were in the England team because of what they did for their clubs. Therefore, because you were playing for England, you did not necessarily have to do anything different to what you did for your club. Ray Clemence, the Liverpool goalkeeper who made his debut in 1972 against Wales, felt that Alf still had > a very tight squad. It was still a very tight community. There was no sense of Alf losing his authority. When you went into the team, you realized what a great man he was, with so many top players holding him in such high regard. He was a gentleman, but I was definitely in awe of him. Sadly for Alf, it was not the views of the players that counted, but public opinion and the press. And by the end of 1972, the press were whipping up a frenzy against Alf. Such was the depth of feeling against Alf that a few knowing smiles were exchanged in the Wembley press box after the German defeat, as several journalists took pleasure in thinking that their arch enemy was on the slide. What Alf was experiencing was a new form of journalism, raw, sensational and personality-driven. The days when Hugh Cudlipp at the _Mirror_ thought it was the duty of his paper to raise intellectual standards were long gone; the new breed of tabloids wanted to appeal to baser instincts, creating a new climate of near permanent excitement with one noisy campaign after another. Sports coverage succumbed, as newspapers woke up to the huge public interest in football. For the first time, soccer reached the front pages. Brian James gives this description of the change in atmosphere at his own paper, the _Daily Mail:_ > There was a lot of pressure going on. Charlie Wilson, my editor, was kicking arses all the time. He was a hard man who thought we sports reporters were all soft. He thought England should be going out and winning 10-0 every game and if they weren't there was something wrong with the manager. And he believed that we should be getting scoop after scoop, not just covering matches. So he'd say to me, 'I want you to go and see Alf Ramsey and offer him £50 to tell you the next England team.' I told him it couldn't be done. Wilson couldn't comprehend who we were dealing with: 'What do you mean, he won't tell you?' The next thing, Wilson sends our golf correspondent out to Alf's home in Ipswich to get the team. So there is our golf reporter, banging on Alf's windows, trying to get an answer. Of course, Alf refused to say anything. Joe Royle, who as a long-serving, successful manager, has himself experienced the cauldron of media pressure, feels that Alf was the victim of this changing trend in journalism: 'Before the seventies, managers would often socialize with the press. But by the end of Alf's reign, it was a 'them and us' situation. It grew from a murmur to a grumble to a roar. Alf was very poorly treated by the press, there's no doubt about that.' Perhaps even more serious for Alf than the press was the growing antagonism towards him within the FA. For ten years, he had treated its leading members with contempt and his obvious disdain had rankled with them. On one occasion during an England tour, an FA official had turned to Alf and brightly said, 'Aren't we doing well?' To which Alf responded: 'What do you mean, we? The players are doing well. You're just here for the cocktails.' Mike Pejic, the Stoke defender, was part of Alf's squad in 1973 and 1974. He remembers this incident during a trip to Russia: > We were on the coach waiting for some of the FA officials who were still hanging around the hotel. Alf sent Les Cocker inside with the instruction to tell the FA men that, 'If you are not on the bus in two minutes, then you're going to have to catch taxis.' Next thing you saw the FA officials running down the steps and racing each other to get on the bus. Alf was really about to say, 'Off we go.' It was one of the sort of things that probably cost him in the end. Peter Shilton gives this account of Alf's annoyance during an Under-23 trip: > I was sitting with some of the lads enjoying a drink with Alf when one of the FA's blazer brigade strolled up and engaged Alf in conversation. > > 'We played very well tonight, I think,' said the official. > > 'Yes, these boys did very well,' agreed Alf. > > 'Yes, very well. What's-his name at number 9, did very well.' > > 'Joe, Joe Royle.' > > 'Royle! That's the one. Did well. And the goalkeeper too. Had a very good game.' > > 'Peter, Peter Shilton.' > > 'Shiften. Yes. Very good. So well done to you all,' said the official, making his exit. Once he was out of earshot, Alf turned to us. > > 'Bloody silly sod,' he said. Alf took a sip of his gin and tonic and sighed, 'And there, with the likes of him, gentlemen, hangs my job as England manager.' The silly sods were now planning to strike back, and for the first time they had a leader who was determined to pull down Ramsey. Professor Sir Harold Thompson, the FA's vice-chairman, was a formidable intellect. An internationally renowned chemist and Oxford don, he had been a tutor to the young Margaret Thatcher, as well as one of the founders of the famous Pegasus amateur side of the 1950s. But his academic achievements, combined with a natural booming self-confidence, made him a figure of almost suffocating pomposity. The normally restrained Alan Odell, secretary of the FA's international section, says that > Harold Thompson was a bastard. He was a brilliant man, but as a person I could not stand him. He was one of the very few people I have met in my life that I detested. He treated the staff like shit. No one liked him. He would offend people so much. He was one of those old public-school, upper-class lot. He would come in and say, 'Odell, do this.' There was never a 'please' or a 'thank you' or an attempt to call you by your first name. It was always a barked surname, even if he was talking to Alf or international players. As well as being pompous, Thompson was priapic. He had an appalling reputation for sexually harassing women, and British European Airways once made a formal complaint about his trying to touch up a stewardess. 'No girl was safe in a lift with him,' says David Barber of the FA. One club director described to me this incident on tour: > We went to a reception at the British Embassy. There were two 20-year-old girls on the staff and they came up to me and said, 'Could you do us a favour?' Sir Harold Thompson and some other FA directors have invited us to a casino tonight and we think that they have an ulterior motive. Could you chaperone us?' > > 'You're joking.' > > 'No, we went out for dinner last night. While they kept offering us red wine, they were pouring theirs on the carpet. So please come.' So I did chaperone them to make sure there were no unwanted advances from Thompson and the rest. Thompson's domineering, authoritarian manner was particularly loathsome to Alf, whose insecurity always rose at any hint of condescension: 'He always referred to me, even to my face, as Ramsey, which I found insulting.' Two incidents highlighted the deep antagonism between the two men. The first occurred in October 1972, after England's 1–1 draw with Yugoslavia at Wembley. 'Thompson was standing 10 yards away. He turned up his nose, implying it was a bad performance, a bad match. I looked at him and turned away.' The second occurred eight months later during a trip to Prague for a friendly against Czechoslovakia. It was Thompson's first trip overseas with England, and in common with the other FA officials, he was having breakfast with Alf and the England players in their private dining room at the hotel. 'He was smoking a cigar over breakfast,' recalled Alf, 'although no England player ever smoked during a meal. With him, it was always a cigar. He never seemed to be without one in his mouth, even when talking to you. I turned to Dick Wragg, the chairman of the senior international committee, and said, "Do you mind if I have a word with Sir Harold Thompson and ask him to put out his cigar?" Wragg did not object so I went over to Sir Harold Thompson and said politely that my players didn't smoke and that his cigar was unpleasant for them. I explained that he could either put it out or eat in another room.' Thompson put the cigar out, but he had never been treated that way by an employee before. Alf's fate may have been sealed in that Czechoslovakian breakfast room. As long as Alf had been delivering results, his position was safe. But the twin German disasters made his position precarious. And misfortune continued to dog him. In October 1972, his team suffered the disastrous loss of Gordon Banks through a car accident that destroyed the sight in one eye and finished his career. Peter Shilton was a ready replacement, but he lacked Banks' experience. Alf continued to struggle to find forwards who could match Geoff Hurst. Apart from Joe Royle, others he tried included Allan Clarke and Martin Chivers, who won 17 and 24 caps respectively under Alf, as well as Tony Brown of West Brom, Mick Channon of Southampton and Kevin Keegan, the busy Liverpool striker who first played against Wales in 1972. Keegan found the transition from Liverpool to England difficult: > I don't think Alf rated me as a player at the time. I have a feeling that pressure from outside influenced his decision to call me into the squad. Alf put me alongside Rodney Marsh and Martin Chivers, and until a manager experiments with a new blend of players, he cannot possibly know whether it will work. I just might have been able to bring something out of Marshie, and he done likewise for me, but it did not happen. When I moved inside for England, both Marshie and Chivers stood still, leaving me nowhere. I ended up wandering out on the wing, feeling frustrated and disillusioned. On Alf as a manager, Keegan says: > We were never close. We did not have time to get to know one another, but I found him fairly predictable. He rarely surprised people and if anyone annoyed him he would dismiss them tactfully and without a fuss. A manager has to lean towards his players, something the press do not seem to realize. If he gravitates towards the press at the expense of his players, he has no chance of success. Alf was only concerned with his players. He was probably wrong to be quite so emphatic about this, but he did, at least, win the respect of the players. Malcolm Macdonald, the Newcastle striker, was another he tried. It might be imagined that Macdonald, one of the most explosive, charismatic players of the seventies, would have the same negative opinion of Alf as some of the other extroverts like Marsh and Hudson. Nothing could be further from the truth. Macdonald was a huge admirer of Alf's from their very first meeting, when Alf picked him for an Under-23 squad against Scotland in 1970: 'I found him one of the most polite men I have ever met in my life. He thanked me profusely for putting myself out and making the journey, and he hoped I hadn't been prevented from doing anything important. In fact, he made me feel like a million dollars!' In the next couple of years in the Under-23s, Alf remained 'a great supporter of me as a player for exactly what I did at club level. That message came through loud and clear at team meetings and half-time talks. He was always urging people to get their heads up to look for my runs and knock me in, so it was obvious for me to not stop doing that.' Once he reached the full squad, Macdonald was struck by the thoroughness of Alf's team talks: > Once he got going there would be no stopping him. He would go through every position in the England team, every player in the opposing team, how generally he expected us to play against them, what we had to watch out for them doing to us. He would go through corner-kicks, free-kicks and who went in our wall, even to the extent of establishing who would be at one end and who would be at the other. He was absolutely meticulous in his planning. He never referred to any notes, either. It all just came out of his head. Macdonald was part of the England team which beat Scotland 1–0 at Hampden in 1972, when Alan Ball's provocative antics aroused the ire of the Scottish players and crowd. Ball's hatred of the Scots matched that of Alf's – he called them 'skirt-wearing tossers' – and towards the end of the game, as England hung on grimly to their lead, he took the ball to the corner flag, sat on it and gave the V-sign to the Scots. Predictably, he was soon hacked off the ball and England won a free-kick. Moments later, he got hold of the ball again, took it to the corner flag and sat on it. By now, 120,000 Scots were going beserk, their rage made all the greater when Alan stood up, kept his foot on the ball and proceeded to wipe his nose on the flag of St Andrew which stood on the corner spot. Seconds later, the final whistle went, and England dashed for the safety of the dressing-room. 'I have never been so fearful', says Macdonald. But what was fascinating was Alf's reaction. 'Alf walked in, and with a big grin on his face, said, "Alan, Alan, you really are a very naughty boy." ' Victories over Scotland, no matter how satisfying, were not going to keep Alf in his job. Only a successful World Cup campaign could do that, and England appeared to have a comparatively straightforward passage into the finals in West Germany in 1974, having been drawn in a small group against unfancied Wales and Poland. England got off to a solid, if not dazzling, start, beating Wales 1–0 in Cardiff, but then were held to a 1–1 draw at home by Wales at Wembley in January 1973. Given that the Welsh side included three players from the Second Division and one from the Third, it was a shabby performance by England, in which their defence looked insecure and the front-line powerless. Keegan, Chivers and Marsh again failed to impress, while England's goal actually came from an opportunistic 25-yard shot by Norman Hunter. Towards the end, England were slow-handclapped by the Wembley crowd. It was to be Marsh's last game for England, his downfall assisted by a cheeky remark he made within Alf's earshot. Before the match, Alf went up to Marsh and said: 'I've told you before that when you play for England you have to work harder. I don't care what you've done at Manchester City or QPR but that's what you have to do for me. In fact this is the last chance I'm going to give you. In the first 45 minutes I'll be watching you and if you don't, I'm going to pull you off at half-time.' 'Christ!' muttered Marsh, 'At Manchester City all we get at half-time is a cup of tea and an orange.' It was a typical piece of cockney wit, which Marsh thought the unworldly Alf would not understand even if he heard it. But Alf knew enough to know that Marsh was mocking him. And he was not a good enough player to get away with such sarcasm. After dropping points against Wales, it was vital that England avoided defeat in Katowice in June 1973. By now, relations between Alf and much of the press were almost at freezing point. They sunk below zero when the journalists arrived in Katowice, only to find out that they were being kicked out of the hotel they had originally been booked into, the Hotel Silesia, which was also being used by the England party. They now had to stay in the much more downmarket Hotel Katowice. The decision had obviously been taken by Alf and the FA. What made it even more insulting was that the 50 rooms vacated by the press were filled by travelling England fans. 'What it comes down to is that Alf would rather have his players surrounded by yobs in rosettes, yelling for autographs, than us,' said one reporter. Alf did nothing to assuage the press's anger at a conference he gave on the eve of the game. In a diary kept by Brian James, he left this record: > More than 80 English and Polish press and TV are waiting as Alf arrives, stone-faced. To the first question, 'Can you give us the team?' he replies, 'I will deal with this very quickly. The team will be announced tomorrow. Probably. Around lunchtime. Probably.' There's a grim silence, then Frank Magee of the _Daily Mirror_ asks with careful politeness, 'Could you tell us why you are delaying naming the team? Is it a matter of tactics, or are there practical reasons, like injuries?' Ramsey stares back and snaps, 'Do I have to give you reasons? I have already told you what I am going to do.' There is a long, dreadful, embarrassed silence. Englishmen stare down at their feet, acutely aware that the insulted Magee has probably been Alf's greatest supporter over the past 10 years. The conference drags on for a further 10 minutes, time for Ramsey to complain about not being offered 'even a glass of water' and 'Polish TV teams with their hot uncomfortable lights'. As he leaves, a hostile silence is broken only by derisory handclaps from three Polish writers. Magee is visibly upset. 'I consider this man to be a friend. But I was both embarrassed and outraged by what he did in there.' The gloom which hung over the England entourage only deepened as Alf's team gave one of most disappointing performances of his reign. The pessimism of the press seemed to have infected the players. 'Somehow, I didn't feel the old confidence,' recalled Alan Ball, who was winning his 64th cap. Within seven minutes England were 1–0 down, conceding a goal from a free-kick which sailed between Moore and Shilton. It was a sloppy goal, the kind that infuriated Ramsey, who was always meticulous in his planning at set-pieces. The second was an even more grievous, self-inflicted wound. Just after the start of the second half, Bobby Moore gathered the ball near the half-way line. As he looked round the field with his characteristic assurance, the Polish forward Lubanski quickly advanced on him. Moore casually tried to side-step him, lost his balance and gave away the ball. Lubanski gleefully charged down the field and flashed a shot past Shilton. England never looked like recovering. With just fifteen minutes to go, Ball took out his frustration on the midfielder Cmikiewicz, grabbing him by the neck and jerking a knee towards the Pole's groin. The referee had no alternative but to send him off. Alf's empire was crumbling into incompetence and indiscipline. As one-eyed as ever, Alf suggested to the press afterwards that England had actually been the better team. He was fooling no one. 'Ramsey had picked the wrong players in the squad, and from that squad chosen the wrong team,' wrote the _Daily Mail's_ Brian James. 'Ramsey had instructed his players badly, and had failed to reinforce them with substitutes when he needed to do so. Ramsey had thrown away England's best chance.' In a way, this was an even worse result than Leon, when England has lost a 2–0 lead thanks to goalkeeper errors. In Katowice, England had not even looked like scoring. That night, most of the England players gathered in Bobby Moore's room for a drink of commiseration. They were discussing the game, and Peter Shilton remembers being struck by Bobby Moore's lack of any self-pity: 'Bobby came over as aloof but he was special in his own way. I learnt so much from him that night, seeing how he could handle such a big disappointment. That is how I saw his greatness on the field.' As the players talked, suddenly there was knock on the door. It was Alf. This was something of a surprise, since he usually kept a social distance from the team. 'Mind if I join you?' he said. The discussion began again, and immediately Alf started saying that he was at fault for the first goal because he should have ensured that the space behind the wall was covered. Colin Bell then tried to take the blame, claiming that he should have been there but Alf would have none of it. As Roy McFarland recalls: 'Alf blamed himself and would not listen to us. He had one beer and then said, "Thank you very much for the drink" He then got to the door and repeated, "It was still my fault. Goodnight, gentlemen." I could see then why all the players loved him and loved working with him.' It was a tired and morose England team that left Poland the next morning for Moscow for the next leg of their summer tour. There were to be two further matches, one against Russia and one against Italy in Turin. They boarded the BAC-111 and as the plane took to the sky, the newspapers were brought out by the stewardesses. Jeff Powell recalls: > It was one of those aircraft with some seats facing forwards and some backwards. I was sitting in an aisle seat facing forwards and Alf was further up the plane, facing back down the plane. Alf was holding up the _Daily Mail,_ his favourite paper, and I could see the headline above my report on the back page, RAMSEY'S PLANS BETRAY ENGLAND. Alf, of course, was an intense patriot. So as I saw those words I thought to myself, 'Bloody hell.' He turned over the paper to look at the back. He lowered it, glared at me and then raised it again. He did not speak to me throughout the journey or for sometime afterwards. Only over some drinks after the game against Italy did he come up to me and say, 'Well, we'll put that behind us now.' We chinked our glasses and Alf was OK. David Lacey of the _Guardian_ has a happier memory of this trip to Moscow, when Alf was trying to build some bridges after his icy behaviour in Poland: > A few of us were having some beers outside the team's hotel, the Metropole, in Moscow. Alf joined us and unwound completely about the match in Katowice and Bobby Moore. In a memorable phrase, he told us that 'If Bobby Moore had wept, we would have all wept with him.' I found Alf a very human type of guy and you could see why all the players liked and respected him. But he did not like being questioned. He would join in a conversation but he would freeze up if he thought an answer to a question might go on the record. He was old-fashioned in the sense that he thought writers should report the match. All the rest was intrusive to him. One of the most important aspects of our job was to know the team. He once pulled a fast one on us there before a game at Hampden. The journalists had been battering him all Friday about who would be playing. He stonewalled everything. Then, in the early evening, most of the journalists had done their pieces for the day. Some were having a few drinks, others had gone to the cinema. Then Alf got on the phone to the Press Association to ring through the team. That showed a sense of humour. The England tour ended sadly. After a narrow victory in Moscow, England were beaten by Italy in Turin, the first time the Italians had defeated England in 40 years. But of far more concern than records was qualification for the World Cup. Alf's international career would be heading to a close unless England beat Poland at Wembley on 17 October 1973. The match was to be the biggest in England since 1966 and England warmed up satisfactorily by beating a weak Austrian side 7–0. But Alf knew this result meant little for the Polish encounter. Shortly before the vital game, he flew to Holland to watch Poland. Ken Jones travelled with him and took this account of Alf's reflective conversation: > I have been through all the emotional hazards that go with this job. I've known success and failure, elation and disappointment. When England win, everything belongs, quite rightly, to the players. They are the people who have made victory possible. When England loses, it is my responsibility. But football management is a double-edged thing. On one hand, the manager gets too much credit, on the other, he takes too much of the blame. I have never looked for praise. It makes me uncomfortable. The game was vital, not just to Ramsey's future, but to the future of English football: 'This October match is the thundercloud hanging over the new season. Failure would bring the sort of cataclysm not seen since Ramsey's last match as an international right-back, the 6–3 slaughter by Hungary 20 years ago,' wrote Mike Langley in the _People._ Yet, typically, the League remained as purblind as ever, refusing to cancel the fixtures for the Saturday before the game. In a statement of breathtaking complacency, Alan Hardaker said: 'If England do lose against Poland, the game is not going to die. It will be a terrible thing for six weeks, and then everybody will forget about it.' While Hardarker puffed on his pipe in his self-satisfied way, Alf had to endure further rounds of criticism of his management style, with Brian Clough, Tommy Docherty and Malcolm Allison taking to the airwaves to question his approach. But on the night itself, Clough had no doubt that England would emerge victorious, since the Polish keeper Tomaszewski was nothing more than 'a clown'. Clough was reflecting the growing public optimism that England would pull through because of home advantage. For all the abuse that Alf had endured, it was worth noting that England had only lost four times in 27 games since Mexico in 1970. 'On form and ability, England should win comfortably,' wrote David Lacey, though he added prophetically: 'The main doubts will concern the ability of the front three, Channon, Chivers and Clarke, to snap up the fleeting chances that come their way.' Peter Shilton remembers Alf's team talk before the match because of its unusual intensity: 'It was the most passionate talk I ever had from him. You could really tell that he had gone up a level. He was not shouting but he was letting the players know how important it was to him to get a result.' For one of the few times in a competitive match since 1962, England lined up without Bobby Moore, who was relegated to the substitutes bench, the captain's armband being taken by Martin Peters. Alf felt it a severe wrench to leave out the player with whom he had shared so much, both in glory and defeat, but he knew that Bobby's powers were fading. 'It was a bad moment for me. Bobby was shattered,' said Alf. As the match got under way, the chances were more than fleeting; they came in wave after wave, but somehow the England forwards failed to find the back of the net. Tomaszewski proved himself anything but a clown as he pulled of a series of acrobatic, sometimes eccentric saves. England were also desperately unlucky, frequently shaving the post or the crossbar. For Alf, it was horribly reminiscent of the most agonizing game of his playing career, when England laid siege to the USA goal in 1950 without being able to convert any of a string of chances. And like the Americans, the Poles scored with one of their first attacks. In the 57th minute, Norman Hunter went to meet a Polish clearance down the right-hand side as the balding winger Lato also rushed to the ball. Usually, Hunter would have just belted the ball – and the man – into touch. But this time, he failed to go through with the tackle and lost possession. It was almost a carbon copy of Moore's error in Katowice. Lato ran forward, paused, then threaded the ball to Domarski, whose shot skidded off the lush Wembley turf and underneath Shilton's diving body. 1–0 to Poland. Today, Norman Hunter is open about his error: > I should have just come across and tapped it out of play with my left and then defended. But because we had to win the game, I tried to keep it in with my right foot. To tell you the honest truth, I was waiting for a crunching tackle. I was setting myself for that. But then the winger actually started to slow down so I thought, 'I'll try and keep this in play and nick it round him. But it went straight under my right foot.' I should have known better than to go with that one. That's how it happens. That's the end of it. Peter Shilton also admits to having made the wrong decision: > What I should have done was make a blocking save, or parry the shot away for a corner. But I tried to get hold of the ball by scooping it into my body and retaining possession. It was the speed of the ball coming off the turf, together with the fact that I had been momentarily unsighted when Domarski actually struck it, that beat me. England now had to score twice. The attacks became more feverish, but still the ball would not go in. Given the number of chances, England's inability to score defied the law of averages. 'How we did not win that by four or five I do not know. It was unbelievable,' says Hunter. In the 60th minute, England managed to claw one back, thanks to an Allan Clarke penalty. The bombardment intensified, with Channon, Clarke and Tony Currie all missing good chances or being denied by the spectacular Tomaszewski. 'It was the most one-sided international I have ever played in my life,' says Allan Clarke, who saw one of his efforts miraculously tipped over the bar. 'I half-turned, thinking it was about to reach the back of the net.' With just fifteen minutes to go, the score was still 1–1. Bobby Moore on the subs bench started to urge Alf to send on Kevin Hector, the Derby striker. All Alf did was push Norman Hunter forward. The Polish goal somehow remained intact. 'As the minutes unwound, seemingly faster and faster, there he sat with the substitutes on the sidelines. What fires were burning inside him, one perhaps will never know. But he sat there immobile, while his men out on the field drained themselves of their last ounce of energy,' wrote Geoffrey Green in _The Times._ Then with just two minutes left, Alf finally relented and put on Hector in place of Chivers, who'd had a poor game. Despite its extreme lateness, the substitution almost did the trick, Hector seeing one of his headers scrambled off the line in the dying seconds. Alf's tardiness over Hector might seem like another example of his obduracy, but according to Nigel Clarke there was a bizarre chronographical explanation: > Unbelievably, his watch had stopped and he did not realize that there were only two minutes to go. He said to me, 'I suddenly realized that it had stopped. I know people will wonder why I did not rely on the stadium clock. But I always used to go by my own watch. The stadium clock could be far slower.' He always went by his own timing. He would never call out to Harold, 'How long left?' Bobby Moore was at his side saying, 'Alf, you've got to get someone on.' Bobby started to tear at Kevin Hector's tracksuit bottoms before Alf had given the word out. Then Alf realized that his watch had stopped and he shoved Kevin on immediately. Afterwards, Alf said that he 'shivered about it'. 'A little neglect may breed mischief. For want of a nail the kingdom was lost,' went the 18th-century maxim. Hector's intervention was too late. The match was drawn. England had failed to qualify for the World Cup for the first time in history. Disconsolately, the England players retreated off the Wembley turf, Bobby Moore putting a consoling arm around Norman Hunter. 'I've never been in a dressing-room like it. Players were crying,' said Roy McFarland. Tony Currie recalled: 'It was an accumulation of bad finishing, lucky goalkeeping and good goalkeeping and fate. We all sat in the dressing-room afterwards and not a word was said. Everyone was in shock.' Yet even in this, one of the saddest episodes of his managerial career, Alf could spare a thought for others. He ordered the shattered players to wait in the dressing-room, for a presentation was due to be made by the FA to Harold Shepherdson for his long service to the England cause. Typically, the FA did not show the same sensitivity as Alf. Not one of their directors bothered to show up for the ceremony, even though Shepherdson's wife had come down especially from Middlesbrough. Neil Phillips gives this account: > All the players in the dressing-room were completely and utterly dejected. Some of them were in tears because they knew they would never have an opportunity again of playing in a World Cup. Alf insisted that they stay until the directors presented Harold with his silver salver. So we were all sitting round the dressing-room, really dejected. We sat there for three-quarters of an hour and not one FA director came into the dressing-room, not one. In the end, Alf went away to find out what was going on and came back and said, 'I'm sorry but the directors are not coming down because they found the area was too crowded.' The crowds had not stopped them coming down after the 1966 World Cup final. A pall of despair hung over Ramsey's footballers. Even today, many of them are still pained at the recollection of the game. 'I was meant to be doing a commercial the next day at my house in Leeds for the Nat West Bank and I just could not do it. It took me three weeks to get over the disappointment,' says Allan Clarke. 'It was awful. It was devastating. It was the lowest I have been in football. Driving home that night was miserable,' says Roy McFarland. On the surface, the FA appeared to share this sorrow. On 5 November 1973, the Council passed a resolution expressing 'sincere regrets to Sir Alfred Ramsey that the England team had been eliminated from the World Cup' but adding that he had 'the unanimous support and confidence of the Senior Committee'. But Professor Sir Harold Thompson, still brooding about being told what he could do with his cigar, was not happy about this. He saw the Polish defeat as the ideal chance to be rid of Ramsey. So at the next Council meeting on 26 November, he put it on record that the previous Minute 'did not represent the feeling of all members of the Council and whilst he agreed that the Senior Committee were perfectly within their rights in recording the view expressed in the Minute, he felt it should not preclude a wider discussion by the Council or some other select group at a later date'. The language might be bureaucratic, but Thompson had made it clear that he had decided Ramsey's days were numbered. Apart from elimination from the World Cup, what was also making Alf's tenure less secure was the fact that his contract was up for renewal in June 1974. He was presently rewarded with a pitiful salary of just £7,200, lower than some Third Division managers, and understandably wanted a rise. But from the viewpoint of his enemies in the FA, the end of his contract provided the ideal opportunity to force his departure, especially given that Alf would be 58 by the time of the next World Cup. Furthermore, Alf faced another threat from within the FA, in addition to the bullying Thompson. Following a heart-attack, brought on by the hectoring of Thompson, Denis Follows had retired. He was not a man whom Alf liked or admired, but he was too weak to be able to challenge Alf seriously. His successor, however, was very different. A former pilot and Charlton Athletic footballer, Ted Croker had been a highly successful businessman and he now sought to apply the commercial ethos to the Association. Dynamic and resourceful, Croker was appalled at what he found when he took up his post at Lancaster Gate in September 1973. In the previous twelve months, there had been 42 changes of staff, despite the fact that the FA only employed 56 people. Ludicrously, the organization also made it difficult for the public to buy tickets for England's home games, since the FA's number was ex-directory. Royalties and TV rights were bringing in just £104,000 a year, compared to £2 million when Croker was at his peak at the beginning of the eighties. But there was one aspect of commercialism that Sir Alf despised, and that was Croker's plan to seek sponsorship for the England shirt, which was estimated to be worth £15,000 a year. Alf, the nostalgic, romantic, conservative English patriot, thought the white shirt should never be sullied in this way. It was like tampering with a symbol of nationhood. Alf's devotion to the traditional shirt was almost physical, as Nigel Clarke recalls: > He threw me an England shirt once and said 'What do they want me to put fancy badges on it for? Isn't it beautiful?' He even rubbed it against his cheek, continuing, 'Isn't it soft, isn't it lovely?' It was just a white shirt but to Alf it was almost a sacred garment. It was something that he adored, 'What do they want to put stripes on it for? How can they want to make money from it? I can't believe these people.' That was the sort of man Alf was, terribly proud to be English, terribly proud to be manager. It was a sense of pride that stopped Alf from resigning. If the FA wanted him out they would have to force him. He would not voluntarily leave to satisfy them. So he remained in charge for a friendly at home, against Italy in November, which saw another defeat. It was Bobby Moore's 108th and last game for England. Alf played him as a sweeper, showing that he was at last willing to innovate from a cast-iron 4–4–2 system, but it seemed like a forlorn gesture. On 14 February 1974, the FA decided to set up a committee to 'consider our future policy in respect of the promotion of international football'. In reality, there was only one issue the committee was considering: the future of Alf Ramsey. As Croker later remarked: > The decision to remove Sir Alf Ramsey from his post was effectively taken on St Valentine's Day 1974. There was a feeling within the FA that we had to bow to popular opinion as represented in the newspapers. Nearly all the critics wanted him out and it appeared that we could no longer think of offering him a new contract when his present arrangement expired in June of that year. Croker now had his own motive in wanting to get rid of Ramsey, who was seen as a block on the road to commercialism and better public relations. The committee was headed by FA Chairman Sir Andrew Stephen, who had made supportive noises towards Ramsey in public but in private doubted the wisdom of renewing a contract for a man who would be 58 at the time of the next World Cup. Sir Harold Thompson, Alf's most implacable foe, was inevitably the dominant figure. Because of his autocratic manner, there was little chance that the other committee men would mount any defence of Alf, even if they had wanted to, which was doubtful. Bert Millichip of West Brom and Brian Mears of Chelsea were open to persuasion. Only Len Shipman, President of the League, and Dick Wragg, Chairman of Sheffield United, were opposed to dismissal, but even Wragg despaired of Alf's public relations and thought that his two lieutenants, Cocker and Shepherdson, should go. Alf was not invited to the committee meetings, an omission which made a mockery of its stated purpose to examine 'the future of football'. In fact, he only found out about its deliberations when he noticed a draft minute on a desk in another FA office. 'How could a committee discuss England's future without talking to England's manager?' Brian James asked him. 'Maybe that's the point,' replied Alf. While Thompson plotted, Alf continued with his job. There was a blinkered, defiant side to his nature that often refused to recognize reality – as in 1953 when he claimed that England should have beaten Hungary – and early in 1974 he seemed to convince himself that he had weathered the storm. In response to criticisms, he tried to improve his relations with the press. 'In his last months, he was communicating more freely,' wrote Jeff Powell. Colin Malam, another distinguished football writer, told me he was surprised by Alf's openness on an England trip to Portugal in April 1974: > I had heard all the stories and had been led to believe that Alf was some kind of ogre, especially towards the press. But to my utter astonishment, he invited us over to enjoy tea at the England hotel outside Lisbon. He could not have been more charming. He just chatted away about football. I wondered where the ogre had disappeared to. I was so awestruck. It may have been, however, because he was stuck with the International Committee he was delighted to see the cavalry coming over the hill. On that Portuguese trip, Alf also showed his willingness to change at last, selecting no less than six new caps: Trevor Brooking, Martin Dobson, Mike Pejic, Phil Parkes, Stan Bowles and Dave Watson. Sir Trevor Brooking says that even at this late hour > there was no sign of authority draining away from Sir Alf. He had fantastic respect from all of us. He did not convey to us that he was under any pressure when we met him. His whole emphasis was on looking to the future, on giving opportunities to new players. I could see in that one game what made him so special. He was very precise. He came across as this very quiet individual, who looked like he never got excited or irate, but in his own way, got the message across very clearly. He was very good on discipline and what role he wanted you to play. Martin Dobson, the Burnley midfielder, has a similar memory: > He was very thorough in his preparation. He knew how he wanted to play. Basically, he was trying to take the pressure away from me. He told me to enjoy it, get a good touch of the ball early on and play as I did for Burnley. He did not complicate things. He kept it simple. Burnley had just got promotion. We were doing well. He said, 'You're captain at your own club, taking responsibility. Well, you've 10 captains around you now. Enjoy it.' I know he was under a bit of a cloud but he did not seem distracted to me. Mike Pejic has this wonderful example of Alf's dry humour, too little recognized by the public: > After a spell with the Under-23s, I broke through to the first team. And we were down at Lilleshall for training. One morning he had called training for ten o'clock. At the time I was very interested in ornithology, and Lilleshall is great for that because it is surrounded by woods. So after breakfast that morning, I thought to myself, 'I've got a bit of time to spare before training, so I'll go into the woods.' I came back at about half-nine, and Les Cocker immediately ran up to me, saying, 'You'd better get down to the training ground quickly. Alf's brought forward the start time. They're waiting for you.' > > 'Oh shit.' > > All the top players were there, Bobby Moore, Alan Ball, and this was my first training camp. I ran to my room, got my gear and then ran back down to the training ground. But when I arrived, there was no one on the field. There was a pavilion overlooking the pitch and through the window I could see the heads of some of the players inside. I walked over to the pavilion, went through the doors and found everyone sitting down inside. Alf was standing at the back of the room. There was complete silence. I felt so nervous, this on my first morning of training with the England team. Alf says, > > 'Mike, where have you been?' > > 'I've been bird spotting.' > > Immediately the whole room collapsed in laughter. The lads had told Alf and he'd set up the whole thing. He knew exactly what was going on. Far from feeling that he was at the end of an era, Mike sensed the beginning of a new one: 'I had been with England for two years, and I felt he trusted me. I felt I was part of the next batch coming through.' That is exactly what he told the team before the game in Portugal, according to Malcolm Macdonald: 'You are England's future. We have got to start with the next World Cup as our target and that's precisely where I'm starting from, as of today.' The result did not match this exciting rhetoric. England drew 0–0. And there was to be no England future for Alf Ramsey. The Stephen committee met in mid-April and decided not to renew Alf Ramsey's contract. Effectively, he was to be sacked with three months notice from the 30 April. Parading his own guilt in the process, Brian Mears later revealed that the committee was split on the decision and the chairman's casting vote fixed Alf's fate. For all the self-assurance of Thompson, it had been a close affair, with Wragg, Millichip and Shipman only in favour of changing the management structure rather than the manager. Mears relates that 'Three voted for Alf, three against. Sir Harold Thompson was adamant that Alf had to go and I'm afraid I got carried away with the tide but I felt, when I came away from that meeting, a sense of shame. Here was a man who had won that coveted trophy for the first time in our history and I had been part of a committee that had decided he should go. It should never have happened.' Len Shipman, inadvertently admitting the role of Thompson, said, 'What can you do when your hand is forced?' On Friday 19 April, Alf was summoned to Lancaster Gate to be told of the decision by the chairman. He had no inkling of the momentous news he was about to be given, and asked for a day's postponement because he was preparing for England's summer tour of Eastern Europe. So the meeting was fixed for 10.30 am on Saturday. Alf later left this description of the encounter: > Sir Andrew was nervous. He paced round the office, rubbing his hands and smacking his lips. 'I'm thirsty. Do you fancy a drink?' I declined. 'You won't mind if I have one,' said the chairman and took a bottle of tonic water from the cocktail cabinet. I watched while he struggled for several minutes to remove the cap. Finally he gave up, placed the bottle on the desk and revealed why he wanted to see me. He said it had been the unanimous decision of an FA subcommittee that I should be replaced. The chairman seemed relieved to have got that off his chest. For he picked up the bottle again and opened it first turn. I made no comment. I was shattered but not entirely surprised. The Executive Committee of the FA met on 22 April to rubber stamp the decision. Alf asked for the public announcement of the decision to be delayed until 1 May, so he would have time to inform his family and friends. The FA agreed to that request but, contrary to several reports, Alf was never offered the chance to resign. It was a plain, brutal sacking. 'We had come to a very final conclusion. There was no way out for Alf, no room for manoeuvre,' said one council member with an air of defiance. Alf cleared his desk and said his farewells to staff at the FA in the week of 21 April. The devotion that Alf could inspire was shown in the moment of his departure. Alan Odell, Secretary of the International Section, vividly remembers his feelings on hearing the news. 'When he told me he'd got the bullet, well, I just couldn't believe it. I drove home to Uxbridge, parked the car, went inside, sat in the kitchen and told my wife that Alf had been sacked. I just sat there and cried, I was that upset. He meant so much to me, he was such a loyal, faithful sort of bloke.' Margaret Bruce felt the same way: 'He was a huge part of my life. Working with him had been so special. I cried my eyes out I was so upset.' Peter Little, his Ipswich tailor, happened to be making Alf a suit for England duty when he heard the news on the radio in his workshop. 'It was a real blow. It was hard to think for a moment. I had tears in my eyes. I could not help it. I could not believe what I was hearing.' Even some hard-nosed professional footballers, used to managerial changes, could not avoid such emotions when Alf's sacking was publicly announced on 1 May. Mike Pejic says: > I can remember the day well. I pulled up in my car outside our house and the news came on the radio. I could not believe it. I cried my eyes out. I don't for one second feel any embarrassment over that. I kept crying, even when I went inside the house. It was instant. Alf somehow built up this rapport with you, this trust, this feeling for him. When he was in charge, you did not want a penny for playing for England. You would have paid him. It is often the way in Britain that public figures are only lauded when they have gone from office. That is certainly what happened in Alf's case. For almost four years, there had been an unceasing campaign for him to go. Yet now that he had been sacked, there was a great outpouring of affection for him; meanwhile the FA were vilified in many quarters for the way the whole issue had been handled. Ted Croker confessed that he was > amazed at the reaction. The people who had pilloried him now made him a martyr. It was probably Alf's simple honesty that caused the incredible turn-around in press opinion when he was sacked. The critics may have felt that they had played their part in bringing him down, but were not prepared to share blame, if there was blame to share. The public reacted in a similar way and the mood was quite definitely against the FA. By the time the announcement was made, Alf had gone with Vickie to stay with their friends, the Knott family in Southampton, to escape the attentions of the press. A close friend of theirs from Ipswich, Donald Gould, Chairman of the Leek and Westbourne Building Society, described Alf's mood in this period: > He is a very sad man. The trouble with Alf is he is too polite and too charming to speak out for himself. I knew there was something on his mind. He has been brooding a lot lately. Then eight days ago Alf and his wife came round for dinner to my house and he had a heart-to-heart talk with me. Obviously he was very upset, but he is a man who can control his emotions. Alf feels he has been cheated. The Football Association has let him down and treated him shabbily. In his first interview after his sacking, on 12 May, Alf explained what happened in those traumatic days: > I didn't hide in a disguise, as has been suggested. We simply had a week on the coast with close friends. We went for many walks and were seen by a lot of people who no doubt respected that I sought peace and privacy. Vickie and I had 11 years of pressure and we wanted time to think and plan. For I had died a thousand deaths since being informed of my dismissal. In a statement made in response to the public outcry, Sir Andrew Stephen, Chairman of the FA, explained that Alf had been dismissed because > he was intransigent. When we failed to beat Poland we quickly realized that it would be ruinous for our football if we again failed to qualify for the World Cup finals – by hook or by crook. We had to look at the quality of our game and we realized we had been falling behind the rest of the world, particularly since 1970. Len Shipman added that England needed a manager who was 'flexible enough in his attitude and outgoing enough to sustain a healthy dialogue with all the managers and coaches in England'. Stephen was probably right that Sir Alf's time was up. Eleven years is a long time in any job, and international football was changing rapidly in the mid-seventies. Alf had shown little inclination to adapt. And the failure to qualify for the World Cup or advance in the European Championship had been disastrous blows, with the FA estimating that it cost them £500,000 in lost revenues. Even his staunchest supporters say that he could not have continued long in the job. 'When I look back now and think long and hard, without blinkers – because I really liked him – I can see the faults,' says Nigel Clarke. 'To be honest, I think he was starting to lose it completely. I think he became too rigid. He did not understand how football was changing and how it was being played in a different manner.' What angered his supporters, however, was not so much the dismissal itself as the way it was handled. After years of modest, poorly rewarded service, Alf was given a meagre golden handshake of £8,000, with a pension of only £1,200 a year; to add insult to injury, when Don Revie was appointed his permanent successor, he was paid £25,000 a year, more than treble Alf's salary. Moreover, no attempt was made to utilize Alf in any other role in the FA, such as a coach, advisor or ambassador, despite his vast professionalism. The day he walked out of Lancaster Gate after his dismissal was his last contact with the FA. Alan Ball summed up the anger felt by many: > The FA could have given him another job, like educating the next generation. In the typical English way, he was just gone. All that knowledge, all that expertise was lost. He should have been a central part of our football set-up. How can you sack a knight, a man like that, without giving him any other role? To me, it is the most incredible thing that ever happened in English football. The most successful manager in the history of our country was just sacked by the amateurs of the FA. Alf's standing with his players was highlighted when a testimonial dinner was held for him on the night of 30 July 1974, the eighth anniversary of the World Cup victory. Guest speakers included the Prime Minister Harold Wilson and Bobby Moore, who said that 'Alf introduced a club spirit at England level. While he was in charge it was always England United.' Of the 101 players picked during his reign, 92 of them turned up to pay tribute. Malcolm Macdonald was among them: > I loved Alf, I make no bones about it. He was an absolute gentleman and very much a players' manager. At times, I felt as if I wanted to put my arm around Alf and say, 'Do you want a chat? Would you like a hug, just to let you know somebody loves you?' Why I felt like that, I'm not really sure. It was just that he was totally insular and took all the pressure on himself, passing none of it on to his players. # [FOURTEEN _St Mary's_](004-toc.html#ch14) Alf remained in a state of shock for months after his sacking. 'I took a long time to get over it. I was left with a feeling of despair, sadness, and terrific disappointment,' he said later. But he still had to earn his living, for his low pay as England manager meant that he had accumulated no capital, while his £1,200 annual pension was woefully inadequate. Alf later told a family friend, Elaine Coupland, that he even had to fight for that pension: 'He told me that when he was sacked from the manager's job there was a dispute over it and he had to stick up for his rights.' Because of his shyness and his personal dislike of commercialism, he had made no money from personal endorsements, sponsorship, guest appearances or after dinner-speaking. In contrast to his successor Don Revie, Alf felt that there was something distasteful about exploiting his position as England manager for personal gain. The FA Director of Coaching, Allen Wade, who worked at Lancaster Gate for 13 years, estimated that during his reign as manager Alf turned down commercial opportunities worth some £250,000. Besides, at 54, he was far too young to retire. Football was the only occupation he had known since he left the army at the end of the war and he intended to try to stay in the game. 'I've often said that I would like to return to club football,' he told the _Sunday People_ in May 1974: > I still feel that I have something to offer. I still have the same enthusiasm and regard for the game as I did when I became a professional 31 years ago. It is still the greatest game in the world, perhaps a little cruel at times but, for me and millions of others, it is still the greatest. I feel that I could never be as happy doing anything else but we shall have to wait and see. There were several offers from abroad, including from Ajax, Athletic Bilbao and even Saudi Arabia, but Alf, typically, was not interested in working with foreign footballers; while he was England manager, he had turned down lucrative offers from Benfica and the Greek Football Federation, which wanted him to coach their national team for £30,000 a year. The continent never attracted him. 'I want to continue to work with English footballers.' The only club in England that tried to hire him in the immediate aftermath of his sacking was Aston Villa, but he was not interested in a step down to the Second Division. Surprisingly, no big First Division club came in for him, club directors being wary of his reputation for autocracy and poor public relations. It is an irony that Alf's first job after being sacked was in the media. The man notorious for his poor public speaking was hired by ITV to be their analyst for the Home Internationals and the 1974 World Cup in West Germany. Martin Tyler, now one of the most revered figures in TV commentating, was then an assistant on ITV's football programmes: > It was a great coup for ITV because he did not do much media. What I really remember was his courtesy. He was unfailingly polite. He was not starry at all. It was a bit like having someone from a different class with us. Even Brian Moore was a little in awe of him. Brian was a gentle, polite man. 'With the greatest respect, Alf, would you mind...' he would say. We had heard about Alf's difficult relationship with the press and some of us tended to walk on eggshells, me less so because I was unashamedly a child of 1966. Because I was such a fan, I thought that if he had been nasty to the journalists, it had probably been with good cause. My role was to look after him. I had to make him cups of tea, make sure that his car was parked. We rolled out the red carpet for him and he did not disappoint. I did not find Alf cold. I found that there was a twinkle in his eye. I don't think he was lovable but he was certainly very likeable. The key to him, I think, was his shyness. In my dealings with him, he was great. He was a proper football person. If you wanted to talk football with him, it was never a problem. If you wanted to get into tabloid issues, he just didn't want to know. I could see the qualities that made him such a great manager. I saw something that made me really understand why all the players tried so hard for him. There was a little bit of fear, a lot of respect. On one occasion he was asked to pick an England team against Brian Clough's team for the _On the Ball_ programme. Alf was very dismissive about some of Clough's choices, saying 'there's a right couple of wankers in there!' Brian Moore said to me, 'Did he really say wankers?' We had a little chuckle about that. We were like two little kids. Alf could display his dry humour in this role. During the World Cup finals, he was out in Frankfurt with Hugh Johns, covering a Dutch group game, when suddenly the floodlights failed. Johns, desperate to fill the airtime, asked Alf how long he thought the delay might last. 'I am not an electrician,' was Alf's brief reply. Tommy Docherty, who had managed Scotland in 1971–72, also did some work with Alf in the 1974 World Cup and, despite all the criticism he had given Alf in the past, found him 'very polite. He was very knowledgeable about players and always had interesting views about them. I got on quite well with him then, though he was a shy man. I always found him bashful. If you showed enthusiasm for football, and if he thought you were talking common sense, he had a lot of time for you. But if he felt you were talking rubbish, he'd be rid of you as quickly as possible. He was still very bitter about his sacking then. Quite right. That was a disgrace. It was typical of the amateurs running the professional game.' Alf's link with ITV did not last long. In April 1975, he lost his position as an analyst. 'ITV bosses consider he has lost touch with modern soccer. On his own admission, most of Sir Alf's soccer watching recently has been confined to a stand seat at Ipswich and an armchair in front of a television set at home,' reported the _Sunday People._ With his taciturnity and clipped voice, Alf was never going to make a long-term success of TV punditry. Out of soccer for the first time in 31 years, he dabbled a little in business, becoming a director of the Ipswich building firm Sadler & Sons. 'Nice people, and an interest far, far removed from football. Talking about sites and bricks and so on has helped me take a wider view of things,' he explained. Another directorship he took up was at the sports-shoe company Gola, working on foreign promotion. With plenty of spare time, he played golf and badminton, as well as taking more interest in gardening. He also enjoyed spending more time with Vickie – he reckoned that as England manager, he had been away from home around a third of the time. But he could not resist watching football. He and Vickie had season tickets at Ipswich, though Alf also liked to travel round the country. With his usual modesty, he never phoned up clubs asking for a ticket, preferring to go unannounced. Sometimes he bought a seat; if none were available, he stood on the terraces, wearing a bowler hat to games, which he believed acted as a sort of disguise: > I enjoy watching football this way. Free of responsibility. In the past I didn't go to see matches. I used to go to see players. And because of concentrating on perhaps two or three individuals – their strengths, their weaknesses, characters – I would come away not really knowing much about the match itself. That's different now. I see the whole thing and enjoy it. Towards the end of 1975, he admitted that he was keen to get back into football professionally: 'The longer I have stayed out of it, the more I have missed it. In the past couple of months my toes have started to twitch.' Fortuitously, at this moment, an offer finally turned up from a First Division club, not in management, but in the boardroom. In January 1976, Alf was invited to become a director of Birmingham City and readily accepted. For Alf, it was a chance to return to football in the top flight in a prestigious role. For Birmingham, it was a chance to have one of the biggest names in world football associated with the club. Birmingham City chairman Keith Coombs announced: 'We feel that Sir Alf can help us enormously. I can think of nobody better qualified for a directorship of a First Division club. He is a world-renowned figure in the field of football administration and his experience will be invaluable.' At his first meeting with the press, Alf made a joke about his reputation for being difficult. 'Let's put it this way – I haven't missed you.' Initially, Alf had no role on the playing side at St Andrew's. That remained in the hands of Willie Bell, who had played alongside Jack Charlton at Leeds. But Bell was presiding over a failing team, one that was perpetually engaged in a relegation fight. The 1977–78 season started disastrously for Bell. After five straight defeats and just one goal, he was sacked. While the club searched for a new boss, Alf was asked to step into the breach on an unpaid basis. He agreed to do so. More than three years after being dumped by England, more than fourteen years after last running a League club, Alf was back in First Division management, though it was not yet on a permanent basis. But even in this temporary role, Alf soon worked his magic, as Birmingham won four of their next five games, their best run in the First Division for four and a half years. Skipper Terry Hibbitt summed up the reason for Alf's immediate success: 'You can put it down to one word, respect. Sir Alf is the sort of person to whom you must respond.' In an interview with the author Dave Bowler, Kevin Dillon, then a 17-year-old, spoke of Alf's immediate impact: 'He had something about him, an aura. He got us all together and the first thing he said was, "Don't call me gaffer or manager, just call me sir," and that broke the ice, really. He was very quietly spoken, but when he said something, you listened.' Dillon also recalled Alf being extremely old-fashioned, especially about money: > He got your trust by being as straight as a die, apart from the contract he tried to offer me. I think he still lived in the 1950s because the wages weren't that good. He got my parents down to go through it all and he was very professional in everything he did. He left a lasting impression that way. I think he thought £10 was a lot of money. I held out, though, and he laughed about it later. Alf's dislike of the Scots was never far from the surface, according to Jimmy Calderwood, who recalls how, soon after his caretaking appointment, he assembled all the Scottish-born players in the dressing-room. 'Alone with us, Alf said: "Now I know you lot fucking hate me. Well, I have news for you. I fucking hate you lot even more." But you know, I never missed a game for him. He really was a fantastic manager.' The Birmingham board was so relieved and pleased about the leap in the club's fortunes that in November 1977 Alf was offered the role of consultant manager, with full control of playing affairs. It meant he had to resign from the board, but Alf was only too pleased to do so, especially given the £20,000 salary that went with the post. 'If Birmingham continue to improve and my judgement is right, who knows what we may achieve,' he said. But soon the team started to move in the other direction. Form declined, and the now annual battle against relegation loomed at the start of the new season. The only bright spot was a 3–2 win against Liverpool at Anfield, but even that did not improve Alf's spirits, as Keith Bertschin remembers: > We got back to the dressing-room and Sir Alf was fuming. He said, 'Well, you did your best to lose that one, didn't you?' What happened was that we went 3–0 up and it was fantastic. The trouble was, suddenly we started thinking we were Liverpool. We started trying to knock the ball around, took our foot off the gas and just like the great team they were, they came right back at us They scored twice late on and in the end we were hanging on desperately. We had won at Anfield but that didn't satisfy Sir Alf. Like all top managers, he was a perfectionist. In February, Alf became locked in an increasingly bitter three-way dispute with his star player, Trevor Francis, and the board. Fed up with the lack of silverware and fearing that Birmingham's inconsistency was hindering his international progress, Francis was keen to leave the club. Alf wanted to sell him to raise funds for other cash purchases, since Francis was estimated to be worth around £700,000 in 1978, but he resented what he saw as Francis' lack of commitment to the club while he was still on its books. What particularly irked him was Francis' willingness to talk to the press about his determination to leave St Andrew's. Meanwhile, the Birmingham board had grave doubts about the wisdom of selling Francis at all, a decision that would only incur the wrath of already disgruntled fans. The simmering row boiled over at the end of the month. At a board meeting on 20 February, Francis' transfer request had been accepted, as Alf wanted. But at a subsequent meeting three days later, this decision was overturned. Outraged by this volte face, Alf immediately gave fourteen days notice of his resignation as consultant manager. The storm swirling round St Andrew's then intensified as Birmingham lost 4–0 at local rivals Coventry. Terry Hibbitt's mood had utterly changed from his optimism of early in the season. 'Before today I refused to talk about a crisis,' he told the _Birmingham Post,_ 'but we are in a crisis now. Something has got to be done and it must be done quickly. Morale is bad and the spirit is low. I have had a bad time in the last three games, but I have not been given any help from anyone. There is no-one helping us and no-one is trying to put things right.' It was a harsh indictment of the Ramsey regime, and worse followed when Trevor Francis launched a personal attack on Alf, claiming to have been shabbily treated. After complaining that Alf had fined him twice for talking to the press in February, he then said Alf had attacked his performances in two crucial derbies against Villa and West Brom. 'He turned round and said that he didn't think I had done much for the club in those matches. I thought it was disgraceful. I was so disgusted that I just walked out of the training ground near Birmingham Airport. I was badly upset. I knew I'd given 100 per cent in both games.' Alf did not need this sort of pressure. On 8 March at a press conference he confirmed his decision to quit Birmingham, explaining that he had no intention of going back on the board after leaving his managerial post. He described Birmingham's performance against Coventry as 'absolutely disgraceful, the worst I have seen since I joined the club as director two years ago, and I must take part of the blame'. He also took a shot at Francis: 'He's had his say, his wife has had her say – now I'm waiting for the dog.' With that, he was gone. Jim Smith took over at St Andrew's and within twelve months Trevor Francis had become Britain's first £1 million footballer with his move to Nottingham Forest. Having left St Andrew's, Alf said that he would probably 'go back to Ipswich and mope around my garden. As for my further involvement in football, I shall have to wait and see. I shall feel a little lost without it.' After years of financial restraint, Alf was now determined to make some money, to provide some security in old age for himself and Vickie. For the first time, he was even willing to consider offers from abroad. Talk of his taking over as head of the Kuwaiti national team never went further than the rumour stage, but in September 1979 he accepted the post of technical adviser to the Greek club Panathinaikos. Sadly, he lasted barely a year there and was sacked in October 1980 for what the club claimed were his 'failures'. These were said to include his choice of the experienced Ronnie Allen as manager and his inability 'to impose discipline' at the club – not an accusation that had ever been levelled at Alf before. The real reason, however, was the club had just taken on the Austrian coach Helmut Senekowitsch and could not afford both sets of salaries. Alf returned to England, out of management for ever. It was a sad note on which to end a glorious career. The last decade had been a difficult one for Alf. And now, as he passed into his 60s, he became increasingly bitter about the way he had been treated. Football had proved a fickle mistress. He had given his love to the game and had been coldly betrayed. For a man of great dignity, it was embarrassing for him to be trying to survive on his limited pension of just £25 a week from the FA, eventually supplemented from 1985 by his old age pension of around £70 a week. Rightly, he felt that the winner of the World Cup should not have to endure a financial struggle, especially now that the game was becoming ever wealthier. 'Alf's retirement was one where he had to watch the pennies. But he was a proud Englishman. He didn't want anybody to know that he couldn't afford a new car or new suits. He thought it his own business and nothing to do with anyone else,' said George Cohen. Never a gregarious soul, he retreated further into seclusion with Vickie in his Ipswich home. Yet the necessity to make money remained, and it was this that compelled him to start working as a columnist on the _Daily Mirror,_ with his pieces ghosted by Nigel Clarke, who commanded Alf's respect because he had been a young player with Charlton before his hopes of a professional career were wrecked by injury. Today, Clarke talks with great affection about his ten years working closely with Alf but also with anger at the shameful failure of English football to look after one of its greatest heroes: > The one thing which dominated his later life was that he never had any money. So whenever you said to him, 'Do you want to come and do something for me?', he would reply, 'Oh, well, I don't know.' > > 'We'll pay you.' > > 'OK. I'll do that.' > > We used to pay him £150 an article. I would meet him at Liverpool Street Station and because of who he was and my regard for him, I was always punctual. He was always a stickler for the old-fashioned discipline so he appreciated that. We would get in a cab and go off to a game. With my notebook, I would sit alongside him. He would give me a run-down on the way a particular player was performing, going into every detail. Sometimes, after just a couple of minutes, he would say, 'Oh no, Lionel' – he always got my name wrong – 'he can't play.' At other times, I would say, after about 15 minutes: > > 'Well, Alf?' > > 'Quiet, I'm watching. Just hang on a minute.' I was dealing with a footballing genius. Alf was unfailingly brilliant at spotting people you did not think would make it. He was, for example, years ahead of anyone else in associating Des Walker with England. We had gone to see Forest because everyone was talking about this winger Franz Carr. Yet, as we watched the game, all Alf was telling me about was Des Walker. Alf was watching this player in his own box, even when the ball was at the other end of the field. He said to me: > > 'This boy will play for England.' > > 'Come on Alf, he's just been released by Tottenham.' > > 'Lionel, this boy will play for England.' And he was right, of course. The Lionel thing was quite funny. Alf never could remember my name. I said to him one day, after we had come back from a match: > > 'It's a not problem, you know, Alf, but my name's not Lionel, it's Nigel. ' > > 'Of course, it's one of those things that afflicts you when you get old.' > > 'Don't worry.' > > 'So, you're going to call me tomorrow about the column and we can go over it then?' > > 'Yes, I'll read it out to you.' > > 'Thanks for a lovely day, Mike.' > > That's what Alf was like, a bit absent-minded about names. I don't think that was anything to do with his Alzheimer's. He was often mixing up people. He was not great at putting names to them. There was some truth in this. Because of his tunnel vision, Alf could be forgetful. He once spent a day calling Martin Dobson 'Colin', and also picked Rodney Marsh as the penalty taker in one international, overlooking the fact that he had not included Marsh in the team. Nigel continues: > He was a simple man, who liked during the day to be in the fresh air, tending his garden, and then at night he liked to sit down with a glass of whisky or brandy, and watch television. Beneath that diffidence, aloofness and sometimes even fury, he was a kind man. I'll give you an insight into how kind he was. This was in the mid-1980s. He was asking me about my life and I told him about busting my knee when I was at Charlton and then having to go into journalism. I told him that I had no one to turn to for advice about the big decisions in my early life, because my father was 46 when I was born and he was always ill. So I always had to make my own decisions. 'How sad,' said Alf. > > 'Well, there was no one I could turn to. My mother was eaten up looking after my father. My brother was away on national service. So I had to sink or swim by my own decisions.' > > He said, 'This is terrible. What about now?' > > 'I still would like a father figure to talk to, to explain things, to ask for advice.' > > 'I'll be your father. I'll never, ever want you to tell me that you had to come to a decision on your own. Anything you want to ask, any advice you want whatsoever, just someone to talk to, to pour out your heart to, to put an arm around you, I'll do that, I'll come to you, I'll be your father figure.' > > I did not know what to say. He said: 'I'll be your father from now on. You haven't got to worry about being alone. Any big decisions, talk to me. Come to me, we'll meet and have dinner.' > > It was an extraordinary gesture to make. We celebrated this new closeness with a lunch at the Talbooth in Ipswich, a restaurant he liked. He got monumentally pissed. He said, 'How am I going to get home?' > > 'I'll have to drive you.' > > 'NO! I'll drive.' > > 'Alf, you cannot drive.' > > 'I will drive.' > > And he got into his car, and I drove alongside because he was all over the bloody place. I kind of escorted him home. We finally got there, I don't know how, and I parked at the bottom of his road. > > 'Are you all right now, Alf?' > > 'I am perfectly OK. I think I shall go down to the pub and start again.' > > 'Just go home, Alf, and go to bed.' Nigel recalls the following incident, which shows how much Alf appreciated public affection beneath his mask of impassivity: > I took him to Brighton once to see Mark Lawrenson. There was a debate going on at the time as to whether Lawrenson could play for the English or the Irish. Alf liked him. So when Alf went down to see him, the board at Brighton made a great fuss, gave him a good lunch. Then they asked him if he would do the half-time lottery draw. 'Of course I will. You have been very good hosts.' So, as he walked out onto the pitch at half-time, the announcer said, 'The draw will now be made by Sir Alf Ramsey.' The place absolutely erupted, cheers going right round the ground. He was totally overwhelmed and there was a tear in his eye. He said to me afterwards, 'I never knew I was loved like this.' But Alf felt far less warm to the FA: > When Alf and I would go to Wembley, the _Mirror_ would lay on a nice car for us, which would be waiting outside the _Mirror_ building. One time we hit the traffic lights at Holborn tube station. There was an Unwin's off-licence there and Alf coughed a few times loudly. > > 'Are you all right, Alf?' > > 'There's an off-licence there.' > > 'So there is. Driver, just wait for a minute.' > > So I went in, got half a bottle of brandy and four plastic cups. And the reason Alf was having a drink was because he had to go to a reception before the game at Wembley and he had to meet some of the ghastly FA people he hated. He wanted a bit of Dutch courage. I once picked him up from one of these receptions and he said, 'Thank you for rescuing me. I don't think I could have stood that for much longer.' He was completely ill at ease in the company of FA people. He just couldn't stand them. He'd just had enough of the FA and all the people connected to it. When we used to go to games, the FA would sometimes send him tickets – and he would sit as far away as possible from a councillor or anyone connected with the FA. I have known him actually exchange his ticket with another spectator so he would be as far away as possible from the FA people in the Royal Box at Wembley. He just loathed them. It was Alf's _Mirror_ column that led Bobby Robson to develop a powerful hostility towards him. Robson was outraged that Alf, who had made loyalty one of the governing principles of his management career, should subject one of his successors in the England job to vitriolic criticism. Robson thought, like other former England managers, Alf should be providing support, not condemnation. 'Neither Walter, Ron, the late Don Revie nor the much lamented Joe Mercer ever tried to take me apart. But Alf Ramsey betrayed that unwritten, unspoken rule by taking my players and myself to task, undermining confidence in the camp and often at crucial times before we set off for European or World Cup finals.' Here is an example of the kind of material Alf wrote about Robson, taken from the _Mirror_ in 1989: 'In six years Robson has achieved nothing and now I begin to wonder if he ever will. Tactically I feel he is lacking and the preparation and motivation of his team leave a lot to be desired. Robson seems to spread to his players his doubts, fears and indecision.' The hurt ran deeply for Robson, as he later wrote: > I felt totally betrayed by the man who lived just a few streets away from me and who had managed Ipswich Town and England so successfully. What had I done to deserve such scurrilous attacks? Goodness knows I tried, but even when I offered him a lift back from a Chelsea match, he refused, saying, 'I came by train, and I shall return by train.' It was almost as if Alf, because of his insecurities, could not bear anyone else to succeed in the job he had once held. He had been the same when Jackie Milburn had taken over at Ipswich, and his feelings about the England management were clouded by his sacking and the sense that less worthy men were being better rewarded that he was. 'I knew I did a good job and then when I saw the men who took over from me and what they were paid, I found that upsetting,' he once said. His antagonism towards Robson was particularly acute because Robson had followed the same pattern of moving from Portman Road into the England job but on far more lucrative terms than Alf's. Nigel Clarke saw the antagonism between Alf and Bobby in operation: > They only lived 300 yards apart in Ipswich, but when they took their dogs for a walk, they would cross to the other side of the road to avoid speaking to each other. I was working as a front-line football writer on the _Mirror_ at the time. Robson used to come up to me and say: > > 'Your mate has done me again.' > > 'What's the matter?' > > 'He's accused me of all sorts of things. What's he doing it for? He's only doing it for money, isn't he?' > > Bobby felt that Alf's criticisms – which at the time were perfectly valid – were because Alf was getting paid to say them. I said to Alf one day: > > 'Why don't you meet up with Bob and have a chat?' > > 'I don't need to pass on anything to him in any shape or form.' Alf felt that Robson was a bit vapid and was too heavily influenced by his England players on selection and tactics. One issue that particularly rankled with Bobby Robson was Alf's refusal to give him any advice in the run-up to the World Cup in Mexico in 1986, Robson feeling that Alf's experience of 1970 would have been invaluable. 'The man I could have had serious help from was Sir Alf...but we never did discuss Mexico, which I found sad.' Sir Bobby told me that he was mystified by Alf's icy attitude. 'He was a strange fellow. He may have been shy, but he came across as very aloof.' According to the Ipswich journalist Tony Garnett, Alf was partly aggrieved because a meeting had been organised to discuss Mexico, yet Robson did not turn up. 'I arranged the time and the date. I then got a phone call from Alf complaining about Bobby's non-appearance,' says Garnett. 'So Alf felt let down and afterwards would not talk to him.' But Sir Bobby denies this. 'I did try to get an interview with Alf but a date was never fixed. There always seemed to be a problem. Alf kept putting it off. I got to see my predecessor, Ron Greenwood, for a chat about the World Cup and he lived down in Brighton but nothing ever transpired with Alf who was almost my neighbour.' The problem over the meeting may have arisen over nothing more than a misunderstanding about dates and excessive sensitivity on Alf's part, for Robson says: 'To this day, I've no idea what Alf had against me.' But what was extraordinary about this feud was that it drove Alf to abandon his lifelong antipathy to the Scots and give all the advice he could to Alex Ferguson, the Scottish manager for the 1986 World Cup. As Ferguson later recounted: > I travelled down to Ipswich to talk to Sir Alf Ramsey at his home. His response was tremendous and he could not have been more helpful. He pointed out the difficulties that could arise with unfamiliar food in Mexico and, on his advice, we arranged to take considerable supplies with us. Other valuable hints he passed on were concerned with altitude training and the general handling of players during a World Cup in a foreign country...I was glad and grateful to hear him say that we deserved to do well... This is the only recorded instance of Alf ever wishing a Scottish team well. On a happier note, Alf made a return to England management, though only in fantasy form, when he agreed to have his image used in the strip cartoon Roy of the Rovers in the best-selling boys' magazine _Tiger and Scorcher._ Alf had full copy approval and the child-like nostalgic side of him enjoyed his cartoon role, as former editor Barrie Tomlinson remembers: > In 1982 when Roy of the Rovers was in a coma after being shot, we had to find a new manager, so we asked Alf Ramsey and he said yes. We sent him the script and he loved it, really. He was great fun, lovely to work with. He knew the character and had read stories like that when he was a child. Once I asked him why he hadn't picked Roy in 1966 and he said, 'He was too young at the time, too inexperienced.' He really entered into the spirit of it, so we had a very good relationship, which surprised some people because Alf Ramsey hadn't appeared to be that sort of person. The cartoon and the column were to be two of Alf's last public roles. By the turn of the decade, he had retreated into full retirement, confining himself mainly to gardening, taking his dachshund for a walk, seeing friends occasionally in Ipswich, and a few rounds of golf at the Rushmere club. 'He was not a great golfer, 20 plus,' says Tony Garnett. 'He was slow round the course but he would not let other players through. I occasionally asked him if he wanted to play but he always refused, saying I would beat him.' Alf's life was totally intertwined with Vickie's, partly because he felt indebted to her: 'I feel I owe my wife a bit of time now. She gave me the licence to do so many things.' Tony Garnett believes that after he finished with football, 'he gave himself up to Vickie'. One of those friends they regularly saw was John Booth, who still runs a caravan park in Suffolk. Today John Booth paints a picture of a gentle, ordinary, existence: > Alf had that reserved public image but I found him very warm. I had a good rapport with him – though I did not like to talk football with him too much for fear of having my head snapped off. He was a very genuine man, never over-the-top but always sincere. He was very comforting when my father died. He came over with Vickie and we all went down to the local church together. He was always immaculate, always with a tie. I never saw him without one. He was such a modest man. He had a train named after him here in Ipswich and it was a nice occasion, but he hated to push any of his achievements down anyone's throat. We shared an interest in gardening. He liked to talk to me about plants and have a look round my garden and the site. He was President of the Fuchsia Society, which named flowers after him and Vickie. He was very good with the visitors to the site, quite happy to chat and have his photograph taken. Sometimes the children of visitors would come over with a ball and he would talk away to them about football. He liked the good things in life: a good Scotch malt – I'd always have that in for him – and good restaurants. He and Vickie were a very close couple; they did everything together. They travelled a lot round the countryside in their Saab; Alf adored that car. He later got a Rover 800 but found it less reliable. He was keen on boxing but football was still his main interest. We'd watch games on Sky a lot. He had not lost his dislike of the press. I remember sitting with him watching an interview with Kenny Dalglish. 'What stupid questions they ask,' he exploded. For all his fondness for the 1961–62 team, he rarely went to Portman Road, nor did he attend any player reunions. To some in Ipswich, that demonstrated a perverse streak in Alf. Tony Garnett says: > He was a strange fellow. To start with, the club kept a seat reserved for him in the directors' box, which he never used. The club then wrote to him asking him if he could let them know in future when he wanted to come and a seat would be kept for him. Alf took the hump that he had not been given a permanent one and so he would not go. It was fair enough that the club should want to use the seat, given the growing demand from the public. And he did not like reunions. You would have thought he would liked to have seen Jimmy and Andy and Ted. He only had to go down the bloody road. Ted Phillips, who was perhaps closer to Alf than any other of the 1961–62 side, thinks that Alf's animosity towards Bobby Robson might have been part of the problem: > All the lads kept asking me if I could get Alf to come. So one year I went up to his house and said, 'I've booked you in for the dinner.' And he seemed happy about that. 'I'll come and pick you up.' So on the night I went round to his house, rang the doorbell and Vickie answered. 'Is he ready?' I asked. > > 'He had to go out,' she replied. > > It's very odd. I don't know why he would never come. Maybe it was because him and Bobby did not get on very well. We have the dinners every year but Alf never came. He never rang me up to say sorry or anything like that. I had gone up all the way for nothing. One of the tragic reasons that Alf was becoming more reclusive was that, by the early nineties, he was showing the first mild signs of the Alzheimer's which would cast such a terrible blight over the twilight of his life. His own mother Florence had endured the disease for many years and would sometimes be found by neighbours or the police wandering the streets of Dagenham, before she was put into permanent care. Attending a Buckingham Palace garden party with his wife Daphne, George Cohen remembers being struck by the difference in Alf's demeanour from his normal self: > He was being led by the arm by Lady Vickie, and for a little while all seemed well enough when he chatted with the old players. But one by one we noticed that there was something wrong. We noted how carefully he was prompted by Lady Vickie. 'Oh look, Alf,' she would say, 'here is Alan and Leslie,' and 'look Alf, it's George and Daphne'. He was able to take his cues well enough, and talk about football, particularly, with his usual bite but as the afternoon wore on you could see things were not quite right. Later, I told Daphne of my concerns and she was a little surprised, even though her own mother had suffered from the disease. She didn't know Alf so well, had not been exposed so long to the precision of his speech, which at times could be almost painful. At one point he said something to one of the players which was completely wrong. That was the forlorn clincher. We were seeing, beside the lake in the garden of the Palace, the passing of our chief. Alan Ball believes that the crippling blow of his sacking had a long term effect on Alf's health: > It broke his heart, it really did. He so loved England. I spoke to him many times afterwards and he told me how much it really, really hurt him. He was never the same man again. I'm sure it contributed to his final illness. Vickie was wonderful to him. At that get-together, we would talk for a few minutes and then he seemed to forget who I was. Immediately Lady Ramsey came in again. 'You always enjoy talking to Alan, don't you?' and he would perk up again. It was terribly sad, and yet very moving at the same time. I loved him to death. He was very, very special in my life. Friends in Ipswich had also picked up on the change. Ted Phillips played golf with him at Rushmere and could sense that he was slipping: > Sometimes he would forget where his ball was. He'd be getting ready to hit my ball and I'd say, 'I'm afraid you're in the bushes, Alf, on the other side of the fairway.' Alf insisted one time that he owed me money. It was very sad. We were on the course and he suddenly tried to hand me £100. 'What are you doing, Alf? That's not mine.' I realized then that there was a serious problem. Tony Garnett recalls an incident at Rushmere, when the conversation turned to Bobby Blackwood, a player Alf had signed from Hearts in the championship-winning season. 'I remember no such player,' said Alf. 'It was then that we began to realize that things were not right.' Alf was entering the long, painful evening of his life. The first public awareness of his decline came in 1993, when he was unable to attend the funeral for Bobby Moore. Fellow ex-manager Malcolm Allison revealed afterwards: 'It's incredibly sad. Sir Alf is not well at all. He has been ill for seven or eight months now. He spent the day at home in Ipswich, although the old Sir Alf would love to have been here.' The disease was insidious rather than aggressive, and he still had periods of lucidity. But a mild stroke during a visit to Cornwall led to further deterioration. Health problems were compounded by the continuing shortage of money. 'The way the FA treated their 1966 hero was little less than disgraceful,' says Tony Garnett. 'A man who would not have dreamed of taking a cut from commercial deals involving England should have been given the sort of pension to ensure that he lived the rest of his life in considerable comfort.' And the FA's indifference towards Alf's grim retirement did not just revolve around finances. He and Vickie were also deeply angered that he had never received a replica medal for 1966. When the FA finally began talking about making one in 1998, 32 years after the event, Lady Ramsey said wearily: 'It's too late now. Nothing anybody could do would make up for the way he has been treated.' Another perceived snub occurred during the European Championships in England in 1996, the 30th anniversary of the World Cup, win, when the FA approached him to see if he might be involved in one of the ceremonies around the event. According to Nigel Clarke, Alf was willing to take part: 'I promised Alf he could hold on to me, and he said, "As long as you're there, I think I can do it." But the FA seemed to lose interest after Alf had failed to respond to a letter about the ceremony. Well, it was no good just sending him a letter. You had to sit down and explain things to him gently.' The FA spokesman, Alec McGivan, explaining the Association's hesitancy in following up its initial approach, said 'We were led to believe that Alf was unwell.' Alf and Vickie were so hurt that they actually left Britain during the championships, and visited Tanya in America. Lady Ramsey said: > Alf just wanted to get away from it all. He's bitter about things. It's sad but it appears we never treat our heroes very well. Alf is nostalgic about the past. He loves to remember his team and what they achieved. He's the same nice caring man he's always been – a gentle person who deserves more than he has received. It's so sad that those who could have made him a national hero didn't really want to. On his return from America, his health rapidly worsened, as the Alzheimer's tightened its grip and he developed angina and prostate cancer. On 9 June 1998, he suffered a massive stroke and was taken to Ipswich General Hospital. During his two-month stay there, Vickie was extremely protective of him, wary of the press finding out his true condition, as Ted Phillips recalls: > Vickie was a nice lady, but very private. When Alf was ill, she would not have anyone in the hospital. When I heard – through a friend whose brother was in the same ward – that Alf was in there, I went up to see him. As soon as I arrived, she went bananas. She turned on me, 'Who told you Alf was in here?' > > 'I got a phone call from a friend.' > > She would not let me see him. When I went up again a couple of weeks later, I saw her feeding him. She was very gentle. This time, she let me go to him. I think Alf recognized me. At the eleventh hour, some of Alf's old antagonists rallied to his side. Bobby Robson, who had learnt of his plight, said he was appalled at the idea of Alf being on a public ward and announced he wanted to assist in paying for private care. I rang the FA and said I'd give £10,000,' says Robson. 'Lady Ramsey said he was getting the best treatment, and she would not accept it.' David Davies of the FA claimed that the Association also offered to help, but again Vickie would have none of it. In August 1998, Alf was transferred from the general hospital to Minsmere House, a specialist unit for geriatric patients. Then in early 1999, he was moved to a nursing home run by the Orbit Housing Association, with Lady Vickie dipping into her own savings to pay the £500-a-week bills. Tony Garnett has a heart-rending tale of an incident from the care home: 'One of the nurses looking after him showed him a picture of the 1966 England team: total blank. Then suddenly he pointed to himself and said, "That's Alf Ramsey."' The end was approaching. Release from mental and physical distress finally came on 28 April 1999. The death certificate cited Alzheimer's and prostate cancer as the fatal causes. A private family service at the Ipswich crematorium on 7 May was followed by the public service at St Mary's Church, Ipswich, at which George Cohen spoke so eloquently and movingly: 'His strength and purpose made it so easy to believe in him. Sad as it is to know that Alf is no longer with us, I feel we are here to celebrate not only the life of a great football manager but also a great Englishman.' The 45-minute service concluded with a rendering of Frank Sinatra's 'My Way'. There are few men for whom Paul Anka's lyrics about cussedness and defiance could be more appropriate. The tributes flooded in. 'A great man and a wonderful manager,' said Gordon Banks. 'He will always be the best,' said Alan Ball. A minute's silence was held on League grounds across the country the following Saturday. But the shadow of Alf's mistreatment still lingered. In his will, Alf left less than £200,000, two-thirds of which was made up by the value of his Ipswich home, while Vickie's savings had been eaten up by medical bills. She said: > I just don't know what I will do in the future. But I don't care if I am left with nothing. I still have the memories of that wonderful man and no one can take those away. I could never replace him. We may not have been well off but we had a quality of life. Today football is all about money and how much you can get. But Alf wasn't like that. He loved football and did it for the love of the game. Alf always turned down offers and I don't live in the lap of luxury. I may have to sell up. Such an eventuality was avoided by Vickie's decision to sell much of Alf's football memorabilia, including his England caps, a replica of the Jules Rimet trophy, and his Tottenham Hotspur medals. In an auction at Christie's in September 2001, the collection fetched £83,000. But the fact that Lady Ramsey felt compelled to auction off such treasures was another indicator of the way he had been forgotten by the football establishment. Lady Ramsey still lives in the same Ipswich house that she shared with Alf for more than forty years. Anne, the wife of John Elsworthy, recently asked her if she disliked being alone there. Vickie replied: 'Well, it is lonely. But I don't mind. I won't ever leave. I have got my memories.' 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England!_ (Stanley Paul, 1970) Moore, Brian, _The Final Score_ (Hodder & Stoughton, _1999)_ Moore, Tina, _Bobby Moore_ (Collins Willow, 2005) Mourant, Andrew and Rollin, Jack, _The Essential History of England_ (Headline, 2002) Moynihan, John, _The Soccer Syndrome_ (McGibbon & Kee, _1966)_ Mullery, Alan, _In Defence of Spurs_ (Stanley Paul, _1969)_ Mullery, Alan, _An Autobiography_ (Pelham, 1985) Nicholson, Bill, _Glory, Glory: My Life With Spurs_ (Macmillan, 1984) Osgood, Peter, _Ossie: King of Stamford Bridge_ (Mainstream, 2002) Palmer, Kevin, _Tottenham Hotspur: Champions of England 1950–51 and 1960–61_ (Desert Island Books, 2004) Pawson, Tony, _The Football Managers_ (Methuen, 1973) Payne, Mike, _England: The Complete Post-War Record_ (Breedon Books, 1993) Peters, Martin, _Goals From Nowhere!_ (Stanley Paul, _1969)_ Ponting, Ivan and Hale, Steve, _Sir Roger: The Life and Times of Roger Hunt_ (Bluecoat Press, 1997) Powell, Jeff, _Bobby Moore: The Life and Times of a Sporting Legend_ (Robson Books, 1993) Puskas, Ferenc, _Captain of Hungary_ (Cassell, 1955) Ramsey, Alf, _Talking Football_ (Stanley Paul, 1952) Robson, Bobby, _An Englishman Abroad_ (Macmillan, 1998) Rogan, Johnny, _The Football Managers_ (Queen Anne Press, 1989) Rous, Stanley, _Football Worlds_ (Faber & Faber, 1978) Royle, Joe, _My Autobiography_ (BBC Books, 2005) Saffer, David, _The Life and Times of Mick Jones_ (Tempus, 2002) Saffer, David, _The Paul Madeley Story_ (Tempus, 2003) Saffer, David, _Sniffer: The Life and Times of Allan Clarke_ (Tempus, 2004) Shaoul, Mark and Williamson, Tony, _Forever England: A History of the National Side_ (Tempus, 2000) Shepherdson, Harold, _The Magic Sponge_ (Pelham, 1968) Shilton, Peter, _The Autobiography_ (Orion, 2004) Smith, Tommy, _I Did It The Hard Way_ (Arthur Barker, 1980) Soar, Phil, _And The Spurs Go Marching On_ (Hamlyn, 1982) Steen, Rob, _The Mavericks_ (Mainstream, 1994) Stepney, Alex, _Alex Stepney_ (Arthur Barker, 1978) Stiles, Nobby, _Soccer My Battlefield_ (Stanley Paul, 1968) Stiles, Nobby, _After The Ball_ (Hodder & Stoughton, 2003) Thomson, David, _4–2_ (Bloomsbury, _1966)_ Tyler, Martin, _The Boys of '66_ (Hamlyn, 1981) Venables, Terry, _The Autobiography_ (Michael Joseph, 1994) West, Gordon, _The Championship in My Keeping_ (Souvenir Press, 1970) Wheeler, Kenneth (ed.), _Soccer – the British Way_ (Nicholas Kaye, 1963) Wheeler, Kenneth, _Champions of Soccer_ (Pelham, _1969)_ Winner, David, _Those Feet_ (Orion, 2005) Wolstenholme, Kenneth, _They Think It's All Over_ (Robson, _1996)_ Wolstenholme, Kenneth, _50 Sporting Years_ (Robson, _1999)_ Wright, Billy, _The World's My Football Pitch_ (Stanley Paul, 1953) Wright, Billy, _Football Is My Passport_ (Stanley Paul, 1957) Wright, Billy, _One Hundred Caps and All That_ (Robert Hale, 1963) # _Index_ The pagination of this electronic edition does not match the edition from which it was created. To locate a specific passage, please use the search feature of your e-book reader. Adamson, Jimmy 197 Allen, Ronnie 487 Allison, Malcolm 381, 501 criticism of Ramsey xix, 433, 462 England-Hungary 1953 125 Anderson, Jimmy 139–140, 142–143 Anka, Paul 503 Arlott, John 171 Armfield, Jimmy England captaincy 284–285 England playing formation 245 England team spirit 290 England-Scotland 1963 211 Hurst's playing style 307 injury 215–216 Ramsey's management style 236, 322 views on Greaves 327 Astle, Jeff 397, 410–411, 417 Attlee, Clement 37 Bacharach, Burt 284 Bailey, Gary 155 Bailey, Roy 178 Ipswich criticized by opponents 186 Ramsey's dedication to football xxix Ramsey's training regime at Ipswich 169 signed by Ipswich 155 supported by Ramsey 190–191 Baily, Eddie 14, 84 England-Austria 1951 119 FA Cup 1953 131 friendship with Ramsey 94–95 Ramsey's aloof personality 353 Ramsey's changing accent 20 Ramsey's gambling 92 Spurs signing Blanchflower 140–141 Spurs winning League 1951 97 Spurs' playing style 96 team clown 88, 97, 110, 179 views on Ramsey 88-89, 91 views on Rowe 81 World Cup 1950 108, 110–111, 114 Baker, George 13 Baker, Joe 254–255, 260, 262–263 Bakhramov, Tofik 341 Baldwin, Stanley 1 Ball, Alan death of Ramsey 503 England playing formation 245, 260, 262 England team spirit 313 European Championship 1972 445 Lilleshall training camp 275, 279–280 playing style 306, 307, 316, 379 professional rejection 318 Ramsey sacked as England manager 477, 500 Ramsey's Alzheimer's disease 500 Ramsey's loyalty to players 435–436 Ramsey's management style 291 Ramsey's memorial service xv–xvi Ramsey's sense of humour 471 Ramsey's speech problems 437 Scotland-England 1972 455 sending-off incident 352–353 South America tour 1969 392 views on Greaves 328 views on Jack Charlton 251 views on Ramsey 247–248 World Cup 1966 297, 299, 305–306, 325 World Cup Final 1966 338, 340–342 World Cup 1970 397, 400, 407, 415, 417, 423, 426, 428, 430 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 458 World Cup bonus 373 Ballard, Ted 44, 58–59, 66 Banks, Gordon Astle's drunkenness 411 club versus country 242 criticized by Ramsey 211–212 death of father 352 death of Ramsey 503 drinking incident 225–227 England playing formation 248, 250, 262, 290 England team spirit 217 European Championship 1968 386 European Championship 1972 437–438, 445 eye injury 453 Little World Cup 1964 234, 237 Ramsey criticizing players 239 Ramsey's bad language 260 Ramsey's loyalty to players 436 Ramsey's management style 323 Ramsey's sense of humour 434 Ramsey's team talks 379–380 selected by Ramsey 211 South America tour 1969 392 stolen bracelet incident 409–410 views on Ramsey 212–213 views on Stiles 253 working-class background 318 World Cup 1966 297, 305, 325–326 World Cup Final 1966 337, 339 World Cup 1970 399–400, 417, 419–422,429–430 Bannister, Roger 395 Barber, David xxviii, 200, 368–370, 452 Barkas, Sam 43, 46 Barriskill, Joe 350 Bass, Dr Alan 232, 273, 277, 283, 326, 331, 385–386 Bates, Mary 22, 33, 37–38 Bates, Ted 33, 44, 46, 70, 190 Batt, Peter xxiii, 409–410 Baxter, Bill 171, 190 Baxter, Jim 211, 384 Beara, Vladimir 123 Beckenbauer, Franz 335, 426–427, 429 Beckham, David xxii Belcher, Jimmy 162 Bell, Colin 403–404, 427, 430, 459 Bell, Willie 484 Bennett, Les 83, 129 Benny, Jack 329 Bentley, Roy 111 Bertschin, Keith 485 Best, George xxii, 239, 248 Bevan, Aneurin 167 Bevin, Ernie 167 Bingham, Billy x Bixby, Jean 7, 10, 13–14, 16 Bixby, Tom 10 Black, Ian 47, _52–55,59_ Blackwood, Bobby 205, 500 Blair, Tony xvii Blake, Freddie 145, 353 Blanchflower, Danny biography xi conflict with Ramsey 208, 238 learning to combat Ipswich 204 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 191-192 signed by Spurs 140-142 Stiles's hard tackling 302 World Cup 1970 418 Blatchford, Paddy 65 Bonetti, Frances 424–425 Bonetti, Peter problem with players' wives 390, 422–425 World Cup 1970 397, 422–423, 425–427, 430–432 Bonnel, Joseph 301 Booth, John 76, 497–498 Bowen, Dave 244 Bowers, J. W. 370 Bowler, David xi, 20, 85, 96, 134, 244, 484 Bowles, Stan 470 Bremner, Billy 222, 253, 425 Bridges, Barry 187, 221, 234, 255–256 Brooking, Sir Trevor 470 Brown, George 295 Brown, Joe 352 Brown, Tony 453 Bruce, Margaret 370, 429–430, 474 Brynner, Yul 298 Bull, David 32, 70 Burgess, Ron 82, 84 ageing player 129 leaving Spurs 133 Spurs winning League 1951 97–98 training sessions 80 views on Ramsey as player 96 Burton, Richard 229 Busby, Sir Matt x, 167, 172–173, 376 Butler, Bryon 160, 218, 359 Butler, Frank 132–133 Byrne, Johnny 'Budgie' drinking 224–227, 232 dropped from 1966 World Cup squad 281–282 England playing formation 243 irreverent attitude 230 views on Ramsey 255 Winterbottom's relationship with media 315 Cagney, Jimmy 103 Caine, Michael 284, 292 Cairns, Phil 5, 8, 10, 20 Calderwood, Jimmy 485 Callaghan, Ian 300–301, 305–306, 316 Cann, Syd 38–40, 45 Carapellese, Riccardo 99 Carberry, Larry 156 Carr, Franz 489 Channon, Mick xx, 453, 462, 464 Chapman, Herbert 172, 201 Charles, John 224 Charlton, Sir Bobby 156, 211 affinity with Ramsey 441 change of playing position 239–240, 243 club versus country 242 comparison with Jack 249 disciplined player 257 drinking incident 225–227 England playing formation 254, 260, 263, 265, 267, 269, 304, 317 FA Cup 1958 163 Lilleshall training camp 274–275 Munich air disaster 318 playing partnership with Stiles 252, 311 playing style 306, 307, 379 Poland-England 1966 288 Ramsey's dislike of 'individualistic' players 440 Ramsey's management style 219, 291, 322 Ramsey's memorial service xv, xvii Ramsey's relationship with media 359 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 187–188 Ramsey's shyness xi South America tour 1969 392, 394 stolen bracelet incident 406–407, 412–413 views on Greaves 328 views on Winterbottom 106 World Cup 1966 297, 299–300, 306, 309–310, 322, 325–326, 357 World Cup Final 1966 335–336, 338–339, 344 World Cup 1970 397, 406, 417, 420–421, 426–427, 429–430 Charlton, Cissie 249 Charlton, Jack 484 ageing player 396, 400 argumentative nature 251–252, 276 comparison with Bobby 249 England playing formation 254, 317 England team spirit 290 extrovert personality 384, 399, 409 FIFA identity cards 296 five-a-side football 380 hard tackling 387 Lilleshall training camp 275–276, 278 management track record x Moore's glamorous lifestyle 228–229 playing partnership with Moore 250, 445 Ramsey's management style 250–251 Ramsey's memorial service xv–xvi recruited to England squad 248–250 rejected by Revie 318 replaced by Labone in England squad 382 South America tour 1969 392 team clown 179 World Cup 1966 297, 300, 310–311, 325 World Cup Final 1966 337–338, 342, 347 Charlton, Norma 249, 406 Charlton, Pat 347 Chivers, Martin 453–454, 456, 462, 464 Churchill, Sir Winston 293 Clarke, Allan 453 problem with players' wives 425 World Cup 1970 398, 417–418, 431 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 462, 464, 466 Clarke, Harry 84 Clarke, Nigel 7, 77, 230–231 England playing formation 260 Greaves dropped from World Cup Final team 333 public acclamation for Ramsey 491–492 Ramsey as cricket player 27–28 Ramsey sacked as England manager 477 Ramsey snubbed by football establishment 501 Ramsey's alleged elocution lessons 24 Ramsey's alleged Romany background 15 Ramsey's conflict with Robson 494 Ramsey's dedication to football xxx Ramsey's friction with football establishment 492–493 Ramsey's kindness 490–491 Ramsey's military service 29–30 Ramsey's newspaper column 488–490 Ramsey's reserved personality 92 World Cup Final 1966 346 World Cup 1970 420, 431–432 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 464–465 Clemence, Ray 448 Clements, Stan 16, 21–22, 45, 50–51, 71 Clough, Brian x, 444–445, 462, 481 Cmikiewicz, Leslaw 458 Coates, Ralph 408 Cobbold, Alastair 143, 146, 158 Cobbold, John ban on advertising 184 bringing Ramsey to Ipswich 143–144 eccentric character 146–148 homosexuality 148–149 Ipswich winning League 193 Ipswich winning Second Division 177 Ipswich winning Third Division 160–161 Ipswich's Germany tour 204 offering Ramsey a return to Ipswich 238–239 Ramsey appointed England manager 198–199, 203–204 Ramsey appointed Ipswich secretary 156 Ramsey's conflict with Milburn 206 relationship with Ramsey 149–151 Cobbold, Lady Blanche 146 Cobbold, Lieutenant-General 146 Cocker, Les 331–332, 390, 450, 469, 471 Lilleshall training camp 273–274, 278, 280 World Cup 1970 418 Cohen, Daphne 499 Cohen, George affinity with Ramsey 441 England playing formation 248, 262, 265 Haynes's injury 215 injury 396 Lilleshall training camp 274, 277 Little World Cup 1964 237 Montreal trip 1967 385 Moore's tonsillitis 331–332 playing style 316–317 Ramsey's Alzheimer's disease 499 Ramsey's bad language 258–259 Ramsey's management style 227–228, 257 Ramsey's memorial service xvi, 503 Ramsey's retirement 488 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 188 retirement from international football 377 Stiles's views on 318–319 views on Hunt 258 views on Jack Charlton 251 views on Ramseys' marriage 78–79 World Cup 1966 297, 301, 309, 311, 324–325, 334–335 World Cup Final 1966 338, 340, 343, 347 Coleman, David 427 Collings, Sid 373 Compton, Denis 122 Compton, John 147, 171–172, 176, 178–179 Compton, Les 122 Connelly, John 104, 269 Lilleshall training camp 279–280 Poland-England 1966 288 Ramsey's dislike of Scots 221–222 Ramsey's management style 323–324 World Cup 1966 297, 299–301, 306, 316 Connery, Sean 298–299, 321 Cooke, Charlie 252–253, 381 Coombs, Ken 483 Cooper, Eric 357 Cooper, Terry 396, 438 Coulter, Phil 400–401 Coupland, Elaine 479 Cowie, Charlie 145, 151, 185 Cox, Freddie 168 Crawford, Eileen 168 Crawford, Ray admiration for Ramsey xxv happy atmosphere at Ipswich 177–179 Ipswich winning League 193 players' wages 184 playing partnership with Phillips 170, 173–176 primitive facilities at Ipswich 145–146, 185 Ramsey's loyalty to Ipswich 204–205 Ramsey's modest personal spending 201 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 188, 191 Ramsey's training regime at Ipswich 169–170 signed by Ipswich 168 views on Cobbold 149 views on Milburn 207–208 views on Winterbottom 188–189 Crerand, Pat 253 Cresswell, Sir Michael 313 Croker, Ted 467–469, 475 Cruyff, Johann 446 Cudlipp, Hugh 449 Cullis, Stan x, 133, 167, 172, 197, 255, 351–352 Currie, Tony 464–465 Dalglish, Kenny 498 Davies, David 503 Day, Eric Brazil tour 1948 58–59 playing partnership with Ramsey 63 Ramsey's changing accent 22 Ramsey's football intelligence 44 Ramsey's reserved personality 46–47 views on Dodgin 66 wages as football player 52 De Wardener, Hugh 396 Dean, Dixie 307 Diana, Princess of Wales 293 Dienst, Gottfried 336–337, 339 Dillon, Kevin 484 Ditchburn, Ted 83–84, 95 ageing player 129 FA Cup 1953 130–132 Ramsey's reserved personality 93 Spurs signing Blanchflower 141 Spurs' playing style 85–86, 88 views on Ramsey 90 Dobson, Martin 470–471, 490 Docherty, Tommy 189, 255, 267, 431, 462, 482 Dodgin, Bill appointed Fulham manager 70 moving Ramsey to right-back 38–39 practising tactics 45 Ramsey leaving Southampton 65–67, 69–70 Ramsey's dedication to football 43 signing Ramsey 36–37 Doggart, Graham 197–199, 209 Doggart, Hubert 198 Domarski, Jan 463–464 Donegan, Lonnie 293, 400–401 Douglas, Bryan 214, 243 Doyle, Mike 440 Drake, Ted 35, 171 Drewry, Arthur 98, 110, 199 Drury, Reg 222 Duncan, Scott 143, 151–153, 155–156, 163, 167 Dunphy, Eamon xix Duquemin, Len 84, 97 Duvalier, Papa Doc 111 Dyson, Terry 137 Eastham, George drinking incident 225–227 England playing formation 243, 260 Lilleshall training camp 276 Little World Cup 1964 237–238 Eastwood, John 20 Eden, Anthony 146 Ekland, Britt 298 Ellerington, Bill Brazil tour 1948 59–60 comparison with Ramsey 67 pneumonia 42–43 poor-quality equipment 53–54 Ramsey's gambling 49–50 rivalry with Ramsey 46, 65, 99 views on Rochford 40–41 Elsworthy, Anne xxvi, 177, 504 Elsworthy, John 504 injury 177 Ipswich winning League 192–193 players' weekly lunch 184–185 Ramsey's dedication to football 178 Ramsey's football intelligence 176 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 175–176 Ramsey's training regime at Ipswich 153 Emery, Charles 3 Emmerich, Lothar 335, 339 England Austria-England 1952 121–122 'Back Home' record 400–403 character of players 318–319 club versus country 241–242, 376–377, 443–445 Czechoslovakia-England 1963 216 defeat by USA 1950 109–113 drinking culture 224–227, 232 England-Argentina 1951 119 England-Argentina 1966 305–311 England-Austria 1951 119–121 England-Brazil 1963 211–212 England-France 1966 300–301 England-Hungary 1953 124– England-Ireland 1949 102 England-Italy 1949 99–100 England-Mexico 1966 299–300 England-Rest of Europe 1953 122–124 England-Scotland 1963 211 England-Uruguay 1964 223 England-Uruguay 1966 296–298 England-Yugoslavia 1950 116 England-Yugoslavia 1966 266, 268–269 European Championship 1968 386–387 European Championship 1972 436–438, 444–446 European tour 1963 216–217 European tour 1965 245, 247 European tour 1966 285–290 FIFA identity cards 295–296 Findus food fiasco 404–405 France-England 1963 208–211 international track record xxi Italy/Switzerland tour 1948 55–58 Lilleshall training camp 272–282 Little World Cup 1964 223–224, 234–238 medical support 394–396 Montreal trip 1967 384–385 Moore appointed captain 216 Northern Ireland-England 1964 239–240 players' wages 101 playing formation 214, 242–246, 260–265, 304–305, 314, 316–317, 446 Poland-England 1966 287–290 poor team spirit 423 Portugal-England 1964 227 Portugal-England 1966 324–325 Ramsey appointed captain 116 Ramsey appointed manager 197–202 Ramsey sacked as manager xx–xxi, 468–469, 472–477 Ramsey selected as player _55–56_ Ramsey's playing debut 63 Scotland-England 1964 220, 223 Scotland-England 1972 455 selection procedure in 1940s 103–104, 110 shirt sponsorship 468 South America tour 1969 391–394 Spain-England 1965 257, 259–263 team spirit 276–277, 290–291, 304, 313 Winterbottom resigning as manager 196–198 World Cup 1950 107–114 World Cup 1962 196–197 World Cup 1966 296–348 World Cup Final 1966 xxiii, 335–348 World Cup 1970 390–391, 403–430 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 456–466 World Cup bonus 373 World Cup Willie 293 European Championship 1968 386–387 1972 444–446 Eusebio 324–326 Everitt, Alan 165 Fairgrieve, John 267 Fenton, Ted 231 Ferguson, Sir Alex x, 495 Fields, Gracie 167 Finn, Ralph T. 134–136, 158–159 Finney, Sir Tom 57 England selection procedure 103 playing style with England 174 Ramsey as England captain 116 training techniques 102 views on Ramsey 100–101 World Cup 1950 111–112 Fitzgerald, Ella 233 Fletcher, Colonel 30–31 Flowers, Ron 104, 276–277, 290 Follows, Denis 197, 302, 312, 370–371, 373, 413, 419, 467 Foot, Dingle 146 Foot, Michael 146 football 1960s' ticket prices 293–294 abolition of maximum wage 183–184 antiquated attitudes of 1940s 101–103, 114–115 club versus country 241–242, 376–377, 443–445 dearth of goals 388–389 players' wages 52, 101 poor-quality equipment 53 working-class game 294–295 working-class lifestyle of players 51–52 World Cup trophy stolen 293 Formby, George 167 Forsyth, Jimmy 151, 193 Francis, Trevor 485–487 Freeman, Alf 47–48, 51, 71 Fuljames, Margaret 74, 367–368 Gaetjens, Joe 111–112 Gardner, Ava 138 Garnett, Tony xxvii, 77, 132, 401 Cobbold's eccentricities 147 Cobbold's homosexuality 148 happy atmosphere at Ipswich 178 Ipswich's Germany tour 204 Ramsey's Alzheimer's disease 500 Ramsey's antagonism against Robson 495 Ramsey's final illness 503 Ramsey's relationship with Cobbold 150–151 Ramsey's relationship with media 165–166 Ramsey's retirement 496–498 Ramsey's team talks 186 views on Phillips 157–158 Garrett, Len 162 Gascoigne, Paul xxii, 280 Giles, Johnny 425 Gilzean, Alan 383 Glanville, Brian xxvii, 246, 256, 312, 351, 356, 446–447 Godbold, Pat Bailey's car 155 primitive facilities at Ipswich 145–146 Ramsey appointed Ipswich secretary manager 163–164 Ramsey smoking 164–165 Ramsey's aloof personality 353–354 Ramsey's shyness xi, xxvi Gonzalez, Alberto 311 Gosling, Pauline 6, 16 Gould, Donald 475 Grabowski, Jurgen 427 Grant, Wilf 152–153 Greaves, Irene 333 Greaves, Jimmy accent 18 creative player xix criticized by Winterbottom 189 Czechoslovakia-England 1963 216 drinking 224–227, 232, 284 dropped from World Cup Final team 332–334 England playing formation 214, 254, 268 hepatitis 257, 267, 269 irreverent attitude 230, 233–234, 285, 288 lack of consistency 256–257, 270 Moore's irreverent attitude 232–233 Pinewood Studios visit 299 playing style 317 Poland-England 1966 288–289 Ramsey's management style 216–217, 321, 389 retirement from international football 378 sarcasm 180 striking ability 286–287 views on Leadbetter 173–174 views on Winterbottom 106–107 World Cup 1966 297, 299, 301, 306–307, 324, 326–330 World Cup Final 1966 343–344 Green, Geoffrey 264–265, 464 Greenwood, Ron 104, 231, 255, 270, 295 Greenwood, Walter 167 Grimme, Edward 11–12 Hackett, Desmond 112, 216, 261–262, 314–315 Haller, Helmut 337 Hardaker, Alan 103, 196, 220–221, 376–377, 444, 462 Harewood, Lord 419 Harrington, Frank 439 Harris, Bob 360–361 Harvey, Ian 148 Harvey, Joe 206 Haynes, Johnny 184, 215–216 Heath, Sir Edward 21, 441 Hector, Kevin 464–465 Held, Siggi 337–338 Henry, Ron 136–137, 209 Herberger, Sepp 316 Hibbitt, Terry 484, 486 Hidegkuti, Nandor 125 Hill, Jimmy 183, 267, 383 Hillary, Sir Edmund 395 Hitchens, Gerry 351 Hoby, Alan 445 Hoddle, Glen 280 Hodges, Cyril 30 Hodgkinson, Alan 104 Hogg, Derek 142 Holley, Bob 35–36 Holt, Jack 25 Hopcraft, Arthur 3 Hopkins, Mel 89–90, 92–94 Hottges, Horst 338 Howarth, Frederick 103 Hudson, Alan 439–441, 454 Hughes, Emlyn stolen bracelet incident 412 World Cup 1970 396, 415, 421–422 Hughes, Rob 359–360 Hume, Joe 69 Hunt, Roger character of England players 318 debate over Greaves 330 England playing formation 254, 260, 262, 268, 327–328 joining England squad 257–258 Little World Cup 1964 234 playing style 307 Poland-England 1966 287–289 retirement from international football 377–378 views on Winterbottom 106 World Cup 1966 297, 300–301, 309 World Cup Final 1966 338–339 Hunter, Norman 190, 252–253, 284–285 club versus country 376, 443, 445 European Championship 1972 445–446 Ramsey's loyalty to players 436 views on Ramsey 263–264 World Cup 1970 427, 430 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 456, 463–465 Hurst, Geoff 118, 447, 453 England playing formation 327–328 England team spirit 291 European Championship 1968 386 European Championship 1972 438 Greaves dropped from World Cup Final team 329–330, 333 Lilleshall training camp 275–276 Moore's tonsillitis 332 playing style 317 Poland-England 1966 287–288 Ramsey's aloof personality 354 Ramsey's dislike of 'individualistic' players 440 Ramsey's loyalty to players 435 Ramsey's management style 271, 319–321 Ramsey's sense of humour 434 Ramsey's team talks 380 recruited to England squad 270–271 problem with players' wives 390–391, 423 support from Ramsey xix, 287 working-class background 318 World Cup 1966 307, 309–311, 325, 331, 334 World Cup Final 1966 ix, xxiii, 336–338, 341–342, 344 World Cup 1970 355, 397, 400, 404, 414, 417, 421, 425, 431 Hurst, Judith 391, 421, 423–424 Hutchinson, Ian 441–442 Ipswich Town FC _1955–1956_ season 152–155 1956–1957 season 157–161 1957–1958 season 162–163 1958–1959 season 170 1959–1960 season 170–171, 189 1960–1961 season 176 1961–1962 season 183, 185–194 1962–1963 season 199, 204–208 1963–1964 season 207 League Champions 1962 19, 193 Milburn appointed manager 205 players' wages 184 primitive facilities 145 Ramsey appointed England manager 203–204 Ramsey appointed manager 143–144 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 172–176, 187–188 Second Division champions 176–177 Third Division champions 160–161 Isaacs, Tubby 172 Jackson, Bob 114–115 James, Alex 28 James, Brian xxiii, 76, 141, 154, 262 Astle's drunkenness 411 club versus country 242 England playing formation 265 football as working-class game 294 Ramsey sacked as England manager 469 Ramsey's conflict with Moore 285 Ramsey's relationship with media 457–458 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 191 Ramsey's selection methods 375 problem with players' wives 423–424 standards of sports journalism 449 views on Greaves 256–257, 327 views on Moore 230 views on Ramsey 355–356 World Cup 1966 314 World Cup Final 1966 349 World Cup 1970 397, 430–431 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 458–459 James, Sid 174 Johns, Hugh 405, 481–482 Johnstone, Harry 125 Jones, Ernie 70 Jones, Ken xxiii, 76, 141 debate over Greaves 328 England playing formation 264 Moore's irreverent attitude 234 Ramsey dining out 363–364 Ramsey's dislike of 'individualistic' players 440–441 Ramsey's dislike of Scots 222 Ramsey's friction with football establishment 373 Ramsey's kindness 354–355 Ramsey's management style 278, 287 Ramsey's modesty 366–367 Ramsey's public speaking 116 Ramsey's selection policy 289 Ramsey's sense of humour 434 Ramsey's views on England selectors 209 stolen bracelet incident 410–411 views on Ramsey 208–209 World Cup 1966 298 World Cup Final 1966 344, 349 World Cup 1970 415, 428 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 461 Jones, Lesley 355 Jones, Mick 245–246 Joy, Bernard 79–80, 119, 285 Jukes, J. R. 65–66 Kaines, Alf 51 Keegan, Kevin xviii, 453–454, 456 Kelly, Bob xix Kelly, Johnny 128 Keough, Harry 113 Kidd, Brian 408 Kirchin, Ivor 98 Klein, Avraham 424 Knott, Charlie 71 Kreitlein, Rudolf 309–310, 313 La Rue, Danny 347 Labone, Brian 210, 272 Ramsey's management style 382–383 World Cup 1970 396, 415, 417, 428, 431 Lacey, David 460–462 Langley, Mike 201, 354, 461 Lato, Gzregorz 463 Law, Denis 253, 388, 425 Lawler, Chris 444 Lawrenson, Mark 492 Lawton, Tommy 34, 56, 105 Leadbetter, Jimmy dropped from Ipswich side 435 FA Cup 1958 163 Ipswich criticized by opponents 186–187 Ipswich winning League 193 Ipswich winning Third Division 160 playing in Second Division 162 Ramsey smoking 165 Ramsey's alleged elocution lessons 166 Ramsey's dislike of Scots 222 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 173–175, 188, 191 Ramsey's views on 174 switching playing position 154–155 views on Milburn 208 views on Phillips 157 Leatherdale, Clive 326 Lee, Francis England debut 379 European Championship 1972 438, 445–446 inclusion in England squad 378 Ramsey's friction with football establishment 373 Ramsey's loyalty to players 435 Ramsey's management style 379–382 South America tour 1969 393 World Cup 1970 397, 415–417, 425, 428, 430 Lennon, John 292, 403 Liddell, Billy 129 Liddell, Ned 26–27 Little, Peter 350–351, 364–366, 474 Lofthouse, Nat 122 Austria-England 1952 121 England debut 116 England-Austria 1951 120 England-Rest of Europe 1953 123 playing partnership with Ramsey 117–118, 120 playing style 307 Ramsey's football skills 116–117 Lombardi, Vince 334 Lubanski, Wlodzimierz 458 Lynch, Kenny 424 Macdonald, Malcolm 440, 444, 454–455, 472, 477 MacDonald, Ramsay 166 Mackay, Dave 191, 204 Macmillan, Harold 146,184 Magee, Frank 142, 202–203, 289, 436, 443, 457–458 Malam, Colin 470 Malcolm, Ken 155, 159–160 Mallet, Joe 48, 67–68 Manning, J. L. 246, 314, 388–389 Mannion, Wilf 111 Marchi, Tony 22 Marquis, Max xi, 13, 19–20, 64 Marsh, Rodney 453–454, 490 conflict with Ramsey 442, 447 individualistic player 439–440 Ramsey's changing accent 20–21 sarcasm 180 stolen bracelet incident 412 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 456 Martin, Bill 400–403 Marzolini, Silvio 306 Mason, Jimmy 36 Matthews, Sir Stanley 105, 122, 294 FA Cup 1953 132 failure in career as manager 144 friction with football establishment 27 knighthood 364 playing partnership with Ramsey 63–64 Ramsey's football intelligence 64 unpopular with players 62–63 World Cup 1950 110–111, 114, 200 McClellan, Syd 91, 93, 138, 140 McColl, Graham xi McFarland, Roy 78, 330 club versus country 444–445 Ramsey's dislike of Scots 221 Ramsey's management style 436–437 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 459, 465–466 McGarry, Bill 384 McGivan, Alec 501 McGuinness, Wilf 253 Lilleshall training camp 273, 276–279, 282 World Cup Final 1966 352 McIlroy, Jimmy 184 McIlvanney, Eddie 112 McIlvanney, Hugh xix–xx, xxix Ramsey's changing accent 18 Ramsey's conflict with Moore 285–286 Ramsey's dislike of Scots 223 Ramsey's relationship with media 360–361 views on Moore 228 World Cup 1966 310 World Cup 1970 400, 432 McNab, Bob 408 McWilliam, Peter 80 Meadows, Harry 187 Mears, Brian 469, 472–473 Mears, Joe 209 Medley, Les 80, 138 Mee, Bertie 261–262 Mercer, Joe 302, 367, 383, 432, 493 Merrick, Gil 122, 126–127 Milburn, Jackie appointed Ipswich manager 205, 494 conflict with Ramsey 205–207 England player 122 leaving Ipswich 238 poor management of Ipswich 207–208 Ramsey's aloof personality 353 Ramsey's dedication to football 62 Miller, David 343 Miller, Glenn 241 Miller, Max 110, 167 Millichip, Bert 469, 472 Millward, Doug 22, 49 Millward, Pat Ramsey's alleged elocution lessons 22 Ramsey's reserved personality 48–49 Ramsey's romance with Rita 72 Ramseys' happy marriage 75–76, 78–79 Rita's divorce 72–74 Milne, Gordon 186, 259–260, 281 Milton, Arthur 121 Mitchell, Bobby 115–116, 129 Moore, Bobby 211 1960s' icon 292 accent 18 appointed England captain 216 Byrne's views on Ramsey 255 comparison with Ramsey 228–230 conflict with Ramsey 283–286 contract with West Ham 295 cynicism 229–230 drinking 224–228, 231–232, 284, 436 England playing formation 248 England team spirit 304 European Championship 1968 387 European Championship 1972 438, 445 first impressions of Ramsey 210 funeral 501 glamorous lifestyle 228–229 Hunter as deputy 263 Hurst joining England squad 271 Hurst's playing style 307 irreverent attitude 230–234, 285 Jack Charlton's playing style 249 last game for England 468 mistaken for Flowers 104 Pinewood Studios visit 298–299, 321 playing partnership with Ball 248 playing partnership with Jack Charlton 250 playing style 379 Poland-England 1966 289 Ramsey's alleged Romany background 15 Ramsey's dislike of Scots 221 Ramsey's loyalty to players 435 Ramsey's management style 219, 291, 320 Ramsey's sense of humour 471 Ramsey's team talks 382 Ramsey's testimonial dinner 477–478 problem with players' wives 390 sarcasm 180 South America tour 1969 394 stolen bracelet incident 406–413 support for Greaves 328 testicular cancer 318 tonsillitis 331–332 views on Ramsey 413–414 Winterbottom's conflict with England selectors 200 World Cup 1966 297, 308–309, 357 World Cup Final 1966 336–338, 341–344, 348 World Cup 1970 355, 396, 400, 404, 415–417, 426, 429 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 458–460, 462, 464–465 Moore, Brian 481 Moore, Tina 229–231, 320–321, 412, 424 Moran, Dougie 183, 190 Morley, Robert 298 Mortensen, Stanley 109, 111, 123 Mossop, Jimmy 347 Moynihan, John 267–268, 358 Mudie, Jimmy 130–131 Muller, Gerd 427 Mullery, Alan European Championship 1968 386–387 European Championship 1972 438 Findus food fiasco 405 joining England squad 56 Ramsey's loyalty to players 436 Ramsey's management style 378–379 sending-off incident 373 South America tour 1969 392–394 views on Greaves 256 views on Haynes 215–216 World Cup 1970 397, 407, 417, 426–427 Murray, Bill 34 Nelson, Andy happy atmosphere at Ipswich 178, 181–182 playing in First Division 182–183 primitive facilities at Ipswich 145 Ramsey showing emotion 192 Ramsey's dedication to football xxix Ramsey's football intelligence 170 Ramsey's relationship with Cobbold 150 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 175 signed by Ipswich 170 tough player 190 views on Milburn 208 Netzer, Gunther 445–446 Newton, Keith 281, 396, 414, 420–421 Nicholson, Bill 121 ageing player 129 appointed Spurs coach 142 conflict with Ramsey 134, 139 FA Cup 1953 130 lack of interest in England manager's job 197 learning to combat Ipswich 204 Ramsey's reserved personality 93 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 191–192 Spurs player 79, 83–84, 88 Spurs signing Blanchflower 140 Norman, Maurice 204, 235, 248 Norris, Arthur 72–73 Norris, Rita _see also_ Ramsey, Lady Victoria and Welch, Rita change of name 74–75 divorce 73–74 marriage to Arthur 72 meeting Alf 71–72 Norris, Tanaya ('Tanya') 72, 75, 77–78, 143,169, 184, 348–349, 502 O'Grady, Mike 383–384 O'Neill, Terry 229 Ocwirk, Ernst 119 Odell, Alan 363, 369–370, 419, 451, 474 Onega, Ermindo 308 Osgood, Peter indiscipline 439–440 Ramsey's loyalty to players 435 problem with players' wives 423 sex life 442 stolen bracelet incident 412 World Cup Final 1966 348 World Cup 1970 397–398, 415–417, 420, 431 Overath, Wolfgang 342 Padilla, Clara 406, 411–412 Paine, Terry England playing formation 269 Lilleshall training camp 274, 280–281 World Cup 1966 299–301, 306, 316 World Cup Final 1966 346–347 Paisley, Bob x Parkes, Phil 470 Parkinson, Michael 128–129 Pawson, Tony 163 Peacock, Alan 106 Pearson, Tommy 43 Pejic, Mike 450, 470–472, 474 Pele 237, 308, 393, 417 Pepe 212 Pereira, Ricardo 325 Perry, Bill 130 Peskett, Roy 133 Peters, Cathy 424 Peters, Martin England debut 268–269 European Championships 1972 438 playing style 316–317 Poland-England 1966 288–289 Ramsey's loyalty to players 436 Ramsey's management style 269 problem with players' wives 390 South America tour 1969 392 World Cup 1966 297, 299, 305, 310–311, 331 World Cup Final 1966 338 World Cup 1970 397, 426–427 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 462 Phillips, Dr Neil European Championship 1968 386 FA's poor treatment of staff 370–372 Lilleshall training camp 273–274, 277–278, 282 preparations for 1970 World Cup 394–396 Ramsey alienated from 1970s' values 442 problem with players' wives 390, 423–425 stolen bracelet incident 406, 409, 413 views on Follows World Cup Final 1966 352 World Cup 1970 404–405, 419–421, 426 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 465–466 Phillips, Ted Cobbold's homosexuality 148–149 Duncan's accent 167 happy atmosphere at Ipswich 178–182 injury 162 Ipswich winning League 193 meeting Ramsey 156–157 playing partnership with Crawford 170, 173–176, 204 primitive facilities at Ipswich 146, 185 Ramsey's Alzheimer's disease 500 Ramsey's conflict with Robson 498–499 Ramsey's Dagenham background 17 Ramsey's final illness 502 Ramsey's memorial service xvii Ramsey's relationship with Cobbold 150–151 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 188 striking ability 156–157 team clown 179–181 Pickering, Fred 234–235 Pickett, Reg 170 Pignon, Laurie 377 Powell, Jeff Moore's irreverent attitude 231–232 European Championships 1972 438 Ramsey's relationship with media 356–357, 459–460, 470 problem with players' wives 424–425 stolen bracelet incident 412–413 Poyton, Cecil 80, 136 Prince, Roy 29 Pugh, Griffith 395 Puskas, Ferenc 125–126, 129 Queen Elizabeth II 296, 336 Ramsey, Albert (brother) 7, 401–403 Ramsey, Sir Alf after–dinner speaking 116–117 ageing player 129, 132–133, 139, 142 alienated from 1970s' values 441–443 alleged elocution lessons 20–24, 166–167 alleged Romany background 14–16 Alzheimer's disease 499–502 appointed England captain 116 appointed England manager 197–202 appointed Ipswich manager 143–144 appointed Ipswich secretary-manager 156, 163 appointed Spurs captain 133, 139 appointing Moore England captain 216 Austria-England 1952 121–122 autobiography 3 'Back Home' record 401–403 bad language 258–260 Baily's views on 88–89, 91 Ball's views on 247–248 biographies of xi Birmingham City directorship 483–485 Birmingham City manager 484–487 birth of 2 Brazil tour 1948 58–61 building England's team spirit 276–277 business interests 482 calmness under pressure 333–338 cartoon character 496 changing accent xxvii–xxviii, 18–22 childhood 3–10 club versus country 241–242, 376–377, 443–445 comparison with Ellerington 67 comparison with Moore 228–230 comparison with Winterbottom 106–107 conflict with Blanchflower 140–142 conflict with England selectors 199–200, 209 conflict with Milburn 205–207 conflict with Moore 283–286 conflict with Nicholson 134, 139 conflict with Robson 493–495, 498–499 contradictory personality 349–357 Co-op job 11, 26–27 cricket player 27–28, 51 criticism after World Cup 1970 432–433 criticisms of management style xviii–xx criticized for introducing uninspired playing style 388–389 criticized prior to World Cup 1966 267–268 Czechoslovakia-England 1963 216–217 _Daily Mirror_ column 488–490, 493–494 'Darkie' nickname 14, 16 death of 502–503 debate over Greaves 328–330 dedication to football xxix–xxxi, 43–46, 178, 202 dislike of Dagenham background 16–18 dislike of 'individualistic' players 439–440 dislike of publicity 228–229 dislike of Scots 107, 220–223, 382, 384, 402–403, 455, 485 dislike of South Americans 311–312, 392–393, 404–406 Ditchburn's views on 90 dropped by Spurs 142–143 end of England playing career 127, 132 England-Argentina 1951 119 England-Austria 1951 119–121 England B debut 57 England-Brazil 1963 211–212 England debut 63–64 England drinking culture 224–227, 232 England-Hungary 1953 126–127 England-Italy 1949 99–100 England playing formation 213–214, 242–246, 254, 260–265, 304–305, 314, 316–317, 446 England-Rest of Europe 1953 122–124 England-Scotland 1963 211 England shirt sponsorship 468 England team spirit 290–291 European Championship 1968 386–387 European Championship 1972 436–438, 444–448 European tour 1966 285–290 FA Cup 1953 130–132 FA pension 477, 479, 488, 501 fair play 189 family life 362–363 FIFA identity cards 296 film fan _25–16,_ 92, 322–323 Findus food fiasco 404–405 Finney's view's on 100–101 first game as professional 34–35 first League goal 86–87 first League match 33 football intelligence 54–55, 115–116, 118, 135–136, 176 football memorabilia 504 football skills 117–119 football spectator 482–483 forgetfulness over names 489–490 France-England 1963 208–211 friction with football establishment xxiv, 15, 27, 302–303, 311–312, 370–373, 375–377, 392, 450–453, 466–468, 492–493 gambling 7, 49–50, 92 happy atmosphere at Ipswich 178–182 happy marriage 75–76 holidays 363 housework 76 improving as player 54–55 Ipswich house 169 Ipswich winning League Championship 19, 193–194 Ipswich winning Third Division 160–161 Ipswich's Germany tour 204 Italy/Switzerland tour 1948 56–58 jealousy of successors 208 jellied eels 172 joining Spurs 79 kindness 490–491 knee injury 64–65 knighthood xxvii, 3, 364–365 lack of public recognition xvii–xviii, xxii lack of social pretension xxviii–xxix lifestyle as Spurs player 90–92 Lilleshall training camp 272–282 Little World Cup 1964 234–238, 244 logistical errors 418–419 loyalty to Ipswich 199, 205 loyalty to players 434–435, 438–439 Majorca holiday 184 management style 213–214, 216–217, 227–228, 234–237, 245–246, 250–251, 253–254, 271, 291, 319–324, 378–384, 399–400, 454–455, 470–471 management track record x marriage to Rita 73 medical support for England squad 394–396 meeting Rita 71–72 memorial service xv Milburn appointed Ipswich manager 205 military service 28–37 modesty 366–367 modesty xv, 503 Montreal trip 1967 384–385 Moore's irreverent attitude 230–234 Moore's views on 413–414 move to right-back 38–39 office routine 367–369 Panathinaikos adviser 487 personal qualities ix, xvi pet dog 363 Pinewood Studios visit 298–299 players' affection for 177–178 playing partnership with Lofthouse 117–118,120 playing partnership with Rochford 67–68 poor quality of Ipswich team 151–153 predictions of winning 1966 World Cup 218, 246, 282 primitive facilities at Ipswich 145–146 privacy 361–362 public acclamation 491–492 recruiting Hurst into England squad 270–271 recruiting Jack Charlton into England squad 248–250 recruiting Stiles into England squad 252–253 rejoining Southampton 36–38 relationship with Cobbold 149–151 relationship with media xxiii–xxiv, 60–61, 165–166, 202–203, 264–265, 314–315, 344–345, 349, 354–361, 369–370, 405–408, 448–449, 456–461, 470 relationship with Rowe 90 requesting transfer from Southampton _65–69_ reserved personality 46–49, 92–94, 100, 176–177 retirement 496–503 revolutionary playing strategy 172–176, 187–188 Rita's divorce 72–74 problem with players' wives 390–391, 425 Rowe's views on 81–82, 87 rumours of coaching career 132–133 sacked as England manager xx–xxi, 468–469, 472–477 salary as England manager 201 Scotland-England 1972 455 scouted by Portsmouth 26–27 selected for England squad _55–56_ selecting World Cup 1966 squad 280–282 selecting World Cup 1970 squad 396–400 selection methods 374–375 self-improvement 23–24 self-opinionated 88–90 sense of humour 434, 471–472 sensitivity to criticism 158–159 severe public image ix, xxii–xxiii shy personality x–xi, xxiii, xxvi signed as amateur by Southampton 31–33 signed by Southampton 34 signed by Spurs 68–70 signing Bailey 155 smoking 164–165 snubbed by football establishment xvii–xviii, 501–502, 504 social insecurity xxv–xxvii, 13–14 South America tour 1969 391–394 Southampton signing-on fee 37–38 Spain-England 1965 257, 259–265 speedway enthusiast 50–51 Spurs signing Blanchflower 140–141 Spurs' playing style 83–86, _95–96_ Stiles's hard tackling 301–303 stolen bracelet incident 406–413 strengthening Ipswich squad 156–157, 168, 170–171, 183 support for Hurst 287 support for Stiles xvi, xix, 189–190, 303–304, 308, 312, 323 support for young players 136–138 switching Bobby Charlton's position 239–240 switching Leadbetter's position 154–155 'tapping up' players 190, 229 team talks 236, 339–341, 379–380, 447–448 testimonial dinner 477–478 training regime at Ipswich 153, 157, 159–160, 169–170 transfer fee 70 TV analyst 480–482 unromantic nature 76–77 vagueness about date of birth 3 views on Banks 212 views on Leadbetter 174 views on Rochford 41 views on Winterbottom 104–105 weaknesses in game 128–130 World Cup 1950 108–114 World Cup 1966 296–348 World Cup Final 1966 ix, 335–348 World Cup 1970 390–391, 403–432 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 456–466 World Cup bonus 362 xenophobia 59 youth football 8–13 Ramsey, Cyril (brother) 7, 13, 16 Ramsey, Florence (mother) 5–6, 9, 366, 499 Ramsey, Herbert (father) 5–6, 9 Ramsey, Joyce (sister) 7 Ramsey, Lady Victoria (wife) _see also_ Norris, Rita and Welch, Rita Alf sacked as England manager 475–476 Alf snubbed by football establishment 501–502, 504 Alf's alleged Romany background 16 Alf's Alzheimer's disease 499–500 Alf's bad language 258 Alf's dislike of publicity 228–229 Alf's football memorabilia 504 Alf's job in Africa 143 Alf's knighthood 364 Alf's memorial service xvi Alf's privacy 361 Alf's relationship with media 360 Alf's retirement 230, 487–488, 496–498 Alf's unromantic nature 76–77 change of name 74–75 death of Alf 502–503 family life 362–363 film fan 92 football spectator 482–483 happy marriage xxx, 75–76, 78–79 Ipswich house 169 Majorca holiday 184 personal privacy xxvi poor quality of Ipswich team 152 reserved personality 93–94 World Cup Final 1966 347–350 World Cup 1970 391 Ramsey, Len (brother) 7, 9 Rattin, Antonio 237, 309–310, 312 Reaney, Paul 437–438 Reed, Oliver 224 Revie, Don club versus country 376, 443 England manager 372, 477, 479, 493 Leeds manager 249, 318 management style 263, 383 World Cup 1970 420–421 Reynolds, Ron 77, 129–130 Ramsey dropped by Spurs 142 Ramsey's conflict with Nicholson 134, 139 Ramsey's reserved personality 93 Spurs' playing style 85–86 'tapped up' by Ramsey 190, 229 Richard, Sir Cliff 292, 401 Richards, Joe 209 Robb, George 96–97, 133, 144 Robbins, Beattie 13 Robertson, John 398 Robson, Sir Bobby 360 Cobbold's eccentricities 147–148 conflict with Ramsey 208, 493–495, 498 management track record x outgoing personality xi PR role 164 Ramsey's final illness 502–503 supported by Cobbold 151 views on Winterbottom 104 Rochford, Bill 40–41, 54, 60, 66–68 Roger, Jimmy 223 Roles, Albie 67 Roper, Don 33 Rous, Sir Stanley 102, 174, 197, 200 Rowe, Arthur appointed Spurs manager 69 declining influence at Spurs 139–140 ill health 139, 142 London accent 167 management techniques 79–84 Ramsey appointed England manager 202 Ramsey appointed Spurs captain 133–134 Ramsey's dedication to football 202 Ramsey's marriage 73 Ramsey's support for young players 136–138 relationship with Ramsey 90 revolutionary playing style 172 signing Ramsey 69–70, 79 Spurs' playing style 83–86, _95–96_ views on Ramsey 81–82, 87 Rowley, Arthur 36 Royle, Joe 447–450, 453 Rushbrook, Joyce 366 Sadler, David 408, 422 Saldanha, Joao 286, 411 Sambrook, Douglas 292 Sarjantson, Jack 32–36 Schoen, Helmut 328, 335, 405, 428 Schulz, Willi 335 Scott, Laurie 63 Scovell, Brian 149 Seed, Jimmy 156 Seeler, Uwe 335 Senekowitsch, Helmut 487 Senior, Alfonso 410 Sexton, Dave 426, 442 Shankly, Bill x, 186, 258, 266, 281 Shaw, Ned 143 Shaw, Sandie 401–402 Shepherdson, Harold 233, 236, 307, 469 debate over Greaves 327, 329–330 England playing formation 262 FIFA identity cards 296 Lilleshall training camp 272–274, 278, 280 long service award _465–466_ Montreal trip 1967 385 Moore's tonsillitis 331 players' drinking incident 226 Ramsey as film fan 322 Ramsey's dislike of 'individualistic' players 440 Ramsey's relationship with media 315 problem with players' wives 390 World Cup 1966 308, 310 World Cup Final 1966 xxiii, 339, 343 World Cup 1970 404, 419, 422 Shilton, Peter 443, 447, 451, 453 admiration for Ramsey xxv dropped from World Cup 1970 squad 408 World Cup 1970 399–400 World Cup 1974 qualifiers 458–459, 462–464 Shipman, Len 370, 376, 469, 472–473, 476 Short, Joe 169 Simon, Jacques xvi, 301 Sinatra, Frank 503 Skinner, Gladys 6 Sloan, Tommy 12 Smith, Bobby 307 Smith, Jim 487 Smith, Tommy 444 Snow, Alfred 8–9 Southampton FC 1944–1945 season 34–35 1945–1946 season 35–36 1946–1947 season 40–45 1947–1948 season 46, 54–55 1948–1949 season 62–69 Brazil tour 1948 58–61 Ramsey leaving club _65–69_ signing Ramsey as amateur 31–33 signing Ramsey as professional 34 Souza, Ed 113 Speight, Ed 22, 85, 140 Speight, Johnny 359 Springett, Ron 209–211, 321 Stamp, Terence 292 Stanley, Ken 402 Steel, Eric 206 Steen, Rob 267 Stephen, Sir Andrew 372, 386–387, 413, 435–436, 469, 472–473, 476 Stephenson, Clem 82 Stephenson, Roy 171, 173–175, 191 Stepney, Alex 420, 425–426 Stewart, Jackie 64 Stewart, Jimmy 241 Stiles, Kay 350 Stiles, Nobby admiration for Ramsey xxi character of England players 318–319 club versus country 376 England playing formation 254, 260, 268, 304–306 hard tackling xvi, 252–253, 301–303, 387 Lilleshall training camp 274–276, 278–280 playing partnership with Bobby Charlton 311 Ramsey's friction with football establishment 373 Ramsey's memorial service xv Ramsey's relationship with media 315 replaced by Mullery in England squad 378 support from Ramsey xvi, xix, 189–190, 303–304, 308, 312, 323 views on Hunt 258 views on Ramsey 253–254 World Cup 1966 299, 301, 306, 308–310, 324–326, 331 World Cup Final 1966 340, 342, 345, 350 World Cup 1970 397, 400, 425 Storer, Harry 27, 150 Storey, Peter 442–443, 446 Storey-Moore, Ian 398–399 Summerbee, Mike xxii, 382, 447 Swan, Peter 197 Swift, Frank 56, 57 Tambling, Bobby 269, 281 Taylor, Elizabeth 229 Taylor, Gordon xviii Temple, Derek 245, 358 Thatcher, Lady Margaret 451 Thompson, John 110 Thompson, Peter club versus country 242–243 dropped from World Cup 1966 squad 281–282 dropped from World Cup 1970 squad 408 new boots 386 Ramsey's management style 266 stolen bracelet incident 412 views on Jack Charlton 251–252 World Cup 1970 399, 404 Thompson, Professor Sir Harold xxiv–xxv, 15, 451–453, 466–467, 469, 472–473 Tibble, Fred 4, 14 Tilkowski, Hans 337 Todd, Colin 447 Tomaszewski, Jan 462–464 Tomlinson, Barrie 496 Tottenham Hotspur 1949–1950 season 84–88 1950–1951 season 95–98 1951–1952 season 129 1952–1953 season 129–132 1953–1954 season 129 1954–1955 season 139, 142 1960–1961 season 140 happy atmosphere 88 playing style 83–86, 95–96 Ramsey appointed captain 133 Ramsey joining team 79 Ramsey leaving club 142–143 Rowe's training techniques 79–80 signing Blanchflower 140 signing Ramsey 68–70 Townsend, Len 30 Toye, Clive 349 Trivic, Milan 387 Trotter, Jimmy 56 Tully, Charlie 122 Tyler, Martin 480–481 Ufton, Derek 123–124 Uphill, Denis 22, 84, 134, 138–139 Venables, Terry 16–18, 239, 242 Villalonga, Jose 261 Vogts, Berti 266 Wade, Allen 374 Wade, Allen 479 Waggles, Charlie 7 Waiters, Tony xxviii, 235–237, 239 Walker, David 293 Walker, Des 489 Wallace, Frank 113 Walters, Sonny 83 Warhurst, Sam 69 Watson, Dave 470 Wayne, John 322–323 Weber, Wolfgang 339 Welch, Rita 72–73 _see also_ Norris, Rita and Ramsey, Lady Victoria Welch, William 71 Werneck, Jose 359 West, Gordon 383 Wilkes, John 246 Williams, Bert 99, 109–113 Williams, Michael 201 Wilson, Charlie 449 Wilson, Ray abolition of maximum wage 183–184 affinity with Ramsey 441 drinking incident 225–227 England playing formation 248, 265, 266, 289–290, 316–317 injury 396 Lilleshall training camp 277 minder for Bobby Charlton 254 Montreal trip 1967 385 Pinewood Studios visit 298 playing style 316 Ramsey's management style 213, 227 Ramsey's predictions of winning World Cup 218 Ramsey's revolutionary strategy 187–188 relationship with media 315 retirement from international football 377 Stiles's views on 318–319 World Cup 1966 298, 300–301, 308, 310, 314 World Cup Final 1966 337, 339 Wilson, Sir Harold 166, 346–347, 477 Winterbottom, Walter conflict with England selectors 200, 209 Crawford's views on 188–189 England coaching job 209 England playing formation 214, 243 England-Austria 1951 121 England-Hungary 1953 124, 126 England-Rest of Europe 1953 123 involved in football development 374 lack of respect from players 105–106 management style 213–214, 216, 218–219, 227, 253, 258 Ramsey appointed England manager 198–199 Ramsey appointed Ipswich manager 144 Ramsey's football skills 118 Ramsey's sensitivity to criticism 159 relationship with media 202–203, 315 resigning as England manager 196–198 revolutionary techniques 104–105 salary as England manager 201 World Cup 1950 108–111, 114 Wisdom, Norman 298 Wolstenholme, Kenneth 204, 302, 311, 329 Wooldridge, Ian 438–439 World Cup 1950 107–114 1962 196–197 1966 296–348 1970 390–391, 403–430 1974 qualifiers 456–466 Worthington, Frank 443 Wragg, Dick 370, 453, 469, 472 Wright, Billy complacency about English football 124 dropped from England squad 116 England-Austria 1951 120–121 England-Hungary 1953 125–126 England-Italy 1949 99 England-Rest of Europe 1953 123 failure in career as manager 144 Italy/Switzerland tour 1948 56 lack of interest in England manager's job 197 Ramsey's dedication to football 117 Ramsey's football intelligence 64, 115 views on Matthews 63 World Cup 1950 111–113 Wright, Tommy 396–397 Zsolt, Istvan 295–296 # Praise 'McKinstry shows a phenomenal capacity for inquiry and a tireless pursuit of relevant witnesses' _Sunday Times_ 'An absorbing read' _Yorkshire Evening Post_ 'Magnificent...an eloquent and empathetic book. McKinstry cleverly shows, with acute social insight, how football had a powerful cultural significance...the final sections of the book acquire the elements of genuine tragedy' _Glasgow Herald_ 'Excellent' _When Saturday Comes_ 'McKinstry's powerful book may be the first step in Ramsey's rehabilitation' _Daily Telegraph_ 'Delivers the goods...McKinstry's great merit is his ability to debunk some of the myths surrounding Ramsey' _Spectator_ 'This masterful biography gets under the skin of Sir Alf' _Birmingham Evening Mail_ 'The first truly comprehensive biography of England's greatest manager' _Irish News_ 'This is no hagiography...McKinstry has more than done justice to Sir Alf' _FourFourTwo_ 'A timely portrait of a unique figure' _Manchester Evening News_ 'A thrilling and tortured drama played out in increasingly exotic locations' _Daily Mail_ 'A splendid biography of England's greatest manager' _Daily Telegraph_ # Copyright First published in hardback in 2006 by HarperSport an imprint of HarperCollins _Publisbers_ London First published in paperback in 2007 © Leo McKinstry 2006 FIRST EDITION All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. EPub Edition © MARCH 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-37117-4 The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library The HarperCollins website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk # About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au Canada HarperCollins Canada 2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com	{'title': 'Sir Alf - Leo McKinstry'}
Private Arrangements CONTENTS Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Chapter Twenty-four Chapter Twenty-five Chapter Twenty-six Chapter Twenty-seven Chapter Twenty-eight Chapter Twenty-nine About The Author Preview for Delicious Copyright For my mother. There are few joys in life greater than that of having you as my mother To the memory of my grandfather. I will always miss you. And to the memory of my grandmother, for loving books as much as I did. Private Arrangements Acknowledgments Because I'm sure to forget someone, if you are reading this now, let me say thank you. Thank you for everything. Now on to specifics. Miss Snark, for her unqualified recommendation of Kristin Nelson via her snarkalicious—and much lamented—blog. Kristin Nelson, for living up to every last one of those recommendations and then some. Sara Megibow, for being the first person besides myself to read this book, and emailing Kristin late at night telling her she'd better get reading too. Caitlin Alexander, my editor and Fairy Godmother— for making me feel like Cinderella. Everyone at Bantam, for treating me so well and publishing me so beautifully. All my friends, classmates, and professors at the UT MPA program. It was a great year and I think of you with such fondness—in particular, Professor Fabio, who should have graced my cover. Everyone at the Harrington Fellowship program, for everything. And putting my picture in the _New York Times_ on top of it. All my friends and sisters from Austin RWA. You guys are the best. Janine, Jane, and Sybil. Bloggers rock. Sue Yuen—for her excellent advice on _Schemes of Love_ and for all the good times. Mary Balogh, Jane Feather, and Eloisa James—for their generous praises. I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you and the honor of cleaning your houses. My husband and sons, three of the cutest and kindest men in the world under one roof. The wonderful family I married in to, everyone unfailingly supportive of my dreams, especially my grandfather-in-law, who backed up his prayers for my eventual publication with donations to that effect. You see, Appachen, it has come true. Chapter One _London 8 May 1893_ Only one kind of marriage ever bore Society's stamp of approval. Happy marriages were considered vulgar, as matrimonial felicity rarely kept longer than a well-boiled pudding. Unhappy marriages were, of course, even more vulgar, on a par with Mrs. Jeffries's special contraption that spanked forty bottoms at once: unspeakable, for half of the upper crust had experienced it firsthand. No, the only kind of marriage that held up to life's vicissitudes was the courteous marriage. And it was widely recognized that Lord and Lady Tremaine had the most courteous marriage of them all. In the ten years since their wedding, neither of them had ever uttered an unkind word about the other, not to parents, siblings, bosom friends, or strangers. Moreover, as their servants could attest, they never had spats, big or small; never embarrassed each other; never, in fact, disagreed on anything at all. However, every year some cheeky debutante fresh from the schoolroom would point out—as if it weren't common knowledge—that Lord and Lady Tremaine lived on separate continents and had not been seen together since the day after their wedding. Her elders would shake their heads. Foolish young girl. Wait 'til she heard about her beau's piece on the side. Or fell out of love with the man she married. Then she'd understand what a wonderful arrangement the Tremaines had: civility, distance, and freedom from the very beginning, unencumbered by tiresome emotions. Indeed, it was the most perfect marriage. Therefore, when Lady Tremaine filed for divorce on grounds of Lord Tremaine's adultery and desertion, chins collided with dinner plates throughout London's most pedigreed dining rooms. Ten days later, as news circulated of Lord Tremaine's arrival on English soil for the first time in a decade, the same falling jaws dented many an expensive carpet from the heart of Persia. The story of what happened next spread like a well-fed gut. It went something tantalizingly like this: A summons came at the Tremaine town house on Park Lane. Goodman, Lady Tremaine's faithful butler, answered the bell. On the other side of the door stood a stranger, one of the most remarkable-looking gentlemen Goodman had ever come across—tall, handsome, powerfully built, an imposing presence. "Good afternoon, sir," Goodman said placidly. A representative of the Marchioness of Tremaine, however impressed, neither gawked nor gushed. He expected to be offered a calling card and a reason for the call. Instead, he was handed the gentleman's headgear. Startled, he let go of his hold on the doorknob and took the satin-trimmed top hat. In that instant, the man walked past him into the vestibule. Without a backward glance or an explanation for this act of intrusion, he began pulling off his gloves. "Sir," Goodman huffed. "You do not have permission from the lady of the house to enter." The man turned around and shot Goodman a glance that, to the butler's shame, made him want to curl up and whimper. "Is this not the Tremaine residence?" "It is, sir." The reiteration of _sir_ escaped Goodman, though he hadn't intended for it to happen. "Then kindly inform me, since when does the master of the house require permission from the lady to enter into his own domain?" The man held his gloves together in his right hand and slapped them quietly against the palm of his left, as if toying with a riding crop. Goodman didn't understand. His employer was the Queen Elizabeth of her time: one mistress and no master. Then the horror dawned. The man before him was the Marquess of Tremaine, the marchioness's long-absent, good-as-dead husband and heir to the Duke of Fairford. "I do beg your pardon, sir." Goodman held on to his professional calm and took Lord Tremaine's gloves, though he was suddenly perspiring. "We have had no notice of your arrival. I shall have your chambers prepared immediately. May I offer you some refreshments in the meanwhile?" "You may. And you may see to the unloading of my luggage," said Lord Tremaine. "Is Lady Tremaine at home?" Goodman could not detect any unusual inflection in Lord Tremaine's tone. It was as if he had simply come in from an afternoon snooze at his club. After ten years! "Lady Tremaine is taking a constitutional in the park, sir." Lord Tremaine nodded. "Very good." Goodman instinctively trotted after him, the way he'd trail a feral beast if it happened to have made it past the front door. It was only half a minute later, as Lord Tremaine turned about and raised a brow, that Goodman realized he had already been dismissed. Something about his wife's town house disturbed Lord Tremaine. It was surprisingly elegant. He had half-expected to see the kind of interior he'd become accustomed to in the houses of his neighbors on lower Fifth Avenue: grandiose, gilded, aiming only to recall the last days of Versailles. She had a few chairs from that era, but they had held their share of velvet-clad bottoms and looked comfortable rather than luxurious. Neither did he encounter the heavy sideboards and unchecked proliferation of bric-a-brac that were firmly associated, in his mind, with English homes. If anything, her residence bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain villa in Turin, at the foot of the Italian Alps, in which he had spent a few happy weeks during his youth—a house with wallpapers of soft antique gold and muted aquamarine, faience pots of orchids atop slender wrought-iron stands, and durable, well-made furniture from the previous century. During an entire boyhood of decamping from one domicile to the next, the villa had been the only place, other than his grandfather's estate, where he'd felt at home. He had loved its brightness, its uncluttered comfort, and its abundance of indoor plants, their breath moist and herbaceous. He was inclined to dismiss the echoing similarity between the two houses as a coincidence until his attention shifted to the paintings that adorned the walls of her drawing room. Between the Rubens, the Titian, and the ancestral portraits that occupied disproportionate acreage on English walls, she had hung pieces by the very same modern artists whose works he displayed in his own town house in Manhattan: Sisley, Morisot, Cassatt, and Monet, whose output had been infamously likened to unfinished wallpaper. His pulse quickened in alarm. Her dining room featured more Monets and two Degases. Her gallery made it look as though she had bought an entire Impressionist exhibit: Renoir, Cézanne, Seurat, and artists no one had ever heard of outside the most gossipy circles of the Parisian art world. He stopped midway down the gallery, suddenly unable to go on. She had furnished this house to be a fantasy-come-true for the boy he had been when he married her, the boy who must have mentioned, during their long hours of rapt conversation, something of his preference for understated houses and his love of modern art. He remembered her spellbound concentration, her soft questions, her burning interest in everything about him. Was the divorce but a new ruse, then? A cleverly sprung trap to re-ensnare him when all else had failed? Would he find her perfumed and naked on his bed when he threw open the door to his bedchamber? He located the master's apartment and threw open the door. There was no her, naked or otherwise, on his bed. There was no bed. And nothing else either. The bedchamber was as vast and empty as the American West. The carpet no longer showed depressed spots where chair legs and bedposts had once stood. The walls betrayed no telltale rectangles of recently removed pictures. Thick layers of dust had settled on floor and windowsills. The room had stood vacant for years. For no reason at all, he felt as if the breath had been kicked out of his lungs. The sitting room of the master's apartment was sparkling clean and fully equipped—tuft-backed reading chairs, shelves laden with well-read books wrinkled at the spines, a writing desk freshly supplied with ink and paper, even a pot of amaranth in bloom. It made the void of the bedchamber all the more pointed, a barbed symbol. The house might have been, once upon a time, designed with the single-minded goal of luring him back. But that was a different decade—another age altogether. He had since been eviscerated from her existence. He was still standing in the doorway, staring into the empty bedchamber, when the butler arrived, two footmen and a large portmanteau in tow. The nothingness of the chamber made the butler blush an extraordinary pink. "It will take us only an hour, sir, to air the chamber and restore the furnishing." He almost told the butler not to bestir himself, to let the bedchamber remain stark and barren. But that would have said too much. So he only nodded. "Excellent." The prototype of the new stamping machine Lady Tremaine had ordered for her factory in Leicestershire refused to live up to its promise. The negotiation with the shipbuilder in Liverpool dragged on most unsatisfactorily. And she had yet to answer any of the letters from her mother—ten in all, one for each day since she'd petitioned for divorce—in which Mrs. Rowland questioned her sanity outright and fell just short of comparing her intelligence to that of a leg of ham. But that was all expected. What made her head pound was the telegram from Mrs. Rowland three hours ago: _Tremaine came ashore at Southampton this morning._ No matter how she tried to explain it to Freddie as something par for the course— _There are papers to sign and settlements to be negotiated, darling. He has to come back at some point—_ Tremaine's arrival portended only trouble. Her husband. In England. Closer than he had been in a decade, except for that miserable incident in Copenhagen, back in '88. "I need Broyton to come in tomorrow morning to look at some accounts for me," she said to Goodman, handing over her shawl, her hat, and her gloves as she entered the town house and walked toward the library. "Kindly request Miss Etoile's presence for some dictations. And tell Edie that I will wear the cream velvet tonight, instead of the amethyst silk." "Madam—" "I almost forgot. I saw Lord Sutcliffe this morning. His secretary has given notice. I recommended your nephew. Have him present himself at Lord Sutcliffe's house tomorrow morning at ten. Tell him that Lord Sutcliffe prefers a man of sincerity and few words." "That is too kind of you, madam!" Goodman exclaimed. "He's a promising young man." She stopped before the library door. "On second thought, have Miss Etoile come in twenty minutes. And make sure no one disturbs me until then." "But your ladyship, his lordship—" "His lordship will not be taking tea with me today." She pushed the door open and realized Goodman was still there, hovering. She turned halfway and glanced at him. The butler wore a constipated expression. "What is it, Goodman? The back troubling you again?" "No, madam, it's not. It's—" "It's me," said a voice from inside the library. Her husband's voice. For a long, stunned moment, all she could think was how glad she was that she had not invited Freddie home with her today, as she often did after an afternoon walk together. Then she could not think of anything at all. Her headache faded, replaced by a mad rush of blood to her head. She was hot, then cold. The air about her turned thick as pea soup, fine for gulping but impossible to inhale. Vaguely, she nodded at Goodman. "You may return to your duties." Goodman hesitated. Did he fear for her? She entered the library and let the heavy oak door close behind her, shutting out curious eyes and ears, shutting out the rest of the world. The windows of her library faced west, for a view of the park. The still-intense sunlight cascaded through clear glass panes at an oblique angle and landed in perfect rectangles of warm clarity on her Samarkand carpet, with its poppies and pomegranates on a field of rose and ivory. Tremaine stood just beyond the direct light, his hands braced against the mahogany desk behind him, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He should be a figure in relative obscurity, not particularly visible. Yet she saw him all too clearly, as if Michelangelo's Adam had leapt off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, robbed a Savile Row bespoke tailor, and come to make trouble. She caught herself. She was staring, as if she was still that nineteen-year-old girl, devoid of depth but full of herself. "Hullo, Camden." "Hullo, Gigi." She had allowed no man to call her by that childhood pet name since his departure. Forcing herself away from the door, she crossed the length of the library, the carpet beneath her feet too soft, a quagmire. She marched right up to him, to show that she did not fear him. But she did. He held powers over her, powers far beyond those conferred by mere laws. Even though she was a tall woman, she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. His eyes were a dark, dark green, like malachite from the Urals. She inhaled his subtle scent of sandalwood and citrus, the aroma she had once equated with happiness. "Are you here to grant me the divorce or to be a nuisance?" She got to the point right away. Trouble that was not confronted head-on always circled around to bite one in the bum. He shrugged. He had taken off his day coat and his necktie. Her gaze lingered one second too long on the golden skin at the base of his neck. His shirt of fine cambric draped over him lovingly, caressing his wide shoulders and long arms. "I'm here to set conditions." "What do you mean, conditions?" "An heir. You produce an heir and I will allow the divorce to proceed. Otherwise I will name parties to _your_ adultery. You do know that you cannot divorce me on grounds of adultery if you happen to have committed the same sin, don't you?" Her ears rang. "Surely you jest. You want an _heir_ from me? _Now?"_ "I couldn't stand the thought of bedding you before now." "Really?" She laughed, though she'd have preferred to smash an inkwell against his temple. "You liked it well enough last time." "The performance of a lifetime," he said easily. "And I was a good thespian to begin with." Pain erupted inside her, corrosive, debilitating pain she'd thought she'd never feel again. She groped for mastery and shoved the subject away from where she was most vulnerable. "Empty threats. I have not been intimate with Lord Frederick." "How chaste of you. I speak of Lord Wrenworth, Lord Acton, and the Honorable Mr. Williams." She sucked in a breath. How did he know? She'd been ever so careful, ever so discreet. "Your mother wrote me." He watched her, evidently enjoying her mounting dismay. "Of course, she only wished for me to fly into a jealous rage and hurry across the ocean to reclaim you as my own. I'm sure you will forgive her." If there ever existed extenuating circumstances for matricide, this was it. First thing tomorrow, she'd set loose two dozen famished goats in Mrs. Rowland's prized greenhouse. Then she'd corner the market on hair dyes and force the woman to show her graying roots. "You have a choice," he said amicably. "We can resolve it privately. Or we can have sworn testimonies from these gentlemen. You know every word they utter would be in all the papers." She blanched. Freddie was her very own human miracle, steadfast and loyal, loving her enough to willingly take part in all the hassle and ugliness of a divorce. But would he still love her when all her former lovers had testified to their affairs on public record? "Why are you doing this?" Her voice rose. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Any emotion she displayed before Tremaine was a show of weakness. "I had my solicitors send you a dozen letters. You never responded. We could have had this marriage annulled with some dignity, without having to go through this circus." "And here I thought my lack of response adequately conveyed what I thought of your idea." "I offered you one hundred thousand pounds!" "I'm worth twenty times that. But even if I hadn't a sou, that's not quite enough for me to stand before Her Majesty's magistrate and swear that I never touched you. We both know perfectly well that I shagged you to a fare-thee-well." She flinched and grew hot. Unfortunately, not entirely from anger. The memories of that night—no, she would not think about it. She had forgotten it already. "This is about Miss von Schweppenburg, isn't it? You are still trying to punish me." He gave her one of his cool stares that used to turn her knees to pudding. "Now, why would you think that?" And what could she say? What could she say without dragging up their entire complicated and bitter history? She swallowed. "Fine," she said, as indifferently as she could. "I have an evening engagement to keep. But I should be home about ten. I can permit you a quarter hour from half past ten." He laughed. "As impatient as always, my dear marchioness. No, tonight I will not be visiting you. I'm weary from my travels. And now that I've seen you, I'll need a few more days to get over my revulsion. But rest assured, I shall not be bound by any asinine time limits. I will stay in your bed for as long as I want, not a minute less—and not a minute more, no matter how you plead." Her jaw dropped from sheer stupefaction. "That is the most rid—" He suddenly leaned toward her and placed an index finger over her lips. "I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. You will not enjoy eating those words." She jerked her head away, her lips burning. "I would not want you to remain in my bed if you were the last man alive and I'd had nothing but Spanish flies for a fortnight." "What images you bring to mind, my lady Tremaine. With every man in the world perfectly alive and no aphrodisiacs at all, you were already a tigress." He pushed away from the desk. "I've had all I can take of you for a day. I wish you a pleasant evening. Do convey my regards to your beloved. I hope he doesn't mind my exercises in conjugal rights." He left without a backward glance. And not for the first time. Lady Tremaine watched the door closing behind her husband and rued the day she first learned of his existence. Chapter Two _Eleven years earlier . . . London July 1882_ Eighteen-year-old Gigi Rowland gloated. She hoped she wasn't too obvious, but then, she didn't really care. What could the bejeweled, beplumed women in Lady Beckwith's drawing room possibly say? That she lacked becoming modesty? That she was hard-edged and arrogant? That she reeked of pound notes? They had predicted, at the beginning of her London season, that she would be an unqualified disaster, a girl with no class, no comportment, no clue. But lo and behold, only two months into the season and she was already engaged—to a _duke,_ a young, handsome one no less. _Her Grace the Duchess of Fairford._ She liked the sound of it. She liked it tremendously. The same women who had scorned her had been forced to stand before her and offer their felicitations. Yes, the wedding date had been set—in November, just after her birthday. And, yes, thank you, she already had her first consultation at Madame Elise's for the wedding gown. She'd chosen a lush cream satin, with a twelve-foot train to be made of silver moiré. Secure in her soon-to-be exalted status, Gigi settled deeper into the bergère chair and snapped open her fan as other, fiancéless debutantes prepared to entertain the ladies with their musical skills—Lord Beckwith being notoriously lengthy with his postdinner cordials and cigars, sometimes keeping the gentlemen for more than three hours. Gigi turned her attention to more important matters. Should she do something fantastical with the cake, have it done in the shape of the Taj Mahal or the Doge's Palace? No? Then she'd have the layers made in an unusual shape. Hexagons? Excellent. A hexagonal cake covered in gleaming royal fondant icing, with garlands of— The music. She looked up in surprise. The performances usually ranged from acceptable to execrable. But the creamy, exquisite young woman at the bench was as adept as the professional musicians Gigi's mother sometimes engaged. Her fingers glided across the piano keys like swallows over a summer pond. Crystalline, sumptuous notes caressed the ears the way a good dish of crème brûlée caressed the tongue. Theodora von Schweppenburg. That was her name. They'd been introduced just before dinner. She was new to London, from a minor principality on the Continent, the daughter of a count, by right a countess herself—but it was one of those Holy Roman Empire titles that went on to all descendants, so it meant little. The performance ended, and a few minutes later Gigi was surprised to find Miss von Schweppenburg at her side. "Many congratulations on your engagement, Miss Rowland." Miss von Schweppenburg spoke with a light, pleasing accent. She smelled of attar of rose underpinned with patchouli. "Thank you, _Fräulein."_ "My mother would like me to do the same," Miss von Schweppenburg said with a small, self-conscious laugh, sitting down on a straight-back chair next to Gigi. "She has ordered me to ask you how you accomplished it." "It is simple," Gigi answered, with practiced nonchalance. "His Grace is in financial straits, and I have a fortune." It was less simple than that. Rather, it had been a campaign years in the making, waged from the very second Mrs. Rowland at last inculcated in Gigi that it was both her duty and her destiny to become a duchess. Miss von Schweppenburg would not be able to duplicate Gigi's success. Nor would Gigi herself. She knew of no other marriageable duke with such overwhelming arrears that he'd be willing to marry a girl whose only claim to gentility was her mother, a country squire's daughter. Miss von Schweppenburg's eyes lowered. "Oh," she murmured, turning the handle of her lace fan round and round within her palms. "I don't have a fortune." Gigi had guessed as much. There was a sadness to her, the somber melancholy of a high-born woman who could only afford to have a parlor maid come in every other day, who moved in the dark after sunset to save on candle wax. "But you are beautiful," Gigi pointed out. Though long in the tooth, she thought, at least twenty-one or twenty-two. "Men like beautiful women." "I don't do it very well, this . . . beautiful woman undertaking." That, Gigi had seen for herself already. At dinner Miss von Schweppenburg had been seated between two eligible young peers, both of whom had been piqued by her beauty and her shyness. But there'd been something glum about her reticence. She'd paid scant attention to either man and, after a while, they'd noticed. "You need more practice," said Gigi. The girl was silent. She drew the tip of her fan across her lap. "Have you ever met Lord Reginald Saybrook, Miss Rowland?" The name sounded vaguely familiar. Then Gigi remembered. Lord Reginald was her future husband's uncle. "I'm afraid not. He married some Bavarian princess and lives on the Continent." "He has a son." Miss von Schweppenburg's voice faltered. "His name is Camden. And . . . and he loves me." Gigi smelled a Romeo-and-Juliet story, a story whose appeal escaped her. Miss Capulet should have married the man her parents chose for her and then had her torrid but very discreet affair with Mr. Montague. Not only would she have stayed alive, she'd have realized, after a while, that Romeo was just a callow, bored youth with little to offer her other than pretty platitudes. _It is the east, and Juliet is the sun_ indeed. "We've known each other a long time," continued Miss von Schweppenburg. "But of course Mama would not let me marry him. He has no fortune either." "I see," Gigi said politely. "You are trying to remain true to him." Miss von Schweppenburg hesitated. "I don't know. Mama would never speak to me again if I don't marry well. But strangers make me . . . uncomfortable. I only wish Mr. Saybrook were more eligible." Gigi's opinion of the girl deteriorated rapidly. She respected a woman out to marry to her best advantage. And she respected a woman who sacrificed worldly comforts for love, though she personally disagreed with such decisions. But she could not tolerate wishy-washiness. Miss von Schweppenburg would neither commit to this Camden Saybrook, because he was too poor, nor commit to her husband-hunting, because she enjoyed too much being loved by him. "He's very handsome, very sweet and kind," Miss von Schweppenburg was saying, her voice reduced to a whisper, almost as if she were talking to herself. "He writes me letters and sends lovely presents, things he'd made himself." Gigi wanted to roll her eyes but somehow couldn't. Someone loved this girl, this utterly useless girl, loved her enough to go on wooing her, even though she was being paraded before all of Europe for takers. A moment of stark despair descended upon her that she would never know such love, that she would go through life sustained only by her facade of invincibility. Then she came to her senses. Love was for fools. Gigi Rowland was many things, but she was never a fool. "How fortunate for you, _Fräulein."_ "Yes, I suppose I am. I only wish . . ." Miss von Schweppenburg shook her head. "Perhaps you might meet him at your wedding." Gigi nodded and smiled absently, preoccupied once again with the structural elegance of the cake to be served at her imminent wedding. But no wedding ever took place between Philippa Gilberte Rowland and Carrington Vincent Hanslow Saybrook. Two weeks before the wedding day, His Grace the Duke of Fairford, the Marquess of Tremaine, Viscount Hanslow, and Baron Wolvinton, after six hours of solid drinking in honor of his upcoming nuptials, climbed up to the roof of his friend's town house and attempted to moon all of London. All he accomplished was a broken neck and his own demise by tumbling four stories to the ground. Chapter Three _9 May 1893_ Victoria Rowland was not quite herself. She knew this because she had just decapitated all the orchids in her beloved greenhouse. Their heads rolled on the ground in beautiful, grotesque carnage, as if she were enacting a floral version of the French Revolution. Not for the first or even the one thousandth time, she wished that the seventh Duke of Fairford had lived two weeks longer. Two measly weeks. Afterward he could have swilled poison, tied himself to a railroad track, and, while he was waiting for the train, shot himself in the head. All she wanted was for Gigi to be a duchess. Was that too much? Duchess—everyone had called Victoria that when she was a young girl. She'd been beautiful, well-mannered, serene, and regal; they were all convinced she was going to marry a duke. But then her father was defrauded out of almost everything they had, and her mother's long, lingering illness plunged the family finances from merely precarious to catastrophic. She'd ended up marrying a man twice her age, a rich industrialist looking to infuse some gentility into his bloodline. But John Rowland's money had been deemed too new, too uncouth. Suddenly Victoria found herself shut out of drawing rooms where she had once been welcome. Swallowing her humiliation, she swore that she would never let the same happen to her own daughter. The girl would have Victoria's polish and her father's fortune, she would take London by storm, and she would be a duchess if it killed Victoria. Gigi had almost done it. In fact, she had done it. The fault there lay entirely with Carrington. And then, to Victoria's amazement, she had done it again, marrying Carrington's cousin, heir to the title. How happy and proud Victoria had been on the day of Gigi's wedding, how resolutely giddy. And then everything went wrong. Camden left the day after the wedding, with no explanations to anyone. And no matter how much she begged, cried, and wheedled, Victoria could not get a word as to what had happened out of Gigi. _What do you care?_ Gigi had said icily. _We have decided to lead separate lives. When he inherits I'm still going to become a duchess. Isn't that all you've ever wanted?_ Victoria had had to content herself with that while she corresponded with Camden in secret, dropping bits and pieces of Gigi's news between descriptions of her garden and her charity galas. Four times a year his letters came, as reliable as the rotation of the seasons, informative, and amiable to a fault. Those letters kept her hopes alive. Surely he meant to come back one day or he would not bother writing to his mother-in-law, year in, year out. But could Gigi not leave well enough alone? What was the girl thinking, risking something as nasty and damaging as a divorce? And for what, that all-too-ordinary Lord Frederick, who wasn't fit to wash her drawers, let alone touch her without them? The thought made Victoria ill. The only silver lining she could see was that this was sure to make Camden sit up and take notice. Perhaps he'd even come back. Perhaps there'd be a passionate confrontation. Camden's telegram the day before, informing her of his arrival, had made her walk on clouds. She dashed off one back to him, scarcely able to contain her jubilation. But this morning his response came, thirty-one words of unrelenting bad news: _dear madam stop please kill your hopes now stop as a merciful act to yourself stop I mean to grant the divorce stop after a certain interval stop yours affectionately stop camden._ And she had grabbed the nearest garden implement and mangled all her lovely, rare, painstakingly raised varietals. Now she dropped the shears, like a contrite killer flinging away her murder weapon. She must not go on like this. She would end up in Bedlam, an old woman with wild white-streaked hair, beseeching the pillow not to abandon the bed. Fine, so she could not prevent the divorce. But she would find Gigi another duke. In fact, one lived right down the lane from her cottage here, a few miles from the coast of Devon. His Grace the Duke of Perrin was a rather intimidating recluse. But he was a man of able body and sound mind. And at forty-five years of age, he was not yet too old for Gigi, who was getting dangerously close to thirty. So Victoria had wanted the duke for herself when she'd been an eligible young lady, living in this very same cottage on the periphery of his estate and his sphere. But that was three decades ago. No one else knew of her erstwhile ambition. And the duke, well, he didn't even know she existed. She'd have to abandon her duchesslike reserve, forget that they had never been introduced, and barge into his path, which took him past her cottage each afternoon right about quarter to four, in fair weather and foul. In other words, she'd have to act like Gigi. When Camden returned to the town house after his morning ride, Goodman informed him that Lady Tremaine wished to confer with him at his earliest convenience. No doubt she meant that he should present himself that very moment. But that would not be at _his_ convenience at all, as he was both hungry and disheveled. He breakfasted and bathed. Giving his hair one last rub, he let the towel drop to his shoulders and reached for the fresh clothes he had laid out on the bed. At that precise moment, his wife, in a blur of white blouse and caramel-colored skirts, burst through the door. She took two steps into the room and stopped, a furrow instantly forming between her brows. As promised, the bedchamber had been aired, cleaned, and furnished, an entire handsome redwood set—bedstead, nightstands, armoire, and chest—roused out of long slumber in the attic and pressed into service. Beneath the large Monet that hung above the mantel, two pots of tailed orchids bloomed silently, their fragrance light and sweet. But despite all the buffing and polishing Goodman had ordered, a musty scent clung to the resuscitated furniture, an odor of age and blank history. "It looks exactly the same," she said, almost as if to herself. "I had no idea Goodman remembered." Goodman probably remembered when she had last broken a nail. She had that effect on men. Even a man who left her behind never forgot anything about her. In those days when he'd felt more charitable toward her, Camden had been certain God lingered over her creation, breathing more life and purpose into her than He bestowed on lesser mortals. Even now, with the ravage of a sleepless night plain on her face, her onyx-dark eyes still burned brighter than the night sky over New York Harbor on Independence Day. "May I be of some assistance?" he said. Her gaze turned to him. He was quite decent. His dressing gown covered everything that needed to be covered and most of the rest of him too. But she did look surprised and then, faintly but unmistakably, embarrassed. She did not blush. She rarely blushed. But when she did, when her pale, snooty cheeks turned a shade of strawberry ice cream, a man would have to be mummified not to respond. "You were taking a long time," she said brusquely, by way of explanation. "And you suspected me of deliberately making you wait." He shook his head. "You should know I'm above such petty vengeances." Her expression was a pained sneer. "Of course. You prefer your vengeance grand and spectacular." "As you like," he said, bending to step into his linen. The bulk of the bed stood between them, the top of the mattress as high as his waist. But this act of dressing was nevertheless a display of power on his part. "Now what's this urgent business of yours that can't wait until I'm dressed?" "I apologize for barging in on you," she said stiffly. "I'll see myself out and wait for you in the library." "Don't bother, since you are already here." He pulled on his trousers. "What do you wish to speak to me about?" She'd always been quick on her feet. "Very well, then. I have given some thought to your conditions. I find them both too vague and too open-ended." So he'd gathered. She was hardly the type to let anyone walk over her. In fact, she preferred to be the one doing the walking over. He was only surprised that she hadn't come earlier with her objections. "Enlighten me." He tossed the towel on a chair by the window, untied his dressing gown, and dropped it on the bed. Their eyes met. Or rather, he looked at her in the eyes and she looked at his bare torso. As if he needed any more reminders of the naughty, cheeky young girl who used to send her fingers out on feats of alpinism up his thighs. Now their gazes met. She blushed. But she recovered quickly. "Heir-producing is an uncertain business," she said, her tone brisk. "I assume you want male issue." "I do." He pulled on his shirt, tucked in the bottom, and began to fasten the trouser buttons at his right hip, adjusting his parts slightly to ease the discomfort caused by his reaction to her. Her gaze was now somewhere to his right. The bedpost, probably. "My mother never managed one in ten years of marriage. Besides, there is always the possibility that one of us, or both, could be barren." _Liar._ He chose not to call her on it. "And your point is?" "I need an end in sight, for myself and for Lord Frederick, who should not be asked to wait forever." What had Mrs. Rowland said in her irate letter to him? _Lord Frederick, I will cede, is very amiable. But he has all the brains of a boiled pudding, and all the grace of an aged duck. I cannot fathom, for the life of me, what Gigi sees in him._ Camden snapped his braces over his shoulders. For once, Mrs. Rowland's shrewdness failed her. How many men were to be readily found in England who'd faithfully stand beside a woman in the midst of a divorce? ". . . six months from today," his wife was saying. "If by the beginning of November I still have not conceived, we proceed to the divorce. If I have, we will wait 'til I give birth." He could not envisage an actual child, not even a pregnancy. His thoughts stopped at the edge of a bed and went no further. Part of him revolted at the very idea of any sort of intimacy with her, even the most impersonal kind. And then there were other parts of him. "Well?" she demanded. He collected himself. "What if you present me with a female child?" "That is something I cannot help." Was it? "I can see merits to the concept of limits, but I cannot agree to your particulars," he said. "Six months is too short a time to guarantee anything. One year. And if it's a girl, one more attempt." "Nine months." He held all the trumps in this game. It was time she realized that. "I did not come to haggle, Lady Tremaine. I am indulging you. A year or there is no deal." Her chin tilted up. "A year from today?" "A year from when we start." "And when is that going to be, O Lord and Master?" He laughed softly at her acerbic tone. In this she had not changed. She would go down fighting. "Patience, Gigi, patience. You'll get what you want in the end." "And you would do well to remember that," she said, with all the haughty poise of Queen Elizabeth just after the sinking of the Spanish Armada. "I bid you a good day." His gaze followed her retreating back, her efficient gait, and the dashing sway of her skirts. No one would know, by looking at her, that she just had her head handed to her on a platter, surrounded by her entrails. Suddenly he was reminded that he had once liked her. Too much. Chapter Four _Bedfordshire December 1882_ Gigi disliked Greek mythology, because the gods were forever punishing women for hubris. What was wrong with a little hubris? Why couldn't Arachne claim that her skills were greater than Athena's, since they were, without being turned into a spider? And why should Poseidon be angry enough to toss Cassiopeia's daughter to a sea monster, unless Cassiopeia's boast was true and she really was more beautiful than Poseidon's own daughters? Gigi was guilty of hubris. And she, too, was being punished by jealous gods. How else was she to view Carrington's abrupt and senseless death? Other roués lived to unrepentant old age, ogling debutantes with their red, rheumy eyes. Why shouldn't Carrington have enjoyed the same opportunities? A fierce gust nearly made off with her hat. She rubbed the underside of her chin, where the hat ribbon chafed. Briarmeadow, the Rowland property, was eight thousand acres of woodland and meadows, most of it flat as a ballroom floor, except for this corner where the land rolled and sometimes creased into ridges and folds. She'd grown up in a house nearer to Bedford. Briarmeadow, her home for the past three years, had been purchased with the express purpose of sweetening the deal for Carrington, since it shared a long border with Twelve Pillars, Carrington's country seat. Gigi liked to walk the boundaries of Briarmeadow. Land was solid, something she could count on. She liked certainty. She liked knowing exactly how her future would unfold. Marriage to Carrington had promised her something along that line: No matter what else happened, she'd always be a duchess, and no one would ever again snub either herself or her mother. With Carrington gone, she was back to being just Miss Moneybags. She wasn't head-turningly beautiful, no matter what her mother tried. She had been known to step on a toe or two on the dance floor. And, vulgarity of all vulgarities, she had an abiding interest in commerce, in the making of goods and money. Overhead, thick clouds hung like giant wads of soiled linen, gray with stains of pus yellow. The snow would come down soon. She really should be turning back. She had another three miles to go before she'd come within sight of the house. But she did not want to go back. It was dejecting enough to contemplate by herself what might have been. It was ten times worse with her mother there. Mrs. Rowland alternated between shock, despair, and an angry defiance. They'd do it again, she'd hug Gigi and whisper fiercely when she was in one of her wilder moods. Then she'd lose all hope, because they couldn't possibly repeat it—Carrington having been a rather unique case of debauchery, insolvency, and desperation. A brook separated Briarmeadow from Twelve Pillars. Here there were no fences, the brook being a long-recognized boundary. Gigi stood on the bank and threw pebbles into the water. The spot was pretty in summer, with pliant green willow branches that danced in the breeze. Now the defoliated willows looked rather like naked old spinsters, all thin and droopy. Across the brook the land rose into a slope. Suddenly, atop the slope, directly opposite her, a bareheaded rider appeared. She was taken aback. Besides her, no one ever came here. The rider, in a dark crimson riding jacket and buff riding trousers tucked into long black boots, charged down the slope. She was startled into stumbling backward, for fear the horse might gallop into her. At the bottom of the slope, some fifty feet downstream from her, the rider guided his mount to a muscular, graceful leap, jumping clear across the twelve-foot-wide stream. He drew up his reins, halted, and looked at her. He'd been aware of her all along. "You are trespassing on my land," she shouted. He came toward her, nudging the huge black horse with ease, ducking under the denuded willow branches. He didn't stop until he had a clear line of sight to her, about ten feet out. And she had her first good look at him. He was handsome, though not as pretty as Carrington, who—poor sod, may the she-devils of hell not use him too hard—had been Byron reborn. This man here had features that were both sharper and nobler, set in a leaner, more masculine face. Their gaze met. He had beautiful, deep-set eyes, the irises a gorgeous green. A thinking man's eyes: perceptive, opaque, seeing much, giving little away. She couldn't look away. There was something about him that was instantly appealing to her, something in his bearing, a confidence that was unlike either Carrington's arrogant sense of prerogative or her own unyielding obduracy. Poise forged with finesse. "You are trespassing on my land," she repeated, because she couldn't think of anything else to say. "Am I?" he said. "And you are?" He spoke with a subtle accent, not French, German, Italian, or anything else she could immediately think of. A foreigner? "Miss Rowland. Who are you?" "Mr. Saybrook." Was he—no, not possible. But then, who else could he be? "Are you the Marquess of Tremaine?" Carrington had died heirless. His uncle, the next male in line, had inherited the ducal title. The new duke's eldest son took on the courtesy title of the Marquess of Tremaine. The young man smiled a little. "I suppose I have become that too." _He_ was Theodora von Schweppenburg's beau? She had envisioned a man as spineless and ineffectual as Miss von Schweppenburg herself. "You are returned from university." He had not attended Carrington's funeral alongside the rest of his family because of his classes at the École Polytechnique in Paris. His parents had been vague about what he studied. Physics or economics, they'd said. How could anyone possibly confuse the two? "The university lets us out for Christmas." He dismounted and approached her, leading the black stallion behind him. She tamped down her discomfort and remained where she was. He removed his riding glove and offered her his hand. "Delighted to meet you at last, Miss Rowland." She shook his hand briefly. "I guess you know who I am, then." The first snowflakes began to fall, tiny particles of puffy ice. One landed on his eyelash. His eyelashes, like his brows, were of a much darker shade than the molten gold at the tips of his hair. His eyes, she was sure, were the color of an Alpine lake, though she'd never seen one. "I was going to call on you tomorrow," he said. "To offer my condolences." She chortled. "Yes, as you can see, I am inconsolable." He looked at her, truly looked at her this time, his eyes scanning her features one by one. His scrutiny discomfited her—she was more accustomed to being pointed at behind her back—but it was not unpleasant, coming from such a rivetingly handsome man. "I apologize for my cousin. He was most inconsiderate to die before marrying you and leaving an heir." His bluntness took her aback. It was one thing for her mother to say something along that line, quite another to hear it repeated by a complete stranger to whom she hadn't even been properly introduced. "Man proposes, God disposes," she said. "A crying shame, isn't it?" She was beginning to like this Lord Tremaine. "Yes, it is." The snowflakes suddenly increased in dimension, no longer icy sawdust but fingernail-size fluffs. They fell densely, as if all the angels in heaven were molting. In the minutes since Lord Tremaine first appeared, the sky had become visibly darker. Soon dusk would cloak the land. Tremaine looked about them. "Where is your man, or your maid?" "Don't have one. I'm not out in public." He frowned. "How far away is your house?" "About three miles." "You should take my horse. It's not safe for you to walk that long in the dark, in this weather." "Thank you, but I don't ride." He looked into her eyes. For a moment she thought he meant to ask her outright why she was afraid of horses. But he only said, "In that case, permit me to walk you home." She breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Permission granted. But you should be forewarned that I am disastrous at small talk." He pulled on his glove and looped the stallion's reins about his wrist. "It's quite all right. Silence does not derange—pardon—disturb me." The word _déranger_ in French meant _to disturb._ He didn't really have an accent. His English, a language that he hardly ever spoke, was simply somewhat rusty. They walked in silence for a while. She couldn't resist glancing at him every minute or so to admire his profile. He had the classical nose and chin of an Apollo Belvedere. "I conferred with my late cousin's solicitors before coming to Twelve Pillars," Tremaine said, breaking the silence. "He left us a complicated situation." "I see." She certainly did, being intimately acquainted with Carrington's financial particulars. "The solicitors gave me the sum of his outstanding debts, a staggering number. But for four-fifths of the amount, they could not show me any demands from creditors that are less than two years old." "Interesting." She was beginning to see where he was going with this. How had he pieced it together so quickly? He must not have been in England for more than two or three days or she'd have learned about his presence already. "So I made them show me his marriage contract instead." A very shrewd move. "Did you find it soporific reading?" "On the contrary, I quite admired it. As watertight a legal document as I'm likely to come across this lifetime. I noticed that you'd absolve him of all his debts upon marriage." "There might have been such wording." "You are the one who holds the lion's share of his arrears, aren't you? You bought out his creditors and consolidated the preponderance of his debts to persuade him to marry you." Gigi looked upon Lord Tremaine with a new, almost warm respect. He was young, twenty-one or so. But he was sharp as a guillotine blade. That was exactly what she had done. She had eschewed Mrs. Rowland's advice to win a duke in drawing rooms and ballrooms and had gone about it her own way. "That's right. Carrington didn't want to marry the likes of me. He had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the negotiation table." "Did you enjoy the dragging?" He glanced down at her. "Yes, I rather did," she confessed. "It was amusing threatening to strip his house bare to the last plank on the floor and the last spoon in the kitchen." "My parents are convinced of your grief." She heard the smile in his voice. "They said tears streamed down your face at his funeral." "For nearly three years of hard work down the drain, I cried like a bereaved mother." He laughed outright, a rich sound with all the beguilement of spring. Her heart skipped a beat. "You are an unusual woman, Miss Rowland. Are you also fair and honest?" "If there's no disadvantage to me." She could swear he smiled again. "Good enough," he said. "I'd like to negotiate a deal with you." "I'm all ears." "Twelve Pillars generates a decent income, if managed properly. That, combined with the sale of nonentailed properties, should help pay off Carrington's creditors, if you hold off calling in your portion of his debts." "I'm not infinitely rich. Acquiring Carrington's liabilities was a heavy outlay, even for me." "I'm willing to cede you an advantageous interest rate if you would let us pay you back in quarterly installments, starting next year this time and finishing in, let's say, seven years." "I have a better idea," she said. "Why don't you marry me instead?" Marrying the new duke's heir had always been the first alternative, but she had been unenthused about the enterprise. Carrington had poked everything that moved, but he had no loyalty except to himself, and that was something she could understand and even appreciate, on occasion. She recoiled at the idea of a mawkish husband who pined away for another woman, especially a woman for whom she had so little admiration. Lord Tremaine in person, however, had already proved anything but useless. She warmed up to the idea of an alliance with him like a pan on a stoked stove. "Upon our marriage I'll cancel seventy percent of the debts." He gave her a long look, but his response was not the shock and amazement she had anticipated. "Why only seventy percent?" "Because you are not a duke yourself and probably would not be for many years." She considered being a bit more demure and giving him time to think. But the next thing out of her mouth was "What say you?" He was silent a moment. "I'm deeply honored. But my affections are already pledged elsewhere." "Affections change." Good Lord, she sounded like the devil out to purchase his soul. "I should like to think that I have some constancy to my character." Damn Miss von Schweppenburg. Why should that drawing-room ornament be so lucky? "You are probably right. But I do not require your affections, only your hand." He stopped, putting a hand on the stallion's neck to signal the horse to halt. She stopped too. "You are very ruthless toward yourself, for someone so young," he said, with a gentleness that made her want to clutch his hand and tell him everything that had happened to make her the hard-bitten female she was. "Why?" She shrugged instead. "I've had to deal with fortune hunters since I turned fourteen. And grande dames who wouldn't give me the time of the day." "Affection and good opinion—are they not at all a consideration for you in marriage?" "No. So I would not mind that you love someone else. In fact, you can spend all your time with her, if you like. Once our marriage is consummated, you need only to come back to me when you need heirs." She probably should not have said it. It was too forward, too indelicate, even for her. In reaction, his gaze dipped briefly, encompassing all of her. And when he looked back at her, his irises darker than she remembered, the back of her mouth grew hot. "I have a different view of marriage," he said. "I do not think I'm the right person for what you have in mind." All that beauty and cleverness, why must he possess principles too? The depth of her disappointment was out of all proportion to the casualness of her proposal. "What if I choose to call in the debts, then?" she said churlishly. "It would be a bad deal for you," he said calmly. "Stripping us of everything we have will at most make up half of what my late cousin owed you. You know that." They resumed walking, but her mind was no longer on the finances of her social climbing. Instead, she entertained disturbingly angry thoughts about Miss von Schweppenburg. The woman was so insipid, so weak, what hold did she have on this remarkable man? What right did she have toward him, she who would have meekly accepted the proposal of any rich, powerful man who had caught her mother's fancy? Did beauty, elegance, and flawlessness at the pianoforte really count for _that_ much? He noted her sullen silence. "I have offended you." How could he offend her? She liked everything about him, except the woman he loved. "No. You are not obliged to marry me just because it would delight me." "I don't know if it is of any comfort to you, but I'm honored. No one has ever asked for my hand in marriage before." "I suspect it's because you are young and you used to be a bit of an impoverished nobody. Expect the proposals to fly fast and thick now." "But you'll always be my first," he said. Was he teasing her? "Well, the first one you turned down, to be sure," she answered glumly. He allowed her to sulk for the remainder of the trek. She stomped, her boots raucously crunching the snow underfoot. Despite his greater size and weight, his riding boots were as quiet on the snow as she imagined a Siberian tiger's paws must be. Half a mile from the house, they were met by Mrs. Rowland and a trio of lantern-swinging servants. "Gigi!" Mrs. Rowland cried. She picked up her skirts and came running. Gigi could not prevent the mother-hen hug that swooped upon her. Mrs. Rowland kissed her on her forehead and cheeks. "Gigi. You foolish, foolish girl. Where have you been? Look at this weather! You could have frozen to your death out there." "Mother!" Gigi protested, embarrassed to be so fussed over before Lord Tremaine. "I was not out in Antarctica risking frostbite and gangrene." "I'm just worried because you haven't been yourself lately. Now, do let us—" At last Mrs. Rowland noticed the stranger, and the very large horse, next to Gigi. She swung toward Gigi in alarm. Gigi sighed. "Mother, may I present his lordship, the Marquess of Tremaine? Lord Tremaine, my mother, Mrs. Rowland. Lord Tremaine has graciously deigned to accompany me, to help me grope my way home in the midst of this veritable blizzard we are experiencing." Mrs. Rowland ignored her acerbic remarks. "Lord Tremaine! We thought you still in Paris." "My term ended a week ago, madam." He bowed. "I hope you will forgive me. I trespassed onto your land without knowing and came upon Miss Rowland. She kindly permitted me to walk with her." He turned to Gigi and bowed also. "It's been a rare pleasure, Miss Rowland. I trust you are in good hands now." "But you cannot mean to go back the way you came!" Mrs. Rowland gasped in horror. "You will surely get lost in this darkness and this weather. You must come to our house instead." He protested. But Mrs. Rowland was convinced he would perish if he went ahead with his foolhardy plan to return to Twelve Pillars either on foot or on horseback. In the end he acquiesced to dinner and to being taken home in a warm, comfortable brougham afterward. Gigi was unhappy about it. She was all for sending Lord Tremaine away, the sooner the better. It did not amuse her to see her mother's extremely favorable reaction upon viewing him for the first time in good light. And it hurt—a sharp pinch somewhere deep in her chest—watching Mrs. Rowland shower him with the kind of pampering attention reserved for prospective sons-in-law. Yet Gigi put on her best dinner gown, a midnight-blue confection of silk and tulle, and had her hair re-coiffed three times. God help her, she wanted him to think her pretty and desirable. Over dinner, Mrs. Rowland patiently, skillfully elicited details of Lord Tremaine's twenty-one years of life. He had led quite the cosmopolitan existence, it appeared, having sojourned in every major capital of Europe, plus quite a few of the Continent's favorite watering holes. He conducted himself with the poise of a prince but without the arrogance so ingrained in most members of the aristocracy. Yet he was most certainly an aristocrat. Not only was he heir to an English ducal title, but through his mother, who'd been born a Wittelsbach, he was related to the House of Hapsburg, the House of Hohenzollern, and the House of Hanover itself, from cousinship with the dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. Worse, unlike Carrington, whose slack chin, wet lips, and vacant eyes became all too noticeable upon further acquaintance, Lord Tremaine's already handsome features, married to his graciousness and intelligence, grew more striking with each passing minute. Mrs. Rowland was clearly in awe of him. She sent Gigi pointed looks. _Speak more. Enchant him. Don't you see he's perfect?_ Gigi, however, was nose deep in misery, a desolation made more unbearable by every minute spent in his painfully enjoyable company. Her torture did not end there. After dinner, Mrs. Rowland asked him to play for them, having heard from the duchess that he was a fine pianist. He did, with a born performer's flair. Gigi stared alternately at his flawless profile, his long, strong hands, and her lap, fighting a wretchedness that seemed to have seeped into her blood. The final blow came when he rose to take his leave of them, only to discover that a blizzard had indeed arrived. Mrs. Rowland smugly informed him that in her great foresight, she had already sent off a messenger three hours ago to inform his parents that he'd stay the night because of the worsening weather. Gigi had counted on his departure, on never seeing him again. How was she to get through the night with him under the same roof and almost within reach? Camden had trouble falling asleep, but it had nothing to do with being in an unfamiliar bed. He was used to it, having never had a home of his own, always traveling to a different city, a different house, always sleeping in rooms that belonged to other people. He hadn't lied to Mrs. Rowland. He'd indeed lived in some of the Continent's most glamorous locales. He'd simply omitted the less than glamorous reasons behind this peripatetic life: because his parents hadn't an ounce of money sense between them and could never afford a permanent residence. So they moved in counterrhythm to the wealthier elites. In summer, when everyone was off to Biarritz and Aix-les-Bains, they occupied some relative's winter villa in Nice. In winter, the reverse. Occasionally, they stayed in one place for a while, when a house stood vacant because its owners had gone off on some wild adventure, such as when Cousin Konstantin left Athens for schemes in Argentina. Or when Cousin Nikolai went to China for two years. At age thirteen, Camden had taken over the management of the household. By then he was already accustomed to dealing with creditors, handling servants, and learning new languages in an instant so he could haggle with local merchants in order to stretch his family's meager coins further. He didn't mind being poor, but he hated having to lie about it, to dissemble and feign, as he did tonight, so that his parents could continue on in their blissful ignorance of their financial precariousness. It had been a relief to be with Theodora. They'd met in St. Petersburg, where their mothers shared the use of a troika. He'd been fifteen then, she sixteen. She was as poor as he and, like him, lived in fashionable places in unfashionable seasons. They understood each other's plight without ever needing to speak a word of it. But it was not thoughts of Theodora that kept him awake. It was Miss Rowland. Even before their accidental meeting, he had more or less expected Miss Rowland to propose a merger between his future title and her fortune. He had also expected a great deal of regret over turning down those sweet stacks of pounds sterling, after having lived in want of them his entire life. What he emphatically did not expect was Miss Rowland herself. She was unsentimental, hardened, and cynical beyond her years—but her greatest cruelty was reserved for herself, in her insistence that she would be perfectly fine, thank you, if she could only cosh a duke senseless with his own ledgers and haul him to the altar. For someone who was otherwise levelheaded and manipulative, there'd been an odd, poignant transparency to her this evening. She liked him. She liked him enough to be not just disappointed over his unavailability, but unhappy. He liked her too, surprisingly. How could he not like a girl who called him an "impoverished nobody" to his face? Her frankness was refreshing and welcome after the nuanced subtlety and selective narratives that had characterized his exchanges, all his life, with people outside his immediate family. But what caused his fidgeting at this witching hour was not her overly simplistic approach to things and people, but her brooding sexuality. She'd wanted to touch him. That desire had been there in every full-on stare and every sideways glance all throughout the evening. _Once our marriage is consummated, you need only to come back to me when you need heirs._ The girl might be a virgin, but she was neither pure nor innocent. She knew about these things. What she probably didn't know yet, but he already did, was that with her single-mindedness she would be a force of nature in bed. No man could roll out of her bed and walk away. His overriding objective, despite his exhaustion, would be how he could get her to lie with him again. * * * Camden dozed fitfully. Then suddenly he was awake. He had left the curtains and shutters open, out of years of habit, so that he could look out and recall in which country, which city he found himself. The blizzard must have passed; a shaft of silvery moonlight drifted through the window and lit the way clear to the door. A woman stood just inside, in a long nightgown, her back against the door. He couldn't see her face but he knew instinctively that it was Miss Rowland, she of the entirely unfitting, too-childish pet name Gigi. The Rowland manse, while not a cumbersome behemoth like the ducal manor at Twelve Pillars, still had some eighty, ninety rooms. He had been put to bed in a different wing from where his hosts had their bedchambers. She had not accidentally returned to the wrong room after using the water closet. She had to have walked a good two hundred feet to visit him. And he was naked beneath the covers. The late Mr. Rowland's nightshirt, kindly supplied at bedtime, had been too restricting. She stayed in that spot, unmoving, for a long time, until he was tempted to tell her either to get on with whatever in the blazes she had planned or leave him to his tossing and turning in peace. Abruptly, she moved, coming toward the bed in long, determined strides, her feet silent on the Persian carpet. She knelt by the bed, her eyes even with his elbow. Her hair was loose, dark as the fabric of the night; her white nightgown almost glimmered. He could not see her features clearly, but he heard her uneven breaths, a long, slightly trembling inhalation, a few heartbeats of breath being held, and a short rush of exhalation. Repeat. Repeat. But she remained still. What was she waiting for? Hadn't she yet satisfied herself that he was really, completely asleep? He squeezed his eyes shut, pretending she wasn't there. But her breaths tickled the hairs on his forearm, triggering seismic tremors along his nerves. And her scent, a fine blend of chamomile and cucumber, warm, powdery, and insidious, enfolded him. _What did she want?_ She touched him, placing her hand over his curled fingers, straightening them so that they were palm to palm, then she interlaced her fingers with his. Her fingertips were icy. A silent, dangerous thrill coursed through him. He wanted to pull her atop him and show her what awaited a foolish young woman who slipped into a man's bedroom in the dead of the night after having devoured him all evening with those dark, intense eyes of hers, setting his blood to simmer over three long hours. Her hand moved. Her fingers encircled his wrist, searing him with her cool skin. Two fingertips slowly trailed up his arm, barely touching him. She rose from her crouch to access more of him, and a strand of her hair caressed the inside of his upper arm. He bit his lower lip, nearly undone by the spike of pleasure. At the top of his arm, her fingers spread out over his collarbone and his shoulder. She hesitated before sliding her palm up the side of his face. He heard an almost inaudible gasp as she snatched her hand away. His stubbles—they had surprised her. Her inexperience excited him almost as much as her audacity. She had not done this before. Her hand returned, the back of it this time, smooth skin over strong bones, skimming along his jaw. Her thumb found his lips and traced over them. He fought the urge to lick her fingertip. God, but he burned, everywhere. On the side away from her, his fingers clawed into the counterpane. She had no idea what she was doing to him, or she would not dare continue. She moved again, settling a hip on the bed. As her head bent forward, her hair cascaded, a skein of silk threads unspooling on his chest, all gossamer coolness and teasing chaos. Suddenly it became too much. A violent upheaval of lust seized him. He grabbed the front of her nightgown and yanked her down. She gasped and flailed. But he subdued her easily, rolling them so that he ended above her, pinning her down with his weight and her fear. Only her nightgown separated them. And Gigi Rowland was all outrageous femininity: full breasts, soft belly, and lusciously rounded hips. A moan of sweet, terrible pleasure escaped him. He kissed her, her ear, her cheek, her neck, and, through the soft flannel of her nightgown, her shoulder. His hand settled at the indentation of her waist, above the flare of her hips. His fingers dug into young, firm flesh. Other parts of him also wanted to dig in, hard, harder. She was at his mercy here, having thoroughly compromised herself. There were so many wicked things he could do to her, and she would not dare make a sound—she would be biting her lips to suppress her moans and whimpers, because he'd make her as wild and ravenous as he. It took all of his willpower and a large dose of shame—shame over his lack of control, his bad faith toward Theodora, and his harsh handling of a girl who was guilty of nothing more than being attracted to him—to let go. He rolled off her, turned his back, and emitted a few grunts, as if he'd been dreaming. She scrambled off the bed. But she didn't scuttle out of the room. She panted, as if she had been running from a wolf, a werewolf. In the raspy sounds she made, there was both terror and arousal. He prayed that she would see herself out. Because if she didn't, if she came to his bed again, he would not be able to stop. She moved, _toward_ the bed, her soft footfall as loud to his ear as a shot in the dark. His blood pounded thickly. His erection grew painfully hungry. She took one more step, until she was standing at the edge of the bed again. He balled his hands tight, digging his nails into his palms until he was sure he must be bleeding, afraid that if he didn't hold fast onto some shred of mastery, he'd— She ran, slamming the door behind her. He listened as she sped down the corridor, feeling the vibration of the floor through the mattress beneath him. When the house was once again silent, he rolled onto his back and let out the breath he had been holding. His cock stood straight up, hot and unsatisfied. He gave it a mean _thwack._ But it only bobbed, more famished and demanding than ever. He let out a sigh, put his hand on it, and let his imagination run wild. Gigi burned, one moment with the fires of hell, one moment with the ecstasy of that other afterworld, but mostly with an earthly amalgam of mortification and raw ferment. She'd been a hairbreadth away from climbing back into bed with Lord Tremaine. The entire scenario had already unfolded in her mind: the ardor, the consummation, the dismay, and the consequences. In the end, he would marry her, because it was the honorable thing to do, despite his disgust for her and his relative blamelessness in the matter. Everything in her yearned for him. He would be the equal she had never known, the deliverance from her vast loneliness, the balm to any and all misery. If only she could have him. . . . But she had stopped herself. Because it was too craven a thing to do, too much beneath her dignity. And she wanted his good opinion, she craved it, she who had never cared what anyone else thought of her. An eternity passed before it was time to dress and head down for breakfast. She thought she would be alone, but he was already there in the breakfast parlor when she entered. Her face burned again. He set aside the ironed copy of _Illustrated London News_ he'd been reading and rose. "Miss Rowland," he said, all courtesy and impeccable breeding. "Good morning." She didn't respond immediately. She couldn't. All she could think of was the way he'd shoved her under him, his arousal pressed fully against her, separated from her thigh by only the flannel of her nightgown. But he had slept through all of it. He had no recollection. "Lord Tremaine. Did you sleep well?" His gaze met hers, level, innocent. "Oh, yes, splendidly. I slept like a log." While she suffered for the want of him. While she alternately berated herself and marveled at what she had done. While she went over each moment of their perilous encounter, recalling his topography, his texture, his scent, and his frightening yet delicious weight as he held her captive. He smiled at her. And it hit her like a mallet to the temple, the realization that she was in love with him. Stupidly, dreadfully in love with him. Overnight, she'd become a fool. Chapter Five _9 May 1893_ Philippa!" Freddie cried. Philippa. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since she'd last heard her name on Freddie's lips. She'd loved the sound of the spirant syllables, loved the slight catch in Freddie's voice that always accompanied their utterance, as if he still couldn't believe that she permitted him to address her so intimately. But all she could think now was that he didn't call her Gigi. He didn't even _know_ that she was Gigi. No other living man thought of her as Gigi. Only Camden. "Are you all right, my love?" She smiled at the man she adored. With his fair complexion, rosy cheeks, and earnest eyes, Freddie was Gainsborough's Blue Boy all grown up. He had a wonderful head of sandy curls, blue eyes the color of Delft chinoiserie, and a gentle, unassuming nature as kind as the sun in May. Her very own Mr. Bingley—everything a young man ought to be. "I'm fine, darling, I'm fine." He came forward to take her hands in his but stopped before he quite reached her, the concern in his eyes breaking her heart. "Can we be sure that Lord Tremaine has really left? What if it's a trap, and he returns to spy on you? He can . . . if he chooses to, he can make things unbearable for you." How did she even begin to explain that Camden already had an armory of unbearable-making devices at his disposal? That he held her entire future in his not-so-tender mercy? "Tremaine has been quite civil," she said. "He is not the sort to throw tantrums." "I can't believe he left town already," said Freddie. "He arrived only yesterday afternoon." "There is nothing keeping him here, is there?" Gigi said. They were in the back parlor where they usually took tea together, a room done in shades of lavender: the upholstery amethyst brocade, the draperies lilac velvet, and the tea service white with borders of wisteria. In her youth she had disdained all but the primary colors, but now she appreciated a broader segment of the spectrum. And so it was with Freddie. At eighteen—or perhaps even twenty-three—she'd have scoffed at an alliance with such a shy, unworldly man. She'd have seen him as an embarrassment, a burden. But she had changed. The only thing she saw when she looked at Freddie was the shining goodness of his heart. "Where did he go?" Freddie asked anxiously. "When will he be back?" "He didn't bring a valet, so there is no one to tell us anything. I wouldn't even know he had gone off somewhere if Goodman hadn't overheard him telling the cabbie to take him to the train station." She was incensed that he made free use of her house and her staff without informing her of his movements—the least courtesy, surely. She was also profoundly relieved by the small respite of his absence. The way she had ogled him this morning—at his torso, which seemed to have been sculpted by the hands of Bernini himself, smooth, lean, lithe, with long, beautifully sinewed arms like those of a seasoned sailor—could she have done anything more mortifying short of dropping her handkerchief and falling to the floor in a dead faint? She and Freddie sat down side by side on the chaise longue. "Tell me what he wanted," said Freddie. "He must have wanted _something."_ She had been able to think of nothing but what Camden wanted. Even now, with him miles away, she was still distracted and tense. Disaster, that was what he wanted. For what else could bedding her achieve but somehow, somewhen, calamity on an epic scale? "He is not convinced that we should be divorced for something as trivial as me wishing to marry someone else," she said. It was beyond her to tell Freddie that her husband meant to invoke his long-abdicated rights and shag her until she showed something for it. Nor could she reveal that she would submit to this connubial copulation, while planning to make use of every device ever invented to block conception. What was it about Camden that turned her into such a chiseler and now a double-crosser? "But he's willing to be reasonable. If we are still determined to marry in a year's time, he'll let the divorce proceed." "A year!" Freddie exclaimed. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, if that's his only condition, then it's not half so bad. We can wait a year. It will be an awfully long year, but we can wait." "Freddie." She gripped his hand, gratitude inundating her heart. "You are so good to me." "No, no! You are the one who's good to me! Everyone else thinks I'm clumsy and dense. You are the only person who thinks I'm all right." On any other day she'd have preened with pride, to think that at last she possessed the depth and maturity necessary to appreciate a diamond of the first water like Freddie, when all about her, men and women were still blinded by superficialities. But today her depth and maturity truly made their presence known. She was more than humbled; she felt unworthy. But she could not say it. Freddie looked to her for strength and guidance. She must not tumble off her pedestal now. "I am most certainly not. I know for a fact that Miss Carlisle thinks highly of you." Miss Carlisle was in love with Freddie. She was dignified and self-contained about it, but she could not conceal it from Gigi. Normally, Gigi would not have pointed out such a thing to Freddie. But these were not normal times, and her guilt overshadowed her possessiveness. "Angelica? Really? She used to laugh at me all the time when we were younger, whenever I fell off my pony or some such. And she used to tell me that I was a veritable idiot." "People change as they grow older," Gigi said. "At some point we learn to value kindness and constancy above all else, and in that, we cannot find better than you, Freddie." Freddie smiled in pleasure. "If you say so, then it must be so. Angelica hasn't been feeling quite well lately. I've been meaning to have a bottle of tonic sent to her. I think I'll deliver it in person now, and ask her if I've become less of a dunce over the years." The mantel clock chimed the half hour. Freddie had been in her parlor for fifteen minutes. She used to allow his calls to stretch for half an hour and more, but that was no longer possible with Camden's return. "I think I'd better go," Freddie said, standing up. "Though I hate to leave." She rose. "I hate it too. I wish—oh, never mind what I wish." Freddie clasped her hands in his broad, warm palms. "Are you sure you are quite all right, my love? Are you really sure?" No, she was not all right. She felt ill and lonely. And appalled at herself. She was about to undertake a dangerous gamble, lying and cheating at both ends. And here she thought she had forever sworn off fraud and swindle. She mustered a radiant smile for him. "Don't worry about me, darling. Remember what you yourself have said? Nothing can shake me. Nothing." Langford Fitzwilliam, the Duke of Perrin, began his five-mile afternoon walk a half hour earlier than usual. He liked a little unpredictability from time to time, as currently his life consisted of all the variety of a mediocre vicar's Sunday sermons. But he didn't mind it, not too much. A scholar needed peace and quiet to delve deep into the Homeric past and the heroic battles before the walls of Ilium. One of his favorite places along the walk was a cottage located exactly two and a quarter miles from his front door. The cottage itself was ordinary enough: two stories, white walls, red trims. Its gardens, however, were worthy of a sonnet, if not a hoity-toity ode outright. The front garden was a fantasia of roses. And not just the tight-budded roses he usually came across but full-open, immodest blooms from an earlier, less straitlaced era—big, riotous flowers weighing down bushes and drooping off trellises, ranging from the most pristine blush to a wine-dark, blowsy red. He was curious about the back garden, where gardeners often concentrated the main of their energy and effort. But a high hedge surrounded the back garden, and all he could see was the ridge of what looked to be the roof of a sizable greenhouse. He did not wish to make the acquaintance of the cottage's residents, so he waited for that inevitable day when someone forgot to put away the ladder after trimming the hedge. He had no scruples about peeking into a private garden. What was anyone going to do? Call the constable on him? The one thing he had learned from nearly thirty years of being a duke was that, short of actual murder, he could get away with just about anything. Today, however, there was a ladder, though it didn't lean on the hedge. Instead, it had been put up against an elm tree across the lane from the garden. A woman stood on the ladder, her back to him, dressed in an afternoon gown much too fashionable and ridiculous for such things as climbing fifteen-foot ladders. The woman was lecturing a cat, a kitten that she was attempting to perch on a branch twelve feet off the ground, a sight that halted Langford dead in his tracks. "Shame on you, Hector! You are a cousin of the mighty lions of the savannah. You disgrace them! Now stay put, and you will be rescued in time." The kitten disagreed with her assessment. The moment she removed her hands, it leapt back into her bosom. "No, Hector!" the woman cried as she caught the cat. "You will not do this again. You will not foil my plan. You will not be yet one more capricious male to stand between my daughter and a coronet of strawberry leaves!" Langford's interest in the situation escalated dramatically, given that he was the only man in a fifty-mile radius known to possess a coronet of strawberry leaves—the ducal headgear worn at the coronation of a sovereign. He wasn't quite sure where his particular coronet was kept, though, there having been not a single British coronation during his lifetime. "Listen to me, Hector." The woman lifted the kitten until the creature's eyes were level with her own. "Listen and listen well. If you do not cooperate, I will cut every ounce of fish, liver, tongue, you name it, out of your meals. What's more, I will bring a dog into the house and feed it foie gras right in front of you. A dog, you understand, a dirty cur like Gigi's Croesus." The kitten meowed pathetically. The woman remained pitiless. "Now up you go, and stay this time." And damned if the kitten didn't obey, meowing plaintively but staying put all the same. The woman let out a long sigh and slowly descended the ladder. Langford began moving again, tapping his walking stick purposefully on the packed soil of the lane. The woman turned at the sound. She was beautiful, with jet-dark hair, alabaster skin, and red lips, like Snow White after a few decades of happily-ever-after—and older than he'd supposed. From her voice and her figure he'd thought her somewhere in her thirties, but she was at least forty, likely more. At the sight of him, her eyes widened to the size of gold guineas, but she recovered quickly. "I do beg your pardon, sir." She sounded breathless, nothing like the tyrant she'd been with Hector. "I don't mean to trouble you, but I can't get to my kitty. He is stuck up high." He frowned. He had a fearsome frown, the kind that sent people scurrying to the opposite side of a room. "You have no groom or footman to retrieve the beast for you?" She was clearly offended by his reference to the fur ball but swallowed it. "I have given them the afternoon off, I'm afraid." A woman who thought ahead, a rare phenomenon. Although, if he was pressed hard, he'd admit that men who thought ahead were equally rare. His frown deepened, but it seemed to have temporarily lost its menace, for she was not at all deterred by it. "Won't you be so kind as to retrieve it for me?" she asked, all fluttering handkerchief and feminine helplessness. A delightful conundrum. Should he rudely refuse and watch her crumple or play along for a bit of diversion? "Certainly," he said. Why not? His life had become monotonous of late. And he'd been fond of charades and tableaux in his younger days. Eagerly, she stood aside and watched his approach with such idolatrous rapture that he felt like the Golden Calf itself. If he hadn't known that she was an ambitious mama who had him marked out for her daughter, he'd have thought she was out to ensnare him herself. He ascended the ladder, a rickety contraption that did not sound willing to hold his weight. The kitten had stopped its meows and regarded him uncertainly. He grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and brought it down. As soon as it could, the kitten jumped free of him and landed back in its mistress's bosom—an ample bosom that strained the front of her bodice very nicely. "Hector," she cooed shamelessly. "You had me worried, you naughty kitten." Hector, still frightened over a vegetarian future, did not contradict her. "How can I thank you enough, sir?" "It is gratification enough to be of assistance. Good afternoon, madam." "But you must let me know your place of domicile at least, good sir!" she cried. "My cook makes an excellent strawberry cake. I shall have one sent to you." "I thank you, madam. But I am not overly fond of strawberries." "A cherry pie, then." "I have nothing to do with cherries." Now he'd see how far she'd go to worm her way into his acquaintance. She was taken aback, but again, her recovery was quick. "I also have a case of Château Lafite claret, from the forty-six vintage." This was an offer more difficult to resist. He had acquired a taste for fine wines in his younger years. And '46 was an extraordinary vintage for Château Lafite. He had gone through his last bottle three years ago. Two things immediately became clear about her. She was much wealthier than he'd guessed from her modest cottage. And this scheme to rope him in for her daughter was no lark. She was prepared to go if not to hell then at least to Jakarta and back. "Or do you not care for that either, sir?" She played it coy, having already perceived his temptation. He gave in. "I live at Ludlow Court." Her right hand detached itself from the kitten, arced in the air, and returned— _smack!—_ to her bosom, fingers spread in a gesture that traditionally heralded delighted incoherence. "Surely—oh, dear! You do not— but—goodness gracious me!" As she was made from sterner, cat-exploiting stuff, she sank not into a faint but into a gorgeous curtsy. "Your Grace. I shall have the case delivered to Ludlow Court before dinner." As she straightened herself, he suddenly had the feeling that he had seen her before, back when the world was young—or at least when he was. He dismissed the thought and nodded curtly. "Good afternoon." "Mrs. Rowland," she supplied, though he still hadn't asked for her identity, even implicitly. "Good afternoon, Your Grace." Mrs. Rowland. The name triggered a new stirring in his mind but nothing strong enough to yield a remembrance. She had the good sense to let him go without further ado—or any mention of her daughter—leaving him mystified and rather too curious for his liking. Chapter Six _December 1882_ Miss Rowland did not skip rocks. She tossed them. Shelves of thin, brownish ice hugged the stream's two banks, but a narrow band of water still flowed free at its center. Into this part of the brook she flung the rocks, _plop, plop, plop._ There was no particular rhythm to it. Sometimes she threw a dozen pebbles in quick succession, sometimes a minute or more would pass between two _plops._ It was as if she underscored her own state of mind, restiveness followed by a stretch of contemplation, only to be overtaken by yet another fit of agitation. When there were no more stones to be had, she sat down on a tree stump, her chin on her knee, her long, lugubrious blue cape flapping about her ankles in the unrelenting gust. From where Camden stood at the top of the opposite bank, he couldn't see her face beneath the rim of her hat. But he felt the loneliness that emanated from her, a loneliness that echoed somewhere deep within him. He'd been able to think of nothing else except her. Years ago, he'd come to accept that courting Theodora—a woman who couldn't make up her mind about him, whom he hadn't seen in a year and a half—opened him up to temptations in the here and now. Somehow, a young man of reasonable looks and sexual restraint posed an irresistible challenge to a certain subset of women, across class strata, in every capital of Europe. If he had a franc, a mark, or a ruble for every time he had been propositioned from the age of sixteen onward, he could retire to the country and live the life of a prosperous squire. He'd turned down every last one of those offers, with tact and dignity when possible and ingenuity otherwise. A man of honor did not profess love for one woman while welcoming a host of others into his bed. It wasn't easy, but it was doable. Being busy helped. Having no moral or philosophical opposition to solitary releases helped. Immersing himself in his chosen field helped—thermodynamic equations and advanced calculus tended to keep one's mind off breasts and buttocks. But nothing helped now. He was busy all day long, seeing to the beast of an estate that was Twelve Pillars, yet thoughts of Miss Rowland clamored every other minute. Whatever he did in the privacy of his bedchamber only created more fantasies of her to agitate him the next day. Thoughts of _her_ breasts and buttocks—not to mention her morosely hungry eyes and her heavy, cool spill of hair—rendered him slow and bungling before simple quadratic equations and utterly impotent in the face of integrals of logarithms. And yet if it were only a case of simple, rampant lust. That would be perfectly understandable in the case of a young man of robust appetites who stubbornly refused to surrender his virginity. But he wanted more than just to touch her. He wanted to know her. Theodora's mother, as pushy and determined as she was, had nothing on Mrs. Rowland, the patron goddess of all ambitious mamas. At least Countess von Schweppenburg had the excuse of being poor and needing the security of a well-married daughter, whereas Mrs. Rowland was driven entirely by—he felt—her own unfulfilled ambition, something that cracked a harder whip than did any of Beelzebub's lieutenants. And yet Miss Rowland did not fear her mother, not one little bit. If anything, Mrs. Rowland was in awe of her daughter, amazed beyond all expectations by this Hannibal of social climbing, who managed to bring her pound-sterling elephants across the figurative Alps of aristocratic disdain to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting London society. Two days after their accidental meeting, he'd paid a formal call to the Rowlands, in the company of his parents and his siblings, Claudia and a bored Christopher. Claudia, impressed by the Greek marbles, Louis XIV furniture, and Renaissance paintings stretching as far as the eyes could see, begged to have a tour of Briarmeadow. While his parents continued to converse with Mrs. Rowland, Miss Rowland obligingly conducted the three callers of her generation through the drawing rooms, the library, and the solarium. Christopher became more and more restless and, finally, in the gallery, before a miniature portrait of Carrington that must have been given to Miss Rowland upon their engagement, he lost his company manners and reverted to fourteen-year-old loutishness. "Mother always said Cousin Carrington was a terrible example," said Christopher. "I guess you'll marry any bounder who has a coronet of strawberry leaves." She didn't even break her stride. "My Lord Christopher, with your family's depleted resources and your vast personal charm, I predict you'll marry any heiress who would have you, teeth and literacy on her part strictly optional." Camden's face hurt from not laughing out loud at his brother's dismay. Christopher might be an oaf, but he was still the son of an English duke and the grandson of a Bavarian prince. Another young woman in her place, feeling the inferiority of her station, would have suffered his rudeness or, at best, laughed it off. She, however, smacked the boy hard and put him in his place with the ruthless efficiency of a born predator. Unlike her mother, who garnished the house with subtle reminders of her erudition—Mycenaean bronze, possibly older seals from the island of Crete, glass-encased fragments of papyrus dating to the time of the pharaohs—Miss Rowland felt no need to prove to the world that she knew Antiphanes from Aristophanes. She was fine, thank you, with being the daughter of a man whose forebears, only a few generations ago, had washed laundry and carried coal for those exalted families into which she intended to marry. He admired her surety. She knew her own worth and did not pretend otherwise for those who judged her on her parentage. But by refusing to tolerate fools and play nice, she'd condemned herself to a solitary path, both in defeat and in victory. Camden walked his horse down the incline until he was nearly at water's edge and mounted it to cross the stream. As soon as he reached dry land, he dismounted and tethered the horse. By then she was already standing up, shaking the dust from her skirts. "Miss Rowland." On impulse he didn't offer to shake her hand but took her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cold, satiny cheek. He was still a foreigner to these parts, and he wasn't above taking advantage of it. "I beg your pardon. I must have thought myself still in France." Their gazes entangled. Her eyes were a nearly absolute black, the boundary between pupil and iris impossible to discern at any civilized distance. She glanced down momentarily, her eyelashes long and striking against the paleness of her skin. Then she looked back at him. "No need to beg pardon, my lord. It's quite acceptable to flirt with a girl you don't plan to marry. I don't mind." He should be embarrassed, but he wasn't. "Do you flirt with men you don't plan to marry?" "Certainly not," she said. "I don't even flirt with men I do plan to marry." His darling little tigress. All blunt grandeur during the day. All melting fire at night. "You talk to them about their ledgers instead," he teased. That elicited a small smile from her. "I prefer the direct approach." He grew hot from these mere words. Had her approach to him been any more direct that night, he'd have kept her in bed so long, they'd have been discovered by Mrs. Rowland herself. "It's cold," he said. "You should be inside." The winter here was nothing like that of the true North, where temperatures plunged to such abysmal lows that she'd need much more than a cup of hot chocolate to warm up: She'd require a bottle of vodka and a man's naked body. She sighed. "I know. I can hardly feel my toes. But it's the only way I can have a bit of peace, away from my mother. She hasn't stopped talking of you since your stay. And she would not be convinced that I've already done my level best to make you her son-in-law. After my success with Carrington, she thinks I've but to will it and a man will stride forth to offer his hand." "I could dispel her illusions for you," he said. She shook her head. "She met Miss von Schweppenburg last season. No offense to Miss von Schweppenburg, but nothing you can say will persuade her that I'm not a better match for you." It was hard to argue with that. Even harder to remember his nobler intentions standing next to her, knowing that she wanted him with a cynic's hidden ardor, knowing exactly how she'd feel underneath him. But he must not think only of himself. Theodora needed him. She was frightened of this world; he could not abandon her to the vagaries of fortune. Miss Rowland checked the small watch that dangled from her wrist. "Crumbs. It's half past three already. I'd best head back home. Or my mother will be out looking for me high and low again." She offered him her hand to shake. "Good day, Lord Tremaine." He shook her hand. But somehow, he didn't let go when he was supposed to. He didn't want her to leave. He wanted something—not the wild lovemaking of his fantasies, but something reasonable and halfway decent that would keep her with him for a bit longer. Except his wit deserted him. He could think of nothing. And he could not let go of her hand. Gigi's mind was a chaos of hopes and fears in collision. One moment they were both on their best behavior, following the established choreography of decorum to the last dip and turn. The next thing she knew, he either owed her an apology or a kiss. She received neither. He simply stepped back from her, tilted his head, and grinned ruefully. "That was gauche of me, wasn't it?" And that was it. No fumbling words of explanation, no awkwardness, no opening for her to demand compensation without coming across as either bumpkinish or hysterical. She gazed upon him with churlish admiration. This man knew far more of potentially compromising situations than she'd heretofore suspected. The smoothness with which he extricated himself was both impressive and disquieting. Perhaps he _was_ only flirting with her after all, a dalliance to entertain him for the duration of his holiday in the backwoods. "I suppose only you could judge that, my lord," she said. "You should take my horse," he said. An expression of horror crossed his face then, as if he'd openly and loudly declared before his mother and hers that he'd like to get under her petticoats and stay there but good. He'd gone out of his way to be considerate of her fear, walking the stallion at a crawling speed and tethering it far away from her. Yet now he'd forgotten all about it. Her heart soared. Beneath his sleek serenity, he'd been as flustered as she, possibly more. "I don't ride," she reminded him. He took a deep breath, the audible exhalation as close an admission of mortification as she was likely to get from him. "Why don't you?" he asked, once again his cool, collected self. "I can't believe your mother would have omitted equestrian lessons." She shrugged. "She didn't. I choose not to ride." "Tell me why. You seem like you would enjoy riding, enjoy the control and freedom it affords you." Oh she'd enjoyed it, all right. She'd loved riding. Until she'd fallen off for the second time, breaking three ribs and her right arm in two places. "I'm afraid of horses. That's all." "And why are you afraid of horses? They are far milder and more reasonable creatures than dowager duchesses. You are not afraid of the latter, from what I hear." He certainly had ways to loosen her tongue, with his gentle, persistent, and—by all appearances—genuine interest in her. Not her money, because she'd already tried to give it to him. _Her._ "I fell twice. Hurt myself badly the second time." Still he shook his head. "You'd have gotten back up on that horse before the doctors even let you out of bed. What really happened?" It was none of his business. None of his concern. At least, not while he considered himself promised to another. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, only to hear herself say, "A disappointed fortune hunter. He was infuriated with my mother for keeping him at arm's length and chose to take it out on me. He took what little was left in his wallet and bribed our groom." And when the first fall did her no damage—having just slowed down when the saddle strap snapped, she slid off and landed on something soft—he tried it one more time. "I was lucky. The doctors said I could easily have broken my spine and been bedridden for life rather than just two months." Mr. Henry Hyde, Gigi's would-be maimer, had been arrested two days later on unrelated charges. Apparently he was so desperate for fresh funds that he'd attempted to poison his widowed aunt for the few hundred pounds promised to him in her will. He died while imprisoned. Lord Tremaine listened intently. She couldn't tell by his solemn eyes whether he was disgusted or saddened. She regretted her candor already. What good did it do to burden him with all this ugly history? "Please wait here," he said. "I'll be only a minute." He returned, leading his horse behind him. For such a tall man, he moved with an easy grace, his leisurely seeming gait eating up the distance swiftly. His long riding boots reached halfway up his thighs. She had to exercise considerable restraint to not follow the lines of his fawn trousers and stare where she shouldn't. "Will you walk a little with me?" he asked, with great solicitude that told her nothing. "Certainly." She didn't understand what he wanted, but it mattered not. She would do almost anything with him, up to and including forfeiting her virginity, if he but asked, with or without a nuptial contract. Since meeting him, every morning she woke up with a sweet, wrenching pain in her heart—the joy and overwhelming terror of being in love—not knowing how she would get through the day without him, not knowing how she would ever survive another encounter with him. The land rose and flattened into a meadow, gray and yellow in winter, densely wooded to either side. They walked until they came to a weathered hitching post that hadn't been used in years. There Lord Tremaine stopped, tied the horse, and removed its saddlery, setting everything carefully down on the ground. "What are you doing?" she asked, beginning to be suspicious. "Is anyone going to ride bareback?" "Come closer," he requested. "I want you to watch me." As if she could do anything else while he was near. He looked into the stallion's eyes and ears, ran his hands down the horse's legs, and raised and inspected each hoof in turn. "We really should sell him," he said. "Carrington had a good eye for horseflesh, too good for his finances." He picked up the saddle pad, smoothed it, and settled it on the horse's back. Then he placed the stirrup irons over the back of the saddle and folded the girth strap up so that neither would hit the horse while the saddle was being mounted. Only then did he lift the saddle high and set it down on the horse, as softly as he would place an infant in its bassinet, sitting the cantle just slightly high on the withers, so that as the rider swung into the saddle it would slide down into position while keeping the horse's coat in the correct orientation. She was amazed. She'd never seen gentlemen do anything more physically demanding than lifting a shooting rifle. Yet here he was, performing a groom's work as if he'd done it hundreds of times before. There was a neatness to his motions, an efficiency, every task completed quickly, attentively, and well. She was beginning to understand his poise—it was more than inborn confidence, it was also knowledge and experience. "Come feel the girth," he commanded her. She complied. The strap was strong and in good repair. He made her test the billet straps too and verify with her own eyes that everything had been properly fastened to the saddle. Only then did he buckle and tighten the girth, making sure that he didn't cinch the horse too tight, that he could slip his fingers between the girth and the horse's belly. She stared at his hands, so capable, skillful, dexterous—and impossibly erotic in those supple, close-fitting black leather gloves. He stood by the stallion's head and had it raise each of its forelegs, to settle the saddle and smooth out wrinkles in the pad. When he was at last satisfied that the horse was properly saddled, he rebridled it too, so that she could see every precaution had been taken, every procedure impeccably observed. "You know what I want you to do, don't you?" he said with a small smile. "You are not afraid of horses. You are afraid of people wishing you harm." She shrugged. "What's the difference?" He held out his hand. "I like to see you fearless." Memories of the fall came unbidden. She felt that unending instant of terror and panic, the flailing, the scream tearing her chest; she felt the desire to never leave her bed again, to coast on and on in her laudanum daze. It was this incident, more than anything else, that had at last convinced her to marry as high as the sky. She would not be a victim of her fortune. She would hunt, rather than be hunted. Three months later the purchase of Briarmeadow was complete. Scant weeks afterward she'd fired the first salvo in the direction of Twelve Pillars. She placed her hand in Lord Tremaine's. He gave her a quick squeeze, his eyes never leaving hers. "Ready?" "It's not a sidesaddle," she said. "Something tells me you know how to ride astride," he replied, entirely confident in his intuition. "Come. Just fifty yards. A sedate little walk. I'll hold on to the reins." She knew what he wanted. He wanted her to overcome her fear, and he wanted to be the one to help her reach that laudable goal. Had it been anyone else who'd led her to this point, she'd have risen to the challenge simply because she refused to show that much weakness. But with him it was different. She wasn't afraid that he'd see her as less than invincible. Before him it seemed permissible, somehow, to be frank, frustrated, and, at times, even apprehensive. She would mount that horse because she wanted to please him, to make him think that he'd made a material improvement to her life. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could make it fifty yards if she held on tight, clenched her teeth, and prayed to whichever deities had a little compassion for forlorn, uppish females. "I promise not to ogle your trim ankles," he said lightly. "If that's what you are concerned about." "You shouldn't mention my ankles. And they are hardly trim." And the balmorals she wore were hardly those lace-frilled, eyelet-spangled fancy boots designed to make a man weak in the knees should he happen to catch a glimpse of them peeking out from underneath the hem of her dress. "I'll be the judge of that. Now, should we?" "Fine, then, fifty yards." The admiration in his eyes almost made the whole mad enterprise worthwhile. He sank down to one knee and cupped his hands together. She expelled a long, ragged breath, took hold of the reins with one hand, the cantle with the other, and placed her left foot on his hands. He gave her a strong boost, she swung her right leg over the horse's rump, and she was in the saddle. The horse snorted and shifted. She squealed and reached wildly for the bridle. He caught her arms just in time. "Easy," he murmured, to the horse or to her she couldn't be sure. "Easy." Then he lifted his eyes to her, the most reassuring eyes she'd gazed into since her father had passed away. "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe." "I should have asked you to be my groom instead of my husband," she said. He only grinned. "Hold on." He led the horse to a slow walk. Mercy, the ground must be fifty feet below her and receding. She'd forgotten what it was like to sit up so high on a great big stallion. She knew the horse's motion was gentle and smooth beneath her, but she _felt_ herself perched atop a wild bronco, about to be heaved off any second. An incipient nausea roiled her tummy. She wanted to throw her arms about the horse's neck, clamp her legs around its belly, and hang on for all she was worth. She wanted to get off _this instant._ "You are not really Lord Tremaine, are you?" she said, desperate for distraction. "You are a pauper who looks like him, and the two of you decided to switch places, fool everyone, and have a jolly old time." He laughed. "Well, I am a pauper—an 'improverished nobody' as you so aptly put—except I'm already related to every royal house in Europe. So sometimes I put on my fancy clothes and go out and drink champagne with my noble cousins. Sometimes I change into rags and work in the stable. In truth, we shouldn't even have kept horses. But my father said then we might as well stop wearing hats and shoes. It was one economy I could not persuade him to make." His answer was so breathtakingly frank that she momentarily forgot her fear of an imminent tumble. "And your parents permitted this . . . this folly?" "They turned a blind eye and pretended that somehow I was able to run the house better and for less expense without ever dirtying my own hands. Or running betting games at whichever lyceum I happened to be attending." "Betting games?!" "Games that tend to run true to probability. So I could promise a prize of, say, a pound, and charge my fellow lyceans—particularly those who suffer at mathematics—a shilling a try to line up six coins heads up while blindfolded. I always came out ahead." "Good Lord," she breathed. "Did you ever get caught?" "For having a few coins in my pocket?" He chuckled. "No. I was the most courteous, virtuous, promising young man any professor had ever seen." There was such lovely mischief in his voice. He _was_ courteous, virtuous (as far as she could tell), and infinitely promising. But he was also clever, cunning, and willing to bend the rules. Why did the Fates tempt her so? Why must he be so marvelously perfect for her and yet so abysmally unattainable? "Is there anything you can't do?" "No," he said, laughing. "But there are things I can't do very well. I'm a terrible cook, for instance. I tried, but my family refused to live on my frugal meals." The very idea of it shocked her. Even before he became Lord Tremaine, he'd been cousin to dukes and princes. This man, whose blood was so blue it was probably indigo, had worked before a stove and—success or not—produced at least one entire meal. What next? The Prince of Wales laying down railroad tracks with his own bare hands? An even more shocking thought occurred to her. "Did you plan to work for a living?" "I did. But lately I've become hesitant. A title does hamper things, even if it's only a courtesy title—for now. I suppose running an estate is a noble and time-consuming task." He shrugged, his sleeve brushing the edge of her skirts. "But it's not what I'd have chosen to do." "And what would you have chosen?" "Engineering," he answered easily. "I study mechanics at the Polytechnique." "Your parents said something about physics or economics." "My parents are still in denial. They think mechanics sounds too common, too much grease and smoke and soot." "But why engineering?" Her father had worked with dozens of engineers. They were an earnest and rather single-minded tribe, seemingly having nothing at all in common with the elegant marquess beside her. "I like to build things. To work with my hands." She shook her head. Hands. The future duke liked manual labor. "Well, don't tell anyone else what you've told me," she cautioned. "They wouldn't understand at all." "I don't. I only told you because you spend as much time with your accountants and solicitors as you do your dressmaker. You are pushing to define a new normality as surely as I am." She'd never thought of herself quite that way. She was more an idiosyncratic ignorer of established boundaries than a glutton for the new and the uncharted. But perhaps they were one and the same, each one implying the other. She looked at him, at his calm, unhurried progress, his gloved hand holding on securely to the horse's tether. His other hand he extended to the lower branches of the Old Willow, brushing their supple tips. "I—" she began, and did not finish. _The Old Willow._ They were going by the Old Willow. Which was at least a furlong away from the hitching post. She couldn't believe it. Yet as she glanced back, the hitching post in the distance was the size of a matchstick. "Yes?" he prompted her, keeping up their stately pace. She looked back one more time to make certain her eyes hadn't cheated her. There was no mistake. She'd come some two hundred yards, her nausea having dissipated somewhere along the way, her hands no longer gripping the reins but holding them loosely, almost casually. Somehow, in animated conversation with him, the impossible had happened. She'd forgotten her fear and her body had relaxed into a comforting, familiar rhythm. "We've done more than fifty yards, I think," she murmured. He looked behind. "So we have." "You knew we'd gone past fifty yards long ago, didn't you?" He didn't answer her directly. "Would you like me to help you dismount?" Would she? Suddenly she felt dizzy again, not with fear but with the exhilarating absence of it, the way simple robust health felt a blessing and a miracle after a long, painful illness. No, she didn't want to dismount. She wanted to ride, to hurtle along in a mad dash. He stepped back. "Go ahead," he said. So she did. It felt wonderful, the sensation as new as the first shoots of spring, as weightless as walking on water. She gave in to the moment, to the euphoria of once again being young and fearless. The horse, as if sensing her elation, flew. If she could distill the sensations that flooded her—the headlong rush, the metrical, earthy hoofbeats pounding away beneath her, the dense evergreen woods tearing by at the periphery of her vision, and the cold wind that was utterly powerless before the fire of her exuberance—she would have the essence of joy. She heard herself laugh, all breathless, incredulous delight. She urged the horse to even greater speed, feeling its strength and spirit radiate into her every organ and sinew. Only as the horse sped up the next incline did she rein it to a stop, then turned it around. Lord Tremaine was there in the distance. He set his thumb and forefinger against his teeth and whistled, a piercing note of conspiratorial celebration. She grinned, feeling her mirth spread from ear to ear, and answered his call, galloping back toward him as if she were a medieval knight at tournament and he her striking post. He ran toward her, as light-footed and swift as a creature of the African savannah, and reached her just as she slowed. She unhooked her feet from the stirrups and threw herself into his waiting arms. He easily took the impact of her momentum and weight, lifting her high in the air and spinning her around. "I did it!" she yelled, unladylike and thrilled. "You did it!" he cried at almost the exact same moment. They grinned hugely at each other. He set her down but left his hands around her waist. She happily let her hands remain on his shoulders. "I couldn't have done it without you." "Don't encourage me, I'm not so modest to begin with." She laughed. "Excellent. I hate modesty with a passion." And loved him to distraction. He had done it. He had cajoled and wheedled and lured her out of her self-imposed exile from all things equestrian and restored a treasured joy to her life. Her hands crept toward his collar, and then, before she knew it, she was cradling his face in her palms, the tips of her ring fingers brushing at his earlobes. He went still, the laughter in his eyes transmuting to a dark, quiet intensity, almost forbidding if he hadn't momentarily chewed on his lower lip. She carved a thumb along his cheekbone, tracing its subtle contour, feeling the weight and the heat of his unwavering, unblinking stare. This was—or should be— their moment, the coming together of two kindred souls in an instant of ecstatic camaraderie. She spread her fingers, pushing her kidskin-clad fingertips into his hair, pulling his head down toward hers. She wanted him. She needed him. They were perfect for each other. One kiss, just one kiss. And he'd know it too, not just deep in his heart but foremost on his mind. He didn't stop her. He was compliant to the gentle pressure of her hands, his eyes gazing down at her with an almost befuddled wonder. Bliss erupted in her. He'd seen the light. He'd at last understood the unique, rare splendor of their bond. They came so close she could count his eyelashes—and no closer. "I can't," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm pledged to another." Her bliss turned to cold daggers in her heart. Her limbs froze. But disbelief still reigned, like a mother's denial over a child's abrupt and senseless death. "You _really_ want to marry Miss von Schweppenburg?" "I've told her that I would," he answered obliquely. "Does she care?" Gigi could barely keep the bitterness out of her voice. He sighed. "I care." Her hands dropped. The pain in her chest was her hopes charring to ashes. But still those hopes smoldered, pinpricks of unbearable light in piles of hot cinder. "And what if you hadn't pledged yourself to her?" "What if my departed cousin had chosen a less fateful way to express his disdain for the great city of London?" His eyes were such raw intoxication, all ruinous gentleness and wistful resignation. "Life is intractable enough as it is. Don't torment yourself with what-ifs." The opportunities she'd lost with Carrington's death had not beleaguered her, because they were only those of title and privilege, a business alliance fallen through. She was the daughter of an entrepreneurial man. She understood that even the most careful nurturing didn't always yield the fruits one sought. With Lord Tremaine, she'd lost all detachment and perspective. "You have already proposed to Miss von Schweppenburg?" "I will." He was unequivocal. "When I hear from her next." Slowly, unwillingly, she began to understand that for good or ill, he intended to marry Miss von Schweppenburg. Neither the prospect of riches nor the promise of carnal delight would lure him away from this chosen path. Her entire happiness—something she hadn't even known she remotely cared about—had hung on his answer. And he'd doomed her. He might as well have shot the stallion out from under her as she galloped toward him in feckless rapture. "I'm sure you will be very happy together," she said. A lifetime of training under Mrs. Rowland was barely enough to force that platitude past her larynx with any semblance of dignity. He bowed and handed the reins of the horse to her. "The day flees. You'll return home faster riding." He helped her mount. They shook hands again as they bid each other good day. This time, he did not linger in his touch. Half a mile out, it hit Gigi that Lord Tremaine didn't know exactly where Miss von Schweppenburg was. Last season, Mrs. Rowland, in a mood of largesse, had invited the countess and Miss von Schweppenburg to attend a garden party. They'd declined—with a longish note full of regret from Miss von Schweppenburg—as they'd have departed London already. Gigi had thought it strange that a team with nothing but advantageous marriage on their mind would leave before the most fruitful time of year for proposals: the end of July. She was, however, not surprised to later hear of rumors that pressing debts had forced the von Schweppenburgs to leave town sooner than they'd wished. Perhaps they'd underestimated the cost of a London season. Perhaps such was their usual practice and this time they misjudged the patience of their landlord and creditors. She hadn't cared then to find out what exactly was the case. And she didn't now. The important thing was that Lord Tremaine's intelligence on Miss von Schweppenburg's whereabouts and goings-on at any given point in time wasn't much better than Gigi's. And if Miss von Schweppenburg's waffling stance was any indication, he was by far the more reliable correspondent of the two. Part of her recoiled at the direction of her thoughts. _Beyond this point there be monsters._ But just as a locomotive hurtling at full speed could not be stopped by a mere wooden fence across the tracks, her thoughts rumbled on, to the defiant _clickety-clack_ of _if only . . . if only . . . if only . . ._ If only Miss von Schweppenburg were already married. Or if only Lord Tremaine came to believe, somehow, that such was the case. _Do not consider such a thing,_ begged her good sense. _Do not even think it._ But her good sense was no match for the wrenching pain in her heart, for her crushing need of him. She could bear everything, if only she could have him for a year, a month, a day. If he would not offer her this opportunity, then she'd create it herself, by fair means or foul, at whatever cost, come plague or locust. Chapter Seven _13 May 1893_ The hansom cab stopped. "Yer house, guv," said the driver. A long line of landaus and clarences filled the curb up and down from the Tremaine town house. His wife was having herself a party, it seemed, with some thirty, forty people in attendance. Camden had been gone four days to visit his parents. Was she celebrating his disappearance off the face of the earth already? The butler, though distressed to see his return, hid it well under a layer of huffy solicitude. Milord must be tired. Would milord care for a bath? A shave? Dinner delivered to his room? Camden half-expected an offer of laudanum too, to tumble milord into a quick, insensate slumber, so that milady's soirée could continue unhindered. "Are more people expected?" he asked. They would be, if there was to be a ball. "No, sir," Goodman answered stiffly. "It is only a dinner." Camden consulted his watch. Half past ten. The guests should be in the drawing room by now, both the men and the women, getting ready to take their leave in the next half hour in order to make the rounds of balls and _soirées dansantes._ He pushed open the double door to the drawing room and saw his wife first, splendid in a surfeit of diamonds and ostrich feathers. Next to her stood an exceptionally handsome man, who, with a frown on his face, seemed to be admonishing her. She listened to him with an expression of exaggerated patience. Slowly, one by one, then by twos and threes, the guests realized who had come amongst them, even though none of them had ever met him. The hum of conversation faded, until even _she_ had to glance at the door to see what had caused the hush. Her mouth tightened as she registered his presence, but she let not a second pass before putting on a bright, false smile and coming toward him. "Camden, you are back. Come, do meet some of my friends. They are all dying to make your acquaintance." Such breathtaking insolence. Such cheek. Such bollocks. He hoped Lord Frederick liked wearing skirts. Camden took his wife by the elbows and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He had heard that he had the most courteous marriage known to man. Far be it for him to argue otherwise. "Of course. I would be delighted." Following her lead, her guests received him amicably, though most of them didn't quite achieve her smoothness. The handsome man from her tête-à-tête she introduced last, by which time he was standing by a tall brunette as uncommonly fine-looking as himself. "Allow me to present Lord Tremain," said his wife. "Camden, Lord and Lady Wrenworth." So this was Lord Wrenworth, The Ideal Gentleman, according to Mrs. Rowland, and Gigi's erstwhile lover. "A pleasure, my lord," said Lord Wrenworth, with all the creamy innocence of a man who had never cuckolded Camden. Camden found he was almost enjoying himself. He appreciated a fine bit of farce. "Likewise. You wouldn't be the same Felix Wrenworth who authored that fascinating article on the capture of comets by Jupiter?" This took everyone aback, especially Lady Tremaine. "Are you an astronomy enthusiast as well, my lord?" asked Lady Wrenworth, her tone tentative. "Most assuredly, my dear lady," Camden answered with a smile. His wife glanced uneasily at her former lover. The guests, faced with the choice of either being the first to observe and gossip about the Tremaines appearing in public together or attending a ball not so different from the one they went to three days ago, forgot to leave. Camden did not disappoint. He was a charming host. But better than that, he was candid, to a degree. _How long did he intend to stay in England?_ A year, at least. _How did he like his house?_ His house, which he liked exceedingly well, was on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. But he found his wife's house agreeable enough. _Was not Lady Tremaine looking very fine tonight?_ Fine was much too tame a word. He'd known Lady Tremaine since she was practically an infant, and she'd never looked anything less than spectacular. _Had he met Lord Frederick Stuart yet?_ Lord who? It was past midnight—and after a few pointed reminders from his wife about their subsequent commitments—that their guests finally prepared to depart. Lord and Lady Wrenworth were the last to leave. As Lady Wrenworth exited the front door, Lord Wrenworth turned around, pulled Gigi close, and whispered something into her ear, as if her husband weren't standing only five feet away. She laughed, a sudden swell of mirth, and literally shoved Lord Wrenworth out the door. "Let me guess. He proposed a ménage à trois?" Camden asked lightly, as they mounted the stairs side by side. "Felix? No. He has become a tiresome proponent of home and hearth since his marriage. In fact, he was arguing most tediously against the divorce the whole evening, before you came along." She, too, kept up her winsome facade. "Well, if you must know, he said, 'Shag him silly.' " "And are you going to take his sage advice?" "To scrap the divorce or to shag you silly?" She chortled, her nimbus of sexual charisma unmistakable. "I'm not accepting counsel from Lord Wrenworth at this juncture, or from anyone else stupid enough to think that I should remain married to you. Frankly, I would have expected better from him. Freddie considers him a friend." _Poor Freddie,_ he thought. "Well," she said, as they prepared to go their separate ways. "Should I expect a visit tonight?" "Unlikely. I don't wish to upset my stomach. But do be on the lookout for them in the coming days." She rolled her eyes. "I can't wait." She had said the same thing to him once before, on the last day of their short-lived happiness. Then she had meant it, had been pink-cheeked with delight and anticipation. As had he. "I can," he said. She sighed, a weary flutter of air. "Go to hell, Camden." Chapter Eight _December 1882_ Theodora's letter arrived on the midday post three days after Camden's encounter with Miss Rowland. The sheaf of rose-scented paper notified him of her imminent marriage to a Polish nobleman—imminent only in the past tense. The letter had been composed two days before the date of the wedding, but not posted for another three days. Camden could not imagine Theodora being married to anyone else. People in general made her nervous; even he did, to some extent, though she'd let him hold her hand and kiss her. She'd have been happiest far removed from the rest of humanity, a musical recluse in a chalet high up the Alps, with no neighbors but the cows at their summer pasture. He worried about her. But even as he did, he could not stem the tide of excitement that the news engendered. Desire. Fascinated lust. Sensual bedazzlement. Covetousness by any other name was still rapacious. He wanted Miss Rowland. He wanted to laugh with her. He wanted to burn with her. And now he could. If he married her. Marriage, however, was a serious matter, the commitment of a lifetime, a decision not to be rushed. He tried to approach the matter rationally, but like idiotic, lust-addled young men since time immemorial—to which club he never imagined he'd belong—all he could think of was Miss Rowland's eagerness on their wedding night. She'd probably be the one to come into his room, rather than the other way around. She'd allow him to keep all the lights on so he could visually devour her to his heart's content. She'd spread her legs wide, then wrap them tightly about him. And he might even make her look at what he'd do to her, so he could watch her flushed cheeks, her lust-glazed eyes, and listen to her moans and whimpers of pleasure. God, he would make love to her for days running. After a night of internal debate, during which much voluptuous fantasizing and very little sensible debate occurred, Camden resolved to put the choice to the Fates. If Miss Rowland was there again by the stream that day, he'd propose to her within the week. If not, he'd take it as a sign that he should hold off until the end of next term to allow time for more solemn reflection. He spent the entire day at the bank of the brook, pacing up and down, all but climbing the naked trees. But she did not come. Not in the morning, not in the afternoon, not when the sky turned blue-black. And that was when he realized he was far gone: Not only was he immensely unhappy with the Fates, but he'd decided that the Fates could all go drown in a cesspit. He returned his horse to the stable and requested a brougham be readied for him immediately. The footman hesitated and looked inquiringly at Gigi. Her plate was still almost full. She pushed it aside. The plate disappeared to be replaced by another, a compote of pears. "Gigi, you hardly ate anything," said Mrs. Rowland, picking up her fork. "I thought you liked venison." Gigi picked up her own fork and excavated a cube of pear from the clear syrup. She was being too obvious in her preoccupation. Her mother never worried that she ate too little. Quite the opposite. Mrs. Rowland usually feared that Gigi's appetite was too robust, that her corsets wouldn't lace tightly enough to achieve any decent approximation of the wasp waist. She stared at her fork and could not accomplish the simple task of putting it in her mouth. Her stomach churned already. She had no confidence it could handle the sugar-drenched piece of fruit. She set down the fork. "I'm not that hungry tonight." Merely terrified. What she'd done was in every way unprincipled, and quite possibly criminal. Worse, she'd not only perpetrated a fraud, she'd made an incompetent mash of it. She'd been too impatient, her methods too crude. Any half-wit could pick up the rank odor of villainy and sniff the trail right to her door. What would Lord Tremaine do should he find out? And what would he _think_ of her? A footman entered the dining room and spoke a few low words to Hollis, their butler. Hollis then approached Mrs. Rowland. "Ma'am, Lord Tremaine is here. Should I ask him to wait until dinner is finished?" It was a good thing Gigi had quit all pretense of eating, or she'd have dropped everything in her hand. Mrs. Rowland rose, radiant with excitement. "Absolutely not. We shall go greet him this instant. Come, Gigi. I've a suspicion that Lord Tremaine didn't come all the way to see _me._ _"_ Mrs. Rowland was no doubt hearing wedding bells. But scandal and ruin loomed large in Gigi's mind. She would live out the rest of her life like Miss What's-her-name, the mad old spinster in a wedding dress, laying waste to her estate and infecting everyone with her bitterness. She had no choice but to follow her mother, bleakly, grimly, a foot soldier who shared little of the general's optimism for victory and spoils, who saw only the bloodbath ahead. He was there, standing in the middle of the drawing room—the epitome of her desires, the instrument of her downfall, the eligible young scion who groomed horses and ran just slightly shady games of probability. "My lord Tremaine," gushed Mrs. Rowland. "Such a pleasure to see you, as always. What brings you to our humble abode at this unusual hour?" "Mrs. Rowland. Miss Rowland." Did he glance at her? Was that a flash of intense longing or chagrin? "I do apologize for intruding on your evening." "Nonsense," said Mrs. Rowland airily. "You know you are always welcome here, any time. Now do answer my question. My curiosity slays me." "I'm here for a private word with Miss Rowland," replied Lord Tremaine, with breathtaking directness. "With your permission, of course, Mrs. Rowland." For the very first time in her life, Gigi felt faint without having first suffered a concussion. Either he'd come to denounce her or he'd come to propose to her. Unthinkable as it might have been a few days ago, she fervently hoped it was the former. He'd castigate her for the scum that she was. She'd grovel hopelessly for forgiveness. Then he'd depart and she'd lock herself in her room and bang her head on the wall until the wall gave. "Most certainly," acceded Mrs. Rowland, with admirable restraint. She withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her. Gigi did not dare look at him. She was certain that that, in itself, already betrayed her culpability. He drew close to her. "Miss Rowland, will you marry me?" More bloodcurdling words she'd never heard. Her head snapped up. Her eyes met his. "Three days ago you were determined to marry someone else." "Today I'm determined to marry you." "What happened in the meantime to change your mind so drastically?" "I received a letter from Miss von Schweppenburg. She has married into the Princely House of Lobomirski." _No, she has not._ Gigi had plucked that name out of a book on European nobility she'd found in her mother's collection. She'd studied Miss von Schweppenburg's note, then composed her deception, carefully incorporating Miss von Schweppenburg's half apologies and powerless wistfulness. Then she'd taken everything to Briarmeadow's gamekeeper, an old man who'd been a forger in his youth and who regarded her with an indulgent, grandfatherly fondness. "I see," she said weakly. "So you've decided to be practical." "I suppose you could say part of my decision was motivated by pragmatism," he said quietly, coming so close that she could smell the cold crisp scent of winter that still clung to his jacket. "Though for the life of me, I can't remember any of those reasons." He tipped her chin up and kissed her. She'd kissed men before—several—when she got bored at balls or chafed from her mother's stricture. She considered the activity more bizarre than interesting and had sometimes studied the man she kissed with her eyes wide open, calculating the size of his debt. But from the moment Lord Tremaine's lips touched hers, she was consumed, like a child tasting a lump of sugar for the very first time, overcome by the sweetness of it all. His kiss was as light as meringue, as gentle as the opening notes of the _Moonlight Sonata,_ and as nourishing as the first rain of spring after an endless winter drought. Light-headed and amazed, she drank in the kiss. Until simply being kissed by him wasn't enough anymore. She cupped his face and kissed him back with something far beyond enthusiasm, something closer to desperation, tremulous and wild. She heard the muffled groan in his larynx, felt the physical change that signaled his arousal. He broke the kiss, pushed her an arm's length away, and stared at her, his breaths heavy and labored. "My God, if your mother wasn't on the other side of the door . . ." He blinked, then blinked again. "Was that a yes?" It was not yet too late. She could still take the nobler path, confess everything, apologize, and keep her self-respect. And lose him. If he knew the truth, he would despise her. She couldn't face his anger. Or his scorn. Couldn't live without him. Not yet, not yet. She wrapped her arms about his waist and laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Yes." The joy she felt at his fierce embrace was riddled with terror. But she'd made her choice. She would have him, for better or worse. She would keep him in the dark, for as long as possible. And when they were married, she would look upon his sleeping form, marvel at her vast good fortune, and ignore the constant encroachment of fear that tainted her very soul. * * * Camden had no idea he had it in him to be so happy. He was not the kind to derive unbridled joy from the pulse of the universe or any such nonsense. He never rolled out of bed wanting to breathe deeply of life it-self—a poor man with well-meaning but inept parents to coddle and younger siblings to support had no time for such silly luxuries. But with her by his side, he couldn't help being exuberant. She possessed magical properties, strong and bracing as a draft of the finest vodka and yet keeping him always at a delightful degree of tipsiness, that elusive point of equilibrium at which all the spheres of heaven came into exquisite alignment and a mere mortal sprouted wings. During their three-week engagement, he called on her with a frequency that was positively indecent, on most days riding over to Briarmeadow both morning and afternoon and accepting her mother's invitations to remain for tea and dinner without so much as a perfunctory protest that he must not impose too much on his kind hostesses. He loved talking to Gigi. Her view of the world was as jaundiced and unromantic as his own. They agreed that, at the moment, neither of them amounted to anything, as he was no more responsible for his bloodline than she was for her million-pound inheritance. And yet for an inveterate cynic, she was as easy to please as a puppy. The inadequate bouquets he scavenged from Twelve Pillars' dilapidated greenhouse incited such euphoric responses that Julius Caesar on his triumphant return to Rome after the conquest of Gaul could not have been more madly thrilled. The rather modest engagement ring he bought her, with funds he'd saved for his passage to America and his first workshop, to be modeled after that of Herr Benz, brought her nearly to tears. The day before the wedding, he drove to her house and sent for her to meet him in front. No gloomy blue cape this time; she arrived like a column of flame, in a mantle of rich strawberry red, with rosy cheeks and wine-colored lips to match. He grinned, as he always did now when he met her. He was an ass, to be sure, but a happy ass. "I have something for you," he said. She laughed giddily when she opened the small wrapped package to reveal a still-warm pork bun. "Now I truly have seen everything. Dare I guess you pillaged every last flower from your greenhouse yesterday?" She glanced about them in the mischievous way she had, signaling to him that she was about to come forward and kiss him, the public nature of her front lawn be damned. He stopped her, holding her forearms with his hands, so that she couldn't get any closer. "I have something else for you." "I know what you have for me," she said saucily. "You wouldn't let me touch it yesterday." "You can touch it today," he whispered. "What?!" She was still a virgin, after all. "Out here, where everyone can see us?" "Oh, yes." He laughed at her expression of shock and mortified interest. "No!" "All right, then, I'll take the puppy and go home." "A puppy?" she squealed, like the nineteen-year-old she was. "A puppy! Where is it? Where is it?" He lifted the basket out of the carriage, but swung it away from her eager hands just as she reached for it. "I understand you don't wish to touch it in public." She grabbed the other end of the basket. "Oh, give me, give me! Pleeeease. I'll do anything." He laughed and relented. She fumbled open the lid of the basket and out poked the brown-and-white head of a corgi puppy, wearing behind its neck a slightly lopsided blue bow made from ribbons Camden had pilfered from Claudia. Gigi squealed again and lifted the puppy. It regarded her with serious, intelligent eyes, not quite as thrilled as she was at their meeting but pleased and well-behaved nevertheless. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she inquired breathlessly, offering it pieces of the pork bun. "How old is it? Does it have a name?" Camden cast a glance at the puppy's rather obvious testicles. Perhaps she wasn't as knowledgeable as he'd thought. "He's a boy. Ten weeks old. And I've decided to call him Croesus in honor of you." "Croesus, my love." She touched her cheek to the puppy's nose. "I shall get you a grand gilded water bowl, Croesus. And we will be the best of friends forever and ever." At last she looked back at Camden. "But how did you know I've always wanted a puppy?" "Your mother told me. She said she preferred cats and you pined for a dog." "When?" "The day we met. After dinner. You were there. Don't you remember?" She shook her head. "No, I don't." "No doubt you were too busy looking at me." Her hand came up to her mouth. But then a slow smile spread across her face. "You noticed?" He was tempted to tell her that not even at a memorably farcical soirée in St. Petersburg, during which both the hostess _and_ the host attempted to seduce him, had he been ogled that much. "I noticed." "Oh, dear." She buried her face against the puppy's neck. She was blushing and, God help him, he had an erection the size of Bedfordshire. "Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by Croesus's coat. "It's the best present anyone has ever given me." He was touched and humbled. "It makes me happy to see you happy." "Until tomorrow, then." She leaned in and kissed him, a sweet, lingering kiss. "I can't wait." "It will be the longest twenty-four hours of my life," he said, kissing her one last time on the tip of her nose. "An eternity." The next twenty-four hours turned out to be exactly that: an eternity, a hellish eternity. Chapter Nine _14 May 1893_ The music did not register at first. Gigi was not accustomed to hearing music in her own house when she hadn't paid for it. She dropped the report in her hand and listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of a piano being assaulted. In his basket next to the bed, Croesus whimpered, snorted, and opened his eyes. Poor thing wasn't able to sleep well at night, perhaps because of all the naps he now took during the day. He shook his neck, rose on his short legs, and began his laborious ascent up the steps made especially for him after he could no longer bound up on her bed with only the aid of the bed stool. She flung aside the counterpane and scooped him up. "It's that stupid husband of mine," she said to the old pup. "Instead of banging me, he's banging the damned piano. Let's go and tell him to shut up." Her husband started something dramatic and harsh as she descended the staircase— _bong bong bong bong, bing bing bing bing—_ a piece composed by the overly somber Herr Beethoven, no doubt. With a sigh, Gigi threw open the door of the music room. He had changed into a silk dressing gown, as sleek and dark as the piano itself. His hair was rumpled, but otherwise he looked serious, intent, a man with a purpose. An excellent man, the consensus had always been: a most dutiful son, a caring brother, a faithful friend—all that and social graces too. And a streak of subterranean viciousness that had to be experienced to be believed. "I beg your pardon," she said. "But some of us need to sleep so that we can get up early in the morning." He stopped playing and looked at her oddly. It took another moment to register that he wasn't looking at _her_ but at Croesus. "Is that Croesus?" He frowned. "It is." He left the piano bench and came next to her, studying Croesus, his frown deepening. "What's the matter with him?" She glanced down. Croesus seemed no different from how he usually was. "Nothing," she said, her voice sharp with defensiveness. She liked to think that she provided Croesus a happy, comfortable life. "He's as well as an old dog can be." Croesus was ten and a half years of age, his once lustrous coat now dull and gray. His eyes were rheumy. He drooped, wheezed, tired easily, and ate poorly. But when he did have an appetite, he dined on foie gras sprinkled with sautéed mushrooms. And in ill health he was attended by London's best veterinarian. Camden reached out toward Croesus. "Come here, old bloke." Croesus regarded him with drowsy eyes. He didn't move. But neither did he protest when Camden simply took him. "Do you remember me?" he said. "I highly doubt it." Camden ignored her snippy answer. "I've two pups in New York." He spoke to Croesus. "Hannah and Bernard, a rambunctious pair. They would be pleased to meet you someday." She didn't understand why information so mundane and unremarkable as his having dogs should cause her a moment of scorching pain. "I see you don't remember me." He gave the fur behind Croesus's ear a wistful scratch. "I have missed you." "I'd like to have him back," Gigi said coldly. He complied, but not before holding Croesus close and kissing one of the old dog's ears. "Your piano needs to be tuned." "Nobody plays it." "A shame." He turned his head and gave the instrument an appreciative glance. "An Érard piano should be played." "You can take it with you when you go back to New York. A divorce present." She had ordered it as a wedding present for him. But it hadn't arrived until months after he left. His gaze returned to her. "Thank you, I might. Especially since it already has my initials inscribed." He was standing close enough that she imagined she could smell him, the scent of a man after mid-night—naked skin under silk dressing gown. "Get to it, will you?" she murmured. "All this sexual skittishness is not very attractive in a man." "Yes, yes, I'm well aware. But the fact remains, I'm loath to touch you." "Turn off all the lights. Pretend I'm someone else." "That would be difficult. You tend to be vocal." She colored. She couldn't help it. "I'll sew my lips shut." He shook his head slowly. "It's no use. You breathe and I'll know it's you." Ten years ago she'd have taken it for a declaration of love. Her heart still gave a throb, a lonely echo. He bowed. "One more piece and I'm off to bed." As she left, he began playing something as soft and haunting as the last roses of summer. She recognized it in two bars: _Liebesträume._ He and Mrs. Rowland had played it together that first night of their acquaintance. Even Gigi, incompetent musician that she was, could pick out that melody on the piano with one hand. _Dream of Love._ All that she ever had with him. Mrs. Rowland's campaign to woo the duke had hit a snag. For a day or so, things went terribly well. The case of Chatêau Lafite went promptly to Ludlow Court. A gracious thank-you note came back just as promptly, accompanied by a basket of apricot and peach preserves from Ludlow Court's own orchards. Then nothing. Victoria sent an invitation to the duke for her next charity gala. He gave a generous cheque, but declined to attend the event. Two days later, she plucked up the audacity to call upon Ludlow Court in person, only to be told that the duke was not at home. It'd been five years since she resettled in Devon in her childhood house, which she'd purchased from her nephew. Five years during which to observe the duke's comings and goings. She knew perfectly well that he never went anywhere else except for his daily walk. Which left her no choice but to intercept him during his walk again. She pretended to inspect the roses in the front garden, a pair of snipping scissors in hand, never mind that no self-respecting gardener ever did her cuttings in the middle of the afternoon. Her heart thumped as he came around the bend in the path at his usual hour. But by the time she'd maneuvered herself next to the low gate by the path, she barely got a "good afternoon" out of him before he sailed on past. The next day she waited near the front of the garden, to no better results. The duke refused to be drawn into chitchat. Her comment on the weather only garnered the same "good afternoon" as the day before. For three days after that it rained. He walked in mackintosh and galoshes. But she could not possibly work in the garden—or even pretend to—in a downpour. She gritted her teeth and decided to make an even greater nuisance of herself. She would walk _with_ him. As God was her witness, she would bag, truss, and deliver this duke to Gigi at whatever cost to her own dignity. Clad in a white walking dress and sensible walking boots, she waited in the front parlor of the cottage. When he appeared around the bend in the distance, she pounced, her tassel-fringed parasol in tow. "I've decided to take up some exercise myself, Your Grace." She smiled as she closed the garden gate behind her. "Do you mind if I walk with you?" He raised a pair of pince-nez from around his neck and looked down at her through the lenses. Goodness gracious but the man was ducal in every little gesture. He was not unusually tall, about five foot ten, but one chill look from him and the Colossus of Rhodes would feel like a midget. He didn't give express permission. He merely dropped the pince-nez and nodded, murmuring, "Madam." And immediately resumed his walk, leaving Victoria to scamper in his wake, hurrying to catch up. She had known, of course, that he walked fast. But it didn't dawn upon her until she'd tried to catch up with him for ten minutes just how fast he walked. For a rare moment she wished she had Gigi's tremendous height instead of her own more demure five feet two inches. Chucking aside all ladylike restraints, she broke into a half run, cursing the narrow confines of her skirts, and finally ended up at his side. She had prepared various openings, bits and pieces of local trivia. But by the time she finished enumerating interesting packets of historical details concerning the house next down the lane, she'd be five feet behind him again. And having been very ladylike all her life, she wasn't sure she could manage another run without expiring of apoplexy. So she got to the point. "Would you care for dinner at my house two weeks from Wednesday, Your Grace? My daughter will be visiting that week. I'm sure she'd be delighted to meet you." She'd have to go up to London and drag Gigi down. But that she'd worry about later. "I am a very fussy eater, Mrs. Rowland, and usually do not enjoy meals prepared by anyone but my own cook." Drat it. Why must he be so difficult? What did a woman have to do to get him into her house? Dance naked in front of him? Then no doubt he'd complain of vertigo. "I'm sure we could—" "But I might consider accepting your invitation if you would grant me a favor in return." If it weren't so darned exhausting to keep up with him, she'd have halted in her tracks, stunned. "I would be honored. What might I do for you, Your Grace?" "I am an admirer of the peace and quiet of the country life, as you well know," he said. Did she detect a trace of sarcasm in his voice? "But even the most ardent admirer of the country life sometimes misses the pleasures of the town." "Indeed." "I haven't gambled for the past fifteen years." This duke, a gambler? But he was a recluse, a Homeric scholar with his nose buried in old parchment. "I see," she said, though she didn't. "I hear the siren call of a green baize table. But I do not wish to go to London to satisfy myself. Will you be so gracious as to play a few hands with me?" This time she did come to a dead stop. "Me? Gamble?" She had never even bet a shilling. Gambling, in her opinion, was about the daftest thing a woman could do, other than divorcing a man who would one day be a duke. "Of course, I would understand if you object to—" "Not at all," she heard herself say. "I have no objections whatsoever to a bit of harmless betting." "I like it more interesting than that," he said. "One thousand pounds a hand." "And I admire men who play for high stakes," she squeaked. What was wrong with her? When she accepted giving up her dignity, she hadn't planned on surrendering every last ounce of her good sense as well. And lying outright, complimenting him on the most foolish, most self-destructive trait a man could possess! There came a time in every good Protestant's life when she yearned for a simple, sin-absolving trip to the papists' confession booth. "Very well, then." The Duke of Perrin nodded his approval. "Shall we set a date and a time?" Chapter Ten _January 1883_ My dear cousin, the Grand Duke Aleksey, is getting married today," said the Countess von Loffler-Lisch—more affectionately known as Aunt Ploni, short for Appolonia. She was a second cousin of Camden's mother and had come all the way from Nice to attend his wedding. "I hear the bride is some gold-digging nobody." He would be called that very same if he didn't stand in direct line of succession to a ducal title, Camden thought wryly. Instead, Gigi would bear the brunt of the snickering their hasty marriage was certain to engender, for her feats of social mountaineering. "Your noble cousin's wedding would have been the grander affair," said Camden. "Very likely." The elderly countess nodded, her hair a rare shade of pure silver and elaborately coiffed. " _Zut!_ I can't recall the bride's name. Elenora von Schellersheim? Von Scheffer-Boyadel? Or is her name not even Elenora?" Camden smiled. Aunt Ploni was known for her prodigious memory. It must gall her to no end not remembering something right at the tip of her tongue. He sat down next to her and poured more curaçao into her digestif glass. "Where is the bride from?" "Somewhere on the border with Poland, I think." "We know some people from there," he said. Theodora, for one. The countess frowned and tried to concentrate amid the lively conversation flowing in the great drawing room at Twelve Pillars. Thirty of Camden's relatives had arrived from the Continent to attend the wedding, despite the short notice. And his mother was ever so pleased to finally be able to receive people in a mansion, however neglected, of her own. "Von Schweinfurt?" Aunt Ploni refused to give up. "I do hate growing old. I never forgot a name when I was younger. Let's see. Von Schwanwisch?" "Von Schnurbein? Von Schottenstein?" Camden teased her. He was in a buoyant mood. Tomorrow this time he would be getting married to the most remarkable girl he'd ever met. And tomorrow night— "Von Schweppenburg!" the countess exclaimed. "There, that's it! Haven't quite lost all my marbles after all." "Von Schweppenburg?" He'd accidentally electrocuted himself once during an experiment at the Polytechnique. He felt exactly the same shock in his fingertips now. "You mean Count Georg von Schweppenburg's widow?" "Dear me, not quite that bad. His daughter. Theodora, that's her name, not Elenora, after all. Poor Alesha is quite smitten." Something droned in the back of his head, an incipient alarm that he tried to dismiss. Titles that had their origins during the Holy Roman Empire went on in perpetuity to all male issue. There could very well be another late Count Georg, from a lateral branch of the von Schweppenburg family, who had a marriageable daughter named Theodora. But what were the chances? No, they were speaking of _his_ Theodora here, the one whose happiness he had once hoped to secure. But how? How could she marry two men in one month? The simple answer was that she couldn't. Either the countess was wrong or Theodora herself was wrong. A laughable choice, really. Of course Theodora would know the name of the man she was going to marry. The countess had to be mistaken. "I met her years ago, when we were in Peters," he said carefully. "I thought she married some Polish prince." The countess snorted. "Now, wouldn't that be interesting, a real live bigamist? Unfortunately, I've no hope for it. According to Alesha, his intended is as pure as the arctic ice field, with a mother who watches her every move. You must be mistaken, my boy." The clamor in his head escalated. He poured a goblet full of the digestif and downed it in one long gulp. The cognac at the base of the liqueur burned in his throat, but the sensation barely registered. "It's only two o'clock in the afternoon. A bit early to be doing your last bout of bachelor drinking, eh?" cackled Aunt Ploni. "Not getting cold feet, are you?" He wouldn't know if his feet were cold. He couldn't feel any of his limbs. The only thing he felt was confusion and a rising sense of peril, as if the solid ground beneath him had suddenly splintered, cracking dark webs of fissure and fracture as far as he could see. He rose and bowed to the countess. "Hardly. But I do beg your pardon, noble cousin. There is a small matter that requires my attention. I hope to see you again at dinner." Camden couldn't think any better away from the drawing room. He wandered the silent, drafty corridors as bits and pieces of what Aunt Ploni had said streaked about in his head like panicky hens facing a weasel invasion. He didn't exactly understand why, but he was scared witless. What frightened him most was that he knew, deep in his guts, that Aunt Ploni had not been mistaken. At a turn in the hallway, near the front of the house, he bumped right into a young footman carrying a tray of letters. "Beg your pardon, milord!" the footman apologized immediately, and got down on all fours to retrieve the scattered missives. As the footman gathered up the letters, Camden saw two addressed to him. He recognized the handwriting of his friends. The new university term had already started; they must be wondering why he hadn't returned yet. He had not informed his classmates of his upcoming marriage—he and Gigi had decided to throw a surprise reception in Paris, in the spacious apartment her agent had located for them on Montagne Sainte Geneviève in the Quartier Latin, a stone's throw from his classes. A few essential items of furnishing had already been set up at the apartment, where a cook and a maid had also taken up residence in preparation for their arrival. He held out his hand for the tray. "I'll take them, Elwood." Elwood looked baffled. "But, sir, Mr. Beckett said all letters must go to him first, so he could sort them out." "Since when?" "Since right about Christmas last, sir. Mr. Beckett said His Grace didn't like too many letters begging him for charity." _What?_ Camden almost said the word aloud. His father had never met a beggar for whom he didn't have a coin to spare. It was his very softheartedness that had in part made them paupers. An appalling suspicion was beginning to coalesce in Camden's mind. He wanted to bat it away with something heavy and powerful—a club, a mace—to disperse the filaments of deductions and inferences that threatened to choke his perfect contentment. He wanted to forget what he had heard about the majordomo just now, ignore the clamor in his head that had risen to a screaming siren, and pretend that everything was exactly as it should be. Tomorrow he was getting married. He couldn't wait to sleep with that girl. He couldn't wait to wake up next to her every day, bask in her adoration, and delight in her verve. "Very well, take these to Beckett," he said. "Yes, sir." Camden watched the footman march down the hallway. _Let him go. Let him go. Don't ask questions. Don't think. Don't probe._ "Wait," he commanded. Elwood turned around obediently. "Yes, sir?" "Tell Beckett I would like to see him in my apartment in fifteen minutes." Chapter Eleven _22 May 1893_ A gentleman's club had seemed the perfect remedy after a tiring, weeklong business trip to the Continent, during which he'd thought very little of his business and too much of his wife. But Camden was beginning to regret his freshly minted membership. He had never set foot inside an English gentleman's club before, but he had harbored the distinct impression that it would be a quiet, calm place, filled with men escaping the strictures of wives and hearths, drinking scotch, holding desultory political debates, and snoring softly into their copies of the _Times._ Certainly the interior of the club, which looked as if it had not been touched in half a century—fading burgundy drapes, wallpaper splotchily darkened by gaslights, and furnishing that in another decade or so would be called genteelly shabby—had seemed conducive to somnolence, giving him the false hope that he'd be able to while away the afternoon, brooding in peace. And he had done so for a few minutes, until a crowd begging for introductions surrounded him. The conversation had quickly turned to Camden's various holdings. He hadn't quite believed Mrs. Rowland when she declared in one of her letters that Society had changed and that people could not shut up about money these days. Now he did. "How much would such a yacht cost?" asked one eager young man. "Is there a sizable profit to be realized?" asked another. Perhaps the agricultural depression that had cut many a large estate's income by half had something to do with it. The aristocracy was in a pinch. The manor, the carriages, and the servants all bled money, which was getting scarcer by the day. Unemployment, for centuries the gentlemanly standard—so that one could devote one's time to serving as parliamentarian and magistrate—was becoming more and more of an untenable position. But as of yet, few gentlemen had the audacity to work. So they talked, to scratch the itch of collective anxiety. "Such a yacht costs enough that only a handful of America's richest men can afford one," Camden said. "But, alas, not so much that those who supply them can claim instant riches." If he were to solely rely on the firm he owned that designed and built yachts, he'd be a well-off man but nowhere near wealthy enough to hobnob with Manhattan's elite. It was his other maritime ventures, the freight-shipping line and the shipyard that built commercial vessels, that comprised what Americans called the "meat-and-potato" portion of his portfolio. "How does one come into possession of such a firm?" asked yet another man from the group of interlocutors, this one not as young as the others—and, judging by his silhouette, sporting a corset beneath his waistcoat. Camden glanced toward the grandfather clock that stood between two bookshelves against the far wall. Whatever the time was, he was going to say that he was expected elsewhere in half an hour. The time was quarter past three, and beside the clock stood Lord Wrenworth, observing the mob about Camden with amusement. "How?" Camden looked back at the corseted man. "Good luck, good timing, and a wife who is worth her weight in gold, my dear fellow." His answer was received with a silence halfway between shock and awe. He took the opportunity to stand up. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I'd like to have a word with Lord Wrenworth." _My daughter sends me postcards from the Lake District. I hear Lord Wrenworth is also there._ _My daughter is going to Scotland with a large party of friends, Lord Wrenworth included, for a sennight._ _My daughter, when I last saw her at a dinner, sported a fetching pair of diamond bracelets that I'd never seen before. She was unusually coy about their provenance._ Mrs. Rowland had been overly lavish in her praise of Lord Wrenworth— _a man all men want to be and all women want to bewitch—_ but not by much. The man seemed effortlessly graceful, effortlessly fashionable, and effortlessly calm and collected. "Quite a crowd you were drawing, my lord Tremaine," Lord Wrenworth said with a smile, as he and Camden shook hands. "You are an object of great curiosity around these parts." "Ah, yes, the latest addition to the circus, et cetera," said Camden. "You, sir, are fortunate to be so well situated that you need not soil your mind with thoughts of commerce." Lord Wrenworth laughed. "As to that, my lord, you are very much mistaken. Rich peers need money every bit as much as poor peers—we have far greater expenditures. But I daresay your material success fuels only part of the collective curiosity." "Let me guess, there's that little matter of the divorce." "Short of a good, old-fashioned murder, a divorce with charges of adultery leveled is the best anyone can hope for when the mood calls for some entertaining gossip." "Indeed. What have you heard?" Lord Wrenworth raised an eyebrow but proceeded to answer Camden's question. "I'm blessed with a battalion of sisters-in-law. One, with impeccable sources, declares that you are willing to submit to an annulment should Lady Tremaine hand over half of her worth and promise to travel to her honeymoon destination on your flagship luxury liner." "Interesting. I do not deal in passenger transit." "You must be mistaken," said Lord Wrenworth. "Though, to be sure, another one of Lady Wrenworth's sisters, with sources equally infallible, insists that you are a hairbreadth away from a grand reconciliation." Camden nodded. "And you are in favor of the old status quo. Lady Tremaine is quite peeved with you, I might as well let you know. She thought you'd be a better friend to Lord Frederick." "Then that would make me less of a friend to her," said Lord Wrenworth, no longer glib. "Lord Frederick, though he is a man of unimpeachable goodness—Speak of the devil. The rumormongers will have new tales to tell tonight." He pointed his chin toward the door. Camden turned to see a young man coming toward them. Though he stooped slightly, he was still tall, a hair under six foot. He had a round face, a firm jaw, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. Elsewhere in the room, men stopped what they were doing and stared openly at his progress, glancing from Camden to him and back, but he remained oblivious to the attraction he had become. The young man offered his hand to Lord Wrenworth. "Lord Wren, pleased to see you." He had a melodious, surprisingly _basso profundo_ voice. "Was just thinking of sending a note around. Lady Wren asked me a couple of months ago if I would paint a portrait of her. Well, I told her that I wasn't much good at portraits. But these days—well, you know what's going on—I seem to have lots of time on my hands. If she is still interested—" "I'm sure she would be delighted, Freddie," Lord Wrenworth said smoothly. He turned to Camden. "Lord Tremaine, may I present Lord Frederick Stuart? Freddie, Lord Tremaine." Camden extended his hand. "A pleasure, sir." Lord Frederick blinked. He stared at Camden for a second, as if expecting something dire. Then he swallowed and grasped Camden's hand with his own, which was large and slightly plump. "Right ho. Pleased, I'm sure, milord." For some reason, despite everything Mrs. Rowland had written, Camden had expected to see a prime specimen of a man. Lord Frederick was not that man. Next to Lord Wrenworth, he seemed all too ordinary, his looks pleasant but unremarkable, his attire a year or two behind the forefront of fashion, his demeanor unsophisticated. "You are an artist, Lord Frederick?" "No, no, I only dabble." "Nonsense," said Lord Wrenworth. "Lord Frederick is tremendously accomplished for his age." His age—yet something else Camden hadn't expected. Lord Frederick could not have lived through more than twenty-four winters, a mere babe, barely old enough to grow hairs on his chin. "Lord Wrenworth is much too kind," Lord Frederick mumbled. Camden could see he was beginning to sweat, despite the cool interior of the club. "I beg to differ," said Wrenworth. "I have one of Freddie's pieces at home. Lady Wrenworth quite admires it. In fact, I believe Lady—" Suddenly Lord Frederick looked quite panic-stricken. "Wren!" Lord Wrenworth was taken aback. "Yes, Freddie?" Lord Frederick could not come up with a slick answer. "I . . . uh . . . I forgot." "What were you about to say, my lord Wrenworth?" Camden asked. "Only that I believe my mother-in-law begged to have it," said Lord Wrenworth. "But Lady Wrenworth refused to part with it." "Oh," said Lord Frederick, turning a shade of carmine to rival the drapes. The two older men exchanged a look. Lord Wrenworth shrugged subtly, as if he had no idea as to the reason behind Lord Frederick's outburst. But Camden had already guessed. "Is Lady Tremaine, like Lady Wrenworth, an admirer of your work, Lord Frederick?" Lord Frederick looked to Lord Wrenworth for recourse, but the latter chose not to involve himself, leaving Lord Frederick to meet Camden's direct question by himself. "Uh, Lady Tremaine has always been most kind to . . . my efforts. She is a great collector of art." Not something Camden would have said about his wife. But he supposed it was possible that, in a society enamored of the classical styles and subjects of Sir Frederick Leighton and Lawrence Alma-Tadema, she could very well host one of the largest collections of Impressionist paintings. "You approve of the latest trends in art, I take it?" "I do, sir, indeed." Lord Frederick relaxed slightly. "Then you must come see me the next time you happen to be in New York City. My collection is far superior to Lady Tremaine's, at least in quantity." The poor boy clearly struggled, wondering whether he was being played for a fool, but he chose to answer Camden's invitation as if it had been issued in good faith. "I shall be honored, sir." In that moment Camden saw what Gigi must have seen in the boy: his goodness, his sincerity, his willingness to think the best of everyone he met, a willingness that arose less from naïveté than from an inborn sweetness. Lord Frederick hesitated. "Would you be returning to America very soon or would you be with us for a while?" And courage too, to ask that question outright of him. "I expect I should remain in London until the matter of my divorce is settled." Lord Frederick's blush now exceeded Hungarian paprika in depth of color and vividness. Lord Wrenworth took his watch out and glanced at it. "Dear me, I should have met Lady Wrenworth at the bookshop five minutes ago. You must excuse me, gentlemen. Hell hath no fury like a woman made to wait." To Lord Frederick's credit, he didn't run, though the desire to do so was writ plain on his face. Camden gazed around the large common room. Newspapers suddenly rustled, conversations recommenced, cigars that had been dropping ashes on the scarlet-and-blue carpet rose once again to mustached lips. Satisfied that the rampant, untoward curiosity in the room had been temporarily curbed, Camden returned his attention to Lord Frederick. "I understand that you wish to marry my wife." The color drained from Lord Frederick's face, but he stood his ground. "I do." "Why?" "I love her." Camden had no choice but to believe him. Lord Frederick's answer brimmed with the kind of clarity born of the deepest conviction. He ignored the stab of pain in his chest. "Other than that?" "I beg your pardon?" "Love is an unreliable emotion. What is it about Lady Tremaine that makes you think you won't regret marrying her?" Lord Frederick swallowed. "She is kind, wise, and courageous. She understands the world but doesn't let it corrupt her. She is magnificent. She is like . . . like . . ." He was lost for words. "Like the sun in the sky?" Camden prompted, sighing inwardly. "Yes, exactly," said Lord Frederick. "How. . . how did you guess, sir?" _Because I once thought the same. And sometimes still think it._ "Luck," answered Camden. "Tell me, young man, have you ever considered that it might not be easy being married to a woman like that?" Lord Frederick looked perplexed, like a child being told that there _was_ such a thing as too much ice cream, when he had only ever been allowed a few spoonfuls at a time. "How so?" Camden shook his head. What could he say? "Do not mind the rambling of an old man." He offered his hand again. "I wish you the best of luck." "Thank you, sir." Lord Frederick sounded both relieved and grateful. "Thank you. I wish you the same." _May the better man prevail._ The reply rose nearly to the tip of Camden's tongue before he realized what he was about to say and swallowed it whole. He couldn't possibly have meant anything close to that. He couldn't possibly even have thought it. He had no use for her. He did not want her back. It was but the flotsam of his psyche, washed ashore in a sudden surge of masculine possessiveness. He nodded at Lord Frederick and a few other men, retrieved his hat and walking stick, and exited the club into the midst of a fine afternoon. It was all wrong. The sky should be ominous, the wind cold, the rain fierce. He would have welcomed that, welcomed the drenching discomfort and isolation of an icy downpour. Instead, he must endure the mercilessly beautiful sunshine of an early summer day and listen to birds chirp and children laugh as all his carefully constructed rationales threatened to crumble about him. She was wrong. It wasn't about Theodora. It had never been about Theodora. It was always about _her._ Gigi was giving Victoria trouble. "Duke of Perrin." She frowned. "How do you know him?" This was not the reaction Victoria had expected from Gigi. She had mentioned the duke only most incidentally, while trying to persuade Gigi to take some time away from London. "He happens to be my neighbor. We met on one of his daily walks." "I'm surprised you allowed him to introduce himself to you." A maid in a white shirt, black skirts, and a long bib apron came by and filled their glasses with mineral water. Victoria had arranged for them to meet at a ladies' tea shop. She didn't trust Gigi's servants not to gossip. "I thought you usually stayed well away from cads and roués." "Cads and roués!" Victoria cried. "What does that have to do with His Grace? He is very well respected, I will have you know." "He had a near-fatal hunting accident some fifteen years ago. After that he retired from society. And I will have _you_ know that until then he was the veriest lecher, gambler, and all-around reprobate." Victoria dabbed at her upper lip with her napkin to hide her wide-open mouth. The duke had been her neighbor in her youth. And he was her neighbor now. But she had to admit that she had no idea what he had done with himself during the twenty-odd years in the middle. "Well, he can't be any worse than Carrington, can he?" "Carrington?" Gigi stared at her. "Why are you comparing him to Carrington? Are you thinking of marrying him?" "No, of course not!" Victoria denied hotly. The next instant she wished she hadn't, because Gigi's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Then what are you doing, inviting him to dinner?" Her voice turned chillier with each word. "Tell me you aren't planning some lunacy to make me into the next Duchess of Perrin." Victoria sighed. "It can't hurt, can it?" "Mother, I believe I have told you already that I am going to marry Lord Frederick Stuart once I'm divorced from Tremaine." Gigi spoke slowly, as if to a very dull child. "But you won't be divorced for a while yet," Victoria pointed out reasonably. "Your feelings for Lord Frederick might very well have changed by then." "Are you calling me fickle?" "No, of course not." Oh, dear, however did one explain to a girl that her intended had less brains than a chipmunk? "I'm only saying that, well, I don't think Lord Frederick is the best man for you." "He is a good, gentle, and kind man of absolutely no vices. He loves me very much. What other man can be better for me?" Crumbs. The girl was daring her. "But you must consider this carefully. You are a clever woman. Can you really respect a man who does not possess the same perspicuity?" "Why don't you just come out and say you think he is dense?" Oh, stupid girl. "All right. I think he is dense, denser than Nesselrode pudding. And I can't stand the thought of you being married to him. He is not good enough to carry your shoes." Gigi stood up calmly. "It is good to see you, Mother. I wish you a pleasant stay in London. But I regret I cannot come to Devon next week, the week after, or the week after that. Good day." Victoria resisted the urge to put her face into her hands. She was bewildered. She had been so careful not to mention Camden or to criticize Gigi on the petition for divorce. And now she couldn't state the obvious concerning Lord Frederick either? Gigi arrived home fuming. What was wrong with her mother? A millennium had passed since Gigi had come to see the utter meaninglessness of a title. But still Mrs. Rowland cleaved to the illusion that a strawberry-leaf coronet cured all ills. She went in search of Croesus. Nothing and no one soothed her the way Croesus did, with his patient understanding and constant affection. But Croesus was neither in her bedchamber nor in the kitchen, where he occasionally went when his appetite returned. Suddenly she felt a shiver of fear. "Where is Croesus?" she asked Goodman. "Is he—" "No, madam. He is well. I believe he is with Lord Tremaine in the conservatory." So Camden had come back from wherever he had been the past week. "Very good. I'll go rescue him." The conservatory stretched nearly the entire width of the house. From the outside, it was an oasis of verdancy, even on the dreariest days of winter—the vines and fern fronds weaving a green cascade through the clear glass walls. From the inside, the structure offered an unimpeded view of the street beneath and the park beyond. Camden sat sprawled on a wicker chair at the far end of the conservatory, his arms stretched over the back of the chair, his stockinged feet propped up on a wicker ottoman before him. Croesus lay snoozing next to him. Camden had his profile to her, that strong, flawless profile that had so reminded her of a statue of Apollo Belvedere. He glanced away from the open windows at the sound of her approach, but he did not rise. "My lady Tremaine," he said with mock courtesy. She ignored him, scooped up Croesus—who wriggled and snorted, then settled into the crook of her elbow and went on with his nap—and turned to leave. "I was introduced to Lord Frederick earlier this afternoon, at the club," said her husband. "It was an edifying encounter." She whipped around. "Let me guess. You found him to possess all the intelligence of a boiled egg." Let him dare to agree with her. She was quite in the mood for slapping someone. Him. "I did not find him either eloquent or worldly. But that was not the thrust of my remark." "What was the thrust of your remark, then?" she asked, suspicious. "That he would make some woman an excellent husband. He is sincere, steadfast, and loyal." She was stunned. "Thank you." His gaze returned to the outside world. A pleasant breeze invaded the conservatory, ruffling his thick, straight hair. Carriages on exodus from the park crammed the street below. The air echoed with coach-men's calls, cautioning their horses and one another to pay heed to the logjam. Apparently, their little exchange was over. But Camden's remarkable compliment to Freddie had bred an opportunity that she could not let pass. "Would you do the honorable deed and release me from this marriage? I love Freddie, and he loves me. Let us marry while we are still young enough to forge a life together." In his perfect stillness she sensed a sudden stiffening. "Please," she said slowly. "I beg you. Release me." His gaze remained fixed on the daily tide of phaetons and barouches, of England's vanity and pride on parade. "I didn't say he would make _you_ a good husband." "And what would _you_ know about making anyone a good husband?" She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. But there was no taking them back now. "Absolutely nothing," he admitted without hesitation. "But at least I saw a few of your faults. I thought you interesting and appealing in spite of them, or perhaps because of them. Lord Frederick worships the ground you walk on because you have the kind of strength, resilience, and nerve he can only dream of. When he looks at you he sees only the halo he has erected about you." "What's wrong with being perfect in the eyes of my beloved?" His eyes locked with hers. "I look at him and I see a man who thinks we are going to be as chaste as God and Mary in this house. Does he know you are protecting him from the truth? Does he know that a few big lies in the service of love are nothing to you? That your strength extends to remorseless ruthlessness?" She'd have spat on the floor if she hadn't been raised by Victoria Rowland. "I look at you and I see a man who is still stuck in 1883. Does he know that ten years have passed? Does he know that I have moved on, that he is the relentless, ruthless one now? And does he really think I plan to tell the man I love that I'm to be impregnated by another, against my wish?" Someone laughed in the distance, a shrill, feminine giggle. Croesus whimpered and shifted in her arms. She was crushing him with the stiffness of her grip. She let out a shaky breath and forced her muscles to relax. He pressed two fingertips to his right temple. "You make it sound so ugly, my dear. Don't you think I deserve to get something out of this marriage before you traipse into your happily-ever-after?" "I don't know," she said. "And I don't care. All I know is that Freddie is my last chance for happiness in this life. I will marry him if I have to turn into Lady Macbeth and destroy all who stand in my path." His eyes narrowed. They were the dark green of a nightmare forest. "Warming up to your old tricks?" "How can I fail to be unscrupulous when you keep reminding me that I am?" Her heart was a swamp of bitterness, at him, at herself. "We will begin our one year tonight. Not later. Not whenever you finally feel like it. Tonight. And I don't give a ha'penny if you have to spend the rest of the night puking." He merely smiled. Chapter Twelve _January 1883_ Beckett, Twelve Pillars' majordomo, was a man in his early fifties, tall, thin, and balding. Camden found him highly efficient, despite his occasional unctuousness—presumably Carrington had liked his servants obsequious. "You wish to see me, Lord Tremaine?" asked Beckett. Without speaking, Camden motioned the majordomo to sit. He himself remained standing. The older man settled uneasily into the indicated chair. Camden stared at him, because he wasn't yet sure where to begin and because he wished to intimidate. After twenty seconds Beckett had trouble meeting his eyes. After three minutes, he was fidgeting and surreptitiously wiping away at his forehead and upper lip. "You do know, Beckett, that abusing your employer's trust is a crime punishable by law, don't you?" Beckett's head snapped up. For a moment, his expression was one of sheer panic. But he hadn't risen to be the head of staff in a ducal household without having learned a thing or two about self-control. In the next second, he replied in a normal voice, "Of course, my lord. I am more than aware. Loyalty is my creed." But his fear-stricken look had already given too much away. He was guilty. But of what? "I admire your composure, Beckett. It must not be easy to appear calm when you are quaking in your shoes." "I . . . I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about, sir." "I think you do, Beckett. And I think you are filled with dismay, horror, and, I hope, some shame at being found out. If I were you, I wouldn't carry this protestation of innocence any further. If you would not admit your errors to me in private, I shall be forced to go to His Grace and expose your lies, then he would have no choice but to call in the constables." Beckett was not about to give up easily. "Sir, if I've done something that has displeased you, please let me know what it is." Therein lay the difficulty of the matter. Camden had nothing concrete against Beckett, only the knowledge that Beckett had disrupted the usual pattern of mail delivery within the house and that Camden had a letter from Theodora that he was beginning to believe wasn't from Theodora at all, God help him. He walked to the mantel and pretended to study the framed seascape above it. If there was any link between Beckett and Theodora's letter, it was only an indirect one. He was acting at someone else's behest, a paid agent. Camden turned around and bluffed. "I know why you have all the mail delivered to you first. You see, Beckett, I have bad news for you. Your puppeteer has no more use for you and doesn't care to pay the remainder of your fee. So he has decided to throw you to the wolves." "No!" Beckett bolted out of the chair. "The bastard!" His ragged breathing suffused the stillness of the room. Then, realizing he had completely given himself away, he sank down into the chair and lowered his face into his palms. "Forgive me, my lord. But I've not done anything. Nothing, I swear. I was told only to watch out for any letters that came for you from abroad. Those I was to hand to the man. But he never took one of them either. He just looked at them and gave them back to me." Any letter that came for _him_ from _abroad._ Camden felt something implode in his chest, as if his lungs had collapsed. "Are you sure you've done nothing?" "There . . ." Beckett wiped his face with his handkerchief. "There was this one time, in the beginning, when the man gave me back the letters and I was sure one of them hadn't been there earlier." One letter. That was all it took. One letter. "Where and when do you meet this man?" "Outside the gate, on Tuesday and Friday afternoons." "And what if you can't meet him in person, for some reason?" "Then I'm to wrap the letters carefully and place the package under a rock by the gooseberry bush to the left of the gate. He comes at three." Today was Friday. The time was twenty-five minutes before three. "Too bad," Camden said. "I imagine he will not come anymore. Or I could have him thrown in jail also." Beckett paled. "But, my lord, you said . . . you said—" "I know what I said. I expect your resignation to be handed in to His Grace tomorrow after dinner." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Beckett all but kissed Camden's feet. "Go." As Beckett made his unsteady way to the door, Camden remembered one last thing. "How much were you paid up front?" Beckett hesitated. "Two thousand pounds. I have a natural son, my lord. He is in trouble. I used the money to pay off his debts. I will restitute it to you as soon as I may." Camden pressed his fingers hard against his temple. "I don't want it. And I don't wish to see you ever again. Leave." Two thousand up front, two thousand later. Who had this kind of money to throw away? And why would anyone want to do it? All the evidence pointed to only one direction. But he couldn't bear to acknowledge it. Perhaps, he prayed, perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the fear that knotted his guts wasn't a sign of inevitability but only a result of his overactive imagination. Perhaps there was still hope. * * * Two and a half hours later, there was no longer any possibility of denial. Camden wrapped the two letters from his friends, hid them as Beckett had done, and waited. A man did come, a raffish-looking man in his sixties, in a dogcart pulled by an ancient nag. He looked around carefully, then went for the gooseberry bush. As Beckett had described, he quickly glanced over the letters, then put them back where he'd found them. The man maneuvered the dogcart around and started back the way he'd come. Camden followed at a distance, on foot, the pain in his chest growing more vicious with each passing mile, all the way to the bitter end as the man and his cart disappeared between the gates of Briarmeadow, the chimneys of his fiancée's house just visible in the fading light above the tops of the naked poplars. Something shriveled and died in him. He began to walk, then run, away from Briarmeadow, away from her. Gigi, lovely, treacherous Gigi. Was it only this morning that he had come this way, as eager to please and impress her as any stupid puppy that ever lived? He didn't know how far or how long he sprinted, or at what point he finally crumpled to the ground, his eyes dry, his mind numb except for a splitting headache, the anvils of Lucifer beating every last shred of illusion out of him. She had done it. For some reason she had decided that she must have him, so she'd had the letter forged. Of course it was her; she was by far the most devious person he had ever come across. And he, horny fool that he was, had played along ever so willingly. How immeasurable her satisfaction must have been to see him this morning, knowing that her victory was complete and that he'd melt in her hand as readily as a piece of suet. Anger—burning, icy, dark as the pits of hell—rose slowly in him, until degree by degree it had taken over every cell of his body. He clung to that anger, for it dispelled pain and kept it at bay. Vengeance, he would have vengeance. She was willing to shell out four thousand pounds for him, was she? Then the lady mustn't be disappointed. She would see that he was every bit her equal in duplicity and heartlessness. He pried himself off the ground and went on running, not stopping again until he was in view of Twelve Pillars. A stray thought wrestled free from his tight control as he marched toward the house. It pined over how close to paradise he'd come, how joyful and carefree he had been only hours ago. It wanted time to turn back and Aunt Ploni to never have come. It wanted to beat the walls and wail. _Gigi, you stupid, stupid girl! Why couldn't you have waited? Theodora got married today. Today! I would have been—_ _Shut up! Shut up! I will shoot you myself if you ever whine for that girl again._ _Vengeance, remember, only vengeance._ Chapter Thirteen _22 May 1893_ Langford was restless. For the past fifteen years, his evenings had consisted of dinner, a cigar, the day's copy of the _Times,_ and one last hour of scholarly reading. And for about thirteen of those fifteen years, twice a week, his current London mistress would arrive just as he laid aside Plato's _Symposium_ or Aeschylus's _Myrmidons._ The first year after his return to Devonshire he had tried, without consistent success, to set up a more local arrangement. For the past twelve months or so, he had been celibate. He had never been an advocate for celibacy, nor was he one now. He had, perhaps, simply become too much of a village bumpkin to make the rounds of the London flesh market. Or perhaps he had no more need for the old carnal calisthenics, having grown prematurely asexual via the combination of solitude and scholarly pursuits. And he hadn't missed it terribly, until tonight. He would not mind knowing that a woman was stepping off the 9:23 train at the town of Totnes at that moment, about to be conveyed four miles southeast to Ludlow Court. The tranquillity of his library had become somnolent and tedious. His evening routine, with its careful variety of cigars, _Punch,_ and an occasional novel, was as sterile as the capons his cook served on Thursdays. Even having his dessert first tonight had done nothing to alleviate the oppressive sameness, except making him feel acutely ridiculous. The problem was not lethargy, which afflicted him from time to time. Rather, he suffered from a surfeit of energy. He was pacing like a windup Christmas toy soldier under the generalship of a three-year-old boy. A knock came at the library door. His butler, Reeves, entered, bearing the evening post. Langford scanned the three envelopes. Two were correspondence from other scholars, one German, one Greek. The last was a letter from his cousin Caroline, otherwise known as Lady Avery, a woman with a religious passion for the sins of others and a philanthropist's delight in sharing her encyclopedic knowledge of Society's every last tempest in a teapot. He dismissed Reeves and opened Caro's letter, glad for some nonsensical distraction. Caro and her sister Grace, Lady Somersby, used to call on him first thing in the morning, to find out from the servants which lady's abode he had visited the night before or if any cyprians—the precise number, please—had been brought into his own house. He had personally supervised the "accidental" dumping of buckets of cold water as they stood before his door one morning, ringing. But their fearsome dedication to their craft was such that they'd returned the next day with umbrellas. Perhaps as a tribute to all the delicious, scandalous tidbits he'd provided, which had elevated them to the top of the rumormongering pyramid, Caro wrote him every month about the latest _on-dits._ At the beginning of his self-imposed exile, he had tossed the letters unopened into the fire. But as the years went by, her clockwork persistence wore down his resistance. He was ashamed to admit to it, but he had become addicted to the monthly dose of adultery, vanity, and lunacy. This month's installment had Lady Southwell giving birth to yet another child who looked nothing like Lord Southwell but bore every resemblance to the Honorable Mr. Rumford; Sir Roland George setting up two mistresses in the same house; and Lord Whitney Wyld reputedly being caught with his brother's fiancée in a cupboard. But Caro saved the best for last—an honest-to-goodness divorce, involving not just anyone but one of the country's richest heiresses and a duke's heir, said to be worth a mint himself. Caro wrote giddily and at length of the marchioness's determination to marry her young admirer, the marquess's cryptic intentions, and the wild conjectures circulating about town concerning the outcome of the case. They had put on a most amicable front before others, but behind closed doors what was taking place? Were they poisoning each other's coffee? Each spreading false rumors about the other? Or, unlikely but not impossible, sharing a giggle together at the expense of that dunce Lord Frederick Stuart? The Railroad Heiress, Caro had called the Marchioness of Tremaine. The Railroad Heiress who almost married a duke, then managed to marry her dead fiancé's cousin within an indecently short period, but never got to wear a coronet of strawberry leaves. He frowned and suddenly realized where he had seen Mrs. Rowland before. Right there, on that same country lane, before that same cottage. It must have been a good thirty years ago. He had been home on holiday from Eton, bored out of his mind, itching to do something wild and stupid but not quite wanting the news of it to get back to his parents. His father had been bedridden for several years and would die in a few weeks. But Langford hadn't known that at the time. He resented his sire's interminable, and seemingly pointless, illness. At school he could slur against the pall that hung permanently over Ludlow Court by making savage jokes involving his useless father's bodily output and the middle-aged, round-faced nursemaid who handled the effluvia with what he considered obscene good cheer. At home he had no such recourse. He could only try to distance himself from the house as much and as often as possible. So he undertook long daily walks. And it was on one of those walks that he saw her, emerging from the cottage to a waiting barouche in the lane. She had been jaw-droppingly beautiful. Having lost his virginity a few months before, he considered himself sophisticated. But he gawked. Not only were her features lovely, her figure was divine. She moved with the grace of a nymph and the fluidity of a Nereid. A man he thought to be her father climbed into the open carriage after her. But then a second man, gray-haired and stooped, approached the carriage. She leaned out and kissed him on the cheek. "Good-bye, Father." She was on his mind quite a bit in the following days. He found out that she was indeed married to someone twice her age, a man who manufactured rails and industrial machinery. A shame, he thought, though why it was a shame he never explored. He certainly had no intention of marrying her, though he would have loved to seduce her. Then his father died, and guilt consumed him. She faded from memory. He embarked on the life of a rogue until he returned to Devon. How long had she been back? They had lived as neighbors for years without the least neighborly interaction. Until now. Until she'd barged into his path with all the subtlety of an avalanche. He had wondered that he let himself be drawn into her schemes with so little resistance. Perhaps some part of him had recognized her before his conscious mind did. Perhaps the Fates were up to their old tricks. Or perhaps he was simply a man deprived of feminine contacts and she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. * * * Victoria was learning far more than she wanted about the Duke of Perrin. She had a cordial but frustrating dinner with Camden at her London hotel. The boy was slippery as an eel and gave her elegant answers that upon further reflection contained exactly nothing of substance. After Camden left, she took herself to the theater, where she was most enthusiastically accosted by Lady Avery and her sister, Lady Somersby, two women with whom she had the most incidental acquaintance. They were, of course, after news of Gigi. Victoria obliged. She told them that Gigi was having second thoughts. Who wouldn't? Just look at Lord Tremaine. Lady Avery and Lady Somersby concurred, the latter waving her handkerchief emphatically. Lord Tremaine was divine, simply divine. She also told them that Camden was working subtly to regain Gigi. No, not that he'd confess any such thing to her, but he did dine with her this evening—so genial of him—and she saw no hurry on his part to proceed with the divorce. In fact, the two of them were coming to visit her very soon at her cottage. Well, she wasn't obliged to tell them any truth, was she? So delighted were Ladies Avery and Somersby with the "intelligence" she provided that they invited her to sit in their box. Still peeved with Gigi, Victoria agreed. "We see far too little of you in town," Lady Somersby lamented halfway through the second act of _Rigoletto._ "I suppose it's because Devon is infinitely more beautiful." "Our cousin lives in Devon!" exclaimed Lady Avery. "That's right," agreed Lady Somersby. "Where is he exactly?" "Between Totnes and a little village called Stoke Gabriel," Lady Avery said. "You must have heard of him, Mrs. Rowland. Our cousin is the Duke of Perrin." For once, Victoria wasn't certain what to say. "Ah, yes, I might have heard of him." "How could you not?" Lady Somersby giggled. "Gracious me, I do miss that dear boy. Kept us busy, didn't he, in his day." "Do you remember the time he won ten thousand pounds in one night, and lost twelve thousand the next, and then won another nine thousand the third night?" "Oh, yes. But he still came out seven thousand pounds ahead. So he bought himself a new set of matched bays and leased all of Madame Mignonne's girls for a sennight." "What about that brawl over him, between that American woman and Lady Harriet Blakeley? They slapped each other like two fishwives. And then the two of them found out he was also having a liaison with Lady Fancot!" "Surely . . ." Victoria mumbled. "Surely these rumors are much exaggerated." Lady Somersby and Lady Avery exchanged a look, as if Victoria had suggested that the Prince of Wales was a lily-white virgin. "My dear Mrs. Rowland," Lady Somersby said, every syllable drawn out for emphasis. " _These_ are not rumors. These events happened as we pronounced, their truths as indubitable as those of the Scripture. If we wished to traffic in rumors, we'd have told you about what we have heard concerning his affair with Lady Fancot." Lady Avery nodded gleefully. "Ropes, whips, chains, and items whose descriptions are quite beyond us, except that they are of foreign manufacture and iniquitous nature." Victoria felt slightly ill. To be sure, Gigi was no shrinking violet. But ropes, whips, chains, and those . . . other things! Then she remembered to her horror that she still owed the Duke of Perrin an evening of gambling, just the two of them, across a card table. Had he some ulterior motive other than a yen for the dubious excitement of betting? Did he mean to truss her up with her own curtain sashes and . . . and what? She whimpered. "Exactly," Lady Avery said with no little satisfaction. "And we won't even mention the time he set Lady Wimpey's bed on fire." Chapter Fourteen _January 1883_ Gigi jerked awake in the small hours of the morning, gasping and covered in cold perspiration. In her dream, she had been running in her nightgown, chasing after something in the dark, screaming, "Come back! Come back to me!" Was it an ill omen, this dream? Or was it her conscience, festering in the dungeon of the past three weeks, finally breaking out of captivity and, spitting mad, coming to settle the score with her? She touched the engagement ring Camden had given her. It was reassuringly snug on her finger, the gold band as warm as her own skin, the facets of the sapphire cool as silk. At the foot of her bed, Croesus snorted in his padded wicker tray. She scooted until her head was level with his. He smelled clean and warm. She took hold of one of his paws and felt some of the fear drain out of her. She let herself breathe again. All was well. And who needed a conscience when she had happiness by the bushel? Right? Hell did not begin to describe it. Camden stood at the center of a maelstrom of joy and goodwill, drowning. The ceremony. The unending congratulations. The wedding breakfast. The flash and bang of the photographer recording the occasion for all posterity. So much laughter. So much cheer. So much genuine pleasure all around. He felt a complete fraud, a bigger fraud than she, if that was possible. Several times his will nearly broke. People were happy for him. For them. Mrs. Rowland had tears in her eyes. So did Claudia. Surrounded by a sea of tulle and organza, with Briarmeadow decked to the rafters in daffodils and tulips, as fragrant as the first day of spring, they thought it a fairy tale still, the one marriage of convenience out of thousands so fortunate as to become a blissful, devoted union. The weight of his deception choked him. It was she, in the end, who salvaged his iniquitous intentions, she with her radiance that struck him a physical blow every time he looked upon her. Every ebullient, cocksure smile from her was a little death for him, every mirthful giggle a stab in the heart. Even so, he almost couldn't. After the reception, they traveled fifteen miles to another Rowland house nearer to Bedford for their wedding night. The two of them, alone—if one didn't count Croesus—in the oppressive confines of the brougham. Giddy and loquacious from the champagne, his new wife strategized the surprise reception that they would throw for his friends. The apartment her agent had found for them in the Quartier Latin, overlooking Rue Mouffetard, had ten rooms. How many people did he think could fit into such an apartment? Would her governess-taught French suffice for the evening's conversation? And if they served foie gras and caviar, perhaps his friends might not notice that they had hardly any furniture? Her childish enthusiasm for the life that they would never share clawed at him with a ferocity he did not want to understand. An incandescent light illuminated her eyes, a light of hope and fervor. It made her intoxicating, enchanting, beautiful, despite _everything_ he knew, despite the effrontery and selfishness that were the warp and woof of her corrupt femininity. He wanted to violate her then, to assert his power over her in the crudest, foulest manner, to crush her and snuff that lovely light. It would have been malevolent, but honest, to a degree. He held back because of his own reciprocal corruptness. It would have been too easy for her. Shattering, yes, but shattering all at once. He did not want that. He did not want her to recognize the beast in him. He wanted her to panic, to despair, but to still want him, still think him the most perfect man that ever lived. That was how he would go on tormenting her, after his physical departure from her life. A baroque plan, byzantine even, a plan that both pleased and shamed him. He awaited only the night, this one grotesque, terrible night. Camden was drinking cognac directly from a decanter when the connecting door between the bedchambers opened. He turned around and took another swig, barely feeling the fire sliding down his throat. She was swathed in a blaze of virginal white. But her hair, a great glossy mass of it, tumbled free and unbound, like a cascade of the river Styx. The tips of her toes, round and pretty, peeked out from the hem of the white robe. He suddenly felt drunk. "You didn't come," she said softly, plaintively. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It had been only a few minutes since her maid had left. "I made a bet with myself that you'd come for me first." "You made me nervous," she said, twirling one end of the silk sash that held her robe together. "I thought . . ." Her voice trailed off. "What did you think?" "I was afraid you might be having second thoughts." A ray of hope pierced him. If she confessed now, if she was drowning in remorse, rightfully fearful but still courageous enough to admit what she had done and take responsibility, he would forgive her. Not in an instant, but he would. And in return, he would come clean about his own fiendish plot. "Why would you think that?" he said. _Do the right thing, Gigi. Do the right thing._ She hesitated. For a fleeting instant, she looked conflicted and frightened. But in the next moment, she was again in control of herself, a young Cleopatra out for her own best advantage. Her eyes traveled down his person and slowly back up again. "Wedding-night jitters, I suppose. Nothing more." Instead of honesty, she had fallen back on that old cliché: feminine wiles. She thought him so stupid that he'd go on in an erotic daze and never notice that he sported an ass's head. Rage, great and raw, exploded in him. He tossed aside the decanter. In a heartbeat, he'd already covered half the distance between them. He was going to dangle her lying, scheming rump out the window until she screamed, begged, and sobbed the truth at last. She opened her robe and let it fall. Beneath the robe she wore a chemise as transparent as a water goblet, a layer of gossamer that hid nothing. He stopped and stared, his body reacting instantly. She was a pornographer's dream: high, firm breasts, rosy nipples pointed at a man's eyes, miles of legs, and hips that flared decadently, magnificently, hips meant for a man's hard grasp as he drove himself full hilt into her. _You bitch,_ he thought, in a dozen languages. _You prick._ That was for himself. The die was cast at last, the choice finally made. The high roads would be deserted and untrod. He had embarked on the path to purgatory. Fire blazed in the grate, but the English winter crept damp and insidious along walls and floors. He closed the distance between them. "Come to bed," he said, taking her by the wrist. "You must be cold." Beneath the pad of his index finger, her pulse raced madly—her mind was cold and calculating, but her blood certainly ran hot. She followed him obediently and let him usher her up the stool and under the bedspread. She sat straight against a mound of pillows, the bedspread reaching only slightly past her abdomen. Her gaze flitted to him, then darted to a corner of the room. Her fingers clutched the covers. What was she afraid of now? Solomon himself could not discern Camden's ultimate goals, so eclipsed were they by the inferno of lust that threatened to flame out of control. Understanding dawned with all the gentleness of an artillery-shell impact. She was nervous because she was a virgin, and this would be her first time with a man. He almost laughed. How normal. How charming. How frigging sweet. God help him. He undressed slowly, shedding honor and rectitude alongside waistcoat and shirt. Her curiosity must have prevailed over her uncharacteristic shyness, for she watched him as if he were the very miracle for which she'd spent a lifetime on her knees, devoutly praying. _Don't look at me like that!_ he wanted to bellow. _I am as unprincipled, disingenuous, and blackhearted as you. More, if anything. God, don't look at me like that._ But she did, her eyes shining with the kind of trust and devotion that hadn't been seen since the Age of Chivalry. He climbed onto the treacherously soft bed on the side away from her and sat as she did, upright, a wall of pillows behind his back, the bedspread drawn over his trousers. For once, he wished he'd debauched his way through St. Petersburg, Berlin, and Paris. His body burned with hellfire, but his mind was an abysmal blank. How did one make love, exactly, to a girl one despised with greater intensity than all the love in the world put together? She cleared her throat. "Would you . . . uh . . . be needing a nightshirt?" He chuckled despite himself, and the answer came to him. The only way to do it was to make love to her as if the past thirty hours had never taken place, as if his heart still overflowed with optimism and tenderness. He slid a strand of her hair between his unsteady fingers. It was as cool as well water. He lifted it and pressed it to his lips, inhaling its sweet cleanness, as fragrant as a blade of young leaf. "No, thank you," he said. "I don't think I'll need a nightshirt tonight." She cleared her throat again, more softly. "Well, then, should we say our prayers and go to sleep?" He laughed. Frightening how easy it was to slip back into the earlier hours of the day before, to be amused and delighted with her every utterance. He gathered her to him, kissed her, and tasted the lingering astringency of her tooth powder, flavored with sweet birch oil. Her mouth was all warm eagerness. Her hair cascaded over his arm and chest, jolting him with its featherlight caresses. And her scent. He was driven to distraction by the fiendish freshness of her skin, as wholesome as new milk that still faintly steamed. He would never have her again. Never. The realization bludgeoned him. The unfairness of it. He wanted to smash the bed, the windowpanes, the fireplace. He wanted to shake her until her thick skull rattled. _What have you done to me? What have you done to_ us? Instead, he became slower, more gentle, more tender. He kissed every square inch of her face and undressed and worshipped every undulation of her body. The satiny texture of her nipples was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted, the moans of her pleasure the most melodious sounds to ever vibrate the air of this earth. And how she responded to him. She was a school-boy's wet dream come to life, fervent, willing, all but trembling with desire. Her hands roved avid and avaricious, searing him with their unchaste touches. Her mouth followed her hands, nibbling, licking, loving every nook and cranny of his body. When he at last entered her, she branded him with her scorching heat. His invasion hurt her. He apologized incoherently, barely comprehending his hypocrisy—he was despondent at causing her physical pain, yet he looked forward with savagery to breaking her spirit. To slide completely into her, to penetrate those silken, strong walls of her sheath, with her gasps and whimpers and little breaths of "yes" and "more" scalding his ears, was to lose a bit of his mind each time. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, words both reverent and wicked, and ate up her moans of arousal. He touched her where he filled her, reveled in her melted-butter sleekness, and loved the frenzy it drove her into. If only the pain in his heart didn't multiply a little with each thrust, each caress, each endearment. But pleasure swelled and roiled through him despite his desolation. Her rich voluptuousness possessed him. Conquered and defeated him. When she wrapped her long legs entirely about him, he lost his last shred of control. The sensations walloped him, keener, wilder, more powerfully delicious than any he'd known or even imagined. He gave in, surrendered, only vaguely aware of his grunts and imprecations, of the heavy motions of his body as he ground into her, emptied into her. "Oh, God, Gigi," he mumbled. "Gigi." There, he'd done it. The most despicable act of his life. Now she would go to sleep, leaving him to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. He would rise before dawn, dismiss the servants for the day, and deal with her as necessary in the cold light of morning. But she didn't go to sleep. She clung to him, rained kisses upon his shoulder and arm, giggled, and said, "Do it again." And he was rock hard again, just like that. As he turned to her, in stupefied desire, in craving that corroded him from the inside out, he saw the enormity of his mistake. He hadn't embarked on the path to purgatory. He had knocked on the gates of hell. Chapter Fifteen _22 May 1893_ Gigi prepared the Dutch cap with a French ointment. She had obtained both the day after her husband's return, at the shop of a very discreet chemist not far from Piccadilly Circus. The ointment promised to greatly reduce the potency of a man's ejaculate, and the cap should block what could not be weakened. With the Dutch cap lodged in place, she donned the blue chemise she had pulled out from the bottom of a chest. _"Très special,"_ the Parisienne who'd sold it to her had said, and winked at her. It was special because most chemises did not have a décolletage that formed a saddle beneath the breasts, pushing them up high and bare for a man's delectation. The silk smelled of the sachets of dried lavender that had been packed with it. She had bought it eons ago, before she gave up on Camden. She no longer remembered why she hadn't gotten rid of it. The chemise, alas, did not feel seductive, only grimly ridiculous. But she had to put some effort into it, had to do _something._ She pulled on a robe and left her dressing room, praying that whatever valor she mustered would be enough to see her through the humiliation of the night. Croesus was there, sleeping in his basket next to her bed. She crouched down and touched his head, running her fingers through his soft fur. The connecting door between her bedroom and Camden's opened. Camden stepped in. Except for his shoes, he was fully dressed, as if he had just returned from a night on the town. Her heart lurched. She supposed it was because he was as beautiful as an avenging angel. Because he had been her first love. And—added her cynical voice—because she couldn't have him. She slowly straightened, tightening the belt on her robe as she rose. "My lord Tremaine, what brings you to my lair of vices?" "I had dinner with your mother." He set down a book on her vanity table. "She wants you to have this book." She barely glanced at the book. "Surely that could wait 'til tomorrow." The corners of his lips lifted, reminding her of the way he used to smile at her, in those antediluvian days. She had ribbed him for smiling too much, for not being thin-lipped and icy-miened enough for all his aristocratic lineage. "I suppose it could have waited," he said. "But as I was coming this way anyway . . ." Given all his avowals of aversion and antipathy, she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "I thought you couldn't stand bedding me." "I asked myself, who am I to stand in the way of your effulgent future happiness?" She should be relieved. She should be leaping and cartwheeling, she who had been pushing him from day one. Yet a mixture of chagrin and panic suddenly assaulted her. She could not take it. She could not bear for him to touch her tonight. She had to fight not to step back and put greater distance between them. "I'm surprised you haven't broken out in boils at the mere prospect of it." "I have a slop bucket ready in my room," he said. "You will excuse me if I rush back afterward. Now, shall we?" Belatedly, she remembered her _"très spécial"_ chemise. She didn't want him to see it. "The light switch is behind you." He shook his head. "I don't want to accidentally step on Croesus. Or grope for the door on my way out, in"— he looked at the clock—"three minutes." Three minutes. Had they come to this? Unbidden, the memories of her wedding night returned. He had stoked the fires of her desire with such exquisite patience, such finely attuned caresses, that she had literally trembled with the force of her need. He was suddenly before her, separated from her by nothing but a sliver of air. His hand went to the belt of her robe. "No!" She gripped his wrist. "There is no need." His gaze made her feel about as desirable as a barnyard sow. "It's nothing personal. A view of breasts and buttocks moves the process along." "Let me go to my dressing room for a minute, and then—" He tugged at the belt. It came loose, and the front of her robe fell open, exposing the injudicious chemise. If she were truly the woman of infinite cheekiness he believed her to be, she'd thrust out her chest and stare him straight in the eye. But all she could think of were the chilly spring nights in Paris, during those months when she had repeatedly thrown herself at him, wearing equally salacious bits of lace and satin. What had he said the last time he dragged her out of his garret and threw her coat at her? _You look like a tenpenny whore._ And still she had gone back, only to see him admit a woman beautiful enough to shame the stars. She had stood on the stair landing below his door, stunned, as if he had grabbed her head and slammed it into a wall. Slowly, almost gently, he drew her robe closed. But his eyes were ungentle. "Did you really expect it to change my mind?" She shrugged, a bit of her defiance returning. "No. But I would do anything to marry Freddie." Abruptly, he reached forward and lifted her. She gasped, but he had already set her down again, with her back against a bedpost. He leaned into her, every inch of his body pressed into hers. With a blaze of heat like rivulets of molten ore, she realized that he was full hard against her. He lowered his head toward hers, as if he were inhaling her. Her heart pounded painfully. When his breath caressed the helix of her ear, she nearly jumped. But he only said, "Poor Lord Frederick. What did he do to deserve you?" She felt his fingers work the fastening of his trousers. Without once touching her skin, he separated her robe below the belt and lifted the hem of her chemise. Which made it all the more shocking as his erection came into contact with her bare abdomen. He was burning hot. She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him. But she could not block the sensations he provoked. He entered her with an ease that shamed her, long, slow thrusts that had her clenching at her robe, the wretchedness in her heart cutting deeper with each flare of pleasure. The slight catch in his breath, the sudden pressure of his hands on her hips, and the abrupt stillness of his lower body signaled his release. He withdrew. Fifteen seconds later he was already walking away from her. She opened her eyes to see him stooping over Croesus's sleeping form. He touched one of the old dog's ears, then moved on, opening and closing the door behind him with barely a sound. She looked at the clock. Exactly three minutes had passed. This was what they had come to. Chapter Sixteen _January 1883_ Gigi awoke to a room awash in pallid light. The clock read half past nine. She bolted straight up—and had to hurriedly gather an armful of bedspread to cover her nakedness. Good heavens! They were supposed to depart for Bedford at nine o'clock, to begin their journey to Paris. She scrambled out of bed, shrugged into the robe that still lay in a heap on the Kashmiri rug, ran into the mistress's bedroom, and pulled the cord for hot water. Her traveling gown had already been set out the night before. She pulled on drawers, a merino-wool combination, an underchemise, a chemise, and stepped into her pantalettes, two layers of woolen petticoats, and a dress petticoat with an embroidered, scalloped hem. The next item was her corset. She stopped. Granted, she'd dressed with exceptional speed. But still her maid should have arrived already, hot water in tow. Perhaps she'd made a wrong turn in an unfamiliar house. She tackled the corset, straining her arms to pull the laces tight through each set of steel-reinforced eyelets, twisting her neck to check her progress in the mirror. The door opened. "Hurry, Edie!" she cried. "I needed to be dressed two hours ago." It wasn't Edie. It was Camden, all ready to go, looking as if he'd just descended from Mt. Olympus, cool, serene, and perfect. Whereas she was in a disgraceful state of dishabille, her hair a wild disarray. But he'd already seen her in much less, hadn't he? She'd been a complete wanton, curious and rapacious, and he . . . well, he hadn't seemed to mind at all. They'd made delicious love well into the small hours of the morning. "Hullo, Camden," she said, feeling unusually shy. Her cheeks were hot, her throat and belly too. "Hullo, Gigi," he replied. He had lost all traces of his accent during the past month. Now he sounded as if he had been born and raised in the queen's household. She struggled a little over what to say, gave up, and smiled at him instead. "Sorry. I will be ready in a minute. Then we can leave." He studied her, his face serious, his eyes opaque. "Can you manage that by yourself?" Without waiting for a reply, he came to her aid, turning her around and applying himself to the intricacies of her corset. She sucked in a breath, held it, and admired his progress in the mirror. He had such a light yet sure touch, his hands as dexterous as those of Apollo himself. She loved admiring him, a divine sensation, all joy and breathless pride. "Done," he said. She spun around, but he turned away just as she was about to reach for him. She hesitated. Perhaps he did not see her outstretched hand. She grabbed a hairbrush instead. "I don't know why my maid isn't here yet. I've only the most rudimentary idea how to manage my hair." He stood gazing out a window that overlooked the park behind the house. "No hurry, take your time. I gave the staff the day off. We are not leaving." "But you are already late for your classes." She dragged the brush through her tangled hair. "The train doesn't depart Bedford 'til half past one. We still have plenty of time." His lips curved into something that resembled a smile but wasn't. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I didn't say _I_ was not leaving." Many years ago, at a family gathering, one of her cousins had pulled the chair out from under her as she was sitting down. Though the fall had been less than two feet, the collision had jolted every organ inside her body. She felt like that now, a moment of physical jarring and utter disorientation. "I beg your pardon?" "I thought I'd come and say good-bye before I left," he said, as if he wasn't proposing to do something as absurd as leaving her the day after their wedding, _the morning after the most memorable wedding night in history._ "What?" she cried stupidly, too stunned to think. He glanced at her. His eyes glittered with something she couldn't read, something frightening. "I thought it was always the plan, that we go separate ways after we consummated our marriage, until it was time for heirs." An utterly asinine response formed in her head. _Don't you know anything about contracts?_ she wanted to ask him. _You turned down my offer, therefore that offer no longer stands. This marriage is contracted on an entirely different set of premises._ "What—what about our reception?" She hated how baffled and despondent she sounded. But she could not grasp how he could have been that devoted, tender lover only hours ago and now speak as if he had never meant for it to be more than a marriage of convenience. Why, then, had he come to see her every day of their engagement? Why had he made plans with her for the future? What about the engagement ring that sparkled upon her finger? What about Croesus? "There will be no reception," he said. "But we've already decided on the menu, and the wines . . ." She took a deep breath. _Stop. Stop all that blabbering._ A new emotion invaded her, a fast-spreading, horrified anger. She'd been played for a dupe. He had never been interested in anything but her money. All the sweet, joyful hours they had shared was but his way of insuring that she did not change her mind on him. She slammed down the brush. "This is very new to me. I have been under the impression that we were going to live together after our wedding. My mother and I have authorized a good deal of financial outlay to secure us an apartment and a staff in Paris, to ship over my furniture, to"—suddenly she could not bring herself to mention the Érard piano that she had ordered for him—"I'm sure you get the idea. Important decisions have been made on the assumption that I could trust you, that you have acted _in good faith."_ Calmly, he listened to her tirade, her lecture. Then he turned around and picked up a porcelain figurine of a giggling girl from the vanity table. For one terrifying moment, his eyes burned, and she was sure he was going to throw the thing at her. But he set it down, without a sound. "Have _you_ acted in good faith?" She opened her mouth, but her reply withered before his stare. She had no idea he could look at anyone, much less at her, like that. It was the gaze of Achilles the man-killer just before he slaughtered Hector, a gaze that held nothing but blood rage. It scared her all the more that he seemed otherwise as collected and civil as he had ever been. "I . . . I don't know what you are talking about." "Don't you? I find it surprising. How do you forget your own schemes?" The deafening cacophony in her head was the crashing of her happiness, that grand, shiny edifice that she had built upon a foundation of quicksand. She swallowed, trying to stay above the bog of despair. "I'm curious about one thing. Where did you find a forger? Did you have to wade into a den of confidence artists? Or are they to be had everywhere in Bedfordshire?" "My gamekeeper at Briarmeadow was a forger in his youth," she answered numbly, not realizing until it was too late that she had negated his last doubts, if he had any. "I see. Quite clever of you." "How . . . how long have you known?" she asked, as composedly as she could. "Since yesterday afternoon." She reeled. _When you make a pact with the devil,_ her father had often told her, _the devil is the only one who comes out ahead._ Would that she'd listened. He smiled coldly. "Excellent. I'm glad we cleared any and all misunderstandings about our respective good faith on this matter," he said. "I'm sure you understand now why I will be leaving without you." Intellectually, perhaps. But viscerally, all she knew was that she loved him and he loved her. "I know you are angry with me now," she said, her voice as tentative as a mouse tiptoeing around a cat. "Would it be all right if I joined you in Paris in two weeks, when you—" "No." The finality of his response chilled her. But she would not give up so easily. "You are right, of course. Two weeks does not amount to much time. Would two—" "No." "But we are married!" she cried in frustration. "We can't carry on like this." "I beg to differ. We certainly can. Separate lives mean separate lives." She hated pleading. She made sure she always dealt from a position of strength, even with her own mother. But what else could she do now? "Please don't. Please don't decide all of our future this moment. Please! Is there anything I can do to change your mind?" The contempt in his eyes made her feel like something that had just oozed out of a badly mildewed wall. "You can start by offering me an apology, which both decency and good manners require here." She could have slapped herself. Of course he'd want her to grovel for forgiveness. Her pride, large and thorny, was difficult to swallow, but she forced it. For him. Because she loved him and she could not lose him. "I'm sorry. I really am terribly, terribly sorry." He was silent for a moment. "Are you? Are you really? Or are you only sorry that you are caught?" What was the difference? If she hadn't been caught, would an apology even be needed? "For what I did," she said, because that was probably the answer he wanted to hear. "Stop lying to me." He said each word separately— _Stop. Lying. To. Me.—_ as if he ground his teeth as he spoke. "But I really am sorry." Her voice trembled and she was powerless over it. "I am. Please believe me." "You are not. You are sorry that I won't continue to be your dupe, that I won't take you at your word, and that you will be left behind with none of that perfect married life that you thought you were getting." Her anger abruptly rose to the fore again. Why had he asked for an apology when he had no intention of accepting any? Why had he forced her to abase herself for nothing at all? "Perhaps I wouldn't have had to do any of this if you hadn't been as dense as a peat bog. I've met Miss von Schweppenburg. I don't know what you see in her, but she would have made you about as happy as a drowned cat. And she never would have married you anyway. She is her mother's puppet. She has less spine than a bowl of trifle and—" "That's enough," he said, his voice dangerously smooth. "Now, was that so hard, a bit of honesty?" She suddenly felt wildly stupid, ranting on about Miss von Schweppenburg, of all people. "I wish you well," he said. "But I would prefer not to see you again, not in two months, two years, or two decades." It finally occurred to her that he was dead serious. That what she had done was something hideous, beyond the pale. Unforgivable. She raced ahead of him and blocked the door with her body. "Please, please, please listen to me. I cannot bear the thought of living without you." "Bear it," he said grimly. "You'll live. Now kindly move out of my way." "But you don't understand. I love you." "Love?" he sneered. "So it's love now, is it? You mean to tell me that love drove you crazed with longing, thereby smashing your moral compass and whipping you down the primrose path?" She flinched. He had taken the words she meant to say and slapped her with them. Slowly, he advanced toward her. For the first time in her life, she shrank before another human being. But she refused to move aside, refused to let him simply sail on out of her life. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he brought his face very close to hers and fixed her with a brutal stare. "I wish you hadn't mentioned love, Lady Tremaine." His voice was low, and cold as ashes. "Right now I am this close to throwing you against the wall. Again, and again, and again." She whimpered. "It so happens that I know a thing or two about not-quite-requited love, my dear. It so happens that I have lived in that state for a while. I have not seduced Theodora so that she must marry me. I have not misrepresented my fortune. I have not forged some letter that declared my cousin's sudden death, clearing a path to the ducal title for myself. And when she writes me and tells me of her mother berating her because she is ineffectual with potential suitors, do you think I write back informing her that she must regale them with her fear of childbirth and her dislike for running a household? "No, I tell her if she cannot look them in the eyes, she can look at the ridges of their noses and chances are they won't know the difference. I tell her that smiling with her head lowered is almost as good as smiling with her face raised to someone, perhaps even more alluring. And do you know why I give advice that is contrary to my own interests in the matter?" She shook her head miserably, wishing time to go back, wishing all her crimes undone. She didn't want to hear about Theodora, didn't want to be reminded that he remained above reproach while she had stooped to swindling. But he went on inexorably. "Because she trusts me and I do _not_ abuse her trust to further my chances with her. Because _being in love does not give you any excuse to be less than honorable,_ Lady Tremaine." He pulled back from her abruptly, his breathing uneven. "You may think you are in love, Gigi, but I doubt very much that you know what love is. Because it has been all about you, what _you_ want, what _you_ need, what _you_ can and cannot do without." He moved further away. Too late did Gigi remember that the bedchamber had two doors. He opened the second door and left without another word. And she could only watch as he disappeared from her view, from her life. Chapter Seventeen _23 May 1893_ He had not done too badly, considering the ungodly chemise she had sported. The jolt of lust had been explosive, the jolt of anger almost nonexistent. _I must be getting mellow with age,_ Camden mused. How he used to fly into a righteous rage when she'd barge her way into his cramped apartment in Paris, then fling aside her long mantle to reveal bits of provocative nothing that would have made the Marquis de Sade drop his whip in stupefaction. The insult. That she believed he'd let his penis control his mind, that if she could get him to bed, all would be forgiven. He had bleakly delighted in hauling her bodily out to the stair landing and slamming his door in her face. But such vicious enjoyment never lasted long. Over his own pounding heartbeat and harsh breathing, he'd strain to hear every lonely, echoing footstep of her descent. He'd already be standing by the window in his dark, minuscule _salle de séjour_ as she exited into the street. She'd look up, her face all adolescent anger and bewildered pain, her person stooped and small in the light of the streetlamp. Something inside him broke, without fail, each time. The night he'd hired Mlle. Flandin had been the worst. What had he said to Gigi just before he closed the door on her? _Don't be so cheaply available if you want me. Go home. If I want you, I know where you are._ He must have waited at the window for an hour, his anger deteriorating into a corrosive anxiety. Yet his pride forbade that he should give in, walk out of his apartment, and make sure she hadn't fallen down a flight of steps. Eventually she'd emerged on the sidewalk, head down, shoulders hunched, like a battered camp follower. She did not look up at his window as she walked away, she and her lengthening shadow. Three days later he heard that she had packed up and returned to England. How easily she gave up. He got drunk for the first time in his life, a hideous experience that he would not repeat for another two years, until the day he learned that she had miscarried weeks following their wedding. He checked his watch again. Fourteen hours and fifty-five minutes before he could have her again. Someone addressed him by his title. He glanced about the park and saw a woman waving at him from atop a handsome victoria that she drove herself. She wore a dove-gray morning gown and a matching hat atop her dark chestnut hair. Lady Wrenworth. He raised his hand and returned the salute. They shook hands as he maneuvered his horse into a trot alongside her carriage. "You are up early, my lord Tremaine," said Lady Wrenworth. "I prefer the park with the morning mist still in the branches. Is Lord Wrenworth well?" "He has been quite well since you last saw him yesterday afternoon." Flecks of slyness flavored her reply. It seemed that Lord Wrenworth had married no empty-headed beauty. He supposed she was the best Wrenworth could do after Gigi. "And my lady Tremaine?" "As unfashionably hale as ever, from what I observed last night." He let a moment pass, during which Lady Wrenworth's eyes widened, before adding, "At dinner." "And did you take the opportunity to observe the stars too last night? They were out en masse." It took him a second to remember his glib assertion that he was indeed an amateur astronomer on the night he and the Wrenworths had first been introduced. "I'm afraid I'm more of an armchair enthusiast." "Most of Society to this day hasn't the slightest clue about Lord Wrenworth's precise fields of study. And I'm ashamed to confess that I myself had no idea of his scientific pursuits until well after we were married. How did you become familiar with his publications, my lord, if you don't mind my curiosity?" How? _My daughter has not been quite herself since her unfortunate miscarriage in March two years ago. But her recent friendship with Lord Wrenworth has had quite a salubrious effect on her._ "I read scientific and technological papers as a matter of course, both to gratify my interest and to keep up with the latest advances." Quite honest so far. "One simply cannot mistake Lord Wrenworth's brilliance." The second part wasn't a lie either. Lord Wrenworth was, without a doubt, brilliant. But he was but one bright star in a galaxy of luminaries, in an age when advances in human understanding and machine prowess came fast and furious. Camden would not have singled him out had he not been Gigi's first paramour. "Thank you." Lady Wrenworth glowed. "I quite share that opinion." She drove off with a friendly wave. Fourteen hours and forty-three minutes. Would this day never pass? "I beg your pardon, Lady Tremaine." Gigi paused in her search for Freddie amid the throng at the Carlisles'. "Miss Carlisle." "Freddie asked me to tell you that he is in the garden," said Miss Carlisle. "Behind the rose trellis." Gigi almost laughed. Only Freddie would think it necessary to mention—to a woman who secretly loved him, no less—that he'd be "behind the rose trellis," a spot of seclusion highly conducive to behavior not countenanced inside the ballroom. "Thank you, though perhaps he shouldn't have troubled you." "It's no trouble," Miss Carlisle said softly. Miss Carlisle was more handsome than pretty, but she had bright eyes and a sharp, quick wit. At twenty-three, she was in her fourth season and widely believed by many to have no real interest in matrimony, since she would come into control of a comfortable inheritance on her twenty-fifth birthday and since she had turned down any and all proposals directed her way. Would Miss Carlisle still be unmarried today if Freddie hadn't fallen head-over-heels in love with Gigi's art collection? Freddie believed he and Gigi to be kindred spirits who felt keenly the passage of time, the loss of a gently fading spring, and the inexplicability of life's joys and pains, when ironically she had bought the paintings solely in the hope of pleasing and mollifying Camden. Why had she never told him that she preferred the future to the past and rarely bothered about the meaning of life? She felt a rush of guilt. If she had, today Freddie probably would be engaged to Miss Carlisle, a woman with a clear conscience, rather than to Gigi, who, behind his back, allowed another man to have his way with her. Could she claim martyrdom and higher purpose when she didn't unequivocally hate the swift coupling between Camden and herself? She hadn't even thought of poor Freddie until this morning. She found Freddie pacing in the middle of the diminutive garden, having left his roost behind the rose trellis. "Philippa!" He came forward and placed his evening jacket about her shoulders, enveloping her in his generous warmth and a strong waft of turpentine. She glanced at him. "Have you been painting in your good clothes again?" "No, but I spilled some sauce on myself at dinner," he answered sheepishly. "The butler cleaned it. Did a very decent job too." She slid her knuckle against his cheek. "We really should have some jackets made out of oilcloth for you." "Wouldn't you know it?" he cried. "That's what my mother used to say." She started. Had she been patronizing? Or condescending? It hadn't felt that way. "Do you know what Angelica said to me?" Freddie asked her gleefully. "She said a man my age ought to have more care. She also said that I'm dawdling because I'm scared my next work won't turn out any good, that I should get off my lazy posterior and put paint to canvas." They rounded the rose trellis and sat down on the discreetly placed bench, the one on which Miss Carlisle was supposed to receive her wedding proposals. Freddie chuckled. "I know you said she thinks well of me. But she certainly doesn't sound that way tonight." Gigi frowned. The only painting Freddie had finished in '92 hung in her bedchamber. She always asked about his progress on his next painting, but she'd never paid any substantial attention to his creativity, considering it little more than a hobby, a gentlemanly amusement. Miss Carlisle saw it differently. Miss Carlisle saw Freddie differently. Gigi was happy to indulge Freddie's absentmindedness and artistic hesitations—as long as he adored her, she didn't care if he lolled on the chaise longue and ate bonbons from sunrise to sunset. But Miss Carlisle saw a diamond in the rough, a man who could make quite something of himself if he but put in the effort. Was Gigi's affection for Freddie purer or more self-serving? Or perhaps, more to the point, wouldn't Freddie prefer to have made something of his talents? Freddie rested his head against her shoulder and they fell silent, inhaling the moist air, heavy with the sweetness of honeysuckle. She'd always felt peaceful like this, with him leaning into her and her fingers combing through his fine hair. But today that tranquillity eluded her. Was Camden right? Was Freddie's adulation of her all construed on mistaken assumptions? She shook her head. She would not think of her husband when she was with her beloved. "Lord Tremaine was most charitable toward me yesterday," sighed Freddie, instantly dashing her resolution. "He could have abused me a thousand ways and I'd have submitted to it." Gigi sighed too. Camden had garnered nothing but praises since his return. He was said to possess the refinement of a true aristocrat and the elegance of a Renaissance courtier. And it certainly didn't hurt that he looked the way he did. If he remained in England for much longer, Felix Wrenworth would need to surrender his honorary title of the Ideal Gentleman. She wanted to warn Freddie about Camden. But what could she say? In the official version of their history, which Freddie accepted without question, she and Camden had agreed to live separately from the very beginning. She could not utter a word against Camden without exposing herself. "Yes, that was very considerate of him," she mumbled. _And then he came home at night, set me against a bedpost, and stuffed me, dear Freddie._ "But are you certain he will agree to a divorce?" asked Freddie, with the innocent puzzlement of a child being told for the first time that the world was round. Gigi immediately tensed. "Why shouldn't I be? He said so himself." "It's just that . . ." Freddie hesitated. "Don't mind me. I'm probably still flustered, that's all." She pulled away from him so she could speak to him face-to-face. "Did he say or do anything? You must not let him intimidate you." "No, no, nothing of the sort. He was a complete gentleman. But he asked me questions. He . . . tested me, if you will. And I, well, I don't know. I couldn't read him all that properly. But I thought—not that I'm often right in my thinking—I thought he didn't look like he'd be happy to let you go." Gigi shook her head. This was so far out of her perception of reality that she had no choice but to deny it. "No one is ever happy about a divorce. I don't think he regrets letting me go. He is simply peeved that I couldn't leave well enough alone and had the temerity to interrupt his orderly life for the unworthy cause of my own happiness. In any case, he's already given his word. One year and I'm free to do as I choose." One year from last night. She still couldn't think about it without being engulfed in vile heat. "Amen to that," Freddie said fervently. "You must be right. You are always right." _When he looks at you he sees only the halo he has erected about you._ "I think I should return to the ballroom," she said, rather abruptly. "People will start to talk. We don't want that." Freddie obligingly shook his head. "No, no, certainly not." She wished for once he'd grab her by the shoulders, damn all the people in the ballroom, and kiss her as if the whole world was on fire. This was all Camden's fault. She had been perfectly happy with who Freddie was before he got here. She stood up, kissed Freddie lightly on the forehead, and gathered her skirts to leave. "It'll do you no harm to pay some mind to Miss Carlisle. Resume 'Afternoon in the Park.' I'd like it for a birthday present." A garden party was in full swing. Set against a profusion of red tulips and yellow jonquils was a kaleidoscopic parade of women, the edges of their creamy skirts blurring like a distant memory. In the middle of this swirl of colors, an oasis of calm. A man sat at a small table by himself, his cheek in his palm, his gaze enthralled by someone just outside the frame of the painting. Lord Frederick was a far more talented and vivid painter than Camden had guessed. The painting radiated warmth, immediacy, and charming wistfulness. _A Man in Love,_ said the small inset on the bottom of the frame. A man in love. At his sister Claudia's house in Copenhagen, there was a framed photograph of Camden, taken the day after New Year's Day 1883. He'd been waiting for his mother and Claudia to finish their primping in advance of a family portrait, and the photographer had captured him in a pose nearly identical to that of Lord Frederick's man in love—daydreaming in an armchair, his head propped up in his hand, smiling, gazing somewhere beyond the range of the camera. He had been looking out the window in the direction of Briarmeadow and thinking of _her._ The photograph remained Claudia's favorite, despite all his efforts to persuade her to get rid of it. _I like looking at it,_ she'd insist. _I miss you like that._ Some days he, too, missed it. The optimism, the headiness, the feeling of walking on air. He knew perfectly well now that it'd been based on a lie, that he'd paid for those few weeks of unbridled happiness by never being able to feel anything like that again, and still he missed it. He might divorce her, but he'd never be free of her. Gigi's sitting room was dark, but light flowed out of her bedroom, casting a long, narrow triangle the color of old gold coins along the angle of the bedroom door, which had been left slightly ajar. Strange, she was certain she had switched off the light before going out. When she reached her bedroom, she discovered the light to be from Camden's apartment. The connecting door between their bedrooms was wide open. But his bedroom, though lit, looked empty, his bed undisturbed from when it had last been made. Her heart rate accelerated. She had deliberately stayed out very late to avoid a repeat of last night. Surely he wouldn't bother waiting up when he still had three hundred sixty-three nights left to impregnate her. But where was he? Fallen asleep in his chair? Or possibly still out on the town somewhere, seeing to his own amusement? But what did she care what he did in his own time? She should simply close the door—very quietly—and get herself to bed. Instead, she walked into his bedroom. The sight of the fully restored room still made her throat tighten. It took her back to the time when she used to flop down on his bed and weep at life's unfairness. The day she emptied the bedchamber was the day she took charge of her life. Three months later she met Lord Wrenworth and began a torrid affair that further boosted her confidence. But this was where it all began, the decoupling of her life from Camden's, the choice to move on, no matter how lonely and uncertain the future. His personal effects were nowhere to be seen, except for a watch on a silver chain that lay on the demilune table opposite the bed, an intricate timepiece from Patek, Philippe & Cie. She turned the watch over. On the back was an inscription wishing him a happy thirtieth birthday from Claudia. She put down the watch. The console table stood not far from the half-open door to the sitting room. A bright light washed in, but the sitting room itself was as silent as the bottom of the ocean. She pushed the door open and saw rolls of blueprints, dozens of them, on chairs and tables. On the writing table, held open by a paperweight, a slide rule, and a tin of bonbons, was a sheet of white draft paper. She saw Camden only after she had opened the door fully. He was seated in a low-slung Louis XV chair, clad in the black dressing gown that brought out the dark flecks in his green eyes, turning them the color of summer foliage at dusk. A book lay open in his lap. "You are up early," he said, taking his sense of irony out for some exercise and fresh air, no doubt. "Must be that Protestant work ethic I keep hearing so much about," she said. "Did you do well at cards tonight?" His gaze dipped to the décolletage of her gown. "I'd guess you did." She had worn one of her less modest pieces. It was, to be sure, a cheap trick to divert attention at the gaming tables, but she disliked idling her assets when she could make use of them. "Who told _you_ about it?" "You. You told me that once you were married, you planned to never dance again and to spend all your time at balls separating English fops from their cravat money." "I don't remember ever saying anything like that." "It was a long time ago," he said. "Let me show you something." He rose and walked over to her, opening the book in his hands to an oversize page. The page was folded into quarters. He unfolded it. "Take a look." She immediately recognized the large illustration as a rendering of Achilles' shield. Mrs. Rowland adored Book 18 of the _Iliad,_ and many a night, as a child, Gigi had gone to sleep listening to the description of the great shield Hephaestus had wrought for Achilles, the five-layered marvel that depicted a city at peace and a city at war, and just about every other human activity under the sun, all surrounded by the mighty river Oceanus. She had seen other imaginings of the shield, most of which, too faithful to Homer's depictions, were crammed with details of dancing youths and garlanded maidens, resulting in a filigree so fine that it could not possibly outlast the vigor of even one battle. But this particular interpretation was lean, shorn of minutiae, yet muscular and menacing in its austerity. The sun, the moon, and the stars shone down on the wedding procession and the bloody slaughter in equal serenity. "It is the _oeuvre_ of the man whom your mother would like you to marry," Camden said as he restored the page to its folded state. "If you can't hang on to me." Gigi was surprised enough that she took the book from Camden and inspected its spine. _Eleven Years Before Ilium: A Study of the Geography, Logistics, and Daily Life of the Trojan War_ by L. H. Perrin. The family surname of the dukes of Perrin was Fitzwilliam, but by custom a peer signed his title. "Fancy that." She gave the book back. Camden set it aside. "Since you are here, have a look at some of my designs." He'd done nothing to indicate the slightest sexual interest in her. Yet the hairs on her neck abruptly stood on end. "Why should I be curious?" "So you'll know whom to blame when Britain loses the next America's Cup Challenge." She was dismayed despite her preoccupation. "You are helping the American side?" Some forty years before, an American yacht had raced fourteen yachts from the Royal Yacht Squadron around the Isle of Wight and won by a whopping twenty minutes. According to legend, the queen, watching the race, asked who was second, and the answer she received was "There is no second, Your Majesty." Ever since then, English syndicates had been trying to best the Americans and win back the cup. To no avail. "I'm helping the New York Yacht Club, of which I'm a member," he said. He walked ahead of her to the writing desk and glanced back, waiting. The light of the standing lamp beside him caressed his hair, illuminating its sun-bleached locks. His expression was kind and patient—too kind, too patient. She felt the tug of gravity on her feet. Only her refusal to reveal any weaknesses in herself forced her to move, one heavy heel at a time, to stand before the desk. As she bent her neck to inspect the design, he moved behind her. "It's more of a preliminary drawing at this stage," he said. He spoke next to her ear. A filament of pleasure zigzagged through her, acute and debilitating. She felt his hand brush aside the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her low chignon. Then his fingers settled on her nape. "I see," she said, her voice tight. "I can do the detailed scale drawing myself," he murmured, undoing the top button of her gown. "But mostly these days I have a draftsman do it for me." She stared down at the designs. At the center was a yacht, appearing as it would at sea, sails fully deployed. To the side he had drawn a cross section of the hull and a view of the vessel in dry dock. He reached around her and pointed at a deep, narrow protrusion from the keel halfway down the length of the yacht, while his other hand unmoored her buttons easily, languidly, and all too swiftly. "I hope the fin keel will give the yacht greater lateral stability," he said, as if he were addressing a group of engineering students, even as he opened her gown all the way to her hips. "You want the yacht to ride as high as possible, to increase hull speed. But a vessel barely in the water would capsize that much more readily." "Been capsizing boats lately?" she said, hoping her voice dripped enough tartness. "Not for a while I haven't. But I did once. The first yacht I ever owned. I worked on the design for years, built her with my own hands, and she tipped over two leagues into her maiden voyage." He eased the gown off her shoulders, disengaging her arms from the bodice, his touch as light as the first breeze of summer. "Serves me right for calling her the _Marchioness."_ Her heart suddenly pounded. He named his first yacht after _her?_ "What possessed you to do something like that? Did you forget that you couldn't stand me?" "I was told I should either name my boat after my wife or my mistress," he said, as her dress crumpled into a heap of coppery satin and tulle. "I towed her in, rebuilt her from scratch, rechristened her the _Mistress,_ and she's been sailing fine ever since, one of the fastest racing yachts on the Atlantic. "You see," he whispered, loosening her corset laces and lifting the corset over her head. "You are trouble even from three thousand miles away." "Truly, is there no depth to which I won't sink?" she asked sarcastically, even as she gripped on to the desk. Her petticoats slipped off to join the discarded gown. He easily deprived her of her chemise, his accidental touches scalding her skin. "I think I still have a photograph somewhere of me waving from the _Marchioness,_ idiotically overjoyed, just before she sailed." "I'd have preferred seeing you in the frigid Atlantic. I should have liked to sail right by and not fish you out." He retorted by divesting her of her drawers and trapping her naked body—naked but for white satin evening gloves and white silk stockings—between his body and the edge of the desk. His fingertips skimmed over her bare bottom and headed slowly yet inexorably for the junction of her thighs. She closed her eyes and bit her lip but refused to clamp her legs together despite her nervousness. "Are you always this wet?" he whispered. "Or is it just for me?" She wanted to say something biting, something that would puncture his masculine pride so completely that he'd never be able to gloat again. But it was all she could do to suppress the whimper in her throat as he slowly pushed inside her. His dressing gown caressed her back, cool and silken against the burning sensations of his entry. He withdrew, then rammed inside her with a vigor that forced a gasp from her larynx and lifted her to her toes. He sank his teeth into her shoulder. Nothing painful, just a strong bite to punctuate the hot, smooth glide of his body into hers. She could not silence a small moan. Despite her desperate attempt to recite the alphabet backward—she reached only as far as V before she could no longer think—her body drowned in sensations. She was full, so full, and deliciously pummeled. The pleasure gathered and swelled. She gripped the edge of the desk tighter, her mind unable to comprehend anything except the need to extract ever greater, sharper, thicker pleasure from their mating. That pleasure erupted in a quivering, imploding climax. She was vaguely aware of his final thrust, of the spasm of his body, of his labored breath in her ear and the heavy thudding of his heart against her back, plainly discernible through the thin layer of silk that separated them. His cheek nuzzled against her neck. His hands were on either side of hers. They stood, practically in an embrace, with him leaning into her, surrounding her. "Oh, God, Gigi," he murmured, the syllables barely audible. "Gigi." She froze, the spell of the moment shattered. He had uttered that exact phrase on their wedding night, over her, under her, beside her, in what she had believed to be exultant bliss. She disengaged herself, turned around, and slammed her palms into his chest. Her abrupt ferocity did not budge him, but his eyes widened in surprise. He moved aside. Not caring that she looked like a woman who made her living gracing pornographic postcards, she bent down, gathered an armful of her garments, and pivoted on her heels. "Wait." He followed after her. She thought he meant to hand her an item of clothing she had forgotten. But instead he draped his dressing gown about her. "Don't catch a chill." She had felt angry, mortified, humiliated. She still did. But his solicitude unearthed pain of the kind she thought she had resolutely put behind her when she cleared out his bedchamber: the pain of what might have been. "I won't thank you," she said. She had only surliness left for defense. "I've done nothing worthy of a thank-you," he said. "Good night, Lady Tremaine. Until tomorrow night." Chapter Eighteen _25 May 1893_ Mrs. Rowland greeted Langford, His Grace the Duke of Perrin, with a welcome that was noticeable for the absence of the effusive, sycophantic warmth she plucked out of thin air so easily. Not that one could find fault with her hospitality. But whereas she had once been eager—indeed, greedy—for any furtherance of their acquaintance, this evening she'd metamorphosed into a walking embodiment of correct politeness. Even the soft, pastel gowns she favored had been replaced by a relentless black, like the crepe of a widow in first mourning. She received him in a parlor lit as brilliantly as the Versailles. So many candles blazed that he wondered if some parish church wasn't missing its altar. The windows facing the country lane were open, the dimity curtains only half drawn. Any passerby could clearly see the entire interior of the room. Was she so eager to advertise her increasing familiarity with him? Possibly. But the path outside was lightly used during the day and barely trod at night. She might as well have painted herself a sign— _The Duke of Perrin calls at this estimable residence—_ and then planted it face-down in her garden. "Would you care for something to drink?" she asked. "Tea, pineapple water, or lemonade?" He was fairly certain that no one had offered him lemonade since he turned thirteen. And it did not escape his attention that she gave him no choice of spirits. "A cognac would do very well." Her lips thinned, but she apparently couldn't quite summon up the wherewithal to deny a duke a simple request of beverage. "Certainly. Hollis," she said to her butler, "bring a bottle of Rémy Martin for His Grace." The servant bowed and left. Langford smiled in satisfaction. There, that was better. Lemonade indeed. "I trust your trip to London was rewarding?" She laughed, a sound both startled and inauthentic. "Yes, I suppose it was." She touched the cameo brooch she wore at her throat. He could not help staring at the contrast of her white fingers against the stark, light-devouring crepe. The skin on her hand, though delicate, lacked the succulence and translucency of first youth. He was reminded that she was, indeed, several years older than him, a woman approaching fifty. Granny Snow White. But damned if she wasn't more beautiful than a bevy of nubile girls, more beautiful even than herself at age nineteen. As a rule, gorgeous women aged worse than plain ones—they had the greater fall. She, however, had acquired, somewhere along the way, a self-worth that had little to do with her beauty yet adorned her better than pearls and diamonds—an underpinning of substance beneath her still-lovely skin. "I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting your cousins at the theater," she said. "Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were kind enough to invite me to sit in their box." The significance of her statement did not immediately register. So she ran into Caro and Grace—a lot of people did, to their delight or chagrin, depending on whether they received juicy gossip or were probed three fingers deep for it. Then it dawned on him. Mrs. Rowland here hadn't had any idea at all of the person he had been before his present incarnation as the reclusive, practically asexual scholar. And what would they have told her? Probably the bitch fight, the fire, and the time he hired all of Madame Mignonne's girls. They were far from the worst sins he had ever committed, but they ranked high in notoriety. And the virtuous—though opportunistic—Mrs. Rowland was shocked and dismayed enough to temporarily shelve her idol-worshipping mien and her breathless voice. Truly, as if he could be deterred from more nefarious intentions by a few open windows and fifteen yards of reproachful black crepe, he who had successfully lifted a number of mourning skirts in his day, and sometimes before open windows too. Not that he entertained any such designs concerning Mrs. Rowland. Had they met twenty years previously, well, it would have been quite another story. But he had changed. He was now aged and tame. On most days. "I trust they regaled you with stories of my youthful indiscretions," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't led the most exemplary life." Obviously she hadn't expected him to confront the issue head-on. She attempted a nonchalant wave of her hand. "Well, what gentleman is without a few peccadilloes to his name?" "Just so." He nodded with grand approval at her sudden insight. "The intemperance of summer leads to the ripe maturity of autumn. Thus it has always been, thus it always will be." He almost laughed at the confusion his philosophizing caused in her. But her manservant came to the rescue with the delivery of the cognac, an excellent blend composed of fine eau-de-vie that had been aged fifty years in old Limousin oak barrels. They moved to the card table she had set up and she tentatively inquired if they could, at this early stage, play for something other than one-thousand-pound-a-hand stakes. "My daughter and I played for sweets, butterscotch, toffee, licorice . . . you see what I mean, Your Grace." "Certainly," he said magnanimously, especially given that he had played thousand-quid hands no more than three times in his life, after which even his vice-laden heart could no longer tolerate the awfulness of losing a year's income in a single night. She rose and retrieved a large golden embossed box. "My daughter sent me these Swiss chocolates Easter last. She knows I'm very fond of them." The chocolates were packed in several trays, with most of those on the top tier already eaten. She discarded the top tray, then set one full tray before herself and one before him. "What games did you play with your daughter?" he said, shuffling the decks of cards on the table. "The usual games for two—bezique, casino, écarté. She is an excellent card player." "I look forward to a few games with her when she arrives," he said. Mrs. Rowland did not answer immediately. "I'm sure she would be delighted." It would appear that while Mrs. Rowland could best a Drury Lane professional when it came to premeditated fabrications, she wasn't as smooth when a spontaneous instance of barefaced lying was required. Managing a husband and a fiancé at the same time was no mean task. He could see very well why Lady Tremaine refused to participate in her mother's harebrained schemes to add a third man to the already combustible mix. A few beats of silence passed as he dealt the cards faceup. "Perhaps you'd rather play a few hands with her husband," said Mrs. Rowland. "She is not yet sure of her itinerary, so he might come in her stead." "She is married?" He feigned great surprise. "Yes, she is. She has been married to the Duke of Fairford's heir for ten years." Pride still informed her answer. Pride and a trace of despair. The first ace landed in his lap. He shook his head slightly as he collected the cards, shuffled them, and held the deck out for her to cut. "I confess myself baffled, Mrs. Rowland. When you recommended your daughter to me, I had assumed her unattached and your gentle interest in my person intended to bring about a friendship between your daughter and myself." She stared at him as if he'd asked her to undress. Well, he _was_ stripping her bare, in a way. She tugged at the cameo brooch as if her collar was buttoned too tight. "Your Grace, I assure you—the mere thought of it! I—" "Now, now, Mrs. Rowland"—he had not yet completely forgotten how to be smarmy—"a mother's machination to marry her daughter off to a man of consequence might not be the loftiest of human endeavors, but it is a time-honored one. Yet here I find that your daughter is a woman already safely and advantageously wed. For what purpose, then, have you sought out my company so assiduously, to the extent that you were willing to chase me down outside your house and promise to engage in activities that you otherwise despise?" Her response was a resounding silence. "Your bet, madam," he reminded her. Mutely, she set three pieces of chocolate on a doily at the center of the table. He dealt her card facedown and his faceup. A measly five of spades. Next he dealt both of their cards facedown. She placed her hands over her cards but did not lift them. Her cheeks flushed wine-dark. "I should like to answer your question now, sir. The answer is one that would embarrass both you and me—mortify me, in fact—but you deserve to know it." She ran her tongue over her lower lip. "The truth is I've had quite enough of widowhood. And I've looked about my vicinity and come to the conclusion that you would make a fine husband for me." He nearly dropped both his jaw and his cards. She had caught him as flat-footed as a five-hundred-pound man. "I've watched you walk past my house every day these past five years, on fair days and foul," she continued, gazing at him with her beautiful eyes. "Every day I wait for your appearance at the bend of the road, where the fuchsia tree grows. I follow your progress until you can no longer be seen beyond Squire Wright's hedge. And I think about you." He knew she was lying as surely as he knew that there had been something going on between the queen and her late manservant John Brown. But somehow he couldn't quite prevent her words from affecting him. Images came to mind of Mrs. Rowland in her bed at night, her hair and breasts unbound, bemoaning her loneliness, wanting, needing, pining away for a man. For him. "But it isn't until now that I've plucked up the courage to do something about it," she said, her voice soft as a spring night. "I'm not a young woman anymore. So I've decided against a young woman's wiles in favor of a more direct approach. I hope I've not offended you with my forwardness." It wasn't often that he didn't know up from down, east from west. But he had to try damned hard to remind himself that when she thought of him, it was only with the intention of providing her daughter that elusive coronet of strawberry leaves, as she had so bluntly informed her fur ball of a cat. "Why me?" He cleared his throat when he realized his voice sounded closer to a croak. "Pardon my observation, but you are a well-looking woman of independent means. If you would but put out the word—" "But then I'd have to wade neck deep amongst sycophants and fortune hunters. My desire to be free of them was one of the reasons that motivated my return to Devon," she said quietly, reasonably. "As for why I have set my cap on you, sir, I suppose it's because I've been influenced by Her Grace your late mother." _"My mother?"_ His mother had perished of pneumonia four months after his father passed away. Had she lived longer, he probably would have led a more upright life, if only to protect her from the likes of Caro and Grace. "I'm sorry to have misled you, Your Grace, by pretending not to know your identity the day we met." At last she looked down at her cards and turned them over. An ace and a jack, a natural twenty-one. "The truth is, though we have never been introduced, I've known you for many years. I lived in this house in my youth, and I remember well catching sight of you from these windows when you were home from school on holidays." He took the sugar tongs she offered and paid her three chocolates from his tray. "How did you meet my mother?" "When I helped to run the charity bazaar in sixty-one, she was the honorary patroness. She took a liking to me and invited me to a weekly tea at Ludlow Court." Mrs. Rowland smiled wistfully. "In private she was both gracious and ordinary—ordinary in that her concerns were the same as any other woman's: her husband and her son. I didn't realize it at that time, but looking back, I think she was quite lonely, stranded in the country because of the late duke's poor health, with few friends and even fewer diversions that she could indulge in without appearing callous to His Grace's illness." He stared at her, no longer sure whether she was still fabricating tales but desperately hoping she wasn't. He had not spoken to anyone about his poor mother—his parents—in years. No one ever thought to ask him how he felt about being orphaned. They merely assumed, by his subsequent behavior, that he was all too glad to have his parents out of his profligate way. Mrs. Rowland picked up a piece of chocolate wrapped in translucent paper and rolled it between her fingers. The paper crinkled and scrunched softly. "She didn't mention His Grace's illness much. She already knew it was only a matter of time. But she did speak at length about you. She was proud of you and looking forward to your First in Classics. She even showed me a letter that Professor Thompson at Trinity College had written to you, answering your question concerning a point raised in the _Phaedo_ and complimenting you on your grasp of ancient Greek. But she was also worried. She said you were wild as the jungles of South America and a conundrum to her. She fretted that neither she nor your father could keep you in line. And she feared that your unruliness would only grow without the influence of a strong, steady wife." If Langford were any closer to speechlessness, he'd personify it. Mrs. Rowland's revelations shocked him far more than he had thought possible or even likely. Five minutes ago he had been smugly certain that he knew more about Mrs. Rowland than she could ever guess. But now exactly the reverse was true. She had observed him as an adolescent, she had been a confidante to his mother, she had even read the prized letter from Professor Thompson. "Why did we not meet if you were, as you say, a frequent visitor to Ludlow Court?" "Because I stayed no more than half an hour for each visit, and because you were always away somewhere at teatime even when you were home on holiday. In summer you'd have gone to Torquay for seabathing, in winter, out stalking a deer or visiting a classmate in the next county." Because he never had any time for his mother. He dined with her when he was at home and thought that simple act discharged all his duties and responsibilities as a son. "As you might imagine, my conversations with a loving mother left a lasting, positive impression of her son, leading to my current intentions. . . ." "Until you were waylaid by Ladies Avery and Somersby and informed of the more sordid aspects of my past." "Actually, my daughter was the first to tell me." She smiled wryly. "She disapproves of you. But I think a judgment of you based only on your prodigal years is perhaps as biased and incomplete as that made solely on what one knows of you before and after those years." She raked in the chocolates, set them in a neat pile before her, and cleared the cards. "Your turn to wager, Your Grace. Though I'd understand perfectly should you no longer wish to stay, now that I've revealed myself as both a fraud and a schemer." No, she hadn't merely revealed herself to be a schemer. She was still a schemer. She was still weaving fact and fiction together in order that her daughter could rise from the ashes of her divorce more socially prominent than ever. Yet something bound him to her now. Thirty years ago, when the young Mrs. Rowland had been respectfully attending the late duchess, he had been silent and sullen at dinner, ignoring his mother to the best of his capability. He had hardly known the woman who gave him life. Even the death of his father hadn't imparted to him any urgency to better acquaint himself with her. She had been the healthy one. He'd assumed that she'd be around to wring her handkerchief and frown upon his infractions for decades to come. He put up five pieces of chocolate. "Please deal." Chapter Nineteen _31 May 1893_ As you can see, sir, we have outstanding vehicles that would meet your every need," said the wiry Scotsman, proprietor of Adams's Fine Carriages, For Sale and For Let. "Indeed," said Camden. "Most excellent wares. I will be out of town for a day or two. When I return, I will decide on one in particular." "Very good, sir," said Adams. "Allow us the honor to conduct you home in one of our fine conveyances." Camden smiled. He regularly hosted sorties on his yacht, and guests who had not seriously considered owning a yacht before had been known to commission one from him before they disembarked. So he appreciated the Scotsman's acumen. "It would be my pleasure." "This way, please." A sumptuous black-and-gold landau was already fitted to a team of four and ready to go as they approached the courtyard. "Ah, Mrs. Croesus is here today, I see," said Adams, with evident pleasure. "Pardon?" said Camden, certain he'd misheard the man. Mrs. _Croesus?_ He couldn't help imagining a small female pup with a gold leash and a diamond-encrusted collar. "Won't you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Saybrook?" said Adams. He rushed forward to greet the woman about to mount the carriage. Rope upon rope of perfectly matched pearls rambled across her shapely front. The rest of her was swathed in brocade shot through and through with gold threads. Beneath her oversize and wildly beplumed hat, the chin-length veil that concealed her face sparkled in the sun—tiny diamonds sewn into the netting. The woman appeared exactly as a human Mrs. Croesus should. He ought to ask Gigi, Camden thought dryly, why she, one of the richest women in England, rarely dressed the part. Next time he saw her, that was. After their last coupling the night of the Carlisles' ball, she had sent him a tersely worded note the next morning, informing him that she'd be unavailable for procreation-related purposes for the following seven days. And he'd hardly seen her since. Today was the eighth day. Adams fussed over Mrs. Croesus. She received his attention with a grand condescension that he quite obviously relished. At last he handed her into the open carriage, bowed, and returned to Camden. "Don't much care for fancy ladies usually," he said. "But there is something about that one. Magnificent, eh?" The magnificent one raised the lapdog she'd held on the side away from Camden and lifted it to her face. "Magnificent indeed," said Camden, recognizing the corgi. Gigi. What was she doing hiring a carriage from Adams's? Didn't she have barouches and broughams enough of her own? And why was she suddenly dressed like some American millionaire's mistress? "On second thought," he said to Adams, "I've decided that a cab will be all I require this morning." Gigi's hired landau went east, across Westminster Bridge, past Lambeth, into Southwark. Shops lined the thoroughfares. Vendors milled about the curb, hawking ginger beer and West Country strawberries. Sandwich-board men, wearily watching out for yobos who tipped them over for fun, advertised everything from tobacco to female pills. The houses looked decent, some even well-to-do. But the prosperity did not extend beyond the main boulevard. The landau turned off onto a side street, and within a few blocks the neighborhood hung on to respectability by its fingernails. The carriage stopped before a small establishment set between a grimy cookshop reeking of sausage and onion and the office of a doctor promising to not only cure common diseases and female ailments but also to regenerate hair and banish corpulence. Half a dozen women stood on the sidewalk, two carrying small children, all waiting. They smoothed skirts and hair with ungloved hands, trying to not stare at the grand lady in the landau and not entirely succeeding. The coachmen leapt down, unfolded the steps, and held open the door. Gigi alit, looking richer than God and colder than Persephone in Hades' bed, her green-and-gold-striped day dress an almost shocking display of color and brilliance amid the women's faded blues and duns. As she approached the door, it was opened from within by a middle-aged, neatly attired woman. From across the street in his hired cab, Camden watched in fascination. What was Gigi doing on a Bermondsey street barely one rung above seediness? One waiting woman bent down to speak to her child, clearing Camden's line of sight at last to the small bronze plaque affixed to the left of the door. Croesus Lending Co. For Ladies Only Gigi had dealt with this young girl and her young child a hundred times—different faces, different names, but always the same story. She'd been in love, she'd thought it would last, but it didn't. And here she was, at her wits' end, with only a ha'penny to her name, throwing herself at the mercy of a stranger. The story still sent chills down Gigi's spine. Had she been a poor, friendless seamstress, might she not have fallen for the handsome apprentice baker next door? Had she been in service, perhaps she, too, would have believed the sweet nothings proffered by the son of the house. She'd made all the same mistakes. She knew what it was like to be lonely and desperately in love. What it was like to willingly abandon all good sense. Miss Shoemaker had been a promising apprentice florist in Cambridge when she lost her head over a young professor who came into her employer's shop every morning for a fresh boutonniere. The rest was mundane tragedy. He refused to marry her or even support her. She lost her position when her pregnancy could no longer be hidden. No other reputable florist would hire her. To keep herself and her child alive, she turned to prostitution. It seemed that her prayers had been answered when a fellow apprentice florist, Miss Neeley, wrote for her help. Miss Neeley had left Cambridge to open her own shop in London before Miss Shoemaker's disgrace and still thought her a reputable young woman. Miss Shoemaker worked under Miss Neeley for two years, socking away every spare penny for the day when she could open her own shop. But just when she thought she had put her past behind her, in walked Miss Neeley's brother one fine morning and recognized Miss Shoemaker from her streetwalking days. The outline of Miss Shoemaker's difficult young life took up all of one typed page from the private investigator Gigi kept on retainer for Croesus Lending. Those applicants with good references and character letters were handled by Mrs. Ramsey. The irregular cases came to Gigi. She listened impassively as Miss Shoemaker stuttered her way through her unhappy story, her cheeks stained a dark red. "I'm sorry I've no character, mum. But I know all about flowers. I can read some and I'm real good with numbers. Miss Neeley used to let me keep the books for her too. And she gots all sorts of compliments on them big arrangements I made for weddings and dances and such. . . ." Miss Shoemaker's voice trailed off, finally cowed into silence by Gigi's glacial magnificence. And it wasn't just her overdressed self; it was the room too. After the shabby anteroom and the narrow, dark hallway, the opulence of her office dazzled without fail. Lavishly framed paintings by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, brimming with the dazzling white marbles and the impossibly blue skies of a lost antiquity, drew forth astounded gasps. Furniture as fine as any found in aristocratic drawing rooms routinely made the applicants round-eyed with fear, afraid to soil the posh vermilion-and-cream brocade upholstery with their humble posteriors. "You said you wish to open a shop of your own," Gigi said. "Do you have a location chosen?" "Yes, mum. There is this small shopfront just off Bond Street. The rent is dear, but the location is good." Miss Shoemaker had ambition and daring. Gigi liked that. "Bond Street? Getting ahead of yourself, Miss Shoemaker?" "No, mum. I've thought and thought about it. It's the only way. The people in trade, their wives wouldn't use me, not if they've heard anything from Miss Neeley. But the grand ladies, they might not care so much if I do real good work." There was some truth to that. "Even so, I would advise you to become a very proper widow." "Yes, mum." "And before you become too thrilled with your blue-blood patrons, find out which pay their bills and which think you should pay them for the privilege." "Yes, mum." Miss Shoemaker could hardly speak for her rising excitement. "And keep your eyes peeled for any rich Americans coming to town. Get their business as fast as you can." "Yes, mum." Gigi wrote out a cheque and placed it in an envelope. "You may take this to Mrs. Ramsey in the next room down the hall. She will handle the rest." Mrs. Ramsey would take Miss Shoemaker through Croesus Lending Co.'s standard contract, tell her what to do with the cheque, and, at the end, show her out through the back door. Gigi did not want the applicants to share their successes with one another or for it to become common knowledge that she granted the vast majority of their requests. "Oh, mum, thank you, mum!" Miss Shoemaker curtsied so deep she nearly fell over. "More sweet," her son, who'd been completely silent, suddenly chirped loudly. "Shhh!" Miss Shoemaker dug out a pretty tin, opened it, and quickly shoved a piece of bonbon into the boy's mouth. The tin. Good God. From Demel's of Vienna. An identical one had been there right next to Gigi's hand, on Camden's writing desk, the last time he'd taken her. "Where'd you get that?" she asked sharply. "From a gentleman outside, mum," answered Miss Shoemaker, looking at Gigi uncertainly. "He gave it when Timmy wouldn't stop crying. I'm sorry, mum. I shouldn't have taken it. It was very wrong of me." "It's all right. You did nothing wrong." "But, mum—" "Mrs. Ramsey is waiting for you, Miss Shoemaker." Gigi searched all around, but there were no signs of Camden anywhere outside Croesus Lending Co. She rode the landau back to Adams's and allowed the Scotsman to hail her a cab, which took her to Madame Elise's, where she had fifteen minutes to choose fabric for a new shawl before her own brougham arrived outside, having unloaded her two hours earlier. She arrived home and found Camden in his bedchamber, dropping a stack of starched white shirts into a traveling satchel. "What were you doing following me?" "Curiosity, my dear Mrs. Croesus. I happened to be at the carriage place when you came around," he said without looking at her, a small smile about his lips. "If you saw me dressed like the king on coronation day, calling myself Lord Bountiful and going about on mysterious business, what would you have done?" "Gone about my own affairs, of course," she said, not very convincingly. "Of course," he murmured. "But rest assured, your secret is safe with me." "It's not a secret. It's but anonymity. The women who come to Croesus Lending for help aren't exactly what the holier-than-thou set would call 'the deserving poor.' I don't want to have to explain anything to anyone, that's all." "I understand." "No, you don't understand." What could he possibly understand, Mr. Mighty-and-Perfect? "These are hardworking, enterprising women who happen to have a less-than-spotless past. All they need are a few quid to get them on their feet again." "How much money did you lend out today?" She hesitated. Was he expecting a numerical answer? "Sixty-five pounds." His brow lifted. "A goodly sum. Did any of it go to Miss Shoemaker?" "Ten pounds." Ten pounds was a significant amount of money. It was not uncommon for working girls to earn two quid a month. "What about Miss Dutton?" "Eight pounds. Miss Dutton is an unusually talented calligrapher. She will have a secure future if she keeps her more destructive tendencies in check." He placed three cravats in the satchel and looked up. "On the strength of her own words? I assume Miss Dutton didn't have a character either." "I have a private investigator on retainer. In six years I've had only three women default on me, and one of them was run over by a carriage." "Admirable." "Do not condescend to me." She grew angry at his facile comment. "Croesus Lending may operate outside conventional boundaries, but it is legitimate and honorable. I sleep better at night for it." He buckled the satchel and came to her. "Calm down," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. And when she jerked away from his touch, he took one more step toward her and placed his palms on her cheeks. "Calm down. I think what you do _is_ admirable. I'm glad someone remembers the forgotten. And I'm glad it's you." She could not be more astonished had he announced he was nominating her for sainthood. He dropped his hands and ambled to the demilune table to wind his watch, but her cheeks remained hotly imprinted with his touch. "I just want to give someone a second chance," she mumbled. She'd never received one from him. His fingers paused in their motion. He glanced once at her before resuming the winding of his watch. He said nothing. She suddenly felt she'd stayed too long. Said too much. "Well, then, I'd better let you get on. A pleasant trip to you." "I'm going to Devon to dine with your mother and the Duke of Perrin. My train leaves Paddington in an hour. Have the kitchen pack you a sandwich. You can come with me." A dozen thoughts raced through her head. He wanted her conveniently nearby so he could get on with impregnating her, so that Mrs. Rowland couldn't pester him about the divorce, so that it'd be less awkward at dinner with the duke. But the quake of pleasure brought on by his invitation refused to subside. "I already told her I wouldn't come," she said. "Give her a second chance," he said, slipping the watch into his pocket. "She'd like that." Chapter Twenty _Copenhagen July 1888_ Camden liked being his nephews' favorite uncle, that infrequent, mysterious visitor whose spectacular arrivals etched indelible, miracle-bright memories upon impressionable young minds, forever remembered as an endless source of chocolate, clever toys, and shoulder rides. He'd had a rough crossing. His liner docked thirty-six hours behind schedule. He arrived at Claudia's house to only the boys and the servants, Claudia and her husband having gone out for the evening. He had his dinner brought up to the nursery and ate it with two-and-a-half-year-old Teodor babbling away on the chair next to him and five-month-old Hans snuggled on his lap. Teodor received his new kaleidoscope with terrific enthusiasm. But he broke it after only a quarter hour. He stared at the wreckage for a moment, then burst into howls of inarticulate disappointment. Camden, no neophyte when it came to bawling toddlers—he was seven years older than Christopher—distracted Teodor with a few magnets. Once the boy realized that the small black blocks were "magical," he happily settled down to stick them to one another and to spoons and butter knives. Hans, on the other hand, comported himself with perfect gentlemanliness, chewing on his new rattle contentedly, occasionally emitting a happy gurgle. Teodor, who no longer took afternoon naps, wore out earlier. His nanny carted him off to bed. Hans, after his bottle, fell asleep with his cheek against Camden's shoulder, his little mouth spreading a spot of warm drool against the cambric of Camden's shirt. Camden kissed his tiny ear with a swell of avuncular affection. And a vague sense of loss. He'd left for the United States directly after he received his _diplôme_ from the Polytechnique. The years that passed had brought him more wealth than he'd ever imagined. But fortune, as delightful and welcome as it was, did not warm his bed or populate a house with the children he wanted. Claudia came into the nursery then. She kissed Camden on the cheek, Hans on his head, and went to kiss Teodor, already asleep in his crib. She came back in a minute. "He's grown big, hasn't he?" she said, caressing Hans's hand. "You don't see a baby for a few months, and he doubles in size," answered Camden. "Had an amusing evening?" "Amusing enough. Pedar and I dined with your wife," said Claudia. His wife, whom he had not seen since May of '83, more than five years ago. Camden rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course you did." "I'm not making it up," said Claudia. "Your wife is in town. She called on me three days ago. I called on her the next day and invited her to dinner. And she returned the invitation tonight. We dined at her hotel." It was to Camden's vast credit that he did not drop Hans on his head. "What is she doing in Copenhagen?" "Sightseeing. A tour of Scandinavia. She's already been to Norway and Sweden." "Alone?" The moment the treacherous syllables escaped, he wished he'd torn out his tongue instead. "No, with her personal harem," said Claudia, beginning to observe him too closely for comfort. "How am I to know? She hasn't introduced me to a paramour, and I haven't had her followed around. Find out for yourself, if you are curious." "No. I meant if she had her mother with her." He handed Hans to the nanny. "Besides, Lady Tremaine's doings are none of my concern." "In case you haven't noticed, Lady Tremaine discharges _her_ familial duties. She calls on Pater and Mater once a week when they are in London. She sends presents for my children for Christmas and their birthdays. And when Christopher mismanages his allowance, she is the one who compels him to adopt austerity measures," said Claudia. "I think you should call on her. What's the harm? She is staying at the—" He set a finger over her lips. "Remember what you said? I'll find out for myself, if I'm curious." Later that night his good sense turned to ash, much like the Cuban cigars he smoked with Pedar. He managed a splendid silence during the ride to Mrs. Allen's hotel. He managed to walk away from Claudia's carriage when he arrived there. He almost managed to enter the hotel, its doors already held open by two respectful doormen. It defeated him then, this absurd inquisitiveness concerning his wife's presence. He had Claudia's carriage stopped, on the pretext of an errant cuff link. While conducting the make-believe search, he found out obliquely from the coachman to which hotel Claudia and Pedar had gone for dinner. And then, instead of calling on Mrs. Allen—a young, wealthy, attractive widow from Philadelphia who'd been strongly hinting all throughout the Atlantic crossing that they should repair somewhere private posthaste—he took himself across town to his wife's hotel. He was assured that she was indeed alone, attended by an entourage that consisted of precisely one maid. That the only guests she'd received were Claudia and Pedar. The driving question behind his restiveness answered, he should have been satisfied. Yet he found himself speaking to the hotel clerk of kroner, as in how many kroner the clerk stood to gain if he'd discreetly pass along information of interest concerning Lady Tremaine. Setting up clandestine arrangements to spy on her, to put it bluntly. It was not difficult to discover her itinerary, as she relied on the hotel to supply her with transport. The very next morning he began receiving reports of her comings and goings. Within a few days he knew what she ate for breakfast, which monuments she'd visited, at what hour she took her evening bath, even where she'd stopped to buy some embroidered linen tablecloths. Yet the more he knew, the more he had to know. How did she look? Had the years been kind to her? Was she the same woman he'd left behind? Or had she changed into someone unrecognizable? He broke an engagement to dine with Mrs. Allen when he learned that Gigi would make an evening visit to Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen's premier amusement park. He had enough control left to not go anywhere near her during the day. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could catch a glimpse of her at night and still remain in the shadows. He walked the acres of Tivoli Gardens until he thought he must already be in his dotage. At last he spotted her on the grand carousel. She was laughing, holding on to the gilded post of her wooden horse for dear life, her long white skirts streaming with the rotation of the carousel and the summer breeze off the sea. She looked well. Better than well. Delighted. In the bright orange glow of the park's artificial lights, she was something out of an old Norse fairy tale, elemental, dangerous, and downright crackling with sensual energy. More than a few men in the crowd stared at her, eyes round, mouths half open. He gazed at her until he could no longer stand the asphyxiation in his chest. He didn't know what he'd been thinking. Somehow he had thought—had hoped, in the baser chambers of his heart—that she might appear wan and wretched beneath an impassive facade. That she yet pined for him. That she was still in love with him, despite all evidence to the contrary. This woman did not need him. He turned and walked away. He stopped the reports and the lunacy. He tried to forget that he'd gawked at her like a hungry mutt with its front paws upon the windowsill of a delicatessen. He made up to Mrs. Allen for his neglect and inattentiveness. And then came the encounter on the canal. Mrs. Allen looked very fetching in her peach-and-cream Worth gown. The scenery behind her, however, held its own. The houses that lined the canal were painted in unabashedly spirited colors, the hues of a fashionable Englishwoman's wardrobe: rose, yellow, dove gray, powder blue, russet, and puce. As the sun approached its zenith, the canal glittered, ripples of silver beneath the boats that plied the waterways. "Oh, my goodness gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Allen, latching on to his elbow. "You must look at that!" He turned away from the storefront display of model ships he'd been perusing and looked in the direction she pointed. "That open window on the second story. Can you see the man and the woman inside?" Mrs. Allen giggled. Obligingly, he scanned the windows on the opposite bank, until he felt the weight of someone's gaze on him. Gigi! She sat at the bow of a pleasure craft a stone's throw away, under the shade of a white parasol, a diligent tourist out to reap all the beauty and charm Copenhagen had to offer. She studied him with a distressed concentration, as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. As if she didn't want to. He looked different. His hair reached down to his nape, and he'd sported a full beard for the past two years. Their eyes met. She bolted upright from the chair. The parasol fell from her hand, clanking against the deck. She stared at him, her face pale, her gaze haunted. He'd never seen her like this, not even on the day he left her. She was stunned, her composure flayed, her vulnerability visible for miles. As her boat glided past him, she picked up her skirts and ran along the port rail, her eyes never leaving his. She stumbled over a line in her path and fell hard. His heart clenched in alarm, but she barely noticed, scrambling to her feet. She kept running until she was at the stern and could not move another inch closer to him. Mrs. Allen chose that moment to link her arm through his and lay her head against his upper arm, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve like a well-scratched kitty. "I'm famished," said Mrs. Allen. "Won't you take me to a restaurant that serves cold buffet?" "Of course," he said dumbly. Gigi didn't move from her rigid pose at the rail, but she suddenly looked worn down, as if she'd been standing there, in that same spot, for all the eighteen hundred and some days since she'd last seen him. _She still loved him._ The thought echoed wildly in his head, making him hot and dizzy. _She still loved him._ All at once, he could not even recall what had been her trespass against him. He knew only, with absolute certainty, that he had been the world's premier ass for the past half decade. And all he wanted was everything he'd sworn would never tempt him again. He sleepwalked through lunch and rushed Mrs. Allen back to her hotel for her afternoon beauty nap, turning down her invitation to join her as if she exhibited symptoms of the bubonic plague. He raced about Copenhagen, to the barber's, the jeweler's, then back to Claudia's house for his best day coat. He walked into his wife's hotel with a freshly shaven jaw and a wilting bunch of hydrangea bought from an elderly flower vendor about to go home for the day. He felt as nervous and stupid as a pig living next door to a butcher. Standing before the hotel clerk, he had to clear his throat twice before he could get his question out. "Is . . . is Lady Tremaine here?" "No, sir, I'm sorry," said the clerk. "Lady Tremaine just left." "I see. When is she expected to return?" He would wait right here. He would never go anywhere again without her. "I'm sorry, sir," said the clerk. "Lady Tremaine is no longer with us. She vacated her suite and departed for the harbor. I believe she was trying to board the _Margrethe,_ leaving at two o'clock." It was five minutes past two o'clock. He raced out of the hotel, flagged down the first carriage for hire, and promised the cabbie the entire contents of his wallet if the cab but reached the harbor before the _Margrethe_ left. But when he arrived, all he could see of the _Margrethe_ was three columns of smoke in the distance. He gave the cabbie double the usual fare anyway and stared at the horizon. He could not believe it. Could not believe that all his hopes of a future together would come to aught, so swiftly and pitilessly. For the first time in his life, he felt lost, hopelessly rudderless. He could follow her to England, he supposed. But being in England would crush them with all the weight of their infelicitous history. Would remind him incessantly of why he'd left her in the first place. In England neither of them could be spontaneous. Or forgiving. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be. It took hours, but in the end he convinced himself that his guardian angel must have toiled on his behalf. Imagine if she had actually been there. Imagine if he had actually thrown all caution to the wind. Imagine if he had actually gone back to her, a woman he could never again trust. He told himself he could not imagine any such thing. He really couldn't. Not a sensible man like him. His fingers closed over the velvet box that contained the diamond-and-ruby necklace he'd bought, all fire and sparkling beguilement, like her. Mrs. Allen would have one hell of a parting gift from him. The blue hydrangea he threw into a canal, watching the bouquet drift in the water until it disintegrated. Who'd have believed that after all these years, she still possessed the power to shatter him without even once touching him? Chapter Twenty-one _31 May 1893_ Gigi wished she could better predict this man who was her husband. She'd been infinitely certain that he'd demand lovemaking in the confines of her private coach on the way to Devon—so certain, in fact, that she'd taken precautions. And suffered erratic heartbeats from the moment they left the house together. He, on the other hand, began working on the designs of some mechanical contraption before the train even departed Paddington Station, leaving her with little to do other than watch the world hurtle by at sixty miles an hour, feeling entirely daft. And self-conscious. And a little light-headed. He'd paid her a compliment, an unadulterated compliment, on something that genuinely mattered to her. She felt like a green debutante at her first ball after an unexpected dance with the most extraordinary, notorious rake of them all: She knew perfectly well that the fizzy warmth in her was unreciprocated, unwise, and uncalled for, but there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. He wrote in a quick, slanted hand, unraveling reams of equations that would look to the uninitiated as incomprehensible as the hieroglyphs before the discovery of the Rosetta Stone. Even she, having been extensively tutored in higher mathematics and mechanics—so that she wouldn't be hampered by ignorance when dealing with her own engineers—could understand only parts of it, looking at the numbers and symbols upside down. She deciphered that he was working on something about the heating and exchanging of gases. When his calculations moved on to angular momentum, she further deduced that he was refining the design for an internal combustion engine. She had her doubts about the automobile. Certainly it was wonderful and novel and—nowadays—feasible. But who other than the most adventurous and the most wealthy would want to own and operate one, when carriages were so much simpler and more convenient in town and trains a great deal faster and more reliable over long distances? At least one's horses were not likely to die three times going from London to Brighton. But she was curious enough to have paid a visit to Herr Benz in Mannheim the previous summer and was about to negotiate a license to build Benz engines in her own factory. The internal abacus she'd inherited from her Rowland ancestors swiftly calculated the savings she'd realize if she could use Camden's design—if it worked. And if he were truly her husband. "What's the matter with your engine?" "It can't expel exhaust gases fast enough when its rotational speed exceeds one hundred revolutions per minute," he said, without looking up. Without expressing any surprise at her familiarity with subjects outside the grasp of the overwhelming majority of women— and men, for that matter. But then, he knew all about the Honorable Mr. Williams, who'd been her tutor before he became her lover. The partial vacuum created by the exodus of exhaust gas drew fresh air and fuel into the cylinder. The expanding gas created from the ignition of the air-and-fuel mixture powered the engine, but residual exhaust gases that were not expelled would reduce its efficiency. "You should begin the expelling cycle at an earlier point in the crankshaft's rotation," she said. "That would sacrifice a bit of power but improve your efficiency." "Correct." "The trouble comes in determining at which precise point, doesn't it?" she said. Her engineers had agonized over the voltage of the third rail they had designed for London's new underground tubes. "Always," he answered. "The design can be refined only to a certain point. I've narrowed it down to two possibilities and determined their angles to within one point two degrees. Now my engineers in New York will modify the engine and test it." "Good thing you won't get your hands dirty." "But getting my hands dirty is half the fun. I always build my own designs. I can build anything." He glanced at her and smiled. Her heart thudded to a stop. The sun really did shine brighter when he smiled. "Would you like to be the first English lady to rumble down Rotten Row in a horseless carriage?" She smiled despite herself. That fizzy warmth—half effervescent elation, half heedlessness—spread unabated within her. "I know you really _can_ build anything. I know your little secret." He was puzzled. "Secret?" "Claudia's gown that she wore to her first ball." "Ah that," he said, relaxing. "That's not my secret so much as hers. She was rather mortified, if I remember correctly, that other people had ball gowns made by Monsieur Worth, while hers was cobbled together by her brother." "So modest." "When I say cobbled, I mean cobbled. I had no idea how to manufacture the kind of neckline she wanted without the bodice falling off her. So I took apart one of my mother's mesh bustles and wired the entire décolletage. She was terrified during the ball that the gown would either kill her or poke some handsome swain in the chest." "She showed it to me when she came to England in 1890," said Gigi. "I couldn't believe that _you_ made it until she swore it on the lives of all her children." "It was my first and last foray into haute couture," he said dryly. "I was nineteen and thought there was nothing I couldn't do. When Claudia wept for hours on end because there was no room in the budget for a new gown for her first ball, I thought, how hard could it be? After all, couture was just the softer side of engineering, and I'd cut and sewn plenty of sails for my model ships." "She said you were a wizard." "Claudia has rose-colored hindsight. I never knew what panic was until the ball was two days away and I still hadn't figured out how ten yards of skirts should gather and drape under the bustle. All the non-Euclidean geometry in the world couldn't have dug me out of that hole." She thought of the gown, lovingly packed in layers of tissue, kept in Claudia's old chamber at Twelve Pillars. _I have the best brother in the world,_ Claudia had said that day, a not-so-subtle reminder that Gigi should get on a transatlantic liner posthaste. "You did all right in the end." "I wired the skirt too," he said. They both burst out laughing. The corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth, laugh lines that she'd never seen before—lines that had come from the sun and the salt of the sea, marks of a man in his prime. He stopped and looked at her. "Your laughter is the same," he said. "I used to think you all sophisticated and worldly, until you laughed. You still laugh like a little girl getting tickled, all hiccupy and breathless." What did one say to something like that? If he were anyone else, she'd consider it a declaration, not necessarily of love but of great fondness. What was she to make of it when it _did_ come from him? He quickly changed subjects. "Before I forget, I've never thanked you for keeping Christopher in line, have I?" Christopher had gotten himself into a few scrapes over the years. Nothing terribly alarming—no illegitimate children, ruinous debts, or criminal friends—but his parents worried and wrung their hands. After Saint Camden and Mostly Sensible Claudia, Their Graces were ill equipped to deal with a more temperamental offspring. So Gigi had stepped in dutifully, extricated Christopher from potentially harmful situations, unleashed stern lectures Their Graces were too softhearted to deliver, and ruthlessly choked off his allowance whenever he deserved it. "No need to thank me," she said. "I enjoyed keeping him in line." "He complained about you in his letters. He said you were harsh as the Gorgons and twice as deadly. That you meant to ship him to Vladivostok and leave him at the port penniless. That you threatened to bankrupt anyone who dared to loan him money when you stopped his allowance." There was such relish in his voice that the dangerous warmth infecting her at last turned into a conflagration of recklessness. "Did you miss me?" she heard herself ask. Suddenly the only sound in the coach was the low roar of the train's engines and steel wheels clacking on steel tracks, going a mile a minute. She looked out the window, feeling as stupid as a stampede of lemmings. He, too, looked out the window. For a long time he didn't speak, until she almost had herself convinced that they were both going to pretend that her question had never been uttered. But then he did answer. "That was never the point, was it?" They arrived at Mrs. Rowland's cottage a little after teatime. The weather had turned dour and wet in London just before they departed, but a gentle sun shone upon this part of Devon, though the soil was drenched and rain dripped off leaves still. The roses were at their peak. Mrs. Rowland's cottage, with its bright white walls and vermilion trim, was all pastoral charm. Gigi half-expected her mother to fall down in a faint upon seeing Camden and herself together. But Camden must have had a telegram sent ahead, because though a note of curiosity wended through Mrs. Rowland's welcome, she was not taken by surprise. "This is a lovely house," said Camden, kissing Mrs. Rowland on the cheek. "The photograph you sent didn't quite do it justice." "You should see Devon in spring," said Mrs. Rowland. "The wildflowers are incomparable in April." "I will come in April then," said Camden. "I should still be in England at that time." Gigi felt her mother's gaze on her back as she stood looking out at the garden, strewn with petals from the earlier shower. He'd said nothing new, of course. Their deal was for one year, and that one year didn't conclude until next May. But for some reason she could not see them going on like this for another eleven months, or even another eleven weeks. For ten years things had remained frozen in place, because he'd made it abundantly clear the circumference of the earth was not enough distance between the two of them. When he first returned, he not only personified antagonism, he took it to hitherto unscaled heights. But things had changed. This thawing of enmity put them on terra incognita, before dangerous possibilities, possibilities that she dared not even think of in the light of day, because they led to utter madness. "I shall look forward to it," said Mrs. Rowland. "We don't see enough of you." "I believe I have issued invitations beyond number for you to visit New York City, dear madam," Camden said, a smile and a challenge in his voice. "And you've always found reasons to demur." "But don't you see, my dear lord Tremaine," said Mrs. Rowland sweetly, "I could never call on a man who would not speak to my daughter." Gigi almost turned around in her astonishment. Somehow she'd never thought of her mother as an ally in this matter. She'd always believed, perhaps because of her substantial culpability, that Mrs. Rowland blamed her for the silent disaster that was her marriage. That her mother's letters had given Camden the wherewithal to blackmail her had further contributed to her conviction that Mrs. Rowland would enter into a sexual union with the devil himself if Camden would only bestow his blessed forgiveness on Gigi. "Of course, I really shouldn't have corresponded with you either," said Mrs. Rowland. "But I always fall so maddeningly short of perfection." This time Gigi did turn around. Was that an apology? From the woman who'd never done anything wrong in her life? Hollis entered with the tea service, and the conversation took a sharp turn to Mrs. Rowland's latest charity gala. Camden, it turned out, was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Rowland's charitable efforts. "Isn't that quite a bit more than what you usually raise at these events?" he asked, once Mrs. Rowland had named a sum. "It is, I suppose." Mrs. Rowland hesitated. "His Grace honored us with a large contribution." "The same duke who's coming to dinner tonight?" said Gigi. Good Lord, was that a blush on her mother's face? To be certain, they'd had some cross words over the Duke of Perrin the last time Mrs. Rowland was in London. But the colors staining Mrs. Rowland's cheeks did not seem to have originated either in consternation or embarrassment. "The very same." Mrs. Rowland was once again the closest approximation of the Madonna this side of the Italian Renaissance. "An admirable figure of a man. A classical scholar. I'm quite pleased that you will be making his acquaintance." Camden raised his cup. "I, for one, am looking forward to dinner with trembling anticipation." Camden left within minutes for the scenic ride down to Torquay that Mrs. Rowland had apparently promised him. Gigi had felt uncomfortable with him in the room, with her mother's sharp eyes assessing their every interaction, as if all their recent dealings could be deduced from a "Would you please pass the creamer?" But without his presence as a buffer, the awkwardness between the two women immediately came to the fore, as strong and unmistakable as the scent of vinegar. "I visited Papa's grave last Friday," said Mrs. Rowland, after nearly three minutes of unrelieved silence. Gigi was surprised. They didn't speak of John Rowland very often. Grief was a private matter. "I saw your flowers when I went on Sunday." John Rowland would have turned sixty-eight on Sunday had he survived the typhoid fever that took him at age forty-nine. "He always did like camellias." "Because you gave him a handful from the garden when you were three. He adored you," said Mrs. Rowland. "He adored you too." Her father had taken her along whenever he shopped for a present for his wife. Nothing was ever too good for his beautiful missus. He loved big, showy things—perhaps the reason behind her own flamboyant taste in jewelry, though she rarely wore any—but in the end he bought only cameos and modest pearls, because he didn't want his wife to have to wear anything she'd consider garish. "We were married ten years and five months when he passed away." Mrs. Rowland took a small cream cake, set it before her, and cut it into perfect quarters. "You'll be married ten years and five months in a fortnight. Life is uncertain, Gigi. Don't throw away your second chance with Tremaine." "I would rather we not speak of him." "I would rather we do," said Mrs. Rowland firmly. "If you believe that I have schemed only because Tremaine is in line for a dukedom, then you are greatly mistaken. Do you think I never came upon the two of you together in the sitting parlor at Briarmeadow, holding hands and whispering? I'd never seen you so alive and happy, before or after. And I'd never seen _him_ that way, completely without his reserve, for once acting his age, when he'd always carried the burden of the world on his shoulders." "That was a long time ago, Mother." "Not long enough for me to have forgotten. Or you. Or him." Gigi took a deep breath and finished her tea. It was already cold, and too sweet—because Camden's un-gloved hand had brushed hers when he passed the sucretière, and she didn't know two from four in the minute afterward. "What good does it do any of us to remember? I loved him then, I would not deny it. And perhaps he loved me too. But that is all in the past. He no longer loves me and I no longer love him. And if there are second chances going around, no one has offered me any, least of all Camden." "Don't you see?" cried Mrs. Rowland, exasperated, setting down her teacup with an uncharacteristic _thud._ A glob of milky brown liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup and spread into an astonishingly perfect circular stain on the embroidered tablecloth that Gigi had purchased during her ill-fated visit to Copenhagen. "That he is here in England, living in your house, being civil to you, persuading you to come with him to see me—all this, does it not mean anything to you? Does it have to be stated in so many words or carved on a stone tablet, for heaven's sake?" Was it not enough that she had to struggle with it by herself? She did not need to hear it spelled out item by item by her mother, as if she were a dimwit chit from some Oscar Wilde play. "Mother, you forget why he is here in the first place," she said coolly. "We are divorcing. I have pledged my hand to Lord Frederick." Mrs. Rowland rose abruptly. "I will rest for a short while. It would not do for me to appear haggard before His Grace. But if you think that you love Lord Frederick a fraction as much as you love—not loved, but love—Tremaine, then you are a greater fool than any Shakespeare ever wrote." Gigi remained in the parlor long after Mrs. Rowland had swept out, trailing a faint wake of rose attar behind her. Slowly, absently, she finished the cream cake Mrs. Rowland had left behind, as well as the two small jam tarts that still remained on the three-tiered platter. If only she could be certain that her mother was dead wrong. Chapter Twenty-two The duke, upon first glance, did not appear either a scholar or a reprobate—no book dust or buxom doxies clung to him. But he was certainly imposing as an aristocrat of the highest rank, with none of the golly-would-you-believe-my-good-luck mellowness that characterized the current Duke of Fairford, her father-in-law. No, this was a man born to lord over lesser beings and who'd done it authoritatively for the entirety of his adult life. A man who could cow half of society into hushed awe with his sheer ducalness. Gigi was not immediately impressed. Despite an upbringing focused exclusively on becoming a duchess, she seemed to have inherited a democratic streak from her plebeian ancestors. "Good evening, Your Grace." "Lady Tremaine, you have decided to join us after all." His corresponding wry amusement made it evident that he was not without a clue as to the purpose behind the dinner. The surprise was her mother, who did _not_ have a democratic bone in her body. Gigi would have expected some reverence on her part—and triumph that she'd finally maneuvered Gigi and the duke into the same room—but Mrs. Rowland's demeanor was rather one of grim determination, as if she were on a mission to Greenland, a grueling journey with nothing but barrenness at the end. Equally intriguing was the duke's deportment toward Mrs. Rowland. A man such as he did not know how to be _nice._ He probably tolerated his friends and treated everyone else with condescension. Yet as he complimented Mrs. Rowland on her flower arrangements, he displayed a solicitude and a delicacy Gigi hadn't sensed in him before. Camden arrived late, his hair still slightly damp from his bath. He'd returned from the seashore only thirty minutes ago. "May I present my son-in-law, Lord Tremaine," said Mrs. Rowland, in a rare bit of archness. "Lord Tremaine, His Grace the Duke of Perrin." "A pleasure, Your Grace," said Camden. Despite his hurried toilette, he seemed more settled into the role of affable, oblivious host than anyone else. "I've had the pleasure of reading _Eleven Years Before Ilium,_ a most illuminating work." The duke raised one black brow. "I had no idea my modest monographs could be found in America." "As to that, I wouldn't know either. I received a copy from my esteemed mother-in-law, when she was in London last." The duke turned his monocled gaze to Mrs. Rowland. He'd have resembled a _Punch_ caricature if it weren't for his commanding presence and his sardonic self-awareness. Mrs. Rowland shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. Gigi's eyes widened. The men in the parlor might not understand the significance of that seemingly unremarkable motion. But Gigi knew that Mrs. Rowland _never_ fidgeted. She could hold as still as a caryatid, and for about as long. "My mother is a learned acolyte of the Blind Bard," said Gigi. "You will find few women, or men for that matter, sir, more thoroughly knowledgeable concerning all things Homeric." This revelation startled the duke again, in a way that felt more complicated than simply a man's surprise that a woman would know something in his field of expertise. He inclined his head in Mrs. Rowland's direction. "My compliments, madam. You must tell me how you came to develop a passion for my arcane subjects." Mrs. Rowland's response was a high castle wall of a smile. Camden glanced Gigi's way. Apparently she wasn't the only one to have noticed something highly irregular. Hollis announced that dinner awaited. Mrs. Rowland, with almost obvious relief, suggested that they pair off and proceed to the dining room. For Victoria, about the only silver lining to the cumbersome evening was that the duke didn't immediately succumb to Gigi's charms. She'd fretted about Gigi's looks throughout her daughter's girlhood, as the child stubbornly refused to blossom into the kind of flawless beauty Victoria had been but instead grew unfashionably tall, with wide shoulders and a challenging gaze that was Victoria's despair. Then, a few years ago, after Victoria at last realized she no longer needed to train her eyes on the girl's gown and coiffure for signs of imperfection, she noticed something quite confounding. Men stared at Gigi. Some of them gawked. At balls and soirées, they had their eyes glued to her as she walked, talked, and occasionally—largely with indifference—glanced their way. When Victoria mentally distanced herself and studied her daughter as a stranger would, she was shocked to realize just how obscenely attractive Gigi might be to the masculine sex. She had no words to describe the kind of primal allure Gigi exuded, an incandescent sensuality that surely didn't come from Victoria. It made Victoria feel old, past her prime, her vaunted beauty a distant second place to Gigi's youth, luminosity, and glamour. Gigi looked as well as she ever did in a dinner gown of vermilion velvet, the skin of her throat and arms glowing in the lambent light like that of a Bouguereau nymph. The duke spoke to Gigi as he ought to, making the obligatory grunts concerning the relative proportion of precipitation to sunshine in recent days in both London and Devon. But unlike Gigi's husband, who glanced at her over his wineglass with every other forkful, Perrin kept most of his attention on the plate before him, gravely tasting the successive courses of _soupe_ _d'oseille, filet de sole à la Normandie,_ and duck _à la Rouennaise._ "Allow me to compliment you, madam, on your chef," the duke suddenly looked up and said. "The food is nowhere near as terrible as I expected." Victoria was absurdly pleased. Ever since the night when they'd gambled over chocolates and she'd practically told him to drag her upstairs and ravish her lonely old bones, she'd been on pins and needles. She could repeat to herself only so many times that, in desperate embarrassment at being found out, she'd made up the whole thing on the spot. The only problem was that she was a terrible impromptu liar. Without hours and days of prior preparation, she either blurted out the truth or bungled so badly the odor of her mendacity could be scented a furlong away. Had she told the inadvertent truth instead? Was this whole exercise in folly simply an opening for her to grab the duke by his lapels and make him take notice of her at long last? He hadn't entirely believed her, but he didn't disbelieve her enough. There was something about truth, the visceral ferocity of it, that seeped under and around incredulity, no mattter how well-founded and watertight. "Thank you," she said, "though I cannot return the compliment on your tact." "Tact is for others, madam." As if to underscore his point, he glanced at Gigi and Camden and said, "Forgive the curiosity of a dotard who retired from Society many years ago, but is it commonplace nowadays for a couple about to divorce to be on such apparently friendly terms?" "Quite so," answered Camden, his tone as smooth and creamy as a dish of flan. He looked at Gigi. "Wouldn't you say, my dear?" "Without a doubt," said Gigi dryly. "We do loathe scenes, don't we, Tremaine?" Even the duke was left momentarily speechless by this bravura performance. He moved on to a safer topic. "I understand you've quite the Midas touch, Lord Tremaine." "Hardly, sir. It's Lady Tremaine who has the head for business. I but try my best to reach financial parity with her." Victoria glanced at Gigi, hoping she'd heard the admiration in Camden's words. But the quick shadow of confusion in Gigi's eyes suggested that she heard something else instead. "I'd always thought it otherwise," said Victoria. "Lady Tremaine builds upon the success of her forefathers. But you started with nothing." "I wouldn't say so, madam. I'm no Horatio Alger, hero beloved of the American imagination," replied Camden. "My first acquisitions were made with substantial loans obtained against Lady Tremaine's inheritance." Gigi choked on her wine. She coughed into her napkin as Hollis rushed to her side with a fresh napkin and a goblet of water. She took a long draft of water and promptly resumed her ingestion of the slices of duck on her plate. Victoria took it upon herself to ask the question that Gigi didn't. "I had no idea. How were you able to do that?" Camden, like his cousin before him, had signed a marriage contract that prohibited any direct access to Gigi's fortune. "I proved to them who I was and who she was. I had the marriage papers and the announcement from the _Times._ The Bank of New York decided quite on its own that my wife would come to my rescue should I be in danger of defaulting," he said, his smile subtly feral. Good grief. Dazzled by his polish and finesse, Victoria had never observed this brazen side to her son-in-law. She'd always thought the once-upon-a-time affection and friendship between the calculating heiress and the urbane marquess endearing but odd, as the two could not be more different one from the other. How she'd underestimated Camden by equating his burnish of faultless manners with a lack of inner ferocity. The duke took an appreciative sip of his Burgundy, a fourteen-year-old Romanée-Conti. Victoria was rather shocked to see that he was smiling a little. He was not classically handsome, his features more rough-hewn than refined, with unruly brows and a Mont Blanc of a nose—a face that lent itself easily to terrifying scowls. But his smile—a slight, underdeveloped one at that—was utterly transforming. It illuminated his fine chestnut-brown eyes, animated his lips, and melted his hauteur with surprising warmth and earthy machismo. She did not use the word lightly—in fact, she'd never applied it to any living man—but he looked nigh on _irresistible._ Suddenly she saw why otherwise properly reared ladies fought over him like harpies. "There are few things I loathe more than small country dinners," he said. "But, madam, had you only informed me that such remarkable diversion lay in store for me, I would not have compelled you to provide additional entertainment." A moment of absolute silence. Victoria was too disoriented to feel embarrassed. She hadn't yet grasped that the focus of the conversation had abruptly shifted from the Tremaines to her dealings with the duke. "Dear sir," said Gigi wryly, "pray do tell." "Oh, Gigi, please, none of that unseemly interest," Victoria huffed. "His Grace but requested that I play a few hands of cards with him, which I gladly obliged." "Sir," Gigi addressed the duke, a sly smile on her face. "I've heard that you were a scoundrel. I see that you are at least a rascal." "Gigi!" Victoria cried, mortified. But the duke seemed amused rather than offended. "I _was_ a scoundrel in my youth, to put it kindly. As for my rascally demands, let's just say I could have stipulated a great deal more and still received compliance." Victoria felt her face flame a color as bright as Gigi's gown. Oh, how she hated to blush in public, so inelegant and infantile. Camden, bless him, was eating with gluttonous zest, as if he hadn't heard a word of the conversation in the last five minutes. Gigi, taking a cue from her husband, gave the remaining slice of duck breast on her plate another good poke. The duke, however, wasn't done. "Young lady," he addressed Gigi. "I hope you realize how fortunate you are, at your age, to still have a mother who would dance with the devil for you." It was Camden's turn to cough into his napkin, though in his case it sounded more like choked laughter than actual choking. The dinner, up to that point a parody, if a rather barbed one, was now a farce. She'd known the dinner to be a bad idea for a while now, hadn't she, thought Victoria wildly. Why, oh, why hadn't she called it off? Why had she persisted as if the duke were Moby Dick and she the crazed Captain Ahab, who would either harpoon him or die trying? Gigi was not one to take lectures sitting down. "Sir, I hope you realize that, while I am eminently grateful, I have also reminded my mother, pointedly, that no dancing with the devil is necessary on my behalf. I already have the affection and the fealty of a good man. My future happiness after my divorce is already assured." The duke sighed exaggeratedly. "Lady Tremaine, I do not profess to know the marvelous qualities of this other man. But why wage—and waste—a divorce when it's more than evident to me that you and your husband haven't even tired of each other yet?" Having silenced Gigi and strangled Camden's mirth, His Grace turned to Victoria and smiled again, a full smile this time. She nearly melted into her chair, leaving nothing behind but a whalebone corset and an assemblage of skirts. "Madam"—he raised his glass in a toast—"this is the most sublime Burgundy it has ever been my privilege to enjoy. You may be assured of my everlasting gratitude." Chapter Twenty-three The silence of a house settling into the night was first disturbed as Camden stood brushing his teeth over a basin of water. Then came a loud crash to his left, a heavy vibration that traveled up his ankles to his knees, followed by a muffled shriek. The cottage had six bedchambers upstairs—Mrs. Rowland's at the eastern corner and five others, of southern exposure, lined in a row. Camden was in the chamber closest to Mrs. Rowland's and Gigi in the one furthest away. The shriek came from Gigi's direction. He spat the tooth powder out of his mouth and pulled open the door. Mrs. Rowland's door opened a second later. "Good heavens, what was that?" she cried. "The ceiling, probably," he said. Gigi, too, was in the hallway, her face very pale against the midnight blue of her peignoir. "What's the matter with your house?" she said tightly to her mother. Camden began opening doors. The room next to his seemed fine, except that several pictures had fallen off the wall. He opened the door to the middle chamber. A gust of debris greeted him. Almost the entire ceiling had collapsed, blanketing the floor and the furniture in dust-ridden chunks of plaster and timber. Above him gaped the cavernous void of the attic. "Good heavens! How did this happen?" Mrs. Rowland moaned. "This is a most sturdy house." "I don't think anyone should sleep on this floor until the ceiling is repaired and the integrity of the entire structure inspected," said Camden. "You and I can share the governess's room on the ground floor," said Gigi to Mrs. Rowland. "Do you have a spare cot for Camden?" "Nonsense!" cried Mrs. Rowland. "Lord Tremaine is a first-time visitor to this house. I will not have him spend the night on a cot in the parlor like hired help. I will ask to be put up at Mrs. Moreland's cottage down the lane—she has two daughters who visit her, so she always has a spare chamber made up. You and Camden take the governess's room." "I will take the cot and sleep in the parlor," said Gigi. "I'm not a first-time visitor. It doesn't matter where I sleep. Or I can come with you to Mrs. Moreland's." "Absolutely not to either of your mad propositions!" Mrs. Rowland recoiled in grandiose horror. "I will not have that kind of gossip bandied about. The two of you may divorce up a storm in London, but here I have my reputation to consider. I will not have people asking why my daughter would not share a room with her lawfully wedded husband. There, I think I hear Hollis coming up. I will confer with him about the arrangements. Mind that you do nothing to embarrass me, Gigi. No cots whatsoever." After Mrs. Rowland hurried down the steps with surprising energy and bounce, Gigi cursed under her breath. "Arrangements my foot," she said, her voice seething. "She arranged for the ceiling to cave in! This house was inspected from top to bottom only a year ago because I was worried that it might be getting a bit decrepit. It _is_ sound. Ceilings in sound structures do not just fall in like that, and certainly not so beautifully, exactly in an unoccupied room so that nobody gets hurt." "We have underestimated your mother's determination." "She should be having an affair with the duke, that's what she should be doing," Gigi huffed. "Look at her, she is sacrificing the roof over her head to herd us into the same bedchamber when we already—never mind." Camden felt his heart beginning to pound. He hadn't planned on paying Gigi a conjugal visit, this being Mrs. Rowland's house and all. But if they were going to be stuck in the same—and chances were, fairly cramped—room and forced to share a bed, well . . . "Do you have anything that needs to be carried?" he asked. She shot him a suspicious glance, but in the light spilling out from all the open doors, he noticed she was no longer as pale as she'd been a minute ago. "No, thank you. You go on." He went down the stairs. Hollis showed him to the governess's room. Camden found himself in a chamber both larger and prettier than the one he had been given, its walls covered in a cream damask with elegant persimmon-and-moss arabesque patterns. Pink and white ranunculus in painted Limoges vases stood on each nightstand. The bed itself was quite large, the white summer bed linen already invitingly turned down. "Mrs. Rowland uses this chamber for afternoon repose in the summer," Hollis informed him. "It is cooler than the upstairs chambers." Camden turned off the lamps and opened the window shutters. Night air wafted in, cool, moist, and heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. A waxing moon was on the climb, its light pale and lucid. He discarded his robe, and, after a brief hesitation—Who was he trying to fool? Napoleon wanted Russia less badly than he wanted to lie with her—he removed the rest of his clothing too. Gigi came only after a good quarter hour. Her footsteps stopped outside the door. Then nothing happened. The silence unfolded and unrolled, shrouding him in its oppressive strata, chafing at his patience and nerves. The doorknob finally turned, softly. She closed the door behind her but advanced no further, standing with her back against it, her feet just beyond the imprint of moonlight. He was reminded of a night long ago, in a different house that also belonged to Mrs. Rowland, where a similarly lustrous moon also silvered a long swath of the room—the beginning of the end, the end of the beginning. "Like old times, isn't it?" he said, after a full minute had passed. More silence. "What do you mean?" she said at last, her voice slightly creaky. "Don't tell me you've forgotten." She shifted, barely audible sounds of silk sliding on flesh and against the panels of the door. "So you were awake," she said accusatorily. "I'm a light sleeper. And I was on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house." "You took advantage of me." He chuckled. "What did you expect, after you felt me up and down? I could've done more and you'd've let me." "I could've done more too. I almost climbed back into your bed that night. Would have been a short path to the altar." "You don't say," he murmured. "What stopped you?" "I thought it was dishonorable. Something beneath me. Ironic, isn't it?" She pushed away from the door and advanced until she stood by the bed, on the farther side from him, her silhouette limned against a nimbus of moonlight, the dark curves of her body just barely visible inside the diaphanous shadows of her peignoir. He swallowed. "I should have gone ahead and done it that night," she said. "You'd have married me, knowing you'd been had. But you wouldn't have been infuriated enough to run to America, only disgusted enough to not be happy with me. We'd have been like every other couple in Society—a normal life, you see." "No," he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "You should have done the honorable thing. Theodora married one day before we did. Had you a little more patience, when I returned to England for Easter, you could have had your cake and eaten it too." The bed dipped beneath her weight. She slid under the covers, safely on her side of the bed. "I think I've learned my lesson already." "Have you?" She didn't answer. Instead, she asked a question of her own. "Why do you place so much importance on reaching financial parity with me?" _Because I am married to you, the richest woman in England after Victoria Regina, you idiot. What's a man who still dreams of fucking you to do?_ He reached under the cover, grabbed her by the front of her peignoir, and yanked her toward him. She gasped. And gasped again as his teeth scraped the crook of her neck. He rolled on top of her . . . groaning with the heavenliness of her under him. Since his return, he'd seen her naked. He'd climaxed inside her. But he had not allowed himself to feel her, the dense, smooth texture of her skin, the firm undulation of her body. He grabbed a fistful of her peignoir and pushed it upward. "Take it off." "No. You can do what you want perfectly well with it in place." "What I want is you naked. Without a stitch." "That wasn't part of our deal. You never said I had to disrobe for you." "What's the matter?" he said softly into her ear, enjoying her quiver. "Afraid to be naked under me?" "It's not right. I'm not going to dishonor Freddie by allowing you any more liberties than I must." Suddenly he was enraged, at her obduracy and her obtuseness. Lord Frederick would make her about as happy as a clam in a bowl of bouillabaisse. He gripped her peignoir at her throat and tore it down its length, the shrill _sszzzzz_ rudely rending the somnolent darkness. "There. Now if Lord Frederick asks, which is none of his business, you can tell him in all honesty that you didn't _allow_ me any liberties." She panted, the sound of a woman unable to get enough air, her exhalations drowning out the muffled chirping of sleepless crickets in the garden. He lowered himself onto her, the sensation of her skin against his at once shockingly familiar and un-nervingly new, as if he'd never left her bed all these years, as if this was only the second night of their honeymoon and he'd been staring at her all day, dying for the sun to set and a blessed, endless night to descend. He was a fool. A fool to fall for her the first time. And a fool to come back now, when he already knew his weakness all too well, having wrestled with it every day of these past ten years. Too late. He drowned himself in the velvety feel of her, marveling at the way her skin slid over her clavicles with her every breath, kissing a trail along the top of her shoulder, reluctant to leave each square inch of her glorious skin, impatient to savor all of her. She placed her hands against his upper arms, but she didn't push. She only emitted a sweet, despairing sound as he kissed the base of her throat. The gloom in his heart lifted a bit, though he knew it was madness to think this was anything but madness. He kissed his way to her chin, to the soft spot just under her lips. There he hesitated. To kiss her on the mouth was to inform her, in exactly so many words, that she'd marry Lord Frederick over his dead body. Beneath him, he felt her heartbeat, as rapid, erratic, and uncertain as his own. Did he want to go down that path? Did he dare? And what awaited him at the bitter end if he were to walk this avenue of folly? "There is something I have to tell you," she said suddenly, rupturing the moment of suspense. "There is no point to your sleeping with me. None at all. I am using a Dutch cap. I have been using one all along. You stand no chance of getting me with child, so you might as well leave me alone." When he was six years old, during an exuberant game of chase in the corridors of his grandfather's house, he'd run into a wall. The next thing he knew, he found himself flat on the floor, too stunned to understand what had just happened. He felt like that now. He didn't know what to make of her outburst, her abrupt decision to push things to the brink. He gazed down at her. Her features were only half visible in the faint illumination of the moon, a shadow of a high cheekbone, a dark fullness of lips, and eyes like water at the bottom of a deep well, black with pinpoints of refracted starlight. "Then why do you tell me? Why not go on duping me? That would have served your purpose better." "Because I can't take it anymore," she said, lying very still. "I'm sure you are happily vindicated in your opinion of me. But it doesn't matter. I can't go any further." "Why?" He ran his fingers through her hair, the ultimate luxury. Her hair was heavy, smooth, glossy, and cool as morning dew. He never remembered another woman's hair the way he remembered hers. "What happened to your legendary ruthlessness?" She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him. His fingers felt ridiculously comforting against her skull. They moved with reassuring gentleness, coming to rest for a moment next to her temple, then sliding lower along her ear, her jaw, and finally her lips. The pad of his thumb skimmed over her bottom lip, rolled it down slightly so that he touched the moist membrane just inside her mouth. His reaction confused her. She wanted to ask him, loudly, whether he'd heard anything she'd said—that she hadn't changed, hadn't learned her lesson at all, and had tried to deceive him again. But his touch hypnotized her. It was warm, curious, and utterly without rancor. She could not speak. She was all awareness—all deprived, hungry, unbearably keen awareness. He kissed the lobe of her ear, the bone that hinged her jaw, the tip of her chin. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, and the indentation of her clavicle. She kept her eyes tightly shut. In that absolute darkness, he was all heat and sensation to her, his lips a source of cool fire that burned everything they touched, spawning jolts of desire that spiked through her body, leaving her mindless and weak. Suddenly his mouth closed around her nipple. She gasped, a flabbergasted sound of pleasure. He licked her. She wanted to thrash and gyrate and beg for more. Her nails dug into the counterpane. His hand found her other nipple and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, with just enough force to make her abandon all efforts at quietness. She moaned out loud. His hand moved lower, down her side, coming to rest a fraction of a second against her hip and then on to pry her legs apart. She made a feeble attempt to keep them together, but he only had to swirl his tongue slowly once around her nipple for her to forget everything. He found her, probably the easiest thing in the world—he but had to go to the source of her wetness. And then his finger, no, fingers were inside her. "Tell me to stop, and I will," he said, just before he took her other nipple into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized what he was doing: dislodging and removing the Dutch cap. She might have objected had she been capable of coherent speech. But she wasn't, and the only sounds she emitted were choked whimpers of arousal. He easily extracted the Dutch cap from her and tossed it to the side of the bed. She shivered. "Now there's nothing between us," he said. A sudden flash of terror paralyzed her. She was utterly exposed to him—her womb, her future, her entire life. And just as suddenly, an overwhelming swell of desire inundated her. She wanted him inside her, to possess her, to shatter her, to fill every emptiness and destroy every defense. With a moan of despair she grabbed hold of him and pulled him down to her, kissing him so hard that their teeth banged and ground together. He pulled away slightly, restrained her face between his hands, and kissed her his way, slower, more gently, and much more thoroughly. She opened her legs wide and he came into her, thick and hot, as he kissed her. She wrapped her legs about him, urging him, wanting something fast, furious, and utterly obliterating. But in that he refused to oblige her. He tormented her with long, slow strokes, teasing her nipples as he drove into her at a leisurely pace. He made her beg for each delicious thrust. He made her thrash and gyrate and wail and whimper. And only when she was wholly vanquished, desperate, convinced that she would exist forever in this state of trembling, feverish arousal, only then did he give in and pummel her to her incoherent, wild, joyous, and vocal satisfaction. * * * If only she could make time stay still. If only she need never depart the warmth of his embrace and the euphoria of their lovemaking. If only her world consisted of just this one dark room drenched in the sweet muskiness of sex, protected from tomorrow and the day after tomorrow by impregnable walls of forever-night. Were she to have a guinea for every if-only of her life, she could pave a highway of gold from Liverpool to Newfoundland. His breath still quick and erratic, her husband pulled away from her to lie on his back, not quite touching her. She bit her lower lip, the cold, clammy tentacles of reality already creeping up her limbs toward her heart. He would not say anything unkind. But his silence was enough to remind her of everything she'd vowed never to do when he first returned. And all her declarations of love for Freddie, were they no more than words, and empty words at that? "I called on you at your hotel in Copenhagen," he said. It took her an entire minute to decipher what he'd said. And even then she didn't understand. "You . . . you didn't leave a card?" "You'd already left, for the _Margrethe."_ A blaze of elation swallowed her, only to be replaced by a bleak disbelief, an impotent amazement at Fate's capriciousness. "I didn't catch the _Margrethe,"_ she said, dazed. "It'd already sailed when I arrived at the harbor." _"What?"_ She'd never heard him say "What?" before. He was too perfect for that; he'd never failed to use the more correct and more polite "Pardon?" Up until this moment. "Where did you go, then?" "Back to the same hotel. I left only the next day." He laughed, with bitter incredulity. "Did the hotel clerk not tell you that a fool came for you, with flowers?" It was like finding out she was with child, then bleeding all over the place three weeks later. Only it was happening all in one searing moment. "The day clerk must have been gone by the time I decided I needed a place to stay for the night." He'd come for her. For whatever reason, he'd come for her. And they'd missed each other, as if Shakespeare himself had scripted their story on a day of particular misanthropy. "What flowers did you bring?" she asked, because she couldn't think of anything else to say. "Some . . ." His voice faltered, something else she'd never heard from him. "Some blue hydrangeas. They were already wilted." Blue hydrangeas. Her favorite. Suddenly she felt like crying. "I wouldn't have minded." She kept talking, to keep the tears at bay. "I was so upset I went to Felix as soon as I came ashore in England, only to find out he'd gotten married during the time I was away. I made a fool and a nuisance of myself anyway." He made a sound halfway between a snort and a grunt. "I almost hate to ask." "You've nothing to worry about. He didn't succumb to my advances. I came to my senses. End of story." "I came to my senses too, after a while," he said slowly. "I convinced myself that what was done between us could not be undone, could never be undone." "And there is no such thing as a fresh start. Not really," she concurred, her tears welling, the room a dark blur. For the first time in her life, she saw exactly what she'd thrown away when she decided to have him by means fair or foul. For the very first time she truly understood, deep in her bones, that she'd not saved him but wronged him by consigning to him all the ability of a box turtle to make his own choices. She had been— just as she hadn't wanted to admit—impetuous, shortsighted, and selfish. "I should not have done what I did. I'm sorry." "I wasn't exactly a paragon of rectitude myself, was I? I should have had the frankness to confront you, however unhappy that encounter would have been. Instead, I retreated to subterfuge and confused vengeance with justice." She laughed bitterly. For two intelligent people, they'd certainly made all the wrong choices that could have been made. And then some. "I wish—" She stopped herself. What was the point? They'd missed their chance already. "I wish the same. That I'd caught you that day, some-how." He sighed, a heavy sound of regret. He turned toward her and turned her toward him, his hand clasped firmly on her upper arm. "But it's still not too late." For a long moment she didn't understand him. Then a thunderbolt crashed atop her, leaving her blind and staggered. There'd been a time in her life when she'd have walked barefoot over a mile of broken glass for a reconciliation with him. When she'd have expired from joy upon hearing those exact same words. That time was years and years ago, long past. Her imbecilic heart, however, still leapt and burst and rolled around in clumsy cartwheels of jubilation. Right into a wall. She was promised to Freddie. Freddie, who trusted her unconditionally. Who adored her far more than she deserved. She'd reaffirmed her desire and determination to marry him every time she'd met him, the last time only two days before. How could she possibly slap Freddie with such a gross betrayal? "I tried not to," said Camden, his eyes the most brilliant pinpoints of light in the night. "But all too often I wondered what might have happened, back in eighty-eight, had I not given up. Had I the nerve to come look for you in England." _Why didn't you?_ she cried silently. _Why didn't you come for me when I was lonely and heartsick? Why did you wait until I'd committed myself to another man?_ She covered her eyes, but her head was still babel and bedlam, feral thoughts cannibalizing each other, emotions in a pandemonium of roundhouse and fisticuff. Then suddenly a siren song arose above the din, sweet and irresistible, and she could hear nothing else. A new beginning. A new beginning. A new beginning. A new spring after the dead of winter. A phoenix arising from its own ashes. The magical second chance that had always eluded her futile quests now presented to her on a platter of gold, on a bed of rose petals. She had but to reach out and— It was this very same insatiable craving for him that had overcome her a decade ago, this very same impulse to damn everything and everyone else. She'd surrendered her principles and acted out of expediency and untrammeled self-interest. And look what had happened. At the end of the day, she'd had neither self-respect nor happiness. But the siren song descanted more beautifully still. Remember how you giggled and prated together about everything and nothing? Remember the plans you made, to hike the Alps and sail the Riviera? Remember the hammock you were going to crowd in warmer weathers, the two of you, side by side, with Croesus stretched atop the both of you? No, those were mirages, memories and wishes distorted through rose-tinged lenses. Her future lay with Freddie—Freddie, who did not deserve to be ignominiously cast aside. Who deserved the best she had to give, not the worst. He had entrusted his entire happiness to her. She could not live with herself were she to trifle with that trust. What about— No. If she must endure the siren song, like Odysseus, thrashing and flailing in temptation, then she would. But she would not abandon Freddie. Nor her own decency. Not this time. Not ever again. She looked at Camden. "I can't," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm pledged to another." His fingers on her arm tightened infinitesimally. Then the coolness of the night replaced the warmth of his hand. His eyes did not leave hers, but she could no longer see the light in them. Only an infinite darkness met her gaze. "Why did you tell me about the Dutch cap exactly?" Why exactly? "I was"—if there was a riding crop nearby, she'd gladly have used it on herself—"I thought you'd be so disgusted you wouldn't want anything more to do with me." "I see, preserving your loyalty to Lord Frederick still." His voice had gone chill. As had her heart. A frozen expanse except for one white flame of anguish. "Why, then, did you not object when I exposed you to a very real risk of consequences?" And what could she say? That she'd ever been so? That he had but to display the slightest sweetness and approval for her to forget everything otherwise important? That she was a hopeless imbecile in his bed? "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." The bed creaked. For a fleeting second she saw the deep channel of his back as he sat with his hands braced to either side of him, his head bent. Then he left the bed altogether. "I wish you'd have remembered all those scruples a little sooner," he said, a current of anger churning beneath his seamless politeness. He shrugged into his dressing gown and tightened the sash in a savage motion. She sat up, clutching the bedspread against her chest. _Stay,_ she wanted to say. _Stay with me. Do not leave._ Instead, she mumbled in arrant daftness, "You said yourself that what happened between us cannot be undone, can never be undone." "And would that I had heeded my own sage advice," he said curtly, marching toward the door. "Wait!" she cried. "Where are you going? The rooms upstairs aren't safe. You don't know what other damages could have been done." "I'll take my chances," he said. "There's bound to be a bed in this house that's less dangerous than yours." Camden lay abed in the chamber that had been first assigned to him. He stared at the ceiling and half-wished it would collapse on him and knock him senseless. Not that he had a full implement of sense left. _I wasn't thinking,_ she'd said. She most certainly wasn't alone in it. He probably hadn't had a properly lucid day since the first letter from her solicitors arrived the previous September, requesting an annulment. He'd long referred to his marriage as "that tolerable state of being." Tolerable because as long as the legalities were ironclad and ineluctable, she was still wedded to him, with a chance that one day, in a faraway, golden-misted future, they might yet rise above their youthful _Sturm and Drang_ and achieve some sort of passable happiness. Not that he willingly admitted any such wishful thinking to himself, but fourteen-hour working days translated into nights too weary for self-censorship. When she moved to officially dissolve their marriage, with flocks of letters from her lawyers darkening the sky like so many swarms of Egyptian locusts, the stasis on which he depended descended into chaotic disequilibrium. He found himself a stunned observer, unable to do anything other than toss the letters into the fireplace with increasing grimness and alarm. Annulment was one thing. Divorce, however, quite another. When she'd actually gone ahead and petitioned for divorce, he'd been jolted with wrath, a massacre-the-peasants-and-salt-the-earth blood rage. This marriage was their devil's pact, begun in lies and sealed in spite. How dare she try to break free of this chain of acrimony that bound them? Neither of them deserved any better. How injudicious he'd been to not understand the eruption of years of pent-up frustration. And how blind, when he'd calmed down during the Atlantic crossing, to think that he'd arrived at a reasonable, mature solution in his demand for an heir as a condition for releasing her from their marriage. All he'd achieved was the unleashing of the beastly attraction that had taken him years to tame. But whereas once the beast had devoured her, this time it consumed _him._ He didn't know whether it was courage or madness that made him ask her outright to not throw away everything they'd ever had. He only knew the black pain of her rejection, a sense of loss through which he could barely breathe. Somehow he couldn't believe that this was it, that their story would end with such wretchedness, as if Hansel and Gretel had become the witch's dinner after all, or Sleeping Beauty's prince a pile of gnawed bones in the Enchanted Forest. But her voice, though barely audible, had been firm and clear. She might cling and writhe beneath him—and lose her head momentarily—but she kept her larger goal firmly in sight. And that goal was to sever all ties with him. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was still stuck in 1883. Perhaps this was indeed how their story would end, she as another man's radiant bride, and he but a dusty footnote in the annals of her history. She was in the dining room, staring at an already cold cup of tea, when he appeared at her side, in riding gear, his hair windblown. "I imagine we should know, in a few weeks, whether there will be consequences from our action last night," he said without preamble. "I imagine so." She looked back to her tea, all too aware of his presence, of the scent of morning mist still clinging to him, and already panicking over what news the end of her cycle might bring. Either way. "If there aren't any consequences, would you let me go to Freddie?" "And if there are, would you still insist on marrying him?" "If there are"—she pushed the words out past the lump in her throat—"I would hold up my end of the bargain, and I should like you to honor your part of it." In response, he chortled softly, a sound without warmth or emotions. He took her chin in hand and slowly tilted her face so that she was forced to look at him. "I hope Lord Frederick does not live to regret his choice," he said. "Your love is a terrible thing." Chapter Twenty-four _5 June 1893_ No, no, it won't do. Get me the green one instead," said Langford. He unbuttoned the claret-colored waistcoat—the third he'd rejected—and handed it back to his valet. A scowling, middle-aged man stared back at him in the mirror. He'd never been exactly handsome, but in his prime he'd been quite something to behold, always impeccably coiffed and garbed, always with the most desirable women of the upper echelon draped over his arms. Fifteen years in the country and suddenly he was a bumpkin. His clothes were a decade out of fashion. He'd forgotten how to pomade his hair. And he was fairly certain that he no longer remembered how to seduce a woman. Seduction was a matter of mind. A man one hundred percent certain of himself had women eating out of his hand. A man eighty percent certain of himself had only pigeons eating out of his hand. And this eighty percent man, for reasons listed only on the devil's tail, had invited Mrs. Rowland to tea— tea!—as if he were some fluttery little old lady looking forward to a bit of crumpet and gossip. Or, worse, as if he were some sentimental sap seeking to turn back the clock thirty years. His valet returned with a deep-green waistcoat, the color of a densely wooded valley. Langford shrugged into it, determined to stick with this particular selection whether he looked a prince or a frog. He looked neither, just a perturbed, confounded, and slightly apprehensive man who hadn't exactly let himself go nor exactly kept himself up. It would have to do, he supposed. Her landau pulled up before the manor at Ludlow Court at exactly two minutes past five. Beneath her lace parasol, she looked as dainty and prim as the queen's own teacup. Her choice of attire—an afternoon gown of pearl and pale blue—pleased him. He liked the creams and pastels that predominated her wardrobe, colors of an eternal spring, though had someone asked him during his man-about-town days, he'd have decreed such hues much too pedestrian. He welcomed her himself, presenting his ungloved hand for her support as she alit from the carriage. She was both pleased and somewhat nonplussed—good, that made two of them. "I called on you a few weeks ago, Your Grace," she said, half coyly, half challengingly. "You were not home." They both knew he'd been home. But only he knew that he'd watched her from the window of an upper floor, in a mixture of exasperation and fascination. "Shall we to tea?" he said, offering his arm. By ducal standards, Ludlow Court was more than modest, it was downright humble. A long time ago, in his twenties, Langford had been invited to Blenheim Palace. As his carriage approached that great edifice from a distance, he'd been consumed by an overwhelming sense of inadequacy: Compared to the colossus that was the Marlboroughs' ancestral estate, his own seat seemed merely a glorified vicar's cottage. Blenheim Palace's facade of grandeur, however, quickly proved just that, a facade, or, to be more precise, an illusion. For as his conveyance drew near to the house, the facade itself turned out to be in a state of advanced ill-repair. Inside the great mansion, the curtains were molded and full of holes, the walls dark from badly maintained flues, and the ceiling water-stained in practically every room—this after the family had sold the famed Marlborough gems to help matters. A few years after his visit, the seventh duke had had to petition parliament to break entail so that the whole contents of the house could be auctioned off to defray family debts. In contrast, the manor at Ludlow Court was a jewel box, a diminutive but perfect example of Palladian architecture with lucid, elegant lines, beautiful proportions, and an interior that Langford had been able to maintain—and occasionally update—with relative ease. But as he passed through the anteroom and the grand entrance, with Mrs. Rowland's hand barely touching his arm, he wondered what she thought of it. Her current residence might be little larger than a hunting lodge, but he understood that she'd previously lived in a much grander place, one larger than his own and likely more modern and more lavishly furnished, given her late husband's fortune. "You have rebuilt the terrace," said Mrs. Rowland, almost as soon as they entered the south drawing room. One side of the room overlooked the terraced slope at the rear of the house, leading down to the spread of formal, geometric gardens and the small lake beyond. "Her Grace used to fret about it." "Did she?" Yet something else he didn't know about his own mother. "Yes, rather. But she chose not to repair it so as not to disturb your father in his illness," Mrs. Rowland said. "She was a very good woman." That, he'd realized only too late. In his proud adolescent years, he'd secretly thought his mother too frumpy and countrified, possessing none of the regality and glamour befitting the consort of a prince of the realm. Her anxious love he'd borne as if it were a millstone about his neck, little suspecting that he'd be adrift without it. "She never said anything to me about it. And I fear I was too obtuse and self-occupied to guess it of her. I had it repaired only when I began giving weekend parties here." "It is very pretty," she said, gazing out the window at the exuberant apricot-gold roses blooming along the balustrade. There were roses on her wide-brimmed hat, roses confected from ribbons of pale blue grosgrain. "She would have liked it." "Would you prefer to take tea on the terrace instead?" he asked impulsively. "It is a beautiful day without." "Yes, I would, thank you," she said, smiling a little. He ordered a tea table set up outside under an extended awning, with a white tablecloth and a few cuttings of the roses she was just admiring set in a crystal vase. "I think it's high time I apologized," she said, as they settled into their seats, side by side on a wide angle so that they each enjoyed an uninterrupted view of his gardens. "That is hardly necessary. I thoroughly enjoyed myself at the dinner and found both the food and the company fascinating." "I don't doubt that." She laughed, rather self-consciously. "For theater you couldn't do much better. But I wish to apologize for my entire scheme, from the very beginning, when I sent away all my servants and stranded my kitten in a tree so that I could demand your assistance." He smiled. "I assure you I did not participate in your scheme as an unwitting dupe. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to be your temporary and rather churlish Sir Galahad." She colored. "That much I've surmised, believe me, from later events. But it still behooves me to apologize for my original deceit." Tea arrived amid much pomp and ceremony. Mrs. Rowland took both sugar and cream, the little finger of her right hand held just slightly extended, a delicate curl like a petal of oriental chrysanthemum. "As much as I approve of your acknowledgment concerning this 'original deceit,' it's your subsequent tale that concerns me more," he said, ignoring his tea and watching her stir hers with a languid, creamy daintiness. "Would you apologize for that too?" "Only if it were a blatant fabrication." In his distraction he took a sip of tea. He still disliked it. "Do you mean to tell me it wasn't a blatant fabrication?" She went on stirring her tea. "After much thoughtful reflection, I've decided that I don't know anymore." He cursed his curiosity. And his lack of tact. A more circumspect man would not have asked the question and would not have to deal with the wide-open vista of her answer. "Perhaps you could help me decide," she said. "I'd like to know you better." _I'm not a young woman anymore. So I've decided against a young woman's wiles in favor of a more direct approach._ That, at least, was no fabrication. "What would you like to know?" "Many things. But, most pressingly, how and why did you come to be the person you are today? I find it an intriguing mystery." His heart thudded. "No mystery there. I almost died." But she wasn't so easily satisfied. "My daughter almost died at age sixteen. That experience only made her more of what she already was, not a different person altogether—which you, by all accounts, have become." She raised her teacup and let it hover just below her lips, her wrist as steady as the pound sterling. "My instincts tell me that I cannot understand you until I know the story behind your transformation. And that your story is more than a man's brush with death. Am I wrong?" He considered a variety of answers and rejected them all. Having enjoyed the privilege of bluntness his entire life, he was ill-suited to suddenly take up prevarication. "No," he said. The teacup continued to linger in the vicinity of her chin, a shield almost, a disguise too, to hide her dangerous perspicacity behind a bit of glazed fine bone china painted with ivy and roses. "If I may be so forward, was there a woman?" He didn't _need_ to answer her question. But then, he didn't need to invite her to tea either. He didn't know his plans any more than she did hers, possibly a lot less. "Yes, there was a woman," he answered. "And a man." Her features froze in momentary shock. Carefully, she set down her teacup. Presumably the stability of her wrist was no match for the excitement of her rather salacious imagination. "Goodness gracious," she mumbled. He laughed a little, with rue. "Would that it were that kind of uncomplicated sordidness." "Oh," she said. "You have probably heard about the hunting incident. I was shot, bled profusely, was put into surgery for six hours, and barely survived," he said. "But you are right. That in itself had no more life-changing effect on me than a hangover or a bad case of indigestion." A week after Langford was out of danger, Francis Elliot, the man who'd shot him, came to see him. Elliot had been a classmate at Eton, the one whose house in the next county Langford had frequently visited when he was home on holiday. Over the years, their once-close friendship had gradually cooled, and they saw relatively little of each other, Langford living fast and footloose, Elliot settling down to be the staid, responsible, unimaginative landowner in the mold of his forefathers. That particular morning, Langford, highly peevish from both pain and ennui, had lambasted Elliot on his shoddy marksmanship and slandered his manhood in general. Elliot held his tongue until Langford ran out of pejoratives—no easy feat, as Langford, trained to be a man of letters, possessed a near-infinite supply of belittling words. Then, for the first time in his life, Langford heard Elliot shout. "It turned out that the man who shot me did so deliberately, though he hadn't meant to almost kill me. That was the result of nerves and bad aim—because I'd seduced his wife." Mrs. Rowland had lifted a cucumber sandwich. She went still. He'd shocked her without even getting to the worst part of it. "I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd never met his wife as far as I was concerned, until I remembered, very vaguely, an encounter at a masked ball given by another friend of mine six months previously. There'd been a woman, a young matron with a forlorn air about her. "What had been an evening's diversion for me, nothing more, had precipitated a domestic crisis for my friend. He loved his wife. They were going through a difficult phase, but he loved her. Loved her deeply, passionately, if also awkwardly and inarticulately." At first, Elliot's tale invoked in Langford nothing but contempt. He would never let a woman, any woman, matter half so much to him. Any man who did so had only himself to blame for such an idiotic attachment. Then, after his initial outburst, Elliot did something startling: He apologized. Through gritted teeth, he apologized for everything—for his lack of character, his lapse of judgment, for taking his despair out on Langford when it was his own fault that his wife was unhappy in the first place. Langford, still irked, accepted his apologies with no pretension of graciousness. But after Elliot's departure, he couldn't get the man out of his head, couldn't stop seeing the expression on Elliot's face as he apologized, an expression that held only self-reproach and a determination to do the right thing despite the avalanche of scorn he was sure to trigger. With this unconditional apology, Elliot had proved himself, despite his earlier action, to be a man of fortitude, conscience, and decency—everything Langford scorned and despised as too plebeian for his exalted self. "I didn't want to change or be changed," said Langford. "The way I'd lived was a highly pleasurable, highly addictive way to live. I was loath to give it up. But the damage was done. I was shaken. In the subsequent days of my convalescence, I began to question everything I'd taken for granted about my choices in life. How many others had I hurt in my mindless quest for amusement? What worthy use, if any, had I made of my talents and my vast good fortune? And what would my poor mother have thought of it all?" Mrs. Rowland listened with grave concentration, her eyes never leaving his. "What happened to your friend and his wife?" It was a question that still plagued him in the dark of the night. From what he'd learned, they seemed to be fine, with no reports of shameful squabbles or unseemly fondness for the bottle. "I understand they have produced three children together. The eldest came along about a year after he shot me." "I'm glad to hear that," she said. "But that doesn't really tell us anything in and of itself, does it?" A man and his wife could very well procreate in mutual abhorrence. He wanted to picture for himself a family in harmony, but his mind would only paint images of silent, frightened children walking on eggshells around parents locked into a hideous bitterness. A bitterness for which Langford was responsible. "Marriages are curious things," said Mrs. Rowland. "Many are exceedingly fragile. But others are exceptionally resilient, able to recover from the most grievous injuries." He would like to believe her. But the marriages he'd known had been by and large indifferent. "You speak from personal experience, I hope." "I do," she said firmly. "Tell me more," he said. "I demand something at least halfway sensational in return for the divulging of my own unspeakable past." She picked up her teacup and then, rather resolutely, set it down again. "Sensational it wouldn't be. The most sensational thing I've ever done in my life was blurting out to you that I wished to marry you. But it should come as no surprise now that I had indeed wished to marry you, more than thirty years ago." It was still a surprise to hear her speak of it so candidly. "I believed I had the looks, the comportment, and your mother's approval. The only obstacles were your youth and your certain disinclination to marry a girl handpicked by your mother, but I considered neither insurmountable. When you were done with university, I'd still be of a marriageable age. And in the meanwhile I would educate myself in the classics, so as to distinguish myself from other women who would be vying for your hand. "My plan no doubt strikes you as both arrogant and simpleminded. It was. But I believed fervently in it. In hindsight, I can see that we'd have dealt disastrously together—I'd have been dismayed by your promiscuity and you in turn repelled by my sanctimonious meddlesomeness, as my daughter has called it. But in those heady days of 1862, you were mythologically perfect and I was fixated on you. "Needless to say, when Mr. Rowland began his courtship, I was not thrilled with his attention. I craved rank and disdained money made in sooty ways, whereas he possessed nothing but the latter. I didn't understand why my father welcomed his calls, until I did as well. Believe me, having to marry him for such a mortifying thing as my family's ruinous finances did not further endear him to me." There was regret in her voice. Suddenly Langford realized that the regret wasn't for him but for the long-departed Mr. Rowland. He felt an odd pulse of jealousy. "You mean to tell me your marriage eventually recovered from that grievous injury?" "It did. But it took a long time. When I married Mr. Rowland, I decided to be a right proper martyr. While I refused to lower myself by seeking out your news or succumbing to affairs, I also refused to see him as anything other than a legal entity to whom I sacrificed my dreams for the sake of my family. Even when my sentiments finally changed, I didn't know what to do. It seemed ridiculous that I should feel something other than duty and obligation toward a man I'd called only Mr. Rowland for so many years." Her voice trailed off. She finally lifted the cucumber sandwich to her lips again. "We had three good years before he passed away." He didn't know what to say. He'd always considered happy marriages to be the stuff of fairy tales, about as likely as fire-breathing dragons in this mechanized age. He found himself ill qualified to comment on her loss. In the silence, she ate the cucumber sandwich with great daintiness. When she was done, she shook her head and smiled wistfully. "Now I am reminded why polite society does not engage in rampant honesty. Awkward, isn't it?" "Not so much as it is thought-provoking," he answered. "I don't think I've had a more frank conversation in my entire life, on things that mattered." "And now we've nothing left to talk about except the weather," she said wryly. "Allow me to correct your misconception here, madam," he said, with equal dryness. "I understand that beneath your facade of ideal femininity, you are a bluestocking who just might be learned enough to appreciate my vast erudition." "Oh-ho, watch that arrogance, Your Grace," she said, grinning a little. "You might find it to be exactly the other way around. While you were out carousing nightly, I read everything that was ever jotted down during classical antiquity." "That may very well be. But have you an original thought on it?" he challenged. She leaned forward slightly. He noted, with pleasure, the gleam in her eyes. "You have a few days to listen, sir?" Chapter Twenty-five _3 July 1893_ . . . picnic . . . capture . . . light . . . tree . . . shadow . . . purple . . ." Gigi stared at Freddie's moving lips, her concentration stranded somewhere beyond the Cape of Good Hope. What was he talking about? And why was he speaking so earnestly of such incomprehensible and inconsequential things when barbarians had broken through the gate, torched the bailey, and were about to storm the keep? They were in trouble. They were in trouble so deep and wide that the best alpinists broke down and wept halfway up and the greatest sailors turned around and headed home long before reaching the other shore. Then she remembered. He was talking about "Afternoon in the Park," and he was talking about it because she'd asked him to, so that they could carry on a decent conversation and that she could pretend, at least for the duration of his call, that all was well, that the smoke darkening the sky was merely the kitchen roasting a few boars for the evening feast. She blinked and tried to listen more attentively. Two days after their return to London, Camden had left to visit his grandfather in Bavaria. But the damage was done. He'd been gone more than a month now, and not one of the nearly eight hundred hours had gone by without her revisiting their last night together and catching her breath anew at his intrepid offer. Everything reminded her of him. The details of her own town house, which she'd barely noticed anymore, had suddenly become a narrative of all her once-fervid hopes: the piano, the paintings, the Cyclades marble she'd selected for the floor of the vestibule because it matched the color of his eyes exactly. Had she made the right choice? She knew what it was like to have made an unethical choice. She knew the fear and the corrosive anxiety that bled into and adulterated every joy, every delight. In this instance, she was fairly sure she hadn't come down on the wrong side of the moral divide. But where was the sense of inner strength conferred by the right choice? Where was the peaceful slumber and the clear sense of purpose? Why, if she'd made the right decision, did it feel oppressive and, on some days, palpably suffocating? She gave Freddie permission to resume his daily calls, to silence the gossip that the trip to Devon had generated. Freddie's renewed visits quelled the rumors but did nothing to soothe her agitation. The rapport they shared was still there, but the sense that they belonged together was becoming as frayed as a tenth-century tapestry, on the verge of disintegrating altogether with the least exposure to the elements. "Freddie," she interrupted him. "Yes?" She broke the moratorium on physical contact that had been in place since the day of Camden's return and kissed him. It was always nice kissing Freddie. Sometimes even very nice. But she needed more than nice. She had to have something surpassingly ardent—a veritable conflagration—to erase the burning imprints her husband had left on her, to eradicate from memory her response to him, all hungry abandon and desperate need. The kiss was very nice. And she spent the entirety of it thinking of the very person she was hoping to forget. She pulled back and pasted on a smile. "Forgive the digression. Go on, tell me more about the painting." Freddie looked to the door as if expecting to see tweeny maids giggle and then run off with news of what they'd espied. When the corridors remained silent, he leaned forward and tried to kiss her again. "No." She stopped him. She didn't want any more reminders of her vastly different reactions to the two men. Or of the fervor Camden effortlessly fomented in her. "We still shouldn't. That was my fault." Disappointment dimmed Freddie's eyes. But he nodded slowly, ceding to her wishes. "Three hundred and nine days to go." He sighed. "I swear, the days are thrice as long as they were before." In this, at least, they were in perfect accord. She turned to his art again, since it was one of the few safe topics left to them. "I'm glad, then, you've been able to keep yourself busy. I hear Lady Wrenworth is pleased with her portrait." Freddie revived a bit at her compliment. "I had dinner at the Carlisles' two days ago. Miss Carlisle asked me to paint her portrait too. We will probably start next week." "It seems she has a high enough opinion of your skills, at least." "Well, she did warn me she would be highly critical if it didn't meet her standards." Freddie smiled a little. "Did you know that she's been to an Impressionist exhibition? All this time I thought you were the only person in my acquaintance who knew anything about the Impressionists." Gigi bolted straight up. Freddie, startled, rose too. "Is everything all right? Is it Miss Carlisle? I should have asked you about it fir—" "No, it isn't Miss Carlisle." Oh, if it only were. If only Freddie and Miss Carlisle had been up to some mischief. "It's me. I should have told you long ago: I don't know anything about the Impressionists." "But you have the most marvelous collection I've ever seen. You—" "I bought them wholesale. I bought out three private galleries. Because Tremaine liked the Impressionists." Freddie looked as if she'd just told him that all nine of the queen's children were illegitimate. "But—does this mean—were you—" "Yes. I was in love with him. I wanted him for more than his title. But I overstepped and my marriage withered on the vine." She took a long breath. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. Very sorry. I apologize." Freddie swallowed, gamely trying to digest the past she'd suddenly dumped on him. Then he cleared his throat, and she tensed. Dear God, what would she say if he asked her whether she still loved her husband? She could not lie to him, not at this juncture. Yet she could not bring herself to face the truth. Could not handle the abject terror of being in love—the kind of love that had already once before derailed her life. Freddie looked as conflicted as she felt. He glanced down at his shoes, stuck a hand in his pocket, drew the hand out again, and fiddled with the fob of his watch. "You—you really don't know anything about the Impressionists?" She didn't know whether to laugh from relief or to weep. Perhaps Freddie loved her only for her paintings. Perhaps he was as afraid of the question as she. She pointed at a canvas directly behind him, a landscape of blue sky, blue water, and a French village with ochre roofs and porridge-colored walls. "Do you know who painted that?" Freddie turned to look. "Yes, I do." "I don't. Or at least I don't recall anymore. I bought it along with twenty-eight other pieces." She touched his cheek. "Oh, Freddie, forgive me. I—" She stopped cold. Slowly, as if expecting a knife-wielding assassin, she removed her hand from Freddie's face and turned toward the door. Her husband stood there, leaning against the doorjamb. Her heart gave a leap of pure, startled joy. "Lady Tremaine." He nodded. "Lord Frederick." Her pleasure instantly decayed into self-recrimination. How could she be so vile? She'd completely forgotten about Freddie, as if he wasn't there, as if he'd never been there. Freddie bowed awkwardly. "Lord Tremaine." She could return neither Camden's greeting nor his gaze. She only vaguely recalled the time when she'd been dead certain that a divorce was the key to unlocking her happiness, when she'd fully, confidently anticipated putting him behind her once and for all. Why hadn't she seen it? Why hadn't she realized sooner that she had been seeking that one last battle, a titanic clash, one for the ages? And why must Camden have turned everything on its head? To go so far as to suggest that he bore an equal share of the culpability. To ask her if she wanted to start afresh, a new life together. Was he mad? Or was she? "I was—I was just about to leave," said Freddie. "Please, Lord Frederick, do not discommode yourself on my behalf. Lady Tremaine's friends are always welcome in this house," said Camden, all gallantry and graciousness. "I've had a long journey; if you will excuse me." As soon as Camden was out of earshot, Freddie turned to her, half in shock, half in panic. "Do you think he saw us—" "No." She'd have known. He couldn't have been there for longer than a few seconds. "You are sure?" "Tremaine is no more a threat to my physical well being—if that's what you are worried about—than you are." Freddie took her hands in his. "I guess—I guess that isn't what I'm really worried about. I'm only afraid that the more time he spends around you, the less willing he will be to let you go." No, it was the other way around. The more time she spent around Camden, the more impossible it became for her to let _him_ go. She patted Freddie's hand. "Don't fret, darling. No one can take me away from you." She'd made the right choice. She had. If only the reassurances she offered Freddie didn't sound to her own ears like so much mendacious drivel. Camden ripped off his necktie and threw it on the bed. He crossed the chamber, rinsed his face, and buried it in a towel. She was touching another man, with tenderness and affection. What else was she doing with him? Camden slapped down the towel and caught his own reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. He looked about as happy as the citizenry of Paris on the eve of the Storming of the Bastille, primed for violence and mayhem. He dipped a hand in the washbasin and flung a constellation of water drops against the mirror. The drops rolled down the glassy surface, obscuring the face that stared at him in unblinking belligerence. Her obstinacy angered him. To be sure, he'd been too abrupt in proposing a new beginning. But now she'd had a whole month to think things through. That she belonged with him and not with Lord Frederick was so obvious to Camden that he couldn't even begin to understand how she could choose otherwise. His own obstinacy, however, angered him even more. So she'd made a stupid choice. At least it was consistent and honorable. She'd said over and over again that she would swim the Channel in January for the chance to marry Lord Frederick. Why couldn't he accept it? Why did he dream and hope and plot still? He walked to his steamer trunk and wondered whether there was any sense in even opening the thing. He hadn't returned to England on some random date. The _Campania_ would leave for New York City within the week. And he'd seen enough this afternoon. The image surfaced again in his mind, her hand against Lord Frederick's cheek, the infinite care in her touch. _Oh, Freddie, forgive me,_ she'd said. And she'd looked at Camden and immediately looked away. Camden frowned. He hadn't thought of it before. Why was Gigi asking Lord Frederick to forgive her? Except for that brief interlude when she'd forgotten herself, she'd been unwavering in her loyalty to him. And Camden couldn't imagine her divulging the intimate details of her conjugal relations to anyone, least of all Lord Frederick. His head remained blank for another minute. Then his world turned upside down. It could have meant only one thing: There had been consequences to their lovemaking. He was going to be a father. They would have a child together. He gripped the bedpost, unsteady on his feet, as if he were drunk on the very best champagne. A child, dear God, a child. A baby. She'd agreed to his conditions only because she never intended to conceive. He knew her well enough to know that she would not give up her firstborn to marry Lord Frederick. She would stay with Camden and they would become a family. And given their propensity for ending up in bed together, that family would grow. He could scarcely comprehend it; absurdly maudlin images inundated his mind. A family of his own, full of stubborn, naughty brats with bright eyes and cunning smiles. Puppies running through the house. Chubby arms held out to him for hugs. And her, regally, confidently at the center of it all. It was all he wanted. It was everything he'd ever wanted. He pulled off his travel-crumpled coat and flung open the trunk to search for another. In the back of his mind he was vaguely aware that this wasn't how he'd wished to be chosen: by default. But he didn't care anymore. A whole new life was open before him and he was dizzy with the possibilities of it all. Goodman entered to deposit a batch of letters and departed with the coat Camden had picked out, to be pressed. While Camden waited impatiently for his coat to return, he riffled through the stack of mail. There was a letter from Theodora. Ironically, she'd become a frequent, faithful correspondent after their respective marriages. He'd gone from merely _Monsieur_ to _Cher Monsieur,_ then _Très Cher Monsieur, Cher Ami,_ and now _Mon Très Cher Ami._ He skimmed through the pages. She was well. The twins were well. The winter in Buenos Aires continued mild and humid. She contemplated moving back to Europe, for the sake of the children, now that her husband, may God rest his soul, no longer needed the benefit of southern climes. And in other news, she planned to visit New York late in summer. She'd be delighted if he would call on her. She had missed him greatly these past two years. Not long after Theodora married her grand duke, they relocated to Buenos Aires for his health. Most winters—June, July, August—they traveled to Newport, where they kept a house. Camden was usually too busy with his ventures to join the summer circuit for long stretches of time. But he occasionally sailed up, attended a few functions, and called on her, with presents for Masha and Sasha. He'd like to see her and the twins. But not this summer. Something far more important and wonderful would keep him in England for quite a while, something called fatherhood. Goodman returned. Camden shrugged into the newly pressed coat and wound a necktie about his collar. It took him a minute to realize the butler was still hovering about discreetly, waiting for Camden to address him. "What is it, Goodman?" he asked, knotting the tie. "Her ladyship would be dining at home this evening. Would your lordship be joining her?" asked Goodman. Camden paused. There was something different about Goodman's tone. It was almost . . . wistful. Where was that quiet indignation Camden had come to expect, that sense of righteous reproach on behalf of his mistress? "Yes, I would," said Camden. He was home at last. He would never leave again. She didn't hear him as he entered the back parlor. She lolled on a chaise longue, cocooned in a gown the color of the Mediterranean at only a few feet of lucid depth, her head tilted back, her eyes lashed to the eight-foot-wide plaster medallion at the center of the ceiling. He rarely saw this side of her, still, almost drowsy, languorous and voluptuous as a nymph on a sultry spring afternoon after a night of bacchanalia. The half of her skirts trapped under her weight pulled at the layers on top, tightening the spread of taffeta about the roundness of her hips and the mouthwatering length of her legs, long enough to connect Dover to Calais. He feasted on her, drinking in her somnolent sensuality. But all too quickly she perceived him. She swung her unshod feet off the chaise and sat up straight. "You look well," he said. His compliment took her aback. Uncharacteristically, her hand crept to her coiffure and tucked a tiny escaped strand of hair behind her right ear. "Thank you," she replied, her tone almost diffident. "So do you." That was not a bad beginning. "I apologize for my earlier intrusion." "Oh, that. Freddie was just about to leave." "Did you tell him?" "Tell him . . . of what?" He blinked. She didn't sound coy. She sounded baffled. She was not pregnant. Suddenly he felt unsteady again, this time as if someone had swung a very large object at the back of his head. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing." He walked to the grandfather clock and pretended to check the time on his watch, when he wanted to grab the poker next to the grate and smash everything in the room. The children they were going to have. The life they were going to share. Everything slashed and burned in a vicious assault by reality. And her, oblivious to his pain, throwing away their happiness as if it were last week's bread. For a while, as he wound a watch that needed no winding, nobody said a thing. Then he heard her deep breath and knew, from the way his heart suddenly splintered, what she was going to say. "There are no consequences," she said. "Will you let me go?" Every single cell inside him screamed no. He would most certainly not let her go. In fact, he was feeling downright nostalgic for those terrible old days when a woman had no choice whatsoever in those matters, when he could laugh cruelly, hang Lord Frederick by his ankles in the dungeon, rip her chemise to ribbons, and have her right on the dais of the great hall, under the scandalized eyes of the local bishop. The period they'd agreed to was far from over. That she refused his entreaty did not release her from the conditions he'd set. That every touch would be fraught with peril did not diminish the allure of holding her fast to the pact. His heart pounded. He had to close his eyes to control his ragged breath. True, there were all sorts of ways he could bludgeon her, with the diminished but still powerful husbandly prerogatives granted him under English law. But in the end, what would it accomplish? He recognized much of his younger self in her stubborn clinging to the idea of a "good" love, in her deep, sincere, if vastly misplaced sense of personal responsibility toward Lord Frederick. Ten years ago she'd clearly perceived the ill suit between Theodora and himself. But she hadn't enough faith to let him discover it for himself. If he were to impregnate her with the express goal of keeping her bound in matrimony, he'd have made exactly the same mistake she had. _But what if she doesn't come to her senses, or doesn't come to her senses in time?_ howled some primal part of him, all but trembling in angst. His entire person seized, recoiling in dread. That was a distinct possibility. He could not allow that to happen. He could not. His world would fall apart. Was this how she'd felt all those years ago? The anxiety. The simmering frustration. The corrosive fear that if he didn't do something, she would be lost to him forever. Had he been nineteen, he'd have embarked on the same wrong path. At thirty-one, even having lived through the aftermath of that debacle, he was still tempted almost beyond endurance. Only pride and his last shred of good sense saved him in the end. He wanted her to remain his wife not because he'd put an erotic spell over her or because she loved her infant too much to give it up but because she couldn't imagine her life otherwise, because she saw every breath she took intertwined with his, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both should live. "As you wish," he said. "What?!" She couldn't have heard it right. She couldn't. "Break open that bottle of champagne. This time next year you could be Lady Philippa Stuart." She didn't know why she should be so stunned. Yet she was dazed with distress, barely keeping herself together, as if all these weeks she'd been holding her breath, waiting for him to return and reclaim her, vowing never to let go of her again. He came close, too close for comfort, and sat down next to her, the light worsted wool of his summer trousers socializing insouciantly with the layers of her skirts. She became aware of the subtle scent of starch from his shirt, the spice and citron of his soap. A small part of her wanted to move away. The rest of her wanted him to trespass further, to push her down, hold her immobile, and do whatever he willed with her. He did something even more shocking. He took her hand in his and said, "I've been a cur, haven't I? Coming here and subjecting you to this impossible situation." He played with her fingers absently, running the pad of an index finger across the inside of her knuckles. His hands were cool and faintly moist, as if he'd just washed and toweled them dry. The skin of his fingertips scraped her palm ever so slightly, reminding her that he did more than playing piano and rendering scaled drawings with those hands. She wanted to kiss his hand, every roughened finger pad, every knuckle. She wanted to suck on the ball of his thumb and lick the lines and wrinkles of his palm. If only she'd conceived. If only. If only. If only. She had desperately wanted it. With the relentlessness of garden weeds she had wished it, dreamed it, desired it. It would have been an answered prayer, a clarion call, a catalyst around which all future courses of action would instantly crystallize. But it didn't happen. "You'll be returning to New York City, then?" she said, careful not to choke. "On the next steamer, I would imagine. My engineers are quite excited about the progress of our automobile. My accountants salivate at the investment opportunities, given the current upheaval in the stock market," he said, as if his departure had nothing to do with the end of their union. "If you are in the mood for acquiring some rail lines, you should come to the States end of this year or beginning of next." "I will keep that in mind," she said numbly. He rose. She stood up too. "You'll need to watch out for fortune-hunting young ladies now," she said, wondering whether her awkward chuckle sufficiently hid her unhappiness. "And title-hunting ones too." He smiled. "And those who are simply dazzled by the way I walk and talk." "Oh, yes, especially watch out for those." _Don't cry. Don't cry now._ Suddenly she realized that she was now the one holding on to him, not the other way around. He but allowed his hands to remain in her panicked grip. He was done. He'd said everything he wanted to say to her. _Let go,_ she thought. _Let go. Let go. Let go._ When she at last did what she commanded, it was not through force of will. Her hands slackened and slid off his because it was not her place, nor her privilege, to touch him of her own volition. "Good-bye, then," she said. "And a safe crossing." "I wish you every happiness," he said, with grave formality. Then, with a swift peck to her cheek, "Parting is such sweet sorrow." She didn't know what was so sweet about a sorrow that felt like her still-beating heart impaled upon the fangs of Cerberus. She could only watch hopelessly as he disappeared from her view, from her life. This time for good. Chapter Twenty-six _London 25 August_ My dearest Philippa, I apologize for my letter arriving late yesterday. The light these past couple of days, though thinner and cooler than the light of high summer, has a wonderful golden quality, especially late in the day. Miss Carlisle thinks I've made tremendous progress on "Afternoon in the Park." People are trickling back into London. Last night I had dinner at the Carlisles' and revealed myself a bounder when I admitted that I'd been in town for two weeks. Everyone else boasted that he'd spent the whole of August grousing in Scotland or sailing off the Isle of Wight. I'll be overjoyed to see you tomorrow. I wish we were already married. I enclose, as always, a thousand loving thoughts. Yours ever devoted, Freddie Camden's departure had not gone unnoticed. Such was the newsworthiness of the event that within thirty-six hours the whole of London knew he'd vacated his apartment and taken everything with him. The telegraph—indeed, the telephone—paled before the swiftness and efficacy of mouth-to-ear gossip transmission. _What did it mean?_ Everyone had wanted to know. Had Lady Tremaine won her battle? Had Lord Tremaine permanently withdrawn from the war? Or had he only temporarily retreated to regroup? Gigi paltered, fudged, and equivocated—when she could. When pressed hard, she lied outright. She didn't know, she repeated. Lord Tremaine did not communicate personal plans to her. She didn't know what he in-tended—didn't know, didn't know, didn't know—and therefore must curb her impatience just a bit longer. The divorce papers were typed afresh, needing only her signature. She told the lawyers to sit on them. Goodman inquired whether the furniture and decor in Camden's bedchamber should be removed, covered, or polished daily in anticipation of his return. She had him leave everything alone. Her mother sent a fortune in telegrams. She ignored them en masse. But she couldn't ignore Freddie. Freddie—bless him for having been so patient—showed mounting signs of distress. _Is there anything from Lord Tremaine's solicitors?_ he asked every time they met. _I wish we could get married. Right away._ There was a fearful and almost frantic quality to his pleas. She gave the same carefully crafted answer each time and hated herself with ever greater venom. Croesus was the only one who didn't pose questions she couldn't answer. But he looked dejected and listless in Camden's absence. She'd find him in the conservatory, napping on Camden's favorite rattan chair, the one with faded blue paisley cushions and cigar burns on the armrest, as if waiting for his return. Maintaining this intractable status quo was like juggling flaming scimitars. She woke up tired and went to bed dazed with fatigue: parrying a thousand acquaintances' curiosity, keeping her mother at arm's length, cosseting Freddie as best as she could, and withholding the truth even from her few trusted friends. The end of the season brought little relief. With rail travel as instantaneous as it had become, even her retreat to Briarmeadow provided no refuge. At the end of every week she hosted a three-day house party so that she and Freddie could see each other without any hint of impropriety. As a result, half of the time her house was swollen with people. Torrents of eager, unsatisfied inquisitiveness eddied and swirled, driving poor Freddie to distraction and making her as cross as a stranded dowager with a bladder full of tea and no place to empty it. And guilt-ridden. And ashamed. And despondent. She knew what she was doing, of course. She was doing her damnedest to postpone the moment of reckoning, the moment when she must either step forth to marry Freddie or at last face the fact that she could not, not even with Camden having completely removed himself from the melee. But how could she tell Freddie that? He had been her faithful friend from the very first. Never in all this chaos had he blamed her, explicitly or implicitly, for anything. He had stood by her with courage and humility, enduring gossip that painted him as either a fool or a fortune hunter of the highest order. She owed him. He should be rewarded for his loyalty and his trust in her. He'd done so much for her, the steadfast Sancho Panza on her wild-eyed quixotic quest. How could she do any less for him? The brook was clear and shallow this time of the year. It murmured and soughed, with the occasional burble of a sunlit splash. The willows languidly trailed the tips of their soft branches on the surface of the stream, like a coy woman flaunting the luxuriance of her unbound hair with slow, teasing turns of her head. Gigi didn't know what she'd expected to find here. Camden flying down the hill like a Cossack and sweeping her up, perhaps. She shook her head, amazed at her own persistent idiocy. Still she didn't leave. In ten and a half years she'd forgotten how pretty this spot could be, how quiet, with no sounds except for the soft laughter of the brook, the rustle of the morning breeze as it skittered between leaves and branches, the lowing of sheep in the meadow behind her, grazing on a high green carpet of lucerne, and . . . Hoofbeats? Her heart ricocheted against her rib cage. The horse was coming from her own property. She whirled around, picked up her skirts, and sprinted up the slope. It was not Camden but Freddie. Her surprise was almost stronger than her disappointment. She didn't even know Freddie could ride. He had an awkward seat but hung on stubbornly, somehow zigzagging the horse forward on a prayer. She ran toward him. "Freddie! Be careful, Freddie!" She had to help him untangle his boot from the stirrup as he dismounted, the heel having caught on the way down. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he reassured her hastily. She glanced at her watch. Freddie usually arrived on the 2:13. But it was not even eleven o'clock yet. "You are early. Is everything all right?" "Everything is as it should be," he answered, as he inexpertly tethered the horse to a salt lick. "I didn't know what to do with myself. So I caught an earlier train. You don't mind?" "No, no, of course not. You are always welcome here." Poor Freddie, he'd become thinner each time she'd seen him. She felt a pinch in her heart. Her darling. How she wanted him to be happy. She kissed him on his cheek. "Did you paint well yesterday?" "I'm almost done with the picnic blanket." "Good," she said, smiling a little to herself, enjoying his enthusiasm the way a parent enjoyed a child's. "What about the items on the blanket? The picnic basket, that one remaining spoon, the half-eaten apple, and the open book?" "You remember?!" Freddie looked to be in shock. So he'd noticed her preoccupation. She supposed it would have been too much to hope that he hadn't. "Of course I remember." Though only vaguely. And only because she'd asked him repeatedly. "How are they coming along?" "The book is giving me fits, half in the sun and half in the shade. I can't make up my mind whether the shadows should be tinged with ochre or viridian." "What does Miss Carlisle think?" "Viridian. That's why I'm not sure. I thought they'd be ochre." He took a few steps in the direction of the stream. "Are we still in Briarmeadow? I don't remember ever being this far from the house." "That's Fairford land over there, beyond the water." "Land that would have been yours one day." She glanced at him but caught only his profile. "I've land enough." Freddie sighed. "What I meant was, if you and Lord Tremaine had not had your falling out. Or if you'd managed to patch things up between the two of you." "Or if the seventh duke had not died just before he was to marry me," she said. "Life does not proceed according to plans." "But you probably don't very often wish that the seventh duke hadn't died." She opened her mouth to say something that would put his mind at ease, as she'd done innumerable times in recent months. But suddenly, the conceit and stupidity of it struck her. Freddie knew. Even if he hadn't acknowledged it, he understood that everything had changed. His anxiety could not be soothed away with mere words, nor eradicated even with a wedding ceremony. Like the phantom of a haunted house, it might recede into the woodwork when the sun was high and the day bright, only to return with a vengeance at the onset of long nights and howling storms. Her lack of a response hung heavy in the air. Freddie looked a little shocked. Like her, he'd probably become accustomed to the elaborate reassurances she manufactured with the efficacy of industrial processes. But she was a sham. The castle on the hill she'd built them was no more real than a painted fort on a stage backdrop. Freddie walked away from her, as if needing the distance to sort out his own thoughts. She could still coddle him, go on feigning that everything would be all right. But it would be an egregious lie. It was a sad reflection on her arrogance—and naïveté, to some extent—that she remained convinced for so long that she could still make _him_ happy, even if he couldn't do the same for her. There was no such thing as a marriage with one happy spouse. Both must be or neither. She caught up with him at the edge of the meadow. "The light is good here," he said halfheartedly. He looked like something out of one of his beloved Impressionist paintings, a pensive, melancholy figure _en plein air,_ against a brilliant sky and a verdant landscape. She pointed downstream. "See where the willows grow close to the bank? That's where I first met Lord Tremaine." Freddie scuffed the sole of his boot against an exposed rock. "Love at first sight?" "Close enough, within twenty-four hours." She took a deep breath, and another. It was time to come clean. "In some ways I was a victim of my youth and inexperience: I'd never been in love before and I couldn't handle the intensity of my emotions. But mostly I was my own worst enemy—I was too selfish, too myopic, and too ruthless. I knew it was terrible to deceive him into thinking that his intended had already married someone else, but I went ahead and did it anyway." Freddie gasped. It was the first time she'd ever told him—or anyone, for that matter—what lay at the core of her marital infelicity. Little wonder. It was an ugly story, full of what she liked least about herself. "What I did bought me three weeks of happiness— rotten happiness at that—and then utter downfall." She sighed. "Life has its way of teaching humility to the arrogant." "You are not arrogant," Freddie said stubbornly. Oh, Freddie, beloved Freddie. "Perhaps not as much as I used to be, but still arrogant enough not to have informed you of the truth from the very beginning— about my marriage, about the paintings . . ." Freddie turned toward her. "Do you really think I love you because you had certain paintings on your walls? I was already in love with you long before I ever set foot in your house." She took his hands in hers, gazed at their linked fingers, and slowly shook her head. "Alas, I'd hoped it was the paintings. That would make you and Miss Carlisle perfect for each other." "Angelica wants to make me into something I'm not. She wants me to be the next Bouguereau, the most renowned artist of my day. But I'm not meant to be either famous or prolific. I'm a slow painter, and I don't mind it. I paint what I like and when I like. And I'd rather not second-guess whether a particular shadow is ochre or viridian." She smiled ruefully. "I can sympathize with that. Though I'd have wished that between you and Miss Carlisle—" "I love _you."_ "And I adore you," she said, fully meaning every word. "I know of no better man than you. But should we marry, there'd be three of us in this marriage, always. That is not fair to you. And in time it would become intolerable. "I've agonized about it day and night. You have been the dearest friend. I kept asking myself, how could I let you down? How could I hurt you? But I've come to see that I would completely betray your trust were I to continue this pretense that we could go on as if nothing has changed. Things have changed, and I can no more undo these changes than I can make water flow uphill. I can only be honest with you, once and for all." Freddie's head lowered. "Do you still love him?" The question that she'd once dreaded, that he hadn't dared to ask six weeks ago. "Yes, I'm afraid. I don't know how I can apologize to you enough—" "You don't need to apologize to me for anything. You've never let me down, and you didn't this time either." Freddie enfolded her in an embrace. "Thank you." She was befuddled. "Whatever for?" "For liking me as I am. I never much cared for myself until you came along. You don't know how wonderful the past year and a half has been for me." Dear Freddie, only he could be so sweet to thank her at a time like this. She hugged him back fiercely. "You are the most wonderful person I've ever met, bar none." When they let go of each other, his eyes were rimmed in red. She, too, had to fight the urge to cry, a sigh and a tear for something that simply wasn't meant to be, a lovely courtship that would have collapsed under the weight of a complicated marriage. Freddie was the first to speak. "You'll be going to America now, I guess?" She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant about it. "I don't know." Camden had let her go with such ease and graciousness; he must have already come to the conclusion that he no longer wanted her, that the offer of reconciliation had been an aberration brought on by an emotional surge that could little withstand the force of reason. He would have gone on with his life already, taken a new lover or two, perhaps even begun to pay some mind to those beauteous young American misses being paraded before him, with their perfect American teeth and perfect American noses. Would he really want her to show up and spoil all his brand-new plans? "Come." She placed her hand on Freddie's elbow. "We'll walk back. It's time for lunch. My groom can get the horse later. Tell me what is it you will do, now that you have declined to be the next great, world-renowned artist?" Gigi saw Freddie to the train station on Monday morning. She managed to have an agreeable time, conversing more frankly, affectionately, and easily with him than she'd been able to do in a long time. She even enjoyed her guests once she took the plunge and informed them that, though she esteemed Freddie more than ever, she had deemed it prudent to release him from his commitment. When she arrived home, Goodman informed her that she had a caller waiting. "A Mr. Addleshaw from Addleshaw, Pearce and Company is here to see you, milady. I have him in the library." Addleshaw, Pearce & Co. were Camden's solicitors. What was a senior partner doing paying her a visit far from the city? Addleshaw was in his early fifties, shortish and natty in his tweed suit. He smiled as Gigi entered the library— not the tight, cautious smile she'd have expected from a lawyer but the delighted grin of a long-lost friend. "My lady Tremaine." He acknowledged her with a neat bow. "Mr. Addleshaw. What brought you all the way to Bedfordshire?" "Business, I fear. Though I confess, your ladyship, I've wanted to meet you in person ever since Mr. Berwald first contacted us with regard to the late Duke of Fairford." Of course. How could she have forgotten? She had relentlessly driven Mr. Berwald, her head solicitor, against this very same Mr. Addleshaw, who had defended his client's interests with the ferocity of a mother lion. She smiled. "Am I quite as fearsome in person?" He didn't answer her question directly. "When Lord Tremaine informed me that he would marry you by special license, I'd half-expected it. Unlike his late cousin, however, he was all but counting the days. I can see the reason now." Ah, the sweet yesteryear. Her heart ached anew. She indicated a chair. "Please, have a seat." Addleshaw produced a rectangular box from his briefcase and pushed it across the desk. The scent of rosewood, sweet and heady, wafted to her nostrils. "This came to our office last week, by special courier. I ask that you please open it and verify that the contents have not been disturbed during the transit and my safe-keeping." What could Camden possibly want to give her? She drew a complete blank. Inside the wooden box lay a velvet jewelry case. She lifted its lid and lost her breath. Against a bed of cream satin sparkled a magnificent necklace, the chain of it done entirely in diamonds, one teardrop loop nestled against the next. Seven rubies, each surrounded by diamonds, dangled from the necklace, the smallest two the size of her thumbnails, the largest one at the center bigger than a quail's egg. There were also two matching earbobs, each with a ruby as big as the pad of her index finger. She'd seen plenty of parure in her life. She owned a few gorgeous pieces herself. But even she rarely came across a set with such nerve and audacity. It would take a superbly self-assured woman to subsume its glitter in her own radiance, to not become a mere accessory to the necklace's splendor and costliness. There was a note, undated and unsigned, in Camden's slanted hand. _The piano arrived in one piece, as out of tune as ever. Civility demands a return gift. I'd bought the necklace in Copenhagen. You might as well have it._ In Copenhagen. He'd bought it for _her._ "Looks like everything is here," she mumbled. "Very good, ma'am," said Addleshaw. "I am also to inform you that you may, at your pleasure, repetition for divorce. Lord Tremaine has instructed us to stand aside and do nothing to impede its progress. The divorce should be a fairly straightforward legal matter at this point, as you have no children and no entanglement of properties that isn't already clearly spelled out in your wedding contract." For a moment, her heart stopped beating. "He has withdrawn all objections?" "Yes, ma'am, Lord Tremaine stated his assent in a letter addressed to myself. I have brought the letter, if your ladyship would like to read it." "No," she said quickly. Much too quickly. "That will not be necessary. Your word is good enough." She rose. The lawyer got to his feet also. "Thank you, ma'am. There is, however, one last small matter." Gigi glanced at him, surprised. She thought their interview concluded already. "Yes, Mr. Addleshaw?" "Lord Tremaine requests that you return to him one small item, a ring with filigree gold work and an insignificant sapphire." She froze. Addleshaw had described her engagement ring. "I shall have to search for it," she said. Addleshaw bowed. "Allow me to take leave of you now, Lady Tremaine." The small sapphire glittered mutedly as Gigi turned the ring between her fingers. Camden had bought it for her. And she'd been floored. Not by the ring itself, but by him, by the overwhelming symbolic meaning of the gesture. _He loved her._ Her wedding ring she'd donated long ago to the Charity for the Houseless Poor, but this ring she'd kept—out of sight, in a box that also contained the desiccated remains of all the flowers he'd ever brought her and a faded length of blue ribbon that had once been a sweet, crushed bow on Croesus. Now he desired the ring back. Why revisit the most painfully sweet part of their past now? Why not demand that Croesus be returned too while the poor old dog still had a breath left? Was he deliberately trying to provoke her? But what if he wasn't provoking her? What if he really just wanted the ring back? Well, then. He'd still get what he wanted. He only had to fish it out of her— She clamped a hand to her mouth. It was hardly the most sexually shocking thought she'd entertained in her life. What astounded her was the waywardness and mischief of it, all ebullient optimism when she'd believed herself morose and listless. She loved him. If she'd been willing to violate the principles of decency in her youth, why couldn't she do something that was perfectly within the bounds of good behavior—namely, showing up naked on his bed? Only think of the endless sexual possibilities. She tittered a little into her hands. She was a naughty woman, assuredly. And Camden had adored her for it. There. Nothing more to be said for it. She was going to New York City. And she would not return until she could inform Mrs. Rowland that she was at last going to be a grandmother. Chapter Twenty-seven _2 September 1893_ Victoria's weekly tea with the duke happened only twice. After that, it became two times a week. For a week and half. Toward the end of that particular week, somehow they ended up in animated conversation by the fence of her front garden as he walked past her cottage. Then he invited her to come along with him, she accepted, and they'd shared the walk each day thereafter. There were advantages to being an almost hag, Victoria reflected. In her youth she'd been fervently concerned that everyone should perceive her perfection. She mouthed only the most agreeable platitudes and ventured not a single opinion that wasn't as bland as porridge for the invalid. Amazing what changes thirty more years of life brought about in a woman. Why, only the day before, as they toured her private garden, she'd declared His Grace blind for not seeing that the friendship between Achilles and Patrocles was more than friendship—what man would be so grieved by a mere friend's passing that he'd refuse to let the corpse go to the funeral pyre? He, on the other hand, dug in his heels and defended the thesis of friendship. Romantic love as Western civilization currently understood it did not emerge until the Middle Ages. Who was to say that masculine friendship, in an epoch before a man saw home and hearth as the anchor of his existence, couldn't have been deeper and more emotional? Today, on a short stroll through his gardens, they'd disagreed on a host of topics already, from the merits of the metric system to the merits of George Bernard Shaw. The duke felt no compunction in calling a few of her opinions preposterous. She, to her own pleasant surprise, gave no quarter and labeled some of his views as downright asinine, in exactly so many words, to his face. "I've never heard so many contrary opinions in my entire life," he remarked as they neared the house. "Alas," she teased him, "what a sheltered life you've led, sir." He looked startled for a moment. "A sheltered life? I suppose you aren't entirely incorrect. But still, shouldn't a genteelly raised woman such as yourself at least make an effort to agree with me?" "Only if I'm out to ensnare you, Your Grace." "You are not?" He turned a baleful gaze on her. She batted her eyelashes. "Why would I want to put up with a man as disagreeable as yourself when I already have all the advantages of wealth _and_ a future duke for a son-in-law?" "For now." "Oh, have you not heard, then? My daughter has released Lord Frederick from their engagement. Furthermore, she departed this morning on the _Lucania_ for New York City, where her husband resides." "And that has slaked your blood thirst for a duke of your own?" "Temporarily," she said modestly. He harrumphed. The duke had a soft spot for all things ludicrous. Between the two of them, her not-quite hunting of him had become an ongoing joke. She smiled. Despite his dissolute past, his ever-present hauteur, and his great fondness for intimidating lesser mortals, he'd turned out to be quite a decent chap. His attention flattered, but the gratification extended far beyond the stroking of her vanity. She took genuine pleasure in his company, in the thoughtful, honorable man he had made of himself. Inside the house, the tea service had been set out in the south parlor, with a footman ceremonially warming the teapot. A fire crackled in the grate, shedding a golden tinge on the walls. "How remiss of me, Your Grace," she said as the servants retreated. "I have been so busy informing you of your intellectual shortcomings that I forgot to wish you a happy birthday." "You and two hundred of my closest friends," he said wryly. "I used to throw a birthday bacchanal for myself every year, right here at Ludlow Court." "Do you miss a good bacchanal?" How could one not, she thought? She'd never had one and sometimes she still missed it. "Occasionally. But I don't miss the aftermath. The wallpaper in this particular room had to be changed six times in eleven years." She glanced at the walls. The damask wall covering was of a different pattern—acanthus rather than fleur-de-lis—but care had been taken to find a near exact match of the rich celadon green background she remembered, so that the room remained much as it was thirty years ago when she'd come for tea and wild dreams. "It's remarkable how little the wallpaper has changed, for all that." "Trust me, it didn't look anything like this during my more debauched days. The wallpaper featured other . . . themes." He smiled. Her heart thudded. Her almost hag-hood notwithstanding, she couldn't help being rampantly curious about the latent scoundrel in him. The least reference to his former wickedness had her in a lather. Accompanied by one of those alluring smiles . . . well, she could count on not sleeping much tonight. "I had the old wallpaper duplicated exactly after I retired from Society. I had everything duplicated, from memory and old photographs. But I found I couldn't really stand it." He took a sip of his coffee—he'd given up the pretense of drinking tea several weeks ago, admitting that he couldn't stomach the stuff. "So I made a few changes to suit myself." "The past does exert a terrible toll, doesn't it?" she said quietly. He turned an unused teaspoon by its handle, down, and up again. His silence was his answer. In his self-imposed exile there was a strong element of punishment. But it needed not be that way. Not anymore. "My daughter keeps a private investigator on retainer." Gigi and her modern, progressive ways. She hoped the duke didn't inquire too closely as to why. "I availed myself of his services on something that concerns you." His eyebrow rose. "If you wish to know how Lady Wimpey's bed caught on fire, you've but to ask me." A month ago she'd have blushed. Today she didn't even blink. "Actually, I'm more interested in those items of foreign manufacture and iniquitous nature to which Lady Fancot was apparently partial." "They were only velvet-lined handcuffs—foreign-made, perhaps, but hardly iniquitous," he said. "Good gracious, what is wrong with that woman?" said Mrs. Rowland indignantly. "Isn't a nice strong silk scarf good enough for her?" He almost sprayed coffee all over the tablecloth. Good grief. _Thiswoman_ constantly forced him to reevaluate his opinion on what being a virtuous woman entailed. Apparently, sexual creativity in a proper, earnest English marriage was not half as dead as he'd believed. "But I digress," she said, reverting to an impeccable demureness that hid God knew what other experiences and inclinations, a contrast rich in properties aphrodisiacal. His younger self would have expended enough wherewithal to wage three wars to possess her already. His current self did exactly the same, but only in his mind. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I had the detective look into the state of Mr. Elliot's marriage." He wouldn't quite compare her announcement to being shot in the chest, having lived through the latter—but it came perilously close. He felt as he had then, standing dumbly in place, looking down at his hand clasped just to the right of his heart, blood seeping out between his fingers. How could she, of all people, not understand that he could not bear to learn the truth of what had happened to the Elliots' marriage? That whatever peace and tranquillity he'd been able to derive from his hermit's life had depended on his not knowing, on hoping that he had not brought about the unhappiness of an entire family? Perhaps she sensed the magnitude of shock in him. Her face turned somber. "I shouldn't have, I know." He glared at her. "Lady, your specialty is undertaking that which you shouldn't. Rest assured you'll face vituperation such as you've never imagined." He could have gone on longer, informed her of his exquisite command of invectives, and depicted in graphic detail the shrunken, pockmarked state of her soul after he was done with her. He didn't. There was no point in postponing the inevitable, though God knew he wanted to. "Now tell me what your detective has learned." "They are fine," she said, smiling sweetly. His imagination was playing tricks on him. He thought she said they were fine. "The truth, if you will," he said. "My detective worked in the Elliot household for several weeks and reported with confidence that Mr. and Mrs. Elliot get along very well, not just with civility but with fondness." "You are making it up, aren't you?" he mumbled. How could it be? How could any human association that had gone so wrong right itself? Was he in error after all and Man not quite as doomed as he'd long gloomily believed? "You need not depend solely on what I say. The detective's name is Samuel Ripley. He worked for the Elliots for three weeks last month, under the name Samuel Trimble, as an underbutler. What I tell you is but a summary of his written report, which arrived yesterday on the late post. It is a richly detailed document, with all overheard exchanges and eyewitness accounts painstakingly recorded. "My daughter is nothing if not prescient at employing people with the utmost dedication. It is clear to me that Mr. Ripley spent an inordinate amount of time at keyholes and upper-story windows. Why, there are sections of the report that I hastily skimmed over, to preserve my womanly delicacy." His heart constricted. His throat constricted. The dark cloud of culpability had hung over his head for so long, he'd forgotten the pure, beatific light of a clear conscience. "I've brought the report with me, if you would like to have it fetched from my carriage." He rose, fetched the nearly half-inch-thick document himself, and, standing next to Mrs. Rowland's landau, read every word of the meticulously chronicled domestic life of Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, not skipping any sections, particularly not those in which the couple engaged in activities that they ought to have performed no more times than they had children. He especially enjoyed the lurid yet sweet endearments they had for each other. _My darling little dumpling. My lord of the battering ram._ Langford Fitzwilliam, His Grace the Duke of Perrin, returned to the south parlor walking on air, blinded by the incomprehensible beauty of the world. Mrs. Rowland had a glass of cognac waiting for him. "There, sir," she said. "You have not ruined a man's life. You may breathe easy again." He drained the cognac. Fires of joy spread in him unabated. "I feel I can smile through a hundred small country dinners." "That is exceedingly heartening news. I've at least that many people to impress by having a duke at my table." "Only at your table?" He grinned. "Where have all your ambitions gone?" "Not gone at all, only mellowed, Your Grace. I stand today quite satisfied to rub people's faces in our warm friendship." He _tsked._ "I'd have expected more from you, Mrs. Rowland. You do know what your revelation means, do you not?" The idea had been knocking in his head for some days. It had slipped in, like a determined lover, past all gates and barricades to whisper by the fluttering curtains of the virgin bower that was his entire experience with matrimony. And the idea was, he would be quite happy to marry her, if she would have him. But his past had weighed on his aspirations. What right did he have, hissed some dank, sinister voice, to the love of a good woman, any good woman, let alone one as beautiful, accomplished, and wise as Mrs. Rowland? What right did _he_ have to happiness for himself, when he'd so casually despoiled the happiness of others? But that was no longer the case. He was an emancipated man, liberated from the bondage of blame and self-torment, at ease to enjoy the years remaining to him, with her by his side and in his bed, if he was so fortunate. The gleam in his eyes made Victoria's heart skip a beat. "That there is still time left to plan a bacchanal?" "No, that it frees me to propose marriage to you." She felt as flabbergasted as she'd been when she discovered herself in love with John Rowland. "You wish to _marry_ me?" "What in the world do you think I have been up to, madam? Have I not followed the rules of courtship most assiduously? Drinking tea, for heaven's sake. You should be flattered. I'd rather drink from my horse's trough." "I thought you wished to speak of bygone years. Or, at most, make me amenable to a liaison." "I do want to reminisce. And I do plan to take you to bed, madam. Neither, however, precludes marriage." "But I am going to be fifty years of age in less than fifteen months!" she cried—and couldn't believe she gave away that carefully guarded secret. "Excellent news. That makes you a few years younger than I'd thought." Her eyes went round. "You thought I was _how_ old?" He laughed. "I didn't. I took our age difference into consideration and found that it didn't half-matter. Since you found happiness with a man nineteen years your senior, there is no reason for you to be undone by a man a few years your junior." "I—I cannot give you any heir." "For which my cousin's son would be intensely grateful." He took her hand, further disorienting her. "Allow me to assure you, madam, that the thought of infants at my age is profoundly distressing. My second cousin once removed is an upstanding enough fellow. I have no regrets about Ludlow Court passing to him." She was tempted to say yes right away. Oh, how she was tempted. Not since the invention of chocolate gâteau had there been a greater temptation than what the duke dangled before her nose just now. _Her Grace the Duchess of Perrin._ These magical words exploded shivers of delight deep into her viscera. That at this stage in her life, with old age breathing down her neck like an overeager suitor, she could still gain all the prestige and social stature she'd ever craved, with the man once considered the most elusive bachelor in the kingdom. Why, what kind of fool could possibly respond in the negative? She bolted out of her chair, jerking her hand away from him. "No." She shook her head, her voice shaking just perceptibly. "No. Your marrying me would be little different from your efforts to restore Ludlow Court to a facsimile of what it had been when your parents were alive." He frowned. "I fail to observe any similarity between the two." "Don't you see? Like the wallpaper, I was your mother's choice!" "Am I to understand that in following my heart's— not to mention my loins'—desire, I am but atoning for my adolescent negligence of my mother, by fulfilling her wish posthumously?" She wished it were otherwise, but she wasn't blind. He liked her. He was physically attracted to her. But what separated her from the pack was that she provided a link to his lost youth. "Yes." "You object to such a noble purpose?" Oh, drat the man. How could he be flippant at a time like this, when she felt herself about to crumple, held erect only by the stiffness of her corset. "Because it is more wishful thinking than noble purpose. Your mother, bless her memory, would be proud of the man you are today. No further appeasement is necessary." He nodded, at last appearing somewhat thoughtful. "I take it that is your primary and overwhelming objection." "It is." "Any others I should know about? My contrariness, for example? My distaste for tea?" "No, none at all." She wished there were others. They would make it less painful to refuse his offer. He smiled, a smile that twenty-five years ago would have left a wide swath of upended crinolines in its wake. "If that is indeed the case, then permit me to read something to you, my dear Mrs. Rowland." He rose and walked to a satinwood writing desk that had belonged to his mother. More than once the duchess had gone to the desk to retrieve something to show Victoria, during her long-ago visits. The duke brought out a large vellum-covered book from a lower drawer. "My mother's diary." He quickly turned it three-quarters of the way and then slowly flipped a few more pages, looking for an exact place. "Here's what she wrote on the eighteenth of November, 1862." He lifted the diary, turned to face her, and read. _"Had tea with Miss Pierce today. Our last time, I suppose. She thanked me for my friendship and informed me of her engagement to a Mr. Rowland, a wealthy man with no antecedents of significance. A pity. Had planned to introduce her to Hubert. They would have made a pleasant match."_ "Hubert?" Was Hubert one of the duke's given names? She'd thought his full name was Langford Alexander _Humphrey_ Fitzwilliam. "Who is Hubert?" "A cousin of mine. The Honorable Hubert Lancaster, third son of Baron Wesport. Lady Wesport was my mother's eldest sister. Hubert would have been about twenty-six at that time." "Her _nephew?"_ Victoria reeled. She covered her mouth with her hand. Merciful heavens. All these years, all these years . . . "A nice enough man, with a very respectable name and a very minor fortune," said the duke. "You mustn't forget, I was all of what, fifteen, sixteen at the time? My marriage was far from foremost on my mother's mind. And for all her kindness, she was not unaware of our position. She herself had been the daughter of an earl. She probably expected at least as much pedigree in a daughter-in-law." Victoria groaned. This was more mortifying even than having her daughter and son-in-law thinking that she'd engaged in illicit acts to lure the duke to her dining table. "If you will be kind enough to have your footman fetch me a spade, I would like to excavate a ten-foot hole outside for myself." "And ruin my thoroughly beautiful gardens? I think not, my dear." She heard him shut the diary and return it to the drawer. "It's no shame to let your youthful imagination get carried away. Far worldlier women than you have lost their heads over me." Oh, that man and his arrogance. Her skin must have thickened nicely with age, for she was already in retorting shape. "If you wish me for a bride, you shouldn't try so hard to have me expire from mortification." He came so close that she could smell the lingering scent of his shaving soap. Her middle-aged heart began pounding. This was actually going to happen. This monumentally desirable, marvelous, and interesting man esteemed her enough to want her hand in marriage. Her! "May I take your silence to signify that you've accepted my suit?" "I've said no such thing," she said perversely. "You should. I've proved, conclusively, that I'm not doing my mother's bidding from beyond the grave. And by your own words, spoken a bare two minutes ago, you have no other objections to marrying me, none at all." He paused, rather deliberately, his eyes sparkling with gleeful wickedness. "I see. You want me to exert myself further. Well then, seducing a woman should be right up my alley, if only I could remember how. Now, do I kiss you before I lie with you or only afterward?" She summoned a pinch of mock outrage. "As I said before, what a sheltered life you've led, Your Grace. It is both. I'm shocked—shocked, I say—that you do not know better." He grinned widely. "I don't know why I haven't taken up with virtuous women before. I'm delighted to be making up for lost time." With that, he kissed her. It was neither the lofty, delicate kiss she'd envisioned as a nubile girl, nor the sin-drenched osculation that had lately dominated her imagination. He kissed her with gusto and delight, a man at last achieving his heart's desire. She melted accordingly, in complete contentment. He pulled away after too short a time. "Now say yes," he urged, nuzzling at the corner of her lips. "Hardly," she huffed. "I am not signing away my independence on the basis of one kiss, as delicious as it may be. Remember, Your Grace, I was a married woman. A _happily_ married one. You, sir, will have to demonstrate ability beyond kissing to persuade me to the altar." He laughed, a sound of robust delight. Glancing around the parlor, his gaze settled on a scroll-armed settee upholstered in cream brocade. "All right." He kissed her again. "Be careful what you wish for, my dear Mrs. Rowland. Or you might just get it." Chapter Twenty-eight _8 September 1893_ New York City made Gigi's stomach churn. Though she'd read that the city aspired to be the new Paris, she hadn't expected a very near copy of it. Certain sections of the city, with its solidly neoclassical edifices, their friezes and cornices plastered in motifs botanical and mythological, could easily have passed for parts of the Right Bank. And one particular church she passed on the way to her hotel had been an unabashed copy of Notre Dame. She could scarcely control her labored breathing, though she walked with all the speed of a reform bill plodding through parliament. Steady traffic flowed up and down the avenue, a percussive chorus of hooves striking pavement and wagon wheels creaking under their load. From a nearby street came the rumble of an elevated train. The air, though less polluted than London's, emanated the familiar notes of horseflesh and industry, though it also hinted faintly, and ever so exotically, of sausage and mustard. She made sure to inspect all the hotels, the shopfronts, and all the millionaire manses that crowded lower Fifth Avenue. Still, the distance disappeared in no time. Suddenly she was at the right intersection, the right address. She clenched her fingers about the whalebone handle of her parasol and wrenched her gaze from the opposite side of the street. No, she must be mistaken. Camden, in his perfect breeding, had always been so modest, so restrained in everything he did. There was nothing in the least modest about this gorgeous manor that looked as if it had been bodily lifted from some nobleman's estate in the heart of Europe. The facade was of pearl-gray granite, the jaunty, polygonal roof dark blue slate. The windows sparkled like the eyes of a flirtatious belle at her most successful ball. And every ornate line and sensuous curve spoke of high baroque and lavish wealth. She felt like she had the first time she'd seen Camden naked: flabbergasted, speechless, and just about falling down with excitement. She had not come properly prepared. To storm this particular citadel, she'd need much more of the paraphernalia of her own wealth and station to convince a suspicious butler that she was the real Lady Tremaine and not some imposter out to steal the silver. When the door opened, however, the butler recognized her nearly immediately, judging from his jaw bouncing off the black marble-tiled vestibule. He recovered quickly, stepped back, and bowed. "My lady Tremaine." Gigi stared at him. The man looked vaguely familiar. She was sure she'd seen him before. She was— "Beckett!" Amazement and guilt muddled her veins. When her scheme had fallen apart, she hadn't been the only one punished. As surely as the Empress of India was an Englishwoman of German blood, Beckett had abruptly left Twelve Pillars because Camden had discovered his role in the scam. How could he, then, of all people, head the staff in Camden's service? "You are . . ." What could she say to him? And had he guessed, over the years, what her role had been in all this? "You are in New York." "Yes, ma'am," Beckett said respectfully, as he took her parasol, but offered no elaborations. "May I offer you some excellent tea from Assam while we see to your luggage?" The anteroom was glorious, the drawing room nearly rapturous in its opulence. She'd been in royal palaces that were less rich in furnishing and art—and what art, as if someone had taken a section of the grand gallery of the Louvre and made it into a living space. Not that she didn't find it perfectly to her taste, but what had happened to Camden's preference for understated houses and Impressionist paintings? "I have brought no luggage," she said. Now, the all-important question. "Is Lord Tremaine home?" "Lord Tremaine has gone sailing with a group of friends," said Beckett. "We expect him to return no later than five o'clock in the afternoon." Surely they couldn't be speaking of the same Lord Tremaine. First a house in which a cake-loving Marie Antoinette would have felt quite at home. And now this supposedly hardworking entrepreneur out frolicking when it wasn't even remotely Sunday? "In that case, I will call another time," she said. She couldn't possibly sit in the drawing room and sip tea for the next five or six hours. It'd be too strange. She was beginning to regret a little that she'd asked every person in England who knew Camden's whereabouts not to breathe a word of her Atlantic crossing to him. Perhaps she should have sent advance notice. "Lord Tremaine is hosting a dinner tonight. Should I send around a carriage to fetch your ladyship from your hotel?" Gigi shook her head. Before a crowd of strangers was hardly the way she'd envisioned their reunion. "I will arrange for my own conveyance, if I decide to attend. And you need mention nothing to Lord Tremaine." "As you wish, ma'am." "You should have your own children," said Theodora. She stood in a pretty powder-blue frock against the foredeck rail of _La Femme,_ the forty-footer Camden sailed for pleasure now that he used the _Mistress_ mostly for business. Beyond the fluttering ribbons of her hat, a thicket of masts bobbed sedately—a thousand ships before the topless towers of the Financial District. Camden looked up from the plate of lemon cookies he was sharing with Masha. "How do you know I don't?" he said. Theodora blinked, then blushed. "Oh," she said. He didn't, of course. He'd always been careful. But he probably should have resisted the urge to tease her. The dear girl was never one for jokes. He used to think her beyond adorable when she'd earnestly try to puzzle them out. But then he'd been all of fifteen. "Forgive me, that was flippant of me," he said. "You are right, I should have children. I would dearly love a few." "But how?" asked Masha. "Mama said you are to be divorced. How can you have children when you are not married?" "Masha!" Theodora said sharply, her color heightening further. "It's all right," said Camden. He turned to Masha, who had her father's sad eyes and long nose. But beneath the face of a lugubrious Russian Madonna lurked a spirit as rambunctious as a dozen sailors on shore leave. "My dear Maria Alekseeva, you are a very shrewd young lady. Indeed, that is my dilemma. What do you propose I do?" "You must marry someone else," said Masha decisively. "But who would marry me, Mashenka? I'm so old, as old as dirt." Masha giggled and lowered her voice. "But Mama is even older than you. Does that mean she's older than dirt?" Camden whispered, "Yes, it does. But don't tell her." "What are you whispering about?" said Theodora, a little put out. "I was just telling Uncle Camden that he should marry you, Mama," Masha answered cheerfully. "Then you'd be too busy to lecture me." Before Theodora could recover from her astonishment enough to say anything, Sasha cried from the aft deck of the schooner, "Masha, come here! I've got something tremendous." Masha promptly dashed off to help her brother reel in his big catch. "Oh, that girl," muttered Theodora. "She is going to be my despair." "I wouldn't worry about her," said Camden. "She will fend for herself just fine." Theodora said nothing. She closed her parasol, held it with both hands before her abdomen, then set its tip down on the deck. Her index finger traced what seemed to be random patterns on the parasol handle. But he knew she was unconsciously writing down her thoughts. _Gott. Gott. Gott._ She was embarrassed and discomfited. In this she hadn't changed much. Camden helped himself to another cookie. "I hope you don't think that I came to New York because . . . because you are about to be a free man." "You didn't?" He'd never alluded to his marital woes. But Theodora was quite aware of them, judging by what Masha had said. Theodora twisted her hands together, mortified. She was not accustomed to such directness from him. Mutely, she gazed at him, her enormous blue eyes beseeching him to assess the situation, infer what she wanted, and offer it to her without her ever having to speak a word—what he'd always done before. He sighed. She'd come at a wretched time, when he desperately wanted to be either alone at sea or alone in his workshop. He hadn't the heart to disappoint the children, so he'd spent the past three weeks showing them a good time in the city. But he had no wherewithal left to play guessing games with her. If she wanted something from him—and she did, _something—_ then she could damned well come out and say it. "Will you really divorce Lady Tremaine?" she asked timidly. "She is the one who wants a divorce, therefore we are headed for a divorce," he said, more surly than he'd intended. A letter had arrived from Addleshaw this morning, assuring him that the engagement ring he had requested from Gigi would arrive forthwith. He didn't want the damned ring. Wasn't it enough that he had to look at the cursed piano? He wanted _her_ to come with the ring. But his ploy had failed. She would marry Lord Frederick. And he, what would he do? "You will need another wife, won't you?" Theodora's voice had dropped so low that he barely heard the last few syllables. He didn't need another wife. He wanted the one he already had. "That is a question for the future." _Gott hilf mir,_ her finger scribbled. Well, God help them all. The children screamed in delight, breaking the uneasy silence. "Look what we got! Look what we got!" hollered Sasha, running toward them with a striped bass that looked to be at least a five-pounder. "Look at that!" exclaimed Camden, standing up. "I never caught anything half so big when I was your age." He unhooked the vigorously thrashing fish and tossed it into a bucket of water. "Want to have it served with a lemon butter sauce for supper?" "Yes!" the boy answered unambiguously. "Right ho!" Camden lifted Sasha high in the air and spun him around. "Me, me too! I helped," said Masha, raising her arms up to Camden. He did the same with her, enjoying her high-pitched giggles. "My expert anglers, think you two can catch another one before we set sail?" They ran off, leaving him again alone with Theodora. He opened the lid of the picnic basket to store the remainder of their lunch: half of a cold chicken pie, slices of roast beef, an almost empty dish of potato salad, and a few lemon cookies. Theodora came to stand beside him as he returned a flask of lemonade to its place. "I've been thinking of the past, of St. Petersburg," she murmured. "Remember what you used to say to me then?" "I haven't forgotten." He closed the picnic basket and stared down at it. "But the truth is, I'll be bitter over the divorce. A new wife would find me lacking in both affection and care, and I love you too well to subject you to that." There, he'd finally admitted it. The divorce would devastate him. Would come just short of annihilating him. He dreaded the post deliveries, dreaded any and all letters from his English solicitors, dreaded the eventual cable from Mrs. Rowland decrying Gigi's irreversible folly. "I see." She sounded abysmally dejected, like a child being told that there would be no Christmas come December. He pulled her toward him. "But I will still take care of you, always. If you are ever in need, I'm just a cable away. And if, God forbid, something should happen to you, I'll raise the twins as my own." He kissed the top of her straw hat. "I will take care of everything for you, you still have my word on that." "I guess . . . I guess that's all any woman could ask for," she said slowly. The shadow on her face lifted. She smiled shyly and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you. You are the best friend I ever had." They stood thus for a minute, with his hand on her waist and her face resting against his sleeve. He sighed. Ironic that he should have his arm about Theodora on a boat that he'd again somehow named after Gigi— _La Femme,_ the woman, the wife. But the sun was warm, the breeze cool. It was still a beautiful day even if he couldn't have his wife. He returned a kiss to Theodora's cheek. "Shall we sail?" Gigi saw the horseless carriage as soon as she stepped out of the Waldorf Hotel at five o'clock. The beautiful piece of machinery, built around a phaeton chassis, black with trims of crimson, rumbled its progress majestically. The liveried manservant who drove it couldn't have looked prouder had he been atop the queen's state coach. His pride was reflected on the faces of two of the passengers he ferried. The children basked in the admiration and curiosity displayed on the sea of faces turned toward them. The third passenger's reaction was harder to gauge, as the long veil of her hat effectively hid all her features above her chin. "To whom does the automobile belong?" Gigi asked a doorman. "To the English lordship who lives ten blocks down, ma'am," said the doorman. "They say he's a viscount." "No, an earl," said the other footman. "And that's his sweetheart the Russian grand duchess there. She's been coming up in his horseless carriage every day now." Gigi felt herself petrify. Camden lived ten blocks south of the Waldorf Hotel. She'd counted it this morning. And hadn't the former Miss von Schweppenburg married a Russian grand duke? She fumbled with the veil of her own hat as the automobile came to a quiet stop before the hotel. The passengers alit. The driver opened the boot and retrieved a heavy-looking bucket, which the children immediately took from him, causing their mother to issue a string of safety warnings in French. The driver bowed. "I'll bring the carriage around at eleven, Your Highness." "Thank you," said Her Highness. And it was her, the former Miss von Schweppenburg. Who was going back to Camden's house at eleven o'clock at night, after the dinner crowd would have departed, for purposes that needed no clarification. The bucket was passed to a doorman with instructions for the kitchen. Grand Duchess Theodora and her children entered the hotel and disappeared into a lift. Gigi slowly walked to a corner of the lobby and sat down. She'd expected to fight for him, given that he might have already taken a lover, to physically remove the other woman, or women—she'd had far too much time to ponder it on the crossing—from his bed and his life, if necessary. Any other woman. What was she to do now? Chapter Twenty-nine If you do not mind my forwardness, Lord Tremaine, I think my Consuelo would make you a splendid marchioness," said Mrs. William Vanderbilt, née Alva Erskine Smith. "I do not mind at all," said Camden. "I've been known to be exceedingly fond of forward women. But I am, however, almost twice Miss Vanderbilt's age and still very much married, last time I checked." "My, sir, you are such a gentleman," cooed Mrs. Vanderbilt. Her Southern-belle manners, however, did not quite disguise her flinty determination. "But I have heard from numerous trustworthy sources, on both sides of the Atlantic, that you may not remain married for much longer." _It's because you are young and you used to be a bit of an impoverished nobody. Expect the proposals to fly fast and thick now._ After nearly eleven years, that prediction was coming true. This wasn't the first time Mrs. Vanderbilt had broached the issue in recent weeks. Nor was she the first, second, or even third matron with a marriageable daughter to suggest that her precious girl was just the perfect candidate for him. All throughout the dinner, the first he'd held since his return from England, he'd felt on display, like a fattened goose about to be turned into foie gras. The smiles on the women were too bright, too ingratiating. Even the men with whom he'd shared cigars, whiskey, and business ventures for the past ten years regarded him differently, with the sort of hearty approval better reserved for sixteen-year-old mistresses. "Well, then, milord, you will come for dinner next Wednesday?" drawled Mrs. Vanderbilt. "I don't think you've seen Consuelo for a good six months, and she has become ever so much more beautiful and swanlike and—" The doors to the drawing room swung open—burst open, in fact, as if blown apart by a passing cyclone. In the doorway loomed a woman and a dog. The dog was small, well-behaved, and sleepy, snuggled in the crook of the woman's arm. The woman was tall, haughty, and ravishing, her voluptuous figure poured into a sheath of carmine velvet, her throat and breast glistening with a maharaja's cache of rubies and diamonds. And, ever so incongruously, she also sported a very humble sapphire ring on her left hand. "Now, who is that?" demanded Mrs. Vanderbilt, at once peeved and fascinated. "That, my dear Mrs. Vanderbilt," replied Camden, with a glee he couldn't and didn't hide, "is my lady wife." * * * Never in her entire life had Gigi felt so vulnerable, standing before a roomful of strangers—and a husband who had another lover arriving in an hour. She'd already ordered a suite for her return voyage on the _Lucania_ and telegraphed Goodman to have the house on Park Lane readied. A cable for Mrs. Rowland lay on the bureau in her hotel chamber— _Tremaine has taken up with the Grand Duchess Theodora, née von Schweppenburg—_ but somehow she couldn't send it, couldn't admit that final defeat, not without one last gallant and largely foredoomed charge down the hill. Now all eyes were on her, including Camden's. There was surprise on his face, a measure of amusement, and then a nonchalance that did not bode well for her chances. She waited for him to acknowledge her, to toss her at least a line of greeting. But other than a few inaudible words to the woman next to him, he said nothing, leaving her to jump off the cliff entirely by herself. She let her eyes travel the drawing room. "Truly, Tremaine, I expected better from you. The decor is obvious to the point of atrociousness." A collective gasp reverberated from the high ceiling. He smiled, a cool smile that nevertheless ignited her hopes anew. "My lady Tremaine, I distinctly remember informing you dinner was at half past seven. Your punctuality leaves much to be desired." "We will discuss my punctuality or the lack thereof later, in private," she said, her heart pounding. "You may present your friends to me now." * * * Lady Tremaine couldn't quite keep straight who was an Astor, who a Vanderbilt, and who a Morgan. But it didn't matter. She had fortune, which they admired, and title, which they coveted. Her temperament fitted in perfectly with the energetic, purposeful, ambitious upper crust of the American aristocracy; her independence earned her the approval of the wives, several of whom were sympathetic toward the suffragists. The men gawked, alongside Camden. There'd been much surreptitious necktie-loosening when she— _later, in private—_ unmistakably commanded him to shag her blind. The sexual energy she exuded was palpable; the response it provoked in him was downright atrocious. No other women came anywhere near him for the remainder of the evening; even the unsighted could see that he was hanging on to civilized behavior by the skin of his teeth, that if they didn't make themselves scarce, he'd commit public coitus right before their eyes—with his own wife. In the end she did something almost as shocking. At precisely eleven o'clock, she disengaged from the guests and placed herself at the center of the drawing room. "It has been lovely meeting the very best society of New York, I'm sure. But if you will forgive me, it's been a long journey, and I feel myself no longer quite equal to company. Ladies and gentlemen, my repose beckons. Good night." And with that, she left, the intricate train of her gown swaying majestically, leaving behind a speechless crowd, the ladies fanning themselves much too vigorously, the men looking as if they'd sign away half of their companies if only they could follow her out on the heels of her black suede evening slippers. "Alas," said Camden, keeping his tone light. "It seems I have utterly failed in my husbandly duties of guidance and discipline. I shall henceforth devote the greater part of my time and energy to that eminently noble endeavor." Half of the women blushed. Three-quarters of the men cleared their throats. The leave-taking began in the next minute, and the drawing room emptied at record speed. Camden raced up the stairs, charged into his apartment, and threw open the door to his bedchamber. She lay prone across his bed, her cheeks in her palms, studying his copy of the _Wall Street Journal—_ completely naked. Those legs, that sumptuous bottom, the curvature of her breast squeezed round and tight against the underside of her arm, and all that beautiful hair spilled across her back. Carnal desire, already simmering, exploded in him. She tilted her head and smiled. "Hullo, Camden." He closed the door behind him. "Hullo, Gigi. Fancy seeing you here." "Well, you know how it is. Investment opportunities, et cetera, et cetera." "Took you long enough," he growled. "I was about to hire dognappers." She licked her teeth. "Am I worth the wait?" God above! He could barely remain standing. "You were unspeakably brazen before my guests. I'm afraid you have laid waste to my staid, upstanding reputation." "Have I? I'm terribly sorry. I must learn to be a better wife. If only you'd give me a little more practice . . ." She turned onto her back and slid a knuckle across her lower lip. "Won't you come to bed and make me pregnant?" He was on that bed and inside her in a fraction of a second. She was all hellfire and heavenly suppleness, clutching at him, her legs wrapped tight about him, her unabashed gasps and moans driving him mad with desire. He shook, shuddered, and convulsed, his vaunted control in pieces as he came endlessly, well on his way to making her pregnant. "Will you remonstrate me for my lack of punctuality now?" Gigi said later, still mostly breathless, lying with her head on his arm. "That and your utter want of respect toward the beauty and splendor of the public rooms of my house." "I like them. They quite suit my parvenu tastes." The private quarter, which housed his Impressionist collection, was by contrast cool and serene. "I was looking for something to say that would immediately establish my English eccentricity." "I think you've succeeded beyond all hope," he said. "They will prattle of this night for years to come, especially if you go into confinement nine months from today." She smiled to herself. "You think you are so virile." "I _know_ I'm so virile." He kissed her earlobe. "Let's just hope the second time's the charm." She didn't immediately catch the significance of his words. When she did, she found herself scrambling to a sitting position. He'd obliquely referred to her first pregnancy, which had ended in a miscarriage. But she had never spoken of it, not even to her mother. Had hidden it, along with her ravenous love, in the deepest recesses of her heart, a secret prisoner in the dungeon, whose clanking chains and whimpers of despair only she heard in the witching hours of the night. "You knew," she whispered. She shouldn't be so surprised. It was silly to believe her mother wouldn't have found out about it—and that once she did, she wouldn't have told Camden in the hope of forcing a reaction from him. "Only years after the fact. I got quite drunk the day I learned of it. I believe I smashed my entire model ship collection." He sighed, smoothing a strand of her hair between his fingers. "But perhaps that was out of jealousy, since your mother mentioned the miscarriage in the same breath she invoked Lord Wrenworth's name." She lay down again, facing him. "You? Jealous? You are with a different woman every time I turn around." "Guilty as charged in Copenhagen. But I didn't sleep with anyone in Paris." What she really wanted to know was what he'd been doing with the former Miss von Schweppenburg. But his extraordinary claim about Paris perked her ears nevertheless. "Who was that woman calling on you late at night, then?" "A rising actress at the Opéra. I hired her to knock on my door and sit in my apartment for a few hours, so that you'd assume the worst and hurt as much as I did. But I didn't touch her, or any other woman. I was faithful to you, for what that's worth, until I learned that you'd taken a lover already." That would make him celibate for at least two and a half years after he'd left her. "Why? Why were you faithful to me?" she marveled. "Oh, I had no time. Within weeks after my arrival in America I'd taken on such astronomical loans I could scarcely eat or sleep for fear of defaulting. I was up at five every morning and never went to bed before one." He grimaced a little at the memory, then smiled at her. "You could also say I had no intention. I wanted _you._ I wanted to stomp back into your life one day, twice as wealthy as you, if possible. I imagined decadent, histrionic reunions and wasted a river of sperm masturbating to these fantasies." She knew what the word meant—it was what the Muscular Christians were trying to prevent, through a regimen of rigorous sports that would leave English men and boys too exhausted for anything but dead slumber—though she was sure she'd never heard it spoken aloud before. She'd thought it a dirty word, but the way he said it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, made voluptuous images dance before her eyes. If she weren't already naked, she'd rip off her clothes and throw herself at him. She took one of his hands and rubbed the moist inside of her lower lip against the calluses of his palm. "Tell me one of those fantasies." He leveled a dirty look at her. "Only if you promise to act your part in it." She bowed her head with becoming humility. "Well, I did tell myself that I would be the most obliging wife who ever lived." He smiled wickedly, pulling her to him. "Oh, this is getting better and better." In between fulfillment of his inventive—at times highly unorthodox—fantasies, Gigi and Camden talked about the children they would have and all the things they couldn't wait to do together. At Christmas they'd visit his grandfather in Bavaria. Come spring she would show him the gorgeous West Country of England and Wales. And in summer, if she wasn't already too far gone in her pregnancy, they'd sail the Aegean and the Adriatic on the _Mistress._ "Take me somewhere to ride," she said. "I haven't been on a horse since you walked out on me the first time." "I've a country house in Connecticut, on a pretty piece of land. We'll sail up tomorrow." Thinking of the arrangements made her remember Beckett. "Your butler . . . do you know that—" "I was the one who told him to go far away. We were both shocked when three years later he came for a position I'd advertised. He immediately begged pardon and turned to leave. I stopped him. To this day I don't really know why." Camden shrugged. "By the end of the year, he'll have worked for me for seven years." Whatever his reasons, she was grateful. "It's a well-run house," she murmured. "And what of his son?" "He was in a Liverpool jail for a year or two, then went to South Africa when gold was discovered. He married last year." She breathed a further sigh of relief. It was most agreeably humbling to learn that her sins hadn't stopped the earth from spinning or other people from getting on tolerably with the rest of their lives. He traced her spine from her neck down to her tailbone and back again. "Tell me about Lord Frederick. How did he take your decision not to marry him?" "With much better grace than I deserved, to be sure. I only wish I could arrange for him to be happy always. But don't worry," she added hastily. "I will leave him alone to live his own life. I've learned my lesson." "Hmm, have you?" He kissed her shoulder. "That's what you said the last time we were in bed together." She turned onto her back and placed his hand between her legs. "Feel for yourself. Nothing there anymore between you and me." She lost count of how many times they made love. Too much and still not quite enough. Some time in the small hours of the night, he ran her a bath and laundered her thoroughly, making her giggle and squeal with all the naughty things a playful man could do with a willing woman, a tub of hot water, and a piece of fragrant soap. When it was his turn to wash, she looted the kitchen for food. He was in his dressing gown toweling his hair dry when she returned, carrying with her a haunch of roasted pheasant left over from the dinner, a half loaf of bread, and a bowl of morello cherries. "My God," he said, tossing aside the towel to take the tray from her. "I had no idea you did things other than turning profits and enslaving men." She laughed as he set the tray down atop the large cedar chest at the foot of the bed. "Allow me to shock you by knitting you a pair of socks this Christmas, then." He smiled, tearing off a chunk of bread. "Then I shall be forced to build you a rocking chair. Alas, my carpentry is quite rusty." Tenderness, that most alien and disconcerting of emotions, swelled and billowed in her. She picked up a cherry and stared down at the soft, bright-red fruit. "I love you." The last time she'd declared her love he'd thrown it right back in her face. She waited uncertainly for his response. She didn't even have to wait a second. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. "I love you more." All the sugar in Cuba couldn't compete with the sweetness in her heart. "More than you love the grand duchess?" "Idiot." He ruffled her already bedraggled hair. "I haven't loved her since the day I met you." "But I saw her today, in your automobile. The doormen at the hotel said she's been seen in your automobile every day. And your driver said he was coming back for her at eleven o'clock at night." "Incorrect. He is going to meet her and the children at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, to take them to the train station. She has some relatives to visit in Washington, D.C." "Then you haven't been having an affair with her?" "I last kissed her in 1881, and I don't miss it." A sly smile curved his mouth. "So that explains your very delectable aggression. Perhaps I should keep her around, to always ensure your prompt ardor." "Only if you want Freddie to set up a canvas in our parlor." "Won't bother me, as long as I can still have you on the piano." He grinned. "I can never look at the damned thing without seeing you draped over it in all kinds of lascivious ways, your sweet bum up in the—" She threw the cherry at him. He caught the fruit and ate it. "I almost forgot," he said, walking to a writing desk in the next room. "Look what news was delivered to my doorstep this afternoon." He brought back a telegram. She wiped her hands on a napkin and took the telegram from him. dear sir stop his grace has persuaded me to the altar stop we wed yesterday stop will shortly depart for corfu stop yours most affectionately stop victoria perrin Gigi covered her open mouth. Her mother. A duchess. The Duke of Perrin's duchess, no less. She'd suspected something, of course, but this—marriage— this was something else entirely. "Do you realize what this means?" said Camden. "That she'll take precedence over both you and me now?" Gigi shook her head in both delight and stupefaction. "That the Duke of Perrin will find himself a grandfather in nine months." She laughed hard. The image of the Duke of Perrin suddenly becoming anyone's grandfather was much too delicious. She pulled Camden close and kissed him. "Do you know that you are the love of my life?" "Always did," said her husband. "But do you know that _you_ are the love of _my_ life?" She set her head on his shoulder and rubbed contentedly. "Now I do." About the Author Sherry Thomas arrived on American soil at age thirteen. Within a year, with whatever English she'd scraped together and her trusty English-Chinese dictionary by her side, she was already plowing through the 600-page behemoth historical romances of the day. The vocabulary she gleaned from those stories of unquenchable ardor propelled her to great successes on the SAT and the GRE and came in very handy when she turned to writing romances herself. Sherry has a B.S. in economics from Louisiana State University and a master's degree in accounting from the University of Texas at Austin. She lives in central Texas with her husband and two sons. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading, playing computer games with her boys, and reading some more. Visit her on the web at www.sherrythomas.com. Don't miss Delicious BY SHERRY THOMAS Available at your favorite bookseller in August 2008 _Read on for an exclusive sneak peek!_ Delicious BY SHERRY THOMAS On sale August 2008 _England November 1892_ In retrospect people say it was a Cinderella story. Notably missing was the personage of the Fairy Godmother. But other than that, the narrative seemed to contain all the elements of the fairy tale. There was something of a modern prince. He had no royal blood, but he was a powerful man— London's foremost barrister, Mr. Gladstone's right hand—a man who would very likely one day, fifteen years hence, occupy 10 Downing Street and pass such radical reforms as to provide pensions for the elderly and health insurance to the working class. There was a woman who spent much of her life in the kitchen. In the eyes of many, she was a nobody. For others, she was one of the greatest cooks of her generation, her food said to be so divine that old men dined with the gusto of adolescent boys, and so seductive that lovers forsook each other, as long as a crumb remained on the table. There was a ball, not the usual sort of ball that made it into fairy tales or even ordinary tales, but a ball nevertheless. There was the requisite Evilish Female Relative. And most important for connoisseurs of fairy tales, there was footgear left behind in a hurry—nothing so frivolous or fancy as glass slippers, yet carefully kept and cherished, with a flickering flame of hope, for years upon years. A Cinderella story, indeed. Or was it? It all began—or resumed, depending on how one looked at it—the day Bertie Somerset died. The kitchen at Fairleigh Park was palatial in dimension, as grand as anything to be found at Chatsworth or Blenheim, and certainly several times larger than what one would expect for a manor the size of Fairleigh Park. Bertie Somerset had the entire kitchen complex renovated in 1877—shortly after he inherited, and two years before Verity Durant came to work for him. After the improvements, the complex boasted of a dairy, a scullery, and a pantry each the size of a small cottage, separate larders for meat, game, and fish, two smokehouses, and a mushroom house where a heap of composted manure provided edible mushrooms year round. The main kitchen, floored in cool rectangles of gray flagstone, with oak duckboards where the kitchen staff most often stood, had an old-fashioned open hearth and two modern closed ranges. The ceiling rose twenty feet above the floor. Windows were set high and faced only north and east, so that not a single beam of sunlight would ever stray inside. But still it was sweaty work in winter; in summer the temperatures inside rose hot enough to immolate. Three maids toiled in the adjacent scullery, washing up all the plates, cups, and flatware from the servants' afternoon tea. One of Verity's apprentices stuffed tiny eggplants at the central work table, the other three stood at their respective stations about the room, attending to the rigors of dinner for the staff as well as for the master of the house. The soup course had just been carried out, trailing behind a murmur of the sweetness of caramelized onion. From the stove billowed the steam of a white wine broth, in the last stages of reduction before being made into a sauce for a filet of brill that had been earlier poached in it. Over the great hearth a quartet of teals roasted on a spit turned by a second kitchen maid. She also looked after the _civet_ of hare slowly stewing in the coals, which emitted a powerful, gamy smell every time it was stirred. The odors of her kitchen were as beautiful to Verity as the sounds of an orchestra in the crescendo of a symphony. This kitchen was her fiefdom, her sanctuary. She cooked with an absolute, almost nerveless concentration, her awareness extending to the subtlest stimulation of the senses and the least movement on the part of her underlings. The sound of her favorite apprentice not stirring the hazelnut butter made her turn her head slightly. "Mademoiselle Porter, the butter," she said, her voice stern. Her voice was always stern in the kitchen. "Yes, Madame. Sorry, Madame," said Becky Porter. The girl would be purple with embarrassment now—she knew very well that it took only a few seconds of inattention before hazelnut butter became black butter. Verity gave Tim Cartwright, the apprentice standing before the white wine reduction, a hard stare. The young man blanched. He cooked liked a dream, his sauces as velvety and breathtaking as a starry night, his soufflés taller than toques. But Verity would not hesitate to let him go without a letter of character if he made an improper advance toward Becky, Becky who'd been with Verity since she was a thirteen-year-old child. Most of the hazelnut butter would be consumed at dinner. But a portion of it was to be saved for the midnight repast her employer had requested: one steak au poivre, a dozen oysters in Mornay sauce, potato croquettes à la Dauphine, a small lemon tart, still warm, and half a dozen dessert crepes spread with, _mais bien sûr,_ hazelnut butter. Crepes with hazelnut butter—Mrs. Danner tonight. Three days ago it had been Mrs. Childs. Bertie was becoming promiscuous in his middle age. Verity removed the cassoulet from the oven and grinned a little to herself, imagining the scene that would hopefully ensue should Mrs. Danner and Mrs. Childs find out that they shared Bertie's less-than-undying devotion. The service hatch door burst open and slammed into a dresser, rattling the rows of copper lids hanging on pin-rails, startling one of them off its anchor. The lid hit the floor hard, bounced and wobbled, its metallic bangs and scrapes echoing in the steam and smolder of the kitchen. Verity looked up sharply. The footmen in this house knew better than to throw doors open like that. "Madame!" Dickie, the first footman, gasped from the doorway, sweat dampening his hair despite the November chill. "Mr. Somerset—Mr. Somerset, he be not right!" Something about Dickie's wild expression suggested that Bertie was far worse than "not right." Verity motioned Edith Briggs, her lead apprentice, to take over her spot before the stove. She wiped her hands on a clean towel and went to the door. "Carry on," she instructed her crew before closing the door behind Dickie and herself. Dickie was already scrambling in the direction of the house. "What's the matter?" she said, lengthening her strides to keep up with the footman. "He be out cold, Madame." "Has someone sent for Dr. Sergeant?" "Mick from the stables just rode out." She'd forgotten her shawl. The air in the unheated passage between kitchen and manor chilled the sheen of perspiration on her face and neck. Dickie pushed open doors: doors to the warming kitchen, doors to another passage, doors to the butler's pantry. Her heart thumped as they entered the dining room. But it was empty, save for an ominously overturned chair. On the floor by the chair were a puddle of water and, a little away, a miraculously unbroken crystal goblet, glinting in the light of the candelabra. A forlorn, half-finished bowl of onion soup still sat at the head of the table, waiting for dinner to resume. Dickie led her to a drawing room deeper into the house. A gaggle of housemaids stood by the door, clutching each other's sleeves and peering in cautiously. They fell back at Verity's approach and bobbed unnecessary curtsies. Her erstwhile lover reclined, supine, on a settee of dark blue. He wore a disconcertingly peaceful expression. Someone had loosened his necktie and opened his shirt at the collar. This state of undress contrasted sharply with his stiff positioning, his hands folded together above his breastbone like those of an effigy atop a stone sarcophagus. Mr. Prior, the butler, stood guard over Bertie's inert body, more or less wringing his hands. At her entrance, he hurried to her side and whispered, "He's not breathing." Her own breath quite left her at that. "Since when?" "Since before Dickie went to the kitchen, Madame," said the butler, without quite his usual sangfroid. Was that five minutes? Seven? She stood immobile a long moment, unable to think. It didn't make any sense. Bertie was a healthy man who experienced few physical maladies. She crossed the room, dipping to one knee before the settee. "Bertie," she called softly, addressing him more intimately than she had at any point in the past decade. "Can you hear me, Bertie?" He did not respond. No dramatic fluttering of the eyelids. No looking at her as if he were Snow White freshly awakened from a poisoned sleep and she the prince who brought him back to life. She touched him, something else she hadn't done in ten years. His palm was wet as was his starched cuff. He was still warm, but her finger pressed over his wrist could detect no pulse, only an obstinate stillness. She dug the pad of her thumb into his veins. Could he possibly be dead? He was only thirty-eight years old. He hadn't even been ill. And he had an assignation with Mrs. Danner tonight. The oysters for his post-coital fortification were resting on a bed of ice in the cold larder and the hazelnut butter was ready for the dessert crepes beloved by Mrs. Danner. But his pulse refused to beat. She released his hand and rose, her mind numb. With the exception of the kitchen regiment, the staff had assembled in the drawing room, the men behind Mr. Prior, the women behind Mrs. Boyce the housekeeper, everyone pressed close to the walls, a sea of black uniforms with foam caps of white collars and white aprons. To Mrs. Boyce's inquiring gaze, Verity shook her head. The man who was once to be her prince was dead. He had taken her up to his castle, but had not kept her there. In the end she had returned to the kitchen, dumped the shards of her delusion in the rubbish bin, and carried on as if she'd never believed that she stood to become the mistress of this esteemed house. "We'd better cable his solicitors then," said Mrs. Boyce. "They'll need to inform his brother that Fairleigh Park is now his." His _brother._ In all the drama of Bertie's abrupt passing, Verity had not even thought of the succession of Fairleigh Park. Now she shook somewhere deep inside, like a dish of aspic set down too hard. She nodded vaguely. "I'll be in the kitchen should you need me." * * * In her copy of Taillevent's _Le Viandier,_ where the book opened to a recipe for gilded chicken with quenelles, Verity kept a brown envelope marked "List of Cheese Merchants in the 16th Arondissement." In the envelope was a news clipping from the county fish wrapper, about the Liberals' victory in the general election after six years in opposition. In a corner of the clipping, Verity had written the date: 16.08.1892. In the middle of the article, a grainy photograph of Stuart Somerset looked back at her— local boy made good. She never touched his image, for fear that her strokes would blur it. Sometimes she looked at it very close, the clipping almost at her nose. Sometimes she put it as far as her lap, but never further, never beyond reach. The man in the photograph seemed to have scarcely aged in ten years, perhaps because his was an old soul, that he'd always been mature beyond his years. He was handsome, dramatically handsome— the face of a Shakespearean actor in his prime, all sharp peak and deep angles. And in his eyes was everything she could possibly want in a man: kindness, warmth, honesty, audacity, and love—love that would tear down this world and build it anew. From afar she'd watched his meteoric rise—one of London's most sought-after barristers, and now, with the Liberals back in power, Mr. Gladstone's Chief Whip in the House of Commons—quite something for a man who'd spent his first nine years in a Manchester slum. He'd accomplished it all on his own merits, of course, but she'd played her small part. She'd walked away from him, from hopes and dreams enough to spawn a generation of poets, so that he could be the man he was meant to be, the man whose face on her newspaper clipping she could not touch. Stuart Somerset lived, not in his constituency of South Hackney, but in the elegant enclaves of Belgravia. From his visit to the house of his fiancée, he returned directly home, and went for the decanter of whiskey that he kept in his study. He took a large swallow of the liquor. He was a little more affected by the news of Bertie's death now than he had been an hour ago. There was a faint numbness in his head. It was the shock of it, he supposed. He hadn't expected Mortality, ever present though it was, to strike Bertie, of all people. Two shelves up from the whiskey decanter was a framed photograph of Bertie and himself, taken when Bertie had been eighteen and he seventeen, shortly after he'd been legitimized. What had Bertie said to him that day? _You may be legitimized, but you will never be one of us. You don't know how Father panicked when it looked as if your mother might live. Your people are laborers and drunks and petty criminals. Don't flatter yourself otherwise._ For years afterward, whenever he remembered Bertie, it was Bertie as he had been that precise moment in time, impeccably turned out, a cold smile on his face, satisfied to have at last ruined something wonderful for his bastard-born brother. But the slim youth in the picture, his fine summer coat faded to rust, resembled no one's idea of a nemesis. His fair hair, ruthlessly parted and slicked back, would have looked gauche in more fashionable circles. His posture was not so much erect as rigid. The square placement of his feet and the hand thrust nonchalantly into the coat pocket meant to indicate great assurance. As it was, he looked like any other eighteen-year-old, trying to radiate a manly confidence he didn't possess. Stuart frowned. How long had it been since he'd last _looked_ at the photograph? The answer came far more easily than he'd expected. Not since That Night. He'd last looked at it with _her,_ who'd studied the image with a disturbing concentration. _Do you hate him?_ she'd asked, giving the photograph back to him. _Sometimes,_ he'd answered absently, distracted by the nearness of her blush-pink lips. She'd been all eyes and lips, eyes the color of a tropical ocean, lips as full and soft as feather pillows. _Then I don't like him either,_ she'd said, smiling oddly. _Do you know him?_ he'd asked, suddenly, and for absolutely no reason. _No,_ she'd shaken her head with a grave finality, her beautiful eyes once again sad. _I don't know him at all._ PRIVATE ARRANGEMENTS A Bantam Book / April 2008 Published by Bantam Dell A Division of Random House, Inc. New York, New York This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved Copyright © 2008 by Sherry Thomas * * * Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. * * * www.bantamdell.com eISBN: 978-0-553-90476-5 v3.0	{'title': 'Private Arrangements (London Trilogy, The 2) - Sherry Thomas'}
Copyright © 2019 by Hannah Kaminsky All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018. Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected]. Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation. Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Kaminsky, Hannah, 1989- author. Title: Sweet vegan treats: 90 cookies, brownies, cakes, tarts, and more baked goods / Hannah Kaminsky. Description: New York, NY: Skyhorse Publishing, [2019] Identifiers: LCCN 2019017622\| ISBN 9781510741843 (print: alk. paper) \| ISBN 9781510741867 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Desserts. \| Vegan cooking. \| LCGFT: Cookbooks. Classification: LCC TX773.K284 2019 \| DDC 641.86—dc23 LC record available at <https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017622> Cover design by Laura Klynstra Cover photo by Hannah Kaminsky Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-4184-3 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-4186-7 Printed in China Contents Thank You! Introduction Ingredient Guide Tools of the Trade Essential Techniques Troubleshooting SWEET STARTS Better Banana Nut Muffins Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal Chocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones Figgy Graham Scones Fruited Focaccia Golden Glazed Doughnuts Hearty Granola Waffles Oatmeal Raisin Rolls Power-Hungry Granola Strawberry Love Muffins Sweet & Simple French Toast Zesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins COOKIES & BARS Almond Avalanche Bars Apricot Biscotti Black & White Cookies Black-Bottom Blondies Butterscotch Blondies Cheesecake Thumbprint Cookies Coffee Break Shortbread Crumb-Topped Brownies Lace Florentines Maple Pistachio Crèmes Nut Case Cookies Orange Hazelnut Biscotti Party Mix Bars Peanut Butter Bombs Peanut-Plus Cookies Pfeffernusse Strawberry Spirals Turtle Shortbread Wedges Whoopie Pies CAKES & CUPCAKES Apple Spice Cake Bananas Foster Cake Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake Chai Cheesecake Cookies and Crème Pound Cake Cranberry Red Velvet Cake Dark Mocha Revelation Cake Everyday Almond Cake Lemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt Lychee Cupcakes with Raspberry Frosting Marshmallow Mud Cake Mini Icebox Cheesecake Not-Nog Cupcakes Orange Dreamsicle Snack Cake Peach Melba Layer Cake Perfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes Piña Colada Mini Bundts Plum-Good Crumb Cake Pomegranate Ginger Cupcakes Pup Cakes Root Beer Float Cupcakes Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake Wasabi Chocolate Cupcakes PIES & TARTS Baklava Tart Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie Cashew Crème Pear Tart Cherry Cola Pudding Pie Chili Chocolate Tart Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie Coconut Custard Pie Ginger Dream Pie Harvest Pie Mont Blanc Mini Tarts Pink Lemonade Tartlets Pumpkin Pecan Pie Spiralized Apple Galette MISCELLANEOUS MORSELS AND DESSERTS Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble Brilliant Blueberry Parfaits Cherry Chocolate Truffles Five-Minute Coconut Fudge Flaming Hot Peanut Brittle Floral Petits Fours Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits Green Tea-ramisu Hazelnut Ravioli Matcha Latte Freezer Pops Matzah Toffee Orangettes Pumpkin Toffee Trifle Sesame Chews Trigona PANTRY STAPLES, COMPONENTS, AND ACCOMPANIMENTS Apple Butter Chocolate Wafer Cookies Cream Cheese Easy Eggless Nog Graham Crackers No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream Orange Marmalade Raspberry Jam Whipped Coconut Cream Conversion Charts Index Thank You! Yes, you, reading these words right here and now! While it feels a bit contrived, if not disingenuous, to spray gratitude indiscriminately into the crowd like this, there's no easy way to express just how much your support means to me. Without a hungry and willing audience, which includes people like you, Sweet Vegan Treats would never have become a printed and published reality, let alone my other half-dozen cookbooks. It's unreal to look back on the original printing of My Sweet Vegan more than a decade ago and take stock of how drastically the landscape of food culture has shifted since then, and yet there's still a place on your shelf, be it physical or digital, for my work. That is why I want to thank you, first and foremost, for your enthusiasm, kindness, and hunger for a second serving of dessert. A relic of antiquated baking techniques and largely untested theories, it's been a dream to bring the original concept back from the dead to give it new life as Sweet Vegan Treats. Not just a quick reprint, but a complete revival. So much has changed since the first printing, both in my approach to baking and the means available to the everyday cook, that this is an entirely new book. Key changes you'll find here include... • Less sugar! Most important, a good dessert should emphasize flavor rather than straight-up sweetness. • No more corn syrup! There are simply better alternatives available on the market and, as this controversial ingredient has fallen out of favor, it's become more difficult to locate, too. • Vegan butter instead of margarine! Such high-quality options didn't exist over a decade ago and there's no need to pretend we like the flavor of those waxy, old-school fluorescent yellow sticks anymore. • More gluten-free and whole-grain options! Dessert should be for everyone, no matter dietary restrictions. Most recipes that still use standard wheat flour can be adapted with a gluten-free blend as well. • New recipe names! Sometimes, plain titles like "French Toast" just don't do the dish justice, or in the case of the Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, "Devastation" suddenly struck me as downright antagonistic. Don't worry though, all your old favorites are still there. If you've been baking along with me all this time, welcome back. If this is all sparkling new to you, grab an apron and roll up your sleeves; you're in for a real treat. Introduction Imagine, at the tender age of eighteen, suddenly having the opportunity to write, photograph, and publish your own cookbook fall right into your lap. Far from an expert, I had cut my teeth learning from trial and error—and error, and error. Unthinkable crazy talk, or perhaps pie in the sky, as it were! Watching My Sweet Vegan transform from a wild flight of fancy into a bound set of glossy pages felt surreal back in the day, just as every book that has come since then. Sweet Vegan Treats is the next chapter in this lifelong story. Based on my earliest ventures in the kitchen as a new vegan and young adolescent, even I could have been convinced that eggs and dairy really are indispensable to delectable sweets. During my freshman year in high school, I churned out muffins and cookies more akin to cement doorstops than edible foodstuffs, but spurred on by a voracious sweet tooth, I never gave up. I was adamant that my creations would one day taste better than anything else on the market, vegan or otherwise. For that matter, it was unacceptable to serve a good vegan pastry; it needed to be delicious by any standards. It hasn't all been smooth sailing. A fateful experiment in search of making vegan marshmallows immediately comes to mind as quite possibly my largest, and definitely stickiest, explosion to date. I'm not talking about a trivial spraying of the walls; marshmallow goop was all over the floor, stove, stuck inside door handles, dripping into drawers, in my hair, the whole nine yards. Then there was the ill-conceived salt-and-pepper ice cream that left me coughing and sneezing for days after a single, fateful scoop. Let's not forget about the white chocolate Bundt cake that might as well have been made of glue based on the texture of the crumb, or lack thereof. Yet, through these spectacular failures, meltdowns, burnt edges, and towers of dirty dishes, I learned what works and what doesn't. Stubbornly reworking some recipes four, five, even six times, I gradually unlocked the "secrets" to produce foolproof, mouthwatering treats that everyone can appreciate. It's easier and more delicious than ever to live without animal products now, as new alternatives and cruelty-free innovations are hitting mainstream awareness at lightning speed these days. Of course, that still doesn't mean you need to be vegan to eat vegan; in my book, it's all just good food, no matter what you want to call it. Whether you're grappling with dietary restrictions, food allergies, ethical quandaries, or just have a serious sweet tooth, there's something here for you tucked within these colorful pages. Happy Baking! Ingredient Guide Set yourself up for culinary success by stocking your pantry with the very best ingredients. If you ever get stuck while shopping, turn your search online, where most things, fresh, frozen, canned, and beyond, can be sent to your door with the click of a button. Agar (Agar-Agar) Also known as kanten, agar is a gelatinous substance made out of seaweed. It's a very close if not identical stand-in for traditional gelatin, which is extracted from the collagen within animals' connective tissues. Agar comes in powdered, flaked, and stick form. I prefer to use the powder because it dissolves more easily and measures teaspoon for teaspoon like standard gelatin. However, if you can only find the flakes, just whiz them in a spice grinder for a few minutes, and voilà—instant agar powder! Agar can be found in Asian markets and some health food stores. Agave Nectar Derived from the same plant as tequila but far less potent, this syrup is made from the condensed juice found at the core of the agave cactus. It is available in both light and dark varieties—the dark possesses a more nuanced, complex, and somewhat floral flavor, while the light tends to provide only a clean sweetness. Considered a less refined form of sugar, agave nectar has a much lower glycemic index than many traditional granulated sweeteners and is therefore consumed by some diabetics in moderation. All-Purpose Flour While wonderful flours can be made from all sorts of grains, beans, nuts, and seeds, the gold standard in everyday baking and cooking is still traditional "all-purpose" wheat flour. Falling texturally somewhere in between cake flour and bread flour, it works as a seamless binder, strong foundation, and neutral base. It's an essential pantry staple for me, stocked in my cupboard at all times. All-purpose flour may be labeled in stores as unbleached white flour or simply "plain flour." Gluten-free all-purpose flour is also widely available now in mainstream markets and can be substituted at a 1:1 ratio for those sensitive to wheat. Many different blends exist, but I've personally had good results with Bob's Red Mill®, Cup 4 Cup®, and King Arthur®. If you'd like to whip up your own blend, that's also easy enough as long as you have a well-stocked pantry. All-Purpose Gluten-Free Flour Blend 6 cups white rice flour 2 cups potato starch or cornstarch 1 cup tapioca flour 2 tablespoons xanthan gum Simply whisk all the dry goods together until thoroughly mixed. Store in an airtight container and measure out as needed. If the recipe you're following already calls for xanthan gum, you can omit it since it's included in this blend. Almond Meal / Flour Almond flour is nothing more than raw almonds ground down into a fine powder, light and even in consistency which makes it ideal for baking, while almond meal is generally a bit coarser. To make your own, just throw a pound or so of completely unadulterated almonds into your food processor, and pulse until floury. It's helpful to freeze the almonds in advance so that they don't overheat and turn into almond butter. You can also create a finer texture by passing the initial almond meal through a fine sieve to sift out the larger pieces. Due to their high oil content, ground nuts can go rancid fairly quickly. If you opt to stock up and save some for later, be sure to store the freshly ground almond flour in an airtight container in the refrigerator or freezer. To cut down on labor and save a little time, almond flour or meal can be purchased in bulk from natural food stores. Apple Cider Vinegar As with oil, vinegar may originate from different types of produce, and the flavor will vary depending upon the source. Thinking along these lines, apple cider vinegar could be considered the olive oil of vinegars—flavorful, useful, and an all-around great thing to have on hand. Regular white wine vinegar or the other standard options would certainly work, but the distinctive flavor of apple cider vinegar rounds out baked goods so perfectly, and it is so easy to find... why wouldn't you use it? Aquafaba It's the not-so-secret ingredient taking the world by storm, dubbed a "miracle" by some and a food science breakthrough by others. In case you're not already a fervent fan, aquafaba is the excess liquid found in any ordinary can of chickpeas. Technically, any bean can produce aquafaba, but the unique ratios of protein and starch found in garbanzo beans has been found to best mimic the unique binding and whipping properties previously only seen in egg whites. Different brands will yield slightly different results, but I've never found any that are complete duds. For more delicate applications like meringues or marshmallow fluff, you can always concentrate your aquafaba to create a stronger foam matrix by cooking it gently over the stove and reducing some of the water. Arrowroot Powder / Flour Thanks to arrowroot, you can thicken sauces, puddings, and mousses with ease. This white powder is very similar to kudzu and is often compared to other starchy flours. However, arrowroot is so fine that it produces much smoother results, and is less likely to stick together and form large, glutinous lumps when baking. In a pinch, cornstarch can be an adequate substitute, but I highly recommend seeking out arrowroot. Most grocery stores have a brand or two tucked in among the spices in the baking aisle. Black Cocoa Powder What do you get when you oxidize Dutch-process cocoa powder to the extreme? Black cocoa, dark as coal, certainly lives up to its name and produces amazing color in baked goods. However, it has a much lower fat content than standard cocoa and should therefore be used sparingly to avoid altering the texture of your baked goods. In a pinch, feel free to substitute regular Dutch-process cocoa for an equally tasty, if comparatively paler, dessert. Black Salt (Kala Namak) Lovingly if crudely nicknamed "fart salt" around these parts, the sulfurous odor released by a big bagful really does smell like... well, you can probably guess. Despite that unpromising introduction, it does taste far better, and eerily similar to eggs. Enhancing everything from tofu scrambles to loaves of challah, it's one of those secret ingredients that every vegan should have in their arsenal. Don't let the name confuse you though; the fine grains are actually mottled pink in appearance, not black. Brown Rice Syrup Caramel-colored and thick like honey, brown rice syrup is a natural sweetener that is produced via the fermentation of brown rice. It tastes less sweet than granulated sugar, adding a wholesome complexity to baked goods. The deep flavor of brown rice syrup is best cast in supporting roles, complementing other aspects of the dish without taking center stage. Butter It's a basic kitchen staple, but good dairy-free butter can be quite elusive if you don't know what to look for. Some name brands contain whey or other milk derivatives, while others conceal the elusive, animal-derived Vitamin D3, so be alert when scanning ingredient labels. For ease, I prefer to use it in stick format, such as Earth Balance® Buttery Sticks or Miyoko's Kitchen European Style Cultured VeganButter. Never try to substitute spreadable butter from a tub! These varieties have much more water to allow them to spread while cold, and will thus bake and cook differently. I always use unsalted butter unless otherwise noted, but you are welcome to use salted as long as you remove about ¼ teaspoon of salt per ¼ cup of butter from the recipe. Overly salted food is one of the first flaws that diners notice, so take care with your seasoning and always adjust to taste. Cacao Nibs Also known as raw chocolate, cacao nibs are unprocessed cacao nuts, simply broken up into smaller pieces. Much more bitter and harsh than the sweet, mellow chocolate found in bars or chips, it is often used for texture and accent flavor in desserts. Sometimes it can be found coated in sugar to soften its inherent acidity, but for baking, you want the plain, raw version if possible. Seek out bags of cacao nibs in health food stores; if you're really lucky, you may be able to find them in the bulk bins of well-stocked specialty stores. Chia Seeds Yes, this is the same stuff that makes Chia Pets so green and fuzzy, and yes, the seeds are edible! Tiny but mighty, what makes these particular seeds so special is that they form a gel when mixed with liquid. This makes them a powerful binder when trying to replace eggs, or should flaxseeds be in short supply. Store in the freezer for a longer life span, and grind them before using in baked goods to maintain an even crumb texture. Chocolate Why does something so common, so beloved and easily accessible, need further explanation? Chocolate is chocolate, especially when you're reaching for the dark stuff, right? Many name brands that prefer quantity to quality would beg to differ. Obviously, white and milk chocolate are out of the picture, yet some dark, bittersweet, and semisweet chocolates still don't make the vegan cut. Even those that claim to be "70% cacao solids, extra-special dark" may have milk solids or butterfat lurking within. Don't buy the hype or the filler! Stay vigilant and check all labels to uncover superior flavor undiluted by dairy products. Chocolate Crème-Filled Sandwich Cookies As America's favorite cookie, it is no surprise that the Oreo® would come up sooner or later on this list. While the original Oreo® has changed its ways to take out the trans fats and animal products, there are many other options on the market. Newman's Own makes an organic version that tastes just like the cookies you might remember from your childhood. Trader Joe's even has their own house brand, always available at a very reasonable price and sometimes in exciting seasonal varieties. Any wafer cookies with a vanilla filling will do, or you can even whip up your own by combining the Chocolate Wafer Cookie recipe on page 229 with the vanilla frosting recipe from the Root Beer Float Cupcakes on page 149. Chocolate Wafer Cookie Crumbs Simply flat, crunchy cocoa cookies, there are quite a few vegan options on the market. I typically use the Alphabet Cookies from Newman's Own, but plenty of other brands will work just as well. Just be sure to check the ingredient statement, and stay away from those that look soft or chewy. For a thrifty endeavor, you could also try baking your own at home with the Chocolate Wafer Cookie recipe on page 229! Once baked and fully cooled, pulverize the cookies into crumbs using a food processor, blender, or a good old-fashioned rubber mallet, depending upon your mood. Cocoa Butter Chocolate is comprised of two key elements: The cocoa solids, which give it that distinct cocoa flavor, and the cocoa butter, which is the fat that provides the body. Cocoa butter is solid at room temperature, like all tropical oils, so it's best to measure it after melting, as the firm chunks can appear deceptively voluminous. It's really important to pick up high quality, food-grade cocoa butter. As a popular ingredient in body lotions and lip balms, some offerings come with fillers and undesirable additives, so shop carefully if you search locally. Also avoid deodorized cocoa butter, unless you'd rather omit its natural flavor from your desserts. Coconut Milk When called for in this book, I'm referring to regular, full-fat coconut milk. That fat is necessary for a smooth, creamy mouthfeel and richer taste. In ice cream, light coconut milk cannot be substituted without detrimental effects to the final texture. Plain coconut milk is found canned in the ethnic foods aisle of the grocery store. You can make it yourself from fresh coconut meat, but in most cases, such as baking and general dessert-making when it's not the featured flavor, the added hassle honestly isn't worth the expense or effort. Coconut Oil Once demonized as artery-clogging sludge not fit to grease a doorframe, nutritionists now can't recommend this tropical fat highly enough. Touted for its benefits when consumed or used topically, it's readily available just about anywhere you turn. Two varieties populate store shelves: Virgin (or raw/unrefined) coconut oil and refined coconut oil. Virgin gets the best press from the health experts since it's less processed, and it bears the subtle aroma of the coconut flesh. Refined has been deodorized and is essentially flavorless, allowing it to blend seamlessly with any other flavors. They both solidify below 76°F, but virgin oil reaches its smoke point at 350°F while refined is at 450°F. Either works fine for raw or unbaked treats, but I would recommend refined for baked applications. Confectioners' Sugar Otherwise known as powdered sugar, icing sugar, or 10x sugar, confectioners' sugar is a very finely ground version of standard white sugar with just a touch of cornstarch added to prevent clumping. If you should reach into your pantry and come out empty-handed, you can make your own by combining 1 cup of granulated sugar with 1 tablespoon of cornstarch in your food processor or spice grinder. Simply blend on the highest speed for about two minutes, allowing the dust to settle before opening your machine up—unless you want to inhale a cloud of sugar! Cream Cheese Many innovative companies now make dairy-free products that will give you the most authentic shmears and cream cheese frostings imaginable. These soft spreads also hold up beautifully in cookie dough and piecrusts, contributing a great tangy flavor and excellent structure. My favorite brands are Tofutti®, Kite Hill®, and Miyoko's®, but there are even more options in ample supply at well-stocked natural foods markets. You can even make your own from scratch with relative ease using the recipe on page 230, but bear in mind that it will likely produce a coarser texture than anything store-bought. Cream of Tartar Don't let the name fool you; cream of tartar has absolutely nothing to do with either cream nor tartar sauce. It's actually created through the fermentation process that grapes undergo in the production of wine. Thus, it can contribute a good deal of acid to recipes in very small doses. Sometimes used as a stabilizer, it can create flavors similar to buttermilk, or be used to create baking powder: For a small batch, sift together 2 tablespoons cream of tartar with 1 tablespoon baking soda and 1 teaspoon cornstarch. Flavor Extracts I usually try to stay as far away from flavor extracts as possible, because they are all too often artificial, insipid, and a poor replacement for the real thing. However, vanilla (see page 12 for further details), peppermint, and almond are my main exceptions, as high-quality extracts from the actual sources are readily available in most markets. Just make sure to avoid any bottles that list sugar, corn syrup, colors, or chemical stabilizers in addition to your flavor of choice. For more unconventional essences, if your supermarket searches end up unsuccessful, try the internet. I've found OliveNation.com in particular to be a reliable resource. Flaxseeds Ground flaxseeds make an excellent vegan egg-replacer when combined with water. One tablespoon of the whole seeds produces approximately 1½ tablespoons of the ground powder. While you can purchase pre-ground flaxseed meal in many stores, I prefer to grind them fresh for each recipe, as they tend to go rancid much more quickly once broken down. Not to mention, it takes mere seconds to powder your own flaxseeds in a spice grinder. If you do opt to purchase flax meal instead, be sure to store the powder in your refrigerator or freezer until you are ready to use it. These tiny seeds can be found in bulk bins and prepackaged in the baking aisle of natural food stores. Garbanzo Bean (Chickpea) Flour Gaining in popularity as a versatile gluten-free flour, garbanzo flour is just what you might imagine; nothing but dried, finely ground chickpeas. When used in baking, it can be used as a substitute for about 20–25 percent of the wheat flour called for in a recipe or to add a toothsome density to cakes or cookies. It can also be cooked with water like polenta, and eaten either as a hot porridge or let set overnight in a baking dish, sliced, and then fried to make what is called chickpea panisse. Just be warned that eaten raw (if, say, someone decided to sample raw cookie batter that contains garbanzo flour) it is very bitter and unpleasant. Garbanzo flour should be readily available in most grocery stores in the baking or natural foods section, but if you have a powerful blender like a Vitamix (see Kitchen Toys and Tools) with a dry grinding container, you can make your own from dried, split chickpeas (also known as chana dal). Process 2 cups of legumes at a time, and use the plunger to keep things moving. Once finely ground, let the dust settle for a few minutes before removing the lid of the container. Graham Crackers When I first went searching for vegan graham crackers, I was appalled at my lack of options. Why every brand in sight needed to include honey was beyond me. So, what is an intrepid food enthusiast to do in a tight situation like this? Shop, search, and browse some more, of course. Concealed among the rest, and often in natural foods stores, there are a few brands that exclude all animal products. Believe it or not, some of the best options are the store-brand, no-name biscuits that may otherwise get overlooked. Keep your eyes peeled for unexpected steals and deals. Go the extra mile and make your own from scratch using the recipe on page 235 for a truly superlative staple, but make twice as much as you'll need for the final recipe, because you'll want to snack on those all by themselves. Graham Flour Best known in the form of crackers, graham flour is simply a fancy type of wheat flour. It is made from a process that separates all parts of the wheat kernel itself and recombines them in different proportions. For reasons beyond my grasp, this unique flour is not sold in all countries. If you are having a hard time getting your hands on some, and don't mind a treat with a slightly different, denser texture, regular old whole wheat flour can be substituted. With a little bit more effort, you can fabricate a closer approximation of the wholesome flavor and coarse grind with ¾ cup plus 2 tablespoons whole wheat pastry flour and 2 tablespoons toasted wheat germ. Granulated Sugar Yes, that's plain old, regular white sugar I'm talking about. Surprised to see this most basic sweetener here? It's true that all sugar (beet or cane) is derived from plant sources and therefore vegan by nature. However, there are some sneaky things going on behind the scenes in big corporations these days. Some cane sugar is filtered using bone char, a very non-vegan process, but that will never be specified on a label. The same goes for brown sugar as well, which is really just white sugar with molasses added back in. If you're not sure about the brand that you typically buy, your best bet is to contact the manufacturer directly and ask. To bypass this problem, many vegans purchase unbleached cane sugar. While it is a suitable substitute, unbleached cane sugar does have a higher molasses content than white sugar, so it has more of a brown sugar–like flavor, and tends to produce desserts that are denser. Luckily, there are a few caring companies that go to great pains to ensure the purity of their sugar products, such as Florida Crystals® and Amalgamated Sugar Company®, the suppliers to White Satin, Fred Meyer, Western Family, and Parade. You can often find appropriate sugar in health food store bulk bins these days to save some money, but as always, verify the source before forking over the cash. As sugar can be a touchy vegan subject, it is best to use your own judgment when considering which brand to purchase. Instant Coffee Powder or Granules Though generally unfit for drinking as intended, instant coffee is an ideal way to add those crave-worthy roasted, smoky notes to any recipe without also incorporating a lot of extra liquid. Stored in a dry, dark place, a small jar should last a long time. You can even find decaf versions, in case you're more sensitive to caffeine but still want that flavor in your recipes. I prefer powder to granules because it dissolves more easily, but both can work interchangeably with a bit of vigorous mixing. Instant Potato Flakes Instant mashed potatoes have been a convenient pantry staple since the 1920s when semi-homemade shortcuts were all the rage. Larded with waxy processed fats, dried dairy products, and aggressive doses of salt, these are not the kind of "quick fix" side dishes I can endorse. Rather, I'm looking for just the plain, unadorned flakes of dehydrated potatoes, ready to be reconstituted with hot water and mixed up into any variety of recipe applications. Though rather bland by themselves, that's precisely what makes them so versatile. You're more likely to encounter them in health food stores or online shops, either in large packages or bulk bins. Just make sure there's nothing else added, and that they are in fact flakes, not granules, since the two formats absorb liquid at a different rate. Maple Syrup One of my absolute favorite sweeteners, there is simply no substitute for real, 100 percent maple syrup. Of course, this incredible indulgence does come at a hefty price. Though it would be absolute sacrilege to use anything but authentic Grade B maple syrup on pancakes or waffles in my house, I will sometimes bend the rules in recipes where it isn't such a prominent flavor, in order to save some money. In these instances, I'll substitute a maple-agave blend, which still carries the flavor from the actual source, but bulks it up with an equal dose of agave for sweetening power. Grade A is a fine substitute in a pinch, but contrary to what the letter would suggest, it's surprisingly less flavorful than Grade B. Matcha Perhaps one of my all-time favorite flavorings, matcha is a very high-quality powdered green tea. It is used primarily in Japanese tea ceremonies and can have an intense, complex, and bitter taste when used in large amounts. Contrary to what many new bakers think, this is not the same as the green tea leaves you'll find in mega mart tea bags! Those are vastly inferior in the flavor department, and real matcha is ground much finer. There are many levels of quality, with each step up in grade carrying a higher price tag. Because it can become quite pricey, I would suggest buying a mid-range or "culinary" grade, which should be readily available at any specialty tea store and many health food markets. Nondairy Milk The foundation of many cream and custard pies, I kept this critical ingredient somewhat ambiguous for a reason. Most types of nondairy milk will work in these recipes, and I wouldn't want to limit anyone with specific allergies. The only type that I absolutely do not recommend using is rice milk, as it tends to be much thinner, often gritty, and completely lacking in the body necessary to make rich, satisfying desserts. Unless explicitly specified, any other type of vegan milk substitute will work. My top pick is unsweetened almond milk because it tends to be a bit thicker, richer, and still has a neutral flavor. Don't be afraid to experiment, though; there's a lot to choose from! Nutritional Yeast Unlike active yeast, nutritional yeast is not used to leaven baked goods, but to flavor all sorts of dishes. Prized for its distinctly cheesy flavor, it's a staple in most vegan pantries and is finally starting to gain recognition in mainstream cooking as well. Though it is almost always found in savory recipes, I sometimes like to add a tiny pinch to some desserts, bringing out its subtle buttery characteristics. It can be found either in the baking aisle or in many bulk bin sections. Olive Oil One of the most sweeping changes in these revamped recipes was replacing all the canola oil with olive oil. Though canola is king for neutral flavor, it's become a bit controversial for some when it comes to health and environmental impact. I've always been a much bigger fan of olive oil anyhow, and after a bit of experimentation, I found that it could seamlessly fill those shoes, despite the common misconceptions over how it might ruin the delicate flavors in cakes or other sweet treats. Simply opt for a "light" variety to reduce the stronger, grassier, or more peppery notes. This type of olive oil is also processed in a way that makes it almost colorless and better for high-heat applications than extra virgin, for instance. Truth be told, my absolute favorite oils for baking are avocado oil and rice bran oil, in that order, but I understand that these aren't as widely available. If you have the access and inclination, though, give either a try for an upgraded option. Puffed Grains Those crispy rice cereals that have graced breakfast tables for over 50 years are all too familiar, but what about the other puffed grains, such as barley, wheat, or millet? Yes, the exact same process can be used on all of these staples to create light, crunchy cereal grains, each with their own distinctive flavors and shapes. Puffed quinoa and millet, called for in the Power-Hungry Granola (page 51), are two of the more unusual puffed grains in my breakfast bowl, but either can be replaced with crispy rice cereal in an equal proportion. I prefer to stick with plain grains when making granola. Boxed cereals that have sugar added are fine too, just expect a sweeter result, or dial down the sugar in the recipe to compensate. Most health food stores will stock more uncommon varieties in bulk bins, but feel free to experiment with whatever is easiest for you to obtain. Sour Cream Another creative alternative comes to the rescue of vegan bakers everywhere! Vegan sour cream provides an amazingly similar yet dairy-free version of the original tangy spread. In a pinch, I suppose you might be able to get away with using "Greek" style vegan yogurt instead, but it doesn't have the same richness and body, so the resulting desserts may be a bit less decadent. Vegan sour cream can often be found neatly tucked in among its dairy-based rivals in the grocery store, or with the other refrigerated dairy alternatives. The soy-based Sour Supreme from Tofutti® remains my favorite, even over a decade of baking experience later. Sprinkles What's a birthday party without a generous handful of sprinkles to brighten up the cake? Though these colorful toppers are made primarily of edible wax, they are often coated in confectioners' glaze, which is code for mashed-up insects, to give them their lustrous shine. Happily, you can now find specifically vegan sprinkles (sold as "Sprinkelz") produced by the Let's Do...® company, in both chocolate and colored versions, which can be found at just about any natural food store. If you're feeling colorful, you can also make a healthier, sugar-free version with... amaranth! That's right; just plain old amaranth soaked in plant-based dyes and dehydrated will do the trick, since these toppers should be applied sparingly and don't contribute any discernable flavor. All you need to do is soak amaranth in a colorful liquid for 4 hours, drain, and bake for 50 to 60 minutes at 200°F, stirring every 10 minutes or so, until dry to the touch. Your dyeing guide is as follows: • Beet juice for red/pink • Turmeric with water for yellow • Matcha with water for green Use just enough liquid to cover the grains and ratios as desired to reach the shade you'd like, but bear in mind they won't be as brilliant as anything store-bought or chemically enhanced. Variations on these colors are easily blended, but this mix tends to do just fine for that extra touch of whimsy. Bake in separate batches until completely dry to prevent the colors from bleeding. Store in an airtight container until ready to sprinkle in some fun! Tahini A staple of Middle Eastern cuisine, most grocery stores should be able to accommodate your tahini requests. Tahini is a paste very much like peanut butter, but it is made from sesame seeds rather than nuts. If you don't have any on hand and a trip to the market is not in your immediate plans, then any other nut butter will provide exactly the same texture within a recipe, though it will impart a different overall taste. Textured Vegetable (or Soy) Protein Typically shortened to the abbreviation of TVP (or TSP), this is a very concentrated protein, and a by-product of making soybean oil. It's consequently low in fat, and well-known for its appearances in savory dishes as a very convincing meat replacement. Cut into chunks, the spongy texture of TVP is especially receptive to other flavors and seasonings. This may sound like a strange ingredient to include within a book about sweet recipes, but like tofu, it has a fairly neutral flavor and can be seasoned in any way you can imagine! Bags or tubs of TVP are available in most health food stores and some bulk bin sections. Soy Curls® have a similar texture but are made from the whole soybean, if you would prefer a more complete protein. These come in longer strips, so simply pulse them in your blender or food processor to break them into a coarse, pebble-like consistency before proceeding with the recipe. Tofu Yes, I bake with tofu and I don't apologize for it! It lends fabulous moisture, structure, and even a punch of protein! When I use tofu in desserts, I always reach for the aseptic, shelf-stable packs made by Mori-Nu®. Not only do they seem to last indefinitely when unopened, they also blend down into a flawlessly smooth puree when processed thoroughly. These compact little boxes are all over the place in natural food stores and Asian markets, as well as online. Water-packed tofu sold in the produce section of standard grocery stores will have a much looser texture when baked and is likely to have a more "beany" flavor. Turbinado Sugar Coarse, light brown granulated sugar, it's hard to resist the sparkle that this edible glitter lends when applied to the outside of cookies. Though it's not the best choice for actually baking with since the large crystals make for an uneven distribution of sweetness, it adds a satisfying crunch and eye-appeal when used as decoration. Vanilla (Extract, Paste, and Beans) One of the most important ingredients in a baker's arsenal, vanilla is found in countless forms and qualities. It goes without saying that artificial flavorings pale in comparison to the real thing. Madagascar vanilla is the traditional full-bodied vanilla that most people appreciate in desserts, so stick with that and you can't go wrong. To take your desserts up a step, vanilla paste brings in the same amount of flavor, but includes those lovely little vanilla bean flecks that makes everyone think you busted out the good stuff and used whole beans. Vanilla paste can be substituted 1:1 for vanilla extract. Like whole vanilla beans, save the paste for things where you'll really see those specks of vanilla goodness, like ice creams, custards, and frostings. Vanilla beans, the most costly but flavorful option, can be used instead, at about 1 bean per 2 teaspoons of extract or paste. Once you've split and scraped out the insides, get the most for your money by stashing the pod in a container of granulated sugar, to slowly infuse the sugar with delicious vanilla flavor. Or, just store the pod in a container until it dries out, and then grind it up very finely in a high-speed blender and use it to augment a good vanilla extract. The flavor won't be as strong as the seeds, but it does contribute to the illusion that you've used the good stuff. Vegan Eggnog Made with neither dairy nor eggs, commercially prepared vegan "eggnog" is actually quite delicious, contrary to what thoughts the name may evoke. It is a bit thinner than the traditional egg- and cream-based drink, but this actually makes it even better to bake with, as it doesn't tend to weigh cakes down nearly as much. Due to its seasonality, vegan "eggnog" is only available in the months surrounding Christmas, but during those times you should be able to find it in most mainstream marketplaces. Or you can make your own with a quick online search. Wasabi Paste and Powder Just like the mounds of green paste served with sushi, the prepared wasabi paste found in tubes is almost certainly not made of wasabi root. Strange but true, it's typically colored horseradish instead, due to the rarity and expense of real wasabi. Read labels carefully, because it's one of those things that seems guaranteed to be vegan-friendly, but can give you a nasty surprise if you're not careful. Milk derivatives are often added, for reasons I couldn't begin to explain. The potent flavor dissipates over time, so be sure to toss any that has been sitting in your pantry well past its prime. If quality paste is nowhere to be found, opt for prepared horseradish (blended only with a dash of vinegar) instead. In some cases, mustard powder can lend a similar flavor instead of wasabi powder, but only in very small doses. White Whole Wheat Flour Look out, whole wheat pastry flour, healthy bakers everywhere have a new best friend! It may look and taste like regular white flour, but is instead milled from the whole grain. Simply made from hard white wheat berries instead of red, the color and flavor is much lighter, making it the perfect addition to nearly every sort of baking application you can think of. If you're concerned about getting more fiber into your diet, feel free to switch out the all-purpose flour in any recipe in this book for white whole wheat. Whole Wheat Pastry Flour I just love using whole wheat flour whenever possible, to add in some extra fiber and nutrients, but all too often it can make desserts dense and unpalatable. This is where whole wheat pastry flour steps in! It has a lower gluten content and is therefore less likely to create that tough, heavy texture typically associated with the wholesome grain. White whole wheat flour can also be used for the same applications. Yogurt No longer just soy, there are now flavors like coconut, almond, cashew, and beyond, there's a nut or a grain for everyone! Unless specified, opt for plain yogurt, rather than "Greek" style, which will be considerably thicker. I prefer to purchase the larger containers and weigh or measure out the requisite amount, since single-serving cups can vary in size. I'm quite partial to the almond-based version made by Kite Hill® but the "cashewgurt" from Forager® is a close second. Tools of the Trade Working with a scant arsenal of bare essentials at your disposal, all you really need is a mixing bowl, big wooden spoon, measuring cups, and a couple of baking tins to whip up countless fabulous baked goods. Nonetheless, a few pieces of supplemental equipment will make your time in the kitchen pass much more quickly and efficiently, improve your end results, and offer the ability to produce some more adventurous recipes. Below is a quick primer on the indispensable gadgets you'll find powering my culinary creations: Baking Pans / Baking Dishes There are a wide variety of baking dishes on the market—aluminum, nonstick, glass, silicone, and so on—but any type will generally work, as long as it is the size that the recipe calls for. Just make sure to give your baking pans a little extra attention in the greasing stage if they are not nonstick. Whenever I can, I use nonstick aluminized steel, but bakeware material is greatly a matter of personal preference, so this small detail is not terribly important. For the most part, all the baking pan shapes and sizes mentioned in this book can be easily found in any good kitchen store, supermarket, or online. Blender They come in all shapes and sizes, with wildly varying prices to match. If you want the sturdiest machine that will grant you the most pureeing power, I can't recommend the Vitamix® highly enough. Yes, it's one of the priciest models on the market for consumer purchase, but it actually is professional quality and will pay for itself through saved time and aggravation. There is simply nothing else that can blend whole nuts so silky smooth, or grind whole beans down to perfectly fine flour. I use mine almost every day, whether for baking adventures or just blending myself a smoothie. Broiler If you've never used it before, you're missing out on one of the best elements built right into your oven. It reaches scorching-hot temperatures in seconds, providing instant firepower when you want to quickly brown surfaces or finish a dish with a touch of char. You can also use the broiler in toaster ovens for greater efficiency, since less heat is lost in smaller, more confined space. Set the rack as close to the heating element as possible to maximize that intensity and exposure. Unlike baking, broiling is most effective when the door to the oven is left slightly ajar to prevent steam from building up, preventing a proper dry sear. Cookie Cutters I do not use cookie cutters very often, as they can be a pain to work with. However, when necessary, I reach for big plastic ones, which are free of small details. Shapes that are too intricate tend to spread out into one big blob while cooking. Just because they make them doesn't mean they always work out well! Also, if I have the option, I stay far away from the metal cutters, as they tend to deform and rust rather easily. But, if that is all you can find, or you would rather stick with the metal, more power to you! Food Processor They both have a spinning blade at the bottom of a sealed canister, but don't consider a blender and a food processor as being interchangeable in every procedure. There's no way you'd be able to make pastry dough in a blender, but my food processor is the secret to effortlessly whipping up everything from silky-smooth hummus to flaky crust. If you have a limited budget for only one serious appliance investment, go for a food processor. Choose a model with at least 7–8 cups capacity, or else be prepared to process many recipes in batches. Kitchen Torch Hasn't every child wanted their own flamethrower growing up? Okay, maybe I was just an odd child, but there's no denying the allure of playing with fire. A kitchen torch allows you that thrill with a bit more safety. Found in kitchen supply and specialty shops, these devices look somewhat like small guns and are powered by butane. Very reasonably priced at $10–$20 for most basic models, they make brûléeing or browning meringue a breeze. Mandoline No relation to the mandolin, a stringed musical instrument that resembles a banjo, the mandoline is the secret to deconstructing produce into perfect paper-thin slices, all the exact same width, without needing to pick up a knife. The frame can be made of plastic or metal and comes with numerous inserts that will adjust the width of the finished slices. Some even come with specialty attachments that will create waffle cuts and crinkle cuts, ideal for fancy French fries. A common misconception is that they're dangerous, but this only rings true when used improperly, like any other tool. Never, ever, ever operate a mandoline without the hand guard. I know far too many people, including myself, that have nearly lost fingers trying to beat the system and go it alone. That one last tiny slice off the bottom of that slippery potato just isn't worth the pain. Microwave Did you know that the first microwave ever built was 6 feet tall, weighed 750 pounds, and cost $5,000? Vast technological advances have significantly brought down all those figures, allowing the machines to become ubiquitous kitchen staples today. Few people give their microwaves a second thought, but different models can vary greatly in power and capacity. The average electromagnetic oven has an output of 700 watts, which is what most recipes are written to accommodate. If you're not sure about your own microwave, place a cup of water in a dish and see how long it takes to boil. For a 700-watt model, it should take about 2½ minutes; 1,000 watts will get you there in only 1¾ minutes. Rarely will you encounter a noncommercial machine that pumps out over 1,200 watts, which will boil water in under 1½ minutes. Once you harness the full power of your machine, adjust your cooking times accordingly. You can also find a more thorough conversion chart at MicrowaveWatt.com. Piping / Pastry Bags and Tips The very first time I picked up a piping bag to frost a cupcake, I knew that there was no going back. It just makes for a more professional presentation than frosting blobbed on with a knife, in my opinion. Piping bags are by no means necessary tools, but rather a baker's luxury. If you don't know how to wield a pastry bag or cannot be bothered with the hassle, there is no need to run out and buy one. However, should you wish to give piping a try, don't skimp on the quality! Piping bags come in heavy-duty, reusable fabric, or plastic and disposable varieties, which range in quality. This is one time when I like to use disposable, because piping bags really are a nightmare to clean. Just avoid the cheaper plastic bags, as they are often too thin to stand up to the pressure. As for the tips, you only need one or two big star tips to make immaculate swirls. You can also pipe straight out of the bag for a rounded spiral. Silicone Baking Mats I simply adore these flat, nonstick mats and use them at every opportunity. Likened to reusable parchment paper, they cut down on the cost and excess waste of traditional single-use fibers. In terms of performance, they also tend to reduce browning, so it's more difficult (but by no means impossible) to burn cookies when using them. While one should last you several years, it is helpful to have a few on hand. For best care, wash them promptly after each use with mild soap and a soft sponge. Never use a knife directly on these mats because they will slice through, indestructible though they may seem! Silpats® are the brand you're most likely to encounter, but plenty of alternatives can be located at any good kitchen supply store. Spice Grinder Otherwise known as a coffee grinder, this miniature appliance is so inexpensive and efficient that every home cook should have one! Spice grinders are perfect for quickly grinding nuts, seeds, grains, and, of course, spices, into a fine powder. Think of it as a mini food processor that can handily tackle smaller batches. Spiralizer Once an esoteric uni-tasking tool used exclusively in raw cuisine, spiralizers have taken the whole world by storm, spinning out curly strands of vegetables with a twist of the wrist. Operated much like a hand-crank pencil sharpener, firm fruits and vegetables can be spun through a series of small blades to make "noodles" or ribbons of various sizes. Zucchini are typically the gateway for more daring plant-based pasta facsimiles; I've had wonderful results with seedless cucumbers, carrots, beets, strips of pumpkin, daikon, and parsnips, to name a few. You can find spiralizers sold for $15–40, and you really don't need to splurge on this small investment, since they're really more or less just as effective. If you're still not quite ready to commit, you can get a similar sort of result from a julienne peeler, but it will take a bit more time and labor to turn out the same volume of skinny strands. Springform Pan Springform pans are a must for creating perfect cheesecakes. As opposed to standard cake pans, these flexible vessels boast removable sides, which allow softer cakes to remain intact when presented. Springform pans are relatively inexpensive and can be found in most food and kitchen stores, among the wide selection of baking pans. They are easily recognizable by a clamp on one side. Stand Mixer While hand mixers get the job done, a good stand mixer will save your arm a tremendous amount of grief. A high-quality stand mixer can cost a pretty penny, but it is usually worth its weight in gold. It is easy to multitask while this powerful and independent machine works its magic. If your kitchen space or budget doesn't allow for this luxury, then a hand mixer, or even the vigorous use of a whisk, will suit whenever a stand mixer is noted. Strainer When I call for one of these in a recipe, chances are I'm not talking about a pasta colander, with its large, spread-out holes. To sieve out raspberry seeds, drain canned beans, or take care of any other liquid/solid separation jobs, a decent fine-mesh sieve will tackle the job with ease. Seek out strainers with solid construction, so that the mesh won't pull out after repeated pressings with a spatula. One about 7–9 inches in diameter should accommodate. Essential Techniques Mastering a few simple procedures frequently called for in both baking and cooking will make any culinary task much less daunting. Skills are gained only through experience, so get out in the kitchen and start practicing! Even the greenest novices should be able to get these basics down pat in no time. Toasting Nuts and Seeds Many cooks recommend toasting nuts and seeds in the oven, but this isn't my method of choice. For one, why heat up the whole kitchen when you don't necessarily need the oven for the rest of your recipe? Secondly, I don't like the fact that I can't really watch over them or stir when necessary, which leads to horrifically blackened nuts far more often than I'd like to admit. Spare yourself the smoke and drama; try toasting over the stove instead. Set a medium-sized skillet over moderate heat and toss in your nuts or seeds. Toast only 1–2 cups at a time so that they can all have equal time getting direct heat, thus cooking more evenly. It may start slowly, but once you start smelling that nutty aroma, things move quickly, so don't walk away from this process. Stir every minute or two, until the nuts or seeds are golden brown and highly aromatic. This will take anywhere from 7–15 minutes, depending on your particular variety. Immediately pour the contents of your skillet out onto a plate, to prevent them from continuing to cook and subsequently burn. Using Whole Vanilla Beans There may be some killer vanilla extracts on the market these days, but there's still no liquid elixir that can touch the potent, sweet essence of a whole vanilla bean. You want to seek out plump, supple beans that bend easily without snapping. They should have a strong scent that carries a natural sweetness with it. Using them in your recipes is simple: Slit one bean lengthwise with a sharp knife and scrape out the tiny seeds within. Add those seeds to your mixture, and be thorough to extract every bit of bean you can. For additional flavor, toss the spent vanilla bean pods into an ice cream base as well, to infuse, and then remove before churning. Personally, I prefer to save the pods instead in a container of granulated sugar to create incredible vanilla sugar, which does wonders as the crust of crème brûlée. Grinding Whole Spices Ready-to-use, ground spices have their place and work quite well in most cases, but if you would just try grinding them from whole seeds to taste the difference, it may be hard to go back. Using the same technique as you would to toast nuts over the stove top, toast your whole spices first. This will bring out the aromatic and flavorful oils, allowing them to have a stronger and fuller taste. Just keep a very close eye on them, as they tend to toast very quickly; about 5–8 minutes should do it. They may not appear any different in color, but don't worry, you will definitely smell the difference. Let the spices cool completely before grinding down to a fine powder in a spice or coffee grinder. To achieve the finest consistency, you may want to first try freezing the spices. Measure out for your recipes only after completely ground, as whole spices would measure out to very different amounts, compared to powdered. Thickening a Custard If I had a penny for every time I had a cauldron of bubbling nondairy milk boil over and redecorate the kitchen... Well, I think you know how the rest of that goes. It's not at all hard to thicken ice cream bases, custards, or puddings, but the key is that you must give it your undivided attention. Whisk vigorously before turning on the heat to break up any possible clumps hidden anywhere within the mixture, and then make sure that you never venture above medium heat. Medium-low is a better bet for the easily distracted, just as an extra measure of insurance. Whisk occasionally at first, every few minutes, to ensure that nothing is sticking to or burning at the bottom of the pot. As bubbles begin to form around the edges, keep stirring constantly, with one hand hovering above the heat control. A rapid boil can quickly overflow the confines of any pot, so as soon as it's reached that stage, immediately kill the heat and move the whole pot off the burner. Keep whisking for a minute longer, to help facilitate the cooling process and ensure that no lumps form right at the end. Straining Custards and Sauces Lumps happen, and that's a fact of life. They don't have to ruin your desserts, though! For the smoothest results possible, it's a good idea to strain every single thickened liquid before allowing it to cool or further set, to remove possible starchy clumps. Use a fine-mesh sieve to filter out any offending particles, and try not to press the contents through with your spatula. Rather, tap on the side of the strainer firmly and rapidly to help gravity carry the mixture through. Some bases are simply too thick to strain without a bit of additional pressure, though, so don't be afraid to get a spatula in there if you need to. Discard any lumps you may catch. Storing Desserts in the Freezer Air is the biggest enemy of food preservation, so the key to proper storage is investing in sturdy, airtight containers. BPA-free plastic is your best bet, since it has more flexibility, and can more easily withstand the rigors of freezing and thawing. Glass containers may be pretty and easier to see into, but they become exceedingly apt to break once frozen, and it really bites when you get shards of glass in your dessert. In the case of ice cream or frosting, if there's a lot of empty headroom in the container after filling it, place a piece of parchment or wax paper directly on the surface before closing up the container, to help stave off freezer burn. For cakes, wrap layers separately in plastic wrap, and let frosting thaw completely before whipping back into shape with your stand mixer and applying; do not microwave because it will simply turn into a buttery puddle of sugar. Cookies and cupcakes can be wrapped individually to thaw as cravings strike, or bundled in containers, separated by layers of wax paper. Fruit desserts, like crisps, crumbles, and especially pies, do not keep well in the fridge let alone the freezer, and should be eaten as soon as possible. If you're worried about leftovers, make smaller batches and bake in single servings. Don't forget, the freezer doesn't cryogenically preserve foods, and even the most carefully packed edibles don't last forever. Be sure to label all containers with titles and dates either on stickers or pieces of masking tape, and keep frozen treats for no more than a maximum of four months (although that's never been much of a concern in my household, at least). Rolling Out Pie Dough Warmth is the mortal enemy of pie dough, so always keep your crusts chilled. That means you should leave them in the fridge until the very last minute, handle them as little as possible, and keep them on the counter only as long as they need to be there. As the dough warms up, the margarine begins to melt, so the dough will become stickier and thus harder to work with, not to mention the fact that you will lose flakiness in the final baked crust. From the moment it hits your lightly floured counter, it should get your full attention. Turn the disk over in the flour to coat both sides, so that it doesn't stick to either the counter or your rolling pin. You can add a pinch of additional flour to the top if it seems to cling at any point. Start in the center of the disk and apply firm but gentle pressure outward with your rolling pin, smoothing out the dough as evenly as you can. Roll a few times in one direction, gently lift and turn the dough, and roll again in a new direction. It's easiest if you can stand at a corner, so you can change position more and move the dough around less. Don't worry that it's not a perfect circle (it never will be, even after you've made a million pies). Focus on thickness; even thickness is the key to even baking. An eighth of an inch is the magic width that works best to support a filling without burning to a crisp or remaining doughy, so use a ruler or just pretend you're making thin cookies to approximate the measurement. Some people prefer to roll out dough between two pieces of parchment paper or silicone baking mats to get around the use of flour, thus preventing possible messes. I'm not a big fan of this method, since my crusts still stuck to the paper and are more likely to tear upon removal, but this method may be more effective in colder climates. Transferring Dough to a Pie Pan So you've got your thin round of dough, ready to use. Now what? It's time to maneuver it into your vessel of choice, a 9-inch round standard pie pan unless otherwise specified in the particular recipe you're making. Since the shape of the crust is rather unwieldy as it stands, I like to make mine more compact for an easy transfer. Very gently fold the whole round in half, without pressing down on the seam or sides, and then fold it in half again in the same fashion, so that it's ultimately a quarter of its former size. Lift the folded round from underneath, handling it lightly, and place the folded point right in the center of your pan. Fully unfold it to fill the dish, easing it up the sides and pressing any creases flat again. You should have more or less even amounts of excess dough overhanging the edges if you've situated it correctly. Fluting or Crimping the Crust Neaten up the edges before attempting anything fancy, so that you have the same amount of material to work with all the way around. Use kitchen shears or a very sharp knife to trim the excess dough to about ½ inch away from the rim of the pan. For a single crust, lift up that edge and fold it underneath itself, so that it's resting on the lip of the pie pan and the cut edge is hidden. Continue folding all the way around, straightening and smoothing as you go. The simplest crimp is made with the tines of a fork; just press the fork into the rim again and again until the lines match up in the place where you began. My favorite sort of crimp is done with just three fingers; use two fingers on one hand to press the interior side of the lip, and one finger on the other to press the opposite side of the crust in the center of those two fingers. Repeat all the way around to form a tight scalloped design. For a larger, loopy scallop, turn that single finger into a hook and press that into the side of the crust, using your opposite hands to indent the larger space on either side of the "U" shape. Making Decorative Crusts and Cutouts If you should find yourself with leftover scraps of dough, don't throw them away—you can use them to make fancy decorations on top of your pie! Just use any small, simple-shaped cookie cutters to punch out your pieces. Adhere them to either the exposed rim of a single crust or the top of a double crust in exactly the same way: Use a lightly moistened finger to dampen the back of your shape before firmly pressing it into place. If you want to decorate the entire border of the pie, this method can take the place of a traditional crimped edge. Creating the Perfect Golden-Brown Finish All it takes for any food to cook to a mouthwatering shade of amber is a bit of heat and either sugar or protein. Protein enables the Maillard reaction, whereas sugars create caramelization. Either way, it all leads to one conclusion: Delicious, beautiful food. In the case of pastries, the dough naturally contains a bit of each macronutrient, which allows browning in the oven without further intervention. If you want to enhance that reaction, and potentially add a touch of shine, that's where a swipe of Golden Pastry Glaze comes in handy. 1 teaspoon arrowroot powder 1 teaspoon light corn syrup 3 tablespoons water Whisk ingredients together vigorously, to dissolve the arrowroot smoothly into the liquid. Use a pastry brush, basting brush, or large art brush that has never been used with paint to apply the glaze to the upper crust or exposed edges of a single crust. Bake as per usual. Alternately, plain nondairy milk can also give you good results; soy milk is best in this case, since it's the highest in protein. Catching Drips in the Oven Pies, and fruit pies especially, are notorious for bubbling up and over the confines of their pans. Those dastardly sticky fillings seem hell-bent on making their mark all over your clean oven. Don't let the pie win this fight! Although spillover can't be controlled, it can be contained. Every time you bake a pie, no matter how clean and dry it may appear, always place a large, rimmed baking sheet on the oven rack directly below it. This will catch any drips thrown overboard, and though it won't prevent them from burning during the baking process, it will save you the hassle of scrubbing out the oven later. It's much easier to clean a single baking sheet than a whole cavernous oven. Substituting Frozen Fruit for Fresh Cravings don't always follow the seasons, so the temptation to sneak in a blueberry pie in the middle of a January blizzard is completely understandable. While it is possible to use frozen fruits where fresh are called for, bear in mind that a pie is only as good as its ingredients, and nothing can compare to the flavor of ripe produce at the height of its growing season. There is also no direct conversion from fresh to frozen, since the freezing process creates many ice crystals inside the fruit which extract additional water when thawed. To prevent your pies from becoming a soupy mess, you must first fully thaw and drain the fruit. Only then can you measure and use it, although the weight will be different thanks to the water that was removed, so your best bet is to stick with volume measures. Otherwise, weigh out how much liquid you're removing once the fruit has thawed, and add in that same measurement of whole, thawed fruit to equal the same final weight called for in the recipe. Caramelizing Crème Brûlée After preparing and chilling the crème in question, use a paper towel to dab off any condensation or moisture that may have formed on the surface of the custard. Sprinkle sugar generously over the top, tilting the ramekin around so that the entire area is evenly covered; tap off any excess that doesn't stick. If using a kitchen torch, start by holding the flame 3–4 inches away from the sugar, continuously moving the torch in a gentle circular motion. If you allow it to rest in one area for too long, you'll get uneven browning or worse, burning, so pay close attention to the flame. Slowly move in closer, until you start to see the granules liquefy. Keep on moving, turning the ramekin to reach all areas of the top, until all of the sugar has dissolved and turned a golden amber brown. If brûléeing in the oven, position the oven rack at the very highest spot in the oven and turn on the broiler to high. When hot, place the ramekins directly under the broiler and let cook for 5–10 minutes, until the sugar has dissolved and is bubbling away. Rotate frequently to allow even browning. Let the caramelized sugar rest for at least 5 minutes before serving, for it to set up to a hard crack. Completed crème brûlée can be stored in the refrigerator for no more than 30 minutes before the caramel begins to melt. Making Vanilla Sugar How can you improve upon an already stellar dessert? Vanilla sugar is the magic ingredient capable of turning the flavor up to 11. It makes the biggest difference in more delicately seasoned or simpler sweets where the addition is more detectable, but it adds a subtle something extra to anything it graces. Try it on top of crème brûlée, to sweeten whipped cream, or even in hot drinks, for starters. To make a practically unlimited supply, fill a jar of any size with standard granulated sugar. Every time you use a vanilla bean, jam the spent, dry pods right in the center. Over time, the vanilla will infuse its essence throughout the sugar, becoming stronger with age. Continue replenishing both the beans and sugar periodically, and you will always be prepared with some on hand. Troubleshooting Cake or bread didn't rise? Since there are no eggs to provide leavening in vegan baking, cakes rely entirely on chemical leaveners, such as baking powder and soda. If you mismeasure these critical ingredients, there will be dire consequences, so be diligent and stick to the recipe as written! Tweaking flavors and playing around to put your own spin on things is encouraged, but altering the basic structure is not recommended. Also, be certain to check that both baking powder and soda are in good working condition. Those little boxes tend to stick around forever, and if you don't do a whole lot of baking, chance are they've gone bad and lost their leavening ability. To test the efficacy of baking powder, place 1 teaspoon into a small dish, and mix in ½ teaspoon water. For baking soda, you want to combine 1 teaspoon with ½ teaspoon of vinegar. In both cases, they should bubble up right away, or else it's time to replace them. Yeast is a living organism (but not an animal or animal product; they're technically classified in the kingdom Fungi, just like mushrooms) so it makes good sense that at some point they "die" and cease to function properly. Dried in packets, they're in a dormant state, and must be reawakened before being baked. That's why most recipes recommend proofing, that is, soaking the yeast in warm water, before adding it into the dough. If after 5–10 minutes, it doesn't become frothy, your yeast is a goner. I like to store my yeast in the fridge, and I've thus far never had any expire on me. Tough, dry cake or muffin? Sounds like a gluten problem. Gluten develops when you beat or mix a wheat-based mixture too much, making it stretchy as if you were making bread dough. Unfortunately, this is not what you want for cakes. Instead of a tender crumb, that extra gluten will give you a tight, unpleasantly chewy baked good. A side effect of having more gluten in the cake is that it will also tend to squeeze out or absorb more liquid, leaving the baked good in question with a drier interior. If you're ever unsure of how much to mix, just assume that for cakes, less is better. Dry, hard, or crumbly cookies? The secret to cravably soft, chewy cookies is hardly a secret at all, but common sense when it comes right down to it. Bake your cookies for less time, and allow them to sit on the hot baking sheet longer to finish cooking at a slower, gentler pace. When I pull mine out of the oven, they tend to look like they're not quite done, and perhaps even still raw in the center. It depends on the exact cookie and with practice, you'll get a better feel for when exactly to take them out, but always start by baking them for the lesser amount of time suggested in a recipe. For example, if the recipe recommends 8–12 minutes, start by baking them for only 8, and check your results. If worse comes to worst, underbaked cookies can always take a second round in the oven. Cake or bread gooey in the center? This is quite possibly one of the most common baking problems I hear about, which is such a shame because it's very easily prevented. It's an issue of simply not baking the item in question for long enough, even though it may look browned to perfection on the outside. Always be sure to check the interior by inserting a toothpick or wooden skewer into the center, all the way down to the bottom. This method does have its pitfalls though, should there be chocolate chips that give the false impression that your cake is still raw in the middle, so you may wish to poke in multiple places. Bear in mind that the holes will show, so unless you're covering the top with frosting, this may not be the best idea! If you repeatedly end up with cakes that are done on the outside but raw in the center, double-check your oven temperature—it's likely that it's running hot. You can compensate by dialing a slightly lower temperature than is recommended in the recipe, or by tenting a pieces of aluminum foil over your baked goods in the final minutes of baking, to ensure that the tops don't burn or become overdone. Cake domed in the center? Don't panic—this is a common problem with a very simple solution. The easiest way to correct a cosmetic defect like this is to wait until the cake is completely cool, and then take a long, serrated knife, and slice off the hump. Voilà, a perfectly flat cake, and a little snack for the baker! If you're worried about crumbs or want to avoid such a situation altogether, try lowering your oven temperature by about 25 degrees. It's possible that your oven might be running a bit hotter than anticipated, causing that edible mountain to form in the first place. Double-check next time by placing an additional thermometer inside the oven, and compare the readings to the external display. Flat muffins with no tops? Exactly the opposite of the problem described directly above, in this case, you might want to consider raising the oven temperature 25 degrees. Additionally, make sure your batter isn't too runny; it should definitely be thicker than cupcake batter. Don't be shy when you fill the tins, because unlike cupcakes, you want to mound these up right to the top, and possibly even over. Make sure you do pile on the batter right in the center, to encourage those golden-brown peaks to form. Cupcakes remove their own papers? Yes, nudist cupcakes. Some people never experience this phenomenon, and I hadn't until very recently when baking a large batch (16 dozen) cupcakes for a massive order at work. All was going according to plan, little cakes marching out of the oven left and right... but then while they sat on the counter cooling, they began to spontaneously undress. After having this happen a couple times on giant batches, I've come to find that there are two issues that could be the culprit here; Most likely, the cupcakes are placed too close together while cooling, thus "steaming" each other and causing too much moisture to form between the cake and wrapper. Being paper, it doesn't take much for the wrapper to give up the fight and fall off. Secondly, it's possible that there is too much oil in the cakes. That was my main problem, because although I scaled up the recipe, I simply multiplied most of the amounts. It's not a straight conversion when you get into such large scale baking. I've been cutting back on the oil for batches of more than 4 dozen, and my cupcakes have stayed properly dressed ever since. Cupcakes won't come out of their papers? Unfortunately, the only thing that can be done about this problem is to buy different cupcake papers next time. Most manufacturers use paper that is at least somewhat waterproof, and some of the higher quality options are even laminated or coated in food-grade silicone, like a non-stick pan, to make for easier cupcake removal. However, the cheapest options are unlikely to offer any easy-release guarantees, and if you find that your cakes keep getting trapped in their wrappers time and again, you may want to start looking into other brands. Ice cream too hard or not creamy? Ice cream can be a tricky dessert to make, simply because the texture is largely dependent on the machine that you use to churn it in. If the machine churns too slowly, it will cause larger ice crystals to form, thus giving you an icier finished dessert. Additionally, if it doesn't mix in much air—which is what gives the ice cream greater volume (often called "overrun" in ice cream–speak)—then it will ultimately freeze with a much denser consistency, which can translate into hard ice cream. Another thing you may want to check is what temperature your freezer is. The average freezer runs at around 0°F. If yours clocks in far below that, you'll undoubtedly get more solidly frozen ice cream straight from the chill chest. Finally, bear in mind that the longer your ice cream sits in the freezer, the harder and also drier it will become. Yes, ice cream can go bad and become freezer-burnt if you stash it for over 4 months or so... Although I must admit, I've never found that to be a problem in this household. The best solution for almost all of these problems is to simply remove your ice cream from the freezer 10–15 minutes before you want to serve it. This will allow it to soften slightly, become easier to scoop, and reach a temperature where the flavors will be more pronounced (since our taste buds can't detect flavors as well when foods are colder). If you're in a rush, you can also microwave it for bursts of 5 seconds at a time, until soft enough to scoop, but not melted. Frosting not light and fluffy? Patience, grasshopper! Although the frosting may be smooth and creamy after just a minute of whipping, it takes much more time for it to take in enough air to become lighter in texture. Give it a solid 5–10 minutes before panicking, and if that doesn't do it, you may want to add a teaspoon or two of water if it seems too thick, or ¼–½ cup more confectioners' sugar if you think it might be too thin. Make sure that you have the whisk attachment installed in your stand mixer, and crank it up to high. Baked goods didn't turn "golden brown"? Browning is another form of caramelization, and for caramelization to occur, you must have sugars and heat present. Since the recipes in this cookbook all have some form of sugar and of course, baked goods go into the oven, the problem probably lies in a mismeasurement, erring on the side of too little sugar. Otherwise, your sweets were simply not baked for long enough time. Chips, nuts, and berries all sank to the bottom? All of these goodies tend to be much heavier than the batter of most cakes or bar cookies, so it's a simple matter of gravity taking over when you find them all clumped at the bottom. However, by coating the mix-ins evenly in flour before adding the wet ingredients in, you stand a fighting chance of keeping them distributed throughout. If they still fall and this bothers you, you can instead try sprinkling them on top of the batter once spread in the pan, so that they may ultimately end up in the middle as intended. SWEET STARTS Loaf it or Leave It: While I love the grab-and-go convenience of individual muffins, it's a snap to convert this recipe into loaf format for superlative banana bread. Simply pour the batter into a lightly greased 8x4-inch loaf pan. You may wish to double the topping for fuller coverage, and sprinkle it evenly all over the batter, before placing the loaf pan into the oven. Bake at 350ºF (175ºC) for 45 to 55 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the loaf comes out clean. Better Banana Nut Muffins Makes 10 to 12 muffins For the times when each grocery run adds a few extra bananas to the counter, turning the cache into a steadily growing pile of rapidly browning time bombs, every baker needs a reliable banana muffin recipe in their repertoire. Most merely call for one or two mashed bananas, but double down on the fruity flavor with chewy, almost candy-like concentrated natural sweetness of rehydrated dried bananas. These aren't those fried, starchy banana chips you get in the snack aisle. These are actual dried bananas that you can buy or make yourself. If you choose to make them, cut ripe bananas into ¼-inch coins and either dehydrate or bake at the lowest setting on your oven for 3–6 hours, until darkened, dry to the touch, and still slightly flexible. Be sure to make plenty of extra while you're at it, since the plain dried fruit makes for an irresistible snack as is. BANANA MUFFINS: 1 cup dried banana slices 1 cup water ½ cup unsweetened nondairy milk ½ teaspoon apple cider vinegar ¼ cup olive oil ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup old-fashioned rolled oats 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg 2 large, very ripe bananas, mashed ½ cup toasted, chopped pecans OAT TOPPING: 2 tablespoons turbinado sugar 2 tablespoons old-fashioned rolled oats ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) and lightly grease a set of standard muffin tins. In a small saucepan, combine the dried bananas with about 1 cup of water. Simmer for around 10 minutes to soften, then remove from the heat, and drain off any excess liquid. Once the banana slices are cool enough to handle, roughly chop them into small pieces about the size of raisins. Set aside. Combine the nondairy milk and vinegar in a large bowl and let sit for a few minutes before whisking vigorously until frothy. Drizzle in the oil to emulsify, following with the brown sugar and vanilla. Mix until fully incorporated. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Slowly incorporate this dry mixture into the wet, being careful not to overmix. It's fine to leave a few lumps in the batter rather than risk ending up with tough muffins. Fold in the mashed bananas, pecans, and rehydrated bananas. Distribute the batter evenly into your prepared muffin tins, mounding it toward the center so that it peeks just above the edge of the pan. For the topping, combine the sugar, oats, and cinnamon. Sprinkle it over the raw batter before placing the pan into the oven. Bake for 14 to 18 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Let the muffins rest in the pan for at least 5 minutes before removing them to finish cooling on a wire rack. Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal Makes about 3 cups; 3 to 5 servings Perhaps I've strayed too far off the pastry path for some, but believe it or not, this quinoa concoction really does satisfy that sweet-tooth craving. Think carrot cake with a crunch, this simple cereal is more like granola in texture, while remaining a bit lighter and perfectly crisp all the way through. Pair with vegan yogurt to evoke the sweetness and gentle twang of cream cheese frosting, and you won't miss the layers one bit. I do fully endorse eating cake for breakfast, no matter what form it takes. 1 cup uncooked quinoa 2 cups carrot juice ¼ cup chopped walnuts (optional) 1 tablespoon flaxseeds, ground 1 tablespoon chia seeds 1 tablespoon olive oil ¼ cup maple syrup ½ teaspoon vanilla extract 1¼ teaspoons ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground ginger ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ⅛ teaspoon salt ¼ cup chopped dried pineapple ¼ cup raisins Begin by cooking your quinoa in the carrot juice. Simply bring the carrot juice to a boil in a small pot and add the dry quinoa. Cover, reduce the heat to low, and cook gently for 15 to 20 minutes, until all the liquid has been absorbed. Let cool completely before proceeding. You can speed this up by transferring the cooked quinoa to a large bowl and stirring it around a bit, to release the steam and let it air-dry more quickly. Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. In a medium bowl, mix the cooled quinoa in with all remaining ingredients except for the dried fruits. Spread the mixture out on your prepared sheet, in as thin and even a layer as you can manage. This will help the cereal bake up nice and crispy, so take your time smoothing it out with either a spatula or lightly moistened hands. Bake for 45 to 60 minutes, stirring every 15 minutes or so, until lightly browned and dry to the touch. It may still have a little bit of softness and give to it, but don't worry; it will continue to crisp up as it cools. Let cool completely before tossing in the pineapple and raisins. Store in an airtight container for up to a week at room temperature. Chocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones Makes 4 scones Competition is fierce these days, with every nut and seed vying for top honors, but I still believe that peanut butter may just be the world's most perfect spread. Crunchy or creamy, spiced or salted, there's always at least two or three jars of the stuff taking up residence in my pantry. This nutty wonder works its way into countless recipes since it's such a reliably satisfying staple. More than just a toast topper, peanut butter plays the key role in creating the flaky structure of these scones, coincidentally reducing the amount of fat typically found lacquering this buttery breakfast treat. Naturally, this logic justifies the more hedonistic chocolate glaze drizzled over the top. PEANUT BUTTER SCONES: 1½ cups all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons granulated sugar 2 teaspoons baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt 2 tablespoons vegan butter ¼ cup crunchy peanut butter 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ½ cup unsweetened nondairy milk CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER GLAZE: ⅓ cup confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder 1 tablespoon creamy peanut butter 1 tablespoon unsweetened nondairy milk Preheat your oven to 400ºF (205ºC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut the butter into small pieces and use a fork or a pastry cutter to break it up, along with the crunchy peanut butter, into the flour mixture. Continue cutting the fats into the mixture until it resembles large, coarse crumbs, at which point you can stir in the vanilla. Slowly drizzle in the nondairy milk, one tablespoon at a time, stirring just until the dough starts to come together into a ball. Try not to work the dough any more than necessary. Drop all the dough onto your silicone baking mat and shape it into a rough circle about 1½-inches thick. This is a rather sticky dough, but work with it gently and it should cooperate. Lightly moisten or grease your hands to help manage the tacky texture, if needed. Cut the circle into 4 quarters with a very sharp knife or bench scraper, so each piece looks somewhat triangular, and separate them on the baking sheet so that each has room to cook. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until they turn lightly golden brown. Cool your scones on the baking sheet for at least 5 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack. For the glaze, combine the confectioners' sugar, cocoa powder, creamy peanut butter, and nondairy milk together in a small bowl. Mix thoroughly until smooth, and drizzle over the cooled scones. Figgy Graham Scones Makes 4 to 6 scones Before graham flour ever turned into crackers and became inseparable from the simple childhood snack, it was already making waves as a wholesome, flavorful foundation in many humble confections. Subtly nutty, pleasantly sandy in texture, it's these unique qualities that place these unassuming scones in a category all their own. Flecked with sultry, chewy chunks of luscious dried figs, prepare the scones in advance and set yourself up for success come breakfast time. Try them lightly toasted with a schmear of vegan cream cheese and jam, or a pat of vegan butter slowly melting over the top, for an exceptionally delicious wake-up call. 1 cup graham flour ½ cup whole wheat pastry flour ⅓ cup granulated sugar 2 teaspoons baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ cup vegan butter ¾ cups chopped dried figs 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 4–6 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. In a medium bowl, combine the flours, sugar, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Cut the butter into small pieces and use your fingers or a pastry cutter to press it into the flour mixture. Continue coating as many grains as possible until you create a coarse, pebble-like consistency. Stir in the figs and vanilla. Add the nondairy milk, one tablespoon at a time, until the mixture just comes together as cohesive dough. The amount will depend on your humidity level, so don't be afraid to use more or less, if necessary. Turn the dough out of the bowl, and firmly press it into a circle that is about one inch tall. Cut your circle into even quarters or sixths, depending on your appetite, and carefully move the divided dough onto your prepared baking sheet. Bake for 14 to 16 minutes, until the scones just begin to brown around the edges. Let cool on the sheet, and serve either warm or at room temperature. Fruited Focaccia Makes 16 servings Italians would be up in arms over this shamelessly inauthentic rendition of their beloved flatbread. Focaccia is supposed to be savory bread of the utmost simplicity, lavished with olive oil, dotted with herbs, maybe sun-dried tomatoes, or perhaps a few briny olives at the most. There's good reason why the classic take remains a timeless dinnertime side dish, but why let tradition limit your creativity? Enriched with plump dried fruits and a hint of bright citrus, this sweet twist on the usual yeast bread turns it into a tasty morsel to help jump-start your day. Any other combination of fruity additions could work well, so use your favorites if you aren't keen on these recommendations. 3 cups water (reserve 1 cup after soaking) 1 cup raisins ½ cup dried cranberries ½ cup chopped dried apricots ½ cup chopped dried pineapple ½ cup chopped dried apples 1 cup orange juice ¼ cup olive oil 2¼ teaspoons (¼-ounce) packet active dry yeast 5–6 cups all-purpose flour ½ cup granulated sugar, divided 1 teaspoon salt Bring the water to a boil in a large pot and turn off the heat. Add in the dried fruit and let it soak for about 15 minutes to rehydrate. Drain the fruit but save 1 cup of the excess liquid. In a medium bowl, mix the reserved soaking liquid with the orange juice, oil, and yeast. Set aside. Into a large bowl, toss the rehydrated fruit along with 2 cups of flour, ¼ cup of sugar, and the salt. Add in about half of your liquid ingredients and mix thoroughly until you achieve a smooth dough. Add in another 2 cups of flour along with the remainder of the liquid before mixing again. You don't want the dough to be too sticky, so you may need to introduce anywhere from 1 to 2 more cups of flour, depending on the moisture content of your dough. At this point, you will need to work the dough with either a dough hook installed in your stand mixer or with your hands. When fully combined, you should have a cohesive ball of dough that can be easily handled. Continue to knead with the dough hook or by hand on a lightly floured surface for 5 to 10 minutes, until the dough becomes smooth and elastic. Let rest for 10 minutes before proceeding. Thoroughly grease a 12 x 17-inch jelly-roll pan and drop the dough on top. Use your fingers to poke the dough down at random intervals, cover loosely with a clean kitchen towel, and let the pan sit in a warm place to rise for about an hour. When it appears to have doubled in volume, sprinkle the remaining ¼ cup of sugar evenly over the top, and bake in a 400ºF (205ºC) oven for 25 to 30 minutes. When it is done, the bread should have a solid crust that is a deep golden brown. Let cool and slice into 3 x 4-inch pieces. Enjoy this stand-alone breakfast bread as is, or top with your favorite jam for even more fruit flavor. Golden Glazed Doughnuts Makes 6 to 8 doughnuts plus 8 or more doughnut holes Remember those crispy, creamy donuts of yore, rolling down the conveyor belt behind glass windows, hurtling through a curtain of cascading white icing? Nothing can replicate the experience of biting into one of those soft, tender rings, still hot off the line... but it's entirely possible to create an even better version in the comfort of your own home. Instead of just melting away to coat your tongue in sugary residue, these beauties possess both substance and sweet nostalgic satisfaction. DOUGHNUTS: 2¼ teaspoons (¼-ounce) packet active dry yeast 2 tablespoons warm water 3 tablespoons vegan butter ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon whole flaxseeds ¾ cup unsweetened nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ½ teaspoon vanilla extract ½ teaspoon salt 2½ cups all-purpose flour 1 quart canola or vegetable oil, for frying GLAZE: 3 tablespoons vegan butter 1 cup confectioners' sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 tablespoon water TO FINISH: Rainbow sprinkles (optional) Sprinkle the yeast over the warm water in a small dish and let sit for 5 minutes, until it reactivates and becomes a bit frothy. Meanwhile, in your stand mixer, fitted with the beater attachment, cream the butter and sugar together and beat until fluffy. Grind the flaxseeds into a fine powder using a spice grinder before adding it into the mixer, followed by the nondairy milk, vinegar, vanilla, and salt. Incorporate the water and yeast next. The mixture will likely look a bit lumpy at this point, so don't stress over appearances. Add in 2 cups of flour, letting the mixer run until it's fully incorporated. Add in the remaining ½ cup of flour and continue mixing to combine. Replace the beater with a dough hook, if you have one, and agitate the dough on medium speed for about 5 minutes. Alternatively, turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it by hand. Continue until it feels smooth and elastic—tacky but not too sticky. Move the dough into a lightly greased bowl, cover, and place in a warm location to rise. Wait for the dough to double in volume before proceeding, approximately 1 hour. Grease a baking sheet and set aside. On a lightly floured surface, turn the dough out of the bowl and gently roll it out to a thickness of approximately ½-inch. Use a doughnut cutter, or one large and one small circular cookie cutter (about 4 inches and 1 inch, respectively), lightly dipped in flour, to create each doughnut shape. Move the raw doughnuts onto the greased baking sheet. Cut any remaining dough into small circles to make doughnut holes and stash these on the baking sheet as well. Cover loosely with a clean dish towel, and let them rise for another hour or so, until they double in size. Once the dough is ready, begin heating the oil in a deep fryer or large pot. While the oil is heating, prepare the glaze. Over medium-low heat, melt the butter and whisk in the sugar, vanilla, and water until the glaze is completely smooth. Pour the glaze into a shallow dish that is wide enough to accommodate your donuts. Set aside. Don't worry if the glaze begins to solidify while you are frying. The heat from the donuts will melt it back to a liquid state. When the oil hits 350ºF (175ºC) you're ready to start frying. First and foremost, be very careful! You will only be cooking one or two donuts at a time, to avoid crowding the pot and ensuring they cook evenly. Gently slide the raw dough into the oil using a wide slotted spatula. Fry for about 2 minutes per side, until deeply golden brown. Remove using the same spatula, briefly pat any excess oil off using a paper towel, and dip them into the glaze while the doughnut is still warm. Top with rainbow sprinkles, if desired. Repeat this process for the remaining doughnuts and doughnut holes. Chocoholics, Unite! In the battle between chocolate and vanilla, the only clear winner is both. Keep the peace by whipping up a quick chocolate glaze. Simply add ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder to the glaze recipe. Hearty Granola Waffles Makes 4 to 6 servings Plain Jane waffles would spill their syrup with one glance at these crisp, golden brown, deeply cratered beauties. The batter itself is bursting with a diverse range of flavorful mix-ins, colored by whichever unique blend strikes your fancy. Use a Belgian waffle iron to make deeper pockets to accommodate even more granola goodness on top. 3 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 2½ cups unsweetened nondairy milk ¼ cup maple syrup ¼ cup olive oil 2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1½ cups granola, store-bought or homemade (page 51) Preheat your waffle iron so it's ready as soon as the batter is prepared. Combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together the nondairy milk, maple syrup, oil, vinegar, and vanilla. Pour the wet ingredients into the bowl of dry and stir until just incorporated; it's perfectly fine to leave a few lumps remaining. Once the waffle iron is hot, lightly grease with cooking spray or olive oil, and ladle the batter on top. The exact amount depends on the size of your waffle iron. Sprinkle about ¼ cup of granola over the raw batter for each waffle before closing the lid. Cook for 4 to 6 minutes, until evenly golden brown. Serve hot, with additional granola and Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243), if desired. If you'd like to prepare the waffles in advance and save them for later, allow them to cool completely before storing them in an airtight plastic bag or container. The waffles will keep in the fridge for up to a week, or in the freezer for up to two months. Some people say that the best part of a cinnamon roll is the cream cheese icing, and I must admit, they make a pretty compelling argument. If you can't imagine forgoing that gooey goodness, you can make a Quick Cream Cheese Icing by mixing together 4 ounces (½ cup) vegan cream cheese, ½ cup confectioners' sugar, and 2 to 4 tablespoons nondairy milk until smooth. Drizzle to your heart's content! Oatmeal Raisin Rolls Makes 12 to 15 rolls Cinnamon rolls are a delight bright and early in the morning, unless of course you're the baker who had to wake up long before sunrise to make them. You could choose the traditional route, agonizing over long waiting periods while the dough rises... or, you could skip straight to the good part and whip up a different sort of swirled bun, without the fuss. These soft and tender spirals come together very quickly and are considerably heartier than your typical breakfast pastry, so you can still feel virtuous for eating well, even if you oversleep. ¾ cup unsweetened non-dairy milk 2¼ teaspoons (¼-ounce) packet rapid rise yeast ¼ cup vegan butter ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 tablespoon baking powder ½ teaspoon salt 1¼ cups whole wheat pastry flour 1¼ cups old-fashioned rolled oats 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ cup raisins Preheat your oven to 400ºF (205ºC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Heat the nondairy milk in a microwave-safe dish for 30 to 60 seconds, or until just warmed through. Add the yeast and let sit until it becomes frothy, about 5 minutes. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, cream the butter, sugar, and vanilla together. Add in the baking powder, salt, whole wheat pastry flour, and oats, mixing thoroughly to combine. The yeast should have become visibly active by now, so pour the yeast mixture into the batter, mixing thoroughly. Finally, add the all-purpose flour, and stir well, so that everything is completely combined. Turn the dough out onto a generously floured surface and knead it briefly for about 5 minutes. Press the dough out manually to form a nice even rectangle of about ¼ inch thickness. Exact measurements aren't all that important, but keep in mind that a longer, thinner shape will produce more rolls that are smaller, while a shorter, wider shape will produce fewer rolls that are larger and have more layers. Regardless of what you ultimately end up with, sprinkle the brown sugar and cinnamon evenly over the top, leaving about 1 inch on one of the long sides clear. Sprinkle the raisins over the brown sugar and press them gently into the surface of the dough. Starting at the long side where the sugar goes all the way to the edge, roll the dough carefully without stretching or pulling it. When you get to the edge, very lightly moisten the clean edge of dough with water so that it sticks to the side. Pinch together the edges to seal. Lay the dough seam-side down on the counter, and gently cut 1-inch pieces with a very sharp knife. Place each roll on your prepared baking sheet, with one of the cut sides down, and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until they just begin to turn golden brown all over. Enjoy these rolls plain for breakfast, or top them with icing for a more decadent treat. Power-Hungry Granola Makes 4 to 6 servings Back in the day of early classes and long school days, my go-to breakfast would almost always be some sort of granola. Instant, easy to eat, and delicious, I could pretty much live on nothing but cereal for days on end. Unfortunately, not all granola is created equal, often leading to devastating sugar comas and midday crashes, right when I needed energy most. Now older and wiser, I decided to take matters into my own hands, in search of truly smart fuel. Full of whole grains, protein, good fats, and just enough sweetness to entice the taste buds, this concoction put an end to my midday slumps. Double, or even triple, this recipe to set yourself up for success during your most demanding weeks. 1 cup textured vegetable protein (TVP) 1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats 3 cups puffed quinoa, millet, and/or brown rice cereal 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon ⅓ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ cup maple syrup ⅓ cup apple juice 2 tablespoons olive oil ⅓ cup dried cranberries ⅓ cup raisins ½ cup sliced almonds Preheat your oven to 300ºF (150ºC) and lightly grease a jelly-roll pan, or any other large baking sheet with a rim or shallow sides. Stir together the TVP, oats, puffed cereal, and cinnamon in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, combine the sugar and all the liquid ingredients. Pour the liquid mixture over the dry goods, folding it together until all the cereal is completely coated. Spread out in as flat a layer as possible into your prepared pan or dish. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, stirring at 10-minute intervals so your granola doesn't burn. Let cool completely on the sheet. Once cool, stir in the cranberries, raisins, and almonds, and serve with your favorite nondairy milk or simply eat right out of your hand. Store any leftover granola in an airtight container, for up to two weeks. Strawberry Love Muffins Makes 10 to 12 muffins Foodies will all agree that the quickest way to a person's heart is through their stomach. Thus, it seems only logical that when Valentine's Day rolls around, something edible must take center stage. While chocolate and candies are obvious considerations, try this romantic treat for healthy departure from such over-the-top indulgence. Of course, regularly shaped muffins work just as well if you lack the necessary equipment, or just want to spread the love all year round. Whatever vessel ends up becoming a home to your blushing batter, these muffins are guaranteed to win hearts. 1½ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup unsweetened nondairy milk ¼ cup lemon juice ⅓ cup olive oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup fresh or frozen and thawed strawberries, sliced Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) and grease 10 to 12 muffin tins, depending on how large you'd like to make them. Begin by mixing together your dry ingredients (flour through salt) in a large bowl. Gently stir in the nondairy milk, lemon juice, oil, and vanilla, but be careful not to overmix; a few lumps are okay! Fold in the strawberries and pour the batter into your prepared muffin tins, filling them about ¾ of the way to the top. Slide your filled tins into the oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Let the muffins sit for at least 10 minutes before removing them from the pan. Enjoy with someone you love. Sweet & Simple French Toast Makes 4 slices When I first attempted French toast, it was still very early in my "career" as a vegan. Because I had yet to really move into my element in the kitchen, my whole family remained skeptical of what could be done without milk or eggs. Even my mom, the eternal optimist, was not exactly convinced that French toast without the usual animal products would be entirely palatable. Still, I persevered and came up with this creation to share with her. All it took was one mouthful of this delicious dish for my mother to start thinking about veganism in an entirely different way. 4 (1-inch thick) slices ciabatta or French bread 2 tablespoons whole wheat flour 1 teaspoon nutritional yeast 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar ¼ teaspoon kala namak, or plain salt ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg 1 cup unsweetened nondairy milk 1 cup crushed corn flake cereal 2–4 teaspoons olive oil or vegan butter Begin by lightly toasting your bread, allowing it to become a bit firmer, which will make it more receptive to the extra moisture you will be adding. Combine the dry ingredients (not including cereal) in a shallow pan and make sure they are evenly distributed. Stir in the non-dairy milk and allow it to sit for a minute. Whisk again before using, to ensure that no lumps are left behind. Meanwhile, place the crushed cornflakes in a separate shallow dish and begin heating a large skillet over medium heat. Grease the pan lightly with a drizzle of olive oil or a dab of vegan butter. Place two slices of bread in the liquid mix at a time, allowing about 1 minute for it to start soaking into the slices. Flip your bread over and let the wet mixture absorb into the other side for another minute. Once saturated but not soggy, carefully lift the slices out with a large spatula and place them into the dish of crushed cornflakes. Lightly press to adhere the coating, flipping to encrust the other side, and finally move them into the hot skillet. Cook for 3 to 5 minutes per side, resisting the urge to push them around or constantly check on the progress to get the best sear. Flip once, and only once. Once nicely browned and crisp on the outside, transfer the toast to a plate, and repeat the process with the two remaining bread slices. Serve with maple syrup, fruit spread, confectioners' sugar, or any favorite toppings you like. Zesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins Makes 12 muffins Streusel just makes everything better, doesn't it? While these muffins are incredibly good on their own, the crumbly topping bumps them up that extra notch to irresistible. Tangy, tart, and sweet all at the same time, the flavors and textures work in perfect harmony. While perfectly respectable as a grab-and-go breakfast, such sweet little morsels excel as an afternoon snack as well. CRANBERRY MUFFINS: ¾ cup dried cranberries ¾ cup orange juice ½ cup unsweetened nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ⅓ cup olive oil ⅔ cup granulated sugar 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup whole wheat pastry flour 1½ teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 3 tablespoons unsweetened applesauce 2 tablespoons orange zest CRUMB TOPPING: 3 tablespoons vegan butter ⅓ cup all-purpose flour ⅓ cup granulated sugar Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) and lightly grease one dozen muffin tins. Combine the cranberries and orange juice in a saucepan and simmer over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes, until the fruit has absorbed all the liquid. Remove from the heat and let cool. Combine the nondairy milk and vinegar, whisking vigorously until frothy. Incorporate the oil into the milk mixture and beat until fully emulsified. Add the sugar and mix well. Add in the flours, baking powder, baking soda, and applesauce, being careful not to overmix. Gently fold in the rehydrated cranberries and zest. Spoon the batter into your prepared muffin tins. For the crumb topping, combine the butter, flour, and sugar with a pastry cutter or fork, until it resembles coarse crumbs. Sprinkle evenly over each mound of raw batter. Bake for 14 to 18 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Let the muffins sit for at least 10 minutes before removing them from the pan. COOKIES & BARS Go Nuts! No matter how bare the pantry gets, I will always have a jar of peanut butter on hand, ready to quell those midnight cravings. Many times it's saved the day for last-minute dessert demands, too. Swap out the almond butter for an equal amount of peanut butter (or hazelnut butter, pecan butter, pistachio butter, cashew butter—you name it) for a delicious departure from the original recipe. Almond Avalanche Bars Makes 24 to 36 bars Prepare yourself for an almond onslaught! Almonds are all the rage for health nuts and gourmets alike, due to their high levels of antioxidants, unsaturated fats, and most important to me, great taste. If you happen to be a fellow almond fanatic who simply can't get enough, then this bar was made for you. Composed almost entirely of nothing but nuts, even a small square will flood your senses and bowl you over with pure almond satisfaction. ALMOND CRUST: ½ cup vegan butter ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1⅔ cups almond meal ½ teaspoon salt ALMOND TOPPING: 2 cups crunchy almond butter 1 cup maple syrup 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1 cup bittersweet or semisweet chocolate chips (optional) 1 cup sliced almonds Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line a 9x13-inch baking pan with aluminum foil. Lightly grease and set aside. In a medium bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until homogeneous. Slowly incorporate the almond meal, followed by the salt. Transfer the mixture into your prepared baking pan and pat the dough into the bottom, keeping it as even as possible. Bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until firm and lightly browned. Let cool but leave the oven on. For the topping, mix together the almond butter, maple syrup, and vanilla in a large bowl. Mix until smooth and fully combined but don't go too crazy, as it will continue to thicken the more you mix, which can make it difficult to spread smoothly into the pan. Fold in the chocolate chips, if using (and I do recommend using). Drop this mixture evenly over your crust, pressing and gently spreading as necessary to form an even layer, taking care not to disturb the bottom layer. Sprinkle the sliced almonds over the top and bake for 12 to 15 more minutes. You are not looking for a dry exterior, so it is okay if the bars look moist or underbaked. A raw cookie dough appearance is what you are going for. Let cool completely before cutting into bars. By completely, I don't mean cool to the touch. The bars must be cool enough for the chocolate chips to resolidify. If you are not patient, you may end up with a fudgy almond mess! Chill for 1 to 2 hours in advance for the best results. Lend me your ears: Vegetable-based cookies may sound like a stretch, but fresh summer corn biscotti are more like hearty crackers, and truly something to savor. Lose the apricots altogether in favor of 1 cup corn kernels. Omit the sugar and vanilla but add 1 to 2 tablespoons finely minced fresh basil instead. A pinch of ground black pepper wouldn't hurt, while you're at it. Skip the glaze and pair with a creamy dip, like hummus or guacamole. Apricot Biscotti Makes approximately 24 biscotti For such a humble name, these café-inspired treats boast an impressive array of complex flavors. While they are made with vastly different ingredients and techniques than your typical biscotti, the careful attention to each individual component really does produce superior results. These biscotti are suitable for the gluten intolerant, yet the overall taste is so spot-on that they would be right at home in any coffeehouse. Lightly drizzled with a delicate vanilla glaze, a quick dip in your coffee or tea will leave the beverage with an extra hint of sweetness to linger long after the cookie is gone. APRICOT BISCOTTI: 1 cup dried apricots, chopped 1 cup almond meal 1 cup finely ground cornmeal 1 cup cornstarch ½ cup granulated sugar ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ cup vanilla vegan yogurt ¼ cup maple syrup 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract VANILLA GLAZE: 2 tablespoons vegan butter ½ cup confectioners' sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla extract Preheat your oven to 325ºF (160ºC) and lightly grease two 9x5-inch loaf pans. In a small saucepan over medium heat, cover the chopped apricots with water and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for about 15 minutes, until most of the water has been absorbed. Drain any excess liquid and set the apricots aside to cool. In a medium bowl, combine the almond meal, cornmeal, and cornstarch, stirring until combined. Mix in the granulated sugar and baking soda. In a separate large bowl, stir together the yogurt, maple syrup, olive oil, and vanilla until smooth. Sift the dry ingredients into this bowl slowly, stirring until everything is completely combined with no lumps. You don't need to worry about overmixing, because there is no gluten involved! Finally, fold in the apricots that you had previously set aside. Divide the dough evenly between the two loaf pans and pat it into the bottom, pressing the dough as smoothly as possible. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until lightly browned on the outside and cooked through the center. Let the biscotti loaves sit inside the pans for 10 minutes before turning them out onto a wire rack, where they should sit for an additional 15 minutes. Raise the oven temperature to 350ºF (175ºC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Slice the biscotti loaves into individual cookies, about ½-inch thick each. Lay the cookies with one of the cut sides down on the prepared baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes. Flip the biscotti over and bake for another 15 minutes. Cool the biscotti completely on a wire rack. To finish them off, simply melt the butter and mix in the confectioners' sugar and vanilla until smooth. Drizzle this glaze over the biscotti. Alternately, you could dip the biscotti halfway into the icing for a sweeter finish. If you have a taste for darkness, try making Half Moon Cookies. This lesser-known variation is rumored to have begun in Utica, New York, where bakeries spike the soft cookie dough with a devilish extra dose of chocolate. Simply add ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder to the batter to follow suit. Black & White Cookies Makes 12 to 14 large cookies As a young child, my parents often took my sister and me into New York City to see the sights and experience a slice of the life that they once lived. Pounding down those concrete streets, peering up at buildings that never seemed to reach a peak, just being there was always a fantastic treat. However, at the end of the day, my favorite part came at a last-minute bakery run just before boarding the train back home. Among all the tempting pastries, lavished with twirls of billowing whipped cream and glittering with rainbow sprinkles, I could never deviate from the standard order of a jumbo black and white cookie. Every time it was the same thing, yet the repetition never wore on my taste buds. Now that the egg-based originals from New York are no longer an option, there is still no reason to go wanting. This updated classic tastes as authentic as anything you could find in or outside the city. COOKIES: 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup vegan butter 1 cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon whole flaxseeds 2 tablespoons water 2 teaspoons vanilla extract ½ cup vegan sour cream or plain Greek-style vegan yogurt VANILLA ICING: 2 cups confectioners' sugar 1–3 tablespoons aquafaba ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract CHOCOLATE ICING: 3 ounces (about ½ cup) dark chocolate, roughly chopped ¼ cup unsweetened nondairy milk 1 tablespoon maple syrup 1 cup confectioners' sugar Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. In your stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy and fully combined. Grind the flaxseeds into a powder with a spice grinder, and mix with the water. Let stand for a few minutes to gelatinize. Add the flax mixture to your mixer. Incorporate the vanilla and sour cream, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary to achieve a completely smooth mixture. Slowly add in the flour mixture, stirring just enough to combine without any lumps remaining. On the prepared baking sheets, drop about ¼ cup of dough for each cookie, leaving plenty of room for them to spread, roughly three inches between each. Use a cookie scoop or ice cream scooper for greater consistency. Lightly moisten your hands to prevent sticking and gently pat the dough mounds into approximately 2½-inch disks. Bake for 14 to 17 minutes, until they just begin to turn slightly golden in color. Let the cookies rest on the baking sheets for 2 more minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool completely. For the vanilla icing, whisk together 1 cup of the confectioners' sugar in a small bowl with the first tablespoon of aquafaba and vanilla, ensuring that you have a completely smooth mixture. Add in the remaining 1 cup of sugar and combine. Even though it may seem too dry at first, continue stirring and it will soon reveal itself as a nice, thick icing. Slowly drizzle in additional aquafaba if needed, but do so sparingly, as a little bit goes a long way. Set aside. For the chocolate icing, place the chocolate, nondairy milk, and maple syrup in a microwave-safe bowl and heat for 30 to 60 seconds, just until the chocolate begins to melt. Stir vigorously to combine all the ingredients, until the chocolate is completely smooth. Set aside to cool and thicken slightly. Set aside. Start by making the white side. Use a spatula to spread the vanilla icing on half of each cookie. Let the icing set for at least 10 minutes. Returning to your chocolate icing, add in the 1 cup of confectioners' sugar and stir until completely smooth. Spread on the other half of each cookie. Let the cookies sit until the glaze has fully set up. Black-Bottom Blondies Makes 9 to 12 bars Chocolate or vanilla? Brownies or blondies? There's no need to agonize over such tough choices when you can have them all in one bar! Not only is this a harmonious meeting of two worlds for the indecisive eater, but a gratifying compromise for the prolific baker as well, accomplishing two types of sweets at once without dirtying an extra pan! It's a win-win situation that's always a crowd-pleaser. ½ cup vegan butter ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup plain vegan yogurt 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 1¾ cups all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon baking soda ⅓ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¼ cup semisweet chocolate chips ¼ cup chopped, toasted pecans or walnuts Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan. Melt the butter over the stove top or in the microwave and stir in both sugars until dissolved. Let stand to cool for a minute or two before adding in the yogurt and vanilla extract. Mix well. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and baking soda. Add the dry mixture to the wet and mix well. Once the batter is homogenous, remove 1 cup and place it in a separate bowl. Stir the cocoa powder and chocolate chips into this portion, and smooth it into the bottom of your prepared dish. It will be very thick and sticky, so you may need to use lightly moistened hands or grease a flat spatula to press it properly into position. Mix the toasted nuts into the remaining vanilla batter and pour the mixture over the chocolate base. Spread gently to completely and evenly cover the cocoa portion. Bake for 28 to 35 minutes, until the sides pull away from the pan and the top turns golden brown. Let cool completely before cutting. Butterscotch Blondies Makes 9 to 12 bars This particular childhood favorite turned out to be one of my greatest challenges in baking mastery. It should have been a breeze to deconstruct and re-create such an uncomplicated bite of nostalgia, inspired by memories of chewy little squares with lightly caramelized, crispy edges. And yet, my first attempt ended with a full pan of raw batter exploding mid-bake, smearing the walls of the oven with brown sugar napalm. I wish I were exaggerating, but many horrified witnesses can confirm the culinary tragedy that occurred on that day. Thankfully, the following 5 or 6 attempts only resulted in a trash can full of unsatisfactory baked goods rather than more spontaneous combustion. Now, I am happy to share a tried-and-true method, and it doesn't require you to blow anything up, either. ¼ cup vegan butter 1½ cups coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 2 teaspoons vanilla extract ½ cup plain vegan yogurt ⅓ cup full-fat coconut milk 2 cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon salt Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan. Melt the butter and pour it over the sugar in a medium bowl, stirring to dissolve. Add the vanilla, yogurt, and coconut milk and mix until homogenous. Slowly incorporate the flour along with the baking powder and salt, stirring just enough to arrive at a smooth mixture. Pour the batter into your prepared pan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until the sides just begin to pull away from the pan and the top is fairly firm. The blondies may still be slightly gooey on the inside, but they will continue to cook once removed from the oven. Besides, they are "fudgy" bars, so you don't want them to dry out! Wait for the blondies to cool completely before cutting. If you have leftover filling, don't let it go to waste! Use it as spread for toast, a dip to pair with sliced apples, or stir it into oatmeal for a special breakfast treat. Cheesecake Thumbprint Cookies Makes approximately 16 to 20 cookies Arguably even better than individual cheesecakes, each two-bite indulgence is a suitable ending to any meal, or the start of any snack, for that matter. You don't even need to pull up a chair or grab a fork to dig in! Perfect on the go or with a tall cup of coffee, these no-fuss sweets are much easier to make, bring to events, and devour after a substantial meal than an imposing, dense slice. If you'd like to really get the party started with another layer of flavor, try topping them with your favorite jam or preserves. CHEESECAKE FILLING: 4 ounces (½ cup) vegan cream cheese ¼ cup granulated sugar ⅛ teaspoon salt 1 tablespoon plain nondairy milk ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon arrowroot powder COOKIE: ½ cup vegan butter ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds 2 tablespoons water 1 cup finely ground graham crackers (about 6 full rectangles) 1 cup all-purpose flour Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. To prepare the filling, begin by stirring the cream cheese with a spatula in a medium bowl to soften it a bit. Add in the sugar and salt, and cream thoroughly. Incorporate the nondairy milk and vanilla, mixing until you have a completely homogenous mixture. Stirring rapidly, sprinkle in the arrowroot, mixing until smooth and creamy once more. Set aside. For the cookie, use your stand mixer to cream the butter and sugar together. Mix together the ground flax and water before adding them into the bowl. Stir thoroughly to combine. Add in the ground graham crackers first, making sure they are fully incorporated before adding the flour. Be careful to mix it for just long enough to bring the dough together, lest you want some tough cookies. Scoop out balls of dough that are about an inch or so in diameter, rolling them into fairly smooth spheres with your hands. Place on your prepared baking sheets and either use your fingers or the handle of a wooden spoon to make an indentation in the center of each. Bake the cookies for 10 minutes before checking on their progress. If your indentations are on the shallow side, you should take this opportunity to press the centers back in and reshape any other abnormalities. Bake for another 5 to 7 minutes, until they just begin to brown. Remove the cookies from the oven with your filling at the ready. Spoon 2 to 3 teaspoons of cheesecake filling into the centers, and return them once more to the oven to bake for an additional 8 minutes or so. The filling will begin to puff up a bit and will solidify when they are done. Let the cookies sit for 2 minutes on the sheet before moving them to a wire rack to finish cooling. If you're more of a "tea"-totaler, try using roughly crushed green or black tea leaves instead of instant coffee. Coffee Break Shortbread Makes 12 to 16 cookies Long school days followed by interminable hours of homework have taught me at least one important lesson: never plan an all-nighter without arming yourself with a bottomless mug of strong coffee. Better yet, grab a stack of cookies with that same addictive flavor and the energizing boost of caffeine baked inside! Whip up a double (or triple) batch of these invigorating morsels for your longest study sessions to stay focused, or at least sweetly satisfied. ½ cup confectioners' sugar ½ cup vegan butter 1 tablespoon instant coffee granules or powder 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon salt Cream together the sugar and butter in your stand mixer, followed by the instant coffee and vanilla. Slowly mix in the flour and salt until it starts to become incorporated. You may need to run your mixer for a minute, rest the dough, then mix again to create smooth results. The dough will start off looking very crumbly and dry, but resist the urge to add liquid; it will come together if you give it time! Once you have a solid, cohesive ball of dough, refrigerate it for at least an hour. Pull the dough from the refrigerator, preheat your oven to 325ºF (160ºC), and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. Roll out the dough using a rolling pin lightly coated in flour to prevent sticking; ⅛ inch in thickness is ideal. Cut the dough into your desired shapes using cookie cutters and place the cookies onto your prepared baking sheets. Baking time can vary greatly, from 14 minutes and up depending on the size of your shapes, so keep a close eye on their progress. Don't wait for them to brown very much, but they should be somewhat firm to the touch when done. Remove the cookies from the baking sheet to cool. Crumb-Topped Brownies Makes 9 to 12 brownies Whenever I baked my chocolate streusel cupcakes, everyone would rave about the sweet, cocoa crumb topping even more than the tender cake underneath. Hungry for a change of pace when tasked to produce yet another pan of standard brownies, it was an epiphany when I realized the solution was right in front of me. In short time, the best part of those two sweets were happily married in harmonious chocolate bliss. Though it's always tempting to pick the crunchy sugared crust off the top of any unknown dessert, what lies beneath is every bit as ambrosial. CRUMB TOPPING: ¼ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¼ cup all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons olive oil BROWNIES: ¼ cup vegan butter ½ cup plain vegan yogurt ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ cup granulated sugar ½ teaspoon instant coffee granules or powder (optional) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¾ cup all-purpose flour ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon baking soda 3 ounces (½ cup) semisweet chocolate chips Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan. To make the topping, combine the granulated sugar, cocoa, and flour in a small bowl. Add in the oil and stir with a fork, breaking up the topping into small- and medium-sized crumbs. Set aside. For the batter, melt the butter and allow a few minutes for it to cool down a bit before using. In a stand mixer, combine the yogurt and both sugars, followed by the melted butter. Stir thoroughly before mixing in the coffee powder (if using) and vanilla as well. Add in the flour, cocoa, salt, and baking soda. Pause occasionally to allow the mixer to catch up, but rest assured that it will all come together in due time. Fold in the chips by hand and smooth the batter into your prepared pan. Sprinkle your crumb topping liberally on top and bake for 22 to 26 minutes, until the sides pull away from the pan slightly. Allow the brownies to cool completely before cutting. Lace Florentines Makes approximately 48 separate crisps or 24 cookie sandwiches Simple, sweet, and shatteringly crisp, each elegant caramelized cookie could make a gorgeous accompaniment to fresh berry parfaits or scoops of ice cream. Smear a thick layer of chocolate between two of those dainty disks, and now you've suddenly got a solo showstopper on your hands. Still hot out of the oven, the pliable rounds can also wrap up in tightly curled cigars, or molded over metal cupcake tins to make edible bowls. It's hard to beat the standard sandwich though, which has the ideal ratio of chocolate to cookie, in my opinion. ¼ cup vegan butter ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ cup dark agave nectar ¼ cup all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons almond meal 2 tablespoons instant oatmeal ⅛ teaspoon salt 3 ounces (½ cup) semisweet chocolate chips (optional) Preheat your oven to 375°F (190ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. Heat the butter, sugar, and agave nectar together in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Remove from the heat once the butter has completely melted, and vigorously whisk in the flour, almond meal, oatmeal, and salt to avoid clumps. Drop about ½ teaspoon of batter per cookie onto your prepared baking sheets. Take care to place them several inches apart, as they spread like crazy. Bake the crisps for 5 to 6 minutes, until they are caramelized and bubbly, keeping a close eye on them the entire time they're in the oven. They will still be soft and malleable at first; wait a few minutes for the crisps to cool and solidify before handling. They are very fragile after they harden, so be gentle! If desired, melt the chocolate in the microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring thoroughly until completely melted and smooth. Smear a thin layer of the melted chocolate on the underside of one cookie, sandwiching it between a second. Alternatively, drizzle the chocolate all over the individual crisps, Jackson Pollak-style. Store cookies in an airtight container at room temperature. Heat and moisture will change their texture, so the crisps may remain slightly soft if you are baking in a very humid climate. Maple Pistachio Crèmes Makes 20 to 24 sandwich cookies What's a food photographer's favorite subject? Pistachios, because they're always smiling! Bad jokes aside, Persians have called pistachios "the smiling nuts" for centuries because the split shell resembles a smile. The Chinese simply refer to it as "the happy nut," which is also appropriate, because their delicate flavor and crisp crunch always brings me joy. Pistachio fan that I am, I find it frustrating that this beautiful nut is rarely utilized by most home cooks. Flavorful and agreeable with a cornucopia of other flavors, be it sweet or savory, the hardest part about working with these shelled treasures is choosing what else to pair them with. In this case, I really wanted the pistachio to finally get its fair share of the spotlight, accentuating it with the woodsy, earthy sweetness of maple syrup. Crunchy, creamy, and with a bold green hue that artifical colors can only dream of imitating, these cookies could make a pistachio lover out of anyone. COOKIES: ½ cup vegan butter or coconut oil ⅔ cup maple syrup 2¾ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon lemon extract or lemon zest ¼ teaspoon salt PISTACHIO CRÈME: 1 cup shelled, toasted pistachios or ⅔ cup pistachio butter ¼ cup full-fat coconut milk 3 tablespoons maple syrup ½ teaspoon vanilla Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. In a large microwave-safe bowl, melt the butter or coconut oil and then stir in the maple syrup. Add in 2 cups of the flour, along with the baking powder, vanilla, lemon extract or zest, and salt. Stir the batter until all the ingredients are fully combined. Add in the remainder of the flour and combine. The batter should be rather thick; resist the temptation to add more liquid. Scoop out walnut-sized balls and roll them in your hands to make them nicely rounded. Place the balls onto your prepared baking sheets about 1 inch apart. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, but don't wait for them to brown. Once the cookies firm up a bit, and no longer appear moist on top, they are done! Let the cookies cool on the sheets. To make the pistachio crème, toss the pistachios into your food processor and grind them on full power for up to 10 minutes, so that they become relatively smooth and paste-like. The mixture will start out as a coarse meal, break down to a finer powder, and eventually turn into a smooth paste. The process will take some time, and you may need to pause to scrape down the sides of the container with a spatula—just stick with it! Once smooth, keep the motor running and slowly drizzle in the coconut milk, followed by the maple syrup and vanilla. Process until fully incorporated. If using ready-made pistachio butter, simply mix together all the ingredients until completely smooth. After the cookies have cooled, spoon a dollop of the crème (about 1 to 2 teaspoons) onto the flat side of one cookie, and top with a second. Repeat with the remaining cookies. Nut Case Cookies Makes 36 cookies I often buy huge bags of nuts at a time, which is great for larger recipes, but when I get down to the bottom, there's never enough of one to satisfy any recipe alone. Utilizing all those scrappy remnants, the sum is far greater than its parts. What follows is my favorite combination made with the components I most frequently keep, but in the spirit of salvaging otherwise idle leftovers, feel free create your own adventure based on the concept. Substitute whatever nuts you have on hand, whole or chopped, raw or roasted. You could even go a bit "nuts" and throw in a splash of almond extract! 1 cup vegan butter ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 cup whole wheat pastry flour 1½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ cup aquafaba ½ cup toasted almonds, roughly chopped ½ cup toasted cashews, roughly chopped ½ cup toasted pistachios, roughly chopped Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. In your stand mixer, cream together the butter and both sugars. In a separate bowl, combine the two flours, baking soda, and salt. Slowly incorporate the dry ingredients into the mixer until everything is combined. Add the vanilla and aquafaba next, mixing so that the dough is completely homogenous through and through. Fold in the nuts by hand to distribute evenly. Drop rounded tablespoons of dough onto your prepared baking sheets, allowing plenty of room for them to spread. Bake for 10 to 14 minutes, until the cookies are no longer shiny on top. Remove them from the baking sheet immediately and allow them to cool. Orange Hazelnut Biscotti Makes 12 to 15 biscotti Orange is the new biscotti, don't you know? More compelling than a passing fashion trend or viral pop culture hit, this citrus is king, goes with everything, and won't be forgotten with next season's programming. Hazelnut and chocolate have a proven affinity across decades of culinary flights of fancy and pastry binge watching, which garners the trio top ratings on the cookie plate. Bright flecks of fresh orange zest bring these crunchy biscotti to life, in vivid flavor that unquestionably exceeds the abilities of high-definition TV. ½ cup vegan butter ¾ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds 2 tablespoons water 1 tablespoon orange zest 2 cups all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup toasted hazelnuts, roughly chopped ¼ cup orange juice 6 ounces (about 1 cup) dark chocolate, roughly chopped Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Cream the butter in your mixer, beating until light and fluffy. Add in the sugar and mix until fully incorporated. Separately, stir the flaxseeds together with the water to form a paste. Add to the mixer and thoroughly blend. Toss in the zest from your orange and mix again. Sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt, mixing lightly until relatively combined. Continuing with the mixer on a slow speed, drop in the hazelnuts, and slowly drizzle the orange juice into the mixture until it just comes together in a cohesive ball. Shape the resulting dough into a long, skinny rectangle, about 1 inch tall and 2 inches wide; the length isn't so critical. Place it onto your prepared baking sheet and bake for 35 to 40 minutes. The top of the biscotti loaf should be lightly browned, but don't panic if it seems a little bit soft and bread-like on the inside. Cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing, using a very sharp knife to cut horizontally into pieces that are about ½- to ¾-inch thick. Lay the slices down flat on one of the cut sides on the baking sheet and return the biscotti to the oven for another 10 minutes. Flip them over onto the opposite side and bake for another 10 minutes. Allow the biscotti to cool completely. Place the chocolate in a relatively shallow, microwave-safe dish that can accommodate the full length of the cookies. In the microwave, heat your chocolate in 30-second intervals, stirring well after each period until completely smooth. Dip each biscotto into the chocolate and place it back on a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Allow the chocolate to fully set before removing them again. If nuts aren't invited to this party, use crispy dry roasted chickpeas or soybeans instead. Party Mix Bars Makes 20 to 24 bars Friends coming over unexpectedly for a movie night, game of Scrabble, video games, or just to hang out? Don't drag out that tired old bag of snack mix; whip up a festive batch of bars liable to become the life of the party! This sweet and salty treat takes shape as grabbable, munchable squares, rather than a handful of loose munchies, leaving less mess to collect between sofa cushions the next day. A single batch can accommodate a ravenous crowd and is no more laborious than making banal crispy rice treats. What are you waiting for? When they find out what's in store, your guests will be at your door before you know it! 2 cups mini pretzel twists and/or sticks 2 cups corn and/or wheat cereal squares 3 cups crispy rice cereal 1½ cups roasted and salted mixed nuts 1 tablespoon vegan butter ¾ cup granulated sugar 1 cup light agave nectar or maple syrup 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Combine the pretzels, both types of cereal, and nuts in a large bowl. Liberally coat a 9x13-inch baking pan with cooking spray. Set both aside. Set a medium saucepan over low heat and begin by melting the butter alone. Once it has liquefied, add in the sugar and syrup, stirring as necessary until the sugar crystals dissolve. Turn up the heat and bring the mixture to a steady boil. Cook for an additional 3 to 5 minutes, until it appears to have thickened slightly. Remove from the heat and quickly stir in the vanilla. Pour the contents of your saucepan over the dry mix and fold it in carefully but briskly, being careful not to crush the cereal. Pour everything into your prepared pan and gently press it out into an even layer. Let cool completely before cutting into bars. Blow up your holiday cookie exchange with a cinnamon speculoos blast! Use either creamy or crunchy speculoos spread (also known as cookie butter) instead of peanut butter for a critical seasonal hit. Peanut Butter Bombs Makes 12 to 14 cookies They may look like plain old chocolate cookies from the outside, but one bite will reveal an explosion of rich, crunchy peanut butter! Seriously satisfying, like a peanut butter cup in cookie form, these are perhaps the only bomb that I can condone making. PEANUT BUTTER FILLING: ¼ cup crunchy peanut butter ⅓ cup confectioners' sugar 1 teaspoon unsweetened nondairy milk CHOCOLATE-PEANUT BUTTER COOKIE: ¼ cup vegan butter ¼ cup creamy peanut butter ⅓ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ⅓ cup granulated sugar ½ cup plain or vanilla vegan yogurt 1 tablespoon unsweetened non-dairy milk 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1¼ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. In a small bowl, combine all the ingredients for the filling and stir well. It should have a crumbly consistency, but still hold together when pressed. Once everything is fully incorporated, set aside. In your mixer, cream together the butter, peanut butter, and both sugars. Mix in the yogurt, nondairy milk, and vanilla, and continue beating until smooth. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly add these dry ingredients into the wet, being careful not to overmix. The dough may be rather sticky at first. If you have trouble shaping it, let it rest in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes, or try moistening your hands slightly before handling. For each cookie, roll about a tablespoon of dough into a ball and press it down flat onto your silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Line the cookies up 3 x 3 on your two baking sheets, with plenty of room in between. Drop a rounded teaspoon or so of your peanut butter filling into the center of each, and top with another flattened round of dough. Be sure to cover the whole dollop of filling, pressing the edges together, making sure that the two pieces form a complete seal all around the cookie. Bake for 8 to 12 minutes, until the cookies no longer appear shiny on top. Remove the cookies from the oven and allow them to cool on the baking sheet. Peanut-Plus Cookies Makes 24 cookies All signs would seem to say these are your typical tasty peanut butter cookies: endearingly nutty, soft, and chewy, unmistakably speckled with crunchy roasted nuts throughout. Every aspect of this classification is accurate, although there is something slightly different about these cookies that most eaters wouldn't venture to guess. Lentils and potatoes are the secret ingredients added to this mix, negating the need for wheat altogether. Challenge the cookie status quo with a more diverse arsenal of ingredients, and you won't be disappointed. ½ cup red lentils, dry ½ cup plain nondairy milk ¼ cup potato flour 1 cup crunchy peanut butter ¾ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup cornstarch 2 teaspoons cream of tartar 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon salt Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. Begin by grinding up your dry lentils in a food processor for a good 5 to 10 minutes, until they become a fine powder. This step is crucial, as any larger fragments will change the texture of the finished cookies substantially. If you do not have a food processor handy, then the lentils can be ground in a spice grinder in about two batches. While your lentils are churning away, combine the nondairy milk and potato flour in a microwave-safe bowl and heat for one minute. Let the potato mixture cool for a minute or two, before tossing it into a stand mixer along with your freshly processed lentil flour. Mix in the peanut butter and sugar. Sprinkle in the cornstarch while keeping your mixer on low, increasing the speed once everything is combined and no longer threatens to send starch flying out. Make sure the dough is thoroughly mixed before introducing the remaining ingredients. Stir until completely smooth. Spoon rounded tablespoons of dough onto the prepared baking sheets. Leave a good amount of room between the cookies to allow for spreading, but they shouldn't spread too far; about an inch should do the trick. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until they are no longer shiny on top, but have not yet begun to brown around the edges. To ensure a soft, chewy cookie, remove the cookies from the oven just before they begin to take on color. Allow them to sit on the hot baking sheet for another 5 minutes before pulling the silicone baking mat off onto a cooler surface. Pfeffernusse Makes 20 to 24 cookies German "pepper nuts" take soft gingerbread bites and spike them with a bold punch of warm spices, accented by the distinctive licorice-like flavor of anise. Lovers of chai tea will also fall in love with these tender sugar-coated morsels thanks to the fragrant hint of cardamom carried throughout. Condensing such a diverse world of flavors into such small packages, these classic holiday treats are long overdue for a revival across the globe. You may find it difficult to sacrifice any of these delights to leave out for Santa, let alone share with your friends! ½ cup vegan butter ½ cup granulated sugar 2 tablespoons molasses 2 tablespoons aquafaba ¾ teaspoon pure anise extract or ½ teaspoon ground anise seeds 1¼ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup almond meal 1 teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground cloves ¼ teaspoon ground cardamom ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper About 1 cup confectioners' sugar, to coat In your stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Scrape down the side of the bowl to prevent any lumps from being left behind. Beat in the molasses and aquafaba, followed shortly by the anise. Combine the flour, almond meal, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and dry spices in a large bowl. Gradually add this flour mixture to the mixer. Stir slowly until a cohesive dough begins to form, so that the dry ingredients don't fly out and decorate your kitchen walls with spicy holiday cheer. Manually press the dough into a ball and wrap it tightly in plastic before placing it into the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes. When it is time to remove the dough from the refrigerator, preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. Roll the dough into 1-inch balls, handling them as little as possible. Place them about two inches apart on your prepared baking sheets. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until the cookies are lightly but evenly browned. Once they come out of the oven, roll the cookies in a dish full of confectioners' sugar and cool them on a wire rack. The cookies may absorb the sugar over time, so you might wish to coat them a second time to achieve a brighter snowball appearance before serving. Really get into the holiday spirit by incorporating 2 teaspoons of matcha into the cookie dough. The contrasting green color will be bright and merry against the red fruit filling, to say nothing of the joyous green tea astringency. Strawberry Spirals Makes 36 to 48 cookies Everyone's familiar with the standard cast of characters inevitably taking up residence on your average holiday cookie platter, rarely deviating from the tried-and-true crowd pleasers. Soft sugar cookies, gingersnaps, and peanut butter buckeyes are always in attendance, never tardy. Shortbread, almond spritz, and lemon drops dress up in their winter finest, putting on a good show as always. Sure, the mesmerizing chocolate pinwheels that grace many a plate are perfectly agreeable little corkscrews, though their flavor never lives up to such visual promise. Rather than sacrificing taste for design, why not roll up some flavorful fruit, like brilliant red strawberries? To keep with the Christmas theme, feel free to substitute dried cranberries instead for a tart, tangy, and festive variation. FRUIT FILLING: 2 cups dried strawberries ⅓ cup water 1 teaspoon cornstarch COOKIE DOUGH: 1 cup vegan butter ½ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2¼ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup whole wheat pastry flour 2 tablespoons cornstarch ¼ teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt 3–5 tablespoons lemon juice ½ cup decorative pearl sugar, sanding sugar, or turbinado sugar (optional) In your food processor or blender, blend together the dried strawberries and water until mostly smooth. Slowly sprinkle in the cornstarch with the motor running, in order to prevent lumps from forming. Set aside. In your stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Mix in the vanilla and beat until fully combined. In a separate bowl, whisk together both flours, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly add this flour mixture to your batter and mix just until combined. Drizzle in the lemon juice until the dough achieves a workable consistency. It should be very stiff and firm, but moist enough to hold together when pressed. Divide the dough into two even halves and form each into a rectangle as best you can. Wrap the rectangles in plastic wrap, and let them rest in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours. Once thoroughly chilled, remove one piece of dough from the refrigerator and roll it out between two sheets of parchment paper to about ¼-inch thick. Try to keep it as rectangular as possible. Peel away one piece of the parchment and gently spread the strawberry mixture atop your dough, leaving a border of about ½ inch without fruit around edges. Starting with a long side of the dough, roll it into a log, using the parchment as leverage, and being careful not to mash the filling. Repeat this process with the second rectangle. Re-wrap these logs in plastic wrap and chill in the freezer for another few hours, until solid but pliable. I find that the dough will hold its shape better if you stick it inside a cardboard paper towel roll that has been split down the middle, but it should be okay even if you don't go to this trouble. Once the dough is properly chilled, preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or fresh parchment paper. Using a serrated knife carefully cut the logs crosswise into ⅓- to ½-inch-thick slices. Use a sawing motion with the knife, trying not to apply significant pressure. Place the slices on the prepared baking sheets with a good amount of room around them, about an inch or so. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes, until the cookies just begin to lightly brown around the edges. Remove from the oven, and let the cookies sit for one additional minute before transferring them to a wire rack for further cooling. Turtle Shortbread Wedges Makes 16 cookies Rich, velvety chocolate, dark caramelized sugar, and crunchy toasted pecans were simply made for each other. The "turtle" moniker for this unbeatable trio came from palm-sized candies originally shaped somewhat like their namesake animal. Though cute in a crude sort of way, I can't understand why you'd want to eat a turtle in the first place, even if it was a sweet confection. Titles aside, this combination of ingredients is a real knockout, reptilian in nature or not. Proceed with caution: Such a decadent assemblage has been known to elicit moans of pleasure just upon first sight, and whole batches of this layered cookie sensation have been known to mysteriously disappear overnight. CHOCOLATE SHORTBREAD: ½ cup vegan butter ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup all-purpose flour ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder CARAMEL TOPPING: 2 cups granulated sugar ¼ teaspoon cream of tartar ¼ teaspoon salt ⅓ cup water ¼ cup full-fat coconut milk 1¼ cups lightly toasted pecan halves Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and generously grease an 8-inch round springform pan. For the shortbread, cream the butter and sugar together in your stand mixer until soft and fluffy. Add in the vanilla and salt. Turn the mixer off to add in both the flour and cocoa powder, starting it up at a slow speed to prevent a cloud of dry ingredients from flying right out. It may take a little bit of mixing for everything to come together, but be patient and resist the urge to add liquid. Press the dough into the bottom of your prepared pan. It will be very thick and stiff, so you may want to grease your hands or use a piece of wax paper to smooth it in. Cover the bottom of the pan evenly and completely. Bake for 20 minutes, until the dough appears firmer on top, and the sides look a bit crispy. If you are not sure if it is done by that time, trust your intuition and take it out after an additional minute at most. It is hard to distinguish "done" from "burnt" when it starts out as such a dark color in the first place. While the shortbread is baking, begin to prepare the caramel topping. Take out a medium saucepan and place your sugar, cream of tartar, salt, and water inside. Set it over medium heat and stir the mixture just to combine, after which time you must not agitate it for about 5 to 7 minutes. Once it turns a shade of light amber, it will continue to color very quickly, so stay on your toes! (At this point, your shortbread should be out of the oven and nearby, ready to go) Stir occasionally until it reaches the hard-crack stage at 300ºF (150ºC). If you don't have a candy thermometer handy, drop a small amount of the syrup into a cup of cold water to test. It should form thin, brittle threads that break if you try to bend them. Stand back from the stove slightly while still stirring, and pour in the coconut milk with care, as it could splash back violently. Stir in the pecans just to combine. Turn off the heat, and pour the whole mixture over the chocolate shortbread. Return the pan to your oven for 10 more minutes, until the caramel has darkened slightly. Let it cool for at least 20 minutes before running a knife around the edge to loosen. Release the springform sides to transfer the full cookie disk out onto a cutting board, and cut into wedges while it is still slightly warm. Let cool completely before serving or storing. Whoopie pies enjoyed a fleeting moment of mainstream fame right as the cupcake craze died down, leading to a flood of creative new twists on the usual chocolate and vanilla affair. Red Velvet indisputably skyrocketed to the top of that list in terms of popularity, and it's an equally delightful departure from this standard formula. To re-create that scarlet starlet, use natural cocoa and reduce it to just 2 tablespoons, while increasing the all-purpose flour to 1⅓ cups total. Swap the nondairy milk for beet juice to get that brilliant but completely natural hue. Add 3 tablespoons of cream cheese into the filling to really put the icing on the cake—or in the cake, as it were. Whoopie Pies Makes 8 to 10 large sandwich cookies or 15 to 18 minis Wrapped up in plastic like hazardous material and sporting ingredient lists that read more like failed science experiments than food, my earliest exposure to whoopie pies at a gas station pit stop was not exactly compelling. I couldn't wrap my mind around the appeal of squishy, week-old cake wrapped around achingly sweet frosting, piled up on the counter like a basket of brown tennis balls. It took many more years to find the subject worthy of reexamination, not to mention a total gut-renovation. Baked from scratch and eaten fresh, this soft chocolate cookie sandwich gets a whole new lease on life. CHOCOLATE COOKIES: 1 cup unsweetened nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1 cup whole wheat pastry flour 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup vegan butter ¼ cup granulated sugar ½ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed 2 tablespoons vegan sour cream or plain vegan yogurt 1 teaspoon vanilla extract CRÈME FILLING: 2 cups confectioners' sugar ⅓ cup vegan butter 1–3 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. In a small bowl, whisk together the nondairy milk and vinegar and let stand about 5 minutes. Separately, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flours, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside. In your stand mixer, cream together the vegan butter and both sugars, beating to ensure that the contents of the bowl are creamy and fully combined. Add the sour cream or yogurt and mix again to incorporate, even if the resulting mixture isn't exactly smooth. Returning to the bowl of milk, whisk in the vanilla. Beginning with these wet ingredients, alternately add them with the dry ingredients into your mixer. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula as necessary to incorporate everything, stirring the batter just enough to fully combine. Use an ice cream scoop or measuring cup to drop 3 to 4 tablespoons for large cookies, or about 1 tablespoon each to make minis. Drop the dough onto your prepared baking sheets, leaving a good amount of space between each cookie to allow them to spread a bit; about 2 inches for the large, 1 inch for minis. Bake for 10 to 14 minutes if large (8 to 12 if mini), until they're no longer shiny on top. Remove the cookies from the oven and let them cool completely on the baking sheets, where they should firm up a bit more. To make the filling, begin with the mixer on low and beat together the confectioners' sugar and butter. Add the first tablespoon of nondairy milk along with the vanilla. Once the sugar is safely incorporated, turn the mixer up to high and whip for a good 2 or 3 minutes; this will incorporate more air, making for a lighter, fluffier filling. Slowly drizzle in additional milk only if needed to create a spreadable but sturdy consistency. Drop a healthy dollop of the crème mixture onto the flat side of one cooled cookie and place the flat side of a second cookie on top. Press down gently to bring the filling right out to the edge. Repeat this process with your remaining cookies and crème filling. CAKES & CUPCAKES Apple juice concentrate is readily available in the freezer aisle of most grocery stores but can also be made at home with a bit of patience and an abundance of fresh juice. Simply place 100 percent unsweetened apple juice or cider in a large stock pot and simmer gently until reduced by about half. That means you will need to start with at least 4 cups of juice to have enough for one batch of cake. Apple Spice Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings Dietary restrictions are no obstacle in my eyes, but instead are challenges that inspire me to push beyond the usual routine. In this case, it wasn't one of the predictable culprits like nuts or gluten throwing down the gauntlet. My Nana, one of the sweetest people I know, is ironically, lamentably diabetic. She managed to turn her life around and completely regain her health through diet and exercise, and refined sugars and flours are completely out of the question these days. When her birthday rolls around, though, it tortured me to arrive at the party empty handed. Using only fruit and whole grains to concoct a treat sounds dubious at best, but this towering naked cake goes au naturel, without shame or reluctance. Even the kids who might otherwise lean toward candy-coated neon sprinkles dig in with voracious appetites. Of course, the birthday girl was over the moon with her customized slice, but that came as no surprise; she's already sweet enough as is. APPLE SPICE CAKE: 2 cups whole wheat pastry flour 2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground nutmeg ½ teaspoon ground cloves 1 teaspoon baking powder 1½ teaspoons baking soda ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup olive oil 2 cups 100% apple juice concentrate, thawed and undiluted ½ cup unsweetened applesauce 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 3 medium-sized fuji or gala apples, divided 1 cup raisins 1 cup chopped walnuts TOPPING: 1 cup Apple Butter (page 227) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and grease two 8-inch round cake pans. Combine the flour, oats, spices, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl and set aside. In your stand mixer, blend the olive oil with the juice concentrate, followed by the applesauce, vinegar, and vanilla. Mix well. It might look a bit lumpy and unappealing, but have no fear! It will quickly improve from this point on, I promise. With your mixer on low speed, to avoid sending flour flying onto the walls, slowly add in the dry ingredients. Be careful not to overmix. Peel, core, and dice two of the apples. Fold the apple bits, along with the raisins and nuts, into the mixture. Once the goodies are well distributed, spread the batter into your greased pans. This is a very thick batter, so you may have to press it into shape with a spatula to evenly fill each pan. Core the last remaining apple and slice it very, very thinly for the topping. Use a mandoline if you have it for greater accuracy and consistency. Arrange the slices around the edge, slightly overlapping, on top of only one cake layer. Depending on the size of the apple, you may have some leftover; have yourself a little snack! Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each layer comes out clean. Let the layers cool to room temperature inside the pans. Turn the first layer out onto the plate you want to serve it on before slathering it with Apple Butter. Smooth the spread out almost to the edge but not quite, as the weight of the top layer will press it out further. Place the second layer on top and have a taste of sweetness without the sugar rush! Bananas Foster Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings Banana cake is all too often a disappointment. Dry as a brick, austere as a bran muffin, many people think it's perfectly all right to use any old banana bread recipe, slap some frosting on top, and call it dessert. Bananas can do so much better, given the freedom to embrace their sweeter side! Taking a page from the showstopping grand finale that is bananas Foster, these tender layers are soaked in rum before assembly and topped with a subtly salted caramel frosting that pulls the whole dessert together. In the typical showy fashion of the original, the garnish could be made with the addition of some rum and set ablaze to let the alcohol cook off. Knowing my personal ineptitude with fire, though, I think it is safer to recommend a simple sauté. The end results are still extraordinary, even without the stove-top conflagration. BANANA CAKE: 2½ cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder 2 teaspoons baking soda ½ teaspoon salt ⅔ cup unsweetened nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ½ cup vegan butter ¾ cup granulated sugar ½ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed 5 ripe, medium-sized bananas 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 6 tablespoons dark rum SALTED CARAMEL FROSTING: 1 cup vegan butter 3½ cups confectioners' sugar ⅓ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ teaspoon salt 1½ teaspoons water 1 teaspoon vanilla extract SAUTÉED BANANAS: 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 tablespoon dark rum 1 firm, large banana, sliced into ¼-inch rounds Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and set aside. In a separate small bowl, combine the nondairy milk and vinegar, also moving this to the side for now. In your stand mixer, cream together the butter and both sugars until light and fluffy. Mash the bananas well and mix them in, along with the vanilla. Add the flour mixture, alternating with the milk in two or three additions, into your mixer. Ensure that everything is fully combined before equally dividing the batter between your two prepared pans. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each layer comes out clean. Remove from the oven, and while they are still warm, poke the cake tops numerous times with your testing toothpick. Pour 3 tablespoons of rum over each layer. Let the cake layers cool completely before turning them out of the pans to assemble. For the frosting, cream the butter well and incorporate the confectioners' sugar slowly. Microwave the brown sugar, salt, and water together for 30 to 60 seconds, just until the sugar dissolves and begins to bubble a bit. Let the brown sugar stand for a few minutes to cool off, then pour it into the butter mixture. With the mixer on high, beat the frosting vigorously until all the ingredients are fully incorporated, light, and fluffy. Stir in the vanilla and frost the cake as desired. For the final banana garnish, combine the brown sugar and rum in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Cook until the sugar dissolves. Add the banana slices and stir to coat all the pieces well. Sauté for about 2 minutes, until the sugar bubbles and darkens into a golden caramel, stirring gently every so often. Remove the bananas from the skillet and transfer them to a silicone baking mat. Separate each slice so that they do not stick together. Let them cool completely before applying them artistically to adorn the cake. Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake Makes 12 to 16 servings Coffee runs through my veins, an essential that is unequaled for its power to both stimulate and sustain. The scent of a fresh roast percolating on the counter is enough to brighten my whole day, restorative and comforting, yet still incredibly complex. Each cup is an enigma. Thus, black coffee is my go-to, despite the vast array of syrups and drizzles and sprinkles that proliferate on café menus. Caramel macchiato is the one big exception that tempts me as a special reward, or a serious boost on a particularly difficult day. Aromatic as a buzzy coffee shop, dressed up with a sour cream substitute for crema and signature crosshatched caramel, now you can have your coffee and eat it, too. CHOCOLATE COOKIE CRUST: 1½ cups Chocolate Wafer Cookie (page 229) crumbs ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted ¼ teaspoon salt COFFEE CHEESECAKE: 1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu 2 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese ⅔ cup granulated sugar 2 tablespoons instant coffee powder ¼ cup coffee liqueur 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ⅛ teaspoon salt VANILLA SOUR-CREMA TOPPING: 1 cup vegan sour cream 1 tablespoon vanilla extract ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon cornstarch CARAMEL SAUCE: ¼ cup vegan butter ⅔ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 2 tablespoon unsweetened non-dairy milk ¼ teaspoon salt 4 teaspoons cornstarch Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease a 9-inch springform pan. For the crust, place the cookie crumbs in a medium bowl and pour the melted butter or coconut oil on top. Add the salt, stirring to thoroughly coat all the crumbs, and transfer this mixture into your prepared pan. Use your palms to firmly press the crumbs down, taking care to completely cover the bottom in an even layer. Bake for approximately 10 minutes and let cool but leave the oven on. For the main body of the cake, drain the package of tofu before tossing it into your food processor or blender to puree. Once smooth, add in the cream cheese and sugar, processing again to combine. In a small dish, stir the coffee powder into the liqueur to dissolve all the granules. Add this mixture into your food processor or blender, and process to combine. Add the vanilla and salt, scrape the sides to make sure you are not leaving anything out of the mix, and process one last time. Pour the mixture into your pan and tap gently on a flat surface to release any air bubbles trapped below the surface. Smooth down the top with a spatula and bake for 20 minutes. After that time, lower the oven temperature to 325ºF (160ºC). Bake for an additional 20 to 25 minutes, until the cake is still a bit wobbly in the center but set around the edges and slightly darker in color. As the cake finishes baking, stir together the sour cream, vanilla, sugar, and cornstarch in a small bowl until smooth. Once the cake comes out of the oven, pour this mixture over the top, and smooth it down to achieve an even layer. Bake for 5 to 10 minutes more, just until bubbles begin to percolate around the edges. The cake will still seem rather loose and wobbly, but it will continue to set up as it cools. Let it cool to room temperature before making the caramel drizzle. To complete the cake, make the caramel sauce by first setting a saucepan on the stove and gently melt the butter over medium heat. Once liquefied, add in the sugar, nondairy milk, and salt. Whisking slowly and steadily, bring the mixture to a gentle boil and continue to cook for about 5 minutes. Stir in the cornstarch and whisk vigorously to prevent lumps. Cook for one more minute, remove from the heat, and let the sauce cool for at least 10 minutes before drizzling over the cake in a checkerboard pattern, or as desired. Chai Cheesecake Makes 12 to 16 servings The spicy nuances of chai tea are no longer the stuff of obscure exotic imports alone, but is still shamefully hard to come by in prepared sweets. Those that do attempt such a delicate balance typically play it safe with milder mixes that lean heavily on cinnamon as a crutch, creating a terribly watered-down tease. Skip the middleman, start from scratch, and you seize upon the true, piquant flavors of chai without diluting your dessert. Each dense slice sparkles with a heavy dose of real ground spices that impart an intense experience, sure to please even the most discriminating chai enthusiasts. GRAHAM CRACKER CRUST: 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted 1–2 tablespoons plain nondairy milk CHAI FILLING: 1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu 2 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese 1 cup granulated sugar 2 teaspoons ground ginger 1½ teaspoons ground coriander 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground allspice ½ teaspoon cardamom ¼ teaspoon ground cloves ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper Dash salt Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) degrees and lightly grease and flour a 9-inch round springform pan. Toss the graham cracker crumbs into a medium bowl. Add the melted butter or coconut oil and stir to combine. Slowly drizzle in the nondairy milk, just a few teaspoons at a time, until the crumbs are moist enough to hold together when pressed, but not so much that they're damp. Using your hands, press the mixture evenly into the bottom of your prepared pan. Set aside. For the filling, drain the tofu of any excess water and blend it in your food processor or blender until smooth. Add in the cream cheese and blend. Scrape down the sides and blend again, ensuring that no lumps remain. Incorporate the sugar, spices, and salt. Scrape down the sides once more, checking for any concentrated pockets of spice. Blend thoroughly to create a homogenous mixture before pouring it on top of your graham cracker crust. Tap the whole pan on the counter lightly, to even it out and eliminate any air bubbles. Smooth the top with your spatula before transferring it to the oven. Bake for approximately 30 minutes, until the sides begin to pull away from the pan and the center still appears to be rather wobbly when tapped. Trust me; it will become firmer in time! Let the cake cool completely before moving it into the refrigerator, where I suggest you let it chill for at least 12 to 24 hours before serving. This will allow the flavors to fully develop and intensify. Cookies and Crème Pound Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings Statistically speaking, the Oreo® has ranked as America's favorite cookie for decades, or at least for as long as market researchers have peered into the snacking habits of the country. Yet, for all its nostalgic, unfussy charm, the simple stacked wafers might pale in comparison to a plateful of cake. Choosing between the two would be some sort of cruel trial, a war of wills I'd never force anyone to undergo. Peace is possible, if you bake it! Get the best of both with a thick slab of moist pound cake, riddled with crunchy cookie pieces all the way through. Don't call it a compromise; it would pull in top honors if added to the survey. POUND CAKE: ¼ cup vegan butter ¾ cup granulated sugar 1½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup plain or unsweetened vegan yogurt ½ cup plain nondairy milk 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ½ teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1 cup crushed vegan chocolate crème-filled sandwich cookies (about 10 whole cookies) 4 whole vegan chocolate crème-filled sandwich cookies Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease an 8x4-inch loaf pan. Using your stand mixer, cream together the butter and granulated sugar. Add in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and yogurt all at once. Mix until just combined but be careful not to overwork the batter; a few lumps are okay at this point. Proceed by mixing in the nondairy milk, followed by the vanilla and vinegar. Fold in your crushed cookies by hand and pour the batter into your prepared loaf pan. Place the remaining whole cookies on top, and bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of your loaf comes out clean. Let the cake cool in the pan for at least 5 minutes before unmolding and moving it to a wire rack. Cool completely, slice, and enjoy with a tall glass of soy milk, just like the classic cookie! Using natural cocoa is very important for maintaining color integrity; do not use Dutch-process cocoa powder in this recipe if you want the crumb to remain red. Cranberry Red Velvet Cake Makes 10 to 14 servings What's made with cocoa but doesn't taste like chocolate, and is a brilliant ruby-red hue but has no added food coloring? If you said red velvet cake, then you sure do know your desserts! Something of a pop culture sleeper hit, the red velvet cake is said to have originated from wartime scarcity, a humble confection made of the most basic staples that just happened to turn red due to the strange alchemy between natural cocoa powder and baking soda. Most renditions rely instead on some artificial augmentation, but with a little bit of baking know-how and an eye toward natural alternatives, it's easy to stack up layers of any shade, no questionable additives needed. Taking advantage of the naturally red fruit, cranberries lend both their subtle coloring and bold, tart, and tangy flavor to the batter, dotting the finished cake with chewy bites of whole stewed cranberries. No red velvet creation is complete without a bit of cream cheese frosting, and this vanilla-infused topper is the perfect sweet foil to such an unconventional cake. Denser and darker than the standard crumb, just a sliver will satisfy any craving, but you still may just find yourself reaching for seconds nonetheless. If you're looking to revamp the classic dessert offerings at your next celebration, consider your search complete. CRANBERRY RED VELVET CAKE: 2½ cups cranberries, fresh or frozen ¼ cup light brown sugar, firmly packed 2 tablespoons lemon juice ¼ cup finely diced, steamed beet (about 1 small beet) ⅔ cup olive oil ⅔ cup unsweetened nondairy milk ¼ cup beet juice 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 2⅓ cups all-purpose flour 1⅓ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup natural cocoa powder 1½ teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon salt ⅛ teaspoon ground cinnamon CREAM CHEESE FROSTING: 2 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese 1 cup vegan butter, at room temperature 5 cups confectioners' sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Pinch of salt Preheat your oven to 350ºF and lightly grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans. Combine the cranberries, brown sugar, and lemon juice in a medium saucepan over moderate heat. Stir periodically and allow the mixture to stew for 10 to 15 minutes, roughly mashing the cranberries against the side of the pan to help thicken the mixture. Once it reaches a jammy consistency, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, turn off the heat and let cool for at least 15 minutes. In the meantime, toss the cooked beet, oil, nondairy milk, beet juice, vanilla, and vinegar into your blender and puree on high speed. Blend until completely smooth, pausing to scrape down the sides of the canister if needed. In a separate large bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, cocoa powder, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Make sure that all the dry goods are equally distributed within the bowl before adding in all of the blended wet ingredients along with the stewed cranberries. Stir with a large spatula to bring everything together into a smooth batter, being careful not to overmix. A few remaining lumps are just fine. Distribute the batter equally between the two prepared cake pans and tent the pans loosely with foil to prevent the tops from browning. Bake for 28 to 32 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the centers pulls out cleanly. Let cool completely before frosting. To prepare the frosting, simply combine the vegan cream cheese and butter in your stand mixer with the whisk attachment installed. Beat the two together thoroughly until smooth and homogenous before adding in half of the confectioners' sugar with the vanilla and salt. Start the mixer on a low speed to incorporate the sugar, pausing to scrape down the sides of the bowl with your spatula. Add in the remaining sugar in the same fashion, giving the mixer plenty of time to blend it in. Turn up the speed to high and whip the frosting for a full 5 to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. Apply to your cake as desired. Because this frosting is fairly soft, it's advisable to store the finished cake in the fridge just prior to serving if you want to make it in advance. Chocolate-covered espresso beans made without dairy can be hard to come by, but you can still experience the same crunchy, caffeinated crumb to coat this cake with a simple shortcut. Coarsely grind ¼ cup of dark roasted coffee beans with 1½ cups finely chopped dark chocolate. The resulting mix may not have the same shine, or compulsive snackablility, but it's every bit as an invigorating and satisfying as a garnish! Dark Mocha Revelation Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings Stealing top honors at my very first baking competition, the stunning success of this imposing ode to chocolate and coffee may be responsible for the obsession with recipe creation that soon took hold. Emboldened by this early success, I was gripped by renewed inspiration before even wrapping my hands around the award, continuing to tweak the prizewinner until not a soul could resist its charm. It is intensely flavored and highly aromatic. Simply leaving it uncovered on the counter will draw curious noses from all over the house, in search of the heavenly aroma. Dense and decadent, this cake should only be made for a crowd, lest you find yourself compelled by its siren song to polish the whole thing off unassisted! MOCHA CAKE: 2 cups all-purpose flour ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder 1 tablespoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 1 (14-ounce) can chickpeas, drained 1¼ cups maple syrup 1 cup olive oil 1 cup chocolate nondairy milk 2 teaspoons instant coffee powder 1 tablespoon vanilla extract COFFEE BUTTERCREAM: ½ cup vegan butter 2 cups confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 2 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk 2½ teaspoons instant coffee powder ½ cup dark chocolate-covered espresso beans CHOCOLATE COATING: ⅔ cup full-fat coconut milk ½ cup vegan butter 10 ounces (about 1⅔ cups) dark chocolate, chopped 1 cup dark chocolate-covered espresso beans Preheat your oven to 325ºF (160ºC) and lightly oil and flour two 8-inch round cake pans. Sift the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into your stand mixer and set aside. Drain any excess liquid out of the canned chickpeas before tossing them into your food processor or blender and pureeing until completely smooth. Scrape down the sides to ensure that no pieces are left behind, and add in the maple syrup and oil, processing just to combine. Add these wet ingredients into the dry. Blend briefly, just to incorporate. In a separate microwave-safe bowl, heat the nondairy milk in the microwave for just a minute and dissolve the coffee powder into it. Add this mixture, along with the vanilla, into the batter, stirring to fully combine. Divide the batter evenly between your prepared pans and smooth down the tops. Bake for 30 minutes, until the cakes appear to pull away from the sides slightly. Give the cakes time to cool completely off before proceeding. To make the buttercream, simply blend all the ingredients, except for the espresso beans, in your mixer until smooth and creamy. Roughly crush the ½ cup of espresso beans and set them aside. When you are ready to assemble the cake, turn the first layer out onto the plate you want to serve it on. Mound your buttercream up high but in an even layer, using all of it. Sprinkle the crushed espresso beans on top, covering the entire area of exposed filling. Next, take the second layer and flip it onto the base with the flat side up, resulting in a smooth surface on top. Finally, heat the coconut milk and butter together in the microwave for one minute, or until the butter melts. Place the dark chocolate in a medium bowl and hot liquid mixture on top. Let it sit for about a minute to start melting before stirring vigorously to combine. If it doesn't all smooth out after a good deal of stirring, send it all to the microwave for 30 seconds or so to help it along. Let this smooth ganache sit and thicken for up to an hour at room temperature, or for 15 to 25 minutes in the refrigerator. Smooth the ganache over the top of the cake and down the sides. Crush the remaining 1 cup of espresso beans and apply them in an even layer around the edges, to coat the sides of the cake before the ganache has fully set. Serve this cake within 24 hours to enjoy the flavors and textures at the peak of perfection. If you'd still like to enjoy the original, "decadent" rendition, simply double the recipes for both the cake and ganache, and create a double-decker layer cake by sandwiching extra ganache between the two rounds. Everyday Almond Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings This moist, fine-crumbed cake was originally created for a birthday celebration, fulfilling the vague request for something featuring almonds and chocolate. Delivering a truly decadent double decker tower on the day of the event, little did I know what fame and glory lay ahead of this sweet smash hit. Rapidly evolving into a single, daintier round fit for a bite of indulgence any day of the week, it became a staple at Nourish Café, where I baked in San Francisco for almost two years. Now one of my signature desserts, it's simpler to whip together on a whim, dare I say "healthier," and still every bit as delicious. Hundreds of cakes later, I can confidently say that it will not disappoint on any occasion. ALMOND CAKE: ½ cup almond meal ¾ cup white whole wheat flour ½ cup garbanzo bean flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ⅓ cup olive oil 1 cup plain nondairy milk ½ cup + 2 tablespoons maple syrup ½ teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1½ teaspoons almond extract ½ teaspoon vanilla extract CHOCOLATE GANACHE: 7 ounces (about 1 heaping cup) dark chocolate, chopped ¼ cup full-fat coconut milk 1 tablespoon maple syrup Whole almonds, for garnish (optional) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and generously grease one 8-inch round cake pan. Combine the almond meal, both flours, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Stir to combine and set aside. Separately, whisk together the oil, nondairy milk, maple syrup, and vinegar vigorously until the mixture is slightly frothy and bubbly on the surface. Incorporate the two extracts. Slowly add in the dry mixture, whisking just until everything is combined. Don't be alarmed if the batter seems thin, almost like crepe batter rather than your traditional cake. That means you've done it right! Pour the batter into your prepared pan and bake for 25 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool for at least 15 minutes before turning out on a wire rack to cool. Make sure it's completely cool before decorating. To make your ganache, heat the chocolate, coconut milk, and maple syrup together in a medium saucepan over very low heat, stirring well until completely smooth. Pour generously over the top of the cake, allowing it to run down the sides. Use a flat spatula to smooth over any gaps until it's fully covered. Place whole almonds decoratively around the border, if desired. Let the ganache cool and set completely before serving. Prefer smaller format sweets? Turn your sweet edible sunshine into individual cupcakes by dividing the batter equally between 18–20 standard muffin pans lined with cupcake papers. Bake at 350ºF (175ºC) for 15–18 minutes. Lemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt Makes 16 to 18 servings When you're stuck inside on gloomy days, cloudy skies threatening overhead, take shelter in the kitchen and brighten the mood with a slice of this cheerful cake. Tangy fresh citrus like lemons and limes make me think of bright colors, bubbly sodas, and hot summer days. Using them in a dessert such as this is just like baking sunshine into a cake! Go off the beaten path and play with any variety of zesty fruit, like orange, grapefruit, yuzu, pomelo, Buddha's hand, and more to shake up the usual routine. LEMON-LIME CAKE: ¾ cup plain nondairy milk 2 tablespoons lemon juice 2 tablespoons lime juice 1 cup vegan butter 2 cups granulated sugar 2 tablespoons lemon zest 2 tablespoons lime zest 1¼ cups lemon, lime, or plain vegan yogurt 3 cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt GLAZE: ½ cup confectioners' sugar 1–2 tablespoons lemon juice Preheat your oven to 325ºF (160ºC) and lightly grease and flour a 10-inch Bundt or tube pan. In a small bowl, combine the nondairy milk with both citrus juices and set aside to acidify. In a stand mixer, cream the butter, sugar, and both zests together until light and fluffy, scraping down the sides as necessary. Add in the yogurt, a heaping ½ cup at a time, beating well after each addition to prevent unblended lumps from being left behind. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add these dry ingredients into your stand mixer alternately with the acidified milk mixture. Mix thoroughly. Drop dollops of the batter evenly into your prepared Bundt pan and bake for 65 to 80 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let the cake cool in the pan for 10 minutes before turning it out onto a wire rack. Allow it to cool completely before icing. For the glaze, simply whisk the sugar and lemon juice together until smooth and pour over your cake as desired. Ispahan is the unique combination of raspberry, lychee, and rose originally dreamed up as a specialty macaron by legendary pastry chef Pierre Hermé. Take a page from his notebook and incorporate 1 teaspoon of rosewater into the cakes to enjoy this exquisite delicacy. Lychee Cupcakes with Raspberry Frosting Makes 13 cupcakes Lychees are not an everyday produce pick but are worth hunting down. Fragrant and delicately flavored like exotic flowers and subtly grassy herbs, pureed lychees give these cupcakes a distinctive, inimitable taste. Capped with a swirl of soft raspberry frosting, the tart berry twang enhances the flavors locked within each tender, moist crumb. Fresh lychees are always best. You can find them proliferating in Asian markets around late spring and through summer, but if you still have no luck finding them, canned lychees will work in a pinch. LYCHEE CUPCAKES: ¾ pound fresh lychee nuts (roughly 7 ounces of puree) ¾ cup granulated sugar ⅓ cup olive oil ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract 1¼ cups all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ¾ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon apple cider vinegar RASPBERRY FROSTING: ½ cup vegan butter ½ cup vegan cream cheese 6 ounces (about 1 cup) fresh raspberries 4 cups confectioners' sugar Before breaking out those cupcake pans, you will want to peel, pit, and process the lychees first. To do so, press your thumb into the top of the fruit, as you would an orange, and remove the outer skin. The fruit itself is a translucent white color; split in half to remove the pit. Toss the pure flesh into your food processor or blender and repeat with your remaining lychees. If they are being stubborn, you can always take a knife all the way around the circumference to remove the inedible exterior. Once you have taken care of the lychees, process them until mostly smooth and set aside. Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line twelve to thirteen muffin tins with cupcake papers. In a large bowl, mix together the lychee puree, sugar, oil, and vanilla until completely combined. Next, sift in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, stirring just enough to bring the batter together, but being careful not to overmix. Finally, once your oven is ready to go, stir in the apple cider vinegar. Spoon the batter into your prepared tins about ½ to ⅔ of the way to the top. Though you may be able to squeeze the batter into twelve tins, I typically end up with a perfect baker's dozen. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes, until evenly browned and a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake, comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool completely before frosting. For the frosting, cream together the butter and cream cheese in your stand mixer. Make sure you wash and dry your berries well before proceeding. Set aside 13 of the nicest berries for garnish. Throw the rest of the raspberries into your food processor or blender and blend them until completely smooth. Pass the puree through a fine-mesh strainer and discard the solids. Pour the seedless blend into your stand mixer and beat until everything is mostly incorporated. Mix in 2 cups of the confectioners' sugar. Once the first batch of sugar has combined, add the remaining 2 cups. Start mixing on slow, just to incorporate, and then bring the speed up to high, whipping for about 5 minutes until the frosting is light and fluffy. Pipe or spread the frosting onto your cupcakes as desired, and top with the reserved berries. Marshmallow Mud Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings Billowing swells of puffy white clouds of pure vanilla delicacy are what childhood dreams are made of. Marshmallow cream, soft and airy, seems like an unthinkable fluke of nature, genuine proof of magic, for its unworldly loft and sweetness. Call upon your inner wizard to conjure up a burgeoning, puffy bowlful with only a few common household ingredients, plus a little pinch of sweet sorcery. The devilishly dark chocolate cake lurking underneath such an angelic, sweet topping is an alchemical wonder to behold all by itself, but a true marvel to partake in combination. CHOCOLATE CAKE: ¾ cup chocolate nondairy milk ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ¼ cup vegan butter ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 cup all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt MARSHMALLOW TOPPING: ⅓ cup aquafaba, chilled ¾ cup granulated sugar ½ teaspoon cream of tartar ⅛ teaspoon xanthan gum ½ teaspoon vanilla extract CHOCOLATE ICING: 1 tablespoon vegan butter ½ cup confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder 1 tablespoon water Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease an 8-inch round cake pan. In a microwave-safe bowl, heat the nondairy milk for about 2 minutes on high so that it just begins to boil. Stir in the cocoa powder, making sure it has completely dissolved before stirring in the vinegar. Set aside to cool. Use your stand mixer to cream together the butter, both sugars, and the vanilla. Scrape down the sides and add in the oil, beating well to combine. Beat in the cooled cocoa mixture. Sift in the flour, baking soda, and salt, mixing until everything is just incorporated. Pour the batter into your prepared pan and spread it down into an even layer. Don't worry if it seems like a skimpy amount of batter; it rises a bit in baking, and the marshmallow topping compensates for any lack of height! Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let it cool completely before removing from the pan. To make the marshmallow topping, place the aquafaba in the bowl of your stand mixer with the whisk attachment installed. Beginning on low, beat the aquafaba until a light froth forms before increasing the speed to medium. Meanwhile, whisk together the sugar, cream of tartar, and xanthan gum in a small bowl, ensuring that all the ingredients are thoroughly distributed before proceeding. With the motor still running, slowly sprinkle in this dry mixture just a little bit at a time, until it's all incorporated. Increase the speed to high and continue to whip for 8–10 minutes. The sugar should have dissolved so it no longer appears grainy, and the aquafaba should be bright white, glossy, and fluffy, with peaks firm enough to stand on their own. Gently fold in the vanilla last. Spread liberally over the cake. For the final chocolate flourish, simply melt the butter and whisk in the confectioners' sugar, cocoa, and water until smooth. Pour this icing over your cake as desired, or use it as a sauce to serve on the side. Any other flavor of jam, from cherry to apricot, would be right at home here, but don't overlook alternative seasonal spreads, like apple or pumpkin butter, too. Mini Icebox Cheesecake Makes 3 to 4 servings For me, sweets are a perennial consideration, but the hot weather and humidity of summer can be a powerful deterrent to turning on the oven. Fortunately, not all desserts need to be baked, as is the case with this creamy little cake made to beat the heat. Much like an ice cream cake in consistency but with the pleasant tang of cream cheese, it is the best adaptation of a cheesecake under the sun, if I dare say so myself. Plus, unlike the large commitment of standard, full cheesecakes, this one is perfectly sized for an intimate party between a few close friends! Should you prefer a more generous cake to accommodate the appetites of a bigger party, double the recipe and use a 9-inch springform pan instead. It will be slightly taller than the small version, but I can't imagine anyone will complain about receiving larger slices. GRAHAM CRACKER CRUST: 1 cup graham cracker crumbs 3 tablespoons vegan butter 2 tablespoons maple syrup MARBLED CHEESECAKE FILLING: 1 (8-ounce) package vegan cream cheese ⅓ cup granulated sugar 2 tablespoons plain nondairy milk 1 tablespoon lemon juice 2 teaspoons vanilla extract FRUIT TOPPING: ½ cup strawberry jam or preserves 1 teaspoon water Place the graham cracker crumbs in a medium bowl. Melt the butter and pour it over the crumbs, followed by the maple syrup. Mix to coat and moisten all the crumbs before pressing the mixture firmly into a 6-inch round springform pan, covering the bottom in one even layer. Chill it in the freezer while you assemble the filling. Blend the cream cheese, sugar, nondairy milk, lemon juice, and vanilla in a food processor or blender until the mixture is completely smooth and creamy. Remove the crust from the freezer and pour the filling carefully inside. For the final flourish, mix together the jam or preserves with the water in a small bowl. Spoon it on top and mix very lightly with a spatula to swirl it throughout. Cover the cake with plastic wrap and return it to the freezer for at least 5 hours, until set and sliceable. Not-Nog Cupcakes Makes 24 cupcakes Paging through a Christmas kitchenware catalog during the holiday season, one recipe in particular caught my eye: eggnog bread. As one might expect from a mainstream publication at that time, the dense loaf was saturated with mind-boggling measures of eggs, milk, butter, and of course eggnog. Converting this into an unlikely vegan variant was a challenge I simply could not turn down! A failed batch and many crafty adjustments later, the original quick bread had morphed into cupcakes, and my kitchen was filled with a veritable elf's workshop of lightly spiced, very merry holiday gifts. The resulting recipe comfortably fed a sizable holiday party, as it does make a whole lot of little cakes, but I wouldn't recommend reducing the batch.... Leftovers are unlikely with any crowd. NOG CUPCAKES: 1½ cups vegan butter 2 cups granulated sugar 1½ teaspoons ground nutmeg ½ teaspoon vanilla extract ½ teaspoon kala namak (black salt) 1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds 2 tablespoons water 3¾ cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 2 cups vegan eggnog, store-bought or homemade (page 233) BUTTERED RUM GLAZE: ½ cup vegan butter 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ cup vegan eggnog 2 tablespoons dark rum ¼ teaspoon salt 4 cups confectioners' sugar ½–1 cup sliced almonds, for garnish Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line two dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers. In your stand mixer, cream the butter with the sugar, nutmeg, vanilla, and black salt. While the mixer churns, blend the flaxseeds with the water, allowing them to sit and slightly gel. Introduce the flax mixture into the bowl of the stand mixer and stir to combine. The batter will be somewhat lumpy at this point, but as long as you don't have any obscenely large clumps of solid butter, it should be fine. In a separate bowl, combine your flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Slowly add these dry ingredients to the contents of the bowl waiting in your stand mixer, alternating with the eggnog until both are used up. Fully incorporate each addition but be careful not to overmix. Pour the resulting batter into your prepared cupcake liners about ⅔ to ¾ of the way full and bake for 20 to 22 minutes. The cupcakes should not appear particularly browned; keep a close eye on them. They will be done when a toothpick inserted into the center of a cake comes out clean. For the glaze, place the butter and brown sugar in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the butter melts and the sugar dissolves, creating a smooth syrup. Add the eggnog, rum, and salt, and bring the mixture to a gentle boil. Remove from the heat. Slowly introduce the confectioners' sugar, whisking vigorously into the mixture until the glaze thickens and loses a little of its shine; 1 to 2 minutes. Pour or spoon a dollop on top of each cupcake. Garnish with sliced almonds, lavishing your little cakes with as much of the nuts as desired. If strawberry shortcake bars were more your jam while growing up, simply swap out the marmalade for strawberry preserves and add ½ cup crispy brown rice cereal over the top of the batter after swirling, for a slightly crunchy finish. Orange Dreamsicle Snack Cake Makes 9 to 12 servings Any kid who's ever chased after the siren song of an ice cream truck undoubtedly has fond memories of those classic, creamy orange ice pops, quickly melting under the summer sun. Turning the nostalgic combination of sweet citrus and rich vanilla into a tender, compulsively snackable sheet cake is not only a fun new take on the frozen dessert, but an improvement on the original; you won't need to worry about making a drippy, sticky mess, no matter how high the temperatures climb! SNACK CAKE: 3½ cups all-purpose flour 1 cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon salt ⅔ cup vanilla or plain vegan yogurt ¼ cup olive oil 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 1 cup orange juice DREAMSICLE TOPPING: ½ cup vanilla or plain vegan yogurt 1 cup confectioners' sugar 2½ tablespoons tapioca starch or 1½ tablespoons arrowroot powder 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ½ cup orange marmalade, store-bought or homemade (page 239) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking pan. Combine the flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. In a stand mixer, whisk together the yogurt and oil until fully emulsified. Add in the vanilla and orange juice. Slowly incorporate the dry ingredients in stages, until the batter is nicely mixed without lumps. Pour the batter into your prepared pan. For the topping, whisk together the yogurt, confectioners' sugar, starch or arrowroot, and vanilla in a small dish, stirring until smooth. Drizzle over the batter. Microwave the marmalade for about 30 seconds, until slightly liquefied and easier to pour. Drizzle it over the batter as well. Swirl both toppings together with a knife but try not to overdo it as you may muddle the colors. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. When testing for doneness, be sure to find a spot that is free from topping, as the icing and marmalade may cause the toothpick to appear wet, even if the cake is ready. Wait until the cake has cooled completely before cutting into bars. Peach Melba Layer Cake Makes 10 to 14 servings As the story goes, the original peach melba was created for a famous opera singer who loved ice cream but did not dare eat it for fear of paralyzing her vocal cords. A brilliant chef thought to pair the forbidden frozen treat with poached peaches and a raspberry sauce, hoping the added elements might lessen the chill. While I can't claim to understand either of these theories, I do know that a timeless dessert was born that night. That said, if the chef had really been thinking on his feet, he might have cut the icy interloper out entirely to make an unassailable layer cake. Hold the ice cream this one time, and enjoy a warmer embrace from this fruity diva. PEACH CAKE: 2 pounds sliced and pitted peaches, fresh or frozen and thawed ½ cup olive oil 1 cup granulated sugar ⅓ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 tablespoon lemon juice 2½ cups all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder 1½ teaspoons baking soda ½ teaspoon ground ginger ½ teaspoon salt VANILLA FROSTING: 1½ cups vegan butter 4 cups confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 2 tablespoons unsweetened non-dairy milk RASPBERRY FILLING: 1 (12-ounce) jar raspberry jam (about 1½ cups) 1 cup fresh raspberries, for garnish (optional) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and generously grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans. Place the peach slices in your food processor or blender, breaking down the fruit into a mostly smooth puree, but leave a few chunks of fruit to add texture to the cake. Set aside. In a large bowl, whisk together the oil and both sugars until light and fluffy. Add in your peach puree along with the lemon juice and mix to combine. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ginger, and salt. Slowly add these dry ingredients into your bowl of liquids and stir until everything is incorporated. Equally divide the batter between your two prepared pans. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each layer comes out clean. Cool completely. For the vanilla frosting, simply blend all the frosting ingredients together with a mixer, starting at a low speed so that the sugar does not fly out. Once the ingredients have adequately combined, whip the frosting on a higher speed for at least 3 minutes, to add more air and lighten it a bit. When you are ready to assemble the cake, turn both layers out of the pans and slice each in half horizontally, creating four round layers total. Use a sawing motion with a serrated knife to achieve a clean cut, and be very careful when moving the layers to avoid crumbling. Lay the first bottom down on the platter you intend to serve it on, and spread it with a third of the raspberry jam. To prevent the two fillings from mingling, drop a generous dollop of the vanilla frosting in the very center of the layer (atop the jam) and smooth it down and out to the edges. Put the other unfrosted half of the cake layer on a separate plate and use it to place this layer neatly on top of the nicely spread filling. Frost the top of this one in the same manner. Repeat the frosting process with the remaining two layers until you reach the top. Skip the raspberry jam on the very top and simply decorate with vanilla frosting and fresh raspberries, if desired. Perfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes Makes 12 cupcakes Whoever first discovered that flavors as seemingly mismatched as lemon and poppy seeds could be successfully united in sweet harmony was one brilliant lunatic. My only quibble with this combination is that these distinctive components each deserve more time in the spotlight. A crazy proposition to be sure, but by sequestering the poppy seeds in the cake and giving the lemon plenty of room to shine in a jammy eggless filling, both have equal opportunities to bask in the spotlight. LEMON CURD: ½ cup instant mashed potato flakes ½ cup plain nondairy milk 2 tablespoons vegan butter ¼ cup lemon juice ½ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon lemon zest ¼ teaspoon turmeric POPPY SEED VANILLA CUPCAKES: 1 cup plain nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1 cup all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt ¼ cup olive oil ½ cup granulated sugar 1½ tablespoons poppy seeds 1 tablespoon vanilla extract To make the lemon curd, combine the potato flakes and non-dairy milk in a microwave-safe bowl. Heat for about 30 seconds until the starchy flakes absorb all the liquid. Stir in the butter, allowing it to melt in the residual heat. Mix in the lemon juice and sugar. Heat the mixture again in the microwave for another 30 to 45 seconds until it reaches a consistency much like applesauce. Toss it into your food processor or blender along with the lemon zest and turmeric, and puree for 2 or 3 minutes, until it is completely smooth and creamy. Refrigerate the resulting curd for at least 4 hours before using, or better yet, let it sit overnight so that it has time to thicken and intensify in flavor. With the curd prepared and chilled, it is time to make the cupcakes! Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line a dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers. In a small bowl, whisk together the nondairy milk and vinegar and let it rest for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl, and set aside. Blend the oil and sugar together, followed by the slightly curdled milk, and beat the mixture for a minute, forming a loose matrix of bubbles. Slowly add in the dry ingredients, stirring the batter just enough to combine, being careful not to overmix. Finally, fold in the poppy seeds and vanilla. This makes a very thin, delicate batter; do not panic if it seems watery. Pour the batter into your prepared muffin tins, until it reaches about ¾ of the way to the top of the liners. Bake for 17 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool for 10 minutes in the tins before removing them to a wire rack, where they should cool completely. Describing how to assemble the cupcakes can get a bit wordy and sound intimidating, but it will be much easier once you try it for yourself. First off, get your cupcakes and take the lemon curd out of your refrigerator. Take the first cupcake and insert a paring knife at the very edge of the top at an approximately 45-degree angle. Run the blade around the entire circumference at this angle, until the top pops off and you have a little cone of cake. Cut the excess triangle of cake away from the top that you just removed, so that the bottom is smooth. This remaining triangle isn't used for anything else, so go ahead and treat yourself to a snack! Now, take the flat top and press a small, sharp cookie cutter into it. You want to use a shape that leaves a good amount of space around the border so that it doesn't tear. (Oh, and you can eat the cutout, too. Who knew this recipe would be so rewarding for the baker?) Next, take a spoonful of the lemon curd and drop it into the hollow in the base of the cake, smoothing it out so that it comes right up to the top. Replace the cut cupcake top and voilà—edible art! Just be careful when handling them because they have a bit less structural integrity than standard, solid cupcakes. Go big or just go Hawaii, already! Double the recipe and bake in a full-sized Bundt pan with a 12-cup capacity if you're in dire need of a seriously sweet escape. Allow 60 to 75 minutes for the cake to bake all the way through. Piña Colada Mini Bundts Makes 6 mini Bundts Picture yourself lying in the sun, sand between your toes, parrots crooning overhead. Not a worry in the world, you have everything you need: sunblock, a good companion, and a refreshing tropical drink. You reach over to take another sip, when you realize that it is not a drink at all, but a tiny cake! In fact, it is then that you realize you are not on the beach, but at home in your kitchen, with a freshly baked batch of these amazing mini Bundt cakes! Even if your immediate surroundings are cold and gray, you can still have a taste of the sweet life with these unique tropical delights. PIÑA COLADA CAKE: 1½ cups unsweetened shredded coconut, toasted and divided ¼ cup coconut oil, melted ⅓ cup granulated sugar 2 tablespoons coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 cup crushed pineapple, drained 1 cup all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt ¾ cup full-fat coconut milk 2 tablespoons dark rum 1 teaspoon lime juice GLAZE: 1 cup confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon unsweetened shredded coconut 2–3 tablespoons dark rum Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease a mini Bundt pan or a jumbo muffin pan. Toss 1 cup of the toasted coconut into your food processor and grind it down into a fine powdery consistency. It may take about 5 minutes, but when you see the coconut starting to clump together, you're good to go. If you do not have a food processor handy, then whiz the coconut in a spice grinder in batches of ¼ to ½ cup, depending upon the capacity of your appliance. Place the powdered coconut into a large bowl along with the melted coconut oil and both sugars. Thoroughly mix everything together. Drain any excess liquid from the crushed pineapple, add it to the mixture, and combine. Sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt and mix once more. Stir in the remaining toasted coconut, coconut milk, rum, and lime juice, stirring just until incorporated. It's fine to leave a few errant lumps behind. Pour the batter into your prepared pans and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cake comes out clean. Let the cakes rest in their pans for 10 minutes before transferring them to a wire rack. Allow them to cool completely before icing. For the glaze, simply whisk the sugar together with the shredded coconut and as much rum as necessary to achieve your desired thickness and color. Err on the side of less rum for more distinctive, solid stripes, or more for lighter, more complete coverage. Drizzle over the little cakes and enjoy a taste of the tropics, no matter your locale! It's cool to be square, too. This cake can alternately take shape in a lightly greased 9-inch square pan. Simply bake at 325ºF (160ºC) for about 90 minutes to ensure that it's fully and evenly cooked through the center. Plum-Good Crumb Cake Makes 10 to 12 servings Crumb cake, alternately known in some circles merely as "coffee cake," is understandably popular around teatime, with a pinch of spice, a good bit of sugar, and that irresistible topping. Aficionados can agree that the crumb topping is the best part, which is why this rendition doubles down on the buttery streusel for a particularly generous helping. While alone this would secure its place next to a steaming hot cuppa, the ribbon of juicy fresh plums through the center seals the deal. If plums don't make the cut in your fruit basket, try another fruit, or a combination, such as peaches, apples, or pears. No matter what you tuck into the center, the outcome will still be plum good. CRUMB TOPPING: 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon ⅛ teaspoon ground cardamom ½ teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil CAKE: ½ cup plain nondairy milk ½ teaspoon apple cider vinegar ½ cup vegan butter 1 cup granulated sugar 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ¾ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 1½ cups plain vegan yogurt 1 teaspoon vanilla extract FRUIT FILLING: ¾ pound (3–4 medium) fresh plums, pitted and chopped 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease a 10-inch tube pan or Bundt pan. For the crumb topping, whisk together the flour, sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it over the dry ingredients. Stir with a fork to coat everything evenly, forming coarse crumbs in various sizes. Set aside. For the cake, combine the nondairy milk and vinegar in a medium bowl and whisk together. Let this sit for a few minutes to curdle. Separately, cream the butter and sugar together in a stand mixer, beating for a few minutes to fully combine. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a separate bowl. Add the yogurt and vanilla to your curdled milk. Add the dry ingredients into the stand mixer, alternating with the wet while beating on low speed. Occasionally scrape down the sides to make sure you do not leave any large lumps behind. Be careful not to overmix, as it is okay to leave a few small lumps in the batter. As you are about to assemble the cake for baking, toss the chopped plums with a tablespoon of flour. Pour half of your batter into the prepared pan, spreading it to coat the bottom in an even layer. Sprinkle the fruit over the first layer of batter. Follow this with the remaining half of your batter, being careful to completely cover all the fruit. Sprinkle the crumb mixture over the top before sliding the pan into the oven. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until a toothpick or skewer inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool completely in the pan prior to serving. Pomegranates can be fickle fruits, messy and difficult to work with—unless you know the secret to easily removing the arils. Slice off the crown and score the sphere into six equal wedges. Gently pry the segments apart. Working with one piece at a time, submerge each in a bowl of water and use your fingers to loosen the arils from the membrane. The edible seeds will sink to the bottom, while the membrane will float. When you're all done, simply pour off the water along with all the pith. You should now have a bowl of nothing but the sweet, tart, tangy arils, ready to eat! Pomegranate Ginger Cupcakes Makes 12 cupcakes Pomegranate briefly enjoyed a flash of viral fame, trending right alongside kale and the other superfoods du jour, but this jewel box of curiously tart, tangy, and sweet gems will earn genuine staying power in your home once you try these fragrant cupcakes. With a double dose of the ruby red juice to intensify the typically delicate flavor, the only thing that could possibly make them better is the sharp but sweet bite of ginger. Much more sophisticated than your average kiddie cupcakes, these will delight the adventurous palate seeking more than just a yellow cake with gaudy rainbow sprinkles. CUPCAKES: 2 cups 100% pomegranate juice, divided 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ¾ cup granulated sugar ⅓ cup olive oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1½ cups + 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour, divided ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ cup crystallized ginger, finely minced 1½ teaspoons lemon zest GINGER FROSTING: ½ cup vegan butter 2 cups confectioners' sugar 2 teaspoons ground ginger 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1–2 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk ¼ cup fresh pomegranate arils, for garnish (optional) In a small saucepan over medium heat, cook 1 cup of the juice for about 20 minutes, until it is reduced to a little less than ¼ cup. Remove from the heat and let cool. Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line one dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers. Combine the remaining cup of pomegranate juice and the vinegar in a medium bowl, leaving them alone for a few minutes to get acquainted. Mix the juice vigorously until frothy, and whisk in the sugar, oil, and vanilla. Sift in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and stir just until combined. Toss the minced ginger with the remaining 1 tablespoon of flour, and fold both the ginger and zest into your batter. Divide the batter evenly among the cupcake papers, and drizzle equal amounts of your reserved pomegranate reduction over each cupcake just before baking. Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until lightly browned, and a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool inside the muffin tins for about 15 minutes, before moving them to a wire rack. Allow them to cool completely before frosting. In a medium bowl, combine all the ingredients for the frosting, and whip until smooth and fluffy. Frost your heart out! Top with fresh pomegranate arils if desired. Pup Cakes Makes 2 small or 1 medium cake Dogs are just as important as any other member of the family, so whenever a canine birthday comes up, cake is still a mandatory component of the celebration. This particular treat was inspired by my very first four-legged best friend, Isis. It was her favorite surprise snack, judging by the way she inhaled it; in mere minutes the entire thing would be reduced to a few errant crumbs, which she would inevitably vacuum up in short order as well! Now the newest addition to my furry family, Luka, is quite a bit smaller and pickier than the old lady, so I've adapted this doggie delight into a more compact, crowd-pleasing format. You can even enjoy this cake with your lucky pup, since it is made with ingredients that are also perfectly agreeable to the human palate. Think of it as a dense peanut butter carrot cake, if you will. If you are still a beginner baker, then this is the perfect recipe to start with, as I am certain that your dog will be your most easily pleased critic! ¼ cup spelt or whole wheat flour ¼ teaspoon baking powder ¼ cup shredded carrots 1 tablespoon creamy peanut butter 1 tablespoon coconut oil, melted 2 tablespoons unsweetened applesauce ¼ teaspoon apple cider vinegar 2 tablespoons plain, unsweetened vegan yogurt Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease 2 wells of a muffin tin or 1 medium 6-ounce ramekin. Combine the flour and baking powder in a medium bowl. Stir in the carrot shreds and then incorporate the peanut butter, melted coconut oil, applesauce, and vinegar, and mix well. The batter will be very thick, much like cookie dough. Divide the batter between the muffin tins or drop it all into your ramekin. Bake for 25 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool completely. Right before serving, spread the yogurt on top to act as a creamy, healthy frosting. Stand back and watch your fur baby gobble it up! Root Beer Float Cupcakes Makes 12 cupcakes When I was too young to reach the top shelf of the fridge, and my parents still exercised the authority to regulate my intake of sweets, I remember the harshest restrictions were placed upon soda. It was only once a year, on New Year's Eve, that I would be allowed a glass of the fizzy elixir. If I was really lucky, I was permitted a scoop of ice cream and some chocolate syrup to make a root beer float. Memories of these rare celebratory moments were the inspiration for this cupcake. Root beer is infused into the little cakes, which are topped with a more grown-up chocolate ganache, and dense vanilla frosting reminiscent of that cool scoop of ice cream. Elevated beyond the specter of a midnight snack but still playful at heart, it's still one of my most popular recipes to this day. ROOT BEER CUPCAKES: 1 cup root beer soda 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ⅔ cup granulated sugar ⅓ cup olive oil ½ teaspoon vanilla extract 2 teaspoons root beer extract (available online if you can't find it) 1⅓ cups all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ¾ teaspoon baking soda ⅛ teaspoon salt CHOCOLATE GANACHE: 3 ounces (½ cup) semi-sweet chocolate chips 2 tablespoons plain non-dairy milk 1 teaspoon maple syrup VANILLA FROSTING: 1 cup vegan butter 3 cups confectioners' sugar 2 teaspoons vanilla extract Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line a dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers. In a large bowl, combine the soda and vinegar and let stand for a few minutes. Add in the sugar, oil, and both extracts, whisking vigorously until slightly frothy. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Gently pour the liquid mixture into the bowl of dry ingredients, stirring with a wide spatula to incorporate. A few lumps are fine to leave in the batter; be careful not to overmix. Distribute the batter evenly between the prepared tins, filling the cupcake liners approximately ¾ of the way to the top. Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. After letting the cupcakes cool in the pans for about 10 minutes, move them to a wire rack and allow them to cool completely before preparing the ganache. When the cupcakes are ready, combine all the ingredients for the ganache in a microwave-safe container and microwave for about 60 seconds. Stir thoroughly to help incorporate the melting chocolate. If the chocolate is not yet entirely smooth, return the sauce to the microwave for 15 to 30 second intervals, stirring between each heating, watching carefully to ensure that it doesn't burn. Drizzle the ganache in squiggles over the tops of the cupcakes. Allow to fully cool and dry before preparing the frosting. With your stand mixer, beat the vegan butter thoroughly to soften. Add in the confectioners' sugar, and beat on a low speed, so as not to spray powder everywhere. Incorporate the vanilla, and whip on high speed for 5 to 6 minutes, until the frosting is thick and creamy. Apply to your cupcakes as desired and enjoy. Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes Makes 12 cupcakes Okay, you got me. These treats are not going to pick up a knife all on their own and smear a nice dollop of frosting all over themselves. However, they do come out of the oven fully dressed and ready to devour! The trick is to swirl in a thick spoonful of the peanut buttery cocoa spread before baking them, and presto, your work is all done the instant the timer goes off! Now, if only layer cakes were so self-sufficient... PEANUT BUTTER CUPCAKES: ⅔ cup plain nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed 2 tablespoons whole flaxseeds ¼ cup water ½ cup creamy peanut butter ½ cup unsweetened applesauce ½ teaspoon vanilla extract 1½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt CHOCOLATE-PEANUT BUTTER FROSTING: ½ cup creamy peanut butter ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ⅔ cup confectioners' sugar ¼ cup plain nondairy milk Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line one dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers. In a large bowl, combine the nondairy milk and vinegar, and let sit for a few minutes before whisking vigorously until frothy. Mix in both sugars. Grind the flaxseeds into a powder with a spice grinder before blending them together with the water. Stir the flaxseeds mixture, peanut butter, applesauce, and vanilla into the bowl, and beat until thoroughly combined. In a separate bowl, add the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly stir these dry ingredients into the batter. Mix until there are no more lumps, but be careful not to mix more than necessary. In a separate bowl, combine all the ingredients for the frosting, and stir until completely smooth. Divide your batter equally between the prepared muffin tins. Drop a dollop of frosting into each cup of raw batter, and swirl it around with a toothpick, covering the entire top. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into a cupcake comes out clean. When testing for doneness, be sure to find a spot that is free from frosting, as it may cause the toothpick to appear wet, even if the cupcakes are ready. Let the cupcakes cool inside the tins for at least 10 to 15 minutes. You can either let them cool the rest of the way atop a wire rack, or serve them immediately for a warm delight! Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake Makes 12 to 16 servings If love can be compared to chocolate, then consider this cake to be an intense and steamy affair with the seductive temptress next door. Perched atop a soft, no-bake almond crust is a mousse so luxurious, velvety, and thick that a fork could remain upright in a slice without assistance. Topped off with a scandalous veil of chocolate curls, this alluring little number is hard to resist. Once you have indulged in this deep, dark hedonistic pleasure, you may never be able to go back to a plain-Jane chocolate bar ever again. COCOA-ALMOND BASE: 1½ cups almond meal ⅓ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¼ cup maple syrup 3 tablespoons coconut oil, melted CHOCOLATE MOUSSE: 2 (12-ounce) packages extra-firm silken tofu ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¾ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract ⅛ teaspoon salt 12 ounces (about 2 cups) semi-sweet chocolate chips 1 bar dark chocolate (optional, for garnish) Lightly grease the bottom of a 9-inch round springform pan. In a small bowl, combine all the ingredients for the base and mix well, until a moist but firm dough forms. Drop the dough into the center of the springform pan and press firmly so that it evenly covers the bottom. It helps if you start by easing the dough out with your fingertips, but to get a nice edge when you reach the sides, simply press the crust in with the bottom of a measuring cup. Once you have the bottom nicely covered, let the crust chill in the refrigerator while you prepare the filling. First, drain any excess liquid away from your tofu before tossing it into your food processor or blender. Puree thoroughly and add in the cocoa, sugar, vanilla, and salt, pulsing briefly to incorporate. Place the chocolate in a microwave-safe dish, and microwave in 30-second intervals to prevent scorching. Stir thoroughly after each heating until the chocolate is completely melted. Continue stirring to achieve a very smooth consistency. Pour the melted chocolate into your waiting tofu mixture. Blend once more for about 2 or 3 minutes, pausing as needed to scrape down the sides to achieve a completely smooth, homogenous mixture. Pour the filling into your chilled base and use a spatula to smooth the top to the best of your ability. The mousse is quite thick and therefore difficult to smooth, but you will be covering up the top with more chocolate anyway! Return your springform pan to the refrigerator and allow the cake to chill for at least 3 hours. When you are ready to serve, take a vegetable peeler to the short side of the chocolate bar and shave off thin pieces to adorn the top. It's easiest to form curls if the bar is at room temperature or just slightly warmer; colder, and it will break into shorter flakes or shards. Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake Makes 12 to 16 servings Calling all chocoholics! This is the dessert you've been waiting for. You don't need to be an obsessive fan of all things cacao to appreciate such a showstopper, though. No one in their right mind would be able to refuse this three-layer skyscraper of cheesecake, increasing in chocolate intensity as you dig in deeper. When you have picky guests to please, stack the deck in your favor with this ace in your pocket. I swear, it's not cheating, just an easy win! COCOA CRUST: 1½ cups vegan graham cracker crumbs ⅓ cup confectioners' sugar ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¼ cup vegan butter CHEESECAKE: 1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu 3 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese ¾ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon salt 12 ounces (2 cups) semi-sweet chocolate chips GANACHE: ¾–1 ounce (about 2 tablespoons) semi-sweet chocolate chips ½ teaspoon olive oil Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC). For the crust, stir together the graham cracker crumbs, confectioners' sugar, and cocoa powder in a medium bowl. Melt the butter and incorporate it into the dry ingredients, forming a crumbly but moist mixture. Use your hands to press this mixture into the bottom of a 9-inch round springform pan. Set aside. For the filling, drain the tofu of any excess water and blend it in a food processor or blender until smooth. Add in the cream cheese, blend, and scrape down the sides with a spatula. Blend again, ensuring that no lumps remain. Integrate the sugar, vanilla, and salt. Place the 2 cups of chocolate chips in a large microwave-safe bowl, and microwave in 30-second intervals to prevent scorching. Stir thoroughly after each heating until the chocolate is completely melted. Continue stirring to achieve a very smooth consistency. Remove 1½ cups of the cheesy filling and thoroughly blend it into the chocolate. From this mixture, remove 2 cups and spread it evenly atop the crust. Remove 1½ additional cups of the cheese mixture and blend it into the chocolate mixture. Remove 2 more cups of the resulting mixture and gently spread it over the first chocolate cheesecake layer. Finally, stir the rest of the cheese filling into the remaining chocolate mixture. Carefully pour and spread this final batch of chocolate mixture over the previous two layers. Work very gently, as the top layers are less solid and more likely to combine. If it happens, don't worry; it will still taste just as good! Smooth out the top and bake for 50 to 55 minutes. The sides will not pull away from the pan, so you will just have to trust your intuition on this one. After removing it from the oven, use a knife to immediately loosen the cake from the sides, but leave it inside the pan and allow it to cool to room temperature. To make the ganache, microwave the remaining 2 tablespoons of chocolate chips with the oil until melted and completely smooth, about 30 to 60 seconds. Stir together and drizzle over top of the cake. Refrigerate the cake for at least 12 hours before serving. Wasabi Chocolate Cupcakes Makes 12 cupcakes Don't let their innocent appearance fool you; these are no bland baby cakes. Lurking deep within the heart of each paper-wrapped chocolate morsel is a potent dose of peppery wasabi, surprising the unprepared with a serious punch of heat. Wasabi can be extremely powerful even in small quantities, so don't underestimate the meager-looking amounts suggested here without a glass or two of nondairy milk on hand to fight the flames. Ramp it up or dial it down according to taste, but if you choose to tempt fate and add in more, don't say I didn't warn you! WASABI CHOCOLATE CUPCAKES: 1½ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder 1 cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup olive oil 1 cup plain nondairy milk 1½–2 teaspoons wasabi paste ½ cup dark or semisweet chocolate chips 2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar WASABI ICING: ½ teaspoon wasabi paste 3 tablespoons plain nondairy milk 1 cup confectioners' sugar Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line one dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers. Begin by mixing the flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl. Combine the oil, nondairy milk, and wasabi paste in a separate bowl. Beat until the wasabi is fully dissolved and the mixture is slightly frothy. Slowly add your wet ingredients to the bowl of dry ingredients and stir until everything is just combined. Be careful not to overmix, as a few lumps are okay. Gently fold in the chocolate chips. Finally, add the vinegar and quickly stir it in. It may look like more batter than will fit into just one dozen muffin cups but go ahead and fill the papers most of the way to the top, and immediately slide the tins into the oven. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Allow the cupcakes to cool in the pans for at least a few minutes before removing them to a wire rack. For the icing, whisk the wasabi and nondairy milk together in a small bowl, ensuring that no lumps of wasabi are left. Add the confectioners' sugar and whisk until smooth. Drizzle the glaze sparingly over the cupcakes. PIES & TARTS Baklava Tart Makes 8 to 14 servings Tired of finicky phyllo? Heartbroken over honey? No matter, you can still make a modified baklava that will compete with the best of them. Originally created as a way to use up remnants of phyllo after a little pastry mishap, the phyllo is merely crumbled over the top; no careful layering is necessary to produce an impressive dessert. The amount of pastry sprinkled on top is very imprecise, allowing a lot of wiggle room to use however much you want. If there aren't any open packages of phyllo dough on hand just waiting to be used up, you can purchase the mini frozen shells and only crush up as many as necessary, thereby reducing waste. Now, isn't that a delicious fix! CRUST: 3½ ounces (¼ cup + 2 tablespoons) vegan cream cheese ¼ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon lemon juice 1 tablespoon light agave nectar or maple syrup 1½ cups all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt NUTTY FILLING: 2 cups chopped walnuts ⅓ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted 3½–4 ounces (¼ of a package, or 8–10 frozen mini shells) phyllo dough scraps GLAZE: 2 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil ⅓ cup light agave nectar or maple syrup 1 tablespoon dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar ½ teaspoon lemon juice ½ teaspoon vanilla extract Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease a 13x4-inch rectangular tart pan with a removable bottom. While I like how this shape mimics that of a slice of traditional baklava, a 9-inch round fluted tart pan with removable bottom could also be used. For the crust, blend together the cream cheese and both sugars in your stand mixer, creaming until well combined. Stir in the vanilla, lemon, and agave or maple syrup. Add in 1 cup of the flour, the baking soda, and salt, and mix until fully incorporated. Add the remaining ½ cup of flour and mix well. Press the resulting mixture into your prepared tart pan, bringing it evenly and smoothly up the sides. Dock the crust by pricking the bottom all over with a fork, creating vents for steam to escape and preventing big bubbles from getting trapped inside. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes, until lightly golden brown in color. Remove the pan from your oven but leave the heat on. In a medium bowl, stir together the walnut pieces, sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pour the melted butter or coconut oil over everything in the bowl, stirring to coat. Gently press the nut mixture into the crust so that it fits in an even layer. Crumble enough phyllo over the top to cover the nuts completely. Return the pan to the oven, and bake for an additional 20 to 22 minutes, until the phyllo becomes nicely browned. After removing your tart from the oven, melt the final measure of butter for the glaze in a small bowl. Stir in all the remaining ingredients and pour this mixture evenly over the top of your tart while it is still warm. This will help bind everything together and sweeten the tart a bit more. Let the tart cool for at least two hours before slicing. Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie Makes 8 to 10 servings A beauty to behold and a charmer on the lips, the real secret to this fluffy frozen pie is how laughably easy it is to whip up. If you've ever stood in a kitchen, even only once in your life, I think you could manage this recipe with aplomb. Plus, since it's based on yogurt and jam, I would feel entirely justified slicing off a generous wedge for dessert or even breakfast or lunch alike. As the seasons change, this same formula can be adapted to suit your shifting cravings on demand. One of my favorite variations is swapping in vanilla yogurt for the base while swirling pumpkin or apple butter (page 227) instead of jam, effortlessly complementing any winter holiday feast. GRAHAM CRACKER CRUST: 1½ cup graham cracker crumbs (from about 12 full rectangle sheets) 6 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil, melted BERRY FROYO FILLING: 1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk, chilled ½ cup confectioners' sugar ½ cup strawberry vegan yogurt ½ cup blueberry vegan yogurt ½ cup raspberry jam or preserves TO SERVE (OPTIONAL): Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243) Fresh berries To make the crust, break up the graham crackers into smaller pieces before pulsing in a food processor until very finely ground. The resulting crumbs should be about the consistency of coarse almond meal. Pick out any larger pieces and reprocess as needed. Drizzle the melted butter or coconut oil into the crumbs, stirring thoroughly to moisten the ground cookies. The mixture should be capable of sticking together when pressed. Transfer the mix to a 9-inch round pie pan and use lightly moistened fingers to firmly press it down on the bottom and along the sides. Use the bottom of a flat measuring cup or drinking glass for smoother edges. Carefully open the chilled can of coconut milk, being sure not to shake it, and scoop off the top layer of thick coconut cream that will have risen to the top. Save the watery liquid left behind for another recipe, such as a soup or a curry. Place the coconut cream in the bowl of your stand mixer and install the whisk attachment. Whip on high speed for about 3 minutes before slowly beginning to sprinkle in the sugar, just a little bit at a time. Continue beating the mixture for up to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. In a separate bowl, combine both yogurts and stir in a dollop of the Whipped Coconut Cream. This will help lighten up the mixture to make it easier to blend in the rest. Once fully incorporated, add the remainder of the Whipped Coconut Cream, folding gently with a large spatula until well-blended. Be careful to stir gently so as not to knock all the bubbles out of the airy, whipped mixture. Add in the jam or preserves last, mixing just enough to incorporate but leaving it well marbled throughout the filling. Spoon into your prepared crust, smooth over the top, and move the whole pie into your freezer. Let rest until solidified; at least 4 to 6 hours, but ideally 8 to 12. To serve, simply slice the pie into wedges and top with additional dollops of Whipped Coconut Cream and fresh berries, if desired. Any leftover pear slices that don't quite fit on top of your tart shouldn't be destined for the compost, but could top a thick slice of toast! Bake them in any small oven-safe dish for 10 to 15 minutes until fork tender. Let cool for a few minutes before piling on top of a buttered slice of toast, and enjoy for snack or breakfast. If you want to get real fancy, go all out and slather it with cream cheese first and top it with chopped hazelnuts. Cashew Crème Pear Tart Makes 8 to 10 servings Imagine delicately spiced pears cooked until just fork tender, sitting atop a luscious pillow of maple-scented cashew crème, all contained within a soft, nutty crust. Sound like a dream? Well wake up, because this delight is easily a reality! This is one amazing finish to any meal, sure to please all palates and diets alike. Not only is it gluten-free, utilizing almond flour and cornmeal for an unconventional press-in-pan crust, but this tart can also be adapted for low-sugar diets. Simply omit the granulated sugar in the pear topping and crust with more almond meal. The only danger of serving a dessert suitable for all stripes of eaters is that everyone will want more than just one serving! You might be wise to save yourself a slice before presenting this grand finale to a crowd, as the likelihood of leftovers by the end of the night will be slim to none. CRUST: ¼ cup granulated sugar or coconut sugar 1 cup almond flour or almond meal ¼ cup yellow cornmeal ¼ cup chickpea flour ⅛ teaspoon salt ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil 1–2 tablespoons water CASHEW CRÈME: 1½ cups raw cashews, soaked for 4–6 hours and drained ⅓ cup plain nondairy milk ¼ cup maple syrup 1 teaspoon vanilla extract PEAR TOPPING: 2 firm, medium-sized pears ¼ cup granulated sugar ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ cup sliced almonds, for garnish Preheat your oven to 325ºF (160ºC). Combine the sugar, almond flour or meal, cornmeal, chickpea flour, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it in, along with the water. Stir to combine all the dry ingredients and press this mixture firmly into a lightly greased 9-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom. Bake for 10 minutes and let cool, leaving the oven on. In a blender or food processor, begin blending the soaked cashews, nondairy milk, maple syrup, and vanilla. Once the nuts are mostly broken down, crank up your machine to high speed and thoroughly puree. It may take 5 to 10 minutes for the mixture to become completely smooth, so don't stop short. Pause as needed to scrape down sides of the container with your spatula to ensure that there are no lumps. Smooth the resulting crème into your crust and set aside. Peel, core, and thinly slice the pears. Toss the slices with the sugar and cinnamon to evenly coat. Arrange them in an overlapping spiral on top of the cashew crème layer. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the pears are fork-tender. Let cool and sprinkle with sliced almonds before serving. Wishing you could have an old-fashioned float in a more contemporary format? Skip the whipped cream and top slices with scoops of No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 237) instead. Consider your wish granted! Cherry Cola Pudding Pie Makes 10 to 12 servings A drink menu without cola is not only a theoretical abomination, but an apparent impossibility. No matter the cuisine, clientele, or locale, every bar and restaurant seem to have some version of the unmistakable yet indescribable sparkling elixir. In fact, it's so popular that some regions simply refer to all soft drinks simply as "cola," rather than "soda" or even "pop." Some err more on the side of crisp and tart citrus, while others lean heavily on warm vanilla and cinnamon, although you'd never know such a range of nuances exist based on the limited mainstream options. Two brands continue to dominate the immense market so despite its universal availability, cola creativity falls flat. Think outside the bottle with an injection of fruit and tart cherry sweetness in this refreshing pudding pie. GRAHAM CRACKER CRUST: 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs 5 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil, melted CHERRY COLA FILLING: 1½ cups cola soda ½ cup 100% cherry juice 1 cup unsweetened nondairy milk ¼ cup arrowroot powder 2½ teaspoons agar powder ½ teaspoon vanilla extract ⅛ teaspoon salt TO GARNISH: Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243) Fresh cherries For the best texture, be sure to pulse your graham crackers in a food processor until very finely ground. The resulting crumbs should be about the consistency of coarse almond meal. Pick out any larger pieces and reprocess as needed. Drizzle the melted butter or coconut oil into the crumbs and stir thoroughly. The mixture shouldn't be quite damp, but moist, and capable of sticking together when pressed. Transfer the mix to a 9-inch round pie pan, using lightly dampened fingers to firmly press it down on the bottom and along the sides. Use the bottom of a flat measuring cup or glass for smoother edges. Place the crust in your fridge to set. Next, prepare the cherry cola filling. Combine everything in a medium saucepan, thoroughly whisking to make sure there are no lumps of starch remaining. Heat over a moderate flame, stirring occasionally, just until it comes to a boil. Turn off the heat and pour the hot pudding into your prepared piecrust, tapping it gently on the counter to smooth out the top. Return the pie to the fridge and chill for at least 6 hours for the filling to be firm enough to slice. Just prior to serving, pipe or dollop the coconut whipped cream around the border as artfully or generously as you desire, and finish with fresh cherries on top. Chili Chocolate Tart Makes 12 to 14 servings Albeit a cinch to make and equally effortless to serve, the very first bite will reveal that this is no quotidian chocolate tart. With a kick of spice and the satisfying crunch of pecans, the myriad flavors and textures will entertain your palate well beyond the obligatory, ordinary chocolate dessert. Try serving this rich but modestly sweetened tart with a dollop of Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243) or No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 237) to contrast the intense and spicy flavors. CANDIED PECANS: 3 tablespoon dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar 1½ cups pecan halves 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper ¼ teaspoon salt 1 tablespoon vegan butter or coconut oil CHOCOLATE CRUST: 1½ cups Chocolate Wafer Cookie (page 229) crumbs 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup vegan butter or coconut oil CHOCOLATE FILLING: 8 ounces dark chocolate, finely chopped ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon smoked paprika ¼–½ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper ¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup full-fat coconut milk ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil ¼ teaspoon almond extract 1 teaspoon vanilla extract GARNISH (OPTIONAL): ¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes ¼ teaspoon flaky sea salt Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. In a medium bowl, toss together the sugar, pecans, cinnamon, cayenne, and salt. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it over the nut mixture, tossing to evenly coat. Spread the pecans in one even layer on your prepared baking sheet. Bake for about 10 minutes, keeping a close eye on them, being very careful not to cook them for too long. By the time the pecans start to look dark brown or smell nutty, they are probably already burnt. Once removed from the oven, immediately transfer the pecans to a fresh sheet of parchment paper, shake off any excess glaze, and separate any that are touching. Let the pecans cool but leave the oven on. For the crust, combine the cookie crumbs, cinnamon, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it in, stirring to form a moist but crumbly mixture. Press this into a 9-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom. Bake for 20 minutes, until dry to the touch, and set aside. To make the filling, place the chocolate, spices, and salt in a large bowl. Separately, begin heating the coconut milk in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the butter or coconut oil into the saucepan, stirring until melted. Bring the mixture just to the brink of boiling, then immediately pour it into the bowl containing your chocolate. Let everything sit for a couple of minutes, and then stir vigorously to melt the chocolate and form a completely smooth mixture. As the chocolate cools, add in both extracts. Pour the chocolate mixture into your prepared crust and tap lightly on the counter to remove any air bubbles. Let it sit for 15 minutes before placing your glazed pecans around the perimeter and sprinkling crushed red pepper flakes and salt over the top, if desired. Chill the tart in the refrigerator for 3 hours, and let it sit at room temperature for about 10 to 15 minutes before serving. More of an oatmeal raisin person? I got you, fam. Omit the chips, mixing in 1 cup of old-fashioned rolled oats and ¾ cup raisins instead. Add 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon along with the flour in the filling, whisking to distribute it equally throughout the dry mix. Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie Makes 8 to 10 servings Borrowing the very best, most crave-worthy parts of the classic chocolate chip cookie, this pie has the perfect hint of vanilla, the comforting sweetness of caramelized brown sugar, and just the right amount of chocolate. Soft and gooey straight out of the oven, it is like childhood memories all stuffed into a flaky crust. Enjoy a nostalgic bite of warm cookies just like Mom would make, fresh out of the oven, in a more substantial serving fit for an adult appetite. CRUST: ¼ cup vegan butter 4½ ounces (½ cup + 2 tablespoons) vegan cream cheese 1⅓ cups all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon salt 1½ teaspoons apple cider vinegar 1–2 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk COOKIE DOUGH FILLING: 2 tablespoons whole flaxseeds 1 cup all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon baking powder ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar 10 tablespoons vegan butter 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon salt 8 ounces (1⅓ cups) semisweet chocolate chips For the crust, combine the butter, cream cheese, and flour in a medium bowl, using a fork or pastry blender. Alternately, this may be done in a food processor, pulsing to roughly incorporate. The mixture should reach a consistency similar to coarse crumbs. Being careful not to overwork the dough, mix in the salt and vinegar. Slowly drizzle in the nondairy milk while continuing to stir; add just enough to bring the dough together into a cohesive ball. Turn the dough out onto a flat surface, pressing it together into one cohesive ball with your hands. Wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least one hour. Once chilled, roll the dough out onto a well-floured surface, forming a circle that is approximately 12 inches in diameter. Gently move the circle into a 9-inch round pie pan and flute the edges as desired. Loosely cover the crust in plastic wrap and return it to your refrigerator while you assemble the filling. Preheat your oven to 325ºF (160ºC). For the filling, grind the flaxseeds into a fine powder, and add it to a large bowl, along with the flour, baking powder, and both sugars. Melt the butter and stir it into your dry ingredients. Follow with the vanilla, salt, and chocolate chips, stirring thoroughly to combine. This mixture will be very thick, just like your standard cookie dough. Remove your crust from the refrigerator and press the cookie dough filling evenly into it with a spatula. Bake for 55 to 60 minutes, until the center appears to have puffed up a bit and the crust is golden brown. Let the pie cool for at least 30 minutes. If you let it cool all the way down to room temperature, reheat individual slices in the microwave and serve warm. Put the lime in the coconut by adding 1 tablespoon lime zest when you want a little extra citrus kick. Though it's hard to resist the pun, orange or lemon zest could also liven up the basic combination quite nicely, too. Coconut Custard Pie Makes 8 to 10 servings Coconut fans, lend me your forks! Intensely flavored with coconut in no less than four different forms, the creamy coconut custard alone will make you swoon. In fact, should you find yourself pressed for time, feel free to skip the crust altogether and chill the filling in individual custard dishes for a simple tropical treat. CRUST: 1 cup all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon sugar ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup vegan butter 2–4 tablespoons cold water COCONUT CUSTARD: 1 cup cooked white beans 1 cup full-fat coconut milk 1 cup granulated sugar ¼ cup coconut oil, melted 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1½ cups unsweetened shredded coconut ¼ cup unsweetened coconut flakes or chips, toasted In a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar, and salt. Add the butter and work it through with a fork or pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Alternately, this may be done in a food processor, pulsing to roughly incorporate. Add the water, one tablespoon at a time, and continue working it gently with your hands until it comes together into a ball of dough. Press into a flat disk, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until chilled, at least 30 minutes. Remove the dough from the refrigerator and roll it out onto a lightly floured surface. Aim for a circular shape that is 1 to 1½ inches larger than your pie tin, and about ¼- to ⅛-inch thick. Very gently fold the circle in half and then in half again, so that you can lift it without tearing, and carefully unfold it into a 9-inch round pie pan. Cover any tears that might have occurred and flute the edges as desired. Set aside. Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC). Using a food processor or blender, puree the beans until completely smooth. Add in the coconut milk and sugar, processing to combine. Melt the coconut oil and slowly drizzle it in while running the motor to emulsify. Incorporate the flour and vanilla. Finally, fold in the coconut flakes by hand and pour this mixture into your crust. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until the crust is evenly browned and the filling appears to have risen a bit. The custard will still be wobbly in the center, but it will continue to set up as it cools, much like a cheesecake. Let the pie sit for at least an hour before sprinkling the toasted coconut on top and serving. Ginger Dream Pie Makes 8 to 10 servings Fresh ginger, that gnarled and twisted rhizome languishing alongside other "exotics," doesn't get nearly enough love in American kitchens. Everyone has the dried powder on their spice racks, but the true impact of the piquant, pungent tuber is a whole different taste altogether. My passion for the subtropical, sweet spice knows no bounds, as is obvious by the abundance of all sorts of gingery ingredients tucked into my pantry, candy dishes, and refrigerator crisper at all times. Using a triple dose of ginger—candied, dried, and fresh—this chilled cream pie offers a tantalizing combination of hot and cold that still manages to taste refreshing thanks to a quick chill in the refrigerator. GINGER CRUST: ½ cup vegan butter ⅓ cup granulated sugar ¼–½ cup crystallized ginger, finely minced ⅓ cup almond meal ½ cup all-purpose flour ½ cup whole wheat flour 1 teaspoon ground ginger 1 teaspoon lemon juice GINGER CREAM FILLING: 2 (12-ounce) packages firm silken tofu 1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger 1½ cups confectioners' sugar 2 tablespoons cornstarch 2 teaspoons ground ginger 1 teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt 2 tablespoons vanilla extract Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease and flour a 9-inch round pie pan. In a medium bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until soft and fluffy. Ensure that the crystallized ginger is very finely minced, with no large chunks, as it can become overwhelming in such concentrated large doses. Adjusting the amount (¼ to ½ cup) to your personal preference and spice tolerance, add the crystallized ginger to your bowl along with the almond meal, flours, ground ginger, and lemon juice. Stir so that the mixture is thoroughly combined, but still somewhat crumbly. Press this into the bottom of your prepared pan and bake for 13 to 16 minutes, until it just begins to brown around the edges. For the filling, begin by draining any excess water from the tofu. Add the tofu to your food processor or blender, along with the fresh grated ginger, and process it until smooth. In a small bowl, combine the sugar, cornstarch, ground ginger, baking powder, and salt. Add this dry mixture to the pureed tofu, and process again. With the motor running, drizzle in the vanilla and continue processing until everything is fully incorporated. Pour this mixture into your prepared crust, smoothing the top with a spatula. Bake for 20 to 24 minutes, until slightly puffed and the top no longer appears shiny. The center may still be wobbly when it comes out of the oven, but it will continue to set as it cools. Chill the pie thoroughly, for at least 2 hours, before serving, and sprinkle with additional crystallized ginger, if desired. Harvest Pie Makes 8 to 10 servings While transitioning away from summer to autumn is always a struggle for me, there's still a whole lot to celebrate in welcoming the cooler months ahead, like crisp apples, tart cranberries, and glowing golden sweet potatoes. Venture outside of one-dimensional old recipes that only pay homage to one lonely produce pick and get a full taste of the season all in one forkful. Though ideal for gracing the festive Thanksgiving table, this pie is perfectly at home for any old day when the leaves turn brown and begin to drop. SWEET MAPLE CRUST: 2½ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup whole wheat flour ½ teaspoon salt ¾ cup vegan butter, well-chilled or frozen ¼ cup maple syrup 3–5 tablespoons water FRUIT FILLING: 1 large, sweet apple (such as fuji or gala) ½ teaspoon lemon juice 1 small sweet potato (about 8 ounces) 8 ounces whole cranberries, fresh or frozen ¾ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ cup cornstarch ¾ cup chopped walnuts ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg 2 tablespoons vegan butter Aquafaba, to assemble For the crust, toss the flours, salt, and butter into a medium bowl, and combine them with a fork or pastry cutter. Alternately, this may be done in a food processor, pulsing to roughly incorporate. Continue blending until coarse crumbs develop and small pieces of butter are left intact. Mix in the maple syrup, followed by the water, adding just one tablespoon at a time until the dough comes together into a cohesive ball. You may need to work the dough with your hands as it becomes stiff. Divide the resulting dough into two even pieces, smooth them into round disks, and wrap each tightly with plastic wrap. Refrigerate the dough for at least 2 hours before proceeding. Once the dough is thoroughly chilled, preheat your oven to 400ºF (205ºC). Take one of the disks and roll it out to about a ¼-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface. Carefully move the flattened round of dough into a lightly greased 9-inch round pie pan and patch any holes or tears that may have formed in that transition. Place the pan in the refrigerator while you assemble the filling. Peel, core, and chop the apple into bite-sized pieces before tossing it into a large bowl with the lemon juice. Peel and dice the sweet potato in a similar manner before mixing it in as well. Add all the remaining ingredients for the filling, except for the butter, and stir gently to coat the fruit evenly with the dry ingredients. Remove the pie pan from the refrigerator and pour the fruit and nut mixture into your prepared crust. Cut the butter into very small pieces, and scatter the chunks atop your filling. Set aside. Take your second disk of dough and roll it out in a similar fashion, but this time cut out shapes of your choice with a cookie cutter. Here's your chance to get creative! I like arranging an artful pile of leaves around the edge, adding veins and other details with toothpick impressions, but there's no right or wrong approach here. Brush the exposed lip of the base crust with aquafaba, just a small patch at a time, before firmly but gently pressing the shapes in to adhere. Brush the exposed surface with additional aquafaba when everything is in place. Carefully slide the whole pie into your oven and bake for 10 minutes, and then lower the oven temperature to 350ºF (175ºC) without removing the pie. Bake for an additional 25 to 30 minutes, until the top crust pieces turn golden brown. Let cool before serving. It's much easier to simply buy shelled, roasted chestnuts, often found in the kosher section when not in season, but you can also roast your own if you happen to get them fresh. Preheat your oven to 400ºF (205ºC) and use a very sharp knife to cut an "X" into the flat side of each chestnut. Place in a single layer on a sheet pan and roast until shells begin to open and reveal the nut within; about 20 to 30 minutes, stirring after 10 minutes. Peel the shells while still warm. Mont Blanc Mini Tarts Makes 6 mini tarts To be perfectly honest, an "authentic" Mont Blanc is quite different from my interpretation. While the original begins with a base of meringue instead of a crust, this version is much easier to prepare and just as delicious. Concealing a smooth maple crème filling with a generous mound of sweet chestnut crème, it is a perfect treat for the serious sweet tooth. Even if it's not a very authentic rendition of the dessert first created in honor of a mountain in the Alps, topped with powdered sugar to complete the look of a snowy peak, it still makes for one fantastic tart. ALMOND CRUST: 1¼ cups almond meal 2 tablespoon ground flaxseeds 2 tablespoons coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted ½ teaspoon almond extract CASHEW CRÈME FILLING: 1½ cup raw cashews, soaked in hot water for 2–3 hours 1 cup pitted medjool dates, packed ½ cup plain nondairy milk 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract CHESTNUT CRÈME: 10 ounces roasted, peeled chestnuts 1⅓ cups unsweetened nondairy milk, divided ⅔ cup maple syrup 1 tablespoon dark rum 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Confectioners' sugar, to garnish (optional) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC). In a medium bowl, stir together the almond meal, ground flax, sugar, and salt. Drizzle in the melted butter or coconut oil along with the almond extract, mixing to combine. You should end up with a relatively homogenous and cohesive if slightly crumbly mixture. Distribute between six 3-inch round mini tart pans with removable bottoms, pressing it evenly up the sides and along the bottoms. Chill for 10 minutes before baking. Bake the crusts for 10 to 12 minutes, until lightly brown all over. Let cool completely while you assemble the fillings. Drain the cashews thoroughly before tossing them into your food processor or a high-speed blender, along with the pitted dates. With the motor running, slowly pour in the nondairy milk, followed by the vanilla extract. Pause to scrape down the sides of the container as need, incorporating all the ingredients into a silky-smooth blend. Transfer the resulting crème to the baked crusts, spreading it evenly into each one. Meanwhile, for the chestnut crème, place the chestnuts, ⅔ cup nondairy milk, and maple syrup in a small saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a simmer and gently cook for 10 to 15 minutes, until the liquid has reduced to a thick syrup that coats the back of a spatula. The chestnuts themselves should appear candied and be fork-tender all the way through. After thoroughly washing all parts of your food processor or blender, reassemble it and process the chestnuts until completely smooth. Add in the rum and vanilla, blending once more to incorporate. Slowly drizzle in the remaining nondairy milk while running the motor, taking your time to make sure that everything is completely and utterly silky-smooth. Any remaining chunks, no matter how small, will clog the nozzles of your piping tip and make the topping impossible to apply. Save yourself the frustration by taking an extra minute or two on this step! Transfer the resulting chestnut crème into a pastry bag fitted with an angel-hair tip. Pipe the chestnut crème on top of the maple crème layer in a circular path, starting from the outside and working in, mounding it up as high as possible. Dust with confectioners' sugar just prior to serving, if desired. To make candied lemon slices, use the same technique as outlined in the recipe for Orangettes (page 217) but use small, thinly sliced lemons instead. The key is to keep the slices consistent, so use a mandoline to keep all the pieces about ⅛ of an inch thick, if possible. Remove all seeds before getting started, and cook very gently to prevent the delicate membrane from getting destroyed in the process. Pink Lemonade Tartlets Makes 24 tartlets Just like the brilliant pink glasses of icy lemonade making a splash at picnics or backyard barbecues across the country, these two-bite treats offer a refreshingly tart taste of citrus, tempered by a light sweetness. However, these tiny tarts have a clear advantage over the competition, as they derive their rosy hue from nothing more outlandish than raspberry jam, as opposed to the mysterious chemical cocktail found in powdered drink mixes. Bake up a batch to sate your sweet tooth and quench your thirst for a bright, refreshing taste of summer any day! CRUST: 6 tablespoons vegan butter ½ cup confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon whole flaxseeds 2 tablespoons water 1½ cups all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon salt LEMON CUSTARD: 1 cup plain nondairy milk 2 tablespoons cornstarch 2 tablespoons seedless raspberry jam ⅓ cup confectioners' sugar 2 tablespoons lemon juice 1 tablespoon lemon zest TO GARNISH: ½ cup fresh raspberries Candied lemon slices, quartered (optional) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease two dozen mini muffin pans. For the crust, begin by beating the butter and sugar in your stand mixer until light and creamy. Grind the flaxseeds into a powder with a spice grinder and blend them together with the water. Add the flax mixture into your mixer and blend well. Add half of the flour, mixing until it is completely incorporated. Follow with the other half of the flour along with the salt, mixing until smooth. If the dough is still crumbly, add up to 2 additional tablespoons of water, just until the mixture sticks together. Drop walnut-sized balls of dough into each prepared muffin tin and press the dough up the sides of the pan using your fingers or the end of a wooden spoon, to form the tartlet shells. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until lightly browned. Let the tartlet shells cool completely. To make the filling, heat the nondairy milk in a saucepan over medium heat. Add in the cornstarch and whisk vigorously to prevent lumps from forming. Continue stirring, and in 2 to 4 minutes of even heating, the mixture should thicken significantly. Add the jam and sugar, stirring to dissolve. Remove the mixture from the heat and whisk in the lemon juice and zest. Spoon your pink lemonade filling into the tartlet shells and chill for at least an hour before serving. Garnish the tartlets with fresh raspberries and candied lemon slices if desired. Pumpkin Pecan Pie Makes 8 to 10 servings At last, a delicious resolution to the pumpkin vs. pecan pie battle. While I have never felt that either pie was worthy of all the hype, it appears they simply needed to be combined in order to achieve their full potential. Straight pumpkin pie strikes me as monotonous in texture and flavor, while standard pecan pie tends to be tooth-achingly sweet. However, when I brought them together in one crust, the two fillings seemed to accentuate one another's strengths, while diminishing any negative aspects. The pecans do have a more dominant presence, but a dollop of pumpkin crème topping allows both flavors to have an equal turn in the spotlight. Who says you can't make everyone happy? Crust: 1½ cups whole wheat pastry flour 1 tablespoon granulated sugar ½ teaspoon salt ½ cup vegan butter 3 tablespoons plain nondairy milk PUMPKIN FILLING: 1 cup pumpkin puree ⅓ cup granulated sugar 2 tablespoons plain nondairy milk ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ¼ teaspoon ground ginger 2 tablespoons cornstarch PECAN FILLING: 1½ cups pecan halves ⅔ cup maple syrup ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar 3 tablespoons cornstarch 1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds ½ teaspoon vanilla extract PUMPKIN CRÈME: 1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil ¾ cup confectioners' sugar ½ cup pumpkin puree 2 tablespoons arrowroot powder 1 teaspoon agar powder ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon Lightly grease a 9-inch round pie pan. To begin forming the crust, combine the flour, sugar, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter and pour it over the dry ingredients. Follow with the nondairy milk and mix until everything comes together into a cohesive ball of dough. Move the dough into your prepared pie pan and press it gently into the bottom and up the sides using the palm of your hand. Flute the edges if desired. Let the crust chill in the refrigerator while you assemble the filling. Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC). In a large bowl, combine the pumpkin puree, sugar, nondairy milk, and spices. Slowly sprinkle in the cornstarch while stirring vigorously, to prevent lumps. Smooth this filling into your chilled crust and return the pie pan to the refrigerator. In a separate bowl, toss the pecans with the maple syrup, sugar, cornstarch, ground flaxseeds, and vanilla. Gently and evenly pour this pecan mixture over your pumpkin filling. Don't worry if it looks like a skimpy amount; it will rise to the occasion once completed. Bake the pie for approximately 25 minutes, until the crust begins to brown. Lower the oven temperature to 300ºF (150ºC) and bake for an additional 10 to 15 minutes, making sure that all the exposed crust looks fully cooked and nicely browned. If it is darkening too quickly, cover the edges with a strip of aluminum foil to prevent burning. Let cool completely. To make the pumpkin crème, combine the coconut milk, butter or coconut oil, and sugar in a medium saucepan over moderate heat. Once the butter or oil has melted, whisk in the pumpkin, arrowroot, agar, and cinnamon, beating thoroughly to incorporate without any lumps at all. Cook until thickened and bubbles begin to break on the surface, 8 to 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and let cool for about 30 minutes, stirring periodically to prevent a skin from forming on top. If it is still too soft to pipe around the border, let this mixture sit in the refrigerator for a few minutes to chill and solidify. Pipe or drop dollops of the crème around the edge of your pie before serving. Spiralized Apple Galette Makes 6 to 8 servings Tender, warmly spiced apples wrapped up in a flaky free-form piecrust is an easy sell, but not always such an easy endeavor. Power through that pile of crisp autumnal fruit by spiralizing them instead of chopping by hand, and you'll have a showstopping dessert hot out of the oven in no time at all. CLASSIC PIECRUST: 1¼ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon granulated sugar ¼ teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons vegan butter, chilled, cut into small pieces 1½ teaspoons lemon juice 1–2 tablespoons ice-cold water SPIRALIZED APPLE FILLING: 1 pound (2 medium) tart apples (such as granny smith) 1 pound (2 medium) sweet apples (such as fuji) 1 tablespoon lemon juice ½ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar 5 tablespoons arrowroot powder 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground ginger ¼ teaspoon ground cardamom ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg 1 tablespoon unsweetened non-dairy milk 1 tablespoon turbinado sugar The easiest, quickest way to make a traditional piecrust is to get a helping hand from your food processor. Some say this approach sacrifices flakiness in favor of convenience, but I don't believe that any of my pies have suffered as a result. If you have the equipment, my advice is to use it! Place the flour, sugar, and salt in the bowl of your food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times, until the mixture resembles very coarsely ground almond meal. A few small chunks of butter should remain visible, but nothing larger than the size of peas. Sprinkle lemon juice and the first tablespoon of water in while pulsing a few times to incorporate. If the dough holds together when squeezed, you're good to go. If it remains crumbly, keep adding water while pulsing, just a teaspoon at a time, until the dough is cohesive. In case you don't have a food processor or just don't want to clean the darn thing afterward, the old-fashioned method is just as effective, if a bit more labor-intensive. Place the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl and use a pastry cutter or two forks to cut in the pieces of butter. A few small chunks of butter should remain visible, but nothing larger than the size of peas. Sprinkle lemon juice and one tablespoon of water into the bowl and stir well with a wide spatula. Sometimes it can be difficult to get the liquids properly incorporated, so it may be helpful to drop the formalities and just get in there to mix with your hands. If the dough holds together when squeezed, you're set. If it remains crumbly, keep adding water and mixing thoroughly, just a teaspoon at a time, until the dough is cohesive. Do your best not to overmix or overhandle the dough, as this will make it tough when baked. Shape the dough into a rough round and flatten it into a disk about ½ inch in thickness. Wrap tightly with plastic wrap and stash in the fridge. Let chill for at least an hour, or up to a week. Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC). Line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or piece of parchment paper. Spiralize the apples, discarding the cores and removing any errant seeds that might have fallen into the pile of curlicues. Very gently toss with lemon juice, sugar, arrowroot, and all the spices. Set aside. Roll out the unbaked piecrust on a lightly floured surface to a thickness of about ⅛th of an inch, as round as you can possibly make it. Transfer the flat circle of crust to the prepared baking sheet and pile the spiralized and sugared apples in the center. Distribute the filling evenly in the middle, leaving a border of about 2 inches of the crust clean and clear. Fold over the sides to contain the filling, and lightly brush the exposed crust with nondairy milk. Sprinkle turbinado sugar evenly over the exposed crust. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, until the crust is golden brown, and the apple spirals are tender. Don't fret if some of the juices spill out of the sides, as there will still be plenty within. Let cool for at least 10 minutes before slicing and serve while still warm. Ice cream is optional as a pairing, but highly recommended! MISCELLANEOUS MORSELS & DESSERTS Either fresh or frozen fruit can be transformed into an equally delicious crumble but bear in mind that frozen fruit will need to be completely thawed and drained of excess liquid before using, to prevent the dessert from becoming too watery. Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble Makes 10 to 12 servings Warm, gooey, and far from photogenic, fruit crumbles make up for their homely looks with pure comfort in every shamelessly messy mouthful. Feel free to switch out the fruits depending on what you have on hand, as the basic formula is infinitely accommodating. Even if you only have canned fruits that are presweetened, go ahead and toss them in; just leave out the additional sugar in the fruit base. This family-style dessert is so easy to make that even a novice baker could pull it off with grace. COCOA CRUMBLE: ½ cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ¾ cup all-purpose flour ½ cup old-fashioned rolled oats ½ teaspoon instant coffee powder (optional) ¼ teaspoon salt BERRY BASE: 1 pound strawberries 1 pound pitted and stemmed cherries ½ pound raspberries and/or blackberries ½ pound blueberries 2 tablespoons cornstarch ⅓ cup granulated sugar Preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC). For the crumble, mix together the melted butter or coconut oil with both sugars in a large bowl. Add in the cocoa powder, followed by the flour, rolled oats, instant coffee, and salt. Keep mixing until it comes together in loose crumbs of varying sizes. Set aside. Wash, hull, and chop the strawberries into bite-sized pieces. Combine them with the cherries, raspberries and/or blackberries, and blueberries in a large bowl. Toss this fruit with the cornstarch and sugar before transferring the entire mixture into a 2-quart casserole dish. Spread the berries in as even a layer as possible. Sprinkle the prepared crumb topping over the entire surface. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes, until the juices bubble up around the edges. Let the crumble cool for at least 10 minutes before serving. For the fullest, greatest depth of flavor, prepare the crumble a day ahead, and allow the various ingredients to "marry" in the refrigerator overnight. Simply reheat the crumble in a 350ºF (175ºC) oven for 5 to 10 minutes to warm all the way through before serving. For the ultimate home-style treat, top each serving with a scoop of No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 237). If you're not feeling blue, don't let it get to you! Try using raspberries or blackberries instead to vary the fruity theme without losing an ounce of its original splendor. Brilliant Blueberry Parfaits Makes 6 to 8 servings Visually stunning and equally dazzling in luscious flavor, such charisma comes naturally to these elegant parfaits. Prepared in advance, waiting in the refrigerator and ready when you are, each tall delicious glass truly is parfait, "perfect" in French and in taste alike. BLUEBERRY MOUSSE: 1 pound (about 3 cups) fresh or frozen blueberries 1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu 1 tablespoon lemon juice ⅔ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 tablespoon agar powder 2 tablespoons water MAPLE CRÈME: 1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk ¼ cup vegan butter or coconut oil ½ cup maple syrup 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 2 tablespoons arrowroot powder 1 teaspoon agar powder Fresh blueberries for garnish (optional) If frozen, let the blueberries sit at room temperature or microwave briefly to thaw completely. Drain the tofu of any excess liquid and puree it in your food processor or blender until smooth. Drain away any juice from the berries before tossing them in with the tofu. Blend the two ingredients for 3 to 4 minutes, to fully combine them and achieve a smooth texture. Add in the lemon juice and sugar, and process just to mix them in. In a small dish, heat the agar with the water for 15 to 30 seconds in the microwave, just long enough to dissolve the agar and form a sticky, translucent jelly. Don't drag your feet at this stage: quickly get the agar mixture into your food processor or blender with the other ingredients and run the motor immediately, or the agar will solidify and create gummy lumps that will not dissolve. Once everything is completely mixed in, spoon the mousse into any clear glasses that you wish to serve it in. Let the mousse sit in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours to set. After thoroughly chilling the mousse, prepare the maple crème by placing the coconut milk, butter or coconut oil, and maple syrup in a medium saucepan over moderate heat on the stove. Once the butter or oil has melted, whisk in the vanilla, arrowroot, and agar, beating thoroughly to incorporate the powders without leaving any lumps remaining. Cook until thickened and bubbles begin to break on the surface; 8 to 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and let cool for about 30 minutes, stirring periodically to prevent a skin from forming on top. If it is still too soft to hold its shape, let this mixture sit in the refrigerator for a few minutes to solidify. Finally, pipe or drop dollops of the crème on top of your blueberry mousse. Top with fresh berries right before serving, if desired. Cherry Chocolate Truffles Makes approximately 24 truffles Cherries and chocolate, supposed aphrodisiacs and staples in candy boxes the world over, must necessarily be sinfully indulgent, right? Far from it, these ambrosial bites require only four spare ingredients and no added sugar to taste positively decadent. Few desserts honestly qualify as "health food," but this one can be justified as a good source of antioxidants thanks to those two superfoods, right? Go ahead, enjoy these unexpectedly wholesome truffles with a clear conscience! CHERRY CENTER: 1½ cups dried cherries ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder CHOCOLATE COATING: 4 ounces dark chocolate, chopped, or ⅔ cup semisweet chocolate chips 1–3 tablespoons plain nondairy milk Puree the cherries in your food processor until they become a smooth paste, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container as needed. Add in the cocoa powder and process again. Continue blending and soon enough the whole mixture should come together into a firm ball. Move this dough to a storage container on the counter and allow the flavors to develop overnight. You can continue working with the dough, if you are in a hurry, but I highly suggest you give it time to rest. To make the truffles, scoop a small amount of dough and roll it into a ball in the palm of your hands. The size of each ball will dictate the final size of each truffle. I would suggest about 1 tablespoon of dough for the core, but you may choose to go larger or smaller. Repeat this process until the entire fruit base is used up. Once you have the cherry centers ready to go, place the chocolate in a small, microwave-safe bowl. Melt the chocolate in the microwave in 30-second intervals, just until it stirs together smoothly with no lumps. Stir in the nondairy milk to your desired consistency. More nondairy milk will result in a higher ratio of center to coating and the coating will be softer, while less will give you a thicker chocolate shell that solidifies more. Set a piece of parchment paper on a baking sheet in your workspace. Drop one cherry center into the chocolate at a time, rolling it around to completely coat. Once fully coated, drop each truffle onto the parchment. Let sit at room temperature and let dry for at least two hours. If you'd rather not wait, you can stash the truffles in your refrigerator or freezer to speed up the process. Never get bored with the same old fudge again! Over the years, I've made it a hundred different ways, always with resounding raves. Here are just a few of my favorite variations: Tropical Fudge: Add ½ cup of diced dried pineapple and 1 teaspoon of orange zest right before incorporating the vanilla. Pecan Pie Fudge: Add 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon along with the vanilla extract. Omit the coconut topping, and instead press 1 cup of toasted pecans into the top. Peppermint Crunch Fudge: Add 1 teaspoon of peppermint extract with the vanilla and stir in 4 crushed candy canes. Omit the coconut topping and sprinkle with 5 additional crushed candy canes instead. Five-Minute Coconut Fudge Makes 32 small squares Devilishly dark and creamy, this fudge beats the chips out of the cloying original "Fantasy Fudge" made from the tooth-aching combination of sweetened condensed milk and marshmallow crème. This fudge has an intense chocolate flavor accented with a luscious tropical flair that ensures that even the smallest squares will satisfy your cravings. Dangerously quick and easy to whip up, it redefines the concept of instant gratification. 2 cups (12 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips 2 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil ½ cup full-fat coconut milk 2 cups confectioners' sugar ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ½ teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup unsweetened coconut chips or flakes, toasted Line an 8x8-inch square baking pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease. In a large, microwave-safe bowl, combine the chocolate chips, butter or coconut oil, and coconut milk. Heat for 1 minute on full power and stir thoroughly until completely smooth. If a few stubborn chips refuse to melt, continue to heat and stir at intervals of 20 seconds, as needed. Sift together the confectioners' sugar and cocoa powder, breaking up any clumps, before adding both to the bowl of liquid chocolate goodness. Next, add the vanilla and salt, stirring vigorously until thick, silky, and uniform. Pour the mixture into your prepared pan. Smooth out the top and sprinkle coconut evenly over the entire exposed surface. Press the coconut gently into the fudge with the palm of your hand to make sure that it adheres. Chill for at least 30 minutes, or until fully set, before cutting into squares. Flaming Hot Peanut Brittle Makes 1 pound of candy Packed with some serious heat, this nutty candy is well suited for spice-lovers. Be sure to warn your friends before they dig in, as I have witnessed a couple of alarming reactions from those with less adventurous taste buds. This brittle can have some serious after-burn, a slow heat that builds with every crispy, crunchy shard, so take your time to savor or it might just bite back! 1 cup roasted, salted peanuts ½ teaspoon chili powder ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper ¼ teaspoon smoked paprika ⅛ teaspoon ground black pepper 1¼ cups granulated sugar ¼ cup water ¼ cup maple syrup ½ teaspoon baking soda Lay a silicone baking mat or generous length of parchment paper on a flat working space near your stove. Toss the peanuts and spices together in a small bowl and set aside. Heat the sugar, water, and maple syrup together in a saucepan over medium heat, stirring until the sugar dissolves and the whole mixture comes to a steady boil. Stir continuously while cooking for another 5 to 8 minutes, until your mixture thickens and becomes light amber in color. If you have a candy thermometer handy, the temperature should be around 300ºF (150ºC) or when a small amount of the mixture dropped into a cup of cold water creates hard, brittle threads. Quickly stir in the reserved peanuts and spices, coating all the nuts without burning them. Add the baking soda, remove the pan from the heat, and continue mixing vigorously. Once combined, immediately pour this mixture onto your silicone baking mat or parchment paper, quickly spreading it into a single layer of peanuts, before it begins to set up. Let it cool completely before breaking into pieces. Store your brittle in an airtight container. Floral Petits Fours Makes 40 to 48 Petits Fours Named for their diminutive size, petit four literally means "small oven" in French. Although they have run the gamut from sweet to savory appetizers, what most people associate with them today are miniature layer cakes, filled with custard or jam, and topped with a sugary glaze, rolled fondant, or sheets of almond marzipan. The secret ingredient lending these dainty teatime snacks such a vibrant golden hue and moist crumb is pumpkin puree, believe it or not. Hidden deep within the tender sponge cake, it seamlessly replaces the typical half-dozen eggs without contributing a hint of squash flavor. One batch of cake makes enough for all three flavors. If you'd prefer to make just one flavor, either triple the filling and glaze of your choice or reduce the cake by a third and bake it in a 9x9-inch square baking dish. At this size, it will be thin enough that you can simply cut out your layers as is without slicing it in half across the center. GOLDEN SPONGE CAKE: 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 cup granulated sugar 2 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon salt 1¼ cups plain nondairy milk ¾ cup pumpkin puree ⅓ cup olive oil 2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar 2 teaspoons vanilla extract Chamomile-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish (recipes follow) Lavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish (recipes follow) Pomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish (recipes follow) Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease a 13x9-inch baking dish. In a large bowl, thoroughly whisk together flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. In a separate mixing bowl, whisk the nondairy milk, pumpkin, oil, vinegar, and vanilla until smooth. Pour the wet mixture into the bowl of dry ingredients and stir until smooth. Transfer your batter to the prepared baking dish and use your spatula to smooth it down in an even layer. Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until the cake is golden brown all over and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool completely. While the cake is in the oven, go ahead and get started on the fillings and glazes. (See following recipes for details.) Turn the completely cooled cake out onto a cutting board and slice it horizontally into 2 thin, equal rectangular layers. Cut each sheet of cake into small, even squares of either 1 inch or 1½ inches. If you have them, square cookie cutters can also be used to ensure consistency. Proceed to follow the steps to prepare any or all of the flavors below. Each flavor variation makes enough to fill and glaze 1 batch of cake, so if you want to serve all three, make 3 times the amount of cake (and be prepared to feed an army!). To assemble, carefully cut the filling of your choice into equal squares to fit the cake pieces. Use an offset spatula to move each filling square onto the cut top side of one square of cake, being very careful as it's somewhat fragile. Top each with another cake layer. Move the assembled mini cakes to a wire rack set over a rimmed baking sheet to await glazing and finishing. Prepare the glaze by placing all ingredients in a medium bowl and whisking thoroughly to combine. The glaze sets quickly, so wait until you're ready to use it before getting started. Pour the fresh glaze generously over each little cake, using a spatula to smooth and fill in any gaps, allowing that it will be thinner on the sides. Top each little cake with the suggested garnishes as artfully as you see fit. Repeat this process with all of the pieces and desired flavors. Let the petits fours rest at room temperature for 2 to 3 hours before serving to allow the glaze to set, but don't wait too long to enjoy; they're best eaten the same day and should be kept no longer than a day or two. Chamomile-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish CHAMOMILE-LEMON FILLING: 1 d'Anjou or Bartlett pear, peeled, cored, and diced 1 cup water 3 bags chamomile tea 1 tablespoons lemon juice ½ teaspoon lemon zest ¼ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar ½ teaspoon agar powder LEMON GLAZE: 2 cups confectioners' sugar 2 tablespoons light agave nectar 3 tablespoons lemon juice ¼ teaspoon ground turmeric GARNISH: Lemon zest Candied lemon (page 183) For the filling, line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease. Place the chopped pear, water, and tea bags in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, reduce to medium-low, and gently simmer for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and cover, allowing the tea to steep for 10 minutes. Remove the tea bags and squeeze firmly to extract all infused liquid before discarding. Transfer the tea and pears to a blender, followed by the lemon juice and zest, sugar, and agar. Puree, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container as needed, until smooth. Pour the puree back into the saucepan and place and over medium heat once more. Bring to a boil and continue to cook while stirring constantly for 2 minutes, taking care to scrape the bottom of the pot with your spatula to prevent the mixture from sticking. Spread puree into your prepared loaf pan, tapping it lightly on the counter to even out the surface, and let cool to room temperature. Transfer the pan to your refrigerator and chill for at least 2 hours, until firm enough to slice. See Petit Four directions above for preparing the glaze and bringing all the components together. Lavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish LAVENDER-BLUEBERRY FILLING: ⅔ cup blueberries, fresh or frozen and thawed ¾ teaspoon dried lavender 1 cup water ¼ cup granulated sugar ½ teaspoon agar powder BLUEBERRY GLAZE: 2 cups confectioners' sugar ¼ cup freeze-dried blueberries, finely ground 2 tablespoons light agave nectar 3 tablespoons water GARNISH: Dried lavender Fresh blueberries For the filling, line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease. Combine all the filling ingredient in a blender and puree until smooth. Pour the puree into a medium saucepan and place over medium heat. Bring to a boil and continue to cook while stirring constantly for 2 full minutes. Be sure to scrape the bottom and sides of the pot with your spatula as you go to prevent the mixture from sticking. Transfer the thickened puree into your prepared loaf pan, tapping it lightly on the counter to even out the surface, and let cool to room temperature. Transfer the pan to your refrigerator and chill for at least 2 hours, until firm enough to slice. See Petit Four directions above for preparing the glaze and bringing all the components together. Pomegranate-Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish Makes 40 to 48 Petits Fours POMEGRANATE-ROSE FILLING: 1 tart green apple, peeled, cored, and diced 1 cup 100% pomegranate juice ⅓ cup granulated sugar ½ teaspoon agar powder ¾ teaspoon rosewater POMEGRANATE GLAZE: 2 cups confectioners' sugar 2 tablespoons light agave nectar 3 tablespoons 100% pomegranate juice GARNISH: Fresh or candied rose petals Fresh pomegranate arils For the filling, line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease. Place the chopped apple and pomegranate juice in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium-low, and gently simmer for 10 minutes, until the apples are fork-tender. Pour the resulting apple-pomegranate mixture into a blender, along with the sugar, agar, and rosewater. Thoroughly puree, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container as needed, until smooth. Pour your puree back into the same saucepan and place over medium heat once more. Bring to a boil and continue to cook while stirring constantly for 2 minutes, taking care to scrape the bottom of the pot with your spatula to prevent the mixture from sticking. Spread puree into your prepared loaf pan, tapping it lightly on the counter to even out the surface, and let cool to room temperature. Transfer the pan to your refrigerator and chill for at least 2 hours, until firm enough to slice. See Petit Four directions above for preparing the glaze and bringing all the components together. Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits Makes 6 to 10 parfaits Crisp and invigorating as the frigid air on an icy winter's morning, gingersnaps are synonymous with the season for good reason. Crunching through the thin planks of spice-flecked biscuits can instantly evoke the warmth of the holidays, no matter the time or place. Though each gingery morsel would be delightful all alone, pairing them with a vivid green pistachio mousse turns this childhood treat into a spectacular parfait. The creamy base acts as a soothing foil to the lively cookies, heightened with spicy chunks of candied ginger in every spoonful. When you're done shoveling snow, dig into a much-deserved reward that will melt away the frightful conditions outside. GINGERSNAP COOKIES: 1½ cups all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons ground ginger 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground allspice ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ¼ teaspoon ground cloves ¼ teaspoon salt ⅛ teaspoon baking soda ½ cup coconut sugar or granulated sugar ¼ cup molasses 3 tablespoons olive oil 1–2 tablespoons plain nondairy milk PISTACHIO MOUSSE: ½ cup toasted pistachios, soaked for 3–4 hours and drained 1 large, ripe avocado 1 cup fresh baby spinach, loosely packed 6 ounces extra firm silken tofu ¼ cup light agave nectar or maple syrup 1 tablespoon lemon juice ½ teaspoon orange zest ¼ teaspoon salt TO ASSEMBLE: Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243) ¼ - ½ cup candied ginger, roughly chopped ½ cup toasted pistachios The cookies will take the longest time to make, so start by preheating your oven to 300ºF (150ºC) and lining two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. In either a large metal bowl or a stand mixer, whisk together the flour, spices, salt, and baking soda. While you can certainly bring this dough together by hand, it will require some vigorous stirring, so I would advise bringing out the heavy artillery if you have it! Meanwhile, combine the sugar, molasses, and oil in a small saucepan and heat gently. Cook the mixture and stir gently, just until the sugar has completely dissolved. Pour the hot liquid into the bowl of dry ingredients, immediately followed by the non-dairy milk, and mix well. It will be very thick and somewhat difficult to mix, but give it all you've got and don't waste time; it will become harder to work with as it cools. Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured surface, press it into a ball, and roll it out to about ⅛ inch in thickness. Cut it into your desired shapes with cookie cutters and transfer the cookies over to the silicone baking mat. Aim for smaller pieces around 1 inch to best fit comfortably into the parfaits, and don't worry about making everything look perfect. Go ahead and toss the scraps right on the sheet without shaping them, since you'll be crushing them into crumbs anyway. Bake until the cookies are just barely browned around the edges, 15 to 18 minutes, depending on the size of your shapes. Let the cookies sit for a minute on the baking sheet before moving them over to a wire rack to cool. To make the mousse, place the soaked and drained pistachios in a high-speed blender along with your peeled and pitted avocado. Pulse to combine before switching over to top gear, pureeing to a creamy consistency. Pause to scrape down the sides of the container with your spatula as needed. If you only have a basic blender or food processor, allow an extra 5 to 10 minutes to ensure that mixture is perfectly smooth. Add in the spinach, tofu, agave or maple syrup, lemon juice, orange zest, and salt, blending again to combine. Continue blending until there are no visible pieces of spinach remaining and the mixture is entirely homogeneous. When you're ready to assemble the parfaits, spoon the mousse into 6 to 10 small glasses, depending on how many mouths you'd like to feed. Take any scraps and extra cookies and toss them into your food processor, roughly crushing them into a pebbly consistency. When you have about 1 cup of crumbs, toss in the candied ginger, as much or as little as you like, along with the pistachios. Distribute the crunchy topping equally between your glasses. Finish each parfait with a dollop of Whipped Coconut Cream, and don't forget to crown each with a perfect little gingersnap cookie! Bonus points if you can fashion yours to look like a miniature Christmas tree. Serve right away or the cookies will begin to soften. Keep all components separate and assemble no more than 2 to 3 hours in advance if you'd like to prepare this dessert ahead of time. "Culinary grade" matcha is typically recommended for cooking and baking applications such as this, but to be perfectly honest, that's only because it's of such low quality that you would be sorely disappointed to drink it straight. While it's more affordable pound for pound, you may need to use more of it to have the same impact. Adjust your measures to taste if needed, but ideally, just go with the good stuff ("ceremonial grade") to begin with. Green Tea-ramisu Makes 8 servings East meets west for a Japanese spin on a cherished Italian invention. Tiramisu, replete with ladyfingers dipped in espresso and liqueur, layers of sweetened mascarpone cheese, and a dusting of bitter cocoa, has only been around since the 1960s, as timeless though it seems. Evolving with modern tastes, it's only sensible to continue that natural progression with some fresh flavors. Whisking up a strong brew of earthy matcha instead of dark roasted coffee beans, it makes a compelling argument that green is the new black. If you haven't yet tried sake, a Japanese rice wine, let this sweet introduction prove its subtly complex, rather than brash, booziness that other spirits might impart. Skip the fussy ladyfingers while you're at it, because it's infinitely easier to assemble these essential elements with a cake. SPONGE CAKE: 1 cup plain nondairy milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 2 tablespoons vegan butter ⅔ cup granulated sugar 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ teaspoon salt MATCHA SYRUP: ½ cup water ¼ cup granulated sugar ½ cup sake 1 teaspoon matcha powder MATCHA CRÈME: 3 cups raw cashews, soaked for 3–4 hours and drained ½ cup granulated sugar ¼ cup plain vegan yogurt 2 tablespoons sake 2 teaspoons matcha powder 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¾ cup full-fat coconut milk ¼ cup coconut oil, melted Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan. In a small bowl, combine the nondairy milk with the vinegar and set aside. In your stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar. Add in the oil and vanilla, while mixing and scraping down the sides of the bowl to ensure that everything is incorporated. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Alternately add the dry ingredients and the acidulated milk into your stand mixer, mixing just until it all comes together. Be careful not to overmix and develop the gluten, as it may make the cake tough. Pour the batter into your prepared pan and bake for 24 to 28 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool completely. For the matcha syrup, bring the water and sugar to a boil in a saucepan on the stove. Maintain a steady boil for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the granules have all dissolved. Remove the sugar syrup from the heat and add the sake and matcha. Whisk vigorously in order to beat out any clumps of powdered tea. Let the syrup cool for at least 10 minutes. Prepare the crème by placing the soaked and drained cashews in a high-speed blender along with the sugar, yogurt, sake, matcha, and vanilla. Begin to blend on low speed, using the tamper to press the nuts toward the blades until they're largely broken down and can keep moving without additional help. Slowly pour in the coconut milk and melted coconut oil, ramping up the motor until it's at the highest setting. Continue to process until the mixture is completely silky smooth, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container with your spatula as needed. If you don't have a high-speed blender, you can also do this in your food processor, but the texture might be a bit coarser. Now, you're ready to begin constructing your tiramisu! Turn the cake out of the pan and slice it in half horizontally, resulting in two thin 8-inch squares. Use a sawing motion and a serrated knife to achieve a clean cut. When separating, be careful moving the layers so they don't crumble. If they do break in half, just use the pieces together as you would have with the whole slice. Line the now empty pan with a sheet of parchment paper; this will act as a sling to help remove the dessert later on. Return the bottom piece to the pan and lightly brush the top with half of the syrup. Smother that with half of the matcha crème, applying it in an even layer that goes right to the edges. Place the other half of the cake on top, with the cut side facing up, and press it down lightly to keep the filling flush. Brush all over with the remaining syrup and spread the last of the matcha crème over all of that. Smooth the surface with a spatula (it will probably come right up to the top of the pan) and cover with plastic wrap. Chill for at least 2 hours. To serve, top with a light sprinkling of additional matcha, if desired, and cut into 8 equal rectangles. Enjoy with a hot cup of tea! Hazelnut Ravioli Makes 24 to 30 small pastries Whether entertaining friends or sharing a romantic evening for two, this sweet finale will definitely end the event on a high note! If working with phyllo dough isn't your cup of tea, you could easily substitute a sheet of puff pastry instead, though the results won't be quite as delicate or ephemeral. HAZELNUT RAVIOLI: 1 package frozen phyllo dough 1 cup toasted hazelnuts or ⅔ cup hazelnut butter ⅓ cup vegan cream cheese 1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder 2 teaspoons instant coffee powder 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ¾ cup confectioners' sugar HOT FUDGE SAUCE: 6 ounces (about 1 cup) semi-sweet chocolate, chopped ¾ cup full-fat coconut milk 1 teaspoon vanilla extract TO SERVE: ½ cup toasted hazelnuts (optional) Thaw the phyllo dough completely before beginning. Once ready, preheat your oven to 375ºF (190ºC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. In your food processor, grind the whole hazelnuts for a good 5 to 10 minutes, until they break down into a smooth paste. If starting with hazelnut butter, simply toss it into the machine and it's good to go. Mix in the cream cheese, cocoa powder, coffee powder, vanilla, and sugar. Blend until fully combined and fluffy. Lay out the phyllo dough on a flat surface. Take 5 sheets at a time and cover the rest loosely with a lightly dampened towel. Cut the rectangle of dough you are working with in half horizontally, and then in thirds vertically, so that you end up with 6 even squares. Spoon about one tablespoon of the filling into the center of each square. Lightly moisten the bottom two edges with a fingertip dipped in water and fold the phyllo over to create a triangle. Press the edges down firmly to make sure the seal is solid. Move the triangle over to a baking sheet, and repeat with each of the remaining squares. Continue taking 5 sheets at a time, cutting and filling them, until you run out of both components. Always cover the phyllo that is not in use so that it doesn't dry out. Bake the ravioli for about 10 minutes, until they become nicely browned on the surface. To make the hot fudge sauce, place the chocolate in a medium bowl. Heat the coconut milk in the microwave in a microwave-safe container for about 1 minute and pour it over the chocolate. Let everything sit for about a minute, allowing the chocolate to melt, and stir until completely smooth, then stir in the vanilla. Either pour the chocolate sauce into a dipping bowl to serve warm alongside your ravioli, or drizzle the baked parcels liberally just before serving. Sprinkle additional toasted hazelnuts on top, if desired. Matcha Latte Freezer Pops Makes 5 to 6 freezer pops Unabashed lover of green tea that I am, these vibrant, grassy green popsicles are in constant rotation on my list of easy snacks come summertime. If you are feeling particularly indulgent, go ahead and splurge on real vanilla beans. Split and scraped into the base, they add amazing complexities that accentuate the matcha. To change up the taste altogether, use a pinch of lemon zest in place of the vanilla for a delicious citrus twist. My very favorite modification, however, is to add a few drops of peppermint extract, which kicks the refreshment factor up to 11. 1¼ cups plain nondairy milk ½ cup confectioners' sugar 1½ tablespoons cornstarch 2 teaspoons matcha powder ½ teaspoon vanilla extract In a small saucepan over medium heat, whisk together the non-dairy milk, sugar, cornstarch, and matcha until the powders are fully incorporated. Bring the mixture up to a boil, whisking the whole time. At this point, the mixture should have thickened considerably. Remove from the heat, stir in the vanilla, and allow it to sit for 5 minutes. Pour into ice pop molds or small paper cups. Allow the mixture to cool to room temperature before inserting popsicle sticks and moving the molds into the freezer, where they should sit for at least 8 hours to fully freeze. If you have trouble getting the freezer pops out of the molds when they are ready to be eaten, simply dip the outside of the mold into a cup of warm water for a few seconds. The freezer pops should loosen enough to be easily removed. Matzah Toffee Makes 2 pounds of candy Celebrating my first Passover as a vegan, I quickly discovered, to my great dismay, that there were absolutely no good recipes for plant-based and kosher sweets. Thankfully, a quick revamp of an old family favorite not only fit the bill, but also garnered rave reviews. An indispensable staple ever since then, it's every bit as essential to the occasion as those luminous bowls of matzo ball soup. 4–5 sheets matzah, to fit pan 1 cup vegan butter 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed ¼ teaspoon salt 12 ounces (2 cups) semisweet chocolate chips ⅓ cup sliced almonds (optional) ¼ teaspoon flaky sea salt (optional) Preheat your oven to 450ºF (230ºC) and line a 15x10-inch jelly-roll pan, or other shallow pan, with matzah sheets. Arrange them to cover the bottom evenly, overlapping just slightly; you may need to break them to do so. In a saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter, brown sugar, and salt together, bringing them to a slow boil. Maintain a gentle boil without stirring for 3 to 5 minutes, until the mixture becomes thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Pour the molten sugar mixture over the matzah and spread evenly. Bake in the oven for 4 minutes and remove carefully. Sprinkle the chocolate chips on top of the matzah, then return the pan to your oven for another 30 to 60 seconds. After it comes out of the oven for this second time, use a flat, heat-safe spatula to gently spread the melted chocolate so that it covers the top as completely as possible. Sprinkle evenly with sliced almonds and/or sea salt, if desired. Let the matzah toffee cool to room temperature, leaving it undisturbed until it has completely solidified. Break into pieces and store in an airtight container. Orangettes Makes 48 to 64 candies Few people think to compost their old orange peels, let alone save them for a second use, but with a little love and a touch of sugar, the zesty scraps may end up being even more delicious than the fruit itself! It takes some patience to extract any residual bitterness from the pith, but the payoff is worth the extra work. This same approach will allow you to salvage any other discarded citrus skins, such as grapefruits, lemons, and limes. 3–4 navel oranges 3½ cups water, divided ½ cup granulated sugar 3 ounces (about ½ cup) dark chocolate, chopped, or semisweet chocolate chips There are many ways to remove the peel from the oranges. Some suggestions include using a vegetable peeler or grater, but I like to do it with a knife. To do it my way, begin by cutting the oranges into quarters. With the skin side down, cut right along the edge as close to the actual peel as possible and remove the edible innards. If there is still white pith left over on the inside of the peel, simply scrape that off with the knife. Cut the resulting clean peel into thin quarters, so that each orange produces 16 strips. You should now have a few nicely cleaned segments of orange, so take a break and have a snack, or toss them into a salad later! Place the cleaned strips of peel in a small saucepan and pour in enough water to cover, about 1 cup. Bring the water to a boil and continue to cook for about 5 minutes. Drain the water, return the orange peel to the pan, and add a fresh cup of water. Bring back to a boil, cook for 5 minutes, and drain again. Repeat this process once more to leach out any residual bitterness. Now you are ready to candy the rinds! Add the sugar and a final ½ cup of water to the peels, and boil over medium heat once more. Continue to cook until the excess water evaporates and all you have left is a thin coating of smooth sugar on each of the strips. Remove from the heat and immediately move the saucepan contents onto a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Spread the pieces out so that they don't touch, before the sugar begins to cool and solidify. Let cool. Once the coating has completely hardened, place the chocolate in a microwave-safe dish, and microwave in 30-second intervals to prevent scorching. Stir thoroughly after each heating until the chocolate is completely melted and smooth. Dip a piece of peel half way into the chocolate and return it to the silicone baking mat. Repeat this process with the remaining orange peels. Allow the orangettes to dry before storing them in an airtight container. Pumpkin Toffee Trifle Makes 15 to 20 servings Piled high with several strata of cream, cake, and crunchy morsels all served up in one grand, family-style goblet, the trifle is the epitome of unpretentious decadence. It's suitable for fancy dinners, holiday gatherings, or even laid-back buffets and seasonal potlucks. Although it does take some patience to make, each separate element can easily be prepared ahead of time and assembled when you're ready. If candy making is not your forte, or you're simply more of a chocoholic than you are crazy for caramel, throw in 1 to 2 cups of chocolate chips in place of the toffee, for pumpkin chocolate perfection. TOFFEE: ¼ cup vegan butter 2 cups dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ cup water Pumpkin Cake: ½ cup vegan vanilla yogurt ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 cup pumpkin puree ½ cup olive oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract ½ teaspoon lemon juice 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ cup whole wheat flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground allspice ½ teaspoon ground ginger ½ teaspoon salt VANILLA PUDDING: 4 cups plain nondairy milk 1½ cups granulated sugar 3 tablespoons cornstarch 2 tablespoons arrowroot powder 2 tablespoons vanilla extract To make the toffee, line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or piece of parchment paper. Heat the butter, brown sugar, and water together in a large saucepan over medium heat. It's very important to stir the mixture continuously once it comes up to a boil, as it could very easily boil over if left unattended. Once rapidly bubbling, cook the sugar mixture for 12 to 15 minutes, until it reaches 300ºF (150ºC) or when a small amount of the mixture dropped into a cup of cold water creates hard, brittle threads. At that point, immediately pour the liquid toffee onto the center of the prepared baking sheet, being careful not to pour so much in one spot that it spills over the edges. Let the mixture sit until it has completely cooled and solidified. Break the resulting toffee into bite-sized pieces and set aside. Preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC) and lightly grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan. In a large bowl, beat together the yogurt, both sugars, pumpkin, oil, vanilla, and lemon juice until everything is thoroughly combined. In a separate bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt. Slowly add the dry ingredients into the bowl of wet, stirring just enough to bring the batter together into a smooth, homogenous mixture. Pour your batter into the prepared pan and bake for 30 to 40 minutes. When done, the cake will be golden brown on top and pulling slightly away from the sides of the pan. Let the cake cool completely before cutting into bite-sized cubes. Set aside. The last component for your trifle is the vanilla pudding, which is also probably the easiest. You're in the home stretch now! Begin by heating the nondairy milk in a large saucepan over medium heat. Whisk in the sugar and cornstarch together while the milk is still relatively cool, dissolving all the starch now to prevent lumps later. When the liquid begins thickening, whisk more vigorously and continue to cook for up to 5 minutes, until it takes on the consistency of pancake batter; it will thicken further as it cools. Remove the mixture from the heat, stir in the vanilla, and keep agitating it for a few additional minutes. Wait for the pudding to cool completely before assembling the trifle, or the toffee will melt. If you have the time to spare, refrigerate and chill the pudding in advance. To put everything together, place half of the cake cubes in a trifle dish, in as even a layer as possible. Top this with half of the pudding, and then half of the broken toffee pieces. The rest of the cake follows, continuing the same pattern with the rest of the pudding on top of that, and the remainder of the toffee to finish. If you don't plan on serving it immediately, cover with plastic wrap and store in the fridge. Just bear in mind that the toffee will soften as it sits; it's still every bit as tasty, if less crunchy. Sesame Chews Makes 24 to 32 chews These chewy candies were born out of sheer luck. Playing around in the kitchen one day with various sugars and add-ins left over from previous baking ventures, I had no idea what might result from the pot bubbling away on my stove. Luckily, the results were not some strange science experiment to be discarded at the end of the day, but a rather tasty, toothsome treat! An unusual flavor sensation to be sure, but you will be surprised by how well the ingredients play together in this unique candy. ½ cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed ½ cup light agave nectar 1 cup toasted black and/or white sesame seeds ½ cup sliced almonds ½ teaspoon vanilla extract ¼ teaspoon ground cardamom ¼ teaspoon baking soda Line a 4x8-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and grease well. In a medium saucepan, heat the sugar and agave nectar together slowly, until the sugar dissolves and the mixture comes to a boil. Add in your seeds and nuts, stirring continuously while cooking for 4 to 5 minutes. When the mixture reaches 250ºF (120ºC), which is also known as the hard ball stage in candy making, remove the pan from the stove. Add in the vanilla, cardamom, and baking soda, stirring vigorously until everything is combined and the candy has lightened slightly in color and texture. Pour the liquid candy into your prepared baking pan and resist the urge to spread it out manually. Once it goes into the pan, do not touch it for at least 30 minutes. After that time has elapsed, move it into the refrigerator to finish setting up, for about an hour. To cut the chews, remove the full strip from the foil and use a heavy knife that is long enough to cover the whole length in one slice. Press straight down, rocking the knife back and forth if it needs more persuasion, but do not saw. The chews may stick together due to humidity, so it is best to wrap them separately in squares of parchment paper. Store in an airtight container in a cool place. Trigona Makes 24 triangles Appeasing my father's sweet tooth has always been a challenge. While he loves sugar in its most pure and concentrated form, a connoisseur of all candies, most baked goods don't hold the same allure. If one exception could be made, however, it would be for baklava. Sticky with syrup, innumerable layers of flaky phyllo join in nutty harmony, straddling the line between dessert and confection. Trigona is simply a variation on the more commonplace baklava, trading walnuts and honey for pistachios and maple syrup. Though the assembly can be a bit time-consuming, the results are always worth your patience. 1 package frozen phyllo dough, thawed 1 pound shelled pistachios ½ cup granulated sugar 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1 cup vegan butter, melted 1½ cups maple syrup Thaw the phyllo dough completely before beginning. Once ready, preheat your oven to 300ºF (150ºC) and lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking pan. Very briefly process the pistachios in your blender or food processor to grind them down into a coarse meal, but keep the mixture very rough and chunky. In a large bowl, mix together the ground pistachios, sugar, and cinnamon. Cut (or tear) the phyllo so that it will fit into the bottom of your prepared baking pan. It is okay if the pieces overlap a little. Begin by laying down one sheet and brushing the pastry with melted butter. Add another sheet of phyllo once the first is lightly but thoroughly coated. Brush the second sheet with butter. Repeat these steps up to 4 times to create a phyllo layer; the exact number is up to you. After applying the butter to the last sheet in your first phyllo layer, sprinkle it evenly with the pistachio mixture. Repeat the entire process to create a second layer of phyllo, followed by another layer of the pistachios. Continue this pattern until you run out of the dry ingredients, ending with a layer of buttered phyllo on top. Before placing the trigona in the oven, precut the little triangles, or, if you are not feeling so handy with a knife, little squares are just fine. Bake for 70 to 80 minutes, until golden brown and slightly crispy-looking, but watch to make sure that the edges don't get over-toasted. Gently warm the maple syrup, either on the stove or in the microwave, and pour it over the baked pastry. Allow the trigona to cool for at least one hour, then recut, and serve. PANTRY STAPLES, COMPONENTS, AND ACCOMPANIMENTS Apples aren't the only fresh autumnal delights to harvest from the orchard. Go ahead and pump-kin it up! Instantly convert this seasonal schmear into Pumpkin Butter by trading the applesauce for 1 (14-ounce) can of pumpkin puree. Replace the allspice with nutmeg to get that classic freshly baked pumpkin pie flavor. Apple Butter Make about 1 quart Apple butter, a humble spiced preserve, has nothing to do with any dairy additives, contrary to what the name might suggest. Naturally vegan and much loved across the country, it's easy to find in just about any grocery store. Unfortunately, like most other mass-produced jams and jellies, it's typically composed of more sugar than fruit. Seeking an option focused on flavor rather than pure sweetness, I decided to take things into my own hands. The process is easy enough for a complete beginner to master on the first try, even if you've never considered jamming before. Just make sure you have plenty of time before you light up your stove because it's not exactly a "quick fix" recipe. 6 cups unsweetened applesauce 12 ounces (1½ cups) frozen no-sugar added apple juice concentrate, thawed 2 tablespoons ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground allspice ½ teaspoon ground cloves ½ teaspoon salt Combine all the ingredients in a large, heavy saucepan over medium heat on the stove. Whisk thoroughly to incorporate all the spices without any clumps remaining and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, keeping the mixture at a gentle simmer. Continue to cook, uncovered, stirring periodically to make sure that nothing sticks to the bottom of the pan. Be patient as it will take anywhere from 2 to 4 hours to properly reduce by about half, to a thick, spreadable, jammy consistency. When finished, it will be considerably darker in color and coat the back of a spoon richly. Let cool for at least 30 minutes before packing into glass jars and sealing tightly. When completely cool, store in the fridge for up to two weeks. This apple butter is low in acidity and thus difficult to properly can without extensive equipment, so it isn't shelf-stable. That just means you need to slather it on thick and eat it faster, which shouldn't be too much trouble! Chocolate Wafer Cookies Even if you just need a solid base to build your cheesecake on, going the extra mile to make your own cookie crumbs can catapult your creations to a new plane of dessert divinity. That said, these chocolate wafers are deceptively addictive, so they may turn into the main event by themselves. Dress them up with a quick dip into melted chocolate, or smear a dab of vanilla frosting between two to make your own Oreos in an instant. If you can resist the temptation though, go ahead and toss them into your food processor when completely cool and pulse until finely ground to create the very best cookie crusts you've ever tasted. 1 cup vegan butter 1¼ cups granulated sugar 1¾ cups all-purpose flour 1 cup whole wheat flour 1 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon baking powder ⅓ cup cold coffee 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Use your stand mixer to thoroughly cream the butter and sugar together. In a separate bowl, sift the flours, cocoa powder, salt, and baking powder, stirring well to combine. Add about half of the dry ingredients into the bowl, blending it until fully incorporated. Pour in the cold coffee and vanilla, along with the remaining flour mixture. Continue to mix until it forms into a smooth, homogeneous dough. Form the dough into a ball, flatten it out a bit, wrap in plastic, and chill for at least one hour before proceeding. After the dough has had time to rest in the refrigerator, preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC). Line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper. On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to about ⅛ inch in thickness. Use any cookie cutters you desire to shape the cookies, or if you plan on simply grinding them into crumb, make it easier on yourself and just use a pizza roller to quickly slice the dough into equally sized squares. Place them on prepared baking sheets. Bake for 8 to 14 minutes, depending on the size. It's tough to judge when these cookies are done because they're so dark to begin with, but the edges should be firm, and the centers soft and slightly puffed up. Cool completely on a wire rack before storing in an airtight container at room temperature. Don't feel like baking this homemade delicacy into another dessert? Transform your basic cream cheese into a fancy flavored spread by blending up any of the following: Garlic & Herb: Add 1 clove finely minced garlic, ¼ cup minced fresh parsley, 1 minced scallion, and ¼ teaspoon dried thyme. Italian Tomato: Add ¼ cup finely minced sun-dried tomatoes, 1 tablespoon tomato paste, 2 tablespoons fresh minced basil, ½ teaspoon dried oregano, and ¼ teaspoon dried thyme. Spicy Queso: Add 3 tablespoons nutritional yeast and 1 chipotle canned in adobo sauce. Strawberry: Add ¼ cup seedless strawberry jam or preserves. Maple Brown Sugar: Add 3 tablespoons dark brown sugar, firmly packed, 1 tablespoon maple syrup, and ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon. Lemon Poppy Seed: Add 2 tablespoons lemon zest, ¼ cup confectioners' sugar, and 1 tablespoon poppy seeds. Cream Cheese Makes about 2 cups Slightly salty, slightly sweet, cream cheese is one of the most versatile spreads around, and an absolute essential ingredient in my kitchen. Since it plays such a crucial role in desserts like cheesecake, quality really counts. Go the extra mile to make your own from scratch and instantly elevate your creations to the next level or enjoy it simply as a spread that will make even the average bagel sing. Kombucha is an unconventional addition that you won't find in most recipes, but I've found that this fermented tea gives my schmear a perfectly tangy flavor. Seek out the most neutral variety available, such as an "original" flavor or a citrus blend. 1 cup raw cashews ½ cup slivered almonds 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1 tablespoon white miso paste ¼ teaspoon salt ½ cup kombucha Place the cashews and almonds in a medium saucepan along with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil and simmer for 15 minutes. The nuts should have swollen a bit from absorption and have a more tender, "al dente" bite. Drain thoroughly and transfer to a high-powered blender or food processor. The better your equipment, the smoother your cream cheese will be, but anything you have can work nicely with an extra measure of patience. Add in the vinegar, lemon juice, miso, and salt. Begin blending on low to break down the nuts, using the tamper to continue pushing the mixture into the blades, pausing periodically to scrape down the sides of the canister with a spatula. Once broken down to a crumbly, coarse meal, begin slowly streaming in the kombucha with the motor running. Turn up the speed to high and continue to puree, until completely smooth. Allow enough time for the blender or food processor to do its magic. Depending on your machine, it could take anywhere from 5 to 15 minutes to achieve the ideal silky-smooth texture. Transfer to an airtight container and store in the fridge for up to 5 days. Kombucha is a living, fermented ingredient, so the cream cheese will continue to get tangier the longer it sits. Plan accordingly if you want to either downplay or highlight this distinctive flavor in your food or desserts. Easy Eggless Nog Makes about 2½ cups Quickly whip up your own nondairy nog at home when it's not in season to get a taste of the holiday spirit, any day of the year! 2 cups plain nondairy milk ½ cup raw cashews, soaked for 4–6 hours ¼ cup granulated sugar ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ¼ teaspoon kala namak (black salt) Simply toss everything into your blender and thoroughly puree, until completely silky smooth. Pass through a fine-mesh strainer if desired, to further perfect the texture. Drink it straight, bake with it, or refrigerate for up to a week. Graham Crackers Makes about 30 to 40 squares, or 15 to 20 rectangles Graham crackers are the building blocks of many a dessert, which is quite ironic because they were originally designed as an austere addition to a highly restrictive regimen, designed to cut down on rampant desire and other excesses. Reverend Sylvester Graham would likely be horrified by the sugary turn these originally bland wafer planks have taken in his absence, but the general public is all the better for it. Now a simple biscuit worthy of solo consumption, the only trouble is finding an option that doesn't contain honey. Scout out store brands for some "accidentally vegan" gems or get busy making an even better version from scratch. These won't cure you of any dietary evils, but they will instantly elevate your cheesecake crusts or simple s'mores to new culinary heights. ½ cup vegan butter 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed 1 cup graham flour 1¼ cups all-purpose flour ½ teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ cup agave nectar or maple syrup 1 teaspoon vanilla extract In your stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar thoroughly, until fluffy and homogeneous. Separately, sift together the flours, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt, before adding them all in to the bowl of the mixer. Start on low speed and begin to gently incorporate the dry goods into the butter and sugar mixture. Add in the agave or maple syrup and vanilla, and continue mixing until the dough comes together. Be sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl with your spatula periodically to mix in any pockets of unblended ingredients. Once smooth and cohesive, pat the dough out lightly into a flat round, and divide it in two. Wrap up each half in plastic wrap, and chill for a minimum of two hours. If you can spare the time, I would highly recommend letting it rest overnight for the least sticky, most easily workable dough. When you're ready to proceed, preheat your oven to 350ºF (175ºC), and line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking mats. Roll out one half of the dough at a time on a lightly floured, clean surface, bringing it down to about ⅛ to to ¼ inch in thickness. Use a fluted pastry wheel or plain pizza cutter to slice the graham cracker shapes into either 2½-inch squares for s'mores or ice cream sandwiches, or 2½ x 5-inch rectangles to match the traditional dimensions. Carefully transfer the shapes with a flat spatula over to your prepared baking sheet and use a fork to evenly prick the cookies all over. Repeat with the second half of the dough. Afterward, gather up the scraps, reroll, and repeat once more. Bake for 11 to 14 minutes for the squares, 13 to 16 minutes for the rectangles, until very lightly golden brown around the edges and no longer shiny on top. Let cool completely on the sheets. Store in an airtight container at room temperature. No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream Makes 1 scant quart Plenty of low-tech methods exist for churning out frozen treats without fancy machinery, but let's be honest: few people, myself included, care enough to fuss with scraping around ice crystals or shaking a plastic bag of ice cubes all day, all for a few small bites of sweet satisfaction. Your icy irritation ends here. All you need is a freezer, four ingredients, and an appetite. I would wager that you've already got two out of three already covered. The magic all lies in the natural richness of concentrated coconut cream, providing a light, scoopable structure without any further agitation, or irritation. 2 (14-ounce) cans full-fat coconut milk, chilled 1 cup confectioners' sugar 1 tablespoon vodka 2 teaspoons vanilla bean paste or extract Carefully open the chilled cans of coconut milk without shaking them, scooping off the top layer of thick coconut cream that will have risen to the top. Save the watery liquid left behind for another recipe that calls for plain nondairy milk. Returning to the task at hand, place the coconut cream in the bowl of your stand mixer and install the whisk attachment. Whip on high speed for about 3 minutes before slowly beginning to sprinkle in the sugar, just a few tablespoons at a time. Continue beating the mixture for up to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. Finally, fold in the vodka and vanilla. Use as few strokes as possible to incorporate this final addition to keep the airy structure intact. Spread the ice cream base into an airtight container and carefully move it into your freezer. Allow it to sit, undisturbed, for at least 6 hours before serving. Add a whole new dimension of flavor your jam to really bring it to the next level. Consider adding any or all of the following along with your fruit: 2 tablespoons fresh ginger, finely grated; 1 vanilla bean, split and seeds scraped; 1 tablespoon lemon zest; 1 tablespoon orange blossom or rose water; 1 teaspoon ground black pepper. Orange Marmalade Makes about 5 cups Homemade marmalade is the crowning jewel atop any breakfast spread, shimmering in the sunshine like a genuine pot of gold. Bathe your whole kitchen with the aromatic perfume of fresh citrus with every new batch, as restorative as a walk in the orange groves themselves. There's a fine line between bitter and sweet, so I've carefully calibrated the balance between zest and sugar. It's a labor of love to remove the harshly astringent pith, but always worth the effort. While you can always buy marmalade for a quick fix, it may be tough to go back after making it from scratch. 4 pounds (about 8–10) medium oranges 2½ cups water ½ cup lemon juice 5 cups granulated sugar Thoroughly scrub and dry the oranges before beginning. Use a very sharp paring knife to slice away the outer peels, removing only the brightly colored zest. Leave behind the white pith, which is incredibly bitter and unpalatable. If necessary, go back over your cut peels and shave away any pith that remains. Slice the clean zest into thin, short ribbons and set aside. Returning now to the naked oranges, remove the thick layer of white pith left behind. Thinly slice the fruits about ¼-inch thick, membrane and all, removing any seeds you might encounter. Combine the zest, innards, water, and lemon juice in a large heavy pot and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, stash a small plate in the freezer to chill. This may sound strange, but it will help determine when the marmalade is thick enough to set properly. Have three pint-sized jars, or one quart and one half-pint jars, cleaned and ready to receive the jam, set nearby the stove so you don't need to travel too far with a hot pot. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook the mixture, stirring frequently, until the peels are translucent, and the liquid has reduced by at least ¾. Be patient, as this may take as long as 60 minutes. Add the sugar and continue to cook for another 45 to 55 minutes, until the liquid has almost completely evaporated. To test the consistency, spoon a dollop onto the chilled plate, let it sit for a minute, and drag a spoon through the mixture. When properly set, the marmalade will hold a clean path behind the spoon. Remove from the heat, divide between the waiting jars, and seal immediately. Can the marmalade for long-term storage or keep in the refrigerator for quick consumption. Even if not traditionally canned, it will keep in the fridge for at least 4 to 6 months due to the high sugar content, if you can keep your spoon out of it that long, of course. Don't want to associate with a seedy crowd? Make your jam seedless by tossing the berries into your blender first and passing the puree through a fine-mesh strainer. Discard the solids and proceed with the recipe as written. Raspberry Jam Makes about 4 cups When I was a teenager, summer break was just as busy as the school year. A part-time job kept me tied up for the better part of the day, but that never stopped me from going out with my dad afterward, to pick wild raspberries in the fading sunlight. No matter how tired we both were or how hot and humid the weather, we fearlessly beat back thorny vines to reap pounds upon pounds of fresh, plump berries, shimmering like red rubies in our juice-stained hands. We picked until it was too dark to see, reaping incredible yields beyond what any reasonable family of four could consume. Freezing, drying, and of course, jamming was the only solution after we had stuffed ourselves silly. This simple formula works just as well for blackberries, blueberries, or strawberries if you'd prefer, but raspberries will always have a special place in my heart, as well as my stomach. 4 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen and thawed 3 cups granulated sugar 2 tablespoons lemon juice 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Place the berries in a large saucepan over high heat, mashing them roughly with a sturdy wooden spoon or potato masher as they begin to warm. Add the sugar and lemon juice, stirring roughly to incorporate while continuing to break down the fruit. Bring to a full rolling boil and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring constantly. When the jam is ready, it should reach about 220˚F (104˚C) on a candy thermometer or use the old-fashioned "spoon test": dip a cold metal spoon into the hot jam. Immediately lift it out and away from the steam and turn it horizontally. At the beginning of the cooking process, the liquid will drip off like a light syrup. The jam is done when the drops are very thick and run together before falling off the spoon. Stir in the vanilla, ladle into glass jars, and seal immediately. Let cool completely before using. Whipped Coconut Cream Makes about 2 cups Simultaneously light and rich, a spoonful of lightly sweetened whipped cream is an ideal complement to almost every dessert. A breath of vanilla essence lends incredible depth, without stealing the spotlight from any potential headliner, no matter how soft-spoken, distinctive, or bold. With an eye toward the tropics rather than the farmlands, coconut cream easily stands in for dairy without any crazy stabilizers or demanding techniques necessary. 1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk, chilled 1 tablespoon granulated sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla extract Carefully open the chilled can of coconut milk, being sure not to shake it, and scoop off the top layer of thick coconut cream that will have risen to the top. Save the watery liquid left behind for another recipe, such as a soup or a curry. Place the coconut cream in the bowl of your stand mixer and install the whisk attachment. Whip on high speed for about 3 minutes before slowly sprinkling in the sugar, just a little bit at a time. Continue beating the mixture for up to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. Finally, fold in the vanilla extract. Use it in any recipe that calls for whipped cream, and pipe, dollop, or slather it on as artfully or generously as you desire. Conversion Charts METRIC AND IMPERIAL CONVERSIONS (These conversions are rounded for convenience) OVEN TEMPERATURES Index A agar, agave nectar, Almond Avalanche Bars, almond butter Almond Avalanche Bars, almond meal / flour, almonds Almond Avalanche Bars, Cashew Crème Pear Tart, Cream Cheese, – Everyday Almond Cake, Matzah Toffee, Not-Nog Cupcakes, Nut Case Cookies, Power-Hungry Granola, anise Pfeffernusse, Apple Butter, Apple Spice Cake, apple juice Apple Spice Cake, apples Fruited Focaccia, Harvest Pie, – Pomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, Spiralized Apple Galette, – applesauce Apple Spice Cake, Pup Cakes, Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes, Zesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins, Apple Spice Cake, Apricot Biscotti, apricots Fruited Focaccia, aquafaba, – Black & White Cookies, – Marshmallow Mud Cake, Nut Case Cookies, Pfeffernusse, arrowroot powder / flour, B baking pans, Baklava Tart, banana Better Banana Nut Muffins, Bananas Foster Cake, – beans white Coconut Custard Pie, beets Cranberry Red Velvet Cake, – Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble, Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie, – Better Banana Nut Muffins, biscotti Apricot Biscotti, Orange Hazelnut Biscotti, Black Bottom Blondies, Black & White Cookies, – blender, blueberries Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble, Brilliant Blueberry Parfaits, Lavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, bread Sweet and Simple French Toast, Brilliant Blueberry Parfaits, broiler, – brown rice syrup, butter, –. See also cocoa butter Butterscotch Blondies, C cacao nibs, cakes Apple Spice Cake, Bananas Foster Cake, – Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Chai Cheesecake, Cookies and Crème Pound Cake, Cranberry Red Velvet Cake, – Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – Everyday Almond Cake, Lemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt, Marshmallow Mud Cake, Mini Icebox Cheesecake, Orange Dreamsicle Snack Cake, Piña Colada Mini Bundts, Plum-Good Crumb Cake, Pomegranate Ginger Cupcakes, Pup Cakes, Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, caramelizing, Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal, carrots Pup Cakes, Cashew Crème Pear Tart, cashews Green Tea-ramisu, – Mont Blanc Mini Tarts, – Nut Case Cookies, cereal brown rice Power-Hungry Granola, Party Mix Bars, Chai Cheesecake, cheesecake Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Chai Cheesecake, Mini Icebox Cheesecake, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, Cheesecake Thumbprint Cookies, Cherry Chocolate Truffles, Cherry Cola Pudding Pie, chestnuts Mont Blanc Mini Tarts, – chia seeds, Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal, chickpeas Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – Chili Chocolate Tart, chocolate, Black & White Cookies, – Cherry Chocolate Truffles, Chili Chocolate Tart, Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – Everyday Almond Cake, Hazelnut Ravioli, Orange Hazelnut Biscotti, Orangettes, Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake, Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie, chocolate chips Almond Avalanche Bars, Black Bottom Blondies, Cherry Chocolate Truffles, Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie, Crumb-Topped Brownies, Five-Minute Coconut Fudge, Lace Florentines, Matzah Toffee, Root Bear Float Cupcakes, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, chocolate-covered espresso beans Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – chocolate crème-filled sandwich cookies, Cookies and Crème Pound Cake, Chocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones, Chocolate-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, Chocolate Wafer Cookie, Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Chili Chocolate Tart, cocoa butter, cocoa powder, Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble, Cherry Chocolate Truffles, Chocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones, Cranberry Red Velvet Cake, – Crumb-Topped Brownies, Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – Five-Minute Coconut Fudge, Marshmallow Mud Cake, Peanut Butter Bombs, Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, Turtle Shortbread Wedges, – Wasabi Chocolate Cupcakes, Whoopie Pies, – coconut Coconut Custard Pie, Five-Minute Coconut Fudge, Piña Colada Mini Bundts, Coconut Custard Pie, coconut milk, Butterscotch Blondies, coconut oil, coffee cold Chocolate Wafer Cookie, instant, Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble, Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Coffee Break Shortbread, Crumb-Topped Brownies, Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – Hazelnut Ravioli, Coffee Break Shortbread, cola Cherry Cola Pudding Pie, cookie crumbs, chocolate wafer, cookie cutters, cookies Black & White Cookies, – Cheesecake Thumbprint Cookies, chocolate crème-filled sandwich, Cookies and Crème Pound Cake, Chocolate Wafer Cookie, Maple Pistachio Crèmes, Nut Case Cookies, Peanut-Plus Cookies, Strawberry Spirals, – Turtle Shortbread Wedges, – Whoopie Pies, – cranberries Fruited Focaccia, Harvest Pie, – Power-Hungry Granola, Zesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins, Cranberry Red Velvet Cake, – cream cheese, , – Baklava Tart, Cheesecake Thumbprint Cookies, Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie, Cranberry Red Velvet Cake, – Hazelnut Ravioli, Mini Icebox Cheesecake, cream of tartar, Crème Brûlée, crimping, Crumb-Topped Brownies, cupcakes Lemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt, Not-Nog Cupcakes, Perfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, – Root Bear Float Cupcakes, Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes, Wasabi Chocolate Cupcakes, D Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – decorative crust, – doughnuts Golden Glazed Doughnuts, – dough rolling, – dough transfer, drips, in oven, E Easy Eggless Nog, eggnog, vegan, – espresso beans, chocolate-covered Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, – Everyday Almond Cake, F Figgy Graham Scones, Five-Minute Coconut Fudge, Flaming Hot Peanut Brittle, flaxseed, – Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie, Golden Glazed Doughnuts, – Mont Blanc Mini Tarts, – Orange Hazelnut Biscotti, Pumpkin Pecan Pie, – Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes, Floral Petits Fours, – flour all-purpose, – almond, arrowroot, garbanzo bean, graham, – white whole wheat, whole wheat pastry, fluting, focaccia, food processor, freezer, storing desserts in, french toast Sweet and Simple French Toast, fruit, fresh vs. frozen, – Fruited Focaccia, fudge Five-Minute Coconut Fudge, G garbanzo bean flour, ginger Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, – Pomegranate Ginger Cupcakes, Ginger Dream Pie, Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, – golden-brown finish, Golden Glazed Doughnuts, – Golden Pastry Glaze, graham crackers, , Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie, – Chai Cheesecake, Cheesecake Thumbprint Cookies, Cherry Cola Pudding Pie, Mini Icebox Cheesecake, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, graham flour, – granola Hearty Granola Waffles, Power-Hungry Granola, Green Tea-ramisu, – grinder, spice, grinding spices, H Harvest Pie, – Hazelnut Ravioli, hazelnuts Orange Hazelnut Biscotti, Hearty Granola Waffles, I ice cream No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream, K kitchen torch, L Lace Florentines, Lavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, lemon Chocolate-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, Perfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, – Pink Lemonade Tartlets, Lemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt, lentils Peanut-Plus Cookies, Lychee Cupcakes with Raspberry Frosting, M mandoline, – Maple Pistachio Crèmes, maple syrup, Cashew Crème Pear Tart, Cream Cheese, Flaming Hot Peanut Brittle, Maple Pistachio Crèmes, Root Bear Float Cupcakes, marshmallow Orange Dreamsicle Snack Cake, Marshmallow Mud Cake, matcha, Green Tea-ramisu, – Matcha Latte Freezer Pops, Matzah Toffee, microwave, milk, coconut, millet Power-Hungry Granola, Mini Icebox Cheesecake, miso Cream Cheese, – mixer, molasses Pfeffernusse, Mont Blanc Mini Tarts, – muffins Strawberry Love Muffins, Zesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins, N No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream, Not-Nog Cupcakes, Nut Case Cookies, nutritional yeast, O oatmeal, instant Lace Florentines, Oatmeal Raisin Rolls, oats Apple Spice Cake, Better Banana Nut Muffins, Oatmeal Raisin Rolls, Power-Hungry Granola, olive oil, Orange Dreamsicle Snack Cake, Orange Hazelnut Biscotti, orange juice Orange Hazelnut Biscotti, Orange Marmalade, Orangettes, P pans baking, springform, Party Mix Bars, pastry bags, Peach Melba Layer Cake, – peanut butter Chocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones, Peanut-Plus Cookies, Pup Cakes, Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes, Peanut Butter Bombs, Peanut-Plus Cookies, peanuts Flaming Hot Peanut Brittle, pears Cashew Crème Pear Tart, pecans Better Banana Nut Muffins, Black Bottom Blondies, Chili Chocolate Tart, Turtle Shortbread Wedges, – Perfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, – Pfeffernusse, phyllo dough Baklava Tart, Hazelnut Ravioli, Trigona, pie dough rolling, – pies Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie, – Cherry Cola Pudding Pie, Chocolate Chip Cookie Pie, Coconut Custard Pie, Ginger Dream Pie, Harvest Pie, – Pumpkin Pecan Pie, – Piña Colada Mini Bundts, pineapple Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal, Fruited Focaccia, Pink Lemonade Tartlets, piping bags, pistachios Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, – Maple Pistachio Crèmes, Nut Case Cookies, Trigona, Plum-Good Crumb Cake, Pomegranate Ginger Cupcakes, Pomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, potato, sweet Harvest Pie, – potato flakes, – Perfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, – Power-Hungry Granola, pretzels Party Mix Bars, puffed grains, pumpkin Floral Petits Fours, – Pumpkin Pecan Pie, – Pumpkin Pecan Pie, – Pumpkin Toffee Trifle, – Pup Cakes, Q quinoa Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal, Power-Hungry Granola, R raisins Apple Spice Cake, Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal, Oatmeal Raisin Rolls, Power-Hungry Granola, raspberries Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble, Peach Melba Layer Cake, – raspberry jam, Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie, – Peach Melba Layer Cake, – Pink Lemonade Tartlets, rolling out pie dough, – Root Bear Float Cupcakes, root beer Root Bear Float Cupcakes, rose petals Pomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish, rum Bananas Foster Cake, – Piña Colada Mini Bundts, S salt, black, Easy Eggless Nog, Not-Nog Cupcakes, scones Chocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones, Figgy Graham Scones, Self-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes, Sesame Chews, sesame seeds Sesame Chews, silicone baking mats, Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake, soda cola Cherry Cola Pudding Pie, root beer Root Bear Float Cupcakes, sour cream, Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Whoopie Pies, – spice grinder, spice grinding, spinach Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, – Spiralized Apple Galette, – spiralizer, springform pan, sprinkles, – Golden Glazed Doughnuts, – strainer, straining, strawberries Berry Cherry Cocoa Crumble, strawberry jam Mini Icebox Cheesecake, Strawberry Love Muffins, Strawberry Spirals, – sugar confectioner's, granulated, turbinado, vanilla, Sweet and Simple French Toast, sweet potato Harvest Pie, – T tahini, textured vegetable protein (TVP), Power-Hungry Granola, toasting nuts and seeds, tofu, Brilliant Blueberry Parfaits, Caramel Macchiato Cheesecake, – Chai Cheesecake, Ginger Dream Pie, Silken Chocolate Mousse Cake, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, torch, Trigona, Triple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake, truffles Cherry Chocolate Truffles, Turtle Shortbread Wedges, – V vanilla, vanilla beans, – vanilla sugar, vinegar apple cider, W waffles Hearty Granola Waffles, walnuts Apple Spice Cake, Black Bottom Blondies, Carrot Cake Quinoa Cereal, Harvest Pie, – wasabi, Wasabi Chocolate Cupcakes, Whipped Coconut Cream, Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie, – Cherry Cola Pudding Pie, Gingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, – Whoopie Pies, – Y yeast. See nutritional yeast yogurt, Apricot Biscotti, Berry Froyo Chiffon Pie, – Black Bottom Blondies, Black & White Cookies, – Butterscotch Blondies, Crumb-Topped Brownies, Green Tea-ramisu, – Lemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt, Orange Dreamsicle Snack Cake, Plum-Good Crumb Cake, Pumpkin Toffee Trifle, – Pup Cakes, Whoopie Pies, – Z Zesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins,	{'title': 'Sweet Vegan Treats - Hannah Kaminsky'}
Inside Mrs. B's Classroom Courage, Hope, and Learning on Chicago's South Side Inside Mrs. B's Classroom Courage, Hope, and Learning on Chicago's South Side Leslie Baldacci McGraw-Hill New York Chicago San Francisco Lisbon London Madrid Mexico City Milan New Delhi San Juan Seoul Singapore Sydney Toronto Copyright © 2004 by Leslie Baldacci. All rights reserved. Manufactured in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. 0-07-143627-8 The material in this eBook also appears in the print version of this title: 0-07-141735-4. All trademarks are trademarks of their respective owners. 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Contents [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Acknowledgments [_Chapter 1_ The Mad Crapper](ch1.html#ch1) [_Chapter 2_ Welcome to the Neighborhood](ch2.html#ch2) [_Chapter 3_ "Bring Two No. 2 Pencils"](ch3.html#ch3) [_Chapter 4_ My Assignment](ch4.html#ch4) [_Chapter 5_ The Farewell Tour](ch5.html#ch5) [_Chapter 6_ The Belly of the Beast](ch6.html#ch6) [_Chapter 7_ Nesting](ch7.html#ch7) [_Chapter 8_ The Seventh Graders Arrive](ch8.html#ch8) [_Chapter 9_ Getting to Know Them](ch9.html#ch9) [_Chapter 10_ Al Gore Visits the Billy Goat](ch10.html#ch10) [_Chapter 11_ The Kids Are All Right, but the Teachers Are Wrecks](ch11.html#ch11) [_Chapter 12_ Violence](ch12.html#ch12) [_Chapter 13_ A Five-Week Reorganization](ch13.html#ch13) [_Chapter 14_ Learning](ch14.html#ch14) [_Chapter 15_ An Observation](ch15.html#ch15) [_Chapter 16_ Crime and Punishment](ch16.html#ch16) [_Chapter 17_ Thanksgiving Break](ch17.html#ch17) [_Chapter 18_ An Intervention](ch18.html#ch18) [_Chapter 19_ The Bathroom Incident](ch19.html#ch19) [_Chapter 20_ A Winning Streak](ch20.html#ch20) [_Chapter 21_ So Far](ch21.html#ch21) [_Chapter 22_ The Mid-Winter Lull](ch22.html#ch22) [_Chapter 23_ The Second Half](ch23.html#ch23) [_Chapter 24_ Hip Hop 101](ch24.html#ch24) [_Chapter 25_ Bottoming Out](ch25.html#ch25) [_Chapter 26_ No Coincidences](ch26.html#ch26) [_Chapter 27_ Pierre](ch27.html#ch27) [_Chapter 28_ Spring Planting](ch28.html#ch28) [_Chapter 29_ Bad Things Happen in Threes](ch29.html#ch29) [_Chapter 30_ "Remediation"](ch30.html#ch30) [_Chapter 31_ Assumptions](ch31.html#ch31) [_Chapter 32_ Livin' on the Edge](ch32.html#ch32) [_Chapter 33_ The End of Seventh Grade](ch33.html#ch33) [_Chapter 34_ Fairyland](ch34.html#ch34) [_Chapter 35_ The More Things Change](ch35.html#ch35) [_Chapter 36_ Cult of Personality](ch36.html#ch36) [_Chapter 37_ Trouble](ch37.html#ch37) [_Chapter 38_ _Dance Africa_ ](ch38.html#ch38) [_Chapter 39_ Loving Louis](ch39.html#ch39) [_Chapter 40_ The Downside](ch40.html#ch40) [_Chapter 41_ Another Christmas](ch41.html#ch41) [_Chapter 42_ Cruel January](ch42.html#ch42) [_Chapter 43_ A Prayer in School](ch43.html#ch43) [_Chapter 44_ Recess!](ch44.html#ch44) [_Chapter 45_ The Teacher Certification Test](ch45.html#ch45) [_Chapter 46_ Midnight Catches a Snake](ch46.html#ch46) [_Chapter 47_ Lost Parents](ch47.html#ch47) [_Chapter 48_ Mother's Day](ch48.html#ch48) [_Chapter 49_ Guns of Summer](ch49.html#ch49) [_Chapter 50_ Going From Here](ch50.html#ch50) [_Chapter 51_ Graduation](ch51.html#ch51) Postscript Index Acknowledgments [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Thanks to the teachers for their example, especially the Gernands, George and Rita, Pat and Jay, Mary and Bernadette, Ed Baldacci, Florence Baldacci, Glenn and Sue Pawlak, Fred Dobrinski, Donnamaria Gamble Baker, Judy Gouwens, Alonza Everage, Rochelle Lee, Barbara Dress, James Marshall, Minnie Tyrie, Ramona Schwartz, Michelle Navarre, Frank Tobin, Pam Sanders, Fred Chesek, Maria Hernandez-Van Nest and Bill Crannell. Thanks to Richard Roeper, Mark Jacob, Cristi Kempf, John O'Malley, Ellen Skerrett, Mary Mitchell, Lorrie Lynch, Jeff Bailey, Jeanne Wright, Michelle Bearden, William McGrath and the "sibs," Jeff, Beth and David for counsel and encouragement. Thanks to Ken Rolling and Marianne Philbin and the Chicago Annenberg Challenge for starting the ball rolling. Thanks to the book ladies: Janet Rosen, Barbara Gilson and Betsy Lancefield Lane. Thanks to Artie, Natalie and Mia for your faith and courage on the adventure that changed all of our lives. Thanks to Joan Dameron Crisler for believing in me. Thanks to my students, in my heart always. Chapter 1 * * * The Mad Crapper [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) It was the first time I'd been down to "The Dungeon." The others were already there. A haze of cigarette smoke layered the ancient boiler room, lending a comic twist to the yellow "Warning! Asbestos!" signs on every wall. Sculptured nails tapped an ash into an overflowing ashtray that sat atop a broken, gutted desk, its drawers long gone. Chairs in various states of disrepair and other junk cluttered the perimeter. Pipes twisted this way and that on the ceilings and walls, taped and painted over in a pitiful attempt to contain the deadly asbestos that had insulated the pipes for decades. I looked around the floor for piles of white dust that were the telltale sign of danger. What was I going to do if I saw some? Call the health department? "The Dungeon" was the smokers' secret hangout. Board of education rules prohibited teachers from smoking on school property. But the stress of the job was high. Sometimes the only relief was to cadge a smoke on the sly during school hours before facing the cruel crowd again. Donna opened the meeting. "Basically, we're gonna have to scare the living shit out of these little fuckers," she declared, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "If they don't shape up, it's no more departmental. We'll be self-contained, and every one of us will have to teach all subjects to the same kids all day." We all groaned in agony at the thought of being held hostage by our respective classes. This was seventh and eighth grade in a poverty-level, urban school on the South Side of Chicago. Our classes were bursting at the seams with thirty-five, thirty-six and thirty-seven kids apiece. Tough kids, many of them raising themselves in tough circumstances. There was barely room to walk around the classrooms for all the desks. When the kids were in the room, there was no room left. The noise and heat levels were like a steel mill. The only thing worse than teaching one subject to all four classes every day would be teaching all subjects to the same class all day long. There was enough contempt without familiarity. "What should we say?" I asked. I was the rookie, always looking for answers. Mr. Diaz, the other seventh-grade teacher and my fellow intern in the innovative Teachers For Chicago program, had been a substitute teacher in the past at different schools in the city. Donna and Mr. Callahan, the eighth-grade teachers, had put in years at this school. Their experience would be our guide. "We should all say something," Donna said. "But the bottom line is they won't walk across the stage at the end of the year and graduate from eighth grade if they don't stop acting the fool. We are going on zero tolerance. No more clowning in the hallways. No more stealing from each other's desks." Each of us took a piece of the problem to address. Donna would open the curtain with fire and brimstone. Mr. Callahan would appeal to their desire to move onward and upward. I would announce a peer tribunal to deal with the misbehavers. And instead of two lines, boys and girls, we'd walk single file through the hallways from now on in alphabetical order. We had fallen into such profound disorder so early in the school year that any attempt to impose order seemed reasonable. The principal threatened no more changing classes due to loud and unruly behavior in the hallways. The commotion disturbed the administrative personnel in the office, which is on the same corridor. They didn't like to be disturbed. Donna had a brilliant idea to stop the thieving from the desks: When the students left their homerooms in the morning, they would turn their desks around so that the cubby holes faced in! That way, no one could get their hands inside to steal, destroy property or leave snotty tissues, trash, threatening notes or other unpleasantries. So simple. So brilliant in its simplicity. Those were things we rookies could not figure out on our own because we had no context and were surviving breath to breath. We were so overwhelmed by the complexities of teaching that we could not see the simple solutions. We herded our students into the auditorium for the big bawling out. Donna began with a prayer. She was a tall and striking African princess and a devout Christian, a Roman Catholic. Her voice rang like a bell. Her skin was the color of a Hershey bar, and her face shone with a light from within. Ask her how she was doing and she replied without fail, "I'm blessed." Breaking all laws prohibiting prayer in school, we all bowed our heads and asked God to bless us and guide us and open our minds. She praised Jesus and warned of Satan (say-TAHN, she called him in private, with a devilish smile) and his sneakiness and lies, his trickery in leading people astray. "These children act like shit in school," she told me, "but they are churchgoers and God-fearing." As Donna wrapped up the prayer, a sudden ruckus broke out in the audience. Mr. Diaz's students leapt from their seats, shrieking and jumping around. First a couple, then more, then all. They flooded out of their rows and into the aisles, waving their arms and hollering. Immediate thoughts: A rat! Roaches! Fleas! I backed up against the stage in case a rat ran out from under the front row. I was ready to jump back butt-first onto the stage with no part of my anatomy anywhere near that floor. Donna went to investigate, a pissed-off look on her face. She was magnificent, queenly, disdainful. She moved like a fine sailing ship at sea to a row where a few students pointed out the trouble, covering their mouths in horror. I watched a flicker of disbelief, then amusement, dance across her face. Then, deadpan. "Come on, now," she said in her teacher voice that cut through the hysteria, imposing order. "It's not like you never saw one of those before. Someone get the broom." She headed back toward the stage and sidled past me after her discovery. My look said, "Well?" "You're not gonna believe this," she said. "There's a turd on the floor." "A what?" I said, disbelieving, as she had predicted. "A goddamned turd," she said. "Don't even look at me," I said, about to fall over with hysterical laughter. "Don't you even look at me," she said out of the side of her mouth, walking past. Somehow we managed to remove the feces, compose ourselves and deliver the lecture of the decade. Each teacher spoke. The ultimate horror—failing to graduate from eighth grade and go to high school—was repeatedly invoked. But we also told them that we cared about them, that their success was our utmost concern. We implored them not to let their behavior prevent them from succeeding in school, not to let any foolishness get them off track. We told them what we expected from them in simplest terms: Pay attention, do your work, do your best. It was all true. We did care or we wouldn't have been there. We did care or we wouldn't have bothered. We did want them to succeed and we would do anything in our power to help them achieve success. Would it have any effect? Impossible to say. Did they believe us? Their faces said they'd heard it before and it was bullshit then, so this must be more bullshit. Later, after school when I had time to think about it, I wondered about the turd. Where had it come from? Who had left it? Was it imported from outdoors or actually deposited on the auditorium floor by its maker? Did a kid do it? A disgruntled adult? There was no shortage of suspects, that much was true. I told my dad about it when we talked on the phone later. He'd seen many such oddities in his thirty years as a teacher. A kid once defiled a bulletin board outside his gym by adding a three-dimensional penis, molded from chewed chewing gum, protruding from the shorts of a basketball player pictured on the board. The chewing gum sculptor was a one-shot deal. The Mad Crapper would strike again before the year was out. Chapter 2 * * * Welcome to the Neighborhood [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) When I said we'd fallen into profound disorder early in the year, well, that wasn't entirely accurate. Disorder had existed at the school long before the year started. The same sort of disorder existed at other schools in our city and had for a long time. The kids ran wild. They swore, fought, refused to work. At assemblies they booed the principal. The only punishment was suspension, and that wasn't so terrible. As one of my students, Cortez, put it, "At least it's better than having to come up here and look at your ugly ass." The school was a microcosm of the neighborhood. Pregnancy, drugs and alcohol were part of the life experience of children thirteen and fourteen years old. Parents had their own issues. Lives were consumed by the relentless stress and woe of poverty. Violence was omnipresent. The summer before, a serial killer had murdered prostitutes and left their bodies in abandoned houses. Gang shootings claimed players and innocents alike. Every family, it seemed, bore the scars of victims or perpetrators. Cop friends tried to warn me, and public school administrators tried to downplay the extent of the chaos. The people who were trying to make a teacher out of me did not approve of excuse-making and held me accountable for a well-run classroom where children learned. In reality, my classroom was just one deck chair on the _Titanic._ My school was just one of many poor-performing urban schools, trying to stay afloat as waves of social dysfunction crashed over its sides. But the philosophy of "no excuse-making" actually was the only way to proceed. It is what it is. Soldier on. I believe my experience was more typical than extraordinary, more universal than unique. I understand the teacher shortage and why a third of new teachers quit after three years and half bail out after five years. No other industry would survive—or allow—such a personnel hemorrhage. What was not typical about my experience was my background. As a newspaperwoman for twenty-five years, I had reported on Chicago's education crises long before the city's "school reform" effort grabbed the national spotlight. In 1987 former U.S. Education Secretary William J. Bennett described the city's public school system as "an educational disaster." The reform movement started two years later when Illinois lawmakers shifted power to local schools, putting local school councils in charge of their own budgets and destinies. Observers watched our experiment unfold with interest and guarded hope. If Chicago could turn its schools around, the thinking went, people anywhere ought to be able to fix their troubled schools. In 1995 the state legislature took the final step, relinquishing control of the Chicago Public Schools to Mayor Richard M. Daley. They handed him a district in which only one-third of children could read and calculate at grade level. A bloated, insulated bureaucracy oversaw a small empire of aging, crumbling, patched-together buildings and more than a half-million children. It would be Daley's greatest challenge. The success or failure of the school system would spell success or failure for the city itself. No industry would invest in an uneducated, untrained workforce. If the schools failed, the city's economic base would pull out, leaving the dropouts and crackheads behind. The nation's third-largest city would stumble and fall. At the time, I was on the editorial board, the ivory tower from which newspapers dish criticism to individuals and institutions, and I wrote the following editorial, which appeared in the Chicago _Sun-Times_ on May 22, 1995: "Mayor Daley's complaining about state restrictions on money for the Chicago public schools is vintage whine. His well-worn political spinning seeks to accomplish two things: reduce expectations of what the mayor can accomplish with the schools, and blame state bureaucrats for tying his hands. Sorry, mayor. We expect more from you now than ever before. No one knows better than Daley that when the state offered him control of the schools, it was a classic case of "be careful what you wish for." Ended was his long tradition of lamenting Chicago's terrible schools with the luxury of no power to fix them. Well, now the problem is his to fix, and we are counting on him. The Legislature will not provide any new money for Chicago schools. But we have confidence that the mayor will persuade legislative leaders to relax some of the regulations that hog-tie spending and encumber education. That must happen this week. We expect the mayor to quickly appoint a qualified, five-member School Board. We expect Daley, as Mayor Rudolph Giuliani in New York is doing, to battle the financial bloat within the school bureaucracy. We expect him to make sure that those who lead the schools have one and the same interest: the students. We expect that the accountability now foisted on Daley will quickly move down the line. We expect schools to open on time in September. Daley has several advantages. He has five years of school reform experience. He has bright stars of private industry providing expert advice and analysis. He has dedicated employees within the school system, and many models for success. He has an opportunity. Nothing is more crucial to making the city a good place to live and do business than improving the Chicago public schools. That accomplishment will make Chicago shine for generations to come. This period of enormous challenge is no time for defeatism or excuses. This is a time for Daley to show what he can do for Chicago. Roll up your sleeves, mayor. It's time to get to work." Four years later, Chicago's schools had improved their finances, halted a disastrous cycle of teacher strikes, fixed crumbling buildings and put up new ones. Student test scores were beginning to improve. Yet Mayor Daley worried about sustaining the momentum. He asked, "How do you know that we set the foundation and it's not going to fall back?" I believed the answer lay in the front-line troops, teachers, so I decided to take a dose of my own medicine. I followed the very advice I'd so stridently heaped on the mayor. I turned in my press credentials to become a teacher. Of course, I thought I was pretty connected to "real life" by being a news reporter. I thought I knew plenty. I thought I was tough. I never imagined that a classroom of kids would bring me to my knees. I learned that it is simple to raise taxes to replace crumbling schools and build new ones so children don't have to learn in closets and hallways. But it is very complicated indeed to compete for the hearts and minds of children in today's world, no matter how privileged the community or how dangerous the setting. Columbine taught us that. Urban schools have long known how very high the stakes are. My students taught me more about hope and courage than a thousand Sundays in church. Leaving school to walk home after gunfire had spit bullets through the neighborhood, coming to school every day from homes wracked by drug and alcohol abuse or violence—they were my role models. As long as they kept coming back to school, so would I. Moments of grace and goodness sustained me as I struggled not to lose hope or the sense that God was with me and in each of my students. I never stopped believing that the fight, though not a fair one, was a good one. For two years as I learned how to be a teacher, I sat on my back porch countless afternoons, trying to come down from the hysteria of the classroom. I'd listen to the cardinals and watch the leaves dance. I would replay the mind-boggling events of the day, and believe me, every day was mind-boggling. Always my eyes would return to the two icons that hang on the big linden tree in my backyard. They are terra cotta masks from Italy, a sun and a lion's head. Over time, I came to understand what they meant to me: hope and courage. Those two irrational human qualities were the lifelines that lashed my chair to the deck, and my students to me and to the institution of school, and daily saved us all from sliding into a churning sea of despair and defeat. All of this really happened. Chapter 3 * * * "Bring Two No. 2 Pencils" [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I had no education credentials on paper, but the alternative certification program required only a bachelor's degree and a 2.5 overall college grade-point average. As the nation faced a critical teacher shortage, alternative certification programs were popping up all over the place. Some cities were offering teachers free housing. Others were putting signing bonuses worth thousands of dollars on the table, luring teachers away from other cities. Recruiters invited fresh teaching grads to free room and board summer programs in hopes of enticing them to stay on and work in the fall. The Teachers For Chicago program seemed like the perfect alternative path to teacher certification for me. It would cut through red tape at the state and city boards of education and requirements for entering graduate school. It would give me credit for as much of my undergraduate coursework as possible and keep required make-up work to a minimum. Most important, it would put me in a classroom immediately as a teacher, with a mentor looking over my shoulder and working with me daily. The program would pay for my master's degree. I would earn $24,000 a year. I mailed off my three-page application in October 1998 with three sets of "official" college transcripts, my original birth certificate and a money order for thirty-five dollars. Not a personal check, a money order. (What kind of deadbeats apply to this program? I wondered.) And three self-addressed, stamped envelopes. Three. OK. Whatever. I did it all. I sent it off with a prayer. I signed up to take the Basic Skills Test on January 9, 1999. The day was freezing and snow-covered. It was still dark when I arrived at Bogan High School at 7 a.m. My main goal was to blend into the woodwork. "I hope I pass this time," a woman said to me as we waited in line. "I failed it three times already." Yikes, I thought. I should have studied. My memories of taking tests that required No. 2 pencils were dim indeed. This one was multiple choice. Timed. I was nervous and not just about taking the test. Since my name and face were in the public eye quite a bit, and I know Chicago politics, I really wanted to fly under the radar. I didn't want anyone helping me or bollixing up my application because they didn't want me around. It had been a long time since I'd gone anywhere before the crack of dawn but far longer since I'd taken a test that required two No. 2 pencils. Sharpened. They remind you of stuff like that. Teachers can be so doggoned prissy. "Sharpened." But sure enough, one knucklehead showed up at the test with two brand new pencils that hadn't been sharpened. "Where's the pencil sharpener?" he asked the teacher who was the proctor for our room. She glared at him with contempt, sucked her teeth and shook her head. There was no sharpener. He would have to borrow a sharpened pencil from someone else. (Someone who knew how to follow directions and come to school prepared for a test, unlike yourself, is what she really meant.) We were all adults in that classroom, but I was struck by how the teacher treated the unsharpened pencil guy as a child and how some others in the room sort of went wolfen on him, casting yellow eyes on him, circling the vulnerable one who had showed weakness. I was back in school as sure as I was sitting at a wraparound chair/desk. It had been twenty-three years since I graduated from college, twenty-six years since I graduated from high school and thirty-eight years since I went to first grade, but the vibe was familiar. Questions on the Basic Skills Test for teachers are like the under-$8,000 questions on _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire._ Any high school graduate who stayed awake in class ought to cinch it. There was a grammar section, reading comprehension, an essay and—for me—the dreaded math. I am deficient in the math department, okay? Yet the most amazing thing happened. I experienced savant moments during which I somehow calculated the density of tin and solved a velocity question! I think this is what athletes feel when they're "in the zone." It's part motivation, part focus and it feels like flying. Then came the essay: "Write a letter to the editor for or against requiring children to watch a certain television show as a homework assignment." What a snap! I'd won awards for editorial writing! I wrote a fiery letter opposing TV for homework. Students are overscheduled, I argued. Many have after-school sports and jobs. What if they don't have a television? What if it's broken or burglars made off with it in the night? If the show is that important, to be fair, the teacher should tape the show and let the whole class watch it together. I left thinking that I would not want my own children to be taught by the woman who had failed such a simple test three times. And I felt sassy about my dazzling response to the essay question, the only part of the test graded by live human beings, educators. The test results: Grammar, 100. Reading, 98. Math, 95. Essay, 80. What theº? When I got the test results, I thought someone spotted my name and sandbagged my writing score. But later I would find out the real reason I scored lower on the essay than the other questions. Standardized tests do not reward creativity or flair in writing, they reward convention and conformity. Children are taught to write according to a certain formula. First they state what they will be saying. Then they break that into three main points, which they usually separate into three paragraphs beginning with "First," then "Secondly," and "Finally." Then they restate what they told you they were going to tell you in the first place. Then they are done. It is a deadly formula that produces moribund writing. In the end the grade does not reflect ideas or the strength of an argument but spelling, punctuation and standard sentence structure. It is a microcosm of the lowbrow nature of formulaic, lockstep, standardized education, structured curriculum and all the "do it this way" mandates that trickle down into classrooms, especially in low-performing schools. Instead of minds and creative spirits set free, teachers and students alike are often caged in weak formulas and directives. Some radicals in education believe our government does not want an educated population of free-thinking, articulate individuals but rather unquestioning worker drones to support our economy. Our obsession with standardized test scores would seem to support that theory. A few weeks later I received a letter in the mail, addressed to me in my own hand with a return address stamped, "Teachers For Chicago." It was one of my self-addressed, stamped envelopes, coming back to me! "Congratulations," it started. "You have been selected to interview for a Teachers For Chicago internship." On February 22, I wore a sweater and pearls to my interview, and I had to show a photo ID. Once again I wondered, "What kind of deadbeats apply to this program? People who would send a surrogate to their job interview?" But a minute into the interview I wondered whether I was the cheater! Back in the fall, at the very first informational meeting, one of the Teachers For Chicago directors had mentioned a book called _Star Teachers of Children in Poverty_ by Martin Haberman, a professor of education at the University of Wisconsin. Reporters pay attention to such details. I jotted down the title and ordered it from Borders. When it finally came in six weeks later, I read it. It was pretty good. Through more than 1,000 interviews with teachers in the pressure-cooker environment of urban schools, Haberman showed how "star teachers" think and react differently from those who fail in the classroom or become so disheartened they quit teaching altogether. I was called into a small room, where two women sat at a round table. They took notes as we went along. One would ask the follow-up question while the other scribbled furiously. It seemed odd being on the other end of an interview. And their questions! They were entire passages straight out of Haberman's book! The words coming out of their mouths described the exact scenarios he had detailed! They would start a question, and after a few words I knew exactly what would come next, not only how their sentences ended but how a "star teacher" would answer! For instance, "Is it necessary for you to love all the children in order to be able to teach them?" In Haberman's interview, the teacher answers, "Yes." It is the wrong answer. The questioner keeps pushing. "I want to be certain I understand. You believe that love—not caring, respect, liking—but your love for the student is a prerequisite for you to teach him or her." The teacher answers, "It's the best basis for teaching." Wrong, wrong, wrong. In the classroom, love isn't all you need. Haberman's book said that response was "predictive of failure" because mutual love was regarded as the basis for teaching and learning. "These expectations are shattered in urban classrooms when teachers find that they can only pretend to love every child, and that many of the children feel no obligation to pretend." He concludes: "Stars relate closely to children and youth but do not intrude on their life space and do not use their relationship to resolve any of their own unmet emotional needs. Stars seek to create learners who will be independent and not need them." And so to the question, "Is it necessary for you to love all the children in order to be able to teach them," I answered without hesitation. "No. Absolutely not." Was that cheating? A second envelope, addressed to me in my own hand, arrived. "Congratulations! Your success in the application process has made you eligible for possible selection as an intern teacher in the 1999–2001 Teachers For Chicago program. The final selection and matching of 100 candidates to Chicago Public Schools and colleges/universities will take place in June." The letter invited me to an "information session" at Roosevelt University, where we would register for a six-week Urban Teacher course. It would count as the first course in the graduate program for those who made the final cut. "Because we believe in your teaching potential, this course is offered at no cost to you and allows you some additional experience before our final selection is complete." The 200 semifinalists filled a big room at Roosevelt University—a wide range of ages and races and pretty evenly split between men and women. I was pleased to see many young black men in the group. In communities where absent fathers shadow the landscape, each could be an important role model in a school. There were some kooky-looking people, one woman in a very dramatic hat, for instance, and sandals, even though it was quite chilly out and her feet were gnarly. I didn't recognize anyone from the Basic Skills Test or any previous contacts with the program. I noticed a woman in front of me with incredibly long hair that she twisted and wrapped into a bun, then secured with long sticks. Our paths would cross again. The most intriguing line from our pep talk was this: "The first year is gonna be hell. The first month will be the worst experience of your life." I signed up for the six-week Urban Teacher course at a small private university near my home. My class was balanced between men and women, black and white, and a scattershot of professions. Many already worked with children in preschools and parochial schools. A couple were long-time substitute teachers. There was a carpenter, a guy who ran a payday loan store and another who worked for a cellular phone company. A young woman just two years out of school had been working in television news, as a production or desk assistant. She wanted to become a teacher because "hearing all that bad news day after day was really depressing to me..." Reality check: If she couldn't handle bad news a layer removed, how was she planning to live in it day after day? A guy who worked taking ads for a community newspaper said the $24,000 Teachers For Chicago salary would improve his family's financial situation. I decided it would be bad form to even hint at how it would destroy mine. A federal housing muckety-muck had her sights set on teaching bilingual ed. Keith looked like he walked out of a rap video but was smooth as Marvin Gaye. Krishna had incredible energy and attitude. There was a lot of wisdom, too. Kimela, Celeste, Shenesia and Keisha had all taught for a long time without being fully certified. They seemed amazingly calm. In six weeks we were supposed to learn the basics of running a classroom as well as the language of educators: "classroom management" (keeping order) and "methods" (how to teach) and "manipulatives" (math toys). We learned the different ways that children learn and the best ways to make knowledge stick. The most involved assignment was planning a four-week unit with daily lesson plans. Each of us presented one lesson to our colleagues. I went second, with a writing exercise from an eighth-grade poetry unit. We had a fifteen-minute time limit. I passed out copies of a three-line Walt Whitman poem about looking out from a barn onto the countryside. I asked questions about perspective and descriptive language, about what pictures the poem made in their heads. Then I put on a tape of waves breaking on the shore and passed around a basket of shells and coral, lake stones and driftwood for each "student" to place on his desk for inspiration. I asked them to think for a few minutes about being at the beach. We brainstormed on different perspectives a writer could take (is the storyteller on the sand, in the water, under water, in the air, at sea?) and mood (is it a calm or wild day, is the calm deceptive because something menacing is under the surface or blowing in?). They wrote for about five minutes. To my amazement every last person read his or her poem aloud. I was going to stop after a few, but they insisted on sharing—even our teacher! They didn't stand up at their desks either. Each came to the front of the room to "stand and deliver." A few of the poems were excellent, powerful and lean. I was moved by their effort and vowed to support every one of my fellow teachers-to-be to the degree that they supported me that night. As the class wound down, people started receiving their assignment letters. Shenesia was the first. Then Kimela got one. Then Keith. Every time we came to class, more people had received letters. Theoretically, only half of us would be chosen, but looking around the room, I could name only three people who had not demonstrated that they could be excellent teachers. Finally, a third envelope, addressed to me in my own hand, arrived. "On behalf of the Teachers For Chicago Review Board, I am pleased to inform you of your selection as one of the 100 interns for the 1999–2001 program. Nearly 450 were interviewed for the 100 internship positions. We are confident that you have the potential to be an effective and successful teacher in the Chicago Public Schools. We look forward to helping you reach that potential in the next few years." My assignment was an eighth-grade classroom at a public school less than three miles from my house, in the neighborhood where my husband grew up. Chapter 4 * * * My Assignment [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) We drove around the school block two times. There were two buildings—a beautiful old yellow brick school, built like a fortress in 1925, and another from the 1970s, a poured-concrete prefab shell three stories high. Built as a temporary solution to overcrowding, it had long ago outlived its intended lifespan. Over time the windows had become a cloudy opaque, impossible to see in or out. Though it was near my neighborhood, it was like a different world. The physical barriers that separate the neighborhoods are a hill, a highway and skin color. In the school neighborhood, there were no white people walking around. Nearly every block had boarded-up houses. "It's like a war zone over here," my husband observed of his childhood home. I knew two people from my generation who were among the last whites to graduate from the school. I knew two others, who were in their 70s, who went to the school when the working class neighborhood was inhabited by Italians, Irish and other white ethnics. The houses were frame or brick, with big front porches. My in-laws thought they would live there forever. Then, one day in the late 1960s, my father-in-law went out to cut the grass for the first time that summer. He came back in the house and asked his wife, "What are all those little black children doing on our street?" Like many other South Side Chicago neighborhoods in the grip of white flight, this tight-knit enclave became another domino toppled by fear. Unscrupulous realtors, fanning flames of racial hatred with the very real threat of economic loss, busted block after block. The whites sold cheap and moved out, some in the middle of the night because they were ashamed to face the neighbors they were leaving behind. It was the beginning of a slide into wider economic disinvestment. Businesses moved out, too. Abandoned buildings started popping up, until it seemed that every block had at least one. The board-ups became havens for drug abusers and lairs for child molesters and rapists. Crime shot up. Gangs ran the streets and the parks. In recent years the only time I'd been to "the old neighborhood" had been to cover two gang-related child murders and once for a candlelight vigil for an innocent young victim of gun violence. The neighborhood around the school, while poor, seemed relatively well-tended. A once-fine brick Georgian, on the corner right across from the school, stood abandoned, curtains flapping through broken windows. When I looked at it, I saw a social studies project. The next morning, I returned to the school. I walked in a side door, past a security guard who did not question me, and introduced myself to the ladies in the office as "the new Teachers For Chicago intern." "Hello!" they said, friendly and smiling. They paged the principal, who came right away and took me into his office to chat. He looked weary. His eyes were bloodshot. Above his desk, tufts of pink insulation poked through a hole where ceiling tiles were missing. Other tiles were water-stained. I asked for a copy of the school report card, a document that every public school in Chicago files annually. It lists statistics about individual schools' student population and achievement. He asked the secretary to find me a copy. The local school council president came into the school office, and he waved her into his inner sanctum to meet me. I clicked off in my mind the political operatives in the neighborhood: U.S. Representative Jesse Jackson Jr. was the congressman, the Illinois state representative was Tom Dart, the alderman was Carrie Austin, and the incomparable Emil Jones Jr. was the state senator. There might come a time when I would call upon them for a service... When I asked the principal for copies of the books I'd be using when school started in eight weeks, he sighed heavily and folded his hands on his desk. It wasn't that simple, he said. He wasn't sure what grade I'd be teaching. He was still working on his organizational lineup for fall. He assured me that my Teachers For Chicago mentor would be in touch and help me with the details of getting set up. Chapter 5 * * * The Farewell Tour [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Monday morning I was jumpy as a cat, interviewing Paul Rodgers, the Bad Company singer who was taking the band on a final U.S. tour. He was in the Trump Towers in Atlantic City. I was at my desk at the _Sun-Times_. We talked about forty-five minutes. After I put the phone down, I took the brown envelope with my resignation letter inside over to the office of the editor-in-chief, Nigel Wade, and quit my job. Afterward, I announced the news to my colleagues in the features department. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. I have something very important to tell you." They all looked up from their computers, stopped in their footsteps and looked at me expectantly. "I'm leaving the _Sun-Times_. I'm going to be a teacher in the Chicago Public Schools." They smiled. Sat there. They were waiting for the punch line. "No, really!" I said. "This is for real." They gasped. They burst into applause. A reporter in the _Homelife_ section, got up and started walking toward the printer. "Larry," I said in what I thought sounded like a teacher voice, "please return to your seat. You're up without permission." I turned back to the room. "I will take questions now—but you have to raise your hands. Kevin Michael?" "Where will you be teaching?" "A public school in the Roseland neighborhood." "Darel?" "Don't you need a teaching degree?" "I'll be an intern in a program called Teachers For Chicago, and I'll be going to graduate school. Details are in this memo, which I'm posting on the bulletin board." My farewell column ran in my usual Friday space. I was not prepared for the stir it would cause. My colleague Richard Roeper put it in perspective: "Journalists always sit around the Billy Goat saying, 'One day I'm gonna go teach in the inner city.' They never do it. This is the first time ever." Another fellow columnist, Neil Steinberg, griped, "The only way any of us can top this is to announce, 'I'm quitting to go wash the feet of lepers.'" When I checked my voice mail around 10 a.m., it was full. The first message was from a radio newswoman I'd worked with over the years. She was sniffing. "I read your column and I gotta tell you. You got me. I'm in the newsroom crying. It's beautiful what you are doing. I will desperately miss you, but I really respect what you are doing. If there is anything I can ever do, please call me. Congratulations. Good luck." Calls clocked in every couple of minutes: "I know what it's like to change careers after twenty to twenty-five years. Best of luck. You'll be great at teaching. Stay in touch." (political writer who became a consultant) "Congratulations for having the courage to do this. All the best. Can you come on _Jay and Mary Ann_ on Tuesday?" (TV producer) "Blow me out of the water! It is a resplendently guts-bally thing to do. Will you come on the show Monday?" (radio personality) "This is so cool! If you ever need a pediatrician, call me." (Cook County Hospital child abuse expert) "Wow. I was absolutely floored to pick up the paper and see you. I never knew that was what you did. Call me!" (fellow Teachers For Chicago intern) "Go for it! You may be disappointed. I hope you know what you're doing." (a Chicago Public Schools teacher) I decided I was not available that day. I took my kids to our local park district pool and didn't return calls. A guy came up to me at poolside and introduced himself. He was a banker, and he was on the local school council at my children's public school. "I wish I could do what you're doing," he said. "Good luck." I was lying in the sun, reading, when another voice interrupted. "Baldacci?" It was the beat cop. He wanted to shake my hand. "It's rough over there," he warned me. "I know," I said. "But you tell your brothers and sisters to look out for me, all right?" He promised he'd see me around. Over the summer, he introduced me to other beat cops from the district. "You doing this as some sort of undercover exposé for the paper?" one of them asked me. Another looked me straight in the eye, dead serious, and said, "Do you have any idea what you're getting into over there?" He acted like I'd just enlisted to go to Vietnam or something. It concerned him but also annoyed him. He saw me as a dilettante, a dabbler who was doing this for my own amusement. I kept waiting for someone to write me a hate letter, which was business as usual at the paper. But no one did. Not a single person. Never had I experienced such a universal outpouring of good will or so many offers of "call if you need anything." On WGN radio I talked about my life change, then listeners who had changed jobs at midlife talked about theirs. Darla went from a corporate executive to a Ph.D. in anthropology, specializing in her Native American tribe. George went from corporate executive to college professor. Jim, a former truck driver, became a pediatric nurse. Linda helped her 49-year-old sister jump from an airline reservation clerk to a chef in Paris. "She's not coming back!" Linda said. Pat left a grocery store chain after twenty-four years to become a special education teacher. Janet worked for seventeen years in health care administration before becoming a pastor. John was in wholesale poultry distribution for twenty-five years, and he became a pastor too. "When you hear that voice, listen," advised Janet. A friend's father, a veteran teacher in the Chicago Public Schools, was listening. "They're gonna eat her alive," was his sage reaction. My last assignment for the paper was to review Bad Company's show at the World Music Theater. I took my twenty-two-year-old nephew. After I dictated the review over the phone, we moseyed backstage to pay homage. Paul Rodgers' publicist girlfriend had told them that this was my last assignment for the paper, and all four had signed the page carrying my interview with the singer, which had run that day. To my great surprise, when I introduced myself, they jumped up and hugged me. "It's so great what you're doing, going off to be a teacher and all!" they said in their cute British accents. "Good luck, teach!" "'Seagull, you fly.' Good luck!" Rodgers had written, quoting a lyric from one of his most beautiful songs. The summer before, I'd seen him play outdoors in Grant Park on Lake Michigan, and he'd performed that song in the golden early evening with seagulls wheeling and calling above. It was a moment that delighted the band—they were all pointing and grinning—as much as the audience. Seagulls are disgusting scavengers, but I love them because they are a constant reminder in Chicago that the beach is near. Seeing them cut through the canyons of the city, following the river through the high-rises, always lifts my spirits. I regard them as a good omen, maybe because of that line from Jackson Browne's "Rock Me On The Water": "There's a seabird above you gliding in one place like Jesus in the sky." Sometimes the gulls came in great numbers to residential neighborhoods, blanketing soccer fields or resting on light poles that stretch from both curbs, forming a seagull arch. Seagulls, I would learn, also perch on garbage dumpsters in the parking lot of a certain school in the forgotten backwaters of my gleaming city on the lake. Chapter 6 * * * The Belly of the Beast [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) One Monday in July I went to the board of education to get my paperwork processed. Documents must be filed with the state and the city. There is a background and fingerprint check through the Illinois State Police. There are certificates to be obtained. I had a folder full of paperwork—"official" college transcripts, birth certificate, letters from Teachers For Chicago. The drill is you traipse around from floor to floor, department to department, waiting for someone to help you, then get sent somewhere else. After a couple of hours of this dance, I had obtained a substitute teaching certificate from the State of Illinois. This was progress! Finally, we made it to the right counter for city teachers' "processing." It sounded like I was about to become ham, and they even had one of those number machines like at the deli counter. I took a number and waited. After about a half hour, a woman came and took all my stuff. She went away. She came back. She handed my documents to me, explaining that all the TFC interns were going to be processed the following week. I would have to come back then. "But I'm here now. With all my stuff," I said. Sorry, she said. "Whose orders are these?" I asked her. They came from the head of the substitute center. I tore over to her office, pissed that she sent someone to dismiss me rather than telling me herself or explaining why I had to make a second trip with ninety-nine other interns when I was here today, ready to take care of business now. Initiative, apparently, was not rewarded. Her assistant was talking with two other women. I waited. Behind them, another woman hurried out of the office. After a couple of minutes, the assistant glanced up from her conversation and glared at me. "Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open," she hollered. "Say something!" At that point, I'm quite sure my jaw dropped and my mouth was truly "hanging open." (Later, I'd learn that teachers who get in trouble for hitting and verbally abusing children are "reassigned" to desk jobs at the board of education, where they cannot abuse any more children, only adults—usually teachers.) I need to speak to Ms. So-and-So, I said. "She just left for lunch," the assistant snapped. "She'll be back in about an hour." Suddenly, I got the picture. She sent the other woman to deliver her "come back next week" message that made no sense, then she quickly beat it out the door so she wouldn't have to deal with me or my paperwork. Nice move. That sort of trickery was refined to an art form within the bureaucracy. The people who control teachers' paychecks, medical benefits, licensing and certification documents are experts at the dodge. They hide behind voice mail and pull all sorts of stunts to keep themselves unavailable. The photo ID card guys, for instance. A bunch of interns went to get our ID cards only to find an empty office and a sign taped to the door: "No Photo IDs. Computer Broken." A group of us waited for someone, anyone, to ask if there was another way to get our ID cards. Eventually, two guys strolled in. They were well-fed and carrying big cups of coffee. They asked if we'd taken numbers and proceeded, in turn, to take our pictures and hand us our new ID cards. The machine was working fine! The next week, I was back at the board on other business and had occasion to pass the picture room. The sign was still up and apparently the guys were out for coffee again. I told the frantic teachers waiting there to stick it out, and someone would come help them soon. It reminded me of Third World political shenanigans. You have to catch on to the game before you can play. That first time I left the board of education feeling beaten. I couldn't believe I'd spent hours going from one counter to another, one office to another, and the only thing I had to show for it was a piece of paper from the State of Illinois allowing me to substitute teach for ninety days. The futility was one thing, but the insult of being given the slip and hollered at by the people who were supposed to be on my team was mind-jarring. "If this is the board of education, why does everyone here act so stupid?" my nine-year-old daughter whispered to me at one dead-end. She is a sweet and sensitive kid, and she had come along with the promise of lunch at our favorite Thai joint. In the course of the morning, she saw my spirits flag. After lunch, she offered to treat me to a Wendella boat ride, always a fun diversion but especially on such a splendid summer day. I accepted with pleasure. Once we were out on the lake though, looking at Chicago's brawny skyline, I had what the Rolling Stones described as a "moment of doubt and pain." Our tour guide was pointing out the various radio and TV station antennas on top of the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building, rattling off the call letters as if the antennas and their invisible signals were landmarks or monuments. I had always been proud to be a part of an industry so powerful and important and so vital in people's lives. But now I was not a part of it at all. I was disconnected, floating on the lake in the Wendella, looking back. I was officially an outsider. I wish I could say I had the good sense to sit back and laugh out loud at, "Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open." But instead I wept at my spectacular folly. Chapter 7 * * * Nesting [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) On the last Monday in July, I went downtown for the en masse "processing." I made it through without anyone shouting, "Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open." This was progress, I supposed. I had called my mentor for an update on which grade I'd be teaching. She said she'd call me back that Thursday but never did, and now it was ten days later and I still hadn't heard. So I decided to relax, to "hakuna mutata" the situation, and to choose some juvenile fiction by African-American authors to read with my class, which, according to the school report card, would be exclusively African-American. I read _A Girl Named Disaster_ by Nancy Farmer and _The Watsons Go to Birmingham_ by Christopher Paul Curtis. I read _A Lesson Before Dying_ and _A Gathering of Old Men_ by Earnest Gaines. I needed to expand my knowledge of African-American culture and history in order to weave it into my lessons. I was adrift but not idle. I needed to talk to my mentor about some things. I needed a list of my students and their addresses so I could introduce myself, either in person or by a letter. I needed the textbooks I would be using in order to review the curriculum and plan lessons. But in late July, when I stopped by school again, the principal emerged from behind closed doors to level his bloodshot eyes at me and tell me he still wasn't sure what grade I was going to get, but it would definitely be fifth grade or up. Two more teachers had quit, I later learned, and he had requested four additional Teachers For Chicago interns to fill the many empty spots on his organizational chart. The school's first experience with the nine-year-old internship program would place interns in eight of his classrooms. The poor man looked beleaguered. Running a school with 900 kids, eighty-nine percent from poverty-level homes, had to be tough. Student achievement was low: At third grade, eighty-six percent of the student body was below grade level standards in reading and seventy-nine percent was below grade level in math. On top of that, experienced teachers were bailing out right and left. It was precisely the setting I wanted. The optimist in me, by virtue of a scant six weeks of education training, thought, "What if this turns out to be a turning point for the school? What if all these new people coming in with their energy and ideas make a difference?" "I'm counting on you," he told me. I pledged my allegiance with a handshake. "Put me where you need me," I told him. I sent up a simple prayer, "Thy will be done." Since upper grades are in the old building, I went over to take my first look around inside my new workplace. The layout was exactly like my children's school, same vintage, built like an arsenal. Gym on one end, auditorium with a stage on the other. Two stories tall. The classrooms had high ceilings. The blackboards were ancient and in disrepair, likewise the bulletin boards. The woodwork was dark-stained oak and there were built-in cabinets with glass doors. It reminded me of my house, which was built around the same time. As I drove out of the parking lot, I noticed a demolition order nailed to the abandoned Georgian across the street. My cop friend from the park had started a new job with the abandoned house unit. He'd be a great resource to come in and talk to the kids about that rampant neighborhood hazard. I put a dozen necklaces in a bag for a bulletin board on beautiful beads. I thought the artistry of the necklaces, modern and old, many African and Indian, might work as a writing prompt, thinking about people who might have worn beads like these in other places and times. A new e-mail teacher friend, a TFC graduate, advised me to have the students work on the bulletin boards with me. She was just one of many teachers, total strangers, who sent me words of encouragement. Her first e-mail said this: "I am glad to know there are still people interested in the Teachers For Chicago program. I still remember getting the phone call, letting me know I had been accepted. It was one of the best days of my life." She said the man who was in charge of the program in her era was 'an inspiration to all 100 of us.' "Whenever our determination faltered, we could count on him to pick up the phone and remind us why we were doing this. He always had positive things to say about our chosen career, and it was no secret how much he loved teaching. "I am now entering my eighth year of teaching in the Chicago Public Schools. When I entered the TFC program, I had to take a fifty percent cut in pay, and to this day I haven't made up the difference. But I swear to you it was the best decision I've ever made in my life. I would do it all over again in the blink of an eye. "The TFC program has helped me become a positive influence in the lives of many children. The mentoring I received through the program helped me through the roughest times, the times when I thought about quitting. But best of all, the program allowed me to do the thing I've wanted to do all my life, to become a teacher. "Best of luck in your new career. I'm certain you will find that you've made the right decision. You will find that teaching may not be as glamorous as having your byline in the newspaper, but the rewards will be so much greater." I was collecting angels, and I imagined them standing on my shoulders, like miniatures of the statues I'd seen at the Vatican, beautiful but fierce creatures with gowns and wings and giant swords. My imaginary angels were tiny versions of these stone warriors, but they had the faces of real people, known and unknown. All were encouraging me and protecting me. Donna would often warn me to wrap myself "in the full armor of God." My armor had angel epaulets on each shoulder. Standing tall in my angel corps was the Summer Fun Club, founded in 1978, which still returns to the "Sunset Coast" of Michigan each summer for our annual reunion. Our roots were the _Kalamazoo Gazette_. Over the years our summer digs moved among various houses in the town of South Haven. For two years we had a yellow frame house near the park, where our next-door neighbors were members of a band called Heartsfield. I married the drummer. That year's reunion came two weeks before I became a teacher. On the beach, instead of reading a steamy novel or _Cosmo_ , I spent days trying to crack the codes for the attendance book, to no avail. One evening, I returned to the house from watching the sunset to a blast of party horns and a shower of confetti. Those knuckleheads had thrown me a surprise party, the first of my life. I got to wear a gold paper crown decorated with stickers of books and apples and chalkboards. There was a big chocolate cake frosted with an apple, speeches and gag gifts. Heartfelt good wishes showered upon me. I could not fail! Among the phone messages upon our return was one from my mentor. "I'm pleased to tell you that you will be teaching seventh grade. Your room is 118." My room. Seventh grade. How perfect. Just last year I channeled seventh grade through my older daughter. Civil War. Fractions. Pre-algebra. I could do that. On the night before teachers were to report, I couldn't concentrate. I walked in circles. I had placed boxes of stuff by the front door, mostly books. I only had a couple of posters. I had no bulletin board supplies. I bought two little rugs at the grocery store for my "book corner," and I'd bring the overstuffed chair from our sunroom. I was like a woman about to go into labor, fussing about in a burst of energy to make ready for the baby. Many teachers gave me the same advice: "Don't smile until Christmas." I didn't understand it and was positive I would never be able to do it. It's totally against my nature. I love to laugh. I shared this concern with my college advisor, when she called to remind me of the starting date for classes at Roosevelt University, where I would attend graduate school. "Be joyful," she said. "A lot of these kids don't experience adults who are happy. They need it." I couldn't wait to see their faces. I worked up my introductory rap and how I would assign seats using a card trick. I had notes on index cards on a clipboard. I had a couple of lesson plans, loosely structured like the radio talk show I hosted for two years. I was slightly organized. But I would be overwhelmed, I knew it, when I saw their faces, when I was face-to-face with the awesome responsibility of being their teacher. I was joyful. I was terrified. It was a wonder I slept at all. The next morning I made it to work in nine minutes flat. Driving east on 115th Street, I kept an eye out for who was up and about in Roseland at 8:15 a.m. A couple of boys on bikes, two stray dogs, an older couple out on a morning walk, the man carrying a stick in anticipation of stray dogs, a lady walking back from the store with a white plastic bag. I was thinking maybe I could ride my bike once in a while, though my cop friends begged me not to. All the businesses were closed with burglar bars in place. The Knotty Pine Lounge, which had seen better days, was closed for good, an ancient "For Sale" sign hanging forlornly on the exterior. The small grocery store on the corner across from school was doing a brisk business. The marquee at school had this welcome back message: "Uniforms Mandatory." Our day-long meeting was in the library, where I found all the interns sitting at one table with our mentor. Four would teach first, second and third grade in the new building; four others would teach fourth, sixth and seventh grades in the old building. I bet the first to quit would be Astrid, a fair-skinned blond with clear blue eyes who had some sort of emotional crisis at mid-day. Her upset, it turned out, was over being assigned to second grade. She was adamant about wanting to teach older kids. After a powwow with the principal over the lunch hour, she showed up in seventh, right across the hall from me. "My sister!" I greeted her with a high-five. Astrid already had two master's degrees. She had been managing a Limited store in a suburban mall prior to Teachers For Chicago. She commuted an hour and a half each way from a distant suburb. I spent a quiet lunch hour in solitude in my room, Room 118. I ate my turkey sandwich and drank my Coke and looked around at my new world. It was painted seafoam green, which didn't look nearly as putrid with the dark woodwork as the pink in the library across the hall. The ceilings were so high the room echoed. A previous inhabitant had put up a lovely collection of Impressionist prints from a calendar. I needed to bring them down to eye level, as they were the size of postage stamps in the looming space of the classroom. I made a mental note to ask the art teacher to have the children make BIG art this year. It would take much to decorate this vast space. My desk had four drawers; my chair was broken. The cupboards were full of junk I would never use, coated with years of dust. The next day would be a massive clean-up day. There were forty desks, which seemed excessive. There weren't enough electrical plugs. I wouldn't have a reading lamp in my cozy book corner unless I rigged up an extension cord. Room 118 was blessedly on the west side of the building, so the morning sun wouldn't heat it to an oven by 9 a.m. Our windows looked out over trees and houses across the street instead of the parking lot. The downside of a first-floor classroom was being at street level, at greatest hazard from random bullets. I recalled an incident outside a school in which men firing guns ran right past the primary classes. The children and teachers could see them right outside the window. Outside my window just then, as I ate lunch, were people out in front of their houses, watering grass, kids playing, guys working on a dead car with the driver's wheel up on a cinder block. I said prayers inside Room 118. I thought about some of the things that were said in the meeting that morning, like how boys aren't allowed to wear earrings, but some must to gain safe passage on the way to school. A compromise was reached: Boys will clip their earrings to their shirt collars during school and be allowed to put them back in when it's time to go home. A surprisingly high number of our students are in foster homes. We have to be especially sensitive to that, the principal told us. "You can't imagine some of the conditions these children come from." In the temporary quiet of Room 118, I practiced names of my new colleagues—the blond-haired, middle-aged gym teacher who drove a motorcycle; the assistant principal; another teacher who knew my neighbor because their kids play soccer together on the soft green fields of Beverly, where no bullets fly. My neighbor later told me that this teacher was an attorney who bailed out of a downtown law firm to have hours that accommodate her kids. Suddenly, it dawned on me that all the maps and the AV screen were pulled down. I wondered what was behind them. I clomped and creaked over the wood floors to the far corner of the room and tried to roll up the AV screen. A huge chunk of blackboard, ancient, heavy slate, jagged and lethal, lunged forward behind the screen, threatening to slash right through it. Behind the slate was exposed brick, internal walls, vintage 1925. Behind the maps were unsightly chalk boards ruined by years of wear and subsequent efforts to cover them with contact paper and other sticky stuff. What a mess. I had a word with J.T., the custodian who would save my butt daily, about the broken chair and the blackboard of death lurking behind the movie screen waiting to impale some kid. The assistant principal had me fill out a repair form. I had less faith in the repair form to produce results than I had that J.T. would hook me up. The teachers I had tagged as the school's biggest rabble-rousers in the meeting earlier turned out to be the eighth grade teachers Astrid and I would work with on the upper grades team. Each of us would teach one core subject to two seventh-grade and two eighth-grade classes. "I teach language arts, so that is mine," Donnamaria Gamble said. Danny Callahan, the other veteran, volunteered for math. "That leaves social studies and science," said Ms. Gamble, a tall, imposing woman with hundreds of braids, colorful speech and the grace of a natural leader. Our birthdays were the same week; she was a year older. Both of us were partial to dressing like teenagers when we felt like it. She looked terrific in her halter top, denim overalls and funky sandals. "I love social studies, and I can't teach science," declared Astrid. Shit, I was about to get stuck with science—ecosystems, energy, experiments. Panic rose inside me as an imaginary needle started to swing into a red zone beyond all that was new and overwhelming into the realm of that which was impossible. "Look," I said. "I've been a news reporter for the past twenty-five years. I think we should each play to our strengths, and science does not play to my strengths. I would be very happy teaching language arts and I could teach an exceptionally rockin' social studies class." Silence. Finally, Donna spoke. "I'll tell you what," she said. "I'll take science because I'm halfway through my certification, and this will help me get done. You take language arts." "Thank you," I told her, with heartfelt gratitude. It was the first of many gifts I would receive from the generous woman I would come to call a friend, a sister and my hero. Leaving for the day, I noticed the abandoned house still standing. All the windows were broken now, and the demolition sticker was torn off. I stood out in the street and took pictures of the house from several angles. In a neighborhood where folks don't appreciate people nosing in their business, people have been shot over stupid things like that, I realized. I tried to put that thought out of my mind. Nearby, a group of kids played football on the grass of the school. Their pink plastic football had no air. It was so deflated it was floppy and cup-shaped when they picked it up. Two days to get the classroom ready, then the kids would be here. I went into hyperdrive! The first thing I put up was a framed picture of Steven Tyler, the singer from Aerosmith. It is a photograph taken on Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago. He is mugging and displaying the message on his sleeveless t-shirt, "Eat The Rich." That talisman went on the wall behind my desk for inspiration and protection. I chose purple paper for my bulletin boards, and bought some African border at the teacher store. I hung up a Jimi Hendrix album cover, "Are You Experienced?" and yellow lettering: "Experience the Infinite Power of Words." At the back of the room I taped up a poster of Chaka Khan and a poster from Hubbard Street Dance Company—a beautiful black and white Victor Skrebneski photograph of three dancers' legs balancing on a ball. Next to that, I hung on a nail a pair of my old pointe shoes. Finally, in gold letters left over from the banner at my surprise party, I spelled out "Stories Are Told In Music and Dance." There weren't enough letters to spell "through," so I made it "in." I was filthy. I must have gone up and down the ladder a hundred times. The bookshelf was stocked with books on everything from gardening and architecture to sports and etiquette and Barbie, Hitchcock mysteries, self-help books, juvenile fiction. As I was leaving, a fifth-grade teacher named Mr. Tyler, no relation to Steven, told me he came out of retirement from United Airlines to teach. "I clipped that column you wrote about becoming a teacher," he said, "and now, here you are at my school." Chapter 8 * * * The Seventh Graders Arrive [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) They were horrible. Horrible! It was a freaking nightmare. I had never seen kids act like that in a classroom with an adult present. It didn't start out badly at all. The terrible part built slowly, like a running toilet that turns into a flood in the basement, accumulating slowly and silently, unanticipated and unnoticed until the hapless victim steps into knee-deep water. A bell rang at 8:30 and I went out to the playground to greet my students, as instructed. I stood on the spot marked "118" and waited for my students to arrive and line up. I didn't know them and they didn't know me, so I didn't know who to look for or go after and round up. I simply established a beachhead on yellow numbers and waited and looked around. It was loud and lively. Ms. Gamble and other veterans were able to greet kids by name and remark about how much they'd grown over the summer. Some older boys were playing basketball and girls were jumping Double Dutch. Parents were delivering small children to their teachers on the other side of the blacktop. When another bell rang at 8:45, a security officer said "Let's go, let's go," and broke up the basketball game. Class by class quickly filed into the building. About a dozen kids stood near the 118 spot, looking at me expectantly. "One-eighteen? Come with me," I said, and set off. We walked to the classroom without incident. So far, so good. I had bought two decks of playing cards and put a card on each student's desk, face up. As the students entered our room for the first time, I handed each one a card. Find the match, I told them, and sit at that desk. Students kept trickling in, but when it appeared twenty-eight was all we were going to get, I laid my welcome speech on them: "You hold the cards. How you play them is up to you." For the rest of the day, every time I turned my back, kids tiptoed, crawled and slid to different desks next to their friends. All those new faces, my first day as a classroom teacher, I couldn't keep track of who was supposed to be sitting where. I wondered why the noise level kept soaring higher and higher. A poker game broke out in the back row. But the main thing being "played," to invoke the vernacular of seventh grade, was me. "Be in charge. Establish control," I'd been told, over and over. The details of how to accomplish that had not emerged, though my mentor once mentioned something about how you had to "talk the walk." It was a prophetic malapropism. The four upper grade teachers had agreed to change classes that first day, to jump right into the routine of changing classes. However, the lunch schedule delivered at mid-morning threw a wrench into our plans. We all got our homerooms back at second period, so lunches could begin at 11 a.m. Disorder thrives in confusion. The afternoon would be long, I realized. There's a lot of day left when lunch is over at 11:20 a.m. I was surprised to learn that I was required to stay with my class in the lunchroom, and that there was no recess or break for the teachers. In the afternoon, I had them write a first-day story. "A story has three parts"; I reviewed the three parts and gave them prompts for the beginning, middle and end. "When I woke up this morning the first thing I saw (heard, smelled) was ... While I was walking to school I saw... When I walked through the school doors I felt..." One boy wrote: "When I woke up this morning the first thing I saw was a dirty Pamper. When I was walking to school I saw a three-legged dog. When I walked through the school doors I felt hungry." I loved that piece. It got us talking about all the things we can be hungry for: food, love, attention, knowledge and the next thing I knew we were discussing figurative versus literal language. For about ten minutes. About an hour before dismissal, the students were restless, and the room was hot. Kids started hopping out of their seats, throwing paper balls, destroying their new rulers and pencils and hurling the sharp pieces at each other. They weren't doing it overtly, I'd just see things go flying through the air. I decided it was time for a washroom break. Big mistake. That free-for-all brought both the assistant principal and the security guard running. "All privileges are revoked!" the vice principal shrieked. She gave me a disgusted look as she stalked back to her office. Back in the room, I totally screamed at them. "If you ever embarrass me in front of my boss like that again, you will be sorry." I called four parents after school to report that their children were disruptive in class. Pierre disobeyed a direct order and went AWOL—to another floor, no less—to visit his old teacher. I was relieved to learn later that Freddie, who seemed physically unable to remain in his seat and kept up a constant stream of chatter, was generally regarded as "crazy" by the veterans. Astrid's seventh graders were horrid too. Her eyes were red and her nose was pink when we met after school to compare notes. The kids were barely out of the building when I was thinking about tomorrow. The next day I would take their pictures and have them revise what they had written. Some weren't bad. There were several adequate spellers. We'd mount their portraits and first day stories on construction paper. Tomorrow I'd tell them that I was testing them today, that the writing exercise that we did was the sort of work they are expected to do around page 230 of the book we hadn't even cracked. It was true—the part about the book. It was not true that I did it intentionally, but they did not need to know that. That night, my daughter's eighth-grade basketball team played a game at our local park district field house. It was their fourth season, and I was their first coach. They'd come far, and they played as a unified team. It takes time to build a team. Seeing them helped my perspective tremendously. They were magnificent. They never looked better to me than they did that night. I was so exhausted I could not speak. I sat in the top row, shell shocked, my head resting against the wall. On the second day, I went earlier. "I just need to be more organized," I thought. "The kids need more work to keep them busy." Teachers did not have access to a copy machine; copying was done by office aides on a two-day turnaround. If I handed in a copy order on Monday, I would get it Wednesday. We had no workbooks. Four additional students arrived on day two. Our class was up to thirty-two students. So it was quite a large crowd the principal returned to me at dismissal because my class was unruly in the hallway. As he stood with his back to the window, lecturing my seventh graders about their poor conduct, I saw behind him, to my horror, two escapees from Room 118 outside our windows, hamming it up behind the principal's back to the amusement and delight of the others. If I had been fired on the spot, I would not have been surprised. I stayed until 5 p.m. working in the classroom and organizing my card catalog of students and their home phone numbers, which I realized I would be using nightly to call parents about their children's dreadful behavior. On the third day, a girl came up to me in third period and said, "I don't feel good. I think I'm going to throw up," and proceeded to barf in my book box on her way to the trash can. In most classrooms, a throw-up incident would be the most traumatic event of the day. But in Room 118, it barely made a ripple. Hardly anyone even noticed. I dragged the book box out into the hallway and told three different office personnel in the course of the afternoon that I needed a janitor. No one ever came. I ended up cleaning off the books myself after school. As I knelt down in the hallway, wiping off the books with a wet sponge, the vice principal walked past. She was a real miser about books, and I respected that. She alone held the keys to the "book room." "Are you throwing those out?" she demanded. No, I said, someone puked on them this morning and no one ever came to clean up the mess. That got rid of her quick. I knew in my head that the goal of seventh grade is to derail the train not just the first day but every day. I knew in my head that teaching is like the Ike and Tina Turner version of "Proud Mary." "We never do anything nice and easy. We only do it nice...and rough." But it was already so hard. Even the parts that appeared simple turned into major disasters for the uninitiated. I was told to hand out books, so I handed out books without writing down which kid had which number book! Even a no-brainer like taking attendance devoured a tremendous amount of time every morning, especially with the late arrivals and new people showing up every day. And I still hadn't figured out that absent children got a double slash mark in the square for that day, while tardy kids got a capital T. All anyone told me is that attendance books are a legal record and mine had better be in perfect shape when it was handed in or else! The only thing teachers are required to remove from a burning building (or during a fire drill) is the attendance book. It is some sort of holy grail in education circles. Not until the next year would I come up with a good system for my attendance book: Write it in pencil first. If a kid is absent, make one slash mark, which you can easily turn into a "T" if he shows up late. If he never shows up, make it a double slash the next morning. At the end of the month, balance your book, then ink it in. Use black ink. Redline the kids who never show up and the kids who transfer. Keep your red lines going month after month during the school year. And never—NEVER—let your mentor do your attendance book for you. My student with autism arrived on day four. One good thing was that he seemed quiet and kind. Another good thing about Nelson was that he had a full-time aide who might help in the classroom. I put the two of them at a table of four other good kids, but later realized they might be a stabilizing influence with borderline kids. Perhaps the close proximity of an adult would make the difference between total chaos and mere disorder. Nelson sort of went off into Tai Chi sometimes, but he seemed to be a gentle, inquisitive, conscientious soul. Which is more than I can say for his mostly awful classmates. The irony of the disabled child being the model child dissolved me into tears as I tried to describe my day to my husband. "What do they do that is so bad?" Artie asked me. They talked incessantly. They shouted to be heard over the talking. They didn't do their work. They got up out of their seats without permission and wandered around, touching and bothering each other on their way. They shouted out questions and comments, including, "This is stupid." Any little ripple set off a chain reaction. Someone passed gas and everyone leapt from his seat fanning the air and jumping around. They threw things. They hit. I had broken up two fist fights already. They yelled out the window to their gang-banger friends and relatives, who gathered outside at dismissal time. They swore like sailors. One of my kids called Astrid a bitch. Student number thirty-four showed up the following Monday. I asked him where he'd been the first week of school and he told me, "buying school supplies." It seemed like a weak excuse at the time. When student number thirty-five arrived, I gave him my chair and sat him at the activity table. Later, after everyone left for the day, I sat in my chair and put my head down on the activity table and cried. I felt like the old woman who lived in the shoe. I had so many children I didn't know what to do. I was still learning their names: Tyrese, Sherika, DeVille, Kyisha, Pierre, Destinee, plus twenty-nine others in my homeroom alone. More than a hundred other students called me their English teacher. Out of all those children, Pierre was the first name I learned because he had a larger than life persona. Pierre was in seventh grade on some sort of "waiver," after failing the summer bridge program that determines whether a borderline child can be promoted. Five of my students were in seventh grade on these waivers, all doing poorly, all discipline problems. But Pierre was above and beyond. A typical conversation: "Pierre, please sit down where you belong and stop talking." "I'm not talking. Why don't you ever say anything to anyone else. I swear I hate you, you ugly..." Then there would be some chair slamming and posturing, and he'd mutter and continue to pout. But the other side of Pierre was that once he settled down, he did all his work. He was a good speller. He wanted to be involved in everything—spelling bee, messenger, cheerleading—he was always offering to help with odd jobs, and constantly engineering ridiculous scams to get out of the classroom to wander about the building. Some teacher or principal always "needed to see" Pierre. He reminded me of an alcoholic who starts each day with the best intentions but something along the way trips them up and they start to sink in the quagmire of self-defeat, unable to pull themselves out and worst of all, in complete denial. Chapter 9 * * * Getting to Know Them [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) The end of the week found me standing in my backyard, watering the grass. Back and forth. Back and forth. I watered the grass for forty-five minutes, just trying to come down from the hysteria of my classroom. Nothing had gotten better. There were a few minutes each day when things seemed to be clicking along, then everything would fall apart. People say, "When I was in elementary school there were fifty kids and one arthritic nun in a wheelchair, and you could have heard a pin drop..." Why couldn't I do that? Why couldn't I control kids who'd been running their own lives for years even though they were only twelve? When I called their parents, they said they couldn't control them either and asked me what they should do. DeVille, one of the worst cut-ups, shout-outers and insulters of his peers, criticized me for failing to control the class. "Why do you want to be controlled?" I asked him. "That sounds like a slave mentality. You are all old enough to control yourselves. You need to control yourselves so that I can teach and you can learn." Was there a racial element? Was a white woman in this setting destined for failure? Did black children need to express their contempt for white authority in the same way all children this age have to express their contempt for all authority? I'd heard gossip that some veterans at the school had questioned "who they think they are that they can come in here and teach our children," implying that the four white women interns had no business here. Children pick up on attitudes the way animals sense fear. Was my class feeling empowered because they knew my backup was weak? And where was my backup? What were the consequences? Everyone I sent to the office bounced right back in. There was no detention. There had been no suspensions, even for fighting. I was beginning to think "alternative" schools for poorly behaved students were a myth made up by the board of education. Was my school an alternative school and no one told me about it? Was every student retained, no matter how terrible the behavior, to keep the federal money pouring in? Schools receive federal dollars and USDA breakfast and lunch funding for every student whose family income is below a certain level. All good questions, but ones I could not resolve. These were issues I needed to discuss with an experienced hand, but I hadn't seen much of my mentor. I felt like a prisoner in solitary confinement, thrown into a cell and forgotten. I was lucky to get to the bathroom in the course of a day. I started to get the idea that things were less than perfect elsewhere in the school. I heard that an intern who had a first-grade class called it quits after two weeks. "I didn't know it was going to be this hard," she said before heading out the door. Before trying teaching, she'd been a cop for seventeen years. Another intern was mysteriously missing in action from our school, though she was still showing up for our college classes. Later, she said she'd transferred to another school. She didn't offer the reason. Astrid and I talked after school every day. She was only in her twenties, a sassy girl with multiple piercings and a tattoo, so I expected her to be tougher or bouncier than me. But many days she plopped down in the middle of the hallway, spent, after the children left. By the same token, my age and life experience were not helping me be tough or bouncy. Ramona and I were equally confused, exhausted and overwhelmed. Every morning we marched in like soldiers, hopeful and brave. By afternoon we felt like utter failures. I'd hear her voice rising higher and higher in the afternoon as her students spiraled out of control. She had more than a few who acted completely demented, running out of the classroom as if in a jailbreak. Students got "written up" and referred to the office for their misbehavior. Their parents were called to school and the kids were bawled out. They'd be back in the classroom in no time. My voice was getting lower and lower. It was raspy from shouting. I had to sing an octave lower at church. I wondered if I had permanently damaged my vocal cords. We logged a minor success when my seventh graders actually read a complete story in our reader. We used the "round robin" method, criticized by educators, because the children wanted to do it that way. They were familiar with reading that way. Different people read passages, even Nelson. The room got real quiet. They were curious: Could he read? Yes. Quite well. I had to be extremely specific with him, but he asked good questions and liked to be included in classroom activities. He was a good communicator for someone labeled autistic. Our story was cute, about a boy who tries to impress a girl he likes by pretending he knows French. Andre, who was pleased to learn he has a French name, asked me if I would teach him how to speak some French. I told him _"oui"_ and that I'd bring a book so we could start tomorrow. _Bonjour!_ They arrived to find the desks rearranged for the third day in a row with assigned seats. I created tables one through five, plus The Guys In Front (TGIF), who needed extra supervision. There was a tsunami of angst, hysteria, bellyaching and acting out over seat assignments, kicking of chairs, swearing. Pierre was strutting around with his hands on his hips shouting, "I am not going to sit next to Destinee, and you know I can't get along with her and we're just going to get in a fight...'' He threw a chair! It was such ridiculous behavior that I laughed out loud. "Sit down and stop your noise," I told him, sounding exactly like my mother. He huffed and puffed, but eventually picked up the chair and put his butt in it. Once I got them quiet, I laid down the New World Order: This was how it was going to be until I decided otherwise, because I was the queen of Room 118 and what I said was law. I told them about the conference forms I had copied at Office Depot the night before, which were ready to go home with anyone who could not behave, requesting a parent conference the next morning before school. "You know your parents will not be happy when they hear what's been going on in here," I informed them. Their looks told me they knew that. Overall, I'd say better cooperation, maybe five percent. But the sporadic calm was so tenuous, so elusive. It only took one little thing out of the ordinary and a tornado would engulf the room, pulling everyone up in its swirling chaos. Our new dismissal procedures caused a real tizzy. At 2:15, the blinds went down to prevent any gang signifying out the classroom window. With their backs to me, I couldn't be sure whether what was going back and forth with people on the sidewalk was an innocent wave or a Gangster Disciple sign, and I wasn't taking any chances. Table by table, depending on who was quiet, they would go to their lockers. Then they placed their chairs on top of their desks and lined up. Problem was, the chairs were molded plastic with metal legs, and they slipped and slid off the desks with the least provocation, crashing onto the wooden floors. Thirty-three chairs, and I'd bet twenty-five of them ended up back on the floor, some purposefully for the sheer pleasure of creating noise and disorder. The din was incredible. At the end it got really ugly. Chairs crashing, kids yelling, running, hitting each other. I jumped up onto Freddie's desk and demanded their attention. Eric continued running his mouth, right next to me. I jumped down off the desk, landing square in front of him. "Stop it!" I screamed in his face. That shut him up for about three seconds, then he started talking again. I was so mad I thought my head might explode, like in that movie _Scanners_. That was not a good mental state for a teacher. I climbed back on Freddie's desk. "No one's leaving this room until you are all quiet," I told them. The room was sweltering. The minutes ticked by, 2:35, 2:37. People started whimpering they had to pick up siblings, had to get home. The worst provocateurs waged the greatest protest. I put my finger over my lips in the universal sign for quiet. At 2:40, they were quiet. We formed lines in the hallway and started walking to the doors. I made them stop twice, once to wait for some little kids to pass and once out of sheer spite. I despised them. Reeling from the day, I packed my briefcase and headed downtown for my college class. Being with adults in air conditioning was like a cocktail party. Chapter 10 * * * Al Gore Visits the Billy Goat [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Thursday night I met my friend Mary Mitchell, my former protege and fellow columnist from the _Sun-Times,_ for a beer at the Billy Goat, the legendary media hangout immortalized in the _Saturday Night Live_ "Cheeseborger, no fries, chips" skit. It was my neighborhood bar, located between the _Sun-Times_ and the _Chicago Tribune_. It was the only bar I ever felt comfortable walking into alone, because I always ran into people I knew. I felt good today, as if things had gone better, though they really hadn't that much. Then I realized what it was: Today I didn't break up any fights! And talk about a new perspective. Billy Goat's bathrooms, which I had in the past tried to avoid at all cost, seemed sparkling clean to me. They had soap. I washed my hands three times before pulling up a barstool next to Rick Pearson, political writer of the _Tribune_ who I'd worked with in the early '80s at United Press International. "Don't look now," he said, "but Al Gore is going to walk through that door in about five minutes." Sure enough, a little after 7 p.m., the vice president of the United States stopped by to press the flesh, surrounded by a dozen cameras and the usual secret service detail. As Gore made his way down the bar shaking hands, I introduced myself as "Leslie Baldacci, Chicago Public Schools teacher." "Oh!" Gore said, "any relation to Representative Baldacci of Maine?" "No," I said. "Neither to David Baldacci, the famous author." "Joe's mother has a restaurant in Maine called Mama Baldacci's," Gore informed me. "That's cute," I said. "I have a daughter named Mia, and I always thought that when I opened my restaurant I'd call it Mia's Mama." He laughed, "That's great!" and moved on. I knew then that Al Gore would not be elected president. In seven years at the knee of the master, he had learned nothing. Here's what Bill Clinton would have done if someone dropped the million-dollar sound bite "Chicago Public Schools teacher" in his lap: Clinton would have gripped both my hands. His eyebrows would have shot up and he would have locked those steely blue eyes on mine. "No kidding!" he would have said. "How has your school year started off?" And as soon as he heard what a disillusioned first-year teacher had to say about my seventh graders who can't read or capitalize "I," their horrible behavior, our torn up, worn out books, their disrespect for themselves and others, he would have pulled up a barstool, ordered a Diet Coke and spent some time listening, questioning. Even if he had heard it a thousand times in a thousand other cities and knew it by heart, he would have listened because it had to do with the top concerns in the country, education and violence. It was a golden opportunity to make nice with a member of a powerful labor union that happened to be the top contributor to Democratic party coffers in Illinois. He would have seen the opportunity to connect—not only on a personal level but in a way that would burnish his image on CNN. An aide would have gotten my name and the name of my school and there would have been follow-up, maybe even boxes of the Houghton Mifflin spelling and English books I coveted with all my heart. All of that would have been crystal clear to Clinton in one split second. And that is why Clinton, though flawed in so many ways, survived, and why Al Gore didn't get elected. I even gave Gore a second chance. I got a piece of paper and a pen and made a second pass, asking for his autograph for my students. I slipped when I made the request, calling them "my kids." Uh oh. Bad sign. I simply refused to fall in love with those abusive little bastards. Gore signed the paper down at the bottom. Later, I wrote at the top, over his signature: "By order of the Vice President of the United States: All students must behave for Mrs. Baldacci." I put it in a frame and hung it in the classroom. "How do we know you didn't forge that?" Joseph asked. "Why don't you go ask Ms. Gamble who she saw on the Channel 5 news last night and again this morning, shaking hands and talking to the vice president of the United States," I told him. Later, after I'd sent Cortez to Donna's room to collect papers, he returned in a dither and blurted out to the class, "It's true! Ms. Gamble saw her on TV with the vice president!" By order of the vice president of the United States, behavior in my room improved about two percent. Chapter 11 * * * The Kids Are All Right, but the Teachers Are Wrecks [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Most of the interns showed up for college classes sick. They had god-awful colds, bronchitis, lost voices, impetigo. I knew it was going to be grueling and made a point to put myself to bed at 9:30. I slept like the dead. I got up at 6:00 and swallowed huge megavitamins. I packed a healthful, protein-packed lunch with a juice. I drank lots of water. I was constantly moving around, constantly on my feet. It was like working outdoors or training for the Olympics. For a while, I lost a pound a day, even though I ate three meals. What did I have to show for it? Eye infection, yeast infection, pimples, diarrhea, the result of stress and filth, with no opportunity to wash your hands. I made a note to myself to check whether Wet Wipes came in anti-bacterial. I got dirtier at school then I did working in my garden. Whenever I washed my hands in the teacher's bathroom, which had no soap, the dirt from my hands made a dark trail down the drain. I showered in the morning and again as soon as I got home because every inch of me was sticky with a coating of sweat and dirt and chalk dust. School had started August 24, the earliest ever, and summer was in full bloom. On four days early in the school year, the outside temperature soared into the nineties. Our western-exposure classroom in the afternoons was so hot I worried some kids would faint. Racquel had to sit in the hallway one afternoon, she was so woozy. Montorio brought a fan from home, bless her heart, but loud arguments erupted because people would stand in front of it, hogging the air. With work coming into the pipeline, I had a lot of papers to correct. It took hours, I learned. It could eat up a whole weekend. Experienced teachers correct papers on their prep periods and during lunchtime because that's when they have the energy to do it. After school or at home the task is much harder to face. You carry the same folders of uncorrected papers back and forth to school day after day. New work piles up. Correcting papers and lesson planning account for an extra day of work each week for which teachers are not paid. Maybe that's why worksheets, while not a "best practice" in education, are preferred by many teachers. They are quicker and easier to grade than essay-type papers or projects. Unfortunately, they are also easier to complete since they usually require students to supply only factual information, not higher-level interpretive or evaluative thinking. I had final drafts of the "First Day" story, a twenty-word spelling test and a proofreading worksheet, a pile of stuff. But the greatest surprise was not how much time it took to correct the papers. Suddenly, the curtain was yanked back to reveal who was working and who was not. I saw I had been hoodwinked. Some students beguiled me with their social skills into assuming they were good at schoolwork. The Bible-reading captain of the safety patrol turned in not a single thing—not even the spelling test he took with me standing right there. Other well-behaved students could not spell "hello" or capitalize "I." However, Pierre turned in everything and did each part very skillfully. Kyisha, who wore her attitude on her sleeve and loved to have the last word, completed her work quickly and well. She was a prolific writer. Sherika, who said she was proud to be "ghetto," was practically illiterate. I sent a note home asking for a conference that week. It was not returned. When I asked where it was, Sherika said her mother was "out of town." "My brother is taking care of us," she said. He was fourteen. Sherika was worldly beyond her years. In the lunch line, some girls were looking at a magazine ad, one of those "Got Milk?" pictures, featuring Tyra Banks with foamy white milk on her upper lip. "I'm not even going to say what that looks like," Sherika observed with the jaded countenance of a twenty-dollar hooker, pointing to the white substance. She was twelve years old. I would later learn more about her mother's going "out of town." I moved Destinee, who turned in nothing but the spelling test, to another table. She and Pierre had a fight, as he had predicted. Destinee kept her head on her desk all morning because she didn't like her new seat. "You owe me assignments," I told her. "Do your work, and you will get your privileges back." I couldn't figure out how Darnell, with second-grade test scores, made it to seventh grade. He had not been tested for special needs, so he received no remedial help. He was just there not understanding anything. So he threw things and broke things and cut up. I spent more time working with his group than any other. It was never enough. I phoned Eric's mother. He, too, turned in not a single bit of work. He never stopped talking. His mouth ran constantly; he never knew what we were doing or even made a pretense of being involved. If his book was on his desk, it was closed. If his work was on his desk, the page was empty. He had the highest standardized test scores of anyone in our room, nearly two years above grade level in reading. "I don't know what to do about him," his mother said, breaking down in tears. "Since his father died I can't control him." I'm very sorry, I said, I didn't know. When did his father die? "Four months ago," she said, "from cancer." Jesus Christ! Isn't that something a classroom teacher should know? How could a kid go through that and not have a single note in his file? How could no one at school be aware of it? How could his classroom teacher not be informed? No wonder the kid couldn't concentrate! No wonder he couldn't keep still! How could he care about school when school didn't care about him? His mother, beside herself with grief, had two other teenagers at home. She was clearly overwhelmed. "I just don't know what to do," she wept. I asked Donna about it in the afternoon, when we went to the office at the same time to pick up our first paycheck of the year. She assured me that over time, as I got to know the kids better, information would come to me through them. "Some of it you'll wish you didn't know," she said, shaking her head. "Don't expect to get it from the office." I regarded my paycheck: $633.45 for two weeks' work. "How much of a pay cut did you take?" she asked me. "Two-thirds," I answered. "Shit, Baldacci, what for?" she wondered. "Because a voice called and I answered," I told her. It was the first time I'd admitted that out loud to anyone outside my family and a few close friends. Although I did not know her well, I felt she would understand. She jerked her head and looked at me in surprise. Then a smile spread across her face. "My sister," she greeted me, as if meeting me for the first time. I was still trying to figure out what these kids could do besides shout out wisecracks, pick fights and complain about school. So I got a few other little projects off the ground. Each one took a great deal of organization and gathering of materials. One was a writing assignment, a for-or-against people being allowed to own exotic pets. I copied newspaper articles on a toddler killed by a python and city workers hunting for an escaped serval. Also, the date 9/9/99 was coming up and I wanted to do something special to mark the date. After searching a couple of branch libraries, I found a CD of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in D Minor. I spent ten dollars on Sunny Delite, paper cups and cookies and shoehorned the lesson in between lunch and gym. First I talked about Beethoven and his genius and his tragic deafness and about him writing this famous symphony, which was inspired by the French Revolution. I tossed in a bit about the revolution and compared it to the American Revolution and the civil rights movement. I handed out art paper and asked them to listen to the tape and to draw a picture of what they thought Beethoven was trying to say in music. It was fun at first. They drew and chattered quietly. By the beginning of the second movement, they were loud. By the end of the second movement, they were out of control. Darnell was swiping cookies by the fistful and guzzling Sunny Delite straight from the bottle. The empty plastic jug was stomped on the floor. Kids were whining and complaining that they didn't get any. I stopped the music, snapped off the lights and yelled at them about their behavior. "It's a shame that we had something nice going on here, and a few people had to go and ruin it," I growled. "That is terrible manners to drink out of the bottle and grab up as much as you can when these treats were for everyone to share." I was fit to be tied. All that preparation for a big fiasco. In other classrooms, kids were sitting at their desks quietly filling out worksheets. We tried to do something creative and it was a train wreck. But to my great surprise, when we looked at their drawings, Kyisha had sketched a crowd of people carrying signs that said "Freedom." Someone who talked non-stop the whole time had drawn an elaborately detailed picture of a conductor leading a symphony orchestra. C. C. amazed me by drawing the outside of a concert hall and struggled to write the words, "The celebration is in here." It took us several minutes of hard work to sound out the spelling for "celebration." He substituted the word "and" for "in." I had just found out that day, when the special education teacher appeared in our doorway, that C. C. and three other students went every morning to pull-out reading class. Fortunately, one of my college courses that semester was about special-needs children. The poor communication, along with the isolation, had me feeling displaced and confused. In the classroom, I felt awash in a swirling current of bodies and noise, like being in a Lotto machine or a clothes dryer. People came and went. It was not until later that I even realized I had one-on-one time with students, that we managed a few minutes of connection in the middle of the action around us. Later, when the dust settled, snippets of conversation replayed in my mind. "Where's Melvin today?" "With his parole officer." "Ms. B., can you skate?" "You bet. I played ice hockey with boys in college." "What rink do you go to?" "I roller skate in my neighborhood on the street, but I ice-skate at Mount Greenwood Park. You could take the 111th Street bus and meet me there on Sunday afternoons." "This Sunday?" "No, it's too warm outside for ice. Later this winter, though." There was Nelson's melt-down over lunch. "I'm allergic to all vegetables, especially corn." He was seated with his lunch (ham slice, roll, fruit). Later, he saw some kids had chicken nuggets and he wanted that instead. "No, the cafeteria ladies already made you a special no-vegetable plate. You can't ask for a second favor." He got mad and threw the ham lunch in the trash. "I can see you are angry. If you don't like the school lunch, you could bring your own lunch to school. Or you could trade with someone else who likes ham better than chicken nuggets." That was too much. He lost it and had to "go upstairs" for a while with his aide. My TFC supervisor from downtown stopped by. She gave me a pep talk about how I have to find ways to reach every child and expressed neither outrage nor hope that my enrollment would drop. As I left school guys were sitting, drinking on the school steps. As I drove past, one yelled, "Fuck you, bitch!" It occurred to me I hadn't seen a single squad car in our "safe school zone" so far. That night at graduate school, I listened enviously as Michelle, who had waist-length hair that she wore in a twist secured by two chopsticks, told us that she and her fellow intern have their fifth graders competing in a good behavior contest, how they are now perfect citizens in the hallways and classroom. It confirmed my suspicion that I was a complete failure. Chapter 12 * * * Violence [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) In places where the pen is not mightier than the sword, a pen can be stripped for parts and made into a sword. Violence is always near. Certain acts are sure-fire ways to set something off: talking about someone's mother, for instance, or calling someone "bald-headed." The arrival of a new student, boy or girl, guaranteed a fight so the fighters could assert their dominance, let the new kid know who was in charge. Violence was often a reaction to violence. One Tuesday morning, the math teacher smacked Melvin around in the hallway outside my classroom before third period. I could hear the slap upside his head as clearly as I heard Tyrese and Jeremy landing punches on each other earlier that morning, when I broke up their fistfight in the hall outside the gym. "You can't do that, man," Melvin griped loudly. His face was tight, ashen, and his body was tense and tightly coiled, boiling with anger as he walked into my room. Within five minutes he had broken a pen into a sharp, jagged plastic point and stabbed Robert in the hand. I gave Robert a Band-Aid and turned the pair over to the security officer, who by the grace of God was passing my classroom. Earlier, I had been too consumed with the task of getting my homeroom from outdoors to their lockers and the classroom to have dealt with Tyrese and Jeremy, who were rolling on the floor punching each other's lights outs near the gym. My technique for breaking up fights was this: Lean in close, but not too close, lightly balanced on the toes to facilitate a dodge or jump back if necessary. "BREAK IT UP RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW!" had worked so far. The blows came fast and furious and I had no desire to have even one land on me. It was a poor technique. I would not make it through the school year unscathed. I told the math teacher that Melvin had been so angry about being knocked around that he stabbed Robert in my room. "He told you that?" the teacher said. "No, that is my interpretation," I said. "So I'm going to ask you a favor. I'm new here, and I've been a teacher for a month, but the one thing they drilled into our heads was that we must never, ever hit a student. When I saw you do that, you compromised me. In the future, don't do that in front of me. You put me in a terrible position." He didn't speak to me for a long time after that. If I would enter a room, he'd leave. Apparently, I was the asshole. But his students were loyal to him, and I watched from afar to see how he had earned their respect. Was it violence? Was that what it took? No fists, no respect? Some weeks later, I heard a ruckus outside my classroom, the sound of banging against a metal locker door. I took a look. There was Melvin, handcuffed to a locker, being kneed in the back by a security guard, who was growling, "You want me to lose my job?" What had he done this time? Melvin was a tough customer, a sociopath with loose wires, born with cocaine in his system to a mother who later died, leaving him to be raised by an elderly grandmother. In class, he was liable to shout out crazy things—anything from sex acts with animals or threats to go home, get a gun and come back and shoot the whole class. The first time I met Melvin was on a teachers-only day before school started. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only shorts, running in short bursts like a commando through the hallways, hiding in doorways. He didn't want to be seen because he wasn't supposed to be inside the school. He came into my classroom to find out who I was and what I was doing there. "This a Phillips head screwdriver?" he asked me, holding up the tool I'd brought from home. Next time I reached for the screwdriver, it was gone, never to be seen again. I could only imagine what Melvin had done to get himself handcuffed to a locker with a pissed-off security guard's knee in his back. Seeing me, the guard quit and walked away huffing and puffing. But Melvin was still handcuffed, bringing new meaning to the word "locker." I sent one of my students to fetch Melvin's homeroom teacher, despite second thoughts about calling on someone who had previously cracked the same kid in the head. To my surprise, that teacher wasted no time advising the necessary parties, in no uncertain terms, that it was against the law to handcuff a student in sight of other students. He demanded that Melvin be uncuffed immediately, and that if the handcuffs had to go back on, he be secured out of sight of other kids. Students were peering out the windows of doors, stopping in the hallway to listen and watch. They were rapt, silent. This was riveting drama. The teacher did not back down, and it was then that I understood why his kids loved him. The kids knew he would crack them when they needed cracking. But they also knew he would defend them when they needed defending. In their world, that was fair. To them, he represented justice. In the second month of school, we were halfway through our Marvin Gaye lyric study in eighth-grade language arts when two school security officers came in with hand-held metal detectors. There'd been a shooting the afternoon before outside the local high school three blocks away. Two kids were wounded. We did not have metal detectors at our doors, but security had been on my mind. Before I had assigned lockers, a couple of times shiny, heavy, metal objects clattered onto the wood floor of our classroom. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Both times, someone dropped a combination lock. On the day the principal ordered a random check, the students knew what to do. The boys got up and walked slowly to the wall, protesting all the way but smiling and joking. They "assumed the position"—arms up, leaning against the wall, legs spread. They were digging the pat-down, because it made them look bad. But because they were thirteen-year-olds, it was grotesque and heartbreaking. Gaye wrote in 1971: "Crime is increasing. Trigger-happy policing. Panic is spreading. God knows where it's heading." I handed out lyric sheets and we listened to two songs, "What's Goin' On" and "Makes Me Wanna Holler." Their homework assignment was to answer one question: What things that Marvin Gaye protested against in 1971 are still problems today? That night, almost everyone did the homework. One girl said while she was working at the kitchen table, her parents picked up her lyrics and burst into song. "I think Marvin Gaye was saying 'Stop the violence,'" one student wrote. "Nowadays, people are killing for the fun of it." "Things are still the same—hatred, killing, robberies," another wrote. "I think things are never going to change." A few more perspectives: "Marvin Gaye is trying to set things right. He's trying to like send a message to the parents and children to let them do the right thing." "He said, 'Brothers, there's far too many of you dying' and that's still true because of them pulling out guns to kill each other when they can be friends and work together." "Marvin Gaye is a good song maker because he makes people feel like they were there." Some realized they were "there." "I see lots of stuff 'Going On' and most of it was in the song that we listened to." "The things Marvin Gaye protested were trigger-happy police and 'panic is spreading.' Just like when they came in with the metal detectors. They searched us because panic was spreading, because two people got shot at ———— High School." "Marvin Gaye was right. Too many people are dying. I think the boy was wrong, trying to take somebody's life away." I had tapped into something very real to my students: the sense of peril that pervades their lives each and every day. Danger was a constant threat; they faced a daily struggle for safe passage in the neighborhood. No wonder the jitters came right through the schoolhouse doors, seeping in like gas, agitating all who breathed it in. It was so very hard to keep violence at bay, so seldom that we were able to make our own peace, to teach and learn in the middle of everything else that was "goin' on." The same day as our random security check, the cousin of a seventh grader in Astrid's room was killed in a gang shooting. The shooter who wounded two others outside the high school, meanwhile, was turned in by his mother. He's probably safer in jail, some of my seventh graders observed. A roving science teacher from the district came once a week to do hands-on projects with the kids. "You seem to have excellent control of your classroom," he remarked on his first visit. I felt very proud. Four students were at special reading class. The rest sat quietly coloring and assembling their balsa wood airplanes. I sat at my desk and worked on lesson plans. This was nice. This was how I remembered a classroom being when I was in seventh grade. The kids were so good that the guest teacher didn't mind when I left to walk down the hall to drop my plans with my mentor. She had six seventh-grade students from Astrid's class in her office. All were being suspended. I committed the fatal mistake of feeling momentarily superior. My class is coming around, I told myself. Twenty minutes later, I was climbing over desks to separate Tyrese and Sherika, who were near the windows, punching each other as the rest of the class crowded around and cheered them on. A break between rounds. "Come on. Hit me. Go ahead," Sherika dared in her loud, brash voice. I stood between them and told them, "Both of you, walk away now. Come on, end this now. That's enough." Tyrese, who was a full head taller than me, put his hands on my shoulders, gently moved me to the side and proceeded to punch Sherika. Another girl pulled Sherika back, and Tyrese sort of spun around the room until I browbeat him out the door, but not before another girl started another dustup on his way out about how it was all his fault. Those two got a couple of licks in and continued yelling at each other through the doorway and into the hall. Their angry voices brought the librarian from across the hall and the special ed teacher from next door. The women hollered at the kids until the security officer came and took all three of the fighters away. Tyrese's father, who had foster children, adopted children, biological children and grandchildren at the school, often dropped by unannounced. He reminded me of a drill sergeant, and he made a lot of tough decisions when it came to his children, especially his teenagers. I respected him immensely. There he was! "This isn't the first time you've been in trouble for hitting girls," he berated Tyrese in the hallway. "What are you, some kind of faggot? Is that what it is with you? You have no business putting your hands on this lady, your teacher. You have no business disobeying her or fighting in school. I've had it with you, boy. You belong in boot camp and that's where you're going. "That's the problem with you boys. Around thirteen, fourteen, you start feeling like you're a man. But you're not a man. It takes a real man to walk away from a fight. It takes a real man not to hit a woman, no matter how mad she makes him." My mentor, who had already suspended the six other seventh graders, lamented the additional paperwork involved with suspending three more. So I asked Tyrese's father to take him home on an early dismissal instead. I heard him remark as they walked down the hall, "You are outta control, boy." The other kids looked somber, exchanged knowing glances. They could only imagine what was in store for Tyrese once his daddy got him home. The two girls were back in our classroom by lunchtime. Later, I had the class copy a slogan written by kids their age at an anti-violence camp: "Peacekeepers consider themselves responsible for the integrity of the world, whether their world is the classroom, the school, the community, or the Earth." "Kids your age wrote that," I told them. "What does it mean to you?" I asked them, "If you are not a peacekeeper, must I assume you have no integrity?" Then, I had the students give themselves a grade for behavior that day. They were honest. Destinee, who had led cheers at ringside, gave herself an F-minus. Our final exercise of the day was once again rearranging desks to break up the noisy—and sometimes explosive—partnerships that seemed to form no matter who sat with whom. Made me wanna holler. Chapter 13 * * * A Five-Week Reorganization [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) A five-week reorganization brought new levels of angst. I had never heard of such a thing. My children had always had the same teacher from the first day of school to the last. There were no switcheroos unless someone had a baby, got sick, went mental or died. But apparently a principal has a right to shake things up through the fifth week of school. He can move teachers around and fine-tune the operation if things aren't going well. This, it seems, is an annual event at some schools. It is discretionary and can be used as a reward or a punishment. That is how Ramona got switched from seventh-grade social studies to a sixth-grade, self-contained classroom and Mr. Diaz joined the seventh- and eighth-grade team. Jennifer, an intern with a third-grade class, got switched to second grade. At Michelle's school, three fifth grade classes became two. Her twenty-eight students became thirty-six, and her high-achievers went to a veteran teacher. Ramon, an intern who was teaching first grade, was told his position was eliminated. He had a challenging group, but he considered them his, and he was heartbroken. Rather than take another assignment, he dropped out of the program. Astrid was devastated at leaving her seventh graders and starting over. New faces, new books, new routines. And she had to teach every subject! Her seventh graders gave her a farewell party. They took a collection and raised thirteen dollars. Donna went to Sam's Club and bought a cake decorated with "Movin' On Up!" Astrid's new classroom was on the second floor. After all the chaos and turmoil of the week, Thursday night's college class was a two-hour group therapy session. "To wait for this late in the game when they've known all along what's going on is totally unfair," protested Kim. "This is bullshit," said our normally soft-spoken teacher, who taught first grade for nineteen years and was one of the most gentle people I'd met. "This is not putting kids first. It's jerking you guys around. The thing is, you still have to create a safe, secure place for these kids no matter how you feel." She suspected that class sizes were purposefully deflated at the start of the year so administrators could tell parents there were twenty-five kids per class. Those low numbers look good on paper. The reality turns out to be quite different. "How do you make a home when you keep moving?" raged another professor. "This is making it easier for administrators and the budget not you or the kids." "This is unthinkable anyplace else," said our professor. Anywhere else, "it would not happen." One intern asked a friend, a vice principal at a North Side school, if this was going on in her part of the city. Her reply, "Where we are, there is no way any of this would be happening." That intern had to explain to her third graders that they were getting a new teacher. A student asked her, "Why are you giving us up?" The enormity of the question caused the first-year teacher to lose her composure. She started to cry. Then the kids all started bawling. They spent the rest of the day watching a video. "We couldn't do anything else," she said. "We were wrecked." "That's what happens with these kids. They've been left with other people, abandoned, forgotten. Then you have them for five weeks, you're starting to bond, then this," said our professor, her face red. Besides disrupting children's classroom situations, she observed that no one seemed to have given any thought to which children should or shouldn't be together. Most of the kids had been together since they were tiny. They had history together. Yet no teachers seemed to have been asked for insight on the group dynamic. There were cousins with the same surname in the same classroom. At my children's public school, teachers met at the end of the school year to make their lists with an eye toward who worked well with whom and who needed to be separated. At some schools, children spend the last weeks of the school year in their "new" classrooms. Then again, at a school like mine with a forty percent mobility rate, who knew who would be back? Year to year, five weeks into the year, changes came. "Basically what you do is start over," our teacher told us. Chapter 14 * * * Learning [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) "Love and respect, people," Donna's voice rang in the corridor. "Love and respect." That was her mantra, her catch-phrase for interrupting undesirable behavior. That was what she expected of her students and she reminded them of it often. Down at my end of the hall, Kyisha was sitting in the hallway, her back against the lockers, head down. Tears rolled down her face. She "didn't feel good." Her mother would have kept her home from school, but "had to go to the hospital to visit the twins." Her mom had given birth a week before to twins. This was the first I'd heard about it. The babies were too tiny to come home yet. "That makes ten kids," Kyisha said. She and her sister, who was a year older, had the same father. I handed her a book I checked out of the public library, _Blue Tights_ , and let her sit in the overstuffed chair in the book corner. She was soon fast asleep. The chair had become our sick bay and our penalty box, and a prized alternative to the sticky and uncomfortable plastic classroom chairs. With its soft armrests and slanted rolled back, "the big chair" was like a friendly, yielding lap. It was a treat to spread out on the big cushy chair with its swirling upholstery and braided fringe that brushed the floor. It was old and elegant. I bought it at an antique shop years before for about $100. Under the cushion was a velvet panel in a deep teal, a buried treasure. Between its seat and arms, it sometimes held four kids at a time. Every day I was learning so much about my students and so much from them. In just six weeks I felt so deeply involved in so many lives that the threads wrapped me like a cocoon. I thought of them constantly. I replayed our time together. I talked about them with anyone who would listen. This is what teachers call "reflecting." Pros constantly reflect to troubleshoot and refine their methods and practices. I did it mostly for therapy, as people who survive something cataclysmic keep telling the story until at last they believe it and make a place for it in their psyches. I found it harder to focus on my own children at home. I had to make a conscious effort to give them my undivided attention when I was with them and not daydream about my other thirty-four children, the ones who perplexed me so. They had changed me. In six weeks, my students had made me fierce and hard, and it carried over to my own children. Misbehaviors I had once tolerated with a sigh were now shut down without mercy. Still, I tried to be gentle with my students. I gave them chance after chance to break my heart, thinking that maybe that was the only way we could move forward. "Maybe this time we'll succeed" was my constant hope. Finally, it happened. We had a big project going on that I called "What's in a Name?" "This week you will complete a research paper about your name. You will use reference books and interview family members to find out: 1. The meaning of your name 2. How your name was chosen for you 3. Whether you were named after someone in particular (a relative, a hero, etc.). If you were named after someone in particular, tell about the person who had your name before you and your connection to this person. 4. Consider the meaning of your name or your 'namesake.' Tell what qualities you draw from either one that you try to exemplify in your life. For instance, if your name means 'brave one,' how do you try to be brave? If you were named after your grandmother, what do you admire about her and try to copy? 5. Were you almost named something else? If so, what was almost your name? How would you feel about having that name instead of the one you were given? 6. Have you ever helped give someone a name? Maybe you helped name a younger sibling or cousin, or a pet! What about giving a nickname to a friend? Tell how you chose the name. Was it easy or difficult? You must answer all questions. You must attribute all information. That means tell who you talked to and where you got your information. Wednesday: First drafts due Thursday: Revisions due Friday: Present to class Extra Credit, 5 points each: • What famous bard asked 'What's in a name?' (Must give author's name and title of play.) • Bring a baby picture to show the class or a picture of the person you were named after." Well, no one answered all the questions. Not surprising. It was just too much. But I saw some wonderful baby pictures and learned a lot about African-American names that tongue-tie many white Americans. For instance, a girl might be named "Keitha" by adding the letter "a" to her father's name. A hard decision between "Gwendolyn" and "Brandy" might be solved by inventing the name "Brandalyn." Some names were combinations of parents' names. Some were combinations of mom's best friends' names. Some were traditional African names with significant meaning, like Malik (king) or Imani (faith). Names and naming ceremonies are sacred rites in many cultures. All that said, when Destinee came to school with an American Girl "Bitty Baby" in her backpack one day, I was astonished that her baby doll had no name. We planned a contest and a naming ceremony to cap our research project. First, we covered a shoebox with baby wrapping paper and made a slot to cast ballots for name suggestions. We used the baby name book I picked up in the grocery store checkout and two African name books I got at the library. I asked Destinee to choose four "elders" to help her select the name. The elders, who were actually peers, also copied some lovely sayings from one African book—they were like toasts, full of wisdom and hope—onto index cards. They handed them to other students to read aloud at the ceremony. Finally, the name was chosen. The class gathered in a circle around Destinee, who presented little "Iglesia Paris Tori Harper-Jones." (Well, not the whole class joined the circle. About six of the usual suspects sat on desks and talked among themselves the whole time. There was some love going on between Kyisha and Tyrese.) I read out loud from Alex Haley's _Roots_ , the part that describes the naming ceremony for Kunta Kinte. Then we passed the baby hand-to-hand, reading the wise sayings from the name book. Freddie was supposed to sing a song but chickened out. Kayla sang something impromptu that sounded like "Lean on Me." DeVille pounded a reggae beat on a desk, and we all joined in. "Lean on Me" turned out to be a perfect song for a naming ceremony. After our ceremony it was time for library, but I kept a few students with me to "prepare the feast." To prevent a repeat of the 9/9/99 fiasco, I knew I had to be organized, and I'd thought it out step-by-step beforehand. In _Roots_ the villagers ate rice cakes and fruit, so that is what we had. My helpers cut up apples and put blobs of peanut-butter-caramel dip on paper plates at each table, with spoons. There were plenty of napkins. There were no drinks. The helpers were seated at one table, silent and expectant, the perfect dinner guests, when the others came back from library. "See what they are doing?" I asked, pointing to the models. "Take your seats. Do that." They did that. The rice cakes and apples were handed out. We had our snack. The peanut-butter-caramel dip was a huge hit. Some liked it so much they licked it off the spoons and used their fingers to smear it on their rice cakes. Nate went around with the trash can right on schedule. We wiped off the desks with wet paper towels. Only one person had a bathroom emergency, a major issue since a student from 115 swiped my key. I attributed the success to organization and no drinks. They pleaded to go to the water fountain. They coughed dramatically. No, I demurred, you can make it twelve minutes to the end of school. No one perished from thirst. It was a good day. It occurred to me that we really ought to sing every day. That was on my mind as I punched out and discovered an exciting development: a memo was posted on the office counter that the superintendent of schools, Paul Vallas, was coming for a visit the next week. He had never visited the school before. There was no specific purpose given for the visit. It was billed as just another of his many visits to neighborhood schools. It set off a flurry of cleaning, decorating and other preparations. A stunning, ceiling-high display case of African-American art was quickly assembled in front of the office. Meanwhile, the kids had been giving Mr. Diaz the treatment because they were mad about the reorganization. Even though they acted like shit for Astrid, they carried on even worse when she was not their teacher anymore. The day before the superintendent's visit, my homeroom kids had some sort of riot in social studies. Mr. Diaz called for the assistant principal and our mentor. Next thing I knew, a letter was going home with all seventh graders informing them that they would not be allowed to attend school the next day unless they came with a parent. They were told to come to my room at 9:30. The superintendent was due at 8:30 and not expected to stay longer than an hour. It was quite brilliant to send the entire seventh grade packing until the coast was clear instead of having them around showboating and making the school look bad. I doubt it would have bothered Vallas, who pretty much knew the score. I'd known him since he worked as Mayor Daley's finance chief, and you don't survive the back rooms of city hall in Chicago to get shocked by a few seventh-grade punks in a schoolyard. But then again, I did. The next morning, Vallas spoke to the teachers in the lounge before school. Later, I saw him walk past my room with an entourage. He saw me, too, backed up and came into my classroom, perhaps expecting to find me teaching a riveting lesson in language arts. Instead, I was facing twenty-six pissed-off parents of twenty-six misbehaving students. I extended my hand in greeting and welcomed "Mr. Vallas." My students were doubtless surprised to see the CEO kiss me on the cheek and call me "Leslie." I recalled that he had once taught seventh grade, so I told him what was going on and asked him to explain to the students and their caring parents who had come to school that day, why this year was so crucial to their future, why they needed to quit fooling around and get down to business. He took it from there and delivered an excellent pep talk. I felt certain that the parents took it to heart. They got the main guy, and I got an unexpected boost when Vallas informed them that "Mrs. Baldacci used to be an editor at the _Sun-Times_ but came here to teach you because she believes in you." True enough. It was a kick to see him sitting on the table where I sit, talking to my kids. Al Gore's "executive order," still hanging at the front of the room, hadn't done any good. Would they listen to the superintendent of schools? After Vallas left, the vice principal and the guidance counselor spoke, then Mr. Diaz and myself. I got off my chest some of the careless, dumb stuff that was bugging me. ("Take a look at your child's desk before you leave and in the front of their textbooks. Is your child's name written in white-out inside the desk? In ink on the desk? How many times did he/she write his/her name in the front of the textbook? Enough times so that no one else can ever sign for that book?" As a parent, I asked them not to buy any more school supplies, because they would be sick if they saw how the things they paid money for were destroyed and sicker still if they heard their children refuse to clean up the mess they made, saying "That's the janitor's job.") The meeting ended with the assistant principal's tirade about junk food and candy and soda pop that the children bring to school (Flamin' Hots and strawberry pop—"Breakfast of Champions") and me in complete agreement, outlining plans for an upcoming research project on healthy eating and fitness. "Coming soon, to a classroom near you!" I wrapped it up. Everyone laughed. The powwow broke up on a cheerful note. Afterward, parents lingered and I spoke to each one about specific things I was expecting of each child, specific strengths as well as problems each kid needed to work on. I did not discuss it further with my students. I figured, let them take from it what they would. The message had been clearly delivered: They needed to quit cutting up and engage themselves as learners. The kids fell right back into their bad ways by afternoon, and I made ten phone calls that night. But I felt we were engaging ourselves as learners on some levels. The most important thing we were learning was how to be readers. I started on the first day of school reading aloud Roald Dahl's _The Witches_ , smiling mysteriously but giving no answers to all who asked why I was wearing elbow-length black gloves. "Listen, and you will find out," I told them. We stopped for the day after the part on page ten that asked, "Which lady is the witch?" "She might even—and this will make you jump—she might even be your lovely school-teacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment. Look carefully at that teacher. Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a suggestion. Don't let that put you off. It could be part of her cleverness. I am not, of course, telling you for one second that your teacher actually is a witch. All I am saying is that she might be one. It is most unlikely. But—and here comes the big 'but'—it is not impossible." I threw back my head and cackled like a witch before removing the gloves, the signal that the read-aloud was over for the day. "Awwwww," they moaned at my cornball tactics. Not until page twenty-four did they hear the grandmother explain, "A real witch is certain always to be wearing gloves when you meet her...Even in the summer." "Mrs. B.!" Pierre shouted, pointing. "The gloves!" Pandemonium. I learned that there were many fine artists in my classroom, specialists who turned out detailed drawings of cars and action heroes. I asked the class to work on drawings of transformations that occurred in the book, the part in which the boy is turned into a mouse and the part in which the ladies at the convention remove their wigs and masks and are revealed as witches. I thought it would help my visual learners with sequencing. The captain of the safety patrol, who rarely turned in a speck of work, brought a note in his own handwriting, signed by his church deacon: "Dear Leslie Bodachee. It against my religion to draw evolution, including witchcraft or any other evolution." The thought had never entered my head that witchcraft, even in a fictional children's story, and especially evolution, would offend some fundamentalist Christians. I had been insensitive. It made me wonder about Halloween and fairy tales and _Harry Potter_. In the future I'd better ask first, I realized, and have another option for those with religious objections. That deacon must have wondered what on earth these children were learning in that classroom with a heathen for a teacher. "Find something to read independently while we work on our novel," I told the student. When we finished the book, the class watched the movie, and enjoyed it very much. I offered to let the religious protester go to another classroom, but he declined. He seemed to enjoy the movie and even participated in our "compare and contrast" exercise on the book vs. movie version, which was rich and detailed. Those kids didn't miss a trick. Our second novel was _Maniac Magee_ by Jerry Spinelli. It seemed to have a hypnotizing effect on certain surprising individuals: Eric, Freddie, Nichelle, and Destinee. Eric's mouth finally quieted, and I caught Freddie sitting, slack-jawed, looking into space, as I was reading. I could practically see the movie show rolling in his brain. He was somewhere else, and I know exactly where that was because he remembered every fact of the story when we summarized out loud. Every fact. The kids complained at first about being read to every day, but when they saw I was not going to stop, they sat back and enjoyed it. Children need to be read to. Big kids think it's babyish, but it's not. It is an act of love and it creates connections. It is helpful to have a story "modeled" by a good reader. It hones listening skills. I made up daily quizzes and asked open-ended questions that they had to think about and answer on paper. _Maniac Magee_ gave us much to think about in terms of how Americans divide themselves along color lines and how little some of us know and how much we assume about people whose skin color is different from our own. The school had a day when we could dress up as characters from books. I wore a baseball cap and jeans and cut the soles of an old pair of sneakers so that they slapped the ground when I walked. My students knew in an instant that I was Maniac Magee. But outside the classroom, the principal told me to remove the hat. It was against the dress code. He was unmoved by my protest that I was in character and celebrating a book that was important to my class. We read three more novels as read-alouds. Through the public library, I gathered enough copies of the book _Shiloh_ for everyone to read along with a partner while I played a books-on-tape version on our boom box. Strangely, that was the novel that bombed, either for lack of interest or the break in our routine. Maybe they missed me reading to them. Maybe that part of our day had become special to them. I learned that they were ignorant of geography. They didn't know the states; they had vague ideas of continents. I decided to craft a research project around travel so they'd get some geography along with language arts. The project was planning their dream trip. I went to a couple of travel agents and grabbed every glossy brochure I could get my hands on. They had to decide where they wanted to go and how far it was from Chicago. They had to determine the cost, pack a suitcase and write an itinerary of sight-seeing and other activities specific to their destination. They had to find out the currency, language, what different foods they might eat and what were good souvenirs to buy. They had to convert currency and account for time zones. Destinations included Mexico, Jamaica, Africa, Wyoming, Florida, California and England. Andre wanted to go to Paris, of course. Good thing we were still working on our French. We had learned numbers, colors, clothing, phrases and an innocuous swear word or two. " _Zut alors_!" We worked it in when we could. " _Bonjour, classe_ ," I would often start the day. " _Bonjour, madame_ ," they'd reply with gusto. In Social Studies, it helped to know French when we learned who settled New Orleans and Baton Rouge ("Red Stick"). When we were studying the weather in science, we'd ask, " _Quel temps fait-il_?" and learned the words for snow and rain and cold and hot. When we wrote letters to Fred Montgomery, curator of the Alex Haley Museum, Andre started his letter, "Bonjour, Mr. Montgomery," which made me smile. We learned some Spanish, too. The dream trip project, with its cross-curricular integrations of math and social studies, came in handy when, two days before first-quarter report card pick-up, our principal informed Mr. Diaz and me that our worst fear had been realized: the upper grades would no longer be departmentalized. No more changing classes. Each of us would teach all subjects to our homerooms. Starting that day. Apparently, he had decided this some weeks before. He had informed the eighth-grade teachers the week before. "I should have told you, too. My fault. Apologies," he said curtly before turning on his heel and walking away. We were in shock. Suddenly, we were on the hook for lesson plans in all subjects, coming up to speed on the curriculum and teaching the lessons. But that was only a week-by-week crisis. The deeper crisis was whether we were up to the task of teaching our students in all subjects. Seventh-grade standardized test scores determine a child's high school options. What if my ineptitude kept someone from getting into an accelerated program or a better high school? I'd become comfortable with language arts. This new responsibility was daunting. Donna, who had been a teacher for twenty-six years, was so upset and frustrated at the order that she cussed out the vice principal and walked out. She lined up job interviews at other schools. She tried to console me. "This is only your first year," she reminded me. "If I can't handle it after all these years, of course you're gonna be overwhelmed. It's only natural. But God wouldn't give you anything you can't handle, you know that. You'll get through this." If she left, I would be so sad. She was my rock, and I told her so. I felt like I imagined a rock felt, like _Sylvester and the Magic Pebble_. I was numb. Somehow I dragged myself to a party downtown, even though it was four days before payday and I was broke. I drove around until I found a meter, then walked. After two months in flats, high heels were agony. But dipping back into my old life for an evening, the shoes fit and I felt like Cinderella. It was great to see everyone. I showed around our class picture, which I had received that day. I thought it was a really nice picture, but one former colleague said it made him want to cry. I shared a piece of fiction writing titled _Pimps Up, Hypes Down_ with Mary. We howled at the depth of lowbrow reached in this particular group-writing exercise. Three boys recounted, with gross misspelling and punctuation errors, their future achievements: They earn tons of money "selling weed" and shoot people in the butt who cross them. In the end, they become "successful rapers." We're pretty sure they meant "rappers." On one hand, it made us want to cry. But we had the good sense to laugh instead. "You have your work cut out for you," Mary observed. Kayla reminded me of Mary, who grew up in public housing on the South Side and whose salvation was the Chicago Public Library Bookmobile. I was floored after our first round-robin when Kayla delivered a splendid read-aloud to rival any radio anchorwoman. Later that week, she expressed an interest in reading Nancy Farmer's _A Girl Named Disaster_. I had it waiting for her on her desk the next morning. The following day she arrived on the playground with her face in the book, halfway through. She had read about 150 pages. "Up late last night?" I asked. She nodded. I let her stay in that book all day. I didn't bother her. If she was reading, as far as I was concerned, she was participating at the highest possible level. As the group left the building that day, she lifted her face from the book, broke out of line and ran to me, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before flitting out the door. She would be done with the book tomorrow, I realized. What should I give her next? Hmmm. Something fatter. That year she read _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ , _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , all the _Harry Potter_ s, three Sharon Creech novels, some F. Scott Fitzgerald and at least a dozen other books. Each received the same review: "This was the best book I have ever read." Kayla was also a good reader of emotions. She always seemed to know when I needed a boost. She always had a hug after a particularly grisly day. It wasn't until after she was gone that I would figure out how a child could read adult emotions so clearly and be so generous in sharing her strength and support. I came to depend on her—to know the answers in class, to turn in homework, to offer suggestions on how we could do things better in our class. She was used to having adults depend on her. I would not learn why until spring. Chapter 15 * * * An Observation [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) When my graduate school advisor came to observe, she was so upset that she called for the mentor and the principal. "This is a joke," she informed them. The kids were mad about not changing classes any more. They were acting up. "Thirty-six middle-class, self-disciplined, academically gifted kids in one class is a joke. These undisciplined children, crammed together with assorted behavior problems, is an unteachable situation." The principal explained that there were two seventh-grade classrooms and nowhere else to put the kids. He told her the kids were the problem. "They didn't get this way since September," she noted. Just then, to prove her point, a lower grade classroom ran past, screaming. She reminded the mentor that her job was to spend an hour each day in each intern's room, co-teaching and modeling for us how to teach. The mentor replied that she was the "disciplinarian." "You're the mentor," my advisor told her. "If you can't do that job, maybe someone else should. And maybe if this school can't give these interns the support they need, Teachers For Chicago doesn't belong in this school." I prayed they wouldn't pull us out. In my opinion, this was precisely the sort of school that desperately needed scrutiny, and Teachers For Chicago was the foot in the door that might provide a crack of that light. I decided I couldn't bear to leave. There were so many things I had learned already but much I needed to find out. Why didn't any parents know about magnet schools they could apply to so their kids didn't have to go to school here? Why weren't there any television sets or VCRs? The librarian said they were all stolen. Why hadn't insurance paid to replace the stolen equipment? Why were there so few books in the library? Why was it dark and empty so many hours? Why didn't the upper grades get time in the computer lab? Were chronic, truly dangerous kids ever sent to alternative schools? Every warm body that brought in cold cash, it seemed, was allowed to stay. The bottom line was, I couldn't leave the class. The upset of the reorganization made me realize how desperately they needed continuity. There had to be some value in coming back day after day, trying hard, doing my best, even if my best was woefully inadequate. Those were the only terms under which I could ask the same from them. After the advisor left, the principal and mentor returned to my room. "Where's your fire escape plan?" asked my mentor. "Hanging right there, by the door," I said, pointing to the pink sheets. The children watched, rapt. "Where's your schedule?" "Nichelle, please put up the map at the back of the room. The schedule is behind it." "Where's your grading scale?" "Bulletin board, lower right corner." "Where's your time distribution chart?" "I don't know what that is." "You should have it posted in the classroom," she said. "Have it on my desk at eight o'clock tomorrow morning." They turned and left. It was the second-oldest trick in the book—when someone makes trouble for you, nickle and dime them to death on paperwork that has nothing to do with either teaching or learning. I was more confused than ever the next morning when my mentor came into my classroom, fuming about how she'd been told to spend more time in our classrooms, before turning on her heel and walking out. I was confused because the people who were supposed to support me and teach me were treating me like an enemy. They wanted a seating chart. And children's names in books and books numbered. All of which I certainly should have done, if I'd only known. In the teachers' lounge I said hello to a substitute. He said he taught at our school for four years before quitting at the end of last year. "Why?" I asked. "Can't build a house with no tools," he said simply. Chapter 16 * * * Crime and Punishment [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Kyisha and a girl across the hall had been at war all week. I picked up on the vibe and watched them like a hawk. In the morning, I separated them before they came to blows. The principal was in the hallway and took them to the office. By the time I had their "office referral" forms written up, they were back in their classrooms, claiming that they had put their differences aside. But at dismissal, the whole class burst from the room and ran out of the building like a herd of deranged wildebeests. I followed them outside. Something was up. I saw Kyisha standing on the steps with her coat off in the November chill, looking dangerous, breathing heavily. I steered her aside. "Where are you going?" I asked. "Home," she said. I walked her off the steps and a little way, pointed her toward her house and told her to keep going. As I walked back inside the building, the other girl came running down the hall from the far door, claiming that Kyisha had tried to beat her up with a weapon made from a bicycle chain with two combination locks hooked to one end. I sat her in the office and went looking for Kyisha. The dangerous vapors of violence lingered in the air. The mood carried over. Pierre, who was attracted to violence as flies to Kool-Aid, picked up the battle cry and had a rock 'em, sock 'em dust-up with a student from across the hall as the kids came in the next morning. The brother of the other student dove into the fray, and furniture was knocked around. I managed to pluck the smallest one from the tangle when he came up for air. I carried him on my hip out into the hallway. A crowd had gathered, hooting and jeering. A fight could set the tone for the whole day. The kids were off-task, completely juiced up. They wouldn't come back to class from the lunchroom. They couldn't settle down to work on their fiction writing. They couldn't organize themselves into groups of four. My mentor, frosty since the observation, had been missing in action for two days. I screamed so much that day my throat was sore. By day's end, one fighter was contrite, but Pierre was acting like a wronged innocent. Each got five days, same as Kyisha. The following Monday, four more of my boys got suspended for another episode, so our class was under thirty students. DeVille, one of the suspended, left shouting a warning over his shoulder that his mother would be at school first thing in the morning "to get me back in." He had gotten in trouble for throwing food in the lunchroom and shooting beans with a rubber band in the classroom. Though I had seen him do both things with my own eyes, he denied everything. He also claimed he didn't break our stapler, but I found the spring in his desk. With so many key troublemakers gone, everything changed. It was as if a fog lifted and the sun came out. We finished all of our lessons. We were orderly. We had several discussions, one about what they would do if they were followed by a stranger and another about whether fear is a choice or an instinct. Eric participated for the first time that year. He told three stories and later ordered Tyrese to "quit fooling around." Tyrese was at looser ends than usual without his buddies to clown with. At one point, he sat next to me on the big table, because he simply didn't know what else to do with himself, and it was the only place he could still feel like he was in charge, now that his power base had been eliminated. He was my co-teacher. I had been keeping records on the number of times he disrupted class. According to my log, on a typical morning, in a two-hour period, he would leave his seat fifteen times, shout out about two dozen times and display "oppositional behavior" about five times. At the end of the day, I asked the class to respond in writing to the question, "Does today feel different than other days in 118? How?" Here's what they said: "Straight because most of the talkers are gone. It was peaceful and quiet today. Okay." "Things have gotten a little quieter than usual and there is less chaos." "Today with 27 students is different because the students that talk too much are not here. It's not loud like it use to be when they are here." "It is going along good and fast with only 30 students. Well my day did." "Today the class was quiet. I think the teacher got away almost all the troublemakers in I think it's better like this." "I think that we did more work today than any other day." "GREAT. And we can get even more work done if you want us to cause everyone cooperated today." "Yes because it is so quiet and aint no body running around the room." "It was different because, on most days we don't get most of our lesson done but, today we got our work done. Because the troublemakers isn't here to mess up our day and usually the troublemakers have our teacher stressed out, but, she doesn't seem stressed out today." Kayla, the voracious reader, wrote, "How is today different from most days in 118? Well, it's different because when there here its a mess papers are everywhere it just horrible that why I think today is a grand happy exciting lovely optimistic magical day." All that reading was having an impact on her vocabulary, if not her punctuation. "It is very different today without most of the bad kids but today is a nice day no hollering, cursing, fighting today is a great day. Without those bad kids in here starting stuff." "Our class wasn't to loud, we wasn't getting in trouble as much as we always do and there was nobody interrupting our class like almost everyday. And the class didn't get in trouble because of someone else." "Today is more quiet and peaceful and I like it. I wish we always have a smaller group." I talked to every single student that day. I spent time with children who did excellent work, my hardcore learners whom I never had a chance to really "be" with because I was so busy quelling the misbehavers. The kids who had endured nine weeks of that nonsense were still with me, and we reached a critical mass. It truly was a wonderful day. We saw each other at our best. I wrote a memo to the principal thanking him for his support and sharing with him the students' comments. I gave it to him the next morning. At 12:30, I was summoned for a "review meeting." I asked Donna what this meant. She advised me to "go in with the full armor of God," along with my grade book and attendance book. In the meeting, the principal expressed his displeasure that I did not correct the children's comments into standard English for my memo. Then he gave me an article that appeared on the _Tribune_ op-ed page about how the teachers' union protects the inept. He asked me for my impressions of the year so far and to give a self-assessment of my work. I asked whether there were any particular points he would like me to address, any specific areas. He said no. So I told him it had been the most challenging nine weeks of my professional life, that no one could have prepared me for what I face every day. I told him that I found it thrilling, compelling, even despite the hardships, and that I never once regretted my decision. I waited for him to respond. He spoke of the suspended students. "These children are victims." He said we must conduct ourselves with love, kindness and understanding. He said that when students were suspended they were unsupervised and that concerned him. He said they needed to be in school not out of school. He hinted that he would give me some feedback as to what he thought of my professional performance so far. But we were interrupted when a student's mother came in to complain about a teacher slapping her son, and our meeting was over, to be continued later in the afternoon. It never was, and that was my only "review" until the horrible surprise meeting at the end of the year, when all of my misdeeds and shortcomings were thrown in my face. But I did listen to what the principal told me, and the next day, when Pierre had a tantrum and sulked all day because I had someone else do the attendance, I tried to behave differently, kinder. I took him out in the hallway and asked him what he was so all-fired mad about. He confirmed that it was because he wanted to take care of the attendance. "But I have to train others so that if you're not here, someone else knows how to do it. You have to share what you know. Do you really think it's worth ruining a whole day over?" "No," he said, still mad. "You know I love you and you are the best assistant any teacher could ever want," I said. "All right," he said, looking at his feet and trying to suppress a smile. Things went better after that. Chapter 17 * * * Thanksgiving Break [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. Bliss. The girls and I went to Baltimore for a three-day house party at my parents'. In the warm embrace of my tribe, I found sustenance among my family's many career educators. My brother and his wife and two kids came up from Norfolk, my sister and her two kids were there. My cousins came with their children. The cousins frolicked, we wore ourselves out talking and cooking. Both my cousins' parents and mine were career educators. My father was the athletic director at my cousins' high school; my uncle was athletic director at mine. His wife was an elementary principal and my mother taught high school and college. Her sister, my Aunt Joan, worked at a tough high school in Pittsburgh, where she was known as "the motherfucking nurse." I thought I was the only second-generation teacher in the bunch, which is unusual. In many families, teaching is a craft passed on from generation to generation. Some families are education Mafias. My parents, on the other hand, thought I was crazy to become a teacher, especially in the setting and era I chose. But they had been highly supportive, clipping newspaper articles, sending boxes of books and giving me money to buy supplies for my classroom. They phoned me every weekend for debriefings and advice. "How's Kayla?" my mother would ask. "What's Tyrese up to?" Over the Thanksgiving break, I learned that my sister-in-law taught math for two years fresh out of college at an alternative school for behavior-disordered kids in the South. Wow. I'd known her for fifteen years and never knew she was once a teacher. (One-third of new teachers drop out by the third year; she left because her family moved to another state.) Her experience sounded strangely similar to my own. "I thought I was a terrible teacher," she said. "I felt completely incompetent, that it was criminal that I was responsible for those children." She gave me a great bit of advice—connect with the kids on an emotional level. Be real with them. Her kids voted her "Teacher of the Year" the month before she left. My cousin's wife taught special education for eight years. They later adopted three daughters, two with special needs. She was home schooling them. I'd always thought of Mary as unflappable. She was unfailingly calm and jolly. Yet she admitted she thought she'd lost her mind as a first-year teacher. "I thought I was having a nervous breakdown," she said. "I had no idea what I was doing, there was no one to help me, I was copying things weekends and evenings for curriculum. I had hives all the time!" "Me, too," chimed in Bernadette, my sister-in-law. "I kept cortisone cream in my top drawer." Try to imagine a job so stressful it gives you hives. But neither one quit over hives. That perspective was far more helpful than the corporate analogy that policymakers drag out when they say schools should run like efficient businesses, with teachers the CEOs of their own small corporations. The teacher/CEO runs all departments: the business office, stocking all supplies and materials; human resources for the "employees'" assorted personal needs (especially the team-building issues that far exceed the demands of adults in a professional situation); quality assurance through assessment and retraining. Above all, the CEO/teacher must be accountable. In a teacher's corporation, however, the CEO does not hire the employees and cannot fire them. Many come in inept, unreliable and combative. The teacher has nine months to turn the crew into a smooth-running organization. Then they all quit. The next year, the teacher starts over with thirty-five new employees who are inept, unreliable and combative... It was a tonic to be in the warm embrace of my sympathetic and supportive family. I came home to Chicago and slept for three hours. On Sunday I went to church and graded papers in bed. Monday I felt great. I got up ready to do battle. My optimism bubbled up once again. Chapter 18 * * * An Intervention [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) DeVille was out of control, so during library one Friday I kept Nate, Kayla and two other responsible souls who comprised my new Peer Intervention Team in the classroom. DeVille was our subject. The others were to tell him, kindly but firmly, what about his behavior was bothering them personally and the impact it was having on our class. I asked them to begin by reminding him—and themselves—that they were friends and cared about him. We sat around the big table. It was quiet and sunny. Racquel started: "DeVille, we've been friends a long time, since preschool, but it's time for you to grow up. You clown around too much. You talk too much. We are here to learn and you are dragging us down..." Kayla evangalized: "It's time to quit fooling around DeVille and decide what kind of man do you want to be." Nate: "DeVille, man, we've been knowing each other a long time now, and it's time to quit acting all crazy in school..." DeVille was silent. Then he said, "I don't have to listen to this." He got up and walked out of the room. I went after him and quietly implored him to come back. I explained it was now time for him to respond and that we weren't leaving the table without a contract, a promise from him that he would mend his ways and get on board. He flounced into his seat. "You can sit here all day. I'm not going to make a promise I can't keep," he said. "What makes you think you can't keep a promise, DeVille?" I asked. "I don't make promises," he said. "It's scary to make promises," I told him. "But it's time you took responsibility for yourself and commit yourself. We all believe in you or we wouldn't be here." Stonewall. Silence. Arms folded. Looking out the window. It was still and golden in the slanting afternoon sun. A lull fell over us. We were waiting. Donna called this "God's silence," the time after you express a need honestly and wait for something to happen. Sometimes it's a long wait. I asked, "DeVille, did someone break a promise to you? Is that why you won't take the chance of making your own promise?" His face crumpled. Huge hot tears sprang from his eyes and rolled down his face. "It's my daddy," he said, sobbing. "He promised me he'd always be there for me." I felt like I'd been kicked in the chest. Again, he walked out of the room. Again, I went after him. I waited. We stood there. I handed him a tissue. He wiped his eyes. "You all are ganging up on me," he said. "It's not fair. I'm not going back in there." "DeVille, you heard everyone in there. The first thing each one said was 'You are my friend.' They all care about you. I care about you. We see your behavior dragging you down. You need to decide what you stand for not your daddy. We wouldn't be here if we didn't believe you could make that stand. Now wipe off your face, take a few deep breaths and give me your hand." He wiped his eyes. Reluctantly, he trudged back in. I wrote out the promise. He sat with his arms folded and refused to sign. We sat a while in silence. "DeVille," I finally asked him, "is there something I do that really bugs you, something I could promise not to do any more?" "Well," he said, "it really bugs me when you scream 'DeVille!' every time something goes wrong in the classroom." "Ouch," I said. "Yeah, I can see how that would get old. It's not fair, and it's something I should work on. If I sign a promise to you not to scream 'DeVille!' will you sign your part of the deal?" Another long silence. He looked down at the table. Finally, a nod. I signed a document that said "I promise not to scream 'DeVille!' any more." I added my middle name to my signature and his mouth twitched the tiniest bit with amusement. He signed his part of the deal—a promise not to talk, walk around the room, goof off in the hallways, disrupt the class. We put the two halves in his pant-leg pocket. "You keep it there to remind you of your promise," I said. "All of you can remind me of mine if I mess up. I might mess up, but I'm going to try my best to keep my promise. Our business is finished for now. Everyone shake hands." Some were doing better than others about resolving conflict. Kyisha and Kayla had a dust-up before school one morning that caused Kayla to arrive sobbing. She sat with her face buried in her arms on her desk for the first hour of school. Later, I heard that Kyisha had told her she was "so ugly (she) couldn't get a date with a roach." I pulled Kyisha aside after lunch and asked her about it. She confirmed she had said that, but said Kayla "started it." "She said she was too smart to be with such a bunch of losers." "You were both wrong," I said. "Why don't you be the peacemaker and be the first to set things right?" I told her I expected a written apology before the close of business that day. Kyisha passed me an envelope late in the afternoon. It was an exchange between the two: "Kayla, I'm sorry for saying that mean statement to you. But you owe us (everyone) in this class an apology also because you shouldn't said what you said about your to good because everyone is equal but I am sorry and I expect to hear from you. Deepest compassion, Kyisha" Kayla responded, "Well I am sorry for what I said, but see they like to say un-nice things. I forgive them and especially forgive you Kyisha." I was proud of the way the girls handled their business. But my heart ached for the boy who missed his daddy. I understood the secret sadness that his clowning hid. He was one of many millions of children who live every day with a father's absence fraying the edges of their lives. They worry about their fathers and if they're all right. They wonder what it is about them that makes them unworthy of a phone call or a visit. They wonder what is it about them that made their father go away and never come back. They see it not as the profound failure of an adult but as a personal failing of their own. They start believing that they weren't good enough or their daddy would surely come see them, see how they're doing, see how they're growing up, see how they're doing in school. Chapter 19 * * * The Bathroom Incident [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) As the winter days grew short, I found that going back to school put me back in touch with the seasons of childhood, when emotions and routines are keenly connected to the seasons of nature. Four seasons, four report cards. Forty weeks in a school year, nearly the same amount of time it takes to create human life. Fall crackled with leaves underfoot and the excitement of new beginnings, new challenges, new school supplies, new clothes. Because I was born on Labor Day, I probably clock the start of the school year as the beginning of a cycle more keenly than most people. Some years my birthday falls on the holiday; some years it's the first day of school. I prefer the holiday. As fall deepened, the swirling leaves outside our classroom windows reflected the whirlwind of activity inside. The Thanksgiving break and a change of scene, plus the support and wisdom of my extended family, reminded me of the need for connections. The first flurries reminded me that I must make our classroom a haven—not just from the bite of winter but from the bite of the outside world. We had so many forces pulling us apart, would we ever become a unified team? Why had it been so hard for me to take charge of my class, the shortcoming for which I was criticized time and again? "Your lesson plans are dynamite, but they don't mean anything if you can't control your class," my mentor told me many times. According to her, she had been a master teacher whose students obeyed her every command and performed beyond all expectations. I believed her because she was a commanding presence. She could "talk the walk," as she had once said. However, I had yet to see her in action. She never taught a lesson in my classroom. Her help was limited to crowd control and troop movement, for which I was grateful. A couple of times, she supplied materials from the bookshelves that lined the walls of her office. On occasion, she took small groups of my students to her office. "What do you do there?" I'd ask them. Talk, do worksheets, help file things, run errands around the school, straighten bookshelves, they told me. I was grateful that her door was open to the students, because it gave me some relief, especially during our long afternoons. That same door was often not open to me, however, especially since the criticism from my college advisor. During the day, the door was often shut and locked. The window had been covered with construction paper, so it was impossible to tell whether anyone was in there. It reminded me of an editor I once worked for who worked behind closed doors while listening to music on headphones. We'd flap our arms from the other side of the glass partitions in deadline emergencies. Our mentor left at 2:30 sharp every afternoon, while we were dismissing our students, so we had no opportunity to meet with her after school. I was grateful for whatever bone she threw me, though, especially helping with bathroom breaks. I was terrible at bathroom breaks. It seemed I never could accomplish one without an incident. What was so hard about unlocking the bathroom doors, monitoring eighteen boys in one bathroom and eighteen girls in another, getting them all back in line, then relocking the doors? (I'd like to see the chairman of General Motors give it a try.) The bathrooms were located at a stairwell, at the intersection of the main hallway and a short hallway with two sets of doors to the outside. There was always some sort of mischief. The girls would sprawl on the steps, talking louder and louder, their voices carrying up the stairwell to the upstairs hallway. Someone feeling frisky might open a door to the outside and take a peek, poised to bolt. The boys roughhoused relentlessly in the privacy of their bathroom, peeing on one another, shooting water from the sink faucets, making toilets overflow, scrawling graffiti on the walls. Fights broke out in there. Tyrese once slammed a kid's head into a pipe and gave him a gash that required stitches. There were so many things I needed to be on top of, and time after time I failed. One part of me realized that bathroom breaks have nothing to do with teaching or learning, but I became consumed with the importance of order in the hallways because that is the only time anyone saw my class. No one ever came to observe. Or so I thought. My harping about the broken chalkboard of death behind the AV screen finally brought the principal to my room, when I complained again after a staff meeting in the library before school. He walked across the hall to take a look. The liability must have been apparent, because he immediately summoned both janitors. They removed the most dangerous hunks of slate and produced a cork bulletin board to cover the hole and remaining slate. With the principal holding up the cork board and the janitors drilling it in place, our class worked on an assignment amid the din of hammering and drilling. Later, at a meeting during which I was threatened with firing, the principal would resurrect that vignette as evidence that I did not observe the posted time for reading instruction. Another failing he cited was that I allowed students to go to the bathroom in pairs without supervision, which I found necessary as more of my girls began menstruating and needed greater access to the bathroom. Funny how the girls' bathroom was the setting for an incident that marked a turning point for us. That was where I learned an important lesson that didn't come out of any book. Kyisha had gotten into a loud, profane fight with Tyrese and another boy who had been talking trash about her. She and Tyrese had been "going out" for a while. Then they weren't. Then this happened. She was threatened with a twenty-day suspension for "starting it." After school, I found about eight of my girls in the bathroom, where Kyisha was sobbing. "It's not fair," she wailed. In the high-blown emotion of a teenage girl with her own sharp mind, she saw a ladder of injustice. Why was she getting suspended from school when the grownups in charge were getting away with not doing their jobs? "How can he say he's gonna suspend me for twenty days when he's not doing his job?" she implored. "We got no books, people steal everything out of your desk and people who get sent out come right back in. Look, our bathrooms got no doors. People wreck everything. And the boys are all up there saying all this mean stuff. It's not fair. It's like everyone's against us." We looked around us at the bathroom. No doors on the stalls, no mirrors, two stopped-up sinks and peeling paint. Everything around us seemed to prove her point. I thought of my overstuffed chair. A couple of days before, someone had smeared black ink all over the seat cushion and the armrests. I thought of the abandonment I felt as I struggled to be the teacher of these children. She was right. It wasn't fair. Tears filled my eyes, too, and spilled down my cheeks. We all started to cry. "You have every right to feel that way," I told her, my voice breaking. "It's not fair that we don't have supplies and that people wreck everything. I feel that way, too, sometimes, with our class." We stood and sniffed in silence a while. I swore I would never cry in front of my students, no matter how bad it got, just as I've never cried in front of a boss when things broke bad. Now I had done that. Even though it was in a broken-down bathroom after school hours, by the next day everyone would know I had cried. I had given up any pretense of control. "Girls, we have to pull ourselves together," I said, wiping my face off. "We can't let ourselves get dragged down to someone else's low level. We have to keep going, even when things aren't fair, even when everything seems to be against us. There is no other choice. We have to keep our heads up. We have to go forth with as much dignity as we possibly can and without violence." They were still crying, but they were listening. It isn't going to get any easier, I told them. You girls are smart and sensitive enough to recognize injustice, so you, more than anybody, can't give up. People who see these things are the ones who have to change them. That is our responsibility as thinking women. We have to keep going. Come on, I said. Let's go. We hugged. We wiped our faces. We mustered our dignity. We went forth. The pact we made that day is probably what kept me from walking out the schoolhouse door on any given day. Children learn by example, and so did I. As long as they kept coming back, so would I. There were no repercussions to my tearful breakdown. Control, I realized, was overrated. Likewise, staying out of trouble. You can have control and stay out of trouble and still not be a good teacher. I took heart in the example of my college math teacher, Alonza Everage, who taught me more about understanding and appreciating numbers than I'd ever thought possible. "I was in trouble the whole time I was a teacher," he said. One of the things he got in trouble for was holding class in a beautiful plant-filled atrium at his school. The principal told him, "Students aren't allowed in this area." He was back the next day, teaching in the atrium. Our college professors turned out to be the role models our mentors often were not. I was not the only intern whose reinforcements were no-shows, not the only one whose mentor was used as an extra administrative assistant to the principal. Some interns had it worse. Their mentors were cronies of the principal and treated the year like a sabbatical. They were completely missing in action, attending workshops that had nothing to do with the program, hiding in the computer lab sending e-mails to their friends and making fliers for their outside businesses. None of them ever got in trouble. Chapter 20 * * * A Winning Streak [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) The day before the science fair, the tri-fold display boards were not much to look at. After years of annual science fair projects with my own children, I recognized a lack of parent involvement rather than a lack of student effort. To complete a project and put a board together requires parent backup. It doesn't happen on its own. Kids need parents to take them to the library and shopping for materials and art supplies. Parents first must be aware of the timetable, then police it. They need to make time for kids to get together to conduct experiments and put together the board. They need to help kids compile and analyze the data, to question and help kids make sense and organize their findings. As a parent, I dreaded the science fair every year. It was like being a teacher for the weekend. How ironic to find myself in a classroom surrounded by dozens of problematic science fair projects. Donna and the special science teacher had taken the kids as far as they could. Donna even had boards for sale, with printed labels: hypothesis, data, conclusion and all that jazz. But what came dragging in the day before the fair was pretty raggedy for the most part. It was utterly predictable who had the good experiments and boards. All were children with involved parents: Carlos, whose mother monitored him closely and came up for conferences, the new girl whose parents took her places on weekends, and a girl whose mother was looking into other schools for her smart, spunky daughter. "All right, you rocket scientists, here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna help each other the best we can," I informed the fidgety masses. I had them look at each other's boards and suggest improvements. We hauled out all of our glue, construction paper, crayons and rulers and spent the day helping each other with organization, charting data and sprucing up the boards. Now I was grateful for all those dreaded science projects over the years. The fair took place on Tuesday in the gym. Everyone dressed to the nines. Some looked like they were going to church, others to a dance. There were three-piece suits and strappy dresses with heels. The excitement of dressing up, getting sprung from class for the day and the schedule change was thrilling. All morning long, they explained their projects for the judges and class after class of little kids. Unfortunately, when lunchtime finally came, there was a stampede from the gym. The assistant principal decided that was all the science fair the seventh grade could handle. It did not resume after lunch. The winners were Nelson, with his box guitar; Carlos and a partner for their rocket balloon; and the two girls with the involved parents, who took first place with their "layers of liquid" experiment. The class rallied around our winners and took pride in sweeping the competition. They ridiculed the other seventh-grade class, yelling across the hall "118 rules! 115 sucks!" I dragged them back inside for a talking-to on the importance of being gracious winners, lest we become losers in the process of winning. We'd had so few opportunities to be winners. We were virtually on lockdown due to behavior problems. No field trips were allowed. No computer lab. Many days at gym they sat on the floor while the teacher waited for them to quiet down, and when that didn't happen, they never even stood up. The one teacher to take them outside was the traveling science teacher, to fly their balsa-wood planes. The science fair victory lifted expectations for the upcoming Christmas pageant. The kids were dying to perform. Pierre, who was active in his church and had the voice of an angel, stepped up as our choir director. (We had a wonderful art teacher but no music at school.) I asked Pierre to please take one verse for a solo, but he declined. "Mrs. B., I'm happy right here where I am," he said. "All right then, Pierre, stay there," I told him. I gave him the official title of "artistic director of 118." To this day, when I watch the video of their performance, I marvel at Pierre's professionalism. There was not a cross word between him and any other student the whole time they worked on the Christmas program. It must have been a Christmas truce. Usually the other students, especially the boys, antagonized Pierre all the time, calling him "gay" and inciting him to high drama and violence for their own amusement. The children chose their own music: a medley of Kirk Franklin's "Melody from Heaven" and "Joy to the World." I had an idea, too, that DeVille and I worked out before we showed it to the class. First I read the beginning of _The Night Before Christmas_ in standard English. But after a few verses I asked DeVille to "give me a beat" and I started over, rapping the same parts. By the time I got to "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse," the kids were clapping along. They were excited about it and wanted to do the whole poem as a rap. DeVille and Joseph volunteered to be our drummers. They played the big table with their hands. We copied the entire poem by hand, then divided up the verses. Pierre and DeVille figured out a way to segue the beat from the song to the rap, and Racquel's posse put the heat on everyone to get a Santa cap at the Dollar Store. In just a few days, they had it down. They performed it for Donna when she stopped by one afternoon on her break. She said it gave her goose bumps. On Friday afternoon, she stopped by my house for a glass of wine after school, and we sat around the dining room table, shooting the breeze, laughing, gossiping. All in all, a very good week. I even got paid. However, because I worked only two days Thanksgiving week, my check was a paltry $540. I would not get paid at all for the two-week Christmas break. Obviously, I was too poor to buy presents for thirty-six children, so I decided to make them a treat that related to our healthy eating unit: homemade granola, "guaranteed to build muscles and enhance beauty and health." I baked batch after batch, then put hefty servings into Ziploc bags. I copied the recipe onto an index card. Across the top, I drew a sun and moon and the motto, "Good for breakfast or a midnight snack..." I made thirty-six copies of the card and stapled one recipe to each bag so the kids could make it for their families if they wished. I asked permission to use the lunchroom for a cooking demonstration and taste test, but my mentor told me it was against the law. She also said that it was against board of education policy to provide any food to the students that was not "commercially packaged" and warned me not to give out the granola. I decided to proceed as if I never heard a word she said. Our performance day finally came. Most of the kids had Santa hats and wore red and white. Freddie wore sunglasses and a red fedora and had something up his sleeve. They looked great. I felt nervous, but they couldn't wait to take the stage. Kayla started with an original poem about the birth of Jesus, which probably broke the law three different ways, but oh well. Then Pierre lead the group in "Melody from Heaven," then came "The Night Before Christmas Rap." I had brought a small floor tom from home and a couple sets of drumsticks for DeVille and Joseph. They had been practicing in school and out, and their chops were tight. They did more than keep a righteous beat. They actually talked to each other through the drum. When their arrangement called for a pause, they put up their sticks like army guys. Whoever had a verse stepped up to the mike, said their part, then returned to line in some signature fashion. The cheerleaders did splits. Kyisha and Pierre dirty danced and Tyrese shimmied. The audience hooted and hollered. But it was Rap Master Freddie who brought down the house when he walked on stage for the last verse in his hat and shades. No one noticed or cared that his verse was totally out of sequence. He had star quality. He was exciting. He ended the song by screaming into the mike, "Do your thang! Do your thang!" and "Put your hands up!" with a call-and-response with the audience, "Whoo whoo," "Whoo whoo." The crowd went wild. "Now SCREAM!!!" he capped it off, and the audience screamed like crazy. DeVille grabbed the mike and shouted, "Give it up, y'all, for Room 118." Deafening applause. The class left the stage in a dancing, jumping, jubilant tumble to a standing ovation. They had established a reputation for themselves, one they could truly be proud of. They were a big hit. They did it all themselves. I was very proud of them. "I hope you'll be taking that drum home now," the vice principal said. "I'm tired of hearing that racket all day long." The children's voices singing, "Melody from heaven, rain down on me, rain down on me," echoed in my head all weekend, making me smile. I recognized a strange feeling I had: happiness. I was happy! After months of hard work and discouragement, a reward at last! Working on my lesson plans over the weekend, I felt anticipation instead of dread. I looked back over the months and realized that maybe we were building something after all. What it would turn out to be I still didn't know yet. But something was beginning to take shape. The end was a flurry—a Christmas party in the room. We pushed the desks back and made a dance floor. We blasted CDs and tapes. We cut the lights and enjoyed the pale natural afternoon sun of winter. There was lots of slow dancing. We had a few snacks that people brought but not many. At the end of the day, a box of pre-wrapped presents came from the office, labeled "boy" or "girl." Charity gifts for poor kids. The children were familiar with the ritual from Christmases past. "Bootleg!" they derided the gifts, though they were winter hats, scarves and gloves in assorted colors, brand new with the tags still on. I handed each student a package of homemade granola and sent them off with wishes for good health in the new year. Some tore into it dry, though I implored them to wait to try it with milk at home, me assuming there was milk in every refrigerator. Tyrese proclaimed it "good." "Got any more?" he asked, checking his muscle for results. Destinee crabbed, "Coconut makes me throw up," and looked disgusted and disappointed. This from the child I'd spent hours making a tape of Stevie Wonder songs for. "Well, you can't always get what you want," I told her. "Just try to be gracious about it." Honestly. Andre lingered and helped me carry things to my car. After the last load, I turned to thank him. "Well, about all I can say is _merci beaucoup et joyeux Noe¨l!"_ He smiled. I knew he was still working on his French because the phrase book was missing. He looked across the street, and I thought he was watching some kids across the way. But he was thinking. Wheels were turning in his mind. He turned his gaze back to me and said, with bravado and a big smile, " _Adieu, mon professeur_." I had not taught him that. He did that all by himself. " _Tre`s bien_ ," I told him. "Nicely done. _Adieu, mon ami_." And off he went across the snowy parking lot, past the dumpsters with the seagulls perched on top, hunkered down against the winter wind. Chapter 21 * * * So Far [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I was trying to collect my thoughts for a TV show taping. It was an education-themed interview show hosted by Vernon Jarrett, a well-known Chicago writer and black historian I'd worked with on the _Sun-Times_ editorial board. I suspected he'd ask me what I'd learned in four months as a teacher. I made a list: I learned that you can't teach every child, as hard as you might try. I learned that every child's learning style is different. Whatever they cannot do one way, they can probably do another way and you have to identify and build on that. Class size is a key indicator of success or failure. Too many children can diminish expectations. Thirty-six children were too many in one class. The internship program was great in theory, spotty in practice. Interns' experience depended not so much on the school or the students as the support the interns received from the institution and their mentors. I learned that whatever you planned to do would take twice as long as you thought. I learned to buy the expensive, heavy-duty stapler. I learned that no matter how many times a teacher has explained something, it was not as effective as showing. Neither was it as effective as letting students do for themselves. Even then, it didn't hurt to explain or show once more. I learned you have to be fair. I learned that nothing seems fair to seventh graders. I learned to seek out other teachers for feedback and advice. They were generous. I learned that staff meetings in education are like hostage situations. I learned that educators often speak to adults as if they are children, which is annoying. I learned that the school secretary would make a most excellent administrator. I learned how important parent support is to a child's success in school. I learned to keep parents informed, to always be happy to see them and to make the most of my time with them. Before the TV taping, I asked the assistant principal for permission slips, so I could take the seventh-grade Christmas show video. I was so proud of them and thought they ought to be on TV. She said she didn't have any forms, but she'd ask the principal. Later, she said she asked, but he said no. "No what?" I asked. "Just 'no'," she said. The communications director for the board of education, who'd set up the program, rolled his eyes when I explained why I didn't have the tape. He also asked me why I hadn't been in the paper lately. I told him I got heat last time. He was incredulous. The last opinion piece I'd written had appeared in October. I heard through the grapevine that a certain principal had "a hissy fit" when he saw it. He never said a word to me about it, but my mentor said she spoke for him in informing me that any works submitted for publication "had to be approved beforehand by the principal and district office." I told her I'd like to see that in writing with the signature of the person who had given the order. And that was the last I heard of that. Still, who needed the grief? Was it worth it to stick my neck out, go to the mat for the First Amendment? Was it good or bad for my students to see their teacher's picture in the paper, writing about our experiences? You could argue both ways. Veteran teachers knew the drill. It's infinitely easier to say "no" or "we can't do that" or "you can't do that" than it is to go forward with new programs, to support new ideas or personal initiative. That is why teaching, while it attracts creative people, also frustrates them. There. Another thing I'd learned. Chapter 22 * * * The Mid-Winter Lull [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I was away from them, but they were with me. Conversations and events replayed in my mind. I worried about them, what they were doing with themselves with all the free time on their hands. I wondered if anyone's parents had gotten them books for Christmas, as I'd asked in a note I sent home before the holiday. I knew Kayla would make it through her latest, _A Tree Grows In Brooklyn_. I checked it out of the library for Kayla at Mary's recommendation. I'd see Mary on TV and in the paper, all out there, kicking butt and taking care of business, and smile at her secret connection to a girl she had never met but cared about deeply, because she was growing up just like Mary had—poor, but sustained by books. I took down the Christmas tree in record time. It was a relief. My faith was tightly focused in my day-to-day work and bolstered by the hope of the world embodied in the babe in the manger. Yet still I felt caught in the trap of Christmas materialism, in terms of things I couldn't afford and didn't get for people who already had so much. Because it was the longest we'd gone since the beginning of the year without seeing each other, it occurred to me what a privilege it was to know these students, to see them every day in their lives away from homes and families. I humbly realized that my own children's teachers had long known them in the context of their independent lives. They knew things about my children I didn't know, just as I knew who slow danced with whom at our Christmas party. I resolved that when I called parents, I would make one good call (congratulations on your science fair winner) for every bad call (your child is misbehaving in class and derailing the education of thirty-five other kids). I planned the curriculum for our return: the founding of the U.S., the Constitution and Bill of Rights, geometry and pre-algebra, wrap up healthy eating, then a weather unit for science, poetry and a new novel, _The Outsiders_ , for language arts. I wrote an e-mail to friends and relations I had horribly neglected while becoming a teacher. The good news: I'm still standing. Someone told me that 'if you make it to Christmas you're a veteran. Congratulations. Of seven Teachers For Chicago interns that started the school year, three of us remain. I have 36 seventh graders, including many foster children, five students with learning disabilities, one student who is autistic. I am the third-shortest kid. Our days are chaotic, frustrating battles of will, interspersed with moments I can only describe as divine grace. Some learning has been detected. We have read two novels, learned to read maps and the stock markets. We are speaking a little French. However, we are still forgetting to capitalize the letter "I" when used in the first person. We were a big hit at the Christmas show with our brilliantly ad-libbed rap of "The Night Before Christmas." We also swept the seventh-grade science fair. My family is well and happy. Natalie is in the decision process for high school, Mia is her usual upbeat self, Artie is his usual laid-back self and I continue my adventure in humility. Keep us in your thoughts in the New Year and light candles for Room 118 as the Iowa Tests approach in the spring. As the return to school grew closer, I started feeling anxious. I felt soft from all the time off, not wired and "combat-ready." I should have copied more stuff at Office Max. I should have written weeks' worth of lesson plans. I should have... I felt frustrated from going to the Field Museum and the Shedd Aquarium, seeing the treasures there that I could not share with my students because of the field trip prohibition. But I met another teacher who was a docent in a fantastic percussion exhibit, and he told me he came to schools and did percussion workshops. I got his information and wrote a memo to the principal asking permission to invite him to work with the seventh graders. I handed him that memo on three occasions but never got a response. Eventually I gave it up. The downside of being ignored was that it cheated the kids. The upside was that if I was in trouble, I no longer heard about it from the principal. Speaking of whom, one morning a girl from across the hall ran up to me, breathless, and shoved a piece of colorful mail into my hand. It was a mailer from a Gary, Indiana, Lakeside Casino. "Look," she said. On the cover was an arresting picture of our principal. His first name was over his picture. Under his head shot was the caption: "Big Winner!" Chapter 23 * * * The Second Half [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) "Why don't we do math anymore?" they challenged me. Anymore? We'd been back to school like ten minutes and already the crabbing had begun. "We do math," I told them, "when we read the Dow Jones industrial averages, or the year-to-date precipitation, or do our healthy eating stuff—that's math. When we do science experiments, that's math. And we're not going to stop with the graphs until you speak it like a language. You must learn to organize data and present it articulately." They looked at me like I was a complete dunce, which I had always been when it came to math. I could always count on my students to exploit a weakness. I taught math by studying what I had to teach, the night before I had to teach it. If I forgot it during the night, I'd study it again the next morning before school. If someone challenged my methods, I handed him or her the chalk and let them teach it "their way." All roads led to math. It was the only fair way for us to proceed. As we began the second half of our year together, we were multiplying and dividing fractions and working with decimals. Geometry was on the horizon. And then a strange thing happened. Someone came to observe our class. It was a reading resource teacher from the little kids' building. I think it had something to do with an upcoming review by the state board of education. Or maybe they were building a case to give me the heave-ho. The assistant principal made a threat in the direction of the latter, when my class got on her last nerve in the lunch line. We'd had a relatively successful morning, did some handwriting in French, worked on our healthy food project a bit, then moved into two science project presentations. The center started to come apart at the bathroom, and they were a disorganized blob of protoplasm and fists in the lunch line. I was rounding up stragglers like a border collie and policing the line when the assistant principal sent them back to the classroom with a threat of "no lunch!" This had happened once before, but the principal overruled her on grounds that it was against the law to deny the children lunch. With much griping and moaning, we returned to the room. The assistant principal followed to tell us how sick she was of Room 118, how she could always tell when we were in the hall and that we were a disgrace to the entire school. Then she asked me to clear some "good" people for the lunchroom and said that the no-goods were to eat in the room. I kept about a dozen. Time passed and I sent someone to ask how we were to get lunch in the room. My messenger reported back, "No lunch." I went to the office and found the assistant principal behind the counter. "I guess you've come to plead their case, but I don't want to hear any of that crap," she told me, loudly. She went on to tell me that my students needed a brand of discipline that I was failing miserably to deliver. "I am not here about any crap but a point of law," I told her. "The last time this happened, I was told it was illegal to deny the children lunch." "I take full responsibility," she said, "because I'm an administrator." "Just so we're clear on that," I said, taking my leave. I wolfed down a sandwich in the teacher's lounge and got the other barrel unloaded on me by the gym teacher. "I'm not much of a fan of your program," he informed me. "I don't think anyone should be in the classroom until they're certified. I think you take away certified positions. I went through the regular program, student teaching, and I think you need that to know how to handle a classroom." "I can appreciate that," I said, knowing that part of what he said was true. I did not have the strength to argue that no one was taking away "certified positions." The Chicago Public Schools filled hundreds of chronic vacancies each year with uncertified teachers. Low-performing schools tended to have the highest numbers of uncertified teachers. Schools with the biggest problems had the most vacancies. That is how I happened to be there, not by knocking a certified teacher out of some imaginary employment line clamoring at our schoolhouse door for a job. The assistant principal entered, still fuming, and slammed a Lean Cuisine into the microwave. "Bad day?" asked the gym teacher. "Terrible," she said. "Maybe you need to get rid of four or five students," he offered. "Maybe I need to get rid of four or five teachers," she growled, storming out of the lounge. Ouch. But I saw her point. I might have felt the same way if I had to be the editor for a bunch of rank amateurs who couldn't spell and punctuate. Seven interns had started the year. Three of us were left, including Astrid, who had shown more fortitude and resourcefulness than I had given her credit for. I knew she was smart, but I didn't think she was that tough. She was holding her own with the sixth graders, a motley yet cunning crew, given to violence and stealing. Many things she had bought with her own money (she had paid out of pocket that year to outfit two different classrooms due to her transfer) had disappeared from the classroom. The most recent intern defector struggled mightily to hang on until Christmas. "I'm in therapy, I'm on Prozac, I'm getting the hell out of here," she told me at the Thanksgiving assembly. She thanked me for the Aerosmith picture I gave her in October ("This is your focal point...") and said it helped her hang on a little longer. Her fourth graders got a new teacher in January, a relative of an administrator, who settled in with daily help from our mentor, though she was not in our program. I did not begrudge the interns who left. In time I would see others come and go, some like the white-flight victims of the neighborhood a generation before, who moved out in the middle of the night. The pain and shame of leaving was a personal and professional defeat for the fledgling teachers. They had started with the best intentions to help kids, not to hurt them. Some never came back to claim their supplies. I was hanging on by my fingernails day to day, hour to hour. I knew how precarious we all felt. Experienced teachers told us not to be so hard on ourselves. "Write off your first year," they said. "It's a lost year." One extraordinary veteran teacher admitted that her first year "felt like being in a dark cave." "It wasn't until the second year that I began to see shapes around me," she said, "and at the end of the second year I started to see light at the end of the tunnel." Of course teachers who took the traditional route and had student teaching experience were more qualified as rookie classroom teachers! Those of us who came to the profession through the fire as interns with little supervision or guidance seemed to learn everything the hard way. We made just about every mistake there was to make. But that was no excuse to write off an entire year. According to my count, I wasn't the only one having a year. There were thirty-seven, soon to be thirty-eight, years going on in our classroom. That is practically a lifetime. Robert, who had noticed the way teachers came and went, asked me, "Mrs. B., you can go back to your old job any time you want, right?" "Absolutely not," I told him. "I am your teacher today. I will be your teacher tomorrow and every day for the rest of the year." Tyrese, angling for a day of frolic with a substitute, forced the issue. "Mrs. B., when are you ever going to be absent? Your hair is almost totally gray, you're old. C'mon. When are you going to miss a day?" "Never!" I told him in my witch voice. "I will be here to torture you every day!" For good measure, I threw back my head and cackled like a lunatic. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at my dementia. Chapter 24 * * * Hip Hop 101 [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Students weren't allowed to bring headphones to class, and it hadn't been an issue until one Friday at the slushy end of winter, when I had to tell several people to put the headphones away. I realized it was not a sudden epidemic of headphones; they were listening furtively to a tape player being passed desk to desk at the fringes of the class. Finally, I seized the headphones and the tape player and put them in my desk drawer. "Can I get that back at the end of the day?" Racquel asked. Aha. So she was the owner. Interesting. Someone who usually followed the rules was breaking them that day. I was curious about what was on the tape. It had been more interesting to my students than what I was trying to teach. I decided to check out the competition and take the tape home for the weekend. I gave Racquel her tape player and headphones with instructions to leave them at home in the future. At 7 a.m. Saturday I was sitting in my robe, drinking coffee and grading papers at the dining room table. I slipped the tape in. "Pussy on the floor, pussy on the floor, spread your legs. Pussy on the floor, pussy on the floor, I got a big dick." I sucked a sip of coffee into my windpipe as my head whipped around so my eyes could bulge at the tape player, as if I had to see it to believe what I was hearing. Sure enough, the "song" continued. It was rap, with a drum machine beat and a keyboard pecking out one note at a time. Horrible basement quality production, kindergarten musicianship, words triple-X raw. The second track had rhyming words. "Hold up, wait a minute, let me put my dick up in it..." There were about ten songs, and every one was about sex or violence, in the most base, lowbrow terms imaginable. One was a string of insults: "You look like shit. Your mama look like shit. You smell like shit." How hard is it to rhyme "shit?" Who were these rappers who didn't even think to try? The tape appeared to be a commercially-produced cassette, a major label release by a group whose name I recognized. But the material was such utter swill, it didn't make sense; those guys were on the radio and TV, this stuff could never get airplay. Or was there some new, looser standard operating? Had I become a prude? True, it startled me at red lights when someone in the next car had the windows down, subwoofer vibrating the trunk lid and a rap mix blaring "motherfucker," "bitch" and "kill." Maybe I was "out of time," as the Stones put it. The household started to wake up when I got to the track "Bald-headed coochie rat (your hands can't touch that)." I hid the tape like an ugly secret. When my husband left for work, I slipped it into his pocket. "Give this a listen, will you?" I asked. "I want to know what you think. Ask the other guys at the shop, too." The guys who work at the drum shop were all drummers. Some were rock 'n' rollers who spent years on the road. Some were young guys who played in bar bands. As working musicians, they understood the power of music, its ideas, its commands, its sway. They weren't exactly sisters of the convent. They were not easily shocked. The phone rang in the afternoon. It was the drum shop boys. They were howling with laughter, screaming. The tape was blasting in the background. "No way!" I heard guys shout. "This is insane!" "What is this shit?" my husband asked. I explained that it was a tape I took from a student. "You've got to be kidding me," he said. "Did you listen to the whole thing?" I asked. "No, just the first song." "Keep going," I urged. "Call me back." When they called back later, their initial shouting and hysteria had diminished to moaning. Wave after wave of shock and insult had worn them out, like swimmers in the surf. Tommy, though, grabbed the phone and cracked that his band, The Buckinghams, wanted to cover "Hold Up, Wait a Minute." Kevin, who was a senior in high school, got on the line and apologized to me. "What are you sorry for?" I asked him. "You didn't do anything." "I'm sorry you have to teach kids who have been exposed to shit like that," he said. On Monday, I asked Racquel about the tape. She confirmed that it was not the music of the artists whose name appeared on the cassette, but a "mix tape" that had been recorded over. "You can't tape over a pre-recorded cassette," I argued. "Yes, you can." The kids were amused that I didn't know the trick with a piece of tissue that made it possible to record over commercially-produced cassette tapes. As usual, they were minding each other's business and had joined in the conversation. Everyone wanted to tell how to bootleg a cassette. Not everyone wanted to talk about what was on the tape. "Mrs. B., you listened to the tape?" Freddie asked. "Yes, I did," I told them. They were embarrassed. They glanced away, at each other, down at their feet, then looked at me expectantly. "You know me, I like songs about loooove," I said. "That tape made me feel slapped around. It was depressing. I heard zero musicianship, no poetry. The images—I can't even call them ideas because there was no thought—were ignorant. It was all insults and hate and disrespect. I didn't like it one bit. It was like music for people who hate themselves and everybody else, even the people they have sex with." "Yeah, but it was raawww," Freddie said, gesturing with his hands out and up and his knees bent, head and body bobbing like a video rapper. The others laughed. "Shocking is easy. Ideas are hard," I said. "What do you think Marvin Gaye or Stevie Wonder would say about that tape?" "They'd say it was shit!" Cortez blurted, dashing behind Eric so I couldn't tell who said it. "You're doggone right," I said. Discussion over. Now, what to do with the tape itself? Racquel and three siblings lived with their great-grandmother and two cousins. The mothers of the children (who were sisters) and their mother (Racquel's grandmother) were all "on the pipe," was all I'd heard. Great-grandmother was doing her best despite poor health. It was hard for her to get up to school, but she did. On parent-teacher conference day, she climbed the steps to visit four or five classrooms. The oldest kids, teenagers, were giving her trouble. It was hard to keep them in line. She worried about child welfare taking all the children away if the older ones got into trouble with the law. She didn't want the family broken up any more than it already was. "I pray every day that I live long enough to raise these children," she said. Two generations of women between hers and her great-grandchildren's had fallen down. She had stepped up. Did she need this weight added to the load she was already carrying? I didn't think so. So I told Racquel I couldn't give the tape back in good conscience, unless her great-grandmother knew about it. I would return it if we all sat down and listened to it together. "No, Mrs. B., why?" she whined, horrified at the prospect. "Grown-ups are nosy. It's our responsibility," I said. "Please don't call my grandma, Mrs. B.," Racquel begged. "I don't want that tape back. You can keep it." "I'm gonna burn it." "Yeah, whatever." Chapter 25 * * * Bottoming Out [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Overwhelmed, exhausted, sick, jealous, lonely, irritable, despairing, I realized it must be late February, the shank of another Chicago winter. I felt like a robot. The alarm went off at 5:45. Shower. Read the paper. Pack lunches. Get dressed. Go to school. Do battle. Come home. Do homework. Check children. Fix dinner. Go to college. Come home. Fall into bed. Fridays and Saturdays, I slept twelve or thirteen hours a night. That had been the routine for the past six months. I had no social life. I had no time, no energy and no money for a social life. It was a rare event that got me out at night. Twice I got dressed up and started out, only to turn back, too exhausted to go through with it. What did I have in common with my old friends anyway? One sent me a note that he'd written a novel. Another sent his first-place short story from a fiction contest. On the rare occasion that I had time to turn on the television, there were my old friends and colleagues holding forth. It was jarring, surreal, suddenly being in a new world, an anonymous member of the public who went through voice mail hell instead of having the straight-through number and someone on the other end happy to hook me up. Had I really been out with these buddies just nights before, drinking beer and talking politics? Their public presence was part of their workday. Mine was far removed. I would come to call this my Deep Underground Phase. The rock critic was throwing a party for his new book. The bash didn't start until 10 at night. Three bands were playing. One was a Black Sabbath tribute band called "Black Stabbath." I couldn't miss that one, so I took a nap and threw a folder of ungraded worksheets in the garbage. Looking at my old friends' busy, exciting, media lives, part of me was ugly jealous. I was sad, too. I missed them. I was achingly lonely sometimes, so needful of adult companionship and their irreverent perspective. We used to have lunch a couple times a week. We talked many times during the day. Now, I had virtually no adult contact during my working day. Now I wolfed my shitty little lunch from home in seventeen minutes while I policed a bunch of crazy kids in a smelly, deafening lunchroom. Cortez would sometimes swipe me a milk, when the lunch lady wasn't looking. It was his way of taking care of me, a tiny show of kindness, and I was grateful for it. I left thirty-five cents at the lunch lady's window. Stuck in a rut as I was, it was a rare treat one Friday morning to get a break in my daily routine. I'd been asked to speak to high school journalists at their annual convention at my university downtown. I asked my mentor if she would supervise my class while I was gone. "I don't sub," she replied. After I explained that it was only for an hour, then she could deliver the students to the library, she relented. On Thursday, I told her their homework had been to rewrite the first three paragraphs of the _Declaration of Independence_ as a "Dear John" letter to King George. They would read their versions aloud for her the next morning. "Whoop-de-do," she said. I arrived at school mid-morning after my downtown speaking engagement, uncharacteristically dressed in a business suit and heels. The children were happy to see me, waving and calling to me from the library line, highly complimentary about my stylish look. They usually saw me dressed like a commando: pants, flat boots, simple top. (I admire teachers who wear dresses, heels and hose and accessories to school. I don't know how they manage. I could not do the job dressed like that. I was on my feet all day, up and down ladders, jumping on chairs, chasing down kids, moving around. My perfect school uniform would be a one-piece industrial uniform, one of those pants and shirt combos with buttons or a zipper up the front and lots of pockets. Either special forces khaki or CPD tactical officer black would work, color-wise. Chemical spill containment suit white would not. Combat boots and earrings would complete the ensemble. If I were superintendent, I'd offer them free to all teachers.) Since it was Friday, the afternoon went down the drain in its typical fashion. Every week had a Friday. Why did every Friday have to be so messed up? By afternoon they were noisy, inattentive, irritable and generally horrible. Tyrese said "motherfucker" out loud just to see what I would do about it. I shrugged my shoulders. I was so frustrated and sick of them that I screamed at poor Carlos, who had merely gotten up to ask me if he could go to Ms. Gamble's class to get something he left there. I tried calling him twice over the weekend to apologize but got the answering machine. I didn't leave a message. The following Monday morning was freezing and rainy. I had realized over the weekend that I had an appointment with my new doctor that day. I booked the appointment in late January, but since he only saw new patients one day a week, it took me a while to get in. When I got a reminder message on Saturday, I realized I'd have to take Monday off from school, and I had left nothing behind for a substitute. I felt bad that whoever walked into my classroom would have to wing it. At 6 a.m. I phoned the substitute teacher center, protocol for when a teacher was absent. The sub center was a central routing office at the board of education that matched substitutes to vacancies and dispatched troops. It was not easy to get substitutes at our school. I met a woman at a party who told a horrific story about subbing in a first grade classroom at a school where the kids ran wild and the office was so rude and uncooperative that she walked out at 1:30, got in her car and drove away, never to return. I asked her the name of the school. You guessed it—my school. I continued to get a busy signal at the sub center. I redialed every couple of minutes. I toyed with the idea of going to school at 8 with my lesson plans, teaching until it was time to go to the doctor and leaving an organized day (at least on paper) for whatever victim they rounded up to take my class. Nah. That day, I would be just as unprofessional as those I criticized. Still busy at 7:30. I got through to the school office at 7:45 to let them know I would not be in. I told the secretary that the phones at the sub center must be broken, that I'd been getting a busy signal for nearly two hours. "That's normal," she said wearily. "Keep trying." Still busy at 8:55 a.m. Still busy at 9:11 and 9:15. Schools were already in session. I felt ashamed to work for such an inefficient and uncaring bureaucracy. I felt a rising indignation and with it, a sense of justification for my guilty day off. I felt I owed the system nothing, no courtesy, no loyalty, no support, nothing. On my sick day, I was sick of all the adults who worked for the school system who barely tried to do their jobs even marginally well—sick of the lot of them, absolutely disgusted with them. The sub center line was still busy at 9:30. It was still busy at 10:30, when I left for the doctor. I called the school secretary back. She said they had someone to cover my room, and I didn't have to call the sub center any more. I reminded myself as I drove through the gray mist to the doctor's office that I didn't work for "the system" or even for the bungling adults who operated it so poorly. I worked for the children. I wondered what was going on back in the classroom. I knew that if a stranger was sent, the only reasonable expectation was preserving life and limb. The only other time I'd had a substitute, it was a man, a big man, who became so frustrated by the end of the day that he shoved Tyrese and choked Eric. At least that's what the kids told me. The man was never seen again. I heard from an aide that the Friday before, during my hour-long absence, my mentor had the class sit silently and copy out of books. They did not read their _Declaration of Independence_ interpretations after all. "You could have heard a pin drop," the aide said admiringly. Fear, intimidation and copying out of books. That was precisely what I was learning at college not to do. That was not learning, that was a bunch of crap, we were told in our teaching classes. Yet these methods were revered at my school, where quiet and order were prized. It was little comfort that a review team from the state, after spending a week at our school conducting eighty observations and interviewing fifty teachers, recommended that the teachers do more hands-on and small-group teaching, more critical thinking activities. They criticized the staff for leaning too heavily on in-the-seat direct instruction and worksheets. The state team also interviewed students. The findings: "Students complained about people acting out in the classroom, talking and yelling out and throwing paper. They said they don't feel anyone listens to them when there's a problem." I felt gratified that both times our class was observed we were doing hands-on, small groups and critical thinking. It was noisy, but we were on the right track, according to these experts. But the validation was little comfort to me in my bottoming-out phase. I was told that bottoming out happened to all first-year Teachers For Chicago interns at some point. It comes at different times for different people. I'm sure some of my bottoming out was due to a chronic, escalating lack of respect from the principal. Before the meeting with the state examiners, for instance, an aide ran to fetch me, breathless. "The principal is calling for you. You'd better get over to the library right now!" What was so all-fired important? He wanted me to take notes as the state team presented its findings. Ironically, the only paper I had to take notes on was an envelope, marked "confidential," containing a referral from the principal to a classroom management course at the teachers' academy. The course conflicted with graduate school, but my mentor said I could be fired if I didn't obey my principal's order. I typed up the notes during my prep period and delivered them to the principal early in the afternoon. He asked, "Where is the rest of it?" I assured him that the state examiners' comments were complete. "Where's my part?" he asked peevishly. He wanted his reaction to their comments, a corny basketball metaphor of the students dribbling down court and the teachers as a team and how what we did determined whether each student made the hook or the jumper, hit the three or missed the easy layup. My mind reeled. I fled the office, saying something over my shoulder about how I'd work on that part over the weekend and be sure to add it. Back in the classroom, I picked up rumblings that one of my girls was pregnant. Hints and innuendo were flying around the room. I saw Sherika pat her belly and smile. God, no, I thought, the motherless child pregnant at twelve? It was too much. I put it out of my mind to think over during the weekend. At day's end, aliens abducted the vice principal. Someone charming and upbeat claiming to be her came on the intercom told us to have a nice weekend and go straight home. At 3, a half-hour after dismissal, I was called to the office to pick up my check and told to go home. I was the only teacher left. "Even the Lord rested on the seventh day," sighed the sympathetic alien who had assumed the vice principal's physical shell. She reminded me that she had been at school all the previous weekend preparing for the review team and was ready for some R&R. Pretty crafty of the alien to throw in those details. A convincing performance. As part of my bottoming-out phase, I sent mayday messages to people who had offered me help in the past. One offered encouragement; another suggested I was being set up; a third promised to send some classroom management techniques. I never got them. I also reached out to former colleagues, apologizing for my "deep underground phase." "I used my editing skills last week," I told them. "I had the kids write letters to U.S. Education Secretary Richard Riley protesting his proposal to cut summer vacation to one month. One young man closed his letter by telling Riley that he was 'a bogus piece of monkey crap,' and 'Have a nice day!' with a smiley face. I wrote in the margin in my teacher red pen, 'Antwan, I'm not sure it's a good idea to call the U.S. education secretary a piece of monkey crap. Think you can reword that?'" I tried to explain to the people I had been so close to just six months before what had become of me, but it was like trying to make contact from the afterlife. It was impossible to convey how exhausting it was working with children, how they sucked the life out of me and fought me every step of the way but needed me at the same time because school was the most positive, consistent thing in their lives. I had flashes of memory, but no words to describe the small moments that revealed to the kids the big world beyond our ugly little corner or the beauty in front of us where we stood. I felt like Robert DeNiro's character in _The Deer Hunter_ when he returned from Vietnam to his small Pennsylvania steel town, where life had gone on as usual. "I feel a lot of distance," was how he put it. Chapter 26 * * * No Coincidences [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) One time I interviewed Alice Walker, and she said something that stuck with me. She said there are no coincidences, only markers on the path to let you know you're going the right direction. After that, I never saw coincidences again, only markers. It was a cold spring day, the slush had melted and my car was running rough. I dropped it off at the shop after school and walked the mile or so home. Because I was on foot, I found markers right there on my path. Tons of them. When my girls were little and we'd walk around the block, we'd keep an eye out for evidence of the "rubber band fairies." We'd find rubber bands left by the people who drop off mailers at houses. We always found at least one or two, sometimes piles of them. Sometimes red, other times blue or beige, sometimes large ones, sometimes small. The kids would take them home and do Barbie's hair with them. Coming home from the car mechanic, another fairy had been at work: The Twistie Fairy. For blocks, every 10 feet or so, I'd find another blue twist-tie. Nelson used them to make his moveable creatures and he called them "twisties." Just that day he had asked me if I had any twisties, and I did not. When I spotted the first one I laughed out loud and bent to pick it up. As I put it in my pocket, I saw the second one, and another after that. I must have looked like some sort of nutball as I gathered them up. Burdened down with my teacher bags, I'd walk a couple of steps, stop, bend, pick up another blue twistie. By the time I got home I had a whole bouquet of them, probably 50. "Look what I found!" I crowed to my children as I came in the door, holding out my blue bouquet. "Twisties for Nelson!" they hollered back. They were impressed with my haul. I thought of Alice Walker and our interview in her suite at the Ritz Carlton. The memory seemed dreamlike and long ago, but the wisdom in her words was immediate and clear and real: There are no coincidences. God is with us, always, in the smallest moments, in silence, even in discarded twist-ties someone threw in the street, making a trail as he walked along, not really thinking at all, certainly not thinking that his discarded trash would mean anything to someone coming behind, anything at all. Yet for the person following the path, it was proof that I had not been forgotten. I was not alone. Not long after that, something happened to my friend, Fred Dobrinski. He played guitar in the band with my husband for years. Later, he went back to school and became a music teacher. After a few months at his suburban Chicago school, he learned that there was a long-forgotten "instrument room" behind a locked door in a nondescript hallway near the auditorium. He went to take a look. He must have felt like Howard Carter discovering King Tut's tomb when he unlocked the door. Inside were thirty-five guitars. Not trombones, not snare drums, not violins. Guitars. Another friend, a businessman and guitar aficionado, paid for repairs and cases, and Fred added guitar classes to his curriculum. It was no coincidence. Neither were the gift certificates from Borders which would surprise me later on. Neither was the marker I found on the sidewalk at the end of the year, one I almost did not see through tears and nearly stepped on and squashed. Chapter 27 * * * Pierre [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Whenever there was an ugly crowd on the verge of danger, Pierre was there. In a fight between kids swinging two-by-fours I tried to break up after school one Friday afternoon, Pierre was at the center of the brawl, stripped down to his t-shirt on a winter afternoon, howling at the gray sky, screaming at the top of his lungs, stoking up the crowd. There had been a terrible fight between two girls after school another day. One was hospitalized with stab wounds. The other was in the juvenile detention center. Tragedy, all the way around. At that fight, Pierre was ringside. Others were accessories after the fact; they helped hide the weapon. Pierre seemed to have radar for violence and usually insinuated himself into it somehow. He liked to instigate it, too, by being argumentative, manipulative, volatile. He was also sensitive, loving and articulate. He was complex and fragile. I cared for him and worried about him. I was glad to see his mother when she stopped by school. "I am concerned about Pierre," I said. "He seems to be on a self-destructive track, but he has so many gifts. He spends a lot of energy stirring up conflict with gossip and insulting people to start fights. A fight is one thing, but I'm worried he's going to shoot off his mouth to the wrong person and get himself hurt. He doesn't seem to realize that his mouth can be a dangerous weapon." I asked Pierre's mother whether he'd ever received counseling, and she said no, but she'd certainly agree to it. She was at her wit's end with him. She said she'd come to school the next morning to talk to the guidance counselor with me. She didn't show. But I told the guidance counselor that Pierre's mom had agreed to counseling, and the counselor said she'd arrange services. Soon after that, a social worker visited the mother. She reported back to me that Pierre would get counseling. Bless her. Bless her. Because of the help, though, something drastic happened. It was discovered that Pierre lived outside the boundaries for our school. "Is this your mother's house or your grandma's?" I asked him, pointing to the address on a school form. "My mama," he said. "But I thought you lived with your grandmother." "No. I live with my mama," he assured me, clueless that his honest answer would get him booted from our school. The die was cast. Tuesday afternoon, an office aide dropped Pierre's transfer documents on my desk. I filled in the information about how many days he had been absent and tardy all year. I shook his hand and wished him good luck. That was it. He was out. "Good luck at your new school," I told him. "Keep working hard." The next morning, Pierre was back, sitting in the office. His mother was behind closed doors with the vice principal. "I didn't think I'd see you again," I said. "I'm here about the fight yesterday after school." Like I said, if there was trouble, Pierre would find the middle of it. A few minutes later, he left the office looking like a whipped dog. His mother screamed, "This is the motherfucking last straw! I swear you belong in a mental hospital." I ran after them and caught Pierre at the door. I handed him his portfolio of schoolwork. "Thanks, Mrs. B.," he said. And then he was gone, a split-second silhouette against the bright morning sun before the big metal doors slammed shut behind him. Pierre had had many difficult days in our classroom. But he had great days, too. I would never forget him. That part was true. He would always be on my conscience. I felt like I had palmed him off on someone else, like I had passed the buck. I wondered whether I should call his new school, tell them he was approved for counseling services. I would ask the guidance counselor what, if anything, had been lined up in terms of transition services. One afternoon the following week I heard a familiar voice behind me say, "Hey, Mrs. B." "Pierre," I said, "how are you? How are things at your new school?" "I'm not there yet," he said. "But it's been a week," I said, "you haven't been in school all this time?" "No, we needed three forms of ID," he said. An office aide on guard duty at the door interrupted. "You are no longer a student here, Pierre, you can't go walking through the school..." "The children will be out in a minute," I told him. "I'll tell them you're right outside. Take care." The difference between life and death. That's what Haberman said school was to some kids. A week had passed and Pierre still wasn't in school. Had I pulled his lifeline? Chapter 28 * * * Spring Planting [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) The class planned a seed-planting project. It was part science, part sentiment. It was important to me that they take home something living that would sustain them. Any garden is a celebration of life and a symbol of hope, and my hope was that they would become nurturers and caretakers, that they would assume responsibility for tending to living things. I hoped they would take from our classroom living connections that would keep growing after our time together was over. I hoped for surprise when the seeds sprouted and delight at that small yet significant success. They voted for cucumbers, melons and tomatoes. We saved our milk cartons at lunchtime until we had two or three for each student. Our wide windowsills with the afternoon sun would serve us well. I bought potting soil with fertilizer pellets and packets of seeds. It was chaotic and messy, but we managed to get the crops in. I showed them how to read the packets to know when we could expect to see sprouts popping up from the dirt. They looked at me doubtfully. Urban gardeners are hard cases. They were doubtful that windowsills crowded with milk cartons would soon be a garden. We also decided to plant sunflowers all along our window wall outside of Room 118. We'd been studying the poems of Langston Hughes and decided to name our garden in memory of the poet who knew despair but held fast to hope. I picked up a wooden garden marker in the shape of a sunflower, which Nate painted yellow and green. He added in yellow on black in the center of the flower: Langston Hughes Memorial Garden, Room 118, C/O '01. Exhausted and buying time to get grades in for the third-quarter report cards, I rented _The Mighty_ for the class. The only movies we watched that year were _The Witches_ and _The Outsiders_ —after we read the books. But since _The Mighty_ was about writing a book, with a powerful message about courage and chivalry, I let it roll. This touching coming-of-age story is about a boy with a fatal disease that makes him need leg braces and crutches. He is assigned to tutor a great big strong kid who has a learning disability in reading. They become friends. Max becomes Kevin's "legs." They identify with the Knights of the Round Table and do honorable deeds because that is what knights do. The movie is divided into six "chapters," and while the ending is sad because Kevin dies, Max learns to read and ends up writing his own book. It ends with Max considering the meaning of the "once and future king." "That can either mean he can come again, or, when someone so great once was, someone so great will always be." The kids talked so much during the movie that I could not tell whether they were watching or listening. Three bodies wrestled for space in the big chair. I was amazed when they burst into applause at the right moments. I was doubly amazed when Sherika, who at the beginning of the year was practically illiterate and who talked more than anyone, recited word for word the advice Kevin gave Max in their first tutoring session: "Every word is part of a picture. Every sentence IS the picture. All you do is let your imagination connect them together." It was Sherika again who found the perfect verse for our Langston Hughes garden marker, from his poem, "Motto." _I play it cool_ _and dig all jive_ _That's the reason_ _I stay alive._ _My motto,_ _As I live and learn is:_ _Dig and Be Dug_ _In Return._ My mouth dropped open, I ran up and hugged her. The double meaning of "dig and be dug" for the garden knocked me out. Her wheels were turning. I proclaimed her an intellectual heavyweight. She took a bow. In the middle of all this, the third quarter came to a screeching halt, which meant report cards—a crushing task. I agonized over grades. It was my first time doing report-card pickup solo. When the parents came for first-quarter grades, the four seventh- and eighth-grade teachers met them as a team on the auditorium stage. Second- and fourth-quarter report cards went home with the students. Third-quarter pick-up was a day-long open house for conferences with parents and students. It took place in our classroom, which was looking pretty spiffy. Our March weather chart covered two walls. Every day we noted the high and low temperature and our artists made suns, clouds and snowflakes to mark conditions. The thirty-one-day chart showed that "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." Samples of the kids' work hung everywhere: letters, haiku, graphs, maps and colorful tessellations (pattern repetitions) from geometry. I had three kinds of cookies and apple juice, a video screening area so parents who missed the Christmas performance could see it on tape, portfolios of every child's work, a Langston Hughes poem and a letter pleading for the return of borrowed paperbacks and textbooks. Twenty-three parents showed; thirteen didn't. I was told that wasn't bad at all. Freddie's mother left with a big smile on her face after seeing the Christmas video. Carlos' mother was pleased because his grades went up. Racquel got a terrible report card, which was way out of character. But she vowed to bring up her grades in the last quarter. I had a list of books on tape at the library for Nichelle's grandmother, so she could build on Nichelle's great listening skills to help her become a less reluctant reader. She vowed to get the books so Nichelle could read along with the tape. Kayla was a no-show, and that was strange. At the teachers' lunch break, I heard that the Mad Crapper had struck again. A turd on a paper plate had been left inside the teacher's lounge refrigerator the day before. The refrigerator stood empty after that. Chapter 29 * * * Bad Things Happen in Threes [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) It was strange, very strange, that Kayla didn't come for report card pickup. She had not been sick. She didn't come to school for the rest of that week. When she was absent again the next week, I called her house but the phone was disconnected. I asked Racquel, who lived down the street, to stop by. She reported back, "Kayla's out of town." Another week passed. How long could she be gone, this girl who never missed a day of school? Where had she gone? Her family was so poor she hardly had clothes on her back. Where on earth could they be? Toward the end of the second week, the school secretary came to the classroom and said a police officer had been inquiring as to Kayla's whereabouts. I told her what I knew and gave her an accounting of when she had last been to school and how long she'd been absent. I became alarmed at the "missing" reference. The policeman explained that an aunt had filed a missing persons report for Kayla, her mother and sister. We searched Kayla's locker. Empty. All of her schoolbooks and four novels from our classroom, including my personal copy of _The Outsiders_ , were stacked neatly in her desk. No notebooks. No paper. She was gone, and she had known she was going. That much was clear in an instant. I turned every book inside out thinking a note might fly out. I flipped through pages looking for clues. Nothing. Our last conversations had revolved around a special book I bought for her. It was a book of short stories written by an author who shared, almost, her name. I was reading it first to make sure there was nothing glaringly inappropriate in it, but mostly so we could discuss the stories, reader to reader, as we had all year. "When I'm done," I had told her, "it will be yours to keep." Seeing the book on my nightstand drove me to tears. I was frantic with worry, sick at heart, grief-stricken. Was she safe? I prayed she was. I prayed that she would come back to us, her friends since she was little and her teacher, who believed in her and loved her. You are not forgotten, I whispered to the air often as the days passed. Still no Kayla. Finally, after another week, the guidance counselor informed me that Kayla was safe and that she was with family members in another state. For reasons that were not revealed, mother and daughters had left. This sort of thing happens to kids and families every day. The reasons that send them fleeing could be homelessness, domestic violence, debts, drugs, gang threats, who knows? Things get out of hand, intolerable. Leaving becomes the only option. It broke my heart that she had to endure whatever situation had become so drastic that there was no other answer. There was no address for me to contact her yet. But I vowed I would find her. I would get an address. We would write letters. I would let her know she was missed and pray for her return. I realized how I had come to depend on her, and it made me feel even worse. She had supported me, while she had dealt with perils she never revealed. She had been a young woman of dignity and character who supported others when her own world was crumbling beneath her feet. She had been my strength and my encouragement, a seventh-grade girl. No wonder books had been her escape. The honest questions that a teacher must ask were brutal. Had she felt she couldn't confide in me? Did she distrust me or think I was insincere? Had I been such a weakling that she didn't want to burden me with another problem? If she had asked for my help, could I have helped her? At the end of April, the guidance counselor told me she had an address and promised to forward a package. I bought the stamp and a bubble envelope. I stuffed the book and a note inside: Dear Kayla, I hope this letter finds you well. I am happy to learn you are in school, though I am envious of your new teacher! You were a presence and a positive influence in Room 118, and we all miss you very much! Tyrese and Freddie are keeping me busy, but I'm not having many book group conversations. Here is the special book I promised you. I hope you enjoy it. Short stories are such a delight—so much variety in a collection, so much to think over. Take it slowly and give each one a chance to sink in. I just finished _Holes_ by Louis Sachar. It won the Newberry Award in 1999. It's about a boy who gets sent to boot camp for a crime he did not commit. Their punishment is that they have to dig a hole every day, five feet wide and five feet deep. It is very funny and adventurous. We are reading it in class now. We all think of you. Stay strong. I give thanks every day that my first year as a teacher I had the good fortune to have you as my student. With love, Mrs. B On an impulse, I threw in a medal I had bought in Rome a year before, an enamel of _La Madonna della Strada_ , the madonna of the streets, on a gold chain. God would look out for Kayla, I told myself. She was his child, not mine, and her faith was mighty. Drawing on her example, I chose to believe that I would see her again someday. Pierre was in the hospital. Word had it he had been attacked in an abandoned house. Several versions of what happened were floating around. All sounded like the neighborhood ghost stories about kids getting "snatched" and dragged into abandoned houses. But Sherika said Pierre's mother called her and told her the whole story and that she was going to visit him that afternoon. At dismissal, the vice principal came on the intercom and told teachers not to let anyone leave, to keep the students in our classrooms because of a "serious incident" outside the school. There was much grousing, "Awwww," and "You can't make us stay," and other such nonsense. Two teachers hurried past. I poked my head out in the hallway and asked, "What's up?" "Shooting outside," they whispered. It was bound to happen sometime. Now it had. Protect the kids. "I don't see anything outside, let's draw the blinds," I told them. I turned off the lights. I picked up _The Outsiders_ and started reading out loud where we'd left off. Ten or fifteen minutes later, another announcement told us that we could dismiss the children and told the children to "go straight home." I added to that before walking them out. "This is no joke. There was shooting. Keep your wits about you. Look sharp. Pay attention. No alleys. Main streets only. Move fast. Go straight home. I'll see you tomorrow." The story was that two guys without guns were running away from two other guys with guns. Shots were fired. The two unarmed men ran through an open door into the little kids' building, where they sought refuge. Asked what they were doing there, they refused to leave (and be shot at again) and stalled for time, talking loudly and posturing in the hallway. The alleged gunmen waited outside, across the street. Someone called the police, and the gunmen ran off when the squad car pulled up. The police arrested the two guys inside the school. It didn't bother me at first, but that evening at college, I found myself crying before math class and again in the bathroom during the break and again on the way home. It was so overwhelmingly sad and stressful, the shooting and Pierre all in one day. Due to the circumstances, Pierre's transfer was reversed, and when he got out of the hospital he came back to us to complete the rest of the year. He never went a single day to the other school, because the adults in his life could not pull together three forms of identification and organize themselves to register him. He was subdued. He seemed weary. The first thing he told me was that he'd been in the hospital. I said I'd heard, and he could stay after school if he wanted to talk. I gave him a hug and told him his desk was where it always had been. He found his chair and settled in at his old spot near the door. After school, we sat on desks in pale gold sunbeams of spring light that made everything seem soft and fuzzy. "How does it feel to be back?" I asked. "Are you okay?" Pierre said he was in the hospital for one day, and he had to get two shots. He said the guy approached him as he walked down the street, asked him if he wanted some wine. He told the man he didn't drink. The man asked him if he had any dope. He told the man he didn't use it and didn't sell it. Then the guy grabbed him by the shirt and wrestled him into an abandoned building. Pierre was harmed, but fortunately, some other men arrived, and they held the assailant until police arrived. Pierre had already been to one court appearance and would have to go again. "My mother cried," he said. "I'm so sorry," I told him. "Life is hard enough without that kind of sadness and trouble." We sat a while longer, talking, until it was time to get going. "I'm glad you're back," I told him. "We really missed you." I hugged him goodbye. "See you tomorrow," I said. He'd been out of school for exactly one month. His whole life had changed. Chapter 30 * * * "Remediation" [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) The Monday after the Mad Crapper left a turd in the fourth-grade fish tank, my intern liaison from downtown showed up at my door. "Hi, come on in," I told her. But she was not there to observe. She had been summoned to an "emergency meeting" about Mr. Diaz and me. "What's going on?" I asked. We were both in the dark. There hadn't been any major blow-ups or notorious incidents of late. Nothing out of the ordinary, just business as usual. Something urgent was afoot, though. When the principal called her, he said it could not wait until the next week. It had to be that day, first thing in the morning. She canceled her appointments and arrived first thing that day. She cooled her heels until 1:30. Mr. Diaz was summoned first. I was called at 2:20. Waiting for me around a conference table in the principal's private office were the principal, the assistant principal, the liaison and the mentor. I was handed a piece of paper with "Intern Remediation Plan" printed in bold letters across the top. They informed me that I was "in remediation" and the paper was the plan for how I would correct my shortcomings. If I failed to meet the "desired outcomes," I could be fired. It would be up to the principal whether I stayed, was shipped out to another school or kicked out of the program altogether. Desired Outcomes: 1. Establish ways to discipline students rather than escalating the problem; review discipline policy and techniques. 2. Exhibit professional behaviors and practices; be receptive to criticism and admit mistakes rather than make excuses. Be able to see yourself objectively. 3. Exhibit professional behaviors and practices; develop and maintain organizational techniques to create a conducive learning environment. Time line for attaining the desired outcomes: two weeks. The principal detailed specifics of my shortcomings: poor discipline in the hallway; not walking students all the way out the door at dismissal; allowing students to go two at a time to the washroom unsupervised; using inappropriate language; failing to say the Pledge of Allegiance and sing both anthems every morning; failing to read every morning from 9 to 10 a.m. I was flummoxed. This was crazy! Everything was in slow motion. When he stopped talking, I heard my own voice. "What about this 'being receptive to criticism and not making excuses'? This implies I am an excuse-maker and possibly delusional. I think we need to have specifics—not innuendo—on the record." Silence. The principal assured me, in clipped tones, that "someone" would be observing me, perhaps on a daily basis, perhaps more often than that. The sheet said my fate depended on his assessment, that he himself would "observe evidence of discipline techniques, organizational behaviors" and "observe and document professional behaviors and practices" in order to make his decision. My mentor would "give guidance and ideas related to discipline and managing student behavior" and "assist with arranging, organizing or analyzing the classroom learning environment." I wanted to pound the table and demand where all this guidance and assistance had been for the first thirty-six weeks of the school year. But that would not have been professional behavior for a teacher. I wanted to call this what it was, bullshit, but that would have been inappropriate language. I wanted to ask how I was supposed to fix in two weeks what had been set in motion long before, from elements beyond any of our control. But that would have been excuse-making. So I sucked up. I said, "I welcome the backup. I also welcome whatever feedback you can share with me to help me succeed." I felt powerless and humiliated. Before the meeting broke up, Iowa test scores were passed out. Here's how my kids did: two-thirds improved in reading, ten students by more than a year. Pierre and another boy improved nearly three years; Andre, Tyrese and four other kids jumped nearly two years. Kayla was reading at a tenth-grade level. Five went down in reading, including a girl who had a major literacy breakthrough and experienced reading for pleasure for the first time in her life. Test anxiety? Math was not good. Two thirds improved, but only about ten showed the expected nine months of growth. Ten actually went down. I made it to the outside door before tears spilled down my cheeks. I would have to play this close to the vest, but I also needed counsel. Donna's door was open. She was aghast when I told her what happened. She just shook her head and opened and shut her mouth without saying any words for the longest time. She fished the ashtray out of her desk drawer and lit a cigarette. "They must really want you out of here," she finally said, looking over her shoulder as she opened a window, blowing out a plume of smoke. Her eyes were like hot coals. "Uh, uh. Ain't this the shit." I showed her the test scores, and she said they were "gorgeous," that I had nothing to feel bad about as far as how well the kids had done in spite of everything, my being a first-year teacher and everything else. "You know Baldacci," she said. "You gotta go 'full armor' from here on out, just keep going. He won't let you down." But could He pick me up? I was devastated, flattened. "Look at the positives," Donna advised. "Look at Tyrese. Look at Pierre. Look at what you were able to do with these kids your first year. There are a lot of successes here." "Yeah, but what about the ones that did worse?" I asked. "How can you work so hard and have kids not learning?" "Goddamned Virgo," she said. "Just like me. You obsess over the things that go wrong instead of enjoying what went right." She paused a moment, then delivered a final bit of advice. "Girl, don't you worry about that man. He ain't shit." Late that afternoon, I phoned Tyrese's father with the news that he had tested at grade level in both reading and math. After the months of struggle, the happy ending choked him up. "That sure is good news," he said thickly. He decided not to tell Tyrese the news, merely ask him questions about how he felt he did and what his expectations were. He'd let Tyrese learn his scores for himself. "I guess I'm going to have to get him that new pair of Jordans he's been asking for," he said, breaking into a chuckle. The next day, Donna handed me a laminated, card-sized copy of the famous drawing entitled "Jesus Laughing." It is a simple pen and ink of Christ in a most uncharacteristic carefree pose of delight and mirth. "I just love that picture," she said. "You hang on to it. Keep it handy." "Do you think he is laughing at us, at the silly, pointless games humans play against each other?" I asked. "I think in the middle of all he knew and witnessed, he still managed to be joyful," Donna said. "He wants us to be joyful." Chapter 31 * * * Assumptions [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Being on remediation did not preclude me from giving a talk to the office of accountability staff downtown at the board of education. I touched on the insensitivity of assumptions when I faced the bean-counters who defend standardized test scores like they are the holy grail. They, same as most policy-makers, like things to fit in neat little boxes. Wrapping themselves in comfortable assumptions makes it easier to defend their hard and fast policies. I told them the story of one kid, a fair student, who tanked the Iowa test the year before. On test day, he took the garbage out before school and found a dead body in the alley. His mother sent him to school after he finished talking to the police. I told them of a pattern I'd noticed about test anxiety, one I hadn't been able to locate any clinical research on but that might make an interesting study someday. Two girls I thought would score highly on their Iowa tests did terribly. According to their scores, they lost two years of learning in reading. I knew the scores were dead wrong. Test anxiety? Maybe, but why? They were smart girls who did fine work, thoughtful readers who had experienced breakthroughs. Later, I learned that both were rape victims. Try as we might to consider the conditions that children come from before they pass through our doors, we cannot anticipate everything and therefore should not assume anything. Even as I spoke to the accountability staff at board of education headquarters, I could not assume that I would be a teacher much longer. I might be fired in a couple of weeks, depending on the outcome of my remediation plan. The chief of accountability seemed to think my plight was silly. He laughed it off, told me not to worry. But one thing I had learned was to challenge my assumptions. With my background, I thought I would automatically look for the story behind the story, not take things at face value, greet developments with a raised eyebrow and a "Hmm." But I got out of the habit, somehow, or maybe I was so bombarded with new developments that face value was all I could deal with for a while. I had assumed everyone had milk in the refrigerator at home. I wasn't thinking that witches and evolution would offend anyone's religious sensibilities. Teachers, especially white teachers with middle-class backgrounds, must challenge themselves not to fall into the lazy habit of white privilege. For instance, when I arranged for a student to take a dance class at half-price at my dance studio, half was still too much and transportation was out of the question. The frustration over the lost opportunity felt worse than no opportunity at all. We learn from such mistakes. Michelle told our college cohort about an eye-opening incident at an open house at her school. She'd had a problem with a boy in her fifth-grade class who was always fooling around. His reading skills were exceptional, she said, but he goofed off in class all the time. She was loaded for bear when his mother came for an open house. The boy arrived leading his mother by the hand up the stairs. She was blind. By the other hand he held his two-year-old brother. He settled his brother with markers and paper, instructing the little guy to stay put while he and their mother talked to the teacher. Don't forget to put the caps back on the markers, he reminded his brother. Michelle had handouts that needed parent signatures. The boy read all the paperwork to his mother, then helped her sign them. "All this time I thought he was 'irresponsible,'" Michelle said. "Now I realize that in school is the only place he can act like a ten-year-old kid." Sarah had a story about another boy, a seventh grader, who showed up at a school located in a public housing project at the start of the year. He was in line for breakfast every morning at 7:30 and spent his days attending classes. Someone finally realized he wasn't enrolled and found out why: The boy had been on his own since his mother had gone to jail for a drug offense in late August. He heard that police and social workers were looking for him at his old school and worried that he was going to be put in foster care. On his own, he decided to go to the other school for safety, anonymity and meals. Once the full story was revealed, the State Department of children and family services was called. Fortunately, an aunt surfaced who lived in the neighborhood near the new school. She agreed to take him in. The boy attended school every day. He read at a ninth-grade level. "This is what school means to these kids," our college professor told us. "It's their safe haven. So when you find out what chaos these children are coming from, consider where they have been when they have a hard time settling down to learn in your classrooms." When she taught first grade in a western state, she had one student who came to school every day reeking of urine. She figured he was a bed-wetter and was angry at parents who would send a stinking, dirty child to school. Other children held their noses and refused to play with him. What she found when she knocked on the door of the family's home was a young immigrant mother, whose husband was a migrant worker. She was trapped at home with seven tiny children. The first-grader was the oldest. There were four in diapers. There was no washer or dryer in the apartment. At night, everyone threw their dirty clothes in a corner. The diapers went there, too. Every morning, the first-grader pulled clothes out of the pile and went to school. The mother welcomed the teacher into her home. Her English wasn't so great, but no matter—she was elated to see an adult. Who knew how long it had been, with all of her family in Texas and she confined and isolated with seven little children? How could anyone move all those babies, and the family's laundry, on a bus to a laundromat? The teacher called human services to obtain a washer and dryer for the family and contacted the landlord for the hookups. "You never know," she said. You never know. Chapter 32 * * * Livin' On the Edge [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) My Teachers For Chicago liaison came for an observation, to see if order had been established in Room 118 in the nick of time to get me out of hot water. It had not. I was "livin' on the edge," a situation in which, Aerosmith observed, "you can't help yourself from falling." At the time of the observation visit, I was working with small groups on their plant projects. We were measuring and graphing the growth of our seedlings. It was time-consuming and hands-on. The room was stifling, thick with humidity and the full blossom of summer. Our window garden was lush and green. Some plants stood four inches tall; ambitious cucumber vines were climbing up the screens. Some kids were working well at their task, and a small group was creating a bright green bulletin board with completed graphs, empty seed packets and photographs of our planting project. Others made a show of working at the garden but were actually sabotaging other kids' plants, opening the screens and pushing them to their deaths over the edge of the windowsill. After school, I found about a half-dozen milk cartons and their spilled contents on the ground outside the window. Destinee and Sherika decided it was a good time to do Eric's hair in braids and worked at it noisily, gossiping like beauticians at a salon. Eric let out occasional yelps as they combed, parted and pulled his hair into the new style. I told them to end it and get started on their plant graphs, but they paid me no mind. One of the undocumented realities of the school system's overemphasis on Iowa test scores was a backlash: Once the tests were over, many students, especially in the upper grades, quit working. The test was what they worked toward. After tests were done, and certainly after the results were in, the school year was over as far as they were concerned. In my conversation with the liaison, all I could do was admit that my students were acting worse than ever, because I had failed to bring them under control. One of my remediation tasks was to "be receptive to criticism and admit mistakes rather than make excuses." I did not offer excuses. I flat-out admitted I had failed to control these children. The principal, who was to "observe and document" my progress, had eyeballed me in the hallway a couple of times, but there were no formal observations. The loose oversight in the wake of the dire threat seemed to confirm that my remediation was a paper set-up. The individuals involved would always be able to point to those papers and say I was a lousy teacher. My mentor, who was to "give guidance and ideas related to discipline and managing student behavior" and "assist with arranging, organizing or analyzing the classroom environment," helped me take my class to the washroom a couple of times and spelled me for an hour one afternoon, so I could play in the faculty basketball game, which gave me an insight I would never forget. No one knew I could play ball. But thanks to coaching girls' teams for three years, I managed not to embarrass myself on the court. These opportunities for bonding with kids are vital for building connections. They need to see us in many roles, as guides on field trips, as voices in the class choir, as teammates on the court. We'd had pitiful little opportunity for that. All week after the game the eighth-grade players high-fived me in the hallway, "Good game, Mrs. Baldacci!" We should have played every week all year long, I realized forlornly. An opportunity lost. At the end of two weeks, I got called to the principal's office to learn my fate. He said I'd made progress. However, I would remain on remediation through the first quarter of the next school year. The "results" column of my remediation form said the same thing in all three boxes: "Somewhat successful at meeting desired outcome, there is still need for improvement. Remediation will continue through first quarter of 2000–2001 school year." The non-resolution left him with the power—and all-important paperwork—to fire me whenever he felt like it. I stated that I felt that he should honor the timetable—the one that he himself established—instead of leaving me with the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. No, he said, this is what the professional educators on the team believed I "needed." It was for my own good. Almost as an afterthought, he informed me that I would be teaching second grade the following year. I assured him I would do my best. I walked back to my classroom with conflicting emotions. We had filled out wish lists and I had asked for seventh grade again, feeling I could do better now that I knew the pitfalls. My second choice was sixth grade, my third choice fourth. Being sent to second grade, clearly not what I desired, looked like a punishment. This is what others with greater experience felt was best for me. I said the same prayer I'd said the year before, "Thy will be done," and accepted my fate. But not without beating myself up a little bit first. Had I been such a dismal failure with my seventh graders, self- contained in the largest classroom in the school with all of our personalities and problems? Surely someone else would have been a better teacher for them than I was. Was it criminal to leave them with me all year? Would I be equally as dismal with second graders? What other students would be sacrificed to my ignorance and inexperience? I was having a regular pity party. My eyes were watery with tears. I blamed myself for every child who didn't do better, for the ones I failed to reach, who clung tightly to their contempt for authority and learning. I had asked the seventh graders to write down one thing they learned that year. Some said they didn't learn anything. One said he learned to "smoke weed and drink." One said she learned how to plan her dream trip so she can travel when she is older. One said her teacher had told her that she saw something special and beautiful in everyone in our class, and she was trying to see people that way, too. Just then, on the sidewalk, I nearly stepped on a clover chain I had made on the playground that morning for a little girl whose name I did not know. I picked it up and thought of Alice Walker. Was this another marker on the path? Was it a message from on high telling me that perhaps my place might be with younger children after all? Would that little girl be my student in the fall? Mr. Diaz was not so fortunate. He was cut from the program. He did not come back to complete his year-end paperwork or collect his belongings. Chapter 33 * * * The End of Seventh Grade [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I had no money to speak of, but I wanted to give everyone a book on the last day of school. I put a $150 price tag on that pipe dream. No way I could afford that. I was looking at a summer of no employment and graduate school. This would be the tightest shoestring our family had ever tried to live on. I was scrutinizing my bills and noticed a fee on American Express for a program called "Membership Rewards." I phoned them to question the fee and cancel the rewards, which I could no longer afford. The person on the other end of the line, however, informed me that over the years, I had racked up many points worth of "rewards," which included gift certificates for Borders. "How much?" I asked. "You could get three fifty-dollar gift certificates," she said. "Send them!" I ordered. Everyone would get a book after all. I had each kid write down a title. Kyisha wanted a twelve-dollar _Chicken Soup_ book. Nichelle couldn't come up with a title and asked me to choose for her. Many kids asked for _Holes_ , our final novel, which they loved and was the kind of book you could read over and over. Carlos wanted Stephen King's _The Stand_ , and I called his mother for permission because it is a wonderful story of ultimate good vs. evil, but it had sex scenes. She signed off saying she'd read it herself when he finished, it sounded pretty good. I agreed and admitted I reread it every couple of years. The shopping was thrilling. I planned our last days together. "Sports Day" threw a wrench into our plans. Most of the class was banned from participation, and those who did participate were quickly disqualified for assorted misbehavior such as running away, and sent back to the classroom, sweaty and out of sorts. "Sports Day" was a full day of trying to contain a revolution, apparently. I had ordered pizza for the class, a luxury I no longer got for my family, and the misbehavers made pigs of themselves, which started off a string of arguments, which led to fights, which got people sent to the office, which—combined with the running away from Sports Day—led to mass suspensions. The vice principal had vowed that anyone who got sent to the office would be sent home for the rest of the year, no questions asked. "See you in August," she told them as she cast them out with their yellow suspension papers. "Come back Tuesday so we can say good-bye," I told them. "Come to the window and get your things..." Between the suspensions and the fact that many children's parents let them take the last week off because it was so hot, we had only about twenty remaining. We spent our final days stripping the room and watching the made-for-TV version of _The Stand_. On our last full day together, we had a lovely day. All year long I'd been hearing either, "Mrs. Baldacci, you bring the NASTIEST lunches!" or "Mrs. Baldacci, you have a lot of nerve bringing those nice lunches up in here." It was no big deal, just turkey sandwiches, maybe with a pickle on the side or a salad or leftovers from dinner at home the night before. I shared my homemade lunches time and again. I even made a lunch for Sherika one day just because she asked me to and no mother ever made one for her. I brought cucumbers often for Freddie. He loved them. Racquel swapped me a bag of flamin' hot Cheetos for my sandwich one day. Trying to organize ourselves for a last-day feast was futile. Some wanted Subway. Some wanted pizza. Some wanted McDonald's. Nothing was resolved. I let it drop and decided to bring mass quantities of stuff to make our own "Mrs. Baldacci Nasty Lunch." Smoked turkey, ham, cheese, wheat bread, five bags of salad, three kinds of dressing. Sun Chips. Jars of sour dill pickles. I wrote a bad check at the grocery store. The kids played volleyball in the morning, using our inflatable globe with chairs as a "net." They danced. They sang. When we did not make any movement toward the lunchroom at 11 a.m., when noon came and went, they started looking at me funny, and I told them we were having a buffet luncheon as soon as we could organize ourselves for a washroom break. We did, without incident. Amazing. At the buffet, all served themselves and no one hogged. No one threw food. Everyone got enough to eat. There was a minor dust-up in which Destinee and Cortez hurled horrible insults at each other, but other than that, it was quite pleasant. We whiled away the rest of the afternoon cleaning up and fooling around with a lot of kids helping paint a mural in the hallway with the art teacher. At 2:30, the bell rang, but no one made a move to leave. Finally, after several announcements of the late hour, I told them I was going into the hallway to take their pictures as they emerged. I treasure the series of pictures of them leaving. When I look at them, I hear the echos of their voices in the hallway. They are in constant motion, a blur of color, arms and legs. One of the suspended masses met us at the doorway for a couple of group shots, then DeVille finally kicked the door open and they all tumbled out, screaming and laughing. And then they were gone. The door closed and it was silent. I stood there looking at the closed door, listening to the silence. "They were here just a second ago. Now they are gone," I thought. "It's over." It didn't feel like it was over because I still had so much paperwork to complete, and we had one last hour together when they came to pick up their report cards and say goodbye. Then it would officially be over. For our finale, I had planned to read _Oh, the Places You'll Go!_ by Dr. Seuss, give them the newsletters I made for our class, their report cards, portfolios and the books I bought for them on my coupons at Borders. But I had barely handed out report cards when, at 9:20, security came to our door and rousted us. No final read-aloud. Portfolios and books, which should have been tenderly handed over with ceremony, were palmed off in a rush. After nine months of praying for it to be over, how could I feel so cheated at the end? I wasn't the only one not ready to call it quits. Andre and Nate stayed for a couple of hours more, just hanging on, and helped me with some records work. I felt disoriented when I finally turned in my records and left school around 1 p.m.—Piaget's "state of disequilibrium" was in full force. I went home and fixed lunch for the girls and myself. But I still felt antsy, like I had unfinished business. Around 2 p.m., I drove to Pierre's and Cortez's houses to return the stuff they'd left in the classroom. No one was home at either place; I left their bags on the doorsteps. Tyrese was suspended, so I still had his portfolio and his book. I went to two wrong addresses I'd taken from school records. Finally, I got his dad on the phone around 2:30 and got the correct address. I'll be right over, I said. His father greeted me at the gate. "Tyrese isn't here," he said. "He was here a minute ago. I don't know where he got to." Just then, Tyrese burst out of a house across the street and came running. I gave him his stuff, told him if he kept his scores up there would be no stopping him. I didn't hug him or anything, because that would have been mortifying, but I shook his hand and wished him well. Even after all he put me through that year, I was proud of what he had accomplished. I shook his father's hand, said goodbye and drove off. On my way home, I turned on the radio. Bad Company's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love" was on. I turned it up. I looked at the sky. I saw gleaming white seagulls circling overhead in the afternoon sun. I took a deep breath and smiled at the prospect of ten weeks off. Finally, our year was finished. Chapter 34 * * * Fairyland [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) "We need a fan. It's so hot you can't believe it. And we need a reading rug where we can gather for stories. They're little, and they need a soft place to stretch out or play. I saw some rugs at Home Depot for about fifty bucks." My benefactor handed me $100 and wished me good luck in the second grade. I wanted our classroom to be a magical, wonderful, learning place. It would take much more than a fan and a rug to make it that. Going to second grade meant I was no longer in the old brick building with the high ceilings. I knew no one in the new building and would be starting from scratch, establishing new ties with new colleagues. On my floor were four first-grade classrooms and four second grades. Due to many vacancies, three of the four second-grade teachers and two of the first-grade teachers were Teachers For Chicago interns. Though a novice to second grade, I was the "veteran" intern. The two other second-grade interns were just starting the program. Fortunately, one was a young woman who knew everything already. The other was a career changer from the insurance industry. The only certified teacher in second grade graciously assumed the role of our team leader. Of the two fresh first-grade interns, one was calm and professional, the other had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her. The third first-grade teacher was a veteran who wore sunglasses all day long and complained to anyone who would listen about how she should have been teaching eighth grade and how she resented being sent to first grade by our spiteful principal. The fourth first-grade teacher, Mrs. Todd, was someone who was clearly in her niche, centered and calm, knowledgeable and businesslike about the craft of teaching. Like Donna, she was a woman whose faith was her strength and guiding light in her daily work. It was odd, indeed, that so many first- and second-grade teachers at our school were rookies. Eight of us, and five were completely untrained. Across the city, most teaching vacancies were in the high-pressure seventh and eighth grades, where the kids are ruthless and the heat to get them into high school scorching. How come our turnover rate was so high for primary teachers, I wondered? The transient teacher situation had implications that carried over year after year. Many of my second graders were coming from a first-grade classroom that had four different teachers over the course of the year before. I remembered seeing them in the hallways on their way to the art room or the auditorium. They were noisy and badly behaved, running this way and that, slapping each other. Their teachers looked frazzled. A very tall young man who had been a day-to-day substitute took the class for the last months of the school year. He did not come back, though. A man who had taught fourth grade for part of the year before was in my old classroom, arranging the desks. I poked my head into 118 and wished him a great year. Keenly aware of my shortcomings since remediation, I admired the fact that the principal had sent a strong black man to establish order in the seventh grade. Sadly, even with fewer than twenty-five kids, he wouldn't last the year. I missed the old building as soon as I set foot in my new room, 401. It was on the second floor of the prefabricated, three-story annex next door to the original building. The newer building housed pre-kindergarten through third-grade classrooms. The poured-concrete shell went up in 1978 with a declared life span of ten years. In the year 2000, it had been limping along on its last legs for fifteen years. Room 401 was painted peach. Acoustic ceiling tiles were missing here and there. Dirty yellow tufts of insulation were visible through the holes. Other tiles were stained from leaks. I discovered that two walls were magnetic; they would hold posters and student work as time went on. I didn't have much to put up at the moment, since all of my materials were geared toward seventh grade. What I did have to put up, I quickly learned not to hang on the other two walls. They were cold and clammy, sometimes beaded with moisture and defied sticky substances. Posters I hung with sticky-tack one day were on the floor the next morning. I tried packing tape with the same results. There were three windows, all clouded over from the ravages of time and Chicago weather. Sunlight diffused through them, but we could not see out of them. Only one window opened and closed. Another was permanently fastened shut with screws and bolts. The third was permanently open a crack, its warped metal frame lashed in place with a window shade cord. Any rainfall flooded the metal ledge along the windows. The heating and air conditioning units were housed beneath the ledge, a tragic design flaw that contributed to constant breakdowns and poor air quality. Many of the children had asthma and no business breathing foul fumes and stale air at school. The dampness made me suspect mold was present as well. The baseboards were rusted through, especially in the washrooms. Teachers sitting on the toilet in their "private" washroom could actually see the feet of children walking into the adjacent boys' bathroom and clearly hear their conversations. Still, the teachers' washroom was luxurious compared to the students'. The girls' bathroom, for instance, had five stalls, but only two were private. Dividers between the other three toilets had been missing for more than a year. Only one girl used the communal three-toilet area at a time, slowing down the breaks considerably. The easiest part of creating a classroom was the physical, filthy, dirty work: scrubbing the room and bookshelves, organizing ancient books and tossing out the obsolete ones, cleaning cupboards, scavenging tables and chairs from other rooms and stairwells. I had done this same thing a year before, and now I was moving again, into another new house filled with the worthless junk of previous occupants. My only cupboard was half-filled with record albums. There was a record player, but it had no needle. Getting ready took three days of cleaning, hauling, arranging, hanging things on the walls, fixing broken things. Hauling water was exhausting but necessary. Every book on every shelf was coated with dust and grime. The scrub water had to be dumped and replenished often. My hands ached. I fell into bed when the sun went down and slept as if drugged until it came up again. By the time the children arrived Tuesday morning, the room was clean and cheery with a big blue rug on the floor and a rocking chair. The fan, placed in front of the only window that opened, circulated fresh air through the room. I was satisfied as I looked around. But I realized the hard part would be making a home away from home that was a living laboratory for learning. "Patience," I reminded myself. Everyone punched in and out in the office of the old building, and the door was open to Donna's room across the hall. She was always the first one at school. "My sister," she greeted me. "Are you ready?" "Not yet," I told her. "I've come for a blessing." I bowed my head and Donna prayed over me, asking for strength for the both of us as we undertook the massive job ahead. I tacked on special prayers for my seventh graders, who would be Donna's kids this year. We said amen, took deep breaths and went forth to "engage our students" on the playground outside. I had thirty-two children's names on my roster, but only nineteen arrived for the first day of school. It was the earliest Chicago schools had ever opened, two weeks before Labor Day. Citywide, one in four children failed to show up for the first day. Chicago's attempt to align itself with the early-opening suburbs fell flat on its face. The next year, the system admitted its mistake and returned to the traditional post-Labor Day opening. In the nation's third largest city, we took the agricultural calendar very seriously. As I stood in my new spot (marked 401 in fresh yellow paint), the first familiar face I saw was Carlos. He ambled over, wearing sunglasses, and I asked him if he'd read _The Stand_ over the summer. He said yes, the whole thing. Then Destinee, Nichelle, Sherika, Freddie and Cortez came over to say hi, all loud and talking at once. Nearby, some little kids observed them silently. They looked from the big kids to me, back and forth. Joseph walked over to report that his jalapeno pepper plant had borne fruit! Andre, who grew about four inches over the summer, tossed me a " _bonjour_ " as he sidled past. I remembered that it was Tyrese's birthday, and I had one of my corny birthday pencils for him. He avoided me on the playground, but I chased him down in Donna's line and gave it to him. This year I would be the tallest one in the class, I realized as I gathered my new students. Several children's parents handed them off to me directly and introduced themselves. One little girl was handed to me screaming and crying, clinging to her sister, who needed to get to sixth grade. I told the little one not to worry, that we'd have fun and I'd take good care of her until her sister came to get her at the end of the day. She was as tiny as a fairy and quite inconsolable. I finally picked her up and carried her in, sobbing on my shoulder. She hardly weighed anything at all. The baby oil from her face and hair made a blotch on my shirt, above my heart. The children were eager to get to work. We started our day on the rug, sitting in a circle, telling our names. Some of the boys were James, Brandon, Martin, Hakim, Mario and Louis. Some of the girls were Jasmine, Asophane, Vonique and Diandra. My littlest fairy, the crying one, was named Natasha. Even though she sat next to me, she spoke so softly I had to put my ear to her mouth to hear her name. We read a _Sesame Street_ story about the first day of school, then made a story called "All About Us" on sentence strips that we hung across the front of the room. "Our room has ten boys and nine girls." (We would change the numbers daily in the coming weeks.) "We love to read!" "Our favorite TV show is _Out of the Box_." "Our favorite food is pizza." "Our favorite animals are cats and dogs." We went over the rules and assigned classroom jobs. I thought lunchtime would never come. We started smelling the food around 10 a.m., but our class somehow pulled the last lunch shift, 12:15, a full hour later than the other second grades. By 11:30, the children were complaining of stomachaches and headaches because they were hungry. So we had a bathroom break and bought time with a little ballet. I had everyone stand with one hand on the back of their chairs and showed them first position. I put on Otis Redding's "Fa Fa Fa Fa Fa (Sad Song)" and we started our ballet lesson with _demi plie´_ and _grand plie´_. We turned and did them the other way, "just like in a real ballet school." Then we did _tondu_ and _de´gage´_. When we finished one side, I asked, "What do we do next?" "Turn around and do it the other way, just like in a real ballet school," Hakim called instantly. "You are absolutely right!" I said, daring to think that this year was starting off pretty well. Ballet and Otis tided us over until lunchtime, but I realized we would need daily snacks if we were to survive all year on this schedule. Lunch went like clockwork. They were quiet in the hallway and kept good lines. I knew this year to walk backward so I could keep an eye on them, or to walk behind them. I told them to stop at the top of the steps. Then I said "pass" and they walked down to the bottom and stopped until I said "pass" again. This is an old school routine I abhor, but it works. One irony of schools is that they're supposed to be places that foster creativity and self-control but instead are paramilitary installations with rigid rules and imposed control. I sat down with my students at the lunch table, which teachers are not supposed to do for some reason having to do with our contract and our 2:30 dismissal. Teachers and staff want to get the hell out early, so on the books our lunchtime is 2:30. During the children's lunch period, we are "on duty" with our students. Someone decided that being "on duty" meant we stand like prison guards. I decided being "on duty" meant sitting and eating as a family and learning table manners. I always sat down with my second graders. "Who made you that good lunch?" I asked Mario, the only one with a lunch from home. "I made it myself," he said. "What do you have?" "I have a sandwich, a juice box, some chips, a pudding and cookies. And I have a spoon for the pudding." "That's a good lunch," I said. "Here," he said, handing me a chip. "Thank you," I said. After lunch we had another bathroom break. Apparently food and liquids go through second graders at a rapid rate. Lunch is only twenty minutes, but the race to the bathroom after lunch was always urgent. Around 1 p.m., the secretary came on the intercom and said that a Channel 2 news crew and the principal were on their way to our classroom. The year before, a news producer asked three different times to come to my classroom. I refused every request. Why invite disaster? But she had phoned the night before and asked again. I figured, how bad could second grade be? So I told her to call the principal in the morning. I gave him a note to expect a call from the producer, but I was astonished to learn via intercom that he had agreed with the provision that the children's faces not be shown. It would have been much easier to say no, there is too much going on the first day of school, which is the truth. Instead he said, "Why do you do these things to me?" as if I spent my days thinking up ways to exasperate him. My new mentor came along with the three TV people. She worked with children on one side of the room while I worked on the other. We reviewed alphabetical order and did some more reading. It was nerve-wracking to have the visitors and the camera in the classroom. I felt certain that in the excitement and intensity of day one, I was a blithering idiot. I dreaded watching the piece on TV that night. At the end of the day, I walked the children out and waited with Natasha for her sister. She held my hand. Hers was tiny, but strong. Racquel was right outside the door, wearing a green plaid skirt and necktie. She'd transferred to a magnet school, and she looked happy. "How's your grandmother?" "Fine." "Did your plant grow?" "Not very well," she said, "but it's still trying." She said her book list for eighth grade at her new school included _Holes_ and _The Outsiders_. "I told the teacher I already read these in seventh grade," she said, tilting her head with sassy pride and a knowing smile. The new interns staggered out, shell-shocked, and felt their way to their cars. I felt their pain. I managed to make it home without driving past my own house, an improvement over last year's first day. I called Teachers For Chicago headquarters to let the leaders downtown know that the TV piece on "fast track teachers" was scheduled to air on the ten o'clock news. I left a voice mail with one of the men who had been my point person on media in the past. My own TFC liaison called me a few minutes later. At first she was congratulatory, but it quickly became apparent that she was furious that I had called her partner, who was not my liaison. "Why didn't you follow the chain of command?" she demanded. "Well, I've always dealt with him on media issues," I said. "He asked me to keep him updated on anything media-related I did while in the program." "I wonder if you called him because he is Caucasian. Maybe you feel more comfortable with him." The conversation, already confrontational and angry, had now taken a turn that left me sputtering, stupidly, "What?" "I wonder if you called him because he is Caucasian," she said. "That is ridiculous," I said. "I called him because he had asked me to keep him updated on media things. Are you suggesting that I am a racist?" "Don't try to put words in my mouth," she snapped. "Well it sure sounds like that's what you're saying. Is that what you think?" Meanwhile, I was thinking that "Caucasian" is such a weird word. I kept saying it over and over in my head. "Caucasian." "Caucasian." "This is not about me," she said, "This is about you." The conversation was going in circles. I felt sick and off-kilter. I apologized for my thoughtlessness, and told her that in the future I would follow the chain and that nothing like this would happen again. "Oh, I'm sure it will," she said. "Oh come on, that is totally unfair," I argued. "I said it wouldn't happen again, and it won't happen again." "We'll see," she said, hanging up on me. Back on the shit list, I thought, and it's only the first day of school. I was heartsick about the way this thing had broken, mainly because there was some validity in what she said. Why had I called the white man (the "Caucasian") and not her? Was there more to it than the fact that he had been my point man on media? In my previous career, I'd dealt almost exclusively with white men in power positions. That was the power structure I cut my teeth on. That was what I was familiar and comfortable with. I had worked for and with white, black and Latina women and been an editor myself with authority over men and women of all races. But always, white men held the highest power. Had I failed to learn a key lesson about operating in my new profession, which was vastly matriarchal and minority (yet with a white man in the top position)? It seemed terribly complex and confusing, more than I could grasp on the first day of school. It was arrogant to proclaim "I am not a racist" without taking time to think, "Am I?" So I went to church and prayed on it a while. I searched my heart with questions about racism. I didn't have all the answers. I liked people for who they were. My favorite downtown liaison was Frank Tobin, not just because we were neighbors and I'd known him longest, but because he seemed to be a kindred spirit. He was the reason I'd walked through the door of the program in the first place. He had used the words "vocation" and "social justice," the same words I had secretly carried in my heart as an unseen hand seemed to propel me in a new direction. He was always encouraging and kind and always took time to talk to me. Just that week, he had mailed me a wonderful article from _Harper's_ about the failure of public education being a government conspiracy to keep in place a service industry of under-educated people in dead-end jobs. Then again, maybe it was easier to feel close to him because his feedback was positive. The most encouragement I ever received from my liaison was that she felt I had "the potential" to be a good teacher. She never said I was doing anything in particular right. She never sent me articles in the mail she thought I'd enjoy. I wondered whether my sin was vanity rather than racism. Maybe I connected better with people who affirmed rather than criticized me, which is human nature. In the end, I was grateful to my liaison for forcing me to face that ugly question. She was not kind and we did not love each other, but she was a good teacher to me that day. She opened my eyes. She taught me to question my motivations and alliances. She made me think. I left it at that for the time being. I had a case of nerves all evening. By 10 p.m. I was in the bed, hiding under the covers. The piece aired after the first commercial. I peeked out and watched it with one eye. To my immense relief, it was fine. Thanks to skillful editing, I was not a blithering idiot. Carol Marin smiled and that's money in the bank. No more media, I told myself. I would not do anything but teach those second graders to the best of my ability, every day for the rest of the year. It was best to lie completely low, fly under the radar. I was still in remediation, after all, and my fate lay in the hands of my liaison and the principal, both of whom I'd managed to piss off on the first day of school. Chapter 35 * * * The More Things Change... [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Some things were different in Second Grade Fairyland, but some things were replays of seventh grade. As we found our rhythm that year, I saw the same personality issues, good and bad, the same cases of kids raising themselves, more shocking this year because the kids were so little. I'd see them navigating the neighborhood alone after school, their enormous backpacks bouncing as they crossed streets at a run. Fatherlessness and homelessness were as devastating for seven-year-olds as twelve-year-olds, but the seven-year-olds did not yet have the cunning to act like it didn't matter. They were open about their heartbreak. Sex and violence invaded our days once again. Most days started in the breakfast line. The United States Department of Agriculture provided poverty-level schoolchildren with free breakfast, and the children lined up for it at 7:30 a.m., a full hour before they needed to be at school. The government and the school bureaucrats realized that kids can't learn on an empty stomach, so in some ways, the lunchroom was more important than the classroom. Despite two significant snowstorms that winter, the schools did not close a single day, because the superintendent feared many children would go hungry. Aside from the rubbery powdered scrambled eggs, there were many yummy breakfast choices: grits, biscuits, bacon, oatmeal and cold cereal, milk and juice. I sometimes bought breakfast and ate at my desk doing paperwork; a teacher's aide delivered breakfast each morning to the principal in his office. Every child except Mario also ate free school lunch on the USDA. The choices rolled out every week with little variation: chicken nuggets, pizza, cheeseburgers, rarely warm, with canned vegetables on the side. On rare occasions, the kitchen served Salisbury steak or chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, the sort of institutional school lunch I remembered from childhood. The cook prepared a separate meal for the staff each day, often chicken, some kind of greens and potatoes. I wanted it, and for two dollars, it was a good deal. But how could I sit down with my kids with a spread like that when they had fish nuggets, a packet of ketchup and fruit cocktail? It seemed unfair and rude, with possible racist overtones in my case, so I continued to bring my own lunch every day in my red lunchbox. Lunch at 12:15 was hard on all the kids, but it really killed Enrico. Although he was the tallest child in our class, nearly as tall as I was and just seven years old, he was the most immature. The days were long for him. All afternoon he was fretful and asking "When do we go home?" He kicked, I noticed, and tripped other kids walking past his desk. Getting fed on time was do or die for these little ones. We often had pretzels with mustard for a snack, though Cheeze-Its (the white cheddar cheese kind) were our official favorite. We began carrying a basket to the lunchroom and stockpiling our apples and oranges for the next day's snack. It was good practice because everyone had to pass the basket down the table, not hop up and crowd around it. They also had to add their name to a list with "A" or "O" next to their name. Still, enough people hopped up from the table in our twenty-minute lunch period that I went home every day with ketchup handprints on my back. One habit I never was able to break in the second graders was their maddening habit of patting me for attention. Imagine trying to speak to one child while three or four others are patting various parts of your body and murmuring your name over and over like a mantra. "Form a line!" I'd tell them. "I'm only one person, and I can only talk to one other person at one time." I wish I could say I was calm, like Mrs. Todd, but I was frazzled. So thank heavens for Mario, our class peacemaker. He was calm. He was the first to arrive on the playground every day, scrubbed and well-dressed, wearing a baseball cap and jacket, carrying his lunchbox and backpack. I hailed him as "The Gandhi of 401" after James threw several fierce, quick punches at Brandon, and Mario got between them before it went any further. Something did not seem right with James. He was tightly-wound, volatile, and as the oldest, strongest kid in class, seemed on track to be the class bully. I paid a visit at James' house after school the day of the fisticuffs. It took his grandmother awhile to reach the door. She moved slowly, aided by a walker. I introduced myself, and she invited me in, explaining that James' mother was at work. We sat down in the living room. It was cluttered with medical paraphernalia, boxes of hypodermic needles, blood sugar monitoring kits. The family dog had recently given birth to puppies and the house smelled like a kennel. James brought a couple puppies out for me to see. His grandmother sent him back to the kitchen to feed the dogs. After he put the puppies in the kitchen, I could see his shadow on the wall in the hallway where he hid, listening to our conversation. I told her about the fight that day and asked whether James had problems at school before. He had, indeed, she said. He'd spent the previous year in a suburban school, but the problems continued. Now James, his mother and sister were living under grandmother's roof once again and were back at their former school. The next day, James and Brandon squared off a second time. I called Brandon's mother, and she confirmed that the two boys had trouble in the past and probably shouldn't be in the same class. They shot each other dirty looks from their seats at opposite corners of the room. Invariably, they wound up next to each other in line, ready to go another round. I told Brandon's mom I'd keep an eye on the mood of the room, and see what I could do about separating the two further. Still, they got into it again on the last day of the week. They started punching each other while lined up for a bathroom break in the hallway. "Freeze!" had worked three times so far at stopping second-grade fights. Thankfully, it worked again. Afterward, James stood against the wall, clench-fisted and trembling, his face a frozen mask of anger, veins standing out in his neck. After all the other students had gone back inside the classroom, I gave Brandon and James a talking-to and sent them to their respective corners. Before we got busy with "Show and Tell" one of our Friday afternoon activities, Brandon told me he wanted to say he was sorry to James. "Do you want to do it in private or in front of the class, since the fight was in front of the class?" I asked. "In front of the class." "That is so brave," I told him. The children looked on expectantly as Brandon approached James. "I want to say I'm sorry," Brandon said. "I'm sorry, too," James said. They shook hands. We all applauded. I hailed them as peacemakers. If only it was that simple. Second grade was at least as complicated as seventh grade. The peace would not last. New conflicts erupted. Problems from their outside lives came with them through our door every morning, and they were not problems that could ever be solved at school. As their teacher, I tried to teach the art of coping and compromise, which some people believe is the practical path to happiness. Several of the children were in foster homes, living with a revolving cast of wards of the state, cared for by older women who received about $400 a month for each child. Many lived with extended family, most often, like James, with their mother, their mother's mother, siblings and cousins. The men of the house were more often uncles than fathers. Three students were officially the wards of their grandparents; one was an orphan whose mother had died the year before of an asthma attack, two others' mothers were incarcerated for drug offenses. Out of thirty-two children, only three came from homes where both biological parents lived together. There seemed to be a lot of chaos at some homes. Louis told me he and his brother climbed in an upstairs window when their grandmother locked them out one afternoon. His brother was in kindergarten. Tashequa called the classroom cell phone nightly, sometimes after 11 p.m. I could hear the television blaring and loud voices in the background. Family, whatever shape it took, was of supreme importance in second grade. Meeting Mario outside on the blacktop one morning, I asked him what he was thinking about. "I've been wondering," he said, "why my daddy never comes to see me." "That's a big thing to wonder about," I said. Without realizing it, I'd begun to parrot the speech patterns of young children. Shorter sentences. Declarative statements. Simple language. Concise questions: "Are you sure?" "How can you tell?" Listening. Letting the children figure things out for themselves. Blocking activities in shorter time periods. Breaking things down to simplest terms. Mario described a far-flung family of half-brothers and sisters, then came back to his feeling of emptiness about his daddy. "Maybe when you get bigger you could call him up," I said. "What's your daddy's name?" He couldn't tell me. We read a story called _Boundless Grace_ about a girl, Grace, who has grown up without her daddy. He lived in Africa. He sent two tickets for Grace and her grandmother to visit him. She visited. She remembered. She was happy. There are all kinds of families, she realized. Not all mothers and fathers live with their children. That day Mario did not eat his lunch. "Are you feeling okay?" I asked him. "I guess I'm just missing my daddy," he said. He was such a beautiful, well-behaved, thoughtful, helpful, wonderful little boy. He was usually cheerful, joyful, even. His mother was great. A man he called his stepfather came on a field trip but spent the day reading a book. He did not sit with Mario on the bus or partner up with him at our destination. Despite such heavy baggage, second grade could be as golden and effervescent as a glass of ginger ale. One Friday afternoon, Andrea opened a Sucrets box and announced, "I brought two ants and a roly-poly for Show and Tell." We sang songs every day, Girl Scout campfire songs, "Down By the Bay," "Bingo" and nursery rhymes like "London Bridge" and "Mary Mack." They thought I was a great artist. "Man, she can really draw," they'd say. Every day was a busy day for us. It was a big adjustment for me to be with young children and so many of them. Since my children were older, I thought I was done with tying shoes and wiping noses, with loose teeth and hard-to-zip jackets. But there I was again. My patience was often stretched and frayed. It was hard for them, too. It was hard to stay in their seats and hard to wait their turn. It was hard when we had multiple activities going on at once, because everyone wanted to do everything right now. When we played a tape of "Peter and the Wolf" in the listening lab with five sets of headphones, it was too taxing for the other twenty-seven. They couldn't do anything but stage whisper and gesture to the kids in the listening lab about what they were hearing. Louis commando-crawled across the back of the room to the lab and hid under the table. A sympathizer put his head on the table and shared one ear of his headphones with Louis. They did the kinds of things kids do that make you want to laugh out loud. I laughed out loud, but with no other adult to share it with as it happened, the anarchy in Fairyland reached its full flower of appreciation most often in the retelling. Thank heavens for Donna and my college classmates. In addition to my new thirty-two, many of my former seventh graders appeared at my doorway to say hello. Pierre ran up behind me after school one Friday and nearly tackled me. He must have grown three inches over summer and he was muscular, more beefed-up than the skinny kid I knew in seventh grade. He seemed good, upbeat. The girls were awkward, testing. We had a new relationship, one I liked better, to be frank. With no responsibility for their academics, it was easy to listen to them, encourage them. I wondered if it's like that with all former students as the years go by, and I started to realize that it's never finished; it goes on and on. I wondered what relationship I'd have with my second graders in five years when they were in seventh grade, after I'd known them and watched them grow up all those years in between. I was tempted to harden my heart and dismiss such silly, dreamy nonsense. Such questions assumed that I would remain and ignored the forty percent chance that they would not. Even second graders knew better than to count on people sticking around. Chapter 36 * * * Cult of Personality [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) We had been in school two weeks when Labor Day weekend came at last. We were becoming readers and getting to know _Amazing Grace_ and Frances, the little badger, and Miss Nelson and Dr. De Soto, the mouse dentist. Every day, we did phonics, handwriting, math, science, ballet, music and citizenship. We were very busy. The new interns, especially the ones who had come from office backgrounds, were freaking out. Managing a staff of adults, no matter how crazy or inept, was scant preparation for the profound range of personalities and non-stop action in a classroom of busy children with unbridled energy. The first-grade intern who looked like a deer in the headlights was missing in action, and a substitute had taken over the class. My mentor must have been busy trying to hang on to the other new recruits, so I just carried on doing what I thought was best. No one came and told me anything, but I didn't expect it and didn't miss it. The mercury hit ninety-three degrees on the Friday before Labor Day. Thank heavens Natasha's sister picked her up promptly at 2:35 because at 2:40, the air conditioner in Room 401 blew up. I was walking in the classroom door when there was a loud BOOM! Black smoke poured from the vents. Terrified of a fire, I raced across the room, gingerly raised the lid and clicked the switch to "off." The smoke circled menacingly in the shocked silence. My pulse pounded in my ears. The engineer was bewildered at the situation. Our unit, broken when I first arrived in 401, had been fixed just a week before. That day another unit in another classroom had blown up. Outside contractors were making a fortune off the board of education to keep these trouble-plagued antiques working. What would happen when winter came and we needed heat? Even with the air conditioning on high that day, it had been so hot that we did not do much work. The children did not pay attention during _A Bargain for Frances_ , my favorite Frances book. There was too much money changing hands and too many plot twists. Only about five children were attentive. We plowed through to the finish in grim determination when we should have savored the exciting tale of treachery. I missed seventh grade. They had loved that Frances story best of all when the little badger helped us learn about characters, sequels and authors' style. Second grade was sweaty and off track even before a mother and aunt arrived with cupcakes and balloons for a child's birthday. After the cupcakes (and a washroom break, of course) we were so sugared up we could do nothing but twirl around the room in ballet skirts and my old pointe shoes, even the boys. Louis amazed me by finding a ballet book on our shelf and mimicking positions from pictures. A true kinesthetic learner, that kid, always in motion. I was worried about him because he couldn't read a word. Yet he found so many other ways to learn that he became a teacher for me, a template for multiple intelligences. A year later, he would remind me of songs we had learned in 401 and leap across the room to demonstrate his _grand jete´._ I talked about Louis so often at home that one of my daughters finally snapped, "If you love Louis so much, why don't you adopt him?" She was right: I loved Louis. Both daughters quickly saw why when they came to school with me to help out on occasion. They don't begrudge me the Zip-Lock bag of picture notes from Louis that I keep with their own childhood artifacts. All that happened over time. On that hot, hot Friday, we were only concerned with surviving until dismissal. By then the birthday girl was overwrought, which can happen from the stress of turning seven. She was mad at me for taking her out of the bathroom line for talking. She was upset when her blue scissors turned up missing. I knew how she felt. My favorite special red stapler had disappeared. I offered a reward for its return, but I held slim hope. It was last seen with Enrico, whom I began to suspect was setting up an office somewhere. James did not make it to afternoon. He got into so many fights and tiffs that morning that I asked the office to call his home and have someone pick him up for an early dismissal. I was amazed all over again how one serious problem child can run the whole train off the rails. In the course of the morning, James had reduced three children to tears. Natasha cried so hard I let her sit on my lap in the rocking chair. It was probably against the law or something, but a sobbing child who's been smacked in the face by a bully needs comfort. Enrico saw opportunity in conflict. He could be fun and silly, but also a meanie and a manipulator with a secret, sneaky side. He and Andrea were the king and queen of complaining. It's strange that children so poor they get free lunches can be so spoiled, too. These two had learned to play adults against one another to get things they wanted. What they really wanted and needed, of course, was attention and consistency. In the absence of those things, they felt entitled to a new toy or treat, or going first or having their way. It made things difficult in the classroom. Their parents admitted straight out that the kids were "spoiled" but stated it as if the children had been born that way, as if "spoiled" was a fact of nature which the parents had no role in creating or responsibility to correct. There was one child in the room whom I would never call spoiled. She arrived weeks into the school year. She was as tall as me and skinny as a scarecrow. Her hair was uncombed and she often slept soundly with her head on her desk. She could not spell her name. She was not a "new girl." Everybody seemed to know her. She was someone who came to school for a while, then disappeared, later to return. She was my first homeless child. She would turn ten in November, in the second grade. Chapter 37 * * * Trouble [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Hearing James trill, "Hey, look at this," I turned to see him grabbing his crotch and making wildly sexual gestures at the girl sitting next to him. His zipper was down. I took him out of the room. I told him to zip up. I told him that was no way to act in our classroom. I seated him by himself again. I sent the necessary paperwork to the office describing the offense, and James spent the afternoon there. He was back in class the next day. I asked the principal what I should tell James' mother about his status when I talked to her that night. "Tell her to come meet with me on Monday morning," he said. When I talked to James' mother, I related the problem behaviors: throwing things, hitting people on the head with pencils, punching and slapping other children, repeatedly getting out of his seat and not following classroom rules or directions. He did not complete classwork or turn in homework. When I got to the sexual acting out, she exploded. "I told him not to do that," she said. "That's what got him at trouble in his old school, touching a girl in the wrong place." "So this sort of thing has happened before?" I asked, concerned that a pattern might be emerging. Did we have a sexual predator in second grade? I further learned that James had left our school two years earlier after stabbing a fellow kindergartner in the head with scissors. That year, the kindergarten teacher took early retirement. Before I could request referrals for evaluating James, I was told I needed to collect ninety days' worth of anecdotal records detailing his problem behaviors in our classroom. That would be Thanksgiving at the earliest. In the meantime, I saw I needed to police James vigilantly, to cut down on wasted time spent tending to children he harmed, breaking up fights and making office referrals. Kids who did not fight back, who did the right thing—"Tell the teacher"—did not see the wrongdoer punished. They didn't understand why he came back day after day acting the way he did. Late one morning, I saw him furtively stuffing something into his pocket from his desk. I asked to see what he had. It was play money from our math kits, which were kept in a cupboard with a broken lock. He claimed the money belonged to him, that a boy he knew gave it to him on his way to school. The money was not folded in any way. It did not appear to have been carried in a child's pocket at all, certainly not for several hours. I asked the name of the friend. He looked at me blankly for a long pause, then said, "Uh, John." Later that day, during our bathroom break, a student informed me that "James was kissing a boy in the boy's bathroom." Martin said he saw James kiss Louis, but Louis said it was Brandon. I saw James touch girls' behinds as they walked past his desk. He choked children, spit in their faces, broke their pencils and rulers, hit them with sharp objects he threw or shot from rubber bands. He wrote "bitch" on a boy's desk in red crayon. He simulated masturbation at a boy from another class in the lunchroom. He rolled up pieces of paper at his desk and simulated smoking a joint. He smashed our collection of ladybugs, which were in a plastic bag attached to the chalkboard. "Write it down. Keep your anecdotals," I was told when I related the incidents to my administration. One Friday, James seemed especially wound up. He was loud and confrontational. Around 11:30, Asophane asked to speak to me. "James has a gun in his desk," she said. It seemed as if every sound in the room suddenly went silent, then the clatter of the classroom surged up in my ears once again. Asophane was looking up at me. "Thank you, sweetheart," I told her. "Sit here in the rocking chair, and read awhile." In my old job at the newspaper there were many wacky, moody personalities, including a few in the running for "person most likely to come in with an AK-47 and blow us all away." Teachers hate to admit it, but we make the same kind of observations in our classrooms. In our room that year, the most likely suspect was James. I took a quick look around the room, counting heads, seeing where the other kids were, relative to James. He was in the row near the door, halfway back. I decided to approach him from the door side, so he'd have to face me and the wall behind me. His back would be to everyone else in the worst case scenario. I felt cold but calm and under control. Lives depended on what would happen in the next seconds. I walked over to James' desk, stopped between his desk and the wall, leaned over and spoke to him quietly. "James, I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening? Good. I'm going to give you some instructions. I need you to do exactly what I tell you. We'll go one step at a time. Do you understand?" "Yes," he said, looking up at me, nodding his head. "Good," I said. "Now the first thing I need you to do is this: Put your hands on top of your desk." In a split second, he thrust both hands inside his desk and pulled out a small silver object. I put out my hand. He put the gun in my hand. The sound of the room went away again, then surged back as I turned away from him and looked at the small, silver derringer in my hand. It was a cigarette lighter made of metal. When you pulled the trigger, flame came out of the barrel. I felt weak in the knees and very, very stupid. Why had I expected a child who had not followed directions all year to follow directions in a situation that could have had tragic consequences? I had used traffic stop protocol when the offense called for the SWAT team. I could have handled it smarter. I could have given him a task elsewhere in the room and searched through his desk. I could have waged a surprise attack, snatching his desk and spinning it away from him, then jamming the opening against the wall. I could have sat on the desk and refused to budge until reinforcements were summoned. The incident shook me up. It was sickening to think that next time I would be smarter. James got a ten-day suspension but returned in five with the principal's permission. The fake gun incident fast-tracked his evaluation, however. Eight professionals agreed on a diagnosis of behavior disorder. They recommended he go to a special education classroom with about ten children and three adults, where he could work one-on-one to improve his first-grade reading and math skills. I walked him to his new room and wished him well. I told him that we were his friends and that we would remember him. I didn't feel bad about James as I had with Pierre, guilty of passing the buck and palming his problems off on another unsuspecting teacher. That is how he came to be with me, but that is not how he left. He left fully evaluated and "serviced." He would get educational services to meet his special needs. His progress would be closely monitored. "Watch out for your girls," I told his new teacher. Chapter 38 * * * _Dance Africa_ [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Now that I could take children on field trips, I decided that _Dance Africa_ would be our first destination. A thrilling spectacle of dance and music, it was staged at the landmark Auditorium Theater downtown. It was an event. My benefactor agreed to pay for tickets and buses, enough for every child to bring a parent. I thought it would be a wonderful memory for the children, to have a whole day with the undivided attention of their grownups at a fancy show in the city. I was taking my younger daughter, Mia, who was nine, and her friend Sydney. It would be an unusual Saturday afternoon field trip because the show was staged only at night and over the weekend. The holdup was that the principal had my memo for eight days but claimed no knowledge of my plan every time I asked him. The memo invited him and the vice principal to come along, along with my mentor and Donna and other faculty friends who had helped me out in the past. I planned to buttonhole him again Monday, but a teacher's mother was laid to rest and few teachers were at school because everyone went to the funeral, an all-day affair. Also missing in action was one of the second-grade Teachers For Chicago interns. The former insurance agent called it quits after not quite a month. It felt like another death in the family. But miracle of miracles, later that week we received the go-ahead for our trip, and the permission slips went home. Most of the class was going, and the parents seemed enthusiastic. The kids were in a complete tizzy. I went downtown one day to order the tickets and another day to pick them up. I arranged the buses and acquired the cash to pay the drivers. All told, the trip cost close to $1,000. My benefactor did not flinch. While our class counted the days to _Dance Africa_ with growing anticipation, I was a nervous wreck. I had never taken seventy people on a trip before. I would cut a Saturday science class at college. There would be hell to pay. But the experience was a learning one for me. One thing I learned is that if you ever make group reservations for a show, do not tell them you are a public school group. Tell them that you are the Chicago Press Club. Tell them that you are a group of visiting dignitaries from Zimbabwe, coming to see their Iwisi group perform at _Dance Africa_ in Chicago. For if you say that you are a school group, you will sit in the "gallery," a.k.a. the rafters, gasping, listening to your heart palpitate from fear at the dizzying height and feeling that at any second someone is going to pitch forward and plunge, splat, onto the main floor. For this thrill, you will climb six or eight flights of stairs (I lost count) and sputter in disbelief when they tell you that you must go up yet again. We had a wonderful time. It was a crisp, sunny fall Saturday as we gathered at the bus. Asophane was the first person I saw when I drove up. She was wearing a beautiful cream-colored party dress with a big bow in the back. She had blue beads in her hair, a cream-colored purse, hose, party shoes and a black leather biker jacket. I introduced myself to her mother, who quickly scurried off in the opposite direction, "to the store." Others were waiting, Natasha and her mom, little Minnie with both of her parents, Lucinda with mother and sister, another girl with mom and a brother. I quickly realized that many who signed up were not going to show. We would have many extra tickets, even with the surprise guests. I sent one bus back to the barn, empty. We still had plenty of room on the one bus for siblings and assorted others. We adopted an "all are welcome" policy, probably breaking various board of education rules. Two foster children were dropped off by adults who said they could not come along. I took charge of them. We roared off, the Sears Tower looming in the far distance, fifteen miles away. The principal and vice principal were no-shows, but my mentor came along, which was crucial since the other faculty members chose to drive themselves instead of accompany us on the bus. Roosevelt University is in the same building as the Auditorium Theater, owns it, in fact, and I was able to drop off a pile of unclaimed tickets for my classmates and take my daughter, her friend and the two second graders for a bite to eat in the student lunchroom. My students pointed to focaccia, bananas, and barbecued turkey legs. "That sure is a big chicken," one observed, carrying a tray with a turkey leg the size of my forearm. The show was spellbinding, but not to everyone. I told one of my restless charges to memorize all the dance steps, so she could teach the other children on Monday. That kept her busy a while. During the Kenyan dancers, she announced, "This is boring. When are we going home?" I told her to take off her jacket because it was hot. That kept her busy awhile longer. A couple of the grandmothers looked like they might expire up in the "gallery," so at intermission I asked an usher if we could move down. With his gracious help, I resituated everyone in comfortable seats on the main floor for the second half. It wasn't until Sweet Honey in the Rock, the Grammy Award- winning a cappella singers, were halfway through their stunningly crafted set that I had a second to enjoy myself. Their rendition of "Motherless Child" was breathtakingly moving. Awakened by one grandmother's shrieks of delight, she being likewise moved, I looked around and saw everyone having a wonderful time. In our cushy new seats, the girls were all sitting together, the boys were all together. Asophane's mother was sitting with one of the dads a few rows down, and Asophane was next to me. She sat perfectly still, tall atop a pillow made of her jacket and two sweaters. She was intent, a human sponge. She leaned over and whispered, seriously, confidentially, "I really like this." "I'm glad," I said. "You look like a princess sitting there in your beautiful dress in this beautiful theater." "I'm going to write about this in my journal on Monday," she whispered, never taking her eyes off the stage. As her teacher, I savored the moment with all my heart. My greatest fear was making it back to the bus with the same number of people who got on, but when I counted heads, we were all there. I heard someone calling my name and saw my neighbor Mike, who is an African drummer, as the bus roared away. We all waved out the windows at him. I told the kids he was leaving for Africa in two weeks and wouldn't come back until March but would come to our class with his cousin next week and play for us. I took pictures of everyone as the bus rolled homeward. As we drew close to school, I announced our next field trip, to the Fire Safety House. Everyone applauded. As we said our goodbyes outside of school, one grandmother grabbed me in an embrace. "These children are blessed to have an enthusiastic teacher like you." It was a wonderful day. It was worth it. Chapter 39 * * * Loving Louis [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) One Monday morning, as the children were filing into the classroom, I noticed Louis crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the front wall, holding his hands over his eyes. "What happened to Louis?" I asked. "The clock fell off the wall and hit him on the head," I was informed. The suspect clock lay on the floor nearby. "Speak to me, Louis," I said. "Are you bleeding?" Silence. Wincing. I grabbed the ice pack out of my lunch box, wrapped it in a paper towel and had Louis hold it to his wound, a scrape on the bridge of his nose that was not very bloody. The office was out of Band-Aids, so his cut was evident when he went off with his reading tutor, a retired teacher who volunteered at our school. "What happened to Louis?" the tutor asked when she brought him back forty minutes later. "The clock fell off the wall and bonked him on the head," I explained. She looked at me strangely. "No," she said. "I meant what happened with his reading. He could read everything today. He did very, very well!" We looked at each other and burst out laughing. After she got her breath back she asked, "Do you think you could arrange for the clock to fall on a couple others?" Louis read that day and one other day. When a teacher's aide came to my room for twenty minutes every morning, I'd sit with a child on the steps outside our classroom and read. Louis and I often worked on _Go, Dog, Go!_ One day, he read about half of _Go, Dog, Go!_ before he stopped, spent. The exertion left him sweaty, and when he went back into the room, he needed a nap on the rug. He tried his best for me, but reading was beyond his grasp all but those two days. His other tutors quit on him, because he would crawl on the floor and goof around instead of getting with the program. I offered to tutor him outside school hours, but his parents didn't respond to my phone calls or notes home. I figured there was a lot going on there, because he told hair-raising stories sometimes. "Two men busted into our house when me and my brother was watching TV last night. We told them our mother wasn't selling crack anymore, but they took our TV anyway..." I loved Louis because with all the impossible shit he had stacked against him, he had the kindest heart. He didn't turn mean or spiteful or shut himself off from the world. He just kept on being Louis. He had no hang-ups. When a friend suggested to him that "Mrs. B. was white," he replied, "No, man, Mrs. B. ain't white, she's light-skinned." He never thought twice about putting on pink satin pointe shoes. If he was interested, he dove right in, and so to me, he was a joy. I loved his gravelly voice, I loved the way he showed off his muscles, but had a gentle way with other children. Yes, he would swing on the bathroom door frames and hide in the coatroom and frustrate me with his endless wandering about the room and racing in the lunchroom, but I loved him completely. Maybe it was because of the Beatles, who said "all you need is love." I'm a big Beatles fan, always have been, and I like to think that I spread some of their magic around the second grade. We did ballet to Otis Redding and mastered all twelve verses of "Over in the Meadow" (and God knows the Rolling Stones sustained me more than anything else), but in second grade, we listened the most to the Beatles. The winter of second grade the Beatles had both the best-selling book and top album in the world. Louis, my multiple intelligence learner, came in one morning to report that he had seen the Beatles on a new TV at home the night before. "What were they doing?" I asked. Louis slid down on his knees and played air guitar. "They were playing 'Yellow Submarine'," he said. "And you know what, Mrs. B.?" He looked up at me like the cat that swallowed the canary. "They broke up!" "What!" I said, grabbing my head. "The Beatles broke up? Oh no!" "What?" cried the other children. "The Beatles broke up!" "Oh no!" they said, grabbing their heads. At lunch I filled Louis in. I told him the Fab Four called it quits thirty years ago, when I was in high school and his mother wasn't even born. "But isn't it amazing," I said, "that the music they made back then still matters to us today?" "Yeah," he said. "I love the Beatles." Louis still couldn't read. But he had gotten deep into some words in our classroom. In the listening lab, when I thought he was reading along to _Pecos Bill_ , he was listening to _Abbey Road._ He had secretly switched the tapes. I put two and two together one day when I noticed him singing softly to himself while he was coloring. "Mean Mr. Mustard sleeps in the park, shaves in the dark..." Louis' song faded out as he colored a little more. "Such a mean old man," he started up singing again. "Such a mean old man!" he sang with gusto, coloring furiously. Louis took information from our classroom, connected it to something out in the world and reported back to us. He came to school ready to teach me a thing or two, and that's pretty good for a seven-year-old. I was figuring out other ways to turn their needs into learning experiences. Daily, they'd come to me when they had a stomachache or a loose tooth, and they expected me do to something about it. I cannot bear to pull teeth and my ink-stained, broken down overstuffed chair (a.k.a. the "sick bay") had long ago gone out into the dumpster. But Trey said he knew how to pull teeth, and that is how he became our official dentist. If you had a loose tooth, you were sent to Trey with a couple of tissues. We started a doctor's office in our classroom. The kids had to write down the names of their patients, their complaints, read first-aid procedures and measure blood pressure and temperature. It was so popular, I had to buy more supplies and expand it into a hospital. We went through Band-Aids, gauze and tape like the Battle of Gettysburg. One day, I thought I caught some people fooling around. They were lying on the floor. "What's going on here?" I asked. "Rico is having surgery!" "Asophane is having a baby!" "Good heavens!" I said. "At the same time? In the same operating room?" "Yes," replied the fevered team of doctors, as one, not looking up from their work. "Carry on!" I barked as I went to check the next wing, where broken arms and legs were being wrapped in yet more gauze. Most days left me shell-shocked. The incessant questions! "Mrs. B.! Mrs. B.!" a thousand times a day. The patting when they wanted your attention, your arm, your shoulder, your hand, your back. Every day, "ketchup hands" on my shirt. But in the midst of it all, we managed to find our pace, our groove, and I would not trade anything for those moments of grace when the learning spell charms everyone, when every kid is civil and focused and trying their best. They come every so often. One Friday afternoon, we pulled out our watercolor sets. We had learned the colors of the rainbow, we had seen how prisms split white light into colors. Now it was time to mix some colors. We mixed blue and red and made purple. We mixed red and yellow and made orange. We mixed blue and yellow and made green. That was all I knew, so that was a good time to pass out paper and brushes and let the painting settle into a quiet rhythm of its own. "Can we listen to some music?" someone asked. "Sure," I said, thinking I'd tune in the classical station. "Put on the Beatles!" the class shouted. "It would be my pleasure," I replied. There they all were, painting in the afternoon sun, singing "We All Live in a Yellow Submarine." In that moment, we lived the life of ease. Every one of us had all we needed. Sky of blue and sea of green were being brushed on white paper. Our friends were all aboard. Chapter 40 * * * The Downside [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I informed my parents, sadly, that I couldn't come for Thanksgiving. I was too tired. All the interns were exhausted. We had eye infections. We were surly. We were not amused. We were stressed from poverty. I tallied up my school expenses and found I'd spent more than $2,000 on classroom supplies and college textbooks in the year 2000. My reimbursement was $100. The butt of our wrath at the moment was our science methods teacher, who did not seem to fully grasp that we were classroom teachers working daily in impossible conditions. When she returned all of our homework to us one Saturday, I noticed that we all got the same grade on every paper. That grade and nothing else. I flipped through the pages looking for comments or feedback, and seeing none, asked her why. "I just didn't have time," she said. "If I did that, I'd still be grading them." We looked at her dumbfounded. We, who include a mother of two young children and the wife of a cop, who regularly gets up at 3:30 a.m. when her house is quiet to work on her college homework. We, who bothered to do her stupid Internet search assignment, even though we had just done the same thing in a more complicated way in our technology class the summer before. We, who teach all day every day, grade our students' papers and return them with comments and feedback. Nice modeling for teachers. She earned $1,800 for teaching five sessions, three of which ended hours early. It took us twelve days to earn that much money. We never got out early. When we graded our students' papers, we looked at their work. We did not give everyone the same grade. While the whole group of interns was exhausted, as the oldest I may have been feeling it more than the others. And the fatigue was not just physical. It was mental as well. I was drained more every day by the limits of poverty, by the racism, the unprofessional manner in which our school was run, the criticism, the nit-picking, the zero encouragement or respect. No one ever told you when you did a good job. It was like no other job situation I had ever experienced. Despite promises to come to each intern's room for an hour each day, our mentor had not been present. She helped me rearrange my students' desks one day. The intern across the hall adopted the veteran second-grade teacher as her mentor, which was very wise. We confronted the academic fraud of "Walking Reading," in which the children are grouped by ability and marched to another room for reading first thing in the morning. We gritted our teeth and endured it because it looked good on paper. Our schedules made it impossible most days. When we did it, it was disruptive. The children hated it. Martin cried every time. "I want to stay here with you," he'd plead. When he started hiding in the coatroom, I relented and let him stay. He was relieved and happy. We administered tests on a quarterly basis, tests abandoned by the board years ago. We didn't have enough instruction manuals because they were out of print. Yet there was no talk of a more modern or authentic testing method. Just do it, get the results in quarterly and don't make waves was the message. It was just something someone could point to on paper that we did. I had received $900 worth of books for my classroom through a grant, plus about four days of intense instruction in teaching reading over the summer. So my reading program was the most effected because we didn't work out of textbooks known as basal readers. The whole "under my thumb" vibe prevented any sort of protest, and without a free flow of ideas and opinions, mistrust flourished. I noticed that the office ladies in the other building, who worked alongside me the year before, stopped saying hello unless I spoke first. I wondered why. There was talk of "looping"—following your students from year to year. People seemed to assume I'd stay after my internship was up. They talked about me following my second graders into third grade. But I was tired of it all. I needed to find a place where I was not "one of the white teachers" or a pretender or a problem. I had to find a more supportive school where I was viewed as competent and dedicated. I was curious to see how the principal would handle it at year's end. Would he ask me to stay? I rather doubted it. There had been no mention of resolving my "remediation," which was up at the quarter, according to terms on the table the previous year. I decided to simply wait it out and see what would happen. Still, it was a constant, nagging worry to me. I wondered whether the unresolved documents were in a personnel file somewhere. In the end, no one ever brought it up again. Not once. A new layer of stress was introduced when Martin was absent a whole week. I asked the kids if they'd seen him. "Martin's gone, Mrs. Baldacci. His house is abandoned," Andrea told me. My heart sank. I had visions of Kayla's disappearance, which still grieved me. The thought of losing Martin was too much to think about that grim fall. I decided to wait until Monday to report his extended absence to the office. Maybe he has chicken pox, I told myself. That's good for a week. To my great relief and joy, he walked through the door on Monday, scrubbed and in a stiff new white shirt. I hugged him tight and asked him where he had been. "My house burned down," he said softly. I noticed he didn't have his book bag, just a plastic grocery bag. He apologized, sadly, because _Tiki Tiki Tembo_ , the book he borrowed from the class library, along with his book bag, was in the boarded-up, burned-out house. "Don't worry about that one bit," I told him. "You are safe, and your family is safe and that's all that matters. I don't know what we'd do if anything happened to you." He carried bus tickets and was late every day. He must have been staying far from school. The year before, one of my college classmates' first graders was killed in a fire. She didn't ever talk about it. Teachers keep a lot of things bottled up inside. Chapter 41 * * * Another Christmas [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) The second week in December, my car got "booted" in the school parking lot. Two three-year-old parking tickets had come back to haunt me. I was caught in a city collection crackdown that targeted municipal employees. The month before, bus drivers with unpaid tickets got the boot at their workplace parking lots. School employees were next in the crosshairs. Without warning, I was called to the principal's office. "Is this your license plate number?" the principal asked me, handing me a piece of paper. "Yes, why?" I asked. No answer. "What's going on?" I asked. "Why don't you go take a look at your car?" he said. "What happened? Did a dumpster fall on it?" I asked. Getting a big insurance check for my old car would not be such a terrible thing. The suspense was killing me, but the principal wouldn't talk, so I dashed outside without my coat to find the big yellow vice on my front wheel. Several other teachers' cars were in the same pinch. I got a ride home from Astrid, and then my neighbor, Andre, drove me to the payment center fifteen minutes away. In line was the calm first-grade intern with her father, who was bailing her out. We were sort of mortified, but the line was long with scofflaws who were paying fines to the same mayor who signed their paychecks. "Come on, we all work for the city. Can't we work something out?" one man pleaded, trying to bargain with the agent behind the window. No deals were made. I got the boot off by charging $500 on Visa. When the second graders asked, "Do you give Christmas presents, Mrs. Baldacci?" I could only groan. I had planned to give every child a class picture for Christmas. Only two kids had purchased a class picture after "Ol' Mr. One Shot" had posed us in the school library one morning in the fall. I called him that because both years, he shot our class pictures in one take. It amazed me that he could get thirty-six people in synch and the lighting right in a single shot. When I saw the results, of course, it was apparent he was not a genius of photography, but a cheapskate in a hurry. In our second-grade class picture, we looked more spiffy than in seventh, when we posed on the auditorium stage. But there were junky magazine racks and other mess in the background and around the edges that made it look cheesy. At any rate, I figured I could crop it and print it at home using the computer and give each child a copy for Christmas at a cost of less than $100. Which was still money I didn't have. As I was fretting over the Denver Boot and my perilous finances, a friend called and said her church did something every year for an "underprivileged" family and figured I knew one I could recommend. "Instead of one family, could you do something for thirty-two children?" I asked her. The result was that every kid in the class would receive a doll and a book, or a Hot Wheels kit and a book. It was so unexpected, so fantastic, I didn't realize until later how sexist our choices were. I should have asked for doctor kits all around. Earlier in December, we observed the anniversary of John Lennon's death by watching _A Hard Day's Night_. Practically every child in the class had a brush with gun violence. They had lost relatives or friends, had escaped gunfire or heard it in the neighborhood and knew to get down. When they were first graders, the gun drama at our school the year before had taken place practically under their noses. One of my girls, a prolific writer who loved the blue marble composition notebook I'd provided for reading/writing workshop, had written about a friend who was killed. "On my weekend I road my bike me and my sister. We went a round the block. Then it was gun shots. When the gun shots where done my mom said come in." Not everyone escaped unscathed that night, I gathered, for the next page was dedicated "For Nesha, She was my best friend. I wish she was alive." Underneath was a picture of a lightning bolt colored blue and orange and red, which is how gunfire looks at night coming out of the barrel of a gun. Under the lightning bolt was a small girl with tears dripping down her cheeks, asking "Why?" Later, that same child would write in her journal about leaving school early on a May afternoon to visit a friend in the hospital. "I was so happy I mean so happy she got shot in her leg. But she will be OK. She might live with me one day." During _A Hard Day's Night_ , the children kept asking when the part was coming where John gets killed. We stopped the movie and made a Beatles timeline on the board. When they saw that the movie was about a different place and time, happy and simple, they were vastly relieved. We put the movie back on and jitterbugged to "Can't Buy Me Love." The newest Beatle fans were Tashequa, Mario and Enrico, who we nicknamed Ringo. Tashequa pulled me aside during the movie and explained that she didn't want any boyfriends because she got raped when she was six. I hugged her and told her how sorry I was that happened to her, that it happens to a lot of girls, and that it wasn't her fault. Talking about gun violence stirred up other memories of violence. She said the man who hurt her was in prison just like the man who killed John. I did not breathe a word about Christmas. When the children arrived for the last day of school before Christmas break, a half-day, there was great suspense about the large, mysterious black bags stacked in the corner. I said I had no idea what they were, that they'd just been there when I came in that morning, but maybe we'd have time to look inside after our lesson. After a read-aloud of _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_ and a bathroom break, we dragged the bags onto the blue rug and spilled out a treasure trove of beautifully gift-wrapped presents. We made a boy pile and a girl pile of the big boxes, then a third pile of the smaller, thin gifts. The children figured out instantly by the shape and hardness that those packages contained books. Two at a time, a boy and a girl went up and made their choices: one box, one book. It took a long time for some people to choose. I watched them with one box in each hand, weighing their choice: "Do I want the beautiful gold wrapping paper or the box that isn't as pretty, but is bigger?" When everyone had drawn from the pile, we unwrapped together. Such excitement—flying paper and ribbons, jumping up and down, a frenzy of joy! The best part: Everyone got exactly what they wanted. There was no "I like yours better." There was only, "Look what I got!" Each thought their own was best. The Hot Wheels cars were all complete kits, cars with garages and police stations and car washes. The baby dolls were exquisite. No two were the same. We oohed and aahed like relatives outside a hospital nursery. The dolls went home snuggled inside the coats of their new mothers. If you were wondering, they were all babies in beautiful shades of brown. The boys made plans to get together over the holidays to build huge cities out of their car sets. After the children left, there was a Christmas luncheon for the teachers in the library. I was antsy, because ten of my children had not come to school on that bitterly cold half-day. Like Santa, I had deliveries to make. I peeled out of the parking lot at 2:18, twelve minutes early. First stop was Natasha's grandmother's house. All her brothers, sisters and cousins were there. "It was just too cold to send them to school for a half-day," grandma explained. I agreed. I met Natasha's grandfather and his brother as the other children ran to the back of the house hollering for Natasha to come quick. The shy, tiniest fairy came down the long hallway with a quizzical look on her face. When she saw me standing in her grandmother's living room, she bolted into a run and jumped into my arms, a huge smile on her face. I spun her around and told her we'd missed her at the party. "I've come to ask you something," I told her. "If you were picked to be the mother of a special baby doll, would you want a great big one or a tiny little one like you?" "A great big one," she said. "The biggest." "Wait here," I told her. I went to my car trunk and took out the biggest box. She unwrapped it on the spot. It was a beautiful baby with a blue fuzzy sleeper and a stocking cap. "Thank heavens that baby has warm clothes for a day like this," I observed. The book she unwrapped was _Green Eggs and Ham_ , her favorite. Grandma hugged me goodbye and blessed me as I set off into the biting cold. Next stop was Mario's. He was in his undershirt. His mother made him put his boxes under the tree until Christmas. On my way once again, I turned a corner where three boys playing in the snow paused and shouted out, "Mrs. Baldacci! Mrs. Baldacci!" I couldn't tell who they were because they were so bundled up, but I stopped, waved and told them "Merry Christmas!" It had been more than thirty years, back when my husband was a child, since any kids shouted "Mrs. Baldacci!" on the streets of Roseland. Next stop was a second-floor apartment above a storefront, up a steep staircase to a cozy den. "Tell your teacher thank you and give her a hug," Tashequa's mother told her, smiling over her daughter's head at me. Hakim was wearing pajamas and a twinkling smile. "Put them under the tree," said his beautiful mother. "If that book is too easy for you, you can swap when we get back to school," I told him. One more delivery, to a girl in pajamas whose sister got her nose out of joint when she saw the gift-wrapped box. A condemnation notice was nailed to the doorframe. That was my last delivery, but one present remained in my trunk, a baby doll for a girl with no address. She would have to wait until school resumed, assuming she came back then. It was dark as I headed home from my rounds. Christmas lights twinkled in the neighborhood; the all-blue display was popular that year. Trees glowed behind living room windows. I tuned in the classical station and thought about the day. Far more had come out of those big black bags than surprisingly wonderful toys. The church people who wanted to help had put something in motion that would last long after the toys were cast aside and the books were memorized by heart. They had reinforced the image of our school and classroom as places where good and fun things happen, where people care about each other, where magic occasionally breaks out, where rewards are bestowed and love abounds. For children who learned young that life was uncertain and often cruel, and that institutions were not to be trusted, that was the most important gift of all. Chapter 42 * * * Cruel January [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) The first week back from the long Christmas break was brutal, like a week full of Mondays. The kids, predictably, had a hard time getting back with the program. Our time away from school had been blissfully unstructured. By Friday my head was ringing with the incessant drone of "Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci." They were happy to see me, I supposed. Asophane was behaving like a short timer and told me she was transferring out of our school. I called her mother, who said she had no intention of transferring her. She came back the next day as her old hard-working self. Brandon was angry and refusing to work. I made him line leader and he rose to the challenge. By week's end (and two phone calls home) he was on board. Louis was crawling on the floor again. I phoned his home from the classroom cell phone and put him on with his mother. It reduced him to tears but got him back in his seat, albeit upside-down. The biggest surprise was Enrico. He was back on the job. Didn't fight with anyone. He did not make faces or talk back. I called his mother to report this change. She informed me she had gotten married over the holiday, and they had moved. "He now has a positive male role model in his life," she said. "It's making all the difference." They hadn't forgotten how to read. Everyone was eager to get a book out of the library. Three asked me to read to the class the books they'd gotten for Christmas, claiming that no one had read with them at home over the holiday, and they did not take it upon themselves to crack the new books. I thought the truth was that they wanted to show off their books to the class, which was good. It demonstrated that they were proud of their books and wanted to share them. Reading about Dr. King in preparation for the January 15 holiday, there was a passage in one book about how Martin, as a boy, would spend all his allowance on books because he wanted to own his own books. Everyone's head snapped up at that part. Something resonated. They all had their own books. They were impressed that he graduated from high school and started college at age fifteen. "See where reading can take you?" I said. There was an open house at a new, all-girl charter school on Sunday afternoon. At the start-up, they were only taking girls in sixth and ninth grades. I planned to take Mia for a look-see, and told some of my former seventh graders, now eighth graders, about it. They came hunting me the next day and asked me to take them, which is probably a violation of the Mann Act or ten different teacher rules. They always warn teachers to never take a student in their cars, never be alone with a student, especially with the classroom door closed. You never know what someone will say about you. On Sunday, it was freezing cold. Mia had a fever. I called Nichelle to tell her I didn't think I'd be able to take them without a chaperone. Her mother couldn't come. She worked nights and needed her rest. Destinee's granddad wasn't feeling too good and he begged off. Kyisha's mother was home with the twins, who had just turned one. Hearing the disappointment in Nichelle's voice, I decided to take them anyway. I knocked on each door and personally took the hand-off from each grown-up, along with signed notes from each adult saying it was okay for the girls to go with me. Off we went to the school, which was on the Illinois Institute of Technology campus near Comiskey Park. "Put on your seat belts," I told each one as we roared off. They admired my Dodge Neon's upholstery. They were perfectly behaved, delightful. We looked all around, talked to students, met the principal and went to every classroom. We attracted a few quizzical looks, these three beautiful black teenage girls and one short light-skinned woman. One teacher asked them if their parents were there, and they said they came with me, their old teacher. "You must be pretty special students," she said, smiling. I agreed that yes, they definitely were. They were some of the same girls who had been present at the crying-in-the-bathroom incident more than a year before. So of course we checked out the bathroom facilities at the new school. Gleaming new tile. Many, many bathroom stalls, each with a door that closed and locked. Hot and cold running water. Soap. Mirrors, lots of them, reflected our faces. We were all smiling. Smiling at how far we had come. They were about to graduate grammar school. I would finish graduate school in June. I like to think we kept each other going. As far as I know, they all sent in their applications. It would be a great environment: fifteen girls in a class. The only all-girl public school. The thing that impressed me the most about that charter school was that they didn't give letter grades. Projects were graded on a level of mastery: complete, in progress and "not yet." Every project was graded on a rubric of about twenty items that must be completed, and how well each detail was presented. I felt like such a fraud giving letter grades on the report cards of my students that weekend. How can you give a seven-year-old an F because he can't read? Louis felt bad about his grades, and I spent special time with him alone on Friday to show him the progress he had made since the start of the year. "Look, Louis, now all your people have hair and hands and shoes. And you are making animals and houses now. My favorite pictures are you doing _grand jete´._ And look what you did last week—you added a sentence to your drawing. You are coming along. Keep working hard. I will help you." He was so happy to hear this that he drew a picture for me. He asked my favorite color, the girls' favorite colors and Artie's favorite color. "This is you, your daughters and your husband, and the cats, Midnight and Sam," he said. Every one of us was drawn in our favorite color. He got every one right. Is it any wonder I adored Louis? He had drawn a picture of me with Midnight the week before. Midnight had a turned-down cat mouth. "Is Midnight sad?" I asked. "You are at school and he misses you," Louis replied. I gave the picture to Mia, since Midnight is her cat. I asked her could she write a note to Louis. She wrote: "Dear Louis, "I really like the picture you drew of my mom and Midnight. I don't think he's sad when we are away because he always finds some crazy thing to do to amuse himself. Did you know that we have another cat, Sam? So Midnight has someone to play with when we are gone, and he is never bored. Write back!" Mia was home sick from school that week, and I phoned her after lunch from the classroom. It was very quiet, as it is whenever I pull out the phone, because someone's usually getting a phone call home and everyone wants to hear them get in trouble. "How are you feeling?" I asked. She said she was okay, she guessed. I asked her if she'd say hi to Louis, and passed the phone. "Someone wants to talk to you," I told him. "Hello," he said. "Hi, Mia." Big, big smile. Quiet. "I got your letter," he said softly. They didn't have too much to say, but Mia told him to write her back, and he said he would. After he hung up, I said, "Hey, why don't we all write to her? When you're home sick, wouldn't you feel better if someone sent you a get-well note?" Paper and pencils at the ready, we brainstormed. I hope you are feeling better. I hope you get well. I hope you get better so you can come visit our classroom. I hope you get better so you can come on our field trip with us. I hope you get better soon so you can go back to school and learn something. Mia had eighteen get-well notes that night, some in homemade envelopes sealed with spit. They made her feel much better. It made me feel great. It is the essence of writing to communicate feelings to another person with pencil and paper and, yes, spit. They are getting quite good at it. Some of the boys put: "Look on back." We turned over their letters and found that they'd provided their phone numbers. There were a few totally original letters in the mix. "I'm sorry you are sick. I am sick, too." "Remember me from the _Dance Africa_ field trip? I hope you feel better." Mia wasn't the only one who was sick. I had some horrid virus with a disgusting cough and much nose-blowing and sneezing. My hearing went in and out. Everything that could be infected was, even an earring hole. I rested all weekend and prayed for a snow day Monday. Freezing rain was predicted. The streets and sanitation department put down tons of road salt, and school was on as usual. But not for long. A power outage at school caused us to evacuate. We lined up in the darkened hallways and boarded buses to South Side Prep for the day. It was Artie's former Catholic boys' high school, and we spent the day in the gym not doing much of anything. We sang "Down By the Bay" about a thousand times. We tried to read a few books, but it was so noisy I just had them read to themselves. We went to the bathroom and for drinks of water a dozen times. We had a very good lunch! We returned to school forty minutes late, all of us wrung out and exhausted. Their homework was to write a story about "My Crazy Day." Only Mario did his homework. We noodled around the next day. We had library. We worked with math manipulatives on subtraction regrouping. We watched the dance scenes from a ballet movie called _Center Stage_. They got to see men and women at ballet, an African-American prima ballerina in _Swan Lake_ , the balcony scene from _Romeo and Juliet_ and a _pas de quatre_ from _Swan Lake_ , a rocking jazz class and ballet classes at American Ballet Theater Academy. It was very exciting and got everyone spinning and walking on tiptoes. My homeless girl was spending her days sitting under a table or in a corner in the afternoons, frustrated beyond all comprehension. The situation was urgent. My request for referral forms was ten days unanswered. Later that week, we took our field trip to the Fire Safety House. Afterward, we shared and everyone showed their burn scars. We had several scars from hot irons, a hot pan spilling off the stove, a burn from an exhaust pipe on a motorcycle and assorted curling irons on the neck. Ouch. I did not turn in my lesson plans on Friday. They were not done. I was a total wreck. I was crying Thursday night because of various roadblocks to getting my second-year book grant application turned in. The line at the one working copy machine in the Roosevelt library included seven people with thick books. Saturday I went to the doctor. The nurse asked, "Are you running a fever?" "I don't know. We broke the thermometer." She took my temp. It was 100. "You have a fever," she said. "That explains the otherworldly feeling I've been having," I said. The doctor looked in my eyes, ears, throat. He listened to me breathe. He said, "I'm going to give you a shot. Then you will take Zithromax for a week. If you don't feel better, you have a refill. Take it another week." "What do I have?" I ask. "A little of this, a little of that," he says. I figured as much. Earache, cough, nose-blowing like there's no tomorrow, big fatigue. "What have you been doing for it?" he asked. "Nothing. Being a jerk. Going to work every day. Oh, I found some Amoxicillin in the cupboard and took it for three days when my chest started to hurt from coughing." "How old was it?" he asked. "Expired a year ago July," I said. "I stole it from my husband." The nurse came back to give me my shot, and I started to drop my pants. "No!" she cried. "We only do that with little kids. By the time you're a grown-up, you have enough meat on your arms to take a shot up there." "Oh," I said. I hadn't had a shot for being sick since I was a little kid. Monday at school I had Brandon dress up like the doctor and Andrea as me. We rolled out a new feature, "401 Theater." We acted out my episode at the doctor's office. I showed them where I got my shot. Everyone applauded. We had many volunteers who wanted to act out scenes from their lives. The point: There are many ways to tell a story. I was feeling a bit better by the way. The children worked magnificently. They took a reading review quiz of our read-alouds from the week, four questions on each story. They did their fire safety quiz. We colored a while. I noticed some children chose sheets with cats in a garden, others picked lions in a jungle. We did a compare and contrast on lions and cats with a Venn diagram. I thought I'd pass out before they finally came up with the words "wild" and "tame." We had lunch and gym, and then we watched _The Dancing Princesses_ from Shelley Duvall's Fairy Tale Theatre. The next day we would read _Brothers of the Knight_ , about Reverend Knight and his twelve sons in Harlem. The children would see how fairy tales have eternal themes and how stories morph and time travel, in print, on the stage and in film. We were back in the groove. Chapter 43 * * * A Prayer in School [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I had been weary. Beaten down. It was that "Slipping Into Darkness" time of year again in Chicago, a time of short days and icy winds and ankle-deep gray slush at every corner. It was hard to get motivated. I was overdue for a moment of grace. As I was warming up the room by positioning our fan to pull warm air from the hallway, the office called to say that a parent had come to see me. I went downstairs and found Tashiqua with her grandfather. We went upstairs and sat in the yellow chairs at the small desks. He said Tashiqua had been troubled by people "talking about her mama" the day before. I recalled a spat between Tashiqua and another girl at her table. Tashiqua had asked to move her desk across the room, and I had allowed it. Her granddad said that Tashiqua was a compassionate person and that he believed from a prophecy that she would be a great and holy woman. I agreed. I told him what a delight she was and how I loved having such a special person in my class. I explained that everyone comes through our door with baggage, with issues. I said I wanted our room to be a compassionate community, supportive of each other. I admitted it was a struggle. Just then, Andrea walked in. It was ten minutes too early, and she knew she was to line up outside with the class, but she blurted out that she was absent the day before because her cousin died and she was at her funeral. Everything stopped. Andrea handed me the funeral program she carried in her hand. I told her how sorry I was. I asked her about her cousin, how she died, had she been sick, how old was she, and finally, how she herself was doing. Tashiqua's grandfather, who I rightly assumed was a pastor, then asked her would she like to pray on it for a moment? Andrea went right to him. We all bowed our heads. He prayed beautifully, soothing words of comfort and hope. I thought of Kayla. Afterward, I told Andrea she could put her cousin's program up on the board for the day if she'd like, and she did. Even when someone is gone, we remember them. Tashiqua and her granddad and I talked a while longer about how we have to meet insult with love. I talked about how we each bear crosses. Granddad smiled and said he had uttered those exact words that morning. I thanked him for his prayer and for supporting Andrea. I felt, too, the healing power of prayer in my public school classroom. I had a calm and centered day. Not long after that, I learned that Kayla was alive and well! The guidance counselor told me the news. She was enrolled at another school in the neighborhood in eighth grade. She didn't lose any ground in her year away. I asked whether it would be appropriate to try to contact her. I wondered if I could write a letter of recommendation for her for high school. The guidance counselor said she would let me know. The job of teaching, performed with an open heart, carries a burden of grief. I could not dwell on Kayla, in thought or conversation, without becoming teary. I'd slap myself for being such a baby. I'd tell myself to snap out of it, no one died, for crying out loud. I told myself that bad things happen to good people and that kids bounce back. But still I grieved. For a year I had lit candles. I had worried and wondered whether I would ever see her again and how it would happen. In one of my sappy daydreams I imagined myself as an old lady teacher meeting a student teacher, a young woman wearing a gold medal of _La Madonna della Strada_. The sadness I carried for an entire year, the shock at her disappearance, not knowing where she was or if she was all right, at last lifted. I was overjoyed! Knowing she was back was not enough, though. I wanted to know how she was doing. I wondered if she might be interested in that Young Women's Leadership Charter School and whether I could help her get in. Over the next weeks, I phoned the guidance counselor of her new school a number of times. The counselor was always "not here yet" or "just left." I finally caught her in the early afternoon one day and explained the situation. I asked if she could tell Kayla I wanted to see her, and if it was okay with Kayla's mother, set up a meeting. The counselor agreed. I never got a call back, however. My subsequent calls were not returned. I tried Kayla's pastor and her aunt with the same results. Finally, I just had to let it go. Chapter 44 * * * Recess! [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) There were four days until March, and we started putting our weather time line up. Hakim drew some of his fantastic, fierce lions for our calendar board and we put up the words: "March comes in like a lion." I had written a memo asking that the class be allowed to go on a walk around the block every day to observe the changing season for our weather unit. We would make scientific notations of the daily changes. In Chicago, March is a monumental month of nature's fury and affirmation. I got my memo back from the office secretary. "He said to tell you that if you send a memo, you should send it to him and 'cc' the others," she said. The memo was addressed to my mentor, the vice principal and the principal, in that order. "Did he say anything about the content of the memo itself?" I asked. "No," she said. "So I should resubmit it with his name first and 'cc' the ladies?" I asked. She nodded her head. We never did get permission for our daily walks. The reason given was safety. "I don't want my name in the paper if something happens to those children out there," said the vice principal. "Out there" was our neighborhood. How could we, as adults responsible for the well-being of children, be fearful of our neighborhood? What kind of message did that send to the children? What kind of line did it draw? On the rare occasions that teachers needed to stay until 6 p.m. for report card pickup, they were urged to go out to their cars in groups, reinforcing the perception of the neighborhood as a dangerous, high-crime area. Every day at 2:30, most teachers fled the building like a fire drill. Yet our students walked to and from school, most without adult supervision. I did not have the fortitude to dig my heels in for a "take back the neighborhood" initiative in which the school leadership had no interest. But philosophically I found it sad that the staff was afraid of the neighborhood, as sad as the principal believing that the students were "victims." It showed a lack of faith and encouraged the mindset of excuse-making. It probably had a lot to do with low achievement. I gave up the idea of outdoor science walks. But I got a new idea from our "Math Mania" day. Math Mania was a circus of math-connected activities in the classroom: Crazy Eights and Old Maid card games; jacks; building blocks and tessellations, which are repeating designs with colorful geometric shapes. Everyone seemed to find an activity they were interested in. The children followed their interests and formed small groups. The groups changed as students became bored with one activity and tried another. No one tormented anyone. No one fought. No one used the free time to go in someone else's desk or coat pockets. Everyone was busy. No one acted stressed out or negative. It slowly dawned on me that we needed to do this every day and call it indoor recess. Given the stress levels of the children, with no physical release except gym once a week, the kids needed to play. And since they tended to fuss and fight at the silliest provocation, the children needed to learn to play together. Cleaning out the basement, I found a hopscotch rug that had belonged to my daughters. I brought it to school with four rocks to use as markers. The first time we tried it invited chaos. Everyone crowded in, butted in line and fought over taking turns. But when we opened up other activities in the room, we created an indoor playground. Four people at a time played hopscotch while others played ball or jacks on the floor. Someone brought out a jump rope and we moved desks to make room for that. Others gravitated to our popular "doctor's office" for role-playing with dolls. The children created their own mix of aerobic exercise and simple stress-relieving imaginative play. The next day, we tried it again. Before long, the set-up and clean-up were much quicker, the transitions easier, and groups were cooperating better than before. Children who did not wish to play went next door to read to the kindergartners, another positive example of cooperation. I was there if they needed me to show how to deal cards, but they were in charge of themselves. They chose their games and their playmates. As time went on, I observed the children's activities during our secret recess and the mood of the classroom afterward. Cooperative and imaginative play continued to improve. I was worried that I'd get in trouble. I figured it was a matter of time before I had to do a tap dance justifying our playtime. I choreographed one that extolled the math skills, especially when we made a store with empty food boxes and a cash register out of a kitchen drawer organizer. Louis was exceptional at counting change. All of the fun and games were my best efforts to make our classroom a place where "a splendid time was guaranteed for all." Chapter 45 * * * The Teacher Certification Test [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) If questions on the Basic Skills Test for teachers two years before had been like the under-$8,000 questions on _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?_ the state certification test was more like _Jeopardy_. We needed to know our teacher stuff and a whole lot more. It was a glorious summer-like April day, a far cry from the freezing, snow-covered day that I took the Basic Skills Test in what seemed like another lifetime. The test was at the same place, a high school on the city's southwest side. Hundreds of seagulls circled the green sports fields. My fellow interns clustered on the steps, nervous, giving each other pep talks. We had not prepared other than to give ourselves the self-test at the back of the state board of education book, which was quite detailed and explained every answer, right and wrong. I reviewed it twice. Some people spend weeks or months preparing for the test. They join study groups at their colleges of education or send to the state board of education for additional prep materials. But my colleagues and I had no time for that. We were in the waning days of our internship. One more report card and we were out. Our days as classroom intern teachers were coming to an end and so were our nights at graduate school. After living and breathing education day and night, I felt we were perfectly positioned to ace the test. Again, it was a multiple choice test. It was like Trivial Pursuit with chart and map reading. "Who was the president of the Confederacy during the Civil War?" "What African country is shown on the map?" There were diagrams and trick questions. My favorite: "If you were paving a parking lot with a two-inch-thick coat of asphalt, how many cubic feet of material would you need?" There were questions about which activities are most appropriate for children of different ages, questions about first aid and team sports, questions about behaviorist theory, how kids learn and how to best handle misbehavers. The undergraduate biology lab I had taken the fall before at a Chicago community college served me well in the science area. Again, I did poorest in language arts—after supporting myself as a writer for twenty-five years! The results: Language Arts, 93. Mathematics and Science, 96. Social Studies, 100. Health, Physical Education and Fine Arts, 100. Professional Knowledge, 100. Total score: 97. We needed a 70 to pass. Some of my colleagues failed, and some failed for the second time. Were those who failed poor teachers? Not from what I had seen. I had worked on projects, presentations and lesson plans with them, and their work was thoughtful, creative, solid and mindful of "best practice." Their students did well. In my opinion, their test results didn't reflect their knowledge or talent. I did not know what to make of it. Were they nervous, knowing the career for which they'd prepared for two years was on the line? Did they read too much into the questions or read them incorrectly? It made no sense. The experience made me sympathize with my own students, who live and die by their Iowa test scores. It confirmed my skepticism about what standardized tests really measure as far as what we know and how we apply that knowledge. I realized: • How well, how much and what we read greatly influences how well we do on tests. • Despite our frenzy to ignite critical thinking in our students, it is deadly to "over-think" a question on a standardized test. • It is better to stick to a basic formula than to write with passion, style or voice. • It is possible to score 100s across the board on the teacher test yet lack the creativity, humanity and stamina it takes to be a teacher in this day and age. After the test, Tammy and Michelle came back to my house. We sat outside and basked in the day, while we peppered each other with questions from the test. We got out an atlas to double-check our geography answers. Back at college later that week, the class voted to accelerate our course schedule, attending classes every other night for four and a half hours so that we could finish sooner. Since I was a zombie, I did not vote for this speeded up finish. There was another reason, too, one that only a couple of us shared. Michelle and I were misty-eyed to think that it would soon be over. She had been a sculptor and photographer before her career change. We had walked through the fire during our internships and risen from the ashes as new individuals. We had reinvented ourselves. We loved going to class. We would gladly have gone all summer. We could not imagine our future teaching careers without the support of the twelve people we had come to rely on as sounding boards, and for sustenance. But the others were in a lather to get finished, and so we ended our campaign clocking fifteen class hours a week. The grand finale was a party at my house. Only seven people came. Some who had replied in the affirmative offered no explanation for not showing, save for one who called on a cell phone to say that she was furniture shopping on the North Side and caught in traffic. The dark sky poured rain all day long. Chapter 46 * * * Midnight Catches a Snake [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) On Sunday, Midnight caught a garden snake. I put it in a microwave container with a garden ecosystem, punched some holes for air and set it in the shade. Midnight later produced a second snake, so identical to the first that I had to look in the container to see if the other one was still there. It was. We released the second one, but I took the first to school on Monday. Big hit! Everyone got to see it move around (quite gingerly, actually, considering it had a cat bite in its side) and flick its tongue. Martin, my naturalist, pleaded to take it home. Second graders are natural scientists. They are fascinated with nature and driven to understand the physical world around them. Earlier in the year we had studied wasps and ladybugs, because of the children's many questions about why these creatures were invading our human space. We had tons of yellow jackets on our playground every fall, swarming the school, flying in the windows and stinging scores of kids. Our research revealed that they were not bees but wasps. We learned: They are social insects, living together in communities; they don't sting if you don't bother them—they sting when they are "nervous"; they are "the paper-makers of the insect world"; they do not store food, so when fall comes, they act weird because they are hungry and getting ready to die. We kept daily tallies of the number of wasps we observed. The number declined until the only wasps we saw were mostly in the garbage cans and only on warm, sunny mornings. We connected the weather forecast to their ultimate demise. One day we captured a wasp so large we concluded she must be the queen. During a citywide ladybug infestation in October, we used information from the newspaper to learn why these biting orange bugs were different from their red relations, why they were introduced to the United States and how they migrated north to Chicago. But the snake project was best of all. Everyone made snake books. They were divine. Some were accordion books made by folding a strip of paper like an accordion, some were pages stapled together. Some were scientific, some straightforward reporting about the presence of a snake in our room and its triumphant visit to the kindergarten room, borne by 401 students. Asophane did a research paper, adding complicated snake-related words of her own choosing from the dictionary. Mine was from the snake's point of view, describing the traumatic capture and jarring change of scene. Spring break snuck up on us, and it was a blissful, endless series of chores in the garden. A startling amount of our backyard grass had died from neglect last year. I scattered bag after bag of seed. Growing grass, I quickly realized, was more trouble than having a newborn in the house. It had to be watered all the time. I wasn't changing diapers or nursing a baby, but I was grimy with dirt every day. Which was not cool because another neglected and long-put-off disaster, the bathroom, was being gutted and remodeled. The first week back from break was paralyzing. I was too sapped to move. The children were unruly. I figured they spent as much time over vacation outside as I did. It was hard for all of us to be back indoors. The outside temperature was eighty-five degrees, and our room, which had east-facing windows, was stifling by mid-morning. Only a few classrooms had working air conditioning. Mine was not one. We were sweaty and disagreeable. The fan put up a noble effort, but it was meager with all those sweaty little bodies sticking to their plastic chairs. The listening lab broke, so I brought that table up front and proclaimed it the writer's workshop. Five students a day brought their journals. We sat in a circle and talked about our writing. It was hugely popular. We had many thoughtful discussions about words and storytelling, about generating ideas and the imperative to write down the things that we wonder about, about how writing helps us figure things out. My Iowa test prep materials, which I turned over for copying ten days earlier allotting time for practice, came to me half an hour after my class finished the Iowa test. It didn't matter, really. Testing second-graders was optional. I would never know how they did, but it was good practice for third grade, a "benchmark" year that mattered to the bean counters. Chapter 47 * * * Lost Parents [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Asophane was not herself. She was cross and weepy, defiant and clingy. She stole boxes of cookies from our cupboard and stuffed them in her backpack. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were dirty. I sat with her on the stairwell outside our classroom and asked her what was going on. "My mother is in jail," she said. Fat tears rolled down her face. In the course of our year together, there had been hints that all was not well with Asophane's mother. One time, she slept all day when she should have been picking up her daughter's report card. When Asophane tried to wake her, she told the child to go pick it up herself. Asophane sneaked up to our classroom and made a case for picking up her own report card, but the rule was that they were to be handed over to parents only. I let Asophane see her report card and gave her cookies and juice. It was a good report card and she was dying to show it to her mother. It languished in the office until the next grading period. The jail term was nearly as long as a grading period. Since Asophane was counting the days, I put her in charge of our classroom calendar. She was efficient. Every morning, she tacked the square for that day in its proper place. Every so often, she'd tell me how many more days it would be until her mother came home. A couple of times, she told me she would not be at school the next day, because she was going to visit her mother. I'd been to Cook County Jail, and I imagined Asophane standing in line in that noisy, heartbreaking place, waiting her turn to talk to her mother in a small, airless room. There was a big party at Asophane's grandmother's house when her mother was released. The months of worry had been hard on the child. She had been so self-assured, so fearless before. Happy as she was when it was over, she still seemed worried and subdued. The same week Asophane's mother came home, the father of another second-grader got involved in a dispute with a couple of men two blocks from school. There was some sort of illicit activity involved, and whatever it was broke bad. He saw it coming and told his daughter to run. Because the child ran, she was spared the sight of her father getting shot to death. The school office had been notified by the police, and the child's teacher, a first-year intern, was informed first thing in the morning. Knowing her student, and how important her father had been in her life, the teacher was grief-stricken. She was surprised and unprepared when the child showed up for school that day and told her, "My daddy's dead." The teacher put on a movie for the children and put her head down on her desk so the children wouldn't see her cry. Chapter 48 * * * Mother's Day [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) Mother's Day weekend found me in South Haven, Michigan, the place I go to reconnect with my truest self. I took Mia and a friend, but my real objective was to spend the short time away reflecting on my amazing two years that were nearly finished and look ahead to my future as a teacher. It was very windy and cold but sunny. We walked the beach, went to town for a bit, then checked into a hotel. I thoroughly enjoyed the company of fifth graders They talk about the most amazing things. They wonder whether we are living in a parallel universe or whether we are really living on a crumb on a table of a much larger place without realizing our insignificance. They consider how weird it is that you can never really "see" your own face, only its reflection, and wonder whether what we see in the mirror is really what we look like to the rest of the world. While the girls were shopping in town Saturday, I bought a _Kalamazoo Gazette_ , the first paper I worked for right out of college. There was a front-page story about recruiting teachers from other professions. Michigan, like every other state in the nation, was facing a teacher shortage. Legislation to allow alternative certification had been written, but had no sponsor and therefore hadn't been introduced. The state was already feeling the teacher pinch as retirements soared. So I guessed I could move back to Michigan any time I wanted and have a job waiting. I'd also heard ads on the radio for a California teacher fair. The greatest needs in California were identical to Chicago's: teachers for special education, math, science and bilingual education. On Sunday morning, Mother's Day, we revisited the beach. It was a splendid clear morning with the crisp spring air so unique to the Great Lakes. The wind had died down, and the sun was warm. Not a cloud in the sky. One sailboat, one motorboat, seagulls. It was deserted, quiet, deliciously evocative. I settled myself in the sand and watched gentle waves lap the shore. I thought about motherhood, the most consuming role of my life. I thought about how much mothering the second-graders needed and how poorly-equipped I often felt to do that job. I wondered whether my own two children needed that level of nurturing from their teachers. I felt angry at parents who had let their children down, the parents who were in jail, on drugs, who were narcissistic at terrible expense to their kids. I was mad at the ones who beat and berate their children, who only gave attention when their children misbehaved and ignored them when they are jumping through hoops for positive attention. I was mad at the parents who abandoned their children, either physically or emotionally, leaving them adrift in the world, unable to make eye contact and refusing to speak. I was angry at the ones who ruined their lives with drugs to the point they couldn't provide a roof over their children's heads and the ones who stayed out all night and kept their kids up at all hours, in harm's way. I had two phone messages on the classroom phone the week before from a seven-year-old at a quarter to midnight. On the messages, she sang me songs about school and how she'd see me the next morning. As a teacher, I could never fill those children's needs. That was what parents were for. What I could do seemed so small against the enormity of the risks some students faced, like a single wave nudging the shoreline of their lives. I was grateful for the parents and grandparents of my students who tended their children well. I was in awe of the single mothers who went back to school and of the parents who battled chronic illnesses and still put their children first. I walked the beach and collected many beautiful stones of different colors, from ebony to alabaster, from teal to tangerine, rocks with pictures in them, rocks in the shapes of Africa, of hearts, rocks that were perfectly round or oblong, rocks with fossils, rocks with different textures, speckled stones, smooth stones. I would bring them to school the next day and tell the children I was thinking of them on Mother's Day and brought them treasures. We would look at them dry and regard their shapes and textures. Then we would spray them with water and look at them wet, when their hidden personality and true, deep beauty is revealed. They would choose whichever one they liked best. The one that represents their own self. They would write in their journals about their special rock and why they chose it. I chose a picture rock. It looked like a yellow egg with a lacy black top and bottom, and seagulls flying in the middle. After many false starts, we finally pried ourselves from the splendid beach and piled into the car for the drive back to Chicago. We listened to Terri Hemmert's "Rampant Beatlemania," a once-a-year radio extravaganza of ten straight hours of Beatles music on WXRT. I called twice to win trivia contests but couldn't get through. If I had, I would have asked Terri to dedicate "Yellow Submarine" to Room 401 from Mrs. B. Back at school the next day, the children were thrilled by the Lake Michigan stones. They enjoyed looking at the myriad rocks in detail. Admittedly, the water sprayers got a little carried away, causing a minor flood, but it was so much fun to squeeze the spray bottle handles, who could blame them? The children looked and touched, picking up rocks, putting them back, studying another and another, agonizing over the one stone they loved the best. Ultimately, they made their choices. "I pick this rock because it's my best color and it's colorful and pretty that's why I picked it and it's a heart," Natasha wrote. "I like my rock because it is beautiful and soft and I like my rock because in the middle it is twirly and colorful and it look like a tornado," Tashequa wrote. Hakim wrote a thank-you card: "Mrs. B, I love the rock! The rock is pretty! Thanks for the rock!" He drew a picture of his rock inside a heart. When we hear the metaphor that someone's heart is like a stone, we think that they are so hardened they cannot love. In second grade, we managed to turn stone into tangible evidence of love and that is what I remember. Chapter 49 * * * Guns of Summer [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) As the days grew hotter and the leaves on the trees spread out new and green, a kid threatened to "go home and get my mama's gun and come back up here and shoot" his sixth-grade teacher, a first-year intern. The teacher called the cops. The police searched the boy's locker. The teacher, a cop and the boy went to the office, where the child continued to make shooting gestures (index finger pointed, thumb up, whispering "pow, pow, pow") at the teacher behind the policeman's back. The cop saw him and the police took the kid away. The child was soon back but not the teacher. I happened to be punching in the following Monday morning, when the wife of the teacher who was threatened called him in sick. Whether out of fear or out of insult, he never came back. With ten days to go in the school year, another ship-jumper was unable to endure another minute. A year's worth of work down the drain seemed a better deal. I never heard of him again. What would I have done, I wondered? How could an adult go back into that classroom and face that child again, knowing that every day would be a showdown, never knowing what might happen? At our school, such incidents were minimized as empty threats or, as the kids said time and again, "just playing with you." How were we supposed to decide when someone was not playing? As we lay bleeding? Yet at school, that teacher's defection was viewed as an overreaction. He was thought to be a silly white man, frightened off by a kid. He was a quitter, a failure. He didn't have what it took. I wanted to call in sick. My kids had been horrible. I gave detention to six of them, which was twenty-four percent of the class. All but about a half-dozen others deserved it. With the hot weather, the whole place was up for grabs once again. Children were running amok, and the teachers were outnumbered, beaten down, powerless to stop them, it seemed. If only we could hold on until the last bell. I was so overwhelmed that I barely noticed until Louis collapsed that he had read eighteen pages of _Go Dog Go!_ He was so exhausted that he staggered from the stairwell into the room and immediately put his head down on the desk. When I patted his back as I walked by, he was sweaty. That meant it really did happen. Louis read a book. I experienced a blip of joy. As the grisly end wore down, I did what I had done the year before: I let go of the non-behavers and showered my time and attention on the ones who were still working. They bloomed like flowers. I savored our time together in the way that people do when the hourglass is running out. I did a mental count of the teacher interns who had come through the doors and who had left. By my tally, sixteen interns came on board in my two years. All but five left in one circumstance or another. Of the original seven, only Astrid and I survived. The next year, we started with Astrid, me, a first-grade replacement and four fresh interns. Of the four new interns, three left: that first-grade teacher with the frightened eyes, the second-grade teacher who used to sell insurance and the one who was threatened with shooting. At his behest, Astrid tried to get the "quitter's" things out of his locked classroom, using the ruse that he had things belonging to her that she needed. The principal told her in clipped tones, "Since you're his messenger, tell him he needs to go through the principal." In an incredible display of self-restraint, Astrid kept her mouth shut and left the office. But she sat quaking with rage in her car for a long time afterward, contemplating whether to go back in and tell the principal to shove it up his ass. I wonder what he would have done if she'd gone back in and told him she was going to go home and get her mama's gun and come back and shoot him. Chapter 50 * * * Going from Here [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) I was talking to my mom a couple of days later, and she asked what I had lined up for fall. "Nothing," I said. "But the phone will ring." I had made only one effort to find another job. I had written to the principal who had come up to me after a speech I gave to the Annenberg Foundation a year before, a woman with a short blond Afro and fantastic jewelry who told me, "When you're done with your internship, call me. I like your attitude." When I told people I wanted to teach at her school, they laughed and said, "Right, everyone wants to teach there." The school was known throughout the city as an exciting school that works for kids. They said it in such a way that implied I didn't have a prayer of ever teaching there. The day after I talked to my mother, that principal called me to set up an interview. When I returned her call at 5:40 p.m., she answered the office phone herself. I was not surprised. By then, I understood the extraordinary dedication it took to be a strong school leader. "Are you going to wax the floors on your way out of the building?" I asked her. "No," she cracked, "I already did that." We had a conversation about the importance of recess, the topic of my master's inquiry project, and how her school had a 3:15 dismissal so the kids get recess at lunchtime and the teachers get a forty-five-minute breather to set up the afternoon. I set my sights on this school and this leader. I did not make any other calls, though I checked out the Chicago Public Schools job listings web site. There were tons of openings, especially in the upper grades. I also stopped in the office at my children's school near home to sniff around one afternoon, but the principal had left. I turned down an offer to teach graduate journalism students over the summer at Northwestern University, because an undergraduate algebra class at one of the City Colleges, necessary to fulfill a teacher certification requirement, would require my complete attention. I felt ill-equipped to teach a bunch of motivated rich kids anyway. I was so far removed from where they wanted to go, it wouldn't be fair. The end of the school year trudged on at a tormentingly slow pace. Though I hadn't been eaten alive, as one veteran educator had predicted, I felt bitten and torn about my extremities. My mood was dour. I snapped at my students all week, then kicked my children's friends out of my house at 10:30 Friday night, after more than fourteen hours with the shrill voices of children ringing in my ears that day. "Go home," I told them, the first time I'd ever asked someone to leave my home. I just couldn't take any more. I was an open wound. Over the three-day Memorial Day weekend, I slept ten hours one night, eight the next and eleven hours Sunday night. I woke up feeling nearly human, and I thought I recognized a glimmer of the person who used to be me before she got so cranky and ornery and snappish. That night, I watched Ken Burns' _Jazz_ documentary. One of Count Basie's band members said he slept for a year after leaving his orchestra. I know exactly how he felt. I could have spent months curled in bed. With bags under my eyes, wearing a ridiculous flowered dress and a jean jacket, I went for my interview at the new school. The day happened to be the day of the annual school carnival. I arrived as students were being dismissed. I announced myself and settled on the office bench. Directly in my sightline was a small quilt, hanging from a nail on the office counter. "All you need is love," it said in red blocky letters, amid floating red hearts. The principal asked me to walk with her to a back door that opened onto a playground where cleanup was in progress. In the office, I had already seen digital images of the day's action. The big hit of the day was a giant slide that was an inflatable model of the _Titanic,_ in sinking position, which people climbed up and slid down. There had been food, games, tattoos, face painting, a petting zoo and pony rides. Some kids were still trying to finish enormous dill pickles on sticks. Seagulls wheeled and cried over the blacktop, looking for scraps to scavenge. We were a mile nearer the lake than my neighborhood. There would always be seagulls here. I couldn't believe how many children's names the principal knew. As the students left the building, they were walking, not running. They kept their hands to themselves. They did not touch one another. Most were quiet, but if they were talking, it was in normal conversational tones, not screaming. At least twenty kids said to their principal as they left, "Thanks for the carnival." It was jarring to hear children saying thank you. We talked for nearly two hours. About teaching children. About testing. About assessment. About curriculum integration. About teams of teachers working collaboratively. The school, with corridors that looked like a museum of African art, had three bands, sports teams, after-school dance and art programs, an entrepreneurship initiative and video club and book clubs, among other programs. We talked about a school paper and what she and the vice principal would like to see on a fifth-grade reading list. I showed my portfolio and described some of the cross-curricular projects my classes had done in seventh and second grades. She liked the growth charts we kept with our spring planting project. The vice principal liked the dream trip. They both liked the naming ceremony. The vice principal wanted to know how I liked second grade. It was a loaded question. I said I was glad for the experience but would not care to repeat it. I said I couldn't handle the neediness of the students, it was just too grueling. I patted her on the arm and said her name ten times in a row. We laughed. I said I wouldn't mind working my way up to seventh or eighth grade again someday, but the fifth-grade opening they had sounded just right to me as my youngest daughter had just finished fifth, and I knew it well. I asked point-blank how they felt about a teacher who was also a writer and whether they thought the outside world needed to know what was really going on in schools today. Could they bear to have a colleague who told the stories? I promised that I would do my best to walk the line, to be honest without violating anyone's privacy, exploiting children or harming the innocent. I assured them that I was a teacher first now, but I would always be a storyteller. I realized that I was poised on the brink of an excellent opportunity to see in action the kind of leadership that made this school stand out among 700 elementary schools in our city. I very much wanted to be part of an organization working hard, plowing forward. The faculty was dedicated, innovative, bright. Initiative was applauded. Everyone wore many hats. There were responsibilities to serve on committees, to formulate policies and philosophies. It was a unique team, constantly evolving, positive. "I'm going to do something strange and forgo the secret conference with the vice principal and listen to my heart," the principal said. "I'm going to offer you the job right now." I accepted, on the spot, with sincere gratitude and humility. I thought, "I will do anything for this woman." I got up and hugged her. "We'll be here all summer," she said. "So will I," I said. "So will I." Chapter 51 * * * Graduation [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) When I had playground duty on Monday mornings, I liked to stand in the corner of the playground near the busiest intersection. From there I felt like I saw the big picture. I could see kids coming and going from the store across the street, eating chips and drinking soda pop for breakfast. I saw children arrive at school at a run, slipping inside the fence with joy and exuberance at seeing their schoolmates. I loved the deep, pounding beat of the bouncing basketballs under the high slap of the jump ropes and the chorus of voices filling out the middle. I saw the long picture. I saw children who had been abandoned in heartless ways early in their lives making their way in the world. I saw children who needed our school because it was the only consistent thing in their lives. I saw children who had endured incalculable losses who were still able to learn and to love. Some I knew well enough to see their dreams and aspirations taking shape. I asked my mentor if she could watch my class so I could go to graduation and see my former seventh-grade students walk across the stage. "I always work graduation," she said, "so I can't do it. I line up the students. But I'll see what I can do to get someone to take your class." I suppose many teachers who had been at a school a long time would see all the graduates as their former students. But there's something about a teacher's first class that is like a parent's firstborn. I really wanted to go, but experience had left me with little hope that someone would show up to relieve me on my outpost come graduation day. I tried to cobble together my own plan. It didn't help that no one could give me a straight answer on the actual day of graduation or the time. On what turned out to be graduation day, my second graders happened to have library at 9:40. I'd gotten wind that graduation was occurring about that time. I dropped them off, grabbed my umbrella and dashed through the freezing rain to the other building, dripping past my old classroom on my way down the hallway to the auditorium. "Hi, Mrs. B.," said Pierre, who was standing in the hallway outside the auditorium. I gave him a hug. He looked well. He said he was doing all right. He said he had graduated the day before. I gave him my hearty congratulations. "You know how he lies," the security guard said as I opened the door and walked through. The auditorium was full. I walked to the back, where I could see everything and everyone. I saw Eric and Andre and Racquel walk down the aisle. I saw Kyisha on stage and Nichelle, Cortez, DeVille and everyone else. They were in bright gold gowns, singing "Hallelujah in the Tabernacle." Donna had once again channeled the students' talents into a stage spectacular. She smiled and waved at me from the front and left, next to the turd section. The children's voices soared above the drone of talking from the audience. I waved to parents I knew and they smiled and waved back to me, joyful and proud, cameras in hand. Some of my second graders were there for siblings or cousins. The valedictorian was one of the three girls I had taken to the Sunday open-house at the all-girls school in the dead of winter sixth months before. Many others had speaking parts, and I was so proud of every one of them my face hurt from smiling. They seemed much more polished than last year. My mentor scurried past. "I see you made it after all," she observed. At 10:19 I tore myself away and picked up my second graders. That afternoon, I went to an awards ceremony of The Rochelle Lee Fund, which provides classroom books to about 400 Chicago teachers every year if they write a proposal and attend four days' worth of workshops to learn the best ways to teach reading. It was the second year I'd won the award, and it was a godsend. My school did not allow children to check books out of the library, but children in 401 were required to take books, really good books, home from the classroom library daily as their reading homework. _Chicago Tribune_ columnist Mary Schmich, my former competition, was our speaker. She told a great story about her mother hiding in the bathroom to read. Later that week, the second graders and I finished _Charlotte's Web_ , my favorite book. Asophane read the last part for me, because I always cry at the end. It's the second-to-last paragraph that gets me every time: "It was the best place to be, thought Wilbur, this warm delicious cellar, with the garrulous geese, the changing seasons, the heat of the sun, the passage of swallows, the nearness of rats, the sameness of sheep, the love of spiders, the smell of manure and the glory of everything." To revel in one's place in the world, barn or classroom, fast lane or busted-up sidewalk, is a rare gift. The children jumped out of their seats to see whether my tears were real. "It's okay," I explained. "If a book makes you cry, that means it is a really good book. It made you feel something you really believe in your heart." On Thursday, Paul Vallas resigned as the chief executive officer of the Chicago Public Schools after six years. A new era lay ahead. That afternoon, before our staff development meeting, the principal handed out the assignment list for next year. I was listed for second grade. I had filled out a preference sheet listing fifth grade as my first choice, then fourth grade and finally seventh grade. Astrid's name was not on the sheet. I looked at her with my eyebrows raised and saw she was crying. She explained later that she had asked several times for a preference sheet, which no one ever supplied for her. Suspicious, she asked her mentor what was going on and was told to talk to the principal. She was very upset and rightfully. It was underhanded, exclusionary and mean. She was a sensitive person, so it was also cruel. She would find another job without any trouble. But not being asked to stay was hurtful. The principal informed the staff that our school was among the 200 lowest-performing schools in the city and would begin a new reading program, with scripted lessons the following year. That would be the imposed curriculum for ninety minutes a day. We were given the summer school list, which made no sense at all. Some of my better readers were on it, kids who could even read cursive. I could not explain this development to their parents. I told Hakim's mother that the decision was based on one test in which the children read aloud to a stranger. "If he goes, it won't hurt him. It'll sharpen his skills. You are a good mother. You know what he needs. If you think the test is bogus, talk to the office and have him retake it," I advised her. He had taken books home every day. I hadn't told anyone I was leaving. My standard answer to the gossips was, "I have not spoken to the principal yet." I doled out my prized possessions, some of which were not even mine, to other teachers. The second-grade teacher who was so helpful to me got the globe I had liberated from the library, dusty with neglect, months earlier, and a set of lovely science books. The kindergarten teacher got the tiny little table and chairs that served as our writers' workshop. As the week and the school year bumped to a close, fewer students attended school regularly. Our room was quite empty. On the last day, I handed my principal my resignation letter, informing him that I had accepted another teaching position in the Chicago Public Schools. "Teaching both seventh grade and second grade here gave me a broad perspective and rich experience. Thank you." The principal read the letter out loud. He smiled. "I know you will be successful," he said. "Thank you," I said, reaching out to shake his hand. That was it. No "Wish you were staying," no "What can we do to keep you?" No mention of "remediation." Brandon and Tashequa and their older siblings helped me load up my last things, the baskets of books from our classroom library. Those books were like old familiar friends to us, their spines taped and covers curled from the wear of small hands turning their pages day after day for nearly forty weeks. Before we left, we looked around the peach-colored classroom. We decided to leave intact our _Charlotte's Web_ bulletin board and our sentence strips above the board about who we are. Standing in the doorway, we read them all again, out loud, taking turns: "We read a lot of books." "We write in our journals." "Our favorite food is pizza." "We are learning ballet." "We are getting our grown-up teeth." "We keep lists." "We have snack time." "We know all about wasps." "We had a snake." "We love the Beatles." "We work in the doctor's office." "We sing every day." We wanted the class coming after us to know who had been there before, who we were. We walked out together, making a racket. We passed through the brown metal doors and went down the concrete steps. On the other side of the fence, Louis was hanging by his knees from the monkey bars. He waved to us, upside down. His bookbag was on the ground nearby. "Don't forget your bookbag, Louis," I called, pointing to where it lay. He grinned in response, dangling, his arms outstretched. "Cree! Cree!" the seagulls protested, rising and scattering as our jabbering group crossed the parking lot. Postscript [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) In November 2001 Donnamaria Gamble married Charles Baker in a joyous celebration at St. Sabina Church in Chicago. True to form, the bride staged a spectacular melding of African tradition with her boundless love of the Lord. There were dancers and drummers and a wedding party of twelve. The rafters rang. Two months later, many of the same people gathered in the same church for Donna's funeral after she died suddenly of a heart attack at age forty-eight. Many of our former students were present at the service. Through them, my departed friend, who had already given me so much, gave me one last gift: the realization that the connections between all of us would endure. These did not end after one year or two or even after a lifetime. We were woven into each other's lives and memories for all time. We would cross paths in the unknown future as certainly as destiny had reconnected us that sad night. The influence of teachers on the lives of children, and of children on their teachers, goes on and on. Index [Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci Click here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html) A Abusive teacher behavior, , –58 Accountability staff, talk to, –142 Acting, African-American names, Air conditioning, –169, Alternative certification programs, , ( _See also_ Teachers For Chicago program) Andre, , , , , Andrea, –202 Angels, –29 Antwan, Apologies, student, Art: and listening to Beethoven, –54 and _The Witches_ , Artie, Asophane, , –178, , , –214, Assistant principal ( _see_ Vice principal) Assumptions, –143 Astrid, –33, , , , , , , , , Attendance books, Austin, Carrie, Autistic student, , , , , , B Bad Company, , Baker, Charles, Ballet, , , –199 Basal readers, Basic Skills Test, –11 Basketball game, faculty, Bathroom breaks, in second-grade year, in seventh-grade year, –95 Bathrooms: at charter school, for older students, –96 for primary students, Beatles, –181, , , Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in D Minor, –54 Behavior: disruptive ( _see_ Disruptive behavior) of second-graders, self-grades for, Bennett, William J., Bernadette, Billy Goat (bar), Board of education, –25, –142 Book corner (seventh grade), Books: as Christmas gifts, , as gifts to students, from The Rochelle Lee Fund, for second-grade reading, Borders gift certificates, Bottoming out, , –123 _Boundless Grace_ , Brandon, –165, , , Breakfast, Breaks, teacher, Bulletin boards, –28, Bullying, C C. C., California, Callahan, Danny, , Car "booting," Carlos, , , , , , CEOs, teachers as, Certification test, –208 _Charlotte's Web_ , Charter schools, –196 Chicago Public Schools, –7, Christmas break, –108 Christmas breaks, –193 Christmas program, –102 Class pictures, Class sizes, , , , Classroom supplies: expense of, photocopies, Classrooms: physical condition of, , , –155 temperature in, , , , Clinton, Bill, Coincidences, , College professors: and class size, , as role models, , –185 Conferences, parent: for behavior problems, –45, –72 for report cards, Conflict resolution, Conformity, Consequences, lack of, Continuity, Control, during bathroom breaks, –95 during dismissal, –46 inability to establish, –44 irony of, mentor's claim to, –94 and parental conferences, –45, –72 and staying out of trouble, with troublemakers suspended, ( _See also_ Disruptive behavior) Convention, Cooperative play, –206 Correcting papers, Cortez, , , , , Courage, Crime, Critical thinking activities, Curtis, Christopher Paul, D Dahl, Roald, Daley, Richard M., –7 _Dance Africa_ , –178 Danger, sense of, –60 Darnell, , Dart, Tom, _Declaration of Independence_ "Dear John" letter, Deep Underground Phase, Departmentalization, –2, Destinee, , , , –69, , , , , –196 DeVille, , , , –90, , , Diaz, Mr., , , , , , , Dismissal procedures, –46 Disorder, , Disruptive behavior: class atmosphere without, –84 conferences for, –45 parents' meeting about, –72 in second-grade class, –174 in seventh-grade class, , –45, , –72, –84 sexual, –174 and Vice Presidential order, –49 Dobrinski, Fred, Doctor's office activity, Dream trip project, –75 Dress code, "The Dungeon," E Earrings, Enrico, , , , Eric, , , , , , Everage, Alonza, Evolution, Excuse-making, Exercise, F Faculty basketball game, Fairy tales, Fake gun incident, –174 Family life, –143, –166 absent mothers, –214 fatherlessness, , –92, , foster homes, , of second graders, Farmer, Nancy, , Fatherlessness, , –92, , Fatigue, Fiction, classroom, Field trips, _Dance Africa_ , –178 Fire Safety House, Fighting, student, –82 breaking up, –57 Fighting, student ( _Cont._ ): in second-grade year, , in seventh-grade year, –61, –82, Fire Safety House field trip, Five-week reorganization, –65 Foster homes, , "401 Theater," Freddie, , , , , , , French lessons, , G Gaines, Earnest, Gamble, Donnamaria, , , , , , , , –53, , , , , , , –140, , , Games, –206 Gangs, , , Garden project, –131, _A Gathering of Old Men_ (Earnest Gaines), Gaye, Marvin, Geography, –75 Get-well notes, –198 Gifts, Christmas, –102, –193 _A Girl Named Disaster_ (Nancy Farmer), , Giuliani, Rudolph, "God's silence," Gore, Al, –48 Graduate school advisor, Graduation, eighth-grade, –225 Granola, –102 Gun violence, –136 familiarity of students with, –190 second-grade student's threat of, –174 sixth-grade student's threat of, The Guys In Front (TGIF), H Haberman, Martin, Hakim, , , , Haley, Alex, Hand cuffs, –58 Hands-on activities, Happiness, showing, –30 _A Hard Day's Night_ , , Headphones, Homelessness, , , Hope, Hughes, Langston, , I Illinois legislature, , Illness, , –200 of author, –200 of interns, of Mia, –198 Imaginative play, –206 Indoor recess, –206 Injustice, –96 Interns, attrition of, , –112, , bottoming out phase for, , –123 and class size, exhaustion of, –185 for first and second grades, –153 health of, mentors of, school expenses of, for seventh grade year, , –31 Interventions, –91 In-the-seat direct instruction, Iowa test, –141, , J J. T., Jackson, Jesse, Jr., James, –165, –174 Jarrett, Vernon, Jennifer, "Jesus Laughing," Job offer, postgraduate, –223 Jones, Emil, Jr., Joseph, , , , Justice, K Kayla, , –77, , , , , , –134, , –203 Kim, King, Martin Luther, Jr., Kyisha, , , , , , , , –96, , , –196 L Language arts, , Last day of school: in second-grade year, –228 in seventh-grade year, –151 Lennon, John, _A Lesson Before Dying_ (Earnest Gaines), Lesson planning, Lessons learned (by author), –105 Local control of schools, , "Looping," Louis, , , , –181, , –197, , , Lucinda, Lunch: food served for, –163 with second graders, –158, teacher supervision during, M Mad Crapper, , , Male role models, _Maniac Magee_ (Jerry Spinnelli), –74 Marin, Carol, Mario, –158, , –166, , , Markers, coincidences vs., , Martin, , –187 Mary (cousin), Math: in dream trip project, Iowa test scores for, Math Mania, in seventh grade class, Melvin, –58 Mentors: and control of classes, –94 lack of assistance from, , lack of guidance from, "nickel and diming" by, and remediation plan, role of, for second-grade, , for seventh-grade year, subbing by, , –121 and suspensions, Mia, , , –198 Michael, Kevin, Michelle, , , , Michigan, _The Mighty_ (movie), Minnie, "missing" student, –134, Mistrust, –186 Mitchell, Mary, , , Montgomery, Fred, Montorio, Motherless families, –214 Mother's Day, –217 Multiple intelligences, student with, Music: Christmas, –102 obscene, –116 "Peter and the Wolf," N Names, –70 Natasha, , , , , –192, Nate, , , Neighborhood conditions, , –18, –205 Nelson, , , , , , Nichelle, , , , –196 _The Night Before Christmas_ , , O Observation, intern: after remediation meeting, –145 initial, P Parents: conferences with, –45 discipline calls to, , "good" calls to, –107 poor/good examples of, required school meeting for, –72 and science fair projects, Peacekeepers, –62 Peacemakers, , Pearson, Rick, Peer Intervention Team, –91 Photocopying, Pictures, class, Pierre, , –41, , , , , , , –85, –101, –128, , , , _Pimps Up, Hypes Down_ , Play, –206 Poverty, , Power outage, Prayer, Primary teachers, turnover of, Principal: and author's media exposure, and author's resignation, and belongings of teacher who quit, and broken chalkboard, and car "booting," and class size, and end of departmentalization, initial attitude of, lack of respect from, lack of response from, "nickel and diming" by, of postgraduate position school, –223 and remediation plan, –139, –146 and suspended students, and teacher assignments, and television piece, Promises, –91 "Proud Mary," R Racial attitudes, –43, –161 Racquel, , , , , , , , , , –159 Ramon, Ramona, , Rap music (on student's tape), –116 Rape, Reading: aloud, –74 of fairy tales, Iowa test scores for, Kayla's love for, –77 of library books, –226 "round robin" method of, in second grade, , , –195 for seventh grade, "Walking Reading," Recess, indoor, , –206 Redding, Otis, Reflecting, Religious objections, Remediation, –139 first-year results of, –146 lack of resolution for, Reorganization, five-week, –65 Report cards, Respect: earning, –58 from principal, Reviews: performance, state, –122 Riley, Richard, Robert, , , The Rochelle Lee Fund, Rocks, –217 Rodgers, Paul, , Roeper, Richard, Roosevelt University, , _Roots_ (Alex Haley), S Salary, .14, Sarah, Schmich, Mary, School: disorder in, layout of, neighborhood environment of, –18 physical condition of, , , –154 students' image of, –193 School report card, Science: science fair projects, –99 second grade topics in, –211 seed-planting project, –131, Seagulls, Seating assignments, –36, Security guard, , Seed-planting project, –131, Sexual behavior (of young student), –174 Sherika, –52, –61, –131, , , _Shiloh_ , Shooting incident, –136 Small-group teaching, Smoking, Snake, , Special needs students, Spinelli, Jerry, Spoiled students, Sports Day, –149 Spring break (of second year), Standardization (in education), –12 Standardized tests, , _Star Teachers of Children in Poverty_ (Martin Haberman), –13 State review team, –122 Stealing, Steinberg, Neil, Stones, –217 Students: academic abilities of, –52 achievement levels of, artistic abilities of, assumptions about, –143 breaking up fights by, –57 connections with, –55 family life of, , –166 fighting by, –61, –82, , , learning about/from, –67 reactions to -week reorganization by, , as role models, self-grading of behavior by, social skills of, spoiled, Substitute teacher center, –120 Summer Fun Club, _Sun-Times_ , –7, –22 Suspensions: and change in classroom tone, –84 for fighting, , principal's perception of, on Sports Day, T Tammy, Tashequa, , , , , , Teacher certification test, –208 Teachers: abuse by, , –58 advice from, Teachers ( _Cont._ ): in author's family, –87 as CEOs, incentives for, shortage of, , turnover of, , –27, Teachers For Chicago program: application/acceptance process for, , –16 conclusion of, expectations of school by, graduate's gratitude for, gym teacher's disapproval of, –111 modeling by teacher in, –185 need for, –27 salary in, , , ( _See also_ Interns) Teacher's washroom, Teeth-pulling, –182 Television coverage, , Temperature, classroom, , , , Test anxiety, Testing (second grade), Textbooks, expense of, TFC liaison, , , –161 TFC supervisor, TGIF (The Guys In Front), Thanksgiving break, –88 Throw-up incidents, Tobin, Frank, Todd, Mrs., –153 Transfer of students, –128, Transient teachers, Travel project, –75 _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ , Trey, –182 Troublemakers, Turnover, teacher, , –27, Tyler, Mr., Tyler, Steven, Tyrese, –61, , , , , , , , , , U United States Department of Agriculture, Urban Teacher course, –14 V Vallas, Paul, –71, Vice principal: changed attitude of, and Christmas music, and disruption at lunch, , outdoor walks refused by, and rowdy bathroom breaks, and threat of termination, and thrown-up-on books, Violence, –62 attack on Pierre, , child's acceptance of, gun, –136, –174, –190, and peacekeeper role, –62 rape, as reaction to violence, in school neighborhood, and sense of danger, –60 shooting threat, –136 student fights, –61, –82, and teachers' abusive behavior, –58 W Wade, Nigel, Walker, Alice, , "Walking Reading," _The Watsons Go To Birmingham_ (Christopher Paul Curtis), Weather studies, "What's in a Name?" project, –70 White privilege, Winning, graciousness in, Witchcraft, _The Witches_ (Roald Dahl), –73 Worksheets, , Writing: about rocks, on absence of troublemakers, –84 _Declaration of Independence_ "Dear John" letter, first-day stories, letters on summer vacation cuts, and Marvin Gaye lyrics, , in second grade, standard formula for, –12 # About this Title This eBook was created using ReaderWorks® Publisher 2.0, produced by OverDrive, Inc. For more information about ReaderWorks, please visit us on the Web at www.overdrive.com/readerworks	{'title': 'Baldacci, Leslie - Inside Mrs'}
Transcribed from the 1909 Harper & Brothers edition by David Price, email [email protected]. Proofing by Alan Ross, Ana Charlton and David. IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD? FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY MARK TWAIN HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON M C M I X CHAPTER I Scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscript which constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary of mine, certain chapters will in some distant future be found which deal with "Claimants"--claimants historically notorious: Satan, Claimant; the Golden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, Claimant; Louis XVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare, Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant; Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and the rest of them. Eminent Claimants, successful Claimants, defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, pleb Claimants, showy Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised Claimants, twinkle starlike here and there and yonder through the mists of history and legend and tradition--and oh, all the darling tribe are clothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep interest and discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorous resentment, according to which side we hitch ourselves to. It has always been so with the human race. There was never a Claimant that couldn't get a hearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a rapturous following, no matter how flimsy and apparently unauthentic his claim might be. Arthur Orton's claim that he was the lost Tichborne baronet come to life again was as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy's that she wrote _Science and Health_ from the direct dictation of the Deity; yet in England near forty years ago Orton had a huge army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of whom remained stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god had been proven an impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and to-day Mrs. Eddy's following is not only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers and enthusiasm. Orton had many fine and educated minds among his adherents, Mrs. Eddy has had the like among hers from the beginning. Her church is as well equipped in those particulars as is any other church. Claimants can always count upon a following, it doesn't matter who they are, nor what they claim, nor whether they come with documents or without. It was always so. Down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the ages, if you listen you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting for Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel. A friend has sent me a new book, from England--_The Shakespeare Problem Restated_--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty years' interest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is excited once more. It is an interest which was born of Delia Bacon's book--away back in that ancient day--1857, or maybe 1856. About a year later my pilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his own steamboat to the _Pennsylvania_, and placed me under the orders and instructions of George Ealer--dead now, these many, many years. I steered for him a good many months--as was the humble duty of the pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight watch and spun the wheel under the severe superintendence and correction of the master. He was a prime chess player and an idolater of Shakespeare. He would play chess with anybody; even with me, and it cost his official dignity something to do that. Also--quite uninvited--he would read Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, when it was his watch, and I was steering. He read well, but not profitably for me, because he constantly injected commands into the text. That broke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that degree, in fact, that if we were in a risky and difficult piece of river an ignorant person couldn't have told, sometimes, which observations were Shakespeare's and which were Ealer's. For instance: What man dare, _I_ dare! Approach thou _what_ are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! rugged Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the _there_ she goes! meet her, meet her! didn't you _know_ she'd smell the reef if you crowded it like that? Hyrcan tiger; take any shape but that and my firm nerves she'll be in the _woods_ the first you know! stop the starboard! come ahead strong on the larboard! back the starboard! . . . _Now_ then, you're all right; come ahead on the starboard; straighten up and go 'long, never tremble: or be alive again, and dare me to the desert damnation can't you keep away from that greasy water? pull her down! snatch her! snatch her baldheaded! with thy sword; if trembling I inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no, only the starboard one, leave the other alone, protest me the baby of a girl. Hence horrible shadow! eight bells--that watchman's asleep again, I reckon, go down and call Brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence! He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy and tragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since been able to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way. I cannot rid it of his explosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant "What in hell are you up to _now_! pull her down! more! _more_!--there now, steady as you go," and the other disorganizing interruptions that were always leaping from his mouth. When I read Shakespeare now, I can hear them as plainly as I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years ago. I never regarded Ealer's readings as educational. Indeed they were a detriment to me. His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that detail he was a good reader, I can say that much for him. He did not use the book, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclid ever knew his multiplication table. Did he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi pilot--anent Delia Bacon's book? Yes. And he said it; said it all the time, for months--in the morning watch, the middle watch, the dog watch; and probably kept it going in his sleep. He bought the literature of the dispute as fast as it appeared, and we discussed it all through thirteen hundred miles of river four times traversed in every thirty-five days--the time required by that swift boat to achieve two round trips. We discussed, and discussed, and discussed, and disputed and disputed and disputed; at any rate he did, and I got in a word now and then when he slipped a cog and there was a vacancy. He did his arguing with heat, with energy, with violence; and I did mine with the reserve and moderation of a subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a pilot-house that is perched forty feet above the water. He was fiercely loyal to Shakespeare and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the pretensions of the Baconians. So was I--at first. And at first he was glad that that was my attitude. There were even indications that he admired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the distance that lay between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, yet perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a compliment--compliment coming down from above the snow-line and not well thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a cub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable compliment, and precious. Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if possible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--if possible than I was before. And so we discussed and discussed, both on the same side, and were happy. For a while. Only for a while. Only for a very little while, a very, very, very little while. Then the atmosphere began to change; began to cool off. A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than I did, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes. You see, he was of an argumentative disposition. Therefore it took him but a little time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed with everything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocative to flare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard, rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing reasoning. That was his name for it. It has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several times, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle. On the Shakespeare side. Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me when principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to each other and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and went over to the other side. Not the entire way, but far enough to answer the requirements of the case. That is to say, I took this attitude, to wit: I only _believed_ Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I _knew_ Shakespeare didn't. Ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose. Study, practice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled me to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly seriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly; finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly. After that, I was welded to my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I looked down with compassion not unmixed with scorn, upon everybody else's faith that didn't tally with mine. That faith, imposed upon me by self-interest in that ancient day, remains my faith to-day, and in it I find comfort, solace, peace, and never-failing joy. You see how curiously theological it is. The "rice Christian" of the Orient goes through the very same steps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after _him_; he goes for rice, and remains to worship. Ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of it. The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name. We others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any name at all. They show for themselves, what they are, and we can with tranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its own choosing. Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my induction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself: always getting eight feet, eight-and-a-half, often nine, sometimes even quarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always "no bottom," as _he_ said. I got the best of him only once. I prepared myself. I wrote out a passage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quoted a while ago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatful interlardings. When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the Pennsylvania triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and the _A. T. Lacey_ had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feeling good, I showed it to him. It amused him. I asked him to fire it off: read it; read it, I diplomatically added, as only he could read dramatic poetry. The compliment touched him where he lived. He did read it; read it with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never be read again; for _he_ knew how to put the right music into those thunderous interlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them sound as if they were bursting from Shakespeare's own soul, each one of them a golden inspiration and not to be left out without damage to the massed and magnificent whole. I waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited until he brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my pet argument, the one which I was fondest of, the one which I prized far above all others in my ammunition-wagon, to wit: that Shakespeare couldn't have written Shakespeare's works, for the reason that the man who wrote them was limitlessly familiar with the laws, and the law-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--and if Shakespeare was possessed of the infinitely-divided star-dust that constituted this vast wealth, how did he get it, and _where_, and _when_? "From books." From books! That was always the idea. I answered as my readings of the champions of my side of the great controversy had taught me to answer: that a man can't handle glibly and easily and comfortably and successfully the _argot_ of a trade at which he has not personally served. He will make mistakes; he will not, and cannot, get the trade-phrasings precisely and exactly right; and the moment he departs, by even a shade, from a common trade-form, the reader who has served that trade will know the writer _hasn't_. Ealer would not be convinced; he said a man could learn how to correctly handle the subtleties and mysteries and free-masonries of any trade by careful reading and studying. But when I got him to read again the passage from Shakespeare with the interlardings, he perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach a student a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly and perfectly that he could talk them off in book and play or conversation and make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover. It was a triumph for me. He was silent awhile, and I knew what was happening: he was losing his temper. And I knew he would presently close the session with the same old argument that was always his stay and his support in time of need; the same old argument, the one I couldn't answer--because I dasn't: the argument that I was an ass, and better shut up. He delivered it, and I obeyed. Oh, dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago! And here am I, old, forsaken, forlorn and alone, arranging to get that argument out of somebody again. When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying that he keeps company with other standard authors. Ealer always had several high-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and over again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones. He played well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed hearing himself play. So did I. He had a notion that a flute would keep its health better if you took it apart when it was not standing a watch; and so, when it was not on duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the compass-shelf under the breast-board. When the _Pennsylvania_ blew up and became a drifting rack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my young brother Henry among them), pilot Brown had the watch below, and was probably asleep and never knew what killed him; but Ealer escaped unhurt. He and his pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealer sank through the ragged cavern where the hurricane deck and the boiler deck had been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one of the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog of scalding and deadly steam. But not for long. He did not lose his head: long familiarity with danger had taught him to keep it, in any and all emergencies. He held his coat-lappels to his nose with one hand, to keep out the steam, and scrabbled around with the other till he found the joints of his flute, then he is took measures to save himself alive, and was successful. I was not on board. I had been put ashore in New Orleans by Captain Klinefelter. The reason--however, I have told all about it in the book called _Old Times on the Mississippi_, and it isn't important anyway, it is so long ago. CHAPTER II When I was a Sunday-school scholar something more than sixty years ago, I became interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I could about him. I began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, Mr. Barclay the stone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me. I was anxious to be praised for turning my thoughts to serious subjects when there wasn't another boy in the village who could be hired to do such a thing. I was greatly interested in the incident of Eve and the serpent, and thought Eve's calmness was perfectly noble. I asked Mr. Barclay if he had ever heard of another woman who, being approached by a serpent, would not excuse herself and break for the nearest timber. He did not answer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above my age and comprehension. I will say for Mr. Barclay that he was willing to tell me the facts of Satan's history, but he stopped there: he wouldn't allow any discussion of them. In the course of time we exhausted the facts. There were only five or six of them, you could set them all down on a visiting-card. I was disappointed. I had been meditating a biography, and was grieved to find that there were no materials. I said as much, with the tears running down. Mr. Barclay's sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he was a most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head and cheered me up by saying there was a whole vast ocean of materials! I can still feel the happy thrill which these blessed words shot through me. Then he began to bail out that ocean's riches for my encouragement and joy. Like this: it was "conjectured"--though not established--that Satan was originally an angel in heaven; that he fell; that he rebelled, and brought on a war; that he was defeated, and banished to perdition. Also, "we have reason to believe" that later he did so-and-so; that "we are warranted in supposing" that at a subsequent time he travelled extensively, seeking whom he might devour; that a couple of centuries afterward, "as tradition instructs us," he took up the cruel trade of tempting people to their ruin, with vast and fearful results; that by-and-by, "as the probabilities seem to indicate," he may have done certain things, he might have done certain other things, he must have done still other things. And so on and so on. We set down the five known facts by themselves, on a piece of paper, and numbered it "page 1"; then on fifteen hundred other pieces of paper we set down the "conjectures," and "suppositions," and "maybes," and "perhapses," and "doubtlesses," and "rumors," and "guesses," and "probabilities," and "likelihoods," and "we are permitted to thinks," and "we are warranted in believings," and "might have beens," and "could have beens," and "must have beens," and "unquestionablys," and "without a shadow of doubts"--and behold! _Materials_? Why, we had enough to build a biography of Shakespeare! Yet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the history of Satan. Why? Because, as he said, he had suspicions; suspicions that my attitude in this matter was not reverent; and that a person must be reverent when writing about the sacred characters. He said any one who spoke flippantly of Satan would be frowned upon by the religious world and also be brought to account. I assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had wholly misconceived my attitude; that I had the highest respect for Satan, and that my reverence for him equalled, and possibly even exceeded, that of any member of any church. I said it wounded me deeply to perceive by his words that he thought I would make fun of Satan, and deride him, laugh at him, scoff at him: whereas in truth I had never thought of such a thing, but had only a warm desire to make fun of those others and laugh at _them_. "What others?" "Why, the Supposers, the Perhapsers, the Might-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-Beeners, the Must-Have-Beeners, the Without-a-Shadow-of-Doubters, the We-are-Warranted-in-Believingers, and all that funny crop of solemn architects who have taken a good solid foundation of five indisputable and unimportant facts and built upon it a Conjectural Satan thirty miles high." What did Mr. Barclay do then? Was he disarmed? Was he silenced? No. He was shocked. He was so shocked that he visibly shuddered. He said the Satanic Traditioners and Perhapsers and Conjecturers were _themselves_ sacred! As sacred as their work. So sacred that whoso ventured to mock them or make fun of their work, could not afterward enter any respectable house, even by the back door. How true were his words, and how wise! How fortunate it would have been for me if I had heeded them. But I was young, I was but seven years of age, and vain, foolish, and anxious to attract attention. I wrote the biography, and have never been in a respectable house since. CHAPTER III How curious and interesting is the parallel--as far as poverty of biographical details is concerned--between Satan and Shakespeare. It is wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is nothing resembling it in history, nothing resembling it in romance, nothing approaching it even in tradition. How sublime is their position, and how over-topping, how sky-reaching, how supreme--the two Great Unknowns, the two Illustrious Conjecturabilities! They are the best-known unknown persons that have ever drawn breath upon the planet. For the instruction of the ignorant I will make a list, now, of those details of Shakespeare's history which are _facts_--verified facts, established facts, undisputed facts. FACTS He was born on the 23d of April, 1564. Of good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write, could not sign their names. At Stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby and unclean, and densely illiterate. Of the nineteen important men charged with the government of the town, thirteen had to "make their mark" in attesting important documents, because they could not write their names. Of the first eighteen years of his life _nothing_ is known. They are a blank. On the 27th of November (1582) William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne Whateley. Next day William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne Hathaway. She was eight years his senior. William Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway. In a hurry. By grace of a reluctantly-granted dispensation there was but one publication of the banns. Within six months the first child was born. About two (blank) years followed, during which period _nothing at all happened to Shakespeare_, so far as anybody knows. Then came twins--1585. February. Two blank years follow. Then--1587--he makes a ten-year visit to London, leaving the family behind. Five blank years follow. During this period _nothing happened to him_, as far as anybody actually knows. Then--1592--there is mention of him as an actor. Next year--1593--his name appears in the official list of players. Next year--1594--he played before the queen. A detail of no consequence: other obscurities did it every year of the forty-five of her reign. And remained obscure. Three pretty full years follow. Full of play-acting. Then In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford. Thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he accumulated money, and also reputation as actor and manager. Meantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become associated with a number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly) author of the same. Some of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made no protest. Then--1610-11--he returned to Stratford and settled down for good and all, and busied himself in lending money, trading in tithes, trading in land and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one shillings, borrowed by his wife during his long desertion of his family; suing debtors for shillings and coppers; being sued himself for shillings and coppers; and acting as confederate to a neighbor who tried to rob the town of its rights in a certain common, and did not succeed. He lived five or six years--till 1616--in the joy of these elevated pursuits. Then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages with his name. A thoroughgoing business man's will. It named in minute detail every item of property he owned in the world--houses, lands, sword, silver-gilt bowl, and so on--all the way down to his "second-best bed" and its furniture. It carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the members of his family, overlooking no individual of it. Not even his wife: the wife he had been enabled to marry in a hurry by urgent grace of a special dispensation before he was nineteen; the wife whom he had left husbandless so many years; the wife who had had to borrow forty-one shillings in her need, and which the lender was never able to collect of the prosperous husband, but died at last with the money still lacking. No, even this wife was remembered in Shakespeare's will. He left her that "second-best bed." And _not another thing_; not even a penny to bless her lucky widowhood with. It was eminently and conspicuously a business man's will, not a poet's. It mentioned _not a single book_. Books were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls and second-best beds in those days, and when a departing person owned one he gave it a high place in his will. The will mentioned _not a play_,_ not a poem_,_ not an unfinished literary work_, _not a scrap of manuscript of any kind_. Many poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history that has died _this_ poor; the others all left literary remains behind. Also a book. Maybe two. If Shakespeare had owned a dog--but we need not go into that: we know he would have mentioned it in his will. If a good dog, Susanna would have got it; if an inferior one his wife would have got a dower interest in it. I wish he had had a dog, just so we could see how painstakingly he would have divided that dog among the family, in his careful business way. He signed the will in three places. In earlier years he signed two other official documents. These five signatures still exist. There are _no other specimens of his penmanship in existence_. Not a line. Was he prejudiced against the art? His granddaughter, whom he loved, was eight years old when he died, yet she had had no teaching, he left no provision for her education although he was rich, and in her mature womanhood she couldn't write and couldn't tell her husband's manuscript from anybody else's--she thought it was Shakespeare's. When Shakespeare died in Stratford _it was not an event_. It made no more stir in England than the death of any other forgotten theatre-actor would have made. Nobody came down from London; there were no lamenting poems, no eulogies, no national tears--there was merely silence, and nothing more. A striking contrast with what happened when Ben Jonson, and Francis Bacon, and Spenser, and Raleigh and the other distinguished literary folk of Shakespeare's time passed from life! No praiseful voice was lifted for the lost Bard of Avon; even Ben Jonson waited seven years before he lifted his. _So far as anybody actually knows and can prove_, Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life. _So far as anybody knows and can prove_, he never wrote a letter to anybody in his life. _So far as any one knows_, _he received only one letter during his life_. So far as any one _knows and can prove_, Shakespeare of Stratford wrote only one poem during his life. This one is authentic. He did write that one--a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the whole of it; he wrote the whole of it out of his own head. He commanded that this work of art be engraved upon his tomb, and he was obeyed. There it abides to this day. This is it: Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. In the list as above set down, will be found _every positively known_ fact of Shakespeare's life, lean and meagre as the invoice is. Beyond these details we know _not a thing_ about him. All the rest of his vast history, as furnished by the biographers, is built up, course upon course, of guesses, inferences, theories, conjectures--an Eiffel Tower of artificialities rising sky-high from a very flat and very thin foundation of inconsequential facts. CHAPTER IV--CONJECTURES The historians "suppose" that Shakespeare attended the Free School in Stratford from the time he was seven years old till he was thirteen. There is no _evidence_ in existence that he ever went to school at all. The historians "infer" that he got his Latin in that school--the school which they "suppose" he attended. They "suppose" his father's declining fortunes made it necessary for him to leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to work and help support his parents and their ten children. But there is no evidence that he ever entered or retired from the school they suppose he attended. They "suppose" he assisted his father in the butchering business; and that, being only a boy, he didn't have to do full-grown butchering, but only slaughtered calves. Also, that whenever he killed a calf he made a high-flown speech over it. This supposition rests upon the testimony of a man who wasn't there at the time; a man who got it from a man who could have been there, but did not say whether he was or not; and neither of them thought to mention it for decades, and decades, and decades, and two more decades after Shakespeare's death (until old age and mental decay had refreshed and vivified their memories). They hadn't two facts in stock about the long-dead distinguished citizen, but only just the one: he slaughtered calves and broke into oratory while he was at it. Curious. They had only one fact, yet the distinguished citizen had spent twenty-six years in that little town--just half his lifetime. However, rightly viewed, it was the most important fact, indeed almost the only important fact, of Shakespeare's life in Stratford. Rightly viewed. For experience is an author's most valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into the book he writes. Rightly viewed, calf-butchering accounts for _Titus Andronicus_, the only play--ain't it?--that the Stratford Shakespeare ever wrote; and yet it is the only one everybody tries to chouse him out of, the Baconians included. The historians find themselves "justified in believing" that the young Shakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy's deer preserves and got haled before that magistrate for it. But there is no shred of respectworthy evidence that anything of the kind happened. The historians, having argued the thing that _might_ have happened into the thing that _did_ happen, found no trouble in turning Sir Thomas Lucy into Mr. Justice Shallow. They have long ago convinced the world--on surmise and without trustworthy evidence--that Shallow _is_ Sir Thomas. The next addition to the young Shakespeare's Stratford history comes easy. The historian builds it out of the surmised deer-stealing, and the surmised trial before the magistrate, and the surmised vengeance-prompted satire upon the magistrate in the play: result, the young Shakespeare was a wild, wild, wild, oh _such_ a wild young scamp, and that gratuitous slander is established for all time! It is the very way Professor Osborn and I built the colossal skeleton brontosaur that stands fifty-seven feet long and sixteen feet high in the Natural History Museum, the awe and admiration of all the world, the stateliest skeleton that exists on the planet. We had nine bones, and we built the rest of him out of plaster of paris. We ran short of plaster of paris, or we'd have built a brontosaur that could sit down beside the Stratford Shakespeare and none but an expert could tell which was biggest or contained the most plaster. Shakespeare pronounced _Venus and Adonis_ "the first heir of his invention," apparently implying that it was his first effort at literary composition. He should not have said it. It has been an embarrassment to his historians these many, many years. They have to make him write that graceful and polished and flawless and beautiful poem before he escaped from Stratford and his family--1586 or '87--age, twenty-two, or along there; because within the next five years he wrote five great plays, and could not have found time to write another line. It is sorely embarrassing. If he began to slaughter calves, and poach deer, and rollick around, and learn English, at the earliest likely moment--say at thirteen, when he was supposably wrenched from that school where he was supposably storing up Latin for future literary use--he had his youthful hands full, and much more than full. He must have had to put aside his Warwickshire dialect, which wouldn't be understood in London, and study English very hard. Very hard indeed; incredibly hard, almost, if the result of that labor was to be the smooth and rounded and flexible and letter-perfect English of the _Venus and Adonis_ in the space of ten years; and at the same time learn great and fine and unsurpassable literary form. However, it is "conjectured" that he accomplished all this and more, much more: learned law and its intricacies; and the complex procedure of the law courts; and all about soldiering, and sailoring, and the manners and customs and ways of royal courts and aristocratic society; and likewise accumulated in his one head every kind of knowledge the learned then possessed, and every kind of humble knowledge possessed by the lowly and the ignorant; and added thereto a wider and more intimate knowledge of the world's great literatures, ancient and modern, than was possessed by any other man of his time--for he was going to make brilliant and easy and admiration-compelling use of these splendid treasures the moment he got to London. And according to the surmisers, that is what he did. Yes, although there was no one in Stratford able to teach him these things, and no library in the little village to dig them out of. His father could not read, and even the surmisers surmise that he did not keep a library. It is surmised by the biographers that the young Shakespeare got his vast knowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate acquaintance with the manners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers through being for a time the _clerk of a Stratford court_; just as a bright lad like me, reared in a village on the banks of the Mississippi, might become perfect in knowledge of the Behring Strait whale-fishery and the shop-talk of the veteran exercisers of that adventure-bristling trade through catching catfish with a "trot-line" Sundays. But the surmise is damaged by the fact that there is no evidence--and not even tradition--that the young Shakespeare was ever clerk of a law court. It is further surmised that the young Shakespeare accumulated his law-treasures in the first years of his sojourn in London, through "amusing himself" by learning book-law in his garret and by picking up lawyer-talk and the rest of it through loitering about the law-courts and listening. But it is only surmise; there is no _evidence_ that he ever did either of those things. They are merely a couple of chunks of plaster of paris. There is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding horses in front of the London theatres, mornings and afternoons. Maybe he did. If he did, it seriously shortened his law-study hours and his recreation-time in the courts. In those very days he was writing great plays, and needed all the time he could get. The horse-holding legend ought to be strangled; it too formidably increases the historian's difficulty in accounting for the young Shakespeare's erudition--an erudition which he was acquiring, hunk by hunk and chunk by chunk every day in those strenuous times, and emptying each day's catch into next day's imperishable drama. He had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a knowledge of soldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and talk; also a knowledge of some foreign lands and their languages: for he was daily emptying fluent streams of these various knowledges, too, into his dramas. How did he acquire these rich assets? In the usual way: by surmise. It is _surmised_ that he travelled in Italy and Germany and around, and qualified himself to put their scenic and social aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in French, Italian and Spanish on the road; that he went in Leicester's expedition to the Low Countries, as soldier or sutler or something, for several months or years--or whatever length of time a surmiser needs in his business--and thus became familiar with soldiership and soldier-ways and soldier-talk, and generalship and general-ways and general-talk, and seamanship and sailor-ways and sailor-talk. Maybe he did all these things, but I would like to know who held the horses in the meantime; and who studied the books in the garret; and who frollicked in the law-courts for recreation. Also, who did the call-boying and the play-acting. For he became a call-boy; and as early as '93 he became a "vagabond"--the law's ungentle term for an unlisted actor; and in '94 a "regular" and properly and officially listed member of that (in those days) lightly-valued and not much respected profession. Right soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theatres, and manager of them. Thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing business man, and was raking in money with both hands for twenty years. Then in a noble frenzy of poetic inspiration he wrote his one poem--his only poem, his darling--and laid him down and died: Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. He was probably dead when he wrote it. Still, this is only conjecture. We have only circumstantial evidence. Internal evidence. Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute the giant Biography of William Shakespeare? It would strain the Unabridged Dictionary to hold them. He is a Brontosaur: nine bones and six hundred barrels of plaster of paris. CHAPTER V--"We May Assume" In the Assuming trade three separate and independent cults are transacting business. Two of these cults are known as the Shakespearites and the Baconians, and I am the other one--the Brontosaurian. The Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's Works; the Baconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote them; the Brontosaurian doesn't really know which of them did it, but is quite composedly and contentedly sure that Shakespeare _didn't_, and strongly suspects that Bacon _did_. We all have to do a good deal of assuming, but I am fairly certain that in every case I can call to mind the Baconian assumers have come out ahead of the Shakespearites. Both parties handle the same materials, but the Baconians seem to me to get much more reasonable and rational and persuasive results out of them than is the case with the Shakespearites. The Shakespearite conducts his assuming upon a definite principle, an unchanging and immutable law--which is: 2 and 8 and 7 and 14, added together, make 165. I believe this to be an error. No matter, you cannot get a habit-sodden Shakespearite to cipher-up his materials upon any other basis. With the Baconian it is different. If you place before him the above figures and set him to adding them up, he will never in any case get more than 45 out of them, and in nine cases out of ten he will get just the proper 31. Let me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely way calculated to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant and unintelligent. We will suppose a case: take a lap-bred, house-fed, uneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a rugged old Tom that's scarred from stem to rudder-post with the memorials of strenuous experience, and is so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly erudite that one may say of him "all cat-knowledge is his province"; also, take a mouse. Lock the three up in a holeless, crackless, exitless prison-cell. Wait half an hour, then open the cell, introduce a Shakespearite and a Baconian, and let them cipher and assume. The mouse is missing: the question to be decided is, where is it? You can guess both verdicts beforehand. One verdict will say the kitten contains the mouse; the other will as certainly say the mouse is in the tomcat. The Shakespearite will Reason like this--(that is not my word, it is his). He will say the kitten _may have been_ attending school when nobody was noticing; therefore _we are warranted in assuming_ that it did so; also, it _could have been_ training in a court-clerk's office when no one was noticing; since that could have happened, _we are justified in assuming_ that it did happen; it _could have studied catology in a garret_ when no one was noticing--therefore it _did_; it _could have_ attended cat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for recreation, when no one was noticing, and harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and cat lawyer-talk in that way: it _could_ have done it, therefore without a doubt it did; it could have gone soldiering with a war-tribe when no one was noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to do with a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference, therefore is, that that is what it _did_. Since all these manifold things _could_ have occurred, we have _every right to believe_ they did occur. These patiently and painstakingly accumulated vast acquirements and competences needed but one thing more--opportunity--to convert themselves into triumphant action. The opportunity came, we have the result; _beyond shadow of question_ the mouse is in the kitten. It is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a "_We think we may assume_," we expect it, under careful watering and fertilizing and tending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and weather-defying "_there isn't a shadow of a doubt_" at last--and it usually happens. We know what the Baconian's verdict would be: "_There is not a rag of evidence that the kitten has had any training_, _any education_, _any experience qualifying it for the present occasion_, _or is indeed equipped for any achievement above lifting such unclaimed milk as comes its way_; _but there is abundant evidence_--_unassailable proof_, _in fact_--_that the other animal is equipped_, _to the last detail_, _with every qualification necessary for the event_. _Without shadow of doubt the tomcat contains the mouse_." CHAPTER VI When Shakespeare died, in 1616, great literary productions attributed to him as author had been before the London world and in high favor for twenty-four years. Yet his death was not an event. It made no stir, it attracted no attention. Apparently his eminent literary contemporaries did not realize that a celebrated poet had passed from their midst. Perhaps they knew a play-actor of minor rank had disappeared, but did not regard him as the author of his Works. "We are justified in assuming" this. His death was not even an event in the little town of Stratford. Does this mean that in Stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity of _any_ kind? "We are privileged to assume"--no, we are indeed _obliged_ to assume--that such was the case. He had spent the first twenty-two or twenty-three years of his life there, and of course knew everybody and was known by everybody of that day in the town, including the dogs and the cats and the horses. He had spent the last five or six years of his life there, diligently trading in every big and little thing that had money in it; so we are compelled to assume that many of the folk there in those said latter days knew him personally, and the rest by sight and hearsay. But not as a _celebrity_? Apparently not. For everybody soon forgot to remember any contact with him or any incident connected with him. The dozens of townspeople, still alive, who had known of him or known about him in the first twenty-three years of his life were in the same unremembering condition: if they knew of any incident connected with that period of his life they didn't tell about it. Would they if they had been asked? It is most likely. Were they asked? It is pretty apparent that they were not. Why weren't they? It is a very plausible guess that nobody there or elsewhere was interested to know. For seven years after Shakespeare's death nobody seems to have been interested in him. Then the quarto was published, and Ben Jonson awoke out of his long indifference and sang a song of praise and put it in the front of the book. Then silence fell _again_. For sixty years. Then inquiries into Shakespeare's Stratford life began to be made, of Stratfordians. Of Stratfordians who had known Shakespeare or had seen him? No. Then of Stratfordians who had seen people who had known or seen people who had seen Shakespeare? No. Apparently the inquiries were only made of Stratfordians who were not Stratfordians of Shakespeare's day, but later comers; and what they had learned had come to them from persons who had not seen Shakespeare; and what they had learned was not claimed as _fact_, but only as legend--dim and fading and indefinite legend; legend of the calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth remembering either as history or fiction. Has it ever happened before--or since--that a celebrated person who had spent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where he was born and reared, was able to slip out of this world and leave that village voiceless and gossipless behind him--utterly voiceless, utterly gossipless? And permanently so? I don't believe it has happened in any case except Shakespeare's. And couldn't and wouldn't have happened in his case if he had been regarded as a celebrity at the time of his death. When I examine my own case--but let us do that, and see if it will not be recognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite likely to result, most likely to result, indeed substantially _sure_ to result in the case of a celebrated person, a benefactor of the human race. Like me. My parents brought me to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks of the Mississippi, when I was two and a half years old. I entered school at five years of age, and drifted from one school to another in the village during nine and a half years. Then my father died, leaving his family in exceedingly straitened circumstances; wherefore my book-education came to a standstill forever, and I became a printer's apprentice, on board and clothes, and when the clothes failed I got a hymn-book in place of them. This for summer wear, probably. I lived in Hannibal fifteen and a half years, altogether, then ran away, according to the custom of persons who are intending to become celebrated. I never lived there afterward. Four years later I became a "cub" on a Mississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade, and after a year and a half of hard study and hard work the U. S. inspectors rigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings and decided that I knew every inch of the Mississippi--thirteen hundred miles--in the dark and in the day--as well as a baby knows the way to its mother's paps day or night. So they licensed me as a pilot--knighted me, so to speak--and I rose up clothed with authority, a responsible servant of the United States government. Now then. Shakespeare died young--he was only fifty-two. He had lived in his native village twenty-six years, or about that. He died celebrated (if you believe everything you read in the books). Yet when he died nobody there or elsewhere took any notice of it; and for sixty years afterward no townsman remembered to say anything about him or about his life in Stratford. When the inquirer came at last he got but one fact--no, _legend_--and got that one at second hand, from a person who had only heard it as a rumor, and didn't claim copyright in it as a production of his own. He couldn't, very well, for its date antedated his own birth-date. But necessarily a number of persons were still alive in Stratford who, in the days of their youth, had seen Shakespeare nearly every day in the last five years of his life, and they would have been able to tell that inquirer some first-hand things about him if he had in those last days been a celebrity and therefore a person of interest to the villagers. Why did not the inquirer hunt them up and interview them? Wasn't it worth while? Wasn't the matter of sufficient consequence? Had the inquirer an engagement to see a dog-fight and couldn't spare the time? It all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity, there or elsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and manager. Now then, I am away along in life--my seventy-third year being already well behind me--yet _sixteen_ of my Hannibal schoolmates are still alive to-day, and can tell--and do tell--inquirers dozens and dozens of incidents of their young lives and mine together; things that happened to us in the morning of life, in the blossom of our youth, in the good days, the dear days, "the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago." Most of them creditable to me, too. One child to whom I paid court when she was five years old and I eight still lives in Hannibal, and she visited me last summer, traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundred miles of railroad without damage to her patience or to her old-young vigor. Another little lassie to whom I paid attention in Hannibal when she was nine years old and I the same, is still alive--in London--and hale and hearty, just as I am. And on the few surviving steamboats--those lingering ghosts and remembrancers of great fleets that plied the big river in the beginning of my water-career--which is exactly as long ago as the whole invoice of the life-years of Shakespeare number--there are still findable two or three river-pilots who saw me do creditable things in those ancient days; and several white-headed engineers; and several roustabouts and mates; and several deck-hands who used to heave the lead for me and send up on the still night air the "six--feet--_scant_!" that made me shudder, and the "_M-a-r-k--twain_!" that took the shudder away, and presently the darling "By the d-e-e-p--four!" that lifted me to heaven for joy. {1} They know about me, and can tell. And so do printers, from St. Louis to New York; and so do newspaper reporters, from Nevada to San Francisco. And so do the police. If Shakespeare had really been celebrated, like me, Stratford could have told things about him; and if my experience goes for anything, they'd have done it. CHAPTER VII If I had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decide whether Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or not, I believe I would place before the debaters only the one question, _Was Shakespeare ever a practicing lawyer_? and leave everything else out. It is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merely myriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplished: that he not only knew some thousands of things about human life in all its shades and grades, and about the hundred arts and trades and crafts and professions which men busy themselves in, but that he could _talk_ about the men and their grades and trades accurately, making no mistakes. Maybe it is so, but have the experts spoken, or is it only Tom, Dick, and Harry? Does the exhibit stand upon wide, and loose, and eloquent generalizing--which is not evidence, and not proof--or upon details, particulars, statistics, illustrations, demonstrations? Experts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as to only one of Shakespeare's multifarious craft-equipments, so far as my recollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk abide with me--his law-equipment. I do not remember that Wellington or Napoleon ever examined Shakespeare's battles and sieges and strategies, and then decided and established for good and all, that they were militarily flawless; I do not remember that any Nelson, or Drake or Cook ever examined his seamanship and said it showed profound and accurate familiarity with that art; I don't remember that any king or prince or duke has ever testified that Shakespeare was letter-perfect in his handling of royal court-manners and the talk and manners of aristocracies; I don't remember that any illustrious Latinist or Grecian or Frenchman or Spaniard or Italian has proclaimed him a past-master in those languages; I don't remember--well, I don't remember that there is _testimony_--great testimony--imposing testimony--unanswerable and unattackable testimony as to any of Shakespeare's hundred specialties, except one--the law. Other things change, with time, and the student cannot trace back with certainty the changes that various trades and their processes and technicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century or two and find out what their processes and technicalities were in those early days, but with the law it is different: it is mile-stoned and documented all the way back, and the master of that wonderful trade, that complex and intricate trade, that awe-compelling trade, has competent ways of knowing whether Shakespeare-law is good law or not; and whether his law-court procedure is correct or not, and whether his legal shop-talk is the shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only a machine-made counterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional loiterings in Westminster. Richard H. Dana served two years before the mast, and had every experience that falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of our day. His sailor-talk flows from his pen with the sure touch and the ease and confidence of a person who has _lived_ what he is talking about, not gathered it from books and random listenings. Hear him: Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of each sail fast by the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the whole canvas of the ship was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity possible everything was sheeted home and hoisted up, the anchor tripped and cat-headed, and the ship under headway. Again: The royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sails set, and, as we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all were aloft, active as cats, laying out on the yards and booms, reeving the studding-sail gear; and sail after sail the captain piled upon her, until she was covered with canvas, her sails looking like a great white cloud resting upon a black speck. Once more. A race in the Pacific: Our antagonist was in her best trim. Being clear of the point, the breeze became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but we would not take them in until we saw three boys spring into the rigging of the _California_; then they were all furled at once, but with orders to our boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads and loose them again at the word. It was my duty to furl the fore-royal; and while standing by to loose it again, I had a fine view of the scene. From where I stood, the two vessels seemed nothing but spars and sails, while their narrow decks, far below, slanting over by the force of the wind aloft, appeared hardly capable of supporting the great fabrics raised upon them. The _California_ was to windward of us, and had every advantage; yet, while the breeze was stiff we held our own. As soon as it began to slacken she ranged a little ahead, and the order was given to loose the royals. In an instant the gaskets were off and the bunt dropped. "Sheet home the fore-royal!"--"Weather sheet's home!"--"Lee sheet's home!"--"Hoist away, sir!" is bawled from aloft. "Overhaul your clewlines!" shouts the mate. "Aye-aye, sir, all clear!"--"Taut leech! belay! Well the lee brace; haul taut to windward!" and the royals are set. What would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to that? He would say, "The man that wrote that didn't learn his trade out of a book, he has _been_ there!" But would this same captain be competent to sit in judgment upon Shakespeare's seamanship--considering the changes in ships and ship-talk that have necessarily taken place, unrecorded, unremembered, and lost to history in the last three hundred years? It is my conviction that Shakespeare's sailor-talk would be Choctaw to him. For instance--from _The Tempest_: _Master_. Boatswain! _Boatswain_. Here, master; what cheer? _Master_. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or we run ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir! (_Enter mariners_.) _Boatswain_. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle . . . Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi' the main course . . . Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses. Off to sea again; lay her off. That will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a change. If a man should write a book and in it make one of his characters say, "Here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and the imposing stone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the frisket and let them jeff for takes and be quick about it," I should recognize a mistake or two in the phrasing, and would know that the writer was only a printer theoretically, not practically. I have been a quartz miner in the silver regions--a pretty hard life; I know all the palaver of that business: I know all about discovery claims and the subordinate claims; I know all about lodes, ledges, outcroppings, dips, spurs, angles, shafts, drifts, inclines, levels, tunnels, air-shafts, "horses," clay casings, granite casings; quartz mills and their batteries; arastras, and how to charge them with quicksilver and sulphate of copper; and how to clean them up, and how to reduce the resulting amalgam in the retorts, and how to cast the bullion into pigs; and finally I know how to screen tailings, and also how to hunt for something less robust to do, and find it. I know the _argot_ of the quartz-mining and milling industry familiarly; and so whenever Bret Harte introduces that industry into a story, the first time one of his miners opens his mouth I recognize from his phrasing that Harte got the phrasing by listening--like Shakespeare--I mean the Stratford one--not by experience. No one can talk the quartz dialect correctly without learning it with pick and shovel and drill and fuse. I have been a surface-miner--gold--and I know all its mysteries, and the dialect that belongs with them; and whenever Harte introduces that industry into a story I know by the phrasing of his characters that neither he nor they have ever served that trade. I have been a "pocket" miner--a sort of gold mining not findable in any but one little spot in the world, so far as I know. I know how, with horn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace it step by step and stage by stage up the mountain to its source, and find the compact little nest of yellow metal reposing in its secret home under the ground. I know the language of that trade, that capricious trade, that fascinating buried-treasure trade, and can catch any writer who tries to use it without having learned it by the sweat of his brow and the labor of his hands. I know several other trades and the _argot_ that goes with them; and whenever a person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them without having learned it at its source I can trap him always before he gets far on his road. And so, as I have already remarked, if I were required to superintend a Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would narrow the matter down to a single question--the only one, so far as the previous controversies have informed me, concerning which illustrious experts of unimpeachable competency have testified: _Was the author of Shakespeare's Works a lawyer_?--a lawyer deeply read and of limitless experience? I would put aside the guesses, and surmises, and perhapses, and might-have-beens, and could-have beens, and must-have-beens, and we-are justified-in-presumings, and the rest of those vague spectres and shadows and indefinitenesses, and stand or fall, win or lose, by the verdict rendered by the jury upon that single question. If the verdict was Yes, I should feel quite convinced that the Stratford Shakespeare, the actor, manager, and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, so destitute of even village consequence that sixty years afterward no fellow-citizen and friend of his later days remembered to tell anything about him, did not write the Works. Chapter XIII of _The Shakespeare Problem Restated_ bears the heading "Shakespeare as a Lawyer," and comprises some fifty pages of expert testimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine, as being sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settle the question which I have conceived to be the master-key to the Shakespeare-Bacon puzzle. CHAPTER VIII--Shakespeare as a Lawyer {2} The Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply ample evidence that their author not only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law, but that he was well acquainted with the manners and customs of members of the Inns of Court and with legal life generally. "While novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as to the laws of marriage, of wills, and inheritance, to Shakespeare's law, lavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill of exceptions, nor writ of error." Such was the testimony borne by one of the most distinguished lawyers of the nineteenth century who was raised to the high office of Lord Chief Justice in 1850, and subsequently became Lord Chancellor. Its weight will, doubtless, be more appreciated by lawyers than by laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it is for those who have not served an apprenticeship to the law to avoid displaying their ignorance if they venture to employ legal terms and to discuss legal doctrines. "There is nothing so dangerous," wrote Lord Campbell, "as for one not of the craft to tamper with our freemasonry." A layman is certain to betray himself by using some expression which a lawyer would never employ. Mr. Sidney Lee himself supplies us with an example of this. He writes (p. 164): "On February 15, 1609, Shakespeare . . . obtained judgment from a jury against Addenbroke for the payment of No. 6, and No. 1. 5_s._ 0_d._ costs." Now a lawyer would never have spoken of obtaining "judgment from a jury," for it is the function of a jury not to deliver judgment (which is the prerogative of the court), but to find a verdict on the facts. The error is, indeed, a venial one, but it is just one of those little things which at once enable a lawyer to know if the writer is a layman or "one of the craft." But when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, he is naturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence. "Let a non-professional man, however acute," writes Lord Campbell again, "presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science in discussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into laughable absurdity." And what does the same high authority say about Shakespeare? He had "a deep technical knowledge of the law," and an easy familiarity with "some of the most abstruse proceedings in English jurisprudence." And again: "Whenever he indulges this propensity he uniformly lays down good law." Of _Henry IV._, Part 2, he says: "If Lord Eldon could be supposed to have written the play, I do not see how he could be chargeable with having forgotten any of his law while writing it." Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke speak of "the marvelous intimacy which he displays with legal terms, his frequent adoption of them in illustration, and his curiously technical knowledge of their form and force." Malone, himself a lawyer, wrote: "His knowledge of legal terms is not merely such as might be acquired by the casual observation of even his all-comprehending mind; it has the appearance of technical skill." Another lawyer and well-known Shakespearean, Richard Grant White, says: "No dramatist of the time, not even Beaumont, who was the younger son of a judge of the Common Pleas, and who after studying in the Inns of Court abandoned law for the drama, used legal phrases with Shakespeare's readiness and exactness. And the significance of this fact is heightened by another, that it is only to the language of the law that he exhibits this inclination. The phrases peculiar to other occupations serve him on rare occasions by way of description, comparison or illustration, generally when something in the scene suggests them, but legal phrases flow from his pen as part of his vocabulary, and parcel of his thought. Take the word 'purchase' for instance, which, in ordinary use, means to acquire by giving value, but applies in law to all legal modes of obtaining property except by inheritance or descent, and in this peculiar sense the word occurs five times in Shakespeare's thirty-four plays, and only in one single instance in the fifty-four plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. It has been suggested that it was in attendance upon the courts in London that he picked up his legal vocabulary. But this supposition not only fails to account for Shakespeare's peculiar freedom and exactness in the use of that phraseology, it does not even place him in the way of learning those terms his use of which is most remarkable, which are not such as he would have heard at ordinary proceedings at _nisi prius_, but such as refer to the tenure or transfer of real property, 'fine and recovery,' 'statutes merchant,' 'purchase,' 'indenture,' 'tenure,' 'double voucher,' 'fee simple,' 'fee farm,' 'remainder,' 'reversion,' 'forfeiture,' etc. This conveyancer's jargon could not have been picked up by hanging round the courts of law in London two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to the title of real property were comparatively rare. And beside, Shakespeare uses his law just as freely in his first plays, written in his first London years, as in those produced at a later period. Just as exactly, too; for the correctness and propriety with which these terms are introduced have compelled the admiration of a Chief Justice and a Lord Chancellor." Senator Davis wrote: "We seem to have something more than a sciolist's temerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar art. No legal solecisms will be found. The abstrusest elements of the common law are impressed into a disciplined service. Over and over again, where such knowledge is unexampled in writers unlearned in the law, Shakespeare appears in perfect possession of it. In the law of real property, its rules of tenure and descents, its entails, its fines and recoveries, their vouchers and double vouchers, in the procedure of the Courts, the method of bringing writs and arrests, the nature of actions, the rules of pleading, the law of escapes and of contempt of court, in the principles of evidence, both technical and philosophical, in the distinction between the temporal and spiritual tribunals, in the law of attainder and forfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage, in the presumption of legitimacy, in the learning of the law of prerogative, in the inalienable character of the Crown, this mastership appears with surprising authority." To all this testimony (and there is much more which I have not cited) may now be added that of a great lawyer of our own times, _viz._: Sir James Plaisted Wilde, Q.C. created a Baron of the Exchequer in 1860, promoted to the post of Judge-Ordinary and Judge of the Courts of Probate and Divorce in 1863, and better known to the world as Lord Penzance, to which dignity he was raised in 1869. Lord Penzance, as all lawyers know, and as the late Mr. Inderwick, K.C., has testified, was one of the first legal authorities of his day, famous for his "remarkable grasp of legal principles," and "endowed by nature with a remarkable facility for marshalling facts, and for a clear expression of his views." Lord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare's "perfect familiarity with not only the principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of English law, a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never incorrect and never at fault . . . The mode in which this knowledge was pressed into service on all occasions to express his meaning and illustrate his thoughts, was quite unexampled. He seems to have had a special pleasure in his complete and ready mastership of it in all its branches. As manifested in the plays, this legal knowledge and learning had therefore a special character which places it on a wholly different footing from the rest of the multifarious knowledge which is exhibited in page after page of the plays. At every turn and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned _first_ to the law. He seems almost to have _thought_ in legal phrases, the commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in description or illustration. That he should have descanted in lawyer language when he had a forensic subject in hand, such as Shylock's bond, was to be expected, but the knowledge of law in 'Shakespeare' was exhibited in a far different manner: it protruded itself on all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate, and mingled itself with strains of thought widely divergent from forensic subjects." Again: "To acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical terms and phrases not only of the conveyancer's office but of the pleader's chambers and the Courts at Westminster, nothing short of employment in some career involving constant contact with legal questions and general legal work would be requisite. But a continuous employment involves the element of time, and time was just what the manager of two theatres had not at his disposal. In what portion of Shakespeare's (_i.e._ Shakspere's) career would it be possible to point out that time could be found for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of practising lawyers?" Stratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possible explanation of Shakespeare's extraordinary knowledge of law, have made the suggestion that Shakespeare might, conceivably, have been a clerk in an attorney's office before he came to London. Mr. Collier wrote to Lord Campbell to ask his opinion as to the probability of this being true. His answer was as follows: "You require us to believe implicitly a fact, of which, if true, positive and irrefragable evidence in his own handwriting might have been forthcoming to establish it. Not having been actually enrolled as an attorney, neither the records of the local court at Stratford nor of the superior Courts at Westminster would present his name as being concerned in any suit as an attorney, but it might reasonably have been expected that there would be deeds or wills witnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent search none such can be discovered." Upon this Lord Penzance comments: "It cannot be doubted that Lord Campbell was right in this. No young man could have been at work in an attorney's office without being called upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name." There is not a single fact or incident in all that is known of Shakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, which supports this notion of a clerkship. And after much argument and surmise which has been indulged in on this subject, we may, I think, safely put the notion on one side, for no less an authority than Mr. Grant White says finally that the idea of his having been clerk to an attorney has been "blown to pieces." It is altogether characteristic of Mr. Churton Collins that he, nevertheless, adopts this exploded myth. "That Shakespeare was in early life employed as a clerk in an attorney's office, may be correct. At Stratford there was by royal charter a Court of Record sitting every fortnight, with six attorneys, beside the town clerk, belonging to it, and it is certainly not straining probability to suppose that the young Shakespeare may have had employment in one of them. There is, it is true, no tradition to this effect, but such traditions as we have about Shakespeare's occupation between the time of leaving school and going to London are so loose and baseless that no confidence can be placed in them. It is, to say the least, more probable that he was in an attorney's office than that he was a butcher killing calves 'in a high style,' and making speeches over them." This is a charming specimen of Stratfordian argument. There is, as we have seen, a very old tradition that Shakespeare was a butcher's apprentice. John Dowdall, who made a tour in Warwickshire in 1693, testifies to it as coming from the old clerk who showed him over the church, and it is unhesitatingly accepted as true by Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps. (Vol I, p. 11, and see Vol. II, p. 71, 72.) Mr. Sidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is supported by Aubrey, who must have written his account some time before 1680, when his manuscript was completed. Of the attorney's clerk hypothesis, on the other hand, there is not the faintest vestige of a tradition. It has been evolved out of the fertile imaginations of embarrassed Stratfordians, seeking for some explanation of the Stratford rustic's marvellous acquaintance with law and legal terms and legal life. But Mr. Churton Collins has not the least hesitation in throwing over the tradition which has the warrant of antiquity and setting up in its stead this ridiculous invention, for which not only is there no shred of positive evidence, but which, as Lord Campbell and Lord Penzance point out, is really put out of court by the negative evidence, since "no young man could have been at work in an attorney's office without being called upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name." And as Mr. Edwards further points out, since the day when Lord Campbell's book was published (between forty and fifty years ago), "every old deed or will, to say nothing of other legal papers, dated during the period of William Shakespeare's youth, has been scrutinized over half a dozen shires, and not one signature of the young man has been found." Moreover, if Shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney's office it is clear that he must have so served for a considerable period in order to have gained (if indeed it is credible that he could have so gained) his remarkable knowledge of law. Can we then for a moment believe that, if this had been so, tradition would have been absolutely silent on the matter? That Dowdall's old clerk, over eighty years of age, should have never heard of it (though he was sure enough about the butcher's apprentice), and that all the other ancient witnesses should be in similar ignorance! But such are the methods of Stratfordian controversy. Tradition is to be scouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as irrefragable truth when it suits the case. Shakespeare of Stratford was the author of the _Plays_ and _Poems_, but the author of the _Plays_ and _Poems_ could not have been a butcher's apprentice. Away, therefore, with tradition. But the author of the _Plays_ and _Poems must_ have had a very large and a very accurate knowledge of the law. Therefore, Shakespeare of Stratford must have been an attorney's clerk! The method is simplicity itself. By similar reasoning Shakespeare has been made a country schoolmaster, a soldier, a physician, a printer, and a good many other things beside, according to the inclination and the exigencies of the commentator. It would not be in the least surprising to find that he was studying Latin as a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's office at the same time. However, we must do Mr. Collins the justice of saying that he has fully recognized, what is indeed tolerably obvious, that Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training. "It may, of course, be urged," he writes, "that Shakespeare's knowledge of medicine, and particularly that branch of it which related to morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, and that no one has ever contended that he was a physician. (Here Mr. Collins is wrong; that contention also has been put forward.) It may be urged that his acquaintance with the technicalities of other crafts and callings, notably of marine and military affairs, was also extraordinary, and yet no one has suspected him of being a sailor or a soldier. (Wrong again. Why even Messrs. Garnett and Gosse 'suspect' that he was a soldier!) This may be conceded, but the concession hardly furnishes an analogy. To these and all other subjects he recurs occasionally, and in season, but with reminiscences of the law his memory, as is abundantly clear, was simply saturated. In season and out of season now in manifest, now in recondite application, he presses it into the service of expression and illustration. At least a third of his myriad metaphors are derived from it. It would indeed be difficult to find a single act in any of his dramas, nay, in some of them, a single scene, the diction and imagery of which is not colored by it. Much of his law may have been acquired from three books easily accessible to him, namely Tottell's _Precedents_ (1572), Pulton's _Statutes_ (1578), and Fraunce's _Lawier's Logike_ (1588), works with which he certainly seems to have been familiar; but much of it could only have come from one who had an intimate acquaintance with legal proceedings. We quite agree with Mr. Castle that Shakespeare's legal knowledge is not what could have been picked up in an attorney's office, but could only have been learned by an actual attendance at the Courts, at a Pleader's Chambers, and on circuit, or by associating intimately with members of the Bench and Bar." This is excellent. But what is Mr. Collins' explanation. "Perhaps the simplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis that in early life he was in an attorney's office (!), that he there contracted a love for the law which never left him, that as a young man in London, he continued to study or dabble in it for his amusement, to stroll in leisure hours into the Courts, and to frequent the society of lawyers. On no other supposition is it possible to explain the attraction which the law evidently had for him, and his minute and undeviating accuracy in a subject where no layman who has indulged in such copious and ostentatious display of legal technicalities has ever yet succeeded in keeping himself from tripping." A lame conclusion. "No other supposition" indeed! Yes, there is another, and a very obvious supposition, namely, that Shakespeare was himself a lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the ways of the courts, and living in close intimacy with judges and members of the Inns of Court. One is, of course, thankful that Mr. Collins has appreciated the fact that Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but I may be forgiven if I do not attach quite so much importance to his pronouncements on this branch of the subject as to those of Malone, Lord Campbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K.C., Lord Penzance, Mr. Grant White, and other lawyers, who have expressed their opinion on the matter of Shakespeare's legal acquirements. Here it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from Lord Penzance's book as to the suggestion that Shakespeare had somehow or other managed "to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical terms and phrases, not only of the conveyancer's office, but of the pleader's chambers and the courts at Westminster." This, as Lord Penzance points out, "would require nothing short of employment in some career involving _constant contact_ with legal questions and general legal work." But "in what portion of Shakespeare's career would it be possible to point out that time could be found for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices of practising lawyers? . . . It is beyond doubt that at an early period he was called upon to abandon his attendance at school and assist his father, and was soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound apprentice to a trade. While under the obligation of this bond he could not have pursued any other employment. Then he leaves Stratford and comes to London. He has to provide himself with the means of a livelihood, and this he did in some capacity at the theatre. No one doubts that. The holding of horses is scouted by many, and perhaps with justice, as being unlikely and certainly unproved; but whatever the nature of his employment was at the theatre, there is hardly room for the belief that it could have been other than continuous, for his progress there was so rapid. Ere long he had been taken into the company as an actor, and was soon spoken of as a 'Johannes Factotum.' His rapid accumulation of wealth speaks volumes for the constancy and activity of his services. One fails to see when there could be a break in the current of his life at this period of it, giving room or opportunity for legal or indeed any other employment. 'In 1589,' says Knight, 'we have undeniable evidence that he had not only a casual engagement, was not only a salaried servant, as many players were, but was a shareholder in the company of the Queen's players with other shareholders below him on the list.' This (1589) would be within two years after his arrival in London, which is placed by White and Halliwell-Phillipps about the year 1587. The difficulty in supposing that, starting with a state of ignorance in 1587, when he is supposed to have come to London, he was induced to enter upon a course of most extended study and mental culture, is almost insuperable. Still it was physically possible, provided always that he could have had access to the needful books. But this legal training seems to me to stand on a different footing. It is not only unaccountable and incredible, but it is actually negatived by the known facts of his career." Lord Penzance then refers to the fact that "by 1592 (according to the best authority, Mr. Grant White) several of the plays had been written. _The Comedy of Errors_ in 1589, _Love's Labour's Lost_ in 1589, _Two Gentlemen of Verona_ in 1589 or 1590, and so forth," and then asks, "with this catalogue of dramatic work on hand . . . was it possible that he could have taken a leading part in the management and conduct of two theatres, and if Mr. Phillipps is to be relied upon, taken his share in the performances of the provincial tours of his company--and at the same time devoted himself to the study of the law in all its branches so efficiently as to make himself complete master of its principles and practice, and saturate his mind with all its most technical terms?" I have cited this passage from Lord Penzance's book, because it lay before me, and I had already quoted from it on the matter of Shakespeare's legal knowledge; but other writers have still better set forth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which beset the idea that Shakespeare might have found time in some unknown period of early life, amid multifarious other occupations, for the study of classics, literature and law, to say nothing of languages and a few other matters. Lord Penzance further asks his readers: "Did you ever meet with or hear of an instance in which a young man in this country gave himself up to legal studies and engaged in legal employments, which is the only way of becoming familiar with the technicalities of practice, unless with the view of practicing in that profession? I do not believe that it would be easy, or indeed possible, to produce an instance in which the law has been seriously studied in all its branches, except as a qualification for practice in the legal profession." * * * * * This testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and so uncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so's, and might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and the rest of that ton of plaster of paris out of which the biographers have built the colossal brontosaur which goes by the Stratford actor's name, that it quite convinces me that the man who wrote Shakespeare's Works knew all about law and lawyers. Also, that that man could not have been the Stratford Shakespeare--and _wasn't_. Who did write these Works, then? I wish I knew. CHAPTER IX Did Francis Bacon write Shakespeare's Works? Nobody knows. We cannot say we _know_ a thing when that thing has not been proved. _Know_ is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and absolutely conclusive. We can infer, if we want to, like those slaves . . . No, I will not write that word, it is not kind, it is not courteous. The upholders of the Stratford-Shakespeare superstition call _us_ the hardest names they can think of, and they keep doing it all the time; very well, if they like to descend to that level, let them do it, but I will not so undignify myself as to follow them. I cannot call them harsh names; the most I can do is to indicate them by terms reflecting my disapproval; and this without malice, without venom. To resume. What I was about to say, was, those thugs have built their entire superstition upon _inferences_, not upon known and established facts. It is a weak method, and poor, and I am glad to be able to say our side never resorts to it while there is anything else to resort to. But when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of that sort. Since the Stratford Shakespeare couldn't have written the Works, we infer that somebody did. Who was it, then? This requires some more inferring. Ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like a tidal wave, whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of admiration, delight and applause, a dozen obscure people rise up and claim the authorship. Why a dozen, instead of only one or two? One reason is, because there's a dozen that are recognizably competent to do that poem. Do you remember "Beautiful Snow"? Do you remember "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother, Rock Me to Sleep"? Do you remember "Backward, turn backward, O Time, in thy flight! Make me a child again just for to-night"? I remember them very well. Their authorship was claimed by most of the grown-up people who were alive at the time, and every claimant had one plausible argument in his favor, at least: to wit, he could have done the authoring; he was competent. Have the Works been claimed by a dozen? They haven't. There was good reason. The world knows there was but one man on the planet at the time who was competent--not a dozen, and not two. A long time ago the dwellers in a far country used now and then to find a procession of prodigious footprints stretching across the plain--footprints that were three miles apart, each footprint a third of a mile long and a furlong deep, and with forests and villages mashed to mush in it. Was there any doubt as to who had made that mighty trail? Were there a dozen claimants? Were there two? No--the people knew who it was that had been along there: there was only one Hercules. There has been only one Shakespeare. There couldn't be two; certainly there couldn't be two at the same time. It takes ages to bring forth a Shakespeare, and some more ages to match him. This one was not matched before his time; nor during his time; and hasn't been matched since. The prospect of matching him in our time is not bright. The Baconians claim that the Stratford Shakespeare was not qualified to write the Works, and that Francis Bacon was. They claim that Bacon possessed the stupendous equipment--both natural and acquired--for the miracle; and that no other Englishman of his day possessed the like; or, indeed, anything closely approaching it. Macaulay, in his Essay, has much to say about the splendor and horizonless magnitude of that equipment. Also, he has synopsized Bacon's history: a thing which cannot be done for the Stratford Shakespeare, for he hasn't any history to synopsize. Bacon's history is open to the world, from his boyhood to his death in old age--a history consisting of known facts, displayed in minute and multitudinous detail; _facts_, not guesses and conjectures and might-have-beens. Whereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had a Lord Chancellor for his father, and a mother who was "distinguished both as a linguist and a theologian: she corresponded in Greek with Bishop Jewell, and translated his _Apologia_ from the Latin so correctly that neither he nor Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration." It is the atmosphere we are reared in that determines how our inclinations and aspirations shall tend. The atmosphere furnished by the parents to the son in this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning; with thinkings and ponderings upon deep subjects; and with polite culture. It had its natural effect. Shakespeare of Stratford was reared in a house which had no use for books, since its owners, his parents, were without education. This may have had an effect upon the son, but we do not know, because we have no history of him of an informing sort. There were but few books anywhere, in that day, and only the well-to-do and highly educated possessed them, they being almost confined to the dead languages. "All the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single shelf"--imagine it! The few existing books were in the Latin tongue mainly. "A person who was ignorant of it was shut out from all acquaintance--not merely with Cicero and Virgil, but with the most interesting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time"--a literature necessary to the Stratford lad, for his fictitious reputation's sake, since the writer of his Works would begin to use it wholesale and in a most masterly way before the lad was hardly more than out of his teens and into his twenties. At fifteen Bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three years there. Thence he went to Paris in the train of the English Ambassador, and there he mingled daily with the wise, the cultured, the great, and the aristocracy of fashion, during another three years. A total of six years spent at the sources of knowledge; knowledge both of books and of men. The three spent at the university were coeval with the second and last three spent by the little Stratford lad at Stratford school supposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, and by inference--with nothing to infer from. The second three of the Baconian six were "presumably" spent by the Stratford lad as apprentice to a butcher. That is, the thugs presume it--on no evidence of any kind. Which is their way, when they want a historical fact. Fact and presumption are, for business purposes, all the same to them. They know the difference, but they also know how to blink it. They know, too, that while in history-building a fact is better than a presumption, it doesn't take a presumption long to bloom into a fact when _they_ have the handling of it. They know by old experience that when they get hold of a presumption-tadpole he is not going to _stay_ tadpole in their history-tank; no, they know how to develop him into the giant four-legged bullfrog of _fact_, and make him sit up on his hams, and puff out his chin, and look important and insolent and come-to-stay; and assert his genuine simon-pure authenticity with a thundering bellow that will convince everybody because it is so loud. The thug is aware that loudness convinces sixty persons where reasoning convinces but one. I wouldn't be a thug, not even if--but never mind about that, it has nothing to do with the argument, and it is not noble in spirit besides. If I am better than a thug, is the merit mine? No, it is His. Then to Him be the praise. That is the right spirit. They "presume" the lad severed his "presumed" connection with the Stratford school to become apprentice to a butcher. They also "presume" that the butcher was his father. They don't know. There is no written record of it, nor any other actual evidence. If it would have helped their case any, they would have apprenticed him to thirty butchers, to fifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers--all by their patented method "presumption." If it will help their case they will do it yet; and if it will further help it, they will "presume" that all those butchers were his father. And the week after, they will _say_ it. Why, it is just like being the past tense of the compound reflexive adverbial incandescent hypodermic irregular accusative Noun of Multitude; which is father to the expression which the grammarians call Verb. It is like a whole ancestry, with only one posterity. To resume. Next, the young Bacon took up the study of law, and mastered that abstruse science. From that day to the end of his life he was daily in close contact with lawyers and judges; not as a casual onlooker in intervals between holding horses in front of a theatre, but as a practicing lawyer--a great and successful one, a renowned one, a Launcelot of the bar, the most formidable lance in the high brotherhood of the legal Table Round; he lived in the law's atmosphere thenceforth, all his years, and by sheer ability forced his way up its difficult steeps to its supremest summit, the Lord Chancellorship, leaving behind him no fellow craftsman qualified to challenge his divine right to that majestic place. When we read the praises bestowed by Lord Penzance and the other illustrious experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses, brilliances, profundities and felicities so prodigally displayed in the Plays, and try to fit them to the history-less Stratford stage-manager, they sound wild, strange, incredible, ludicrous; but when we put them in the mouth of Bacon they do not sound strange, they seem in their natural and rightful place, they seem at home there. Please turn back and read them again. Attributed to Shakespeare of Stratford they are meaningless, they are inebriate extravagancies--intemperate admirations of the dark side of the moon, so to speak; attributed to Bacon, they are admirations of the golden glories of the moon's front side, the moon at the full--and not intemperate, not overwrought, but sane and right, and justified. "At every turn and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile or illustration, his mind ever turned _first_ to the law; he seems almost to have _thought_ in legal phrases; the commonest legal phrases, the commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen." That could happen to no one but a person whose _trade_ was the law; it could not happen to a dabbler in it. Veteran mariners fill their conversation with sailor-phrases and draw all their similes from the ship and the sea and the storm, but no mere _passenger_ ever does it, be he of Stratford or elsewhere; or could do it with anything resembling accuracy, if he were hardy enough to try. Please read again what Lord Campbell and the other great authorities have said about Bacon when they thought they were saying it about Shakespeare of Stratford. CHAPTER X--The Rest of the Equipment The author of the Plays was equipped, beyond every other man of his time, with wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind, grace and majesty of expression. Every one has said it, no one doubts it. Also, he had humor, humor in rich abundance, and always wanting to break out. We have no evidence of any kind that Shakespeare of Stratford possessed any of these gifts or any of these acquirements. The only lines he ever wrote, so far as we know, are substantially barren of them--barren of all of them. Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. Ben Jonson says of Bacon, as orator: His language, _where he could spare and pass by a jest_, was nobly censorious. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his (its) own graces . . . The fear of every man that heard him was lest he should make an end. From Macaulay: He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by his exertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the King's heart was set--the union of England and Scotland. It was not difficult for such an intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favor of such a scheme. He conducted the great case of the _Post Nati_ in the Exchequer Chamber; and the decision of the judges--a decision the legality of which may be questioned, but the beneficial effect of which must be acknowledged--was in a great measure attributed to his dexterous management. Again: While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy. The noble treatise on the _Advancement of Learning_, which at a later period was expanded into the _De Augmentis_, appeared in 1605. The _Wisdom of the Ancients_, a work which if it had proceeded from any other writer would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit and learning, was printed in 1609. In the meantime the _Novum Organum_ was slowly proceeding. Several distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of that extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest admiration of his genius. Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the _Cogitata et Visa_, one of the most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great oracular volume was afterward made up, acknowledged that "in all proposals and plots in that book, Bacon showed himself a master workman"; and that "it could not be gainsaid but all the treatise over did abound with choice conceits of the present state of learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means to procure it." In 1612 a new edition of the _Essays_ appeared, with additions surpassing the original collection both in bulk and quality. Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's attention from a work the most arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mighty powers could have achieved, "the reducing and recompiling," to use his own phrase, "of the laws of England." To serve the exacting and laborious offices of Attorney General and Solicitor General would have satisfied the appetite of any other man for hard work, but Bacon had to add the vast literary industries just described, to satisfy his. He was a born worker. The service which he rendered to letters during the last five years of his life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase the regret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to use the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, "on such study as was not worthy such a student." He commenced a digest of the laws of England, a History of England under the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of National History, a Philosophical Romance. He made extensive and valuable additions to his Essays. He published the inestimable _Treatise De Argumentis Scientiarum_. Did these labors of Hercules fill up his time to his contentment, and quiet his appetite for work? Not entirely: The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languor bore the mark of his mind. _The best jestbook in the world_ is that which he dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a day on which illness had rendered him incapable of serious study. Here are some scattered remarks (from Macaulay) which throw light upon Bacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe demonstrate--that he was competent to write the Plays and Poems: With great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude of comprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other human being. The "Essays" contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of character, no peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden or a court-masque, could escape the notice of one whose mind was capable of taking in the whole world of knowledge. His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gave to Prince Ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady; spread it, and the armies of powerful Sultans might repose beneath its shade. The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of the mutual relations of all departments of knowledge. In a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, Lord Burleigh, he said, "I have taken all knowledge to be my province." Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, he adorned her profusely with all the richest decorations of rhetoric. The practical faculty was powerful in Bacon; but not, like his wit, so powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason, and to tyrannize over the whole man. There are too many places in the Plays where this happens. Poor old dying John of Gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name, is a pathetic instance of it. "We may assume" that it is Bacon's fault, but the Stratford Shakespeare has to bear the blame. No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly subjugated. It stopped at the first check from good sense. In truth much of Bacon's life was passed in a visionary world--amid things as strange as any that are described in the "Arabian Tales" . . . amid buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin, fountains more wonderful than the golden water of Parizade, conveyances more rapid than the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more formidable than the lance of Astolfo, remedies more efficacious than the balsam of Fierabras. Yet in his magnificent day-dreams there was nothing wild--nothing but what sober reason sanctioned. Bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the _Novum Organum_ . . . Every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is employed only to illustrate and decorate truth. No book ever made so great a revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so many prejudices, introduced so many new opinions. But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which, without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science--all the past, the present and the future, all the errors of two thousand years, all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright hopes of the coming age. He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering it portable. His eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank in literature. It is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts and each and every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally displayed in the Plays and Poems, and in much higher and richer degree than any other man of his time or of any previous time. He was a genius without a mate, a prodigy not matable. There was only one of him; the planet could not produce two of him at one birth, nor in one age. He could have written anything that is in the Plays and Poems. He could have written this: The cloud-cap'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like an insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Also, he could have written this, but he refrained: Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be ye yt moves my bones. When a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap'd towers, he ought not to follow it immediately with Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare, because he will find the transition from great poetry to poor prose too violent for comfort. It will give him a shock. You never notice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel is, until you bite into a layer of it in a pie. CHAPTER XI Am I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not write Shakespeare's Works? Ah, now, what do you take me for? Would I be so soft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearly seventy-four years? It would grieve me to know that any one could think so injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me. No-no, I am aware that when even the brightest mind in our world has been trained up from childhood in a superstition of any kind, it will never be possible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine sincerely, dispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any circumstance which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition. I doubt if I could do it myself. We always get at second hand our notions about systems of government; and high-tariff and low-tariff; and prohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and the glories of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and approval of the duel and disapproval of it; and our beliefs concerning the nature of cats; and our ideas as to whether the murder of helpless wild animals is base or is heroic; and our preferences in the matter of religious and political parties; and our acceptance or rejection of the Shakespeares and the Arthur Ortons and the Mrs. Eddys. We get them all at second-hand, we reason none of them out for ourselves. It is the way we are made. It is the way we are all made, and we can't help it, we can't change it. And whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have been taught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and refrain from examining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear and strong, that can persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our devotion. In morals, conduct, and beliefs we take the color of our environment and associations, and it is a color that can safely be warranted to wash. Whenever we have been furnished with a tar baby ostensibly stuffed with jewels, and warned that it will be dishonorable and irreverent to disembowel it and test the jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands off it. We submit, not reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privately afraid we should find, upon examination, that the jewels are of the sort that are manufactured at North Adams, Mass. I haven't any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestal this side of the year 2209. Disbelief in him cannot come swiftly, disbelief in a healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never been known to disintegrate swiftly, it is a very slow process. It took several thousand years to convince our fine race--including every splendid intellect in it--that there is no such thing as a witch; it has taken several thousand years to convince that same fine race--including every splendid intellect in it--that there is no such person as Satan; it has taken several centuries to remove perdition from the Protestant Church's program of postmortem entertainments; it has taken a weary long time to persuade American Presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try to bear it the best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren will still be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comes down from his perch. We are The Reasoning Race. We can't prove it by the above examples, and we can't prove it by the miraculous "histories" built by those Stratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of sawdust, but there is a plenty of other things we can prove it by, if I could think of them. We are The Reasoning Race, and when we find a vague file of chipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we know by our reasoning powers that Hercules has been along there. I feel that our fetish is safe for three centuries yet. The bust, too--there in the Stratford Church. The precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust, the serene bust, the emotionless bust, with the dandy moustache, and the putty face, unseamed of care--that face which has looked passionlessly down upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will still look down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep, deep, deep, subtle, subtle, subtle, expression of a bladder. CHAPTER XII--Irreverence One of the most trying defects which I find in these--these--what shall I call them? for I will not apply injurious epithets to them, the way they do to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant to my nature and my dignity. The furthest I can go in that direction is to call them by names of limited reverence--names merely descriptive, never unkind, never offensive, never tainted by harsh feeling. If _they_ would do like this, they would feel better in their hearts. Very well, then--to proceed. One of the most trying defects which I find in these Stratfordolaters, these Shakesperoids, these thugs, these bangalores, these troglodytes, these herumfrodites, these blatherskites, these buccaneers, these bandoleers, is their spirit of irreverence. It is detectable in every utterance of theirs when they are talking about us. I am thankful that in me there is nothing of that spirit. When a thing is sacred to me it is impossible for me to be irreverent toward it. I cannot call to mind a single instance where I have ever been irreverent, except toward the things which were sacred to other people. Am I in the right? I think so. But I ask no one to take my unsupported word; no, look at the dictionary; let the dictionary decide. Here is the definition: _Irreverence_. The quality or condition of irreverence toward God and sacred things. What does the Hindu say? He says it is correct. He says irreverence is lack of respect for Vishnu, and Brahma, and Chrishna, and his other gods, and for his sacred cattle, and for his temples and the things within them. He endorses the definition, you see; and there are 300,000,000 Hindus or their equivalents back of him. The dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital G it could restrict irreverence to lack of reverence for _our_ Deity and our sacred things, but that ingenious and rather sly idea miscarried: for by the simple process of spelling _his_ deities with capitals the Hindu confiscates the definition and restricts it to his own sects, thus making it clearly compulsory upon us to revere _his_ gods and _his_ sacred things, and nobody's else. We can't say a word, for he has our own dictionary at his back, and its decision is final. This law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this: 1. Whatever is sacred to the Christian must be held in reverence by everybody else; 2, whatever is sacred to the Hindu must be held in reverence by everybody else; 3, therefore, by consequence, logically, and indisputably, whatever is sacred to _me_ must be held in reverence by everybody else. Now then, what aggravates me is, that these troglodytes and muscovites and bandoleers and buccaneers are _also_ trying to crowd in and share the benefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere their Shakespeare and hold him sacred. We can't have that: there's enough of us already. If you go on widening and spreading and inflating the privilege, it will presently come to be conceded that each man's sacred things are the _only_ ones, and the rest of the human race will have to be humbly reverent toward them or suffer for it. That can surely happen, and when it happens, the word Irreverence will be regarded as the most meaningless, and foolish, and self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent and dictatorial word in the language. And people will say, "Whose business is it, what gods I worship and what things hold sacred? Who has the right to dictate to my conscience, and where did he get that right?" We cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us. We must save the word from this destruction. There is but one way to do it, and that is, to stop the spread of the privilege, and strictly confine it to its present limits: that is, to all the Christian sects, to all the Hindu sects, and me. We do not need any more, the stock is watered enough, just as it is. It would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone. I think so because I am the only sect that knows how to employ it gently, kindly, charitably, dispassionately. The other sects lack the quality of self-restraint. The Catholic Church says the most irreverent things about matters which are sacred to the Protestants, and the Protestant Church retorts in kind about the confessional and other matters which Catholics hold sacred; then both of these irreverencers turn upon Thomas Paine and charge _him_ with irreverence. This is all unfortunate, because it makes it difficult for students equipped with only a low grade of mentality to find out what Irreverence really _is_. It will surely be much better all around if the privilege of regulating the irreverent and keeping them in order shall eventually be withdrawn from all the sects but me. Then there will be no more quarrelling, no more bandying of disrespectful epithets, no more heart burnings. There will then be nothing sacred involved in this Bacon-Shakespeare controversy except what is sacred to me. That will simplify the whole matter, and trouble will cease. There will be irreverence no longer, because I will not allow it. The first time those criminals charge me with irreverence for calling their Stratford myth an Arthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Louis-the-Seventeenth-Veiled- Prophet-of-Khorassan will be the last. Taught by the methods found effective in extinguishing earlier offenders by the Inquisition, of holy memory, I shall know how to quiet them. CHAPTER XIII Isn't it odd, when you think of it: that you may list all the celebrated Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of modern times, clear back to the first Tudors--a list containing five hundred names, shall we say?--and you can go to the histories, biographies and cyclopedias and learn the particulars of the lives of every one of them. Every one of them except one--the most famous, the most renowned--by far the most illustrious of them all--Shakespeare! You can get the details of the lives of all the celebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians, comedians, singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets, dramatists, historians, biographers, editors, inventors, reformers, statesmen, generals, admirals, discoverers, prize-fighters, murderers, pirates, conspirators, horse-jockeys, bunco-steerers, misers, swindlers, explorers, adventurers by land and sea, bankers, financiers, astronomers, naturalists, Claimants, impostors, chemists, biologists, geologists, philologists, college presidents and professors, architects, engineers, painters, sculptors, politicians, agitators, rebels, revolutionists, patriots, demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers, burglars, highwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons--you can get the life-histories of all of them but _one_. Just one--the most extraordinary and the most celebrated of them all--Shakespeare! You may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished by the rest of Christendom in the past four centuries, and you can find out the life-histories of all those people, too. You will then have listed 1500 celebrities, and you can trace the authentic life-histories of the whole of them. Save one--far and away the most colossal prodigy of the entire accumulation--Shakespeare! About him you can find out _nothing_. Nothing of even the slightest importance. Nothing worth the trouble of stowing away in your memory. Nothing that even remotely indicates that he was ever anything more than a distinctly common-place person--a manager, an actor of inferior grade, a small trader in a small village that did not regard him as a person of any consequence, and had forgotten all about him before he was fairly cold in his grave. We can go to the records and find out the life-history of every renowned _race-horse_ of modern times--but not Shakespeare's! There are many reasons why, and they have been furnished in cartloads (of guess and conjecture) by those troglodytes; but there is one that is worth all the rest of the reasons put together, and is abundantly sufficient all by itself--_he hadn't any history to record_. There is no way of getting around that deadly fact. And no sane way has yet been discovered of getting around its formidable significance. Its quite plain significance--to any but those thugs (I do not use the term unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no prominence while he lived, and none until he had been dead two or three generations. The Plays enjoyed high fame from the beginning; and if he wrote them it seems a pity the world did not find it out. He ought to have explained that he was the author, and not merely a _nom de plume_ for another man to hide behind. If he had been less intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more solicitous about his Works, it would have been better for his good name, and a kindness to us. The bones were not important. They will moulder away, they will turn to dust, but the Works will endure until the last sun goes down. MARK TWAIN. P.S. _March_ 25. About two months ago I was illuminating this Autobiography with some notions of mine concerning the Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, and I then took occasion to air the opinion that the Stratford Shakespeare was a person of no public consequence or celebrity during his lifetime, but was utterly obscure and unimportant. And not only in great London, but also in the little village where he was born, where he lived a quarter of a century, and where he died and was buried. I argued that if he had been a person of any note at all, aged villagers would have had much to tell about him many and many a year after his death, instead of being unable to furnish inquirers a single fact connected with him. I believed, and I still believe, that if he had been famous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as mine has lasted in my native village out in Missouri. It is a good argument, a prodigiously strong one, and a most formidable one for even the most gifted, and ingenious, and plausible Stratfordolater to get around or explain away. To-day a Hannibal _Courier-Post_ of recent date has reached me, with an article in it which reinforces my contention that a really celebrated person cannot be forgotten in his village in the short space of sixty years. I will make an extract from it: Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but ingratitude is not one of them, or reverence for the great men she has produced, and as the years go by her greatest son Mark Twain, or S. L. Clemens as a few of the unlettered call him, grows in the estimation and regard of the residents of the town he made famous and the town that made him famous. His name is associated with every old building that is torn down to make way for the modern structures demanded by a rapidly growing city, and with every hill or cave over or through which he might by any possibility have roamed, while the many points of interest which he wove into his stories, such as Holiday Hill, Jackson's Island, or Mark Twain Cave, are now monuments to his genius. Hannibal is glad of any opportunity to do him honor as he has honored her. So it has happened that the "old timers" who went to school with Mark or were with him on some of his usual escapades have been honored with large audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent mood and condescended to tell of their intimacy with the ordinary boy who came to be a very extraordinary humorist and whose every boyish act is now seen to have been indicative of what was to come. Like Aunt Beckey and Mrs. Clemens, they can now see that Mark was hardly appreciated when he lived here and that the things he did as a boy and was whipped for doing were not all bad after all. So they have been in no hesitancy about drawing out the bad things he did as well as the good in their efforts to get a "Mark Twain story," all incidents being viewed in the light of his present fame, until the volume of "Twainiana" is already considerable and growing in proportion as the "old timers" drop away and the stories are retold second and third hand by their descendants. With some seventy-three years young and living in a villa instead of a house he is a fair target, and let him incorporate, copyright, or patent himself as he will, there are some of his "works" that will go swooping up Hannibal chimneys as long as gray-beards gather about the fires and begin with "I've heard father tell" or possibly "Once when I." The Mrs. Clemens referred to is my mother--_was_ my mother. And here is another extract from a Hannibal paper. Of date twenty days ago: Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of William Dickason, 408 Rock Street, at 2.30 o'clock yesterday afternoon, aged 72 years. The deceased was a sister of "Huckleberry Finn," one of the famous characters in Mark Twain's _Tom Sawyer_. She had been a member of the Dickason family--the housekeeper--for nearly forty-five years, and was a highly respected lady. For the past eight years she had been an invalid, but was as well cared for by Mr. Dickason and his family as if she had been a near relative. She was a member of the Park Methodist Church and a Christian woman. I remember her well. I have a picture of her in my mind which was graven there, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago. She was at that time nine years old, and I was about eleven. I remember where she stood, and how she looked; and I can still see her bare feet, her bare head, her brown face, and her short tow-linen frock. She was crying. What it was about, I have long ago forgotten. But it was the tears that preserved the picture for me, no doubt. She was a good child, I can say that for her. She knew me nearly seventy years ago. Did she forget me, in the course of time? I think not. If she had lived in Stratford in Shakespeare's time, would she have forgotten him? Yes. For he was never famous during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in Stratford, and there wouldn't be any occasion to remember him after he had been dead a week. "Injun Joe," "Jimmy Finn," and "General Gaines" were prominent and very intemperate ne'er-do-weels in Hannibal two generations ago. Plenty of gray-heads there remember them to this day, and can tell you about them. Isn't it curious that two "town-drunkards" and one half-breed loafer should leave behind them, in a remote Missourian village, a fame a hundred times greater and several hundred times more particularized in the matter of definite facts than Shakespeare left behind him in the village where he had lived the half of his lifetime? MARK TWAIN. Footnotes: {1} Four fathoms--twenty-four feet. {2} From chapter XIII of "The Shakespeare Problem Restated." ***	{'short_book_title': 'Is Shakespeare Dead? by Mark Twain', 'publication_date': 1909, 'url': 'http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2431'}
284 Amazing Rice Recipes Copyright(c) 2009 Notice of rights All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Notice of Liability The information in this book is distributed on an "As Is" basis without warranty. While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of the book, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the instructions contained in this book or by the products described in it. Trademarks Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book, and the publisher was aware of a trademark claim, the designations appear as requested by the owner of the trademark. All other product names and services identified throughout this book are used in editorial fashion only and for the benefit of such companies with no intention of infringement of the trademark. No such use, or the use of any trade name, is intended to convey endorsement or other affiliation with this book. 3 If you like rice, then do yourself a favor, buy this book and let the bliss begin. This book is the most lavish and the most complete, ever pub lished on the subject of that most versatile of all foods-rice. Filled with 284 of the world's best recipes, This book is literally a rice lover's dream come true. This book offers rice lovers 284 ways in which to enjoy their favorite food. Paella, Rice Pudding, Fried Rice, Pilaf, Souffle and every other decadent rice dish imaginable-plus some unusual ones-are all featured in easy-to-read recipes. And even easier to find with a great index and alphabetical table of contents. The book opens with a comprehensive overview of the sci ence, history and business of rice, though any true rice lover will likely already be up to speed on the wonderful possibilites and want to dig right into the 284 rice recipes. This will make a must-have gift for anyone keen on rice. The instructions are easily understandable, and the book's tips and variations make the recipes easy to follow. This book has everything rice! 4 #### Table of Contents Rice ...........................................................................................................13 Classification.........................................................................................16 Etymology .............................................................................................16 Preparation as food ..............................................................................17 Cooking.................................................................................................19 Rice growing ecology ............................................................................20 History of rice domestication & cultivation..........................................20 Continental East Asia ........................................................................21 South Asia ......................................................................................... 22 Korean peninsula and Japanese archipelago ...................................22 Southeast Asia ..................................................................................23 Africa.................................................................................................24 Middle East ....................................................................................... 25 Europe ..............................................................................................26 United States ....................................................................................26 Australia ............................................................................................28 World production and trade.................................................................28 Production and export......................................................................28 Price ..................................................................................................29 Worldwide consumption ..................................................................29 Environmental impacts.....................................................................30 Pests and diseases ................................................................................30 Cultivars ................................................................................................32 Biotechnology .......................................................................................33 High-yielding varieties ......................................................................33 Potentials for the future ...................................................................34 Golden rice .......................................................................................34 Expression of human proteins..........................................................34 Others ...................................................................................................34 References ............................................................................................35 5 "21" Club Rice Pudding ........................................................................ 38 15-Minute Chicken & Rice Dinner....................................................... 38 Almond and Rice Flour Bread with Poppy Seeds ............................ 39 Almond Tuna and Rice .........................................................................40 Antipasto Rice ........................................................................................40 Apricot and Rice Muffins.......................................................................41 Armenian Rice Pilaf...............................................................................41 Aromatic Chicken with Rice (Malaysia).............................................. 42 Arroz Amarillo con Camarones -Yellow Rice & Shrimp Casser .....42 Arroz Con Polio (mexican Stewed Chicken With Rice) ...................43 Arroz Dulce (sweet Rice)......................................................................44 Arroz Verde (Green Rice) .................................................................. 44 Baked Chicken and Rice ...................................................................... 45 Basic Cooked Rice - Prudhomme ....................................................... 46 Beef Teriyaki And Rice .........................................................................46 Black Beans and Rice ...........................................................................47 Blackeyed Peas and Rice .................................................................... 48 Blackeyed Peas And Rice Salad .......................................................48 Blanched Gai Lan Dressed with Rice Wine and Oyster Sauce...... 49 Bombay Rice & Lentils..........................................................................so Brazilian Chicken Rice Soup ...............................................................so Brown Rice & Wheat Berries (Vegan) ................................................ 51 Brown Rice Casserole ...............................................,.......................... 52 Brown Rice Jambalaya ......................................................................... 53 Brown Rice Pilaf ....................................................................,............... 54 Brussels Sprout and Rice ..................................................................... 54 Buttered Saffron Rice............................................................................55 Cajun Jambalaya Rice .......................................................................... 56 Cajun Rice 'N' Sausage ........................................................................ 56 Cajun Spiced Chicken and Rice.......................................................... 57 Camp Tuna and Rice ............................................................................ 58 Carrot-Rice Puree.................................................................................. 58 Carrot-Rice Soup................................................................................... 58 Catalan Rice ........................................................................................... 59 Cauliflower & Wild Rice Soup.............................................................. 60 Char Kway Teow (Stir-Fried Rice Noodles) ...................................... 60 Cheese and Rice Casserole ................................................................ 62 Cheese and Rice Casserole ................................................................ 62 Chestnuts With Rice.............................................................................. 63 Chicken & Rice ...................................................................................... 63 6 Chicken & Rice Dinner ..........................................................................64 Chicken & Rice Jambalaya Style ........................................................64 Chicken and Rice...................................................................................65 Chicken and Rice Casserole................................................................65 Chicken Baked Rice ..............................................................................66 Chicken Breasts With Rice ...................................................................67 Chicken Curry Kabobs On Rice...........................................................67 Chicken Livers and Mushrooms with Rice 100 .................................68 Chicken 'n Rice in a Bag.......................................................................68 Chicken Rice Skillet...............................................................................68 Chicken Rice Soup ................................................................................69 Chicken Yellow Rice..............................................................................70 Chicken-Flavored Rice Mix ..................................................................70 Chickenlegs with Mango Chutney & Carott-Rice..............................71 Chii-Beer Brisket Of Beef Over Wild Rice Amadine .........................71 Chinese Chicken Cooked with Rice ....................................................72 Chinese Crab Rice.................................................................................72 Chinese Fried Rice ................................................................................73 Chinese Pork & Shrimp Rice Noodles in Broth.................................74 Chinese: Shrimp Fried Rice .................................................................75 Chunky Chicken Rice Soup .................................................................76 Coconut Rice Noodles ..........................................................................76 Columbian Squash Stuffed With Dirty Rice .......................................77 Company Microwave Rice....................................................................78 Cooking Rice on the Stove ...................................................................78 Cornish Hen Halves and Wild Rice .....................................................79 Costa Rican Beef & Vegetable Soup with Yellow Rice....................80 Country Rice ...........................................................................................81 Crackling Rice Soup..............................................................................81 Cranberry/Wild Rice Stuffing................................................................82 Creamy Chicken and Rice....................................................................82 Creamy Rice Pudding ...........................................................................83 Creole Liver and Rice............................................................................84 Creole-Style Red Beans & Rice ..........................................................84 Crockpot Chicken & Rice......................................................................85 CrockPot Chicken & Rice Casserole .................................................85 Crockpot Chicken and Rice..................................................................86 CrockPot Chicken and Rice Casserole .............................................86 Crockpot Rice Pudding with Fruit........................................................87 Cumin Rice With Eggplant And Peppers ...........................................87 7 Curried Rice And Lentils.......................................................................88 Curried Rice With Pineapple................................................................89 Diabetic Chicken Rice Dinner ..............................................................89 Dill-Lemon Rice Mix ..............................................................................89 Di Ri................................................................................................90 Dixie's Red Beans and Rice ................................................................91 Dolmadakia (Stuffed Grapeleaves with Rice.) ..................................91 Double Rice Stuffing [For a 12-Pound Turkey]...............................92 Duck Soup with Wild Rice ....................................................................93 Duck With Pine Nut Wild Rice .............................................................93 Easy chicken and rice casserole ......................................................... 94 Easy Mexican Chicken And Rice ........................................................ 95 Easy Oriental Fried Rice.......................................................................95 Egg Fried Rice .......................................................................................96 Fast Food 1 (Rice & Veggies) (Quick)(Vegan) .................................96 Fast Food 4 (Rice & Vegetables) (Vegan)......................................... 97 Fennel and Rice.....................................................................................97 Filled Tomatoes on Herbed Rice......................................................... 98 Foil-baked Chicken, Rice And Cabbage ............................................ 98 Foolproof Rice ........................................................................................99 Foolproof Rice Bread for the R2 D2 ................................................... 99 French Rice Salad...............................................................................100 Fried Curried Rice (Khao Pad Pong Kari)........................................100 Fried Rice..............................................................................................101 Fried Rice (Chow Fun)........................................................................102 Fried Rice with Basil (Khao Pad Krapow)........................................102 Fruit And Nut Rice ...............................................................................103 Garlic-Wine Rice Pilaf .........................................................................103 Gf Pat's Brown And White Rice Flour Breads And Buns ..............104 Ginseng Shreds Stir Rice -for a Special Meal................................104 Glutinous Rice ( Khow Neow) .........................................................105 Glutinous Rice with Ham and Dried Shrimp....................................105 Grape Leaves Stuffed with Rice........................................................106 Green Bean Almond Rice...................................................................107 Grouse & Wild Rice .............................................................................107 Gujar Ka Pullao (Carrot Rice) ............................................................108 Hanoi Beef and Rice-Noodel Soup (Pho Bac) ................................108 Harvest Rice .........................................................................................110 Hearty Chicken & Rice Soup .............................................................110 Hearty Chicken Rice Soup .................................................................111 8 Honey Ribs and Rice...........................................................................111 Indonesian-Style Yogurt Rice ............................................................112 John's Garlic Rice ................................................................................113 Joni's Rice Pudding .............................................................................113 Kalamarakia Pilafi (Squid Baked With Rice)....................................114 Kar-In's Crispy Rice Squares .............................................................114 Kathie jenkins wild rice soup..............................................................115 King's Arms Tavern Raisin Rice Pudding ........................................115 Lamb Shanks and Rice Soup ............................................................116 Lamb Steamed in Rice Powder .........................................................117 Lemon Parsley Chicken and Rice .....................................................118 Lemon Rice Soup ................................................................................118 Lentil & Brown Rice Soup...................................................................119 Low-Fat Beans and Rice ....................................................................119 Malaysian Braised Chicken with Rice...............................................120 Mandarin Rice Pudding.......................................................................120 Mangoes with Sticky Rice...................................................................121 Manitoba Wild Rice..............................................................................122 Maple Rice Pudding ............................................................................122 Mariachi Beefballs And Rice ..............................................................123 Mark's Fried Rice .................................................................................124 Mel's Mexican Rice (mjnt73c) ............................................................124 Mexicali rice ..........................................................................................125 Mexican Cinnamon Rice .....................................................................125 Mexican Rice ........................................................................................126 Mexican Rice Mix .................................................................................126 Mexican Rice No. 2 .............................................................................127 Mexican Rice Pudding ( Arroz Con Leche ) ....................................127 Mexican Spanish Rice.........................................................................128 Minnesota Wild Rice Dressing...........................................................129 Minnesota Wild Rice-Stuffed Chicken ..............................................130 Miss Allie's Chicken and Rice Casserole .........................................130 Mushroom Ragout in Rice Ring.........................................................131 Mushroom Wild Rice Chowder ..........................................................132 Nasi Goreng (Fried Rice)....................................................................132 New Zealand Brown Rice Salad........................................................133 No-Egg Rice Pudding..........................................................................133 Okra Chicken & Crab Gumbo with Rice ...........................................134 Old Fashioned Rice Pudding .............................................................135 Onion-Flavored Rice Mix ....................................................................136 9 Oranges Filled with Raisins, Chickpeas, and Rice.........................136 Peanut Butter Chocolate Rice Krispie Treats..................................137 Peas with Rice .....................................................................................137 Perfect Chinese Steamed Rice .........................................................138 Picadillo (Rice & Beef Hash/filling) ...................................................138 Picnic Rice Salad.................................................................................139 Pineapple Fried Rice...........................................................................139 Poached chicken in cream sauce with rice......................................140 Pork Chops and Rice ..........................................................................141 Portuguese-Style Rice ........................................................................141 Pumpkin & Rice Soup.........................................................................142 Quick Salsa Chicken and Rice ..........................................................142 Quick, Southern Style Red Beans and Rice....................................143 Red Bean, Rice & Sausage Soup.....................................................144 Red Beans and Rice ...........................................................................144 Red Beans and Rice No. 5.................................................................145 Red Beans and Rice Soup with Shrimp...........................................145 Red Beans and Rice with Smoked Sausage ..................................146 Red Beans With Rice ..........................................................................147 Republica Dominicana Red Beans & Rice (Arroz Con Habijual ..147 Rice & Onion Soup Base....................................................................148 Rice and Beans with Cheese.............................................................149 Rice And Cheese Casserole..............................................................149 Rice and Lentils ...................................................................................150 Rice Cheese Croquettes ....................................................................150 Rice Con Queso ..................................................................................151 Rice Crust For Pizza ...........................................................................151 Rice Cutlets ..........................................................................................152 Rice Flan Tart with Candied Ginger .................................................152 Rice Flour and Yogurt Pancakes ......................................................153 Rice in Minutes ....................................................................................154 Rice Krispie Squares...........................................................................154 Rice Nut Loaf........................................................................................155 Rice Pilaf ...............................................................................................155 Rice Pilaf with Peas.............................................................................156 Rice Pudding ........................................................................................157 Rice Pudding (#1)................................................................................157 Rice Pudding C/p.................................................................................157 Rice Pudding with Bourbon................................................................158 Rice Souffle ..........................................................................................159 10 Rice Sticks With Vegetables ..............................................................159 Rice Stuffed Mushrooms ....................................................................160 Rice With Artichokes ...........................................................................160 Rice with Cucumbers ..........................................................................161 Rice With Garlic And Pine Nuts.........................................................161 Rice with Mushrooms and Onions - Grdg72b .................................162 Rice With Raisins.................................................................................162 Rice With Spinach, Herbs And Cheese ...........................................163 Rice, Apple and Raisin Dressing.......................................................163 Rice-Stuffed Artichokes ......................................................................164 Roasted Tomato and Rice Salad ......................................................165 Rotei-N-Rice Corn Soup (Vegan)......................................................165 Saffron Rice ..........................................................................................166 Saffron Rice Royale.............................................................................166 Salmon-Wild Rice Pasty Filling..........................................................167 Salsa Chicken Over Rice....................................................................168 San Francisco Rice .............................................................................168 Sandy's Lentil/Rice/Barley Soup .......................................................169 Sante Fe Chicken with Rice ...............................................................169 Saucy Beef Over Rice.........................................................................170 Savory Chicken and Rice in a Lotus Leaf (China)..........................171 Savory Rice ..........................................................................................172 Shrimp & Barbecued Pork Fried Rice...............................................172 Shrimp and Rice Casserole ...............................................................173 Shrimp Fried Rice ................................................................................174 Shrimp Fried Rice, Shanghai.............................................................174 Simple Brown Rice ..............................................................................175 Simple Wild Rice ..................................................................................175 Sizzling Rice Soup...............................................................................176 Skillet Chicken and Rice .....................................................................177 Slow Cooker Red Beans & Rice........................................................177 Sopa Seca ( Dry Soup with Rice ).....................................................178 Sour Cream & Wild Rice Soup ..........................................................178 Spanich Rice 2 .....................................................................................179 Spanish Hot Dogs and Rice ...............................................................180 Spanish Rice ........................................................................................180 Spanish Rice (from Guatemala) ........................................................180 Spanish Rice (Vegan) .........................................................................181 Spanish Rice 2 .....................................................................................182 Spanish Rice Enchiladas ....................................................................182 11 Spanish Rice With Beef ......................................................................183 Spiced Basmati Rice (Masaledar basmati)......................................183 Spicy Rice and Lentils.........................................................................184 Spicy Rice Meatballs...........................................................................184 Spicy Rice Pilaf ....................................................................................185 Spicy Rice Pilaf with Turkey...............................................................185 Star Anise Beef-rice Noodle Soup ....................................................186 Steamed Ginger Rice with Snow Peas ............................................187 Steamed Glutinous Rice.....................................................................187 Steamed Jasmine Rice - Khao Suay * .............................................188 Steamed Rice.......................................................................................189 Steamed Rice ( Khow Jow or Khow Suay )....................................189 Stove-Top Rice Pudding? ..................................................................189 Stuffed Cabbage With Rice & Pine Nuts Avgolemono ..................190 Stuffed Cranberry And Rice Chicken ...............................................191 Sweet & Sour Lentils with Brown Rice .............................................191 Sweet Fried Rice with Almonds and Cinnamon..............................192 Sweet 'n' Sour Pork Over Rice ..........................................................193 Tabasco Classic-Red Beans and Rice On Monday **...............193 Thai Rice with Mushroom and Egg...................................................194 Tofu Fried Rice ....................................................................................194 Tomato and Rice Casserole ..............................................................195 Tomato Rice Soup...............................................................................196 Tomato Soup with Mushrooms & Rice .............................................196 Tuna and Rice Creole .........................................................................197 Turkey And Wild Rice Salad ..............................................................197 Turkey Stew with Tomatoes, Peppers, and Rice............................198 Variations on Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares........................198 Vegetable Rice Bake...........................................................................199 Vegetarian Chili With Rice .................................................................199 Vegetarian Rice Mix ............................................................................ 200 Venison Chops W/ Rice & Tomatos ................................................. 200 Vietnamese Pork "Spaghetti Sauce" Over Rice ............................. 201 Warm Fajita Rice Salad ...................................................................... 202 West Indian Rice And Peas With Tempeh ...................................... 202 Wild Rice & Mushroom Soup............................................................. 203 Wild Rice Amadine .............................................................................. 204 Wild Rice and Barley Pilaf .................................................................. 204 Wild Rice And Hazelnut Salad........................................................... 205 Wild Rice Pancakes ............................................................................ 206 12 Wild Rice/Pine Nut Stuffing ................................................................ 206 Wild Rice-Stuffed Squash................................................................... 206 Wild Rice-Three Grain Bread.............................................................207 Working Woman's Chicken & Rice ...................................................208 13 Rice Rice, white, long-grain, regular, raw, unenriched Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz) Energy 370 kcal 1530 kJ Carbohydrates -Sugars 0.12 g \- Dietary fiber 1.3 g Fat Protein Water Thiamin (Vit. B1) 0.070 mg Riboflavin (Vit. B2) 0.049 mg Niacin (Vit. B3) 1.6 mg Pantothenic acid (BS) 1.014 mg Vitamin B6 0.164 mg Folate (Vit. B9) 8 11g Calcium 28 mg Iron 0.80 mg Magnesium 25 mg Manganese 1.088 mg Phosphorus 115 mg Potassium 115 mg Zinc 1.09 mg Percentages are relative to US ## 79 g 0.66g 7.13g 11.62 g 5% 3% 11% 20% 13% 2% 3% 6% 7% 54% 16% 2% 11% 14 recommendations for adults. sourte:USDA Nutrientdatabme OI)'Zasativa Japanese short-grain rice 15 Japanese short-grain rice Rice is a cereal foodstuff which forms an important part of the diet of many people worldwide and as such it is a staple food fur many. Domesticated rice comprises two species of food crops in the a nus of the Poaceae ("true grass") family: Asian rice, a tropical and subtropical southern Asia; African rice, _Oryza glaberrima,_ is native to West Africa The name wild rice is usually used for species of the different but related genus Zizania, both wild and domesticated, although the term may be used fur primitive or uncultivated varieties of _Oryza._ Rice is grown as a monocarpi c annual plant, although in tropical areas it can survive as a perennial and can produce a ratoon crop and survive for up to 20 years.Rice can grow to 1-1.8 m tall, occasionally more depending on the variety and soil fertility. The grass has long, slender leaves 50-10 0 ern long and 2-2.5 ern broad. The small wind-pollinated ftowers are produced in a branched arching to pendulous inflorescence 30-50 ern long. The edible seed is a grain (caryopsis) 5-12 mm long and 2-3 mm thick. Rice is a staple food for a large part of the world's human population, es pecially in tropical Latin America, and East, South and Southeast Asia, making it the second-most consumed cereal grain. A traditional food plant in Africa, Rice has the potential to improve nutrition, boost fu od security, foster rural development and support sustainable landcare.1'1 Rice provides more than one fifth of the calories consumed worldwide by humans. 151 In early 2008, some governments and retailers began rationing supplies of the grain due to fears of a global rice shortage. Rice cultivation is well-suited to countries and regions with I ow labor costs and high rainfall, as it is very labor-intensive to cultivate and requires plenty of water for cultivation. On the other hand, mechanized cultivation is extreme!y oil-intensive, more than other food products with the exception of beef and dairy products. Rice can be grown practically anywhere, even on a 16 steep hill or mountain. Although its species are native to South Asia and certain parts of Africa, centuries of trade and exportation have made it commonplace in many cultures. The traditional method for cultivating rice is flooding the fields whilst, or after, setting the young seedlings. This simple method requires sound plan ning and servicing of the water damming and channeling, but reduces the growth of less robust weed and pest plants that have no submerged growth state, and deters vermin. \Vhile with rice growing and cultivation the flooding is not mandatory, all other methods of irrigation require higher effort in weed and pest control during growth periods and a different approach for fertilizing the soil. Classification There are two species of domesticated rice, _Oryza sativa_ (Asian) and Oryza glaberrima (African). Oryza sativa contains two major subspecies: the sticky, short-grainedja ponica or sinica variety, and the non-sticky, long-grained indica variety. Japonica are usually cultivated in dry fields, in temperate East Asia, upland areas of Southeast Asia and high elevations in South Asia, while indica are mainly lowland rices, grown mostly submerged, throughout tropical Asia. Rice is known to come in a variety of colors, including: white, brown, black, purple, and red. A third subspecies, which is broad-grained and thrives under tropical conditions, was identified based on morphology and initially called _javanica,_ but is now known as _tropicaljaponica._ Examples ofthis variety include the medium grain ''Tinawon" and "Unoy" cultivars, which are grown in the high elevation rice terraces of the Cordillera Mountains of northern Luzon, Philippines. Glaszmann (1987) used isozymes to sort _Oryza sativa_ into six groups: japonica, aromatic, indica, aus, rayada, and ashina.[ 101 Garris _et al_ (2004) used SSRs to sort _Oryza sativa_ into five groups; _tem perate japonica, tropical japonica_ and _aromatic_ comprise the _japonica_ varieties, while _indica_ and _aus_ comprise the _indica_ varieties.[ 11 Etymology According to the _Microsoft Encarta Dictionary_ (2004) and the _Chambers Dictionary of Etymology_ (1988), the word 'rice' has an Indo-Iranian origin. It came to English from Greek _6ryza,_ via Latin _oriza,_ Italian _riso_ and finally Old French _ris_ (the same as present day French _riz)._ 17 It has been speculated that the Indo-Iranian vrihi itself is borrowed from a Dravidian vari (< PDr. warinci)1121 or even a Munda language term for rice, or the Tamil name arisi (D DOD D) from which the Arabic ar-!U2Z, from which the Portuguese and Spanish word arrcrz originated. Preparation as food of Mowt Fuji' Hokusd Old fashioned way of rice polishing in Japan'.36 Views of Mow t Fuji * Hokusd The seeds of the rice plant are first milled using a rice huller to remove the chaff (the outer husks of the grain). .At this point in the process, the pro duct is called bro'W!l rice. The milling maybe continued, removing the 'bran' (i.e. the rest of the husk and the germ), thereby creating white rice. White rice, which keeps longer, lacks some important nutrients; in a limited diet which does not supplement the rice, brown rice he!ps to prevent the deficiency eli sease beriberi. White rice may be also buffed with glucose or talc powder (often called polished rice, though this term may also refer to white rice in general), parboiled, or processed into flour. White rice may also be enriched by adding nutrients, especially those lost during the milling pro cess. While the cheapest method of enriching involves adding a powdered blend of nutrients that will easily wash off (in the United States, rice which has been so treated requires a label warning against rinsing), more sophisticated methods apply nutrients 18 direct!y to the grain, coating the grain with a water insoluble substance which is resistant to ':"'- Terraced rice paddy on a hill slope in Indonesia. Despite the hypothetical health risks of talc (such as stomach cancer),Jl3J talc-coated rice remains the norm in some countries due to its attractive shiny appearance, but it has been banned in some and is no longer widely used in others such as the United States. Even where talc is not used, glucose, starch, or other coatings may be used to improve the appearance of the grains; for this reason, many rice I overs still recommend washing all rice in order to create a better-tasting rice with a better consistency, despite the recommenda tion of suppliers. Much of the rice produced today is water polished. Rice bran, called _nuka_ in Japan, is a valuable commodity in Asia and is used for many daily needs. It is a moist, oily inner layer which is heated to produce an oil. It is also used as a pickling bed in making rice bran pickles and Talman. Raw rice may be ground into flour fur many uses, including making many kinds of beverages such as arnazake, horchata, rice milk, and sake. Rice flour does not contain gluten and is suitab!e for people on a gluten-free diet. Rice may also be made into various types of noo dies. Raw wild or brown rice may also be consumed by raw-fo odist or fruitarians if soaked and sprouted (usually I week to 30 days), see also _Gaba rice bel ow._ _Processed rice seeds must be boiled or steamed before eating. Cooked rice may be further fried in oil or butter, or beaten in a tub to make mo chi._ _Rice is a good source of protein and a staple food in many parts of the world, but it is not a complete protein: it does not contain all of the essential amino acids in sufficient amounts for good health, and should be combined with other sources of protein, such as nuts, seeds, beans or meat._ _Rice, like other cereal grains, can be puffed (or popped). This pro cess takes advantage of the grains' water content and typically involves heating grains in a special chamber. Further puffing is sometimes accomplished by processing pre-puffed pellets in a low-pressure charnber. The ideal gas law means that either lowering the I ocal pressure or raising the water temperature 19_ _results in an increase in volwne prior to water evaporation, resulting in a puffy texture. Bulk r<NV rice density is about 0.9 em._ _tenfold when puffed._ _Cooking_ _ _ _See Wikibo o ks' Rice Recipes for information on food preparation using rice._ _There are many varieties of rice; for many purposes the main distinction_ _ _ _is between longand mediwngrain rice. The grains of!ong-grain rice tend to remain intact after cooking; mediwn-grain rice becomes more sticky. Me diwn-grain rice is used for sweet dishes, and for risotto and many Spanish dish.es-. \--\---_ _Uncooked, poI ished,white I ong-grain rice_ _Rice is cooked by boiling or steaming, and absorbs water during cooking. It can be cooked in just as much water as it absorbs (the absorption method),_ _or in a larBf quantity of water which is drained before serving (the rapid-boil metho d).l Electric rice cookers, popular in Asia and Latin America, simplify the process of cooking rice. Rice is often heated in oil before boiling, or oil is added to the water; this is thought to make the cooked rice less sticky._ _In Arab cuisine rice is an ingredient of many soups and dishes with fish, poultry, and other types of meat. It is also used to stuff vegetables or is wrapped in grape leaves. When combined with milk, sugar and honey, it is used to make desserts. In some regions, such as Tabaristan, bread is made using rice flour. Medieval Islamic texts spoke of medical uses for the plant.1 161_ _Rice may also be made into rice porridge (also called congee or rice gruel) by adding more water than usual, so that the cooked rice is saturated with water to the point that it becomes very soft, expanded, and ftuffy. Rice porridge is commonly eaten as a breakfast fu od, and is also a traclitiona! food for the sick._ _Rice may be soaked prior to cooking, which saves fuel, decreases cooking_ _time, minimizes exposure to high temperature and thus decreases the sticki._ _20_ _ness of the rice. For some varieties, soaking improves the texture of the cooked rice by increasing expansion of the grains._ _In some countries parboiled rice is popular. Parboiled rice is subjected to_ _a steaming or parboiling process while still a brown rice. This causes nutrients from the outer husk to move into the grain itself. The parboil process causes a gelatinisation of the starch in the grains. The grains become less brittle, and the color of the milled grain changes from white to yellow. The rice is then dried, and can then be milled as usual or used as brown rice. Nfilled parboiled rice is nutritionally superior to standard milled rice. Parboiled rice has an additional benefit in that it does not stick to the pan during cooking, as happens when cooking regular white rice._ _Nfinute Rice, or "easy-cook rice", differs from parboiled rice in that it is milled, fully cooked and then dried. It does not share the nutritional benefits of parboiling._ _A nutritionally superior method of preparing brown rice known as GABA Rice or GBR (Germinated Brown RiceP 71 may be used. This involves soaking washed brown rice for 20 hours in warm water (38degC or 100degF) prior to cooking it. This process stimulates germination, which activates various enzymes in the rice. By this method, a result of research carried out for the United Nations Year of Rice, it is possible to obtain a more complete amino acid profile, including GABA._ _Cooked rice can contain Bacillus cereus spores, which produce an emetic toxin when left at 4 degC--60degC [5]. When storing cooked rice for use the next day, rapid cooling is advised to reduce the risk of contamination._ _Rice growing ecology_ _ _ _Rice can be grown in different ecologies, depending upon water availabil_ _ity. [18]_ _1. Lowland, rainfed, which is drought prone, favors medium depth;_ _waterlogged,submergence,and flood prone_ _2. Lowland, irrigated, grown in both the wet season and the dry season_ _3. Deep water or floating rice_ _4. Coastal Wetland_ _5. Upland rice, also known as 'Ghaiya rice', well known for its drought tolerance[191_ _History of rice domestication & cultivation_ _ _ _Based on one chloroplast and two nuclear gene regions, Londo et al (2006) conclude that rice was domesticated at least twice-indica in eastern India, Myanmar and Thailand; andjaponica in southern China-though they concede that there is archaeological and genetic evidence for a single domes tication of rice in the lowlands of China.[zo]_ 21 &!il Abstract pattern of terrace rice fields in Yuanyarg, Yunnan Province, southern China. Because the functional allele for nonshattering-the critical indicator of domestication in grains-as well as five other single nucleotide polymer phisms, is identical in both indica and japol'lica, Vaughan eta/ (2008) detennined that there was a single domestication event for OI)IZasatim in the region of the Yangtze river valley.1211 Continental East Asia Rice appears to have been used by the Early Neolithic populations of Li* jiacun and Yunchanyan.1221 Evidence of possible rice cultivation in China from ca 11,500 BP has been found, however it is still questioned whether the rice was indeed being cultivated, or instead being gathered as wild rice.I::Bl Bruce Smith, an archaeologist at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., who has written on the origins of agriculture, says that evidence has been mounting that the Yangtze was probably the site of the earliest rice cultivation.IllI Zhao (1998) argues that collection of wild rice in the Late Pleistocene had, by 6400 BC, led to the use of primarily domesticated rice.1251 Morpho* logical studies of rice phytoliths from the Diaotonghuan archaeological site clearly show the transition from the collection of wild rice to the cultivation of domesticated rice. The large number of wild rice phytoliths at the Diaotonghuan level dating from 12,00011,000 BP indicates that wild rice collection was part of the local means of subsistence. Changes in the mor phology of Diaotonghuan phytoliths dating from I 0,0008,000 BP show that rice had by this time been domesticated.126J Analysis of Chinese rice residues from Pengtoushan which were C14(carbon dating) dated to 82007800 BCE show that rice had been domesticated by this time.1271 In 1998, Crawford & Shen reported that the earliest of 14 AMS or radio* carbon dates on rice from at least nine Early to Middle Neolithic sides is no older than 70 00 BC, that rice from the Hernudu and Luojiajiao sites indicates that rice domestication likely began before 500 0 BC, but that most sites in China from which rice remains have been recovered are younger than 500 0 BC.122J 22 South Asia ' # - \- .4 - * - _-.:-_ * ' \, ,,,.,f. . t'l \\\ ;:. r''-.:c:Jv { :,,I_ Paddy fields in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu Wild Oryza rice appeared in the Belan and Ganges valley regions of northern India as early as 4530 BC and 5440 BC respectively,t:lll a!though many believe it may have appeared earlier. The Encyclopedia Britannica-on the subject of the first certain cultivated rice-holds that: 1291 Many cultures have evidence of early rice cultivation, including China, India, and the civilizations of Southeast Asia.However,the earliest archaeo logical evidence comes from central and eastern China and dates to 700D-5000 BC. Denis J. Murphy (2007l further details the spread of cultivated rice from India into Southeast Asia:OJ Several wild cereals, including rice,grew in the Vindhyan Hills, and rice cultivation, at sites such as Chopani-Mando and M ahagara, may have been underway as early as 7000 BP.The relative i so I ati on of this area and the early development of rice farming imply that it was developed indigenously. Chopani-Mando and Mahagara are located on the upper reaches of the Ganges drainage system and it is likely that migrants from this area spread rice farming down the Ganges valley into the fertile plains of Bengal, and beyond into southeast Asia Rice was cultivated in the Indus Valley Civilization.l3IJ Agricultural activ ity during the second millennium BC included rice cultivation in the Kashmir and Harr Ran economy. 1 Punjab is the largest producer and consumer of rice in India Korean peninsula and japanese archipelago 23 Utagawa Hiroshige,Rice field in Oki province,view ofO-Ycma. Mainstream archaeological evidence derived from palaeoetlmobotanical investigations indicate that dry-land rice was introduced to Korea and Japan some time between 3500 and 1200 BC. The cultivation of rice in Korea and Japan during that time occurred on a small-seale, fields were impermanent plots, and evidence shows that in some cases domesticated and wild grains were planted together. The technological, subsistence, and social impact of rice and grain cultivation is not evident in archaeological data until after 1500 BC. For example, intensive wet-paddy rice agriculture was introduced into Korea shortly before or during the Middle Mumun Pottery Period (c. 850-550 BC) and reached Japan by the Final Jomon or Initial Yayoi circa 300 BC.l3lll22J In 20 03, Korean archaeologists alleged that they discovered burnt grains of domesticated rice in Sorori, Korea, which dated to 13,000 BC. These predate the oldest grains in China, which were dated to I 0,000 BC, and potentially challenge the mainstream explanation that domesticated rice originated in China.1331 The findings were received by academia with strong skepticism, and the results and their publicizing has been cited as being driven by a combination of nationalist and regional interests.1341 24 Using water buffalo to plough rice fields in Java; Indonesia is the world's third largest paddy rice producer and its cultivation has transformed much of the country's landscape. Rice is the staple for all classes in contemporary South East Asia, from Myanmar to Indonesia. In Indonesia, evidence of wild Oryza rice on the island of Sulawesi dates from 3000 BCE. The evidence for the earliest cultivation, however, comes from eighth century stone inscriptions from Java, which show kings levied taxes in rice. Divisions of labor between men, women, and animals that are still in place in Indonesian rice cultivation, can be seen carved into the ninth-century Prambanan temples in Central Java. In the sixteenth century, Europeans visiting the Indonesian islands saw rice as a new prestige food served to the aristocracy during ceremonies and feasts. Rice production in Indonesian history is linked to the development of iron tools and the domestication of water buffalo for cultivation of fields and manure for fertilizer. Once covered in dense forest, much of the Indonesian landscape has been gradually cleared for permanent fields and settlements as rice cultivation developed over the last fifteen hundred years.[351 In the Philippines, the greatest evidence of rice cultivation since ancient times can be found in the Cordillera Mountain Range of Luzon in the prov inces of Apayao, Benguet, Mountain Province and Ifugao. The Banaue Rice Terraces (Tagalog: Hagdan-hagdang Palayan ng Banaue) are 2,000 to 3,000-year old terraces that were carved into the mountains by ancestors of the Batad indigenous people. It is commonly thought that the terraces were built with minimal equipment, largely by hand. The terraces are located approxi mately 1,500 meters (5000 ft) above sea level and cover 10,360 square kilometers (about 4,000 square miles) of mountainside. They are fed by an ancient irrigation system from the rainforests above the terraces. It is said that if the steps are put end to end it would encircle half the globe. The Rice Terraces (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) are commonly referred to by Filipinos as the "Eighth Wonder of the World". Evidence of wet rice cultivation as early as 2200 BC has been discovered at both Ban Chiang and Ban Prasat in Thailand. By the 19th Century, encroaching European expansionism in the area in creased rice production in much of South East Asia, and Thailand, then known as Siam. British Burma became the world's largest exporter of rice, from the tum of the 20th century up till the 1970s, when neighbouring Thailand exceeded Burma. Africa 25 Rice crop in Madagascar African rice has been cultivated for 3500 years. Between !50 0 and 800 BC, 0. _glabemma_ propagated from its original centre, the Niger River delta, and extended to Senegal. However, it never developed far from its original region. Its cultivation even declined in favour of the Asian species, possibly brought to the African continent by Arabs coming !rom the east coast between the 7th and IIth centuries CE. In parts of Africa under Islam, rice was chiefly grown in southern Mo rocco. During the tenth century rice was also brought to east Africa by Muslim traders. .Although, the diffusion of rice in much sub-Saharan Africa remains uncertain, Muslims brought it to the region stretching from Lake I *;"t'f.;'rr"** * * ' '-'!:..' , . \/ ,-).c !':..=-:'- C ' \ ,* . ' , . _i"_ ('.,J 0-.....-,."..)t'l'>>: l(qo The actual and hypothesized cultivation of rice (areas shown in green) in the 01d World (both Muslim and non-Muslim regions) during lsi ami c times (700-1500).Cultivation of rice during presl amic times have been shown in orange.1:o; 1 Middle East According to Zohary and Hopf (2000, p. 91), 0. _saliw_ was introduced to the Middle East in Hellenistic times, and was familiar to both Greek and Roman writers. They report that a large sample of rice grains was recovered from a grave at Susa in Iran (dated to the first century AD) at one end of the ancient world, while at the same time rice was grown in the Po valley in Italy. However, Pliny the Elder writes that rice _(oryza)_ is grown only in "Egypt, Syria, Cilicia, Asia Minor and Greece" (NH 18.19). 26 After the rise of Islam, rice was grown anywhere there was enough water to irrigate it. Thus, desert oases, river valleys, and swamp lands were all important sources of rice during the Muslim Agricultural Revolution.l36J In Iraq rice was grown in some areas of southern Iraq. With the rise of lsi am it moved north to Nisibin, the southern shores of the Caspian Sea and then beyond the Muslim world into the valley of Volga. In Israel, rice came to be grown in the Jordan valley. Rice is also grown in _Y_ ernen. 1361 Europe The Muslims (later known as Moors) brought Asiatic rice to the Iberian Peninsula in the tenth century. Records indicate it was grown in Valencia and Majorca. In Majorca, rice cultivation seems to have stopped after the Chris tian conquest, although historians are not certain.1361 Muslims also brought rice to Sicily, where it was an important crop.1361 After the middle of the 15th century, rice spread throughout Italy and then France, later propagating to all the continents during the age of European exploration. United States South Carolina rice plantation (Mansfield PIantati on, Georgetown.) In 1694, rice arrived in South Carolina, probably originating from Mada gascar. In the United States, colonial South Carolina and Georgia grew and amassed great wealth from the s1ave lab or obtained from the Senegambia area of West Africa and from coastal Sierra Leone. At the port of Charleston, through which 40% of all American slave imports passed, slaves from this region of Africa brought the highest prices, in recognition of their prior knowledge of rice culture, which was put to use on the many rice plantations around Georgetown, Charleston, and Savannah. From the slaves, plantation owners learned how to dyke the marshes and periodically flood the fields. At first the rice was milled by hand with woo den paddles, then winnowed in sweetgrass baskets (the making of which was another skill brought by the slaves). The invention of the rice mill increased profitability of the crop, and the addition of water power for the mills in 1787 by millwright Jonathan 27 Lucas was another step forward. Rice culture in the southeastern U.S. became less profitable with the loss of slave labor after the American Civil War, and it finally died out just after the tum of the 20th century. Today, people can visit the only remaining rice plantation in South Carolina that still has the original winnowing bam and rice mill Jrom the mid-1800s at the historic Mansfield Plantation in Georgetown, SC. The predominant strain of rice in the Carolinas was from Africa and was known as "Carolina Gold." The cultivar has been preserved and there are current attempts to reintroduce it as a commercially gro'W!l crop.1371 American long-grain rice In the southern United States, rice has been gro'W!l in southem .Arkansas, Louisiana, and east Texas since the mid 1800s. Many Cajun farmers grew rice in wet marshes and low Iying prairies. In recent years rice production has risen in North America, especialy! in the Mississippi River Delta areas in the states of .Arkansas and Mississippi. Rice cultivation began in California during the California God! Rush, when an estimated 40,000 Chinese laborers immigrated to the state and grew small amounts of the grain for their own consumption. However, commercial production began only in 1912 in the town of Richvale in Butte County.[181 B 2006, California produced the second largest rice crop in the United States,13 after .Arkansas, with production concentrated in six counties north of Sacra mento.J40J Unlike the Mississippi Delta region, Califomis dominated by short-and medium-grainjaponica varieties, including cultivars developed for the local climate such as Cairose, which makes up as much as eighty five percent of the state's crop.1411 References to wild rice in the Americas are to the unrelated Zizania palus lris More than I 00 varieties of rice are commercially produced primarily in six states (.Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Missouri, and California) in the U.S.1421 According to estimates for the 2006 crop year, rice production 28 in the U.S. is valued at $1.88 billion, approximately half of which is expected to be exported. The U.S. provides about 12% of world rice trade.1421 The majority of domestic utilization of U.S. rice is direct food use (58%), while 16 percent is used in processed foods and beer respectively. The remaining I 0 percent is found in pet food.1421 Australia Although attempts to grow rice in the well-watered north of Australia have been made for many years, they have consistent!y failed because of inherent iron and manganese toxicities in the soils and destruction by pests. In the 192Os it was seen as a possible irrigation crop on soils within the Murray-Darling Basin that were too heavy for the cultivation of fruit and too infertile for wheat.1431 Because irrigation water, despite the extremely low runoff of temperate Australia, was (and remains) very cheap, the growing of rice was taken up by agricultural groups over the following decades. Californian varieties of rice were found suitable for the climate in the Riverina, and the first mill opened at Leeton in 1951. Even before this Australia's rice production greatly exceeded local needs,1431 and rice exports to Japan have become a major source of foreign currency. .Ab ave-average rainfall from the 195Os to the middle 1990sl"l encouraged the expansion of the Riverinarice industry, but its prodigious water use in a practically waterless region began to attract the attention of environmental scientists. These became severely concerned with declining flow in the Snowy River and the I ower Murray River. Although rice growing in .Australia is exceedingly efficient and highly profitable due to the cheapness of!and, several recent years of severe drought have I ed many to call for its elimination because of its effects on extremely fragile aquatic ecosystems. Politicians, however, have not made any plan to reduce rice growing in southern Australia World production and trade Production and export ' 1_!_ c.-- Paddy rice output in 2005. World production of ricel4SJ has risen steadily from about 200 million ton nes of paddy rice in 1960 to 600 million tonnes in 2004. Milled rice is about 29 68% of paddy rice by weight. In the year 2004, the top four producers were China (26% of world production), India (20%), Indonesia (9%) and Bangla desh. World trade figures are very different, as only about 5-6% of rice pro duced is traded internationally. The largest three exporting countries are Thailand (26% of world exports), Vietnam (15%), and the United States (11%), while the largest three importers are Indonesia (14%), Bangladesh (4%), and Brazil (3%). Although China and India are the top two largest producers of rice in the world, both of countries consume the majority of the rice produced domestically leaving little to be traded internationally. Price In March to May 2008, the price of rice rose greatly due to a rice short age. In late April 2008, rice prices hit 24 cents a pound, twice the price that it was seven months earlier.[461 On the 30th of April, 2008, Thailand announced the project of the crea tion of the Organisation ofRice Exporting Countries (OREC) with the 48 potential to develop into a price-fixing cartel for rice.[47 ][ 1 Worldwide consumption Consumption of rice by country-2003/2004 (million metric ton)[491 .China 135 -India 85 -Egypt 39 \- Indonesia 37 Malaysia 37 \- Bangladesh 26 D vietnam 18 \- Thailand 10 IllMyanmar 10 Philippines 9.7 Japan 8.7 ## aai Brazil 8.1 !!South Korea 5.0 =United States 3.9 Source: 30 United States Department of Agriculture[6] Between 1961 and 2002, per capita consump tion of rice increased by 40%. Rice consumption is highest in Asia, where average per capita consumption is higher than 80 kg/person per year. In the subtropics such as South America, Africa, and the Middle East, per capita consumption averages between 30 and 60 kg/person per year. People in the developed West, including Europe and the United States, consume less than 10 kg/person per year.[50H511 Rice is the most important crop in Asia. In Cambodia, for example, 90% of the total agricultural area is used for rice production. See _The Burning of the Rice_ by Don Puckridge for the story of rice production in Cambodia [7]. U.S. rice consumption has risen sharply over the past 25 years, fueled in part by commercial applications such as beer production.[ 521 Almost one in five adult Americans now report eating at least half a serving of white or brown rice per day.[DJ Environmental impacts In many countries where rice is the main cereal crop, rice cultivation is responsible for most of the methane emissionsY41 Farmers in some of the arid regions try to cultivate rice using groundwater bored through pumps, thus increasing the chances of famine in the long run. Rice also requires much more water to produce than other grains.[551 As sea levels rise, rice will become more inclined to remain flooded for longer periods of time. Longer stays in water cuts the soil off from atmos pheric oxygen and causes fermentation of organic matter in the soil. During the wet season, rice cannot hold the carbon in anaerobic conditions. The microbes in the soil convert the carbon into methane which is then released through the respiration of the rice plant or through diffusion of water. Current contributions of methane from agriculture is15% of anthropogenic green house gases, as estimated by the IPCC. Further rise in sea level of 10-85 centimeters would then stimulate the release of more methane into the air by rice plants. Methane is twenty times more effective as a greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide is.[561 Pests and diseases Main article: List of rice diseases Rice pests are any organisms or microbes with the potential to reduce the yield or value of the rice crop (or of rice seeds)[5 71 (Jahn et al 2007). Rice pests include weeds, pathogens, insects, rodents, and birds. A variety of factors can contribute to pest outbreaks, including the overuse of pesticides and high rates of nitrogen fertilizer application (e.g. Jahn _et al._ 2005) [8]. Weather conditions also contribute to pest outbreaks. For example, rice gall midge and army 31 worm outbreaks tend to follow high rainfall early in the wet season, while thrips outbreaks are associated with drought (Douangboupha et a!. 2006). One of the challenges facing crop protection specialists is to develop rice pest management techniques which are sustainable. In other words, to manage crop pests in such a manner that future crop production is not threatened (Jahn eta!. 2001). Rice pests are managed by cultural techniques, pest-resistant rice varieties, and pesticides (which include insecticide). Increasingly, there is evidence that farmers' pesticide applications are often unnecessary (Jahn eta!. 1996, 2004a,b) [9] [10] [11]. By reducing the populations of natural enemies of rice pests (Jahn 1992), misuse of insecticides can actually lead to pest outbreaks (Cohen eta!. 1994). Botanicals, so-called "natural pesticides", are used by some farmers in an attempt to control rice pests, but in general the practice is not common. Upland rice is grown without standing water in the field. Some upland rice farmers in Cambodia spread chopped leaves of the bitter bush ( _Chromolaena odorata (L.)) over the surface of fields after planting. The practice probably helps the soil retain moisture and thereby facilitates seed germination. Farmers also claim the leaves are a natural fertilizer and helps suppress weed and insect infestations (Jahn eta!. 1999)._ _Among rice cultivars there are differences in the responses to, and recov_ _ery from, pest damage (Jahn eta!. 2004c, Khiev eta!. 2000). Therefore, particular cultivars are recommended for areas prone to certain pest problems. The genetically based ability of a rice variety to withstand pest attacks is called resistance. Three main types of plant resistance to pests are recognized_ _(Painter 1951, Smith 2005): as nonpreference, antibiosis, and tolerance. Nonpreference (or antixenosis) (Kogan and Ortman 1978) describes host plants which insects prefer to avoid; antibiosis is where insect survival is reduced after the ingestion of host tissue; and tolerance is the capacity of a plant to produce high yield or retain high quality despite insect infestation. Over time, the use of pest resistant rice varieties selects for pests that are able to overcome these mechanisms of resistance. When a rice variety is no longer able to resist pest infestations, resistance is said to have broken down. Rice varieties that can be widely grown for many years in the presence of pests, and retain their ability to withstand the pests are said to have durable resis tance. Mutants of popular rice varieties are regularly screened by plant breeders to discover new sources of durable resistance (e.g. Liu eta!. 2005, Sangha eta!. 2008)._ _Major rice pests include the brown planthopper[12] (Preap eta!. 2006), armyworms[l3], the green leafhopper, the rice gall midge (Jahn and Khiev_ _2004), the rice bug (Jahn eta!. 2004c), hispa (Murphy eta!. 2006), the rice leaffolder, stemborer, rats (Leung et al2002), and the weed Echinochloa crw;gali (Pheng et a!. 200 I). Rice weevils are also known to be a threat to rice crops in the US, PR China and Taiwan._ 32 Major rice diseases include Rice Ragged Stunt, Sheath Blight and Tungro. Rice blast, caused by the fungus _Magnaporthe grisea,_ is the most significant eli sease affecting rice cultivation. Cultivars Man artide:Ust of lice varieties While most breeding of rice is carried out fur crop quality and productiv ity, there are varieties selected fur other reasons. Cultivars exist that are adapted to deep floo cling, and these are generally called 'floating rice' [15]. The largest collection of rice cultivars is at the International Rice Re search Institute (IRRI), with over I 0 0,000 rice accessions [16] held in the International Rice Genebank [17]. Rice cultivars are often classified by their grain shapes and texture. For example, Thai Jasmine rice is long-grain and rei atively less sticky, as long-grain rice contains less amylopectin than short grain cultivars. Chinese restaurants usually serve long-grain as plain unsea soned steamed rice. Japanese mo chi rice and Chinese sticky rice are short grain. Chinese people use sticky rice which is properly known as "glutinous rice" (note: glutinous refer to the glue-like characteristic of rice; does not refer to "gluten") to make zongzi. The Japanese table rice is a sticky, short-grain rice. Japanese sake rice is another kind as well. Incli an rice cultivars include long-grained and aromatic Basmati (grown in the North), long and medium-grained Patna rice and short-grained Sona Maso ori (also spelled Sona Masuri). In South India the most prized cultivar is 'ponni' which is primarily grown in the delta regions ofKaveri River. Kaveri is also referred to as ponni in the South and the name reflects the geographic region where it is grown. In the Western Indian state of Maharashtra, a short variety called .Ambemohar is very popular. this rice has a characteristic of blossom. 33 Polished Indian so na masuri rice. Aromatic rices have definite aromas and flavours; the most noted culti vars are Thai fragrant rice, Basmati, Patna rice, and a hybrid cultivar from America sold under the trade name, Texmati. Both Basmati and Texmati have a mild popcorn-like aroma and flavour. In Indonesia there are also red and black cuitivars. High-yield cuitivars of rice suitable for cultivation in Africa and other dry ecosystems called the new rice for Africa (NERICA) cultivars have been developed. It is hoped that their cultivation will improve food security in West Africa. Draft genomes for the two most common rice cuitivars, indica and japon ica, were published in April 2002. Rice was chosen as a model organism for the biology of grasses because of its relatively small genome (-430 megab ase pairs). Rice was the first crop with a complete genome sequence.l.lBJ On December 16, 20 02, the UN General Assembly declared the year 20 04 the International Year of Rice. The dec!aration was sponsored by more than 40 countries. Biotechnology High-yielding varieties Man cnide: High-'jieldmg variety The High Yielding Varieties are a group of crops created intentionally during the Green Revolution to increase global food production. Rice, like com and wheat, was genetically manipulated to increase its yield. This project enabled lab or markets in Asia to shift away from agriculture, and into indus trial sectors. The first 'modem rice', IR8 was produced in 1966 at the Interna tional Rice Research Institute which is based in the Philippines at the University of the Philippines' Los Banos site. IR8 was created through across between an Indonesian variety named"Peta' and a Chinese variety named "Dee Geo Woo Gen.''JS9J With advances in molecular genetics, the mutant genes responsible for reduced height(rht), gibberellin insensitive (gail) and slender rice (sir!) in Arabidopsis and rice were identified as cellular signaling components of gibberellic acid (a phytohormone involved in regulating stem growth via its 34 effect on cell division) and subsequently cloned. Stem growth in the mutant background is significantly reduced leading to the dwatf phenotype. Photo synthetic investment in the stem is reduced dramatically as the shorter plants are inherently more stable mechanically. Assimilates become redirected to grain production, amplifying in particular the effect of chemical fertilizers on commercial yield. In the presence of nitrogen fertilizers, and intensive crop management, these varieties increase their yield 2 to 3 times. Potentials for the future As the UN Millennium Development project seeks to spread global eco nomic development to Africa, the 'Green Revolution' is cited as the model for economic development. With the intent of replicating the successful Asian boom in agronomic productivity, groups like the Earth Institute are doing research on African agricultural systems, hoping to increase productivity. An important way this can happen is the production of 'New Rices for Africa' (NERICA). These rices, selected to tolerate the low input and harsh growing conditions of African agriculture are produced by the African Rice Center, and billed as technology from Africa, for Africa. The NERICA have appeared in The New York Times (October 10, 2007) and International Herald Tribune (October 9, 2007), trumpeted as miracle crops that will dramatically increase rice yield in Africa and enable an economic resurgence. Golden rice Main article: Golden rice German and Swiss researchers have engineered rice to produce Beta carotene, with the intent that it might someday be used to treat vitamin A deficiency. Additional efforts are being made to improve the quantity and quality of other nutrients in golden rice.1601 The addition of the carotene turns the rice gold. Expression of human proteins Ventria Bioscience has genetically modified rice to express lactoferrin, lysozyme, and human serum albumin which are proteins usually found in breast milk. These proteins have antiviral, antibacterial, and antifungal effects.1611 Rice containing these added proteins can be used as a component in oral rehydration solutions which are used to treat diarrheal diseases, thereby shortening their duration and reducing recurrence. Such supplements may also help reverse anemia.l621 Others 35 In the Korean and Japanese language, the Chinese character for the rice' kame? ) is composed by two eights (}\\_ hachF ) and ten (+ jyii) which is 88, eighty-eight(}\\_+}\\_ hachi-jyil-hacht). In proverbial saying in Japan, the farmer spends eighty-eight times and efforts on rice from planting to crop and this is also teaching the sense of mottainai and gratitude for farmer and rice itself.[631 References 1. "Crawford,G.W. and C. Shen. 1998. The Origins of Rice Agriculture: Recent Progress in East Asia. Antiquity 72:858-866. 2. "International Rice Research Institute The Rice Plant and How it Grows Retrieved January 29, 2008 3. ""ProdSTAT". FAOSTAT. Retrieved on 200612-26. 4. "National Research Council (1996-02-14). "African Rice". Lost Crops of Africa: Volume 1: Grains. lost Crops of Africa.1. National Academies Press. ISBN 978-0-309-04990-0. http://books.nap.edu/ openbook.php?record_id=2305&page=17. Retrieved on 2008-07-18. 5. "Smith, Bruce D. The Emergence of Agriculture. Scientific American Library, A Division of HPHLP, New York, 1998. 6. "Global rice shortage sparks panic-SBS World News Australia 7. "BBC World Service-News- Global rice shortage 8. "0ka(1988) 9. "CECAP, PhiiRice and IIRR. 2000. "Highland Rice Production in the Philippine Cordillera." 10. "Glaszmann, J. C. (2004). "lsozymes and classification of Asian rice varieties". Theoretical and Applied Genetics. 11. "Garris eta/ (2004). "Genetic structure and diversity in Oryza sativa l.". Genetics. http://www.genetics.org/cgi/content/abstract/genetics.104.03 564 2v1?ck=nck. 12. "Krishnamurti, Bhadriraju (2003) The Dravidian Languages Cambridge University Press, Cam bridge. ISBN 0-521-77111-0 at p. 5. 13. "Risks of Talcum Powder 14. "Jianguo G. Wu; Chunhai Shia and Xiaoming Zhanga (2003). "Estimating the amino acid com position in milled rice by near-infrared reflectance spectroscopy". Field Crops Research. Re trieved on 2008-01-08. 15. "The latter method of using excess water is not desirable with enriched rice, as much oft he enrichment additives are flushed away when the water is discarded. 16. "Watson, p. 15 17. "Shoichi Ito and Yukihiro Ishikawa Tottori University, Japan. "(Marketing of Value-Added Rice Products in Japan: Germinated Grown Rice and Rice Bread.)". Retrieved on February 12, 2004. 18. "IRRI rice knowledge bank 19. "drought tolerance in upland rice 20. "Londo eta/ (2006). "Phylogeography of Asian wild rice,Oryza rufipogon, reveals multiple independent domestications of cultivated rice, Oryza sativa". PNAS. 21. "Vaughan eta/ (2008). "The evolving story of rice evolution". Plant Science 174 (4): 394-408. doi:10.1016/j.piantsc i.2008 .01.016. 22. "ab' Crawford and Shen 1998 23. "Harrington, Spencer P.M. (June 11, 1997). "Earliest Rice". Archaeology (Archaeological Insti tute of America). http://www.archaeology.org/online/news/rice.html. "Rice cultivation began in China ca. 11,500 years ago, some 3,500 years earlier than previously believed". 24. "Normile, Dennis (1997). "Yangtze seen as earliest rice site". Science 275: 309-310. 25. "Zhao, Z. 1998. The Middle Yangtze Region in China is the Place Where Rice was Domesti cated: Phytolithic Evidence from the Diaotonghuan Cave, Northern Jiangxi. Antiquity 72:885--- 897. 36 26. A MacNeish R. S. and Libby J. eds. (1995) _Origins of Rice Agriculture._ Publications in Anthropol ogy No. 13. 27. A _The Formation of Chinese Civilization_ (2005), pp. 298 28. A _a_ b Smith, C. Wayne (2000). _Sorghum: Origin, History, Technology, and Production._ John Wiley and Sons. ISBN 0471242373. 29. A "rice". Encyc/opcedia Britannica. Encyclopcedia Britannica. 2008. http://www. britannica .com/EBchecked/topic/502259/ rice. 30. A Murphy, Denis J. (2007). _People, Plants and Genes: The Story of Crops and Humanity._ Oxford University Press. 178. ISBN 0199207135. 31. A _a_ b Kahn, Charles (2005). _World History: Societies of the Past._ Portage & Main Press. 92. ISBN 1553790456. 32. A Crawford, G.W. and G.-A. Lee. 2003. Agricultural Origins in the Korean Peninsula. Antiquity 77(295):87-95. 33. A Cf. BBC news (2003) [1] 34. A Kim, Minkoo (2008), "M ultivocality, Multifaceted Voices, and Korean Archaeology", Evaluat ing Multiple Narratives: Beyond Nationalist, Colonialist, Imperialist Archaeologies, New York: Springer, ISBN 978-0-387-76459-7 35. A Taylor, Jean Gelman (2003). Indonesia: Peoples and Histories. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. pp. 8-9. ISBN 0-300-10518-5. 36. AabcdefWatson, p.17-18 37. A http://www.carolinagoldricefoundation.org/ Carolina Gold Rice Foundation 38. A Ching Lee (2005). "Historic Richvale -the birthplace of California rice". California Farm Bu reau Federation. Retrieved on 2007-08-10. 39. A "California's Rice Growing Region". California Rice Commission. Retrieved on 2007-08-10. 40. A Daniel A. Sumner; Henrich Brunke (2003). "The economic contributions ofthe California rice industry"". California Rice Commission. Retrieved on 2007-08-10. 41. A "Medium Grain Varieties". California Rice Commission. Retrieved on 2007-08-10. 42. A abc States Department of Agriculture August 2006, Release No. 0306.06, U.S. RICE STATISTICS 43. A ab Wad ham, Sir Samuel; Wilson, R. Kent and Wood, Joyce; Land Utilization in Australia, 3rd ed. Published 1957 by Melbourne University Press; p. 246 44. A Australian Bureau of Meteorology; Climatic Atlas of Australia: Rainfall; published 2000 by Bureau of Meteorology, Melbourne, Victoria 45. A all figures from U NCTAD 1998-2002 and the International Rice Research Institute statistics (accessed September 2005) 46. A "Cyclone fuels rice price increase", BBC News, 7 May 2008 47. A "Mekong nations to form rice price-fixing cartel", Radio Australia, April 30, 2008. 48. A "PM floats idea offive-nation rice cartel", Bangkok Post, May 1, 2008. 49. A Nationmaster.com, Agriculture Statistics> Grains> Rice consumption (most recent) by coun try, http:/Iwww.nat ion master.com/graph/a gr_gra_ric_con-a gricu ltu re-gra ins-rice consumption, retrieved on 24 April2008 50. A United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), (Rice} Market, http://www.unctad.org/infocomm/anglais/rice/market.htm, retrieved on 24 April2008 51. A Saudi Arabia: Per Capita Rice Consumption Hits 47 Kilogram, http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1Gl-72731851.html, retrieved on 24 April 2008 52. A United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) Economic Research Service, Briefing Rooms: Rice, http://www.ers.usda.gov/Briefing/Rice/, retrieved on 24 April 2008 53. A Iowa State University (July 2005). "Rice Consumption in the United States: New Evidence from Food Consumption Surveys". 54. A Methane Emission from Rice Fields-Wetland rice fields may make a major contribution to global warming by Heinz-Uirich Neue. 55. A report12.pdf 56. A IPCC. Climate Change 2007: Synthesis Report. United Nations Environment Programme, 2007:Ch5, 8, and 10.[2] 57. AJahnetal.2000 58. A Gillis, Justing (August 11, 2005). "Rice Genome Fully Mapped", washingtonpost.com. 59. A Rice Varieties: IRRI Knowledge Bank. Accessed August 2006. [3] 37 60. A Grand Challenges in Global Health, Press release, June 27, 2005 61. A Nature's story 62. A Bethell D. R., Huang J., _et al._ BioMetals, 17.337-342 (2004).[4] 63. A proverbial saying, Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (Japan), (Japanese) This article is licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License. It uses material from the Wiki pedia article "Cake".Source http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rice 38 "21" Club Rice Pudding Yield: 10 Servings 1 qt Milk 1 pt Heavy cream 1/2 t Salt 1 Vanilla bean 3/4 c Long-grained rice 1 c Granulated sugar 1 Egg yolk 1 1/2 c Whipped cream Raisins (optional) In a heavy saucepan, combine the milk, cream, salt, vanilla bean and /4 cup of the sugar and bring to a boil. Stirring well, add the rice. Allow the mixture to simmer gently, covered, for 1 3/4 hours over a very low flame, until rice is soft. Remove from the heat and cool slightly. Remove the vanilla bean. Blending well, stir in the remaining 1/4 cup of sugar and the egg yolk. Allow to cool a bit more. Preheat the broiler. stir in all but 2 tablespoons of the whipped cream; pour the mixture into individual crocks or a souffle dish. (Raisins my be placed in the bottom of the dishes, if desired.) After spreading the remaining whipped cream in a thin layer over the top, place the crocks or dish under the broiler until the pudding is lightly browned. Chill before serving. 15-Minute Chicken & Rice Dinner Main Dish, Poultry Yield: 4 Servings 1 T vegetable oil 4 (4-6-oz.) fresh boneless, \- skinless chicken breasts 1 0.75-oz. \- can cream of chicken soup 1 1/3 c water or 2% milk 1 1/2 c quick-cooking rice, uncooked Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken; cover. Cook 4 minutes on each side or until cooked thoroughly. 39 Remove chicken from skillet. Add soup and water; stir to mix and bring to a boil. stir in rice, then top with chicken; cover. Reduce heat to low and cook 5 minutes. Comments: Completely cooked in one skillet, this tasty chicken and rice dish is easily and quickly assembled. Add a salad and crusty bread if desired. Almond and Rice Flour Bread with Poppy Seeds Yield: 1 Serving 1/2 c Whole almonds, with skins 1 1/2 c Brown rice flour 4 t Baking powder 1/4 t Salt 3 t Poppy seeds 1/2 c Plain low-fat yogurt 1/2 c Water 1 lg Whole egg 1 lg Egg white white 2 T Vegetable oil This and the following two recipes are wheat free, utilizing brown rice flour. They're from an article by Jacqueline Mallorca in the Chron. For those to whom it is important, she's working on a book about wheat-free baking. No hint as to the release date though. Preheat oven to 350F. Butter an 8 x 4inch loaf pan. Place almonds and 1/2 cup of the flour in bowl of a food processor and grind until a fine meal is formed++the flour will prevent the nuts from turning oily. Add remaining rice flour, the baking powder, salt and 2 teaspoons of the poppy seeds; process briefly. Combine yogurt, water, whole egg, egg white and oil in a 2-cup measuring cup. With processor motor running, pour liquid ingredients through feed tube over flour mixture, processing just long enough to mix. Transfer batter to prepared pan. Sprinkle with remaining poppy seeds, and bake for 55 minutes. Turn out onto a rack to cool. (Bread slices best after several hours, or the next day). Makes one 18-ounce loaf (18 slices). PER SLICE: 90 calories, 3 g protein, 11 g carbohydrate, 4 g fat (1 g saturated), 12 mg cholesterol, 115 mg sodium, 1 g fiber. 40 Almond Tuna and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 en VEG-ALL Mixed -Vegetables (16 oz) 1 c Mayonnaise 1 en Tuna (12.5 oz) 2 c Cooked rice 1/2 c Chopped green pepper 2 t Dill weed 1 c Fresh bread crumbs 1/2 c Slivered almonds Drain VEG-ALL; combine liquid with mayonnaise, blending until smooth. Stir in tuna, rice, green pepper, dill and vegetables. Spoon into greased 2-quart casserole dish. In small skillet, melt butter; stir in bread crumbs and almonds, coat well and spoon over mixture in casserole. Bake at 375'F. for 30 minutes or until bubbly and lightly browned. Antipasto Rice Yield: 8 Servings 1 1/2 c Water 1/2 c Tomato juice 1 c Uncooked rice 1 t Dried basil leaves 1 t Dried oregano leaves 1/2 t Salt; optional 1 en Artichoke hearts; -drained & quartered (14 -oz.) Jars Roasted red peppers; \- dr d and chopped (7 oz.) en Sliced ripe olives; \- (2-1/4 oz.) 2 T Fresh parsley; snipped 2 T Lemon juice 1/2 t Ground black pepper 2 T Parmesan; grated Calories per serving: 131 Fat grams per serving: 1.6g Approx. Cook Time: Cholesterol per serving: 1 mg Combine water, tomato juice, rice, basil, oregano and salt in saucepan. Heat to boiling; stir once or twice. Lower heat to simmer; cover with a tight-fitting lid. Cook for 15 to 20 minutes. Stir in artichokes, red peppers, olives, parsley, lemon juice and black pepper. Cook an additional 5 minutes or until thoroughly heated. Sprinkle with cheese. Serves 8. PER SERVING: 41 Calories: 131 Sodium: mg Cholesterol: 1 mg Fat: 1.6 g Apricot and Rice Muffins Yield: 18 Servings 1 1/2 c Flour 2/3 c Whole Wheat Flour 1/3 c Rice Bran 1 T Baking powder 1 t Cinnamon 1 c Cooked, brown Rice 1 1/2 c Dried Apricots, diced 1/2 c Raisins 1/2 c Dried Prunes 1/4 c Walnuts, chopped 1 c No Fat Yogurth 2/3 c Maple Syrup 1/4 c Oil 1/4 c Eggsubstitute or 1 Egg, lightly beaten In large bowl combine flours, rice bran, baking powder and cinnamon. 2. Stir in rice, apricots, raisins, prunes and walnuts. 3. In a small bowl, whisk together the yogurth, syrup, oil and egg. 4. Pour over dry ingridients and fold together until just moistened. Do not overmix. 5. Line 18 muffin cups with paper liners. Divide the batter amoung cups. 6. Bake at 350 F until edges and tops begin to brown, about 45 minutes. Armenian Rice Pilaf Yield: 8 Servings 1/41b Butter or margarine 1/2 c Vermicelli 2 c Uncooked long-grain rice 4 c Boiling hot chicken broth 1 t MSG (optional) Salt Melt butter in heavy pan or Dutch oven. Break vermicelli in small pieces, add to pan and cook until golden brown, stirring constantly. 42 Add rice and stir until rice is well coated with butter. Add boiling broth and MSG and season to taste with salt. Cook, covered, over low heat until liquid is absorbed, about 25 minutes. Stir lightly with fork. Let stand in warm place 15 to 20 minutes before serving. Aromatic Chicken with Rice (Malaysia) Yield: 4 Servings 3 c Cooked rice 1 Chicken (3 pounds) 1 Onion 3 T Sesame oil 2 T Light soy sauce 1/2 t Salt 1/4 t Pepper Spread cooked rice in a pie pan. Chop chicken into large pieces. Cut onion into wedges. In a wok or large pan heat sesame oil and brown the chicken with the onions until the onions are transparent. Add soy sauce and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Put the chicken on the cooked rice in the pie plate. Steam for about 30 minutes or until the chicken is done. Serve warm. If you have a rice cooker, you can just put the braised onions and chicken on top of the raw rice and cook it that way. Arroz Amarillo con Camarones -Yellow Rice & Shrimp Casser Yield: 6 Servings 1/2 c Olive oil 1 sm Onion; chopped 1 sm Green pepper; chopped 1 Garlic clove; minced 1 Parsley sprig 1 lg Ripe tomato peeled, \- seeded & chopped 1 Bay leaf 1/4 t Nutmeg 1/4 t Cumin 43 1/4 t Thyme 1 pn Saffron; toasted 1 lb Shrimp, raw shelled, deveined 1 c -Hot water 1/4 c Dry white wine 1 T Lemon juice ## 1 T Salt 1/2 t Hot sauce 2 c Long grain white rice 2 1/2 c -Water 1/2 c Beer Cooked peas Pimiento strips Parsley bouquets Use a 3-quart casserole with lid. An earthenware casserole is preferable, especially if you wish to add a touch of Spain to a dinner party. However, I know that good earthenware is hard to find today. I have 2 casseroles that I've had for 15 years. Heat oil in casserole. Saute onion and pepper until transparent. Add garlic, parsley, tomato, bay leaf, nutmeg, cumin and thyme. Mix well, cover, and cook over low heat until mushy (about 15 minutes). The saffron should be toasting on the lid in the little brown paper. Add the shrimp to the saute and cook until it turns pink. Dissolve the saffron in the 1 cup hot water. Combine with wine, lemon juice, salt and hot sauce. Pour into casserole, stir to mix, and cook covered 10 minutes more. Now add the rice and the 2 1/2 cups of water. Distribute ingredients well in casserole. Bring to a quick boil, STIR ONCE, and place in preheated 325 degree F. oven for only minutes-Nl UN MINUTO MAS! Remove from oven, uncover, and garnish with peas, pimientos, and parsley. Pour beer over all. Cover again and allow to stand 15 minutes longer, before serving. Arroz Con Polio (mexican Stewed Chicken With Rice) Yield: 6 Servings 31b Chicken, cut into pieces 1/4 c Cooking oil 1/2 c Chopped onion 1 Clove garlic, sliced \- paper thin 1/2 c Chopped green pepper 1 en Tomatoes (#2) 1/2 t Sail 1/4 t Pepper 1/2 t Paprika 4 Cloves 2 sm Bay leaves 1 c Raw rice 44 1 1 0 ounce package frozen peas, 1 Sweet red pepper -cut into 1/4" pieces Dry the pieces of chicken with paper toweling. Place the oil in a large skiilet and saute the chicken until golden brown. Add the onion, garlic and green pepper and saute until tbe onion is transparent and glazed. Then add the tomatoes, salt, pepper, paprika, cloves and bay leaves. Bring to a rollng boil, and then turn the heat back to simmer. Cover and simmer for 25 minutes. Add the rice; stir it in well. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes longer, or until the grains of rice are tender. Sprinkle the peas and pepper over the top, and cook, uncovered, for 5 minutes more. Serves 6. If you wish, remove the cloves and bay leaves before serving. Arroz Dulce (sweet Rice) Yield: 10 Servings 1 c Rice 1/2 c Raisins 1 1/2 Cinnamon sticks 1 c Sugar 1 T Grated gingerroot 1 c Canned coconut cream 2 c Milk 1/2 t Vanilla 1/4 c Unsalted butter Ground cinnamon Soak rice and raisins in water to cover 1/2 hour. Bring 2 cups water to boil in large saucepan. Drain rice and raisins and add to boiling water with cinnamon sticks and 1/4 cup sugar. Cook over low heat until rice is tender. Boil gingerroot in 1/2 cup water 5 minutes, strain and blend liquid with remaining 3/4 cup sugar, coconut cream, milk and vanilla. Add this mixture with butter to rice. Cover and cook over low heat until milk is absorbed, stirring every 5 to 10 minutes. Spoon into serving dish or individual custard cups, sprinkle with cinnamon and chill. Arroz Verde ( Green Rice ) 45 Yield: 6 Servings 4 Poblano chilies; or 4 green ;peppers, each 4 inches in ;diameter 4 c Chicken stock; fresh or can 1 c Parsley, fresh; coarsely ;chopped 1/2 c Onion; coarsely chopped 1/4 t Garlic; finely chopped ## 1 t Salt 1/8 t Black pepper; freshly ground 1/4 c Olive oil 2 c Long grain rice; raw Roast the chilies or peppers, remove their skins, stems, seeds and thick white membranes and discard. Chop the chilies into chunks. Combine 1 cup of the chunks and 1/2 cup of stock in the jar of a blender and blend at high speed for 15 seconds{d ohen gradually add the remaining chilies and the parsley, onions, garlic, salt and pepper, blending until the mixture is reduced to a smooth puree. (To make the sauce by hand, puree the chilies, parsley, onions and garlic, a cup or so at a time, in a food mill set over a bowl. Discard any pulp left in the mill. Stir in 1/2 cup of stock and the salt and pepper.) Pour the oil into a 2 to 3 quart casserole and set it over moderate heat. When the oil is hot but not smoking, add the rice and stir constantly for 2 to 3 minutes until the grains are coated with oil. Do not let them brown. Now add the pureed chili mixture and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the remaining 12 cups of stock to a boil in a small saucepan and pour it over the rice. Return to a boil, cover the casserole and reduce the heat to its lowest point. Simmer undisturbed for 18 to 20 minutes, or until the rice is tender and has absorbed all the liquid. Before serving, fluff the rice with a fork. If the rice must wait, remove the cover and drape the pan loosely with a towel. Place in a preheated 250 degree (F) oven to keep warm. Baked Chicken and Rice Main Dish, Poultry Yield: 2 Servings 1 lb boneless skinless chicken \- breasts can cream of mushroom soup 1 c water 1 envelope onion soup mix 1 c rice, (not instant) Place chicken in prepared casserole dish. In separate bowl mix together remaining ingredients. Pour over chicken. Cover and bake at 375F. for 1 hour. Comments: Very simple baked dish. 46 Basic Cooked Rice-Prudhomme Yield: 6 Servings 2 c Uncooked rice (see note) 2 1/2 c Basic stock (Prudhomme) 1 1/2 T Onions, chopped very fine 1 1/2 T Celery, chopped very fine 1 1/2 T Bell peppers,chopped vy fine 1 1/2 T Unsalted butter (preferred) 1/2 t Salt 1/8 t Garlic powder pn white pepper pn black pepper pn cayenne pepper In a 5x9x2-1/2-inch loaf pan, combine all ingredients; mix well. Seal pan snuggly with aluminum foil. Bake at 350F until rice is tender, about 1 hour, 10 minutes. Serve immediately. However, you can count on the rice staying hot for 45 minutes and warm for 2 hours. To reheat leftover rice, either use a double boiler or warm the rice in a skillet with unsalted butter. Beef Teriyaki And Rice Yield: 2 Servings 3 T Soy sauce 1 T Dry sherry 2 t Brown sugar 1 1/4 t Garlic powder 1 t Ground ginger 3/41b Flank steak strips Or Chicken breasts ## 1 T Oil 3 c Bite size vegetables * 1 c Beef broth 4 t Cornstarch Water to thin sauce if 47 Necessary Three cups of veggies-suggest slant cut carrots, green onions, green or red pepper chunks, a few pea pods if you have them. Mix soy sauce, sherry, brown sugar and seasonings. Add beef or chicken. Let stand 10 minutes to marinate. Stir fry meat in hot oil in wok until browned, remove. Add vegetables. Stir fry until tender crisp. Mix broth and cornstarch, add to wok. Bring to boil, boil1 minute. Replace meat to wok to coat. Serve over rice. Black Beans and Rice Main Dish, Meat Yield: 20 Servings 1 1/21b dried black turtle beans 1 large bell pepper, diced 1 hot pepper (optional) tabasco (optional) 4 onions, diced 6 cloves garlic, chopped 3/4 c celery, diced 1/4 c parsley, chopped 2 T oregano, chopped 2 T basil, chopped 2 bay leaves pn ground cloves 1/2 t ground cumin 4 beef boullion cubes 1 lb lean bulk pork sausage 1 lb pork, boneless cubed 1 lb stew beef chunks 1/21b ham, smoked (1/2" cubes) 1 1/21b smoked link sausage cut \- into 1" to 2" lengths salt to taste pepper to taste 2 T vinegar \----- Beans ----- Wash and look for gravel then soak overnight in a bowl being sure beans are well covered with water. For cooking use a large crock pot. \----- Meats----- First, brown bulk sausage in a skillet and pour off excess grease. Add other meats and stir to brown. Add bell pepper, onion, garlic, celery, and spices. Salt and pepper moderately, taste after cooking several hours and add more if needed. Add beans and soak water. If necessary add more water to cover entire ingredients by at least two inches. Stir in four bouillon cubes. Cover and cook on crock pot high for three hours then turn to low for at least six hours. 48 Serve beans and meat over rice. Serve in a soup bowl and top with fresh chopped onion. Blackeyed Peas and Rice Yield: 8 Servings 1 x Dried blackeyed peas 1 x Lipton Rice 'n' Sauce Cajun 1 x Stew Meat 1 x Bell pepper 1 x Onion 1 T Pepper 1 t Creole or Cajun seasoning 1 x Cayenne pepper or hot sauce Look thru peas for rocks and wash through 3 waters. Soak peas in water overnight in fridge. The next day, throw out water they soaked in; some claim this keeps beans from giving you a problem, but stay on this diet a couple weeks and you won't have a problem anyway. It goes away. Wash stew meat and put stew meat and pre-soaked peas in big pot on stove and bring to boil, with PLENTY of water. Add seasonings to taste. If you use Cajun seasoning it contains salt; so don't add extra salt!!!! Otherwise, add salt to taste. When stew meat and peas come to a boil, reduce to Medium and keep watching to add water so they don't scorch. After about 40 minutes add packet of Rice and Sauce, preferably Cajun flavor. Start watching the water really carefully now, and add a pint from time to time. After about minutes of rice cooking, add bell pepper, onion, and more seasonings if you need. (This dish is good hot and peppery) Everything should be ready at the same time. When test bite shows all is ready, eat! Blackeyed Peas And Rice Salad Yield: 8 Servings 3 c Hot cooked (boiled) rice 1 1/2 c Cooked blackeyed peas =OR=- 10 oz -Frozen blackeyed peas -(cooked 49 -according -to package directions) 1 T Dijon-style mustard 1 t Salt (or to taste) Freshly ground pepper 3 T Red wine vinegar 3/4 c Extra-virgin olive oil (or \- part safflower oil) md Onion; minced Garlic clove; minced lg Carrot; peeled and grated 1/4 c Minced chives or parsley 1 Head of radicchio =OR=- \- Boston -lettuce (for garnish) This salad version of the traditional Southern New Year's dish called Hoppin' John can be prepared a day ahead and stored in the refrigerator. Allow it to come to room temperature before serving. COOK THE RICE AND THE PEAS in advance. PREPARE THE VINAIGRETTE: WHISK THE MUSTARD, salt, pepper and vinegar until dissolved. Dribble in the oil while whisking. Toss the blackeyed peas and the rice with the vinaigrette until everything is nicely coated. Mix in the onion, garlic, carrot and chives or parsley. Bring to room temperature before serving. This dish can be prepared a day ahead and refrigerated, covered. Place in a bowl and surround with lettuce leaves; serve at room temperature. Blanched Gai Lan Dressed with Rice Wine and Oyster Sauce Yield: 4 Servings 2 T Oyster sauce 2 T Chicken stock 1 T Shao Hsing wine, or \- dry sherry 1/2 t Sugar 1/2 t Sesame oil1 To 1 1/2 lb gai lan (Chinese broccoli) 1 t Salt 1 T Peanut oil Gai lan is Chinese broccoli. It's not much like the Western stuff. It has thinner stems, flowers and leaves and is eaten more as a green. Combine the oyster sauce, chicken stock, Shao Hsing wine, sugar and sesame oil in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil and cook until sauce thickens. Set aside. Wash the gai lan in cold water. Trim off and discard the tough bottoms. Peel stalks if they are thick and tough; leave gai Ian whole or cut into thirds. Bring 3 to 4 quarts of water to a boil in a wok or stock pot; add the salt and oil. Add the greens, bring back to a second boil. Turn off 50 the heat and let greens stand for a minute or two. When the green stalks brighten, test one for doneness. It should be tender and crisp. Drain immediately and shake off excess water. Transfer to a platter, pour dressing over, and serve immediately. Serves 4 to 6. PER SERVING: 35 calories, 2 g protein, 4 g carbohydrates, 1 g fat (0 g saturated), 0 mg cholesterol, 298 mg sodium, 2 g fiber. Bombay Rice & Lentils Yield: 4 Servings 1/2 Onion,medium-size,chopped 2 T Salad oil 1 c Rice,brown,uncooked 1 T Tanato paste 2 1/2 c Water 1/4 t Cinnamon 1/4 c Lentils,uncooked 1/2 t Salt,seasoned 1/2 c Raisins 1/2 c Pinenuts Saute onion in oil in large skillet until soft. Add rice; cook, stirring, several minutes. Combine tomato paste, water, cinnamon and lentils in a bowl; add to rice. Bring mixture to a boil; cover tightly, reduce heat and simmer 30 minutes. Stir in seasoned salt, raisins and pinenuts. Grease an 8-inch-square baking dish; pour in rice mixture. Cover and bake in preheated 350'F. oven 20 to 30 minutes. Brazilian Chicken Rice Soup Yield: 4 Servings 1 3 lb Chicken 1 Bay leaf 1 Medium onion, quartered 1 Whole clove 51 2 Ripe tomatoes, quartered 1 Carrot, cut into 1" pieces 1/4 c Chopped celery leaves 20 Black peppercorns, tied in A piece of cheesecloth 1/2 c Uncooked white rice Salt & freshly ground black Pepper 3 Carrots, thinly sliced on The diagonal 1/4 c Finely chopped flat-leaf Parsley Wash the chicken thoroughly. Remove the skin and any pieces of fat. Pin the bay leaf to 1 onion quarter with the clove. Place the chicken in a large pot with the tomatoes, onion quarters, 1 carrot, celery leaves, and peppercorn bundle. Add 10 cups cold water and bring to a boil. Using a ladle, skim off the fat and foam that rise to the surface. Reduce the heat and simmer for 1 hour, skimming often to remove the fat. Remove the chicken from the broth and let cool. strain the broth into a large saucepan, pressing the vegetables to extract the juices. (There should be about 8 cups of broth.) Pull the chicken meat off the bones and shred or finely dice it. Add the rice, salt, and pepper to the broth and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the thinly sliced carrots and celery to the soup with the shredded chicken and half the parsley. Simmer the soup for another 10 minutes, or until the rice is tender. Correct the seasoning, adding salt and pepper to taste. Sprinkle with the remaining parsley and serve at once. Brown Rice & Wheat Berries (Vegan) Yield: 1 Serving 2 1/4 c Water 1/3 c Wheat berries 1/3 c Brown rice 1 T Saute fluid (pick your a Compatible favoriet) 1/4 c Chopped scallion 1/4 t Salt 1/8 t Pepper In 2qt pan, boil water. Add berries, return to boil. Reduce heat, simmer, covered, 1 hour. Stir in brown rice. Cover, simmer 50 minutes longer. 5 minutes before rice is finished, saute scallion until softened. Combi ne with rice and wheat mixture, along with spices. Note: The original recipe called for 2 Tbs. pignoli (pine nuts), tested in 1 Tbs butter, before adding the scallions. I simply eliminated them. 52 I'll run both combinations through my recipe program, andre-post if it can be done<= 10% cff. The original recipe's 'Health Tip' suggested omitting salt, substituting unsalted margarine, and/or eliminating the nuts. Brown Rice Casserole Yield: 6 Servings 4 c Cooked brown rice Half block of tofu 1 lg Onion 2 md Carrots 2 Celery stalks 1 Green pepper 2 md Zucchini =OR=- \- other summer squash 6 oz Mushrooms, wiped clean 1 T Olive oil 1 T Butter 3 Garlic cloves finely chopped 1 t Nutritional yeast (optional) 1 t Ground cumin seeds 1 t Salt 1 c Mushroom broth; -=OR= \- Vegetable stock, or water 6 oz Grated cheese (Jack, -muenster, Cheddar or Gouda) Pepper Fresh herbs, for garnish -(Parsley \- or Cilantro, Thyme, \- Marjoram) This was one of the most popular dishes at Greens Restaurant in San Francisco. COOK RICE. SET THE TOFU on a slanted board or pan to drain, and prepare the vegetables. Chop the onion, carrots, celery, pepper, and zucchini into pieces about 1/2-inch square. Quarter mushrooms if they are small, and cut them into sixths or eighths if they are large. Cut the tofu into 1/2-inch cubes. Heat the olive oil and the butter and fry the onion over medium heat until it is lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, nutritional yeast, if using, cumin and salt. Stir until blended and cook for 1 minute. Add the carrots, celery, green pepper and 1/2 cup of the liquid, cover pan, and braise the vegetables until they begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Add the zucchini and mushrooms and cook 7 to 10 minutes. The vegetables should be nearly, but not completely, cooked. If the pan gets dry while they cook, add a little more liquid. Preheat oven to 350F. Combine the vegetables with rice and cheese. Season with salt and plenty of freshly ground black pepper. 53 Gently mix in the tofu, and put mixture into lightly oiled casserole. Add a little more liquid to moisten. Cover with foil and bake 1/2 hour. Remove foil and bake 15 minutes. Garnish with fresh herbs. Brown Rice Jambalaya Yield: 8 Servings 1/21b Diced ham or bacon (cut \- bacon crosswise into -thin strips) 4 Chicken legs (2 1/2 pounds) 1 lb Cajun-style sausage 3 md Garlic cloves, peeled 1 md Onion, peeled, cubed 1 md Green bell pepper, -cored, cut in 1-inch -squares 2 md Tomatoes, peeled, \- cored, quartered 1 1/2 c Raw brown rice 1/2 t Each, dried oregano \- leaves, dried thyme leaves, -file Powder, ground black pepper 1/4 t Each, cayenne pepper, \- ground cumin 3 c Chicken broth Salt 1/21b Peeled, deveined raw shrimp I seem to remember you being involved in a conversation about brown rice a few months back.. Here's something that you might find interesting. Put ham or bacon in a 4-quart soup kettle and cook over low heat until fat is rendered. Increase heat to medium and stir until cooked, about 5 minutes. Remove chicken skin, cut meat off the bones and then cut boneless chicken into bite-size pieces. Add to kettle or skillet with bacon or ham and toss until color turns pale, about 4 minutes. Remove bacon or ham and chicken with a slotted spoon and put on paper toweling; set aside. Add sausage to kettle and brown all over, about to 8 minutes; remove. Leave 2 tablespoons fat in kettle; pour off and discard remaining fat. Insert metal blade in food processor. Mince garlic by adding to machine with motor on. Add onion and chop very coarsely with half second pulses. Add green pepper and process with half-second pulses until mixture is chopped to medium consistency. Add mixture to kettle and stir over low heat until softened, about 10 minutes. Process tomatoes until pureed; set aside. 54 Add rice to ingredients in kettle and stir over low heat for 2 minutes. Then stir in oregano Thyme, file, black pepper, cayenne pepper and cumin. Add tomatoes and broth. Stir well and let mixture to boiling. Reduce heat to low, cover and cook rice mixture 15 to 20 minutes. Cut sausage into 1/4-inch thick coin like slices. Mix sausage, ham and chicken pieces into rice. Cover and cook until rice is tender (rice may not absorb all the liquid) about 20 minutes longer. Taste and adjust seasoning, adding salt as needed. Stir shrimp into hot rice mixture, cover pot and let stand for 8 to 10 minutes. Serve rice with shrimp, meats and liquid. Serves 8. Brown Rice Pilaf Yield: 4 Servings 1/2 t Instant chicken bouillon 1 c Sliced fresh Mushrooms 3/4 c Brown Rice, quick cooking 1/2 c Shredded Carrot 1/4 t Dried Marjoram, crushed 1/4 c Thinly sliced Green Onion 2 T Snipped fresh Parsley In a medium saucepan stir together bouillon granules and 1 cup water. Bring to boiling. Stir in mushrooms, brown rice, carrot, marjoram, and dash pepper. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 12 minutes. Remove from heat; let stand for 5 minutes. Add green onion and parsley; toss lightly with a fork. Serve immediately. ___ _------ ___ _-------*Per serving: 104 calories, 3 g protein, 21 g carbohydrates, 1 g fat, 0 mg cholesterol, mg sodium, 205 mg potassium. Brussels Sprout and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 en 10 3/4 ounces condensed Cream of Mushroom soup 1 c Milk 55 1 T Butter 1 t Salt 3/4 t Caraway Seed 2/3 c Regular Rice 2 package Frozen Brussel -Sprouts 10 oz each, cut in half About 40 minutes before serving: In 12 inch skillet, over medium heat, heat undiluted soup, milk, 1 cup water, butter, salt and caraway seed to boiling; stirring occasionally. Stir in rice; reduce heat to low; cover and simmer 15 minutes. Stir in brussel sprouts; cover and continue to cook 15 minutes or until rice and brussel sprouts are tender; stirring occasionally. Buttered Saffron Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 t Saffron;leaf saffron 2 T Milk; warm 1 T -Salt 2 c Rice, basmati 4 T Butter "The darker (the redder) the saffron colour, the better the quality. It usually comes from Spain, but the best, really expensive stuff, is grown in Kashmir, where I went to see it growing. There are many different grades. Watch out for fake or dyed saffron. Buy it from a reputable source. To use it in a recipe, I roast it in a cast-iron pan until it's crisp to draw out the colour, then crumble it lukewarm milk and let it sit for three to four hours." Place saffron in small, dry, hot pan over medium heat about 1 minute or just until fragrant. Crumble into milk. Fill large pot with about 13 cups water; add salt and bring to boil. Meanwhile, place rice in medium bowl and cover with cold water. Immediately drain rice through colander. Wash and drain two more times. When water is boils, add rice and stir once; bring to boil. Cook 5 minutes; rice should be slightly hard in the centre. Drain in colander and place in ovenproof dish. Drizzle saffron milk over rice, tossing over a couple oftimes very gently. Divide butter into four pieces; place over rice. Cut pieces of aluminium foil 2 inches larger than rim of dish; place on top of dish; place lid on foil. Bake in preheated 300F oven to 50 minutes, checking after 40 minutes to see if rice is cooked. Serve saffron-coloured streaked rice spooned on warmed platter. SERVES:6 56 Cajun Jambalaya Rice Yield: Makes 41-cup servings 1 md Onion - chopped 3 Garlic cloves -finely Chopped lg Bell pepper-green, cut Into 1/2" pieces 2 1/2 c Basic chicken stock-see Recipe 5 Scallions-finely sliced 1 c Brown rice -long grained 3 Italian plum tomatoes - Cored, seeded, chopped 1/41b Turkey ham-baked, all fat Removed, 1/2" cubes 1/4 t White pepper 1/4 t Black pepper-fresh ground 3/4 t Cayenne pepper 1/2 t Cumin 1/4 t Allspice 1/41b Shrimp-peeked and deveined ds Tabasco sauce- (optional) 1/4c Parsley-fresh, chopped In an 8-quart pot saute the onion, garlic, and green pepper in 3 Tbsp. of stock for 5 minutes. Add two-thirds of the scallions, the rice, and tomatoes, and cook for 5 minutes over medium-low heat, adding a little more of the stock if necessary. Add the cubed turkey ham, the three peppers, cumin, allspice, and the remaining stock, and cook on very low heat, covered for 40 minutes. Add the shrimp and cook for 2 minutes. Taste for spiciness. You can add 5-6 drops of Tabasco sauce (I prefer Louisiana Gold Sauce) for a more pungent flavor. Serve garnished with parsley and the remaining scallions. Cajun Rice 'N' Sausage Yield: 4 Servings 3/4 t Paprika 1/4 t Anise Seed; lightly crushed 1 t Fresh Marjoram; minced 2 T Fresh Basil; minced 2 ds Tabasco Sauce 1/2 t Pickled Jalapeno Peppers -minced 57 1 T Worcestershire Sauce 1/2 c Canned Tomato Puree 141/2 oz Can Cut Tomatoes; \- with their juices 1/41b Chicken Sausage 4 c Cooked Brown Rice 2 c Stir-Fried Vegetables 1/41b Cooked Shrimp 1 Green Onion; minced 1/4 c Parsley; chopped Combine paprika, anise seed, marjoram, basil, Tabasco, jalapeno, Worcestershire, tomato puree and canned tomatoes with juice. Stir to combine. Preheat oven to 375?F. Lightly prick sausages with the tines of a fork. Place in a small baking pan and roast for 15 minutes. Remove from oven; reduce oven temperature to 350?F. Cut sausages into /4" rounds. Combine rice, sausages, and 1 cup tomato mixture in a 2 quart casserole; par to an even layer. Combine vegetables and shrimp with remaining tomato mixture; spoon over rice and sausages. Cover and bake for 15 minutes, until hot. Stir in green onions and parsley. Per Serving: 395 calories, 23 g protein, 63 g carbohydrate, 8 g fat, g saturated fat, 107 mg cholesterol, 529 mg sodium, 5 g fiber. Cajun Spiced Chicken and Rice Yield: 3 Servings 1 T Flour 1 Cooking bag 1 c Rice, instant 1 Bell pepper, cut in chunks 1/2 c Onion, chopped 1/4 c Celery, sliced 1/2 t Thyme leaves 1/4 t Salt 14 1/2 oz Tomatoes, canned, cut in Half 1/4 c Water 4 To 6 pieces chicken 1/4 t Cayenne 1/4 t Garlic powder Preheat oven to 350. Shake flour in cooking bag; place in 13x9x2-inch baking pan. Combine rice, green pepper, onion, celery, thyme and salt in bag. Add tomatoes and water; squeeze bag to blend ingredients. Arrange ingredients in an even layer. Combine cayenne pepper and garlic powder; sprinkle lightly over chicken. Place chicken in bag on top of rice mixture. Close bag with nylon tie; make half-inch slits in top. Bake 1 hour or until tender. Makes 2-3 servings. 58 Camp Tuna and Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 en Tuna; and liquid 1 c Quick-cooking brown rice 2 T Instant dried onikon 2 T Green pepper flakes 1 3/4 c Boiling water Heat tuna in its oil in a skillet. Add remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. Cover and cook 15 to 20 minutes. Carrot-Rice Puree Yield: 1 Serving 2 T Brown rice, uncooked 6 Carrots, scrubbed and chopped \- in small pieces 1 1/3 c Water A nutritious, smooth dish with a bit of texture for older infants. (or broth or leftover coking liquid from cooking vegetables) 1 teaspoon sweet butter (optional) Place rice and carrots in a saucepan with the water and cover. Simmer until the water is absorbed--about 30 to 40 minutes. When cool enough to handle, puree in blender or food processor with butter until smooth Refrigerate, or freeze leftovers in ice cube tray. Makes 1-1/ cups Carrot-Rice Soup 59 Yield: 6 Servings 1 lb Carrots, peeled and chopped 1 md Onion, chopped 1 T Margarine 4 c Chicken broth, divided 1/4 t Dried tarragon leaves 1/4 t Ground white pepper 2 1/4 c Cooked rice 1/4 c Light sour cream Snipped parsley or mint \- for garnish Cook carrots and onion in margarine in large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat 2-3 minutes or until onion is tender. Add 2 cups broth, tarragon, and pepper. Reduce heat; simmer 10 minutes. Combine vegetables and broth in food processor or blender; process until smooth. Return to saucepan. Add remaining 2 cups broth and rice; thoroughly heat. Dollop soup cream on each serving of soup. Garnish with parsley. Makes 6 servings. Catalan Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 1/2 c Fish Stock 1/4 t Saffron Threads 1/4 c Dry White Wine 6 T Lard 1/21b Chorizo, Sliced 1/4" 11/21b Pork Loin, 1" Cubes 1 Onion, Thinly Sliced 2 Bell Peppers, Julienned 2 Tomatoes, Peeled, Seeded 3 Large Squid 2 c Long-Grained Rice 3/4 c Blanched Almonds 1/3 c Pine Nuts 3 Garlic Cloves, Minced 1 c Artichoke Hearts, Drained 18 Clams Or Mussels, Scrubbed 1/2 c Peas 1/4 c Pimientos, Julienned 2 T Fresh Parsley, Minced Clean squid and cut body sacs into rings. Cut tentacles in half. In a small saucepan, bring stock to a bare simmer. Crush saffron and combine it with wine in a small bowl. In a flameproof casserole or paella pan, heat the lard over moderately high heat. Saute the chorizo 60 and pork, turning them until they are browned. Add the onion, bell peppers, tomatoes, and squid and cook the mixture over moderate heat, stirring, for 15 minutes. stir in the rice and cook for 1 minute, stirring. Stir in almonds, pine nuts, garlic, saffron mixture, and artichoke hearts. Ladle in enough stock to just cover the rice mixture. Bring to a boil and simmer it, covered, for 20 minutes. Arrange the clams in the rice, add the peas, and simmer for -15 minutes, or until the rice is just tender and the clams open. Discard any clams that do not open. Garnish with pimientos and parsley. Cauliflower & Wild Rice Soup Yield: 2 Quarts 1 md Onion, chopped 1 c Thinly sliced celery 1 c Sliced fresh mushrooms 1/2 c Butter or margarine 1/2 c Flour 1 qt Chicken broth 2 c Cooked wild rice 2 c Cauliflower florets, cooked 1 c Light cream In a large saucepan, saute onion, celery and mushrooms in butter until tender. Sprinkle with flour. Stir to coat well. Gradually add chicken broth. Cook and stir until thickned. stir in wild rice, cauliflower and cream until well blended. Cook gently until heated through. Do not boil. Char Kway Teow (Stir-Fried Rice Noodles) Yield: 4 Servings 2 Chinese sausages (lop cheong) 1/41b Medium shrimp (36 to \- 40 per pound), shelled \- and deveined 1 t Salt 1/41b Cleaned squid, with tentacles 61 -(See Technique Note) 1/41b Chinese barbecued pork 1/4 t White pepper 1 1/2 T Dark soy sauce 1 1/2 T Light soy sauce 1 T Oyster sauce 2 lb Fresh rice noodles, \- in 5/8-inch-wide strips 4 T Peanut oil 4 Cloves garlic, chopped 4 Shallots, sliced (1/2 cup \- sliced) 6 Fresh red chiles, seeded -and chopped 1 c Bean sprouts, tails removed 1 c Shredded Chinese cabbage 2 lg Eggs 4 Green onions, chopped Fresh coriander sprigs, \- for garnish Nothing is more fascinating and delicious than eating at the open-air street hawker centers in Asia, particularly in Singapore. Each stall serves a specialty, typically an honest, unpretentious, home-style dish for $1 to $3 a plate. This rice noodle dish is hawker food at its best. If done right, its fragrance will tell you how good it's going to be as soon as it arrives at your table. Singapore hawkers will use whatever seafoods are available, including cockles and sliced fish cakes in addition to those suggested in this recipe. Feel free to experiment. Steam the sausages for 10 minutes. Cut them in thin diagonal slices. Toss the shrimp with 1/2 teaspoon of the salt. Let them stand for 10 minutes, rinse well with cold water, drain, and pat dry. Cut the squid into 1/4 inch rings and tentacles. Cut the barbecued pork into 1/4-inch-thick slices. Combine the white pepper, soy sauces, and oyster sauce in a bowl; set aside. Just before cooking, put the noodles in a large bowl and pour boiling water over them. Stir gently with chopsticks to separate the strands, drain, and shake off the excess water. Preheat a wok; when hot, add 2 tablespoons of the oil. Add the remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt and the garlic, shallots, and chiles and cook over medium-high heat until the garlic is golden brown. Increase the heat to high and toss in the shrimp and squid; stiriry until the shrimp turn bright orange and the squid looks opaque white, about 2 minutes. Add the sausage slices, barbecued pork, bean sprouts, and cabbage; toss and stir until the vegetables begin to wilt. Remove everything in the wok to a platter and set aside. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to the wok; when hot, toss in the well-drained noodles. Gently toss and flip the noodles to heat them through. Be careful not to break them; it is okay if they brown slightly. Push the noodles up the sides of the wok to make a well in the middle; pour in the soy sauce mixture, then toss the noodles gently to sauce them evenly. Make a well again and break the eggs into the middle. Without mixing them with the noodles, scramble the eggs lightly. When the eggs begin to set, add the green onions and return the seafood mixture. Gently toss together to reheat and mix. Serve hot, with a hot chill sauce for seasoning to taste. Garnish with coriander sprigs. NOTE: Both here and in Asia, fresh rice noodles are usually purchased rather than made at home. Look for them in Asian markets or Chinese take-out dim sum shops. This dish can be prepared with dried rice noodles; however, it is worth taking the time to seek out the fresh variety. Make certain that your wok is well seasoned or the fragile rice noodles 62 will break apart and stick to the pan. Although I hesitate recommending that you cook with a non stick wok or skillet, they will work fine if you are more comfortable with them. TECHNIQUE NOTE; To clean squid, start by separating all the tentacles from the heads, cutting across as close as possible to the eyes. Squeeze out and discard the hard, pea sized beak in the center of each cluster of tentacles. Rinse the tentacles and drain them in a colander. Grasp the mantle (the saclike "body" of the squid) in one hand and the head in the other and pull apart; the entrails will pull out attached to the head. Pull the transparent quill out of each mantle. Discard everything but the tentacles and mantles. Running a little water into each mantle to open it up, reach in with a finger and pull out any entrails remaining inside. (Working over a second colander to catch all the debris will make cleanup easier.) You can remove the spotted outer skin or leave it on (I prefer to remove it). Transfer the cleaned mantles to a cutting board, slice them crosswise to the desired size,and add them to the tentacles in the colander. Give everything another rinse and drain thoroughly. Makes 4 to 6 servings Cheese and Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 2 1/2 c Brown rice cooked 3 Green onions, chopped 1 c Lowfat cottage cheese 1 t Dried dill 1/4 c Grated Parmesan cheese 1/2 c Lowfat milk Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl. Pour into a lightly oiled casserole. Bake at 350 F for 15 to 20 minutes. Cheese and Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 2 1/2 c Brown rice, cooked 3 Green onions, chopped 63 1 c Low fat cottage cheese 1 t Dried dill 1/4 c Grated parmesan cheese 1/2c 1%milk Combine all in a mixing bowl. Pour into casserole dish sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake at 350F for 15-20 minutes. One serving= 2 breads, 1 protein, 1/2 milk Per serving-- 235 calories Chestnuts With Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 md Onion, sliced finely 1/41b Mushrooms, sliced Margarine as required 1 t All-purpose flour 1/2 c Stock 1 lb Chestnuts, boiled Salt & black pepper 1/2 c White wine 2 c Cooked rice Saute onion & mushrooms in margarine till brown. Add flour & blend. Gradually add stock. Stir till smooth. Add peeled & chopped chestnuts & mix well. Season. Add white wine, heat to boiling point & serve over rice. Chicken & Rice Yield: 4 Servings ## 2 lg Chicken breasts \- [boneless skin on or off] en Cream of chicken soup en Cream of celery soup en Cream of mushroom soup en (soup can full) -rice [do not use minute 64 \- rice] 3/4 en (soup can) milk 1/8 t Salt 1/4 t Pepper Mix the soups, milk and the rice, and pour into a 9"x13" baking pan Split the chicken breasts into 4 equal parts and place them on top of the soup mix... Season with the salt and pepper and whatever else you prefer.. Bake in a 300? oven for 2 hrs... garnish as desired and serve.. Chicken & Rice Dinner Yield: 6 Servings 2 lb To 3 lb broiler/fryer -chicken, cut up 1/4 c (to 1/3 cup) flour ## 2 TOil 1 1/2 c Long grain rice 1 t Poultry seasoning 1 t Salt 1/2 t Pepper 1 c Milk 2 1/3 c Water Chopped fresh parsley Dredge chicken pieces in flour. In a skillet, heat oil on medium and brown chicken on all sides. Meanwhile, combine rice, poultry seasoning, salt, pepper, milk and water. Pour into a greased 13x9x2" baking pan. Top with chicken. Cover tightly with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 55 minutes or until rice and chicken are tender. Sprinkle with parsley before serving. Chicken & Rice Jambalaya Style Yield: 4 Servings ## 2 SLICES OF BACON 2 c WATER 1 package LIPTON CAJUN STYLE 65 THE -RICE 2 T KETCHUP 3/41b CHICKEN BREAST MEAT 1/2 c FROZEN PEAS (OPTIONAL) CUT CHICKEN INTO 1 INCH SQUARES. SET ASIDE. IN A LARGE SKILLET, COOK BACON UNTIL CRISP. REMOVE FROM SKILLET AND CRUMBLE. SET ASIDE. INTO SKILLET PLACE THE WATER, RICE & CAJUN STYLE SAUCE AND THE KETCHUP. BRING TO A BOIL. REDUCE HEAT AND SIMMER FOR 3 MINUTES, STIRRING OCCASIONALLY. STIR IN CHICKEN AND BACON (ALSO PEAS IF USED). COOK ANOTHER 5 TO 10 MINUTES OR UNTIL CHICKEN AND RICE ARE TENDER. EACH SERVING= 25% CALORIES FROM FAT. Chicken and Rice Yield: 4 Servings 6 Sonless chicken breasts, -skinned 2 en Cream of chicken soup 1 en Cream of mushroom soup 1 package Rice-a-roni (chicken \- flavor) Salt and pepper to taste In slow cooker put chicken breast with canned soups, alt and ppper. Cook all day on LOW (approx. 10 hrs. or until chicken is tender). Fix Rice-A-Roni per directions on box. Put on plate and place chicken and gravy on top. Chicken and Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 31b Chicken; cut up, skinned 1 1/2 t Dried thyme leaves 1 t Paprika 1 t Salt 1/2 t Pepper 2 T Vegetable oil 66 1 lb Yellow onions; halved,sliced 2 T Minced fresh gingerroot 4 lg Cloves garlic; minced 3/41b Shiitake mushrooms; or 3/41b -regular mushrooms stemmed, \- halved, quartered if big Yellow pepper; diced 3 c Chicken broth 1 1/2 c Jasmine rice ----------------N UTR I TlONAL INFORMATlON/SERV--------------------- x Calories x G protein x G carbohydrate x G fat x My cholesterol x Mg sodium Place chicken in bowl. In cup, mix thyme, paprika, 1/2 t salt and 1/4 t pepper; sprinkle over chicken. Turn to coat. In Dutch oven, heat oil over mediumheat; brown chicken in batches, 3 to 4 minutes each batch, removing chicken to plate after browning. To drippings in pan, add onions; saute 1 minute. Add remaining ingredients and remaining salt and pepper. Mix; top with chicken. Cover; bake 35 to 40 minutes or until chicken and rice are cooked. Chicken Baked Rice Yield: 8 Servings 4 c Long grain rice (or instant) 1/3 c Crisco Oil 1 en Mushrooms (optional) \- save the juice 4 c Water, or water+ saved juice 1 c Diced celery (optional) 1 Green pepper (optional) 2 c Cooked chicken or turkey \- some may want to try \- to substitute ham or beef package Onion sou[ mix 4 T Soya sauce Garlic Pepper Combine all ingrediants in a large dish or pot. Add Garlic and Pepper as desired. Cook in oven at 360 F for 1 hour. Place in a container and freeze unused protion till needed. 67 Chicken Breasts With Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 Jar (21/2 oz) Dried Beef 2 Med. Stalks Celery, Chopped 1 Small Onion, chopped 1 T Butter or Margarine 2 c Cooked Rice 2 T Chopped Parsley 1 Jar (1 oz) Pine Nuts (opt.) 1 1/21b (2 Med.) Chicken Breasts 1/2 t Seasoned Salt 1 x Paprika * Have the butcher bone and cut each breast in to halves. \---- Snip beef into small pieces. Cover and microwave beef, celery, onion and margarine in 2-Qt casserole on high (100%) until onion is crisp tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Stir in rice, parsley, and pine nuts. Arrange chicken breasts skin sides up and thickest parts ot outside on rice mixture. Sprinkle with seasoned salt and paprika. Cover and microwave 5 minutes; turn casserole one half turn. Microwave until chicken is done, 8 to 11 minutes. Chicken Curry Kabobs On Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1/2 c Yogurt, plain 1/4 t Curry powder 1/4 t Ginger 1 1/21b Chicken breast 3 c Rice, cooked 2 Green onions, sliced 1 t Garlic, minced 1/4 t Chili powder 1/4 t Salt 6 Skewers 1 Tomato, large, chopped Parsley Mix yogurt, garlic and spices. Marinate in refrigerator at least 6 hours, turning occasionally. Soak bamboo skewers for 1 hours. Drain and discard marinade. Thread chicken on skewers. Cook 8 to 10 minutes on grill, turning twice. Toss rice with tomato and green onions. Serve skewers over rice. 68 Chicken Livers and Mushrooms with Rice 100 Yield: 6 Servings 10 x Minutes preparation time 25 x Minutes cooking time \------------------------1 NGR EDI ENTS----------------------------- c Chicken broth 12 c Rice tb Butter Chicken livers; cut into -1/2 inch pieces 12 c Onion; chopped 12 c Mushrooms; sliced Freshly ground pepper tb Dry white wine tb Fresh parsley; chopped 12 c Parmesan cheese; grated In a medium-size saucepan, bring chicken broth to a boil. Add rice, reduce heat to low, and cook, covered, until broth is absorbed by rice, about 15 minutes. Meanwhile, in a large frying pan, melt butter over medium-low heat. Saute livers, onions, and mushrooms for 5 to 8 minutes. Season with pepper. Add wine and simmer 2 minutes. Pack rice into a 5-cup ring mold, unmold onto a platter. Spoon liver mixture into center. Srinkle with parsley and Parmesan cheese. Chicken 'n Rice in a Bag Yield: 4 Servings -Virginia Sonier (HCMC24B 3 lb Chicken parts 2/3 c Water 1 c Raw converted rice 1 package Dry onion soup mix 1 en Cream of chicken soup Rinse chicken and pat dry. Set aside. Combine rice, soup, and water in crockpot; stir well to mix in soup. Place chicken in a see-through roasting bag; add dry onion soup mix. Shake bag to coat chicken well. Puncture 4-6 holes in bottom of bag. Fold top of bag over chicken and place in crockpot on top of rice. Cover and cook on LOW setting 8-10 hrs. Chicken Rice Skillet 69 Yield: 4 Servings 1 T Oil 1/4 c Green onions, chopped 1 Garlic cloves, crushed 2 Chicken breasts, boneless 1 en Cream of mushroom soup 1 1/2 c Milk 4 oz Mushrooms, canned 1/4 t Black pepper 1 1/4 c Rice, quick, uncooked Cut chicken into thin strips. Heat oil in skillet. Add onions and garlic and cook two minutes, stirring occasionally. Add chicken. Cook until browned on all sides. Stir in soup, milk, mushrooms, and pepper. Heat to boiling. Add rice; reduce heat to low. Cover; simmer until done, stirring occasionally. Garnish with additional chopped green onions. Sylvia's comments: This is a keeper. Quick, easy, and VERY low-fat if you trim the fat from the chicken, use Campbell's fat-free soup and low-fat milk. I threw in 1/21b frozen green beans, too, since I like all-in-one meals. Chicken Rice Soup Yield: Makes 8-3/4 cup servings 2 Garlic cloves -finely Chopped 2/3 c Onion-chopped (about 1 md Onion) 8 c Basic chicken stock- (see Recipe) 3 Celery stalks - cut in 1/2 -inch slices 3 Carrots-peeled and cut 1/2 -inch thick 2/3 c Brown rice - rinsed 1 c Chicken-cooked, cut in Bite size chunks 1 t Marjoram - dried 3/4 t Salt 1/2 t Pepper In a 4-quart soup pot, cook the garlic and onion in 2 tablespoons of the chicken stock until the onion is translucent. Add the celery, carrots, rice, and remaining chicken stock. Simmer for 40 minutes. Add the cooked chicken pieces, marjoram, salt, and pepper. Simmer for 2 \- 3 more minutes, and serve. 70 Chicken Yellow Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 x Chicken Breasts, Halved 1 T Extra-Virgin Olive Oil Garlic Clove, Chopped sm Onion, Chopped Fine 1 c Raw Rice 3 c Water 1 pn Saffron Threads Or Powder 1 c Chopped Broccoli (Or Frozen) Saute the chicken in the oil with the garlic and onions until lightly browned. Remove mixture to a large pot, discarding excess oil. Add the rice, water, and large pinch of saffron to the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer. tightly covered, until the rice is tender (at least 30 min.), adding extra water if necessary. When the rice is nearly tender, add the broccoli to the top of the pot and cover. Cook for 5 min more. Broccoli should be bright green and tender when the meal is cooked.lfthe rice is done before the broccoli, simply turn off the heat, cover the pot again, and let the broccoli finish cooking by steaming. Children like the novel idea of "yellow" rice. Chicken-Flavored Rice Mix Yield: 1 Serving 4 c Uncooked Long Grain Rice ## 1 t Salt 2 t Dried Parsley Flakes 4 T Instant Chicken Bouillon 2 t Dried Tarragon 1/4 t White Pepper Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Stir until evenly distributed. Put about 11/3 cups into three 1-pint containers and label as Chicken-Flavored Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to 8 months. Makes about 4 cups of mix. CHICKEN-FLAVORED RICE: Mix 1 113 cups CHICKEN-FLAVORED RICE MIX with cups cold water and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring water to a boil over high heat. Cover and reduce the heat and cook for 15 to 25 minutes, until liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings. 71 Chickenlegs with Mango Chutney & Carott-Rice Yield: 2 Servings 18 oz Chickenlegs,allready cooked \---Chutney:--- Mango, fresh or 1/3 oz Mango ,canned 1 Onion 1 Piece of fresh lngwer 1 T Oil 2 oz Raisins 1 T Sugar 3 T Vinegar 1 T Catsup Pepper 1/2 t Coriander 1/2 t Kurcuma \---Rice:--- 5 oz Rice 3 T Coconut, shredded 3 1/2 oz Carotts 1/3 oz Butter 2 T Sugar Bake the precooked chickenlegs in 200 Coven untill they are brown. 2. Peel the mango, remove stone and cut into small cubes. 3. Peel and chop onion finely. 4. Peel and chop ingvver finely. 5. Heat the oil and saute the onion; add the mango and ingwer.Saute a minute more.Add the rest and let it simmer 30 minutes. Let it cool and season as hot as you like. 6. Simmer the rice in saltwater until done; keep warm 7. Put the coconut into a dry skillet and brown it. Peel the carotts and cut into fine strips or grate them. 9. Heat the butter in skilett and fry the carotts shortly; add sugar and heat until sugar has become caramel. Stir all the time. 1O.Add carotts and the coconut to the rice, mix and serve with the cold chicken and the cold mango. Good for hot summerdays. Chii-Beer Brisket Of Beef Over Wild Rice Amadine Yield: 8 Servings 2 1/21b Fresh Beef Brisket 1/2 c Diced Onion 1 t Salt 1 t Pepper 1/4 t Garlic Powder 1 Bottle (12 Oz) Chili Sauce 1 Bottle (12 oz) Beer 72 1 x Wild Rice Amadine \-------------------------GAR NISHE8------------------------------ ea Med. Ripe Tomatoes, Sliced x Parsley Sprigs Place beef brisket, fat side down, in deep roasting pan. Sprinkle brisket with onion, salt, pepper and garlic powder. Pour chili sauce over brisket. Cover tightly and cook in slow oven (325 degrees F.) for 3 hours. Pour beer over brisket. Increase oven temperature to moderate (350 degrees F.) and continue cooking, covered, 30 minutes. Place brisket on large serving platter and surround with Wild Rice Amadine. Garnish with sliced tomatoes and parsley. Slice brisket very thin and serve with hot cooking liquid. Chinese Chicken Cooked with Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 1/2 c Long grain white rice 8 oz Boneless chicken thighs \- with skin removed 1 T Light soy sauce 2 t Dark soy sauce 2 t Rice wine or dry sherry ## 1 t Salt 2 t Sesame oil 1 t Cornstarch 1 1/2 T Peanut oil 2 t Minced peeled fresh ginger \--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- tb Dark soy sauce tb Finely chopped scallions PUT RICE IN CLAY POT or medium-sized pot with water to cover about -inch. Bring rice to boil; cook until most water evaporates. Reduce heat to low and cover tightly. Coarsely chop chicken; combine with soy sauces, wine, salt, sesame oil and cornstarch. Heat wok or large saute pan until hot. Add oil and ginger; stirfry for 10 seconds. Add chicken, and stirfry for 2 minutes. Pour the contents of wok on top of the rice, cover, and continue to cook for 10 minutes. Just before serving, drizzle the soy sauce on top of the rice and garnish with the scallions. Chinese Crab Rice 73 Yield: 6 Servings Stephen Ceideburg 2 Green onions, chopped 1 Piece fresh ginger, \- 2-3 em, grated 4 T Dry sherry 3 T Light soy sauce 3 Blue crabs 400 g Glutinous rice 1 T Soy sauce 1 T Oil 1 t Sugar The Chinese have comfort food, too, and this dish qualifies. You will need a large steamer; if you don't yet have one, they can be bought cheaply in large Chinese or Vietnamese food stores where you can also pick up the glutinous rice. The dish takes considerably longer to cook than the previous recipes but little more of the cook's time. By the time the rice is cooked, it is saturated with crab flavour. Finely chop 2 green (spring) onions and grate 2-3 ems of fresh ginger. Combine them with 4 tablespoons dry sherry and 3 tablespoons light soy sauce. Prepare three green blue swimmers crabs. Chop two of them into several pieces with a large knife or cleaver and crack the hardest pieces of the shell with a hammer. Crack the third crab thoroughly all over but do not chop up. Pour the sherry-soy sauce mixture over the crabs and leave to marinate for an hour. Wash 400 grams glutinous rice in several changes of water until the water runs clear. Put the rice into a saucepan and pour over it 1.5 L water. Bring to the boil and boil for 5 minutes. Drain. In the bottom of a heatproof dish at least 12 em deep and of a size to fit into your steamer, pack in the chopped crab pieces, reserving the marinade. Pour the rice over the top and pack it down. Press the intact crab into the top of the rice. To the marinade, add a further tablespoon soy sauce and a tablespoon oil, teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon sugar. Pour over the crabs and rice. Put the dish in the steamer over boiling water and steam for 35-40 minutes. Serve. Diners deal first with the top crab, now half buried in rice, then fish around, for the rest of the crab pieces in rice. Chinese Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 4 c Rice, leftover; cold 6 sl Bacon; cooked,crumbled OR- 1/4 c BACOs 1 T Sugar, white 3 T Soy sauce dark 3 Eggs 74 4 Green onions; including -green, sliced 1/4 c Peas, frozen (optional) \- Bacon drippings or oil Cut bacon into cubes and cook until crisp. Drain but keep drippings. Set bacon aside. Beat 3 eggs in bowl with a little water until well blended Heat wok over med high temp, pour 1 Tbl bacon fat drippings into wok. Pour eggs in wok, scramble until set and remove and set aside. Place 2 Tbl bacon fat drippings into wok. Place cold rice into wok and stir fry for 2-3 mins. Add sugar and soy sauce, stir fry until uniform in color. Add green onions, (peas-optional), bacon and cooked eggs. Stir fry for another minute, serve hot. You can add any other meats such as leftover cooked pork, chicken, ham, _etc._ Add with the green onions and peas. MEATLESS VERSION Follow above except use peanut oil instead of bacon drippings. Replace bacon with 1/4 cup of BACOS or BACO chips. Chinese Pork & Shrimp Rice Noodles in Broth Yield: 6 Servings 4 Oriental mushrooms; dried . OR . 6 fresh mushrooms 6 Leaves of Napa cabbage 1/21b Pork chop meat; thinly . sliced into 1/4" strips 1 T Soy sauce 1 t Hoisin sauce 3 T Water 2 t Cornstarch 4 T Vegetable oil 3 Green onions; cut into 2" . slivers 1 c Small shrimp; peeled & . deveined 8 c Chicken stock 1/21b Rice stick noodles (may . substitute egg noodles . or vermicelli) 1 t Salt 1/4 t Black pepper Soak the dried mushrooms in hot water for 10 minutes. Remove the stems and slice the caps into strips. (Just slice the fresh mushrooms, if using fresh). Set aside. Stack the cabbage leaves; then cut across into strips 2 inches wide. Cut each strip across the width into slivers 2 inches in length. Set 75 aside. Place the pork strips in a bowl with the soy sauce, hoisin sauce, water and cornstarch. Mix until the pork is thoroughly coated. set aside to marinate for 20 minutes. Heat the oil in a wok or large skillet over high heat and stirfry the pork for 3 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, drain the pork and remove to a paper-towel-lined plate. Bring the oil back up to high heat and stirfry the mushrooms and onions for 2 minutes. Add the shredded cabbage and shrimp and fry until the shrimp becomes pink and the cabbage becomes limp. Add the stock and bring to a boil. Add the rice noodles and boil for one minute. Return the pork to the wok just to heat through and season with the salt and pepper. NOTE: Some ingredients may be available only at Asian grocers. Vietnamese variation: Omit the mushrooms. Stirfry the onions with the pork. Substitute 3 large tomatoes, each cut into 6 segments, for the cabbage. Serve the soup in individual bowls, first placing a lettuce leaf torn into a few pieces, a few bean sprouts, 4 or 5 narrow strips of cucumber, 3 mint leaves and a scattering of chopped cilantro leaves in the bottom of each bowl before pouring the soup in. Garnish with a sprinkling of crushed peanuts. This version may also be made with chicken instead of pork. Nutritional Information per serving: 411 calories, 20g fat, 122mg cholesterol, 1753mg sodium Chinese: Shrimp Fried Rice Yield: 3 Servings \---GATE VANICEK-- c Cold cooked rice 3 Eggs, slightly beaten 1/3 c Raw shrimp, cleaned and Slivered 1/3 c BBQ pork 1/2 t Corn starch 1 tWine 1 T Soy sauce 1/4 t MSG (optional) 2 Green onions, diced 1 t Salt Peanut oil Pan-fry the eggs into thin sheets in a frying pan. Remove and cut into small strips. Heat peanut oil over high heat. Stirfry shrimp and chicken. When done, sizzle in 1 tsp. wine. Add the cooked rice. Stir until well-mixed. Add 1 tbsp. soy sauce, /4 tsp. MSG and the diced green onion. Add 1 tsp. salt (or more). Stir-frry for at least 10 minutes over MEDIUM heat. Add egg strips. 76 Serve hot. Note: The cooked rice should not be sticky. It might even be better to use day-old rice. If you must use freshly cooked rice, you may spread the rice on a cookie sheet and let cool completely before you stirfry it. Chunky Chicken Rice Soup Yield: 7 Servings 1 c Cooked cubed chicken 1 t Oil for frying 2 c Chicken broth 1 c Water 10 oz Frozen mixed vegetables 1/2 t Poultry seasoning 1/4 t Pepper 1 c Minute Rice 1 T Dried parsley >. In a skillet, fry chicken in hot oil until browned. Add broth, water, vegetables (thawed) and seasonings. 2>. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer 5 minutes. stir in Minute Rice and parsley; cover, remove from heat. Let stand 5 minutes before serving. Coconut Rice Noodles Yield: 4 Servings 150 g Dried rice noodles 2 t Sesame oil 225 g Firm tofu 300 Vegetable stock 75 g Creamed coconut 2 T Soy sauce 1 sm Onion 2 lg Red chillies 3 Garlic cloves 100 g Bean sprouts 77 ## 4 Spring onions 2 T Fresh coriander Seasoning Preparation: Cut the tofu into 2.5cm cubes Crumble the creamed coconut Grate the onion Finely slice the chillies Crush the garlic cloves Thinly slice the spring onions Chop the fresh coriander Pour boiling water over the noodles and leave for one minute then rinse wuth cold water and drain thoroughly. Heat the oil in a large frying pan and fry the tofu cubes until lightly golden on all sides. Heat the vegetable stock in a medium pan, then add the creamed coconut, soy sauce, onion, chillies and garlic and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the cooked noodles, bean sprouts, spring onion slices and fried tofu and cook for a further 3 minutes. Season to taste, add the coriander and serve. cal per serving 12g protein 35g carbohydrate 29g fat 6g saturated fat (medium)_ no added sugar 4g fibre (medium) 0.78g salt (medium) Columbian Squash Stuffed With Dirty Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 Columbian squash, about \- 5 pounds 1 lb Extra lean ground chuck 1/41b Chicken giblets, chopped fine 1/41b Bulk sausage 2 T Mcilhenny Tabasco pepper \- sauce 1/4 t Salt 2 Small cayenne peppers, -chop fine Olive oil 2 c Beef stock or water The Columbian squash used in this recipe may be replaced with a small pumpkin, as the edible portions are similar in color, taste and texture. Cut and remove a section of the squash top as if you were about to carve a "Jack-0-Lantern". Remove the seeds and stringy parts of the vegetable. Mix the salt and Mcllhenney Co. Tabasco sauce and rub onto the inside of the squash (or pumpkin). Replace the squash top, and microwave on high for about 5 minutes. While squash is in the microwave, brown the ground meats, along with the chicken giblets in a small amount of olive oil in a heavy skillet. When the meats are browned, drain off excess fat, then add beef stock or water bring to a boil, add the package of dirty rice mix, return to boil, lower heat and simmer 5 minutes. Place the mixture into the squash or pumpkin, replace the top and microwave on high for about 6 minutes per pound of squash. 78 Company Microwave Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Rice; unconverted, uncooked 2 T Butter 1/3 c Celery; finely chopped 1/3 c Green onion; finely chopped 3 T Soy sauce 1 c Bouillon; chicken 1/2 c Mushrooms; fresh sliced 1/2 c Peas; frozen Combine rice and butter and cook, uncovered on HIGH (100%) for 4 to minutes or till rice has browned. Stir 2 times while cooking. Add celery and green onions and cook an additional minute. Add remaining ingredients except mushrooms and peas. Stir well and return to microwave. Stir and let stand covered for 10 minutes. If mushrooms and peas are done, serve. If not, microwave 3-5 minutes to complete. Fluff and serve. Cooking Rice on the stove Yield: 1 Serving 1 Free Flow Recipe This is gonna seem so simple that you won't believe that it will work, but it does. The thing with rice cooking is that folks tend to make it too hard. Get out a nice heavy pan with a tight fitting lid. (Visions is nice for this cause you can see what's going on in the pot.) Get a bag of normal ol' long grain rice++not Rice-A-Roni or Uncle Ben's or any of that "converted" stuff. Dump as much into the pot as you like (one cup dry makes about three cups cooked). At this point, you can either rinse it or not. If you don't the rice will be a tad stickier when done. (That makes it good for eating with chopsticks.) If you rinse it well it will be a tad "fluffier". Personally, over the years I've come to NOT rinse my rice. It's just too much work and I can't really see that much difference in the finished product. 79 Level the rice in the pot and place your index finger so that it just touches the surface of the rice. Add water until the level comes just up to the crease at the backside of the top of the first knuckle on your index finger. Crank the heat up on the stove quite high and put the pot of rice on the burner. Stir the rice lightly before it comes to a boil, just once, so it doesn't stick. Let the shebang come to a full, rolling boil, then lower the heat to about medium. Let it boil, UNDISTURBED, until the free water evaporates and little holes appear in the surface of the rice. When this stage is reached, immediately lower the heat to the lowest setting possible (one of those "flame tamers" that you set on the burner can be helpful here), cover the rice and let it simmer and steam for about twenty minutes. DO NOT LIFT THE LID UNTIL THE TIME HAS ELAPSED-DO NOT STIR THE RICE!!! Sorry++didn't mean to shout.;-} When the time has passed you will have a pot of perfectly cooked rice. Fluff it a bit when you put it in the serving dish. No complex procedures, no measurements and very little fuss and muss.. This is an old Chinese method of cooking rice and it works regardless of the amount of rice used. Just remember the "first knuckle rule" and things should work well. I don't add salt to mine, but I don't imagine that it would cause any problems. I've never cooked brown rice this way, but I imagine it would work if you doubled the steaming time. Another easy way to get perfect rice is to buy one of those Japanese rice cookers. They run around forty bucks and are really quite good at what they do. I'm using one made by Hitachi that works very well. Cornish Hen Halves and Wild Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1/4 c Green onions, sliced 1 T Margarine 1 t Chicken bouillon granules 1/4 t Ground sage 1/3 c Wild rice 1/3 c Long grain rice 1/4 c Carrot, shredded 2 T Snipped fresh parsley 2 Cornish game hens, halved -lengthwise (1 to 1/2 pounds -each) 1/4 c Apple juice concentrate 1 t Lemon juice 2 md Apples, sliced In a medium saucepan, combine green onion, margarine, bouillon granules, sage, and 1113 cups water. Bring to boiling. Stir in wild rice; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes. stir in long grain rice, carrot, and parsley. Cover and simmer for about 20 minutes 80 more or until rice is done and liquid is absorbed. In a shallow baking dish, spoon rice mixture into four mounds. Place hens on rice mounds; cover loosely with foil. Roast in a 375F oven for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, in a small bowl combine the apple juice concentrate and lemon juice. Uncover hens; roast for about 35 minutes more or until drumsticks can be twisted easily in sockets. During the last 15 minutes, add apple slices; brush hens and apples with apple juice mixture. Makes 4 servings. Costa Rican Beef & Vegetable Soup with Yellow Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 Ound Lean, boneless -beef chuck 1 1/2 inch cubes 1 g Onion, thinly sliced 1 Up Celery, thinly sliced 3 Cloves garlic, minced 1 Dry bay leaf 1 g Red bell pepper, seeded and Cut into thin, bite-size Strips 1 1/2 Up Water 2 en (about 14 1/2 oz.@) Beef broth \------------------------YELLOW RICE----------------------------- g Ear corn, cut into 3/4 inch Thick slices Up Coarsely shredded cabbage Up Lightly packed cilantro Leaves Salt and pepper THE SOUP Arrange beef cubes slightly apart in a single layer in a shallow baking pan. Bake in a 500 oven until well browned (about 20 minutes). Meanwhile, in a 3 1/2 quart or larger crockpot, combine onion, celery, garlic, bay leaf and bell pepper. Transfer browned beef to crockpot. Pour a little of the water into baking pan, stirring to dissolve drippings and pour into crockpot. Add broth and remaining water. Cover and cook on low about 8 hours. About 15 minutes before beef is done, prepare Yellow Rice. While rice is cooking, increase cooker setting to high; add corn. Cover; cook for 5 minutes. Add cabbage; cover and cook until cabbage is bright green, 8 to 10 more minutes. Stir in cilantro; season with salt and pepper. Ladle soup into wide, shallow bowls; add a scoop of rice to each. THE RICE 1 tablespoon salad oil1 small onion, finely chopped 1 cup long-grain white rice 1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric /4 cups water Heat oil in 2-quart pan over medium heat. Add the onion; cook, stirring until onion is soft but not browned, (3 to 5 minutes). Stir in the rice and tumeric; cook, stirring occasionally, for about 1 minute. Pour in the water and reduce heat to 81 low and cook until rice is tender, about 20 minutes. Country Rice Yield: 2 Servings 1/3 c Chicken stock-made without \- salt or fat 1/3 c Green onion-chopped \- pinch freshly ground \- black pepper 1/3 c Rice-white, uncooked PREPARATION: Bring the stock to a boil with the green onion and pepper. Add the rice; turn down to a simmer and cover; cook for 20 minutes. NOTE: If you want drier rice, remove the cover at 20 minutes and heat just a minute or so longer. VARIATIONS: Rice made with fish stock (see recipe page 89) can be served with fish, beef-stock rich with beef. If you begin adding more vegetables, you will end up with a jambalaya instead of a side course of Country Rice. Calories 115.0 Protein 234.0 g Carbohydrates 25.5 g Dietary Fiber 0.783 g Fat-Total .147 g Fat-Saturated .037 g Fat-Mono .036 g Cholesterol 0.0 mg Calcium 18.7 mg Iron 1.22 mg Sodium 3.93 mg Crackling Rice Soup Yield: 6 Servings 1/2 c Rice, raw 1 c Water 1/2 t Salt 2 T Peanut Oil 1 1/2 qt Chicken Broth 2/3 c Baked Ham, slivered 1/3 c Green Onions, chopped Soy Sauce Recipe By :California Cooks! by McDermott and Marks Serving Size Preparation Time :0:00 Categories Chinese 82 Soups Combine rice, water and salt in a small saucepan. Heat to boiling; cover and simmer 25 mins. Cool. Toss cooled rice with peanut oil in a large skillet until rice turns golden brown. Keep hot until ready to serve. Meanwhile heat together chicken broth, ham and green onions. turn into large soup tureen. Serve soup at the table topping each bowl with a spoonful or two of hot rice which crackles as it goes into the soup. Pass soy sauce, adding individually to taste. Makes 6 servings. NOTES: According to legend; once, when a beginning Chinese cook once over cooked a pot of rice, he tasted the scorched crust and found it good. A rice crust, deep fat fried, is dropped crackling hot into this novel soup in restaurants. This is a home-grown version. CranberryANild Rice Stuffing Yield: 4 Servings 12 c Wild Rice, uncooked 1 c Water 1/4 c Raisins, dark or golden 5 Green Onions (scallions), chopped 1 tb Vegetable Oil1/2 c Celery -or Fennel Bulb, chopped 1 c Cranberries, fresh or frozen 1 ts Orange Rind, grated 1/2 t Dried Thyme Put the wild rice in a saucepan. Add the water and raisins and cook over medium heat for 1 hour, or until the rice is tender. Drain Saute the onions and celery (or fennel bulb) in the oil until tender. Add the cranberries, orange rind, thyme and rice. Stuff into two Cornish hens or a 3-pound chicken, or use with turkey breast. Bake in a 350-degree oven for 1 hour, or until the poultry is done. Creamy Chicken and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 6 7/8 oz Pkg. chicken flavor rice- 2 1/4 c Hot water 1 c Sliced mushrooms 1 1/21b Skinned, boned chicken breas Cut into bite-sized pieces 83 1/2 t Garlic powder 3/4 c Non-fat sour cream 1/4 t Pepper 1 en Low-cal cream \- of mushroom sp 1/4 c Cracker crumbs 1 t Melted margarine 1/2 t Poppyseeds **This recipe calls for 1 6.9 oz. package of chicken flavored rice and vermicelli mix with chicken broth and herbs. Cook the rice mix in a large nonstick skillet according to package directions, using 1 tb margarine and 2-1/4 cups hot water. When done, remove from the skillet and set aside. Wipe the skillet with a paper towel. Coat the skillet with cooking spray, and place over high heat until hot. Add the chicken, mushrooms, and garlic powder: saute for minutes or till the chicken loses its pink color. Combine the rice mixture, chicken mixture, sour cream, pepper, and soup in a bowl: stir well. Spoon into a greased 2-quart casserole. Combine the cracker crumbs, margarine, and poppyseeds. Stir well, and sprinkle over the chicken mixture. Bake at 350 for 35 minutes or until thoroughly heated. Each 1-1/3 cup serving contains 334 calories and 6.8 grams of fat. You can freeze this in single servings in containers or zip-lock bags. Just heat it up in the microwave and you've got a home-cooked meal in a hurry. Creamy Rice Pudding Yield: 4 Servings 1/3 c Short grain rice, uncooked 1/2 c Whipping cream 1 qt Milk 1/2 c Sugar 1/8 t Nutmeg OR 1 t Vanilla 3 T Butter or margarine PREHEAT OVEN TO 300F. Sprinkle rice evenly over the bottom of a buttered 1 1/2-quart casserole. Mix milk and sugar, pour over rice, sprinkle with nutmeg and dot with butter. Bake, uncovered, 2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes for the first 11/2 hours, until lightly browned. Remove from oven and stir in whipping cream. Bake another 12 hour. Makes 4 to 6 Servings 84 Creole Liver and Rice Yield: 2 Servings 1/21b Beef liver 1 T Vegetable oil 1/3 c Green bell pepper,chopped 1 en Stewed tomatoes(8oz) 1/2 t Basil 1/2 t Salt 1/2 t Garlic salt 1 pn Black pepper 2 T Sherry 1 c Rice,hot cooked Cut liver into serving pieces. In skillet, brown liver quickly in oil on both sides. Add remaining ingredients except rice; cover and simmer 45 minutes, or until iver is tender. Uncover and allow sauce to thicken, if necessary. Serve over mounds of hot rice. Creole-Style Red Beans & Rice Yield: 10 Servings 1 lb Red beans 8 Cloves garlic, chopped 1 Rib celery, chopped 1/41b Salami 1 lb Smoked sausage 1 Large onion, chopped 1/4 Bell pepper, chopped 1 t Sugar Salt & pepper to taste 1 pn Thyme 1 lb Weiners Wash beans thoroughly; cover with water and place on medium fire. Chop sausage and salami and add to beans; add garlic celery, onions, green pepper, sugar, and thyme. Continue cooking until beans are soft, adding more water if necessary When beans are soft, add weiners, sliced in 1" pes., and salt and pepper to taste. Cook until gravy is thick and creamy. Serve over hot cooked rice. 85 Crockpot Chicken & Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1/21b Mushrooms, fresh 1/2 c Onions, chopped 21b Chicken, raw 1 t Chicken bouillon 1 t Poultry seasoning 1/4 t Salt 2 c Water 3/4 c Rice, uncooked Slice mushrooms. Remove skin from chicken. Spray 12" skillet with nonstick spray coating. Brown mushrooms, onion, and chicken pieces on all sides over medium heat about 15 minutes. stir in seasonings and transfer to crockpot. Can be refrigerated overnight. Start crockpot on LOW. When ingredients are heated, add rice. Cook until done. PER SERVING: 265 cal, 25g prot, 27g carbo, 6g fat, 67mg chol, 20% of calories from fat CrockPot Chicken & Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 4 lg Chicken breasts 1 en Cream of chicken -soup (small en Cream of clery -soup (small) en Cream of mushroom -soup (sm) 1/2 c Diced celery 1 c Minute rice Mix in crockpot the 3 cans of soup and rice. Place the chicken on top of the mixture, then add the diced celery. Cook for 3 hours on high or 4 hours on low. Makes 4 servings. More rice, about 1/2 cup, and 2 other chicken breasts may be added to make 6 servings. Linda Scales 86 Crockpot Chicken and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1/21b Mushrooms, fresh 1/2 c Onions, chopped 21b Chicken, raw 1 t Chicken bouillon 1 t Poultry seasoning 1/4 t Salt 2 c Water 3/4 c Rice, uncooked Preparation: Slice mushrooms. Remove skin from chicken. Spray 12" skillet with nonstick spray coating. Brown mushrooms, onion, and chicken pieces on all sides over medium heat about 15 minutes. stir in seasonings and transfer to crockpot. Can be refrigerated overnight. Start crockpot on LOW. When ingredients are heated, add rice. Cook until done. PER SERVING: 265 cal, 25g prot, 27g carbo, 6g fat, mg chol. CrockPot Chicken and Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 4 lg Chicken breasts 1 en Cream of chicken -soup (small en Cream of clery -soup (small) en Cream of mushroom -soup (sm) 1/2 c Diced celery 1 c Minute rice Mix in crockpot the 3 cans of soup and rice. Place the chicken on top of the mixture, then add the diced celery. Cook for 3 hours on high or 4 hours on low. Makes 4 servings. More rice, about 1/2 cup, and 2 other chicken breasts may be added to make 6 servings. Linda Scales Formatted by Dottie Hanssen PBTN79A 87 Crockpot Rice Pudding with Fruit Yield: 8 Servings 1/2 ga Milk; see note 1 c Rice 1 c Sugar 3 T Margarine; solid 1/4 t Salt; optional 1 t Vanilla extract 1/2 c Dried apricots or peaches; m 1/4 t Ground cinnamon Recipe by: JoAnne Merrill Preparation Time: 3:00 Use half nonfat and half whole milk, or all nonfat for lower fat content. Substitute canned milk for the regular milk for a very rich flavor. The cooking time will vary greatly, anywhere from 1-1/2 to -1/2 hours. The longer it cooks the thicker it will be. It is important to have the dried apricots minced. Put all ingredients into crockpot. Stir to blend well. Cover and cook on high-1/2 hours, stir once after about 1 hour. Or, cook on high for the first 30 minutes, turn to low and cook as long as you desire. Check after the first 2 hours of low cooking and stir. If rice is not absorbing the milk quickly enough, turn the crockpot up to high again. Keep cover on at all times. Crockpot temperatures vary widely among different brands. Only experimentation can tell you the correct amount of time for cooking in your crockpot. Rarely will a crockpot recipe fail, though, as the long, slow cooking process does not require precise timing. Cumin Rice With Eggplant And Peppers Yield: 4 Servings 1 1/2 c Brown rice 2 T Virgin olive oil 1 T Butter 1 Eggplant (10-12 oz) cut \- in 1/2-inch cubes md Onion cut into \- 1/4-inch squares Salt sm Green bell pepper -cut into 1/2-inch squares sm Red or yellow \- pepper or a mixture, -cut into 1/2-inch squares 2 md Tomatoes; peeled, -seeded and cut into large \- pieces -OR-88 15 oz -Canned Tomatoes, drained \- and cut into large pieces 4 t Ground cumin 1/2 t Turmeric 1/4 t Ground ginger 1/4 t Ground cinnamon 1/2 t Freshly ground pepper 1/4 c Chopped parsley or cilantro 3 c Water 1 c Dried provolone (optional) -=OR=- Monterey Jack \- =OR=- Muenster cheese RINSE THE RICE, cover it with water and set it aside to soak while you prepare the rest of the vegetables. Preheat the oven to 375F. Warm the oil and butter in a large skillet. Add the eggplant and onion, salt them lightly, and rapidly saute them to distribute the oil. Cook over medium heat until the eggplant is soft but not mushy, about 5 minutes. Add the peppers, tomatoes, spices (including the pepper), parsley and more salt to taste. Stir carefully, combining everything well. Drain the rice and add it to the pan along with 3 cups water. Turn up the heat to bring the water to a boil, then transfer everything to a baking dish, such as a large, earthenware gratin dish. Lay a piece of parchment over the top, cover with foil, and bake until the rice is done, about 45 minutes. Toss the diced cheese, if you're using it, into the rice and serve. Serves 4 as a main course or 6 to 8 as a side dish. Curried Rice And Lentils Yield: 6 Servings 2 c Lentils; rinsed 4 c Water 1/2 c Butter (less if desired) 2 Carrots; grated 2 Onions; finely chopped 2 Cloves garlic;finely chopped 6 T Flour 2 c Applesauce 1 T Curry powder 2 c Water 1/4 c Lemon juice 2 c Cooked rice Cook the lentils in the water for 30 minutes; drain. Melt butter and add the carrot, onion, and garlic and saute for a minute. Add the flour, applesauce, curry powder and 2 cups water. Simmer for 30 minutes. Add the lemon juice, lentils, and rice. Heat the dish thoroughly and serve. 89 Curried Rice With Pineapple Diabetic, Low Fat, Side Dish, Vegetarian Yield: 4 Servings 1 onion, chopped 1 1/2 c water 1 1/4 c low-sodium beef broth 1 c uncooked rice 1 t curry powder 1/4 t garlic powder 8 oz pineapple chunks, drained In a medium saucepan, combine onion, water, and beef broth. Bring to a boil, and add rice, curry powder and garlic powder. Cover and reduce heat. Simmer for 25 minutes. Add pineapple and continue to simmer 5 to 7 minutes more until rice is tender and water is absorbed. Transfer to a serving bowl and serve. This recipe yields 4 servings. Serving size: about 1/2 cup. Exchanges Per Serving: 3 Starch. Diabetic Chicken Rice Dinner Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Uncooked rice ## 1 t Salt 1 en Cream of chicken soup 1 en Warm water 2 lb Chicken parts 2 md Carrots, peeled and cut In a 3 quart microwave casserole mix salt, rice, carrots, soup and water. Place chicken parts, thick side out, around outside of casserole and baste with a bit of the liquid. Cover tightly and cook on high for 20 minutes. Shake casserole to stir, don't lift cover. Cook on high an additional 10-15 minutes. Let carry over cook covered for 10 minutes. Check for doneness. Cook another minute or two if needed. Serves 4 Dill-Lemon Rice Mix 90 Yield: 1 Serving 4 c Long Grain Rice, Uncooked 4 t Dill Weed Or Dill Seed 8 t Instant Chicken Bouillon 5 t Dried Grated Lemon Peel 2 t Salt Combine all ingredients in a large bowl and blend well. Put about 1 12 cups of mix into 3 1-pint airtight containers and label as Dill-Lemon Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to months. Makes about 4 1/2 cups of mix. Dill-Lemon Rice: Combine 1 1/2 cups of mix, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; cover and reduce heat. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes until liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings. Dirty Rice Yield: 2 Servings 2 T Chicken fat 1/21b Chicken gizzards 1/41b Ground pork 1 Bay leaves 1 Yellow onions 1 1/2 Celery stalks 1/2 Bell peppers, green 1 Garlic cloves 1 t Tabasco sauce 1 t Salt 1 t Black pepper 2 t Paprika 1 t Dry mustard 1 t Cumin 1/2 t Thyme 1/2 t Oregano 2 T Butter 2 c Pork stock 1/21b Chicken livers 1 c Rice Mince onion, bell pepper, celery and garlic. Grind livers and gizzards. Place fat, gizzards, pork and bay leaves in large heavy skillet over high heat; cook until meat is thoroughly browned, about minutes, stirring occasionally. stir in the onion, celery, bell pepper, garlic, Tabasco, salt, pepper, paprika, mustard, cumin, thyme, and oregano; stir thoroughly, scraping pan bottom well. Add the butter and stir until melted. Reduce heat to medium and cook about 8 minutes, stirring constantly and scraping pan bottom well. Add the stock or water and 91 stir until any mixture sticking to the pan bottom comes loose; cook about 8 minutes over high heat, stirring once. Then stir in the chicken livers and cook about 2 minutes. Add the rice and stir thoroughly; cover pan and turn heat to very low; cook about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and leave covered until rice is tender, about 10 minutes. Remove bay leaves and serve immediately. Dixie's Red Beans and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 en Dark Red Kidney Beans 1/2 package Sausage, fully cooked 1/2 x Onion, Chopped 1 c Rice, long cooking white 1 x Cajun, Creole seasoning 1 x Louisiana hot sauce 1 x Cayenne pepper 1 x Black pepper Cook rice according to package directions. Microwave is best. Takes about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, in saucepan, combine cans of beans, 2 cans water, Louisiana hot sauce (Red Devil is right kind but not Texas Pete or tabasco. Sauce is based on cayenne peppper.) Also onion, Creole and/or Cajun seasoning, avail. in spice or Cajun section of store; but LOOK OUT FOR THOSE THAT CONTAIN SALT if so, don't add too much and don't add extra salt. If Cajun seasoning contains salt, you can easily get too salty! Also may add cayenne pepper to taste; Black pepper. Chop up sausage (any kind is OK as long as "Fully cooked"; hot is preferable to most who prefer a hot taste!) Taste as you go to make sure not too salty or too hot. Boil slowly for about 20 minutes, until it begins to thicken and smells REAL good. Serve beans in bowl OVER white rice. Dolmadakia (Stuffed Grapeleaves with Rice.) Yield: 75 Servings 16 oz Grape leaves 3/4 c Extra virgin olive oil 92 3 Onions; more if desired (shredded or minced finely) 1 3/4 c Rice 1 Lemon, juiced or more, -to taste Dill; very finely chopped 1 3/4 c -Hot water 3/4 t Salt 1/4 t Pepper Sautee the onion with half the oil. Add the rice and let cook for a few minutes. Add the dill, the hot water and salt and pepper. Boil for about 5 minutes. Let it cool. Steam the grape leaves and rinse with plenty of water in a collander. Wrap the rice mixture with the grape leaves. This is the most difficult and time consuming part, although after you are through it a couple of times you enjoy it the most. It is better if two people work on it simultaneously, talking, joking _etc._ You want to make them small in size (about 1-2 inches.) Do not hesitate to cut big leaves in half. Discard the central stem of these leaves and if you can reduce (with a sharp knife) any other tough stems it would be good. You want to wrap the rice very tightly. You place the rice in one end, fold from the short end and the two sides and then roll while pushing the rice downwards to pack it really tight. You have to do it a couple oftimes to understand. If they are not tightly packed they will unroll later. Also be careful to wrap totally, do not leave any holes. You arrange the dolmadakia in a casserole, tightly. Make more than one layers. Add the lemon juice, the rest of the olive oil and 1 1/2 cups of hot water. Cover them with a plate or something to keep them in place. Let them simmer for 35 minutes. Serve then cold, with strained yogurt or taramosalata. Enjoy. Double Rice stuffing [For a 12-Pound Turkey] Yield: 1 Serving 2 package Long-grain & wild \- rice (6 oz. each) 6 T Butter or margarine 4 1/2 c Water 3 c Chopped celery ## 1 lg Onion chopped 7 oz (1 jar) Pimento-stuffed Olives, drained & sliced 1 t Salt 1/4 t Pepper Prepare rice mix with 2 tablespoons of the butter or margarine and the 4 12 cups water, following label directions. 93 Saut? celery and onion in remaining butter until soft in a large frying pan; lightly stir in rice mixture, olives, salt, and pepper. Makes approximately 10 cups or enough to stuff a 12-pound bird. Duck Soup with Wild Rice Yield: 8 Servings 5 lb Duck Salt Ground Pepper 2 qt Chicken Stock 1 c Wild Rice 1 md Onion, chopped 3 Leeks, cleaned and finely Sliced 2 c Mushrooms, sliced 3 Ribs celery, diced 2 T Vegetable Oil 1/3 c Sherry Vinegar Parsley, chopped Season the duck lightly with salt and pepper, place in a baking pan on a rack and roast in a preheated 375?F oven for 1 hour, until juices run clear and meat is tender. Let cool. Pull off the meat, discard the skin and dice the meat in small pieces. Set aside. Brown the duck bones in a skillet over high heat. Place in a soup pot with chicken stock. Brin to a boil and simmer for 35 minutes. Degrease and strain the stock. Set aside. Wash the wild rice and soak in cold water for 30 minutes. In the soup pot, saute the onion, leeks, mushrooms and celery in hot oil (or duck fat) without browning. Drain the wild rice and add to vegetables. Pour in the strained stock. Cook at a simmer for 45 minutes. Add the sherry vinegar and duck meat. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cook 15 more micutes. Serve with a garnish of chopped parsley. Per Serving: Calories: 355, Protein: 28g, Carbohydrates: 24g, Fat: g, Saturated Fat: 4g, Cholesterol: 80mg, Sodium: 79mg, Fiber: 3g. Duck With Pine Nut Wild Rice 94 Yield: 4 Servings Apricot Basting Sauce; Duckling; 4 1/2 to 5 Lbs. Pine Nut Wild Rice; Below \---------------------PINE NUT WILD RICE-------------------------- /2 c Wild Rice; Uncooked tb Green Onions!Tops; Sliced ts Margarine Or Butter 12 c Chicken Broth oz Pine Nuts; Toasted, 1/2 Cup 12 c Pears; Dried, Chopped /2 c Currants * See Sowest 2 for recipe. \---Prepare Apricot Basting Sauce and set aside. Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Place duckling, breast side up, on rack in a shallow roasting pan. Brush with Apricot Basting Sauce. Insert meat thermometer so that the tip is in the thickest part of the inside thigh muscle and doesn't touch the bone. Do not add water and do not cover. Roast, brushing with the sauce 2 or 3 times, until thermometer registers 180 to 185 degrees or drumstick meat feels very soft when pressed between fingers, 2 to 2 1/3 hours. Serve with Pine Nut Wild Rice. PINE NUT WILD RICE: Cook and stir wild rice and onions in margarine in a 2-quart heavy saucepan over medium heat until onions are tender, about 3 minutes. Stir in broth. Heat to boiling, stirring occasionally, reduce heat and cover. Simmer until wild rice is tender, 40 to 50 minutes. Stir in pine nuts, pears and currants. Easy chicken and rice casserole Yield: 4 Servings 4 x Chicken (white or dark) 1 en Cream of mushroom soup 1 package Lipton rice and sauce Uncle Ben's box or envelope of flavored rice (wild or pilaf, etc.) can be substituted for Lipton's Rice 'n' Sauce, but if you use plain white rice, use long cooking kind (not Minute) and you will have to add spices to your taste: curry, paprika, pepper, _etc._ whatever you wish. The small packets of Lipton's or Uncle Ben's usually have their own flavor pak and no spices need to be added unless you like extra pepper. Combine dry rice, flavor pak if there is one, can of cream of mushroom (or cream of chicken or cream of celery) soup, and 1/2 to 1 full can of water after that. Stir well with fork as soup will be lumpy. Add washed and skinned pieces of chicken and sink them down into the liquid. Bake at 375 for 45 minutes to an hour depending on type of rice--wild rice takes a little longer. When rice is done, chicken is done. Watch during cooking and if rice begins to dry out, add water. If bake at 400 cooking time is less. If mixture was relatively soupy before putting in oven, bake uncovered, but if mixture was not very soupy bake covered. The soupier the mixture when goes in oven (how much water you added) the less you will need to watch it while baking. If it is 95 looking like it is going to still be soupy towards time for it to get done, take cover off. One more thing, cleanup is easier if you sprayed baking dish (glass) with Pam or other cooking spray before you put the ingredients in the dish (sorry!) Easy Mexican Chicken And Rice Yield: 2 Servings 1/3 c Converted rice 9/16 c Water 1/3 md Onion (chopped) 1 1/3 Skinless, chicken breast -halves 1/3 c Salsa (the one you like) Salt to taste 2/3 Chicken bullion cubes In a large pan, combine the water and bullion cubes, and bring to a boil. Add rice, onions and salt, boil10 min then remove from the heat. Place into casserole dish, place chicken breasts on top and pour salsa over the chicken breast and rice, cover. Place into preheated oven (350o), and cook for 1 hr. Serve. Source: Found floating around BBSLand This was a pretty good dinner, and it required very little of my time in the kitchen. It took a while to cook, but almost no preparation time. This was originally a 6-serving recipe, and I had it scaled down to two. I approximated the measurements, since I'd have to be looney to sit and measure out 9/16 Cups of water. fts it was, I ended up adding a lot more water than that, since the rice took much less than 10 minutes before it completely sucked up the water. Easy Oriental Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 4 c cooked Rice sl Bacon, chopped 12 c Low-fat Ham *(you may substitute cooked -shrimp, turkey or chicken) c 96 Carrots, diced 12 c Red Pepper, diced 12 c Green Onion, chopped c Frozen Green Peas /2 ts Dried Ginger 13 c Low-Salt Soy Sauce Salt & Pepper to taste Fry bacon in large skillet or wok until crisp. Drain off all butT of fat. Add meat and carrots; stirfry about 2 minutes. Add red pepper and onions; toss or stir to fry until vegetables are cooked. Stir in green peas, rice, ginger, soy sauce, salt and pepper. Stir to heat well; cover and let stand about 5 minutes. Serving size depends on amount of rice used. Egg Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 4 Eggs, large 2 1/2 t Salt 6 T Peanut oil 3 1/2 c Rice, cooked (1 c uncooked 2 Scallions, large, chopped Beat eggs well with 1/2 t salt. Have rice and scallions ready. Heat wok over high heat until hot; add 3 Toil, coat, and heat for seconds ( don't let oil smoke). Pour in eggs and as they puff at the edges, push mass with spatula across to back of pan as you tilt it towards you; this allows the liquid eggs to slide down in to the hot pan. Repeat this pushing and tilting quickly until the eggs are no longer runny but soft and fluffy. Slide into a dish and set aside. stir rice a little with wet hands. Add remaining 3 Toil to hot pan and scatter in the rice; stir, poke and flip with spatula to coat each grain with oil. Add rest of salt and stir briskly for 1 minute, until rice is heated through. Add eggs and stir to mingle; eggs should remain in decent size pieces. Add chopped scallions, give a few quick turns and por into hot serving dish. Fast Food 1 (Rice & Veggies) (Quick)(Vegan) Yield: 1 Serving 97 x Instant rice x Water x Frozen vegetables x Seasoning, sauce or Dressing Pour instant rice into a bowl. Add twice the volume of water. Stir. Pour in some frozen veggies (broccoli, carrots, peas, 'mixed', whatever happens to be in the freezer.) Pour on a glub or two of flavoring agent (tomato sauce, salad dressing, whatever happens to be in the fridge.) Nuke on high for 3 minutes. Note: This isn't real high nutritional value. Single-serving bricks of frozen cooked rice/beans/barley/lentils would go a long way towards improving it. I ate this many many times.. Fast Food 4 (Rice & Vegetables) (Vegan) Yield: 1 Serving 1 x Instant rice 1 x Bouillon 1 x Italian seasoning 1 x Onion 1 en Crushed tomatoes ## 1 Box thawed frozen spinach In large pot, cook up 2 cups of (real or instant) rice. When it's almost done, stir in a spoon or two of bouillion granules, and/or some italian seasoning, onion, black pepper, whatever. Add a large can of crushed tomatoes. Add a box of thawed frozen spinach. And a few hints: When you cook, make a big pot of whatever it is you're making. It won't add very much extra work, and you can freeze the leftovers, or just munch on them for a few days. Keep shortcut foods like canned beans, quick-cooking noodles (not ramen bricks, they have a lot offat), instant rice, canned tomato puree, dehydrated onions, quick-cook oatmeal, frozen veggies, _etc._ around. They aren't as good or as nutritious as the 'real thing', and they cost more, but they come in very handy when you don't have time.. Fennel and Rice 98 Yield: 4 Servings md Fennel Bulb Sweet Red Pepper 1 sm Onion, chopped 1 tb Vegetable Oil 1/2 c Brown Rice 1 Bay Leaf 2 c Water Trim off the top of the fennel bulb. Cut the fennel into small cubes. Clean the pepper and cut it into small cubes. Combine the fennel, pepper, onion and vegetable oil in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat for 2 minutes. Add the rice, bay leaf and water. Bring to a boil, cover, and turn the heat to low. Cook for 30 to 35 minutes, or until the rice is tender. Filled Tomatoes on Herbed Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 Bags of cooking rice(like Instant rice) 8 sm Tomatoes Salt, Pepper 2 Onions 12 oz Butter 3 1/2 oz Bacon 3 oz Lindenberger Cheese 1 pn Paprika 1 pn Nutmeg 4 T Sweet Cream 12 oz Cornstarch 2 T Herbs, chopped your choice Prepare rice as directed on bags. Cut out the inside of the tomatoes and season the inside. Chop the lids up and strain through a sieve. 2.Saute the onions in the butter; add the bacon, cut up and fry for a short while. 3.Grate the cheese finely and with the seasons add to the bacon, stir and fill all into the tomatoes. 4.Butter a pan,shallow, and set the tomatoes inside.mix the tomatoemix ,cream,cornstarch and seasons and poyr over the tomatoes. 5. Bake all in a 200 C oven for 30 minutes .Add the herbs to the rice and put on a platter, arrange the tomatoes on top. Serve the sauce separate. Foil-baked Chicken, Rice And Cabbage 99 Yield: 4 Servings ## 1 Frying chicken 1 md Onion, minced 3 T Butter; melted 3 c Cabbage; shredded ## 1 t Salt 1 c Rice; cooked 1 en Cream of tomato -soup undiluted 1 c Dry breadcrumbs Cut chicken in quarters. Simmer onion in the melted butter for 5 minutes. Add cabbage and simmer 10 minutes longer. Add salt, rice and undiluted soup, stirring as it heats. Have ready four pieces of aluminum foil, 12 x 12 inches. Lightly oil one side and place a chicken quarter in the center of the oiled side. Spoon rice and cabbage mixture evenly over the chicken; spread crumbs evenly over each top. Fold foil over and seal each package. Place on a baking pan and bake at 450 F for about 35 minutes. Tear foil to expose crumbs and bake 15 minutes longer, or until browned. Serve at once. Foolproof Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Converted rice 1 c Water ## 2 t Salt 1 T Butter Place all ingredients together in crockpot. Cover and cook on LOW for two hours. Foolproof Rice Bread for the R2 02 Yield: 16 Servings 1/2 T Yeast 2 1/4 c Bread flour 100 1 T Sugar 1/2 T Salt 1 T Oil 1 c Rice; cooked 1 c Water Bring all ingredients to room temperature and pour into bakery, in order. Set "baking control" at 10 o'clock. Select "white bread" and push Start. For a richer bread, use 1 egg and 3/4 c water instead of 1 c water. In hot, humid weather, use 1/8 c less water. Sylvia's comment: Very soft, nice all-purpose bread. Great for sandwiches. WARNING: the dough will look a little "wet." DO NOT ADD EXTRA FLOUR. French Rice Salad Yield: 6 Servings 3 c Cooked rice 1 c Diced carrots 1 c Diced green bell pepper 1 c Sliced mushrooms 1 c Green peas 1 sm Celery stalk 2 T Chopped fresh parsley \---MARINADE--- 1/4 c Olive oil 1/4 c Vegetable oil 1/4 c Lemon juice 1 Garlic clove, pressed 1 t Dried tarragon 1 t Dill 1 t Marjoram 1 t Basil Place the rice in a large bowl. Steam the carrots, peppers, mushrooms & peas, separately, till tender but firm. Add steamed vegetables, celery & parsley to rice. Whisk marinade ingredients together. Pour over the rice mixture & toss gently. Refrigerate till well chilled, stirring occasionally. Garnish with tomato wedges & green olives. Fried Curried Rice (Khao Pad Pong Kari) 101 Yield: 2 Servings 2 TOil 1 Garlic clove; finely chopped 2 c Plain boiled rice 1 sm Potato; diced small 1 sm Onion; diced small 1/4 c Peas 3 T Light soy sauce 1/2 t Sugar 1 t Curry powder 1/2 t Ground white pepper \-------------------------T0 GAR NISH------------------------------ Piece of cucumber (1-inch) --thinly sliced into rounds Coriander leaves In a wok or frying pan/skillet, heat the oil until a light haze appears, add the garlic and fry until golden brown. Add the boiled rice, stir once, add all the remaining ingredients and stir until thoroughly mixed. Turn on to a serving dish and garnish with cucumber rounds and coriander. Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 c Cooked rice 1 T Cooking oil ## 2 T Sesame oil 1/4 c Peas 1/4 c Finely diced red pepper 1/2 c Bean sprouts 1/2 c Broccoli florets 3 T Soy sauce PREPARE RICE ACCORDING to directions and set overnight in the refrigerator, covered. Place a large skillet over medium heat on the stove, add the oils, peas, pepper, sprouts and broccoli. Cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the rice and soy sauce and cook, stirring for another 5 minutes. (Cover the skillet and add additional time if using frozen rice.) Scoop rice into a serving dish and serve immediately. 102 Fried Rice (Chow Fun) Yield: 4 Servings 3 c Cooked Rice 3 Bacon strips 3 Slightly beaten eggs 1 1/4 c Meat, finely diced 2 Green onion, finely chopped 1/21b Fresh bean sprouts (optional 6 Mushrooms, sliced Salt to taste as needed ds black pepper 2 T Soy sauce Cook bacon til lightly browned but not crunchy and set aside. Add beaten eggs to bacon drippings and scramble. Remove and chop very fine. Add cooked rice and fry for approx. 5 minutes stirring constantly then add remaining ingredients; mix well and continue cooking for 10 minutes longer. Serve piping hot. NOTE: Use your favorite meats; pork, chicken, ham, beef, or shrimp, or experiment with whatever tastes good to you. Fried Rice with Basil (Khao Pad Krapow) Yield: 2 Servings 1 Garlic clove; finely chopped 3 sm Fresh red or green \- chilis finely chopped 1 c Fresh button mushrooms halved 1 sm Onion; chopped 2 c Cooked rice 1 sm Bundle long beans -OR-French/snap beans -cut into 1/2" pieces sm Red or green pepper; diced 1/2 t Sugar 3 T Light soy sauce 15 Sweet basil leaves In a wok or frying pan/skillet, heat the oil until a light haze appears. Add the garlic and chilis and fry until the garlic is golden brown. Add the mushrooms and onions and stir quickly. Add the cooked rice and stir thoroughly. Add the long beans, peppers, sugar and light soy sauce and stir thoroughly. At the last moment quickly stir in the basil leaves and turn on to a serving dish. 103 Fruit And Nut Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 kg Basmati rice 90 g Ghee 2 TOil 2 Cloves garlic, crushed 1 Onion, finely chopped ## 1 T Cumin seeds 1 T Coriander seeds 6 Cardamom seeds 1 Cinammon stick 4 c Hot water Tiny pinch saffron powder 3/4 c Chopped dried apricots 1 c Sultanas 1 c Roasted unsalted cashews 1/2 c Pistachio nuts Wash rice; drain 30 minutes. Heat ghee and oil in large pan, add garlic, onion and spices, cook stirring, 1 minute. Add rice, stir until rice is coated with ghee, stir in combined water and saffron. Bring to the boil, cover with tight fitting lid, reduce heat to very low, steam 20 minutes or until water is absorbed and rice is tender. Add apricots and sultanas, cover, cook over low heat 10 minutes, stir in cashews, serve sprinkled with pistachios. Garlic-Wine Rice Pilaf Yield: 4 Servings 1 x Rind Of 1 Lemon 8 Cloves Garlic, Peeled 1/2 c Parsley 6 T Unsalted Butter 1 c Regular Rice (Not Instant) 1 1/4 c Chicken Stock 3/4 c Dry Vermouth 1 x Salt & Pepper To Taste Chop together the lemon rind, garlic and parsley. Heat the butter in heavy 2-qt pot. Cook the garlic mixture very gently for 10 minutes. Stir in the rice. Stir over medium heat for 2 minutes. Combine the stock and wine in a saucepan. Heat until ti begins to bubble at teh sides. Stir into rice; add salt and freshly ground pepper. Cover tightly and simmer over very low heat for 20 minutes or until liquid is absorbed and rice it tender. Fluff with a fork. Drape a towel over the pot and cover the towel until it is time to erve. Serve hot or at room temeperature. 104 Gf Pat's Brown And White Rice Flour Breads And Buns Yield: 14 Servings 2 t Sugar 1/2 c Wrist-warm water 1 package Active dry yeast 1 1/4 c Water 1/4 c Vegetable shortening 1 c Brown rice flour 2 c White rice flour 1/4 c Sugar 4 t Xanthan gum OR 1 tbsp dry pectin 2/3 c Non-instant dry milk OR 1/3 cup soy powder 1 1/2 t Salt 2 lg Eggs Bring all ingredients to room temperature and pour into bakery, in order. Set "baking control" at 10 o'clock. Select "white bread" and push Start. In hot & humid weather, use 1/8 c less water. Recipe may be doubled. Dough may be shaped for hot dog or hamburger buns after first rising. For herb bread, add 2 Tbsp fennel seeds or dried herbs of choice to dry flour. Ginseng Shreds Stir Rice-for a Special Meal Yield: 1 Serving 9 c Pre steamed rice 2 oz finely chopped Ginseng 2 T Soy sauce 2 T Vegetable oil 1 t Salt 3 Onions shredded 3 Sweet peppers shredded 1 lb Celery 105 Steam and simmer rice. Use 1 heaping tablespoon vegetable oil and stir rice in a skillet over a big fire for 1 or 2 minutes. Take out the rice. Heat the remaining vegetable oil over a big fire until hot. Put in finely chopped Ginseng, onions, peppers, celery and salt and stir for minutes. Let sit, covered, for 7 minutes. Then it's ready. Almost all Chinese soups and stews are adaptable to Ginseng, with the exception of those having citrus fruits as an ingredient. I've given you a start here, but experiment. Dig up a Chinese cookbook and try out a few recipes. Glutinous Rice ( Khow Neow) Yield: 1 Serving Glutinous Rice Water Cane steaming basket Pot to suit Wash rice well. Soak overnight in plenty of water. If in a hurry 3-4 hours will do. Drain rice and place into cane steaming basket and place on pot to suit. Bring water to boil and cover basket with a saucepan lid. Continue until rice is cooked. Transfer rice onto a clean surface and form into a suitable shape. Stored in a cane basket with lid. Traditionally eaten with gai yang, som dum, laap, phat phet, nam prik or a base for Thai sweets. Glutinous Rice with Ham and Dried Shrimp Yield: 1 Serving 3 c Glutinous rice, washed and -soaked 2 hours, then \- drained 3 c Water 1/2 c Slivered ham 1/4 c Dried shrimp, soaked \- to soften 4 Dried forest mushrooms, -soaked to soften and 106 \- cut in match stick Piece Chinese preserved \- turnip, rinsed and finely -minced 1 t Oriental sesame oil Glutinous rice is a sticky rice high in the B vitamins. Many Chinese cat it in the winter time because its high protein content keeps them warm. Place rice in a heat proof earthen pot. Add water and bring to boil. Lower heat to medium and cook, uncovered, until all water is absorbed. Combine remaining ingredients and place on top of rice. Cover and cook at lowest heat for 20 minutes. Let stand for 10 minutes before serving. Grape Leaves Stuffed with Rice Yield: 4 Servings 5 T Chopped onions 1 c Oil 2 c Water 1 c Brown rice ## 1 t Salt 2 t Kelp 2 t Dill weed 1/4 t Cinnamon 1/2 t Peppermint 1 t Paprika 1/2 t Pepper 1/2 t Allspice Juice of 1 lemon 12 Grape leaves Saute onions in oil till light brown. Add 1 c water with the rice, salt & kelp. Mix well. Cover & cook till the water is absorbed. Remove from heat, cool slightly & add remaining spices. Place 1 generous ts offilling onto each grape leaf. Make one fold up from the base of the leaf, tuck in the sides & roll up tightly. Place in a heavy saucepan & fold down, packing the rolls tightly. Add remaining cup of water & lemon juice. Cook slowly over low heat till almost all the liquid has been absorbed. Serve hot or cold. 107 Green Bean Almond Rice Yield: 8 Servings 1 T Butter or margarine 1/2 c Slivered almonds 1/2 c Chopped onions 1/3 c Chopped red bell peppers 3 c Cooked brown rice, (cooked -in beef broth) 1 10 oz package frozen French \- style green beans, thawed \- ground white pepper, \- for taste 1/4 t Tarragon Melt butter in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add almonds; stir until lightly browned. Add onions and red pepper; cook for 2 minutes or until tender. Add rice, green beans, white pepper and tarragon. Stir until thoroughly heated. Grouse & Wild Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2/3 c Wild rice 2 c Chicken broth 1/4 c Butter 8 Grouse breast filets 3 Eggs [beaten[ 1 c Flour Garlic salt, oregano, and Basil to taste 2 T Butter 1/2 c Chicken broth 4 oz Mozzarella cheese [sliced] Combine the wild rice with 2 cups of broth and? cup butter in a saucepan, cover and cook 'til tender. (keep warm) 2) Rince grouse filets and pat dry Pound the filets between waxed paper with meat mallet 'til tender, then combine with the eggs in a bowl. Let stand for 1 hour... 3) Combine the flour, oregano, garlic salt, basil, and pepper to taste in a bowl and roll the filets in this flour mixture, coating well. 4) Brown on both sides in 2 tb butter in a skillet. Then add enough broth to cove the bottom of the pan and simmer filets, covered, for 10 min. 5) Place? slice of cheese on each filet and cook 'til cheese is melted... Serve with the rice.. 108 Gujar Ka Pullao (Carrot Rice) Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Basmati rice 1 c -Water 1 lg Onion 2 T Vegetable oil 1 Bay leaf 1/2 t Cumin seeds 2 Cloves 1 Cardamom pod 1/2 Cinnamon stick; 1/2 inch 1/2 t Peppercorns 2 c Carrot; grated salt to taste "Carrots add a mild sweeteness to this pullao, which is lightly flavoured with whole spices. the recipe was given to me by my sister-in-law Rachna, who entices her family to eat carrots this way." Wash the rice under running water, then let soak in 1 cup water. Slice the onion into thin half rounds. In a large, heavy bottom saucepan over medium heat, warm the oil. Add the bay leaf. cumin, cloves, cardamom pod, cinnamon and peppercorns. cook until the spices puff up and darken ( 1 to 2 seconds), then add the sliced onion and saute until browned (8 to 10 minutes). Add the rice and the soaking water and the salt. Stir gently, cover, increase the heat to high and bring to a boil. Then reduce the heat to very low and cook for 25 minutes without uncovering the pan. Turn off the heat and let the pan stand covered on the burner for 5 minutes. then uncover, fluff up the rice gently and serve. SERVES: 4 as a side dish Hanoi Beef and Rice-Noodel Soup (Pho Bac) Yield: 1 Serving 5 lb Beef bones with marrow 5 lb Oxtails 2 lb Short rib plate, or \- 1 lb flank steak 2 lg Onions, unpeeled, \- halved and studded with \- 8 whole cloves 3 Shallots, unpeeled 2 oz Fresh ginger root, unpeeled \- in one piece 8 Star anise 1 Cinnamon stick 4 md Parsnips, cut -into 2-inch chunks 109 2 t Salt 1 lb Beef sirloin 2 Scallions, thinly sliced 1 T Shredded coriander 2 md Onions, sliced paper-thin 1/4 c Hot chili sauce (tuong \- ot or sriracha sauce) 1 lb 1/4-inch-wide \- dried rice sticks (banh \- pho) 1/2 c Nuoc mam (Vietnamese -fish sauce) Freshly ground black pepper -----------------------ACCO MPANIMENTS---------------------------- c Fresh bean sprouts Fresh red chile peppers, -sliced Limes, cut into wedges bn Of fresh mint, separated -into leaves bn Fresh Asian basil or regular fresh basil, -separated into leaves "This sublime recipe comes from my mother, a native of Hanoi. She always made the beef stock in large quantities++enough for at least 3 meals++and froze it in batches until needed." In order to cut the beef into paper-thin slices, freeze the pieces of meat for 30 minutes before slicing. The night before, clean the bones under cold running water and soak overnight in a pot with water to cover at room temperature. (This will help loosen the impurities inside the bones. When heat is applied, these impurities are released and come to the top much faster and can be removed, therefore, producing a clear broth.) Place the beef bones, oxtails and short rib plate in a large stockpot. Add water to cover and bring to a boil. Cook for 10 minutes. Drain. Rinse the pot and the bones. Return the bones to the pot and add 6 quarts of water. Bring to a boil. Skim the surface to remove the foam and fat. Stir the bones in the bottom of the pot from time to time to free the impurities. Continue skimming until the foam ceases to rise. Add 3 quarts more water and bring to a boil. Skim off all the residue that forms on the top. Turn the heat to low and simmer. Meanwhile, char the clove-studded onions, shallots and ginger directly over a gas burner or under the broiler until they release their fragrant odors. Tie the charred vegetables, star anise and cinnamon stick in a double thickness of dampened cheesecloth. Add the spice bag, parsnips and salt to the simmering broth. Simmer for hour. Remove the short rib plates. Pull the meat away from the bones. Reserve the meat and return the bones to the pot. Simmer the broth, uncovered, for 4 to 5 hours. Keep an eye on it; as the liquid boils away, add enough fresh water to cover the bones. Meanwhile, slice the beef sirloin against the grain into paper-thin slices, roughly 2 by 2inches in size. Slice the reserved short rib meat paper-thin. Set aside. In a small bowl, combine the scallions, coriander and half of the slice onions. Place the remaining sliced onions in a small bowl and stir in the hot chili sauce. Blend well. Soak the rice sticks in warm water for 30 minutes. Drain and set aside. When the broth is ready, remove and discard all of the bones. Strain the broth through a strainer or colander lined with a double layer of dampened cheesecloth into a clean pot. Add the fish sauce and bring the broth to a boil. Reduce the heat and keep the broth at a bare simmer. In another pot, bring 4 quarts of water to a boil. Drain the noodles, 110 then drop them in the boiling water. Drain immediately. Divide the noodles among 41arge soup bowls. Top the noodles with the sliced meats. bring the broth to a rolling boil. Ladle the broth directly over the meat in each bowl (the boiling broth will cook the raw beef instantly). Garnish with the scallion mixture and freshly ground black pepper. Serve the onions in hot chili sauce and the accompaniments on the side. Each diner will add these ingredients as desired. Yield: 4 servings. Harvest Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 c Sliced carrots 1 T Vegetable oil 1 c Sliced green onions 2 c Apples, cored, chopped 3 c Cooked brown rice 1/2 t Salt 1/2 c Seedless raisins 1 T Sesame seeds In large skillet, cook carrots in oil about 5 minutes over medium heat. Add onions and apples. Cook 3-5 minutes longer. stir in remaining ingredients. Cook until thoroughly heated. Nutrition (per serving): 220 calories Saturated fat 1 g Total Fat 4 g (17% of calories) Protein 4 g (7% of calories) Carbohydrates 42 g (76% of calories) Cholesterol 0 mg Sodium 208 mg Fiber 1 g Iron 1 mg Vitamin A 5243 I U Vitamin C 7 mg Alcohol 0 g Hearty Chicken & Rice Soup Yield: 8 Servings 10 c Chicken broth 1 md Onion 1 c Celery [sliced] 1 c Carrots [sliced] 1/4 c Parsley [snipped] 111 1/2 t Black pepper 1/2 t Thyme leaves [dried] 1 Bay leaf 1 1/2 c Chicken [cubed] 2 T Lime juice Lime slices for garnish Combine the broth, onion, celery, carrots, parsley, pepper, thyme, and bay leaf in a dutch oven, and bring to a boil over high heat, stirring once or twice... 2) Reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, 10 to 15 min., then add the chicken and simmer for 5 to 10 min. more or 'til the chicken is done... 3) Remove and discard bay leaf, stir in the rice and lime juice just before serving... garnish with lime slices.. Calories... 184 Cholesterol... 23mg Fat... 4g Sodium... mg Hearty Chicken Rice Soup Yield: 1 Serving 1/2 c Celery; sliced 2 Chicken breast halves -frozen, boned, skinned 2 Cans chicken broth 1/2 c Water 2 c Mixed veggies; frozen 3/4 c Uncooked instant rice 1 T Dried parsley flakes 2 t Salt free lemon herb season. Spray large saucepan or Dutch oven with nonstick cooking spray. Heat over med high heat until hot. Add celery; cook and stir 11/2 to 2 mins or until crisp tender. Add chicken breast halves, broth and water. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer 10-12 mins or until chicken is fork tender and juices run clear, stirring occasionally. Remove chicken from saucepan; cool slightly. Cut into bite sized pieces. Bring broth mixture in saucepan to a boil; stir in frozen veggies. Return to a boil. stir in rice, chicken, parsely and lemon and herb seasoning. Reduce heat; cover and simmer 10 mins or until rice and veggies are tender. 14 c serving yields 220 calories, and 2 grams of fat. Honey Ribs and Rice 112 Yield: 4 Servings 2 lb Extra lean back ribs 1 en Condensed beef consomme 1/2 c Water 2 T Maple syrup 2 T Honey 3 T Soy sauce 2 T Barbecue sauce 1/2 t Dry mustard 1 1/2 c Quick cooking rice If ribs are fat, place on broiler rack and broil for 15 to 20 minutes; drain well. Otherwise, wash ribs and pat dry Cut ribs into single servings. Combine remaining ingredients except rice in crockpot; stir to mix. Add ribs. Cover and cook on LOW setting for 6 to 8 hours, or HIGH setting for 3 to 4 hours. Remove ribs and keep warm. Turn crockpot to HIGH setting; add 1-1/2 cups quick cooking rice and cook until done. Serve rice on warm platter surrounded by ribs. Indonesian-Style Yogurt Rice Yield: 1 Serving 1 c Arborio rice (240g) 1/2 t Saffron threads 1 md Onion, minced 2 Garlic cloves, minced 3 TOil 1 Inch piece fresh ginger, \- grated 1 c Milk (240ml) 1 c Plain -yogurt, room temperature \- (1/2 pt.) Salt & pepper It's only touted as "Indonesian-style" but what the hay.. As is the case with most Southeast Asian and South African yellow rice dishes, the coloring agent called for here was turmeric, not saffron. Yogurt appears in many Indian saffron dishes, however, and I suspected saffron would work well here. It does. You can substitute California pearl rice successfully. Heat 1/4 cup of milk and steep threads for 20 minutes. Saute onion and garlic in oil. Add ginger and rice and coat grains well. Add the rest of the ingredients, including the saffron. Season with salt and pepper and cover. Cook over low heat until rice is done. Serve immediately. 113 John's Garlic Rice Low Fat, Side Dish Yield: 8 Servings 2 T reduced-fat margarine 2 T minced garlic 2 c long-grain rice 4 c reduced-sodium \- reduced-fat chicken broth Salt, (optional), to taste Freshly-ground black pepper, -(optional), to taste Heat the margarine in a large skillet and saute the garlic and rice, stirring constantly, until lightly brown. Add the chicken broth, salt, and pepper and stir. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer, cover, and cook for 20 minutes. This recipe yields 8 servings. Serving size: 1/2 cup. Exchanges Per Serving: 2 1/2 starch. Joni's Rice Pudding Yield: 8 Servings 1/2 ga Milk 1 c Rice long grain 1 c Sugar 4 T Butter (OPTional) Salt Cinnamon Raisens Place Milk, Rice and Sugar and a pinch of salt into Crock on Hi.Cook for 1 and 1/2 hours. Stir and at this time if you like raisen add them, a couple of hands full and sprinkle in some cinnamon. Cook for another 1 1/2 hours keeping a check on the last hour stirring often. As soon as it starts to thicken turn it off if you like it real creamy, let cook longer if you like it thick. It will thicken a lot after it cools. I use skim milk, omit the butter, and sometimes if I have it on hand add a can of evaporated milk, gives a little creamer taste, but either way it is just as good this way and a lot less fat _etc._ 114 Kalamarakia Pilafi (Squid Baked With Rice) Yield: 4 Servings 1 lb Medium squid Salt 1/4 c Olive oil 3 Garlic cloves; sliced 1/4 c Dry white wine 2 Tomatoes; peeled & seeded 3 T Butter 1 c Raw long-grain white rice Chopped parsley 1 T Chopped fresh rosemary Freshly ground pepper Wash and clean the squid, separating the outer sacs from the heads and tentacles, removing and discarding the translucent cartilage, and small sand bag and ink. Rub salt on the outer sacs and rinse them inside and out with cold water. Rinse head and tentacles thoroughly as well. Slice squid into uniform rings, between 1/2 and 1 inch wide. Heat the oil in a frying pan and add the squid and garlic and saute for 5 minutes. stir in the wine and sliced tomatoes, cover, and simmer until the squid is almost tender (approximately 30 minutes). Transfer to a baking dish. Meanwhile, heat the butter and saute the rice, without browning, until transparent, stirring constantly. Add the rice to the squid and sprinkle with 1/4 cup chopped parsley, the rosemary, and salt and pepper to taste. Add enough hot water to cook the rice, slightly more than 2 cups including the tomato sauce. Cover and bake in a moderate oven (350 F) for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the rice is tender. Sprinkle with additional chopped parsley and serve hot. Kar-In's Crispy Rice Squares Yield: 1 8"x8" pan 1/4 c Almond butter 1/4 c Tahini 1/2 c Rice syrup 1 t Vanilla extract 1/4 t Salt (optional) 2 c Crispy brown rice cereal 1/3 c Almonds; roasted; chopped -(optional) 1/3 c Carob or chocolate chips -(optional) 1/3 c Coconut (optional) In a heavy saucepan over low heat, combine almond butter, tahini and 115 rice syrup until soft. Turn off heat. Add vanilla and salt. Fold in cereal and optional ingredients. Mix well. Press into a lightly oiled" x 8" pan. Chill in refrigerator for 1 to 2 hours. Kathie jenkins wild rice soup Yield: 12 Servings 1/4 c Butter 4 Celery stalks, chopped 2 Carrots peeled and diced 1 sm Onion, diced 1 sm Red onion, diced 1/2 c Green onions, sliced 1/3 c Slivered almonds 1 T Dill weed 2 t Black pepper 2 t Garlic salt 2 Bay leaves 1/2 t Turmeric 4 qt Chicken stock 1 1/2 c Wild rice, well washed 1/2 c White rice, well washed 1/2 t Salt 4 Egg yolks 4 c Cooked chicken diced 3 c Mushrooms, sliced Melt butter in skillet over medium heat, add celery, carrots, all onions and almonds and saute until slightly tender, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. Add dill weed, pepper, garlic salt, bay leaves and turmeric. In separate large pot, bring chicken stock, wild rice, white rice and salt to boil. Reduce heat, add celery mixture, cover and simmer 30 minutes, Add more stock if too thick. Whisk 1 C hot soup into yolks, then whisk back into soup. Add chicken and mushrooms, discard bay leaves, Heat gently, Do not boil. Serve immediately. Each serving contains about 282 calories; 1,444 mg sodium; 111 mg cholesterol; 12 grams fat; 28 grams carbohydrates; 16 grams protein; grams fiber. King's Arms Tavern Raisin Rice Pudding 116 Yield: 8 Servings 4 c Milk 1/4 c Converted rice 4 Eggs 1/2 c Sugar 1 1/2 t Lemon extract 1 1/2 t Vanilla 1 T Butter; melted 1 t Nutmeg 3/4 c Light raisins Bring 3 cups milk and rice to boil over direct heat. Lower heat and cook, covered, until rice is tender, about 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from heat. Preheat oven to 350 F. Beat eggs well. Add sugar, beating continuously. Add remaining milk, lemon extract, vanilla and butter. Combine rice and milk with egg mixture and pour into 8x8-inch pan. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Place pan in larger pan, taking care that sides of smaller pan do not touch larger pan. Bake until custard begins to set, about 30 minutes. Stir in raisins and continue baking until knife inserted in center comes out clean, about 15 minutes. Remove fran oven and set custard pan on cake rack. Cool slightly before refrigerating. Lamb Shanks and Rice Soup Yield: 4 Servings 4 (1kg) lamb shanks ## 1 T Oil 8 c (21itres) water 30 g Butter 1 t Chopped fresh dill 1 T Chopped fresh parsley 3 Shallots, chopped 100 g Baby mushrooms, sliced 2 T Plain flour 1 md (120g) carrot, chopped 2 T White rice 1/2 bn (20 leaves) English -spinach, shredded 2 t Lemon juice Place shanks in baking dish, brush with oil, bake, uncovered, in hot oven about 25 mins or until well browned. Drain on paper towel. Combine shanks and water in pan, simmer, uncovered, 30 mins. Remove shanks from pan, reserve 5 cups cooking liquid. Remove meat from bones, chop meat and reserve; discard bones. Heat butter in pan, add herbs, shallots and mushrooms, cook, stirring until mushrooms are soft. Add flour, cook, stirring, until combined. Remove from heat, gradually stir in reserved cooking liquid, carrot and rice, simmer, partly covered, about 10 mins or until rice is tender. 117 Add reserved meat, spinach and juice, stir until spinach is just wilted and soup is heated through. Lamb Steamed in Rice Powder Yield: 1 Serving 1 3/4 lb Piece of boneless lamb 2 t Dark soy sauce 1 T Light soy sauce pn Salt 1/2 t Sugar 5 sl Ginger 1 T Ginger juice (see note) 4 Garlic cloves, crushed 2 Scallions, cut in half and -smashed 2 sm Dried hot peppers, ground 1 c Uncooked long-grain rice 2 Star anise Fresh banana leaves -(opt, see note) Cut the meat into "butterfly" slices by making one slice not quite all the way through and the second slice all the way through. Pound the meat lightly. Toss the meat with the soy sauces, salt, sugar, ginger, ginger juice, garlic, scallions and hot peppers; marinate for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, make the rice powder by putting the rice and star anise into a dry skillet and cook while stirring until the rice is brown. (It should be thoroughly browned but not scorched.) Spoon the rice and anise into a blender++a food processor won't work++ and blend until it's the consistency of fine sand. (Don't blend it too finely.) Line two steamer sections with banana leaves cut to fit. Put half the rice powder into a bowl, reserving the rest in a jar for future use, and dredge the lamb pieces in the powder, coating them generously. Arrange them on the banana leaves and steam them for 25 minutes. At the end of 15 minutes, sprinkle them with a little water. Serve in the steamer. NOTES: Ginger juice is made by covering fresh crushed ginger with boiling water and letting it stand for 15 minutes or so. If you can't get banana leaves, the lamb may be steamed on a plate. 118 Lemon Parsley Chicken and Rice Yield: 4 Servings 3/4 lb Chicken breast halves -boneless, skinless ## 1 T Oil 1 1/2 c Chicken broth 1 1/2 c Minute instant brown rice 2 T Chopped parsley 1 t Grated lemon peel 1/8 t Pepper 3 T Toasted whole almonds Brown chicken in hot oil in skillet. Add broth; bring to boil. Stir in rice. Return to boil Reduce heat to low; cover and simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in parsley, lemon peel and pepper; cover. Let stand 5 minutes. Sprinkle with almonds. Lemon Rice Soup Yield: 6 Servings 1 sm Onion; chopped 1/2 Cabbage; shredded 1/2 t Garlic powder 1/8 t Black pepper 1/8 t Turmeric ## 2 TOil 3 c Rice; cooked 8 c ;water OR 8 c Vegetable broth 1 c Nutritional yeast 1 T Tamari Saute onion or scallions, cabbage and spices in oil for 5-8 minuts. Add rice, water or broth, lemon juice, yeast, and tamari or soy sauce. Simmer for another 10 minutes. Serve hot. Variation: Instead of cabbage, use 2 cups chopped kale. Per serving: 232 cal; 11 g prot; 37 g carb; 5 g fat (19% of total); mg calcium; 5 mg iron; 212 mg sod; g fiber 119 Lentil & Brown Rice Soup Yield: 6 Servings 5 c Chicken broth 1 1/2 c Lentils, picked over and \- rin ed 1 c Brown rice 32 oz Tomatoes, drained, reserving \- uice, and chopped 3 Carrots, in 1/4 inch pieces 1 Onion, chopped 1 Celery, chopped 3 Garlic cloves, minced 1/2 t Basil 1/2 t Oregano 1/4 t Thyme 1 Bay leaf 1/2 c Fresh parsley, minced 2 T Cider vinegar (or to taste) In a heavy kettle, combine the broth, 3 cups water, lentils, rice, tomatoes and juice, carrots, onion, celery, garlic, basil, oregano, thyme, and bay leaf. Bring mixture to a boil and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, for 45-55 minutes or until lentils and rice are tender. Stir in parsley, vinegar, and salt and pepper to taste. Discard bay leaf. The soup will be thick and will thicken more as it stands. Thin, if desired, with chicken stock. Makes about 14 cups. Low-Fat Beans and Rice Yield: 8 Servings Brown or white rice Canned black beans Salsa, mild or medium Cook the rice (as you wish with amounts) in water according to directions with no seasoning (butter, salt, etc). Rinse the beans in a colander. mix the beans with the rice. I use about 1/2 of a can of beans to 4 cups of cooked rice. Mix enough salsa with the rice and beans to make it colorful. Serve over lettuce or alone. This recipe leaves a lot of leeway to add amounts to suit your tastes. The kids love it and it adds a nice touch to BBQ meals. Good way to use left over rice instead ofturning it into fattening rice pudding. Make pleanty...it goes FAST! Make sure the beans are well rinsed otherwise that nasty looking black liquid will spoil the appearance. It's a personal favorite of mine. 120 Malaysian Braised Chicken with Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 lb Chicken Thighs; skinned -and boned 1 t Salt 1 T Peanut Oil 5 Shallots; thinly sliced 3 md Yellow Onions; -thinly sliced 4 Red Chiles; seeded and minced \---------------------------SAUCE-------------------------------- c Water tb Dark Soy Sauce tb Sugar ts Salt \--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- c Cooked Rice 12 c Roasted Peanuts 12 c Cilantro Leaves Season the chicken with salt and pepper and set aside as you preheat the oil in a 12" skillet. stir fry the shallots, onions and chiles until lightly browned, then add the chicken and cook 5-7 minutes, or until the chicken is lightly browned. Mix together the water, soy sauce, sugar and salt. Pour over the chicken, raise to a boil, then reduce heat, cover and cook 15-20 minutes until the chicken is cooked through and tender, and the sauce is thick. Serve over rice topped with peanuts and cilantro. Mandarin Rice Pudding Yield: 6 Servings 2 1/2 c Cooked rice 1 c Undiluted evaporated milk 1/2 c Mandarin orange liquid (can) 1/2 c Light brown sugar 3 T Butter; melted 1 t Vanilla 3 Eggs; beaten 1/2 c Raisins 1 c Drained mandarin orange Sections 121 Combine rice with all ingredients except orange sections. Mix well. Lightly butter crockpot. Pour in rice mixture. Cover and cook on LOW for 4 to 6 hours or on HIGH for 2 to 3 hours. stir during first 30 minutes. During last half-hour, stir in orange sections. NOTE: For classic rice pudding use 1/2 cup evaporated milk and 2 tsp vanilla. Raisins are optional. Omit orange liquid and sections. Mangoes with sticky Rice Yield: 1 Serving 1 c Coconut cream 4 T Sugar 1 t Salt 4 Ripe mangoes 3 c Sticky coconut rice Mix the coconut cream with the sugar and salt, and bring to a boil. Simmer for a few minutes, stirring occasionally. Peel the mangoes and slice them, removing the stones. Arrange the mangoes on individual plates with rice beside them. Spoon the sauce over the rice. COCONUT RICE (Khao Man): Coconut rice can be prepared with another ordinary or sticky rice, depending on what sort of dish it is to be served with. If using sticky rice, soak it first in plenty of water for at least two hours, but preferably overnight If prepared with ordinary rice, serve with Salted Sun-Dried Beef (Nua Dad Diao) or other savoury dishes. Sticky coconut rice is delicious with mangoes. 1 cups rice 2 cups water 1 cup coconut cream Salt Rinse and drain the rice and put into a pan with the water, coconut cream and salt. Mix well Bring to the boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat and cover. Simmer for 10 minutes. When all the liquid has been absorbed, cook for a few more minutes over low heat. The resulting slight burning of the rice at the bottom of the pan gives extra flavour to this dish. These are typical of the "street food" that one buys from the vendors with mini-kitchens on pushcarts all over Thailand. Thai desserts and confections tend to nastily/heavenly sweet and rich. You might be careful using the amount of salt called for in these recipes. The Thais tend to like their stuff saltier than we would. They even make lemonade with salt instead of sugar! 122 Manitoba Wild Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Wild rice 4 c Water 1 t Salt 6 Slices bacon 2 Onions, chopped 1 Sweet green pepper chopped 3 Stalks celery, chopped 1 1/2 c Sliced mushrooms 2 T Butter 1/4 c Beef stock or water 1 x Salt and pepper to taste Rinse rice in colander with cold running water. In large saucepan, bring water and salt to boil; add rice; reduce heat to medium low and simmer, covered 30 minutes. Drain. Meanwhile, in skillet, over medium high heat, fry bacon 3 to 5 minutes or until crisp. Transfer bacon to paper towel; pat dry and chop. Drain all but 1 tablespoon bacon drippings from skillet; add onions and cook, stirring 3 to 5 minutes or until tender. Add green pepper, celery and mushrooms; cook, stirring 3 minutes. Transfer vegetable mixture to 8 cup casserole. Stir in butter, beef stock and rice. Bake covered, 15 to 20 minutes in 350 F degree oven until rice is tender. Season to taste with salt and pepper.. Maple Rice Pudding Yield: 4 Servings 1 qt Skim milk 2 c Cooked long-grain white rice \---113 c Maple syrup; PLUS:- 2 T Maple syrup 1 t Grated orange rind 1/3 c Broken walnuts Combine the milk and rice in a large saucepan. Cook, stirring, over medium-low heat until the mixture boils and thickens, about 25 minutes. Stir in 113 cup maple syrup and cook 10 minutes more. Add the orange rind and vanilla. Pour into 4 (8-ounce) dessert bowls or custard cups; then allow to cool at room temperature. Meanwhile, heat the walnuts in a small heavy frying pan over low heat, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Drizzle with remaining 2 tablespoons maple syrup. Cook over medium heat, stirring, until the syrup boils and coats the walnuts, about 2 minutes. Sprinkle on the puddings. Per Serving: 377 calories, 6.9 g. fat (16% of calories), 1.5 g dietary fiber, 12.5 g. protein, 66.3 g. carbohydrates, 4 mg. cholesterol, 135 123 mg. sodium. Mariachi Beefballs And Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 lb Ground Beef 1 c Crushed Corn Chips 1/2 c Milk 1 Large Egg, Slightly Beaten ## 2 t Salt 2 1/2 T Unbleached Flour 2 T Butter or Margarine 2 c Sliced Onion 1 Clove Garlic, Crushed 1 t Chili Powder 1/4 t Powdered Cumin 19 oz (1 en) Tomatoes, Undrained 4 oz (1 en) Green Chilies,Drained 1/2 c Sliced Ripe Olives 1 x Mexican Rice In large bowl, lightly combine ground beef with corn chips, milk, egg and 1 t salt. Cover and refrigerate 1 hour. Shape into 15 meatballs, using 2 Rounded Tablespoons meat mixture for each. Lightly roll meatballs in 2 T Flour, coating completely. In large frying-pan, cook meatballs in hot butter, half at a time, stirring until evenly browned. Remove meatballs from frying-pan as they are browned. In same frying-pan, cook onion and garlic about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. In small bowl, combine remaining 1/2 T flour and 1 t salt, chili powder and cumin. Stir into onions. Add tomatoes, green chilies and olives. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly; reduce heat, cover tightly and cook slowly for 30 minutes. Add meatballs to tomato mizture, cover tightly and cook slowly for 20 minutes. Uncover and continue cooking slowly 10 minutes. Serve meatballs and sauce over hot Mexican Rice. Mexican Rice: Pint Dairy Sour Cream 1/2 lb Monterey Jack Cheese, 4 Oz (1 en) Chopped Green cut into stripes Chilies 1/4 Cup Grated Parmesan Cups Cooked Seasoned Rice Cheese Combine sour cream, chilies and salt. in 13 x 9-inch baking pan, layer 1 cup cooked rice, 1/2 sour cream-chili mixture and 1/2 cheese strips. Repeat layers and top with remaining cup of rice. Bake in moderate oven (350 degrees F.) for 25 minutes. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and top with meatballs and sauce. Continue baking for 5 minutes or until cheese melts. 124 Mark's Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 4 c Cooked rice 2 T Vegetable oil 1 lg Onion, finely chopped 2 Garlic cloves, minced 1 lg Carrot, scrubbed & diced 1 md Green pepper, diced 1/2 c Frozen corn &/or peas 1 3" piece ginger, sliced 1/2 t Chili pieces, or to taste 1 lb Tofu, cut into strips Soy sauce Salt & pepper, to taste Ensure that the rice has been cooked ahead of time & is well cooled. Heat vegetable oil in a wok. When hot, add onions & garlic & fry for minutes. Add the carrots & stirfry for 2 minutes. Add the rest of the vegetables & continue to stirfry for 2 or 3 minutes. Toss in the chili pieces & ginger root. Cook for a few seconds. Carefully stir in the rice & tofu strips. Lower heat & continue to cook, stirring occasionally for 5 minutes. Add enough soy sauce to coat the rice & cook for a further 5 minutes on low heat, stirring often to prevent sticking. Season if desired with salt & pepper. Serve when heated through. This goes great with spicy tofu dishes or works well on its own as a main dish in its own right. If serving it with another tofu dish, omit the tofu. If you desire something hotter, add more chili pieces. Use pieces rather than powder because they are hotter. Mel's Mexican Rice (mjnt73c) Yield: 6 Servings 2 c Long-grain rice;uncooked 2 Cloves garlic; crushed 1/4 c Corn oil 5 c Chicken broth; - NOT Uncle Ben's converted type or the precooked type. -When using substitutions (see below) always remember to keep the proportions of rice to liquid the same. Heat the oil on med-high in a large skillet or 4-5 quart pot. Add the garlic and sautee about 1 minute. Add the rice and fry it, stirring frequently, until the rice is golden brown. Add the liquid and stir. When it comes to a boil, lower to a simmer, stir once more and cover. Cook until all water is absorbed. This is the basic recipe, and there is a lot more you can do with it. For example: 125 Substitute 1/2 cup tomato juice, or a pureed tomato, for part of the liquid. Substitute part of the liquid with black bean soup broth. Add 1/2 cup frozen peas and carrots. Add 1/2 cup sliced mushroom and green onion. Use beef or other broth instead of chicken. Add 1/2 cup cooked chick peas(garbanzo). Substitute part of the rice with some vermicelli. The possibilities are really endless if you use your imagination. Just stick to the basic recipe and proportion of rice to liquid. Mexicali rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 lb Ground beef 1 lg Onion, minced 2 Cloves garlic, minced fine 1 en Green salsa 1 en Red Salsa 1 en Tomato soup 1 pt Sour cream 1 c Shredded chedder cheese Salt Pepper 12 Servings cooked rice Brown hamburger and add onions and garlic and cook until soft. Add soups and salsa. Warm all the way through. Add to rice. Mix in sour cream. Salt and pepper to taste. Put in casserole dish and top with cheese and cook for 30 minutes at 350 degrees or until cheese is bubbly and casserole is warm all the way through. Mexican Cinnamon Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1/2 c Onion; Chopped, 1 Md 1 Clove Garlic; Finely Chopped 2 T Margarine Or Butter 1 c Regular Rice; Uncooked 1/2 c Currants 2 1/4 c Chicken Broth 126 2 t Cinnamon; Ground 1/4 t Salt Fresh Cilantro; Snipped, To taste. \---Cook and stir the onion and garlic in the margarine in a 3-quart saucepan until the onion is tender. Stir in the remaining ingredients except the cilantro. Heat to boiling, stirring once or twice, then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, 16 minutes. (DO NOT lift the cover or stir.) Remove from the heat and fluff the rice lightly with a fork. Recover and let steam for about 10 minutes before adding the cilantro. Mexican Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 en Tomato sauce (8oz.) * 1 en Green chillies, chopped Chili powder to taste 2 c Rice, uncooked lng. grain 1 sm Whole kernel corn, drained 3 Green onion, diced 4 c Water 2 Tomatoes, chopped fine Rinse rice until water runs clean. Fry uncooked rice in oil in fry pan or wok. Stir until brown. Pour tomato sauce and drained chilies on rice and add water. Mix well, add onion, tomato, and corn. Bring to full boil, then cover and simmer for about 25 mins. or until water is absorbed. If you wish you may add 1 lb. of browned ground beef to this recipe before simmering.* If you want "hotter" rice use Mexican tomato sauce. Mexican Rice Mix Yield: 1 Serving 4 c Raw Long Grain Rice 4 t Salt 127 1 t Dried Basil 1/2 c Green Pepper Flakes 5 t Parsley Flakes Combine all ingredients in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Put about 1 1/2 cups of mix into three 1-pint airtight containers and label as Mexican Rice Mix. store in a cool, dry place and use within to 8 months. Makes about 41/2 cups of mix. Mexican Rice: Combine 11/2 cups of mix, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; cover and reduce heat. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes, until liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings. Mexican Rice No. 2 Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Rice 1 T Chili pepper, chopped green 2 T Salt 1 c Tomatoes 2/3 c Raisins 2 Bacon slices 1TOilorfat 1 Onion, small chopped 1 T Chili powder 1 Garlic, sm clove chopped 1 1/2 c Water 1 lb Hamburger steak, raw Wash and drain rice. Wash raisins in hot water and drain. Heat half the oil in frying pan, add washed rice and fry to a light brown, stirring occasionally to prevent burning. Remove rice, add remaining fat, then fry the hamburger, onion, garlic, and chili pepper about ten minutes; add salt, tomatoes and chili powder which has been dissolved in one-fourth cup cold water. Allow the mixture to cook a few minutes, then mix with the rice and raisins. Pour into a baking dish, add water and lay the strips of bacon over the top. Bake until rice is tender, about forty-five minutes in a moderate oven (350 to degrees F.) If bacon gets too brown, cover dish for part of the baking. Mexican Rice Pudding ( Arroz Con Leche) 128 Yield: 1 Serving 2 Inches cinnamon stick \- a 2" strip of lime zest, 3/4 "wide 1 c Rice 1 qt Milk 3/4 c Sugar 1/4 t Salt 4 lg Egg yolks 1/4 c Raisins 1 T Unsalted butter, cut into -bits Ground cinnamon, \- for garnish 1/2 t Vanilla extract (mexican -vanilla would be best - it comes in a pretty -big bottle though.) The rice. Bring 2 c water to boil in med saucepan, add cinn stick and lime zest, cover and simmer over med heat for 5 min. Pour in rice, let mix return to boil, stir once, then cover and cook over med-low heat for 20 min, until all the liquid is absorbed and the rice is tender. The pudding. Stir in milk, sugar, and salt and simmer over med to med-low heat, stirring frequently, until the liquid shows the FIRST signs of thickening, 20-25 min. Take from the heat and remove the cinn stick and zest. Beat the egg yolks until runny, stir in the vanilla and a few T of the hot rice, the stir yolk concoction back into the rice mixture, Mix in HALF the raisins, then spoon the rice pudding into a decorative 8"square baking dish. Browning and finishing the pudding. Preheat the broiler and dot the rice pudding w/butter. Set the dish under the heat long enough to brown the top, 3 or 4 min. Sprinkle with remaining raisins and the ground cinnamon, and serve warm or at room temperature. COOK'S NOTES: Timing and Advance Preparation The rice pudding can be ready in an hour, much of which won't involve your direct participation. It may be prepared through Step 2 a day or two in advance, then buttered and broiled shortly before serving. Historical Notes: Arroz con leche This dessert is softer and more connamony than our baked rice pudding. The flavors are simple and close to home, but it's easy to develop a real love for it, spoonful after spoonful. mexican people everywhere serve it as regularly as they do flan; it's creamy and, in its own way, light and soothing. Mexican Spanish Rice 129 Yield: 1 Serving \---1 NGREDIENTS--- ## 3 T Shortening 1/2 c Onion, sliced 1 14 oz can whole tomatoes 1 t Black pepper 3 c Water -------------------------DIR ECTI0N&\----------------------------- /2 c Rice 12 c Bell pepper,sliced md Clove garlic, minced ts Salt Melt shortening in large skillet. Add rice and brown. When rice is a golden brown, reduce heat and add onion, bell pepper, tomatoes, garlic and pepper. Mix well and add 1 1/2 cups warm water or enough to just cover the rice. Add salt. Cover and let simmer until almost dry Add remaining water, cold, a little at a time, cooking over low heat until fluffy. Note: You may substitue peeled seeded green chili for the bell pepper. Minnesota Wild Rice Dressing Yield: 12 Servings ## 4 slices turkey bacon cut -into 1-inch pieces 1 c onion chopped 1 c celery chopped 1/21b mushrooms sliced 1 Package (4 ounces) wild -rice cooked according -to package directions 2 c bread crumbs 1/21b turkey breakfast sausage -cooked 1 t dried oregano 1/2 t dried sage Salt Pepper Preheat oven to 325. In medium-size skillet, over medium heat, saute bacon until almost crisp. Add onion, celery and mushrooms; continue cooking until vegetables are tender. In large bowl combine bacon mixture, wild rice, bread crumbs, sausage, oregano and sage. Season to taste with salt and pepper if desired. Spoon dressing into lightly greased 2-quart casserole dish. Bake, covered, at 325 degrees F. 35 to 40 minutes. 130 Minnesota Wild Rice-Stuffed Chicken Yield: 10 Servings 1 6-ounce package long grain \- and wild rice mix 2 medium coking apples -(such as Granny Smith -or Jonathan), cored -and chopped 8 oz sliced fresh mushrooms \- (3 cups) 1 c shredded carrot 1/2 c thinly sliced green onion 1/2 t pepper 1 5-to 6-pound whole -roasting chicken 2-3 T apple jelly, melted 1 medium apple, cut into \- wedges (optional) For stuffing, cook rice according to package directions, except add apples, mushrooms, carrot, onion, and pepper to rice before cooking. Meanwhile, rinse chicken; pat dry with paper towels. Spoon some of the stuffing loosely into the neck cavity. Pull the neck skin to the back and fasten with a small skewer. Lightly spoon the remaining stuffing into body cavity. Tuck drumsticks under the band of skin that crosses the tail. If there is no band, tie drumsticks to tail. Twist the wing tips under the bird. Place stuffed chicken, breast side up, on a rack in a shallow roasting pan. Insert meat thermometer into the center of one of the thigh muscles. The bulb should not touch the bone. Roast, uncovered, in a 325 degree F. oven for 1-3/4 to 2-1/2 hours or until meat thermometer registers 180 degrees F. to 185 degrees F. At this time, chicken is no longer pink and the drumsticks move easily in their sockets. When the bird is two-thirds done, cut the band of skin or string between the drumsticks so the thighs will cook evenly. Brush chicken with melted jelly once or twice during the last 10 minutes of roasting. Remove chicken from oven and cover it with foil. Let stand for 10 to 20 minutes before carving. Transfer the chicken to a serving platter. Spoon the stuffing around the chicken. Garnish with apple wedges, if desired. Makes 10 servings. Comments: Team up this apple-glazed bird with a chicory and red onion salad dressed with a blue cheese vinaigrette. Miss Allie's Chicken and Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 131 Chicken,3-41b* Salt Pepper Onion ,lg,mild,peeled/ch opped en Mushrooms,drained (4 oz) 4 T Butter,cut into small pieces 3 c Chicken stock,boiling 1 c Rice,long-grained,uncooked Preheat oven to 350'F. Place half of the chicken in a Dutch oven (or heavy casserole with tight-fitting lid) and season with salt and pepper. Cover with the onions, mushrooms and half of the butter. Cover with remaining chicken, season, and dot with butter. Cover and bake for about 45 minutes. Remove chicken pieces; add rice and stir into cooking fat. Add the boiling stock. Place chicken over mixture. Recover and bake for about 1 hour, or until rice and chicken are tender and almost all liquid has been absorbed. Mushroom Ragout in Rice Ring Yield: 4 Servings 1 Bunch Soupgreens 18 oz Veal 4 c Saltwater 1 Onion 18 oz Mushrooms 3 oz Butter 2 oz Flour 2 c Beefbroth ,instant 3/4 c Sweet cream 1 c White Wine Salt, Pepper, Sugar to taste 2 Cooking Bags Rice,Instant 1 Hardboiled Egg 1 Tomatoe 1 T Butter 2 T Parsley,finely chopped Clean and cut up the soupgreens in small cubes;add the water and meat and cook all for 45 minutes. 2.Chop the onion very fine, half the mushrooms. Melt the butter and saute both for a short while;add the flour and cream, fill up with the broth and simmer for another 20 minutes.Season to taste. 3.Prepare rice as directed. Mix the mushrooms and the meat together.Season and add the egg and the finely chopped tomatoe. 4.Grease a rice ring form and fill in the rice, than invert on a platter and fill the ragout in the middle. Garnish with tomatoes and parsley. Typed by Brigitte Sealing Cyberealm BBS 315-786-1120 132 Mushroom Wild Rice Chowder Yield: 6 Servings 2 T Vegetable oil 8 oz Mushrooms, fresh; sliced 1 Celery rib; thinly sliced 1/2 c Flour, unbleached 3 3/4 c ;water 3 c Wild rice; cooked 1 t Salt 1/2 t Curry powder 1/2 t Mustard, dry 1/2 t Cinnamon 3 dr Hot pepper sauce 1 1/2 c Soymilk Paprika 1/2 c Almonds, slivered;toasted -optional In a soup pot, heat oil. Add mushrooms and celery and saute 2 minutes. Sprinkle flour over vegetables and cook over medium-low heat, stirring, 1 minute. Gradually add water, stirring constantly; cook over mediumheat until mixture is somewhat thickened.Stir in remaining ingredients. Heat thoroughly.Garnish with paprika and toasted almonds if desired. Serves 6. Per serving: 195 cal; 9 gprot; 5 g fat; 29 g carb; 0 chol; 680 mg sod; 1 g fiber; vegan Nasi Goreng (Fried Rice) Yield: 1 Serving 2 c Long-grain rice 4 Shallots or 1 small onion 2 Red chillis or 1 tsp -chilli powder and 1 tsp \- paprika 2 T Vegetable oil or clarified \- butter or pork fat Salt 1 t Sweet soya sauce 1 t Tomato ketchup The name Nasi Goreng means simply 'fried rice', and it is really a collective description of an indefinite number of slightly differing dishes. You can vary the trimmings and garnishes to suit your taste; but even the most elaborate Nasi Goreng is quick to make. It is a particularly good luncheon dish. Boil the rice a good long time before you intend to fry it; you can fry freshly boiled rice, but the Nasi 133 Goreng will be better if the boiled rice is allowed to cool. Two hours is a satisfactory interval. Leaving the rice to cool overnight, however, gives less good results-the rice has time to go dry and stale. An important point to note here is that rice for Nasi Goreng must be cooked with the least possible quantity of water; this prevents it from becoming too soft. For 1 cup of rice, use 1 cup of water. Assuming you have now got your cool, boiled rice, proceed like this: slice the shallots or onion, seed and slice the chilli (or pound the shallots and chilli together in a mortar). Heat the oil in a wok; it makes no difference, by the way, whether you use oil, fat, or butter. Saute the shallots and chilli for a minute or so, and season with salt, soya sauce, and tomato ketchup. Put in all the rice, and stir it continuously until it is well heated: this will take 5 to 8 minutes. Serve in a good large dish, generously garnished with sliced cucumber, tomatoes, fried onions, and Krupuk. New Zealand Brown Rice Salad Yield: 6 Servings 1 c Brown rice 2 Kiwifruit 1 New Granny Smith or \- Braeburn apple 1/2 c Thinly sliced celery 1/2 c Red pepper strips 1/4 c Toasted walnut pieces 1/4 c Thinly sliced green onions 2 T Chopped parsley 3 T Sherry vinegar 1 T Olive oil Cook rice in water according to package directions. Drain and cool. Peel kiwifruit and cut into 1/4" thick slices. Cut slices in half to form semi circles. Core and dice apple into 1/2" cubes. Toss together rice, kiwifruit, apple, celery, red pepper strips, walnuts, green onions and parsley in salad bowl. Mix together vinegar and oil. Drizzle over salad. Toss to mix well. Cover and refrigerate 1-2 hours, to allow flavors to blend, before serving. Makes 6 servings. No-Egg Rice Pudding 134 Yield: 8 Servings \---DEIDRE ANNE PENROD FGGT98 1 c Raw Converted Rice 2 1/2 c Milk 2/3 c -Granulated Sugar 1/2 c Golden Seedless Raisins 1/2 t -Salt 1/2 t -Nutmeg 1/2 Lemon Rind; of half \- a lemon slivered 1/2 t -Vanilla 1/2 c Heavy Cream OR Half-And-Half \- chilled No-Egg Rice Pudding 4 to 6 hours Madame Bertrand, my landlady in southern France, made rice pudding this way. To Cook: Place all the ingredients except the cream in the slow cooker and stir once. Cover and cook on Low for 4 to 6 hours. Serve lukewarm with chilled heavy cream or half-and- half. Makes 8 to 10 servings. Okra Chicken & Crab Gumbo with Rice Yield: 2 Servings 1/2 c Onion-chopped 1/4 c Green onion-chopped 1/4 c Green bell pepper-chopped 1/4 c Celery-chopped 1/4 c Okra-sliced 1 Garlic clove - minced 1 t Parsley-fresh, minced 2 T Dry brown roux- (see Recipe) 2 c Water 1 Bay leaf 1/4 t Thyme 1/4 t Black pepper-freshly Ground pn Cayenne 1 Gumbo- (blue crab) Cleaned and quartered 4 oz Chicken breast - cooked, cut Into 1/2" cubes 1 c Rice - hot, cooked (no oil Or salt added) Put the onion, breen onion, bell pepper, celery, okra, garlic, and parsley in a saucepan and cook while stirring for 5 minutes. stir in 135 the dry roux and slowly blend in the water. Add the bay leaf, thyme, pepper, and cayenne and bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Add the crab and the chicken, cover the pot, and continue simmering for minutes. TO SERVE: Spoon the gumbo into warm soup bowls and top with 1/2 cup rice in the center of each. Serve immediately. NOTE: Since the roux is made before you start the gumbo (always be sure that it is), there are no tricks to getting this right. The preparation is as simple as it sounds and as delicious as some far more complicated preparations. VARIATIONS: There are as many different preparations of gumbo as there are cooks. Make your own substitutions and calculate the dietary differences by using the Dietary Analysis published by both the Canadian and U.S. Governments. Remember though, keep it light! ANALYSIS (per serving): Calories 300, protein 27.6g., carbohydrates g, dietary fiber 2.64g, total fat 3.51g (saturated 0.884g, mono g, poly 0.935g, cholesterol76.1mg, calcium 99.7mg, iron 3.72mg, sodium 147mg Old Fashioned Rice Pudding Yield: 4 Servings 1/3 c Rice, raw 1 t Cornstarch 1 1/3 c Milk 1/2 t Vanilla 1/3 c Sugar 1/4 t Salt 1 T Butter 2 Eggs Cook rice according to package directions until tender. Combine sugar, cornstarch and salt. Add milk and sugar mixture to rice. Heat to boiling; boil1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in butter and vanilla. Separate eggs (whites will not be used) and beat yolks. Slowly stir about 1 cup of the hot rice mixture into the beaten egg yolks in a bowl. Blend with the remaining mixture in saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, just until mixture starts to bubble. Serve warm or cold, plain or with favorite topping. Optional: One or more of the following ingredients can be added after the egg yolks and before final cooking. 1/2 c Raisins 1/2 c Chopped Nuts 1/2 c Chopped Apples t Cinnamon 136 Onion-Flavored Rice Mix Yield: 1 Serving 4 c Uncooked Long Grain Rice 1 T Parsley Flakes 2 package (1 1/4 oz) Onion -Soup Mix 1 t Salt Combine ingredients in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Put about 1 1/3 cups of mix into three 1-pint airtight containers and label as Onion-Flavored Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to 8 months. Makes about 4 cups of mix Onion-Flavored Rice: Combine 11/3 cups ONION-FLAVORED RICE MIX, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; cover and reduce heat. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes, until liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings Oranges Filled with Raisins, Chickpeas, and Rice Yield: 2 Servings \---ORANGE TAHINI SAUCE--- 1/4 c Tahini 3/4 c Plain yogurt or soft tofu 1/4 c Orange juice 2 t Ground cumin 2 t Paprika 2 T Minced fresh cilantro (opt.) \--------------------------FIL LING------------------------------- tb Unsalted butter -OR-avocado oil md Red onion; chopped c Brown and wild rice blend-- (uncooked) -OR 1/3 brown & 2/3 wildrice c Vegetable broth or water c Chickpeas; cooked, drained /4 c Raisins \--------------------------0RANGE8------------------------------- Jumbo navel oranges-- halved crosswise \--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- tb Sesame seeds tb Chopped scallion whites Cilantro leaves (optional) FOR THE ORANGE-TAHINI SAUCE: In a blender or food processor, combine all ingredients. Refrigerate until ready to use. FOR THE FILLING: Melt the butter or heat the oil in a medium saucepan. Saute the onion until soft, about 10 minutes. Add the rice and stir to coat with the butter. Add the broth, bring to a boil, cover, and simmer over low heat until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed, about 45 minutes. Let cool to room temperature. In a large bowl, toss together the cooked rice, Orange-Tahini Sauce, chickpeas, and raisins. 137 Prepare the oranges for stuffing by slicing off the rounded ends so that each half stands squarely on a plate. Using a paring knife, carve out the fruit, cut it into bite-size sections, and toss it into the rice mixture. Once the fruit has been removed, cut away as much of the white portion of the peel as possible, leaving the shell intact. Set the orange shells on a serving dish and fill them with the rice mixture. Garnish each with a sprinkling of sesame seeds and scallions topped with a whole cilantro leaf. Peanut Butter Chocolate Rice Krispie Treats Yield: 1 Serving 2 c Sugar 2 c Corn syrup 18 oz Peanut butter 8 c Rice Krispies 6 oz Butterscotch morsels 6 oz Semi-sweet chocolate chips Bring sugar and syrup to a boil. Add peanut butter and cook, stirring until well blended. Remove from heat and pour hot mixture over cereal. Mix quickly and thoroughly. Spread in a greased 9x12x2 inch pan. Sprinkle butterscotch and chocolate morsels over top. Press morsels into bar mixture lightly with spoon. When cool, cut into bars and store at room temperature. Peas with Rice Yield: 4 Servings 4 Green onions, chopped 4 T Butter 2 c Shld peas (2 lb unshelled) 4 c Chicken broth, hot 1 c Short grnd rice (arborio) 2 T Minced parsley 1/2 c Grated Parmesan cheese Salt to taste 138 Chop both the white and green ofteh onions and saute' them gently in the butter in a deep saucepan with a lid. Add the peas and cook -2 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the hot broth, cover and simmer 8-10 minutes. Add rice and parsley, stir once, bring to a boil, cover, and reduce the heat toa simmer. Cook about 15 minutes. Taste for seasoning and add salt if needed. stir in the cheese. Perfect Chinese steamed Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 c Uncooked long-grain rice 3 1/2 c Water PUT THE RICE INTO A LARGE BOWL and wash it in several changes of water until the water runs clear. Drain the rice and put in a heavy pot with the water and bring to a boil. Continue boiling until most of the surface liquid has evaporated. This should take about 15 to 20 minutes. The surface of the rice should have small indentations like a pitted crater. At this point, cover the pot with a very tight-fitting lid, turn the heat as low as possible and let the rice cook undisturbed for 15 to 20 minutes. There is no need to fluff the rice before serving it. Picadillo (Rice & Beef Hash/filling) Yield: 2 Servings 2 t Olive oil 8 oz Cooked ground beef lean 1/4 c Diced onions 1/2 Garlic clove, minced 1 md Tomato chopped and seeded 1 sm Apple, pared and chopped 1 Sliced canned jalapeno 2 T Raisins 2 Large stuffed olives, sliced 2 Pitted black olives, sliced 1/4 t Each salt and pepper ds each cinnamon & cloves In a 10" skillet heat oil over medium heat; add ground beef and cook, 139 breaking up large pieces with a wooden spoon, until crumbly. Add onion and garlic and saute until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the remaining ingredients. Reduce heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally until flavors are well blended, about 20 minutes. Serve over rice or as a filling for burritos or tacos. Picnic Rice Salad Yield: 6 Servings 1 c Rice, cooked, still firm 1 Tomato, fresh cut wedges 3 Eggs, hard-boiled, quartered 1 sm Can tuna fish, shredded 1/2 c Celery, diced Any leftovers FRENCH DRESSING 3 T Olive or salad oil 1 T Vinegar or lemon juice 1/8 t Mustard 1/2 t Salt Pepper Beat the seasonings and oil for the dressing in a bowl (with a fork) for one minute then add vinegar and beat until mixed, or shake dressing ingredients in a small jar. Toss the salad ingredients with the dressing and store in a jar in the refrigerator with screw-top lid. Pineapple Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 lg Fresh pineapple 2 c Cooked long-grain white rice 1 oz Chinese dried mushrooms 1 sm Onion; finely chopped 2 T Oil, preferably peanut 1/41b Chinese long beans (OR -Green Beans), trimmed 140 -and diced 2 Eggs 2 T Dark soy sauce 1 T Fish sauce (optional) CAREFULLY CUT OFF and save the pineapple top, leaving about 1-inch of the pineapple under the leaves. Scoop out the inside fruit leaving the skin of the pineapple whole to use as a bowl for the fried rice. Coarsely chop the pineapple meat. Soak the dried mushrooms in warm water for 20 minutes until they are soft. Squeeze the excess liquid from the mushrooms and remove and discard their stems. Cut the caps into small dice. Heat a wok or large frying pan until it is hot. Then add the oil and wait until it is almost smoking. Add the mushrooms, onions, beans and stirfry for one minute. Mix in the cooked rice and stirfry it for one minute. Add the eggs, soy sauce and fish sauce and continue to stirfry for five minutes over high heat. Add the chopped pineapple and continue to stirfry for about two minutes. Scoop the mixture into the hollowed-out pineapple shell, replace the top and serve the remaining rice on a platter. Poached chicken in cream sauce with rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 1/21b Chicken,trussed 5 c Water or chicken broth 1 Bay leaf 1 Small onion,peel and stick t 2 Allspice berries 1 Large carrot,peeled and hald 3 Large stalks celery 6 Black peppercorns 2 Sprigs fresh thyme Salt and pepper 1 c Rice 2 T Butter 2 T Flour 1 c Heavy cream 1/2 Juice of lemon 1/8 t Grated nutmeg pn of cayenne Place the chicken in a small kettle or large saucepan and add the water,bay leaf,onion with cloves,allspice,carrot,celery,peppercorns,thyme and salt to taste.Bring to a boil and partly cover. Simmer 30 min. 2. Remove the chicken,carrot,and celery from the kettle and keep hot.Strain the cooking liquidand reserve it.Discard the flavorings. 3. Place the rice in the saucepan and add 2 c. of the reserved cooking liquid. Bring to a boil,cover and cook 20 min. 4. Meanwhile,melt the butter in another 141 saucepan and add the flour, stirring with a wire whisk. Add 1 c. of the reserved chicken cooking liquid,stirring rapidly with the wire whisk. Cook for 5 min. Stir in the cream and continue cooking about 10 min. Add the lemon juice,nutmeg,cayenne and salt and pepper to taste. 5. Untruss the chicken and remove the skin(except the wing skin). Cut the carrot and celery into 2-in pieces. 6. Arrange the rice on a warm serving platter. Place the chicken,carrots and celery on the rice. Spoon the sauce over the chicken and serve. Pork Chops and Rice Yield: 4 Servings 4 Pork chops, lean 2 c Water 1 t Salt ## 2 TOil 1 c Rice 1 en Cream of mushroom soup 1 x Flour 1/4 c Water Bring 2c salted water to boil. Add uncooked rice; cook until tender. Brown floured and salted pork chops in oil. Add mushroom soup and 1/4c water. Cover and cook 15 minutes. Line casserole with rice, cover with chops and gravy. Bake 30 to 45 minutes at 350 degrees or until tender. Portuguese-Style Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 Linguica sausage, about \- 6 ounces, cut on \- 1/4-inch dice 3/4 c Raw long-grain white rice 1 1/2 c Water pn Salt 2 T Chopped fresh cilantro. Saute diced sausage in a heavy saucepan until browned, about 5 minutes. Drain off excess fat. Add rice, stirring well to coat grains. Add 142 water and salt, and bring a boil. Lower heat, cover pan, and simmer for 19 minutes, or until grains are soft and water has evaporated. Stir in cilantro. Serves 4. PER SERVING: 215 calories, 6 g protein, 28 g carbohydrate, 8 g fat (3 g saturated), 2 mg cholesterol, 316 mg sodium, 0 g fiber. Pumpkin & Rice Soup Yield: 6 Servings 1 md Onion; chopped 1 Clove garlic; minced 1 T Vegetable oil 4 c Chicken broth 1 en Pumpkin (16 ounces) 1/2 c To 1 cup fresh pumpkin (opt) ;finely grated 1/2 t Coriander; ground 1/4 t Red pepper flakes 1/4 t Nutmeg; ground 3 c Hot cooked rice Cilantro sprigs for garnish Cook onion and garlic in oil in a large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium heat until onion is tender. Stir in remaining ingredients except rice and garnish. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; simmer, uncovered, 5 to 10 minutes. Top each serving with 1/2 cup rice. Garnish with cilantro sprigs. Per serving: Calories: 215; protein: 7.2g; fat: 3.8g; sodium: 913mg; Quick Salsa Chicken and Rice Main Dish, Poultry Yield: 4 Servings 1 T vegetable oil 1 lb boneless, skinless chicken -breast halves, cubed 1 t garlic powder 2 c instant white or brown rice 143 (16-oz) jar Ortega Salsa \- Prima Homestyle Mild 1 1/4 c water 1 Maggi Chicken Bouillon Cubes 2 chopped green onions (green \- parts only) Heat oil in stockpot. Add chicken and garlic powder; cook, stirring occasionally, until chicken is no longer pink. Add rice, salsa, water and bouillon; bring to a boil. Cover; reduce heat to low. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 10 to 12 minutes or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed. Sprinkle with green onions. Comments: In many Mexican households, rice flavored with broth, tomatoes and chiles constitutes a full meal. This dish, featuring flavorful rice and chicken with Ortega Garden Style Salsa, is a speedy version of the classic. Enjoy with a mixed green salad and chilled Libby's Kern's mango nectar. Quick, Southern Style Red Beans and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 6 Slices bacon 2 Onions 1 Garlic clove 1 c Beef broth 1 c Rice, raw 1 t Thyme ## 1 t Salt 1 Bell pepper 2 c Kidney beans ut bacon into 1 inch pieces. Cut Onions into 1/2 inch wedges. ince Garlic Clove. Dice bell Pepper. Drain Beans. ook bacon in 10 inch skillet over medium heat until browned but not risp, about 5 minutes. Remove bacon from skillet; drain off all but tablespoons drippings. Add Onion and Garlic to skillet; cook until nion is tender but not brown, about 5 minutes. Add enough Water to eef broth to make 2 1/2 cups. Add to skillet and bring to a bOil. tir in rice, bacon, thyme and Salt. Cover tightly and simmer 15 inutes. Add Green Pepper, cover and continue cooking 5 minutes. emove from heat. Stir in Beans. Let stand covered until all liquid s absorbed, about 5 minutes. 144 Red Bean, Rice & Sausage Soup Yield: 8 Servings 1 lg Onion, chopped 1 lg Garlic clove, minced 1 t Olive oil 3 1/2 c Chicken stock, defatted 1 lg Carrot, diced 1 lg Celery stalk, diced 1/2 Sweet red peppers, diced 1 1/2 c Water 1 en Tomato sauce, (15 ounces) 2 en Red kidney beans, canned, (16 ounces) 1/4 t Dried thyme ## 1 Bay leaf 1/4 t Black pepper 1/3 c Long-grain rice 6 oz Sausage, sliced 1/4" Thick In a Dutch oven or small soup pot, combine onion, garlic, olive oil, and 3 tablespoons of chicken broth. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until onions begin to brown, about 5-6 minutes. Add all remaining ingredients except sausage. Bring soup to a boil over high heat. Lower heat and cover. Simmer, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. Add sausage and cook an additional10 minutes or until flavors are well blended and soup has thickened slightly. Keeps in refrigerator for 3-4 days. NOTES : Note: that's 1/2 of one sweet red pepper and cans of beans must be drained. Also, for low fat version smoked turkey sausage may be substituted Red Beans and Rice Yield: 8 Servings ## 2 lb Dried red kidney beans ### 2 c Chopped yellow onions 1 bn Of scallions, chopped ## 3 Or 4 finely sliced ### \- cloves of garlic bn Parsley (chopped) 3 lb Smoked sausage * Salt and pepper to taste 3 qt Of cold water cut into 2 inch lengths (smoked ham or ham bone works fine) I just made no-fat refried beans last night completely by accident. 145 I was making this recipe and discovered it in the process. Soak beans overnight if possible. Drain water and add beans to a large 8-or 10-quart pot. Then add enough of the cold water to cover the beans. Add chopped yellow onions and garlic and bring to a boil. Cook for one hour and add all the other things and more water if necessary. Simmer (slight bubbling action) for 2 more hours or until the beans are soft. Then remove 2 cups of cooked beans without juice and mash very good. Then return the mashed up beans to the pot and stir into the mixture. This makes a creamy, thicker gravy. If the beans are too dry, add enough water to make them like you like them. Good over boiled rice. Serves 8. If you're in New Orleans on a Monday, this is the only thing you can eat. When I got to the point where you take the two cups beans out and mash 'em, I put them in the food processor to puree. They came out smelling and tasting just like refried beans. The texture was a tad thin, but that could be remedied easily. You could probably even "re-fry" them in a nonstick skillet to reduce the water content. I used skin-on ham hocks to make this batch of beans, but you could easily leave that out and still come up with something close to what you want, I think. Red Beans and Rice No. 5 Yield: 4 Servings cloves garlic, minced 1/3 cup diced onion 1/8 tsp cayenne /8 tsp cumin 1/8 tsp chili powder 2 tsp Tabasco sauce 2 cup cooked brown rice 2 cup cooked red beans 1 cup diced cooked ham Directions: In a large pan, saute garlic and onion with seasonings. Add rice, beans and ham; cook over medium heat. Stir in approximately 1/4 cup water or liquid from beans. Cook until heated through. Red Beans and Rice Soup with Shrimp Yield: 6 Servings 146 1 T Vegetable oil 1 c Chopped onion 1/2 c Coarsely chopped celery 1 Garlic clove; minced 2 T All-purpose flour 1 1/2 c Water 1/4 c Long-grain rice, uncooked 1 t Chili powder 1/2 t Ground cumin 1/4 t Salt 141/2 oz Canned whole tomatoes \- (no-salt-added), -undrained chopped 10 1/2 oz Low-sodium chicken broth 3/41b Small fresh unpeeled shrimp 151/2 oz Canned red beans; drained 1 T Lime juice Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion, celery, and garlic; saute 5 minutes. Sprinkle with flour, stir well, and cook an additional minute, Add 1 1/2 cups water and next 6 ingredients. Bring to a boil; cover, reduce heat, and simmer for 20 minutes. Peel and devein shrimp. Add shrimp and red beans to rice mixture, and stir well. Cook, uncovered, 5 minutes or until shrimp is done. Remove from heat, and stir in lime juice. Yield: 7 1/2 cups (serving size: 1 12 cups). Red Beans and Rice with Smoked Sausage Yield: 4 Servings 1 lb Dried red beans 1 Garlic clove chopped 1 1/21b Smoked sausage cut 1 t Dried thyme 1 x Into chunks 1 t Ground pepper 8 oz Smoked ham shanks 1/2 t Sage 1 Large onion chopped 1 pn Cayenne pepper 1 X Salt 1 x Freshly cooked rice Place beans in Dutch oven and cover generously with water. Let soak minutes. Add remaining ingredients to beans except salt and rice. Bring to boil over medium high heat. Reduce heat to medium low, cover and simmer until beans are tender, adding more water if necessary (about 2 1/2 hours). Add salt to taste. Discard ham bones. Remove about 3 tablespoons of beans from mixture and mash to paste; return to Dutch oven and stir. Simmer 15 more minutes. Serve over hot rice. 147 Red Beans With Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 lb Red kidney beans 1 lb Salt pork 2 Cloves garlic 1 t Italian seasoning 1 Bell pepper 1 Chopped onion 1 Stalk celery 1 Whole hot pepper Boil pork 5 minutes to get rid of salt. Put pork in second water (hot) and add beans, water, should be one-half inch above beans. Add immediately, one bell pepper, one chopped onion, celery, garlic, Italian seasoning and whole hot pepper. Cook slowly two to three hours, until gravy is thick and beans tender-- just before dishing out add a pinch of italian seasoning again. Salt to taste and serve with rice. Republica Dominicana Red Beans & Rice (Arroz Con Habijual Yield: 1 Serving \---BEANS--- 1 c Dry red beans 3 c -Water (approx.) 3 c -Fresh water 1 T Cumin 1 T Raw sugar 1 T White vinegar 2 Garlic cloves peeled -and chopped 1 Onion; peeled and chopped 1/2 t Salt Freshly ground black pepper 1 ds Tabasco \--------------------------F0R R ICE------------------------------- 148 c Rice /2 c Water NOTE: (red beans are not the same as kidney beans-they are smaller) Soak the beans in the water overnight or at least 8 hours. Drain the soaking water. Put the beans and all the rest of the ingredients into a large cooking pot. Bring the water to a boil, then reduce to moderate-low heat and cook for about 1 hour, until most of the water is absorbed. Add more water if you need to, and stir the beans every 10 minutes or so. When the beans have 1/2 hour to go, make the rice. Put the rice and water in a saucepan, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and cover. Simmer until all the water is absorbed, about 30 minutes. Then turn the heat off and let sit, with cover on, about 10 minutes. To serve, serve the beans over the rice. Serve with sliced avocado (aguacate), fried plaintain chips (platanos fritos), and cornbread (served fried like hush-puppies). For dessert serve fruit such as papaya with coconut, and expresso coffee (for Dominican style expresso: fill up your demitasse cup 1/2 full of raw sugar, then add outrageously strong expresso coffee!). Rice & Onion Soup Base Yield: 2 Quarts 2 c Onions; thinly sliced 2 T Butter 8 c Chicken stock 1/2 c White rice Salt and pepper to taste In a 3-quart heavy saucepan, cook the onions in the butter over moderately low heat for 7 to 8 minutes, stirring frequently, until the onions are very tender and colored no more than a buttery yellow. (This is known as "sweating the onions".) Pour in 4 cups of the stock, stir in the rice and simmer for 20 minutes or more until the rice is very tender. Puree the soup in the blender until very smooth and lightly thickened, adding a little more stock if needed. Return the puree to the pan, add the rest of the stock and season to taste with salt and pepper. Note: to make a fat-free version, cook the onions in a little stock instead of butter. 149 Rice and Beans with Cheese Yield: 5 Servings 1 1/3 c Water 2/3 c Long grain Rice 1 c Shredded Carrots 1/2 c Sliced Green Onions 1 t Instant chicken bouillon 1/2 t Ground Coriander 1/4 t Salt 1 t Hot pepper Sauce 15 oz Can Pinto I Navy Beans,drain 1 c Lo-fat Cottage Cheese 8 oz Plain lo-fat Yogurt 1 T Snipped fresh parsley 1/2 c Shredded lo-fat Cheddar chee In a large saucepan combine water, rice, carrots, green onions, bouillon granules, coriander, salt, and bottled hot pepper sauce. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes or till rice is tender and water is absorbed. Stir in pinto or navy beans, cottage cheese, yogurt, and parsley. Spoon into a 10x6x2" baking dish. Bake, covered, in a 350 deg F. oven for 20-25 minutes or till heated through. Sprinkle with cheddar cheese. Bake, uncovered, for 3-5 minutes more or till cheese melts. serving: 282 calories, 19 g fat, 42 g carbohydrates, 4 g fat, 14 mg cholesterol, 489 mg sodium, 548 mg potassium. Rice And Cheese Casserole Yield: 6 Servings 12 cup cooked brown rice 3 green onions, chopped 1 cup low-fat cottage cheese 1 tsp dill weed 1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan 12 cup low-fat milk 1/2 tsp Dijon-style mustard Nonstick vegetable spray Directions: Combine all but the last ingredient in a mixing bowl. Pour into a casserole dish coated with nonstick vegetable spray. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes. 150 Rice and Lentils Yield: 4 Servings md Onion, chopped Garlic Cloves, minced 2 tb Vegetable Oil1 ts Ground Turmeric _2 ts Paprika 1_ 4 ts Ground Cloves 1/4 ts Ground Cinnamon 1/4 ts Ground Coriander 1/4 ts Ground Black Pepper 1/4 ts Salt 1 c Brown Rice, uncooked 1 c Dried Lentils, sorted and washed 4 c Water Saute the onion and garlic in the oil in a large saucepan. Add the spices and cook over low heat for 4 minutes. Add the rice and lentils and stir to mix well. Pour in the water. Bring to a boil, turn the heat to low and cook for 45 to 50 minutes, or until the rice and lentils are tender. Rice Cheese Croquettes Yield: 6 Servings 2 c Rice; short grained 1/4 c Onion; finely minced ## 2 T Olive oil 1 t -salt 3 1/2 c -hot water 1 c Tomatoes; peeled 1 lb Mozzarella; cut in 24 1/4 1 c Bread crumbs; fine 1 c Vegetable oil; for frying Eggs; slightly beaten -inch X 1 inch bits Suppli al Telefono To quote the author, "It is not easy to make Suppli al Telefono. Nevertheless, it pays to make the effort once in awhile because this dish always makes family and guests happy. The name comes from the fact that a thread of cheese will spin between your mouth and the suppli while you are eating it, resembling the mouthpiece of an early model telephone from the time this dish was first created. Suppl can be served as an appetizer, as a side dish in a dairy meal, or as a meal in itself for a lunch or brunch ....Suppli should be served piping hot. Tell your guests, who might have never had them before, that suppli should be eaten with the fingers." Place rice, onion and olive oil in 2 qt saucepan and saute 2 or 3 minutes, stirring frequently. Add salt and 3 1/2 cups hot water. Bring to a boil. Lower heat to minimum and cook, covered, without stirring, 15 minutes. Add tomatoes and cook, uncovered, 5 minutes longer, stirring frequently. The rice should now be quite dry. Remove from heat and cool for 15 to minutes, add eggs and mix well. With damp hands, shape heaping tablespoons of the mixture into croquettes the size of a large egg; insert one piece of cheese into each croquette, 151 Rice Con Queso Yield: 6 Servings 3 c Cooked brown rice (1 \- 1/2 cups uncooked), \- cooked with Salt and pepper 1 1/3 c Cooked black beans or \- blackeyed \- peas, pinto beans, _Etc._ (about 1/2 cup uncooked) 3 Cloves garlic, minced 1 lg Onion, chopped 1 sm Can chiles, chopped 1/21b Ricotta cheese, thinned \- with a little low fat -milk or Yogurt until spreadable 3/41b Shredded Monterrey Jack -cheese 1/2 c Shredded cheddar cheese Garnishes (optional): chopped black olives, onions, fresh parsley Preheat oven to 350 degree F. Mix together rice, beans, garlic, onion, and chilies. In a casserole, spread alternating layers of the rice-beans mixture, ricotta cheese, and jack cheese, ending with a layer of rice and beans. Bake for 30 minutes. During the last few minutes of baking, sprinkle cheddar cheese over the top. Garnish before serving. Complementary protein: rice and beans and milk products Rice Crust For Pizza Yield: 1 Serving 3 c Cooked Brown Rice 2 Eggs; beaten 1 c Grated Mozzarella Cheese Mix the rice with eggs and cheese. Press into 10" pizza pan. Bake for 152 20 minutes at 450. Put on sauce and toppings of your choice; bake 10 minutes longer. PROTEIN: 45.4 grams; CALORIES: 1066 Rice Cutlets Yield: 6 Servings 1/21b Cooked long grain rice 1/41b Mushrooms, chopped 4 T Milk, heated 2 T Flour 2 T Chopped parsley 2 Large eggs 1 oz Butter Breadcrumbs as required Oil for grilling Salt and pepper Cook the chopped mushrooms very slowly in the butter until soft, add the flour and blend. Gradually add the heated milk stirring all the time until the sauce is smooth. Take the pan off the heat and add one of the eggs (beaten), the parsley, the rice and the salt and pepper. Blend well, then leave aside to cool thoroughly. Shape into cutlets, dip ibto the other well beaten egg, and roll ib breadcrumbs. Grill until golden on both sides, basting well with the oil. Drain and serve. Rice Flan Tart with Candied Ginger Yield: 12 Servings 3 c Nonfat milk 1/2 Vanilla bean; split 1/4 c Medium-grain rice 1/2 c Sugar (or more) 8 oz Frozen egg substitute thawed 1/3 c Low-fat ricotta cheese -OR pureed fat-free \- cottage cheese 1 1/2 T Candied ginger (finely \- slivered) 153 Low-Fat Sweet Pastry 1 t Cinnamon 1 T Powdered sugar, optional Sliced candied ginger, opt. The low-calorie rice pudding flan is so delicious by itself that you may want to save the calories and fat in the crust, and serve it without the pastry. Bring nonfat milk to boil in medium saucepan. Add vanilla bean and rice. Cover partially and simmer until rice is almost tender, about to 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in sugar and continue and continue cooking 3 minutes. Remove from heat and cool slightly. Remove vanilla bean. Blend egg substitute with ricotta cheese. Stir into rice mixture with candied ginger. Carefully pour into prepared pastry shell, filling almost to the top (if there is any flan mixture left from incomplete reduction in cooking, place in small custard dish, cover and microwave 40 to 60 seconds or until set.) Sprinkle with 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon. Bake at 400 degrees F. 25 to 30 minutes or until set. Remove from oven. Sift powdered sugar over and sprinkle with remaining cinnamon. Serve warm and garnish with sliced ginger if desired. Each serving contains about: calories; 102 mg sodium; 11 mg cholesterol; 4 grams fat; 31 grams carbohydrates; 6 grams protein; 0.25 gram fiber. Rice Flour and Yogurt Pancakes Yield: 26 Servings 2/3 c Brown rice flour 1/3 c Corn starch 1 T Sugar 1 t Baking powder pn Salt ## 1 lg Egg ### 2 T Vegetable oil 1/2 c Plain low-fat yogurt 1/2 c Low-fat milk Sift rice flour, cornstarch, sugar, baking powder and salt into a large bowl.mix egg with oil and yogurt; stir in milk. Pour liquid ingredients over dry ingredients and mix until just blended. Heat a nonstick skillet over medium heat. Pour batter by tablespoonfuls into the dry pan. Cook pancakes until golden brown on both sides, 2 minutes or less. Stack on warm plates. Serve with butter and preserves, or honey. Makes 26 pancakes, 2 3/4 inches in diameter. NOTE: If making pancakes for 1 or 2, reserve the remainder of the dry and liquid ingredients separately and combine just before cooking. If refrigerated, the flour mixture will keep for weeks, the liquid mixture for 3 days. PER 2 PANCAKES: 75 calories, 2 g protein, 11 g carbohydrate, 3 g fat 154 (1 g saturated), 18 mg cholesterol, 62 mg sodium, 0 g fiber. Rice in Minutes Yield: 4 Servings \---START WITH--- 3 c Rice; cooked, hot \------------------------AND STIR IN----------------------------- \-----------------------PAR MESAN PLUS---------------------------- /2 c Parmesan cheese;freshly -grated T Butter \---------------------0R: SNAPPY SPINACH-------------------------- c Spinach; cooked, fresh ts Lemon juice: fresh squeezed \--------------------OR: SAVORY STUFFING------------------------- T Butter 12 ts Poultry Seasoning Celery stalks;thin sliced \---------------------0R: CURRIED ALMON 0------------------------- ts Curry powder 12 c Almonds: chopped \-----------------------0R: LEMON DlLL---------------------------- /4 c Dill; fresh, chopped ts Lemon peel; grated \---------------------0R: COUNTRY BACON-------------------------- sl Bacon; crumbled, cooked c Peas; cooked \-----------------------0R: HOT PEPPER---------------------------- /4 ts Tabasco sauce /2 Red pepper; seeded & chopped Stir additions in with cooked, hot rice. The Snappy Spinach Rice and Lemon Dill Rice are particularly good with fish, the Country Bacon Rice with burgers, the Hot Pepper Rice with steak and the others with chicken SERVES:4 Rice Krispie Squares Yield: 1 Serving 4 T Butter 4 c Marshmallows or 10 oz 5 c Rice krispie cereal Fat grams per serving: Approx. Cook Time: :05 Melt butter in saucepan over low heat. Add marshmallows and stir till melted. Cook 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat, add 155 Rice Krispies and stir till all are coated. Using buttered spatula, press evenly into buttered 13x9x2" pan. Cool. Cut into 2" squares. VARIATIONS: add 1 cup raisins add 1 cup peanuts add 1/4 cup peanut butter to marshmallows melt 2 squares chocolate with marshmallows for Christmas: add green food colouring (if desired), shape into 'trees" or press into buttered ring or small Bundt mold. Decorate with red cinnamon candies (for tree) or spearmint leaves and jelly berries for ring mold (resembles a wreath) Rice Nut Loaf Yield: 6 Servings 3 c Cooked brown rice 8 oz Sharp Cheddar cheese shredded 4 Eggs; lightly beaten 1 md Onion; chopped 1 c Shredded carrots 1/2 c Italian-style breadcrumbs 1/4 c Chopped walnuts 1/4 c Chopped sunflower kernals 1/4 c Sesame seeds 1/2 t Salt 1/4 t Ground black pepper 16 oz Spaghetti sauce (optional) Combine rice, cheese, eggs, onion, carrots, breadcrumbs, walnuts, sunflower kernals, sesame seeds, salt and pepper; pack into greased -inch loaf pan. Bake at 350 degrees F. for 50 to 60 minutes until firm. Let cool in pan 10 minutes; unmold and slice. Serve with heated spaghetti sauce. Each serving provides:* 444 calories* 20.2 g. protein* 25.9 g. fat* 33.6 g. carbohydrate* 2.5 g. dietary fiber* 187 mg. cholesterol* mg. sodium Rice Pilaf Yield: 2 Servings 1/2 c Sliced fresh mushrooms 156 2 Green onions, sliced 1 T Butter or margarine 2/3 c Water 1/3 c Regular long grain rice 1/4 Med. bell pepper* 1/4 t Salt 1/4 t Dried sage, crushed 2 t Snipped parsley * Bell peppers can be any color, but should be cut into 1-inch julienne strips. \---- In a 1-quart casserole micro-cook mushrooms, onion and butter or margarine, uncovered, on 100% power for 1 1/2 to 2 1/2 minutes or till vegetables are tender. Stir in water, rice, bell pepper strips, salt, and sage. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 2 to 3 minutes or till boiling. micro-cook, covered, on 50% power for 14 to 16 minutes or till rice is tender and liquid is absorbed, stirring once. Stir in parsley. Let stand, covered, for 5 minutes. Rice Pilaf with Peas Yield: 4 Servings 2 c Rice 3 T Olive oil 1 Onion, chopped 2 Bay leaves 1 sm Piece cinnamon 1 t Salt 1 pn Freshly ground black pepper 1 c Peas 4 c Water or stock 1 T Parsley, chopped Tomato slices Cucumber slices Wash rice & leave to soak for half an hour. Allow to drain. Heat oil in a pot & fry onion till it becomes translucent. Add bay leaves, cinnamon, salt, pepper & rice. Cook until the rice grains become opaque, stirring occasionally. Add peas & stir together until the peas are well coated in oil. Add 4 c water or stock. Bring to a boil, cover & simmer over a low heat until the rice is tender (15 to minutes). Serve with the garnish. 157 Rice Pudding Yield: 1 Serving 1 c Rice, cooked 2 c Milk 1/2 c Sugar 1 T Butter 1/2 c Raisins 2 Egg, separated 2 T Powdered sugar Nutmeg Beat the egg yolks and add the sugar and milk and stir into the rice. Add the butter and raisins. Pour into a buttered baking dish. Beat the egg whites until frothy, add the powdered sugar and spread on top of rice pudding. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg. Bake at 325-F for 30 minutes. Rice Pudding (#1) Yield: 6 Servings -BETTY PINDER 1 c Regular rice; cooked 3 c Milk 3 T Butter 1/2 t Salt 1/2 c Sugar 3 Eggs; beaten 1 t Vanilla 1 c Raisins; (optional) Cinnamon; to taste Choose a baking dish which will fit inside your crockpot. Mix all ingredients except cinnamon and place in baking dish. Sprinkle cinnamon on top. Cover dish with foil. Place metal trivet or rack in bottom of crockpot. Add I cup hot water to pot. Set covered dish in water in crockpot. Cover crockpot and cook on HIGH for 2 hours. Rice Pudding C/p 158 Yield: 6 Servings Betty Pinder (TKHN51B) 1 c Rice; regular, cooked 3 c Milk 3 T Butter 1/2 t Salt 1/2 c Sugar 3 Eggs; beaten 1 t Vanilla 1 c Raisins; (optional) Cinnamon Choose a baking dish which will fit inside your crockpot. Mix all ingredients except cinnamon and place in baking dish. Sprinkle cinnamon on top. Cover dish with foil. Place metal trivet or rack in bottom of crockpot. Add I cup hot water to pot. Set covered dish in water in crockpot. Cover crockpot and cook on high for 2 hours. Makes -8 servings. Rice Pudding with Bourbon Yield: 1 Serving \---DEIDRE ANNE PENROD FGGT98 3 1/2 c Milk 1 c White Rice; cooked 3 Eggs; slightly beaten 1/3 c -Granulated Sugar 2 t -Vanilla 1/2 c Golden Seedless Raisins 1 1/2 t Lemon Rind; grated 1 t -Nutmeg 2 T Butter 3 T Bourbon OR Dark Rum 1/2 c Sweetened Whipped Cream Rice Pudding with Bourbon 4 to 6 hours I make this with leftover rice, but you can start from scratch by cooking 1/2 cup raw rice as directed on the package. To Cook: Warm the milk and pour it over the rice. Into the eggs, beat the sugar, vanilla, raisins, and lemon rind. stir the milk and rice into the egg mixture. Scrape into the slow cooker. Sprinkle with nutmeg and dot with butter. Cover and cook on Low for 4 to 6 hours. Turn into a serving bowl and stir in the bourbon. Serve the pudding lukewarm with a dollop of sweetened whipped cream on top. Makes 6 to servings. 159 Rice Souffle Yield: 1 Serving 1 c Rice 2 qt Water, boiling 1 T Salt ## 4 Egg 3/4 c Sugar 1/2 c Raisins 1/2 t Cinnamon 1 qt Milk Add the salt to the boiling water and after washing rice in several waters, stir slowly into the boiling water. Cook without stirring for or 25 minutes or until rice is tender. Drain off water. Beat the yolks of eggs and add the sugar and mix with the milk. Stir into the cooked rice and mix well. Add the cinnamon and raisins. Beat the whites of eggs stiff and fold into the rice mixture. Pour into a buttered baking dish and bake at 325-F for 1 hour. Rice Sticks With Vegetables Yield: 6 Servings 3 qt Water 1 package Rice sticks (13 \- 3/4 oz) ## 2 Stalks celery 4 oz Chinese pea pods 1 oz Oriental dried mushrooms * 1/4 c Oil 1 lb Bean sprouts 1 T Curry powder 1 c Chicken broth 1 X Salt 1 x Soy sauce Note: Mushrooms should be softened in water. Bring water to boil and add rice sticks. Cook 2 minutes, then drain. Rinse with cold water and drain. Cut celery, pea pods and mushrooms into thin slices. Heat oil until hot and add rice sticks. Cook, stirring, until brown. Remove rice sticks from pan and drain. Add celery, pea pods, mushrooms and bean sprouts and cook over high heat minutes, stirring constantly. Combine curry powder and chicken broth and add to pan. Season to taste with salt. Pour over rice sticks and toss to serve. Serve with soy sauce. Makes 6 to 8 servings 160 Rice Stuffed Mushrooms Yield: 12 Servings 24 lg Fresh Mushrooms ## 1 T Chili Sauce ### 3 T Minced Onion 1 T Lemon Juice 1 T Butter or Margarine ## 1 t Salt 1 c Cooked Extra Long Grain Rice 1/4 t Ground Black Pepper 1/2 c Finely Chopped Nut Meats 1/4 c Melted Butter Remove stems, wash and dry mushrooms. In small skillet, cook onion in butter until tender, but not brown. Add remaining ingredients except for melted butter. Press rice mixture into each mushroom cavity. Place mushroom caps on rack in broiler. Drizzle with melted butter and broil until golden brown. Makes 24 mushrooms (2 per person). Rice With Artichokes Yield: 6 Servings 6 Artichokes;medium: -OR 4 -Artichokes; large 1/2 c Olive oil 3 t -salt freshly ground \- black pepper 3 c -cold water 1 1/2 c Rice; short grained;Arborio \- is best Risotto Coi Carciofi To quote the author," In Pitigliano it was traditionally served during Passover, when artichokes are in season and tender". "Other differences (between Italian Jews and Ashkenazic Jews) stem from the fact that some foods are not considered kosher by the Ashkenazim are permitted by the ltalkim or Sephardim and vice versa. For example, rice, which was a staple for us at Passover, is considered chamtaz, or leavened food, by the Ashkenazim, whereas chocolate, cheese, and other milk products, so widely used by the American Jews during Passover, were absolutely forbidden for us, because we considered them to be chametz." Trim artichokes; remove any choke and slice very thin. Heat oil thoroughly in a large skillet and add the artichoke slices. Season with 2 teaspoons salt and pepper to taste. Cook over high heat, stirring frequently, for approximately 5 minutes. Lower heat to medium and cook, stirring frequently, another 10 minutes. Bring 3 cups of water with 1 tsp salt to a boil. Add rice and cook, covered, for 12 to 15 161 minutes. Add to skillet with artichokes and stir to combine. SERVES: 6 Rice with Cucumbers Yield: 6 Servings 1 Large cucumber 1 1/2 c Cooked long grain rice 1/21b Ripe tomoatoes 1 Small sweet onion 3 oz Grated sharp cheese 4 T Milk 2 T Butter 1 T Chopped parsley 1 t Cornstarch Sweet basil leaves Salt and pepper Fry the sliced tomoatoes and the sliced onion for a few minutes in a little butter until the tomatoes are soft, sprinkle with sweet basil leaves and blend. Add the cooked rice, mix well and season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook over a low heat while you prepare the cucumber. Peel the cucumber, fry in butter for 3 minutes, then add the milk. Mix well. Blend the cornstarch with a little cold water and add to the cucumber. Stir until boiling and then add the grated cheese, mixing well. Serve very hot, surrounded by the rice mixture. Rice With Garlic And Pine Nuts Yield: 6 Servings 4 T Unsalted Butter 1 x Garlic Puree(1 Roasted \- Head) 4 c Cooked Regular Rice 3/4 c Pine Nuts 1 x Salt & Pepper To Taste Heat the butter in a wide skillet. Swirl in the garlic puree. Add the rice and pine nuts. Saute, stirring and tossing, until the rice is heated through and has absorbed the butter. Season with salt and 162 freshly ground pepper. Serve hot. Rice with Mushrooms and Onions-Grdg72b Yield: 2 Servings Ingredients Below Here is a rice recipe for you to go with the directions for cooking rice in the crockpot. C converted rice 2 C water 2 t salt 3 T butter 1/2 C fresh mushrooms, cleaned and coarsley chopped 1 large onion, peeled, and finely minced Place all ingredients except onion and mushroom and half the butter into the crock pot, cover, cook on low 6-8 hours. Before serving; In a large skillet, melt remaining butter and over medium heat, saute the onion until it is translucent. Add the mushrooms and saute until the moisture is gone, for 3-4 minutes. Add the rice and mix well with the onions and mushrooms. Serve hot. 2-4 servings. Rice With Raisins Yield: 6 Servings 4 T Olive oil 1 Garlic clove finely minced 1 T Parsley; fresh - chopped 1 1/2 c Rice; short grain 1/2 c Raisins; dark seedless 1/2 t Salt 3 c Broth; hot Pepper; black "Riso coii'Uvetta is an ancient Venetian dish prepared mainly during Chanuka. It has an interesting taste, nut is not for every palate." Heat oil in large skillet. Add garlic, parsley and rice. Cook over high heat, stirring with wooden spoon, till garlic begins to discolour. Add raisins and salt. Add hot broth, 1/4 cup at a time and continue to cook, uncovered over high heat till rice is done-about minutes in all. Taste for salt and pepper and add if necessary. Serve hot or at room temperature. 163 Rice With Spinach, Herbs And Cheese Yield: 4 Servings 1 c White or brown rice Salt and pepper; to taste 1 lb Fresh spinach 1 T Olive oil 1 Onion; minced 1 Garlic clove; minced 1 t Chopped thyme 1/4 c Minced parsley 1 pn Red pepper flakes 1/41b Grated provolone cheese 3 Eggs; beaten (optional) PREHEAT OVEN TO 350F. Cook rice in salted water until tender but still undercooked (15 minutes for white rice, 30 minutes for brown). Drain, rinse with cold water, drain again and set aside. Wash spinach and remove stems. Cook spinach in the water that clings to the leaves, until wilted. Cool and chop coarsely. Heat the oil, add the onion and saute until softened. Add the garlic and thyme. Combine all the ingredients together and season with salt and pepper to taste. Lightly oil a baking dish and add the spinach mixture. Drizzle more oil over the top, if desired. Cover with foil and bake for 25 minutes. Remove foil and cook for 5 minutes more. Rice, Apple and Raisin Dressing Yield: 8 Servings ---SEASONING MIX--- 2 t Salt 1 1/2 t White pepper 1 t Garlic powder 1 t Dry mustard 1 t Ground cayenne pepper 1/2 t Black pepper \---------------------- R ICE INGR EDIENTS--------------------------- 164 14 c Vegetable oil c Chopped onions c Chopped green bell peppers 12 c Pecan halves, dry roasted 12 c Raisins T Unsalted butter 12 c Uncooked rice (converted) c Pork, beef or chicken stock c Chopped unpeeled apples Combine the seasoning mix ingredients in a small bowl and set aside. In a 2-quart saucepan, heat the oil over high heat until very hot, about 2 minutes. Add the onions and bell peppers; saute about 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the pecans (we ran out of pecans, so Lucy substituted hickory nuts-good!) and continue cooking for about 3 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the raisins and butter (these are added together so the raisins will absorb as much butter as possible). Stir until butter is melted, then cook until raisins are plump, about 4 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the rice and seasoning mix and cook until rice starts looking frizzly (a bit like ce Krispies) Chef Prudhomme recommended using converted rice. Lucy used brown, long grain rice-super!. This will require about 2 to minutes, stirring almost constantly before the rice looks "frizzly". Stir in the stock, scraping pan bottom well, then stir in the apples. Cover pan and bring to boil; lower heat and simmer covered for 5 minutes. Remove from heat and let sit, COVERED, until rice is tender and stock is absorbed, about 30 minutes. 0fVe cook the rice this slow way to let the flavors build to their maximum.) Serve immediately, allowing about 3/4 cup per person. Rice-Stuffed Artichokes Yield: 2 Servings 2 Med. artichokes 2 t Lemon juice 1/4 c Water 1/2 c Shredded carrot 1/4 c Sliced green onion 2 T Butter or margarine 1/4 t Dried sage, crushed 1 c Cooked rice 1/2 c Chicken broth 1 t Lemon juice 3/4 t Cornstarch 1 x Dash white pepper 1 Large beaten egg yolk Cut off stems and loose outer leaves from artichoke. Cut of 1-inch from tops. Snip off sharp leaf tips. Brush cut edges with 2 t lemon juice. Place artichokes and water in a casserole. Cover with vented clear plastic wrap. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 7 to 9 minutes or just till tender, rotating casserole a half-turn after 4 minutes. Let stand, covered, while preparing stuffing. For stuffing, in a small nonmetal bowl stir together carrot, onion, butter or margarine, and sage. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 2 1/2 to 165 12 minutes or till vegetables are tender, stirring once. Stir together vegetable mixture and rice. Drain artichokes. Remove the center leaves and chokes from artichokes. Spread artichoke leaves slightly. Spoon rice stuffing into the center of each artichoke and behind each large leaf. Return artichokes to casserole. Cover with vented clear plastic warp. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 2 to 3 minutes or till stuffing is hot and bases of artichokes are fork-tender, rotating the casserole a half-turn every minute. Let stand, covered, while preparing sauce. For sauce, in a 2-cup measure stir together chicken broth, 1 t lemon juice, cornstarch, and pepper. Micro-cook, uncovered, on 100% power for 2 to 3 minutes or till thickened and bubbly, stirring every 30 seconds. Stir HALF the hot mixture into the egg yolk. Return all to the 2-cup measure. Micro-cook, uncovered, on 100% power for 30 seconds. Transfer stuffed artichokes to a warm serving platter. Pour sauce around the artichokes. Roasted Tomato and Rice Salad Yield: 4 Servings 2 Tomatoes 3 c White or Brown Rice; cooked \--------------------------DR ESSI NG------------------------------- /3 c Olive Oil/4 c Wine Vinegar Lemon; juice of /4 c Parsley; chopped Salt Pepper Roast the tomatoes over the high flame of a gas range or a broiler. Turn every 20 seconds, so skins blister evenly. Peel by running under cold water and rubbing with your fingers. Chop the tomatoes coarsely and toss with warm rice. Mix the dressing ingredients together and toss with the rice and tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Per serving: 349 calories, 4 g protein, 42 g carbohydrate, 19 g fat, g saturated fat, 7 mg sodium, 4 g fiber, no cholesterol. Rotei-N-Rice Corn Soup (Vegan) Yield: 2 Servings 1 en (10 oz) diced RoteI Tomatoes, with liquid 1 1/2 c Cooked rice (give or take Some; I like lots of rice) 1/2 package Frozen corn (perhaps -1cupor So of corn) 3 To 4 c stock of your Choice, or water 166 \--------------------------0PTI0NAL------------------------------- To 3 corn tortillas, cut Into 2inch strips 12 Red pepper, seeded and cut In strips If using red pepper, saute at the bottom of a large soup pot, using a little bit of the broth. Add the tomatoes, cooked rice, corn, and stock to the pot, and heat thouroughly, about 10 minutes or so. about minutes or so. Just before serving, stir in tortilla strips. Saffron Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 T Butter 1 t Cumin Seeds 1 1 Inch Cinnamon Stick 3 Brown Cardamon Pods, Crushed 4 Whole Cloves 1/2 t Black Peppercorns 2 Bay Leaves 1/2 c Uncooked Rice 1 t Salt 1 1/2 c Chicken Stock 1/4 t Saffron Heat butter in medium heavy saucepan and fry cumin seeds, cinnamon stick, cardamom, cloves, peppercorns and bay leaves for about 2 minutes. Add rice and fry for 2-3 minutes more. Stir in salt, chicken stock and saffron. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cook for 10 minutes. Saffron Rice Royale 167 Yield: 4 Servings 4 Slices bacon 1 Large onion, chopped 1 Red bell pepper, chopped 1 1/2 c Uncd extra long grain rice 1 package (10 oz) frozen -green peas 1/4 c Sherry 1/4 c Grated Parmesan cheese 1/4 t Ground white pepper 2 3/4 c Chicken broth \---1 pn Saffron OR:--- 1/2 t Ground turmeric Cook bacon in large skillet over medium heat until crisp and brown. Remove bacon to absorbent paper, set aside. Add onion and pepper to skillet and cook until tender. Add rice, peas, broth, sherry and saffron or turmeric. Bring to a boil; stir. Reduce heat, cover, simmer 15 minutes or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed. Add crumbled bacon, cheese, and pepper. Toss. Salmon-Wild Rice Pasty Filling Yield: 1 Serving 1 lb Salmon, poached or barbecued 2 To 2 1/2 c cooked wild rice -(cooked in chicken or other Flavorful stock) 3 Green onions, chopped 1 Red Bell pepper, finely -chopped 2 T Butter 1 T Olive oil 1 lg Clove garlic, minced 3/4 c Apricot or favorite chutney Cut salmon into chunks. Put rice in a mixing bowl. Saute onions and pepper in butter and olive oil until soft. Stir in garlic and saute for 1 minute longer. Combine with rice and mix well. To assemble pasty, place a layer of rice on the pastry square, top with chunks of salmon and 1 or 2 teaspoons of chutney. Fold over and, bake as directed in yeast dough recipe. 168 Salsa Chicken Over Rice Main Dish, Poultry Yield: 4 Servings 2 c cooked white rice, held warm ## 1 T vegetable oil 1 lb boneless, skinless chicken \- breast halves, cut into \- strips medium onion, chopped small red bell pepper, sliced (16-oz.) jar Ortega Salsa \- Prima Homestyle Mild 1/2 c 4 cheese Mexican blend, -divided \---Garnish suggestions--- sour cream chopped fresh cilantro Heat oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken, onion and bell pepper; cook, stirring occasionally, for 10 to 12 minutes or until chicken is no longer pink. Stir in salsa; bring to a boil. Remove from heat; sprinkle with cheese. Cover; let stand for 5 minutes or until cheese is melted. Serve over rice. Garnish as desired. Comments: Make this salsa chicken dinner in under 30 minutes. All you need to add is a steamed or fresh vegetable to enjoy on the side. San Francisco Rice Yield: 4 Servings -----------------------8EASONING MIX---------------------------- ts Salt ts Dry mustard 12 ts Dried cilantro leaves ts White pepper ts Dried sweet basil leaves /4 ts Ground ginger 12 ts Black pepper 12 ts Onion powder 12 ts Garlic powder ---------------------0THER INGR EDIENTS------------------------- /4 c Peanut oil c Converted long grain rice- (uncooked) c Spaghetti; uncooked-in two-inch pieces c Onions; chopped c Celery; chopped tb Unsalted butter /4 c Sesame seeds ts Fresh garlic; minced 12 c Fresh parsley; chopped c Chicken stock Combine the seasoning mix ingredients thoroughly in a small bowl. Makes 3 Tbl plus 3/4 tsp. Heat the oil in a 12-inch skillet over high heat until very hot, about 4 minutes. Add the rice, spaghetti, onions, celery, butter, and 2 Tbl of the seasoning mix. Stir well and cook, shaking the pan and stirring occasionally, until the rice and spaghetti are golden brown, about 6 minutes. Add the sesame seeds and the remaining seasoning mix. stir well and cook 2 minutes. Add the garlic 169 and cook, stirring occasionally, until the rice and spaghetti are brown, about 3 to 5 minutes. stir in the parsley and chicken stock, cover the skillet, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to low and simmer 12 minutes. Remove from the heat and let the skillet sit, covered, 8 minutes. This is a great dinner side dish to accompany almost any kind of meat, poultry, or fish. Or serve for lunch with a salad. Sandy's Lentil/Rice/Barley Soup Yield: 6 Servings 1 c Lentils 1 c Rice 2/3 c Barley 1 Onion, chopped 1 Bay Leaf 2 en Corn 1 1/2 t Sweet Basil 1 1/2 en Evaporated Milk Salt to taste Wash and sort lentils, rice, barley. Simmer lentils, rice and barley in 6 cups water with salt, onion, bay leaf and sweet basil until tender. Add corn and milk. Add additional salt to taste. Warm to desired eating temperature. Serve in a bowl with generous servings on Cottage Cheese on top of the soup. Charrin' off the 01' Point..from the 0 :-) Sante Fe Chicken with Rice Main Dish, Poultry Yield: 6 Servings 1 1/21b fresh boneless, skinless \- chicken breasts, sliced -thinly 1 t paprika 1 t salt 1/4 t ground black pepper 1 onion, peeled and chopped 170 green bell pepper, seeded -and chopped clove garlic, crushed 2 T vegetable oil 1 c chicken broth 1 1/2 c quick-cooking rice 1 (10-oz.) can diced tomatoes -and green chiles, undrained 3/4 c shredded Monterey Jack cheese Season sliced chicken with paprika, salt, and pepper. Combine onion, green bell pepper and garlic with seasoned chicken in a bowl; mix well. Heat a large skillet or paella pan over medium-high heat; add oil and heat until hot but not smoking. Carefully add chicken and vegetable mixture into skillet and saut5 until everything is golden brown and chicken is cooked, about 8 minutes. Remove from heat, cover to keep warm. In a medium saucepan add chicken broth and bring to a boil; stir in instant rice and undrained tomatoes. Bring to a boil; cover, remove from heat and set aside for 5 minutes. Sprinkle with Monterey Jack cheese and let melt. Serve rice topped with chicken. Comments: Seasoned chicken shares the limelight with this quickly cooked white rice flavored with sweet tomatoes and chilies. Convenient weekday dish to prepare on busy nights. Saucy Beef Over Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 Oven bag (14x20) large size 2 T Flour 1 en (141/2 oz.) stewed -tomatoes Undrained Envelope onion soup mix 1/2 c Water 1/4 t Pepper 1 lb Beef sirloin steak, cut in Thin strips 2 c Hot cooked rice Preheat oven to 350. Shake flour in oven bag and place in 13x9 baking pan. Add tomatoes, soup mix, water and pepper to bag. Squeeze bag to blend in flour. Add beef strips to bag. Turn bag to coat beef with sauce. Arrange ingredients in an even layer. Close bag with nylon tie; cut six 1/2-inch slits in top. Bake until beef is tender, 40 to minutes. Serve over rice. 171 Savory Chicken and Rice in a Lotus Leaf (China) Yield: 8 Servings 8 lg Dried lotus leaves 1 c Long-grain rice 3/4 c Sweet glutinous rice -(see Note) 2 c Chicken stock 3 Chinese sausages lop cheong) 8 Chinese dried black mushrooms 2 T Small dried shrimp- 1 Whole chicken breast, -boned and skinned 2 T Soy sauce, plus more \- for dipping 1 t Sugar 1/4 t White pepper 1 t Asian sesame oil ----------------------CHICKEN MAR INADE--------------------------- _2 ts Grated ginger ts Soy sauce ts Dry vermouth or Shao Hsing -wine_ 2 ts Sugar /4 ts White pepper ts Asian sesame oil cut diagonally into 1-inch slices- soaked in warm water until soft and pliable (about 30 minutes)- soaked in warm water for 30 minutes Foods wrapped in dried lotus leaves become infused with an exotic earthy flavor. If lotus leaves are not available, you can wrap the rice filling in oiled parchment. Besides being an unusual appetizer, this dish can be served as a snack, for lunch, or as a light meal. Note that the first step must be done the night before. Because lotus leaves vary so much in size, eight packets may require anywhere from four to ten leaves. (Larger leaves can be split in half, smaller leaves may need to be overlapped.) The night before, pour boiling water over the lotus leaves and let them soak for 1 hour. Rinse and squeeze them dry Mix the long-grain and glutinous rice together in a large bowl. Wash the rice under running cold water; gently stir and rub the grains between your fingers to loosen all the excess starch. Continue until the water runs clear. Drain thoroughly. Mix the rice with the chicken stock in a 2-quart saucepan; soak overnight in the refrigerator. The next day, set the saucepan of rice uncovered over high heat; bring to a boil. Stir just enough to loosen the rice grains. Reduce the heat to medium-high and boil until the liquid is absorbed, about to 10 minutes. Put the sausages on top of the rice and cover the pan. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 20 minutes. Turn off the heat but do not remove the cover. Let the rice stand for 10 minutes, then, with a wet wooden spoon, transfer it to a large bowl; set aside. Squeeze the mushrooms dry Cut off the stems at the base and discard them; cut the caps in half. Combine the marinade ingredients in a medium bowl. Cut the chicken breast into 3/4-inch chunks and toss it with the marinade. Add the mushrooms and marinate for 20 minutes. Drain and coarsely chop the shrimp. In a small bowl combine the soy sauce, sugar, white pepper, and sesame oil; mix into the cooked rice. Add the chicken-mushroom mixture and the shrimp. Fold a lotus leaf in half and put it on a cutting board. If the middle 172 stem or edges are tough and hard, trim and discard them. (If the leaves are small, you may need to overlap halves.) Divide the rice mixture into 8 portions; place one portion in the center of a leaf half. Fold the edges over the rice to make a 4-inch square packet. Tie it with twine. Repeat with the remaining leaves and rice. Arrange the packets in a single layer in a bamboo steaming basket. Prepare a wok for steaming. steam the packets over medium-high heat for 20 minutes. Remove them from the steamer and cut each packet across the top to expose its contents. Serve with small dishes of soy sauce for dipping. NOTE: Sweet glutinous rice is also known as "sticky rice" because when it is cooked it becomes sticky. It is used to make poultry stuffing and leaf-wrapped rice packages; it is called sweet rice because it is often used to make sweet dishes. Soak it overnight before cooking for the best results. Makes 8 packets. Savory Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Rice (raw) 1 en Chicken broth soup 1/41b Butter or margarine 1/2 c Mushrooms, chopped 1/2 c Onions, diced 1/2 c Celery, diced ## 1 t Salt 1 en Beef consomme soup Melt butter in skillet and cook onions and celery until translucent. Into buttered casserole dish put alternate layers of rice, onion/celery mixture, and mushrooms. Add salt and a little pepper. Pour the two cans of broth over the mix and place covered in oven at degrees for 45 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. If rice seems dry, add a little water. Shrimp & Barbecued Pork Fried Rice 173 Yield: 4 Servings 3 c Cooked long-grain rice, \- preferably cold 3 T Peanut or vegetable oil 1/2 t Salt 1 t Shrimp paste, or more (opt.) 1/2 t Sugar 1 1/2 T Soy sauce 2 t Oyster sauce 2 lg Eggs; lightly beaten with 1 Egg yolk 1/2 c Cooked bay shrimp 1/2 c Chinese barbecued pork -cut into 1/4-inch pieces 1/2 c Leftover cooked chicken -cut into 1/4-inch pieces 1/2 c Fresh or frozen peas blanched 1 c Finely shredded romaine \- =OR=- Iceberg lettuce 1/2 c Chopped green onions BREAK UP CLUMPS OF RICE by gently rubbing between the palms of your hands into a large bowl. Over medium-high heat, preheat wok until hot. Add oil; tilt wok to coat sides. When oil is moderately hot, add salt and the optional shrimp paste, stir until fragrant or for 5 seconds. Immediately add rice and quickly stirfry, pressing and poking at clumps of rice until all grains are separated, without browning rice (about 3 minutes). Season with sugar, soy sauce and oyster sauce. Stirfry until each grain is evenly coated (about 1 minute). Push rice to sides of wok. Add beaten egg mixture to center of wok, and allow to cook, lightly beating eggs in center only (about minute). Toss together with rice. (Small flecks of egg will appear interspersed in the rice.) Add shrimp, barbecued pork, chicken, peas, lettuce, and green onions; toss and stir until mixed and heated through and lettuce is wilted (about 2 minutes). Shrimp and Rice Casserole Yield: 5 Servings 1 1/21b Cooked shrimp 2 c Cooked rice 1 pt Light cream 1 t Butter 8 T Catsup 3 T Worcestershire sauce 1/4 t Tabasco sauce Place rice, cream, and seasonings in pan and bring to boil. Add shrimp and cool. Refrigerate overnight. Turn into greased casserole and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until nearly firm. Mrs. William W. 174 LaViolette Shrimp Fried Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 oz Cooked bay shrimp 1/41b Fresh or frozen peas 2 T Oil, preferably peanut 2 c Long-grain rice steamed and \- chilled 1 t Salt 2 Eggs, beaten 4 oz Fresh bean sprouts \--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- tb Finely chopped scallions CUT THE SHRIMP INTO FINE DICE. Blanch the peas in a saucepan of boiling water for about 5 minutes if they are fresh or 2 minutes if they are frozen. Drain them in a colander. Heat a wok or large skillet until it is hot. Then add the oil and wait until it is almost smoking. Add the cooked rice and stirfry it for 1 minute, and then add the shrimp, peas and salt. Continue to stirfry the mixture for 5 minutes over high heat. Next add the beaten eggs and bean sprouts and continue to stirfry for 2 minutes or until the eggs have set. Turn the mixture onto a plate and garnish it with the scallions. Shrimp Fried Rice, Shanghai Yield: 3 Servings 1/41b Shrimp, shelled and deveined 5 TOil 3 Eggs, beaten 1/4 t Salt 3 1/2 c Rice, cold cooked 1/2 t Salt 2 Scallions, finely chopped \--------------------------COATl N8------------------------------- 14 ts Salt ts Cornstarch ts Water 175 If shrimp is large, cut crosswise into 1/2 " pieces. Dissolve cornstarch in water and add salt to make coating. Mix with shrimp and set aside. 2. Heat wok over high heat until hot. Add 2 Toil, coat and heat for a few seconds. Reduce heat to medium, add shrimp, and stirfry briskly for 1-2 minutes until shrimp are pink and firm. Pour into dish and set aside. 3. Clean wok and heat over high heat. Beat eggs with 1/4 t salt. Add 3 Toil to pan, coat, and heat until very hot. Pour in eggs and as they puff around edges, push the mass with spatula to far end of pan. tilting pan toward you so that the runny eggs slide onto the hot surface. Continue this process until the eggs are soft and fluffy. Give one big whirl and scrape into a dish. Set pan over medium heat (don't add oil). Add rice and stirfry about 1 minute. Add salt to taste. Add scallions and stir in briefly. Add shrimp and eggs and stir rapidly, turning and folding, for about 1 minute. The eggs should be in small pieces and well mingled with the rice and shrimp. Pour into a hot serving dish. Simple Brown Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Brown rice 2 1/2 c Liquid (water, stock, juice) 1 T Butter 1 t Salt (optional) PLACE RICE, LIQUID, BUTTER and salt in a 2-to-3-quart saucepan. Bring to the boil; stir once or twice. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer -to-50 minutes, or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed. Fluff with a fork. Simple Wild Rice Yield: 4 Servings 2 c Wild rice 6 c Boiling water 1 T Olive oil Salt 176 TO PREPARE THE WILD RICE, wash it in a sieve under cold running water for 2 minutes. Put the rice in a heavy pan, add the boiling water, and the olive oil. Cover, and let the rice simmer about 55 minutes until it is cracked and puffy. Drain, and salt to taste. (Be sure to drain rice after soaking.) Sizzling Rice Soup Yield: 6 Servings 6 c Chicken broth 2 T Shredded Smithfield ham 4 sm Cakes Chinese \- bean curd cubed, rinsed \- in cold water 6 lg Chinese black -mushrooms soaked, squeezed -dry and shredded 4 c Peanut oil for deep-frying -------------------------R ICE CR UST------------------------------ Rice Oil, peanut \--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- Chopped scallions Sesame oil BRING THE BROTH TO A SIMMER in a pot and add the ham, bean curd and mushrooms. Let it simmer 5 minutes. Heat the oil in a wok to very hot (about 380F). Test the oil by dropping a small piece of Rice Crust into it. It should float immediately. Slip the whole Rice Crust into the oil. As it begins to puff up like popcorn, break it up into large chunks with long chopsticks. Turn it to brown on all sides (about 1 minute). Remove the rice and drain it. At the table, add the rice to the serving bowl of soup. It will sizzle as the steam rises and provide quite a show. Add the scallions and sesame oil just before serving. (The oil used for deep-frying can be cooled, strained through a fine sieve and stored in a jar for future use.) FOR RICE CRUST: Prepare rice as you normally would, but cook it in a wide, heavy pot at least 15 minutes after the rice is soft so that a crust forms on the bottom of the pot. Spoon off the top layer of loose rice and set aside for Fried Rice or freeze it for future use. If left to stand overnight at room temperature, the crust will be easier to remove from the pot. To use the rice right away, keep the pot on low heat and dribble peanut oil around the edge. Heat for a few minutes, then loosen the crust with a spatula. It should come out in one whole piece. Invert the crust onto a plate. It can now be frozen for future use or used while still hot. 177 Skillet Chicken and Rice Yield: 6 Servings 2 lb Chicken pieces, skinned 3 c Mushrooms, fresh, sliced 4 x Carrots; peeled, sliced \- 1/2" 3/4 c Rice, long grain 1/2 c Onion, chopped 1 t Poultry seasoning 1 t Bouillon, chicken, granules 1/4 t Salt PER SERVING: 265 Cal., 25g Pro., 27g Carbo., 6g fat, 67mg Chol., Spray a 12-inch skillet with nonstick spray coating. Brown chicken pieces on all sides over medium heat about 15 minutes. Remove chicken. Drain fat from skillet, if neccessary. Add mushrooms, carrots, rice, onion, bouillon, poultry seasoning, 2 cups water, salt. Place chicken atop rice mixture. Cover; simmer 30 minutes or till chicken and rice are done. Slow Cooker Red Beans & Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 lb DRIED SMALL RED CHILl BEANS 3 CELERY STALKS, CHOPPED 1 GREEN PEPPER, CHOPPED 2 GARLIC, MINCED 2 2/3 c DOUBLE STRENGTH BEEF BROTH 1 HAM HOCK, SCORED IN DIAMONDS 4 c HOT COOKED RICE 2 T OIL 1 ONION, CHOPPED 3 GREEN ONIONS. CHOPPED 31/3 c WATER 1/2 t CRUSHED RED HOT PEPPER 1 t SALT IN A LARGE POT, COMBINE THE BEANS WITH ENOUGH COLD WATER TO COVER BY BRING TO A BOIL OVER HIGH HEAT, AND BOIL FOR 2 MINUTES. REMOVE FROM HEAT, COVER THE POT, AND LET STAND FOR 1 HOUR; DRAIN WELL. (BEANS CAN ALSO BE SOAKED OVERNIGHT) IN A LARGE SKILLET, HEAT THE OIL OVER MEDIUM-HIGH HEAT. ADD THE CELERY, ONION, BELL PEPPER, GREEN ONIONS, AND GARLIC. COOK, STIRRING OFTEN, UNTIL ONIONS ARE SOFTENED, ABOUT 6 MINUTES. TRANSFER TO SLOW COOKER. STIR IN THE DRAINED BEANS, WATER, BEEF BROTH, AND RED PEPPER. BURY THE HAM HOCK IN THE BEAN MIXTURE. 178 COVER AND SLOW-COOK UNTIL THE BEANS ARE VERY TENDER, 9 TO 10 HOURS ON LOW. REMOVE THE HAM HOCK. REMOVE MEAT AND DISCARD REST. RETURN MEAT TO POT, AND STIR IN SALT. SERVE BEANS IN BOWLS, SPOONED OVER HOT COOKED RICE, AND SPRINKLED WITH CHOPPED GREEN ONIONS, (READY AND WAITING) Sopa Seca ( Dry Soup with Rice ) Yield: 1 Serving 2 t Olive oil 1/2 t Minced garlic 1/2 c Chopped onion 1 lg Tomato, chopped 1 c Uncooked converted rice 1 sm Green pepper, chopped 1 (13 oz.) can chicken broth ds Cayenne pepper 1/2 t Oregano 1/2 t Salt Heat oil in large pan. Add garlic, onion and tomato. Cover and cook minutes or until onion is soft. Add rice and cook for another 2 minutes stirring until rice is shiny and hot. Stir in green pepper, chicken broth, red pepper, oregano and salt. Bring to a boil. Place in oven proof dish, cover and bake for 20 minutes at degrees. Sour Cream & Wild Rice Soup Yield: 8 Servings \---POACHING INGREDIENTS--- 2 Chicken Breasts; excess \- fat and skin removed 1 qt Water 1 Onion; quartered 1 Carrot; cut in large chunks 1 Celery Rib; cut in half ## 1 Bay Leaf 10 Black Peppercorns; whole Salt to taste 179 \----------------------SOUP I NGR EDIENTS--------------------------- ts Olive Oillg Red Onion; thinly sliced md Celery Ribs; thinly sliced lg Carrots; peeled and shredded Garlic Cloves; chopped c Mushrooms; sliced /4 c Flour Salt Black Pepper; freshly ground c Evaporated Skim Milk c Sour Cream Substitute tb Corn Starch c Wild Rice; Cooked -according to package dir -without fat or salt tb Thyme; fresh chopped In a heavy saucepan, combine the chicken and water, bring to a boil, reduce the heat to low and carefully skim off any scum. Add onion, carrot, celery, bay leaf, peppercorns, and salt. Cover and simmer the chicken for 45 minutes to one hour. Remove the chicken from the broth and set aside to cool. strain the remaining broth, discarding the solids, and place in the refrigerator to chill, or use fat separator to remove all fat from broth. When the chicken is cool enough to handle, remove the meat from the bone and tear or shred into bite sized pieces. Cover and refrigerate until needed. Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, heat the olive oil until sizzling, add the onions, celery, carrots and garlic and cook over medium high heat for about 5 minutes. Lower the heat to medium, add the mushrooms and cook for 5 minutes more. Add the flour, salt and pepper and stir to combine, cooking for 2 minutes. Add the chicken stock (remove the fat that has accumulated at the top of the stock) and the evaporated skim milk. In a small bowl, whisk together the sour cream and the cornstarch. Add to the soup, stirring until thickened and heated through. Add the cooked rice, shredded chicken and thyme, stirring until thick and bubbly. Serve at once. Spanich Rice 2 Yield: 1 Serving 2 lb Ground chuck or beef 2 md Onions, chopped 2 Green peppers, chopped 1 en Tomatoes (28 oz.) 1 en Tomato sauce (8 oz.) 1 c Water 2 1/2 t Chili powder 2 1/2 t Salt 2 t Worcestershire sauce 1 c Raw rice (converted) Brown beef in skillet and drain off fat. Put all ingredients in CROCKPOT. Stir thoroughly. Cover and cook on Low 6 to 8 hours. (High: 3 hours). 180 Spanish Hot Dogs and Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 en Stewed tomatoes. 1/21b Hot dogs sliced 1/2" Thick 3/4 c Green pepper, diced 3/4 c Onion, diced Rice for 4 people Contributed to the echo by: Marge Clark The recipe has no real measurments...is a "what you have"... Spanish hot dogs & rice: Enough rice for four people... put rice on to cook...while it's cooking slice as many hot dogs as you have (lets say 1/2 pound or more) into pennies, about 1/2 inch thick. dice 1 green pepper ...l used to use the frozen diced pepper and use a couple of handsful..maybe 3/4 cup? Diced onion. ditto on the amount. combine all the above, heat, while the rice is cooking...set the table and spray on some perfume. This is obviously not a gourmet feast for company. But everyone ATE it! and there is little that's faster or easier! Spanish Rice Yield: 4 Servings ## 6 Strips bacon crisp ### 3 c Cooked rice 1 Can 16oz peeled tomatoes 1 Medium green pepper ## 1 Medium onion ### 1 T Bacon drippings Fry bacon & conserve 1 Tablespoon drippings. Combine cooked rice & add drippings,tomatoes & veggies. Heat through. Crumble bacon on top. Salt and pepper to taste. (If you would like,add hot banana peppers and juice) Spanish Rice (from Guatemala) 181 Yield: 4 Servings 1/21b Rice 2 md Ripe tomatoes 1/2 md Onion 1/2 Carrot 1 md Potato 1/4 c Fresh peas 1/2 Bell Pepper, green or red Cut all the vegetables, except the peas and potato, into small slivers. Cut the potato into 8 cubes. Wash the rice and then combine all the ingredients in a skillet and cook on a medium flame, WITH OUT water, for 5 minutes then cover and cook on low flame until done. Spanish Rice (Vegan) Yield: 1 Serving 1/2 c Uncooked brown rice 2 c Water 1 T Wine Vinegar Water 4 Cloves garlic 4 Stalks celery 1 Green pepper 1 Carrot 1 Bay leaf 1 sm Can stewed tomatoes 1 t Dry oregano 1 t Dry basil 1/4 t Cumin Fresh cilantro Put the brown rice on to cook. Put vinegar and water in a heavy skillet and cook garlic, celery and green pepper (all chopped). Add enough water to the skillet to steam the carrot, add chopped carrot and bay leaf and cover skillet. When carrot is soft, add stewed tomatoes, oregano, basil and cumin. By now the rice should be done. Add the brown rice, lower flame and simmer for 15 minutes. Garnish with fresh cilantro and eat. Yum Yum Yum! I hope you like it! Also, just wanted to note, I started this program just before travelling home from Christmas at my parents' house. I stopped at a restaurant with a salad bar, got veggie soup, salade and a plain baked potato on the side. They had fruit on the salad bar too, so I could have had that for dessert, but I didn't have any room left in the tum. 182 Spanish Rice 2 Yield: 6 Servings 1 c Uncooked long grain rice 4 TOil 2 T Diced bell pepper 3 T Diced onion 1 t Dried parsley flakes 3 oz Tomato paste 2 Cloves garlic, minced 2 1/2 c Cold water 3/4 t Salt Lightly brown rice in oil over medium heat, stirring constantly. Add bell pepper and onion and saute' five minutes more, stirring often. Remove from heat; add parsley, tomato paste and garlic. Stir well and then add water and salt. Heat mixture to boiling, cover tightly and simmer 20 to 30 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. Remove from heat and let steam 10 minutes before serving. Spanish Rice Enchiladas Yield: 1012 Servings 1/4 c Water 1 Onion, chopped 2 c Fresh spinach, chopped 3 c Cooked brown rice 1 T Soy sauce 1 t Ground cumin or 6 c Enchilada sauce 10 or 12 Soft corn tortillas Place water and onion in a medium saucepan. Saute until onion softens slightly. Add the spinach. Cover and steam until just tender, 4 to 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Add rice and seasonings. Mix and set aside. (I would probably use a little wine, Bragg's Amino, and/or some veggie broth instead of the water for sauteing.) 4. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread 1 cup of Enchilada sauce over the bottom of a casserole dish. Spread a line of the spinach-rice mixtue down the center of a tortilla. Roll up and place, seam-side down, in the casserole. Repeat until all of the ingredients are used. Pour the remaining sauce over the tortillas. 10. Cover and bake for 30 minutes. (Anyone NOT following the McDougall Plan, could top this off with some no-fat cheddar cheese and/or serve with a bit of no-fat sour cream. 183 Spanish Rice With Beef Yield: 6 Servings 1 lb Lean Ground Beef 1/2 c Onion; Chopped, 1 Md 1 c Rice; Regular, Uncooked 2/3 c Green Bell Pepper; Chopped 16 oz stewed Tomatoes; 1 Cn 5 Bacon Slices; Crisp,Crumbled 2 c Water 1 t Chili Powder 1/2 t Oregano Leaves 1 1/4 t Salt 1/8 t Pepper Cook and stir the meat and onion in a large skillet until the meat is brown. Drain off the excess fat. Stir in the remaining ingredients. TO COOK IN A SKILLET: Heat the mixture to boiling then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, until the rice is tender, about 30 minutes. (A small amount of water can be added if necessary.) TO COOK IN THE OVEN: Pour the mixture into an ungreased 2-quart casserole. Cover and bake at 375 degrees F, stirring occasionally, until the rice is tender, about 45 minutes. Serve hot. Spiced Basmati Rice (Masaledar basmati) Yield: 6 Servings 2 c basmati rice 3 T vegetable oil 1 Small onion finely chopped 1/2 t finely minced garlic 1/2 t garam masala 1 t salt 2 2/3 c chicken stock Pick over the rice an put in a bowl. Wash in several changes of water. Drain. Pour fresh water over the rice and let it soak for 12 hour. Drain in sieve for 20 minutes. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan over a medium flame. When hot, put in the onion. Stir and fry until the onion bits have browned. Add the rice, green chili, garlic, garam masala and salt. Stir gently for 3 to 4 minutes until all the grains are coated with oil. If the rice begins to stick to the bottom of the pan, turn down the heat. Now pour in the stock and bring the rice to a boil. Cover with a very tight-fitting lid, turn heat to very, very low and cook for 15 to 20 minutes. 184 Spicy Rice and Lentils Yield: 6 Servings 1/2 c Brown lentils soaked for 1hr 1 Onion, finely chopped 1/2 t Mashed garlic 1/2 t Grated ginger 1 Fresh green chilli Seeded and finely chopped 4 T Ghee 1 Cinnamon stick 2 Cloves 1 Bay leaf 1/2 t Turmeric 1 t Salt 1 c Long grain rice Soaked for 1 hour 1/2 c Red lentils 2 T Chopped spring onions Preparation time: 25 minutes+ 1 hour standing Cooking time: 25 minutes Drain the brown lentils, cover with boiling water and boil for 15 minutes until beginning to soften. Drain Cook the onion, garlic, ginger and chilli in the ghee until soft and lightly coloured. Add the cinnamon, cloves, bay leaf and turmeric. Cook for 2 minutes, stirring. Add the drained rice and lentils, mix well, then add water to cover by 3-cm. Bring to boil, then cook on very low heat until the liquid has been absorbed, about 20 minutes. Stir in the chopped spring onion. Remove cinnamon stick before serving. Spicy Rice Meatballs Yield: 6 Servings \- Marne Parry PKKW92A ## 1 Egg 1/2 t Salt 1/2 t Italian herb seasoning -or 1/8 ea. basil, -marjoram, oregano, thyme 1/4 t Pepper 1 Garlic, minced 1/4 c Finely chopped onion 1 lb Extra lean gr. beef 8 oz Ground veal (or turkey) 1/2 c Long grain white rice 1/2 c Fine dry bread crumbs 1 lg Can tomato sauce (15 oz) 1/2 c Tomato juice 1 t Chili powder 1 en Green chilies (4oz), diced 185 In a large bowl, beat eggs with salt, herb seasoning and pepper. Add garlic, onion, beef, veal, rice and crumbs; mix well. Shape mixture into 1 1/2 inch balls. Place meatballs in a 5 quart or larger electric slow cooker. In same bowl, mix tomato sauce, tomato juice, chili powder and chilies; our over meatballs. Cover and cook at low setting until meatballs are no longer pink in center and rice is tender; cut a meatball to test (5 1/2-6 hrs). Gently lift meatballs to a warm serving dish and keep warm. Skim and discard fat from sauce, if necessary; Stir then spoon over meatballs. "This slow cooker variation on a long-time family favorite is especially easy to assemble. Chili powder and mild green chilies update the flavor." Spicy Rice Pilaf Yield: 2 Servings 1/2 c Brown rice 1/8 t Ground cumin 1/8 t Ground ginger 1/8 t Ground cinnamon ds Ground cardamom ds Ground cloves 1/2 T Vegetable oil 1 c Chicken broth Saute the rice, cumin seeds, ginger, cinnamon, cardamom seeds and cloves in the oil in a saucepan until the rice is browned. Add the chicken broth and bring the mixture to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 20 to 30 minutes or until all the liquid is absorbed. Serve with Turkey Patties in Wine Sauce. Spicy Rice Pilaf with Turkey Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Brown rice 186 1/2 t Cumin seeds 1/4 t Ground ginger 1/4 t Ground cinnamon 4 Cardamom seeds 4 Whole cloves 1 T Vegetable oil 2 c Turkey stock or water 1/4 c Dark or golden raisins 2 c Chopped cooked turkey 1/4 c Pine nuts; or cashews (chop cashews) Toast cashews if using. Saute the rice, cumin seeds, ginger, cinnamon, cardamom seeds and cloves in the oil in a saucepan until the rice is browned. Add the stock or water and bring the mixture to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 45 to 50 minutes or until the rice is cooked. Add the raisins, turkey, and nuts to the rice mixture. Serve hot or cold. 14 recipe- 317 calories, 31ean meat, 1 bread, 1/2 fruit, 1 fat exchange 24 grams carbohydrate, 25 grams protein, 14 grams fat, 190 mg sodium, 381 mg potassium, 54 mg cholesterol Star Anise Beef-rice Noodle Soup Yield: 8 Servings 2 (1-in) chunks fresh ginger 3 Shallots; unpeeled 1 Onion; unpeeled 2 1/2 qt Water 1 1/21b Oxtails chopped into sections 1 lb Beef shank 2 Whole star anise 1 Cinnamon stick ## 3 Whole cloves 1/4 c Vietnamese fish sauce (nuoc \- mam)- 1 t Salt; or to taste 1/21b Flat rice-stick noodles \- soaked in water for 20 -minutes 6 oz Sirloin steak trimmed \- of fat & sliced into \- paper-thin slices Onion; sliced thin 2 c Bean sprouts 1/4 c Fresh coriander leaves -(coarsely chopped) ## 2 Green onions cut into ### \- 2-in-long thin julienne 187 \- slices 1 Lime; sliced into 8 wedges 2 Red chiles; thinly sliced PUT GINGER, SHALLOTS AND ONION on a baking sheet; place under a hot broiler until charred. In a stock pot, bring the water, oxtails and beef shank to a boil. Thoroughly skim and discard the scum from the surface of the stock. Drop the charred ingredients, star anise, cinnamon stick and cloves into pot, reduce to low heat; simmer for 2 hours. Remove the meat. Remove and shred the meat from the shank and reserve. Return the bone to the simmering stock. Simmer 1 hour longer. When soup is done, remove and discard bones. Strain and degrease stock; add fish sauce and salt. Keep warm. In a separate pot, bring 3 quarts water to a boil. Drain noodles and add to boiling water; cook for 1 minute. Drain in a colander. Divide noodles among 8 soup bowls (about 1-to-2-cup-size bowls). Divide and top each bowl of noodles with shredded cooked beef, the raw sirloin steak slices, onion slices and bean sprouts. Ladle about 1 1/4 cups hot soup stock (this will cook the beef) to cover the noodles and beef, top with fresh coriander and green onions. Serve with squeeze of lime and chiles. Steamed Ginger Rice with Snow Peas Yield: 6 Servings 2 c Long grain rice 3 c Cold water 1 t Finely grated ginger 1/41b Snow peas, chopped Wash rice in several of changes of water until the water runs clear. Place rice in a 3 quart saucepan that has a tight fitting lid. Add water and grated ginger. Bring to a boil, uncovered. Reduce heat slightly but continue to cook uncovered until surface water disappears and holes appear in the surface of the rice. Cover tightly, turn heat very low and cook 20 minutes. Add snow peas and cover. Cook 2 minutes longer then remove from heat and let stand 3 to 5 minutes before serving. Stir gently to combine rice with snow peas. Steamed Glutinous Rice 188 Yield: 6 Servings Text Only How to Save a Pot of Burnt Rice: If the rice should scorch while it is cooking, the pot of rice may still be rescued. Simply place a dampened cloth or a slice of bread and I or 2 tablespoons of water over the surface of the rice, cover, lower the heat to a simmer and cook until rice is tender. The cloth or bread will absorb the burnt smell. [This really does work quite well. I've done the bread version and it saved the meal. S.C.] Steamed Glutinous Rice: Glutinous rice may be prepared in the same manner as steamed long grain rice by increasing the soaking period to 4 hours and the cooking time to 35 minutes. How to Reheat Rice: Cooked rice may be reheated in several ways. To reheat by simmering, place the rice in a saucepan with a tight-fitting lid. Then for each cup of rice, sprinkle 1 tablespoon of water over the surface of the rice, cover and simmer over low heat until the rice is hot. To reheat by steaming, place the rice in a heat proof bowl, sieve or colander and place this with about 2 inches of water in a large pot. Cover and steam over medium heat for 10 minutes or until heated through. To reheat in the oven, place rice in heat proof dish or pan and sprinkle 1 tablespoon of water for each cup of rice over the surface. Place, covered, in a preheated 400F oven for 20 minutes. Steamed Jasmine Rice-Khao Suay * Yield: 4 Servings 3 c Jasmine Rice 3 c Water The wonderful aroma and subtle flavor of jasmine rice compliment every dish perfectly. Thais cook rice almost instinctively-it is their staple food. \---Place rice in a large saucepan. Rinse twice to clean the rice, draining thoroughly. Add the water to the rice. Cover the saucepan and heat to boiling. Allow to boil on high heat for 1 minute. Turn the temperature to low and steam for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to the lowest setting and allow to steam for 10 minutes more. 189 Steamed Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Long grain rice 1 3/4 c Water 1 x Salt (optional) Rinse rice well. Combine with water and salt, if using, in a 8 cup microwaveable casserole. Cover and microwave at high for 5 minutes, then at medium for 8 to 12 minutes or until most of water is absorbed. Let stand covered, 5 to 10 minutes to absorb remaining liquid. Steamed Rice ( Khow Jow or Khow Suay ) Yield: 1 Serving Rice Water This is a fool proof way of cooking any amount of rice. Wash rice well. Place rice into sauce pan. Add water until it covers the rice. To gauge the correct amount of water the water should come up to the first joint of the index finger. Boil the rice until the rice is at surface level then close the lid and turn the heat down low. The rice should be cooked in about 10 minutes or when all the water is absorbed. Check periodically. I use this method but have a rice cooker. No measuring required. With the old harder rice add more water. Stove-Top Rice Pudding? Yield: 8 Servings 6 c Milk 6 oz Rice (3/4 c) 3 Eggs 1 c Sugar 2 t Vanilla 1 1/2 t Cinnamon 190 1/2 t Nutmeg Raisins (Optional) Using a teflon coated pan, bring the milk and the rice to a boil and then let it simmer for? hr... When the rice is done and starts to thicken beat the eggs and sugar together and add to the rice... Add the remainder of the ingredients and cook for 1 to 2 min. stirring occasionally... Let set to cool, stirring occasionally... Thickens as it cools.. Stuffed Cabbage With Rice & Pine Nuts Avgolemono Yield: 6 Servings 2 md Cabbage heads 3 T Clarified butter 1 md Onion; chopped fine 1 c Water 1 c Raw long grain rice 1/4 c Raisins or currants 1/2 c Pine nuts 1/4 c Chopped fresh parsley 1/4 c Chopped fresh dill Salt & freshly ground pepper 3 Eggs 1 Lemon, juice only 2 T Butter; cut into bits Plunge cabbages into boiling salted water and cook about 8 minutes, then drain thoroughly and set aside while you prepare the filling. In a heavy skillet heat the clarified butter, add the chopped onions and cook until soft and transparent. Add the water and bring to a boil, then add the rice and stir. Lower the heat and simmer gently until the rice has absorbed the liquid, approximately 15 minutes. Remove from heat and add the raisins or currants, pine nuts, parsley, dill and season with salt and pepper. Cool. Separate 2 of the eggs and mix the egg whites into filling. Reserve the yolks for the avgolemono. Stuff and roll the cabbage leaves, using one heaping tablespoon filling, roll up snugly, then place, seam side down, in a casserole. Dot with butter and add water to cover, then cover cabbage rolls with an inverted plate and cover casserole. Simmer for approximately 1 hour, then transfer to a warm serving dish and keep warm. Strain the remaining liquid for the avgolemono sauce. Beat the remaining eggs and yolks for 2 minutes. Continuing to beat, gradually add the lemon juice. Then add the 1-1/2 cups cooking liquid by droplets, beating steadily, until all has been added. Cook over hot water, not boiling, stirring constantly until the sauce thickens enough to coat a spoon. Pour over the cabbage rolls and serve hot. 191 Stuffed Cranberry And Rice Chicken Chicken, Diabetic, Main Dish, Poultry Yield: 6 Servings 3 whole chicken breasts, -halved, boned, skinned, \- and pounded to 1/2" \- thickness 3 c cooked brown rice 1/2 c rehydrated -cranberries, drained 1 T olive oil 1/2 c diced celery 1/2 c diced onion 2 t minced fresh thyme 1 c dry white wine Prepare the chicken breasts and set aside. Combine the rice and rehydrated cranberries and mix well. Set aside. Heat the oil in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the celery and onion and saute for 5 minutes. Add the vegetables and thyme to the rice. On a flat surface, take about 1/2 cup of the rice mixture and place on the lower third of each chicken breast. Fold over the sides of the chicken breast and roll up. Secure each breast with a toothpick. Continue with all chicken breasts. Place all the chicken rolls in a casserole dish. Pour wine in the bottom of the dish. Cover and bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 20 minutes. Uncover and bake for 10 more minutes. Comments: Juicy, tart cranberries surprise you in every bite! Sweet & Sour Lentils with Brown Rice Yield: 4 Servings 1/2 c Dry lentils 3 c Water 2 T Vinegar 2 T Honey 1 T Tamari 1/2 t Grated ginger 1/2 c Water 1 t Cornstarch 1 sm Onion, sliced ## 2 TOil 4 Celery sliced diagonally Bring water to a boil & cook lentils for 25 minutes. Drain & set aside. combine vinegar, honey, tamari, ginger & water. Bring to a boil. mix cornstarch with a little water & add to sauce. Saute onion 192 in oil till soft. Add pieces of celery & cook for 5 minutes over medium heat. Add lentils, mix well. Add sauce, simmer 5 minutes. Serve over rice. Sweet Fried Rice with Almonds and Cinnamon Yield: 4 Servings 1 c Mixed dried fruit, diced 1 1/4 c Water 2 t Of vanilla 1 T Peanut oil 1/2 c Whole almonds 4 T Butter 1/3 c Thinly sliced onion 1/3 c Sugar 1 1/2 t Cinnamon 3 c Cooked rice pn Salt 1/8 t Ground cloves Here's an unusual use of the wok. I don't usually think of fried rice and fruit going together.. Soak the dried fruit in the water with 1 teaspoon of the vanilla for minutes. Heat the oil in a wok; add almonds and stirfry until toasted, about 1 minute. Remove with a slotted spoon. Reduce the heat to moderate and add 2 tablespoons of the butter. Add the onions and stirfry until lightly browned. Add 1/4 cup of the sugar and continue to stirfry until the sugar is melted and lightly caramelized. Add 1/2 teaspoon of the cinnamon and the dried fruit mixture. stir fry for 1 minute. Remove to a bowl. Melt remaining 2 tablespoons butter in the wok; add rice, remaining vanilla, sugar and the salt. Stirfry until rice is in separate grains and some grains have toasted lightly. Push the rice up the sides of the wok and pour the fruit in the center. Mix in the rice. Turn out onto a platter and decorate with the toasted almonds. Sprinkle with the remaining cinnamon mixed with cloves. Serves 4. 193 Sweet 'n' Sour Pork Over Rice 4 lb Pork tenderloin, cut into 4-inch cubes Onion, cut into thin wedges Sweet green pepper, chopped Sweet red pepper, chopped en (8 oz.) Pineapple chunks,- -packed in juice, undrained tb Cider vinegar tb Packed brown sugar ts Low-sodium soy sauce 12 c Quick-cooking rice en (81/2 oz.) Sliced peaches Water tb Cornstarch Coat a skillet with nonstick spray; warm ot over medium heat for 1 minute. Add pork and cook, stirring occasionally, until it loses its pink color, 5 to 6 minutes. Add onions, sweet peppers, undrained pineapples, vinegar, sugar and soy sauce. Bring to a boil, cover and simmer until vegetables are crisp-tender, about 5 minutes. Meanwhile, cook rice. Drain peaches,reserving juice. Add enough water to make 1/2 cup liquid. Blend in cornstarch. Cut each peach slice into thirds. Stir cornstarch mixture and peaches into skillet. Cook, 1 minute more. Serve over rice. Per Serving: 418 Calories, 3.1 g fat (7% of calories), 51 mg cholesterol mg sodium, 3.4 g dietary fiber. Tabasco Classic-Red Beans and Rice On Monday- Yield: 8 Servings 1 lb Dried Red Beans, Picked Over 8 c Cold Water 1/21b Lean Salt Pork, Bacon, \- Or Ham, Diced 1 T Olive Oil 1 c Chopped Onion 1 Minced Garlic Clove 2 T Chopped Fresh Parsley 3/4 t Salt 1 1/2 t Tabasco Pepper Sauce 4 c Hot Cooked Rice In New Orleans, Red Beans and Rice has evolved into a traditional Monday dish, but it's a fine accompaniment anytime for fried chicken, pork chops, ham, or sausage. \---In a large saucepan combine the dried beans and the water, cover, and soak overnight. Add the pork, bacon, or ham and bring to a simmer. Cook, covered, for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, in a medium skillet heat the oil and saute the onion and garlic for 3 minutes or until golden. Add the mixture to the beans along with the parsley, salt, and Tabasco sauce. Cover and simmer -1/2 to 1-3/4 hours longer, or until the beans are tender enough to mash one easily with a fork. Add hot water as needed to keep the beans covered, and stir occasionally. When the beans are finished they will have 194 soaked up most of the liquid. Serve over the hot cooked rice. Thai Rice with Mushroom and Egg Yield: 2 Servings 175 g Thai jasmine rice 1/2 T Sunflower oil 1 Beaten eggs 3 1/2 g Porcini or cap mushrooms 2 Spring onions 1/2 Garlic clove 112 1/2 g Flat mushrooms 1 1/2 T Dry sherry 1 1/2 T Japanese soy sauce 1/2 T Sugar 3 3/4 Cm piece of cucumber Preparation: beat the eggs slice the spring onions soak the porcini or cap mushrooms in warm water for 30 mins. crush the garlic cloves slice the flat mushrooms cut the cucumber into matchsticks. Notes: There is a lot of sauce with this recipe-don't worry! If you can't find dried porcini or cap mushrooms then use 225g of shittake mushrooms (to serve 4) for all the mushrooms in the dish. , Rinse the rice under running water and drain. Place in a heavy-based pan witl600ml (to serve 4) of water and bring to the boil. Simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the surface water has been absorbed and there are craters over the top of the rice. Turn off the heat, cover the pan tightly and leave to stand. Heat a teaspoon of the oil in a wok or frying pan and add the beaten eggs. Cook on one side to make a thin omelette. Slide on to a plate, roll up, cut into strips and set aside. Drain the dried mushrooms, reserving the liquid, and chop roughly. Heat the remaining oil in the wok, add the spring onions, garlic and mushrooms. Stir fry for 3 minutes, then add the sherry, soy sauce, sugar and six tablespoons of the mushroom liquor. Bring to the boil and simmer for two minutes. Transfer rice to a shallow serving dish, spoon over the mushrooms and their sauce and garnish with omelette, cucumber matchsticks and spring onion curls. NB: the eggs can be omitted from this dish, with no problem. Tofu Fried Rice 195 Yield: 4 Servings 1 T Dark sesame oil 10 1/2 oz Firm tofu cut into \- 1/2-inch cubes 2 Garlic cloves; minced 1 t Ground ginger 10 oz Frozen peas; thawed 1 c Bean sprouts 1 c Sliced mushrooms 4 Green onions; sliced ## 2 md Carrots cut into \- diagonal slices 4 c Cooked brown rice; chilled 1/2 c Slivered almonds; toasted 1/4 c Soy sauce Heat oil in large skillet or wok over medium-high heat. Stirfry tofu in oil with garlic and ginger 3 minutes. Add peas, bean sprouts, mushrooms, onions and carrots. Stirfry until peas and carrots are tender. Stir in rice, almonds and soy sauce; heat thoroughly. Each serving provides: 423 calories* 18.7 g. protein* 17.4 g. fat* 52.4 g. carbohydrates * 7.9 dietary fiber * 0 mg. cholesterol * 937 mg. sodium. Tomato and Rice Casserole Yield: 4 Servings 4 t Butter 1/2 c Uncooked Rice 1 c Liquid from canned tomatoes 1 3/4 c Canned tomatoes, drained 2 t Chopped parsley 1 1/2 t Salt 1/2 t Pepper 4 T Grated Parmesan cheese Chopped chives Saute the rice in the butter in a fry pan until the rice is golden brown. Put into the crock pot. 2. Pour the tomato liquid, tomatoes, parsley, salt and pepper into the crock pot and mix well. 3. Cover and cook on low setting (200oF-100oC) for six to eight hours. 4. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and chopped chives before serving. 196 Tomato Rice Soup Yield: 4 Servings 3 Chicken Stock Cubes 40 Boiling water 1 lg Onion, Finely Chopped 1 T Short-grain Rice 2 T Tomato Puree Crusty Bread to Serve Put stock cubes in a pan and dissolve in boiling water. add onion and rice, and simmer for a further 5 minutes until all the flavours have combined. Serve with crusty bread. Tomato Soup with Mushrooms & Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 oz Dried porcini mushrooms 2 c Beef or chicken broth 2 T Butter or vegetable oil 1/2 c Onion(s), finely chopped 8 c Canned Italian tomatoes With their juice 1 c Cooked medium, long-grain Or Italian arborio rice Salt and pepper to taste 3 T Heavy cream (opt) 1 T Thyme leaves or Finely chopped parsley Combine the dried mushrooms and broth in a small saucepan and heat to boiling. Remove from the heat, cover, and let stand for 30 min. Drain through a sieve lined with a dampened paper towel, setting aside the porcini-flavored broth. Pick over the mushrooms and rinse off or discard any hard or gritty parts. Finely chop the mushrooms and set aside the mushrooms and broth separately. Meanwhile, heat the butter or oil in a large saucepan. Add the onion and saute over low heat, stirring, until golden, about 10 min. Press the tomatoes through a sieve or food mill; discard the seeds. Add the strained tomatoes, porcini broth, and chopped mushrooms to the onions. Heat to boiling, then cover and simmer for 10 min. Add the rice, cover, and simmer for 10 min, stirring occasionally. Season with salt and pepper. To serve, ladle into bowls and drizzle with 1/2 tbs of heavy cream, if desired. Sprinkle with fresh thyme leaves or parsley. Serve immediately. 197 Tuna and Rice Creole Yield: 6 Servings 2 T Butter or bacon fat 3/4 c Rice 1/2 c Chopped green pepper 1/2 c Chopped onion ## 1 Garlic clove 1 en VEG-ALL Mixed -Vegetables (16 oz) en Stewed tomatoes (16 oz) en Chicken broth (12 oz) en Tuna, flaked (12.5 oz) 1/2 c Shredded cheddar cheese Heat fat in skillet. Add rice, green pepper, onion and garlic; cook 5 minutes. Drain VEG-ALL. Combine rice with stewed tomatoes and chicken broth. Bring to boil, cover and simmer until rice is cooked, about 25 minutes. Stir in tuna and vegetables; sprinkle cheese over top. Heatt until cheese is melted. Turkey And Wild Rice Salad Diabetic, Salad Yield: 6 Servings \---Salad--- 3 c diced cooked turkey -(preferably white meat) 2 c leftover cooked wild rice 1/2 c rehydrated -cranberries, drained 1/4 c diced red onion 1/4 c diced yellow pepper \---Dressing--- 1/2 c raspberry vinegar 2 T olive oil 2 T minced fresh parsley 1 T minced scallions Freshly-ground black pepper, -to taste Combine all salad ingredients. In a blender, combine all dressing ingredients. Pour the dressing over the salad and toss well. Serve at room temperature. 198 Turkey Stew with Tomatoes, Peppers, and Rice Main Dish, Soup Yield: 4 Servings 1 T olive oil 1-1/21b turkey thighs boneless, \- skinless, quartered 1/4 t salt 1/4 t freshly ground pepper 1 c onion chopped 1/2 c red bell pepper seeded -and sliced 1/2 c green bell pepper seeded -and sliced 14 oz turkey broth 1 Can (14-1/2 ounces) -whole peeled tomatoes -with juice 1-1/3 c white rice uncooked 1 c frozen green peas thawed Heat oil in large skillet. Add turkey and cook until brown; season with salt and pepper. Stir in onion; cover tightly and cook over low heat, 10 minutes. Stir in peppers, broth, tomatoes with juice, and rice; heat to boiling, stirring to break up tomatoes. Cover and cook over low heat 20 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. Sprinkle peas on top; cover and cook 5 minutes more. Variations on Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares Yield: 8 Servings Recipe Of Marshmallow Sqs. VARIATIONS: Use Cocoa Krispies instead of Rice Krispies. Melt 2 squares of unsweetened chocolate with the marshmallows. Add 1/4 cup peanut butter to marshmallows. Add 1 cup raisins with Rice Krispies. Add 1 cup of salted peanuts with Rice Krispies. 199 Vegetable Rice Bake Yield: 4 Servings 2 t Instant Chicken Bouillon 2/3 c Long grain Rice 1/2 c Chopped Green Pepper 2 x Beaten Eggs 2 c Shredded Zucchini* 1 c Skim Milk 1/2 t Onion powder 1/2 t Dried Basil, crushed 1/2 t Dried Oregano, crushed 3/4 c Shredded lo-fat Cheddar chee 4 oz Lo-cal cream cheese (soft) ## 2 T Diced Pimento or chopped broccoli In a saucepan combine bouillon granules and 1 1/2 cups water. Bring to boiling; add rice. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 20 minutes or till tender. Meanwhile, in a med saucepan combine green pepper and 1/2 cup water. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 2 minutes. Add shredded zucchini or chopped broccoli. Cover and simmer for 3-5 minutes or till crisp-tender; drain well. Set aside. In a large mixing bowl combine eggs, milk, onion powder, basil, oregano, and 1/8 t pepper. Stir cheddar cheese and cream cheese into hot rice. Stir rice mixture into egg mixture. Stir in cooked vegetables and pimento. Spoon into a x6x2" baking dish. Bake, uncovered, in a 350 deg F. oven for 30-35 minutes or till center is set. Let stand 5 minutes before serving. * ___ _ ___ _* ___ _ ___ _-*** ___ _----* Per serving: 315 calories, 17 g protein, 33 g carbohydrates, 12 g fat, mg cholesterol, 574 mg sodium, 407 mg potassium. Vegetarian Chili With Rice Yield: 1 Serving 3 en Pinto beans 1 lg Can crushed tomatoes 1 lg Onion, chopped 1/2 c Vegetable stock 1 T Garlic 1 T Cumin 2 Packets achiote (annato mix In ethnic section of Grocery) 1 T Parsley 2 T Paprika 2 T Hot sauce 200 Saute onions, cumin, parsley, garlic and paprika in vegetable stock in large stock pot. Add pinto beans, tomato, and achiote and simmer for about 1 hour. Add about 4 cups of cooked brown rice and let stand for about 1 hour. I usually make this in a crock pot. Just add sauted onions and spices to the rest of the ingredients in a crock pot and let it cook overnight. I add the cooked rice the next morning and leave the pot on all day. The chili usually comes out quite runny until you add the cooked rice and let it sit. The rice absorbes most of the moisture leaving a thick hearty chili. I use the Lundberg Farms rice blends especially the japonica blend and the christmas blend. Vegetarian Rice Mix Yield: 1 Serving 4 c Raw Long-grained Rice ## 2 t Salt 4 t Onion Flakes 4 t Red Pepper Flakes 3 T Instant Vegetarian Bouillon 4 t Celery Flakes 4 t Green Pepper Flakes Combine all ingredients in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Put about 1 1/2 cups of mix into 3 1-pint containers and label as Vegetarian Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to months. Makes about 4 1/2 cups of mix. Vegetarian Rice: Combine 1 1/2 cups mix, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; reduce heat and cover. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes, until all liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings. Venison Chops W/ Rice & Tomatos Yield: 6 Servings 201 6 1-inch venison chops 1 md Onion; sliced 2 c Cooked white rice 1 lg Fresh tomato 1 lg Green Bell pepper 2 #3 cans tomatos Salt & pepper to taste Clove garlic; minced 1 c Sauterne wine 1 t Angostura bitters 2 c Water 1 Lemon Uuice only) Mix the wine, water, & lemon juice together. Pour over the chops, cover, & marinate in the fridge for 4-8 hours. Brown the chops in a large skillet after seasoning with the salt & pepper. Place each chop on the bottom of a large baking dish. Cut the green pepper into 1/4" thick rings. Place on top of each chop. Put a scoop of rice in each ring. Top with a slice of onion and top each with a slice of tomato. Dump the canned tomatos into a bowl and chop them into small chunks. Add the bitters & garlic and season with salt & pepper. Pour these around the chops. Cover & steam for 1 hour in 375 degree F oven. Venison chops, or any others for that matter, are excellent when fixed this way. It is another Cajun recipe that I have had passed to me by relatives from Louisiana. Enjoy- Vietnamese Pork "Spaghetti Sauce" Over Rice Yield: 6 Servings 1 T Vegetable Oil 1 1/21b Ground Pork 1 1/2 T Sugar 4 1/2 T Vietnamese style Fish Sauce 1 1/2 T Lime Juice 2 Serrano Chiles; seeded -and chopped 1/4 c Garlic; chopped 1 1/2 c Shallots; chopped 1/2 t Black Pepper 5 lg Tomatoes; seeded -and chopped 1/4 c Tomato Paste 1 1/2 c Chicken Stock Coriander Leaves Hot Steamed Rice Pour oil into a saucepan and place over high heat. Add pork and saute until lightly browned, about 5 minutes, breaking up lumps. Add sugar, 12 tb fish sauce, the lime juice and chiles. Cook 1 minute. Set aside in a bowl. 202 Put garlic, shallots, pepper and more oil if needed into the saucepan; fry over medium heat until fragrant. Add tomato and cook until reduced to a slightly lumpy sauce, about 5 minutes. Add pork, tomato paste, remaining fish sauce and chicken stock; simmer 10 minutes. Garnish with coriander. Serve over hot steamed rice. Warm Fajita Rice Salad Yield: 4 Servings 3/41b Top sirloin,1" thick 1/4 c Lime juice,fresh 1/2 t Garlic salt 1/2 t Cumin,ground 1/2 t Black pepper,coarse 3/4 c Rice,long-grain 1 en Corn,whole-kernel(8oz) 1 en Black olives,ripe(2 1/2oz) 1 c Cherry tomatoes,halved 1/4 c Red onion rings,sliced 2 T Cilantro,chopped 1/2 Lettuce hd,iceberg,shredded ---------------------- PICANTE DR ESSING-------------------------- /3 c Pic ante sauce /4 c Italian dressing t Lime juice Picante Dressing: Place picante sauce, Italian dressing and lime juice in jar with tight-fitting cover. Shake well. Place beef in plastic bag or shallow dish. Combine lime juice, garlic salt, cumin and pepper; pour over steak. Seal bag, or cover dish. Refrigerate 2-4 hours, turning once or twice. Cook rice following package directions, salt optional. Reserve. Remove steak from marinade. Broil steak on rack in broiler pan -4" from source of heat, 8-10 minutes for medium-rare, turning once. Combine warm rice, corn, olives. tomatoes, onion rings and cilantro in bowl. Pour half the Pic ante Dressing over top; toss gently. Place lettuce on platter; top with rice mixture. Slice steak diagonally across grain into thin slices. Place slices on top of rice. Drizzle with remaining dressing. Sprinkle with remaining cilantro. Serve warm or at room temperature. West Indian Rice And Peas With Tempeh 203 Yield: 6 Servings 2 c Uncooked brown rice 1/2 c Unsweetened grated coconut 2 1/2 T Vegetable oil 4 c Water 1 c Dried black eyed peas -(soaked for 5 hours at -least) 3 Bay leaves 1 md Onion; chopped 3 Garlic cloves; minced 1/4 c Vegetable oil 1 sm Chile; sliced 1/2 Red or green bell pepper 8 oz Tempeh; cubed 1 pn Fennel (generous pinch) \- salt & pepper to taste 2 Scallions; chopped Saute rice & coconut in the 2 1/2 tablespoons oil for 2-3 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the water & cinnamon stick. Cover the pot & bring it to a rapid boil. Do not peek at the rice, but when the steam starts escaping, turn the heat down. Simmer for 40 minutes. Meanwhile, cook the black eyed peas with the bay leaf in salted, boiling water till tender (only takes abot 20-25 minutes). Drain them & remove the bay leaves. Keep warm till the rice & tempeh are ready. Saute the garlic & onion with the 1/4 cup of oil till the onions soften. Stir in chile & bell pepper. Saute for 2 minutes. Add fennel, tempeh, salt & pepper. Lower heat, but stir frequently til tempeh is crisp & golden. Combine everything, mixing together well. Wild Rice & Mushroom Soup Yield: 4 Servings 1 1/2 pt Vegetable stock 1 sm Onion, finely chopped 1 sm Green bell pepper, diced 1 T Parsley, chopped 1 oz Wild rice, washed & drained 4 oz Button mushrooms, sliced 5 T Red wine Salt & pepper Put the stock into a soup pot. Add the chopped onions, bell pepper & parsley. Bring to a boil, cover & simmer for 15 minutes. Add the washed wild rice & continue to simmer for another 40 minutes. Add the mushrooms & the wine. Season to taste. Cover & simmer for a further 15 minutes. Serve hot. 204 Mary Norwak, "Grains, Beans & Pulses" Wild Rice Amadine Yield: 8 Servings 2 T Slivered almonds 1 1/2 T Chopped Green Pepper 1 T Chopped Onion 1 T Chopped Chives 1/3 c Margarine 2 2/3 c Hot Water 1 t Instant Beef Bouillon 4 1/2 oz (2 Pks) 5-minute Wild Rice Cook almonds, green pepper, onion and chives in melted margarine in heavy 2-quart frying-pan, until almonds begin to brown. (Do not over brown.) Add hot water and instant bouillon, stirring to combine. Add rice, bring to a boil and cook slowly, uncovered 10 minutes. Cover and let stand 5 minutes. Drain any excess liquid from rice. Wild Rice and Barley Pilaf Yield: 5 Servings 1 sm Onion; minced 1/21b Mushrooms, sliced 1 Garlic clove; minced 1 c Wild rice 3 1/2 c Chicken broth 1/2 c Pearl barley Salt and pepper In a 12-inch frying pan or 2-to 3-quart pan, combine onion, mushrooms, garlic, and 1/2 cup water. Cook, uncovered, on high heat until liquid evaporates and a brown film forms in pan, about 15 minutes; stir often. Add 2 or 3 tablespoons water and stir to free the brown film; cook until the film forms again. Repeat this step 4 or 5 times until onions are richly browned, about 15 minutes. Rinse and drain rice. Mix with broth in pan. Bring to a boil on high heat; cover, and simmer 30 minutes. Rinse and drain barley. Add to 205 rice; simmer until grains are tender to bite but just slightly chewy, about 20 minutes longer. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Makes 5 or 6 servings. Per serving: 184 cal. (7.3 percent from fat); 7.8 g protein; 1.5 g fat (0.7 g sat.); 217 g carbo.; 36 mg sodium; 0 mg chol. Wild Rice And Hazelnut Salad Yield: 6 Servings 3/4 c Wild rice 1/2 t Salt 1/2 c Hazelnuts ## 5 T Currants 1 lg Orange, juice only Citrus Vinaigrette with \- Hazelnut Oil (See RECIPE) sm Fennel bulb cut -into small squares Crisp apple Freshly ground black pepper Salt PREHEAT OVEN TO 350F. Rinse the wild rice, and soak it in water for a half hour, then drain. Add 4 cups fresh water and salt, and bring to a boil. Cook, covered, at a simmer until the grains are swollen and tender, but still chewy, about 30 to 35 minutes. Pour the cooked rice into a colander and let it drain briefly. While the rice is cooking, toast the hazelnuts in the oven, 7 to 10 minutes, or until they smell toasty. Let them cool a few minutes; then rub them in a small kitchen towel to remove most of the skins. Don't worry about any flecks of skins that won't come off. Roughly chop the hazelnuts, leaving the pieces fairly large. Rinse the currants in warm water and squeeze them dry; then cover them with the orange juice and let them soak until needed. Prepare the vinaigrette. Add the soaked currants and the fennel to the warm rice, and toss with the dressing. Just before serving, cut the apple into small pieces, add it to the rice, along with the hazelnuts, and toss. Season with freshly ground black pepper, and additional salt, if needed, and serve. 206 Wild Rice Pancakes Yield: 4 Servings 2 c Flour 1 t Salt 4 t Baking powder 3 T Sugar ## 1 Egg 1 1/2 c Milk 1/3 c Oil 1 T Sour cream 3/4 c Cooked wild rice Mix flour, salt, baking powder and sugar. Set aside. Beat eggs; add milk,oil, sour cream and wild rice. Add to dry ingredients. Batter will be lumpy. Cook on heated griddle. ALTERNATIVE: Add 1 cup cooked wild rice to your favorite pancake mix. Makes 12-14 pancakes. Wild Rice/Pine Nut Stuffing Yield: 2 Servings 14 c Wild Rice, uncooked 1 c Water 1 Green Onion (scallion) 1 sm Garlic Clove, minced 1 ts Vegetable Oil1/4 c Pine Nuts, lightly toasted 1/2 ts Dried Thyme Cook the wild rice in the water until tender, about 1 hour. Add more water, if needed. Meanwhile, saute the onion, garlic, pine nuts and thyme in the oil. Add the wild rice. Simmer for 10 minutes to blend the flavors. Cool enough to stuff into quail or one Cornish hen. Wild Rice-stuffed Squash Yield: 4 Servings md Acorn Squash 1/2 c Wild Rice, cooked 1 ts Orange Rind, grated 12 c Walnuts, chopped 1-2 tb Frozen Orange Juice Concentrate Cut the squash in half and remove the seeds. Combine the remaining 207 ingredients and fill the squash with the mixture. Place in a baking pan. Cover with aluminum foil or a lid and bake in a 400-degree oven for about 35 minutes, or until the squash is fork-tender. Extra orange juice concentrate can be drizzled over the squash just before serving. Wild Rice-Three Grain Bread Yield: 1 To 21oafs ## 1 package Active Dry Yeast 1/3c Warm Water; 105-115?F 2 c Milk; scalded and cooled -to 105-115?F 2 T Butter or Margarine; melted ## 2 t Salt 1/2 c Honey 1/2 c Rolled Oats; uncooked 1/2 c Rye Flour 2 c Whole-Wheat Flour 4 1/2 c Bread or All-Purpose Flour 1 c Wild Rice; cooked 1 Egg; beaten with ## 1 T Water 1/2 c Sunflower Seeds; hulled In a large bowl, dissolve yeast in water. Let stand 5 minutes. Mixture should become foamy; if not, either yeast was too old or water was too hot. In either case, start again. Add milk, butter, salt and honey. Stir in oats, rye flour. whole-wheat flour and 2 cups of bread flour to make a soft dough. Knead in wild rice. Cover and let rest for 15 minutes. Then mix in enough additional bread flour to make a stiff dough. Turn onto bread board and knead for 10 minutes, adding more flour as necessary to keep dough from sticking. Turn dough into lightly greased bowl, cover and leave in draft-free place until doubled in bulk, about 2 hours. Punch down dough and knead briefly. To shape, divide dough into 3 parts; shape each part into a strand and braid together to form a wreath. Or divide dough into 2 parts and place in 2 greased 9" baking pans. Let rise until doubled, about 45 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat oven to 350F. Brush tops with egg-water mixture. Sprinkle with sunflower seeds. Bake about 45 minutes, until loaf or loaves sound hollow when tapped. Cool on rack. 208 Working Woman's Chicken & Rice Yield: 1 Serving \---1 NGREDIENTS--- 6 Boneless chicken breasts, -skinned 2 en Cream of chicken soup 1 en Cream of mushroom soup Salt and pepper to taste -------------------------DIR ECTI0N&\---------------------------- Pk Rice-A-Roni (Chicken -flavor) In slow cooker put chicken breast with canned soups, salt and pepper. Cook all day on LOW (approx. 10 hrs. or until chicken is tender). Fix Rice-A-Roni per directions on box. Put on plate and place chicken and gravy on top 209 INDEX' 1-cup servings 56 15-Minute Chicken & Rice Dinner 5, 38 2-cup measure stir 165 4-inch cubes Onion 193 4-inch pieces 173 A Abstract pattern of terrace rice fields 21 accompaniments 109-10, 193 Africa 4, 16, 25, 27, 30, 33-4 African rice 15, 25 African Rice 35 African Rice Center 34 agriculture 22, 31, 34-7 intensive wet-paddy rice 24 Allie's Chicken and Rice Casserole 8, 130 allspice 56, 106, 140 Almond and Rice Flour Bread 5, 39 almond butter 114 Almond Tuna and Rice 5, 40 almonds 11, 39-40, 60, 107, 114-15, 118, 132, 154, 192, 195, 204 American long-grain rice 28 Analysis of Chinese rice residues 22 anise, star 108-9, 117, 186-7 antibiosis 32 Antipasto Rice 5, 40 Antiquity 35-6 apples 80, 110, 130, 133, 164, 205 applesauce 88 Apricot and Rice Muffins 5, 41 Apricot Basting Sauce 94 apricots, dried 41, 87 Arab cuisine rice 20 Arkansas 28 Armenian Rice Pilaf 5, 41 aromatic 17 Aromatic Chicken 5, 42 artichoke hearts 59-60 artichokes 10, 40, 160-1, 164-5 Ashkenazim 160 Asia 19, 30, 34, 61 Asian rice 15 Asian rice varieties 35 Asian sesame oil 171 Asiatic rice 26 Australia 4, 28-9 Australia's rice production 29 210 B bacon 53, 64-5, 74, 98, 127, 143, 167, 193 bacon drippings 74, 102, 180 bag 6, 57, 68, 78, 98, 170 Bags of cooking rice 98 bake 39-41, 45-6, 53, 57, 62-4, 82-3, 94, 98-9, 116, 122-3, 131, 149, 151-3, 182-3, 191, 207 [19] Bake for Rice Con Queso 151 Baked Chicken and Rice 5, 45 baked dish 45 bakery 100, 104 baking dish 88, 114, 116, 127, 149, 157-8, 163, 199 buttered 157, 159 baking pan 57, 64, 80, 93, 99, 170, 207 baking powder 39, 41, 153, 206 banana 117 banana peppers, hot 180 Banaue Rice Terraces 25 Bangladesh 29-30 Barbecued Pork Fried Rice 172 barley 169 Basic chicken stock 56, 69 Basic Cooked Rice 5, 46 basil 7, 40, 47, 57, 84, 100, 102, 107, 119, 181, 184, 199 basket, cane steaming 105 basmati 33, 55 batches 66, 109, 145 bay 44, 47, 90-1, 115, 156, 166, 203 bay leaf 42-3, 50-1, 80, 98, 108, 111, 119, 134-5, 140, 144, 169, 178-9, 181, 184, 203 BC 22-5 bean curd 176 bean sprouts 61, 75, 101, 159, 174, 186-7, 195 beans 9, 19, 47-8, 84, 91, 119, 140, 143, 145-9, 151, 177-8, 193 cans of 91, 144 cooked 145 long 102, 139 navy 149 pinto 151, 200 refried 144-5 beansprouts 76-7 beat 74, 128, 139, 157-9, 190, 194 Beat eggs 96, 116, 175, 185, 206 beaten 19, 41, 75, 107, 120, 150-2, 155, 157-8, 163, 173-4, 207 beef 6, 11, 16, 47, 66, 71, 80-1, 102, 109, 125, 164, 170, 179, 183-5, 187, 196 [1] shredded cooked 187 beef bones 108-9 beef shank 186-7 beef sirloin 109 beef stock 77, 109, 122 beer 28, 43, 71-2 211 bell pepper 46-8, 57, 59-60, 80, 84, 90, 129, 134, 143, 147, 156, 164, 168, 177, 181-2, 203 green 53, 84, 87, 134, 170, 183, 198, 203 large 47 red 80, 167-8, 198 bell pepper strips 156 birds 31, 130 Black Beans and Rice 5, 47 blackeyed peas 5, 48-9 black pepper 40, 45-6, 52-4, 56, 63, 69, 74, 81, 84, 90-1, 97, 109-11, 155-6, 168-9, 201-2, 205 [11] Black peppercorns 51, 140 Black Peppercorns 166, 178 Blackeyed Peas and Rice 5, 48 blend 45, 63, 87, 90, 109, 117, 133, 135, 152, 161, 170, 193, 200, 206 blender 45, 58-9, 117, 136, 148, 197 boil 43-5, 47-51, 55, 72-3, 75-7, 88-93, 108-9, 111, 118-24, 126-8, 135-8, 140-6, 166-71, 177-9, 183-91, 203-5 [26] bOil 143 boil, rapid 203 boil gingerroot 44 boil pork 147 boil water 51 boiler, double 46 boiling 20, 40-1, 54-5, 69, 79, 82, 94, 126, 131, 135, 138, 149, 182-3, 190, 196, 198-9 [4] boiling broth 42, 110 boiling stock 131 boiling water 44, 58, 61, 73, 77, 110, 117, 159, 171, 174-6, 184, 187, 196,203 Bombay Rice & Lentils 5, 50 boned chicken breas 82 boneless chicken 53 boneless chicken breasts 208 boneless skinless chicken 45 bones 51, 53, 94, 109, 116, 130, 179, 187 Sonless chicken breasts 65 book 3, 39 bottle 71, 128 bouillon 78, 97, 143, 177 Bourbon 9, 158 bowl 39, 45, 49-50, 61, 66, 74-5, 82-3, 89, 91, 97, 107, 110, 117, 139-40, 169-70, 201-2 [9] large 41, 61, 70, 90, 100, 123, 127, 129, 136, 138, 171, 173, 185, 200,207 small 41, 59, 80, 109, 123, 164, 168, 171, 179 BP 22-3 braised onions 42 Brazil 29-30 Brazilian Chicken Rice Soup 5, 50 bread 20, 63, 100, 186, 188, 207 crusty 39, 196 bread crumbs 40, 129, 150 bread flour 99, 207 breadcrumbs 152, 155 brisket 72 broccoli 70, 97, 101 chopped 70, 199 broccoli finish cooking 70 broiler 38, 109, 128, 160, 165 Broker of rice 17 212 broth 6, 51, 54, 58-9, 68, 74, 76, 80, 94, 107, 109-11, 118-19, 125, 166-7, 179, 196 [8] cans chicken 111 en Chicken 197 cups of 51, 107 hot chicken 41 mushroom 52 qt Chicken 60, 81 reduced-fat chicken 113 simmering 109 Brown chicken pieces 177 Brown mushrooms 85-6 brown rice 10-11, 18-20, 30, 33, 51, 53-4, 56, 58, 62, 69, 87, 98, 118-19, 175, 181-2, 185 [7] preparing 21 washed 21 Brown Rice & Wheat Berries 5, 51 Brown Rice Casserole 5, 52 brown rice cereal 114 Brown rice flour 39, 104, 153 Brown Rice Jambalaya 5, 53 Brown Rice Pilaf 5, 54 Brown Rice Soup 119 Brussels Sprout and Rice 5, 54 bulk raw rice density 19 burner 79, 108 Burnt Rice 188 Butte County 28 butter 55, 87-8, 90, 92-4, 98-9, 107, 113-16, 122-3, 131-3, 135-8, 152--- 4, 156-8, 160-2, 164, 166-8, 195-7 [23] clarified 190 hot 123 tbs 51 butter crackpot 121 Buttered Saffron Rice 5, 55 butterfly slices 117 buttery 148 c 213 cabbage 7, 61, 74-5, 80, 98-9, 118, 190 cabbage rolls 190 Cajun 91 Cajun Jambalaya Rice 5, 56 Cajun Rice 5, 56 Cajun seasoning 48, 91 Cajun Spiced Chicken and Rice 5, 57 cal 77, 85-6, 118, 132, 177, 205 California 28 California Cooks 81 California rice 36 California Rice Commission 36 California rice industry 36 Californian varieties of rice 29 California's Rice Growing Region 36 calories 16, 39-41, 50, 54, 57, 63, 65-6, 75, 81, 83, 85, 110-11, 122, 142, 152-3, 193 [9] Cambodia 30-1 Camp Tuna and Rice 5, 58 canned tomatoes 57, 88, 195 carbo 85-6, 177, 205 carbon 31 cardamom pod 108 cardamom seeds 103, 185-6 carotts 71 Carrot Rice 7, 108 Carrot-Rice Puree 5, 58 Carrot-Rice Soup 5, 58 carrots 47, 51-2, 58-9, 69, 79, 88-9, 96-7, 108, 110-11, 115-16, 119, 124-5, 140-1, 177-9, 181, 195 [7] casserole 40, 43, 45, 67, 89, 92, 125, 141, 151, 164-5, 182, 190 casserole dish, buttered 172 Catalan Rice 5, 59 Cauliflower & Wild Rice Soup 5, 60 cayenne 57, 135, 140-1 cayenne pepper 48, 53-4, 56-7, 91 ds 178 celery 46-7, 51-2, 57, 78, 80, 82, 90, 93-4, 104-5, 110-11, 119, 129, 132-4, 139-41, 146-7, 191-2 [12] celery rib 132, 178 celery soup 63 celery stalks 52, 69, 90, 115, 177 ts Poultry Seasoning 154 century 16, 25-7 century rice 25 cereal, rice krispie 154 Charleston 27 214 cheese 9-10, 40, 52, 98, 107, 125, 138, 149-51, 155, 160, 163, 167-8, 197 ricotta 151, 153 Cheese and Rice Casserole 5, 62 cheesecloth, dampened 109 Chestnuts 5, 63 chewy 205 chicken 6-7, 38-9,42-5, 50-1, 64-70, 74-5, 83, 85-6, 94-5, 111, 120, 130-1, 140-1, 143, 177, 179 [16] 3-pound 82 brown 64, 66, 118 brush 130 chop 42, 72 en Cream of 85-6 coat 68 cold 71 cooked 66, 115, 173 fried 193 fry 76 frying 99 mexican Stewed 5, 43 pieces 57 removing 66 rice tb butter 68 rinse 68, 130 roasting 130 seasoned 170 shredded 51, 179 skinless 142, 168 sliced 170 stuffed 130 thread 67 Chicken & Rice 5, 63 Chicken & Rice Dinner 6, 64 Chicken & Rice Jambalaya Style 6, 64 Chicken and Rice Casserole 6, 65 Chicken Baked Rice 6, 66 chicken bouillon 85-6 chicken bouillon granules 79 chicken breast halves 111, 118 CHICKEN BREAST MEAT 65 chicken breasts 6, 46, 64-5, 67, 69-70, 85-6, 95, 169, 171, 178, 191, 208 skinless 38 chicken breasts skin sides 67 chicken broth 53, 59-60, 66, 68, 76, 82-3, 94, 107, 118-19, 124-5, 159, 164-5, 170, 178, 185, 196-7 [9] chicken bullion cubes 95 Chicken Curry Kabobs 6, 67 215 chicken fat 90 Chicken-Flavored Rice 70 Chicken-Flavored Rice Mix 6, 70 chicken giblets 77 chicken gizzards 90 chicken legs 53 chicken livers 90-1 Chicken Livers and Mushrooms 6, 68 CHICKEN MARINADE 171 chicken meat 51 chicken mixture 83 chicken-mushroom mixture 171 chicken parts 68, 89 chicken pieces 54, 85-6, 131, 177 cooked 69 dredge 64 chicken quarter 99 Chicken Rice Skillet 6, 68 Chicken Rice Soup 6, 69 chicken rolls 191 Chicken Sausage 57 chicken skin 53 chicken soup 38 en Cream of 63, 65, 68, 89, 208 chicken stock 45, 49, 69, 74, 81, 93, 103, 115, 119, 131, 144, 148, 166, 168-9, 171, 201-2 [3] Chicken Stock Cubes 196 Chicken Thighs 120 Chicken Yellow Rice 6, 70 Chickenlegs 6, 71 chickpeas 136 Chickpeas 9, 136 chiles 61, 102, 120, 143, 151, 187, 200-1, 203 chili pieces 124 chili powder 67, 123, 126-7, 146, 179, 183, 185 chili sauce 71-2, 160 hot 109-10 chilies 45, 123, 151, 170, 185 green 123, 185 chilli 133, 184 China 10, 21-4, 29-30, 171 southern 21 Chinese 6, 33, 61, 73, 75, 139, 171, 173 Chinese broccoli 49 Chinese Chicken Cooked 6, 72 Chinese cook 82 Chinese cookbook 105 Chinese Crab Rice 6, 72 Chinese Fried Rice 6, 73 Chinese method of cooking rice 79 216 Chinese Pork & Shrimp Rice Noodles 6, 74 chives, chopped 195, 204 chol 85-6, 132, 177, 205 cholesterol 39-41, 50, 54, 57, 66, 75, 81, 93, 110-11, 115, 122, 142, 149, 153-5, 165, 186 [3] chop 45, 52-3, 73, 77, 91, 98, 102-3, 122, 131, 138, 140-1, 163, 165, 171, 194, 201 [2] Chopani-Mando 23 chopped celery 51, 92, 146 Chopped cooked turkey 186 Chopped fresh parsley 64, 100, 116, 190 Chopped green bell peppers 164 chopped green onions 69, 143, 173, 178 Chopped green pepper 40, 43, 197 Chopped Green Pepper 199, 204 chopped onions 43, 106-7, 146-7, 164, 178, 184, 190, 193, 197, 203-4 fresh 48 chopped parsley 67, 88, 93, 114, 118, 133, 152, 161, 195-6 Chopped red bell peppers 107 chopped Salt Pepper 165 Chopped spring onions 184 chorizo 59 chunks 45, 57, 146, 167, 186, 201 Chunky Chicken Rice Soup 6, 76 cilantro 52, 80, 88, 120, 126, 142, 202 cilantro sprigs 142 cinnamon 11, 41, 44, 50, 106, 108, 113, 126, 132, 135, 138, 153, 156-9, 184-6, 189, 192 cinnamon stick 44, 108-9, 128, 166, 184, 186-7, 203 clams 59-60 clery, en Cream of 85-6 Clove garlic 43, 123, 125, 142, 170, 201 cloves 43-4, 50-1, 108, 138, 140, 166, 184-7, 192 Cloves garlic 47, 61, 80, 84, 88, 103, 124-5, 145, 147, 151, 181-2 Club Rice Pudding 5, 38 CLUMPS of RICE 173 en 40, 54, 63-4, 80, 84, 89, 97, 112, 123, 125-6, 144, 165, 170, 180, 183, 185 [2] coat 40, 47, 60, 66, 83, 96, 122, 124, 136, 175, 190, 193 coating 18-19, 107, 117, 123, 174-5 nonstick spray 85-6, 177 coconut 71, 114, 148, 203 creamed 76-7 coconut cream 44, 121 coconut rice 121 Coconut Rice Noodles 6, 76 colander 55, 62, 109, 119, 122, 174, 187-8, 205 Cold cooked rice 75 Columbian squash 77 Company Microwave Rice 6, 78 Converted long grain rice 168 217 cook 38-44, 52-6, 60-2, 65-70, 80-95, 106-14, 119-28, 134-41, 143-8, 156-64, 166-9, 176-81, 183-5, 187-8, 192-5, 200-6 [18] cook almonds 204 cook bacon 65, 102, 167 cook carrots 59, 110 cook garlic 181 cook lentils 191 cook meatballs 123 cook minutes 178 cook onion 123, 142, 160, 172 cook overnight 200 cook pancakes 153 cook rice 52, 91, 130, 133, 135, 163, 193, 202 cook rice mixture 54 cook spinach 163 cook stirring 103 Cook Time 40, 154 Cooked bay shrimp 173-4 Cooked black beans 151 Cooked blackeyed peas 48 cooked brown rice 52, 57, 79, 107, 110, 145, 149, 151, 155, 182, 191, 195,200 cooked chick peas 125 Cooked cubed chicken 76 Cooked Extra Long Grain Rice 160 Cooked ground beef lean 138 Cooked long grain rice 152, 161 Cooked long-grain rice 173 Cooked long-grain white rice 122, 139 Cooked medium 196 Cooked peas 43 Cooked Regular Rice 161 cooked rice 19-21,40, 42, 59, 63, 67, 75-6, 79, 88, 100-2, 119-20, 123--- 5, 166, 173-4, 179-80, 200 [10] Cooked shrimp 173 Cooked Shrimp 57 cooked vegetables 199 cooker setting 80 cookie sheet 76 cooking 4, 19-21,47, 54, 61, 72, 78, 80, 84, 87, 94, 102, 129-30, 153, 179-80, 188-9 [7] final 135 long 91 low 87 cooking bag 57 Cooking Bags Rice 131 cooking fat 131 cooking liquid, hot 72 cooking liquidand reserve it.Discard 140 cooking oil 43, 101 cooking pot, large 148 218 cooking rice 6, 20, 48, 78-9, 98, 112, 162 cooking slice 180 cooking spray 83, 95 nonstick 111 cooking time, hour standing 184 cooking vegetables 58 COOK'S NOTES 128 cook's time 73 coriander 71, 77, 101, 109, 142, 149, 201-2 fresh 77, 186-7 corn 34, 80, 126, 166, 169, 202 Cornish Hen Halves and Wild Rice 6, 79 cornstarch 46-7, 72, 74-5, 98, 135, 153, 161, 164-5, 179, 191, 193 countries 16, 18, 20, 30-1, 34, 37 Country Bacon Rice 154 Country Rice 6, 81 couple 48, 55, 92, 113, 180 crabs 73, 135 crack 73 Crackling Rice Soup 6, 81 cranberries 82, 191, 197 Cranberry/Wild Rice Stuffing 6, 82 Crawford 35-6 cream 38, 45, 60, 94, 98, 123, 131, 134, 141, 173 whipping 83 Cream of Mushroom soup 54 Creamy Chicken and Rice 6, 82 Creamy Rice Pudding 6, 83 Creole Liver and Rice 6, 84 Creole-Style Red Beans & Rice 6, 84 crisp 50, 55, 65, 67, 74, 96, 111, 122, 129, 167, 183, 203 crackpot 47,195,200 crockpot 68, 85-6 CrockPot Chicken & Rice Casserole 6, 85 CrockPot Chicken and Rice Casserole 6, 86 crackpot 80, 85-7, 99, 112, 157-8, 162 start 85-6 Crackpot Chicken & Rice 6, 85 Crackpot Chicken and Rice 6, 86 Crackpot Rice Pudding 6, 87 crocks 38 crops 26-7, 30, 33-6 croquettes 150 crumbs, cracker 83 CRUSHED RED HOT PEPPER 177 crust 153, 176 cubes 47, 56, 59, 71, 74, 77, 98, 131, 133-4, 181 cucumber 10, 75, 101, 161, 194 cultivars 4, 17, 27-8, 32-3 cultivation 4, 16, 21-2, 24-5, 29, 33 219 cumin 42-3, 52, 54, 56, 90, 108, 123, 147, 181, 199-200, 202 Cumin Rice 6, 87 cumin seeds 103, 108, 166, 185-6 cup butter 107 cup coconut cream Salt 121 cup peanut butter 155, 198 cup raw rice 158 cup servings 69 cup sugar 44 cups 38-9,45, 51-2, 70, 78, 83, 85-6, 89-90, 92-4, 112-14, 118-19, 123, 125, 145-6, 148-51, 205-7 [27] custard 44, 122 cups beans 145 cups broth 59 cups cooking liquid 116, 190 cups milk 116 Cups of water 95 cups rice 121 cups water 44, 55, 79, 88, 92, 119, 121, 146, 169, 177, 199 cups water Heat oil 80 currants 94, 125, 190, 205 Curried Rice 7, 88-9 curry powder 67, 88-9, 101, 132, 159 Cyclone fuels rice price 37 D dark soy sauce, water tb 120 degrees 43, 45, 64, 72, 94, 123, 125, 127, 129-30, 141, 151, 153, 155, 172-3, 178, 182-3 [1] Diabetic Chicken Rice Dinner 7, 89 dice bell pepper 143 Diced bell pepper 182 diced celery 66, 85-6, 191 diced cooked ham Directions 145 Diced green bell pepper 100 diced green onion 75 Diced onions 71, 138, 145, 180, 182, 191 dill 40, 92, 100, 106, 115, 154, 190 Dill-Lemon Rice 90 Dill-Lemon Rice Mix 7, 89 dinner, salsa chicken 168 Dirty Rice 6-7, 77, 90 discard 45, 49, 53, 60, 62, 92-3, 109, 140, 171-2, 178, 187, 196 diseases 4, 31-2 dish 20, 38, 47-9, 55, 73, 88, 95-6, 121, 127-8, 142-3, 150, 157-8, 168-9, 171-2, 175, 194 [9] covered 157-8 heatproof 73 dogs, hot 180 dolmadakia 7, 91-2 Double Rice Stuffing 7, 92 dough 100, 104, 207 220 drain 55, 61-2, 73-5, 77, 88, 109-10, 121-2, 148-9, 159, 163, 171, 176-7, 183, 190-1, 194, 203-5 [21] Drain Beans 143 Drain Cook 184 Drain VEG-ALL 40, 197 DRAINED BEANS 177 dressing 50, 97, 139, 165, 197, 202, 205 Dried dill 62-3 Dried hot peppers 117 Dried parsley flakes 111, 182 Dried thyme 53, 65, 82, 144, 146 drizzle 72, 122, 133, 160, 163, 196, 202 Duck 7, 93 duckling 94 Dutch oven 41, 59, 66, 111, 131, 142, 144, 146 E Earliest Rice 36 Easy Mexican Chicken 95 edges 41, 96, 164, 172, 175-6 Egg Fried Rice 7, 96 egg-water mixture 207 egg yolks 38, 115, 128, 135, 157, 159, 165, 173 eggplant 6, 87-8 eggs 11, 39, 41, 61, 73-5, 96, 107, 135, 139-40, 150-2, 155, 157-9, 173-5, 189-90, 194, 206-7 [8] beaten 102, 152, 174, 194, 199 cooked 74 large bowl.mix 153 lg 39, 61, 104, 153, 173 Electric rice cookers 20 Enchilada sauce 182 Encyclopaedia Britannica 36 entrails 62 en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rice 37 evidence 22-4, 31 Evidence of wet rice cultivation 25 experiment 61, 102, 105 F farmers 31-2, 35 Fashioned Rice Pudding 8 Fast Food 7, 96-7 fat 39-41, 50-1, 53-4, 56-7, 65-6, 81-3, 85-6, 96-7, 111-13, 127, 132-3, 142, 149, 153-5, 177-9, 186 [15] fennel 7, 97-8, 203, 205 221 fiber 39, 50, 57, 81, 93, 110, 115, 118, 132, 142, 154, 165 dietary 13, 122, 155, 193, 195 fields 16, 23-4, 27, 31 plough rice 24 file 53-4 filets 107 Filled Tomatoes on Herbed Rice 7, 98 fingers, index 79, 189 five-nation rice cartel 37 Fix Rice-A-Rani 65, 208 flan, low-calorie rice pudding 153 Flat rice-stick noodles 186 flavor pak 94 flavors 65, 87, 128, 133, 139, 144, 164, 185, 188, 206, 208 flavours 33, 196 flooding 16, 32 flour 18-19, 39, 41, 57, 60, 63-4, 88, 107, 116, 123, 131-2, 140-1, 146, 152, 170, 206-7 [1] rye 207 whole-wheat 207 Flour Salt Black Pepper 179 fluff 45, 78-9, 103, 108, 126, 138, 175 foam 51, 109 foil 53, 55, 64, 80, 88, 99, 130, 157-8, 163 Foil-baked Chicken 7, 98 fold 41, 92, 106, 115, 159, 167, 171-2, 191 food processor 39, 53, 58-9, 117, 136, 145 foods 3-4, 17, 160 Foolproof Rice 7, 99 Foolproof Rice Bread 7, 99 fork 42, 45, 54, 57, 94, 103, 111, 126, 139, 175, 193 French Rice Salad 7, 100 fresh cilantro 126, 181 fresh mushrooms 74, 162 sliced 54, 60, 130, 155 Fresh parsley 40, 68, 119, 168 Fresh red chile peppers 109 Fried Curried Rice 7, 100 Fried Rice 3, 7-8, 101-2, 124, 132, 140, 176, 192 frozen cooked rice/beans/barley/lentils 97 frozen diced pepper 180 frozen peas 44, 65, 125, 173-4, 195 fruit 6-7, 29, 87, 103, 137, 140, 148, 181, 186, 192 fry 52, 71, 75, 77, 96, 98, 101-2, 124, 126-7, 132, 161, 166, 183, 202 fry onion 156 frying-pan 123 frying pan/skillet 101-2 Fully cooked 91 G ga Milk 87, 113 Gaba rice 19 GABA Rice 21 gai ian 49 garam masala 183 222 garlic 43-5, 60-1, 66-7, 69-70, 90, 101-3, 112-14, 123-7, 142-7, 150-1, 161-3, 167-8, 177-9, 182-5, 193-5, 199-204 [16] minced 113, 178, 183 garlic celery 84 Garlic cloves 42, 49, 52, 56, 59, 69-70, 76-7, 90, 100-2, 112, 114, 143--- 4, 146-7, 162-3, 194-5, 203-4 [6] garlic powder 46, 57, 71-2, 83, 89, 118, 142-3, 163 garlic puree 161 garlic salt 84, 107, 115, 202 Garlic-Wine Rice Pilaf 7, 103 garnish 43, 49, 52-3, 59-61, 64, 69, 72, 75, 100-1, 110-11, 130-2, 136-7, 142, 151, 168, 174 [9] Georgetown 27 Germinated Brown Rice 21 Germinated Grown Rice and Rice Bread 36 Ghaiya rice 21 ghee 103, 184 ginger 67, 72, 96, 109, 112, 117, 124, 184-7, 191, 195 candied 9, 152-3 fresh 73, 112, 186 grated 184, 187, 191 ginger juice 117 Ginseng, chopped 104-5 Ginseng Shreds Stir Rice 7, 104 gizzards 90 Global rice shortage sparks panic 35 glucose 18-19 glutinous rice 7, 33, 73, 105-6, 171, 188 golden 41, 44, 61, 77, 82, 101-2, 124, 129, 152-3, 160, 168, 170, 193, 195-6, 203 Golden rice 4, 35 grains 16, 18-21, 24, 28, 31, 33, 35, 37, 45, 96, 109, 126, 142, 173, 192, 204-5 [3] Granulated Sugar 134, 158 grape 7, 20, 92, 106 grasses 15-16, 33 grate 71, 73, 98 Green Bean Almond Rice 7, 107 green beans 107, 139 Green pepper flakes 58 Green Pepper Flakes 127, 200 Green peppers 179 Green Rice 5, 44 greens 49-50 ground 19, 40, 45, 51-3, 59, 81, 101, 107, 109-10, 117, 126, 134, 142, 147, 155-6, 205 [5] ground beef 123, 125, 138 Ground Black Pepper 160 ground cayenne pepper 163 223 Ground cinnamon 44, 87-8, 128, 185-6 ground cumin 47, 53, 88, 136, 146, 182, 185 ground ginger 46, 88, 185-6, 195 ground pepper 49, 88, 93, 103, 114, 146, 162, 190, 198 ground pepper tb 68 groundwater 31 groups 17, 34 Grouse & Wild Rice 7, 107 guests 150 gumbo 134-5 H ham 47, 53-4, 74, 82, 102, 145, 176, 193 HAM HOCK 177-8 Hanoi Beef and Rice-Noodel Soup 7, 108 Harvest Rice 7, 110 hazelnuts 205 Hearty Chicken & Rice Soup 7, 110 Hearty Chicken Rice Soup 7, 111 heat 50-5, 68-72, 75-7, 79-83, 88-91, 94-6, 108-9, 111-16, 120-4, 126-9, 135-40, 166-71, 174-7, 182-3, 185-92, 194-6 [20] direct 116 high 59, 70, 75, 83, 90-1, 93, 96, 111, 122, 127, 136, 162, 168-9, 173-5, 200-1, 204 [9] low 42-4, 53-4, 56, 103, 106, 112, 114, 121-2, 124, 129, 136, 148, 150, 154, 187-8, 198 [5] lowest 106 med-low 128 medium-low 56, 68, 122, 132 moderate 45, 60 moderate-low 148 the 44 heat butter 116, 166 heat fat 197 heat ghee 103 heat mixture 182 Heat oil 38, 43, 64, 66, 69, 132, 143, 146, 156, 159-60, 162, 168, 178, 195, 198 heat oven 94 heat proof earthen pot 106 Heat thoroughly.Garnish 132 heat toa simmer 138 heat tuna 58 heat wok 72, 96, 175 blended 74 heated griddle 206 heated milk stirring 152 heated spaghetti sauce 155 heating grains 19 Heatt 197 Heavy cream 38, 134, 140, 196 heavy skillet heat 190 hens 80 herbs 10, 83, 98, 116, 163 fresh 52-3 Hi.Cook 113 high heat minutes 159 High-yield cultivars of rice 33 High-yielding varieties 4, 34 Highland Rice Production 35 History 36 History of rice domestication 4, 21 Hokusai 17-18 honey 20, 112, 153, 191, 207 Honey Ribs and Rice 8, 111 Hot Pepper Rice 154 Hot pepper sauce 132 Hot pepper Sauce 149 Hot pepper sauce, bottled 149 hotter 124 hour stirring 113 224 hours 38-9, 44-7, 51, 66-7, 72-3, 82-3, 85-7, 93-4, 112-13, 121, 133-4, 145-8, 156-9, 177-9, 187-8, 200-3 [20] half 205 hrs 64-5, 68, 185, 208 husks 18, 20 I impurities 109 India 23, 29-30 Indian rice cultivars 33 indica 16-17, 21, 33 Indonesia 18, 24, 29-30, 33, 36 Indonesian rice cultivation 24 Indonesian-Style Yogurt Rice 8, 112 ingredients 20, 46-7, 54, 57, 62, 68, 85-7, 99-100, 104-5, 134-6, 148-9, 157-8, 162-3, 181-2, 200, 207-8 [14] remaining 45, 58, 66, 78, 84, 101-2, 106, 110, 112, 126, 132, 139, 142, 144, 146, 160 [1] insect infestations 32 insecticides 31 insects 31-2 instant 45, 57-8, 66, 97, 103, 131, 142 225 instant chicken bouillon 54, 70, 90, 149, 199 instructions 3 International Rice Genebank 32 International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) 32 International Rice Research Institute 34-5, 37 International Year of Rice 34 IRS 34 Iraq rice 26 IRRI (International Rice Research Institute) 32 IRRI rice knowledge bank 36 Islam 25-6 Italian arborio rice 196 Italian dressing 202 J Jahn 31-2, 37 Japan 18-19, 23-4, 29-30, 35-7 Japanese mochi rice and Chinese sticky rice 32 Japanese rice cookers 79 Japanese short-grain rice 15 Japanese table rice 33 japonica 16-17, 21, 33 tropical 17 jar 45, 67, 92, 117, 139, 176, 202 Jasmine rice 66 jasmine rice compliment 188 Java 24 John's Garlic Rice 8, 113 Joni's Rice Pudding 8, 113 juice 51, 57, 66, 93, 106, 111, 117, 119, 145, 165, 175, 180, 190, 193, 196, 198 [2] apple 79-80 reserving 193 Julienned 59 K Kar-In's Crispy Rice Squares 8, 114 Kathie jenkins wild rice soup 8, 115 kelp 106 KETCHUP 65 kettle 53-4, 140 kg/person 30 Khiev 32 King's Arms Tavern Raisin Rice Pudding 8, 115 kiwifruit 133 knead 207 Korea 23-4 L labor, slave 27 226 lamb 117 Lamb Shanks and Rice Soup 8, 116 Lamb Steamed in Rice Powder 8, 117 lard 59 Large eggs 123, 150, 152 Large onion 84, 146, 162, 167 largest paddy rice producer, third 24 layers 57, 92, 123, 151, 167, 170, 172 leaf-wrapped rice packages 172 Lean Salt Pork 193 leeks 93 leftovers 73-4, 97, 139, 173, 197 lemon 92, 103, 106, 111, 134, 140, 190, 201 lemon extract 116 lemon juice 40, 43, 79-80, 88, 92, 100, 106, 116, 118, 139-41, 160, 164-5, 190, 201 Lemon Parsley Chicken and Rice 8, 118 Lemon Rice Soup 8, 118 lemon rind 103, 134, 158 Lentil & Brown Rice Soup 8 lentils 7, 9, 11, 50, 88, 119, 150, 169, 184, 192 brown 184 lettuce 49, 119, 173, 202 lg 39, 76, 131, 139, 171, 184, 199, 201, 205 lg Bell pepper 56 lg Carrot 49, 124, 144 lg Chicken breasts 63, 85-6 lg Green Bell pepper 201 lg Onion 52, 92, 108, 124-5, 144, 151, 196, 199 lid 43, 55, 79, 98, 105, 138, 189, 207 light haze 101-2 Light soy sauce 42, 61, 72-3, 101-2, 117 lime 187 lime juice 111, 146, 201-2 lime slices 111 lime zest 128 Lipton Rice 48 Lipton's Rice 94 liquid 40, 42, 45, 52-4, 58, 70, 89-90, 124-5, 127-8, 136, 143, 171-2, 175, 184-5, 189-90, 194-5 [13] orange 120-1 liquid boils 109 liquid eggs 96 liquid ingredients 39, 153 loafs 207 long grain rice 45, 64, 66, 78-9, 90, 149, 164, 184, 187, 189-90, 199 long-grain rice 19, 32, 113, 124, 132, 144, 146, 171, 174 long grain rice, extra 167 long-grain rice, white 20 Long-grained rice 38 Long-Grained Rice 59 loosen 109, 171, 176 Lost Crops of Africa 35 lotus 171 dried 171 lotus leaf 10, 171 Louisiana 28, 91, 201 Low-Fat Beans and Rice 8, 119 low-fat milk 69, 153 227 Low-Salt Soy Sauce Salt & Pepper 96 Low-sodium chicken broth 146 Lower heat 40, 77, 106, 116, 124, 142, 144, 150, 160, 164, 203 Lowland 21 Lucy 164 lunch 150, 169, 171 M Madagascar 25, 27 Maggi Chicken Bouillon Cubes 143 Mahagara 23 Majorca 26 Malaysian Braised Chicken 8, 120 Mandarin Rice Pudding 8, 120 mango 71 Mango Chutney & Carott-Rice 6, 71 mangoes 8, 121 Manitoba Wild Rice 8, 122 mantle 62 Maple Rice Pudding 8, 122 Maple syrup 112, 122 margarine 41, 59-60, 63, 67, 70, 79, 83, 87, 90, 92, 94, 107, 113, 125-7, 156, 164 [7] marinade 73, 100, 171, 202 marjoram 52, 54, 57, 69, 100, 184 Marketing of Value-Added Rice Products in Japan 36 marshmallows 154-5, 198 mash 145-6, 193 mayonnaise 40 McDermott and Marks Serving Size Preparation Time 81 md 53, 116, 124-5, 183 md Carrots 52, 89, 195 md Onion 49, 53, 56, 59-60, 63, 69, 87, 93, 95, 99, 109-10, 112, 142, 150, 155, 179 [4] md Yellow Onions 120 meat 19-20, 47-8, 53-4, 74, 77, 90, 93, 96, 102, 109-10, 116-17, 131, 169, 178-9, 183, 187 meatballs 123, 185 Med 67, 156, 164 medium 48, 53, 64, 77, 79, 90, 106, 119, 122, 146, 160, 166, 173, 175, 179-80, 189 228 medium heat 52, 55, 80, 82, 85-6, 88, 94, 98, 101, 103, 108, 110, 115, 121-2, 142-6, 192-3 [11] mediumheat 66 MEDIUM heat 75 medium-high heat 38, 59, 61, 107, 168, 170, 172, 177, 191, 195 medium saucepan 70, 79, 89-90, 127, 136, 153, 170, 182, 200 medium saucepan stir 54 medium skillet heat 193 mediumheat 132 Mel's Mexican Rice 8, 124 Melt butter 40-1, 68, 88, 107, 115, 154, 172 melted butter 99, 160 metal trivet 157-8 methane 31 Mexicali rice 8, 125 Mexican Chicken 7 Mexican Cinnamon Rice 8, 125 Mexican Rice 8, 123, 126-7 hot 123 Mexican Rice Mix 8, 126-7 Mexican Rice Pudding 8, 127 Mexican Spanish Rice 8, 128 micro-cook 156 Micro-cook 156, 164-5 microbes 31 microwave 67, 77-8, 83, 91, 153, 189 middle 26, 29, 61, 131, 171 milk 20, 38, 44, 54-5, 63-4, 69, 87, 112-13, 116, 122-3, 134-5, 151-3, 157-9, 161, 189-90, 206-7 [3] evaporated 113, 121 milk products 151, 160 Milled parboiled rice 20 milled rice 29, 36 standard 20 mills 27, 29, 45 Mince onion 90 Minced Onion 160 Minced parsley 137, 163 Minnesota Wild Rice Dressing 8, 129 Minnesota Wild Rice-Stuffed Chicken 8, 130 mins 74, 82, 111, 116, 126, 194 Minute rice 85-6 Minute Rice 20, 76 minutes stirring 102, 178 Mississippi 28 mix 39, 43, 46, 63-4, 66, 70-1, 85-6, 119-21, 125-9, 133, 150-1, 157-9, 161-2, 170-2, 184-5, 190-2 [21] cups of 70, 90, 127, 136, 200 seasoning 163-4, 168 mixing bowl 62-3, 149, 167 mixture boils 122 MountFuji 17-18 MSG 41-2, 75 229 Mushroom Ragout in Rice Ring 8, 131 mushroom soup 45, 54, 141 en Cream of 63, 65, 69, 94, 141, 208 Mushroom Wild Rice Chowder 8, 132 mushrooms 10-11, 63, 68-9, 75, 78, 85-6, 93-4, 102, 115-16, 129-32, 159-60, 162, 171-2, 176-7, 194-6, 203-4 [10] 1-quart casserole micro-cook 156 chopped 152, 196 en 66, 131 en Cream of 85-6 dried 74, 139-40, 159, 194, 196 flat 194 Mushrooms & Rice 11, 196 Muslims 26 Mutants of popular rice varieties 32 N Nasi Goreng 8, 132-3 NERICA 33-4 New Zealand Brown Rice Salad 8, 133 No-Egg Rice Pudding 8, 133-4 nonfat milk 152-3 nonmetal bowl stir 164 nonpreference 32 noodles 19, 61, 77, 109-10, 187 cooked 77 dried rice 61, 76 fragile rice 61 fresh rice 61 rice stick 74 Nut Rice 7, 103 nutmeg 42-3, 83, 116, 134, 141-2, 157-8, 190 nutrients 18, 20, 35 0 oil 19-20,44-6, 49-50, 69-77, 96, 99-103, 118, 126-7, 133-4, 139-42, 152-3, 163-4, 173-7, 182-3, 191-6, 201-3 [25] okra 134 Okra Chicken & Crab Gumbo 8, 134 Old Fashioned Rice Pudding 135 olive oil 42, 45, 52, 77, 92, 100, 114, 133, 138, 144, 150, 162-3, 167, 175-6, 178-9, 197-8 [5] olives 40, 92-3, 123, 202 omitting salt, suggested 52 onion/celery mixture 172 Onion Flakes 200 Onion-Flavored Rice 136 Onion-Flavored Rice Mix 8, 136 onion powder 199 onion quarters 51 onion rings 202 onion slices 187 spring 77 onion softens 182 onion soup mix 45, 170 230 onions 42, 44-50, 66-73, 80, 84-6, 88-98, 102-5, 122-7, 129-34, 142-8, 150-1, 162-4, 167-70, 177-80, 182-7, 195-8 [19] breen 134 chop 71 clove-studded 109 dehydrated 97 fried 133 green 47, 54, 57, 61-2, 67, 69, 73-5, 78-9, 81-2, 96, 102, 125-6, 133-4, 149, 177, 186-7 [8] medium 50, 168, 180 sauted 200 slice 109 sliced 108-9, 123, 161, 192 spring 77, 194 teh 138 onions soften 203 Orange-Tahini Sauce 136 oranges 136-7 OREC (Organisation of Rice Exporting Countries) 30 oregano 40, 47, 90, 107, 119, 129, 178, 181, 183-4, 199 Organisation of Rice Exporting Countries (OREC) 30 Oriental Fried Rice 7, 95 Origins of Rice Agriculture 35-6 oryza glaberrima 15-16 oryza sativa 14-17, 22, 36 ounces 54, 129, 141-2, 144, 198 oven 43, 45, 50, 55, 57, 64, 66, 80, 83, 88, 93-4, 98, 116, 130, 149, 188 [6] oven bag 170 overnight, refrigerated 85-6 oxtails 108-9, 186-7 oyster sauce 5, 49, 61,173 oz 13, 40, 48, 52, 67, 71, 87-8, 92, 123, 129-31, 146, 149, 174, 178-9, 193, 195-7 [18] oz Butter 71, 98, 131, 152 oz Butterscotch morsels 137 oz Chicken breast 134 oz Chickenlegs 71 oz Mushrooms 52, 69, 131-2 oz Peanut butter 137 oz Wild rice 203 p pack 73, 92, 155 231 package 68, 77, 83, 92, 99, 104, 129, 136, 158, 166-7 package directions 49, 83, 91, 129-30, 133, 135, 202 package Rice-a-rani 65 package Rice sticks 159 packets 48, 94, 171-2 Paddy rice output 29 pan 20, 41, 45, 51-2, 62, 66, 88, 91, 96, 107-8, 114-16, 121, 155, 159, 175, 204 [12] hot 55, 96 pan bottom, scraping 90, 164 pancakes 153, 206 paper-thin slices 109, 186 paprika 43-4, 56-7, 65-7, 90, 94, 106, 132, 136, 169-70, 199-200 Parmesan cheese 68, 123, 154, 195 Parmesan Cups Cooked Seasoned Rice 123 parsley 43, 45, 49, 51-2, 56-7, 59-60, 67-8, 103, 110-11, 118-19, 131, 133-4, 156, 162, 195-6, 199-200 [19] Parsley Flakes 127, 136 Parsley Sprigs 42, 72 Passover 160 Patna rice 33 medium-grained 33 pea pods 47, 159 peanut 120, 139, 173-4, 176 salted 198 peanut butter 137 Peanut Butter Chocolate Rice Krispie 9, 137 Peanut oil 49, 61, 72, 74-5, 81-2, 96, 120, 168, 176, 192 pears 94 peas 9, 11, 43-4, 48-9, 59-60, 62, 65, 74, 78, 97, 100-1, 124, 137-8, 156, 173-4, 195 [5] pecans 164 Peel 71, 121, 146, 161, 165 pepper 42-5, 47-9, 51-2, 64-6, 68-9, 83-4, 87-8, 92-4, 111-15, 118-20, 124-5, 129-31, 138-41, 160-3, 195-6, 201-5 [27] chili 127 dash 54 extra 94 green 40, 42, 44, 52-3, 56-7, 66, 84, 102, 122, 124, 143, 177-8, 180-1, 193, 197, 199 [2] hot 47, 117, 147, 154 white 46, 56, 59, 61, 70, 101, 107, 163-4, 167, 171 peppercorn bundle 51 peppercorns 108, 140, 166, 179 Peppermint 106 peppery 48 Per Capita Rice Consumption Hits 37 Perfect Chinese Steamed Rice 9, 138 232 pest outbreaks 31 pesticides 31 pests 4, 29, 31-2 PhiiRice 35 Phylogeography of Asian wild rice 36 Picante Dressing 202 Pickled Jalapeno Peppers 56 Picnic Rice Salad 9, 139 pimientos 43, 59-60 Pinder, Betty 157-8 Pine Nut Wild Rice 7, 93-4 pine nuts 10, 51, 59-60, 67, 94, 161, 186, 190, 206 pineapple 7, 89, 140 Pineapple Fried Rice 9, 139 pinenuts 50 pinto 149 Pk Rice-A-Rani 208 Plain boiled rice 101 plants 20, 32, 34, 36 plate 61, 65-6, 92, 117, 121, 137, 174, 176, 194, 208 short rib 108-9 platter 50, 61, 68, 72, 98, 130-1, 140-1, 165, 192, 202 PLENTY of water 48 pn 46, 84, 140, 156, 163 pn cayenne pepper 46 pn Cayenne pepper 146 Poached chicken 9, 140 panni 33 poppyseeds 83 popular rice varieties 32 porcini 194 pork 47, 60, 75, 90, 102, 147, 164, 193, 201-2 barbecued 61, 173 cooked 74 pork chops, salted 141 Pork Chops and Rice 9, 141 Portuguese-Style Rice 9, 141 pot 48, 54,66, 70,78-9,97,103,105,109,135,138,145,156-8,166, 176-8, 187 [2] Pot of Burnt Rice 188 pot of rice 79, 82, 188 potato 181 poultry 20, 38, 45, 82, 142, 168-9, 191 poultry seasoning 64, 76, 85-6, 177 power 156, 164-5 precooked chickenlegs 71 preheat 120 Preheat 38, 61, 88, 128 Preheat oven 39, 52, 57, 116, 129, 131, 170, 182, 207 PREHEAT OVEN 83, 163, 205 233 Preheat oven, fresh parsley 151 preheat wok 173 price 4, 30 problem 48, 79, 194 process parboil 20 slow cooking 87 Processed rice seeds 19 producers 29-30 production 4, 28-9, 34, 36 prot 85-6, 118 protein 13, 19, 35, 39, 50, 54, 57, 63, 66, 77, 81, 93, 110, 115, 142, 152-3 [7] Prudhomme 5, 46 pudding 38, 122, 128 puff 96, 175-6 pumpkin 77 Pumpkin & Rice Soup 9, 142 puree 45, 58, 145, 148 Q qt Milk 38, 83, 128, 159 quart microwave casserole mix salt 89 quick-cook oatmeal 97 Quick-cooking rice en 193 Quick Salsa Chicken and Rice 9, 142 R rack 39, 93-4, 130, 157-8, 160, 202, 207 raisen 113 raisins 9-10, 38, 41, 44, 50, 82, 116, 121, 127-8, 135-6, 138, 157-9, 162, 164, 186, 190 rapid-boil method 20 raw 13, 43, 45, 53, 68, 81, 85-6, 114, 127, 135, 141, 143, 172, 190 Raw Converted Rice 134 Raw Long Grain Rice 126 Raw Long-grained Rice 200 Raw rice 19,42-3,70,179 recipe 3, 39, 51-2, 55-6, 61, 69, 73, 77, 81, 87, 89, 94, 104-5, 108, 113, 119 [8] 6-serving 95 basic 124-5 Red Beans 9, 84, 144, 146-8 cooked 145 Red Beans and Rice 7, 9, 11, 91, 144-6, 193 Red Beans and Rice Soup 9, 145 Red kidney beans 144, 147 Red onion 115, 136 diced 197 Red onion rings 202 234 red pepper 40, 44, 96, 107, 144, 154, 166, 177-8, 193 diced 101 md Fennel Bulb Sweet 98 red pepper chunks 47 Red pepper flakes 142, 163 Red Pepper Flakes 200 red pepper strips 133 regions 16, 20, 22, 25, 27 waterless 29 Regular long grain rice 156 Regular rice 157 Regular Rice 55, 103, 125 reheat 61, 188 reheat leftover rice 46 Reheat Rice 188 Republica Dominicana Red Beans & Rice 9, 147 reserve 109, 116, 153, 187, 190, 202 reserved chicken cooking liquid 141 reserved cooking liquid 116, 140 resistance 32 durable 32 return 45, 51, 59, 61, 75, 77-8, 109, 111, 118, 145-6, 148, 165, 187 ribs 112 rice arborio 112 aromatic 33 basmati 103, 108, 183 better-tasting 19 boiled 101, 132-3, 145 brown 41 browning 173 chicken flavor 82 cold 74 converted 68, 95, 99, 116, 162, 164 cooled 82 cultivated 23, 36 cup 135, 142 cup of 133, 188 day-old 76 domesticated 15-16, 22, 24 drain 44, 55, 105, 127, 176, 204 drained 184 drier 81 dry 94 dry-land 23 easy-cook 20 engineered 35 enriched 36 flavored 83, 94 flavorful 143 235 floating 21, 32 frozen 101 hot 82, 84, 128, 146, 154, 199 hot cooked 84, 142, 170, 177, 193-4 hotter 126 instant 97-8, 170 leftover 158 lowland 17 masuri 33 medium-grain 19, 152 modified 35 ordinary 121 oz 71, 189 pack 68 package Lipton 94 paddy 29 parboiled 20 perfect 79 polished 18 push 173 quick-cooking 38, 170 rinse 122, 126, 189 saffron-coloured streaked 55 saute 203 scoop 101 short grain 83 short-grain 33, 196 short grnd 137 slender 34 sprinkle 83 steamed long-grain 188 sticky 8, 33, 106, 121, 172 stir 96, 105 substitute California pearl 112 talc-coated 18 time 26 toss 67 transfer 105, 194 upland 21, 31, 36 warm 165, 202, 205 wash 103, 105, 156, 187, 189 washed 127 washing 159 wild Oryza 24 Rice & Beef Hash/filling 9, 138 RICE & CAJUN STYLE SAUCE 65 Rice & Onion Soup Base 9, 148 Rice & Pine Nuts Avgolemono 11, 190 Rice & Sausage Soup 9, 144 Rice & Tomatos 11, 200 236 Rice & Vegetables 7, 97 Rice & Veggies 7, 96 Rice, Jasmine 188 Rice-A-Rani 78 rice absorbes 200 rice accessions 32 Rice Agriculture 35-6 rice-beans mixture 151 rice blast 32 rice bran 19, 41 rice bran pickles 19 rice bug 32 Rice Casserole 5-7, 10-11, 62, 65, 94, 173, 195 Rice Cheese Croquettes 9, 150 Rice Chicken 11, 191 Rice Con Queso 9, 151 rice consumption 30, 37 rice cook 138 rice cooker 42, 189 Rice Creole 11, 197 Rice crop in Madagascar 25 rice crops 31-2 largest 28 Rice Crust 9, 82, 151, 176 rice cultivars 32 common 33 rice cultivation 16, 22-6, 28, 31-2, 36 earliest 22 early 23 rice culture 27 Rice Cutlets 9, 152 rice diseases 31-2 rice dish 39 decadent 3 rice domestication 4, 21-2 rice downwards 92 rice evolution 36 rice exports 29 rice farming 23 Rice field in Oki province 23 Rice Fields 37 Rice Flan Tart 9, 152 rice flour 19-20, 39 Rice Flour and Yogurt Pancakes 9, 153 Rice Flour Bread 5, 39 rice gall midge 31-2 Rice Genome Fully Mapped 37 rice gold 35 rice grains 26, 44, 156, 171 rice gruel 20 237 rice huller 18 Rice Ingredients 163 Rice Krispie Squares 9, 154 Rice Krispies 137, 155, 198 Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares 11, 198 rice leaffolder 32 rice lovers 3, 19 rice lover's dream 3 rice milk 19 rice mill 27 rice mix 83, 90, 92 cups Chicken-Flavored 70 cups Onion-Flavored 136 dirty 77 rice mixture 50, 57, 60, 67, 83, 92-3, 100, 121, 128, 137, 146, 153, 159, 161, 172, 177 [3] hot 54, 135 press 160 rice mounds 80 Rice Muffins 5, 41 rice noodle dish 61 Rice Noodles in Broth 6, 74 Rice Nut Loaf 9, 155 Rice Oil 176 rice pest management techniques 31 rice pests 31-2 control 31 rice phytoliths 22 Rice Pilaf 9, 155-6 rice plant 18, 31, 35 rice plantations 27 rice polishing 18 rice porridge 20 rice powder 8, 117 rice prices 30 rice production 28, 30 increased 25 Rice production in Indonesian history 24 rice pudding 3, 9, 128, 134, 157-8 baked 128 fattening 119 Rice Ragged Stunt 32 rice recipes 3, 162 Rice Salad 5, 48 rice seeds 31 rice shortage 30 global 16, 35 rice simmer 176 rice site, earliest 36 Rice Souffle 9, 159 238 Rice Soup 8, 116 RICE STATISTICS 36 rice sticks 10, 109, 159 dried 109 Rice-Stuffed Artichokes 10, 164 Rice Stuffed Mushrooms 10, 160 rice syrup 114-15 Rice Terraces 25 rice varieties 32, 37 pest resistant 32 pest-resistant 31 rice weevils 32 rice wine 72 Rice Wine and Oyster Sauce 5, 49 rinse 61-2, 78, 88, 92, 109, 114, 119, 121, 159, 163, 171, 188, 194, 196, 204-5 risen 28-30 Riverina rice industry 29 roast 45, 55, 57, 80, 93-4, 130, 165 Roasted Tomato and Rice Salad 10, 165 roll 92, 106-7, 152, 182, 190-1, 194 rolling boil 79, 110 rollng boil 44 room temperature 49, 100, 104, 109, 112, 122, 128, 136-7, 162, 176, 197,202 Rotei-N-Rice Corn Soup 10, 165 running water 108, 194 cold 109, 122, 176 s sacs 114 saffron 43, 55, 70, 103, 112, 166-7 Saffron Rice 10, 166 Saffron Rice Royale 10, 166 salad 39, 133, 169, 197 red onion 130 salad bar 181 salami 84 salmon 167 Salmon-Wild Rice Pasty 10, 167 salsa 95, 119, 125, 143, 168 Salsa Chicken 10, 168 salt 38-55, 63-7, 69-72, 79-82, 84-93, 95-6, 98-100, 102-6, 108-15, 119-29, 131-44, 146-53, 155-63, 172-80, 182-7, 200-8 [11] extra 48, 91 grated 108 pn 117, 141, 153, 192 rub 114 seasoned 50, 67 teaspoon 61, 73 239 teaspoons 160 tsp 160 Salt & Pepper 103, 161 salt pork 147 salt tb Thyme 179 Salted Sun-Dried Beef 121 saltwater 71, 131 salty 91 San Francisco Rice 10, 168 Sante Fe Chicken 10, 169 sauce 45, 48, 61, 77, 84, 91, 94, 97-8, 120-1, 123, 141, 152, 165, 170, 191-2, 194 [2] fish 109, 140, 187, 202 hoisin 74-5 hot 43, 48, 91, 199 picante 202 saucepan 40, 45, 49, 58-9, 73, 82, 91, 98, 103, 111, 134-5, 140-1, 185-6, 188, 199, 201-2 [9] large 44, 51, 59-60, 111, 122, 140, 142, 149-50, 179, 188, 193, 196 sausages 5, 53-4, 56-7, 61, 91, 129, 144, 171, 193 saute 43-4, 59, 66, 70-1, 82-3, 88, 113-15, 131-3, 138-9, 150, 161-4, 166-7, 182, 185-6, 195-6, 203 [10] saute garlic 145 Saute onions 43, 50, 60, 63, 106, 112, 118, 167, 191, 200 Savory Chicken and Rice 10, 171 Savory Rice 10, 172 scallions 51, 56, 72, 82, 96, 109, 117-18, 137, 144, 174-6, 203, 206 scoop 140 scoop of rice 80, 201 sea levels 25, 31 season 42, 52, 63-4, 68, 71, 75, 77, 80, 93, 98, 112, 120, 122, 131, 159-61, 205 [13] Seasoned chicken shares 170 seasoning mix ingredients 164, 168 seasonings 47-8, 51, 54, 61, 76-7, 85-6, 97, 119, 138-9, 145, 173, 182, 201 italian 97, 147 seconds 45, 72, 96, 108, 124, 153, 165, 173, 175 seeds 18-19, 45, 77, 196, 206 poppy 5, 39 sesame 110, 137, 155, 168 sunflower 207 serving dish 44, 79, 101-2, 137 hot 96, 175 shallow 194 warm 185, 190 servings 57, 59, 62, 70, 80, 82, 85-6, 89-90, 110, 113, 127, 130, 133-4, 136, 158-9, 162 [2] generous 169 single 83, 112 240 sesame oil 42, 49, 72, 76, 101, 171, 176 large pan heat 42 set 45, 49, 52-3, 61, 65, 74-5, 93-4, 109, 153, 157-8, 163-4, 170-1, 174-6, 179-80, 190-1, 199 [19] shallots 61, 108-9, 116, 120, 132-3, 186-7, 201-2 shanks 116, 187 Shao Hsing 49, 171 Shen 35-6 sherry 47, 84, 167, 194 dry 46, 49, 72-3, 194 sherry vinegar 93, 133 Shredded Carrots 54, 130, 149, 164 shrimp 9, 43, 54, 56-7, 61, 75, 95, 102, 145-6, 171-5 Shrimp & Barbecued Pork Fried Rice 10 Shrimp and Rice Casserole 10, 173 Shrimp Fried Rice 6, 10, 75, 174 sieve 98, 176, 183, 188, 196 Sift rice flour 153 simmer 44-5, 50-1, 58-60, 68-71, 76-7, 79, 92-4, 111, 113-16, 142-6, 175-7, 185-8, 192-4, 196-7, 199-200, 202-6 [28] bare 59, 109 simmer filets 107 simmer lentils 169 simmer onion 99 simmer rice 105 simmering 126, 135, 188 Single-serving bricks of frozen cooked rice/beans/barley/lentils 97 Sizzling Rice Soup 10, 176 skewers 67, 130 skillet 39-40,46-7, 53, 58, 62, 64-5, 69, 76, 83-6, 93, 122, 143, 160-1, 169-70, 181, 193 [12] large 50, 65, 75, 82, 88, 96, 101, 107, 110, 113, 124, 129, 160, 162, 167-8, 170 [6] Skillet Chicken and Rice 10, 177 skillet heat oil 138 skim 51, 109, 179, 185, 187 skim milk 113, 199 evaporated 179 skins 39, 45, 51, 62, 72, 85-6, 93, 140-1, 178, 205 band of 130 sl Bacon, cooked Rice 95 slaves 27 slice 39, 54, 62, 74, 77, 107-9, 117, 121, 133, 155, 160, 187-8, 201-2 slice mushrooms 85-6 sliced carrots 51, 110 sliced celery 60, 133 sliced Green Onion 54 sliced green onions 110, 130, 133, 149, 164 Sliced mushrooms 82, 100, 122, 125, 195 Sliced peaches Water 193 slide 96, 194 slivers 74, 181 slow cooker 65, 134, 158, 177, 208 electric 185 241 Slow Cooker Red Beans & Rice 10, 177 slow cooker variation 185 sm 42, 85-7, 102, 115, 117, 126, 139, 151, 178, 181, 203 sm Onion 42, 70, 76, 98, 101-2, 115, 118, 139, 191, 203-4 Small cayenne peppers 77 Small sweet onion 161 Smith 32, 35-6 Smoked sausage 84, 144, 146 Snappy Spinach Rice and Lemon Dill Rice 154 Snipped fresh parsley 79, 149 Snipped parsley 59, 156 snow peas 11, 187 soak 74, 88, 93, 108-9, 121, 140, 148, 156, 171-2, 183, 192, 205 spring onions 194 soak rice 44 soak water 47 soaking 20-1, 176 sodium 39, 41, 50, 54, 57, 66, 75, 81, 93, 110-11, 115, 123, 135, 142, 149, 153-5 [6] soften 52, 105, 184 soils 16, 29, 31 sou, package Onion 66 soup 20, 39, 51, 59, 63-4, 68-9, 75, 80, 82-3, 85-6, 89, 94, 99, 115, 117, 119 [8] cans of 85-6 en Chicken broth 172 soup bowls 48, 187 soup mix, dry onion 68 soup pot 93, 132, 144, 203 soupy 94-5 soupy bake 94 sour cream 83, 125, 168, 179, 206 Sour Cream & Wild Rice Soup 10, 178 South Asia 4, 16, 22 South Carolina 27 Southeast Asia 4, 16, 23-4 Southern Style Red Beans and Rice 9, 143 soy sauce 42, 46, 61, 72-8, 81, 96, 101-2, 104, 112, 117-18, 120, 124, 140, 159, 171-3, 193-5 [1] spaghetti 168-9 Spanich Rice 10, 179 Spanish Hot Dogs and Rice 10, 180 Spanish Rice 10-11, 180-3 Spanish Rice Enchiladas 10, 182 spatula 96, 175-6 buttered 155 species 15-16 Spiced Basmati Rice 11, 183 242 spices 47, 51, 67, 88, 91, 94, 103, 106, 108, 118, 150, 200 Spicy Rice and Lentils 11, 184 Spicy Rice Meatballs 11, 184 Spicy Rice Pilaf 11, 185 spinach 10, 116-17, 154, 163, 182 thawed frozen 97 spinach-rice mixtue 182 spoon 40, 44, 57, 83, 97, 117, 121, 128, 130, 135, 137, 141, 149, 176, 185, 190 [2] spoon rice 99 spoon rice mixture 80 Spray 85-6, 111, 177 spring onion curls 194 spring onions Chop 77 sprinkle 39-40, 42, 44, 51, 57, 60, 64, 66-7, 83, 113-14, 116-18, 122-3, 153, 157-8, 188, 195-6 [10] sprinkle butterscotch 137 sprinkle cinnamon 157-8 sprouts, brussel 55 squares, 2-inch 52, 87 squash 77, 206-7 squash top 77 squeeze 62, 140, 171, 187, 205 squid 60-2, 114 Squid Baked 8, 114 Stalks celery 122, 159, 181 staple food 15-16, 19, 188 Star Anise Beef-rice Noodle Soup 11, 186 starch 19-20, 89, 113 states 28 steak 154, 202 steam 42, 61, 73, 79, 92, 100, 103, 105, 117, 126, 172, 176, 181-2, 188, 201, 203 Steamed Ginger Rice 11, 187 Steamed Glutinous Rice 11, 187-8 Steamed Jasmine Rice 11, 188 Steamed Rice 11, 104, 189 hot 201-2 plain unseasoned 32 steamer 73, 117, 172 steaming 20, 70, 172, 188 stew meat 48 stick, cinn 128 sticky 16, 19-20, 32-3, 76, 172 sticky coconut rice 121 stir 38-45, 50-5, 60-1, 78-80, 85-91, 96-8, 101-3, 107-14, 116-19, 121-4, 126-8, 133-6, 145-6, 153-9, 164-71, 182-5 [24] stir additions 154 stir cheddar cheese 199 stir cornstarch mixture 193 Stir-Fried Rice Noodles 5, 60 Stir-Fried Vegetables 57 Stir-frry 75 stir fry 47, 74, 120, 194 243 stirfry 72, 75-6, 96, 124, 140, 173-5, 192, 195 Stirfry 192 stir fry meat 47 stirfry shrimp 75 stirfry tofu 195 Stir in Minute Rice 76 stir rice mixture 199 stir shrimp 54 stir wild rice 94 stir yolk concoction 128 stirfry 61 stirring 80, 90-1, 99-101, 113-17, 121-4, 126-8, 134-5, 137-9, 141, 143--- 4, 150, 159-62, 164-5, 168-9, 182-4, 190 [22] stock 45, 56, 59-60, 63, 75, 81, 90, 93, 103, 115, 148, 156, 164, 166, 175, 186-7 [3] cup of 45 qt Chicken 93, 115 simmering 187 vegetable 52, 76-7, 199-200, 203 stove 6, 48, 78-9, 101 Stove-Top Rice Pudding 11, 189 strips 71, 74-5, 80, 124, 128, 156, 166, 168, 194 stuff saltier 121 stuffing 130, 137, 164-5 spoon rice 165 subsistence 22, 24 substitute part 125 sugar 38, 49, 71, 73-4, 83-4, 100-2, 104, 113, 116-17, 120-1, 128, 135, 137, 152-3, 157-9, 192-4 [11] brown 46-7, 120 powdered 153, 157 raw 147-8 sugar ts salt 120 sultanas 103 suppli 150 surface 31, 51, 79, 109, 138, 187-8 surface water 187, 194 sweating the onions 148 sweet 11, 44, 121-2, 144, 193 sweet basil 102, 161, 169 Sweet Fried Rice 11, 192 sweet glutinous rice 171-2 sweet peppers 104, 193 sweet rice 172 sweet Rice 5, 44 syrup boils 122 244 T tabasco 47, 57, 90-1, 193 Tabasco Pepper Sauce 193 tablespoons 38, 61, 69, 73, 92, 144, 146, 188, 192, 194 tablespoons butter 192 tablespoons water 204 tahini 114, 136 tails 61, 130 talc 18-19 tamari 118, 191 tarragon 59, 107 taste 47-9, 77, 84, 91-6, 102-3, 107-8, 113-14, 119, 122, 124-6, 131-2, 137-8, 146-8, 159-63, 169, 175-6 [21] tb butter 107 tbe onion 44 Tbl 168 Tbl bacon fat drippings 74 teaspoon sweet butter 58 teaspoons 39, 61, 167, 192, 194 Telefono 150 tempeh 11, 202-3 tentacles 59-62, 114 terrace rice fields 21 Terraced rice paddy 18 terraces 25 high-elevation rice 17 Texmati 33 Thai fragrant rice 33 Thai jasmine rice 194 Thai Rice 11, 194 Thailand 21, 25, 29-30, 121 Thais cook rice 188 thick 16, 45, 49, 84, 113, 115,119-20, 144,147, 179-80,202 thickened.Stir 132 thickens 84, 91, 113, 119, 122, 190 thighs, oz Boneless chicken 72 thyme 43, 52, 57, 82, 84, 90, 111, 119, 134-5, 140, 143, 163, 179, 184, 191, 196 [1] tofu 52-3, 76-7, 124, 195 Tofu Fried Rice 11, 194 tolerance 32 tomato 43, 67, 99, 126, 139, 178, 200-2 Tomato and Rice Casserole 11, 195 tomato juice 40, 185 tomato ketchup 132-3 tomato liquid 195 tomato paste 50, 182, 201-2 Tomato Rice Soup 11, 196 Tomato Soup 11, 196 245 tomatoes 11, 44, 51, 54, 56-7, 59-60, 98, 123, 126-7, 129, 131, 150, 165-6, 170, 195-6, 198 [9] crushed 97, 199 stewed 84, 180-1, 197 undrained 170 tonnes 29 tortillas 182 toss 49, 53-4, 61, 82, 88, 96, 100, 117, 124, 133, 136-7, 139, 159, 165, 173, 205 [4] towel 45, 83, 103, 116, 122, 130, 196 trade, world rice 28 transfer 50, 62, 80, 85-6, 88-9, 114, 122, 130, 165, 171, 177, 190 trees 155 ts 168, 171 ts Ground Black Pepper 150 ts Olive Oil lg Red Onion 179 ts Onion powder 168 ts Salt 150 minced 129 ts Salt ts 168 tsp 75, 132, 168 Tuna and Rice Creole 11, 197 turkey 11, 66, 95, 184-6, 197-8 diced cooked 197 turmeric 88, 112, 115, 118, 167, 184 u Uncooked brown rice 181, 203 Uncooked converted rice 178 Uncooked instant rice 111 Uncooked long grain rice 182 Uncooked long-grain rice 41, 117, 138 Uncooked Long Grain Rice 70, 136 uncooked rice 40, 46, 89, 126, 141, 164, 166, 195 Uncooked tb Green Onions/Tops 94 Uncooked white rice 51 UNCTAD (United Nations Conference on Trade and Development) 37 United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) 37 United Nations Year of Rice 21 United States 4, 18-19, 26-30, 37 United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) 30, 37 Unpolished rice 15 Unsalted butter 44, 46, 103, 128, 136, 161, 164, 168 upland rice farmers 31 USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) 30, 37 v vanilla 44, 83, 115-16, 120, 122, 128, 134-5, 157-8, 189, 192 vanilla bean 38, 152-3 246 Variations on Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares 11, 198 varieties 16-17, 19-20, 28, 31-2, 34 Vegan 5, 7, 10, 51, 96-7, 165, 181 vegetable oil 38-9, 65, 74, 84, 93, 98, 100, 104-5, 108, 110, 124, 132, 142, 146, 185-6, 203 [9] Vegetable Rice Bake 11, 199 vegetables 10, 40, 47, 51-2, 57, 59, 61, 76, 81, 88, 93, 96, 124, 129, 132, 197 [6] Vegetarian Rice 200 Vegetarian Rice Mix 11, 200 veggies, frozen 97, 111 Vietnam 29-30 vinaigrette 49, 205 vinegar 47, 49, 71, 119, 133, 139, 181, 191, 193 Vit 13 vitamin 35, 106, 110 #### w walnuts 41, 122, 133, 155, 206 Warm Fajita Rice Salad 11, 202 warm water 21, 89, 109, 129, 140, 171, 194, 205, 207 wash 18, 47-9, 51, 55, 73, 93, 108, 114, 127, 138, 160, 169, 171, 176, 181, 183 washing 18-19 water 18-21, 43-52, 72-7, 79-82, 88-90, 94-5, 97-100, 103-6, 116-22, 126-9, 131-6, 140-50, 156-9, 181-4, 186-94, 205-7 [25] cans 91 cold 49, 51, 55, 61, 70, 77, 90, 93, 114, 127, 136, 144-5, 159-61, 163, 165, 176-7 [4] combined 103 cup 44, 54-5, 108, 145, 199, 204 cups of 43, 160 drain 145 excess 36, 50, 61 extra 70 fresh 109, 147, 183, 205 hot 43, 74,82-3,92,103,114,127,150,157-8,190,193,204 irrigation 29 plenty of 16, 92, 105, 121 qt 159, 178, 186 quarts 187 running cold 171 salted 141, 163, 190 soaking 108, 148 standing 31 tablespoon of 188 ts Salt ts Cornstarch ts 175 water availability 21 water buffalo 24 247 water content 19, 145 water damming 16 water evaporates 72 free 79 water evaporation 19 water overnight 48, 148 water power 27 Watson 36 weiners 84 well-watered north 29 West Indian Rice 11, 202 wet rice cultivation 25 wet season 21, 31 Wetland rice fields 37 wheat 29, 34, 39 wheat berries 51 Wheat Flour 41 wheat mixture 51 whipped cream 38 sweetened 158 whisk 41, 49, 115, 179 wire 141 White pepper ts 168, 171 white rice 18, 43, 72, 91, 115-16, 119, 148, 158, 163, 184, 198 cooked 168, 170, 201 long-grain 80, 114, 141 plain 94 regular 20 White rice flour 104 White Rice Flour Breads 7, 104 white wine 63, 131 Wikibooks' Rice Recipes 19 wild 15, 92, 94, 129 wild rice 6-7, 10-11, 22, 28, 60, 79, 82, 93-4, 107, 115, 122, 129, 132, 175-6, 179, 204-7 5-minute 204 cooked 60, 167, 197, 206 name 15 washed 203 Wild Rice & Mushroom Soup 11, 203 Wild Rice Amadine 6, 11, 71-2, 204 Wild Rice and Barley Pilaf 11, 204 wild rice blend 136 wild rice collection 22 wild rice mix 130 Wild Rice Pancakes 11, 206 wild rice phytoliths 22 Wild Rice/Pine Nut Stuffing 12, 206 Wild Rice Salad 11, 197 Wild Rice-Stuffed Squash 12, 206 248 Wild Rice-Three Grain Bread 12, 207 wildrice 136 wine 43, 59, 68, 72, 75, 103, 114, 171, 182, 191, 201, 203 wok 42, 47, 49, 61, 72, 74-5, 96, 101-2, 124, 126, 133, 140, 172-4, 176, 192, 194-5 Woman's Chicken & Rice 12, 208 world 3, 16, 19, 24-5, 30 World production of rice 29 Wrist-warm water 104 www.ers.usda.gov/Briefing/Rice 37 y years rice production 28 years.Rice 16 yeast, nutritional 52, 118 Yellow onions 66, 90 chopped 144-5 Yellow pepper 66 diced 197 Yellow Rice 6, 70, 80 Yellow Rice & Shrimp Casser 5, 42 yellow rice dishes 112 yogurt 39, 67, 112, 149, 151, 153 yolks 115, 190 ### z zucchini 52 shredded 199	{'title': '284 Amazing Rice Recipes - Jo Frank'}
# Titus Andronicus ## William Shakespeare ### DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC. Mineola, New York DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS GENERAL EDITOR: MARY CAROLYN WALDREP EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: ALISON DAURIO _Copyright_ Copyright © 2014 by Dover Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. _Theatrical Rights_ This Dover Thrift Edition may be used in its entirety, in adaptation, or in any other way for theatrical productions, professional and amateur, in the United States, without fee, permission, or acknowledgment. (This may not apply outside of the United States, as copyright conditions may vary.) _Bibliographical Note_ This Dover edition, first published in 2014, contains the unabridged text of _Titus Andronicus_ as published in Volume XIV of _The Caxton Edition of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ , Caxton Publishing Company, London, n.d. The introductory Note was prepared specially for this edition, and the explanatory footnotes from the Caxton edition have been revised. _International Standard Book Number_ _eISBN-13: 978-0-486-79004-6_ www.doverpublications.com ### Note WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564–1616) was born in Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, England. Although much of his early life remains sketchy, it is known that he moved to London around 1589 to earn his way as an actor and playwright. He joined an acting company known as Lord Chamberlain's Men in 1594, a decision that finally enabled him to share in the financial success of his plays. Only eighteen of his thirty-seven plays were published during his lifetime, and these were usually sold directly to theater companies and printed in quartos, or single-play editions, without his approval. The bloodiest and most violent of all Shakespeare's tragedies, _Titus Andronicus_ was completed sometime between 1588 and 1593, and was likely modeled after the "revenge plays" that were so popular during this time. When Titus, an aging Roman general, returns from war, he finds the emperor of Rome dead, and his two sons vying for the crown. To his surprise, Titus himself is offered the crown. But as he is old and tired, he decides to turn it over to the emperor's eldest son, Saturninus—thus setting off the whirlwind of killings, severed limbs, rape, cannibalism, live burial, and insanity that characterize the bard's most brutal tale. ### DRAMATIS PERSONÆ SATURNINUS, son to the late Emperor of Rome, afterwards emperor. BASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus. TITUS, ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman. MARCUS, ANDRONICUS, tribune of the people, and brother to Titus. LUCIUS, sons to Titus Andronicus. QUINTUS, sons to Titus Andronicus. MARTIUS, sons to Titus Andronicus. MUTIUS, sons to Titus Andronicus. YOUNG, LUCIUS, a boy, son to Lucius. PUBLIUS, son to Marcus Andronicus. ÆMILIUS, a noble Roman. ALARBUS, sons to Tamora. DEMETRIUS, sons to Tamora. CHIRON, sons to Tamora. AARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora. A Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown; Romans and Goths. TAMORN, Queen of the Goths. LAVINIA, daughter to Titus Andronicus. A Nurse, and a black Child. Kinsmen of Titus, Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants. SCENE: _Rome, and the country near it_ ### Contents ACT I. SCENE I. _Rome. Before the Capitol—The Tomb of the Andronici Appearing_ ACT II. SCENE I. _Rome. Before the Palace_ SCENE II. _A Forest near Rome. Horns and Cry of Hounds Heard_ SCENE III. _A Lonely Part of the Forest_ SCENE IV. _Another Part of the Forest_ ACT III. SCENE I. _Rome. A Street_ SCENE II. _A Room in Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_ ACT IV. SCENE I. _Rome. Titus's Garden_ SCENE II. _The Same. A Room in the Palace_ SCENE III. _The Same A Public Place_ SCENE IV. _The Same. Before the Palace_ ACT V. SCENE I. _Plains near Rome_ SCENE II. _Rome. Before Titus's House_ SCENE III. _Court of Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_ ### ACT I. #### SCENE I. _Rome. Before the Capitol—The Tomb of the Andronici Appearing_. _Flourish, Enter the_ Tribunes _and_ Senators _aloft. And then enter below,_ SATURNINUS _and his_ Followers _from one side, and_ BASSIANUS _and his_ Followers _from the other side, with drum and colours_ SATURNINUS. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms; And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords: 4 I am his first-born son, that was the last That ware the imperial diadem of Rome; Then let my father's honours live in me, Nor wrong mine age with this indignity.8 BAS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, If ever Bassianus, Cæsar's son, 10 Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol; And suffer not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, To justice, continence and nobility:15 But let desert in pure election shine;16 And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. _Enter_ MARCUS ANDRONICUS, _aloft, with the crown_ MARC. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and empery,19 Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand 20 A special party, have by common voice,21 In election for the Roman empery, Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome: A nobler man, a braver warrior, Lives not this day within the city walls: He by the senate is accited home27 From weary wars against the barbarous Goths; That, with his sons, a terror to our foes,29 Hath yoked a nation strong, train'd up in arms. 30 Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our enemies' pride: five times he hath return'd Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons In coffins from the field. And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name, Whom worthily you would have now succeed, 40 And in the Capitol and senate's right,41 Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you withdraw you and abate your strength,43 Dismiss your followers and, as suitors should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. SAT. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts! BAS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy47 In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, 50 And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving friends, And to my fortunes and the people's favour Commit my cause in balance to be weigh'd. [ _Exeunt the Followers of Bassianus._ SAT. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, I thank you all, and here dismiss you all, And to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person and the cause. 60 [ _Exeunt the Followers of Saturninus._ Rome, be as just and gracious unto me, As I am confident and kind to thee. Open the gates, and let me in. BAS. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [ _Flourish. Saturninus and Bassianus go up into the Capitol._ _Enter a_ Captain CAP. Romans, make way: the good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome's best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights, 70 With honour and with fortune is return'd From where he circumscribed with his sword, And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome. _Drums and trumpets sounded. Enter_ MARTIUS _and_ MUTIUS _after them, two_ Men _bearing a coffin covered with black; then_ LUCIUS _and_ QUINTUS _After them,_ TITUS ANDRONICUS, _and then_ TAMORN Queen of Goths, _with_ ALARBUS, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, AARON, _and other_ Goths, _prisoners;_ Soldiers _and_ People _following. The_ Bearers _set down the coffin, and_ TITUS _speaks_ TIT. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds! Lo, as the bark that hath discharged her fraught Returns with precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage, Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To re-salute his country with his tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. 80 Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend! Romans, of five and twenty valiant sons, Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor remains, alive and dead! These that survive let Rome reward with love; These that I bring unto their latest home, With burial amongst their ancestors: Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own, 90 Why suffer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx? Make way to lay them by their brethren. [ _They open the tomb._ There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars! O sacred receptacle of my joys, Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, How many sons hast thou of mine in store, That thou wilt never render to me more! 100 LUC. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may hew his limbs and on a pile "Ad manes fratrum" sacrifice his flesh, Before this earthy prison of their bones, That so the shadows be not unappeased, Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth. TIT. I give him you, the noblest that survives, The eldest son of this distressed queen. TAM. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror, Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, 110 A mother's tears in passion for her son: And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, O, think my son to be as dear to me! Sufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome, To beautify thy triumphs and return, Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke; But must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets, For valiant doings in their country's cause? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. 120 Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood. Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful: Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge: Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. TIT. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.126 These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld Alive and dead; and for their brethren slain Religiously they ask a sacrifice: To this your son is mark'd, and die he must, 130 To appease their groaning shadows that are gone. LUC. Away with him! and make a fire straight; And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let's hew his limbs till they be clean consumed. [ _Exeunt the sons of Andronicus with Alarbus._ TAM. O cruel, irreligious piety! CHI. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous? DEM. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.138 Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive To tremble under Titus' threatening look. 140 Then, madam, stand resolved; but hope withal, The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent, May favour Tamora, the queen of Goths, When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen, To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.147 _Re-enter the sons of_ ANDRONICUS, _with their swords bloody_ LUC. See, lord and father, how we have perform'd Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd, And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, 150 Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky. Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren, And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome. TIT. Let it be so; and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls. [ _Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the tomb._ In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, 160 Here grow no damned drugs; here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep: In peace and honour rest you here, my sons! _Enter_ LAVINIA LAV. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father, live in fame! Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render, for my brethren's obsequies; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on the earth, for thy return to Rome: O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, 170 Whose fortunes Rome's best citizens applaud! TIT. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved The cordial of mine age to glad my heart!174 Lavinia, live; outlive thy father's days, And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise! _Enter, below,_ MARTIUS ANDRONICUS _and_ Tribunes; _re-enter_ SATURNINUS,. _and_ BASSIANU, _attended_ MARC. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome! TIT. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus. MARC. And welcome, nephews, from successful wars, You that survive, and you that sleep in fame! 180 Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all, That in your country's service drew your swords: But safer triumph is this funeral pomp, That hath aspired to Solon's happiness,184 And triumphs over chance in honour's bed. Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,188 This palliament of white and spotless hue;189 And name thee in election for the empire, 190 With these our late-deceased emperor's sons: Be candidatus then, and put it on, And help to set a head on headless Rome. TIT. A better head her glorious body fits194 Than his that shakes for age and feebleness: What should I don this robe, and trouble you?196 Be chosen with proclamations to-day, To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life, And set abroad new business for you all?199 Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, 200 And led my country's strength successfully, And buried one and twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and service of their noble country: Give me a staff of honour for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world: Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. MARC. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.208 SAT. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell? TIT. Patience, Prince Saturninus. 210 SAT. Romans, do me right; Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not Till Saturninus be Rome's emperor. Andronicus, would thou wert shipp'd to hell, Rather than rob me of the people's hearts! LUC. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee! TIT. Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee The people's hearts, and wean them from themselves. BAS Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, 220 But honour thee, and will do till I die: My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. TIT. People of Rome, and people's tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages: Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus? TRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. 230 TIT. Tribunes, I thank you: and this suit I make, That you create your emperor's eldest son, Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal: Then, if you will elect by my advice, Crown him, and say "Long live our emperor!" MARC. With voices and applause of every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome's great emperor, 240 And say "Long live our Emperor Saturnine!" [ _A long flourish till they come down._ SAT. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our election this day, I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, And will with deeds requite thy gentleness: And, for an onset, Titus, to advance247 Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart, 250 And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse:251 Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?252 TIT. It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match I hold me highly honour'd of your grace: And here, in sight of Rome, to Saturnine, King and commander of our commonweal, The wide world's emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot and my prisoners; Presents well worthy Rome's imperious lord: Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, 260 Mine honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet. SAT. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life! How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts, Rome shall record; and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me. TIT. _To Tamora_ ] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor; To him that, for your honour and your state, Will use you nobly and your followers. SAT. A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue 270 That I would choose, were I to choose anew. Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance; Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer,273 Thou comest not to be made a scorn in Rome: Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are not displeased with this? LAV. Not I, my lord; sith true nobility 280 Warrants these words in princely courtesy. SAT. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go: Ransomless here we set our prisoners free: Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. [ _Flourish. Saturninus courts Tamora in dumb show._ BAS. [ _Seizing Lavinia_ ] Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. TIT. How, sir! are you in earnest then, my lord? BAS. Ay, noble Titus, and resolved withal To do myself this reason and this right. MARC. "Suum cuique" is our Roman justice: This prince in justice seizeth but his own. LUC. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live. TIT. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor's guard? Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surprised! SAT. Surprised! by whom? BAS. By him that justly may Bear his betroth'd from all the world away. [ _Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia._ MUT. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, 300 And with my sword I'll keep this door safe. [ _Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, and Martius._ TIT. Follow, my lord, and I'll soon bring her back. MUT. My lord, you pass not here. TIT. What, villain boy! Barr'st me my way in Rome? [ _Stabbing Mutius._ MUT. Help, Lucius, help! [ _Dies._ [ _During the fray, Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius,_ _Chiron and Aaron go out, and re-enter above._ _Re-enter_ LUCIUS LUC. My lord, you are unjust; and, more than so, 310 In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. TIT. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me: Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor. LUC. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, That is another's lawful promised love. [ _Exit._ 316 SAT. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock: I'll trust by leisure him that mocks me once;319 Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, 320 Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was none in Rome to make a stale322 But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine, That saidst, I begg'd the empire at thy hands. TIT. O monstrous! what reproachful words are these? SAT. But go thy ways; go give that changing piece 327 To him that flourish'd for her with his sword:328 A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, 330 To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.331 TIT. These words are razors to my wounded heart. SAT. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That, like the stately Phœbe 'mongst her nymphs,334 Dost overshine the gallant'st dames of Rome, If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride, And will create thee empress of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? And here I swear by all the Roman gods, 340 Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and every thing In readiness for Hymenæus stand,343 I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espoused my bride along with me. TAM. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I swear, If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. 350 SAT. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered: There shall we consummate our spousal rites. [ _Exeunt all but Titus._ TIT. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonour'd thus and challenged of wrongs? _Re-enter_ MARCUS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, _and_ MARTIUS MARC. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! 360 In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. TIT. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonour'd all our family; Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons! LUC. But let us give him burial, as becomes; Give Mutius burial with our brethren. TIT. Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb: This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified: 370 Here none but soldiers and Rome's servitors Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls: Bury him where you can, he comes not here. MARC. My lord, this is impiety in you: My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him; He must be buried with his brethren. QUIN. And shall, or him we will accompany. MART. And shall, or him we will accompany. TIT. And shall! what villain was it spake that word? QUIN. He that would vouch it in any place but here. 380 TIT. What, would you bury him in my despite? MARC. No, noble Titus; but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him. TIT. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded: My foes I do repute you every one; So trouble me no more, but get you gone. MART. He is not with himself; let us withdraw. QUIN. Not I, till Mutius' bones be buried. [ _Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel._ 390 MARC. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,— QUIN. Father, and in that name doth nature speak,— TIT. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. MARC. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,— LUC. Dear father, soul and substance of us all,— MARC. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue's nest, That died in honour and Lavinia's cause. Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous: The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax 400 That slew himself; and wise Laertes' son Did graciously plead for his funerals: Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy, Be barr'd his entrance here. TIT. Rise, Marcus, rise: The dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw, To be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome! Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [ _Mutius is put into the tomb._ LUC. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, 410 Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. ALL. [ _Kneeling_ ] No man shed tears for noble Mutius; He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause. MARC. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps, How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome? TIT. I know not, Marcus; but I know it is, Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell:418 Is she not then beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? 420 Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. _Flourish. Re-enter, from one side,_ SATURNINUS. _attended,_ TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, _and_ AARON, _from the other,_ BASSINUNS, LAVINIA, _with others_ SAT. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize:422 God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride! BAS. And you of yours, my lord! I say no more, Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave. SAT. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. BAS. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own, My true-betrothed love, and now my wife? But let the laws of Rome determine all; 430 Meanwhile I am possess'd of that is mine. SAT. T is good, sir: you are very short with us; But, if we live, we'll be as sharp with you. BAS. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your grace to know:436 By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wrong'd; That, in the rescue of Lavinia, 440 With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to you and highly moved to wrath To be controll'd in that he frankly gave:443 Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath express'd himself in all his deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome. TIT. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds:447 'T is thou and those that have dishonour'd me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge, How I have loved and honour'd Saturnine! 450 TAM. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all;453 And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. SAT. What, madam! be dishonour'd openly, And basely put it up without revenge?456 TAM. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend I should be author to dishonour you!458 But on mine honour dare I undertake459 For good Lord Titus' innocence in all; 460 Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs: Then, at my suit, look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,463 Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [ _Aside to Sat._ ] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at last; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents: You are but newly planted in your throne; Lest then the people, and patricians too, Upon a just survey, take Titus' part, And so supplant you for ingratitude, 470 Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats, and then let me alone:472 I'll find a day to massacre them all, And raze their faction and their family, The cruel father and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear son's life; And make them know what 't is to let a queen Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.— Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus; Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart 480 That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. SAT. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevail'd. TIT. I thank your majesty, and her, my lord: These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. TAM. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily, And must advise the emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus. And let it be mine honour, good my lord, That I have reconciled your friends and you. 490 For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd My word and promise to the emperor, That you will be more mild and tractable. And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia; By my advice, all humbled on your knees, You shall ask pardon of his majesty. LUC. We do; and vow to heaven, and to his highness, That what we did was mildly as we might, Tendering our sister's honour and our own.499 MARC. That, on mine honour, here I do protest. 500 SAT. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. TAM. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends: The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; I will not be denied: sweet heart, look back.504 SAT. Marcus, for thy sake and thy brother's here, And at my lovely Tamora's entreats,506 I do remit these young men's heinous faults: Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend; and sure as death I swore 510 I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Come, if the emperor's court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora.514 TIT. To-morrow, an it please your majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me, With horn and hound we'll give your grace bonjour. SAT. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.518 [ _Flourish. Exeunt._ * * * 4 _my successive title_ ] my hereditary right to succeed. 8 _mine age_ ] my seniority in point of age. 15 _continence_ ] self-restraint. 16 _in pure election_ ] in the purity of free election (instead of in right of birth). 19 _empery_ ] empire, a common form. 21 _by common voice_ ] unanimously. 27 _accited_ ] summoned. 29 _That_ ] He who. 41 _in the Capitol... right_ ] in the name of the Capitol and the senate's authority. 43 _abate your strength_ ] reduce your numbers 47 _affy_ ] trust. 126 _Patient yourself_ ] calm yourself, be patient. 130 _mark'd_ ] destined. 138 _Oppose not... Rome_ ] Do not contrast Scythia with ambitious Rome, which is much more cruel. 147 _quit_ ] requite, avenge. 174–175 _outlive... praise_ ] a poetical exaggeration; a wish that, in order to preserve eternally the example of virtue, Lavinia may live for ever. 184 _That hath... Solon's happiness_ ] An allusion to Solon's well-known saying "Call no man happy till he is dead." The warriors who die in honourable warfare alone realise final happiness. 188 _trust_ ] trustee, the man in whom they put their trust. 189 _palliament_ ] a rare coinage from the medieval Latin "palliamentum," a robe or cloak. 194–195 _A better head... feebleness_ ] Titus gives himself a character which is quite out of harmony with his conduct throughout the play. 196 _What...?_ ] Why? 199 _And set abroad... all_ ] And put you all again to the trouble of making a new election; augment your public responsibilities. 208 _obtain and ask_ ] obtain by asking. 247 _onset_ ] beginning. 251 _Pantheon_ ] the temple built in the Campus Martius at Rome by Agrippa, $.&. 27. 252 _motion_ ] proposal, proposition. 273 _change of cheer_ ] change of condition (from happiness to sorrow). 316 _That_ ] She ( _i.e.,_ Lavinia). 319 _I'll trust by leisure_ ] I'll trust when I have the leisure (an unlikely condition). The speaker ironically means that he is not likely to trust. 322 _stale_ ] laughing-stock, object of ridicule. 327 _that changing piece_ ] that fickle baggage. 328 _flourish'd_ ] brandished insolently. 331 _ruffle_ ] swagger, behave boisterously. 334 _Phœbe_ ] the name applied by classical authors to Diana, chiefly in her character of goddess of the moon. 343 _Hymenæus_ ] the god of marriage. 418 _by device_ ] by stratagem. 422 _play'd your prize_ ] won your match. 436 _Only thus much... to know_ ] This is sufficient information for me to impart to you.439 _opinion_ ] credit. 443 _To be controll'd... gave_ ] To be checked or interfered with when offering a free gift. 447 _leave to plead my deeds_ ] cease making my achievements the ground of your plea. 453 _indifferently_ ] impartially. 456 _put it up_ ] put up with it. 458 _I should be author... you_ ] I should do anything derogatory to you. 459 _undertake_ ] become surety, pledge my word. 463 _suppose_ ] surmise. 472 _Yield at entreats_ ] Yield to entreaties. 480 _Take up_ ] Lift up, cause to rise. 499 _Tendering_ ] Having tender regard for. 504 _look back_ ] reconsider 506 _entreats_ ] entreaties. 514 _a love-day_ ] a day of friendly settlement, of reconciliation. 518 _gramercy_ ] A French phrase for "grand merci" ( _i.e.,_ best thanks); "bonjour" has much the same significance in the previous line. ### ACT II. #### SCENE I. _Rome. Before the Palace_. _Enter_ AARON AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top, Safe out of fortune's shot, and sits aloft, Secure of thunder's crack or lightning flash,4 Advanced above pale envy's threatening reach. As when the golden sun salutes the morn, And, having gilt the ocean with his beams, Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach, And overlooks the highest-peering hills; So Tamora: 10 Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts, To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long15 Hast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains, And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes17 Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, 20 To wait upon this new-made empress. To wait, said I? to wanton with this queen, This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,23 This siren, that will charm Rome's Saturnine, And see his shipwreck and his commonweal's. Holloa! what storm is this? _Enter_ DEMETRIUS _and_ CHIRON, _braving_ DEM. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge, And manners, to intrude where I am graced, And may, for aught thou know'st, affected be.29 CHI. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all,30 And so in this, to bear me down with braves. 'T is not the difference of a year or two Makes me less gracious, or thee more fortunate: I am as able and as fit as thou To serve, and to deserve my mistress' grace; And that my sword upon thee shall approve,36 And plead my passions for Lavinia's love. AAR. _Aside_ ] Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not keep the peace.38 DEM. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised,39 Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side, 40 Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends? Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath42 Till you know better how to handle it. CHI. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have, Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare. DEM. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave? [ _They draw._ AAR. [ _Coming forward_ ] Why, how now, lords! So near the emperor's palace dare you draw, And maintain such a quarrel openly? Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge:50 I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most concerns; Nor would your noble mother for much more Be so dishonour'd in the court of Rome. For shame, put up. DEM. Not I, till I have sheathed My rapier in his bosom, and withal Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat, That he hath breathed in my dishonour here. CHI. For that I am prepared and full resolved. 60 Foul-spoken coward! that thunder'st with thy tongue, And with thy weapon nothing darest perform. AAR. Away, I say! Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, This petty brabble will undo us all. Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous It is to jet upon a prince's right?67 What, is Lavinia then become so loose, Or Bassianus so degenerate, That for her love such quarrels may be broach'd 70 Without controlment, justice, or revenge? Young lords, beware! an should the empress know This discord's ground, the music would not please.73 CHI. I care not, I, knew she and all the world: I love Lavinia more than all the world. DEM. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice: Lavinia is thine elder brother's hope. AAR. Why, are ye mad? or know ye not, in Rome How furious and impatient they be, And cannot brook competitors in love? 80 I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device. CHI. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose to achieve her whom I love. AAR. To achieve her! how?84 DEM. Why makest thou it so strange? She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. What, man! more water glideth by the mill 90 Than wots the miller of; and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:92 Though Bassianus be the emperor's brother, Better than he have worn Vulcan's badge.94 AAR. [ _Aside_ ] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may. DEM. Then why should he despair that knows to court it With words, fair looks, and liberality? What, hast not thou full often struck a doe, And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose?99 AAR. Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or so 100 Would serve your turns. CHI. Ay, so the turn were served. DEM. Aaron, thou hast hit it. AAR. Would you had hit it too! Then should not we be tired with this ado. Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools To square for this? would it offend you,107 then, That both should speed? CHI. Faith, not me. DEM. Nor me, so I were one. 110 AAR. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar:111 'T is policy and stratagem must do That you affect; and so must you resolve, That what you cannot as you would achieve, You must perforce accomplish as you may. Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love.118 A speedier course than lingering languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; 120 There will the lovely Roman ladies troop: The forest walks are wide and spacious; And many unfrequented plots there are Fitted by kind for rape and villany:124 Single you thither then this dainty doe,125 And strike her home by force, if not by words: This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit128 To villany and vengeance consecrate, Will we acquaint with all that we intend; 130 And she shall file our engines with advice,131 That will not suffer you to square yourselves,132 But to your wishes' height advance you both. The emperor's court is like the house of Fame, The palace full of tongues, of eyes and ears: The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf and dull; There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your turns; There serve your lust, shadow'd from heaven's eye, And revel in Lavinia's treasury. CHI. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. 140 DEM. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream141 To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits, Per Styga, per manes vehor. [ _Exeunt._ #### SCENE II. _A Forest near Rome. Horns and Cry of Hounds Heard_. _Enter_ TITUS ANDRONICUS, _with_ Hunters, &c., MARCUS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, _and_ MARTIUS TIT. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,1 The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green: Uncouple here, and let us make a bay,3 And wake the emperor and his lovely bride, And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter's peal, That all the court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours, To attend the emperor's person carefully. I have been troubled in my sleep this night, But dawning day new comfort hath inspired. 10 _A cry of hounds, and horns winded in a peal. Enter_ SATURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSINUNS, LAVINIA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, _and their_ Attendants. Many good morrows to your majesty; Madam, to you as many and as good: I promised your grace a hunter's peal. SAT. And you have rung it lustily, my lords; Somewhat too early for new-married ladies. BAS. Lavinia, how say you? L AV. I say, no; I have been broad awake two hours and more. SAT. Come on then; horse and chariots let us have, And to our sport. [ _To Tamora_ ] Madam, now shall ye see 20 Our Roman hunting. MARC. I have dogs, my lord, Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top. TIT And I have horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o'er the plain. DEM. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound, But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. [ _Exeunt._ #### SCENE III. _A Lonely Part of the Forest_. _Enter_ AARON, _with a bag of gold_ AAR. He that had wit would think that I had none, To bury so much gold under a tree, And never after to inherit it. Let him that thinks of me so abjectly3 Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, Which, cunningly effected, will beget A very excellent piece of villany: And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest [ _Hides the gold._ That have their alms out of the empress' chest.8 _Enter_ TAMORN, TAM. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad, 10 When every thing doth make a gleeful boast? The birds chant melody on every bush; The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun;13 The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground: Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise; 20 And, after conflict such as was supposed The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy'd, When with a happy storm they were surprised,23 And curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other's arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber;26 Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep. AAR. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, 30 Saturn is dominator over mine:31 What signifies my deadly-standing eye,32 My silence and my cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder when she doth unroll35 To do some fatal execution? No, madam, these are no venereal signs:37 Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, 40 Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, This is the day of doom for Bassianus: His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day,43 Thy sons make pillage of her chastity, And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood. Seest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee, And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll. Now question me no more; we are espied; Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,49 Which dreads not yet their lives' destruction. 50 TAM. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life! AAR. No more, great empress; Bassianus comes: Be cross with him, and I'll go fetch thy sons To back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be. [ _Exit._ _Enter_ BASSINUNS _and_ LAVINIA BAS. Who have we here? Rome's royal empress, Unfurnish'd of her well-beseeming troop? Or is it Dian, habited like her, Who hath abandoned her holy groves To see the general hunting in this forest? TAM. Saucy controller of my private steps! 60 Had I the power that some say Dian had, Thy temples should be planted presently With horns, as was Actæon's, and the hounds Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,64 Unmannerly intruder as thou art! LAV. Under your patience, gentle empress, 'T is thought you have a goodly gift in horning; And to be doubted that your Moor and you Are singled forth to try experiments: Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day! 70 'T is pity they should take him for a stag. BAS. Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian Doth make your honour of his body's hue, Spotted, detested, and abominable. Why are you sequester'd from all your train, Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, And wander'd hither to an obscure plot, Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor If foul desire had not conducted you? LAV. And, being intercepted in your sport, 80 Great reason that my noble lord be rated For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence, And let her joy her raven-colour'd love; This valley fits the purpose passing well. BAS. The king my brother shall have note of this. LAV. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long: Good king, to be so mightily abused! TAM. Why have I patience to endure all this? _Enter_ DEMETRIUS _and_ CHIRON DEM. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother! Why doth your highness look so pale and wan? 90 TAM. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale? These two have ticed me hither to this place: A barren detested vale, you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, O'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:95 Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven: And when they show'd me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, 100 Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,101 Would make such fearful and confused cries, As any mortal body hearing it Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. No sooner had they told this hellish tale, But straight they told me they would bind me here Unto the body of a dismal yew, And leave me to this miserable death: And then they call'd me foul adultress, Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms110 That ever ear did hear to such effect: And, had you not by wondrous fortune come, This vengeance on me had they executed. Revenge it, as you love your mother's life, Or be ye not henceforth call'd my children. DEM. This is a witness that I am thy son .[ _Stabs Bassianus._ CHI. And this for me, struck home to show my strength .[ _Also stabs Bassianus, who dies._ LAV. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora, 120 For no name fits thy nature but thy own! TAM. Give me the poniard; you shall know, my boys, Your mother's hand shall right your mother's wrong. DEM. Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her; First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw; This minion stood upon her chastity, Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, And with that painted hope braves your mightiness:128 And shall she carry this unto her grave? CHI. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch. 130 Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. TAM. But when ye have the honey ye desire, Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. CHI. I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure. Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy That nice-preserved honesty of yours. LAV.O Tamora! thou bear'st a woman's face— TAM. I will not hear her speak; away with her! LAV. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word. 140 DEM. Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory To see her tears, but be your heart to them As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. LAV. When did the tiger's young ones teach the dam? O, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee;145 The milk thou suck'dst from her did turn to marble; Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. Yet every mother breeds not sons alike: [ _To Chiron_ ] Do thou entreat her show a woman pity. CHI. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? 150 LAV.'T is true; the raven doth not hatch a lark: Yet have I heard,—O, could I find it now!— The lion, moved with pity, did endure To have his princely paws pared all away: Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, The whilst their own birds famish in their nests: O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, Nothing so kind, but something pitiful! TAM. I know not what it means: away with her! LAV.O, let me teach thee! for my father's sake, 160 That gave thee life, when well he might have slain thee, Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. TAM. Hadst thou in person ne'er offended me, Even for his sake am I pitiless. Remember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain, To save your brother from the sacrifice; But fierce Andronicus would not relent: Therefore, away with her, and use her as you will; The worse to her, the better loved of me. LAV. O Tamora, be call'd a gentle queen, 170 And with thine own hands kill me in this place! For 't is not life that I have begg'd so long; Poor I was slain when Bassianus died. TAM. What begg'st thou then? fond woman, let me go. LAV.'T is present death I beg; and one thing more That womanhood denies my tongue to tell: O, keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man's eye may behold my body: Do this, and be a charitable murderer. 180 TAM. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee: No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. DEM. Away! for thou hast stay'd us here too long. LAV. No grace? no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature! The blot and enemy to our general name! Confusion fall— CHI. Nay, then I'll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband: This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him. [ _Demetrius throws the body of Bassianus into the pit; then exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, dragging off Lavinia._ 190 TAM. Farewell, my sons; see that you make her sure. Ne'er let my heart know merry cheer indeed, Till all the Andronici be made away. Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower. [ _Exit._ _Re-enter_ AARON, _with_ QUINTUS _and_ MARTIUS AAR. Come on, my lords, the better foot before: Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit Where I espied the panther fast asleep. QUIN. My sight is very dull, whate'er it bodes. MART. And mine, I promise you; were it not for shame, 200 Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile. [ _Falls into the pit._ QUIN. What, art thou fall'n? What subtle hole is this, Whose mouth is cover'd with rude-growing briers, Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood As fresh as morning dew distill'd on flowers? A very fatal place it seems to me. Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall? MART. O brother, with the dismal'st object hurt That ever eye with sight made heart lament! 210 AAR. _Aside_ ] Now will I fetch the king to find them here, That he thereby may have a likely guess How these were they that made away his brother. [ _Exit._ MART. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out From this unhallow'd and blood-stained hole? QUIN. I am surprised with an uncouth fear; A chilling sweat o'er-runs my trembling joints; My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. MART. To prove thou hast a true-divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into this den, 220 And see a fearful sight of blood and death. QUIN. Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart Will not permit mine eyes once to behold The thing whereat it trembles by surmise: O, tell me how it is; for ne'er till now Was I a child to fear I know not what. MART. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,227 All on a heap, like to a slaughter'd lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. QUIN. If it be dark, how dost thou know 't is he? 230 MART. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring, that lightens all the hole,232 Which, like a taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of the pit:235 So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus When he by night lay bathed in maiden blood. O brother, help me with thy fainting hand— If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath— Out of this fell devouring receptacle, 240 As hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth.241 QUIN. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out; Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, I may be pluck'd into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus' grave. I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. MART. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help. QUIN. Thy hand once more; I will not loose again, Till thou art here aloft, or I below: Thou canst not come to me: I come to thee. [ _Falls in._ 250 _Enter_ SATURNINUS. _with_ AARON, SAT. Along with me: I'll see what hole is here, And what he is that now is leap'd into it. Say, who art thou that lately didst descend Into this gaping hollow of the earth? MART. The unhappy son of old Andronicus; Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, To find thy brother Bassianus dead. SAT. My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest: He and his lady both are at the lodge Upon the north side of this pleasant chase;260 'T is not an hour since I left them there. MART. We know not where you left them all alive; But, out, alas! here have we found him dead. _Re-enter_ TAMORN _with_ Attendants; TITUS ANDRONICUS _and_ LUCIUS TAM Where is my lord the king? SAT. Here, Tamora; though grieved with killing grief. TAM Where is thy brother Bassianus? SAT. Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound: Poor Bassianus here lies murdered. TAM. _Giving a letter_ ] Then all too late I bring this fatal writ, The complot of this timeless tragedy;270 And wonder greatly that man's face can fold In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. SAT. [ _Reads_ ] "An if we miss to meet him handsomely— Sweet huntsman, Bassianus 't is we mean— Do thou so much as dig the grave for him: Thou know'st our meaning. Look for thy reward Among the nettles at the elder-tree, Which overshades the mouth of that same pit Where we decreed to bury Bassianus. Do this and purchase us thy lasting friends." 280 O Tamora! was ever heard the like? This is the pit, and this the elder-tree. Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out That should have murder'd Bassianus here. AAR. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. SAT. [ _To Titus_ ] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind,286 Have here bereft my brother of his life. Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison: There let them bide until we have devised Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. 290 TAM. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing! How easily murder is discovered! TAM. High emperor, upon my feeble knee I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed sons, Accursed, if the fault be proved in them— SAT. If it be proved! you see it is apparent. Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you? TAM. Andronicus himself did take it up. TAM. I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail; 300 For, by my fathers' reverend tomb, I vow They shall be ready at your highness' will, To answer their suspicion with their lives. SAT. Thou shalt not bail them: see thou follow me. Some bring the murder'd body, some the murderers: Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain; For, by my soul, were there worse end than death, That end upon them should be executed. TAM. Andronicus, I will entreat the king: Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough.310 TAM. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them. [ _Exeunt._ #### SCENE IV. _Another Part of the Forest_. _Enter_ DEMETRIUS _and_ CHIRON _with_ LAVINIA _ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out_ DEM. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who 't was that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee. CHI. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. DEM. See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl. CHI. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. DEM. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let's leave her to her silent walks. CHI. An 't were my case, I should go hang myself. DEM. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. 10 [ _Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron._ _Horns winded within. Enter_ MARCUS, _from hunting_ MAR. Who is this? my niece, that flies away so fast! Cousin, a word; where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Have lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, 20 And might not gain so great a happiness As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame! And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, 30 As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face32 Blushing to be encounter'd with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee? shall I say 't is so? O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast, That I might rail at him, to ease my mind! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind: 40 But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,42 And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could have better sew'd than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touch'd them for his life! Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, 50 He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet. Come, let us go and make thy father blind; For such a sight will blind a father's eye: One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads; What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee: O, could our mourning ease thy misery! [ _Exeunt._ * * * 4 _Secure_ ] Careless or fearless. 15 _pitch_ ] the full height to which a falcon soars; a hawking term. 17 _charming_ ] bewitching, in the literal sense. 23 _Semiramis_ ] a semi-mythical Queen of Babylon. 29 _affected_ ] loved. 30 _thou dost over-ween in all_ ] thou hast an excessive opinion of thyself in all regards.31 _braves_ ] brags, bravado. 36 _approve_ ] prove. 38 _Clubs, clubs!_ ] the common Elizabethan street cry summoning the watchman to stop a brawl. 39 _unadvised_ ] imprudently. 40 _a dancing-rapier_ ] a light sword worn by dancers for ornament, not for use. 42 _your lath_ ] your sword of lath or wood. 50 _the ground of all this grudge_ ] the source of all this ill feeling. 67 _jet_ ] encroach. 73 _ground_ ] a musical term for the simple melody on which the harmony of a song was developed. 84 _achieve_ ] win. 92 _shive_ ] slice; the expression is proverbial. 94 _Vulcan's badge_ ] the cuckold's badge. Vulcan was the deluded husband of Venus. 99 _cleanly_ ] neatly, adroitly. 100 _snatch_ ] hurried enjoyment. 107 _square_ ] quarrel. 111 _join for that you jar_ ] combine to obtain what you quarrel over. 118 _lingering languishment_ ] prolonged sentimental wooing. 124 _by kind_ ] by nature. 125 _Single_ ] Single out, isolate. 128 _sacred_ ] ironically used for accursed. 131 _file our engines_ ] help our projects, make them run smooth. 132 _square yourselves_ ] put yourselves in the attitude of fight, quarrel with one another. 141–143 _Sit fas_... _vehor_ ] The Latin words mean "Be it right or wrong, willy-nilly,... I am borne through the river Styx and through (the land of) disembodied spirits." 1 _The hunt is up_ ] The cry of the huntsmen in starting the chase. _grey_ ] blue grey, or blue. 3 _Uncouple_ ] Slip off the leashes. _make a bay_ ] rouse a barking in unison. 3 _inherit_ ] possess. 8 _for their unrest_ ] to cause disquiet to those. 13 _rolled_ ] coiled. 20 _yellowing_ ] a form of "yelling." 23 _happy_ ] opportune. 26 _golden slumber_ ] The epithet is conventional in poetry of earlier and later date. 31 _Saturn_ ] the planet of hate and moroseness. 32 _deadly-standing eye_ ] murderously glaring eye. 35 _unroll_ ] uncoil. 37 _venereal_ ] amorous. 43 _His Philomel_... _to-day_ ] There are many references in this play to the classical myth of Philomel, who was ravished by Tereus, husband of her sister Progne, and had her tongue cut out, so that the secret might not be revealed. 49 _parcel_ ] part, portion. 64 _drive upon_ ] rush upon. 95 _O'ercome_ ] Overspread. _baleful mistletoe_ ] mistletoe berries are poisonous. 101 _urchins_ ] hedgehogs. 110 _Goth_ ] "Goth" was usually pronounced like "goat." 128 _painted hope_ ] specious assurance. 145 _learn_ ] teach. 227 _embrewed here_ ] steeped in blood 232 _A precious ring_... _all the hole_ ] The gem known as the carbuncle was commonly credited with emitting light. 235 _ragged entrails_ ] rugged interior. 241 _Cocytus'_ ] One of the six rivers of Hades. 260 _chase_ ] any unenclosed tract of land. 270 _timeless_ ] untimely; a very common usage. 286 _kind_ ] nature or strain. 310 _Fear not thy sons_ ] Have no fear about thy sons. 32 _Titan's face_ ] The sun's face. 42–44 _A craftier Tereus... Philomel_ ] In the Ovidian tale the outraged and tongueless Philomela embroiders on a piece of stuff words narrating her misfortunes and forwards it to her sister Progne. ### ACT III. #### SCENE I. _Rome. A Street_. _Enter_ Judges, Senators, _and_ Tribunes, _with_ MARTIUS _and_ QUINTUS, _bound, passing on to the place of execution;_ TITUS _going before, pleading_ TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed; For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd; And for these bitter tears which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks; Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as 't is thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, 10 Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [ _Lieth down; the Judges, &c., pass by him, and Exeunt._ For these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears: Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain, That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his showers: In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still; 20 In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow, And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood. _Enter_ LUCIUS, _with his weapon drawn_ O reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death; And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators. LUC. O noble father, you lament in vain: The tribunes hear you not; no man is by; And you recount your sorrows to a stone. 30 TIT Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,— LUC. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. TIT Why, 't is no matter, man: if they did hear, They would not mark me; or if they did mark, They would not pity me; yet plead I must, And bootless unto them.... Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, 40 For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these. A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones; A stone is silent and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. [ _Rises._ But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn? LUC. To rescue my two brothers from their death: 50 For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment. TIT. O happy man! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine: how happy art thou then, From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here? _Enter_ MARCUS _and_ LAVINIA MARC Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; 60 Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break: I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. TIT. Will it consume me? let me see it then. MARC. This was thy daughter. TIT. Why, Marcus, so she is. LUC. Ay me, this object kills me! TIT. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight? What fool hath added water to the sea, 70 Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou camest; And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.73 Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too; For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have served me to effectless use: Now all the service I require of them Is, that the one will help to cut the other. 80 'T is well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For hands to do Rome service is but vain. LUC. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee? MARC. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,84 That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear! LUC. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? MARC. O, thus I found her, straying in the park, 90 Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound.92 TIT. It was my dear; and he that wounded her 93 Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead: For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environ'd with a wilderness of sea; Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; 100 Here stands my other son, a banish'd man; And here my brother, weeping at my woes: But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn, Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, It would have madded me: what shall I do, Now I behold thy lively body so?107 Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears; Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr'd thee: Thy husband he is dead; and for his death 110 Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew114 Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd. MARC. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent. TIT. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; 120 Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips; Or make some sign how I may do thee ease: Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks How they are stain'd, as meadows yet not dry With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, 130 And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues, Plot some device of further misery, To make us wonder'd at in time to come. LUC. Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief, See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. MARC. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. 140 TIT. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own. LUC. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. TIT. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs: Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee: His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this, 150 As far from help as Limbo is from bliss!151 _Enter_ AARON AAR. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand, And send it to the king: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive; And that shall be the ransom for their fault. TIT. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark, 160 That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? With all my heart, I'll send the emperor My hand: Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? LUC. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn: My youth can better spare my blood than you; And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives. MARC. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, 170 And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy's castle? O, none of both but are of high desert: My hand hath been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. AAR. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. MARC. My hand shall go. LUC. By heaven, it shall not go! 180 TIT. Sirs, strive no more: such wither'd herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. LUC. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. MARC. And, for our father's sake and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee. TIT. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. LUC. Then I'll go fetch an axe. MARC. But I will use the axe. [ _Exeunt Lucius and Marcus._ 190 TIT. Come hither, Aaron; I'll deceive them both: Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. AAR. [ _Aside_ ] If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest, And never, whilst I live, deceive men so: But I'll deceive you in another sort, And that you'll say, ere half an hour pass. [ _Cuts off Titus's hand._ _Re-enter_ LUCIUS _and_ MARCUS TIT. Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch'd. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand: Tell him it was a hand that warded him 200 From thousand dangers; bid him bury it; More hath it merited; that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchased at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. AAR. I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [ _Aside_ ] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villany Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it!209 Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, 210 Aaron will have his soul black like his face. [ _Exit._ TIT. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth: If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call! [ _To Lav._ ] What, would thou kneel with me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers; Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. MARC. O brother, speak with possibilities, 220 And do not break into these deep extremes. TIT. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them. MARC. But yet let reason govern thy lament. TIT. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes: When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? 230 I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd: For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,236 But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave; for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. _Enter a_ Messenger, _with two heads and a hand_ MESS. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid 240 For that good hand thou sent'st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back, Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock'd: That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death, [ _Exit._ MARC. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, 250 But sorrow flouted at is double death. LUC. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe! [ _Lavinia kisses Titus._ MARC. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. TIT. When will this fearful slumber have an end? MARC. Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; 260 Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here, Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless, and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs: Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes: Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? 270 TIT. Ha, ha, ha! MARC. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. TIT. Why, I have not another tear to shed: Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears: Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return'd again 280 Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And in this hand the other will I bear. Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in these things: Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight; 290 Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay: Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there: And, if you love me, as I think you do, Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do. [ _Exeunt all but Lucius._ LUC. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The wofull'st man that ever lived in Rome: Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life: Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; 300 O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs; And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths and raise a power, To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. [ _Exit._ #### SCENE II. _A Room in Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_. _Enter_ TITUS MARCUS LAVINIA _and young_ LUCIUS _a_ Boy307 TIT. So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge those bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:4 Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief6 With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; Who, when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, 10 Then thus I thump it down. [ _To Lavinia_ ] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;15 Or get some little knife between thy teeth, And just against thy heart make thou a hole; That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink, and soaking in Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.20 MARC. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. TITUS How now! has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands; To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er, How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. 30 Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,31 As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this: Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says; I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;36 She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks: 38 Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect 40 As begging hermits in their holy prayers: Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.45 BOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments: Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. MARC. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved, Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness. TITUS Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, 50 And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [ _Marcus strikes the dish with a knife._ What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? MARC. At that that I have kill'd, my lord,—a fly. TITUS Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart; Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny: A deed of death done on the innocent Becomes not Titus' brother: get thee gone; I see thou art not for my company. MARC. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. 60 TITUS "But!" How, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buzz lamenting doings in the air!63 Poor harmless fly, That, with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill'd him. MARC. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. TIT. O, O, O, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, 70 For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him; 72 Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora. Ah, sirrah! Yet, I think, we are not brought so low, But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. MARC. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, 80 He takes false shadows for true substances. TITUS Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me: I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. [ _Exeunt._ * * * 73 _like Nilus_ ] an allusion to the annual overflow of the river Nile. 84 engine of her thoughts] tongue. 92 unrecuring] incurable. 93 my dear] a favourite pun with Shakespeare. 107 _lively_ ] living. 114 _the honey-dew_ ] the sweet sticky secretion deposited by the tiny insect, generically called aphis, on the leaves of flowers. 151 _Limbo_ ] A region on the borders of hell to which the fathers or patriarchs of old were believed to be consigned. 209 _fat_ ] fatten. 230 _coil_ ] commotion. 236 _For why_ ] Because. 307 _a power_ ] an army 4 _that sorrow-wreathen knot_ ] Marcus' folded arms, the posture ordinarily associated with deep melancholy. 6 _passionate_ ] express with passionate gesture. 15 _Wound it with sighing_ ] It was a common belief that sighs consumed the heart's blood. 20 _fool_ ] here a term of endearment. 31 _square_ ] shape, regulate. 36 _her martyr'd signs_ ] signs of martyrdom, suffering. 38 _mesh'd_ ] mixed up together, a variant of "mashed." 45 _still_ ] constant, continual. 63 _lamenting doings_ ] tidings of woe. 72 _insult on him_ ] triumph insolently over him. ### ACT IV. #### SCENE I. _Rome. Titus's Garden_. _Enter young_ LUCIUS _and_ LAVINIA _running after him, and the boy flies from her, with his books under his arm. Then enter_ TITUS _and_ MARCUS BOY. Help, Grandsire, Help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me every where, I know not why: Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes. Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. MARC. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt. TIT. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. BOY. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did. MARC. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs? TIT. Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean: See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee: 10 Somewhither would she have thee go with her. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care12 Read to her sons than she hath read to thee Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator.14 MARC. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus? BOY. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her: For I have heard my grandsire say full oft, Extremity of griefs would make men mad; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy 20 Ran mad for sorrow: that made me to fear; Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did, And would not, but in fury, fright my youth:24 Which made me down to throw my books and fly, Causeless perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt: And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will most willingly attend your ladyship. MARC. Lucius, I will. [ _Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall._ 30 TIT. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see. Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd: Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus? MARC. I think she means that there were more than one Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was; 40 Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. TIT. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?42 BOY. Grandsire, 't is Ovid's Metamorphoses: 43 My mother gave it me. MARC. For love of her that's gone, Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest. TIT. Soft! so busily she turns the leaves! Help her: What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, 50 And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape; 51 And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.52 MARC. See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves.53 TIT. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was, Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see! Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt,— O, had we never, never hunted there!— Pattern'd by that the poet here describes, 60 By nature made for murders and for rapes. MARC. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies? TIT. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman lord it was durst do the deed: Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed? MARC. Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down by me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this treason find! 70 My lord, look here: look here, Lavinia: This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me.72 This after me. [ _He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth._ ] I have writ my name Without the help of any hand at all. Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift! Write thou, good niece; and here display at last What God will have discovered for revenge: Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, That we may know the traitors and the truth! 80 [ _She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes._ TIT. O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? "Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius." MARC. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora84 Performers of this heinous, bloody deed? TIT. Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides? MARC. O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know There is enough written upon this earth 90 To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts, And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;94 And swear with me, as, with the woful fere95 And father of that chaste dishonour'd dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape, That we will prosecute by good advice98 Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this reproach. 100 TIT.'T is sure enough, an you knew how. But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware: The dam will wake; and if she wind you once, She's with the lion deeply still in league, And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone; And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words,109 And lay it by: the angry northern wind 110 Will blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad, And where's your lesson then? Boy, what say you? BOY. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, Their mother's bed-chamber should not be safe For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.115 MARC. Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like. BOY. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. TIT. Come, go with me into mine armoury; Lucius, I'll fit thee, and withal, my boy 120 Shall carry from me to the empress' sons Presents that I intend to send them both: Come, come; thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not? BOY. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire. TIT. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course. Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house: Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court; Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on. [ _Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and young Lucius._ MARC. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan, 130 And not relent, or not compassion him?131 Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,132 That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart Than foemen's marks upon his batter'd shield, But yet so just that he will not revenge. Revenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus! [ _Exit._ #### SCENE II. _The Same. A Room in the Palace_. _Enter_ AARON, CHIRON _and_ DEMETRIUS _at one door; and at another door, young_ LUCIUS, _and an_ Attendant, _with a bundle of weapons and verses writ upon them_ CHI. Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius; He hath some message to deliver us. AAR. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather. BOY. My lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet your honours from Andronicus. [ _Aside_ ] And pray the Roman gods confound you both! DEM. Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what's the news? BOY. [ _Aside_ ] That you are both decipher'd, that's the news, For villains mark'd with rape.—May it please you, My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me 10 The goodliest weapons of his armoury To gratify your honourable youth, The hope of Rome; for so he bid me say; And so I do, and with his gifts present Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well:16 And so I leave you both, [ _Aside_ ] like bloody villains. [ _Exeunt Boy and Attendant_ DEM. What's here? A scroll, and written round about! Let's see: 20 "Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,21 Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu."22 CHI. O, 't is a verse in Horace; I know it well: I read it in the grammar long ago.24 AAR. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it. [ _Aside_ ] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass! Here's no sound jest: the old man hath found their guilt,27 And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines, That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.29 But were our witty empress well afoot, 30 She would applaud Andronicus' conceit: But let her rest in her unrest awhile.— And now, young lords, was't not a happy star Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, Captives, to be advanced to this height? It did me good, before the palace gate To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing. DEM. But me more good, to see so great a lord Basely insinuate and send us gifts.39 AAR. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? 40 Did you not use his daughter very friendly? DEM. I would we had a thousand Roman dames At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.43 CHI. A charitable wish and full of love. AAR. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. CHI. And that would she for twenty thousand more. DEM. Come, let us go, and pray to all the gods For our beloved mother in her pains. AAR. [ _Aside_ ] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over. [ _Trumpets sound within._ 50 DEM. Why do the emperor's trumpets flourish thus? CHI. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son. DEM. Soft! who comes here? _Enter_ Nurse, _with a blackamoor_ Child NUR Good morrow, lords: O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor? AAR. Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all, Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now? NUR. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone! Now help, or woe betide thee evermore! AAR. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! 60 What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms? NURO, that which I would hide from heaven's eye, Our empress' shame and stately Rome's disgrace! She is deliver'd, lords, she is deliver'd. AAR. To whom? NUR. I mean, she is brought a-bed. AAR. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her? NUR. A devil. AAR. Why, then she is the devil's dam; A joyful issue. 70 NUR. A joyless, dismal, black and sorrowful issue: Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime:73 The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point. AAR. 'Zounds, ye whore! is black so base a hue? Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure.77 DEM. Villain, what hast thou done? AAR.That which thou canst not undo. CHI. Thou hast undone our mother. 80 AAR. Villain, I have done thy mother. DEM. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her. Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice! Accursed the offspring of so foul a fiend! CHI. It shall not live. AAR. It shall not die. NUR Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so. AAR. What, must it, nurse? then let no man but I Do execution on my flesh and blood. DEM. I'll broach the tadpole on my rapier's point:90 Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it. AAR. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. [ _Takes the Child from the Nurse, and draws._ Stay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother? Now, by the burning tapers of the sky, That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point Titus Andronicus That touches this my first-born son and heir! I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,99 With all his threatening band of Typhon's brood, 100 Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,101 Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! 103 Ye white-limed walls! ye alehouse painted signs!104 Coal-black is better than another hue, In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood. Tell the empress from me, I am of age 110 To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. DEM. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus? AAR. My mistress is my mistress, this myself, The vigour and the picture of my youth: This before all the world do I prefer; This maugre all the world will I keep safe, Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. DEM. By this our mother is for ever shamed. CHI. Rome will despise her for this foul escape. 119 NUR The emperor in his rage will doom her death. 120 CHI. I blush to think upon this ignomy.121 AAR. Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears: Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of the heart!124 Here's a young lad framed of another leer:125 Look, how the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say "Old lad, I am thine own." He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self-blood that first gave life to you; And from that womb where you imprison'd were 130 He is enfranchised and come to light: Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seal be stamped in his face. NUR Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress? DEM. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, And we will all subscribe to thy advice: Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. AAR. Then sit we down, and let us all consult. My son and I will have the wind of you:139 Keep there: now talk at pleasure of your safety. 140 [ _They sit._ DEM. How many women saw this child of his? AAR. Why, so, brave lords! when we join in league, I am a lamb: but if you brave the Moor, The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. But say, again, how many saw the child? NUR Cornelia the midwife and myself; And no one else but the deliver'd empress. AAR. The empress, the midwife, and yourself: 150 Two may keep counsel when the third's away:151 Go to the empress, tell her this I said. [ _He kills the Nurse._ Weke, weke! So cries a pig prepared to the spit. DEM. What mean'st thou, Aaron? wherefore didst thou this? AAR.O Lord, sir, 't is a deed of policy: Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, A long-tongued babbling gossip? no, lords, no: And now be it known to you my full intent. 160 Not far, one Muliteus, my countryman, His wife but yesternight was brought to bed; His child is like to her, fair as you are: Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,164 And tell them both the circumstance of all; And how by this their child shall be advanced, And be received for the emperor's heir, And substituted in the place of mine, To calm this tempest whirling in the court; And let the emperor dandle him for his own. 170 Hark ye, lords; you see I have given her physic, [ _Pointing to the Nurse._ And you must needs bestow her funeral; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms:174 This done, see that you take no longer days,175 But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and the nurse well made away, Then let the ladies tattle what they please. CHI. Aaron; I see thou wilt not trust the air With secrets. 180 DEM. For this care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. [ _Exeunt Dem. and Chi. bearing off the Nurse's body._ AAR. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies; There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, And secretly to greet the empress' friends. Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you hence; For it is you that puts us to our shifts:188 I'll make you feed on berries and on roots, And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat, 190 And cabin in a cave, and bring you up To be a warrior and command a camp. [ _Exit._ #### SCENE III. _The Same A Public Place_. _Enter_ TITUS _bearing arrows with letters at the ends of them; with him,_ MARCUS _young_ LUCIUS _and other_ Gentlemen (PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, _and_ CAIUS),. _with bows_ TIT. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way. Sir boy, let me see your archery; Look ye draw home enough, and 't is there straight.3 Terras Astræa reliquit:4 Be you remember'd, Marcus, she's gone, she's fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets; Happily you may catch her in the sea;8 Yet there's as little justice as at land: No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; 10 'T is you must dig with mattock and with spade, And pierce the inmost centre of the earth: Then, when you come to Pluto's region, I pray you, deliver him this petition; Tell him, it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. Ah, Rome! Well, well; I made thee miserable What time I threw the people's suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me. 20 Go get you gone; and pray be careful all, And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd: This wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.24 MARC. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract? PUB. Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns By day and night to attend him carefully, And feed his humour kindly as we may, Till time beget some careful remedy. 30 MARC. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,33 And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. TIT. Publius, how now! how now, my masters! What, have you met with her? PUB. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word, If you will have Revenge from Hell, you shall: Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd, He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, 40 So that perforce you must needs stay a time. TIT. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I'll dive into the burning lake below, And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.44 Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops' size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear: And sith there's no justice in earth nor hell, We will solicit heaven, and move the gods 50 To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus;52 [ _He gives them the arrows._ "Ad Jovem," that's for you: here, "Ad Apollinem:" "Ad Martem," that's for myself: Here, boy, to Pallas: here, to Mercury: To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine; You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid. Of my word, I have written to effect; 60 There's not a god left unsolicited. MARC. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court: We will afflict the emperor in his pride. TIT. Now, masters, draw. [ _They shoot._ ] O, well said, Lucius! 64 Good boy, in Virgo's lap; give it Pallas.65 MARC. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;66 Your letter is with Jupiter by this. TIT. Ha, ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done? See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns. 70 MARC. his was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot, The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court; And who should find them but the empress' villain? She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present. TIT. Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy! _Enter a_ Clown, _with a basket, and two pigeons in it_ News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters? Shall I have justice? what says Jupiter? 80 CLO. O, the gibbet-maker! he says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week. TIT. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee? CLO. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life. TIT. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier? CLO. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else. TIT. Why, didst thou not come from heaven? CLO. From heaven! alas, sir, I never came there: God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I 90 am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial's men.91 MARC. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you. TIT. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace? CLO. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life. TIT. Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado, But give your pigeons to the emperor: By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. 100 Hold, hold; meanwhile here's money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication? CLO. Ay, sir. TIT. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I'll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely. CLO. I warrant you, sir, let me alone. TIT. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see it. 110 Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration; For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant: And when thou hast given it to the emperor, Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. CLO. God be with you, sir; I will. [ _Exit._ TIT. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. [ _Exeunt._ #### SCENE IV. _The Same. Before the Palace_. _Enter_ SATURNINUS,.TAMORN, CHIRON, DEMETRIUS, _and others;_ SATURNINUS _with the Arrows in his hand that_ TITUS _shot_ SAT. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! was ever seen An emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus, and for the extent3 Of egal justice used in such contempt?4 My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods, However these disturbers of our peace Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd But even with law against the wilful sons8 Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits, 10 Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,11 His fits, his frenzy and his bitterness? And now he writes to heaven for his redress: See, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury; This to Apollo; this to the god of war: Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! What's this but libelling against the senate, And blazoning our unjustice every where? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? As who would say, in Rome no justice were. 20 But if I live, his feigned ecstasies21 Shall be no shelter to these outrages: But he and his shall know that justice lives In Saturninus' health; whom, if he sleep, He'll so awake, as he in fury shall Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives. TAM. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age, The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, 30 Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarr'd his heart; And rather comfort his distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts. [ _Aside_ ] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all:35 But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick, Thy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise,37 Then is all safe, the anchor in the port. _Enter_ Clown How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us? CLO. Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial. 40 TAM. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. CLO.'T is he. God and Saint Stephen give you god-den: I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here. [ _Saturninus reads the letter._ SAT. Go, take him away, and hang him presently. CLO. How much money must I have? TAM. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged. CLO. Hanged! by 'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. [ _Exit, guarded._ SAT. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! 50 Shall I endure this monstrous villany? I know from whence this same device proceeds: May this be borne? As if his traitorous sons, That died by law for murder of our brother, Have by my means been butcher'd wrongfully! Go, drag the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege: For this proud mock I'll be thy slaughter-man; Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. 60 _Enter_ ÆMILIUS What news with thee, Æmilius? ÆMIL. Arm, my lords; Rome never had more cause.63 The Goths have gather'd head, and with a power Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Coriolanus did. SAT. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head 70 As flowers with frost or grass beat down with storms: Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach: 'T is he the common people love so much; Myself hath often heard them say, When I have walked like a private man, That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully, And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor. TAM. Why should you fear? is not your city strong? SAT. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him. 80 TAM. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name. Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it? The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody:86 Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit: for know, thou emperor, I will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, 90 Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep; 91 Whenas the one is wounded with the bait, The other rotted with delicious feed. SAT. But he will not entreat his son for us. TAM. If Tamora entreat him, then he will: For I can smooth, and fill his aged ears96 With golden promises; that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. [ _To Æmilius_ ] Go thou before, be our ambassador: 100 Say that the emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus. SAT. Æmilius, do this message honourably: And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. ÆMIL. Your bidding shall I do effectually. [ _Exit._ TAM. Now will I to that old Andronicus, And temper him with all the art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. 110 And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices. SAT. Then go successantly, and plead to him.113 [ _Exeunt._ * * * 12 _Cornelia_ ] The courageous mother of the Gracchi. 14 _Tully's Orator_ ] One of Cicero's two treatises on oratory was called _Orator._ The second more famous treatise was called _De Oratore._ 24 _fury_ ] fury of madness. 42 _tosseth_ ] turns over (the leaves of). 43 _Ovid's Metamorphoses_ ] the most popular of Ovid's works. 50–51 _This is_... _rape_ ] See note on II, iii, 43. 52 _annoy_ ] suffering. 53 _quotes_ ] observes, marks. 72 _This sandy_... _plain_ ] This sandy plot of earth is level. 84 _Stuprum_ ] Latin for "violation." 94 _Roman Hector's hope_ ] The Trojan Hector's son was Astyanax. 95 _fere_ ] companion; here "husband." 98 _by good advice_ ] deliberately. 109 _gad_ ] piercing instrument, sharp point. 115 _bondmen to the yoke of Rome_ ] Rome's prisoners of war, and thus of the status of slaves. 131 _compassion_ ] pity. 132 _ecstasy_ ] fit of madness, frenzy. 16 _appointed_ ] equipped. 21–22 "Integer ... nec arcu"] the first two lines of Horace's well-known ode, Bk. I, no. xxii. "The man of spotless life and free from guilt needs no Moorish javelins or bow" (to protect him). 24 _the grammar_ ] Lily's Grammar, a book in common use in Elizabethan grammar schools. 27 _Here's no sound jest_ ] This is no safe jest. This is a perilous jest. 29 _beyond their feeling_ ] without their perceiving it. 30 _witty_ ] clever. _well afoot_ ] well recovered from childbed. 39 _Basely insinuate_ ] Ingratiate himself with us in undignified fashion. 43 _At such a bay_ ] At such an extremity, within our power. 73 _breeders_ ] women (who bear children). 77 _blowse_ ] blowsy, red-faced wench. 90 _broach_ ] spit. 99–101 _Enceladus_... _Typhon_... _Alcides_ ] giants of classical mythology who warred against the gods. 103 _sanguine_ ] red-complexioned. 104 _white-limed_ ] whitewashed. 119 _foul escape_ ] escapade, transgression. 121 _ignomy_ ] a common contraction of "ignominy." 124 _enacts_ ] enactments, resolutions. 125 _leer_ ] complexion. 139 _have the wind of you_ ] keep the advantage of you; an archer's expression when contriving to shoot with the wind at his back, and in his opponent's face. 151 _Two... away_ ] a common proverb. 164 _Go pack_ ] Go and plot, contrive. 174 _gallant grooms_ ] strong fellows. 175 _take no longer days_ ] take as short a time as possible. 188 _puts us to our shifts_ ] drives us to cunning schemes. 3 _draw home_ ] shoot with force. 4 _Terras Astræa reliquit_ ] From Ovid, _Metamorphoses,_ I, 149, 150: "Victa iacet pietas, et uirgo cæde madentes Ultima cælestum _terras Astræa reliquit_ " ("Goodness lies conquered, and the virgin Astræa, last of the immortals, has left the slaughter-stained earth"). Astræa was the goddess of justice. 8 _Happily_ ] Haply, perhaps. 24 _go pipe_ ] go whistle. 30 _careful_ ] possibly "provident," "efficient." 33 _wreak_ ] vengeance. 44 _Acheron_ ] properly a river of Hades. 52 _this gear_ ] the business. 64 _well said_ ] well done; a common usage. 65 _in Virgo's lap_ ] as far as the constellation Virgo. 66 _a mile beyond the moon_ ] out of reach or range. 91 _tribunal plebs_ ] an ignorant mispronunciation of "tribunus plebis." _take up_ ] make up, settle. 3–4 _for the extent Of egal justice_ ] in consequence of the impartial administration of justice. 8 _even with_ ] in agreement with. 11 _wreaks_ ] efforts at vengeance. 21 _ecstasies_ ] fits of frenzy. 35 _gloze with_ ] wheedle, cajole. 37 _Thy life-blood out_ ] So that thy life-blood is drawn 63 _gather'd head_ ] collected an army. 86 _stint_ ] stop. 91 _honey-stalks_ ] sweet-clover flower, which eaten to excess kills cattle. 96 _smooth_ ] wheedle, cajole. 113 _successantly_ ] a word unknown elsewhere. It may be an error for _successfully,_ or may be formed from an invented present participle meaning "following after." ### ACT V. #### SCENE I. _Plains near Rome_. _Flourish. Enter_ LUCIUS _and_ Goths, _with drum and colours_ LUCIUS. Approved warriors, and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great Rome, Which signify what hate they bear their emperor, And how desirous of our sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness, Imperious, and impatient of your wrongs; And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,7 Let him make treble satisfaction. FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort; 10 Whose high exploits and honourable deeds Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, Be bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,13 Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day, Led by their master to the flowered fields, And be avenged on cursed Tamora. ALL THE GOTHS And as he saith, so say we all with him. LUCI humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth? _Enter a_ Goth, _leading_ AARON _with his Child in his arms_ SEC GOTHS. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd 20 To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;21 And, as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise; when soon I heard The crying babe controll'd with this discourse: "Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look, Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor: 30 But where the bull and cow are both milk-white, They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace, villain, peace!"—even thus he rates the babe—33 "For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth; Who, when he knows thou art the empress' babe, Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake." With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him, Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither, To use as you think needful of the man. LUC. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil 40 That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleased your empress' eye;42 And here's the base fruit of his burning lust. Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey 44 This growing image of thy fiend-like face? Why dost not speak? what, deaf? not a word? A halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree, And by his side his fruit of bastardy. AAR. Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood. LUC. Too like the sire for ever being good. 50 First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl; A sight to vex the father's soul withal. Get me a ladder. [ _A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend._ AAR. Lucius, save the child, And bear it from me to the empress. If thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things, That highly may advantage thee to hear: If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, I'll speak no more but "Vengeance rot you all!" 60 LUC. Say on: an if it please me which thou speak'st, Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd. AAR. An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lucius, 'T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak; For I must talk of murders, rapes and massacres, Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots of mischief, treason, villanies Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd: 68 And this shall all be buried in my death, Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. 70 LUC. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live. AAR. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. LUC. Who should I swear by? thou believest no god: That granted, how canst thou believe an oath? AAR. What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious, And hast a thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies, Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know 80 An idiot holds his bauble for a god,81 And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, To that I'll urge him: therefore thou shalt vow By that same god, what god soe'er it be, That thou adorest and hast in reverence, To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up; Or else I will discover nought to thee. LUC. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. AAR. First know thou, I begot him on the empress. LUC. O most insatiate, and luxurious woman!90 AAR. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. 'T was her two sons that murder'd Bassianus; They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her, And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou saw'st. LUC. O detestable villain! call'st thou that trimming? AAR. Why, she was wash'd and cut and trimm'd, and 't was Trim sport for them that had the doing of it. LUC. O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself! AAR. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them: 100 That codding spirit had they from their mother,101 As sure a card as ever won the set; That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me, As true a dog as ever fought at head.104 Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole,106 Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay: I wrote the letter that thy father found, And hid the gold within the letter mention'd, Confederate with the queen and her two sons: 110 And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it? I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand; And, when I had it, drew myself apart, And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter: I pried me through the crevice of a wall When for his hand he had his two sons' heads; Beheld his tears and laugh'd so heartily, That both mine eyes were rainy like to his: And when I told the empress of this sport, 120 She swounded almost at my pleasing tale,121 And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. FIRST GOTH. What, canst thou say all this, and never blush? AAR. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.124 LUC. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds? AAR. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day—and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse— Wherein I did not some notorious ill: As kill a man, or else devise his death; 130 Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity between two friends; Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends' doors, Even when their sorrows almost were forgot; And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, 140 Have with my knife carved in Roman letters "Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead." Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly; And nothing grieves me heartily indeed, But that I cannot do ten thousand more. LUC. Bring down the devil; for he must not die147 So sweet a death as hanging presently. AAR. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, 150 So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue! LUC. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more. _Enter a_ Goth THIRD GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome Desires to be admitted to your presence. LUC. Let him come near. _Enter_ ÆMIL Welcome, Æmilius: what's the news from Rome? ÆMIL. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths, The Roman emperor greets you all by me; And, for he understands you are in arms, 160 He craves a parley at your father's house, Willing you to demand your hostages, And they shall be immediately deliver'd. FIRST GOTH. What says our general? LUC. Æmilius, let the emperor give his pledges Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, And we will come. March away. [ _Flourish. Exeunt._ #### SCENE II. _Rome. Before Titus's House_. _Enter_ TAMORN, DEMETRIUS, _and_ CHIRON, _disguised_ TAM. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where, they say, he keeps, To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;5 Tell him Revenge is come to join with him, And work confusion on his enemies. [ _Knock._ _Enter_ TITUS, _above_ TIT. Who doth molest my contemplation? Is it your trick to make me ope the door, 10 That so my sad decrees may fly away,11 And all my study be to no effect? You are deceived: for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I have set down; And what is written shall be executed. TAM. Titus, I am come to talk with thee. TIT. No, not a word: how can I grace my talk, Wanting a hand to give it action? Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more. TAM. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. 20 TIT. I am not mad; I know thee well enough: Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines; Witness these trenches made by grief and care; Witness the tiring day and heavy night; Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well For our proud empress, mighty Tamora: Is not thy coming for my other hand? TAM. Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora; She is thy enemy, and I thy friend: I am Revenge; sent from the infernal kingdom, 30 To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind, By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.32 Come down and welcome me to this world's light; Confer with me of murder and of death: There's not a hollow cave or lurking-place, No vast obscurity or misty vale, Where bloody murder or detested rape Can couch for fear, but I will find them out, And in their ears tell them my dreadful name, Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. 40 TIT. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me, To be a torment to mine enemies? TAM. I am; therefore come down and welcome me. TIT. Do me some service ere I come to thee. Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands; Now give some surance that thou art Revenge, Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels; And then I'll come and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globes. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, 50 To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves: And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel Trot like a servile footman all day long, Even from Hyperion's rising in the east56 Until his very downfall in the sea: And day by day I'll do this heavy task, So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.59 TAM. These are my ministers and come with me. 60 TIT. Are these thy ministers? what are they call'd? TAM. Rapine and Murder; therefore called so, 'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men. TIT. Good Lord, how like the empress' sons they are, And you the empress! but we worldly men Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee; And, if one arm's embracement will content thee, I will embrace thee in it by and by. [ _Exit above._ TAM. This closing with him fits his lunacy: 70 Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits, Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, For now he firmly takes me for Revenge; And, being credulous in this mad thought, I'll make him send for Lucius his son; And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, I'll find some cunning practice out of hand,77 To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, Or at the least make them his enemies. See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. 80 _Enter_ TITUS _below_ TIT. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee: Welcome, dread Fury, to my woful house: Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too: How like the empress and her sons you are! Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor: Could not all hell afford you such a devil? For well I wot the empress never wags But in her company there is a Moor; And, would you represent our queen aright, It were convenient you had such a devil: 90 But welcome, as you are. What shall we do? TAM. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus? DEM. Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him. CHI. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, And I am sent to be revenged on him. TAM. Show me a thousand that have done thee wrong, And I will be revenged on them all. TIT. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome, And when thou find'st a man that's like thyself, Good Murder, stab him; he's a murderer. 100 Go thou with him, and when it is thy hap To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab him; he's a ravisher. Go thou with them; and in the emperor's court There is a queen, attended by a Moor; Well mayst thou know her by thine own proportion, For up and down she doth resemble thee:107 I pray thee, do on them some violent death; They have been violent to me and mine. TAM. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do. But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for Lucius, thy thrice valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house; When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, I will bring in the empress and her sons, The emperor himself, and all thy foes; And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. What says Andronicus to this device? 120 TIT. Marcus, my brother! 't is sad Titus calls. _Enter_ MARCUS Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius; Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths: Bid him repair to me and bring with him Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths: Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are: Tell him the emperor and the empress too Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. This do thou for my love, and so let him, As he regards his aged father's life. 130 MARC. This will I do, and soon return again. [ _Exit._ TAM. Now will I hence about thy business, And take my ministers along with me. TIT. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me; Or else I'll call my brother back again, And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. TIT. _Aside to her sons_ ] What say you, boys? will you bide with him, Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor How I have govern'd our determined jest?140 Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, 141 And tarry with him till I turn again. TIT. [ _Aside_ ] I know them all, though they suppose me mad; And will o'er-reach them in their own devices: A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam. DEM. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here. TAM. Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes. TIT. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell. [ _Exit Tamora._ 150 CHI. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd? TIT. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine! _Enter_ PUBLIUS _and others_ PUB. What is your will? TIT. Know you these two? PUB. The empress' sons, I take them, Chiron and Demetrius. TIT. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceived; The one is Murder, Rape is the other's name; And therefore bind them, gentle Publius: Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them: 160 Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, And now I find it; therefore bind them sure; And stop their mouths, if they begin to cry. [ _Exit._ [ _Publius, &c. lay hold on Chiron and Demetrius._ CHI. Villains, forbear! we are the empress' sons. PUB. And therefore do we what we are commanded. Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound? look that you bind them fast. _Re-enter_ TITUS, _with_ LAVINIA. _he bearing a knife, and she a basin_ TIT. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me; 170 But let them hear what fearful words I utter. O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud, This goodly summer with your winter mix'd. You kill'd her husband, and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest; Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forced. 180 What would you say, if I should let you speak? Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you. This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whilst that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad: Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust, And with your blood and it I'll make a paste; 190 And of the paste a coffin I will rear,191 And make two pasties of your shameful heads; And bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam, Like to the earth, swallow her own increase.194 This is the feast that I have bid her to, And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you used my daughter,197 And worse than Progne I will be revenged:198 And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, [ _He cuts their throats._ 200 Receive the blood: and when that they are dead, Let me go grind their bones to powder small, And with this hateful liquor temper it; And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. Come, come, be every one officious205 To make this banquet; which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast. So, now bring them in, for I'll play the cook, And see them ready against their mother comes. [ _Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies._ 210 #### SCENE III. _Court of Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_. _Enter_ LUCIUS, MARCUS, _and_ Goths, _with_ AARON, _prisoner_ LUC. Uncle Marcus, since it is my father's mind That I repair to Rome, I am content. FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will. 3 LUC. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him, Till he be brought unto the empress' face, For testimony of her foul proceedings: And see the ambush of our friends be strong; I fear the emperor means no good to us. 10 AAR. Some-devil whisper curses in mine ear, And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart! LUC. Away, inhuman dog! unhallow'd slave! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in, [ _Exeunt Goths, with Aaron. Flourish within._ The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. _Enter_ SATURNINUS. _and_ TAMORN, _with_ ÆMILIUS. Tribunes, Senators, _and others_ SAT. What, hath the firmament moe suns than one? LUC. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun? MARC. Rome's emperor, and nephew, break the parle;20 These quarrels must be quietly debated. The feast is ready, which the careful Titus Hath ordain'd to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for league and good to Rome: Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places. SAT. Marcus, we will. [ _Hautboys sound. The Company sit down at table._ _Enter_ TITUS, _like a Cook, placing the meat on the table, and_ LAVINIA _with a veil over her face, young_ LUCIUS, _and others_ TIT. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen; Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; 30 And welcome, all: although the cheer be poor, 'T will fill your stomachs; please you eat of it. SAT. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus? TIT. Because I would be sure to have all well, To entertain your highness and your empress. TAM. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus. TIT. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the emperor, resolve me this: Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with his own right hand, Because she was enforced, stain'd, and deflower'd? 40 SAT. It was, Andronicus. TIT. Your reason, mighty lord? SAT. Because the girl should not survive her shame, And by her presence still renew his sorrows. TIT. A reason mighty, strong and effectual, A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,46 For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee, And with thy shame thy father's sorrow die! [ _Kills Lavinia._ 50 SAT. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind? TIT. Kill'd her, for whom my tears have made me blind. I am as woful as Virginius was, And have a thousand times more cause than he To do this outrage, and it now is done. SAT. What, was she ravish'd? tell who did the deed. TIT. Will't please you eat? will't please your highness feed? TAM. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus? TIT. Not I; 't was Chiron and Demetrius: They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue; 60 And they, 't was they, that did her all this wrong. SAT. Go fetch them hither to us presently. TIT. Why, there they are both, baked in that pie; Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. 'T is true, 't is true; witness my knife's sharp point. [ _Kills Tamora._ SAT. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed! [ _Kills Titus._ LUC. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed? 70 There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed! [ _Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others go up into the balcony._ MARC. You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome, By uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts, O, let me teach you how to knit again This scatter'd corn into one mutual sheaf,78 These broken limbs again into one body; Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, 80 And she whom mighty kingdoms court'sy to, Like a forlorn and desperate castaway, Do shameful execution on herself. But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,84 Grave witnesses of true experience, Cannot induce you to attend my words,— [ _To Lucius_ ] Speak, Rome's dear friend: as erst our ancestor,87 When with his solemn tongue he did discourse To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear The story of that baleful burning night, 90 When subtle Greeks surprised King Priam's Troy; Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears, Or who hath brought the fatal engine in93 That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound. My heart is not compact of flint nor steel; Nor can I utter all our bitter grief, But floods of tears will drown my oratory, And break my utterance, even in the time When it should move you to attend me most, Lending your kind commiseration. 100 Here is a captain, let him tell the tale; Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak. LUC. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you, That cursed Chiron and Demetrius Were they that murdered our emperor's brother; And they it were that ravished our sister: For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded, Our father's tears despised, and basely cozen'd Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out, And sent her enemies unto the grave. 110 Lastly, myself unkindly banished, The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out, To beg relief among Rome's enemies; Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears, And oped their arms to embrace me as a friend. I am the turned forth, be it known to you,116 That have preserved her welfare in my blood, And from her bosom took the enemy's point, Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body. Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I; 120 My scars can witness, dumb although they are, That my report is just and full of truth. But, soft! methinks I do digress too much, Citing my worthless praise: O, pardon me; For when no friends are by, men praise themselves. MARC. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child: [ _Pointing to the Child in the arms of an Attendant._ Of this was Tamora delivered; The issue of an irreligious Moor, Chief architect and plotter of these woes: 130 The villain is alive in Titus' house, And as he is, to witness this is true. Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge These wrongs, unspeakable, past patience, Or more than any living man could bear. Now you have heard the truth, what say you, Romans? Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us now, The poor remainder of Andronici Will, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down, 140 And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,141 And make a mutual closure of our house.142 Speak, Romans, speak, and if you say we shall, Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. ÆMIL. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome, And bring our emperor gently in thy hand, Lucius our emperor; for well I know The common voice do cry it shall be so. ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal emperor! MARC. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house, 150 [ _To Attendants._ And hither hale that misbelieving Moor, To be adjudged some direful slaughtering death, As punishment for his most wicked life. [ _Exeunt Attendants._ LUCIUS, MARCUS, _and the others descend_ ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor! LUC. Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so, To heal Rome's harms and wipe away her woe! But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,159 For nature puts me to a heavy task; 160 Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near, To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips, [ _Kissing Titus._ These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face, The last true duties of thy noble son! MARC. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips: O, were the sum of these that I should pay Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them! 170 LUC. Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us To melt in showers: thy grandsire loved thee well: Many a time he danced thee on his knee, Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow; Many a matter hath he told to thee, Meet and agreeing with thine infancy; In that respect then, like a loving child,177 Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring, Because kind nature doth require it so: Friends should associate friends in grief and woe: 180 Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave; Do him that kindness, and take leave of him. BOY, O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart Would I were dead, so you did live again! O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping; My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth. _Re-enter_ Attendants _with_ AARON A ROMAN. You sad Andronici, have done with woes: Give sentence on this execrable wretch, That hath been breeder of these dire events. LUC. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him; 190 There let him stand and rave and cry for food: If any one relieves or pities him, For the offence he dies. This is our doom: Some stay to see him fasten'd in the earth. AAR. O, why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb? I am no baby, I, that with base prayers I should repent the evils I have done: Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have my will: If one good deed in all my life I did, 200 I do repent it from my very soul LUC. Some loving friends convey the emperor hence, And give him burial in his father's grave: My father and Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed in our household's monument. As for that heinous tiger, Tamora, No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weeds, No mournful bell shall ring her burial; But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey: Her life was beastly and devoid of pity, And, being so, shall have like want of pity. See justice done on Aaron, that damn'd Moor, By whom our heavy haps had their beginning: Then, afterwards, to order well the state,214 That like events may ne'er it ruinate.215 [ _Exeunt._ * * * 7 _scath_ ] injury. 13 _Be bold in us_ ] Have confidence in us. 21 _ruinous monastery_ ] These words, like "popish tricks," are curious anachronisms, considering the historical date of the play's action. 33 _villain_ ] a term of endearment. 42 _This is the pearl_... _eye_ ] a proverbial phrase. 44 _wall-eyed_ ] fierce-eyed. 68 _piteously perform'd_ ] done so as to excite pity. 81 _bauble_ ] the toy-stick surmounted by a doll's head, ordinarily carried by the professional fool. 90 _luxurious_ ] lustful. 101 _codding_ ] lecherous. 104 _a dog_... _head_ ] a mastiff or bull-dog, which when fighting a bull or bear was wont to rush at its head and seize its nose. 106 _train'd_ ] drew, enticed. 121 _swounded_ ] an old form of "swooned." 124 _Ay, like a black dog_... _is_ ] To blush like a black dog is an old proverb, meaning that one has a brazen face, one cannot blush at all. 147 _Bring down the devil_ ] Bring Aaron down from the ladder _._ 5 _keeps_ ] resides. 11 _decrees_ ] resolution. 32 _wreakful_ ] vengeful. 56 _Hyperion's_ ] Hyperion here, as elsewhere in Shakespeare, is loosely used as the sun-god. 59 _Rapine_ ] here used for "rape" _._ 70 _closing with_ ] coming to terms with, humouring. 77 _practice out of hand_ ] stratagem at once. 107 _up and down_ ] altogether. 140 _govern'd_ ] managed. 141 _smooth_ ] flatter, cajole. 191 a _coffin_ ] a term technically applied in culinary matters to the raised crust of a pie. 194 _increase_ ] offspring. 197–198 _Philomel_... _Progne_ ] For the story, see II, iii, 43. 205 _officious_ ] helpful. 3 _ours with thine_ ] our mind agrees with thine. 20 _break the parle_ ] begin the parley (of peace). 46 _lively warrant_ ] warrant from real life. 78 _mutual_ ] common. 84 _chaps_ ] furrows. 87 _our ancestor_ ] Æneas. 93 _the fatal engine_ ] the Trojan horse. 116 _the turned forth_ ] the castaway. 141 _ragged_ ] rough, rugged. 142 _closure_ ] ending. 159 _give me aim_ ] give me scope or guidance, show me consideration. 177 _In that respect_ ] On that account. 214 _Then_... _state_ ] Then will we apply ourselves to set the state in order. 215 _ruinate_ ] ruin. www.doverpublications.com	{'title': 'Titus Andronicus (Dover Thrift) - William Shakespeare (retail)'}
# Also by Sherry Argov WHY MEN MARRY BITCHES: A Woman's Guide To Winning Her Man's Heart # Praise for Sherry Argov's work "The Best of Culture." —Esquire "We're talking about having so much self-respect, Aretha Franklin would high-five you." —Los Angeles Times "The pejorative meaning of the word 'bitch' has been reclaimed...it means a strong, feisty woman who has moxie, and knows when to use it. A bitch is like a Tarantino movie—sap free." —Pursuit Magazine "[Argov is] talking about a strong woman. Someone who knows what she's doing in life. Someone who will share the load, but who will stand her ground." —Joy Behar, Co-host of The View "Sherry Argov shows women how to transform a casual relationship into a committed one." —The Today Show "The whole Mary Ann vs. Ginger thing notwithstanding, men don't really go for 'nice.' They go for 'interesting.'" —Chicago Sun-Times "A must-read at Sunday brunch." —New York Daily News "A hot new book!" —Fox News Channel "Sherry Argov's national bestseller, Why Men Love Bitches, flew off the shelves....Men thrive with women who can set boundaries and who push back when they try to cross the line." —Cosmopolitan "An anti-whining manifesto that encourages women who feel like doormats to develop a sense of independence." —Playboy "If you've been too nice, run out and get this book now!" —Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider, authors of the New York Times Bestseller The Rules "Her sassy book is filled with scenarios and advice aimed at making women subtly stronger and self-empowered. The book, which as already been featured on The View and The O'Reilly Factor, should make waves with its controversial view of relationships." —Publishers Weekly # WHY MEN LOVE Bitches® ## Sherry Argov # Dedication For Mom, with love. # CONTENTS Acknowledgments Introduction 1 FROM DOORMAT TO Dreamgirl _Act Like a Prize and You'll Turn Him into a Believer_ Meet the Nice Girl She Has That "Je Ne Sais Quoi" Meet the "New and Improved" Bitch 2 WHY MEN Prefer BITCHES _Cracking the Code: What Every Nice Girl Needs to Know_ The Thrill of the Chase The Mama/Ho Complex The No Cage Rule The Power of Choice 3 THE Candy STORE _How to Make the Most of Your Feminine and Sexual Powers_ One Jujube at a Time A Sweeter Victory The Jujube Installment Plan The Sweet Spot 4 Dumb LIKE A FOX _How to Convince Him He's in Control While You Run the Show_ The Dumb Fox Handles His Ego with Kid Gloves The Dumb Fox Is a Clever Negotiator The Dumb Fox Is More Mysterious The Dumb Fox Is True To Herself [5 JUMPING THROUGH Hoops LIKE A CIRCUS POODLE](Argo_9781605501550_epub_c5.html) _When Women Give Themselves Away and Become Needy_ A New School: Who Is the Boss of You? From Sappy to Sassy Basic Bitch 101 6 NAGGING No MORE _What to Do When He Takes You for Granted and Nagging Doesn't Work_ A Lover or a Mother? Rx: Treat Him Like a Friend "Show" Is Better Than "Tell" 7 THE OTHER TEAM'S Secret "PLAYBOOK" _Things You Suspected but Never Heard Him Say_ What Men Think about How Women Communicate The Top...Fifteen Signs That a Woman Is Needy Fifteen Reasons Men "Play It Cool" Fifteen Male Views on Keeping the Romance Alive Fifteen Things That Turn Men Off Fifteen Reasons Men Prefer a Feisty Woman Ten Ways to Tell Whether a Man Is in Love 8 KEEPING YOUR Pink SLIP _The Reasons That Holding Your Own Financially Gives You Power_ Financial Independence: Who Has the Title on You? Dollars and No Sense 9 HOW TO Renew THE MENTAL CHALLENGE _How to Regain That "Spark"_ Step #1: Instead of Asking Him to Focus on You, Focus on Yourself Step #2: Alter the Routine Step #3: Regain Your Sense of Humor 10 GAINING Control OF YOUR EMOTIONS _Q &A—Letters from Readers_ Crazy in Love A Hint of Indifference Acts as a Trigger, and Hooks Him 11 THE New AND Improved BITCH _The Survival Guide for Women Who Are Too Nice_ The Bitch Stands Her Ground The Bitch Is Never Fully Conquered The Bitch Is Defined from Within The Bitch Has a Strong Will and Faith in Herself Appendix SHERRY'S Attraction PRINCIPLES # Acknowledgments First and foremost, I thank and acknowledge my beautiful mother, Judy. Aside from being the best mother and my favorite person in this world, she taught me everything I know about how to be a strong woman, and how to see humor in everything. Making Mom proud is the only accomplishment that really matters. I also want to thank the super teams at both Adams Media and F+W Media. I thank David Nussbaum, CEO and President of F+W Media. David Nussbaum is the kind of CEO someone is fortunate enough to work with once or twice in an entire career. I thank him for his special brand of leadership. I thank Chris Duffy, Royalties Manager at Adams Media, for being a consummate professional. I appreciate all the times he's gone the extra mile. I extend my gratitude to Sara Domville, President of the Book Division at F+W Media, and Karen Cooper, the newly appointed Publisher of Adams Media. How cool it is to see two great women at the helm. I offer special thanks to Stephanie McKenna, Foreign Rights Manager at Adams Media, who is the reason this book is selling in so many languages. I recognize Amy Collins, former Director of Sales at Adams Media, as the talented mind who originally led the book-launch efforts; she is my dear friend. I want to thank Edward Colbert of Looney & Grossman, who is my brilliant lawyer, advisor, and counselor. I thank him for being in my corner, and for being someone I can _always_ count on. I want to thank my accountants, Kathryn Schmidt of Schmidt & Co., and Ali Adawiya of SongCare. They are both geniuses. I thank Dan Dydzak, lawyer and friend, for his friendship and pep talks at the local diner. I want to thank Jeff Hyman, my photographer. His kindness will always be remembered. I thank Christine Serrao, of the Artist Relations department at MAC cosmetics, for her gracious help with my TV makeup. I thank my special guy, who is my rock. (Fortunately for me, he doesn't read these kinds of books or take me too seriously.) Nevertheless, I thank him for his great suggestions on what I "really need to tell those bitches" after spending a day with "the guys." I thank my favorite relatives who watch over me like angels: Tova, Samuel, Arnon, and Yossi Chait. I thank my readers—my sisters—who tell all their girlfriends about my books, and who have taken the time to write me letters. I thank the good men out there who were kind enough to share how men think. The best part about writing a book such as this is meeting interesting people with a great sense of humor. I thank them for the privilege. # Introduction Why Men Love Bitches is a relationship guide for women who are "too nice." The word _bitch_ in the title does not take itself too seriously—I'm using the word in a tongue-in-cheek way representative of the humorous tone of this book. The title and the content address what many women think, but don't say. _Every_ woman has felt embarrassed by appearing too needy with a man. _Every_ woman has had a man pursue her, only to lose interest the minute she gave in. _Every_ woman knows what it feels like to be taken for granted. These problems are common to most women, married and single alike. So why do men love bitches? An important distinction should be made between the pejorative way the word is usually used, and the way it is used here. Certainly, I'm not recommending that a woman have an abrasive disposition. The bitch I'm talking about is not the "bitch on wheels" or the mean-spirited character that Joan Collins played on _Dynasty_. Nor is it the classic "office bitch" who is hated by everyone at work. The woman I'm describing is kind yet strong. She has a strength that is ever so subtle. She doesn't give up her life, and she won't chase a man. She won't let a man think he has a 100 percent "hold" on her. And she'll stand up for herself when he steps over the line. She knows what she wants but _won't_ compromise herself to get it. But she's feminine, like a "Steel Magnolia"—flowery on the outside and steel on the inside. She uses this very femininity to her own advantage. It isn't that she takes undue advantage of men, because she plays fair. She has one thing the nice girl doesn't: a _presence of mind_ because she isn't swept away by a romantic fantasy. This presence of mind enables her to wield her power when it is necessary. In addition, she has the ability to remain cool under pressure. Whereas a woman who is "too nice" gives and gives until she is depleted, the woman with presence of mind knows when to pull back. Among the hundreds of interviews I conducted with men for the book, over 90 percent laughed and agreed with the title within the first thirty seconds. Some men chuckled as though their best-kept secret had just been revealed. "Men need a mental challenge," they said. Time and time again, this was the recurrent theme. The men I interviewed all phrased it slightly differently, but the message didn't change. "Men like it when a woman has a bit of an _edge_ to her," they said. Two things became clear across the board: First, they would regularly use the phrase _mental challenge_ to describe a woman who didn't appear needy. And second, the word _bitch_ was synonymous with their concept of _mental challenge._ And this characteristic, above all, they found attractive. When I used the phrase _mental challenge_ with men, it was immediately clear to them the quality I meant. On the other hand, when I interviewed hundreds of women, rarely did they understand the same phrase. They often related the phrase to intelligence, rather than to neediness. It wasn't just that my hunch was confirmed by these interviews; they also strengthened my sense of purpose. I thought that anything this _obvious_ to men should not be kept a secret from women. This book addresses the very issues that men _won't_. He won't say, "Look, don't be a doormat," "Don't always say yes," "Don't revolve your whole world around me." This book is necessary because _these are things a man will not spell out for his partner_. In the chapters that follow, you'll find one message coming through loud and clear: Success in love isn't about looks; it's about attitude. The media would have us believe differently. A teenage girl picks up a magazine and reads: "Get that boy's attention" with an item of clothing, or a certain look. "This nail color or lipstick will wow him," the magazine assures her. And what does the girl learn? How to obsess over someone else's approval. Then there is the issue of how the media treats aging. The teenage woman evolves into a twenty-something woman with confidence, and the media bombards her with negative images of aging. The message here is: Two wrinkles and a stretch mark, and she's "marked down" like last season's merchandise that's sold at half price. And what does she learn? How to obsess over someone else's _disapproval_. So what's the message of this book? It's that a bit of irreverence is necessary to have any self-esteem at all. _Not_ _irreverence for people, but rather, for what other people think_. The bitch is an empowered woman who derives tremendous strength from the ability to be an independent thinker, particularly in a world that still teaches women how to be self-abnegating. This woman doesn't live someone else's standards, only her own. This is the woman who plays by her _own_ rules, who has a feeling of confidence, freedom, and empowerment. And it's this feeling that I hope women will glean from reading this book. The woman who has a positive experience with men possesses the ever-so-subtle qualities I discuss in this book: a sense of humor and an aura that conveys, "I'm driving the train here. I'll tell you where we get on and where we get off." This woman has that presence of mind to do what is in her best interest and an attitude that says she doesn't need to be there. She is there _by choice_. The bitchy women who are so loved by men give off a devil-may-care quality and, yes, have that "edge." This is that same edge, coincidentally, that men say they find so magnetic. The difference is this woman isn't looking for it outside herself; it is a special quality she carries within. Note: Throughout this book, some names have been changed at the request of those interviewed. # 1 ## FROM DOORMAT TO Dreamgirl ### Act Like a Prize and You'll Turn Him into a Believer "Sex appeal is 50% what you've got, and 50% what people _think_ you've got." —SOPHIA LOREN #### Meet the Nice Girl Everyone has known a "nice girl." She is the woman who will overcompensate, giving everything to a man she barely knows, without him having to invest much in the relationship. She's the woman who gives blindly because she wants so much for her attentions to be reciprocated. She's the woman who goes along with what she thinks her man will like or want because she wants to keep the relationship at all costs. Every woman, at some point, has been there. Certainly, the average fashion magazine gives women ridiculous relationship advice that makes it easy to understand why women are so eager to overcompensate: "Play hard to get, then cook him a four-course meal... bake him Valentine's cookies with exotic sprinkles shipped from Malaysia (just like Martha Stewart). Don't forget the little doilies and the organic strawberries that you drove two hours to get. Then serve it all to him on the second date, wearing a black lace nightie." And what is this a recipe for? _Disaster._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #1 Anything a person chases in life runs away. Especially when it comes to dealing with a man. With one caveat: If you chase him in a black nightie, first he'll have sex with you... and then he'll run. Why does a man run from a situation like this one? He runs because the woman's behavior doesn't suggest that she places a high value on herself. The relationship is new, and the bond between them is relatively shallow. Yet she's already dealt him her best card. The fact that she is willing to overcompensate to a virtual stranger immediately suggests one of two things. He'll either assume she is desperate, or he'll assume she is willing to sleep with all men right away. Or _both._ What gets lost is his appreciation for her extra effort. Once a man begins to lose respect for a woman because she is willing to subtly devalue herself, he will also lose the desire to get closer to her. Nightie or no nightie. A dreamgirl, on the other hand, won't kill herself to impress anyone. This is why the woman he really falls in love with doesn't serve a four-course meal. And you won't see her breaking out the fancy china, either. She'll start out cooking him a one-course meal. (Popcorn.) No fancy doilies. A Tupperware bowl does the trick. She simply asks her guest, "Hey, do you want the bag or the bowl?" Six months later, the same woman throws together a meal and puts down a hot plate in front of him. And what does he say to himself? "Man! I'm special!" It doesn't matter if it is pasta with Ragu topped by a meatball you picked up at the corner deli. He'll say, "This is the best pasta I have ever had in my life!" Now he feels like a king. And the only difference is the amount of time and effort he had to invest, first. He didn't get it all right up front and he appreciated it more. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #2 The women who have the men climbing the walls for them aren't always exceptional. Often, they are the ones who don't appear to care that much. This isn't about how to play a game or how to manipulate someone. This is about whether you are genuinely needy, or whether you can genuinely show him that you'll be an equal partner in the relationship. It's about whether you are capable of _holding your own_ in a relationship. What would happen if you let him know from day one that you are willing to bend over backward? He'd think you're desperate, and he'd want to see just how far you'd be willing to bend. It is human nature. He'd immediately start to test the waters. The more malleable you'd become, the more he'd expect you to bend. He'll instantly perceive you as a Duracell battery, as in, "Just how far will she go? How much can I get out of her?" Nice girls need to know what a bitch understands. Overcompensating or being too eager to please will lessen a man's respect; it will give the kiss of death to his attraction, and it will put a time limit on the relationship. Most men don't perceive a woman who jumps through hoops as someone who offers a mental challenge. Intelligent women make the mistake of assuming that if they hold a higher degree, they can hold their own in a political debate, and they have a good understanding of mid-caps, they offer a man mental stimulation during dinner. But the mental challenge has little to do with conversation. (Granted, if she thinks that Al Green and Alan Greenspan are the same person, then Houston? We have a problem.) In general, the mental challenge has to do with whether you expect to be respected. It has to do with how you relate to him. It has to do with whether he knows that you aren't afraid to be without him. The nice girl makes the mistake of being available all the time. "I don't want to play games," she says. So, she lets him see how afraid she is to be without him and he soon comes to feel as though he has a 100 percent hold on her. This is often the point when women begin to complain: "He doesn't make enough time for me. He isn't as romantic as he used to be." A bitch is more selective about her availability. She's available sometimes; other times she's not. But she's nice. Nice enough, that is, to consider his preferences for when he'd like to see her so that she can _sometimes_ accommodate them. Translation? No 100 percent hold. What about the woman who will drop everything and drive to see a man? The man also knows he has a 100 percent hold on her. After a couple of dates, he goes out with the boys, comes in at midnight, calls her, and off she goes to see him. When a woman drives to see a man in the middle of the night, the only thing missing is a neon sign on the roof of her car that says WE DELIVER. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #3 A woman is perceived as offering a mental challenge to the degree that a man doesn't feel he has a 100 percent hold on her. Your time with him is telling. The nice girl sits in a chair after a week of knowing the guy, bored out of her mind as he does something that interests him. He may be watching sports on TV, cleaning his fishing gear, strumming his guitar, or working on his car. She is miserable but doesn't say a peep. Instead, she tries to make the best of it and twiddles her thumbs politely, just so she can be in his company. The bitch, on the other hand, makes plenty of peeps. In fact, she is bitching the whole way through. This is not a bad thing, because then he knows he can't walk all over her. But remember, a mental challenge has little to do with being verbally combative. It has to do with your actions and how much of yourself you are willing to _give up_. For example, he says he likes blondes. You have dark skin, dark eyes, and black hair. The next time he sees you, you've bleached your hair and dyed your eyebrows to match. Translation? He'll sense he has a 100 percent hold on you. "A man's love comes from his stomach," they say. That's true, but no one said to slave for six hours to feed him. Whether he eats out or you order take-out, the stomach is full, and there is plenty of love to go around. Rule of thumb: If it is warm, he'll eat it. The rest is wasted effort. Women are conditioned to give themselves away. I have yet to see a men's magazine with an article on how to cook a woman a four-course meal. The closest they ever come to a recipe is in the bodybuilder section, when they tell guys to mix up a few egg whites with some wheat germ. I raise the issue of cooking because it's one of many ways that women overcompensate. This doesn't mean you should forgo cooking altogether. Perhaps it's your anniversary, and you've been together a whole year. Perhaps it is his birthday, and you want to do something special for him. On a special occasion, and after he has earned it, cooking him a meal is a nice "treat." But it isn't a treat if you give it to him right off the bat. Since this is a book for women, I would be remiss if I didn't include some recipes for those first weeks in a relationship. And, unlike Martha Stewart's recipes, the following are easy to remember. You don't even need recipe cards. ### Appetizer Popcorn à la Carte I recommend popcorn for its convenience and quick preparation time. First, place the bag in the microwave. When all the kernels have popped, remove the popcorn from the microwave carefully, because it will be very hot. Be sure to wear a cooking mitt, an apron, and a spatula to assist in the removal of the popcorn from the microwave. This will not only impress your guest, it will also make it look like you really know what you're doing. If you find that the popcorn is burned, notice where it is burned. If it's black at the top, dump out the black part and salvage the rest by pouring it into a bowl. Serve the yellow part to your guest, and then adjust the time when you make a new bag for yourself. Serves: one and a half. (Good enough.) ### Main Course Gourmet Delicate Dippings Bring a pot of water to a boil, and plop in two wieners. Cook them for five minutes so the wieners are tough or slightly al dente. Pour your guest a refreshing beverage (Kool-Aid). Then send him onto your balcony so he can enjoy the lovely view—as ambience is everything. When he isn't looking, slice and dice the little wieners and stick a toothpick into each piece. Like Martha, you can truly express your creativity with a wide assortment of different colored toothpicks. Now serve the little weiners with two "delicate dipping" sauces, served side by side: ketchup and mustard. And never refer to them as weiner slices, always refer to them as "Gourmet Delicate Dippings." Now for dessert: a jelly roll (Hostess) served with coffee (instant). And an after-dinner mint always makes a classy finishing touch. I recommend peppermint, spearmint, or Trident. You'll know dinner was a smashing success when he insists on taking you out to eat next time. Never again will you hear him utter the words, "Hey, what's for dinner?" If, after some time, he ever slips and asks you to cook, simply offer to make your specialty: popcorn, wieners, and a jelly roll, with coffee and Kool-Aid to help wash it down. Then start getting ready because you'll have reservations within the hour. The bitch is not the woman who will sit at home and work overtime to refine her "man-catching" skills. All she feels she has to do in the beginning is focus on being good company. This is more than enough until he earns the "catbird seat" at the top of the yacht. In the beginning, pay close attention and take note of the following: If he's unwilling to lift a finger during the courtship, he is showing you right up front that he has nothing to offer you in the future. This behavior has nothing to do with your worth. It has everything to do with what he has to offer. And it also has to do with how you present yourself. Are you working overtime? If he has a lot to offer but you don't allow him to come your way, he'll have no other option but to back off. When a nice girl overcompensates, her behavior says, "What I have to offer isn't enough, and who I am isn't enough." The bitch, on the other hand, gives a very different message. "Who I am is enough. Take it or leave it." And now, a comparison: "I AM NOT ENOUGH." \| vs. \| "I'm ENOUGH. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT." ---\|---\|--- She calls him often and says, "Please return my call." \| \| She gets back to him when she's free She is on call like a rookie flight attendant. \| \| She sees him when it is convenient for her. She makes it obvious a relationship is her goal before she knows much about him. \| \| She goes out to have fun and doesn't make promises to a virtual stranger When he does call her, she is mad he didn't call sooner. \| \| When he calls her, he is curious where _she_ is, and why she's not there. She often drives. \| \| He'll pick her up or happily go out of his way. She asks, "Where's our relationship going?" \| \| He has no clue where the relationship is going, and she leaves it like that. She talks about having babies. \| \| She can't remember his last name. She asks him about the "ex." \| \| He brings up the ex; she looks at her watch. ONE = DOORMAT \| \| THE OTHER = DREAMGIRL The foundation is laid from day one. From the very beginning, he consciously (yes, consciously) tries to figure out what the parameters are _and how much he can get away with_. Phone etiquette is also telling. Do you wait to hear from him before you make plans? Do you get bent out of shape if he doesn't call, check in, or show up as expected? If so, you are not giving him a lesson in punctuality. What you are doing is showing him he has a 100 percent hold on you, which isn't a good message to give someone you've just met. It's a fact that most men deliberately don't call, just to see _how you'll respond._ When a woman is upset, she is easy to read. And a man can easily gauge how much a woman wants or needs the relationship by simply pulling back a little bit. So forget all those other theories from magazines about why men don't call. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #4 Sometimes a man deliberately won't call, just to see how you'll respond. It is human nature for a man to test the waters to see how much he can get away with. You see it in the behavior of children and even in the behavior of pets. It's par for the course. Pulling back is also something men do to gain reassurance. No man is going to say, "Honey, I need reassurance about where I stand with you." Instead he'll pull back to see how you'll react. When you react emotionally, it gives him a feeling of control. And if you react emotionally frequently, over time he will come to see you as less of a mental challenge. If he can't predict how you'll always react, you remain a challenge. It also gives him something he absolutely needs: the freedom to breathe. If you don't hear from him for a little longer than usual, show him that you have absolutely no "attitude" about it. This behavior will make him a little unsure about whether you miss him (i.e., "need him") when he isn't around. It gives him a reason to come your way because he won't perceive you as needy. Try not to say things such as "Why haven't you called me?" or "Why haven't I heard from you in a week?" If you act as though you haven't even noticed (because time flies when you're having fun), he will come your way. Why? Because he doesn't feel as though he has a 100 percent hold on you. A top teen magazine recently gave women the following bad advice. They said to slip notes in unexpected places like his backpack or locker, or to "write a poem and slip it under his windshield wiper." As if this wasn't enough to give his attraction the kiss of death... Wait, it gets better. In addition, they advised catching him off guard by "having a pizza delivered." Okay. Put it all together and what do you get? A magic recipe for convincing him you are a _stalker_. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #5 If you start out dependent, it turns him off. But if it is something he can't have, it becomes more of a challenge for him to get it. Again, it isn't about learning how to play a game. It's about understanding human nature and behaving accordingly. A man will always want what he can't have. When a man meets a woman and she seems nonchalant, it becomes a challenge for him to win her affections. Or, if he tries to get a woman to react in an insecure way but she holds herself with a level of dignity and pride, suddenly the dynamic changes. The same guy who was gun-shy of relationships becomes a believer. Now he begins to fantasize about getting the so-called bitch to cook him a meal, fold his socks, or chase him around. But if you _start out_ dependent on him, he simply doesn't value it the same. Another mistake that a woman can make is to put herself down. When you're on a date, you should never talk about the plastic surgery you want to have or the weight you want to lose. Don't talk him out of a compliment. This is the time to be sure of who you are. So, what's the right attitude? "This is me, in all of my splendor... and it doesn't get any better than this." Don't spend a fortune on a therapist. Just say it to yourself until you believe it. Eventually you _will_ believe it, and so will he. Humility? Don't worry. It's a treatable affliction, a mental glitch. If you catch yourself being modest or humble or any of that nonsense, correct the problem immediately. Go directly back to believing you are "a catch." Period. End of story. Case closed. If someone else doesn't like your confidence, that's their problem. _Why? You always come before they do, that's why._ Case in point: Ever hear a man say that all the guys wanted his ex-girlfriend? He'll build her up so much that when you finally see a picture, you are dumbfounded. What you really want to say is, "Honey, she looks like she had the starring role in _Lassie Comes Home_." Don't bother because he'll rush to her defense: "She looked better in real life." No sale... try again. "She looked better back then? (Pause.) It was a really bad picture, no, really." (Still, no sale.) What women need to understand is that when a man considers a woman to be a prize, looks have very little to do with it. In the above example, it was a simple mind trick that goes like this: She acted like a prize, and then a funny thing happened. He completely _forgot who he was looking at._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #6 It is your attitude about yourself that a man will adopt. The same works in reverse. A beautiful woman can make herself look ugly in the eyes of a man if she is very insecure. He pursued you; therefore, he finds you attractive. An understated demeanor and a confident attitude will convince him you're gorgeous. Never assume you are not attractive enough, and therefore you have to overcompensate or chase a man. Taste is subjective. One man's "ugly" is another man's "beautiful." The first date is about looks. When he falls in love, it's about your attitude. It's about whether you can hold your own. Which is all about how you hold _yourself._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #7 Act like a prize and you'll turn him into a believer. A woman also demeans herself when she compares herself to another woman. So, don't let on when you feel threatened by another attractive woman who walks into the room. If you want to make a woman who is a 6 on a scale of 10 look like a 12, what do you need to do? Simple. Act threatened by her. If you pretend not to notice her, he'll see your confidence in yourself and then he'll become intrigued with _you_. Then another curious thing will happen. Suddenly she won't look so good. She only has as much power as you give her. A girlfriend of mine named Samantha went on a first date with a man who took her to a local boxing match. In between rounds, as always, there was a sexy, barely dressed stripper who came out holding the round number. Her date looked at the woman and then, in an effort to be a gentleman, turned to look at Samantha. She acted as though she was oblivious as to why he had turned to look at her. When the woman came out again in the following round in a see-through lace nightie, my friend leaned down under the seat and nonchalantly asked her date if she could drink some of the water in his water bottle. He said, "Sure." At no time did she behave as if she was threatened. Instead, she remained very composed as though the other woman didn't even exist. By the end of the third round, he no longer noticed the woman in the boxing ring. The end result was that he was completely enamored with Samantha. And while driving home, he kept saying how incredibly beautiful he thought she was. The proof was in the pudding. He continued to pursue her, not the stripper who overcompensated, to get the kind of attention _that is often very short-lived._ While my friend's behavior was exemplary, his wasn't all that romantic. It should not go unnoticed that a man is willing to take you somewhere unromantic on the first date. If a man takes you to a boxing match, a strip joint, or a place he might typically hang out with a bunch of guys, he's telling you by the choices he is making that he doesn't plan to have you around that long. If this is where he takes you on a first date, _don't_ go out with him a second time. If you are in an uncomfortable situation, don't feel compelled to compete with another woman. In addition, you don't need to expose a lot of skin or feel as if you have to work harder to earn a man's sexual attention. I know a woman who takes off layers of clothes based on how the other women in the room are dressed. The issue again is overcompensation. No need. Wearing your sexuality on your sleeve isn't advantageous in luring a man. The issue is not about whether you are successful in turning him on; this is no big achievement. He can get aroused from riding a motorcycle or from sleeping. The issue is not whether you turn him on; it's whether he _stays_ turned on _after_ he has been satisfied. This is the key. Quality men are attracted by less, not more. If he sees a pretty secretary wearing her hair in a bun, right there in broad daylight he's going to start wondering what she looks like with her hair down. If he sees a woman dressed in a way that shows there is something moving behind a sweater that he can't see, his desire to see is greater than if she's showing it right off the bat. When you show your shape, but don't expose every inch, the "unwrapping of the gift" becomes much more stimulating. If he has to unbutton an item of clothing to get to what he wants to see, it turns him on _more_. Not less. You often hear a man say of a provocatively dressed woman, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers." This is true until he's had "his way" with her and then crackers or no crackers, he moves on. The difficult part isn't getting a man's interest. The trick is knowing how to _sustain_ it. Much of holding your own in a relationship begins with _how you hold yourself._ Overcompensating is overcompensating, and it includes everything from calling a man too much to cooking a four-course meal to dressing too provocatively. Remember the saying: The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. If, at a later date, you dress provocatively, that's another story. Then he knows you are doing it just for him, so it becomes a treat. This is why you often hear men say they want a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom. It's what you don't show that keeps him intrigued. Don't let the advertisements on TV be your guide. The woman who sustains a man's interest is not the one who feels confident because of a particular miniskirt, a belly ring, or a black dress with a plunging neckline. A bitch doesn't rely on these things to feel good about herself. She relies on _who she_ _is as a woman_. "He should accept me as I am!" says the woman who is too nice. Accept you? Oh no, sister. Slap yourself. He should want you madly. Acceptance has nothing to do with it. He _accepts_ a doormat. But he _desires_ his dreamgirl. If you want acceptance, go to a self-help group. We're talking about what he craves. It started when he was a kid. When he received a toy for Christmas that he didn't even ask for, he played with it for a whole five minutes. The toy he cherished was the one he bought with two months' allowance that sat on the top shelf in the toy store. He couldn't reach it but went in to look at it all the time. He got up every morning at the crack of dawn to toss papers on a paper route to get that toy. It's the one toy he will always remember because he had to earn it. IN HER MIND \| IN HIS MIND ---\|--- "I am going the extra mile." \| "She is trying too hard. She's desperate." "I don't want to play games." \| "She talks too much." "I am nurturing." \| "She is mothering." "I am giving 100 percent so I can make it work." \| "She is really nice, but there just isn't any chemistry." But with the bitch? There's no lack of sexual chemistry. #### She Has That "Je Ne Sais Quoi" _Je ne sais quoi_ is a French expression that translates to "I don't know what." It implies "that something special" that there aren't words for. It is that elusive charming quality you just cannot put your finger on. What does this quality boil down to? A woman who is comfortable in her own skin and cannot be made to feel bad about herself. It isn't about looks; gorgeous women get dumped every day. It isn't about intelligence. Women of all types, from brilliant women to women with the IQ equivalent of plant life, pull it off every day. It's about mystery and learning how to create intrigue. When you lose your _edge_ , the relationship loses its _fire_. Think of him as the match. You are the striking board on the back of the match cover. When the rough edge or sand wears off and starts to become dull, it is much harder to get that spark. For example, the man may say, "Maybe I need a little time to think things over." The woman who is too nice responds, "Please don't leave me." Not the bitch. She offers to help him pack. Why (choose _A, B,_ or _C_ )? A. She is helpful. B. He can't pack. C. She loves herself. _Hint:_ The correct answer is _C._ Because she loves herself, the bitch doesn't want anyone who doesn't want her. She doesn't grab his ankles and beg for mercy. She keeps that edge. And, in doing so, she prevents him from wanting to go. Her aura says she doesn't want him desperately enough, need him desperately enough, or let him get under her skin enough. She is driving that train. _Effortlessly_. And it is that very ease that translates into charm. _Je ne sais quoi_ is a sexy devil-may-care attitude. Not only isn't the bitch needy of him, she often isn't focused on him. Ever notice that when you are on the phone ignoring the man you are with, suddenly he'll kiss your neck and try to get your attention? Ignore him and he is intrigued. Make him the center of attention all the time and he runs. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #8 The biggest variable between a bitch and a woman who is too nice is fear. The bitch shows that she's not afraid to be without him. Margaret Atwood said, "Fear has a smell, as love does." It is said that excitement and fear come from the same part of the brain. When a man is slightly afraid of losing a woman, his excitement is piqued. His psyche is like a plant. It needs water but also air to breathe. To give a man too much reassurance too soon is the same as overwatering a plant. It kills it. One of the things women have to get out of their mindset is the notion of what a bitch is. A bitch is _nice_. She's sweet as a Georgia peach. She smiles and she is feminine. She just doesn't make decisions based on the fear of losing a man. The difference between the bitch and the nice girl is not so much in their personalities or in their demeanor. It has nothing to do with how abrasive a woman is. A bitch is a bitch with her actions, because she isn't willing to give herself up. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #9 If the choice is between her dignity and having a relationship, the bitch will prioritize her dignity above all else. The bitch remains the person she is throughout her relationship with a man. She doesn't lose her friends. She doesn't give up her career or her hobbies. She doesn't give up all of her time or bend over backward. And, unlike the nice girl, she is not _too tolerant_ of disrespect. She also keeps her edge and has enormous self-respect; she holds the conviction that her self-worth governs her decisions. Because she is not afraid, ironically he becomes _afraid to lose her_. Because she is not needy, he starts to need her. Because she isn't dependent on him, he begins to depend on her. It's like a reverse magnet. The person who is least dependent on the outcome of the relationship will automatically draw the other person in. #### Meet the "New and Improved" Bitch Let us conclude this chapter by redefining the word _bitch._ Think of it as a "term of endearment." A bitch is not a woman Dreamgirl who speaks in a harsh tone of voice. It is not a woman who is abrasive or rude. She is polite but clear. She communicates directly with a man, in much the same way men communicate with one another. In this way, it's easier for a man to deal with her than with a woman who waffles or appears too emotional, because the emotionally sensitive type of woman confuses him. The bitch knows what she likes and has an easier time expressing it directly. As a result, she usually gets what she wants. Here are the ten characteristics that define her. 1. _She maintains her independence._ It doesn't matter if she is the CEO of a company or a waitress at Denny's. She earns an honest living. She has honor, and she isn't standing there with her hand out. 2. _She doesn't pursue him._ The moon and the sun and the stars don't revolve around him. She doesn't make her dates with him when her horoscope advises that his big Mercury is about to retrograde in her little Venus. She doesn't chase him or keep tabs on him. He is not the center of the world. 3. _She is mysterious._ There is a difference between honesty and disclosure. She is honest but does not reveal everything. She isn't verbally putting her cards on the table. Familiarity breeds contempt and predictability breeds boredom. 4. _She leaves him wanting._ She doesn't see him every night or leave long messages on his machine. She isn't on a first-name basis with his secretary in one week. Men equate longing with love. Longing is good. 5. _She doesn't let him see her sweat._ She keeps communication from getting messy and avoids communicating when upset. When she clears her head, she is succinct and speaks in a "bottom line" way. 6. _She remains in control of her time._ She takes it slowly, _especially_ when he wants to hurry. She moves to her rhythm, not his, preventing him from taking control of her. 7. _She maintains a sense of humor._ A sense of humor lets him know she is detached. However, she doesn't treat disrespect as a laughing matter. 8. _She places a high value on herself._ When he gives her a compliment, she says thank you. She doesn't talk him out of it. She doesn't ask what the ex looked like and doesn't compete with other women. 9. _She is passionate about something other than him._ When he feels he isn't the "be all and end all" of her existence, it makes her more desirable. Staying busy ensures she isn't resentful if he is unavailable. He doesn't have a monopoly on the rent space in her head. He doesn't get Park Place, and he doesn't get Boardwalk. He gets one of those little purple properties next to Go. 10. _She treats her body like a finely tuned machine._ She maintains her appearance and health. A person's self-respect is reflected in how he or she maintains physical appearance. If he tells her he doesn't like red lipstick, she wears it anyway, if it makes her feel good. # 2 ## WHY MEN Prefer BITCHES ### Cracking the Code: What Every Nice Girl Needs to Know "Happiness? A good cigar, a good meal, a good cigar, and a good woman—or a _bad woman._ It depends on how much happiness you can handle." —GEORGE BURNS #### The Thrill of the Chase Women need to understand that men love the "thrill of the chase" and are highly competitive. They like racing cars, engaging in athletics, and hunting. They like to fix things, to figure things out, to pursue. The cat-and-mouse game that women find maddening is actually very exciting to men. This is a very basic difference between the sexes. For a woman, the objective is often a committed relationship, also known as the destination. For a man, the road trip _on the way_ to the destination is often the most fun. The bitch understands that when a man wants something he'll go after it, and going after it makes him want it even more. If he doesn't succeed right away, he starts to crave it. It captures his interest and excites his imagination. A woman who is too nice throws cold water on this process. A man is more likely to get bored when he hasn't really invested much of himself. No one respects a freebie or a handout in any facet of life. When a woman sleeps with a man right away, it doesn't pull him in. The men I interviewed often admitted that if the sex was too easy to get, it was not that great. It's like blackjack. If he wins big right up front, he's done for the night. But with the slow win, things develop differently. He wins a few hands and then loses a couple. At this point, wild horses couldn't pull him away, because he feels so close to winning again. He can almost taste it. His inborn, competitive male nature kicks in and makes _him stay there and fight_. And if he's losing, he'll fight even harder. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #10 When a woman doesn't give in easily and doesn't appear docile or submissive, it becomes more stimulating to obtain her. Another example is when he goes on a hunting trip with "the boys." They go out for a whole week. He sleeps in a grungy sleeping bag and gets chewed up by mosquitoes. He eats food that prison inmates wouldn't touch. For what? The hunt. Then if he actually kills a moose, he comes home prouder than a peacock and wants to hang the moose head on the wall in the den. (Look out—the hunter is now a decorator.) Let's notice something, because it is significant. If you were to drop a dead moose on his doorstep, he'd want nothing to do with it. It could be the very _same moose_ he had hunted, and yet it could have a totally different effect on him. This is how the pursuit affects his interest in a woman. When a woman chases a man, it has the same effect as if she were to deliver a dead moose to his front door. The objective while dating is not to be mean. It's to give him the thrill of the chase by taking it slowly and letting him _be a man_. It's easy to understand his nature because it is our human nature, too. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #11 Being right on the verge of getting something generates a desire that has to be satisfied. Men often admit, "You always want what you can't have." The bitch never lets him feel that he has her under his thumb. Since he never quite has her, he never stops pursuing her. So when he thinks he's making progress and he has you right where he wants you, sometimes it's appropriate to gently remind him that you aren't under his thumb. Here are just a few comparisons between the nice girl and the bitch. SCENARIO #1: HE CALLS YOU AND EXPECTS YOU TO BE AT HOME. --- If the nice girl leaves, she calls first to tell him where she'll be and what time she'll be back. \| The bitch lets him think about where she is every now and then. Often she'll assure him that her cell phone's on, should he want to get ahold of her. \| She lets him wonder if she's outside his reach by not always reporting her whereabouts. SCENARIO #2: HE SAYS HE'LL CALL AT AROUND A CERTAIN TIME AFTER HE GETS IN. THE CALL IS FOUR HOURS LATE. --- The nice girl yells at him and says she was worried. "You should have called!" \| The bitch isn't so easily upset, so she isn't so easy to read. She may or may not pick up the phone, which makes him miss her. SCENARIO #3: HE SEEMS A LITTLE WITHDRAWN, PENSIVE, AND NOT PARTICULARLY TALKATIVE. --- The nice girl continually pries and asks, "What are you thinking about?" She worries that he is pulling away. \| The bitch is in her own thoughts. She doesn't panic, which makes him come her way. SCENARIO #4: HE IS VERY LATE FOR A DATE AND KEEPS HER WAITING. --- The nice girl waits, calls him on his cell phone four times, and tells him he should "value her more." \| The bitch waits a half-hour and then makes other plans. The difference in these situations isn't as much how you treat him as how you treat yourself. The bitch's behavior lets him know without any words that she will not pull the plug on her life to accommodate him. * * * ### Are You _Too_ Nice? A Pop Quiz * * * 1. Do you feel guilty when you say no, or do you say no and then second-guess yourself? 2. Do you often try to tell your partner that you want to be treated with respect? 3. Do you find yourself bartering or negotiating for what you want or need? 4. Do you often pass up sleep or the need for personal time to meet his needs? 5. Do you regularly see him on short notice or when it is convenient for him? 6. Do you find that you repeat what you've asked for as though he didn't hear it the first time? 7. After a fight, are you always the first one to contact him or apologize? 8. Do you find you are much more doting and affectionate than he is? 9. Do you often feel depleted after he has been with you? 10. Do you constantly want more attention or reassurance? * * * If you've answered yes to five or more of these ten questions, you are giving far more than you are receiving. Let's explore why giving yourself up is never in your best interests. Women understand the concept of balance between work Prefer and play. They balance time with family and time with friends. They balance a job with getting an education. But when it comes to a man, the nice girl abandons all sense of balance and immediately makes the man the whole pie. But with a bitch, he is just a piece of it. She keeps the other pieces intact. It all starts out subtly. "What are you doing right now?" he asks when he calls her from his cell phone. "Well, I was going to catch a movie with a girlfriend," she answers. The operative word is _was_ (past tense). Then he asks, "Want to hook up?" She pauses for two seconds. "Okay." A man will try to get you to be very accessible because it's natural that he'll want to make things more convenient for himself. And he'll do so by saying the following to pressure you to accommodate him: "I don't like to plan things." "I like to be spontaneous." "I like to fly by the seat of my pants." Another key factor that distinguishes the nice girl from the bitch is how much of herself she'll give up. Once you're in a relationship and he's shown a pattern of being interested over time, then it's okay to be a little more spontaneous. In the beginning, however, don't make yourself so accessible. If you do, the relationship will always be on his terms. The nice girl will often cancel plans with a girlfriend if she gets a last-minute date. The bitch will hold her own simply by keeping her previously set plans. I know one bitchy woman whose partner absolutely adores her. If she's painting her toenails when he calls, she'll still say, "Thank you so much, but I'm a little busy right now." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #12 A man knows which woman will give in to last-minute requests. Sometimes a man will get tickets to something at the last minute. Or he'll plan a romantic surprise. He is spontaneous, but clearly you're his first priority—so this is harmless. You're in good shape if he's calling you all the time and wants to see a lot of you. What you want to guard against is going on last-minute dates or getting those last-minute calls to do something because he didn't have anything better planned. Sometimes when a woman has feelings for a man, she can't distinguish between the two. THE SPONTANEOUS GUY WHO IS TREATING YOU LIKE A BACKUP \| VS. \| THE SPONTANEOUS GUY WHO ADORES YOU ---\|---\|--- You don't hear from him for two weeks at a time and then all of a sudden you get a phone call. \| \| He makes dates ahead of time, and he also wants to see you spontaneously in between. He prioritizes social engagements with his drinking buddies \| \| His buddies complain that he fell off the face of the earth. They hassle him but he doesn't seem to care. He makes travel arrangements with friends and never asks you to accompany him. \| \| He's constantly asking you to take time off from work so you can get away together. He's irritable when he's around you and frequently complains of not having more time to himself. \| \| He's happy to be in your company. His friends and family all think he looks happier than he's ever looked. He calls you to cancel plans for that evening. Later that night, you call right back and it goes directly to voice mail. Then he calls the following day with a good excuse \| \| If he has to cancel, he feels badly about it. He calls you when he gets in from wherever he is because he has nothing to hide and he wants you to know he's being totally "on the level." He won't ever take you out or spend much money. He may ask you for a loan. Before you know it, you're supporting the guy through college. \| \| He'll do anything just to see you smile You make it known that you're available on a weekend night. And even though he works during the week, he doesn't make himself available to see you. \| \| He almost always sees you whenever you have time, unless he has a professional commitment or there's an important extenuating circumstance. A common example is the typical "booty call." First, the guy waits to hear back from someone _else_ before confirming whether he can see you. He'll call at 5:00 and say he hasn't showered yet and he's on the way. At 7:00 he calls again and pulls the plug: "My friend Troy stopped by." Then he says he'll make it an early night with Troy and tells you he wants to get together afterward. He gets in late, and that's when he offers to see you, providing you drive to his place. No matter how much you want to see him, don't go. At this point, you want to _seriously_ consider not ever seeing him again. If you do go, you won't be more appealing to him; you'll be turning the dimmer switch down on his attraction for you. A friend of mine named Crystal was in this exact situation and handled it perfectly. A man named Brett called her on a Saturday night; it was well after midnight and raining, and he asked her in a seductive tone of voice to drive to his place. A classic booty call. Crystal hadn't heard from Brett in two weeks, since he'd indicated he wanted to "see other people." He also lived 35 miles away from her at the time. Crystal said, "Okay, sweetie. I'm on my way. Give me five minutes to put on a garter belt under my raincoat. I'll be there in forty minutes." She also asked Brett to wait downstairs for her in the rain with an umbrella, so she wouldn't get drenched walking to the front of his apartment complex. He waited and waited and waited. Three hours later, it occurred to him like a stunning revelation: No booty cometh. In the morning Crystal awoke to several messages from Brett. In one of them, he mentioned that he had come down with a severe case of the flu from standing in the rain. (Not her fault. He should have gotten his flu shot.) Again, the bitch is very nice. She is as sweet as a Georgia peach. But inside every sweet peach is a strong pit. And this means she won't explain the obvious when a man is disrespectful. There is no way to hold your own in a relationship and simultaneously accept rude behavior. A quality man doesn't want a woman he can trot all over. There is nothing wrong with having a little self-respect—and a few conditions. ### Condition #1. He books in advance. The message? Your time and attention are valuable. If you treat yourself as a valuable commodity, he will naturally put more stock in you. For example, he calls and says, "When can I see you?" Don't say, "I'm wide open around the clock. Pick a time. _Anytime_!" He suggests Friday. "Okay!" He suggests Tuesday. "Okay!" He suggests three weeks from next Sunday. "Okay!" Instead, politely tell him you have two nights that are good for you. Then let him choose one. He'll probably choose both. Here's a similar circumstance. A doctor I know started a private practice. He didn't want his receptionist to say, "Sure, we have tons of openings. Drop in any time." Instead, he instructed her to say, "We can get you in at 2:15 or at 4:15. Which would work for you?" Most people would tend to value an appointment more with a doctor who appears to be fairly busy _but is willing to accommodate them_ than with one who is always open like an all-night convenience store. ### Condition #2. Don't see him when you are "running on empty." The message? He does not come before basic necessities (i.e., rest). He says he'd like to see you at 9:00 p.m., and you don't want to be out too late? Tell him, "I'd prefer to get together earlier." If he can't because he is working late, make no issue of it. Simply suggest getting together another night. ### Condition #3. If you aren't having fun or he isn't good company, end the date immediately, and give a superficial explanation as to why. The message? You have a standard of how you expect to be treated. For example, you are on a first date. He gets drunk and behaves badly. For starters, never get into a car with someone who is drinking. Always keep a credit card in your back pocket or a $20 bill in your bra. Tell him you are going home early. Excuse yourself, go to the little girl's room, and call a cab. Another friend named Kelly snagged a guy whom a lot of women wanted by setting the tone from the very beginning. She did so simply by being reticent. The man was extremely successful, very attractive, and charismatic. He first saw Kelly when he was eating his lunch at a cafeteria where she often eats. He had that confident vibe and was used to women hitting on him. Kelly was the exception to the rule. He was trying to get her attention while she remained absolutely riveted by her BLT sandwich. She knew that he was watching her, but she pretended not to notice. He came back Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. When he finally asked her out, she paused before she answered, "I don't know you, so I can't look at you in a romantic way. We could start as friends and see where it leads." Here's a guy who was used to women clamoring to be with him, but with Kelly, he was presented with a challenge to pursue a woman who let him know she won't be so easily won over. In this way, she _held her own_. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #13 Whether you have terms and conditions indicates whether you have options. Almost immediately, you present yourself as a doormat or a dreamgirl. "Terms and conditions" are a novel idea for the woman who is too nice. (And you shouldn't leave home without them.) Don't get me wrong: Unconditional love is a beautiful thing. Just be sure to give it _after_ your conditions have been met. #### The Mama/Ho Complex In the field of psychoanalysis, there's a male hang-up called the Madonna/Whore Syndrome. Let's forget all the fancy psychobabble and refer to the informal Mama/Ho version to better understand our male counterparts. The Mama/Ho theory holds that a man will either see you as his "mama" or his "ho." The word _ho_ is a derivative of the word _whore._ It is not a garden tool. A ho is any woman he is having sex with, any woman he wants to have sex with, or any woman he has had sex with. The antonym for ho is mama. A man will feel affectionate toward a woman who is really sweet and nice, much like the affection he has for his mother. Because she doesn't present a challenge and she's always there, he begins to take her for granted. This is when you hear men say, "She's really nice, but there just wasn't any chemistry." Therefore: SAFE + BORING + MAMA = _NO SPARK_ & UNPREDICTABLE + NOT MONOTONOUS + HO = _FIREWORKS_ Even though a man is turned on by the independent woman he can't have, he'll still try to get you to be like his mama. He'll want you to cook, clean, and do his laundry. One woman I know nipped the issue of laundry in the very beginning. Early in her marriage, she threw a red sweatshirt in with all of her husband's white cotton underwear. Then she turned the water on hot to seal the deal. The only underwear he had left was the pair he was wearing. No self-respecting, heterosexual male would ever be caught dead wearing _pink_ underwear. On seeing the ruined garments, her husband threatened her with the very words she wanted to hear, "You will never, ever, ever do my laundry again!" What a nice girl should know is that even if you make every effort to be an exemplary housekeeper, he'll still want a ho behind closed doors. The two are related. Why? Constant mothering will eventually turn a man off. Yes, they say that every man is looking for his mother. This is a nice theory, but it doesn't mean you should run out and do his laundry or treat him as though you are his keeper. There are four things that make a man feel suffocated or mothered, that often turn him off, and that make him distance himself from you like a rebellious teenager. These are the major Mommy no-no's: Do not appear to check up on him or ask him to check in with you. Do not expect him (without asking first) to spend all his free time with you. Do not ask him to account for the time that he isn't with you. Do not be overly doting, leaving him no room to come your way. Never give the appearance that you are closing in on him. For example, suppose he gets off the phone with his long-lost Auntie Mae. If you immediately start questioning him or you jump down his throat and demand to know who was on the phone, it has the same effect as throwing on an apron and assuming the role of mama. Like a teenager, he'll rebel. There are many things women inadvertently say that sound very motherly: "Get some rest," "Don't stay out late," "Call me when you get in," or "Eat something before you go out." You will make him feel _emasculated_. It's no different than telling a two-year-old, "After naptime we'll have a little cookie." Asking a man to explain himself or check in with you is mothering. Maybe he ran a half-hour late coming home. Perhaps he was having a friend help him fix his lawnmower, or maybe he was having a beer under the hood of his friend's car. The very second he thinks he has to explain himself to you, he'll feel as though he is losing his freedom. Then he'll make up a story to conceal something that didn't need to be concealed, just to protect his "territory" or his "turf." And he'll feel cornered. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #14 If you smother him, he'll go into defense mode and look for an escape route to protect his freedom. Don't make him feel as though he has to ask permission for the day-to-day things he wants to do. It's smothering to him when you watch him too closely. Don't give him the feeling he's _under a microscope_. He'll feel controlled and will instantly want to get away. When he's shaving and he's late for work, don't push your way into the bathroom to watch him. Don't look in his car's glove compartment as though there's something suspicious in there. Don't appear to eavesdrop on his phone conversations. Don't try to take over his kitchen or leave girlie things in his bathroom as though you're marking your turf. Don't ask him to spend all his time with you, and don't say, "I miss you" when he hasn't seen you in two hours. If you do these things, _you are subtly doing the chasing_. Don't say things like, "Tuck in your shirt," "Go wash your hands," or "Go brush your hair." Don't ask him if he's hungry three times in a row, and don't wait on him hand and foot—unless he has a cold. (One little sniffle and you can treat it like a terminal illness.) Don't plan all of your weekends together so he has to ask permission to go fishing. Let him catch a couple of fish. Otherwise, he'll start to break dates. Why? Because he's acting like a rebellious teenager who's been given a curfew by mama. He'll do it deliberately so you don't get used to _dictating_ how his time is spent. When you treat your time together as something he _has_ to do, you've taken something that was a pleasure and made it a chore. If you are nice, but you give of yourself with strings attached, the demand for reciprocity will send him several steps backward. Whenever you make him feel as though he _has to_ see you, it will feel like work. When it's _not_ an obligation to see you, the very same thing will feel like pleasure. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #15 Whenever a woman requires too many things from a man, he'll resent it. Let him give what he wants to give freely; then observe who he is. Men like things that are difficult. They like to drive stick-shift automobiles. They like to jump out of airplanes, and they like to climb mountains. They like to do the impossible. Therefore, when he has to go out of his way to see you, he is actually happier. It will not feel like work to him. This theory applies to anything—a phone call, time together, sex, or whether he checks in at the end of the day. If you always make him feel he has plenty of space to do his own thing, he'll always feel that lust. You'll be like a lover not like his mother. He'll perceive you as a privilege rather than an obligation, and he'll come your way. #### The No Cage Rule The minute a man feels vulnerable, he fears being devastated emotionally. When he meets a nice girl, she could potentially represent "forever." Heaven forbid she lets the word _relationship_ trip off her tongue a couple of times? Call 911. He immediately thinks she wants to latch onto him and have babies. Heaven forbid you get excited to see a cute baby? Trauma. He has nightmares and sees it as a sign that he's in dire need of a backup form of birth control. Sometimes you hear men say, "I want to leave my options open" or "I don't want to get tied down." Or they use catch phrases like _ball and chain_ or _henpecked._ My favorite is a hyphenated term that begins with a female body part and is followed by the word _whipped._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #16 A bitch gives a man plenty of space so he doesn't fear being trapped in a cage. Then...he sets out to trap her in his. Clearly, men are scared to death of losing control of their freedom. The thought of being stuck with one woman frightens them. If a woman immediately acts as if she _expects_ a man to behave like a serious boyfriend without much effort on his part, he'll get scared and run off. With the nice girl, it only takes a few dates for him to feel trapped. And then "lockdown mode" begins. WHAT SHE SAYS... \| WHAT HE HEARS ---\|--- "I'd love it if you'd let me know where you are at night. It's just common courtesy." \| Limited supervised outings followed by check-in time with the warden "I get upset when you don't call me when we aren't together." \| The ringing of the keys that are attached to his ball and chain. "We should be together. Why do you need the boys if you have me?" \| "Lights out and lockdown" in fifteen minutes! "I'd like to get married and have kids within a year." \| Nothing. (Inmate on the loose.) Suddenly, _poof!_ The magic is gone. He panics about being an inmate crammed into a cell. By contrast, the bitchier woman is a little more aloof, so it appears as if she has far less interest in taking away his freedom or locking him down. This is one of the major qualities that attract a man to a bitch. Ask yourself the following... * Ever have a pillow fight and notice that you and your partner are more turned on? * Ever notice that when you play-wrestle with a man, he gets all fired up? * Ever notice when a man steps over the line and you put him in his place, he gets turned on? * Ever wonder why the men you _aren't_ interested in won't stop chasing you? * When you're dating someone and you don't pay attention to him, does he seem more intrigued and chase you even more? * Have you ever played with your pet and noticed that your man seems jealous? To fully understand these occurrences, we must focus our attention on where the true answer lies: The Animal Channel. Men are hunters, and like any hunting animal, they are more intrigued by conquering prey when it resists the predator. Most men are turned on by a bitch because it's a thrill to take down a powerful woman. Let's look at how this has practical applications. A grad student named Nancy was taking an evening class, and she had an interest in a male classmate. He kept sitting closer and closer until finally he asked her out. She said, "Okay, I'd love to. But while we are in this class, I just want you to know that I'd like to keep it professional." There was clearly an undeniable amount of chemistry between them, so her comment was hardly a deterrent. It became: Operation Get That Girl. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #17 If you tell him you are not interested in jumping into a relationship with both feet, he will set out to try to change your mind. The way to quell his fears is to say you aren't interested in anything "too serious." As long as you appear interested in him, he'll keep coming your way. In his mind, you'll always be able to be convinced otherwise because men are so conditioned to meeting women who want commitment. By not appearing to want commitment, you throw a monkey wrench in the lock-down program. He no longer knows what to expect. ### Things You Can Say to Avoid the Cage When you go on a first date, tell him you "don't want to be in a serious relationship, for the time being." (Of course, things may change.) When you work together, say, "I don't know if it's a good idea for us to mix business with pleasure." (You need a little convincing.) When it's a long-distance relationship, say, "I'm not sure long-distance relationships can work." (Tentative is good.) This is how you get in the conductor's seat of the train, and this is when he wants to stay on board. When he's driving, there is no "thrill" and no "chase." But when you're driving, suddenly it's a fun ride because he can't anticipate what will happen next. (I submit to you, my fellow sisters, it's very selfish _not_ to indulge him in so much fun.) The opposite is also true. If, for example, you _don't_ like him and wish he'd stop calling, try, "Babies? I love babies! I want at least a half a dozen of them, maybe more. My clock is ticking so I'd like to have them soon. _Real soon_. Perhaps six of them in the next four years..." Keep talking about those babies. This is the perfect approach for that friendly guy you aren't interested in and you don't want to hurt. It's a perfect way to get rid of him. "Diapers? It's easy to get the hang of it. And, don't worry...you'll get used to the smell of the poop! It won't last too long, just until they get potty trained..." Just make sure you're on the ground floor when you tell him, so he doesn't get hurt when he jumps off the balcony. (Open windows and high altitudes should also be avoided.) If you don't make him feel locked down, he'll come your way. Think of him as a frightened stray dog. Eventually, he'll drop his guard and come around. But if you charge at him or try to corner him, he'll bolt. This also relates to why men prefer bitches. When he meets a woman who is unavailable or a little bitchy, he has a built-in excuse for why he isn't going to get too close. "She's a bitch, so I won't get too serious. I'll just have a little fun," he says to himself. Fun equals freedom. That is, until he gets attached and then it's checkmate. Men don't _choose_ to be in love. It happens by accident. That's why they coined the phrase _to fall in love_. As in "Oops!" He _fell._ He had a plan... but it went terribly awry. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #18 Always give the appearance that he has plenty of space. It gets him to drop his guard. The more relaxed he is, the less guarded he'll be; and then it's only a matter of time before he reaches the point of no return. When he's in madly in love, you won't need to say things like "Where are you going?" or "What are you doing?" He'll tell you everything you ever wanted to know because he _wants_ to, not because you had to ask. And, if and when he does go out with the boys, he won't be able to wait to get home to you. #### The Power of Choice Who can forget the scene in _Coming to America_ in which Eddie Murphy, as the prince, stands before the altar prepared to wed his beautiful bride in a prearranged marriage? Before the ceremony, he takes the bride into a back room and asks her, "What do you like?" She responds, "Whatever you like." Then he asks her what she likes to eat. "Whatever you like." Her answers become more and more subservient. Then he tells her to bark like a dog and hop on one leg. When she does, he realizes he can't go through with the wedding. A man wants a woman who has a mind of her own. An _opinion._ The way you assert yourself lets him know whether you have self-confidence. It lets him know you can hold up your end of the bargain. When he gives you a "little crap," you can give him a "little crap" right back. He respects a woman who can "trade blows" with him _and hold her own._ You don't have to always agree with everything he believes. A man falls in love with a woman when he feels he has "met his match." If you feel strongly about something, don't be afraid to say so. When he asks, "What movie do you want to see?" don't always tell him to choose. How about saying, "Hey, I sat through two of your 'shoot-'em-up-bang-bang' movies, so we're seeing a 'chick-flick' tonight." Men are attracted to a woman who can speak her mind. As one married man described, "Sometimes, get dressed to go out and tell _him_ to stay home with the kids. Don't ask him. _Tell him."_ Another said something even more poignant. "I don't think most men would mind if a woman was the one in control at home. Just as long as no one else knew about it." So begin your dating relationship with a voice. Don't give the impression you are spineless. Remember the scene in _When_ _Harry Met Sally_ when Meg Ryan's character takes an hour to order her sandwich? Have an opinion. State a preference. Be polite, but don't be afraid to express yourself. For example, suppose you're at the video store deciding between two movies to rent. Don't get the one that you've already seen. "I'll see it again if you haven't seen it." Slap yourself. "There are a lot of good movies. How about we get one neither one of us has seen?" If he suggests Indian food and you absolutely hate it, say, "Hey, I heard there's a really good new restaurant right next door." Show him that you aren't afraid to make a suggestion or take the initiative. Assume that a man wants to be a gentleman. And if he wants to be a gentleman, he wants to _please you_. The bitch requires an equivocal situation, whereas the nice girl does not. If the guy insists on picking the movie or restaurant all the time and has no regard for what she likes, the bitch will not have any contact with him. It isn't about Italian or Chinese. It isn't about one movie over another. It's about whether he shows her he is selfish. This is a character flaw the bitch won't tolerate. This is a silly example, but I'll offer it because evidently it worked. A Swedish girlfriend of mine named Anna recently had dinner with a man, and he ordered two lobsters. The waiter brought the two live lobsters to the table and asked, "Will this be okay, sir?" My friend is not a vegetarian, but she grew up with a couple of pet frogs in Sweden and was alarmed to see the lobsters' little legs kicking. She said, "I just couldn't sit through the next five minutes knowing these two things would be boiled alive," and she insisted that he change the order. Anna would have bet her life savings that this guy would never call her again, but he did. He called almost every day that week. He wanted to please her more than he wanted lobster. That's a gentleman. I'm not saying the lobster example is a trick you should try at home, but it's far better than the Eddie Murphy bride who said, "Whatever you like." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #19 More than anything else, he watches to see if you'll be too emotionally dependent on him. It isn't that a man wants a woman who is "bitching" all the time or complaining about everything that's wrong in her life. He wants a woman who isn't afraid to disagree or express an opinion. When he asks on the first date, "What do you like to do?" don't shrug and say, "Um. You know. Stuff." You don't need to say you'll bungee jump, climb mountains, and then come home and have sex all night. But show him that you have an "appetite for life." _Your life_. It's all in how you describe things. "Occasionally, _(yawn)_ I pick up a book." This not the same as "There is this _amazing_ book I'm reading by Susan Faludi, and it's so intriguing. She's such an incredible writer." To better understand why men are put off by needy women, keep this example in mind. Ever had a girlfriend who always comes around when she is upset over some guy? In between relationships, she is nowhere to be found. After not hearing from her for two months, she cries on your shoulder when the guy blows her off. Then you don't see her again until the next guy dumps her. Eventually you won't want to be around her because you _won't feel as though she is contributing_ to your friendship. That's how a guy feels when you are too dependent on him. It becomes a burden if you lean on him too much. He is only human, and he has his own problems. Show him that you'll be an equal partner, which means that you also have something to contribute. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #20 He must feel that you choose to be with him, not that you need to be with him. Only then will he perceive you as an equal partner. The mere fact that the bitch can throw a little weight around or put him in his place once in a while gives him the impression she doesn't need to be with him. She can stand on her own two feet. So, instead of feeling as if he's lost his freedom, he feels as though he's gained a strong woman. The relationship is a contributing force, rather than an obligation he's stuck with. This is also why giving him space is so important. It makes you look proud rather than desperate. It enables you to remain a challenge indefinitely. Why? You _chose_ to be with him. You didn't _need_ to be. As a person, you feel you are complete with him or without him. This is the most important thing you can convey: independence rather than dependence. This is what gives him the perception you can _hold your own_. # 3 ## THE Candy STORE ### How to Make the Most of Your Feminine and Sexual Powers "Sex is like a small business. Ya' gotta watch over it." —MAE WEST #### One Jujube at a Time If you look at the run-of-the-mill survey of what men find attractive in a woman, you'll get the basic, boring, predictable answers: "Studies have concluded that what men look for is...appearance, chemistry, and the way a woman carries herself." What a shocker! Then you turn the page. "Buy a new lip gloss...pluck out all your eyebrows and draw them back in...stick three vials of collagen in your glossed-up lips..." And this will get him eating out of your hand, right? Not in _this_ life. You'll be right back where you started but with no eyebrows. Ever wonder why you see a gorgeous guy marry the girl-next-door? To your eye she looks plain, but to his eye she's a "natural beauty." It doesn't matter if her most glamorous moment was winning the Miss Pumpkin Patch contest on a farm at age six. When he goes to bed with her, he's happier than a fat rat in a cheese factory. In general, there are two things a woman does to encourage a man to fall madly in love _after_ he is attracted to her. First, she appeals to his imagination, sexually. Second, she waits a little while before consummating the relationship, sexually. This brings us to the "candy store" theory: _Don't give up the candy store at once. Give it one jujube at a time._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #21 If a man has to wait before he sleeps with a woman, he'll not only perceive her as more beautiful, he'll also take time to appreciate who she is. What men don't want women to know is that, almost immediately, they put women into one of two categories: "good time only" or "worthwhile." And the minute he slides you into that "good time only" category, you'll almost never come back out. It's not that the bitch is slutty or more conservative—it's that she demands that he treat her as though she is "worthwhile." And, more often than not, it means revealing her sexuality a little at a time. With her demeanor, the bitch is subtly "driving that train." Because he perceives her as slightly standoffish, he knows a lot of other men can't get to her. In fact, he's not even sure if _he_ can have her. So he'll rarely get the luxury of being able to assume that she's a "good time only" companion. The doormat is more likely to be perceived as a pushover sexually because she's more likely to sleep with a man for the wrong reasons—and _much_ too soon. It has nothing to do with whether she appears conservative. Whether her style is long skirts and a ponytail and she attends napkin-folding class—or she wears sexy clothes and seems like a party girl—the outcome can be the same. In either scenario, if she has sex with a man because she feels she _needs to do so in order to win him_ , he'll sense it and begin to lose respect for her. A man named Brad described this distinction: "There are two types of sexy. The woman who is obviously _trying_ to be sexy. Then there is the woman who _isn't trying_ to be sexy—she just is. Most guys find the second one to be much sexier. It may not seem like that, because the woman who is _trying hard_ will get you to do a double-take because she's more obvious about it. But the woman who isn't trying is sexier. And that's the girl you'll take seriously." What is more interesting is that Brad is just out of college. And if a guy in his early twenties saw this with 20/20 vision, rest assured—so will most men you meet. The following table shows how a man can quickly make these observations with relatively little information. Note that both types of women exude sexiness, yet one appears _needy_ and the other doesn't. A "GOOD TIME ONLY" WOMAN \| VS. \| A "WORTHWHILE" WOMAN. ---\|---\|--- She talks a lot about sex on the first date or in the first phone conversation. \| \| She flirts more subtly and uses body language to convey her sensuality. She wears an outfit that is very short, showing leg, cleavage, and back. Her sexuality is _overstated_. She follows the pattern of what he sees all the time. \| \| She shows one physical attribute. Or she wears something that's slightly sheer. Her sexuality seems like it's a part of who she is. It doesn't seem forced. She compliments him incessantly or hangs all over him. \| \| She keeps him interested by giving him compliments when he's hoping to have sex, so he feels he's "in the game." She wears a black lace teddy for him on the third date, leaving nothing for him to imagine. \| \| She hangs the same nightie on the back of her bathroom door, so he sees it when he uses her bathroom. Then his eyes almost burn a hole through her clothes as he imagines seeing her in it. On the second date she invites him in. He promised they'd "just cuddle." They end up sleeping together; but she ends up feeling insecure about it. He has then had the whole candy store. \| \| They kiss passionately at the door. She'd love to invite him in, but she controls her own urges and tells him good night on her porch. The spark fizzles. \| \| The spark doesn't fizzle...it ignites. How long should you wait before having sex? _As long as_ _you can._ At the very least, keep it platonic for the first _month_. This tactic gives you time to learn about him. You don't want to wait until after you sleep with him to learn he's married. Or that he has an ex-girlfriend who has chronic car problems and regularly needs a lift. Or that his first cousin recently dumped him when he cheated on her with her older sister. Giving up the candy store one jujube at a time isn't about being celibate or virginal. It is about ensuring that you look out for number one. It ensures that the man develops a habit of putting forth effort so that you are treated _the way you want to be treated_. Not having sex right away is about playing your cards right so that small things matter. This is when he'll get a chill down his spine because you gently hold his hand in a public place. Or he'll call you several times just to get a glimpse of you. And in his mind, you are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's all about having _that magic spark._ And men live for that spark. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #22 Sex and the "spark" are not one and the same. #### A Sweeter Victory If a man feels as though he has to _win_ you over first—sexually with his manliness, wit, or charm—he will place a higher value on you. Men are possessive. He likes knowing that other men cannot easily get to where he is trying to go. Like he's Captain Kirk and Christopher Columbus all wrapped up in one, he wants to explore new terrain not trampled on by too many men before him. And he judges whether you make "the rounds" by one thing and one thing only: how quickly you give it up to him. It is true that there are those rare "chance" liaisons between two people who are generally not promiscuous, and it ends up working out well. But this is the exception, not the rule. One of my closest girlfriends, Brittany, is a pharmacist and a beautiful "worthwhile" woman with a lot going for her. Almost always, she sleeps with a man on the first couple of dates. Recently she slept with a guy she really liked. Right after they had sex, he appeared to be in his own thoughts. Then he looked at her and asked, "Do you do this with all the guys?" She recalled how it made her feel: "I was _mildly_ insulted!" If you have sex immediately with a man, he'll say to himself, for a short while, "She just couldn't resist me!" But then he'll begin to scratch his head and wonder how many _other_ men you also couldn't resist. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #23 Before sex, a man isn't thinking clearly and a woman is thinking clearly. After sex, it reverses. The man is thinking clearly and the woman isn't. When sex happens at lightning speed, the man has achieved what he wanted. The reason he thinks more clearly after sex is that he's relieved and has already attained his goal. Meanwhile, the woman is just starting to pursue her goal. She has unfinished business. Then she chases _him_...and he runs. Like it or not, in the beginning you're subtly negotiating the terms of your relationship. And if you strike a deal too soon, you give up all your bargaining power. The bitch takes her time deciding whether the man is someone she wants to strike a deal with in the first place. And she won't be a pit stop or a notch on a belt. At first, he wants to sleep with you. He doesn't care what you do for a living. He doesn't care what kind of car you drive. He doesn't care that you like a doughnut and coffee in the morning with Equal and nonfat milk. So you have to _turn it into_ something else. When you make him wait, he begins to notice that you are "different." And that's when he begins to care that you like nonfat milk, not cream, in your coffee. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #24 Every man wants to have sex _first;_ whether he wants a girlfriend is something he thinks about _later_. By not giving him what he wants up front, you become his girlfriend without him realizing it. Men _like_ the game that women find maddening. Picture the following scenario: A red-blooded American male is watching a Super Bowl game in which the score is 47 to 3. That's not very exciting, right? But if he's watching a Super Bowl game that goes into overtime—now he's on the edge of his seat for three hours. His team triumphs and he starts screaming: "Yes! Yes!" His favorite sports idol on TV is now spanking everyone else on the rear while he's breaking out the drinks for a celebration. Ten years later, if you were to ask him about that game-winning final play, he'd describe it as though it happened yesterday. The same thing happens when a woman gives herself over slowly. He becomes much more excited about it. This may sound "old school," but rest assured it is advice based on _countless_ interviews I conducted with men, both young and old. A perfect example is Nathan. He just turned twenty-five, and he does pretty well with the ladies. Here's what he had to say, word-for-word: _If she gives it up too soon, we stop with the romance and we stop working at it. And truthfully, we'd_ rather _be working hard at it. We enjoy playing the game, and if it ends too soon, we're disappointed. We even struggle inside, subconsciously. We know we want to get it, but we know we want the girl to make us wait. Otherwise, it's a one- or a two-time thing. And then you move on._ Granted, there are some men who don't want to invest any effort. These are the men who subscribe to the "three-date rule." This rule holds that if a woman doesn't put out by the third date, the man should stop pursuing her altogether. There are men who truly want to find a woman they can spend time with. However, the "three-date rule" is for men who have ruled out this option entirely; they just want to hit and run. If a man leaves because he didn't score by the third date, it's a clear signal he would have left after getting it anyway. The nice girl is more likely to feel _obligated, pressured_ , or _manipulated_ to sleep with a man early on. She sleeps with him and then believes she'll hook him with great sex, as though what she has to offer sexually is "golden." The bitch understands that the sex only becomes "golden" when he doesn't get it right away. Don't be misled by the fact that men want it quick and they are accustomed to having it be easy. If given the option, most men would love to know how much it would take—the bottom-line dollar figure—to get a woman into bed. It's almost as if there is an _unspoken_ transaction between the guy and the nice girl, in which a bartered transaction takes place: "Lookie, here. I'm willing to spend the equivalent of two dinners, a bouquet of flowers, and a movie—for a grand total of $255.92. And not a penny more." He budgets how much he can spend and wants to know how much it will cost. _The bitch is smarter._ She knows that if he's not pursuing her, he'll pursue someone else. So whatever his budget is, large or small, she makes sure it is spent on her and on no one else. In her mind, she's the best investment he'll ever make. The "three-date rule" will fall on deaf ears with the bitch. She'll let the guy walk—and she won't barter. He will end up marrying the woman who doesn't play by his rules; she plays by her own. Since she has no problem allowing the words _See ya later_ to trip lightly off her tongue, he usually doesn't feel as if he can get away with disrespecting her. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #25 A man intuitively senses whether sexuality comes from a place of security or from a place of neediness. He knows when a woman is having sex to appease him. Unlike the nice girl, the bitch believes that she has much more to offer than _just_ her sexuality. So she has sex when the feeling strikes her—if and when she's comfortable with the relationship. She is plenty sexy, which is precisely why she _doesn't_ throw it out there as if it's all she has. After they consummate the relationship, this doesn't change. He is still unable to predict when he will make love to her. He doesn't know if it will happen Tuesday or Wednesday. Or Saturday or Sunday. So the mystery and the chase never go away, and he never quite feels he has fully conquered her. And that is because when she has sex with him it's _on her terms._ When sex happens early on because the nice girl wants desperately to hold on to a man, his behavior changes completely. The dinners, the candlelight, the flowers-it all comes to a screeching halt. Instead of taking her out to dinner and a movie, now he's dropping by unannounced with a video because he already knows what's going to happen. However, when a woman makes him wait and he's romantic over time, the dinners and the flowers keep on coming. Why? Because he formed the _habit_ of treating her with respect before he got what he wanted. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #26 Bad habits are easier to form than good ones, because good habits require conscious effort. Waiting encourages this effort. A quality guy will stick around as long as he is being reassured in two areas: He wants to know that he is sexually desirable to you, and he wants to see signs that he is still in "the game." As long as he can see the light at the end of the tunnel, he'll continue to make his way down the tunnel. However, it won't take much for him to get a mixed message or to feel he's being teased. Therefore, the next section will help you with the delicate balancing act you'll need to perform so he does not feel as though you are _teasing_ him. #### The Jujube Installment Plan As you're making a concerted effort to keep the relationship out of the bedroom, remember his objective will be different than yours. You want your feet on the floor; he wants them in the air. It's not necessarily helpful that you absolutely dig the guy and that you are _just as turned on_ as he is. Giving him a mixed message will be easy, because he's ever so sexy and he's trying to seduce you. And he'll be on the lookout for any signal whatsoever that you've given him a green light. So it's important to keep the signals very clear: * Red means no. * Green means go. * Yellow means you're a tease, which will piss him off. For example, perhaps your top comes off, or there's a little bit of grinding action while you're kissing on the couch. A few minutes later, he'll think you're ready to roll. This is not the time to say, "No, I'm just not ready." Telling him this is like taking candy away from a child after you've already let him taste it. You can't titillate him to the point of no return and then say, "No, I just don't feel right about it." He'll be thinking, "How do you not feel right about it when you're topless, you've been grinding me for an hour, and your pants are unbuttoned?" ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #27 If you pull the sexual plug at the last minute, he'll label you a tease. This is where we get the term _hot and bothered._ After he's no longer hot, he will be pissed off and "bothered." He'll have far less desire to engage in the game because you've taken all the fun out of it. He no longer thinks you are playing fair, and his feelings will change from lust to _resentment._ If he feels he's being teased, he may stop pursuing you altogether. Think about it. You can't show a dog a T-bone steak for an hour and then throw him a celery stick. If you want a man to respect you, you have to play fair. The following guidelines will allow you to delay the time before you have sex without being perceived as a tease: * In the beginning, try not to be alone at his place or at yours, especially very late at night. * Do things socially that require that you to meet somewhere in public. Or have him pick you up and then have somewhere to go. * Do fun things during the daylight hours. If you go biking, it will seem like a red light. But if you're both wrapped up in a blanket in front of a fireplace with a bottle of wine at midnight, he'll assume you've given him a green light. * Give kisses that are sexy and sensual. But do it while you're _out,_ where it is unlikely to last too long. Don't get him worked up when you're alone together, while rolling around on the floor, a bed, or the couch. * The first few times you go out, he may want to come in late at night, after your date. If you think he's going to make a move but you aren't quite ready, abort the mission at the door. If you live in an apartment building, say good night in the lobby. "Thanks so much, I've had a great time." * Smile a lot, laugh at his jokes, and be good company. You want him to think of you as a friend _as well as_ a lover. It's a great sign if he babbles on about himself, especially if he's a little nervous. If he likes you, he'll want to open up. * Flirt in moderation. Be careful of sexual joking because it's never really a joke. A lot of times men will use humor to see where the parameters lie. Don't be a prude—you can laugh at the jokes and be playful. But don't stay on the subject of sex for a long time, or he'll view it as a green light. * Compliment him. Let him know he's desirable to you. For example, lean close and smell his cologne when he gives you a hug. Or tell him he looks gorgeous. This subtly confirms you choose to wait for reasons that have nothing to do with _his_ desirability. * Show that you are affectionate and loving. Hold hands or put your head on his shoulder so he feels manly. Rub his leg lightly while you are at the movies. But don't tease him; this means stay close to the _knee_. Don't graze private areas or he'll see a green light. * Try not to get into heavy petting in the car when he drops you off, or he'll want to get busy. Even the guy with the new BMW who makes you wipe your feet before sitting on his leather seats won't hesitate to get some "play" in his car. That's why he bought it in the first place. * If it's late at night, don't say, "Okay, come in...just for a minute." Don't ask him to come in to meet your cat, Cushy. Don't offer coffee. Don't offer tea. Don't show him your remodeled place. There's no such thing as "just for a minute" after midnight. * Don't let on you are pacing it, even though you are. Don't ever tell him he'll be waiting at least a month. Don't indicate whether he's "getting warm" and try not to give him a three-day weather forecast for predicting that you'll soon be ready. _Just don't create the opportunity for something to happen if you aren't ready to allow it to happen._ * Don't believe him when he says, "We'll just cuddle." Even if you've known him for a long time and he's a perfect gentleman with extraordinary restraint, the objective is not to tease him. * Be affectionate _in public_. It's generally pretty safe, because it can't go any further. A textbook example of a sexual mixed message happened with my friend Pam. Last winter, she invited a guy to come into her home after a date because it was really cold in his car. She made hot chocolate and put on comfortable baggy flannel pajamas. They started to kiss. She assumed the flannel pajamas were so conservative that he wouldn't perceive it as an invitation to have sex. She was surprised to discover that he had much more than hot chocolate on his mind. Bedroom clothes are _b-e-d-r-o-o-m clothes_ to a man. Wearing something cozy that you sleep in (even ugly boxers or flannel sleepers) will be perceived as a green light. Even though he'll subtly pressure you, if he really likes you, a part of him deep down will want you to make him wait. He wants to believe you are "different." He wants you to think he is neat, cool, and handsome. He wants you to laugh at his jokes and think he is funny. He wants a goddess. He wants...Wonder Woman. So how do you give him this impression? Simple. Let him pursue you and don't give yourself over too easily. Throw on a pair of go-go boots and suddenly you become the Wonder Woman of his dreams. #### The Sweet Spot When a man and a woman become lovers, there are still behaviors that differentiate the doormat and the dreamgirl. One of the biggest mistakes the nice girl makes is she competes with other women. She may ask him about another woman in the room, "Is she pretty?" Or, she may be competing with whatever she _thinks_ he fantasizes about: a model, a centerfold, a stripper, or a porn star. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #28 If he makes you feel insecure, let your insecurity be your guide. It's often said that a woman doesn't reach her sexual peak until after she turns thirty. It takes a lot of women until then to overcome their insecurity or the feeling that they have to compete with other women. Sex becomes better because she can tell him what she likes. She's more secure. She's more assertive. She can let go because she is not self-conscious. A lot of women feel pressured to live up to an ideal. Or they feel that in the bedroom they have to put on a riveting performance. I've even heard some men critique women and say, "The louder she screams, the better." A look at how widespread pornography has become only confirms how unrealistic the standards have become. Even porn movies utilize fake "voiceovers." This means that the girl screaming, "Yes! Yes! Give it to me, yes!" is often a fully dressed 400-pound woman who is sitting on a stool in a studio and screaming into a microphone. The bitch doesn't usually define herself by outside standards. But often, women who are _too_ nice are _too_ busy trying to measure up. When a woman is _too_ concerned with performance issues in bed, she completely forgets why she's there in the first place. It's not sex; it's "animation" time. ### How to Fake an Orgasm— The Animated Guide * Arch your back at a 45-degree angle and pant like a dog. * Recite a couple of bad lines from a B-rated blue movie. Example: Tell Big Poppa he does it for you like no one else can. * And the basics: " _Yes, yes, yes...harder, harder...don't stop!_ " Then you'll want to immediately slap the nearest pillow. * Mix it up. This means sometimes you'll want to slap the pillow then scream, other times you want to scream first, then slap the pillow. Men love variety. * Don't forget to suck your finger. * Now for show and tell: Ask him whose "it" is, and tell him that it's his! * If he switches positions, stops for a rest, or reaches for a drink of water, pay no attention and keep screaming anyway. * Now for the alleged orgasm: Scream like a banshee, and begin those Kegel exercises. Squeeze...release...squeeze...release. * And after sex, don't forget pillow talk. You've had two men before him. (Okay, three, tops. But that's your final offer.) _WARNING:_ If your man sees this page, it could have an adverse effect (erectile dysfunction). A bitch is far less likely to put on a "cartoon" show. She is much more honest. She asks for what she wants. If he doesn't do it right, she _won't_ encourage him by giving disingenuous feedback. Yet then he doesn't learn how to please her, and that won't work because the bitch rightly cares about her own pleasure. I don't recommend that a woman fake an orgasm. This little lesson is a satire on the pressures women feel to perform. If a man makes you feel as though you are on stage competing in a pageant, don't sleep with him. It is much more of a turn-on to a man when a woman is able to be herself and she's honest about what she likes and dislikes. A man loves watching a woman get off; it's an automatic turn-on. And that's much more important than putting on an award-winning performance. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #29 A quality guy fantasizes about a woman who genuinely loves sex. Half of pleasing him is getting off yourself, not faking it. It's true that a man's ego has to be stroked and properly dealt with, but that's what _your_ satisfaction accomplishes. The same principle that holds true outside the bedroom holds true inside the bedroom: The bitch can better please him because she is more concerned with pleasing herself. He knows without question that she loves every minute of it. And this feeds his ego like nothing else can. The nice girl will also make the mistake of being disingenuous in other ways. For example, suppose she sleeps with him on the second date and he asks how many lovers she's had. She gives the oldest line in the book: "I've only had three lovers." The bitch will not go there. She won't sleep with a guy right away and then try to give the almost-virgin shtick: "I've only had three lovers...the first one hurt...the second wasn't as good as you...the third one had three inches and thirty seconds of fury...and the fourth...uh, oops...there wasn't a fourth. Okay, yes, there was a fourth. But we didn't go all the way, so it doesn't count...the fifth one doesn't matter either because I was drunk...." If you tell him you've had three lovers and you are over the age of a fetus, he'll know you're a straight-up liar. Show him with your actions that you are a classy woman by letting him wait. And if he pries or wants to know about your private life say, "I probably haven't been with as many men as you've been with women." If you become defensive as if you have something to hide, up goes the red flag. What do you do when he boasts about his past conquests? The _last_ thing you want to do is listen, because you'll get the embellished version—and you might actually believe some of it is true. The bitch is the woman who will look at her watch in an effort to drop a hint when he brings up another woman. She already knows what she has to offer is enough—take it or leave it. And if he doesn't change the subject by the time she's done winding her watch, she will. "Honey, I'm not one of the guys. Please don't tell me about other women you've been with." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #30 Any time a woman competes with another woman, she demeans herself. Remember, inside the bedroom as well as outside the bedroom, men are used to women who are insecure, which is all the more reason to be different. You need to exude the attitude that you are confident and that you aren't concerned with whether you measure up or whether another woman can steal him away. If the subject of other women comes up, casually throw this into one of your conversations: "If any woman can steal a guy away from me, then she can have him because I wouldn't want him anymore." Then smile, take a sip of your wine, and change the subject. "Seen any good movies lately?" If you don't trust him, stop seeing him. But until he gives you a reason not to trust him, behave as though you trust him. It will make you look secure with yourself as if you are saying with your actions, "Well, _of course,_ you want to be with me!" ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #31 When there is that undeniable "spark," there is only one key to the lock. A quality guy wants to feel trusted because it makes him feel as though you believe in his character. Until he gives you a reason not to trust him, trust him. If he's falling in love with you, he won't tell you he wants to be with you exclusively—you'll automatically know. He'll be calling you every day and he will insist that you date only him. Because he won't want anyone else coming near his _dreamgirl._ # 4 ## Dumb LIKE A FOX ### How to Convince Him He's in Control While You Run the Show "I have an idea that the phrase 'weaker sex' was coined by some woman to disarm the man she was preparing to overwhelm." —OGDEN NASH #### The Dumb Fox Handles His Ego with Kid Gloves In the last chapter we touched on why power is intoxicating to a man in the very same way that romance is intoxicating to a woman. And now...a closer look. In order to motivate a man to give, he must feel good when he gives. He wants to feel appreciated and revered. Ego is the reason men go to war. It's the reason they build large corporations. Ego is the reason they stick needles in their butts at the gym before lifting heavy weights. It's the reason they beg, steal, and borrow. And ego is the reason they fall in love. The explanation may sound obvious, but it's not: A man needs to feel "manly." That's why he won't stop to ask for directions. It doesn't matter if you tell him that six exits ago he was supposed to go west. He'll still push the pedal to the metal and hightail it in the opposite direction. Men don't get lost. They merely... * "Get familiar with another area." * "Change destinations." * "Look to see what is down another street." * "Explore new terrain." He's never lost. No, Inspector Gadget is merely "checking things out" in every last square foot of a 37-mile radius that is outside the intended destination. If you want him to turn right, tell him "I think it might be to the left." In a man's mind, his navigation skills will always be superior to a woman's. It's all about his ego, which has no direction and no line of rotation. The three words guaranteed to turn any man on? "You are right." You'll never convince him otherwise, so don't bother trying. Let him be _right_. You be _smart_. This is precisely the reason the dumb fox lets a man think he's in control. When you appeal to his feeling of power, you "charge up his batteries." Then you're giving him what he needs and he _doesn't even_ _know it._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #32 Let him think he's in control. He'll automatically start doing things you want done because he'll always want to look like "a king" in your eyes. A couple of times a week when he's kind or generous, let him know he's the top dog. Make him feel as though he's the alpha-dog and the Grand Poo-Bah. He wears the pants, and he is the man. Meanwhile, guess who is getting her way? My friend Annette learned this the hard way. She made the mistake of telling her new boyfriend about how she had killed a snake in her backyard. He asked her, "How in the world did you kill it?" She went on in detail about how she used a very large shovel to "do battle." A look of complete and utter horror came over his face as she gave him a graphic play-by-play of the brutal "massacre." Later that night, he couldn't get an erection. An obvious "penile" code infraction: When you act too much like Tarzan, he feels too much like Jane. Don't even kill a bug when he's around. Don't change a tire. In fact, don't even change a light bulb. (Heaven forbid, sister.) For any red-blooded male, the feeling that he is the "man" is the ticket. This doesn't mean that you should be docile all the time. At the same time that you show him you offer him "a mental challenge," remember that he needs to have his ego stroked. There is a very big difference between catering to his ego and appearing _needy_. You shouldn't show that you "need" him to help you with: * Common sense * Coping with everyday life * Emotional stability * Reassurance of your self-worth * Self-esteem * Feeling complete as a person These things signify _neediness_. However, you _can_ show that you need and appreciate his _masculinity_. He'll absolutely eat out of your hand when he feels that you like his "manliness" or that you admire his...brawn. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #33 When you cater to his ego in a soft way, he doesn't try to get power in an aggressive way. Praise is an effective tool in getting him to treat you the way you want. Don't complain, "Well, you _used_ to bring me flowers." From this point forward, every bouquet he gives you is the "prettiest you have ever seen." Don't complain that he doesn't take you out enough. Instead, every restaurant he takes you to is "unbelievable" or "amazing." When he asks if you've been to the restaurant before, don't tell him about the two ex-boyfriends who took you to the very same romantic corner table you are now sitting at. (Unless you never want to go back to that restaurant again.) ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #34 When you appear softer and more feminine, you appeal to his instinct to _protect_. When you appear more aggressive, you appeal to his instinct to _compete_. Whenever you give a man the impression that you want to "wear the pants," you'll almost always have a battle on your hands, in which case, congrats—you've become his opponent. If he competes, he plays to win at your expense, and good luck getting anything that way. Men need a little coaching, and the way to coach them is to praise them when they behave well. A man's favorite word? "Best." It doesn't matter if you say, "Honey, you eat those beer nuts the best—like no one I have ever met in my life." Use the word _best,_ and you'll always have his full attention. _Make friends_ with his ego. For example, suppose you live together and he wants to help decorate. Chances are at some point he will have a need to "express" his virility by hanging something on the wall. (Something that clashes with _everything_.) When he gleefully breaks out those elephant tusks, the African sword, or the 1986 Super Bowl poster that he calls "art," keep a straight face and appear sincere. "Yes, honey, Grandpa's eighteenth-century rifle is to die for!" Then immediately enlist his "much needed help" in decorating the garage or the basement. Want him to pitch in around the house? Just make him feel needed (i.e., powerful). Give him little assignments. It doesn't matter if you ask him to program the VCR or help hang a photo on the wall. When he uses that noisy electric drill, he will feel just like Rambo. When the picture hangs crooked—and it will—pretend it's perfect. Simply wait until he leaves the room and then straighten it. When he hands over that paycheck, thank him for working so hard for "the benefit of everyone in the family." Again, wait until he leaves the room. Then review the stub to make sure that he got paid all of his overtime. Remember, when he behaves like a man and he treats you well, pay a little "homage" to that ego. He should feel like Conan the Barbarian a couple of times a week. Whenever he does something handy around the house like putting up a shelf, praise him. It doesn't matter if the shelf hangs at a 45-degree angle and the stuff keeps sliding off the other end. Clap like the happiest seal at the zoo, and then have a handyman come over to fix it when he isn't around. The minute you say, "It's crooked," it's all over. He'll never do anything handy around the house again. It will make him feel worse than a little kid who got scolded in arts and crafts class. Men have big egos and they need to have them stroked. This is what the "dumb fox" does. In small ways, she makes him feel like he is the King Kong of her world. Here are a few more dumb fox tips on how to make him feel "studly." * If you're walking your dog at dusk, ask him to come with you because you want him to "keep you safe." * If he kills a little bug, look away. And don't turn back around until he lets you know he has "secured the premises." * If you hear a noise at night (like a bird pooping on the roof), act really scared. Tell him to check to see "what that noise is about." * After he checks out the source of the noise, tell him you like having him in the house or apartment because it makes you "feel so much safer." * Ask him to open a jar that you can't open (even if you can) or unzip your dress (even if you can reach it). Or, you can ask him to lift a small box for you. * At a scary movie, hang on to him tightly. If there's violence, cover your eyes and let him tell you when it's over. * If it's cold outside, crawl under his coat and hang on to him for warmth. * Let him move a piece of furniture (even one you could move yourself). When he does this with ease, tell him how heavy it was. "You are so strong! Gee, I don't know how you moved that." * Let him parallel park your car or back it out of a tight spot. If you tell him he's a "much better driver" than you are, he'll really be eating out of your hand. He'll probably wash your car or fill your tank with gas. Handling his ego with kid gloves is as easy as learning your _A-B-C_ s. When her child brings home a crayon drawing from kindergarten-no matter how ugly it is-a mother doesn't criticize it. She'd never say, "Is that a dog or a cow? Hey kid—don't quit your day job." Instead she tells him, "This is a masterpiece!" Then the child thinks he is the next Picasso, and he draws ten more pictures. Praise is important. When he takes you out to eat, say thank-you _once_ at dinner, and again when you say good night. The nice girl often makes the mistake of saying thank-you over and over. Then she calls the following day to say thank-you three times on his answering machine. As though no one's ever bought her a hot meal before. In the beginning, without question let _him_ pay for dinner. After you've been dating for a while, you can reciprocate. But don't do a 50/50 split or go Dutch—he's not a long-lost professional colleague. When a man is really crazy about a woman, he isn't concerned with splitting a check. He won't say, "You had the turkey salad and I had the beef. So your total comes to..." If he adores her, he won't be thinking about petty cash. What he'll be thinking about is how he can win her over. If he can't afford it, suggest an inexpensive place or do something that doesn't cost money. Visit a museum. Go on a bike ride. Split a dinner plate, and don't order alcohol. However, if he asks you to split the check on the first few dates, don't see him again. It has less to do with a few dollars than with the fact that he's not very concerned with impressing you. And that's never a good sign. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #35 He'll let a woman who becomes his doormat pay for dinner on the first couple of dates, but he wouldn't _think_ of it with his _dreamgirl._ This conversation came up on my radio show. A caller asked if she should let the man pay, and I said, "In the beginning, _yes_." Both my male guest and the male sound engineer jumped in and said, "But that's not fair." Then I got a spelling lesson: "Fair. It's spelled _f-a-i-r."_ I see their point. But it also isn't fair that we get sixty cents on the dollar in the workplace, that we wear painful pushup bras and high heels, and that we carry the babies and give birth. So let him be the man. A _gentleman._ The important thing is that when he pays, let him know at the end of the dinner you _really do appreciate it._ And compliment him on his taste in food, wine, or the restaurant. If it wasn't good, don't comment. The dumb fox knows that the less she criticizes, the better. Which is why she doesn't nag. Instead, she _maneuvers_. For example, when he leaves his clothes on the floor next to the bed before he turns in for the night...don't worry about it. He'll probably get out of bed in the morning and pick them up. And then he'll put them right back on. About those socks and underwear that are peppered throughout your home? That was your fault, because you bought a hamper _with_ a lid. (Much too complicated.) Get a hamper with no lid and strategically put it in a corner. Congrats. You've erected your very own basketball hoop. Every time he makes a dunk shot out of his dirty underwear? Two points. Do you always change the toilet paper roll? Does he always get a full roll, while you get the last crummy little square, half of which is stuck to the cardboard? Nothing a little housebreaking won't fix. One Sunday morning, he'll go in the bathroom and take his seat with the sports section. He won't notice the absence of toilet paper for twenty minutes because he'll be fixated on the stats from Saturday's football game. Then, when he's finished reading he'll call, "Honey? Honey?! Can you hear me?!" (No response.) This is your cue to take out the kitchen trash. After all, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the birds are chirping. (Trivia question: How long before he realizes there's more toilet paper under the sink?) If he doesn't help out around the house, the dumb fox doesn't complain and say, "You can't put a price on what I do around the house." Instead, she gets an estimate from a maid service. See how easy? Now not only does she "put a price on it," she even pays it to someone _else_. Here's another example of how a dumb fox might "maneuver." A friend named Sharon was running herself ragged trying to clean up after her kids and her husband. She wanted to have someone come in to help her once a week. Her husband was very opposed to paying $50 for a maid every week, even though they could afford it. He kept insisting on "just once a month." Dumb Sharon played the dumb fox and agreed to a maid once a month—sort of. She wrote a check to the maid once a month, and each of the other three weeks she asked for $50 in cash back when she wrote a check at the market. Not only did this prevent weekly arguments, he came home to a beautifully cleaned house every week. The Dumb Fox Credo as outlined here, allows for smooth sailing and no room for conflict: * Agree with everything. * Explain nothing. * Then do what is best for you. It will make life a whole lot easier. For example, the dumb fox is smart enough to save herself the grief by insisting on separate bathrooms. First of all, the concept of guest towels or decorative towels is foreign to men. To him, a towel is a towel, which means a bath towel is a beach towel is a car-wash towel is an oil-changing towel. You would think he'd "spare" the pretty one with the pink bow, but no such luck. And the towels you use on your face? Say hello to your new floor mop. Once in a while, you'll come across a man who is extra clean. But generally, sharing a bathroom with a man will be sheer misery. Ten minutes after you've cleaned the sink and mirror with streak-free Windex, he'll come in there and spray water everywhere. It's like sharing a bathroom with your very own, in-house, adopted walrus. Scientists have not yet joined with zoologists to do a study on why it is that men "spray." So, until they figure it out, insist that you have your own bathroom. The dumb fox also cleverly divides up the personal space in the home with the utmost fairness. She gives him 20 percent of the closet, but "the whole garage" or basement to himself. He also controls the lawnmower, the cars, the barbecue, and the tools. Remember: Men are very territorial, so you'll also want to designate the yard as his domain in the "habitat." It will come in handy when you're hogging the bathroom. In Japan, there is an interesting motto: A smart eagle does not show her claws. American women perceive Japanese women as submissive because they bow to men and walk behind them in the streets. However, Japanese men typically bring their paychecks home and give them to their wives. _The wife controls the purse strings in the Japanese home and decides how the money is spent_. Now we uncover the _real_ reason why a Japanese woman may walk behind her man in the street: It is those deep, heavy pockets that are slowing her down. The poor thing can hardly keep up. In addition to having to feel he's "right," a man needs to have things be "his idea." So, remember, it's _always_ his idea. Even if it _isn't_ , convince him that it is. When you're in front of a group of friends and he steps in and takes credit for something that you thought of, don't make a fuss over it. He needs to show that he's the chief. Don't correct him or try to "show him up" in front of your mutual friends because he'll feel emasculated. It's like a mommy scolding her little boy in front of his friends at school. Publicly, he needs to "save face." If it's absolutely necessary, wait until you are alone with him to bring up something he did that may have bothered you. Address it _privately,_ not in front of people. If it's unimportant nonsense, let him take all the credit. Who cares? The dumb fox knows better. She never starts a fight over something trivial, particularly if she knows in advance she'll gain absolutely nothing from winning. The dumb fox is strong in a demure way. She stands her ground, but she's not a ball-buster. She employs the "Science of Compliance." She appears to give up power, but gains leverage in the process. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #36 The token power position is for public display, but the true power position is for private viewing only. And this is the only one that matters. For all "ego-intensive" purposes, help him look manly in front of other people. Let him open doors and let him address the hostess at the restaurant. "Johnson. Party of 4." This is just the _token_ power position which is meaningless. When you are truly running the show, you don't need to tip your hand or flaunt it. If he is treating you like you are his dreamgirl, you have all the power you need. Remember, feminine strength is equally as powerful. It's poetic justice: Men control the world, but women control the men. Alice, an attractive older woman who has been married for many years, shared the following advice. "Whenever I want to do something, I convince my husband it was his idea. I'll say 'Sweetie, would you like to go to this restaurant or that one?' He's paying, so I always let him think he's the one choosing. And after we're done eating? I tell him, 'What a great idea that was!'" Most men know it's a turn-on to a woman if they do romantic things, but women don't understand that giving men the feeling of power has the same effect. It melts them like butter. It is a good-natured way of gaining leverage in your relationship. Men do the very same thing. They know that we like roses. If they never saw another rose, it would be no loss to them. They're as attached to the roses as they are to a plant in their office building or a weed growing in the cracks of a sidewalk. Most women generally won't say no to any reasonable request made by a man who has just brought a beautiful bouquet of roses. When you appeal to his ego, it has the same effect. He'll want to remain a king in your eyes, and he'll want to please you. Men work their whole lives just to have a woman look at them adoringly and say, "You're wonderful" and "I admire you." He'll climb a whole mountain just to feel admired by a woman he loves. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #37 If you give him a feeling of power, he'll want to protect you and he'll want to give you the world. Once you're in charge of that relationship, you're giving him what he needs (power) and he _doesn't even know it_. It works with even the smartest men. Here's what Albert Einstein said about his wife on their fiftieth wedding anniversary: _When we first got married, we made a pact. It was this: In our life together, it was decided I would make all of the big decisions and my wife would make all of the little decisions. For fifty years, we have held true to that agreement. I believe that is the reason for the success in our marriage. However, the strange thing is that in fifty years, there hasn't been one big decision._ The dumb fox doesn't have to "obey" her man as in, "I promise to love, honor, and _obey_ until death do us part." She has her own rendition of the marital vows. She "promises to love, honor, and _appear to be agreeable some of the time."_ This is not a lesson in how to give up your power or become more docile. This is a lesson in how to gain power because you appeal to a man and make him channel his energies _toward you._ Men need a little help when it comes to emotions, because they aren't always aware of what motivates them. You have to make him think he's in charge; then he'll be much more attuned to what you need and he'll apply much more effort to please you. It keeps him stimulated and it keeps his interest. Then he wants to give you the reins; at which point, you will have all the power that you need. #### The Dumb Fox Is a Clever Negotiator Now that women are long established in the work force, men don't feel they're _needed_ as much. Even though they work as hard, they don't get the feeling of being appreciated as the "man of the house" as much as they used to. As Erica Jong said, "Beware of the man who praises women's liberation. He's about to quit his job." Women who are successful in other areas of life are often the ones who find themselves saying, "I should not have to apologize for being strong." Then the following week they wonder why they "can't find a good man." Because a good man wants a good _w-o-m-a-n._ Being a bitch does not mean you lose your femininity. And it also doesn't mean you overtly try to wear the pants in the house. It just means you don't allow anyone to walk all over you. The classic superwoman wants a relationship in which the man and woman are "equals." This is a nice theory, but in practice it becomes a one-sided relationship pretty quickly. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #38 When a woman acts as though she's capable of everything, she gets stuck doing everything. For this reason, be careful how you set the tone in the beginning. Never start what you don't want to continue. If you don't want to cook every night, don't start out cooking every night. If you don't want to go to the grocery store all the time, don't set the pattern of doing it all the time. Let him come your way. In the beginning, men are so willing to make an impression, and this is why they are especially accommodating. This is precisely when you'll want to help him form good habits. Later, when everything has been done for him, he'll be too set in his ways to change. For example, after a few dates you may find yourself standing under the arch of your front door, kissing him good night. It's a moment to behold. The stars are twinkling, the moonlight is breathtaking, and you both look up to find a shooting star. He'll barely notice your kitchen trash is under his left arm. If a man offers to take you to lunch or dinner, let him. If he asks if he can bring over takeout, bring on the egg rolls. If he asks to get you something from the grocery store, let him pick up sorbet in the flavor you like. It isn't about him paying the three dollars. It makes him happy to feel he's meeting your needs. And it makes him feel as if he's "driving that train." Even though you really are. The hardest lesson for the nice girl to learn is how to receive. Let him give to you, because part of his manhood is defined by feeling "responsible." The dumb fox doesn't give up power, she simply creates the appearance that she does. And this very much helps her positioning power because she gets what she wants. Here's a classic example. A woman I know named Michelle told me about a man she's seeing. On the second date, he asked her if she'd drive to his place. She was put on the spot and then pulled a dumb fox move. She ignored the request and very sweetly asked, "Would you prefer to get together another night? If tonight is inconvenient, I do understand." Michelle averted the question completely. She didn't act upset or tell him what to do. She simply gave him a couple of alternatives, one of which is that she may not participate. Then she let _him_ choose. The beauty is that the dumb fox is agreeable, tactful, and always polite, so he thinks he's in control (even though he isn't). Even though the dumb fox _appears_ oblivious, she is very aware. It's no different than a successful business negotiation: 1. She doesn't spell out where she's coming from. 2. She's prepared to walk away, if the terms aren't favorable to her. The dumb fox does both, without words. She negotiates with her willingness (or lack thereof) to participate. If the offer sounds good, she says, "I'd love to." If the offer doesn't sound good, she answers, "I'd love to, but I'm pooped." She responds favorably when he behaves like a gentleman and backs off in a subtle way if his manners fall short. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #39 Men don't respond to words. They respond to no contact. Being dumb like a fox can also defuse a situation in which he is slightly disrespectful. For example, let's say you're waiting to be seated for dinner on your first date, and he puts his hand on your lower back— _very_ low on your back—as in, any lower and he knows whether you prefer to wear a brief or a thong. All you need to do is play dumb, step aside as if it were a complete accident, and say, "Oops, excuse me." Another example happened with my friend Talia. She was at dinner and the waiter brought the check to the table. Her date made a joke to the waiter about giving the bill to her and then looked at her to get her reaction. She titled her head sideways and looked confused as if to suggest that she's never heard anything like this before. Then she started to blink as though she might have been hallucinating. The dumb fox doesn't spell things out. The nice girl, on the other hand, makes the mistake of wearing her heart on her sleeve almost all the time. As one man named Paul said, "Women talk too much. If she's upset, she'll go on and on. I'd rather get into a ring with Mike Tyson for six rounds than hear a woman repeat herself over and over." Think about the last time a man spilled his guts. At first it feels like "bonding." But the novelty wears off very quickly. Men want bonding, sure— _below_ the waist. The two-hour phone calls you love are a big mistake. He likes it the first time because he knows you're interested. After that, he _hates_ it. Don't let conversations on the phone last too long. Don't let yourself be perceived as a tiresome _obligation_. Keep the phone calls short and sweet—and he'll never get tired of calling. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #40 Talking about the "relationship" too much takes away the element of the "unknown" and thus the mystery. When you aren't needy, you don't require a play-by-play from the sidelines about the relationship. When you are secure with yourself, he _doesn't feel he has a 100 percent hold on you_. And when he doesn't have a 100 percent hold on you, he eats out of your hand. Eliminate the following words from your vocabulary: _We need to talk._ My friend Jeanette shared her observations on men with me: "You have to sneak up on them. Feed them, get them a beer, and then casually bring it up. Go through the back door. In and out—before they realize what has happened." When men talk to each other, they say their piece and then the other one responds. One nods. The other grunts. One takes a shot; the other buys him a beer. The most feedback he'll get is a couple of sentences. Did you blink? The "bonding" has commenced. Most men have a concentration threshold for the "mushy" stuff that lasts about two minutes. Right around the second minute, his mind will start to wander. He'll be thinking, "Man, I'm getting hungry. I wonder what we're having for dinner?" ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #41 Men respect women who communicate in a succinct way, because it's the language men use to talk to one another. The bitch communicates differently from the nice girl. A bitch tells it like it is in a matter-of-fact way and gets her point across succinctly. The nice girl wears her heart on her sleeve and pours out her guts. And what does he hear? Nothing at all. However, he does see her neediness, which eventually turns him off. #### The Dumb Fox Is More Mysterious The dumb fox knows that familiarity breeds contempt, so she doesn't spill her guts on the first couple of dates. She lets the "cream rise to the top" without rushing things. When you first meet a man, don't overcompensate by doing all the talking. Don't talk constantly _out of nervousness_. Keeping cool and quiet will give you more appeal, not to mention the ability to wield more power. I was once on a date with a man I had just met. He began to share all the sordid details of his last relationship. I had no desire to listen, but I didn't criticize him or make him feel "wrong." I was polite. I simply asked, "So John, what's your workload like at the office this week?" The dumb fox does _not_ ask, "May we change the subject?" Permission isn't necessary. The dumb fox also doesn't tell him about her past relationships. You're "a prize," and you don't have a long list of calamities to report. He doesn't need to know that your ex-husband stole your appliances, is defaulting on his child support, and has a Mafioso brother who is doing time for racketeering. If he's classy, he won't be impressed that your last boyfriend is "still stalking you and can't let go." If he asks about your ex, you say, "We went our separate ways." Here's another option: "We wanted different things." The dumb fox relies on a "vague generality" when he asks for information that's none of his business. As far as what _you_ disclose? Don't volunteer bad information about yourself. He doesn't need to know that you're insecure about your thighs or that you haven't been on a date in 7.2 months. Inquiring minds do _not_ need to know. Men automatically assume that, if you're interested, you'll do anything to "nail him down." He immediately thinks you want "exclusivity" you want to break open the hope chest and have babies with him. It's important for him to think you're different: You are relaxed, secure, and happy _with him_ or _without him_. This is known as the happy-go-lucky formula, described in Attraction Principle #42. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #42 When you are always HAPPY; And he is always free to GO; He feels LUCKY. If you want to talk about your favorite ice cream, go for it. Traveling to Belize? Yes. Your problems at work or your disappointing visit to the fertility doctor? No. It's perfectly okay to leave some of his questions about you _unanswered_. In fact, it is advisable to do so. When all is said and done, a person shows you who he or she is. No one will come out and tell you. Therefore, what a person shows you with actions is the _only_ language that matters. #### The Dumb Fox Is True to Herself The fox is the smaller animal, and in the animal kingdom, the smaller animal is the prey. Therefore, the fox knows it is incumbent on her to look out for her own best interests, especially in the beginning of a relationship. On the other hand, the nice girl believes everything she's told because it sounds good, which puts her out there to get hurt. The fox knows that, in the beginning, a man is likely to "flower up" his intentions; therefore, she must stay alert. WHAT HE _W ON'T_ SAY \| WHAT HE _W ILL_ SAY ---\|--- "I want sex and only sex, with no strings attached." \| "I'm interested in having a longterm relationship!" "Give me sex, and I'll pretend to be your boyfriend for a week." \| "Trust me." "Hey, can I rotate you with three other women, like a pitching staff?" \| "You are so different." "Wanna be the flavor of the month?" \| "I am so tired of the dating scene." Trivia question: Which guy scores more women: the guy who "flowers up" his intentions, or the guy who tells it like it is? The point is, if he has a hidden agenda the last thing he'll do is spell it out for her. So it's up to the fox to figure things out on her own. The reason the dumb fox doesn't reveal what she observes is that he'll show his true colors much more quickly when he doesn't realize he is being watched. When a man talks about himself or past relationships, he may do so as a way of helping her "get to know him." Rather than getting into heavy question-and-answer sessions, the fox keeps the conversation light. Why? The truest things are said in jest. He'll tell you everything you need to know in passing conversation, with a joke or an off-the-cuff remark here and there. If he's a wolf dressed up as a sheep, his whiskers will inevitably pop out. When the dumb fox senses something's "just not right" with a man's character, she does _not_ bring it to his attention. The only conversation the dumb fox has is _between her two ears_. As President Lyndon B. Johnson said, "You've got to know when to keep your mouth shut." When you tell someone who may be manipulating you what you observe, he will immediately try to talk you out of it. He'll say, "You're insecure" or "You're prejudging me." Are you prejudging him? You had _better_ be. The only mistake is letting him know it. The dumb fox is self-reliant. She judges people by her own experiences. The dumb fox takes better care of herself and makes better choices because she lets time elapse and she watches to see how the man _behaves_. She trusts her observations and she trusts her animal instincts. No hunted animal gives the "benefit of the doubt." The fox senses danger and hightails it out of there. Never be around a person who has shown you he is a hurtful person. If he does this by accident, that's one thing. But if he's hurtful on purpose? Game over. You've learned everything you need to know. In the beginning, have fun and go out...but keep your cards close to your vest. Most important, _take your time_. This will not only make you smart as a fox, it will help you keep your independence. The nice girl loses an important protective mechanism when she assumes that life is fair, or that Prince Charming will always protect her. The smart fox is not governed by wishful thinking or the hope of a fantasy outcome, like Cinderella. Despite appearances, she trusts herself to watch her _own_ back instead of giving a man the responsibility of doing it for her. It's what every animal in the wild does to survive, so that they don't become "din din." Above all, the smart fox understands—and adheres to—the first law of nature: Every animal for herself. # 5 ## JUMPING THROUGH Hoops LIKE A CIRCUS POODLE ### When Women Give Themselves Away and Become Needy "Let us never negotiate out of fear." —JOHN F. KENNEDY #### A New School: Who Is the Boss of You? When a nice girl meets a man, it's not uncommon for her to make concessions in her life that seem relatively insignificant. She stops doing the routine everyday things. She stops seeing friends. She stops going to a yoga class, and she stops playing tennis on weekends. She stops making time for the things she did when she was "solo." Here's what she _does_ do: * She cancels a hair appointment... for a date with _him_. * She stops going to the gym after work... to accommodate seeing _him._ * She stops spending time with friends... to give _him_ the feeling "he is special." * She cancels plans... because there's a chance that she'll get a call from _him_. * She isn't focused at school... she keeps checking to see if a message came from _him_. * She isn't focused at work... she keeps checking her e-mail to see if she received something in her inbox from _him_. * She gives up her career... to further his career and support _him_. * She stops having dreams outside of her relationship... because her only dream is _him_. The bitch does not stop _moving to her own rhythm_. This, in and of itself, prevents her from becoming off-balance like a nice girl who abandons her routine. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #43 If you allow your rhythm to be interrupted, you'll create a void. Then, to replace what you give up, you'll start to expect and need more from your partner. A classic example is Theresa. She takes salsa dance classes two nights a week. When she met her last boyfriend, she stopped going to her dance classes because he didn't like to dance. She also played tennis, but he didn't play; so she stopped that hobby as well. Seems harmless, right? Not really. She's giving up what she likes. The reason the nice girl gives up these activities is also telling of her self-confidence. Often she gives up something because she fears he won't like her the way she is. In addition, this cumulative reduction of activities eventually adds up to a significant change in _who_ she is. At some point the man notices, and it turns him off because he realizes—before she does—that she's lost her independence. What happens after she's lost her independence? Let's take a look at the "state of the union" with Theresa, the woman who gave up salsa classes and tennis. She said, "We spent almost every night of the week together and fell into that pattern almost immediately. He didn't tell me it was 'too much' for him. He just didn't smile much and it seemed like he wasn't happy anymore. I was becoming more insecure and I kept trying harder to be affectionate. I just wanted him to be like he was in the beginning." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #44 Most women are starving to receive something from a man that they need to give to themselves. The nice girl thinks she's giving up something to get something _better_ in return. She gives up control over her own life. When the time comes for her to get what she had expected, she winds up disappointed. In addition to being empty-handed, she's depleted. A man rarely realizes just how much the nice girl gives up. He doesn't make the same sacrifices because she's adjusting her life to be with him. After she gives up everything in her life, she begins to demand the same of him. She wants him to stop seeing family and friends. She wants him to spend all of his free time with her. If he goes to the gym, she wants to accompany him. He doesn't feel this pressure from a bitchier woman, so he wants to be around her more, not less, and he respects her because she appears to have "a life." Suppose a woman says to a guy she can't go on a date with him that night because of her weekly pottery class. He scratches his head and thinks, "She'd rather go to a pottery class than be with me?" It not only attracts him; it blows his mind. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #45 A woman looks more secure in a man's eyes when he can't pull her away from her life, because she is _content_ with her life. When you love life _with him_ or _without him_ , that is when he will accept and value you for who you are. ##### WHO IS THE BOSS OF YOU? THE NICE GIRL \| THE BITCH ---\|--- The nice girl dismisses what she used to value and what used to be important in her life. \| The bitch values her priorities, her values, and her preferences. Always. He is the boss... of her. \| She stays the boss... of herself. The nice girl searches for a sign from him to see when the closeness is "too much." \| The bitch acts as her own guide. She doesn't allow him an opportunity to be bored. He is the boss... of her. \| She stays the boss... of herself. The nice girl senses how happy he is, paying close attention to his approval of her. \| The bitch doesn't obsess over his opinion or need his approval. He is the boss... of her. \| She stays the boss... of herself. When he's "into it" with the nice girl, she feels good; when he snubs her, she feels bad. \| The bitch has more confidence, so someone else's mood doesn't have much impact. Instead she plays tennis. He is the boss... of her. \| She stays the boss... of herself. The nice girl treats her interests as "little things" or secondary. \| The bitch doesn't treat her interests as minor little things. They are _her_ things. He is the boss... of her. \| She stays the boss... of herself. The nice girl gives too much first, and then negotiates reciprocity later. \| The bitch gives _only_ when it is reciprocal. He is the boss... of her. \| She stays the boss... of herself. When a relationship starts off at lightning speed, the man will at some point pull back to regain his need for space and then the woman will be left off-balance. It's then that the nice girl appears needy, trying to "win back" his affections. This is when she jumps through hoops. A man loses respect for a woman who needs his approval, particularly when she will overcompensate to get it. A man needs to "bring offerings." He needs to be on his toes a little bit. He has to make sure his shoes are tied, his pants are pulled up, and his manners are existent. When he opens car doors, when he minds his p's and q's, and when he shows his best manners, it means she has his respect. In this way, she remains a bit of a bitch in his eyes because he has to keep himself in check; he doesn't relax in terms of how he behaves around her. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #46 The second a woman works overtime to make herself fit his criteria, she has lowered the standard of that relationship. As long as a woman stays in control of remaining who she is, he will need her. When a man thinks about a woman who has control over herself, he automatically thinks about her preferences and about ways to please her. Women are much more likely to cancel plans. Men don't give up "boys' night out." Men don't give up their work, or their sleep, or their food. (Most don't even give up their mothers.) Likewise, they respect a woman who will hold onto what is important to her. When was the last time you heard a guy call his barber and say, "Yeah, Sam... I'll need to cancel my 2:15 haircut. Sally and I need to spend more time bonding." It just ain't happening. It doesn't matter if you swung from the chandelier the night before with show-stopping sex accompanied by screaming that scared off the alley cats. At 2:15, your man will belong to Sam. Men can shift gears from romantic to practical—and so can the bitch. She speaks to him in his own language. The nice girl, however, is too needy to let go. "But he did all of the pursuing," says the nice girl. This may be true, but you have the power to decide when you show up—and this is how you stay the boss of you. Even in a racing event, the car has to pull into the pit to have the tires changed or it won't be able to stay on the track, it won't be able to control its direction, and it will lose traction. Men don't always think long term, so if you let him control the speed, he's likely to let the relationship crash at high speed into a wall. As the adage goes, "The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long." That's why you absolutely must set the pace and keep your own rhythm. Otherwise, he'll have you jumping through hoops. Again, it doesn't matter if he wants to see you constantly. Even if he's an incredible guy and you feel great temptation, _don't give him all of your time_. In the beginning, try to see him two-thirds of the time that he asks. For the remaining third, you have "something else going on." Don't sit at home twiddling your thumbs waiting for his next call. Keep in mind that this isn't about "playing hard to get." _Keep it real_. Force yourself to keep the routine you had before you met him. Once you lose your rhythm, you lose your psychological equilibrium and you become needy. My former roommate Gale was always very good at this. She'd often turn off her ringer and wouldn't take any calls. In the afternoon, if she felt tired and wanted to stay home for the evening, she'd cancel her date. She'd have a glass of wine and chill with a good book or her favorite TV program. Gale always had a quality man pursuing her. Being a bitch isn't about exuding a certain kind of arrogance. Contrary to what the media would have us believe, it doesn't matter how "hip," "cool," or "cocky" you appear to be. Power is the control you have over yourself. In fact, when a woman is trying too hard to be "cocky," she's usually not moving to her own rhythm because she's trying too hard to convince herself that she is stronger than she really is. As Gregory Corso said, "Standing on a street corner waiting for no one is power." When you don't wait for anyone, it's because you don't _need_ anyone. When you approach men this way, any man who steps up to the plate will have to meet you at your level. First, you have to stop needing his approval—only then will your needs be met. For example, Lynn had just started dating a plastic surgeon named Kevin. They had separate residences, and one night she cooked dinner for him. He called at the last minute to cancel their preplanned dinner date because he had switched shifts with another surgeon. Lynn had already cooked an elaborate meal. His call came only a half-hour before he was supposed to show up. Had he called her early in the day right after he agreed to switch shifts, she wouldn't have labored tirelessly. Here's where she made a mistake of jumping through hoops. She offered to cook the same dinner again the following night. _And_ she agreed to drive to his place to do it. What she should have done is put "the skids" on the cooking plans altogether. She should have said, " _Mmm._ It's really good, Kevin. Too bad you missed out." When a man treats a woman with disrespect and she takes it, he begins to lose respect for her. Predictably, Lynn was at Kevin's place the following evening; he wasn't appreciative, which hurt her feelings. They stopped dating a short while later. A bitch prioritizes herself over "melting" into someone else. Because of this, her no means _no,_ and her yes means _yes._ The objective isn't to be obnoxious but to have the ability to be clear. You can be very nice and still be clear. A man will respect a woman who is clear and direct about what she needs, without waffling or second-guessing herself. If a man is late for a date, for example, the bitch will become annoyed because she is inconvenienced. Annoyance is different than becoming emotional. She'll say something more along the lines of, "Don't waste my time. If you are going to be late, please let me know so I can make other arrangements. I have better things I can be doing with my time than waiting around." If he chooses not to respect her the next time around, she allows fifteen or twenty minutes and then leaves without him. Her time and priorities are important to her. At no time does she give herself up. When you're in this type of situation, ask yourself the following questions: What does this look like from his vantage point? What message am I sending by my reactions to his behavior? Your true power, therefore, is marked by: * Realizing what your rhythm is, and moving to it * Knowing who you are, and what you will or will not accept * Having the ability to make a decision _without_ second-guessing yourself afterward, and without being talked out of how you feel * Having self-control, because _true_ power is the control you have over _yourself_ When you have control of yourself, you don't need to be emotional all the time. When you have a sassy "edge," you stay the boss... of you. Ironically, this is also when you become the boss... of him. #### From Sappy to Sassy Whenever a woman is too emotional or sappy, it can be too much for a man, especially with a woman he barely knows. The bitch is sassier, which is easier for a man to deal with. It's similar to the rougher tone men use to speak to one another. One man described a perfect example of how men get spooked by too much sappy emotional talk, particularly early on in the relationship. He was put off by receiving several tear-jerking Hallmark cards from a woman he'd just met. Another example of this is a man who was constantly read poems by a woman he'd just met. "They always seemed so long and drawn out. Some of them were short and boring. But the one thing in common is that they all sucked. 'My love for thee.' Or, 'My heart is heavy with love and it's pushing against my rib cage.' And she'd cry when she read them. I started avoiding her calls." One man described dating a woman whom he'd known for three weeks. He said, "A man doesn't need to hear a woman tell him that she loves him every thirty seconds. This woman said it over and over again. It was like dating a cockatoo... Love you... Love you... Love you... Love you... Love you!" Men also notice if you are trying too hard to get into a relationship. Do you have twelve sappy relationship books about feelings on your coffee table? Do you have an ad running in the "personals" while you pursue online dating? Do you have that one pushy girlfriend who gives you away? You walk into your home with him after a date and you hit the play button on your answering machine. "Hey, girlfriend. There's another singles event at the car wash this Sunday. Free coffee. And I hear there's a new batch of divorcés coming through. The early bird catches the worm!" _Being sassy means you won't knock yourself out._ The minute a man feels you're trying too hard, the challenge is over. Once you accidentally step into that arena, you have to win him back by showing him that you won't wait. You have a life. You have other priorities, some of which come before him. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #47 You jump through hoops any time you repeatedly make it very obvious you're giving your "all." * Don't talk for hours on the phone before your first date. Joke around. Be sassy. Make your plans or arrangements to meet and then politely end the conversation. * Don't discuss deep issues in the beginning. Don't use catch phrases from therapy like _cathartic, processing, triggered, owning it,_ or _inner child._ Don't make chicken soup and tell him you "wanna midwife each other's soul." * If you believe in astrology, don't tell him that you can only get together when Mercury is "tiptoeing" around the moon, making a three-week "retrograde" around Jupiter (with a quick stop for coffee on Pluto). * Don't tell him who you were in a "past life," or what you plan to come back as in your next one. He'll think your cheese is sliding off the cracker. * In the beginning, avoid seeing him more than one night in a row. Start out seeing him one to two nights a week. * Don't pout or whimper when he doesn't call. You have to make him wonder every now and then about what you're doing when you're not with him. When you regulate the timing, it keeps him wanting and it charges up his batteries. * If he takes you to a nice restaurant, don't order a celery stick "with oil and vinegar on the side," and then continue to nibble off his plate like a hummingbird. Don't be so nervous or concerned with impressing him with your table etiquette. Have an appetite for enjoying life. * Don't disclose over your first dinner what you're "working through" from childhood. * Don't try to fix his flaws either. I know one woman who bought a man the book _Tuesdays with Morrie_. She thought the book would help him with his workaholism. Too much psychological analysis comes across as too sappy. * Don't accompany him when he goes out with his friends. You don't want to be one of the "boys." * Don't do any slow drive-bys with your headlights turned off to see if he's at home. And no high-speed flybys, either. * If he calls you and asks you to come over late at night after he's been out with his friends, don't happily go skipping over, kicking your heels together like Julie Andrews in _The Sound of Music_. * Don't date someone who has addictions of any kind, hoping to "help" him by going to AA meetings with him. Let him work out his own stuff. If he can't treat himself well, he'll never treat you well. * Never call more than once in a row, even if his machine cuts you short. Don't leave long mushy messages. Keep the messages friendly, but short and sweet. * Don't e-mail more than once in a row or send long e-mails about "feelings," "issues," and what you "need" that you aren't getting. If he sends you an email, don't respond within thirty seconds each and every time. * Don't stop eating, sleeping, or exercising. Keep your routine. If he wants to spend more time with you than you can comfortably give, invite him to join you in one of your activities—like a walk with your dog or going for a weekend bike ride. * Avoid last-minute dates because you "miss him." * Don't walk in the door, check your messages, and call him right back. Settle in, take a bath or shower, eat dinner, and relax. Move to your own rhythm, and then call back. He has to know you have a life... _every_ day. * If you're on the phone and you get another call that beeps through, don't say "Stay right there. Don't hang up! Whoever it is, I'll get rid of him!" When you do come back on the line, don't always be so quick to report the identity of the other caller. "That was the vet. Tigger had an earache." * Don't regularly travel forty minutes in traffic to see him because you have a roommate and he has his own place. Look at a map and take note: It's just as far from his house to your house as it is from your house to his house. So don't feel guilty about having him come your way. * Don't ask for affection. Don't coax affection out of him. Don't give affection when he isn't being affectionate. If he's ignoring you, don't try harder. "Honey, can I give you a backrub?" * Don't be a slave to the phone. Don't play his voice message back to your girlfriend to dissect every detail of your situation. Pay attention to the big picture. Does he add to your life as a whole, and do you feel good after he's been around? (If not, "fast forward" the message and hit "delete.") * Don't memorize his phone number in the first week of dating or call him all the time and hang up. He'll know it's you. * If he's in a bad mood, make an excuse and then go do your own thing. * Above all, make every concerted effort to stay focused on _your_ life. That's how you stay sassy in his eyes. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #48 You have to keep from being sucked down into quicksand. Unless you maintain control over yourself, the relationship is doomed. #### Basic Bitch 101 A man notices something from the very first phone message that he leaves on a woman's answering service: whether she is trying too hard. She may be trying too hard to impress him; she may be trying too hard to win him over; or she may be trying too hard to be sexy. Whether she is too needy or trying too hard, it has the same effect. _The bitch never tries that hard to make an impression._ He dials her number and the machine picks up. _Beep!_ Then comes the breathy voice, which sounds as if she's half asleep. "Hello there. You've reached Susan's answering service. I am out and about and just a little bit busy at the moment doing, well, [giggle]... If you would be sooooooo kind to leave a message after the tone, I will try my very best to get back to you as sooooooon as I am available. Although I just got in from Portugal, I haven't quite unpacked yet. But if I have a free moment, I'll call you. Wait for the beep... _ciao_... ta, ta... kisses... have a spiritual day... and bless you for calling me." _Beep!_ All she needs is a 900 number and a pimp, and girlfriend is in business. As men often say, "Men like a woman who is natural." This has nothing to do with makeup or dyed hair. Natural does not mean he wants a vegetarian who drinks wheat-grass juice or a woman who wears organic lip-gloss. Natural implies that the minute something is excessive it becomes a turn-off, because it looks as if a woman is _trying too hard to get the attention_. Whenever a woman is trying too hard, she is jumping through hoops. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #49 Jumping through hoops often has a negative outcome: He sees it as an opportunity to have his cake and eat it, too. But when you stay just outside his reach, he'll stay on his best behavior. Let's look at how one relationship unfolded when the woman was willing to jump through hoops. It's a classic scenario. Sarah bought an airplane ticket to go see Mickey, a man she'd met only once before when he had been in town for a holiday weekend. They'd kept in touch for a month via e-mail and over the phone. Convinced he was "the one," Sarah decided she'd like to see Mickey again. The ticket cost $400. Mickey agreed to pay for the accommodations, which ended up being $40 for a motel. After Sarah arrived, they had sex in the motel. Then he took her to a coffee shop with coupons that were complimentary with the room. Afterward they had sex again— _while_ he watched the World Series. A Kodak moment, isn't it? No foreplay. No candle. No soft music. No showering together. Instead, one eye is on the game, and he's listening for the score. "The count is three to two... and the bases are loaded. _Steeeeerike!"_ Any man—even one who was raised in a jail—has sense enough to know that watching a game while having sex is rude. Hardly a "romantic getaway" for two. After two days of being romantic, they couldn't wait to "getaway" from each other. Now let's do a financial comparison. He got plenty of food, plenty of sex, and he got to watch the game (not bad for $40). Her bill exceeded $400. She did, however, get two extra packets of peanuts on the airplane, each containing 2.5 peanuts, for a total of five peanuts. Even if she divided them up into peanut halves, she still wouldn't come out ahead. A bitch would never have put herself in this position. She would have required that he come to see her, _and_ she would have suggested a hotel that is conveniently located. When the nice girl jumps through hoops or bends over backward and overcompensates, she does so because she has a fantasy that he will "complete her." To keep the spark from fizzling, it's sometimes best to stay ever-so-slightly just outside a man's reach, because it charges up his batteries. The nice girl fails to take a "breather" because of her fantasy that he is "the one" or her "soul mate." But this fantasy is a liability because it feeds a myopic view that he is the center of her life. Another reason women rush into a relationship is _fear._ A woman named Mary said, "I can't say 'no' to my boyfriend. For example, I drive to his place and I wait outside in my car until he comes home from work. Then I eat dinner later and I stay up late even though I have to be up early. I feel totally depleted the next day." I asked Mary why she doesn't just say, "Not tonight, honey. I really need some down time." She answered, "Because then he pouts. I guess deep down I'm afraid he'll get another girlfriend." The bitch is not governed by fear of losing a man, because she knows the real price to pay is when she loses _herself._ Almost immediately, women give themselves up _in small ways._ The cumulative effect of these subtle concessions, however, is what amounts to feeling depleted. Here's the cycle: * She develops a myopic view that what he gives is absolutely vital. * Because of this fantasy, she gives up everyday needs. * She feels more and more drained but continues to try harder, believing that he'll be the one to make her feel fulfilled again. * He senses her willingness to exert herself, and _relaxes_ what he gives even more. * She senses this and works even harder to jump through hoops. * The cycle gets worse, as she becomes more and more depleted. The solution? Lose the fantasy. And if you feel you are going to resent something after you give it, don't give it. Give only what feels comfortable to give. This will enable you to stay firmly planted with both feet on the ground. Remember when you learned the golden rule in kindergarten? This was a nice theory, but in the real world we'll need to modify it just a bit. LET'S REPLACE... \| WITH... ---\|--- "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." \| "Do unto others, after they show you they are worthy." "Love conquers all." \| "Love conquers her, when she gives all." "To give is better than to receive." \| "It is better to give and receive." "Charity begins at home." \| "There is no charity case in this home." "All's well that ends well." \| "All's well for those who cover their 'ends' well." "Love thy neighbor." \| "Love thyself first, and your neighbor will be happier living next to you." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #50 The nice girl gives away too much of herself when pleasing him regularly becomes more important than pleasing herself. Many times, when you are going through your daily life, Attraction Principle #50 will be very subtle. For example, a woman may have spread herself very thin between her career and her time to herself, and she's exhausted. He asks her out:"How about Wednesday?" She tells him Wednesday isn't good because of work demands on Thursday morning. So he asks, "How about Tuesday or Thursday?" Then she accepts. Her needs are swept under the rug, and worse yet, _she_ is doing the sweeping. Then she goes out and she is cranky and irritated because she is overworked and hasn't rested. The bitch doesn't take the more difficult course; she takes the easier course. How hard is it to suggest, "The weekend would really be better." It's better for _everyone_ involved. The bitch is her own guide. Cathy was on a first date when she found that the guy wouldn't let her order what she wanted off the menu. He kept saying, "You _have_ to try this..." She was firm but polite, and finally, he ordered what she wanted. Then he ordered a bottle of wine after she had said she didn't want to "drink and drive," particularly because it was a weeknight. He poured her a glass and they made a toast, so she didn't argue. They clinked glasses and she took one sip to be gracious, but not another sip thereafter. Her glass of wine didn't move. What is important in this example is that she didn't explain herself. She just did what she wanted to do. She didn't need to ask his permission to honor her own wishes, she just honored them. Another woman I know shared a story about a man she dated. After two dates, the man asked her to take him to the airport at 4 A.M. (yes, in the morning). On their second date, he was coordinating while she listened. "You could get up at 4 A.M., pick me up at 5 A.M., get to the airport at 6 A.M., go home by 7 A.M., shower, and get to work by 8 A.M." (The ringmaster had the poodle hoop-circuit all planned out.) Here's a novel idea that never crossed his mind: He could pay seven bucks for a shuttle, rather than yank her out of bed at such a ridiculous hour. She politely said, "I'm sorry. I'm going to be busy." And he said, "What do you mean busy? Busy what? Sleeping?" She smiled and politely said, "Yes." If he acts as though it's perfectly normal for you to jump through hoops, don't let that be your guide. Ignore what he says. When he says, "I'm spiritual," don't listen. Just look at how he acts. If he said he was spiritual, but he expects a lot of "unholy compromising," let your observations be your guide. Another way a woman may jump through hoops is to "tell time" by when a man calls. How many times have you called a girlfriend to say let's "hook up" and she has to wait for a call from a guy she's dating to give you an answer? These are always the women who get treated poorly. She becomes depleted because she is willing to wait "at bay," never making plans until she rules out the possibility "beyond a reasonable doubt" that she is seeing a man. Then you get a call back, "Okay let's get together," but now it's 10 P.M. If you don't hear from him in enough time to suggest he respects your time, there is a simple solution: Don't give him any. Here's an example of a woman who jumps through hoops—and at the same time, it defies the stereotype that beauty and youth are what are most attractive to a man. Karla was nineteen and so pretty you could have placed her on the cover of any men's magazine without airbrushing. She was the one who cried on my shoulder about the fact that her boyfriend, Bart, told her that when he goes out with his friends he looks at the sixteen-year-olds. Now let's hear Bart's version: "I'm not in love with her the way she is with me." He shared with me a story of when she was doing his laundry for him in his apartment. "I was being a total jerk. You know what she said to me? 'After I finish your laundry, I'm going home.' There were three more loads, and she did them. I really would have respected her if she had said, 'Screw you' and walked out." A tip: When you are at his place any day of the week, don't do any housework. The only laundry you do is your own. The only tub you scrub is your own. The only person you clean up after is yourself. If his place is a mess, go to yours. If he asks you to help him clean, be subtle. Just tell him the maidservant has the day off on Sundays. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #51 The relationship may not be right for you if you find yourself jumping through hoops. When something is right, it will feel easier and much more effortless. Just remember, it isn't about a man. This is your life... and it's too precious to waste. Do things when it is convenient, especially if it regards your relationships of choice and who you let in on the "inside." It will yield a much better return on investment... especially in the dignity department. # 6 ## NAGGING No MORE ### What to Do When He Takes You for Granted and Nagging Doesn't Work "Well done is better than well said." —BEN FRANKLIN #### A Lover or a Mother? It's a scenario that is all too familiar: a nice girl on "overdrive" trying to please her man. He comes home from work and she tries to have a conversation. He tunes her out saying, "I'm tired." She makes dinner, but he eats in front of the TV so he can watch _Monday Night Football_. She tries to look pretty; he doesn't notice. But watch what happens when he realizes the swimsuit issue got delivered; he almost hyperventilates. Diagnosis? She feels taken for granted. Like the bum on the street with a sign that says _Will work_ _for food,_ your sign now reads _Will work for attention._ Well, no more "slummin'," girlfriend. We are under new management. Under the old management, you dealt with his lack of attention by nagging. And if you'll notice, it hasn't worked. This is why all of the steps discussed in this chapter involve changes in demeanor. When you nag at a man, he becomes more reclusive. Essentially, you always want to remember that although he is a grown man, inside there is a three-year-old causing him to have Appreciation Deficit Disorder. Whenever you nag, you activate this toddler, and you have a thirty second window before you've activated the "little boy gland." It's as easy as changing a radio station. In thirty seconds, he'll tune you out and won't tune you back in until the nagging is over. It doesn't matter if his pants are on fire and smoke has filled the room. He won't hear a word you say. This is why you should communicate with your actions...rather than your words. Since a man won't discuss feelings as a woman does, anything past the second repetition seems like nagging. Never ask a man to do something more than twice or he'll feel as though he's being scolded by Mom. And whenever you nag, he'll behave like a stubborn teenager and rebel. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #52 When you nag, he tunes you out. But when you speak with your actions, he pays attention. Women often say, "Little boys are so sweet. What changes?" According to Freud, it gets messed up somewhere around the potty-training years. To better understand the origin of the "little boy gland" and to see how a man takes a woman for granted, let's now turn our attention to examine the behavior of a toddler. A three-year-old wants to be independent of Mommy, but he also wants to take for granted that she is still right there within his reach. So he tests to see how far he can go. The disobedient little boy wobbles around a corner mischievously and pauses. Then he runs back around the corner to make sure Mommy's still right there. With a grown man, there's one extra step in the middle. After he wobbles off but before he runs back, he will turn to look over his shoulder to see, "What will Mommy do next? Does she nag? Does she panic? Will she chase me?" Your reaction determines whether he'll take one step closer or another step farther away. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #53 When a man takes a woman for granted, he still looks for reassurance that she is still "right there." Think about how futile nagging is. It gives him the reassurance that he can continue to be distant and you will still be there. Very little is negotiated with words. He doesn't sit down and say, "Look, I want to be lazy in this relationship. But I'd like you to keep cooking me meals and I'd like you to keep having sex with me whenever it is convenient for me. In fact, I'm a little horny right now...wanna hop on?" One would think a woman who'd accept these terms would have to be high on crack. Yet women accept these terms every day. Nonstop. "What went wrong?" she asks. In the beginning he went out of his way to show her he's a gentleman; he opened car doors, he let her order first, and so on. So he knows how to treat a woman. The slacking off happens gradually without any negotiation and certainly without her consent, so she doesn't fully realize it is happening until things have gotten so off course. Then she nags to try to get them back on. Once a woman realizes a man is going into "couch potato" mode, she often mistakenly tries to address it. "You never take me out or bring me flowers anymore." Or, "We never spend time together." This is a sign to a man that he _has her right where he wants her._ Now he doesn't participate because, in his mind, all it takes to satisfy her is his presence. He quips, "I'm with you, aren't I?" To get the three-year-old to run back to Mommy, she has to stay just _outside his reach_. The reason nagging keeps her within his reach is that he senses she is "locked down" waiting for him. She may be waiting for him to give more, participate more, or be more attentive in some way. But she's still waiting. _On hold._ The only thing worse than him being locked in a cage is the feeling that he has you locked in his. Hence the need for a 180-degree change as prescribed in this chapter. When he takes you for granted, you've triggered the same kind of love he had for his mother, grandmother, or some other woman who raised him. Now you've become "old faithful." No matter how much you scream at him, he knows you aren't going anywhere. "She may kick my ass, but she'll still love me and I can do whatever I want." And it's this very security blanket you _don't_ want him to have. Men know it's wrong, but they'll still try to see how far they can push the envelope. As one man said to me, "Men will get away with what you let them get away with." That isn't to say there aren't great guys out there. But a man with integrity, or anyone with integrity for that matter, doesn't want something they haven't earned. That's why a high-caliber self-respecting guy will be attracted to a woman who won't let someone walk all over her. If he takes you for granted and you pull back a little with no explanation, it catches him off-guard and gets his attention bigtime. You're no longer acting in a way he is used to and you are no longer his mommy. This action generates desire for you as a lover. But if you posture yourself as "old faithful," he'll perceive you as his mother and he'll take you for granted. Failure to get enough attention isn't the only thing women complain about. Often women nag about household chores. Again, you have to condition him _without_ words. Most men don't particularly care if the place doesn't look great or if it's messy. Most guys are happy to come home and plunk down on the couch with the worn-out spot and his butt imprint on it. He doesn't care if the sink is full of dishes from the day before or that his shoes left muddy prints all over the carpet. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #54 When the routine becomes predictable, he's more likely to give you the same type of love he had for his mother-and the odds that he will take you for granted increase. When you're standing in a grocery line and you look at people with children, you'll notice that the mother who has control over her child doesn't nag or holler. She says one sentence or she gives the child a look. Because the child respects her and he is not sure what will happen next, he'll straighten up. Words are not needed to teach a man how to treat you. A little bit of silence or distance will often do the trick. Sometimes as a lover you will have to set forth terms that are also in the best interest of the "diapered one." Why? _He_ _is a man_. And there will forever be a three-year-old trapped inside him. All of the behavioral changes discussed in this chapter allow you to keep a calm, charming, and pleasant demeanor. The objective is to avoid being his mother and to make the transition back to being his lover. A man can't correlate sexual feelings with feelings for his mother. So be careful of the female figure that you become in his life. To stay his lover, you have to keep him on his toes. This behavior incites his interest and makes him come your way. He is happier being your lover than he is when you become his mother. Granted, he looks comfortable and content on the couch. But he isn't content when you become his mother because he no longer has a lover...and neither do you. The balance of this chapter gives you insight into how to turn things around and bring him back to pursuit mode when his mind drifts elsewhere. Men are hunters. What he gets from the nice girl is a protective kind of motherly love that lessens his sexual desire. He doesn't pursue his mom. What the nice girl needs to understand is that it takes the heat out of it for a man when you give him a predictable security blanket. Women often reassure, or try to convince, a man to win him over. But the bitch wins him over by acting as though she could take him or leave him. Therefore, backing off in a subtle way will give your man renewed "pep" in his step. You can also apply the advice in this chapter: * When he seems complacent * When he waffles about whether to be in the relationship * When he isn't respectful * When he repeatedly ignores what you need Let's get started. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200—because sister, there will be plenty of time for that later. #### Rx : Treat Him Like a Friend Think back to the beginning of your relationship when you first met your partner. You didn't nag him. Chances are, you treated him much as you would a friend. You were relaxed; you had fun and laughed more. You felt comfortable speaking your mind. He wasn't the "be all and end all" of your existence. When you started nagging, your behavior began to tell a different story. "I'm affected by every move you make." For this reason and this reason alone, nagging rewards him. Not because he enjoys it, but because it reassures him you care. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #55 Negative attention is still attention. It lets a man know that he has you—right where he wants you. It doesn't matter if you're a high-powered litigation attorney and can give a closing argument that makes his head spin. Nagging still reassures him of where he stands and where you stand. It doesn't give him anything to worry about, think about, or mull over. It doesn't intrigue him or pull him in. Instead, he tunes you out. Now you want to "talk" and he wants to do anything _except_ talk. And if you press the issue, he'll shift the blame. ### How to Shift the Blame...The Textbook Guide * First, tell her that the timing to discuss it isn't right. Remember, it's never a good time to "talk." * Before hearing a word, tell her she took everything wrong and is being "too sensitive." * Get a rotation going: Monday and Wednesday she's "overreacting." Tuesday and Thursday she's "blowing it out of proportion." And on weekends she's "imagining things." * Change the subject. Say, "You're starting your period, aren't you?" * If this doesn't work, pick a fight. Be very combative, but repeatedly point out that _she_ was the one who started the argument. * If she has six good points, and you have one semi-good little point, place all of the emphasis on your _one semi-good little point_. * Don't veer. Keep asking about your one little point over and over, then demand a quick answer. If she hesitates, use this as evidence that you are right. * If she is clearly right, find fault with her that has nothing to do with the incident, and use that. * Be sure to create your own imaginary panel of experts (composed of people she's never met). Say, "Even Joe and Jim agree with me and think you are being completely unreasonable." * When she tries to explain the same thing in a different way, roll your eyes. * Appoint yourself her in-house therapist. Say, "You do this to _yourself. Why_ do you do this to yourself?" * Keep count of how many times she repeats herself, and be sure to remind her. * It's like boxing. Jab with the left; uppercut with the right. Then run... * As Muhammad Ali used to say: "Float like a butterfly; sting like a bee." Float by dodging the issue, and sting by asking why she "can't let it go." * Keep dancing, and stay _light_ on those feet. * And, remember, it's always _her_ fault. That's your story, and you are _stickin'_ to it. The other thing he'll do is tune you out completely. He can see lips moving, but he cannot hear what you are saying. Like a remote control in his head, you've been "muted." Ideally, his hope is that you'll "nag yourself silly" to the point of exhaustion. He figures if he bides his time, eventually you'll wear yourself out and go away. Women differ in terms of how long it takes them to run out of steam. Evidently, according to the men I interviewed, each woman-as with clothing, perfume, and lovemaking-has her own "personalized style" of nagging. Here are some just to name a few: * The Marathon Nagger: This woman will nag for a longer time so she paces herself, for two to three hours. * The Sprint Nagger: This woman will nag for a shorter period of time. It's a more intense burst, so she'll get tired much more quickly. * The Momentum Whiner: This woman will start out with a whine and then will slowly pick up momentum, building up to a nag. Then she'll cry. The longer she goes, the more momentum she builds and the less likely she is to stop. * The Sunrise Whiner: It starts as the sun comes up over the horizon. His eyes begin to open and he hears his first morning whine. Or he's still asleep, and it wakes him like a rooster. * The Nightcap Nagger: Just as he is falling into a deep REM sleep, she nudges him and reminds him of something he has to do the following day. * The Bushwhacker: This nagger employs the element of surprise. She catches him off-guard at any moment in the day. One minute everything is going along fine and then, without any warning, she jumps out of the bushes and whacks him. * The Sniper: This is the premeditated nagger who will make one cutting remark. It's usually a well-placed shot that delivers a devastating blow. Many times, when a man steps on a woman's toes, he doesn't have a clue. She has to remember that if something happens that she doesn't like, he may not know any better. Therefore, if she wants to tell him something he did that put her off, she should stay calm. Then she should say, "Could I explain something to you?" She needs to approach it as though he did not intend to hurt her because more often than not he _doesn't have an inkling._ Shaquille O'Neal said, "This is a tough game. There are times when you've got to play hurt, when you've got to block out the pain." The reason that you block out the pain is that it impairs your decision-making. Long term, how you communicate will affect his desire for you. If a woman is losing a man's attention, it's because the woman is following a _predictable_ routine and she's becoming an opponent rather than a partner. Therefore: Nagging = A woman who is predictable = A feeling of obligation = Decreased lust Indifference = Less predictable response = Renewed interest ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #56 When you treat him casually as though he's a friend, he'll come your way. Because he wants things to be romantic, but he also _wants_ to be the pursuer. Envisioning him as just a friend enables you to relate to him without the heaviness or the intensity of the nagging. Don't say, "Hey, buddy. Hey pal," and throw down a cold beer in front of him with a fake, peppermint-refreshing smile. Don't offer to girl-watch with him or chew tobacco. Don't overdo it. Again, treat him as you would a friend, which means exude a demeanor that seems _unlikely given the circumstances._ If you've been uptight, needy, or clingy, appearing casual, relaxed, and _un_ concerned is the unlikely response that he would expect. For example, if he has excuses for why he isn't spending time with you, you need to make excuses for why you can't spend time with _him_. Is it a game? No. If he's too busy and you've already tried telling him how you feel, it's time to show him with your actions that he will no longer be dictating the terms. Because his terms will most likely continue to drive a wedge between you-and that's not the outcome you want. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #57 A little distance combined with the appearance of self-control makes him nervous that he may be losing you. Here is a classic case in point. You want to see more of him and you suggest going away for the weekend together. He says, "No, I can't because of work." You've typically whined over the issue of him not spending enough time with you. What will throw him and get his attention is if you go left when he thinks you'll go right. If you _don't_ cop an attitude or you appear to lose interest in going away, he'll immediately be concerned. Most men are used to women wanting to be around them all the time. He gets concerned when he's busy trying to defend something you mysteriously no longer want. If you don't bring it up and pretend to forget all about it, he second-guesses himself: " _Hmm..._ why is this okay with her when I know it's wrong?" Now his clout or leverage with you will be called into question, and he no longer knows if he has a 100 percent hold on you. When he _doesn't_ get the nagging but he _knows_ he deserves it, he begins to wonder what's going on. Let's say he likes seeing you two nights a week, but he likes to do his own thing on the weekends. Some weekends you get together and other weekends he leaves you hanging when he goes out with the boys. The last thing you want to let Yogi Bear think is that you are Boo Boo the fool. "Gee, Yogi what are we going to do next? Okay!" You need to alter the pattern that has become convenient for him _with no attitude and no warning_. Use the same type of excuses that he wanted you to accept. See him half as much as he wants to see you. "I'd love to see you Thursday, but I can't. I am really behind in my work. I want to go to the gym after work, and I'm going to be too tired. We'll get together next week." In that one gesture, you've done something you could have never accomplished with all the whining and nagging in the world. You've just rekindled the flame. The second you take away the security of a predictable routine, his orientation changes. Instead of worrying about buying time or making excuses about work, he has to think of something fun to do so you'll want to be with him. When you're not available, _he'll go out of his way to make more time for you._ If you ask any parrot trainer how to train a parrot, he or she will tell you to raise the perch to about shoulder level. The trainer will tell you not to raise the bird up higher than you, because the bird will think he is better than you. No matter how much the bird loves you, if you put your finger up over your head to touch him, he'll be more inclined to bite you. This dynamic with birds is where the term _cocky_ originated. If, on the other hand, you put the bird on the ground, the bird feels vulnerable. Trainers suggest doing this to keep the bird "in check." If you put your finger out, instead of biting you, he'll crawl up on your finger and want to get on your arm. When your man behaves as though he is more worthy than you, re-create the balance and equality in the relationship by gently taking the "little birdie" and putting him on the ground. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #58 A man takes a woman for granted when he's interested, but will no longer go out of his way. For example, Rhonda was being taken for granted by her boyfriend. He asked her to "come over" late one night. She indicated she didn't have a car because it was in the shop. He was seven minutes away with a car that was running fine, parked right there in his driveway. He asked, "So, Rhonda, when will your car be ready?" After realizing that she had no wheels, he dropped the subject of getting together. In this example, Rhonda was "dissed" by a guy who wanted her to keep him warm at night but wouldn't drive seven minutes to pick her up. Typically, she would have nagged, but she didn't this time. The next time he called, Rhonda spoke to him very casually as though he were an acquaintance. A friend. A pal. A _muchacho_. She said, "Hey, great to hear from you. Can you call me back in a few? I am on the other line." He called back and she was in the shower. Then he called a third time. They chatted a bit casually. For the first time in their relationship, her disposition changed from _intense_ to _indifferent_. After a short while, her call waiting beeped through and she politely ended the conversation. "Talk to you soon. Bye, sweetie." Almost immediately, the guy started to become much more attentive. Let's hit the "pause" button. Rewind...now, let's review play-by-play. Notice how simple it was for Rhonda to get him to realize he needs to give more. 1. He wasn't nice. 2. He _knows_ he wasn't nice. 3. He expected her to nag. 4. She didn't nag. 5. He was unsure. 6. She was relaxed and self-assured. 7. She gave no explanation and no attitude. 8. He said to himself, "Uh oh. I better get busy." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #59 When you nag, _you_ become the problem, and he deals with it by tuning you out. But when you don't nag, he deals with _the problem._ When there is a problem, men love to "fix" it. By nagging, you make it seem as though the problem lies with you. A perfect example is Diana, who started nagging her husband to fix a latch in the laundry room. After the third time she asked, he became so irritated that no force on earth could get him to fix that latch. One evening some friends came over. While her husband was within earshot, Diana asked her friend's husband to fix the latch in the laundry room, in that sweet "damsel in distress" tone of voice that men eat up. Then she started looking for a screwdriver. Before she could even turn around, her husband ran up the stairs like Speedy Gonzales and fixed the latch in two minutes flat. Men despise it when other men fix things for them. It's a territorial thing-like some other man is treading on his turf. When you've asked him to do something a few times and he doesn't do it, say, "Honey, it's okay. I don't need you to do it anymore. Ed, our next-door neighbor, said he'd come over and do it." If you don't have a neighbor, tell him his best friend will come do it. This is how you will get whatever it is you want done, right then and there. My friend Lucy noticed that when she asked her husband for help in various ways, he was less attentive. For example, she often asked him to help bring in the groceries when she came back from the market. He was always in the middle of something, so he said, "Give me a minute." A minute later she said, "The food is going to spoil." And she kept repeating herself. "The food is going to go bad. If you're going to do it, please do it now." Every time she went to the market, it became a power struggle. Then she stopped asking for his help and she noticed a change. When she brought in the groceries and he asked if she wanted a hand she said, "No thanks, sweetie. I've got it." Suddenly, he was out there insisting on bringing in the groceries. Then there's my friend Rayanna, who found herself repeatedly nagging her husband to take their child to school. He always made excuses to avoid doing the driving. But instead of nagging him, Rayanna found a single dad down the street to carpool with. When her husband got wind of the fact that a neighbor was doing the driving, suddenly Papa Bear put a chauffeur hat on. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #60 If you take his chores away from him and praise someone else for doing it, he'll want his chores back. Remember, men need a little coaxing. They aren't the most talented when it comes to running a household. Before he was Papa Bear, he lived the life of the untamed bear, living in his bachelor's habitat (with furniture). Think back to your first walk-through. The sheets didn't match and the pillows didn't have cases on them. His lamp consisted of a velour hand-me-down shade on a contemporary silver stand with air fresheners stuck to each side. It was so ugly that even the Salvation Army truck kept driving when you put it on the edge of the driveway. So the day the "live-in bear" sets the living standard is the day your living standard plummets. Stake your claim, but do it without nagging him. There's a better way. When you use guilt or nagging to motivate him, he feels bad. If you stroke his ego, however, he feels good. He needs to be praised. When he goes out to straighten the mailbox and he comes back inside, say, "Thank you so much, sweetie!" Praise him the whole way. Then he'll say, "Why don't I fix that latch in the laundry room?" ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #61 When you nag, he sees weakness. Barbara told a funny story of how she engaged her husband in helping out one lazy Sunday afternoon. She sneaked down into the garage when her husband wasn't looking and figured out which circuit breaker turned off the lights to the part of the house he was in. Then she flipped it off and tiptoed back into the house and pretended as though she had no idea what happened. "Honey? I'm scared! What happened to the power?" He'd never think she had the brains to turn off a circuit breaker. Now she gave him a jolt with a jumper cable that got him right up off the couch. Big Papa to the rescue! Then he helped out because he felt needed—as the "man of the house." He found a flashlight and went downstairs to the circuit-breaker box. He assigned her the very complicated duty of holding the flashlight for him. "Hold it steady." When he flipped the circuit breaker back on, she appeared proud and impressed. "Wow! I can't believe it. How did you do that?" Then she called his mom. "Mom, he is so smart..." When you make him feel like the man? The stud-muffin? The legend? You can ask him to do anything and he'll jump to do it. He won't do it because you nagged him, he'll do it because he _wants_ to. And he'll now feel good about it. As John Churton Collins said, "Never claim as a right what you can ask as a favor." Nagging makes it a right; asking for a favor makes it a positive experience. He'll come running to help if he's going to be praised. Just as a woman wants to be perceived as a "dream girl" to a man, a man wants to be perceived as a "hero" in his woman's eyes. #### "Show" Is Better Than "Tell" If you've been nagging and you want to get his attention, try something new on for size. Don't show your feelings for a little while. And don't explain why. Don't tell him that you've had an epiphany. Don't say this is the "new me." Don't exaggerate the change. "Feelings? What feelings?" Show-rather than tell-him that you aren't spilling your guts anymore. Pop psychologists would suggest that you shouldn't withhold how you feel. They tell you to "express yourself." Begin every sentence with "I feel..." Ask for feedback. Then sit in a circle, hold hands, and pass around the Kleenex. Promise never to do it again and live happily ever after. Then pay the therapist $175. It's a wonderful theoretical ideal. It feels warm and fuzzy just thinking about "expressing those feelings." And I'm sure on rare occasions it even works (because after spending $20,000 total on a therapist, you can't bear to think that it hasn't). But don't kid yourself. No man changes because of couples therapy. Men think of therapy as a form of blackmail—coercion with a ransom. The only reason they straighten up is to keep from going broke. Half a session will usually do the trick. "Okay. I'm all better. Can we stop the clock now?" Expressing yourself when he takes you for granted doesn't work. You have to show him with actions. Expressing your feelings constantly is like pleading. It comes across as needy rather than dignified. But backing away when he crosses the line? _Plenty dignified._ When he is intrigued because the cards aren't out on the table, he is forced to see you differently. It isn't the love he had for his mother. Or his sister. Or his grandma. Now you have his attention because he is no longer in the "safety zone" that enables him to have his cake and eat it, too. This isn't being mean. Men are turned on by it. Think about the average run-of-the-mill male fantasy he had growing up: It's always a woman who has power over him. There's the teacher he had in the eighth grade, the nurse at the doctor's office, the babysitter who gave him a few extra cookies, the policewoman with the handcuffs. All of these women, in their own feminine ways, have power over him and leave him at a disadvantage and _he likes it_. When you tell a man how you feel, most of the time he doesn't understand what you're talking about. You'll probably just confuse and frustrate him. If you take a look at Attraction Principle #62, you'll see what he _does_ understand. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #62 He perceives an emotional woman as more of a pushover. My friend Gary races cars, and he shared a story about a girlfriend who nagged him. After a particular racing event, Gary was sitting next to his girlfriend in the stands. A couple of friendly women approached them and asked for his autograph. He recalls, "I couldn't believe my girlfriend got so upset because I didn't introduce her as my girlfriend. I just forgot, but she kept nagging. She even pouted." What he said next is interesting: "Do you know what the biggest turnoff is? A _martyr."_ We don't know if she overreacted because he may have been flirting up a storm. But what's interesting about this story is his choice of the word _martyr_. She was trying to use guilt to control and manipulate him; and men resent being manipulated. On the other hand, if she had backed off subtly, he'd have seen a woman who has pride and dignity-both of which are powerfully attractive qualities. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #63 In the same way that familiarity breeds contempt, a slightly aloof demeanor can often renew his respect. If a man isn't being nice when you're out, all you have to do is remain polite and then go home early. "I have a big day tomorrow. _[Yawn.]_ We need to call this an early night." The next time you go out, he'll be on his best behavior. An acquaintance of mine named Cynthia told me a funny story about her boyfriend. They were seeing each other exclusively, and one night he went to a strip-bar. She was not a happy camper and wanted to discourage him from going again. She did not nag. A couple of days later, she pretended that she had gotten a job at a local strip club. "Checking coats. Isn't that great?" Then she talked about finding the right platform shoes. On their next date, she wore hot pink lipstick and teased her hair as though she'd been electrocuted. Then came the light blue eyeshadow on the entire lid, all the way up to the eyebrow. He wanted to see "hoochies" and girlfriend delivered a "super-deluxe hoochie" package. It didn't take long before he came unglued: "I don't want my woman in a place like that!" This began a discussion that ended in a mutual agreement that they would both stay out of "places like that." (See? Why argue your case when you can get him to argue it for you?) There are times when a serious issue arises, and there is a need for a more serious discussion. If and when this situation presents itself, there is still a way of emphasizing your position _without_ nagging or repeating yourself several times. If he asks, "Is something wrong?" take a breath and respond calmly. "Yes, something is wrong, but I'd like to talk about it later. I really don't want to talk about it now." Instead of being muted, the volume is now turned up and the surround-sound is on. Chances are you won't have to say a word because by the time you do get around to discussing it, he's already made sure he won't do it again. Meanwhile, he's thinking of ways to make it up to you. All before you've said one word. Better, no? It's like he's defragmenting his hard drive. You're making him clean up his own hard drive without any nagging whatsoever. You walk away and do your own thing...while he is "self-correcting" himself. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #64 He'll forget what he has in you...unless you remind him. A lot of women think they need to "cattle prod" the guy out of his oblivion by nagging. "I'll sting him." Or they don't realize that they're nagging. Every now and then remind yourself: "Hey, men are people too." And put yourself in his shoes—being around someone who acts like your mother isn't a whole lot of fun. It's with your behavior, not with your words, that you let him know where you stand. After all, a strong woman is everything men dream and fantasize about. Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and...bitches—it doesn't get any better than that. # 7 ## THE OTHER TEAM'S Secret "PLAY BOOK" ### Things You Suspected but Never Heard Him Say "Don't learn the tricks of the trade. Learn the trade." —ANONYMOUS #### What Men Think about How Women Communicate Women often assume that men aren't "in touch" with their feelings and don't have a clue about what is going on in romantic relationships. Because men aren't as likely to express themselves, women presume men "just don't get it." Men have an aversion to talking about feelings. They even avoid watching movies about "feelings." Mike described to me how men view emotional movies that women like: "There is always a mother, a daughter, and the mother's best friend. The whole movie they are at a beach, or they are squeezing tomatoes in a garden with a stupid straw hat on. And everyone is whimpering the whole time. 'Mama? Boo, hoo, hoo.' Then the mom starts crying. A bunch of women whimpering is not a plot. I can't sit through two hours of that." Men are about as interested in talking about feelings or watching "chick flicks" as we are watching them get under a car and rebuild an engine. To them, watching a movie like _Terms of Endearment_ or _Steel Magnolias_ is cruel and unusual punishment. One guy named Chris recalled: "It was horrible! And I had to watch that shit for three hours just to prove that I wasn't an asshole." This statement even brought support from a guy standing nearby: "I feel for you, man. That sucks. That's almost as bad as having to listen to Michael Bolton. All that wailing and weeping? I can't listen to it." What is also interesting is how men discuss "feelings." If you ask a man to say that word out loud, he'll pronounce it with a tone of dread. " _Fff-fffff—feeeee-_ lings." As the conversation continues, you'll notice a pained facial expression as if he's "going in" for some kind of invasive surgical procedure. Side effects vary; usually digestive problems occur. (Therefore, before discussing "feelings," make sure to steam some rice to quell his upset stomach.) This lack of sentiment leads women to believe men are "out of touch." But nothing could be further from the truth. I spoke with hundreds of men of all ages while researching this book. The youngest was eighteen and the oldest was seventy; some were married and some were single. To my surprise, they were more articulate about their perceptions than any girlfriends I've ever talked with were about theirs. I found the men to be surprisingly forthcoming and truthful. In the balance of this chapter, I've taken the best, most revealing quotes and put them all together in list form to help women learn what men notice. I've highlighted the quotes that reveal what men think about a needy woman, a feisty woman, and what turns men on or off. This information will "connect the dots," confirming the advice given in the other chapters. You'll understand not only what the advice is, but also, _why the advice thoughout this book_ was given. #### The Top Fifteen Signs That a Woman Is Needy 1. "If a woman doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve, she comes off as less emotional and more appealing. It makes the relationship go smoothly. For example, a guy _has_ to go to work. It isn't that he doesn't want to spend time with a woman; it's that a lot of times he _can't._ So when a woman gives you room to live your life without getting upset, you'll feel she's adding much more to your life." 2. "I like a woman who's quiet at times because then you're not sure what she's thinking. She'll seem more secure with herself, like she has control over herself and her emotions. You want to be with a person who can think before she speaks." 3. "Some women seem defensive or guarded, and that can be viewed as insecurity, also. There was one woman who turned me off before we even went out. She was so concerned about _protecting_ herself that she told me what she wouldn't tolerate in our first phone conversation. She gave me this warning based on what happened with the _last_ guy. We hadn't even had our first date, and already she was laying down the law. I hadn't even made a traffic violation and she'd already sentenced me to death. All I did was ask her out on a date!" 4. "I went out with a woman who interrogated me. I got the impression that she had been burned. Actually, it was more like she'd been _scorched._ No guy wants to feel like he's paying for some other guy's mistakes." 5. "I dated a woman who loved to talk and talk. We'd fall asleep talking, and I'd wake up and she'd still be talking. I realized that she wasn't doing it because she wanted to tell me anything, she was doing it because she just couldn't shut up." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #65 Many women talk a lot out of nervousness-which is something that men will often perceive as insecurity. 6. "One woman I dated was really needy. She needed constant reassurance about everything. Her family, her friends, and her job. _During sex,_ she said to me, 'Do you know what happened to me today at work?' That one killed my ego!" 7. "The conversation is part of the companionship, but it isn't everything. Women overdo talking about feelings. If it feels like you've run out of things to talk about, that's not a good thing. There has to be a balance somewhere in between." 8. "One woman tried to change me. She tried to get me to talk about my 'feelings' more. Hey, look. I can deal with my _own_ problems." 9. "When someone tries to get me to open up and I don't want to, there is no way they are getting the information out of me. I'll close up even more. I don't need a woman to 'help' me." 10. "It really makes us happy when a woman lets us go out with the guys and has no attitude about it. Like if I get tickets to a hockey game at the last minute. If she's cool even when I cancel plans with her, it wins my respect. It feels like she is secure with herself, and she cares about what makes me happy, too." 11. "I had one girlfriend who talked so much I could walk away into another room and she'd still be talking. One time I was in the bathroom trying to have some privacy and she was talking to me through the crack of the door. I really think there was something wrong with her." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #66 Talking about feelings to a man will feel like _work._ When he's with a woman, he wants it to feel like _fun_. 12. "When a guy talks about something, it's over in thirty seconds. But for a woman, it goes on and on. What seems like a trivial thing to him seems like it's life threatening to her. So then you try to help and you say, 'Honey, it doesn't matter.' But that makes it worse because she thinks you don't care." 13. "I think a woman who talks less is more attractive because it makes her more mysterious. It is not a good thing to just ramble on. Communication should be about quality not quantity. If a woman is uncomfortable or bothered, he should be able to feel it without her saying a word." 14. "One woman wanted the two of us to always be together. She tried to change how I spend all my time. And every guy has his own special time or recreation. She wanted me to do stuff I didn't want to do. If she knows I am not the 'artsy' type, she should let me be who I am. She shouldn't be dragging me to an art gallery or a museum. If a guy treats a woman well, but he doesn't write poetry or buy stupid cards expressing his _feelings,_ she should just leave well enough alone." 15. "I don't mind a woman who changes the decor in the house, but when she is obsessed with changing me, it gets old. I want a woman who has a sense of purpose in her own life, so she doesn't waste all her energy trying to control mine." What you can glean from this feedback is that, no matter how much a woman wants intimacy, she can't force it out of a man—much less change his stripes. Notice that in the last quote, the man even says the woman is _wasting her time_. Whenever a woman speaks in language that appears in any way emotional, most men will immediately discredit it and think of it as "girlie babble." Keeping it short and to the point is essential, otherwise he won't hear a single word. Not only this, but constantly trying to force a man to talk about feelings or pay an inordinate amount of attention to your feelings is counterproductive. Here's why: ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #67 Forcing him to talk about feelings all the time will not only make you seem needy, it will eventually make him lose respect. And when he loses respect, he'll pay even less attention to your feelings. Therefore, if you feel as if he's ignoring you, be "dumb like a fox." When he isn't meeting your needs, just pull back slightly and don't explain a thing. As explored in the last chapter, men don't respond to words. Women chase men by trying to force-feed conversations about feelings. And predictably, they run. In order for the child to run to Mommy, Mommy has to first stop chasing the child. If, however, you're not _demanding_ it, or chasing it, or trying to inflict "cruel and unusual girlie babble," you'll have his respect. Whenever you keep your piece short and sweet and pull back in a slightly mysterious way, you'll appear more dignified and he'll pay much more attention to what you feel—without any words at all. #### The Top Fifteen Reasons Men "Play It Cool" I asked men why they hide their feelings, or "play it cool." I asked why they often put up pretenses that they are cool, "macho," and tougher than they feel. They do this because they feel they have to, _especially_ when dealing with women. Women often wonder why men take so long to make a phone call. For example, a man asks for her phone number and then waits six days before calling. Then he takes her out on a really fun date and waits another five days before calling again. Meanwhile, she's scratching her head and asking, "What's up with that?" Men are used to being turned down by women so this delaying tactic is how they keep their guard up. In the beginning, he'll be calculated. He'll be rational as opposed to "emotional," because to him appearing too obvious, or "emotional," will be perceived as a sign of weakness. On Tuesday, he'll say to himself, "I think I'll call her on Thursday." Most men don't have a clue that the woman would have preferred a call on Tuesday. So why do they do it? They do it to "save face" and to give the impression they're "in control" of the situation. An attractive guy by the name of Steven surprised me with his candor. He said, "You have to approach women looking like you do it all the time, and it isn't a big deal to you. The minute you act like it's important to you, the woman smells it and she treats you differently." This is the reason men will wait before calling and then act a little bit cavalier. _They believe that women disrespect men who appear weak or vulnerable._ What you can take away from this is: _Do not take it personally_ if he doesn't call for a day or two. Often when it seems as though he's slightly rejecting you, it can be a compliment in disguise; he wants you _so much_ that he doesn't want to appear too obvious about it. Other times men pull back deliberately to see what your reaction will be, because they are curious to see how much _you_ care. If you don't believe me, keep reading. Here's what these sneaky devils copped to: 1. "Guys want women to think they have other options with women, even when they don't. So they exaggerate. They do it to make themselves look more attractive to a woman." 2. "Sure, men play cool. Because they think the woman is going to find them more attractive or appealing. I know some guys that check out a woman who isn't even that beautiful, just to make his girlfriend a little insecure." 3. "Guys don't want to admit it to themselves that one woman can have that kind of control over them. It deflates our egos to think that women can affect us that much. We don't want to feel like we have no control over ourselves." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #68 In the beginning, the only thing you need to pay attention to is whether he keeps coming around, because he'll only be able to suspend or hide his emotions for so long. 4. "I may not call a girl too much in the beginning because I don't want to give the impression that I'm too eager." 5. "Guys are just as emotional as women are. They just don't show it because society says you aren't supposed to. As a guy, you have to appear to be in control of yourself." 6. "When she acts like she doesn't care, it can scare you. Women can crush men and they don't even know it. If a woman puts her foot down and walks away? It can crush a guy..." 7. "If a man is really falling for a particular woman, a lot of times he'll try to conceal it. Very few men will ever break down and cry over a woman in front of her." 8. "Of course men play cool...to get women interested in us. We want women to like us and don't want them to think we are too eager. If you show you're too interested right off the bat, women will think you are desperate." 9. "Sometimes I'll pretend to ignore a woman in the beginning, or I won't call as much to keep a woman's interest. No guy wants to look too desperate." 10. "Men are needier sexually. Women can control their sex drives, whereas men are controlled by theirs." 11. "Guys do it to appeal to women. Most guys believe that nice guys finish last and that women on some level want a bad boy." 12. "If you appear weak, people take advantage of you. Some men think if you open up too much, a woman will use it against you." 13. "If you let a woman know that you haven't been in the company of a woman recently, she could get the impression you're desperate or just trying to be with any woman." 14. "Women are in control, because they control the sex. In fact, women have a lot more control than they know. A lot of guys feel like this puts us at a disadvantage." 15. "When a guy plays cool, he thinks he's impressing the woman with his power or his strength. He's just trying to be hip, like he knows what's up. No guy wants to be perceived as a Mommy's boy or a wimp." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #69 Men treat women the way they treat other men. They "play it cool" because they don't want to appear weak or desperate. #### The Top Fifteen Male Views on Keeping the Romance Alive A number of men also spoke to me about keeping the passion alive, particularly those who are married or have been married. During this part of the interview, I always felt like it was a word game. I said "romance," and they thought _sex._ I said "passion," and they thought _sex._ I said "new experiences," and they thought about _sex._ I said, "variety," and they responded with a question, "You mean _sex,_ right?" Given this, the most obvious thing men would want a woman to take away from a conversation on the subject of how to keep the passion alive is with respect to...you guessed it... _sex!_ While men are less likely to talk about feelings, they still need to feel connected with the person they are in love with and it's equally important for them to keep the magic "spark." When a man stops having sex, he starts to doubt his manhood, and his desirability gets called into question. It isn't just about the physical act. 1. "A guy needs to always feel that he's desirable to his wife or girlfriend. We need that feedback." 2. "Do something different in bed. Anything. As long as it's different than what he's used to. The element of surprise is a turn-on. If you always get on top, do it sideways." 3. "Late in the evening you're so exhausted. The daily grind can really take the passion out of a relationship. You have to make the time for each other. Go out for a dinner and get a babysitter if you have to." 4. "People use the excuse of money, time, being away from the kids to stop being intimate or romantic. It's really important to keep the passion." 5. "Men like a woman to be creative so it doesn't get stale. If she's too predictable because you talk about the relationship all the time instead of going out and having one, he'll get bored quickly." 6. "Recently, my wife and I started leaving the kids with family once a month and we go away for a Friday night or a Saturday night. It keeps the romance alive. It's the adult conversation one-on-one." 7. "It's easy to say, 'We can't afford to eat out.' Or, 'We can't afford to go away for the weekend.' The bills may be racking up or you feel like you should spend the money on the kids. But you really can't afford to give up the romantic things or your sex life. It's also very important." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #70 The element of surprise both inside and outside of the bedroom is important to men, and it adds to the excitement. 8. "Anything that surprises a guy will add excitement. It's about having new experiences with someone." 9. "If a guy keeps getting turned down sexually, eventually the passion will die. Guys want sex a minimum of a couple of times a week, and ideally, they want a woman who doesn't have to be asked." 10. "Just once I would like to have a woman take my hand and lead me to the bedroom. Guys _always_ have to be the aggressors. We _always_ have to do the work to get a woman 'in the mood.' Sometimes guys just don't want to have to work that hard." 11. "I like a woman who takes the initiative sexually from time to time. Maybe not the first time, but definitely when you are in a relationship. It makes him feel like you want him more." 12. "I think it keeps the romance if you have time apart even when you're living together. It is important to be able to do stuff alone and not have her give you a hard time about it. When I go fishing, I find that I really miss my wife. And that's a _good_ thing, isn't it?" 13. "Sometimes a woman can make a guy feel important by asking questions or expressing an interest in what he likes. They can try something new together that they wouldn't normally do. I'd suggest planning a weekend away with him that you can both look forward to." 14. "The weekends can be filled with a lot of busywork. Shuttling the kids around or doing housework. I think it can help keep the romance to do some of the mundane things apart from one another. Sometimes in the morning I can take the kids while she does chores, and then she can take the kids out while I stay at home and do certain duties. In the evenings you have a better time being together. I don't need to see my wife cleaning the floors with a bandana on." 15. "It's comforting if you've been with someone awhile to do the same three tricks in bed that you know they like. But it becomes routine after awhile. Throw in a change-up or a curve ball. It doesn't have to be outrageous, just something you don't normally do." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #71 Don't always do the same thing over and over in the bedroom. Vary it so that it doesn't become a predictable routine. #### The Top Fifteen Things That Turn Men Off There were just a few miscellaneous comments men had about other things that put them off. This section may be self-explanatory to some, while others may find these things not so obvious. In any event, since your man is not likely to say these things directly, you might want to make a small mental note of the following: 1. "A woman should always keep the bathroom door closed when she's on the toilet. I think it's really disgusting to watch a woman on the toilet. And don't leave feminine pads and stuff around for the guy to look at, either. We don't even like it when we see douche commercials on TV." 2. "I get a little turned off by a woman who is too materialistic. If she pays attention to what kind of shoes I'm wearing or what kind of watch I have on or what kind of car I drive, I'll back off." 3. "When a woman is jealous, it can be a turnoff. One time I was on a date and this person with long blonde hair was in the car next to us. My date accused me of checking her out. It turned out to be a guy!" 4. "Mystery is important. I was on the phone with a woman and the first time we spoke she said that she was going to lose weight so we could have sex. How much does a guy need to be talked into having sex?" 5. "I don't like a woman who doesn't have a life, or a job. Or messed-up credit. Or an old boyfriend who's a nut case. I like a woman who is responsible." 6. "I like a woman I can see without any pressure involved. If a guy is under a lot of pressure and she adds to it, he'll immediately shut down." 7. "I don't like it when a woman makes me look bad in front of people. If I do something wrong, she should bring it up at home." 8. "When he walks in the door after a long day, let him do his own thing for a half-hour. Acknowledge his presence and give him a kiss and don't immediately drop what you need on him." 9. "A woman shouldn't let a guy know she is centering her world around him. One girl told me she spent three hours getting ready to meet me for the first time. That's a little too much." 10. "The fear every guy has is that after marriage the girl is going to cut her hair off, gain a bunch of weight, and stop putting out." 11. "No woman who wants to be involved with a halfway decent guy should ever get drunk with him. If you're home drinking and you get a buzz, that's one thing. If you're at a bar and you make an idiot of yourself, it's a total turnoff. No one likes to be with a drunk." 12. "Never let a guy know you're sitting home waiting for his call, or that he's your whole life. He also likes knowing other men want you, just as long as you aren't sleeping with any of them." 13. "When a woman chases you, it will turn you off. I remember when the sorority girls would come over to the fraternities. In a way, I felt like the cows were coming to graze on our turf. It was too easy." 14. "It's like punching a clock when you're with a woman who makes you feel like you have to report back to her. That's an instant turnoff." 15. "A woman should never show up _unannounced,_ both at a guy's house or at his work. He'll instantly think of her as a 'fatal attraction' type." #### The Top Fifteen Reasons Men Prefer a Feisty Woman Women are almost brainwashed since kindergarten that they should be _nice_. Just think about the nursery rhyme that says girls are made of "sugar and spice and everything _nice_." Pop culture does not encourage women to be feisty, so women get the idea that being nice, and agreeable is the winning ticket. It's good to be nice. It's when a woman feels she has to be nice independent of how she is treated that there's a problem. It often means the woman is nice at the expense of being self-abnegating. As you've read throughout these chapters, a man will often be turned off by a woman who _doesn't_ stand her ground. When you read the following quotes, this message should come full circle, since now you will be hearing it directly from men: They are secretly turned on by a bitch, or a woman who _will_ stand up for herself. At this point we are getting to the meat and potatoes of the "Other Team's Secret Playbook." Here's where men—in their own words—disclose why they are turned on by bitches. This is one of their best-kept secrets of all. 1. "When you banter with a woman and she can give it right back to you, it's a turn-on." 2. "I like a woman who can put me in my place. If I'm being a jerk and she brings it to my attention, it makes me respect her." 3. "The childlike qualities in us [men] propel us to try to take advantage. It's a good thing to know the woman you love won't put up with it." 4. "Yes, I admit it. Sometimes I start a fight with my wife. It isn't that I deliberately want to give her a hard time; it's just that sometimes I have a hard day and misery loves company. When she puts me in my place, it makes me respect her." 5. "I like a woman who won't play games. Her confidence says that she must know something I don't. Then I say to myself, 'Hey, she _must be_ worth keeping.'" 6. "When a woman is always really sweet and nice, it can become monotonous." 7. "If a guy thinks a woman is stupid, he won't take her attention that seriously because he doesn't respect her opinion. If she's really smart and appears to have her act together, I am more flattered that she wants to be with me. I feel like I have something of value." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #72 Most men tend to disrespect a woman who appears to be too _malleable._ 8. "When you try to get away with doing something you know isn't right and a woman says, 'I don't have time for that,' it can be a turn-on. It depends on the situation, but I like a woman who has the integrity to stand by what she believes." 9. "She is so sexy to me when she has that spiciness about her. She isn't afraid to disagree or tell me what she thinks. She doesn't always kiss my ass and that keeps me on my toes." 10. "She didn't take anything lying down. I complained at the time, but I admit this turned me on." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #73 Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself or speak your mind. It will not only earn his respect, in some cases it will even turn him on. 11. "I like a woman to put me in my place, if I know I deserve it. What is sexy is when a woman is comfortable enough with her own power. Or when she isn't so timid or afraid to rock the boat." 12. "A man respects a woman who won't tolerate being treated badly." 13. "I treat women as equals, so I like to compete in a fun way with my wit. I like a woman who mentally challenges me in a fun way by bantering with me, or with her sense of humor. It can be competitive in a playful kind of way." 14. "I actually like a woman with a little bit of a temper. Because then I know she won't let me take advantage of her. Pride is sexy." 15. "A woman who is feisty is sexually stimulating. You assume she'll be wilder. With a nice girl, you are afraid she'll run home and tell her mommy what you did to her." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #74 Men often automatically assume that a bitchier woman will be more assertive in bed, and that a nice girl will be more timid. #### The Top Ten Ways to Tell Whether a Man Is in Love Since men are so good at hiding the way they feel, a woman often wonders how she can tell whether a man is in love with her or just "going through the motions." Here is the most important thing to remember when asking yourself this question: If you have to second-guess whether he loves you, and you've been together for a very long time, you might be settling for less. What the men shared with me is that it's often the little things a man will do for a woman that are most telling. 1. "You know a guy's in love when it's a Monday night and she says, 'Why don't we do this?' and he does. He's in love when he starts to regularly pick her over his friends." 2. "When he seems to be overjoyed. Suddenly he's really happy and he seems different. When he suddenly appears more alive to his friends and family." 3. "You know a guy is 'in deep' when he'll let the girl keep feminine stuff in the house. Suddenly he's proud to have feminine decor. He'll buy the furniture that she likes. And he'll let her keep tampons under his sink. He'll want her in his life in every way." 4. "He'll start taking better care of himself, and he'll start to think about long term. Financially, physically, and in every other way." 5. "He'll go out of his way [for her]. He'll fly to see her. If she has a craving, he'll get out of bed to get her a doughnut in the middle of the night." 6. "Men are into variety until they fall madly in love. If he really wants one woman, it doesn't matter who else he can have because he wants to be with _her_. Other women aren't a threat when he's attached. A lot of temptations go away when you really fall hard." 7. "When he thinks about her all the time, when he does thoughtful things for her, or when he's always thinking of ways to please her." 8. "Suddenly, he feels like he can stop looking around the corner for someone else." 9. "When he's willing to do something out of character to please her. He never thought of having children or getting married, but with this woman he is willing to do all of the above." 10. "She won't have to ask. She'll just know it in her gut." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #75 When a man falls in love, suddenly he'll go out of his way and think nothing of it. He'll do things for _this_ woman he wouldn't have done for anyone else. Much of the advice given in this book has been based on the admissions men have made to me. At one point, I asked a doctor named George why he won't share this secret information with his partner. He answered, "Because with you there is no consequence. But with her there _would_ be a consequence." The consequence George is speaking of is a loss of power for men. In other words, _the attraction a man has for a feisty or bitchy woman is rarely something he'll want her to know about._ I knew the information the men were giving up was not only truthful but also very loaded, because there was such a "hush, hush" quality to it. Men would regularly ask me not to use their names because they said that other men would feel betrayed by what they had disclosed. Obviously, it's helpful to know how men think. But the information in this chapter isn't intended to give you ways to work _even harder_ to appease a man. The nice girl does that already, to a fault. If there are two eggs in a frying pan, she'll take the broken yolk for herself. If she bakes two cookies and one breaks, she'll keep the broken one and give him the good cookie. The nice girl has no idea why overcompensating backfires when it's done day-in and day-out. She doesn't realize that she becomes so involved in him that she loses herself, and in the process, she risks losing him as well. Refer to the Top Fifteen Lists in this chapter again and again, but don't take the information and work _even harder_ to please your man. Instead of working so hard to please him, work harder to please yourself...because ultimately, this is what will truly please him. # 8 ## KEEPING YOUR Pink SLIP ### The Reasons That Holding Your Own Financially Gives You Power "Elegance does not consist of putting on a new dress." —COCO CHANEL #### Financial Independence: Who Has the Title on You? There's one aspect of holding your own in a relationship that cannot be overlooked: money. Many women dream of having a knight in shining armor pay all the bills. The part they don't show is what happens after Prince Charming sweeps you off your feet. If he's paying all the bills in the castle, he'll also be calling the shots. That is when the princess stops feeling like a princess and starts feeling like a servant. This chapter explores what happens when you give up your "pink slip" and the ability to provide for yourself. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #76 He'll never respect you as being able to hold your own unless you can stand on your own two feet financially. When you have the clear title on a vehicle, you are the legal owner and you have the "pink slip," or certificate of ownership, to it. The "Pink Slip" in some states means you've been fired. However, the meaning here pertains to _ownership of a vehicle_. When you have the pink slip, there are no lien-holders. There are no monies owed. There are no debts unpaid. This means you own it _free and clear,_ so what you do with that vehicle is entirely up to you. Likewise, when a woman keeps the pink slip over herself, she gains leverage in the relationship. This is what many mothers tell their daughters: If a woman gives up her independence and becomes financially dependent on a man, she'll have far fewer choices in life. She'll end up at someone else's beck and call. She'll be at _someone else's mercy._ This is why a woman should maintain her independence, her "pink slip," and full ownership of _herself._ Work = Money = Keeping your pink slip = The ability to choose the way you want to be treated = Dignity What mothers may or may not elaborate on is how a man feels about a woman when he has to carry her financially. Before long he'll feel as though she's an added responsibility instead of an asset. At that point, he'll stop viewing her as a privilege to be with. This doesn't apply to a woman taking care of children. When a family is involved, no doubt she will be doing her part...and then some. He won't perceive her as dead weight, because he knows her job can sometimes be harder than his. In this case a father recognizes that he prefers his job over hers, so he can't help but _respect her_ for her work. As long as you have the resources to choose your terms, you keep your pink slip and you keep your power. If you choose to leave, you can always grab a suitcase and go. This very independence makes him _not want you to leave._ All the "feistiness," or "sexiness," or bitchy attitude in the world won't change a man's awareness that you cannot hold your own with respect to your livelihood. Once you hand over that pink slip, he feels trapped because you've now become a _responsibility,_ rather than a privilege. And that feels like something he is _stuck_ with. He has to provide food for two, housing for two, and pay all the other bills for two. It doesn't take long for him to feel the added pressure and the doubled responsibility of carrying not only himself but also another person. A bitch will usually maintain her independence and contribute to the relationship in some way because her pride won't allow her to be perceived as a burden on someone else. And she won't put herself in a position where she can't rock the boat, which she _will_ do if and when she feels that she isn't being regarded highly enough. It's important to let him know you place your dignity above all else, even if you're dating a very successful man. He has to feel that, if he mistreats you, you'll pack up and move out of his mansion into a one-bedroom without any hesitation. He has to feel you'll drive a Pinto rather than a Mercedes Benz, if it means you'll be tolerating disrespect. He has to know you'll give up a comfortable lifestyle before you'll accept being misused or mistreated. Usually this can be conveyed with actions, but sometimes it can be expressed with words. For example, let's say you're watching the TV movie _The Burning Bed_ in which Farrah Fawcett plays an abused woman who, in every other scene, is sporting a new black eye. You can use this as a tender "lovey-dovey moment" in which to express your _Terms of Endearment_ for your man, while eating popcorn. Simply turn and look at him, gaze into his eyes and say, "I would sooner be flipping burgers at McDonalds." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #77 You have to show that you won't accept mistreatment. Then you will keep his respect. When faced with an independent woman, a guy is too busy trying to keep his "welcome" to get bored. But with a financially dependent woman, he thinks he can slack off and _she'll take it_. Even if he isn't the type to mistreat a woman, he'll grow bored if he gets the sense that she'll take whatever he dishes out. You don't have to be rich; you just have to maintain the ability to take care of yourself. This directly relates to whether he's respectful at all times. He can't buy you a dinner because you're hungry. It has to be a gift that he chooses to give and that you choose to receive. Then the gifts keep coming. Jeanette told me about how her ex-husband had made her feel when he was the only one working. She recalled: _He was a surgeon and made a lot of money. But for four years, I didn't own a coat. I felt that I couldn't justify spending a couple of hundred dollars on a good coat when I wasn't bringing any money in. So I would wear jackets that I had owned since high school, or I would borrow his coats. The minute I went out and got a part-time job, I felt so much better about myself. Not only because I could buy things, but because I didn't have to ask him for everything._ If you can take care of yourself, everything he gives you becomes gravy. He isn't providing the whole meatloaf. The whole four courses. He doesn't provide you with your livelihood. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #78 Your pink slip is maintained when you can stand on your own—with him or without him. He should never feel that you are completely at his mercy. Susan B. Anthony said, "I never felt I could give up my life of freedom to become a man's housekeeper." It _isn't_ about whether a woman is a man's housekeeper or whether she's bringing in "dollar for dollar" that's important. And it also isn't about whether she stays at home to raise children, because this is even harder work. The variable is this: Whether a woman _has the resources or ability to leave if and when she wants to go._ When a man financially supports a woman completely, one of two things will happen: 1. He'll begin to feel "locked in," or trapped in a dead-end situation. 2. He'll begin to view her as a little girl. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #79 When a man views a woman as a "little girl" or a sister he has to take care of, the passion diminishes. He doesn't want to make love to his sister. Again, a man wants a strong woman, not a helpless little kid. Sexually, this will impact the float in his boat. I know one couple in which the husband, Michael, is the breadwinner. They have no children, and he pulls all of the financial weight. Every time his wife, Nancy, walks in the house with a new pair of shoes, she gets the "two feet" speech. The Two Feet Speech _"You only have two feet. Why do you need so many shoes? There are 365 days in a year. You have 100 pairs of shoes. That's one pair of shoes for every 3.65 days. I have flip-flops, sneakers, and a couple of pairs of work shoes. Why do you need so many shoes? Do you see these shoes I have on? I have worn these every day for the past two years. I don't understand. Why do you need so many shoes?"_ If she were working, would he give her this speech? Not likely. But if a man pays all the bills, the "money gets funny and the change gets strange." Better for her to be a waitress at Denny's one day a week, and he won't say a word. She would put on her new shoes, strut her stuff, and not have to explain "nothin' to nobody." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #80 The ability to choose how you want to live, and the ability to choose how you want to be treated are the two things that will give you more power than any material object ever will. When he views you as a little girl, he may do things that demonstrate his loss of respect. He may assign you an "allowance" or tell you how much money you can spend. Or he'll tell you what you can or cannot buy. All of these restrictions reflect your loss of freedom and a loss of your ability to make your _own_ choices. Here's why this is relevant: * The ability to remain an independent thinker is what keeps his interest and the mental challenge. * The ability to make your own choices in life is your most important tool. It is the very thing that gives you power. Not only will he tell you what you should have, the man who is paying all the bills will eventually begin to tell you what you like or don't like as well. He won't ask for your opinion, he'll _tell_ you what your opinion should be. It sets you up to be treated like a Barbie doll that he can control. Then the following will occur: * He'll begin to think that he's entitled to the last word. * He'll behave as if what he says goes. * He'll have control over your happiness and sadness. * You'll be treated as though he's the boss and you're the subordinate. * He may offer his help on his own terms, and you'll wait at bay. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #81 In a relationship of any kind, if one person feels the other person isn't bringing anything to the table, he or she will begin to disrespect that person. Again, it's not a question of whether he pays most of the bills, it's a question of whether you can still stand on your own two feet, if push comes to shove. Then he doesn't have the title, he's merely leasing with the option to buy. He can feel like the "head of household." Remember, he should feel like the Grand Poo-Bah over his habitat and his domain. But he should never feel that he holds the key to your livelihood. The ability to take care of yourself ensures that all of the following will remain intact: 1. The mental challenge 2. The respect 3. The longevity of the relationship 4. The sexual desire A case in point. Roxanne, who could be described as a "gold digger," lived with Kent at his Malibu estate. She drove a Mercedes Benz and made regular shopping sprees on Rodeo Drive. Her survival, her livelihood, and her whole existence were contingent on Kent, a man she didn't particularly care for. Although on the surface she appeared to have it all, she had completely given up her pink slip. One day, I drove to Roxanne's place to pick her up for lunch. Before we left, she opened a drawer and took out some cash, and said she had to make a quick deposit into her account. She had bounced a check for $20. She then said, "Kent lets me keep my pride. He puts the money in a drawer, so I don't have to ask for it." In this example, there was no pride to be "kept." Pride is...having your own paycheck. There is only one thing better than "With Love" and that is the phrase, "Pay to the order of." In the above example with Roxanne, there is no question that the problem was financial. Kent even suggested that she get a part-time job. He said, "I'd respect you more if you had a job." Still, she didn't make an effort to look for work. And two weeks later, she was tearfully packing her Gucci bags. Being a gold digger never pays, as evident by the headline stories on the news. As a matter of fact, gold diggers recently suffered an even bigger setback: _Viagra._ Now she's working twice as hard for equal pay. And no dental benefits. All a woman has to do to balance the relationship is pay an electric bill with her own money or bring home groceries from time to time. Any of these things express her gratitude; then the man is happy to pay for everything else. He doesn't have to feel it's always equal, just _reciprocal._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #82 Financial neediness is no different than emotional neediness; in both instances, he can still get the feeling that he has a 100 percent hold on you. Another woman I know, Michelle, was living with a man for four years. For most of that time, he paid every bill and never complained because Michelle didn't have any money coming in. Then she inherited some money. She had $120,000 sitting idle in a savings account. At that point, he asked Michelle to help pay some bills; she declined. He didn't ask her to carry all the weight, or even half the weight. He merely asked her to pitch in. The interest from her capital would have been more than enough to show him that she was pitching in for a few bills. Still, Michelle insisted that the money was for "her retirement." Shortly thereafter, he "retired" from the relationship—at which point she moved out. She was then forced to pay several times the amount of money for her own living expenses. Contributing within her means would have been the right thing to do. It was also the financially advantageous thing to do. But the point is not purely financial. The relationship would have had a better chance of working if she had _balanced things out_ by pitching in. One self-made millionaire named Benji described his perspective: "One thing a successful man learns very quickly is that women respond to his money. They realize that women will line up for a man with deep pockets. All he has to do is show them that he is wealthy or that he drives a nice car and that he owns a big house. And they line up like ducks." Granted, there are plenty of affluent men who like having an accoutrement or a Barbie doll on their arms who, they hope, will graduate into the esteemed ranks of a "Stepford Wife." But this man is not a "quality catch," and this woman will not have any "staying power." He'll be much more likely to trade in a helpless "dingy" type of woman for a newer model because he sees her as a toy to begin with. What a quality man wants "for keeps" is a strong woman. He wants a partner he respects and one who is worth catching: an _equal._ He may provide more monetarily, and she may be a stay-at-home mother. But she is contributing. In other words, she isn't "on the take" and she can stand on her two feet. This means she is there by _choice_. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #83 Regardless of how pretty a woman is, looks alone will not sustain his respect. Appearance may pull him in, but it is your independence that will keep him turned on. Dignity and pride aren't about whether you pull money out of a drawer, a sack, or a wallet. It isn't about being given a credit card or pulling cash out of a Versateller. If you have an income, however small, it enables you to: 1. Live by your own rules 2. Move to your rhythm, instead of dancing to the beat of someone else's drum 3. Decide how you want to be treated 4. Choose what you will or will not tolerate 5. Leave if you don't get what you want Everything in this list is precisely what the bitch values most. She keeps her power in _every_ way. And as Henry Kissinger said, "Power is the great aphrodisiac." #### Dollars and No Sense While conducting research for this book, I was surprised to find that, generally speaking, men don't mind picking up the tab on a date. What they do mind is the overriding sense that women act as if they are entitled to it—or as if they _expect_ it. When you act as if you expect something, you make a man feel unappreciated. If he pays, it's always best to help him realize that you took time to notice that he went out of his way, and that you are grateful. Over and over, men have expressed to me their frustration with women who lack gratitude and those who automatically expect a man to pay. There are some women who, even when it's a man's birthday, will take him out and expect him to pay. There were many men who, when interviewed for this book, shared stories about birthdays or holidays in which their partners still expected them to pick up the tab. In one instance, a woman invited other people to a birthday party and expected the "birthday boy" to pay for everybody. The bill came and people reached for their wallets at the dinner table. "Oh, no, you guys. Marc will get that," the woman said. (Needless to say, Marc was not too happy.) It was the automatic expectation that made him feel unappreciated. The same goes for flowers or a gift. Do you act excited and appreciative, or do you barely mumble a thank-you and then put the flowers in water? If he brings you a wilted, week-old bunch of flowers from the supermarket that cost $2.99, hold back. Just muster up a thank you, smile, and put them in water. If he gives you a gift, don't fess up that you always go back and exchange it, or he'll stop bringing you little tokens of his affection. If you can, exchange it for something similar, then tell him it's the same one he bought you. Say, "It looks different on, huh?" (He'll never know the difference.) If you want him to give you jewelry, don't ever utter the words "pawn shop." If you pawned jewelry given to you by an ex-boyfriend or husband, never disclose that information to a man you're seeing. Acknowledgment is very important to men. A man I know, John, once ended a relationship with Kate, a woman he was dating, because he felt she was not grateful for a gift that he gave her. One day, when he was at her place, she asked him to move an old television from one room to the next. It had sentimental value to her because her father had given it to her. Without intending to, he dropped the TV and it broke. He described what happened: "I felt really bad, so I went out and bought her a twenty-six-hundred-dollar entertainment center with an amazing TV and stereo. A week later some friends came over and said, 'Wow! What a nice TV.' Then she said in a sarcastic tone, 'John broke the other one.' I just about fell off my chair." John left her apartment that evening and never saw her again. Because men aren't conditioned to express their emotions, women sometimes assume that when men spend their money, it doesn't mean anything to them or they didn't have to do anything to earn it. If a man gives you something, show him the respect he deserves by thanking him for the kindness. If you want to be treated well, you have to _encourage_ it by making him feel important and special whenever he does something generous and gracious. Otherwise, he won't have an incentive to do it again. Vinnie, who is very generous by nature, talked about a woman named Shawna who ordered lobster when they went to an expensive restaurant. He said, "I don't mind that she ordered the lobster, but after that she just picked at it. Then she said, 'I wasn't really hungry, anyway.' That bothered me." Again, the issue is whether you _act as though you expect or are owed what he gives you,_ or whether you appreciate his generosity and kindness. Many men enjoy feeling like the provider, as long as they feel _appreciated for what they give_. If he opens doors for you, let him know that you admire that, too. Whenever he feels that you admire his masculinity, and his brawn, it makes him feel rewarded. This is a way you can build him up. Money can also be a telling barometer of where a man is coming from, or what a man's intentions are. One woman I know named Carla dated a man named Guy, who made it very clear that he couldn't afford to pay for dates. Guy always had an elaborate explanation as to why he couldn't pay. Each time they went out, it was a Dutch treat. Nevertheless, he insisted on terms that would be "even Steven." Fair and square. Without exception. One time Carla accompanied Guy to a bar with several of his friends. To her surprise, he had no problem buying his buddies one drink after another. He paid for two rounds in twenty minutes, dropping $80 on drinks without thinking twice. "Waitress? My buddy Steve wants another Long Island iced tea." It was only that morning he had asked his date to pay $7 for her scrambled eggs and bacon at breakfast. Needless to say, this showed Carla that Guy didn't have sufficient value for the relationship so she stopped seeing him. Usually when a man insists on splitting a check on the first few dates, he's showing you right up front he doesn't value you or the relationship. Granted, some women refuse to have a man open doors or pick up a tab. They refuse to be "paid for." A bitch has no problem and no "issues" surrounding being treated well, so she lets a man give—and she allows herself to receive. The nice girl who won't allow herself to be treated to a dinner, deep down usually doesn't want to feel obligated to a man and she knows she will be if he pays for dinner. The bitch has no such complex. She says thank-you politely and graciously. And at no time does she feel guilty or obligated. Nor does she feel compromised in any way. If he's a student or is truly struggling financially but he still wants to impress you, he'll suggest doing something that costs less. Or he'll suggest doing something that doesn't cost anything at all. He can grab some inexpensive wine and a blanket and take you to a beautiful park. Or, he can get movie screening tickets. Or, he can invite you to a party. If he's absolutely crazy about you, he won't let you pay for the tab or go Dutch. I know of a female doctor named Susie who was living with a man named George, who was also a doctor. She had just graduated and was doing her residency, so her income was less than that of a part-time nurse. George, on the other hand, was a well-established surgeon and was earning a substantial income. They lived together in his Hollywood Hills home, which was almost paid off; still he insisted that Susie pay a sizable sum of money for so-called "rent." They also split everything right down the middle: groceries, the electric bill, and so on, with the exception of cat litter and cat food, which Susie was required to buy (since it was her cat). ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #84 When a man is very consumed with not being taken advantage of, this is a sign that he's "on the take." Whereas George earned half a million a year, almost all of Susie's disposable income went toward her student loans. Compare the household expenses as they relate to the income of both people: * His income is $500,000. * Her income is $25,000. * They each pay $25,000. * The cat lives rent-free. In this example, George earns twenty times Susie's income, but she's paying half the bills. Not only this, the rent deposits transferred from "Bank of Susie" were paying into the equity of _his_ home. What does this prove? That even an educated, brilliant woman like Susie can be _too nice._ The financial part of any relationship has to be give and take. No one person should be doing all of the giving. If he's taking you to an expensive play or ballet and you don't have time for dinner because he ran late at the office, order some Chinese food and have it ready when he arrives at your front door. If he takes you out to dinner, pick up some movie tickets on your way home from the gym and surprise him. When he offers to take you out and wants you to plan the evening, take into account _his_ preferences as well as your own. For example, Linda insisted that her boyfriend, Benny, take her to a play. Benny is a "man's man" and hates the ballet or seeing live plays. Still, she insisted that she wanted to go. He described the evening: "I gave her my credit card and she got the tickets and rented me a tux. There I am, holding 'wussy' little binoculars with the long stick on one side. It was an affront to my manhood. I could not believe I had spent a fortune and then counted the minutes hoping it would end. That was the last time I let her plan anything with my credit card." When a man asks you to go on a trip with him, be considerate. If he offers to pay and asks you to make the reservations, consult with him about the price of various hotels and let him decide. Men love to feel that they are "in charge" and that their opinion really counts. (At the very least, pretend.) If he pays for the trip, surprise him and pay to have breakfast delivered to the room. Or take him out to dinner to thank him. Buy him a bright colored shirt if you go somewhere tropical or a warm sweater if you're hitting the slopes. Again, it's all in showing that you respect what he gives. Men, like women, don't want to feel taken for granted. The same goes for a gift that he gives you. If he gives you something, act excited—even if it's ugly. "I love it!" One girlfriend of mine got a T-shirt from her husband. It looked like a cross between a tie-dye and a paisley print and was so hideous it could scare small children. Even though she hated the shirt, she wore it for him when they were at home, just to make him feel good. More often than not, women who are too nice err on the side of giving too much. They give to a fault. The woman who is too nice senses that he "needs her" and she runs to his aid like a Red Cross rescue missionary. And she gives— _blindly_. For example, Abby married an Italian man named Franco to help him get his green card. Somewhere along the line during the staged marriage, he convinced her that he was madly in love with her. He found out she was a vegetarian, so he gave up pasta and ate vegetables. She loved hiking, so he took up hiking. She was "spiritual" and he decided he was "spiritual" too. The couple's interview with the INS was successful and Franco was approved to get his green card. A day later he packed his bags and said, " _Ciao, bella_!" Then he rode off into the sunset. She didn't have an engagement ring, but she did end up with a huge legal bill for their divorce. I've also seen women who are too nice loan money to men. Usually it's the women who are struggling who don't think twice about handing out their hard-earned money. She'll loan him money to buy a stereo for his car when she needs regular maintenance done on her own. The rule on loaning money? _Don't_. For example, Cheryl, who fits the profile of a bitch, told me the following story. She had dated Rick a couple of times, but she didn't see him consistently because he traveled a lot. After their third date, he hit her up for a loan. As she describes, "Rick called me from Tahoe and said he had 'an emergency.' He asked me to wire him a thousand dollars to a Western Union office that was on the other side of the river. But then he kept changing his story about what the money was for. One story was it was a child-support payment to some woman named Babs, for a kid he never even told me he had. He said that he would need to board a riverboat to get to the Western Union station across the river. The fee was thirty-five dollars each way. So I said, 'Absolutely! I will wire the money. Hurry up and catch that boat.'" Rick didn't quite catch on. He called later that evening after his roundtrip boat ride and told her that the money hadn't arrived. Cheryl acted stunned and then insisted profusely that she had, in fact, wired the money. "You really have to watch those money wires. I am going to go right down to that office and see what went wrong tomorrow morning!" The following day Rick went on a second boat ride to get his "loot" from Western Union. To his complete and utter surprise, no funds were forthcoming. Obviously, Cheryl had no desire to see him again because it was in bad taste for him to call someone he barely knew and make this request. But she remembers the incident with a certain fondness. "Hey, I figured the fresh air might do Rick some good. And, if all else fails, he can get a job on the ferryboat." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #85 People will show you they have self-respect simply by virtue of the fact that they _want_ to carry their own weight. A bitch is not mean; she just doesn't volunteer for any "joyrides." If the man wants to go on a joyride and extends an open invitation, she can choose not to go. Yes, treat others the way you want to be treated. But, at the same time, expect that the man in your life treats you the same way. The bitchier woman would never let a man think that she's there because she has "nowhere else to go." Her financial independence is a constant reminder to him, however subtle, that if he makes her "stay" unpleasant, she won't be staying for very long. This ensures that the relationship remains respectful, reciprocal, and kind... _to all._ # 9 ## HOW TO Renew THE MENTAL CHALLENGE ### How to Regain That "Spark" "One of the things about equality is not that you be treated equally to a man, but that you treat yourself equally to the way you treat a man." —MARLO THOMAS #### Step 1: Instead of Asking Him to Focus on You, Focus on Yourself What turns a man on about an independent woman is that she is independent _of him_. When a man is with an independent woman, he feels as though he has an equal partner. When she gives up her everyday activities, he slowly begins to view her as less interesting. Instead of thinking that he's scored a wonderful prize, he now begins to view her as extra weight. The first thing a woman has to do to get that sexy "spark" back is to _shift her focus and energy back onto herself_. She has to develop interests outside her man, just as she did when he was new in her life. Men often find a woman who has passionate interests and activities of her own to be more exciting. They don't have to be things he's interested in necessarily, just as long she has _interests of her own_. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #86 The more independent you are of him, the more interested he will be. The story that follows proves my point. Rob, an attractive, successful man who could have his pick of any woman he wanted, was mystified by a most unlikely woman. He describes Laura as a "conservative computer nerd" who wears long pleated skirts. After a few dates, he invited her to go on a cruise. Rob wasn't lacking in the confidence department, and he thought he'd teach Laura how to have fun. He thought he'd "rock her world." Laura said she couldn't go. The reason? She had a preplanned Tupperware party. Rob told what happened next: "I kept hoping she'd change her mind. I ended up going on the cruise by myself and ended up flying home after one day to see what she was up to. A Tupperware party? It couldn't be. I simply could not believe that she'd pass on an exotic vacation with _me_ for a Tupperware party. I figured she had to be seeing some other man. I had to see for myself." He flew home and dropped by that Saturday evening when Laura's party was supposed to be going on. Sure enough, lo and behold, he was dumbfounded and astonished to find that she was actually having a Tupperware party. When he showed up, Laura was happy to see him. She invited him in and offered him a finger sandwich. Rob could have just as easily been eating spiny lobster or exotic seafood en route to the Bahamas at that very moment with _any woman_ he wanted. Instead, he was nibbling on a soggy little tuna sandwich with a toothpick in it. He could have been watching a world-class Vegas-style show, instead the highlighted entertainment on the agenda was Tupperware containers: Gingerbread-shaped ones, star-shaped ones, and even heart-shaped ones. Rob still remembers it with disbelief. "There I am listening to a bunch of cackling women, watching them go awol over some plastic bowls. I drank coffee in a fancy teacup with a teeny tiny spoon. I could not believe it. I was thinking, 'No. This cannot be so. I don't hold a candle to a this?'" Was Laura being mean? Not at all. She just didn't go down the beaten path of giving up her own interests in exchange for something he thought would be better. What blew Rob's mind was that her activity meant more to her than the cruise or being with him. He said, "From that point on, she had my full attention." And the unlikely couple became a hot item. Rob had put on his best "mack-daddy" show-stopping routine, and Laura _wasn't that impressed_. Unlike the bitchier woman, the nice girl will often appear easily impressed. She'll make her desire to have a relationship much too obvious, which often _invites_ mistreatment. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #87 If you make it too obvious that you're excited to get something, some people will be tempted to dangle a carrot in front of your face. "Getting a life" will make it seem like you are no longer impetuous, or impatient. When you are relaxed, you've taken the "need" out of the equation. You no longer appear needy, which immediately changes the dynamic of a stale relationship. If you want to renew the challenge, it is imperative to _continue the activities you did before he came on the scene_. He'll notice the very first time you tell him that you can't see him because of something else you have planned. It will catch him off guard—and it will fester. It really throws men off if the activity appears to be something mundane. In the previous example, it was a Tupperware party; but anything along the lines of knitting, gardening, or pottery will do the trick. Rest assured, his ego won't let him lose out to a sweater, a potted plant, or a mound of clay. No matter what you choose, as long as you are passionate about something _other than him_ , it will draw him back in. Guaranteed. He'll be asking himself the same question he asked himself in the first weeks of dating you. "How could she want to do that, when she could be with me?" When you will not drop everything to be with him, you'll appear as though you have more going for you. This will remind him of your worth, and invariably, he will begin to come your way. #### Step 2: Alter the Routine It's essential when renewing the mental challenge to _alter the routine_ that he's become accustomed to. When the mental challenge is gone, the routine becomes predictable and he is on "automatic pilot." His mind can drift elsewhere because he isn't sufficiently being stimulated by you. So, let's let the stimulation commence, shall we? As Harry Truman said, "If you can't convince 'em, confuse 'em." How? By altering the pattern completely. Give no attitude and no complaints. Instead of seeing him regularly, make the schedule _random_. _Random_ means he shouldn't be able to predict like clockwork when he'll see you next or when he'll hear from you next. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #88 When you alter the routine, _your not being there_ at times is what will make him come around. Men don't respond to words. What they respond to is _no contact._ This applies to whether you are dating or married. If you need to renew the mental challenge, alter the pattern. Whenever he seems complacent, just alter the pattern. Single women often make plans based on when the man calls. Married women often wait for a man to come home from work. And single and married women alike regularly wait by the phone for a call. Tracy is a woman who benefited from altering the pattern in her marriage. She used to feel as though her husband, Allen, took her for granted when he would travel out of town on business. Tracy used to wait for Allen's long-distance call every night, even if it meant giving up her own plans to do so. Predictably, Allen started to behave as if calling her was a chore, as though he was "checking in." Or punching a clock. He'd call around 7:30 P.M. and then rush her off the phone so he could go out for drinks with his colleagues. Girlfriend decided to rock the boat. How? By staying just outside his reach. When he went on his next business trip, she drove him to the airport and didn't say, "Call me when you get there." For the entire trip, half the time she was there when he called; the other half she couldn't be reached. She was out visiting some girlfriends she hadn't seen in awhile, and didn't rush home to wait for his call. The first evening that Tracy didn't wait for his call, Allen flipped. His whole orientation changed immediately. He called at 7:30 P.M. and virtually every half-hour after that until 10:30 P.M. He went out, had _half_ a drink, and then went right back to his room to call his wife again. Tracy walked in at 10:59; the phone rang at 11:01. Whereas before it was a chore, now Allen was happy to reach her. She was happy, too, especially when she looked down at the answering machine and saw that it was flashing a big red _9._ (Six messages from him, and three mysterious hang-ups.) And everyone went to bed happy. Suddenly Allen missed Tracy. Why? Because she had a life of her own outside of their relationship. Never stop living your life. Take a class. Develop a hobby. Meet people. You are only as interesting as the depths of your _own_ interests. The mere fact that you are content with your life keeps you interesting. You are happy with him or without him and this keeps you...just outside his reach. A textbook example is Ellen, a married woman who felt taken for granted. She regularly cooks dinner for her husband, Sydney, and their two kids. Sydney was the only one working, and he frequently stayed late at the office. Usually he didn't show up for dinner. What upset her most, however, was that Sydney would leave her guessing about his dinner plans, and didn't call if he was running very late. Sometimes she'd reheat his plate three times before he got home. She had formed a pattern of saying, "The kids need to see you at the dinner table, Sydney." But night after night, she found herself reheating his dinner, long after their kids had gone to bed. Ellen, like many nice girls, was too tolerant. The bitch, on the other hand, would rearrange the dinner agenda. She would _alter the routine._ In a nice quiet moment, she'd look at her husband and casually say, "Hey sweetie, I can see you aren't going to be home during the week. So, I'm not going to bother to cook for you. If there are leftovers from the kids, I'll put them in the fridge. But it may be better if you picked something up on the way home." For a few nights he'd pick up some food on the way home. The first night he'd grab some Kentucky Fried Chicken, perhaps. The second night he'd upgrade to a deli. And after the cold pastrami sandwich from the corner deli, he'd have a little Alka-Seltzer to help with the heartburn. It wouldn't be long before he'd be coming home for a home-cooked meal, _happily_. And sliding into home...right on time. Another woman named Sandy told me about how she felt taken for granted when she was on her hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor, after she had cooked for her husband, Wade. He had just started eating and then he came over to her and said, "It is really inconsiderate of you to clean the floor right now. That stuff stinks. Could you please wait until I'm finished eating?" She resisted the urge to strangle him. For the rest of the week, Sandy backed off. She spoke to him very superficially and became aloof. He had to ask her, "What's wrong?" a dozen times before she addressed what was on her mind. She went from "worker bee" to "queen bee" in just a few short days. First stop on Sandy's agenda? A maid. She absolutely insisted on it. Then she addressed some table etiquette. Wade often started eating without her and got up before she ever sat down. She said she didn't cook for two, so that she could eat alone. She also suggested going out to eat sometimes, even if it was to a less expensive place. Then she stuck to her guns. Not only do they now have a maid, they also have "date night" once a week. In both of these instances, by altering the "dinner agenda," the women let their husbands know without words that they, too, had something to lose. Their actions said: "Either we meet in the middle or we don't meet." (And you won't eat.) ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #89 Don't give a reward for bad behavior. Women often make the mistake of going down the beaten path of catering to a man, even when feeling taken for granted. A perfect example is a woman named Laurie who recently called into my radio show. Laurie is a single mom who doesn't have a lot of money. She ran around for two entire days looking for a special heart-shaped pan in order to bake her boyfriend a cake for Valentine's Day. Trivia question: Do you think a guy's going to care if the cake is shaped like a heart? He'd probably have preferred a cake in the shape of a wrench or a remote control. In fact, right around Valentine's Day, and shortly after Super Bowl Sunday, you can get a football-shaped cake at the bakery. All you have to do is take the little football people off, throw an asymmetrical "Happy Valentine's Day" on there. Time expenditure? Reduced from two whole days to twelve minutes. Any woman who feels taken for granted should definitely ease up on the Betty Crocker efforts. It's true that men say, "A man's love comes from his stomach." But there's nothing in this statement that requires you to cook the food before it ends up in his stomach. The question must then be asked: Who should cook it? So many choices, so little time. The fortune cookie says, it can be delivered. Or, you can pick it up. He can take you out. He can cook on the six-foot beast of a barbecue that he just "had to have." Think of how much fun it is for him. He can spread out both burgers one on each side of the grill, two feet apart from each other. And the bigger the grill, the more virile he'll feel when using it. If he suggests using the grill, definitely encourage it. Then offer to do the dishes. When he starts cooking, set the table like the classy lady you are. Put out two paper plates and two Dixie cups, and plastic silverware. No table linens needed—just fold a couple of Bounty paper towels. It's never too early to invite him to participate in kitchen activities. In fact, I'd suggest engaging him on this issue the first time he comes over to your place. Usually by then you'll have gone out a few times, and there is a comfortable rapport. Walk him into the kitchen and take him on a nice little "Tour de France." Say, "Here are the glasses...here are the cups...here are the plates. The drinks are right here. If there is anything else you need, please do not hesitate to help yourself. My home is _your_ home." While you're showing your guest where the drinks are, you'll want to casually add, "I only have one little request. I have a little ant problem and, _uh,_ all the dishes need to go directly into the dishwasher." What he doesn't realize is that you've just told him you won't wait on him, and that there's no busboy on the premises. If he wants a drink, you've let him know he's welcome to help himself. If he wants a snack, he now knows where to find it. Don't try to be the "happy helper." He won't value your efforts when you automatically assume the role of a servant. If, however, you are reciprocating for kindness that he has been consistently extending to you, he'll think of everything you give as a special treat. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #90 He simply won't respect a woman who automatically goes into overdrive to please him. Sometimes changing the routine is a matter of changing the dinner agenda; at other times, it's a matter of changing the times or dates of your little rendezvous. A college student named Anita provided a classic example of what happens when a woman doesn't pay close attention to the way the pattern is set up in the first place. _The first symptom will almost always be that you sense you are being put "on hold."_ Anita describes how the pattern was set up. "I saw Dave several times a week. He'd call me on my cell phone after class around 4 P.M. and we'd make plans. He started calling later and later. I'd be on pins and needles all afternoon not knowing if he and I had plans that night. I gave up a lot of activities because he was always keeping me 'at bay.'" Women like Anita end up "at bay" for the simple reason that they are willing to wait. Once he knows you're waiting he'll make you wait forever. This is when it's time to _alter the routine._ In Anita's situation, the solution is straightforward. She should make herself less available, and schedule the time he is picking her up at least a day earlier. (Notice that she does not offer to travel to see him.) All she needs to do is ask, "What time were you thinking of getting together?" Dave could respond, "I'll call you tomorrow when I get off work." The trick is not to leave it at that. Simply say, "Gee, I may not be here and I'd sure hate to miss you. Just to be safe, let's pick a time now." Whether it's early or late, agree to a time the day before the scheduled date. If he insists on "letting you know later," just tell him that your cell phone isn't working, your pager won't be on, or you can't take personal calls at work. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #91 If he doesn't give you a time, you don't have a date. Sometimes men blame a friend. If you hear anything along the lines of: "My buddy is stopping by tomorrow night. I haven't seen him in a while. I'm not sure how long it's going to take. I can't be rude to him and throw him out." Simply say, "No problem. Have a good time tomorrow night." Then, without showing any "attitude," tell him you'll be available to see him a _different_ night. Again, what men respond to is _no contact_. The alternative is that you waste two hours waiting for a call. That's two hours you can spend going to the gym or doing something else that's important to you. Most professional women, or mothers, or students who juggle busy schedules don't have two hours in the day to _themselves_. But they'll spend that time, without flinching, waiting on a phone call. Altering the routine means mixing things up. If you call twice a day and he doesn't seem happy to hear from you, call more sporadically and less often. If you generally get together on weekends, tell him you can see him that week on a weekday. This week you can see him Tuesday and Friday. Next week? Thursday and Saturday. One happily married woman I know named Margaret, shared one of her secrets. She said, "Whenever I feel like my husband is getting a little distant, I'll just take off for the weekend to visit friends or family. I'll let him know Thursday that I'm heading out Friday and that I'll be back late on Sunday. I may call once while I'm gone to let him know where I am. And it never fails...he's always his usual, loving self again when I come back home." Here are a few more suggestions on how to alter the routine: * If you always call the office to find out when he's coming home, from time to time, don't be home when he gets in. * Don't tell him your whereabouts for every moment of the day. * If he calls you on your cell phone, don't always rush to pick up. * If he pages you, don't call back within thirty seconds. Or, don't call back. Let him get hold of you at home—not when you're out and about. * If he calls on the phone, don't go out of your way to answer it. Let him leave a message. Or, you if want to be considerate, tell him you won't be around before-hand. * If you sit by the phone and check your "caller ID" or dial "69" as if your next breath depended on it, turn the ringer off. Read a book. Rent a movie. If you live together, leave and go have some fun. And stay out a couple of hours longer than he expected. If he always expects you home at a certain time, come home a little later. The second he doesn't know where _his woman_ is he'll come looking for you. He's a hunter. He'll pursue you. He has an inborn drive that's very territorial...over _you_. But if you try too hard, you won't tap that hunger. He'll be satiated—and that means, you won't leave him wanting more. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #92 Often the best way to adjust or fix the problem is by not letting _him_ know it's being fixed. When you alter your availability or change a predictable routine, it will mentally pull him back in. #### Step 3: Regain Your Sense of Humor When you lose your sense of humor in a relationship, it's usually around the time that you become "sprung." This means, you've become consumed with your partner's "every move." And chances are, you're often easily upset by what you _aren't_ getting in the relationship. A sense of humor is a sexy quality. Men may not come out and say it, but they notice when you lose that "edge." In the beginning, you probably bantered with him more and had a quick wit. When the mental challenge goes, so does the sense of humor. A very effective way to put a man in his place or to keep him in check is with humor. You can let him know in a fun, playful way that your security as a woman doesn't _depend on him_. A sense of humor is more than just finding something funny to say; it's about a person's composure. It lets people know you are comfortable in your skin. It lets him know you aren't sprung. The goal is not to become a knee-slapping standup comic; that's not effective because it makes it seem like you're trying too hard. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #93 Once you start laughing, you start healing. It's sexy to be able to banter because humor suggests you're an independent thinker. Not only can you think for yourself, but you can laugh at what you see happening around you. If you verbally play-fight with him a little, it's unlikely that he will perceive you as needy. When he teases you, it's as if he is asking you, "Still got that edge?" Your sense of humor answers him and lets him know that he isn't always going to call the shots. Here's a case in point. A girlfriend of mine went on a couple of dates with a guy who criticized the color of her nail polish. She said, "The suggestion department is closed for the evening. But fax your idea tomorrow and we'll file it right over there in the suggestion box." (Then she pointed to the kitchen trash.) These two are still together and he is absolutely crazy about her. To this day, she wears the same nail polish color. Humor not only defuses a situation, it also makes you come out smelling like a rose. Tom Hanks exemplified this in an interview with Barbara Walters. Paraphrasing what she said, "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Tom, but you aren't considered a sex symbol." He said, "Yeah, but I embrace that. And I think that makes me kinda sexy." He could have chosen to become defensive. Instead he was disarming. If you don't become defensive and you laugh things off from time to time, he'll respect you more. This is when you show whether you believe in yourself. For example, he may make fun of the way you parked your car. This kind of joking makes him feel manly. A relaxed aura from a woman who can laugh at herself turns him on because he thinks she'll be entertaining and fun. It doesn't matter if you're wearing a potato sack. A feisty quality will do it for him more than a black nightie on a woman who behaves as though she is desperate for approval. (Yes, even if you're wearing the thigh highs that cut off your circulation and practically cause you to lose a limb.) Successful politicians are coached on how to use humor to win people over and show confidence. When Ronald Reagan ran for president, he was asked in a debate about the detriment of being the oldest candidate to ever run for the highest office. His response was "I refuse to exploit for my political gain the _youth and inexperience_ of my opponent." In a relationship with a man, whenever you want to keep him on his toes, banter with him. If he says something a little out of line, just say, "We'll let that one slide." Or, "Why do I put up with this?" Or ask him if he wants one broken leg or two... One woman I know named Darla dated a man who made a complete mess every time he came over. They also had a good sex life. He made a pass at Darla and she playfully snubbed him. Then she walked over to the sink and started doing all his dishes. She said jokingly, "The more time I spend doing dishes, the less time we spend doing 'the deed'." Suddenly, the happy helper started pitching in. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #94 You can get away with saying much more with humor than you can with a straight face. The man in your life watches you. He watches to see how you stand your ground. He watches to see how you respond when he teases you and when you receive criticism from him or someone else. He'll test the waters, because he wants to see how you fight back. He wants to see if you can _hold your own._ And while we're on the subject of humor, let us now focus our attentions on the word _bitch._ If that fateful day ever does arrive when he tells you that you are a bitch? Stop, and take a deep breath. Then enjoy the moment. Smile internally as you say to yourself, "Okay. Now I know he _truly_ does love me." # 10 ## GAINING Control OF YOUR EMOTIONS ### Q&A—Letters from Readers "Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option." —NINA POTTS-JEFFERIES #### Crazy in Love I often hear men say that all women are crazy or emotionally unstable. Some men even break it down by category. In their view, women range from _mildly_ irrational...to completely psychotic. Men have been known to get together for a few rounds of golf, or a few beers, and exchange notes on the mental health of their newest acquaintance. "I met a new girl, and she seems like she's in charge of her hormones." Perhaps you've noticed that there's always an ex-girlfriend he speaks of. You know, that one ex who snapped and became possessed by demons, causing the demise of their relationship. Of course, he never had anything to do with it. He was a perfect angel...and lo and behold...one day he woke up next to the Exorcist. Maybe this is why women blame themselves for everything. I've lost count of how many times I have heard from women, "I keep screwing up my relationships. I feel like there's something wrong with me." They get the mental analysis from the boyfriend (the self-appointed therapist) and before long, she's second-guessing herself. "He tells me I am acting crazy. And that I'm not normal. I feel like I'm a little crazy." Then she picks up a two-by-four and beats herself with it. Over and over. Confident women laugh when they receive ridiculous feedback. If a man were to tell a bitch she was "a little crazy," she would tell him to count his blessings. "That's true, and you are so lucky that I'm a little bit crazy. It could have been much worse because most other bitches are completely psychotic. No telling what they would be capable of doing to you...." When a woman can laugh at herself, doesn't take these things personally, and has control over her emotions, she seems more "stable," safe, and trustworthy. Now the guy thinks there is a better chance of things working out. This chapter is designed to help the woman who is nice to everyone...except herself. She believes everything negative that happens to her is _her own fault_. To help you control your emotions (or, as men say, "remain in charge of your hormones") it might help to read what other women are experiencing. The following dating scenario might sound familiar... Dear Sherry, I started seeing this guy and the first few months I thought I had died and gone to heaven. He was romantic and wonderful. He called every day, talked on the phone for hours, and we both said we could see ourselves being together forever. I didn't ask him to promise me the moon; he offered this information. That's why I'm so confused. After we slept together I noticed a change. I wanted to get together more often than he did. Although he had time for his friends, family, and work, he made less time for me. I find myself calling and e-mailing him more and I feel rejected much of the time. Is there something wrong with me? —Anonymous Nice Girl Let's go back to that "romantic and wonderful" beginning because this is where the miscommunication started. In the beginning, when a man first meets you, you have to understand—the majority of men see a woman as a hump-toy. It's not that men don't eventually fall in love, because they do. But that happens _later_. Even when you see a man who is married, with a minivan, and a Baby-Bjorn hammock and a newborn swinging off his back...that was not what he set out to achieve. At first, the game-plan was to get the woman's clothes off. He's a red-blooded creature with plenty of testosterone. And because of _his hormones_...he only has three emotions: * Crabby * Hungry * Horny Therefore, anything he says in the beginning is said most likely to get the desired result: throw-down in the bedroom. It's verbal foreplay. You wear perfume...he opens the car door...you tell him you've only had three lovers in your whole entire life (with a straight face)...and he tells you he is looking for a relationship and you have all the qualities the other women didn't have. It's a sales pitch. Here is an analogy. Think of him the way you would a trained animal performing tricks in front of a live audience. Like a seal, or a sea otter at Sea World. When a seal balances a beachball on the end of its nose, he's not trying to demonstrate how well-coordinated he is. And the seal isn't doing the tricks to impress the audience. He's doing it for one reason only: to get a salmon. Same goes for men: If he buys dinner and sends flowers, he's balancing a ball on his nose. Some men do it better than others...and some seals can even clap three times while the ball is on their nose. But it's all being done for the same reason: to get a reward. If he wants to get the "treat," he has to do the "trick." Women say, "I refuse to sleep with a guy who is not interested in a serious relationship." That's ammo for him to use against you. If he saw one episode of _Sex and the City_ , he knows that using key phrases about "love and commitment" is a one-way ticket to the bedroom. Men watch that stuff to learn what women want to hear, so they can promise those things. One man named Bradley explained: "Men say very little and women 'grab onto it.' A guy could just be making a simple statement and next thing you know she thinks her dreams are coming true." Men believe that women mislead themselves. He puts ideas in your head, and you do all the rest. As Bradley put it, "Women are in love before they even meet the guy." Now, that doesn't mean he doesn't like you, adore you, and think you are the sexiest thing in his eyes. What it means is that to keep the sex coming, men will mislead you about their level of intended involvement, long-term. #### A Hint of Indifference Acts as a Trigger, and Hooks Him There's a way to get a relationship, but sleeping with the guy right away and announcing you want a "relationship" or allowing him to put a poodle leash around your neck is not the way to go about it. Instead, you have to knock him off his stride. How? By keeping your emotions in check. Why? Because it's what he is _not_ used to seeing. In the beginning, all it takes is a _hint of indifference_. If a man can't tell where you're coming from (completely) and doesn't have assurances of what you want, he respects you more and treats you better. This hooks him because he doesn't have the "pull" he's used to having. Here's how. You have to be able to sit next to a man while hugging and kissing...and at the same you have to _keep yourself emotionally ten feet away_. Even if you are sitting _in_ his lap, your heart has to stay locked in the trunk of your car—next to the spare tire. You can be warm and affectionate. But stop telling yourself "He is the one!" And stop rationalizing, "He is different. He makes me feel something I haven't felt in years." Instead, you have to think: "I'm willing to learn more. I'm enjoying myself, but if it doesn't work out, there are other ducks on the pond." Most women start off on "tilt" because they show they care _too_ much _too_ soon. Soon after, she's freefalling (by herself) after which he makes the following observation: "She is not in control of her emotions." Or as one man named Connor explained, "When I meet a woman and take her out a few times, I'm wondering, 'Who is in control? Her...or her emotions?'" If it's your emotions, you will be at his mercy. It's a guy thing. They learn very early that showing too much emotion is the same as showing weakness. They respect women who are strong. So you have to keep watch on how much emotion you show. Therefore: FORMULA FOR FAILURE: No Emotional Control = Desperation to Keep Him = A Free Ride for Him FORMULA FOR SUCCESS: Emotional Self-Control = Control over How You Are Treated and Control over Whether You Are Respected Men think that if you are deeply attached right away and no longer in charge of yourself emotionally, you will _tolerate almost anything_ (only to cry about it later). And you'll even make excuses. "He really is busy with work" or "He just got out of a relationship." A man is more inclined to treat a woman like a sex toy or trophy when she lacks emotional self-control and buys the B.S. That's when he rides the horsey...without putting a quarter in the meter. In other words, he'll continue to see her, but whenever it's convenient for him. When a woman becomes too attached too soon _because of her emotions_...or shows signs she's not in control after sex _because of her emotions_...or expects a fairy-tale happy ending _because of her emotions_...she is putting herself on the dinner table. Conversely: When she is less tolerant and has her wits about her, she'll call him out when he attempts to "condition" her to receive less. The first time he tries to come over late at night, he gets intercepted at the door. "Don't call me five minutes before you want to see me. Although I am deeply touched that you decided to shove me into your busy schedule, please give me a bit more notice next time." Then her stock goes up. Men size women up and feel them out. He wants to know if you live in a fairy tale and want to grow up to be a "princess"—or whether you are independent and level-headed, with goals of your own. If they cannot tell where you're coming from and don't always know what you will do next, they respect you more and treat you better. And that opens up avenues for him to become attached and fall for you. A side-by-side comparison: EMOTIONAL INTENSITY... \| VS. \| A HINT OF INDIFFERENCE... ---\|---\|--- If he senses you are 100% hooked within the first month... \| \| If he senses you're curious and willing to learn more, and you aren't following the pattern that most women follow... ... he will think he has complete control. That makes him lose interest and see you less often. \| \| ... he thinks: "Gee, I wonder why she's not buying into it?" ... then he'll begin to see what he can get away with. If behaves in a less-than-gentlemanly way, he assumes you'll forgive him. \| \| ... then he'll begin to see you as an individual and a real person—not just a hump toy. He'll begin to see, "there is a lot more here." that keeps his interest. The most important thing is to break the pattern of what he's used to seeing. When a man sees you keep your distance ever-so-slightly, and you are outside his reach—and that you don't give him a "free pass"—that hooks him and keeps him interested. He gets hooked when he doesn't have the mental "pull" he's used to having because he has not yet won. That's when it becomes a mental challenge. "I have to be a better man to get and keep this one." That's how you get a proper courtship. Some women try to communicate their strategy, and approach these issues verbally. The next letter illustrates this. Dear Sherry, I have my own career and my own life. Men see this. And I tell them I will not tolerate bullshit of any kind. And I express that I want to be able to be who I am. I want to be able to show what makes me happy and sad. I want to be able to talk about everything and anything. Wouldn't the right guy want me to be myself? I am a strong woman. But men often seem intimidated by me. —Anonymous Nice Girl Men are not afraid of strong women. A man named Michael explained, "Men are not afraid of strong women, they are afraid of a woman with very strong jaw muscles and overly-active vocal cords." Then he told a story: _"A lot of women don't realize that their own worst enemy is their mouth. If she whines and complains a lot, it doesn't matter if she's the most beautiful woman in the world._ _(Translation? No emotional control.) I remember a blind date where I picked up a woman and started driving to meet two other couples at a restaurant forty minutes away. The whole way to the restaurant my date kept saying, 'I'm hungry. I'm starved. I'm hungry. I'm starved. How much longer is it going to be?' She knew where the restaurant was, and how long it would take to get there. But she nagged the whole way and didn't stop venting her discomfort. I decided before we got to the restaurant that I'd never take her out again."_ The less you telegraph or dictate verbally, the better. The more you talk, the less you can read what he's doing and where he's coming from. To a man, the worst kind of partner is the one to whom—no matter what he gives—it will never be good enough. You get a lot further by "flying below radar" and playing up your feminine side. Your feminine side disarms men because they have no defense to it. Men are not afraid of strong women...they are put off by women who have _lost their femininity_. Dolly Parton, who is one of the most successful businesswomen and well-respected songwriters in Nashville, said something interesting in a _60 Minutes_ interview recently. She said: "A lot of men thought I was as silly as I looked. I look like a woman but I think like a man. And in this world of business, that has helped me a lot. Because by the time they think that I don't know what's going on...I done got the money, and gone." Her femininity keeps her stealth. She stays ahead of the game by flying below radar. As a general rule, don't telegraph or announce what you want. Not only do you communicate your strategy, you also reduce the mystery in the relationship. If you don't like what you see, raise the issue when it comes up. If his response is not acceptable, then leave. But don't telegraph to a guy _up front_ (who you barely know) what makes you happy or what makes you upset. If you do, many men will use the information to manipulate you. He'll do what you like just long enough to get what he wants. Or, he'll do it to get forgiveness for something he's done wrong. This is how that plays out.... Dear Sherry, I've been dating a guy on and off. It seems like a vicious cycle. We have been on this insane merry-go-ride for two years. We are very passionate in bed, but outside the bed he is emotionally unavailable and the relationship is not progressing. I have left him a million times only for him to chase me with e-mails, phone calls, and showing up at my home or work. He tells me "this time will be different" and he is "going to change." He begs me not to leave him and tells me he needs me. I take him back and he is good for a day or two then goes back to his selfish ways. I do love him but this emotional merry-go-round is making me dizzy. —Anonymous Nice Girl If there are any men reading this scenario, they are green with envy. "Man, all that great sex...for free?" If a relationship is on-and-off within the first year, that's an immediate sign you are wasting your time. He's not "hot and cold" because he's indecisive. He's "hot and cold" because he is manipulating you. Let's define: THE "HOT-AND-COLD" RELATIONSHIP When he's "hot," he is manipulating you. When he's "cold," he is showing his true colors. If you think, "If only we can reconnect and sleep together. Then it will escalate into a relationship," you are helping him manipulate you. When a guy you've known a while calls once a week, you can't think, "Yay! My plan is finally working." Because what he's saying to himself is, "Cool, this one I can sleep with every two weeks," and then he tries to find another woman he can sleep with in between. What I often hear from women is: "But I really want this guy. We had great chemistry. How can I spike his interest?" They are just not willing to accept that "this guy" is manipulating them, or that _that is who he is_. The question I often hear from women is, "How do I stop thinking about him? How do I stop caring so much?" If you are on a diet, you can't think about chocolate cake constantly, right? Same goes for relationships. Many women are so gripped with fear over the loss of a man that they think of him constantly. Stopping that unhealthy obsession solves 90 percent of the problem, and lifts all the pain. When you are no longer obsessed, men sense it. You often get what you want. This gives the power back to you. If you want to control your emotions, you have to control your thoughts. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." The best chance at success with a particular guy is when you are not intensely attached. Whether you are starting a relationship and you want to keep your feet on the ground, or you are ending one and need to detach, the following exercise will help. The key is to stop thinking about him altogether—cold turkey. ##### How to Stop Thinking about Him * Whenever you think about him, STOP. * Consciously replace the thought of him with another thought or activity. * It must be a feel-good thought or activity. * The key is to distract yourself, immediately. * Do this repeatedly, each time he pops into your head. * Get creative. Immediately turn on your favorite show, eat your favorite meal, go to the gym, or get out for a walk. * Each and every time you think of him—without exception—stop the worry and pain and force yourself to experience the opposite. Do something that _feels_ good. If you are at work, get your favorite coffee. If you are in the car, put in a feel-good CD. When children cry, you distract them with a toy, right? You have to break the downward spiral of negativity and force yourself to focus on positive things that have _nothing to do with him_. If you do this ten times a day for a few days, you will break the habit of obsessing over him. That is how you lift the pain and pull yourself back up by your own bootstraps. In _Paradise Lost_ , John Milton wrote, "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." In Chapter 2 we talked about not seeing a new guy all the time or for too many consecutive nights in a row. And readers follow this advice. Where they screw up is that while they are not in his company, they think about the guy constantly—and form an unhealthy dependence. You may as well move in with him the first week if you are going to think of him twenty-four hours a day. While you detach, always re-evaluate your "prize." If he still isn't giving you what you want, the question to ask yourself is whether you really want him. Maybe he's a bratty child in an adult body and never went through the rites of passage from "boy" to "man"...and his mamma still does his laundry which gives him a false sense of grandiosity. When you encounter a guy like that, don't assume you are no longer desirable. You have to get up, dust yourself off, and say, "He isn't the person I thought he was. I need to dust myself off and invest my energy elsewhere." As Maya Angelou said, "When people show you who they are, believe them...the _first_ time." With a good man, he's not thinking, "How can I take?" He's thinking, "How can I give?" A quality man wants to keep his wife or girlfriend happy—emotionally. It's ego: "I am _man enough_ to please my woman!" That makes him feel like a stud. Now let's define happy: Happiness is not getting scraps. Don't take it personally. Very little has anything to do with you. Many people lack the basic equipment to be in a relationship and there's nothing you can do to change it. You can't take a skunk and dip it in perfume and hope it becomes a puppy. Eventually, the perfume will wear off and you'll still have a skunk on your hands. _Always look at who you are dealing with_ ; what you see is what you get. His character won't change. His career might change, his clothing might change, his priorities might change, his residence might change. But his character will stay the same. The men who think it's okay to give scraps to you lack this basic equipment necessary for a good relationship. ##### What Is the Basic Emotional Equipment? * Character and decency * A stand-up person * Consideration for others * Appreciation for kindness * A sense of proportion with respect to how much a person gives, and how much they take * Loyalty to those who are loyal to you I remember that a teacher of mine once said, "Make those people important...those people who make _you_ important." It's not that hard, if everyone makes an effort. And if it's become hard, and you feel like a slave laborer in this relationship, stop punishing yourself. Misery is not a return. You have full control over how you are made to feel. You may feel like you are handcuffed and bound—but you are holding the key to those cuffs and can very easily take them off. If you are seeing a guy for several months, and you allow him to see you once a week—for sex—and on top of that you are wanting more from the relationship, you are signaling to him that he can take advantage of you. Sex is not something you do to reward someone or to score a relationship. Sex is something you do with a man who already cares about you. If months have gone by and you aren't talking at least every other day, that's not a relationship. This is often when the nice girl instinct kicks into overdrive. Here's the succession of logic: _"He was wonderful in the beginning."_ _"I just have screwed things up."_ _"I need to...do more...work harder...jump higher..."_ _"... and pick up a two-by-four and beat myself up with it by wearing myself out and telling myself I'm not worthy."_ Life is hard enough; you don't need anyone around darkening your doorstep to make it worse. It's not always you. Maybe it's just not a good fit. Maybe he just doesn't have the basic equipment (and nor will he with _any_ woman). So remember, have a wait-and-see attitude and, while you learn about him, keep a parachute on your heart. With a good guy, if you regulate or slow down what you give early on, you will see what kind of person you are dealing with. The cream will rise to the top. When you give a little and then wait to see what comes back, the guy who is worth having around will give also. If he cools off, a hint of indifference acts as a trigger. He will be concerned about what you are feeling. A woman can tell how much a man cares by how much he remembers what she likes, and whether he's doing things to make her happy. That's the big picture: your happiness. And health. You should never care what a man thinks of you— _until he demonstrates to you that he cares about making you happy_. If he isn't trying to make you happy, then send him back from "whence" he came because winning him over will have no benefit. At the end of the day, happiness, joy,...and yes...your "emotional stability"...those comprise the only measuring stick you really need to have. # 11 ## THE New AND Improved BITCH ### The Survival Guide for Women Who Are Too Nice "Always give them the old fire. Even when you feel like a squashed cake of ice." —ETHEL MERMAN #### The Bitch Stands Her Ground The "new and improved" bitch is not a bad thing. She is a refined version of the proverbial, "old" bitch. She's not abrasive or mean, nor does she nag to get what she wants. She speaks with her actions, and she's only a bitch when she _has to be._ One of the most telling signs that a woman "has arrived" is that she's not obsessed with pleasing a man, or anyone other than herself. Who is this "new and improved bitch?" See the following definition: Bitch (noun) : A woman who won't bang her head against the wall obsessing over someone else's opinion—be it a man or anyone else in her life. She understands that if someone does not approve of her, it's just one person's opinion; therefore, it's of no real importance. She doesn't try to live up to anyone else's standards—only her own. Because of this, she relates to a man very differently. The bitch also perceives _herself_ differently. She'll get into the "boxing ring," so to speak, with the mindset that she's an "equal opponent" to a man. With a nice girl, a man automatically thinks of himself as the "heavyweight" and of her as the "featherweight" (a.k.a., the underdog). A confident woman who enters the ring and doesn't go down without a fight earns the respect of a man, even if she loses. Why? Because then he knows she's a woman with _heart_. If she goes down, she goes down swinging. And when they step out of the ring, he can't help but have more respect for her. The bitch behaves in a way that a man understands. She speaks to him in the same language he uses when he talks to his male friends, which, again, lets him know she's on a level playing field. She is able to communicate without a lot of "gray area," and she's forthright. Don't think this matters? Take a peek at a side-by-side comparison: THE NICE GIRL \| THE BITCH ---\|--- She'll try to sweet-talk a man into giving her what she wants on a regular basis. If she doesn't get it, she'll cry, get upset, or pout. \| She won't sugarcoat anything or use euphemisms. She is direct about what her preferences are and lets him know what the dos and don'ts are, with respect to how he treats her. She'll play the guilt card or talk about her "inner child"; she seems to possess a childlike quality. \| She is a grown woman, so there's nothing "childlike" about her. She has a no-nonsense philosophy. If he hurts her in some way, she'll cry. Then she'll make him apologize and promise not to do it again. \| She'll back off and let her silence do the talking. Then she'll communicate when she's ready, on her own terms; at this point, she makes it clear it won't happen again, because if it does she won't be around. She tells herself, "He didn't mean that." Or, she makes excuses if he behaves badly. \| She notices his disrespect instantly and, without hesitation, calls him on the carpet over it. She forces herself to do something she is uncomfortable with in order to please a man. She also puts on a happy face and pretends that she likes it. \| She won't do anything she's not comfortable with and won't hesitate to let him know. She meets him on a level playing field. ONE = A DOCILE WOMAN = LOSS OF RESPECT \| THE OTHER = A DESIRABLE WOMAN = INCREASED RESPECT Rarely, if ever, will two grown men have a drawn-out conversation that ends with: "You hurt my feelings!" The closest thing a man will say to another man about feelings is, "You really pissed me off." As an example, hypothetically, one guy may borrow money from his friend and not pay it back. A long mushy conversation will not take place. If any exchange happens at all, it's short and sweet and ends with, "Screw you, asshole!" Then they stop hanging out together and that's the end of it. Because the bitch will "tell it like it is," a man will respect the way she communicates. In a man's eyes, anger isn't weakness. He'll think she has more _self-control_ than a woman who is emotional. With the emotional woman, he'll rationalize that she's hormonally unbalanced because of her monthly cycle. Or he'll think she's weak. But, with a bitch, he'll think she knows what she does and doesn't want. She knows what she likes and what she dislikes. She has "spirit." (And I don't mean the cheerleading kind.) When you say the word _B-I-T-C-H_ out loud, don't say it like it's a _bad_ thing. According to some, the word derives from the first letters in the following phrase: B abe I n T otal C ontrol of H erself. The only higher crown, the only higher _honor,_ is to be called a "High-Maintenance Bitch." It's a sign of success, indicating that this is the woman the guy _ends up keeping._ If nothing else, he keeps her for the very practical reason that he's invested so much that he can't let her go. And he's _still_ trying to win her over. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #95 A man feels he's won, or conquered a woman, when she eats out of the palm of his hand. At which point, he begins to get bored. #### The Bitch Is Never Fully Conquered So why do men love bitches? With a bitch, they never feel as though they've quite conquered her, so they keep trying. Some men try for a lifetime. When a man is with a woman who is willing to bend over backward, it almost invites mistreatment. Charlotte catered to her boyfriend, Tom, _constantly._ His interest was starting to fade. Charlotte thought she'd win Tom back by throwing a party for him on the beach. She planned an elaborate party and invited all his friends. She also decided to pay over $3,000 to hire a sky-writing service for the event. There were two planes and they made a big beautiful heart in the sky followed by the words, "I love you always." Once the planes arrived overhead, it took almost a half-hour for them to do an exquisite job. When they were finished, everyone was in awe. It was breathtaking, and everyone thought so— _except_ Tom (who had unfortunately called an hour previously to say he couldn't make it). By then, it was too late for Charlotte to get a refund on the fortune she had spent. She tried to cancel, but it was too late. The planes had already taken off and were en route to the party. The example with Charlotte is not uncommon. This is what happens when a woman is _too nice_ and will jump through hoops: _It invites bad behavior._ While the nice girl loses her mind, the bitch, on the other hand, makes the man lose his. When a woman keeps a level head, a man will often become much more intrigued with her. He'll think about her constantly, he won't be able to get enough of her, and he'll eventually decide he can't live without her. It's a basic difference between men and women: Women want safety and predictability and men long for excitement, danger, and unpredictability. As a child, the nice girl played with Barbie and her Ken doll; she grew up with the mental image that she, too, would live "happily ever after." Little boys want nothing to do with the Ken doll—they identify with _exciting_ figures who live dangerously, like Batman, Superman, and Spiderman. Ask any mother which child she finds more troublesome—a son or a daughter. Most mothers confess that boys are more difficult, especially if there are more than one. Why? For most men, safe = boring. So they look for ways to add excitement and danger, and go out of their way to pursue things that are difficult. It's this very _element of danger_ that draws him to a bitch. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #96 The tension that arises with a slightly bitchy woman gives a subtle feeling of danger to a man. He feels slightly unsure because she is never in the palm of his hand. Think about what things men collect, or the things that fascinate them. Guns, ammunition, sports cards, sci-fi magazines, pocket knives, little metal cars, power tools, and a "rechargeable" flashlight. (Your job is to act riveted. "Wow, rechargeable?") Oh, and let's not forget the "priceless" collection of little army men (just to die for) and the high-speed stuff: cars, Jet Skis, motorcycles, and airplanes. The nice girl makes the mistake of nurturing a man and making him feel too "safe." Men get bored very easily, which is why too much predictability and safety makes the relationship seem _monotonous_ to him. With the bitch, it isn't monotonous. The nice girl buries her head in the sand when she ignores a man's need for stimulation, danger, or "a challenge." This is to her detriment. She's like an ostrich. When an ostrich sees a hunting animal, instead of facing the tiger head-on, it'll bury its head in the sand. Hence, it becomes "din din." The bitch takes the head-on approach, but the nice girl takes the "buried head" approach. The bitch sees what's actually there. _The nice girl sees what she wants to see._ In the first month alone, here's what the "nice girl" will do...She'll give him a foot massage. Then she'll cook eggs with six ingredients and pancakes on the side. She'll drive to do his laundry and iron his shirts. Then she'll read him poems and want to cuddle all day. After he dumps her, she'll say, "I can't believe he did this to me!" Many women believe that men want a woman who will do... _whatever_ they tell her to do. In theory, men want this. But in practice, when they actually get it, _they'll tire of it almost instantaneously_. The minute a man thinks he can "do no wrong" in your eyes and you'll accept anything he dishes out, you've already "waved a white flag" with regard to his having the hots for you. His desire will come to a screeching halt. Don't buy the one about him wanting a "damsel in distress," either. As one man said, "When you rescue a damsel in distress, all you get stuck with is a distressed damsel." The notion that a woman has to "spill her guts out" in order to truly be in love isn't a sign of love, it's about becoming "din din." He sees a docile woman and he says to himself, "Oh, no. A cling-on. Am I going to have to carry around this bag of Jell-O forever?" Once he realizes this, he calls less often or stops calling altogether— _after_ he has sex with her. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #97 A "yes" woman who gives too much sends the impression that she believes in the man more than she believes in herself. Men view this as _weakness_ not _kindness._ When the nice girl needs a man too much and puts him on a pedestal, she treats him with a view of himself that _even he_ doesn't hold. And it makes him very uncomfortable because he knows (better than anyone) that he "ain't no white knight." But he knows it's her fantasy, so he gives it the "good ol' college try." He makes a forced effort to try to be romantic, and it isn't long before he begins to question whether she's being disingenuous, too. He thinks to himself, " _Hmm..._ I wonder what she's really like. She can't possibly be _that_ nice." Like a low-interest-rate credit card that's only good for the first month, he'll start to feel he's getting the "promo package." Not the real deal. With the bitch, it's straight-up and real. There's no concern that either side will do a "bait and switch." He tests her once or twice, and she puts him in his place each time. Then two things happen. First, he says to himself, "This one's not dumb. She won't buy my bullcrap." Second, he feels as though she's seen him for who he really is. She's seen "the worst," and she likes him anyway. Likewise, he's seen "the worst" in her, so he doesn't feel as though there is a surprise "lurking" inside her. When he's with a bitch, he may be annoyed from time to time, but he believes that what they share is _real._ #### The Bitch Is Defined from Within Eddie Murphy once said in an interview: "The best advice I ever heard is, don't take anyone else's advice." There's power in this because it puts you in the conductor's seat, right at "the controls" in your life. It doesn't mean you should stop seeking information or outside input, it just means that you're the one driving. You choose your own destination. This attitude directly impacts whether a man will view you as independent. The minute you stop being an independent thinker and he starts having to think for you, you catapult right out of the "driver's" seat and land right in the "doormat" seat. _The minute someone else can dictate what you think or how you feel about yourself, you are at their mercy._ This attitude also influences success in many other areas. As long as you let someone else make decisions regarding your career, dreams, or aspirations, you've limited yourself drastically. _You'll only be as good as that person allows you to become._ ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #98 Be an independent thinker at all times, and ignore anyone who attempts to define you in a limiting way. Whether it's your taste in clothing, your needs in a relationship, or what you do for a living—don't let anyone else be at the controls. Define yourself. The minute you become an independent thinker, two things will happen. First, positive people and things will be drawn to you like a magnet. Second, it will serve as a deterrent for negative people who will try to distract you from achieving your goals. There will always be people who will be there to plant negative seeds in your garden, _if you make yourself available for that._ Standing up for yourself doesn't always involve verbal confrontation. Sometimes it's about not wasting energy on people who are negative. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #99 Truly powerful people don't explain why they want respect. They simply don't engage someone who doesn't give it to them. This may seem very simple and obvious to a person with self-esteem, but it's usually the very thing that the nice girl does _not_ do. She'll cosign on the dotted line for a guy who has lousy credit. She'll sleep with him before knowing his middle name. And above all, she'll let him decide what her value is as a woman, instead of deciding this for herself. Kindness is always the first choice. But there are times when you can't be kind to someone who doesn't have your best interests in mind. When you see this behavior, it's appropriate to be kind to _yourself_ by responding to it, either by correcting the situation or by not allowing the person to have access to you. The bitch can be a soft—and very feminine—woman, but she still has a quiet dignity. This woman lets people know in a graceful way that she won't be easily manipulated. She won't jump through hoops. And she won't define herself by what other people think. A perfect example is my soft-spoken Japanese friend Masae. She's been living in the United States for less than a year, and she speaks broken English with a Japanese accent. Nevertheless, she's a wonderful example of the grace and quiet strength that I'm describing. Masae was seeing an American man named Steven for some time. It was his birthday, so she decided to cook him a Japanese feast. She made miso soup, several types of sushi, and two authentic hot main courses. She was also an exemplary hostess. The only feedback Steven gave was that the soy sauce was too salty. "Next time get the one with the green lid, because it's lower in sodium." Masae was astonished, but she kept her composure. She said to him, with her limited language skills, "I cook for you. But if you complain? I no do for you." She's had nothing but praise ever since. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." A positive person will say _positive_ things, especially when you aren't feeling up. When you leave his company, you'll feel as though your batteries have been recharged. When you meet someone who is truly great, he makes you believe you can be great, too. This is the kind of relationship you want, and it's the only kind of relationship worth having. The longer you practice being an independent thinker, the more attractive you'll be. You'll put a "magic spell" on a man. A deadly "mojo." You'll wake up and feel happier than you've ever been. Your aura and your life force will slowly come back. The media doesn't perpetuate this; instead they fuel a "cookie cutter" mentality that women are supposed to fit into a box. "Wear this because this is hot." (Change the channel.)"You have got to get this look." (Change the channel.) "Say those affirmation jingles: Claim it; then shame it. Own it and condone it..." (Change the channel.) "This organic hair color will turn heads." When a woman is secure with herself, she isn't afraid to define herself and defy public opinion. She has her own look. Her own style. Her own charisma. Her own brand of charm. A man wants something he doesn't see every day. Not in terms of a redhead versus a blonde. He wants the rare woman _who can think for herself._ When it comes to a commitment or a relationship with most women, many men feel like lion trainers. It's as though they have to use a chair to get the lions to back away. "Back off...back off..." So when they meet a woman who has the confidence to hold her own—or make them come her way—it has a different effect. They're not used to it, so they become intrigued. The bitch isn't afraid to be different, which is why she won't be a "booty call" or a pearl on a long string of pearls. She won't be a man's late-night convenience. She won't be doing lap dances. She won't be afraid to turn thirty or forty years old. At any age, this woman will feel like a "prize." She won't be defined by the media's perception of aging; she won't be made to feel like defective livestock because she is no longer a teenager. Married, single, or divorced, this woman feels good about herself. A woman with an exterior that is too tough is not the "new and improved" bitch I'm speaking of. Abrasiveness is _not_ the objective. In Italy, there is a very common expression: _È tutto fumo e niente arrosto_. Literally, it means, "There is plenty of smoke, but nothing is getting roasted." When a woman is too abrasive or too bitchy, or she pretends to be too much of anything, she rarely has anything to back it up. The "new and improved bitch" is truly strong, because she is nice. But she also demands the same kindness in return. #### The Bitch Has a Strong Will and Faith in Herself When I set out to talk to men about this book, I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought that some might react to the title, _Why Men Love Bitches_ , and say, "Men don't love bitches!" What happened was the exact opposite. They absolutely confirmed—over and over—that a strong woman is very much a turn-on. Sometimes they described why they love bitches. Other times they asked, "Yeah, why do we love bitches?" But over 90 percent of the time, they didn't deny the fact that they're turned on by strong women. Putting yourself first is not something men resent. On the contrary, a man actually respects it. He feels as though there is far less weight on his shoulders when you are independent, and he doesn't have to make you happy all the time. He'll regard you as a secure woman, instead of as a ditsy or flighty woman who doesn't know what she wants. Putting yourself first means going back and relearning how to count. In math, the number one comes before the number two (1...2...again...1...2...). You are number one and—are you sitting down?- _he is number two!_ Until now, you've made the mistake of starting to count at "number two." Number one wasn't even counted. You skipped over _numero uno_ because you didn't seem to feel you mattered. Life is an extension of grade school. A third grader approaches another kid and bullies him. He slaps the kid, steals his lunch money, and runs. The child who won't be bullied is the child who slaps the bully and takes his lunch money back. (With an extra little slap, just for thinking he could have gotten away with it.) The _new and improved bitch_ understands this principle in adult day-to-day life. People will do the same thing on a daily basis. They'll try to slap you and run, whether it's a coworker, a family member, a friend, or yes...even a lover. The only difference is none of these people will try to steal your lunch money. Instead, consciously or not, they'll steal your self-confidence. When it comes to believing in yourself, put your eye on the mark and don't blink. If you have a goal, a dream, or an aspiration...believe in yourself while you are _on the way_ to your destination, and you will have already arrived. Throughout life, people will try to shake your faith _in yourself_. When this happens, remind yourself that the only way they can succeed is if you allow it. When you walk down the street of life, always hold your head high and keep walking. Don't _ever_ let anyone shake your faith in yourself, because that's really _all_ that you have. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #100 The most attractive quality of all is dignity. # Appendix ## SHERRY'S Attraction PRINCIPLES ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #1 Anything a person chases in life runs away. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #2 The women who have the men climbing the walls for them aren't always exceptional. Often, they are the ones who don't appear to care that much. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #3 A woman is perceived as offering a mental challenge to the degree that a man doesn't feel he has a 100 percent hold on her. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #4 Sometimes a man deliberately won't call, just to see how you'll respond. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #5 If you start out dependent, it turns him off. But if it is something he can't have, it becomes more of a challenge for him to get it. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #6 It is your attitude about yourself that a man will adopt. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #7 Act like a prize and you'll turn him into a believer. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #8 The biggest variable between a bitch and a woman who is too nice is fear. The bitch shows that she's not afraid to be without him. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #9 If the choice is between her dignity and having a relationship, the bitch will prioritize her dignity above all else. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #10 When a woman doesn't give in easily and doesn't appear docile or submissive, it becomes more stimulating to obtain her. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #11 Being right on the verge of getting something generates a desire that has to be satisfied. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #12 A man knows which woman will give in to last-minute requests. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #13 Whether you have terms and conditions indicates whether you have options. Almost immediately, you present yourself as a doormat or a dreamgirl. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #14 If you smother him, he'll go into defense mode and look for an escape route to protect his freedom. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #15 Whenever a woman requires too many things from a man, he'll resent it. Let him give what he wants to give freely; then observe who he is. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #16 A bitch gives a man plenty of space so he doesn't fear being trapped in a cage. Then...he sets out to trap her in his. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #17 If you tell him you are not interested in jumping into a relationship with both feet, he will set out to try to change your mind. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #18 Always give the appearance that he has plenty of space. It gets him to drop his guard. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #19 More than anything else, he watches to see if you'll be too emotionally dependent on him. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #20 He must feel that you choose to be with him, not that you need to be with him. Only then will he perceive you as an equal partner. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #21 If a man has to wait before he sleeps with a woman, he'll not only perceive her as more beautiful, he'll also take time to appreciate who she is. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #22 Sex and the "spark" are not one and the same. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #23 Before sex, a man isn't thinking clearly and a woman is thinking clearly. After sex, it reverses. The man is thinking clearly and the woman isn't. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #24 Every man wants to have sex first; whether he wants a girlfriend is something he thinks about later. By not giving him what he wants up front, you become his girlfriend without him realizing it. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #25 A man intuitively senses whether sexuality comes from a place of security or from a place of neediness. He knows when a woman is having sex to appease him. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #26 Bad habits are easier to form than good ones, because good habits require conscious effort. Waiting encourages this effort. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #27 If you pull the sexual plug at the last minute, he'll label you a tease. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #28 If he makes you feel insecure, let your insecurity be your guide. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #29 A quality guy fantasizes about a woman who genuinely loves sex. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #30 Any time a woman competes with another woman, she demeans herself. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #31 When there is that undeniable "spark," there is only one key to the lock. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #32 Let him think he's in control. He'll automatically start doing things you want done because he'll always want to look like "a king" in your eyes. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #33 When you cater to his ego in a soft way, he doesn't try to get power in an aggressive way. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #34 When you appear softer and more feminine, you appeal to his instinct to protect. When you appear more aggressive, you appeal to his instinct to compete. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #35 He'll let a woman who becomes his doormat pay for dinner on the first couple of dates, but he wouldn't think of it with his dreamgirl. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #36 The token power position is for public display, but the true power position is for private viewing only. And this is the only one that matters. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #37 If you give him a feeling of power, he'll want to protect you and he'll want to give you the world. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #38 When a woman acts as though she's capable of everything, she gets stuck doing everything. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #39 Men don't respond to words. They respond to no contact. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #40 Talking about the "relationship" too much takes away the element of the "unknown" and thus the mystery. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #41 Men respect women who communicate in a succinct way, because it's the language men use to talk to one another. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #42 When you are always HAPPY; And he is always free to GO; He feels LUCKY. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #43 If you allow your rhythm to be interrupted, you'll create a void. Then, to replace what you give up, you'll start to expect and need more from your partner. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #44 Most women are starving to receive something from a man that they need to give to themselves. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #45 A woman looks more secure in a man's eyes when he can't pull her away from her life, because she is content with her life. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #46 The second a woman works overtime to make herself fit his criteria, she has lowered the standard of that relationship. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #47 You jump through hoops any time you repeatedly make it very obvious you're giving your "all." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #48 You have to keep from being sucked down into quicksand. Unless you maintain control over yourself, the relationship is doomed. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #49 Jumping through hoops often has a negative outcome: He sees it as an opportunity to have his cake and eat it, too. But when you stay just outside his reach, he'll stay on his best behavior. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #50 The nice girl gives away too much of herself when pleasing him regularly becomes more important than pleasing herself. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #51 The relationship may not be right for you if you find yourself jumping through hoops. When something is right, it will feel easier and much more effortless. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #52 When you nag, he tunes you out. But when you speak with your actions, he pays attention. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #53 When a man takes a woman for granted, he still looks for reassurance that she is still "right there." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #54 When the routine becomes predictable, he's more likely to give you the same type of love he had for his mother-and the odds that he will take you for granted increase. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #55 Negative attention is still attention. It lets a man know that he has you—right where he wants you. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #56 When you treat him casually as though he's a friend, he'll come your way. Because he wants things to be romantic, but he also wants to be the pursuer. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #57 A little distance combined with the appearance of self-control makes him nervous that he may be losing you. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #58 A man takes a woman for granted when he's interested, but will no longer go out of his way. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #59 When you nag, you become the problem, and he deals with it by tuning you out. But when you don't nag, he deals with the problem. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #60 If you take his chores away from him and praise someone else for doing it, he'll want his chores back. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #61 When you nag, he sees weakness. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #62 He perceives an emotional woman as more of a pushover. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #63 In the same way that familiarity breeds contempt, a slightly aloof demeanor can often renew his respect. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #64 He'll forget what he has in you...unless you remind him. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #65 Many women talk a lot out of nervousness-which is something that men will often perceive as insecurity. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #66 Talking about feelings to a man will feel like work. When he's with a woman, he wants it to feel like fun. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #67 Forcing him to talk about feelings all the time will not only make you seem needy, it will eventually make him lose respect. And when he loses respect, he'll pay even less attention to your feelings. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #68 In the beginning, the only thing you need to pay attention to is whether he keeps coming around, because he'll only be able to suspend or hide his emotions for so long. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #69 Men treat women the way they treat other men. They "play it cool" because they don't want to appear weak or desperate. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #70 The element of surprise both inside and outside of the bedroom is important to men, and it adds to the excitement. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #71 Don't always do the same thing over and over in the bedroom. Vary it so that it doesn't become a predictable routine. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #72 Most men tend to disrespect a woman who appears to be too malleable. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #73 Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself or speak your mind. It will not only earn his respect, in some cases it will even turn him on. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #74 Men often automatically assume that a bitchier woman will be more assertive in bed, and that a nice girl will be more timid. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #75 When a man falls in love, suddenly he'll go out of his way and think nothing of it. He'll do things for this woman he wouldn't have done for anyone else. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #76 He'll never respect you as being able to hold your own unless you can stand on your own two feet financially. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #77 You have to show that you won't accept mistreatment. Then you will keep his respect. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #78 Your pink slip is maintained when you can stand on your own—with him or without him. He should never feel that you are completely at his mercy. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #79 When a man views a woman as a "little girl" or a sister he has to take care of, the passion diminishes. He doesn't want to make love to his sister. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #80 The ability to choose how you want to live, and the ability to choose how you want to be treated are the two things that give you more power than any material object ever will. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #81 In a relationship of any kind, if one person feels the other person isn't bringing anything to the table, he or she will begin to disrespect that person. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #82 Financial neediness is no different than emotional neediness; in both instances, he can still get the feeling that he has a 100 percent hold on you. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #83 Regardless of how pretty a woman is, looks alone will not sustain his respect. Appearance may pull him in, but it is your independence that will keep him turned on. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #84 When a man is very consumed with not being taken advantage of, this is a sign that he's "on the take." ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #85 People will show you they have self-respect simply by virtue of the fact that they want to carry their own weight. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #86 The more independent you are of him, the more interested he will be. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #87 If you make it too obvious that you're excited to get something, some people will be tempted to dangle a carrot in front of your face. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #88 When you alter the routine, your not being there is what will make him come around. Men don't respond to words. What they respond to is no contact. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #89 Don't give a reward for bad behavior. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #90 He simply won't respect a woman who automatically goes into overdrive to please him. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #91 If he doesn't give you a time, you don't have a date. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #92 Often the best way to adjust or fix the problem is by not letting him know it's being fixed. When you alter your availability or change a predictable routine, it will mentally pull him back in. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #93 Once you start laughing, you start healing. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #94 You can get away with saying much more with humor than you can with a straight face. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #95 A man feels he's won, or conquered a woman, when she eats out of the palm of his hand. At which point, he begins to get bored. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #96 The tension that arises with a slightly bitchy woman gives a subtle feeling of danger to a man. He feels slightly unsure because she is never in the palm of his hand. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #97 A "yes" woman who gives too much sends the impression that she believes in the man more than she believes in herself. Men view this as weakness not kindness. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #98 Be an independent thinker at all times, and ignore anyone who attempts to define you in a limiting way. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #99 Truly powerful people don't explain why they want respect. They simply don't engage someone who doesn't give it to them. ##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #100 The most attractive quality of all is dignity. Copyright © 2009, 2004, 2002, 2000 by Sherry Argov. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews. _Why Men Love Bitches_ is a registered trademark of Sherry Argov. Published by Adams Media, a division of F+W Media, Inc. 57 Littlefield Street, Avon, MA 02322 U.S.A. _www.adamsmedia.com_ ISBN 13: 978-1-58062-756-6 (paperback) ISBN 10: 1-58062-756-0 (paperback) ISBN 13: 978-1-60550-155-0 (ePub) This e-book edition: January 2012 (v.1.1) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Argov, Sherry. Why men love bitches / Sherry Argov. p. cm. ISBN 1-58062-756-0 1. Mate selection. 2. Single women - Life skills guides. 3. Self-esteem in women. 4. Dating (Social customs) 5. Man-woman relationships. I. Title. HQ801 .A724 2002 646.7'7 - dc21 2002009981 This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information with regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional advice. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought. —From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Adams Media was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters. _This book is available at quantity discounts for bulk purchases._ _For information, call 1-800-289-0963._	{'title': 'Sherry Argov - Why Men Love Bitches'}
Produced by deaurider, Dianne Nolan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Hyphenation inconsistencies: both Bald-headed and Baldheaded are used. The Theatrical Primer BY HAROLD ACTON VIVIAN _Illustrations by FRANCIS P. SAGERSON_ G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY H. A. VIVIAN COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY _The Theatrical Primer_ The Theatrical Primer 1 Here, children, is a Theatre. A Theatre is a big Playhouse where actors Act--sometimes. It is a pretty building, is it Not? It costs two big Dollars to get into a Theatre but People are always in a Great Hurry to get out. This is right, as it Helps the actors to act. When you go to a theatre you should always Cry as Loud and as Long as you can. It gives great Pleasure to all the People, and makes your Mother feel Good. 2 Oh, see the Press Agent! Is he not a wonderful Thing? Next to the Theatre, he is the most Important Thing in the Business. He is much Greater than the Manager, but he does not get so much Money. The Press Agent always tells the Truth, and loves to give away Free Tickets. Do not offer him a Drink or a Cigar, because he will surely refuse, and then You will feel Badly. 3 The Man looks Anxious. He is a Manager, and he thinks the Treasurer is Swiping his Money. Fie on the Treasurer! The Poor Manager has so little money that He can only take one Drink at a Time. Ask the Manager for tickets. He will pay for them out of his own Pocket. He is such a Charitable man. Try to be like the Manager, little children, and when you grow Up, you will always be without Money. Money is a great Curse. 4 This is a Chappie. No, it is not an animal; it is a human Being. Its real name is E. Z. Thing. What do you think the Chappie is Good for--Nothing? Oh, fie, it is surely good for Something. Yes; it is Good to buy suppers for Chorus Girls. Sometimes it buys Flowers Also, and has them Charged to Papa. Papa is sometimes a Chappie himself. That is right; yell "Chappie" as Loud as you can. It is not Vulgar to Yell on the Street, and the man likes to be called by such a nice name. 5 Here we see an Actor. No; do not Touch him or you will soil his Clothes. Are not his Clothes wonderful? And just Think, they are all Paid for! He wears his Hair long because the Barber shops are Closed on Sunday. He is Very busy all the week, you know. He has to walk up and down Broadway several Times every day. Actors are very Nice men. They always say good Things about other Actors, and never talk of Themselves. No; none of them wears corsets. 6 Isn't that dog Tiny? It's the Leading lady's pet Poodle. Oh, see how nicely it snaps at Everything! The Leading lady has Taught it to do that; Snaps are right in her line. Everyone loves the Little Dog. It is so Gentle and Loving. Kick the Dog in the Ribs, Johnny. It will please the lady if you do--and the Dog--and the Manager. See the Manager laugh. 7 Here we see a Lobster. The Lobster is going to Buy a Ticket from the Speculator. Will they let the Lobster into the Theatre? Oh, I guess Yes. See; the Speculator has put the Money in his Pocket. Will he give the Treasurer some of the Dough? Perhaps; if he is a very Kind Speculator. How fortunate for the Speculator that there are Lobsters. 8 Do you see the Clever Usher? He has Sold two seats in the Front Row. What will he do when the man who Bought the Seats at the box office comes in? He will say that there is a Mistake, and the Man will sit in the Sixth Row. The Man is from the Country. All ushers are clever. They need the Money to buy clean Shirts. 9 Come, children, we will Leave now. The last Act is not Over, but the Audience would sooner see your Clothes than the Play. Run out in the Aisle and make a Noise. The People will be glad; they are Tired and do not want to hear the rest of the Play. People do not go to the Theatre to Hear the Play. What a foolish idea! 10 See the Leading Lady. She is the Greatest Actress in the World. Oh, no; she does Not think so. She is Modest and Unassuming. She does not like the Star Dressing Room, but the Manager makes her take it. What a Cruel Manager! Poor Lady, she has to wear her nice stage Clothes on the Street. Do not Rubber at her. She does not Like being Rubbered at. How fond the Leading Lady is of the Leading Man! Last night she embraced him so Fervently that the Powder came off Her Arms on his Coat. He likes such Things. They are marks of Affection. 11 Here is a Programme. Is it not a Pretty Book? What lovely pictures of Corsets and False Teeth. Do not look for Cast of the Play. We will find that Next Week. The Advertisements are much More Interesting. It would be Foolish to Print the Cast in Large type, because then We could See it. How Artistic is the Cover of the Programme! Does it not remind you of the Delirium Tremens? 12 Oh, see; there is a Chorus Girl. What a beautiful Complexion she has. And what very White Shoulders. No; of course she cannot sing. But what a cunning Wink she is making at her Baldheaded Father in the Front Row. She will meet Him after the Show and take him Riding in her Automobile. Then they will have Supper in a lovely Restaurant. Father will pay for the Supper, just like he pays for the Auto. Is he not a good Father to the Poor Hard-working Chorus Girl? The Chorus Girl is a much better actress than the Leading Lady, but she is not jealous of the Leading Lady's success. Not a bit. 13 What a funny little Man that is. He is a Big part of the Syndicate. He is a very Big Bug, and so kind to Actors. He just Loves to Pay them Money. But he does Not like to make them work Hard. Oh, No; they just do what They want to. By and By they Will get too old to Work, and then he will Buy them a House to live in. All the other Managers love the Big Bug, because he does not try to Hog the Whole thing. 14 Do you see the Man with the Bald Head in the Second Row? He is a Great Critic. He gets a Million Dollars for every day that He works. He Knows all About every Show that will Ever be written. He is good to the Actors, and will tell Them how to Act Properly. The Actors and Actresses just Love to read what he Writes. When you Grow up, little Children, you should try and be Critics, and when you Die you will go to a place where there are lots of Actors, and they will Give you a Hot time. 15 Here we have the Little Comedienne. Isn't she the Real Thing? Only think, she used to be in the Chorus! But she had a very beautiful Voice, and now she owns the Whole Show. The Police will not let You walk on the same side of the Street with Her, and the Manager says no one Else in the Company must Give Pictures to the Papers. She is very Kind to the Others, and they love her. By and By she will be a Has-been, and then the other girls will send her Part of their Salary. It always pays to be Kind, little Children. 16 What do we see here? Oh, this is a Playwright. He has Written a Play. Will the Manager accept the Play? Oh, no; the Manager could not do that. It is a Good play, but the Playwright Has not Got a Reputation. If he should Kill a man he would get a Reputation and then his Play would be accepted. Perhaps he will go to England and Sell the Play. Then it will be a Great Success, and the Cruel Manager will be sorry because he has Missed a chance to Make Money. 17 This is another Playwright. He is a very successful one Because he Works very Hard. He writes a Dozen plays every year. If one is Good he Gets Paid for All the rest. Of course he has a Reputation. He made it by Knitting Socks. 18 What a Large Chest that man has. Yes; he is a Star. He is the only actor who can Play Hamlet. Did you Know that he Owns a Large part of Broadway? What is he Saying? He says that he is Not a great Actor. He thinks the Juvenile plays his Part very Well. He does not Like to be Applauded. Did he say he got a Hundred Dollars a week? That must be a Mistake. All stars get at Least Five Hundred. Modesty is a great virtue, Children. You should Try and be as Modest as the Star. 19 Here we have a Four Hundredth Performance. How young it looks. Has the Play run a Year? Oh, dear, No. But then there are Matinees, you know. And Rehearsals. The Piece has played Four Hundred Times. The Press Agent and the Manager say so. Of Course they ought to Know, and They always tell the Truth. What pretty Souvenirs! They are Real Gold and cost More than the Theatre Tickets. How Charitable of the Management to give them Away. 20 See the Fat Policeman. He walks right past the Doorkeeper. Has he got a Ticket? No, he has a shield. Why do they Let him in Free? Because he is a Policeman. Will he make the standees, settees? Of course not. He will Watch the Show, and if he Likes it He will ask for Two tickets. Will he pay for them? Don't ask foolish questions, you silly boy. 21 Watch the Pretty lady buy two Fifty-cent tickets. She wants to know if they are Down stairs. No, they are in the Gallery. In the front row? Yes. Has the man nothing further in Front? she asks. The Poor lady would like them in the Centre. Yes, those would do. But are they on the Aisle? No, there is no Centre Aisle. She says it is not a nice Theatre, but she Supposes she Must take the Tickets. Are they for Thursday night? Yes. Oh, that is too bad. She is going to Play cards on Thursday night, and she wants the Tickets for Friday night. Now she Will pay for them. How careful she is with her money! She has opened Her little Bag, and Taken out her Pocket book. Now she has closed the Bag. She has taken a Two-Dollar Bill out of the Pocket book and laid it down. She opens the Bag and puts the pocket book back. There; she has Closed the bag. Now she has got the Tickets. She has opened the Bag again and put the Tickets inside. The Bag is Closed again now. The man is Giving her her change. She has opened the Bag, taken out the Pocket book, closed the Bag, opened the Pocket book, put in the change, closed the Pocket book, opened the Bag, put in the Pocket book, and Closed the Bag. How quickly she does not do it. Are there other People waiting to buy seats? Oh, a few Dozen. 22 Here we have a Box party. Isn't it nice of Them to Come Late, that Many people can see Them? No, Johnny, they Do not come to Show off Their clothes. How happy they are. How Mirthful. You can hear them laugh right Across the Theatre. The Girl in the pink crêpe de Chine is saying that Pickles do Not Agree with her. Isn't that too bad? The man is telling her a Story. Pretty soon they Will Laugh out Loud again. See, the Lovely lady with The Charming manners is looking through her opera glasses at a Man in the Front Row. Does she Know him? Of course not, or she wouldn't look at him. When the Curtain goes down, the Men will Go out on Important Business Matters and the Women will stroll up and down so That other Women can See their Dresses. Do not try to Watch the Play, children. The Box party is much more fun. 23 What is this? A Matinée Idol. What a Meek man he is. He says he is Not handsome. That is not True. The Girls all adore him. How careless he is with his Clothes. His Pants have not been Pressed in Fifteen minutes. He is going to Have his picture taken. He had some Taken yesterday, but They did not Do him Justice. Is the Idol married? Hist! children, some things are Sacred. Whose little boy is that Following him? That is a Messenger boy; he reminds the Idol of His dates. 24 Let us steal into the dressing room. See what a cute little place It is. The leading Juvenile and the Comedian dress here. They like a small room; it is So easy to make a quick change in One. The management wanted to Make the Dressing room Larger but there was Not enough lumber. See; in his hurry, the Actor has left a pair of shoes in Front of that Chair. Put them behind the Trunk, Clara, and the Actor will thank you. 25 This is a stick of Grease paint. The Leading lady uses it to Make herself look beautiful. In this way she can make many dates. The leading lady is very fond of Dates. Her friends say she always has dates for Supper. Hold the Grease paint in the Gas flame, Johnny, and see it Fizzle. Now rub the wet paint on the Looking Glass. Put some in the Powder box. The Leading lady always uses powder after Paint; now she can Use both together. Let us hide the Grease paint in the Slipper. The leading lady will Think it a Great joke. 26 Here we have the Property man. He is making a Ship. Will the ship go? No. But it will _look_ Real. What a Dusty room this is. Let's dust the Things off and arrange them. How glad the Property man will be To-night when he has to Get ready for the First act in a hurry. Oh, here is the property Man back again. Clara, help Johnny up! The Property man Wears pointed Shoes. 27 See the Man who was once a Great Actor! He says he is too Good for the Managers now. His was a Great Hamlet. Does he mean the hamlet where he was Born? Why does he Not go to work? He will soon Go to work his friends. He has a very good memory. He remembers ----. Some time, children, we will take a Month off, and then He will tell us What he remembers. 28 Look at the Man in the Front row. He has a Clean shave on the back of his Head. See how hard he laughs. Does he enjoy the jokes? No; he has seen the Show seven times. What large opera glasses he has. Yes, he is very short-sighted. The show is a Burlesque. The Soubrette winks at him. That is because he is Old--and Easy. Will he go on to a Club after the Show? No; he will go on a Bat. 29 Here we have the Soubrette. No; she is not seventy-seven, she is only seventeen. Her father was a Blacksmith, and she is very clever with the Hammer herself. Hasn't she a lovely Shape? It is all her own, too. The Bill says she Paid twenty-five Dollars for it. She is talking to the chorus girl. She says she had a Lobster at dinner. Soubrettes are very Fond of Lobsters. There is an Old saying: "Wherever the Soubrette is, there will the Lobsters be found also." 30 The programme says the Ushers must not be Tipped. It hurts an usher's Feelings to be Given money. If we were to give an usher Money he would give up his Job. You would not Like to see the poor man out of a Job, would you? All his wants Are provided for by the Management and he Has no need of money. He gets a very Fat salary and his Family live in Elegance. How kind of the management to Treat the usher so well! Of course we will not give the usher money as the Management does not wish us to. It would be cruel, and Besides we would get very little in Return. 31 Let us listen to the Manager talking to the actor. The Manager says it is a fine day. That is not so, for it is Raining. The Actor says he would Like his Salary. Why does the Manager laugh and say next Tuesday? The actor tells the manager to go to Yuma, Arizona. Will the manager go? No, but the Actor will soon begin Counting railroad Neckwear. 32 Children, observe the Bouncer. He is a kind and Gentle man, and carries a Stick to protect Himself. He is very weak. Clara, yell as loud as you can. Now, Johnny, whistle on Your fingers. Will the Bouncer tell you to Stop? Bang! The hospital is just round the Corner. The children will Come again and see the rest of the Show. 33 Here we see a Poster. The poster says there are Three hundred people on the Stage. Are there three hundred people on the Stage? Oh! no; not to-night. One of the Ladies is sick, and Two hundred of the Others are nursing her. Call the Manager a Liar, Johnny. There! Now we know why the manager Carries a Cane. 34 Oh! see the Lady crying. She is very Young to be so Tearful. She is a Matinée girl. Why does she Cry? Is it because the Lovely heroine is in Distress? No; it is because the Leading man has had His hair cut. She wanted a Lock of his Lovely hair to Stuff a cushion With. What will she Do now? She will have to go to Another theatre until the Hair grows again. 35 This is a Vaudeville joke. How tired it Looks! Yes, it is Worn out. It has been doing Two a day for Nineteen Years. Once it was nearly Murdered by a Mean audience. Luckily it Changed its disguise. Will it ever Die? No; it will Get a Shave and a New disguise, and will go on working forever. How cruel to treat a good Joke so. What is the name of the Joke? It is the Mother-in-law joke. 36 Oh, see the Hat. It is a Stovepipe hat, and Belongs to the Manager. That is, he Wore it until last night. Now he will Have to buy Another hat. But this hat is good. It Cost Five dollars, and has been Worn only a Month. Yes, children, but there are other Points about the hat besides Wear. The size must be considered. Last night a great star, whom the Manager had Discovered, made a Hit. The Manager's head is Bigger now, and he must Have a new Hat. Let us take this one and put a Brick in It. Then when some other manager Cops the Star this manager can Kick the Hat. 37 Here we have the leading Lady's gown. It cost one Hundred and eighty Dollars. The leading lady Said so. How pretty and Fluffy it is. Is the Fluff chiffon or Organdie? The Leading Lady says it is French chiffon, but the Chorus Girls say it is Organdie from an old Summer gown. How mean of the Chorus girls! How economic of the Leading lady! Johnny, tread on the train of the Gown, and we can all see the Fireworks. 38 Are you Cold, children? See, the Snow is Falling. It is very Realistic, this Snow. It looks like the Real thing, and Makes you shiver. Do not be Afraid, we will not Freeze to Death. The show is a Frost, but the Manager is hot. The Snow is made from the Passes taken in last night. It will not Hurt you. If the Snow keeps up it will be so cold the Poor ghost will not Be able to Walk. Let us Pray that the Snow will Stop, so the Hungry actors may see the Ghost walk. 39 Is this a New kind of Music? No; it is a Baby crying. How kind of its Mother to bring it Out on a Night like this. Babies should Always be brought to the Theatre. They do so much to Amuse an audience. This is a very Noisy baby. Perhaps it has Ideas about the Show. That's right, Harry; get out Your bean shooter and Hit the Baby on the Nut. That will amuse the Child and perhaps it will Sing for us. If the Mother were not so big we would Soak her, too. 40 Here we have a Real sword. It is Carried by the Hero. He is a Brave man, and the sword is very Sharp. Johnny, try and Shave Harry with the Sword. Try hard! Now Clara, get a Mop, and wipe Up the Blood before the Stage manager returns. Johnny, hit Harry on the Head with a Hammer. He should not Make so Much noise. Little children should be Seen and not Heard. Stick him in the Ribs with the sword. 41 This Man is the Man who has seen the Show. Are you not glad that it is raining, so that you can Hear him Swear? No; he did not have an Umbrella when he went in, but he has one Now. He Found it. He is saying that the Show was Rotten. That is because the Girl who sat next to him got Mad when he Squeezed her Hand when it was Dark. Of course he Thought he was Squeezing his wife's hand. Always squeeze hands when You go to the theatre. It will keep you Warm. 42 How pompous is the Orchestra leader! Do you notice his white gloves? How they add to his appearance. Perhaps his appearance needs adding to. Watch him lean over the footlights. See the funny little bald spot on his head. How commanding he is; all the musicians are afraid of him he is so fierce. But why the bald spot? S-h-h-h, children, that is where his little wife pulled the hair out last night. 43 Shades of Napoleon, what have we here? Can you not Guess? Look very carefully. Ah, it is the uniform that The actor wears. What a shame! The beautiful Silk that we saw from the Audience last night has All been taken off and Turkey-red put on Instead. And the silver braid! Somebody must have Stolen it and put Common rope with Silver paper round it in Its place. Johnny, run quickly and Get the scissors and we will Cut off all this make-believe Finery so that the Actor can put on the Real thing more easily. When the Actor comes he will give Us his blessing for What we have done. 44 Let us get a Bag of Peanuts. Eat all you want to, children. They will make you grow. Throw the shells on the floor, and then Step on them. What a Pretty noise they make! See who can hit the Bald-headed man with a Peanut. Now the Man is mad. How strange. 45 Let us listen to the actor Make a speech. He is a Great actor, and will Make a Great Speech. He says he Thanks us for our Kindness. Perhaps he will lend us a Dollar. He says New York is the Only place. That is because the hens had stopped laying before he got to Philadelphia. What a Happy expression the Actor wears, and How glad he is To see us. If we do Not applaud the Rest of the Piece he will say that We are a lot of Slobs. But there are Other Actors in the show Besides this one. Yes; one of them Wrote the Speech. 46 This is the professional début of the Great amateur. She is a Pretty girl, and Her friends say she is very, Very clever. How Gracefully she Bows. Just like a Subway derrick. Her voice is like a Bell. Johnny, do you Remember the Bells on the Cows up country? You naughty boy, she does Not resemble the Cow! See; she has just come in out of the Rain. She says it is Bitt-e-r cold. She lays her Wraps before the Fire. Why does she not Shut the Window? Now she is going Out again. But why does she leave her Wraps behind? Perhaps she is going to Commit Suicide. In the Morning, when she sees the Papers, she will wish she Had. The world is very C-r-u-e-l. So are the Other papers. 47 Here we have the House manager. He says he Is being robbed. While he is in Business, he will not be lonely if that is true. He is counting up with the Show Manager. The Show manager also says he is being robbed. Why don't they go To the Police? The Show manager says there Were Nineteen tickets in the Box. The house manager says there were only Seventeen. One of the men is Lying; which one is it? Let us count the tickets and See. Oh! there are eighteen. Then they were both lying. Well, they are both Managers. 48 Now we see the Heavy lady. The manager says she is a Light weight. He calls her that Because she has asked For her Salary Twice in Two days. Will she get her Salary? No; we do not think she will. To-night she will do a Shrieking stunt on the stage. To-morrow she will Do a serio-comic on the Hotel man, and then she will Have a walking part all the way back to Broadway. 49 Here we have the First-nighter. He comes to the First performance always. The fifth row Back for his. The manager Knows him. He knows all the actors and Calls them by their first names. He would like to belong to the Lambs' Club. After the Show is over he will tell the Manager, confidentially, just what he thinks about it. The Manager will listen very carefully and then Forget. Managers have excellent forgetories. But no Play ever succeeds unless it has the approbation of the first Nighter. One of them Told me that, confidentially, so it must be so. 50 The Table is Loaded. There is a real Fowl and a Roast. It is a Banquet scene. How the actors will enjoy a square meal; they will Think they have just got their back Salaries. Listen; the leading man says it is his Birthday feast. He has a Birthday every night and twice on Saturday. Now he is carving the fowl. Oh! Oh! it is a Pasteboard chicken! The roast is all wood and paint. But the wine; that looks very real. Oh, woe! the wine is Naught but Cold tea! How cruel of the manager to Fool the actors so. The Table is loaded, but Not so the Actors. At least, not at this kind of a Table. 51 The Kind gentle lady is crying. She is the Actor's landlady. She spends half the day picking up cigarette stumps from the Floor of the actor's room. It is a labor of love that she does, for she thinks the actor is the Most beautiful ever. Such nice Manners as he has, and he is always so Immaculate. But why is the Little lady crying? Ah, it is because the Actor is very Poor. He is always waiting for money from Home, but his people are forgetful. No; he has not Paid his rent for Many a day. When he pays up will the lady stop Crying? We fear not, for she will have been in her Grave long since. 52 See the tall <DW64>. Is not his uniform Gorgeous? What is that he is Saying? Ah, it is, "Foourr, elseven, emniine," Do you not understand that he is calling the Carriages? No; it is not necessary for Him to make such a Noise, but it is very impressive. Why does he use a Megaphone? Because the Drivers would hear him plainly if he did not and the Carriages would get Away too soon to Make a great impression. 53 This is a Theatrical photograph. How lovely is the Young woman; how pensive. She looks like the Madonna. So kind; so good and so sweet. Does the picture resemble the Actress? Certainly not. Her best friends would Not know it was a photo of Her. That is right, Johnny; draw a Mustache on the face. Do not put a beard on Her. Only managers are Allowed to Beard actresses. Why did the Lady take the pictures if they do Not look like her? Perhaps she wants to _look_ good anyway. Yes; the Photographer knows his business. He is a Scotchman and Very canny. He talks with a Burr. 54 Here we see the Deluded heroine. She has been Deserted by her Cru-el and faithless Lover. See how Poorly she is clothed. She is trying to Make an honest living selling Matches. It is snowing and the poor Girl must sleep on the Doorstep. She is starving; but Why does she not Pawn her diamond rings? Hush! they are heirlooms. No, Johnny; if she got a Divorce and became a Chorus girl she would Spoil the whole Show. Then the manager would be Very angry. Managers are not Always considerate. 55 This man is in a Hurry. He will push the Lady out of His way. That is Right, because the Lady should have Seen him Coming. He has stepped on the Lady's dress! Will he say "excuse me"? Certainly not. How unnecessary, and besides he is in a Hurry. Why does he Hurry so? Because he is very Thirsty. Thirst is a Dreadful thing. Little Children, never be Thirsty. 56 Here we have an engaged Couple. Are they not Very loving? See how accidentally he clasps her hand on the arm of the Chair. Now his nose is nestling in Her Hair. What lovely hair oil she uses. How immaculate is his Dress suit. It cost him Two whole dollars and a Half for the Evening. The Seats cost Him two Dollars. He gets eight per. How can he afford such luxuries? Oh, he will stand off his Landlady for a Week. Will the landlady mind that? No, the Landlady was young once herself. It was a long time Ago. 57 Do you see the Man who has just come in? How Important is his Bearing. He is going to take the seat next to you, Johnny, so you must be a Good boy. What a big man he is. He spreads over half your seat, and his Feet stick out in the aisle. He is sending the Usher to get him a Programme. How bored he looks; he must Have seen the play several times. See, he has stopped the Water-boy, and has taken Two glasses of Water. How interested he is in the Ladies who go up the Aisle. He must know a Great many of them. No; he is not the Manager, he is the Proverbial Dead-head. 58 Here we see the Stage Manager at rehearsal. How quietly he sits in his Chair. His voice is low and he never raises it; his manner is gentle. One of the ladies does not know her part. Notice how encouragingly the Manager speaks to her. He says the best Actresses are poor studies. Oh, one of the men has Forgotten a piece of Business. The low sweet voice of the Stage Manager is heard again. He wants to Know what the Blankety blank blank the Man means. Always keep your temper, children. A soft answer Turneth away Wrath, but a good stiff Punch is more often used. Be like the Stage Manager, little ones, and when you Die you will have lots of company. 59 What a large number of Letters. Yes; this is the Actor's mail. Tear some of the letters Open, and let us see who sent them. In this way we will save the Actor trouble and he will Love us. Here is one on Pink paper from Gwendoline. She says the Actor is her Idol. Isn't that nice of Gwendoline? All young girls should encourage the Poor Hard-working Actor with kind words. My! Here is one from Gwendoline's Mother. Perhaps she wants him to meet her daughter. No. She says he reminds her of an old Sweetheart, and will he go Driving with her in the Park! Here is a laundry bill Six months old. Throw it away, Johnny; the Actor will not want to see it. Another letter is from a woman who Wants to know when He is going to pay the alimony. We had better hang this One up where the rest of the Company can see It. 60 What lovely diamonds the Actress is wearing. See, she has them all over her. They Must have cost as Much as Five dollars. No; they are not imitation; that is a cruel slander started by a Rival. Perhaps it is the Base rival who steals the Actress's jewels every time they go to a New town. All actresses' diamonds are Real. They wouldn't wear Imitations. Oh, Horrors, no! But they are very unfortunate, for the Diamonds are often Stolen. Are they not Lucky to get them back? 61 This play is a Musical Comedy. It says so on the Bills. Bills are very useful, for they tell us a lot of Things we wouldn't know Otherwise. There are two Singing Comedians in the Play. See what Foolish antics they cut up. No, they are not Crazy; they are very, very funny. Listen; one of them is Saying a song. Is it not a shame That they Cannot sing! They would have beautiful voices if they could sing. But then they would not be called Singing Comedians. 62 This Man must be a Millionaire. He says he is only a Speculator. Why does he have Wads of Bills between his fingers? That is to show How many Good things he has met. He is a very kind and considerate Gentleman, for he will Sell you Better seats than you can get at the Box Office. They are so Cheap, too. Why, he almost gives them away. How does the Poor man make a Living? Isn't it real Mean of the Management to Try and Drive the Nice Speculator out of Business? And they Try so Hard, too! How does the Speculator get the Tickets if the Management don't want him to? Well, perhaps You will Know when You grow up, because this is the age of Miracles. Most likely he uses Psychic power. 63 Here is a voice. It comes from an Aperture in the Face of the Girl sitting behind me. I am glad the voice is very loud and Shrill, because I can hear it above the Silly noise that is being made on the Stage. The Girl says she is an Intimate Friend of the Leading lady. The leading lady has advised her to have her voice cultivated. She is going to Do it, and then she is going on the Stage and Act! Little children, we should be very thankful that it Will take a Long time to Cultivate that Voice. 64 How quickly the Usher runs Down the Aisle with the Basket of Flowers. The curtain is coming down; he will be Too late. Ah, the curtain goes Up again. How Gracefully the Orchestra Leader hands the Flowers to the Leading Lady. What a look of Surprise and pleasure is on her face. What a pretty Bow she makes to the Box. Does she Know any one in the Box? Dear me, no. Then where do the Flowers come from? Did the Lady order the Flowers herself? Children, you ask too many questions. 65 This is the Child Actress. She is just the Cutest Ever. So childish, and such a good little Actress. She is only seven. Her manager says she is the Wonder of the Age. She can act even better than the Leading lady. Her salary is very Big, for she has to Keep her poor old Mother. See, she is winking at the young Lady in the Box. How much alike they are. Yes, they are Mother and Daughter. But the young Lady is too young a thing to have a Child. Well? 66 Here we have the Seat in the Gallery. Is it not Lovely; and so cheap. It and its counterparts are occupied by True Lovers of Art. They are poor, and cannot Afford to sit downstairs. The Gallery Seat has many Charms. There is no room for One's knees, so one cannot grow out of one's clothes while watching the Show. The Fire Commissioner allows Poor People to sit in the Aisles in the Gallery. Is he not Kind? 67 This is the Water Boy. He is a very Smart little fellow, and hopes some day to be an Actor. He has many Glasses of water. The people are Thirsty; they all call and beckon to him. How strange that he does not Respond. No; it is not strange either. The poor Little Fellow is both Deaf and Blind. That is why he Got the Job. 68 This young man is Smiling. He is listening to a Group of real actors. He smiles because he is in such Distinguished company. He is Hoping that some of his Friends will see Him. Perhaps his Best girl will pass by. Is he a Thespian? What a Silly question. No; he is a Clerk in a shoe store. He gets Nine dollars and fifty cents Every week. Listen; he says his Mother's brother's Great uncle was the son of an Actor. He was on the Stage once himself, he says. Was it the Landing stage at Ellis Island? Now he is lending the actors Money. He says he is Tickled to death. So are the Actors. They may get him Passes to the Show--if they don't forget. 69 Who is this Stately chocolate lady? She must be the Queen of Dahomey. How haughty is her Mien; how Proud, how Superior. The vulgar Stage hands call her Little Eva. What does she do On the Stage? She is the Leading lady's maid. No Leading lady could act if she had not got a Maid. A maid is an Absolute necessity. Also, she is sometimes Useful. She can tell in One minute whether her Mistress' hat is on Straight or not. What else does she Do? Oh, she carries the Poodle. Some day she Will help herself to too much of the Actress' cologne and will Get caught with the Goods. Then there Will be Another chocolate Drop on the Sidewalk. 70 What a Loud voice the Boy has. Yes; he is a Call boy. What are his Functions? Why, he Calls upon the actors to Act, of course. Then again, he Smokes cigarettes. Why does he Call the leading man "Charlie"? Because he has Known him a long, long Time; as much as Two weeks! Sometimes the Boy is condescending and gives the actors Tips on how to act. He tells them confidentially how Rotten the others are. He says he Thinks the ingenue is a Stupid child! Perhaps she Slapped his face when he tried to Kiss her. Emulate the Call boy, children. He knows more about the Business than Any one else. 71 What Beautiful figures these Two men have. The figures are on paper. They represent the Enormous profits made by the Show. Later they will be published in the Papers. The public will Be told how enormously Successful the Show has been. There are Other figures over on the Table. There is nothing beautiful about the Second set. What are they for? They are to reckon the Royalty on. The Royalty goes to the Man who wrote the play. Are either set of figures correct? Ask the managers. 72 You must always believe what you see in the Papers. This paper says the Show has made a big Hit. What does that Mean? Does it mean that the management has been hit? Or the public? The paper says the Leading lady is a Dream. Dear me! Did you Ever have Bad Dreams? Why, this must be a Press notice; there's a drawback in every Line. Good press notices swell the Box office receipts. Yes; and sometimes they Swell the press agent's Head. 73 Hark! Do you Hear the real Fire bells? Oh, see the real Fire engine _dash_ across the Stage! The horses move Almost as quickly as a Broadway car. How red the real Flames are. Yes; the Gas bill will be very High. Do not scream, children; no one will get Burnt. This is not a Real fire; there is no Smoke. The show is Certainly a Hot one. It will be Hotter to-morrow--after the Critics have Roasted it. The programme says the Fire scene is marvellously Realistic. Let us Light two or three programmes and Throw them into the aisle. There! Do you notice any Difference? 74 See the Gallery usher. He must be Very tired, for he leans indolently against the doorpost. Perhaps he does not like his High station. How Graceful is his pose; how airy his demeanor. His clothes are shabby--or perhaps it is a new style. We will Ask him to Take us to our seats. Surely you Did not expect him to Move? Oh, no; he would Not think of doing That. Instead, he waves His hand gracefully. He says, "First two, first row." How kind! We will not disturb his rest. But if you will tap his forehead Gently with a Brick, Johnny, he may wake up. 75 Let us listen to the Popular song. It is being sung by a Charming damsel. No; Johnny, we are not referring to the Song but to the Singer. The song ends in _oo-oo-oo_. Isn't it a Masterpiece! And the music sounds like yellow hosiery. How sublimely entrancing! The song is a Great success. Everybody will Buy several copies. The song is popular because it ends in _oo-oo-oo_! No one cares for the rest of the words. Noble words like These will make any Song popular. If you are a Genius, Clara, you will write an _oo-oo-oo_ song. 76 This is the Man who plays the Drums. How short he is--and how Fat. He has three Kettle drums, a tenor and a bass. Sometimes he is a Cuckoo clock. Oh, listen! Now he is a church Bell. Pretty soon he will Play on some sticks of Kindling wood tied together. Isn't he clever? Music seems to come from His finger tips. How deft he is. Of course, he has never upset a Sugar bowl, Johnny. How did he Get his Wonderful Musical education? Perhaps it was drummed into him. His wife says She can't get him to Practise on the kindling Wood at home. What a pity. 77 Isn't this a cute Little envelope? It contains the Actor's salary. The actor has Told his friends just what Salary he is getting. This looks like a Very small envelope to hold Such a Large sum. Maybe it is in very large bills. Actors often do get large Bills. Shall we look at the Figures on the outside of the Envelope? No; we Might be disappointed in the actor If we did. Perhaps the actor will Pay back the Fiver he borrowed, now that he Has got his salary. Can you define the Word "perhaps," children? 78 Who are all these People standing around? Oh, this is a booking Agency; a place where They put your name in a Book. Let us listen to what The people say. From their Talk they must be the Greatest actors and actresses in the Country. No doubt that is Correct. This large man says he has Made more great Hits than any Other actor in the Land. Is a touch a hit? Surely these Great Artists do not come Here looking for Work. Dear me, no; they Just drop in to get their Mail. 79 Do you Notice the chilly feeling, children? Yes; the lady Star has Quarrelled with the Manager. She says she will Have her friends Back on the stage Whenever she likes. The manager says it is against the Rules. Why is he So angry about a little Thing? Why, don't you know? One of the friends was a Particular friend. The manager likes to be The particular friend himself. Will he fire the pretty Lady star? No; they will have Supper together and all will be Serene. If he should Fire the pretty lady they Would both go Broke. 80 The monologue artist is a Funny fellow. His salary is very Large and he is the Real thing. If a joke is not funny he will Tell it over and Over again. All vaudeville people Think it is a Sin to waste a good Joke. Can you tell Me where the Monologue artist Gets his jokes from? No; no one knows that, but He is very fond of Reading ancient Roman books. You would Never think it from his Talk, would you? Oh, never! 81 Why is this Man called the Low comedian? Is it because he Comes high? How humorous are his Antics on the stage! On the Street he looks like a Belated funeral. See what a curt Nod he gives the Leading man as they Pass each other. Are they not Good friends? Oh, yes, they are Very good friends, but the Comedian thinks the Show would be Much better if the leading man were Out of the Cast. Is the comedian Jealous then? No. Actors are never jealous. 82 What a wonderful thing is the Positively last appearance! The Great singer is going to Retire. We must Hurry up and get seats so that We can hear her. Do not delay or we will Miss a great Treat. Is it not nice of the Singer to give a farewell tour? So considerate! We remember that she did it when Mother was young. Perhaps, when we have Grand-children, she will give a Farewell tour for them. Do great singers never Grow old? No; people who give Last appearances grow younger every day. 83 Children, observe the Curtain. Is it not a work of Art? The painting on it is very, very beautiful. The Art is so far above us that we cannot Tell what the Picture is meant for. Is that a Horse in the lower corner? Surely it is. How strong the horse is. His limbs are like Iron. They look it! Why has the Lady with Pink hair got on a Green sheet? That's a very simple question. The Painter was an Irishman and so by Putting a fold of the Sheet over the Lady's head he got the Green above the Red. Patriotic painter! 84 What a crush in the Lobby. The handsome couple are Hurrying to Catch their train. The man behind has Caught the lady's train for her. He says, "Excuse me." The lady Smiles and says it is no Matter. She whispers to her Husband. She says, Blankety blank Ham bones! Is she not a great linguist? The lady in the Pretty dress in Front of her is Lifting her skirt very High. She does not want to get it Dirty. What long stockings she Has. How angry she would Be if she Thought we had Noticed. 85 What a beautiful Hat the lady has on. It cost Thirty-five dollars. She is going to sit down. Will she take the Hat off? Dear me, no! That would be Wasting Thirty-five Dollars. See the Pretty Flowers and Plumage. How much more beautiful They are than the Old scenery on the Stage. How kind of the Lady to keep her Hat on so that every one can Admire it. That is right, Johnny; make paper balls and throw them at the Hat. Try to hit the Lady on the Ear. She likes playful children. See, there is another Lady with a hat on. This is not a Play; it is a Millinery Display. 86 Now, children, you must be very Quiet for we are Up in the Flies and the Performance is going On. Do you know what those ropes are? They are to Pull the scenes up and down. Isn't there a lot of Dust up here? Yes; but it is nothing to the Dust the Manager would raise if He knew we were up Here. It is not at all Necessary for the manager to raise the Wind in order to raise a Dust. Oh, dear me, no. Why do they Call the place the Flies? Because the scenes fly up and Down. Loosen the ropes, Clara. Yes, three of them. There, do you see how it is Done? But what is that Noise on the stage? Come, children, I think we had Better go. 87 What a very Nice-looking man that is, sitting Next to you, Harry. He looks so happy, too. Is he Talking to himself? No, no, silly, he is just Humming the airs of the Opera. He does that so that We will know that He has heard the Music before. How thoughtful of Him. Pretty soon he Will begin to tell the Lady he is with just what is Going to happen. Naturally she will enjoy the play much Better after he does that. But would it not Be a nice thing to Repay him for his Trouble? Suppose we hit him With a Brick when he comes out. That will be a Thoughtful thing to do. 88 Who is the Handsome man in the Beautiful greasy overalls? Is it not the Man we saw on the Street car that Every one took for an Actor? What is he Doing here on the Stage at so Early an hour? Ah! little children, he is a poor but Honest scene-shifter, and he is About to go to Work. Can any one tell where He got the Lovely clothes he Wore in the Car? No? Well, we will not Press the question, and The clothes have already been pressed. 89 Can you tell me What that thing is Right in front of the Gallery? Clever boy, Johnny; it _is_ the Calcium light. It is used to Make pretty colors on the Stage. When the very Interesting scene is on, the Man who runs it will take particular trouble to Get in the way of the People behind him. Why does he Do this? Is it Simply because he is a Calcium man? But you ought to See how Brave and lion-like he is When he has Forgotten to Throw the Spot light on the Star. He is Very considerate of the Audience, oh, yes, but He doesn't care a Hang for the Manager. 90 Hold your breaths, Children, this is Going to be a dark change. All the lights have gone out, so we Will not be able to See the things on the Stage. Do you see anything with White shirt sleeves Running across the Stage? Ah! See the Table get up and Walk off. The scenes are Swinging around and Disappearing. How funny it is that we think we See things. Of course we don't, for this is a Dark change. Biff! the lights have Been lit again. Why does the man in the White shirt sleeves run off the Stage in such a Hurry? 91 Have you noticed the Wires under your seats, children? They are called Hat Racks. Some silly people say they Are nerve racking. They are put under The seats to hold person's Hats. It Never takes more than fifteen Minutes to get a hat into one, but You can get a hat out in Half an hour! If you want to Make your Tall hat look like a Derby put it In a hat rack. The man who Invented them knew how to take Care of a hat, for the Rack is so arranged that the Hat will fall down on to the Dusty floor, just when somebody is Going to stick his Feet out under your Chair. 92 Wait till all the Other folks are gone, my dears, so that we can See the Sweeper. Ah, here he is. He is the man who sweeps out the Theatre. Notice how gently he Puts the chair seats up. If any one should lose their Diamonds, and he Were to find them, would He turn them in at the Box office? Of course he would! Sometimes he Finds umbrellas. What does he do with those?--Ah, well, even the poor should Lay something away for a Rainy day. The Box-office man will Tell you that the Sweeper once found a set of False teeth and Turned them in. 93 Here we have the Foreign Artiste. See; a reporter is going to Interview her. She says _bon jour_ to the Reporter. That is so he will Know she is French. If we listen we will hear Her talk about "gay Par-ee and ze Nobilitee she have met on ze Continong." What a beautiful accent she Has. The reporter is Smiling. When he comes out he Will say that she was Born in Ireland and that her Right name is Murphy. But then, of course, Reporters always think they Know everything. Ah, the Foreign Artiste has lost her Handkerchief. Is the language she Uses now, French? 94 The really Great Actress is going to Europe. Her friends are all down to See her off. They have brought huge Bunches of flowers labelled "Bon Voyage." With all the Candy she has, she ought to have a bon bon Voyage. She will go to London first, she Says. Will she stay in London long? Oh, yes; she will get a Little room in Bloomsbury and Cook her own meals. When she comes Back she will tell of the Delightfully Bohemian customs of the English. Will she enjoy her Trip to Europe? Rahther! 95 Oh, look! the actor is putting on his Shirt. Don't you remember how Clean and white it Looked last night? But this shirt is Dirty. Or are these stains of toil? Surely the Actor will not wear this shirt Again. Do not take too much for Granted, children. Clean shirts are a Very expensive Luxury. If the actor were a Manager now, he Might wear a clean shirt Every night. Managers always have Money, but Actors put so Much in the Bank that they can not afford many Clean shirts. And, besides, what's the use? 96 Did you notice the Check room? Isn't it a lovely arrangement? There is Absolutely no charge. The programme says so. When you check your Overcoat, Johnny, be sure and Leave your change in the Pocket. Then you will know Where it is. Do not think of Asking for your Overcoat again Until the next morning. You might inconvenience the Boy in charge if you did and then he Might make you Wait. There is no Charge for checking, but If you were to Give the Boy anything for himself he Would be very grateful. He might even say Thank you. 97 This is a Sad sight that greets us, Little children. Do you know What it is? It is the newspaper man who has to Go to all the Theatres every night. He must do this so that If there is anything doing it will be In the papers. Is there anything Doing to-night? Yes; the Actors are doing the Managers and the Managers are doing the public. Do the public Like to be done? There is no such thing as the Public, children; each Man thinks he is too wise to be Done. But the newspaper man; what About him? Ah, that is the Sad part of it. The press agents Do him every time they Get a chance. 98 Let us look into the actor's Trunk. It has just been Brought up to the Dressing room. The poor actor; he must have Packed his trunk in a Great hurry. See; here is a Panama hat that he Wears in the First scene, right on Top. The place for hats is the Bottom of the trunk. Johnny, take the Things all out and We will re-pack the trunk. There now; that's much better. Everything that was on top is now on the Bottom. How Glad the actor will be when he sees what We have done. He will come in in a Hurry and will be Tickled to death. In spite of his hurry He will try to find us so that he can Thank us. 99 The hotel Clerk has been to see the Show. He is trying to Make an impression on the Soubrette. He sent her a Big bunch of Flowers and a Little note. He would like to Take her to Supper. Does he Know the Soubrette? Oh, dear, no. He has never seen her Off the stage. He will wait at the Stage door for Her and will Wear a big Carnation in his Buttonhole. The man With the broad Shoulders will be there, Too. The Soubrette will call the Latter "Pop" and will introduce the two Men. Then the Hotel clerk will say how Pleased he will be to Buy supper for Three. 100 Step softly, children dear; the actor is dying. He has played many parts in his life and has made many enemies. Some of them are gathered round him now; the others have always been his friends. Once he was rich, but of late he has been poor. His friends and enemies alike have helped him. They have given their services at benefits and have visited him. Some who have spoken harshly of him are sorry now, and they say so. Are there many people as good to their kind as actors and actresses? End of Project Gutenberg's The Theatrical Primer, by Harold Acton Vivian ***	{'short_book_title': 'The Theatrical Primer by Harold Acton Vivian', 'publication_date': 1904, 'url': 'http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52491'}
Images of Germany Germany Maps Experience Germany Munich The Bavarian Alps The Romantic Road Franconia and the German Danube The Bodensee The Black Forest Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley Frankfurt The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace The Rhineland The Fairy-Tale Road Hamburg Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast Berlin Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia Understanding Germany Travel Smart Germany About Our Writer Credits and Copyright _Main Table of Contents_ ### Munich Munich: The City Center Munich: Royal Munich Munich: Schwabing and Maxvorstadt ### Bavarian Alps Werdenfesler Land and Wetterstein Montains Chiemgau Berchtesgadener Land ### The Romantic Road Toward the Alps Northern and Central Romantic Road Augsburg Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber Würzburg ### Franconia and the German Danube Northern Franconia Nürnberg (Nuremberg) Regensburg Passau ### The Bodensee Upper Swabia and the Northern Shore Around the Bodanrück Peninsula ### The Black Forest The Northern Black Forest The Central and Southern Black Forest Freiburg ### Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley Heidelberg The Burgenstrasse (Castle Road) Swabian Cities ### Frankfurt Frankfurt: Altstadt and City Center Frankfurt: West End and Sachsenhausen ### The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace The German Wine Road The Rhine Terrace Worms ### The Rhineland The Rheingau and The Mittelrhein Koblenz The Mosel Valley Trier Bonn and the Köln Lowlands Bonn Köln (Cologne) ### The Fairy-Tale Road Hesse Lower Saxony Hannover ### Hamburg Hamburg: Altstadt, Neustadt, and Hafencity Hamburg: St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel ### Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast Schleswig-Holstein The Baltic Coast ### Berlin Berlin: Mitte Berlin: Tiergarten and Potsdamer Platz Berlin: Kreuzberg Berlin: Charlottenburg Potsdam and Sansoucci ### Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia Saxony Leipzig Dresden Saxony-Anhalt and Thuringia _Main Table of Contents_ Germany Today What's Where Germany Planner Quintessential Germany Top Attractions in Germany Best Things to Do in Germany If You Like Flavors of Germany Beers of Germany Wines of Germany Great Itineraries Lodging Primer Discovering Your German Ancestors World War II Sites Next Chapter \| Table of Contents About the size of Montana but home to Western Europe's largest population, Germany is in many ways a land of contradictions. The land of "Dichter und Denker" ("poets and thinkers") is also one of the world's leading export countries, specializing in mechanical equipment, vehicles, chemicals, and household goods. It's a country that is both deeply conservative, valuing tradition, hard work, precision, and fiscal responsibility, and one of the world's most liberal countries, with a generous social welfare state, a strongly held commitment to environmentalism, and a postwar determination to combat xenophobia. But Germany, which reunited 22 years ago after 45 years of division, is also a country in transition. As the horrors of World War II, though not forgotten, recede, the country that is Europe's most important economic powerhouse has once again taken a leading economic and political role in Europe, setting, for example, the EU's austerity-oriented policies in an attempt to counteract Europe's current economic downturn. ### Integration During the "Wirtschaftswunder," the postwar economic boom of the 1950s and 1960s, West Germany invited "guest workers" from Italy, Greece, and above all Turkey to help in the rebuilding of the country. Because the Germans assumed these guest workers would return home, they provided little in the way of cultural integration policies. But the guest workers, usually manual workers from the countryside with little formal education, often did not return to the economically depressed regions they had come from. Instead, they brought wives and family members to join them and settled in Germany, often forming parallel societies cut off from mainstream German life. Today, Germany's largest immigrant group is Turkish. In fact, Berlin is the largest Turkish city after Istanbul. Though these Turkish communities are now an indelible part of the German society—one blond-hair, blue-eyed German soldier deployed to Afghanistan famously said that the thing he missed most about home was the döner kebab, the ubiquitous Turkish-German fast-food dish—thus far, the country has fumbled somewhat when it comes to successful integration. Efforts, however, are currently underway to redress the situation. Unlike the United States, Germany is historically a land of emigrants, not immigrants, but Germany's demographics are undergoing a radical shift: one in three children in Germany today is foreign-born or has a parent who is a foreign-born; in bigger cities, as many as two-thirds of school-age children don't speak German at home. ### Worldwide Recession Germany, the world's fourth-largest economy, was the world's largest exporter until 2009, when China overtook it. The worldwide recession hit Germany squarely, though thanks to a strong social network, the unemployed and underemployed did not suffer on the level we are used to in the United States. In Germany, losing your job does not mean you lose your health insurance, and the unemployed receive financial help from the state to meet housing payments and other basic expenses. More recently, Germany has been a bastion of economic strength during the euro zone crisis, maintaining a solid economy while countries like Greece, Spain, and Portugal have entered into economic tailspins. By far the most important economy in the European Union, Germany, with its traditional, don't-spend-more-than-you-earn culture, has a strong voice in setting the EU's economic agenda and has traditionally acted as a kind of rich uncle that other countries turn to when they need an economic bailout. But Germany's push for austerity measures hasn't always been met with enthusiasm: on an official visit to Greece, Angela Merkel was met by protesters dressed in Nazi uniforms. ### Engineer This! Germany has a well-deserved reputation as a land of engineers. The global leader in numerous high-tech fields, German companies are hugely successful on the world's export markets, thanks to lots of innovation, sophisticated technology and quality manufacturing. German cars, machinery, and electrical and electronic equipment are all big sellers. But recent years have seen series of bloopers. Three major building projects in Germany—the Elbphilharmonie concert hall in Hamburg; Stuttgart 21, a new train station in Stuttgart; and the new airport in Berlin—have run way over budget and dragged on for years. Of the three, the airport is the most egregious: Originally planned to open in 2010, Berlin Brandenburg Airport has suffered delays due to poor construction planning, management, and execution (in 2012, the airport canceled its grand opening only days before flights were scheduled to begin). No one knows when it will open, and numerous politicians have expressed concern that failures like these will tarnish Germany's reputation as a country of can-do engineers. ### Privacy, Please! The Germans are not big fans of Facebook. With good reason: With recent experiences of life in a police state under both the Nazi regime and the East German regime, they don't like the idea of anyone collecting personal information about them. Germany has some of the most extensive data privacy laws in the world, with everything from credit card numbers to medical histories strictly protected. ### To the Left, to the Left By American standards, German politics are distinctly left-leaning. One thing that's important to know is that the Germans don't have a two-party system; rather they have several important parties, and these must form alliances after elections to pass initiatives. Thus, there's an emphasis on cooperation and deal-making, sometimes (but not always) making for odd bedfellows. A "Red-Green" (or "stoplight") coalition between the Green Party and the socialist SPD held power from 1998 to 2002; since then, there has been a steady move to the center-right in Germany, with recent reforms curtailing some social welfare benefits and ecological reforms. In 2005, Germany elected the first female chancellor, center-right Christian Democratic party member Angela Merkel. A politician from the former East Germany who speaks Russian, Merkel has enjoyed much popularity. ### Renew, Recycle, Reuse The Green Party, founded in 1980, is an established and important player in the German government. Thanks to aggressive government legislation initiated by the Greens in the past decades, Germany today is a leader in green energy technology and use—in 2012, 25% of the electricity used in Germany came from renewable sources. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Munich. Beautiful Munich boasts wonderful opera, theater, museums, and churches—and the city's chic residents dress their best to visit them. This city also has lovely outdoor spaces, from parks, beer gardens, and cafés, to the famous Oktoberfest grounds. The Bavarian Alps. Majestic peaks, lush green pastures, and frescoed houses brightened by flowers make for one of Germany's most photogenic regions. Quaint villages like Mittenwald, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Oberammergau, and Berchtesgaden have preserved their charming historic architecture. Nature is the prime attraction here, with the country's finest hiking and skiing. The Romantic Road. The Romantische Strasse is more than 355 km (220 miles) of soaring castles, medieval villages, fachwerk (half-timber) houses, and imposing churches, all set against a pastoral backdrop. Winding its way from Würzburg to Füssen, it features such top destinations as Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber and Schloss Neuschwanstein, King Ludwig II's fantastical castle. Franconia and the German Danube. Thanks to the centuries-old success of craftsmanship and trade, Franconia is a proud, independent-minded region in northern Bavaria. Franconia is home to historic Nürnberg, the well-preserved medieval jewel-box town of Bamberg, and Bayreuth, where Wagner lived and composed. The Bodensee. The sunniest region in the country, the Bodensee (Lake Constance) itself is the highlight. The region is surrounded by beautiful mountains, and the dense natural surroundings offer an enchanting contrast to the picture-perfect towns and manicured gardens. The Black Forest. Synonymous with cuckoo clocks and primeval woodland that is great for hiking, the Black Forest includes the historic university town of Freiburg—one of the most colorful and hip student cities in Germany—and proud and elegant Baden-Baden, with its long tradition of spas and casinos. Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley. This medieval town is quintessential Germany, full of cobblestone alleys, half-timber houses, vineyards, castles, wine pubs, and Germany's oldest university. Frankfurt. Nicknamed "Mainhattan" because it is the only German city with appreciable skyscrapers, Frankfurt is Germany's financial center and transportation hub. The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace. Wine reigns supreme here. Bacchanalian festivals pepper the calendar between May and October, and wineries welcome drop-ins for tastings year-round. Three great cathedrals are found in Worms, Speyer, and Mainz. The Rhineland. The region along the mighty Rhine River is one of the most dynamic in all of Europe. Fascinating cities such as Köln (Cologne), steeped in Roman and medieval history, offer stunning symbols of Gothic architecture, such as the Kölner Dom. Visit during Karneval for boisterous celebrations. The Fairy-Tale Road. The Märchenstrasse, stretching 600 km (370 miles) between Hanau and Bremen, is definitely the Brothers Grimm country. They nourished their dark and magical imaginations as children in Steinau an der Strasse, a beautiful medieval town in this region of misty woodlands and ancient castles. Hamburg. Hamburg, with its long tradition as a powerful and wealthy Hanseatic port city, is quintessentially elegant. World-class museums of modern art; the wild red-light district along the Reeperbahn; and HafenCity, a new supermodern, environmentally, and architecturally avant-garde quarter currently under construction, make Hamburg well worth a visit. Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast. Off the beaten path, this region is scattered with medieval towns, fishing villages, unspoiled beaches, and summer resorts like Sylt, where Germany's jet set go to get away. Berlin. No trip to Germany is complete without a visit its capital, Europe's hippest urban destination. Cheap rents drew artists from all over the world to this gritty, creative, and broke city. Cutting-edge art exhibits, stage dramas, musicals, and bands compete for your attention with two cities' worth of world-class museums, three opera houses, eight state theaters, and two zoos. Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia. The southeast is a secret treasure trove of German high culture. Friendly, vibrant cities like Dresden, Leipzig, Weimar, and Eisenach are linked to Schiller, Goethe, Bach, Luther, and the like. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents When to Go \| Getting Here \| Getting Around \| Dining: The Basics \| Money \| Social Mores \| Dress and Undress ## When to Go A year-round destination, Germany is particularly wonderful May through September for the long mild days that stretch sightseeing hours and are perfect for relaxing in beer gardens. In the north, January can be dark, cold, and moody, with wind that cuts to the bone. Southern Germany, on the other hand, is a great winter destination, with world-class skiing, spas, and wellness options. ## Getting Here Most flights into Germany arrive at Frankfurt's Flughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA) or Munich's Flughafen München (MUC). Eventually, the Berlin Brandenburg Willy Brandt Airport (BER) will open (in the meantime, Berlin has two smaller airports, Tegel in the north, and Schönefeld in the south). Flying time to Frankfurt is 1½ hours from London, 7½ hours from New York, 10 hours from Chicago, and 12 hours from Los Angeles. Some international carriers serve Köln (Cologne), Hamburg, and Berlin. Germany has a fantastic train system, and is well connected to all overland European destinations. Hamburg, followed by Bremen, is Germany's most important harbor, and cruise ships and ferries connect the German north coast to England, Scandinavia, Russia, and the Baltics. ## Getting Around Once in Germany you can travel by train, car, bus, or air. Travel by train is the most relaxing and often fastest way to go. The Deutsche Bahn (German Railways) serves most destinations with great frequency, speed, and comfort. Train stations are in the city center, and served by extensive intercity public transportation networks. Domestic air travel can be cheaper than the train, especially between bigger cities. Air Berlin and Germanwings offer low fares on inter-German routes. All major car-rental companies are represented in Germany. Gasoline is expensive (about €5.96 per gallon), and parking in major cities can be difficult. Germany has one of the world's best maintained and most extensive highway systems, and a car gives you the flexibility to explore on your own, particularly in less densely populated areas. Most cars in Germany have manual transmission. If you are going to drive, be sure to familiarize yourself with the rules of the road in Germany. And, while it is true that some stretches of the autobahn have no speed limit, you'll need to be sure you know where that does and does not apply as you drive. ## Dining: The Basics A Tageskarte lists the menu of the day. Seasonal menus, or Saisonkarten, feature seasonal dishes, like white asparagus or red cabbage. In most restaurants it is not customary to wait to be seated. Simply walk in and take any unreserved space. German restaurants do not automatically serve water. If you order water, you will be served mineral water and be expected to pay for it. The concept of free refills or the bottomless cup of coffee is also completely foreign. While German restaurants will occasionally accept credit cards, most expect you to pay cash (even for large and expensive meals). If you are having something small, like coffee and cake, you will definitely need to pay in cash. Tipping: When you get the check for something small, like a cup of coffee, round up to the next even euro. For larger amounts, tip 10%. Also, instead of leaving the tip on the table, add it to the total amount when you pay. For example, if the bill is €14, and you want to tip €2, when the waitress comes to collect the bill, tell her the total amount (cost plus tip) you want to pay ("€16, please"). German waitstaff are more than happy to split the check so that everyone can pay individually. Remember to pay the waiter directly; do not place the money on the table and leave. ## Money Most Germans still make most of—if not all—their purchases the old-fashioned way: with cash. The use of credit cards in Germany is among the lowest in Europe. That said, you should be able to pay your hotel bill, train tickets, or car rental with a credit card. But if you're picking up a snack at a bakery, a little souvenir, or having a cup of coffee, you'll need cash. The same goes for buying tickets on public transportation or paying for a taxi. Exchange services and banks are plentiful in cities and towns. However keep in mind that you'll generally get the best exchange rate at a Geldautomat (ATM), not to mention the convenience of 24-hour access. Before starting your trip, check on the fees your bank charges for international ATM transactions. You may find that these are less than the commissions charged at currency exchange booths and banks. ## Social Mores When addressing someone always use the formal Sie until you are begged by them to switch to the informal du. When in doubt, shake hands; both as a greeting and at parting. It's polite to ask if someone speaks English (Sprechen Sie Englisch?) before addressing them in English. Germans have done a lot of soul searching as a nation as to their role in and responsibility for the atrocities of World War II. They tend to be very well informed about world affairs—and often know more about the minute workings of the American political process than Americans do. Discussions about history and politics will almost always make for an interesting evening. ## Dress and Undress Casual clothes and jeans can be worn just about anywhere (even to the opera). If you want to be on the safe side, make sure they're clean and neat. Don't be surprised to find nude sunbathers, even in the most public parks. It's also normal to see children running around without clothes on in parks, at swimming pools, or at the beach. Plus, if there's no changing room at the beach, don't worry: Germans change right out in public. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents ### Culture Vultures With more theaters, concert halls, and opera houses per capita than any other country in the world, high culture is an important part of German life. Before the formation of the German state, regional courts competed to see who had the best artists, actors, musicians, and stages, resulting in the development of a network of strong cultural centers that exists to this day. For Germans, high culture is not just for the elite, and they consider it so important to provide their communities with a rich cultural life that they use their tax money to do it. One of the results, aside from a flourishing, world-class cultural scene, is that tickets to these publicly funded operas, classical music concerts, ballet, and plays are quite inexpensive, with tickets readily available in the €10 to €40 range. Drop in on a performance or concert—it's one of the best travel bargains around. ### Another Beer, Bitte The German Kneipekultur, or pub culture, is an important and long-standing tradition. Stammgäste, or regulars, stop by their local pub as often as every evening to drink beer and catch up. In summer, Kneipe life moves outdoors to beer gardens. Some, such as the famous Chinese Pavilion in Munich's English Garden, are institutions, and might seat hundreds. Others are more casual, consisting of a café's graveled back garden under soaring chestnut trees. Most beer gardens offer some sort of food: self-serve areas might sell pastas or lamb in addition to grilled sausages and pretzels. Although beer gardens are found all over Germany, the smoky beer-hall experience—with dirndls and oompah bands—is traditionally Bavarian. You'll discover how different the combinations of three key ingredients—malt, hops, and water—can taste. ### Easy Being Green Germany has one of the world's most environmentally conscious societies. Conserving resources, whether electricity or food, is second nature for this country where postwar deprivation has not yet faded from memory. Recycling is practically a national sport, with separate garbage bins for regular trash, clear glass, green glass, plastics and cans, and organic garbage. Keep your eyes out for the giant brown, green, and yellow pods on the streets—these are used for neighborhood recycling in cities. Particularly in cities, there are well-defined bike lanes and many people ride their bikes to work (even in high heels or business suits) much of the year. Drivers know to look for them, and as a visitor you'll need to be careful not to walk in the bike lanes, or you'll hear a bell chiming to let you know a biker is nearby. Great public transportation is also part of this environmental commitment. ### Kaffe und Kuchen The tradition of afternoon coffee and cake, usually around 3 pm, is a serious matter. If you can, finagle an invitation to someone's house to get the real experience, which might involve a simple homemade Quarkkuchen (cheese cake), or a spread of several decadent creamy cakes, topped with apples, rhubarb, strawberries, or cherries and lots of whipped cream. Otherwise, find an old-fashioned Konditorei, or pastry shop and choose from their amazing selection. Germans bake more than a thousand different kinds of cakes, with infinite regional variations. Among the most famous is the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte (Black Forest cake), a chocolate layer cake soaked in Kirsch schnapps, with cherries, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings. Another favorite is the Bienenstich (bee sting), a layered sponge cake filled with cream and topped with a layer of crunchy honey-caramelized almonds. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents ### Berlin, Capital City Berlin was the capital of Prussia, the German Empire, the Weimar Republic, and the Third Reich before being divided after World War II. The must-visit Reichstag (parliament building) was reconstructed with a special glass dome after reunification. From the dome, you can see directly down into the parliament chambers below—a symbol of government transparency. The iconic East German TV tower, a symbol of political power, also makes a great stop. The Checkpoint Charlie museum details accounts of people escaping the GDR. The Topography of Terror exhibit hall, another must-see, is a rich source of information on the Nazi regime. ### Frauenkirche, Dresden Dresden's Church of Our Lady is a masterpiece of baroque architecture. Completed in 1743, the magnificent domed church was destroyed as a result of Allied bombing in February 1945. In 2005, the church was rebuilt from the original rubble, thanks entirely to private donations. ### Heidelberg Castle Heidelberg's immense ruined fortress is a prime example of Gothic and Renaissance styles. It inspired the 19th-century Romantic writers, especially the poet Goethe, who admired its decay amidst the beauty of the Neckar Valley. ### Jüdisches Museum, Berlin Under the Nazis, at least 6 million Jews, along with homosexuals, the disabled, Gypsies, and political and religious dissidents, were rounded up and sent to slave labor and death camps. Berlin's Jewish Museum, a riveting, angular building designed by Daniel Libeskind, documents Jewish life in Germany and confronts the scars of World War II. ### Kölner Dom Köln's breathtaking cathedral, one of Germany's best-known monuments, is the first thing that greets you when you step out of the train station. The Gothic marvel took more than 600 years to build. ### Munich's Oktoberfest For 12 days at the end of September and into early October, Munich hosts the world's largest beer bonanza. ### Neuschwanstein Castle Walt Disney modeled the castle in Sleeping Beauty and later the Disneyland castle itself on Neuschwanstein. "Mad" King Ludwig II's creation is best admired from the heights of the Marienbrücke, a delicate-looking bridge over a deep, narrow gorge. ### The Berlin Wall When the wall fell in 1989 Berliners couldn't wait to get rid of it. As a result, there is very little of it left. The longest is "The East Side Gallery," a mile-long stretch where international artists converged in 1990 to paint murals in a tribute to peace. The excellent Berlin Wall Memorial, located along another remaining stretch, has a museum and open-air exhibition dedicated to the years of division. Cobblestones mark the streets where the wall once ran throughout the city. ### The Lorelei rock The beautiful Lorelei rock soars above the Rhine river at this UNESCO World Heritage site in the Rhineland. ### Weimar: Goethe, Schiller, Bauhaus Weimar was once home to such German luminaries as Goethe and Schiller, whose homes are now museums. The Bauhaus movement, which gave rise to much of modern architecture and design, was also born here—as you'll learn on a visit to the Bauhaus Museum Weimar. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents ### Imbibe in a Beer Garden As soon as the sun comes out, beer gardens sprout all over Germany. With as much sunshine per year as Anchorage, Alaska, the Germans know a good thing when they see it, and are quick to set up tables and chairs under the open skies as soon as temperatures allow. Bavaria is the "home" of the beer garden, but you can sample local variations of beer and bratwurst outdoors wherever you happen to be. If the sun's out and you don't see a beer garden, take a beer to the park: Germany has no open-container laws. ### Hike a Mountain The Germans are a fiercely outdoor folk, and if you are anywhere near the mountains (or a hill, or even a relatively flat open space), you'll likely see plenty of people out walking. Pack a bag lunch and some extra bandages and join the crowd—it's a great way to get a feel for the real Germany. ### Eat White Asparagus If you visit between April and June, you're in luck: it's asparagus season. Not just any asparagus, either. Germans are crazy for their very own white asparagus, which is only available during this season. Thicker and larger than green asparagus, the white stuff has to be peeled of its hard sheath (done before cooking). Enjoy it with a slice of ham and potatoes with butter or hollandaise sauce. ### Go to a Museum No matter where you are in Germany, chances are you're close to a museum. Every big city has major, world-class art museums. Technical museums, like Munich's Deutsches Museum, are also impressive and informative. Freiluft, or open-air museums, offer collections of buildings from previous epochs that visitors can walk through to get a sense of daily life in the past. Even sparsely populated areas have their own quirky museums that depict the history of everything from marzipan to beds. ### Take a Bike Tour through the City Whether you're discovering Munich, Dresden, Cologne, Hamburg, Berlin, or one of Germany's many smaller cities, a bike tour is the way to do it. Tour companies offer guided tours (and bikes and helmets, though Germans often don't wear them), or you can rent a bike and set out on your own. Wind your way through Munich's English Garden or along Hamburg's harbor and you'll find that you see much more than you would from a tour bus. ### Eat a German Breakfast The German breakfast is a major affair, involving several types of bread rolls, a salami and dry sausage spread, hard cheeses, butter, chocolate spread, honey, jam, sliced tomatoes, sliced cucumber, liver pate, other meats, hard-boiled eggs eaten in the shell, and coffee. Show up hungry. ### Visit the Baker Germany has an incredible Brotkultur, or bread culture. Bread is a historically important part of the German diet, and there are many, many types of bread to sample. Breads vary greatly from region to region, but they are without exception delicious. Go to a good artisanal bakery and you will be astounded by what you find. ### Take a Curative Bath With more than 300 Kurorte (health spas) and Heilbäder (spas with healing waters), Germany has a long tradition of spa destinations. Located by the sea, near mineral-rich mud sources, near salt deposits, or natural springs, these spas date back to the time of the Kaisers. Visit, and you'll be treated to salt baths, mud baths, saunas, thermal hot springs, and mineral-rich air, depending on the special attributes of the region you're visiting. ### Cruise along the Rhine No trip to Germany is complete without a boat tour of the Rhine. Board in Rudesheim and follow the river to Bingen (or do the reverse). Along the way, you'll see an unparalleled number of castles rising up from the banks along the river. Keep a look out for the rock of the Loreley, the beautiful river maiden of legend who lures sailors to their deaths with her song. ### Visit a Christmas Market Just about every city, town, and village has a Christmas market (and larger cities have more than one—in Berlin, for example, there are as many as 60 small markets each year). The most famous are the markets in Dresden and Nuremburg, both of which have long traditions. Christmas markets, which are held outdoors, open the last week of November and run through Christmas. Bundle up and head to one with money in your pocket to buy handmade gifts like the famous wooden figures carved in the Erzgebirge region as you sip traditional, hot-spiced Glühwein wine to stay warm. ### Find a Volksfest Nearly every city, town, and village hosts an annual Volksfest, or folk festival. These can be very traditional and lots of fun. A cross between a carnival and county fair, these are great places to sample local food specialties, have a home-brewed beer, and generally join in the fun. ### Take a Spin in a Fine German Automobile Germany is the spiritual home of precision auto engineering, and Germans love their cars. You can rent a Porsche, Mercedes, or BMW for a day to see what it's like to drive like the Germans. Take your car-for-a-day to the Nürburgring, a world-famous racetrack built in the 1920s. There, you can get a day pass to drive your car around the track. Visit the on-site auto museum afterward. Both BMW and Mercedes-Benz have recently opened fantastic new museums, as well. ### Swim in a Lake Germany is dotted with lakes, and when the weather is warm, locals strip down and go swimming. Don't worry if you don't have your suit with you: it's usually fine (even normal) to skinny-dip. ### Rent a Paddleboat If swimming's not your thing, most lakes have paddleboat rentals in summer. While away the afternoon in the company of the ducks. This is what summer is all about. ### Go to a Soccer Game Soccer is the national sport and it provokes even the most stoic German man's passion (some women follow eagerly, as well). Even if you aren't a soccer fan, going to a live game is exciting. There's a palpable energy and it's easy to follow the action. You can catch a soccer game just about anywhere, anytime except for June and July, and over the Christmas break. ### Go Sledding In winter, children and adults alike head for the nearest incline, sleds in hand. If you don't have a sled, just stand back and enjoy the spectacle. The children's old-fashioned wooden sleds are truly charming. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents ### Being Outdoors The Germans have a long-standing love affair with Mother Nature. The woods, as well as the mountains, rivers, and oceans, surface repeatedly in the works of the renowned German poets and thinkers. That nature is the key to the mysteries of the soul can be seen in works as different as those of naturalist Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich and the 20th-century philosopher Martin Heidegger. Today, Germany has designated large tracts of land as national recreation areas, and cities boast extensive urban parks and gardens. A particularly lovely mountain landscape of twisting gorges and sheer cliffs can be found about 30 km (19 miles) south of Dresden, in the Sächsische Schweiz park. Rock climbers fascinate those driving up the steep switchbacks to reach bald mesas. At a much higher altitude are the Bavarian Alps, where the Winter Olympics town Garmisch-Partenkirchen offers cable cars to ascend Germany's highest mountain. This is one of the country's best spots for skiing in winter and hiking in summer. Lakes such as Chiemsee and Bodensee dot the area between the Alps and Munich and many hikers and bikers enjoy circling them. Boat rentals are possible, but you'll often need a German-recognized license. On the island of Rügen, the turn-of-the-20th-century resort town Binz fronts the gentle (and cold) waters of the Baltic Sea. Even on windy days you can warm up on the beach in a sheltered beach chair for two. Among the Baltic Coast's most dramatic features are Rügen's white chalk cliffs in Jasmund National Park, where you can hike, bike, or sign up for nature seminars and tours. ### Medieval Towns The trail of walled towns and half-timber houses known as the Romantic Road is a route long marketed by German tourism, and therefore the road more traveled. The towns, particularly Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, are lovely, but if you'd prefer fewer tour groups spilling into your photographs, venture into the Harz Mountains in the center of Germany. Goslar, the unofficial capital of the Harz region, is one of Germany's oldest cities, and is renowned for its Romanesque Kaiserpfalz, an imperial palace. Goslar has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, as has the town of Quedlinburg, 48 km (30 miles) to the southeast. With 1,600 half-timber houses, Quedlinburg has more of these historic, typically northern German buildings than any other town in the country. A mighty fortress south of the Harz Mountains is the Wartburg, in the ancient, half-timber town of Eisenach. Frederick the Wise protected Martin Luther from papal proscription within these stout walls in the 16th century. Options for exploring closer to Munich include Regensburg and Nürnberg. The former is a beautiful medieval city, relatively unknown even to Germans, and has a soaring French Gothic cathedral that can hold 6,000 people. Nürnberg dates to 1050, and is among the most historic cities in the country. Not only emperors but artists convened here, including the Renaissance genius Albrecht Dürer. If you're in Hessen, the birthplace of the brothers Grimm, you can follow the Fairy-Tale Route. Stop off for a day natural saltwater swimming in the idyllic medieval town of Bad Sooden-Allendorf. ### The Arts With as many as 600 galleries, world-class private collections, and ateliers in every Hinterhof (back courtyard), Berlin is one of Europe's contemporary art capitals. For not-so-modern art, Berlin's Museumsinsel (Museum Island), a UNESCO World Heritage site, is the absolute must-see. A complex of five state museums packed onto one tiny island, these include the Altes Museum, with a permanent collection of classical antiquities; the Alte Nationalgalerie, with 18th- to early-20th-century paintings and sculptures from the likes of Cézanne, Rodin, Degas, and Germany's own Max Liebermann; the Bode-Museum, containing German and Italian sculptures, Byzantine art, and coins; and the Pergamonmuseum, whose highlight is the world-famous Pergamon Altar, a Greek temple dating from 180 BC. Leipzig is a "new" star in the European art world. The Museum der Bildenden Künste (Museum of Fine Arts) is the city's leading gallery, followed closely by the Grassimuseum complex. The Spinnerei (a former cotton mill) has become Leipzig's prime location for contemporary art, and houses more than 80 artists and galleries, especially those of the New Leipzig School. Fans of old master painters must haunt the halls of the Zwinger in Dresden, where most works were collected in the first half of the 18th century, and the Alte Pinakothek in Munich, which has one of the world's largest collections of Rubens. ### Castles and Palaces Watching over nearly any town whose name ends in "-burg" is a medieval fortress or Renaissance palace, often now serving the populace as a museum, restaurant, or hotel. The Wartburg in Eisenach is considered "the mother of all castles" and broods over the foothills of the Thuringian Forest. Abundant vineyards surround Schloss Neuenburg, which dominates the landscape around the sleepy village of Freyburg (Unstrut). The castle ruins overlooking the Rhine River are the result of ceaseless fighting with the French, but even their remains were picturesque enough to inspire 19th-century Romantics. Burg Rheinstein is rich with Gobelin tapestries, stained glass, and frescoes. Schloss Heidelberg mesmerizes with its Gothic turrets, Renaissance walls, and abandoned gardens. Other fortresses lord over the Burgenstrasse (Castle Road) in the neighboring Neckar Valley. You can stay the night (or just enjoy an excellent meal) at the castles of Hirschhorn or Burg Hornberg, or at any of a number of other castle-hotels in the area. The medieval Burg Eltz in the Mosel Valley looms imposingly, and with its high turrets looks like it's straight out of a Grimm fairy tale. The castle has been perfectly preserved and has been owned by the same family for almost a thousand years. Louis XIV's Versailles inspired Germany's greatest castle-builder, King Ludwig II, to construct the opulent Schloss Herrenchiemsee. One of Ludwig's palaces in turn inspired a latter-day visionary—his Schloss Neuschwanstein is the model for Walt Disney's Sleeping Beauty Castle. Schloss Linderhof, also in the Bavarian Alps, was Ludwig's favorite retreat. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Traditional German cuisine fell out of fashion several decades ago, and was replaced by Italian and Mediterranean food, Asian food, and Middle Eastern food. But there's a growing movement to go back to those roots, and even high-class German chefs are rediscovering old classics, from sauerkraut to Sauerbraten (traditional German pot roast). Traditional fruits and vegetables, from parsnips and pumpkins to black salsify, sunchoke, cabbage, yellow carrots, and little-known strawberry and apple varietals, are all making a comeback. That said, "German food" is a bit of a misnomer, as traditional cooking varies greatly from region to region. Look for the "typical" dish, wherever you are, to get the best sense of German cooking in that region. Generally speaking, regions in the south, like Baden-Württemberg and Bavaria, have held onto their culinary traditions more than regions in the North. But with a little effort, you can find good German food just about anywhere you go. ### Bavaria: White Sausage and Beer (for Breakfast) In Bavaria, a traditional farmer's Zweites Frühstück (second breakfast) found at any beer hall consists of fat white sausages, called Weisswurst made of veal and eaten with sweet mustard, pretzels, and, yes, a big glass of Helles or Weissbier (light or wheat beer). Other Bavarian specialties include Leberkäse (literally, "liver cheese"), a meat loaf of pork and beef that can be eaten sliced on bread and tastes a lot better than it sounds. Knödelgerichte, or noodle dishes are also popular. ### Swabia: The Sausage Salad Swabia (the area surrounding Stuttgart) is generally thought to have some of the best traditional food in Germany, having held on to its culinary heritage better than other areas. Schwäbische Wurstsalat (Swabian sausage salad), a salad of sliced sausage dressed with onions, vinegar, and oil, is a typical dish, as is Kässpätzle (Swabian pasta with cheese), a noodlelike dish made from flour, egg, and water topped with cheese. Linsen mit Spätzle (lentils and spätzle) could be considered the Swabian national dish: it consists of egg noodles topped with lentils and, often, a sausage. ### Franconia: Nürnberger Bratwürste Perhaps the most beloved of all bratwürste (sausages) in a country that loves sausages is the small, thin sausage from the city of Nürnberg. Grilled over a beech-wood fire, this sausage is served 6 or 12 at a time with horseradish and sauerkraut or potato salad. Fresh marjoram and ground caraway seeds give the pork-based sausage its distinctive flavor. ### Hessen: Apfelwein in Frankfurt Apfelwein (hard apple cider) is a specialty in and around Frankfurt. Look for an Apfelweinkneipe (cider bar), where you can spend a pleasant evening sipping this tasty alcoholic drink. Order Handkäse, traditional Hessian curdled milk cheese, to go with it. If you order Handkäse mit Musik (Handkäse with music), you'll get it with onions. Another winner is Frankfurter Rippchen, spareribs served with sauerkraut. ### Rhineland: Horse Meat and Kölsch In Köln, influenced by nearby Belgium and Holland, there's a traditional taste for horse meat, which they use in their local version of the pot roast, Rheinische Sauerbraten. Wash this down with the local beer, Kölsch. Or try the Kölsche Kaviar—blood sausage with onions. ### Northwest Germany: Herring with That? States on the north coast, like Bremen, Hamburg, Westphalia, and Schleswig-Holstein, all have cuisines that are oriented toward the sea. Cod, crab, herring, and flatfish are all common traditional foods. Labskaus, a meat stew, is also a traditional northern German dish that might be served with a fried egg, pickle, and red beets. Potatoes, cabbage, and rutabagas are all important vegetables, and are served stewed or pickled. Rote Grütze, a traditional dessert, is a berry pudding often served with whipped cream. ### Northeast Germany: Currywurst and More Berlin is known for its Eisbein (pork knuckle), Kasseler (smoked pork chop), Bockwurst (large sausage), and Boulette (a kind of hamburger made of beef and pork), though its most famous dish might be its Currywurst, a Berlin-born dish that consists of sausage cut in pieces and covered in ketchup with curry. Idyllic Spreewald is famous for its pickles. ### The East: Da, Soljanka In former GDR states like Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia, the Soviet influence can be felt in the popularity of traditionally Russian dishes like Soljanka (meat soup). Rotkäppchen sparkling wines come from Saxony-Anhalt, Germany's northernmost wine-making region (named for the company's bottles with red tops, Rotkäppchen is also the German name for Little Red Riding Hood). Another local treat is Baumkuchen, or tree cake, so named because it is formed by adding layer upon layer of batter on a spit and rotating this around a heat source, such that when you cut into it, it looks like the rings of a tree. ### The Döner: It's for Dinner Although not a traditional German dish, the Turkish döner kebab is ubiquitous in Germany and it would be hard to spend much time here without trying one. Made from some combination of lamb, chicken, pork, or beef roasted on a spit then sliced into pita pockets with cabbage, lettuce, and yogurt sauce, döners are one of the most popular fast foods around. A spicy, inexpensive alternative to German fare, they're good for a meal or a pick-me-up. ### Seasonal Favorites Germans are still very much attuned to seasonal fruits and vegetables. Traditional German produce like white asparagus, strawberries, plums, cherries, blueberries, and apples are available in supermarkets, farmers' markets, and sidewalk sellers in abundance, and are eagerly snapped up by locals. When in season, these are delicious items to add to your diet and a healthy way to keep your blood sugar up as you set off to explore Germany. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Beer, or "liquid bread" as it was described by medieval monks who wanted to avoid God's anger, is not just a vital element of German cuisine, but of German culture. The stats say Germans are second only to the Czechs when it comes to per capita beer consumption, though they have been losing their thirst recently—from a peak of 145 liters (38.3 gallons) per head in 1980, each German now only manages 102 liters (26.9 gallons) every year. And yet the range of beers has never been wider. ### Reinheitsgebot (Purity Law) There are precisely 1,327 breweries in Germany, offering more than 5,000 types of beer. Thanks to Germany's legendary "Beer Purity Law," or Reinheitsgebot, which allows only three ingredients (water, malt, and hops), they are pretty much all terrific. The water used in German beer also has to meet certain standards—a recent discussion about introducing fracking in certain parts Germany was roundly criticized by the German Beer Association because the water in the area would become too dirty to be made into beer. ### Germany's Major Beer Varieties Pils: One effect of the Beer Purity Law was that Germany became dominated by one kind of beer: Pils. Invented in Bohemia (now the Czech Republic) in 1842, and aided by Bavarian refrigeration techniques, Pils was the first beer to be chilled and stored thus allowing bottom fermentation, better clarity, and a longer shelf-life. Today, the majority of German beers are brewed in the Pils, or Pilsner, style. German Pils tends to have a drier, bitterer taste than what you might be used to, but a trip to Germany is hardly complete without the grand tour along these lines: Augustiner in Bavaria, Bitburger in the Rhineland, Flensburger in the North. Helles: Hell is German for "light," but when it comes to beer, that refers to the color rather than the alcohol content. Helles is a crisp and clear Bavarian pale lager with between 4.5% and 6% alcohol. It was developed in the mid-19th century by a German brewer named Gabriel Sedlmayr, who adopted and adapted some British techniques to create the new beer for his famous Spaten Brewery in Bavaria. Another brewer, Josef Groll, used the same methods to produce one of the first German Pils, Pilsner Urquell. Spaten is still one the best brands for a good Helles, as are Löwenbräu, Weihenstephaner, and Hacker-Pschorr—all classic Bavarian beers. Dunkelbier: At the other end of the beer rainbow from Helles is dark beer, or Dunkelbier. The dark, reddish color is a consequence of the darker malt that is used in the brewing. Despite suspicions aroused by the stronger, maltier taste, Dunkelbier actually contains no more alcohol than Helles. Dunkelbier was common in rural Bavaria in the early 19th century. All the major Bavarian breweries produce a Dunkelbier to complement their Helles. Bock: Dunkelbier should not be confused with Bock, which also has a dark color and a malty taste but is a little stronger. It was first created in the middle ages in the northern German town of Einbeck, before it was later adopted by the Bavarian breweries, which had come to regard themselves as the natural home of German beer. In fact, the name Bock comes from the Bavarian interpretation of the word "Einbeck." Bock often has a sweeter flavor, and is traditionally drunk on public holidays. There are also subcategories, like Eisbock and Doppelbock, which have been refined to make an even stronger beverage. Kölsch: If you're looking for lighter refreshment, then Kölsch is ideal. The traditional beer of Cologne, Kölsch is a mild, carbonated beer that goes down easily. It is usually served in a small, straight glass, called a Stange, which is much easier to wrangle than the immense Bavarian Mass (liter) glasses. If you're part of a big party, you're likely to get Kölsch served in a Kranz, or wreath—a circular wooden rack that holds up to 18 Stangen. Kölsch is very specific to Cologne and its immediate environs, so there's little point in asking for it anywhere else. Consequently, the major Kölsch brands are all relatively small; they include Reissdorf, Gaffel, and Früh. Hefeweizen: Also known as Weissbier or Weizenbier, Hefeweizen is essentially wheat beer, and it was originally brewed in southern Bavaria. It has a very distinctive taste and cloudy color. It's much stronger than standard Pils or Helles, with an alcohol content of more than 8%. On the other hand, that content is slightly compensated for by the fact that wheat beer can be very filling. For a twist, try the clear variety called Kristallweizen, which tastes crisper, and is often served with half a slice of lemon. Hefeweizen is available throughout Germany, and the major Bavarian breweries all brew it as part of their range. ### Top Brews by Region Bavaria: Helles, Dunkelbier, Hefeweizen. The six most famous brands, and the only ones allowed to be sold at the Oktoberfest are: Löwenbräu, Augustiner, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Spaten-Franziskanerbräu and Hofbräu. Tegernseer Hell is also very good. Rhineland: Kölsch, Pils. Apart from Kölsch, which is impossible to avoid, look out for Krombacher and Bitburger. Eastern Germany: Pils. Radeberger and Hasseröder, are two of the few beers in the region to have survived the fall of communism in the former East Germany. Berlin: Pils. The most famous brands are Berliner Kindl, Schultheiss, and Berliner Pilsner, which are all worth trying. Hamburg: Pils. Astra—with its anchor-heart logo—is a cult Pils that is very much identified with Germany's biggest port city. Northern Germany: Pils, Bock. The best brands include Flensburger, Jever, and, of course, Beck's, which comes from the northern city of Bremen. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Germany produces some of the finest white wines in the world. Although more and more quality red wine is being produced, the majority of German wines are white due to the northern continental climate. Nearly all wine production in Germany takes place by the River Rhine in the southwest. As a result, a single trip to this lovely and relatively compact wine region can give you a good overview of German wines. ### German Wines: Then and Now A Brief History The Romans first introduced viticulture to the southernmost area of what is present-day Germany about 2,000 years ago. By the time of Charlemagne, wine making centered on monasteries. A 19th-century grape blight necessitated a complete reconstitution of German grape stock, grafted with pest-resistant American vines, and formed the basis for today's German wines. With cold winters, a relatively northern climate, and less sun than other wine regions, the Germans have developed a reputation for technical and innovative panache. The result has traditionally been top-quality sweet Rieslings, though Germany has been making excellent dry and off-dry white wines and Rieslings in the past 30 years. Today's Wine Scene For years, German wines were known by their lowest common denominator, the cheap, sweet wine that was exported en masse to the United States, England, and other markets. However, more recently there has been a push to introduce the world to the best of German wines. Exports to the United States, Germany's largest export market, have grown steadily, followed by England, The Netherlands, Sweden, and Russia. Eighty-three percent of its exports are white wines. The export of Liebfraumilch, the sugary, low-quality stuff that gave German wine a bad name, has been steadily declining, and now 66% of exports are so-called Qualitätswein, or quality wines. Only 15% of exports are destined to be wine-in-a-box. This is a more accurate representation of German wine as it exists in Germany. ### Germany's Dominant Varietals #### Whites Müller-Thurgau: Created in the 1880s, this grape is a cross between a Riesling and a Madeleine Royale. Ripening early, it's prone to rot and, as the grape used in most Liebfraumilch, has a less than golden reputation. Riesling: The most widely planted (and widely famous) of German grapes, the Riesling ripens late. A hardy grape, it's ideal for late-harvest wines. High levels of acidity help wines age well. When young, grapes have a crisp, floral character. Silvaner: This grape is dying out in most places, with the exception of Franconia, where it is traditionally grown. With low acidity and neutral fruit, it can be crossed with other grapes to produce sweet wines like Kerner, Grauburgunder (pinot gris), Weissburgunder (pinot blanc), Bacchus, and others. #### Reds Dornfelder: A relatively young varietal. Dornfelder produces wines with a deep color, which distinguishes them from other German reds, which tend to be pale, light, and off-dry. Spätburgunder (Pinot Noir): This grape is responsible for Germany's full-bodied, fruity wines, and is grown in more southerly vineyards. ### Terminology German wine is a complex topic, even though the wine region is relatively small. Wines are ranked according to the ripeness of the grapes when picked, and instead of harvesting a vineyard all at once, German vineyards are harvested up to five times. The finest wines result from the latest harvests of the season, due to increased sugar content. Under the category of "table wine" fall Deutscher Tafelwein (German table wine) and Landwein (like the French Vin de Pays). Quality wines are ranked according to when they are harvested. Kabinett wines are delicate, light, and fruity. Spätlese ("late-harvest" wine) has more-concentrated flavors, sweetness, and body. Auslese wines are made from extra-ripe grapes, and are even richer, even sweeter, and even riper. Beerenauslese are rare and expensive, made from grapes whose flavor and acid has been enhanced by noble rot. Eiswein ("ice" wine) is made of grapes that have been left on the vine to freeze and may be harvested as late as January. They produce a sugary syrup that creates an intense, fruity wine. Finally. Trockenbeerenauslese ("dry ice" wine) is made in tiny amounts using grapes that have frozen and shriveled into raisins. These can rank amongst the world's most expensive wines. Other terms to keep in mind include Trocken (dry) and Halbtrocken (half-dry, or "off-dry"). ### Wine Regions Mosel: The Mosel's steep, mineral-rich hillsides produce excellent Rieslings. With flowery rather than fruity top-quality wines, the Mosel is a must-stop for any wine lover. The terraced hillsides rising up along the banks of the River Mosel are as pleasing to the eye as the light-bodied Rieslings are to the palate. Nahe: Agreeable and uncomplicated: this describes the wines made from Müller-Thurgau and Silvaner grapes of the Nahe region. The earth here is rich not just in grapes, but also in semiprecious stones and minerals, and you might just detect a hint of pineapple in your wine's bouquet. Rheinhessen: The largest wine-making region of Germany, Rheinhessen's once grand reputation was tarnished in the mid-20th century, when large, substandard vineyards were cultivated and low-quality wine produced. Nonetheless, there's plenty of the very good stuff to be found, still. Stick to the red sandy slopes over the river for the most full-bodied of Germany's Rieslings. Rheingau: The dark, slatey soil of the Rheingau is particularly suited to the German Riesling, which is the major wine produced in this lovely hill country along the River Rhine. Spicy wines come from the hillsides, while the valley yields wines with body, richness, and concentration. Pfalz: The second-largest wine region in Germany, the Pfalz stretches north from the French border. Mild winters and warm summers make for some of Germany's best pinot noirs and most opulent Rieslings. Wine is served here in a special dimpled glass called the Dubbeglas. Baden: Farther to the south, Baden's warmer climate helps produce ripe, full-bodied wines that may not be well known but certainly taste delicious. The best ones, both red and white, come from Kaiserstuhl-Tuniberg, between Freiburg and the Rhine. But be forewarned: The best things in life do tend to cost a little extra. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Grand Tour of Germany \| German ABCs: Architecture, Beer, Castles and Capitals \| Castles in Wine Country ## Grand Tour of Germany Coming to Germany for the first time? Consider a journey of the best the country has to offer: stunning landscapes, charming medieval towns, and cosmopolitan capital cities. Make the most of your time by taking the train between stops. You'll eliminate the hassles of parking and the high cost of gasoline. Best of all, you'll take in the views—in complete relaxation—as they roll by your window. ### Days 1 and 2: Munich Kick off your circle tour of quintessential Germany in Bavaria's capital city. Get your bearings by standing in the center of Munich's Marienplatz, and watch the charming, twirling figures of the Glockenspiel in the tower of the Rathaus (town hall). Visit the world-class art museums, then wander through the Englischer Garten (English Garden) to the beer garden for a cool beer and pretzel. ### Day 3: Garmisch-Partenkirchen Take a day trip to visit Germany's highest mountain peak (9,731 feet), the Zugspitze. You'll take in astounding views of the mountains and breathe the bracing Alpine air. Have lunch at one of two restaurants on the peak, then bask in the sun like the Germans on the expansive terrace. If you're feeling sporty, hundreds of kilometers of trails offer some of Germany's best hiking across blooming mountain meadows and along steep mountain gorges. Otherwise take the cable car up and down and savor the dramatic vistas. ### Days 4 and 5: Freiburg In the late morning, arrive in Freiburg, one of Germany's most beautiful historic cities. Damaged during the war, it's been meticulously rebuilt to preserve its delightful medieval character. Residents love to boast that Freiburg is the country's sunniest city, which is true according to meteorological reports. Freiburg's cathedral is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, built over three centuries. Explore on foot, or by bike, and look out for the Bächle, or little brooks, that run for kilometers through Freiburg. ### Day 6: The Black Forest Freiburg puts you at the perfect point from which to explore the spruce-covered low-lying mountains of the Black Forest. Set out for Titisee, a placid glacial lake, visiting dramatic gorges along the way. Or, head toward the northern Black Forest to visit tony Baden-Baden. Then spend the afternoon relaxing in the curative waters at one of the famous spas. ### Day 7: Würzburg This gorgeous city sits on the Main River, and as you look out onto the hills that surround the city, you'll see that lush vineyards encircle the valley. Würzburg's two must-see attractions are the massive Festung Marienburg (Marienburg Fortress) and the Residenz an awe-inspiring baroque palace. The palace is considered to be one of Europe's most luxurious. The best way to sample the local wine is to go straight to the source: the vineyards. In the afternoon, follow the Stein-Wein-Pfad, a pathway that takes you straight to the local vintners, and try their wines while also drinking in incredible views of the city below. ### Day 8: Bamberg In the morning, arrive in Bamberg, which is on UNESCO's World Heritage Site list. The town is remarkable for not having sustained damage during World War II, and for looking much as it has for hundreds of years. Narrow cobblestone streets lead you to Bamberg's heart, a small island ringed by the Regnitz River. Bamberg has almost a dozen breweries—try the Rauchbier, a dark beer with a smoky flavor. ### Days 9 and 10: Hamburg Hamburg is one of Germany's wealthiest cities. It's also an important port, and served as a leader of the medieval Hanseatic League. If you're in Hamburg on Sunday, visit the open-air Fischmarkt (fish market) early in the morning. Then, take a cruise through the city's canals to see the historic warehouse district. Exploring the harbor you'll see the enormous ocean liners that stop in Hamburg before crossing the Atlantic. The city offers exclusive shopping along the Junfernstieg, a lakeside promenade. ### Days 11 and 12: Berlin and Potsdam Berlin is Germany's dynamic capital, a sprawling and green city. No matter where you go, it's hard to escape Berlin's recent history as a divided city. You're brought face-to-face with the legacy of World War II, and contrast of East and West. Walk from the Brandenburg Gate to the famous Museum Island and visit the Pergamon Alter. In the afternoon, visit KaDeWe, Europe's largest department store, and walk along the Kurfürstendamm, the posh shopping boulevard. Spend the next morning in Potsdam, touring the opulent palaces and manicured gardens. Return to the city to explore its neighborhoods, like Turkish Kreuzberg or hip Prenzlauer Berg. ## German ABCs: Architecture, Beer, Castles and Capitals ### Day 1: Arrival Munich Though it is a wealthy city with Wittelsbach palaces, great art collections, and a technology museum holding trains, planes, and even an imitation coal mine, what really distinguishes Munich from other state capitals are its beer halls, beer gardens, and proud identity: even designer-conscious Müncheners wear traditional dirndls and hunter-green jackets for special occasions. Stroll the streets of the Altstadt (Old City), visit the Frauenkirche, choose a museum (the best ones will occupy you for at least three hours), and save the Hofbräuhaus or any other teeming brew house for last. Munich might be touristy, but hordes of German tourists love it as well. ### Day 2: Neuschwanstein From Munich it's an easy day trip to Germany's fairy-tale castle in Schwangau. Though the 19th-century castle's fantastic silhouette has made it famous, this creation of King Ludwig II is more opera set than piece of history—the interior was never even completed. A tour reveals why the romantic king earned the nickname "Mad" King Ludwig. Across the narrow wooded valley from Schloss Neuschwanstein is the ancient castle of the Bavarian Wittelsbach dynasty, Schloss Hohenschwangau, also open for tours. ### Day 3: Munich to Dresden That Saxony's capital, Dresden, is the pinnacle of European baroque is obvious in its courtyards, newly rebuilt Frauenkirche, and terrace over the Elbe River. The city was largely shaped by Augustus the Strong, who in 1730 kindly invited the public to view the works crafted from precious stones in his Green Vault. Many of Dresden's art treasures lie within the Zwinger, a baroque showpiece. Spend the evening at the neo-Renaissance Semper Opera, where Wagner premiered his works, and drink Radeberger Pilsner at intermission. It's the country's oldest pilsner. ### Day 4: Dresden and Berlin Spend the morning touring some of Dresden's rich museums before boarding a train to Berlin. Germany's capital is not only unique for its division between 1949 and 1989, but is unlike any other German city in its physical expanse and diversity. Attractions that don't close until 10 pm or later are Sir Norman Foster's glass dome on the Reichstag, the TV tower at Alexanderplatz, and the Checkpoint Charlie Museum. ### Days 5 and 6: Berlin Begin your first Berlin morning on a walk with one of the city's excellent tour companies. They'll connect the broadly spaced dots for you and make the events of Berlin's turbulent 20th century clear. Berlin is a fascinating city in and of itself, so you don't have to feel guilty if you don't get to many museums. Since the mid-1990s, world-renowned architects have changed the city's face. You'll find the best nightlife in hip neighborhoods like Kreuzberg, Friedrichshain, or Mitte. Berlin is a surprisingly inexpensive city, so you can treat yourself to more here than in Munich. ### Day 7: Munich On your last day, have breakfast with the morning shoppers at the open-air Viktualienmarkt. Try to find Weisswurst, a mild, boiled sausage normally eaten before noon with sweet mustard, a pretzel—and beer! ## Castles in Wine Country ### Day 1: Arrival Koblenz Start your tour in Koblenz, at the confluence of the Rhine and Mosel rivers. Once you have arrived in the historic downtown area, head straight for the charming little Hotel Zum weissen Schwanen, a half-timber inn and mill since 1693. Explore the city on the west bank of the Rhine River and then head to Europe's biggest fortress, the impressive Festung Ehrenbreitstein on the opposite riverbank. ### Day 2: Koblenz and Surrounding Castles Get up early and drive along the most spectacular and historic section of "Vater Rhein." Stay on the left riverbank and you'll pass many mysterious landmarks on the way, including Burg Stolzenfels, and later the Loreley rock, a 430-foot slate cliff named after a legendary, beautiful, blonde nymph. Stay the night at St. Goar or St. Goarshausen, both lovely river villages. ### Day 3: Eltville and the Eberbach Monastery The former Cistercian monastery Kloster Eberbach, in Eltville, is one of Europe's best-preserved medieval cloisters. Parts of the film The Name of the Rose, based on Umberto Eco's novel and starring Sean Connery, were filmed here. If you're interested in wine, spend the night at the historic wine estate Schloss Reinhartshausen. This is a great opportunity to sample the fantastic wines of the region. ### Day 4: Heidelberg On Day 4, start driving early so you can spend a full day in Heidelberg (the drive from Eltville takes about an hour). No other city symbolizes German spirit and history better than this meticulously restored, historic town. Do not miss the impressive Schloss, one of Europe's greatest Gothic-Renaissance fortresses. Most of the many pubs and restaurants here are touristy, overpriced, and of poor quality—so don't waste your time at them. Instead, head for the Romantik Hotel zum Ritter St. Georg, a charming 16th-century inn with a great traditional German restaurant. ### Days 5 and 6: The Burgenstrasse and the Neckar Valley Superb food and wine can be enjoyed in the quaint little villages in the Neckar Valley just east of Heidelberg—the predominant grapes here are Riesling (white) and Spätburgunder (red). Try to sample wines from small, private wineries—they tend to have higher-quality vintages. Sightseeing is equally stunning, with a string of castles and ruins along the famous Burgenstrasse (Castle Road). Since you have two days for this area, take your time and follow B-37 to Eberbach and its romantic Zwingenberg castle, tucked away in the deep forest just outside the village. In the afternoon, continue on to Burg Hornberg at Neckarzimmern, the home to the legendary German knight Götz von Berlichingen. Stay the night here, in the former castle stables. The next morning, continue farther to Bad Wimpfen, the most charming valley town at the confluence of the Neckar and Jagst rivers. Spend half a day in the historic city center and tour the Staufer Pfalz (royal palace). Soaring high above the city, the palace was built in 1182, and emperor Barbarossa liked to stay here. ### Day 7: German Wine Route Devote your last day to the German Wine Route, which winds its way through one of the most pleasant German landscapes, the gentle slopes and vineyards of the Pfalz. The starting point for the route is Bad Dürkheim, a spa town proud to have the world's largest wine cask, holding 1.7 million liters (450,000 gallons). You can enjoy wine with some lunch in the many Weinstuben here or wait until you reach Neustadt farther south, Germany's largest wine-making community. Thirty of the vintages grown here can be sampled (and purchased) at the downtown Haus des Weines. If time permits, try to visit one of the three major castles along the route in the afternoon: Burg Trifels near Annweiler is a magnificent Hohenzollern residence, perched dramatically on three sandstone cliffs, the very image of a medieval castle in wine country. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents When it comes to hotels, Germans do it right. Whether budget and spare, or luxurious and opulent, German lodgings tend to be wonderfully spic and span. You'll find top-quality accommodations throughout Germany to rest your travel-weary bones at the end of the day. From a chic, big-city design hotel to a cozy village Gasthof to life on the farm at a Bauernhof, there's a broad spectrum of choices wherever your journey takes you. ### Hotels German hotels adhere to a high standard, and you'll find that even the most basic offerings are scrupulously clean and comfortable. Of course, as the number of stars goes up, so do the amenities, and you can count on the largest and best city hotels to offer concierge services and fine dining. If you prefer something more intimate, Gasthöfe (country inns that also serve food) offer a great value. You can also opt to stay at a winery's Winzerhof or at an historic castle (Schloss). Families can consider a Familienhotel, which cater to children with special menus, activities, pools, and play areas. Depending on the hotel, rates are calculated by room or by person. Prices are generally higher in summer, so consider visiting during the off-season. Most resorts offer between-season (Zwischensaison) and off-season (Nebensaison) rates, and tourist offices can provide lists of hotels that offer low-price weekly packages (Pauschalangebote). It's wise to avoid cities during major trade fairs as rates skyrocket. Consider staying in nearby towns and commuting in. ### Bed-and-Breakfasts If you're looking for a more personal—and less expensive—alternative to a hotel, B&Bs are a good choice. Often called Pensions, they offer simple rooms and friendly, helpful staff. Keep in mind that not all rooms will have a private bathroom, but your stay will, of course, include breakfast. Another option is a Fremdenzimmer, meaning simply "rooms," normally in private houses. These are found most often in resort towns. And although it's not nearly as private as staying in a hotel or inn, it will give you a peek at how the locals live. For a taste of rural life, try an Urlaub auf dem Bauernhof, a farm that rents rooms. ### Apartment and House Rentals To really get a sense of how the natives live, rent a house or apartment. Known as Ferienwohnung or Ferienappartements, it's a popular option in Germany. In a city, you'll feel the pulse of a neighborhood, or in the country you might step out onto your balcony to take in a mountain view. When traveling with family or a group, a private home may be a better deal than booking multiple hotel rooms. Not to mention that you're likely to end up with more space. ### Wellness Hotels Germany has a long-established tradition of spa towns (Kurorte). Officially recognized for having special mineral waters, particularly fresh sea air, or other health-enhancing natural resources, these spa towns are found throughout the country, and often have lovely hotels for visitors who want to relax and improve their health. Look for sauna and massage on offer, here. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents More than 51 million Americans claim German ancestry, and many of these Americans have a strong desire to trace their long-lost roots. The first significant waves of immigration from Germany came after the failed democratic revolutions of 1848, a time period coupled with potato blight in parts of Germany. The numbers of German immigrants did not let up until the early 20th century. Of course, Jewish Germans fleeing fascism also left much of what had been their cultural heritage (as well as material possessions), behind. If you've ever been curious about wandering your family's ancestral village, standing in the church where your great-grandmother was baptized, or meeting the cousins who share your name, it's easier than ever to make it happen. ### Before You Go The more you can learn about your ancestors before you go, the more fruitful your search will be. The first place to seek information is directly from members of your family. Even relatives who don't know any family history may have documents stored away that can help with your sleuthing—old letters, wills, diaries, photo albums, birth and death certificates, and Bibles or other religious books can be great sources of information. The first crucial facts you'll need are the name of your ancestor; his or her date of birth, marriage, or death; town or city of origin in Germany; date of emigration; ship on which he or she emigrated; and where in America he or she settled. If family resources aren't leading you anywhere, try turning to the Mormon Church. The Mormon Church has made it its mission to collect mountains of genealogical information, much of which it makes available free of charge at www.familysearch.org. The National Archives (www.nara.gov) keeps census records, and anyone can, for a fee, get information from the censuses of 1940 and earlier. The spelling of your family name may not be consistent through time. Over the course of history varying rates of literacy in Germany meant that the spelling of names evolved through recent centuries. And on arrival in the States many names changed again to make them more familiar to American ears. Once you've established some basic facts about your ancestor it's possible to start searching some German resources. Because Germany as we know it today didn't unify until 1871, records are scattered. Lists of German ship passengers—many of which are now available online—are a good next step since they often included a person's "last residence." So if you can target your ancestor's hometown, you'll open the door to a potential trove of records. Many parish registers go back to the 15th century and document births, baptisms, marriages, deaths, and burials. Check out the links at the German National Tourist Office's websites germanoriginality.com, www.germany.travel, and if you're tracking down living cousins, try the German phonebook at DasTelefonbuch.de. ### On the Ground in Germany Once you arrive, you can use the computerized facilities of Bremerhaven's German Emigration Center (www.dah-bremerhaven.de) or enlist the help of an assistant to search the passenger lists of the HAPAG shipping line, at Hamburg's Family Research Center (www.BallinStadt.de). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Germany's darkest days began with Adolf Hitler's rise to power in 1933. Hitler led Germany into war in 1939 and perpetrated the darkest crimes against humanity, murdering 6 million Jews in the Holocaust. To gain perspective on the extent of the horror, it's possible to visit sites around Germany that document the atrocities. Upon his election, Hitler set about turning Obersalzburg into the southern headquarters for the Nazi party and as a mountain retreat for its elite. Located in the Bavarian Alps, the enormous compound included luxurious homes for party officials. Today you can walk through the extensive bunker system while learning about the Nazi's takeover of the area. Not far from Obersalzburg you'll find the Kehlsteinhaus, Hitler's private home. Designed as a 50th birthday gift for Hitler by the Nazi party, the house is also known as Adlerhorst (Eagle's Nest). It's perched on a cliff, seemingly at the top of the world. The house's precarious location probably saved it from British bombing raids. The Nazis organized nationwide book-burnings, one of which took place in Berlin on Bebelplatz. On an evening in May 1933, Nazis and Hitler Youth gathered here to burn 20,000 books considered offensive to the party. Today there is a ghostly memorial of empty library shelves sunken in the center of the square. Masters of propaganda, the Nazis staged colossal rallies intended to impress the German people. Hitler considered Nürnberg so quintessentially German he developed an enormous complex here, the Nazi Party Rally Grounds, to host massive parades, military exercises, and major assemblies of the Nazi party. The Congress Hall, meant to outshine Rome's Colosseum, is the largest remaining building from the Nazi era. It houses a Documentation Center that explores the Nazi's tyranny. At the Nürnberg Trials Memorial you'll see where the war crimes trials took place between November 1945 and October 1946. In this courthouse Nazi officials stood before an international military tribunal to answer for their crimes. The Allied victors chose Nürnberg on purpose—it's the place Germany's first anti-Semitic laws passed, decreeing the boycott of Jewish businesses. The KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau is a memorial and site of the former notorious death camp. Hitler created Dachau soon after taking power, and it became the model for all other camps. Tens of thousands of prisoners died here. Today you'll see a few remaining cell blocks and the crematorium, along with moving shrines and memorials to the dead. Bergen-Belsen, another infamous concentration camp, is where Anne Frank perished along with more than 80,000 others. The starving and sick prisoners lived in abject squalor, deliberately neglected by their captors. A meadow is all that remains of the camp, but it is still a chilling place to visit. The documentation center shows wrenching photos of unburied bodies and emaciated prisoners. In fact, nearly anywhere you are in Germany, you should be able to visit a concentration camp: Others include Buchenwald, Oranienburg, Sachsenhausen, and Dora-Mittelbau. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \|Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Munich Exploring Munich Where to Eat Where to Stay Nightlife and the Arts Sports and the Outdoors Shopping Side Trips from Munich Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Viktualienmarkt \| Market Etiquette \| Viktualienmarkt Best Buys \| Munich's Beer Gardens \| Biergarten Etiquette Updated by Paul Wheatley Known today as the city of laptops and lederhosen, modern Munich is a cosmopolitan playground that nevertheless represents what the rest of the world incorrectly sees as "typically German": world-famous Oktoberfest, traditional lederhosen (leather pants), busty Bavarian waitresses in dirndls (traditional dresses), beer steins, and sausages. Munich's cleanliness, safety, and Mediterranean pace give it a slightly rustic feel. The broad sidewalks, fashionable boutiques and eateries, views of the Alps, a sizable river running through town, and a huge green park make Munich one of Germany's most visited cities. When the first rays of spring sun begin warming the air, follow the locals to their beloved beer gardens, shaded by massive chestnut trees. The number of electronics and computer firms—Siemens, Microsoft, and SAP, for starters—makes Munich a sort of mini–Silicon Valley of Germany, but for all its business drive, this is still a city with roots in the 12th century, when it began as a market town on the "salt road" between mighty Salzburg and Augsburg. That Munich was the birthplace of the Nazi movement is a difficult truth that those living here continue to grapple with. To distance the city from its Nazi past, city leaders looked to Munich's long pre-Nazi history to highlight what they decreed was the real Munich: a city of great architecture, high art, and fine music. Many of the Altstadt's architectural gems were rebuilt postwar, including the lavish Cuvilliés-Theater, the Altes Rathaus, and the Frauenkirche. The city's appreciation of the arts began under the kings and dukes of the Wittelsbach Dynasty, which ruled Bavaria for eight centuries, until 1918. The Wittelsbach legacy is alive and well in many of the city's museums and exhibition centers, the Opera House, the philharmonic, and, of course, the Residenz, the city's royal palace. Any walk in the City Center will take you past ravishing baroque decoration and grand 19th-century neoclassical architecture. Known as the city of laptops and lederhosen, Munich traces its history back to the 12th century, when it began as a market town on the salt road between mighty Salzburg and Augsburg. For all its business drive and the cosmopolitan style of its millionaires, Munich represents what the rest of the world sees as "typical Germany," embodied in the world-famous Oktoberfest, traditional lederhosen (leather pants), busty Bavarian waitresses in dirndls (traditional dresses), beer steins, and sausages. There are myriad local brews to say Prost (cheers) with, either in one of the cavernous beer halls or a smaller Kneipe, a bar where all types of people get together for meals and some drinks. ## Top Reasons to Go Deutsches Museum: The museum has an impressive collection of science and technology exhibits, and its location on the Isar River is perfect for a relaxing afternoon stroll. Englischer Garten: With expansive greens, beautiful lakes, and beer gardens, the English Garden is a great place for a bike ride or a long walk. Gärtnerplatz: Gärtnerplatz and the adjoining Glockenbachviertel are the hip hoods of the moment, with trendy bars, restaurants, cafés, and shops. Views from the Frauenkirche: This 14th-century church tower gives you a panorama of downtown Munich that can't be beat. There are 86 steps in a circular shaft to get to the elevator, but the view is worth it. Viktualienmarkt: Experience farmers'-market-style shopping, where there's fresh produce, finger food, and a beer garden; it's not to be missed. ## Getting Oriented In the relaxed and sunnier southern part of Germany, Munich (München) is the proud capital of the state of Bavaria. Even Germans come here to vacation, mixing the city's pleasures with the nearby natural surroundings—on clear days, from downtown the Alps appear to be much closer than around 40 miles away. The city bills itself "Die Weltstadt mit Herz" ("The Cosmopolitan City with Heart"), but in rare bouts of self-deprecatory humor, friendly Bavarians will remind you that it isn't much more than a country town with 1.4 million people. Münchners will also tell visitors that the city is special because of its Gemütlichkeit—loosely translated as "conviviality." This can be overdone, but with open-air markets, numerous parks, the lovely Isar River, and loads of beer halls, Munich has a certain charm that few cities can match. ## What's Where The City Center. Marienplatz, the Rathaus, and the surrounding streets are a hub for locals and tourists alike. Here you'll find the soaring towers of the Frauenkirche, Munich's landmark church. East of Marienplatz, down toward the Isar River, is the maze of the Old Town's smaller streets. Royal Munich. The Residenz, or royal palace, is the focus here. Bordering the Residenz to the north is the Hofgarten, or Court Garden. Farther northeast is the Englischer Garten, great for sunbathing or something sportier. Schwabing and Maxvorstadt. On one side of Maxvorstadt is Ludwigstrasse, a wide avenue flanked by impressive buildings, running from the Feldherrnhalle and Odeonsplatz to the Victory Arch. A block farther west are Maxvorstadt's smaller streets, lined with shops and restaurants frequented by students. The big museums lie another two blocks west. Schwabing starts north of the Victory Arch, where Ludwigstrasse becomes Leopoldstrasse. Outside the Center. Ludwigvorstadt is southwest of the City Center and includes the Oktoberfest grounds. The western part of the city is dominated by Nymphenburg Castle and its glorious grounds. Across the Isar is fashionable Lehel, and Au-Haidhausen areas. ## Planning ### When to Go Munich is a year-round city, but it's nicer to walk through the Englischer Garten and have your beer under a shady chestnut tree when the weather's fine in summer. If fate takes you to Munich through its long, cold winter, though, there are world-class museums and good restaurants to keep you entertained. Theater and opera fans will especially enjoy the winter season, when the tour buses and the camera-toting crowds are gone. A few postsummer sunny days are usual, but the Oktoberfest is also an indication that fall is here, and the short march to winter has arrived. #### Festivals Munich comes alive during Fasching, the German Mardi Gras, in the pre-Easter season. The festival of festivals, Oktoberfest, takes place from the end of September to early October. Long Night of Music. In late May the Long Night of Music is devoted to live performances through the night by untold numbers of groups, from heavy-metal bands to medieval choirs, at more than 100 locations throughout the city. One ticket covers everything, including transportation on special buses between locations. \| 089/3061–0041 \| www.muenchner.de/musiknacht \| €15. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel Munich's International Airport is 28 km (17 miles) northeast of the City Center and has excellent air service from all corners of the world. An excellent train service links the airport with downtown. The S-1 and S-8 lines operate from a terminal directly beneath the airport's arrival and departure halls. S-bahn trains leave at 20-minute intervals on both lines, and the journey takes around 40 minutes. The easiest way is to buy a Tageskarte (day card) for the Gesamtnetz, costing €10.80, which allows you to travel anywhere on the system for the rest of the day until 6 am the next morning. The similarly priced bus service is slower than the S-bahn link and not recommended. A taxi from the airport costs around €56. During rush hours (7 am–10 am and 4 pm–7 pm), allow up to an hour of driving time. If you're driving from the airport to the city yourself, take the A-9 and follow the signs for "München Stadtmitte" (downtown). If you're driving from the City Center, head north through Schwabing, join the A-9 autobahn at the Frankfurter Ring intersection, and follow the signs for the "Flughafen" (airport). Airport Information Flughafen München. \| 089/97500 \| www.munich-airport.de. #### Bus Travel With its futuristic architecture, Munich's 2009-finished Central Bus Terminal (ZOB) means that many excursions and longer trips are now centralized five minutes from the main train station. As well as numerous shops and banks, travel firms offer bus tickets and destination advice at the ZOB. Touring Eurolines buses arrive at and depart from the ZOB. Check their excellent website for trips to Neuschwanstein and the Romantic Road. Bus Information Central Bus Station Munich (ZOB). \| Hackerbrücke, Ludwigvorstadt \| ZOB is about 800 m from the main train station along Arnulfstrasse; if traveling by S-bahn, it's adjacent to Hackerbrücke S-bahn station \| 089/4520–9890 \| www.muenchen-zob.de. Touring Eurolines. \| DTG-Ticket-Center München, Hackerbrücke 4, ZOB, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/8898–9513 \| www.eurolines.de. #### Car Travel If you're driving to Munich from the north (Nürnberg or Frankfurt), leave the autobahn at the Schwabing exit. From Stuttgart and the west, the autobahn ends at Obermenzing, one of Munich's most westerly suburbs. The autobahns from Salzburg and the east, Garmisch and the south, and Lindau and the southwest all join the Mittlerer Ring (city beltway). When leaving any autobahn, follow the signs reading "Stadtmitte" for downtown Munich. #### Public Transit Munich has one of the most efficient and comprehensive public-transportation systems in Europe, consisting of the U-bahn (subway), the S-bahn (suburban railway), the Strassenbahn (streetcar, also called "Tram"), and buses. Marienplatz forms the heart of the U-bahn and S-bahn network, which operates regularly from around 5 am to 1 am (intermittently otherwise, so check times if you're expecting a long night or early start). The main service counter under Marienplatz sells tickets and gives out information, also in English. The website www.muenchen.de has an excellent and extensive transportation section, also in English. A basic Einzelfahrkarte (one-way ticket) costs €1.30 for a journey of up to four stops, €2.60 for a longer ride in the inner zone. If you're taking a number of trips around the city, save money by buying a Streifenkarte, or multiple 10-strip ticket for €12.50. On a journey of up to four stops validate one ticket, for the inner zone, two. If you plan to do several trips during one day, buy a Tageskarte (day card) for €11.20, which allows you to travel anywhere until 6 am the next morning. For a family of up to five (two adults and three children under age 15) the Tageskarte costs €20.40. A three-day card costs €14.30 for a single and €24.60 for the partner version. All tickets must be validated at one of the blue time-stamping machines at the station, or on buses and trams as soon as you board (wait till you've found a seat, and if an inspector's around you'll get a fine). Spot checks for validated tickets are common, and you'll be fined €40 if you're caught without a valid ticket. All tickets are sold at the blue dispensers at U- and S-bahn stations and at some bus and streetcar stops. Bus drivers have only single tickets (the most expensive kind). TIP Holders of a EurailPass, a Youth Pass, or an Inter-Rail card can travel free on all suburban railway trains (S-bahn). Be forewarned: If caught on anything but the S-bahn without a normal public transport ticket, you will be fined €40, with no exceptions. Public Transportation Information Munich Transport Company (MVG). \| 089/4142–4344 \| www.mvg-mobil.de. #### Taxi Travel Munich's cream-color taxis are numerous. Hail them in the street or phone for one (there's an extra charge of €1.20 if you call). Rates start at €3.10. Expect to pay €8–€10 for a short trip within the city. There's a €0.60 charge for each piece of non–hand luggage. Taxi Information Taxi München. \| 089/21610, 089/19410 \| www.taxi-muenchen.com. #### Train Travel All long-distance rail services arrive at and depart from the Hauptbahnhof; trains to and from some destinations in Bavaria use the adjoining Starnberger Bahnhof, which is under the same roof. The high-speed InterCity Express (ICE) trains connect Munich, Augsburg, Frankfurt, and Hamburg on one line, Munich, Nürnberg, Würzburg, and Hamburg on another. Regensburg can be reached from Munich on Regio trains. You can purchase tickets by credit card at vending machines. For travel information at the main train station, go to one of the Deutsche Bahn (German Rail) counters at the center of the main arrival and departures hall with German- and English-speaking personnel or contact www.bahn.de. With more complex questions, go to the EurAide office, which also serves English-speaking train travelers. Train Information Deutsche Bahn. \| 0800/150–7090 \| www.bahn.de. EurAide. \| www.euraide.com. ### Tours The tourist office offers individual guided tours in English for fees ranging between €115 and €290. Bookings must be made at least 10 days in advance. A novel way of seeing the city is to hop on one of the bike-rickshaws. The bike-powered two-seater cabs operate from Marienplatz and cost around €35 an hour; you can also let a driver take you on one of various city tours, from €35 for 30 minutes. #### Bus Tours The best way to get a feel of Munich is to board one of the double-decker sightseeing buses with big signs that read "Stadtrundfahrten" (city sightseeing). They leave from across the main railway station. There are the blue ones run by Autobus Oberbayern and, 80 meters to the left, yellow and red ones run by Yellow Cab Muenchen. Tours cost €15 per person (cheaper if booked online) and offer hop-on, hop-off service throughout the City Center with commentary via headphones available in eight languages. There are numerous stops and the full tour takes about an hour. Both bus lines run about every 20 to 30 minutes, between 9 am and 5 pm. The only difference is that the blue line has—in addition to the headphones for other languages—a live host who offers running commentary in English and German, so seamlessly that after five minutes you're sure you speak both languages. On the bus ask for a brochure with many other suggestions for bus trips. #### Walking Tours Radius Tours & Bikes has theme walks of Munich highlights, Third Reich Munich, and the Dachau concentration camp. Third Reich tours depart from the Radius offices, in the Hauptbahnhof, just across from Platform 32, daily at 3 pm between early April and mid-October (Friday to Tuesday at 11:30 am the rest of the year). The Dachau tour is daily at 9:15 and 12:15 from early April to mid-October and daily at 10 for the rest of the year. Advance booking is not necessary for individuals. Gray Line Sightseeing Munich. \| Hauptbanhof, Bahnhofpl. 7, Ludwigvorstadt \| Wait outside Karstadt department store \| 089/5490–7560 \| www.sightseeing-munich.com. Tour Information Munich Tourist Office. \| 089/2339–6500 \| www.muenchen.de/tam. Radius Tours & Bike Rental. \| Hauptbahnhof, Arnulfstr. 3, Ludwigvorstadt \| The office is at the Hauptbahnhof, near Track 32 \| 089/54348–77740 \| www.radiustours.com. City Sightseeing Tours Munich. \| Bahnhofplatz, Elisenhof, Maxvorstadt \| Wait outside Elisenhof \| www.citysightseeing-muenchen.de. ### Visitor Information The Munich Tourist office has two locations. The Hauptbahnhof (main train station) tourist office is open Monday through Saturday 9–8 and Sunday 10–6. The Tourist office in the Rathaus (town hall) is open weekdays 9–7, Saturday 9–6, and Sunday 10–4. For information on the Bavarian mountain region south of Munich, contact the Tourismusverband München-Oberbayern. As well as tourist offices, a great way to start your Munich visit is to go to infopoint, in the Alterhof's Kaiserburg, an information center for castles across Bavaria. Here, in a superbly atmospheric vaulted cellar, there are two films (ask for English versions), which combined make a great introduction to any Munich visit. One film is about the city's history, the other about the Alterhof. From Marienplatz, walk 170 meters down the attractive Burgstrasse, through the Alterhof tower. On the right is infopoint. Around 100 meters farther, you'll pass the Münzhof entrance, and another 50 meters is the Residenz Theater, next to the Residenz. Along with the films, this walk is an incredible 350-meter introduction to 1,000 years of Munich history. Visitor Information Munich Tourist Office—Hauptbahnhof. \| Hauptbahnhof, Bahnhofpl. 2, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/23396500 \| www.muenchen.de/tam. Munich Tourist Office—Rathaus. \| Tourist Office at Rathaus, Marienplatz 2, City Center \| 089/2339–6500. Tourismusverband München-Oberbayern (Upper Bavarian Regional Tourist Office). \| www.oberbayern.de. ### Planning Your Time Set aside at least a whole day for the Old Town, hitting Marienplatz when the glockenspiel plays at 11 am or noon before a crowd of spectators. There's a reason why Munich's Kaufingerstrasse has Germany's most expensive shop rents. Munich is Germany's most affluent city and Münchners like to spend. The pedestrian zone can get maddeningly full between noon and 2, when everyone in town seems to be taking a quick shopping break, though it's hardly any better up until around 5. If you've already seen the glockenspiel, try to avoid the area at that time. Avoid the museum crowds in Maxvorstadt by visiting as early in the day as possible. All Munich seems to discover an interest in art on Sunday, when most municipal and state-funded museums are €1; you might want to take this day off from culture and have a late breakfast or brunch at the Elisabethmarkt or around the Gärtnerplatz-Glockenbach areas. Some beer gardens and taverns have Sunday-morning jazz concerts. Many Schwabing bars have happy hours between 6 and 8—a relaxing way to end your day. ## Viktualienmarkt It's not just the fascinating array of fruit, vegetables, olives, breads, cheeses, meats, pickles, and honey that make Viktualienmarkt (victuals market) so attractive. The towering maypole, small Wirtshäuser (pub-restaurants), and beer gardens also set the scene for a fascinating trek through Munich's most famous market. The Viktualienmarkt's history can be traced to the early 19th century, when King Max I Joseph decreed that Marienplatz was too small to house the major city market. In 1807, a bigger version was created a few hundred meters to the south, where it stands today. You are just as likely to find a Münchner buying something here as you are a visitor. Indeed, a number of City Center restaurants proudly proclaim that they get their ingredients "fresh from the market." This is the place to pick up a Brotzeit: bread, olives, cheeses, gherkins, and whatever else strikes your fancy, then retreat to a favorite Biergarten to enjoy the bounty. —Paul Wheatley ## Market Etiquette All stalls are open weekdays 10–6 and Saturday 10–3, though some stalls open earlier or close later. It's not kosher to touch the fresh produce but it is to ask to taste a few different olives or cheeses before buying. The quality of the various produce is invariably good; competition is fierce, so it has to be. Therefore, buy the best of what you fancy from a number of stalls, not just one or two. ## Viktualienmarkt Best Buys #### Beer and Prepared Food If it's just a beer you're after, there are a number of beer stalls not far from the towering maypole. Biergarten am Viktualienmarkt is the main location, but there are also small Imbissstände (snack bars) where you can pick up roast pork and beer. Kleiner Ochsenbrater sells delicious organic roast dishes. Poseidon and the nearby Fisch Witte rustle up a fine selection of fish dishes, including very good soups and stews. Luigino's Bio Feinkost, an organic deli that also has fine cheeses and wines, is the spot for a quick grilled sandwich. And the modest-looking Münchner Suppenküche dishes out delightful helpings of soup, including oxtail, chicken, and spicy lentil. #### Fruits and Vegetables The mainstay of the market is fruit and vegetables, and there are a number of top-quality stalls to choose from. The centrally located Fruitique has some of the freshest, most attractive-looking, and ripest produce on display. For something a little more exotic, try out Exoten Müller, which specializes in unusual fruits and vegetables from around the world. #### Honighäusel am Münchner Viktualienmarkt Honighäusel means "small honey house" and is an apt description of this petite honey wonderland. Much of the produce comes from Bavaria, but there's also a selection of honeys from farther afield: Italy, France, even New Zealand. This is also the place to buy honey marmalades and soaps, and beeswax candles. For a chilly evening, pick up a bottle of Bavarian honey schnapps. #### Ludwig Freisinger's "Saure Ecke" This is the place to create the perfect Biergarten Brotzeit (beer garden snack). Ask for a mixture of green and black olives with different fillings. You can also pick up the traditional biergarten cheese spread, Obatzter, which is made of Camembert and other white cheeses, butter, paprika, and onions. There's a huge selection of peppers filled with cheese, plus feta salad, hummus, and the enormous Essiggurke (gherkins). The best are crunchy when you bite into them but tender inside, with a light tanginess. A Fladenbrot, a circular, flat white bread, is enough for two people, and the perfect accompaniment. #### Schenk's There are numerous stalls at the market that serve mouthwatering, freshly pressed fruit drinks, so no matter where you buy, you won't be disappointed. Schenk's is a favorite because the drinks are top-notch and the staff are engaging, speak English, and take the time to explain the ingredients in each drink. ## Munich's Beer Gardens With a bit of sunshine, a handful of picnic tables, and a few of the finest beers around, you have yourself a Biergarten (beer garden). There are beer gardens throughout Germany, and many imitations across the world but the most traditional, and the best, are still found in and around Munich. The elixir that transforms the traditional Munich beer garden into something special is the unbeatable atmosphere. Beer gardens formed out of necessity. Brewers in the 18th and 19th centuries struggled to keep beer cool to prevent it from spoiling in warm weather. As early as 1724, Munich brewers dug cellars and began to store beer next to the shady shores of the Isar River. Local residents promptly took along their beer glasses for a cool drink and before long the odd table and bench appeared, and the beer garden tradition was born. —Paul Wheatley ## Biergarten Etiquette Often, a beer garden is separated between where guests can bring food and where they must buy it. Simply ask to avoid confusion, or look for tablecloths—generally these are table-service only. The basis of a beer garden Brotzeit is delicious black bread, Obatzter, sausage, gherkin, and radish. As tradition dictates, remember to also order Ein Mass Bier bitte! (A liter of beer please!) ### Munich's Best Beer Gardens #### Augustiner Keller Biergarten This is perhaps the most popular beer garden in Munich and certainly one of the largest. It is part of the Augustiner Keller restaurant, a few hundred meters from Hackerbrücke S-bahn station, or 5–6 minutes from the Hauptbahnhof. The main garden is separated half between where you can bring your own food and half where you buy food from the beer garden. The leaves from countless horse chestnut trees provide a canopy covering, which adds to the dreamy atmosphere. #### Hofbräukeller am Wiener Platz Some of the best beer gardens are found away from the City Center. This one is a 15-minute walk (or take Tram No. 18 or 19 from the Hauptbahnhof) over the Isar River, past the Maximilianeum, to Wiener Platz, a delightful square well worth visiting. The beer garden attracts Münchners, as well as groups of British, Australian, and American expats. The staple beer garden chicken, fries, roast pork, and spare ribs are better here than most. #### Königlicher Hirschgarten With seating for 8,000, this is the biggest and most family-friendly beer garden in Munich. In a former royal hunting area outside the City Center, it takes a little time and effort to reach. Your best bet is to rent a bike and cycle there. The rewards are clear: surrounded by trees and green parkland, the tables and benches seem to go on forever. The food and beer is good and there is even a small deer sanctuary, lending the "Deer Park" its name. #### Park Café This is where trendsetters head for a more modern and sunny—there isn't much shade here—take on the traditional beer garden. Set in Munich's old botanical garden, five minutes from the Hauptbanhof, this medium-size beer garden regularly has DJs and other musical events in the evenings. It also has a good selection of cakes and a hip indoor bar. #### Seehaus im Englischen Garten Within Munich's very own oasis, the Englischer Garten, it was an inspired decision to build this beer garden next to a boating lake. A leisurely stroll through the garden to the Seehaus takes about an hour, but go early because it's popular after 11:30. Lots of people visit the Englischer Garten to play soccer and other sports, and if you want to join in you might want to pass on the roast dinner and instead snack on a Brezn (pretzel), Obatzter, and salad. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents City Center \| Royal Munich \| Schwabing and Maxvorstadt \| Outside the Center Munich is a wealthy city—and it shows. At times this affluence may come across as conservatism. But what makes Munich so unique is that it's a new city superimposed on the old. Hip neighborhoods are riddled with traditional locales, and flashy materialism thrives together with a love of the outdoors. ## City Center Munich's Old Town (Altstadt) has been rebuilt so often over the centuries that it no longer has the homogeneous look of so many other German towns. World War II leveled a good portion of the center, but an amazing job has been done to restore a bit of the fairy-tale feel that once prevailed here. Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Deutsches Museum (German Museum). Aircraft, vehicles, cutting-edge technology, historic machinery, and even a mine fill a monumental building on an island in the Isar River, which comprises one of the best science and technology museums in the world. The collection is spread out over 47,000 square meters, six floors of exhibits, and about 50 exhibition areas. The Centre for New Technologies includes interactive exhibitions, such as nanotechnology, biotechnology, and robotics. It could change the way you think about science forever. Children have their own area, the Kinderreich, where they can learn about modern technology and science through numerous interactive displays (parents must accompany their children). One of the most technically advanced planetariums in Europe has four shows daily. The Internet café on the third floor is open daily 9–3, other cafés until 4.TIP To arrange for a two-hour tour in English, call at least six weeks in advance. The Verkehrszentrum (Center for Transportation), on the former trade fair grounds at the Theresienhöhe, has been completely renovated and houses an amazing collection of the museum's transportation exhibits. \| Museumsinsel 1, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/21791 \| www.deutsches-museum.de \| Museum €8.50 \| Daily 9–5 \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn). Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). Munich's Dom (cathedral) is a distinctive late-Gothic brick structure with two huge towers. Each is 99 meters high, an important figure today because, in a nonbinding referendum, Münchners narrowly voted to restrict all new buildings to below this height within the city's middle ring road. The main body of the cathedral was completed in 20 years (1468–88)—a record time in those days—and the distinctive onion dome–like cupolas were added by 1525. Shortly after the original work was completed in 1688, Jörg von Halspach, the Frauenkirche's architect, died, but he became celebrated for the unique achievement of seeing through a project on such a scale from start to finish. The twin towers are easily the most recognized feature of the city skyline and a Munich trademark. In 1944–45, the building suffered severe damage during Allied bombing raids, and was restored between 1947 and 1957. Inside, the church combines most of von Halspach's plans, with a stark, clean modernity and simplicity of line, emphasized by slender, white octagonal pillars that sweep up through the nave to the tracery ceiling. As you enter the church, look on the stone floor for the dark imprint of a large foot—the Teufelstritt (Devil's Footprint). According to lore, the devil challenged von Halspach to build a church without windows. The architect accepted the challenge. When he completed the job, he led the devil to a spot in the bright church from which the 66-foot-high windows could not be seen. The devil triumphantly stomped his foot and left the Teufelstritt, only to be enraged when he ventured further inside and realized that windows had been included. The cathedral houses an elaborate 15th-century black-marble tomb guarded by four 16th-century armored knights. It's the final resting place of Duke Ludwig IV (1302–47), who became Holy Roman Emperor Ludwig the Bavarian in 1328. One of the Frauenkirche's great treasures is the collection of numerous wooden busts of the apostles, saints, and prophets above the choir, carved by the 15th-century Munich sculptor Erasmus Grasser. The observation platform high up in the south tower offers a splendid view of the city and the Alps. But beware, you must climb 86 steps to reach the tower elevator. \| Frauenpl. 2, City Center \| 089/290–0820 \| Cathedral free, tower €3 \| Tower closed until at least 2015 for renovation \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Marienplatz. Bordered by the Neues Rathaus, shops, and cafés, this square is named after the gilded statue of the Virgin Mary that has watched over it for more than three centuries. It was erected in 1638 at the behest of Elector Maximilian I as an act of thanksgiving for the city's survival of the Thirty Years War, the cataclysmic, partly religious struggle that devastated vast regions of Germany. When the statue was taken down from its marble column for cleaning in 1960, workmen found a small casket in the base containing a splinter of wood said to be from the cross of Christ. TIP On the fifth floor of a building facing the Neues Rathaus is Café Glockenspiel. It overlooks the entire square and provides a perfect view of the glockenspiel from the front and St. Peter's Church from the back terrace. Entrance is around the back. \| Bounded by Kaufingerstr., Rosenstr., Weinstr., and Dienerstr., City Center \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Michaelskirche (St. Michael's Church). A curious story explains why this hugely impressive Renaissance church, adjoining a former extensive Jesuit college, has no tower. Seven years after the start of construction, in 1583, the main tower collapsed. Its patron, pious Duke Wilhelm V, regarded the disaster as a heavenly sign that the church wasn't big enough, so he ordered a change in the plans—this time without a tower. Completed in 1597, the barrel vaulting of St. Michael's is second in size only to that of St. Peter's in Rome. The duke is buried in the crypt, along with 40 other Wittelsbach family members, including the eccentric King Ludwig II. A severe neoclassical monument in the north transept contains the tomb of Napoleon's stepson, Eugène de Beauharnais, who married a daughter of King Maximilian I and died in Munich in 1824. Once again a Jesuit church, it is the venue for free performances of church music. A poster to the right of the front portal gives the dates. \| Neuhauserstr. 6, City Center \| 089/231–7060 \| €2 crypt \| Mon. and Fri. 10–7, Tues.–Thurs. and Sat. 8–7, Sun. 7–10:15; closed during services \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Neues Rathaus (New Town Hall). Munich's present neo-Gothic town hall was built in three sections and two phases between 1867 and 1908. It was a nessesary enlargement on the nearby Old Town Hall, but city fathers also saw it as presenting Munich as a modern city, independent from the waning powers of the Bavarian Wittelsbach royal house. Architectural historians are divided over its merits, although its dramatic scale and lavish detailing are impressive. Perhaps the most serious criticism is that the Dutch and Flemish styles of the building seem out of place amid the baroque and rococo styles of parts of the Altstadt. The main tower's 1908-finished glockenspiel (a chiming clock with mechanical figures), the largest in Germany, plays daily at 11 am, noon, and 9 pm, with an additional performance at 5 pm March through October. As chimes peal out over the square, the clock's doors flip open and brightly colored dancers and jousting knights act out two events from Munich's past: a tournament held in Marienplatz in 1568 and the Schäfflertanz (Dance of the Coopers), which commemorated the end of the plague of 1515–17. TIP You, too, can travel up there, by elevator, to an observation point near the top of one of the towers. On a clear day the view across the city and the Alps behind is spectacular. \| Neues Rathaus, Marienpl. 8, City Center \| Tower €2.50 \| Nov.–Apr., weekdays 10–5; May–Oct., Mon.–Sun. 10–7 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church). The Altstadt's oldest parish church (called locally "Alter Peter," or "Old Peter") traces its origins to the 12th century, and has been restored in various architectural styles, including Gothic, baroque, and rococo. The rich baroque interior has a magnificent high altar and aisle pillars decorated with exquisite 18th-century figures of the apostles. In clear weather it's well worth the long climb up the approximately 300-foot-high tower, with a panoramic view of the Alps. \| Rindermarkt 1, City Center \| 089/260–4828 \| Tower €1.50 \| Summer, weekdays 9–6:30, weekends 10–6:30; winter, weekdays 9–5:30, weekends 10–5:30 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Viktualienmarkt (Victuals Market). The city's open-air market really is the beating heart of downtown Munich. It has just about every fresh fruit or vegetable you can imagine, as well as German and international specialties. All kinds of people come here for a quick bite, from well-heeled businesspeople and casual tourists to mortar- and paint-covered workers. It's also the realm of the garrulous, sturdy market women who run the stalls with dictatorial authority.TIP Whether here, or at a bakery, do not try to select your pickings by hand. Ask, and let it be served to you. Try Poseidon's for quality fish treats, Mercado Latino on the south side of the market for an empanada and fine wines from South America, or Freisinger for Bavarian and Mediterranean delights. There's also a great beer garden (open pretty much whenever the sun is shining), where you can enjoy your snacks with cold local beer. A sign above the counter tells you what's on tap. The choice rotates throughout the year among the six major Munich breweries, which are displayed on the maypole. These are also the only six breweries officially allowed to serve their wares at the Oktoberfest. \| 15 Viktualienmarkt, City Center \| Weekdays 10–6; Sat. 10–3 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). * * * Tips for Saving Money in Munich Prices for decent accommodations drop substantially when you choose a hotel outside the City Center. A small, nice suburban hotel will be clean, quiet, and often provide free parking either at its own lot or on a side street. To save money on meals, go to where the students eat. Take the U-bahn 3 or 6 past Odeonsplatz to Universität. At the back of the main university building is a solid block bordered by the parallel Amalienstrasse and Türkenstrasse, and Schellingstrasse to the south and Adalbertstrasse to the north. Along these streets are more than 35 eateries, restaurants, or bakeries with a few stand-up tables, all catering to the hundreds of students who come out of class throughout the day. * * * ### Worth Noting Alter Hof (Münchner Kaiserburg). The Alter Hof was the original medieval residence of the Wittelsbachs, the ruling dynasty of Bavaria, established in 1180. The palace now serves various functions. Its infopoint serves as a tourist information center for Bavaria's many castles. Beneath this, in the atmospheric late-Gothic vaulted hall of the Münchner Kaiserburg, there is a multimedia presentation about the palace's history. The west wing was previously home to the refined restaurant Vinorant Alter Hof; it's now closed, but rumor has it that another restaurant will take its place in 2014. \| Alter Hof 1, City Center \| 089/2101–4050 \| www.alter-hof-muenchen.de \| Infopoint: Mon.–Sat. 10–6 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). FAMILY \| Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). Much of the work on Munich's first town hall was done in the 15th century, though it had various alterations through the centuries. Its great hall—destroyed in 1943–45 but now fully restored—was the work of great architect Jörg von Halspach. Postwar the tower was rebuilt as it looked in the 15th century and now it's used for official receptions and is not usually open to the public. The tower provides a fairy-tale-like setting for the Spielzeugmuseum (Toy Museum), accessible via a winding staircase. Its toys, dolls, and teddy bears are on display, with a collection of Barbies from the United States. \| Marienpl. 15, City Center \| 089/294–001 for Spielzeugmuseum \| Museum €4 adults \| Daily 10–5:30 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Asamkirche (St.-Johann-Nepomuk-Kirche). Perhaps Munich's most ostentatious church, it has a suitably extraordinary entrance, framed by raw rock foundations. The insignificant door, crammed between its craggy shoulders, gives little idea of the opulence and lavish detailing within the small 18th-century church (there are only 12 rows of pews). Above the doorway St. Nepomuk, the 14th-century Bohemian monk and patron saint of Bavaria, who drowned in the Danube, is being led by angels from a rocky riverbank to heaven. The church's official name is Church of St. Johann Nepomuk, but it's known as the Asamkirche for its architects, the brothers Cosmas Damian and Egid Quirin Asam. The interior of the church is a prime example of true southern German late-baroque architecture. Frescoes by Cosmas Damian Asam and rosy marble cover the walls. The sheer wealth of statues and gilding is stunning—there's even a gilt skeleton at the sanctuary's portal. \| Sendlinger Str. 32, City Center \| Daily 9–5:30 \| Station: Sendlingertor (U-bahn). Deutsches Jagd- und Fischereimuseum (German Museum of Hunting and Fishing). This quirky museum is in the enormous former St. Augustus Church, and it contains the world's largest collection of fishhooks, some 500 stuffed animals (including a 6½-foot-tall North American grizzly bear), a 12,000-year-old skeleton of a deer found in Ireland, and a valuable collection of hunting weapons. You'll even find the mythical Wolpertinger, the Bavarian equivalent of the jackalope. The museum also sells fine hunting equipment, from knives and rifles to sturdy clothing. \| Neuhauserstr. 2, City Center \| 089/220–522 \| www.jagd-fischerei-museum.de \| €3.50 \| Fri.–Wed. 9:30–5, Thurs. 9:30–9 \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Off the Beaten Path: Klosterkirche St. Anna (Franciscan Monastery Church of St. Anne). This striking example of the two Asam brothers' work in the Lehel district impresses visitors with its sense of movement and heroic scale. The ceiling fresco from 1729 by Cosmas Damian Asam glows in all its original glory. The ornate altar was also designed by the Asam brothers. Towering over the delicate little church, on the opposite side of the street, is the neo-Romanesque bulk of the 19th-century parish church of St. Anne. TIP Stop at one of the stylish cafés, restaurants, and patisseries gathered at the junction of St.-Anna-Str. and Gewürzmühlstr., about 250 feet from the churches. \| St.-Anna-Str. 19, Lehel \| 089/211–260 \| Mon.–Sat. 8:30–11:45 and 2–5:45, Sun. 9:30–11:45 \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn); or Tram 17. Hauptbahnhof (Central Station). The train station isn't a cultural site, but it's a particularly handy starting point for exploring. The city tourist office here has maps and helpful information on events around town. On the underground level are all sorts of shops that remain open even on Sunday and holidays. There are also a number of places to get a late-night snack in and around the station. \| Bahnhofpl., Hauptbahnhof \| 089/1308–10555 \| www.hauptbahnhof-muenchen.de \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Jewish Center Munich (Jüdisches Zentrum). The striking new Jewish Center at St.-Jakobs-Platz has transformed a formerly sleepy area into an elegant, busy modern square. The buildings signify the return of the Jewish community to Munich's city center, six decades after the end of the Third Reich. The center includes a museum focusing on Jewish history in Munich (plus kosher café), and the impressive Ohel Jakob Synagogue (www.juedisches-museum-muenchen.de), with its rough slabs topped by a latticelike cover, manifesting a thought-provoking sense of permanence. The third building is a community center, which includes the kosher Einstein restaurant (www.einstein-restaurant.de). Guided tours of the synagogue are in great demand, so to see it, arrange a time weeks in advance (089/202400–100). \| St.-Jakobspl. 16, City Center \| 089/233–989–96096 \| www.ikg-m.de \| Museum €6; synagogue tour €5 \| Museum Tues.–Sun. 10–6; synagogue by appointment \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Karlsplatz. In 1728 Eustachius Föderl opened an inn and beer garden here, which, according to one theory, is why it became known as Stachus. The beer garden is long gone, but the name has remained—locals still refer to this busy intersection as Stachus. One of Munich's most popular fountains is here—it acts as a magnet on hot summer days, when city shoppers and office workers seek a place to relax. TIP In winter it makes way for an ice-skating rink. It's a bustling meeting point, more so since the complete renovation and extension of the underground shopping center in 2010–11. \| Karlspl. \| www.stachus-passagen.com \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Münchner Stadtmuseum (City Museum). On St.-Jakobs-Platz, this museum is as eclectic inside as the architecture is outside. The buildings, facing St.-Jakobs-Platz, originally date to the 15th century, though were destroyed by Allied bombs in 1944–45 and subsequently rebuilt. Recent extensive renovation has revitalized the City Museum, exemplified by its fabulous Typical Munich! exhibition, charting a riotous history few other city's can match: royal capital, brewery center, capital of art and classical music, and now wealthy, high-tech and cultural center par excellence. There is also a separate, permanent exhibtion dealing with the city's Nazi past. The museum is home to a film museum showing rarely screened movies, a puppet theater, while there are numerous photo and other temporary exhibitions. Checkout the museum shop, servus.heimat, with the great and good of Munich kitsch, and some pretty good Munich souvenirs. TIP Even the threat of sunshine makes it difficult to get a table outside the lively museum café on St.-Jakobs-Platz. Try the inner courtyard, which still catches the sun but can be less packed. \| St.-Jakobs-Pl. 1, City Center \| 089/2332–2370 \| www.stadtmuseum-online.de \| €4 (€6 special exhibitions), €1 Sun. \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Münzhof (Mint). Originally built between 1563 and 1567, the ground floor was home to Duke Albrecht V's stables, the second to living quarters for the servants, and the third for the ducal collection of high art and curiosities (6,000 pieces by 1600). Between 1809 and 1983 it was home to the Bavarian mint, and a neoclassical facade, with allegories to copper, silver, and gold, was added in 1808–09. Today, with its slightly garish green exterior on three sides, it can appear to be little more than the slightly undistinguished home to the Bavarian Land Bureau for the Conservation of Historic Monuments. But step inside the inner arcade to see a jewel of German Renaissance architecture. \| Hofgraben 4, City Center \| Entrance via Pfisterstr. \| Free \| Mon.–Thurs. 8–4, Fri. 8–2 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Royal Munich From the modest palace of the Alter Hof, the Wittelsbachs expanded their quarters northward, away from the jumble of narrow streets in the old quarter. Three splendid avenues radiated outward from their new palace and garden grounds, and fine homes arose along them. One of them—Prinzregentenstrasse—marks the southern edge of Munich's huge public park, the Englischer Garten, a present from the royal family to the locals. Lehel, an upmarket residential neighborhood that straddles Prinzregentenstrasse, plays host to one of Munich's most famous museums, the Haus der Kunst, as well as to some lesser-known but architecturally stunning museums. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Englischer Garten (English Garden). Bigger than New York's Central Park and London's Hyde Park, this seemingly endless green space blends into the open countryside at the north of the city. It was a former favorite royal hunting ground until partly opened to the public by Benjamin Thompson, later Count Rumford, a great American-British reformer and scientist. Born in Massachusetts, he left after siding with the British during the Revolutionary War. Thompson's Munich garden plans were expanded on and the park became a gift from Elector Karl Theodor to the people of Munich. Today's park covers more than 1,000 acres and has 78 km (48 miles) of paths, 8.5 km (5.2 miles) of streams, and more than 100 foot- and other bridges. The open, informal landscaping—reminiscent of the rolling parklands with which English aristocrats of the 18th century liked to surround their country homes—gave the park its name. It has a boating lake, four beer gardens, and a series of curious decorative and monumental constructions, including the Monopteros, a Greek temple designed by Leo von Klenze for King Ludwig I, and built in 1837 on an artificial hill in the southern section of the park. There are great sunset views of Munich from the Monopteros hill. In the center of the park's most popular beer garden is a Chinese pagoda, erected in 1790. It was destroyed during the war and then reconstructed.TIP The Chinese Tower beer garden is hugely popular, but the park has prettier places for sipping a beer: the Aumeister, for example, along the northern perimeter, is in an early-19th-century hunting lodge. At the Seehaus, on the shore of the Kleinhesseloher See (lake), choose between a smart restaurant or a cozy Bierstube (beer tavern) in addition to the beer garden right on the lake. The Englischer Garten is a paradise for joggers, cyclists, musicians, soccer players, sunbathers, and, in winter, cross-country skiers. The park has semi-official areas for nude sunbathing—the Germans have a positively pagan attitude toward the sun—so in some areas don't be surprised to see naked bodies bordering the flower beds and paths. \| Main entrances at various points on Prinzregentenstr. and Königinstr., City Center/Schwabing. Feldherrnhalle (Field Marshals' Hall). Erected in 1841–44, this open pavilion, fronted with three huge arches, was modeled on the 14th-century Loggia dei Lanzi in Florence. It opens the grand Ludwigstrasse (closed by the Siegestor) on Odeonsplatz, and was built to honor Bavarian military leaders and the Bavarian army. Two huge Bavarian lions are flanked by the larger-than-life statues of Count Johann Tserclaes Tilly, who led Catholic forces in the Thirty Years' War, and Prince Karl Philipp Wrede, hero of the 19th-century Napoleonic Wars. There's an astonishing photograph of a 25-year-old Adolf Hitler standing in front of the Feldherrnhalle on August 2, 1914, amid a huge crowd gathered to celebrate the beginning of World War I. The imposing structure was turned into a militaristic shrine in the 1930s and '40s by the Nazis, to whom it was significant because it marked the site of Hitler's abortive coup, or Putsch, in 1923 (today, there's a plaque on the ground, 20 meters from the lion on the left, commemorating the four policemen who were killed in the putsch attempt). During the Third Reich, all who passed it had to give the Nazi salute. Viscardigasse, a tiny alley behind the Feldherrnhalle, linking Residenzstrasse and Theatinerstrasse, and now lined with exclusive boutiques, was used by those who wanted to dodge the routine. Its nickname was Drückebergergassl, or Dodgers' Alley. \| South end of Odeonspl., Residenzstr. 1, City Center \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Haus der Kunst (House of Art). This colonnaded, classical-style building is one of Munich's most significant examples of Hitler-era architecture, and was officially opened as Haus der Deustchen Kunst (House of German Art) by the Führer himself. During the Third Reich it showed only work deemed to reflect the Nazi aesthetic. One of its most successful postwar exhibitions was devoted to works banned by the Nazis. It now hosts cutting-edge exhibitions on art, photography, and sculpture, as well as theatrical and musical happenings. After the departure to London's prestigious Tate Modern in October 2011 of the gallery's hugely successful director Chris Derkon, Nigerian-born (formerly U.S.-based) Okwui Enwezor has made a good start. The survival-of-the-chicest disco, P1, is in the building's west wing. \| Prinzregentenstr. 1, Lehel \| 089/2112–7113 \| www.hausderkunst.de \| Varies €5–€15 \| Mon.–Sun. 10–8, Thurs. 10–10 \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Hofbräuhaus. Duke Wilhelm V founded Munich's most famous brewery in 1589; it's been at its present location since 1808. As beer and restaurants became major players in the city's economy, it needed to be completely rebuilt and modernized in 1897. The last major work was its reconstruction in 1950 after its destruction in the war. Hofbräu means "court brewery," and the golden beer is poured in pitcher-size liter mugs. If the cavernous ground-floor hall is too noisy for you, there is a quieter restaurant upstairs. In this legendary establishment Americans, Australians, and Italians often far outnumber locals, who regard it as too much of a tourist trap. The brass band that performs here most days adds modern pop and American folk music to the traditional German numbers. \| Platzl 9, City Center \| 089/2913–6100 \| Daily 9–11:30 \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hofgarten (Court Garden). The formal court garden was once part of the royal palace grounds, dating back to at least the early 15th century. It's now bordered on two sides by arcades designed in the 19th century by court architect Leo von Klenze. On the east side of the garden is the state chancellery (office of the Bavarian Minister President), built in 1990–93 around the ruins of the 19th-century Army Museum and incorporating the remains of a Renaissance arcade. Bombed during World War II air raids, the museum stood untouched for almost 40 years as a reminder of the war. Critics were horrified that a former army museum building could be used to represent modern, democratic Bavaria, not to mention about the immense cost. In front of the chancellery stands one of Europe's most unusual—some say most effective—war memorials. Instead of looking up at a monument, you are led down to a sunken crypt covered by a massive granite block. In the crypt lies a German soldier from World War I. The crypt is a stark contrast to the memorial that stands unobtrusively in front of the northern wing of the chancellery: a simple cube of black marble bearing facsimiles of handwritten wartime manifestos by anti-Nazi leaders, including the youthful members of the White Rose resistance movement. TIP As you enter the garden from Odeonsplatz, take a look at the frescoes (drawn by art students 1826–29 and of varying degrees of quality) in the passage of the Hofgartentor with depictions from Bavarian history. \| Hofgartenstr., north of Residenz, City Center \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Residenz (Royal Palace). One of Germany's true treasures, Munich's royal Residenz (Residence) began in 1363 as the modest Neuveste (New Fortress) on the northeastern city boundary. By the time the Bavarian monarchy fell, in 1918, the palace could compare favorably with the best in Europe. The Wittelsbach dukes moved here when the tenements of an expanding Munich encroached on their Alter Hof. In succeeding centuries the royal residence developed according to the importance, requirements, and whims of its occupants. It came to include, for example, the Königsbau (on Max-Joseph-Platz); the Festsaal (Banquet Hall); the newly renovated Cuvilliés-Theater (Altes Residenztheater); the Allerheiligen-Hofkirche (All Saints' Church); and the adjoining Nationaltheater (Bavarian State Opera). Fire was one of the biggest fears for all citizens for centuries: in 1674, fire destroyed large parts of the palace on Residenzstr., while most of the Neuevest complex burned to the ground in 1750, including the theater. This meant a new court theater was needed, and the result was the incomparable rococo Cuvilliés-Theater. With the Residenz's central location, it was pretty much inevitable that the Allied bombing of 1944–45 would cause immense damage, and susbequent reconstruction took decades. For tourists today, however, it really is a treasure chamber of delight. To wander around the Residenz can last anywhere from 3 hours to all day. The 16th-century, 70-meter-long arched Antiquarium, built for Duke Albrecht V's collection of antiques and library, is recognized as one of the most impressive Renaissance creations outside Italy (today it's used chiefly for state receptions). There are a number of halls and courtyards that show concerts, from the postwar Neuer Herkulessaal to the outdoor Brunnenhof. And particular favorites for visitors are the re-creation of many private royal chambers and apartments. The accumulated Wittelsbach treasures are on view in several museums that comprise the Residenz. TIP All the different rooms, halls, galleries, chapels, and museums within the Residenzmuseum, as well as the Cuvilliés-Theater and Treasury, can be visited with a combination ticket that costs €13. \| Max-Joseph-Pl. 3, City Center \| 089/290–671 \| www.residenz-muenchen.de \| Museum and Treasury mid-Apr. –mid-Oct., daily 9–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 10–5 \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Schatzkammer (Treasury). The Schatzkammer comprises many hundreds of masterworks, including a host of treasures from the Wittelsbach royal crown jewels. A highlight is the crown belonging to Bavaria's first king, Maximilian I, created in Paris in 1806–07. The Schatzkammer collection has a staggering centerpiece—a renowned 50-cm-high Renaissance statue of St. George studded with diamonds, pearls, and rubies. \| 1a Residenzstr. \| €7, combined ticket with Residenzmuseum €11 \| Mid-Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 9–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 10–5. Residenzmuseum (Museum). The Residenzmuseum comprises everything in the Residenz apart from the Schatzkammer and the Cuvilliés-Theater. Paintings, tapestries, furniture, and porcelain are housed in various rooms and halls. Look out for the Grüne Galerie (Green Gallery), named after its green silk decoration, and the great and the good of the Wittelsbach royal family in the Ahnengalerie (Ancestral Gallery). Entrance on Max-Jospeh-Platz. \| Max-Koseph-Pl., Altstadt-Lehel \| €7 \| Mid-Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 9–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 10–5. Staatliche Münzsammlung (State Coin Collection). More than 300,000 coins, bank notes, medals and stones, some 5,000 years old, star in the Staatliche Münzsammlung. \| 1 Residenzstr. \| Entrance via Residenzstr. \| 089/227–221 \| €2.50, €1 Sun. \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Staatliche Sammlung Ägyptischer Kunst (State Collection of Egyptian Art). Various Bavarian rulers were fascinated with the ancient world and in the 19th century accumulated huge quantities of significant Egyptian treasures, part of which make up the Staatliche Sammlung Ägyptischer Kunst. In 2013 the collection moved from the Residenz to an impressive new building in Munich's superb Kunstareal (Art Quarter). \| Arcisstr. 16, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2892–7630 \| www.aegyptisches-museum-muenchen.de \| €7, Sun. €1 \| Wed.–Sun. 10–6, Tues. 10–8 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn). Cuvilliés-Theater (Bavarian State Opera). This stunning example of a rococo theater was originally built by court architet François Cuvilliés between 1751 and 1753 and it soon became the most famous in Germany. In 1781 it premiered Mozart's Idomeneo, commissioned by the Elector of Bavaria, Karl Theodor. The lavish rococo style went out of fashion with the emergence of the less ostentatious, more elegant period of 18th classicism. But in 1884 it became the first theater in Germany to be fitted out with electric lighting and in 1896 the first to have a revolving stage. As with so much of the Altstadt, it was destroyed during Allied bombing raids, although some of the original rococo decoration had been removed. In its place the New Residenztheater (now the Bavarian State Drama Theatre Company) was built (1948–51). In 1956–58, using some of the original rococo furnishings, Cuvilliés's lavish theater was rebuilt in its present location, at a corner of the Residenz's Apothekenhof (courtyard). After extensive restoration work, it reopened in 2008 with a performance of Idomeneo. It's home to the hugely respected Bavarian State Opera, led by American conductor Kent Nagano. \| Max-Joseph-Pl. 2 \| Enter via Residenzstr. 1 \| www.bayerische.staatsoper.de for opera tickets \| €3 to view the theater \| Closed during rehearsals. Theatinerkirche (St. Kajetan) (Theatine Church). This glorious baroque church owes its Italian appearance to its founder, Princess Henriette Adelaide of Savoy, who commissioned it in gratitude for the birth of her son and heir, Max Emanuel, in 1662. A native of Turin, the princess distrusted Bavarian architects and builders and thus summoned Agostino Barelli, a master builder from Bologna, to construct her church. It is modeled on Rome's Sant'Andrea della Valle. Barelli worked on the building for 12 years, but he was dismissed for being too quarrelsome. It was another 100 years before the building was finished in a style similar to today's. Its striking yellow facade stands out, and its two lofty towers, topped by delightful cupolas, frame the entrance, with the central dome at the back. The superb stuccowork on the inside has a remarkably light feeling owing to its brilliant white color.TIP The expansive Odeonsplatz in front of the Feldherrnhalle and Theatinerkirche is often used for outdoor stage events. \| Theatinerstr. 22, City Center \| 089/210–6960 \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Quick Bites: Tambosi. Open since 1775, Tambosi is Munich's longest-running café. As well as an impressive provenance, its location is superb, partly sitting in full view of Theatinerkirche on Odeonsplatz and partly in the Hofgarten. Watch the hustle and bustle of Munich's street life from an outdoor table in the city side, or retreat through a gate in the Hofgarten's western wall to the café's tree-shaded beer garden. If the weather is cool or rainy, find a corner in the cozy, eclectically furnished interior. \| Odeonspl. 18, City Center \| 089/298–322 \| www.tambosi.de. ### Worth Noting Archäologische Staatssammlung (Bavarian State Archaeological Collection). This is Bavaria's fascinating record of its prehistoric, Roman, and Celtic past. The perfectly preserved body of a ritually sacrificed young girl, recovered from a Bavarian peat moor, is among the more spine-chilling exhibits. Head down to the basement to see the fine Roman mosaic floor. \| Lerchenfeldstr. 2, Lehel \| 089/211–2402 \| www.archaeologie-bayern.de \| €1 \| Tues.–Sun. 9:30–5 \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn), Nationalmuseum (Tram). Bayerisches Nationalmuseum (Bavarian National Museum). Although the museum places emphasis on Bavarian cultural history, it has art and artifacts of international importance and regular exhibitions that attract worldwide attention. The museum is a journey through time, principally from the early Middle Ages to the 20th century, with medieval and Renaissance wood carvings, works by the great Renaissance sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider, tapestries, arms and armor, a unique collection of Christmas crèches (the Krippenschau), Bavarian and German folk art and a significant Jugendstil collection. \| Prinzregentenstr. 3, Lehel \| 089/211–2401 \| www.bayerisches-nationalmuseum.de \| €7 combined ticket for museum and Bollert collection, €1 Sun. \| Tues., Wed., Fri.–Sun. 10–5, Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn). DenkStätte Weisse Rose (Memorial to the White Rose Resistance Group). Siblings Hans and Sophie Scholl, fellow students Alexander Schmorell and Christian Probst, and Kurt Huber, professor of philosophy, were the key members of the Munich-based resistance movement against the Nazis in 1942–43 known as the Weisse Rose (White Rose). All were executed by guillotine. A small exhibition about their work is in the inner quad of the university, where the Scholls were caught distributing leaflets and denounced by the janitor. \| Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität, Geschwister-Scholl-Pl. 1, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2180–3053 \| Free \| Nov.–Mar., weekdays 10–4; Apr.–Oct., Sat. 11:30–2:30 \| Station: Universität (U-bahn). Kunsthalle der Hypo-Kulturstiftung (Hall of the Hypobank's Cultural Foundation). Chagall, Giacometti, Picasso, and Gauguin are among the artists featured in the past at this highly regarded exhibition hall in the middle of the commercial pedestrian zone, within the upscale Fünf Höfe shopping mall, designed by the Swiss architect team Herzog and de Meuron, who also designed London's Tate Modern. Exhibitions at the Kunsthalle rarely disappoint, making it one Germany's most interesting exhibition venues. It often works in cooperation with international institutes of the highest repute, such as in its 2010 version of London's Victorian & Albert Museum Maharja exhibition. The accompanying Cafe Kunsthalle is a destination for exhibition visitors and general public alike. The very good main menu changes weekly, though it's worth a visit just for the cakes. \| Theatinerstr. 8, City Center \| 089/224–412 \| www.hypo-kunsthalle.de \| Varies but usually around €10 \| Daily 10–8; Cafe Kunsthalle weekdays 8:30–8, Sat. 9–8, Sun. 10–8 \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Ludwigskirche (Ludwig's Church). Planted halfway along the stark, neoclassical Ludwigstrasse is this superb twin-towered Byzantine- and Italian-influenced church, built between 1829 and 1838 at the behest of King Ludwig I to provide his newly completed suburb with a parish church. From across the other side of the road, look up to see the splendidly colored, 2009-finished mosaic on the church's roof. Inside, see one of the great modern frescoes, the Last Judgment by Peter von Cornelius, in the choir. At 60 feet by 37 feet, it's also one of the world's largest. \| Ludwigstr. 20, Maxvorstadt \| 089/287–7990 \| Daily 7–7 \| Station: Universität (U-bahn). Maximilianstrasse. Munich's most expensive and exclusive shopping street was named after King Maximilian II, who wanted to break away from the Greek-influenced classical architecture favored by his father, Ludwig I. He thus created this broad boulevard lined with majestic buildings culminating on a rise above the river Isar at the stately Maximilianeum. Finished in 1874, this building was conceived as an elite education foundation for the most talented young people across Bavaria, regardless of status or wealth. It is still home to an education foundation, but its principle role is as the grand, if slightly confined, home to the Bavarian state parliament. TIP Rather than take the tram to see the Maximilianeum, the whole walk along Maximilianstrasse (from Max-Joesph-Platz) is rewarding. You'll pass various boutiques, plus the five-star Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten, the Upper Bavarian Parliament, the Museum für Völkerkunde (State Museum of Ethnology) and cross the picturesque river Isar. Five minutes past the Maximilianeum, on the charming Wiener Platz, is the Hofbräukeller and its excellent beer garden. \| Maximilianstrasse \| Station: Maximilianeum (Tram). Museum Villa Stuck. This dramatic neoclassical villa is the former home of one of Germany's leading avant-garde artists from the turn of the 20th century, Franz von Stuck (1863–1928). His work, at times haunting, frequently erotic, and occasionally humorous, covers the walls of the ground-floor rooms. Stuck was prominent in the Munich art Secession (1892), though the museum is today famous for its fabulous Jugendstil (art nouveau) collections. The museum also features the artist's former quarters as well as special exhibits. \| Prinzregentenstr. 60, Haidhausen \| 089/455–5510 \| www.villastuck.de \| €9 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6 (1st Fri. of month till 10) \| Station: Prinzregentenplatz (U-bahn). Nationaltheater (National Theater). Bavaria's original National Theater at Max-Joseph-Platz didn't last long. Though opened in 1818, in 1823, before it was completely finished, it burned to the ground. It had been rebuilt by 1825 with its eight-column portico, and went on to premiere Richard Wagner's world-famous Tristan und Isolde (1865), Meistersinger von Nürnberg (1868), Rheingold (1869), and Walküre (1870). Allied bombs destroyed much of the interior in 1943, and its facade and elements of its interior were rebuilt as it was prewar. It finally reopened in 1963. Today, it is one of Europe's largest opera houses and contains some of the world's most advanced stage technologies. Moreover, as the principle home to the Bavarian State Opera, it is considered one of the world's outstanding opera houses. \| Max-Joseph-Pl. 2, City Center \| 089/218–501 for tickets \| www.bayerische.staatsoper.de \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Sammlung Schack (Schack-Galerie). Around 180 German 19th-century paintings from the Romantic era up to the periods of Realism and Symbolism make up the collections of the Sammlung Schack, originally the private collection of Count Adolf Friedrich von Schack.TIP A day ticket to the state museums of the three Pinakotheks, Brandhorst, and Sammlung Schack costs €12. \| Prinzregentenstr. 9, Lehel \| 089/2380–5224 \| www.sammlungschack.de \| €4, €1 Sun. \| Wed.–Sun. 10–6 (1st and 3rd Wed. of the month till 8) \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn). * * * A Brief History of Bavaria For most visitors, Bavaria, with its own sense of Gemütlichkeit, beer gardens, quaint little villages, and culturally rich cities, is often seen as the quintessence of Germany. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Of the 16 German Länder, as the German federal states are called, none is more fiercely independent than Bavaria. In fact, it was an autonomous dukedom and later kingdom until 1871, when it was incorporated into the German nation state. For Bavarians, anything beyond the state's borders remains foreign territory. The state has its own anthem and its own flag, part of which—the blue-and-white lozenges in the center—has virtually become a regional trademark symbolizing quality and tradition. Bavarian politicians discussing the issue of Europe in speeches will often refer to Bavaria almost as if it were a national state. They inevitably call it by its full official name: Freistaat Bayern, or simply "der Freistaat," meaning "the Free State." The term was coined by Kurt Eisner, Minister President of the Socialist government that rid the land of the Wittelsbach dynasty in 1918. It is simply a German way of saying republic—a land governed by the people. Bavaria's status as a republic is mentioned in the first line of the separate Bavarian constitution that was signed under the aegis of the American occupation forces in 1946. Bavaria is not the only Freistaat in Germany, a fact not too many Germans are aware of. Thuringia and Saxony also boast that title. But the Bavarians are the only ones who make such a public point of it. As they say, clocks in Bavaria run differently. Now you know why. —Marton Radkai * * * Siegestor (Victory Arch). Built to bookend the Feldherrnhalle and mark the end of Ludwigstrasse, Siegestor nowadays also marks the beginning of Leopoldstrasse. Unsurprisingly, it has Italian origins and was modeled on the Arch of Constantine in Rome, and was built (1849) to honor the achievements of the Bavarian army during the Wars of Liberation (1813–15) against Napoléon. It received heavy bomb damage in 1944, and at the end of the war Munich authorities decided it should be torn down for safety reasons. Major Eugene Keller, the head of the U.S. military government in the postwar city intervened and saved it. Its postwar inscription on the side facing the inner city is best translated as: "dedicated to victory, destroyed by war, a monument to peace."\|Intersection of Leopoldstr. and Shackstr., Maxvorstadt \| Station: Universität (U-bahn). Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde (State Museum of Ethnology). Arts and crafts from around the world are displayed in this extensive museum. There are also regular special exhibits. \| Maximilianstr. 42, Altstadt-Lehel \| 089/2101–36100 \| www.voelkerkundemuseum-muenchen.de \| €5, €1 Sun. \| Tues.–Sun. 9:30–5:30 \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn), Maxmonument (Tram). ## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt Some of the finest museums in Europe are in lower Schwabing and Maxvorstadt, particularly the Kunstareal (Art Quarter), crossing Barer Strasse and Theresienstrasse. Schwabing, the former artists' neighborhood, is no longer quite the bohemian area where such diverse residents as Lenin and Kandinsky were once neighbors, but the cultural foundations of Maxvorstadt are immutable. Where the two areas meet, in the streets behind the university, life hums with a creative vibrancy probably only matched in the Gärtnerplatz-Glockenbach areas. The difficult part is having time to see it all. Head east or west of Leopoldstrasse to explore the side streets: around Wedekindplatz near Münchner Freiheit, a few hundred yards from the Englischer Garten, or enjoy the shops and cafés in the student quarter to the west of Leopoldstrasse. On Sunday, €1 gets you admission to all three of the fantastic Pinakothek museums and Museum Brandhorst. As for snacks along the way as you explore, Elisabethmarkt is the place to pick up a quick bite to eat or to relax with a beer in the small beer garden. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Alte Pinakothek. With numerous Old Master paintings from the Netherlands, Italy, France, and Germany, the long redbrick Alte Pinakothek holds one of the most significant art collections in the world. It was originally constructed by Leo von Klenze between 1826 and 1836 to exhibit the collection of 14th- to 18th-century works (started by Duke Wilhelm IV in the 16th century). Wittelsbach rulers through the centuries were avid collectors and today the collection comprises about 700 pieces. Among the European masterpieces on view are paintings by Dürer, Titian, Rembrandt, da Vinci, Rubens (the museum has one of the world's largest Rubens collections), and two celebrated Murillos. Most of the picture captions are in German only, so it is best to rent an English audio guide, although the audio tour does not cover every painting. Nevertheless, this museum is not to be missed. Along with the Pinakothek der Moderne, Neue Pinakothek, and Museum Brandhorst, the Alter Pinakothek forms a central part of Munich's world-class Kunstareal. Museums and collections here are of the highest quality, and are a few hundred meters apart. TIP To save money, get a Tageskarte, which provides entry to all these museums (plus the Schack Gallery, in Lehel) for just €12. \| Barerstr. 27(entrance facing Theresienstr.), Maxvorstadt \| 089/2380–5216 \| www. pinakothek.de \| €9, €1 Sun. \| Wed.–Sun. 10–6, Tues. 10–8 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn). Königsplatz. Bavaria's greatest monarch, Ludwig I, was responsible for Munich in the 19th century becoming known as Athens on the Isar, and the impressive buildings designed by Leo von Klenze that line this elegant and expansive square bear testement to his obsession with antiquity. The two templelike structures facing one another are now the Antikensammlungen (an acclaimed collection of Greek and Roman antiquities) and the Glyptothek (a fine collection of Greek and Roman statues) museums. During the Third Reich, this was a favorite parade ground for the Nazis, and it was paved over for that purpose in the 1930s. Although today a busy road passes through it, Munich authorities ensured the square returned to the more dignified appearance intended by Ludwig I. Today, the broad green lawns in front of the museums attract students and tourists in the warmer months, who gather for concerts, films, and other events. TIP The area around here, focused on Briennerstrasse, became the national center of the Nazi Party in the 1930s and '40s, with various buildings taken over or built by Nazi authorities. Nazi headquarters—the Brown House—was between Königsplatz and the obelisk at Karolinenplatz. Destroyed in the war, the new Munich Documentation Centre for the History of National Socialism is due to open here in 2014. On Arcisstrasse 12 is the Nazi-era building (now a music school) where in 1938 Britain's Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, infamously thought he had negotiated "peace in our time" with Hitler. \| 1 Königspl., Maxvorstadt \| 089/5998–8830 for Antikensammlungen, 089/286–100 for Glyptothek \| Both €3.50; combination card €5.50 \| Antikensammlungen: Thurs.–Tue. 10–5, Wed. 10–8. Glyptothek: Fri.–Wed. 10–5; Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn). Museum Brandhorst. This multicolor abstract box is filled with videos, painting, sculptures, and installations by artists such as Andy Warhol, Damien Hirst, Gerhard Richter, and Joseph Beuys, and is a real treat for contemporary art fans. The location in the middle of the historic Kunstareal art district, although shocking to some less progressive art aficionados, highlighted that the city has broken out of the shackles of its postwar conservatism. TIP Königsplatz U-Bahn is a simple way to get to the Kunstareal, though it involves a pleasant 15-minute walk. Tram No. 27 takes you directly from Karlsplatz to the Pinakothek stop, in the heart of the Kunstareal. \| Theresienstr. 35a, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2380–52286 \| www.museum-brandhorst.de \| €7, €1 Sun. \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn), Pinakotheken (Tram). Fodor's Choice \| Neue Pinakothek. Another museum packed with masters, the fabulous Neue Pinakothek reopened in 1981 to house the royal collection of modern art left homeless and scattered after its original building was destroyed in the war. The exterior of the modern building mimics an older one with Italianate influences. The interior offers a magnificent environment for picture gazing, partly owing to the natural light flooding in from skylights. French impressionists—Monet, Degas, Manet—are all well represented, while the comprehensive collection also includes great Romantic landscape painters Turner and Caspar David Friedrich, and other artists of the caliber of Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Monet. This is another must-see. \| Barerstr. 29, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2380–5195 \| www.neue-pinakothek.de \| €7, €1 Sun. \| Wed. 10–8, Thurs.–Mon. 10–6 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn), Pinakotheken (Tram). Pinakothek der Moderne. Opened to much fanfare in 2002, this fascinating, light-filled building is home to four outstanding museums under one cupola-topped roof: art, graphic art, architecture, and design. The striking 12,000-meter-square glass-and-concrete complex by Stefan Braunfels has permanent and temporary exhibitions throughout the year in each of the four categories. The design museum is particularly popular, showing permanent exhibitions in vehicle design, computer culture, and design ideas. \| Barerstr. 40, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2380–5360 \| www.pinakothek.de \| €10, €1 Sun. \| Tues., Wed., Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn), Pinakotheken (Tram). Quick Bites: Brasserie Tresznjewski. A good spot, especially if you're visiting the neighboring Pinakothek museums, the ever-popular Brasserie Tresznjewski serves an eclectic menu, well into the wee hours. \| Theresienstr. 72, corner of Barerstr., Maxvorstadt \| 089/282–349 \| www.tresznjewski.com \| Sun.–Thurs. 8–1, Fri. and Sat. 8–2. Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus. Art aficionados were waiting in anticipation for the reopening of this exquisite late-19th-century Florentine-style villa, the former home and studio of the artist Franz von Lenbach (1836–1904). In the middle of the 19th century, Munich was one of the most important art centres in Europe, and in the 1880s, Lenbach was one of the most famous artists in Germany. He painted Germany's Chancellor Bismarck around 80 times. Nowadays, Lenbachhaus is home to the stunning assemblage of art from the early-20th-century Blaue Reiter (Blue Rider) group: Kandinsky, Klee, Jawlensky, Macke, Marc, and Münter. Indeed, only New York's Guggenheim comes close to holding as many works from a group that was at the forefront in the development of abstract art. There are also vivid pieces from the New Objectivity movement, and a variety of local Munich artists are represented here. Renowned British architecture firm Foster+Partners was commissioned with the renovation work, and crucially to design a new building on the grounds. Now with the addition of a significant Joseph Beuys collection, its new gallery and renovated exhibition spaces were met with great acclaim on the museum's unveiling in spring 2013. TIP The adjoining Kunstbau (art building) within the Königsplatz U-Bahn station hosts changing exhibitions of modern art. \| Luisenstr. 33, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2333–2000 \| www.lenbachhaus.de \| €10 \| Tues. 10–9, Wed.–Sun. 10–8 \| Station: Königsplatz (U-bahn). ### Worth Noting Dreifaltigkeitskirche (Church of the Holy Trinity). Take a quick look at this characteristic church built to commemorate Bavaria's part in the Spanish War of Succession. A further motivation for its construction was a prophecy from the devout Maria Anna Lindmayr that if the city survived the war intact and a church was not erected in thanks the city was doomed. The city was saved and a church was built between 1711 and 1718. It has a striking baroque exterior, and its interior is brought to life by frescoes by Cosmas Damian Asam depicting various heroic scenes. Remarkably, it is the only church in the city's Altstadt spared destruction in the war. \| Pacellistr. 6, City Center \| 089/290–0820 \| Daily 7–7, except during services \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Elisabethmarkt (Elisabeth Market). Founded in 1903, Schwabing's permanent outdoor market is smaller than the more famous Viktualienmarkt, but hardly less colorful. It has a pocket-size beer garden, where a jazz band performs Saturday in summer. \| Elisabethpl., Arcisstr. and Elisabethstr., Schwabing \| Weekdays 10–6, Sat. 10–3 \| Station: Josephsplatz (U-bahn), Elisabethplatz (Tram). ## Outside the Center ### Top Attractions Oktoberfest Grounds at Theresienwiese. The site of Munich's famous Oktoberfest and the winter version of the city's Tollwood music, art, and food festival (it's at the Olympic area in summer) is a 10-minute walk from the Hauptbahnhof, or one stop on the subway (U-4 or U-5). The enormous exhibition ground is named after Princess Therese von Sachsen-Hildburghausen, who celebrated her marriage to future King Ludwig I here in 1810 with thousands of Münchners. The event was such a success that it became an annual celebration that has now grown into a 16-day international beer and fair-ride bonanza attracting more than 6 million people each year (it is the Oktoberfest because it always ends on the first Sunday in October). \| Theresienwiese, Ludwigvorstadt-Isarvorstadt \| Station: Theresienwiese (U-bahn). Bavaria Statue. Overlooking the Theresienwiese, home of the Oktoberfest, is a 19th-century hall of fame (Ruhmeshalle) featuring busts of famous Bavarian scientists, artists, engineers, generals, and philosophers, and a monumental bronze statue of the maiden Bavaria. Unsurprisingly, it was commissioned by the art- and architecture-obsessed King Ludwig I, though not finished before his abdication in 1848. The Bavaria is more than 60 feet high and at the time was the largest bronze figure since antiquity. The statue is hollow, and an initial 48 steps take you up to its base. Once inside, there are 66 steps to her knee, and a further 52 all the way into the braided head, the reward being a view of Munich through Bavaria's eyes. \| Theresienhöhe 16 \| €3.50 \| Apr.–Oct. 15, daily 9–6 (till 8 during Oktoberfest). FAMILY \| Olympiapark (Olympic Park). Built for the 1972 Olympic Games on the staggering quantities of rubble delivered from the war-time destruction of Munich, the Olympiapark was—and still is—considered an architectural and landscape wonder. The jewel in the crown is the Olympic Stadium, former home of Bayern Munich soccer team. With its truly avant-garde sweeping canopy roof, winding its way across various parts of the complex, it was an inspired design for the big events of the 1972 Olympic Games. Tragically, a bigger event relegated what was heading to be the most successful Games to date to the sidelines. It was from the adjacent accommodation area that a terrorist attack on the Israeli team began, eventually leaving 17 people dead. Unlike many former Olympic sites around the world, today the area is heavily used and is home to numerous events, such as the summer Tollwood festival, concerts, sporting events, and it is a haven for joggers and people just wishing to relax. Tours of the park are conducted on a Disneyland-style train throughout the day. For the more adventurous, how about climbing the roof of the Olympic Stadium and rappelling down? For the best view of the whole city and the Alps, take the elevator up the 955-foot Olympiaturm (Olympic Tower) or try out the revolving Michelin-starred Restaurant 181 on the same level. \| Spiridon-Louis-Ring, Milbertshofen \| 089/3509–48181 for restaurant \| www.olympiapark-muenchen.de \| Stadium tour €7.50; tower €5.50 \| Tour schedules vary; call ahead for departure times \| Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn). Schloss Nymphenburg. This glorious baroque and rococo palace, the largest of its kind in Germany, draws around 500,000 visitors a year; only the Deustches Museum is more popular in Munich. The palace grew in size and scope over more than 200 years, beginning as a summer residence built on land given by Prince Ferdinand Maria to his beloved wife, Henriette Adelaide, on the occasion of the birth of their son and heir, Max Emanuel, in 1663. The princess hired the Italian architect Agostino Barelli to build both the Theatinerkirche and the palace, which was completed in 1675 by his successor, Enrico Zuccalli. It represents a tremendous high point of Italian cultural influence, in what is undoubtedly Germany's most Italian city. Within the original building, now the central axis of the palace complex, is the magnificent Steinerner Saal (Great Hall). It extends over two floors and is richly decorated with stucco and grandiose frescoes by masters such as Francois Cuvilliés the Elder and Johann Baptist Zimmermann. In summer, chamber-music concerts are given here. One of the surrounding royal chambers houses Ludwig I's famous Schönheitsgalerie (Gallery of Beauties). The walls are hung from floor to ceiling with portraits of women who caught the roving eye of Ludwig, among them a shoemaker's daughter and Lady Jane Ellenborough, the scandal-thriving English aristocrat. Lady Jane's affair with Ludwig, however, was a minor dalliance compared with the adventures in Munich of the most famous female on the walls here. Lola Montez was born in Ireland and passed herself off as a Spanish dancer during a tour of Europe's major cities, during which time she became the mistress of Franz Liszt and later Alexandre Dumas. Montez arrived in Munich in 1846 and so enchanted King Ludwig I that she became his closest advisor, much to the chagrin of his ministers and many Münchners. With revolution in the air across France and the German lands in 1848, Bavaria's greatest monarch abdicated rather than be told whom he could and could not appoint as his advisor. And Lola? She left Munich and left the king for adventures in the U.S., where she eventually died. The palace is in a park laid out in formal French style, with low hedges and gravel walks extending into woodland. Among the ancient tree stands are three fascinating pavilions. The Amalienburg hunting lodge is a rococo gem built by François Cuvilliés. The detailed stucco work of the little Amalienburg creates an atmosphere of courtly high life, making clear that the pleasures of the chase did not always take place outdoors. Of the lodges, only Amalienburg is open in winter. In the lavishly appointed kennels you'll see that even the dogs lived in luxury. The Pagodenburg was built for slightly informal royal tea parties. Its elegant French exterior disguises an Asian-influenced interior, in which exotic teas from India and China were served. Swimming parties were held in the Badenburg, Europe's first post-Roman heated pool. Take Tram No. 17 or Bus No. 51 from the city center to the Schloss Nymphenburg stop. \| Schloss Nymphenburg, Nymphenburg \| 089/179–080 \| www.schloss-nymphenburg.de \| Schloss Nymphenburg complex (combined ticket includes Marstallmuseum and Museum Nymphenburger Porzellan): Apr.–mid-Oct. €11.50; mid-Oct.–Mar. €8.50 \| Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 9–6; mid-Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4. Marstallmuseum & Porzellan Manufaktur Nymphenburg (Museum of Royal Carriages & Porcelain Manufacturer Nymphenburg). Nymphenburg contains so much of interest that a day hardly provides enough time. Don't leave without visiting the former royal stables, now the Marstallmuseum. It houses a fleet of vehicles, including an elaborately decorated sleigh in which King Ludwig II once glided through the Bavarian twilight, flaming torches lighting the way. Also exhibited in the Marstallmuseum are examples of the world-renowned Nymphenburg porcelain, which has been produced on the palace grounds since 1761. TIP Nymphenburg porcelain has dedicated stores at Odeonsplatz and in the luxurious Bayerischer Hof hotel (Promenadeplatz), but it is also available at numerous other retailers around the city. \| 208 Schloss Nymphenburg, Nymphenburg \| 089/179–080 Schloss Nymphenburg \| €4.50 \| Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 9–6; mid-Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4 Museum Mensch und Natur (Museum of Man and Nature). This popular museum in the north wing of Schloss Nymphenburg has nothing to do with the Wittelsbachs but is one of the palace's major attractions. The Museum Mensch und Natur concentrates on three areas of interest: the variety of life on Earth, the history of humankind, and our place in the environment. Main exhibits include a huge representation of the human brain and a chunk of Alpine crystal weighing half a ton. \| Schloss Nymphenburg, Nymphenburg \| 089/179–5890 \| www.musmn.de \| €3, Sun. €1 \| Tues., Wed., Fri. 9–5, Thurs. 9–8, weekends 10–6. ### Worth Noting FAMILY \| Bavaria Filmstadt. For real movie buffs, Munich has its own Hollywood-like neighborhood, the Geiselgasteig, in the affluent Grünwald district, on the southern outskirts of the city. A number of notable films, such as Das Boot (The Boat) and Die Unendliche Geschichte (The Neverending Story), were made here. It was also here that in 1925 British filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock shot his first film, The Pleasure Garden. There are a number of tours and shows, and extra events for kids. \| Bavaria Filmpl. 7, Geiselgasteig \| 089/6499–2000 \| www.filmstadt.de \| Tour €12.50 \| Daily 9–6; English tour daily at 1. BMW Museum. Munich is the home of the famous BMW car company. The circular tower of its museum is one of the defining images of Munich's modern cityscape. It contains not only a dazzling collection of BMWs old and new but also items and exhibitions relating to the company's social history and its technical developments. It's a great place to stop in if you're at the Olympiapark already. \| Am Olympiapark 2, Milbertshofen \| 089/1250–16001 for tours \| www.bmw-welt.com \| BMW Museum €9, €12 tour; BMW Welt free \| BMW Museum, Tues.–Sun. 10–6; BMW Welt, daily 7:30 am–11 pm \| Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn). BMW Welt. Opened in 2007, the cutting-edge design of BMW Welt, with its sweeping, futuristic facade, is just one structure helping to overcome the conservative image Munich has had in the realm of architecture since 1945. Even if you have just a passing interest in cars and engines, this is the place to see. This is also where around 15,000 of the firm's cars are handed over to customers every year. It is already one of the most popular must-sees in the city, averaging 2 million visitors a year since opening. As well as tours of the building, there are readings, concerts, and exhibitions. Tours can only be booked via telephone or email. The adjacent BMW factory can be toured on weekdays. Registration for plant tours (which last a maximum of 2½ hours) is only possible in advance via phone. The tours start (from 4 o'clock) and finish at the information counter at BMW Welt. Due to plant reconstruction, the tour does not include the car assembly area, which also means there is no wheelchair access at present. TIP Reserve at least two weeks in advance for all tours. \| BMW Welt, Am Olympiapark 1, Milbertshofen \| 01802/118–822 for tours \| [email protected] for tours \| www.bmw-plant-munich.com \| BMW Welt tour €7; factory tour €8 \| Mon.–Sat. 9–6, Sun. 10–6 \| Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn). Botanischer Garten (Botanical Garden). On the northern edge of Schloss Nymphenburg, this collection of 14,000 plants, including orchids, cacti, cycads, Alpine flowers, and rhododendrons, makes up one of the most extensive botanical gardens in Europe. Take Tram No. 17 from the city center. \| Menzingerstr. 65, Nymphenburg \| 089/1786–1350 \| www.botmuc.de \| €4 \| Garden: Nov.–Jan. daily 9–4:30; Feb., Mar., and Oct., daily 9–5; Apr. and Sept., daily 9–6; May–Aug., daily 9–7. Hothouses close 30 mins early. Deutsches Museum Flugwerft Schleissheim. Connoisseurs of airplanes and flying machines will appreciate this magnificent offshoot of the Deutsches Museum, some 20 km (12 mi) north of the city center. It's an ideal complement to a visit to Schloss Schleissheim. TIP A combination ticket with the Deutsches Museum costs €15. \| Effnerstr. 18, Oberschleissheim \| 089/315–7140 \| www.deutsches-museum.de/flugwerft \| €6, combined ticket with Deutsches Museum and Verkehrszentrum (Travel Museum) €15 \| Daily 9–5 \| Station: Oberschleissheim (S-bahn). Neues Schloss Schleissheim (Schleissheim Palace). Duke Wilhelm V found the perfect peaceful retreat outside Munich, and in 1598 built what is now known as the Altes Schloss Schleissheim (Schleissheim Old Palace). In 1685 Elector Max Emanuel added Lustheim, which houses one of Germany's most impressive collections of Meissen porcelain, and at the beginning of the 18th century the Neues Schloss Schleissheim (Schleissheim New Palace). Take the S-bahn Line No. 1 to Oberschleissheim station and then walk about 15 minutes or take Bus No. 292 (no weekend service). \| Maximilianshof 1, Oberschleissheim \| 089/315–8720 \| www.schloesser-schleissheim.de \| Combined ticket for 3 palaces €8 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. FAMILY \| Tierpark Hellabrunn. On the Isar, just upstream from the city, this attractive zoo has many parklike enclosures but a minimum of cages. This zoo is slightly different from most others in that it's a self-styled nature reserve, and it follows a concept called Geo-Zoo, which means care has been taken to group animals according to their natural and geographical habitats. Critics of the concept of zoos won't agree, but supporters appreciate the extra attention to detail. As well as the usual tours, there are also nighttime guided tours with special night-vision equipment (call ahead of time). The huge zoo area also includes restaurants and children's areas, and some of the older buildings are in typical Jugendstil (art nouveau) style. From Marieneplatz, take U-bahn Line No. 3 to Thalkirchen, at the southern edge of the city. \| Tierparkstr. 30, Thalkirchen \| 089/625–080 \| www.tierpark-hellabrunn.de \| €12 \| Late Mar.–late Oct., daily 9–6; late Oct.–Mar., daily 9–5 \| Station: Thalkirchen (U-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents City Center \| Royal Munich \| Schwabing and Maxvorstadt \| Leopoldvorstadt \| Haidhausen Munich claims to be Germany's gourmet capital. It certainly has an inordinate number of fine restaurants, but you won't have trouble finding a vast range of options in both price and style. Typical, more substantial dishes in Munich include Tellerfleisch, boiled beef with freshly grated horseradish and boiled potatoes on the side, served on wooden plates. Among roasts, Sauerbraten (beef) and Schweinebraten (roast pork) are accompanied by dumplings and sauerkraut. Hax'n (ham hocks) are roasted until they're crisp on the outside and juicy on the inside. They are served with sauerkraut and potato puree. Game in season (venison or boar, for instance) and duck are served with potato dumplings and red cabbage. As for fish, the region has not only excellent trout, served either smoked as an hors d'oeuvre or fried or boiled as an entrée, but also the perchlike Rencke from Lake Starnberg. You'll also find soups, salads, casseroles, hearty stews, and a variety of baked goods—including pretzels. For dessert, indulge in a bowl of Bavarian cream, apple strudel, or Dampfnudel, a fluffy leavened-dough dumpling usually served with vanilla sauce. The generic term for a snack is Imbiss, and thanks to growing internationalism you'll find a huge variety, from the generic Wiener (hot dogs) to the Turkish döner kebab sandwich (pressed and roasted lamb, beef, or chicken). Almost all butcher shops and bakeries offer some sort of Brotzeit, which can range from a modest sandwich to a steaming plate of goulash with potatoes and salad. Some edibles come with social etiquette attached. The Weisswurst, a tender minced-veal sausage—made fresh daily, steamed, and served with sweet mustard and a crisp roll or a pretzel—is a Munich institution and, theoretically, should be eaten before noon with a Weissbier (wheat beer), supposedly to counteract the effects of a hangover. Some people use a knife and fork to remove the inside from the skin, while others might indulge in auszuzeln, sucking the sausage out of the Weisswurst. Another favorite Bavarian specialty is Leberkäs—literally "liver cheese," though neither liver nor cheese is among its ingredients. Rather, it's a sort of meat loaf baked to a crust each morning and served in pink slabs throughout the day. A Leberkäs Semmel—a wedge of the meat loaf between two halves of a bread roll slathered with a slightly spicy mustard—is the favorite Munich on-the-go snack. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ## City Center Andechser am Dom. GERMAN \| At this Munich mainstay for both locals and visitors, the vaulted, frescoed ceiling and the old stone floor recall the nearby Andechs monastery. As with many smaller Bavarian Wirtshäuser (pub-restaurant), it's invariably pretty full, so be prepared to find seats on a table already half full, though this is part of the lively charm of the place. The boldly Bavarian food—blood sausage with potatoes or roast duck—and fine selection of delectable Andechs beers will quickly put you at ease. The covered terrace, steps from the Frauenkirche, is a favorite meeting place, rain or shine, for shoppers, local businesspeople, and even the occasional VIP. \| Average main: €9 \| Weinstr. 7a, City Center \| 089/298–481 \| www.andechser-am-dom.de \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Bier- und Oktoberfest Museum. GERMAN \| In one of the oldest buildings in Munich, dating to the 14th century, the museum takes an imaginative look at the history of this popular elixir, the monasteries that produced it, the purity laws that govern it, and Munich's own long tradition with it. The rustic Museumsstüberl restaurant, consisting of a few heavy wooden tables, accompanies the museum. It serves traditional Brotzeit (breads, cheeses, and cold meats) during the day and hot Bavarian dishes from 6 pm. TIP You can visit the Museumsstüberl restaurant without paying the museum's admission fee and try beer from one of Munich's oldest breweries, the Augustiner Bräu. \| Average main: €8 \| Sterneckerstr. 2, City Center \| 089/2424–3941 \| www.bier-und-oktoberfestmuseum.de \| Museum €4 \| Museum, Tue.–Sat. 1–6; restaurant, Mon. 6 pm–midnight, Tue.–Sat. 1 pm–midnight \| Station: Isartor (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Brasserie OskarMaria. FRENCH \| After New York, Munich has more publishing houses than any other city in the world. Literaturhaus is a converted Renaissance-style schoolhouse that, as the name suggests, is now a "literature" center, for authors, publishers, and book fans. The front side of the building is a stylish brasserie, named after Munich writer Oskar Maria Graf, an exile after the Nazis took power in Germany in 1933, and who eventually settled in New York. The brasserie's vaulted high ceiling and plate-glass windows create a light and spacious atmosphere. The range of dishes here is pretty eclectic, from beetroot with garden vegetables and goat's cheese to lobster risotto. It has a sprawling terrace, and it's one of the city's best outdoor eating locations, whether for a main meal or cappaccino and Kuchen (cake). TIP About 100 meters away, on Jungfernturmstrasse, is one of the oldest remaining remnants of the city wall. \| Average main: €18 \| Salvatorpl. 1, City Center \| 089/2919–6029 \| www.oskarmaria.com \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn) \|. Bratwurstherzl. GERMAN \| Tucked into a quaint little square off the Viktualienmarkt, this delightful Bratwurst joint cooks up specialty sausages right in the main room over an open grill. For those looking for a bit less meat, there is also a hearty farmer's salad with veal strips and tasty oyster mushrooms. They have outdoor seating, perfect for people-watching when the weather is good. \| Average main: €8 \| Dreifaltigkeitspl. 1, City Center \| 089/295–113 \| www.bratwurstherzl.de \| Closed Sun. and public holidays \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Buffet Kull. EUROPEAN \| This simple yet comfortable international bistro delivers a high-quality dining experience accompanied by a good variety of wines and friendly service. Dishes range from bouillabaisse (halibut with king prawns and calamari) to the excellent New York steak. The daily specials are creative, portions are generous, and the prices are good value for the quality. Reservations are recommended (dinner service starts at 6). \| Average main: €18 \| Marienstr. 4, City Center \| 089/221–509 \| www.buffet-kull.de \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Due passi. ITALIAN \| So small it's easy to miss, this former dairy shop, now an Italian specialty shop, offers Italian meals for a quick lunch. There's a small but fine selection of fresh antipasti and pasta. You can eat at the high wooden tables and counters or have your food to go. Menus change daily. \| Average main: €7 \| Ledererstr. 11, City Center \| 089/224–271 \| www.duepassi.de \| No credit cards \| Closed weekends \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Café Dukatz. FRENCH \| This café has been a popular, relatively upmarket eatery on the Munich scene for years. Even with the closure of their city-center restaurant, it has been a busy time for owners as they now have two cafés—one in Maxvorstadt on Klenzestrasse 69 and another in Lehel at St.-Anna-Strasse 11. They specialize in French-style pâtisseries, with daily home-baked delights and fine coffees expected of such a renowned name. \| Average main: €16 \| Klenzestr. 69, Maxvorstadt \| 089/7104–07373 for Klenzestr., 089/2303–2444 for St.-Anna-Pl. \| www.dukatz.de \| Station: Frauenhoferstrasse (U-bahn) \|. Faun. ECLECTIC \| Not quite city center, but still central to the action, the beloved Faun is on Hans-Sachs-Strasse, one of the city's most interesting streets, with great restaurants and boutique shops—even a century-old cinema. It's a happy combination of Munich tavern and international bistro, with great outdoor seating on a small square where five streets meet and five trees are planted. The Thai curries are wonderful, and their juicy Schweinebraten will satisfy any meat cravings. The dishes on the daily changing menu are tasty, filling, and easy on your wallet. The beer served is Augustiner, so you can't go wrong there. Build up your appetite by browsing your way through the neighborhood shops and boutiques, or walk off your meal along the river back toward Isartor and the city center. \| Average main: €9 \| Hans-Sachs-Str. 17, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/263–798 \| www.faun.mycosmos.biz \| No credit cards \|. Halali. GERMAN \| With nearly 100 years of history to its credit, polished wood paneling, and antlers on the walls, the Halali is an old-style Munich restaurant that is the place to try traditional dishes of venison, pheasant, partridge, and other game in a quiet and elegant atmosphere. Save room for the crème brûlée with potted nectarine-and-mocha-bean ice cream. \| Average main: €25 \| Schönfeldstr. 22, City Center \| 089/285–909 \| www.restaurant-halali.de \| Reservations essential \| Jacket and tie \| Closed Sun. and public holidays. No lunch Sat. \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Hofbräuhaus. GERMAN \| The Hofbräuhaus is simply the most famous beer hall not just in Munich but in the world. Regulars aside, many Bavarians see it as the biggest tourist trap ever created, and few ever go more than once, but they are still proud that it attracts so many visitors. Yes, it's a little kitschy, but the pounding oompah band draws the curious, and the singing and shouting drinkers contribute to the festive atmosphere. This, then, is no place for the fainthearted, and a trip to Munich would be incomplete without at least having a look. Upstairs is a quieter restaurant, where the food is fine, although there are better places for Bavarian cuisine. In March, May, and September ask for one of the special, extra-strong seasonal beers (Starkbier, Maibock, Märzen) which complement the traditional Bavarian fare. \| Average main: €10 \| Platzl 9, City Center \| 089/2901–36100 \| www.hofbraeuhaus.de \| Reservations not accepted \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Hotel Lux Restaurant. ECLECTIC \| The chef here learned his trade at Munich's much-vaunted Königshof. Much of the meat here is organic; ask the ever-charming staff for information. The creamy asparagus risotto is a real treat for lunch, while the duck with ratatouille and potato-celery gratin is a highlight of the evening menu. Though the restaurant is small, it deliberately has a front-room feel, with red velvetlike upholstery complementing the wooden ceiling and walls that survived the recent renovation. The small bar is also terrific. Hotel Lux is also a hotel with 17 rooms (€149), free Wi-Fi, and simply furnished rooms—except for the top floor Ponyhof room, designed by Hans Langner, who is famous for his bird depictions. This extraordinary blue, bird-filled room is not to everyone's taste, but good fun for a night or two. \| Average main: €24 \| Ledererstr. 13, City Center \| 089/4520–7300 \| www.hotel-lux-muenchen.de \|. Jodlerwirt. GERMAN \| This cozy Alpine lodge–style restaurant in a small street behind the Rathaus is a treat for those craving an Old World tavern, complete with live accordion playing. As its name suggests, yodelers perform most nights, telling jokes and poking fun at their adoring guests in unintelligible Bavarian slang. The food is traditional, including Käsespätzle (a hearty German version of macaroni and cheese), goulash, and meal-size salads. The tasty beer is from the Ayinger brewery. The place is small and fills up fast. \| Average main: €12 \| Altenhofstr. 4, City Center \| 089/221–249 \| www.jodlerwirt-muenchen.net \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Königshof. ECLECTIC \| Don't be fooled as you cross the threshold of the dour and unremarkable-looking postwar Hotel Königshof. The contrast with the opulent interior is remarkable. From a window table in this elegant and luxurious restaurant in one of Munich's grand hotels, you can watch the hustle and bustle of Munich's busiest square, Karlsplatz, below. You'll forget the outside world, however, when you taste the outstanding French- and Japanese-influenced dishes created by Michelin-starred chef Martin Fauster, former sous-chef at Tantris. Ingredients are fresh and menus change often, but you might see lobster with fennel and candied ginger, or venison with goose liver and celery, and for dessert, flambéed peach with champagne ice cream. Service is expert and personal; let the sommelier help you choose from the fantastic wine selection. \| Average main: €45 \| Karlspl. 25, City Center \| 089/551–360 \| www.koenigshof-hotel.de \| Reservations essential \| Jacket and tie \| Closed 1st wk in Aug.–1st wk in Sept.; closed Sun. and Mon., Jan.–Sept. \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. L'Atelier Art & Vin. FRENCH \| Take a seat by the wall of windows, or at the long blond-wood bar, in this airy, casual brasserie, which specializes in French food and wine. On nice days, tables are also set outside on the sidewalk of the pleasant, relatively quiet street. The light, crisp quiches, in particular, are a delight, and the wine list is a curated list of French wines. The Bier & Oktoberfest Museum is a few doors away, highlighting the wonderful contrasts that are so typical of this city. \| Average main: €12 \| Westenriederstr. 43, City Center \| 089/2126–6782 \| www.atelier-artetvin.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. and public holidays \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Fodor's Choice \| Mark's. EUROPEAN \| A wonderful culinary experience is reached on three literal levels at Mark's in the Hotel Mandarin Oriental, itself synonymous with excellence and luxury. You can enjoy lunch either in the hotel lobby or—weather permitting—eight floors up on the magnificent roof terrace, which has 360-degree views of the city. And at dinnertime, Mark's is set on the balcony of the luxurious lobby, with a wide white marble staircase leading up to it. The 2011 appointed head chef, Simon Larese, creates decadent dishes, for example a starter of langoustine with grilled watermelon, charentais melon, and coriander pistou. Equally impressive is the pan-fried Pommerian beef tenderloin calf's-head carpaccio with braised oxtail praline and foie gras–sautéed baby vegetables. Desserts are impressive: try the beetroot meringue with mascarpone lemon cream and "fromage blanc" sherbet. \| Average main: €40 \| Neuturmstr. 1, City Center \| 089/290–980 \| www.mandarinoriental.com \|. Nero Pizza & Lounge. ITALIAN \| The pizzas and pastas are great at this independent restaurant: try the Diavola, with spicy Neopolitan salami. On a side street between Gärtnerplatz and Isartor, Nero has high ceilings and large windows that give it an open, spacious feel; you can sit upstairs in the lounge for a cozier experience. \| Average main: €13 \| Rumfordstr. 34, City Center \| 089/2101–9060 \| www.nero-muenchen.de \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn) \|. Nürnberger Bratwurst Glöckl am Dom. GERMAN \| One of Munich's most popular beer taverns is dedicated to the delicious Nürnberger Bratwürste (finger-size sausages), a specialty from the rival Bavarian city of Nüremberg. They're served by a busy team of friendly waitresses dressed in Bavarian dirndls who flit between the crowded tables with remarkable agility. There are other options available as well. In warmer months, tables are placed outside, partly under a large awning, beneath the towering Frauenkirche. In winter the mellow dark-panel dining rooms provide relief from the cold. TIP For a quick, cheaper beer go to the side door where, just inside, there is a little window serving fresh Augustiner from a wooden barrel. You can stand around with the regulars or enjoy the small courtyard if the weather is nice. \| Average main: €10 \| Frauenpl. 9, City Center \| 089/291–9450 \| www.bratwurst-gloeckl.de \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Pfälzer Residenz Weinstube. GERMAN \| A huge stone-vaulted room, a few smaller rooms on the side, wooden tables, flickering candles, dirndl-clad waitresses, and a long list of wines add up to a storybook image of a timeless Germany. The wines are mostly from the Pfalz (Palatinate), as are many of the specialties on the limited menu. Beer drinkers, take note—it is not served here. \| Average main: €8 \| Residenzstr. 1, City Center \| 089/225–628 \| www.bayernpfalz.de \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn) \|. Prinz Myshkin. VEGETARIAN \| Traditional Bavarian dishes can sometimes be heavy affairs, and after a meal or three they can become a bit much. This restaurant is one of the finest in the city, and it's vegetarian to boot, with a selection of vegan dishes. The delightful holiday from meat here provides an eclectic choice of skillfully prepared antipasti, quiche, pizza, gnocchi, tofu, crepes, stir-fried dishes, plus excellent wines. The airy room has a high, vaulted ceiling, and there's always some art exhibited to feed the eye and mind. \| Average main: €18 \| Hackenstr. 2, City Center \| 089/265–596 \| www.prinzmyshkin.com \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Fodor's Choice \| Restaurant Dallmayr. EUROPEAN \| Enter one of Munich's premier delicatessens, where rows of specialties tempt your nose. If you can tear yourself away from the mesmerizing displays of foods, take a carpeted flight of stairs either to the much-vaunted Restaurant Dallmayr or the adjoining elegant-yet-casual Café-Bistro. Whether your choice is restaurant or café, this place is a sheer delight, showcasing delicacies from the delicatessen, while the service is friendly and attentive. Few are surprised that Diethard Urbansky, head chef at Restaurant Dallmayr, has won Michelin stars from 2009 onward. Menus change often, but a typical starter might be red king prawns with vegetables and yogurt. For mains, try the Nebraska beef with goose liver, tarragon, and pineapple. \| Average main: €48 \| Dienerstr. 14–15, City Center \| 089/213–50 \| www.dallmayr.de \| Restaurant closed Sun. and Mon. \| Schmalznudel Café Frischhut. GERMAN \| From the deep Bavarian accent to the food on offer, this is as Bavarian as one could get, though it serves neither typical great slabs of meat nor Knödel. The fryers are turned on each day and by mid-day lines of people are waiting for helpings of freshly cooked Schmalznudel, a selection of doughnut-type creations, from apple to sugar-coated to plain. It's really no more than a narrow-passage, kind-of café, located on a busy street between the Stadtmuseum and Viktualienmarkt, and easily missed by those not in the know. Regulars are equally happy whether they manage to find a seat inside or at the handful of tables outside. And there's always the option to take away and eat as you wind your way through the ever-colourful market. \| Average main: €2 \| Prälat-Zistl-Str. 8, City Center \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. \| Spatenhaus an der Oper. GERMAN \| The best seats are the window tables on the second floor. The quiet dining room walls and ceiling are paneled with old hand-painted wood and have a wonderful view of the square and the opera house. Make a reservation if you want to come after a performance. The outdoor tables are a favorite for people-watching. There are few better places for roasted fillet of brook trout, lamb with ratatouille, or duck with apple and red cabbage. And they do the best Wiener Schnitzel in the city. Leave room for one of the wonderful desserts featuring fresh fruit. \| Average main: €26 \| Residenzstr. 12, City Center \| 089/290–7060 \| www.kuffler-gastronomie.de \| Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn) \|. Weinhaus Neuner. GERMAN \| Munich's oldest wine tavern serves good food as well as superior wines in its two nooks: the wood-panel restaurant and the Weinstube. The choice of food is remarkable, from roast duck to fish to traditional Bavarian. \| Average main: €26 \| Herzogspitalstr.8, City Center \| 089/260–3954 \| www.weinhaus-neuner.de \| Closed Sun. and holidays \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Weisses Bräuhaus. GERMAN \| If you've developed a taste for Weissbier, this institution in downtown Munich is the place to indulge. The tasty brew from Schneider, a Bavarian brewery in existence since 1872, is served with hearty Bavarian dishes, mostly variations of pork and dumplings or cabbage. The restaurant itself was beautifully restored in 1993 to something approaching how it would have looked when first opened in the 1870s. The waitresses here are famous in Munich for being a little more straight talking than visitors might be used to in restaurants back home. But if you're good-natured, the whole thing can be quite funny. There is the possibility to sit outside, though it is quite a busy street. Credit cards are accepted for totals over 20 euros, but with the good beer and food, this shouldn't be difficult to reach. \| Average main: €11 \| Tal 7, City Center \| 089/290–1380 \| www.weisses-brauhaus.de \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. Zum Dürnbräu. GERMAN \| In existence in one form or another since 1487, this is easily one of the oldest establishments serving food in Munich, and there's little surprise that the food is resolutely traditional: lots of roast meat, potato and bread dumplings, fish, and equally hearty desserts. As the "Bräu" in the name suggests, this was also a brewery centuries ago. The front Biergarten is small so get there early in good weather. Inside, the central 21-foot table is a favorite spot and fills up first. It's popular and attracts everyone from business people to students. \| Average main: €16 \| Dürnbräugasse 2, City Center \| 089/222–195 \| www.zumduernbraeu.de \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. ## Royal Munich Gandl. ITALIAN \| This Italian specialty shop, where you can buy various staples from vinegar to coffee, doubles as a comfortable, relaxed restaurant. Their extensive Saturday buffet breakfast is popular in the neighborhood. Seating can become a little crowded inside, but the excellent service will make up for it and you'll feel right at home. For lunch it's just the place for a quick pastry or excellent antipasto misto before proceeding with the day's adventures. Dinner is more relaxed, with Mediterranean-influenced cuisine. \| Average main: €21 \| St.-Anna-Pl. 1, Lehel \| 089/2916–2525 \| www.gandl.de \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn) \|. Gasthaus Isarthor. GERMAN \| This old-fashioned Wirtshaus is one of the few places that serve Augustiner beer exclusively from wooden kegs, freshly tapped on a daily basis. Beer simply doesn't get any better than this. The traditional Bavarian fare is good, and the mid-day menu changes daily. All kinds are drawn to the simple wooden tables of this unspectacular establishment. Antlers and a wild boar look down on actors, government officials, apprentice craftspersons, journalists, and retirees, all sitting side by side. \| Average main: €10 \| Kanalstr. 2, Altstadt-Lehel \| 089/227–753 \| www.gasthaus-isarthor.de \| No credit cards \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn) \|. ## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt Alter Simpl. GERMAN \| Named after Germany's most famous satirical magazine, Simplicissimus, this pub-restaurant has been a Munich institution since 1903, when it was a meeting and discussion center for leading writers, comedians, and artists. Today the pictures of those days hang on the dark wood-panel walls. It's quite small inside and far from salubrious, but the beer's good and the equally good food is served until 2 am (beer until 3 am). The menu includes filling options like roast pork, Munich schnitzel, and a bacon-cheeseburger with french fries. Students are at home here and will welcome anyone at their table when the others are all taken. \| Average main: €11 \| Türkenstr. 57, Maxvorstadt \| 089/272–3083 \| www.altersimpl.com \| No credit cards \| Station: Universität (U-bahn) \|. Cohen's. ISRAELI \| There is little overly fancy at Cohen's. There doesn't need to be. Reviving the old Jewish central European tradition of good, healthy cooking combined with hospitality and good cheer seems to be the underlying principle. Dig into a few hearty latkes, a steaming plate of Chulend stew, or standard gefilte fish doused with excellent Golan wine from Israel. The kitchen is open from noon to 3 and 6 to 10:30, later when patrons and staff are in the mood to chatter until the wee hours. TIP Klezmer singers perform on some Friday evenings. \| Average main: €15 \| Theresienstr. 31, Maxvorstadt \| 089/280–9545 \| www.cohens.de \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Theresienstrasse (U-bahn) \|. Görrreshof. GERMAN \| In 1893 Augustiner, the oldest brewery in Munich, built this sturdy Wirtshaus to sustain travelers on the 12-km trek from Munich to the castles at Schleissheim. This pub-restaurant has been renovated over the years and is today as much a forum for good eating and drinking as it was more than 100 years ago. You'll get hearty food in a dining room festooned with antlers. If you want to relax further, retire to the small Bibliothek (library), or head outside to sit on the covered terrace. \| Average main: €14 \| Görresstr. 38, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2020–9550 \| www.goerreshof.de \| Station: Josephsplatz (U-bahn) \|. Kaisergarten. GERMAN \| Locals get together for a beer or two and some traditional Bavarian food at this understated neighborhood standby. Beef served several ways is the specialty, but the kitchen also does a good job with fish, fresh from a Bavarian stream. Outside, the small Biergarten under chestnut trees faces the church in the middle of Kaiserplatz (Emperor's Square); inside, racks of wine provide atmosphere and a good alternative to beer. \| Average main: €15 \| Kaiserstr. 34, Schwabing \| 089/3402–0203 \| www.kaisergarten.com \| Station: Münchner Freiheit (U-bahn) \|. Fodor's Choice \| Limoni. ITALIAN \| It's not just Munich's neoclassical architecture that underpins its playful, centuries-old moniker as Italy's most northern city. There are a number of fine Italian restaurants around the city, but this is certainly one of the best. You'll pay more for meat and fish dishes, but there are also lovely pasta dishes that are a little more budget friendly. There is a Bavarian professionalism combined with Italian grace and elegance in how the delicacies are served: pea and ginger cream soup, fusilli and veal ragout, artichokes and grated horseradish to name just a few, and then the fantastic chocolate cake with mascarpone cream. TIP Be sure to reserve your table in good weather so you can sit on the charming patio in the back; note that warm food is only served from 6:30 pm to 11 pm. \| Average main: €24 \| Amalienstr. 38, Maxvorstadt \| 089/2880–6029 \| www.limoni-ristorante.com \| Closed Sun. and holidays \| Station: Universität (U-bahn) \|. Max-Emanuel-Brauerei. GERMAN \| This historic old brewery tavern, first opened in 1880, is a great value, with great-value Bavarian dishes. The best part about this place, however, is the cozy, secluded little beer garden with huge chestnut trees, tucked in the back amid the apartment blocks. \| Average main: €11 \| Adalbertstr. 33, Schwabing \| 089/271–5158 \| www.max-emanuel-brauerei.de \| Station: Universität (U-bahn) \|. Fodor's Choice \| Tantris. EUROPEAN \| Despite the slightly dramatic exterior, which is adorned by three concrete animals, few restaurants in Germany can match the Michelin-starred Tantris. Select the menu of the day and accept the suggestions of the sommelier or choose from the à la carte options and you'll be in for a treat, for example: variation of char with marinated white asparagus and orange hollandaise, followed by roast lamb filets with spinach, beans and fennel-curry puree, superbly complemented by stuffed semolina dumpling with raspberries and curd cheese ice cream. It surprises few that head chef Hans Haas has kept his restaurant at the top of the critics' charts in Munich for so long. TIP Look out for the Tantris Standl, a small outlet at the city-centre Schrannenhalle, selling spirits, wines, coffees, chutneys, and sweets. \| Average main: €100 \| Johann-Fichte-Str. 7, Schwabing \| 089/361–9590 \| www.tantris.de \| Reservations essential \| Jacket and tie \| Closed Sun., Mon., and bank holidays \| Station: Münchener Freiheit (U-bahn) \|. Vorstadt Café. GERMAN \| Young professionals mix with students at this lively restaurant on the corner of Adalbert and Türkenstrasse. The 13 different breakfasts are a big draw: the Vorstadt Classic includes ham and eggs, rolls and several kinds of bread, with a plate of salami and home made jam; the Veggie has scrambled eggs with tomatoes, cheese and spinach, and muesli with fresh fruit, and cheese with nuts. Their daily lunch specials, served quickly, are good value. The atmosphere at dinner is relaxed, complete with candlelight. Reservations are advised at weekends. \| Average main: €13 \| Türkenstr. 83, Maxvorstadt \| 089/272–0699 \| www.vorstadtcafe.de \| No credit cards \| Station: Universität (U-bahn) \|. ## Leopoldvorstadt Augustiner Keller. GERMAN \| This flagship beer restaurant of one of Munich's oldest breweries originated about 1812. It is also the location of the unbeatable Augustiner beer garden, which should be at the top of any visitor's beer-garden list. The menu offers Bavarian specialties, including half a duck with a good slab of roast suckling pig, dumpling, and blue cabbage. If you're up for it, end your meal with a Dampfnudel (yeast dumpling served with custard), though you probably won't feel hungry again for quite a while. \| Average main: €14 \| Arnulfstr. 52, Maxvorstadt \| 089/594–393 \| www.augustinerkeller.de \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn) \|. ## Haidhausen Vinaiolo. ITALIAN \| Munich is sometimes referred to as Italy's northernmost city, and this bright, busy place is the proof. In the setting of an old apothecary, diners can enjoy specialties from Venice and other northern Italian regions, such as spaghetti with sardines or roast goat, prepared to perfection by chef Marco Pizzolato. Service is good-humored and conscientious and the menu changes regularly. \| Average main: €22 \| Steinstr. 42, Haidhausen \| 089/4895–0356 \| www.vinaiolo.de \| Station: Rosenheimer Platz (S-bahn) \|. Wirtshaus in der Au. GERMAN \| Wirtshaus is a word that describes a kind of bar-restaurant serving traditional Bavaria food and beer. This has been serving since 1901 and it's one of the best. A stone's throw from the Deutsches Museum, it has a great vaulted room and collections of beer steins, providing one of the best atmospheres around. It has a combination of fantastic service and outstanding local dishes, and it serves everything from Hofente (roast duck) to Schweinsbraten (roast pork). But the real specialty, and for which it is renowned, is Knödel (dumplings), which, in addition to traditional Semmel (bread) and Kartoffel (potato) varieties, come in spinach, cheese, and even red-beet flavors. Weather permitting, you can sit in the small beer garden under, of course, chestnut trees. A day in the Deutsches Museum followed by an evening here, and Munich doesn't get much better. \| Average main: €11 \| Lilienstr. 51, Haidhausen \| 089/4809–0589 \| www.wirtshausinderau.de \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn and Tram) \|. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents City Center \| Royal Munich \| Schwabing and Maxvorstadt \| Hauptbahnhof \| Isarvorstadt \| Ludwigvorstadt \| Theresienhöhe \| Nymphenburg \| Bogenhausen \| Outside the Center Though Munich has a vast number of hotels in all price ranges, booking one can be a challenge, as this is a trade-show city as well as a prime tourist destination. If you're visiting during any of the major trade fairs such as the ISPO (sports, fashion) in January or the IHM (crafts) in mid-March, or during Oktoberfest at the end of September, try to make reservations at least a few months in advance. It is acceptable practice in Europe to request to see a room before committing to it, so feel free to ask the concierge. Some of the large, upscale hotels that cater to expense-account business travelers have attractive weekend discount rates—sometimes as much as 50% below normal prices. Conversely, most hotels raise their regular rates by at least 30% during big trade fairs and Oktoberfest. Online booking sites like Hotel Reservation Service (www.hrs.com) often have prices well below the hotel's published prices (i.e., price ranges in this book) in slow periods and on short notice. Look for the names we suggest here and search online for potential deals. TIP Munich's tourist information office has two outlets that can help you with hotel bookings if you haven't reserved in advance. One is at the central station and the other is on Marienplatz, in the Rathaus. Your best bet is to visit in person. A technical note: A few years ago, some hotels in Munich chose to farm out their wireless Internet services to third parties—meaning that you could get online with their Wi-Fi hotspot, but you had to log in with a credit card and pay with a separate service provider. Thankfully, this is changing, and most of the newer hotels, plus some forward-thinking older establishments, offer Wi-Fi for free throughout. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ## City Center Anna Hotel. HOTEL \| Modern, slightly minimalist decor and features are the characteristic of this design hotel. The suite on the sixth floor has fabulous views through the panorama windows, and its sumptuous bathroom, with delightful colored lights, comes with a TV. The bistro restaurant has a large terrace overlooking one of Munich's central squares and Schützenstrasse, a pedestrian street leading to the train station. The location and good food makes it a busy place where locals stop in for a drink and a bite to eat. Its sister hotel, the Königshof, is a few hundred meters away, and use of the spa there is free for Anna guests. Pros: terrific location; fabulous views from the top floor; beds are huge; free Wi-Fi throughout. Cons: bar and restaurant get hectic from passersby on the busy street; no single rooms. \| Rooms from: €220 \| Schützenstr. 1, City Center \| 089/599–940 \| www.annahotel.de \| 73 rooms \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Bayerischer Hof. HOTEL \| There's the Michelin-starred restaurant, the swanky suites, the rooftop Blue Spa and Lounge with panoramic city views, fitness studio, pool, private cinema, and to top it all suites in Palais Montgelas, the adjoining early 19th-century palace. Yes, it would be easy to pigeonhole the Bayerischer Hof as just another expensive luxury hotel. But this 1841-opened hotel is an almost unique combination of luxury, history, and accessibility. Münchners, for example, are encouraged to visit the traditional Bavarian restaurant while it is also a top jazz venue. Even King Ludwig I of Bavaria paid regular visits to take a "royal bath," as his own residence lacked hot running water. When meeting someone at "the bar," or "restaurant," specify which one: there are seven bars (includes a night club) and five restaurants. Pros: superb public rooms with valuable oil paintings; the roof garden restaurant has an impressive view of the Frauenkirche two blocks away; Atelier restaurant has again been awarded a Michelin star. Cons: expensive; Wi-Fi is extra. \| Rooms from: €360 \| Promenadepl. 2–6, City Center \| 089/21200 \| www.bayerischerhof.de \| 340 rooms, 65 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn), Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Cortiina. HOTEL \| One of Munich's design hotels, Cortiina follows the minimalist gospel. The reception is done in sleek gray stone with a high-tech gas fireplace along one wall. For guests, the emphasis is on subtle luxury - fresh flowers, mattresses made from natural rubber, sheets made of untreated cotton. The rooms are paneled in dark moor oak and come with all the amenities. In the Annex, 54 yards away, are 30 apartments with cooking facilities. Free Wi-Fi throughout. Pros: welcoming modern reception and bar; nice, comfortable rooms; personalized service. Cons: Hotel's Bar Central is over the road. \| Rooms from: €169 \| Ledererstr. 8, City Center \| 089/242–2490 \| www.cortiina.com \| 75 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel am Markt. HOTEL \| You can literally stumble out the door of this hotel onto the Viktualienmarkt. Excellent location, fair prices, and simple rooms are what you get. Good meals are served in the renovated restaurant connected with the hotel. Pros: excellent location; friendly and helpful staff; free Wi-Fi; decent restaurant. Cons: rooms are simple; some spots could use fresh paint; no credit cards. \| Rooms from: €77 \| Heiliggeiststr. 6, City Center \| 089/225–014 \| www.hotel-am-markt.eu \| 22 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Kraft. HOTEL \| Conveniently located between the city center and the Oktoberfest grounds, the lobby of this basic hotel is inviting with wood paneled walls and comfortable armchairs. The same goes for the comparably spacious rooms with room for an armchair, an ample sized writing desk, and natural light from a large window. Unlike most city center hotels, you can even open the window without letting in too much street noise because the university hospitals which surround the hotel prevent thru traffic. Pros: privately owned; hotel and rooms well cared for; quiet neighborhood. Cons: quiet neighborhood, so no nightlife. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Schillerstr. 49, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/550–5940 \| www.hotel-kraft.com \| 33 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten Kempinski München. HOTEL \| It likes to call its lobby the "most beautiful living room in Munich," and just as the world's wealthy and titled have felt for more than 150 years, you'll feel at home enjoying a drink and a bite in this "lived-in" spacious and luxurious room with glass dome and with dark-wood paneling. Trend and tradition blend throughout the property, especially in the new guest rooms, where flat-screen TVs hang on the walls alongside original oil paintings and Bose stereos rest on antique cupboards. In the Vue Maximilian restaurant your attention may be torn between the excellent food and watching people on Maximilianstrasse, Munich's premier shopping street. Pros: great location; occasional special packages that are a good value; Wi-Fi free. Cons: everything is expensive. \| Rooms from: €260 \| Maximilianstr. 17, City Center \| 089/2125–2799 \| www.Kempinski-Vierjahreszeiten.de \| 230 rooms, 67 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Tram 19 Kammerspiele (Tram). Fodor's Choice \| The Louis Hotel. HOTEL \| No other hotel in Munich manages to combine the subdued elegance of a design hotel, first-rate service, and perhaps the best city center location, overlooking Viktualienmarkt, as this hotel. Opened in 2009, this former bank is aiming for a slightly more affluent clientele, though some room prices are competitive. All of the interiors are unique, and the owners put their individual stamp on many of the designs. The oak floor in the Louis Room suite has been oiled just once, and provides an organic, natural feel. On entering this room, you get the feeling of walking into a cabin on a luxury cruise liner, with its curved lines and an elongated corridor. The huge pull-out, trunklike contraption reveals a TV and minibar, a similar device is a cupboard for clothes. A few feet below, you can see the hustle and bustle of the Viktualienmarkt, and opening the balcony door allows you to hear Prost! as beer glasses are cracked together at the Biergarten. Close the door and all is quiet again. There is a compact rooftop terrace with bar, with the historic St Peter's Church towering above and free Wi-Fi throughout. lLook for the tiny, enticing chocolate store below the hotel. Pros: brilliant location; attentive service; modern designs; very good restaurant. Cons: some rooms pricey; the bustle of the Viktualienmarkt is not for everyone; parking costs €24 a day. \| Rooms from: €189 \| Viktualienmarkt 6, City Center \| 089/4111–9080 \| www.louis-hotel.com \| 72 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Mercure Hotel Muenchen Altstadt. HOTEL \| This straightforward, comfortable hotel is a decent deal for its great location; there are a number of Mercure hotels in Munich, but this location, between Marienplatz and Sendlingertor, is in the city center. Breakfast, now included in the price, is better than breakfasts you'll get at some restaurants. Pets are allowed for an extra €13. Pros: central location; moderate price; free mineral water; free Wi-Fi. Cons: public parking garage is a bit of a hike. \| Rooms from: €168 \| Hotterstr. 4, City Center \| 089/232–590 \| www.mercure-muenchen-altstadt.de \| 75 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Motel One München-Sendlinger Tor. HOTEL \| With well-thought-out designs and free Wi-Fi, the Motel One chain jumped ahead of the game with its simple but classy concept. This series of design hotels caters to the young, fast-paced professional. Boisterous furniture and offbeat colors give the place a slightly edgy feel. The service is terrific and there are no hidden costs. This location is one of seven throughout Munich (there are more across Germany, plus a few further afield) and they are a great option for the price. Pets, parking, and breakfast cost extra. The location, near Sendlinger Tor, is perfect for the historic Altstadt. Pros: great prices and location; decent designs; amiable, attentive service; kids ages 1–6 get a free breakfast. Cons: staying in one is like staying in all of them; no restaurant or room service; breakfast, parking, and pets cost extra. \| Rooms from: €84 \| Herzog-Wilhelm-Str. 28, City Center \| 089/5177–7250 \| www.motel-one.com/de \| 241 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Platzl Hotel. HOTEL \| The privately owned Platzl has won awards and wide recognition for its ecologically aware management, which uses heat recyclers in the kitchen, environmentally friendly detergents, recyclable materials, waste separation, and other eco-friendly practices. In 2011 the hotel won a gold award from the Bavarian Ministry for the Environment for such work. It stands in the historic heart of Munich, near the famous Hofbräuhaus beer hall and a couple of minutes' walk from Marienplatz and many other landmarks. Its Pfistermühle restaurant, with 16th-century vaulting, is one of the area's oldest and most historic establishments. Pros: good restaurant; progressive environmental credentials; around the corner from the Hofbräuhaus; free Wi-Fi throughout. Cons: rooms facing the Hofbräuhaus get more noise; some rooms are on the small side. \| Rooms from: €212 \| Sparkassenstr. 10, City Center \| 089/2370–3722 \| www.platzl.de \| 167 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Torbräu. HOTEL \| The welcoming Torbräu has been looking after guests in one form or another since 1490, making it the oldest hotel in Munich, and it has been run by the same family for more than a century. It's next to one of the ancient city gates - Isartor, originating in the 14th century - and the location is perfect for an amble up to Marienplatz, or to the river Isar, then onto the Deutsches Museum. The comfortable rooms are modestly decorated in a plush and ornate Italian style, rather than cutting-edge modern design. Pros: nice rooms; central location; good restaurant; very attentive service. Cons: underground parking difficult; front rooms a little noisy. \| Rooms from: €205 \| Tal 41, City Center \| 089/242–340 \| www.torbraeu.de \| 90 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn). ## Royal Munich Adria. HOTEL \| This modern hotel is near a number of great museums and the English Garden. Rooms are large and tastefully decorated. A breakfast buffet (including a glass of sparkling wine) is included in the room rate. There's no hotel restaurant, but there's free coffee and tea in the lobby. Wi-Fi Internet costs extra. Pros: good location; nice lobby. Cons: no bar or restaurant; Wi-Fi costs extra. \| Rooms from: €124 \| Liebigstr. 8a, Lehel \| 089/242–1170 \| www.adria-muenchen.de \| 45 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn). Hotel Concorde. HOTEL \| The privately owned Concorde is in the middle of Munich and yet peaceful owing to its location on a narrow side street. The nearest S-bahn station, Isartor, is a two-minute walk away. Rooms in one tract are done in pastel tones and light woods; in the other tract they tend to be somewhat darker and more rustic. Fresh flowers and bright prints add a colorful touch. A large breakfast buffet is served in a stylish, mirrored dining room. Pros: quiet; functional; good location. Cons: no restaurant or bar; Wi-Fi costs extra. \| Rooms from: €136 \| Herrnstr. 38–40, Lehel \| 089/224–515 \| www.concorde-muenchen.de \| 72 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn). Hotel Opera. HOTEL \| In the quiet residential district of Lehel, Hotel Opera offers rooms decorated in an elegant style—lots of Empire, some art deco; some rooms even have glassed-in balconies. There are no minibars, but guests can order room service around the clock. Enjoy summer breakfast in the back courtyard decorated with orange and lemon trees. The street it's on is a cul-de-sac accessed through the neo-Renaissance arcades of the Ethnology Museum. Pros: free Wi-Fi throughout; elegant; pleasant courtyard; quiet location; special service. Cons: not enough parking close to the hotel; no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €175 \| St.-Anna-Str. 10, Lehel \| 089/2104–9410 \| www.hotel-opera.de \| 25 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Lehel (U-bahn). ## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt Biederstein. HOTEL \| A modern, block of a building, but covered with geraniums in summer, the Biederstein seems to want to fit into its old Schwabing surroundings at the edge of the English Garden. The many advantages here: peace and quiet; excellent service; and comfortable, well-appointed and renovated rooms. The breakfast buffet is very good, and there is free Wi-Fi throughout. Pros: wonderfully quiet location; all rooms have balconies; exemplary service; U-bahn is four blocks away. Cons: not the most handsome building; no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Keferstr. 18, Schwabing \| 089/3302–9390 \| www.hotel-biederstein.de \| 34 rooms, 7 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Münchner Freiheit (U-bahn). Carlton Astoria. HOTEL \| Its downtown location, near the Pinakotheken (art museums) and the university, means you can reach many places on foot. A three- or four-minute walk will take you to Amalienstrasse and Türkenstrasse, two of the most lively places in town, with more than 35 restaurants, eateries, and student pubs. Pros: centrally located; fairly priced; free Wi-Fi. Cons: rooms on main street can be noisy; parking is a short walk away. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Fürstenstr. 12, Maxvorstadt \| 089/383–9630 \| www.carlton-astoria.de \| 48 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Universität (U-bahn), Odeonsplatz (U-bahn). Cosmopolitan. HOTEL \| The entrance to this inviting hotel is on the lively Hohenzollernstrasse, but once you pass through what looks like a garage opening, you'll find yourself in a quiet courtyard. Rooms are a good size and the large windows make them light and airy. Some rooms have a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Request a room not facing the street and ask about weekend rates. Free Wi-Fi throughout the property. Pros: right in the middle of Schwabing, Münchner Freiheit a city block away; quiet courtyard rooms. Cons: no restaurant; streetside rooms are noisy. \| Rooms from: €135 \| Hohenzollernstr. 5, Schwabing \| 089/383–810 \| www.cosmopolitanhotel.de \| 71 rooms, 8 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Münchner Freiheit (U-bahn). Gästehaus am Englischen Garten. HOTEL \| Reserve well in advance for a room at this popular converted water mill, more than 300 years old, adjoining the English Garden. The hotel is only a five-minute walk from the bars, shops, and restaurants of Schwabing. Be sure to ask for one of the 12 nostalgically old-fashioned rooms in the main building, which has a garden on an island in the old millrace; a modern annex down the road has 13 apartments, all with cooking facilities. In summer, breakfast is served on the terrace of the main house. There is free Internet access at their partner hotel, the Biederstein around the corner. Pros: quiet location; ideal for walking or cycling; wonderfully cozy rooms. Cons: no elevator; no restaurant; you have to go to their partner hotel, around the corner, for free Internet access. \| Rooms from: €83 \| Liebergesellstr. 8, Schwabing \| 089/383–9410 \| www.hotelenglischergarten.de \| 12 rooms, 6 with bath or shower; 13 apartments \| Breakfast \| Station: Münchner Freiheit (U-bahn). H'otello F'22. HOTEL \| This is a high-caliber example of the design- and style-driven nature of the new Munich hotel scene—the style is minimalist, but with a roomy feel. The king-size beds are big plus, as is the breakfast buffet, which includes homemade yogurt and lots of fresh fruit. This location is a few minutes from Luitpold Park and equidistant from the Olympiapark and the Englischer Garten. Some rooms have balconies. There are three H'otellos in Munich, two of which are within five minutes of one another in the still trendy Schwabing district, both equally attractive (the third is near Viktualienmarkt); there's also one in Berlin. Pros: great location; well-thought-out design; some rooms have balconies; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €126 \| Fallmerayerstr. 22, Schwabing \| 089/4583–1200 \| www.hotello.de \| 74 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hohenzollernplatz (U-bahn). H'otello H'09. HOTEL \| The second in the H'otello chain to open in Munich, this high-design hotel is a five-minute walk to the Englischer Garden; the style is minimalist but still luxurious with king-size beds and a breakfast buffet. The nearby garden's green-space is a plus, and it's even closer to the long Leopoldstrasse, which is filled with bars and restaurants; it's just the place to begin your tour of Bohemian Schwabing. Pros: free Wi-Fi; great location; well-thought-out design; uncomplicated rooms. Cons: no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €126 \| Hohenzollernstr. 9, Schwabing \| 089/4583–1200 \| www.hotello.de \| 71 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Giselastrasse (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Pension Am Siegestor. B&B/INN \| Modest but appealing, the pension—which takes up three floors of a fin de siècle mansion between the Siegestor monument, on Leopoldstrasse, and the university—is a great deal in Germany's most expensive city. An ancient elevator with a glass door brings you to the fourth-floor reception desk. Most of the simply furnished rooms face the impressive Arts Academy across the street. Rooms on the fifth floor are particularly cozy, tucked up under the eaves. Pros: a delightful and homey place to stay; very good value stay for the price; not far to walk to the English Garden. Cons: if elevators make you nervous, don't use this old one; no restaurant or bar. \| Rooms from: €74 \| Akademiestr. 5, Maxvorstadt \| 089/399–550 \| www.siegestor.com \| 20 rooms \| No credit cards \| Breakfast \| Station: Universität (U-bahn). ## Hauptbahnhof Creatif Hotel Elephant. HOTEL \| Tucked away on a quiet street near the train station, this hotel appeals to a wide range of travelers, from businesspeople to tourists on a budget. The recently renovated rooms are simple and quiet. A bright color scheme in the reception and breakfast (€9 extra) room creates a cheery atmosphere. Wi-Fi costs €2 for 24 hours throughout the building. Pros: close to main station. Cons: no restaurant; modest furnishings; Wi-Fi costs extra. \| Rooms from: €102 \| Lämmerstr. 6, Maxvorstadt \| 089/555–785 \| www.creatifelephanthotel.com \| 40 rooms \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Eden-Hotel Wolff. HOTEL \| Beyond a light-filled lobby, a spacious bar with dark-wood paneling beckons, contributing to the old-fashioned elegance of this downtown favorite. It's directly across the street from the northern exit of the main train station with U-bahn, S-bahn, and trams at your service. The rooms are well furnished with large, comfortable beds, and the colors are relaxing pastels; the back rooms face a quiet street. You can dine on excellent Bavarian specialties in the intimate Zirbelstube restaurant. Pros: all rooms have a/c; breakfast is included. Cons: a little too close to the hustle and bustle of the main station; Wi-Fi costs extra. \| Rooms from: €188 \| Arnulfstr. 4, Hauptbahnhof \| 089/551–150 \| www.ehw.de \| 210 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Excelsior. HOTEL \| Just a short walk along an underpass from the Hauptbahnhof station, the Excelsior welcomes you with smiles after the hustle and bustle of the busy train station. Warm wood helps create the atmosphere of a luxury Alpine resort, and although some aspects of the decor, like the fake awning near the ceiling, are close to kitsch, altogether it works. Rooms are spacious and inviting, with elements of Alpine wood and luxury. The Vinothek restaurant has excellent food, and a wine list to match. Pros: welcoming reception; spacious rooms; excellent breakfast; free Wi-Fi throughout. Cons: Schützenstrasse can get very busy. \| Rooms from: €220 \| Schützenstr. 11, Hauptbahnhof \| 089/551–370 \| www.excelsior-hotel.de \| 118 rooms, 9 suites \| No lunch Sun. in restaurant \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn). Hotel Amba. HOTEL \| Right across the street from the main train station, Amba provides clean, bright rooms, good service, no expensive frills, and everything you need to plug and play. The lobby, with a small bar, invites you to relax in a Mediterranean atmosphere of wicker sofas with bright-color upholstery. After a solid breakfast buffet (with sparkling wine) on the second floor overlooking the station, you can hit the nearby sights on foot or use the public transportation options a few yards away. There are also occasional special deals on weekends. Wi-Fi costs €10 for 24 hours. Pros: convenient to train station and sights. Cons: no restaurant; rooms that face the main street and the station are noisy; there's a cost for Wi-Fi. \| Rooms from: €101 \| Arnulfstr. 20, Hauptbahnhof \| 089/545–140 \| www.hotel-amba.de \| 86 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Mirabell. HOTEL \| This family-run hotel is used to American tourists who appreciate the friendly service, central location (between the main railway station and the Oktoberfest fairgrounds), and reasonable room rates. Three apartments are available for small groups or families. Rooms are furnished in modern light woods and bright prints. A breakfast buffet is included. Pros: Wi-Fi free throughout; family-run; personalized service. Cons: no restaurant; this area of the Hauptbahnhof is not the most salubrious. \| Rooms from: €115 \| Landwehrstr. 42, entrance on Goethestr., Hauptbahnhof \| 089/549–1740 \| www.hotelmirabell.de \| 65 rooms, 3 apartments \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Präsident. HOTEL \| The location—just a block from the main train station—is the biggest draw of this hotel; the second draw is the price. For those who want a basic and inexpensive place to stay, this is a good place to rest your weary feet before you set off again to enjoy Munich. The satisfying breakfast will give you a good start. Wi-Fi is €14.99 for 24 hours. Pros: central location; filling breakfast. Cons: rooms toward the street are noisy; streets around the hotel are not the most salubrious; parking 100 yards away costs €5. \| Rooms from: €97 \| Schwanthalerstr. 20, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/549–0060 \| www.hotel-praesident.de \| 42 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Isarvorstadt Fodor's Choice \| Admiral. HOTEL \| The small, privately owned, tradition-rich Admiral enjoys a quiet side-street location and its own garden, close to the river Isar, minutes from the Deutsches Museum. A comfortable bar with regal-looking chairs is right behind the lobby. Many of the nicely furnished and warmly decorated bedrooms have a balcony overlooking the quiet secluded garden. The breakfast buffet is a dream, complete with homemade jams, fresh bread, and Italian and French delicacies. An increasing proportion of the breakfast is organic and it can be taken in the garden. The use of the minibar is included in the room price and Wi-Fi is free throughout. Pros: attention to detail; quiet; excellent service. Cons: no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €199 \| Kohlstr. 9, Isarvorstadt \| 089/216–350 \| www.hotel-admiral.de \| 33 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Isartor (S-bahn). Pension Seibel. HOTEL \| If you're looking for an affordable little "pension" a stone's throw from the Viktualienmarkt, this is the place. You can't get any closer than this for the price, with the added bonus that it is also just a few minutes' walk from the trendy Gärtnerplatz and Glockenbach areas. The rooms are simple; there are also three larger rooms for four to six people. Pets cost €5 extra. Pros: great location at a great price; pets are welcome. Cons: tiny breakfast room; no elevator; Wi-Fi and pets cost extra. \| Rooms from: €79 \| Reichenbachstr. 8, Isarvorstadt \| 089/231–9180 \| www.seibel-hotels-munich.de \| 15 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Ludwigvorstadt Brack. HOTEL \| A nice, light-filled lobby makes a first good impression, but Oktoberfest revelers value Brack's proximity to the beer-festival grounds, and its location—on a busy, tree-lined thoroughfare just south of the city center—is handy for city attractions. The rooms are furnished in light, friendly veneers and are soundproof (a useful feature during Oktoberfest) and have amenities such as hair dryers. The buffet breakfast, which lasts until noon, will prepare you for the day. Free Wi-Fi throughout the hotel. Pros: good location for accessing Oktoberfest and city; late breakfast; free use of bikes. Cons: noisy front rooms. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Lindwurmstr. 153, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/747–2550 \| www.hotel-brack.de \| 50 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Poccistrasse (U-bahn). Hotel am Viktualienmarkt. HOTEL \| This highly recommendable middle-market design-led hotel is perfectly located a few hundred meters from Viktualienmarkt and the Gärtnerplatz quarter. The lobby is now dominated by large windows, oozing with natural light. Breakfast is good, served in a stylish couple of adjoining areas, with neat tables and high-back chairs. The impressive five-person apartment is remarkably just €170 a night. Next door is a small cupcake store and there's a decent Thai restaurant at the end of the street (Utzschneiderstrasse 6). Free Wi-Fi throughout, and thankfully the hotel now has an elevator. Pros: refreshing atmosphere; service attentive but not overbearing; great location; lovely courtyard for breakfast; competitive prices. Cons: no a/c; no restaurant; parking around the corner. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Utzschneiderstr. 14, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/231–1090 \| www.hotel-am-viktualienmarkt.de \| 26 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Mariandl. HOTEL \| The American armed forces commandeered this turn-of-the-20th-century neo-Gothic mansion in May 1945 and established Munich's first postwar nightclub, the Femina, on the ground floor. Breakfast is served downstairs in the Café am Beethovenplatz, which also has free Wi-Fi. Most rooms are mansion size, with high ceilings and large windows overlooking a leafy avenue. The Oktoberfest grounds and the main railway station are both a 10-minute walk away. lPrices during Oktoberfest increase substantially. Pros: hotel and café are charmingly worn and a bit bohemian. Cons: no elevator. \| Rooms from: €70 \| Goethestr. 51, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/552–9100 \| www.hotelmariandl.com \| 28 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel-Pension Schmellergarten. B&B/INN \| Popular with young budget travelers, this genuine family business tries to make everyone feel at home. It's a little place on a quiet street off Lindwurmstrasse, a few minutes' walk from the Theresienwiese (Oktoberfest grounds). The Poccistrasse subway station is around the corner to take you into the center of town. Pros: good location; good price; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no elevator; no hotel services. \| Rooms from: €64 \| Schmellerstr. 20, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/773–157 \| www.schmellergarten.de \| 14 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Poccistrasse (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Uhland. HOTEL \| This stately villa is a landmark building and is additionally special in that the owner and host was born here and will make you feel at home, too. She and her staff welcome all questions and seem to love answering them. The spacious, inviting breakfast room filled with light and the excellent food will get you ready for the day ahead. Some of the pleasant rooms are quite large and can accommodate three people. Pros: a real family atmosphere; care is given to details; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant or bar. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Uhlandstr. 1, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/543–350 \| www.hotel-uhland.de \| 27 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Theresienwiese (U-bahn). ## Theresienhöhe Park-Hotel Theresienhöhe. HOTEL \| The Park-Hotel claims that none of its rooms is less than 400 square feet and its suites are larger than many luxury apartments, and some of them come with small kitchens. The sleek, modern rooms are mostly decorated with light woods and pastel-color fabrics and carpeting; larger rooms and suites get a lot of light, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Families are particularly welcome. There's no in-house restaurant, but you can order in. Pros: spacious rooms; good quiet location. Cons: no restaurant; modern but not great charm; Wi-Fi costs extra. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Parkstr. 31a, Theresienhöhe \| 089/519–950 \| www.parkhoteltheresienhoehe.de \| 40 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Theresienwiese (U-bahn). Hotel Westend. HOTEL \| Visitors have praised the friendly welcome and service they receive at this well-maintained and affordable lodging above the Oktoberfest grounds. Rooms are comfortable, if furnished in a manner only slightly better than functional. Pros: good location; good prices; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant; rooms are simple; it's best to confirm your reservation. \| Rooms from: €49 \| Schwanthalerstr. 121, Theresienhöhe \| 089/540–9860 \| www.kurpfalz-hotel.de \| 44 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hackerbrücke (S-bahn). ## Nymphenburg Erzgiesserei Europe. HOTEL \| Rooms in this modern hotel are bright, decorated in soft pastels with good reproductions on the walls. The cobblestone garden café is quiet and relaxing. Rates vary greatly, even on their own website. The English Cinema is around the corner if you're hankering for a film, and the subway station is a seven-minute walk. Pros: relatively quiet location; nice courtyard; air-conditioning in all rooms. Cons: charm of a business hotel; Wi-Fi costs extra. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Erzgiessereistr. 15, Nymphenburg \| 089/126–820 \| www.topinternational.com \| 106 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast \| Station: Stiglmaierplatz (U-bahn). FAMILY \| Kriemhild. HOTEL \| This welcoming, family-run pension is in a quiet western suburb. If you're traveling with children, you'll appreciate that it's a 10-minute walk from Schloss Nymphenburg and around the corner from the Hirschgarten Park. The tram ride (No. 16 or 17 to Kriemhildenstrasse stop) from the train station is 10 minutes. Pros: quiet location; family run; free Wi-Fi. Cons: far from the city sights. \| Rooms from: €88 \| Guntherstr. 16, Nymphenburg \| 089/171–1170 \| www.kriemhild.de \| 18 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Kriemhildstrasse (Tram). ## Bogenhausen Westin Grand München. HOTEL \| The building itself, with 22 floors, may raise a few eyebrows as it stands on a slight elevation and is not the shapeliest of the Munich skyline. What goes on inside, however, is sheer five-star luxury. Guests of the top four floors, the Tower Rooms and Suites, are greeted with a glass of champagne; snacks, drinks, and a fantastic view of the city and the Bavarian Alps are available in the Towers Lounge. Room service is available around the clock. There are several spots within the hotel to eat, including ZEN, which serves Pan-Asian food, and Paulaner's Wirtshaus, which also has a biergarten. If you want to add a special Bavarian flavor to your stay, book one of the "Bavarian rooms" on the 15th and the 16th floors with antique wood furniture and a country feel. Pros: luxurious lobby and restaurant; rooms facing west toward the city have a fabulous view. Cons: it's not possible to reserve west-facing rooms; hotel is difficult to reach via public transportation; at €27, breakfast is expensive; high-speed Wi-Fi cost is expensive. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Arabellastr. 6, Bogenhausen \| 089/92640 \| www.westin.com/munich \| 627 rooms, 28 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Arabellapark (U-bahn). ## Outside the Center Jagdschloss. HOTEL \| This century-old hunting lodge in Munich's leafy Obermenzing suburb is a delightful hotel. The rustic look has been retained, with lots of original woodwork and white stucco. Many of the comfortable pastel-tone bedrooms have wooden balconies with flower boxes bursting with color. In the beamed restaurant or sheltered beer garden you'll be served Bavarian specialties by a staff dressed in traditional lederhosen (shorts in summer, breeches in winter). Free Wi-Fi in rooms. Pros: peaceful location; beer garden; easy parking. Cons: away from the city center; convenient only with a car; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Alte Allee 21 \| München-Obermenzing \| 089/820–820 \| www.jagd-schloss.com \| 35 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents The Arts \| Nightlife ## The Arts Bavaria's capital has an enviable reputation as an artistic hot spot. Details of concerts and theater performances are listed in in münchen and Monatsprogramm, booklets available at most hotel reception desks, newsstands, and tourist offices. Prinz magazine lists almost everything happening in the city, as do a host of other city magazines, while the superb and official city website (www.muenchen.de) has listings. Otherwise, just keep your eye open for advertising pillars and posters. Box Office of the Bavarian State Theaters. Tickets for performances at the Bavarian State Theater, Nationaltheater, Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz, plus many other locations, are sold at the central box office. It's open Monday to Saturday 10–7. \| Marstallpl. 5, City Center \| 089/2185–1920 \| www.staatstheater-tickets.bayern.de. München Ticket. This ticket agency has a German-language website where tickets for most Munich venues can be booked. \| 089/5481–8181 \| www.muenchenticket.de. Zentraler Kartenverkauf. Two Zentraler Kartenverkauf ticket kiosks are in the underground concourse at Marienplatz, and one at Stachus. \| City Center \| 089/292–540 for Marienplatz, 089/5450–6060 for Stachus \| www.zkv-muenchen.de. ### Concerts Munich and music go together. The city has two world-renowned orchestras. The Philharmonic has been directed by Lorin Maazel, formerly of the New York Philharmonic, since the 2012/2013 season; the Bavarian State Opera Company is managed by Japanese-American director Kent Nagano (he leaves in 2015 for the equivalent position in Hamburg). The leading choral ensembles are the Munich Bach Choir, the Munich Motettenchor, and Musica Viva, the last specializing in contemporary music. The choirs perform mostly in city churches. Bayerischer Rundfunk Ticket. The Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra sometimes performs at the Bayerischer Rundfunk and other city venues, such as Gasteig. The box office is open weekdays 9–5:30. \| Arnulfstr. 42, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/5900–10880 \| info.br-klassikticket.de. Gasteig Culture Center. This world-class concert hall is in the Gasteig Culture Center, a hugely expensive, not particularly beautiful brick complex standing high above the Isar River, east of downtown. Its Philharmonic Hall is the permanent home of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra and the largest concert hall in Munich. Gasteig also hosts the occasional English-language work. It hosts the annual book fair and numerous other events and celebrations. TIP The sizeable open kitchen Gast (www.gast-muenchen.de), part of the Gasteig complex, is a good option for a range of quick foods, from Thai curries to pizzas. \| Rosenheimerstr. 5, Haidhausen \| 089/480–980 \| www.gasteig.de \| Station: Rosenheimerplatz (S-bahn). Herkulessaal in der Residenz. This highly regarded orchestral and recital venue is in the former throne room of King Ludwig I. \| Residenzstr. 1, City Center \| 0180/5481–8181 via München Ticket \| www.muenchenticket.de. Hochschule für Musik. Free concerts featuring conservatory students are given at the Hochschule für Musik. \| Arcisstr. 12, Maxvorstadt \| 089/28903 \| www.musikhochschule-muenchen.de. Nationaltheater (Bayerische Staatsoper). The Bavarian State Orchestra is based at the Nationaltheater. \| Max-Joseph-Pl. 2, City Center \| 089/218–501 \| www.staatsorchester.de. Olympiahalle. One of Munich's major pop-rock concert venue is the Olympiahalle, and the official ticket seller is München Ticket. \| Spiridon-Louis-Ring 21 Olympiazentrum stop, Milbertshofen \| www.olympiapark-muenchen.de; www.muenchenticket.de for tickets. Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz. Under renovation until 2015, the romantic art nouveau Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz has a variety of performances including operas, ballet, and musicals. Tickets from the theater weekdays 10–6, Saturday 10–1 or Zentraler Kartenvorverkauf in Marienplatz, and Stachus. \| Gärtnerpl. 3, Isarvorstadt \| 089/2185–1960 \| www.staatstheater-am-gaertnerplatz.de. ### Opera, Ballet, and Musicals Nationaltheater. Munich's Bavarian State Opera Company and its ballet ensemble perform at the Nationaltheater. \| Max-Joseph-Pl. 2, City Center \| 089/218–501. ### Theater Munich has scores of theaters and variety-show venues, although most productions will be largely impenetrable if your German is shaky. Listed here are all the better-known theaters, as well as some of the smaller and more progressive spots. Note that most theaters are closed during July and August. Cuvilliés-Theater. This is an incredible venue, and though not used too frequently, it is particularly famous for its Mozart productions. \| Max-Joseph-Pl., entrance on Residenzstr., City Center \| 089/2185–1940 \| www.residenztheater.de; www.staatstheater-tickets.bayern.de for tickets. Amerika Haus (America House). Amerika Haus is the venue for the very active American Drama Group Europe, which presents regular English-language productions and talks. \| Karolinenpl. 3, Maxvorstadt \| 089/552–5370 \| www.amerikahaus.de. Bayerisches Staatsschauspiel (Bavarian State Theater). Bayerisches Staatsschauspiel is Munich's leading ensemble for classic playwrights such as Goethe, Schiller, Lessing, Shakespeare, and Chekhov. Its main home is the Residenz Theater, but it also plays at the Cuvilliés-Theater and at Marstall. \| Max-Joseph-Pl. 1, City Center \| 089/2185–1940 \| www.bayerischesstaatsschauspiel.de; www.staatstheater-tickets.bayern.de for tickets. Deutsches Theater. After years of renovation work, the Deutsches Theater has reopened and is again the premier spot for musicals, revues, balls, and big-band shows. \| Schwanthalerstr. 9–11, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/5523–4444 for tickets \| www.deutsches-theater.de. Münchner Kammerspiele. A city-funded rival to the nearby state-backed Bayerisches Staatschauspiel, Münchner Kammerspiele-Schauspielhaus presents the classics as well as new works by contemporary playwrights. \| Maximilianstr. 26–28, City Center \| 089/2339–6600 \| www.muenchner-kammerspiele.de. ## Nightlife Munich has a lively night scene ranging from beer halls to bars to chic clubs. The fun areas for a night out are the City Center, Isarvorstadt (Gärtnerplatz and Glockenbachviertel are arguably the best in the city), and Schwabing around Schellingstrasse and Münchner Freiheit. Regardless of their size or style, many bars, especially around Gärtnerplatz, have DJs spinning either mellow background sounds or funky beats. However many fingers you want to hold up, just remember the easy-to-pronounce Bier (beer) bit-te (please) when ordering a beer. The tricky part is, Germans don't just produce one beverage called beer; they brew more than 5,000 varieties. Germany has about 1,300 breweries, 40% of the world's total. In Munich you'll find the most famous breweries, the largest beer halls and beer gardens, the biggest and most indulgent beer festival, and the widest selection of brews. Even the beer glasses are bigger: a Mass is a 1-liter (almost 2-pint) serving; a Halbe is half a liter and the standard size. The Hofbräuhaus is Munich's best-known beer hall, but you'll find locals in one of the English Garden's four beer gardens or in a Wirtshaus (tavern). In summer, last call at the beer gardens is around 11 pm. Most of the traditional places stay open until 1 am or so and are great for a few hours of wining and dining before heading out on the town. Most bars stay open until at least 3 am on weekends; some don't close until 5 or 6 am. Munich has hundreds of beer gardens, ranging from huge establishments that seat several hundred to small terraces tucked behind neighborhood pubs; the rest of the beer gardens are a bit farther afield and can be reached handily by bike or S- and U-bahn. Beer gardens are such an integral part of Munich life that a council proposal to cut down their hours provoked a storm of protest in 1995, culminating in one of the largest demonstrations in the city's history. They open whenever the thermometer creeps above 10°C (50°F) and the sun filters through the chestnut trees that are a necessary part of the scenery. Everybody in Munich has at least one favorite beer garden, so you're usually in good hands if you ask someone to point you in the right direction. You do not need to reserve. No need to phone either: if the weather says yes, then go. Some—but not all—allow you to bring your own food, but if you do, don't defile this hallowed territory with something so foreign as pizza or a burger. Note that Munich has very strict noise laws, so beer gardens tend to close around 11. There are a few dance clubs in town worth mentioning, but be warned: the larger the venue, the more difficult the entry. In general, big nightclubs are giving way to smaller, more laid-back lounge types of places scattered all over town. If you're really hankering for a big club, go to Optimolwerke in the Ostbahnhof section. Otherwise, enjoy the handful of places around the City Center. Munich also has a decent jazz scene, and some beer gardens have even taken to replacing their brass oompah bands with funky combos. Jazz musicians sometimes accompany Sunday brunch, too. ### City Center #### Bars Atomic Café. Near the Hofbräuhaus, this club/lounge has excellent DJs nightly, playing everything from '60s Brit pop to '60s/'70s funk and soul. Atomic also has great live acts on a regular basis. \| Neuturmstr. 5, City Center \| 089/228–3053 \| www.atomic.de. Bar Centrale. Around the corner from the Hofbräuhaus, Bar Centrale is very Italian—the waiters don't seem to speak any other language. The coffee is excellent; small fine meals are served as well. They have a retro-looking back room with leather sofas. \| Ledererstr. 23, City Center \| 089/223–762 \| www.bar-centrale.com. Eisbach. This bar occupies a corner of the Max Planck Institute building opposite the Bavarian Parliament. It is among Munich's biggest and is overlooked by a mezzanine restaurant area where you can choose from a limited but ambitious menu. Outdoor tables nestle in the expansive shade of huge parasols. The nearby Eisbach brook, which gives the bar its name, tinkles away, lending a relaxed air. \| Marstallpl. 3, City Center \| 089/2280–1680 \| www.eisbach.eu. Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten Kempinski. The hotel offers piano music until 9 pm, and then dancing to recorded music or a small combo. \| Maximilianstr. 17, City Center \| 089/2125–2799 \| www.kempinski.com/de/munich. Kilian's Irish Pub and Ned Kelly's Australian Bar. Just behind the Frauenkirche, Kilian's Irish Pub and Ned Kelly's Australian Bar offer an escape from the German tavern scene. Naturally, they have Guinness and Foster's, but they also serve Munich's lager, Augustiner, and regularly televise international soccer, rugby, and sports in general. \| Frauenpl. 11, City Center \| 089/2421–9899 for both bars \| www.kiliansirishpub.com; www.nedkellysbar.com. Night Club Bar. The Bayerischer Hof's Night Club Bar has live music, most famously international stars from the jazz scene, but also reggae to hip-hop and everything in between. \| Promenadepl. 2–6, City Center \| 089/212–0994 for table reservation \| www.bayerischerhof.de/en/bars. Schumann's. At Schumann's, Munich's most famous bar, the bartenders are busy shaking cocktails after the curtain comes down at the nearby opera house. \| Odeonspl. 6–7, City Center \| 089/229–060 \| www.schumanns.de. Trader Vic's. Exotic cocktails are the specialty at Trader Vic's, a smart cellar bar in the Hotel Bayerischer Hof that's as popular among out-of-town visitors as it is locals. It's open till 3 in the morning. \| Promenadenpl. 2–6, City Center \| 089/212–0995 \| www.bayerischerhof.de/en/bars. Pusser's Bar Munich. At the American-inspired, nautical-style Pusser's Bar Munich, great cocktails and Irish-German black-and-tans (Guinness and strong German beer) are made to the sounds of live jazz. Try the "Pain Killer," a specialty of the house. \| Falkenturmstr. 9, City Center \| 089/220–500 \| www.pussersbar.de. #### Beer Gardens Biergarten am Viktualienmarkt. The only true beer garden in the city center, and therefore the easiest to find, is the one at the Viktualienmarkt. The beer on tap rotates every six weeks among the six Munich breweries to keep everyone happy throughout the year. \| Viktualienmarkt \| 089/2916–5993 \| www.biergarten-viktualienmarkt.com. Park Café. This is one of Munich's hippest cafés, restaurants, nightclubs, and beer gardens. It often draws a younger crowd, attracted by a thriving music scene in the café itself, which ranges from DJs to live bands, and the occasional celebrity spotting. There's a great atmosphere to go with the good food and drinks, even better when the sun is shining and the beer garden is open. \| Sophienstr. 7, City Center \| 089/5161–7980 \| www.parkcafe089.de. ### Royal Munich #### Beer Gardens Biergarten am Chinesischen Turm. The famous Biergarten is at the five-story Chinese Tower in the Englischer Garten. Enjoy your beer to the strains of oompah music played by traditionally dressed musicians. \| Englischer Garten 3 \| 089/383–8730 \| www.chinaturm.de. Hirschau. The Hirschau, pleasantly located in the Englischer Garten, has room for 2,500 guests, and it's about 10 minutes north of the Kleinhesselohersee. \| Gysslingstrasse 15, Englischer Garten \| 089/3609–0490 \| www.hirschau-muenchen.de. Seehaus im Englischen Garten. The Seehaus is on the banks of the artificial lake Kleinhesseloher See, where all of Munich converge on hot summer days. Take Bus No. 44 and exit at Osterwaldstrasse or U-bahn No. 3/6 and stroll through the park. \| Kleinhesselohe 3 \| 089/381–6130 \| www.kuffler-gastronomie.de/de/muenchen/seehaus. #### Dance Clubs P1. Bordering the Englischer Garten, in a wing of Haus der Kunst, P1 is definitely one of the most popular clubs in town for the see-and-be-seen crowd. It is chockablock with the rich and the wannabe rich and can be fun if you're in the mood. The bouncers can be choosy about whom they let in, so you'll need to dress in style. It also includes the 2013-opened Studio Schwarz, a so-called "performative, excessive, alternative and experimental club area." \| Prinzregentenstr. 1, on west side of Haus der Kunst, Altstadt-Lehel \| 089/211–1140 \| www.p1-club.de. ### Schwabing #### Bars Alter Simpl. Media types drink Weissbier, Helles, as well as Guinness and Kilkenny, at the square bar at Alter Simpl. More than 100 years old, this establishment serves German food until 2 am (weekends till 3 am). \| Türkenstr. 57, Maxvorstadt \| 089/272–3083 \| www.eggerlokale.de. Schall und Rauch. Up on Schellingstrasse, this legendary student hangout, whose name literally means "Noise and Smoke," has great music and food. \| Schellingstr. 22, Schwabing \| 089/2880–9577. Schelling Salon. Another absolute cornerstone in the neighborhood is the Schelling Salon. On the corner of Barerstrasse, this sizeable bar has several pool tables and even a secret ping-pong room in the basement with an intercom for placing beer orders. The food's not bad and pretty inexpensive. It's closed Tuesday and Wednesday. \| Schellingstr. 54, Schwabing \| 089/272–0788 \| www.schelling-salon.de. Türkenhof. Across the street is the Türkenhof, another solid local joint that serves Augustiner and good food. \| Türkenstr. 78, Schwabing \| 089/280–0235 \| www.augustiner-braeu.de. #### Jazz Alfonso's Live Music Club. At tiny Alfonso's the nightly live music redefines the concept of intimacy. \| Franzstr. 5, Schwabing \| 089/338–835 \| www.alfonsos.de. ### Hauptbahnhof #### Beer Gardens Augustiner Keller Biergarten. The Augustiner Keller is one of the more authentic of the beer gardens, with excellent food, beautiful chestnut shade trees, a mixed local crowd, and Munich Augustiner beer. It's a few minutes from the Hauptbahnhof and Hackerbrucke. \| Arnulfstr. 52, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/594–393 \| www.augustinerkeller.de. ### Isarvorstadt #### Bars Around Gärtnerplatz and Glockenbachviertel are a number of cool bars and clubs for a somewhat younger, hipper crowd. Café am Hochhaus. If you're looking for a bit more action, check out the Café am Hochhaus. The glass-fronted former coffee shop is now a scene bar with funky DJs playing music to shake a leg to (if it's not too crowded). \| Blumenstr. 29, City Center \| 089/8905–8152 \| www.cafeamhochhaus.de. Cafe Trachtenvogl. Take a seat on Grandma's retro couches at Cafe Trachtenvogl. The cafe serves all sorts of tasty treats from good sandwiches to hearty Bavarian meals, which you can top off with a Tegernseer beer—a Munich favorite. \| Reichenbachstr. 47, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/201–5160 \| www.trachtenvogl.de. Holy Home. For a New York City, corner-bar type experience, check out Holy Home. A hip local crowd frequents this smoky hole-in-the-wall that books great low-key DJs. \| Reichenbachstr. 21, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/201–4546. #### Gay and Lesbian Bars Munich's well-established gay scene stretches between Sendlingertorplatz and Isartorplatz in the Glockenbach neighborhood. For an overview, check www.munich-cruising.de. Ochsengarten. This is Munich's bar for lovers of leather and rubber. \| Müllerstr. 47, Isarvorstadt \| 089/266–446 \| www.ochsengarten.de. Paradiso Tanzbar. Formerly Old Mrs. Henderson, this is still one of the most lively clubs on the scene, combining dance, champagne, and open to all kinds of music. \| Rumfordstr. 2, Isarvorstadt \| 089/263–469 \| www.paradiso-tanzbar.de. #### Jazz Jazzbar Vogler. The Vogler is a nice bar with jam sessions on Monday nights and regular jazz concerts. \| Rumfordstr. 17, City Center/Isarvorstadt \| 089/294–662 \| www.jazzbar-vogler.com. ### Nymphenburg #### Beer Gardens Königlicher Hirschgarten. Out in the district of Nymphenburg is the huge Königlicher Hirschgarten, a great family-oriented beer garden. To get there, rent bikes and make a day of it in the park and beer garden, or take Bus No. 51 or 151 to Hirschgarten, then walk for 10 to 15 minutes. Bike or bus, use a map, it'll be worth it. \| Hirschgarten 1, Nymphenburg \| 089/1799–9119 \| www.hirschgarten.de. Taxisgarten. The crowd at the Taxisgarten in the Gern district (U-bahn Gern, Line No. 1 toward Olympia Einkaufszentrum) is more white-collar and tame, but the food is excellent, and while parents refresh themselves, children exhaust themselves on the playground. \| Taxisstr. 12, Neuhausen-Nymphenburg \| 089/156–827 \| www.taxisgarten.de. #### Dance Clubs Backstage. The Backstage is mostly a live-music venue for alternative music of all kinds, but there's also a chilled-out club and a beer garden. Purchase tickets at various websites, including München Ticket (www.muenchenticket.de). \| Reitknechtstr. 6, Neuhausen-Nymphenburg \| 0180/5481–8181 for tickets, 089/126–6100 for club \| www.backstage.eu \| Station: Hirschgarten (S-bahn). #### Jazz The Big Easy. This classy restaurant features jazz-accompanied Sunday brunch for €16.50–€18.50, not including drinks. It's pricey, but good. \| Frundsbergstr. 46, Nymphenburg \| 089/1589–0253 \| www.thebigeasy.de. ### Ludwigvorstadt #### Jazz Mr. B's. The tiny Mr. B's is a treat. It's run by New Yorker Alex Best, who also mixes great cocktails and, unlike so many other barkeeps, usually wears a welcoming smile. \| Herzog-Heinrich-Str. 38, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/534–901 \| www.misterbs.eu. ### Haidhausen #### Beer Gardens Hofbräukeller am Wiener Platz. This is of the city's middle-size beer gardens but undoubtedly one of the best. Situated off Wiener Platz makes it attractive enough, plus the food's good, and it serves the same beer as the Hofbräuhaus. Inside, the restaurant is well worth a look. Take Tram No. 19 to Wiener-Platz, or U-bahn Line No. 4 or 5 to Max-Weber-Platz. \| Innere Wiener Str. 19, Haidhausen \| 089/459–9250 \| www.hofbraeukeller.de. #### Dance Clubs Optimolwerke. A former factory premises hosts the city's largest late-night party scene: the Optimolwerke has no fewer than eight clubs (the number changes) including a Brazil bar; self-styled "party bar" Die Burg; and Theaterfabrik, venue for concerts and more partys. \| Friedenstr. 10, Haidhausen \| 089/450–6920 \| www.optimolwerke.de \| Station: Ostbahnhof (S-bahn). Muffathalle. One of the best live venues in the city, this club puts on up-and-coming bands as well as ones on their second or third or more appearances after making it big. Many leading acts from the U.K. and U.S. scenes have played here. The café-bar here has different DJs nearly every night of the week, and the modest beer garden serves organic food. Muffathalle is five minutes from Rosenheimer Platz S-bahn station. \| Muffatwerk, Zellstr. 4, behind Müllersches Volksbad near river, Haidhausen \| 089/4587–5010 \| www.muffatwerk.de. #### Jazz Unterfahrt. The Unterfahrt is the place for the serious jazzologist, though hip-hop is making heavy inroads into the scene. \| Einsteinstr. 42, Haidhausen \| 089/448–2794 \| www.unterfahrt.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Olympiapark. The Olympiapark, built for the 1972 Olympics, is one of the largest sports and recreation centers in Europe. The Olympic-size pool is open for swimming. \| Spiridon-Louis-Ring 21, Milbertshofen \| 089/30670 \| www.olympiapark.de \| Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn). Sporthaus Schuster. The focus here is on adventure sports, so if it's climbing, trekking, biking, or walking you're into, this huge store, meters off Marienplatz, is the place. \| Rosenstr. 1–5, City Center \| 089/237–070 \| www.sport-schuster.de. SportScheck. For general information about sports in and around Munich, contact the sports emporium SportScheck. Recently moved to Neuhauser Strasse, this big store not only sells every kind of equipment but is very handy with advice. \| Neuhauser Str. 19–21, City Center \| 089/2166–1219 \| www.sportscheck.com. ### Bicycling A bike is hands-down the best way to experience this flat, pedal-friendly city. There are loads of bike lanes and paths that wind through its parks and along the Isar River. The rental shop will give you maps and tips, or you can get a map at any city tourist office. Weather permitting, here is a route to try: Go through Isartor to the river and head north to the Englischer Garten. Ride around the park and have lunch at a beer garden. Exit the park and go across Leopoldstrasse into Schwabing, making your way back down toward the museum quarter via the adorable Elisabethmarkt. Check out one or two of the galleries then head back to town passing Königsplatz. You can also take your bike on the S-bahns (except during rush hours from 6 am to 9 am and from 4 pm to 6 pm), which take you out to the many lakes and attractions outside town. Bicycles on public transportation cost either one strip on a multiple ticket or €2.50 for a day ticket. ##### Rentals Radius Tours and Bikes. Based at the central station, Radius Tours and Bikes rents bikes. A three- to eight-gear bike costs €14.50 a day. A 24–27-gear bike costs €22. Hourly rates are €3 and €5, respectively. E-Bikes (regular bikes that also use electricity) are also available, from €29 a day. \| Opposite platform 32, Hauptbahnhof \| 089/54348–77730 \| www.radiustours.com. Mike's Bike Tours. Mike's Bike Tours also rents bikes, which is around the corner from the rear entrance of the Hofbräuhaus. Day rental is €15 for the first day, €70 for a week. Return time is 8 pm May through August, earlier in other seasons. \| Bräuhausstr. 10, City Center \| 089/2554–3987 \| www.mikesbiketours.com. ##### Tours Mike's Bike Tours. The oldest bike tour operation in Munich, Mike's tours last 4–7 hours, typically with an hour break at a beer garden, and cover upward of 6 km (4 miles). Tours start daily at the Altes Rathaus at the end of Marienplatz. A standard tour costs €25 (bike included) and starts at 11:30 and 4:30 (April 15–August 31) and 12:30 (September 1–November 10); November 11–March by appointment. Reserve to be sure, though you'll probably get a bike if you just show up. Bus Bavaria, part of the same company, also offers day trips by bus to Neuschwanstein castle, which costs €49. \| Bräuhausstr. 10, City Center \| 089/2554–3987 \| www.mikesbiketours.com. ### Golf Munich Golf Club. The Munich Golf Club has several courses that admit visitors on weekdays. Visitors must be members of a club at home. The greens fee for 18 holes is €90; you can only play on the weekends with a member. \| Tölzer Straße 95, Straßlach-Hailafing \| 08170/929–1811 \| www.golf.de/golfclub/mgc/home.cfm. Golf Club München Riem. The Golf Club München Riem is to the east of Munich on the way to the congressional center at Riem. The greens fee is €50 Mon.–Thurs. before 2; €60 after 2, plus all weekends and holidays. \| Golf Club München-Riem, Graf-Lehndorff-Str. 36 \| 089/9450–0800 \| www.gcriem.de. ### Ice-Skating Global warming permitting, there's outdoor skating on the lake in the Englischer Garten and on the Nymphenburger Canal in winter. Watch out for signs reading "gefahr" (danger), warning you of thin ice. Karlsplatz. In winter the fountain on Karlsplatz is turned into a public rink with music and an outdoor bar. Eissportstadion. The Eissportstadion in Olympiapark has an indoor rink. \| Spiridon-Louis-Ring 3, Schwabing \| 089/3077–9452 \| www.olympiapark.de. Eisbahn West. In the west of Munich is another outdoor rink, the Eisbahn West—open from October each year until spring. \| Agnes-Bernauer-Str. 241, Pasing-Obermenzing \| 089/8968–9007. ### Jogging Englischer Garten. The best place to jog is the Englischer Garten, which is 11 km (7 miles) around and has dirt and asphalt paths throughout. Isar River. The banks of the Isar River are a favorite route for local runners. Olympiapark. The 500-acre park of Schloss Nymphenburg is also ideal for running, as is the Olympiapark, if you're in the area. \| Tram No. 12 to Romanpl. ### Swimming Munich set itself a goal of making the Isar River drinkable by 2005, and nearly did it. Either way, the river is most definitely clean enough to wade in on a hot summer day. Hundreds of people sunbathe on the banks upriver from the Deutsches Museum and take the occasional dip. If you prefer stiller waters, you can try swimming outdoors in the Isar River at the Maria-Einsiedel public pool complex. However, because the water comes from the Alps, it's frigid even in summer. Warmer lakes near Munich are the Ammersee and the Starnbergersee. There are also a number of public pools and spas in Munich if you just have to get in the water while you're here. Cosima Bad. Cosima Bad has man-made waves. \| Cosimastraße 5, Bogenhausen \| 089/2361–5050 \| www.swm.de. Dante-Winter-Warmfreibad. The Dantebad has a heated, outdoor Olympic-size pool; in summer the place is packed. They also have a pool available in winter, which is usually not too crowded and provides a nice respite in the frigid months. \| Postillonstraße 17, Gern \| 089/2361–5050 \| www.swm.de. Müller'sches Volksbad. The Müller'sches Volksbad is in a glorious Jugendstil (the Munich-based Art Nouveau movement) building right on the Isar. Even if not to swim, take a look inside and out. The pool is small but functional. There is also a sauna and steam bath area (mixed, birthday suit required) that is fantastic for a chilly winter's afternoon. Tuesday (and Friday until 3) is reserved for women in the sauna section. \| Rosenheimerstr. 1, Haidhausen \| 089/2361–5050 \| www.swm.de. Nordbad. The Nordbad has a small, pleasant sauna section. \| Schleißheimer Straße 142, Schwabing \| 089/2361–5050 \| www.swm.de. Olympia-Schwimmhalle. The Olympia-Schwimmhalle has not only an Olympic-size pool but also a sauna area with a "steam cavern" as an extra delight. \| Olympiapark, Coubertinplatz 1, Milbertshofen \| 089/2361–5050 \| www.swm.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents City Center \| Schwabing and Maxvorstadt \| Hauptbahnhof \| Isarvorstadt Munich has three of Germany's most exclusive shopping streets as well as flea markets to rival those of any other European city. In between are department stores, where acute German-style competition assures reasonable prices and often produces outstanding bargains. Artisans bring their wares of beauty and originality to the Christmas markets. Collect their business cards—in summer you're sure to want to order another of those little gold baubles that were on sale in December. Munich has an immense central shopping area, a 2-km (1-mile) Fussgängerzone (pedestrian zone) stretching from the train station to Marienplatz and then north to Odeonsplatz. The two main streets here are Neuhauser Strasse and Kaufingerstrasse, the sites of most major department stores. For upscale shopping, Maximilianstrasse, Residenzstrasse, and Theatinerstrasse are unbeatable. Schwabing, north of the university, has more offbeat shopping streets—Schellingstrasse and Hohenzollernstrasse are two to try. TIP The neighborhood around Gärtnerplatz also has lots of new boutiques. A few small shops around Viktualienmarkt sell Bavarian antiques, though their numbers are dwindling under the pressure of high rents. Antique shoppers should also try the area north of the university—Türkenstrasse, Theresienstrasse, and Barerstrasse are all filled with antiques stores. Strictly for window-shopping—unless you're looking for something really rare and special and money's no object—are the exclusive shops lining Prannerstrasse, at the rear of the Hotel Bayerischer Hof. Interesting and inexpensive antiques and assorted junk from all over Europe are laid out at the weekend flea market at the Olympiapark (not far from the Olympic Stadium), which has around 460 sellers. If you want to deck yourself out in lederhosen or a dirndl, or acquire a green loden coat and little pointed hat with feathers, you have a wide choice in the Bavarian capital. TIP There are a couple of other shops along Tal Street that have new and used lederhosen and dirndls at good prices in case you want to spontaneously get into the spirit of the 'Fest. Munich is also a city of beer, and items related to its consumption are obvious choices for souvenirs and gifts. Munich is also the home of the famous Nymphenburg Porcelain factory. Between Karlsplatz and the Viktualienmarkt there are loads of shops for memorabilia and trinkets. ## City Center ### Antiques Antike Uhren Eder. In Antike Uhren Eder, the silence is broken only by the ticking of dozens of highly valuable German antique clocks and by discreet negotiation over the high prices. \| Prannerstr. 4, opposite back of Hotel Bayerischer Hof, City Center \| 089/220–305 \| www.uhreneder.ch. Roman Odesser. Antique German silver is the specialty at Roman Odesser. \| Westenriederstr. 21, City Center \| 089/226–388. ### Books Hugendubel. There is a good selection of novels in English on the fifth floor of Hugendubel. \| Marienpl. 22, City Center \| 089/3075–7575 \| www.hugendubel.de \| Karlspl. 11–12, City Center. ### Ceramics and Glass Kunstring. For Dresden and Meissen porcelain wares, go to Kunstring near Odeonsplatz. \| Briennerstr. 4, City Center \| www.meissen.com/de/geschaefte/de/kunstring. Porzellan Nymphenburg. This opulent space resembles a drawing room in the Munich palace of the same name. It has delicate, expensive porcelain safely locked away in bowfront cabinets. \| Odeonspl. 1, City Center \| 089/282–428 \| www.nymphenburg.com/de/nymphenburg. Schloss Nymphenburg. You can buy directly from the factory called Porzellanmanufaktur Nymphenburg on the grounds of Schloss Nymphenburg. \| Nördliches Schlossrondell 8, Nymphenburg \| Take Tram No. 17 from Karlsplatz Stachus to Schloss Nymphenburg \| 089/179–1970 \| Weekdays 10–5, Sat. 11–4. ### Clothing C&A. For a more affordable option on loden (water-resistant woolen material used for traditional coats and hats) and general fashion, try the department store C&A in the pedestrian zone. \| Kaufingerstr. 13, City Center \| 089/231–930. Lederhosen Wagner. The tiny Lederhosen Wagner, right up against the Heiliggeist Church, carries lederhosen, woolen sweaters called Walk (not loden), and children's clothing. \| Tal 2, City Center \| 089/225–697. Loden-Frey. Much of the fine loden clothing on sale at Loden-Frey is made at the company's own factory, on the edge of the Englischer Garten. \| Maffeistr. 7, City Center \| 089/210–390. ### Crafts Bayerischer Kunstgewerbe–Verein. Bavarian craftspeople have a showplace of their own, the Bayerischer Kunstgewerbe–Verein; here you'll find every kind of handicraft, from glass and pottery to textiles. \| Pacellistr. 6–8, City Center \| 089/290–1470. Max Krug. If you've been to the Black Forest and forgot to acquire a clock, or if you need a good Bavarian souvenir, try Max Krug in the pedestrian zone. \| Neuhauser Strasse 2, City Center \| 089/224–501 \| www.max-krug.com. ### Food and Beer Chocolate & More. Opened in 2001, this tiny shop, located in the Viktualienmarkt, specializes in all things chocolate. \| Westenrieder Str. 15, City Center \| 089/2554–4905 \| www.chocolate-and-more-munich.de. Dallmayr. Dallmayr is the city's most elegant and famous gourmet food store, with delights that range from exotic fruits and English jams to a multitude of fish and meats, all served by efficient Munich matrons in smart blue-and-white linen costumes. The store's famous specialty is coffee, with more than 50 varieties to blend as you wish. It even has its own chocolate factory. This is the place to prepare a high-class–if pricey–picnic. \| Dienerstr. 14–15, City Center \| 089/21350 \| www.dallmayr.com. ### Gift and Souvenirs Sebastian Wesely. Located on this street since 1923, Sebastian Wesely is the place to come for beer-related vessels and schnapps glasses (Stampferl), walking sticks, scarves, and napkins with the famous Bavarian blue-and-white lozenges. \| Rindermarkt 1, at Peterspl., City Center \| 089/264–519 \| www.wesely.de. ### Markets Christkindlmarkt. From the end of November until December 24, the open-air stalls of the Christkindlmarkt (Christmas market) are a great place to find gifts and warm up with mulled wine. Two other perennial Christmas-market favorites are those in Schwabing (Münchner-Freiheit Square) and at the Chinese Tower, in the middle of the Englischer Garten. \| Marienpl., City Center. Farmers' markets. In addition to Elisabethplatz and Viktualienmarkt, there are about 40 other weekly farmers' markets in Munich. Some are just a few fruit and vegetable stands on a side street, and some are also the weekly meeting point for the neighborhood. There's a farmers' market out near the zoo on Wednesday and Saturday, from 8 am to 1 pm: Take Bus 52, which leaves every 5–10 minutes from central Marienplatz to the Tiergarten (zoo). Get off at Mariahilfplatz, stroll the farmers' market at the foot of the church, grab a bite, and take the next bus to the zoo. Also on Saturday from 8 am to 1 pm is the farmers market near the university: take Subway 3 or 6 to Universität and walk through the university to the corner of Gabersbergerstrasse/Türkenstrasse, where the market stalls are erected on the eastern wall of the museum Pinakothek der Moderne. You can get a good glass wine from the Rhineland wine grower and a made-to-order sandwich from the butcher at the next stall then grab a place at one of the stand-up tables and you're set. Thursday afternoon is the time to visit the farmers' market with the prettiest and most historic site—and it's the closest to the city center. Take the number 4 or 5 subway from Odeonsplatz to the Lehel stop at St. Anna Platz. \| www.muenchener-bauernmaerkte.de. Viktualienmarkt. Munich's Viktualienmarkt is the place to shop and to eat. Just south of Marienplatz, it's home to an array of colorful stands that sell everything from cheese to sausages, flowers to wine. A visit here is more than just an opportunity to find picnic makings; it provides an opening into Müncheners' robust—though friendly—nature, especially at the Viktualienmarkt's Bavarian Biergärten (beer garden). \| Viktualienmarkt, City Center \| Weekdays 10–6, Sat. 10–3. ### Shopping Malls and Department Stores Breiter. For a classic selection of German clothing, including some with a folk touch, and a specialism in hats, try Munich's traditional family-run Breiter. \| Kaufingerstrasse 23–26, City Center \| 089/599–8840 \| www.hutbreiter.de. Fünf Höfe. For a more upscale shopping experience, visit the many stores, boutiques, galleries, and cafés of the Fünf Höfe, a modern arcade carved into the block of houses between Theatinerstrasse and Kardinal-Faulhaber-Strasse. The architecture of the passages and courtyards is cool and elegant, in sharp contrast to the facades of the buildings. There's a decent Thai restaurant in there as well. \| Between Theatinerstr. and Kardinal-Faulhaber-Str., City Center \| www.fuenfhoefe.de. Galeria Kaufhof. Shop here for mid-price goods. TIP The end-of-season sales are bargains. \| Kaufingerstr. 1–5, Marienplatz, City Center \| 089/231–851. Hirmer. With a markedly friendly and knowledgeable staff, Hirmer has Munich's most comprehensive collection of German-made men's clothes. International brands are also here, such as Polo, Diesel, and Levi's. \| Kaufingerstr. 28, City Center \| 0800/063–8190 \| www.hirmer.de. Karstadt. Karstadt commands an entire city block between the train station and Karlsplatz. It is the largest and one of the best department stores in the city. On the fourth floor is a cafeteria with a great selection of excellent and inexpensive dishes. \| Bahnhofpl. 7, City Center \| 089/55120 \| www.karstadt.de. Kaufinger Tor. Kaufinger Tor has several floors of boutiques and cafés packed neatly together under a high glass roof. \| Kaufingerstr. 117, City Center \| www.kaufingertor.de. Ludwig Beck. Ludwig Beck is considered a step above other department stores by Müncheners. It's packed from top to bottom with highly original wares and satisfies even the pickiest of shoppers. \| Marienpl. 11, City Center \| 089/236–910 \| www.kaufhaus.ludwigbeck.de. Pool. Pool is a hip shop on the upscale Maximilianstrasse, with fashion, music, and accessories for house and home. It's a shopping experience for the senses. \| Maximilianstr. 11, City Center \| 089/266–035 \| www.verypoolish.com. ### Textiles Johanna Daimer Filze aller Art. In an arcade of the Neues Rathaus is tiny Johanna Daimer Filze aller Art, a shop founded in 1883 that sells every kind and color of felt imaginable. \| Dienerstr.,im Rathaus, City Center \| 089/776–984 \| www.daimer-filze.com. ### Toys Spielwaren Obletters. Spielwaren Obletters has two extensive floors of toys, with the usual favorites plus many handmade playthings of great charm and quality. \| Karlspl. 11–12, City Center \| 089/5508–9510. ## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt ### Antiques Die Puppenstube. For Munich's largest selection of dolls and marionettes, head to Die Puppenstube. \| Luisenstr. 68, Maxvorstadt \| 089/272–3267. ### Books Lehmkuhl. Lehmkuhl is Munich's oldest and one of its finest bookshops; it also sells beautiful cards. \| Leopoldstr. 45, Schwabing \| 089/380–1500 \| www.lehmkuhl.net \| Station: Münchner Freiheit (U-Bahn). ### Food and Beer Ludwig Mory. This shop has everything relating to beer, from mugs of all shapes and sizes and in all sorts of materials to warmers for those who don't like their beer too cold. \| Amalienstr. 16, Maxvorstadt \| 089/224–542. ### Markets Elisabethplatz. If you're in the Schwabing area, the daily market at Elisabethplatz is worth a visit—it's much smaller than the Victualienmarkt but the range and quality of produce are comparable. Whereas at the Viktualienmarkt you have visitors from many lands pushing past the stands, here life is more peaceful and local. There is a beer garden here as well. \| Elisabethpl., Schwabing \| Daily 8–6. ### Shopping Malls and Department Stores Oberpollinger. The more-than-100-year-old Oberpollinger—one of Germany's finest upscale department stores—was renovated in 2008. It's seven floors are packed with pricey, glamorous fashion, furniture, and beauty items. The large, open-plan self-service restaurant on the top floor is well worth a visit, and isn't expensive. \| Neuhauserstr. 18, City Center \| 089/290–230 \| www.oberpollinger.de ## Hauptbahnhof ### Books Internationale Presse. Locations in the main train station, Ostbahnhof, and Stachus have magazines and novels. \| Opposite Track 23, Hauptbahnhof \| 089/5511–7170 \| www.einkaufsbahnhof.de. ## Isarvorstadt ### Food and Beer Götterspeise. Across the street from the restaurant Faun in Glockenbachviertel, the name of this delectable chocolate shop means "ambrosia," a fitting name for their gifts, delights, and hot drinks. \| Jahnstr. 30, Ludwigvorstadt \| 089/2388–7374 \| www.goetterspeise-muenchen.de. ### Shopping Malls and Department Stores Slips. A beautiful shop on Gärtnerplatz, Slips has a wide range of dresses, jeans, shoes, and accessories. Prices are a bit outrageous, but it's a successful store, so they must be doing something right. \| Gärtnerplatz. 2, Isarvorstadt \| 089/202–2500 \| www.slipsfashion.com. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Starnbergersee \| Ammersee \| Dachau \| Landshut Munich's excellent suburban railway network, the S-bahn, brings several quaint towns and attractive rural areas within easy reach for a day's excursion. The two nearest lakes, Starnbergersee and the Ammersee, are popular year-round. Dachau attracts overseas visitors, mostly because of its concentration-camp memorial site, but it's a picturesque and historic town in its own right. Landshut, north of Munich, is way off the tourist track, but if it were the same distance south of Munich, this jewel of a Bavarian market town would be overrun. All these destinations have a wide selection of restaurants and hotels, and you can bring a bike on any S-bahn train. German Railways, DB, often has weekend specials that allow a family or group of five to travel inexpensively. (Inquire at the main train station for a Bayern ticket, which costs €22 for up to five people to travel in Bavaria for a day, and the Wochenendticket, or weekend ticket, which costs €42.) Also look for a Tageskarte, or day ticket, in the ticket machines in the subway stations. TIP Keep in mind that there are quite a few options for day trips to the famous castles built by King Ludwig, which are only a couple of hours away. Mike's Bike Tours organizes trips, or ask at your hotel for bus-tour excursions. A train out to Füssen and Schloss Neuschwanstein takes two hours. ## Starnbergersee 20 km (12 miles) southwest of Munich. Starnbergersee was one of Europe's first pleasure grounds. Royal coaches were already trundling out from Munich to the lake's wooded shores in the 17th century. In 1663 Elector Ferdinand Maria threw a shipboard party at which 500 guests wined and dined as 100 oarsmen propelled them around the lake. Today pleasure steamers provide a taste of such luxury for the masses. The lake is still lined with the small baroque palaces of Bavaria's aristocracy, but their owners now share the lakeside with public parks, beaches, and boatyards. Starnbergersee is one of Bavaria's largest lakes—20 km (12 miles) long, 5 km (3 miles) wide, and 406 feet at its deepest point—so there's plenty of room for swimmers, sailors, and windsurfers. The water is very clean (like most Bavarian lakes), a testimony to stringent environmental laws and the limited number of motorboats allowed. #### Getting Here and Around Starnberg and the north end of the lake are a 25-minute drive from Munich on the A-95 autobahn. Follow the signs to Garmisch and take the Starnberg exit. Country roads then skirt the west and east shores of the lake, but many are closed to the public. The S-bahn 6 suburban line runs from Munich's central Marienplatz to Starnberg and three other towns on the lake's west shore: Possenhofen, Feldafing, and Tutzing. The journey from Marienplatz to Starnberg takes 36 minutes. The east shore of the lake can be reached by bus from the town of Wolfratshausen, the end of the S-bahn 7 suburban line. A wonderful way to spend a summer day is to rent bicycles in Munich, take the S-bahn to Starnberg and ride along the eastern shore and back. Another appealing option is to take the train to Tutzing and ride up the western shore back to Starnberg. The nicest way to visit Starnbergersee area is by ship. On Saturday evening the ship Seeshaupt has dancing and dinner. #### Essentials Visitor and Tour Information Tourismusverband Starnberger Fünf-Seen-Land. This is the place to get all the information you need to enjoy trips to the lakes, towns, villages, and countryside between Munich and the Alps. \| Wittelsbacher Str. 2c \| 08151/90600 \| www.sta5.de. ### Exploring Buchheim Museum. The Buchheim Museum, on the western shore of the lake, has one of the finest private collections of German expressionist art in the form of paintings, drawings, watercolors, and prints. Among the artists represented are Otto Dix, Max Beckmann, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Karl Schmitt-Rotluff, and other painters of the so-called Brücke movement (1905–13). The museum is housed in an impressive modern building on the lakeside. Some areas of the museum are reserved for African cultic items and Bavarian folk art. The nicest way to get to the museum from Starnberg is by ship. \| Am Hirschgarten 1 \| 08158/99700 \| www.buchheimmuseum.de \| €8.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. König Ludwig II Votivkapelle Berg (King Ludwig II Memorial Chapel). On the lake's eastern shore, at the village of Berg, you'll find the König Ludwig II Votivkapelle Berg. A well-marked path leads through thick woods to the chapel, built near the point in the lake where the drowned king's body was found on June 13, 1886. He had been confined in nearby Berg Castle after the Bavarian government took action against his withdrawal from reality and his bankrupting castle-building fantasies. A cross in the lake marks the point where his body was recovered. \| Near Berg Castle \| Berg. Possenhofen. The castle of Possenhofen, home of Ludwig's favorite cousin, Sissi, stands on the western shore, practically opposite Berg. Local lore says they used to send affectionate messages across the lake to each other. Sissi married the Austrian emperor Franz Joseph I, but spent more than 20 summers in the lakeside castle. The inside of the castle cannot be visited, but there is a nice park around it. The Kaiser Elisabeth Museum (Sissi-Museum) is in the historical Possenhofen railway station (yards from S-Bahn Possenhofen). It is open from around May to mid–October, Fri.–Sun. and entry is €4. \| Berg \| 08157/925–932 Sissi-Museum \| www.kaiserin-elisabeth-museum-ev.de. Roseninsel (Rose Island). Just offshore is the tiny Roseninsel, where King Maximilian II built a summer villa. You can swim to its tree-fringed shores or sail across in a dinghy or on a Windsurfer (rentals are available at Possenhofen's boatyard and at many other rental points along the lake). There is a little ferry service (0171/722–2266 \| www.faehre-roseninsel.de) for €4. It runs daily between 11 and 6 from May to the end of September. \| Roseninsel \| Possenhofen \| www.sta5.de/reisefuehrer/wasser/roseninsel.html. Starnberg. The Starnbergersee is named after its chief resort, Starnberg, the largest town on the lake and the nearest to Munich. Pleasure boats set off from the jetty for trips around the lake. The resort has a tree-lined lakeside promenade and some fine turn-of-the-20th-century villas, some of which are now hotels. There are abundant restaurants, taverns, and chestnut-tree-shaded beer gardens both along the shore and in town, but on warm days the whole place is packed. ### Where to Eat and Stay Seerestaurant Undosa. EUROPEAN \| This restaurant is a short walk from the Starnberg railroad station. Most tables command a view of the lake, which provides very good fish specials. This is the place to try the mild-tasting Renke, a perch-type fish. The Undosa also has jazz evenings and a large café, the Oberdeck, also overlooking the lake. \| Average main: €15 \| Seepromenade 1 \| 08151/998–930 \| www.undosa.de \| Reservations not accepted \| Closed 2 wks in Feb. Forsthaus am See. HOTEL \| The handsome, geranium-covered Forsthaus faces the lake, and so do most of the large, pinewood-furnished rooms. The excellent restaurant ($$) has a daily changing international menu, with lake fish a specialty. The hotel has its own lake access and boat pier, with a chestnut-shaded beer garden nearby. The hotel is not in Starnberg, but rather in the village of Possenhofen. To reach this village, drive through Starnberg, heading south along the lake; you'll see signs for the hotel after about 10 km (6 mi). Pros: welcoming, wood-paneled rooms facing the lake; secluded location. Cons: a little remote; rooms that don't face lake are inferior; need a car to get here. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Am See 1 \| Possenhofen \| 08157/93010 \| www.forsthaus-am-see.de \| 21 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Hotel Schloss Berg. HOTEL \| King Ludwig II spent his final days in the small castle of Berg, from which this comfortable hotel gets its name. It's on the edge of the castle park where Ludwig liked to walk and a stone's throw from where he drowned. The century-old main hotel building is on the lakeside, and a modern annex overlooks the lake from the woods - in either, make sure you get a room facing the lake. All rooms are spacious and elegantly furnished. The restaurant ($$) and waterside beer garden are favorite haunts of locals and weekenders. Schloss Berg is in the village of Berg, along the lake near Starnberg. From Munich, head toward Starnberg on the autobahn, but turn toward Berg at the end of the off ramp. Pros: very nice view across the lake; free Wi-Fi. Cons: the reception desk is in the annex; you need a car to get here. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Seestr. 17 \| Berg \| 08151/9630 \| www.hotelschlossberg.de \| 60 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Seehof. HOTEL \| This small hotel right next to the train station has several rooms with a lake view. Rooms are simply done, with light colors and flower prints on the walls. The Italian restaurant attached, Al Gallo Nero ($), has dishes ranging from pizzas to satisfying and pricey fish dishes. Pros: good location and restaurant; free Wi-Wi throughout. Cons: rooms facing the street are noisy; some rooms are simply furnished. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Bahnhofpl. 6 \| 08151/908–500 \| www.hotel-seehof-starnberg.de \| 38 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Ammersee 40 km (25 miles) southwest of Munich. Ammersee, or the Peasants' Lake, is the country cousin of the better-known, more cosmopolitan Starnbergersee (the Princes' Lake), and, accordingly, many Bavarians (and tourists, too) like it all the more. Munich cosmopolites of centuries past thought it too distant for an excursion, not to mention too rustic, so the shores remained relatively free of villas and parks. Though some upscale holiday homes claim some stretches of the eastern shore, Ammersee still offers more open areas for bathing and boating than the larger lake to the east. Bicyclists circle the 19-km-long (12-mile-long) lake (it's nearly 6 km [4 miles] across at its widest point) on a path that rarely loses sight of the water. Hikers can spread out the tour for two or three days, staying overnight in any of the comfortable inns along the way. Dinghy sailors and windsurfers zip across in minutes with the help of the Alpine winds that swoop down from the mountains. A ferry cruises the lake at regular intervals in summer, stopping at several piers. Board it at Herrsching. Herrsching has a delightful promenade, part of which winds through the resort's park. The 100-year-old villa that sits so comfortably there seems as if it had been built by Ludwig II; such is the romantic and fanciful mixture of medieval turrets and Renaissance-style facades. It was actually built for the artist Ludwig Scheuermann in the late 19th century, and became a favorite meeting place for Munich and Bavarian artists. It's now a municipal cultural center and the setting for chamber-music concerts on some summer weekends. #### Getting Here and Around Take A-96, follow the signs to Lindau, and 20 km (12 miles) west of Munich take the exit for Herrsching, the lake's principal town. Herrsching is also the end of S-bahn Line No. 8, a 53-minute ride from Munich's Marienplatz. From the Herrsching train station, Bus No. 952 runs north along the lake, and Bus No. 951 runs south and continues on to Starnberg in a 40-minute journey. Getting around by boat is the best way to visit. Each town on the lake has an Anlegestelle (pier). #### Essentials Tour Information Starnberg Five-Lake-RegionTourist-Information. \| Wittelsbacherstr. 2c, \| Starnberg \| 08151/90600 \| en.sta5.de \| May–Oct., weekdays 9–1 and 2–6, Sat. 9–1; Nov.–Apr., weekdays 10–5. ### Exploring Andechs Monastery. The Benedictine monastery Andechs, one of southern Bavaria's most famous pilgrimage sites, lies 5 km (3 miles) south of Herrsching. You can reach it on Bus No. 951 from the S-bahn station (the bus also connects Ammersee and Starnbergersee). This extraordinary ensemble, surmounted by an octagonal tower and onion dome with a pointed helmet, has a busy history going back more than 1,000 years. The church, originally built in the 15th century, was entirely redone in baroque style in the early 18th century. The Heilige Kapelle contains the remains of the old treasure of the Benedictines in Andechs, including Charlemagne's "Victory Cross" and a monstrance containing the three sacred hosts brought back from the crusades by the original rulers of the area, the Counts of Diessen-Andechs. One of the attached chapels contains the remains of composer Carl Orff, and one of the buildings on the grounds has been refurbished as a concert stage for the performance of his works. Admittedly, however, the crowds of pilgrims are drawn not just by the beauty of the hilltop monastery but primarily by the beer brewed here (600,000 liters 159,000 gallons] annually) and the stunning views. The monastery makes its own cheese as well, and serves hearty Bavarian food, an excellent accompaniment to the rich, almost black beer. You can enjoy both at large wooden tables in the monastery tavern or on the terrace outside. \| Bergstr. 2, 5 km (3 miles) south of Herrsching \| 08152/3760 \| [www.andechs.de \| Church daily 9–7; restaurant daily 10–8. Diessen. The little town of Diessen at the southwest corner of the lake has one of the most magnificent religious buildings of the whole region: the Augustine abbey church of St. Mary. No lesser figure than the great Munich architect Johann Michael Fischer designed this airy, early rococo structure. François Cuvilliés the Elder, whose work can be seen all over Munich, did the sumptuous gilt-and-marble high altar. Visit in late afternoon, when the light falls sharply on its crisp gray, white, and gold facade, etching the pencil-like tower and spire against the darkening sky over the lake. Don't leave without at least peeping into neighboring St. Stephen's courtyard, its cloisters smothered in wild roses. \| Diessen. Carl-Orff-Museum. Diessen may be home to one of the region's most impressive churches, but it's also attracted artists and craftspeople since the early 20th century. Among the most famous who made their home here was the composer Carl Orff, author of numerous works inspired by medieval material, including the famous Carmina Burana. His life and work—notably the pedagogical Schulwerk instruments—are exhibited in the Carl-Orff-Museum \| Hofmark 3 \| Diessen \| 08807/91981 \| www.orff.de \| Weekends 2–5 ### Where to Stay Ammersee Hotel. HOTEL \| This very comfortable, modern resort hotel is located on the lake. It has views from an unrivaled position on the lakeside promenade. Rooms overlooking the lake are more expensive and in demand. The Artis restaurant ($$) has an international menu with an emphasis on fish. You can enjoy a spicy bouillabaisse or catfish from the Danube. Pros: prime location (request a room with balcony); good restaurant. Cons: rooms facing the street are noisy; limited balcony rooms. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Summerstr. 32 \| 08152/96870, 08152/399–440 for restaurant \| www.ammersee-hotel.de \| 40 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Seehof Herrsching. HOTEL \| The hotel's long lakefront turns into a huge beer garden in summer. Guest rooms are full of light, and for a slightly higher price you can stay in one with a balcony overlooking the lake. The restaurant ($) serves resolutely Bavarian food - tasty pretzel soup, suckling pig, dumplings with sauerkraut, and fish, fresh from the lake, of course. You'll find peak prices during Oktoberfest. Pros: Great views; food in the restaurant is good. Cons: Restaurant gets packed in summer. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Seestr. 58 \| 08152/9350 \| www.seehof-ammersee.de \| 43 rooms \| Breakfast. Landhotel Piushof. HOTEL \| In a parklike garden, the family-run Piushof has elegant Bavarian guest rooms, with oak and hand-carved cupboards. The beamed and pillared restaurant has unfortunately closed, and nowadays there is a greater focus on business seminars. Pros: Great views and location; great place for a business gathering. Cons: no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €128 \| Schönbichlstr. 18 \| 08152/96820 \| www.piushof.de \| 21 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. ## Dachau 20 km (12 miles) northwest of Munich. Dachau predates Munich, with records going back to the time of Charlemagne. It's a handsome town, too, built on a hilltop with views of Munich and the Alps, which was why it became such a favorite for numerous artists. A guided tour of the town, including the castle and church, leaves from the Rathaus on Saturday at 11, from May through mid-October. Dachau is infamous worldwide as the site of the "model" Nazi concentration camp, which was built just outside it. Dachau preserves the memory of the camp and the horrors perpetrated there with deep contrition while trying, with commendable discretion, to signal that the town has other points of interest. #### Getting Here and Around Take the B-12 country road or the Stuttgart autobahn to the Dachau exit from Munich. Dachau is also on S-bahn Line No. 2, a 25-minute ride from Munich's Marienplatz. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Dachau. \| Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 1 \| 08131/75286 \| www.dachau.de. ### Exploring Bezirksmuseum. To get a sense of the town's history, visit the Bezirksmuseum, the district museum, which displays historical artifacts, furniture, and traditional costumes from Dachau and its surroundings. \| Augsburgerstr. 3 \| 08131/56750 \| www.dachauer-galerien-museen.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Fri. 11–5, weekends 1–5. Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site (Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial). The site of the infamous camp, now the KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau, is just outside town. Photographs, contemporary documents, the few cell blocks, and the grim crematorium create a somber and moving picture of the camp, where more than 41,000 of the 200,000-plus prisoners lost their lives. A documentary film in English is shown daily at 11:30 and 3:30. The former camp has become more than just a grisly memorial: it's now a place where people of all nations meet to reflect upon the past and on the present. Several religious shrines and memorials have been built to honor the dead, who came from Germany and nations around the world. By public transport take S-bahn Line No. 2 from Marienplatz or Hauptbahnhof in the direction of Petershausen, and get off at Dachau. From there, take the clearly marked bus from right outside the Dachau S-bahn station (No. 726 towards Saubachsiedlung, it leaves about every 20 minutes). If you are driving from Munich, take the autobahn toward Stuttgart, get off at Dachau, and follow the signs. \| Alte Römerstrasse 75 \| 08131/669–970 \| www.kz-gedenkstaette-dachau.de \| Free \| Tues.–Sun. 9–5. Tours in English Tues.–Sun. at 11 and 1. Gemäldegalerie. An artists' colony formed here during the 19th century, and the tradition lives on. Picturesque houses line Hermann-Stockmann-Strasse and part of Münchner Strasse, and many of them are still the homes of successful artists. The Gemäldegalerie displays the works of many of the town's 19th-century artists. \| Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 3 \| 08131/56750 \| www.dachauer-galerien-museen.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Fri. 11–5, weekends 1–5. Schloss Dachau. This hilltop castle, dominates the town. What you'll see is the one remaining wing of a palace built by the Munich architect Josef Effner for the Wittelsbach ruler Max Emanuel in 1715. During the Napoleonic Wars the palace served as a field hospital and then was partially destroyed. King Max Joseph lacked the money to rebuild it, so all that's left is a handsome cream-and-white building, with an elegant pillared and lantern-hung café on the ground floor and a former ballroom above. About once a month the grand Renaissance hall, with a richly decorated and carved ceiling, covered with painted panels depicting figures from ancient mythology, is used for chamber concerts. The east terrace affords panoramic views of Munich and, on fine days, the distant Alps. There's also a 250-year-old Schlossbrauerei (castle brewery), which hosts the town's beer and music festival each year in the first two weeks of August. The Schloss restaurant serves good Bavarian food with regional ingredients, as well as great homemade cakes. \| Schlossstr. 2 \| 08131/279–9278 for restaurant, 08131/87923 for castle \| www.schloss-dachau.com \| €2 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. St. Jakob. Dachau's parish church was built in the early 17th century in late-Renaissance style on the foundations of a 13th-century Gothic structure. Baroque features and a characteristic onion dome were added in the late 17th century. On the south wall you can admire a very fine sundial from 1699. \| Pfarrstr. 7 \| 08131/36380 \| www.pv-dachau-st-jakob.de \| Daily 7–7. ### Where to Stay Hotel Fischer. HOTEL \| You can see this hotel across the square from the S-bahn station. The family atmosphere is welcoming, the rooms are pleasantly modern, and good traditional Bavarian meals are served in the restaurant. Order the "Weisswurst" special with a drop of Weissbier and you'll get a good laugh at how the "drop" is served. Pros: free Wi-Fi; prime location; good restaurant. Cons: on nice evenings, noise from the patio may filter up to your room. \| Rooms from: €84 \| Bahnhofstr. 4, City Center \| 08131/612–200 \| www.hotelfischer-dachau.de \| 28 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Landshut 64 km (40 miles) north of Munich. If fortune had placed Landshut south of Munich, in the protective folds of the Alpine foothills, instead of the same distance north, in the subdued flatlands of Lower Bavaria—of which it is the capital—the historic town would be teeming with tourists. Landshut's geographical misfortune is the discerning visitor's good luck, for the town is never overcrowded, with the possible exception of the three summer weeks when the Landshuter Hochzeit (Landshut Wedding) is celebrated (it takes place every four years). The festival commemorates the marriage in 1475 of Prince George of Bavaria-Landshut, son of the expressively named Ludwig the Rich, to Princess Hedwig, daughter of the king of Poland. Within its ancient walls the entire town is swept away in a colorful reconstruction of the event. The wedding procession, with the "bride" and "groom" on horseback accompanied by pipes and drums and the hurly-burly of a medieval pageant, is held on three consecutive weekends, while a medieval-style fair fills the central streets throughout the three weeks. Landshut has two magnificent cobblestone market streets. The one in the Altstadt (Old Town) is one of the most beautiful city streets in Germany; the other is in Neustadt (New Town). The two streets run parallel to each other, tracing a course between the Isar River and the heights overlooking the town. #### Getting Here and Around Landshut is a 45-minute drive northwest of Munich on either the A-92 autobahn—follow the signs to Deggendorf—or the B-11 highway. A Deutsche Bahn train brings you from Munich in about 50 minutes. A round-trip costs about €30. #### Essentials Visitor Information Landshut Tourismus. \| Altstadt 315 \| 0871/922–050 \| www.landshut.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Freising. This ancient episcopal seat, 35 km (22 miles) southwest of Landshut, houses a cathedral and old town well worth visiting. The town is also accessible from Munich (at the end of the S-bahn 1 line, a 45-minute ride from central Munich). \| Freising. Rathaus (Town Hall). Standing opposite the Stadtresidenz, this elegant, light-color building has a typical neo-Gothic roof design. It was originally a set of 13th-century burghers' houses, taken over by the town in the late 1300s. The famous bride and groom allegedly danced in the grand ceremonial hall during their much-celebrated wedding in 1475. The frescoes here date to 1880, however. The tourist-information bureau is on the ground floor. \| Altstadt 315 \| 0871/881–217 Rathausprunksaal \| www.landshut.de \| Free \| Weekdays 2–3, and on official tours. Skulpturenmuseum im Hofberg. Built into a steep slope of the hill crowned by Burg Trausnitz is an unusual art museum, the Skulpturenmuseum im Hofberg, containing the entire collection of the Landshut sculptor Fritz Koenig. His own work forms the permanent central section of the labyrinthine gallery. \| Am Prantlgarten 1 \| 0871/89021 \| www.skulpturenmuseum-im-hofberg.de \| €3.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 10:30–1 and 2–5. #### Worth Noting Burg Trausnitz. A steep path from the Altstadt takes you up to Burg Trausnitz. This castle was begun in 1204, and accommodated the Wittelsbach dukes of Bavaria-Landshut until 1503. \| Burg Trausnitz 168 \| 0871/924–110 \| www.burg-trausnitz.de \| €5.50, including guided tour \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4. Martinskirche (St. Martin's Church). The Martinskirche, with the tallest brick church tower (428 feet) in the world, soars above the other buildings. The church, which was elevated to the rank of basilica minor in 2002, contains some magnificent late-Gothic stone and wood carvings, notably a 1518 Madonna by the artist Martin Leinberger. It's surely the only church in the world to contain an image of Hitler, albeit in a devilish pose. The Führer and other Nazi leaders are portrayed as executioners in a 1946 stained-glass window showing the martyrdom of St. Kastulus. In the nave of the church is a clear and helpful description of its history and treasures in English. Every first Sunday of the month a tour is conducted between 11:30 and 12:30 that will take you up the tower and to the Schatzkammer, the church's treasure chamber. \| Kirchgasse \| 0871/922–1780 \| www.st.martin-landshut.de \| Summer months: Tues.–Thurs. and weekends 7:30–6:30; winter months: Tues.–Thurs. and weekends 7:30–5. Stadtresidenz Landshut. The Stadtresidenz in the Altstadt was the first Italian Renaissance building of its kind north of the Alps. It was built from 1536 to 1537, but was given a baroque facade at the end of the 19th century. The Wittelsbachs lived here during the 16th century. The facade of the palace forms an almost modest part of the architectural splendor and integrity of the Altstadt, where even the ubiquitous McDonald's has to serve its hamburgers behind a baroque facade. The Stadtresidenz includes exhibitions on the history of Landshut. TIP A combination card with Burg Trausnitz costs just €8. \| Altstadt 79 \| 0871/25142 \| www.schloesser.bayern.de \| €3.50 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Stay There are several attractive Bavarian-style restaurants in the Altstadt and Neustadt, most of them with beer gardens. Although Landshut brews a fine beer, look for a Gaststätte offering a Weihenstephaner, from the world's oldest brewery, in Freising. Helles (light) is the most popular beer variety. Hotel-Gasthof zur Insel. HOTEL \| This "Island Hotel" is right on the river and only a two-minute walk from the center of town. The restaurant serves good Bavarian food. If on summer evenings you hear singing coming from the beer garden under your window, remember the old saying, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Pros: nice location; good Bavarian restaurant. Cons: no elevator; beer garden can be noisy. \| Rooms from: €75 \| Badstr. 16 \| 0871/923160 \| www.insel-landshut.de \| 15 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Goldene Sonne. HOTEL \| The steeply gabled Renaissance exterior of the "Golden Sun" fronts a hotel of great charm and comfort. It stands in the center of town, near all the sights. Its dining options are a paneled, beamed restaurant ($); a vaulted cellar; and a courtyard beer garden, where the service is friendly and helpful. The menu follows the seasons and toes the "quintessential Bavarian" line, with pork roast, steamed or smoked trout with horseradish, white asparagus in spring (usually accompanied by potatoes and ham), and venison in fall. Pros: spacious reception; comfortable rooms; good restaurant. Cons: street-facing rooms are sometimes noisy; hotel often booked; Wi-Fi isn't free. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Neustadt 520 \| 0871/92530 \| www.goldenesonne.de \| 60 rooms \| Breakfast. Lindner Hotel Kaiserhof. HOTEL \| The green Isar River rolls outside the bedroom windows of Landshut's most distinctive hotel. Its steep red roof and white facade blend harmoniously with the waterside panorama. The Herzog Ludwig restaurant ($$) serves a sumptuous but reasonably priced lunch buffet and is an elegant place for dinner. The hotel offers special weekend rates on request. Pros: central location, a few minutes from the city centre; free use of computers and printer in foyer; fitness and sauna area. Cons: wireless access isn't free; 20 minutes to train station on foot. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Papiererstr. 2 \| 0871/6870 \| www.lindner.de \| 125 rooms \| Breakfast. Romantik Hotel Fürstenhof. HOTEL \| This handsome Landshut city mansion, a few minutes on foot from the center of town, had no difficulty qualifying for inclusion in the Romantik group of hotels—it just breathes romance, from its plush gourmet restaurant ($$$), covered in wood paneling, to the cozy bedrooms. A vine-covered terrace shadowed by a chestnut tree adds charm. Price includes breakfast buffet and sauna use. Pros: nice restaurant; pleasant rooms. Cons: no elevator; restaurant closed Sunday. \| Rooms from: €125 \| Stethaimerstr. 3 \| 0871/92550 \| www.fuerstenhof.la \| 22 rooms \| Restaurant closed Sun. \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Bavarian Alps Werdenfelser Land and Wetterstein Mountains Chiemgau Berchtesgadener Land Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Outdoors in the Bavarian Alps \| Lederhosen \| Best Ways to Explore \| Best Photo Ops Updated by Paul Wheatley Fir-clad mountains, rocky peaks, lederhosen, and geranium-covered houses: the Bavarian Alps come closest to what many of us envision as "Germany." Quaint towns full of frescoed half-timber houses covered in snow pop up among the mountain peaks and shimmering hidden lakes, as do the creations of "Mad" King Ludwig II. The entire area has sporting opportunities galore, regardless of the season. Upper Bavaria (Oberbayern) fans south from Munich to the Austrian border, and as you follow this direction, you'll soon find yourself on a gently rolling plain leading to lakes surrounded by ancient forests. In time the plain merges into foothills, which suddenly give way to jagged Alpine peaks. In places such as Königsee, near Berchtesgaden, snowcapped mountains rise straight up from the gemlike lakes. Continuing south, you'll encounter cheerful villages with richly painted houses, churches, and monasteries filled with the especially sensuous Bavarian baroque and rococo styles, and several spas where you can "take the waters" and tune up your system. Sports possibilities are legion: downhill and cross-country skiing, snowboarding, and ice-skating in winter; tennis, swimming, sailing, golf, and, above all (sometimes literally), hiking, paragliding, and ballooning in summer. ## Top Reasons to Go Herrenchiemsee: Take the old steam-driven ferry to the island in Chiemsee to visit the last and most glorious castle of "Mad" King Ludwig II. Great nature: From the crystalline Königsee lake and grandiose Karwendel Mountains, to Garmisch's powdery snow, and the magical forests, it's everything a nature lover needs. Meditating in Ettal monastery: If it isn't the sheer complexity of the baroque ornamentation and the riot of frescoes, then it might be the fluid sound of the ancient organ that puts you in a deep, relaxing trance. A great brewery and distillery round out the deeply religious experience. Rejuvenation in Reichenhall: The new Rupertus spa in Bad Reichenhall has the applications you need to turn back your body's clock, from saltwater baths to mudpacks. Confronting History in Berchtesgaden: Explore the darkest chapter of German history at Obersalzberg, Hitler's mountain retreat. ## Getting Oriented Ask a Bavarian about the "Bavarian Alps" and he'll probably shake his head in confusion. To Bavarians "the Alps" consist of several adjoining mountain ranges spanning the Ammergau, Wetterstein, and Karwendel Alps in the West to the Chiemgauer and Berchtesgadener Alpen in the East. Each region has its die-hard fans. The constants, however, are the incredible scenery, clean air, and a sense of Bavarian Gemütlichkeit (coziness) omnipresent in every Hütte (cottage), Gasthof (guesthouse), and beer garden. The area is an outdoor recreation paradise, and almost completely lacks the high-culture institutions that dominate German urban life. ## What's Where Werdenfelser Land and Wetterstein Mountains. Like a village lost in time, Mittenwald and Oberammergau are both famous for their half-timber houses covered in Lüftlmalerei frescoes. The entire region sits serenely in the shadow of Germany's highest point: the Zugspitze. The Wetterstein Mountains offer fantastic skiing and hiking. Chiemgau. Bavaria's Lake District is almost undiscovered by Westerners but has long been a secret destination for Germans. Several fine, hidden lakes dot the area. The Chiemsee dominates the Chiemgau, with one of the most impressive German palaces and great water sports. Residents, or Chiemgauer, especially in Bad Tölz, often wear traditional Trachten, elaborate lederhosen and dirndl dresses, as an expression of their proud cultural heritage. Berchtesgadener Land. The Berchtesgadener Land is not the highest point in the country, but is certainly one of the most ruggedly beautiful regions. Hundreds of miles of hiking trails with serene Alpine cottages and the odd cow make the area a hiking and mountaineering paradise. Berchtesgaden and Bad Reichenhall are famous for the salt trade, and the salt mines provide the visitor with a unique and entertaining insight into the history and wealth of the region. The Königsee is the most photographed place in the country, and for good reason. ## Planning ### When to Go This mountainous region is a year-round holiday destination. Snow is promised by most resorts from December through March, although there's year-round skiing on the glacier slopes at the top of the Zugspitze. Spring and autumn are ideal times for leisurely hikes on the many mountain trails. November is a between-seasons time, when many hotels and restaurants close down or attend to renovations. Note, too, that many locals take a vacation after January 6, and businesses may be closed for anywhere up to a month. The area is extremely popular with European visitors, who flood the Alps in July and August. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel Munich, 95 km (59 miles) northwest of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, is the gateway to the Bavarian Alps. If you're staying in Berchtesgaden, consider the closer airport in Salzburg, Austria—it has fewer international flights, but it is a budget-airline and charter hub. Airport Information Salzburg Airport (SZG). \| Salzburg, Austria \| 0662/8580–0 \| www.salzburg-airport.com. #### Car Travel The Bavarian Alps are well connected to Munich by train, and an extensive network of buses links even the most remote villages. Since bus schedules can be unreliable and are timed for commuters, the best way to visit the area is by car. Three autobahns reach into the Bavarian Alps: A-7 comes in from the northwest (Frankfurt, Stuttgart, Ulm) and ends near Füssen in the western Bavarian Alps; A-95 runs from Munich to Garmisch-Partenkirchen; take A-8 from Munich for Tegernsee, Chiemsee, and Berchtesgaden. TIP The A-8 is statistically the most dangerous autobahn in the country, partially due to it simultaneously being the most heavily traveled highway and the road most in need of repair. The driving style is fast, and tailgating is common, though it is illegal. The "guideline speed" (Richtgeschwindigkeit) on the A-8 is 110 kph (68 mph); if an accident occurs at higher speeds, your insurance will not necessarily cover it. It is a good idea to pick a town like Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bad Tölz, or Berchtesgaden as a base and explore the area from there. The Bavarian Alps are furnished with cable cars, steam trains, and cog railroads that whisk you to the tops of Alpine peaks allowing you to see the spectacular views without hours of mountain climbing. #### Train Travel Most Alpine resorts are connected with Munich by regular express and slower service trains. Due to the rugged terrain, train travel in the region can be challenging, but with some careful planning—see www.bahn.de for schedules and to buy tickets—you can visit this region without a car. ### Restaurants Restaurants in Bavaria run the gamut from the casual and gemütlich (cozy) Gasthof to formal gourmet offerings. More-upscale establishments try to maintain a feeling of casual familiarity, but you will probably feel more comfortable at the truly upscale restaurants if you dress up a bit. Note that many restaurants take a break between 2:30 and 6 pm. If you want to eat during these hours, look for the magic words Durchgehend warme Küche, indicating warm food is served throughout the day, possibly snacks during the off-hours. Many restaurants in the region still don't accept credit cards. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels With few exceptions, a hotel or Gasthof in the Bavarian Alps and lower Alpine regions has high standards and is traditional in style, with balconies, pine woodwork, and gently angled roofs on which the snow sits and insulates. Many in the larger resort towns offer special packages online. Private homes all through the region offer Germany's own version of bed-and-breakfasts, indicated by signs reading "Zimmer frei" ("Rooms available"). Their rates may be less than €25 per person. As a general rule, the farther from the popular and sophisticated Alpine resorts you go, the lower the rates. Note, too, that many places offer a small discount if you stay more than one night. By the same token, some places frown on staying only one night, especially during the high seasons, in summer, at Christmas, and on winter weekends. In spas and many mountain resorts a "spa tax," or Kurtaxe, is added to the hotel bill. It amounts to no more than €3 per person per day and allows free use of spa facilities, entry to local attractions and concerts, and use of local transportation at times. Breakfast is included, unless indicated otherwise. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time The Alps are spread along Germany's southern border, but are fairly compact and easy to explore. Choose a central base and fan out from there. Garmisch-Partenkirchen and Berchtesgaden are the largest towns with the most convenient transportation connections. Although the area is a popular tourist destination, the smaller communities like Mittenwald and Ettal are quieter and make for pleasant overnight stays. For an unforgettable experience, try spending the night in an Alpine hut, feasting on a simple but hearty meal and sleeping in the cool night air. ### Discounts and Deals One of the best deals in the area is the German Railroad's Bayern Ticket. The Bayern Ticket allows between one and five people to travel on any regional train—and almost all buses in the Alps. Prices range between €22 for a single traveler to €38 for five people. Ticket holders receive discounts on a large number of attractions in the area, including the Zugspitzbahn, a cog railroad and cable car that takes you up to the top of the Zugspitze. The ZugspitzCard (three days €49) offers discounts in almost every city near the Zugspitze. Visitors to spas or spa towns receive a Kurkarte, an ID that proves payment of the spa tax. The document allows discounts and often free access to sights in the town or area. If you've paid the tax, be sure to show the card everywhere you go. ### Visitor Information Tourismusverband München Oberbayern. \| Radolfzeller Str. 15, \| Munich \| 089/829–2180 \| www.oberbayern-tourismus.de. * * * Maibaum: Bavaria's Maypole The center of every town in Bavaria is the Maibaum or Maypole. The blue-and-white-striped pole is decorated with the symbol of every trade and guild represented in the town, and is designed to help visitors determine what services are available there. The effort and skill required to build one is a source of community pride. The tradition dates back to the 16th century, and is governed by a strict set of rules. Great care is taken in selecting and cutting the tree, which must be at least 98 feet tall. Once completed, it cannot be erected before May 1. In the meantime, tradition and honor dictate that men from surrounding towns attempt to steal the pole and ransom it for beer and food, so it must be guarded 24 hours a day. Once the pole goes up, with quite a bit of leveraging and manual labor, it cannot be stolen and may only stand for three years. * * * ## Outdoors in the Bavarian Alps Bursting up from the lowlands of southern Germany like a row of enormous, craggy teeth, the Bavarian Alps form both an awe-inspiring border with Austria and a superb natural playground for outdoor enthusiasts. Visible from Munich on a clear day, this thin strip of the Alps stretches over 300 km (186 miles) from Lake Constance in the west to Berchtesgaden in the east, and acts as a threshold to the towering mountain ranges that lie farther south. Lower in altitude than their Austrian, Swiss, and French cousins, the Bavarian Alps have the advantage of shorter distances between their summits and the valleys below, forming an ideal environment for casual walkers and serious mountaineers alike. In spring and summer cowbells tinkle and wild flowers blanket meadows beside trails that course up and down the mountainsides. In winter snow engulfs the region, turning trails into paths for cross-country skiers and the mountainsides into pistes for snowboarders and downhill skiers to carve their way down. —Jeff Kavanagh ## Lederhosen Along with sausages and enormous mugs of frothy beer, lederhosen form the holy trinity of what many foreigners believe to be stereotypically "German." The reality, however, is that the embroidered leather breeches are traditionally worn in the south of the country, particularly in Alpine areas, where the durability and protection of leather have their advantages. Nowadays they are worn at special events. ## Best Ways to Explore #### By Foot It's not without good reason that wanderlust is a German word. The desire to travel and explore has been strong for hundreds of years in Germany, especially in places like the Alps where strenuous strolls are rewarded with breathtaking vistas. There are more than 7,000 km (4,350 miles) of walking trails in the Allgäu region alone to wander, conveniently divided into valley walks, mid-altitude trails, and summit hikes reflecting the varying altitude and difficulty. Hikes can be undertaken as day trips or as weeks-long endeavors, and there are campsites, mountain huts, farmhouses, and hotels to overnight in along the way, as well as a decent infrastructure of buses, trains, and cable cars to get you to your starting point. The Bavaria Tourism Office (www.bavaria.by)has more information on hiking trails. #### By Bike You don't actually need to venture onto their slopes to appreciate the Alps' beauty, and cycling through the foothills at their base affords stunning views of the mountains combined with the luxury of refreshing stop-offs in beer gardens and dips in beautiful lakes like the Tegernsee. There's plenty of accommodation tailored to cyclists throughout the region and local trains are normally equipped with a cycle carriage or two to transport you to more remote locations. The Alps also have thousands of miles of mountain-bike-friendly trails and a number of special bike parks serviced by cable cars. #### By Skis Neither as high nor famous as their neighbors, the Bavarian Alps are frequently overlooked as a winter sport destination. Resorts on the German side of the border may have shorter seasons than places like Zermatt and Chamonix, but they're also generally cheaper in terms of food and accommodation, and many, including Zugspitze, are easily accessed from Munich for day trips. ## Best Photo Ops No matter where you are around the Alps you'll be inundated with sights worth snapping. Here are a few: • More Disney than Disney, Neuschwanstein Castle sits theatrically on the side of a mountain, its grand towers set against a background of tree- and snow-covered peaks. • The panoramic view from close to 10,000 feet at the peak of Germany's highest mountain, the Zugspitze takes in 400 peaks in four countries. • Reputedly the cleanest lake in Germany, Königsee is also endowed with steep rock formations that soar thousands of meters up above the lake, beautifully framing its crystalline waters. • If sitting outside Tegernsee's lovely Benedictine monastery with a liter of the local beer in one hand and a bratwurst in the other isn't the shot you're after, you can wander down to the lake for spectacular vistas of its glittering surface and the Alps beyond. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Garmisch-Partenkirchen \| Ettal \| Schloss Linderhof \| Oberammergau \| Mittenwald With Germany's highest peak and picture-perfect Bavarian villages, the Werdenfelser Land offers a splendid mix of natural beauty combined with Bavarian art and culture. The region spreads out around the base of the Zugspitze, where the views from the top reach from Garmisch-Partenkirchen to the frescoed houses of Oberammergau, and to the serene Cloister Ettal. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Garmisch-Partenkirchen 90 km (55 miles) southwest of Munich. Garmisch, as it's more commonly known, is a bustling, year-round resort and spa town and is the undisputed capital of Alpine Bavaria. Once two separate communities, Garmisch and Partenkirchen fused in 1936 to accommodate the Winter Olympics. Today, with a population of 28,000, the area is the center of the Werdenfelser Land and large enough to offer every facility expected from a major Alpine resort. Garmisch is a spread-out mess of wide car-friendly streets, hordes of tourists, and little charm. The narrow streets and quaint architecture of smaller Partenkirchen make it a slightly better choice. In both parts of town pastel frescoes of biblical and bucolic scenes decorate facades. Winter sports rank high on the agenda here. There are more than 99 km (62 miles) of downhill ski runs, 40 ski lifts and cable cars, and 180 km (112 miles) of Loipen (cross-country ski trails). One of the principal stops on the international winter-sports circuit, the area hosts a week of races every January. You can usually count on good skiing from December through April (and into May on the Zugspitze). #### Getting Here and Around Garmisch-Partenkirchen is the cultural and transportation hub of the Werdenfelser Land. The autobahn A-95 links Garmisch directly to Munich. Regional German Rail trains head directly to Munich (90 minutes), Innsbruck (80 minutes), and Mittenwald (20 minutes). German Rail operates buses that connect Garmisch with Oberammergau, Ettal, and the Wieskirche. Garmisch is a walkable city, and you probably won't need to use its frequent city-bus services. Partenkirchen was founded by the Romans, and you can still follow the Via Claudia they built between Partenkirchen and neighboring Mittenwald, which was part of a major route between Rome and Germany well into the 17th century. Bus tours to King Ludwig II's castles at Neuschwanstein and Linderhof and to the Ettal Monastery, near Oberammergau, are offered by DER travel agencies. Local agencies in Garmisch also run tours to Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Ettal, and into the neighboring Austrian Tyrol. The Garmisch mountain railway company, the Bayerische Zugspitzbahn, offers special excursions to the top of the Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain, by cog rail and cable car. #### Essentials Bus Tours Biersack. \| Omnibusse und Reisebüro, Chamonixstr. 4 \| 08821/4920 \| www.bus-biersack.com. DER Travel Office. \| Bahnhofstr. 33 \| 08821/55125 \| www.der.com. Weiss-Blau-Reisen. \| Promenadestr. 5 \| 08821/3805 \| www.weiss-blau-reisen.de. Railway Tour Bayerische Zugspitzbahn. \| 08821/7970 \| www.zugspitze.de. Visitor Information Garmisch-Partenkirchen. \| Richard-Strauss-Pl. 2 \| 08821/180–700 \| www.gapa.de \| Mid-Oct.–mid-Dec. and mid-Mar.–mid-May, weekdays 9–5, Sat. 9–3; mid-Dec.–mid-Mar. and mid-May–mid-Oct., weekdays 9–6, Sun. 10–noon. ### Exploring Richard Strauss Institut. On the eastern edge of Garmisch, at the end of Zöppritzstrasse, stands the home of composer Richard Strauss, who lived here until his death in 1949. It's not open to visitors but across town the Richard Strauss Institut is the center of activity during the Richard-Strauss-Tage, an annual music festival held in mid-June that features concerts and lectures on the town's most famous son. Other concerts are given year-round and there is also a Strauss exhibition (€3.50). \| Schnitzschulstr. 19 \| Garmisch \| www.richard-strauss-institut.de. St. Martin Church. Garmisch-Partenkirchen isn't all sports and cars, however. In Garmisch, some beautiful examples of Upper Bavarian houses line Frühlingstrasse, and a pedestrian zone begins at Richard-Strauss-Platz. Off Marienplatz, at one end of the car-free zone, is the 18th-century parish church. It contains some significant stuccowork by the Wessobrunn artist Jospeh Schmutzer and rococo work by Matthäus Günther. \| Marienplatz \| Garmisch \| www.erzbistum-muenchen.de/Pfarrei/Page007033.aspx. St. Martin Church. Across the Loisach River, on Pfarrerhausweg, stands another St. Martin church, dating from 1280, whose Gothic wall paintings include a larger-than-life-size figure of St. Christopher. \| Pfarrerhausweg 4 \| www.erzbistum-muenchen.de/Pfarrei/Page002550.aspx. * * * What to Eat in the Bavarian Alps Bavarian cooking originally fed a farming people, who spent their days out of doors doing heavy manual labor. Semmelknödel (dumplings of old bread), pork dishes, sauerkraut, bread, and hearty soups were felt necessary to sustain a person facing the elements. The natural surroundings provided further sustenance, in the form of fresh trout from brooks, Renke (pike-perch) from the lakes, venison, and mushrooms. This substantial fare was often washed down with beer, which was nourishment in itself, especially during the Lenten season, when the dark and powerful "Doppelbock" was on the market. Today this regimen will suit sporty types who have spent a day hiking in the mountains, skiing in the bracing air, or swimming or windsurfing in chilly lakes. Bavaria is not immune to eclectic culinary trends, however: minimalist Asian daubs here, a touch of French sophistication and Italian elegance there, a little Tex-Mex to brighten a winter evening, even some sprinklings of curry. Menus often include large sections devoted to salads, and there are tasty vegetarian dishes even in the most traditional regions. Schnapps, which customarily ended meals, has gone from being a step above moonshine to a true delicacy extracted from local fruit by virtuoso distillers. Yes, Bavarian cooking—hearty, homey, and down-to-earth—is actually becoming lighter. One area remains an exception: desserts. The selection of sinfully creamy cakes in the Konditorei (cake shop), often enjoyed with whipped-cream-topped hot chocolate, continues to grow. These are irresistible, of course, especially when homemade. A heavenly experience might be a large portion of warm Apfelstrudel (apple-and-nut-filled pastry) fresh from the oven in some remote mountain refuge. * * * Werdenfelser Museum. Objects and exhibitions on the region's history can be found in this excellent museum, which is itself housed in a building dating back to around 1200. The museum is spread over 19 rooms and five floors, and explores every aspect of life in the Werdenfelser region, which was an independent state for more than 700 years (until 1802). \| Ludwigstr. 47 \| Partenkirchen \| 08821/751–710 \| www.werdenfels-museum.de \| €2.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Fodor's Choice \| Zugspitze. The highest mountain (9,717 feet) in Germany, this is the number one attraction in Garmisch. There are two ways up the mountain: a leisurely 75-minute ride on a cog railway from the train station in the town center, combined with a cable-car ride up the last stretch; or a 10-minute hoist by cable car, which begins its giddy ascent from the Eibsee, 10 km (6 miles) outside town on the road to Austria. There are two restaurants with sunny terraces at the summit and another at the top of the cog railway. TIP A round-trip combination ticket allows you to mix your modes of travel up and down the mountain. Prices are lower in winter than in summer, even though winter rates include use of all the ski lifts on the mountain. You can rent skis at the top. TIP Ascending the Zugspitze from the Austrian side is cheaper and more scenic. The Tiroler Zugspitzbahn departs three times per hour from near the village of Ehrwald. The round-trip ticket costs €37.50 and buses connect the gondolas to the Ehrwald train station. There are also a number of other peaks in the area with gondolas, but the views from the Zugspitze are the best. A four-seat cable car goes to the top of one of the lesser peaks: the Wank or the Alpspitze, many thousand feet lower than the Zugspitze. You can tackle both mountains on foot, provided you're properly shod and physically fit. \| Cog railway leaves from Olympiastr. 27 (approximately 100 m from the Garmisch train station) \| 08821/7970 \| www.zugspitze.de \| Summer: funicular or cable car €50 round-trip; winter: funicular or cable car €41.50 round-trip; parking €3 \| Daily (depends on weather and season) 7:39–5:15. ### Where to Eat See-Hotel Riessersee. GERMAN \| On the shore of a small, blue-green, tranquil lake—a leisurely 3-km (2-mile) walk from town—this café-restaurant is an ideal spot for lunch or afternoon tea (on summer weekends there's live zither music from 3 to 5). House specialties are fresh trout and seasonal local game (which fetches the higher prices on the menu). \| Average main: €13 \| Riess 5 \| 08821/758–123 \| www.riessersee.de \| Closed Mon. and Dec. 1–15. ### Where to Stay For information about accommodation packages with ski passes, call the Zugspitze or get in touch with the tourist office in Garmisch (08821/180–700 \| www.zugspitze.de). Edelweiss. B&B/INN \| Like its namesake, the "nobly white" Alpine flower of The Sound of Music fame, this small downtown hotel has plenty of mountain charm. Inlaid with warm pinewood, it has Bavarian furnishings and individually decorated rooms. Pros: small; comfortable; homey; great for families with children. Cons: small hotel; lacking in many services. \| Rooms from: €112 \| Martinswinkelstr. 15–17 \| 08821/2454 \| www.hoteledelweiss.de \| 31 rooms \| Breakfast. Gasthof Fraundorfer. B&B/INN \| You can ride to dreamland in this beautiful old Bavarian Gasthof—some of the bed frames are carved like antique automobiles and sleighs. The colorfully painted facade is covered with geraniums most of the year. The tavern-restaurant ($), its walls covered with pictures and other ephemera, presents "Bavarian evenings" of folk entertainment every evening except Tuesday. Pros: free Wi-Fi; great location and dining experience. Cons: noise a problem for the rooms in the back of hotel. \| Rooms from: €86 \| Ludwigstr. 24 \| 08821/9270 \| www.gasthof-fraundorfer.de \| 20 rooms, 7 suites \| Breakfast. Hotel-Gasthof Drei Mohren. HOTEL \| All the simple, homey comforts you'd expect can be found in this 150-year-old Bavarian inn tucked into Partenkirchen village. All rooms have mountain views, and most are furnished with farmhouse-style painted beds and cupboards. A free bus to Garmisch and the cable-car stations will pick you up right outside the house. The restaurant ($$) serves solid fare, including a series of Pfanderl, large portions of meat and potatoes, or delicacies like venison in juniper sauce, served in the pan. Pros: perfect setting in a quaint corner of the town center; free Wi-Fi. Cons: restaurant noise on the first floor; some double rooms too small. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Ludwigstr. 65 \| 08821/9130 \| www.dreimohren.de \| 29 rooms, 1 apartment \| Breakfast. Hotel Waxenstein. RESORT \| It's worth the 7-km (4½-mile) drive eastward to Grainau just to spend a night or a few at the delightful Waxenstein. The rooms are generous in size, with luxurious bathrooms. Furnishings combine Bavarian rustic with flights of fancy. The restaurant ($$) provides a breathtaking view of the Zugspitze, but the excellent food will keep you occupied, from the crispy bread to dishes such as gnocchi in ginger-pumpkin sauce, or veal fillet with foie gras. Pros: great service; beautiful views of the Zugspitze from the north-facing rooms. Cons: only accessible by car; rooms somewhat small; no views of the Zugspitze from the south-facing rooms. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Höhenrainweg 3 \| 08821/9840 \| www.waxenstein.de \| 35 rooms, 6 suites \| Breakfast. Reindl's Partenkirchner Hof. HOTEL \| Karl Reindl ranked among the world's top hoteliers, and his daughter Marianne Holzinger has maintained high standards since taking over this hotel. The kitchen cooks up excellent Bavarian and international dishes, from roasted suckling pig to coq au vin. The light-filled bistro annex ($) serves meals, coffee, and cake in an atmosphere that contrasts sharply with the heavier wood-and-velvet main building. Each guest room has pinewood furniture and a balcony or patio. Some of the double rooms are huge. An infrared sauna and whirlpools soothe tired muscles. If you're planning to stay for several days, ask about specials. Pros: ample-size rooms; great views. Cons: front rooms are on a busy street. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Bahnhofstr. 15 \| 08821/943–870 \| www.reindls.de \| 35 rooms, 17 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts In season there's a busy après-ski scene. Many hotels have dance floors, and some have basement discos that pound away until the early hours. Bavarian folk dancing and zither music are regular features of nightlife. Bayernhalle. In summer there's entertainment, such as traditional Bavarian singing and dancing, every Saturday evening at the Bayernhalle. \| Brauhausstr. 19 \| 08821/4877 \| www.vtv-garmisch.de/bayernhalle. Garmisch-Partenkirchen-Ticket. Concerts are presented from Saturday to Thursday, mid-May through September, in the park bandstand in Garmisch, and on Friday in the Partenkirchen park. Tickets are available at Garmisch-Partenkirchen-Ticket. \| Richard-Strauss-Pl. 1 \| 08821/730–1995 \| www.ticketshop-gap.de \| Mon.–Sat. 9:30–1 and 2–6, Sat. 9–noon. Gasthof Fraundorfer. Wednesday through Monday the cozy tavern-restaurant Gasthof Fraundorfer hosts yodeling and folk dancing. \| Ludwigstr. 24 \| 08821/9270 \| www.gasthof-fraundorfer.de. Spielbank Garmisch. The casino is open Sunday through Thursday 3 pm–2 am and Friday and Saturday 3 pm–3 am, with more than 150 slot machines and roulette, blackjack, and poker tables. \| Am Kurpark 10 \| 08821/95990 \| www.spielbanken-bayern.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Hiking and Walking There are innumerable spectacular walks on 300 km (186 miles) of marked trails through the lower slopes' pinewoods and upland meadows. If you have the time and good walking shoes, try one of the two trails that lead to striking gorges (called Klammen). Deutscher Alpenverein (German Alpine Association). Call here for details on hiking and on staying in the mountain huts. \| Von-Kahr-Str. 2–4 \| Munich \| 089/140–030 \| www.alpenverein.de. Höllentalklamm. The Höllentalklamm route starts in the town and ends at the mountaintop (you'll want to turn back before reaching the summit unless you have mountaineering experience). You can park in the villages of Hammersbach and Grainau, and start your tour. \| 08821/8895 \| www.hoellentalklamm-info.de \| May–Oct. (depending on weather). Partnachklamm. The Partnachklamm route is quite challenging, and takes you through a spectacular, tunneled water gorge (entrance fee), past a pretty little mountain lake, and far up the Zugspitze; to do all of it, you'll have to stay overnight in one of the huts along the way. Ride part of the way up in the Eckbauer cable car, which sets out from the Skistadion off Mittenwalderstrasse. The older, more scenic Graseckbahn takes you right over the dramatic gorges. Day cards for the cable car cost €23 (cheaper depending on how far you want to ride and time of year). There's a handy inn at the top, where you can gather strength for the hour-long walk back down to the Graseckbahn station. \| Olympia-Skistadion \| www.eckbauerbahn.de. Lohnkutschevereinigung. Horse-drawn carriages also cover the first section of the route in summer; in winter you can skim along it in a sleigh. The carriages wait near the Skistadion. Or you can call the local coaching society, the Lohnkutschevereinigung, for information. \| Olympia Skistadion \| 0172/860–4105 \| www.kutschenfahrten-garmisch.de #### Skiing and Snowboarding Garmisch-Partenkirchen was the site of the 1936 Winter Olympics, and remains Germany's premier winter-sports resort. The upper slopes of the Zugspitze and surrounding mountains challenge the best ski buffs and snowboarders, and there are also plenty of runs for intermediate skiers and families. The area is divided into two basic regions. The Riffelriss with the Zugspitzplatt is Germany's highest skiing area, with snow pretty much guaranteed from November to May. Access is via the Zugspitzbahn funicular. Cost for a day pass is €41.50; for a 2½-day pass €93 (valid from noon on the first day). The Garmisch-Classic has numerous lifts in the Alpspitz, Kreuzeck, and Hausberg regions. Day passes cost €38.50, and a 2½-day pass €93. The town has a number of ski schools and tour organizers. Alpine Auskunftstelle. The best place for information for all your snow-sports needs is the Alpine office at the Garmisch tourist-information office. \| Richard-Strauss-Pl. 2 \| Garmisch \| 08821/180–700 \| www.gapa.de \| Mid-Oct.–mid-Dec. and mid-Mar.–mid-May, weekdays 9–5, Sat. 9–3; mid-Dec.–mid-Mar. and mid-May–mid-Oct., weekdays 9–6, Sun. 10–noon. Erste Skilanglaufschule Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Cross-country skiers should check with the Erste Skilanglaufschule Garmisch-Partenkirchen at the eastern entrance of the Olympic stadium in Garmisch. \| Olympia-Skistadion \| 08821/1516 \| www.ski-langlauf-schule.de. Skischule Alpin. Skiers looking for instruction can try the Skischule Alpin. \| Reintalstr. 8 \| Garmisch \| 08821/945–676 \| www.alpin-skischule.de. ## Ettal 16 km (10 miles) north of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, 85 km (53 miles) south of Munich. The village of Ettal is presided over by the massive bulk of Kloster Ettal, a great monastery and centuries-old distillery. #### Getting Here and Around Ettal is easily reached by bus and car from Garmisch and Oberammergau. Consider staying in Oberammergau and renting a bike. The 4-km (2½-mile) ride along the river is clearly marked, relatively easy, and a great way to meet locals. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist Information Ettal. \| Ammergauer Str. 8 \| 08822/923–634 \| www.ammergauer-alpen.de/ettal. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Kloster Ettal. The great monastery was founded in 1330 by Holy Roman Emperor Ludwig the Bavarian for a group of knights and a community of Benedictine monks. This is the largest Benedictine monastery in Germany; approximately 55 monks live here. The abbey was replaced with new buildings in the 18th century and now serves as a school. The original 10-sided church was brilliantly redecorated in 1744–53, becoming one of the foremost examples of Bavarian rococo. The church's chief treasure is its enormous dome fresco (83 feet wide), painted by Jacob Zeiller circa 1751–52. The mass of swirling clouds and the pink-and-blue vision of heaven are typical of the rococo fondness for elaborate ceiling painting. Today, the Kloster owns most of the surrounding land and directly operates the Hotel Ludwig der Bayer, the Kloster-Laden, and the Kloster-markt. All of the Kloster's activities, from beer production to running the hotel serve one singular purpose: to fund the famous college-prep and boarding schools which are tuition-free. Ettaler liqueurs, made from a centuries-old recipe, are still distilled at the monastery. The monks make seven different liqueurs, some with more than 70 mountain herbs. Originally the liqueurs were made as medicines, and they have legendary health-giving properties. The ad tells it best: "Two monks know how it's made, 2 million Germans know how it tastes." TIP You can visit the distillery right next to the church and buy bottles of the libation from the gift shop and bookstore. The honey-saffron schnapps is the best. It's possible to tour the distillery (€6) and the brewery (€9). \| Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 1 \| 08822/740 for guided tour of church, 08822/746–228 for distillery, 08822/746–450 for brewery \| www.abtei.kloster-ettal.de \| Free \| Church: winter, daily 8–6; summer, daily 8–7:45. Distillery tours: call ahead. Brewery tours: Tues. and Thurs. at 1:30, register before 11 on day of tour. Schaukäserei. Besides its spirit and spirits, Ettal has made another local industry into an attraction: namely cheese, yogurt, and other milk derivatives. You can see cheese, butter, cream, and other dairy products in the making at this public cheese-making plant. There is even a little buffet for a cheesy break. \| Mandlweg 1 \| 08822/923–926 \| www.milch-und-kas.de \| Free, €3.50 with tour and interpreter \| June–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–May, Tues.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Edelweiss. GERMAN \| This friendly café and restaurant next to the monastery is an ideal spot for a light lunch or coffee and homemade cakes. \| Average main: €9 \| Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 3 \| 08822/92920 \| www.restaurant-edelweiss-ettal.de \| No credit cards. Hotel Ludwig der Bayer. RESORT \| Backed by mountains, this fine old hotel is run by the Benedictine order. There's little monastic about it, except for the exquisite religious carvings and motifs that adorn the walls. Most come from the monastery's carpentry shop, which also made much of the solid furniture in the comfortable bedrooms. The hotel has two excellent restaurants ($) with rustic, Bavarian atmosphere and a vaulted tavern that serves sturdy fare and beer brewed at the monastery. The extensive wellness area includes a Finnish sauna, herbal steam bath, pool, solarium, beauty section, and massage. Pros: good value; close to Kloster; indoor pool. Cons: no Wi-Fi, just cable. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 10 \| 08822/9150 \| www.ludwig-der-bayer.de \| 70 rooms, 30 apartments \| Breakfast. Hotel zur Post. HOTEL \| Families are warmly welcomed at this traditional hotel in the center of town. There's a playground in the shady garden, and a hearty breakfast buffet is included in the price. Pros: quiet; relaxing; near Kloster. Cons: no air-conditioning; no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 18 \| 08822/3596 \| www.posthotel-ettal.de \| 21 rooms, 4 apartments \| Closed late-Oct.–mid-Dec. \| Breakfast. ## Schloss Linderhof Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Linderhof. Built between 1870 and 1879 on the spectacular grounds of his father's hunting lodge, Schloss Linderhof was the only one of Ludwig II's royal residences to have been completed during the monarch's short life. It was the smallest of this ill-fated king's castles, but his favorite country retreat among the various palaces at his disposal. TIP If you plan on visiting more of Ludwig's castles, purchase the Kombiticket Königsschlösser. The ticket costs €24 and allows the holder to visit Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Herrenchiemsee, one time each, within six months. Set in sylvan seclusion, between a reflecting pool and the green slopes of a gentle mountain, the charming, French-style, rococo confection is said to have been inspired by the Petit Trianon at Versailles. From an architectural standpoint it's a whimsical combination of conflicting styles, lavish on the outside, somewhat overly decorated on the inside. But the main inspiration came from the Sun King of France, Louis XIV, who is referred to in numerous bas-reliefs, mosaics, paintings, and stucco pieces. Ludwig's bedroom is filled with brilliantly colored and gilded ornaments, the Hall of Mirrors is a shimmering dream world, and the dining room has a clever piece of 19th-century engineering—a table that rises from and descends to the kitchens below. The formal gardens contain still more whimsical touches. There's a Moorish pavilion—bought wholesale from the 1867 Paris Universal Exposition—and a huge artificial grotto in which Ludwig had scenes from Wagner operas performed, with full lighting effects. It took the BASF chemical company much research to develop the proper glass for the blue lighting Ludwig desired. The gilded Neptune in front of the castle spouts a 100-foot water jet. According to hearsay, while staying at Linderhof the eccentric king would dress up as the legendary knight Lohengrin to be rowed in a swan boat on the grotto pond; in winter he took off on midnight sleigh rides behind six plumed horses and a platoon of outriders holding flaring torches. TIP In winter be prepared for an approach road as snowbound as in Ludwig's day—drive carefully. \| Schloss- und Gartenverwaltung Linderhof, Linderhof 12 \| Linderhof \| 08822/92030 \| www.schlosslinderhof.de \| Summer €8.50, winter €7.50; the palace is only accessible with the guided tour; palace grounds only in summer €5 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4; pavilion and grotto closed in winter. ## Oberammergau 20 km (12 miles) northwest of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, 4 km (2½ miles) northwest of Ettal, 90 km (56 miles) south of Munich. Its location alone, in an Alpine valley beneath a sentinel-like peak, makes this small town a major attraction (allow a half hour for the drive from Garmisch). Its main streets are lined with painted houses (such as the 1784 Pilatushaus on Ludwig-Thoma-Strasse), and in summer the village bursts with color. Many of these lovely houses are occupied by families whose men are highly skilled in the art of wood carving, a craft that has flourished here since the early 12th century. Oberammergau is completely overrun by tourists during the day, but at night you'll feel like you have a charming Bavarian village all to yourself. #### Getting Here and Around The B-23 links Oberammergau to Garmsich-Partenkirchen and to the A-23 to Munich. Frequent bus services connect to Garmisch, Ettal, the Wieskirche, and Füssen. No long-distance trains serve Oberammergau, but a short ride on the Regional-Bahn to Murnau will connect you to the long-distance train network. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist Information Oberammergau. \| Eugen-Papst-Str. 9a \| 08822/922–740 \| www.oberammergau.de. ### Exploring Oberammergau Museum. Here you'll find historic examples of the wood craftsman's art and an outstanding collection of Christmas crèches, which date from the mid-18th century. Numerous exhibits also document the wax and wax-embossing art, which also flourishes in Oberammergau. A notable piece is that of a German soldier carved by Georg Korntheuer on the Eastern Front in 1943: the artist was later killed in 1944. \| Dorfstr. 8 \| 08822/94136 \| €6, includes Pilatushaus \| Mar. 23–Nov. 3 and Nov. 30–Jan. 5, Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Pilatushaus. You'll find many wood-carvers at work in town, and shop windows are crammed with their creations. From June through October a workshop is open free to the public here at Pilatushaus; working potters and painters can also be seen. Pilatushaus was completed in 1775, and the frescoes—considered among the most beautiful in town—were done by Franz Seraph Zwinck, one of the greatest Lüftlmalerei painters. The house is named for the fresco over the front door depicting Christ before Pilate. A collection of reverse glass paintings depicting religious and secular scenes has been moved here from the Heimatmuseum. Contact the tourist office to sign up for a weeklong course in wood carving (classes are in German), which costs about €450 to €600, depending on whether you stay in a Gasthof or a hotel. \| Ludwig-Thoma-Str. 10 \| 08822/949–511 for tourist office \| www.oberammergaumuseum.de \| €6 \| Mar. 23–Nov. 11, Tue.–Sun. 10–5; Nov. 30–Dec. 23, Tue.–Sun. 10–1. St. Peter and St. Paul Church. The 18th-century church is regarded as the finest work of rococo architect Josef Schmutzer, and it has striking frescoes by Matthäus Günther and Franz Seraph Zwinck (in the organ loft). Schmutzer's son, Franz Xaver Schmutzer, also did a lot of the stuccowork. \| Pfarrpl. 1 \| Daily 9 am–dusk. ### Where to Eat Ammergauer Stub'n. GERMAN \| A homey restaurant at Hotel Wittelsbach with pink tablecloths and a lot of wood, the Ammergauer Stub'n has a comprehensive menu that serves both Bavarian specialties and international dishes. You can expect nice roasts and some Swabian dishes, such as Maultaschen, a large, meat-filled ravioli. \| Average main: €13 \| Wittelsbach Hotel, Dorfstr. 21 \| 08822/92800 \| www.hotelwittelsbach.de \| Closed late Oct.–late Nov. No lunch. Gasthaus zum Stern. GERMAN \| This is a traditional place (around 500 years old), with coffered ceilings, thick walls, an old Kachelofen (enclosed, tiled, wood-burning stove) that heats the dining room beyond endurance on cold winter days, and smiling waitresses in dirndls. The food is hearty, traditional Bavarian. For a quieter dinner or lunch, reserve a space in the Bäckerstube (Baker's Parlor). \| Average main: €13 \| Dorfstr. 33 \| 08822/867 \| www.gasthaus-stern-oberammergau.de \| Closed Wed. Hotel Alte Post. GERMAN \| You can enjoy carefully prepared local cuisine, including several venison and boar dishes, at the original pine tables in this 350-year-old inn. There's a special children's menu, and, in summer, meals are also served in the beer garden. The front terrace of this delightful old building is a great place to watch traffic, both pedestrian and automotive. A part of the café has been reserved for web surfing. \| Average main: €12 \| Dorfstr. 19 \| 08822/9100 \| www.altepost.com \| Closed Nov.–mid-Dec. ### Where to Stay Gasthof zur Rose. B&B/INN \| Everything is pretty rustic in this spacious remodeled barn, but the welcome and hospitality are genuine and gracious, even for Bavarian standards. The 19 rooms are pretty basic. The family-run restaurant serves some of the best Semmelknödel (bread dumplings) in Germany. Pros: quiet; affordable; right off the city center; friendly service. Cons: rustic and worn; few amenities. \| Rooms from: €80 \| Dedlerstr. 9 \| 08822/4706 \| www.rose-oberammergau.de \| 19 rooms \| No credit cards \| Restaurant closed Mon. \| Breakfast. Hotel Landhaus Feldmeier. HOTEL \| This quiet family-run hotel, idyllically set just outside the village, has mostly spacious rooms with modern pinewood furniture. All have geranium-bedecked balconies, with views of the village and mountains. The rustic restaurant ($$) is one of the region's best. You can dine on the sunny, covered terrace in summer. Only hotel guests can use credit cards in the restaurant. Pros: small and distinguished; quiet; Internet access in the rooms. Cons: outside the city center. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Ettalerstr. 29 \| 08822/3011 \| www.hotel-feldmeier.de \| 27 rooms, 4 apartments \| Closed mid-Nov.–mid-Dec. \| Breakfast. Hotel Turmwirt. HOTEL \| Rich wood paneling reaches from floor to ceiling in this transformed 18th-century inn, set in the shadow of Oberammergau's mountain, the Kofel. The hotel's own band presents regular folk evenings in the sizeable breakfast room. The Ammergauer Pfanne, a combination of meats and sauces, will take care of even industrial-size hunger. Rooms have corner lounge areas, and most come with balconies and sweeping mountain views. Prices are based on length of stay, so you'll pay less if you stay longer. Pros: great for families with children. Cons: service can be brusque; nearby church bells ring every 15 minutes. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Ettalerstr. 2 \| 08822/92600 \| www.turmwirt.de \| 22 rooms, 1 suite \| Closed 1 wk in early Dec. \| Breakfast. ### The Arts Though the Passion Play theater was traditionally not used for anything other than the Passion Play (next performance, 2020), Oberammergauers decided that using it for opera or other theatrical events during the 10-year pause between the religious performances might be a good idea. The first performances of Verdi's Nabucco and Mozart's Magic Flute in 2002 established a new tradition. Other passion plays are also performed here. Ticket prices are between around €19 and €50. Oberammergau Passionsspielhaus. This immense theater is where the Passion Play is performed. Visitors are given a glimpse of the costumes, the sceneries, the stage, and even the auditorium. TIP The Combi-ticket for the Oberammergau Museum, Pilatushaus, and the Passionsmuseum costs €6. \| Passionstheater, Passionswiese, Theaterstr. 16 \| 08822/945–8888 for tickets for performances, 08822/94136 for tickets for guided tour \| www.oberammergaumuseum.de; www.passionstheater.de \| €6 \| Mar. 23–Nov. 3 and Dec. 23–Jan. 6, Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Nov. 30–Dec. 23, Tues.–Sun. 10–1. Passion Play. Oberammergau is best known for its Passion Play, first presented in 1634 as an offering of thanks after the Black Death stopped just short of the village. In faithful accordance with a solemn vow, it will next be performed in the year 2020, as it has every 10 years since 1680. Its 16 acts, which take 5½ hours, depict the final days of Christ, from the Last Supper through the Crucifixion and Resurrection. It's presented daily on a partly open-air stage against a mountain backdrop from late May to late September. The entire village is swept up in the production, with some 1,500 residents directly involved in its preparation and presentation. Men grow beards in the hope of capturing a key role; young women have been known to put off their weddings—the role of Mary went only to unmarried girls until 1990, when, amid much local controversy, a 31-year-old mother of two was given the part. \| Passionstheater, Theaterstr. 16 \| www.passionstheater.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Bicycling It's easy to bike to Schloss Linderhof (14 km) and to Ettal (4 km) along the scenic paths along the river, where there are several good places to go swimming and have a picnic. The trail to Ettal branches off in the direction of Linderhof (marked as Graswang) where it becomes part of an old forestry road. Take the branch of the Ettal path that goes via the Ettaler-Mühle (Ettal Mill); it's quieter, the river is filled with trout, and the people you meet along the way give a friendly Grüss Gott! (Greet God!). The path opens up at a local-heavy restaurant with fantastic views of the Kloster. Sport-Zentrale Papistock. This outfit rents bikes for €10 per day. They are located across the street from the train station, directly at the trailhead to Ettal and Linderhof. \| Bahnhofstr. 6a \| 08822/4178 \| www.sportzentrale-papistock.de \| Closed Sun. ## Mittenwald 20 km (12 miles) southeast of Garmisch, 105 km (66 miles) south of Munich. Many regard Mittenwald as the most beautiful town in the Bavarian Alps. It has somehow avoided the architectural sins found in other Alpine villages by maintaining a balance between conservation and the needs of tourism. Its medieval prosperity is reflected on its main street, Obermarkt, which has splendid houses with ornately carved gables and brilliantly painted facades. Goethe called it "a picture book come alive," and it still is. The town has even re-created the stream that once flowed through the market square. In the Middle Ages, Mittenwald was the staging point for goods shipped from the wealthy city-state of Venice by way of the Brenner Pass and Innsbruck. From Mittenwald, goods were transferred to rafts, which carried them down the Isar River to Munich. By the mid-17th century the international trade routes shifted to a different pass, and the fortunes of Mittenwald evaporated. In 1684 Matthias Klotz, a farmer's son turned master violin maker, returned from a 20-year stay in Cremona, Italy. There, along with Antonio Stradivari, he studied under Nicolo Amati, who developed the modern violin. Klotz taught the art of violin making to his brothers and friends and before long, half the men in the village were crafting the instruments, using woods from neighboring forests. Mittenwald became known as the Village of a Thousand Violins and the locally crafted instruments are still treasured around the world. In the right weather—sunny, dry—you may even catch the odd sight of laundry lines hung with new violins out to receive their natural dark hue. The violin has made Mittenwald a small cultural oasis in the middle of the Alps. Not only is there an annual violin- (and viola-, cello-, and bow-) building contest each year in June, with concerts and lectures, but also an organ festival in the church of St. Peter and St. Paul held from the end of July to the end of September. The town also boasts a violin-making school. #### Getting Here and Around The B-11 connects Mittenwald with Garmisch. Mittenwald is last stop on the Munich-Garmisch train line. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist Information Mittenwald. \| Dammkarstr. 3 \| 08823/33981 \| www.alpenwelt-karwendel.de/mittenwald. ### Exploring The Geigenbaumuseum. The local museum describes in fascinating detail the history of violin making in Mittenwald. Ask the museum curator to direct you to the nearest of several violin makers—they'll be happy to demonstrate the skills handed down to them. \| Ballenhausg. 3 \| 08823/2511 \| www.geigenbaumuseum-mittenwald.de \| €4.50 \| Early Feb–mid-Mar., mid-May–mid-Oct., and early Dec.–early Jan., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; early Jan.–late Jan., mid-Mar.–mid-May, and mid-Oct.–early Nov., Tues.–Sun. 11–4. St. Peter and St. Paul Church. On the back of the altar in this 18th-century church (as in Oberammergau, built by Josef Schmutzer and decorated by Matthäus Günther), you'll find Matthias Klotz's name, carved there by the violin maker himself. TIP Note that on some of the ceiling frescoes, the angels are playing violins, violas da gamba, and lutes. In front of the church, Klotz is memorialized as an artist at work in vivid bronze sculpted by Ferdinand von Miller (1813–79), creator of the mighty Bavaria Monument in Munich. The church, with its elaborate and joyful stuccowork coiling and curling its way around the interior, is one of the most important rococo structures in Bavaria. Note its Gothic choir loft, added in the 18th century. The bold frescoes on its exterior are characteristic of Lüftlmalerei, where images, usually religious motifs, were painted on the wet stucco exteriors of houses and churches. On nearby streets you can see other fine examples on the facades of three famous houses: the Goethehaus, the Pilgerhaus, and the Pichlerhaus. Among the artists working here was the great Franz Seraph Zwinck. \| Ballenhausg., next to Geigenbaumuseum. ### Where to Eat Arnspitze. EUROPEAN \| Get a table at the large picture window and soak in the views of the towering Karwendel mountain range as you ponder a menu that combines the best traditional ingredients with international touches. Chef and owner Herbert Wipfelder looks beyond the edge of his plate all the way to Asia, if need be, to find inspiration. The fish pot-au-feu has a Mediterranean flair; the jugged hare in red wine is truly Bavarian. The restaurant also offers accommodations in a separate house. \| Average main: €20 \| Innsbrucker Str. 68 \| 08823/2425 \| www.arnspitze-mittenwald.de \| Closed Nov.–mid-Dec., and Tues. and Wed. ### Where to Stay Alpenrose. HOTEL \| Once part of a monastery and later given one of the town's most beautiful painted baroque facades, the Alpenrose is one of the area's handsomest hotels. The typical Bavarian bedrooms and public rooms have lots of wood paneling, farmhouse cupboards, and finely woven fabrics. The restaurant ($) is famous for featuring venison dishes the entire month of October. A zither player strums away most evenings in the Josefi wine cellar. Pros: great German decor; friendly staff. Cons: some rooms are cramped; accommodations can get warm in summer. \| Rooms from: €76 \| Obermarkt 1 \| 08823/92700 \| www.hotel-alpenrose-mittenwald.de \| 16 rooms, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Bichlerhof. HOTEL \| Carved oak furniture gives the rooms of this Alpine-style hotel a solid German feel. A breakfast buffet is served until 11 am and will keep the hardiest hiker going all day. Although the restaurant serves only breakfast, there's no shortage of taverns in the area. Most guest rooms have mountain views. Pros: amazing views; well-kept spa area. Cons: disorganized reservation system; built to look traditionally Bavarian, but is actually only 30 years old. \| Rooms from: €74 \| Adolf-Baader-Str. 5 \| 08823/9190 \| www.bichlerhof-mittenwald.de \| 30 rooms \| Breakfast. Gasthof Stern. B&B/INN \| This white house with brilliant blue shutters is right in the middle of Mittenwald. The painted furniture is not antique, but reminiscent of old peasant Bavaria, and the featherbeds are incredibly soft. Locals meet in the dining room ($) for loud conversation, and the beer garden is a pleasant, familial place to while away the hours with a Bauernschmaus, a plate of sausage with sauerkraut and homemade liver dumplings. The restaurant is closed Thursday. More than one night at the inn makes the price cheaper. Pros: friendly service; clean, basic hotel with a great beer garden. Cons: needs a renovation; upper rooms warm in summer; credit cards not accepted. \| Rooms from: €70 \| Fritz-Plössl-Pl. 2 \| 08823/8358 \| www.stern-mittenwald.de \| 5 rooms \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. Post. HOTEL \| The hotel retains much of its historic charm—stagecoaches carrying travelers and mail across the Alps stopped here as far back as the 17th century—though the elegant rooms come in various styles, from modern to art nouveau to Bavarian rustic. The indoor swimming pool has views of the Karwendel peaks, and a small rose garden is an inviting spot for coffee and cake. Excellent Bavarian fare such as roasts and great Semmelknödel (bread dumplings) is served in the wine tavern or at the low-beam Postklause ($) Pros: art-nouveau rooms in the back. Cons: no elevator; street noise in the evening. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Obermarkt 9 \| 08823/938–2333 \| www.posthotel-mittenwald.de \| 74 rooms, 7 suites \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors Mittenwald lies literally in the shadow of the mighty Karwendel Alpine range, which rises to a height of nearly 8,000 feet. There are a number of small lakes in the hills surrounding Mittenwald. You can either walk to the closer ones or rent bikes and adventure farther afield. The information center across the street from the train station has maps, and they can help you select a route. The Dammkar run is nearly 8 km (5 miles) long and offers some of the best free-riding skiing, telemarking, and snowboarding in the German Alps. Erste Schischule Mittenwald. Skiers, cross-country and downhill, and snowboarders can find all they need, including equipment and instruction, at the Erste Schischule Mittenwald. \| Bahnhofspl. 14 \| 08823/3582 \| www.skischule-mittenwald.de. Karwendelbahn cable car. The cable car carries hikers and skiers to a height of 7,180 feet, the beginning of numerous trails down, or farther up into the Karwendel range. \| Karwendelbahn, Alpenkorpsstr. 1 \| 08823/937–6760 \| www.karwendelbahn.de \| €15 one-way, €24 round-trip \| May–Oct., daily 8:30–5; Nov.–Apr. 9–4. ### Shopping It's not the kind of gift every visitor wants to take home, but if you'd like a violin, a cello, or even a double bass, the Alpine resort of Mittenwald can oblige. There are more than 30 craftspeople whose work is coveted by musicians throughout the world. Anton Maller. If you're buying or even just feeling curious, call on Anton Maller. He's been making violins and other stringed instruments for more than 25 years. \| Obermarkt 2 \| 08823/5865 \| www.violin-maller.de. Gabriele Schneider's SchokoLaden. Find out where all the milk from the local cows goes with a visit to Gabriele Schneider's SchokoLaden, a homemade-chocolate shop. \| Obermarkt 42 \| 08823/938–939 \| www.schokoladen-mittenwald.de. Trachten Werner. For traditional Bavarian costumes—dirndls, embroidered shirts and blouses, and lederhosen—try Trachten Werner. \| Obermarkt 39 \| 08823/8282 \| www.trachten-werner.de \| Closed Mon.–Thurs. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Bad Tölz \| Tegernsee \| Bayrischzell \| Chiemsee With its rolling hills and serene lakes in the shadow of the Alpine peaks, the Chiemgau is a natural paradise and a good transition to the Alps. The main attraction is, without a doubt, the Chiemsee with the amazing palace on the Herreninsel, the biggest of the islands on the lake. The area is dotted with clear blue lakes and, although tourism is fairly well established, you'll feel that you have much of the area all to yourself. Beer lovers flock to the Tegernsee and relax afterward in the iodine spa in Bad Tölz. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Bad Tölz 14 km (8 miles) north of Sylvenstein Lake, 48 km (30 miles) south of Munich. Bad Tölz's new town, dating from the mid-19th century, sprang up with the discovery of iodine-laden springs, which allowed the locals to call their town Bad (bath or spa) Tölz. You can take the waters, either by drinking a cupful from the local springs or going all the way with a full course of health treatments at a specially equipped hotel. TIP If you can, visit on a Friday morning, when a farmers' market stretches along the main street to the Isar River and on the Jungmayr-Fritzplatz. This town clings to its ancient customs more tightly than any other Bavarian community. It is not uncommon to see people wearing traditional clothing as their daily dress. If you're in Bad Tölz on November 6, you'll witness one of the most colorful traditions of the Bavarian Alpine area: the Leonhardiritt equestrian procession, which marks the anniversary of the death in 559 of St. Leonhard of Noblac, the patron saint of animals, specifically horses. The procession ends north of town at an 18th-century chapel on the Kalvarienberg, above the Isar River. #### Getting Here and Around Bad Tölz is on the B-472, which connects to the A-8 to Munich. Hourly trains link Bad Tölz with Munich. Bad Tölz is easily walkable and has frequent city-bus services. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bad Tölz Tourist-Information. \| Max-Höfler-Pl. 1 \| 08041/78670 \| www.bad-toelz.de. ### Exploring The Alpamare. Bad Tölz's very attractive spa complex pumps spa water into its pools, one of which is disguised as a South Sea beach complete with surf. Its five waterslides include a 1,082-foot-long adventure run. Another—the Alpa-Canyon—has 90-degree drops, and only the hardiest swimmers are advised to try it. A nightmarish dark tunnel is aptly named the Thriller. There is a complex price structure, depending on time spent in the spa and other wellness activities for the various individual attractions, or combo tickets for more than one. \| Ludwigstr. 14 \| 08041/509–999 \| www.alpamare.de \| €29 4-hr ticket, €27 till 11 am, €23 after 5 pm \| Daily 9:30 am–10 pm. The Stadtmuseum. Located in the Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall), you'll find many fine examples of Bauernmöbel (farmhouse furniture), as well as a fascinating exhibit on the history of the town and its environs. \| Marktstr. 48 \| 08041/793–5156 \| www.bad-toelz.de \| €4 \| Late Nov.–late Dec., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Jan.–late Nov., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Stay Hotel Jodquellenhof-Alpamare. RESORT \| The Jodquellen are the iodine springs that have made Bad Tölz wealthy. You can take advantage of these revitalizing waters at this luxurious spa, where the emphasis is on fitness. Vegetarian and low-calorie entrées are served in the restaurant ($$$). The imposing 19th-century building, with private access to the Alpamare Lido (water park), contains stylish rooms with granite and marble bathrooms. Rate includes full use of the spa facilities. There are discounts for children. Pros: elegant hotel; free access to the spa. Cons: busy during local school holidays. \| Rooms from: €199 \| Ludwigstr. 13–15 \| 08041/5090 \| www.jodquellenhof.com \| 71 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Kolbergarten. HOTEL \| Located right near the Old Town and surrounded by a quiet garden with old trees, this hotel offers comfortable rooms, each carefully done in a particular style such as baroque or Biedermeier. The grand restaurant ($$) in fin de siècle style offers a wide range of gourmet dishes created by the Viennese chef Johann Mikschy, from sashimi of yellowfin tuna, to veal boiled with grape leaves. The wine list will take you around the world. Pros: large clean rooms; staff is great with children. Cons: often fully booked. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Fröhlichg. 5 \| 08041/78920 \| www.hotel-kolbergarten.de \| 12 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Boys' choir. Bad Tölz is world renowned for its outstanding boys' choir. When not on tour, the choir gives regular concerts in the Kurhaus. Check the Bad Tölz website for details. \| Kurhaus Bad Tölz, Ludwigstr. 25 \| www.bad-toelz.de. TanzBar KULT. TanzBar KULT has a rather wide range of themes, and it features live music in the terrific setting of an old brewery, with barrel vaults and painted brick walls. \| Wachterstr. 19 \| 08041/799–3699 \| www.kult-toelz.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors FAMILY \| Blomberg. Bad Tölz's local mountain, the Blomberg, 3 km (2 miles) west of town, has moderately difficult ski runs and can also be tackled on a toboggan in winter and on a luge in summer. The winter run of 5 km (3 miles) is the longest in Bavaria. The concrete summer luge-run snakes 3,938 feet down the mountain and is great fun; you'll want the three-ride ticket. A ski-lift ride to the start of the run and toboggan or roller luge are included in the price. \| 08041/3726 \| www.blombergbahn.de \| Winter tobogganing from Nov. (weather permitting), daily 9–4; summer tobogganing, daily 10–4; check website for skiing. ### Shopping Bad Tölz is famous for its painted furniture, particularly farmhouse cupboards and chests. Several local shops specialize in this type of Bauernmöbel (farmhouse furniture, usually hand carved from pine) and will usually handle export formalities. Ask at your hotel or tourist-information center for a recommendation on where to shop. Antiquitäten Schwarzwälder. For traditional Bauernmöbel furniture, try Antiquitäten Schwarzwälder. \| Badstr. 2 \| 08041/41222 \| www.antiquitaeten-schwarzwaelder.de. ## Tegernsee 16 km (10 miles) east of Bad Tölz, 50 km (31 miles) south of Munich. The beautiful shores of the Tegernsee are among the most expensive property in all of Germany. The interest in the region shown by King Maximilian I of Bavaria at the beginning of the 19th century attracted VIPs and artists, which led to a boom that has never really faded. Most accommodations and restaurants, however, still have reasonable prices, and there are plenty of activities for everyone. Tegernsee's wooded shores, rising gently to scalable mountain peaks of no more than 6,300 feet, invite hikers, walkers, and picnicking families. The lake itself draws swimmers and yachters. In fall the russet-clad trees provide a colorful contrast to the snowcapped mountains. Beer lovers are drawn to Tegernsee by one of the best breweries in Europe. There are three main towns on the lake: Tegernsee, Rottach-Egern, and Bad Wiessee. #### Getting Here and Around The best way to reach all three towns is to take the BOB train from Munich to Tegernsee (hourly) and then take a boat ride on one of the eight boats that circle the lake year-round. The boats dock near the Tegernsee train station and make frequent stops, including stops at the Benedictine monastery in Tegernsee, in Rottach-Egern, and in Bad Wiessee. The monastery is a pleasant half-mile walk from the train station. Buses connect Tegernsee to Bad Tölz. #### Essentials Visitor Information Rottach-Egern/Tegernsee Tourist Information. \| Hauptstr. 2 \| 08022/180–140 \| www.tegernsee.de. ### Exploring Benedictine monastery. On the eastern shore of the lake, the laid-back town of Tegernsee is home to this large Benedictine monastary. Founded in the 8th century, this was one of the most productive cultural centers in southern Germany; the Minnesänger (wandering lyrical poets) Walther von der Vogelweide (1170–1230) was a welcome guest. Not so welcome were Magyar invaders, who laid waste to the monastery in the 10th century. During the Middle Ages the monastery made a lively business producing stained-glass windows, thanks to a nearby quartz quarry, and in the 16th century it became a major center of printing. The late-Gothic church was refurbished in Italian baroque style in the 18th century. The frescoes are by Hans Georg Asam, whose work also graces the Benediktbeuren monastery in Bavaria. Secularization sealed the monastery's fate at the beginning of the 19th century: almost half the buildings were torn down. Maximilian I bought the surviving ones and had Leo von Klenze redo them for use as a summer retreat. Today there is a high school on the property, and students write their exams beneath inspiring baroque frescoes in what had been the monastery. The Herzogliches Bräustüberl, a brewery and beer hall, is also on site. TIP Try a Mass (a liter-size mug) of their legendary Tergernseer Helles or Spezial beer. \| Schlosspl. The Grosses Paraplui. Maximilian showed off this corner of his kingdom to Czar Alexander I of Russia and Emperor Franz I of Austria during their journey to the Congress of Verona in October 1821. You can follow their steps through the woods to the Grosses Paraplui, one of the loveliest lookout points in Bavaria. A plaque marks the spot where they admired the open expanse of the Tegernsee and the mountains beyond. The path starts opposite Schlossplatz in Tegernsee town and is well marked. \| Schlosspl. The Olaf Gulbransson Museum. This museum is devoted to the Norwegian painter Olaf Gulbrannson, who went to Munich in 1902 and worked as a caricaturist for the satirical magazine Simplicissimus. His poignant caricatures and numerous works of satire depict noisy politicians and snooty social upper-crusters as well as other subjects. The museum is housed in a discreet modern building set back from the main lakeside road of Tegernsee. \| Im Kurgarten 5 \| 08022/3338 \| www.olaf-gulbransson-museum.de \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat Boutique Hotel Relais-Chalet Wilhelmy. GERMAN \| Although everything is modern, this inn in Bad Wiessee takes you back to a less-frantic era. Classical music accompanies unpretentious yet tasty meals. Try the fish specialties or the light guinea fowl with herb rice and enjoy tea and cake in the little garden. \| Average main: €16 \| Freihausstr. 15 \| Bad Wiessee \| 08022/98680. Freihaus Brenner. EUROPEAN \| Proprietor Josef Brenner has brought a taste of nouvelle cuisine to the Tegernsee. His attractive restaurant commands fine views from high above Bad Wiessee. Try any of his suggested dishes, ranging from roast pheasant in wine sauce to fresh lake fish. There are flexible portion sizes for smaller appetites. \| Average main: €30 \| Freihaus 4 \| Bad Wiessee \| 08022/86560 \| www.freihaus-brenner.de. Herzogliches Bräustüberl. GERMAN \| Once part of Tegernsee's Benedictine monastery, then a royal retreat, the Bräustüberl is now an immensely popular beer hall and brewery. The tasty Bavarian snacks (sausages, pretzels, all the way up to steak tartare), all under €10, can't be beat. Next to here, more-substantial fare can be had in the adjoining Schlossbrennerei (www.tegernseer-schlossrestaurant.de). In summer, quaff your beer beneath the huge chestnut trees and admire the delightful view of the lake and mountains. \| Average main: €10 \| Schlosspl. 1 \| 08022/4141 for Bräustüberl, 08022/4560 for Schlossbrennerei \| www.braustuberl.de \| Reservations not accepted \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. ### Where to Stay Das Tegernsee Hotel & Spa. HOTEL \| The elegant, turreted Hotel Tegernsee and its two spacious annexes sit high above the Tegernsee, backed by the wooded slopes of Neureuth Mountain. Rooms overlooking the lake are in demand despite their relatively high cost, so book early. All guests can enjoy panoramic views of the lake and mountains from the extensive terrace fronting the main building. You can dine in the hotel's stylish little restaurant ($$$) or the cozy tavern. The extensive spa includes a heavenly musical tub and a colored-light and aroma solarium. Pros: hotel in almost mint condition due to renovations completed in 2009; historical elegance; Czar Nicholas I was a frequent guest; great views. Cons: a little away from the hub of the town. \| Rooms from: €159 \| Neureuthstr. 23 \| 08022/1820 \| www.dastegernsee.de \| 63 rooms, 10 suites \| Breakfast. Seehotel Zur Post. HOTEL \| The lake views from most rooms are somewhat compromised by the main road outside, but a central location, a winter garden, a terrace, and a little beer garden are pluses. The restaurant ($), with a panoramic view of the mountains and the lake, serves fresh fish and seasonal dishes; the "venison weeks" draw diners from far and wide. Pros: great views; friendly service; excellent breakfast. Cons: the property is a little old fashioned and could do with an update. \| Rooms from: €55 \| Seestr. 3 \| 08022/66550 \| www.seehotel-zur-post.de \| 43 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Every resort has its spa orchestra—in summer they play daily in the music-box-style bandstands that dot the lakeside promenades. A strong Tegernsee tradition is the summer-long program of festivals, some set deep in the forest. Tegernsee's lake festival in August, when sailing clubs deck their boats with garlands and lanterns, is an unforgettable experience. Casino. Bad Wiessee's casino lies near the entrance of town coming from Gmund. The main playing rooms are open daily from 3 pm, and it is the biggest and liveliest venue in town for the after-dark scene. \| Spielbank Bad Wiessee, Winner 1 \| Bad Wiessee \| 08022/98350 \| www.spielbanken-bayern.de/wDeutsch/wiessee/. ### Sports and the Outdoors Tourist Information Tegernsee. Contact the tourist office in the town of Tegernsee for hiking maps. \| Hauptstr. 2 \| Bad Wiessee \| 08022/180–140 \| www.tegernsee.de. Wallberg. For the best vista in the area, climb the Wallberg, the 5,700-foot mountain at the south end of the Tegernsee. It's a hard four-hour hike or a short 15-minute cable-car ride up (€10 one-way, €18 round-trip). At the summit are a restaurant and sun terrace and several trailheads; in winter the skiing is excellent. \| Wallbergbahn, Wallbergstr. 28 \| Rottach-Egern \| www.wallbergbahn.de. #### Golf Tegernseer Golf-Club e.V. Besides swimming, hiking, and skiing, the Tegernsee area has become a fine place for golfing. The Tegernseer Golfclub e. V. has an 18-hole course overlooking the lake with a clubhouse and excellent restaurant. It also has fine apartments for rent. \| Rohbognerhof \| Bad Wiessee \| 08022/271–130 \| www.tegernseer-golf-club.de. Greif. Greif has a fine selection of tastefully modern Bavarian fashions and a large stock of handwoven fabrics that you can either buy outright or have fitted into clothing. \| Nördliche Hauptstr. 24 \| Rottach-Egern \| 08022/5540 \| www.trachten-greif.de. ## Bayrischzell 10 km (6 miles) east of Schliersee, 65 km (40 miles) southeast of Munich. Bayrischzell is in an attractive family-resort area and is much quieter than Spitzingsee. The wide-open slopes of the Sudelfeld Mountain are ideal for carefree skiing; in summer and fall you can explore countless upland walking trails. Access to the Sudelfeld area costs €2 per car. The town sits at the end of a wide valley overlooked by the 6,000-foot Wendelstein mountain, which draws expert skiers. At its summit is a tiny stone-and-slate-roof chapel that's much in demand for wedding ceremonies. The cross above the entrance was carried up the mountain by Max Kleiber, who designed the 19th-century church. An instructive geopark, laid out beneath the summit, explains the 250-million-year geological history of the area on 36 graphic signboards. You can reach the summit from two directions: the cable car sets out from Osterhofen on the Bayrischzell-Munich road and costs €17.50 round-trip, €11 one-way (its last descent is at 4 pm). The cable car closes for two weeks in mid-April. The historic cog railway leaves from Brannenburg, on the north side of the mountain, between Bayrischzell and the Inn Valley autobahn, and a one-way trip costs €15. The cog is closed in November and the first three weeks of December. TIP A round-trip, combination ticket, with trips on both the cable car and the cog, costs €24.50. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bayrischzell Tourist Information. \| Kirchpl. 2 \| 08023/648 \| www.bayrischzell.de. ## Chiemsee 80 km (50 miles) southeast of Munich, 120 km (75 miles) northeast of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Chiemsee is north of the Deutsche Alpenstrasse, but it demands a detour, if only to visit King Ludwig's huge palace on one of its idyllic islands. It's the largest Bavarian lake, and although it's surrounded by reedy flatlands, the nearby mountains provide a majestic backdrop. The town of Prien is the lake's principal resort. TIP The tourist offices of Prien and Aschau offer a €26 transportation package covering a boat trip, a round-trip rail ticket between the two resorts, and a round-trip ride by cable car to the top of Kampen Mountain, above Aschau. #### Getting Here and Around Prien is the best jumping-off point for exploring the Chiemsee. Frequent trains connect Prien with Munich and Salzburg. The regional trains are met by a narrow-gauge steam train for the short trip to Prien-Stock, the boat dock. The only way to reach the Herreninsel and the Fraueninsel is by boat. #### Essentials Visitor Information Chiemsee Infocenter. \| Felden 10, \| Bernau am Chiemsee \| 08051/96555–0 \| www.chiemsee-alpenland.de. ### Exploring Fraueninsel. Boats going between Stock and Herrenchiemsee Island also call at this small retreat known as Ladies' Island. The Benedictine convent there, founded 1,200 years ago, now serves as a school. One of its earliest abbesses, Irmengard, daughter of King Ludwig der Deutsche, died here in the 9th century. Her grave in the convent chapel was discovered in 1961, the same year that early frescoes there were brought to light. The chapel is open daily from dawn to dusk. Otherwise, the island has just a few private houses, a couple of shops, and a hotel. TIP The Benedictine Sisters make delicious fruit liqueurs and marzipan. \| Fraueninsel \| Chiemsee \| www.frauenwoerth.de. Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Herrenchiemsee. Despite its distance from Munich, the beautiful Chiemsee drew Bavarian royalty to its shores. Its dreamlike, melancholy air caught the imagination of King Ludwig II, and it was on one of the lake's three islands that he built Schloss Herrenchiemsee, his third and last castle. The palace was modeled after Louis XIV's Versailles, but this was due to more than simple admiration: Ludwig, whose name was the German equivalent of Louis, was keen to establish that he, too, possessed the absolute authority of his namesake, the Sun King. As with most of Ludwig's projects, the building was never completed, and Ludwig spent only nine days in the castle. Moreover, Herrenchiemsee helped empty the state coffers and Ludwig's private ones as well. The gold leaf that seems to cover more than half of the rooms is especially thin. Nonetheless, what remains is impressive—and ostentatious. Regular ferries out to the island depart from Stock, Prien's harbor. If you want to make the journey in style, board the original 1887 steam train from Prien to Stock to pick up the ferry. A horse-drawn carriage (€3) takes you from the boat dock to the palace itself. Most spectacular is the Hall of Mirrors, a dazzling gallery where candlelit concerts are held in summer. Also of interest are the ornate bedrooms Ludwig planned, the "self-rising" table that ascended from the kitchen quarters, the elaborately painted bathroom with a small pool for a tub, and the formal gardens. The south wing houses a museum containing Ludwig's christening robe and death mask, as well as other artifacts of his life. While the palace was being built, Ludwig stayed in a royal suite of apartments in a former monastery building on the island, the Altes Schloss. Germany's postwar constitution was drawn up here in 1948, and this episode of the country's history is the centerpiece of the museum housed in the ancient building, the Museum im Alten Schloss. \| Schloss Herrenchiemsee, Herrenchiemsee \| Chiemsee \| 08051/68870 palace \| www.herren-chiemsee.de \| Palace, including Museum im Alten Schloss €8 \| Apr.–late Oct., daily 9–6; late Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4:45; English-language palace tours daily; once per hr. Off the Beaten Path: Amerang. There are two interesting museums in this town northwest of Chiemsee. \| Wasserburger Str. 11 \| Amerang \| www.amerang.de. ### Where to Stay Hotel Luitpold am See. HOTEL \| Boats to the Chiemsee islands tie up right outside your window at this handsome old Prien hotel, which organizes shipboard disco evenings as part of its entertainment program. Rooms have either traditional pinewood furniture, including carved cupboards and bedsteads, or are modern and sleek (in the new annex). Fish from the lake is served at the pleasant restaurant ($) Pros: directly on the lake (though the sister property is 328 feet away); "limousine service" offers pick-up from Munich airport for €100. Cons: near a busy boat dock. \| Rooms from: €82 \| Seestr. 110 \| Prien am Chiemsee \| 08051/609–100 \| www.luitpold-am-see.de \| 54 rooms \| Breakfast. Inselhotel zur Linde. HOTEL \| Catch a boat to this enchanting inn on the car-free Fraueninsel for dinner: but remember, if you miss the last connection to the mainland (at 9 pm), you'll have to stay the night. The island is by and large a credit-card-free zone, so be sure to bring cash. Rooms are simply furnished and decorated with brightly colored fabrics. The Linde is one of Bavaria's oldest hotels, founded in 1396 as a refuge for pilgrims. Artists have favored the inn for years, and one of the tables in the small Fischerstüberl dining room ($) is reserved for them. This is the best place to try fish from the lake. Pros: set in lush gardens; nice beer garden. Cons: the Fraueninsel isn't exactly famous for its nightlife. \| Rooms from: €126 \| Fraueninsel \| Chiemsee \| 08054/90366 \| www.linde-frauenchiemsee.de \| 14 rooms \| Closed mid-Jan.–mid-Mar. \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors Chiemsee Golf-Club Prien e.V. The gentle hills of the region are ideal for golf. Chiemsee Golf-Club Prien e.V., in Prien, has a year-round 9-hole course. \| Bauernberg 5 \| 08051/62215 \| www.cgc-prien.de. SportLukas. Equipment can be provided for any kind of sport imaginable, from skiing to kayaking, climbing to curling, and it organizes tours. \| Hauptstr. 3 \| Schleching \| 08649/243 \| www.sportlukas.de. Surfschule Chiemsee. For those wanting to learn windsurfing or to extend their skills, the Surfschule Chiemsee provides lessons and offers a package deal including board, stand up paddling, and bike rentals. \| Surfschule Bernau am Chiemsee, Rasthausstr. 11 \| Bernau \| 08051/8877 \| www.surfschule-chiemsee.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Bad Reichenhall \| Berchtesgaden \| Berchtesgaden National Park Berchtesgadener Land is the Alps at their most dramatic and most notorious. Although some points are higher, the steep cliffs, hidden mountain lakes, and protected biospheres make the area uniquely beautiful. The salt trade brought medieval Berchtesgaden and Bad Reichenhall incredible wealth, which is still apparent in the large collection of antique houses and quaint streets. Bad Reichenhall is an impressive center of German spa culture. Berchtesgaden's image is a bit tarnished by its most infamous historical resident, Adolf Hitler. Berchtesgaden National Park is a hiker's dream, and the resounding echo of the trumpet on the Königssee shouldn't be missed. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Bad Reichenhall 60 km (30 miles) east of Prien, 20 km (12 miles) west of Salzburg. Bad Reichenhall is remarkably well located, near the mountains for hiking and skiing, and near Salzburg in Austria for a lively cultural scene. The town shares a remote corner of Bavaria with another prominent resort, Berchtesgaden. Although the latter is more famous, Bad Reichenhall is older, with saline springs that made the town rich. Salt is so much a part of the town that you can practically taste it in the air. Europe's largest source of brine was first tapped here in pre-Christian times; salt mining during the Middle Ages supported the economies of cities as far away as Munich and Passau. The town prospered from a spa in the early 20th century. Lately, it has successfully recycled itself from a somewhat sleepy and stodgy "cure town" to a modern, attractive center of wellness. #### Getting Here and Around Bad Reichenhall is well connected to Berchtesgaden and Salzburg Hauptbahnhof once every hour. The hourly trains to Munich require a change in Freilassing. To reach the Bürgerbräu and the Predigtstuhl cable car, take Bus No. 180 and Bus No. 841 to Königssee. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Info Bad Reichenhall. \| Wittelsbacherstr. 15 \| 08651/6060 \| www.bad-reichenhall.de. ### Exploring The Alte Saline und Quellenhaus. In the early 19th century King Ludwig I built this elaborate saltworks and spa house, in vaulted, pseudomedieval style. The pump installations, which still run, are astonishing examples of 19th-century engineering. A "saline" chapel is part of the spa's facilities, and was built in exotic Byzantine style. An interesting museum in the same complex looks at the history of the salt trade. \| Alte Saline 9 \| 08651/700–2146 \| www.alte-saline-bad-reichenhall.de \| €7.50, combined ticket with Berchtesgaden's salt mine €19 \| May–Oct., daily 10–11:30 and 2–4; Nov.–Apr., Tues., Fri., and 1st Sun. in the month 2–4. Predigtstuhl. The pride and joy of the Reichenhallers is the steep, craggy mountain appropriately named the Preacher's Pulpit, which stands at 5,164 feet, southeast of town. A ride to the top offers a splendid view of the area. You can hike, ski in winter, or just enjoy a bite to eat and drink at the Almütte Schlegemuldel ($), 15 minutes from the cable car station. The cable-car ride costs €11 one-way, €18 round-trip. Departures begin at 9:30 am and continue (as needed) until the last person is off the mountain. The hotel is closed in winter. \| Südtiroler Pl. 1 \| 08651/2127 \| www.predigtstuhl-bahn.de. Rupertus Therme. Part of Bad Reichenhall's revival included building this new spa facility, the brand-new "spa and fitness resort." Pools, saunas, and steam rooms are rounded off with a host of special applications using salt, essential oils, mud packs, and massages. The therme can be popular, especially in winter, so online reservations are a good idea \| Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 21 \| 08651/76220 for reservation hotline \| www.rupertustherme.de \| €21 all day ticket; €18 4 hrs \| Daily 9 am–10 pm. St. Zeno. This ancient church is dedicated to the patron saint of those imperiled by floods and the dangers of the deep, an ironic note in a town that flourishes on the riches of its underground springs. This 12th-century basilica, the largest in Bavaria, was remodeled in the 16th and 17th centuries, but some of the original Romanesque cloisters remain, although these can be seen only during services and from 11 to noon on Sunday and holidays. \| Salzburger Str. 30 \| www.kath-stadtkirche-badreichenhall.de. Wandelhalle. Hotels here base spa treatments on the health-giving properties of the saline springs and the black mud from the area's waterlogged moors. The waters can also be taken in this elegant, pillared pavilion of the attractive spa gardens throughout the year. Breathing salt-laden air is a remedy for various lung conditions. All you need to do is walk along the 540-foot Gradierhaus, a massive wood-and-concrete construction that produces a fine salty mist by trickling brine down a 40-foot wall of dense blackthorn bundles. \| Königlichen Kurgarten \| 08651/6060 Touristinformation Wandelhalle im Kurgarten \| Nov.–May. ### Where to Eat Brauereigasthof Bürgerbräu. GERMAN \| Each dining area in this old brewery inn reflects the social class that once met here: politicos, peasants, burghers, and salt miners. Reichenhallers from all walks of life still meet here to enjoy good conversation, hearty local beer, and excellent food. Rooms at the inn are simple, but airy and modern, and centrally located. \| Average main: €11 \| Waagg. 1–2 \| 08651/6089 \| www.brauereigasthof-buergerbraeu.de. Gasthaus Obermühle. GERMAN \| Tucked away off the main road leading from Bad Reichenhall to the autobahn, this 16th-century mill is a well-kept secret. Fish is the specialty here, though meats (the game in season is noteworthy) are also on the menu. The terrace is an inviting place for a few helpings of excellent homemade pastries. \| Average main: €12 \| Tumpenstr. 11 \| 08651/2193 \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. and Tues. ### Where to Stay Parkhotel Luisenbad. HOTEL \| If you fancy spoiling yourself in a typical German fin de siècle spa hotel, consider staying here. This fine porticoed and pillared building with an imposing pastel-pink facade promises luxury within. Rooms are large, furnished in deep-cushioned, dark-wood comfort, most with flower-filled balconies or loggias. The elegant restaurant ($$) serves international and traditional Bavarian cuisine with an emphasis on seafood (scallops or tuna steak, for example), and a pine-panel tavern, Die Holzstubn'n, pours excellent local brew. Pros: quiet; centrally located. Cons: Slightly old-fashioned for some tastes. \| Rooms from: €118 \| Ludwigstr. 33 \| 08651/6040 \| www.parkhotel-luisenbad-bad-reichenhall-berchtesgaden.de \| 70 rooms, 8 suites \| Breakfast. Pension Hubertus. B&B/INN \| This delightfully traditional family-run lodging stands on the shore of the tiny Thumsee, 5 km (3 miles) from the town center. The Hubertus's private grounds lead down to the lake, where guests can swim or boat (the water is bracingly cool). Rooms, some with balconies overlooking the lake, are furnished with hand-carved beds and cupboards. Excellent meals or coffee can be taken at the neighboring rustic Madlbauer ($). There are special rates in the off-season (October - April). Pros: incredible views; private guests-only sunbathing area. Cons: far from city center; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €66 \| Thumsee 5 \| 08651/2252 \| www.hubertus-thumsee.de \| 18 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Casino. As a spa town and winter resort, Bad Reichenhall is a natural for night haunts. The big draw is the elegant casino, open daily starting at noon. \| Wittelsbacherstr. 17 \| 08651/95800 \| www.spielbanken-bayern.de/wDeutsch/reichenhall \| Jacket and tie. Orchesterbüro. Bad Reichenhall is proud of its long musical tradition and of its orchestra, founded more than a century ago. It performs on numerous occasions throughout the year in the chandelier-hung Kurgastzentrum Theater or, when weather permits, in the open-air pavilion, and at a special Mozart Week in March. Call the Orchesterbüro for program details. \| Salzburger Str. 7 \| 08651/762–8080 \| www.bad-reichenhaller-philharmonie.de. Tanzcafe am Kurgarten. For some traditional ballroom dancing to live music in the evenings, head for the Tanzcafe am Kurgarten. Occasionally they also show soccer games. \| Salzburger Str. 7 \| 08651/1691 \| www.kurcafe-bgl.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors Though Berchtesgaden definitely has the pull for skiers, Bad Reichenhall is proud of its Predigtstuhl, which towers over the town to the south. Besides fresh air and great views, it offers some skiing, lots of hiking, biking, and even rock climbing. The tourist information office on Wittelsbacherstrasse, a couple of hundred yards from the train station, has all the necessary information regarding the numerous sporting activities possible in Bad Reichenhall and its surrounding area. ### Shopping Josef Mack Company. Using flowers and herbs grown in the Bavarian Alps, the Josef Mack Company has made medicinal herbal preparations since 1856. \| Ludwigstr. 36 \| 08651/78280 \| www.macknatur.de. Paul Reber. Your sweet tooth will be fully satisfied at the confection emporium of Paul Reber, makers of the famous chocolate, nougat, and marzipan Mozartkugel and many other caloric depth-charges. \| Ludwigstr. 10–12 \| 08651/60030 \| www.reber-spezialitaeten.de/home.html. ## Berchtesgaden 18 km (11 miles) south of Bad Reichenhall, 20 km (12 miles) south of Salzburg. Berchtesgaden's reputation is unjustly rooted in its brief association with Adolf Hitler, who dreamed of his "1,000-year Reich" from the mountaintop where millions of tourists before and after him drank in only the superb beauty of the Alpine panorama. The historic old market town and mountain resort has great charm. In winter it's a fine place for skiing and snowboarding; in summer it becomes one of the region's most popular (and crowded) resorts. An ornate palace and working salt mine make up some of the diversions in this heavenly setting. Salt was once the basis of Berchtesgaden's wealth. In the 12th century Emperor Barbarossa gave mining rights to a Benedictine abbey that had been founded here a century earlier. The abbey was secularized early in the 19th century, when it was taken over by the Wittelsbach rulers. Salt is still important today because of all the local wellness centers. The entire area has been declared a Kurgebiet ("health resort region"), and was put on the UNESCO biosphere list. #### Getting Here and Around The easiest way to reach Berchtesgaden is with the hourly train connection, or with the bus from Salzburg Hauptbanhof. To get to Berchtesgaden from Munich requires a change in Freilassing or Salzburg. Salzburg's newly renovated main train station connects regularly to Berchtesgaden (choose the train without a Freilassing change). Frequent local bus service makes it easy to explore the town and to reach Berchtesgaden National Park and the Königssee. Local bus services, except from Documentation center to the Eagle's Nest, are included when you pay the Kurtaxe. The Schwaiger bus company runs tours of the area and across the Austrian border as far as Salzburg. An American couple runs Berchtesgaden Mini-bus Tours out of the local tourist office, opposite the railroad station. #### Essentials Visitor and Tour Information Berchtesgaden Land Tourismus. \| Bahnhofpl. 4 \| 08652/656–5050 \| www.berchtesgadener-land.com. Eagle's Nest Historical Tours. \| Königsseer Str. 2 \| 08652/64971 \| www.eagles-nest-tours.com. Schwaiger. \| 08652/2525 \| www.bus-schwaiger.de/en. * * * The Legend of Edelweiss Edelweiss (Leontopodium alpinum) is the flower most commonly associated with the Alps, thanks to that memorable song from The Sound of Music. It usually grows in the inaccessible regions of the Alps and is a protected species (don't pick it). The unique beauty of the white flower is a symbol of purity in Bavaria and a plant shrouded in myth. As the story goes, high in the Alps lived a hauntingly beautiful queen with a heart of pure ice. The queen's melodious singing lured many forlorn shepherds to her cave. Since her frozen heart was unable to love, she soon tired of them and ordered her loyal gnome slaves to throw the hapless men to their deaths. One day an ordinary shepherd found his way to her cave and the queen fell in love with him. The jealous gnomes, fearing their mistress would marry this mortal and abandon them, threw him into a valley where his heart was crushed. When she learned of the tragedy, her heart melted enough for her to shed one tear. That tear became an Edelweiss. * * * ### Exploring The Heimatmuseum. This museum located in the Schloss Adelsheim displays examples of wood carving and other local crafts. Wood carving in Berchtesgaden dates to long before Oberammergau established itself as the premier wood-carving center of the Alps. \| Schroffenbergallee 6 \| 08652/4410 \| www.heimatmuseum-berchtesgaden.de \| €2.50 \| Dec.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Königliches Schloss Berchtesgaden Museum. The last royal resident of the Berchtesgaden abbey, Crown Prince Rupprecht (who died here in 1955), furnished it with rare family treasures that now form the basis of this permanent collection. Fine Renaissance rooms exhibit the prince's sacred art, which is particularly rich in wood sculptures by such great late-Gothic artists as Tilman Riemenschneider and Veit Stoss. You can also visit the abbey's original, cavernous 13th-century dormitory and cool cloisters. \| Schlosspl. 2 \| 08652/947–980 \| www.haus-bayern.com \| €9.50 with tour \| Mid-May–mid-Oct., Sun.–Fri. 10–noon and 2–4; mid-Oct.–mid-May, Sun.–Fri. 11–2. The Obersalzberg The site of Hitler's luxurious mountain retreat is part of the north slope of the Hoher Goll, high above Berchtesgaden. It was a remote mountain community of farmers and foresters before Hitler's deputy, Martin Bormann, selected the site for a complex of Alpine homes for top Nazi leaders. Hitler's chalet, the Berghof, and all the others were destroyed in 1945, with the exception of a hotel that had been taken over by the Nazis, the Hotel zum Türken. The round trip from Berchtesgaden's post office by bus and elevator costs €16.10 per person. The bus runs mid-May through September, daily from 9 to 4:50. By car you can travel only as far as the Obersalzberg bus station. The full round trip takes one hour. TIP To get the most out of your visit to the Kehlsteinhaus, consider taking one of the informative tours offered by David Harper. Reserve in advance online or by phone at \| 08652/64971. Tours meet across from the train station and cost €50. \| Königsseer Str. 2 \| www.eagles-nest-tours.com. Bunkers. Beneath the hotel is a section of the labyrinth of tunnels built as a last retreat for Hitler and his cronies; the macabre, murky bunkers can be visited. \| Hintereck 2 \| 08652/2428 \| www.hotel-zum-tuerken.de/hotel.html \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Mar., by appointment. Dokumentation Obersalzberg.. Nearby, the Dokumentation Obersalzberg documents the notorious history of the Third Reich, and a special focus on Obersalzberg, with some surprisingly rare archive material. \| Salzbergstr. 41 \| 08652/947–960 \| www.obersalzberg.de \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–3. Kehlsteinhaus. Beyond Obersalzberg, the hairpin bends of Germany's highest road come to the base of the 6,000-foot peak on which sits the Kehlsteinhaus, also known as the Adlerhorst (Eagle's Nest), Hitler's personal retreat and his official guesthouse. It was Martin Bormann's gift to the führer on Hitler's 50th birthday. The road leading to it, built in 1937–39, climbs more than 2,000 dizzying feet in less than 6 km (4 miles). A tunnel in the mountain will bring you to an elevator that whisks you up to what appears to be the top of the world (you can walk up in about half an hour). There are refreshment rooms and a restaurant. \| Kehlstein Busabfahrt, Hintereck \| 08652/2969 \| www.kehlsteinhaus.de. The Salzbergwerk. This salt mine is one of the chief attractions of the region. In the days when the mine was owned by Berchtesgaden's princely rulers, only select guests were allowed to see how the source of the city's wealth was extracted from the earth. Today, during a 90-minute tour, you can sit astride a miniature train that transports you nearly 1 km (½ mile) into the mountain to an enormous chamber where the salt is mined. Included in the tour are rides down the wooden chutes used by miners to get from one level to another and a boat ride on an underground saline lake the size of a football field. Although the tours take about an hour, plan an extra 45–60 minutes for purchasing the tickets and changing into and out of miners clothing. You may wish to partake in the special four-hour brine dinners down in the mines (€90). These are very popular, so be sure to book early. \| 2 km (1 mile) from center of Berchtesgaden on B–305 Salzburg Rd., Bergwerkstr. 83 \| 08652/600220 \| www.salzzeitreise.de \| €15.50, combined ticket with Bad Reichenhall's saline museum €18.50 \| May–Oct., daily 9–5; Nov.–Apr., Mon.–Sat. 11–3. Watzmann Therme. Here you'll find fragrant steam rooms, saunas with infrared cabins for sore muscles, an elegant pool, whirlpools, and more. If you happen to be staying a few days, you might catch a tai chi course, enjoy a bio-release facial massage, or partake in an evening of relaxing underwater exercises. \| Bergwerkstr. 54 \| 08652/94640 \| www.watzmann-therme.de \| 2 hrs €10.50, 4 hrs €13.90, day pass including sauna €15.50 \| Sun.–Wed. 10–10; Fri. and Sat. 10 am–midnight. ### Where to Stay Alpenhotel Denninglehen. HOTEL \| The house was built in 1981 in Alpine style, with lots of wood paneling, heavy beams, and wide balconies with cascades of geraniums in summer. Skiers enjoy the fact that the slopes are about 200 yards away. The restaurant has a large fireplace to warm up winter evenings. The menu ($$) is regional (the usual schnitzels and roasts) with a few items from the French repertoire (a fine steak in pepper sauce, for example). Price includes breakfast buffet and use of the wellness facilities. Pros: heated pool with views of the Alps; great hotel for kids. Cons: narrow and steep access road difficult to find. \| Rooms from: €74 \| Am Priesterstein 7 \| Berchtesgaden-Oberau \| 08652/97890 \| www.denninglehen.de \| 23 rooms \| Restaurant closed Tues. evening \| Breakfast. Hotel Grünberger. HOTEL \| Only a few strides from the train station in the town center, the Grünberger overlooks the River Ache—it even has a private terrace beside the river you can relax on. The cozy rooms have farmhouse-style furnishings and some antiques. The wellness area has in-house acupuncture and traditional Chinese medicine treatments. The hotel restaurant focuses on German fare, with some international dishes to lighten the load. Those who need to check e-mail head to the Internet café nearby. Pros: quaintly situated on the river; close to the train station. Cons: quite far from skiing and outdoor activities. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Hansererweg 1 \| 08652/976–590 \| www.hotel-gruenberger.de \| 65 rooms \| Closed Nov.–mid-Dec. \| Breakfast. Hotel Wittelsbach. HOTEL \| This is one of the oldest (built in 1892) and most traditional lodgings in the area, so it is wise to reserve well ahead of time. The small rooms have dark pinewood furnishings and deep red and green drapes and carpets. Ask for one with a balcony. The breakfast room has a mountain view. Pros: nice, comfortable rooms; exceptional staff; daily pamphlets show local events and weather. Cons: horrible parking; street-side rooms can get noisy. \| Rooms from: €94 \| Maximilianstr. 16 \| 08652/96380 \| www.hotel-wittelsbach.com \| 26 rooms, 3 apartments \| Breakfast. Hotel zum Türken. HOTEL \| The view alone is worth the 10-minute journey from Berchtesgaden to this hotel. Confiscated during World War II by the Nazis, the hotel is at the foot of the road to Hitler's mountaintop retreat. Beneath it are remains of Nazi wartime bunkers. The decor, though fittingly rustic, is a bit dated. There's no restaurant, although evening meals can be ordered in advance. Pros: great location; sense of history; Frau Schafenberg can cook! Cons: not all rooms have attached bathrooms. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Hintereck 2 \| Obersalzberg-Berchtesgaden \| 08652/2428 \| www.hotel-zum-tuerken.de \| 17 rooms, 12 with bath or shower \| Closed Nov.–Dec. 20 \| Breakfast. Stoll's Hotel Alpina. HOTEL \| Set above the Königsee in the delightful little village of Schönau, the Alpina offers rural solitude and easy access to Berchtesgaden. Families are catered for with apartments, a resident doctor, and a playroom. The hotel also has an annex about a half a mile away, the Sporthotel, where rooms are somewhat cheaper. Pros: bedrooms are large and comfortable; good for families with children; great view of the Adlershorst. Cons: service can be brusque. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Ulmenweg 14 \| Schönau \| 08652/65090 \| www.stolls-hotel-alpina.de \| 52 rooms, 8 apartments \| Closed early Nov.–mid-Dec. \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors Buried as it is in the Alps, Berchtesgaden is a place for the active. The Rossfeld ski area is one of the favorites, thanks to almost guaranteed natural snow. The piste down to Oberau is nearly 6 km (4 miles) long (with bus service at the end to take you back to Berchtesgaden). There is a separate snowboarding piste as well. Berchtesgaden also has many cross-country trails and telemark opportunities. The other popular area is on the slopes of the Götschenkopf, which is used for World Cup races. Snow is usually artificial, but the floodlit slopes at night and a lively après-ski scene make up for the lesser quality. In summer, hikers, power-walkers, and paragliders take over the region. The Obersalzberg even has a summer luge track. Avid hikers should ask for a map featuring the refuges (Berghütten) in the mountains, where one can spend the night either in a separate room or a bunk. Simple, solid meals are offered. In some of the smaller refuges you will have to bring your own food. For more information, check out www.berchtesgaden.de. And though the Königsee is beautiful to look at, only cold-water swimmers will appreciate its frigid waters. Consider walking along the pleasant mountain path from the Eagle's Nest back to Berchtesgaden. Berchtesgaden Golf Club. Germany's highest course, the Berchtesgaden Golf Club, is on a 3,300-foot plateau of the Obersalzberg. Only fit players should attempt the demanding 9-hole course. Ten Berchtesgaden hotels offer their guests a 30% reduction on the €40 (€50 for weekends) green fee—contact the tourist office or the club for details. \| Salzbergstr. 33 \| 08652/2100 \| www.golfclub-berchtesgaden.de. Erste Bergschule Berchtesgadenerland. Whatever your mountain-related needs, whether it's climbing and hiking in summer or cross-country tours in winter, you'll find it at the Erste Bergschule Berchtesgadenerland. \| Silbergstr. 25 \| Bischofswiesen \| 08652/5371 \| www.berchtesgaden-bergschule.de. ### Shopping Berchtesgadener Handwerkskunst. This shop offers handicrafts—such as wooden boxes, woven tablecloths, wood carvings, and Christmas-tree decorations—from Berchtesgaden, the surrounding region, and other parts of Bavaria. \| Schlosspl. 1½ \| 08652/979–790 \| www.berchtesgadener-handwerkskunst.de. ## Berchtesgaden National Park 5 km (3 miles) south of Berchtesgaden. The park covers 210 square km (81 square miles), around two-thirds of the park's border is shared with Austria, and is characterized by mountain vistas and the beautiful Königsee. In 2012 alone, the region had 3.4 million overnight stays, which is a true testament to the area's popularity. #### Getting Here and Around Berchtesgaden National Park is around 150 kilometers (93 miles) southeast of Munich by car. Many people find the train connection, with a change at Freilassing, and a 30-minute bus journey (total time is around two hours 50 minutes), a more rewarding, if adventurous journey. ### Exploring Berchtesgaden National Park. The deep, mysterious, and fabled Königsee is the most photographed panorama in Germany. Together with its much smaller sister, the Obersee, it's nestled within the Berchtesgaden National Park, 210 square km (82 square miles) of wild mountain country where flora and fauna have been left to develop as nature intended. No roads penetrate the area, and even the mountain paths are difficult to follow. The park administration organizes guided tours of the area from June through September. \| Nationalparkhaus, Franziskanerpl. 7 \| 08652/64343 \| www.nationalpark-berchtesgaden.de. Königsee. One less strenuous way into the Berchtesgaden National Park is by boat. A fleet of 21 excursion boats, electrically driven so that no noise disturbs the peace, operates on the Königsee (King Lake). Only the skipper of the boat is allowed to shatter the silence—his trumpet fanfare demonstrates a remarkable echo as notes reverberate between the almost vertical cliffs that plunge into the dark green water. A cross on a rocky promontory marks the spot where a boatload of pilgrims hit the cliffs and sank more than 100 years ago. The voyagers were on their way to the tiny, twin-tower baroque chapel of St. Bartholomä, built in the 17th century on a peninsula where an early-Gothic church once stood. The princely rulers of Berchtesgaden built a hunting lodge at the side of the chapel; a tavern and restaurant now occupy its rooms. Smaller than the Königsee but equally beautiful, the Obersee can be reached by a 15-minute walk from the second stop (Salet) on the boat tour. The lake's backdrop of jagged mountains and precipitous cliffs is broken by a waterfall, the Rothbachfall, which plunges more than 1,000 feet to the valley floor. Boat service. Boat service on the Königsee runs year-round, except when the lake freezes. A round-trip to St. Bartholomä and Salet, the landing stage for the Obersee, lasts almost two hours, without stops, and costs €16.30. A round trip to St. Bartholomä lasts a little over an hour and costs €13.30. In summer the Berchtesgaden tourist office organizes evening cruises on the Königsee, which include a concert in St. Bartholomä Church and a four-course dinner in the neighboring hunting lodge. \| Seestr. 29 \| Schönau \| 08652/96360 \| www.bayerische-seenschifffahrt.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Romantic Road Toward the Alps Central Romantic Road Northern Romantic Road Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning Updated by Catherine Moser Horlacher Of all the tourist routes that crisscross Germany, none rivals the Romantische Strasse, or Romantic Road. The scenery is more pastoral than spectacular, but the route is memorable for the medieval towns, villages, castles, and churches that anchor its 355-km (220-miles) length. Many of these are tucked away beyond low hills, their spires and towers just visible through the greenery. The Romantic Road concept developed as this corner of West Germany, occupied by the American forces, sought to rebuild its tourist industry after World War II. A public-relations wizard coined the catchy title for a historic passage through Bavaria and Baden-Württemberg that could be advertised as a unit. In 1950 the Romantic Road was born. The name itself isn't meant to attract lovebirds, but rather uses the word romantic as meaning wonderful, fabulous, and imaginative. And, of course, the Romantic Road started as a road on which the Romans traveled 2,000 years ago. Along the way, the road crosses centuries-old battlefields. The most cataclysmic conflict, the Thirty Years' War, destroyed the region's economic base in the 17th century. The depletion of resources prevented improvements that would have modernized the area—thereby assuring that these towns would become the quaint tourist destinations they are today. ## Top Reasons to Go Neuschwanstein: Emerald lakes, the pastoral countryside, and the rugged peaks of the Alps surround what's become the most famous storybook castle in the world. Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber: The Middle Ages never looked so good as in this quaint walled village. If you stay overnight, you can patrol the city walls with the night watchman after the tour buses have left town. Wieskirche: Join the local Bavarians who flock to this pilgrimage church, a rococo gem in pristine Alpine fields. Ulm's Münster: Work off all that hearty Swabian cuisine with a climb up the 768 steps of this church's tower, the highest of its kind in the world. Würzburg's Residenz: Explore the gilt and crystal splendor of this lavish palace, once the home of prince-bishops. ## Getting Oriented To a large degree, the Romantic Road is Germany in a nutshell. The route runs from Füssen, on the mountainous Austrian border, and near Neuschwanstein, "Mad" King Ludwig II's fantastical castle, through the handsome Renaissance city of Augsburg. From there it continues on to the northwest, to the best-preserved medieval town on the continent, Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, finishing up in Würzburg, in central Germany and an hour from Frankfurt. ## What's Where Toward the Alps. In this region, vineyards are replaced by Alpine meadows, and beer beats out wine in the small inns of towns like Landsberg and Schongau. The marvelous Wieskirche (Church of the Meadow) is here, just a bit off the Romantic Road, and mountains give way to the baroque and the genuinely medieval as the Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castles come into view. Central Romantic Road. After crossing the Danube from the south, the route takes you through the affluent city of Augsburg and its countryside, before continuing on through the lovely Tauber valley. Vineyards slope down to the hills to the small valleys as make your way to charming old towns such as Dinkelsbühl and Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber. Northern Romantic Road. Wine lovers should plan an extra day for the Frankish capital of Würzburg, where they can sample delicious local wines at reasonable prices. Bad Mergentheim is also well worth a look. ## Planning ### When to Go Late summer and early autumn are the best times to travel the Romantic Road, when the grapes ripen on the vines around Würzburg and the geraniums run riot on the medieval walls of towns such as Rothenburg and Dinkelsbühl. You'll also miss the high-season summer crush of tourists. Otherwise, consider visiting the region in the depths of December, when Christmas markets pack the ancient squares of the Romantic Road towns and snow gives the turreted Schloss Neuschwanstein a final magic touch. ### Planning Your Time The two bigger cities on the Romantic Road, Augsburg and Würzburg, can handle large influxes of visitors at any time. But when it comes the two most popular places, Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber and Neuschwanstein, it pays to stay overnight. You can follow the night watchman in Rothenburg as he makes his rounds, and then tour the town in the early morning. Have a late but leisurely breakfast as you watch the bus-tour groups push through the streets around 11. The crowds at Neuschwanstein mean it's even more important to get an early start. Reserve your tickets ahead of time, too. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The major international airports serving the Romantic Road are Frankfurt and Munich. Regional airports include Nürnberg and Augsburg. Airport Contacts Nürnberg Airport. \| Flughafenstr. \| 0911/93700 \| www.airport-nuernberg.de. #### Bus Travel Daily bus service covers the northern stretch of the Romantic Road, between Frankfurt and Munich, from April through October. A second bus covers the section of the route between Dinkelsbühl and Füssen. All buses stop at the major sights along the road. Deutsche Touring also operates six more-extensive tours along the Romantic Road; make a reservation ahead of time for these. Bus Contact Deutsche Touring. \| Am Römerhof 17, \| Frankfurt am Main \| 069/790–3501 \| www.touring.de. #### Car Travel The Romantic Road is most easily traveled by car. If you're coming up from the south and using Munich as a gateway, Augsburg is 70 km (43 miles) from Munich via A-8. The roads are busy, and most have only two lanes, so figure on covering no more than 70 km (43 miles) each hour, particularly in summer. From there, you will continue north and end in Würzburg, the northernmost city on the route, which is 124 km (77 miles) from Frankfurt. If you're traveling from the north, begin in Würzburg and follow country highway B-27 south to meet roads B-290, B-19, B-292, and B-25 along the Wörnitz River. It's on the Frankfurt–Nürnberg autobahn, A-3, and is 115 km (71 miles) from Frankfurt. For route maps, with roads and sights highlighted, contact the Romantische Strasse Touristik-Arbeitsgemeinschaft (Romantic Road Central Tourist-Information) based in Dinkelsbühl. #### Train Travel Infrequent trains link most major towns of the Romantic Road, but both Würzburg and Augsburg are on the InterCity and high-speed InterCity Express routes, and have fast, frequent service to and from Munich, Stuttgart, and Frankfurt. ### Bike Tours From April through September, Velotours offers a five-day bike trip from Würzburg to Rothenburg for €365 per person, and a five-day trip from Rothenburg to Donauwörth for €365 per person. These two trips can be combined for an eight-day tour for €583. The tour operator Alpenland-Touristik offers several guided six- to eight-day bike tours that start from Landsberg am Lech into the Alpine foothills. Bike Tour Contacts Alpenlandtouristik. \| 08191/308–620 \| www.alpenlandtouristik.de. Velotours. \| Bücklestr. 13, \| Konstanz \| 07531/98280 \| www.velotours.de. ### Restaurants During peak season, restaurants along the Romantic Road tend to be crowded, especially in the larger towns. TIP You may want to plan your mealtimes around visits to smaller villages, where there are fewer people and the restaurants are often more low-key. The food will be more basic Franconian or Swabian, but it will also be generally less expensive than in the well-known towns, and it might also be locally sourced. You may find that some of the small, family-run restaurants close around 2 pm, or whenever the last lunch guests have left, and then open again at 5 or 5:30 pm. Some serve cold cuts or coffee and cake during that time, but no hot food. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels With a few exceptions, Romantic Road hotels are quiet and rustic, and you'll find high standards of comfort and cleanliness. If you plan to stay in one of the bigger hotels in the off-season, ask about discounted weekend rates. Make reservations as far in advance as possible if you plan to visit in summer. Hotels in Würzburg, Rothenburg, and Füssen are often full year-round. Augsburg hotels are in great demand during trade fairs in nearby Munich. Tourist-information offices can usually help with accommodations, especially if you arrive early in the day. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Visitor Information Contacts Romantische Strasse Touristik-Arbeitsgemeinschaft (Romantic Road Central Tourist-Information). \| Segringerstr. 19, \| Dinkelsbühl \| 09851/551–387 \| www.romantischestrasse.de. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein \| Füssen An hour west of Munich, the Romantic Road climbs gradually into the foothills of the Bavarian Alps, which burst into view between Landsberg and Schongau. The route's most southern tip can be found at the northern wall of the Alps at Füssen, on the Austrian border. Landsberg was founded by the Bavarian ruler Heinrich der Löwe (Henry the Lion) in the 12th century, and the town grew wealthy from the salt trade. Solid old houses are packed within its turreted walls; the early-18th-century Rathaus is one of the finest in the region. Schongau has virtually intact wall fortifications, complete with towers and gates. In medieval and Renaissance times the town was an important trading post on the route from Italy to Augsburg. The steeply gabled 16th-century Ballenhaus was a warehouse before it was elevated to the rank of Rathaus. A popular Märchenwald ("fairy-tale forest") lies 1½ km (1 mile) outside Schongau, suitably set in a clearing in the woods. It comes complete with mechanical models of fairy-tale scenes, deer enclosures, and an old-time miniature railway. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein 103 km (64 miles) south of Augsburg, 121 km (75 miles) southwest of Munich. These two famous castles belonging to the Wittelbachs are 1 km (½ mile) across a valley from each other, near the town of Schwangau. Bavaria's King Ludwig II (1845–86) spent much of his youth at Schloss Hohenschwangau (Hohenschwangau Castle). It's said that its neo-Gothic atmosphere provided the primary influences that shaped his wildly romantic Schloss Neuschwanstein (Neuschwanstein Castle), the fairy-tale castle he built after he became king. It has long been one of Germany's most recognized sights. #### Getting Here and Around From Schwangau (5 km [3 miles] north of Füssen, 103 km [64 miles] south of Augsburg, 121 km [75 miles] southwest of Munich), follow the road signs marked "Königschlösser" (King's Castles). After 3 km (2 miles) you come to Hohenschwangau, a small village consisting of a few houses, some good hotels, and five big parking lots (parking €5). You have to park in one of them and then walk to the ticket center serving both castles. If you are staying in Füssen, take the bus to Hohenschwangau. The clearly marked bus leaves from the train station in Füssen every hour from morning to night, and the cost is €1.60 per person one-way. Tickets are for timed entry, and the average wait to enter Neuschwanstein is one hour. With a deposit or credit-card number you can book your tickets up to two days in advance for either castle through the ticket center. You can change entrance times or cancel up to two hours before the confirmed entrance time. The main street of the small village Hohenschwangau is lined with many restaurants #### Timing The best time to see either castle without waiting a long time is a weekday between January and April. The prettiest time, however, is in fall. TIP Bear in mind that more than 1 million people pass through one or both castles every year. If you visit in summer, get there early and reserve ahead if possible. * * * King Ludwig II King Ludwig II (1845–86), the enigmatic presence indelibly associated with Bavaria, was one of the last rulers of the Wittelsbach dynasty, which ruled Bavaria from 1180 to 1918. Though his grandfather and father had created grandiose Parisian-inspired buildings in Munich, Ludwig II disliked the city and preferred isolation in the countryside, where he constructed monumental edifices born of fanciful imagination. He spent most of the royal purse on his endeavors. Although he was also a great lover of literature, theater, and opera (he was Richard Wagner's great patron), it is his fairy-tale-like castles that are his legacy. Ludwig II reigned from 1864 to 1886, all the while avoiding political duties whenever possible. By 1878 he had completed his Schloss Linderhof retreat and immediately began Schloss Herrenchiemsee, a tribute to Versailles and Louis XIV. The grandest of his extravagant projects is Neuschwanstein, one of Germany's top attractions and concrete proof of the king's eccentricity. In 1886, before Neuschwanstein was finished, members of the government became convinced that Ludwig had taken leave of his senses. A medical commission declared the king insane and forced him to abdicate. Within two days of incarceration in the Berg Castle, on Starnbergersee, Ludwig and his doctor were found drowned in the lake's shallow waters. Their deaths are still a mystery.s * * * #### Essentials Ticket Center. \| Alpseestr. 12, \| Hohenschwangau \| 08362/930–830 \| www.hohenschwangau.de. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Neuschwanstein. It's hard to believe that this over-the-top creation that soars from its mountainside is real—it's no surpise that Walt Disney took it as the model for his castle in the movie Sleeping Beauty and later for the Disneyland castle itself. The life of this spectacular castle's king reads like one of the great Gothic mysteries of the 19th century, and the castle symbolizes that life. Yet during the 17 years from the start of Schloss Neuschwanstein's construction until King Ludwig's death, the king spent less than six months here, and the interior was never finished. The Byzantine-style throne room is without a throne; Ludwig died before one could be installed. However, the walls of the rooms leading to Ludwig's bedroom are painted with murals depicting characters from Wagner's operas. Ludwig's bed and its canopy are made of intricately carved oak. A small corridor behind the bedroom was styled as a ghostly grotto, reminiscent of Wagner's Tannhäuser. On the walls outside the castle's gift shop are plans and photos of the castle's construction (it was conceived by a set designer instead of an architect, thanks to King Ludwig II's deep love of the theater). There are also some spectacular walks around the castle. The delicate Marienbrücke (Mary's Bridge) is spun like a medieval maiden's hair across a deep, narrow gorge. From this vantage point there are giddy views of the castle and the great Upper Bavarian Plain beyond. TIP Tickets need to be purchased at the ticket center in the village of Hohenschwangau, so be sure to stop there first. To reach Neuschwanstein from the ticket center below, take one of the clearly marked paths (about a 40-minute uphill walk) or one of the horse-drawn carriages that leave from Hotel Müller (uphill €6, downhill €3). A shuttle bus leaves from the Hotel Lisl (uphill €1.80, downhill €1) and takes you halfway up the hill past an outlook called Aussichtspunkt Jugend to a spot just above the castle. TIP From there it's a steep 10-minute downhill walk to the castle (not recommended for those with mobility problems) or a 5-minute uphill walk to the Marienbrücke. \| Neuschwansteinstr. 20 \| Hohenschwangau \| 08362/930–830 \| www.neuschwanstein.de \| €12, including guided tour; combined ticket for Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau €23 \| Late Mar.–mid-Oct. daily 8–5:30; mid-Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 9–3:30. Castle concerts. Castle concerts are held in September in the Neuschwanstein Castle's lavishly decorated minstrels' hall. Tickets are hard to come by as performers generally include world-famous classical singers and orchestras and the concerts are a cultural highlight of the area. TIP Tickets go on sale in early February for the coming September, so plan ahead if you want to go. \| Neuschwanstein, Neuschwansteinstr. 20 \| Hohenschwangau \| 01805/819–831 \| www.schlosskonzerte-neuschwanstein.de Museum of the Bavarian Kings. Once the Alpenrose hotel, this grand building opened in 2012 as a museum chronicling the history of the Wittelsbach kings and queens, from the 11th century to the present day. Focusing primarily on King Maximilian II and his son Ludwig, it tells the story behind their neighboring castles. The influence of the Wittelsbach family in the region, from the development of Munich, their founding of the first Oktoberfest, and the family's role as resistors of the Nazi regime and their eventual imprisonment during World War II, are detailed. The interactive exhibits couple state-of-the-art technology with the gold and gilt belongings of the royal family. TIP The café overlooking the lake is the good spot to relax and take in the views after a day of castles. \| Alpseestr. 27 \| Hohenschwangau \| 08362/926–4640 \| www.museumderbayerischenkoenige.de \| €9.50, combinaiton ticket with both castles and museum €29.50 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–7; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–6. Schloss Hohenschwangau. Built by the knights of Schwangau in the 12th century, this castle was remodeled later by King Ludwig II's father, the Bavarian crown prince and future king Maximilian, between 1832 and 1836. Unlike Ludwig's more famous castle across the valley, Neuschwanstein, the mustard-yellow Schloss Hohenschwangau actually feels like a noble home, where comforts would be valued as much as outward splendor. Ludwig spent his childhood summers surrounded by the castle's murals, depicting ancient Germanic legends. It was here that the young prince met the composer Richard Wagner. Their friendship shaped and deepened the future king's interest in theater, music, and German mythology—the mythology Wagner drew upon for his Ring cycle of operas. After obtaining your ticket at the ticket center in the village, you can take a 25-minute walk up either of two clearly marked paths to the castle, or board one of the horse-drawn carriages that leave from the ticket center (uphill €4, downhill €2) or the Hotel Müller (uphill €6, downhill €3). \| Alpseestr. 12 \| Hohenschwangau \| 08362/930–830 \| www.hohenschwangau.de \| €12, including guided tour; combined ticket for Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein €23 \| Late Mar.–mid-Oct., daily 8–5:30; mid-Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 9–3:30. ### Where to Eat and Stay Alpenrose am See. EUROPEAN \| There is no spot more idyllic in Hohenschwangau to enjoy excellent food and stunning views over the Alpsee and mountains beyond. The café, which is next to the Museum of Bavarian Kings, is a good way spot to escape the crowded streets in the center of town. Enjoy lunch or afternoon coffee and cake on the terrace. The continental European dishes include several game and pork dishes, as well as several vegetarian dishes. The romantic five-course "Rosendinner" is served in a private room off the terrace that's filled with roses. \| Average main: €22 \| Alpseestr. 27 \| Hohenschwangau \| 08362/926–4660 \| www.alpenrose-am-see.de. Hotel Müller. HOTEL \| With a convenient location between the two Schwangau castles, the Müller fits beautifully into the stunning landscape, its creamy Bavarian baroque facade a contrast to the mountain forest. Although the lobby is modern, the rest of the hotel has a major baroque influence, from the finely furnished bedrooms to restaurant ($ - $$), which is decorated with chandeliers. The mahogany-paneled, glazed veranda (with open fireplace) provides a magnificent view of Hohenschwangau Castle. Round out your day with a local specialty such as the Allgäuer Lendentopf (sirloin) served with spaetzle. Pros: view of the castles; personalized service; variety of rooms. Cons: crowds during the day; expensive in season. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Alpseestr. 16 \| Hohenschwangau \| 08362/81990 \| www.hotel-mueller.de \| 39 rooms, 4 suites \| Closed Nov. and early Jan.–late Mar. \| Breakfast. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Füssen 5 km (3 miles) southwest of Schwangau, 129 km (80 miles) south of Munich. The red roofs and turrets of this small town fit in well with the famous castles nearby. The town is easily toured on foot; its tidy, meandering streets and small squares are filled with cafés, restaurants, and shops. Füssen is at the foot of the mountains that separate Bavaria from the Austrian Tyrol; the Lech River, which accompanies much of this section of the Romantic Road, embraces the town as it rushes northward. #### Essentials Visitor Information Füssen Tourismus und Marketing. \| Kaiser-Maximilian-Pl. 1 \| 08362/93850 \| www.tourismus-fuessen.de. ### Exploring Hohes Schloss (High Castle). One of the best-preserved late-Gothic castles in Germany, Hohes Schloss was built on the site of the Roman fortress that once guarded this Alpine section of the Via Claudia, the trade route from Rome to the Danube. Evidence of Roman occupation of the area has been uncovered at the foot of the nearby Tegelberg Mountain, and the excavations next to the Tegelberg cable-car station are open for visits daily. The Hohes Schloss was the seat of Bavarian rulers before Emperor Heinrich VII mortgaged it and the rest of the town to the bishop of Augsburg for 400 pieces of silver. The mortgage was never redeemed, and Füssen remained the property of the Augsburg episcopate until secularization in the early 19th century. The bishops of Augsburg used the castle as their summer Alpine residence. It has a spectacular 16th-century Rittersaal (Knights' Hall) with a carved ceiling, and a princes' chamber with a Gothic tile stove. \| Magnuspl. 10 \| 08362/903–146 \| €6 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 11–5; Nov.–Mar., Fri.–Sun. 1–4. Rathaus (Town Hall). Fürstensaal (Princes' Hall). Program details are available from the tourist office. \| Lechalde 3 \| www.stadt-fuessen.de. Reichenstrasse. Füssen's main shopping street Reichenstrasse was once part of the Roman Via Claudia. This cobblestone walkway is lined with high-gabled medieval houses and backed by the bulwarks of the castle and the easternmost buttresses of the Allgäu Alps. * * * What to Eat on the Romantic Road To sample the authentic food of this area, venture off the beaten track of the official Romantic Road into any small town with a nice-looking Gasthof or Wirtshaus. Order Sauerbraten (roast beef marinated in a tangy sauce) with Spätzle (small boiled ribbons of rolled dough), or try Maultaschen (oversize Swabian ravioli stuffed with meat and herbs), another typical regional dish. Franconia (the Franken region, which has its "capital" in Würzburg) is the sixth-largest wine-producing area of Germany. Franconian wines—half of which are made from the Müller-Thurgau grape hybrid, made from crossing Riesling with another white-wine grape—are served in distinctive green, flagon-shape wine bottles. Riesling and red wines account for only about 5% of the total production of Franconian wine. Before you travel north on the Romantic Road, be sure to enjoy the beer country in the south. There is a wide range of Franconian and Bavarian brews available, from Rauchbier (literally, "smoked beer") to the lighter Pilsners of Augsburg. If this is your first time in Germany, beware of the potency of German beer—some can be quite strong. (In the past few years more and more breweries offer excellent alcohol-free versions of their products.) The smallest beers are served at 0.3 liters (slightly under 12 ounces). Restaurants typically serve 0.5 liters at a time; in most beer tents and beer gardens the typical service is a full 1-liter stein. * * * ### Where to Eat and Stay Markthalle. GERMAN \| At this farmers' market you can grab a quick bite and drink at reasonable prices. Try the fish soup. The building started in 1483 as the Kornhaus (grain storage) and then became the Feuerhaus (fire station). It's open weekdays from 10 to 6 and on Saturday from 10 to 2. \| Average main: €8 \| Schranneg. 12 \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. Altstadthotel Zum Hechten. HOTEL \| Directly below the castle, this is one of the town's oldest inns; its updated, airy rooms are tidy and comfortable, and geraniums flower most of the year from its balconies. The two restaurants here ($) both have sturdy, round tables and colorful frescoed walls. Pros: in the center of town; parking available; good value restaurant. Cons: difficult stairs to climb; some rooms are noisy. \| Rooms from: €97 \| Ritterstr. 6 \| 08362/91600 \| www.hotel-hechten.com \| 35 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Hirsch. HOTEL \| A mother-and-daughter team provides friendly service at this traditional Füssen hotel. Outside the majestic building is its trademark stag (Hirsch in German), and inside has all the Bavarian style you'd expect. You can stay in the King Ludwig room, which has his pictures on the walls and books about him, or stay with King Maximilian or with Spitzweg, a Biedermeier-era artist who painted in Füssen. Both restaurants ($ - $$) serve an interesting variety of seasonal and local specialties. In season, try venison or wild duck with blue cabbage and dumpling. If it's on the menu, the local trout, caught locally, is excellent. Pros: in the center of town; eclectic rooms; good restaurant. Cons: front rooms noisy; modern lobby. \| Rooms from: €135 \| Kaiser-Maximilian-Pl. 7 \| 08362/93980 \| www.hotelhirsch.de \| 53 rooms \| Closed Dec. 23–Jan. 7 \| Breakfast. FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Schlossanger Alp. B&B/INN \| One hundred years of family tradition embrace guests of this superb hotel, which combines the surroundings of a grand alpine hotel with the intimacy of a bed-and-breakfast. Located in a small valley below the peak of the ruins of Falkenstein Castle, it's romantic and first class but also good for families, with a playground and open fields where kids can frolic with the owners' two dogs. The comfortable rooms are individually decorated, and most come with a kitchenette, but don't miss the generous breakfast buffet and soup and snacks served throughout the day. This is a spot to spend a few days if time allows, relaxing in the spa and heated pools looking out to the Alps, cozying up to the fire, and enjoying refined food served by the head chef, Barbara Schlachter-Ebert, who was raised here and who now owns and operates the hotel with her husband. The wine cellar is opened for tastings every Thursday; reserve ahead for a night in the treehouse in the woods. Pros: great food; attentive service; great for families. Cons: you'll need GPS to find it; a half-hour drive from Neuschwanstein; expensive. \| Rooms from: €210 \| Am Schlossanger 1 \| Pfronten \| 08363/914–550 \| www.schlossanger.de \| 35 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors Pleasure boats cruise Forggensee lake mid-May–early October. Alpine winds ensure good sailing and windsurfing. Forggensee-Yachtschule. The Forgensee-Yachtschule offers sailing courses for adults and children, as well as boat rentals and sailing trips. \| Seestr. 10, Dietringen \| Rieden \| 08367/471 \| www.segeln-info.de. Skischule Tegelberg A. Geiger. There's good downhill skiing in the mountains above Füssen. Cross-country fans have more than 20 km (12 mi) of trails. Füssen's highest peak, the Tegelberg, has a ski school, Skischule Tegelberg A. Geiger, which offers classes for adults and children. \| 08362/8418 \| www.skischule-tegelberg.de. Off the Beaten Path: Wieskirche. This church—a glorious example of German rococo architecture—stands in an Alpine meadow just off the Romantic Road. Its yellow-and-white walls and steep red roof are set off by the dark backdrop of the Trauchgauer Mountains. The architect Dominicus Zimmermann, former mayor of Landsberg and creator of much of that town's rococo architecture, built the church in 1745 on the spot where six years earlier a local woman saw tears running down the face of a picture of Christ. Although the church was dedicated as the Pilgrimage Church of the Scourged Christ, it's now known simply as the Wieskirche (Church of the Meadow). TIP Visit it on a bright day if you can, when light streaming through its high windows displays the full glory of the glittering interior. A complex oval plan is animated by brilliantly colored stuccowork, statues, and gilt. A luminous ceiling fresco completes the decoration. Concerts are presented in the church from the end of June through the beginning of August. To get here from the village of Steingaden (22 km 14 miles] north of Füssen on the B-17), turn east and follow the signs to Wieskirche. \| Wies 12 \| Steingaden \| 8862/932–930 \| [www.wieskirche.de \| Free \| Summer, daily 8–8; winter, daily 8–6. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Augsburg \| Ulm \| Nördlingen \| Dinkelsbühl \| Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber Picturesque Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber is the highlight of this region, though certainly not the road less traveled. For a more intimate experience check out the medieval towns of Dinkelsbühl or Nördlingen, or go off the beaten track and off the Romantic Road to see the tower at Ulm's famous Münster (church). ## Augsburg 70 km (43 miles) west of Munich. Augsburg is Bavaria's third-largest city, after Munich and Nürnberg. It dates to 15 BC, when a son of Augustus set up a military camp here on the banks of the Lech River. The settlement that grew up around it was known as Augusta, which is what Italians call it to this day. The fashionable Maximilianstrasse lies on the Via Claudia Augusta, the same route that led from Italy to the silver-rich Augsburg and onward to the north. City rights were granted Augsburg in 1156, and 200 years later the Fugger family were first noted in municipal records. This family of bankers would become to Augsburg what the Medici were to Florence. Their wealth surpassed that of their Italian counterparts, though, such that they loaned funds to them from time to time. Some present-day members of the family run local charitable foundations. #### Getting Here and Around Augsburg is on a main line of the high-speed ICE trains, which run hourly and take 45 minutes the get here from Munich. The center of town and its main attractions can be visited on foot. To continue on the Romantic Road, take a regional train from the main train station to Ulm, Donauwörth, or Nördlingen. Walking tours (€8) set out from the tourist office on the Rathaus square daily at 2. The tours, which are available in German and English, include entrance to the Fuggerei and the Goldener Saal of the Rathaus. #### Timing It's easy to see the sights here, because signs on almost every street corner point the way to the main ones. See the tourist board's website for some additional walking-tour maps. You'll need a complete day to see Augsburg if you linger in any of the museums. #### Essentials Visitor Information Augsburg Tourist-Information. \| Rathauspl. 1 \| 0821/324–9410 \| www.augsburg.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Dom St. Maria (Cathedral of St. Mary). Augsburg's cathedral, which was built in the 9th century, stands out because of its square Gothic towers, the product of a 14th-century update. A 10th-century Romanesque crypt also remains from the cathedral's early years. The 11th-century windows on the south side of the nave, depicting the prophets Jonah, Daniel, Hosea, Moses, and David, form the oldest cycle of stained glass in central Europe. Five important paintings by Hans Holbein the Elder adorn the altar. A short walk from the cathedral will take you to the quiet courtyards and small raised garden of the former episcopal residence, a series of 18th-century baroque and rococo buildings that now serve as the Swabian regional government offices. \| Dompl., Johannisg. 8 \| www.bistum-augsburg.de \| Daily 9–dusk. Diözesanmuseum St. Afra. The cathedral's treasures are on display at this museum, which is directly behind the Dom. \| Kornhausg. 3–5 \| www.bistum-augsburg.de/museum \| €4 \| Tues.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. noon–6 Fuggerei. This neat little settlement is the world's oldest social housing project. It was established by the Fugger family in 1516 to accommodate the city's deserving poor. The 67 homes with 140 apartments still serve the same purpose and house about 150 people today. It's financed almost exclusively from the assets of the foundation, because the annual rent of "one Rhenish guilder" (€1) hasn't changed, either. Residents must be Augsburg citizens, Catholic, and destitute through no fault of their own—and they must pray three times daily for their original benefactors, the Fugger family. The most famous resident was Mozart's great-grandfather. \| Main entrance on Jakoberstr., Fuggerei 56 \| 0821/3198–8114 \| www.fugger.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 8–8; Nov.–Mar., daily 9–6. Maximilian-Museum. Augsburg's main museum houses a permanent exhibition of Augsburg arts and crafts in a 16th-century merchant's mansion. \| Fuggerpl. 1, Philippine-Welser-Str. 24 \| 0821/324–4102 \| www.kunstsammlungen-museen.augsburg.de \| €7 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Perlachturm (Perlach Tower). This 258-foot-high plastered brick bell tower has foundations dating to the 12th century. Although it's a long climb to the top of the tower, the view over Augsburg and the countryside is worth it. \| Rathauspl. \| €1.50 \| May–Nov., daily 10–6. Rathaus. Augsburg's town hall was Germany's largest when it was built in the early 17th century; it's now regarded as the finest secular Renaissance structure north of the Alps. Its Goldener Saal (Golden Hall) was given its name because of its rich decoration—eight pounds of gold are spread over its wall frescoes, carved pillars, and coffered ceiling. \| Rathauspl. 2 \| www.augsburg.de \| €2.50 \| Daily 10–6 (closed for official functions). Sts. Ulrich and Afra. Standing at the highest point of the city, this Catholic basilica with an attached Protestant chapel symbolizes the Peace of Augsburg, the treaty that ended the religious struggle between the two groups. Built on the site of a Roman cemetery where St. Afra was martyred in AD 304, the original structure was begun in the late-Gothic style in 1467. St. Afra is buried in the crypt, near the tomb of St. Ulrich, a 10th-century bishop who helped stop a Hungarian army at the gates of Augsburg in the Battle of the Lech River. The remains of a third patron of the church, St. Simpert, are preserved in one of the church's most elaborate side chapels. From the steps of the magnificent altar, look back along the high nave to the finely carved baroque wrought iron and wood railing that borders the entrance. As you leave, look into the separate but adjacent church of St. Ulrich, the Baroque preaching hall that was added for the Protestant community in 1710, after the Reformation. \| Ulrichspl. 19 \| www.ulrichsbasilika.de \| Daily 9–dusk. Schaezlerpalais. This elegant 18th-century city palace was built by the von Liebenhofens, a family of wealthy bankers. Schaezler was the name of a baron who married into the family. Today the palace rooms contain the Deutsche Barockgalerie (German Baroque Gallery), a major art collection that features works of the 17th and 18th centuries. The palace adjoins the former church of a Dominican monastery. A steel door behind the banquet hall leads into another world of high-vaulted ceilings, where the Staatsgalerie Altdeutsche Meister, a Bavarian state collection, highlights old-master paintings, among them a Dürer portrait of one of the Fuggers. \| Maximilianstr. 46 \| 0821/324–4102 \| €7 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. #### Worth Noting Brechthaus. This modest artisan's house was the birthplace of the renowned playwright Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956), author of Mother Courage and The Threepenny Opera. It's now a museum documenting his life and work. \| Auf dem Rain 7 \| 0821/324–2779 \| €2 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Fuggerhäuser. The 16th-century house and business quarters of the Fugger family now has restaurant in its cellar and offices on the upper floors. In the ground-floor entrance are busts of two of Augsburg's most industrious Fuggers, Raymund and Anton. Beyond a modern glass door is the Damenhof (Ladies' Courtyard), originally reserved for the Fugger women. Only the three courtyards here are open to the public. \| Maximilianstr. 36–38 \| Courtyards: summer, daily 11–3 and 6–midnight. Holbein Haus. The rebuilt 16th-century home of painter Hans Holbein the Elder, one of Augsburg's most famous residents, and birthplace of his son the Younger, is now a city art gallery with changing modern art exhibitions. \| Vorderer Lech 20 \| www.kunstverein-augsburg.de \| Admission varies \| May–Oct., Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–5, Thurs. 10–8; Nov.–Apr., Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–4, Thurs. 10–8. Maximilianstrasse. Most of the city's sights are on Augsburg's main shopping street or a short walk away. It was once a medieval wine market along the Roman road. Two monumental and elaborate fountains punctuate the long street. At the north end is the Merkur, designed in 1599 by the Dutch master Adrian de Vries (after a Florentine sculpture by Giovanni da Bologna), which shows winged Mercury in his classic pose. Farther up Maximilianstrasse is another de Vries fountain: a bronze Hercules struggling to subdue the many-headed Hydra. Mozart-Haus (Mozart House). Leopold Mozart, the father of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, was born in this bourgeois 17th-century residence; he was an accomplished composer and musician in his own right. The house now serves as a Mozart memorial and museum, with some fascinating contemporary documents on the Mozart family. Many descendants still live in the area today. \| Frauentorstr. 30 \| 0821/518–588 \| www.mozartgesellschaft.de \| €3.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Rotes Tor (Red Gate). The city's most important medieval gate once straddled the main trading road to Italy. It's the backdrop to an open-air opera and operetta festival in June and July. \| Rote-Torwall-Str. St. Anna-Kirche (St. Anna's Church). This site was formerly part of a Carmelite monastery, where Martin Luther stayed in 1518 during his meetings with Cardinal Cajetanus, the papal legate sent from Rome to persuade the reformer to renounce his heretical views. Luther refused, and the place where he publicly declared his rejection of papal pressure is marked with a plaque on Maximilianstrasse.TIP You can wander through the quiet cloisters, dating from the 14th century, and view the chapel used by the Fugger family until the Reformation. \| Anna-Str., west of Rathauspl. \| Mon. noon–5, Tues.–Sat. 10–12:30 and 3–5, Sun. 10–12:30 (for services) and 3–4. ### Where to Eat Fodor's Choice \| Die Ecke. EUROPEAN \| In season, the venison dishes are among Bavaria's best at this imaginative restaurant, on an Ecke (corner) of the small square right behind Augsburg's town hall. The fish, in particular the Zander (green pike) or the trout (sautéed in butter with herbs and lemon), is magnificent, and complemented nicely by the Riesling Gimmeldinger Meersspinne, the house wine for 40 years. In summer ask for a table on the patio. \| Average main: €21 \| Elias-Holl-Pl. 2 \| 0821/510–600 \| www.restaurant-die-ecke.de \| Reservations essential. Ratskeller Augsburg. GERMAN \| Underneath the impressive Ratshaus lies this vaulted redbrick destination for Bavarian food and drink, especially at the end of a long day. It's surprisingly airy here, despite being underground. The friendly staff serve up traditional fare with plenty of choices, and it stays open late (till 1 am most nights, and 2 am on Friday and Saturday), when most other local restaurants have closed. There's an expansive cocktail menu, and you can make the most of it during the daily happy hour. \| Average main: €13 \| Ratshauspl. 2 \| 0821/319–88238 \| www.ratskeller-augsburg.de. ### Where to Stay Dom Hotel. HOTEL \| Just around the corner from Augsburg's cathedral, this snug establishment has personality to spare. lAsk for one of the attic rooms, where you'll sleep under beam ceilings and wake to a rooftop view of the city. Or try for one of the rooms on the top floor that have a small terrace facing the cathedral. A garden terrace borders the old city walls, and in summer you'll have your breakfast in the garden under old chestnut trees. Pros: family-run; attention paid to details; nice view from upper rooms, complimentary parking. Cons: stairs to entrance and some rooms; no restaurant or bar. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Frauentorstr. 8 \| 0821/343–930 \| www.domhotel-augsburg.de \| 44 rooms, 8 suites \| Closed late Dec.–mid-Jan. \| Breakfast. Hotel-Garni Schlössle. HOTEL \| From the main railroad station, a 10-minute ride on tram Number 3 to the end of the line at Stadtbergen brings you to this friendly, family-run hotel. Rooms under the steep eaves are particularly cozy. The location allows for fresh country air, walks, and sporting facilities (a golf course is within a good tee-shot's range). Pros: good value, friendly; family-run. Cons: no restaurant or bar; small rooms. \| Rooms from: €74 \| Bauernstr. 37 \| Stadtbergen \| 0821/243–930 \| 14 rooms \| Breakfast. Romantikhotel Augsburger Hof. HOTEL \| A preservation order protects the beautiful Renaissance facade of this old Augsburg mansion, but the hotel itself is full of modern comfort. The guest rooms are bright and cheerful, with natural-wood finishing and beds with thick down comforters. The restaurant ($ - $$) serves excellent Swabian specialties and international dishes. In season, try the duck. The cathedral is around the corner; the town center is a five-minute stroll away. Pros: welcoming lobby; rooms with a personal touch; good food and handy location. Cons: noisy front rooms; must book far in advance. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Auf dem Kreuz 2 \| 0821/343–050 \| www.augsburger-hof.de \| 36 rooms \| Breakfast. Steigenberger Drei Mohren Hotel. HOTEL \| Kings and princes, Napoléon, and the Duke of Wellington have all slept here, and these days all the rooms have been modernized without losing their traditional luxury. Dining options include Maximilian's ($ - $$), a Mediterranean-style restaurant with an open kitchen; its Sunday jazz brunch has been a town favorite for decades. The thoroughly French Sartory ($$ - $$$) has some excellent prix-fixe menus. Pros: spacious lobby with inviting bar; very good restaurants; cheaper weekend rates. Cons: some rooms on top floor are small, with only one window. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Maximilianstr. 40 \| 0821/50360 \| www.augsburg.steigenberger.de \| 131 rooms \| Breakfast. ### The Arts Augsburg has chamber and symphony orchestras, as well as ballet and opera companies. The city stages a Mozart Festival of international stature in September. FAMILY \| Augsburger Puppenkiste (Puppet theater). This children's puppet theater has been an institution in Germany since its inception in 1948. It's still loved by kids and parents alike. \| Spitalg. 15, next to Rotes Tor \| 0821/450–3450 \| www.augsburger-puppenkiste.de. Freilichtbühne. One of Germany's most beautiful open-air theaters, Augsburg's Freilichtbühne is the setting for a number of operas, operettas and musicals from mid-June through July. \| Am Roten Tor \| 0821/324–4900 for tourist office \| www.theater.augsburg.de. ### Shopping Several streets of the inner city, including part of Maximilianstrasse (the city's broad main street), are part of a pedestrian-only zone that makes window-shopping its many shops and boutiques a pleasure. En Route: Traveling to Augsburg northward on the B-17 from Füssen, you'll drive across the Lech battlefield, where Hungarian invaders were stopped in 955. Rich Bavarian pastures extend as far as the Lech River, which the Romantic Road meets at the historic town of Landsberg. ## Ulm 85 km (49 miles) west of Augsburg. Ulm isn't considered part of the Romantic Road, but it's definitely worth visiting, if only for one reason: its mighty Münster, which has the world's tallest church tower (536 feet). Ulm grew as a medieval trading city thanks to its location on the Danube River. Today the proximity of the Old Town to the river adds to Ulm's charm. In the Fishermen's and Tanners' quarters the cobblestone alleys and stone-and-wood bridges over the Blau (a small Danube tributary) are especially picturesque. And down by the banks of the Danube, you'll find long sections of the old city wall and fortifications intact. #### Getting Here and Around To get to Ulm from Augsburg, take Highway A-8 west or take a 40-minute ride on one of the ICE (InterCity Express) trains that run to Ulm every hour. The tourist office's 90-minute tours include a visit to the Münster, the Old Town Hall, the Fischerviertel (Fishermen's Quarter), and the Danube riverbank. The departure point is the tourist office (Stadthaus) on Münsterplatz. The cost is €8, and tours take place throughout the day. #### Essentials Visitor Information Ulm Tourist-Information. \| Münsterpl. 50 \| 0731/161–2830 \| www.tourismus.ulm.de. ### Exploring Marktplatz. The central Marktplatz is bordered by medieval houses with stepped gables. Every Wednesday and Saturday farmers from the surrounding area arrive by 6 am to erect their stands and unload their produce. Potatoes, vegetables, apples, pears, berries, honey, fresh eggs, poultry, homemade bread, and many other edible things are carefully displayed. TIP Get here early; the market packs up around noon. Münster. Ulm's Münster is the largest evangelical church in Germany, but its true claim to fame is its church tower, the world's highest. It stands over the huddled medieval gables of Old Ulm, visible long before you hit the ugly suburbs encroaching on the Swabian countryside. The single, filigree tower challenges the physically fit to plod 536 feet up the 768 steps of a giddily twisting spiral stone staircase to a spectacular observation point below the spire. On clear days the steeple will reward you with views of the Swiss and Bavarian Alps, 160 km (100 miles) to the south. The Münster was begun in the late-Gothic age (1377) and took five centuries to build, with completion in the neo-Gothic years of the late 19th century. It contains some notable treasures, including late-Gothic choir stalls and a Renaissance altar. Ulm itself was heavily bombed during World War II, but Allied forces avoided the tower, using it instead as a navigational aid. TIP The mighty organ can be heard in special recitals every Sunday at noon from Easter until November. \| Münsterpl. 21 \| www.ulmer-muenster.de \| Tower €4 \| Church daily 9–6:45, tower daily 9–3:45. Museum der Brotkultur (German Bread Museum). German bread is world renowned, so it's not surprising that a national museum is devoted to it. It's by no means as crusty or dry as you might fear, with some amusing exhibits showing how bread has been baked over the centuries. The museum is in a former salt warehouse, just north of the Münster. \| Salzstadelg. 10 \| 0731/69955 \| www.museum-brotkultur.de \| €4 \| Daily 10–5. Rathaus. A reproduction of the local tailor Ludwig Berblinger's flying machine hangs inside the elaborately painted Rathaus. In 1811 Berblinger, a tailor and local eccentric, cobbled together a pair of wings and made a big splash by trying to fly across the river. He didn't make it, but he grabbed a place in German history books for his efforts. \| Marktpl. 1. Ulmer Museum (Ulm Museum). Exhibits at this natural history and art museum, illustrate centuries of development in this part of the Danube Valley; it also has works by such modern artists as Kandinsky, Klee, Léger, and Lichtenstein. \| Marktpl. 9 \| 0731/161–4330 \| www.museum.ulm.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–5. Einstein Denkmal (Einstein Monument). Einstein's house was destroyed in an Allied raid and was never rebuilt. The Einstein Denkmal, erected in 1984, marks the site, which is opposite the main railway station. Sculptor Jürgen Goertz created a memorial that consists of three elements. The rocket represents technology, the conquest of space, and the atomic threat. In contrast to the rocket is the large snail shell, which represents nature, wisdom, and skepticism toward technology. From the snail shell protrudes Albert Einstein's head, which mocks us by sticking out his tongue. \| Am Zeughausg. ### Where to Eat and Stay Zunfthaus der Schiffleute. GERMAN \| The sturdy half-timber Zunfthaus (Guildhall) has stood here for more than 500 years, first as a fishermen's pub and now as a charming tavern-restaurant that was renovated in 2013. Ulm's fishermen had their guild headquarters here, and when the nearby Danube flooded, the fish swam right up to the door. Today they land on the menu, which also includes dry-aged steak as well as "Swabian oysters" (actually snails, drenched in garlic butter). The local beer makes an excellent accompaniment. \| Average main: €15 \| Fischerg. 31 \| 0731/64411 \| www.zunfthaus-ulm.de. Fodor's Choice \| Zur Forelle. GERMAN \| For more than 350 years Forelle ("Trout") has stood over the small, clear River Blau, which flows through a large trout basin right under the restaurant. In addition to the trout, there are five other fish dishes available, as well as excellent venison in season. TIP On a nice summer evening, try to get a table on the small terrace. You sit over the small river, with a weeping willow on one side, half-timber houses around you, and the towering cathedral in the background. \| Average main: €19 \| Fischerg. 25 \| 0731/63924 \| www.zurforelle.com. Hotel am Rathaus/Reblaus. HOTEL \| Some of the rooms have vintage furniture at this family-owned hotel, which is also furnished with antique paintings, furniture, and dolls. In the annex, the half-timber Reblaus, most rooms have hand-painted cupboards. If you take a room toward the front, look up from your window and you'll see the Münster and its huge spire a few hundred feet away. The hotel is behind the old historic Rathaus, on the fringe of the Old City, where you'll find more than a dozen restaurants and taverns. Pros: center of the city; artistic touches; good value. Cons: no elevator; not enough parking; no breakfast in annex. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Kroneng. 8–10 \| 0731/968–490 \| www.rathausulm.de \| 34 rooms \| Closed Christmas–early Jan. \| Breakfast. Maritim. HOTEL \| Whether you come here to eat or stay, be prepared for incredible views. Reserve a room in the top three floors or head up to the restaurant on the 16th floor for an unparalleled outlook over the Old Town of Ulm: the cathedral, the Danube, and the Swabian Alb, a long plateau, are all visible. The rooms are fairly basic, however. The large, luxurious bar, which has live piano music every night, is a favorite with guests. Pros: spacious lobby and rooms; romantic views; nice bar. Cons: rooms expensive on weekdays; chain-hotel atmosphere. \| Rooms from: €160 \| Basteistr. 40 \| 0731/9230 \| www.maritim.de \| 287 rooms \| No meals. ## Nördlingen 28 km (17 miles) southeast of Donauwörth, 72 km (44 miles) northwest of Augsburg. In Nördlingen a medieval watchman's cry still rings out every night across the ancient walls and turrets. As in Rothenburg, its sister city, the medieval walls are completely intact, but the riot of architecture here, from the medieval to the Renaissance and the baroque, doesn't come with the same masses of tourists. The ground plan of the town is two concentric circles. The inner circle of streets, whose central point is St. Georg, marks the earliest medieval boundary. A few hundred yards beyond it is the outer boundary, a wall built to accommodate expansion. Fortified with 11 towers and punctuated by five massive gates, it's one of the best-preserved town walls in Germany. And if the Old Town looks a little familiar, it might be because the closing aerial shots in the 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory were filmed over its red roofs. Nördlingen was established along the same Roman road that goes through Augsburg, but its "foundation" goes much farther back—the town is built in the center of a huge, basinlike depression, the Ries, which was at first believed to be the remains of an extinct volcano. In 1960 it was proven by two Americans that the 24-km-wide (15-mile-wide) crater was caused by an asteroid at least 1 km (½ mile) in diameter that hit the spot some 15 million years ago. The compressed rock, or Suevit, formed by the explosive impact of the meteorite was used to construct many of the town's buildings, including St. Georg's tower. #### Essentials Visitor Information Nördlingen Tourist-Information. \| Marktpl. 2 \| 09081/84116 \| www.noerdlingen.de. ### Exploring St. Georg. Watchmen still sound out the traditional "So G'sell so" ("All's well") message from the 300-foot tower of the central parish church of St. Georg at half-hour intervals between 10 pm and midnight. The tradition goes back to an incident during the Thirty Years' War, when an enemy attempted to slip into the town and was detected by a resident. You can climb the 365 steps up the tower—known locally as the Daniel—for an unsurpassed view of the town and countryside, including, on clear days, 99 villages. \| Marktpl. \| Tower €3 \| Church: Apr.–Oct., weekdays 9:30–12:30 and 2–5, weekends 9:30–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sat. 10:30–12:30. Tower: Jan. Feb., and Nov., daily 10–4; Mar. Apr., and Oct., daily 10–5; May Jun., and Sep., daily 9–6; Jul. and Aug., daily 9–7; Dec. 9–5. Bayerisches Eisenbahnmuseum. One of Germany's largest steam railway–engine museums organizes trips about a dozen times a year, during which its old trains are put on the rails again to and from Harburg. Contact the museum for more information. \| Am Hohen Weg 6a \| 09083/340 \| www.bayerisches-eisenbahnmuseum.de \| €6 \| May–Sept., Tues.–Sat. noon–4, Sun. 10–5; Mar., Apr., and Oct., Sat. noon–4, Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Stay FAMILY \| Hotel Goldene Rose. HOTEL \| This small, modern hotel just inside the town wall is ideal for those wishing to explore Nördlingen on foot. The kitchen serves wholesome, inexpensive dishes and will happily fulfill special orders. Families feel welcome, and kids can roam the premises. Pros: family-friendly; parking in courtyard. Cons: front rooms noisy; restaurant closed Sunday. \| Rooms from: €65 \| Baldingerstr. 42 \| 09081/86019 \| www.goldene-rose-noerdlingen.de \| 17 rooms, 1 apartment \| Breakfast. ### Festivals Theater festival. From the end of June through July, an annual open-air theater festival takes place in front of the ancient walls of Nördlingen's Alter Bastei (Old Bastion). Check Freilichtbühne Nördlingen's website for more information. \| Alte Bastei \| 09081/84116, 09081/5400 on performance days \| www.freilichtbuehne-noerdlingen.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors Nördlingen Ries. Ever cycled around a huge meteor crater? You can do just that in the Nördlingen Ries, the depression left by an asteroid that hit the area 14.5 million years ago. This impact crater is a designated national geopark and the best-preserved impact crater in all of Europe. Nördlingen tourist office. The tourist office has a list of 10 recommended bike routes, including one 47-km (29-mile) trail around the northern part of the meteor crater. \| Marktpl. 2 \| 09081/84116 \| www.noerdlingen.de. Rieser Flugsportverein. For a spectacular view of the town and Ries crater, contact the local flying club, the Rieser Flugsportverein, for a ride in a light aircraft. The website is in German, but English flying tours and pilots are both available. \| 09081/4099 \| www.flugplatz-noerdlingen.de. Zweirad Müller. Rent a bike from this company to explore the Ries. \| Gewerbestr. 16 \| 09081/5675 \| www.zweiradcenter-mueller.de. En Route: Schloss Harburg. At the point where the little Wörnitz River breaks through the Franconian Jura Mountains, 20 km (12 mi) southeast of Nördlingen, you'll find one of southern Germany's best-preserved medieval castles. Schloss Harburg was already old when it passed into the possession of the counts of Oettingen in 1295; before that time it belonged to the Hohenstaufen emperors. The same family still owns the castle. TIP The castle is literally on B–25, which runs under it through a tunnel in the rock. \| Harburg \| 09080/96860 \| www.burg-harburg.de \| €5, with obligatory guided tour \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. En Route: Donauwörth. At the old walled town of Donauwörth, 28 km (17 miles) southeast of Nördlingen, the Wörnitz River meets the Danube. If you're driving, pull off into the clearly marked lot on B-25, just north of town. Below you sprawls a striking natural relief map of Donauwörth and its two rivers. \| www.donauwoerth.de. Käthe-Kruse-Puppen-Museum. Donauwörth is the home of the famous Käthe Kruse dolls, beloved for their sweet looks and frilly, floral outfits. You can buy them at several outlets in town, and they have their own museum, where more than 130 examples dating from 1912 are displayed in a renovated monastery building. \| Pflegstr. 21a \| Donauwörth \| 0906/789–170 \| www.museen.de/kaethe-kruse-puppen-museum-donauwoerth.html \| €2.50 \| Tues.-Sun.: May-Sep., 11-5; Apr.&Oct, 2-5; Weekends & Wed. only: Nov.-Mar., 2-5 ## Dinkelsbühl 32 km (20 miles) north of Nördlingen. Within the walls of Dinkelsbühl, a beautifully preserved medieval town, the rush of traffic seems a lifetime away. Although there is less to see here than in Rothenburg, the town is a pleasant break from the crowds, and you can relax among the locals at one of the Gasthauses in the town's central Marktplatz. You can patrol the illuminated Old Town with the night watchman at 9 pm free of charge, starting from the Münster St. Georg. #### Essentials Visitor Information Dinkelsbühl Tourist-Information. \| Marktpl., Altrathauspl. 14 \| 09851/902–440 \| www.dinkelsbuehl.de \| May–Oct., weekdays 9–6, weekends 10–5; Nov.–Apr., daily 10–5. Romantische Strasse Touristik-Arbeitsgemeinschaft (Romantic Road Central Tourist-Information). \| Segringerstr. 19 \| 09851/551–387 \| www.romantischestrasse.de. ### Exploring Münster St. Georg (Church of St. George). Dinkelsbühl's main church is the standout sight in town. At 235 feet long it's large enough to be a cathedral, and it's among the best examples in Bavaria of the late-Gothic style. Note the complex fan vaulting that spreads sinuously across the ceiling. If you can face the climb, head up the 200-foot tower for amazing views over the jumble of rooftops. \| Marktpl., Kirchhöflein 6 \| 09851/2245 \| www.st-georg-dinkelsbuehl.de \| Tower €1.50 \| Church: summer, daily 9–noon and 2–7; winter, daily 9–noon and 2–5. Tower: May–Sept., Fri.–Sun. 2–5. ### Where to Stay Goldene Rose. B&B/INN \| Since 1450 the inhabitants of Dinkelsbühl and their guests—among them Queen Victoria in 1891—have enjoyed a good night's sleep, great food, and refreshing drinks in this half-timber house. The comfortable guest rooms are decorated with half-timber walls, and two family suites are available. Dark paneling makes the restaurant ($ - $$) feel cozy; the menu emphasizes fresh regional cuisine, especially fish and game. Pros: family-friendly; good food; parking lot. Cons: some rooms need renovating; front rooms are noisy. \| Rooms from: €78 \| Marktpl. 4 \| 09851/57750 \| www.hotel-goldene-rose.com \| 34 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Deutsches Haus. HOTEL \| As you step into this medieval inn with a facade of half-timber gables and flower boxes, an old sturdy bar gives you a chance to register while sitting down and enjoying a drink. The rooms are fitted with antique furniture, including one with a romantic four-poster bed. Dinner is served beneath heavy oak beams in the restaurant ($ - $$) Pros: modern touches like free Wi-Fi. Cons: some rooms noisy; pricey; steps to climb. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Weinmarkt 3 \| 09851/6058 \| www.deutsches-haus-dkb.de \| 16 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. Hotel Kunst Stuben. B&B/INN \| A husband and wife team welcomes guests at this charming B and B, which is filled with handmade furniture, four-poster beds, and the owners' artwork on the walls. The rooms are cozy, and the inn has plenty of areas to relax, whether in the lounge-like Knight's Room or the lush garden. Pros: unique, local atmosphere; parking available. Cons: older building, with creaky floorboards; must check in before 6 pm. \| Rooms from: €80 \| Segringer Str. 52 \| 09851/6750 \| www.kunst-stuben.de \| 9 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Shopping Deleika. This store makes barrel organs to order. The firm also has a museum of barrel organs and other mechanical instruments. It's just outside Dinkelsbühl. Call ahead. \| Waldeck 33 \| 09857/97990. ## Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber 50 km (31 miles) north of Dinkelsbühl, 90 km (56 miles) west of Nürnberg. Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber (literally, the "red castle on the Tauber") is the kind of medieval town that even Walt Disney might have thought too picturesque to be true, with half-timber architecture galore and a wealth of fountains and flowers against a backdrop of towers and turrets. Truth be told, it's partly a tourist trap these days, but it's genuine all the same. As late as the 17th century, it was a small but thriving market town that had grown up around the ruins of two 12th-century churches destroyed by an earthquake. Then it was laid low economically by the havoc of the Thirty Years' War, and with its economic base devastated, the town remained a backwater until modern tourism rediscovered it. #### Getting Here and Around The easiest way to get here is by car. There are large parking lots just outside the town wall. You can also come by the Romantic Road bus from Augsburg via Donauwörth, Nördlingen, and Dinkelsbühl, with an optional layover on the way. By local train it takes about 2½ hours from Augsburg, with two train changes. All attractions within the walled town can easily be reached on foot. The costumed night watchman conducts a nightly tour of the town, leading the way with a lantern. From Easter to December a one-hour tour in English begins at 8 pm and costs €6 (a 90-minute daytime tour begins at 2 pm). All tours start at the Marktplatz. Private group tours with the night watchman can be arranged through www.nightwatchman.de. #### Festivals Der Meistertrunk Festspiel (The Meister Drink Historical Fest). For four days over Whitsun (Pentecost) weekend (in early summer) every year, the town celebrates the famous wager said to have saved the town from destruction in the Thirty Years' War. A play of the events takes place every day, and handicraft and artisan markets, along with food stands, fill the town squares. \| www.meistertrunk.de. Reichsstadt Festage (Imperial City Festival). Locals in period costume gather in town over the first weekend in September to commemorate Rothenburg's being named Free Imperial City in 1274. Concerts are played throughout the city; the highlight is the Saturday fireworks show. Schäfertanz (Shepherd's Dance). A Schäfertanz was once performed around the Herterichbrunnen, the ornate Renaissance fountain on the central Marktplatz, whenever Rothenburg celebrated a major event. Although its origins go back to local shepherds' annual gatherings, the dance is now celebrated with locals from the area costumed as maids, shepherds, soldiers, and nobility. It takes place in front of the Rathaus several times a year, chiefly at Easter, Pentecost, and in September. \| Marktpl. 1 \| www.schaefertanzrothenburg.de. #### Timing Sights are dotted around town, and the streets don't lend themselves to a particular route. Be aware that crowds will affect the pace at which you can tour the town. Early morning is the only time to appreciate the place in relative calm. The best times to see the mechanical figures on the Rathaus wall are in the evening, at 8, 9, or 10. #### Essentials Visitor Information Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber Tourist-Information. \| Rathaus, Marktpl. 2 \| 09861/404–800 \| www.tourismus.rothenburg.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Meistertrunkuhr. Tales of the Meistertrunk (Master Drink) and a mighty civil servant are still told in Rothenburg. The story originates from 1631, when the Protestant town was captured by Catholic forces during the Thirty Years' War. During the victory celebrations, the conquering general was embarrassed to find himself unable to drink a great tankard of wine in one go, as his manhood demanded. He volunteered to spare the town further destruction if any of the city councilors could drain the mighty six-pint draft. The mayor took up the challenge and succeeded, and Rothenburg was preserved. The tankard itself is on display at the Reichsstadtmuseum. On the north side of the main square is a fine clock, placed there 50 years after the mayor's feat. A mechanical figure acts out the epic Master Drink daily on the hour from 11 to 3 and in the evening at 8, 9, and 10. The feat is also celebrated at two annual pageants, when townsfolk parade through the streets in 17th-century garb. \| Marktpl. 1. Mittelalterliches Kriminalmuseum (Medieval Criminal Museum). The gruesome medieval implements of torture on display here are not for the fainthearted. The only museum in Europe that provides an overview of the history of law also soberly documents the history of German legal processes in the Middle Ages. Guided tours can be arranged in advance. \| Burgg. 3–5 \| 09861/5359 \| www.kriminalmuseum.rothenburg.de \| €5 \| Jan., Feb., and Nov., daily 2–4; Mar. and Dec., daily 1–4; Apr., 11–5; May–Oct., daily 10–6. Stadtmauer (City Wall). Rothenburg's city walls are more than 2 km (1 mile) long and provide an excellent way of circumnavigating the town from above. Let your imagination take you back 500 years as you explore the low, covered sentries' walkway, which are punctuated by cannons, turrets, and areas where the town guards met. Stairs every 200 or 300 yards provide ready access. There are superb views of the tangle of pointed and tiled red roofs and of the rolling country beyond. #### Worth Noting FAMILY \| Puppen und Spielzeugmuseum (Doll and Toy Museum). This complex of medieval and baroque buildings houses more than 1,000 dolls, the oldest dating from 1780, the newest from 1940, as well as a collection of dollhouses, model shops, and theaters guaranteed to charm the kids. \| Hofbronneng. 13 \| 09861/7330 \| www.spielzeugmuseum.rothenburg.de \| €4 \| Jan. and Feb., daily 11–5; Mar.–Dec., daily 9:30–6. Rathaus. The Rathaus's tower gives you a good view of town. Half of the town hall is Gothic, begun in 1240; the other half is neoclassical, started in 1572, and renovated after its original facade was destroyed by a fire 500 years ago. \| Rathauspl., Marktpl. 1 \| www.rothenburg.de \| Tower €2 \| Jan.–Mar. and Nov., weekends noon–3; Apr.–Oct., daily 9:30–5; daily 10:30–6. Historiengewölbe (Historic Vaults). Below the Rathaus building are the historic vaults and dungeons, which house a museum that brings the Thirty Years' War to life. \| Rathaus Building \| €2 \| Mid-Mar.–Apr., daily 10–4; May–Oct., daily 9:30–5:30; Dec., weekdays 1–4, weekends 10–4. \| Closed Nov., Jan., and Feb. Reichsstadtmuseum (Imperial City Museum). This city museum is two attractions in one. Its artifacts illustrate Rothenburg and its history. Among them is the great tankard, or Pokal, of the Meistertrunk. The setting of the museum is the other attraction; it's in a former Dominican convent, the oldest parts of which date from the 13th century. Tour the building to see the cloisters, the kitchens, and the dormitory; then see the collections. \| Klosterhof 5 \| 09861/939–043 \| www.reichsstadtmuseum.rothenburg.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Mar., daily 1–4. St. Wolfgang. Local shepherds gathered for prayer and protection at this spot for for years before building this historic parish church. Despite its Gothic origins and a baroque interior, St. Wolfgang's is most notable for the way it blends into the forbidding city wall. \| Klingeng. \| €2 \| Apr.–Sept., Wed.–Mon. 11–1 and 2–5; Oct., Wed.–Mon. 11–4. Stadtpfarrkirche St. Jakob (Parish Church of St. Jacob). The towers of this pilgrimage church dominate the skyline; much of its art and artifacts have been donated by local townspeople over the centuries. The church has notable Riemenschneider sculptures, including the famous Heiliges Blut (Holy Blood) altar. Above the altar is a crystal capsule said to contain drops of Christ's blood. There are three 14th- and 15th-century stained-glass windows in the choir, and the Herlin-Altar is famous for its 15th-century painted panels. \| Klosterg. 15 \| 09861/700–620 \| €2 \| Jan.–Mar. and Nov., daily 10–noon and 2–4; Apr.–Oct., daily 9–5; Dec. daily 10–4:45. English tours Sat. at 3:30. ### Where to Eat Restaurant-Burgerkeller. GERMAN \| An especially good choice for a blustery fall or winter day, this restaurant in an Old Town cellar has in a rustic, family-friendly atmosphere. For a sampling of all the traditional pork dishes, tuck into the Bauernschmaus, smoked and roasted pork and sausages with a potato dumpling and gravy. \| Average main: €15 \| Herrng. 24 \| 09861/2126. Restaurant-Zur Höll. GERMAN \| This restaurant "To Hell" is a great place to head for a snack after a night watchman's tour. The basic but delicious main menu is complemented throughout the year by seasonal and local dishes and ingredients, such as Pfefferlinge (chanterelles, served in soups, salads, and sauces); you'll probably also want to try the house beer. In the busier months, reserve a table ahead of time to guarantee a spot for later in the evenings. \| Average main: €12 \| Burgg. 8 \| 098/614–229 \| www.hoell.rothenburg.de \| Closed Mon. ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Burg-Hotel. B&B/INN \| At this exquisite little hotel most rooms have a view of the romantic Tauber Valley, and they also have plush furnishings, with antiques or fine reproductions. There are also two family apartments available for rent that are separate from the hotel. Breakfast is served on the terrace on top of the town wall in good weather, affording a stunning wide-angle view into the Tauber Valley and the hills beyond. The owner and staff are gracious hosts. The Steinway Cellar holds a grand piano, and there is a small spa area open for all guests. Pros: no crowds; terrific view from most rooms; nice touches throughout; parking and bike rentals available for small fee. Cons: no restaurant; too quiet for kids. \| Rooms from: €165 \| Klosterg. 1–3 \| 09861/94890 \| www.burghotel.eu \| 30 rooms, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Gasthof Klingentor. B&B/INN \| This sturdy former staging post run by the welcoming Wagenländer Family is outside the city walls but still within a 10-minute walk of Rothenburg's historic center. Rooms are spacious and furnished in the local rustic style. The inexpensive restaurant serves substantial Franconian fare. A well-marked path for hiking or biking starts outside the front door. Pros: good value; friendly restaurant liked by locals and guests. Cons: front rooms noisy; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €70 \| Mergentheimerstr. 14 \| 09861/3468 \| www.hotel-klingentor.de \| 20 rooms, 16 with bath \| Breakfast. Hotel Eisenhut. HOTEL \| It's fitting that the prettiest small town in Germany should have one of the prettiest small hotels in its center. Each of the 79 rooms is different - each with its own charming color scheme, most with antique furniture. lTry for a room on the top floor toward the back, overlooking the Old Town and the Tauber River valley. The restaurant ($$ - $$$), one of the region's best, offers impeccable service along with delicious food and a lovely view of the garden. In summer you'll want to eat on the terrace, surrounded by flowers. Pros: elegant lobby; exceptional service; good food. Cons: expensive; nothing for kids. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Herrng. 3–5/7 \| 09861/7050 \| www.eisenhut.com \| 78 rooms, 2 suites \| No meals. Hotel-Gasthof Post. B&B/INN \| This small family-run hotel, two minutes on foot from the eastern city gate, must be one of the friendliest in town. The rooms are simple but pleasant, and all have shower or bath. Pros: good value; friendly-family. Cons: front rooms noisy; no elevator, some bathrooms need renovating. \| Rooms from: €70 \| Ansbacherstr. 27 \| 09861/938–880 \| www.post-rothenburg.com \| 23 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Reichs-Küchenmeister. B&B/INN \| Master chefs in the service of the Holy Roman Emperor were the inspiration for the name of this historic hotel-restaurant, one of the oldest trader's houses in Rothenburg. For five generations it's been run by the same energetic family. Rooms are furnished in a stylish mixture of old and new; light veneer pieces share space with heavy oak bedsteads and painted cupboards. You can have meals on the tree-covered terrace overlooking a small square. Pros: central; excellent restaurant. Cons: small reception area. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Kirchpl. 8 \| 09861/9700 \| www.reichskuechenmeister.com \| 45 rooms, 2 suites, 5 apartments \| Breakfast. FAMILY \| Hotel-Restaurant Burg Colmberg. B&B/INN \| East of Rothenburg, this thousand year old castle-turned-hotel maintains a high standard of comfort within its original medieval walls. Logs are often burning in the fireplace of the entrance hall, illuminating an original Tin Lizzy Model T Ford from 1917. The restaurant Zur Remise ($ - $$) serves venison from the castle's own hunting grounds. Pros: romantic; you're staying in a real castle. Cons: remote location; quite a few stairs to climb. \| Rooms from: €110 \| An der Burgenstr., 18 km (11 miles) east of Rothenburg \| Colmberg \| 09803/91920 \| www.burg-colmberg.de \| 24 rooms, 2 suites \| Closed Feb. \| Breakfast. Romantik-Hotel Markusturm. B&B/INN \| The Markusturm began as a 13th-century customs house, an integral part of the city defense wall, and has since developed over the centuries into an inn and staging post and finally into a luxurious small hotel. Some rooms have beams, others have Laura Ashley decor or brightly painted bedsteads, and some have valuable antiques from the Middle Ages. Try to book a reservation for dinner when you arrive, since the beamed, elegant restaurant ($ - $$) does fill up. The fish is excellent. Along with well-selected wines, you can also enjoy your dinner with three kinds of home-brewed beer. In summer head for the patio. Pros: tasteful decor; elegant atmosphere; responsive owner. Cons: no bar; steps to climb. \| Rooms from: €145 \| Röderg. 1 \| 09861/94280 \| www.markusturm.de \| 23 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ### Shopping Anneliese Friese. You'll find cuckoo clocks, beer tankards, porcelain, glassware, and much more at this old and atmospheric shop run by the delightful Anneliese herself. \| Grüner Markt 7–8, near Rathaus \| 09861/7166. Haus der 1000 Geschenke. If you are looking for Hummel figurines, you've found the right place. \| Obere Schmiedeg. 13 \| 09861/4801. Käthe Wohlfahrt. The Christmas Village part of this store is a wonderland of mostly German-made toys and decorations, particularly traditional ornaments. Go to Christmas museum within the store for a full history of the traditions over the centuries. \| Herrng. 1 \| 09861/4090 \| www.wohlfahrt.com \| Mon.–Sat. 9–6:30, Sun. 10–6. FAMILY \| Teddyland. Germany's largest teddy-bear population, numbering more than 5,000, is housed here. TIP Children adore the place, but be prepared: these toys don't come cheap. \| Herrng. 10 \| 09861/8904 \| www.teddyland.de \| Mon.–Sat., 9–6; Sun., Apr.–Dec. 10–6. En Route: Schloss Schillingsfürst. This baroque castle of the Princes of Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst is 20 km (12 miles) south of Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber. Standing on an outcrop, it can be seen from miles away. You can watch eagles and falcons shoot down from the sky to catch their prey during one of the Bavarian falconry demonstrations held in the courtyard here, at 11 and 3 from March to October. \| Am Wall 14 \| Schillingsfürst \| 09868/812 \| www.schloss-schillingsfuerst.de \| €4.50, €8 with falconry demonstration \| Tues.–Sun. 10:30–5; tours at 10, noon, 2, and 4. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Creglingen \| Bad Mergentheim \| Würzburg After heading through the plains of Swabia in the south, your tour of the Romantic Road skirts the wild, open countryside of the Spessart uplands. It's worth spending a night in Würzburg, but Bad Mergentheim can be a quick stop. ## Creglingen 18 km (11 miles) northwest of Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, 40 km (25 miles) south of Würzburg. Touring the Romantic Road brings you through bustling tourist towns, but smaller, quieter villages along the way are what will probably be most worth the visit. Creglingen is a peaceful vision of Fachwerkhäuser (half-timber houses). In the 14th century, a farmer plowing his field had a vision of the heavenly host. A church that was built on the site has been an important pilgrimage site since then. Fingerhutmuseum (Thimble Museum). The only museum of its kind worldwide, the privately run Fingerhutmuseum features a large selection of thimbles and sewing tools from antiquity to modern times. \| Kohlesmühle 6 \| 07933/370 \| www.fingerhutmuseum.de \| €2 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–12:30 and 2–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 1–4. Herrgottskirche (Chapel of Our Lord). This chapel was built by the counts of Hohenlohe on the exact spot where a farmer in the 14th century had a religious vision, and in the early 16th century Riemenschneider carved an altarpiece for it. This enormous work, 33 feet high, depicts in minute detail the life and ascension of the Virgin Mary. Riemenschneider entrusted much of the background detail to the craftsmen of his Würzburg workshop, but he allowed no one but himself to attempt its lifesize figures. Its intricate detail and attenuated figures are a high point of late-Gothic sculpture. The Herrgottskirche is in the Herrgottstal (Valley of the Lord), 3 km (2 mi) south of Creglingen; the way is well signposted. \| Herrgottskirche \| 07933/338 \| www.herrgottskirche.de \| €2 \| Feb.–March, Tues.–Sun. 1–4; April–Aug. 14, daily 9:15–6; Aug. 15–31, daily 9:15–6:30; Sept.–Oct. daily 9:15–6; Nov.–Dec. 23, Tues.–Sun. 1–4; Dec. 26–30, Tues.–Sun. 1–4. ### Where to Stay FAMILY \| Heuhotel Ferienbauernhof. B&B/INN \| For a truly memorable experience, book a space in the hayloft of the Stahl family's farm in a suburb of Creglingen. Guests bed down in freshly turned hay in the farmhouse granary. Bed linen and blankets can be rented. The nightly rate includes a cold supper and breakfast. If sleeping on hay is not for you, you can swap the granary for one of three double rooms or the three-bedroom apartment or two-bedroom cottage, but you reserve ahead of time. Pros: kids love it; easy on the wallet. Cons: in the middle of nowhere; nearly impossible to find without GPS. \| Rooms from: €37 \| Weidenhof 1 \| 07933/378 \| www.ferienpension-heuhotel.de \| Granary accommodates 20 people, 1 cottage, 1 apartment, 3 rooms \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. ## Bad Mergentheim 24 km (15 miles) west of Creglingen. Between 1525 and 1809, Bad Mergentheim was the home of the Teutonic Knights, one of the most successful medieval orders of chivalry. In 1809, Napoléon expelled them as he marched toward his ill-fated Russian campaign. The expulsion seemed to sound the death knell of the little town, but in 1826 a shepherd discovered mineral springs on the north bank of the river. They proved to be the strongest sodium sulfate and bitter spa waters in Europe, with supposedly health-giving properties that ensured the town's future prosperity. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bad Mergentheim Tourist-Information. \| Marktplatz 1 \| 07931/57135 \| www.bad-mergentheim.de. ### Exploring Deutschordensschloss. The Deutschordensschloss, the Teutonic Knights' former castle, at the eastern end of the town, has a museum that follows the history of the order. The castle also hosts classical concerts, lectures, and events for families and children. \| Schloss 16 \| 07931/52212 \| www.deutschordensmuseum.de \| €6, tours €2 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10:30–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 2–5. FAMILY \| Wildpark Bad Mergentheim. You can help feed the animals twice a day, at 9:45 and 1:30, at this wildlife park that's a few miles outside of Bad Mergentheim. It has the continent's largest selection of European species, including wolves and bears. \| Wildpark 1 \| Off B-290, 1 km (½ mile) south of town \| 07931/41344 \| www.wildtierpark.de \| €9 \| Mid-Mar.–Oct., daily 9–6; last entrance at 4:30. Off the Beaten Path: Stuppacher Madonna. The Pfarrkirche Mariä Krönung chapel guards one of the great Renaissance German paintings, the Stuppacher Madonna, by Matthias Grünewald (circa 1475–1528). It was only in 1908 that experts finally recognized it as the work of Grünewald; repainting in the 17th century had turned it into an unexceptional work. Though Grünewald was familiar with the developments in perspective and natural lighting of Italian Renaissance painting, his work remained resolutely anti-Renaissance in spirit: tortured, emotional, and dark. The chapel is in the village of Stuppach, 11 km (7 mi) southeast of Bad Mergentheim/ \| Pfarrkirche Mariä Krönung, Grünewald Str. 45 \| Bad Mergentheim Stuppach \| www.stuppacher-madonna.de \| Daily 8:30–6:30. ### Where to Stay Hotel Victoria. HOTEL \| An elegant lounge, complete with library and open fireplace, greets you as you enter this hotel, which makes it a sophisticated alternative to the many small guesthouses in the area. The restaurant Zirbelstube ($$$ - $$$$, dinner only) is one of the best in the region. In the Vinothek ($ - $$), open all day, you can eat at the bar and watch the chefs prepare your next dish in a large open kitchen. Pros: good food with excellent service; spacious rooms. Cons: some rooms are not well ventilated; reception understaffed. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Poststr. 2–4 \| 07931/5930 \| www.victoria-hotel.de \| 40 rooms, 6 junior suites, 1 suite \| Zirbelstube closed Jan., Aug., and Sun. and Mon. \| Breakfast. En Route: Schloss Weikersheim. It's slightly surprising to find a stately castle, Schloss Weikersheim, inside a village as sleepy as Weikersheim, some 10 km (6 miles) east of Bad Mergentheim on the Romantic Road. The perfectly preserved palatial residence and its surroundings embody the Renaissance ideals in their designs. You can stroll through the vast gardens and enjoy the view of the Tauber River. Inside, the Rittersaal (Knights' Hall) contains life-size stucco wall sculptures of animals, reflecting the counts' love of hunting. In the cellars you can drink a glass of wine drawn from the huge casks that seem to prop up the building. \| Marktpl. 11 \| www.schloss-weikersheim.de \| €6, gardens only €3 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–noon and 1–5. ## Würzburg 200 km (124 miles) north of Ulm, 115 km (71 miles) east of Frankfurt. The baroque city of Würzburg, the pearl of the Romantic Road, shows what happens when great genius teams up with great wealth. Beginning in the 10th century, Würzburg was ruled by powerful (and rich) prince-bishops, who created the city with all the remarkable attributes you see today. The city is at the junction of two age-old trade routes, in a calm valley backed by vineyard-covered hills. Festung Marienberg, a fortified castle on the steep hill across the Main River, overlooks the town. Constructed between 1200 and 1600, the fortress was the residence of the prince-bishops for 450 years. Present-day Würzburg is by no means completely original. On March 16, 1945, seven weeks before Germany capitulated, Würzburg was all but obliterated by Allied saturation bombing. The 20-minute raid destroyed 87% of the city and killed at least 4,000 people. Reconstruction has returned most of the city's famous sights to their former splendor. Except for some buildings with modern shops, it remains a largely authentic restoration. #### Getting Here and Around Würzburg is on a main line of the superfast InterCity Express (ICE) trains, two hours from Munich and a bit more than an hour from Frankfurt. Most attractions in the old part of town are easily reached on foot. There's a bus to take you to Marienberg Castle, up on the hill across the river. A car is the best means of transport if you want to continue your journey, but you can also use regional trains and buses. One-hour guided strolls (in English) through the Old Town start at the Haus zum Falken tourist office and take place from mid-June to mid-September, daily at 6:30 pm. Tickets (€5) can be purchased from the guide. If you'd rather guide yourself, pick up a map from the same tourist office and follow the extremely helpful directions that are marked throughout the city by distinctive signposts. The Würzburger Schiffstouristik Kurth & Schiebe operates excursions. A wine tasting (€8) is offered as you glide past the vineyards. #### Festivals Würzburg's cultural year starts with the International Film Weekend in January and ends with a Johann Sebastian Bach Festival in November. The annual jazz festival is also in November. Barbarossa Spectaculum. Every other August, in even-numbered years, the Marienberg Fortress comes back to its full medieval glory with a fest of the court of Barbarossa. A Middle Ages market, acrobats, pyrotechnic shows, and court jesters are all on hand. Each day culminates with the Drachenzepter Ritterturnier, in which knights battle to win the Dragon Scepter in a fiery jousting tournament. \| Festung Marienberg, Oberer Burgweg \| 0931/372–398 \| www.barbarossa-spectaculum.de \| €6 entrance, €15 entrance and evening show. Frühjahrs-Volksfest (Spring Fair). During this spring festival, the biggest in the region, more than 50 carnival rides, roller coasters, games, and (of course) a huge beer tent await. The fest takes place every year in the three weeks preceding Easter. \| Talavera \| 0931/373–692 \| www.wuerzburg.de. Hofkeller Würzburg. This cellar-level wine bar hosts a series of wine festivals throughout the year. \| Residenzpl. 3 \| 0931/305–090 \| www.hofkeller.de. International Africa Festival. The largest festival of African culture in Europe is celebrated along the banks of the Main River every May. For 25 years, artists and musicians from across Africa have traveled to Würzburg to bring their traditions. Be sure to visit the bazaar for crafts and a variety of food. \| Talavera-Mainwiesen \| 0931/150–60 \| www.africafestival.org. Mozartfest. The city of Würzburg hosts its annual Mozart Festival between May and July. Most concerts are held in the magnificent setting of the Residenz and feature world-class performers interpreting Mozart's works. Be sure to reserve tickets early. \| Rückermainstr. 2 \| 0931/372–336 \| www.mozartfest-wuerzburg.de. Weindorf Würzburg (Würzburg Wine Village). During this annual festival, thatched-roof "cottages" erected in the central square are stocked with wine and international foods for two weeks starting in late May. \| Marktpl. \| 0931/35170 \| www.weindorf-wuerzburg.de. Weinparade am Marktplatz. It is no surprise that a region known for its wine and love of good party has so many wine fests. This one, held for a week in early September, is the largest and the best. More than 100 wineries gather on the Marktplatz and are joined by some of the finest restaurants in the city. \| Marktpl. \| 0931/35170 \| www.weinparade.de. Würzburger Barockfeste (Würzburg Baroque Festival). The spectacular grounds of the Residenz are decked out in full baroque splendor for this wine and food festival, which takes place on a weekend in early May. \| Residenzpl. 2 \| 0931/390–1111 \| www.wuerzburg.de. #### Timing You need two days to do full justice to Würzburg. The Residenz alone demands several hours of attention. If time is short, head for the Residenz as the doors open in the morning, before the first crowds assemble, and aim to complete your tour by lunchtime. Then continue to the nearby Juliusspital Weinstuben or one of the many traditional taverns in the area for lunch. In the afternoon, explore central Würzburg. The next morning cross the Main River to visit the Festung Marienberg. #### Essentials Visitor Information Stadt Würzburg Tourist Information. \| Rückermainstra. 2 \| 0931/372–398 \| www.wuerzburg.de. Würzburger Schiffstouristik Kurth & Schiebe. \| St.-Norbert-Str. 1, \| Zell \| 0931/58573 \| www.schiffstouristik.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Alte Mainbrücke (Old Main Bridge). A stone bridge—Germany's first—built in 1120 once stood on this site, over the Main River. That ancient structure was restored beginning in 1476. Twin rows of graceful statues of saints now line the bridge. They were placed here in 1730, at the height of Würzburg's baroque period, and were largely destroyed in 1945, but have been lovingly restored since then. Note the Patronna Franconiae (commonly known as the Weeping Madonna). There's a beautiful view of the Marienberg Fortress from the bridge. Dom St. Kilian (St. Kilian Basilica). Construction on Würzburg's Romanesque cathedral, the fourth-largest of its kind in Germany, began in 1045. Centuries of design are contained under one roof; the side wings were designed in a late Gothic style in the 16th century, followed by extensive baroque stucco work 200 years later. The majority of the building collapsed in the winter, after bombs fell on the city near the end of World War II. Reconstruction, completed in 1967, brought a combination of modern design influences alongside a faithful restoration of the past thousand years of the church's history. Visit the side chapel designed by the baroque architect Balthasar Neumann, and a series of tombs of the bishops of Würzburg, designed by Tilman Riemenschneider. \| Domerpfarrg. 10 \| 0931/3866–2800 \| www.dom-wuerzburg.de \| Daily 10–5. Festung Marienberg (Marienberg Fortress). This complex was the original home of the prince-bishops, beginning in the 13th century. The oldest buildings, including the Marienkirche (Church of the Virgin Mary) on the hilltop, date from around 700, although excavations have disclosed evidence that there was a settlement here in the Iron Age, 3,000 years ago. In addition to the rough-hewn medieval fortifications, there are a number of Renaissance and baroque apartments. Tours in English, held at 3 pm, meet at the Pferdeschwemme. TIP To reach the Marienberg, make the fairly steep climb on foot through vineyards or take Bus No. 9, starting at the Residenz, with several stops in the city. It runs about every 40 minutes from April to October. From April through October, tours around the fortress itself are offered for €2 per person, starting from the Scherenberg Tor. \| Oberer Burgweg \| www.schloesser.bayern.de \| Tours €3.50 \| Mid-Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Mainfränkisches Museum (Main-Franconian Museum). A highlight of any visit to Festung Marienberg is likely to be this remarkable collection of art treasures. Be sure to visit the gallery devoted to Würzburg-born sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider (1460–1531). Also on view are paintings by Tiepolo and Cranach the Elder, as well as exhibits of porcelain, firearms, antique toys, and ancient Greek and Roman art. Other exhibits include enormous old winepresses and exhibits about the history of Franconian wine making. \| Festung Marienberg, Oberer Burgweg \| 0931/205–940 \| www.mainfraenkisches-museum.de \| €8 \| Mid-May–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Nov.–May, Tues.–Sun. 10–4. Fürstenbaumuseum (Princes' Quarters Museum). The Marienberg collections are so vast that they spill over into another outstanding museum that's also part of the fortress. This one, the Fürstenbaumuseum, traces 1,200 years of Würzburg's history. The holdings include breathtaking exhibits of local goldsmiths' art. \| Festung Marienberg, Oberer Burgweg \| www.schloesser.bayern.de \| Combined ticket for Mainfränkisches and Fürstenbau museums €8 \| Mid-Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9–6. Juliusspital. Founded in 1576 by Prince-Bishop Julius Echter as a foundation for the poor, the elderly, and the sick, this enormous edifice now houses a hospital and the second largest wine estate in Germany. Wander through the hospital park and grounds, then do a wine tasting, which includes six half-glasses of wine from the vineyards. All profits from the Vinothek and the neighboring restaurant are used to fund the foundation. \| Juliuspromenade 19 \| 0931/393–1401 \| www.juliusspital.de \| Tour €22 \| Vinothek weekdays 9:30–6, Sat. 9–4. Fodor's Choice \| Residenz (Residence). Würzburg's prince-bishops lived in this glorious baroque palace after moving down from the hilltop Festung Marienberg. Construction started in 1719 under the brilliant direction of Balthasar Neumann. Most of the interior decoration was entrusted to the Italian stuccoist Antonio Bossi and the Venetian painter Giovanni Battista Tiepolo. It's the spirit of the pleasure-loving prince-bishop Johann Philipp Franz von Schönborn, however, that infuses the Residenz. Now considered one of Europe's most sumptuous palaces, this dazzling structure is a 10-minute walk from the railway station, along pedestrian-only Kaiserstrasse and then Theaterstrasse. Tours start in the Vestibule, which was built to accommodate carriages drawn by six horses. The king's guests were swept directly up the Treppenhaus, the largest baroque staircase in the country. Halfway up, the stairway splits and peels away 180 degrees to the left and to the right. Soaring above on the vaulting is Tiepolo's giant fresco The Four Continents, a gorgeous exercise in blue and pink that's larger than the Sistine Chapel's. Each quarter of the massive ceiling depicts the European outlook on the world in 1750—the savage Americas; Africa's and its many unusual creatures; cultured Asia, where learning and knowledge originated; and finally the perfection of Europe, with Würzburg as the center of the universe. Take a careful look at the Asian elephant's trunk and find the ostrich in Africa. Tiepolo had never seen these creatures but painted on reports of them; he could only assume that the fast largest bird in the world would have large muscular legs. He immortalized himself and Balthasar Neumann as two of the figures—they're not too difficult to spot. Next, make your way to the Weissersaal (White Room) and then beyond to the grandest of the state rooms, the Kaisersaal (Throne Room). Tiepolo's frescoes show the 12th-century visit of Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, when he came to Würzburg to claim his bride. If you take part in the guided tour, you'll also see private chambers of the various former residents (guided tours in English are given daily at 11 and 3). The Spiegelkabinett (Mirror Cabinet) was completely destroyed by Allied bombing but then reconstructed using the techniques of the original rococo artisans. Finally, visit the formal Hofgarten (Court Gardens), to see its stately gushing fountains and trim ankle-high shrubs that outline geometric flowerbeds and gravel walks. TIP On weekends, the Hofkeller wine cellar, below the Residenz, runs tours that include tasting seven wines. Ask at the ticket counter. \| Residenzpl. 2 \| 0931/355–170 \| www.residenz-wuerzburg.de \| €7.50, including guided tour \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–4:30. #### Worth Noting Alte Universität (Old University). Founded by Prince-bishop Julius Echter and built in 1582, this rambling institution is one of Würzburg's most interesting Renaissance structures. You may want to take some time to wander its grounds and soak in the student culture of one of Germany's best universities. \| Sanderring 2 \| www.uni-wuerzburg.de. Alter Kranen. Near the Main River and north of the Old Main Bridge, the "Old Crane" was erected in 1772–73 by Balthasar Neumann's son, Franz Ignaz Michael. It was used to unload boats; beside it is the old customs building, which now has some lovely outdoor cafes overlooking the river. \| Kranenkai 1. * * * Tilman Riemenschneider, Germany's Master Sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider, Germany's master of late-Gothic sculpture (1460–1531), lived an extraordinary life. His skill with wood and stone was recognized at an early age, and he soon presided over a major Würzburg workshop. Riemenschneider worked alone, however, on the life-size figures that dominate his sculptures. Details such as the folds of a robe or wrinkles on a face highlight his grace and harmony of line. At the height of his career Riemenschneider was appointed city counselor; later he became mayor of Würzburg. In 1523, however, he made the fateful error of siding with the small farmers and guild members in the Peasants' War. He was arrested and held for eight weeks in the dungeons of the Marienberg Fortress, above Würzburg, where he was frequently tortured. Most of his wealth was confiscated, and he returned home a broken man. He died in 1531. For nearly three centuries he and his sculptures were all but forgotten. Only in 1822, when ditch diggers uncovered the site of his grave, was Riemenschneider once again included among Germany's greatest artists. Today Riemenschneider is recognized as the giant of German sculpture. The richest collection of his works is in Würzburg, although other masterpieces are on view in churches and museums along the Romantic Road and in other parts of Germany. The renowned Windsheim Altar of the Twelve Apostles is in the Palatine Museum in Heidelberg. * * * Augustinerkirche (Church of St. Augustine). This baroque church, a work by Balthasar Neumann, was built onto a 13th-century Dominican chapel. Neumann retained the soaring, graceful choir and commissioned Antonio Bossi to add colorful stuccowork to the rest of the church. \| Dominikanerpl. 2 \| 0931/30970 \| www.augustinerkirche-wuerzburg.de \| Daily 7–7. Bürgerspital (Almshouse). Wealthy businessmen founded this refuge for the city's poor and needy in 1319. The buildings also house a winery, which produces highly respected wines (sales are used to support the facility). The arcade courtyard is baroque in style and features its own glockenspiel. The winery offers tours of the facilities with wine tastings on the first Friday of each month; there's also a wine festival in mid-June. \| Theaterstr. 19 \| 0931/3503–441 \| www.buergerspital.de \| Tour €7 \| Store: Mon.–Thurs. 8–5, Fri. 8–3. Haus zum Falken. The city's most splendid baroque mansion, once a humble inn, now houses the city tourist office. Its colorful rococo facade was added in 1751. \| Falkenhaus, Am Marktpl. 9 \| 0931/372–398 \| www.wuerzburg.de \| Jan.–Mar., weekdays 10–4, Sat. 10–2; Apr., Nov., and Dec., weekdays 10–6, Sat. 10–2; May–Oct., weekdays 10–6, weekends 10–2. Marienkapelle (St. Mary's Chapel). This tranquil Gothic church (1377–1480) that stands modestly away at one end of Würzburg's market square is almost lost among the other old facades; keep an eye out for its red bell tower. The architect Balthasar Neumann lies buried here. \| Marktpl. \| 0931/3861–1150 \| www.wuerzburger-markt.de \| Daily 9–6. Neumünster (New Cathedral). Next to the Dom St. Kilian, this 11th-century Romanesque basilica was completed in 1716. The original church was built above the grave of the early Irish martyr St. Kilian, who brought Christianity to Würzburg and, with two companions, was put to death here in 689. Their missionary zeal bore fruit, however—17 years after their death a church was consecrated in their memory. By 742 Würzburg had become a diocese, and over the following centuries 39 flourishing churches were established throughout the city. \| Domerpfarrg. 10 \| 0931/3866–2800 \| www.neumuenster-wuerzburg.de \| Daily 8–5. Stift Haug. Franconia's first baroque church, designed by the Italian architect Antonio Petrini, was built between 1670 and 1691. Its elegant twin spires and central cupola make an impressive exterior. The altarpiece is a 1583 Crucifixion scene by Tintoretto. \| Haugerpfarrg. 14 \| 0931/54102 \| stift-haug.de \| Daily 8–7. Off the Beaten Path: Schloss Veitshöchheim. The first summer palace of the prince-bishops is 8 km (5 mi) north of Würzburg. Enlarged and renovated by Balthasar Neumann in 1753, the castle became a summer residence of the Bavarian kings in 1814. You reach the castle by walking down a long Allee of trees on the extensive grounds. To your right are the "formal" rococo gardens, planned and laid out at the beginning of the 18th century. On the other side of the castle are the "utility" gardens, cared for by the Bavarian State College for Wines and Gardens. The college was founded here in 1902 as the Royal School for Gardening and Wine Culture. Walls, pavilions, a small lake teeming with fish, and gardens laden with fruit complete the picture of this huge park. From April to October fountains come to life every hour on the hour from 1 to 5, the water shooting into the air and then cascading into small ponds. The palace itself shows the rooms of the Bavarian royal family. It can only be visited with the 30-minute guided tour, with a tour each hour. A bus service runs from Würzburg's Kirchplatz to the palace. From mid-April to mid-October there is also a boat operating between Würzburg and the palace from 10 to 4 daily. The 40-minute trip costs €9 round-trip. \| Echterstr. 10 \| Veitshöchheim \| 0931/355–170 \| www.residenz-wuerzburg.de \| €4.50, including tour; gardens free \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9–6. ### Where to Eat Alte Mainmühle. GERMAN \| Sample Frankish bratwurst cooked over a wood-fire grill and other regional dishes in this converted mill alongside the Main River. The menu also includes local fish and a variety of vegetarian options. In good weather, you can sit outside on the terrace for the best views of the Alte Mainbrücke and the Festung Marienberg. The small bar at the entrance of this easygoing restaurant serves local wine streetside, so you can get a glass of crisp Silvaner and watch the sun set over the city and surrounding vineyards. \| Average main: €13 \| Mainkai 1 \| 0931/16777 \| www.alte-mainmuehle.de. Backöfele. GERMAN \| More than 400 years of tradition are embedded in this old tavern. Hidden away behind huge wooden doors on a backstreet, the Backöfele's cavelike interior is a popular meeting and eating place. The surprisingly varied menu includes local favorites such as suckling pig and marinated pot roast, as well as good fish entrées and classic desserts, all at reasonable prices. \| Average main: €13 \| Ursulinerg. 2 \| 0931/59059 \| www.backoefele.de. Juliusspital Weinstuben. GERMAN \| Giving a gastropub's twist to traditional Franconian fare, this restaurant is also a draw for its local wines. The 400-year-old Juliusspital foundation still funds the neighboring hospital, school, and local nature preserves with profits from its vineyards and this bustling spot. Sample local game and fish specialties, you can also buy a bottle of wine to take home directly from the wait staff. TIP In summer you can enjoy your food and drinks on a quiet terrace in the courtyard. \| Average main: €17 \| Juliuspromenade 19, Ecke Barbarossapl. \| 0931/54080 \| www.juliusspital-weinstuben.de. Ratskeller. GERMAN \| Practically every German city has a restaurant in its city hall, but Würzburg's stands out. The daily menu offers excellent regional food, such as Fränkischer Sauerbraten, along with plenty of fish and vegetarian offerings. The smaller dishes offered throughout the day are a good excuse to take a break while touring. Beer is available, but local wine is what the regulars drink. As for the Gothic town hall itself, it's been the center of municipal government since 1316. \| Average main: €14 \| Beim Grafeneckart, Langg. 1 \| 0931/13021 \| www.wuerzburger-ratskeller.de. ### Where to Stay Hotel Greifensteiner Hof. HOTEL \| The modern Greifensteiner offers comfortable, individually furnished rooms in a quiet corner of the city, just off the market square. The Fränkische Stuben ($ - $$) has excellent cuisine with mostly Franconian specialties; full or half pension plans are available with room reservations. There's also a basement wine bar that serves local varieties. Pros: center of town; excellent restaurants; nice bar packed with locals. Cons: no spectacular views or grand lobby. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Dettelbacherg. 2 \| 0931/35170 \| www.greifensteiner-hof.de \| 49 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Rebstock zu Würzburg. HOTEL \| This hotel's rococo facade has welcomed guests for centuries; the rooms are all individually decorated and furnished in an English country-house style. The spacious lobby, with an open fireplace and beckoning bar, sets the tone, and there's an attractive winter garden where you can enjoy a cup of coffee. Pros: historical building with modern amenities and quick access to the town's sights. Cons: sometimes fills up with conferences and large groups. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Neubaustr. 7 \| 0931/30930 \| www.rebstock.com \| 63 rooms, 9 suites \| Breakfast. Hotel Walfisch. B&B/INN \| Guest rooms are furnished in solid Franconian style, with farmhouse cupboards, bright fabrics, and heavy drapes. You can breakfast in a dining room on the bank of the Main, with views of the vineyard-covered Marienberg. For lunch and dinner try the hotel's cozy Walfisch-Stube restaurant ($ - $$). The restaurant's namesake (Walfisch means "whale") isn't on the menu, but they do have excellent fish as well as a good selection of white wines. Weather permitting you can dine on the terrace, which has good views of the river and the Festung Marienberg. Pros: nice view from front rooms; good restaurant. Cons: difficult parking; small improvements needed. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Am Pleidenturm 5 \| 0931/35200 \| www.hotel-walfisch.com \| 40 rooms \| Breakfast. Schloss Steinburg. HOTEL \| Set atop vineyards and overlooking the towers of Würzburg, the Schloss Steinburg offers regal manor rooms as well as crisp and calm modern lodgings. The castle was first built in 1898 over the ruins of a medieval monastery; the Bezold family have expanded upon it over the last 75 years. The original rooms have many original details intact; the newer rooms are closer to the hotel's spa, which has panoramic views of the old city. The hotel restaurant serves regional as well as more pan-European dishes. Pros: beautiful views; nice variety of rooms; pool open year-round. Cons: outside the city center; expensive. \| Rooms from: €210 \| Mittlerer Steinburgweg 100 \| 0931/970–20 \| www.steinburg.com \| 69 rooms \| Breakfast. Strauss. HOTEL \| Close to the river and the pedestrians-only center, the pink-stucco Strauss has been in the same family for more than 100 years. Rooms are simply furnished in light woods and have comfortable beds. The beamed restaurant Würzburg serves Franconian cuisine. Pros: close to main station and Old Town. Cons: small lobby; some rooms need updating. \| Rooms from: €82 \| Juliuspromenade 5 \| 0931/30570 \| www.hotel-strauss.de \| 75 rooms, 3 suites \| Restaurant closed Tues. and late Dec.–late Jan. \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors Stein-Wein-Pfad. Wine lovers and hikers should visit the Stein-Wein-Pfad, a signposted trail through the vineyards that rise up from the northwest edge of Würzburg. The starting point is the Weingut am Stein (Ludwig Knoll vineyard), 10 minutes on foot from the main railway station. A two-hour round trip affords stunning views of the city as well as the chance to try the excellent local wines directly at the source. TIP From May through mid-October, you can join a guided tour of the wineries every other Saturday for €7. This includes a glass of wine. \| Mittlerer Steinbergweg 5 \| www.wuerzburger-steinweinpfad.de. ### Shopping Würzburg is the true wine center of the Romantic Road. Visit any of the vineyards that rise from the Main River and choose a Bocksbeutel, the distinctive green, flagon-shape wine bottle of Franconia. One fanciful claim is that the shape came about because wine-guzzling monks found it the easiest to hide under their robes. Die Murmel. A large selection of unique and hand-picked toys are available in this shop. \| Augustinerstr. 7 \| 0931/59349 \| www.die-murmel.de. Ebinger. Fine antique jewelry, clocks, watches, and silver are for sale here, along with exquisite antiques. \| Karmelitenstr. 23 \| 0931/59449. Eckhaus. In summer the selection consists mostly of garden and terrace decorations; from October through December the store is filled with delightful Christmas ornaments and candles. \| Langg. 8, off Marktpl. \| 0931/12001 \| www.eckhaus-wuerzburg.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Franconia and the German Danube Northern Franconia Nürnberg (Nuremberg) The German Danube Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Cruising the Danube \| When to Go \| A Day on the Danube \| Cruising All of the Danube \| Germany's Christmas Markets Updated by Lee A. Evans All that is left of the huge, ancient kingdom of the Franks is the region known today as Franken (Franconia), stretching from the Bohemian Forest on the Czech border to the outskirts of Frankfurt. The Franks were not only tough warriors but also hard workers, sharp tradespeople, and burghers with a good political nose. The word frank means bold, wild, and courageous in the old Frankish tongue. It was only in the early 19th century, following Napoléon's conquest of what is now southern Germany, that the area was incorporated into northern Bavaria. Although more closely related to Thuringia, this historic homeland of the Franks, one of the oldest Germanic peoples, is now begrudgingly part of Bavaria. Franconian towns such as Bayreuth, Coburg, and Bamberg are practically places of cultural pilgrimage. Rebuilt Nürnberg (Nuremberg in English) is the epitome of German medieval beauty, though its name recalls both the Third Reich's huge rallies at the Zeppelin Field and its henchmen's trials held in the city between 1945 and 1950. Franconia is hardly an overrun tourist destination, yet its long and rich history, its landscapes and leisure activities (including skiing, golfing, hiking, and cycling), and its gastronomic specialties place it high on the enjoyment scale. Franconia is especially famous for its wine and for the fact that it's home to more than half of Germany's breweries. ## Top Reasons to Go Bamberg's Altstadt: This one isn't just for the tourists. Bamberg may be a UNESCO World Heritage site, but it's also a vibrant town living very much in the present. Vierzehnheiligen: Just north of Bamberg, this church's swirling rococo decoration earned it the nickname "God's Ballroom." Nürnberg's Kaiserburg: Holy Roman emperors once resided in the vast complex of this imperial castle, which has fabulous views over the entire city. Steinerne Brücke in Regensburg: This 12th-century Stone Bridge was considered an amazing feat of engineering in its time. An organ concert in Passau: You can listen to the mighty sound the 17,774 pipes of Dom St. Stephan's organ create at weekday concerts. ## Getting Oriented Franconia's northern border is marked by the Main River, which is seen as the dividing line between northern and southern Germany. Its southern border is the Danube, where Lower Bavaria (Niederbayern) begins. Despite its size, Franconia is a homogeneous region of rolling agricultural landscapes and thick forests climbing the mountains of the Fichtelgebirge. Nürnberg is a major destination in the area and makes a good base for exploration. The towns of Bayreuth, Coburg, and Bamberg are an easy day trip from one another. The Danube River defines the region as it passes through the Bavarian Forest on its way from Germany to Austria. West of Regensburg, river cruises and cyclists follow its path. ## What's Where Northern Franconia. As one of the few towns not destroyed by World War II, Bamberg lives and breathes German history. Wagner fans flock to Bayreuth in July and August for the classical music festival. The beer produced in Kulmbach is famous all over the country. Nürnberg (Nuremberg). It may not be as well-known as Munich, Heidelberg, or Berlin, but when you visit Nürnberg you feel the wealth, power, and sway this city has had through the centuries. Standing on the ramparts of the Kaiserburg (Imperial Castle) and looking down on the city, you'll begin to understand why emperors made Nürnberg their home. The German Danube. Regensburg and Passau are two relatively forgotten cities tucked away in the southeast corner of Germany in an area bordered by Austria and the Czech Republic. Passau is one of the oldest cities on German soil, built by the Celts and then ruled by the Romans 2,000 years ago. Regensburg is a bit younger; about a thousand years ago it was one of the largest and most affluent cities in Germany. ## Planning ### When to Go Summer is the best time to explore Franconia, though spring and fall are also fine when the weather cooperates. Avoid the cold and wet months from November to March; many hotels and restaurants close, and no matter how pretty, many towns do seem quite dreary. If you're in Nürnberg in December, you're in time for one of Germany's largest and loveliest Christmas markets. Unless you plan on attending the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth, it's best to avoid this city in July and August. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The major international airport serving Franconia and the German Danube is Munich. Nürnberg's airport is served mainly by regional carriers. Airport Information Airport Nürnberg. \| Flughafenstr. 100, \| Nürnberg \| 0911/93700 \| www.airport-nuernberg.de. #### Car Travel Franconia is served by five main autobahns: A-7 from Hamburg, A-3 from Köln and Frankfurt, A-81 from Stuttgart, A-6 from Heilbronn, and A-9 from Munich. Nürnberg is 167 km (104 miles) north of Munich and 222 km (138 miles) southeast of Frankfurt. Regensburg and Passau are reached by way of the A-3 from Nürnberg. #### Train Travel Franconia boasts one of southern Germany's most extensive train networks and almost every town is connected by train. Nürnberg is a stop on the high-speed InterCity Express (ICE) north–south routes, and there are hourly trains from Munich direct to Nürnberg. Regular InterCity services connect Nürnberg and Regensburg with Frankfurt and other major German cities. Trains run hourly from Frankfurt to Munich, with a stop at Nürnberg. The trip takes about three hours to Munich, two hours to Nürnberg. There are hourly trains from Munich to Regensburg. Some InterCity Express trains stop in Bamberg, which is most speedily reached from Munich. Local trains from Nürnberg connect with Bayreuth and areas of southern Franconia. Regensburg and Passau are on the ICE line from Nürnberg to Vienna. ### Restaurants Many restaurants in the rural parts of this region serve hot meals only between 11:30 am and 2 pm, and 6 pm and 9 pm. TIP "Durchgehend warme Küche" means that hot meals are also served between lunch and dinner. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels Make reservations well in advance for hotels in all the larger towns and cities if you plan to visit anytime between June and September. During the Nürnberg Toy Fair at the beginning of February, rooms are at a premium. If you're visiting Bayreuth during the annual Wagner Festival in July and August, consider making reservations up to a year in advance. Remember, too, that during the festival prices can be double the normal rates. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time Nürnberg warrants at least a day of your time. It's best to base yourself in one city and take day trips to others. Bamberg is the most central of the northern Franconia cities and makes a good base. It is also a good idea to leave your car at your hotel and make the trip downstream to Regensburg or Passau by boat, returning by train. ### Visitor Information Franconia Tourist Board. \| Tourismusverband Franken e.V., Wilhelminenstr. 6, \| Nürnberg \| 0911/941–510 \| www.frankentourismus.de. ## Cruising the Danube Rising from the depths of the Black Forest and emptying into the Black Sea, the Danube is the queen of rivers; cloaked in myth and legend, it cuts through the heart and soul of Europe. The name Dānuvius, borrowed from the Celts, means swift or rapid, but along the Danube, there is no hurry. Boats go with the flow and a river journey is a relaxed affair with plenty of time to drink in the history. Whether you choose a one-hour, one-week, or the complete Danube experience, cruising Europe's historical waterway is a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Of the Danube's 1,770-mile length, almost 1,500 miles is navigable and the river flows through some of Europe's most important cities. You can head to major boating hubs, like Passau, Vienna, and Budapest or through historical stretches from Ulm to Regensburg. The Main-Donau Canal connects Nürnberg. —Lee A. Evans ## When to Go Between May and July the Danube is busy with passenger and commercial traffic; this is the best time of year for a cruise. Fall is also good, when the changing leaves bathe the river in a sea of color. The Danube rarely freezes in the winter and several companies offer Christmas market tours from Nürnberg to Regensburg, Passau, and Vienna. Spring is the least optimal time to go as the river often floods. ## A Day on the Danube On a map, the sheer length of the Danube is daunting at best. A great option is to choose an idyllic daylong boat excursion. One of the best day cruises leaves from Regensburg and reaches the imposing temple Walhalla, a copy of the Parthenon erected by Ludwig I. Personenschifffahrt Klinger boats depart from the Steinerne Brücke daily at 10:30 and 2. Each departure gives you about an hour to explore the temple and the whole trip lasts three hours. Donauschiffahrt Wurm + Köck offers a variety of Danube day trips. Their most popular is a daily excursion from Passau to the Austrian city of Linz, which departs at 9 am. If you don't have all day, they also offer a three-river tour that explores Passau at the convergence of the Ilz, Inn, and Danube that lasts about 45 minutes. ## Cruising All of the Danube Although Passau is the natural gateway to the cruising destinations of Eastern Europe on the Danube, it is by no means the only starting point. You can board a deluxe river cruise ship in Nürnberg, landlocked but for the very small Pegnitz River, then cruise "overland" through Franconia on the Main-Danube canal across the Continental Divide until you join the Danube at Kelheim, a few miles west of Regensburg. After Passau you enter Austria, where you come to the city that most people automatically associate with the "Blue Danube," Vienna. The next border crossing brings you into Slovakia and to your second capital, Bratislava. Budapest, Hungary is next, and capital number four is Belgrade, Serbia. Some of the Danube cruises begin in Amsterdam, making them five-capital cruises. Amadeus Cruises (888/829–1394 \| www.amadeuscruises.com) offers half a dozen cruises through Franconia and the German Danube, including a Christmastime cruise, which stops at the fascinating Christmas markets between Nürnberg and Budapest. The reverse direction is also available. Viking River Cruises (800/304–9616 \| www.vikingrivercruises.com) has a Grand European Tour from Amsterdam to Budapest. The two-week Eastern European Odyssey starts in Nürnberg and ends at Bucharest. The reverse direction is also available on both cruises. The British Blue Water Holidays (01756/706–500 \| www.cruisingholidays.co.uk) has nine cruises starting on the Rhine, some from Basel in Switzerland, which follow the Main-Danube Canal to the Danube and four cruises from Nürnberg or Passau to Vienna or Budapest. ## Germany's Christmas Markets Few places in the world do Christmas as well as Germany, and the country's Christmas markets, sparkling with white fairy lights and rich with the smells of gingerbread and mulled wine, are marvelous traditional expressions of yuletide cheer. Following a centuries-old tradition, more than 2,000 Weihnachtsmärtke spring up outside town halls and in village squares across the country each year, their stalls brimming with ornate tree decorations and handmade pralines. Elegant rather than kitsch, the markets last the duration of Advent—the four weeks leading up to Christmas Eve—and draw festive crowds to their bustling lanes, where charcoal grills sizzle with sausages and cinnamon and spices waft from warm ovens. Among the handcrafted angels and fairies, kids munch on candy apples and ride old-fashioned carousels while their parents shop for stocking stuffers and toast the season with steaming mugs of Glühwein and hot chocolate. —Jeff Kavanagh Dating from the late Middle Ages, Christmas markets began as a way to provide people with supplies, food, and clothing for the winter; families came for the sugary treats and Christmas shopping. Now a bit more touristy, a visit to a traditional Christmas Market is still a truly a quintessential German experience. Starting on the first Sunday of Advent, the pace of life slows down when the cheerful twinkling lights are lit and the smells of hot wine linger in the air, promising respite during the drab winter. The most famous markets are in Nürnberg and Dresden; each drawing more than 2 million visitors every year. While these provide the essential market experience, it's well worth visiting a market in a smaller town to soak in some local flavor. Bautzen hosts Germany's oldest Christmas market, while Erfurt's market, set on the Cathedral Square, is the most picturesque. No matter which you choose, keep in mind that the best time to visit is during the week when the crowds are the smallest; try to go in the early evening, when locals visit the markets with their friends and family. You'll experience a carnival-like atmosphere and won't be able to resist trying a mulled wine before heading home. Despite the market theme, the real reason to visit is to endlessly snack on greasy, sweet, and warm market food. Each market has its own specialties—gingerbread in Nürnberg and stollen in Dresden—but the thread through all is candied almonds, warm chestnuts, and roasted, local sausages. Be sure to pair your snacks with a cup of hot-spiced-wine, which is served in small mugs that make great souvenirs. The wine varies from region to region and special hot white wine is a trendy alternative. Other drinks include a warm egg-punch, hot chocolate, and warm berry juices for children. #### Glühwein The name for mulled wine, Glühwein, literally means "glowing wine" and a few cups of it will definitely add some color to your cheeks. Usually made with red wine, it can be fortified with a Schuss or shot of schnapps, often rum or amaretto. Feuerzangenbowle, a supercharged version, is made by dripping burning, rum-soaked sugar into the wine. The nonalcoholic version is called Kinderpunsch, or children's punch. #### Tips for Visiting Always ask for local goods. Craftspeople, especially from the Ore Mountains in Saxony, produce some of the finest smoking-man incense burners, nativity scenes, candle pyramids, glass balls, and advent stars in the world. Think about how you're getting your purchases home. Although some larger vendors will ship your purchases for you, it's wise to plan some extra baggage space and purchase some bubble wrap. Dress warmly and wear comfortable shoes. All markets are outside and even the smallest require walking. Bring some small bills and coins. This will make food and wine transactions faster and more efficient. All plastic dishes and cups require a deposit, which is politely refunded to you when you return the items. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Coburg \| Kronach \| Kulmbach \| Bayreuth \| Bamberg Three major German cultural centers lie within easy reach of one another: Coburg, a town with blood links to royal dynasties throughout Europe; Bamberg, with its own claim to German royal history and an Old Town area designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site; and Bayreuth, where composer Richard Wagner finally settled, making it a place of musical pilgrimage for Wagner fans from all over the world. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Coburg 105 km (65 miles) north of Nürnberg. Coburg is a surprisingly little-known treasure that was founded in the 11th century and remained in the possession of the dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha until 1918; the current duke still lives here. The remarkable Saxe-Coburg dynasty established itself as something of a royal stud farm, providing a seemingly inexhaustible supply of blue-blood marriage partners to ruling houses the length and breadth of Europe. The most famous of these royal mates was Prince Albert (1819–61), who married the English Queen Victoria, after which she gained special renown in Coburg. Their numerous children, married off to other kings, queens, and emperors, helped to spread the tried-and-tested Saxe-Coburg influence even farther afield. Despite all the history that sweats from each sandstone ashlar, Coburg is a modern and bustling town. #### Essentials Visitor Information Coburg. \| Tourismus Coburg, Herrng. 4 \| 09561/898–000 \| www.coburg-tourist.de. #### Festivals Brazilian Samba Festival. This three-day bacchanal is held in mid-July. Check the Coburg tourist office's Web site for more information about the event. \| wwww.coburg-tourist.de. ### Exploring Marktplatz (Market Square). Coburg's Marktplatz has a statue of Prince Albert, Victoria's high-minded consort, surrounded by gracious Renaissance and baroque buildings. The Stadhaus, former seat of the local dukes, begun in 1500, is the most imposing structure here. A forest of ornate gables and spires projects from its well-proportioned facade. Opposite is the Rathaus (Town Hall). TIP Look on the building's tympanum for the statue of the Bratwurstmännla (it's actually St. Mauritius in armor); the staff he carries is said to be the official length against which the town's famous bratwursts are measured. These tasty sausages, roasted on pinecone fires, are available on the market square. \| Marktplatz. Schloss Callenberg. Perched on a hill 5 km (3 miles) west of Coburg is Schloss Callenberg, until 1231 the main castle of the Knights of Callenberg. In the 16th century it was taken over by the Coburgs. From 1842 on it served as the summer residence of the hereditary Coburg prince and later Duke Ernst II. It holds a number of important collections, including that of the Windsor gallery; arts and crafts from Holland, Germany, and Italy from the Renaissance to the 19th century; precious baroque, Empire, and Biedermeier furniture; table and standing clocks from three centuries; a selection of weapons; and various handicrafts. The best way to reach the castle is by car via Baiersdorf. City Bus No. 5 from Coburg's Marktplatz stops at the castle only on Sunday; on other days you need to get off at the Beirsdorf stop and walk 25 minutes. \| Callenberger Str. 1 \| 09561/55150 \| www.schloss-callenberg.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–5. Schloss Ehrenburg. Prince Albert spent much of his childhood in Schloss Ehrenburg, the ducal palace. Built in the mid-16th century, it has been greatly altered over the years, principally following a fire in the early 19th century. Duke Ernst I invited Karl Friedrich Schinkel from Berlin to redo the palace in the then-popular neo-Gothic style. Some of the original Renaissance features were kept. The rooms of the castle are quite special, especially those upstairs, where the ceilings are heavily decorated with stucco and the floors have wonderful patterns of various woods. The Hall of Giants is named for the larger-than-life caryatids that support the ceiling; the favorite sight downstairs is Queen Victoria's flush toilet, which was the first one installed in Germany. Here, too, the ceiling is worth noting for its playful, gentle stuccowork. The baroque chapel attached to Ehrenburg is often used for weddings. \| Schlosspl. 1 \| 09561/80880 \| www.sgvcoburg.de \| €4.50 \| Tours Tues.–Sun. 10–3 on the hr. Quick Bites: Burgschänke. Relax and soak up centuries of history while sampling a traditional Coburg beer at this tavern. The basic menu has traditional dishes. \| Veste Coburg \| 09561/80980 \| Closed Mon. and Jan.–mid-Feb. Veste Coburg. This fortress, one of the largest and most impressive in the country, is Coburg's main attraction. The brooding bulk of the castle guards the town from a 1,484-foot hill. Construction began around 1055, but with progressive rebuilding and remodeling today's predominantly late-Gothic/early-Renaissance edifice bears little resemblance to the original crude fortress. One part of the castle harbors the Kunstsammlungen, a grand set of collections including art, with works by Dürer, Cranach, and Hans Holbein, among others; sculpture from the school of the great Tilman Riemenschneider (1460–1531); furniture and textiles; magnificent weapons, armor, and tournament garb spanning four centuries (in the so-called Herzoginbau, or Duchess's Building); carriages and ornate sleighs; and more. The room where Martin Luther lived for six months in 1530 while he observed the goings-on of the Augsburg Diet has an especially dignified atmosphere. The Jagdintarsien-Zimmer (Hunting Marquetry Room), an elaborately decorated room that dates back to the early 17th century, has some of the finest woodwork in southern Germany. Finally, there's the Carl-Eduard-Bau (Carl-Eduard Building), which contains a valuable antique glass collection, mostly from the baroque age. Inquire at the ticket office for tours and reduced family tickets. \| Veste Coburg \| 09561/8790 \| www.kunstsammlungen-coburg.de \| €6, combination ticket with with Schloss Ehrenburg €12 \| Museums Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 1–4. ### Where to Eat and Stay Ratskeller. GERMAN \| The basic local specialties taste better here beneath the old vaults and within earshot of the Coburg marketplace. Try the Tafelspitz (boiled beef with creamed horseradish), along with a glass of crisp Franconian white wine. The prices become a little higher in the evening, when the menu adds a few more dishes. \| Average main: €12 \| Markt 1 \| 09561/92400 \| www.ratskeller-coburg.de \| No credit cards. Goldene Rose. HOTEL \| One of the region's oldest, this agreeable inn is located about 5 km (3 miles) southeast of Coburg. The interior has simple wooden paneling and floors. On a warm summer evening, the beer garden is the best place to enjoy traditional Franconian dishes, or a plate of homemade sausages, and meet some of the locals. Rooms are well appointed and comfortable - the wooden theme is continued, but the style is definitely modern. Pros: friendly; family run; very good value; large parking lot behind the hotel. Cons: in a small village; front rooms noisy. \| Rooms from: €49 \| Coburgerstr. 31, Grub am Forst \| 09560/92250 \| www.goldene-rose.de \| 14 rooms \| Restaurant closed Mon. \| Breakfast. Romantic Hotel Goldene Traube. HOTEL \| Rooms are individually decorated in this fine historical hotel (1756), and for dining you can choose between the elegant restaurant Esszimmer or the more casual Meer und Mehr (Sea and More), which serves fine seafood and regional specialties. After a day of sightseeing, relax in the sauna complex with solarium or with one of the vintages from the small wine boutique just opposite the reception. Pros: welcoming spacious lobby; two good restaurants; center of town; nice small wineshop. Cons: traffic noise in front rooms; stairs up to the lobby. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Am Viktoriabrunnen 2 \| 09561/8760 \| www.goldenetraube.com \| 72 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Arcadia Hotel Coburg. HOTEL \| You can expect modern, clean, well-designed rooms that are airy and functional here. This hotel is about 20 minutes, on foot, east of Coburg's center. Pros: modern three-star business hotel; easy access; free parking and garage. Cons: modern three-star business hotel; edge of town; surrounded by garages and shopping outlets; breakfast costs €15 extra. \| Rooms from: €66 \| Ketschendorfer Str. 86 \| 09561/8210 \| www.arcadia-hotel.de \| 123 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Shopping TIP Coburg is full of culinary delights; its Schmätzen (gingerbread) and Elizenkuchen (almond cake) are famous. You'll find home-baked versions in any of the many excellent patisseries or at a Grossman store (there are three in Coburg). Hummel Museum. Rödental, northeast of Coburg, is the home of the world-famous M. I. Hummel figurines, made by the Göbel porcelain manufacturer. There's a Hummel Museum devoted to them, and 18th- and 19th-century porcelain from other manufacturers. Besides the museum's store, there are several retail outlets in the village. \| Coburgerstr. 7 \| Rödental \| 09563/92303 \| www.goebel.de \| Weekdays 9–5, Sat. 9–noon. Schloss Rosenau. Near the village of Rödental, 9 km (5½ mi) northeast of Coburg, the 550-year-old Schloss Rosenau sits in all its neo-Gothic glory in the midst of an English-style park. Prince Albert was born here in 1819, and one room is devoted entirely to Albert and his queen, Victoria. Much of the castle furniture was made especially for the Saxe-Coburg family by noted Viennese craftsmen. In the garden's Orangerie is the Museum für Modernes Glas (Museum of Modern Glass), which displays nearly 40 years' worth of glass sculptures (dating from 1950 to 1990) that contrast sharply with the venerable architecture of the castle itself. \| Rosenau 1 \| Rödental \| 09563/1606 \| www.kunstsammlungen-coburg.de \| Castle €6, museum €3 \| Tours Apr.–Oct., daily at 10, 11, noon, 2, 3, and 4. ## Kronach 23 km (15 miles) east of Coburg, 120 km (74 miles) north of Nürnberg. Kronach is a charming little gateway to the natural splendor of the Frankenwald region. #### Essentials Visitor Information Kronach. \| Tourismus Kronach, Marktpl. \| 09261/97236 \| www.kronach.de. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Festung Rosenberg (Rosenberg Fortress). This fortress is a few minutes' walk from the town center. As you stand below its mighty walls it's easy to see why it was never taken by enemy forces. During World War I it served as a POW camp, with no less a figure than Charles de Gaulle as a "guest." Today Rosenberg houses a youth hostel and, more importantly, the Fränkische Galerie (Franconian Gallery), an extension of the Bavarian National Museum in Munich, featuring paintings and sculpted works from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Lucas Cranach the Elder and Tilman Riemenschneider are represented, as well as artists from the Dürer School and the Bamberg School. In July and August the central courtyard is an atmospheric backdrop for performances of Goethe's Faust. The grounds of the fortress are also used by wood sculptors in summer. \| 09261/60410 \| www.kronach.de \| €8 \| Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–5:30. Obere Stadt (Upper Town). In its old medieval section of town, harmonious sandstone houses are surrounded by old walls and surmounted by a majestic fortress. Kronach is best known as the birthplace of Renaissance painter Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472–1553), but there's a running argument as to which house he was born in—Am Marktplatz 1 or in the house called Am Scharfen Eck, at Lucas-Cranach-Strasse 38. The latter served as a local pub for more than a hundred years. Today it is a good place to enjoy a very good, inexpensive Franconian meal.TIP On the last weekend in June, Kronach celebrates its past with a medieval festival featuring authentic garb, food, and troubadours. \| Obere Stadt. ## Kulmbach 19 km (12 miles) southeast of Kronach. A quarter of Kulmbachers earn their living directly or indirectly from beer. Kulmbach celebrates its brewing traditions every year in a nine-day festival that starts on the last Saturday in July. The main festival site, a mammoth tent, is called the Festspulhaus—literally, "festival swill house"—a none-too-subtle dig at nearby Bayreuth and its tony Festspielhaus, where Wagner's operas are performed. If you're here in winter, be sure to try the seasonal Eisbock, a special dark beer that is frozen as part of the brewing process; making it stronger. #### Essentials Visitor Information Kulmbach Tourismusservice. \| Stadthalle, Sutte 2 \| 09221/958–820 \| www.kulmbach.de. ### Exploring Kulmbacher Brewery. This brewery, which merged four Kulmbach breweries into one, produces, among others, the Doppelbock Kulminator 28, which takes nine months to brew and has an alcohol content of 12%. \| Lichtenfelserstr. 9 \| 09221/7050 \| www.kulmbacher.de. Bayerisches Brauereimuseum Kulmbach (Bavarian Brewery Museum). The Kulmbacher Brewery runs this museum jointly with the nearby Mönchshof-Bräu brewery and inn. TIP The price of admission includes a "taste" from the museum's own brewery. \| Hoferstr. 20 \| 09221/80514 \| www.kulmbacher-moenchshof.de \| €4.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5 FAMILY \| Neuenmarkt. In this "railway village" near Kulmbach, more than 25 beautifully preserved gleaming locomotives huff and puff in a living railroad museum. Every now and then a nostalgic train will take you to the Brewery Museum in Kulmbach, or you can enjoy a round-trip to Marktschorgast; both trips take you up the very steep "schiefe Ebene" stretch (literally, "slanting level"). The museum also has model trains set up in incredibly detailed replicas of landscapes. \| Birkenstr. 5 \| Neuenmarkt \| 09227/5700 \| www.dampflokmuseum.de \| €7 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. FAMILY \| Plassenburg. The most impressive Renaissance fortress in the country, it stands on a rise overlooking Kulmbach, a 20-minute hike from the Old Town. The first building here, begun in the mid-12th century, was torched by marauding Bavarians who were eager to put a stop to the ambitions of Duke Albrecht Alcibiades—a man who spent several years murdering, plundering, and pillaging his way through Franconia. His successors built today's castle, starting in about 1560. Externally, there's little to suggest the graceful Renaissance interior, but as you enter the main courtyard the scene changes abruptly. The tiered space of the courtyard is covered with precisely carved figures, medallions, and other intricate ornaments, the whole comprising one of the most remarkable and delicate architectural ensembles in Europe. Inside, the Deutsches Zinnfigurenmuseum (Tin Figures Museum), with more than 300,000 miniature statuettes and tin soldiers, holds the largest collection of its kind in the world. The figures are arranged in scenes from all periods of history. During the day you cannot drive up to the castle. There's a shuttle bus that leaves from the main square every half hour from 9 to 6; cost is €2.20. \| Plassenburg \| 09221/947–505 \| €4.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–4. ### Where to Stay Hotel Kronprinz. HOTEL \| This old hotel tucked away in the middle of Kulmbach's Old Town, right in the shadow of Plassenburg Castle, covers all basic needs, with the help of an extraordinary breakfast buffet. The furnishings are somewhat bland except in the higher-priced rooms. The café serves snacks and cakes. Pros: center of town; excellent cakes in café; 3 nice rooms in annex. Cons: plain rooms above café; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Fischerg. 4–6 \| 09221/92180 \| www.hotel-kulmbach.eu \| 22 rooms \| Closed Dec. 24–29 \| Breakfast. ## Bayreuth 24 km (15 miles) south of Kulmbach, 80 km (50 miles) northeast of Nürnberg. The small town of Bayreuth, pronounced "bye-roit," owes its fame to the music giant Richard Wagner (1813–83). The 19th-century composer, musical revolutionary, ultranationalist, and Nazi poster-child finally settled here after a lifetime of rootless shifting through Europe. Here he built his great theater, the Festspielhaus, as a suitable setting for his grand operas on Germanic mythological themes. The annual Wagner Festival dates to 1876, and brings droves of Wagner fans who push prices sky-high, fill hotels to bursting, and earn themselves much-sought-after social kudos in the process. The festival is held from late July until late August, so unless you plan to visit the town specifically for it, this is the time to stay away. #### Getting Here and Around To reach Bayreuth, take the Bayreuth exit off the Nürnberg–Berlin autobahn. It's 1½ hours north of Nürnberg. The train trip is an hour from Nürnberg. In town you can reach most points on foot. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bayreuth Kongress- und Tourismuszentrale. \| Luitpoldpl. 9 \| 0921/88588 \| www.bayreuth.de. ### Exploring Altes Schloss Eremitage. This palace, 5 km (3 miles) north of Bayreuth on B-85, makes an appealing departure from the sonorous and austere Wagnerian mood of much of the town. It's an early 18th-century palace, built as a summer retreat and remodeled in 1740 by the Margravine Wilhelmine. Although her taste is not much in evidence in the drab exterior, the interior, alive with light and color, displays her guiding hand in every elegant line. The extraordinary Japanischer Saal (Japanese Room), filled with Asian treasures and chinoiserie furniture, is the finest room. The park and gardens, partly formal, partly natural, are enjoyable for idle strolling. Fountain displays take place at the two fake grottoes at the top of the hour 10–5 daily. \| Eremitagestr. 4 \| 0921/759–6937 \| Schloss €4.50, park free \| Schloss Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6. Brauerei und Büttnerei-Museum (Brewery and Coopers Museum). Near the center of town, in the 1887 Maisel Brewery building, this museum reveals the tradition of the brewing trade over the past two centuries with a focus on the Maisel's trade, of course. The brewery operated here until 1981, when its much bigger home was completed next door.TIP After the 90-minute tour you can quaff a cool, freshly tapped traditional Bavarian Weissbier (wheat beer) in the museum's pub. The pub is also one of a handfull of places to try Maisel's Dampfbier; a delicious steam-brewed ale. \| Kulmbacherstr. 40 \| 0921/401–234 \| www.maisel.com \| €5 \| Tour daily at 2 pm; individual tours by appointment. Markgräfliches Opernhaus (Margravial Opera House). In 1745 Margravine Wilhelmine commissioned the Italian architects Guiseppe and Carlo Bibiena to build this rococo jewel, sumptuously decorated in red, gold, and blue. Apollo and the nine Muses cavort across the baroque frescoed ceiling. It was this delicate 500-seat theater that originally drew Wagner to Bayreuth; he felt that it might prove a suitable setting for his own operas. It's a wonderful setting for the concerts and operas of Bayreuth's "other" musical festivals, which the theater hosts throughout the year. You can still visit the Theater despite the ongoing reconstruction. \| Opernstr. \| 0921/759–6922 \| €2.50 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4. Closed during performances and on rehearsal days. Neues Schloss (New Palace). This glamorous 18th-century palace was built by the Margravine Wilhelmine, sister of Frederick the Great of Prussia and a woman of enormous energy and decided tastes. Though Wagner is the man most closely associated with Bayreuth, his choice of this setting is largely due to the work of this woman, who lived 100 years before him. Wilhelmine devoured books, wrote plays and operas (which she directed and, of course, acted in), and had buildings constructed, transforming much of the town and bringing it near bankruptcy. Her distinctive touch is evident at the palace, built when a mysterious fire conveniently destroyed parts of the original one. Anyone with a taste for the wilder flights of rococo decoration will love it. Some rooms have been given over to one of Europe's finest collections of faience. \| Ludwigstr. 21 \| 0921/759–6921 \| €12 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Wagner in Bayreuth Festspielhaus (Festival Theater). This high temple of the Wagner cult—where performances take place only during the annual Wagner Festival—is surprisingly plain. The spartan look is explained partly by Wagner's desire to achieve perfect acoustics. The wood seats have no upholstering, for example, and the walls are bare. The stage is enormous, capable of holding the huge casts required for Wagner's largest operas. The festival is still meticulously controlled by Wagner's family. \| Festspielhügel 1 \| 0921/78780 \| www.bayreuther-festspiele.de \| €5 \| Tours Dec.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. at 10, 2, and 3. Closed during rehearsals and on performance days during festival. Richard-Wagner-Museum. "Wahnfried," built by Wagner in 1874 and the only house he ever owned, is now the Richard-Wagner-Museum. It's a simple, austere neoclassical building whose name, "peace from madness," was well earned. Wagner lived here with his wife Cosima, daughter of pianist Franz Liszt, and they were both laid to rest here. King Ludwig II of Bavaria, the young and impressionable "Fairy-Tale King" who gave Wagner so much financial support, is remembered in a bust before the entrance. The exhibits, arranged along a well-marked tour through the house, require a great deal of German-language reading, but it's a must for Wagner fans. The original scores of such masterpieces as Parsifal, Tristan und Isolde, Lohengrin, Der Fliegende Holländer, and Götterdämmerung are on display. You can also see designs for productions of his operas, as well as his piano and huge library. A multimedia display lets you watch and listen to various productions of his operas. The little house where Franz Liszt lived and died is right next door and can be visited with your Richard-Wagner-Museum ticket, but be sure to express your interest in advance. It, too, is heavy on the paper, but the last rooms—with pictures, photos, and silhouettes of the master, his students, acolytes, and friends—are well worth the detour. TIP The museum will be closed until 2015, but true loyalists will still want to come to see the outside of the house. \| Richard-Wagner-Str. 48 \| 0921/757–2816 \| www.wagnermuseum.de \| Closed until 2015. * * * Wagner: Germany's Top Romantic Understanding Wagner Born in 1813, Richard Wagner has become modern Germany's most iconic composer. His music, which is best understood in its simple message of national glory and destiny, contributed greatly to the feeling of pan-Germanism that united Germany under the Prussian crown in 1871. However, his overtly nationalistic themes and blatant anti-Semitism also makes his music a bit controversial as it's also connected to the Nazi movement and Adolf Hitler; Hitler adored Wagner and saw him as the embodiment of his own vision for the German people. Wagner's focus on the cult of the leader and the glories of victory are prevalent in his works Lohengrin and Parsifal. Some of his most famous compositions are the four opera cycle The Ring of the Nibelung (aka Ring Cycle), Parsifal, and Lohengrin. Wagner Today In 1871 Wagner moved to the city of Bayreuth and began construction of the Festspielhaus, an opera house that would only perform Wagner's operas. The performance space opened its doors in 1876 with a production of Das Rheingold and the first full performance of the four-part Ring Cycle. The Festspielhaus continues to showcase Wagner's works during the annual Bayreuther Festspiel, a pilgrimage site for die-hard Wagner fans. The waiting list for tickets is years long; it's almost impossible for mere mortals to gain entrance to the holy temple. However, almost all German opera and symphony companies perform Wagner's works throughout the year. The best places to see Wagner's longer works are at Berlin's State Opera; the National Theater in Weimar; the Gewandhaus Orchestra and Opera in Leipzig; and Munich's Bavarian State Opera. * * * ### Where to Eat Oskar. GERMAN \| A huge glass ceiling gives the large dining room a light atmosphere even in winter. In summer, try for a table in the beer garden to enjoy fine Franconian specialties and Continental dishes. The kitchen uses the freshest produce. The room fills up at night and during Sunday brunch, especially if a jazz band is playing in one of the alcoves. \| Average main: €13 \| Maximilianstr. 33 \| 0921/516–0553 \| www.oskar-bayreuth.de \| No credit cards. Wolffenzacher. GERMAN \| This self-described "Franconian nostalgic inn" harks back to the days when the local Wirtshaus (inn-pub) was the meeting place for everyone from the mayor's scribes to the local carpenters. Beer and hearty traditional food are shared at wooden tables either in the rustic interior or out in the shady beer garden, weather permitting. The hearty Franconian specialties are counterbalanced by a few lighter Mediterranean dishes. \| Average main: €11 \| Sternenpl. 5 \| 0921/64552 \| www.wolffenzacher.de. * * * What to Eat in Franconia Franconia is known for its good and filling food and for its simple and atmospheric Gasthäuser. Pork is a staple, served either as Schweinsbraten (a plain roast) or with Knödel (dumplings made from either bread or potatoes). The specialties in Nürnberg, Coburg, and Regensburg are the Bratwürste—short, spiced sausages. The Nürnberg variety is known all over Germany; they are even on the menu on the ICE trains. You can have them grilled or heated in a stock of onions and wine (saurer Zipfel). Bratwürste are traditionally served in denominations of 3, 6, or 8 with sauerkraut and potato salad or dark bread. On the sweet side, try the Dampfnudel, a kind of sweet yeast-dough dumpling that is tasty and filling. Nürnberger Lebkuchen, a sort of gingerbread eaten at Christmastime, is loved all over Germany. A true purist swears by Elisen Lebkuchen, which are made with no flour. Both Lebkuchen and Bratwürste are protected under German law and are only "legal" when made in or around Nürnberg. Not to be missed are Franconia's liquid refreshments from both the grape and the grain. Franconian wines, usually white and sold in distinctive flat bottles called Bocksbeutel, are renowned for their special bouquet. (Silvaner is the traditional grape.) The region has the largest concentration of local breweries in the world (Bamberg alone has 9, Bayreuth 7), producing a wide range of brews, the most distinctive of which is the dark, smoky Rauchbier and the even darker and stronger Schwärzla. Then, of course, there is Kulmbach, with the Doppelbock Kulminator 28, which takes nine months to brew and has an alcohol content of 12%. * * * ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Goldener Anker. HOTEL \| No question about it, Bayreuth's grande dame is the place to stay; the hotel is right next to the Markgräfliches Opernhaus and has been entertaining composers, singers, conductors, and instrumentalists for hundreds of years. The establishment has been run by the same family since 1753. Some rooms are small; others have a royal splendor. One huge suite has a spiral staircase leading up to the bedroom. All are individually decorated, and many have antique pieces. The restaurant is justly popular. Book your room far in advance during festival times. Pros: authentic historic setting with all modern amenities; exemplary service; excellent restaurant. Cons: no elevator; some rooms are on the small side; restaurant closed Monday and Tuesday. \| Rooms from: €138 \| Opernstr. 6 \| 0921/65051 \| www.anker-bayreuth.de \| 38 rooms, 2 suites \| Restaurant closed Mon. and Tues., except during the festival \| Breakfast. Hotel Lohmühle. HOTEL \| The old part of this hotel is in Bayreuth's only half-timber house, a former sawmill by a stream. It's just a two-minute walk from the town center. The rooms are rustic, with visible beams; the newer, neighboring building has correspondingly modern rooms. The restaurant offers traditional, hearty cooking ($$), such as Schäufele (pork) or carp. Pros: nice setting with reasonable prices; good food. Cons: stairs between hotel and restaurant; front rooms let in traffic noise. \| Rooms from: €166 \| Badstr. 37 \| 0921/53060 \| www.hotel-lohmuehle.de \| 42 rooms \| No dinner Sun. \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Markgräfliches Opernhaus. If you don't get Wagner Festival tickets, console yourself with visits to the exquisite 18th-century Markgräfliches Opernhaus. In May the Fränkische Festwochen (Franconian Festival Weeks) take the stage with works of Wagner, of course, but also Paganini and Mozart. \| Opernstr. \| 0921/759–6922. Wagner Festival. Opera lovers swear that there are few more intense operatic experiences than the annual Wagner Festival in Bayreuth, held July and August. You'll do best if you plan your visit several years in advance. TIP It is nearly impossible to find a hotel room during the festival: try finding a room in Kronach instead of Bayreuth. Bayreuther Festspiele Kartenbüro. For tickets to the Wagner Festival, write to the Bayreuther Festspiele Kartenbüro by the middle of October the year before, at the latest. Be warned: The waiting list is years long, and they only offer tickets by mail or online and will ignore any other inquiries. \| 0921/78780 \| www.bayreuther-festspiele.de ### Shopping Hofgarten Passage. Off Richard-Wagner-Strasse, you'll find one of the fanciest shopping arcades in the region; it's full of smart boutiques selling everything from German high fashion to simple local craftwork. \| Richard-Wagner-Str. 22. En Route: Fränkische Schweiz. The B–22 highway cuts through the Fränkische Schweiz—or Franconian Switzerland—which got its name from its fir-clad upland landscape. Just north of Hollfeld, 23 km (14 mi) west of Bayreuth, the Jurassic rock of the region breaks through the surface in a bizarre, craggy formation known as the Felsgarten (Rock Garden). \| B–22. 27 Loch \| Hollfeld. ## Bamberg 65 km (40 miles) west of Bayreuth, 80 km (50 miles) north of Nürnberg. Few towns in Germany survived the war with as little damage as Bamberg, which is on the Regnitz River. TIP This former residence of one of Germany's most powerful imperial dynasties is on UNESCO's World Heritage Site list. Bamberg, originally nothing more than a fortress in the hands of the Babenberg dynasty (later contracted to Bamberg), rose to prominence in the 11th century thanks to the political and economic drive of its most famous offspring, Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich II. He transformed the imperial residence into a flourishing Episcopal city. His cathedral, consecrated in 1237, still dominates the city center. For a short period Heinrich II proclaimed Bamberg the capital of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. Moreover, Bamberg earned fame as the second city to introduce book printing, in 1460. #### Getting Here and Around Traveling to Bamberg by train will take about 45 minutes from Nürnberg; from Munich it takes about two hours. Bamberg is a worthwhile five-hour train trip from Berlin. Bamberg's train station is a 30-minute walk from the Altstadt (Old Town). On the A-73 autobahn, Bamberg is two hours from Munich. Everything in town can be reached on foot. #### Tours In Bamberg, Personenschiffahrt Kropf boats leave daily from March through October beginning at 11 am for short cruises on the Regnitz River and the Main-Donau Canal; the cost is €7. The Bamberg Tourist Information center offers an audio tour in English for €8.50 for four hours. It also offers brewery and beer-tasting tours of the nine Bamberg breweries. #### Essentials Boat Tours Personenschiffahrt Kropf. \| Kapuzinerstr. 5 \| 0951/26679 \| www.personenschiffahrt-bamberg.de. Visitor Information Bamberg Tourismus und Congresservice. \| Geyerswörthstr. 5 \| 0951/297–6200 \| www.bamberg.info. ### Exploring Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). At Bamberg's historic core, the Altes Rathaus, is tucked snugly on a small island in the Regnitz. To the west of the river is the so-called Bishops' Town; to the east, Burghers' Town. The citizens of Bamberg built this rickety, extravagantly decorated building on an artificial island when the Bishop of Bamberg refused to give the city the land for a town hall. The excellent collection of porcelain is a sampling of 18th-century styles, from almost sober Meissens with bucolic Watteau scenes to simple but rare Haguenau pieces from Alsace and faience from Strasbourg. \| Obere Brücke 1 \| 0951/871–871 \| €4 \| Tues.–Sun. 9:30–4:30. Quick Bites: Rathaus-Schänke. Before heading up the hill to the main sights in the Bishops' Town, take a break with coffee, cake, small meals, or cocktails in the half-timber Rathaus-Schänke. It overlooks the river on the Burghers' Town side of the Town Hall. \| Obere Brücke 3 \| 0951/208–0890 \| www.rathausschaenke-bamberg.com. Diözesanmuseum (Cathedral Museum). Directly adjacent to the Bamberg Dom, this museum contains one of many nails and splinters of wood reputed to be from the cross of Jesus. The "star-spangled" cloak stitched with gold that was given to Emperor Heinrich II by an Italian prince is among the finest items displayed. More macabre exhibits in this rich ecclesiastical collection are the elaborately mounted skulls of Heinrich and Kunigunde. The building itself was designed by Balthasar Neumann (1687–1753), the architect of Vierzehnheiligen, and constructed between 1730 and 1733. \| Dompl. 5 \| 0951/502–325 \| €4 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5; tour in English by appointment. Dom (Cathedral). Bamberg's great cathedral is a unique building that tells not only the town's story but that of Germany as well. The first building here was begun by Heinrich II in 1003, and it was in this partially completed cathedral that he was crowned Holy Roman Emperor in 1012. In 1237 it was destroyed by fire, and replaced by present late-Romanesque/early-Gothic building. The dominant features are the massive towers at each corner. Heading into the dark interior, you'll find a striking collection of monuments and art treasures. The most famous piece is the Bamberger Reiter (Bamberg Horseman), an equestrian statue carved—no one knows by whom—around 1230 and thought to be an allegory of chivalrous virtue or a representation of King Stephen of Hungary. Compare it with the mass of carved figures huddled in the tympana above the church portals. In the center of the nave you'll find another masterpiece, the massive tomb of Heinrich and his wife, Kunigunde. It's the work of Tilman Riemenschneider. Pope Clement II is also buried in the cathedral, in an imposing tomb beneath the high altar; he's the only pope buried north of the Alps. \| Dompl. \| 0951/502–330 \| Nov.–Mar., daily 10–5; Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6. Closed during services. Kloster St. Michael (Monastery of St. Michael). Once a Benedictine monastery, this structure has been gazing over Bamberg since 1015. After being overwhelmed by so much baroque elsewhere, entering this haven of simplicity can be a relief. The entire choir is intricately carved, but the ceiling is gently decorated with very exact depictions of 578 flowers and healing herbs. The tomb of St. Otto is in a little chapel off the transept, and the stained-glass windows hold symbols of death and transfiguration. The monastery is now used as a home for the aged. One tract, however, was taken over by the Franconian Brewery Museum, which exhibits everything that has to do with beer, from the making of malt to recipes. \| Michelsberg 10f \| 0951/53016 \| Museum €4 \| Apr.–Oct., Wed.–Sun. 1–5. Neue Residenz (New Residence). This glittering baroque palace was once the home of the prince-electors. Their plan to extend the immense palace even further is evident at the corner on Obere Karolinenstrasse, where the ashlar bonding was left open to accept another wing. The most memorable room in the palace is the Kaisersaal (Throne Room), complete with impressive ceiling frescoes and elaborate stucco. The rose garden behind the Neue Residenz provides an aromatic and romantic spot for a stroll with a view of Bamberg's roof landscape. You have to take a tour to see the Residenz itself, but you can visit the library free of charge at any time during its open hours. \| Neue Residenz, Dompl. 8 \| 0951/955–030 \| €4.50 \| Neue Residenz by tour only, Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4. Staatsbibliothek (State Library). The Neue Residenz is also home to the Staatsbibliothek. Among the thousands of books and illuminated manuscripts here are the original prayer books belonging to Heinrich II and his wife, a 5th century codex of the Roman historian Livy, and manuscripts by the 16th-century painters Dürer and Cranach. \| Dompl. 8 \| 0951/955–030 \| www.staatsbibliothek-bamberg.de \| Free \| Weekdays 9–5, Sat. 9–noon Obere Pfarre (Upper Parish). Bamberg's wealthy burghers built no fewer than 50 churches. The Church of Our Lady, known simply as the Obere Pfarre, dates back to around 1325, and is unusual because the exterior is entirely Gothic, while the interior is heavily baroque. The grand choir, which lacks any windows, was added much later. An odd square-ish box tops the church tower; this watchman's post was placed there to keep the tower smaller than the neighboring cathedral, thus avoiding a medieval scandal. Note the slanted floor, which allowed crowds of pilgrims to see the object of their veneration, a 14th-century Madonna. Don't miss the Ascension of Mary by Tintoretto at the rear of the church. Around Christmas, the Obere Pfarre is the site of the city's greatest Nativity scene. Avoid the church during services, unless you're worshipping. \| Untere Seelg. \| Daily 7–7. ### Near Bamberg Kloster Banz (Banz Abbey). This abbey, which some call the "holy mountain of Bavaria," proudly crowns the west bank of the Main north of Bamberg. There had been a monastery here since 1069, but the present buildings—now a political-seminar center and think tank—date from the end of the 17th century. The highlight of the complex is the Klosterkirche (Abbey Church), the work of architect Leonard Dientzenhofer and his brother, the stuccoist Johann Dientzenhofer (1663–1726). Balthasar Neumann later contributed a good deal of work. Concerts are occasionally held in the church, including some by members of the renowned Bamberger Symphoniker. To get to Banz from Vierzehnheiligen, drive south to Unnersdorf, where you can cross the river. \| Kloster-Banz-Str. 1 \| Bad Staffelstein \| 09573/7311 \| May–Oct., daily 9–5; Nov.–Apr., daily 9–noon. Call to request a tour. Fodor's Choice \| Vierzehnheiligen. In Bad Staffelstein, on the east side of the Main north of Bamberg, is a tall, elegant yellow-sandstone edifice whose interior represents one of the great examples of rococo decoration. The church was built by Balthasar Neumann (architect of the Residenz at Würzburg) between 1743 and 1772 to commemorate a vision of Christ and 14 saints—vierzehn Heiligen—that appeared to a shepherd in 1445. The interior, known as "God's Ballroom," is supported by 14 columns. In the middle of the church is the Gnadenaltar (Mercy Altar) featuring the 14 saints. Thanks to clever play with light, light colors, and fanciful gold-and-blue trimmings, the interior seems to be in perpetual motion. Guided tours of the church are given on request; a donation is expected. On Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday the road leading to the church is closed and you have to walk the last half mile. \| Vierzehnheiligen 2, 36 km (22 miles) north of Bamberg via Hwy. 173 \| Bad Staffelstein \| 09571/95080 \| www.vierzehnheiligen.de \| Mar.–Oct., daily 7–6; Nov.–Feb., daily 8–5. ### Where to Eat Bischofsmühle. GERMAN \| It doesn't always have to be beer in Bamberg. The old mill, its grinding wheel providing a sonorous backdrop for patrons, specializes in wines from Franconia and elsewhere. The menu offers Franconian specialties such as the French-derived Böfflamott, or beef a la mode. \| Average main: €11 \| Geyerswörthstr. 4 \| 0951/27570 \| www.bischofsmuehle-mueller.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Wed. Klosterbräu. GERMAN \| This massive old stone-and-half-timber house has been standing since 1533, making it Bamberg's oldest brewpub. Regulars nurse a dark, smoky beer called Schwärzla near the big stove—though the best beer is the Klosterbraun. If you like the brew, you can buy a 5-liter bottle (called a Siphon) as well as other bottled beers and the requisite beer steins at the counter. The cuisine is basic, robust, filling, and tasty, with such items as a bowl of beans with a slab of smoked pork, or marinated pork kidneys with boiled potatoes. \| Average main: €8 \| Obere Mühlbrücke \| 0951/52265 \| www.klosterbraeu.de \| No credit cards. Schlenkerla. GERMAN \| Set in the middle of the old town, this tavern has been serving beer inside an ancient half-timbered house since 1405. The fare, atmosphere, and partons are the definition of traditional Bamberg. Be sure to try the Bamberger Zwiebel, a local onion stuffed with pork. The real reason to come here is to try the Aecht Schenkerla Rauchbier, a beer brewed with smoked malt. This Rauchbier (smoked beer) is served from huge wooden barrels and tastes like liquid ham—it's an aquired taste, but one worth sampling. \| Average main: €10 \| Dominikanerstr. 6 \| 951/56050 \| www.schlenkerla.de. ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Hotel-Restaurant St. Nepomuk. B&B/INN \| This half-timber house seems to float over the river Regnitz; many of the comfortable rooms have quite a view of the water and the Old Town Hall on its island. The dining room, with its podium fireplace, discreet lights, and serene atmosphere, has a direct view of the river. The Grüner family makes a special effort to bring not only high-quality food to the restaurant ($$$) but a world of excellent wines as well. Pros: nice view; an elegant dining room with excellent food. Cons: hotel on a pedestrian-only street; in need of some renovation; public garage 200 meters away. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Obere Mühlbrücke 9 \| 0951/98420 \| www.hotel-nepomuk.de \| 47 rooms \| Breakfast. Romantik Hotel Weinhaus Messerschmitt. HOTEL \| This comfortable hotel has spacious and luxurious rooms, some with exposed beams and many of them lighted by chandeliers. Willy Messerschmitt of aviation fame grew up in this beautiful late-baroque house with a steep-eave, green-shuttered, stucco exterior. You'll dine under beams and a coffered ceiling in the excellent Messerschmitt restaurant ($$), one of Bamberg's most popular culinary havens for Franconian specialties. Pros: elegant dining room with good food; variety of rooms to choose from. Cons: older property; front rooms are noisy; expensive. \| Rooms from: €145 \| Langestr. 41 \| 0951/297–800 \| www.hotel-messerschmitt.de \| 67 rooms \| Breakfast. ### The Arts Capella Antiqua Bambergensis. The city's first-class choir, Capella Antiqua Bambergensis, concentrates on ancient music. They play at several venues in town. \| www.capella-antiqua.de. Dom. Throughout summer organ concerts are given Saturday at noon in the Dom. Call for program details and tickets to all cultural events. \| Dompl. \| 0951/297–6200. Hoffmann Theater. Opera and operettas are performed here from September through July. \| E.-T.-A.-Hoffmann-Pl. 1 \| 0951/873–030. Sinfonie an der Regnitz. This fine riverside concert hall, is home to Bamberg's own world-class resident symphony orchestra, the Bamberger Symphoniker. \| Muss-Str. 1 \| 0951/964–7200. ### Shopping TIP If you happen to be traveling around Christmastime, make sure you keep an eye out for crèches, a Bamberg specialty. Check the tourism website (www.bamberg.info) for the locations of nativity scenes and descriptions. Café am Dom. For an edible souvenir, take home handmade chocolates like the only-in-Bamberg Rauchbier truffles made with Schlenkerla smoked beer. This café also has a roomy seating area to take a load off while you nibble a delicious pastry. \| Ringleinsg. 2 \| 0951/519–290. Magnus Klee. This shop sells nativity scenes, called Krippen in German, of all different shapes and sizes, including wood-carved and with fabric clothes. \| Obstmarkt 2 \| 0951/26037. Vinothek im Sand. Head to this wine store for Franconian wine as well as a sampling of Bamberg's specialty beers. \| Obere Sandstr. 8 \| 0151/5473–8779. En Route: From Bamberg you can take either the fast autobahn (A-73) south to Nürnberg or the parallel country road (B-4) that follows the Main-Donau Canal (running parallel to the Regnitz River at this point) and joins A-73 just under 25 km (15 miles) later at Forchheim-Nord. Levi-Strauss Museum. Eighteen kilometers (11 miles) south of Bamberg in the village of Buttenheim is a little blue-and-white half-timber house where Löb Strauss was born—in great poverty—in 1829. Take the audio tour of the Levi-Strauss Museum and learn how Löb emigrated to the United States, changed his name to Levi, and became the first name in denim. The stonewashed color of the house's beams, by the way, is the original 17th-century color. \| Marktstr. 33 \| Buttenheim \| 09545/442–602 \| www.levi-strauss-museum.de \| €2.60 \| Tues. and Thurs. 2–6, weekends 11–5 and by appointment. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Nürnberg's Old Town \| Nürnberg's Nazi Sights \| Where to Eat \| Where to Stay \| Shopping With a recorded history stretching back to 1050, the main city in Bavarian is among the most historic of all of Germany; the core of the Old Town, through which the Pegnitz River flows, is still surrounded by its original medieval walls. Nürnberg has always taken a leading role in German affairs. It was here, for example, that the Holy Roman emperors traditionally held the first Diet, or convention of the estates, of their incumbency. And it was here, too, that Hitler staged the most grandiose Nazi rallies; later, this was the site of the Allies' war trials, where top-ranking Nazis were charged with—and almost without exception convicted of—crimes against humanity. The rebuilding of Nürnberg after the war was virtually a miracle, considering the 90% destruction of the Old Town. As a major intersection on the medieval trade routes, Nürnberg became a wealthy town where the arts and sciences flowered. Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528), the first indisputable genius of the Renaissance in Germany, was born here. He married in 1509 and bought a house in the city where he lived and worked for the rest of his life. Other leading Nürnberg artists of the Renaissance include painter Michael Wolgemut (a teacher of Dürer), stonecutter Adam Kraft, and the brass founder Peter Vischer. The tradition of the Meistersinger also flourished here in the 16th century, thanks to the high standard set by the local cobbler Hans Sachs (1494–1576). The Meistersinger were poets and musicians who turned songwriting into a special craft, with a wealth of rules and regulations. They were celebrated three centuries later by Wagner in his Meistersinger von Nürnberg. The Thirty Years' War and the shift to sea routes for transportation led to the city's long decline, which ended only in the early 19th century when the first railroad opened in Nürnberg. Among a great host of inventions associated with the city, the most significant are the pocket watch, gun casting, the clarinet, and the geographic globe. Among Nürnberg's famous products are Lebkuchen (gingerbread of sorts) and Faber-Castell pencils. #### Getting Here and Around Nürnberg is centrally located and well connected, an hour north of Munich and two hours east of Frankfurt by train. Five autobahns meet here: A-3 Düsseldorf–Passau, A-6 Mannheim–Nürnberg, A-9 Potzdam–München, A-73 Coburg–Feucht, and B-8 (four lane near Nürnberg) Würzburg–Regensburg. Most places in the Old Town may be reached on foot. English-language bus tours of the city are conducted April–October and in December, daily at 9:30, starting at the Mauthalle, Hallplatz 2. The 2½-hour tour costs €15. For more information, call \| 0911/202–290. An English-language tour on foot through the Old Town is conducted daily May–October at 1; it departs from the tourist-information office on the Hauptmarkt. The tour costs €9 (plus entrance to the Kaiserburg €2). City tours are also conducted in brightly painted trolley buses April–October, daily at one-hour intervals beginning at 10 at the Schöner Brunnen. The cost is €6. For more information call the Nürnberg tourist office. #### Timing You'll need a full day to walk around Nürnberg's Old Town, two if you wish to take more time at its fascinating museums and churches. Most of the major sights are within a few minutes' walk of each other. The Kaiserburg is a must-visit on any trip to Nürnberg. Plan at least half a day for the Germanisches Nationalmuseum, which is just inside the city walls near the main station. Add another half a day to visit the Nazi Party Rally Grounds. #### Festivals By far the most famous local festival is the Christkindlesmarkt (Christmas Market), an enormous pre-Christmas fair that runs from the Friday before Advent to Christmas Eve. One of the highlights is the candle procession, held every second Thursday of the market season, during which thousands of children parade through the city streets. Christkindlesmarkt. Perhaps the most famous Christmas Market in Germany, the Nürnberg Christkindlesmarkt sits on the town's cobble-stoned main square beneath the wonderful Frauenkirche. Renowned for its food, particularly Nürnberger Bratwurstchen, tasty little pork and marjoram sausages, and Lebkuchen, gingerbread made with cinnamon and honey, the market is also famed for its little figures made out of prunes called Nürnberger Zwetschgenmännla or "Nürnberg Prune People." \| Hauptmarkt \| www.christkindlesmarkt.de \| Nov. 25–Dec. 24, Mon.–Thurs. 9:30–8, Fri. and Sat. 9:30–10, Sun. 10:30–8, Christmas Eve 9:30–2. Kaiserburg. From May through July classical music concerts are given in the Rittersaal of the Kaiserburg. \| 0911/244–6590. Sommer in Nürnberg. Nürnberg has an annual summer festival, Sommer in Nürnberg, from May through July, with more than 200 events. Its international organ festival in June and July is regarded as Europe's finest. #### Essentials Visitor Information Nürnberg Congress-und Tourismus-Zentrale. \| Frauentorgraben 3 \| 0911/23360 \| www.nuernberg.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Nürnberg's Old Town Walls, finished in 1452, surround Nürnberg's Old Town. Year-round floodlighting adds to the brooding romance of their moats, sturdy gateways, and watchtowers. ### Top Attractions Albrecht-Dürer-Haus (Albrecht Dürer House). The great painter Albrecht Dürer lived here from 1509 until his death in 1528. This beautifully preserved late-medieval house is typical of the prosperous merchants' homes that once filled Nürnberg. Dürer, who enriched German art with Italianate elements, was more than a painter. He raised the woodcut, a notoriously difficult medium, to new heights of technical sophistication, combining great skill with a haunting, immensely detailed drawing style and complex, allegorical subject matter, while earning a good living at the same time. A number of original prints adorn the walls, and printing techniques using the old press are demonstrated in the studio. An excellent opportunity to find out about life in the house of Dürer is the Saturday 2 pm tour with a guide role-playing Agnes Dürer, the artist's wife. \| Albrecht-Dürer-Str. 39 \| 0911/231–2568 \| €5, with tour €7.50 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–5; Thurs. 10–8; guided tour in English Sat. at 2. Fodor's Choice \| Germanisches Nationalmuseum (German National Museum). You could spend days visiting this vast museum, which showcases the country's cultural and scientific achievements, ethnic background, and history. It's the largest of its kind in Germany, and perhaps the best arranged. The museum is in a former Carthusian monastery, complete with cloisters and monastic outbuildings. The extensions, however, are modern. The exhibition begins outside, with the tall, sleek pillars of the Strasse der Menschenrechte (Street of Human Rights), designed by Israeli artist Dani Karavan. Thirty columns are inscribed with the articles from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. One highlight is the superb collection of Renaissance German paintings (with Dürer, Cranach, and Altdorfer well represented). Others may prefer the exquisite medieval ecclesiastical exhibits—manuscripts, altarpieces, statuary, stained glass, jewel-encrusted reliquaries—the collections of arms and armor, the scientific instruments, or the toys. \| Kartäuserg 1 \| 0911/13310 \| www.gnm.de \| €8 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. 10–9. Quick Bites: Bistro Arte. Opposite the Germanisches Nationalmuseum is Bistro Arte. Al dente pasta or meat and fish dishes with excellent wines will revive you after the long hours spent in the museum. \| Kartäuserg. 12 \| 0911/244–9774 \| www.arte-cafe.de \| Closed Mon. Fodor's Choice \| Kaiserburg (Imperial Castle). The city's main attraction is a grand yet playful collection of buildings standing just inside the city walls; it was once the residence of the Holy Roman Emperor. The complex comprises three separate groups. The oldest, dating from around 1050, is the Burggrafenburg (Castellan's Castle), with a craggy old pentagonal tower and the bailiff's house. It stands in the center of the complex. To the east is the Kaiserstallung (Imperial Stables), built in the 15th century as a granary and now serving as a youth hostel. The real interest of this vast complex of ancient buildings, however, centers on the westernmost part of the fortress, which begins at the Sinwell Turm (Sinwell Tower). The Kaiserburg Museum is here, a subsidiary of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum that displays ancient armors and has exhibits relating to horsemanship in the imperial era and to the history of the fortress. This section of the castle also has a wonderful Romanesque Doppelkappelle (Double Chapel). The upper part—richer, larger, and more ornate than the lower chapel—was where the emperor and his family worshipped. Also visit the Rittersaal (Knights' Hall) and the Kaisersaal (Throne Room). Their heavy oak beams, painted ceilings, and sparse interiors have changed little since they were built in the 15th century. \| Burgstr. \| 0911/2446–59115 \| www.kaiserburg-nuernberg.de \| €7 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4. Neues Museum (New Museum). Anything but medieval, this museum is devoted to international design since 1945. The collection, supplemented by changing exhibitions, is in a slick, modern edifice that achieves the perfect synthesis between old and new. It's mostly built of traditional pink-sandstone ashlars, while the facade is a flowing, transparent composition of glass. The interior is a work of art in itself—cool stone, with a ramp that slowly spirals up to the gallery. Extraordinary things await, including a Joseph Beuys installation (Ausfegen, or Sweep-out) and Avalanche by François Morellet, a striking collection of violet, argon-gas-filled fluorescent tubes. The café-restaurant adjoining the museum contains modern art, silver-wrapped candies, and video projections. \| Luitpoldstr. 5 \| 0911/240–200 \| www.nmn.de \| €4 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–8, weekends 10–6. ### Worth Noting Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). This ancient building on Rathausplatz abuts the rear of St. Sebaldus Kirche; it was erected in 1332, destroyed in World War II, and subsequently reconstructed. Its intact medieval dungeons, consisting of 12 small rooms and one large torture chamber called the Lochgefängnis (or the Hole), provide insight into the gruesome applications of medieval law. Gänsemännchenbrunnen (Gooseman's Fountain) faces the Altes Rathaus. This lovely Renaissance bronze fountain, cast in 1550, is a work of rare elegance and great technical sophistication. \| Rathauspl. 2 \| 0911/231–2690 \| €3.50, minimum of 5 people for tours \| Tues.–Sun. 10–4. Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). The fine late-Gothic Frauenkirche was built in 1350, with the approval of Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV, on the site of a synagogue that was burned down during the1349 pogrom. The modern tabernacle beneath the main altar was designed to look like a Torah scroll as a memorial to that despicable act. The church's main attraction is the Männleinlaufen, a clock dating from 1509, which is set in its facade. It's one of those colorful mechanical marvels at which Germans have long excelled. TIP Every day at noon the seven electors of the Holy Roman Empire glide out of the clock to bow to Emperor Charles IV before sliding back under cover. It's worth scheduling your morning to catch the display. \| Hauptmarkt \| Mon.–Sat. 9–6, Sun. 12:30–6. Hauptmarkt (Main Market). Nürnberg's central market square was once the city's Jewish Quarter. When the people of Nürnberg petitioned their emperor, Charles IV, for a big central market, the emperor was in desperate need of money and, above all, political support. The Jewish Quarter was the preferred site, but as the official protector of the Jewish people, the emperor could not just openly take away their property. Instead, in 1349 he instigated a pogrom that left the Jewish Quarter in flames and more than 500 dead. He then razed the ruins and resettled the remaining Jews. Towering over the northwestern corner of the Hauptmarkt, Schöner Brunnen (Beautiful Fountain) looks as though it should be on the summit of some lofty cathedral. Carved around the year 1400, the elegant 60-foot-high Gothic fountain is adorned with 40 figures arranged in tiers—prophets, saints, local noblemen, sundry electors of the Holy Roman Empire, and one or two strays such as Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. TIP A gold ring is set into the railing surrounding the fountain, reportedly placed there by an apprentice carver. Touching it is said to bring good luck. A market still operates in the Hauptmarkt. Its colorful stands are piled high with produce, fruit, bread, homemade cheeses and sausages, sweets, and anything else you might need for a snack or picnic. It's here that the Christkindlesmarkt is held. \| Hauptmarkt. Jüdisches Museum Franken. The everyday life of the Jewish community in Franconia and Fürth is examined in this Jewish museum: books, seder plates, old statutes, and children's toys are among the exhibits. Among the most famous members of the Fürth community was Henry Kissinger, born here in 1923. Changing exhibitions relate to contemporary Jewish life in Germany, and in the basement is the Mikwe, the ritual bath, which was used by the family who lived here centuries ago. In the museum you will also find a good Jewish bookshop as well as a nice small café. A subsidiary to the museum, which houses special exhibitions, is in the former synagogue in nearby Schnaittach. To get to the museum from Nürnberg, you can take the U1 U-bahn to the Rathaus stop. \| Königstr. 89, 10 km (6 miles) west of Nürnberg \| Fürth \| 0911/770–577 \| €3 \| Wed.–Sun. 10–5, Tues. 10–8. Museum für Kommunikation (Communication Museum). Two museums have been amalgamated under a single roof here: the German Railway Museum and the Museum of Communication—in short, museums about how people stay connected. The first train to run in Germany did so on December 7, 1835, from Nürnberg to nearby Fürth. A model of the epochal train is here, along with a series of original 19th- and early-20th-century trains and stagecoaches. Philatelists will want to check out some of the 40,000-odd stamps in the extensive exhibits on the German postal system. You can also find out about the history of sending messages—from old coaches to optical fiber networks. \| Lessingstr. 6 \| 0911/219–2428 \| www.mfk-nuernberg.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. St. Lorenz Kirche (St. Laurence Church). In a city with several striking churches, St. Lorenz is considered by many to be the most beautiful. Construction began around 1250 and was completed in about 1477; it later became a Lutheran church. Two towers flank the main entrance, which is covered with a forest of carvings. In the lofty interior, note the works by sculptors Adam Kraft and Veit Stoss: Kraft's great stone tabernacle, to the left of the altar, and Stoss's Annunciation, at the east end of the nave, are their finest works. There are many other carvings throughout the building, testimony to the artistic wealth of late-medieval Nürnberg. \| Lorenzer Pl. \| Mon.–Sat. 9–5, Sun. noon–4. St. Sebaldus Kirche (St. Sebaldus Church). Although St. Sebaldus lacks the quantity of art treasures found in its rival St. Lorenz, its nave and choir are among the purest examples of Gothic ecclesiastical architecture in Germany: elegant, tall, and airy. Veit Stoss carved the crucifixion group at the east end of the nave, while the elaborate bronze shrine containing the remains of St. Sebaldus himself was cast by Peter Vischer and his five sons around 1520. Not to be missed is the Sebaldus Chörlein, an ornate Gothic oriel that was added to the Sebaldus parish house in 1361 (the original is in the Germanisches Nationalmuseum). \| Albrecht-Dürer-Pl. 1 \| 0911/214–2500 \| Daily 10–5. FAMILY \| Spielzeugmuseum (Toy Museum). Young and old are captivated by this playful museum, which has a few exhibits dating from the Renaissance; most, however, are from the 19th century. Simple dolls vie with mechanical toys of extraordinary complexity, such as a wooden Ferris wheel from the Ore Mountains adorned with little colored lights. The top floor displays Barbies and intricate Lego constructions. \| Karlstr. 13–15 \| 0911/231–3164 \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Stadtmuseum (City Museum). This city history museum is in the Fembohaus, a dignified patrician dwelling completed in 1598. It's one of the finest Renaissance mansions in Nürnberg. Each room explores another aspect of Nürnberg history, from crafts to gastronomy. The 50-minute multivision show provides a comprehensive look at the city's long history. \| Burgstr. 15 \| 0911/231–2595 \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Off the Beaten Path: Tiergarten Nürnberg. The well-stocked Nürnberg Zoo has a dolphinarium where dolphins perform to the delight of children; it's worth the extra admission fee. The zoo is on the northwest edge of town; reach it by taking the No. 5 streetcar from the city center. \| Am Tiergarten 30 \| 0911/54546 \| www.tiergarten.nuernberg.de \| €18 \| Zoo and dolphinarium Apr.–Sept., daily 8–7:30; Oct.–Mar., daily 9–5; dolphin show daily at 11, 2, and 4. ## Nürnberg's Nazi Sights Documentation Centre Nazi Party Rally Grounds. On the eastern outskirts of the city, the Ausstellung Faszination und Gewalt (Fascination and Terror Exhibition) documents the political, social, and architectural history of the Nazi Party. The sobering museum helps illuminate the whys and hows of Hitler's rise to power during the unstable period after World War I and the end of the democratic Weimar Republic. This is one of the few museums that documents how the Third Reich's propaganda machine influenced the masses. The 19-room exhibition is within a horseshoe-shape Congressional Hall that was intended to harbor a crowd of 50,000; the Nazis never completed it. The Nazis did make famous use of the nearby Zeppelin Field, the enormous parade ground where Hitler addressed his largest Nazi rallies. Today it sometimes shakes to the amplified beat of pop concerts. TIP To get to the Documentation Center, take Tram No. 9 from the city center to the Doku-Zentrum stop. \| Bayernstr. 110 \| 0911/231–5666 \| www.museen.nuernberg.de \| €5 \| Museum daily 9–6, weekends 10–6. Nürnberg Trials Memorial. Nazi leaders and German organizations were put on trial here in 1945 and 1946 during the first international war-crimes trials, conducted by the victorious Allied forces of World War II. The trials were held in the Landgericht (Regional Court) in courtroom No. 600 and resulted in 11 death sentences, among other convictions. The guided tours are in German, but English-language material is available. TIP Take the U1 subway line to Bärenschanze. \| Bärenschanzstr. 72 \| 0911/231–8411 \| www.memorium-nuremberg.de \| €5 \| Wed.–Mon. 10–6. ## Where to Eat Fodor's Choice \| Essigbrätlein. GERMAN \| The oldest restaurant in Nürnberg is also the top restaurant in the city and among the best in Germany. Built in 1550, it was originally used as a meeting place for wine merchants. Today its tiny but elegant period interior caters to the distinguishing gourmet with a taste for special spice mixes (owner Andrée Köthe's hobby). The menu changes daily, but the four-course menu can't be beat. Don't be put off if the restaurant looks closed, just ring the bell and a friendly receptionist will help you. \| Average main: €28 \| Weinmarkt 3 \| 0911/225–131 \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun., Mon., and late Aug. Hausbrauerei Altstadthof. GERMAN \| For traditional regional food, such as Nürnberg bratwurst, head to this atmospheric brewery. You can see the copper kettles where the brewery's organic Rotbier (red beer) is made. For a bit of shopping after lunch, the brewery store sells a multitude of beer-related products such as beer vinegar, brandy, and soap. Located above a network of deep, dark cellars where beer was once brewed and stored, this brewery is the meeting point for cellar tours (www.historische-felsengaenge.de), which are offered in English on Sunday at 11:30 am and cost €5.50. \| Average main: €15 \| Bergstr. 19–21 \| 911/244–9859. Heilig-Geist-Spital. GERMAN \| Heavy wood furnishings and a choice of more than 100 wines make this huge, 650-year-old wine tavern—built as the refectory of the city hospital—a popular spot. Try for a table in one of the alcoves, where you can see the river below you as you eat your seasonal fresh fish. The menu also includes grilled pork chops, panfried potatoes, and other Franconian dishes. \| Average main: €13 \| Spitalg. 16 \| 0911/221–761 \| www.heilig-geist-spital.de. FAMILY \| Historische Bratwurst-Küche Zum Gulden Stern. GERMAN \| The city council meets here to decide the official size and weight of the Nürnberg Bratwürste, so this should be your first stop to try the ubiquitous Nürnberg delicacy. The sausages have to be small enough to fit through a medieval keyhole, which in earlier days enabled pub owners to sell them after hours. It's a fitting venue for such a decision, given that this house, built in 1375, holds the oldest bratwurst restaurant in the world. The famous Nürnberg bratwursts are always freshly roasted on a beech-wood fire; the boiled variation is prepared in a tasty stock of Franconian wine and onions. \| Average main: €9 \| Zirkelschmiedg. 26 \| 0911/205–9288 \| www.bratwurstkueche.de. ## Where to Stay Agneshof. HOTEL \| This comfortable hotel is north of the Old Town between the fortress and St. Sebaldus Church. Interiors are very modern and tastefully done. The hotel also has a small wellness center and even some lounges for sunning in the small garden. Pros: many rooms have great views of the castle; warm yet professional welcome; lobby and rooms modern yet tasteful. Cons: deluxe rooms overpriced; parking and hotel access difficult; no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €77 \| Agnesg. 10 \| 0911/214–440 \| www.agneshof-nuernberg.de \| 72 rooms \| Breakfast. Burghotel Stammhaus. HOTEL \| At this quaint hotel the accommodations are small but cozy and the service is familial and friendly. If you need more space, ask about the wedding suite. The breakfast room with its balcony overlooking the houses of the Old Town has a charm all its own. Pros: great location in the city center; comfortable; pool; good value. Cons: small rooms; tiny lobby; parking not easy; service sometimes too casual. \| Rooms from: €59 \| Schildg. 14 \| 0911/203–040 \| www.invite-hotels.de \| 22 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Drei Raben. HOTEL \| Legends and tales of Nürnberg form the leitmotif running through the designer rooms at this hotel. One room celebrates the local soccer team with a table-soccer game; in another room sandstone friezes recall sights in the city. There are also more-conventional rooms in the lower price category. The reception room, with its pods, is modeled after 2001: A Space Odyssey, yet doesn't seem overbearingly modern. The location is three minutes from the train station, just within the Old Town walls. Pros: free drink at the reception desk; designer rooms; valet parking; Wi-Fi. Cons: neon-lighted bar isn't relaxing; no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Königstr. 63 \| 0911/274–380 \| www.hotel-drei-raben.de \| 25 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel-Weinhaus Steichele. HOTEL \| An 18th-century bakery has been skillfully converted into this hotel, which has been managed by the same family for four generations. It's close to the main train station, on a quiet street of the old walled town. The cozy rooms are decorated in rustic Bavarian style. Two wood-paneled, traditionally furnished taverns ($) serve Franconian fare with an excellent fish menu. Pros: comfortable; good location; good restaurants. Cons: small rooms and lobby; some rooms show their age. \| Rooms from: €109 \| Knorrstr. 2–8 \| 0911/202–280 \| www.steichele.de \| 56 rooms \| Breakfast. Le Meridien Grand Hotel. HOTEL \| Across the square from the central railway station is this stately building with the calling card "Grand Hotel" arching over its entranceway. The spacious and imposing lobby with marble pillars feels grand and welcoming. Since 1896, kings, politicians, and celebrities have soaked up the luxury of large rooms and tubs in marble bathrooms. On Friday and Saturday evenings and on Sunday at noon, locals arrive for the candlelight dinner or exquisite brunch ($$$) with live piano music in the restaurant of glittering glass and marble. The trout is a standout in an impressive list of fish dishes, and the lamb is a good pick from the meat entrées. Be sure to ask for weekend rates. Pros: luxury property; impressive lobby; excellent food; valet parking. Cons: expensive, with additional fees for every possible contingency; Germanic efficiency at reception desk; difficult to reach the hotel with big bags from the main station as you have to go through an underpass with stairs. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Bahnhofstr. 1 \| 0911/23220 \| www.nuremberg.lemeridien.com \| 186 rooms, 5 suites \| Multiple meal plans. ## Shopping Handwerkerhof. Step into this "medieval mall," in the tower at the Old Town gate (Am Königstor) opposite the main railway station, and you'll think you're back in the Middle Ages. Craftspeople are busy at work turning out the kind of handiwork that has been produced in Nürnberg for centuries: pewter, glassware, basketwork, wood carvings, and, of course, toys. The Lebkuchen specialist Lebkuchen-Schmidt has a shop here as well. \| Am Königstor \| Mid-Mar.–Dec. 24, weekdays 10–6:30, Sat. 10–4; Dec. 1–24 also open Sun. 10–6:30. Scherenschnittstudio. You can come and pose for owner Karin Dütz, send a picture (profile, do not smile), or just browse the scissor-cut silhouettes here, an old and skilled craft. \| Albrecht-Dürer-Str. 13 \| 0911/244–7483 \| Tues.–Fri. 1–6 or by appointment. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Regensburg \| Passau For many people, the sound of the Danube River (Donau in German) is the melody of The Blue Danube, the waltz written by Austrian Johann Strauss. The famous 2,988-km-long (1,800-mile-long) river, which is actually a pale green, originates in Germany's Black Forest and flows through 10 countries. In Germany it's mostly a rather unremarkable stream as it passes through cities such as Ulm on its southeasterly route. However, that changes at Kelheim, just west of Regensburg, where the Main-Donau Canal (completed in 1992) brings big river barges all the way from the North Sea. The river becomes sizable in Regensburg, where the ancient Steinerne Brücke (Stone Bridge) needs 15 spans of 30 to 48 feet each to bridge the water. Here everything from small pleasure boats to cruise liners joins the commercial traffic. In the university town of Passau, two more rivers join the waters of the Danube before Europe's longest river continues into Austria. ## Regensburg 85 km (52 miles) southeast of Nürnberg, 120 km (74 miles) northwest of Munich. Few visitors to Bavaria venture this far off the well-trodden tourist trails, and even Germans are surprised when they discover medieval Regensburg. TIP The town escaped World War II with no major damage, and it is one of the best-preserved medieval cities in Germany. Regensburg's story begins with the Celts around 500 BC. In AD 179, as an original marble inscription in the Historisches Museum proclaims, it became a Roman military post called Castra Regina. The Porta Praetoria, or gateway, built by the Romans, remains in the Old Town, and whenever you see huge ashlars incorporated into buildings, you are looking at bits of the old Roman settlement. When Bavarian tribes migrated to the area in the 6th century, they occupied what remained of the Roman town and, apparently on the basis of its Latin name, called it Regensburg. Anglo-Saxon missionaries led by St. Boniface in 739 made the town a bishopric before heading down the Danube to convert the heathen in even more far-flung lands. Charlemagne, first of the Holy Roman emperors, arrived at the end of the 8th century and incorporated Regensburg into his burgeoning domain. Regensburg benefited from the fact that the Danube wasn't navigable to the west, and thus it was able to control trade as goods traveled between Germany and Central Europe. By the Middle Ages Regensburg had become a political, economic, and intellectual center. For many centuries it was the most important city in southeast Germany, serving as the seat of the Perpetual Imperial Diet from 1663 until 1806, when Napoléon ordered the dismantling of the Holy Roman Empire. Today the ancient and hallowed walls of Regensburg continue to buzz with life. Students from the university fill the restaurants and pubs, and locals tend to their daily shopping and run errands in the inner city, where small shops and stores have managed to keep international consumer chains out. #### Getting Here and Around Regensburg is at the intersection of the autobahns 3 and 93. It is an hour away from Nürnberg and two hours from Munich by train. Regensburg is compact; its Old Town center is about 1 square mile. All of its attractions lie on the south side of the Danube, so you won't have to cross it more than once—and then only to admire the city from the north bank. English-language guided walking tours are conducted May through September and during the Christmas markets, Wednesday and Saturday at 1:30. They cost €6 and begin at the tourist office. In Regensburg all boats depart from the Steinerne Brücke. The most popular excursions are boat trips to Ludwig I's imposing Greek-style Doric temple of Walhalla. There are daily sailings to Walhalla from Easter through October. The round trip costs €10.50 and takes three hours. Don't bother with the trip upriver from Regensburg to Kelheim. #### Timing Although the Old Town is quite small, you can easily spend half a day strolling through its narrow streets. Any serious tour of Regensburg includes an unusually large number of places of worship. If your spirits wilt at the thought of inspecting them all, you should at least see the Dom, famous for its Domspatzen (boys' choir—the literal translation is "cathedral sparrows"). You'll need about another two hours or more to explore Schloss Emmeram and St. Emmeram church. #### Essentials Boat Tours Personenschifffahrt Klinger. \| Thundorfstr. 1 \| 0941/55359 \| www.schifffahrtklinger.de. Visitor Information Regensburg Tourismus. \| Altes Rathaus, Rathauspl. 4 \| 0941/507–4410 \| www.regensburg.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). The picture-book complex of medieval half-timber buildings, with windows large and small and flowers in tubs, is one of the best-preserved town halls in the country, as well as one of the most historically important. It was here, in the imposing Gothic Reichssaal (Imperial Hall), that the Perpetual Imperial Diet met from 1663 to 1806. This parliament of sorts consisted of the emperor, the electors (seven or eight), the princes (about 50), and the burghers, who assembled to discuss and determine the affairs of the far-reaching German lands of the Holy Roman Empire. The hall is sumptuously appointed with tapestries, flags, and heraldic designs. Note the wood ceiling, built in 1408, and the different elevations for the various estates. The Reichssaal is occasionally used for concerts. The neighboring Ratssaal (Council Room) is where the electors met for their consultations. The cellar holds the city's torture chamber; the Fragstatt (Questioning Room); and the execution room, called the Armesünderstübchen (Poor Sinners' Room). Any prisoner who withstood three degrees of questioning without confessing was considered innocent and released—which tells you something about medieval notions of justice. \| Rathauspl. \| 0941/507–4411 \| €8 \| Guided tours in English Apr.–Oct., daily at 3. Quick Bites: Prinzess Confiserie Café. Just across the square from the Altes Rathaus is the Prinzess Confiserie Café, Germany's oldest coffeehouse, which first opened its doors in 1686. The homemade chocolates are highly recommended, as are the rich cakes. \| Rathauspl. 2 \| 0941/595–310. Brückturm Museum (Bridge Tower Museum). With its tiny windows, weathered tiles, and pink plaster, this 17th-century tower stands at the south end of the Steinerne Brücke. The tower displays a host of items relating to the construction and history of the old bridge. It also offers a gorgeous view of the Regensburg roof landscape. The brooding building with a massive roof to the left of the Brückturm is an old salt warehouse. \| Steinerne Brücke, Weisse-Lamm-G. 1 \| 0941/507–5888 \| €2 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5; call ahead for tours in English. Dom St. Peter (St. Peter's Cathedral). Regensburg's transcendent cathedral, modeled on the airy, powerful lines of French Gothic architecture, is something of a rarity this far south in Germany. Begun in the 13th century, it stands on the site of a much earlier Carolingian church. Remarkably, the cathedral can hold 6,000 people, three times the population of Regensburg when building began. Construction dragged on for almost 600 years, until Ludwig I of Bavaria, then ruler of Regensburg, finally had the towers built. These had to be replaced in the mid-1950s. Behind the Dom is a little workshop where a team of 15 stonecutters is busy full-time in summer re-cutting and restoring parts of the cathedral. Before heading into the Dom, take time to admire the intricate and frothy carvings of its facade. Inside, the glowing 14th-century stained glass in the choir and the exquisitely detailed statues of the archangel Gabriel and the Virgin in the crossing (the intersection of the nave and the transepts) are among the church's outstanding features. Be sure to visit the Kreuzgang (Cloisters), reached via the garden. There you'll find a small octagonal chapel, the Allerheiligenkapelle (All Saints' Chapel), a Romanesque building that is all sturdy grace and massive walls, a work by Italian masons from the mid-12th century. You can barely make out the faded remains of stylized 11th-century frescoes on its ancient walls. The equally ancient shell of St. Stephan's Church, the cloisters, the chapel, and the Alter Dom (Old Cathedral), are included in the Cathedral tour. \| Dompl. 50 \| 0941/586–5500 \| Tour €3, in German only (call ahead for tours in English) \| Cathedral tour daily at 2. Domschatzmuseum (Cathedral Museum). This museum contains valuable treasures going back to the 11th century. Some of the vestments and the monstrances, which are fine examples of eight centuries' worth of the goldsmith's trade, are still used during special services. The entrance is in the nave. \| Dompl. \| 0941/597–2530 \| €2 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. noon–5; Dec.–Mar., Fri. and Sat. 10–4, Sun. noon–4 Quick Bites: Haus Heuport. The restaurant Haus Heuport, opposite the entrance to the Dom, was once one of the old and grand private ballrooms of the city. The service is excellent, and the tables at the windows have a wonderful view of the Dom. In summer, head for the bistro area in the courtyard for sandwiches and salads. \| Dompl. 7 \| 0941/599–9297. Historisches Museum (Historical Museum). The municipal museum vividly relates the cultural history of Regensburg. It's one of the highlights of the city, both for its unusual and beautiful setting—a former Gothic monastery—and for its wide-ranging collections, from Roman artifacts to Renaissance tapestries and remains from Regensburg's 16th-century Jewish ghetto. The most significant exhibits are the paintings by Albrecht Altdorfer (1480–1538), a native of Regensburg and, along with Cranach, Grünewald, and Dürer, one of the leading painters of the German Renaissance. \| Dachaupl. 2–4 \| 0941/507–2448 \| www.museen-regensburg.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. noon–4. Schloss Emmeram (Emmeram Palace). Formerly a Benedictine monastery, this is the ancestral home of the princely Thurn und Taxis family, which made its fame and fortune after being granted the right to carry official and private mail throughout the empire and Spain by Emperor Maximilian I (1493–1519) and by Philip I, the king of Spain, who ruled during the same period. Their business extended over the centuries into the Low Countries (Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg), Hungary, and Italy. The horn that still symbolizes the post office in several European countries comes from the Thurn und Taxis coat of arms. In its heyday Schloss Emmeram was heavily featured in the gossip columns thanks to the wild parties and somewhat extravagant lifestyle of the young dowager Princess Gloria von Thurn und Taxis. After the death of her husband, Prince Johannes, in 1990, she had to auction off belongings in order to pay inheritance taxes. Ultimately a deal was cut, allowing her to keep many of the palace's treasures as long they were put on display. The Thurn und Taxis Palace, with its splendid ballroom and throne room, allows you to witness the setting of courtly life in the 19th century. A visit usually includes the fine Kreuzgang of the former Benedictine abbey of St. Emmeram. TIP The palace can only be visited by taking the guided tour. The items in the Thurn und Taxis Museum, which is part of the Bavarian National Museum in Munich, have been carefully selected for their fine craftsmanship—be it dueling pistols, a plain marshal's staff, a boudoir, or a snuffbox. The palace's Marstallmuseum (former royal stables) holds the family's coaches and carriages as well as related items. \| Emmeramspl. 5 \| 0941/504–8133 \| www.thurnundtaxis.de \| Museum €4.50, palace and cloisters €13.50 \| Museum: Apr.–Oct., daily 1–5. Tours of palace and cloisters: premium tour (90 mins), daily at 10:30, 12:30, 2:30, and 4:30; compact tour (60 mins), daily at 11:30 and 2:30. Fodor's Choice \| Steinerne Brücke (Stone Bridge). This impressive old bridge resting on massive pontoons is Regensburg's most celebrated sight. It was completed in 1146 and was rightfully considered a miraculous piece of engineering at the time. As the only crossing point over the Danube for miles, it effectively cemented Regensburg's control over trade. The significance of the little statue on the bridge is a mystery, but the figure seems to be a witness to the legendary rivalry between the master builders of the bridge and those of the Dom. \| Steinerne Brücke. #### Worth Noting Alte Kapelle (Old Chapel). Erected by the Calolingian order in the 9th century, the Old Chapel's dowdy exterior hides joyous rococo treasures within—extravagant concoctions of sinuous gilt stucco, rich marble, and giddy frescoes, the whole illuminated by light pouring in from the upper windows. \| Alter Kornmarkt 8 \| Daily 9–dusk. Karmelitenkirche (Church of the Carmelites). This lovely church, in the baroque style from crypt to cupola, stands next to the Alte Kapelle. It has a finely decorated facade designed by the 17th-century Italian master Carlo Lurago. \| Alter Kornmarkt. Neupfarrplatz. This oversize square was once the heart of the Jewish ghetto. Hard economic times and superstition led to their eviction by decree in 1519. While the synagogue was being torn down, one worker survived a very bad fall. A church was promptly built to celebrate the miracle, and before long a pilgrimage began. The Neupfarrkirche (New Parish Church) was built as well to accommodate the flow of pilgrims. During the Reformation, the Parish Church was given to the Protestants, hence its bare-bones interior. In the late 1990s, excavation work (for the power company) on the square uncovered well-kept cellars and, to the west of the church, the old synagogue, including the foundations of its Romanesque predecessor. Archaeologists salvaged the few items they could from the old stones (including a stash of 684 gold coins) and, not knowing what to do with the sea of foundations, ultimately carefully reburied them. Recovered items were carefully restored and are on exhibit in the Historisches Museum. Only one small underground area to the south of the church, the Document, accommodates viewing of the foundations. In a former cellar, surrounded by the original walls, visitors can watch a short video reconstructing life in the old Jewish ghetto. Over the old synagogue, the Israeli artist Dani Karavan designed a stylized plaza where people can sit and meet. Call the educational institution VHS for a tour of the Document (reservations are requested). For spontaneous visits, tickets are available at Tabak Götz on the western side of the square, at Neupfarrplatz 3. \| Neupfarrpl. \| 0941/507–2433 for tours led by VHS \| www.vhs-regensburg.de \| Document €5 \| Church daily 9–dusk, document tour Thurs.–Sat. at 2:30. Quick Bites: Dampfnudel Uli. A Dampfnudel is a steamed, often sweet but sometimes savory, yeast-dough dumpling that is tasty and filling. The best in Bavaria can be had at this small establishment in a former chapel. The decoration is incredibly eclectic, from Bavarian crafts to an autographed portrait of Ronald Reagan. \| Watmarkt 4 \| 0941/53297 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, Sat. 10–4. Niedermünster. This 12th-century building with a baroque interior was originally the church of a community of nuns, all of them from noble families. \| Alter Kornmarkt 5. Porta Praetoria. The rough-hewn former gate to the old Roman camp, built in AD 179, is one of the most interesting relics of Roman Regensburg. Look through the grille on its east side to see a section of the original Roman road, about 10 feet below today's street level. \| North side of Alter Kornmarkt, Unter den Schwibbögen. St. Emmeram. The family church of the Thurn und Taxis family stands across from their ancestral palace, the Schloss Emmeram. The foundations of the church date to the 7th and 8th centuries. A richly decorated baroque interior was added in 1730 by the Asam brothers. St. Emmeram contains the graves of the 7th-century martyred Regensburg bishop Emmeram and the 10th-century saint Wolfgang. \| Emmeramspl. 3 \| 0941/51030 \| Mon.–Thurs. and Sat. 10–4:30, Fri. 1–4:30, Sun. noon–4:30. St. Kassian. Regensburg's oldest church was founded in the 8th century. Don't be fooled by its plain exterior; inside, it's filled with ornate rococo decoration. \| St.-Kassianpl. 1 \| Daily 9–5:30. ### Near Regensburg Weltenburg Abbey (Abbey Church of Sts. George and Martin). Roughly 25 km [15 miles] southwest of Regensburg you'll find the great Weltenburg Benedictine Abbey perched on the bank of the Danube River. The most dramatic approach to the abbey is by boat from Kelheim, 10 km (6 miles) downstream. On the stunning ride the boat winds between towering limestone cliffs that rise straight up from the tree-lined riverbanks. The abbey, constructed between 1716 and 1718, is commonly regarded as the masterpiece of the brothers Cosmas Damian and Egid Quirin Asam, two leading baroque architects and decorators of Bavaria. Their extraordinary composition of painted figures whirling on the ceiling, lavish and brilliantly polished marble, highly wrought statuary, and stucco figures dancing in rhythmic arabesques across the curving walls is the epitome of Bavarian baroque. Note especially the bronze equestrian statue of St. George above the high altar, reaching down imperiously with his flamelike, twisted gilt sword to dispatch the winged dragon at his feet. In Kelheim there are two boat companies that offer trips to Kloster Weltenburg every 30 minutes in summer. You cannot miss the landing stages and the huge parking lot.TIP No Bavarian monastary is complete without a brewery, and Kloster Weltenburg's is well worth visiting. \| Asamstr. 32 \| Kelheim \| Daily 9–dusk. Walhalla. Walhalla (11 km [7 miles] east of Regensburg) is an excursion you won't want to miss, especially if you have an interest in the wilder expressions of growing 19th-century German nationalism. Walhalla—a name resonant with Nordic mythology—was where the god Odin received the souls of dead heroes. Ludwig I erected this monumental temple in 1840 to honor important Germans from ages past. In keeping with the neoclassic style of the time, the Greek-style Doric temple is actually a copy of the Parthenon in Athens. The expanses of costly marble are evidence of both the financial resources and the craftsmanship at Ludwig's command. Walhalla may be kitschy, but the fantastic view it affords over the Danube and the wide countryside is definitely worth a look. A boat ride from the Steinerne Brücke in Regensburg is the best way to go. On the return trip, you can steer the huge boat about half a mile, and, for €5 extra, you can earn an "Honorary Danube Boat Captain" certificate. Kids and grown-ups love it. To get to the temple from the river, you'll have to climb 358 marble steps. To drive to it, take the Danube Valley country road (unnumbered) east from Regensburg 8 km (5 miles) to Donaustauf. The Walhalla temple is 1 km (½ mile) outside the village and well signposted. \| Walhalla-Str. 48 \| Donaustauf \| www.walhalla-regensburg.de. ### Where to Eat Café Felix. CAFÉ \| A modern bilevel café and bar, Felix offers everything from sandwiches to steaks, and buzzes with activity from breakfast until the early hours. Light from an arty chandelier and torchlike fixtures bounces off the many large framed mirrors. The crowd tends to be young. \| Average main: €9 \| Fröhliche-Türkenstr. 6 \| 0941/59059 \| www.cafefelix.de \| No credit cards. Historische Wurstküche. GERMAN \| At the world's oldest, and possibly smallest, bratwurst grill, succulent Regensburger sausages—the best in town—are prepared right before your eyes on an open beech-wood charcoal grill. If you want to eat them inside in the tiny dining room, you'll have to squeeze past the cook to get there. On the walls—outside and in—are plaques recording the levels the river reached in over a century of floods that temporarily interrupted service. \| Average main: €7 \| Thundorferstr. 3, just by stone bridge \| 0941/466–210 \| No credit cards. Leerer Beutel. ECLECTIC \| The "Empty Sack" serves excellent international cuisine—from antipasti to solid pork roast—is served in a pleasant vaulted room supported by massive rough-hewn beams. The restaurant is in a huge warehouse that's also a venue for concerts, exhibitions, and film screenings, making it a good place to start or end an evening. \| Average main: €13 \| Bertoldstr. 9 \| 0941/58997. ### Where to Stay Am Peterstor. HOTEL \| The clean and basic rooms of this popular hotel in the heart of the Old Town are a solid value. The many local eateries, including the excellent Café Felix a few doors away, more than compensate for the lack of an in-house restaurant. Pros: low prices; good location. Cons: spartan rooms; no restaurant or bar; no phones in rooms; breakfast extra. \| Rooms from: €48 \| Fröhliche-Türken-Str. 12 \| 0941/54545 \| www.hotel-am-peterstor.de \| 36 rooms \| No meals. Hotel Münchner Hof. HOTEL \| This little hotel provides top service at a good price with Regensburg at your feet. The original arches of the ancient building are visible in some of the rooms. It's close to the Neupfarrkirche. The restaurant is quiet and comfortable, serving Bavarian specialties and good Munich beer. Pros: some rooms with historic touch; center of town; nice little lobby. Cons: entrance on narrow street; difficult parking. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Tändlerg. 9 \| 0941/58440 \| www.muenchner-hof.de \| 53 rooms \| Multiple meal plans. Fodor's Choice \| Hôtel Orphée. HOTEL \| It's difficult to choose from among the very spacious rooms at the three different properties of this establishment—the Grand Hotel Orphée; the Petit Hotel Orphée on the next street; and the Country Manor Orphée on the other side of the river about 2 km (1 mile) away. You may decide to take an attic room with large wooden beams or an elegant room with stucco ceilings on the first floor. The French bistro - style restaurant ($$) prepares a selection of crepes, salads, and tasty meat dishes. Pros: very tastefully renovated; excellent restaurant; center of town. Cons: difficult parking; front rooms are noisy. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Grand Hôtel Orphee, Untere Bachg. 8 \| 0941/596–020 \| www.hotel-orphee.de \| 56 rooms \| Multiple meal plans. Hotel-Restaurant Bischofshof am Dom. HOTEL \| This is one of Germany's most historic hostelries, a former bishop's palace where you can sleep in an apartment that includes part of a Roman gateway. Other chambers are only slightly less historic, and some have seen emperors and princes as guests. The hotel's restaurant ($) serves regional cuisine (including the famous Regensburger sausages) at reasonable prices. The beer comes from a brewery founded in 1649. Pros: historic building; nonsmoking rooms only; nice courtyard beer garden. Cons: nonsmoking rooms only; restaurant not up to hotel's standards. \| Rooms from: €147 \| Krauterermarkt 3 \| 0941/58460 \| www.hotel-bischofshof.de \| 55 rooms, 4 suites \| Multiple meal plans. Kaiserhof am Dom. HOTEL \| Renaissance windows punctuate the green facade of this historic city mansion, but the rooms are 20th-century modern. Try for one with a view of the cathedral, which stands directly across the street. Breakfast is served beneath the high-vaulted ceiling of a 14th-century chapel. Pros: front rooms have a terrific view; historic breakfast room. Cons: front rooms are noisy; no restaurant or bar. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Kramg. 10–12 \| 0941/585–350 \| www.kaiserhof-am-dom.de \| 30 rooms \| Closed Dec. 21–Jan. 8 \| Breakfast. ### Shopping The winding alleyways of the Altstadt are packed with boutiques, ateliers, jewelers, and other small shops offering a vast array of arts and crafts. You may also want to visit the Neupfarrplatz market (Monday through Saturday 9–4), where you can buy regional specialties such as Radi (juicy radish roots), which locals wash down with a glass of wheat beer. ### Nightlife and the Arts Regensburg offers a range of musical experiences, though none so moving as a choral performance at the cathedral. TIP Listening to the Regensburger Domspatzen, the boys' choir at the cathedral, can be a remarkable experience, and it's worth scheduling your visit to the city to hear them. The best sung Mass is held on Sunday at 9 am. If you're around in summer, look out for the Citizens Festival (Bürgerfest) and the Bavarian Jazz Festival (Bayerisches Jazzfest www.bayernjazz.de) in July, both in the Old Town. The kind of friendly, mixed nightlife that has become hard to find in some cities is alive and well in this small university city in the many Kneipen, combination bars and restaurants, such as the Leerer Beutel. En Route: It's about a two-hour drive on the autobahn between Regensburg and Passau. Be forewarned, however, that if your trip coincides with a German holiday, it can be stop-and-go traffic for hours along this stretch. Halfway between Regensburg and Passau, the village of Metten is a worthwhile diversion or break. Stop to refuel at Cafe am Kloster (Marktplatz 1 \| 0991/998–9380). Once you are seated in the beer garden, the quality and the prices may well tempt you to linger longer than you had anticipated. Benedictine monastery. Metten's Benedictine monastery, founded in the 9th century by Charlemagne, is an outstanding example of baroque art. The 18th-century library has a collection of 160,000 books whose gilt leather spines are complemented by the heroic splendor of their surroundings—Herculean figures support the frescoed, vaulted ceiling, and allegorical paintings and fine stuccowork identify different categories of books. In the church is Cosmas Damian Asam's altarpiece Lucifer Destroyed by St. Michael; created around 1720, it has vivid coloring and a swirling composition that are typical of the time. \| 7 km (4½ mile) west of Deggendorf, Abteistr. 3 \| Metten \| 0991/91080 \| €3 \| Guided tours Tues.–Sun. at 10 and 3 except church holidays. ## Passau 137 km (86 miles) southeast of Regensburg, 179 km (111 miles) northeast of Munich. Flanking the borders of Austria and the Czech Republic, Passau dates back more than 2,500 years. Originally settled by the Celts, then by the Romans, Passau later passed into the possession of prince-bishops whose domains stretched into present-day Hungary. At its height, the Passau episcopate was the largest in the entire Holy Roman Empire. Passau's location is truly unique. Nowhere else in the world do three rivers—the Ilz from the north, the Danube from the west, and the Inn from the south—meet. Wedged between the Inn and the Danube, the Old Town is a maze of narrow cobblestone streets lined with beautifully preserved burgher and patrician houses and riddled with churches. Many streets have been closed to traffic making the Old Town a fun and mysterious place to explore. #### Getting Here and Around Passau is on the A-3 autobahn from Regensburg to Vienna. It's an hour from Regensburg and about four hours from Vienna by train. #### Tours The Passau tourist office leads tours May through October at 10:30 and 2:30 on weekdays and at 2:30 on Sunday; November through April the tours are held weekdays at noon. Tours start at the entrance to the cathedral. A one-hour tour costs €4. In Passau cruises on the three rivers begin and end at the Danube jetties on Fritz-Schäffer Promenade. Donauschiffahrt Wurm + Köck runs eight ships. #### Timing Passau can be toured leisurely in the course of one day. Try to visit the Dom at noon to hear a recital on the world's largest organ. Early morning is the best time to catch the light falling from the east on the Old Town walls and the confluence of the three rivers. #### Festivals Christkindlmarkt. Passau's Christmas fair is the biggest and most spectacular of the Bavarian Forest. It's held in front of Dom St. Stephan from late November until just before Christmas. \| Dompl. Europäische Wochen (European Weeks). Passau is the cultural center of Lower Bavaria. Its Europäische Wochen festival—featuring everything from opera to pantomime—is a major event on the European music calendar. The festival runs from June to July and is held in venues all over the city. For program details and tickets for the Europäische Wochen, register on the website. \| Dr.-Hans-Kapfinger-Str. 22 \| www.ew-passau.de. #### Essentials Boat Tours Donauschiffahrt Wurm + Köck. \| 0851/929–292 \| www.donauschiffahrt.de. Visitor Information Tourist-Information Passau. \| Rathauspl. 3 \| 0851/955–980 \| www.passau.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Dom St. Stephan (St. Stephan's Cathedral). The cathedral rises majestically on the highest point of the earliest-settled part of the city. A baptismal church stood here in the 6th century. Two hundred years later, when Passau became a bishop's seat, the first basilica was built. It was dedicated to St. Stephan and became the original mother church of St. Stephan's Cathedral in Vienna. A fire reduced the medieval basilica to ruins in 1662; it was then rebuilt by Italian master architect Carlo Lurago. What you see today is the largest baroque basilica north of the Alps, complete with an octagonal dome and flanking towers. Little in its marble- and stucco-encrusted interior reminds you of Germany, and much proclaims the exuberance of Rome. Beneath the dome is the largest church organ assembly in the world. Built between 1924 and 1928 and enlarged in 1979–80, it claims no fewer than 17,774 pipes and 233 stops. The church also houses the most powerful bell chimes in southern Germany. \| Dompl. \| 0851/3930 \| Concerts midday €4, evening €8 \| Daily 6:30–10:45 and 11:30–6. Tours: May–Oct., weekdays at 12:30; Nov.–Apr., weekdays at noon. Domplatz (Cathedral Square). This large square in front of the Dom is bordered by sturdy 17th- and 18th-century buildings, including the Alte Residenz, the former bishop's palace and now a courthouse. The neoclassical statue at the center is Bavarian king Maximilian I, who watches over the Christmas Market in December. \| Dompl. Domschatz- und Diözesanmuseum (Cathedral Treasury and Diocesan Museum). The cathedral museum houses one of Bavaria's largest collections of religious treasures, the legacy of Passau's rich episcopal history. The museum is part of the Neue Residenz, which has a stately baroque entrance opening onto a magnificent staircase—a scintillating study in marble, fresco, and stucco. \| Residenzpl. \| €1.50 \| May–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–4. Veste Oberhaus (Upper House Stronghold). The powerful fortress and summer castle commissioned by Bishop Ulrich II in 1219 looks over Passau from an impregnable site on the other side of the river, opposite the Rathaus. Today the Veste Oberhaus is Passau's most important museum, containing exhibits that illustrate the city's 2,000-year history.TIP From the terrace of its café-restaurant (open Easter–October), there's a magnificent view of Passau and the convergence of the three rivers. \| Oberhaus 125 \| 0851/493–3512 \| Museum €5 \| May–Oct., weekdays 9–5, weekends 10–6 \| Bus (€5) from Rathauspl. to museum Apr.–Nov., daily every ½ hr 10:30–5. #### Worth Noting Glasmuseum (Glass Museum). The world's most comprehensive collection of European glass is housed in the lovely Hotel Wilder Mann. The history of Central Europe's glassmaking is captured in 30,000 items, from baroque to art deco, spread over 35 rooms. \| Höllg. 1 \| 0851/35071 \| €7 \| Daily 1–6. Rathaus. Passau's 14th-century town hall sits like a Venetian merchant's house on a small square fronting the Danube. It was the home of a wealthy German merchant before being declared the seat of city government after a 1298 uprising. Two assembly rooms have wall paintings depicting scenes from local history and legend, including the (fictional) arrival in the city of Siegfried's fair Kriemhild, from the Nibelungen fable. TIP The Rathaus tower has Bavaria's largest glockenspiel, which plays daily at 10:30, 2, and 7:25, with an additional performance at 3:30 on Saturday. \| Rathauspl. \| 0851/3960 \| €1.50 \| Apr.–Oct. and late Dec.–early Jan., daily 10–4. Römermuseum Kastell Boiotro (Roman Museum). While excavating a 17th-century pilgrimage church, archaeologists uncovered a stout Roman fortress with five defense towers and walls more than 12 feet thick. The Roman citadel Boiotro was discovered on a hill known as the Mariahilfberg on the south bank of the river Inn, with its Roman well still plentiful and fresh. Pottery, lead figures, and other artifacts from the area are housed in this museum at the edge of the site. \| Ledererg. 43 \| 0851/34769 \| €4 \| Mar.–Nov., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Eat Gasthaus zur blauen Donau. EUROPEAN \| Passau's esteemed chef Richard Kerscher turned this old house with thick walls and recessed windows into a simple but stylish restaurant. The first-floor dining room has a commanding view of the Danube. His delicacies are all based on traditional German recipes. \| Average main: €17 \| Höllg. 14 \| 0851/490–8660 \| No credit cards. Hacklberger Bräustüberl. GERMAN \| Shaded by magnificent old trees, locals sit in this famous brewery's enormous beer garden (seating more than 1,000), sipping a Hacklberger and tucking into a plate of sausages. In winter they simply move to the wood-panel interior, where beer has been on tap from the brewery next door since 1618. \| Average main: €11 \| Bräuhauspl. 7 \| 0851/58382 \| www.hacklbergers.de. Heilig-Geist-Stiftsschenke. GERMAN \| For atmospheric dining this 14th-century monastery-turned-wine-cellar is a must. In summer eat beneath chestnut trees; in winter seek out the warmth of the vaulted, dark-paneled dining rooms. The wines—made in Austria from grapes from the Spitalkirche Heiliger Geist vineyards—are excellent and suit all seasons. The fish comes from the Stift's own ponds. \| Average main: €14 \| Heilig-Geist-G. 4 \| 0851/2607 \| www.stiftskeller-passau.de \| Closed Wed. and last 3 wks in Jan. Peschel Terrasse. GERMAN \| The beer you sip on the high, sunny terrace overlooking the Danube is brought fresh from Peschl's own brewery below, which, along with this traditional Bavarian restaurant, has been in the same family since 1855. \| Average main: €11 \| Rosstränke 4 \| 0851/2489 \| www.peschl-terrasse.de. ### Where to Stay Hotel König. HOTEL \| Though built in 1984, the König blends successfully with the graceful Italian-style buildings alongside the elegant Danube waterfront. Rooms are large and airy; some have a fine view of the river. Pros: some rooms with an impressive view of the Danube; spacious rooms. Cons: no restaurant; uninspired bathrooms; some small rooms. \| Rooms from: €119 \| Untere Donaulände 1 \| 0851/3850 \| www.hotel-koenig.de \| 61 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Weisser Hase. HOTEL \| The "White Rabbit" began accommodating travelers in the early 16th century but is thoroughly modernized. Rooms are decorated with cherrywood and mahogany veneers and soft matching colors. The large bathrooms are finished in Italian marble. The hotel stands sturdily in the town center, at the start of the pedestrian shopping zone, a short walk from all the major sights. Pros: good, central location; friendly staff; great breakfast. Cons: street noise in the early morning; no a/c. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Heiliggeistgasse 1 \| 0851/92110 \| www.weisser-hase.de \| 108 rooms, 1 suite \| Closed Jan.–mid-Feb. \| Multiple meal plans. Hotel Wilder Mann. HOTEL \| Passau's most historic hotel dates from the 11th century and is near the ancient town hall on the waterfront market square. Empress Elizabeth of Austria and American astronaut Neil Armstrong have been among its guests. On beds of carved oak you'll sleep beneath chandeliers and richly stuccoed ceilings. For sheer indulgence, ask for either the King Ludwig or Sissi (Empress Elisabeth) suite. The esteemed Glasmuseum is within the hotel. Pros: luxurious suites; center of town; some rooms with nice view of the river; others are a good value. Cons: some rooms in need of updating; some face bell tower; no restaurant or bar. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Am Rathauspl. 1 \| 0851/35071 \| www.wilder-mann.com \| 49 rooms, 5 suites \| Breakfast. Rotel Inn. HOTEL \| The first permanent Rotel Inn is on the bank of the Danube in central Passau and resembles an ocean liner "Rotels" are usually hotels on wheels, an idea developed by a local entrepreneur to accommodate tour groups in North Africa and Asia. Its rooms are truly shipshape - hardly any wider than the bed inside - but they're clean, decorated in a pop-art style, and amazingly cheap. The building's unique design - a red, white, and blue facade with flowing roof lines - has actually been patented. It's definitely for young travelers, but also fun for families. Pros: very easy on the wallet. Cons: very, very small rooms; bathrooms down the hall; no restaurant, breakfast €6. \| Rooms from: €50 \| Am Hauptbahnhof/Donauufer \| 0851/95160 \| www.rotel-inn.de \| 100 rooms with shared bath \| No credit cards \| Closed Oct.–late Apr. \| No meals. Schloss Ort. HOTEL \| This 13th-century castle's large rooms have views of the Inn River, which flows beneath the hotel's stout walls. The rooms are decorated in a variety of styles, with old-fashioned four-poster beds or modern wrought-iron details. The restaurant is closed in winter and on Monday, but the kitchen will always oblige hungry hotel guests. In summer the garden terrace is a delightful place to eat and watch the river. Pros: great views; nice garden; good restaurant. Cons: old linens; thin walls; not in the center of town. \| Rooms from: €68 \| Ort 11 \| 0851/34072 \| www.schlosshotel-passau.de \| 18 rooms \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Bodensee The Northern Shore The Upper Swabian Baroque Road Around the Bodanrück Peninsula Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Biking the Bodensee Updated by Leonie Adeane Lapping the shores of Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, the Bodensee (Lake Constance), at 65 km (40 miles) long and 15 km (9 miles) wide, is the largest lake in the German-speaking world. Though called a lake, it's actually a vast swelling of the Rhine, gouged out by a massive glacier in the Ice Age and flooded by the river as the ice receded. The Rhine flows into its southeast corner, where Switzerland and Austria meet, and flows out at its west end. On the German side, the Bodensee is bordered almost entirely by the state of Baden-Württemberg (a small portion of the eastern tip, from Lindau to Nonnenhorn, belongs to Bavaria). A natural summer playground, the Bodensee is ringed with little towns and busy resorts. It's one of the warmest areas of the country, not just because of its southern latitude but also owing to the warming influence of the water, which gathers heat in summer and releases it in winter. The lake itself practically never freezes over—it has done so only once in the past two centuries. The climate is excellent for growing fruit, and along the roads you'll find stands and shops selling apples, peaches, strawberries, jams, juices, wines, and schnapps, much of it homemade. ## Top Reasons to Go Zeppelin Museum, Friedrichshafen: Step inside the gracious passenger rooms of the airship, and you may question whether the air transport of today, though undeniably bigger and faster, is a real improvement. Altes Schloss in Meersburg: Explore the oldest continuously inhabited castle in Germany, from the sinister dungeons to the imposing knights' hall. Schloss Salem, near Überlingen: The castle itself has plenty to see, with furnished rooms, stables, gardens, and museums. Wallfahrtskirche Birnau, near Überlingen: A vineyard slopes down from this pilgrimage church to Schloss Maurach on the lakeshore. The scene inside the church is a riot of color and embellishment. Mainau Island: More than a million tulips and narcissi grace the flower island in spring—later they're followed by rhododendrons and azaleas, roses, and dahlias. ## Getting Oriented The Bodensee (Lake Constance) is off the beaten path for visitors from overseas and from other parts of Europe. If you venture here, you can be pretty sure you won't meet anyone else from back home. Even the Swiss and the Austrians, who own part of the shore of the Bodensee, tend to vacation elsewhere. For Germans, however, it's a favorite summer vacation spot, so it's wise to reserve rooms in advance. ## What's Where The Northern Shore. A dozen charming little villages and towns line the northern shore of the lake. In good weather there's a wonderful view across the water to the Swiss mountains. The Upper Swabian Baroque Road. Nearly every village has its own baroque treasure, from the small village church to the mighty Basilica Weingarten. The more miles between you and the Bodensee, the easier it is on your wallet, which may be reason enough to venture to this region. Around the Bodanrück Peninsula. Konstanz is the biggest city on the international lakeshore, situated on the Bodanrück Peninsula and separated from the northern shore by a few miles of water. Konstanz survived WWII unscathed by leaving its lights burning every night, so the Allied bomber pilots could not distinguish it from the neighboring Swiss city of Kreuzlingen. The small towns of the "Untersee" (Lower Lake), as this part of the Bodensee is called, have a more rural atmosphere than those of the northern shore. ## Planning ### When to Go The Bodensee's temperate climate makes for pleasant weather from April to October. In spring, orchard blossoms explode everywhere, and on Mainau, the "island of flowers," more than a million tulips, hyacinths, and narcissi burst into bloom. Holiday crowds come in summer, and autumn can be warm and mellow. Some hotels and restaurants as well as many tourist attractions close for winter. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The closest major international airport is in Zürich, Switzerland, 60 km (37 miles) from Konstanz, connected by the autobahn. There are also direct trains from the Zürich airport to Konstanz. There are several domestic and international (primarily of United Kingdom and European origin) flights to the regional airport at Friedrichshafen—these are mostly operated by budget airlines. Airport Contacts Flughafen Friedrichshafen (FDH). \| Am Flugpl. 64, \| Friedrichshafen \| 07541/284–01 \| www.fly-away.de. Zürich Airport (ZRH). \| Flughafenstr., \| Kloten, Switzerland \| 410/4381–62211 \| www.zurich-airport.com. #### Boat and Ferry Travel TIP Note that the English pronunciation of "ferry" sounds a lot like the German word "fähre," which means car ferry. "Schiffe" is the term used for passenger ferries. Car and passenger ferries have different docking points in the various towns. The car ferries run all year; in summer you may have to wait in line. The passenger routes, especially the small ones, often do not run from November to March. Sailing on a car ferry as a passenger can be cheaper than taking a passenger ferry—and most car ferries are reasonably comfortable. Bicycles can be taken on both types of ferry. The Weisse Flotte line of boats, which is run by the BSB, or Bodensee-Schiffsbetriebe, links most of the larger towns and resorts. One of the nicest trips is from Konstanz to Meersburg and then on to the island of Mainau. Excursions around the lake last from one hour to a full day. Many cross to Austria and Switzerland; some head west along the Rhine to Schaffhausen and the Rheinfall, the largest waterfall in Europe. Information on lake excursions is available from all local tourist offices and travel agencies. Boat and Ferry Contacts Bodensee-Schiffsbetriebe. Ticket offices for this ferry line are in Konstanz, Überlingen, Meersburg, Friedrichshafen and Lindau. \| Hafenstr. 6, \| Konstanz \| 07531/364–0389 \| www.bsb.de. #### Bus Travel Buses serve most smaller communities that have no train links, but service is infrequent. Along the shore there are buses that run regularly throughout the day from Überlingen to Friedrichshafen, stopping in towns such as Meersburg, Hagnau, and Immenstaad. #### Car Travel The A-96 autobahn provides the most direct route between Munich and Lindau. For a more scenic, slower route, take B-12 via Landsberg and Kempten. For another scenic and slower route from Frankfurt, take B-311 at Ulm and follow the Oberschwäbische Barockstrasse (Upper Swabian Baroque Road) to Friedrichshafen. From Stuttgart, follow the A-81 autobahn south. At Exit 40 take B-33 to Konstanz, or the A-98 autobahn and B-31 for the northern shore. Lindau is also a terminus of the picturesque Deutsche Alpenstrasse (German Alpine Road), running east–west from Salzburg to Lindau. Lakeside roads, particularly those on the northern shore, boast wonderful vistas but experience occasional heavy traffic in summer, and on weekends and holidays year-round. Stick to the speed limits in spite of tailgaters—speed traps are frequent, especially in built-up areas. Formalities at border-crossing points are few. However, in addition to your passport you'll need insurance and registration papers for your car. For rental cars, check with the rental company to make sure you are allowed to take the car into other countries. Crossing into Switzerland, you're required to have an autobahn tax sticker (CHF40, but purchasable in euros) if you plan to drive on the Swiss autobahn. These are available from border customs offices, and from petrol stations and post offices in Switzerland. This sticker is not necessary if you plan to stick to nonautobahn roads. Car ferries link Romanshorn, in Switzerland, with Friedrichshafen, as well as Konstanz with Meersburg. Taking either ferry saves substantial mileage. The fare depends on the size of the car. #### Train Travel From Frankfurt to Friedrichshafen and Lindau, take the ICE (InterCity Express) to Ulm and then transfer (total time 4½ hours). A combination of ICE and regional train gets you to Konstanz from Frankfurt in 4½ hours, passing through the beautiful scenery of the Black Forest. From Stuttgart to Konstanz, take the IC (InterCity) to Singen, and transfer to an RE or IRE (Regional/Inter Regio Express) for the brief last leg to Konstanz (total time 2½ hours). From Munich to Lindau, the EC (Europe Express) train or the ALX (Alex) train take 2½ hours. From Zürich to Konstanz, the trip lasts 1½ hours. Local trains encircle the Bodensee, stopping at most towns and villages. ### Tours Most of the larger tourist centers have city tours with English-speaking guides. The Bodensee is a great destination for bike travelers, with hundreds of miles of well-signposted paths that keep riders safe from cars. You can go on your own or enjoy the comfort of a customized tour with accommodations and baggage transport (and a rental bike, if need be). Wine-tasting tours are available in Überlingen, Konstanz, and Meersburg. Call the local tourist offices for information. Zeppelin tours operated by the DZR (Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei) are not cheap (sightseeing trips cost €200–€745), but they do offer a special experience and a reminder of the grand old days of flight. The zeppelins depart from the airport in Friedrichshafen. Tour Contacts Radweg-Reisen GmbH. \| Fritz-Arnold-Str. 16a, \| Konstanz \| 07531/819–930 \| www.radweg-reisen.com. Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei. \| Allmannsweilerstr. 132, \| Friedrichshafen \| 07541/59000 \| www.zeppelinflug.de. Velotours Touristik GmbH. \| Bücklestr. 13, \| Konstanz \| 07531/98280 \| www.velotours.de. ### Restaurants In this area, international dishes are not only on the menu but also on the map—you have to drive only a few miles to try the Swiss or Austrian dish you're craving in its own land. Seeweine (lake wines) from vineyards in the area include Müller-Thurgau, Spätburgunder, Ruländer, and Kerner. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels Accommodations in the towns and resorts around the lake include venerable wedding-cake-style, fin de siècle palaces as well as more modest Gasthöfe. If you're visiting in July and August, make reservations in advance. For lower rates in a more rural atmosphere, consider staying a few miles away from the lake. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time Choosing a place to stay is a question of finance and interest. The closer you stay to the water, the more expensive and lively it becomes. Many visitors pass by on their way from one country to another, so during the middle of the day, key hubs like Konstanz, Mainau, Meersburg, and Lindau tend to be crowded. Try to visit these places either in the morning or in the late afternoon, and make your day trips to the lesser-known destinations: the baroque churches in upper Swabia, the Swiss towns along the southern shore, or the nearby mountains. ### Visitor Information Internationale Bodensee Tourismus. \| Hafenstr. 6, \| Konstanz \| 07531/9094–90 \| www.bodensee.eu. ## Biking the Bodensee The best way to experience the Bodensee area is by bike. In as little as three days, you can cross the borders of three nations. The largely flat landscape makes this cycle tour suitable for all ages and fitness levels. You could start and finish anywhere, but this three-day tour circumnavigates the entire lake. Book a room in Meersburg or Konstanz for the first night; in Arbon, Switzerland, for the second; and in Lindau for the third. Store your baggage, bringing with you only what you can comfortably carry on your back or in panniers (don't forget your bathing suit). A sign displaying a bicyclist with a blue back wheel will be your guide through all three countries. Much of the route follows dedicated bike paths—some lakeside, some farther away. However, you'll occasionally find yourself riding along the road, so a helmet is recommended, although it's not required by law. At some points, you might like to disregard this official route in favor of a more scenic path. Follow your instincts—even without the signs or a map, the water is an easy point of reference. —Leonie Adeane Departing Lindau, head west along the lake toward Wasserburg, 5 km (3 miles) away. Continue on through meadows, marshland, and orchards, passing charming villages like Nonnenhorn and Langenargen—9 km (5½ miles) from Wasserburg. Friedrichshafen is another 10 km (6 miles) from Langenargen. Pay a visit to the Zeppelin Museum. After Friedrichshafen the path runs along the main road; follow the sign to Immenstaad (10 km [6 miles]) to get away from the traffic. Pass through the village and continue to Hagnau. After another 5 km (3 miles), stay overnight in lovely Meersburg, rising early to catch the ferry to Konstanz. When you come off the ferry, head to the flower island of Mainau to enjoy the blooms. Continue onward to Konstanz, pass the ferry dock again, and keep as close as you can to the water, which will bring you into Konstanz through the scenic "back entrance." Cross the bridge over the Rhine. Take in the old town, and the buzzing small harbor. When you set off again, you'll be in the Swiss city of Kreuzlingen in a few minutes. Head east out of the city. After 32 km (20 miles) of rolling Swiss countryside, you'll arrive in Arbon for your second overnight. Leave Arbon early in the morning, passing Rorschach (after 7 km [4½ miles]) and Rheineck on the Austrian border (another 9 km [5½ miles]). After the border, keep as close to the lake as possible, and you'll pass through protected marshlands and lush meadows. Twenty kilometers (12 miles) beyond the border is Bregenz, Austria. Ascend the Pfänder cablecar 3,870 feet for a marvelous view. If you're too tired to bike the 9 km (5½ miles) back to Lindau, you can board a train or ferry with your bicycle in Bregenz. #### Biking Essentials You can rent a bike as a guest at many hotels, at some tourist offices, from bike shops, and from bicycle tour operators. Biking maps are available from newspaper stands, bookshops, and tourist offices, and you can leave your baggage in the long-term storage available at the train stations in Konstanz, Überlingen, Friedrichshafen, and Lindau. You can cut across the lake on a ferry at numerous points. #### Refueling Copious amounts of fresh lake air and pedaling are bound to trigger your appetite. If the weather is ripe for a picnic, be on the lookout for supermarket chains such as Rewe, Edeka, and Lidl, where you can fill your picnic basket. For Brot (bread), a fresh Brezel (pretzel) or Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake), seek out a local Bäckerei (bakery) or Stehcafé (standing café). Don't be shy about venturing into the village Metzgerei (butcher), either. Most of them offer delicious Leberkässemmel or Fleischkäsweckle (its respective names in Bavaria and Baden Württemburg)—a slice of warm sausage-meat loaf in a bread roll. Or, try some sliced Fleischwurst (bologna sausage) in various flavors, or tangy Fleischsalat (sliced sausage-meat salad and pickles with salad dressing)—both best eaten on bread fresh from the bakery. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Lindau \| Friedrichshafen \| Meersburg \| Überlingen There's a feeling here, in the midst of a peaceful Alpine landscape, that the Bodensee is part of Germany and yet separated from it—which is literally the case for Lindau, which sits in the lake tethered to land by a causeway. Überlingen, a beautiful resort at the northwestern finger of the lake, attracts many vacationers and spa goers. Clear days reveal the snowcapped mountains of Switzerland to the south and the peaks of the Austrian Vorarlberg to the east. ## Lindau 180 km (112 miles) southwest of Munich. By far the best way to get to know this charming old island town is on foot. Lose yourself in the maze of small streets and passageways flanked by centuries-old houses. Wander down to the harbor for magnificent views, with the Austrian shoreline and mountains close by to the east. Just 13 km (8 miles) away, they are nearer than the Swiss mountains visible to the southwest. Lindau was made a Free Imperial City within the Holy Roman Empire in 1275. It had developed as a fishing settlement and then spent hundreds of years as a trading center along the route between the rich lands of Swabia and Italy. The Lindauer Bote, an important stagecoach service between Germany and Italy in the 18th and 19th centuries, was based here; Goethe traveled via this service on his first visit to Italy in 1788. The stagecoach was revived a few years ago, carrying passengers on a 13-day journey to Italy. This service only runs occasionally—ask at the Lindau tourist office. As the German empire crumbled toward the end of the 18th century, battered by Napoléon's revolutionary armies, Lindau fell victim to competing political groups. It was ruled by the Austrian Empire before passing into Bavarian control in 1805. Lindau's harbor was rebuilt in 1856. #### Getting Here and Around Lindau is halfway between Munich and Zurich, and about two hours from both on the EC (European Express) train. From Frankfurt it takes about four hours—change from the ICE (InterCity Express) train in Ulm to the IRE (InterRegio Express) train. You can also reach Lindau by boat: it takes about 20 minutes from Bregenz across the bay. Once in Lindau, you can reach everything on foot. Its Altstadt (old town) is a maze of ancient streets with half-timber and gable houses making up most of the island. The center and main street is the pedestrian-only Maximilianstrasse. #### Essentials Visitor Information Lindau Tourist-Information. \| Alfred-Nobel-Pl. 1 \| 08382/260–030 \| www.lindau-tourismus.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). The Old Town Hall is the finest of Lindau's handsome historic buildings. It was constructed between 1422 and 1436 in the midst of a vineyard and given a Renaissance face-lift 150 years later, though the original stepped gables remain. Emperor Maximilian I held an imperial diet (deliberation) here in 1496; a fresco on the south facade depicts the scene. The building now houses offices and is closed to the public. \| Bismarckpl. 4 \| www.lindau-tourismus.de. Bavarian Lion (Der Bayerische Löwe). A proud symbol of Bavaria, Der Bayerische Löwe (the Bavarian Lion) is Lindau's most striking landmark. Carved from Bavarian marble and standing 20 feet high, the lion stares out across the lake from a massive plinth. \| Lindau Harbor entrance, Römerschanze \| www.lindau-tourismus.de. Mangenturm (Mangturm). At the harbor's inner edge, across the water from the Neuer Leuchtturm, stands this 13th century former lighthouse, one of the lake's oldest. Although the structure is old, its vibrantly colored rooftop is not—after a lightning strike in the 1970s, the roof tiles were replaced, giving the tower the bright top it now bears. \| Hafenpl. 4. Neuer Leuchtturm (New Lighthouse; Neuer Lindauer Leuchtturm). Germany's southernmost lighthouse stands sentinel, with the Bavarian Lion across the inner harbor's passageway. \| Schützingerweg 2. #### Worth Noting Barfüsserkirche—Stadttheatre Lindau and Lindauer Marionettenoper (Church of the Barefoot Pilgrims). This church, built from 1241 to 1270, is now Lindau's principal theater, and it also hosts the Lindauer Marionettenoper (Puppet Theater). Tickets for shows—starring humans or puppets—are available at the adjacent box office. \| Barfüsserpl. 1a \| 08382/944–650 \| www.kultur-lindau.de \| Mon.–Thurs. 10–1:30 and 3–6. Haus zum Cavazzen (Stadtmuseum Lindau). Dating to 1728, this house belonged to a wealthy merchant and is now considered one of the most beautiful in the Bodensee region, owing to its rich decor of frescoes. Today it serves as a local history museum, with collections of glass and pewter items, paintings, and furniture from the past five centuries, alongside touring exhibitions. \| Marktpl. 6 \| 08382/944073 \| www.kultur-lindau.de/museum \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6. Marktplatz. Lindau's market square is lined by a series of sturdy and attractive old buildings. The Gothic Stephanskirche (St. Stephen's Church) is simple and sparsely decorated, as befits a Lutheran place of worship. It dates to the late 12th century but went through numerous transformations. One of its special features is the green-hue stucco ornamentation on the ceiling, which immediately attracts the eye toward the heavens. In contrast, the Catholic Münster Unserer Lieben Frau (St. Mary's Church), which stands right next to the Stephanskirche, is exuberantly baroque. \| Marktpl. Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church). This solid 10th-century Romanesque building may be the oldest church in the Bodensee region. On the inside of the northern wall, frescoes by Hans Holbein the Elder (1465–1524) depict scenes from the life of St. Peter, the patron saint of fishermen. Peterskirche houses a memorial to fallen German soldiers from World Wars I and II, and a memorial plaque for victims of Auschwitz. Attached to the church is the 16th-century bell foundry, now a pottery works. Also of note is the adjacent fairy-tale-like Diebsturm. Look closely and you might see Rapunzel's golden hair hanging from this 13th-century tower, awaiting a princely rescuer. Follow the old city wall behind the tower and church to the adjoining Unterer Schrannenplatz, where the bell-makers used to live. A 1989 fountain depicts five of the Narren (Fools) that make up the VIPs of Fastnacht, the annual Alemannic Carnival celebrations. \| Oberer Schrannenpl. Stadtgarten (City Park; Oskar-Groll-Anlage). Ludwigstrasse and Fischergasse lead to a watchtower, once part of the original city walls with a little park behind it. If it's early evening, you'll see the first gamblers of the night making for the neighboring casino. \| Oskar-Groll-Anlage \| www.lindau-tourismus.de. * * * Recommended Bodensee Foods On a nice day you could sit on the terrace of a Bodensee restaurant forever, looking across the sparkling waters to the imposing heights of the Alps in the distance. The fish on your plate, possibly caught that very morning in the lake, is another reason to linger. Fish predominates on the menus of the region; 35 varieties swim in the lake, with Felchen (whitefish) the most highly prized. Felchen belongs to the salmon family and is best eaten blau ("blue"—poached in a mixture of water and vinegar with spices, called Essigsud) or Müllerin (baked in almonds). A white Seewein (lake wine) from one of the vineyards around the lake provides the perfect pairing. Sample a German and a Swiss version. Both use the same kind of grape, from vineyards are only a few miles apart, but they produce wines with very different tastes. The Swiss like their wines very dry, whereas the Germans prefer them slightly sweeter. One of the best-known Swabian dishes is Maultaschen, a kind of ravioli, usually served floating in a broth strewn with chives. Another specialty is Pfannkuchen (pancakes), generally filled with meat, or chopped into fine strips and scattered in a clear consommé known as Flädlesuppe. Hearty Zwiebelrostbraten (beef steak with lots of fried onions) is often served with a side of Spätzle (hand-cut or pressed, golden soft-textured egg noodles) and accompanied by a good strong Swabian beer. * * * ### Where to Eat Gasthaus zum Sünfzen. GERMAN \| This ancient inn was serving warm meals to the patricians, officials, merchants, and other good burghers of Lindau back in the 14th century. The current chef insists on using fresh ingredients preferably from the region, such as fish from the lake in season, venison from the mountains, and apples—pressed to juice or distilled to schnapps—from his own orchard. Try the herb-flavored Maultaschen (large ravioli), the excellent Felchen (whitefish) fillet in wine sauce, or the peppery Schübling sausage. \| Average main: €19 \| Maximilianstr. 1 \| 08382/5865 \| www.suenfzen.de \| Closed Thurs. mid-Jan.–mid-Mar. ### Where to Stay Hotel Bayerischer Hof. HOTEL \| This is the address in town, a stately hotel directly on the edge of the lake, its terrace lush with semitropical, long-flowering plants, trees, and shrubs. Most of the luxuriously appointed rooms have views of the lake and the Austrian and Swiss mountains beyond. Freshly caught pike-perch is a highlight of the extensive menus in the stylish restaurants ($$$). Rooms at the Hotels Reutemann and Seegarten next door (under the same management) are a little cheaper than those at the Bayerischer Hof. Pros: pretty lake view from many rooms; elegant dining room with good food, nearly all rooms have a/c. Cons: not all rooms have a lake view; no free parking; on weekends in summer parking is difficult; expensive. \| Rooms from: €194 \| Seepromenade \| 08382/9150 \| www.bayerischerhof-lindau.de \| 91 rooms, 6 suites \| Breakfast. FAMILY \| Hotel Garni Brugger. HOTEL \| This small, family-run hotel stands on the site occupied by the city wall in the Middle Ages. It's especially appealing for families, as you can always add another bed to your three-bed room. During the colder months, make use of the Finnish sauna and herbal steam room. Pros: center of town; family-run atmosphere; good value for families. Cons: caters to families; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €116 \| Bei der Heidenmauer 11 \| 08382/93410 \| www.hotel-garni-brugger.de \| 23 rooms \| Breakfast. Insel-Hotel. HOTEL \| In fine weather, you can enjoy breakfast al fresco as you watch the town come alive at this friendly central hotel on the pedestrian-only Maximilianstrasse. The rooms aren't the most modern, but the location is superb and the service is warm. Pros: center of town; family run. Cons: some rooms need some new furnishings and paint; parking is difficult. \| Rooms from: €123 \| Maximilianstr. 42 \| 08382/5017 \| www.insel-hotel-lindau.de \| 26 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Bregenzer Festspiele (Bregenz Music Festival). A dramatic floating stage supports orchestras and opera stars during the famous Bregenzer Festspiele from mid-July to the end of August. Make reservations well in advance. The Austrian town of Bregenz is 13 km (8 miles) from Lindau, on the other side of the bay. \| Platz Der Wiener Symphoniker 1 \| Bregenz, Austria \| 0043/5574–4076 \| www.bregenzerfestspiele.com. Spielbank Lindau Casino. You can play roulette, blackjack, poker, and slot machines at the town's modern and elegant casino. The dress code requires that men wear a blazer or sports jacket. \| Chelles-Allee 1 \| 08382/27740 \| www.spielbanken-bayern.de \| Sun.–Thu. noon–2 am, Fri.–Sat. noon–3 am. ### Sports and the Outdoors Bodensee Yachtschule. This sailing school in Lindau charters yachts and offers sailing courses for all ages, from beginner to advanced levels. \| Christoph Eychmüller Schiffswerfte 2 \| 08382/944–588 \| www.bodensee-yachtschule.de. Surfschule Kreitmeir. You can rent boards and take windsurfing and stand-up paddleboarding lessons at Surfschule Kreitmeir. \| Strandbad Eichwald, Eichwaldstr. 20 \| 08382/279–9459 \| www.surfschule-lindau.de. ### Shopping Biedermann en Vogue. This high-end boutique carries various luxury fashion brands, as well as custom-made clothing, cashmere sweaters, and Italian shoes. \| Maximilianstr. 2 \| 08382/944–913. Böhm. A destination for interior decorators, Böhm consists of three old houses full of lamps, mirrors, precious porcelain, and elegant furniture. \| Maximilianstr. 21 \| 08382/94880 \| www.boehm-dieeinrichtungen.de. Internationale Bodensee-Kunstauktion. Michael Zeller organizes the celebrated International Bodensee Art Auction, held four times yearly. Visit the website for the catalog and dates of upcoming auctions. \| Binderg. 7 \| 08382/93020 \| www.zeller.de. En Route: Wasserburg. Six kilometers (4 miles) west of Lindau lies Wasserburg, whose name means "water castle," a description of what this enchanting island town once was—a fortress. It has some of the most photographed sights of the Bodensee: the yellow, stair-gabled presbytery; the fishermen's St. Georg Kirche, with its onion dome; and the little Malhaus museum, with the castle, Schloss Wasserburg, in the background. \| www.wasserburg-bodensee.de. Schloss Montfort (Montfort Castle). Another 8 km (5 miles) west of Wasserburg is the small, pretty town of Langenargen, famous for the region's most unusual castle, Schloss Montfort. Named for the original owners, the counts of Montfort-Werdenberg, this structure was a conventional medieval fortification until the 19th century, when it was rebuilt in pseudo-Moorish style by its new owner, King Wilhelm I of Württemberg. If you can, see it from a passenger ship on the lake; the castle is especially memorable in the early morning or late afternoon. The tower is open to visitors, and the castle houses a café-restaurant, which is open for dinner from Tuesday to Sunday, March through October. The café is also open for Sunday brunch year-round. \| Untere Seestr. 3 \| Langenargen \| 07543/912–712 \| www.vemax-gastro.de \| Tower €2 \| Tower mid-Mar.–Oct., 10–noon and 1–5. ## Friedrichshafen 24 km (15 miles) west of Lindau. Named for its founder, King Friedrich I of Württemberg, Friedrichshafen is a relatively young town (dating to 1811). In an area otherwise given over to resort towns and agriculture, Friedrichshafen played a central role in Germany's aeronautics tradition, which saw the development of the zeppelin airship before World War I and the Dornier seaplanes in the 1920s and '30s. The zeppelins were once launched from a floating hangar on the lake, and the Dornier water planes were tested here. The World War II raids on its factories virtually wiped the city off the map. The current layout of the streets is the same, but the buildings are all new and not necessarily pretty. The atmosphere, however, is good and lively, and occasionally you'll find a plaque with a picture of the old building that stood at the respective spot. The factories are back, too. Friedrichshafen is home to such international firms as EADS (airplanes, rockets, and helicopters) and ZF (gear wheels). #### Getting Here and Around It takes about two hours from Ulm on the IRE (InterRegio Express) train, then a bus or BOB (Bodensee Oberschwaben Bahn). Most trains stop at Friedrichshafen airport. The car ferry takes you on a 40-minute run across the lake to Romanshorn in Switzerland, where you have direct express trains to the airport and Zürich. In town you can reach most places on foot. #### Essentials Airplane Tours Konair. Konair provide scenic flights, flight lessons, and an air-taxi service around the Bodensee region. \| Riedstr. 82, \| Konstanz \| 07531/361–6905 \| www.konair.de. Visitor Information Friedrichshafen Tourist-Information. \| Bahnhofpl. 2 \| 07541/30010 \| www.friedrichshafen.info. ### Exploring Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei GmbH. For an unforgettable experience, take a scenic zeppelin flight out of Friedrichshafen airport. The flying season runs from March to November, and prices start at €200 for half an hour. For those who prefer to stay grounded, you can also tour the Zeppelin NT (New Technology) in its hangar. \| Allmannsweilerstr. 132 \| 07541/59000 \| www.zeppelinflug.de. Zeppelin Museum. Graf Zeppelin (Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin) was born across the lake in Konstanz, but Friedrichshafen was where, on July 2, 1900, his first "airship"—the LZ 1—was launched. The story is told in the Zeppelin Museum, which holds the world's most significant collection of artifacts pertaining to airship history. In a wing of the restored Bauhaus Friedrichshafen Hafenbahnhof (harbor railway station), the main attraction is the reconstruction of a 108-foot-long section of the legendary Hindenburg, the LZ 129 that exploded at its berth in Lakehurst, New Jersey, on May 6, 1937. (The airships were filled with hydrogen, because in 1933 the United States had passed an act banning helium sales to foreign governments due to its military utility and scarcity at that time.) Climb aboard the airship via a retractable stairway and stroll past the authentically furnished passenger room, the original lounges, and the dining room. The illusion of traveling in a zeppelin is followed by exhibits on the history and technology of airship aviation: propellers, engines, dining-room menus, and films of the airships traveling or at war. Car fans will appreciate the great Maybach standing on the ground floor; passengers once enjoyed being transported to the zeppelins in it. The museum's restaurant, a good place to take a break, is open for lunch and dinner. \| Seestr. 22 \| 07541/38010 \| www.zeppelin-museum.de \| €8 \| May–Oct., daily 9–5 (last entry at 4:30); Nov.–Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Schloss Hofen (Hofen Castle). A short walk from town along the lakeside promenade is a small palace that served as the summer residence of Württemberg kings until 1918. The palace was formerly a priory—its foundations date from the 11th century. Today it is the private home of Duke Friedrich von Württemberg and isn't open to the public. You can visit the adjoining priory church, a splendid example of regional baroque architecture. The swirling white stucco of the interior was executed by the Schmuzer family from Wessobrunn whose master craftsman, Franz Schmuzer, also created the priory church's magnificent marble altar. \| Easter–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Easter, Sun. 9–6. ### Where to Eat Lukullum. ECLECTIC \| This lively, novel restaurant is divided into seven Stuben (rooms), all themed: sit in a wine barrel, dine in Tirol, relax under the image of an airship in the Zeppelin Bräustüble—or enjoy the beer garden in summer. Dishes are good and basic, with some international touches. Friendly service keeps up with the pace of the socializing at this friendly dining spot. \| Average main: €16 \| Friedrichstr. 21 \| 07541/6818 \| www.lukullum.de \| Closed Mon. No lunch Tues.–Fri. Zeppelin-Museumrestaurant. GERMAN \| A grand view of the harbor and the lake is only one of the attractions of this art deco-styled restaurant in the Zeppelin Museum. Soak up the retro airship travel theme as you enjoy cakes and drinks, a wide range of Swabian specialties, and several Italian dishes. \| Average main: €14 \| Seestr. 22 \| 07541/953–0088 \| www.zeppelinmuseum-restaurant.de. ### Where to Stay Buchhorner Hof. HOTEL \| This traditional family-run hotel near the train station is decorated with hunting trophies, leather armchairs, and Turkish rugs; bedrooms are large and comfortable. One floor is reserved for business travelers, with extra-large desks and Wi-Fi in the rooms. The restaurant ($$$) is plush and subdued, with delicately carved chairs and mahogany-panel walls. Its menus include dishes such as pork medallions, perch fillet, and lamb chops. Pros: business floor; cozy and big lobby; excellent restaurant; many rooms have nice views. Cons: many rooms look onto a busy main street; parking is difficult. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Friedrichstr. 33 \| 07541/2050 \| www.buchhorn.de \| 92 rooms, 4 suites, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Flair Hotel Gerbe. HOTEL \| A former farm and tannery that's about 5 km (3 miles) from the city center, is now a pleasant, spacious hotel; its rooms (many with balconies) overlook the gardens, the countryside, and—on a clear day—the Swiss mountains. In summer you can enjoy Swabian food ($$) on the big terrace that leads into the garden. Even if you don't swim in the indoor pool, take a peek at it and its surprising barrel ceiling, which was constructed for the tannery more than 400 years ago. Pros: spacious rooms with good views; ample parking. Cons: 5 km (3 miles) from center of town; some rooms have street noise. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Hirschlatterstr. 14, Ailingen \| 07541/5090 \| www.hotel-gerbe.de \| 59 rooms \| Breakfast. Ringhotel Krone. HOTEL \| This large Bavarian-themed hotel in the Schnetzenhausen district's semirural surroundings, 6 km (4 miles) from the center of town, has a lot to offer active guests, including tennis, minigolf, bicycles to rent, a gym, saunas, and an indoor pool. The restaurant ($$) specializes in game dishes and fish. Pros: great variety of rooms; good food; lots of parking. Cons: not near the center of town; a few rooms have street noise. \| Rooms from: €152 \| Untere Mühlbachstr. 1, Schnetzenhausen \| 07541/4080 \| www.ringhotel-krone.de \| 135 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Cafebar Belushi. College students and a mostly young crowd raise their glasses and voices above the din at Cafebar Belushi. \| Montfortstr. 3 \| 07541/32531 \| www.cafe-bar-belushi.de \| Closed Sun. Graf-Zeppelin-Haus. This modern convention center on the lakeside promenade also functions as a cultural center, where musicals, light opera, and classical as well as pop-rock concerts take place several times a week. The Graf-Zeppelin-Haus has a good modern restaurant with a big terrace overlooking the harbor. \| Olgastr. 20 \| 07541/2880 \| www.gzh.de. ### Shopping Marktkörble Ebe. This century-old gift shop sells tableware and kitchenware, handmade candles, toys, stationary, and postcards, alongside some clothing and accessories. \| Buchhornpl. 5 \| 07541/388–430 \| www.marktkoerble.de. Weber & Weiss. Look for the zeppelin airship–shape chocolates and candies at this excellent candy store. \| Charlottenstr. 11 \| 07541/21771 \| www.weber-weiss.de. ## Meersburg 18 km (11 miles) west of Friedrichshafen. Meersburg is one of the most romantic old towns on the German shore of the lake. Seen from the water on a summer afternoon with the sun slanting low, the steeply terraced town looks like a stage set, with its bold castles, severe patrician dwellings, and a gaggle of half-timber houses arranged around narrow streets. It's no wonder that cars have been banned from the center: the crowds of people who come to visit the sights on weekends fill up the streets. The town is divided into the Unterstadt (Lower Town) and Oberstadt (Upper Town), connected by several steep streets and stairs. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourism Meersburg. \| Kirchstr. 4 \| 07532/440–400 \| www.meersburg.de. ### Exploring Altes Schloss (Old Castle; Burg Meersburg). Majestically guarding the town is the Altes Schloss, the original Meersburg ("sea castle"). It's Germany's oldest inhabited castle, founded in 628 by Dagobert, king of the Franks. The massive central tower, with walls 10 feet thick, is named after him. The bishops of Konstanz used it as a summer residence until 1526, at which point they moved in permanently. They remained until the mid-18th century, when they built themselves what they felt to be a more suitable residence—the baroque Neues Schloss. Plans to tear down the Altes Schloss in the early 19th century were shelved when it was taken over by Baron Joseph von Lassberg, a man much intrigued by the castle's medieval romance. He turned it into a home for like-minded poets and artists, among them the Grimm brothers and his sister-in-law, the poet Annette von Droste-Hülshoff (1797–1848). The Altes Schloss is still private property, but much of it can be visited, including the richly furnished rooms where Droste-Hülshoff lived and the chamber where she died, as well as the imposing knights' hall, the minstrels' gallery, and the sinister dungeons. The Altes Schloss Museum (Old Castle Museum) contains a fascinating collection of weapons and armor, including a rare set of medieval jousting equipment. \| Schlosspl. 10 \| 07532/80000 \| www.burg-meersburg.de \| €8.50 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 9–6:30; Nov.–Feb., daily 10–6. Droste Museum (Fürstenhäusle). An idyllic retreat almost hidden among the vineyards, the Fürstenhäusle was built in 1640 by a local vintner and later used as a holiday house by the poet Annette von Droste-Hülshoff. It's now the Droste Museum, containing many of her personal possessions and giving a vivid sense of Meersburg in her time. \| Stettenerstr. 11, east of Obertor, the town's north gate \| 07532/6088 \| www.fuerstenhaeusle.de \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sat. 10–12:30 and 2–6, Sun. 2–6. Neues Schloss. The spacious and elegant "New Castle" is directly across from its predecessor. Designed by Christoph Gessinger at the beginning of the 18th century, it took nearly 50 years to complete. The grand double staircase, with its intricate grillwork and heroic statues, was the work of Balthasar Neumann. The interior's other standout is the glittering Spiegelsaal (Hall of Mirrors). \| Schlosspl. 12 \| 07532/440–4900 \| www.neues-schloss-meersburg.de \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6:30; Nov.–Mar., weekends and holidays 11–4. Stadtmuseum. Right next to the local tourist office stands the City Museum, in a former Dominican priory. You can see an overview of the town's history that celebrates some of its famous residents, such as Franz Anton Mesmer, who developed the theory of "animal magnetism." (His name gave rise to the verb "mesmerize.") \| Kirchstr. 4 \| 07532/440–4801 \| www.meersburg.de/158 \| €2 \| Apr.–Oct., Wed., Thurs., and Sat. 2–6. Weinbau Museum (Vineyard Museum). Sunbathed, south-facing Meersburg and the neighboring towns have been the center of the Bodensee wine trade for centuries. You can pay your respects to the noble profession in the Weinbau Museum. A barrel capable of holding 50,000 liters (over 13,000 gallons) and an immense winepress dating from 1607 are highlights of the collection. \| Vorburgg. 11 \| 07532/440–400 \| www.meersburg.de/160 \| €2 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues., Fri., and Sun. 2–6. ### Where to Eat Winzerstube zum Becher. GERMAN \| Fresh fish from the lake is a specialty at this traditional restaurant, which has been in the Benz family for three generations. You can pair the day's catch with white wine from their own vineyard. A popular entrée is badische Ente (duck with bacon and apples in a wine-kirsch sauce). The restaurant is near the New Castle, and reservations are recommended. \| Average main: €20 \| Höllg. 4 \| 07532/9009 \| www.winzerstube-zum-becher.de \| Closed Mon. and for 1 wk in Jan. ### Where to Stay Gästehaus am Hafen. HOTEL \| This family-run, half-timber pension is in the middle of the Old Town, near the harbor. The rooms are small but have room for a child's bed, if needed. There's a place to store bikes as well. Pros: close to the harbor; in the center of the Lower Town; good value. Cons: small rooms; no credit cards; parking is five minutes away on foot. \| Rooms from: €54 \| Spitalg. 3–4 \| 07532/7069 \| www.amhafen.eu \| 7 rooms \| No credit cards \| Closed Nov.–Mar. \| Breakfast. Hotel Weinstube Löwen. HOTEL \| Rooms at this local landmark—a centuries-old, ivy-clad tavern on Meersburg's market square—have their own corner sitting areas, some with genuine Biedermeier furniture. The welcoming restaurant ($$), with pine paneling, serves regional and seasonal specialties, notably a tasty stew of local fish. Pros: center of town; pleasant rooms; good food in a cozy restaurant. Cons: lots of daytime noise from tourists; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Marktpl. 2 \| 07532/43040 \| www.hotel-loewen-meersburg.de \| 20 rooms \| Breakfast. Romantik Hotel Residenz am See. HOTEL \| This tastefully modern hotel overlooking the lake features two restaurants, including the Michelin-starred Casala, and Residenz Restaurant, which specializes in regional fare. Most of the elegant rooms face the lake, but the quieter ones look out onto a vineyard. The hotel is about a 10-minute walk from the harbor and Old Town. Pros: good food; pleasant rooms with lake view; quiet rooms toward the vineyards. Cons: not in center of town. \| Rooms from: €180 \| Uferpromenade 11 \| 07532/80040 \| www.hotel-residenz-meersburg.com \| 25 rooms \| Multiple meal plans. See Hotel Off. HOTEL \| Nearly all rooms at this bright, airy and crisply renovated hotel just a few steps from the shore offer balconies with views across the lake or vineyards. Owner Elisabeth Off has added many personal touches to make guests feel completely at home, and has designed several rooms according to the guidelines of feng shui. In the restaurant ($$) her husband, chef Michael Off, transforms local ingredients into gustatory adventures, with a nod to nouvelle cuisine. The wellness area includes all sorts of alternative healing measures, including Reiki and aromatherapy. And there's swimming in the lake. Pros: close to the lake; individually decorated rooms; away from center of town. Cons: not in center of town. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Uferpromenade 51 \| 07532/44740 \| www.seehotel-off.de \| 13 rooms, 7 junior suites \| Closed Jan. \| Breakfast. Zum Bären. HOTEL \| Individually furnished rooms lend character to this historic hotel, whose ivy-covered facade, with its characteristic steeple, hasn't changed much over the centuries. Built in 1605 and incorporating 13th-century Gothic foundations, the building was an important staging point for Germany's first postal service. The restaurant ($ - $$) is rustic in an uncluttered way; people travel from afar to enjoy the rack of lamb. Some rooms are furnished with Bodensee antiques and brightly painted rustic wardrobes. Try to book Room 23 or 13: both have semicircular alcoves with armchairs and windows overlooking the marketplace. Pros: center of town; historic building; good value. Cons: no elevator; some rooms are small; no credit cards. \| Rooms from: €86 \| Marktpl. 11 \| 07532/43220 \| www.baeren-meersburg.de \| 20 rooms \| No credit cards \| Closed mid-Nov.–mid-Mar. \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors FAMILY \| Meersburg Therme (Meersburg Spa). This lakeside pool complex east of the harbor has three outdoor pools, an indoor "adventure" pool, an indoor-outdoor thermal bath (34°C 93.2°F]), a sauna, and a beach-volleyball court. \| Uferpromenade 12 \| 07532/440–2850 \| [www.meersburg-therme.de \| Bathing and sauna €16.50 (3 hrs), €18.50 (full day) \| Mon.–Thurs. 10–10, Fri.–Sat. 10 am–11 am, Sun. 9 am–10 pm. ### Shopping FAMILY \| Omas Kaufhaus. If you can't find something at this incredible gift shop (with toys, enamelware, books, dolls, model cars, and much more), then you should at least see the exhibition of toy trains and tin boats on the first floor. The boats are displayed in a long canal filled with real water. \| Steigstr. 2 \| 07532/433–9611 \| Exhibition €2 \| Daily 10–6:30. En Route: Pfahlbauten. As you proceed northwest along the lake's shore, a settlement of "pile dwelling"—a reconstructed village of Stone Age and Bronze Age houses built on stilts—sticks out of the lake. This is how the original lake dwellers lived, surviving off the fish that swam outside their humble huts. Real dwellers in authentic garb give you an accurate picture of prehistoric lifestyles. The on-site Pfahlbaumuseum (Open-Air Museum and Research Institute) contains actual finds excavated in the area. Admission includes a 45-minute tour. \| Strandpromenade 6 \| Unteruhldingen \| 07556/928–900 \| www.pfahlbauten.de \| €8 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–7; Oct., daily 9–5; Nov.–Mar., hrs vary. ## Überlingen 13 km (8 miles) west of Meersburg, 24 km (15 miles) west of Friedrichshafen. This Bodensee resort has an attractive waterfront and an almost Mediterranean feel. It's midway along the north shore of the Überlingersee, a narrow finger of the Bodensee that points to the northwest. Überlingen is ancient—it's first mentioned in records dating back to 770. In the 14th century it earned the title of Free Imperial City and was known for its wines. No fewer than seven of its original city gates and towers remain from those grand days, as well as substantial portions of the old city walls. What was once the moat is now a grassy walkway, with the walls of the Old Town towering on one side and the Stadtpark stretching away on the other. The Stadtgarten (city garden), which opened in 1875, cultivates exotic plants and has a famous collection of cacti, a fuchsia garden, and a small deer corral. The heart of the city is the Münsterplatz. #### Essentials Visitor Information Überlingen Tourist-Information. \| Landungspl. 5 \| 07551/947–1522 \| www.ueberlingen-bodensee.de. ### Exploring Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). Inside the late-Gothic Altes Rathaus is a high point of Gothic decoration, the Rathaussaal, or council chamber, which is still in use today. Its most striking feature amid the riot of carving is the series of figures, created between 1492 and 1494, representing the states of the Holy Roman Empire. To visit the interior, you'll need to take the short, guided tour. Tours are free; simply show up shortly before the set start time. \| Münsterstr. 15 \| www.ueberlingen-bodensee.de \| Free \| Tours Wed. and Thurs. 11. Münster St. Nikolaus (Church of St. Nicholas). The huge Münster St. Nikolaus was built between 1512 and 1563 on the site of at least two previous churches. The interior is all Gothic solemnity and massiveness, with a lofty stone-vaulted ceiling and high, pointed arches lining the nave. The single most remarkable feature is not Gothic at all but opulently Renaissance—the massive high altar, carved by Jörg Zürn from lime wood that almost looks like ivory. The focus of the altar is that of the Nativity. \| Münsterpl. FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Salem (Salem Castle). This huge castle in the tiny inland village of Salem, 10 km (6 miles) north of Überlingen, began its existence as a convent and large church. After many architectural permutations, it was transformed into a palace for the Baden princes, though traces of its religious past can still be seen. You can view the royally furnished rooms of the abbots and princes, a library, stables, and the church. The castle also houses an interesting array of museums, workshops, and activities, including a museum of firefighting, a potter, a musical instrument builder, a goldsmith shop, a glassblowing shop, pony farms, a golf driving range, and a fantasy garden for children. There is a great path that leads from the southwestern part of the grounds through woods and meadows to the pilgrimage church of Birnau. The route was created by the monks centuries ago and is still called the Prälatenweg (path of the prelates) today. It's an 8-km (5-mile) walk (no cars permitted).\|Salem \| 07553/916–5336 \| www.salem.de \| €7 \| Apr.–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 9:30–6, Sun. 10:30–6; Nov.–Mar., guided tours only, Sun. at 3. Städtisches Museum (City Museum). This museum is housed in the Reichlin-von-Meldegg house, built in 1462, one of the earliest Renaissance dwellings in Germany. It displays exhibits tracing Bodensee history and Germany's largest collection of antique dollhouses. \| Krummebergstr. 30 \| 07551/991–079 \| www.museum-ueberlingen.de \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sat. 9–12:30 and 2–5, Sun. 10–3. Wallfahrtskirche Birnau (Pilgrimage Church; Basilika Birnau). Just northwest of Unteruhldingen, the Wallfahrtskirche Birnau stands among vineyards overlooking the lake. The church was built by the master architect Peter Thumb between 1746 and 1750. Its exterior consists of pink-and-white plaster and a tapering clock-tower spire above the main entrance. The interior is overwhelmingly rich, full of movement, light, and color. It's hard to single out highlights from such a profusion of ornament, but look for the Honigschlecker ("honey sucker"), a gold-and-white cherub beside the altar, dedicated to St. Bernard of Clairvaux, "whose words are sweet as honey" (it's the last altar on the right as you face the high altar). The cherub is sucking honey from his finger, which he's just pulled out of a beehive. The fanciful spirit of this play on words is continued in the small squares of glass set into the pink screen that rises high above the main altar; the gilt dripping from the walls; the swaying, swooning statues; and the swooping figures on the ceiling. \| Birnau-Maurach 5 \| Uhldingen-Mühlhofen \| 07556/92030 \| www.birnau.de \| May–Sept., daily 7:30–7; Oct.–Apr., daily 7:30–5:30. Off the Beaten Path: Affenberg (Monkey Mountain). On the road between Überlingen and Salem, the Affenberg (Monkey Mountain) is a 50-plus-acre park that serves as home to more than 200 free-roaming Barbary apes, as well as deer, aquatic birds, gray herons, ducks, coots, and—during nesting time—a colony of white storks. \| Mendlishauser Hof, on rd. between Überlingen and Salem \| 07553/381 \| www.affenberg-salem.de \| €8 \| Mid-Mar.–Nov., daily 9–6; last entry at 5:30. ### Where to Stay FAMILY \| Landgasthof zum Adler. HOTEL \| This unpretentious, rustic country inn in a village a few miles north of Überlingen has a blue-and-white half-timber facade, scrubbed wooden floors, maple-wood tables, and thick down comforters on the beds. There are also 10 apartments in a separate house for families at very affordable rates, and a large playground. The food ($$) is simple and delicious; trout is a specialty, as are several vegetarian dishes, such as potato gratin with fennel. Pros: good food in old wooden restaurant; modern rooms in annex; family friendly. Cons: rooms on the street side can be noisy; a bit far from Überlingen; family-oriented. \| Rooms from: €78 \| Hauptstr. 44, Lippertsreute \| 07553/82550 \| www.adler-lippertsreute.de \| 16 rooms \| Breakfast. Romantik Hotel Johanniter Kreuz. HOTEL \| Parts of this half-timber hotel in a small village north Überlingen date from the 17th century, setting a romantic tone that's further enhanced by the huge fireplace in the center of the restaurant. In the modern annex you can relax on your room's balcony. An 18-hole golf course overlooking the lake is 1½ km (1 mi) away. Pros: choice of very different rooms; spacious; modern, and yet welcoming lobby; family run; cozy restaurant; golf course close by. Cons: 3 km (2 miles) from center of town; long corridors from historic part of hotel to reach elevator in new part of the hotel. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Johanniterweg 11, Andelshofen \| 07551/937–060 \| www.johanniter-kreuz.de \| 29 rooms \| Breakfast. Schäpfle. HOTEL \| The charm of this ivy-covered hotel in the center of town has been preserved and supplemented through time—in the hallways you'll find quaint furniture and even an old Singer sewing machine painted with flowers. The rooms are done with light, wooden Scandinavian farm furniture. Guests and Überlingen residents congregate in the comfortable taproom, where the regional and international dishes are reasonably priced ($). The chef prides himself on his homemade spätzle (Swabian egg noodles). For lake views, the hotel has a second, larger building a few steps away right on the lake, complete with a terrace café. Pros: center of town; local atmosphere in restaurant; annex with lake view. Cons: parking nearby, but for a fee; no credit cards. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Jakob-Kessenringstr. 12 and 14 \| 07551/83070 \| www.schaepfle.de \| 32 rooms in 2 houses \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. ### Shopping The beauty and charm of Überlingen is one reason so many artists work and live here; there are more than 20 workshops and artists' shops where you can browse and buy at reasonable prices. TIP Ask at the tourist office for the brochure listing all the galleries. Holzer Goldschmiede. You'll find this master goldsmith's studio near the city's Franziskanertor. \| Turmg. 8, Am Franziskanertor \| 07551/61525 \| www.goldschmiede-holzer.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Ravensburg \| Weingarten From Friedrichshafen, B-30 leads north along the valley of the little River Schussen and links up with one of Germany's less-known but most attractive scenic routes. The Oberschwäbische Barockstrasse (Upper Swabian Baroque Road) follows a rich series of baroque churches and abbeys, including Germany's largest baroque church, the basilica in Weingarten. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Ravensburg 20 km (12 miles) north of Friedrichshafen. The Free Imperial City of Ravensburg once competed with Augsburg and Nürnberg for economic supremacy in southern Germany. The Thirty Years' War put an end to the city's hopes by reducing it to little more than a medieval backwater. The city's loss proved fortuitous only in that many of its original features have remained much as they were built (in the 19th century, medieval towns usually tore down their medieval walls and towers, which were considered ungainly and constraining). Fourteen of Ravensburg's town gates and towers survive, and the Altstadt is among the best preserved in Germany. #### Getting Here and Around Consider taking an official tour of the city, which grants you access to some of the towers for a splendid view of Ravensburg and the surrounding countryside. Tours are available at the tourist office. #### Essentials Visitor Information Ravensburg Tourist-Information. \| Kirchstr. 16 \| 0751/82800 \| www.ravensburg.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Defensive Towers. Ravensburg is home to a remarkable collection of well-preserved medieval towers and city gates. Highlights include the Grüner Turm (Green Tower), so called for its green tiles, many of which are 14th-century originals. Another stout defense tower is the massive Obertor (Upper Tower), the oldest gate in the city walls. The curiously named Mehlsack (Flour Sack) tower—so called because of its rounded shape and whitewash exterior—stands 170 feet high and sits upon the highest point of the city. From April to October, visitors can climb to the top of the Mehlsack or the equally tall Blaserturm (Trumpeter's Tower) for rooftop views over the city. \| 0751/82800 \| www.ravensburg.de \| Towers €1.50 \| Mehlsack: Apr. and Oct., weekends 10–3; May–Sept., daily 10–3. Blaserturm: Apr.–July, Sept., and Oct., weekdays 2–5, Sat. 10–3; Aug., weekdays 10–5, Sat. 10–3. Marienplatz. Many of Ravensburg's monuments that most recall the town's wealthy past are concentrated on this central square. To the west is the 14th-century Kornhaus (Granary); once the corn exchange for all of Upper Swabia, it now houses the public library. The late-Gothic Rathaus is a staid, red building with a Renaissance bay window and imposing late-Gothic rooms inside. Next to it stands the 15th-century Waaghaus (Weighing House), the town's weigh station and central warehouse. Its tower, the Blaserturm (Trumpeter's Tower), which served as the watchman's abode, was rebuilt in 1556 after a fire and now bears a pretty Renaissance helmet. Finally there's the colorfully frescoed Lederhaus, once the headquarters of the city's leather workers, and now home to a café. TIP On Saturday morning the square comes alive with a large market. #### Worth Noting Evangelische Stadtkirche (Protestant Church). That ecclesiastical and commercial life were never entirely separate in medieval towns is evident in this church, once part of a 14th-century monastery. The stairs on the west side of the church's chancel lead to the meeting room of the Ravensburger Gesellschaft (Ravensburg Society), an organization of linen merchants established in 1400. After the Reformation, Catholics and Protestants shared the church, but in 1810 the Protestants were given the entire building. The neo-Gothic stained-glass windows on the west side, depicting important figures of the Reformation such as Martin Luther and Ulrich Zwingli, were sponsored by wealthy burghers. \| Marienpl. 5 \| www.ravensburg-evangelisch.de. Humpis-Quartier Museum. Glass walkways, stairways, and a central courtyard connect the well-preserved medieval residences at this museum, where visitors can take a close look into the lives of Ravensburgers in the middle ages. The residences once belonged to the Humpis family, who were traders in the 15th century. \| Marktstr. 45 \| 0751/82820 \| www.museum-humpis-quartier.de \| €4 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 11–6, Thurs. 11–8. Kirche St. Peter und Paul (St. Petrus und Paulus). Just to the southwest of Ravensburg in the village of Weissenau stands this old church, which was part of a 12th-century Premonstratensian monastery and now has a high baroque facade. The interior is a stupendous baroque masterpiece, with ceiling paintings by Joseph Hafner that create the illusion of cupolas, and vivacious stuccowork by Johannes Schmuzer, one of the famous stucco artists from Wessobrunn. \| Abteistr. 2–3, Weissenau \| 0751/61590 \| www.pfarrgemeinde-weissenau.de \| Daily 9–6. Liebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). Ravensburg's true parish church, the Gothic 14th-century Liebfrauenkirche, is elegantly simple on the outside but almost entirely rebuilt inside, having reopened in early 2011 following major renovations. Among the finest treasures within are the 15th-century stained-glass windows in the choir and the heavily gilt altar. In a side altar is a copy of a carved Madonna, the Schutzmantelfrau; the late-14th-century original is in Berlin's Dahlem Museum. \| Kirchstr. 18 \| www.kath-rv.de \| Daily 7–7. FAMILY \| Museum Ravensburger. Ravensburg is a familiar name to all jigsaw-puzzle fans, because the Ravensburg publishing house produces the world's largest selection of puzzles, in addition to many other children's games. Here you can explore the history of the company, founded in 1883 by Otto Robert Maier. Be sure to try out new and classic games via the interactive game stations throughout the museum. \| Marktstr. 26 \| 07542/400–110 \| www.museum-ravensburger.de \| €5.50 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 11–6. FAMILY \| Ravensburger Spieleland. This amusement park is located 10 km (6 mi) from Ravensburg, in the direction of Lindau. Entrance is free to children on their birthday. \| Am Hangenwald 1, Liebenau \| Meckenbeuren \| 07542/4000 \| www.spieleland.de \| €26.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6. Park closes sporadically, check ahead of time. ### Where to Eat and Stay Firenze Caffé e Gelateria. ITALIAN \| This bustling multilevel café opens early and closes late and offers a mind-boggling array of ice-cream dishes and other sweet and savory fare. For a quick and inexpensive meal, consider the tasty breakfasts, sandwiches, and German- and Italian-influenced items on offer. \| Average main: €10 \| Marienpl. 47 \| 0751/24665 \| No credit cards. Café-Restaurant Central. ECLECTIC \| This popular place, with two floors and a large terrace on Marienplatz, has an international range of dishes, from kebabs and curries to pastas and local specialties. You can also enjoy coffee, cakes, or an aperitif. \| Average main: €12 \| Marienpl. 48 \| 0751/32533 \| www.cafebar-central.de. Fodor's Choice \| Rebleutehaus. GERMAN \| Follow a small alley off the Marienplatz to this warm, relaxed restaurant set in an old guildhall with a beautiful Tonnendecke (barrel ceiling). The restaurant shares a kitchen with the Restaurant Waldhorn; the quality is the same, but the prices at Rebleutehaus are easier on the wallet. Try fish from the Bodensee in season. Reservations are a good idea for dinner. \| Average main: €20 \| Schulg. 15 \| 0751/36120 \| www.waldhorn.de \| Closed Sun. Gasthof Ochsen. HOTEL \| At this typical, family-owned Swabian inn, the personable Kimpfler family extends a warm welcome. When checking in, reserve a table for dinner, as the wood-paneled restaurant ($$) can often book up. This is the place to try Maultaschen (Swabian ravioli) and Zwiebelrostbraten (steak with lots of fried onions). Pros: warm atmosphere and good Swabian food in the cozy restaurant; many rooms newly refurbished. Cons: parking not on site. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Burgstr. 1 \| 0751/25480 \| www.ochsen-rv.de \| 26 rooms \| Restaurant closed to public Sun. \| Breakfast. ## Weingarten 5 km (3 miles) north of Ravensburg. Weingarten is famous throughout Germany for its huge and hugely impressive basilica, which you can see up on a hill from miles away, long before you get to the town. The city has grown during the last century as several small and midsize industries settled here. It's now an interesting mixture, its historic old town surrounded by a small, prosperous industrial city. #### Essentials Visitor Information Weingarten Amt für Kultur- und Tourismus. \| Münsterpl. 1 \| 0751/405–232 \| www.weingarten-online.de. ### Exploring Alemannenmuseum. If you want to learn about early Germans—residents from the 6th, 7th, and 8th centuries whose graves are just outside town—visit the Alemannenmuseum in the Kornhaus, which was once a granary. Archaeologists discovered the hundreds of Alemannic graves in the 1950s. \| Karlstr. 28 \| 0751/49343 for general info, 0751/405–255 for tours \| www.weingarten-online.de \| €2 \| Wed.–Sun. 2–5. Weingarten Basilica (St. Martin Basilica). At 220 feet high and more than 300 feet long, Weingarten Basilica is the largest baroque church in Germany. It was built as the church of one of the oldest and most venerable convents in the country, founded in 1056 by the wife of Guelph IV. The Guelph dynasty ruled large areas of Upper Swabia, and generations of family members lie buried in the church. The majestic edifice was renowned because of its little vial said to contain drops of Christ's blood. First mentioned by Charlemagne, the vial passed to the convent in 1094, entrusted to its safekeeping by the Guelph queen Juditha, sister-in-law of William the Conqueror. Weingarten then became one of Germany's foremost pilgrimage sites.TIP To this day, on the day after Ascension Thursday, the anniversary of the day the vial of Christ's blood was entrusted to the convent, a huge procession of pilgrims wends its way to the basilica. It's well worth seeing the procession, which is headed by nearly 3,000 horsemen (many local farmers breed horses just for this occasion). The basilica was decorated by leading early-18th-century German and Austrian artists: stuccowork by Franz Schmuzer, ceiling frescoes by Cosmas Damian Asam, and a Donato Frisoni altar—one of the most breathtakingly ornate in Europe, with nearly 80-foot-high towers on either side. The organ, installed by Josef Gabler between 1737 and 1750, is among the largest in the country. \| Kirchpl. 6 \| www.st-martin-weingarten.de \| Nov.–Mar., daily 8–5; Apr.–Oct., daily 8–7. Off the Beaten Path: Hopfenmuseum Tettnang (Tettnang Hops Museum). This museum, dedicated to brewing, is in the tiny village of Siggenweiler, 3 km (2 miles) northwest of Tettnang—the second-largest hops-growing area in Germany. Tettnang exports most of its so-called "green gold" to the United States. In the museum there is a small pub where you can buy a pretzel and of course a beer made with Tettnang hops. \| Hopfengut 20, Siggenweiler \| 07542/952–206 \| www.hopfenmuseum-tettnang.de \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10:30–6. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Konstanz \| Mainau \| Reichenau The immense Bodensee owes its name to a small, insignificant town, Bodman, on the Bodanrück Peninsula, at the northwestern edge of the lake. TIP The peninsula's most popular destinations, Konstanz and Mainau, are reachable by ferry from Meersburg—by far the most romantic way to get to the area. The other option is to take the road (B-31, then B-34, and finally B-33) that skirts the western arm of the Bodensee and ends its German journey at Konstanz. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Konstanz A ½-hr ferry ride from Meersburg. The university town of Konstanz is the largest on the Bodensee; it straddles the Rhine as it flows out of the lake, placing itself both on the Bodanrück Peninsula and the Switzerland side of the lake, where it adjoins the Swiss town of Kreuzlingen. Konstanz is among the best-preserved medieval towns in Germany; during the war the Allies were unwilling to risk inadvertently bombing neutral Switzerland. On the peninsula side of the town, east of the main bridge connecting Konstanz's two halves, runs Seestrasse, a stately promenade of neoclassical mansions with views of the Bodensee. The Old Town center is a labyrinth of narrow streets lined with restored half-timber houses and dignified merchant dwellings. This is where you'll find restaurants, hotels, pubs, and much of the nightlife. It's claimed that Konstanz was founded in the 3rd century by Emperor Constantine Chlorus, father of Constantine the Great. The story is probably untrue, though it's certain there was a Roman garrison here. In the late 6th century Konstanz was made a bishopric; in 1192 it became a Free Imperial City. What put it on the map was the Council of Constance, held between 1414 and 1418 to settle the Great Schism (1378–1417), the rift in the church caused by two separate lines of popes, one ruling from Rome, the other from Avignon. The Council resolved the problem in 1417 by electing Martin V as the true, and only, pope. The church had also agreed to restore the Holy Roman emperor's (Sigismund's) role in electing the pope, but only if Sigismund silenced the rebel theologian Jan Hus, of Bohemia. Even though Sigismund had allowed Hus safe passage to Konstanz for the Council, he won the church's favor by having Hus burned at the stake in July 1415. In a satiric short story, the French author Honoré de Balzac created the character of Imperia, a courtesan of great beauty and cleverness, who raised the blood pressure of both religious and secular VIPs during the council. No one visiting the harbor today can miss the 28-foot statue of Imperia standing out on the breakwater. Dressed in a revealing and alluring style, in her hands she holds two dejected figures: the emperor and the pope. This hallmark of Konstanz, created by Peter Lenk, caused controversy when it was unveiled in April 1993. Most people enjoy Konstanz for its worldly pleasures—the elegant Altstadt, trips on the lake, walks along the promenade, elegant shops, the restaurants, the views. The heart of the city is the Marktstätte (Marketplace), near the harbor, with the simple bulk of the Konzilgebäude looming behind it. Erected in 1388 as a warehouse, the Konzilgebäude (Council Hall) is now a concert hall. Beside the Konzilgebäude are statues of Jan Hus and native son Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin (1838–1917). The Dominican monastery where Hus was held before his execution is still here, doing duty as a luxurious hotel, the Steigenberger Insel-Hotel. #### Getting Here and Around Konstanz is in many ways the center of the lake area. You can reach Zürich airport by direct train in about an hour, and Frankfurt in 4½ hours. Swiss autobahn access to Zürich is about 10 minutes away, and you can reach the autobahn access to Stuttgart in about the same time. To reach the island of Mainau, you can take a bus, but a much more pleasant way to get there is by boat, via Meersburg. You can take another boat downriver to Schaffhausen in Switzerland, or east to the northern shore towns as well as Bregenz in Austria. The Old Town is manageable on foot. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Konstanz. \| Bahnhofpl. 43 \| 07531/133–030 \| www.konstanz-tourismus.de. ### Exploring Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). This old town hall was built during the Renaissance and painted with vivid frescoes—swags of flowers and fruits, shields, and sturdy knights wielding immense swords. Walk into the courtyard to admire its Renaissance restraint. \| Kanzleistr. 13. Münster. Konstanz's cathedral, the Münster, was the center of one of Germany's largest bishoprics until 1827, when the seat was moved to Freiburg. Construction on the cathedral continued from the 10th through the 19th century, resulting in an interesting coexistence of architectural styles: the twin-tower facade is sturdily Romanesque; the elegant and airy chapels along the aisles are full-blown 15th-century Gothic; the complex nave vaulting is Renaissance; and the choir is severely neoclassical. The Mauritius Chapel behind the altar is a 13th-century Gothic structure, 12 feet high, with some of its original vivid coloring and gilding. It's studded with statues of the Apostles and figures depicting the childhood of Jesus. TIP Climb the Münsterturm (Münster Tower) for views over the city and lake. \| Münsterpl. 4 \| €2 \| Daily 8–6. Tower: Mon.–Sat. 10–5:30, Sun. 12:30–6. Niederburg. The Niederburg, the oldest part of Konstanz, is a tangle of twisting streets leading to the Rhine. From the river take a look at two of the city's old towers: the Rheintorturm (Rhine Tower), the one nearer the lake, and the aptly named Pulverturm (Powder Tower), the former city arsenal. Rosgartenmuseum (Rose Garden Museum). Within the medieval guildhall of the city's butchers, this museum has a rich collection of art and artifacts from the Bodensee region. Highlights include exhibits of the life and work of the people around the Bodensee, from the Bronze Age through the Middle Ages and beyond. There's also a collection of sculpture and altar paintings from the Middle Ages. \| Rosgartenstr. 3–5 \| 07531/900–246 \| www.rosgartenmuseum-konstanz.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 10–5. FAMILY \| Sealife. This huge aquarium has gathered all the fish species that inhabit the Rhine and the Bodensee, from the river's beginnings in the Swiss Alps to its end in Rotterdam and the North Sea. Also check out the Bodensee Naturmuseum at the side entrance, which gives a comprehensive overview of the geological history of the Bodensee and its fauna and flora right down to the microscopic creatures of the region. You can buy tickets in advance online for a significantly cheaper price. \| Hafenstr. 9 \| 07531/128–270 \| www.sealife.de \| €16.50 \| Sept.–June, daily 10–5, July and Aug., daily 10–6. ### Where to Eat Brauhaus Joh. Albrecht. GERMAN \| This small brewery with shiny copper cauldrons, part of a chain of five throughout Germany, serves simple dishes as well as regional specialties and vegetarian food on large wooden tables. Tuesday is schnitzel day, with half a dozen varieties on the menu, all of them filling—and all costing €9.99. \| Average main: €13 \| Konradig. 2 \| 07531/25045 \| konstanz.brauhaus-joh-albrecht.de. Hafenhalle. GERMAN \| Enjoy eclectic cooking—including Italian, Bavarian, and Swabian fare—at this warm-weather spot on the harbor. Sit outside on the terrace and watch the busy harbor traffic, or enjoy the beer garden with sandbox for children and big TV screen for watching sports. The restaurant frequently presents sporting, culinary, and live-music events. \| Average main: €15 \| Hafenstr. 10 \| 07531/21126 \| www.hafenhalle.com \| Closed Jan. and Feb. ### Where to Stay ABC Hotel. HOTEL \| This hotel offers large, comfortable, individually furnished rooms, all with kitchen facilities; book the unusual Turmsuite (Tower Suite) for an especially memorable stay among exposed beams and steeply sloping walls, and with private access to the top of the tower. The sturdy building served as both a barracks and a casino in years gone by. It's about 15 minutes on foot or 5 minutes by bus from the center of Konstanz. Pros: warm welcome; large airy rooms; quiet location; enough parking space; free Wi-Fi. Cons: not in the center of town; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Steinstr. 19 \| 07531/8900 \| www.abc-hotel.de \| 37 rooms \| Breakfast. Barbarossa. HOTEL \| This historic hotel in the heart of Old Town has been modernized inside, but such original elements as wooden support beams lend a romantic, authentic feel. Rooms are individually furnished, with several newly redecorated. The stained-glass windows and dark-wood paneling give the restaurant ($$$) a cozy, warm atmosphere. Fish and game in season are the specialties. Enjoy sunshine and views over the city from the rooftop terrace. Pros: historic building; cozy restaurant with good food; free hotel-wide Wi-Fi. Cons: some rooms simply furnished; parking available but a third of a mile walk away. \| Rooms from: €97 \| Obermarkt 8 \| 07531/128–990 \| www.hotelbarbarossa.de \| 50 rooms \| Breakfast. Stadthotel. HOTEL \| It's a five-minute walk to the lake from this friendly hotel, where rooms are modern, airy, and decorated in bright colors. Try for the rooms on the top floor, which have good views. Pros: center of town; quiet location with little traffic. Cons: no restaurant; parking garage five minutes away on foot. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Bruderturmg. 2 \| 07531/90460 \| www.stadthotel-konstanz.com \| 24 rooms \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Steigenberger Insel-Hotel. HOTEL \| With its original cloisters intact, this former 16th-century monastery is now the most luxurious lodging in town. But in earlier days, the church reformer Jan Hus was held prisoner here, and later, Graf Zeppelin was born here. Bedrooms are spacious and stylish, more like those of a private home than a hotel, and most have lake views. The formal terrace restaurant has superb views of the lake, while the Dominikanerstube is smaller and more intimate. Both restaurants ($$$) feature regional specialties. For drinks, there's the clubby, relaxed Zeppelin Bar and Susos Bar - Café, which also has a terrace. Pros: wonderful lake views; luxurious; good restaurants. Cons: a few rooms look out on railroad tracks; some others need refurnishing; expensive. \| Rooms from: €188 \| Auf der Insel 1 \| 07531/1250 \| www.konstanz.steigenberger.com \| 100 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Casino. Try your luck on the machines and tables of the casino in Konstanz. You must be over 21 to enter the casino. \| Seestr. 21 \| 07531/81570 \| www.casino-konstanz.de \| €3 \| Sun.–Thurs. 2 pm–2 am, Fri.–Sat. 2 pm–3 am. K9 (Kommunales Kunst- und Kulturzentrum K9). This cultural center draws all ages with its music and dance club, theater, comedy, and cabaret. It's in the former Church of St. Paul. \| Hieronymusg. 3 \| 07531/16713 \| www.k9-kulturzentrum.de. Kulturladen (Kula). Concerts and variously themed DJ nights are held at Kulturladen. \| Joseph Belli Weg 5 \| 07531/52954 \| www.kulturladen.de. Rock am See. This annual late-summer rock music festival has been drawing rock fans to the Bodensee since 1985. Held at Bodensee-Stadion in Konstanz, the festival features both German and international acts. \| Bodensee-Stadion, Eichhornstr. 89 \| 07531/908844 for ticket service \| www.rock-am-see.de. Seekuh. This cozy and crowded Italian restaurant and bar features the occasional live jazz night and also screens live football games from time to time. \| Konzilstr. 1 \| 07531/27232 \| www.seekuh.de. Seenachtfest (Lake Night Festival). In August, Konstanz shares this one-day city festival with neighboring Kreuzlingen in Switzerland, with street events, music, clowns, and magicians, and ending with fireworks over the lake. \| Lakefront \| www.seenachtfest.de. Stadttheater (Theater Konstanz). The Stadttheater, Germany's oldest active theater, has staged plays since 1609 and has its own repertory company. \| Konzilstr. 11 \| 07531/900–150 for tickets \| www.theaterkonstanz.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Bicycling Bike rentals generally cost €12 per day. Velotours Touristik GmbH. You can book bicycle tours and rent bikes at Velotours Touristik GmbH. \| Bücklestr. 13 \| 07531/98280 \| www.velotours.de. Kultur-Rädle. This friendly store rents bikes at the main train station. A two-day rental costs 20 euros. \| Bahnhofpl. 29 \| 07531/27310 \| www.kultur-raedle.de. #### Boating Wilde Flotte—Segel & Wassersportschule Konstanz Wallhausen (Wild Fleet). This sailing school offers boat charters—both skippered and solo—as well as lessons in sailing, wakeboarding and waterskiing. \| Uferstr. 16 \| Wallhausen \| 07533/997–8802 \| www.wilde-flotte.de. Yachtcharter Konstanz. Sail and motor yachts are available at Yachtcharter Konstanz. \| Hafenstr. 7b \| 07531/363–3970 \| www.yachtcharter-konstanz.de. ### Shopping It's worthwhile to roam the streets of the old part of town, where there are several gold- and silversmiths and jewelers. Modehaus Fischer. This elegant fashion store has enough style for a city ten times the size of Konstanz. Much of its business comes from wealthy Swiss who visit Konstanz for what they consider bargain prices. Modehaus Fischer deals in well-known international fashion stock, including handbags and exquisite shoes. The store is actually spread over three branches a few blocks apart—two for women, and one for men at Obermarkt. \| Rosgartenstr. 36, Hussenstr. 29, and Obermarkt. 1 \| 07531/22990 \| www.modefischer.de. ## Mainau 7 km (4½ miles) north of Konstanz by road; by ferry, ½–1 hr from Konstanz (depending on route), or 20 mins from Meersburg. One of the most unusual sights in Germany, Mainau is a tiny island given over to the cultivation of rare plants and splashy displays of more than a million tulips, hyacinths, and narcissi. Rhododendrons and roses bloom from May to July; dahlias dominate the late summer. A greenhouse nurtures palms and tropical plants. The island was originally the property of the Teutonic Knights, who settled here during the 13th century. In the 19th century Mainau passed to Grand Duke Friedrich I of Baden, a man with a passion for botany. He laid out most of the gardens and introduced many of the island's more exotic specimens. His daughter Victoria, later queen of Sweden, gave the island to her son, Prince Wilhelm, and it has remained Swedish ever since. Today it's owned by the family of Prince Wilhelm's son, Count Lennart Bernadotte. In the former main reception hall in the castle are changing art exhibitions. #### Getting Here and Around Ferries to the island from Meersburg and Konstanz depart from April to October approximately every 1½ hours between 9 and 5. You must purchase a ticket to enter the island, which is open year-round from dawn until dusk. There's a small bridge to the island. At night you can drive across it to the restaurants. #### Essentials Visitor Information Insel Mainau. \| Mainaustr. 1, \| Konstanz \| 07531/3030 \| www.mainau.de \| Late Mar.–late Oct., dawn–5 pm €17.50, 5 pm–dusk, €8.75; late Oct.–late Mar., €8.75 anytime \| Daily dawn–dusk. ### Exploring Das Schmetterlinghaus. Beyond the flora, the island of Mainau's other colorful extravagance is Das Schmetterlinghaus, Germany's largest butterfly conservatory. On a circular walk through a semitropical landscape with water cascading through rare vegetation, you'll see hundreds of butterflies flying, feeding, and mating. The exhibition in the foyer explains the butterflies' life cycle, habitats, and ecological connections. Like the park, this oasis is open year-round. \| Insel Mainau, Mainaustr. 1 \| Konstanz \| www.mainau.de/schmetterlingshaus.html \| Daily 10–7. Gärtnerturm. In the island's information center in the Gärtnerturm (Gardener's Tower) in the middle of the island, several films on Mainau and the Bodensee are shown. ### Where to Eat There are nine restaurants and cafés on the island, but nowhere to stay overnight. Schwedenschenke. SCANDINAVIAN \| The lunchtime crowd gets what it needs here—fast and good service. At dinnertime candlelight adds some extra style. The resident Bernadotte family is Swedish, and so are the specialties of the chef. Have your hotel reserve a table for you. TIP After 6 pm your reservation will be checked at the gate, and you can drive onto the island without having to pay admission. \| Average main: €18 \| Insel Mainau \| 07531/303–156 \| www.mainau.de/schwedenschenke.html \| Closed Jan.–mid-Mar. No dinner Nov. or Dec. ## Reichenau 10 km (6 miles) northwest of Konstanz, 50 mins by ferry from Konstanz. Reichenau is an island rich in vegetation, but unlike Mainau, it features vegetables, not flowers. In fact, 15% of its area (the island is 5 km [3 miles] long and 1½ km [1 mile] wide) is covered by greenhouses and crops of one kind or another. It also has three of Europe's most beautiful Romanesque churches, a legacy of Reichenau's past as a monastic center in the early Middle Ages. The churches are in each of the island's villages—Oberzell, Mittelzell, and Niederzell, which are separated by only 1 km (½ mile). Along the shore are pleasant pathways for walking or biking. #### Essentials Visitor Information Reichenau Tourist-Information. \| Pirminstr. 145 \| 07534/92070 \| www.reichenau.de. ### Exploring Münster of St. Maria and St. Markus. Begun in 816, the Münster of St. Maria and St. Markus, the monastery's church, is the largest and most important of Reichenau's island's of Romanesque churches. Perhaps its most striking architectural feature is the roof, whose beams and ties are open for all to see. The monastery was founded in 725 by St. Pirmin and became one of the most important cultural centers of the Carolingian Empire. It reached its zenith around 1000, when 700 monks lived here. It was then probably the most important center of book illumination in Germany. The building is simple but by no means crude. Visit the Schatzkammer (Treasury) to see some of its more important holdings. They include a 5th-century ivory goblet with two carefully incised scenes of Christ's miracles, and some priceless stained glass that is almost 1,000 years old. \| Münsterpl. 3 \| Mittelzell \| 07534/92070 \| Schatzkammer: Mon.–Sat. 10–noon and 3–5. Museum Reichenau. This museum of local history, in the Old Town Hall of Mittelzell, lends interesting insights into life on the island over the centuries. \| Ergat 1–3, Mittelzell \| 07534/999–321 \| www.museumreichenau.de \| €3 \| Apr.–July, Sept., and Oct., daily 10:30–4:30; July and Aug., daily 10:30–5:30; Nov.–Mar., weekends and holidays 2–5. Stiftskirche St. Georg (Collegiate Church of St. George). The Stiftskirche St. Georg, in Oberzell, was built around 900; now cabbages grow in ranks up to its rough plaster walls. Small round-head windows, a simple square tower, and massive buttresses signal the church's Romanesque origin from the outside. The interior is covered with frescoes painted by the monks in around 1000. They depict the eight miracles of Christ. \| Seestr. 4, Oberzell \| www.reichenau.de. Stiftskirche St. Peter und Paul (St. Peter and Paul Parish Church). This Stiftskirche, at Niederzell, was revamped around 1750. The faded Romanesque frescoes in the apse contrast with bold rococo paintings on the ceiling and flowery stucco. \| Cnr. Eginostr. and Fischerg., Niederzell \| www.reichenau.de. ### Where to Eat and Stay Kiosk am Yachthafen. GERMAN \| This small restaurant is an ideal lunch, drink, or snack stop. In good weather, you can sit outside and watch the boats come and go. It's also a perfect place to try the Bodensee specialty Zanderknusperle (crispy battered pike-perch bites). \| Average main: €10 \| Yacht Harbor, Hermannus-Contractus-Str. 30 \| 07534/999–655 \| www.sbrestaurant-reichenau.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Nov.–Mar. Strandhotel Löchnerhaus. HOTEL \| Standing commandingly on the water's edge fronted by its own boat pier, the Strandhotel (Beach Hotel) Löchnerhaus exudes a retro Riviera feel. Fresh lake fish figures prominently on the menu of the restaurant ($ - $$), as do the island's famous vegetables. Most rooms have lake views; those that don't look out over a quiet, shady garden. Pros: nice location; views over the lake into Switzerland; quiet. Cons: closed in winter; some rooms expensive. \| Rooms from: €90 \| An der Schiffslände 12 \| 07534/8030 \| www.loechnerhaus.de \| 41 rooms \| Closed Nov.–Feb. \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Black Forest The Northern Black Forest The Central Black Forest The Southern Black Forest Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Spas \| Spa Etiquette Updated by Lee A. Evans The name conjures up images of a wild, isolated place where time passes slowly. The dense woodland of the Black Forest—Schwarzwald in German—stretches away to the horizon, but this southwest corner of Baden-Württemberg (in the larger region known as Swabia) is neither inaccessible nor dull. The Black Forest is known the world over for cuckoo clocks; the women's native costume with huge red or black hat pom-poms; and the wild, almost pagan way the Carnival season is celebrated. Swabians are the butt of endless jokes about their frugality and supposedly simplistic nature. The first travelers checked in here 19 centuries ago, when the Roman emperor Caracalla and his army rested and soothed their battle wounds in the natural-spring waters at what later became Baden-Baden. Europe's upper-crust society discovered Baden-Baden when it convened nearby for the Congress of Rastatt from 1797 to 1799, which attempted to end the wars of the French Revolution. In the 19th century kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, members of Napoléon's family, and the Russian nobility, along with actors, writers, and composers, flocked to the little spa town. Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy were among the Russian contingent. Victor Hugo was a frequent visitor. Brahms composed lilting melodies in this calm setting. Queen Victoria spent her vacations here. Mark Twain put the Black Forest on the map for Americans by stating, "Here [. . .] you lose track of time in ten minutes and the world in twenty," in his 1880 book A Tramp Abroad. Today it's a favorite getaway for movie stars and millionaires. The spa is the great social equalizer where you can "take the waters," just as the Romans first did 2,000 years ago. The Black Forest sporting scene caters particularly to the German enthusiasm for hiking. The Schwarzwald-Verein, an outdoor association in the region, maintains no fewer than 30,000 km (18,000 miles) of hiking trails. In winter the terrain is ideally suited for cross-country skiing. ## Top Reasons to Go Extraordinary regional specialties: Dig into Black Forest cake, Schwarzwald ham (only authentic if smoked over pinecones), and the incredible brews from the Alpirsbach Brewery. Freiburg Münster: One of the most beautiful gothic churches in Germany, the Cathedral of Freiburg survived the war unscathed. The view from the bell tower is stunning. Going cuckoo: Look for a cuckoo clock from Triberg (or a nice watch from Pforzheim). Healing waters: More than 30 spas with a wide range of treatments await to make visitors feel whole again, but nothing beats the 3½-hour session at the Friedrichsbad in Baden-Baden. Libations at Kaiserstuhl: Enjoy a local wine in the winemaker's yard or cellar with Black Forest ham and dark bread. It's especially nice when the grapes are being harvested. ## Getting Oriented The southwest corner of Germany divides itself neatly into two distinct geographical regions. The western half borders France and lies in the wide flat plains of the Rhine Valley, where all the larger cities are located. To the east tower the rugged hills of the Black Forest itself, crisscrossed by winding mountain roads and dotted with picturesque villages. ## What's Where The Northern Black Forest. The gem of the northern Black Forest is the genteel spa town of Baden-Baden, full of quiet charm and dripping with elegance. The Central Black Forest. The central Black Forest typifies the region as a whole. Alpirsbach's half-timber houses, Triberg's cuckoo clocks, and the nation's highest waterfalls all nestle among a series of steep-sided valleys. The Southern Black Forest. In the south, Freiburg is one of the country's most historic cities, and even the hordes of summer visitors can't quell the natural beauty of the Titisee Lake. ## Planning ### When to Go The Black Forest is one of the most heavily visited mountain regions in Europe, so make reservations well in advance for the better-known spas and hotels. In summer the area around Titisee is particularly crowded. In early fall and late spring, the Black Forest is less crowded (except during the Easter holidays) but just as beautiful. Some spa hotels close for winter. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The closest major international airports in Germany are Stuttgart and Frankfurt. Strasbourg, in neighboring French Alsace, and the Swiss border city of Basel, the latter just 70 km (43 miles) from Freiburg, are also reasonably close. An up-and-coming airport is the Baden-Airpark, now known more commonly as Karlsruhe-Baden, near Baden-Baden. It is used by European budget carriers including Ryanair (www.ryanair.com) and Air Berlin (www.airberlin.com), serving short-haul international destinations such as London, Dublin, and Barcelona. Airport Information Aeroport International de Strasbourg. \| 00333/8864–6767 \| www.strasbourg.aeroport.fr. EuroAirport Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg. \| 0389/9031–11 in France \| www.euroairport.com. Flughafen Frankfurt Main. \| 01805/372–4636 \| www.frankfurt-airport.de. Flughafen Stuttgart. \| 01805/948–444 \| www.flughafen-stuttgart.de. Karlsruhe-Baden. \| 07229/662–000 \| www.badenairpark.de. #### Bus Travel The bus system is partially owned by and coordinated with the German Railways, so it's easy to reach every corner of the Black Forest by bus and train. Bus stations are usually at or near the train station. For more information, contact the Regionalbusverkehr Südwest (Regional Bus Lines) in Karlsruhe. Bus Information Regionalbusverkehr Südwest (Regional Bus Lines). \| Karlsruhe \| 0721/84060 \| www.suedwestbus.de. #### Car Travel The main autobahns are the A-5 (Frankfurt–Karlsruhe–Basel), which runs through the Rhine Valley along the western length of the Black Forest; A-81 (Stuttgart–Bodensee) in the east; and A-8 (Karlsruhe–Stuttgart) in the north. Good two-lane highways crisscross the entire region. B-3 runs parallel to A-5 and follows the Baden Wine Road. Traffic jams on weekends and holidays are not uncommon. Taking the side roads might not save time, but they are a lot more interesting. The Schwarzwald-Hochstrasse is one of the area's most scenic (but also most trafficked) routes, running from Freudenstadt to Baden-Baden. The region's tourist office has mapped out thematic driving routes: the Valley Road, the Spa Road, the Baden Wine Road, the Asparagus Road, and the Clock Road. Most points along these routes can also be reached by train or bus. Freiburg, the region's major city, is 275 km (170 miles) south of Frankfurt and 410 km (254 miles) west of Munich. #### Train Travel Karlsruhe, Baden-Baden, and Freiburg are served by fast ICE trains zipping between Frankfurt-am-Main and Basel in Switzerland. Regional express trains also link these hubs with many other places locally, including Freudenstadt, Titisee, and, in particular, the spectacular climb from Baden-Baden to Triberg, one of the highest railways in Germany. Local lines connect most of the smaller towns. Two east–west routes—the Schwarzwaldbahn (Black Forest Railway) and the Höllental Railway—are among the most spectacular in the country. Many small towns participate in the KONUS program that allows you to travel for free on many Black Forest train lines while staying in the region. Details are available from Deutsche Bahn. Train Information Deutsche Bahn. \| 11861 \| www.bahn.de. ### Restaurants Restaurants in the Black Forest range from award-winning dining rooms to simple country inns. Old Kachelöfen (tile stoves) are still in use in many area restaurants; try to sit near one if it's cold outside. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels Accommodations in the Black Forest are varied and plentiful, from simple rooms in farmhouses to five-star luxury. Some properties have been passed down in the same family for generations. Gasthöfe offer low prices and local color. Keep in mind that most hotels in the region do not offer air-conditioning. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time The lively, student-driven city of Freiburg, Germany's "greenest" town, is the obvious base from which to explore the Black Forest. Don't miss "taking the water" at a spa in Baden-Baden, a charming place with all facilities on tap. Bear in mind that driving times and distances push the farthest points in the Black Forest out of reach of easy day trips from these cities. The winding, often steep Black Forest highways can make for slow driving, so you may want to consider adding overnight stays at other locations. Freudenstadt's vast market square lends it a uniquely pleasant atmosphere, and Triberg's mountain location is popular, but it remains picturesque. If there is one place in the region to go out of your way to get a beer, head to Alpirsbach. ### Visitor Information Schwarzwald Tourismus GmbH. \| Ludwigstr. 23, \| Freiburg \| 0761/896–460 \| www.schwarzwald-tourismus.info. ## Spas The restorative powers of a good soak in a hot pool or sweating it out in a 190-degree sauna are the cornerstones of the German notion of physical and mental wellness and relaxation. The concept of Erholiung (regeneration) is taken seriously. Endowed with mountain air, salty coastlines, and natural thermal springs, Germany has long enjoyed a spa tradition. Seeking relief from the pains of battle, the Romans erected baths here almost 2,000 years ago, and the 19th century saw spa towns across the country flourish as Europe's upper classes began to appreciate the soothing effects of fresh air and mineral waters. These days there are hundreds of facilities throughout the country ranging from huge, sophisticated resorts offering precious stone massages and chocolate baths to smaller "wellness" hotels with not much more than a sauna and a relaxation room. There are also plenty of public spas, where a day's bathing won't set you back much more than the price of a movie ticket. —Jeff Kavanagh #### Drinking It In Taking the waters in a spa town often involves imbibing some as well. Bad Mergentheim and Baden-Baden are renowned for their drinking-water springs and the healing properties of the mineral waters that spill from them. Used for everything from the stimulation of the pancreas to curing a sore throat, they are drunk by thousands of visitors every year. ## Spa Etiquette #### Nudity Sitting naked in a dimly lit, scorching-hot room or floating au naturel in a thermal pool among a group of strangers may not be everyone's idea of relaxation. Most Germans have been taken in by the Frei Körper Kultur (Free Body Culture) that stresses a connection to nature through public nudity. Saunas and steam rooms are almost always "textile-free" areas, as are some hot pools. They're also all mainly mixed sex. The theory is that the body needs to be unencumbered to enjoy the full curative effects of the heat and water. You'll also be expected to strip down if you've booked a massage, although a towel will be provided to preserve some modesty. If you're not sure what to take off and what to leave on, don't be afraid to ask. #### Bathrobes, Towels, and Sandals More upmarket wellness locations will provide you with all three, while public spas will expect you to at least bring your own towel. Bathrobes and sandals should be worn in relaxation areas and left outside saunas and steam baths, and towels laid beneath you in the sauna to absorb excess sweat. Most facilities provide these items for purchase or will loan them to you for a small fee. #### Showering A quick shower before first jumping in a pool or entering a sauna is expected, and required between transferring yourself from a sweaty sauna to a plunge pool. A refreshing rinse between each sauna session is part of the procedure, not just for hygiene but also for its therapeutic effects. #### Talking Given that spas are designed to be oases of wellness and relaxation, loud conversation in "adult" areas of the facility, particularly in saunas, steam rooms, and relaxation areas, may be met with sighs of disapproval or even a telling-off. #### Spa Glossary Algae and mud therapy: Applied as packs or full-body bath treatments to nourish the skin and draw out toxins. Aromatherapy baths: Oils such as bergamot, cypress, and sandalwood are added to hot baths in order to lift the spirits and reduce anxiety. Ayurveda: Refers to Indian techniques including massage, oils, herbs, and diet to encourage perfect body balance. Jet massage: Involves standing upright and being sprayed with high-pressure water jets that follow the direction of your blood flow, thereby stimulating circulation. Liquid sound therapy: A relaxation technique that entails lying in body temperature saltwater and listening to classical or electronic music being played through the water while a kaleidoscope of colors illuminates your surroundings. Reflexology: Massage on the pressure points of feet, hands, and ears. Thalasso therapy: A spa treatment employing sea air, water, and mud to heal the body. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Pforzheim \| Calw \| Freudenstadt \| Baiersbronn \| Baden-Baden \| Karlsruhe This region is densely wooded, and dotted with little lakes such as the Mummelsee and the Wildsee. The Black Forest Spa Route (270 km [167 miles]) links many of the spas in the region, from Baden-Baden (the best known) to Bad Wildbad. Other regional treasures are the lovely Nagold River; ancient towns such as Hirsau; and the magnificent abbey at Maulbronn, near Pforzheim. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Pforzheim 35 km (22 miles) southeast of Karlsruhe, just off the A-8 autobahn, the main Munich–Karlsruhe route. Although Pforzheim is not exactly the attractive place the Romans found at the junction of three rivers—the Nagold, the Enz, and the Würm—it is the "gateway to the Black Forest." Allied bombs almost completely destroyed the city center, and postwar reconstruction is hardly inspired. Pforzheim still owes its prosperity to its role in Europe's jewelry trade and its wristwatch industry. To get a sense of the "Gold City," explore the jewelry shops on streets around Leopoldplatz and the pedestrian area. #### Essentials Visitor Information Pforzheim Tourist-Information. \| Marktpl. 1 \| 07231/393–700 \| www.pforzheim.de. ### Exploring Kloster Maulbronn (Maulbronn Monastery). Kloster Maulbronn, in the little town of Maulbronn, 18 km (11 miles) northeast of Pforzheim, is the best-preserved medieval monastery north of the Alps, with an entire complex of 30 buildings on UNESCO's World Heritage list. The name Maulbronn (Mule Fountain) derives from a legend. Monks seeking a suitably watered site for their monastery considered it a sign from God when one of their mules discovered and drank at a spring. The Kloster is also known for inventing the Maultasche, a kind of large ravioli. The monks thought that by coloring the meat filling green by adding parsley and wrapping it inside a pasta pocket, they could hide it from God on fasting days. Today the Maultasche is the cornerstone of Swabian cuisine.TIP An audio guide in English is available. \| Klosterhof 31, off B-35 \| Maulbron \| 07043/926–610 \| www.kloster-maulbronn.de \| €6 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 9–5:30; Nov.–Feb., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–5; guided tour daily at 11:15 and 3. St. Michael. The restored church of St. Michael, near the train station, is the final resting place of Baden royalty. The original mixture of 13th- and 15th-century styles has been faithfully reproduced; compare the airy Gothic choir with the church's sturdy Romanesque entrance. \| Schlossberg 10 \| Oct.–Apr., weekdays 3–6; May–Sept., Mon. and Wed.–Fri. 3–6. Schmuckmuseum (Jewelry Museum). The Reuchlinhaus, the city cultural center, houses the Schmuckmuseum. Its collection of jewelry from five millennia is one of the finest in the world. The museum nearly doubled in size in 2006, adding pocket watches and ethnographic jewelry to its collection, plus a shop, a café, and a gem gallery where young designers exhibit and sell their work. Guided tours in English are available on request. \| Jahnstr. 42 \| 07231/392–126 \| www.schmuckmuseum-pforzheim.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Technisches Museum (Technical Museum). Pforzheim has long been known as a center of the German clock-making industry. In the Technisches Museum, one of the country's leading museums devoted to the craft, you can see makers of watches and clocks at work; there's also a reconstructed 18th-century clock factory. \| Bleichstr. 81 \| 07231/392–869 \| www.technisches-museum.de \| Free \| Wed. 9–noon and 3–6, 2nd and 4th Sun. of month 10–5. ### Where to Eat Chez Gilbert. MODERN FRENCH \| The Alsatian owners of this cozy restaurant serve classic French-inspired cuisine, using the freshest local seasonal ingredients. The menu and wine lists are relatively small, but from the moment that you're greeted by Frau Nosser until the time you leave, you'll be convinced that everything was planned just for you. The best bet is one of Chef Gilbert Noesser's seasonal four-course menus for €57. If you must dine a la carte, try the duck with raspberries or the foie gras with peaches. \| Average main: €19 \| Altstädter Kirchenweg 3 \| 07231/441–159 \| www.chez-gilbert.de \| Closed 2 wks in Aug. No lunch Sat.; no dinner Sun. En Route: Weil der Stadt. Weil der Stadt, a former imperial city, is in the hills 17 km (10 miles) southeast of Pforzheim. This small, sleepy town of turrets and gables has only its well-preserved city walls and fortifications to remind you of its onetime importance. \| Paul-Reusch-Str. 27 \| Weil der Stadt \| www.weil-der-stadt.de. Kepler Museum. The astronomer Johannes Kepler, born here in 1571, was the first man to track and accurately explain the orbits of the planets, although most experts agree that Kepler stole his calculations from, and then quite possibly murdered, Tycho de Brahe. And, appropriately, the town now has a planetarium to graphically show you what he learned. The little half-timber house in which he was born is now the Kepler Museum in the town center. It's devoted to his writings and discoveries. \| Keplerg. 2 \| Weil der Stadt \| 07033/6586 \| www.kepler-museum.de \| €2 \| Thurs. and Fri. 10–noon and 2–4, Sat. 11–noon and 2–4, Sun. 11–noon and 2–5 ## Calw 24 km (14 miles) south of Pforzheim on B-463. Calw, one of the Black Forest's prettiest towns, is the birthplace of Nobel Prize–winning novelist Hermann Hesse (1877–1962). The town's market square, with its two sparkling fountains surrounded by 18th-century half-timber houses whose sharp gables pierce the sky, is an ideal spot for relaxing, picnicking, or people-watching, especially during market time. #### Essentials Visitor Information Stadtinformation Calw. \| Marktbrücke 1 \| 07051/167–399 \| www.calw.de. ### Exploring Hermann Hesse Museum. The museum recounts the life of the Nobel Prize–winning writer, Hermann Hesse, author of Steppenwolf and The Glass Bead Game, who rebelled against his middle-class German upbringing to become a pacifist and the darling of the Beat Generation. The museum tells the story of his life in personal belongings, photographs, manuscripts, and other documents. TIP An audioguide in English available \| Marktpl. 30 \| 07051/7522 \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 11–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 2–5. Hirsau. Three km (2 miles) north of Calw, Hirsau has ruins of a 9th-century monastery, now the setting for the Klostersummer (open-air theater performances) in July and August. Buy advance tickets at the Calw tourist office. \| Wildbader Straße 2 \| Calw-Hirsau. ### Where to Stay Hotel Kloster Hirsau. HOTEL \| This hotel, a model of comfort and gracious hospitality, is in Hirsau, 3 km (2 miles) from Calw. The Klosterschenke restaurant ($$) serves such regional specialties as Flädelsuppe (containing strips from a very thin pancake) and Schwäbischer Rostbraten (panfried beefsteak topped with sautéed onions). Pros: quiet location; homey atmosphere. Cons: located a bit far out of town. \| Rooms from: €107 \| Wildbaderstr. 2 \| Calw-Hirsau \| 07051/96740 \| www.hotel-kloster-hirsau.de \| 42 rooms \| Breakfast. Ratsstube. HOTEL \| Most of the original features, including 16th-century beams and brickwork, are preserved at this historic house in the center of Calw, next to Hesse's birthplace. Rooms are small but half-timber like the exterior. The restaurant ($) serves a selection of sturdy German and Greek dishes. A salad buffet will take care of smaller appetites, and lunchtime always has several good-value dishes of the day. There's also an asparagus (Spargel) menu in season. Pros: great location overlooks historical market square; beautiful old half-timber building. Cons: parking around the corner; some rooms quite small; historic building means no elevator. \| Rooms from: €70 \| Marktpl. 12 \| 07051/92050 \| www.hotel-ratsstube-calw.de \| 13 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Freudenstadt 65 km (35 miles) south of Calw, 22 km (14 miles) southwest of Altensteig. At an altitude of 2,415 feet, Freudenstadt claims to be the sunniest German resort town. The French Army flattened the town in April 1945, but it has since been painstakingly rebuilt. Refugees and silver miners founded the "city of joy" in 1599 after escaping religious persecution in the Austrian province of Carinthia. The expansive central square, more than 650 feet long and edged with arcaded shops, is Germany's largest marketplace. The square still awaits the palace that was supposed to be built here for the city's founder, Prince Frederick I of Württemberg, who died before work could begin. It is difficult to admire its vastness, since a busy, four-lane street cuts it nearly in half. TIP When the fountains all spout on this square, it can be quite a sight, and a refreshing one as well. #### Getting Here and Around Freudenstadt is served by regular trains from both Karlsruhe and Stuttgart. The huge main square makes the city feel larger than it actually is. The central zone can easily be covered on foot. #### Essentials Visitor Information Freudenstadt. \| Marktpl. 64 \| 07441/8640 \| www.freudenstadt.de. ### Exploring Stadtkirche. Don't miss Freudenstadt's Protestant Stadtkirche, just off the Market Square. Its lofty L-shaped nave is a rare architectural liberty from the early 17th century. It was constructed in this way so the sexes would be separated and unable to see each other during services. \| Marktpl. 36. ### Where to Eat Ratskeller. GERMAN \| Though there's a cellar, this restaurant with pine furnishings is more a modern bistro than traditional Ratskeller. Meatless Black Forest dishes, served in frying pans, are huge and filling. Also offered are such Swabian dishes as Zwiebelrostbraten (steak and fried onions), served with sauerkraut, and pork fillet with wild-mushroom sauce. A special menu for senior citizens has smaller portions. \| Average main: €13 \| Marktpl. 8 \| 07441/952–805. Turmbräu Freudenstädter. GERMAN \| Lots of wood paneling, exposed beams, and a sprinkling of old sleds and hay wagons give this place, right on the main square, its rustic atmosphere. So do the large brass kettle and the symphony of pipes that produce the establishment's own beer. The restaurant serves hearty solid local fare, including the Alsatian flatbread Flammkuchen, and a kebab of various types of meat marinated in wheat beer. Fondue is offered on Wednesday. Part of the restaurant turns into a disco on weekends. \| Average main: €9 \| Brauhaus am Markt, Marktpl. 64 \| 07441/905–121 \| www.turmbraeu.de. Warteck. GERMAN \| The leaded windows with stained glass, vases of flowers, and beautifully upholstered banquettes create a bright setting in the two dining rooms. Chef Werner Glässel uses only organic products and spotlights individual ingredients. The variety of seasonal menus (€40) are always a good choice. Top off the meal with one of the many varieties of schnapps. \| Average main: €25 \| Stuttgarterstr. 14 \| 07441/91920 \| www.warteck-freudenstadt.de \| Closed Tues. ### Where to Stay Bären. HOTEL \| The Montigels have owned this sturdy old hotel and restaurant, just two minutes from the marketplace, since 1878. The family strives to maintain tradition with personal service, comfortable modern hotel rooms, and, especially, a lovely restaurant ($$). Local specialties include an incredible roast goose with chestnuts. In the beamed restaurant the wine is served in a Viertele glass with a handle and a grape pattern. If you order schnapps, it will come from the family's own distillery. Pros: great central location; friendly atmosphere. Cons: some rooms on the small side. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Langestr. 33 \| 07441/2729 \| www.hotel-baeren-freudenstadt.de \| 33 rooms \| Restaurant closed Fri. No lunch Mon.–Sat. \| Breakfast. Hotel Adler. HOTEL \| This simple hotel sits between the main square and the train station. Some of the very affordable rooms even have balconies, so you can enjoy a view of behind-the-scenes Freudenstadt. The restaurant ($) provides a hearty meal with local dishes. House specialties include Flammkuchen, a this flatbread topped with sour cream, bacon, and onions. Pros: friendly; informal; centrally located. Cons: some rooms small; furnishings from 1970s quite modest. \| Rooms from: €82 \| Forststr. 15–17 \| 07441/91520 \| www.adler-fds.de \| 16 rooms \| Restaurant closed Wed. \| Breakfast. Hotel Schwanen. HOTEL \| This bright, white building just a few steps from the main square has a guest room with a water bed for those with allergies. Many locals come to the restaurant ($) to enjoy fine regional specialties, not to mention pancakes. The pancakes, big as a platter, are topped with everything from salmon and mushrooms to applesauce and plums. Come on Thursday evening, when they are half price. Pros: great location; excellent-value restaurant. Cons: no elevator in historic building. \| Rooms from: €94 \| Forststr. 6 \| 07441/91550 \| www.schwanen-freudenstadt.de \| 17 rooms, 1 apartment \| Breakfast. ### Shopping Germans prize Black Forest ham (Schwarzwaldschinken) as an aromatic souvenir. You can buy one at any butcher shop in the region, but it's more fun to visit a Schinkenräucherei (smokehouse), where the ham is actually cured in a stone chamber. TIP By law the ham must be smoked over pinecones. Hermann Wein. Hermann Wein, in the village of Musbach, near Freudenstadt, has one of the leading smokehouses in the area. If you have a group of people, call ahead to find out if the staff can show you around. TIP If you are looking for Black Forest Ham, this is the place to go. \| Dornstetterstr. 29 \| Musbach \| 07443/2450 \| www.schinken-wein.de. ## Baiersbronn 7 km (4½ miles) northwest of Freudenstadt. The mountain resort of Baiersbronn has an incredible collection of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts providing rest and relaxation in beautiful surroundings. Most people come here to walk, ski, golf, and ride horseback. TIP You may want to walk through the streets to preview the many restaurants. #### Essentials Visitor Information Baiersbronn Touristik. \| Rosenpl. 3 \| 07442/84140 \| www.baiersbronn.de. ### Exploring Hauffs Märchenmuseum (Fairy-Tale Museum). Near the town hall and church in the upper part of town is the little Hauffs Märchenmuseum, devoted to the crafts and life around Baiersbronn and the fairy-tale author Wilhelm Hauff (1802–27). \| Alte Reichenbacherstr. 1 \| 07442/84100 \| €1.50 \| Wed. and weekends 2–5. ### Where to Stay FAMILY \| Hotel-Café Sackmann. HOTEL \| This imposing cluster of white houses, set in the narrow Murg Valley north of Baiersbronn, has broad appeal—families can nest here thanks to children's programs; wellness-seekers can take advantage of the spa facilities on the roof; and sightseers can use this as a base for exploring much of the Black Forest. Comfortable guest rooms are in high-end country style, all with generously sized bathrooms. But best of all are the two restaurants under the leadership of one of Germany's finest chefs, Jörg Sackmann. The Anita-Stube ($$) serves regional specialties, and the Restaurant Schlossberg ($$$) delights diners with stunning creations such as John Dory with grapefruit, marinated bacon, and fresh coriander. Pros: good for families; beautiful location. Cons: far from the sights. \| Rooms from: €160 \| Murgtalstr. 602 \| Schwarzenberg-Baiersbronn \| 07447/2980 \| www.hotel-sackmann.de \| 65 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Lamm. HOTEL \| The steep-roof exterior of this 200-year-old typical Black Forest building presents a clear picture of the heavy oak fittings and fine antiques inside. In winter the lounge's fireplace is a welcome sight when you are returning from the slopes (the ski lift is nearby). In its beamed restaurant ($$) you can dine on fresh fish, which you may choose to catch yourself from one of the hotel's trout pools. Pros: beautiful traditional building; friendly staff. Cons: can feel remote in winter. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Ellbacherstr. 4 \| Mitteltal-Baiersbronn \| 07442/4980 \| www.lamm-mitteltal.de \| 33 rooms, 13 apartments \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Traube Tonbach. HOTEL \| Dating from 1778, this luxurious hotel is true to the original, yet the rooms, each of which presents a sweeping view of the Black Forest, meet contemporary standards; there are four fine restaurants on-site to choose from as well. The small army of extremely helpful and friendly staff, whom nearly outnumber the guests, also adds to the extravagance. If the classic French cuisine of the Schwarzwaldstube ($$$$) is too expensive, try either the international fare of the Köhlerstube ($$) or the Swabian dishes of the Bauernstube ($$). The Silberberg ($$$) serves gourmet classics and is open only to hotel guests. In the Köhlerstube and Bauernstube you'll dine beneath beamed ceilings at tables bright with fine silver and glassware. Pros: beautiful countryside setting; friendly and efficient staff; good choice of dining. Cons: expensive; credit cards only accepted in the restaurants, not in the hotel. \| Rooms from: €269 \| Tonbachstr. 237 \| 07442/4920 \| www.traube-tonbach.de \| 135 rooms, 23 apartments, 12 suites \| Breakfast. ## Baden-Baden 51 km (32 miles) north of Freudenstadt, 24 km (15 miles) north of Mummelsee. Baden-Baden, the most famous and fashionable spa town rests in a wooded valley north of the Mummelsee on B-500. The town sits atop an extensive underground hot springs that gave the city its name. Roman legions of the emperor Caracalla discovered the springs and named the area Aquae Aureliae. The upper classes of the 19th century, seeking leisurely pursuits, rediscovered the bubbling waters, establishing Baden-Baden as the unofficial summer residence of many European royal families. The town's fortunes also rose and fell with gaming: gambling began in the mid-18th century but was banned by the Kaiser between 1872 and 1933. Palatial homes and stately villas grace the tree-lined avenues, and the spa tradition continues at the ornate casino and two thermal baths, one historic and luxurious, the other modern and well used by families. Since Baden-Baden is only two hours from Frankfurt Airport by train, the spa makes a nice last stop on the way home. Though some Germans come here for two- to three-week doctor-prescribed treatments (German health insurance pays for a weeklong Kur [cure] once every five years), the spa concept also embraces facilities for those just looking for pampering. Shops line several pedestrian streets that eventually climb up toward the old marketplace. Two theaters present frequent ballet performances, plays, and concerts (by the excellent Southwest German Radio Symphony Orchestra). #### Getting Here and Around High-speed ICE trains stop at Baden-Baden en route between Frankfurt and Basel. However, the station is some 4 km (2½ miles) northwest of the center. To get downtown, take one of the many buses that leave from outside the station. Once in the center, Baden-Baden is manageable on foot, but there is a range of alternatives available if you get tired, including a tourist train and horse-drawn carriages. #### Essentials Visitor Information Baden-Baden Kur- und Tourismus GmbH. \| Solmsstr. 1 \| 07221/275–266 \| www.baden-baden.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Casino. Baden-Baden is quite proud of its casino, Germany's oldest, opened in 1855 after Parisian interior decorators and artists polished the last chandelier. Its concession to the times is that you may wear your jeans amid all the frescoes, stucco, and porcelain (but why would you?). Gentlemen must wear a jacket and tie with their jeans, but whatever you do, leave your sneakers at the hotel. If you don't have a jacket and tie, one will be provided for a minimal charge. In 1853 a Parisian, Jacques Bénazet, persuaded the sleepy little Black Forest spa to build gambling rooms to enliven its evenings. The result was a series of richly decorated gaming rooms in which even an emperor could feel at home—and did. Kaiser Wilhelm I was a regular visitor, as was his chancellor, Bismarck. The Russian novelist Dostoyevsky, the Aga Khan, and Marlene Dietrich all patronized the place. The minimum stake is €2; maximum, €7,000. Passports are necessary as proof of identity. Guided tours (25 minutes) are offered in English, on request. \| Kaiserallee 1 \| 07221/30240 \| www.casino-baden-baden.de \| €5, tour €5 \| Sun.–Thurs. 2 pm–2 am, Fri. and Sat. 2 pm–3 am. Tours: Apr.–Sept., daily 9:30–11:30 am; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–11:30 am. Russian church. The sandstone church is located on the corner of Robert Kochstrasse and Lichtentalerstrasse. The Russian diaspora community in Baden-Baden consecrated it in 1882; it's identifiable by its golden onion dome. \| Lichtentalerstr. 76 \| €2 \| Feb.–Nov., daily 10–6. #### Worth Noting Abtei Lichtenthal. The Lichtentaler Allee ends at Abtei Lichtenthal, a medieval Cistercian abbey surrounded by stout defensive walls. The small royal chapel next to the church was built in 1288 and was used from the late 14th century onward as a final resting place for the Baden dynasty princes. Call ahead if your group wants a tour in English. \| Hauptstr. 40 \| 07221/504–910 \| www.abtei-lichtenthal.de \| Tours €5 \| Tours Wed. and weekends at 3. Lichtentaler Allee. Bordering the slender Oos River, which runs through town, the Lichtentaler Allee is a groomed park with two museums and an extensive rose garden, the Gönneranlage, which contains more than 300 types of roses. \| Lichtentaler Allee 64. Museum Frieder Burda. The Museum Frieder Burda occupies a modern structure by acclaimed New York architect Richard Meier. Construction of this institution contributed greatly to pulling Baden-Baden out of its slumber. The private collection focuses on classic modern and contemporary art. Highlights are works of Picasso, German expressionists, the New York School, and American abstract expressionists. \| Lichtentaler Allee 8b \| 07221/398–980 \| www.museum-frieder-burda.de \| €12 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. Gut Nägelsförst Vineyard. The region's wines, especially the dry Baden whites and delicate reds, are highly valued in Germany. TIP Buy them directly from any vintner on the Baden Wine Road. At Yburg, outside Baden-Baden, the 400-year-old Gut Nägelsförst vineyard has a shop where you can buy the product and sample what you buy (weekdays 9–6, Saturday 10–4). \| Nägelsförst 1 \| 07221/398–980. ### Spas The history of "taking the waters" in Baden-Baden dates back to AD 75, when the Roman army established the city of Aquæ Aureliæ. The legions under Emporer Caracalla soon discovered that the regions' salty underground hot springs were just the thing for aching joints. In a modern sense, bathing became popular within the upper-class elite when Friedrich I banned gambling in 1872. Everyone from Queen Victoria to Karl Marx dangled their feet in the pool and sang the curative praises of the salty warm water bubbling from the ground. Caracalla Therme. If you are a bit modest and prefer to wear a swimsuit in the water, walk across the square to the more modern Caracalla Therme, named in honor of the Roman emperor who brought bathing to Baden-Baden. The indoor-outdoor pool area has three separate baths, with temperatures between 18°C and 38°C (64°F–100°F). Supplement the soaking experience with whirlpools, Jacuzzis, and waterfalls. Children under 7 are not allowed in the spa and children under 14 must be accompanied by an adult. \| Römerpl. 1 \| 07221/275–940 \| www.carasana.de \| €18 for 3 hrs \| Daily 8 am–10 pm. Friedrichsbad. In a city with many spa options, the Friedrichsbad, also known as the Roman-Irish Baths, is the most noble and elegant choice. If you choose to take the waters, the Friedrichbad's ornate copper and terra-cotta temple is the best place to do it, though keep in mind that you'll have to bathe in the buff, as swimsuits aren't allowed. The spa treatment offers everything from a soap and brush massage to thermal steam baths. TIP Spend at least a half hour in the relaxation area afterward to ease the transition back into the real world. Note children under 14 are not allowed. \| Römerpl. 1 \| 07221/275–920 \| www.carasana.de \| €55 for 4 hrs all-inclusive, €23 with no massage. \| Daily 9 am–10 pm. Tues., Wed., Fri., and Sun. mixed bathing. Mon., Thurs., and Sat. gender-separate bathing. Römische Badruinen. The remains of the original Roman settlement can be seen at the Römische Badruinen. The remains of the Roman bathhouse are explained with a computer animation that virtually reconstructs the entire area. \| Römerpl. 1, D–76530 \| €2.50 \| Mar.–Nov., daily 11–1 and 2–5. ### Where to Eat Der Kleine Prinz. FRENCH \| This gourmet hotel restaurant is a local favorite in Baden-Baden. The cheery fireplace, lighted in winter, and candlelit dining provide an elegant atmosphere that complements the finest French-inspired dishes. The extensive wine list includes some excellent local offerings. As in the hotel, all the decor—designed by the owner's wife—right down to the dinner plates, reflect the children's tale from which the restaurant takes its name. \| Average main: €27 \| Lichtentalerstr. 36 \| 07221/346–600 \| www.derkleineprinz.de \| Reservations essential. Le Jardin de France. FRENCH \| This clean, crisp little French restaurant, whose owners are actually French, emphasizes elegant, imaginative dining in a modern setting. The restaurant sits in a quiet courtyard away from the main street, offering the possibility of alfresco dining in summer. The milk-fed suckling pig and Russian cuisine are well worth the visit. It also runs a school for budding chefs. \| Average main: €40 \| Lichtentalerstr. 13 \| 07221/300–7860 \| www.lejardindefrance.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon. Weinstube im Baldreit. WINE BAR \| This lively little wine bar enchants you with its lovely terraces and courtyard. It's nestled in the middle of the Old Town, making the garden and terrace the perfect place to meet friends over a dry Riesling. Enjoy some of the best Maultaschen (ravioli) and solid Black Forest cuisine in the huge barrel-vaulted cellar near the fireplace. \| Average main: €11 \| Küferstr. 3 \| 07221/23136 \| Closed Sun. No lunch weekdays Nov.–Mar. * * * Word of Mouth: A German Spa Experience "On a recent trip to Germany, friends told us about the [Friedrichsbad] spa at Baden-Baden. You go through 17 different stations involving water, heat, and cold. Men on one side and women on another. In the middle, men and women meet in the thermal therapy pool. On certain days, men and women share all the facilities, on others the sexes are separated. On holidays, it is coed. Why must you know this? Because the spa is not a clothing-optional zone. Clothing is not allowed. . . . Nudity here is no big thing. In the summer people in the parks of Munich sunbathe topless and no one bats an eye. Going to a spa is just part of life here and it's considered therapeutic. . . . You change into your birthday suit, and take from your locker a sheet, which turns out is your towel. At each station, there are instructions on the wall, in English, telling you how long to stay in that particular room. After a good dousing, you go to the 'warm air bath.' It's then you discover that the sheet is not for covering you up, but to lay upon on the very hot wood tables in the sauna where the temperature is a balmy 129 degrees. Next, it's the 'hot air bath' and you ask yourself, what did I just have. Then you find out what hot is. 154 degrees for 5 minutes, I think. . . . Next you get to shower again before heading to the steam baths, 113 and 118 degrees, after which you start to cool down in the thermal whirlpool and therapy pools. The latter is under a huge domed room done in the Roman style. Next it's another shower before the cold water immersion bath at 64 degrees, which after what you just experienced feels like 30 degrees. Next you get a warm towel to dry off before going to the cream service room, where if you choose, you can rub various lotions on your body. Hey, I paid for it, I'm doing it. Lastly the relaxation room for 30 minutes. Here you lay on a table and the attendant wraps you in a warm sheet and blanket. The whole thing takes about 2.5 hours and you never have felt so relaxed and clean. . . . Was it worth it? You bet. Did I feel uncomfortable? Only for the first 5 minutes when I didn't know what to do with the sheet. Would I do it again? Why not?" –dgassa * * * ### Where to Stay Am Markt. HOTEL \| This 250-plus-year-old building houses a modest inn run for more than 50 years by the Bogner family. In the oldest part of town - a traffic-free zone, reached via an uphill climb - it's close enough to the Roman Baths to stumble home. Ask for a room overlooking the city. Pros: quiet location; some rooms have great views. Cons: a stiff climb up from the main sights. \| Rooms from: €86 \| Marktpl. 17–18 \| 07221/27040 \| www.hotel-am-markt-baden.de \| 25 rooms, 17 with bath \| Breakfast. Brenner's Park Hotel & Spa. HOTEL \| With some justification, this stately hotel set in a private park claims to be one of the best in the world. Behind it passes leafy Lichtentaler Allee, where Queen Victoria and Czar Alexander II strolled in their day, although probably not together. Luxury abounds in the hotel, and all rooms and suites are umptuously furnished and appointed. An extensive beauty-and-fitness program is available. Pros: elegant rooms; good location; quiet. Cons: professional staff sometimes lack personal touch. \| Rooms from: €375 \| Schillerstr. 6 \| 07221/9000 \| 70 rooms, 30 suites \| Multiple meal plans. Fodor's Choice \| Der Kleine Prinz. HOTEL \| Owner Norbert Rademacher, a veteran of New York's Waldorf-Astoria, and his interior-designer wife Edeltraud have skillfully combined two elegant city mansions into a unique, antiques-filled lodging. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's illustrations for his 1943 French children's classic Le Petit Prince charmingly adorn the rooms. The hotel's restaurant (Fsee dining review above) is worthy of your attention whether you are staying as a guest or not. Pros: friendly and welcoming; some rooms have wood-burning fireplaces; most bathrooms have whirlpool tubs. Cons: rooms in one of the hotel's two buildings are only accessible via stairs. \| Rooms from: €199 \| Lichtentalerstr. 36 \| 07221/346–600 \| www.derkleineprinz.de \| 26 rooms, 15 suites \| Breakfast. Deutscher Kaiser. HOTEL \| This centrally located hotel provides homey and individually styled rooms at prices that are easy on the wallet. Some of the double rooms have balconies on a quiet street. The hotel is just a short walk from the casino. Pros: some rooms have balconies; central location. Cons: some rooms quite small; down side street so views not great. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Merkurstr. 9 \| 07221/2700 \| www.deutscher-kaiser-baden-baden.de \| 28 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Belle Epoque. HOTEL \| The sister hotel to Der Kleine Prinz is in a building with large rooms, soaring ceilings, spacious beds, genuine antiques from Louis XV to art deco, and luxurious baths—in some cases cleverly built to comply with strict monument-protection laws. High tea in the salon or the romantic little garden with fountain is a must. Contemporary furnishings distinguish the rooms in the new wing. Pros: beautiful gardens; room price includes afternoon tea; personal and friendly service. Cons: only the newer wing has an elevator. \| Rooms from: €230 \| Maria-Viktoriastr. 2c \| 07221/300–660 \| www.hotel-belle-epoque.de \| 20 rooms \| Breakfast. Schlosshotel Bühlerhöhe. HOTEL \| This "castle-hotel" stands majestically on its own extensive grounds 10 km (6 miles) from Baden-Baden, with spectacular views over the heights of the Black Forest. Walking trails start virtually at the hotel door. Its restaurant, the Imperial ($$$$; closed Monday and Tuesday and January - mid-February), features French fare with international touches, such as lamb in feta cheese crust with ratatouille and gnocchi. In the Schlossrestaurant ($$$), overlooking the Rhine Valley, regional and international dishes are offered. Rooms are cheaper during the week. Pros: quiet location; great for hikers. Cons: a long way from downtown. \| Rooms from: €180 \| Schwarzwaldhochstr. 1 \| Bühl \| 07226/550 \| www.buehlerhoehe.de \| 77 rooms, 13 suites \| Multiple meal plans. ### Nightlife and the Arts Nightlife revolves around Baden-Baden's elegant casino. Festspielhaus. This state-of-the-art concert hall is actually a renovated old train station. \| Beim Alten Bahnhof 2 \| 07221/301–3101 \| www.festspielhaus.de. Kurhaus. The Kurhaus adjoining the casino is an intimate concert venue that hosts classical music concerts year-round. \| Kaiserallee 1 \| 07221/353–202 \| www.kurhaus-baden-baden.de. Living Room. The Hotel Merkur has a small nightclub called the Living Room that serves a slightly older crowd. \| Merkurstr. 8 \| 07221/303–366. Oleander Bar. For a subdued evening in a quiet horse-racing-themed lounge, stop by the Oleander Bar and enjoy cocktails among a diverse adult crowd. \| Schillerstr. 6 \| 07221/9000. Theater Baden-Baden. Baden-Baden has one of Germany's most beautiful performance halls, Theater Baden-Baden, a late-baroque jewel built in 1860–62 in the style of the Paris Opéra. It opened with the world premiere of Berlioz's opera Beatrice et Benedict. Today the theater presents a regular series of dramas, operas, and ballets. \| Goethepl. 1 \| 07221/932–700 \| www.theater.baden-baden.de. Trinkhalle. Baden-Baden attracts an older crowd, but the deep leather seats of the Trinkhalle make a hip lounge for those under 40. At night this daytime bistro also takes over the portion of the hall where the tourist office has a counter, transforming it into a dance floor. \| Kaiserallee 3. ### Sports and the Outdoors ##### Golf Baden-Baden Golf Club. The 18-hole Baden-Baden course is considered one of Europe's finest. Built in 1901, it's also the third oldest course in Germany. Contact the Golf Club for rates and tee times. \| Fremersbergstr. 127 \| 07221/23579 \| www.golf-club-baden-baden.de \| €80 for 18 holes. #### Horseback Riding Iffezheim. The racetrack at nearby Iffezheim harks back to the days when Baden-Baden was a magnet for royalty and aristocrats. Its tradition originated in 1858; now annual international meets take place in late May, late August, early September, and October. \| Rennbahnstr. 16 \| Iffezheim \| 07229/1870. Reitzentrum Balg. Those wishing to ride can rent horses and get instruction at the Reitzentrum Balg. \| Buchenweg 42 \| 07221/55920. En Route: Merkur. The road to Gernsbach, a couple of miles east of Baden-Baden, skirts the 2,000-foot-high mountain peak Merkur, named after a monument to the god Mercury that dates from Roman times and still stands just below the mountain summit. You can take the cable car to the summit, but it's not a trip for the fainthearted—the incline (54 degrees) is one of Europe's steepest. \| 2 Merkuriusberg \| Round-trip €5 \| Daily 10–10. Off the Beaten Path: Schloss. Two chateaulike castles are found between Baden-Baden and Ettlingen. The pink-sandstone, three-wing Schloss forms the centerpiece of the small town of Rastatt. Built at the end of the 17th century by Margrave Ludwig Wilhelm of Baden (known as Ludwig the Turk for his exploits in the Turkish wars), its highlights include the chapel, gardens, and a pagoda. Inside the palace itself are museums of German history. Guided tours are possible if you call ahead. \| Herrenstr. 18 \| 07222/34244 \| www.wgm-rastatt.de \| €7 \| Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–4:30; Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–5:30. Schloss Favorite. Five kilometers (3 miles) south of Rastatt, in Förch, Ludwig the Turk's Bohemian-born wife, Sibylle Augusta, constructed her own charming little summer palace, Schloss Favorite, after his death. Inside, in an exotic, imaginative baroque interior of mirrors, tiles, and marble, her collection of miniatures, mosaics, and porcelain is strikingly displayed. \| Am Schloss Favorite 5 \| 07222/41207 \| www.schloss-favorite.de \| €8 \| Mid-Mar.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Oct.–mid-Nov., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Off the Beaten Path: Fahrzeugmuseum Marxzell (Vehicle Museum). A group of ancient locomotives and other old machines at the side of the road lures you into the remarkable Fahrzeugmuseum. It looks more like a junkyard, with geese and ducks waddling freely about, but every kind of early engine is represented. The focus is on German automobile pioneer Karl Benz (1844–1929), who built the first practical automobile, in 1888. A farm-machine exhibition shows old steam-driven tractors. There is a room filled with old motorbikes, another displaying Rolls-Royces, Alfa Romeos, Jaguars, and a vintage fire engine. It's in Marxzell, just south of Etlingen. \| Albtalstr. 2 \| Marxzell \| 07248/6262 \| www.fahrzeugmuseum-marxzell.de \| €5 \| Daily 2–5. ## Karlsruhe 10 km (6 miles) north of Ettlingen. Karlsruhe, founded at the beginning of the 18th century, is a young upstart, but what it lacks in years it makes up for in industrial and administrative importance, sitting as it does astride a vital autobahn and rail crossroads. It's best known as the seat of Germany's Supreme Court, and has a high concentration of legal practitioners. #### Getting Here and Around The Autobahn A-5 connects Freiburg, Baden-Baden, and Karlsruhe. Karlsruhe's train station is an easy 15-minute walk from the city center and trains run frequently throughout the region; south to baden Baden (15 minutes) and Freiburg (1 hour), and east to Pforzheim (25 minutes) and Frankfurt (1 hour). #### Essentials Visitor Information Karlsruhe Tourist-Information. \| Bahnhofpl. 6 \| 0721/3720–5383 \| www.karlsruhe.de. ### Exploring Badisches Landesmuseum (Baden State Museum). The Badisches Landesmuseum, in the palace, has a large number of Greek and Roman antiquities and trophies that Ludwig the Turk brought back from campaigns in Turkey in the 17th century. Most of the other exhibits are devoted to local history. \| Schloss, Schlossbezirk 10 \| 0721/926–6514 \| www.landesmuseum.de \| €4 \| Tues.–Thurs. 10–5, Fri.–Sun. 10–6. Schloss. The town quite literally grew up around the former Schloss of the Margrave Karl Wilhelm, which was begun in 1715. Thirty-two avenues radiate from the palace, 23 leading into the extensive grounds, and the remaining 9 forming the grid of the Old Town. \| Schlossbezirk 10. Staatliche Kunsthalle (State Art Gallery). One of the most important collections of paintings in the Black Forest region hangs in the Staatliche Kunsthalle. Look for masterpieces by Grünewald, Holbein, Rembrandt, and Monet, and also for work by the Black Forest painter Hans Thoma. In the Kunsthalle Orangerie, next door, is work by such modern artists as Braque and Beckmann. \| Hans-Thoma-Str. 2–6 \| 0721/926–3359 \| www.kunsthalle-karlsruhe.de \| Both museums €8 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–5, weekends 10–6. FAMILY \| Zentrum für Kunst und Medientechnologie (Center for Art and Media Technology). In a former munitions factory, the vast Zentrum für Kunst und Medientechnologie, or simply ZKM, is an all-day adventure consisting of two separate museums. At the Medienmuseum (Media Museum) you can watch movies, listen to music, try out video games, flirt with a virtual partner, or sit on a real bicycle and pedal through a virtual New York City. TIP Take Tram No. 6 to ZKM to get here. \| Lorenzstr. 19 \| 0721/81000 \| www.zkm.de \| Either museum €6, combined ticket €10, free after 2 on Fri. \| Wed.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 11–6. Museum für Neue Kunst (Museum of Modern Art). There is a top-notch collection of media art in all genres from the end of the 20th century. \| Lorenzstr. 19 \| 0721/81000 \| www.mnk.zkm.de \| €4 ### Where to Eat and Stay Buchmanns. GERMAN \| Elke and Günter Buchmann run a "linen tablecloth and real silver" establishment, with a beer garden and a bar. The various suggested courses are grouped on the fancy handwritten menu, along with the fancy price of each dish. You can just order one of the courses, but be prepared for a disapproving look. The proprietors are Austrian, and the specialties of their homeland, such as Tafelspitz (boiled beef with horseradish applesauce) and Kaiserschmarrn (torn-up fluffy egg pancakes with apples, raisins, cinnamon, and jam), are recommended, but the Wiener schnitzel is divine. If you have trouble with the extensive wine list, the waitstaff is ready and willing to help. \| Average main: €22 \| Mathystr. 22 \| 0721/820–3730 \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Schlosshotel. HOTEL \| A few steps from the main station, this hotel looks, and sometimes behaves, like a palace. It's proud of its marble bathrooms, a mirrored elevator dating from 1914, and a menu from 1943, but the guest rooms are similar to those of modern hotels. The restaurant Zum Grossherzog ($$$; closed Sunday) serves international haute cuisine, and the very gemütlich (cozy) Schwarzwaldstube ($$) has Baden specialties. Pros: elegant hotel; friendly service; advanced onilne booking saves can save up to €50. Cons: on a noisy street; modern rooms don't live up to the historic feel of the hotel. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Bahnhofpl. 2 \| 0721/38320 \| www.schlosshotel-karlsruhe.de \| 93 rooms, 3 suites \| Multiple meal plans. ### The Arts Badisches Staatstheater. One of the best opera houses in the region is Karlsruhe's Badisches Staatstheater. \| Baumeisterstr. 11 \| 0721/35570 \| www.staatstheater.karlsruhe.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Alpirsbach \| Gutach \| Triberg The Central Black Forest takes in the Simonswald, Elz, and Glotter valleys as well as Triberg and Furtwangen, with their clock museums. The area around the Triberg Falls—the highest falls in Germany—is also renowned for pom-pom hats, thatch-roof farmhouses, and mountain railways. The Schwarzwaldbahn (Black Forest Railway; Offenburg–Villingen line), which passes through Triberg, is one of the most scenic in all of Europe. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Alpirsbach 16 km (10 miles) south of Freudenstadt. The hamlet of Alpirsbach was founded in 1035 and developed around the Benedictine monastery Kloster Alpirsbach. Although the wages of the reformation forced the abbey to close its doors in 1535, the tradition of brewing is still going strong. Locals claim that it's the pristine artesian water that makes the beer from the Alpirsbacher Klosterbräu (brewery) so incredible. The village maintains a preserved historic core with a fine collection of half-timber houses that only add to the charm. #### Getting Here and Around Alpirsbach is on the direct train line between Freudenstadt and Offenburg. Alpirsbach is a great day trip by train from Freiburg (two hours with a change in Offenburg) #### Essentials Visitor Information Alpirsbach Tourist-Information. \| Hauptstr. 20 \| 07444/951–6281 \| www.alpirsbach.de. ### Exploring Brauerei (Brewery). The Brauerei was once part of the monastery, and has brewed beer since the Middle Ages. The unusually soft water gives the beer a flavor that is widely acclaimed. There are guided tours of the brewery museum daily at 2:30. If there's one place in Germany to go out of your way for a beer, Alpirsbach is it. \| Marktpl. 1 \| 07444/67149 \| www.alpirsbacher-brauwelt.de \| Tour €6.90 \| Mar.–Oct., weekdays 9:30–4:30, weekends 11–3; Nov.–Feb., daily 11–3. ### Where to Eat Zwickel & Kaps. GERMAN \| The name is a highly sophisticated brewing term, describing the means by which the brewmaster samples the fermenting product. Sit down at one of the simple beech-wood tables and order a satisfying Swabian lentil stew with dumplings and sausages, or something more Mediterranean, such as salmon with pesto. All the pasta, bread, and sauces are home-made. \| Average main: €11 \| Marktstr. 3 \| 07444/51727 \| Closed Mon. ## Gutach 17 km (11 miles) north of Triberg. Gutach lies in Gutachtal, a valley famous for the traditional costumes, complete with pom-pom hats, worn by women on feast days and holidays. Married women wear black pom-poms, unmarried women red ones. The village is one of the few places in the Black Forest where you can still see thatch roofs. However, escalating costs caused by a decline in skilled thatchers, and soaring fire-insurance premiums, make for fewer thatch roofs than there were 20 years ago. #### Getting Here and Around Gutach is a 20-minute train ride from Freiburg. Trains leave once per hour. ### Exploring Schwarzwälder Freilichtmuseum Vogtsbauernhof (Black Forest Open-Air Museum). Near Gutach is one of the most appealing museums in the Black Forest, the Schwarzwälder Freilichtmuseum Vogtsbauernhof. Farmhouses and other rural buildings from all parts of the region have been transported here from their original locations and reassembled, complete with traditional furniture, to create a living museum of Black Forest building types through the centuries. Demonstrations ranging from traditional dances to woodworking capture life as it was in centuries past. \| B-33, Vogtsbauernhof \| 07831/93560 \| www.vogtsbauernhof.org \| €8 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–5 (Aug. until 6). Off the Beaten Path: Schwarzwalder Trachtenmuseum. Regional traditional costumes can be seen at this museum in a former monastery in the village of Haslach, 10 km (6 miles) northwest of Gutach. The village is quaint, with a fine collection of half-timber houses. Pom-pom-topped straw hats, bejeweled headdresses, embroidered velvet vests, and Fasnet (Carnival) regalia of all parts of the forest are on display. \| Klosterstr. 1 \| 07832/706–172 \| €2 \| Apr.–mid-Oct., Tues.–Sat. 9–5, Sun. 10–5; mid-Oct.–Dec., Feb.–Mar., Tues.–Fri. 9–noon and 1–5; Jan. by appointment. * * * German Cuckoo Clocks "In Switzerland they had brotherly love—they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock." So says Harry Lime, played by Orson Welles in the classic 1949 film The Third Man. He misspoke in two ways. First, the Swiss are an industrious, technologically advanced people. And second, they didn't invent the cuckoo clock. That was the work of the Germans living in the adjacent Black Forest. The first Kuckucksuhr was designed and built in 1750 by Franz Anton Ketterer in Schönwald near Triberg. He cleverly produced the cuckoo sound with a pair of wooden whistles, each attached to a bellows activated by the clock's mechanism. The making of carved wooden clocks developed rapidly in the Black Forest. The people on the farms needed ways to profitably occupy their time during the long snowbound winters, and the carving of clocks was the answer. Wood was abundant, and the early clocks were entirely of wood, even the works. Come spring one of the sons would don a traditional smock and hat, mount the family's winter output on a big rack, hoist it to his back, and set off into the world to sell the clocks. In 1808 there were 688 clock makers and 582 clock peddlers in the districts of Triberg and Neustadt. The Uhrenträger (clock carrier) is an important part of the Black Forest tradition. Guides often wear the traditional costume. The traditional cuckoo clock is made with brown stained wood with a gabled roof and some sort of woodland motif carved into it, such as a deer's head or a cluster of leaves. The works are usually activated by cast-iron weights, in the form of pinecones, on chains. Today's clocks can be much more elaborate. Dancing couples in traditional dress automatically move to the sound of a music box, a mill wheel turns on the hour, a farmer chops wood on the hour, the Uhrenträger even makes his rounds. The cuckoo itself moves its wings and beak and rocks back and forth when calling. The day is long past when the clocks were made entirely of wood. The works are of metal and therefore more reliable and accurate. Other parts of the clock, such as the whistles, the face, and the hands, are usually of plastic now, but hand-carved wood is still the rule for the case. The industry is still centered in Triberg. There are two museums in the area with sections dedicated to it, and clocks are sold everywhere, even in kiosks. * * * ## Triberg 16 km (10 miles) south of Gutach. The cuckoo clock, that symbol of the Black Forest, is at home in the Triberg area. It was invented here, it's made and sold here, it's featured in two museums, and there are two house-size cuckoo clocks here. #### Getting Here and Around Triberg is accessible via one of the prettiest train rides in Germany, with direct services to Lake Constance and Karlsruhe. The train station is at the lower end of the long main street, and the waterfalls are a stiff uphill walk away. You can take a bus up the hill from the train station to the entrance to the waterfalls, relieving most of the uphill struggle. #### Essentials Visitor Information Triberg Tourist-Information. \| Wahlfahrtstr. 4 \| 07722/866–490 \| www.triberg.de. ### Exploring Eble Uhren-Park. You can buy a cuckoo clock, or just about any other timepiece or souvenir, at the huge Eble Uhren-Park, about 3 km (2 miles) from the town center in the district of Schonachbach. It's also the location of one of the house-size cuckoo clocks. You can enter it for €2 and examine the works. \| Schonachbach 27, on B-33 between Triberg and Hornberg \| 07722/96220 \| www.eble-uhren-park.de \| Apr.–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 9–6, Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Mon.–Sat. 9–6, Sun. 11–4:30. Haus der 1000 Uhren (House of 1,000 Clocks). The Haus der 1000 Uhren has a shop right at the waterfall. The main store, just off B-33 toward Offenburg in the suburb of Gremmelsbach, boasts another of the town's giant cuckoo clocks. Both stores offer a rich variety of clocks, some costing as much as €3,000. \| Hauptstr. 79–81 \| 07722/96300 \| www.houseof1000clocks.de \| Mon.–Sat. 11–5, Sun. 11–4. Hubert Herr. Hubert Herr is the only factory that continues to make nearly all of its own components for its cuckoo clocks. The present proprietors are the fifth generation from Andreas and Christian Herr, who began making the clocks more than 150 years ago. The company produces a great variety of clocks, including one that, at 5¼ inches high, is claimed to be "the world's smallest." \| Hauptstr. 8 \| 07722/4268 \| www.hubertherr.de \| Weekdays 9–noon and 1:30–4. Schwarzwaldbahn (Black Forest Railway). The Hornberg–Triberg–St. Georgen segment of the Schwarzwaldbahn is one of Germany's most scenic train rides. The 149-km (93-mile) Schwarzwaldbahn, built from 1866 to 1873, runs from Offenburg to Lake Constance via Triberg. It has no fewer than 39 tunnels, and at one point climbs almost 2,000 feet in just 11 km (6½ miles). It's now part of the German Railway, and you can make inquiries at any station. \| 11861 \| www.bahn.de. Schwarzwaldmuseum (Black Forest Museum). Triberg's famous Schwarzwaldmuseum is a treasure trove of the region's traditional arts: wood carving, costumes, and handicrafts. The Schwarzwaldbahn is described, with historical displays and a working model. The Black Forest was also a center of mechanical music, and, among many other things, the museum has an "Orchestrion"—a cabinet full of mechanical instruments playing like an orchestra. \| Wallfahrtstr. 4 \| 07722/4434 \| www.schwarzwaldmuseum.de \| €5 \| Daily 10–5. Triberg Waterfalls. At the head of the Gutach Valley, the Gutach River plunges more than 500 feet over seven huge granite cascades at Triberg's waterfall, Germany's highest. The pleasant 45-minute walk from the center of town is well signposted. A longer walk goes by a small pilgrimage church and the old Mesnerhäuschen, the sacristan's house. \| Friedrichstr. \| Waterfall €3.50. ### Where to Stay Hotel-Restaurant-Pfaff. HOTEL \| Rooms at this restaurant-hotel are very comfortable; some have balconies overlooking the famous waterfall. The old post-and-beam restaurant ($$), with its blue-tile Kachelöfen, attracts people of all types with affordable regional specialties. Try the fresh Forelle (trout), either steamed or Gasthof-style (in the pan), garnished with mushrooms. Pros: friendly service; close to waterfall. Cons: some rooms quite small; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €76 \| Hauptstr. 85 \| 07722/4479 \| www.hotel-pfaff.com \| 10 rooms \| Breakfast. Parkhotel Wehrle. HOTEL \| This large mansion, which dominates the town center, has a wisteria-covered facade, steep eaves, and individually furnished, wood-accented rooms. The hotel offers some pleasant touches such as fresh flowers, and there is a fitness facility. The Ochsenstube ($$) serves duck breast with three types of noodles and a sauce of oranges, pears, and truffles; the Alte Schmiede ($$) tends toward specialties from Baden, such as trout done a dozen different ways, all delicious. Pros: elegant rooms; friendly service. Cons: main street outside can be noisy. \| Rooms from: €149 \| Gartenstr. 24 \| 07722/86020 \| www.parkhotel-wehrle.de \| 50 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Off the Beaten Path: Stadtmuseum. Rottweil, 26 km (16 miles) east of Triberg, has the best of the Black Forest's Fasnet celebrations. Outside the Black Forest, the celebrations are good-natured and sophisticated, but here and in adjacent areas of Switzerland they're pagan and fierce. In the days just before Ash Wednesday, usually in February, witches and devils roam the streets wearing ugly wooden masks and making fantastic gyrations as they crack whips and ring bells. If you can't make it to Rottweil during the Carnival season, you can still catch the spirit of Fasnet. There's an exhibit on it at the Stadtmuseum, and tours are organized to the shops where they carve the masks and make the costumes and bells. The name "Rottweil" may be more familiar as the name for a breed of dog. The area used to be a center of beef production, and locals bred the Rottweiler to herd the cattle. \| Hauptstr. 20 \| Rottweil \| 0741/494–330 \| €2 \| Tues.–Sun. noon–4 \| Closed Mon. En Route: Uhren Museum (Clock Museum). In the center of Furtwangen, 16 km (10 miles) south of Triberg, drop in on the Uhren Museum, the largest such museum in Germany. It charts the development of Black Forest clocks and exhibits all types of timepieces, from cuckoo clocks, church clock mechanisms, kinetic wristwatches, and old decorative desktop clocks to punch clocks and digital blinking objects. The most elaborate piece is the "art clock" by local artisan August Noll, built from 1880 to 1885 and featuring the time in Calcutta, New York, Melbourne, and London, among other places. It emits the sound of a crowing rooster in the morning, and other chimes mark yearly events. \| Robert-Gerwig-Pl. 1 \| 07723/920–2800 \| www.deutsches-uhrenmuseum.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–5. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Titisee \| Freiburg \| Staufen \| Kaiserstuhl \| Rust In the south you'll find the most spectacular mountain scenery in the area, culminating in the Feldberg—at 4,899 feet the highest mountain in the Black Forest. The region also has two large lakes, the Titisee and the Schluchsee. Freiburg is a romantic university city with vineyards and a superb Gothic cathedral. ## Titisee 37 km (23 miles) south of Furtwangen. Beautiful Titisee, carved by a glacier in the last ice age, is the most scenic lake in the Black Forest. The heavily wooded landscape is ideal for long bike tours, which can be organized through the Titisee tourist office. The lake measures 2½ km (1½ miles) long and is invariably crowded in summer. Stop by one of the many lakeside cafés to enjoy some of the region's best Black Forest cherry cake with an unparalleled waterside view. TIP Boats and Windsurfers can be rented at several points along the shore. #### Essentials Visitor Information Titisee-Neustadt Tourist-Information. \| Strandbadstr. 4, \| Titisee-Neustadt \| 07651/98040 \| www.titisee.de. ### Where to Stay Gasthaus Sonnenmatte. HOTEL \| There are countless hotels and restaurants clustered around the lakeshore, but for a quieter time and to escape the crowds in summer, it's worth heading farther from the lake. This guesthouse is about 2 km (1 mi) inland, in the middle of a meadow. There's a swimming pool, a barbecue grill, and an outdoor chess set in the garden. Weekly dances are a feature year-round, and in summer the restaurant ($) stages regular grill parties. Pros: quiet rural location; friendly service; away from the Titisee crowds. Cons: away from the Titisee views; some rooms quite small. \| Rooms from: €49 \| Spriegelsbach 5 \| Titisee-Neustadt \| 07651/8277 \| www.sonnenmatte.de \| 30 rooms \| Breakfast. En Route: To get to Freiburg, the largest city in the southern Black Forest, you have to brave the curves of the winding road through the Höllental (Hell Valley). In 1770 Empress Maria Theresa's 15-year-old daughter—the future queen Marie Antoinette—made her way along what was then a coach road on her way from Vienna to Paris. She traveled with an entourage of 250 officials and servants in some 50 horse-drawn carriages. The first stop at the end of the valley is a little village called Himmelreich, or Kingdom of Heaven. Railroad engineers are said to have given the village its name in the 19th century, grateful as they were to finally have laid a line through Hell Valley. At the entrance to Höllental is a deep gorge, the Ravennaschlucht. It's worth scrambling through to reach the tiny 12th-century chapel of St. Oswald, the oldest parish church in the Black Forest (there are parking spots off the road). Look for a bronze statue of a deer high on a roadside cliff, 5 km (3 miles) farther on. It commemorates the legend of a deer that amazed hunters by leaping the deep gorge at this point. Another 16 km (10 miles) will bring you to Freiburg. ## Freiburg 25 km (15½ miles) northwest of Hinterzarten. Duke Berthold III founded Freiburg im Breisgau in the 12th century as a free trading city. World War II left extensive damage, but skillful restoration helped re-create the original and compelling medieval atmosphere of one of the loveliest historic towns in Germany. The 16th-century geographer Martin Waldseemüller was born here; in 1507 he was the first to put the name "America" on a map. For an intimate view of Freiburg, wander through the car-free streets around the Münster or follow the main shopping artery of Kaiser-Joseph-Strasse. After you pass the city gate (Martinstor), follow Gerberau off to the left. You'll come to quaint shops along the banks of one of the city's larger canals, which continues past the former Augustinian cloister to the equally picturesque area around the Insel (island). This canal is a larger version of the Bächle (brooklets) running through many streets in Freiburg's Old Town. The Bächle, so narrow you can step across them, were created in the 13th century to bring freshwater into the town. Legend has it that if you accidentally step into one of them—and it does happen to travelers looking at the sights—you will marry a person from Freiburg. The tourist office sponsors English walking tours daily at 10:30, with additional tours on Friday and Saturday at 10. The two-hour tour costs €8. #### Getting Here and Around Freiburg is on the main railway line between Frankfurt and Basel, and regular ICE (InterCity Express) trains stop here. The railway station is a short walk from the city center. Although Freiburg is a bustling metropolis, the city center is compact. In fact, the bulk of the Old Town is closed to traffic, so walking is by far the most practical and pleasurable option. The Old Town is ringed with parking garages for those who arrive by car. #### Essentials Visitor Information Freiburg Tourist-Information. \| Rathauspl. 2–4 \| 0761/388–1880 \| www.freiburg.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring Augustinermuseum. A visit to Freiburg's cathedral is not really complete without also exploring the Augustinermuseum, in the former Augustinian cloister. Original sculpture from the cathedral is on display, as well as gold and silver reliquaries. The collection of stained-glass windows, dating from the Middle Ages to today, is one of the most important in Germany. \| Augustinerpl. \| 0761/201–2531 \| www.museen.freiburg.de \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Fodor's Choice \| Münster unserer Lieben Frau (Cathedral of Our Dear Lady). The Münster unserer Lieben Frau, Freiburg's most famous landmark, towers over the medieval streets. The cathedral took three centuries to build, from around 1200 to 1515. You can easily trace the progress of generations of builders through the changing architectural styles, from the fat columns and solid, rounded arches of the Romanesque period to the lofty Gothic windows and airy interior of the choir. The delicately perforated 380-foot spire has been called the finest in Europe.TIP If you can summon the energy, climb the tower. In addition to a magnificent view, you'll get a closer look at the 16 bells, including the 1258 "Hosanna," one of Germany's oldest functioning bells. \| Münsterpl. 1 \| 0761/388–101 \| Bell tower €1.50 \| Mon.–Sat. 9:30–5, Sun. 1–5. Münsterplatz. The square around Freiburg's cathedral once served as a cemetery; today it holds a market Monday to Saturday. You can stock up on local specialties, from wood-oven-baked bread to hams, wines, vinegars, fruits, and Kirschwasser (cherry brandy). The southern side, in front of the Renaissance Kaufhaus (Market House), is traditionally used by merchants. On the northern side of the square are farmers with their produce. This is where you can sample some local sausages served with a white roll and heaps of onions. The square is also lined with traditional taverns. Museum für Stadtgeschichte (Museum of City History). The former home of painter, sculptor, and architect Johann Christian Wentzinger (1710–97) houses the Museum für Stadtgeschichte. It contains fascinating exhibits on the history of the city, including the poignant remains of a typewriter recovered from a bombed-out bank. The ceiling fresco in the stairway, painted by Wentzinger himself, is the museum's pride and joy. \| Münsterpl. 30 \| 0761/201–2515 \| www.museen.freiburg.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Rathaus. Freiburg's famous Town Hall is actually two 16th-century patrician houses joined together. Among its attractive Renaissance features is an oriel, or bay window, clinging to a corner and bearing a bas-relief of the romantic medieval legend of the Maiden and the Unicorn. \| Rathauspl. 2–4 \| Mon.–Thurs. 8–5:30, Fri. 8–4. ### Where to Eat Der Goldene Engel. GERMAN \| Oak beams festooned with plaster casts of cherubs, and angelic paintings on the walls, combine to create a charmingly kitschy atmosphere in "the golden angel." Local dishes are the specialty here, and the Flammkuchen in particular are a good choice. Try the Schwarzwälder Kirchsteak, a wonderful pork-chop with cherries. \| Average main: €14 \| Münsterpl. 14 \| 0761/37933 \| www.goldenerengel-freiburg.de. Kühler Krug. GERMAN \| Fresh fish and wild game are the specialties at this elegant yet homey restaurant around 2 km (1½ miles) south of the Old Town. Interesting dishes include rabbit in hazelnut sauce with baby vegetables, as well as salmon in saffron foam with a Riesling risotto. \| Average main: €16 \| Torpl. 1 \| 0761/29103 \| Closed Wed. ### Where to Stay Best Western Premier Hotel Victoria. HOTEL \| Despite its traditional appearance and comfort, this is a very eco-friendly hotel. Black Forest sawdust has replaced oil for heating, solar panels provide some of the electricity and hot water, windows have thermal panes, bathtubs are ergonomically designed to use less hot water, and everything from the stationery to the toilet tissue is made from recycled paper. None of this detracts from the fact that the hotel, built in 1875 and carefully restored, is totally in line with Black Forest hospitality. Pros: eco-friendly; free city bus tickets available to guests. Cons: outside the medieval center. \| Rooms from: €137 \| Eisenbahnstr. 54 \| 0761/207–340 \| www.victoria.bestwestern.de \| 63 rooms \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Colombi. HOTEL \| Freiburg's most luxurious hotel is one of the few where the owners are there to make sure your stay is perfect. Its tastefully furnished rooms have floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the romantic old city. Despite its central location, the hotel basks in near-countryside quiet. The Hans Thoma Stube ($$$$, reservations essential) has outfitted itself with venerable tables, chairs, tile stoves, and wood paneling from some older establishments. It has its own bakery, which even makes fancy chocolate creams. The black-tied waiters will also serve you small dishes at merciful prices. Pros: friendly service; quiet location; comfortable rooms. Cons: business hotel; often fully booked by conference visitors. \| Rooms from: €220 \| Rotteckring 16 \| 0761/21060 \| www.colombi.de \| 111 rooms, 5 suites \| Multiple meal plans. Gasthaus zur Sonne. HOTEL \| The downside: the bathroom is down the hall for some rooms, there are no eggs at breakfast, the bedside lamps may or may not work, and it's a long way from the center of town. The upside: the hotel is spotlessly clean, the food in the restaurant ($) sticks to your ribs, a bus at the door gets you downtown with ease, and you'll find a piece of chocolate on your bedside table each night. Not a bad choice for travelers on a budget. Pros: clean; friendly; good value. Cons: some shared bathrooms; far from the sights. \| Rooms from: €53 \| Hochdorfstr. 1 \| 07665/2650 \| www.sonne-hochdorf.de \| 15 rooms, 7 with bath \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. Hotel Schwarzwälder Hof. HOTEL \| Located in a downtown pedestrian zone, part of this hotel occupies a former mint, complete with graceful cast-iron railings on the spiral staircase. Despite its unfortunately paper-thin walls, it's close to both a parking garage and public transportation. The Badische Winzerstube ($) provides all you could want in local atmosphere, wine, and food. Pros: good central location; clean rooms. Cons: parking in public garage around the corner; can be noisy; thin walls. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Herrenstr. 43 \| 0761/38030 \| www.shof.de \| 42 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. Oberkirchs Weinstube. HOTEL \| Across from the cathedral, this wine cellar, restaurant, and hotel is a bastion of tradition and Gemütlichkeit (comfort and conviviality). The proprietor personally bags some of the game that ends up on the menu ($$$). Simple but filling dishes include the fresh trout and the lentils with a sausage called Saitenwurst. In summer the dark-oak dining tables spill onto a garden terrace. Approximately 20 Baden wines are served by the glass, many supplied from the restaurant's own vineyards. The charming guest rooms are in the main building and in a neighboring centuries-old house. Pros: great central location; personal charm. Cons: difficult parking access. \| Rooms from: €139 \| Münsterpl. 22 \| 0761/202–6868 \| www.hotel-oberkirch.de \| 26 rooms \| Restaurant closed Sun. and 2 wks in Jan. \| Breakfast. Park Hotel Post Meier. HOTEL \| This century-old building near the train station has a copper dome and stone balconies overlooking a park. You'll be greeted with a drink upon your arrival, find fresh fruit in your room, and can use the phone beside the bed, at the desk, or even in the bathroom. Pros: friendly; some rooms have park views. Cons: outside the medieval center. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Eisenbahnstr. 35–37 \| 0761/385–480 \| www.park-hotel-post.de \| 43 rooms, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Rappen. HOTEL \| This hotel's brightly painted rooms are on the sunny side of the cobblestone cathedral square and marketplace. Three rooms are designated "anti-allergy." At the restaurant ($$), tables are set out amid the lively chatter of the square in summer. The kitchen serves fresh vegetables, game, and fish, though a simple, filling Hochzeitssuppe (wedding soup) with pasta, carrots, spring onions, and other vegetables might be enough. Locals come in for a glass of wine (there are about 40 wines available, German and French). Pros: central location; friendly service; clean rooms. Cons: difficult to access by car-located in pedestrian zone. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Münsterpl. 13 \| 0761/31353 \| www.rappen-freiburg.de \| 24 rooms \| Breakfast. Zum Roten Bären. HOTEL \| Like several other hotels, the "Red Bear" claims to be the "oldest in Germany," but this one has authenticated documentation going back 700 years to prove its heritage. The inn dates from 1311 and retains its individual character, with very comfortable lodgings and excellent dining choices. Book at least two weeks in advance for great discounts. lOn request, you may tour the two-story wine cellar dating from the 12th century. Pros: dripping with history; great location. Cons: some rooms quite small. \| Rooms from: €158 \| Oberlinden 12 \| 0761/387–870 \| www.roter-baeren.de \| 22 rooms, 3 suites \| Restaurant closed Sun. \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Nightlife in Freiburg takes place in the city's Kneipen (pubs), wine bars, and wine cellars, which are plentiful on the streets around the cathedral. For student pubs, wander around Stühlinger, the neighborhood immediately south of the train station. Cocktailbar Hemingway. Plenty of people take their nightcap in the Best Western Premier Hotel Victoria at the Cocktailbar Hemingway, which stays open until 2 am on weekends. \| Eisenbahnstr. 54 \| 0761/207–340. Jazzhaus. Jazzhaus sometimes has live music and draws big acts and serious up-and-coming artists to its brick cellar. \| Schnewlinstr. 1 \| 0761/34973 \| www.jazzhaus.de. Kagan. A very mixed crowd meets daily and nightly at Kagan on the 18th floor of the skyscraper over the train station, with an incomparable view of the Old Town. The club is open Wednesday through Saturday from 10 pm until the wee hours. The café is open Tuesday through Sunday. \| Bismarckallee 9 \| 0761/767–2766 \| €6. ## Staufen 20 km (12 miles) south of Freiburg via B-31. Once you've braved Hell Valley to get to Freiburg, visit the nearby town of Staufen, where Dr. Faustus is reputed to have made his pact with the devil. The Faustus legend is remembered today chiefly because of Goethe's Faust (published in two parts, 1808–32). In this account, Faust sells his soul to the devil in return for eternal youth and knowledge. The historical Faustus was actually an alchemist whose pact was not with the devil but with a local baron who convinced him that he could make his fortune by converting base metal into gold. The explosion leading to his death at Gasthaus zum Löwen produced so much noise and sulfurous stink that the townspeople were convinced the devil had carried him off. #### Getting Here and Around To reach Staufen, take the twice-hourly train from Freiburg and change at Bad Krozingen. The train station is a 15-minute walk northwest of the town center. The B-31 highway connects Staufen with Freiburg and the A-5 motorway. ### Exploring Gasthaus zum Löwen. You can visit the ancient Gasthaus zum Löwen, where Faust lived, allegedly in room No. 5, and died. Guests can stay overnight in the room, which has been decked out in period furniture and had all-modern conveniences removed (including the telephone) to enhance the effect. The inn is right on the central square of Staufen, a town with a visible inclination toward modern art in ancient settings. \| Rathausg. 8 \| 07633/908–9390 \| www.fauststube-im-loewen.de. ### Where to Stay Landgasthaus zur Linde. HOTEL \| Guests have been welcomed here for more than 350 years, but the comforts inside the inn's old walls are contemporary. The kitchen ($$$) creates splendid trout specialties and plays up seasonal dishes, such as asparagus in May and June and mushrooms from the valley in autumn. The terrace is a favorite for hikers passing through, as are the various snacks. Pros: friendly; quiet; good restaurant. Cons: remote; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Krumlinden 13, 14 km (9 miles) southeast of Staufen \| Münstertal \| 07636/447 \| www.landgasthaus.de \| 11 rooms, 3 suites \| Restaurant closed Mon. \| Breakfast. ## Kaiserstuhl 20 km (12 miles) northwest of Freiburg on B-31. One of the unusual sights of the Black Forest is the Kaiserstuhl (Emperor's Chair), a volcanic outcrop clothed in vineyards that produce some of Baden's best wines—reds from the Spätburgunder grape and whites that have an uncanny depth. A third of Baden's wines are produced in this single area, which has the warmest climate in Germany. TIP The especially dry and warm microclimate has given rise to tropical vegetation, including sequoias and a wide variety of orchids. ### Exploring Weinbaumuseum (Wine Museum). The fine little Weinbaumuseum is in a renovated barn in the village center. A small vineyard out front displays the various types of grapes used to make wine in the Kaiserstuhl region. \| Schlossbergstr. \| Vogtsburg im Kaiserstuhl \| 07662/81263 \| €2 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Fri. 2–5, weekends 11–5. ### Where to Stay Hotel Zur Krone. B&B/INN \| You could spend an entire afternoon and evening here even if you don't stay overnight in the comfortable guest rooms. Choose between the terrace or the dining room ($$), trying the wines and enjoying, say, a fillet of wild salmon in a horseradish crust, a boar's roast, or some lighter asparagus creation (in season). The house dates to 1561, and the Höfflin-Schüssler family, now in its fourth generation as hoteliers, knows how to make visitors feel welcome. Pros: friendly; quiet. Cons: can feel remote. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Schlossbergstr. 15 \| Vogtsburg-Achkarren \| 07662/93130 \| www.Hotel-Krone-Achkarren.de \| 23 rooms \| Restaurant closed Wed., and Thurs. in winter \| Breakfast. Posthotel Kreuz-Post. B&B/INN \| Set right in the middle of the Kaiserstuhl vineyards, this somewhat plain but contemporarily furnished establishment has been in the hands of the Gehr family since its construction in 1809. The restaurant ($$) serves regional and French cuisines with the famous local wines, and the family-owned schnapps distillery can be visited. All rooms are no-smoking. Pros: quiet; in the middle of nowhere. Cons: quiet; in the middle of nowhere. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Landstr. 1 \| Vogtsburg-Burkheim \| 07662/90910 \| www.kreuz-post.de \| 35 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Rust 35 km (22 miles) north of Freiburg. The town of Rust, on the Rhine almost halfway from Freiburg to Strasbourg, boasts a castle dating from 1577 and painstakingly restored half-timber houses. But its big claim to fame is Germany's biggest amusement park, with its own autobahn exit. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Europa Park. On an area of 160 acres, Europa Park draws more than 3 million visitors a year with its variety of shows, rides, dining, and shops. Among many other things, it has the "Eurosat" to take you on a virtual journey past clusters of meteors and falling stars; the "Silver Star," Europe's highest roller coaster; a Spanish jousting tournament; and even a "4-D" movie in which you might get damp in the rain or be rocked by an earthquake. \| Europa-Park-Str. 2 \| 01805/776–688 \| www.europapark.de \| €39 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6. ### Where to Stay Hotel am Park. HOTEL \| This handy hotel, with a waterfall and a statue of a "friendly dragon" in the lobby, is just across the road from the entrance to Europa Park. It's also only 300 yards from a nature preserve and swimming area, and guests can park there free. Knowing that a lot of park visitors will have their kids with them, the restaurant has set up its Casa Nova restaurant ($) with pizza, pasta, and a play area. Its other restaurant, the Am Park, serves German cuisine. Pros: friendly; great for kids; convenient for Europa Park. Cons: proximity to Europa Park means it can get noisy. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Austr. 1 \| 07822/444–900 \| www.hotels-in-rust.de \| 47 rooms \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley Heidelberg The Burgenstrasse (Castle Road) Swabian Cities Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning Updated by Evelyn Kanter Heidelberg remains one of the best-known and most visited cities in Germany, identifiable by its graceful baroque towers and the majestic ruins of its red sandstone castle. From this grand city, the narrow and quiet Neckar Valley makes its way east, then turns to the south, taking you past villages filled with half-timber houses and often guarded by their own castle—sometimes in ruins but often revived as a museum or hotel. This part of Germany is aptly named the Burgenstrasse (Castle Road). The valley widens into one of the most industrious areas of Germany, with Stuttgart at its center. In this wealthy city, world-class art museums like the Staatsgalerie or the Kunstmuseum in the center of town contrast with the new and striking Mercedes and Porsche museums in the suburbs, adjoining their sprawling manufacturing facilities. A bit farther south, the rolling Swabian Hills cradle the university town of Tübingen, a center of learning in a beautiful historic setting on the banks of the Neckar River. Overlooking the town is—of course—a mighty castle. ## Top Reasons to Go Heidelberg Castle: The architectural highlight of the region's most beautiful castle is the Renaissance courtyard—harmonious, graceful, and ornate. Heidelberg's Alte Brücke: Walk under the twin towers that were part of medieval Heidelberg's fortifications, and look back for a picture postcard view of the city and the castle. Burg Hornberg: With its oldest parts dating from the 12th century, this is one of the best of more than a dozen castles between Heidelberg and Stuttgart. Stuttgart's museums: Top art collections in the Staatsgalerie and the Kunstmuseum contrast with the Mercedes and Porsche museums, where the history of theauto mobilis illustrated by historic classic cars and sleek racing cars. Tübingen Altstadt: With its half-timber houses, winding alleyways, and hilltop setting overlooking the Neckar, Tübingen is the quintessential German experience. ## Getting Oriented Although not as well known as the Rhine, the Neckar River has a wonderful charm of its own. After Heidelberg, it winds through a small valley guarded by castles. It then flows on, bordered by vineyards on its northern slopes, passing the interesting and industrious city of Stuttgart, before it climbs toward the Swabian Hills. You follow the Neckar until the old half-timber university town of Tübingen. The river continues toward the eastern slopes of the Black Forest, where it originates less than 80 km (50 miles) from the source of the Danube. ## What's Where Heidelberg. The natural beauty of Heidelberg is created by the embrace of mountains, forests, vineyards, and the Neckar River, all crowned by the famous ruined castle. The Neckar and the Rhine meet at nearby Mannheim, the biggest train hub for the superfast ICE (InterCity Express) trains of Germany, a major industrial center, and the second-largest river port in Europe. The Burgenstrasse (Castle Road). If you or your kids like castles, this is the place to go. The crowded Heidelberg Castle is a must-see, but the real fun starts when you venture up the Neckar River. There seems to be a castle on every hilltop in the valley, including Burg Hohenzollern, home to the most powerful family in German history. Swabian Cities. Stuttgart, the state capital, has elegant streets, shops, hotels, and museums, as well as some of Germany's top industries, among them Mercedes, Porsche, and Bosch. Ludwigsburg, with its huge baroque castles and baroque flower gardens, is worth a visit. The most charmingly "Swabian" of all these cities is the old half-timber university town of Tübingen. ## Planning ### When to Go If you plan to visit Heidelberg in summer, make reservations well in advance and expect to pay top rates. To get away from the crowds, consider staying out of town and driving or taking the bus or train into the city. Hotels and restaurants are much cheaper just a little upriver. A visit in late fall, when the vines turn a faded gold, or early spring, with the first green shoots of the year, can be captivating. In the depths of winter, river mists creep through the narrow streets of Heidelberg's Old Town and awaken the ghosts of a romantic past. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel From the Frankfurt and Stuttgart airports, there's fast and easy access, by car and train, to all major centers along the Neckar. #### Bus and Shuttle Travel From Frankfurt Airport to Heildelberg, hop aboard the Lufthansa Airport Bus, which takes about an hour and is not restricted to Lufthansa passengers. Buses depart 11 times a day between 7 am and 10:30 pm from Arrivals Hall B of Terminal 1. Airport-bound buses leave the Crowne Plaza Heidelberg between 5:30 am and 8 pm. One-way tickets are €24 per person, or €22 with a Lufthansa flight ticket. With advance reservations you can also get to downtown Heidelberg via the shuttle service TLS. The trip costs €34 per person. Bus Information Lufthansa Airport Bus. \| 06152/976–9099 \| www.transcontinental-group.com/en/frankfurt-airport-shuttles. TLS. \| 06221/770–077 \| www.tls-heidelberg.de. #### Car Travel Heidelberg is a 15-minute drive (10 km [6 miles]) on A-656 from Mannheim, a major junction of the autobahn system. The Burgenstrasse (Route B-37) follows the north bank of the Neckar River from Heidelberg to Mosbach, from which it continues south to Heilbronn as B-27, the road parallel to and predating the autobahn (A-81). B-27 still leads to Stuttgart and Tübingen. #### Train Travel Heidelberg is 17 minutes from Mannheim, by S-bahn regional train, or 11 minutes on hourly InterCity Express (ICE) trains. These sleek, super-high-speed trains reach 280 kph (174 mph), so travel time between Frankfurt Airport and Mannheim is a half hour. From Heidelberg to Stuttgart, direct InterCity (IC) trains take 40 minutes. Local services link many of the smaller towns. ### Restaurants Mittagessen (lunch) in this region is generally served from noon until 2 or 2:30, Abendessen (dinner) from 6 until 9:30 or 10. Durchgehend warme Küche means that hot meals are also served between lunch and dinner. While credit cards are widely accepted, many small family owned restaurants, cafés, and pubs will accept only cash or debit cards issued by a German bank. Casual attire is typically acceptable at restaurants here, and reservations are generally not needed. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels This area is full of castle-hotels and charming country inns that range in comfort from upscale rustic to luxurious. For a riverside view, ask for a Zimmer (room) or Tisch (table) mit Neckarblick (with a view of the Neckar). The Neckar Valley offers idyllic alternatives to the cost and crowds of Heidelberg. Driving or riding the train from Neckargemünd, for example, takes 20 minutes. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time To fully appreciate Heidelberg, try to be up and about before the tour buses arrive. After the day-trippers have gone and many shops have closed, the good restaurants and the nightspots open up. Visit the castles on the Burgenstrasse at your leisure, perhaps even staying overnight. Leaving the valley toward the south, you'll drive into wine country. Even if you are not a car enthusiast, the museums of Mercedes and Porsche in Stuttgart are well worth a visit. Try to get to Tübingenduring the week to avoid the crowds of Swabians coming in for their Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake). During the week, try to get a room and spend a leisurely evening in this charming half-timber university town. ### Visitor Information Die Burgenstrasse. \| Allee 28, \| Heilbronn \| 07131/564–028 \| www.burgenstrasse.de. State Tourist Board Baden-Württemberg. \| Esslingerstr. 8, \| Stuttgart \| 0711/238–580 \| www.tourismus-bw.de. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Exploring \| Where to Eat \| Where to Stay \| Nightlife and the Arts \| Sports and the Outdoors \| Shopping 57 km (35 miles) northeast of Karlsruhe. If any city in Germany encapsulates the spirit of the country, it is Heidelberg. Scores of poets and composers—virtually the entire 19th-century German Romantic movement—have sung its praises. Goethe and Mark Twain both fell in love here: the German writer with a beautiful young woman, the American author with the city itself. Sigmund Romberg set his operetta The Student Prince in the city; Carl Maria von Weber wrote his lushly Romantic opera Der Freischütz here. Composer Robert Schumann was a student at the university. The campaign these artists waged on behalf of the town has been astoundingly successful. Heidelberg's fame is out of all proportion to its size (population 140,000); more than 3½ million visitors crowd its streets every year. Heidelberg was the political center of the Lower Palatinate. At the end of the Thirty Years' War (1618–48), the elector Carl Ludwig married his daughter to the brother of Louis XIV in the hope of bringing peace to the Rhineland. But when the elector's son died without an heir, Louis XIV used the marriage alliance as an excuse to claim Heidelberg, and in 1689 the town was sacked and laid to waste. Four years later he sacked the town again. From its ashes arose what you see today: a baroque town built on Gothic foundations, with narrow, twisting streets and alleyways. Above all, Heidelberg is a university town, with students making up some 20% of its population. And a youthful spirit is felt in the lively restaurants and pubs of the Altstadt (Old Town). In 1930 the university was expanded, and its buildings now dot the entire landscape of Heidelberg and neighboring suburbs. Modern Heidelberg changed as U.S. Army barracks and industrial development stretched into the suburbs, but the old heart of the city remains intact, exuding the spirit of romantic Germany. #### Getting Here and Around Heidelberg is 15 minutes from Mannheim, where four ICE trains and five Autobahn routes meet. Everything in town may be reached on foot, but wear sturdy, comfortable shoes, since much of the Old City is uneven cobblestones. A funicular takes you up to the castle and Heidelberg's Königstuhl Mountain, and a streetcar runs from the city center to the main train station. From April through October there are daily walking tours of Heidelberg in German (Friday and Saturday also in English) at 10:30 am; from November through March, tours are in German only, Friday at 2:30 and Saturday at 10:30; the cost is €7. They depart from the main entrance to the Rathaus (Town Hall). Bilingual bus tours run April through October on Thursday and Friday at 1:30 and on Saturday at 1:30 and 3. From November through March, bus tours are on Saturday at 1:30. They cost €17 and depart from Universitätsplatz. #### Discounts and Deals The two-day HeidelbergCARD, which costs €14.50 per person or €31.50 for a family of up to five people, includes free or reduced admission to most tourist attractions as well as free use of all public transportation—including the Bergbahn (funicular) to the castle—and other extras such as free entrance to the castle courtyard, free guided walking tours, discounts on bus tours, and a city guidebook. It can be purchased at the tourist-information office at the main train station or the Rathaus, and at many local hotels. #### Timing Walking the length of Heidelberg's Hauptstrasse (main street) will take an hour—longer if you are easily sidetracked by the shopping opportunities. Strolling through the Old Town and across the bridge to look at the castle will add at least another half hour, not counting the time you spend visiting the sites. #### Essentials Visitor Information Heidelberg Tourist Information. \| Im Rathaus, Marktpl. \| 06221/58444 \| Am Hauptbahnhof, Willy-Brandt-Pl. 1 \| 06221/19433 \| www.heidelberg-marketing.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Exploring ### Top Attractions Alte Brücke (Old Bridge). Framed by two Spitzhelm towers (so called for their resemblance to old German helmets), this bridge was part of Heidelberg's medieval fortifications. In the west tower are three dank dungeons that once held common criminals. Above the portcullis you'll see a memorial plaque that pays warm tribute to the Austrian forces that helped Heidelberg beat back a French attempt to capture the bridge in 1799. The bridge itself is one of many to be built on this spot; ice floes and floods destroyed its predecessors. The elector Carl Theodor, who built it in 1786–88, must have been confident this one would last: he had a statue of himself erected on it, upon a plinth decorated with river gods and goddesses (symbolic of the Neckar, Rhine, Danube, and Mosel rivers). As you enter the bridge from the Old Town, you'll also notice a statue of an animal that appears somewhat catlike. It's actually a monkey holding a mirror. Legend has it the statue was erected to symbolize the need for both city-dwellers and those who lived on the other side of the bridge to take a look over their shoulders as they cross—that neither group was more elite than the other. The pedestrian-only bridge is at the end of Steingasse, not far from the Marktplatz. \| End of Steing. Alte Universität (Old University). The three-story baroque structure was built between 1712 and 1735 at the behest of the elector Johann Wilhelm, although Heidelberg's Ruprecht Karl University was originally founded in 1386. Today it houses the University Museum, with exhibits that chronicle the history of Germany's oldest university. The present-day Universitätsplatz (University Square) was built over the remains of an Augustinian monastery that was destroyed by the French in 1693. \| Grabeng. 1–3 \| 06221/542–152 \| €3 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–4; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sat. 10–4. Friedrich-Ebert-Gedenkstätte (Friedrich Ebert Memorial). The humble rooms of a tiny backstreet apartment were the birthplace of Friedrich Ebert, Germany's first democratically elected president (in 1919) and leader of the ill-fated Weimar Republic. The display tells the story of the tailor's son who took charge of a nation accustomed to being ruled by a kaiser. \| Pfaffeng. 18 \| 06221/91070 \| www.ebert-gedenkstaette.de \| Free \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 (to 8 Thurs.). Heiliggeistkirche (Church of the Holy Ghost). The foundation stone of this Gothic church was laid in 1398, but it was not actually finished until 1544. The gargoyles looking down on the south side (where Hauptstrasse crosses Marktplatz) are remarkable for their sheer ugliness. The church fell victim to plundering by the Catholic League during the Thirty Years' War, when the church's greatest treasure—the Bibliotheca Palatina, at the time the largest library in Germany—was loaded onto 500 carts and trundled off to the Vatican. Few volumes found their way back. At the end of the 17th century, French troops plundered the church again, destroying the tombs; only the 15th-century tomb of Elector Ruprecht III and his wife, Elisabeth von Hohenzollern, remain. Today, the huge church is shared by Heidelberg's Protestant and Catholic populations. \| Marktpl. \| 06221/21117 \| www.heiliggeistkirche.de \| Late Mar.–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 11–5, Sun. 12:30–5; Nov.–mid-Mar., Fri. and Sat. 11–3, Sun. 12:30–3. Hotel zum Ritter. The name refers to the statue of a Roman knight (Ritter) atop one of the many gables, and there's a suit of armor standing at the entrance to the building, now a hotel. Its French builder, Charles BÈlier, had the Latin inscription "Persta Invicta Venus" added to the facade in gold letters—"Venus, Remain Unconquerable." It appears this injunction was effective, as this sturdy stone building was the city's only Renaissance structure to survive the fires from the invading French in 1689 and 1693. Between 1695 and 1705 it was used as Heidelberg's town hall; later it became an inn. \| Hauptstr. 178 \| 06221/1350 \| www.ritter-heidelberg.de. Königstuhl (King's Throne). The second-highest hill in the Odenwald range—1,800 feet above Heidelberg—is only a hop, skip, and funicular ride from Heidelberg. On a clear day you can see as far as the Black Forest to the south and west to the Vosges Mountains of France. The hill is at the center of a close-knit network of hiking trails. Signs and colored arrows from the top lead hikers through the woods of the Odenwald. Königstuhl Bergbahn (funicular). Hoisting visitors to the summit of the Königstuhl in 17 minutes, the funicular stops on the way at the ruined Heidelberg Schloss and Molkenkur. A modern funicular usually leaves every 10 minutes, and a historical train comes every 20 minutes. \| Kornmarkt \| www.bergbahn-heidelberg.de \| Königstuhl €12 (round-trip), Schloss €6.50 (round-trip; additional charge to visit Schloss) \| Mid-Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 9–8:25; mid-Oct.–mid-Apr., daily 9–5:45. Kurpfälzisches Museum (Palatinate Museum). It's a pleasure just to wander around this baroque palace—built as a residence for a university professor in 1712—which is more or less unavoidable, since the museum's layout is so confusing. Among the exhibits are two standouts. One is a replica of the jaw of Heidelberg Man, a key link in the evolutionary chain thought to date from a half million years ago (the original was unearthed near the city in 1907). The larger attraction is the Windsheimer Zwölfbotenaltar (Twelve Apostles Altarpiece), one of the largest and finest works of early Renaissance sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider. Its exquisite detailing and technical sophistication are evident in the simple faith that radiates from the faces of the Apostles. The top floor of the museum showcases 19th-century German paintings and drawings, many depicting Heidelberg. TIP The restaurant in the museum's quiet courtyard is a good place for a break. \| Hauptstr. 97 \| 06221/583–4020 \| www.museum-heidelberg.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Marktplatz (Market Square). Heidelberg's main square, with the Rathaus (town hall) on one side and the Heiliggeistkirche on the other, has been its focal point since the Middle Ages. Public courts of justice were held here in earlier centuries, and people accused of witchcraft and heresy were burned at the stake. The baroque fountain in the middle, the Herkulesbrunnen (Hercules Fountain), is the work of 18th-century artist H. Charrasky. Until 1740 a rotating, hanging cage stood next to it. For minor crimes, people were imprisoned in it and exposed to the abuse of their fellow citizens. TIP Today the Marktplatz hosts outdoor markets every Wednesday and Saturday. Molkenkur. The next stop after the castle on the Königstuhl funicular, Molkenkur was the site of Heidelberg's second castle. Lightning struck it in 1537, and it was never rebuilt. Today it's occupied by a small restaurant—which bears the creative name Molkenkur Restaurant—with magnificent views of the Odenwald and the Rhine plain. \| Molkenkurweg, off Klingenteichstr. Philosophenweg (Philosophers' Path). You can reach this trail high above the river in one of two ways—either from Neuenheim or by taking the Schlangenweg (Snake Path). Both are steep climbs, but you'll be rewarded with spectacular views of the Old Town and castle. From Neuenheim, turn right after crossing the bridge and follow signs to a small alleyway. Rathaus (Town Hall). Work began on the town hall in 1701, a few years after the French destroyed the city. The massive coat of arms above the balcony is the work of Heinrich Charrasky, who also created the statue of Hercules atop the fountain in the middle of the square. \| Marktpl. Schlangenweg (Snake Path). This walkway starts just above the Alte Brücke opposite the Old Town and cuts steeply through terraced vineyards until it reaches the woods, where it crosses the Philosophenweg (Philosophers' Path). \| Off Ziegelhäuser Landstr. Fodor's Choice \| Schloss (Castle). What's most striking is the architectural variety of this great complex. The oldest parts still standing date from the 15th century, though most of the castle was built during the Renaissance in the baroque styles of the 16th and 17th centuries, when the castle was the seat of the Palatinate electors. There's an "English wing," built in 1612 by the elector Friedrich V for his teenage Scottish bride, Elizabeth Stuart; its plain, square-window facade is positively foreign compared to the castle's more opulent styles. (The enamored Friedrich also had a charming garden laid out for his young bride; its imposing arched entryway, the Elisabethentor, was put up overnight as a surprise for her 19th birthday.) The architectural highlight remains the Renaissance courtyard—harmonious, graceful, and ornate. Even if you have to wait, make a point of seeing the Grosses Fass (Great Cask) in the cellar, possibly the world's largest wine barrel, made from 130 oak trees and capable of holding 58,500 gallons. It was used to hold wines paid as taxes by wine producers in the Palatinate. In summer there are fireworks displays (on the first Saturday in June and September and the second Saturday in July). In July and August the castle hosts a theater festival. Performances of The Student Prince often figure prominently. TIP Take the Königstuhl Bergbahn, or funicular (€6.50 round-trip), faster and less tiring than hiking to the castle on the Burgweg. Audioguides are available in seven languages. \| Schlosshof \| 06221/538–431 \| www.heidelberg-schloss.de \| €6 (funicular round-trip an additional €6.50); audioguide €4 \| Daily, 8–5; tours in English daily 11:15–3:15, when demand is sufficient. Deutsches Apotheken–Museum (German Apothecary Museum). The castle includes the Deutsches Apotheken–Museum. This museum, on the lower floor of the Ottheinrichsbau (Otto Heinrich Building), is filled with ancient flagons and receptacles (each with a carefully painted enamel label), beautifully made scales, little drawers, shelves, dried beetles and toads, and marvelous reconstructions of six apothecary shops from the 17th through the 20th centuries. The museum also offers young visitors the chance to smell various herbs and mix their own teas. \| 06221/25880 \| www.deutsches-apotheken-museum.de \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6, Nov.–Mar., daily 10–5:30 ### Worth Noting Deutsches Verpackungs-Museum (German Packaging Museum). A former church was innovatively converted to house this fascinating documentation of packaging and package design of brand-name products. Representing the years 1800 to the present, historic logos and slogans are a trip down memory lane. The entrance is in a courtyard reached via an alley. \| Hauptstr. 22 \| 06221/21361 \| www.verpackungsmuseum.de \| €4.50 \| Wed.–Fri. 1–6, weekends and public holidays 11–6. Kornmarkt (Grain Market). A baroque statue of the Virgin Mary is in the center of this old Heidelberg square, which has a view of the castle ruins. Neue Universität (New University). The plain building on the south side of Universitätsplatz was erected between 1930 and 1932 through funds raised by the U.S. ambassador to Germany, J. G. Schurman, who had been a student at the university. The only decoration on the building's three wings is a statue of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, above the entrance. The inner courtyard contains a medieval tower from 1380, the Hexenturm (Witches' Tower). Suspected witches were locked up there in the Middle Ages. It later became a memorial to former students killed in World War I. \| Grabeng. Off the Beaten Path: Neuenheim. To escape the crowds of central Heidelberg, walk across the Theodor Heuss Bridge to the suburb of Neuenheim. At the turn of the 20th century this old fishing village developed into a residential area full of posh art nouveau villas. North of the Brückenkopf (bridgehead) you'll find antiques and designer shops, boutiques, and cafés on Brückenstrasse, Bergstrasse (one block east), and Ladenburger Strasse (parallel to the river). To savor the neighborhood spirit, visit the charming farmers' market on Wednesday or Saturday morning at the corner of Ladenburger and Luther streets. Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church). Many famous Heidelberg citizens' tombstones, some more than 500 years old, line the outer walls of the city's oldest parish church (1485–1500). \| Plöck 70 \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays. Studentenkarzer (Student Prison). Between 1778 and 1914, university officials used this as a lock-up for students, mostly incarcerated for minor offenses. They could be held for up to 14 days and were left to subsist on bread and water for the first 3 days; thereafter, they were allowed to attend lectures, receive guests, and have food brought in from the outside.TIP There's bravado, even poetic flair, to be deciphered from two centuries of graffiti that cover the walls and ceilings of the narrow cells. \| Augustinerg. 2 \| 06221/543–554 \| €2.50; free with Heidelberg Card \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun., 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sat., 10–4. Synagogueplatz. The site of the former Heidelberg Synagogue, built in 1877 and burned down in 1938, is now a memorial to the local Jewish population lost in World War II, their names listed on a bronze plaque on an adjoining building. On this residential corner, 12 stone blocks represent the synagogue's pews and the 12 tribes of Israel. \| Corner of Lauerstrafle and Grosse Mantelg., Alte Stadt \| www.tourism-heidelberg.com. Universitätsbibliothek (University Library). The 3½ million volumes here include the 14th-century Manesse Codex, a unique collection of medieval songs and poetry once performed in the courts of Germany by the Minnesänger (troubadors). The original is too fragile to be exhibited, so a copy is on display. \| Plöck 107–109 \| 06221/542–380 \| www.ub.uni-heidelberg.de \| Free \| Weekdays 9–7, Sat. 9–1. * * * What to Eat in the Neckar Valley Fish and Wild (game) from the streams and woods lining the Neckar Valley, as well as seasonal favorites—Spargel (asparagus), Pilze (mushrooms), Morcheln (morels), Pfifferlinge (chanterelles), and Steinpilze (porcini)—are regulars on menus. Pfälzer specialties are also common, but the penchant for potatoes yields to Knödel (dumplings) and pasta farther south. The latter includes the Swabian and Baden staples Maultaschen ("pockets" of pasta stuffed with meat or spinach) and Spätzle (roundish egg noodles), as well as Schupfnudeln (finger-size noodles of potato dough), also called Buwespitzle. Look for Linsen (lentils) and sauerkraut in soups or as sides. Schwäbischer Rostbraten (beefsteak topped with fried onions) and Schäufele (pickled and slightly smoked pork shoulder) are popular meat dishes, along with a variety of Würste. Considerable quantities of red wine are produced along the Neckar Valley. Crisp, light Trollinger is often served in the traditional Viertele, a round, quarter-liter (8-ounce) glass with a handle. Deeper-color, more-substantial reds include Spätburgunder (pinot noir) and its mutation Schwarzriesling (pinot meunier), Lemberger, and Dornfelder. Riesling, Kerner, and Müller-Thurgau (synonymous with Rivaner), as well as Grauburgunder (pinot gris) and Weissburgunder (pinot blanc), are the typical white wines. A birch broom or wreath over the doorway of a vintner's home signifies a Besenwirtschaft ("broomstick inn"), a rustic pub where you can enjoy wines with snacks and simple fare. Many vintners offer economical B&Bs. These places are ideal spots to try out your newly learned German phrases; you'll be surprised how well you speak German after the third glass of German wine. * * * ## Where to Eat Café Knösel. CAFÉ \| Heidelberg's oldest (1863) coffeehouse has always been a popular meeting place for students and professors, and offers traditional Schwabian food, pastries and ambiance. A historic change is that café no longer is producing café founder Fridolin Knösel's Heidelberger Studentenkuss. This iconic "student kiss" is a chocolate wrapped in paper showing two sets of touching lips—an acceptable way for 19th-century students to "exchange kisses" in public. They are now being sold exclusively in Knösel Chocolatier, a small, charming shop, owned by the Knösel family, just down the street. \| Average main: €5 \| Haspelg. 20 \| 06221/727–2754 \| www.cafek-hd.de. Scharff's Schlossweinstube. GERMAN \| Elegant, romantic and expensive, this baroque dining room inside the famous Heidelberg castle specializes in Ente von Heidelberg (roast duck), but there's always something new on the seasonal menu. Whatever you order, pair it with a bottle from the extensive selection of international wines. Less pricey is the adjacent Bistro Backhaus, which has rustic furnishings and a nearly 50-foot-high Backkamin (baking oven). Light fare as well as coffee and cake are served indoors and on the shaded terrace. You can sample rare wines (Eiswein, Beerenauslese) by the glass in the shared wine cellar, or pick up a bottle with a designer label depicting Heidelberg. Reservations are essential for terrace seating in summer. \| Average main: €100 \| Schlosshof, on castle grounds \| 06221/872–7010 \| www.heidelberger-schloss-gastronomie.de \| Closed late Dec.–Jan. and Wed. No lunch. Fodor's Choice \| Schnitzelbank. GERMAN \| Little more than a hole in the wall, this former cooper's workshop has been transformed into a candlelit pub. No matter when you go, it seems to be filled with people seated around the wooden tables. The menu features specialties from Baden and the Pfalz, such as Schäufele (pickled and slightly smoked pork shoulder); or a hearty platter of bratwurst, Leberknödel (liver dumplings), and slices of Saumagen (a spicy meat-and-potato mixture encased in a sow's stomach). \| Average main: €11 \| Bauamtsg. 7 \| 06221/21189 \| www.schnitzelbank-heidelberg.de \| No lunch weekdays. Simplicissimus. MEDITERRANEAN \| Olive oil and herbs of Provence accentuate many of the chef's culinary delights. Saddle of lamb and sautéed liver in honey-pepper sauce are specialties, as are season specialties with asparagus and mushrooms. The Dessertteller, a sweet sampler, is a crowning finish to any meal. The wine list focuses on old-world estates, particularly clarets. The elegant art-nouveau interior is done in shades of red with dark-wood accents, and a quiet courtyard offers alfresco dining in summer. \| Average main: €25 \| Ingrimstr. 16 \| 06221/183–336 \| www.restaurant-simplicissimus.de \| Closed Mon. No lunch. Trattoria Toscana. ITALIAN \| Traditional Italian fare is on offer here, including antipasti platters, pasta dishes, pizzas, and special daily offerings, all served in generous portions. The restaurant is in a central location in the main square, and in warm weather you can opt for a table outside on the cobblestones—perfect for people-watching with your meal. \| Average main: €11 \| Marktpl. 1 \| 06221/28619. Fodor's Choice \| Zum Roten Ochsen. GERMAN \| Many of the rough-hewn oak tables here have initials carved into them, a legacy of the thousands who have visited Heidelberg's most famous old tavern. Mark Twain, Marilyn Monroe, and John Wayne may have left their mark—they all ate here, and Twain's photo is on one of the memorabilia-covered walls. Wash down simple fare, such as goulash soup and bratwurst, or heartier dishes like Tellerfleisch (boiled beef) or Swabian Maultaschen (meat filled raviolis) with regional German wines or local Heidelberg beer. The "Red Ox" has been run by the Spengel family for more than 170 years. Come early to get a good seat, and stay late for the piano player and Gemütlichkeit (easy-going friendliness). \| Average main: €12 \| Hauptstr. 217 \| 06221/20977 \| www.roterochsen.de \| Closed Sun. and mid-Dec.–mid-Jan. No lunch Nov.–Mar. Zum Weissen Schwanen. GERMAN \| Founded in 1398 and in this location on Heidelberg's Hauptstrasse (main street) since 1778—so you know they are doing something right—the White Swan specializes in regional fare. The menu includes several versions of Maultaschen and local mushrooms feature in season. Unlike most German restaurants and pubs, which serve one local brew, there are a dozen on tap here; the most popular are Klosterhof and Heidelberger. \| Average main: €15 \| Hauptstr. 143 \| 06221/659–692 \| zumweissenschwanen.trineca.de. Zur Herrenmühle. EUROPEAN \| A 17th-century grain mill has been transformed into this romantic restaurant in the heart of Altstadt (Old Town). The old beams add to the warm atmosphere. In summer, try to arrive early to get a table in the idyllic courtyard. Fish, lamb, and homemade pasta are specialties. Or, opt for the three- or four-course prix-fixe menu \| Average main: €21 \| Near Karlstor, Hauptstr. 239 \| 06221/602–909 \| www.herrenmuehle-heidelberg.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch. ## Where to Stay Bergheim 41. HOTEL \| Sleek and trendy, this new hotel (it opened in 2013) in the "new" part of Heidelberg, is built into one side of the Alten Hallenbad, the covered former city pool that is now a popular upscale international food court. Rooms are decorated in neutral tones, floors are bare hardwood, and the hallways are stark white. Rooms on the top floors have small terraces, and one suite has its own sauna. Pros: roof garden and some rooms have view of the Schloss. Cons: no parking; 15 minutes from Old Town; on a busy street (although windows are soundproofed); no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Bergheim 41 \| 06221/750–040 \| www.bergheim41.de \| 32 rooms, 4 suites \| Breakfast. Crowne Plaza Heidelberg. HOTEL \| This grand hotel has a spacious lobby, stylish furnishings, soaring ceilings, and an enviable location—it's a five-minute walk from Old Town. The nice accommodations are priced according to demand, so you may be able to snag a great rate at the last minute. The indoor swimming pool and spa on the hotel's lower level is luxurious - it even includes a poolside bar. lOn the first weekend of every month a North American - style brunch buffet is offered for €31. Pros: parking garage; pool; direct shuttle from Frankfurt airport (80 km 50 miles] away). Cons: chain hotel feel. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Kurfürsten-Anlage 1 \| 06221/9170 \| [www.crowneplaza.com \| 232 rooms, 4 suites \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Der Europäische Hof–Hotel Europa. HOTEL \| On secluded grounds next to the Old Town, this most luxurious of Heidelberg hotels has been welcoming guests since 1865. Public areas have stunning turn-of-the-20th-century furnishings while bedrooms are modern, spacious and tasteful, and all suites have whirlpool tubs. The elegant Continental restaurant, the Kurfürstenstube, contains original inlay woodwork. In summer, meals are served on the fountain-lined terrace. Pros: indoor pool; castle views from the two-story fitness and spa center. Cons: restaurant closed in July and August. \| Rooms from: €170 \| Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage 1 \| 06221/5150 \| www.europaeischerhof.com \| 100 rooms, 14 suites, 3 apartments, 1 penthouse \| Breakfast. Gasthaus Backmulde. B&B/INN \| This traditional Gasthaus in the heart of Heidelberg has very nice modern rooms at—for Heidelberg—affordable prices. You can even enjoy fresh air, as the windows open onto a small, quiet courtyard. The kitchen offers a surprising range of delicious items for its buffet breakfast, from delicately marinated vegetables to imaginative soups. Pros: quiet rooms; nice restaurant. Cons: difficult parking; some rooms have shared baths; restaurant closed Sunday and for lunch on Monday. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Schiffg. 11 \| 06221/53660 \| www.gasthaus-backmulde.de \| 25 rooms \| Breakfast. Holländer Hof. HOTEL \| Opposite the Alte Brücke, and with views across the busy Neckar River to the forested hillside beyond, this ornate 19th-century building is in a good Old Town location. It's pink-and-white-painted facade stands out in its row, and many of its modern and pleasant rooms overlook the busy waterway. The staff is very friendly. Pros: nice view of river and beyond; comfortable accommodations; some rooms are handicap accessible. Cons: noisy at times; no restaurant or bar (although both are in adjoining building). \| Rooms from: €108 \| Neckarstaden 66 \| 06221/60500 \| www.hollaender-hof.de \| 38 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Die Hirschgasse. HOTEL \| A stunning castle view, fine restaurants, a literary connection, and a touch of romance distinguish this historic inn (1472) across the river from the Old Town, opposite Karlstor. Convivial Ernest Kraft and his British wife Allison serve upscale regional specialties (and wines from the vineyard next door) in the Mensurstube, once a tavern where university students indulged in fencing duels, as mentioned in Mark Twain's A Tramp Abroad. Beamed ceilings, stone walls, and deep red fabrics make for romantic dining in elegant Le Gourmet. The hotel's interior is also romantic, filled with floral prints, artwork, and deep shades of red. The suites are quite large, comfortable, and elegantly appointed. Pros: terrific view; very good food in both restaurants; close to "museum row." Cons: limited parking; 15-minute walk to Old Town. \| Rooms from: €205 \| Hirschg. 3 \| 06221/4540 \| www.hirschgasse.de \| 20 suites \| Le Gourmet closed Sun. and Mon., 2 wks in early Jan., and 2 wks in early Aug.; Mensurstube closed Sun. No lunch at either restaurant \| Multiple meal plans. KulturBrauerei Heidelberg. HOTEL \| Rooms with warm, sunny colors and modern style are brilliantly incorporated into this old brewery in the heart of Old Town. There are additional newly renovated rooms a block away, in a former student dormitory above the Zum Seppl restaurant, which both date from the mid-1800s. While these rooms also are sunny and modern, access via steep stairs and a walk to the main building for breakfast makes them less appealing. The restaurant (credit cards only accepted for groups) is lively until well past midnight. House-brewed Scheffel's beer is the beverage of choice, although there are some good wines as well. The cellar houses the brewery (tours and tasting possible) and a weekend jazz club; in the courtyard is a huge beer garden. Pros: stylish rooms; lively restaurant; Wi-Fi in most rooms; beer garden. Cons: noisy in summer; difficult parking; rooms above Zum Seppl restaurant are accessed by steep, narrow stairs and dark hallways, and you have to walk a block to get breakfast. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Leyerg. 6 \| 06221/502–980 \| www.heidelberger-kulturbrauerei.de \| 41 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. NH Heidelberg. HOTEL \| The glass-covered entrance hall of this primarily business hotel is spacious—not surprising, as it was the courtyard of a former brewery. You can dine at one of three on-site restaurants, including the Bräustüberl, which specializes in regional German fare. Rooms are colorful and cozy, and you get good room rates in summer, especially in August. Pros: good food; reasonably priced, free Wi-fi. Cons: lacks charm; located about 1 km (½ mile) from the Old Town; parking expensive. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Bergheimerstr. 91 \| 06221/13270 \| www.nh-hotels.com \| 156 rooms, 18 suites \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel zum Ritter. HOTEL \| If this is your first visit to Germany, try to stay here—it's the only Renaissance building in Heidelberg (1592), built as the private home of a wealthy merchant, and has an unbeatable location opposite the market square in the heart of Old Town. The staff is exceptionally helpful and friendly. Some rooms are more modern and spacious than others, but all are comfortable, and the hallways are decorated with antiques. You can enjoy German and international favorites in the restaurants Belier and Ritterstube. Both are wood paneled and have old-world charm. Pros: charm and elegance; nice views; spacious rooms. Cons: off-site parking, rooms facing the square can be noisy. \| Rooms from: €118 \| Hauptstr. 178 \| 06221/1350 \| www.ritter-heidelberg.de \| 36 rooms, 1 suite \| No meals. Weisser Bock. HOTEL \| Exposed beams, stucco ceilings, warm wood furnishings, and individually decorated, comfortable rooms are all part of this hotel's charm. The restaurant has art deco touches and pretty table settings. Its creative menu changes seasonally, but fresh fish - especially salmon - remains a highlight year-round. The proprietor is a wine fan, and the extensive wine list reflects it. Pros: nicely decorated rooms; exceptional food; this is a smoke-free facility. Cons: parking difficult to find. \| Rooms from: €115 \| Grosse Mantelg. 24 \| 06221/90000 \| www.weisserbock.de \| 21 rooms, 2 suites \| Multiple meal plans. ## Nightlife and the Arts Information on all upcoming events can be found in the monthly Heidelberg aktuell, free and available from the tourist office or on the Internet (www.heidelberg-aktuell.de). heidelbergTicket. Theater tickets may be purchased here. \| Theaterstr. 4 \| 06221/582–0000 \| www.theaterheidelberg.de. ### The Arts Heidelberg has a thriving theater and concert scene. Kulturhaus Karlstorbahnhof. This 19th-century train station has been repurposed as a theater and concert venue. \| Am Karlstor 1 \| 06221/978–911 \| www.karlstorbahnhof.de. Schlossfestspiele. Theatrical and musical performances are held at the Heidelberg castle during this annual festival from late June through July. \| 06221/582–0000 for tickets \| www.schlossfestspiele-heidelberg.de. Theater & Orchester Heidelberg. This is the best-known theater company in town, with a variety of theater, opera and concert performances. The historic theater reopened in 2013 after a renovation and the addition of a modern second stage in the new adjoining building. \| Theaterstr. 10 \| 06221/582–0000 \| www.theaterheidelberg.de. Zimmertheater. Avant-garde theater productions are staged here. \| Hauptstr. 118 \| 06221/21069 \| www.zimmertheaterhd.de. ### Nightlife Heidelberg nightlife is concentrated in the area around the Heiliggeistkirche (Church of the Holy Ghost), in the Old Town. Don't miss a visit to one of the old student taverns that have been in business for generations. Fodor's Choice \| Zum Roten Ochsen. Mark Twain rubbed elbows with students here during his 1878 stay in Heidelberg—look for his photo on one of the memorabilia-covered walls. Zum Roten Oschen is popular with students and local residents for its hearty meals at reasonable prices and friendly atmosphere, and has been operated by the same family for more than 170 years. A pianist plays German and international favorites, starting at 9 pm. \| Hauptstr. 217 \| 06221/20977 \| www.roterochsen.de. Zum Seppl. When this traditional restaurant and bar opened at the end of the 17th century, it even had its own brewery on the premises (it's now a block away and called KulturBrauerei Heidelberg). The Seppl crowd is a mix of Heidelberg students, local residents and visitors, all attracted by the traditional old-world charm and ample servings of traditional German specialties. Every inch of wall space is covered with historic photos, menus, and other memorabilia. \| Hauptstr. 213 \| 06221/23085 \| www.heidelberger-kulturbrauerei.de/en/scheffels-wirtshaus-zum-seppl. Today's students, however, are more likely to hang out in one of the dozen or more cafés and bars on Untere Strasse, which runs parallel to and between Hauptstrasse and the Neckar River, starting from the market square. Billy Blues (im Ziegler). This restaurant, bar, and disco, popular with university students, has live music on Thursday and a Salsa party on Wednesday. \| Bergheimer Str. 1b \| 06221/25333 \| www.billyblues.de. Destille. The club plays rock music until 2 am on weekdays and 3 am on weekends, and the young crowd that packs the place is always having a good time. A tree in the middle of this club is decorated according to season. \| Untere Str. 16 \| 06221/22808 \| www.destilleonline.de. Nachtschicht. In the Landfried complex near the main train station, this is Heidelberg's biggest disco, pulsing with 15,000 LEDs that change colors and pattern with the music. Nachtschicht (night story) is open until 4 am Thursday through Saturday. \| Bergheimer Str. 147 \| 06221/438–550 \| www.nachtschicht.com. Print Media Lounge. Facing the main train station, this is a chic, modern place where you can dine all day or dance till the wee hours. It's open Monday–Saturday, with DJs Friday and Saturday and live bands on Monday. \| Kurfürsten–Anlage 60 \| 06221/653–949 \| www.printmedialounge.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Schwimmbad Musikclub. Near the zoo, this is a fixture of Heidelberg's club scene. It occupies what was once a swimming pool, hence the name. It's open Thursday to Saturday with two floors plus an open air disco when weather permits. \| Tiergartenstr. 13 \| 06221/470–201 \| www.schwimmbad-club.de. Vetters Alt-Heidelberger Brauhaus. It's worth elbowing your way into this bar for the brewed-on-the-premises beer. As with most German brewpubs, there's a full menu, too, including a long list of wurst dishes. \| Steing. 9 \| 06221/165–850 \| www.brauhaus-vetter.de. ## Sports and the Outdoors The riverside path is an ideal route for walking, jogging, and bicycling, since it's traffic-free and offers excellent views of the area. If you access the paved pathway in the center of town, you can follow it for many kilometers in either direction. ## Shopping Heidelberg's Hauptstrasse, or Main Street, is a pedestrian zone lined with shops, sights, and restaurants that stretches more than 1 km (½ mile) through the heart of town. But don't spend your money before exploring the shops on such side streets as Plöck, Ingrimstrasse, and Untere Strasse, where there are candy stores, bookstores, and antiques shops on the ground floors of baroque buildings. If your budget allows, the city can be a good place to find reasonably priced German antiques, and the Neckar Valley region produces fine glass and crystal. Aurum & Argentum. The finely executed, modern gold and silver pieces here are impeccably crafted. Prices start at €150. \| Brückenstr. 22 \| 06221/473–453 \| Tues.–Fri. 2:30–6:30, Sat. 10–2. Farmers' markets. Heidelberg has open-air farmers' markets on Wednesday and Saturday mornings on Marktplatz and Tuesday and Friday mornings, as well as Thursday afternoons, on Friedrich-Ebert-Platz. Heidelberger Zuckerladen. The old glass display cases and shelves here are full of lollipops and "penny" candy. If you're looking for an unusual gift or special sweet treat, the shop fashions colorful, unique items out of sugary ingredients such as marshmallow and sweetened gum. TIP Avoid early afternoon, when the tiny shop is crowded with schoolchildren. \| Plöck 52 \| 06221/24365 \| www.zuckerladen.de \| Weekdays noon–7, Sat. 11:15–3. Off the Beaten Path: A rare pleasure awaits you if you are in Schwetzingen in April, May, or June. This is Germany's asparagus center, and nearly every local restaurant has a Spargelkarte, a special menu featuring fresh white asparagus dishes such as Spargel mit Schinken (asparagus with ham). The town also has a beautiful castle you can visit before or after a meal. Schloss Schwetzingen. This formal 18th-century palace was constructed as a summer residence by the Palatinate electors. It is a noble rose-color building, imposing and harmonious; a highlight is the rococo theater in one wing. The extensive park blends formal French and informal English styles, with neatly bordered gravel walks trailing off into the dark woodland. Fun touches include an exotic mosque, complete with minarets and a shimmering pool (although they got a little confused and gave the building a very baroque portal), and the "classical ruin" that was de rigueur in this period. The palace interior can only be visited by tour. \| Schloss Mittelbau \| Schwetzingen \| 06202/128–828 \| www.schloss-schwetzingen.de \| €9 Apr.–Oct., €7 Nov.–Mar. (includes palace tour and gardens). Gardens only: €5 Apr.–Oct., €3 Nov.–Mar. \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–8; Nov.–Mar., daily 9–5, last admission 30 mins before closing. Palace tours (in German): Apr.–Oct., weekdays hrly 11–4, weekends and holidays hrly 11–5; Nov.–Mar., Fri. at 2, weekends and holidays at 11, 1:30, and 3. Palace tours (in English) weekends at 2, or by appointment. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Neckargemünd \| Hirschhorn \| Neckarzimmern \| Bad Wimpfen The Neckar Valley narrows upstream from Heidelberg, presenting a landscape of orchards, vineyards, and wooded hills crowned with castles rising above the gently flowing stream. It's one of the most impressive stretches of the Burgenstrasse. Along the B-37 are small valleys—locals call them Klingen—that cut north into the Odenwald and are off-the-beaten-track territory. One of the most atmospheric is the Wolfsschlucht, which starts below the castle at Zwingenberg. The dank, shadowy little gorge inspired Carl Maria von Weber's opera Der Freischütz (The Marksman). Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Neckargemünd 11 km (7 miles) from Heidelberg. Coming from the hustle and bustle of Heidelberg, you'll find the hamlet of Neckargemünd is a quiet place where you can relax by the Neckar River and watch the ships go by. The town also makes a good base from which to visit Heidelberg. Leave the car here and enjoy the 10-minute ride by bus or train. #### Getting Here and Around The S1, S2, S5, and S51 commuter trains from Heidelberg run every few minutes and will get you here in less than 10 minutes. By car, it will take 25 minutes via the B-37. Once here, the Altstadt (Old Town) and Neckar River views are walkable, but you'll need a car or take a taxi to visit the Schloss Zwingennberg, about a half-hour distant via the S1 (toward Osterburken) or the B-37 and B-45. ### Where to Stay Art Hotel. B&B/INN \| In a historic building in the heart of the Altstadt (Old Town), this stylish hotel has spacious rooms and suites, including three- and four-bed junior suites that are perfect for families. Each is individually decorated, and modern amenities combine well with antique furnishings. The Stalinger family also runs the Reinbach, a restaurant about a mile from town, and will take you there by shuttle service. Pros: good for families; reasonable rates. Cons: on a busy street; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €92 \| Hauptstr. 40 \| 06223/862–768 \| www.art-hotel-neckar.de \| 7 rooms, 6 suites \| Breakfast. Gasthaus Reber. B&B/INN \| If you're looking for a clean, simple and inexpensive room, this small inn is an ideal candidate, and it's conveniently located opposite the railway station for trips to or from Heidelberg. The one drawback: in some of the cheaper rooms, the showers are in the rooms and the toilets are down the hall. In the restaurant or in the beer garden you can order a simple meal for a good price. Pros: unbeatable rates; close to public transportation. Cons: on busy street; not all rooms have an en suite bathroom. \| Rooms from: €70 \| Bahnhofstr. 52 \| 06223/8779 \| www.gasthaus-reber.de \| 10 \| Restaurant closed Wed. No lunch weekdays \| Breakfast. ## Hirschhorn 23 km (14 miles) east of Heidelberg. Hirsch (stag) and Horn (antlers) make up the name of the knights of Hirschhorn, the medieval ruling family that gave its name to both its 12th-century castle complex and the village over which it presided. The town's coat of arms depicts a leaping stag. Ensconced on the hillside halfway between the castle and the river is a former Carmelite monastery and its beautiful 15th-century Gothic church with remarkable frescoes (open for visits). Hirschhorn's position on a hairpin loop of the Neckar can best be savored from the castle terrace, over a glass of wine, coffee and cake, or a fine meal. #### Getting Here and Around Getting here by public transportation from Neckarzimmern isn't the easiest—local trains take between 35 and 60 minutes and require at least one transfer. By car, it's a scenic and leisurely 45-minute drive through farmland and forests on the B-27 and B-37. Once there, stroll around the charming little medieval village on foot. #### Tours June–September there are free (German) tours of Hirschhorn on Saturday at 10. #### Festivals Ritterfest. The past comes to life the first weekend of September at the annual, two-day Ritterfest, a colorful "Knights' Festival" complete with a medieval arts-and-crafts market. #### Essentials Visitor Information Hirschhorn. \| Tourist-Information, Alleeweg 2 \| 06272/1742 \| www.hirschhorn.de. ### Where to Stay Schlosshotel auf der Burg Hirschhorn. HOTEL \| This very pleasant hotel and restaurant is set in historic Hirschhorn Castle, perched high over the medieval village. The terrace offers splendid views (ask for Table 30 in the corner). The rooms are combination of antiques and more contemporary furnishings. Eight are in the castle and 17 in the old stables. Wildschwein (wild boar), Hirsch (venison), and fresh fish are the house specialties, or choose a 3, 4 or 5 course prix fixe dinner. The friendly proprietors, the Oberrauners, bake a delicious, warm Apfelstrudel based on a recipe from their home in Vienna. Pros: terrific view over the valley; good choice of rooms. Cons: difficult to get to, via a winding road or steep path, plus stairs to lobby. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Auf der Burg \| Hirschhorn/Neckar \| 06272/92090 \| www.castle-hotel.de \| 21 rooms, 4 suites \| Closed mid-Dec.–Jan. Restaurant closed Mon. and day after a bank holiday \| Breakfast. En Route: Mosbach. The little town of Mosbach, 78 km (48 miles) southeast of Heidelberg, is one of the most charming towns on the Neckar. Its main street is pure half-timber, and its ancient market square contains one of Germany's most exquisite half-timber buildings—the early 17th-century Palm'sches Haus (Palm House), its upper stories laced with intricate timbering. The Rathaus, built 50 years earlier, is a modest affair by comparison. \| Mosbach. Schloss Zwingenberg. Many people say this castle on a crag above the village of Zwingenberg, about 53 km (33 miles) from Heidelberg, is the most romantic of all the castles along the Neckar (except for Heidelberg, of course). It is the residence of Ludwig, Prince of Baden and his family, so castle tours are by advance arrangement only, and can include the family vineyards. The woodland trails around the castle, including to a deep gorge, are open daily. \| Schlossstr. \| Zwingenberg \| 6263/411–010 \| www.schloss-zwingenberg.de. Schlossfestspiele Zwingenberg. The annual castle festival, which features theater and concert performances, takes place within the ancient walls of the Zwingenberg in August. \| Schloss \| Zwingenberg \| 06263/771 \| www.schlossfestspiele-zwingenberg.de ## Neckarzimmern 83 km (52 miles) from Heidelberg. The main attraction here is the Burg Hornberg castle high above the town, but visitors will find the village itself to be a charming respite, with a traditional town square surrounded by historic buildings, and pleasant riverfront walks. #### Getting Here and Around By road from Heidelberg, take the E-5 Autobahn south (toward Bruschal) then the E-6 east to Sinsheim, where you connect with local road 292 northeast past Mossbach to Neckarzimmern, then follow signs. If you have time en route, stop off at the Sinsheim Auto & Technik Museum for displays including Formula 1 racecars and a Concorde supersonic jet. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Burg Hornberg. The largest and oldest castle in the Neckar Valley, the circular bulk of Burg Hornberg rises above the town of Neckarzimmern. The road to the castle leads through vineyards that have been providing dry white wines for centuries. These days, the castle is part hotel (23 rooms, 1 suite) and part museum. In the 16th century it was home to the larger-than-life Götz von Berlichingen (1480–1562). When the knight lost his right arm in battle, he had a blacksmith fashion an iron replacement. Original designs for this fearsome artificial limb are on view in the castle, as is his suit of armor. For most Germans, this larger-than-life knight is best remembered for a remark that was faithfully reproduced in Goethe's play Götz von Berlichingen. Responding to an official reprimand, von Berlichingen told his critic, more or less, to "kiss my ass" (the original German is substantially more earthy). To this day the polite version of this insult is known as a Götz von Berlichingen. Inquire at the hotel reception about visiting the castle, or just enjoy the walking trails and views from the top of the hilltop. \| Hornbergerweg \| www.burg-hornberg.de. ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Burg Hornberg Hotel. HOTEL \| Your host at this hotel with comfortable, modern rooms is the present baron of the Burg Hornberg castle. Try for one of the tower rooms overlooking the valley. From the heights of the terrace and glassed-in restaurant ($$) - housed in the former Marstall, or royal stables - there are stunning views. Fresh fish and game are specialties, as are the estate-bottled wines. There are good Riesling wines and the rarities Traminer and Muskateller - also sold in the wine shops in the courtyard and at the foot of the hill. Pros: historic setting; nice restaurant; on-site wine shop. Cons: no elevator; restaurant can be crowded in season on weekends; not enough parking. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Marucs Freiherr von Gemmingen \| 06261/92460 \| www.castle-hotel-hornberg.com \| 23 rooms, 1 suite \| Closed late Dec.–late Jan. \| Breakfast. En Route: Burg Guttenberg. One of the best-preserved Neckar castles is the 15th-century Burg Guttenberg. Within its stone walls are a museum and a restaurant (closed January, February, and Monday) with views of the river valley. The castle also is home to Europe's leading center for the study and protection of birds of prey, the German Raptor Research Center, with 100 falcons and other birds of prey. There are demonstration flights from the castle walls from April through October, daily at 11 and 3. \| Burgstr., 6 km (4 miles) west of Gundelsheim \| Neckarmühlbach \| 06266/388 \| www.burg-guttenberg.de \| Castle €4, castle and flight demonstration €11 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Mar., weekends 10–5. ## Bad Wimpfen 8 km (5 miles) south of Neckarzimmern. At the confluence of the Neckar and Jagst rivers, Bad Wimpfen is one of the most stunning towns of the Neckar Valley. The Romans built a fortress and a bridge here, on the riverbank site of an ancient Celtic settlement, in the 1st century AD. A millennium later, the Staufen emperor Barbarossa chose this town as the site of his largest Pfalz (residence). The ruins of this palace still overshadow the town and are well worth a stroll. #### Getting Here and Around There's a direct regional commuter train from Heidelberg that will get you to Bad Wimpfen in 45 minutes, and from Neckarzimmern there's an hourly service that takes 30 minutes. By road, take the B-27 east from Neckarzimmern to the L-1100. The old city is good for walking, but wear comfortable shoes for the uneven cobblestones. #### Tours Medieval Bad Wimpfen offers a town walk year-round, Sunday at 2 (€2), departing from the visitor center inside the old train station. Private group tours may also be arranged for other days by calling the visitor center in advance. #### Discounts and Deals On arrival, ask your hotel for a free Bad Wimpfen à la card for reduced or free admission to historic sights and museums. #### Festivals Zunftmarkt. On the last weekend in August, the Old Town's medieval past comes alive during the Zunftmarkt, a historical market dedicated to the Zünfte (guilds). "Artisans" in period costumes demonstrate the old trades and open the festivities with a colorful parade on horseback. \| www.zunftmarkt.de. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bad Wimpfen–Gundelsheim Tourist-Information. \| Carl-Ulrich-Str. 1 \| 07063/97200 \| www.badwimpfen.de. ### Exploring Ritterstiftskirche St. Peter. Wimpfen im Tal (Wimpfen in the Valley), the oldest part of town, is home to the Benedictine monastery of Gruessau and its church, Ritterstiftskirche St. Peter, which dates from the 10th and 13th centuries. The cloisters are delightful, an example of German Gothic at its most uncluttered. \| Lindenpl. Stadtkirche (city church). The 13th-century stained glass, wall paintings, medieval altars, and the stone pietà in the Gothic Stadtkirche are worth seeing, as are the Crucifixion sculptures (1515) by the Rhenish master Hans Backoffen on Kirchplatz, behind the church. \| Kirchsteige 8 \| www.kirche-badwimpfen.de. Steinhaus. Germany's largest Romanesque living quarters and once the imperial women's apartments, this is now a history museum with relics from the Neolithic and Roman ages along with the history of the Palatinate, including medieval art and ceramics. Next to the Steinhaus are the remains of the northern facade of the palace, an arcade of superbly carved Romanesque pillars that flanked the imperial hall in its heyday. The imperial chapel, next to the Red Tower, holds a collection of religious art. \| Burgviertel 25 \| 07063/97200 \| €2.50 \| Apr. 15–Oct. 15, Tues.–Sat. 10–noon and 2–4:30. ### Where to Eat and Stay Weinstube Feyerabend. GERMAN \| There are three adjoining eateries here: the Weinstube for a glass of good Swabian wine with a snack, the Restaurant for a full meal at lunch or dinner, or let yourself be tempted by the good-looking cakes from their own bakery in the Konditorei Café. \| Average main: €12 \| Hauptstr. 74 \| 07063/950–566 \| www.friedrich-feyerabend.de \| Closed Mon. Hotel Neckarblick. HOTEL \| You get a good Neckarblick (Neckar view) from the terrace, the dining room, and most guest rooms of this pleasant lodging. The furniture is comfortable and modern, like the hotel building. For medieval atmosphere, the heart of Bad Wimpfen is only a few blocks away. Pros: terrific view; personal touch. Cons: no restaurant or bar; not enough parking. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Erich-Sailer-Str. 48 \| 07063/961–620 \| www.neckarblick.de \| 14 rooms \| Breakfast. Off the Beaten Path: Deutsches Zweirad–Museum (German Motorcycle Museum). Although its name is the German Motorcycle Museum, there are historic cars here, too. Displays include the the 1885 Daimler machine that started us on the road to motorized mobility, the world's first mass-produced motorcycles (Hildebrand and Wolfmüller), and exhibits on racing. Also here is the NSU Museum, for an early motorbike manufacturer acquired by the precedessor of the company now called Audi, which has an auto production facility in Neckarsulm. The collections are arranged over five floors in a handsome 400-year-old castle that belonged to the Teutonic Knights until 1806. TIP The Audi factory offers tours. \| Urbanstr. 11 \| Neckarsulm \| 07132/35271 \| www.zweirad-museum.de \| €4.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 9–5. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Ludwigsburg \| Stuttgart \| Bebenhausen \| Tübingen Ludwigsburg, Stuttgart, and Tübingen are all part of the ancient province of Swabia, a region strongly influenced by Protestantism and Calvinism. The inhabitants speak the Swabian dialect of German. Ludwigsburg is known for its two splendid castles. Stuttgart, the capital of the state of Baden-Württemberg, is one of Germany's leading industrial cities, home to both Mercedes and Porsche, and is cradled by hills on three sides, with the fourth side opening up toward its river harbor. The medieval town of Tübingen clings to steep slopes and hilltops above the Neckar. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Ludwigsburg 15 km (9 miles) north of Stuttgart. Although its residents would never call it a suburb of Stuttgart, its proximity to the modern industrial and commercial center of Baden-Wurttenberg has made it one. Ludwigsburg's attraction is its fabulous Baroque castle, with more than 450 rooms spread over 18 buildings, surrounded by the beautiful Schlosspark (gardens). A music festival, held each summer since 1932, features performances both outdoors and in the original palace theater. #### Getting Here and Around There is regular commuter rail service from Stuttgart's Hauptbahnhof (main train station). Take the S4 or S5 for the journey of around 45 minutes. The castle is close enough to the station to walk, or you can take a taxi. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Residenzschloss Ludwigsburg. One of Europe's largest palaces to survive in its original condition, Residenzschloss Ludwigsburg certainly merits a visit for its sumptuous interiors and exquisite gardens. The main palace is also home to the Keramikmuseum, a collection of historical treasures from the porcelain factories in Meissen, Nymphenburg, Berlin, Vienna, and Ludwigsburg, as well as an exhibit of contemporary ceramics. The Barockgalerie is a collection of German and Italian baroque paintings from the 17th and 18th centuries. The Modemuseum showcases three centuries of fashion, particularly royal clothing of the 18th century. In another part of the palace you'll find the Porzellan-Manufaktur Ludwigsburg (www.ludwigsburger-porzellan.de); you can tour the porcelain factory where each piece is handmade and handpainted. The castle is surrounded by the fragrant, colorful 74-acre park Blühendes Barock (Blooming Baroque), filled with thousands and thousands of tulips, huge masses of rhododendrons, and fragrant roses. A Märchengarten (fairy-tale garden) delights visitors of all ages. In the midst of it all, you can take a break in the cafeteria in the Rose Garden. TIP Guided tours in English are at 1:30 on weekdays, with addiitional tours on weekends at 11 and 3. \| Schloss Str. 30 \| 07141/182–004 \| www.schloesser-und-gaerten.de \| Palace €7, park €8, museums with audioguide €3.50, museum tour with audio €6.50, guide combination ticket €16 \| Park daily 7:30 am–8:30 pm, palace and museums daily 10–5. ## Stuttgart 50 km (31 miles) south of Heilbronn. Stuttgart is a city of contradictions. It has been called, among other things, "Germany's biggest small town" and "the city where work is a pleasure." For centuries Stuttgart, whose name derives from Stutengarten, or "stud farm," remained a pastoral backwater along the Neckar. Then the Industrial Revolution propelled the city into the machine age. Leveled in World War II, Stuttgart has regained its position as one of Germany's top industrial centers. This is Germany's can-do city, whose natives have turned out Mercedes-Benz and Porsche cars, Bosch electrical equipment, and a host of other products exported worldwide. Yet Stuttgart is also a city of culture and the arts, with world-class museums, opera, and ballet. Moreover, it's the domain of fine local wines; the vineyards actually approach the city center in a rim of green hills. Forests, vineyards, meadows, and orchards compose more than half the city, which is enclosed on three sides by woods. Each year in October, Stuttgart is home to Germany's second largest Oktoberfest (after Munich), called the Canstatter Volksfest. An ideal introduction to the contrasts of Stuttgart is a guided city bus tour. Included is a visit to the needle-nose TV tower, high on a mountaintop above the city, affording stupendous views. Built in 1956, it was the first of its kind in the world. The tourist office also offers superb walking tours. On your own, the best place to begin exploring Stuttgart is the Hauptbahnhof (main train station); from there walk down the pedestrian street Königstrasse to Schillerplatz, a small, charming square named after the 18th-century poet and playwright Friedrich Schiller, who was born in nearby Marbach. The square is surrounded by historic buildings, many of which were rebuilt after the war. #### Getting Here and Around Stuttgart is the major hub for the rail system in southwestern Germany, and two autobahns cross here. It's about 2½ hours away from Munich and a bit more than an hour from Frankfurt. The downtown museums and the main shopping streets are doable on foot. For the outlying attractions and to get to the airport, there is a very efficient S-bahn and subway system. #### Tours The tourist office is the meeting point for city walking tours in German (year-round, Saturday at 10) for €8. There are daily bilingual walks April–October at 11 am for €18. Bilingual bus tours costing €8 depart from the bus stop around the corner from the tourist office, in front of Hotel am Schlossgarten (April–October, daily at 1:30; November–March, Friday–Sunday at 1:30). All tours last from 1½ to 2½ hours. Stuttgart Tourist-Information offers altogether 12 different special-interest tours. Call for details. #### Discounts and Deals The three-day StuttCard (€9.70) offers discounts to museums and attractions, with or without a free public transit pass. (€22 includes a transit card valid in the whole city or €18 for a transit card for the city center). All the cards are available from the Stuttgart tourist office opposite the main train station. #### Essentials Visitor Information Stuttgart Touristik-Information i-Punkt. \| Königstr. 1A \| 0711/222–8246 \| www.stuttgart-tourist.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Kunstmuseum Stuttgart (Stuttgart Art Museum). This sleek structure encased in a glass facade is a work of art in its own right. The museum contains artwork of the 19th and 20th centuries and the world's largest Otto Dix collection, including the Grossstadt (Metropolis) triptych, which captures the essence of 1920s Germany. TIP The bistro-café on the rooftop terrace affords great views; the lobby houses another café and the museum shop. \| Kleiner Schlosspl.1 \| 0711/216–2188 \| www.kunstmuseum-stuttgart.de \| €6; special exhibitions €8–€11; guided tours €2.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 (Fri. until 9). FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Mercedes-Benz Museum. The stunning futuristic architecture of this museum is an enticement to enter, but the stunning historic and futuristic vehicles inside are the main attraction. Visitors are whisked to the top floor to start this historical timeline tour of motorized mobility in the 1880s, with the first vehicles by Gottleib Daimler and Carl Benz. Other museum levels focus on a particular decade or category of vehicle, such as trucks and buses, race cars, concept cars, and future technology, including fuel cells. Historic photos and other artifacts line the walls of the circular walkway that links the levels. A restaurant on the lower level serves mostly German cuisine with a modern twist, and stays open after the museum has closed, and there's a huge gift shop with all kinds of Mercedes-Benz branded items. In the adjoining new car showroom you can muse over appealing models that are sold in Europe but not in North America. TIP Guided tours of the factory are also available. \| Mercedesstr. 100 \| Stuttgart-Untertürkheim \| 0711/173–0000 \| www.mercedes-benz-classic.com \| €8 (€4 after 4:30), guided tour €4; factory tour €4 \| Tues.–Sun. 9–6 (last admission at 5). FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Porsche Museum. In the center of the Porsche factory complex in the northern suburb of Zuffenhausen, the architecturally dramatic building expands outward and upward from its base. Inside is a vast collection of around 100 legendary and historic Porsche cars including racing cars, nearly 1,000 racing trophies and design and engineering awards, and several vehicles designed by Ferdinand Porsche that eventually became the VW Beetle. It is astounding how some 1930s models still look contemporary today. The museum includes a coffee shop, snack bar, and the sophisticated Christophorus restaurant, regarded as the best American-style steakhouse in Stuttgart, open for lunch and dinner beyond museum hours. The gift shop sells some Porsche logo clothing, but mostly miniature collectibles. TIP Stand under the special "cones" on the upper level to hear the different engine sounds of various Porsche models. \| Porschepl. 1 \| Stuttgart-Zuffenhausen \| 0711/911–20911 \| www.porsche.com/museum \| €8 \| Tues.–Sun. 9–6. Schlossplatz (Palace Square). A huge area enclosed by royal palaces and planted gardens, the square has elegant arcades branching off to other stately plazas. The magnificent baroque Neues Schloss (New Palace), now occupied by Baden-Württemberg state government offices, dominates the square. Schlossplatz is the extension of the Kaiserstrasse pedestrian shopping street. \| Corner of Koenigstr. and Planie, Mitte. Fodor's Choice \| Staatsgalerie (State Gallery). This not-to-be-missed museum displays one of the finest art collections in Germany. The old part of the complex, dating from 1843, has paintings from the Middle Ages through the 19th century, including works by Cranach, Holbein, Hals, Memling, Rubens, Rembrandt, Cézanne, Courbet, and Manet. Connected to the original building is the Neue Staatsgalerie (New State Gallery), designed by British architect James Stirling in 1984 as a melding of classical and modern, sometimes jarring, elements (such as chartreuse window mullions). Considered one of the most successful postmodern buildings, it houses works by such 20th-century artists as Braque, Chagall, de Chirico, DalÌ, Kandinsky, Klee, Mondrian, and Picasso. \| Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 30–32, Mitte \| 0711/470–400, 0711/470–40249 for info-line \| www.staatsgalerie.de \| Permanent collection €7 (free Wed. and Sat.), special exhibitions €8–€12, guided tours €5 \| Tues. and Thurs. 10–8, Wed. and Fri.–Sun. 10–6. #### Worth Noting FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Altes Schloss (Old Castle). Across the street from the Neues Schloss stands this former residence of the counts and dukes of Württemberg, which was originally built as a moated castle around 1320. Wings were added in the mid-15th century, creating a Renaissance palace. The palace now houses the Landesmuseum Württemberg (Württemberg State Museum), with imaginative exhibits tracing the area's development from the Stone Age to modern times. There's also a separate floor as a dedicated children's museum. TIP The second floor, which reopened in 2012 after an extensive renovation, includes jaw-dropping family jewels of the fabulously rich and powerful Württemberg royals. \| Schillerpl. 6, Mitte \| 0711/279–3498 \| www.landesmuseum-stuttgart.de \| €12 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Haus der Geschichte Baden-Württemberg (Museum of the History of Baden-Württemberg). Adjoining the Staatsgalerie (State Gallery), this museum chronicles the history of Baden-Württemberg state during the 19th and 20th centuries. Multimedia presentations enable you to interact with the thousands of objects on display. \| Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 16, Mitte \| 0711/212–3989 \| www.hdgbw.de \| €4 \| Tues., Wed., Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–9. FAMILY \| Schweine Museum. Billed as the world's only pig museum, it is housed in a former slaughterhouse, with displays on more than you ever wanted to know about breeding and porcine anatomy. The fun stuff are the exhibits of piggy banks and other pig-themed memorabilia. There's also a restaurant and an outdoor beer garden, and play area for the kids where everything is pig-themed, from the seesaws to the garbage containers. \| Schlachthofstr. 2 \| www.schweinemuseum.de \| €4.90; playground free \| Daily 11–7:30 (last admission 6:45). Schlossgarten (Palace Garden). This huge city park borders the Schlossplatz and extends northeast across Schillerstrasse all the way to Bad Cannstatt on the Neckar River. The park is graced by an exhibition hall, planetarium, lakes, sculptures, and the hot-spring mineral baths Leuze and Berg. \| Off Cannstatterstr. Stiftskirche (Collegiate Church of the Holy Cross). Just off Schillerplatz, this is Stuttgart's most familiar sight, with its two oddly matched towers. Built in the 12th century, it was later rebuilt in a late-Gothic style. The choir has a famous series of Renaissance figures of the counts of Württemberg sculpted by Simon Schlör (1576–1608). \| Stiftstr. 12, Mitte. FAMILY \| Wilhelma Zoologische-Botanische Garten (Wilhelma Zoological and Botanical Garden). Adjacent to Rosenstein Park, this wildlife park and zoological garden, with more than 9,000 animals in more than 1,000 species and around 7,000 species of plants and flowers, was originally intended as a garden for King Wilhelm I. The Moorish style buildings led it to be called the "Alhambra on the Neckar." There are two restaurants on site and a less formal bistro/cafe with outdoor seating in warm weather.TIP A modern Ape House opened in 2013, with gorillas and bonobos. \| Neckartalstr., Wilhelma \| 0711/54020 \| www.wilhelma.de \| €14; €10 Nov.–Feb. and after 4 pm Mar.–Oct. \| May–Aug., daily 8:15–6; Sept.–Apr., daily 8:15–4. ### Where to Eat Wielandshöhe. EUROPEAN \| One of Germany's top chefs, Vincent Klink, and his wife Elisabeth, are very down-to-earth, cordial hosts. Her floral arrangements add a baroque touch to the otherwise quiet interior, designed to focus on the artfully presented cuisine. To the extent possible, all ingredients are grown locally. House specialties, such as saddle of lamb with a potato gratin and green beans or the Breton lobster with basil potato salad, are recommended. The wine list is exemplary. \| Average main: €40 \| Alte Weinsteige 71, Degerloch \| 0711/640–8848 \| www.wielandshoehe.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. ### Where to Stay Am Schlossgarten. HOTEL \| Stuttgart's top accommodations are in a modern structure set in spacious gardens, a stone's throw from many of the top sights and opposite the main station. Stylish, modern rooms and luxurious baths and business amenities add to the overall comfort. In addition to receiving first-class service, you can wine and dine in the elegant French restaurant Zirbelstube, the less-expensive Schlossgarten, the bistro Vinothek, or the café overlooking the garden. Pros: views of the park; welcoming lobby. Cons: not all rooms face the park; rates are on the high end; driving here is not straightforward; parking limited and expensive. \| Rooms from: €300 \| Schillerstr. 23, Mitte \| 0711/20260 \| www.hotelschlossgarten.com \| 106 rooms, 10 suites \| Zirbelstube closed 1st 2 wks in Jan., 3 wks in Aug., Sun. and Mon. Schlossgarten closed Fri. and Sat. Vinothek closed Sun. and Mon. \| Breakfast. Der Zauberlehrling. B&B/INN \| The "Sorcerer's Apprentice" is aptly named, as Karen and Axel Heldmann have conjured up a lovely luxury hotel with each room's style based on a theme (Asian, Mediterranean, country manor). Many people come for the popular restaurant, Z-Bistro (no credit cards; no lunch weekends), which has entrancing evening entertainment called Tischzauberei (which translates as "table magic"). Innovative dishes, a three-course menu of organic products, and regional favorites are all part of the culinary lineup, enhanced by a very good wine list. Enjoy it all on the terrace in summer. Pros: fabulous rooms with lots of surprises; enjoyable restaurant. Cons: minuscule lobby; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €290 \| Rosenstr. 38, Bohnenviertel \| 0711/237–7770 \| www.zauberlehrling.de \| 17 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Wartburg. HOTEL \| This comfortable hotel is on a quiet side-street a five-minute walk from the Konigstrasse pedestrian mile and the museums around Schlossplatz. It attracts mostly businesspeople during the week, and theatergoers and shoppers on weekends, in part for the free hotel parking so close to the heart of downtown. Rooms are clean and modern, and there is free and fast Wi-Fi. There is a lobby bar and a restaurant open for lunch on weekdays (no dinner), and the hotel offers printed jogging and biking maps for the nearby Schlosspark. Pros: free parking; free Internet. Cons: rooms facing street can be noisy. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Langestr. 49 \| 0711/20450 \| www.hotel-wartburg-stuttgart.de \| 74 rooms \| Breakfast. Mövenpick Hotel Stuttgart Airport. HOTEL \| Across the street from Stuttgart Airport, the doors of this hotel open into a completely soundproof glass palace. Look up from the spacious and light-filled lobby to see the glass ceiling; the airy guest rooms have wall-to-wall windows, and the suites beckon with all the amenities. There is also an inviting lounge and bar. The Stuttgart fairgrounds are within walking distance from the hotel, which tends to fill with business travelers - ask for weekend rates. Pros: spacious; modern yet welcoming. Cons: swells with business travelers; not convenient to downtown museums, theater or shopping. \| Rooms from: €200 \| Flughafenstr. 50, Flughafen \| 0711/553–440 \| www.moevenpick-stuttgart-airport.com \| 326 rooms, 12 junior suites \| No meals. Fodor's Choice \| Wald Hotel. RESORT \| On the edge of a forest (wald) with miles of hiking and biking trails, yet just a 10-minute streetcar ride from downtown, this modern resort hotel offers lots of amenities and peaceful nights. It's in the residential suburb of Degerloch, and occupies a 100-year-old building that had previous lives as an orphanage and a religious retreat, but a 2011 makeover created a chic interior that blends natural elements with fine modern art. There are tennis courts and electric bikes (free for guests), and an outdoor sauna overlooking a lush garden. Rooms are decorated in soothing neutral tones, and there are two restaurants, one of which is a fine dining destination. Pros: free Wi-Fi; ample free parking; spacious modern bathrooms. Cons: walk from streetcar station after dark is not well lit. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Guts-Muths-Weg 18, Degerloch \| 0711/185–720, 0711/185–72120 for reservations \| www.waldhotel-stuttgart.de \| 94 rooms, 2 suites \| Multiple meal plans. ### Nightlife and the Arts i-Punkt tourist office. Across the street from the main train station, this is the place to check out a current calendar of events and buy tickets. \| Königstr. 1A, Mitte \| 0711/22280 for tickets (weekdays 8:30–6) \| www.stuttgart-tourist.de \| Weekdays 9–8, Sat. 9–6, Sun. 1–6 (10–6 May–Oct.). #### The Arts SI-Centrum. Built to showcase big-budget musicals, including American imports such as 42nd Street, this entertainment complex contains theaters, hotels, bars, restaurants, a casino, a wellness center, movie theaters, and shops. A calendar of events can be found on its website. \| Plieninger Str. 100 \| Stuttgart-Möhringen \| 0711/721–1111 \| www.si-centrum.de. Staatstheater. Stuttgart's internationally renowned ballet company performs at this elegant historic theater. The ballet season—including works choreographed by Stuttgart Ballet's John Cranko—runs from September through July and alternates with the highly respected State Opera. The box office is open weekdays 10–8, Saturday 10–2. \| Oberer Schlossgarten 6, Mitte \| 0711/20320 \| www.staatstheater.stuttgart.de. #### Nightlife There's no shortage of rustic beer gardens, wine pubs, or sophisticated cocktail bars in and around Stuttgart. Night owls should head for the Schwabenzentrum on Eberhardstrasse; the Bohnenviertel, or "Bean Quarter" (Charlotten-, Olga-, and Pfarrstrasse); the "party mile" along Theodor-Heuss-Strasse; Calwer Strasse; and Wilhelmsplatz. Café Stella. If you enjoy live music, visit this trendy restaurant and bar, perfect for an evening of dinner and drinks. The entertainment focus is on singer-songwriters, but includes jazz, comedy, and literary events, with swing dance every Sunday. \| Hauptstätterstr. 57, Mitte \| 0711/640–2583 \| www.cafe-stella.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Boat Trips Neckar-Käpt'n. From the pier opposite the entrance to the zoo, Neckar-Käpt'n offers a wide range of boat trips, as far north as scenic Besigheim. \| Off Neckartalstr., Am Leuzebad \| 0711/5499–7060 \| www.neckar-kaeptn.de. #### Hiking Stuttgart has a 53-km (33-mile) network of marked hiking trails in the nearby hills; follow the signs with the city's emblem: a horse set in a yellow ring. #### Swimming and Spas Mineralbad Berg. Take the waters in the indoor and outdoor pools and sauna here; there are also therapeutic water treatments. \| Am Schwanenpl. 9, Bad Canstatt \| 0711/216–7090. Mineralbad Cannstatt. Bad Cannstatt's mineral springs are more than 2,000 years old and, with a daily output of about 5.8 million gallons, the second most productive in Europe (after Budapest). There are indoor and outdoor mineral pools, hot tubs, a sauna, a steam room, and spa facilities. \| Sulzerrainstr. 2, Canstatt \| 0711/216–9240. Mineralbad Leuze. On the banks of the Neckar near the König-Karl Bridge is the Mineralbad Leuze, with eight pools indoors and out and an open-air mineral-water sauna. \| Am Leuzebad 2–6, Bad Canstatt \| 0711/216–4210. ### Shopping Stuttgart is a shopper's paradise, from the department stores on the Königstrasse to the boutiques in the Old Town's elegant passages and the factory outlet stores. Bohnenviertel (Bean Quarter). Some of Stuttgart's more unique shops are found in this older quarter. A stroll through the neighborhood's smaller streets reveals many tucked-away shops specializing in fashion, jewelry, artwork, and gifts. Breuninger. This leading regional department-store chain has glass elevators that rise and fall under the dome of the central arcade, whisking you to multiple floors of designer boutiques. \| Marktstr. 1–3, Mitte \| 0711/2110. Calwer Passage. This glitzy chrome-and-glass arcade is lined with boutique shops selling everything from local women's fashion (Beate Mössinger) to furniture. The adjoining Calwer Strasse is a pedestrian zone of restaurants and more shops. \| Off Calwerstr. Markthalle. The beautiful art nouveau Markthalle on Dorotheenstrasse is one of Germany's finest market halls, with a curved glass ceiling for natural light to show off a mouthwatering selection of exotic fresh fruits, spices, meats, cheeses, chocolates, and flowers (closed Sunday). TIP Check out the recently renovated fountain, which spouts water from the original well. \| Dorotheenstr. 4 \| www.markthalle-stuttgart.de. ## Bebenhausen 6 km (4 miles) north of Tübingen. Between Stuttgart and Tübingen lies this small hamlet consisting of a few houses, a monastery, and the Waldhorn, an excellent and well-known restaurant. The monastery was founded in the 12th century by the count of Tübingen. Today it belongs to the state. #### Getting Here and Around To get here by public transportation, take the train from Stuttgart to Tübingen (45 minutes) then a bus to Bebenhausen (15 minutes). Trains and bus connections are several times an hour on weekdays, less on weekends. If you're driving, take the B-27 and B-464 south from Stuttgart. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Zisterzienzerkloster (Cistercian Monastery). This is a rare example of a well-preserved medieval monastery from the late 12th century. Following the secularization of 1806, the abbot's abode was rebuilt as a hunting castle for King Frederick of Württemberg. Expansion and restoration continued as long as the palace and monastery continued to be a royal residence. Visits to the palace are with guided tours only. \| Im Schloss \| 07071/602–802 \| Monastery €4, palace €4.50 \| Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–noon and 1–5; Apr.–Oct. daily 9–5. ### Where to Eat Fodor's Choice \| Waldhorn. EUROPEAN \| Old favorites such as the Vorspeisenvariation (a medley of appetizers), local fish and goose keep people coming back to this historic eatery. The wine list features a well-chosen selection of top Baden and Württemberg wines. Garden tables have a castle view. A meal here is a perfect start or finale to the concerts held on the monastery-castle grounds in the summer. \| Average main: €30 \| Schönbuchstr. 49 \| 07071/61270 \| www.waldhorn-bebenhausen.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Mon. and Tues. ## Tübingen 40 km (25 miles) south of Stuttgart. With its half-timber houses, winding alleyways, and hilltop setting overlooking the Neckar, Tübingen provides the quintessential German experience. The medieval flavor is quite authentic, as the town was untouched by wartime bombings. Dating to the 11th century, Tübingen flourished as a trade center; its weights and measures and currency were the standard through much of the area. The town declined in importance after the 14th century, when it was taken over by the counts of Württemberg. Between the 14th and the 19th century, its size hardly changed as it became a university and residential town, its castle the only symbol of ruling power. Yet Tübingen hasn't been sheltered from the world. It resonates with a youthful air. Even more than Heidelberg, Tübingen is virtually synonymous with its university, a leading center of learning since it was founded in 1477. The best way to see and appreciate Tübingen is simply to stroll around, soaking up its age-old atmosphere of quiet erudition. #### Getting Here and Around By regional train or by car on the autobahn, Tübingen is an hour south of Stuttgart on B-27. Trains run several times an hour on weekdays, less often on weekends. In the Old Town you reach everything on foot. #### Tours The Tübingen tourist office runs guided city tours year-round at 2:30. From March through October there are also tours that take place daily and cost €9. From November through February, tours are on weekends only. Tours start at the Rathaus on the market square. #### Discounts and Deals Overnight guests receive a free Tourist-Regio-Card from their hotel (ask for it) for reduced admission fees to museums, concerts, theaters, and sports facilities. #### Timing A leisurely walk around the old part of town will take you about two hours, if you include the castle on the hill and Platanenallee looking at the Old Town from the other side of the river. #### Essentials Visitor Information Verkehrsverein Tübingen. \| An der Neckarbrücke \| 07071/91360 \| www.tuebingen-info.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Marktplatz (Market Square). Houses of prominent burghers of centuries gone by surround this square. At the open-air market on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday you can buy flowers, bread, pastries, poultry, sausage, and cheese. Rathaus (Town Hall). Begun in 1433, this building slowly expanded over the next 150 years. Its ornate Renaissance facade is bright with colorful murals and a marvelous astronomical clock dating from 1511. The halls and reception rooms are adorned with half-timber and paintings from the late 19th century. \| Marktpl. Stiftskirche (Collegiate Church). The late-Gothic church has been well preserved; its original features include the stained-glass windows, the choir stalls, the ornate baptismal font, and the elaborate stone pulpit. The windows are famous for their colors and were much admired by Goethe. The dukes of Württemberg, from the 15th through the 17th century, are interred in the choir. \| Holzmarkt. \| Daily 9–4. #### Worth Noting Alte Aula (Old Auditorium). Erected in 1547, the half-timber university building was significantly altered in 1777, when it acquired an Italian roof, a symmetrical facade, and a balcony decorated with two crossed scepters, symbolizing the town's center of learning. In earlier times grain was stored under the roof as part of the professors' salaries. \| Münzg. Bursa (Student Dormitory). The word bursa meant "purse" in the Middle Ages and later came to refer to student lodgings such as this former student dormitory. Despite its classical facade, which it acquired in the early 19th century, the building actually dates back to 1477. Medieval students had to master a broad curriculum that included the septem artes liberales (seven liberal arts) of grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. The interior of the Bursa is not open for visits, but it's worth strolling by for a look at the outside. \| Bursag. 4. Hölderlinturm (Hölderlin's Tower). Friedrich Hölderlin, a visionary poet who succumbed to madness in his early thirties, lived here until his death in 1843, in the care of the master cabinetmaker Zimmer and his daughter. There's a small literary museum and art gallery inside, and a schedule of events includes concerts and poetry readings. \| Bursag. 6 \| 07071/22040 \| www.hoelderlin-gesellschaft.de \| €2.50 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–noon and 3–5. Kornhaus (Grain House). During the Middle Ages, townspeople stored and sold grain on the first floor of this structure built in 1453; social events took place on the second floor. It now houses the City Museum. \| Kornhausstr. 10 \| 07071/204–1711 \| €2.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–5. Off the Beaten Path: Kunsthalle (Art Gallery). An art gallery north of the Neckar, the Kunsthalle has become a leading local exhibition venue and generates a special kind of "art tourism," making it difficult to find lodging if a popular exhibition is shown. \| Philosophenweg 76 \| 07071/96910 \| www.kunsthalle-tuebingen.de \| €7 \| Tues. 11–7, Wed.–Sun. 11–6. Schloss Hohentübingen. The original castle of the counts of Tübingen (1078) was significantly enlarged and altered by Duke Ulrich during the 16th century. Particularly noteworthy is the elaborate Renaissance portal patterned after a Roman triumphal arch. The coat of arms of the duchy of Württemberg depicted in the center is framed by the emblems of various orders, including the Order of the Garter. Today the castle's main attraction is its magnificent view over the river and town. It's a 90-minute walk from Schlossbergstrasse, over the Spitzberg, or via the Kapitänsweg that ends north of the castle. \| Burgsteige 11. Studentenkarzer (Student Prison). The oldest surviving university prison in Germany consists of just two small rooms. For more than three centuries (1515–1845) students were locked up here for such offenses as swearing, failing to attend sermons, wearing clothing considered lewd, or playing dice. The figures on the walls are not graffiti but scenes from biblical history that were supposed to contribute to the moral improvement of the incarcerated students. You can enter the prison on a guided tour organized by the Tübingen tourist board. \| Münzg. 20 \| 07071/91360 \| €1 \| Tour weekends at 2. ### Where to Eat and Stay Fodor's Choice \| Forelle. GERMAN \| Beautiful ceilings painted with vine motifs, exposed beams, wooden wainscoting and an old tile stove make for a gemütlich (cozy) atmosphere. This small restaurant fills up fast, not least because of the Swabian cooking, including the region's signature Maultaschen. The chef makes sure the ingredients are from the region, including the inn's namesake, trout, often served in French-style amandine. Save room for dessert, especially the housemade Schwäbische Apfelküchle (Schwabian applecake) with vanilla sauce. \| Average main: €17 \| Kronenstr. 8 \| 07071/24094 \| www.weinstube-forelle.de. Fodor's Choice \| Wurstküche. GERMAN \| For more than 200 years, all sorts of people have come here: students, because many of the dishes are filling yet inexpensive; locals, because the food is the typical Swabian fare their mothers made; and out-of-town visitors, who love the old-fashioned atmosphere. In summer you may get a seat at one of the tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Try the Alb-Leisa ond Schbatza, or sausages with spätzle and lentils. \| Average main: €13 \| Am Lustnauer Tor 8 \| 07071/92750 \| www.wurstkueche.com. Hotel Am Schloss. HOTEL \| There are lovely views of the Old Town from the rooms in this charming small hotel, and it's close to the castle that towers over the town. In its excellent restaurant you can try a dozen versions of Maultaschen (Swabian-style ravioli) and many other regional dishes. In season, local trout with a white wine from Swabia is a popular choice. In summer, reserve or try for a table on the terrace. Pros: very nice views; valet parking. Cons: no elevator, difficult parking. \| Rooms from: €118 \| Burgsteige 18 \| 07071/92940 \| www.hotelamschloss.de \| 37 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Hospiz. HOTEL \| This modern, family-run hotel provides friendly service, comfortable rooms, and a convenient Altstadt location near the castle. Some of the rooms are on the small side, so see a few before you decide. As parking is difficult, the hotel will help you park your car. Pros: some old beams; convenient location. Cons: many stairs in spite of elevator; rooms simply furnished; no bar or restaurant. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Neckarhalde 2 \| 07071/9240 \| www.hotel-hospiz.de \| 45 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Die Kelter. You'll find jazz, light fare, and a wine shop here. \| Schmiedtorstr. 17 \| 07071/254–690 \| www.diekelter.de \| Closed Mon. Jazzkeller. Like dozens of other Old Town student pubs, Jazzkeller attracts a lively crowd after 9. \| Haagg. 15/2 \| 07071/550–906 \| www.jazz-keller.eu \| Closed Sun. and Mon. Tangente-Jour. This cafe morphs into a bistro and cocktail lounge after dark, so you can find action from breakfast until past midnight, next to the Stiftskirche. \| Münzg. 17 \| 07071/24572 \| www.tangente-marktschenke.de. ### Sports and the Outdoors The Tübingen tourist office has maps with hiking routes around the town, including historical and geological Lehrpfade, or educational walks. A classic Tübingen walk goes from the castle down to the little chapel called the Wurmlinger Kapelle, taking about two hours. On the way you can stop off at the restaurant Schwärzlocher Hof (closed Monday and Tuesday) for a glass of Most (apple wine), bread, and sausages—all are homemade. Off the Beaten Path: Burg Hohenzollern. The majestic silhouette of this massive castle is visible from miles away. The Hohenzollern House of Prussia was the most powerful family in German history. It lost its throne when Kaiser William II abdicated after Germany's defeat in World War I. The Swabian branch of the family owns one third of the castle, the Prussian branch two thirds. Today's neo-Gothic structure, perched high on a conical wooded hill, is a successor of a castle dating from the 11th century. On the fascinating castle tour you'll see the Prussian royal crown and beautiful period rooms, all opulent from floor to ceiling, with such playful details as door handles carved to resemble peacocks and dogs. The restaurant on the castle grounds, Burgschänke (closed January, and Monday in February and March) serves regional food. From the castle parking lot (€2) it's a 20-minute walk to the entrance, or in summer take the shuttle bus (€3 round-trip, €1.85 one-way). \| 25 km (15 miles) south of Tübingen on B-27 \| Hechingen \| 07471/2428 \| www.burg-hohenzollern.com \| €10 \| Castle and shuttle bus, mid-Mar.–Oct., daily 9–5:30; Nov.–mid-Mar., daily 10–4:30. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Frankfurt Exploring Frankfurt Where to Eat Where to Stay Nightlife and the Arts Sports and the Outdoors Shopping Side Trips from Frankfurt Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| German Sausages \| Weisswurst Etiquette Updated by Evelyn Kanter Although many consider Frankfurt more or less a gateway to their Europe travels, the city's rich culture and history, dining, and amusement options might just surprise you. Standing in the center of the Römerberg (medieval town square), you'll see the city's striking contrasts at once. Re-creations of neo-Gothic houses and government buildings enfold the square, while just beyond them modern skyscrapers pierce the sky. The city cheekily nicknamed itself "Mainhattan," using the name of the Main River that flows through it to suggest that other famous metropolis across the Atlantic. Although only fifth in size among German cities, with a population of nearly 700,000, Frankfurt is Germany's financial powerhouse. The German Central Bank (Bundesbank) is here, as is the European Central Bank (ECB), which manages the Euro. Some 300 credit institutions (more than half of them foreign banks) have offices in Frankfurt, including the headquarters of five of Germany's largest banks. You can see how the city acquired its other nickname, "Bankfurt am Main." It's no wonder that Frankfurt is Europe's financial center. The city's stock exchange, one of the most important in the world, was established in 1585, and the Rothschild family opened their first bank here in 1798. The long history of trade might help explain the temperament of many Frankfurters—competitive but open-minded. It's also one of the reasons Frankfurt has become Germany's most international city. Close to a quarter of its residents are foreign, with a growing number from Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Because of its commercialism, Frankfurt has a reputation for being cold and boring, but people who know the city think this characterization is unfair. The district of Sachsenhausen is as gemütlich (fun, friendly, and cozy) as you will find anywhere. The city has world-class ballet, opera, theater, and art exhibitions; an important piece of Germany's publishing industry (and the world's largest annual book fair); a large university (43,000 students); and two of the three most important daily newspapers in Germany. Despite the skyscrapers, especially in the Hauptbahnhof (main train station) area and adjoining Westend district, there's much here to remind you of the Old World, along with much that explains the success of postwar Germany. ## Top Reasons to Go Sachsenhausen: Frankfurt's "South Bank"—with upscale restaurants, fast-food joints, bars with live music, and traditional Apfelwein pubs—is one big outdoor party in summer. Paleontology paradise: Beyond a huge dinosaur skeleton, the Senckenberg Natural History Museum has exhibits of many other extinct animals and plants, plus dioramas of animals in their habitats. Enjoy the outdoors: The parks and riverbanks are popular with locals and tourists for strolls, sunbathing, and picnics. Get some wheels: Hop on and tour the city sites from a bike; you'll be in good company alongside locals. Exotic experience: Head to the Frankfurt Zoo's "exotarium," where coral, fish, snakes, alligators, amphibians, insects, and spiders are on display. ## Getting Oriented Legend has it that the Frankish Emperor Charlemagne was chasing a deer on the Main's south bank when the animal plunged into the river and, to the emperor's amazement, crossed it with its head always above water. A stone ridge had made the river shallow at that point. That supposedly was the origin of Frankfurt (literally "Frankish Ford") as an important river crossing. Commerce flourished from then on: to this day Frankfurt is an important center of business and finance. ## What's Where Altstadt and City Center. Frankfurt downtown includes the Altstadt (Old City), parts of which have been carefully restored after wartime destruction; the Zeil, allegedly Germany's number-one "shop 'til you drop" mile; the Fressgass ("Pig-Out Alley"); and the bank district. Ostend. This area near the East Harbor is where you'll find lots of corporations and banks, although there are also some sights, including the zoo, as well as restaurants, cafés, and clubs catering to those working in the neighboring skyscrapers. Messe and Westend. The Westend is a mix of the villas of the prewar rich and a skyscraper extension of the business district. It's a popular place for the city's elite to live. Messe is the area around Frankfurt's huge and busy convention center (Messe), but unless you are attending the huge book fair here or Europe's largest auto show and need a nearby beer or meal to refuel, there's not much reason to go. Nordend and Bornheim. These residential areas are a great place to get away from the crowds and enjoy small neighborhood restaurants and shops. Sachsenhausen. Just across the river from downtown, Sachsenhausen is distinguished by the Apfelwein (Apple Wine) district and the Museumufer (Museum Riverbank). The Apple Wine district, now with every sort of restaurant and tavern, is one big party, especially in summer, when the tables spill out onto traffic-free streets. The Museum Riverbank has seven museums within as many blocks along the riverfront street Schaumainkai. ## Planning ### When to Go The weather in Frankfurt is moderate throughout the year, though often damp and drizzly. Summers are mild, with the occasional hot day, and it rarely gets very cold in winter and hardly ever snows. Because Frankfurt is one of the biggest trade fair cities in all of Europe, high season at all hotels is considered to be during trade shows throughout the year. Be sure to check dates to avoid paying premium price for a room or even finding yourself without a place to stay. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel There are two airports with the name "Frankfurt": Flughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA), which receives direct flights from many U.S. cities and from all major cities in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Mideast; and Frankfurt-Hahn (HHN), a former U.S. air base a full 112 km (70 miles) west of Frankfurt that handles some bargain flights, mainly to and from secondary European airports. Airport Contacts Flughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA). \| 200 Flughafen Frankfurt am Main \| 0800/2345679 \| www.frankfurt-airport.de. Frankfurt-Hahn (HHN). \| 1 Saonestr., \| Hahn-Flughafen \| 06543/509–113 \| www.hahn-airport.de. #### Airport Transfers Flughafen Frankfurt Main is 10 km (6 miles) southwest of downtown via the A-5 autobahn, and has its own railway station for high-speed InterCity (IC) and InterCity Express (ICE) trains. Getting into Frankfurt from the airport is easy, via S-bahn line nos. 8 and 9 that run between the airport and downtown. Most travelers get off at the Hauptbahnhof (main train station, or HBF) or at Hauptwache, in the heart of Frankfurt. Trains run at least every 15 minutes, and the trip takes about 15 minutes. The one-way fare is €4.25. A taxi from the airport into the City Center normally takes around 25 minutes (double that during rush hours). The fare is around €35. If you are driving a rental car from the airport, take the main road out of the airport and follow the signs reading "Stadtmitte" (downtown). Bohr Busreisen offers a regular bus service to and from Frankfurt-Hahn Airport. It leaves every hour to every 1½ hours, 3 am to 8 pm, from the south side of the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, with a stop 15 minutes later at the Terminal 1 bus station at Flughafen Frankfurt Main. The trip to Frankfurt-Hahn takes an hour and 45 minutes, and costs €14. #### Bus and Subway Travel Frankfurt's smooth-running, well-integrated public transportation system (called RMV) consists of the U-bahn (subway), S-bahn (suburban railway), Strassenbahn (streetcars), and buses. Buses are the public-transit option between 1 am and 4 am. Fares for the entire system, which includes an extensive surrounding area, are uniform, though they are based on a complex zone system. Within the time that your ticket is valid (one hour for most inner-city destinations), you can transfer from one part of the system to another. Tickets may be purchased from automatic vending machines, which are at all U-bahn and S-bahn stations. Weekly and monthly tickets are sold at central ticket offices and newsstands. A basic one-way ticket for a ride in the inner zone costs €2.60 during the peak hours of 6 am–9 am and 4 pm–6:30 pm weekdays (€2.30 the rest of the time). There's also a reduced Kurzstrecke ("short stretch") fare of €1.60 the whole day. A day ticket for unlimited travel in the inner zones costs €6.60. If you're caught without a ticket, there's a fine of €40. Some 200 European cities have bus links with Frankfurt, largely through Deutsche Touring. Buses arrive at and depart from the south side of the Hauptbahnhof and terminal 1 at the Frankfurt Main airport. Bus Contacts Bohr Busreisen. \| 0654/350190 \| www.omnibusse.bohr.de. Deutsche Touring. \| Mannheimerstr. 15, City Center \| 069/46092780 \| www.touring.de. Verkehrsgesellschaft Frankfurt am Main (Municipal Transit Authority). \| 069/19449 \| www.vgf-ffm.de. #### Car Travel Frankfurt is the meeting point of a number of major autobahns. The most important are A-3, running south from Köln and then on east to Würzburg and Nürnberg, and A-5, running south from Giessen and then on toward Heidelberg and Basel. In Frankfurt, hidden cameras are used to catch speeders, so be sure to stick to the speed limit. Tow trucks cruise the streets in search of illegal parkers. There are many reasonably priced parking garages around the downtown area and a well-developed "park-and-ride" system with the suburban train lines. The transit map shows nearly a hundred outlying stations with a blue "P" symbol beside them, meaning there is convenient parking there. #### Taxi Travel Cabs are not always easy to hail from the sidewalk; some stop, but others will pick up only from the city's numerous taxi stands or outside hotels or the train station. You can always order a cab. Fares start at €2.80 (€3.30 in the evening) and increase by a per-kilometer (½ mile) charge of €1.75 (€1.60 after 10 km). Frankfurt also has Velotaxis, covered tricycles seating two passengers and a driver that are useful for sightseeing or getting to places on the traffic-free downtown streets. They charge €2.50 per kilometer. Taxi Contacts Taxis. \| 069/230001. Velotaxi. \| 0700/8356–8294. #### Train Travel EuroCity, InterCity (IC), and InterCity Express (ICE) trains connect Frankfurt with all German cities and many major European ones. The InterCity Express line links Frankfurt with Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, and a number of other major hubs. All long-distance trains arrive at and depart from the Hauptbahnhof, and many also stop at the long-distance train station at the main airport. The red-light district southwest of the main station should be avoided. Train Contact Deutsche Bahn (German Railways). \| 01805/996633 \| www.bahn.de. ### Visitor Information Tourismus und Congress GmbH Frankfurt–Main has its main office at Römerberg 27, in Old Town. It's open weekdays 9:30–5:30 and weekends 9–6. The airport's information office is on the first floor of Arrivals Hall B and open daily 7 am–10:30 pm. Another information office in the main hall of the railroad station is open weekdays 8 am–9 pm, weekends 9–6. Both can help you find accommodations. Visitor Information Tourismus und Congress GmbH Frankfurt/Main. \| Römerberg 27, City Center \| 069/2123–8800 \| www.frankfurt-tourismus.de. ### Discounts and Deals The Frankfurt tourist office offers a one- or two-day ticket—the Frankfurt Card (€9.20 for one day, €13.50 for two days)—allowing unlimited travel on public transportation in the inner zone, and to the airport. It also includes a 50% reduction on admission to 24 museums, the zoo, and the Palmengarten, and price reductions at some restaurants and stores. ### Tours #### Apple Wine Express Tour The one-hour Apple Wine Express (Ebbelwei Express) tour in a vintage streetcar is offered hourly weekends and some holidays. It gives you a quick look at the city's neighborhoods, a bit of Frankfurt history, and a chance to sample Apfelwein (a bottle, along with pretzels, is included in the €7 fare). Contacts Ebbelwei Express. \| 069/213–22425 \| www.ebbelwei-express.com. #### Boat Trips Day trips on the Main River and Rhine excursions run from April through October and leave from the Frankfurt Mainkai am Eiserner Steg, just south of the Römer complex. TIP The boats are available for private parties, too. Contact Frankfurt Personenschiffahrt Primus-Linie. \| Mainkai 36, Altstadt \| 069/1338370 \| www.primus-linie.de. #### Bus Tours Two-hour city bus tours with English-speaking guides are available from the Frankfurt Tourist Office throughout the year. #### Walking Tours The tourist office's walking tours cover a variety of topics, including Goethe, Jewish history, apple wine, architecture, and banking. Tours can also be tailored to your interests. For an English-speaking guide, a group tour cost starts at €110 for up to two hours (prices vary depending on the type of tour). Tour Contact Tourismus und Congress GmbH Frankfurt/Main. \| 069/2123–8800 \| www.frankfurt-tourismus.de. ## German Sausages The one thing you're guaranteed to find wherever your travels in Germany take you: sausages. Encased meats are a serious business here, and you could spend a lifetime working your way through 1,500 varieties of German sausages, also known as Wurst. The tradition of making sausages goes back centuries, both as a method to preserve food long before refrigeration and as the best way to use every last piece of precious meat. Sausage recipes go back for generations, and like most German cooking, sausage types vary from region to region. There's also an abundance of ways to serve a sausage—grilled sausages are served up in a small roll, essentially just a sausage "holder"; Weisswursts come to the table after a gentle bath in warm water; cured sausages often are served sliced, while other cooked sausages are dished up with sauerkraut. Germans don't mess around when it comes to their love for sausage, eating about 62 pounds of sausage per person each year. —Tania Ralli ## Weisswurst Etiquette Weisswurst is a delicate white sausage made with veal, bacon, lemon, and parsley. It's traditional in the southern state of Bavaria, where they are sticklers about the way of eating them. The casing is never eaten; instead, you zuzeln (suck) out the meat. Make a slit at the top, dunk it in sweet mustard, and suck out the insides. It's all right to slit and peel it as well. #### Frankfurter In Germany a frankfurter isn't something that must be doused in condiments to make it palatable, like a subpar ballpark frank—instead you'll immediately notice the crisp snap of the frankfurter's skin and a delicious smoky taste. Frankfurters are long and narrow by design, to absorb as much flavor as possible during cold smoking. When served on a plate for lunch or dinner, they're normally served in a pair, and you should eat them dipped in mustard, with your fingers. Frankfurters and other würste also are served inside a small roll, called a Brotchen. The only condiment used is mustard, never sauerkraut or other toppings. #### Thüringer Rostbratwurst This bratwurst dates back to 1613 and it's clear why it has stood the test of time: it's one of Germany's most delicious sausages. The Rostbratwurst is a mix of lean pork belly, veal, and beef, seasoned with herbs and spices. Most families closely guard their recipes, but often use garlic, caraway, or nutmeg. You'll smell the scent of grilled Thüringer wafting through the streets because they're popular at street markets and festivals. #### Landjäger This small, narrow, and dense rectangular sausage is sold in pairs. It's cured by air-drying, so it resembles a dry salami in color and texture Landjäger are made of beef, sometimes with pork, and red wine and spices. Historically, fieldworkers and wine grape harvesters liked to eat these salty sausages. Landjäger keep well, so they're a great snack to tuck in your backpack when you head out for a day of hiking in the mountains. #### Blutwurst Sometimes called Rotwurst (red sausage), Blutwurst is a combination of ground pork, spices, and—the key ingredient—blood, fresh from the slaughter. After it's been cooked and smoked, the blood congeals, and the sausage takes on a dark hue and looks almost black. Depending on the region, it can be studded with bacon, pickled ox tongue, or potatoes. For most of its history Blutwurst has been considered a luxury item. #### Bockwurst This sausage got its name when hungry students ordered it with a round of Bockbier, a style of beer, in Berlin in 1889. The sausage came from a nearby Jewish butcher, who made it with veal and beef. Bockwurst is a thick sausage seasoned with salt, white pepper, and paprika, in a natural casing. It's usually boiled and served hot, but it can also be grilled. It's one of Germany's most popular sausages, so you'll find it on menus all over the country. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Altstadt \| City Center \| Ostend \| Messe and Westend \| Nordend and Bornheim \| Sachsenhausen Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Altstadt ### Top Attractions Alte Oper (Old Opera House). Kaiser Wilhelm I traveled from Berlin for the gala opening of this opera house in 1880. Gutted in World War II, the house remained a hollow shell for 40 years while controversy raged over its reconstruction. The exterior and lobby are faithful to the original, though the remainder of the building is more like a modern multipurpose hall. Although classical music performances are held here, most operas these days are staged at the Frankfurt Opera. \| Opernpl. 1, Altstadt \| 069/13400 \| www.alteoper.de \| Station: Alte Oper (U-bahn). Fressgass. Grosse Bockenheimer Strasse is the proper name of this pedestrian street, but it's nicknamed "Pig-Out Alley" because of its amazing choice of delicatessens, wine merchants, cafés, and restaurants, offering everything from crumbly cheeses and smoked fish to vintage wines and chocolate creams. TIP Check the side streets for additional cafes and restaurants. \| Grosse Bockenheimerstr., Altstadt \| www.frankfurt-fressgass.de \| Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn), Alte Oper (U-bahn). Goethehaus und Goethemuseum (Goethe's Residence and Museum). The house where Germany's most famous poet was born is furnished with many original pieces that belonged to his family, including manuscripts in his own hand. The original house, which was destroyed by Allied bombing, has been carefully rebuilt and restored in every detail. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) studied law and became a member of the bar in Frankfurt. He was quickly drawn to writing, however, and in this house he eventually wrote the first version of his masterpiece, Faust. The adjoining museum contains works of art that inspired Goethe (he was an amateur painter) and works associated with his literary contemporaries. \| Grosser Hirschgraben 23–25, Altstadt \| 069/138–800 \| www.goethehaus-frankfurt.de \| €7 \| Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. 10–5:30 \| Station: Hauptwache or Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn). FAMILY \| Historisches Museum (Historical Museum). This fascinating museum encompasses 2,000 years of all aspects of Frankfurt's history. It contains a scale model of historic Frankfurt, with every street, house, and church, plus photos of the devastation of World War II. Parts of the building date from the 1300s. A new wing is scheduled to open by early 2015. \| Fahrtor 2 (Römerberg), Altstadt \| 069/2123–5599 \| www.historisches-museum.frankfurt.de \| €6 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. 10–9 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Kaiserdom. Because the Holy Roman emperors were chosen and crowned here from the 16th to the 18th century, the church is known as the Kaiserdom (Imperial Cathedral), even though it isn't the seat of a bishop. Officially the Church of St. Bartholomew, but called simply "The Dom" by locals, it was built largely between the 13th and 15th century and survived World War II with the majority of its treasures intact. The most impressive exterior feature is the tall, red sandstone tower (almost 300 feet high), which was added between 1415 and 1514. Climb it for a good view. The Dommuseum (Cathedral Museum) occupies the former Gothic cloister. \| Dompl. 1, Altstadt \| 069/1337–6184 \| www.dom-frankfurt.de \| Dommuseum €3 \| Church Mon.–Thurs. and Sat. 9–noon and 2:30–6, Fri. and Sun. 2:30–6. Dommuseum Tues.–Fri. 10–5, weekends 11–5 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Museum für Moderne Kunst (Museum of Modern Art). Austrian architect Hans Hollein (born in 1934) designed this distinctive triangular building, shaped like a wedge of cake. The collection features works by artists such as Andy Warhol and Joseph Beuys. \| Domstr. 10, Altstadt \| 069/21230447 \| www.mmk-frankfurt.de \| €10 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. 10–8 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Paulskirche (St. Paul's Church). The first all-German parliament was held here in 1848. The parliament lasted only a year, having achieved little more than offering the Prussian king the crown of Germany. Today the church, which has been extensively restored, remains a symbol of German democracy and is used mainly for ceremonies. The most striking feature of the interior is a giant, completely circular mural showing an "endless" procession of the people's representatives into the Paulskirche. The work of Johannes Grützke, completed in 1991, it also shows such symbols as a mother and child, a smith to represent the common people, and a rejected crown. The plenary chamber upstairs is flanked by the flags of Germany, the 16 states, and the city of Frankfurt. \| Paulspl. 11, Altstadt \| 069/212–38934 \| Daily 10–5 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Römerberg. This square north of the Main River, restored after wartime bomb damage, is the historical focal point of the city. The Römer, the Nikolaikirche, and the half-timber Ostzeile houses are all clustered around this huge plaza. The 16th-century Fountain of Justitia (Justice), which flows with wine on special occasions, stands in the center of the Römerberg. The square is also the site of many public festivals throughout the year, including the Christmas market in December. Kleine Krame is a pedestrian street just north of the square that's lined with snack shops and cafes. \| Between Braubachstr. and Main R., Altstadt \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Zeil. The heart of Frankfurt's shopping district is this bustling pedestrian street running east from Hauptwache Square. It's lined with department stores, a few smaller boutiques, drugstores, cell-phone franchises, electronics shops, restaurants, and more. TIP Stop in at the outdoor farmers' market every Thursday and Saturday for a freshly grilled bratwurst and a beer. \| Hauptwache Sq., Altstadt \| Station: Hauptwache, Konstablerwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). ### Worth Noting Alte Nikolaikirche (Old St. Nicholas Church). This small red sandstone church was built in the late 13th century as the court chapel for emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. Try to time your visit to coincide with the chimes of the carillon, which rings three times a day, at 9:05 in the morning, and at 12:05 and 5:05 in the afternoon. \| South side of Römerberg, Altstadt \| 069/284–235 \| Oct.–Mar., daily 10–6; Apr.–Sept., daily 10–8 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Archaologisches Museum. The soaring vaulted ceilings make the Gothic Karmeliterkirche (Carmelite Church) an ideal setting for huge Roman columns and other local and regional artifacts, including Stone Age and Neolithic tools and ancient papyrus documents. Modern wings display Greek, Roman and Persian pottery, carvings and more. Adjacent buildings house the city's Institut für Stadtgeschichte (Institute of History). The basement, titled "Die Schmiere" (The Grease), is a satirical theater. \| Karmeliterg. 1, Altstadt \| 069/2123–5896 \| www.archaeologisches-museum.frankfurt.de \| Museum €7, free last Sat. of month \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–8 \| Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn). Main Cloister. The main cloister displays the largest religious fresco north of the Alps, a 16th-century representation of Christ's birth and death by Jörg Ratgeb. \| Free Eiserner Steg (Iron Bridge). A pedestrian walkway and the first suspension bridge in Europe, the Eiserner Steg connects the city center with Sachsenhausen and offers great views of the Frankfurt skyline. Excursions by boat and an old steam train leave from here. \| Mainkai, Altstadt. Hauptwache. The attractive baroque building with a steeply sloping roof is the actual Hauptwache (Main Guardhouse), from which the square takes its name. The 1729 building, which had been tastelessly added to over the years, was partly demolished to permit excavation for a vast underground shopping mall. The building was then restored to its original appearance and is now considered the heart of the Frankfurt pedestrian shopping area. TIP The outdoor patio of the building's restaurant-café is a popular "people-watching" spot on the Zeil. \| An der Hauptwache 15, Altstadt \| Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). Katharinenkirche (St. Catherine's Church). Frankfurt's first independent Protestant church in Gothic style was built between 1678 and 1681. The church it replaced, dating from 1343, was the setting of the first Protestant sermon preached in Frankfurt, in 1522. \| An der Hauptwache 1, Altstadt \| 069/770–6770 \| Weekdays 2–7 \| Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). Leonhardskirche (St. Leonard's Church). Begun in the Romanesque style and continued in the late-Gothic style, this beautifully preserved Catholic church has 15th-century stained glass that survived the air raids. Masses are held in English on Saturday at 5 pm and Sunday at 9:30 am. \| Am Leonhardstors 25, Altstadt \| 069/283177 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–noon and 3–6; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–noon and 2–5 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Liebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). The peaceful, concealed courtyard of this Catholic church makes it hard to believe you're in the swirl of the shopping district. Dating from the 14th century, the late-Gothic church still has a fine relief over the south door and ornate rococo wood carvings inside. \| Schärfengäflchen 3, Altstadt \| 069/297–2960 \| Daily 5:30 am–9 pm \| Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). Römer (City Hall). Three individual patrician buildings make up the Römer, Frankfurt's town hall. The mercantile-minded Frankfurt burghers used the complex not only for political and ceremonial purposes but also for trade fairs and other commercial ventures. Its gabled facade with an ornate balcony is widely known as the city's official emblem. The most important events to take place in the Römer were the festivities celebrating the coronations of the Holy Roman emperors. The first was in 1562 in the glittering Kaisersaal (Imperial Hall), which was last used in 1792 to celebrate the election of the emperor Francis II, who would later be forced by Napoléon to abdicate. Unless official business is being conducted you can see the impressive, full-length 19th-century portraits of the 52 emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, which line the walls of the reconstructed banquet hall. \| West side of Römerberg, Römerberg 27, Altstadt \| 069/2123–4814 \| €3 \| Daily 10–1 and 2–5; often closed for events, so check hrs before going \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Schirn Kunsthalle (Schirn Art Gallery). One of Frankfurt's most modern museums is devoted exclusively to changing exhibits of modern art and photography. The gallery, right beside the Kaiserdom, has a restaurant. \| Römerberg, Altstadt \| 069/299–8820 \| www.schirn.de \| Admission varies from €7 to €9 depending on exhibit. \| Tues. and Fri.–Sun. 10–7, Wed. and Thurs. 10–10 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). ## City Center Frankfurt was rebuilt after World War II with little attention paid to the past. Nevertheless, important historical monuments can still be found among the modern architecture. The city is very walkable; its growth hasn't encroached on its parks, gardens, pedestrian arcades, or outdoor cafés. The riverbank paths make for great strolls or bike rides. ### Top Attractions Jüdisches Museum (Jewish Museum). The story of Frankfurt's Jewish community is told in the former Rothschild Palais, which overlooks the river Main. Prior to the Holocaust, Frankfurt's Jewish quarter was the second largest in Germany (after Berlin), and the silver and gold household items on display are a testament to its prosperity. The museum contains a library of 5,000 books, a large photographic collection, and a documentation center.TIP Be sure to check out the wall of ceremonial menorahs. \| Untermainkai 14/15, City Center \| 069/2123–5000 \| www.juedischesmuseum.de \| €6 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–8 \| Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn). Museum Judengasse.This branch of the Jewish museum is built on the site of the Börneplatz Synagogue, destroyed in 1938, and the foundations of mostly 18th-century buildings that were once part of the Jewish quarter. \| Kurt-Schumacher-Str. 10, City Center \| 069/297–7419 \| €3 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–8 \| Station: Bornerplatz (U-bahn). Off the Beaten Path: Alter Jüdischer Friedhof (Old Jewish Cemetery). Containing hundreds of moss-covered gravestones, this cemetery was in use between the 13th and mid-19th centuries, and is one of the few reminders of prewar Jewish life in Frankfurt. It suffered minimal vandalization in the Nazi era, even though its adjoining grand Börneplatz Synagogue was destroyed on Kristallnacht, in 1938. That space is now part of Museum Judengasse; ask the admissions desk for the key to open the vandal-proof steel gates to the cemetery. Mayer Amschel Rothschild, founder of the banking family, who died in 1812, is buried here, along with some family members (the Rothschild mansion is now the main Jewish Museum). The wall around the cemetery is dotted with more than 1,000 small memorial plaques, each with the name of a Jewish Frankfurter and the concentration camp where they died. There is a newer Jewish cemetery at Eckenheimer Landstrasse 238 (about 2½ km 1½ miles] north). \| Battonnstr. 2, City Center \| 069/212–40000 \| [juedischesmuseum.de/museumjudengasse \| Free \| Sun.–Fri. 8:30–4:30 \| Station: Bornerplatz (S-bahn). ### Worth Noting Börse (Stock Exchange). This is the center of Germany's stock and money market. The Börse was founded in 1585, but the present domed building dates from the 1870s. These days computerized networks and telephone systems have removed much of the drama from the dealers' floor, but it's still fun to visit the visitor gallery and watch the hectic activity. You must reserve your visit 24 hours in advance. \| Börsenpl. 4, City Center \| 069/2110 \| www.boerse-frankfurt.de \| Free \| Visitor gallery weekdays 10–8 \| Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). Eschenheimer Turm (Eschenheim Tower). Built in the early 15th century, this tower, a block north of the Hauptwache, remains the finest example of the city's original 42 towers. It now contains a restaurant-bar. \| Eschenheimer Tor, City Center \| Station: Eschenheimer Tor (U-bahn). ## Ostend Named for its location around the city's East Harbor, the business-oriented Ostend is sprouting new restaurants and cafés, attracting by the 2014 opening of the new European Central Bank headquarters building. FAMILY \| Zoologischer Garten (Zoological Garden). Founded in 1858, this is one of the most important and attractive zoos in Europe. Its remarkable collection includes some 4,500 animals of 500 different species, an exotarium (an aquarium plus reptiles), a large ape house, and an aviary, one of the largest in Europe. Nocturnal creatures move about in a special section. \| Bernhard-Grzimek-Allee 1, Ostend \| 069/2123–3735 \| www.zoo-frankfurt.de \| €10, family ticket €25 \| Nov.–Mar., daily 9–5; Apr.–Oct., daily 9–7 \| Station: Zoo (U-bahn). Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Messe and Westend The city's huge, sprawling convention center (Messe) is one of the busiest in Europe, and the area around it isn't especially interesting. Westend, on the other hand, is a charming residential neighborhood dotted with some good restaurants. FAMILY \| Naturkundemuseum Senckenberg (Natural History Museum). The important collection of fossils, animals, plants, and geological exhibits here is upstaged by the permanent dinosaur exhibit: it's the most extensive of its kind in all of Germany. The diplodocus dinosaur here, imported from New York, is the only complete specimen of its kind in Europe.TIP Many of the exhibits of prehistoric animals here, including a series of dioramas, have been designed with children in mind. \| Senckenberganlage 25, Westend \| 069/75420 \| www.senckenberg.de \| €8 \| Mon., Tues., Thurs., and Fri. 9–5, Wed. 9–8, weekends 9–6 \| Station: Bockenheimer Warte (U-bahn). FAMILY \| Palmengarten und Botanischer Garten (Tropical Garden and Botanical Gardens). The splendid cluster of tropical and semitropical greenhouses here contains cacti, orchids, palms, and other plants. The surrounding park, which can be surveyed from a miniature train, has many recreational facilities, including a small lake where you can rent rowboats, a play area for children, and a wading pool.TIP The Palmengarten offers free tours on a variety of topics on Sunday. In summer there's also an extensive concert program that takes place in an outdoor pavilion. \| Siesmayerstr. 63, Westend \| 069/2123–3939 \| palmengarten.frankfurt.de \| €7 \| Feb.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Jan., daily 9–4 \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). FAMILY \| Struwwelpeter Museum (Slovenly Peter Museum). This charming little museum honors the Frankfurt physician who created the sardonic children's classic Struwwelpeter, or Slovenly Peter. Heinrich Hoffmann wrote the poems and drew the rather amateurish pictures in 1844, to warn children of the dire consequences of being naughty. The book has seen several English translations, including one by Mark Twain, which can be purchased at the museum. The kid-friendly museum has a puppet theater and game room, and is popular for birthday parties. \| Schubertstr. 20, Westend \| 069/747–969 \| www.struwwelpeter-museum.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 2–5 \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). ## Nordend and Bornheim Nordend was the center of antigovernment student demonstrations in the 1960s and 1970s—it still retains a little shabby, bohemian flavor. For its part, Bornheim holds on to some of the liveliness it had as the city's red-light district a century ago. Both have some pleasant, small shops and restaurants. ## Sachsenhausen The old quarter of Sachsenhausen, on the south bank of the Main River, has been sensitively preserved, and its cobblestone streets, half-timber houses, and beer gardens make it a popular area to stroll. Sachsenhausen's two big attractions are the Museumufer (Museum Riverbank), which has nine museums almost next door to one another and offers beautiful views of the Frankfurt skyline, as well as the famous Apfelwein taverns around the Rittergasse pedestrian area. You can eat well—and quite reasonably—in these small traditional establishments. ### Top Attractions FAMILY \| Deutsches Filmmuseum (German Film Museum). Germany's first museum of cinematography, set in a historical villa on "museum row" on the Sachenhausen side of the river Main, offers visitors a glimpse at the history of film, with artifacts that include "magic lanterns" from the 1880s, costume drawings from Hollywood and German films, and multiple screens playing film clips. Interactive exhibits show how films are photographed, given sound, and edited, and let visitors play with lighting and animation. A theater in the basement screens every imaginable type of film, from historical to avant-garde. \| Schaumainkai 41, Sachsenhausen \| 069/9612–20220 \| www.deutschesfilmmuseum.de \| €5 \| Tues., Thurs., and Fri. 10–6, Sun. and Wed. 10–7, Sat. 2–7 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Ikonen-Museum. This is one of very few museums in the world to exhibit a wide spectrum of the Christian Orthodox world of images. The art and ritual of icons from the 15th to the 20th century are on display here in a collection that totals more than 1,000 artifacts. Admission is free on the last Saturday of the month. \| Brückenstr. 3–7, Sachsenhausen \| 069/21236262 \| www.ikonenmseum.de \| €4 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–8. Museum Giersch. This museum, set in a beautiful neoclassical villa along the strip of museums in Sachsenhausen, focuses on paintings from the 19th century and early 20th century. The artists are drawn mainly from the Rhine-Main region. \| Schaumainkai 83, Sachsenhausen \| 069/631–48724 \| www.museum-giersch.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Thurs. noon–7, Fri.–Sun. 10–6. Museum für Kommunikation (Museum for Communication). This is the place for talking on picture telephones and learning about the newest advances in communication technology. Exhibitions on historic methods include mail coaches, a vast collection of stamps from many countries and eras, and ancient dial telephones, with their clunky switching equipment. \| Schaumainkai 53, Sachsenhausen \| 069/60600 \| www.museumsstiftung.de \| €2.50 \| Tues.–Fri. 9–6, weekends 11–7 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Städelsches Kunstinstitut und Städtische Galerie (Städel Art Institute and Municipal Gallery). One of Germany's most important art collections is housed at this museum, with a vast collection of paintings by Dürer, Vermeer, Rembrandt, Rubens, Monet, Renoir, and other masters. An annex features a large collection of works from contemporary artists, including a huge portrait of Goethe by Andy Warhol.TIP The section on German Expressionism is particularly strong, with representative works by the Frankfurt artist Max Beckmann and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. \| Schaumainkai 63, Sachsenhausen \| 069/605–0980 \| www.staedelmuseum.de \| €14 \| Tues. and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. and Thurs. 10–9 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). ### Worth Noting Deutsches Architekturmuseum. The German Architecture Museum is housed in a late 19th-century villa, which was converted in the early 1980s by the Köln-based architect Oswald Mathias Ungers. He created five levels, including a simple basement space with a visible load-bearing structure, a walled complex on the ground floor, and a house-within-a-house on the third floor. The museum features a wealth of documents on the history of architecture and hosts debates on its future. Each year, several major and numerous smaller exhibitions highlight issues in architectural history and current topics in architecture and urban design, including sustainability. A permanent exhibit features the most comprehensive collection of model panoramas in the history of German architecture. \| Schaumainkai 43, Sachsenhausen \| 069/2123–8844 \| www.dam-online.de \| €9 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sat. 11–6, Sun., 11–7, Wed. 11–8 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Museum der Weltkulturen (Museum of World Cultures). The lifestyles and customs of aboriginal societies from around the world are examined through items such as masks, ritual objects, and jewelry. The museum has an extensive exhibition of contemporary Indian, African, Oceanic, and Indonesian art. \| Schaumainkai 29-37, Sachsenhausen \| 069/2123–1510 \| www.mwk-frankfurt.de \| €5; free on last Sat. of the month \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 11–6, Wed. 11–8 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Museum für Angewandte Kunst (Museum of Applied Arts). More than 30,000 decorative objects are exhibited in this modern white building set back in grassy grounds along "museum row" in Saschenhausen. Chairs and furnishings and medieval craftwork are some of the thematic sections you'll find on the same floor. The exhibits are mainly from Europe and Asia. \| Schaumainkai 17, Sachsenhausen \| 069/2123–4037 \| www.museumfuerangewandtekunst.frankfurt.de \| €10, free last Sat. of month \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–9 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Städtische Galerie Liebieghaus (Liebieg Municipal Museum of Sculpture). The sculpture collection in this museum, from 5,000 years of civilizations and epochs, is considered one of the most important in Europe. Antiquity, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, classicism, and the baroque are all represented. Some pieces are exhibited in the lovely gardens surrounding the house.TIP Don't miss out on the freshly baked German cakes in the museum café. \| Schaumainkai 71, Sachsenhausen \| 069/650–0490 \| www.liebieghaus.de \| €9 \| Tues. and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. and Thurs. 10–9 \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Altstadt \| City Center \| Messe and Westend \| Nordend and Bornheim \| Sachsenhausen \| Outer Frankfurt Many international cuisines are represented in the financial hub of Europe. For vegetarians there's usually at least one meatless dish on a German menu, and substantial salads are popular, too (though often served with bacon). The city's most famous contribution to the world's diet is the Frankfurter Würstchen—a thin smoked pork sausage—better known to Americans as the hot dog. Grüne Sosse is a thin cream sauce of herbs served with potatoes and hard-boiled eggs. The oddly named Handkäs mit Musik (literally, "hand cheese with music") consists of slices of cheese covered with raw onions, oil, and vinegar, served with bread and butter (an acquired taste for many). There is the Rippchen or cured pork chop, served on a mound of sauerkraut, and the Schlachtplatte, an assortment of sausages and smoked meats. All these things are served with Frankfurt's distinctive drink, Apfelwein. Smoking is prohibited inside Frankfurt's bars and restaurants, but allowed in most beer gardens. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. * * * Apfelwein: Frankfurt's Local Hard Cider Apfelwein, the local hard cider and the quintessential Frankfurt drink, is more sour than the sweet versions you may be used to. To produce Apfelwein, the juice of pressed apples is fermented for approximately eight weeks. Its alcohol content of 5%–7% makes it comparable to beer. Straight up, it is light and slightly fizzy. You can also try it carbonated with seltzer (Sauergespritzer), or sweetened with lemonade (Süssgespritzer). Apfelwein is drunk from a lattice-patterned glass called a Gerippte. When among friends, it is poured from blue stoneware pitchers called Bembels, which range in size from big (a liter) to enormous (4 liters and up). Popular throughout the state of Hesse, locals drink Apfelwein with pride. The largest concentration of Frankfurt's Apfelwein establishments is in the old neighborhood of Sachsenhausen. Look for establishments with a pine wreath hanging over the door; this signifies that Apfelwein is sold. * * * ## Altstadt Langosch am Main. VEGETARIAN \| This eclectic vegetarian and vegan spot, one of the few in Frankfurt, serves breakfast, lunch, dinner, and late-night snacks made only with organic ingredients. There's also wine and beer (also organic) and homemade drinks such as lemonade garnished with sprigs of fresh mint and rosemary. Homemade desserts are made with honey instead of refined sugar. Centrally located a few blocks from the Dom, the café has low lighting and rough-hewn wood tables; the rock 'n' roll and Motown tunes are played here at a volume low enough not to discourage quiet conversation. \| Average main: €10 \| Fahrg. 3, Altstadt \| 069/9203–9510 \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Metropol. CAFÉ \| Breakfast is the main attraction at this café near the Römerberg and Dom. The dining room is large, and in the warmer months there are also tables on a garden patio. In addition to the daily selection of tantalizing cakes and pastries, the menu features salads, pastas, and a few traditional German dishes. The kitchen serves until 11 pm. \| Average main: €11 \| Weckmarkt 13–15, Altstadt \| 069/288–287 \| www.metropolcafe.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). Souper. FAST FOOD \| Hearty soups seem to be the favorite light lunch in Frankfurt these days. The best selection can be found in this place near the Hauptwache, although the bowls seem a little small for the price. The daily selection may include such creations as Thai-style coconut chicken or lentil with sausage. Eat at the counter or take your soup and sandwich to go. \| Average main: €5 \| Weissadlerg. 3, Altstadt \| 069/2972–4545 \| www.souper.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. No dinner \| Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). Steinernes Haus. GERMAN \| At this friendly spot, diners share long wooden tables beneath traditional clothing that's been mounted on the walls. The house specialty is a raw steak brought to the table with a heated rock tablet (Stein is the German word for stone) for cooking it on. The beef broth is the perfect antidote to cold weather. The menu has other old German standards along with daily specials. Note that if you don't specify a Kleines, or small glass of beer, you'll automatically get a liter. \| Average main: €14 \| Braubachstr. 35, Altstadt \| 069/283–491 \| www.steinernes-haus.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Römer (U-bahn). ## City Center Embassy. ECLECTIC \| Embassy's location near many of the city's largest banks makes it a natural for business lunches, but it's also a popular spot for socializing. This modern restaurant, bar, and lounge attracts many young professionals for dinner and drinks. The moderately priced menu of contemporary dishes includes pizzas, pastas, salads, steaks, duck, and a long list of appetizers. \| Average main: €15 \| Zimmerweg 1 (corner of Mainzer Landstr.), City Center \| 069/7409–0844 \| www.embassy-frankfurt.de \| Closed weekends \| Station: Taunusanlage (S-bahn). Frankfurter Botschaft. ECLECTIC \| Frankfurt's Westhafen (West Harbor), once busy and commercial, has been transformed into an upscale neighborhood of apartments, a yacht club, and waterfront restaurants. One of the chicest is Frankfurter Botschaft, with a glass facade and a big terrace overlooking the Main River. Frankfurt's elite descend here for business lunches, a cocktail on the terrace at sunset, or the Sunday brunch. There is also a sandy beach area with folding chairs and umbrellas. The international food is mainly organic, and even the dinnerware is of a prizewinning design. \| Average main: €24 \| Westhafenpl. 6–8, City Center \| 069/2400–4899 \| www.frankfurter-botschaft.de \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Hauptbahnhof. L'Emir. MIDDLE EASTERN \| The atmosphere is right out of One Thousand and One Nights at this restaurant near the train station, with belly dancers performing every Friday and Saturday night urging patrons to join in. Those who are so inclined can retire to the lounge and smoke flavored tobacco from a water pipe. The exotic menu is largely vegetarian and heavy on garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice. The falafel is made from crushed beans and chickpeas, leeks, onions, parsley, coriander, peppermint, and more than 15 spices. \| Average main: €17 \| Ramada Hotel, Weserstr. 17, City Center \| 069/2400–8686 \| www.lemir.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Hauptbahnhof. Maintower. GERMAN \| Atop the skyscraper that houses the Helaba Landesbank Hessen-Thüringen, this popular cocktail bar and high-end restaurant captures an unbeatable view. Through 25-foot floor-to-ceiling windows, you can take in all of "Mainhattan." The cuisine is part global, part regional. Dinner is a three- or five-course affair starting at €65 per person, not counting drinks or the €4.50 fee for the elevator. There's also a lounge for drinks and snacks, with a €37 minimum. \| Average main: €30 \| Neue Mainzerstr. 52–58, City Center \| 069/3650–4770 \| www.maintower-restaurant.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch Sat. \| Station: Alte Oper (U-Bahn), oder (S-Bahn) Taunusanlage. Fodor's Choice \| Vinum Weinkeller. GERMAN \| Housed in a former wine cellar that dates from 1893 in one of the alleys off Fressgasse, Vinum specializes in regional wines, by the glass or bottle, and the burnished brickwork and low lighting adds to the charm. The wine-themed decor includes such items as glass bowls filled with wine corks. Menu choices focus on wine-friendly dishes, including cheese platters, as well as German specialties more often associated with beer, such as wursts and sauerbraten with dumplings and red cabbage. \| Average main: €15 \| Kleine Hochstr. 9, Center City \| 069/293–037 \| www.vinum-frankfurt.de \| Closed Sun., Oct.–Apr. No lunch. Zwölf Apostel. GERMAN \| There are few inner-city restaurants that brew their own beer, and the Twelve Apostles is one of the pleasant exceptions. Enjoy homemade pilsners in the dimly lighted, cavernous cellar, and sample traditional international and Croatian dishes. Servings are large, prices are reasonable, and you can have a small portion at half price. \| Average main: €11 \| Rosenbergerstr. 1, City Center \| 069/288–668 \| www.12aposteln-frankfurt.de \| Station: Konstablerwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Messe and Westend Café Laumer. CAFÉ \| The ambience of an old-time Viennese café pervades this popular spot, where there's a lovely garden in summer—as well as some of the city's best freshly baked cakes year-round. It owes its literary underpinnings to Theodor Adorno, a philosopher and sociologist of the Frankfurt School who dined here frequently. The café closes at 7. \| Average main: €8 \| Bockenheimer Landstr. 67, Westend \| 069/727–912 \| www.cafe-laumer.de \| No dinner \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). Café Siesmayer. GERMAN \| This sleek establishment is at the Palmengarten, accessible either from the botanical garden or from the street. It has a terrace where you can enjoy your coffee and cake with a splendid garden view. It's also popular for breakfast, with a full range of main courses. Note that it closes at 7. \| Average main: €14 \| Siesmayerstr. 59, Westend \| 069/9002–9200 \| www.palmengarten-gastronomie.de \| No dinner \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). * * * Tasting German Riesling Germany's mild, wet climate and a wine-making tradition that dates back 2,000 years combine to produce some of the world's finest white wines. The king of German varietals is Riesling. Grown on the banks of Germany's many rivers, most notably the Rhine, the grape produces wines of stunning variety and quality. Rieslings are noted for their strong acidity, sometimes-flowery aroma, and often mineral-tasting notes—stemming from the grape's susceptibility to influences from the soil. Riesling made its name throughout the world through sweet (lieblich) wines, but many Germans prefer them dry (trocken). Importers, especially in the United States, don't bring over many dry German Rieslings, so take the opportunity to sample some while in Frankfurt. Sip It Here The Bockenheimer Weinkontor (Schlossstr. 92 \| 069/702–031 \| www.bockenheimer-weinkontor.de \| Station: Bockenheimer Warte [U-bahn]) is nearby the Messegelände (Exhibition Center), in the Bockenheim area. Through a courtyard and down a set of stairs, the cozy bar offers 15–20 reasonably priced local wines by the glass. The trellis-covered back garden is a treat. For prestige wines, head to Piccolo (Bornheimer Landstr. 56 \| 069/9441–1277 \| www.weinbar-piccolo.de \| Station: Merianplatz [U-bahn]), where the bilingual staff make solid recommendations. Try a glass from the Markus Molitor or Alexander Freimuth wineries. Along with wine, they serve a range of snacks and main courses. The space is small, so make reservations if you plan to dine here. * * * Fodor's Choice \| Erno's Bistro. FRENCH \| This tiny, unpretentious place in a quiet Westend neighborhood seems an unlikely candidate for the best restaurant in Germany. Yet that's what one French critic called it. The bistro's specialty, fish, is often flown in from France, as are the wines. It's closed weekends, during the Christmas and Easter seasons, and during much of summer—in other words, when its patrons, well-heeled business executives, are unlikely to be in town. \| Average main: €40 \| Liebigstr. 15, Westend \| 069/721–997 \| www.ernosbistro.de \| Reservations essential \| Jacket required \| Closed weekends and for 6 wks during Hesse's summer school vacation \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). La Boveda. SPANISH \| This quaint, somewhat expensive restaurant is inside the dimly lit basement of a Westend residential building. (Appropriate, as the name means "wine cellar.") In addition to the smaller plates of tapas, the menu features a long list of entrées. Especially interesting are the creative seafood combinations. And true to its name, La Boveda offers an extensive wine menu. Reservations are recommended on weekends. \| Average main: €18 \| Feldbergstr. 10, Westend \| 069/723–220 \| www.la-boveda.de \| No lunch weekends \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| M Steakhouse. STEAKHOUSE \| Many say the M Steakhouse serves the best steak in Germany. A set of steps leads down into the restaurant's beautifully lit outdoor patio, which is the perfect setting for a private romantic dinner. The main dining room inside is warm, welcoming, and offers an intimate setting for an unforgettable meal. The restaurant doesn't serve any seafood main courses, but why should it? The beef, imported from the U.S., doesn't disappoint. Prices are in line with the quality of meat, and the sides complement the dishes perfectly. TIP Be sure to make reservations, and ask for a table on the patio in nice weather. \| Average main: €30 \| Feuerbachstr. 11a, Westend \| 069/7103–4050 \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Omonia. GREEK \| This cozy cellar serves the city's best Greek cuisine. If you have a big appetite, try the Omonia platter, with lamb cooked several ways and accompanied by Greek-style pasta. Vegetarians go for the mestos sestos, a plate of lightly breaded grilled vegetables served in a rich tomato-and-feta sauce. This family-owned place is popular, so make a reservation for one of the few tables. \| Average main: €13 \| Vogtstr. 43, Westend \| 069/593–314 \| www.restaurant-omonia.de \| Reservations essential \| No lunch weekends \| Station: Holzhausenstrasse (U-bahn). Surf'n Turf. STEAKHOUSE \| This staple among businesspeople and steak connoisseurs alike is in a residential area near the Grüneburgpark. The restaurant feels intimate and warm, with dark leather, wood paneling, and small tables scattered throughout the main dining room. The beef is imported from Nebraska, and each cut of meat is presented to guests before taking their orders. The waitstaff is knowledgeable, helpful, and friendly, making this as great a place for a romantic dinner for two as for a casual business lunch. Highlights on the menu include the beer carpaccio with truffles and the yellowfin tuna tartare. \| Average main: €30 \| Grüneburgweg 95, Westend \| 069/722–122 \| www.mook-group.de/surfnturf \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Zenzakan. JAPANESE \| Hailed as a sort of pan-Asian supper club, this large restaurant with Buddha heads and other Asian decor has a bar scene that's just as good a reason to visit as its exceptional food, especially its sushi. Beef lovers also will find plenty to choose from, including sliced hanger steak with Japanese BBQ sauce. The equally innovative cocktails at the bar include a lemograss martini and the Balsamic Touch. \| Average main: €30 \| Taunusanlage 15, Westend \| 069/9708–6908 \| www.mook-group.de/zenzakan \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch. ## Nordend and Bornheim El Pacifico. MEXICAN \| Some of Frankfurt's best Mexican cuisine is found in this festive little place. Warm and colorful, this restaurant serves a variety of fruity margaritas and is well known for its hearty chicken-wing appetizer. The dimly lighted dining room is fairly small; reservations are recommended on weekends, including for its good Sunday brunch. \| Average main: €14 \| Sandweg 79, Bornheim \| 069/446–988 \| www.elpacifico-ffm.de \| No lunch \| Station: Merianplatz (U-bahn). Grössenwahn. CONTEMPORARY \| The Nordend is noted for its trendy establishments, and this corner restaurant, which is often crowded, is one of the best. The name translates as "megalomania," which says it all. The menu is creative, with German, Greek, Italian, and French elements. Reservations are a good idea. \| Average main: €14 \| Lenaustr. 97, Nordend \| 069/599–356 \| www.cafe-groessenwahn.de \| No lunch \| Station: Glauburgstrasse (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Weisse Lilie. SPANISH \| Come to this Bornheim favorite for the delicious selection of tapas, paella, and other Spanish specialties and reasonably priced red wines. The dark interior has wooden tables brightened by fresh-cut flowers and candles, making it a good spot for an intimate dinner. In summer you can dine outside, German style, at long tables. \| Average main: €10 \| Berger str. 275, Bornheim \| 069/453–860 \| www.weisse-lilie.com \| Reservations essential \| No lunch \| Station: Bornheim Mitte (U-bahn). ## Sachsenhausen Fodor's Choice \| Adolf Wagner. GERMAN \| With sepia-tone murals of merrymaking, this Apfelwein classic succeeds in being touristy and traditional all at once, and it's a genuine favorite of local residents. The kitchen produces the same hearty German dishes as other apple-cider taverns, only better. Try the schnitzel or the Tafelspitz mit Frankfurter Grüner Sosse (stewed beef with a sauce of green herbs), or come on Friday for fresh fish. Cider is served in large quantity in the noisy, crowded dining room. TIP Warning: it serves no beer! \| Average main: €12 \| Schweizerstr. 71, Sachsenhausen \| 069/612–565 \| www.apfelwein-wagner.com \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Doepfner's im Maingau. GERMAN \| Chef Jörg Döpfner greets you himself and lights your candle at this excellent restaurant. A polished clientele is drawn by the linen tablecloths, subdued lighting, and such nearly forgotten practices as carving the meat at your table. The menu includes asparagus salad with homemade wild-boar ham, braised veal cheek with wild-garlic risotto, and some vegetarian dishes. The place also has a cellar full of rare German wines. \| Average main: €22 \| Schifferstr. 38–40, Sachsenhausen \| 069/610–752 \| maingau.de/de/restaurant \| Closed Mon. No lunch Sat.; no dinner Sun. \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Exenberger. FAST FOOD \| In many ways this place is typical of Old Sachsenhausen: apple wine and sauerkraut are served, there's no menu, and old sayings are written on the walls. But the interior is modern and the Frankfurt specialties are a cut above the rest. As proprietor Kay Exenberger puts it, "We're nearly as fast as a fast-food restaurant, but as gemütlich as an apple-wine locale must be." You order your food at the counter or by calling ahead, and everything can be wrapped up to go. It's so popular that reservations are a good idea even at lunch. Many rave about the chocolate pudding with vanilla sauce. \| Average main: €7 \| Bruchstr. 14, Sachsenhausen \| 069/6339–0790 \| www.exenberger-frankfurt.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Südbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Holbeins. ECLECTIC \| Portions are not large at this restaurant in the Städel museum, but selections on the international menu are creative. Choose from a variety of pastas, fish, steak, even sushi and a few traditional German dishes. Holbein's changes from a casual bistro at lunch to an elegant restaurant open until midnight. \| Average main: €20 \| Holbeinstr. 1, Sachsenhausen \| 069/6605–6666 \| www.holbeins.de \| Reservations essential \| No lunch Mon. \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Lobster. SEAFOOD \| This small restaurant is a favorite of locals and visitors alike. The menu, dramatically different from those of its neighbors, includes mostly seafood. Oddly, lobster's not on the menu, but it does occasionally come up as a special. The fish and shellfish here are prepared in a variety of styles, but the strongest influence is French. For dessert, try the vanilla ice cream with warm raspberry sauce. Reservations are strongly recommended on weekends. \| Average main: €17 \| Wallstr. 21, Sachsenhausen \| 069/612–920 \| www.lobster-weinbistrot.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). Pizza Pasta Factory. ITALIAN \| This restaurant started off with a proven theory: if you offer your food cheaply enough, you can make up the difference by selling a lot of it. So between 11:30 am and 4 pm and after 10 pm, this place sells its pizzas and pastas (except lasagna) for only €3.80. There are 37 possible toppings, including some unlikely ones like pineapple, corn, and eggs. \| Average main: €5 \| Martin Luther Str. 33, Sachsenhausen \| 069/6199–5004 \| www.pizzapastafactory.de \| No credit cards \| Station: Lokalbahnhof (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Zum Gemalten Haus. GERMAN \| There aren't many classic Apfelwein locales left, but this is one of them. It's just as it has been since the end of the 19th century: walls covered with giant paintings darkened with age, giant stoneware pitchers called Bembels, glasses that are ribbed to give greasy hands traction, long tables that can seat 12 people, schmaltzy music, hearty food, and, as is traditional, no beer. Try this one if you want to truly capture the spirit of Old Sachsenhausen. \| Average main: €7 \| Schweizerstr. 67, Sachsenhausen \| 069/614–559 \| www.zumgemaltenhaus.de \| Closed. Mon. and mid-July–early Aug. \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). ## Outer Frankfurt Altes Zollhaus. GERMAN \| Excellent versions of traditional German and international specialties are served in this 230-year-old half-timber house on the edge of town. If you're here in season, try a game dish. In summer you can eat in the beautiful garden. Menu specials change monthly. To get here, take Bus 30 from Konstablerwache to Heiligenstock, or drive out on Bundestrasse 521 in the direction of Bad Vilbel. \| Average main: €18 \| Friedberger Landstr. 531, Seckbach \| 069/472–707 \| www.altes-zollhaus-frankfurt.de \| Closed Mon. No lunch Tues.–Sat. Arche Nova. VEGETARIAN \| This sunny establishment is a feature of Frankfurt's Ökohaus, which was built according to environmental principles (solar panels, catching rainwater, etc.). It's mainly vegetarian, with such dishes as a vegetable platter with feta cheese or curry soup with grated coconut and banana. Much of what's served, including some of the beer, is organic. \| Average main: €12 \| Kasselerstr. 1a, Bockenheim \| 069/707–5859 \| www.arche-nova.de \| No dinner Sun. \| Station: Westbahnhof (S-bahn). Gerbermühle. GERMAN \| So beautiful that it inspired works by Goethe, a frequent visitor, this 14th-century building is now a restaurant once again, and the century-long-plus tradition of hiking or biking to the chestnut-tree-shaded, riverside beer garden has returned. The garden is as nice as ever, and there's an indoor restaurant, guest rooms, an attractive bar with the original stone walls, burnished leather chairs, and even a bust of Goethe. An hour eastward down the Main's south bank, the place is so remote it is difficult to reach with public transportation. \| Average main: €20 \| Gerbermühlestr. 105, Oberrad \| 069/6897–7790 \| www.gerbermuehle.de. Weidemann. MEDITERRANEAN \| This half-timber farmhouse dating from the 19th century is in a quiet neighborhood across the river from downtown. It's little wonder that business executives and gourmets have discovered this inviting place with a chestnut-tree-shaded beer garden and a glassed-in winter garden. Customers are cordially greeted by proprietor Angelo Vega, a Spaniard who has set out to prove to Germans that there's a lot more to his country's cuisine than tapas and gazpacho. He has won a steady clientele with imaginative versions of Spanish, French, Italian, and other Mediterranean dishes. \| Average main: €28 \| Kelsterbacher Str. 66, Niederrad \| 069/675–996 \| www.weidemann-online.de \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Odenwaldstr. (streetcar). Zum Rad. GERMAN \| Named for the huge Rad (wagon wheel) that serves as a centerpiece, this is one of the few Apfelwein taverns in Frankfurt that makes its own apple wine, which it's been doing since 1806. It's located in the villagelike district of Seckbach, on the northeastern edge of the city. Outside tables are shaded by chestnut trees in an extensive courtyard. The typically Hessian cuisine, with giant portions, includes such dishes as Ochsenbrust (brisket of beef) with the ubiquitous herb sauce. Take the U-4 subway to Seckbacher Landstrasse, then Bus No. 43 to Draisbornstrasse. \| Average main: €10 \| Leonhardsg. 2, Seckbach \| 069/479–128 \| www.zum-rad.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Tues. No dinner Sun. and holidays. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents City Center \| Messe and Westend \| Nordend and Bornheim \| Sachsenhausen \| Outer Frankfurt Businesspeople descend on Frankfurt year-round, so most hotels in the city are frequently booked up well in advance and are expensive (though many offer significant reductions on weekends). Many hotels add as much as a 50% surcharge during trade fairs (Messen), of which there are about 30 a year. The majority of the larger hotels are close to the main train station, fairgrounds, and business district (Bankenviertel). The area around the station has a reputation as a red-light district, but is well policed. More atmosphere is found at smaller hotels and pensions in the suburbs; the efficient public transportation network makes them easy to reach. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ## City Center Bristol. HOTEL \| You'll notice that great attention is paid to making you comfortable at the Bristol, one of the nicest hotels in the neighborhood around the main train station. The modern hotel features minimalist decor in soothing earth tones. A daily breakfast buffet is included in the room rate. Pros: lobby bar is open 24 hours; beautiful garden patio. Cons: unappealing neighborhood; small rooms. \| Rooms from: €160 \| Ludwigstr. 15, City Center \| 069/242–390 \| www.bristol-hotel.de \| 145 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Hilton Frankfurt. HOTEL \| This international chain's downtown Frankfurt outpost has all the perks the business traveler wants, from secretarial services to video conferencing facilities and a hip lobby bar, Gekkos, which is definitely worth a visit. Smoking rooms are available. Pros: child-friendly facilities; indoor pool, and a large terrace overlooking a park. Cons: expensive; small bathrooms. \| Rooms from: €260 \| Hochstr. 4, City Center \| 069/133–8000 \| www.frankfurt.hilton.com \| 342 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Eschenheimer Tor (U-bahn). Hotel Nizza. HOTEL \| This beautiful Victorian building close to the main train station is filled with antiques and hand-painted murals by the owner, and features a lovely roof garden with a view of the skyline. Its small size (26 rooms) gives it the feel of a B&B. Pros: antique furnishings; roof garden with shrubbery and a view of the skyline; very comfortable. Cons: the hotel is in the Bahnhof district, which can be a bit seedy at night. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Elbestr. 10, City Center \| 069/242–5380 \| www.hotelnizza.de \| 26 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn) or Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Ibis Frankfurt Centrum. HOTEL \| The Ibis is a reliable budget hotel chain, and this location offers simple, straightforward rooms on a quiet street near the river. Pros: short walk from the station and museums; 24-hour bar. Cons: far from stores and theaters. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Speicherstr. 4, City Center \| 069/273–030 \| www.ibishotel.com \| 233 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Leonardo. HOTEL \| Across the street from the main train station, this modern, sparkling hotel has its own underground garage. The rooms are some of the least expensive in town. This is part of an international chain with locations throughout Europe and in Israel, Pros: underground garage; quiet summer garden. Cons: on a busy street; in the red-light district. \| Rooms from: €59 \| Münchenerstr. 59, City Center \| 069/242–320 \| www.leonardo-hotels.com \| 106 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Manhattan. HOTEL \| Get to all parts of town quickly from this centrally located hotel. Rooms are fairly spacious and modern, and there are both nonsmoking and smoking rooms. There's no restaurant, but the hotel's bar is open around the clock. Pros: opposite the main train station; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant; in the red-light district. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Düsseldorferstr. 10, City Center \| 069/269–5970 \| www.manhattan-hotel.com \| 60 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Pension Aller. B&B/INN \| Quiet, solid comforts come with a modest price and a friendly welcome at this pension near the river. Frau Kraus, the owner, was born in this house and is always eager to share city history and sightseeing recommendations with you. Pros: economical; near the station. Cons: need to reserve well in advance. \| Rooms from: €49 \| Gutleutstr. 94, City Center \| 069/252–596 \| www.pension-aller.de \| 10 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Steigenberger Hotel Frankfurter Hof. HOTEL \| The neo-Gothic Frankfurter Hof is the first choice of visiting heads of state and business moguls, who keep coming back because of its service and luxurious rooms. It fronts on a grand courtyard, and there's little that guests desire that isn't available: massive suites in dark woods and brass with air-conditioning (rare in Germany); marble baths with whirlpool tubs; slippers; mirrored walk-in closets; 24-hour room service; and a day spa and gym. It's one of the city's oldest hotels, but its modern services earn it kudos, including for its day spa and gym. Pros: old-fashioned elegance; burnished wood floors; fresh flowers; thick carpeting. Cons: expensive rates. \| Rooms from: €249 \| Am Kaiserplatz, City Center \| 069/21502 \| www.frankfurter-hof.steigenberger.de \| 280 rooms, 41 suites \| No meals \| Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn). Westin Grand. HOTEL \| Those who like downtown Frankfurt will appreciate the Westin's location, just steps from the famous Zeil shopping street, plus all the features of a high-end chain hotel, including a fitness room, spa, pool, and sauna. It's a Westin, so each room has a Westin Heavenly Bed (they're also available for your dog). There is an impressive collection of museum-quality vintage cars in the lobby, and in an unusual retreat from the public areas, where smoking is forbidden, a swanky cigar lounge. Pros: every luxury; handy to downtown. Cons: on a noisy street. \| Rooms from: €199 \| Konrad Adenauer Str. 7, City Center \| 069/29810 \| www.westingrandfrankfurt.com \| 371 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Konstablerwache (U-bahn and S-bahn). Wyndham Grand. HOTEL \| Opened in late 2013, this newest addition to the "Mainhattan" skyline caters to business guests with free Wi-Fi, air-conditioning (unusual in German hotels), and great city views from floor-to-ceiling windows. The lobby bar has an open-pit fireplace. Pros: central location; modern decor. Cons: expensive; busy lobby. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Wilhelm-Leuschner-Str. 32/34, City Center \| 69/9074–5335 \| www.wyndhamgrandfrankfurt.com \| 285 rooms, 8 suites \| No meals. ## Messe and Westend Hessischer Hof. HOTEL \| This is the choice of many businesspeople, not just for its location across from the convention center but also for the air of class that pervades its handsome interior. Many of the public-room furnishings are antiques once owned by the family of the princes of Hesse. The Sèvres Restaurant, so called for the fine display of that porcelain arranged along the walls, features excellent contemporary cuisine. A day spa with a sauna, steam room, and gym equipment is set to open in 2014. Pros: close to the convention center and public transportation; site of Jimmy's, one of the town's cult bars. Cons: far from the stores and theaters; lobby can be crowded; very expensive. \| Rooms from: €350 \| Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage 40, Messe \| 069/75400 \| www.hessischer-hof.de \| 110 rooms, 7 suites \| No meals \| Station: Messe (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| InterCity Hotel. HOTEL \| If there ever was a hotel at the vortex of arrivals and departures, it's this centrally located one in an elegant Old World building across the street from the main train station. InterCity hotels were set up by the Steigenberger chain with the business traveler in mind. The station's underground garage is at your disposal. Pros: free passes for local transportation; discount rates for seniors. Cons: overlooks a cargo facility. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Poststr. 8, Bahnhof \| 069/273–910 \| www.intercityhotel.com \| 384 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Maritim. HOTEL \| It's so close to the Messegelände (Exhibition Center) that you can reach the exhibition halls, as this top-notch business hotel puts it, "with dry feet." It has its own underground garage, a sauna, steam bath and pool, and a sushi bar that draws many non - hotel guests. The executive floor has splendid views, especially at night, plus a lounge with breakfast and complimentary snacks, state-of-the-art business services, and many other amenities. Pros: direct access to the convention center. Cons: fairly expensive; hectic during fairs. \| Rooms from: €145 \| Theodor-Heuss-Allee 3, Messe \| 069/75780 \| www.maritim.de \| 519 rooms, 24 suites \| No meals \| Station: Messe (S-bahn). Palmenhof. HOTEL \| This luxuriously modern hotel, held in the same family for three generations, occupies a renovated art nouveau building dating from 1890. The high-ceiling rooms retain the elegance of the old building, and modern decor is enhanced with a sprinkling of antique furniture, such as an armoire or chair, in each room. Pros: near the Palmengarten; less expensive than similar hotels. Cons: no restaurant; top floor can get very hot. \| Rooms from: €165 \| Bockenheimer Landstr. 89–91, Westend \| 069/753–0060 \| www.palmenhof.com \| 45 rooms, 37 apartments, 1 suite \| Breakfast \| Station: Westend (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Roomers Hotel. HOTEL \| This lively boutique hotel features modern and sleek designs everywhere you look. On arrival, guests are greeted with a glass of cider or sparkling wine in the dark yet welcoming lobby, before being sent off to their beautifully designed rooms. If you stay here, you won't need to go far to grab a drink or something to eat, as the hotel bar and adjacent restaurant are some of the most popular places to be seen at in Frankfurt. lGrab a cocktail in the hotel bar between 5 and 9 pm and you'll receive a variety of complimentary appetizers for each drink order. Pros: great-looking rooms. Cons: expensive; probably not the best choice for families. \| Rooms from: €220 \| Gutleutstr. 85, Gutleutviertel \| 069/271342–0 \| www.roomers.eu \| 116 rooms \| No meals. ## Nordend and Bornheim Villa Orange. HOTEL \| The moderately priced rooms at this bright, charming hotel include canopy beds and spacious bathrooms. The high-ceiling lobby and breakfast room are decorated with modern art. The organic breakfast is served on a terrace in good weather, the staff is friendly and accommodating, and a library includes some English-language books. Pros: centrally located; on a quiet residential street; all rooms are smoke-free; free Wi-Fi. Cons: hard beds. \| Rooms from: €155 \| Hebelstr. 1, Nordend \| 069/405–840 \| www.villa-orange.de \| 38 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Musterschule (U-bahn). ## Sachsenhausen Jugendherberge Frankfurt. B&B/INN \| This combination youth hostel and family hotel offers clean, inexpensive, and very central accommodations in what is usually a pricey city. It's on the river in Sachsenhausen, directly across from downtown. A stay in a 10-bed dormitory room will cost you €18 a night (€23.50 if you're over 27), or have a private room with bath for a reasonable €42). That price includes breakfast, and a lunch or dinner buffet is yours for €7. In warm weather, you can eat in the outdoorgarden. You must be in by 2 am or get a key. Pros: inexpensive; no smoking, central location. Cons: basic rooms. \| Rooms from: €18 \| Deutschherrnufer 12, Sachsenhausen \| 069/610–0150 \| www.jugendherberge-frankfurt.de \| 110 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Lokalbahnhof (S-bahn). Maingau. HOTEL \| This pleasant hotel in the middle of the lively Sachsenhausen quarter has rooms that are modest but comfortable; the nightly rate includes a substantial breakfast buffet. The restaurant, Doepfner's im Maingau, is pricey, but is also one of Frankfurt's best. Pros: handy to nightlife; fantastic restaurant. Cons: on a busy street. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Schifferstr. 38–40, Sachsenhausen \| 069/609–140 \| www.maingau.de \| 78 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn). ## Outer Frankfurt Falk Hotel. HOTEL \| In the heart of Bockenheim and near numerous cafés, bars, and shops, this hotel is a good deal. The nightly rate includes a full breakfast and a discount at a nearby fitness studio. Pros: fairly low rates. Cons: well outside the city center; small rooms; no restaurant. \| Rooms from: €115 \| Falkstr. 38A, Bockenheim \| 069/7191–8870 \| www.hotel-falk.de \| 29 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Leipzigerstrasse (U-bahn). Sheraton Frankfurt. HOTEL \| This huge hotel is connected to one of Frankfurt Airport's terminals. No need to worry about noise, though - the rooms are all soundproofed. A 24-hour business center offers everything businesspeople are likely to need, including video projectors and simultaneous interpreters. In addition to three restaurants and snack shops, there is a cigar bar and lounge, and a busy lobby bar called Lemons and Limes. Pros: handy to the airport and the autobahn. Cons: far from the city center; long walk to the elevator; expensive. \| Rooms from: €559 \| Hugo-Eckener-Ring 15, Flughafen Terminal 1, Airport \| 069/69770 \| www.sheraton.com/frankfurt \| 1,008 rooms, 28 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Flughafen (S-bahn). Steigenberger Airport Hotel. HOTEL \| The sylvan beauty of this skyscraper hotel is surprising, considering that it's a half-mile from the airport and connected to it by a steady stream of shuttle buses. It's right on the edge of the city forest out of which the airport was carved, and has lots of paths for hiking and biking, plus a 250-year-old forest house that is now a hotel restaurant. There's a rooftop recreation area, with everything from a sauna to a pool, and a spectacular view of the airport and the Frankfurt skyline. Pros: near the airport; forest location. Cons: restaurants are expensive; far from downtown. \| Rooms from: €200 \| Unterschweinstiege 16, Airport \| 069/69750 \| www.steigenberger.com/en/Frankfurt_Airport \| 550 rooms, 20 suites \| No meals \| Station: Flughafen (S-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents The Arts \| Nightlife \| City Center \| Ostend \| Hausen \| Messe and Westend \| Sachsenhausen \| Fechenheim ## The Arts The Städtische Bühnen—municipal theaters, including the city's opera company—are the prime venues for Frankfurt's cultural events. The city has what is probably the most lavish theater in the country, the Alte Oper, a magnificently ornate 19th-century opera house that's now a multipurpose hall for pop and classical concerts, and dances. (These days operas are presented at the Städtische Bühnen.) Best Tickets. Theater tickets can be purchased from Best Tickets downtown in the Zeilgalerie. \| Zeil 112–114, City Center \| 069/9139–7621 \| www.journal-ticketshop.de \| Mon.–Sat. 10–8. Frankfurt Ticket. Theater, concert, and sports event tickets are all available. \| Hauptwache Passage, City Center \| 069/134–0400 \| www.frankfurtticket.de. ### Ballet, Concerts, and Opera Alte Oper. The most glamorous venue for classical-music concerts is the Alte Oper, one of the most beautful buildings in Frankfurt. Tickets to performances can range from €20 to nearly €150. \| Opernpl., City Center \| www.alteoper.de \| Weekdays 10–2. Bockenheimer Depot. Frankfurt's ballet company performs in the Bockenheimer Depot, a former trolley barn also used for other theatrical performances and music events. \| Carlo-Schmidt-Pl. 1, Bockenheim. Festhalle. The Festhalle, on the city's fairgrounds, is the scene of many rock concerts, horse shows, ice shows, sporting events, and other large-scale spectaculars. Tickets are available through Frankfurt Ticket. \| Ludwig-Erhard-Anlage 1, Messe \| 069/92 00 92–13 \| festhalle.messenfrankfurt.de. Frankfurt Opera. Widely regarded as one of the best in Europe, the Frankfurt Opera is known for its dramatic artistry. Richard Wagner and Richard Strauss both oversaw their own productions for the company. \| Städtische Bühnen, Untermainanlage 11, City Center \| 069/2124–9494 \| www.oper-frankfurt.de. Kammermusiksaal. The city is the home of the Radio-Sinfonie-Orchester Frankfurt, part of Hessischer Rundfunk. Considered one of Europe's best orchestras, it performs regularly in the 850-seat Kammermusiksaal, part of that broadcasting operation's campuslike facilities. \| Bertramstr. 8, Dornbusch \| 069/155–2000. ### Theater Theatrical productions in Frankfurt are usually in German, except for those at the English Theater. Die Schmiere. For a zany theatrical experience, try Die Schmiere, which offers trenchant cabaret-style satire and also disarmingly calls itself "the worst theater in the world." The theater is closed in summer for a "creative break." \| Seckbächerg. 4, City Center \| 069/281–066 \| www.die-schmiere.de. English Theatre. For English-language productions, try the English Theater, continental Europe's largest English-speaking theater, which offers an array of musicals, thrillers, dramas, and comedy with British or American casts. \| Gallusanlage 7, City Center \| 069/2423–1620 \| www.English-theatre.org. Internationales Theater Frankfurt. This theater bills itself as presenting "the art of the world on the Main." It also has regular performances in English, as well as in German, French, Spanish, Italian, Romanian, and Russian. \| Hanauer Landstr. 7, Ostend \| 069/499–0980 \| www.internationales-theater.de. Künstlerhaus Mousonturm. This cultural center hosts a regular series of concerts of all kinds, as well as plays, dance performances, and exhibits. \| Waldschmidtstr. 4, Nordend \| 069/4058–9520 \| www.mousonturm.de. Schauspielhaus. The municipally owned Schauspielhaus has a repertoire that includes works by Sophocles, Goethe, Shakespeare, Brecht, and Beckett, along with more contemporary plays. \| Willy-Brandt-Pl., Neue Mainzer Strafle 17, City Center \| 069/2124–9494 \| www.schauspielfrankfurt.de. ## Nightlife Most bars close between 2 am and 4 am. Nightclubs typically charge entrance fees ranging from €5 to €20. In addition, some trendy places, such as King Kamehameha, enforce dress codes—usually no jeans, sneakers, shorts or khaki pants admitted. Sachsenhausen (Frankfurt's "Left Bank") is a good place for bars, clubs, and traditional Apfelwein taverns. The fashionable Nordend has an almost equal number of bars and clubs but fewer tourists. Frankfurt was a real pioneer in the German jazz scene, and also has done much for the development of techno music. Jazz musicians make the rounds from smoky backstreet cafés all the way to the Old Opera House, and the local broadcaster Hessischer Rundfunk sponsors the German Jazz Festival in fall. The Frankfurter Jazzkeller has been the most noted venue for German jazz fans for decades. * * * German Beers The lager style that most of the world has come to know as "beer" originated in Germany. However, Germans don't just produce one beverage called beer; they brew more than 5,000 varieties in about 1,300 breweries. The hallmark of the country's dedication to beer is the Purity Law, das Reinheitsgebot, unchanged since Duke Wilhelm IV introduced it in Bavaria in 1516. The law decrees that only malted barley, hops, yeast, and water may be used to make beer, except for the specialty Weiss or Weizenbier (wheat beers). Although the law has been repealed, many breweries continue to follow its precepts. The beer preferred in most of Germany is Pils (Pilsner), which has a rich yellow hue, hoppy flavor, and an alcohol content of about 5%. Frankfurt's local Pils brands are Binding and Henninger, but Licher, from the village of Lich nearby, is especially well balanced and crisp. The area is also home to Schöfferhofer, which brews Germany's number-two style, Hefeweizen (wheat beer), which is cloudy and yeasty. Light, or helles, is sweeter than dunkel, or dark. Few German bars offer more than one type of Pils or Weizen on tap, so you'll need to hit a few bars to sample a good variety. Not a bad proposition. Quaff It Here Begin a night at Klosterhof (Weissfrauenstr. 3 \| 069/9139–9000 \| www.klosterhof-frankfurt.de \| Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz [U-bahn]), a traditional restaurant and beer garden in the City Center, where you can try Hessian favorites like Handkäs mit Musik (literally, hand cheese with music, a strong soft cheese served with chopped onions, oil, and vinegar), as well as their custom-brewed Naturtrüb, an unfiltered (and thus naturally cloudy) lager. Eckhaus (Bornheimer Landstr. 45 \| 069/491–197 \| Station: Merianplatz [U-bahn]) is the perfect neighborhood bar to down a cold Binding or two. The restaurant, in a great location just off the Berger Strasse strip in leafy Nordend, offers a solidly executed menu of standards like schnitzel and roast chicken, along with a few creative specials. * * * ## City Center ### Bars Cafe Extrablatt. In good weather the tables at this popular restaurant/café chain are scattered around the pleasant plaza in front of the medieval Eschenheimer Tower. There are happy-hour specials, and the American-style menu choices including burgers with fries, plus traditional German selections. \| Grosse Eschenheimer Str. 45, Center City \| 069/2199–4899 \| www.cafe-extrablatt.de. EuroDeli. Because this bar is near many of the city's major banks, its happy hour is weekdays from 5 to 7. There's a DJ on Tuesday. \| Neue Mainzerstr. 60–66, City Center \| 069/2980–1950 \| www.eurodeli.de \| Closed weekends and holidays. Gibson Club. This nightclub in the heart of the Zeil attracts a mostly young crowd with its live music performances by international musicians. It's open Thursday from 8 pm and Friday and Saturday from 11 pm. \| Zeil 85–93, City Center \| 069/9494–7770 \| www.gibson-club.de. ### Dance and Nightclubs Odeon. The type of crowd at Odeon depends on the night. The large club hosts student nights on Thursday, a "27 Up Club" on Friday (exclusively for guests 27 or older), disco nights on Saturday, as well as "Black Mondays"—a night of soul, hip-hop, and R&B. It's housed in a beautiful white building that looks like a museum. \| Seilerstr. 34, City Center \| 069/285–055 \| www.theodeon.de. Tigerpalast. There's not much that doesn't take place at Frankfurt's international variety theater, the Tigerpalast. Guests are entertained by international cabaret performers and the Palast's own variety orchestra. There's an excellent French restaurant that has been awarded a Michelin star, and the cozy Palastbar, under the basement arches, looks like an American bar from the 1920s. Despite pricey show tickets, shows often sell out, so book tickets as far in advance as possible. It's closed Monday. \| Heiligkreuzg. 16–20, City Center \| 069/9200220 \| www.tigerpalast.de. ### Jazz Der Frankfurter Jazzkeller. The oldest jazz cellar in Germany, Der Frankfurter Jazzkeller was founded by legendary trumpeter Carlo Bohländer. The club, which once hosted such luminaries as Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, now offers hot, modern jazz, at a cover of €5 to €25. There are jam sessions on Wednesday and "Latin-funky" dances on Friday. It's closed Sunday to Tuesday. \| Kleine Bockenheimerstr. 18, City Center \| 069/284–927 \| www.facebook.com/jazzkeller.frankfurt. Zoom. Sinkkasten, a Frankfurt musical institution, was renamed Zoom in 2013. By any name it is a class act—a great place for blues, jazz, pop, and rock, with live performances nightly, often up-and-coming ones. It's open from 9 pm to 1 am every day but Monday. \| Brönnerstr. 5, City Center \| 069/280–385 \| www.zoomfrankfurt.de. ## Ostend Jazzlokal Mampf. With posters of Chairman Mao on the walls, time seems to have stood still at the Jazzlokal Mampf. It looks straight out of the 1970s, but with live music to match, many don't think that's so bad. Since it opens at 6 pm, there's a lively after work crowd on weekdays. Closed Mondays. \| Sandweg 64, Ostend \| 069/448–674 \| www.mampf-jazz.de. King Kamehameha Club. One of Frankfurt's biggest clubs occupies several floors in the Japan Tower; there's a concert area and DJs who spin everything from soul to salsa. Get there early if you want the free buffet (6–8 pm), and stay until the wee hours if your ears can last that long. Admission is free Monday through Wednesday; other days it ranges from €3 to €5. \| Hanauer Landstr. 192, Ostend \| 069/4800–9610 \| www.king-kamehameha.de. ## Hausen Brotfabrik. An important address for jazz, rock, and disco, the "Bread Factory" really is set in a former bakery. The building houses two stages, a concert hall, two restaurants, three not-for-profit projects, an ad agency, and a gallery. \| Bachmannstr. 2–4, Hausen \| 069/2479–0800 \| www.brotfabrik.info. ## Messe and Westend Champion's Bar. Like the rest of the Marriott Hotel, the Champion's Bar is designed to make Americans feel at home. The wall of this sports bar is lined with team jerseys, autographed helmets, and photographs of professional athletes. The 23 TVs can be tuned to the American Forces Network, which carries the full range of American sports. Food leans toward buffalo wings, hamburgers, and brownies. \| Hamburger Allee 2, Messe \| 069/7955–8305 \| www.champions-frankfurt.de. Fox and Hound. Frankfurt is teeming with Irish pubs, but there is an occasional English pub, too. A good example is the Fox and Hound. Its patrons, mainly British, come to watch the latest football (soccer to Americans), rugby, and cricket matches. Enjoy the authentic British pub food; 35 whiskies, bitters and stouts; and the basket of chips. \| Niedenau 2, Westend \| 069/9720–2009 \| 10 am–1 am. Jimmy's Bar. Jimmy's Bar, the meeting place of business executives since 1951, is classy and expensive—just like the hotel it's in. There is live piano music, mostly jazz, and the kitchen is open every evening from 10 pm to 3 am. TIP You must ring the doorbell to get in, although regulars have their own keys. \| Hessischer Hof, Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage 40, Messe \| 069/7540–2461 \| www.hessischer-hof.de/en/hotel-bar-frankfurt \| Daily 8 pm–4 am. ## Sachsenhausen Balalaika. The spacious Balalaika has an intimate feel, as candles are just about the only source of light. The proprietor is Anita Honis, an American singer from Harlem, who likes to get out her acoustic guitar and perform on occasion. Everyone is invited to sing or play on the piano, which is set up for impromptu and scheduled performances. \| Schifferstr. 3, Sachsenhausen \| 069/612–226 \| Closed Sun. Stereobar. University students and young professionals frequent this bar in a cellar beneath a narrow Sachsenhausen alleyway. DJs usually spin the music, although there are occasional live acts. There's a tiny dance floor if you feel like showing off your moves. \| Abstgässchen 7, Sachsenhausen \| 069/617–116 \| www.stereobar.de. ## Fechenheim Moon 13. One of Germany's most revered electro-techno DJs, Sven Väth, spins regularly at what was formerly known as Cocoon Club. This ultramodern nightclub has several spacious dance floors that play different types of music, three bars, and two restaurants serving Asian–European dishes. Comfort is a priority throughout the expansive club filled with reclining chairs and couches, some of which are built into the walls. Techno is the presiding music genre and draws a mostly young crowd; the club is open Friday and Saturday only. TIP A night out here will take a toll on your wallet: a taxi is required to reach its location on the eastern edge of town, cover charges average €15, and cocktails are pricey. \| Carl-Benz-Str. 21, Fechenheim \| 069/900–200 \| www.moon13.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Despite an ever-growing number of skyscrapers, Frankfurt is full of parks and other green oases where you can enjoy wide-open spaces. Lohrberg Hill. In the Seckbach district, northeast of the city, Frankfurters hike the 590-foot Lohrberg Hill for a fabulous view of the town and the Taunus, Spessart, and Odenwald hills. Along the way you'll also see the last remaining vineyard within the Frankfurt city limits, the Seckbach Vineyard. Take the U-4 subway to Seckbacher Landstrasse, then Bus 43 to Draisbornstrasse. Stadtwald. South of the city lies Sachsenhausen, the huge, 4,000-acre Stadtwald (city forest) makes Frankfurt one of Germany's greenest metropoles. TIP The forest has innumerable paths and trails, bird sanctuaries, impressive sports stadiums, and a good restaurant. The Oberschweinstiege stop on streetcar Line No. 14 is right in the middle of the park. \| Sachsenhausen. Taunus Hills. The Taunus Hills are also a great getaway for Frankfurters. Take U-bahn 3 to Hohemark. ### Bicycling There are numerous biking paths within the city limits. The Stadtwald in the southern part of the city is crisscrossed with well-tended paths that are nice and flat. The city's riverbanks are, for the most part, lined with paths open to bikers. These are not only on both sides of the Main but also on the banks of the little Nidda River, which flows through Heddernheim, Eschersheim, Hausen, and Rödelheim before joining the Main at Höchst. Some bikers also like the Taunus Hills, but note that word "Hills." ### In-line Skating For those who travel with their in-line skates, the Main riverbanks and Stadtwald are great destinations. And between April and October, you can tour Frankfurt on wheels with Tuesday's In-line Skating Night, beginning at 8:30 pm in Sachsenhausen. Starting outside the Zwischendurch Sandwich Bar (Dreieichstr. 34), you cross the river and loop around the city for three hours. Only experienced skaters, with helmet and reflective clothing, are allowed to participate. ### Jogging Anlagenring. The Anlagenring ("Cityring") consists of two parallel roads that were formerly the city walls. Both are one-way streets, with the inner ring running clockwise and the outer counterclockwise to form the city center. Today it is a popular running route along many of Frankfurt's sights. ### Swimming Brentanobad. The often-crowded Brentanobad is an outdoor pool open in the summer and surrounded by lawns and old trees. There's a kids pool, a playground, a space to play beach volleyball and a beer garten \| Rödelheimer Parkweg, Rödelheim \| 069/27108–92200. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents City Center \| Westend \| Sachsenhausen Frankfurt, and the rest of Germany, no longer has restrictive laws that kept stores closed evenings and Saturday afternoons, the very times working people might want to shop. Stores now can stay open until 10 pm, but pretty much everything is still closed on Sunday except for restaurants and bakeries. The tree-shaded pedestrian zone of the Zeil is said to be one of the richest shopping strips in Germany. The section between Hauptwache and Konstablerwache famous for its incredible variety of department and specialty stores. But there's much more to downtown shopping. The subway station below the Hauptwache also doubles as a vast underground mall, albeit a rather droll one. West of the Hauptwache are two parallel streets highly regarded by shoppers. One is the luxurious Goethestrasse, lined with trendy boutiques, art galleries, jewelry stores, and antiques shops. The other is Grosse Bockenheimer Strasse, better known as the Fressgass ("Pig-Out Alley"), an extension of the Zeil that's lined with cafés, restaurants, and pricey food shops. One gift that's typical of the city is the Apfelwein. You can get a bottle of it at any grocery store, but more enduring souvenirs would be the Bembel pottery pitchers and ribbed glasses that are an equal part of the Apfelwein tradition. Then there is the sausage. You can get the "original hot dog" in cans or vacuum-packed at any grocery store. ## City Center Café Mozart. Reminiscent of a traditional coffeehouse, this café offers all types of sweets and pastries, along with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Open daily, it's on a quiet, tucked-away street that's steps from the main shopping area. \| Töngesg. 23, City Center \| 069/291–954 \| www.cafemozart-frankfurt.de/english. Galeria Kaufhof. One of Germany's biggest and most popular department stores, the Galeria Kaufhof carries clothing, jewelry, sports equipment, cosmetics, toys, and more. The Frankfurt branch has a food hall on the bottom floor; the restaurant on the top floor has great city views. \| Zeil 116–126, City Center \| 069/21910. Karstadt. One of Germany's biggest department store chains, Karstadt is known for both its brand name designer offerings and its splendid food and drink department, with plenty of opportunity to try the offerings. \| Zeil 90, City Center \| 069/929–050 \| www.karstadt.de/jsp/filialen/frankfurt-zeil.jsp. Kleinmarkthalle. The Kleinmarkthalle is a treasure trove of stands selling spices, herbs, teas, exotic fruits, cut flowers, and live fish flown in from the Atlantic. Plus, it offers all kinds of snacks in case you need a break while shopping. \| Haseng. 5–7, City Center \| 069/2123–3696 \| Weekdays 8–6, Sat. 8–4. Peek & Cloppenburg. At this huge branch of the clothing chain, men and women can find what they need for the office, gym, and nightclub. Prices range from easily affordable to sky-high for certain designer labels. \| Zeil 71–75, City Center \| 069/298–950. Pfüller Modehaus. In addition to being a major source for kids' designer clothing, Pfüller Modehaus also carries a wide range of choices on three floors for women, from classic to trendy. You're likely to find items and labels you've never seen before. \| Goethestr. 12, City Center \| 069/1337–8070. Schillerpassage. The Schillerpassage shopping area is lined with men's and women's fashion boutiques. \| Rahmhofstr. 2, City Center. Weinhandlung Dr. Teufel. Weinhandlung Dr. Teufel is well known for its wide selection of regional wines, including rare vintages costing three figures or more. There are also chocolate and cigars, a complete line of glasses, carafes, corkscrews, and other accessories, and books on all aspects of viticulture. The store also has a location in the Westend. \| Kleiner Hirschgraben 4, City Center \| 069/448989 \| www.weinteufel.de/aktuelles.htm. Zeilgallerie. The moderately priced Zeilgallerie has nearly 60 shops and an outstanding view from the rooftop terrace. \| Zeil 112–114, City Center \| Mon.–Sat. 10–8. ## Westend Café Laumer. The pastry shop at Café Laumer has local delicacies such as Bethmännchen und Brenten (marzipan cookies) and Frankfurter Kranz (a kind of creamy cake). It's open daily. \| Bockenheimer Landstr. 67, Westend \| 069/727–912 \| www.cafelaumer.de. ## Sachsenhausen Sachsenhausen's weekend flea market is on Saturday from 9 to 2 on the riverbank between Dürerstrasse and the Eiserner Steg. Purveyors of the cheap have taken over, and there's lots of discussion as to whether it is a good use for the elegant, museum-lined riverbank. TIP Get there early for the bargains, as the better-quality stuff gets snapped up quickly. Shopping success or no, the market can be fun for browsing. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Bad Homburg \| Kronberg \| Höchst Destinations reachable by the local transportation system include Höchst and the Taunus Hills, which include Bad Homburg and Kronberg. Just to the northwest and west of Frankfurt, the Taunus Hills are an area of mixed pine and hardwood forest, medieval castles, and photogenic towns many Frankfurters regard as their own backyard. It's home to Frankfurt's wealthy bankers and business executives, and on weekends you can see them enjoying their playground: hiking through the hills, climbing the Grosse Feldberg, taking the waters at Bad Homburg's health-enhancing mineral springs, or just lazing in elegant stretches of parkland. ## Bad Homburg 12 km (7 miles) north of Frankfurt. Emperor Wilhelm II, the infamous "Kaiser" of World War I, spent a month each year at Bad Homburg, the principal city of the Taunus Hills. Another frequent visitor to Bad Homburg was Britain's Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, who made the name Homburg world famous by associating it with a hat. #### Getting Here and Around Bad Homburg is reached easily by the S-bahn from Hauptwache, the main station, and other points in downtown Frankfurt. The S5 goes to Bad Homburg. There's also a Taunusbahn (from the main station only) that stops in Bad Homburg and then continues into the far Taunus, including the Römerkastell-Saalburg and Wehrheim, with bus connections to Hessenpark. Bad Homburg is about a 30- to 45-minute drive north of Frankfurt on A-5. The Bad Homburg tourist office is open until 6:30 pm weekdays, 2 pm Saturday, and is closed Sunday. #### Essentials Visitor Information Kur- und Kongress GmbH Bad Homburg. \| Louisenstr. 58 \| 06172/178–110 \| www.bad-homburg.de. ### Exploring Casino Bad Homburg. This casino boasts with some justice that it is the "Mother of Monte Carlo." The first casino in Bad Homburg, and one of the first in the world, was established in 1841, but closed in 1866 because Prussian law forbade gambling. Proprietor François Blanc then established the famous Monte Carlo casino on the French Riviera, and the Bad Homburg casino wasn't reopened until 1949. A bus from south side of Frankfurt's Hauptbahnhof leaves every 60 to 90 minutes between 2 pm and 1 am. Buses back to Frankfurt run every 1–2 hours from 4:30 pm to 4 am. The €6.10 fare will be refunded after the casino's full entry fee has been deducted. You must show a passport or other identification to gain admission. \| Kisseleffstr. 35 \| 06172/17010 \| Slot-machine area free, gaming area €2.50 \| Slot machines noon–4 am, gaming area 2:30 pm–3 am (until 4 am Thurs.–Sat.). FAMILY \| Freilichtmuseum Hessenpark. About an hour's walk through the woods along a well-marked path from the Römerkastell-Saalburg is an open-air museum at Hessenpark, near Neu-Anspach. The museum presents a clear picture of the world in which 18th- and 19th-century Hessians lived, using 135 acres of rebuilt villages with houses, schools, and farms typical of the time. The park, 15 km (9 miles) outside Bad Homburg in the direction of Usingen, can also be reached by public transportation. Take the Taunusbahn from the Frankfurt main station to Wehrheim; then transfer to Bus No. 514. \| Laubweg 5 \| Neu-Anspach \| 06081/5880 \| www.hessenpark.de \| €6 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov., daily 10–5. Grosser Feldberg. A short bus ride from Bad Homburg takes you to the highest mountain in the Taunus, the 2,850-foot, eminently hikable Grosser Feldberg. Kurpark (Spa). Bad Homburg's greatest attraction has been the Kurpark, in the heart of the Old Town, with more than 31 fountains. Romans first used the springs, which were rediscovered and made famous in the 19th century. In the park you'll find not only the popular, highly salty Elisabethenbrunnen spring, but also a Thai temple and a Russian chapel, mementos left by royal guests—King Chulalongkorn of Siam and Czar Nicholas II. FAMILY \| Römerkastell-Saalburg (Saalburg Roman Fort). The remains of a Roman fortress built in AD 120, the Römerkastell-Saalburg could accommodate a cohort (500 men) and was part of the fortifications along the Limes Wall, which ran from the Danube to the Rhine and was meant to protect the Roman Empire from barbarian invasion. The fort was restored more than a century ago. The site, which includes a museum of Roman artifacts, is 6½ km (4 miles) north of Bad Homburg on Route 456 in the direction of Usingen. It's accessible by direct bus service. \| Archäologischer Park, Saalburg 1 \| 06175/93740 \| www.saalburgmuseum.de \| €5 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Feb., Tues.–Sun. 9–4. Schloss Homburg. The most historically noteworthy sight in Bad Homburg is the 17th-century Schloss, where the Kaiser stayed when he was in town. The state apartments are exquisitely furnished, and the Spiegelkabinett (Hall of Mirrors) is especially worthy of a visit. In the surrounding park look for two cedars from Lebanon, both now about 200 years old. \| Schlofl \| Bad Homburg vor der Höhe \| 06172/926–2148 \| www.schloss-homburg.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Kartoffelküche. GERMAN \| This simple restaurant serves traditional dishes accompanied by potatoes cooked every way imaginable. The potato and broccoli gratin and the potato pizza are excellent. For dessert, try potato strudel with vanilla sauce. The charming decor includes colorful Art Deco dishes and lamps. \| Average main: €9 \| Audenstr. 4 \| 06172/21500 \| www.restaurant-kartoffelkueche.de \| No lunch Mon. Steigenberger Bad Homburg. HOTEL \| This hotel, which opened in 1883, was renowned for catering to Europe's royalty in its pre–World War I heyday, and it's still good at pleasing a well-heeled clientele. Charley's Bistro evokes Paris elegance with literary dinners and jazz brunches. Pros: old-world class; handy to the Kurpark. Cons: expensive; parking is difficult. \| Rooms from: €180 \| Kaiser-Friedrich-Promenade 69–75 \| 06172/1810 \| www.bad-homburg.steigenberger.de \| 152 rooms, 17 suites \| No meals. ## Kronberg 15 km (9 miles) northeast of Frankfurt. The Taunus town of Kronberg, 15 km (9 miles) northwest of Frankfurt, has a magnificent castle-hotel originally built by a daughter of Queen Victoria, and an open-air zoo. Kronberg's half-timber houses and crooked, winding streets, all on a steep hillside, were so picturesque that a whole 19th-century art movement, the Kronberger Malerkolonie, was inspired by them. #### Getting Here and Around Kronberg is easily reached by the S-bahn from Hauptwache, the main station, and other points in downtown Frankfurt. It's about a 30- to 45-minute drive north of Frankfurt on A66 (Frankfurt–Wiesbaden) to the Eschborn exit, following the signs to Kronberg. The tourist-information office is open Tuesday and Thursday 8–6, Wednesday 8–8, Friday 7–3, and Saturday 10–1. #### Essentials ###### Visitor Information Bürgerbüro Kronberg. This central tourist office is in the quaint suburb of Kronberg. \| Berlinerpl. 3–5 \| 06173/7030 \| www.kronberg.de. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Opel Zoo. Established by a wealthy heir of the man who created the Opel automobile, the large Opel Zoo has more than 1,400 native and exotic animals, plus a petting zoo and an area where birds fly freely. There's also a playground, a geological garden, and a picnic area with grills. Camel and pony rides are offered in summer. The zoo is spread across a large area and requires quite a bit of walking or outright hiking, so wear comfortable shoes. \| Königsteinerstr. 35 \| 06173/325–9030 \| www.opel-zoo.de \| €13; €7 children 3–14 \| Apr., May, Sept., and Oct., daily 9–6; June–Aug., daily 9–7; Nov.–Mar., daily 9–5. ### Where to Stay Schlosshotel Kronberg. HOTEL \| This magnificent palace was built for Kaiserin Victoria, daughter of the British queen of the same name and mother of Wilhelm II. It's richly filled with furnishings and works of art and is surrounded by a park with old trees, a grotto, a rose garden, and an 18-hole golf course. It's one of the few hotels left where you can leave your shoes outside your door for cleaning. Jimmy's Bar, with pianist, is a local rendezvous. Or opt for a traditional British afternoon tea. Pros: fit for royalty; shuttle service to the airport. Cons: expensive; additional €23 for breakfast. \| Rooms from: €165 \| Hainstr. 25 \| Kronberg im Taunus \| 06173/70101 \| www.schlosshotel-kronberg.de \| 51 rooms, 7 suites \| No meals. ## Höchst Take S1 or S2 suburban train from Frankfurt's main train station, Hauptwache, or Konstablerwache. Höchst, a town with a castle and an Altstadt right out of a picture book, is now part of Frankfurt. It wasn't devastated by wartime bombing, so its castle and the market square, with its half-timber houses, are well preserved. It's a romantic place for outdoor dining and drinking. For a week in July the whole Altstadt is hung with lanterns for the Schlossfest, one of Frankfurt's more popular outdoor festivals. Justinuskirche. Höchst's most interesting attraction is the Justinuskirche, Frankfurt's oldest building. Dating from the 7th century, the church is part early Romanesque and part 15th-century Gothic. The view from the top of the hill is well worth the walk. The organ concerts here are famous. \| Justinuspl. at Bolongerostr. \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 2–5; Nov.–Mar., weekends 2–4. ### Where to Stay Hotelschiff HOTEL \| This "hotel ship" is moored on the Main River, close to the Höchst Altstadt. Guest cabins are on the small side, but the river views more than compensate, and there's a common room with a television. The restaurant serves traditional German meals along with unusual scenery. Pros: pleasant river view; not good if you're subject to seasickness, but ideal if you like to be rocked to sleep. Cons: small rooms; hard-to-navigate stairs. \| Rooms from: €65 \| Batterie (Höchst Mainufer) \| 069/300–4643 \| www.hotelschiffschlott.de \| 19 rooms \| Breakfast. Lindner Congress Hotel. HOTEL \| Americans like this hotel, which is a 15-minute drive from the Frankfurt airport: if not for the American food it proudly offers, then for the sports bar and its giant TV screens. With a location on the river Main, there's ample opportunity for jogging or biking along the river. Pros: perfect for the business traveler; in a pleasant district. Cons: removed from downtown. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Bolongarostr. 100 \| 069/330–0200 \| www.lindner.de/de/LCH \| 258 rooms, 18 apartments \| No meals. ### Shopping Höchster Porzellan Manufaktur. The one real gift item produced by the area in and around Frankfurt is fine porcelain. The Höchster Porzellan Manufaktur is the second oldest porcelain producer in Germany, and draws on a tradition dating back 200 years. The workshop is open weekday 9:30 to 6 and Saturday from 9:30 to 2. \| Palleskestr. 32 \| 069/300–9020 \| www.hoechster-porzellan.de. Höchster Porzellan Manufaktur. Höchst was once a porcelain-manufacturing town to rival Dresden and Vienna. Production ceased in the late 18th century, but was revived by an enterprising businessman in 1965. The Höchster Porzellan Manufaktur produces exquisite and expensive tableware, but the intriguing part of its output is its accessories. There are replicas of 18th-century items, including vases, cuff links, and bottle stoppers. You can tour the workshop and shop at the store. \| Palleskestr. 32 \| 069/300–9020 \| www.hoechster-porzellan.de/en \| Tours €5 \| Shop: weekdays 9:30–6, Sat. 9:30–2; tours: Tues. at 10 and 3. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace The German Wine Road The Rhine Terrace Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Driving the German Wine Road \| Drinking and Driving \| Quick Bites Updated by Liz Humphreys Pfalz and wine go hand in hand. This region of vineyards and picturesque villages is the home of the German Wine Road and the country's greatest wine festival at Bad Dürkheim. Six of Germany's 13 wine-growing regions are in the area. The Pfalz has a mild, sunny climate, and that seems to affect the mood here, too. Vines carpet the foothills of the thickly forested Haardt Mountains, an extension of the Alsatian Vosges. The Pfälzerwald (Palatinate Forest) with its pine and chestnut trees is the region's other natural attraction. Hiking and cycling trails lead through the vineyards, the woods, and up to castles on the heights. The border between the Pfalz and Rheinhessen is invisible, but a few miles after crossing it you begin to get a sense of Rheinhessen's character. It's a region of gentle, rolling hills and expansive farmland, where grapes are but one of many crops; vineyards are often scattered miles apart. The slopes overlooking the Rhine between Worms and Mainz—the so-called Rhine Terrace—are a notable exception, with a nearly uninterrupted ribbon of vines, including the famous vineyards of Oppenheim, Nierstein, and Nackenheim on the outskirts of Mainz. ## Top Reasons to Go Wine: German Rieslings are some of the most versatile white wines in the world—on their own or with food. If you've only had the sweeter style, then the rest may be a revelation. Festivals: Wine is a great excuse for merrymaking, and there are scores of wine festivals throughout the region. The biggest and best is in the town of Bad Dürkheim, which features a wine barrel the size of a building. Pfälzerwald: The Palatinate Forest is a paradise for hiking and cycling. Even a brief walk under the beautiful pine and chestnut trees is relaxing and refreshing. Castles: Burg Trifels and Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe are a contrast in style, inside and out. Both are wonderful settings for concerts. Cathedrals: The cathedrals in Speyer, Worms, and Mainz are the finest examples of grand-scale Rhenish Romanesque architecture in Germany. ## Getting Oriented If you're arriving from the dramatic stretch of the Rhine centered on the Loreley and Koblenz to the north, you'll notice how the landscape here is far gentler. So, too, is the climate in this region of the Rhine Valley, guarded at its northern edge by the medieval city of Mainz and touching the French border at its southern extreme. This helps the land give birth to some of Germany's greatest wines. ## What's Where The German Wine Road. The picturesque Deutsche Weinstrasse (German Wine Road) weaves through the valleys and among the lower slopes of the Haardt Mountains. Along its length is a string of pretty half-timber wine-producing villages, each more inviting than the last. The Rhine Terrace. Rheinhessen, or "Rhine Terrace," is a broad fertile river valley, where grapes are but one of many crops. Here the medieval cities of Mainz, Worms, and Speyer all bear testament to the great power and wealth brought by the important trading route created by the mighty Rhine itself. ## Planning ### When to Go The wine-festival season begins in March with the Mandelblüten (blossoming of the almond trees) along the Wine Road and continues through October. By May the vines' tender shoots and leaves appear. As the wine harvest progresses in September and October, foliage takes on reddish-golden hues. #### Festivals Attending a wine festival is fun and a memorable part of any vacation in wine country. You can sample local food and wine inexpensively, and meet winegrowers without making an appointment. Wine, Sekt (sparkling wine), and Schorle (wine spritzer) flow freely from March through October at festivals that include parades, fireworks, and rides. See www.germanwines.de for an events calendar with an up-to-date overview of the many smaller, local wine festivals that take place in virtually every village. Brezelfest (Pretzel Festival). Beer and pretzels are central to this annual six-day celebration, held the second weekend in July in Speyer. Other highlights include carnival rides and games, and a grand parade. \| Festpl. \| Speyer \| www.brezelfest-speyer.de. Deidesheim Weinkerwe. For 10 days in August, the wine town of Deidesheim fills up with stalls where visitors can sample local wines and hearty cuisine. Deidesheim's wineries also stay open late, offering live entertainment most nights during the festival. \| Marktpl. \| Deidesheim. Deutsches Weinlesefest (German Wine Harvest Festival). In Neustadt, the German Wine Queen is crowned during this 10-day wine festival in early October. The festival includes the largest wine festival parade in Germany and a huge fireworks display on the final night. \| Near Neustadt train station \| Neustadt \| www.neustadt.eu/Wein-Tourismus/Deutsches-Weinlesefest. Dürkheimer Wurstmarkt (Sausage Market). The Pfalz is home to the world's largest wine festival, held in Bad Dürkheim in mid-September. Some 400,000 pounds of sausage are consumed during eight days of merrymaking. \| Sankt-Michaels-Allee 1 \| Bad Dürkheim \| www.duerkheimer-wurstmarkt.de. Mainzer Johannisnacht (Mainz Midsummer St. John's Night Festival). Live performances from local and international bands, as well as theater and cabaret performances, are done on six stages in the city center in late June. Since the festival is at least nominally in honor of Johannes Gutenberg, printers' apprentices are also dunked in water as part of a "printers' baptism" ceremony in front of the Gutenberg Museum. \| Various locations \| Mainz \| www.johannisnacht.de. Wormser Backfischfest (Fried Fish Festival). Carnival rides, traditional folk music and dance, jousting on the Rhine, and fireworks create a jovial atmosphere at this annual festival, starting in late August, which honors the city's fishermen. Don't pass up the chance to taste more than 400 wines at the festival's Wonnegauer Wine Cellar. \| Festpl. \| Worms \| www.backfischfest.de \| Late Aug.–early Sept. ### Planning Your Time Central hubs such as Bad Dürkheim or Neustadt make good bases for exploring the region; smaller towns such as St. Martin and Gleiszellen are worth an overnight stay because of their charm. Driving the Wine Road takes longer than you might expect, and will probably involve spur-of-the-moment stops, so you may want to consider a stopover in one of the many country inns en route. When traveling with children, Neustadt and Worms are convenient bases from which to explore nearby Holiday Park. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel Frankfurt is the closest major international airport for the entire Rhineland. International airports in Stuttgart and France's Strasbourg are closer to the southern end of the German Wine Road. If you're traveling from within Europe, the frequently disliked Ryanair hub in the remote Frankfurt suburb of Hahn is actually a convenient jumping-off point for a tour of the region, with bus service to Koblenz, Heidelberg, and Karlsruhe. #### Bike Travel There's no charge for transporting bicycles on local trains throughout Rheinland-Pfalz weekdays after 9 am and anytime weekends and holidays. For maps, suggested routes, bike-rental locations, and details on Pauschalangebote (package deals) or Gepäcktransport (luggage-forwarding service), contact Pfalz.Touristik or Rheinhessen-Touristik. #### Car Travel It's 162 km (100 miles) between Schweigen-Rechtenbach and Mainz, the southernmost and northernmost points of this region. The main route is the Deutsche Weinstrasse, which is a Bundesstrasse, abbreviated "B," as in B-38, B-48, and B-271. The route from Worms to Mainz is B-9. #### Train Travel Mainz is on the high-speed ICE (InterCity Express) train route linking Wiesbaden, Frankfurt, and Dresden, and so forms a convenient gateway to the region. An excellent network of public transportation called Rheinland-Pfalz-Takt operates throughout the region with well-coordinated RegioLinie (buses) and Nahverkehrszüge (local trains). Regional trains link Mainz with other towns along the Rhine Terrace, including Worms and Speyer, while local branch lines serve key hubs along the Wine Road such as Neustadt and Bad Dürkheim. (Even more direct express trains are on schedule to be added by 2015 as part of a large-scale expansion project.) Smaller towns and villages connect with these hubs by an excellent network of local buses. TIP The Rheinland-Pfalz Ticket is a great value if you plan to travel on the train. The ticket costs €22 for the first person and €4 for each additional person, up to five people. It's valid for a whole day, beginning at 9 am on weekdays and midnight on weekends and holidays. It can be used on all regional trains and buses, but not the high-speed ICE trains. ### Restaurants Lunch in this region is generally served from noon until 2 or 2:30, dinner from 6 until 9:30 or 10. Credit cards have gained a foothold, but many restaurants will accept only cash or debit cards issued by a German bank. Casual attire is typically acceptable at restaurants here, and reservations are generally not needed. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels Book in advance if your visit coincides with a large festival. Bed-and-breakfasts abound. Look for signs reading "Fremdenzimmer" or "Zimmer frei" (rooms available). A Ferienwohnung (holiday apartment), abbreviated FeWo in tourist brochures, is an economical option if you plan to stay in one location for several nights. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Discounts and Deals The Freizeit Card (€14 for one day, €41.50 for three days, €66 for six days) offers free or reduced admission to 168 museums, castles, and other sights, as well as city tours and boat trips throughout Rheinland-Pfalz and Saarland. The days you use the three- and six-day cards needn't be consecutive, as long as they're in the same season. The six-day card also includes admission to the Holiday Park in Hassloch. The website www.freizeitcard.info lists all of the sites you can visit with the card, and also gives you the opportunity to order it online. You can also buy it at all the community tourist offices in the region. ### Visitor Information Contacts Deutsche Weinstrasse. \| Martin-Luther-Str. 69, \| Neustadt a.d. Weinstrasse \| 06321/912–333 \| www.deutsche-weinstrasse.de \| Mon.–Thurs. 8:30–5, Fri. 8:30–1. Pfalz.Touristik. \| Martin-Luther-Str. 69, \| Neustadt a.d. Weinstrasse \| 06321/39160 \| www.pfalz.de \| Jan.–Mar., Mon.–Thurs. 8–5, Fri. 8–4; Apr.–Dec., Mon.–Thurs. 8–5, Fri. 8–4, Sat. 10–noon. Pfalzwein. \| Martin-Luther-Str. 69, \| Neustadt a.d. Weinstrasse \| 06321/912–328 \| www.pfalzwein.de \| Mon.–Thurs. 8:30–5, Fri. 8:30–1. Rheinhessen-Touristik. \| Friedrich-Ebert-Str. 17, \| Ingelheim \| 06132/44170 \| www.rheinhessen.de \| Weekdays 9–5. Rheinhessenwein. \| Otto-Lilienthal-Str. 4, \| Alzey \| 06731/951–0740 \| www.rheinhessenwein.de. Rheinland-Pfalz Tourismus. \| 01805/915–200 for info hotline, €.14/min., mobile max €.42/min. \| www.rlp-info.de. Südliche Weinstrasse. \| An der Kreuzmühle 2, \| Landau \| 06341/940–407 \| www.suedlicheweinstrasse.de. * * * The Wines of Rheinland-Pfalz The Romans planted the first Rhineland vineyards 2,000 years ago, finding the mild, wet climate hospitable to grape growing. By the Middle Ages viticulture was flourishing and a bustling wine trade had developed. Wine making and splendid Romanesque cathedrals are the legacies of the bishops and emperors of Speyer, Worms, and Mainz. This region, now the state of Rheinland-Pfalz (Rhineland Palatinate), remains a major wine center, with two of the largest wine districts in the country, Rheinhessen and the Pfalz. In the Pfalz, you can follow the Deutsche Weinstrasse as it winds its way north from the French border. Idyllic wine villages beckon with flower-draped facades and courtyards full of palms, oleanders, and fig trees. "Weinverkauf" (wine for sale) and "Weinprobe" (wine-tasting) signs are posted everywhere—an invitation to stop in to sample the wines. Most of the wines from both Pfalz and Rheinhessen are white, and the ones from Rheinhessen are often fragrant and sweeter than their counterparts from the Pfalz. Many are sold as offene Weine (wines by the glass). The classic white varieties are Riesling, Silvaner, Müller-Thurgau (also called Rivaner), Grauburgunder (pinot gris), and Weissburgunder (pinot blanc). Spätburgunder (pinot noir), Dornfelder, and Portugieser are the most popular red wines. The word Weissherbst, after the grape variety, indicates a rosé wine. Riesling is the king of German grapes. It produces wines that range widely in quality and character; Rieslings are noted for their strong acidity, sometimes-flowery aroma, and often mineral-tasting notes—all reflections of the soil in which they're grown. Riesling made its name throughout the world as a sweet (lieblich) wine, but many Germans (and, increasingly, others) prefer dry (trocken) versions. Importers, especially in the United States, have tended not to bring over many dry Rieslings, so take the opportunity to sample some while in Germany. * * * ## Driving the German Wine Road Due to its sunny skies, warm weather, and fertile fields, many Germans consider the Pfalz their version of Tuscany. In addition to vineyards, the mild climate fosters fig, lemon, and chestnut trees. The best time for a drive is early spring, when the path is awash in pink and white almond blossoms, or early fall, when you can sample sweet young wines. The Deutsche Weinstrasse begins in Schweigen-Rechtenbach and runs alongside the Bundesstrassen (highways) B-38 and B-271. Yellow signs depicting a cluster of grapes guide visitors along a picturesque path of villages and vineyards north, to the end of the route at the "House of the German Wine Road" in Bockenheim. The entire road is just a little more than 50 miles and can be driven in a few hours. However, it can easily turn into a two-day drive if you stop to sample the local wines. Get an early start and allow yourself to get lost in the charming villages along the way, leaving ample time for a hike or two (or perhaps a bike ride) among the beautiful vines. The entire route is scenic, but if you're short on time, the stretch between Gleiszellen and Bad Dürkheim is particularly rich with castles, vineyards, and vistas. If you opt to start at Schweigen-Rechtenbach on the French border, the southernmost point of the route, you can begin by snapping a photo in front of the Deutsches Weintor (German Wine Gate). Otherwise, pick up the route in Gleiszellen, where you should stop to savor a glass of the hard-to-find Muskateller wine, with its distinctly sweet aroma. Weinstube Wissing has a homey atmosphere and offers Muskateller in red, yellow, and rosé varieties. Depending on the time of year, your trip may coincide with a local wine or produce festival—as you drive, keep your eyes peeled for signs advertising "Weinfest." Summer is the best time for festivals, but there are roadside stands with seasonal produce year-round. When you arrive in Edenkoben, stretch your legs at the Pompeian-style palace Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe, then continue uphill via the Rietburgbahn chairlift to the vantage point at the Rietburg Castle Ruins. Evening is the perfect time for the journey, when the pathway is lit by Chinese lanterns (the chairlift is open until midnight in summer). If you plan to split the drive into two days, the neighboring village of St. Martin is an ideal place to overnight because it's about halfway through the drive. Spend the next morning exploring the winding streets of this charming village on foot. Continue north, driving leisurely through the vineyards of Deidesheim and Forst, and stopping off at the imposing ruins of Burgruine Hardenburg (Hardenburg Fortress). End your day with a visit to the world's biggest wine barrel in Bad Dürkheim. ## Drinking and Driving Germany has strict laws against driving (and biking) under the influence, so if you're planning to take advantage of the numerous Weinprobe (wine samples) offered along the route, make sure you have a designated driver. Alternatively, just let the vintner know what you like, and he can help you pick a bottle to enjoy when you reach your final destination. ## Quick Bites Alter Kastanienhof. For a delicious rendition of the regional specialty Saumagen (meat and potatoes cooked in a sow's stomach), stop here. The restaurant has a charming interior courtyard and sunny south-facing terrace. \| Theresienstr. 79 \| Rhodt u. Rietburg \| 06323/81752 \| No credit cards. Consulat des Weines. Oenophiles won't want to miss this Vinothek in the charming village of St. Martin. It offers more than 80 varieties of wine from its vineyards in St. Martin and nearby Edenkoben (cash only). There's also a hotel and restaurant on-site. \| Maikammerer Str. 44 \| St. Martin \| 06323/8040 \| www.schneider-pfalz.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. after noon. Wochenmarkt. Head to this farmers' market on Saturday for flowers, bread, wine, meats, cheeses, and vinegars. \| Am Obermarkt \| Bad Dürkheim \| 06323/8040 \| www.wochenmarkt-duerkheim.de \| Sat. 7 am–1 pm. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Schweigen-Rechtenbach \| Bad Bergzabern \| Gleiszellen \| Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe \| St. Martin \| Neustadt \| Speyer \| Deidesheim \| Bad Dürkheim The Wine Road spans the length of the Pfalz wine region. You can travel from north to south or vice versa. Given its central location, the Pfalz is convenient to visit before or after a trip to the Black Forest, Heidelberg, or the northern Rhineland. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Schweigen-Rechtenbach 21 km (13 miles) southwest of Landau on B-38. The southernmost wine village of the Pfalz lies on the French border. During the economically depressed 1930s, local vintners established a route through the vineyards to promote tourism. The German Wine Road was inaugurated in 1935; a year later the massive stone Deutsches Weintor (German Wine Gate) was erected to add visual impact to the marketing concept. Halfway up the gateway is a platform that offers a fine view of the vineyards—to the south, French, to the north, German. Schweigen's 1-km (½-mile) Weinlehrpfad (educational wine path) wanders through the vineyards and, with signs and exhibits, explains the history of viticulture from Roman times to the present. ## Bad Bergzabern 10 km (6 miles) north of Schweigen-Rechtenbach on B-38. The landmark of this little spa town is the baroque Schloss (palace) of the dukes of Zweibrücken. The Gasthaus Zum Engel (Königstr. 45) is an impressive Renaissance house with elaborate scrolled gables and decorative oriels. TIP Visit Café Herzog (Marktstr. 48) for scrumptious, homemade chocolates, cakes, and ice creams made with unexpected ingredients, such as wine, pepper, cardamom, curry, thyme, or Feigenessig (fig vinegar). The café is closed Monday. #### Getting Here and Around From Landau, you can take the regional train to Bad Bergzabern, which takes about an hour and requires a change in Winden (Pfalz). Bus No. 543 also connects Bad Bergzabern along the Wine Road to Schweigen, over the French border to Wissembourg. The Rheinland-Pfalz ticket is valid on the train and the bus until the French border. ### Where to Stay Hotel–Restaurant Zur Krone. HOTEL \| Behind a simple facade is this inn, with modern facilities, upscale and tasteful furnishings, an open fireplace perfect for cold winters, and, above all, a warm welcome from the Kuntz family. In the hotel's Michelin-starred restaurant, chef Karl-Emil Kuntz prepares a set menu with French/Mediterranean touches ($$$, reservations essential). Terrines and parfaits are favorites, as is the homemade goat cheese. The same kitchen team also serves regional specialties at the Pfälzer Stube ($$ - $$$). The wine list is excellent. The hotel's in Hayna, a suburb of Herxheim 20 km (12 mi) east of Bad Bergzabern via B-427. Pros: quiet location; friendly atmosphere; great food. Cons: a detour off the Wine Road (about a half-hour drive); not many activities in the surrounding area. \| Rooms from: €135 \| Hauptstr. 62–64 \| Herxheim-Hayna \| 07276/5080 \| www.hotelkrone.de \| 66 rooms, 8 suites \| Restaurant Zur Krone closed Mon. and Tues., 1st 2 wks in Jan., and 3 wks in Aug. No lunch. \| Breakfast. ## Gleiszellen 4 km (2½ miles) north of Bad Bergzabern on B-48. Gleiszellen's Winzergasse (Vintners' Lane) is a little vine-canopied street lined with a beautiful ensemble of half-timber houses. Try a glass of the town's specialty: spicy, aromatic Muskateller wine, a rarity seldom found even elsewhere in Germany. #### Getting Here and Around Gleiszellen is on the No. 543 bus line that runs from Landau to the French border town of Wissembourg. The bus runs hourly. Off the Beaten Path: Burg Trifels. Burg Trifels is on the highest of three sandstone bluffs overlooking Annweiler, which is 15 km (9 miles) northwest of Gleiszellen. Celts, Romans, and Salians all had settlements on this site, but it was under the Hohenstaufen emperors (12th and 13th centuries) that Trifels was built on a grand scale. It housed the crown jewels from 1125 to 1274 (replicas are on display today). It was also an imperial prison, perhaps where Richard the Lionheart was held captive in 1193–94. Although it was never conquered, the fortress was severely damaged by lightning in 1602. Reconstruction began in 1938, shaped by visions of grandeur to create a national shrine of the imperial past. Accordingly, the monumental proportions of some parts of today's castle bear no resemblance to those of the original Romanesque structure. The imperial hall is a grand setting for the Serenaden (concerts) held in summer. Arriving on foot: From the main train station in Annweiler, follow the local signs for Burg Trifels. The hike is about an hour. Arriving by car: Follow the A65 direction Karl-Ludwigshafen, take exit Landau-Sued, then B10 to Annweiler West. From there follow the local signs. Parking is at the foot of the fortress, a 20-minute walk from the top. \| Trifels \| Annweiler \| 06346/8470 \| www.burgen-rlp.de \| €3 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct., Nov., and Jan.–Mar., daily 9–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Weinstube Wissing. GERMAN \| Friendly service and a homey atmosphere awaits guests this restaurant. Wines, fine spirits, and regional delicacies are offered in the former premises of the family-owned distillery. Don't miss a chance to sample their fruity Muskateller wine, and you might also want to pick up a bottle of their fresh Pfälzer Traubensaft (grape juice) for a tasty souvenir. \| Average main: €15 \| Winzerg. 34 \| 06343/4711 \| www.weingut-wissing.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch Wed.–Sat. Fodor's Choice \| Gasthof Zum Lam. B&B/INN \| Flowers cascade from the windowsills of this half-timber inn in the heart of town, where the good rates include free Wi-Fi and an enjoyable breakfast buffet. Pros: quiet location; charming courtyard; beautiful old building. Cons: no elevator; no a/c. \| Rooms from: €86 \| Winzerg. 37 \| 06343/939–212 \| www.zum-lam.de \| 11 rooms, 1 apartment \| Restaurant closed Wed. No lunch Nov.–Mar. \| Breakfast. ## Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe 24 km (15 miles) north of Annweiler, slightly west of Edenkoben on the Wine Road. For a cultural break from all that wine tasting, head to this Pompeian-style palace, followed by a chairlift ride with wonderful views to reach the vantage point of the Rietburg Castle Ruins. Or get your heart racing by following the example of the hardy German tourists who can often be seen hiking uphill between the two sights. Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe. Bavaria's King Ludwig I built a summer residence on the slopes overlooking Edenkoben, in what he called "the most beautiful square mile of my realm." The layout and decor of the palace—Pompeian-style murals, splendid parquet floors, and Biedermeier and Empire furnishings—are quite a contrast to those of medieval castles elsewhere in the Pfalz. You can reach the neoclassical Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe by car, bus, or walking. The No. 506 Palatina bus goes directly from Edenkoen on Sunday and holidays. If you opt to walk, the Weinlehrpfad takes about 45 minutes. Historical winepresses and vintners' tools are displayed at intervals along the path, which starts at the corner of Landauer Strasse and Villa Strasse in Edenkoben. \| Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe, Villastr. 64 \| Edenkoben \| 06323/93016 \| www.schloss-villa-ludwigshoehe.de \| €6 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 10–6; Oct., Nov., and Jan.–Mar., daily 10–5. FAMILY \| Rietburg Castle Ruins. From Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe you can hike (30 minutes) or ride the Rietburgbahn chairlift (10 minutes) up to the Rietburg ruins for a sweeping view of the Pfalz. During a festive Lampionfahrt in July and August (dates vary each year), the chairlift operates until midnight on Saturdays, and the route is lit by dozens of Chinese lanterns. A restaurant, game park, and playground are on the grounds. \| Villa Strasse 67 \| Edenkoben \| 06323/1800 \| www.rietburgbahn-edenkoben.de \| Chairlift €6.50 round-trip, €4.50 one-way \| Mar., Sun. 9–5; Apr. and May, weekdays 9–5, weekends 9–6; June–Oct., weekdays 9–5:30, weekends 9–6; Nov. 1–10, daily 9–5. * * * Eating Well in the Pfalz Wine has a big influence on the cuisine here, turning up as an ingredient in dishes as well as an accompaniment to them. The Weinkraut is sauerkraut braised in wine; Dippe-Has is hare and pork baked in red wine; and Backes Grumbeere is scalloped potatoes cooked with bacon, sour cream, white wine, and a layer of pork. During the grape harvest, from September through November, there is Federweisser—fermenting grape juice. Among the regional dishes well suited to wine is the Pfälzer Teller—a platter of bratwurst, Leberknödel (liver dumplings), and slices of Saumagen (a spicy meat-and-potato mixture cooked in a sow's stomach), with Kartoffelpüree (mashed potatoes) on the side. Spargel (asparagus), Wild (game), chestnuts, Zwiebelkuchen (onion quiche), and mushrooms, particularly Pfifferlinge (chanterelles), are seasonal favorites. * * * ### Where to Stay Alte Rebschule. HOTEL \| Fireside seating in the lobby lounge and spacious rooms (all with a balcony) make for a pleasant, peaceful stay in this former Rebschule (vine nursery) on the edge of the forest. The prices include a breakfast buffet, four-course dinner, and use of the sauna, steam room, pool, and gym. The restaurant ($$) serves light, seasonal cuisine with Asian and Mediterranean accents. Themed excursions (wine, culture, nature) are available, as are health and wellness treatments. Rhodt proper is a 15-minute walk from the hotel. lBe sure to take a stroll along Theresienstrasse with its venerable old chestnut trees. It's one of the most picturesque lanes of the Pfalz. Pros: beautiful vineyard views; quiet; good restaurant. Cons: room decor a bit old-fashioned; no Wi-Fi in rooms, only DSL. \| Rooms from: €194 \| 3 km (2 miles) west of Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe, Theresienstr. 200 \| Rhodt u. Rietburg \| 06323/70440 \| www.alte-rebschule.de \| 34 rooms, 3 suites \| Some meals. ## St. Martin 26 km (16 miles) north of Annweiler, slightly west of the Wine Road. Turn left at the northern edge of Edenkoben. This is one of the most charming wine villages of the Pfalz. Narrow cobblestone streets go past historic half-timber houses that now hold appealing inns, restaurants, and wine shops, making the compact, historically preserved Altstadt (Old Town) a pleasure to stroll. #### Getting Here and Around The easiest way to reach St. Martin is by car. There's no train station, but Bus No. 501 connects St. Martin with Neustadt and Edenkoben. The trip takes about 20 minutes, and the buses run approximately every half hour. ### Exploring Kropsburg. Now romantic ruins, this castle was originally constructed in the early 13th century and was used by the bishops of Speyer; from the 15th to the 19th centuries, the Knights of Dalberg resided there. You can see Kropsburg from the hills above St. Martin. Hike up to the castle's outskirts, where you can have a traditional sausage lunch at the charming inn and restaurant Burgschänke an der Kropsburg ($) while admiring the views. \| Kropsburg 1 \| Restaurant closed Tues. No dinner. Pfarrkirche St. Martin (Church of St. Martin). Perched dramatically on the northern edge of St. Martin with a backdrop of vineyards, this late-Gothic church was thought to have been built around 1200 (the interior was renovated in the mid-1980s). Renaissance tombstones and a Madonna sculpture carved from a single piece of oak are among the intriguing artworks found inside. \| Kirchgasse 6 \| 06323/5100. ### Where to Stay Landhaus Christmann. B&B/INN \| This bright, modern house in the midst of the vineyards outside of St. Martin has stylish rooms decorated with both antiques and modern furnishings, and is close enough to walk into town. Some rooms have balconies with a view of the Hambacher Schloss. You can also buy antiques here. Pros: excellent value rooms; quiet location. Cons: rooms are very simple; breakfast costs extra (€10) if you're staying in an apartment. \| Rooms from: €92 \| Riedweg 1 \| 06323/94270 \| www.landhaus-christmann.de \| 6 rooms, 3 apartments \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| St. Martiner Castell. HOTEL \| The Mücke family transformed a simple vintner's house into a fine hotel and restaurant, retaining many of the original features, such as exposed beams and an old winepress. Modern amenities include an elevator, a sauna, and freshly renovated bathrooms. Though it's in the center of town, the hotel is peaceful, particularly the rooms with balconies overlooking the garden. A native of the Loire Valley, Frau Mücke includes French influences in the menu ($$ - $$$). The wine list offers a good selection of bottles from a neighboring estate. Pros: beautiful old house; central location; free Wi-Fi in rooms. Cons: can be noisy; not all rooms are nonsmoking. \| Rooms from: €104 \| Maikammerer Str. 2 \| 06323/9510 \| www.hotelcastell.de \| 24 rooms, 2 suites \| Restaurant closed Tues. \| Breakfast. ### The Arts Schloss Villa Ludwigshöhe, Kloster Heilsbruck (a former Cistercian convent near Edenkoben), and Schloss Edesheim serve as backdrops for concerts and theater in summer. For a calendar of events, contact the Südliche Weinstrasse regional tourist office in Landau (06341/940–407 \| www.suedlicheweinstrasse.de). ### Shopping Doktorenhof. Artist Georg Wiedemann is responsible for both the contents and the design of the containers at Germany's premier wine-vinegar estate, Doktorenhof. Make an appointment for a unique vinegar tasting and tour of the cellars or pick up a gift at his shop (cash only). The estate's in Venningen, 2 km (1 mile) east of Edenkoben. \| Raiffeisenstr. 5 \| Venningen \| 06323/5505 \| www.doktorenhof.de \| Weekdays 8–4, Wed. 8–6, and Sat. 9–2. En Route: Leave St. Martin via the Totenkopf-Höhenstrasse, a scenic road through the forest. Turn right at the intersection with Kalmitstrasse and proceed to the vantage point atop the Kalmit, the region's highest peak (2,200 feet). The view's amazing. Hambacher Schloss. On the Wine Road, it's a brief drive to the Neustadt suburb of Hambach. The sturdy block of Hambacher Schloss is considered the cradle of German democracy. It was here, on May 27, 1832, that 30,000 patriots demonstrated for German unity, raising the German colors for the first time. Inside there are exhibits about the uprising and the history of the castle. The French destroyed the 11th-century imperial fortress in 1688. Reconstruction finally began after World War II, in neo-Gothic style, and the castle is now an impressive setting for theater and concerts. On a clear day you can see the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral and the northern fringe of the Black Forest from the terrace restaurant. Tours take about 45 minutes and begin at 11, noon, 2, 3, and 4 from April to October, and at 11, noon, and 2 from November to March. \| Hambach \| Neustadt \| 06321/926–290 \| www.hambacher-schloss.de \| €8 \| Mar.–Nov., daily 10–6; Dec.–Feb., daily 11–5. ## Neustadt 8 km (5 miles) north of St. Martin, 5 km (3 miles) north of Hambach on the Wine Road. Neustadt and its nine wine suburbs are at the midpoint of the Wine Road and the edge of the district known as Deutsche Weinstrasse–Mittelhaardt. With around 5,000 acres of vines, they jointly make up Germany's largest wine-making community. #### Getting Here and Around Regular trains connect Neustadt with Ludwigshafen (connecting to Worms and Mainz). Coming from Speyer, change in Schifferstadt. Local buses connect Neustadt to other towns along the Wine Road. Once you're in Neustadt, the best way to get around is on foot. Neustadt tours cost €5 and take place April through October, Wednesday and Saturday at 10:30. #### Essentials Visitor Information Neustadt-an-der-Weinstrasse. \| Tourist-Information, Hetzelpl. 1 \| 06321/926–892 \| www.neustadt.pfalz.com \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 9:30–6, Sat. 9:30–2; Nov.–Mar., weekdays 9:30–5. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Eisenbahn Museum. Thirty historic train engines and railway cars are on display at the Eisenbahn Museum, behind the main train station. Take a ride through the Palatinate Forest on one of the museum's historic steam trains, the Kuckucksbähnel (€14 round-trip), which departs from Track 5 around 10:45 am some Sundays and Wednesdays between Easter and mid-October (check the website for the latest schedule). It takes a little over an hour to cover the 13-km (8-mile) stretch from Neustadt to Elmstein. \| Neustadt train station, Schillerstr. entrance \| 06321/30390 \| www.eisenbahnmuseum-neustadt.de \| €5 for adults, €2 for children 4–14 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–1, weekends 10–4. FAMILY \| Elwetrischen fountain. While in the Pfalz, keep your eyes peeled for the elusive Elwetritschen—mythical, birdlike creatures rumored to roam the forest and vineyards at night. Hunting the creatures is something of a local prank. Sculptor Gernot Rumpf has immortalized the Elwetrischen in a fountain on Marstallplatz. Near the market square, hunt for the one that "escaped" from its misty home. End a walking tour of the Old Town on the medieval lanes Metzgergasse, Mittelgasse, and Hintergasse to see beautifully restored half-timber houses, many of which are now pubs, cafés, and boutiques. \| Marstallplatz. Haus des Weines (House of Wine). At the Haus des Weines, opposite the town hall, you can sample some 30 of the 100 Neustadt wines sold. The Gothic house from 1276 is bordered by a splendid Renaissance courtyard, the Kuby'scher Hof. \| Rathausstr. 6 \| 06321/355–871 \| www.haus-des-weines.com \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, Sat. 10–2. * * * Biking, Hiking, and Walking Country roads and traffic-free vineyard paths make the area perfect for cyclists. There are also well-marked cycling trails, such as the Radwanderweg Deutsche Weinstrasse, which runs parallel to its namesake from the French border to Bockenheim, and the Radweg (cycling trail) along the Rhine between Worms and Mainz. The Palatinate Forest, Germany's largest single tract of woods, has more than 10,000 km (6,200 miles) of paths. The Wanderweg Deutsche Weinstrasse, a walking route that traverses vineyards, woods, and wine villages, covers the length of the Pfalz. It connects with many trails in the Palatinate Forest that lead to Celtic and Roman landmarks and dozens of castles dating primarily from the 11th to 13th century. In Rheinhessen you can hike along two marked trails parallel to the Rhine: the Rheinterrassenwanderweg and the Rheinhöhenweg along the heights. * * * Marktplatz (market square). The Marktplatz is the focal point of the Old Town and a beehive of activity on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, when farmers come to sell their wares. The square itself is ringed by baroque and Renaissance buildings (Nos. 1, 4, 8, and 11) and the Gothic Stiftskirche (Collegiate Church), built as a burial church for the Palatinate counts. In summer, concerts take place in the church (Saturday 11:30–noon). Afterward, you can ascend the southern tower (187 feet) for a bird's-eye view of the town. The world's largest cast-iron bell—weighing more than 17 tons—hangs in the northern tower. Indoors, see the elaborate tombstones near the choir and the fanciful grotesque figures carved into the baldachins and corbels. \| Marktplatz \| www.stiftskirche-nw.de. Quick Bites: Café Sixt. For the best coffee and cake or handcrafted pralines in town, head to Café Sixt. The Pfälzer Kirschtorte (cherry torte) is a favorite. \| Hauptstr. 3 \| 06321/2192 \| www.cafesixt.de. Otto Dill Museum. The impressionist painter Otto Dill (1884–1957), a native of Neustadt, is known for powerful animal portraits (especially lions, tigers, and horses) and vivid landscapes. The Otto Dill Museum displays some 100 oil paintings and 50 drawings and watercolors from the Manfred Vetter collection. \| Rathausstr. 12, at Bachgängel 8 \| 06321/398–321 \| www.otto-dill-museum.de \| €2.50 \| Wed. and Fri. 2–5, weekends 11–5. ### Where to Eat Altstadtkeller bei Jürgen. GERMAN \| Tucked behind a wooden portal on a cobblestone street, this vaulted sandstone "cellar" (it's actually on the ground floor) feels very cozy. Equally inviting is the terrace, with its citrus, olive, palm, and fig trees. The regular menu includes a number of salads and a good selection of fish and steaks. Owner Jürgen Reis is a wine enthusiast, and his well-chosen list shows it. \| Average main: €18 \| Kunigundenstr. 2 \| 06321/32320 \| www.altstadtkeller-neustadt.de \| Closed Mon. No dinner Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Nett's Restaurant-Weinbar. GERMAN \| Susanne and Daniel Nett operate a chic wine restaurant-bar filled with modern art within a 16th-century vaulted stone cellar at Weingut A. Christmann, a top wine estate. The short, seasonal menu has Spanish and Italian influences, with such dishes as gnocchi and pot au feu with crayfish, which is served with asparagus, morels, peas, and tomatoes. The thoughtful wine list includes lots of Pfälzer wines by the glass, including those from the Christmann winery. Dining in the intimate courtyard overlooking the vineyards is a romantic option in summer. The Netts also offer seven rooms ($) for overnight guests, each with hardwood floors and Wi-Fi. \| Average main: €20 \| Meerspinnstr. 46 \| Neustadt-Gimmeldingen \| 06321/60175 \| www.nettsrestaurant.de \| Closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch except summer Sun. and some holidays. Fodor's Choice \| Urgestein. GERMAN \| Dine inside the cozy brick-lined former horse stables or outside on the lovely patio at this restaurant inside the historic stone houses of the Steinhauser Hof hotel (its name, Urgestein, translates as "stone"). The ambitious tasting menus highlight local products and are best when paired with one of the 350 wines from the massive wine list, all from the Pfalz region. Splurge on the six-course surprise menu for €130 (including wine pairings), or try the €95 six-course or €70 four-course menus (wine is extra); you can also order such à la carte dishes as pigeon marinated for a week with carrots that have been roasted for an hour, chanterelle cream, and sunflower seeds; or sea turbot with a prune cream and baby cabbage. Leave room for the tasty desserts, including brioche with caramel sauce and honey ice cream. \| Average main: €25 \| Rathausstr. 6 \| 06321/489–060 \| www.restaurant-urgestein.de \| Closed Mon. No dinner Sun. Weinstube Eselsburg. GERMAN \| The Esel (donkey) lends its name to his wine pub and one of its specialties, Eselssuppe, a hearty soup of pork, beef, and vegetables. The season dictates the menu here, but it's packed with regulars throughout the year. In spring, you can enjoy locally produced goat's cheese. In summer, savor top Pfälzer wines in the flower-filled courtyard, or in the warmth of an open hearth in winter. From October to April, try the Schlachtfest (meat and sausages from freshly slaughtered pigs) the first Tuesday of the month. \| Average main: €14 \| Kurpfalzstr. 62 \| Neustadt-Mussbach \| 06321/66984 \| www.eselsburg.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon., and 5 days in Aug. No lunch, except during Schlachtfest. ### Where to Stay Gästehaus Rebstöckel. B&B/INN \| This 17th-century stone guesthouse has its beautiful cobblestone courtyard and magnificent fig tree; all the rooms have blond-wood furnishings, and some have kitchenettes. Wine tastings and vineyard hikes can be arranged, and cycling fans can rent bikes at a shop around the corner. Neustadt proper is 5 km (3 mi) north. A winter garden and wine café have been added to the courtyard. Pros: quiet; friendly; rustic location. Cons: no Internet; light from street lamp may bother light sleepers. \| Rooms from: €79 \| Kreuzstr. 11 \| Neustadt-Diedesfeld \| 06321/484–060 \| www.gaestehaus-rebstoeckel-pfalz.de/en \| 5 rooms \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. Mithras-Stuben/Weinstube Kommerzienrat. RENTAL \| In the picturesque village of Gimmeldingen, the convivial proprietor and wine devotee Bernd Hagedorn rents four spacious apartments with contemporary furnishings, Oriental rugs, and modern baths. Even if you're staying elsewhere, the restaurant ($ - $$) is worth a visit. On a garden terrace edged by lemon trees, diners can sample from 30 Pfälzer wines by the glass (and 250 imported wines by the bottle). Rumpsteak (beef steak), served with tasty Bratkartoffeln (home-fried potatoes), and Pfälzer Gyros (thin slices of beef topped with cheese and onions) are perennial favorites. Pros: spacious; perfect for longer stays. Cons: no elevator; no a/c. \| Rooms from: €65 \| Loblocherstr. 34 \| Neustadt-Gimmeldingen \| 06321/679–0335, 06321/68200 after 6 pm \| www.weinstube-kommerzienrat.de \| 4 apartments \| No credit cards \| Closed 2 wks in late Apr. Restaurant closed Thurs.; no lunch \| No meals. Steinhäuser Hof. HOTEL \| This architectural gem dates back to 1276 and is one of the oldest preserved stone mansions in Rhineland-Palatinate. The rooms are on the small side and have few frills, but are a good value for the prime location in the center of the Altstadt. A jazz club attached to the handsome restaurant draws in German and international musicians several times a month. Though there's no parking on-site, it's available in a public lot a couple blocks away. Pros: beautiful old building; central location; friendly staff; renowned restaurant. Cons: basic rooms; some street noise; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €82 \| Rathausstr. 6 \| 06321/489–060 \| www.steinhaeuserhof.de \| 6 rooms \| Restaurant closed Mon. No dinner Sun. \| No meals. ### Nightlife and the Arts Herrenhof. Concerts, art exhibits, and wine festivals are held at the Herrenhof in the suburb of Mussbach. Owned by the Johanniter-Orden (Order of the Knights of St. John) from the 13th to 18th century, it's the oldest wine estate in the Pfalz. Contact the Neustadt tourist office for program details and tickets. \| An der Eselshaut 18 \| 06321/963–9990 \| www.herrenhof-mussbach.de. Saalbau. The Saalbau, opposite the train station, is Neustadt's convention center and main venue for concerts, theater, and events. \| Bahnhofstr. 1 \| 06321/926–812. Villa Böhm. In summer there's open-air theater at Villa Böhm, which also houses the city's history museum. \| Maximilianstr. 25 \| 06321/855–540 \| www.stadtmuseum-neustadt.de \| Museum open Wed. and Fri. 4–6 and Sat. and Sun. 11–1 and 3–6. ### Shopping Keramik-Atelier Ingrid Zinkgraf. After seeing the water-spewing Elwetritschen fountain in action, you might want to take one home. The pottery store Keramik-Atelier Ingrid Zinkgraf has amusing ceramic renditions of the mythical birds, as well as modern and traditional pottery and sculptures. \| Weinstr. 1, Am Klemmhof \| 06345/942–143 \| www.keramikatelier-zinkgraf.de \| Apr.–Oct., Wed.–Sat. 2–6; Nov.–Mar. by appt. En Route: Holiday Park. The Holiday Park, in Hassloch, 10 km (6 mi) east of Neustadt, is one of Europe's largest amusement parks. The admission fee covers all attractions, shows including the Waterski Stuntshow, special events, and the children's world. The free-fall tower, hell barrels, and Thunder River rafting are long-standing favorites, and Expedition GeForce has the steepest drop (82 degrees) of any roller coaster in Europe. For a great panoramic view of the surroundings, whirl through the air on Lighthouse-Tower, Germany's tallest carousel (265 feet). On Friday and Saturday in summer, the "Summer Nights" spectacular features live music and an outdoor laser light show. \| Holiday Parkstr. 1–5 \| 06324/59930 \| www.holidaypark.de \| €27.99 \| Mid-Mar.–June, Sept., and Oct., daily 10–6; July and Aug., Sun.–Fri. daily 10–6, most Sat. 10 am –10:30 pm. ## Speyer 25 km (15 miles) east of Neustadt via B-39, 22 km (14 miles) south of Mannheim via B-9 and B-44. Speyer was one of the great cities of the Holy Roman Empire, founded in pre-Celtic times, taken over by the Romans, and expanded in the 11th century by the Salian emperors. Between 1294, when it was declared a Free Imperial City, and 1570, no fewer than 50 imperial diets were convened here. The term "Protestant" derives from the Diet of 1529, referring to those who protested when the religious freedom granted to evangelicals at the Diet of 1526 was revoked and a return to Catholicism was decreed. The neo-Gothic Gedächtniskirche on Bartolomäus-Weltz-Platz commemorates those 16th-century Protestants. #### Getting Here and Around Speyer is a little ways off the German Wine Road. It is served by regular trains from Mannheim and Mainz. Buses go down the main street, but the center is compact enough that getting around on foot is not a problem. Tours (€5) are Saturday at 11 and 2, and Sunday at 11 year-round. #### Essentials Visitor Information Speyer. \| Tourist-Information, Maximilianstr. 13 \| 06232/142–392 \| www.speyer.de \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 9–5, Sat. 10–3, Sun. 10–2; Nov.–Mar., weekdays 9–5, Sat. 10–noon. ### Exploring Altpörtel. Ascend the Altpörtel, the impressive town gate, for a grand view of Maximilianstrasse, the street that once led kings and emperors straight to the cathedral. \| Rossmarktstr. 1 \| €1.50 \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 10–noon and 2–4, weekends 10–5. Historisches Museum der Pfalz (Palatinate Historical Museum). Opposite the cathedral, the museum houses the Domschatz (Cathedral Treasury). Other collections chronicle the art and cultural history of Speyer and the Pfalz from the Stone Age to modern times. Don't miss the "Golden Hat of Schifferstadt," a Bronze Age headdress used in religious ceremonies dating back to approximately 1300 BC. The Wine Museum houses the world's oldest bottle of wine, which is still liquid and dates to circa AD 300. The giant 35-foot-long wooden winepress from 1727 is also worth a look. \| Dompl. 4 \| 06232/620–222, 06232/13250 \| www.museum.speyer.de \| €7, special exhibitions €12 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Fodor's Choice \| Jewish Quarter. Speyer was an important medieval Jewish cultural center. In the Jewish quarter, behind the Palatinate Historical Museum, are synagogue remains from 1104; Germany's oldest (circa 1126) Mikwe, the 33-foot-deep ritual baths; and the Museum SchPIRA, which displays objects such as grave stones and coins from the Middle Ages. \| Kleine Pfaffeng. 21, near Judeng. \| 06232/291–971 \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. Fodor's Choice \| Kaiserdom (Imperial Cathedral). The Kaiserdom, one of the finest Romanesque cathedrals in the world and a UNESCO World Heritage site, conveys the pomp and majesty of the early Holy Roman Emperors. It was built between 1030 and 1061 by the emperors Konrad II, Henry III, and Henry IV.TIP There's a fine view of the east end of the structure from the park by the Rhine. Much of the architectural detail, including the dwarf galleries and ornamental capitals, was inspired and executed by stonemasons from Lombardy, which belonged to the German Empire at the time. The four towers symbolize the four seasons and the idea that the power of the empire extends in all four directions. Look up as you enter the nearly 100-foot-high portal. It's richly carved with mythical creatures. In contrast to Gothic cathedrals, whose walls are supported externally by flying buttresses, allowing for a minimum of masonry and a maximum of light, at Speyer the columns supporting the roof are massive. The Krypta (crypt) lies beneath the chancel. It's the largest crypt in Germany and is strikingly beautiful in its simplicity. Four emperors, four kings, and three empresses are buried here. \| Edith-Stein-Pl. \| 06232/102–118 \| Donation requested \| Apr.–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 9–7, Sun. noon–5; Nov.–Mar., Mon.–Sat. 9–5, Sun. noon–5; closed during services. FAMILY \| Sea Life. If you're traveling with kids or just need some indoor entertainment on a rainy day, Sea Life, in Speyer's old harbor, has aquariums that offer a look at marine life in the Rhine as well as the world's oceans. TIP Save money on the entrance fee by booking your tickets online in advance. \| Im Hafenbecken 5, 15-min walk from large parking lot on Festpl. \| 06232/69780 \| www.sealife.de \| €15.50 \| Daily 10–5 or 10–6, depending on dates (check website). * * * The Altrhein From April to October, you can take a brief river cruise to the north or south of Speyer to discover the idyllic landscape of the ancient, forested islands along the Altrhein, the original course of the Rhine. The islands are home to rare flora, fauna, and many birds. There are grand views of the cathedral from the boat. Fahrgastschifffahrt Speyer. In the summer months, boat tours depart from just outside the Sea Life Aquarium at noon, 2, and 4. The trip lasts about 1½ hours and offers a unique look at Speyer's old harbor. \| Hafenstr. 22 \| 06232/291–150 \| www.ms-sealife.de \| €9. Pfälzerland Fahrgastschiff. Enjoy a peaceful tour of the Speyer harbor on a ship built for 200 passengers. Homemade cakes and drinks are available on board. On Tuesday through Friday, 1½-hour tours depart at 1 and 3, and on Saturday at 3. The pick-up and drop-off point is on the Leinpfad. \| Dock: Leinpfad (via Rheinallee), on the Rhine riverbank, Rheinalle 2 \| 06232/71366 \| www.personenschifffahrt-streib.de \| €9.50. * * * FAMILY \| Technik-Museum (Technology Museum). A turn-of-the-20th-century factory hall houses the Technik-Museum, an impressive and vast collection of locomotives, aircraft, old automobiles, and fire engines. Automatic musical instruments, historical dolls and toys, and 19th-century fashion are displayed in the Wilhelmsbau. Highlights of the complex are the 420-ton U-boat (you can go inside) and the massive 3-D IMAX cinemas. There is also an exhibition hall devoted to outer space.TIP Allow at least three hours to visit this extensive museum, which covers several large buildings. \| Am Technik Museum 1 \| 06232/67080 \| www.technik-museum.de \| Museum €14, IMAX €10, combined ticket €19 \| Weekdays 9–6, weekends 9–7. ### Where to Eat and Stay Kutscherhaus. GERMAN \| Charming rustic decor and a profusion of flowers have replaced the Kutschen (coaches) in this turn-of-the-20th-century coachman's house. The menu offers Flammkuchen (similar to pizza but with a wafer-thin crust) as well as creative fish, vegetarian, and pasta dishes. Ochsenbrust mit Meerrettichsauce (beef brisket with horseradish sauce) is a favorite. In summer you can sit beneath the old plane trees in the beer garden for a sumptuous buffet. \| Average main: €12 \| Fischmarkt 5a \| 06232/70592 \| www.kutscherhaus-speyer.de \| Closed Wed. No lunch Thurs. Beer garden closed Oct.–Apr. Rabennest. GERMAN \| It's small and often packed with local families, but the rustic cooking in this cozy restaurant is worth the wait. Hearty portions of regional specialties will delight both your mouth and your wallet. The Leberknoedel (liver dumplings) and Rumpsteak (round steak) are both excellent, and there's also a nice the selection of fresh salads. In the summer months, the patio seating is great for people-watching. \| Average main: €7 \| Korngasse 5 \| 06232/623–857 \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. Ratskeller. GERMAN \| Friendly service and fresh seasonal dishes make for an enjoyable dining experience in the town hall's vaulted cellar (1578). The frequently changing menu offers creative soups and other starters (pretzel soup, Tuscan bread soup) and entrées, such as Sauerbraten nach Grossmutters Art (grandmother's marinated pot roast) or Bachsaibling (brook trout in a red wine–butter sauce). Wines from the Pfalz predominate, with 18 available by the glass. Small plates and drinks are served in the courtyard May through September. \| Average main: €15 \| Maximilianstr. 12 \| 06232/78612 \| www.ratskeller-speyer.de \| Closed Mon. and 2–3 wks in Feb. No dinner Sun. Wirtschaft Zum Alten Engel. GERMAN \| This 200-year-old vaulted brick cellar has rustic wood furnishings and cozy niches. Seasonal dishes made from local ingredients supplement the large selection of Pfälzer and Alsatian specialties, such as Ochsenfetzen (slices of beef in garlic sauce), Fleeschknepp (spicy meatball in horseradish sauce), or a hearty Pfälzer Platte (a platter of bratwurst, Saumagen, and Leberknödel with sauerkraut and home-fried potatoes). The wine list features about 180 Pfälzer, European, and New World wines. \| Average main: €17 \| Mühlturmstr. 7 \| 06232/70914 \| www.zumaltenengel.de \| No lunch. Hotel Goldener Engel. HOTEL \| A scant two blocks west of the Altpörtel is the "Golden Angel," a friendly, family-run hotel furnished with antiques and innovative metal-and-wood designer furniture. Paintings by contemporary artists and striking photos of Namibia and the Yukon line the walls - the photos are a tribute to proprietor Paul Schaefer's wanderlust. Though the guestrooms themselves are a tad dated, they're very comfortable. Pros: friendly; good location. Cons: some rooms are a little small; air conditioned rooms cost €10 extra; charge for Wi-Fi. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Mühlturmstr. 5–7 \| 06232/13260 \| www.goldener-engel-speyer.de \| 44 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts City highlights for music lovers are Orgelfrühling, the organ concerts in the Gedächtniskirche (Memorial Church) in spring, the jazz festival in mid-August, and the concerts in the cathedral during September's Internationale Musiktage. Contact the Speyer tourist office for program details and tickets. Kulturhof Flachsgasse. Walk into the town-hall courtyard to enter the Kulturhof Flachsgasse, home of the city's art collection and special exhibitions. \| Flachsg. 3 \| 06232/142–399 \| Free \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. ## Deidesheim 8 km (5 miles) north of Neustadt via the Wine Road, B-271. The half-timber houses and historical facades on Deidesheim's Marktplatz make a handsome group. Sites of interest include the Gothic Church of St. Ulrich, the Rathaus, and the elegant Hotel Deidesheimer Hof. In August, the Deidesheim Weinkerwe (wine festival) begins at the Markplatz, and in December, it's the site of a lively Christmas market. Deidesheim is the first of three Wine Road villages that are renowned for their vineyards and the wine estates in the area, known as the Three Bs of the Pfalz—Bassermann, Buhl, and Bürklin-Wolf. As for Deidesheim itself, it's got some romantic restaurants tucked into hidden courtyards and some of the most upscale hotels in the region—though the main reason to visit remains the chance to taste some of the best wines the Pfalz has to offer at the numerous Weingüter (wineries) lining the streets. Most are open to visitors daily year-round. #### Tours The Deidesheim visitor center conducts tours May through October on Saturday at 10 (€3). #### Essentials Visitor Information Deidesheim. \| Tourist-Information, Bahnhofstr. 5 \| 06326/96770 \| www.deidesheim.de \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 9–noon and 2–5, Sat. 9–12:30; Nov.–Mar., weekdays 9–noon and 2–5. ### Exploring Church of St. Ulrich. A Gothic gem inside and out, this is the only 15th-century church in the Palatinate region whose walls have been entirely preserved, though the interior has changed according to the style of the times. Though looted during the French Revolution and turned into a wine warehouse and later a military prison, the basic exterior structure of the church hasn't been altered. The interior includes stained glass that dates from the Middle Ages and wooden figures from around 1500. \| Pfarrgasse 3 \| 06326/345 \| www.st-ulrich-deidesheim.de. Rathaus und Museum für Weinkultur (Town Hall and Museum of Wine Culture). The old Rathaus, whose doorway is crowned by a baldachin and baroque dome, is on the Marktplatz. The attractive open staircase leading up to the entrance is the site of the festive Geissbock-Versteigerung (billy-goat auction) every Pentecost Tuesday, followed by a parade and folk dancing. The goat is the tribute neighboring Lambrecht has paid Deidesheim since 1404 for grazing rights. Inside, in addition to a richly appointed Ratssaal (council chamber), is a museum of wine culture, which examines the importance of wine throughout history. There's also a wine bar where you can taste and buy wines from the area. \| Marktpl. 9 \| 06326/981–561 \| www.weinkultur-deidesheim.de \| Donation requested \| Mar.–Dec., Wed.–Sun. 4–6. Schloss Deidesheim. Vines, flowers, and Feigenbäume (fig trees) cloak the houses behind St. Ulrich on Heumarktstrasse and its extension, Deichelgasse (nicknamed Feigengasse). To see the workshops and ateliers of about a dozen local artists and goldsmiths, follow the Künstler-Rundweg, a signposted trail (black on yellow signs). The tourist office has a brochure with a map and opening hours. Cross the Wine Road to reach the grounds of Schloss Deidesheim, now a wine estate and pub. The bishops of Speyer built a moated castle on the site in the 13th century. Twice destroyed and rebuilt, the present castle dates from 1817, and the moats have been converted into gardens. \| Schlossstr. 4 \| 06326/96690 \| www.schloss-deidesheim.de \| Pub: Apr.–Oct., closed Tues., no lunch Mon.–Thurs.; Nov.–Mar., dinner only Fri.–Sun., lunch weekends only. ### Where to Eat and Stay Gasthaus Zur Kanne. GERMAN \| This friendly family-run restaurant, with an outdoor stone-walled patio hidden inside a lovely courtyard, has been a guesthouse of some sort since 1160. The short but smart menu focuses on the local and seasonal, listing the producers of every product; the Pfalz-focused wine list is organized by the towns where the bottles were produced. The set menu of three courses for €27 (€37 with wine pairings) is a good deal. If they're available, the red-deer meatballs and chanterelles with dumplings are both delicious regional options. As a bonus, this is one of the only dining options in the region with an English menu. \| Average main: €21 \| Weinstr. 31 \| 06326/96600 \| www.gasthauszurkanne.de \| Closed Mon. and Tues. Fodor's Choice \| Restaurant Freundstück im Ketschauer Hof. GERMAN \| An 18th-century complex in a beautiful park is the home to the Bassermann-Jordan wine estate and an elegant restaurant, which has one Michelin star. Inside the restaurant and the bistrolike wine bar, elements of the original structures harmonize with modern, minimalist decor. The chef prepares elaborate dishes in the restaurant and upscale regional dishes in the wine bar. To truly take in the range of dishes, try one of the tasting menus, priced from €89 to €109, though you can also order à la carte. \| Average main: €55 \| Ketschauerhofstr. 1 \| 06326/70000 \| www.ketschauer-hof.com \| Closed 3 wks in Jan. Restaurant closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch Sat. and Tues. Restaurant St. Urban. GERMAN \| Named after the patron saint of the wine industry, this upscale wine restaurant offers traditional Palatinate cuisine and wines from more than 50 local wineries. If the weather is nice, have a ginger fizz (an aperitif of lemon, gin, and ginger) on the terrace before sampling one of the hearty regional dishes. \| Average main: €22 \| Hotel Deidesheimer Hof, Am Marktpl. 1 \| 06326/96870 \| www.deidesheimerhof.de \| Closed 2 wks in Jan. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Deidesheimer Hof. HOTEL \| Despite the glamour of some of its clientele—the heads of state, entertainers, and sports stars line the guest book—this hotel retains its country charm and friendly service. Rooms are luxurious, and several have baths with round tubs or whirlpools. Half the rooms were renovated with modern decor; others retain a more old-fashioned, rustic appearance. Chef Stefan Neugebauer heads the one Michelin-starred restaurant Schwarzer Hahn ($$$$). Among the specialties are Alsatian foie gras with sauternes jelly, brioche, and honey-yogurt, and veal heart with ponzu, mint, pea, and sesame. Pros: some rooms have whirlpool baths; friendly staff; central location on the Marktplatz. Cons: breakfast costs an impressive €21. \| Rooms from: €125 \| Am Marktpl. 1 \| 06326/96870 \| www.deidesheimerhof.de \| 24 rooms, 4 suites \| Hotel closed 2 wks in Jan. Restaurant closed Sun. and Mon., Jan. to mid-Feb., and early July to late Aug. No lunch. \| No meals. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Ketschauer Hof. HOTEL \| This sleek, sophisticated former manor-house, one of the only modern design hotels in the region attracts a discerning crowd. Rooms are decorated in soothing neutral colors and bedecked with funky chandeliers; the glass-enclosed bathrooms feature luxurious oversized tubs. There's also a small but inviting wellness area, which offers beauty treatments in addition to a steam room and sauna. Pros: beautiful design; close to the center of town; friendly service. Cons: expensive, and breakfast costs €25 extra; few public spaces in the hotel. \| Rooms from: €230 \| Ketschauerhofstr. 1 \| 06326/70000 \| www.ketschauer-hof.com \| 5 rooms, 13 suites \| No meals. Landhotel Lucashof. HOTEL \| The beautifully decorated, modern guest rooms are named after famous vineyards in Forst, and six have balconies—the Pechstein room is particularly nice. You can enjoy excellent wines in the tasting room, beneath a shady pergola in the courtyard, or in the privacy of your room (the refrigerator in the breakfast room is stocked for guests). The pubs in Forst's Old Town are a three-minute walk away. Pros: quiet location; friendly; good value. Cons: far from the sights; difficult to reach without a car. \| Rooms from: €82 \| Wiesenweg 1a \| Forst \| 06326/336 \| www.lucashof.de \| 7 rooms \| No credit cards \| Closed mid-Dec.–Jan. \| Breakfast. En Route: Forst and Wachenheim, both a few minutes' drive north of Deidesheim, complete the trio of famous wine villages. As you approach Forst, depart briefly from B-271 (take the left fork in the road) to see the Old Town and its vine- and ivy-clad sandstone and half-timber vintners' mansions. Peek through the large portals to see the lush courtyards. Many estates on this lane have pubs, as does the town's Winzerverein (cooperative winery). Wachenheim is another 2 km (1 mile) down the road. Its cooperative, Wachtenburg Winzer (with a good restaurant), is on the left at the entrance to town. Head for the Wachtenburg (castle) ruins up on the hill for a glass of wine. The Burgschänke (castle pub) is open if the flag is flying. ## Bad Dürkheim 6 km (4 miles) north of Deidesheim on B-271. This pretty spa-town is nestled into the hills at the edge of the Palatinate Forest and ringed by vineyards. The saline springs discovered here in 1338 are the source of today's drinking and bathing cures, and at harvest time there's a detoxifying Traubenkur (grape-juice cure). The town is the site of the Dürkheimer Wurstmarkt, the world's largest wine festival, held in mid-September. Legendary quantities of Weck, Worscht, un Woi (dialect for rolls, sausage, and wine) are consumed at the fair, including enough wine to fill half a million Schoppen, the region's traditional glasses, which hold a half-liter (about a pint). The festival grounds are also the site of the world's largest wine cask, the Dürkheimer Riesenfass, with a capacity of 450,000 gallons. Built in 1934 by an ambitious cooper, the cask is now a restaurant that can seat more than 450 people. #### Getting Here and Around Regional trains link Bad Dürkheim with Freinsheim and Neustadt. Once in town, all the hotels and restaurants are within easy walking distance. Bad Dürkheim has tours (€4–€5.50, including a glass of champagne) May through October. The departing on Monday at 11 and on Thursday and Saturday at 10:30 in front of the Tourist-Information office. You can check with Tourist-Information for a number of other interesting programs, including a Wine Road tour, wine tastings, and visits to the cure facilities. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bad Dürkheim. \| Tourist-Information, Kurbrunnenstr. 14 \| 06322/956–6250 \| www.bad-duerkheim.com \| Mar.–early Nov., weekdays 9–6; early Nov.–Feb., weekdays 9–5. ### Exploring Burgruine Hardenburg (Hardenburg Fortress). The massive ruins of 13th-century Hardenburg Castle lie 3 km (2 miles) west (via B-37) of Kloster Limburg. In its heyday, it was inhabited by more than 200 people. It burned down in 1794. \| B-37 \| 06322/7530 \| www.schloss-hardenburg.de \| €3 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Jan.–Mar., Oct., and Nov., Tues.–Sun. 9–4:30. Heidenmauer (literally, "heathen wall"). One kilometer northwest of town lies the Heidenmauer, the remains of an ancient Celtic ring wall more than 2 km (1 mile) in circumference and up to 20 feet thick in parts. The remnants are on the Kastanienberg, above the quarry. Nearby are the rock drawings at Kriemhildenstuhl, an old Roman quarry where the legionnaires of Mainz excavated sandstone. Kloster Limburg (Limburg Monastery). Overlooking the suburb of Grethen are the ruins of Kloster Limburg. Emperor Konrad II laid the cornerstone in 1030, supposedly on the same day that he laid the cornerstone of the Kaiserdom in Speyer. The monastery was never completely rebuilt after a fire in 1504, but it's a majestic backdrop for open-air performances in summer. From the tree-shaded terrace of the adjacent restaurant Spötzl's Klosterschänke Limburg ($–$$), you can combine good food and wine with a great view. \| Luitpoldweg 1 \| 06322/935–140 \| www.klosterschaenkelimburg.de \| €1 for tower visit \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–8; Nov.–Mar., daily 9–5:30. Restaurant closed Mon. mid-Apr.–Nov., and closed Mon. and Tues. Nov.–mid-Apr. ### Where to Eat Dürkheimer Riesenfass. GERMAN \| Sure, it's a bit of a tourist trap, but then again, how often do you get the chance to eat in the world's biggest wine barrel? The two-story "giant cask" is divided into various rooms and niches with rustic wood furnishings. Venture upstairs to see the impressive Festsaal mit Empore (banquet hall with gallery). There's also extensive outdoor seating if the weather's nice. Regional wines, Pfälzer specialties, and international dishes are served year-round. \| Average main: €14 \| St. Michael Allee 1 \| 06322/2143 \| www.duerkheimer-fass.de. Petersilie. GERMAN \| Behind a group of lush, potted plants and a sign on a pink-and-white house reading "bier- und weinstube tenne" stands this gem, which stands out from the many other cafés and eateries on Römerplatz. Patio seating is great for people-watching; indoors is warm and cozy, with rustic wooden tables, beamed ceilings, and pillow-lined benches. The three-course Sunday menu ($) is a great value and a good way to experience the homey Pfälzer cuisine here. \| Average main: €15 \| Römerpl. 12 \| 06322/4394 \| www.weinstube-petersilie.de. ### Where to Stay Mercure Hotel Bad Dürkheim an den Salinen. HOTEL \| Within walking distance to the center of town, this well-maintained chain hotel offers free admission to the Salinarium water park and spa next door, where there are indoor and outdoor pools and wellness treatments. Though rooms are rather basic, they all have work desks, and the superior guestrooms do have pleasant balconies. Pros: free Wi-Fi; plenty of free parking; three restaurants and two bars in the hotel. Cons: not a lot of character. \| Rooms from: €135 \| Kurbrunnenstr. 30–32 \| 06322/6010 \| www.mercure.com \| 100 rooms \| Breakfast. Weingut Fitz-Ritter. B&B/INN \| At the Fitz-Ritter wine estate there are two different places to stay: a centuries-old stone cottage that sleeps up to four people and has its own pool on the parklike grounds, and four more rooms in a courtyard full of oleanders, palms, fig trees, and nesting swallows. There are concerts and festivals in the garden, courtyard, and vaulted cellars. You can also taste the Fitz-Ritter wines in a wine bar and shop. Pros: quiet location amid the vines; friendly staff; short walk to the town center. Cons: minimum stay in the cottage is seven nights; on weekends Apr.–Oct. all four rooms need to be rented together. \| Rooms from: €100 \| Weinstr. Nord 51 \| 06322/5389 \| www.fitz-ritter.de \| 1 cottage, 4 rooms \| No meals. Weingut und Gästehaus Ernst Karst und Sohn. B&B/INN \| Rooms at this cheerful guesthouse in the middle of the vineyards are airy and furnished mostly in pine; all of them have splendid views of the countryside, which you are invited to explore on bikes that you can borrow. The guesthouse is next to the Karst family's wine estate, and tastings and cellar tours are available (Tues. - Sat. 10 - noon and 2 - 6; Sun. and holidays by appointment). Pros: quiet vineyard location; friendly staff. Cons: rooms include breakfast, but apartments don't; far from the sights. \| Rooms from: €75 \| In den Almen 15 \| 06322/2862 \| www.weingut-karst.de \| 3 rooms, 6 apartments \| No credit cards \| Closed Nov.–Feb. \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Spielbank (Casino). This casino is open daily at 11 am for the slot machines, 2 pm for roulette and poker, and 6 pm for blackjack. Jacket and tie are no longer required, but tennis shoes, T-shirts, and shorts are not allowed. Be certain to bring your passport for identification; the minimum age is 18. \| Kurparkhotel, Schlosspl. 6 \| www.casino-bad-duerkheim.de \| €3.50. ### Shopping Weindom. Several hundred wines from Bad Dürkheim and vicinity can be sampled and purchased at this shop, next to the Dürkheimer Riesenfass (giant cask). The shop also sells other grape products and accessories. \| St.-Michaels-Allee 10 \| www.weindom.de \| Daily 10–6. En Route: Roman wine estate. When the vineyards of Ungstein, a suburb north of Bad Dürkheim, were modernized in 1981, a Roman wine estate was unearthed. Among the finds was an ancient Kelterhaus (pressing house). Although you can view the open-air ancient wine estate at any time, because it's basically alongside the road, you can see the winepress at work only during an annual wine festival that held in late June. To get here, look for signs to Villa Weilberg, to the left of the Wine Road (B-271). \| Villa Weilberg \| 06322/935–140. ### Sports and the Outdoors Kurhaus Staatsbad. The Kurhaus Staatsbad houses all kinds of bathing facilities, including thermal baths, herbal steam baths, a sauna, and a hammam (Turkish bath). \| Kurbrunnenstr. 14 \| 06322/9640 \| www.kurzentrum-bad-duerkheim.de \| Mon., Tues., Thurs., and Fri. 9–8, Wed. 9–8, Sat. 9–5, Sun. 9–2:30. En Route: Neuleiningen is 4 km (2½ miles) west of the Wine Road town Kirchheim. Bockenheim, 10 km (6 miles) north, is dominated by an imposing gateway. There's a panoramic view of the Pfalz's "sea of vineyards" from the viewing platform. Like its counterpart in Schweigen-Rechtenbach, the Haus der Deutschen Weinstrasse marks the end (or start) of its namesake, the German Wine Road. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Worms \| Oppenheim \| Nierstein \| Nackenheim \| Mainz Like Speyer, the cities of Worms and Mainz were Free Imperial Cities and major centers of Christian and Jewish culture in the Middle Ages. Germany's first synagogue and Europe's oldest surviving Jewish cemetery, both from the 11th century, are in Worms. The imperial diets of Worms and Speyer in 1521 and 1529 stormed around Martin Luther (1483–1546) and the rise of Protestantism. In 1455 Johannes Gutenberg (1400–68), the inventor of the printing press and of movable type in Europe, printed the first Gutenberg Bible in Mainz. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Worms 15 km (9 miles) east of Bockenheim via B-47 from Monsheim, 45 km (28 miles) south of Mainz on B-9. In addition to having a great Romanesque cathedral, Worms is a center of the wine trade, as well as one of the most storied and cities in Germany, with a history going back some 6,000 years. Settled by the Romans, Worms (pronounced vawrms) later became one of the imperial cities of the Holy Roman Empire. More than 100 imperial diets (assemblies) were held here, including the 1521 meeting where Martin Luther pleaded his cause. Worms developed into an important garrison town under the Romans, but it's better known for its greatest legend, the Nibelungenlied, derived from the short-lived kingdom established by Gunther and his Burgundian tribe in the early 5th century. The complex and sprawling story was given its final shape in the 12th century and tells of love, betrayal, greed, war, and death. It ends when Attila the Hun defeats the Nibelungen (Burgundians), who find their court destroyed, their treasure lost, and their heroes dead. One of the most famous incidents tells how Hagen, treacherous and scheming, hurls the court riches into the Rhine. Near the Nibelungen Bridge there's a bronze statue of him caught in the act. The Nibelungenlied may be legend, but the story is based on fact. A Queen Brunhilda, for example, is said to have lived here. It's also known that a Burgundian tribe was defeated in 436 by Attila the Hun in what is present-day Hungary. Not until Charlemagne resettled Worms almost 400 years later, making it one of the major cities of his empire, did the city prosper again. Worms was more than an administrative and commercial center—it was a great ecclesiastical city as well. The first expression of this religious importance was the original cathedral, consecrated in 1018. Between 1130 and 1181 it was rebuilt in three phases into the church you see today. #### Getting Here and Around Worms can be reached by direct trains from both Mannheim and Mainz (approximately 30 minutes from each). The city center is quite compact and negotiable on foot. Worms begins its tours at the southern portal (main entrance) of the cathedral on Saturday at 10:30 and Sunday at 2 March through October. The cost is €6. #### Essentials Visitor Information Worms. \| Tourist-Information, Neumarkt 14 \| 06241/853–7306 \| www.worms.de \| Late Mar.–Oct., weekdays 9–6, weekends 10–2; Nov.–late Mar., weekdays 9–5. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Heylshofgarten. An imperial palace once stood in this park just north of the cathedral. It was the site of the fateful 1521 meeting between Luther and Emperor Charles V that ultimately led to the Reformation. Luther refused to recant his theses demanding Church reforms and went into exile in Eisenach, where he translated the New Testament in 1521-22. \| Stephansg. 9. Judenfriedhof Heiliger Sand (Holy Sand Cemetery). This is the oldest Jewish cemetery in Europe and also one of the most atmospheric and picturesque. The oldest of some 2,000 tombstones date from 1076. Entry is via the gate on Willy-Brandt-Ring. \| Andreasstr. and Willy-Brandt-Ring \| Daily 8–8 in summer and 8–sunset in winter. Fodor's Choice \| Kunsthaus Heylshof (Heylshof Art Gallery). Located in the Heylshofgarten, this is one of the leading art museums of the region. It has an exquisite collection of German, Dutch, and French paintings as well as stained glass, glassware, porcelain, and ceramics dating from the 15th to the 19th century. \| Stephansg. 9 \| 06241/22000 \| www.museum-heylshof.de \| €3.50 \| May–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 11–5; Oct.–Dec. and mid-Feb.–Apr., Tues.–Sat. 2–5, Sun. 11–5. Liebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). This twin-towered Gothic church is set amid vineyards on the northern outskirts of Worms. It's the namesake of the popular, sweet white wine Liebfraumilch, literally, the "Milk of Our Lady." The wine (Blue Nun is one brand) was originally made from the grapes of the small vineyard surrounding the church, but today it's produced throughout Rheinhessen, the Pfalz, the Nahe, and the Rheingau wine regions. \| Liebfrauenring 21 \| www.liebfrauen-worms.de. Lutherdenkmal. This monument commemorates Luther's appearance at the Diet of Worms. He ended his speech with the words: "Here I stand. I have no choice. God help me. Amen." The 19th-century monument includes a large statue of Luther ringed by other figures from the Reformation. It's set in a small park on the street named Lutherring. \| Lutherpl. Nibelungen Museum. This stunning sight-and-sound exhibition is dedicated to Das Nibelungenlied (Song of the Nieblungs), the epic German poem dating to around 1200. Cleverly installed in two medieval towers and the portion of the Old Town wall between them, the exhibition brings to life the saga of the dragon slayer Siegfried. The architecture of the structure itself is also fascinating, and the rampart provides a wonderful view of the town. The tour script (via headphones and printed matter) is offered in English. TIP Allow 1½ hours for a thorough visit. \| Fischerpförtchen 10 \| 06241/202–120 \| www.nibelungen-museum.de \| €5.50 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–5, weekends 10–6. Synagogue. This first synagogue in Worms was built in 1034, rebuilt in 1175, and expanded in 1213 with a building for women. Destroyed in 1938, it was rebuilt in 1961 using as much of the original masonry as had survived. It is located in the Jewish quarter, which is along the town wall between Martinspforte and Friesenspitze and between Judengasse and Hintere Judengasse. \| Hintere Judeng. \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–12:30 and 1:30–5; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–noon and 2–4; closed during services. Fodor's Choice \| Wormser Dom St. Peter. In contrast to Speyer's Romanesque cathedral, the Worms Cathedral of St. Peter is much more Gothic. In part this is simply a matter of chronology, since Speyer Cathedral was finished in 1061, nearly 70 years before the one in Worms was even begun—and long before the lighter, more vertical lines of the Gothic style evolved. In addition, Speyer Cathedral was left largely untouched, but the Worms Cathedral underwent frequent remodeling. The Gothic influence here can be seen both inside and out, from the elaborate tympanum with biblical scenes over the southern portal (today's entrance) to the great rose window in the west choir to the five sculptures in the north aisle recounting the life of Christ. The cathedral was gutted by fire in 1689 in the War of the Palatinate Succession. For this reason many of the furnishings are baroque, including the magnificent gilt high altar from 1742, designed by the master architect Balthasar Neumann (1687–1753). The choir stalls are no less decorative. They were built between 1755 and 1759 in rococo style. Walk around the building to see the artistic detail of the exterior. \| Lutherring 9 \| 06241/6115 \| www.wormser-dom.de \| Donation requested \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–5; closed during services. #### Worth Noting Dreifaltigkeitskirche (Church of the Holy Trinity). This Lutheran church is across the square from the Heylshofgarten. Remodeling during the 19th and 20th centuries produced today's austere interior, although the facade and tower are still joyfully baroque. \| Marktpl. 12 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–5; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4. Museum der Stadt Worms (Municipal Museum). To find out more about the history of Worms, visit this museum, housed in the cloisters of a Romanesque church in the Andreasstift. The collection includes artifacts from the Roman period, including one of the largest collections of Roman glass in Germany, all the way up to local art from the 20th century. \| Weckerlingpl. 7 \| 06241/946–390 \| €2 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Raschi-Haus. Next door to the city's synagogue, this former study hall, dance hall, and Jewish home for the elderly now houses the city archives and the Jewish Museum. The well-written illustrated booklet Jewish Worms chronicles a millennium of Jewish history in Worms. The scholar Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac of Troyes [1040–1105]) studied at the Worms Talmud academy circa 1060. \| Hintere Judeng. 6 \| 06241/853–4707, 06241/853-4701 \| €1.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–12:30 and 1:30–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–12:30 and 1:30-4:30. ### Where to Eat Gasthaus Hagenbräu. GERMAN \| Located a little to the west of the center, by the banks of the Rhine, this house brewery serves a good range of classic German dishes and regional specialties such as Saumagen. Service and decor are bright and cheery, and you will be surrounded by copper vats and oak barrels as you dine. The summer terrace by the river is a chance to enjoy a brew with a view. \| Average main: €11 \| Am Rhein 3 \| 06241/921–100 \| www.hagenbraeu.de. ### Where to Stay Dom-Hotel. HOTEL \| The appeal of this hotel, with comfortable if somewhat bland rooms, lies in its friendly staff and its terrific location in the heart of the pedestrian zone (a parking garage is available for free). Though the hotel itself is a bit on the dated side, you can't beat the value for the price, plus its spacious conference rooms make it a popular choice for those in town on business. Pros: central location; breakfast included. Cons: building design doesn't have much charm; hotel in need of a refresh; Wi-Fi only free for first hour, then €6 per day. \| Rooms from: €72 \| Obermarkt 10 \| 06241/9070 \| www.dom-hotel.de \| 55 rooms, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Land- und Winzerhotel Bechtel. HOTEL \| The friendly Bechtel family, winegrowers and proud parents of a former German Wine Queen, offer very pleasant accommodations on the grounds of their wine estate in the suburb of Heppenheim, about 10 km (6 miles) west of Worms. The rooms all have balconies. You can enjoy country cooking (daily specials) as well as more refined fare with the estate's wines in the restaurant ($ - $$). Wine tastings in the vaulted cellars are also possible. To get here, leave Worms on Speyerer Strasse, an extension of Valckenbergstrasse, which runs parallel to the east side of the Dom. Pros: quiet location; excellent value; rooms have balconies. Cons: far from the sights; extra charge for breakfast; check out is on the early side, at 10 am. \| Rooms from: €65 \| Pfälzer Waldstr. 100 \| Worms-Heppenheim \| 06241/36536 \| www.landhotel-bechtel.de \| 11 rooms \| Restaurant closed Tues. No lunch Mon.–Sat. \| No meals. Landhotel Zum Schwanen. HOTEL \| Bärbel Berkes runs this lovingly restored country inn in Osthofen, 10 km (6 miles) northwest of Worms. You can linger over a meal or a glass of wine in its pretty courtyard, the hub of the 18th-century estate. Like the rooms, the restaurant ($ - $$) is light, airy, and furnished with sleek, contemporary furniture. Regional favorites are served as well as dishes with a Mediterranean touch. The selection of local wines is exemplary. The beer garden is also inviting. Pros: quiet location; friendly staff; free Wi-Fi in rooms. Cons: far from the sights; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Friedrich-Ebert-Str. 40, west of B-9 \| Osthofen \| 06242/9140 \| www.zum-schwanen-osthofen.de \| 30 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. ### Shopping Der Weinladen. For wine accessories and other grape-related products, drop by this shop near the Municipal Museum, opposite the cathedral. \| Weckerlingpl. 1 \| 06241/911–180 \| www.derweinladenworms.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. and Mon. Star Region. This store and restaurant specializes in culinary items from Rheinhessen, Odenwald, and Pfalz. There's also an excellent lunch buffet ($) featuring local specialties like creamed sauerkraut and Spätburgundergulasch (red wine goulash). \| Kammererstr. 60 \| 06241/269–796 \| www.starregion.de \| Closed Sun. ## Oppenheim 26 km (16 miles) north of Worms, 23 km (14 miles) south of Mainz on B-9. Oppenheim is slightly off the beaten path, making it an ideal destination if you're looking to avoid the hordes of tourists that often descend on the Wine Road in mid-summer. The Katharinenkirche is the obvious crown of Oppenheim, but the picturesque Altstadt also hides a mysterious gem: the Oppenheimer Kellerlabyrinth, a 40-km, five-level-deep, underground passageway system. Tours cost €7.50; contact the Oppenheim Tourist Office in advance for tickets. #### Getting Here and Around An excellent network of regional trains connect Oppenheim with Mainz and Worms. Either journey takes about 15–20 minutes, and trains depart about every half hour. Nierstein is just one stop away on the same regional train. #### Essentials Oppenheim Tourist Office. \| Merianstr. 2 \| 06133/490–919, 06133/490–914 \| www.stadt-oppenheim.de/index.php?id=10 \| Apr. 15–Oct. 15, weekdays 10–5, weekends 11–5; Oct. 16–Apr. 14, Sat. 11–2 and Sun. 11-4. ### Exploring Deutsches Weinbaumuseum (German Viticultural Museum). Oppenheim and its neighbors to the north, Nierstein and Nackenheim, are home to some of Rheinhessen's best-known vineyards. The Deutsches Weinbaumuseum has wine-related artifacts that chronicle the region's 2,000-year-old wine-making tradition, not to mention the world's largest collection of mousetraps and more than 2,000 corkscrews. \| Wormser Str. 49 \| 06133/2544 \| www.dwb-museum.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Fri. 2–5, weekends 10–5. Katharinenkirche (St. Katharine's Church). On the way to Oppenheim, the vine-covered hills parallel to the Rhine gradually steepen. Then, unexpectedly, the spires of Oppenheim's Gothic Katharinenkirche come into view. The contrast of its pink sandstone facade against a bright blue sky is striking. Built between 1220 and 1439, it's the most important Gothic church between Strasbourg and Köln. The interior affords a rare opportunity to admire original 14th-century stained-glass windows and two magnificent rose windows, the Lily Window and the Rose of Oppenheim. The church houses masterfully carved tombstones, and the chapel behind it has a Beinhaus (charnel house) that contains the bones of 20,000 citizens and soldiers from the 15th to 18th century. \| Merianstr. 6, just north of Marktpl. \| 06133/2381 \| www.katharinen-kirche.de \| Apr.–Oct., daily 8–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 9–5. ### Nightlife and the Arts Burgruine Landskrone. Concerts are held in St. Katharine's, and open-air theater takes place in the Burgruine Landskrone, the 12th-century imperial fortress ruins. TIP From here there's a wonderful view of the town and the vineyards, extending all the way to Worms on a clear day. The castle ruins are northwest of the church. Follow the Dalbergerstrasse north; from there it's a short walk up to the ruins. For tickets to the open-air theater performances contact the Oppenheim tourist office. ## Nierstein 3 km (2 miles) north of Oppenheim on B-9. Surrounded by 2,700 acres of vines, Nierstein is the largest wine-growing community on the Rhine. It also has Glöck, Germany's oldest documented vineyard (AD 742), which surrounds St. Kilian's Church. #### Getting Here and Around Regional trains leave roughly every hours between Neirstein and both Mainz and Worms. The trips take about 30 minutes. ### Exploring Winzergenossenschaft (Cooperative winery). The Winzergenossenschaft can be the starting point of an easy hike or drive to the vineyard heights and the vantage point at the Wartturm (watchtower). In mid-June, wine tasting stands are set up along the route, which is called roten Hang, or "red slope"—the soil here has a lot of red clay in it. \| Karolingerstr. 6 \| 06133/971–720 \| www.roter-hang.de. ### Where to Stay Best Western Wein & Parkhotel. HOTEL \| Spacious, light rooms decorated in warm shades of ocher, chic bathrooms, and an inviting lounge and terrace make for comfortable, relaxing quarters here. Quiet elegance and Mediterranean influences mark this centrally located inn; it's convenient to the sights of Nierstein and the surrounding Rhinehessen vineyards. The restaurant Am Heyl'schen Garten ($$) serves barbecue on the terrace as well as well-prepared regional specialties and dishes with an Asian touch. Sunday lunch is a generous family buffet ($$$). The staff is exceptionally cheerful and competent. Pros: friendly; quiet location; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel. Cons: a chain hotel with few surprises. \| Rooms from: €95 \| An der Kaiserlinde 1 \| 06133/5080 \| www.weinhotel.bestwestern.de \| 55 rooms \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Jordan's Untermühle. B&B/INN \| The spacious grounds of an old mill are home to a country inn, a restaurant, and a Vinothek (wine store). The upper two stories of the inn have dormer rooms with wooden floors and furnishings. Some rooms have been renovated in a more modern style (and are slightly more expensive), and four larger studio rooms with kitchens opened in 2013. For dining you have an airy restaurant, with a shady courtyard for summer use. Or you can sit beneath exposed beams in the Vinothek and choose from a remarkable selection of red and white Rheinhessen wines. Pros: beautiful buildings; great value; very quiet. Cons: a long way from anywhere; difficult to reach without a car. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Ausserhalb 1 \| Köngernheim \| West of B-9, at Nierstein turn left on B-420 (toward Wörrstadt), drive through Köngernheim and turn right toward Selzen \| 06737/71000 \| www.jordans-untermuehle.de \| 25 rooms, 1 suite, 4 studios \| Restaurant: No lunch except Sun. \| Breakfast. ## Nackenheim 5 km (3 miles) north of Nierstein on B-9. This wine village is the birthplace of the writer Carl Zuckmayer (1896–1977) who immortalized the town in his farce Der fröhliche Weinberg (The Merry Vineyard) in 1925. He described Rheinhessen wine as "the wine of laughter . . . charming and appealing." You can put his words to the test the last weekend of July, when wine-festival booths are set up between the half-timber town hall on Carl-Zuckmayer-Platz and the baroque Church of St. Gereon. The church's scrolled gables, belfry, and elaborate altars are worth seeing. #### Getting Here and Around This wine village lies slightly to the west of B-9; from the south, turn left and cross the railroad tracks (opposite the tip of the island in the Rhine) to reach the town center, 2 km (1 mile) down the country road. Regional trains arrive from Mainz (a 14-minute trip) and Worms (about a 25-minute journey). ### Where to Stay St. Gereon Restaurant and Landhotel. HOTEL \| The modern rooms in this half-timber country inn have blond-wood floors and light-color furnishings. Stone walls and light pine furniture on terra-cotta tiles give the restaurant ($ - $$) a warm, rustic look, too. The food in the restaurant is traditional, and on Friday and Saturday evenings from October to March hearty regional specialties and Flammkuchen are served in the Weinstube ($) in the vaulted cellar. The selection of Rheinhessen and Rheingau wines is small but very good. Pros: friendly; quiet; good-value restaurant. Cons: some rooms on the small side. \| Rooms from: €88 \| Carl-Zuckmayer-Pl. 3 \| 06135/704–590 \| www.landhotel-st-gereon.com \| 15 rooms \| No lunch Mon. (restaurant only) \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Biking The old towpath along the riverbank is an ideal cycling trail to Mainz or Worms, and the vineyard paths are well suited for exploring the countryside. #### Hiking Enjoy the views from the vineyard heights on the Rheinhöhenweg trail. Allow three hours to hike the 10-km (6-mile) stretch between Nackenheim, Nierstein, and Oppenheim. Start at the corner of Weinbergstrasse and Johann-Winkler-Strasse. The educational wine path through the St. Alban vineyard is a pleasant walk in Bodenheim (4 km [2½ miles] northwest of Nackenheim). ## Mainz 14 km (9 miles) north of Nackenheim, 45 km (28 miles) north of Worms on B-9, and 42 km (26 miles) west of Frankfurt on A-3. Mainz is the capital of the state of Rheinland-Pfalz. Today's city was built on the site of a Roman citadel dating to 38 BC. Given its central location at the confluence of the Main and Rhine rivers, it's not surprising that Mainz has always been an important trading center, rebuilt time and again in the wake of wars. #### Getting Here and Around As the regional hub, Mainz is well served by trains, with fast connections to Frankfurt (40 minutes) and Köln (1 hour, 40 minutes). The station is a short walk west of the center. A comprehensive network of local buses makes getting around the city a breeze (route maps and timetables are posted at bus stops), while the upper areas of town are also served by trams. Although the sights are fairly spread out, they're manageable on foot if you're in reasonably good shape. #### Tours Mainz has year-round tours departing Saturday at 11 and 2 (€7) from the Touristik Centrale. The office is one story above street level on the footbridge over Rheinstrasse. There are additional tours from May through October, on Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 2. #### Discounts and Deals TIP To see the sights, head for the Touristik Centrale (tourist office) to pick up a MainzCard, a two-day pass, for about €10. It covers a basic walking tour, unlimited use of public transportation (including travel to and from Frankfurt Airport), and free entry to museums and the casino, as well as a reduction in price on some KD cruises and theater tickets. The card can also be bought from the station, some hotel receptions, and participating museums. #### Essentials Visitor Information Mainz. \| Touristik Centrale, Brückenturm am Rathaus \| 06131/286–210 \| www.touristik-mainz.de \| Weekdays 9–6, Sat. 10–4, Sun. 11–3. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Dom (Cathedral of St. Martin and St. Stephan). This cathedral's interior is a virtual sculpture gallery of elaborate monuments and tombstones of archbishops, bishops, and canons, many of which are significant artworks in their own right. Emperor Otto II began building the oldest of the Rhineland's trio of grand Romanesque cathedrals in 975, the year in which he named Willigis archbishop and chancellor of the empire. Henry II, the last Saxon emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, was crowned here in 1002, as was his successor, Konrad II, the first Salian emperor, in 1024. In 1009, on the very day of its consecration, the cathedral burned to the ground. It was the first of seven fires the Dom has endured. Today's cathedral dates mostly from the 11th to 13th century. During the Gothic period, remodeling diluted the Romanesque identity of the original; an imposing baroque spire was added in the 18th century. Nevertheless, the building remains essentially Romanesque, and its floor plan demonstrates a clear link to the cathedrals in Speyer and Worms. \| Domstr. 3 \| 06131/253–412 \| www.mainz-dom.de \| Donations requested \| Mar.–Oct., weekdays 9–6:30, Sat. 9–4, Sun. 12:45–3 and 4–6:30; Nov.–Feb., weekdays 9–5, Sat. 9–4, Sun. 12:45–3 and 4–5; closed during services. Dom und Diözesanmuseum. From the Middle Ages until secularization in the early 19th century, the archbishops of Mainz, who numbered among the imperial electors, were extremely influential politicians and property owners. The wealth of religious art treasures they left behind can be viewed in the cathedral cloisters. \| Domstr. 3 \| 06131/253–344 \| www.dommuseum-mainz.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–5, weekends 11–6. Gutenberg Museum. Opposite the east end of the cathedral (and closest to the Rhine) stands this fascinating museum, which is devoted to the history of writing and printing. Exhibits include historical printing presses, incunabula (books printed in Europe before 1501), and medieval manuscripts with illuminated letters, as well as three precious 42-line Gutenberg bibles printed circa 1455. A replica workshop demonstrates how Gutenberg implemented his invention of movable type. \| Liebfrauenpl. 5 \| 06131/122–640 \| www.gutenberg-museum.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sat. 9–5, Sun. 11–3. Kupferberg Terrasse (sparkling wine cellars). These hillside cellars were built in 1850 on a site where the Romans had cultivated vines and cellared wine. The Kupferberg family expanded, creating 60 seven-story-deep vaulted cellars—the deepest in the world. The winery has a splendid collection of glassware; posters from the belle-époque period (1898–1914); richly carved casks from the 18th and 19th centuries; and the Traubensaal (Grape Hall), a tremendous example of the art-nouveau style. Tours lasting from 1½ to 2 hours are offered most Saturdays and some Wednesdays and Fridays in summer and fall, and include several glasses of sparkling wines and champagne. Online reservations are required. The Kupferberg Terrassen restaurant ($$$) here is a lovely place to dine before or after your tour. \| Kupferbergterrasse 17–19 \| 06131/9230 \| www.kupferbergterrasse.com \| €16 1½-hr tour, €21–€28.50 2-hr tour. Landesmuseum. The various collections of the Museum of the State of Rheinland-Pfalz are in the former electors' stables, easily recognized by the statue of a golden stallion over the entrance. Exhibits range from the Middle Ages to the 20th century. Among the highlights are paintings by Dutch masters, artworks from the baroque to art-nouveau period, and collections of porcelain and faience. \| Grosse Bleiche 49–51 \| 06131/28570 \| www.landesmuseum-mainz.de \| €6 \| Tues. 10–8, Wed.–Sun. 10–5. Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum. The wonderful collection here chronicles cultural developments in the area up to the early Middle Ages. One of the highlights is a tiny Celtic glass dog from the 1st or 2nd century BC. The entrance for the museum, which is in the Kurfürstliches Schloss (Electoral Palace), is around the back, on the river (east) side of the building. \| Ernst-Ludwig-Pl. 2 \| 06131/91240 \| web.rgzm.de/rgzmmuseum.html \| Free \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Fodor's Choice \| St. Stephanskirche (St. Stephen's Church). It's just a short walk up Gaustrasse from Schillerplatz to the church, which affords a hilltop view of the city. Nearly 200,000 people make the trip each year to see the nine magnificent blue stained-glass windows designed by the Russian-born artist Marc Chagall. \| Kleine Weissg. 12, via Gaustr. \| 06131/231–640 \| www.st-stephan-mainz.de \| Mar.–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. noon–5; Nov.–Feb., Mon.–Sat. 10–4:30, Sun. noon–4:30. * * * Gutenberg: The Father of Modern Printing His invention—printing with movable type—transformed the art of communication, yet much about the life and work of Johannes Gutenberg is undocumented, starting with his year of birth. It's estimated that he was born in Mainz circa 1400 into a patrician family that supplied the city mint with metal to be coined. Gutenberg's later accomplishments attest to his own skill in working with metals. Details about his education are unclear, but he probably helped finance his studies by copying manuscripts in a monastic scriptorium. He moved to Strasbourg circa 1434, where he was a goldsmith by day and an inventor by night. It was here that he worked—in great secrecy—to create movable type and develop a press suitable for printing by adapting the conventional screw press used for wine making. By 1448 Gutenberg had returned to Mainz. Loans from a wealthy businessman enabled him to set up a printer's workshop and print the famous 42-line Bible. The lines of text are in black ink, yet each of the original 180 Bibles printed from 1452 to 1455 is unique, thanks to the artistry of the hand-painted illuminated letters. Despite its significance, Gutenberg's invention was not a financial success. His quest for perfection rather than profit led to a legal battle during which his creditor was awarded the workshop and the Bible type. Gutenberg's attempts to set up another print shop in Mainz failed, but from 1465 until his death in 1468 he received an allowance for service to the archbishop of Mainz, which spared the "father of modern printing" from dying in poverty. * * * #### Worth Noting Marktplatz. The area around the cathedral and the Höfchen (little courtyard) are the focal points of the town. TIP Both are especially colorful on Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, when farmers set up their stands to sell produce and flowers. FAMILY \| Naturhistorisches Museum. The animals here may all be stuffed and mounted, but these lifelike groups can demonstrate the relationships among various families of fauna better than any zoo. Fossils and geological exhibits show the evolution of the region's plants, animals, and soils. The museum also holds events especially for kids, including guided tours and movie nights. \| Reichklarastr. 10 \| 06131/122–646 \| www.mainz.de/nhm \| €4.50 \| Tues. 10–8, Wed. 10–2, Thurs.–Sun. 10–5. FAMILY \| Schillerplatz. This square, ringed by beautiful baroque palaces, is the site of the ebullient Fastnachtsbrunnen (Carnival Fountain), with 200 figures related to Mainz's "fifth season" of the year. \| Schillerpl. ### Where to Eat Eisgrub-Bräu. GERMAN \| It's loud, it's busy, and the beer is brewed in the vaulted cellars on-site. An Eisgrub brew is just the ticket to wash down a hearty plate of Schweinehaxen (pork knuckle) or Meterwurst (yard-long, rolled bratwurst), Bratkartoffeln (home fries), and sauerkraut. During the week, there's a lunch special for €5.90. Brewery tours are free, but make reservations in advance. It's open most days from 11:30 am–midnight, and on Friday and Saturday until 1 am. \| Average main: €12 \| Weisslilieng. 1a \| 06131/221–104 \| www.eisgrub.de. Gebert's Weinstuben. GERMAN \| Gebert's traditional wine restaurant serves refined versions of regional favorites. In summer, the fresh asparagus dishes are popular. The geeister Kaffee (coffee ice cream and chocolate praline in a cup of coffee) uses delicious, handmade chocolate pralines. German wines, especially Rheinhessen, dominate the excellent wine list. You can also dine outside in the appealing courtyard. \| Average main: €22 \| Frauenlobstr. 94, near the Rhine \| 06131/611–619 \| www.geberts-weinstuben.de \| Closed Mon. and 3 wks in July or Aug. No lunch Sat. Haus des Deutschen Weines. GERMAN \| Late hours and luncheon specials are among the crowd-pleasers here, and the menu is broad enough to encompass both snacks and full-course meals, with huge salads and game year-round. Mainz specialties include Spundekäs (cheese whipped with cream and onions) or Handkäse mit Musik (pungent, semihard cheese served with diced onions in vinaigrette). As the name suggests, there's also a great selection of German wines. \| Average main: €14 \| Gutenbergpl. 3–5 \| 06131/221–300 \| www.hdw-gaststaetten.de. Heiliggeist. MEDITERRANEAN \| This lively café-bistro-bar serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner on weekends and dinner until midnight during the week. The compact menu includes elaborate salad platters as well as creatively spiced and sauced fish and meat dishes. In summer the beer garden is always packed, and there's an extensive drink list. One house specialty worth trying is the Croustarte, an upscale version of pizza. Heiliggeist's modern, minimal decor is an interesting contrast to the historic vaulted ceilings in this former almshouse and hospital church, which was built in 1236. \| Average main: €16 \| Mailandsg. 11 \| 06131/225–757 \| www.heiliggeist-mainz.de \| Reservations not accepted \| No credit cards \| No lunch weekdays. ### Where to Stay FAVORITE parkhotel. HOTEL \| Mainz's city park is a lush setting for this amenity-filled hotel; it's a 10-minute downhill walk through the park to the Old Town. The rooms are quite comfortable, and there are wellness facilities and a rooftop sundeck with a Jacuzzi and enclosed gym. The one-Michelin-star restaurant Favorite ($$$$) serves international cuisine (lobster is a specialty); more casual dining is available in the hotel's three other restaurants ($$ - $$$). The on-site beer garden, which has Rhine views, is a favorite in summer. Pros: quiet location; friendly staff; good views. Cons: a bit far from the sights; you can hear the train from some rooms; daily charge for Wi-Fi; not all rooms have air-conditioning. \| Rooms from: €167 \| Karl-Weiser-Str. 1 \| 06131/80150 \| www.favorite-mainz.de \| 115 rooms, 7 suites \| Favorite restaurant closed Mon. and Tues. \| Breakfast. Ibis Mainz City. HOTEL \| Here you'll find modern and functional rooms and a great location on the edge of the Old Town. Ask about the various discount rates that may be available. Pros: central location; good rates and deals; a/c in all rooms. Cons: chain hotel lacking in character; buffet breakfast costs €10 extra; fee for garage parking. \| Rooms from: €59 \| Holzhofstr. 2, at Rheinstr. \| 06131/2470 \| www.ibishotel.com \| 144 rooms \| Breakfast. Hyatt Regency Mainz. HOTEL \| From the spacious atrium lobby to the luxurious rooms, everything is sleek, modern, and comfortable at this hotel. The way the building integrates contemporary art and architecture with the old stone walls Fort Malakoff makes it a stunner. The M-Lounge & Bar in the lobby serves light fare, and tables in the garden courtyard are always at a premium in summer. The boutiques and pubs of the Old Town are a 5- to 10-minute walk away. Pros: grand public spaces; friendly staff; riverside location. Cons: expensive; breakfast costs extra; Wi-Fi charges are €18 a day. \| Rooms from: €229 \| Malakoff-Terrasse 1 \| 06131/731–234 \| www.mainz.regency.hyatt.com \| 265 rooms, 3 suites. ### Nightlife and the Arts Mainz supports a broad spectrum of cultural events—classical as well as avant-garde music, dance, opera, and theater performances—at many venues throughout the city. Music lovers can attend concerts in venues ranging from the cathedral and the Rathaus to the market square and historic churches. Grosses Haus. The home stage of the Staatstheater Mainz is the Grosses Haus. A smaller stage, the Kleines Haus, is also on the premises. \| Gutenbergpl. 7 \| 06131/28510, 06131/285–1222 box office \| www.staatstheater-mainz.com. Unterhaus. The Mainzer Forum-Theater (cabaret) performs in the Unterhaus. \| Münsterstr. 7 \| 06131/232–121 \| www.unterhaus-mainz.de. KUZ. KUZ and its beer garden (open May to late September) are used for international rock, jazz, and pop concerts. \| Dagobertstr. 20b \| 06131/286–860 \| www.kuz.de. Frankfurter Hof. The Frankfurter Hof hosts many (often contemporary) musical events and dance parties. \| Augustinerstr. 55 \| 06131/220-438 \| www.frankfurter-hof-mainz.de. Villa Musica. A traditional setting for concerts in town. \| Auf der Bastei 3 \| 06131/925-1800 \| www.villamusica.de. Nightlife centers on its numerous wine pubs. Rustic and cozy, they're packed with locals who come to enjoy a meal or snack with a glass (or more) of local wine. Most are on the Old Town's main street, Augustinerstrasse, and its side streets (Grebenstrasse, Kirschgarten, Kartäuserstrasse, Jakobsbergstrasse), or around the Gutenberg Museum, on Liebfrauenplatz. Weinhaus Schreiner. An old Mainz favorite, Schreiner attracts a mixed, jovial clientele who come to enjoy local wine and beer paired with German cuisine. During periods of warm weather, the outdoor "vineyard" stays open till 9:45, Tuesday through Thursday, and till 10:45, Friday and Saturday. \| Rheinstr. 38 \| 06131/225–720 \| www.weinhausschreiner.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon. Weinhaus Wilhelmi. This wood-panel pub is a favorite with postcollegiates, who come to enjoy glasses of local wine while nibbling on traditional sausage and cheeses or heartier fare such as fried pork steak and meatballs with pepper sauce. \| Rheinstr. 53 \| 06131/224–949 \| www.weinhaus-wilhelmi.de \| No lunch. ### Shopping The Old Town is full of boutiques, and the major department stores (Karstadt and Kaufhof-Galeria) typically have food halls in their lower levels. The shopping district lies basically between the Grosse Bleiche and the Old Town and includes the Am Brand Zentrum, an ancient marketplace that is now a pedestrian zone full of shops. Fodor's Choice \| Gutenberg-Shop. Located in the building of the local newspaper, Allgemeine Zeitung Mainz, the Gutenberg-Shop has splendid souvenirs and gifts—including pages from the Bible, books, posters, pens, and stationery. The friendly staff will also arrange to ship your purchases outside the country. There's a similar selection at the shop in the Gutenberg Museum. \| Marktpl. 17 \| 06131/143–666 \| www.gutenberg-shop.de \| Closed Sun. Krempelmarkt. Antiques and perhaps a few hidden treasures await the patient shopper at Krempelmarkt. The flea market is on the banks of the Rhine (Rheinufer) between the Hilton hotel and Kaiserstrasse. At the Theodor Heuss Bridge is the the children's flea market, where the youngest sellers offer clothes, toys, and books. \| Rheinufer \| Apr.–Oct., 1st and 3rd Sat. of month 7–4; Nov.–Mar., 3rd Sat. 7–3. Römerpassage. This city-center shopping mall offers 100,000 square feet of stores and restaurants. It also houses the remains of a Roman temple (AD 1) discovered in 1999 during construction of the mall. The temple, which is dedicated to the goddess Isis and Magna Mater, is in the basement. \| Adolf-Kolping-Str. 4 \| 06131/600–7100 \| www.roemerpassage.com \| Closed Sun. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Rhineland The Rheingau The Mittelrhein The Mosel Valley Bonn and the Köln (Cologne) Lowlands Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Cruising the Rhine and Mosel Rivers \| When to Go Updated by Dan Allen The banks of the Rhine are crowned by magnificent castle after castle and by breathtaking, vine-terraced hills that provide the livelihood for many of the villages hugging the shores. In the words of French poet Victor Hugo, "The Rhine combines everything. The Rhine is swift as the Rhône, wide as the Loire, winding as the Seine . . . royal as the Danube and covered with fables and phantoms like a river in Asia." The importance of the Rhine can hardly be overestimated. Although not the longest river in Europe (the Danube is more than twice as long), the Rhine has been the main river-trade artery between the heart of the continent and the North Sea (and Atlantic Ocean) throughout recorded history. The Rhine runs 1,230 km (765 miles) from the Bodensee (Lake Constance) west to Basel, then north through Germany, and, finally, west through the Netherlands to Rotterdam. Vineyards, a legacy of the Romans, are an inherent part of the Rhine landscape from Wiesbaden to Bonn. The Rhine tempers the climate sufficiently for grapes to ripen this far north, and the world's finest Rieslings come from the Rheingau and from the Rhine's most important tributary, the Mosel. Thanks to the river, these wines were shipped far beyond the borders of Germany, giving rise to the wine trade that shaped the fortune of many riverside towns. Rüdesheim, Bingen, Koblenz, and Köln (Cologne) remain important commercial wine centers to this day. The river is steeped in legend and myth. The Loreley, a jutting sheer slate cliff, was once believed to be the home of a beautiful and bewitching maiden who lured boatmen to a watery end in the swift currents. Heinrich Heine's poem Song of Loreley (1827), inspired by Clemens Brentano's Legend of Loreley (1812) and set to music in 1837 by Friedrich Silcher, has been the theme song of the landmark ever since. The Nibelungen, a legendary Burgundian people said to have lived on the banks of the Rhine, serve as subjects for Wagner's epic opera cycle Der Ring des Nibelungen (1852–72). William Turner captured misty Rhine sunsets on canvas. Famous literary works, such as Goethe's Sankt-Rochus-Fest zu Bingen (The Feast of St. Roch; 1814), Lord Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1816), and Mark Twain's A Tramp Abroad (1880), captured the spirit of Rhine Romanticism on paper, encouraging others to follow in their footsteps. ## Top Reasons to Go Drachenfels: This dramatic castle in Königswinter crowns a high hill overlooking the Rhine. Fastnacht: Germany's Carnival season culminates with huge parades, round-the-clock music, and dancing in Düsseldorf, Köln, and Mainz the week before Ash Wednesday. Rhine in Flames: These massive displays of fireworks take place the first Saturday in May in Linz-Bonn; the first Saturday in July in Bingen-Rüdesheim; the second Saturday in August in Koblenz; the second Saturday in September in Oberwesel; and the third Saturday in September in St. Goar. The romance of the Rhine: From cruises to Rhine-view rooms, castles to terraced vineyards, the Rhine does not disappoint. Spectacular wine: A whole culinary tradition has grown up around the distinctive light white wines of the Rhine and Mosel. ## Getting Oriented The most spectacular stretch of the Rhineland is along the Middle Rhine, between Mainz and Koblenz, which takes in the awesome castles and vineyards of the Rhine Gorge. Highways hug the river on each bank (B-42 on the north and eastern sides, and B-9 on the south and western sides), and car ferries crisscross the Rhine at many points. Cruises depart from many cities and towns, including as far south as Frankfurt. Trains service all the towns, and the Mainz–Bonn route provides river views all the way. ## What's Where The Rheingau. Though the course of the Rhine is generally south to north, it bends sharply at Wiesbaden and flows east to west for 31 km (19 miles) to Rüdesheim. This means that the steep hills on its right bank have a southern exposure, and that vineyards there produce superb wines. The Mittelrhein. The romance of the Rhine is most apparent in the Middle Rhine, from Bingen to Koblenz. The 65-km (40-mile) stretch of the Upper Middle Rhine Valley was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2002 with its concentration of awesome castles, medieval towns, and the vineyards of the Rhine Gorge. The Mosel Valley. Koblenz and Trier aren't very far apart as the crow flies, but the driving distance along the incredible twists and turns of the Mosel River is 201 km (125 miles). The journey is worth it, though. The region is unspoiled, the towns gemlike, the scenery a medley of vineyards and forests, and there's a wealth of Roman artifacts, medieval churches, and castle ruins to admire. Bonn and the Köln (Cologne) lowlands. North of Koblenz, the Rhine is less picturesque, but it does shoulder the cosmopolitan cities Köln and Düsseldorf, as well as the former capital city of Bonn. ## Planning ### When to Go The peak season for cultural, food, and wine festivals is March–mid-November, followed by colorful Christmas markets in December. The season for many hotels, restaurants, riverboats, cable cars, and sights is from Easter through October, particularly in smaller towns. Opening hours at many castles, churches, and small museums are shorter in winter. Orchards blossom in March, and the vineyards are verdant from May until late September, when the vines turn a shimmering gold. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The Rhineland is served by three international airports: Frankfurt, Düsseldorf, and Köln-Bonn. Bus and rail lines connect each airport with its respective downtown area and provide rapid access to the rest of the region. There are direct trains from the Frankfurt airport to downtown Köln and Düsseldorf. No-frills carriers that fly within Europe are based at smaller Frankfurt-Hahn Airport in Lautzenhausen, between the Rhine and Mosel valleys (a 1-hour drive from Wiesbaden or Trier; a 1½-hour bus ride from Frankfurt Airport). The Luxembourg Findel International Airport (a 30-minute drive from Trier) is close to the upper Mosel River valley. Airport Contacts Flughafen Düsseldorf. \| 0211/4210 \| www.dus.com. Flughafen Frankfurt. \| 01805/372–4636 \| www.frankfurt-airport.de. Flughafen Frankfurt-Hahn. \| 06543/509–200 \| www.hahn-airport.de. Flughafen Köln/Bonn. \| 02203/404–001 \| www.koeln-bonn-airport.de. Luxembourg Findel International Airport. \| 00352/24640 \| www.luxairport.lu. #### Train Travel InterCity and EuroCity expresses connect all the cities and towns of the area. Hourly InterCity routes run between Düsseldorf, Köln, Bonn, and Mainz, with most services extending as far south as Munich and as far north as Hamburg. The city transportation networks of Bonn, Köln, and Düsseldorf are linked by S-bahn, regional and local trains (for information contact the KVB). Train Contacts Deutsche Bahn. \| 0180/599–6633 \| www.bahn.de. Kölner Verkehrs-Betriebe (KVB). \| 01803/504–030 \| www.kvb-koeln.de. * * * What to Eat in the Rhineland The Rhineland's regional cuisine features fresh fish and Wild (game), as well as sauces and soups based on the local Riesling and Spätburgunder (pinot noir) wines. Boiled beef, once known in the region as Tellerfleisch ("dish meat") or Ochsenbrust (brisket), is nowadays called by the more familiar Austrian name Tafelspitz. Rheinischer Sauerbraten (Rhenish marinated pot roast in a sweet-and-sour raisin gravy) is another traditional favorite. The Kartoffel (potato) is prominent in soups, Reibekuchen and Rösti (potato pancakes), and Dibbe- or Dippekuchen (dialect: Döppekoche), a casserole baked in a cast-iron pot and served with apple compote. Himmel und Erde, literally "heaven and earth," is a mixture of mashed potatoes and chunky applesauce, topped with panfried slices of blood sausage and onions. The region is known for its wines: Riesling is the predominant white grape, and Spätburgunder the most important red variety in the Rheingau, Mittelrhein, and Mosel wine regions, all covered in this chapter. Three abutting wine regions—Rheinhessen and the Nahe, near Bingen, and the Ahr, southwest of Bonn—add to the variety of wines available along the route. Wines of Germany and the German Wine Institute provide background information and brochures about all German wine-producing regions. Tips on wine-related events and package offers are available from regional wine-information offices and any visitor information center along the Rhine and Mosel will put you in touch with local winegrowers. Wine Information German Wine Institute. \| www.germanwines.de. Wines of Germany. \| 212/994–7523 \| www.germanwineusa.com. * * * ### Restaurants Although Düsseldorf, Köln, and Wiesbaden are home to many talented chefs, some of Germany's most creative classic and contemporary cooking is found in smaller towns or country inns. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels The most romantic places to lay your head are the old riverside inns and castle hotels. Ask for a Rheinblick (Rhine-view) room. Hotels are often booked well in advance, especially for festivals and when there are trade fairs in Köln, Düsseldorf, or Frankfurt, making rooms even in Wiesbaden and the Rheingau scarce and expensive. Many hotels close for winter. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time Those seeking "Rhine romance" should probably concentrate on its southern part, particularly the Rhine Gorge, with its castles, vineyards, and the Loreley. If nightlife and culture are your preferences, you'll like the cathedral city of Köln and cosmopolitan Düsseldorf; you can still take a day cruise along the Rhine from Köln. ### Discounts and Deals The FreizeitCARD (€14 for one day, €41.50 for three days, €66 for six days) gives you free or reduced admission to museums, castles, and other sights, plus city tours and boat trips throughout the Rhineland, as well as scores of attractions across nearby Saarland, Lorraine, Luxembourg, Wallonia and East Belgium. It's available at tourist offices throughout the region. ### Visitor Information Rheingau–Taunus Kultur & Tourismus. \| Pfortenhaus-Kloster Eberbach, \| Eltville \| 06723/99550 \| www.rheingau-taunus-info.de. Rheinland-Pfalz Tourismus. \| Löhrstr. 103–105, \| Koblenz \| 01805/915–200 \| www.romantic-germany.info. ## Cruising the Rhine and Mosel Rivers Lined by some of Europe's oldest, steepest vineyards, the Rhine and Mosel rivers boast breathtaking scenery marked by storybook castles and half-timber villages. A river cruise is a must. Today, the Rhine and Mosel rivers are best known for their Riesling wines and the formidable medieval castles once used by robber barons to extort tolls from passing ships. But the rivers' history goes back even further to the Romans, who first established the region's viniculture. Although the fastest way to get around the rivers is by car or train (and there are some gorgeous train routes directly on the Rhine), the rivers have been navigated by ship for thousands of years, and this option remains the most scenic, and the safest for visitors looking to drink a little wine as well as a little history. The Rhine is the more popular of the two rivers, but many find its little sister, the Mosel, even more beautiful with its narrow, twisting landscapes. —David Levitz ## When to Go Day cruises on the Rhine and Mosel generally start around Easter and run through October. In summer, the hills are at their greenest and crowds gather to celebrate the Rhein in Flammen fireworks festivals. However, most wine festivals don't take place until August or September. Some multiday cruises also make extra trips in November and December to stop at Christmas markets. Day-trippers don't generally need advance reservations and the tourist offices in any major Rhine or Mosel town can give you information about short round-trip cruises (Rundfahrten) or waterbuses (Linienfahrten), which allow you to hop on or off the boat, and generally run on the Rhine daily from Easter to late October and on the Mosel from June through September. Although there are many boat trips available from Köln and Düsseldorf, the Rhine doesn't truly turn scenic until south of Bonn. The most popular starting point is Koblenz, where the two rivers converge. The area between Koblenz and Bingen, the Rhine Gorge, offers the shortest cruises with the highest concentration of castles. From Koblenz, you can take a water taxi run by one of the biggest operators on the Rhine, Köln-Düsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt (KD Rhine Line \| 0221/208–8318 \| www.k-d.com), which has many special offers, such as half-price travel on your birthday; 30% off for seniors; and free travel for up to three children for every adult on Wednesday. One good place to disembark and stretch your legs is Boppard. Take some time to sample the local wine, Bopparder Hamm. This route provides not only fantastic white wines, but also views of the legendary Loreley cliff and the Marksburg, the only Rhine castle never laid to ruin. Personenschiffahrt Merkelbach (0261/76810 \| www.merkelbach-personenschiffe.de) also does round-trip castle cruises on the Rhine from Koblenz to Schloss Stolzenfels (one hour) or the Marksburg (two hours). Meanwhile, the Mosel's stunning, medieval Burg Eltz castle, and the towns of Cochem and Bernkastel-Kues between Koblenz and Trier, rival any sights along the Rhine. Mosel-Schiffstouristic Hans Michels of Bernkastel-Kues (06531/8222 \| www.mosel-personenschifffahrt.de), goes from Bernkastel to Traben-Trarbach. Personenschiffahrt Kolb of Briedern (02673/1515 \| www.moselfahrplan.de) runs a fleet of boats that cruise shorter stretches between Koblenz and Trier. #### Multiday Cruises Viking River Cruises (0800/188–710–033, 800/304–9616 in U.S. \| www.vikingrivers.com) offers various multiday cruises on cabin ships between Amsterdam and Basel. The luxury Uniworld cruise line (800/555–8333 in U.S. \| www.uniworld.com) offers a two-week cruise of both rivers. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Wiesbaden \| Eltville \| Oestrich-Winkel \| Rüdesheim The heart of the region begins in Wiesbaden, where the Rhine makes a sharp bend and flows east to west for some 30 km (19 miles) before resuming its south to north course at Rüdesheim. Wiesbaden is a good starting point for touring any of the well-marked cycling, hiking, and driving routes through the Rheingau's villages and vineyards. TIP Nearly every Rheingau village has an outdoor Weinprobierstand (wine-tasting stand), usually near the riverbank. It is staffed and stocked by a different wine estate every weekend in summer. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Wiesbaden 40 km (25 miles) west of Frankfurt via A-66. Wiesbaden, the capital of the state of Hesse, is a small city of tree-lined avenues with elegant shops and handsome facades. Its hot mineral springs have been a drawing card since the days when it was known as Aquis Mattiacis ("the waters of the Mattiaci")—the words boldly inscribed on the portal of the Kurhaus—and Wisibada ("the bath in the meadow"). In the 1st century AD the Romans built thermal baths here, a site then inhabited by a Germanic tribe, the Mattiaci. Modern Wiesbaden dates from the 19th century, when the dukes of Nassau and, later, the Prussian aristocracy commissioned the grand public buildings and parks that shape the city's profile today. Wiesbaden developed into a fashionable spa that attracted the rich and the famous. Their ornate villas on the Neroberg and turn-of-the-20th-century town houses are part of the city's flair. #### Getting Here and Around English-language walking tours of Wiesbaden depart from the tourist information office every Saturday from April through October at 11. For a one-hour ride through the city, board the little train THermine (www.thermine.de). The one-day ticket (€7) enables you to get on and off as often as you'd like to explore the sights. From Easter to October it departs seven times daily (10–4:30) from Café Lumen (behind the Marktkirche) and stops at the Bowling Green, Greek Chapel, and Neroberg railway station. In winter, it operates only on weekends. #### Essentials Visitor Information Wiesbaden Tourist-Information. \| Marktpl. 1 \| 0611/172–9930 \| www.wiesbaden.eu. ### Exploring Altstadt. Wiesbaden's Old Town is just behind the Stadtschloss (a former duke's palace, now the seat of state parliament, the Hessischer Landtag) on Grabenstrasse, Wagemannstrasse, and Goldgasse. Kaiser-Friedrich-Therme. You can "take the waters" in an ambience reminiscent of Roman times in the Kaiser-Friedrich-Therme, a superb art-nouveau bathhouse from 1913. \| Langg. 38–40 \| 0611/317–060. Kochbrunnen Fountain. Fifteen of Wiesbaden's 26 springs converge at the steaming Kochbrunnen Fountain, where the sulfurous but at least theoretically healthful waters are there for the tasting. \| Kochbrunnenpl. Fodor's Choice \| Kurhaus. Built in 1907, the neoclassical Kurhaus is the cultural center of town. It houses the casino and the Thiersch-Saal, a splendid setting for concerts. The Staatstheater (1894), opulently appointed in baroque and rococo revival styles, and two beautifully landscaped parks flank the Kurhaus. \| Kurhauspl. 1 \| www.wiesbaden.de/kurhaus. Marktplatz (Market Square). Historic buildings ring the Schlossplatz (Palace Square) and the adjoining Marktplatz, site of the annual wine festival (mid-August) and Christmas market (December). The farmers' market (Wednesday and Saturday) takes place behind the neo-Gothic brick Marktkirche (Market Church). Museum Wiesbaden. Nature and culture come together under one roof at the Museum Wiesbaden, where two long-closed wings reopened after renovation in 2013. The museum's natural history section exhibits a wealth of geological finds and preserved animals; the art collection ranges from 12th-century polychromes to present-day installations. The museum is best-known for its expressionist paintings, particularly the works of Russian artist Alexej Jawlensky. \| Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 2 \| 0611/335–2250 \| www.museum-wiesbaden.de \| €6 \| Tues. and Thurs. 10–8, Wed. and Fri.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat Käfer's Bistro. ECLECTIC \| This popular bistro with striking art-nouveau decor, a grand piano (live music nightly), and a good-size bar attracts an upscale clientele. Book a table for two in one of the window alcoves (Nos. 7, 12, 25, and 29) at least four weeks in advance for some privacy among the otherwise close-set tables. Lachstatar (salmon tartare) and Bauernente (farmer's duck) are standard favorites. A few champagnes are available by the glass and bottle. Käfer's also caters the beer garden behind the Kurhaus and the Bowling Green's terrace with concerts in summer. \| Average main: €26 \| Kurhauspl. 1 \| 0611/536–200 \| www.kurhaus-gastronomie.de \| Reservations essential. Sherry & Port. ECLECTIC \| Austrian expat Gerd Royko's friendly neighborhood bistro hosts live music on Friday and Saturday from October through March. During warm months, you can dine at outdoor tables surrounding a fountain on tree-lined Adolfsallee. In addition to the fantastic number of sherries and ports (60), there are more than 20 malt whiskies served by the glass. There is also a good selection of beers and wines to accompany the menu's tapas, salads, steaks, and well-priced daily specials. \| Average main: €17 \| Adolfsallee 11 \| 0611/373–632 \| www.sherry-und-port.de \| No credit cards. ### Where to Stay Hotel de France. HOTEL \| Behind this 1880 facade is a lovingly restored hotel and a restaurant that serves good upscale food; both have sleek, modern furnishings and lots of fresh flowers. Rooms in the front overlook a busy street, while those at the back have a view of a lovely Mediterranean garden courtyard. Despite being rather small, the restaurant M ($$$; closed Sunday; no lunch) feels light and spacious. Pros: centrally located. Cons: on a busy street; small rooms. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Taunusstr. 49 \| 0611/959–730 \| www.hoteldefrance.de \| 34 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. Hotel Nassauer Hof. HOTEL \| Wiesbaden's premier address for well over a century boasts luxuriously appointed rooms, top-flight service, and three restaurants—and a guest list ranging from Dostoyevsky to the Dalai Lama. It's on the site of a Roman fortress that was converted into a spa and, ultimately, a guesthouse. Breakfast is extra and costs €29. Pros: nice location opposite the Kurhaus; warm spring-fed pool. Cons: expensive. \| Rooms from: €225 \| Kaiser-Friedrich-Pl. 3–4 \| 0611/1330 \| www.nassauer-hof.de \| 136 rooms, 23 suites \| No meals. ibis Wiesbaden City. HOTEL \| This modern hotel opposite the Kochbrunnen on Kranzplatz is an excellent value and has a location within walking distance of the shop-filled pedestrian zone, the Old Town, and all sights. The well-kept rooms have contemporary furnishings. The breakfast buffet costs €10. Pros: bar stays open 24 hours; four wheelchair-accessible rooms. Cons: small rooms; breakfast not included. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Georg-August-Zinn-Str. 2 \| 0611/36140 \| www.ibishotel.com \| 131 rooms \| No meals. Fodor's Choice \| Town Hotel. HOTEL \| The Gerbers' modern hotel is a five-minute walk from the Kurhaus, Old Town, and the shopping district. Terra-cotta and beige tones and parquet floors lend the rooms warmth. Although they are small, they are very cleverly designed for maximum use of space. The staff is particularly friendly and helpful. Pros: a good deal; free telephone calls to North America and most of Europe. Cons: often full during the week. \| Rooms from: €119 \| Spiegelg. 5 \| 0611/360–160 \| www.townhotel.de \| 24 rooms \| No meals. * * * German Sauna Etiquette Visiting one of Germany's fabulous saunas and bathhouses can be the perfect way to unwind from a busy travel itinerary, and it generally costs no more than a decent meal (between 10 and 20 euros). But be aware: These day spas are enjoyed in the buff, but as you might expect, Germany has many rules when it comes to the bathhouses. Although bathing suits are required at German swimming pools, you can expect a stern talking to for wearing one in a sauna or steam room that's classified as textilfrei (textile-free, meaning no clothing allowed). Hygiene is also a big concern: in steam rooms, find the hose to rinse off your seat before sitting down. In a dry sauna, bring a large towel and make sure to place it underneath you, especially under your feet, to avoid sweat getting on the wood. Those who like it really hot should check for an Aufguss schedule in front of dry saunas. The event, which literally means "on-pouring," gets visitors packed elbow to elbow for a good sweat as the Saunameister pours scented water over the sauna's coals. He or she might also distribute melted honey to rub into your skin, or even give you some sort of healthy snack at the end. After each time in the sauna, Germans take a cold shower to cool down. Note that saunas are generally mixed-sex, except on special women's days. * * * ### Nightlife and the Arts In addition to the casino, restaurants, bars, and beer garden at the Kurhaus, nightlife is centered on the many bistros and pubs on Taunusstrasse and in the Old Town. The tourist office provides schedules and sells tickets for most venues listed here. Caligari Filmbühne. Classics and avant-garde films are the specialties at this theater. \| Marktpl. 9, behind Marktkirche \| 0611/315–050 \| www.wiesbaden.de/caligari. Henkell & Co. The sparkling-wine cellars of Henkell & Co. host a series of concerts by young classical musicians from September to March. \| Biebricher Allee 142 \| 0611/630 \| www.henkell-sektkellerei.com. Hessisches Staatstheater. Classical and contemporary opera, theater, ballet, and musicals are presented on the Hessisches Staatstheater's four stages: Grosses Haus, Kleines Haus, Studio, and Wartburg. \| Chr.-Zais-Str. 3 \| 0611/132–325 \| www.staatstheater-wiesbaden.de. Kurhaus. The Hessian State Orchestra performs several programs a year at the Kurhaus. \| Kurhauspl. 1 \| 0611/17290. Marktkirche. Many churches offer concerts, including the free organ concerts that are held Saturday at 11:30 am in the Marktkirche. \| Schlosspl. 4 \| 0611/900–1611 \| www.marktkirche-wiesbaden.de. Pariser Hoftheater. Smaller dramatic productions and cabaret are performed at this intimate theater. \| Spiegelg. 9 \| 0611/300–607 \| www.pariserhoftheater.de. Rhein-Main-Hallen. Concerts and musicals are staged at this civic center. \| Rheinstr. 20 \| 0611/1440 \| www.rhein-main-hallen.de. Spielbank (casino). The Klassische Spiel (roulette, blackjack) in the Kurhaus is busy from 2:45 pm to 4 am, while the Automatenspiel (slots and poker) in the neighboring Kolonnade is hopping from noon to 4 am. The former is one of Europe's grand casinos, where a jacket is required and tie recommended. You can be less formal at the Automatenspiel. To enter either, you must be 18 or over (bring your passport). \| Kurhauspl. 1 \| 0611/536–100 \| www.spielbank-wiesbaden.de. Thalhaus. In addition to having an art gallery and theater, this lively multiarts venue has featured music performances, cabaret revues (sometimes performed in drag), and the occasional dance party. \| Nerotal 18 \| 0611/185–1267 \| www.thalhaus.de. Walhalla Studio Theater. Live concerts (jazz, blues, rock, and pop), often accompanied by theater, are held here. \| Mauritiusstr. 3a, use entrance of movie theater Bambi Kino] \| 0611/910–3743 \| [www.walhalla-studio.de. ### Thermal Springs, Spas, and Pools Kaiser-Friedrich-Therme. Pamper yourself with the thermal spring and cold-water pools, various steam baths and saunas, two solaria, and a score of health- and wellness treatments in elegant art-nouveau surroundings. Towels and robes can be rented on-site, but come prepared for bathing nude. Children under 16 are not admitted. On Tuesday the facility is for women only. \| Langg. 38–40 \| 0611/317–060 \| May–Aug. €4.50 per hr, Sept.–Apr. €6 per hr \| Sept.–Apr., Mon.–Thurs. 10–10, Fri. and Sat. 10 am–midnight; May–Aug., daily 10–10. Thermalbad Aukammtal. There's year-round swimming indoors and out thanks to the thermal springs (32°C [90°F]) that feed the pools here. The facility includes seven saunas, a whirlpool, massage, and various other treatments. \| Leibnizstr. 7, Bus No. 18 from Wilhelmstr. to Aukamm Valley \| 0611/317–080 \| Pools €10, saunas €18, combined ticket €23 \| Sun., Mon., Wed. and Thurs. 8 am–10 pm, Tues. 6 am–1 am, Fri. and Sat. 8 am–midnight. ### Shopping Broad, tree-lined Wilhelmstrasse, with designer boutiques housed in its fin de siècle buildings, is one of Germany's most elegant shopping streets. Wiesbaden is also known as one of the best places in the country to find antiques; Taunusstrasse and Nerostrasse have excellent antiques shops. The Altstadt is full of upscale boutiques; Kirchgasse and its extension, Langgasse, are the heart of the shops-filled pedestrian zone. ## Eltville 14 km (9 miles) west of Wiesbaden via A-66 and B-42. The largest town in the Rheingau, Eltville rose to prominence in the Middle Ages as the residence of the Archbishops of Mainz. Today it's cherished for its wine and roses, which are celebrated most colorfully during its Rosentage (Rose Days), held the first weekend of June. Burg Crass (Crass Castle), located on the riverbank, is well worth a look, as are the half-timber houses and aristocratic manors on the lanes between the river and Rheingauer Strasse (B-42), notably the Bechtermünzer Hof (Kirchgasse 6), Stockheimer Hof (Ellenbogengasse 6), and Eltzer Hof (at the Martinstor gateway). #### Getting Here and Around Just 9 miles from Wiesbaden and 12 from Mainz, Eltville is easily accessible by road, rail, or bus service via RTV. #### Essentials Visitor Information Eltville Tourist-Information. \| Burgstr. 1 (in Kurfürstliche Burg) \| 06123/90980 \| www.eltville.de. ### Exploring Kiedrich. For a good look at the central Rheingau, make a brief circular tour from Eltville. Drive 3 km (2 miles) north via the Kiedricher Strasse to the Gothic village of Kiedrich. In the distance you can see the tower of Scharfenstein Castle (built in 1215) and the spires of St. Valentine's Basilica and St. Michael's Chapel, both from the 15th century. The latter, once a charnel house (a building near a cemetery used for storing dug-up bones), has a unique chandelier sculpted around a nearly life-size, two-sided Madonna. These Gothic gems have survived intact thanks to 19th-century restorations sponsored by the English baronet John Sutton. Weingut Robert Weil. Built by the English aristocrat John Sutton, this beautiful villa south of St. Valentine's Church is home to one of Germany's leading wine estates, Weingut Robert Weil. Its famed Kiedricher Gräfenberg Riesling wines can be sampled in the tasting room. \| Mühlberg 5 \| Kiedrich \| 06123/2308 \| www.weingut-robert-weil.com \| Weekdays 8–5:30, Sat. 10–5, Sun. 11–5 Fodor's Choice \| Kloster Eberbach. The former Cistercian monastery Kloster Eberbach is idyllically set in a secluded forest clearing 3 km (2 miles) west of Kiedrich. TIP Its Romanesque and Gothic buildings (12th–14th century) look untouched by time—one reason why the 1986 film of Umberto Eco's medieval murder mystery The Name of the Rose was filmed here. The monastery's impressive collection of old winepresses bears witness to a viticultural tradition that spans nearly nine centuries. The wines can be sampled year-round in the Vinothek (wine shop) or restaurant on the grounds. The church, with its excellent acoustics, and the large medieval dormitories are the settings for concerts, wine auctions, and festive wine events. \| Stiftung Kloster Eberbach \| 06723/917–8115 \| www.klostereberbach.de \| €6.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 11–5. Kurfürstliche Burg (Electors' Castle). Eltville flourished as a favorite residence of the archbishops of Mainz in the 14th and 15th centuries, and it was during this time that the castle—which now houses Eltville's tourist information center—was built. More than 300 varieties of roses grow in the castle's courtyard garden, on the wall, and along the Rhine promenade. During "Rose Days" (the first weekend in June) the flower is celebrated in shops and restaurants (as an ingredient in recipes) throughout town. \| Burgstr. 1 \| 06123/909–840 \| www.eltville.de \| Tower €2.50, rose garden free \| Tower: Apr.–mid-Oct., Fri. 2–6, weekends 11–6. Garden: Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 9:30–7; mid-Oct.–March, daily 10:30–4:30. Sts. Peter und Paul. The parish church of Saints Peter and Paul has late-Gothic frescoes, Renaissance tombstones, and a carved baptismal likely created by the Rhenish sculptor Hans Backoffen. \| Roseng. Steinberg. Kloster Eberbach's premier vineyard, Steinberg, is surrounded by a 3-km-long (2-mile-long) stone wall (13th–18th century). In warmer months you can enjoy its vintages outdoors, overlooking the vines. To visit from Eberbach, take the road toward Hattenheim, stopping at the first right-hand turnoff. Other prominent wineries in the area, Nussbrunnen, Wisselbrunnen, and Marcobrunn, get their name from the Brunnen (wells) that are beneath the vineyards. \| Domäne Steinberg \| www.kloster-eberbach.de/en/wine-estate/das-weingut-seine-domaenen/domaene-steinberg.html \| Wine cellar tour €10 with tasting \| Guided cellar tour: Apr.–Oct., weekends at 1 and 3; Nov.–Mar., Sun. at 2. Group tours available at other times via Eltville tourist center. ### Where to Eat Gutsausschank im Baiken. GERMAN \| This restaurant is on a hilltop amid the Rauenthaler Baiken vineyard. The panorama from the vine-canopied terrace, the regional cooking, and local wines make for a complete "Rheingau Riesling" experience. \| Average main: €18 \| Wiesweg 86, via Eltville \| 06123/900–345 \| www.baiken.de \| Closed Feb. Closed Mon. Apr.–Oct., Mon.–Wed. Nov.–Mar. No lunch Mon.–Sat. Klosterschänke und Gästehaus Kloster Eberbach. GERMAN \| Beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Klosterschänke you can pair local wines with regional cuisine. Try the Weinfleisch (pork goulash in Riesling sauce) or Zisterzienser Brot, which translates to "Cistercian bread" (minced meat in a plum-and-bacon dressing with boiled potatoes). \| Average main: €16 \| Kloster Eberbach, via Kiedrich or Hattenheim \| 06723/993–299 \| www.klostereberbach.de \| No credit cards. Fodor's Choice \| Kronenschlösschen. FRENCH \| The young chef Sebastian Lühr, who took over in 2013, carries on the acclaimed culinary traditions that made this stylish and intimate art nouveau house one of the Rheingau's top restaurants. The wine list focuses on the finest local estates for whites, and old- and new-world estates for reds. In warmer months, you can also enjoy sensational fish creations in the parklike garden. \| Average main: €44 \| Rheinallee \| Eltville-Hattenheim \| 06723/640 \| www.kronenschloesschen.de. Schloss Reinhartshausen. GERMAN \| A palace in every sense of the word, this hotel and wine estate overlooks the Rhine and beautifully landscaped gardens. Antiques and artwork fill the house. You can enjoy breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea with Rieslingtorte in the airy, glass-lined Wintergarten. Upscale dinners are served in the elegant Prinzess von Erbach. The less pricey Schloss Schänke, located in the old press house, serves light fare and hearty snacks. The estate's wines are also sold daily in the Vinothek. \| Average main: €30 \| Hauptstr. 41 \| Eltville-Erbach \| 06123/6760 \| www.kempinski.com/en/eltville. Zum Krug. GERMAN \| Winegrower Josef Laufer more than lives up to the hospitality promised by the wreath and Krug (an earthenware pitcher) hanging above the front door. The wood-panel restaurant, with its old tiled stove is cozy. The German fare includes wild duck, goose, game, or sauerbraten served in rich, flavorful sauces and gravies. The wine list is legendary for its scope (600 Rheingau wines) and selection of older vintages. In 2011, the former Hattenheim City Hall became part of Zum Krug's Rheingau-themed inn, nearly doubling its rooms to 15. \| Average main: €23 \| Hauptstr. 34 \| Eltville-Hattenheim \| 06723/99680 \| www.hotel-zum-krug.de \| Closed 4 wks in Dec. and Jan., and 2 wks in July and Aug. ### Where to Stay Weinhotel Hof Bechtermünz. HOTEL \| Set within a 15th-century structure on Eltville's Weingut Koegler complex, Weinhotel Hof Bechtermünz brings modern style to its historic setting (Johannes Gutenberg printed the world's first dictionary here in 1467). The 10 rooms are individually designed, and overseen by the charming Ferdinand and Renata Koegler. The wine cellar is noted for its Grüner Veltliner, Riesling and Pinot Noir, while the Weingut's restaurant serves Rheingau specialties like Handkäs (hand-formed sour milk cheese). From Easter to October there's a lovely rose garden. Pros: historic and central setting; delicious wine selection. Cons: no a/c. \| Rooms from: €140 \| Kirchg. 5 \| 06123/2437 \| www.weingut-koegler.de/weinhotel \| 10 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Oestrich-Winkel 21 km (13 miles) west of Wiesbaden, 7 km (4½ miles) west of Eltville on B-42. Oestrich's vineyard area is the largest in the Rheingau. Lenchen and Doosberg are the most important vineyards. You can sample the wines at the outdoor wine-tasting stand, opposite the 18th-century wine-loading crane on the riverbank of Oestrich (nearly opposite Hotel Schwan). ### Exploring Brentanohaus. The village of Winkel (pronounced vin-kle) lies west of Oestrich. A Winkeler Hasensprung wine from the 1811 vintage was Goethe's wine of choice during his stay here with the Brentano family in 1814. The Brentanohaus's Goethe Zimmer (Goethe Room), with mementos and furnishings from Goethe's time, is open to the public a few times a year, or by appointment. \| Am Lindenpl. 2 \| 06723/2068 \| www.brentano.de. Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Johannisberg. The origins of this grand wine estate date from 1100, when Benedictine monks built a monastery and planted vines on the slopes below. The palace and remarkable cellars (tours by appointment) were built in the early 18th century. There are tastings at the estate's restaurant. To get here, first head to Winkel, to the west of Oestrich. From itsmain street, drive north on Schillerstrasse and proceed all the way uphill. After the road curves to the left, watch for the left turn to the castle. \| Weinbaudomäne Schloss Johannisberg \| Geisenheim-Johannisberg \| 06722/70090 \| www.schloss-johannisberg.de \| Wine shop: Mar., Apr., and Oct., weekdays 10–6, weekends 11–6; May–Sept., weekdays 10–6, weekends 11–7; Nov.–Feb., weekdays 10–6, weekends 11–5. Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Vollrads. Built in 1211, Schloss Vollrads is the oldest of Germany's major wine estates. The tower, built in 1330 and surrounded by a moat, was the Greiffenclau residence for 350 years until the present palace was built in the 17th century. There is a wineshop, and the period rooms are open during concerts, festivals, and wine tastings. It's 3 km (2 miles) north of town. \| Vollradser Allee \| North on Kirchstr., continue on Vollradser Allee \| 06723/6626 \| www.schlossvollrads.com \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 9–6, weekends 11–7; Nov.–Mar., weekdays 9–5, weekends 11–4. ### Where to Eat Die Wirtschaft. GERMAN \| Beate and Florian Kreller provide you with a warm welcome to their historic building on Winkel's Hauptstrasse (main street). Fresh flowers and candles top the tables set in a labyrinth of cozy niches with exposed beams and old stone walls. No less inviting is the pretty courtyard. Special emphasis is placed on fresh, local ingredients in season. Their lunch (€9.50 for two courses and €11 for three) is a good deal. \| Average main: €21 \| Hauptstr. 70 \| Winkel \| 06723/7426 \| www.die-wirtschaft.net \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon., and 2 wks in July and Aug. No dinner Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Gutsrestaurant Schloss Vollrads. MEDITERRANEAN \| Chef Alexander Ehrgott's seasonal German and light Mediterranean dishes are served with the estate's wines in the cavalier house (1650) or on the flower-lined terrace facing the garden. \| Average main: €19 \| Schloss Vollrads, Vollradser Allee, north of Winkel \| 06723/660 \| www.schlossvollrads.com/restaurant.html \| Closed late Dec.–Apr.; closed Mon. and Tues. Nov.–mid-Dec.; closed Wed. May–Oct. Gutsschänke Schloss Johannisberg. GERMAN \| The glassed-in terrace affords a spectacular view of the Rhine and the vineyards where the wine you're drinking originated. Rheingau Riesling soup and Bauernente (farmer's duck) are among the house specialties. \| Average main: €20 \| Schloss Johannisberg \| Geisenheim-Johannisberg \| 06722/96090 \| www.schloss-johannisberg.de \| Reservations essential. ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Schwan. B&B/INN \| Owned by the Wenckstern family since it was built in 1628, this green-and-white half-timber inn offers considerable comfort, though the rooms in the guesthouse are simpler than in the historic main building. Many rooms have a Rhine view (Rooms 103, 106, 107, and 108 are especially nice), as does the beautiful terrace. The staff is friendly and helpful, and you can sample the family's wines in the cavernous wine cellar and in the restaurant, which has a lovely terrace ($ - $$) Pros: nice location right at the 18th-century crane on the river; outdoor wine stands. Cons: rooms in the guesthouse are plain. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Rheinallee 5, Oestrich \| 06723/8090 \| www.hotel-schwan.de \| 52 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. ## Rüdesheim 30 km (19 miles) west of Wiesbaden, 9 km (5½ miles) west of Oestrich-Winkel on B-42. Tourism and wine are the heart and soul of Rüdesheim. With south-facing slopes reaching down to the riverbanks, wine growing has thrived here for 1,000 years. Since being discovered by English and German romanticists in the early 19th century for its picturesque solitude, Rüdesheim has long lost its quiet innocence, as the narrow, medieval alleys fill with boatloads of cheerful visitors from all over the world. #### Essentials Visitor Information Rüdesheim Tourist-Information. \| Rheinstr. 29a \| 06722/906–150 \| www.ruedesheim.de. ### Exploring Drosselgasse (Thrush Alley). Less than 500 feet long, Drosselgasse is a narrow, pub-lined lane that buzzes with music and merrymaking from noon until well past midnight every day from Easter through October. \| between Rheinstr. and Oberstr. Luftsport-Club Rheingau. With the wings of a glider you can silently soar over the Rhine Valley. At the Luftsport-Club Rheingau you can catch a 30- to 60-minute Segelflug (glider flight) on a glider plane between Rüdesheim and the Loreley; allow 1½ hours for pre- and postflight preparations. \| Flugplatz Eibinger Forstwiesen, Kammerforsterstr., 3 km (2 miles) north of Niederwald-Denkmal and Landgut Ebenthal \| 06722/2979 \| www.lsc-rheingau.de \| First 5 mins €15, each additional min €0.50; first 15 mins in glider with motor €30, each additional min €2 \| Apr.–Oct., weekends 10–7. Niederwalddenkmal. High above Rüdesheim and visible for miles stands Germania, a colossal female statue crowning the Niederwald Monument. This tribute to German nationalism, all spruced up following a renovation in 2012, was built between 1877 and 1883 to commemorate the rebirth of the German Empire after the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71). Germania faces across the Rhine toward its eternal enemy, France. At her base are the words to a stirring patriotic song: "Dear Fatherland, rest peacefully! Fast and true stands the watch, the watch on the Rhine!" There are splendid panoramic views from the monument and from other vantage points on the edge of the forested plateau. You can reach the monument on foot, by car (via Grabenstrasse), or over the vineyards in the Seilbahn (cable car). There's also a Sessellift (chairlift) to and from Assmannshausen, a red-wine enclave, on the other side of the hill; for €13, a "Ringticket" will take you from the Old Town to Niederwald by Seilbahn, from Niederwald to Assmannshausen by Sessellift, and back to Rüdesheim by boat. \| Oberstr. 37 \| 06722/2402 \| www.seilbahn-ruedesheim.de \| One-way €5, round-trip €7, combined ticket for cable car and chairlift €7.50 \| Mar., Apr., and Oct., weekdays 9:30–5, weekends 9:30–6; May, daily 9:30–6; June and Sept., weekdays 9:30–6, weekends 9:30–7; July and Aug., daily 9:30–7; Nov., daily 9:30–4; early and mid-Dec., weekdays 11–6, weekends 11–7. Weinmuseum Brömserburg (Brömserburg Wine Museum). Housed in one of the oldest castles on the Rhine (it was built around the year 1000), the museum displays wine-related artifacts and drinking vessels dating from Roman times.TIP There are great views from the roof and the terrace, where there are occasionally wine tastings (ask at the desk). \| Rheinstr. 2 \| 06722/2348 \| www.rheingauer-weinmuseum.de \| €5 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 10–6. ### Where to Stay Breuer's Rüdesheimer Schloss. HOTEL \| Vineyard views grace most of the rooms at this stylish, historic hotel where guests are welcomed with a drink from the family's Rheingau wine estate. Gracious hosts Susanne and Heinrich Breuer, whose daughter Maresa was named Rheingau Wine Queen, can arrange cellar and vineyard tours as well as wine tastings. Live piano music is played at the family's restaurant. Pros: right off the Drosselgasse; if you stay a week you only pay for six days. Cons: noisy tourist area. \| Rooms from: €155 \| Steing. 10 \| 06722/90500 \| www.ruedesheimer-schloss.com \| 23 rooms, 3 suites \| Closed late Dec.–early Jan. \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Krone Assmannshausen. HOTEL \| From its humble beginnings in 1541 as an inn for sailors and ferrymen, the Krone evolved into an elegant, antique-filled hotel with a fine restaurant ($$$$). Rooms at the back of the hotel face busy railroad tracks, but thick glass provides good soundproofing. Two of the suites have their own sauna. Pros: restaurant has a terrace overlooking the Rhine; lovely views of vineyards as well as river. Cons: right on a main rail line; rooms at the back have a less than spectacular view. \| Rooms from: €139 \| Rheinuferstr. 10 \| Rüdesheim-Assmannshausen \| 06722/4030 \| www.hotel-krone.com \| 53 rooms, 12 suites, 1 penthouse \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Bingen \| Bacharach \| Oberwesel \| St. Goar \| St. Goarshausen \| Boppard \| Koblenz Bingen, like Rüdesheim, is a gateway to the Mittelrhein. From here to Koblenz lies the greatest concentration of Rhine castles. Most date from the 12th and 13th centuries, but were destroyed after the invention of gunpowder, mainly during invasions by the French. It's primarily thanks to the Prussian royal family and its penchant for historical preservation that numerous Rhine castles were rebuilt or restored in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Two roads run parallel to the Rhine: B-42 (east side) and B-9 (west side). The spectacular views from the heights can best be enjoyed via the routes known as the Loreley-Burgenstrasse (east side), from Kaub to the Loreley to Kamp-Bornhofen; or the Rheingoldstrasse (west side), from Rheindiebach to Rhens. ## Bingen 35 km (22 miles) west of Wiesbaden via Mainz and A-60; ferry from wharf opposite Rüdesheim's train station. Bingen overlooks the Nahe-Rhine conflux near a treacherous stretch of shallows and rapids known as the Binger Loch (Bingen Hole). Early on, Bingen developed into an important commercial center, for it was here—as in Rüdesheim on the opposite shore—that goods were moved from ship to shore to circumvent the impassable waters. Bingen was also the crossroads of Roman trade routes between Mainz, Koblenz, and Trier. Thanks to this central location, it grew into a major center of the wine trade and remains so today. Wine is celebrated during 11 days of merrymaking in late August and early September at the annual Winzerfest. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bingen Tourist-Information. \| Rheinkai 21 \| 06721/184–205 \| www.bingen.de. ### Exploring Basilika St. Martin. The late-Gothic Basilika St. Martin was built on the site of a Roman temple and first mentioned in 793. The 11th-century crypt and Gothic and baroque furnishings make it worth a visit. Not far away is the thousand-year-old Drususbrücke, a stone bridge that runs over the Nahe. \| Basilikastr. 1 \| Mon. and Wed.–Fri. 8–5; Tues. and weekends 8–8. Burg Klopp. Bingen was destroyed repeatedly by wars and fires; thus there are many ancient foundations but few visible architectural remains of the past. Since Celtic times the Kloppberg (Klopp Hill), in the center of town, has been the site of a succession of citadels, all named Burg Klopp, since 1282. Here you'll find a terrace with good views of the Rhine, the Nahe, and the surrounding hills. From April to October, the castle's tower can be climbed from 8 to 6 daily. \| Kloppg. 1. Fodor's Choice \| Historisches Museum am Strom (History Museum). Here you can see the most intact set of Roman surgical tools ever discovered (2nd century), period rooms from the Rhine Romantic era, and displays about Abbess St. Hildegard von Bingen (1098–1179), one of the most remarkable women of the Middle Ages. An outspoken critic of papal and imperial machinations, she was a highly respected scholar, naturopath, and artist whose mystic writings and (especially) music became very popular from the 1990s onward. An excellent illustrated booklet in English on Rhine Romanticism, The Romantic Rhine, is sold at the museum shop. The museum is housed in a former power station (1898) on the riverbank. \| Museumsstr. 3 \| 06721/184–350, 06721/184–353 \| www.bingen.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Rochuskapelle (St. Roch Chapel). The forested plateau of the Rochusberg (St. Roch Hill) is the pretty setting of the Rochuskapelle. Originally built in 1666 to celebrate the end of the plague, it has been rebuilt twice. On August 16, 1814, Goethe attended the consecration festivities, the forerunner of today's Rochusfest, a weeklong folk festival in mid-August. The chapel (open during Sunday services at 8 and 10) contains an altar dedicated to St. Hildegard and relics and furnishings from the convents she founded on the Ruppertsberg (in the suburb of Bingerbrück) and in Eibingen (east of Rüdesheim). \| Rochusberg 3 \| 06721/14225. Hildegard Forum. Located near the St. Roch Chapel, the Hildegard Forum has exhibits related to St. Hildegard, a medieval herb garden, and a restaurant serving tasty, wholesome foods—many based on Hildegard's theories of nutrition. The lunch buffets are a good value. \| Rochusberg 1 \| 06721/181–000 \| www.hildegard-forum.de \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6 ### Where to Eat Fodor's Choice \| Johann Lafer's Stromburg. EUROPEAN \| It's a pretty 15-minute drive through the Binger Wald (Bingen Forest) to this luxurious castle hotel and restaurant overlooking Stromberg. Johann Lafer is a prolific chef who pioneered cooking shows in Germany. In the elegant Val d'Or the Variationen (medley) of foie gras and the Hirschrücken mit Rosenkohl (venison with Brussels sprouts) are classics. The less formal Bistro d'Or serves tasty regional dishes. The wine list features some 200 top Nahe wines and several hundred Old and New World wines, with a particularly fine collection from Bordeaux and Burgundy. \| Average main: €46 \| Am Schlossberg 1, 12 km (7½ miles) west of Bingerbrück via Weiler and Waldalgesheim \| Stromberg \| 06724/93100 \| www.johannlafer.de/stromburg \| Reservations essential \| Le Val d'Or closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch weekdays. Weinstube Kruger-Rumpf. GERMAN \| It's well worth the 10-minute drive from Bingen (just across the Nahe River) to enjoy Cornelia Rumpf's refined country cooking with Stefan Rumpf's exquisite Nahe wines. Seasonal house specialties include geschmorte Schweinebacken (braised pork jowls) with kohlrabi, boiled beef with green herb sauce, and Winzerschmaus (a casserole of potatoes, sauerkraut, bacon, cheese, and herbs). The house dates from 1790; the wisteria-draped garden beckons in summer. \| Average main: €17 \| Rheinstr. 47, 4 km (2½ miles) southwest of Bingen \| Münster-Sarmsheim \| 06721/43859 \| www.kruger-rumpf.com \| Reservations essential \| Closed Mon. and 2 wks in Jan. No lunch weekdays. En Route: Mäuseturm (Mouse Tower). On the 5-km (3-mile) drive on B-9 to Trechtingshausen you will pass by Bingen's landmark, the Mäuseturm, perched on a rocky island near the Binger Loch. The name derives from a gruesome legend. One version tells that during a famine in 969 the miserly Archbishop Hatto hoarded grain and sought refuge in the tower to escape the peasants' pleas for food. The stockpile attracted scads of mice to the tower, where they devoured everything in sight, including Hatto. In fact, the tower was built by the archbishops of Mainz in the 13th and 14th centuries as a Mautturm (watch tower and toll station) for their fortress, Ehrenfels, on the opposite shore (now a ruin). It was restored in neo-Gothic style by the king of Prussia in 1855, who also rebuilt Burg Sooneck. \| Mäuseturminsel. The three castles open for visits near Trechtingshausen (turnoffs are signposted on B-9) will especially appeal to lovers of history and art. As you enter each castle's gateway, consider what a feat of engineering it was to have built such a massive Burg (fortress or castle) on the stony cliffs overlooking the Rhine. They have all lain in ruin once or more during their turbulent histories. Their outer walls and period rooms still evoke memories of Germany's medieval past as well as the 19th-century era of Rhine Romanticism. Burg Rheinstein. This castle was the home of Rudolf von Habsburg from 1282 to 1286. To establish law and order on the Rhine, he destroyed the neighboring castles of Burg Reichenstein and Burg Sooneck and hanged their notorious robber barons from the oak trees around the Clemens Church, a late-Romanesque basilica near Trechtingshausen. The Gobelin tapestries, 15th-century stained glass, wall and ceiling frescoes, a floor of royal apartments, and antique furniture—including a rare "giraffe spinet," which Kaiser Wilhelm I is said to have played—are the highlights here. All of this is illuminated by candlelight on some summer Fridays. Rheinstein was the first of many a Rhine ruin to be rebuilt by a royal Prussian family in the 19th century. \| From the A-61, take exit AS Bingen center. Continue on the B-9 heading toward Bingerbrück, driving through Bingerbrück; the castle is between Bingerbrück and Trechtingshausen; parking is below the castle, at B-9 \| Trechtingshausen \| 06721/6348 \| www.burg-rheinstein.de \| €5 \| Mid-Mar.–mid-Nov., daily 9:30–6; mid-Nov.–late Dec. and early to mid-Mar., weekends only 10–5 (weather permitting—call ahead). Burg Reichenstein. This castle has collections of decorative cast-iron slabs (from ovens and historical room-heating devices), hunting weapons and armor, period rooms, and paintings. It's the only one of the area's three castles directly accessible by car. \| Burgweg 7 \| Trechtingshausen \| 06721/6117 \| www.burg-reichenstein.de \| €4.50 \| Mar.–mid-Nov., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; mid-Nov.–Feb., Tues.–Sun. 11–5 (weather permitting—call ahead). Burg Sooneck. On the edge of the Soon (pronounced zone) Forest, this castle houses a valuable collection of Empire, Biedermeier, and neo-Gothic furnishings, medieval weapons, and paintings from the Rhine Romantic era. \| Sooneckstr. 1 \| Niederheimbach \| 06743/6064 \| www.burgen-rlp.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Oct., Nov., and Jan.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 9–5. ## Bacharach 16 km (10 miles) north of Bingen, ferry 3 km (2 miles) north of town, to Kaub. Bacharach, whose name may derive from the Latin Bacchi ara (altar of Bacchus), has long been associated with wine. Like Rüdesheim, Bingen, and Kaub, it was a shipping station where barrels would interrupt their Rhine journey for land transport. Riesling wine from the town's most famous vineyard, the Bacharacher Hahn, is served on the KD Rhine steamers, and Riesling is used in local cooking for marinades and sauces; you can even find Riesling ice cream. In June you can sample wines at the Weinblütenfest (Vine Blossom Festival) in the side-valley suburb of Steeg, and, in late August, at Kulinarische Sommernacht in Bacharach proper (www.kulinarische-sommernacht.de). Park on the riverbank and enter the town through one of its medieval gateways. You can ascend the 14th-century town wall for a walk along the ramparts around the town, then stroll along the main street (one street but three names: Koblenzer Strasse, Oberstrasse, and Mainzer Strasse) for a look at patrician manors, typically built around a Hof (courtyard), and half-timber houses. Haus Sickingen, Posthof, Zollhof, Rathaus (Town Hall), and Altes Haus are fine examples. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bacharach Tourist-Information. \| Oberstr. 10 \| 06743/919–303 \| www.rhein-nahe-touristik.de. ### Exploring St. Peter. The massive tower in the center of town belongs to the parish church of St. Peter. A good example of the transition from Romanesque to Gothic styles, it has an impressive four-story nave. \| Blücherstr. 1. Wernerkapelle. From the parish church a set of stone steps (signposted) leads to Bacharach's landmark, the sandstone ruins of the Gothic Wernerkapelle, highly admired for its filigree tracery. The chapel's roof succumbed to falling rocks in 1689, when the French blew up Burg Stahleck. Originally a Staufen fortress (11th century), the castle lay dormant until 1925, when a youth hostel was built on the foundations. The sweeping views from there are worth the 10-minute walk. \| Obertstr. ### Where to Eat and Stay Fodor's Choice \| Altes Haus. GERMAN \| This charming medieval half-timber house (1368) is a favorite setting for films and photos. The restaurant uses the freshest ingredients possible and buys meat and game from local butchers and hunters. Rieslingrahmsuppe (Riesling cream soup), Reibekuchen (potato pancakes), and a refined version of boiled beef with horseradish sauce, Tafelspitz mit Wasabi, are favorites, in addition to the seasonal specialties. There is also a good selection of local wines. \| Average main: €10 \| Oberstr. 61 \| 06743/1209 \| Closed Wed. and Dec.–Easter; closed weekdays in Apr. and Nov. Gutsausschank Zum Grünen Baum. GERMAN \| The Bastian family (also owners of the vineyard Insel Heyles'en Werth, on the island opposite Bacharach) runs this cozy tavern in a half-timber house dating from 1421. The "wine carousel" is a great way to sample a full range of wine flavors and styles (15 wines). Snacks are served (from 1 pm), including delicious Wildsülze (game in aspic), with potato salad, sausages, and cheese. Reservations are a good idea on summer weekends. \| Average main: €12 \| Oberstr. 63 \| 06743/1208 \| www.weingut-bastian-bacharach.de \| Closed Thurs. and Jan.–mid-Mar. Altkölnischer Hof. HOTEL \| Flowers line the windows of country-style rooms in this pretty half-timber hotel near the market square. The Scherschlicht family provides simply but attractively furnished lodgings, and some of the rooms have balconies. Four apartments with kitchens round out the offerings. Pros: half-timber romance. Cons: noisy tourist area; 10-minute walk from the station. \| Rooms from: €60 \| Blücherstr. 2 \| 06743/1339 \| www.altkoelnischer-hof.de \| 18 rooms, 2 suites, 4 apartments \| Closed Nov.–Mar. \| Breakfast. Rhein-Hotel Bacharach. HOTEL \| The modern rooms in this friendly, family-run operation, each of them named after a vineyard, come with Rhine and castle views. The hotel is right at the town wall, a few steps from the town center and beneath a castle. The Stüber family's restaurant has an excellent selection of Bacharacher wines to accompany the elegantly prepared Bacharacher Rieslingbraten (braised beef) and other regional specialties. Pros: Rhine and castle views; free bike and laptop loans for hotel guests. Cons: no elevator; next to railway. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Langstr. 50 \| 06743/1243 \| www.rhein-hotel-bacharach.de \| 13 rooms, 1 apartment \| Closed late Dec.–Feb. \| Breakfast. ## Oberwesel 8 km (5 miles) north of Bacharach. Oberwesel retains its medieval silhouette. Sixteen of the original 21 towers and much of the town wall still stand in the shadow of Schönburg Castle. The "town of towers" is also renowned for its Riesling wines, which are celebrated during a festival held the first half of September. Both Gothic churches, on opposite ends of town, are worth visiting. #### Essentials Visitor Information Oberwesel Tourist-Information. \| Rathausstr. 3 \| 06744/710–624 \| www.oberwesel.de. ### Exploring Liebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). Popularly known as the "red church" because of its brightly colored exterior, Liebfrauenkirche has superb sculptures, tombstones and paintings, and one of Germany's oldest altars (1331). \| Kirchstr. 1. St. Martin. Set on a hill and with a fortresslike tower, the so-called "white church" has beautifully painted vaulting and a magnificent baroque altar. \| Martinsberg 1. Stadtmuseum Oberwesel. Oberwesel's city museum offers a virtual tour of the town, as well as a multimedia "journey through time" showing the area from the Stone Age to present day. It also houses a fine collection of old etchings and drawings of the Rhine Valley, including one by John Gardnor, an English clergyman and painter, who published a book of sketches upon his return to England and kicked off a wave of Romantic tourism in the late 18th century. \| Rathausstr. 23 \| 06744/714–726 \| www.kulturhaus-oberwesel.de \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Fri. 10–5, weekends 2–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Fri. 10–2. ### Where to Eat and Stay Historische Weinwirtschaft. GERMAN \| Tables in the flower-laden garden in front of this lovingly restored half-timber house are at a premium in summer, thought the seats in the nooks and crannies indoors are just as inviting. Dark beams, exposed stone walls, and antique furniture set the mood on the ground and first floors, and the vaulted cellar houses contemporary-art exhibitions. Ask Iris Marx, the ebullient proprietor, for an English menu if you're stumbling over the words in local dialect. She offers country cooking at its best. The wine list has 32 wines by the glass. \| Average main: €13 \| Liebfrauenstr. 17 \| 06744/8186 \| www.historische-weinwirtschaft.de \| Closed Tues. and Jan. No lunch Mon.–Sat. Hotel Römerkrug. GERMAN \| Rooms with exposed beams, pretty floral prints, and historic furnishings are tucked behind the half-timber facade (1458) of Elke Matzner's small inn on the market square. Fish (such as fresh trout from the Wisper Valley) and game are house specialties, but Marc Matzner also prepares local favorites, such as Himmel und Erde (mashed apples and potatoes with bacon and onions). There's a well-chosen selection of Mittelrhein wines that can be bought to take home. \| Average main: €19 \| Marktpl. 1 \| 06744/7091 \| www.hotel-roemerkrug.rhinecastles.com \| Closed Wed. and 3 wks in Nov. and Feb. Fodor's Choice \| Burghotel "Auf Schönburg"B&B/INN \| Antique furnishings and historic rooms (a library, chapel, and prison tower) make for an unforgettable stay at this lovingly restored hotel and restaurant in the 12th-century Schönburg Castle complex. The restaurant ($$$; no lunch Monday), has a Rhine view and terrace seating in the castle's courtyard; the experience is further enhanced by the extraordinarily friendly and personal service. If you have only a night or two in the area, this hotel's first-rate lodging, food, and wine make it a great place to splurge. Pros: castle right out of a storybook. Cons: lots of climbing; parking lot 100 yards downhill; train tracks nearby; very expensive. \| Rooms from: €220 \| Oberwesel \| 06744/93930 \| www.hotel-schoenburg.com \| 20 rooms, 5 suites \| Closed early Jan.–mid-Mar. \| Breakfast. ## St. Goar 7 km (4½ miles) north of Oberwesel, ferry to St. Goarshausen. St. Goar and St. Goarshausen, its counterpoint on the opposite shore, are named after a Celtic missionary who settled here in the 6th century. He became the patron saint of innkeepers—an auspicious sign for both towns, which now live off tourism and wine. September is especially busy, with Weinforum Mittelrhein (a major wine-and-food presentation in Burg Rheinfels) on the first weekend, and the annual wine festivals and the splendid fireworks display "Rhine in Flames" on the third weekend. #### Getting Here and Around Highway B-9 and rail service link St. Goar to other towns on the Mittelrhein's west side; ferries to St. Goarshausen connect it to the east. #### Essentials St. Goar Tourist-Information. \| Heerstr. 86 \| 06741/383 \| www.st-goar.de. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Burg Rheinfels. The castle ruins overlooking the town bear witness to the fact that St. Goar was once the best-fortified town in the Mittelrhein. From its beginnings in 1245, it was repeatedly enlarged by the counts of Katzenelnbogen, a powerful local dynasty, and their successors, the Landgraviate of Hesse. Rheinfels was finally blasted by the French in 1797. Take time for a walk through the impressive ruins and the museum, which has a detailed model of how the fortress looked in its heyday. To avoid the steep ascent on foot, buy a round-trip ticket (€4) for the Burgexpress, which departs from the bus stop on Heerstrasse, opposite the riverside parking lot for tour buses. \| Off Schlossberg Str. \| 06741/7753 \| www.burg-rheinfels.com \| €4 \| Mid-Mar.–Oct., daily 9–6; early Nov., daily 9–5; mid-Nov.–mid-Mar., weekends 11–5. Stiftskirche. This 15th-century collegiate church was built atop the tomb of St. Goar, despite the fact that the tomb itself (an ancient pilgrimage site) was discovered to be empty during the church's construction. The 11th-century crypt has been called the most beautiful to be found on the Rhine, between Köln and Speyer. \| Marktpl. \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 11–6. ### Where to Eat and Stay Weinhotel Landsknecht. GERMAN \| Members of the Nickenig family make everyone feel at home in their riverside restaurant and hotel north of St. Goar. Daughter Martina and her winemaker husband, Joachim Lorenz, operate the Vinothek, where you can sample his delicious Bopparder Hamm wines. These go well with the hearty local dishes, such as Rhine-style Sauerbraten or seasonal specialties (asparagus, game), at the Ausblick restaurant. TIP The hotel is an official Rheinsteig and Rhein-Burgen trail partner—perfect for hikers. \| Average main: €16 \| Rheinuferstr. B-9 \| St. Goar–Fellen \| 06741/2011 \| www.hotel-landsknecht.de. Fodor's Choice \| Romantik Hotel Schloss Rheinfels. HOTEL \| Directly opposite Burg Rheinfels, this hotel offers modern comfort and expansive views from rooms furnished in country-manor style. The hotel's three restaurants serve local, home-style cooking as well as elaborate seven-course meals. Pros: marvelous views of the Rhine and the town. Cons: villa section, with one of the suites and all three of the apartments, is well removed from the hotel and lacking charm. \| Rooms from: €170 \| Schlossberg 47 \| 06741/8020 \| www.schloss-rheinfels.de \| 55 rooms, 4 apartments, 4 suites \| Breakfast. ## St. Goarshausen 29 km (18 miles) north of Rüdesheim, ferry from St. Goar. The town closest to the famous Loreley rock, the pretty St. Goarshausen even calls itself Die Loreleystadt (Loreley City). It's a popular destination for Rhineland travelers, especially during the Weinwoche (Wine Week festival), which leads up to the third weekend in September. #### Getting Here and Around Roads (B-42 and B-274) and rail service connect St. Goarshausen to neighboring towns on the east side of the Mittelrhein. Ferries to St. Goar link it to the west. ### Exploring Katz and Maus Castles. St. Goarshausen lies at the foot of two 14th-century castles whose names, Katz (Cat) and Maus (Mouse), reflect but one of the many power plays on the Rhine in the Middle Ages. Territorial supremacy and the privilege of collecting tolls fueled the fires of rivalry. In response to the construction of Burg Rheinfels, the archbishop of Trier erected a small castle north of St. Goarshausen to protect his interests. In turn, the masters of Rheinfels, the counts of Katzenelnbogen, built a bigger castle directly above the town. Its name was shortened to Katz, and its smaller neighbor was scornfully referred to as Maus. Both castles are closed to the public. Liebenstein and Sterrenberg. Some 10 km (6 miles) north of the Maus castle, near Kamp-Bornhofen, is a castle duo separated by a "quarrel wall": Liebenstein and Sterrenberg, known as the Feindliche Brüder (rival brothers). Both impressive ruins have terrace cafés with good views. \| Zu den Burgen 1 \| Kamp-Bornhofen. Loreley. One of the Rhineland's main attractions lies 4 km (2½ miles) south of St. Goarshausen: the steep (430-foot-high) slate cliff named after the beautiful blond nymph Loreley. Here she supposedly sat, singing songs so lovely that sailors and fishermen were lured to the treacherous rapids—and their demise. The rapids really were treacherous: the Rhine is at its narrowest here and the current the swiftest. The Loreley nymph was invented in 1801 by author Clemens Brentano, who drew his inspiration from the sirens of Greek legend. Her tale was retold as a ballad by Heinrich Heine and set to music by Friedrich Silcher at the height of Rhine Romanticism in the 19th century. The haunting melody is played on the PA systems of the Rhine boats whenever the Loreley is approached. \| Lorely Visitor Center, Auf der Loreley 7. Off the Beaten Path: Loreley Besucherzentrum. The 3-D, 20-minute film and hands-on exhibits at this visitor center are entertaining ways to learn about the region's flora and fauna, geology, wine, shipping, and, above all, the myth of the Loreley. You can stock up on souvenirs in the shop and have a snack at the bistro before heading for the nearby vantage point at the cliff's summit. The center is on the Rheinsteig trail, and other hiking trails are signposted in the landscaped park. From Easter to October there's hourly bus service to and from the KD steamer landing in St. Goarshausen. \| Auf der Loreley 7 \| 06771/599–093 \| www.loreley-besucherzentrum.de \| €2.50 \| Mar., daily 10–5; Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Feb., weekends 11–4. ## Boppard 17 km (11 miles) north of St. Goar, ferry to Filsen. Boppard is a pleasant little resort that evolved from a Celtic settlement into a Roman fortress, Frankish royal court, and Free Imperial City. Boppard's tourism board conducts walking tours (in German, €3) mid-April to mid-October, Saturday at 11, starting at its office on the market square. Special tours in English are also bookable for groups. #### Essentials Visitor Information Boppard Tourist-Information. \| Am Marktplatz, Altes Rathaus \| 06742/3888 \| Fax 06742/81402 \| www.boppard-tourismus.de. ### Exploring Bodobrica. The Roman garrison Bodobrica, established here in the 4th century, was enclosed by a 26-foot-high rectangular wall (1,010 by 505 feet) with 28 defense towers. You can see portions of these in a fascinating open-air archaeological park. \| Angertstr., near B-9 and the railroad tracks. Karmeliterkirche (Carmelite Church). Two baroque altars dominate the interior of the Gothic Karmeliterkirche on Karmeliterstrasse, near the Rhine. It houses intricately carved choir stalls and tombstones and several beautiful Madonnas. Growers still observe the old custom of laying the first-picked Trauben (grapes) at the foot of the Traubenmadonna (1330) to ensure a good harvest. The annual wine festival takes place in late September or early October, just before the Riesling harvest. \| Rheinallee 44. Severuskirche (Church of St. Severus). Excavations in the 1960s revealed ancient Roman baths beneath the twin-tower, Romanesque Severuskirche on the market square. The large triumphal crucifix over the main altar and a lovely statue of a smiling Madonna date from the 13th century. \| Marktpl. Vierseenblick. From the Mühltal station, let the Sesselbahn (chairlift) whisk you a half-mile uphill to the Vierseenblick, where the Rhine looks like a chain of lakes. \| Mühltal 12 \| 06742/2510 \| www.sesselbahn-boppard.de \| Round-trip €7 \| Mid-Apr.–Sept., daily 10–6; 1st half of Apr. and last half of Oct., daily 10–5; 1st half of Oct., daily 10–5:30. ### Where to Eat and Stay Weinhaus Heilig Grab. GERMAN \| This wine estate's tavern, Boppard's oldest, is full of smiling faces: the wines are excellent, the food is simple and hearty, and the welcome is warm. Old chestnut trees shade tables in the courtyard. If you'd like to visit the cellars or vineyards, ask the friendly hosts. \| Average main: €8 \| Zelkesg. 12 \| 06742/2371 \| www.heiliggrab.de \| Closed Tues. and 3 wks late Dec.–early Jan. No lunch. Best Western Bellevue Rheinhotel. HOTEL \| You can enjoy a Rhine view from many of the rooms in this traditional hotel or from the terrace next to the waterfront promenade. Afternoon tea and dinner are served in the upscale restaurant Le Chopin ($$$$), while Le Bristol ($$) serves more regional fare. Pros: marvelous view. Cons: parking is a problem; breakfast costs €11 extra. \| Rooms from: €170 \| Rheinallee 41 \| 06742/1020 \| www.bellevue-boppard.de \| 93 rooms, 1 suite \| No meals. ### Sports and the Outdoors Mittelrhein Klettersteig. For those with Alpine hiking ambitions, there is this climbing path, a "via ferrata" complete with cables, steps, and ladders to help reach heights more quickly. It's an alternate route of the Rhein-Burgen-Wanderweg (hiking trail from Koblenz to Bingen). The trail starts at St.-Remigius-Platz, about 1 km (½ mile) from Boppard Hauptbahnhof. Allow two to three hours for the climb, though there are several possibilities to return to the "normal" path in-between climbs. Rent the necessary gear at the Aral gas station on Koblenzer Strasse in Boppard. \| St.-Remigius-Pl. \| 06742/2447 for Aral gas station. Weinwanderweg (Wine Hiking Trail). The 10-km (6-mile) hiking trail from Boppard to Spay begins north of town on Peternacher Weg. Many other marked trails in the vicinity are outlined on maps and in brochures available from the tourist office. En Route: Marksburg. On the eastern shore overlooking the town of Braubach is the Marksburg. Built in the 13th century to protect the silver and lead mines in the area, it's the only land-based castle on the Rhine to have survived the centuries intact. Within its massive walls are a collection of weapons and manuscripts, a medieval botanical garden, and a self-service restaurant. Try to get a table on the terrace to enjoy the stunning view. \| 02627/206 \| www.marksburg.de \| €6 \| Easter–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Easter, daily 11–4. Schloss Stolzenfels. On the outskirts of Koblenz, the neo-Gothic towers of Schloss Stolzenfels come into view. The castle's origins date to the mid-13th century, when the archbishop of Trier sought to counter the influence (and toll rights) of the archbishop of Mainz, who had just built Burg Lahneck, a castle at the confluence of the Lahn and Rhine rivers. Its superbly furnished period rooms and beautiful gardens are well worth a visit. From B-9 (curbside parking) it's about a 15-minute walk to the castle entrance. \| 0261/51656 \| stolzenfels.gdke.webseiten.cc \| €4 \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Oct., Nov., and Mar., Tues.–Sun. 9–5; Jan. and Feb., weekends 9–5. ## Koblenz 20 km (12 miles) north of Boppard. The ancient city of Koblenz is at a geographic nexus known as the Deutsches Eck (German Corner) in the heart of the Mittelrhein region. Rivers and mountains converge here: the Mosel flows into the Rhine on one side; the Lahn flows in on the other a few miles south; and three mountain ridges intersect. Founded by the Romans in AD 9, the city was first called Castrum ad Confluentes (Fort at the Confluence). It became a powerful city in the Middle Ages, when it controlled trade on both the Rhine and the Mosel. Air raids during World War II destroyed 85% of the city, but extensive restoration has done much to re-create its former atmosphere. As the host of Germany's Federal Horticultural Show in 2011, the city saw widespread urban development, including the new Seilbahn that transports visitors across the river and up to the Ehrenbreitstein fortress. #### Getting Here and Around You can get here speedily by autobahn or train, or via a leisurely scenic drive along the Rhine (or even more mellow, by cruise boat). The Koblenz tourist office has guided English-language tours on Saturday at 3 from May to October. Tours are €3 and depart from the Historisches Rathaus on Jesuitenplatz. #### Essentials Visitor Information Koblenz Tourist-Information. \| Jesuitenpl. 2–4, in Forum Confluentes \| 0261/130–920 \| www.koblenz-touristik.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Deutsches Eck (German Corner). This pointed bit of land, jutting into the river like the prow of an early ironclad warship, is at the sharp intersection of the Rhine and Mosel rivers. One of the more effusive manifestations of German nationalism—an 1897 equestrian statue of Kaiser Wilhelm I, first emperor of the newly united Germany—was erected here. It was destroyed at the end of World War II and replaced in 1953 with a ponderous monument to Germany's unity. After German reunification a new statue of Wilhelm was placed atop this monument in 1993. Pieces of the Berlin Wall stand on the Mosel side—a memorial to those who died as a result of the partitioning of the country. Festung Ehrenbreitstein. Europe's largest fortress, towering 400 feet above the left bank of the Rhine, offers a magnificent view over Koblenz and where the Mosel and the Rhine rivers meet. The earliest buildings date from about 1100, but the bulk of the fortress was constructed in the 16th century. In 1801 it was partially destroyed by Napoléon, and the French occupied Koblenz for the next 18 years. For an introduction to the fortress and its history, head for the Besucherdienst (visitor center). English-language tours are for groups only, but you can often join a group that is registered for a tour. A Seilbahn carries you from the street Konrad-Adenauer-Ufer over the river to Ehrenbreitstein, with spectacular views of the Deutsches Eck below. The half-mile trip can accommodate 7,000 passengers in an hour. Lifts run continually throughout the day starting at 10 am. From late March to late October they run until 6 pm, from late April to early September till 7 pm, and from November to late March they run on weekdays only until 5 pm. \| 0261/6675–4000 \| www.diefestungehrenbreitstein.de \| Fortress entrance €6, Seilbahn €8 round-trip, combined ticket €11.80 \| Mid-Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–mid-Apr., daily 10–5; year-round, free access to grounds and dining usually till midnight. Landesmuseum Koblenz (State Museum). The Festung Ehrenbreitstein's museum has exhibits on the history of local technologies, from wine growing to technology. Pride of place is given over to the fortress's 16th-century Vogel Greif cannon, which has done a lot of traveling over the years. The French absconded with it in 1794, the Germans took it back in 1940, and the French commandeered it again in 1945. The 15-ton cannon was peaceably returned by French president François Mitterrand in 1984. \| Festung Ehrenbreitstein \| 0261/66750 \| www.landesmuseum-koblenz.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–5. Ludwig Museum. Just behind the Deutsches Eck, housed in the spic-and-span Deutschherrenhaus, is this restored 13th-century building. Industrialist Peter Ludwig, one of Germany's leading contemporary-art collectors, has filled this museum with part of his huge collection. \| Danziger Freiheit 1 \| 0261/304–040 \| www.ludwigmuseum.org \| €5 \| Tues.–Sat. 10:30–5, Sun. 11–6. Mittelrhein Museum. Relocated in 2013 to the new Forum Confluentes, this museum houses the city's art collection, including extensive holdings of landscapes focusing on the Rhine. It also has a notable collection of secular medieval art and works by regional artists. \| Zentralpl. 1 \| 0261/129–2520 \| www.mittelrhein-museum.de \| €6, €6–8 for special exhibition, €10 for both \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. St. Kastor Basilika (St. Castor Basilica). It was in this sturdy Romanesque basilica, consecrated in 836, that plans were drawn for the Treaty of Verdun a few years later, formalizing the division of Charlemagne's great empire and leading to the creation of Germany and France as separate states. Inside, compare the squat Romanesque columns in the nave with the intricate fan vaulting of the Gothic sections. The St. Kastor Fountain outside the church is an intriguing piece of historical one-upmanship. It was built by the occupying French to mark the beginning of Napoléon's ultimately disastrous Russian campaign of 1812. \| Kastorhof \| www.sankt-kastor-koblenz.de \| Daily 9–6. #### Worth Noting Kurfürstliches Schloss. Strolling along the promenade toward town, you'll pass this gracious castle. It was built in the late 18th century by Prince-Elector Clemens Wenzeslaus as an elegant escape from the grim Ehrenbreitstein fortress. Though the palace is primarily used these days as a congress and event center, its Grand Café is open to the public. Liebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). War damage is evidenced by the blend of old buildings and modern store blocks on and around Am Plan. This church stands on Roman foundations at the Old Town's highest point. The bulk of the church is of Romanesque design, but its choir is one of the Rhineland's finest examples of 15th-century Gothic architecture, and the west front is graced with two 17th-century baroque towers. \| Am Plan \| Mon.–Sat. 8–6, Sun. 9–8. Rheinkran (Rhine Crane). The squat form of this crane, built in 1611, is one of Koblenz's landmarks. Marks on the side of the building indicate the heights reached by floodwaters of bygone years. In the mid-19th century a pontoon bridge consisting of a row of barges spanned the Rhine here; when ships approached, two or three barges were simply towed out of the way to let them through. Weindorf. Just off the Pfaffendorf Bridge, which marks the beginning of the Old Town, and between the modern blocks of the Rhein-Mosel-Halle and the Hotel Mercure, is the Weindorf, a wine "village" constructed for a mammoth exhibition of German wines in 1925. It's now a restaurant. Running along the riverbank past the Weindorf is a 10-km (6-mile) promenade, the Rheinanlagen (Rhine Gardens). \| www.weindorf-koblenz.de. ### Where to Eat Café Einstein. ECLECTIC \| Portraits of Einstein line the walls of this busy restaurant, where locals gather to watch live soccer matches. The friendly Tayhus family serves tasty fare daily, from a hearty breakfast buffet (there's brunch on Sunday—reservations recommended) to late-night finger food. Fish specials are served year-round. \| Average main: €15 \| Firmungstr. 30 \| 0261/914–4999 \| www.einstein-koblenz.de. Da Vinci. GERMAN \| At this smart restaurant in the heart of the Old Town, Da Vinci reproductions, including an original-size rendition of The Last Supper, adorn the walls. Leather upholstery, an elegant bar, and soft lighting round out the ambience. Celebrity chef Thomas Jaumann, who came aboard in 2013, presents a seasonally changing local menu with a European slant, with classic dishes like sirloin steak, rack of lamb, and loup de mer (European sea bass). The wine list includes more than 200 bottles, with a focus on German, Italian, and French wines. \| Average main: €23 \| Firmungstr. 32b \| 0261/921–5444 \| www.davinci-koblenz.de. Weindorf-Koblenz. GERMAN \| This reconstructed "wine village" of half-timber houses is grouped around a tree-shaded courtyard with an adjacent vineyard. The fresh renditions of traditional Rhine and Mosel specialties, a good selection of local wines, and a fabulous Sunday brunch (reservation recommended) where wine, beer, and nonalcoholic beverages are included in the price (€26.40) all make this a popular spot. \| Average main: €11 \| Julius-Wegeler-Str. 2 \| 0261/133–7190 \| www.weindorf-koblenz.de \| No lunch Nov.–Mar. Weinhaus Hubertus. GERMAN \| Hunting scenes and trophies line the wood-panel walls of this cozy wine restaurant named after the patron saint of hunters. The decorations also include 100-year-old murals. Hearty portions of fresh, traditional fare are what you'll find on offer. \| Average main: €14 \| Florinsmarkt 6 \| 0261/31177 \| weinhaus-hubertus.de \| Closed Tues. No lunch Mon.–Sat. Zum Weissen Schwanen. GERMAN \| Guests have found a warm welcome in this half-timber inn and mill since 1693, a tradition carried on by the Kunz family. This is a charming place to overnight or enjoy a dinner of well-prepared, contemporary German cuisine with regional specialties. Brasserie Brentano ($) serves lighter dishes as well as lunch and Sunday brunch. It's located next to the 13th-century town gateway of Braubach, just below the Marksburg. The hotel is an official Rheinsteig trail partner. \| Average main: €20 \| Brunnenstr. 4, 12 km (7½ miles) south of Koblenz via B-42 \| Braubach \| 02627/9820 \| www.zum-weissen-schwanen.de. ### Where to Stay Hotel Kleiner Riesen. HOTEL \| You can literally watch the Rhine flowing by from the four front rooms of this friendly, family-operated hotel about a 10-minute walk from the station. It's in a tranquil location perfect for strolling along the river promenade or for catching a tour boat from the pier. Pros: quiet; on the river; close to piers. Cons: 20-minute walk from city center. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Januarius-Zick Str. 11, on the Rhine promenade \| 0261/303–460 \| www.hotel-kleinerriesen.de \| 19 rooms, 3 Suites \| Breakfast. * * * Rhine and Mosel River Cruises No visit to the Rhineland is complete without at least one river cruise. Trips along the Rhine and Mosel range in length from a few hours to days or weeks. Many smaller, family-operated boat companies, such as Rhein- und Moselschiffahrt Hölzenbein, offer daytime trips and, often, nighttime dinner-dance cruises. Two important Mittelrhein specialists traveling from Bingen or Rüdesheim to the Loreley and making brief castle cruises are the Bingen-Rüdesheimer Fahrgastschiffahrt and Rösslerlinie. Bingen-Rüdesheimer Fahrgastschiffahrt. \| 06721/14140 \| www.bingen-ruedesheimer.de. Hebel-Linie. Loreley Valley trips from Boppard are available. \| 06742/2420 \| www.hebel-linie.de. Köln-Düsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt (KD Rhine Line). Popular for its day trips. the Köln-Düsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt travels the Rhine between Köln and Mainz, daily from Easter to late October, and the Mosel from Koblenz to Cochem, daily from June to September. There are many special offers, such as half-price travel on your birthday, and 30% off for seniors on certain days. \| 0221/208–8318 \| www.k-d.com. Mosel-Schiffstouristic Hans Michels of Bernkastel-Kues. This company goes from Bernkastel to Traben-Trarbach. \| 06531/8222 \| www.mosel-personenschifffahrt.de. Personenschiffahrt Kolb of Briedern. This company's route goes from Cochem to Trier. \| 02673/1515 \| www.moselfahrplan.de. Personenschiffahrt Merkelbach. This company makes round-trip "castle cruises" to Schloss Stolzenfels (one hour) or the Marksburg (two hours), passing by six castles en route. \| 0261/76810 \| www.merkelbach.personenschiffe.de. Primus-Linie. The Frankfurt-based Primus-Linie cruises between Frankfurt and the Loreley via Wiesbaden and, occasionally, between Wiesbaden and Heidelberg. \| 069/133–8370 \| www.primus-linie.de. Princesse Marie-Astrid. The spacious, luxurious Princesse Marie-Astrid, headquartered in Grevenmacher, Luxembourg, cruises along the Mosel, across the German–Luxembourgian border from Trier or Grevenmacher to Schengen. Meals are served on-board, and there are also occasional evening shows or live music. \| 00352/758–275 \| www.moselle-tourist.lu. Rhein- und Moselschiffahrt Hölzenbein. The Koblenz operator Rhein- und Moselschiffahrt Hölzenbein travels between Koblenz and Winningen on the Mosel and between Koblenz and Rüdesheim on the Rhine. \| 0261/37744 \| www.hoelzenbein.de. Rösslerlinie. \| 06722/2353 \| www.roesslerlinie.de. Viking River Cruises. Viking offers various multiday cruises on cabin ships. \| 800/188–710–033, 866/200–5395 in the U.S. \| www.vikingrivers.com. * * * ### Nightlife and the Arts Café Hahn. Located in the suburb of Güls, this place features cabaret, stand-up comedians, popular musicians and bands. and other shows. \| Neustr. 15 \| 0261/42302 \| www.cafehahn.de. Circus Maximus. You'll find dancing, live music, and theme parties practically every evening here. On a balmy night, visit Circus Maximus's Statt Strand beach bar, on Universitätsstrasse on the banks of the Mosel near the university. \| Stegemannstr. 30, at Viktoriastr \| 0261/300–2357 \| www.circus-maximus.org. Staatsorchester Rheinische Philharmonie (Rhenish Philharmonic Orchestra). The Philharmonic plays regularly at different concert venues around town. \| Eltzerhofstr. 6a \| 0261/301–2272 \| www.rheinische-philharmonie.de. Theater Koblenz. Built in 1787, this gracious neoclassic theater is still in regular use. \| Clemensstr. 1–5 \| 0261/129–2870 \| www.theater-koblenz.de. ### Shopping Koblenz's most pleasant shopping is in the Old Town streets around the market square Am Plan. Löhr Center. This modern, American-style mall has some 130 shops and restaurants. \| Hohenfelder Str. 22 \| www.loehr-center.de. En Route: Garten der Schmetterlinge Schloss Sayn (Garden of Butterflies). Butterflies from South America, Asia, and Africa flit back and forth over your head between the branches of banana trees and palms at this park. The palace proper houses a small museum of decorative cast-iron objects, a restaurant, and a café. It's 15 km (9 mi) north of Koblenz (Bendorf exit off B-42). \| Im Fürstlichen Schlosspark \| Bendorf-Sayn \| 02622/15478 \| www.sayn.de \| €9 \| Mar.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct., daily 10–5; Nov., daily 10–4. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Winningen \| Alken \| Cochem \| Ediger-Eller \| Traben-Trarbach \| Bernkastel-Kues \| Dhrontal \| Trier The Mosel is one of the most hauntingly beautiful river valleys on Earth—with the added draw of countless ancient vineyards on the banks, creating abundant opportunities for sampling some of Germany's best wines. Here, as in the Rhine Valley, forests and vines carpet steep hillsides; castles and church spires dot the landscape; and medieval wine hamlets line the riverbanks. The Mosel landscape is no less majestic, but narrower and more peaceful than that of the Rhine Gorge; the river's countless bends and loops slow its pace and lend the region a leisurely charm. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Winningen 11 km (7 miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-416. Winningen is a gateway to the Terrassenmosel (Terraced Mosel), the portion of the river characterized by steep, terraced vineyards. Winches help haul miniature monorails with the winegrowers and their tools aboard up the steep incline, but tending and harvesting the vines are all done by hand. TIP For a bird's-eye view of the valley, drive up Fährstrasse to Am Rosenhang, the start of a pleasant walk along the Weinlehrpfad (Educational Wine Path). As you head upstream toward Kobern-Gondorf, you'll pass the renowned vineyard site Uhlen. In Kobern the Oberburg (upper castle) and the St. Matthias Kapelle, a 12th-century chapel, are good vantage points. Half-timber houses reflecting the architectural styles of three centuries ring the town's pretty market square. * * * Wine Tasting in the Mosel Valley The Mosel Valley's storybook castles and hill-hugging vineyards make it a popular alternative to the busier Rhine, be it for a soothing day or two or a week of rejuvenation. The charming town of Cochem, 55 km (32 miles) upriver from Koblenz, is a favorite destination, with its bendy medieval streets and its proximity to the magnificent Burg Eltz. Others prefer the town of Bielstein, 10 km (6 miles) farther on, which is sometimes called the "Sleeping Beauty of the Mosel." The true wine connoisseurs often focus on the heart of the region, the Mittelmosel (or Middle Mosel), which begins about 18 km (11 miles) upstream from Beilstein, at Zell. Here vineyards tumble down steep slate slopes to riverside villages full of half-timber, baroque, and belle époque buildings. Famed for its warm climate and 2,000-year-old winemaking tradition, the Middle Mosel produces some of the best Rieslings in the world. Its many wineries are concentrated along a meandering 120-km (75-mile) stretch of the lush river valley, with picture-perfect towns and rural estates that run almost to the ancient town of Trier, near the Luxembourg border. In the Tasting Room The Middle Mosel is dominated by small, family-run wineries that have been producing high-quality wines for generations. Their tasting rooms, when not part of the wineries themselves, are frequently extensions of family homes, sometimes giving you the opportunity to meet the winemakers, who generally speak English at least well enough to describe their wines. Varietals like Muller-Thurgau, Weissburgunder, and Spätburgunder are produced here too, but the staple of most estates is Riesling. Opening hours vary, and although you can visit most tasting rooms outside of these times, there may not always be someone around to serve you. To avoid disappointment, check websites ahead of time for wineries' opening hours. When to Go The best time to visit the region is between May and September, when a lightly chilled glass or two of wine is the perfect complement to a sunny spring day or a warm summer evening. This coincides with high season in the valley, when roads and cycle paths swell with tourists, particularly in September, during the harvest. Fortunately, wine villages are never that far apart. If you find a tasting room that's too busy, there's invariably another around the corner. (Note: Most wineries won't charge to taste a couple of their wines, but will expect you to purchase a bottle or two if you try more. Those that do have tasting fees—commonly between €5 and €15—often waive them if you buy a bottle.) Don't Miss Options for estate visits abound in the Mosel Valley, but a few not to miss include the Grand Cru excellence of Weingut Martin Müllen, and the fantastic dry whites at Schmitges. If you decide to spend a few days in the Middle Mosel, some perfect places for overnights include the stately Weinromantik Richtershof Hotel, and the stylish Jugendstilhotel Bellevue. * * * ### Where to Eat and Stay Alte Mühle Thomas Höreth. GERMAN \| Thomas and Gudrun Höreth's enchanting country inn is a labyrinth of little rooms and cellars grouped around oleander-lined courtyards. They have restored this former mill, originally dating to 1026, and furnished it with thoughtful details and authentic materials. Highlights of the menu include homemade cheeses, terrines, pâtés, and Entensülze (goose in aspic), served with the Höreths' own wines. For those who want to get away from the river, the Höreths have a pleasing hotel in the forest, Höreth im Wald ($$$). \| Average main: €23 \| Mühlental 17, via B-416 \| Kobern-Gondorf \| 02607/6474 \| www.thomas-hoereth.de \| No lunch weekdays. Hotel Simonis. B&B/INN \| Two of the suites in this traditional hotel on Kobern-Gondorf's market square are across the courtyard, in what might be Germany's oldest half-timber house (1321). Light fare is served in the Weinstube, which has an open fireplace, and in warmer months there's a beer garden. Pros: half-timber setting. Cons: no elevator. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Marktpl. 4 \| Kobern-Gondorf \| 02607/203 \| www.hotelsimonis.com \| 13 rooms, 2 suites \| Closed Jan. and Feb. \| Breakfast. ## Alken 22 km (13½ miles) southwest of Koblenz. One of the Mosel's oldest towns (the Celts were here by 450 BC), today Alken is best known for its 12th-century castle, Burg Thurant. With a pretty seaside setting backdropped by rolling vineyards and the castle above, Alken's among the lovelier wine village stops along the Untermosel (Lower Mosel) between Koblenz and Pünderich. #### Getting Here and Around The B-49 connects Alken to Koblenz, about 14 miles away. The nearest train stop (Regionalbahn from Koblenz) is at Löf across the river, linked to Alken by a bridge and a mile and a half walk. ### Exploring Burg Thurant. This 12th-century castle towers over the village and the Burgberg (castle hill) vineyard. Wine and snacks are served in the courtyard; castle tours include the chapel, cellar, tower, and a weapons display. Allow a good half hour for the climb from the riverbank. Call ahead in winter to make sure it's open. \| 02605/2004 \| www.thurant.de \| €3.50 \| Mar. and Apr., daily 10–5; May–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Feb. (weather permitting), daily 10–4. En Route: Burg Eltz (Eltz Castle). Genuinely medieval (12th–16th century) and genuinely stunning, Burg Eltz deserves as much attention as King Ludwig's trio of castles in Bavaria. For the 40-minute English-language tour, given when enough English speakers gather, ask at the souvenir shop. It guides you through the period rooms and massive kitchen. There's also a popular treasure vault filled with gold and silver. To get here, exit B-416 at Hatzenport (opposite and southwest of Alken), proceed to Münstermaifeld, and follow signs to the parking lot near the Antoniuskapelle. From here it's a 15-minute walk, or take the shuttle bus (€2). Hikers can reach the castle from Moselkern in about an hour. \| Burg Eltz \| Münstermaifeld \| 02672/950–500 \| www.burg-eltz.de \| Tour and treasure vault €9 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9:30–5:30. ## Cochem 51 km (31½ miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-49, approximately 93 km (58 miles) from Trier. Cochem is one of the most attractive towns of the Mosel Valley, with a riverside promenade to rival any along the Rhine. It's especially lively during the wine festivals in June and late August. If time permits, savor the landscape from the deck of a boat—many excursions are available, lasting from one hour to an entire day. From the Enderttor (Endert Town Gate) you can see the entrance to one of Germany's longest railway tunnels, the Kaiser-Wilhelm, an astonishing example of 19th-century engineering. The 4-km-long (2½-mile-long) tunnel saves travelers a 21-km (13-mile) detour along one of the Mosel's great loops. #### Essentials Visitor Information Cochem Tourist-Information The tourist office has an excellent English-language outline for a walking tour of the town. \| Endertpl. 1 \| 02671/60040 \| www.cochem.de. ### Exploring Cochemer Sesselbahn (Cochem Chairlift). A ride on the chairlift to the Pinner Kreuz provides great vistas. \| Endertstr. 44 \| 02671/989–063 \| www.cochemer-sesselbahn.de \| Round-trip €6.30 \| Late Mar.–June, Sept., and Oct., daily 10–6; early July–Aug., daily 9:30–7; Sept., daily 10–6:30; early–mid-Nov., daily 11–4. Historische Senfmühle. Wolfgang Steffens conducts daily tours at 11, 2, 3, and 4, showing how he produces the gourmet mustard at his 200-year-old mill. Garlic, cayenne, honey, curry, and Riesling wine are among the flavors you can sample and buy in the shop. From the Old Town, walk across the bridge toward Cond. The mill is to the left of the bridgehead. \| Stadionstr. 1 \| 02671/607–665 \| www.senfmuehle.net \| Tours €2.50 \| Daily 10–6. Reichsburg (Imperial Fortress). The 15-minute walk to this 1,000-year-old castle overlooking the town will reward you with great views of the area. In a tie-in with the fortress's past, falconry demonstrations are put on from Good Friday through October, Tuesday to Sunday at 11, 1, 2:30, and 4. With advance reservations, you can also get a taste of the Middle Ages at a medieval banquet, complete with costumes, music, and entertainment. Banquets take place on Friday (7 pm) and Saturday (6 pm) and last four hours; the price (€45) includes a castle tour. During the Burgfest (castle festival) the first weekend of August, there's a medieval market and colorful tournaments. \| Schlossstr. 36 \| 02671/255 \| www.reichsburg-cochem.de \| €5, including 40-min tour; falconry €4 \| Mid-Mar.–early Nov., daily 9–5. ### Where to Eat Alte Gutsschänke. GERMAN \| Locals and tourists mingle naturally here, near the open fireplace and antique wine-making equipment. The food is local and fortifying: sausages, cheeses, ham, and homemade soups served with the wines from host Arthur Schmitz's own estate. As the night progresses, locals might unpack their musical instruments and start playing. Note that this place doesn't serve beer. \| Average main: €8 \| Schlossstr. 6, on the way up to the castle \| 02671/8950 \| No credit cards \| No lunch weekdays. Lohspeicher–l'Auberge du Vin. FRENCH \| In times past, oak bark for leather tanners was dried and stored in this building, built in 1834. Now it's a charming inn; the French-German delicacies on the menu are a pleasure for the palate and the eye. Don't miss the dessert Variation (medley). Some 20 French and Italian wines supplement the restaurant's own estate-bottled wines. Of the nine rooms available, four have a view of the castle. \| Average main: €29 \| Oberg. 1, at Marktpl. \| 02671/3976 \| www.lohspeicher.de \| Closed Wed. and Feb. FAMILY \| Moselromantik Hotel Weissmühle. GERMAN \| This rustic family inn is set amid the forested hills of the Enderttal (Endert Valley) on the site of a historic mill that belonged to the current proprietor's great-great-grandfather. Lined with photos and memorabilia from the original mill, it's an oasis from traffic and crowds yet only 2½ km (1½ miles) from Cochem. Beneath the exposed beams and painted ceiling of the restaurant, trout from the hotel's own fish farm will grace your table. German and French wines are served. TIP The inn's underground bar, originally built to become a swimming pool, opens around 9 pm and is a bit of a time capsule with lots of 1970s German kitsch. \| Average main: €25 \| Wilde Endert 2 \| 02671/8955 \| www.hotel-weissmuehle.de. En Route: Beilstein. Ten kilometers (6 mi) south of Cochem, on the opposite shore, the ruins of Metternich Castle crown the Schlossberg (Castle Hill) vineyard next to the romantic village of Beilstein, also known as Sleeping Beauty on the Mosel. Take in the stunning Mosel loop panorama from the castle's terrace café before heading for the market square below. Then ascend the Klostertreppe (monastery steps) leading to the baroque monastery church for views of the winding streets lined with half-timber houses. ## Ediger-Eller 61 km (38 miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-49. Ediger-Eller, once two separate hamlets, is another photogenic wine village with well-preserved houses and remnants of a medieval town wall. It's particularly romantic at night, when the narrow alleys and half-timber buildings are illuminated by historic streetlights. ### Exploring Martinskirche (St. Martin's Church). The church is a remarkable amalgamation of art and architectural styles, inside and out. Take a moment to admire the 117 carved bosses in the star-vaulted ceiling of the nave. Among the many fine sculptures throughout the church and the chapel is the town's treasure: a Renaissance stone relief, Christ in the Winepress. \| Kirchstr. ### Where to Stay Zum Löwen. HOTEL \| This simply furnished hotel comes with friendly service and a splendid terrace overlooking the Mosel. Some rooms have a balcony facing the river, though rooms at the back of the hotel are quieter. In addition to arranging wine tastings and hikes in Calmont, Europe's steepest vineyard site, the hotel can also help you plan fishing trips and lunch in the Saffenreuther's own vineyard. Pros: fine view of the Mosel. Cons: on a busy street; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Moselweinstr. 23 \| 02675/208 \| www.mosel-hotel-loewen.de \| 20 rooms \| Hotel and restaurant closed late Dec.–Mar. \| Breakfast. En Route: Calmont. As you continue along the winding course of the Mosel, you'll pass Europe's steepest vineyard site, Calmont, just before the loop at Bremm. Opposite Calmont are the romantic ruins of a 12th-century Augustinian convent. Zell. This popular village is full of pubs and wineshops that ply the crowds with Zeller Schwarze Katz, "Black Cat" wine, a commercially successful product and the focal point of a large wine festival in late June. Some 6 million vines hug the slopes around Zell, making it one of Germany's largest wine-producing communities. The area between Zell and Schweich (near Trier), known as the Middle Mosel, is home to some of the world's finest Riesling. ## Traben-Trarbach 30 km (19 miles) south of Cochem. The Mosel divides Traben-Trarbach, which has pleasant promenades on both sides of the river. Its wine festivals are held the second and last weekends in July. Traben's art nouveau buildings are worth seeing (Hotel Bellevue, the gateway on the Mosel bridge, the post office, the train station, and town hall). ### Exploring Mittelmosel Museum. For a look at fine period rooms and exhibits on the historical development of the area, visit the Mittelmosel Museum, in the Haus Böcking (1750). \| Casino Str. 2 \| 06541/9480 \| €2.50 \| Easter–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Weingut Martin Müllen. Established in 1991, this winery is very new compared to many others here. Its success has its roots in modern and traditional winemaking principles, and it has one of the best Grand Cru vineyards in the region. Try the light but complex Trarbacher Hühnerberg Riesling Spätlese. \| Alte Marktstr. 2 \| 06541/9470 \| www.muellen.de. Jugendstilhotel Bellevue. HOTEL \| Traben-Trarbach's premier hotel has a first-class reputation that derives from its belle époque architecture, fine cuisine, professional, knowledgeable staff, and superb wine list. Pros: fantastic art nouveau surroundings matched with a prime Mosel-side location. Cons: expensive; some rooms lack river views. \| Rooms from: €170 \| An der Mosel 11 \| 06541/7030 \| www.bellevue-hotel.de \| 68 rooms \| Breakfast. En Route: During the next 24 km (15 miles) of your drive down the Mosel you'll pass by world-famous vineyards, such as Erdener Treppchen, Ürziger Würzgarten, the Sonnenuhr (sundial) sites of Zeltingen and Wehlen, and Graacher Himmelreich, before reaching Bernkastel-Kues. ## Bernkastel-Kues 22 km (14 miles) southwest of Traben-Trarbach, 100 km (62 miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-53. Bernkastel and Kues straddle the Mosel, on the east and west banks, respectively. Bernkastel is home to famed Bernkasteler Doctor, a small, especially steep vineyard that's also one of Europe's most expensive. Early German humanist Nikolaus Cusanus (1401–64) was from Kues: Today his birthplace and St.-Nikolaus-Hospital are popular attractions. #### Getting Here and Around By car, Bernkastel-Kues is about 45 minutes northeast of Trier and 90 minutes southwest of Koblenz. The closest train station (Regionalbahn) is in Wittlich, about a 20-minute taxi ride away. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bernkastel-Kues Tourist-Information. \| Gestade 6 \| 06531/500–190 \| www.bernkastel.de. ### Exploring Dr. Pauly-Bergweiler. This winery's presence in the Mosel includes vineyards in seven different villages and a grand villa in the center of Bernkastel, where a cozy Vinothek (shop) is found inside the mansion's vaulted cellars. TIP Try the light and flinty Alte Badstube am Doktorberg Riesling. \| Gestade 15 \| 06531/3002 \| www.pauly-bergweiler.com. Rebenhof. You'll find only Rieslings in Rebenhof's stylish, contemporary tasting room, which shares space with stainless-steel fermentation tanks. Try the flinty, old-vine Ürziger Würtgarten Riesling Spätlese. \| Hüwel 2–3 \| Ürzig \| 06532/4546 \| www.rebenhof.de. Schmitges. This winery specializes in the production of high-quality dry whites that, along with the modern, winebar style of their Vinothek, distinguishes them from many other local establishments. They're located down an unassuming village lane. One standout is the light, summery Rivaner. \| Hauptstr. 24 \| Erden \| 06532/2743 \| www.schmitges-weine.de. Burg Landshut. From the hilltop ruins of the 13th-century castle, Burg Landshut, there are splendid views. It was here that Trier's Archbishop Boemund II is said to have recovered from an illness by drinking the local wine. This legendary vineyard, still known as "the Doctor," soars up from Hinterm Graben street near the town gate, Graacher Tor. You can purchase these well-regarded wines at some of the shops around town. Jewish Cemetery. Bernkastel's former Jewish population was well assimilated into town society until the Nazis took power. You can ask the tourist center to borrow a key to the town's Jewish cemetery, reachable by a scenic half-hour hike through the vineyards in the direction of Traben-Trarbach. Opened in the mid-19th century, it contains a few headstones from a destroyed 17th-century graveyard. \| About 1 km from Graacher Tor, Old Town. Kerpen. A friendly husband-and-wife team run this winery, which has eight generations of winemaking tradition behind it. They make a special collection of Rieslings with labels designed by visiting artists, and have an unpretentious tasting room close to the river. Try the dry Graacher Himmelreich Riesling Kabinett Feinherb. \| Uferallee 6 \| Bernkastel-Wehlen \| 06531/6868 \| www.weingut-kerpen.de. Market square. Elaborately carved half-timber houses (16th–17th centuries) and a Renaissance town hall (1608) frame St. Michael's Fountain (1606) on Bernkastel's photogenic market square. In early September the square and riverbank are lined with wine stands for one of the region's largest wine festivals, the Weinfest der Mittelmosel. St.-Nikolaus-Hospital. The Renaissance philosopher and theologian Nikolaus Cusanus (1401–64) was born in Kues. The St.-Nikolaus-Hospital is a charitable Stiftung (foundation) he established in 1458, and it still operates a home for the elderly and a wine estate. \| Cusanusstr. 2 \| 06531/2260 \| www.cusanus.de \| Tours €5 \| Tours Tues. at 10:30 and Fri. at 3. Mosel-Weinmuseum (Wine museum). Within St.-Nikolaus-Hospital is a wine museum as well as a bistro. There's also a Vinothek in the vaulted cellar, where you can sample more than 150 wines from the entire Mosel-Saar-Ruwer region. \| St.-Nikolaus-Hospital, Cusanusstr. 2 \| www.moselweinmuseum.de \| Museum €5, Vinothek €15 for admission and wine tasting \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 11–5. ### Where to Eat Der Ratskeller. GERMAN \| Just off Bernkastel's main square, Der Ratskeller serves uncomplicated regional food that can be enjoyed at an outside table with a view of the action, or inside cozily surrounded by dark wood and leaded windows. \| Average main: €16 \| Markt 30 \| 06531/973–1000 \| www.ratskeller-bernkastel.de \| Closed Thurs. Rotisserie Royale. FRENCH \| The fish menu, vegetarian selection, and fancy twists on traditional and regional dishes are what set this initially unassuming restaurant apart from the crowd. It's in one of Burgstrasse's charming half-timber houses. \| Average main: €16 \| Burgstr. 19 \| 06531/6572 \| www.rotisserie-royale.de \| Closed Wed. Fodor's Choice \| Waldhotel Sonnora. FRENCH \| At their elegant country inn in the forested Eifel Hills, Helmut and Ulrike Thieltges offer guests one of Germany's absolute finest dining experiences. Helmut is an extraordinary chef, renowned for transforming truffles, foie gras, and Persian caviar into masterful dishes. Challans duck in an orange-ginger sauce is his specialty. The wine list is equally superb. The dining room, with gilded and white-wood furnishings and plush red carpets, has a Parisian look, and the pretty gardens add to a memorable visit. TIP Sonnora can prepare a vegetarian menu, but call ahead. \| Average main: €50 \| Auf'm Eichelfeld, 8 km (5 miles) southwest of Wittlich, which is 18 km (11 miles) west of Kues via B-50; from A-1, exit Salmtal \| Dreis \| 06578/98220 \| www.hotel-sonnora.de \| Reservations essential \| Restaurant and hotel closed Mon. and Tues., Jan., and 1st 2 wks in July. Weinhotel St. Stephanus. EUROPEAN \| Rita and Hermann Saxler operate a comfortable, modern hotel and upscale restaurant in a 19th-century manor house on the Ufer (riverbank) at Zeltingen. Whether you opt for the handsome dining room or the terrace overlooking the Mosel, Saxler's Restaurant is a good destination refined regional cooking with a Mediterranean touch. The spa offers vinotherapy—treatments using grape-based products, such as grapeseed oil. \| Average main: €18 \| Uferallee 9 \| Zeltingen-Rachtig \| 06532/680 \| www.hotel-stephanus.de \| No lunch Mon.–Thurs. Jan.–Mar. ### Where to Stay Wein- & Landhaus S. A. Prüm. B&B/INN \| The traditional wine estate S. A. Prüm has state-of-the-art cellars and an attractive Vinothek for cellar tours and tastings, as well as a stunning dining room and an idyllic patio facing the Mosel and the vineyards. The spacious rooms and baths are individually decorated in a winning mixture of contemporary and antique furnishings. Pros: good rooms, some of which have vineyard and Mosel views. Cons: no elevator. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Uferallee 25, north of Kues \| Bernkastel-Wehlen \| 06531/3110 \| www.sapruem.com \| 8 rooms, 2 self-catering apartments \| Rooms closed mid-Dec.–Feb. \| Breakfast. Hotel zur Post. HOTEL \| The Rössling family makes you feel welcome at their comfortable hotel, which dates from 1827. It's near the riverbank, and the market square is just around the corner. The wine list at the inviting Alpine-style restaurant is devoted mainly to Mosel Rieslings. Pros: near the market square. Cons: on a busy street. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Gestade 17 \| 06531/96700 \| www.hotel-zur-post-bernkastel.de \| 42 rooms, 1 suite \| Closed Jan. and Feb. \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Weinromantikhotel Richtershof. HOTEL \| This renovated 17th-century manor in a shady park offers comfortable rooms and first-class friendly service. Relax over a great breakfast or a glass of wine on the garden terrace - or taste the Richtershof estate wines during a visit to the centuries-old vaulted cellars. The hotel has 3 restaurants, including a regionally inspired gourmet restaurant and a handsome bistro-bar, which serves lunch daily. The spa, reminiscent of Roman baths, has treatments using grapeseed oil and other products from the vineyard. Pros: garden terrace; wheelchair-accessible rooms; 24-hour room service. Cons: thin walls. \| Rooms from: €156 \| Hauptstr. 81–83, 5 km (3 miles) south of Bernkastel via B-53 \| Mülheim \| 06534/9480 \| www.weinromantikhotel.de \| 38 rooms, 5 suites \| Breakfast. En Route: Paulinshof. The 55-km (34-mi) drive from Bernkastel to Trier takes in another series of outstanding hillside vineyards, including the Brauneberg, 10 km (6 mi) upstream from Bernkastel. On the opposite side of the river is the Paulinshof, where Thomas Jefferson was impressed by a 1783 Brauneberger Kammer Auslese during his visit here in 1788. You can sample contemporary vintages of this wine in the beautiful chapel on the estate grounds. \| Paulinsstr. 14 \| Kesten \| 06535/544 \| www.paulinshof.de \| Weekdays 8–6, Sat. 9–4. En Route: Piesport. On a magnificent loop 12 km (7½ mi) southwest of Brauneberg stands the famous village of Piesport, whose steep, slate cliff is known as the Loreley of the Mosel. The village puts a fireworks display for its Loreleyfest the first weekend in July. Wines from its 35 vineyards are collectively known as Piesporter Michelsberg. The finest individual vineyard site, and one of Germany's very best, is the Goldtröpfchen ("little droplets of gold"). ## Dhrontal 25 km (15 miles) from Bernkastel-Kues. If the heat of the Mosel's slate slopes becomes oppressive in summer, you can revitalize body and soul with a scenic drive through the cool, fragrant forest of the Dhrontal (Dhron Valley), south of Trittenheim, and make a stop at one of its restaurants or wineries. ### Exploring Sektgut St. Laurentius. Whether in the spacious tasting room, on the outdoor terrace, or in the modern little wine bar near the river, there are plenty of places to taste this winery's Sekt (sparkling wine), considered some of the best in the region. Try the fruity, creamy, and yeasty crémant, a sparkler with less bubbles than most others. \| Laurentiusstr. 4 \| Leiwen \| 06507/3836 \| www.st-laurentius-sekt.de. Weingut Bauer. The Bauers' simple, modern tasting room was built as an extension of the family home, and four generations reside beneath its roof. This winery's a good place to sample award-winning still and sparkling white wines presented with old-fashioned hospitality. Try the fruity, refreshing Winzersekt Riesling Brut. \| Moselstr. 3 \| Mülheim \| 06534/571 \| www.weingut-bauer.de. Weingut Karp-Schreiber. This welcoming winery's varietals include Riesling, Weissburgunder, and Regent; and it also produces a nice Rotling, which is a cuvée (blend) of all three. When the sun's shining, the best place to taste them is on the winery's small trellised veranda. Try the fresh, elegant "my karp" Riesling. \| Moselweinstr. 186 \| Brauneberg \| 06534/236 \| www.karp-schreiber.de. Weingut Lehnert-Veit. In addition to Riesling, visitors can sample merlot, pinot noir, and chardonnay in this winery's Mediterranean-style garden on the banks of the Mosel. The delicately flinty, well-balanced Falkenberg Riesling Mineral Kabinett Feinherb is a good choice. \| In der Dur 6–10 \| Piesport \| 06507/2123 \| www.weingut-lv.net. ### Where to Eat Rüssels Landhaus St. Urban. GERMAN \| Aromatic, visually stunning food presentations are served among comfortable surroundings with wines from Germany's leading producers, including the owners' family's Weingut St. Urbans-Hof in Leiwen. The house decor is stylish, and like the food, it has Mediterranean influences. \| Average main: €25 \| Büdlicherbrück 1, 8 km (5 mi) south of Trittenheim, toward Hermeskeil; from A-1, exit Mehring \| Naurath/Wald \| 06509/91400 \| www.landhaus-st-urban.de \| Closed Tues., Wed., and 2 wks in Jan. Wein- und Tafelhaus. AUSTRIAN \| For first-class wining and dining in a charming country inn or on its idyllic terrace overlooking the Mosel, this is well worth a detour. Alexander Oos and his Austrian wife are friendly, attentive hosts. The soups are delicious, as are the creative renditions of fish and shellfish. Some desserts reflect his wife's Tirolean homeland. Every month there are three new suggestions for a four- or five-course menu—they're expensive, but good value for a restaurant of this caliber. Four rooms are available for staying overnight. \| Average main: €35 \| Moselpromenade 4 \| Trittenheim \| 06507/702–803 \| wein-tafelhaus.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. and Tues. and 2 wks Jan. and July. ## Trier 55 km (34 miles) southwest of Bernkastel-Kues via B-53, 150 km (93 miles) southwest of Koblenz; 30 mins by car from Luxemburg airport. Thanks to its deep history, the Trier of today holds a wealth of ancient sites. It's also an important university town, and accordingly boasts a surprisingly rich modern cultural landscape for a city of its size (just over 100,000 residents). Its roots reach back to at least 400 BC, by which time a Celtic tribe, the Treveri, had settled the Trier Valley. Eventually Julius Caesar's legions arrived at this strategic point on the river, and Augusta Treverorum ("the town of [Emperor] Augustus in the land of the Treveri") was founded in 16 BC. It was described as an opulent city, as beautiful as any outside Rome. Around AD 275 an Alemannic tribe stormed Augusta Treverorum and reduced it to rubble. But it was rebuilt in even grander style and renamed Treveris. Eventually it evolved into one of the leading cities of the empire, and was promoted to "Roma secunda" (a second Rome) north of the Alps. As a powerful administrative capital it was adorned with all the noble civic buildings of a major Roman settlement, as well as public baths, palaces, barracks, an amphitheater, and temples. The Roman emperors Diocletian (who made it one of the four joint capitals of the empire) and Constantine both lived in Trier for years at a time. Trier survived the collapse of Rome and became an important center of Christianity and, ultimately, one of the most powerful archbishoprics in the Holy Roman Empire. The city thrived throughout the Renaissance and baroque periods, taking full advantage of its location at the meeting point of major east–west and north–south trade routes and growing fat on the commerce that passed through. #### Getting Here and Around The area is excellent for biking. The train station in Trier rents bikes; call the Deutsche Bahn bicycle hotline to reserve. Cyclists can follow the marked route of the Radroute Nahe-Hunsrück-Mosel from Trier to Bingen. #### Festivals Europa-Volksfest. Held in May or in early June, this festival features wine and food specialties from several European countries, in addition to rides and entertainment. \| trier.volksfest-trier.de. Altstadtfest. In late June, more than 100,000 people come out for this musical festival in the Old Town, which also features a citywide run. \| www.altstadtfest-trier.de. Moselfest Zurlauben. Wine, sparkling wine, beer, and fireworks fill this annual July celebration along the riverbank in Zurlauben district. \| www.zurlaubener-heimatfest.de. Weinfest (Wine Festival). This popular wine-focused event happens over a four-day weekend in early August in the Olewig district. Weihnachtsmarkt. This Christmas market and festival features nearly a hundred booths, and takes place on the market square and in front of the cathedral. \| www.trierer-weihnachtsmarkt.de. #### Tours You can circumnavigate the town with the narrated tours of the Römer-Express trolley (€9) or a tourist office bus (€8.50). Both depart from Porta Nigra, near the tourist office. There is also a hop-on, hop-off bus. A 24-hour ticket on it costs €11. There are also toga tours every Saturday at 12:30 May through October, in which actors dressed in Roman costume bring the history of the amphitheater, the Kaiserthermen (Imperial Baths), and the old town gate to life. A tour lasts two hours and costs €9.50. Reservations are essential. If you don't speak German, speak up. The tour guide or someone else in the group probably speaks some English and will translate the basic points. The tourist office sells tickets for all tours and also leads various walks. A tour in English (€8.50) departs Saturday, May through October, at 1:30. #### Timing To do justice to Trier, consider staying for at least two full days. A walk around Trier will take a good two hours, and you will need extra time to climb the tower of the Porta Nigra, walk through the vast interior of the Dom and its treasury, visit the underground passageways of the Kaiserthermen, and examine the cellars of the Amphitheater. Allow at least another half hour each for the Bischöfliches Museum and Viehmarktthermen, as well as an additional hour for the Rheinisches Landesmuseum. #### Discounts and Deals The Trier Card, available from the visitor center's website or at the center in Porta Nigra, entitles the holder to free public transportation and discounts on tours and admission fees to Roman sights, museums, and sports and cultural venues. It costs €9.90 and is valid for three successive days. #### Essentials Tour Information Deutsche Bahn. \| 01805/151–415 for bicycle hotline. Visitor Information Trier Tourist-Information. \| An der Porta Nigra \| 0651/978–080 \| www.trier.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Amphitheater. The sheer size of Trier's oldest Roman structure (circa AD 100) is impressive; in its heyday it seated 20,000 spectators. You can climb down to the cellars beneath the arena—animals were kept in cells here before being unleashed to do battle with gladiators. \| Olewiger Str. \| €3 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct. and Mar., daily 9–5; Nov.–Feb., daily 9–4. Museum am Dom Trier (Museum at the Trier Cathedral). This collection, just behind the Dom, focuses on medieval sacred art, and there are also fascinating models of the cathedral as it looked in Roman times. Look for 15 Roman frescoes, discovered in 1946, that may have adorned the Emperor Constantine's palace. \| Bischof-Stein-Pl. 1 \| 0651/710–5255 \| www.bistum-trier.de/museum \| €3.50, combined ticket with Domschatzkammer €4 \| Tues.–Sat. 9–5, Sun. 1–5. Fodor's Choice \| Dom (Cathedral). The oldest Christian church north of the Alps, the Dom stands on the site of the Palace of Helen. Constantine tore the palace down in AD 330 and put up a large church in its place. The church burned down in 336, and a second, even larger one was built. Parts of the foundations of this third building can be seen in the east end of the present structure (begun in about 1035). The cathedral you see today is a weighty and sturdy edifice with small round-head windows, rough stonework, and asymmetrical towers, as much a fortress as a church. Inside, Gothic styles predominate—the result of remodeling in the 13th century—although there are also many baroque tombs, altars, and confessionals. \| Domfreihof \| 0651/979–0790 \| www.dominformation.de \| Tours €3.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 6:30–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 6:30–5:30. Domschatzkammer (Cathedral Treasure Chamber). The highlight of the cathedral's museum is the 10th-century Andreas Tragaltar (St. Andrew's Portable Altar), constructed of oak and covered with gold leaf, enamel, and ivory by local craftsmen. It's a reliquary for the soles of St. Andrew's sandals, as signaled by the gilded, life-size foot on the top of the altar. \| Dom, Domfreihof \| €1.50, combined ticket with Bischöfliches Museum €4 \| Mid-Mar.–Oct. and Dec., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 12:30–5; Nov. and Jan.–mid-Mar., Tues.–Sat. 11–4, Sun. 12:30–4 Episcopal Wine Estates (Bischöfliche Weingüter). Drop down into a labyrinth of cellars beneath Trier's streets or visit the estate's elegant Vinothek (wine store) to sample fine Rieslings, which were built on almost two millennia of priestly tradition. The Scharzhofberger Riesling is fruity and elegant. \| Gervasiusstr.1 \| 0651/145760 \| www.bwgtrier.de. Fodor's Choice \| Kaiserthermen (Imperial Baths). This enormous 4th-century bathing palace once housed cold- and hot-water baths and a sports field. Although only the masonry of the Calderium (hot baths) and the vast basements remain, they are enough to give a fair idea of the original splendor and size of the complex. Originally 98 feet high, the walls you see today are just 62 feet high. \| Weimarer-Allee and Kaiserstr. \| 0651/436–2550 \| €3 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct. and Mar., daily 9–5; Nov.–Feb., daily 9–4. Fodor's Choice \| Porta Nigra (Black Gate). The best-preserved Roman structure in Trier was originally a city gate, built in the 2nd century (look for holes left by the iron clamps that held the structure together). The gate served as part of Trier's defenses and was proof of the sophistication of Roman military might and its ruthlessness. Attackers were often lured into the two innocent-looking arches of the Porta Nigra, only to find themselves enclosed in a courtyard. In the 11th century the upper stories were converted into two churches, in use until the 18th century. The tourist office is next door. \| Porta-Nigra-Pl. \| 0651/718–2451 \| €3 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct. and Mar., daily 9–5; Nov.–Feb., daily 9–4. Fodor's Choice \| Rheinisches Landesmuseum (Rhenish State Museum). The largest collection of Roman antiquities in Germany is housed here. The highlight is the 4th-century stone relief of a Roman ship transporting barrels of wine up the river. This tombstone of a Roman wine merchant was discovered in 1874, when Constantine's citadel in Neumagen was excavated. Have a look at the 108-square-foot model of the city as it looked in the 4th century—it provides a sense of perspective to many of the sights you can still visit today. \| Weimarer-Allee 1 \| 0651/97740 \| www.landesmuseum-trier.de \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Konstantin Basilika (Constantine Basilica). An impressive reminder of Trier's Roman past, this edifice is now the city's major Protestant church. This structure was built by the emperor Constantine around AD 310 as the imperial throne room of the palace. At 239 feet long, 93 feet wide, and 108 feet high, it demonstrates the astounding ambition of its Roman builders and the sophistication of their building techniques.TIP The basilica is one of the two largest Roman interiors in existence (the other is the Pantheon in Rome). Look up at the deeply coffered ceiling; more than any other part of the building, it conveys the opulence of the original structure. An ornate rococo garden now separates the basilica from the Landesmuseum. \| Konstantinpl. \| 0651/42570 \| Apr.–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. noon–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sat. 11–noon and 3–4, Sun. noon–1. #### Worth Noting Hauptmarkt. The main market square of Old Trier—lined with gabled houses from several ages—is easily reached via Simeonstrasse. The market cross (958) and richly ornate St. Peter's Fountain (1595), dedicated to the town's patron saint, stand in the square. TIP There is a flower and vegetable market held here every weekday, while a farmers' market can be found at Viehmarktplatz on Tuesday and Friday 8–2. Karl-Marx-Haus. Marx was born on May 5, 1818, in this bourgeois house built in 1727. Visitors with a serious interest in social history will be fascinated by its small museum. Some of Marx's personal effects, as well as first-edition manifestos are on display. Audio guides are available in English, and English-language tours can be arranged on request. \| Brückenstr. 10 \| 0651/970–680 \| www.fes.de/karl-marx-haus \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Mon. 2–5, Tues.–Sun. 11–5. Off the Beaten Path: Roscheider Hof. For a look at 19th- and 20th-century rural life in the Mosel-Saar area, visit this hilltop Freilichtmuseum (open-air museum) near Konz-Saar, 10 km (6 miles) southwest of Trier via B-51. Numerous farmhouses and typical village buildings in the region were saved from the wrecking ball by being dismantled and brought to the Roscheider Hof, where they were rebuilt and refurnished as they appeared decades ago. Old schoolrooms, a barbershop and beauty salon, a tavern, a shoemaker's workshop, a pharmacy, a grocery, and a dentist's office have been set up in the rooms of the museum proper, along with period rooms and exhibitions on local trades and household work, such as the history of laundry. A large collection of tin figures is here too, and there's also a Biedermeier rose garden, museum shop, and restaurant with beer garden (closed Monday, cash only) on the grounds. \| Roscheiderhof 1 \| Konz \| 06501/92710 \| www.roscheiderhof.de \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Fri. 9–6, weekends 10–6; Nov.–Mar. (indoor facilities only), Tues.–Fri. 9–5, weekends 10–5. Stadtmuseum Simeonstift Trier (Simeon Foundation City Museum). Built around the remains of the Romanesque Simeonskirche, this church is now a museum. It was constructed in the 11th century by Archbishop Poppo in honor of the early medieval hermit Simeon, who for seven years shut himself up in the east tower of the Porta Nigra. Collections include art and artifacts produced in Trier from the Middle Ages to the 19th century. \| Simeonstr. 60 \| 0651/718–1459 \| www.museum-trier.de \| €5.50, €1 on 1st Sun. of month \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Viehmarktthermen. Trier's third Roman bath (early 1st century) was discovered when ground was broken for a parking garage. Finds of the excavations from 1987 to 1994 are now beneath a protective glass structure. You can visit the baths and see the cellar of a baroque Capuchin monastery. \| Viehmarktpl. \| 0651/994–1057 \| €3 \| Tues.–Sun. 9–5. ### Where to Eat Becker's Hotel. GERMAN \| This wine estate in the peaceful suburb of Olewig features a gourmet restaurant with prix-fixe menus, a second restaurant serving regional cuisine, and a casual Weinstube. Dining alfresco is a nice option in summer. Bordeaux and Burgundy wines are available in addition to the estate's own wines, and wine tastings, cellar visits, and guided tours on the wine path can be arranged. \| Average main: €27 \| Olewiger Str. 206 \| Trier-Olewig \| 0651/938–080 \| www.beckers-trier.de \| Gourmet restaurant closed Sun. and Mon. Schlemmereule. GERMAN \| The name means "gourmet owl," and, indeed, chef Peter Schmalen caters to gourmets in the 19th-century Palais Walderdorff complex opposite the cathedral. Truffles are a specialty, and the fish is always excellent. Wines from top German estates, particularly from the Mosel, and an extensive selection of red wines are available. Lots of windows lend a light, airy look to the restaurant, and a replica of one of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel paintings is on the ceiling. There's courtyard seating in summer. \| Average main: €27 \| Palais Walderdorff, Domfreihof 1B \| 0651/73616 \| www.schlemmereule.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. Weinstube Kesselstatt. GERMAN \| The interior has exposed beams and polished wood tables; the shady terrace is popular in summer. Two soups daily, hearty fare, and fresh, regional cuisine are served with wines from the Reichsgraf von Kesselstatt estate. The Tagesgericht (daily special) and Aktionsmenü (prix-fixe menu) are a good bet. Das Beste der Region (the region's best) is an ample selection of local hams, cheeses, fish, and breads, served on a wooden board for two. \| Average main: €15 \| Liebfrauenstr. 10 \| 0651/41178 \| www.weinstube-kesselstatt.de. Zum Domstein. GERMAN \| Whether you dine inside or out, don't miss the collection of Roman artifacts displayed in the cellar. In addition to the German dishes on the regular menu, you can order à la carte or prix-fixe menus based on recipes attributed to the Roman gourmet Marcus Gavius Apicius in the evening. \| Average main: €13 \| Hauptmarkt 5 \| 0651/74490 \| www.domstein.de. ### Where to Stay Hotel Ambiente. B&B/INN \| Markus and Monika Stemper—a passionate cook and a gracious hostess—bring modern style to their country inn near the Luxembourg border. The garden (with palms, ponds, and flowers galore), comfortable rooms, and personal service are all remarkable. Stempers Brasserie ($ - $$) serves dishes with Mediterranean touches, enhanced by an extensive wine list. Pros: country atmosphere; legendary garden. Cons: removed from city center. \| Rooms from: €109 \| In der Acht 1–2, 7 km (4½ miles) southwest of Trier via B-49 \| Trier-Zewen \| 0651/827–280 \| www.ambiente-trier.de \| 12 rooms \| Restaurant closed Sun. and Thurs. \| Breakfast. Hotel Petrisberg. HOTEL \| The Pantenburgs' friendly, family-run hotel is high on Petrisberg hill overlooking Trier, not far from the amphitheater and a 20-minute walk to the Old Town. The individually decorated rooms have solid-pine furnishings; all but two have balconies - some with a fabulous view of the city. In the evening, you can sit down for snacks and good local wines in the pub. Pros: fine view of Trier. Cons: somewhat removed from the city center. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Sickingenstr. 11–13 \| 0651/4640 \| www.hotelpetrisberg.de \| 24 rooms, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Römischer Kaiser. HOTEL \| Centrally located near the Porta Nigra, this handsome patrician manor from 1885 offers well-appointed rooms with handsome baths. Rooms 317 and 318 are quite spacious and have little balconies overlooking flower-filled Porta-Nigra-Platz. While some of Trier's other restaurants are more stylish, the food here is tasty, as is the ample breakfast buffet. Pros: near the Porta Nigra; free Wi-Fi. Cons: some rooms are dark due to a neighboring building. \| Rooms from: €116 \| Porta-Nigra-Pl. 6 \| 0651/977–0100 \| www.friedrich-hotels.de \| 43 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Most of the town's pubs and cafés are on Viehmarktplatz and Stockplatz in the Old Town. TIP For up-to-the-minute information on performances, concerts, and events all over town, visit \| www.trier-today.de. Metropolis. International DJs, theme parties, and live music are all featured here. \| Hindenburgstr. 4 \| 0651/710–378–000 \| www.metropolis-trier.de. Theater Trier. The theater puts on opera, theater, and ballet performances as well as concerts. \| Am Augustinerhof \| 0651/718–1818 \| www.theater-trier.de. TUFA–Tuchfabrik. Concerts, theater, and cultural events are all staged here. \| Wechselstr. 4, at Weberstr. \| 0651/718–2412 \| www.tufa-trier.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Bonn \| Königswinter \| Brühl \| Köln (Cologne) \| Aachen \| Düsseldorf Bonn, the former capital of West Germany, and of reunified Germany until 1999, is the next major stop after Koblenz on the Rhine. It's close to the legendary Siebengebirge (Seven Hills), a national park and site of western Germany's northernmost vineyards. According to German mythology, Siegfried (hero of the Nibelungen saga) killed a dragon here and bathed in its blood to make himself invincible. The lowland, a region of gently rolling hills north of Bonn, lacks the drama of the Rhine Gorge upstream but offers the urban pleasures of Köln (Cologne), an ancient cathedral town, and Düsseldorf, an elegant city of art and fashion. Although not geographically in the Rhineland proper, Aachen is an important side trip for anyone visiting the region. Its stunning cathedral and treasury are the greatest storehouses of Carolingian art and architecture in Europe. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Bonn 61 km (38 miles) north of Koblenz, 28 km (17 miles) south of Köln. Bonn was the postwar seat of the federal government and parliament until Berlin became its capital again in 1999. Aptly described by the title of John le Carré's spy novel A Small Town in Germany, the quiet university town was chosen as a stopgap measure to prevent such weightier contenders as Frankfurt from becoming the capital, a move that would have lessened Berlin's chances of regaining its former status. With the exodus of the government from Bonn, the city has become a bit less cosmopolitan. Still, Bonn thrives as the headquarters of two of Germany's largest multinational corporations (Deutsche Telekom and Deutsche Post/DHL), and the UN has expanded its presence in the city as well. The fine museums and other cultural institutions that once served the diplomatic elite are still here to be enjoyed. #### Getting Here and Around The town center is a car-free zone; an inner ring road circles it with parking garages on the perimeter. A convenient parking lot is just across from the railway station and within 50 yards of the tourist office, which is on Windeckstrasse near the Hauptbahnhof. Bonn has extensive bike paths downtown; these are designated paths (often demarcated with blue-and-white bicycle symbols) on the edges of roads or sidewalks. TIP Pedestrians, beware: anyone walking on a bike path risks getting mowed down. Bicyclists are expected to follow the same traffic rules as cars. In Bonn the Radstation, at the main train station, will not only rent you a bike and provide maps, but will also fill your water bottle and check the pressure in your tires for free. Bilingual bus tours of Bonn cost €16 and start from the tourist office. They're conducted daily at 2 from Easter to October, and Saturday only November to March. A variety of walking tours are also available, including the "Bonn zu Fuss" city tour (€9), offered Saturday at 11 am from late April to October. #### Festivals Beethoven-Festival. Concerts are held at numerous indoor and outdoor venues during September's month-long Beethoven-Festival. \| 0228/201–0345 \| www.beethovenfest.de. Bonner Sommer. From May through September, the Bonner Sommer festival offers folklore, music, and street theater, much of it outdoors and most of it free. Information is available at the tourist office. \| 0228/775–000. #### Discounts and Deals Bonn's tourism office sells the Bonn Regio Welcome Card, which offers an array of reductions, plus free entry into most museums, in combination with low- or no-cost transportation; the card costs €9 per 24-hour period. #### Essentials Bicycle Contact Radstation. \| Quantiusstr. 26 \| 0228/981–4636. Visitor Information Bonn Information. \| Windeckstr. 1, on Cathedral Square \| 0228/775–000 \| www.bonn.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Beethoven-Haus (Beethoven House). Beethoven was born in Bonn in 1770 and, except for a short stay in Vienna, lived here until the age of 22. You'll find scores, paintings, a grand piano (his last, in fact), and an ear trumpet or two. Thanks to the modern age, there's now a "Stage for Music Visualization," an interactive exhibit involving 3-D glasses that shows Beethoven's best-loved works. The attached museum shop carries everything from kitsch to elegant Beethoven memorabilia. \| Bonng. 20 \| 0228/981–7525 \| www.beethoven-haus-bonn.de \| €6 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 11–5. Bundesviertel (Federal Government District). Walking through the pleasant area that was once the government district is like taking a trip back in time, to an era when Bonn was still the sleepy capital of West Germany. Bordered by Adenauerallee, Kaiser-Friedrich-Strasse, Franz-Josef-Strasse, and the Rhine, the quarter boasts sights such as the Bundeshaus, which includes the Plenarsaal (plenary hall). Designed to serve as the new Federal Parliament, the Bundeshaus was completed only seven years before the capital was relocated to Berlin in 1999. A few steps away, you'll find the historic Villa Hammerschmidt, the German equivalent of the White House. This stylish neoclassical mansion began serving as the Federal president's permanent residence in 1950, and is still his home when he stays in Bonn. Equally impressive is the Palais Schaumburg, another fine example of the Rhein Riveria estates that once housed the Federal Chancellery (1949–76). It became the center of Cold War politics during the Adenauer administration. Tours of the quarter, including a visit to the Villa Hammerschmidt, are offered by the Bonn Tourist Office. \| Heussallee (U-bahn). Kunstmuseum Bonn (Art Museum). Changing exhibits are generally excellent at this large museum that focuses on Rhenish expressionists and German art since 1945 (Beuys, Baselitz, and Kiefer, for example). The museum's airy and inexpensive café is better than the stuffier version across the plaza at the Kunst- und Ausstellungshalle. \| Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 2 \| 0228/776–260 \| www.kunstmuseum-bonn.de \| €7 \| Tues., Thurs.–Sun. 11–6, Wed. 11–9. Kurfürstliches Schloss (Prince-Electors' Palace). Built in the 18th century by the prince-electors of Köln, this grand palace now houses Bonn's university. If the weather is good, stroll through Hofgarten park in front of it. When Bonn was a capital, this patch of grass drew tens of thousands to antinuclear demonstrations. Today it's mostly used for games of pickup soccer and ultimate Frisbee. \| Am Hofgarten. Münster (Minster). The 900-year-old church is vintage late Romanesque, with a massive octagonal main tower and a soaring spire. It stands on a site where two Roman soldiers were executed in the 3rd century for being Christian. It saw the coronations of two Holy Roman Emperors (in 1314 and 1346) and was one of the Rhineland's most important ecclesiastical centers in the Middle Ages. The 17th-century bronze figure of St. Helen and the ornate rococo pulpit are highlights of the interior; outside you'll find two giant stone heads: those of Cassius and Florentius, the martyred soldiers. \| Münsterpl. \| 0228/985–880 \| www.bonner-muenster.de \| Free \| Mon.–Sat. 8–7, Sun. 9–8. #### Worth Noting Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). This 18th-century rococo town hall looks somewhat like a pink dollhouse. Its elegant steps and stair entry have seen a great many historic figures, including French president Charles de Gaulle and U.S. president John F. Kennedy. For information about possible tours, contact the visitor center. \| Am Markt \| 774–288. Haus der Geschichte (House of History). German history since World War II is the subject of this museum, which begins with "hour zero," as the Germans call the unconditional surrender of 1945. The museum displays an overwhelming amount of documentary material organized on five levels and engages various types of media. It's not all heavy either—temporary exhibits have featured political cartoonists, Cold War–era sporting contests pitting East Germany versus West Germany, and an in-depth examination of the song "Lili Marleen," sung by troops of every nation during World War II. \| Willy-Brandt-Allee 14 \| 0228/91650 \| www.hdg.de \| Free (with audio guide in English) \| Tues.–Fri. 9–7, weekends 10–6. Kunst- und Ausstellungshalle der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Art and Exhibition Hall of the German Federal Republic). This is one of the Rhineland's most important venues for major temporary exhibitions about art, culture, andarchaeology. Its modern design, by Viennese architect Gustave Peichl, is as interesting as anything on exhibit in the museum. It employs three enormous blue cones situated on a lawnlike rooftop garden. \| Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 4 \| 0228/91710 \| www.bundeskunsthalle.de \| €10 for one exhibition, €15 for all exhibitions (€6 2 hrs before closing) \| Tues. and Wed. 10–9, Thurs.–Sun. 10–7. Poppelsdorfer Schloss (Poppelsdorf Palace). This former electors' palace, built in the baroque style between 1715 and 1753, now houses the university's mineralogical collection. Its botanical gardens are home to 12,000 species, among the largest variety in Germany. \| Meckenheimer Allee 171 \| 0228/732–764 \| www.steinmann.uni-bonn.de/museen; www.botgart.uni-bonn.de \| Mineralogical collection €2.50; botanical garden free weekdays, Sun. €2 \| Mineralogical collection: Wed. and Fri. 3–6, Sun. 10–5. Botanical garden: Apr.–Oct., Sun.–Wed. and Fri. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8; Nov.–Mar., weekdays 10–4. Off the Beaten Path: Alter Friedhof (Old Cemetery). This ornate, leafy cemetery is the resting place of many of the country's most celebrated sons and daughters. Look for the tomb of composer Robert Schumann (1810–56) and his wife, Clara, also a composer and accomplished pianist. To reach the cemetery from the main train station, follow Quantiusstrasse west, parallel to the tracks until it becomes Herwarthstrasse; before the street curves to the left, turning into Endenicherstrasse, take the underpass below the railroad line. You'll then be on Thomastrasse, which borders the cemetery. \| Bornheimerstr. \| Jan., Nov., and Dec., daily 8–5; Feb., daily 8–6; Mar.–Aug., daily 7:15–6; Sept., daily 8–8; Oct., daily 8–7. ### Where to Eat Em Höttche. GERMAN \| Beethoven was a regular at this tavern, which has been around since the late 14th century. Today it offers one of the best-value lunches in town, and the kitchen stays open until 1 am. The interior is rustic, the food hearty and non-fussy. \| Average main: €15 \| Markt 4 \| 0228/690–009 \| www.em-hoettche.de. Ristorante Sassella. ITALIAN \| When the Bundestag was still in town, this Bonn institution used to be cited in the press as frequently for its backroom political dealings as for its Lombardy-influenced food. Locals, prominent and otherwise, still flock to the restaurant, in an 18th-century house in the suburb of Kessenich. The style is pure Italian farmhouse, with stone walls and exposed beams, but the handmade pastas often stray from the typical, as in the salmon-filled black-and-white pasta pockets in shrimp sauce. \| Average main: €25 \| Karthäuserpl. 21 \| 0228/530–815 \| www.ristorante-sassella.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Mon. No lunch Sat., no dinner Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Strandhaus. EUROPEAN \| On a quiet residential street, and hidden from view in summer by an ivy-covered patio, this restaurant feels like a true escape—befitting its laid-back name ("beach house"). Chef Astrid Kuth insists on local produce, and presents her delicate, innovatively spiced food with elegance, but no fuss. A carefully compiled wine list long on Geman bottles, along with a frequently changing menu, means locals come here often. \| Average main: €27 \| Georgstr. 28 \| 0228/369–4949 \| www.strandhaus-bonn.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch. ### Where to Stay Best Western Domicil. HOTEL \| A group of buildings around a quiet, central courtyard has been converted into a charming and comfortable hotel, with rooms individually furnished and decorated in styles ranging from fin de siècle romantic to Italian modern. Huge windows help make the public rooms feel airy. Pros: quiet courtyard; handy to the train station. Cons: plain exterior. \| Rooms from: €185 \| Thomas-Mann-Str. 24–26 \| 0228/729–090 \| domicil-bonn.bestwestern.de \| 43 rooms, 1 apartment \| Breakfast. Hotel Mozart. HOTEL \| Elegant on the outside and simple on the inside, this small, attractive hotel is often recommended to friends by locals. Part of its appeal is its location amid traditional townhouses in the romantic, residential "musician's quarter," a four-minute walk from the main train station and the city center. Pros: quiet tree-lined street; close to the train station. Cons: thin walls. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Mozartstr. 1 \| 0228/659–071 \| www.hotel-mozart-bonn.com \| 38 rooms \| Breakfast. Sternhotel. HOTEL \| For solid comfort and a picturesque, central location, the Sternhotel is tops—and their weekend rates are a bargain. Rooms are in a Danish-modern style. Pros: in the center of town; partnership with gym across the square, allowing guests free entry. Cons: market square location can be noisy in the morning; expensive for the area. \| Rooms from: €185 \| Markt 8 \| 0228/72670 \| www.sternhotel-bonn.de \| 80 rooms \| Breakfast. ### The Arts Beethovenhalle. The Bonn Symphony Orchestra opens its season in grand style every year in late summer with a concert on the market square, in front of town hall. Many of its other concerts are held in the Beethovenhalle. \| Wachsbleiche 16 \| 0228/722–20 \| www.beethovenhalle.de. Beethoven-Haus. In the Beethoven-Haus, recitals are sometimes given on a 19th-century grand piano, and concerts take place regularly in the chamber music hall. \| Bonng. 20 \| 0228/981–750. Pantheon Theater. This is a major venue for comedy and cabaret. \| Bundeskanzlerpl. 2–10 \| 0228/212–521 \| www.pantheon.de. Schumannhaus. Chamber-music concerts are given regularly at the Schumannhaus, where composer Robert Schumann spent his final years. \| Sebastianstr. 182 \| 0228/773–656 \| www.schumannhaus-bonn.de. Theater Bonn. Operas are staged regularly at the Theater Bonn, which also hosts musicals and performances by world-renowned dance companies, including ballet. \| Am Boeselagerhof 1 \| 0228/778–000 \| www.theater-bonn.de. ### Shopping There are plenty of department stores and boutiques in the pedestrian shopping zone around the Markt and the Münster. Flohmarkt (Flea Market). Bargain hunters search for secondhand goods and knickknacks at the city's renowned—and huge—flea market. It's held in Rheinaue south of the Konrad-Adenauer-Brücke on the third Saturday of each month from April through October. \| Rheinaue. Wochenmarkt (Weekly Market). Bonn's Wochenmarkt is open every day but Sunday, filling the Markt with vendors of produce and various edibles. Things get really busy in springtime, when the locals flock to find the best asparagus and strawberries. \| Markt. ## Königswinter 12 km (7 miles) southeast of Bonn. Home to one of Germany's most popular castles, Drachenfels, Königswinter is also the gateway to the 30 large and small hills that makes up the Siebengebirge, the country's oldest nature reserve. In early May, festivities and fireworks light up the town as part of the "Rhine in Flames" fireworks display. #### Getting Here and Around Königswinter is 15 minutes south of Bonn by car. It can also be reached by a 40-minute train ride (via Regionalbahn) from Köln. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Drachenfels. The town of Königswinter has one of the most-visited castles on the Rhine, the Drachenfels. Its ruins crown one of the highest hills in the Siebengebirge, with a spectacular view of the Rhine. It's also part of Germany's oldest nature reserve, with more than 100 km (62 miles) of hiking trails. The castle was built in the 12th century by the archbishop of Köln, and takes its name from a dragon said to have lived in a nearby cave. (The dragon was slain by Siegfried, hero of the epic Nibelungenlied.) The castle ruins can be reached via two different hikes, each of about 45 minutes. One route begins at the Drachenfelsbahn station, and passes the Nibelungenhalle reptile zoo along the way. The other route starts at Rhöndorf on the other side of the hill. The Siebengebirge Tourist Office at Drachenfelstrasse 51 in Königswinter can provide a map that includes these and other local hiking trails. Drachenfelsbahn. If hiking to Drachenfels isn't for you, you can also reach the castle ruins by taking the Drachenfelsbahn, a steep, narrow-gauge train that makes trips to the summit every half hour March through October, and hourly in winter (except late November and December). \| Drachenfelsstr. 53 \| 02223/92090 \| www.drachenfelsbahn-koenigswinter.de \| €10 round-trip \| Mar. and Oct., daily 10–6; Apr., daily 10–7; May–Sept., daily 9–7; early Nov. and Jan.–Feb., weekdays noon–5, weekends 11–6 FAMILY \| Sea Life. Königswinter's huge aquarium features 2,000 creatures from the sea. The biggest pool has a glass tunnel that enables you to walk on the "bottom of the sea." \| Rheinallee 8 \| 0180/5666–90101 for tickets (€0.20–€0.60 per call) \| www.visitsealife.com \| €14.95 \| Easter–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Easter, weekdays 10–5, weekends 10–6. ## Brühl 20 km (12 miles) northwest of Bonn. In the center of Brühl stands the Rhineland's most important baroque palace, the Augustusburg. Brühl is also home to one of Germany's most popular theme parks, Phantasialand. ### Exploring Schloss Augustusburg. This castle and the magnificent pleasure park that surrounds it were created in the time of Prince Clemens August, between 1725 and 1768. The palace contains one of the most famous achievements of rococo architecture, a staircase by Balthasar Neumann. The castle can be visited only on guided tours, which leave the reception area every hour or so. An English-language recorded tour is available. \| Max-Ernst-Allee \| 02232/44000 \| www.schlossbruehl.de \| €6 \| Feb.–Nov., Tues.–Fri. 9–noon and 1:30–4, weekends 10–5. Jagdschloss Falkenlust. This small castle, at the end of an avenue leading under the tracks across from Schloss Augustusburg's grounds, was built as a getaway where the prince could indulge his passion for falconry. \| Otto-Wels-Str. \| 02232/44000 \| www.schlossbruehl.de \| €4.50 \| Feb.–Nov., Tues.–Fri. 9–noon and 1:30–4, weekends 10–5. ## Köln (Cologne) 28 km (17 miles) north of Bonn, 47 km (29 miles) south of Düsseldorf, 70 km (43 miles) southeast of Aachen. Köln (Cologne in English) is the largest city on the Rhine (the fourth largest in Germany) and one of the most interesting. The city is vibrant and bustling, with a lightness and cheerfulness that's typical of the Rhineland. At its heart is tradition, manifested in the abundance of bars and brew houses serving the local Kölsch beer and old Rhine cuisine. These are good meeting places to start a night on the town. Tradition, however, is mixed with the contemporary, found in a host of elegant shops, sophisticated restaurants, modern bars and dance clubs, and a contemporary-art scene that's now just hanging on against unstoppable competition from Berlin. Although not as old as Trier, Köln has been a dominant power in the Rhineland since Roman times, and it remains a major commercial, intellectual, and ecclesiastical center. Köln was first settled in 38 BC. For nearly a century it grew slowly, in the shadow of imperial Trier, until a locally born noblewoman, Julia Agrippina, daughter of the Roman general Germanicus, married the Roman emperor Claudius. Her hometown was elevated to the rank of a Roman city and given the name Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (Claudius Colony at the Altar of Agrippina). For the next 300 years Colonia (hence Cologne, or Köln) flourished. Evidence of the Roman city's wealth resides in the Römisch-Germanisches Museum. In the 9th century Charlemagne, the towering figure who united the sprawling German lands (and ruled much of present-day France) as the first Holy Roman Emperor, restored Köln's fortunes and elevated it to its preeminent role in the Rhineland by appointing the first archbishop of Köln. The city's ecclesiastical heritage is one of its most striking features; it has a full dozen Romanesque churches and one of the world's largest and finest Gothic cathedrals. In the Middle Ages it was a member of the powerful Hanseatic League, occupying a position of greater importance in European commerce than either London or Paris. Köln was a thriving modern city until World War II, when bombings destroyed 90% of it. Only the cathedral remained relatively unscathed. But like many other German cities that rebounded during the "Economic Miracle" of the 1950s, Köln is a mishmash of old and new, sometimes awkwardly juxtaposed. A good part of the former Old Town along the Hohe Strasse (old Roman High Road) was turned into a remarkably charmless pedestrian shopping mall. It's all framed by six-lane expressways winding along the rim of the city center—barely yards from the cathedral—illustrating the problems of postwar reconstruction. However, much of the Altstadt, ringed by streets that follow the line of the medieval city walls, is closed to traffic. Most major sights are within this area and are easily reached on foot. Here, too, you'll find the best shops. #### Getting Here and Around As one of Germany's most important rail hubs, Köln is connected by fast trains to cities throughout northwestern Europe, including Paris, Brussels, and Frankfurt. German rail lines link Köln to the entire nation. You can reach Köln from Bonn in about 20 minutes, and Brühl in about 15. #### Festivals Weihnachtsmarkt am Kölner Dom. Of Cologne's four main Christmas markets the Weihnachtsmarkt am Kölner Dom, in the shadow of the city's famed cathedral, is the most impressive. Set against the backdrop of the church's magnificent twin spires, a giant Christmas tree stands proudly in the middle of the market's 160 festively adorned stalls, which sell mulled wine, roasted chestnuts, and many other German yuletide treats. \| www.koelnerweihnachtsmarkt.com \| Late Nov.–Dec. 23, Sun.–Wed. 11–9, Thurs. and Fri. 11–10, Sat. 10–10. #### Tours City bus tours leave from the tourist office and from Trankgasse, beside the cathedral, once per hour from 10 am, year-round. The 90-minute tours cost €12–€15, leave every hour, from 10 am, year-round, and are conducted in English and German. Walking tours in English are often available by arrangement with the tourist office. Bus trips into the countryside (to the Eifel Hills, the Ahr Valley, and the Westerwald) are organized by several city travel agencies. Radstation Köln offers bike rental by the day (€10) from April through October as well as three-hour guided bike tours of the city (€15), departing daily at 1:30. #### Discounts and Deals Most central hotels sell the KölnTourismus Card (€9 for one day, €14 for two days), which entitles you to discounts on sightseeing tours, admissions to all the city's museums, free city bus and tram travel, and other reductions. #### Essentials Bicycle Contacts Radstation Köln. \| Markmannsg. next to Deutzer Brücke (bridge) \| 0221/629–8796 \| www.radstationkoeln.de. Visitor Information Köln Tourismus Office. \| Kardinal-Höffner-Pl. 1, opposite cathedral \| 0221/2213–0400 \| www.cologne-tourism.com. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Dom (Cathedral). Köln's landmark embodies one of the purest expressions of the Gothic spirit in Europe. The cathedral, meant to be a tangible expression of God's kingdom on Earth, was conceived with such immense dimensions that construction, begun in 1248, was not completed until 1880, after the original plan was rediscovered. At 515 feet high, the two west towers of the cathedral were briefly the tallest structures in the world when they were finished (before being eclipsed by the Washington Monument). The cathedral was built to house what are believed to be the relics of the Magi, the three kings who paid homage to the infant Jesus (the trade in holy mementos was big business in the Middle Ages—and not always scrupulous). The size of the building was not simply an example of self-aggrandizement on the part of the people of Köln, however; it was a response to the vast numbers of pilgrims who arrived to see the relics. The ambulatory, the passage that curves around the back of the altar, is unusually large, allowing cathedral authorities to funnel large numbers of visitors up to the crossing (where the nave and transepts meet and where the relics were originally displayed), around the back of the altar, and out again. Today the relics are kept just behind the altar, in the original, enormous gold-and-silver reliquary. The other great treasure of the cathedral, in the last chapel on the left as you face the altar, is the Gero Cross, a monumental oak crucifix dating from 971. The Altar of the City Patrons (1440), a triptych by Stephan Lochner, Köln's most famous medieval painter, is to the right. Other highlights are the stained-glass windows, some dating from the 13th century and another, designed by Gerhard Richter with help from a computer program, from the 21st; the 15th-century altarpiece; and the early-14th-century high altar, with its glistening white figures and intricate choir screens. If you're up to it, climb to the top of the bell tower to get the complete vertical experience (but be aware that viewing Köln from the Dom itself removes the skyline's most interesting feature). The treasury includes the silver shrine of Archbishop Engelbert, who was stabbed to death in 1225. Allow at least an hour for the whole tour of the interior, treasury, and tower climb. \| Dompl., Altstadt \| 0221/9258–4730 \| www.koelner-dom.de \| Tower €3, cathedral treasury €5, guided tours €7. Museum Ludwig. This museum is dedicated to art from the beginning of the 20th century to the present day. Its American pop-art collection (including Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Claes Oldenburg, and Roy Lichtenstein) rivals that of most American museums. \| Heinrich-Böll-Pl., Innenstadt \| 0221/2212–6165 \| www.museum-ludwig.de \| €10 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6, 1st Thurs. of every month 10–10. Closed 1 wk during Karneval, mid-Feb.–early Mar. Fodor's Choice \| Römisch-Germanisches Museum (Roman-Germanic Museum). This cultural landmark was built in the early 1970s around the famous Dionysius mosaic discovered here during the construction of an air-raid shelter in 1941. The huge mosaic, more than 800 square feet, once formed the dining-room floor of a wealthy Roman trader's villa. Its millions of tiny earthenware and glass tiles depict some of the adventures of Dionysius, the Greek god of wine. The pillared 1st-century tomb of Lucius Publicius (a prominent Roman officer), some stone Roman coffins, and everyday objects of Roman life are among the museum's other exhibits. Bordering the museum on the south is a restored 90-yard stretch of the old Roman harbor road. \| Roncallipl. 4, Altstadt \| 0221/2212–4438 \| www.museenkoeln.de \| €6 (sometimes higher during special exhibitions) \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5, 1st Thurs. of every month 10–10. Wallraf-Richartz-Museum. This museum contains paintings spanning the years 1300 to 1900. The Dutch and Flemish schools are particularly well represented, as is the 15th- to 16th-century Köln school of German painting. Its two most famous artists are the Master of the St. Veronica (whose actual name is unknown) and Stefan Lochner, represented by two luminous works, The Last Judgment and The Madonna in the Rose Bower. Large canvases by Rubens, who spent his youth in Köln, hang prominently on the second floor. There are also outstanding works by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, and Frans Hals, and the largest collection of French Impressionism in Germany. \| Obenmarspforten, Altstadt \| 0221/2212–1119 \| www.wallraf.museum \| €8 \| Tues. and Wed. 10–6, Thurs. 10–9, Fri.–Sun. 10–6. * * * Karneval in Köln As the biggest city in the traditionally Catholic Rhineland, Köln puts on Germany's most exciting and rowdy carnival. The Kölsch starts flowing on November 11 at 11:11 am with screams of the famous motto Kölle alaaf! ("Köln is alive!"). Karneval then calms down for a few months, only to reach a fever pitch in February for the last five days before Lent. On Fat Thursday, known as Weiberfastnacht, women roam the streets with scissors and exercise merciless precision in cutting off the ties of any men foolish enough to wear them. Starting then, bands, parades, and parties go all night, and people of all ages don silly costumes, including the customary red clown nose. It's a good time to meet new people; in fact, it is practically impossible not to, as kissing strangers is considered par for the course. TIP During this time, visitors who are claustrophobic or who don't want to risk having beer spilled on them should avoid the Heumarkt area in the Old Town, and possibly the whole city. The festivities come to an end Tuesday at midnight with the ritual burning of the "Nubbel"—a dummy that acts as the scapegoat for everyone's drunken, embarrassing behavior. Note: Many museums are closed during Karneval. * * * #### Worth Noting Alter Markt (Old Market). The square has an eclectic assembly of buildings, most of them postwar. However, two 16th-century houses survived the war intact—Nos. 20 and 22, which are today a Kölsch brewpub. The oldest structure dates from 1135. \| Altstadt. Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). The Rathaus is worth a look, even from the outside. (Tours of the interior, for groups only, must be booked at the tourist office.) It's the oldest town hall in Germany, with elements remaining from the 14th century. The famous bell tower rings its bells daily at 9, noon, 3, and 6. Standing on pedestals at one end of the town hall are figures of prophets made in the early 15th century. Ranging along the south wall are nine additional statues, the so-called Nine Good Heroes, carved in 1360. Charlemagne, Alexander the Great, and King David are among them. Sculptures of 124 later Cologne heroes, up through the 20th-century, have been added outside at the Town Hall Tower. Beneath a small glass pyramid near the south corner of the Rathaus is the Mikwe, a 12th-century ritual bath from the medieval Jewish quarter that surrounded it at that time. \| Rathauspl. 2, Altstadt \| 0221/2212–3332. Gross St. Martin (Great St. Martin). This remarkable Romanesque parish church was rebuilt after being flattened in World War II. Its massive 13th-century tower, with distinctive corner turrets and an imposing central spire, is another Köln landmark. The church was built on the site of a Roman granary. \| Martinspförtchen 8, Altstadt \| 1642–5650 \| Sept.–July, Tues.–Sat. 9–7:30, Sun. 1–7:15; Aug., Tues.–Sat. noon–7:30, Sun. 1–7:15. Gürzenich. This Gothic structure, located at the south end of Martinsviertel, was all but demolished in World War II, but carefully reconstructed afterward. It's named after a medieval knight from whom the city acquired valuable real estate in 1437. The official reception and festival hall here has played a central role in civic life through the centuries. At one end of the complex are the remains of the 10th-century Gothic church of St. Alban, which were left ruined after the war as a memorial. On what's left of the church floor you can see a sculpture of a couple kneeling in prayer, Mourning Parents, by Käthe Kollwitz, a memorial to the ravages of war. \| Martinstr. 29–37, Altstadt \| www.koelnkongress.de. Käthe Kollwitz Museum. The works of Käthe Kollwitz (1867–1945), the most important German female artist of the 20th century, focus on social themes like the plight of the poor and the atrocities of war. This is the larger of the country's two Kollwitz collections and comprises all of her woodcuts, as well as paintings, etchings, lithographs, and sculptures. There are also changing exhibits of other modern artists. \| Neumarkt 18–24, in Neumarkt Passage, Innenstadt \| 0221/227–2899 \| www.kollwitz.de \| €4 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 11–6. Kölnisches Stadtmuseum (Cologne City Museum). The triumphs and tragedies of Köln's rich past are packed into this museum at the historic Zeughaus, the city's former arsenal. Here you'll find an in-depth chronicle of Köln's history—including information about the lives of ordinary people and high-profile politicians, the industrial revolution (car manufacturer Henry Ford headquartered his European operations here), and the destruction incurred during World War II. For those who've always wanted to be privy to the inside stories surrounding local words such as Klüngel, Kölsch, and Karneval, the answers are waiting to be discovered within the museum's walls. \| Zeughausstr. 1–3, Altstadt \| 0221/2212–5789 \| www.museenkoeln.de \| €5 \| Wed.–Sun. 10–5, Tues. 10–8, 1st Thurs. of every month 10–10. Kolumba. The origins of the official art museum of the Archdiocese of Cologne stretch back to 1853, but the institution received a big boost in 2007, with the opening of a unique new home atop—and masterfully incorporating— the ruins of the Gothic parish church of St. Kolumba. Designed by the Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, the new building pays homage to the site's Roman, Gothic, and medieval heritage, while unstuffily presenting a collection of art spanning from late antiquity to the present. \| Kolumbastr. 4, Innenstadt \| 0221/933–1930 \| www.kolumba.de \| €5 \| Wed.–Mon. noon–5. Museum Schnütgen. A treasure house of medieval art from the Rhine region, the museum has an ideal setting in a 12th-century basilica. Don't miss the crucifix from the St. Georg Kirche or the original stained-glass windows and carved figures from the Dom. Other exhibits include intricately carved ivory book covers, rock-crystal reliquaries, and illuminated manuscripts. \| Cäcilienstr. 29, Innenstadt \| 0221/2212–2310 \| www.museenkoeln.de \| €6 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8, 1st Thurs. of every month 10–10. St. Gereon. This exquisite Romanesque basilica stands on the site of an old Roman burial ground six blocks west of the train station. An enormous dome rests on walls that were once clad in gold mosaics. Roman masonry forms part of the medieval structure, which is believed to have been built over the grave of its namesake, the 4th-century martyr and Köln's patron. \| Gereonskloster 2–4 \| 0221/134–922 \| www.stgereon.de \| Free \| Weekdays 10–6, Sat. 10–5:30, Sun. 12:30–6. St. Kunibert. The most lavish of the churches from the late-Romanesque period is by the Rhine, three blocks north of the train station. The apse's precious stained-glass windows have filtered light for more than 750 years (they were put in protective storage during World War II). Consecrated in 1247, the church contains an unusual room, concealed under the altar, which gives access to a pre-Christian well once believed to promote fertility in women. \| Kunibertsklosterg. 2, Altstadt-Nord \| 0221/121–214 \| www.basilika-st-kunibert.de \| Free \| Mon.–Sat. 10–1 and 3–6, Sun. 3–6. St. Maria im Kapitol. Built in the 11th and 12th centuries on the site of a Roman temple, St. Maria is best known for its two beautifully carved 16-foot-high doors and its enormous crypt, the second-largest in Germany. The powerful organ shakes the building. \| Marienpl. 17–19, Altstadt \| 0221/214–615 \| www.maria-im-kapitol.de \| Free \| Daily 9–6, except during services. FAMILY \| Schokoladenmuseum (Chocolate Museum). This riverside museum south of the cathedral is a real hit, and so crowded on weekends that it can be unpleasant. It recounts 3,000 years of civilization's production and enjoyment of chocolate, from the Central American Maya to the colonizing and industrializing Europeans. It's also a real factory, with lava flows of chocolate and a conveyer belt jostling thousands of truffles. The museum shop, with a huge variety of chocolate items, does a brisk business, and the riverside panorama café serves some of the best cake in town. \| Am Schockoladenmuseum 1a, Rheinufer \| 0221/931–8880 \| www.schokoladenmuseum.de \| €8.50 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 11–7; Mon. 10–6 (Dec. only). ### Where to Eat Café Elefant. EUROPEAN \| For three decades, writers and artists from Köln's elegant Agnesviertel neighborhood have been meeting at this cosy locale on a quiet, tree-lined street. Inside, the ambience—like a little corner of Montmartre—is just right for thinking deep thoughts, or simply chatting over a slice of chocolate cake. Even when the cake's all gone, night owls can enjoy the café's delicious camembert and lingonberry blintzes. \| Average main: €7 \| Weissenburgstr. 50 \| 0221/734–520 \| No credit cards. Fodor's Choice \| Capricorn i Aries. FRENCH \| This corner brasserie—part neighborhood bistro, part upscale restaurant—serves the staples of French rural cuisine with a Rhineland twist, whether it's a simple soup or a five-course dinner. The owners' award-winning, four-table restaurant across the street is also available for special events. Those aiming to improve their own skills can participate in a Sunday cooking class, in which students prepare and then eat four courses. \| Average main: €22 \| Alteburger Str. 31, Neustadt Süd \| 0221/397–5710 \| www.capricorniaries.com \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Fodor's Choice \| Casa di Biase. ITALIAN \| The sophisticated Italian cuisine is served here in a warm, elegant setting. The seasonally changing menu focuses on fish and game, and the wine list is interesting and extensive—although sometimes pricey. Next door is Casa di Biase's smaller and more casual sister, the Teca di Biasi. This cozy, wood-panel wine bar serves antipasti, salads, and main dishes for under €15. \| Average main: €22 \| Eifelpl. 4, Südstadt \| 0221/322–433 \| www.casadibiase.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Früh am Dom. GERMAN \| For real down-home cooking, there are few places that compare with this time-honored former brewery in the shadow of the Dom. It's often crowded, but the mood's fantastic. Bold frescoes on the vaulted ceilings establish the mood, and the authentically Teutonic experience is completed by such dishes as Hämmchen (pork knuckle). The beer garden is perfect for summer dining. \| Average main: €12 \| Am Hof 12–18, Altstadt \| 0221/261–3211 \| www.frueh.de \| No credit cards. Heising & Adelmann. ECLECTIC \| A young crowd gathers here to do what people along the Rhine have done for centuries—talk, drink, and enjoy good company. There's a party every Friday and Saturday with a DJ. Consistently voted one of the best deals in town, this restaurant offers good German beer, tangy cocktails, and a creative mixture of German and French food. \| Average main: €19 \| Friesenstr. 58–60, Neustadt-Nord \| 0221/130–9424 \| www.heising-und-adelmann.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch. Päffgen. GERMAN \| There's no better Bräuhaus in Köln for drinking Kölsch, the city's home brew. You won't sit long in front of an empty glass before a blue-aproned waiter sweeps by and places another one before you. With its worn wooden decor, colorful clientele, and typical Rhenish fare (Sauerbraten, pork knuckle, and potato pancakes), Päffgen sums up local tradition. The brewery is the family business of the late singer-actress Nico, née Christa Päffgen, who became famous in the '60s through her collaborations with Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground. \| Average main: €11 \| Friesenstr. 64–66, Friesenviertel \| 0221/135–461 \| www.paeffgen-koelsch.de \| No credit cards. ### Where to Stay The tourist office, across from the cathedral, can make hotel bookings for you for the same night, at a cost of €3 per booking. If you plan to be in town for Karneval, be sure to reserve a room well in advance. Das Kleine Stapelhäuschen. B&B/INN \| One of few medieval houses along the riverbank to survive World War II bombings, this family-run inn boasts an unbeatable location overlooking the river and right by Gross St. Martin. The hotel's quaintly furnished rooms are far from luxurious, but the place wins points for its history and reasonable prices. Ancient wooden beams grace some of the older rooms, but claustrophobic guests are advised to take up quarters in the "new" rooms. The inn's antique restaurant downstairs offers authentic Rhenish flair and spruced-up versions of traditional German dishes. Pros: right on the Rhine. Cons: somewhat down at the heels. \| Rooms from: €136 \| Fischmarkt 1–3, Altstadt \| 0221/272–7777 \| www.kleines-stapelhäuschen.de \| 31 rooms, 6 without bath \| Breakfast. Excelsior Hotel Ernst. HOTEL \| Old-master paintings, including a Van Dyck, grace this 1863 hotel's sumptuous Empire-style lobby, while Gobelin tapestries hang in the ballroom; the rooms are spacious, with upscale linens on the beds. During the afternoon, a tea sommelier can guide you through the high-tea brews in the classic hotel bar, which has live piano music six nights a week. The hotel's Taku Restaurant ($$$ - $$$$) specializes in pan-Asian cuisine. Pros: Van Dyck paintings and Gobelins. Cons: expensive. \| Rooms from: €270 \| Dompl., Trankg. 1, Altstadt \| 0221/2701 \| www.excelsiorhotelernst.de \| 108 rooms, 34 suites \| No meals. Hopper Hotel et cetera. HOTEL \| The rooms in this former monastery in the Belgian Quarter are spare but not spartan, though a startlingly realistic sculpture of a bishop, sitting in the reception area, serves as a constant reminder of the building's ecclesiastic origins. Modern paintings by Köln artists don the walls of the hotel, located on a quiet street lined with ginkos. The rooms are not huge but are well-kept, and the atmosphere is airy. The smartly appointed restaurant Et Cetera serves upscale Mediterranean cuisine and has delightful garden seating. Pros: chicly renovated; attractive neighborhood. Cons: not centrally located, showers tricky for older guests. \| Rooms from: €125 \| Brüsselerstr. 26, Belgisches Viertel \| 0221/924–400 \| www.hopper.de \| 48 rooms, 1 suite, 1 apartment \| Breakfast. Hotel Chelsea. HOTEL \| This designer hotel with classic modern furnishings has a strong following among artists and art dealers, as well as with the musicians who come to play at the nearby Stadtgarten jazz club. Breakfast is served in the hotel's sleek Cafe Central ($). The rooms are well lit, and each has its own quirks, including original minimalist murals and some bizarre, avant-garde layouts. Pros: an artsy clientele and neighborhood. Cons: some rooms need freshening up and not all have their own bathroom. \| Rooms from: €165 \| Jülicherstr. 1, Belgisches Viertel \| 0221/207–150 \| www.hotel-chelsea.de \| 35 rooms (3 without bath), 3 suites, 1 apartment \| No meals. Hotel im Kupferkessel. HOTEL \| The best things about this small, unassuming, family-run hotel are its immaculate housekeeping—the very model of German fastidiousness—and the price (small single rooms with shared bath can be had for as low as €40). Fresh flowers smarten up the rustic breakfast area, while the no-frills rooms are sunny, nicely renovated, and very functional. The direct surroundings aren't action-packed, but the hotel is in the shadow of St. Gereon church and a 15-minute walk to the Dom. Be prepared to deal with stairs here, as most rooms are on the third and fourth floors. Pros: inexpensive, with breakfast included. Cons: no elevator. \| Rooms from: €135 \| Probsteig. 6, Alstadt-Nord \| 0221/270–7960 \| www.im-kupferkessel.de \| 12 rooms (5 without bath) \| Breakfast. Hotel im Wasserturm. HOTEL \| What used to be Europe's tallest water tower is now an independent, 11-story luxury hotel that's welcomed guests like Brad Pitt and fashion mogul Wolfgang Joop. The neoclassical look of the 140-year-old brick exterior remains, while the interior is modern and sedately restful. Visitors to the restaurant "La Vision" ($$$$) will find a daily-changing menu of Continental haute cuisine and a wraparound balcony with 360-degree views of the city. For lighter fare, the hotel runs the bizarrely named d/\blju 'W' on the ground floor ($$). The only thing left to be desired is a huge pool, but swim fanatics can head to the Agrippabad, next door. Pros: modern luxury at its finest. Cons: expensive. \| Rooms from: €210 \| Kayg. 2, Altstadt \| 0221/20080 \| www.hotel-im-wasserturm.de \| 45 rooms, 33 suites \| No meals. ### Nightlife and the Arts Kölnticket. Tickets to most arts events can be purchased through Kölnticket. \| 0221/2801 \| www.koelnticket.de. #### The Arts Antoniterkirche. Organ recitals and chamber concerts are presented in many of the Romanesque churches around town, and in the Antoniterkirche. \| Schilderg. 57, Innenstadt \| 0221/925–8460 \| www.antonitercitykirche.de. Oper der Stadt Köln. Köln's opera company is known for exciting classical and contemporary productions, including collaborative efforts with the French fashion designer Christian Lacroix. The opera house on Offenbachplatz is under major renovation until late 2015, so the primary performance space is currently the striking Oper am Dom, between the main train station and the Rhine. \| Oper am Dom, Goldg. 1, Innenstadt \| 0221/2212–8400 \| www.operkoeln.com. Philharmonie. Köln's Westdeutsche Rundfunk (WDR) Orchestra performs regularly in the city's excellent concert hall. \| Bischofsgartenstr. 1, Altstadt \| 0221/204–080 \| www.koelner-philharmonie.de. Schauspielhaus. Köln's principal theater is the Schauspielhaus, home to the 20 or so private theater companies in the city. While its main space on Offenbachplatz is being renovated (it's due to reopen in late 2015), Schauspielhaus productions have been moved to an industrial space in the Mülheim neighborhood. \| Carlswerk, Depots 1 and 2, Schanzenstr. 6–20, Mülheim \| 0221/2212–8400 \| www.schauspielkoeln.de. #### Nightlife Köln's nightlife is centered on three distinct areas: along the river in the Old Town, which seems to be one big party on weekends; on Zulpicherstrasse near the university; and around the Friesenplatz U-bahn station. Many streets off the Hohenzollernring and Hohenstaufenring, particularly Roonstrasse and Aachenerstrasse, also provide a broad range of nightlife. In summer the Martinsviertel, a part of the Altstadt around the Gross St. Martin church, which is full of restaurants, brew houses, and Kneipen (pubs), is a good place to go around sunset. Alter Wartesaal. For a true disco experience, make for the Alter Wartesaal in the Hauptbahnhof on Friday or Saturday night. The old train-station waiting room has been turned into a concert hall and dance club, where groovers swivel on ancient polished parquet and check their style in mirrors with mahogany frames. \| Am Hauptbahnhof, Johannisstr. 11, Altstadt \| 0221/912–8850 \| www.wartesaal.de. Papa Joe's Biersalon. This classic, kitschy Altstadt bar plays oldies from Piaf to Porter. \| Alter Markt 50–52, Altstadt \| 0221/258–2132 \| www.papajoes.de. Papa Joe's Jazzlokale. For live jazz, head to the tiny Papa Joe's Jazzlokale, where there's never a cover charge. \| Buttermarkt 37, Altstadt \| 0221/257–7931 \| www.papajoes.de. Stadtgarten. In summer, head straight for the Stadtgarten and sit in the Biergarten for some good outdoor Gemütlichkeit (coziness). At other times of the year it's still worth a visit for its excellent jazz club. TIP Stadtgarten also runs a beer garden with cheap, tasty eats in the shaded Rathenauplatz park, by Köln's synagogue. \| Venloerstr. 40 \| 0221/952–9940 \| www.stadtgarten.de. ### Shopping A good shopping loop begins at the Neumarkt Galerie. From there, head down the charmless but practical pedestrian shopping zone of the Schildergasse. From Schildergasse, go north on Herzogstrasse to arrive at Glockengasse. A block north is Breite Strasse, another pedestrian shopping street. At the end of Breite Strasse is Ehrenstrasse, where the young and young-at-heart can shop for hip fashions and trendy housewares. After a poke around here, explore the small boutiques on Benesisstrasse, which will lead you to Mittelstrasse, best known for high-tone German fashions and luxury goods. Follow Mittelstrasse to the end to return to the Neumarkt. Glockengasse. Köln's most celebrated product, Eau de Cologne No. 4711, was first concocted here by the 18th-century Italian chemist Johann Maria Farina. At the company's flagship store there's a small exhibition of historical 4711 bottles, as well as a perfume fountain you can dip your fingers in. \| House of 4711, Glockeng. 4, Innenstadt \| 0221/2709–9910 \| www.4711.com. Neumarkt Galerie. This bright, modern indoor shopping arcade has a web of shops and cafés surrounding an airy atrium. Just look for the huge sculpture of an upside-down ice cream cone above the entrance. \| Richmodstr. 8 \| www.neumarktgalerie.com. Peek & Cloppenburg. This big clothing store is a highlight of Shildergasse. The 2005 building, designed by the architect Renzo Piano, looks like a spaceship, and its selection of fashions—for men and women, from budget to couture—is out of this world. \| Schilderg. 65–67, Innenstadt \| 0221/453–900 \| www.peek-cloppenburg.com. ## Aachen 70 km (43 miles) west of Köln. At the center of Aachen, the characteristic three-window-wide facades, give way to buildings dating from the days when Charlemagne made Aix-la-Chapelle (as it was then called) the great center of the Holy Roman Empire. Thirty-two German emperors were crowned here, gracing Aachen with the proud nickname "Kaiserstadt" (Emperors' City). Roman legions had been drawn here for the healing properties of the sulfur springs emanating from the nearby Eifel Mountains. (The name "Aachen," based on an old Frankish word for "water," alludes to this.) Charlemagne's father, Pepin the Short, also settled here to enjoy the waters, and to this day the city is also known as Bad Aachen and still drawing visitors in search of a cure. One-and-a-half-hour walking tours depart from the tourist office throughout the year at 11 on weekends, as well as at 2 on weekdays from April to December. The Saturday tours are conducted in English as well as German. #### Essentials Visitor Information Aachen Tourist-Information. \| Friedrich-Wilhelm-Pl. \| 0241/180–2960 \| www.aachen.de \| Weekdays 9–6, Sat. 9–2. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Dom (Cathedral). Aachen's stunning cathedral, the "Chapelle" of the town's earlier name of Aix-la-Chapelle, remains the single greatest storehouse of Carolingian architecture in Europe, and it was the first place in Germany to be named a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Though it was built over the course of 1,000 years and reflects architectural styles from the Middle Ages to the 19th century, its commanding image remains the magnificent octagonal royal chapel, rising up two arched stories to end in the cap of the dome. It was this section, the heart of the church, that Charlemagne saw completed in AD 800. His bones now lie in the Gothic choir, in a golden shrine surrounded by wonderful carvings of saints. Another treasure is his marble throne. Charlemagne had to journey all the way to Rome for his coronation, but the next 32 Holy Roman emperors were crowned here in Aachen, and each marked the occasion by presenting a lavish gift to the cathedral. In the 12th century Emperor Friederich I (aka Barbarossa) donated the great chandelier now hanging in the center of the Palatine chapel; his grandson, Frederick II, donated Charlemagne's shrine. English-language guided tours of the cathedral (€4) are offered daily at 2. \| Münsterpl., Domhof 1 \| 0241/477–090 \| www.aachendom.de \| Free \| Apr.–Dec., daily 7–7; Jan.–Mar., daily 7–6. Domschatzkammer (The Cathedral Treasury). The cathedral houses sacred art from late antiquity and the Carolingian, Ottonian, and Hohenstaufen eras. A bust of Charlemagne on view here was commissioned by Emperor Karl IV in the late 14th century, who traveled here from Prague for the sole reason of having it made. The bust incorporates a piece of Charlemagne's skull. Other highlights include the Cross of Lothair and the Persephone Sarcophagus. \| Klosterpl. 2 \| 0241/4770–9127 \| www.aachendom.de/schatzkammer.html \| €5 \| Jan.–Mar., Mon. 10–1, Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Apr.–Dec., Mon. 10–1, Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Elisenbrunnen (Elisa Fountain). Southeast of the cathedral and the site of the city's tourist-information center is an arcaded, neoclassical structure built in 1822. The central pavilion contains two fountains with thermal water—the hottest north of the Alps—that is reputed to help cure a wide range of ailments in those who drink it. If you can brave a gulp of the sulfurous water, you'll be emulating the likes of Dürer, Frederick the Great, and Charlemagne, who drank it before you. \| Friedrich-Wilhelm-Pl. Rathaus (Town Hall). Aachen's town hall sits behind the Dom, across Katschhof Square. It was built in the early 14th century on the site of the Aula Regia, or "great hall," of Charlemagne's palace. Its first major official function was the coronation banquet of Emperor Karl IV in 1349, held in the great Gothic hall you can still see today (though this was largely rebuilt after World War II). On the north wall of the building are statues of 50 emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. The greatest of them all, Charlemagne, stands in bronze atop the Karlsbrunnen in the center of the market square. \| Marktpl. \| 0241/432–7310 \| €5 \| Daily 10–6. #### Worth Noting Carolus-Thermen Bad Aachen. If you're a steam-lover, try this high-tech spa with a venerable history. In Dürer's time there were regular crackdowns on the orgiastic goings-on at the baths. Today taking the waters is done with a bathing suit on, but be aware that the sauna area is a completely "textile-free" (i.e. clothes-free) zone. \| Passstr. 79 \| 0241/182–740 \| www.carolus-thermen.de \| €11, €22 with sauna for up to 2½ hrs; €15/€30 for full day \| Daily 9 am–11 pm. Ludwig Forum für Internationale Kunst. One of the world's most important art collectors, chocolate magnate Peter Ludwig, who died in 1996, endowed two museums in the town he called home. The Forum, the larger of the two, holds a portion of Ludwig's enormous collection of contemporary art and hosts traveling exhibits. \| Jülicher Str. 97–109 \| 0241/180–7104 \| www.ludwigforum.de \| €5 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri. noon–6, Thurs. noon–10, weekends 11–6. Suermondt-Ludwig Museum. The smaller of the two Ludwig art institutions in town (the Ludwig Forum is the larger one) has a collection that concentrates paintings from the 12th to the early 20th century. \| Wilhelmstr. 18 \| 0241/479–80 \| www.suermondt-ludwig-museum.de \| €5 \| Tues., Thurs., and Fri. noon–6, Wed. noon–8, weekends 11–6. ### Where to Eat Am Knipp. GERMAN \| At this Bierstube dating from 1698, guests dig into their regional dishes at low wooden tables next to the tile stove. Pewter plates and beer mugs line the walls. \| Average main: €15 \| Bergdriesch 3 \| 0241/33168 \| www.amknipp.de \| Closed Tues., Dec. 24–Jan. 2, and 2 wks in Apr. and Oct. No lunch. Fodor's Choice \| Der Postwagen. GERMAN \| This annex of the more upscale Ratskeller is worth a stop for the building alone, a half-timber medieval edifice at one corner of the old Rathaus. You'll be impressed by the food as well, which also comes from the kitchen of Ratskeller chef Maurice de Boer. Sitting at one of the low wooden tables, surveying the marketplace through the wavy old glass, you can dine well on solid German fare. If you really want to go local, try Himmel und Erde (mashed potatoes and applesauce topped by panfried slices of blood sausage and onions). \| Average main: €15 \| Markt 40 \| 0241/35001 \| www.ratskeller-aachen.de. La Becasse. FRENCH \| Chef Christof Lang's sophisticated French nouvelle cuisine and attentive staff are a hit with upscale locals. The restaurant, which is named for the woodcock, has been in operation just outside the Old Town by the Westpark for three decades. Try the distinctively light veal kidney or the Wagyu beef salad. The five-course lunch menu (around €35) changes daily. \| Average main: €37 \| Hanbrucherstr. 1 \| 0241/74444 \| www.labecasse.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. or Mon. ### Where to Stay ibis Styles Aachen City. HOTEL \| A 15-minute walk from the Dom, this colorfully furnished modern budget hotel (formerly the All Seasons) is a good value, especially for families with children. The well-lit rooms don't have much in them - generally just a bed, a small sitting space, and a TV - but Wi-Fi and domestic calls are included in the price, and there's a video game area in the spacious lobby. Pros: kids under 16 get their own room at half price. Cons: on a busy street somewhat removed from the center. \| Rooms from: €88 \| Jülicherstr. 10–12 \| 0241/51060 \| www.ibis.com \| 102 rooms \| Breakfast. Pullmann Aachen Quellenhof. HOTEL \| This old-fashioned and grand hotel has rooms with high ceilings, a Roman-style spa area, and an inviting pool. High tea is served in the marvelous fireside hall. Flowers fill La Brasserie Restaurant ($$$$), where light German and French dishes are served. Pros: spacious; elegant; formal. Cons: on a busy street; expensive. \| Rooms from: €185 \| Monheimsallee 52 \| 0241/91320 \| www.accorhotels.com \| 183 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Most activity in town is concentrated around the market square and Pontstrasse, a pedestrian street that radiates off the square. Domkeller. Aachen's most popular bar is a good place to mingle with locals of all ages at old wooden tables, enjoying an impressive selection of Belgian beers in a historic building from 1658. There are free concerts every Monday, apart from a short break in summer. \| Hof 1 \| 0241/34265 \| www.domkeller.de. Wild Rover. This Irish pub has Murphy's Stout on tap. On most nights, there's live music starting at 8:30. It's closed Sunday and Monday, except for special occasions. \| Hirschgraben 13 \| 0241/35453. Eurogress Aachen. The Aachen Symphony, along with touring bands and orchestras from across Europe, give regular concerts in Aachen's Eurogress convention center. \| Monheimsallee 48 \| 0241/91310 \| www.eurogress-aachen.de. ### Shopping Don't leave Aachen without stocking up on the traditional local gingerbread, Aachener Printen. Each bakery in town offers its own varieties (topped with whole or crushed nuts, milk or dark chocolate, etc.), and guards its recipe like a state secret. Café Van den Daele. One of Aachen's most beloved cafés, Van den Daele (also known as Alt Aachener Kaffeestuben) is worth a visit if for nothing more than its atmosphere and tempting aromas. Some of the best Aachener Printen (gingerbread) can be found here, as can another tasty Aachen specialty, Reisfladen (a sort of tart filled with milk rice and often topped with fruit—often pears, apricots, or cherries). The café can also mail its goods to you (or others) back home. \| Büchel 18 \| 0241/35724 \| www.van-den-daele.de. ## Düsseldorf 47 km (29 miles) north of Köln. Düsseldorf, the state capital of North Rhine–Westphalia, may suffer by comparison to Köln's remarkable skyline, but the elegant city has more than enough charm—and money—to keeps its own self-esteem high. By contrast to Cologne's boisterous, working-class charm, Düsseldorf is known as one of the country's richest cities, with an extravagant lifestyle that epitomizes the economic success of postwar Germany. Because 80% of Düsseldorf was destroyed in World War II, the city has since been more or less rebuilt from the ground up—and that includes re-creating landmarks of long ago and restoring a medieval riverside quarter. At the confluence of the Rhine and Düssel rivers, this dynamic city started as a small fishing town. The name means "village on the Düssel," but obviously this Dorf is a village no more. Raised expressways speed traffic past towering glass-and-steel structures; within them, glass-enclosed shopping malls showcase the finest clothes, furs, jewelry, and other goods that money can buy. #### Getting Here and Around Trains connect Düsseldorf to the Rheinland region's main cities; a trip from Köln takes under 25 minutes. The impressive Flughafen Düsseldorf, Germany's third largest airport, serves more than 180 destinations. #### Tours Hop-on, hop-off bus tours of Düsseldorf depart from the main train station at 10 and every half hour from 11 to 5 from mid-March to early November; hourly 10 to 6 from early November to late December; and at 11, 1 and 3 from late December to mid-March. Tickets (€15, or €13 with no intermediate stops) can be purchased on the bus or at the information center. A walking tour of the Old Town (April to October, daily at 3, plus 4 on Friday, and 1 and 4 on Saturday; November to March, Friday and Saturday at 3, Sunday at 11) is offered for €10. The tour leaves from the Altstadt tourist-info center (Marktstrasse/Rheinstrasse corner). #### Discounts and Deals The Düsseldorf WelcomeCard costs €9 for 24 hours, €14 for 48 hours, and €19 for 72 hours, and allows free public transportation and reduced admission to museums, theaters, and even boat tours on the Rhine. #### Essentials Visitor Information Düsseldorf Tourist-Information. \| Marktstr. 6 \| 0211/172–020 \| www.duesseldorf-tourismus.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Altstadt (Old Town). This party-hearty district has been dubbed "the longest bar in the word" by locals. Narrow alleys thread their way to some 300 restaurants and taverns. All crowd into the 1-square-km (½-square-mile) area between the Rhine and Heinrich-Heine-Allee. When the weather cooperates, the area really does seem like one big sidewalk café. Königsallee. Düsseldorf's main shopping avenue epitomizes the city's affluence, lined as it is with designer boutiques and stores. Known as the Kö, this wide, double boulevard is divided by an ornamental waterway fed by the River Düssel. Rows of chestnut trees line the Kö, shading a string of sidewalk cafés. Beyond the Triton Fountain, at the street's north end, begins a series of parks and gardens. In these patches of green you can sense a joie de vivre that might be surprising in a city devoted to big business. Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen (Art Collection of North Rhine–Westphalia). This important fixture on Düsseldorf's art scene is split into two parts, plus an installation space. Behind the sleek, polished black stone facade of K20 is a treasure trove of art (kunst, hence the K) of the 20th century, including works from masters like Picasso, Klee, and Richter. Within the more conservative 19th-century architecture of K21 is edgier fare—international art since about 1980, including the works of Thomas Ruff and Nam June Paik. Rounding things off is the quirky, modern Schmela Haus (1967), a former commercial gallery, which the museum uses as a space for experimental art. \| K20, Grabbepl. 5 \| 0211/838–1130 \| www.kunstsammlung.de \| €12 K20, €12 K21, €21 for both (prices vary), free 1st Wed. of month, 6–10. Schmela Haus free of charge. \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 11–6; 1st Wed. of each month 10–10. \| K21, Ständehausstr.. Neanderthal Museum. Just outside Düsseldorf, the Düssel River forms a valley, called the Neanderthal, where the bones of a Stone Age relative of modern man were found. The impressive museum, built at the site of discovery in the suburb of Mettmann, includes models of the original discovery, replicas of cave drawings, and life-size models of Neanderthal Man. Many scientists think he was a different species of human; short, stocky, and with a sloping forehead. The bones were found in 1856 by workers quarrying the limestone cliffs to get flux for blast furnaces. \| Talstr. 300 \| Mettmann \| 02104/97970 \| www.neanderthal.de \| €10 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Rhine Promenade. Traffic is routed away from the river and underneath this pedestrian strip, which is lined by chic shopping arcades and cafés. Joggers, rollerbladers, and folks out for a stroll make much use of the promenade as well. #### Worth Noting Heinrich-Heine-Institut. This museum and archive houses significant manuscripts from the German poet and man of letters, Heinrich Heine. Part of the complex was once the residence of the composer Robert Schumann. \| Bilkerstr. 12–14 \| 0211/899–2902 \| www.duesseldorf.de/heineinstitut \| €4 \| Tues.–Fri. and Sun. 11–5, Sat. 1–5. Hofgarten Park. The oldest remaining parts of the Hofgarten date back to 1769, when it was transformed into Germany's first public park. The promenade leading to what was once a hunting palace, Schloss Jägerhof, was all the rage in late 18th–century Düsseldorf before the park was largely destroyed by Napoléon's troops. Today it's an oasis of greenery at the heart of downtown. MedienHafen. This stylish, revamped district is a mix of late-19th-century warehouses and ultramodern restaurants, bars, and shops: it's one of Europe's masterpieces in urban redevelopment. Surrounding the historic commercial harbor, now occupied by yachts and leisure boats, are the many media companies that have made this area their home. On the riverbank you'll find Frank Gehry's Neuer Zollhof, a particularly striking ensemble of three organic-looking high-rises. The best way to tackle the buzzing architecture is to take a stroll down the promenade. Museum Kunst Palast. This impressive art museum lies at the northern extremity of the Hofgarten, close to the Rhine. Its excellent German expressionist collection (Beckmann, Kirchner, Nolde, Macke, etc.) makes it worth a trip, as does its collection of glass art—among the largest in Europe. \| Ehrenhof 4–5 \| 0211/899–2460 \| www.smkp.de \| €5 for permanent collection, special exhibition prices vary \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 11–6, Thurs. 11–9. St. Lambertus. This Gothic church is near the palace tower on Burgplatz. Its spire became distorted because unseasoned wood was used in its construction. The Vatican elevated the 14th-century brick church to a basilica minor (small cathedral) in 1974 in recognition of its role in church history. Built in the 13th century, with additions from 1394, St. Lambertus contains the tomb of William the Rich and a graceful late-Gothic tabernacle. \| Stiftspl. 7 \| www.lambertuspfarre.de. Schloss Jägerhof. At the far-east edge of the Hofgarten, this baroque structure is more a combination town house and country lodge than a palace. It houses the Goethe-Museum, featuring original manuscripts, first editions, personal correspondence, and other memorabilia of Germany's greatest writer. There's also a museum housing a collection of Meissen porcelain. \| Jacobistr. 2 \| 0211/899–6262 \| www.goethe-museum.com \| €4 \| Tues.–Fri. and Sun. 11–5, Sat. 1–5. Schlossturm (Palace Tower). A squat tower is all that remains of the palace built by the Berg family, which ruled Düsseldorf for more than five centuries. The tower also houses the SchifffahrtMuseum, which charts 2,000 years of Rhine boatbuilding and navigation. \| Burgpl. 30 \| 0211/899–4195 \| www.freunde-schifffahrtmuseum.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. ### Where to Eat Berens am Kai. FRENCH \| Set in the redeveloped Düsseldorf harbor, this glass-and-steel building with ceiling-to-floor windows looks more like a modern office complex than the sleek restaurant it is. Head here for creative French recipes, a wine list with vintages from around the world, and tempting desserts—it's a good option if you're hankering for a change from old-style German cooking. The steep, expense-account-ready prices are warranted by chef Holger Berens' exquisite cuisine, the refined service, and the great setting with magnificent views of the harbor and the city, which are particularly stunning at night. \| Average main: €40 \| Kaistr. 16 \| 0211/300–6750 \| www.berensamkai.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. Bistro Zicke. FRENCH \| Weekend brunch (served until 4 pm) can get busy at this French-inspired artists' café on a quiet square one block from the riverfront. Otherwise, the bistro—with its big windows and walls plastered with old movie and museum posters—is an oasis from the hustle and bustle of the busy Altstadt. The word Zicke ("nanny goat") is a common insult for a moody woman, but whatever your feelings, this is a friendly place to stop in for a drink or to try the simple French-Italian cooking. \| Average main: €13 \| Bäckerstr. 5a \| 0211/327–800 \| www.bistro-zicke.de \| No credit cards. Brauerei Zur Uel. GERMAN \| A nontraditional brew house, the Uel is the popular hangout for Düsseldorf's students. The basic menu consists of soups, salads, and pastas; the ingredients are fresh and the portions are generous. What seems like every cultural and political event in the city is advertised in the entry hall. \| Average main: €12 \| Ratingerstr. 16 \| 0211/325–369 \| www.zuruel.de \| No credit cards. Fodor's Choice \| Im Schiffchen. FRENCH \| Although Im Schiffchen is out of the way, it's also one of Germany's best restaurants and more than worth the trip. This is grande luxe, with cooking turned into fine art through the skills of chef Jean-Claude Bourgueil and his staff. The restaurant Enzo im Schiffchen (formerly Jean-Claude's) on the ground floor features lighter Continental created by the same chef but at lower prices. There are more than 1,100 wines in the cellar, many available by the glass. \| Average main: €42 \| Kaiserswerther Markt 9 \| 0211/401–050 \| www.im-schiffchen.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch. Weinhaus Tante Anna. GERMAN \| This charming restaurant, six generations in the same family, is furnished with antiques. The cuisine (courtesy of the chef, Murat Avcioglu) presents modern versions of German classics, demonstrating that there's a lot more to the country's cooking than wurst and sauerkraut—a specialty is a hearty rump steak baked with mustard and onions. The restaurant also offers a full vegetarian prix-fixe menu. \| Average main: €22 \| Andreasstr. 2 \| 0211/131–163 \| www.tanteanna.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch. Zum Uerige. GERMAN \| Düsseldorf is famous for its Altbier, so called because of the old-fashioned brewing method. This tavern, which brews its own beer, provides the perfect atmosphere for drinking it. The beer is poured straight out of polished oak barrels and served with hearty local food by busy waiters in long blue aprons. The food offered is mainly snacks, with a few entrées. After dinner, try the bar's tasty house liquor, called "Stickum"—a sort of beer brandy. \| Average main: €8 \| Bergerstr. 1 \| 0211/866–990 \| www.uerige.de \| No credit cards. ### Where to Stay Breidenbacher Hof. HOTEL \| The owners razed the original, two-centuries-old hotel of the same name to the ground to open this opulent, high-tech establishment in 2008. The hotel's got it all - even an in-house plastic surgeon. Gadget bugs will love watching the TVs built into the bathroom mirrors, closing their curtains by remote control, and being able to charge their iPods in the room safes. The rooms are spacious and comfortable, though the hotel may be too flashy for fans of its old-world predecessor. Pros: luxury; fun gadgets; great location on the Kö. Cons: expensive; somewhat charmless. \| Rooms from: €290 \| Königsallee 11 \| 0211/1609–0909 \| www.capellahotels.com/dusseldorf \| 79 rooms, 16 suites \| Breakfast. carathotel Düsseldorf. HOTEL \| Besides bright, good-size rooms, the true strength of this modern hotel is its location, near the market in the Altstadt. After a generous buffet breakfast you can quickly reach either the Rhine or the Kö with a three-block walk. Pros: right in the Altstadt; free Wi-Fi. Cons: modern exterior may be a little jarring to some. \| Rooms from: €155 \| Benratherstr. 7a \| 0211/13050 \| www.carat-hotel-duesseldorf.de \| 72 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Orangerie. HOTEL \| Steps away from Altstadt action and the Rhine, this small hotel on a cobblestone road offers simple comfort and a surprising amount of quiet. The amenities are few, but the staff is accommodating and the small rooms are all tastefully furnished. lThe hotel mostly has single rooms for business travelers, but these beds can easily sleep two people, so couples who don't need much space can often share a single room for a cheaper rate. Pros: unbeatable location; free Wi-Fi. Cons: small rooms; no parking at the hotel; caters to business travelers. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Bäckerg. 1 \| 0211/866–800 \| www.hotel-orangerie-mcs.de \| 27 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts The Altstadt is a landscape of pubs, dance clubs, ancient brewery houses, and jazz clubs in the vicinity of the Marktplatz and along cobblestone streets named Bolker, Kurze, Flinger, and Mühlen. These places may be crowded, but some are very atmospheric. The local favorite for nightlife is the Hafen neighborhood. Its restaurants and bars cater to the youngish professionals who work and party there. Deutsche Oper am Rhein. The city's highly regarded opera company and ballet troupe are showcased here. \| Heinrich-Heine-Allee 16a \| 0211/892–5210 \| www.rheinoper.de. Robert-Schumann-Saal. Classical and pop concerts, symposia, film, and international theater are presented at the Robert-Schumann-Saal. \| Ehrenhof 4–5 \| 0211/899–2450 \| www.smkp.de. Tonhalle. The finest concert hall in Germany after Berlin's Philharmonie is a former planetarium on the edge of the Hofgarten. It's the home of the Düsseldorfer Symphoniker, which plays from September to June. \| Ehrenhof 1 \| 0211/899–6123 \| www.tonhalle-duesseldorf.de. Tanztheater Wuppertal. A 30-minute ride outside Düsseldorf by car, train, or S-bahn (from the Hauptbahnhof) will get you to the industrial city of Wuppertal, whose main claim to fame is its transit system of suspended trains that often run directly over the River Wupper, the Schwebebahn. It's also well known for the Tanztheater Wuppertal, the world-famous dance-theater company of the choreographer Pina Bausch (1940–2009). \| Kurt-Drees-Str. 4 \| Wuppertal \| 0202/563–4253 \| www.pina-bausch.de. ### Shopping For antiques, go to the area around Hohe Strasse. The east side of the Königsallee is lined with some of Germany's trendiest boutiques, grandest jewelers, and most extravagant furriers. Kö Center. This shopping arcade houses clothing stores like Eickhoff, a Düsseldorf institution with more than 10,000 square feet of very high-end goods, many straight from the runways of Paris and Milan. \| Königsallee 28–30. Kö Galerie. High-end boutiques and half a dozen restaurants line this luxurious two-story mall. \| Königsallee 60 \| www.koe-galerie.com. Schadow Arkaden. This mall caters to normal budgets, with stores such as H&M and Habitat. \| Schadowstr. 11, at end of Kö Galerie, at end of Kö Galerie \| www.schadow-arkaden.com. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to The Fairy-Tale Road Hesse Lower Saxony Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Driving the Fairy-Tale Road Updated by Jeff Kavanagh With a name evocative of magic and adventure, the Fairy-Tale Road (Märchenstrasse) takes its travelers on a path through the land of the Brothers Grimm and a rolling countryside of farmland and forests that inspired tales of sleeping princesses, hungry wolves, and gingerbread houses. Flowing through the heart of western Germany to its North Sea coast, the Märchenstrasse stops along the way at towns and villages where the brothers spent much of their lives two centuries ago. It was here among medieval castles and witch towers that the brothers, first as young boys, and then later as students and academics, listened to legends told by local storytellers, and adapted them into the fairy tales that continue to be read around the world today; enchanted and frequently dark tales that include "Sleeping Beauty," "Little Red Riding Hood," and "Hansel and Gretel." Following the Grimms' footsteps through a landscape of river valleys and wide-open skies, or down cobblestone streets flanked by half-timber houses and baroque palaces, it's possible to imagine things haven't changed that much since the brothers' time. Traditional taverns serving strong German beers and thick slabs of beef and pork dot the way, and storytelling continues to be a major attraction along the Fairy-Tale Road, though nowadays more commonly in the form of guided tours and interactive museum displays. The Fairy-Tale Road, of course, is also a modern route, and its wide, smooth roads pass through larger urban areas, such as Kassel and Bremen, full of contemporary hotels, eateries, and stores. Like large parts of the rest of the country, many of these towns and cities were greatly damaged during World War II, and their hurried reconstruction often favored functionality over form, so that many buildings are much more stark than those they replaced. This contrast, however, often only serves to emphasize the beauty of what remained. Not every town on the road can lay claim to a connection to the Brothers Grimm or the inspiration for a specific tale, but many continue to celebrate the region's fairy-tale heritage with theme museums, summer festivals, and outdoor plays. It's this heritage, the natural appeal of the countryside, and the tradition and culture found in its towns and cities that attract travelers along the Märchenstrasse; that, mixed with the promise of adventure and the opportunity to create some tales of their own. ## Top Reasons to Go Valley Road: Drive or bike the scenic highway between Hannoversch-Münden and Hameln—it's a landscape of green hills, Weser Renaissance towns, and inviting riverside taverns. Marburg: Staircase streets cover the steep hillsides of this half-timber university town; sit outdoors and soak up the atmosphere. Bremen: Browse the shops and galleries lining the picturesque Böttcherstrasse and Schnoorviertel, then savor the city's rich coffee tradition. Dornröschenschloss Sababurg: The supposed inspiration for Sleeping Beauty's castle. Its spiral staircases, imposing turrets, and fairy-tale setting will delight lovers of the tale. Schlosspark Wilhelmshöhe: Home to a stunning, crescent-moon palace and a fairy-tale castle, the park's trees, ponds, and wide-open spaces offer a dramatic contrast to the urbanity below. ## Getting Oriented The Fairy-Tale Road begins 20 minutes east of Frankfurt in the city of Hanau, and from there heads north 700 km (about 430 miles) to the North Sea port of Bremerhaven, through the states of Hesse and Lower Saxony, following the Fulda and Weser rivers and traversing countryside as beguiling as any other in northern Europe. It may not have the glamour of the Romantic Road or the cosmopolitan flair of Germany's great cities, but it doesn't have the crowds and commercialism either. ## What's Where Hesse. Eighth in area among Germany's 16 states and fifth in population, Hesse has most of its major cities to the south. Its northern part, a place of forests and castles, inspired the tales recorded by the Grimm brothers. Lower Saxony. Germany's second-largest state after Bavaria and fourth most populous, Lower Saxony (Niedersachsen) has a diverse landscape, including the Weser River, which forms a picturesque part of the Fairy-Tale Road, and the Lüneburg Heath. Its capital and largest city is Hannover. ## Planning ### When to Go Summer is the ideal time to travel through this varied landscape, although in spring you'll find the river valleys carpeted in the season's first flowers, and in fall the sleepy Weser is often blanketed in mist. Keep in mind that retail stores and shops in the smaller towns in this area often close for two to three hours at lunchtime. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The closest international airports to this region are in Frankfurt, Hannover, and Hamburg. Frankfurt is less than a half hour from Hanau, and Hamburg is less than an hour from Bremen. Airport Information City Airport Bremen. \| Flughafenallee 20, \| Bremen \| 0421/55950 \| www.airport-bremen.de. Hannover-Langenhagen Airport. \| Petzelstr. 84, \| Hannover \| 0511/9770 \| www.hannover-airport.de. #### Bike Travel The Fulda and Werra rivers have 190 km (118 miles) of bike paths, and you can cycle the whole length of the Weser River from Hannoversch-Münden to the outskirts of Bremen without making too many detours from the river valley. Five- and seven-day cycle tours of the Fulda and Werra river valleys are available. These typically include bike rentals, overnight accommodations, and luggage transport between stops. Bike Tours SRJ GästeService. \| Herrmannstr. 46, \| Minden \| 0571/889–1900 \| www.srj.de. #### Boat Travel The eight boats of Flotte Weser operate short summer excursions along a considerable stretch of the Weser River between Bremen and Bad Karlshafen. The trip between Corvey and Bad Karlshafen, for example, takes slightly less than three hours and costs €15. Rehbein-Linie Kassel operates a service from Kassel to Bad Karlshafen. It also prides itself on the only "three-river tour" in the area. In a single trip you travel on the Fulda and Werra rivers and also on the river formed when these two meet at the tour's starting point of Hannoversch-Münden, the Weser. Personenschifffahrt K. & K. Söllner's excursion boat that go between Kassel and Hannoversch-Münden. Boat Tours Flotte Weser. \| Am Stockhof 2, \| Hameln \| 05151/939–999 \| www.flotte-weser.de. Personenschiffahrt K. & K. Söllner. \| Die Schlagd, \| Kassel \| 0561/774–670 \| www.personenschiffahrt.com/kassel/route.html. Rehbein-Linie Kassel. \| Ostpreussenstr. 8, \| Fuldatal \| 0561/18505 \| www.fahrgastschiffahrt.com. #### Bus Travel Bremen, Kassel, Göttingen, Fulda, and Hanau are all reachable via Deutsche Touring's Europabus. A local bus serves the scenic Weser Valley Road stretch (B-80 and B-83), between Hannoversch-Münden and Hameln. Year-round tours of the region are offered by Herter-Reisen. Bus Tours Eurolines Germany. \| 069/7903–501 \| www.eurolines.de. Herter-Reisen. \| Hildesheimer Str. 6, Hameln/Afferde \| 05159/969–244 \| www.herter-reisen.de. #### Car Travel The best way to travel is by car. The autobahn network serves Hanau, Fulda, Kassel, Göttingen, and Bremen directly, but you can't savor the fairy-tale country from this high-speed superhighway. Bremen is 60 km (35 miles) northwest of Hannover. The Fairy-Tale Road incorporates one of Germany's loveliest scenic drives, the Wesertalstrasse, or Weser Valley Road (B-80 and B-83), between Hannoversch-Münden and Hameln; the total distance is approximately 103 km (64 miles). #### Train Travel Hanau, Fulda, Kassel, Göttingen, Hannover, and Bremen are reachable via InterCity Express (ICE) trains from Frankfurt and Hamburg. Rail service, but not ICE service, is available to Hannoversch-Münden, Marburg, and Hameln. Train Information Deutsche Bahn. \| 0800/150–7090 \| www.bahn.de. ### Restaurants In this largely rural area many restaurants serve hot meals only between 11:30 am and 2 pm, and 6 pm and 9 pm. You rarely need a reservation here, and casual clothing is generally acceptable. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels Make hotel reservations in advance if you plan to visit in summer. Though it's one of the less-traveled tourist routes in Germany, the main destinations on the Fairy-Tale Road are popular. Hannover is particularly busy during trade-fair times. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time The Fairy-Tale Road isn't really for the traveler in a hurry. If you only have a day or two to savor it, concentrate on a short stretch. A good suggestion is the Weser River route between Hannoversch-Münden and Hameln. The landscape is lovely, and the towns are romantic. If you have more time, but not enough to travel the whole route, focus on the southern half of the road. It's more in character with the fairy tales. ### Discounts and Deals Free summer weekend performances along the Fairy-Tale Road include Münchhausen plays in Bodenwerder, the Dr. Eisenbart reenactments in Hannoversch-Münden, the Town Musicians shows in Bremen, and especially the Pied Piper spectacle at Hameln. Kassel, Hannover, and Bremen also sell visitor cards that let you ride free on public transportation, grant reduced admissions at museums, and give other perks. ### Visitor Information Deutsche Märchenstrasse. \| Kurfürstenstr. 9, \| Kassel \| 0561/9204–7911 \| www.deutsche-maerchenstrasse.de. ## Driving the Fairy-Tale Road Weaving its way through rolling hills and a gentle river valley, between whispering woods and past stone castles, this drive along the Fairy-Tale Road connects Göttingen, a vibrant university town, with tranquil riverside villages and the modern state capital of Hannover along the way. Beginning in the south of Lower Saxony and ending in the heart of the state, with a brief excursion into Hesse, this two-day drive is best enjoyed in early spring, when cherry and apple blossoms dot the countryside. Late summer is another good time to go—the weather is at its best and the roads are no longer cluttered with peak-season traffic. Avoiding the high-speed stress of the autobahns, the drive keeps mainly to country roads, which allow time to take in the surroundings between stops. Gazing out at the landscape, it's not difficult to conjure images of wicked witches lurking among the trees, kind woodsmen, and fair maidens trapped in distant towers. A hearty German breakfast at Bullerjahn in the lively town square in front of Göttingen's Altes Rathaus is a great way to start your trip. Once sated, jump in the car and drive 29 km (18 miles) west through the Hannoversch-Münden nature reserve to the town itself. Here, you can stroll among its delightful Renaissance architecture and watch the Fulda and Werra rivers converge to form the Weser River. Half an hour up the road is the town of Sababurg, and perhaps the Fairy-Tale Road's most famous landmark, the Dornröschenschloss, Sleeping Beauty's castle. Spend some time wandering the castle's rose gardens and contemplating the princess's enchanted 100-year slumber. From the castle it's an easy 20-minute drive across the border to Hesse and the baroque spa town of Bad Karlshafen, where you can soothe whatever ails you with a long soak in a thermal, saltwater spring at Weser-Therme. Suitably relaxed, head to the peaceful riverside town of Bodenweder, which lies just more than 50 km (31 miles) to the north along winding country roads. Stay overnight here, and visit the small but fun Münchhausen Museum in the morning and enjoy the gentle murmur of the Weser as it flows its way past. Before lunch, travel 25 minutes north to Hameln and the home of the Rattenfänger, the Pied Piper, where you can experience rat-themed dining at the Rattenfängerhaus. Afterward, drive the 47 km (29 miles) up to Hannover for an afternoon of culture in one of the city's impressive museums and a predinner drink on the terrace of the stunning Neues Rathaus. #### Paddle the Weser Flowing placidly between Hannoversch Münden and Hameln, and on to the North Sea, the Weser passes through many towns offering canoe and boating equipment for rent. If time and weather permit, swap the car for a canoe and paddle the river's glassy waters. Check out www.weserbergland-tourismus.de for details on canoe operators. #### Quick Bites Back und Naschwerk. Delicious breads are baked in the back of this little bakery, using only natural ingredients and real butter. Their maple syrup and walnut or poppy seed and nougat muffins are worth a visit alone. \| Average main: €5 \| Kramerstr. 14 \| Hannover \| 0511/7003–5221 \| www.back-und-naschwerk.de \| No credit cards. Bullerjahn. For a hearty breakfast at this cellar-level restaurant, order the enormous "Ratsfrühstück," which consists of bread rolls, jams, honey, Gouda, cold cuts, salmon, yogurt and fruit, orange juice, coffee, sparkling wine, and a boiled egg. \| Average main: €10 \| Markt 9 \| Göttingen \| 0551/307–0100 \| www.bullerjahn.info. Museums Café. Afternoon coffee and cake is as a strong a culinary tradition in Germany as tea and scones are in England. This elegant cafe in Hameln has cakes and tortes that'll have you embracing the custom like a local in no time. \| Average main: €5 \| Osterstr. 8 \| Hameln \| 05151/21553 \| www.museumscafe.de. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Hanau \| Gelnhausen \| Steinau an der Strasse \| Fulda \| Marburg \| Kassel \| Bad Karlshafen \| Sababurg The first portion of the Fairy-Tale Road, from Hanau to Bad Karlshafen, lies within the state of Hesse. Much of its population is concentrated in the south, in such cities as Frankfurt, Darmstadt, and Wiesbaden; the northern part is quite rural, hilly, forested, and very pretty. Here you'll find Steinau, the almost vertical city of Marburg, and Kassel, all of which have associations with the Grimm brothers. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Hanau 16 km (10 miles) east of Frankfurt. The Fairy-Tale Road begins in Hanau, the town where the Brothers Grimm were born. Although Grimm fans will want to start their pilgrimage here, Hanau is now a traffic-congested suburb of Frankfurt, with post–World War II buildings that are not particularly attractive. #### Getting Here and Around Less than a 50-minute S-bahn (Line No. 9) journey from Frankfurt Airport, Hanau is also reachable by high-speed ICE trains from Berlin and Munich, or a combination of ICE and regional trains from Hannover, Bremen, and Hamburg. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Hanau. \| Am Markt 14–18 \| 06181/295–950 \| www.hanau.de. ### Exploring Nationaldenkmal Brüder Grimm (Brothers Grimm Memorial). Hanau's main attraction can be reached only on foot. The bronze memorial, erected in 1898, is a larger-than-life-size statue of the brothers, one seated, the other leaning on his chair, the two of them pondering an open book. \| Marktpl. Schloss Philippsruhe. This palace museum has a small Grimm exhibit that includes clothing, artifacts, and writings. It's on the bank of the Main in the suburb of Kesselstadt (Bus No. 5 will take you there in 10 minutes). TIP Historical Hanau treasures, including a priceless collection of faience, are also on display here. \| Philippsruher Allee 45 \| 06181/295–564 \| www.museen-hanau.de \| €2.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. Rathaus. Hanau's bulky, 18th-century town hall stands behind the Grimm brothers statue. Every day at noon its bells play tribute to another of the city's famous sons, the composer Paul Hindemith (1895–1963), by chiming out one of his canons. \| Marktpl. 14. ## Gelnhausen 20 km (12 miles) northeast of Hanau, 35 km (21 miles) northeast of Frankfurt. Perched elegantly on the side of a hill above the Kinzig River, Gelnhausen's picturesque Altstadt (Old Town) offers the first taste of the half-timber houses and cobblestone streets that lie in abundance farther north. In spring and summer tours of school children dressed in traditional garb are guided down its winding streets and through lively little squares flanked by ice cream parlors and outdoor cafés, and listen to tales of Red Beard, and the fate of those poor townswomen suspected of being witches. #### Getting Here and Around If you're flying into Frankfurt, Gelnhausen is an ideal spot for your first night on the Fairy-Tale Road. It's smaller and more charming than Hanau, and is still less than an hour's drive from Frankfurt's main airport. Trains to Gelnhausen leave from Frankfurt's main station every half hour and take approximately 35 minutes, and there are frequent connections from Hanau. Once here, the historic Old Town is hilly, but small enough to walk around. April through October, a walking tour leaves from the town hall at 2 on Sunday. #### Essentials Visitor Information Gelnhausen Tourist-Information. \| Obermarkt 7 \| 06051/830–300 \| www.gelnhausen.de. ### Exploring Hexenturm (Witches' Tower). The Hexenturm, once a grim prison, remains from the time when Gelnhausen was the center of a witch hunt in the late 16th century. Dozens of women were either burned at the stake or bound hand and foot and then thrown into the Kinzig River. Suspects were held in the Hexenturm of the town battlements. Today it houses a bloodcurdling collection of medieval torture instruments. The tower is being renovated until sometime in 2014, so until then visitors who wish to venture inside are required to join a tour, which are offered in German on Sunday afternoon from May through October. English-language tours for groups of up to 30 people can be booked in advance for €52. \| Am Fratzenstein \| 06051/830–300 \| May–Oct., tour Sun. at 2. Kaiserpfalz. On an island in the gentle little Kinzig River you'll find the remains of the Kaiserpfalz. Emperor Friedrich I—known as Barbarossa, or Red Beard—built the castle in this idyllic spot in the 12th century; in 1180 it was the scene of the first all-German Imperial Diet, a gathering of princes and ecclesiastical leaders. Today only parts of the russet walls and colonnaded entrance remain. Still, you can stroll beneath the castle's ruined ramparts on its water site and you'll get a tangible impression of the medieval importance of the court of Barbarossa. \| Burgstr. 14 \| 06051/3805 \| €3 \| Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Nov. and Dec., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Stay Romantisches Hotel Burg Mühle. HOTEL \| This peaceful hotel, a few steps from the Kaiserpfalz and within an easy walk of the Altstadt, was once the castle's mill ("Mühle") and sawmill. In the restaurant ($ - $$) the mill wheel still away as you eat. Should your require more relaxation, the hotel's wellness facilities include massages, a sauna, and a solarium. Pros: large rooms (many with balconies). Cons: showing a little wear. \| Rooms from: €77 \| Burgstr. 2 \| 06051/82050 \| www.burgmuehle.de \| 40 rooms \| Breakfast. * * * The Brothers Grimm The Grimm fairy tales originated in the southern part of the Märchenstrasse. This area, mainly in the state of Hesse, was the home region of the brothers Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859) Grimm. They didn't create the stories they are famous for. Their feat was to mine the great folklore tradition that was already deeply ingrained in local culture. For generations, eager children had been gathering at dusk around the village storyteller to hear wondrous tales of fairies, witches, and gnomes, tales passed down from storytellers who had gone before. The Grimms sought out these storytellers and recorded their tales. The result was the two volumes of their work Kinder- und Hausmärchen (Children's and Household Tales), published in 1812 and 1814 and revised and expanded six times during their lifetimes. The last edition, published in 1857, is the basis for the stories we know today. Earlier versions contained more violence and cruelty than was deemed suitable for children. That is how the world got the stories of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Rumpelstiltskin, Puss-in-Boots, Mother Holle, Rapunzel, and some 200 others, many of which remain unfamiliar. Both Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm had distinguished careers as librarians and scholars, and probably would be unhappy to know that they are best remembered for the fairy tales. Among other things, they began what would become the most comprehensive dictionary of the German language and produced an analysis of German grammar. The brothers were born in Hanau, near Frankfurt, which has a statue memorializing them as well as a Grimm exhibit at Schloss Philippsruhe. They spent their childhood in Steinau, 30 km (18 miles) to the north, where their father was magistrate. There are two Grimm museums there, one in their home. On their father's untimely death they moved to their mother's home city of Kassel. It, too, has an important Grimm museum. They attended the university at Marburg from 1802 to 1805, then worked as librarians in Kassel. It was in the Kassel area that they found the best of their stories. They later worked as librarians and professors in the university town of Göttingen, and spent their last years as academics in Berlin. * * * ## Steinau an der Strasse 30 km (18 miles) northeast of Gelnhausen, 65 km (40 miles) northeast of Frankfurt. The little town of Steinau—full name Steinau an der Strasse (Steinau "on the road," referring to an old trade route between Frankfurt and Leipzig)—had a formative influence on the Brothers Grimm. They were preschoolers on arrival and under age 12 when they left after their father's death. Steinau dates from the 13th century, and is typical of villages in the region. Marvelously preserved half-timber houses are set along cobblestone streets; an imposing castle bristles with towers and turrets. In its woodsy surroundings you can well imagine encountering Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White, or Hansel and Gretel. A major street is named after the brothers; the building where they lived is now named after them. #### Getting Here and Around Regional trains leave hourly from Gelnhausen and take about 15 minutes to reach Steinau an der Strasse. The train station is just more than a kilometer from the Old Town's center and, should the walk be too far, the MKK90 bus goes into the town, albeit at irregular and sometimes lengthy intervals (get off at Ringstrasse). Or you can take a taxi. A city walking tour takes place April to October, the first Sunday of the month, leaving at 2 from the Märchenbrunnen (fountain). #### Essentials Visitor Information Steinau an der Strasse Verkehrsbüro. \| Brüder-Grimm-Str. 70 \| 06663/96310 \| www.steinau.eu. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Brüder Grimm Haus and Museum Steinau. Occupying both the house where the Brothers Grimm lived for much of their childhoods as well as the house's old barn, the Brüder Grimm Haus and Museum Steinau are fun and engaging museums. Featuring a reconstruction of the family's old kitchen, the brothers' former house also displays old personal posessions such as letters and reading glasses, and has an upper floor divided into nine rooms with interactive displays that celebrate the Grimms' stories and other fairy tales from around Europe. Across a small courtyard, the town's museum documents what life was like on the old trade route that ran through Steinau, incorporating into its exhibits a coach, inn signs, milestones, and the type of pistols travelers used to defend themselves from bandits. \| Brüder-Grimm-Str. 80 \| 06663/7605 \| www.museum-steinau.de \| €5 \| Daily 10–5; closed 2 wks in late Dec. Schloss Steinau (Steinau Castle). Schloss Steinau is straight out of a Grimm fairy tale. It stands at the top of the town, with a "Fairy-tale Fountain" in front of it. Originally an early-medieval fortress, it was rebuilt in Renaissance style between 1525 and 1558 and first used by the counts of Hanau as their summer residence. Later it was used to guard the increasingly important trade route between Frankfurt and Leipzig. It's not difficult to imagine the young Grimm boys playing in the shadow of its great gray walls or venturing into the encircling dry moat. The castle houses a Grimm Museum, one of two in Steinau, as well as an exhibition of marionettes from the marionette theater. The Grimm Museum exhibits the family's personal effects, including portraits of the Grimm relatives, the family Bible, an original copy of the Grimms' dictionary (the German equivalent of the Oxford English Dictionary), and all sorts of mundane things such as spoons and drinking glasses. Climb the tower for a breathtaking view of Steinau and the countryside. \| 06663/6843 \| Museum €2.50, tower €1, tour of castle and museum €6 \| Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Nov.–mid-Dec., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. FAMILY \| Steinauer Marionettentheater. Located in what was once the stables at Schloss Steinau, this marionette theater portrays Grimm fairy tales and other children's classics. Performances are held most weekends at 3. \| Schloss Steinau, Am Kumpen 2 \| 06663/245 \| www.die-holzkoeppe.de \| €7.50. ### Where to Eat and Stay Brathähnchenfarm. GERMAN \| This cheery hotel-restaurant is a long, long way from the center of Steinau, uphill all the way. But it's worth it. As your nose will tell you immediately, just about everything on the menu is charcoal-grilled. The name ("Roast Chicken Farm') sets the theme, though other grilled meats are available. It's also good for peace and quiet. \| Average main: €14 \| Im Ohl 1 \| 06663/228 \| www.brathaehnchenfarm.de \| Closed Mon. and late Dec.–mid-Feb. Burgmannenhaus. B&B/INN \| Previously a 16th-century customs house, sitting on 1,000-year old foundations and a secret tunnel that runs to the nearby Schloss and church, this friendly travelers' inn is the type of place made for history buffs. The inn's half-timbered rooms have been restored to resemble what life might have been like in the time of the Brothers Grimm, but with modern comforts like proper bathrooms and beds, and Wi-Fi. Weary travelers can rest their feet beneath the 100-year-old chestnut tree in the inn's beer garden in summer or around a table in the "fire room" in winter. Pros: in the middle of Steinau; tasty regional beer on tap. Cons: restaurant ($) serves solid, if unspectacular German food; Wi-Fi sometimes hard to pick up in guest rooms. \| Rooms from: €78 \| Brüder Grimm Str. 49 \| 06663/911–2902 \| www.burgmannenhaus-steinau.de \| 5 rooms \| No meals. ## Fulda 32 km (20 miles) northeast of Steinau an der Strasse, 100 km (62 miles) northeast of Frankfurt. The cathedral city of Fulda is well worth a detour off the Fairy-Tale Road. There are two distinct parts to its downtown area. One is a stunning display of baroque architecture, with the cathedral, orangery, and formal garden, which grew up around the palace. The other is the Old Town, where the incredibly narrow and twisty streets are lined with boutiques, bistros, and a medieval tower. TIP You'll find Kanalstrasse and Karlstrasse in the Old Town lined with good, inexpensive cafés and restaurants, serving German, Mediterranean, and other dishes. #### Getting Here and Around InterCity Express trains connect Fulda with Frankfurt, Hannover and Hamburg, while regional trains link the city with many other Fairy-Tale Road destinations. Within Fulda itself, the Old Town and the city's other main attractions are all in walking distance of each other. Fulda's walking tours include a recording with earphones, enabling you to follow the German tours in English. These start at the tourist office on Bonifatiusplatz, daily at 11:30 and 3. #### Essentials Visitor Information Fulda Tourismus- und Kongressmanagement. \| Bonifatiuspl. 1 \| 0661/102–1813 \| www.tourismus-fulda.de. ### Exploring Dom. Fulda's 18th-century cathedral, which has two tall spires, stands on the other side of the broad boulevard that borders the palace park. The basilica accommodated the ever-growing number of pilgrims who converged on Fulda to pray at the grave of the martyred St. Boniface, the "Apostle of the Germans." A black alabaster bas-relief depicting his death marks the martyr's grave in the crypt. \| Eduard Schick Pl. 1–3 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–5. Cathedral Museum. The Cathedral Museum contains a document bearing St. Boniface's writing, along with several other treasures, including Lucas Cranach the Elder's fine 16th-century painting Christ and the Adulteress. \| 0661/87207 \| €2.10 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sat. 10–5:30, Sun. 12:30–5:30; Nov., Dec., and mid-Feb.–Mar., Tues.–Sat. 10–12:30 and 1:30–4, Sun. 12:30–4. FAMILY \| Kinder-Akademie-Fulda. Germany's first children's museum has interactive exhibits to help explain science and technology, including a "walk-through heart." \| Mehlerstr. 4 \| 0661/902–730 \| www.kaf.de \| €6.50 \| Weekdays 10–5:30, Sun. 1–5:30, and Apr.–Oct., Sat. 1–5:30. Fodor's Choice \| Stadtschloss (City Palace). The city's grandest example of baroque design is the immense Stadtschloss, formerly the residence of the prince-bishops. The Fürstensaal (Princes' Hall), on the second floor, provides a breathtaking display of baroque decorative artistry, with ceiling paintings by the 18th-century Bavarian artist Melchior Steidl, and fabric-clad walls. The palace also has permanent displays of the Fulda was once known for, as well as some fine Fulda porcelain. Also worth seeing is the Spiegelsaal, with its many tastefully arranged mirrors. Pause at the windows of the Grünes Zimmer (Green Chamber) to take in the view across the palace park to the Orangery, a large garden with summer-flowering shrubs and plants. \| Schlossstr. 1 \| 0661/102–1813 \| €3.50 \| Sat.–Thurs. 10–5, Fri. 2–5. FAMILY \| Vonderau Museum. The Vonderau Museum is housed in a former Jesuit seminary. Its exhibits chart the cultural and natural history of Fulda and eastern Hesse. A popular section of the museum is its planetarium, which has a variety of shows, including one for children. Since it has only 35 seats, an early reservation is advisable. Shows take place Friday at 7, and on weekends at 2:30 and 3:30. \| Jesuitenpl. 2 \| 0661/928–350 \| www.kultur-fulda.de/vonderau-museum \| Museum €3.50, planetarium €4.00 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay La Gondola. PIZZA \| The faded interior of this popular Italian restaurant in the Altstadt pedestrian zone may be at odds with the gold lettering and elegant window frames adorning its facade, but it's cozy and welcoming nonetheless. A local favorite for more than a quarter century, La Gondola serves homemade pasta, pizza (also family size), and salad. Note that it's closed from 2:30 to 5. \| Average main: €9 \| Karlstr. 29 \| 0661/71711. * * * What to Eat on the Fairy-Tale Road A specialty of northern Hesse is sausages with Beulches, made from potato balls, leeks, and black pudding. Weck, which is local dialect for "heavily spiced pork," appears either as Musterweck, served on a roll, or as Weckewerk, a frying-pan concoction with white bread. Heading north into Lower Saxony, you'll encounter the ever-popular Speckkuchen, a heavy and filling onion tart. Another favorite main course is Pfefferpothast, a sort of heavily browned goulash with lots of pepper. Trout and eels are common in the rivers and streams around Hameln, and by the time you reach Bremen, North German cuisine has taken over the menu. Aalsuppe grün, eel soup seasoned with dozens of herbs, is a must in summer, and the hearty Grünkohl mit Pinkel, a cabbage dish with sausage, bacon, and cured pork, appears in winter. Be sure to try the coffee. Fifty percent of the coffee served in Germany comes from beans roasted in Bremen. The city has been producing the stuff since 1673, and knows just how to serve it in pleasantly cozy or, as locals say, gemütlich surroundings. * * * Maritim Hotel am Schlossgarten. HOTEL \| At the luxurious showpiece of the Maritim chain, guests can breakfast beneath frescoed ceilings and enormous chandeliers in a stunning 18th-century orangery overlooking Fulda Palace Park. Guest rooms are housed in a modern wing with a large central atrium; the hotel's Dianakeller restaurant ($ - $$) is inside an impressive cavern of centuries-old vaulted arches. If this isn't the best place to stay in Fulda, it's certainly one of the top two. Pros: large, comfortable rooms; lovely terrace with views of park and nearby cathedral. Cons: no a/c; expensive for the area. \| Rooms from: €175 \| Pauluspromenade 2 \| 0661/2820 \| www.maritim.de \| 111 rooms, 1 suite \| No meals. Fodor's Choice \| Romantik Hotel Goldener Karpfen. HOTEL \| An institution in Fulda for more than a hundred years, the Goldener Karpfen has remained family-owned and -run, with an elegant disposition and engaging hosts that have brought singers, actors, and archbishops through its doors. A couple other points in the hotel's favor are its Hollywood rooms with diner-style furniture and checkered tiles, and the high quality of the German food and wines on offer in its restaurant ($$$) Pros: luxury lodging; a short stroll to the town's major attractions; excellent breakfast buffet. Cons: expensive; public spaces can feel cluttered with knickknacks. \| Rooms from: €165 \| Simpliziusbrunnen 1 \| 0661/86800 \| www.hotel-goldener-karpfen.de \| 46 rooms, 4 suites \| Breakfast. En Route: Marburg is the next major stop on the road. Take B-254 to Alsfeld (34 km [21 miles] northwest of Fulda), where you can make a short stop to admire its half-timber houses and narrow streets; then take B-62 into Marburg. Alsfeld's Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall) was built in 1512. Its exterior—combining a ground floor of stone arcades; half-timber upper reaches; and a dizzyingly steep, top-heavy slate roof punctuated by two pointed towers shaped like witches' hats—would look right at home in Walt Disney World. ## Marburg 60 km (35 miles) northwest of Fulda. "I think there are more steps in the streets than in the houses." That is how Jacob Grimm described the half-timber hillside town of Marburg, which rises steeply from the Lahn River to the spectacular castle that crowns the hill. Many of the winding, crooked "streets" are indeed stone staircases, and several of the hillside houses have back doors five stories above the front doors. The town's famous university and its students are the main influence on its social life, which pulses through the many cafés, restaurants, and hangouts around the marketplace. The Grimms themselves studied here from 1802 to 1805. Many of the streets are closed to traffic, and are filled with outdoor tables when the weather cooperates. There is a free elevator near the tourist-information office on Pilgrimstein that can transport you from the level of the river to the Old Town. #### Getting Here and Around Two hours away from Fulda by train, the cheapest way to get here is by taking a regional train to the town of Giessen, and changing there; and every two hours a regional train runs between Marburg and Kassel. By car, take the B-254 and then B-62 from Fulda. #### Essentials Visitor Information Marburg Tourismus und Marketing. \| Pilgrimstein 26 \| 06421/99120 \| www.marburg.de. ### Exploring Elisabethkirche (St. Elizabeth Church). Marburg's most important building is the Elisabethkirche, which marks the burial site of St. Elizabeth (1207–31), the town's favorite daughter. She was a Hungarian princess, betrothed at age 4 and married at 14 to a member of the nobility, Ludwig IV of Thuringia. In 1228, when her husband died in the Sixth Crusade, she gave up all worldly pursuits. She moved to Marburg, founded a hospital, gave her wealth to the poor, and spent the rest of her very short life (she died at the age of 24) in poverty, caring for the sick and the aged. She is largely responsible for what Marburg became. Because of her selflessness she was made a saint four years after her death. The Teutonic Knights built the Elisabethkirche, which quickly became the goal of pilgrimages, enabling the city to prosper. You can visit the shrine in the sacristy that once contained her bones, a masterpiece of the goldsmith's art. The church is a veritable museum of religious art, full of statues and frescoes. Walking tours of Marburg begin at the church on Saturday at 3, year-round. \| Elisabethstr. 1. ### Where to Eat and Stay Cafe Vetter. CAFÉ \| This café has the most spectacular view in town—and Marburg is famous for its panoramas. Both an outdoor terrace and a glassed-in terrace take full advantage of the site. It's all very "Viennese coffeehouse traditional" here, and the homemade cakes and chocolate creams are hard to resist. This institution, four generations in the same family, has piano music on weekend afternoons. \| Average main: €7 \| Reitg. 4 \| 06421/25888 \| www.cafe-vetter-marburg.de \| No credit cards \| No dinner. Weinlädele. GERMAN \| If you've tired of the big glasses of beer and plates of enormous schnitzel on offer in many of Marburg's traditional eating establishments, this half-timbered wine bar's fine selection of German wines, and light, crispy Flammkuchen (a flambéed tart) is a welcome break. Just up the street from the Old Town's main marketplace, it's a busy spot, popular with patrons of all ages. When the weather is good, get there early, grab a table on its little terrace for a view down the hill, order a cheese platter and glass of white, and watch the world idle by. \| Average main: €9 \| Schlosstreppe 1 \| 06421/14244 \| www.weinlaedele.com. Welcome Hotel Marburg. HOTEL \| While the plain facade of this large, modern hotel may suffer in comparison with much of Marburg's traditional architecture, its generous rooms, comfy beds, and excellent breakfast buffet draw guests back. At river level just below the Old Town, its Tartaruga restaurant ($$) serves seasonal menus of German fare, and there's a terrace for fair-weather dining. You can retire to the hotel's bar for an after-dinner nightcap, or sweat off some of the calories in the sauna. Pros: across from the elevator to the Altstadt. Cons: no real views from many of the rooms. \| Rooms from: €131 \| Pilgrimstein 29 \| 06421/9180 \| www.welcome-hotels.com \| 147 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. ## Kassel 100 km (62 miles) northeast of Marburg. The Brothers Grimm lived in Kassel, their mother's hometown, as teenagers, and also worked there as librarians at the court of the king of Westphalia, Jerome Bonaparte (Napoléon's youngest brother), and for the elector of Kassel. In their researching of stories and legends, their best source was not books but storyteller Dorothea Viehmann, who was born in the Knallhütte tavern, which is still in business in nearby Baunatal. Much of Kassel was destroyed in World War II, and the city was rebuilt with little regard for its architectural past. The city's museums and the beautiful Schloss Wilhelmshöhe and Schlosspark, however, are well worth a day or two of exploration. #### Getting Here and Around On a main InterCity Express line between Munich and Hamburg, you can also travel to Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe from Hannover and Bremen by high-speed train. By car, travel northeast from Marburg on the B-3 to Borken, then take autobahn A-49 into Kassel. #### Tours Guided bus tours of Kassel set off from the Stadttheater on Saturday at 11. #### Discounts and Deals When you arrive, you may want to buy a Kassel Card, which gives you a reduced rate for the city bus tour, free travel on the local transportation system, and reduced admission to the museums and the local casino. It's available at the tourist office for €9 for 24 hours and €12 for 72 hours. #### Essentials Visitor Information Kassel Marketing GmbH. \| Obere Königstr. 15 \| 0561/707–707 \| www.kassel.de. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Brüder Grimm Museum (Brothers Grimm Museum). Despite the widespread destruction suffered by Kassel during World War II, some architectural gems remain. One of them, the 18th-century, baroque Palais Bellevue, is home to the city's Brothers Grimm Museum. Eschewing modern technology in its exhibits in favor of relics from the Grimm's family home and original illustrations of their stories, the museum seeks to create an authentic experience of what life was like in the brothers' time. Pride of place among the memorabilia is taken up by first and second editions of the brothers' collection of tales. There's plenty to excite younger visitors to the museum, too, and every three months it has a new interactive children's exhibition based on a different fairy tale originally recorded in German, English, Russian or Turkish. \| Schöne Aussicht 2 \| 0561/103–235 \| www.grimms.de \| €3 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–8. Fodor's Choice \| Schloss und Bergpark Wilhelmshöhe (Wilhelmshöhe Palace and Palace Park). The magnificent grounds of the 18th-century Schloss and the Bergpark Wilhelmshöhe, at the western edge of Kassel, are said to be Europe's largest hill park. If you have time, plan to spend an entire day at this UNESCO World Heritage Site, exploring its wonderful gardens, water features, museums, and castle. Wear good walking shoes and bring some water if you want to hike all the way up to the giant statue of Hercules that crowns the hilltop. The Wilhelmshöher Park was laid out as a baroque park in the early 18th century, its elegant lawns separating the city from the thick woods of the Habichtswald (Hawk Forest). Schloss Wilhelmshöhe was added between 1786 and 1798. The great palace stands at the end of the 5-km-long (3-mile-long) Wilhelmshöher Allee, an avenue that runs straight as an arrow from one side of the city to the other. Kassel's leading art gallery and the state art collection lie within Schloss Wilhelmshöhe as part of the Museumslandschaft Hessen Kassel. Its collection includes 11 Rembrandts, as well as outstanding works by Rubens, Hals, Jordaens, Van Dyck, Dürer, Altdorfer, Cranach, and Baldung Grien. \| Schloss Wilhelmshöhe, Schlosspark 1 \| 0561/316–800 \| www.wilhelmshoehe.de \| Museum Schloss Wilhelmshöhe €6 \| Tues., Thurs.–Sun. 10–5, Wed. 10–8. Closed Mon. Löwenburg (Lion Fortress). Amid the thick trees of the Wilhelmshöher Park, it comes as something of a surprise to see the turrets of a medieval castle breaking the harmony. There are more surprises at the Löwenburg, for this is not true medieval castle but a fanciful, stylized copy of a Scottish castle, built in 1793 (70 years after the Hercules statue that towers above it). The Löwenburg contains a collection of medieval armor and weapons, tapestries, and furniture. \| Schlosspark 9 \| 0561/3168–0244 \| www.museum-kassel.de \| €4 including tour \| Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Nov.–Feb., Fri.–Sun. 10–4. Statue of Hercules. The giant 18th-century statue of Hercules that crowns the Wilhelmshöhe heights is an astonishing sight. You can climb the stairs of the statue's castlelike base—and the statue itself—for a rewarding look over the entire city. At 2:30 pm on Sunday and Wednesday from mid-May through September, water gushes from a fountain beneath the statue, rushes down a series of cascades to the foot of the hill, and ends its precipitous journey in a 175-foot-high jet of water. A café lies a short walk from the statue. \| Schlosspark 3 \| 0561/312–456 \| Hercules Octagon €3 \| Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Brauhaus Knallhütte. GERMAN \| This brewery and inn, established in 1752, was the home of the village storyteller Dorothea Viehmann, who supplied The Grimms with some of the best of their stories, including "Little Red Riding Hood," "Hansel and Gretel," and "Rumpelstiltskin." To this day "Dorothea" tells her stories here (in German only) every first and third Saturday of the month at 5:30. Once a wayside inn on the road to Frankfurt, the Knallhütte now sits alongside a busy highway. However, this hasn't diminished its popularity, and if you're planning on visiting on the weekend, it's best to book ahead. Those that arrive hungry can tour the brewery and then eat and drink as much as they want for €24.90. \| Average main: €14 \| Knallhütte. 1 \| Baunatal-Rengershausen \| 0561/492–076 \| www.knallhuette.de. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Gude. HOTEL \| It may be 10 minutes by tram away from the city center, but this modern, friendly hotel and its spacious rooms, sauna, and excellent restaurant ($$$) justify the journey. The Pfeffermühle's one of the region's finest places to eat, and its superb breakfast buffet is in keeping with the inventive international menu served at night. A modern terrace catches the sun until late in the day, and the hotel's Salz bar serves reasonably priced cocktails. Massage and physiotherapy can also be arranged. Pros: close to the autobahn; easy parking; comfortable beds. Cons: removed from the city center; on a busy street. \| Rooms from: €119 \| Frankfurter Str. 299 \| 0561/48050 \| www.hotel-gude.de \| 84 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Schlosshotel Wilhelmshöhe. HOTEL \| Positioned beside the lovely baroque gardens and woodland paths of the hilltop Wilhelmshöhe Park, this comfortable, modern hotel and its rooms take in views on the park grounds on one side and stunning vistas over Kassel on the other. The hotel's elegant restaurant ($$) serves contemporary cuisine with an emphasis on German and Mediterranean dishes, and its sunny terrace is not only popular with guests, but also with day-trippers to the park and celebrities in town for the city's renowned Documenta festival. Pros: tranquil atmosphere; historic setting; views. Cons: no minifridge minibar in "classic" rooms; a modern-looking hotel, despite its romantic name. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Am Schlosspark 8 \| 0561/30880 \| www.schlosshotel-kassel.de \| 120 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ## Bad Karlshafen 50 km (31 miles) north of Kassel. Popular with holidaymakers in mobile homes and trailers, who park up on the banks of the Weser directly across from its historic center, Bad Karlshafen's a pretty little spa town whose baroque architecture, while impressive, is showing some signs of wear and tear. Best viewed from the campsite side of the river, the town is surrounded by hills covered in dense forest and has for some time also found favor as a health resort. Its elevation and rural location provide fresh air, and there are salt springs that the locals believe can cure just about whatever ails you. #### Getting Here and Around Regional trains run here from Göttingen, but only infrequently, so check train timetables well ahead of any visit. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bad Karlshafen Kur- und Touristik-Information. \| Hafenpl. 8 \| 05672/999–922 \| www.bad-karlshafen.de. ### Exploring Rathaus. Bad Karlshafen's baroque beauty stands in surprising contrast to the abundance of half-timber architecture found along the rest of the Weser. Its stately Rathaus is the town's best baroque example. A walking tour leaves from there on Sunday at 3, May through October. \| Hafenpl. 8. FAMILY \| Weser-Therme. This huge spa facility sitting on the banks of the Weser River has whirlpools, sauna and steam baths, thermal saltwater pools, and an outdoor pool that supposedly is as salty as the Dead Sea. The spa's waters are famed for their therapeutic benefits, and a couple of hours bathing in them often helps relieve aches and stress. Massages are available to further aid the relaxation process. \| Kurpromenade 1 \| 05672/92110 \| www.wesertherme.de \| €10.50 pools, €14 pools and sauna (3 hrs) \| Sun.–Thurs. 9 am–10 pm, Fri. and Sat. 9 am–11 pm. ### Where to Stay Hessischer Hof. HOTEL \| Located in the heart of town, this inn started as a tavern and now includes several comfortably furnished bedrooms, plus an apartment for larger families and the numerous cycling groups that visit. The restaurant ($$) serves good, hearty German fare. Pros: centrally located; reasonable rates; friendly staff. Cons: no elevator; décor dated in places. \| Rooms from: €78 \| Carlstr. 13–15 \| 05672/1059 \| www.hess-hof.de \| 20 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel zum Weserdampfschiff. HOTEL \| From the snug riverside rooms of this popular hotel-tavern, guests can watch passengers step directly off Weser pleasure boats and into the hotel's welcoming beer garden below. With some of the best views in town (despite the campsite full of camper vans on the opposite bank), the hotel is also only a short wander along the Weser away from the town's thermal pools. Its simple, lace-curtained restaurant ($) offers the type of solid meat and fish dishes you might crave after a swim. Pros: river view; low rates; near spa facilities. Cons: on a busy street; rooms a bit small. \| Rooms from: €88 \| Weserstr. 25 \| 05672/2425 \| www.weserdampfschiff.de \| 14 rooms \| No credit cards \| Breakfast. En Route: Fürstenberg Porcelain factory. Germany's second-oldest porcelain factory is at Fürstenberg, 24 km (14 mi) north of Bad Karlshafen and 8 km (5 mi) south of Höxter, in a Weser Renaissance castle high above the Weser River. The crowned Gothic letter F, which serves as its trademark, is known worldwide. You'll find Fürstenberg porcelain in Bad Karlshafen and Höxter, but it's more fun to journey to the 18th-century castle itself, where production first began in 1747, and buy directly from the manufacturer. Fürstenberg and most dealers will take care of shipping arrangements and any tax refunds. Porcelain workshops can be booked ahead of time, and there's also a sales outlet, museum, and café. TIP The view from the castle is a pastoral idyll, with the Weser snaking through the immaculately tended fields and woods. You can also spot cyclists on the riverside paths. \| Schloss Fürstenberg, Meinbrexener Str. 2 \| Fürstenberg \| 05271/401–161 \| www.fuerstenberg-porzellan.com \| Museum €5.50 \| Museum: Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Nov.–Mar., weekends 10–5. Shop: mid-Jan.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6. ## Sababurg 50 km (31 miles) west of Göttingen, 100 km (62 miles) south of Hannover. Sababurg's not really a village as such, but it is the location of an enchanting, 700-year-old Renaissance castle, an impressive animal park, and Germany's oldest forest nature reserve, all of which lie within the peaceful, wooded surrounds of the Reinhardswald. The castle, which sits proudly on the crest of a hill in the forest, is also known as Dornröschenschloss, and is widely believed to be the source of inspiration for the tale of "Sleeping Beauty." #### Getting Here and Around Given that Sababurg is removed from the main highway and has no rail connection, visits to Dornröschenschloss and the nearby Sababurg Tierpark are best made by car. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Dornröschenschloss (Sleeping Beauty's Castle). The story goes that after Sleeping Beauty had slumbered for a hundred years, the thick thorn hedge surrounding her castle suddenly burst into blossom, thereby enabling a daring prince a way in to lay a kiss upon her lips and reawaken her. Nowadays home to a handsome hotel, the stony exterior of Dornröschenschloss continues to be clad in colorful roses, and its walled garden is home to an impressive collection of the flowers. Even if you don't stay the night, a drive here is scenic, and there are ruins as well as the garden to explore, and a pleasant outdoor terrace with views over forest-covered hills to enjoy afterward. FAMILY \| Tierpark Sababurg. The Tierpark Sababurg is one of Europe's oldest wildlife refuges. Bison, red deer, wild horses, and all sorts of waterfowl populate the park. There's also a petting zoo for children. \| Sababurg 1 \| 05671/766-4990 \| www.tierpark-sababurg.de \| €7 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 8–7; Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Feb., daily 10–4; Mar., daily 9–5. ### Where to Stay Dornröschenschloss Sababurg. HOTEL \| The medieval fortress thought to have inspired the tale of "Sleeping Beauty" is today a small luxury hotel, complete with domed turrets, spiral staircases,and tower rooms with four-poster beds and spa baths. Sitting on the crest of a hill, surrounded by a forest of ancient oaks, wild deer, and boar, the castle's an understandably popular spot for weddings and honeymoons. Game and fresh trout are served in the hotel's excellent restaurant ($$ - $$$), which also specializes in rose-themed dishes, including pasta and desserts made with the flowers. Pros: sylvan setting; incredibly romantic. Cons: some dated rooms; takes some effort to find the place. \| Rooms from: €165 \| Im Reinhardswald \| Hofgeismar \| 05671/8080 \| www.sababurg.de \| 17 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Burg Trendelburg. HOTEL \| Ivy-bedecked towers, a shadowy foyer decorated with suits of armor and swords, and guest rooms with four-poster beds and little bathrooms hidden behind cupboard doors endow this fine establishment with an atmosphere of fairy-tale adventure. Guests can climb the Rapunzel tower for views of the surrounding countryside, or relax in a sauna in another tower. The hotel's leafy courtyard and hilltop terrace are perfect for spending warm summer evenings sipping cool drinks; the hotel's restaurant ($$) serves a good selection of meat and fish dishes and regular fairy-tale-themed dining experiences. Pros: great views; authentic castle experience. Cons: some rooms small; in a otherwise uninspiring village. \| Rooms from: €155 \| Steinweg 1 \| Trendelburg \| 05675/9090 \| www.burg-hotel-trendelburg.com \| 22 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Hannoversch-Münden \| Göttingen \| Höxter \| Bodenwerder \| Hameln \| Hannover \| Bremen \| Bremerhaven Lower Saxony (Niedersachsen) was formed from an amalgamation of smaller states in 1946. Its picturesque landscape includes one of Germany's most haunting river roads, along the Weser River between Hannoversch-Münden and Hameln. This road, part of the Fairy-Tale Road, follows green banks where it's hard to see where the water ends and the land begins. Standing sentinel are superb little towns whose half-timber architecture gave rise to the term "Weser Renaissance." The Lower Saxon landscape also includes the juniper bushes and flowering heather of the Lüneburg Heath. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Hannoversch-Münden 24 km (15 miles) north of Kassel, 150 km (93 miles) south of Hannover. You'll have to travel a long way through Germany to find a grouping of half-timber houses as harmonious as those in this delightful town, seemingly untouched by the modern age—there are some 700 of them. Hannoversch-Münden is surrounded by forests and the Fulda and Werra rivers, which join here and flow northward as the Weser River. #### Getting Here and Around Regional trains linking Hannoversch Münden to both Kassel and Göttingen run every hour. A walking tour of town takes place May to October, leaving daily at 10:30 and 2:30 from the town hall. #### Essentials Visitor Information Hannoversch-Münden. \| Touristik Naturpark Münden, Lotzestr. 2 \| 05541/75313 \| www.hann.muenden.de. ### Exploring Johann Andreas Eisenbart. Much is made of the fact that the quack doctor to end all quacks died in Hannoversch-Münden. Dr. Johann Andreas Eisenbart (1663–1727) would be forgotten today if a ribald 19th-century drinking song ("Ich bin der Doktor Eisenbart, widda, widda, wit, boom! boom!") hadn't had him shooting out aching teeth with a pistol, anesthetizing with a sledgehammer, and removing boulders from the kidneys. He was, as the song has it, a man who could make "the blind walk and the lame see." This is terribly exaggerated, of course, but the town takes advantage of it. The good Dr. Eisenbart has "office hours" in the town hall at 1:30 on Saturday, May through December; and a glockenspiel on the town hall depicts Eisenbart's feats, to the tune of the Eisenbart song, daily throughout the year at noon, 3, and 5. There's a statue of the doctor in front of his home at Langestrasse 79, and his grave is outside the St. Ägidien Church. \| 05541/75313 \| www.hann.muenden.de. ## Göttingen 30 km (19 miles) northeast of Hannoversch-Münden, 110 km (68 miles) south of Hannover. Distinguished by its famous university, where the Brothers Grimm served as professors and librarians between 1830 and 1837, the fetching town of Göttingen buzzes with student life. Young people on bikes zip past bookshops and secondhand boutiques; when night falls, the town's cozy bars and cafés swell with students making the most of the drinks specials and free Wi-Fi on offer. Full of elegant, gable-roofed architecture, it's also a large and modern place and boasts the shiny stores, chain coffee shops, and other trappings you'd expect of a 21st-century German town. Though not strictly on the Fairy-Tale Road, despite its association with the Grimms, Göttingen is still well worth visiting. #### Getting Here and Around Göttingen is a stop on the same InterCity Express line between Munich and Hamburg as Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe, and is also easily reached from Bremen. #### Tours Göttingen offers walking tours in English on the first and third Saturday of the month, April to October at 11 from the Old Town Hall. #### Essentials Visitor Information Göttingen Tourist-Information. \| Altes Rathaus, Markt 9 \| 0551/499–800 \| www.goettingen-tourismus.de. ### Exploring Altes Rathaus. The Old Town Hall was begun in the 13th century but is basically a part-medieval, part-Renaissance building. The tourist-information office is on the first floor. \| Markt 9 \| 0551/499–800 \| www.goettingen.de \| Free \| Weekdays 9:30–6, Sat. 10–6, Sun. 10–4. Gänseliesel. The statue of Gänseliesel, the little Goose Girl of German folklore, stands in Göttingen's central market square, symbolizing the strong link between the students and their university city. The girl, according to the story, was a princess who was forced to trade places with a peasant, and the statue shows her carrying her geese and smiling shyly into the waters of a fountain. The students of Göttingen gave her a ceremonial role: Traditionally, graduates who earn a doctorate bestow a kiss of thanks upon Gänseliesel. Göttingen's citizens say she's the most kissed girl in the world. ### Where to Eat and Stay Gaudi. MEDITERRANEAN \| In a town rich with cozy taverns and hearty local food, the appearance of this Mediterranean restaurant, with its terra-cotta and blue color scheme, arty chandeliers, and light, airy spaces, stands out as much as its cuisine. Right in the middle of Göttingen's historic Börner Viertel, the restaurant is a favorite with staff from the university, who feast on its fine consommés, tapas, pasta, and fish and meat dishes. The food and excellent service are worth the extra cost here. \| Average main: €24 \| Rote Str. 16 \| 0551/531–3001 \| www.restaurant-gaudi.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch Mon. Landgasthaus Lockemann. GERMAN \| If you like to walk and hike, consider this half-timber lodge at the edge of the Stadtwald (city forest). Locals descend on the friendly, country-style restaurant for hearty German cooking ($), particularly on weekends, when it's also open for lunch. Take Bus No. 10 from the Busbahnhof, direction Herbershausen, to the last stop; then walk left on Im Beeke. The trip will take 20 minutes. \| Average main: €16 \| Im Beeke 1 \| 0551/209–020 \| www.landgasthaus-lockemann.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. No lunch weekdays. Romantik Hotel Gebhards. HOTEL \| This family-run hotel stands aloof and unflurried on its own grounds, a modernized 18th-century building that's something of a local landmark. Rooms are furnished in dark woods and floral prints highlighted by bowls of fresh flowers. It has a whirlpool and a sauna. Pros: across from the train station. Cons: on a busy street; expensive. \| Rooms from: €208 \| Goethe-Allee 22–23 \| 0551/49680 \| www.gebhardshotel.de \| 45 rooms, 5 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife Among the delights of Göttingen are the ancient taverns where generations of students have lifted their steins. Among the best known are the Kleiner Ratskeller and Trou. Don't be shy about stepping into either of these taverns or any of the others that catch your eye; the food and drink are inexpensive, and the welcome is invariably warm and friendly. ## Höxter 24 km (14 miles) north of Bad Karlshafen, 100 km (62 miles) south of Hannover. Höxter is not actually in Lower Saxony, but just over the border in North Rhine-Westphalia. The town appeal lies in its Rathaus, a perfect example of the Weser Renaissance style, and its proximity to the impressive Reichsabtei Corvey, an abbey that's a short drive away. There's not much Grimm here; overshadowed by Sababurg's claim to Sleeping Beauty's castle and Bodenwerder's Baron von Münchhausen, Höxter's connection to a fairy tale is limited to a small Hansel and Gretel fountain in the middle of town. #### Getting Here and Around Every couple of hours buses and regional trains run from Bad Karlshafen to Höxter Rathaus and take about 45 minutes, or you can take a combination of regional trains from Göttingen that take from 90 minutes to 2½ hours. Between April and October, a town walking tour leaves from the Rathaus at 3 on Wednesday and 11 on Saturday. #### Essentials Visitor Information Höxter Tourist-Info. \| Weserstr. 11 \| 05271/963–431 \| www.hoexter-tourismus.de. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Reichsabtei Corvey (Imperial Abbey of Corvey). The impressive Reichsabtei Corvey, or Schloss Corvey, is idyllically set between the wooded heights of the Solling region and the Weser River. During its 1,200-year history it has provided lodging for several Holy Roman emperors. Heinrich Hoffmann von Fallersleben (1798–1874), author of the poem "Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles," worked as librarian here in the 1820s. The poem, set to music by Joseph Haydn, became the German national anthem in 1922. A music festival is held in the church and great hall, the Kaisersaal, in May and June. Corvey is reached on an unnumbered road heading east from Höxter (3 km 2 miles]) toward the Weser. There are signposts to "Schloss Corvey."\|Schloss Corvey \| 05271/68120 \| [www.schloss-corvey.de \| €6, abbey church €0.80 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6. ### Where to Eat Schlossrestaurant. GERMAN \| In summer you can dine on flambéed tart and salad under centuries-old trees. When it's cooler, slip inside the Reichsabtei Corvey's excellent and elegant restaurant for a hot coffee and a piece of one its delicious cakes. TIP With advance notice, a Fürstenbankett, or princely banquet, can be arranged for groups in the vaulted cellars. \| Average main: €12 \| Schloss Corvey \| 05271/8323 \| Closed Mon. and Nov.–Mar. Closed Tues. in May and Oct. ## Bodenwerder 34 km (21 miles) north of Höxter, 70 km (43 miles) south of Hannover. The charming Weser town of Bodenwerder is the home of the Lügenbaron (Lying Baron) von Münchhausen (1720–97), who was known as a teller of whoppers and whose fantastical tales included a story about riding a cannonball toward an enemy fortress but then, having second thoughts, returning to where he started by leaping onto a cannonball heading the other way. Stretched out along a peaceful valley, the nicest part of the town is around the Baron's old home, now the town hall, its half-timber architecture set against a backdrop of the river and surrounding hills. A regular stop for cyclists on the Wesertal route, the town also attracts canoeists, and anglers who can tell their own whoppers about the one that got away. #### Getting Here and Around Reachable from Höxter by a combination of bus and regional train, or by bus from Hameln, changes are required along the way and any visits requiring public transport should be planned in advance. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bodenwerder Tourist-Information. \| Münchausenpl. 3 \| 05533/40542 \| www.muenchhausenland.de. ### Exploring Münchhausen Museum. Housed in an old, renovated farm building right next to the imposing family home in which Baron von Münchhausen grew up (it's now the Rathaus), the Münchhausen Museum is crammed with mementos of his adventurous life, including his cannonball. A fountain in front of the house represents another story. The baron, it seems, was puzzled when his horse kept drinking insatiably at a trough. Investigating, he discovered that the horse had been cut in two by a closing castle gate and that the water ran out as fast as the horse drank. The water in the fountain, of course, flows from the rear of a half-horse. At 3 on the first, second, and fourth Sundays of the month from May through October, townspeople retell von Münchhausen's life story with performances in front of the Rathaus. \| Münchhausenpl. 1 \| 05533/409–147 \| Museum €2.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5. ### Where to Stay Hotel Goldener Anker. GERMAN \| The Weser boats tie up outside this pretty, half-timber tavern, which prepares hearty German fare and fresh fish year-round. Secure a table by the window for lovely views of the river and hills beyond. TIP In summer a beer garden right on the river beckons. \| Average main: €17 \| Brückenstr. 5 \| 05533/400–730 \| www.bodenwerder-hotel.de. Hotel Goldener Anker. HOTEL \| The riverside rooms of this friendly, family-owned and run hotel on the banks of the Weser river come with the best view in town. Its restaurant ($), which has the same pleasing outlook, serves seasonal varieties of regional cuisine, with plenty of fish and red meat on offer. If the weather's good, the best place to be is in the hotel's beer garden. Flanked by a couple of leafy birch trees, it's popular with cyclists who fuel their travels through the valley with a cold drink and some Flammkuchen (tart flambé). Pros: directly beside the river; friendly staff. Cons: standard rooms are very simple; close to the town's main bridge. TIP Pay the extra few euros and upgrade to a deluxe room with a river view, it's well worth the money spent. \| Rooms from: €79 \| Brückenstr. 5 \| 05533/400–730 \| www.bodenwerder-hotel.de \| 19 rooms \| Breakfast. Parkhotel Deutsches Haus. HOTEL \| Clean, comfortable, and friendly, this country hotel combines a traditional half-timber facade with uncomplicated, if a little dated, interior styling. Directly across the road from the old home of Baron von Münchhausen, now Bodenwerder's town hall, the hotel's extensive grounds adjoin the town park, and the Weser River is a short walk away. Its tidy rooms are a decent size, and guests have the choice of two restaurants (¢ - $$) to dine in. Pros: elevator; rooms get plenty of natural light. Cons: on a busy street; next to a large parking lot. \| Rooms from: €83 \| Münchhausenpl. 4 \| 05533/400–780 \| www.parkhotel-bodenwerder.de \| 39 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Hameln 24 km (15 miles) north of Bodenwerder, 47 km (29 miles) southwest of Hannover. Given their relationship with one of the most famous fairy-tale characters of all time, it's unsurprising that Hameln's townsfolk continue to take advantage of the Pied Piper. Known locally as the Rattenfänger, or "rat-catcher," these days he tends to be celebrated more than exploited (even if his name does adorn everything from coffee mugs to restaurants), and regular costumed tours through the town relive his deeds, while a bronze statue of him stands proudly in the town's lovely pedestrian zone. Not as exciting as Hannover to the north or as relaxing as Bodenwerder to the south, Hameln's fairy-tale legacy, elegantly painted and inscribed half-timber buildings, and laid-back atmosphere will, nonetheless, please plenty of its visitors. #### Getting Here and Around 45 minutes away from Hannover by S-bahn (Line No. 5), Hameln is within easy reach of the Lower Saxon capital. #### Tours Walking tours of Hameln are held year-round, leaving from the tourist office (April to October, daily at 10:30 and 2:30; November to March, Saturday at 2:30, Sunday at 10:30; December, daily at 10:30). #### Essentials Visitor Information Hameln Marketing und Tourismus. \| Deisterallee 1 \| 05151/957–823 \| www.hameln.de. ### Exploring Hochzeitshaus (Wedding House). On central Osterstrasse you'll see several examples of Weser Renaissance architecture, including the Rattenfängerhaus (Rat-Catcher's House) and the Hochzeitshaus, a beautiful 17th-century building now used for city offices. From mid-May to mid-September the Hochzeitshaus terrace is the scene of two free open-air events commemorating the legend. From May to September, local actors and children present a half-hour reenactment each Sunday at noon, and there is also a 40-minute musical, Rats, each Wednesday at 4:30 during the same months. The carillon of the Hochzeitshaus plays tunes every day at 9:35 and 11:35, and mechanical figures enact the piper story on the west gable of the building at 1:05, 3:35, and 5:35. ### Where to Eat and Stay Rattenfängerhaus. GERMAN \| This brilliant example of Weser Renaissance architecture is Hameln's most famous building, where the Pied Piper supposedly stayed during his rat-extermination assignment (it wasn't actually built until centuries after his supposed exploits). A plaque in front of it fixes the date of the incident at June 26, 1284. "Rats" are all over the menu, from the "rat-killer liqueur" to a "rat-tail flambé." But don't be put off by the names: the traditional dishes are excellent. \| Average main: €13 \| Osterstr. 28 \| 05151/3888 \| www.rattenfaengerhaus.de. Hotel zur Börse. HOTEL \| A few paces off Hameln's picturesque pedestrian and shopping zone, this pleasant, modern hotel is also within easy walking distance of the rest of the town's main attractions. Many of its rooms on the upper floors offer views over the town's half-timbered architecture. The Börsenbistro ($$) here complements the usual fare of steaks and schnitzels with dishes from around Europe. Friendly staff and underground parking round off the package. Pros: in the pedestrian zone; flat-screen TVs. Cons: modern look seems out of place; bathrooms on the small side. \| Rooms from: €93 \| Osterstr. 41a, entrance on Kopmanshof \| 05151/7080 \| www.hotel-zur-boerse.de \| 31 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel zur Krone. HOTEL \| On the Old Town's pedestrian zone, Hotel zur Krone has a terrace that lets you watch locals coming and going, and afternoon coffee here is a summer delight. The hotel's half-timber architecture, dating from 1645, fits in nicely with the romantic surroundings. The rooms in the older section are on the small side, but some have old-fashioned touches like beams from the 17th century. Pros: a half-timber marvel; lovely terrace. Cons: modern annex lacks charm; new guest rooms a little small. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Osterstr. 30 \| 05151/9070 \| www.hotelzurkrone.de \| 32 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Hannover 47 km (29 miles) northeast of Hameln. A little off the Fairy-Tale Road, and better known internationally as a trade-fair center than a tourist destination, the Lower Saxon capital holds an attractive mix of culture, arts, and nature that justifies a visit here all the same. With several leading museums, an opera house of international repute, and the finest baroque park in the country, it's a place that packs a surprising amount into a city of only half a million people. Conveniently centered between the city's main train station and its pleasant inner city lake, most of Hannover's major attractions, including its fine New and Old Town Halls, are within an easy walk of one another. In spring and summer the city's parks fill with picnicking families, while fall and winter are celebrated first with the second biggest Oktoberfest in the world and then cheery Christmas markets. #### Getting Here and Around Travel northeast from Hameln on autobahn A-33 to Hannover. There is also frequent direct rail service from Hameln. Hannover has an airport, and is served by the InterCity Express (ICE) trains and the Europabus. From mid-April through the end of October, hop-on, hop-off city bus tours of Hannover leave from the tourist office daily at 10:30, 12:30, and 2:30 (and 4:30 on Saturday). #### Discounts and Deals A Hannover Card entitles you to free travel on local transportation, reduced admission to seven museums, and discounts on certain sightseeing events and performances at the theater and opera. It's available through the tourist office for €9.50 per day (€17.50 for three days). #### Essentials Visitor Information Hannover Tourismus. \| Ernst-August-Pl. 8 \| 0511/1684–9700 \| www.hannover.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall). It took nearly 100 years, starting in 1410, to build this gabled brick edifice that once contained a merchants' hall and an apothecary. In 1844 it was restored to the style of about 1500. The facade's fired-clay frieze depicts coats of arms and representations of princes, and a medieval game similar to arm wrestling. Inside is a modern interior with boutiques and a restaurant. \| Köbelingerstr. 2. Fodor's Choice \| Herrenhausen. The gardens of the former Hannoverian royal summer residence are the city's showpiece (the 17th-century palace was never rebuilt after wartime bombing). The baroque park is unmatched in Germany for its formal precision, with patterned walks, gardens, hedges, and chestnut trees framed by a placid moat. There is a fig garden with a collapsible shelter to protect it in winter and dining facilities behind a grotto. From Easter until October there are fireworks displays and fountains play for a few hours daily (weekdays 10–noon and 3–5, weekends 10–noon and 2–5). Herrenhausen is outside the city, a short ride on Tram No. 4 or 5. \| Herrenhauserstr. 5 \| 0511/1684–4543 \| www.hannover.de/herrenhausen \| €8 \| Mar., Apr., and Sept., daily 9–7; May–Aug., daily 9–8; Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Feb., daily 9–4:30. Landesmuseum Hannover. The priceless art collection of this regional museum includes works by Tilman Riemenschneider, Veit Stoss, Hans Holbein the Younger, Claude Monet, and Lucas Cranach. There are also historical and natural history sections. \| Willy-Brandt-Allee 5 \| 0511/980–7686 \| www.landesmuseum-hannover.niedersachsen.de \| €4 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–5, Thurs. 10–7. Leineschloss. The former royal palace of the Hanovers—whose members sat on the British throne from 1714 to 1837 as kings George I–IV—stands grandly beside the River Leine, and is now home to the Lower Saxony State Parliament. Although the interior of the palace is largely closed to the public, its imposing Corinthian columns and river setting provide some excellent photo ops. \| Hinrich-Wilhelm-Kopf-Pl. 1. Sprengel Museum. An important museum of modern art, the Sprengel holds major works by Max Beckmann, Max Ernst, Paul Klee, Emil Nolde, Oscar Schlemmer, Hans Arp, and Pablo Picasso. The street where it's located is named after Kurt Schwitters, a native son and prominent dadaist, whose works are also exhibited. \| Kurt-Schwitters-Pl. 1 \| 0511/1684–3875 \| www.sprengel-museum.de \| €7 \| Tues. 10–8, Wed.–Sun. 10–6. #### Worth Noting Neues Rathaus. The massive New Town Hall was built at the start of the 20th century in Wilhelmine style (named for Kaiser Wilhelm). The pomp and circumstance were important ingredients of the heavy German bureaucracy of the time. Four scale models on the ground floor depict Hannover in various stages of development and destruction: as a medieval walled city, in the years before World War II, immediately following World War II, and in its present-day form. An elevator rises diagonally to the dome for a splendid view. \| Trammpl. 2 \| 0511/1684–5333 \| Dome €3 \| Mar.–Oct., weekdays 9:30–6:00, weekends 10–6:00. Opernhaus. Hannover's neoclassical opera house, completed in 1852, has two large wings and a covered, colonnaded portico adorned with statues of great composers and poets. The building originally served as the court theater, but now is used almost exclusively for opera. It was gutted by fire in a 1943 air raid and restored in 1948. TIP Unless you have tickets to a performance, the only part of the interior you can visit is the foyer. \| Opernpl. 1 \| 0511/9999–1111 \| www.staatstheater-hannover.de/oper. Off the Beaten Path: Wilhelm Busch Museum. This section of the Georgenpalais, near Herrenhausen, is devoted to the works of cartoonists and caricaturists through the centuries. The emphasis is on Wilhelm Busch, the "godfather of the comic strip," whose original drawings and effects are on display. More than a century ago, Busch (1832–1908) wrote and illustrated a very popular children's book, still in print, called Max und Moritz. The story tells of two boys who mixed gunpowder into the village tailor's pipe tobacco and, with fishing lines down the chimney, filched roasting chickens off the fire. The first American comic strip, The Katzenjammer Kids (1897), drew not only on Busch's naughty boys (they even spoke with a German accent) but also on his loose cartoon style. \| Georgengarten 1 \| 0511/1699–9916 \| www.karikatur-museum.de \| €4.50 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. ### Where to Eat Basil. ECLECTIC \| Constructed in 1867 as a riding hall for the Royal Prussian military, this upmarket restaurant's home is as striking as the menu. Cast-iron pillars support the vaulted brick ceiling, and two-story drapes hang in the huge windows. The menu, which changes every few weeks, includes dishes from the Mediterranean to Asia. Game and white Spargel (asparagus) are served in season. \| Average main: €22 \| Dragonerstr. 30 \| 0511/622–636 \| www.basil.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch. Brauhaus Ernst August. GERMAN \| This brewery has so much artificial greenery that you could imagine yourself in a beer garden. Hannoverian pilsner is brewed on the premises, and regional specialties are the menu's focus. Besides beer paraphernalia such as mugs and coasters, you can also buy, empty or full, a huge old-fashioned beer bottle with a wired porcelain stopper. There's also live music and DJs on Friday nights and weekends. \| Average main: €13 \| Schmiedstr. 13 \| 0511/365–950 \| www.brauhaus.net. Broyhan Haus. GERMAN \| The claim of "Hannoverian hospitality over three floors" written on the exterior of this half-timber tavern in the middle of town isn't made frivolously. Convivial waitstaff ferry plates loaded with sauerkraut and pork, and large glasses of the local, crisp-tasting Einbecker beer to diners in the tavern's upstairs room, and to tables outside on the pedestrian zone in summer. On the ground floor there's a well-stocked bar to pull up a seat at, and downstairs the cellar can be booked for private parties and events. \| Average main: €16 \| Kramerstr. 24 \| 0511/323–919 \| www.broyhanhaus.de. ### Where to Stay Concorde Hotel am Leineschloss. HOTEL \| Near the elegant Altes Rathaus and the stately Leineschloss, and only a leisurely stroll from the Neues Rathaus, Opernhaus, and the city's main museums, this simple, modern hotel has easily one of the best locations in the city. Popular with those headed to Hannover's many trade fairs, the Concorde has the type of features generally favored by business travelers, including helpful staff, a generous breakfast buffet, and uncomplicated, comfortable rooms. Pros: in the middle of the shopping district; close to the U-bahn (Line Nos. 3, 7, and 9); every double room has a bath. Cons: no restaurant; not much character. \| Rooms from: €136 \| Am Markte 12 \| 0511/357–910 \| www.concordehotel-am-leineschloss.de \| 81 rooms \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Kastens Hotel Luisenhof. HOTEL \| Antiques are everywhere in this elegant hotel, which is traditional both in appearance and service; tapestries adorn the lobby walls, oil paintings hang in the foyer, and copper engravings enliven the bar. Modern amenities include generous guest rooms, a fitness center with a sauna on the sixth floor, and a restaurant ($$$$) serving international cuisine with French touches. Pros: near the train station; helpful staff; elegant. Cons: expensive; on a narrow, ordinary street. \| Rooms from: €169 \| Luisenstr.1–3 \| 0511/30440 \| www.kastens-luisenhof.de \| 131 rooms, 11 suites, 4 apartments \| No meals. ### Nightlife and the Arts Hannover's nightlife is centered on the Bahnhof and the Steintor red-light district. Casino. The town's elegant casino is open daily from 10 am to 3 am. \| Osterstr. 40 \| 0511/980–660. Opera company. The opera company of Hannover is internationally known, with productions staged in one of Germany's finest 19th-century classical opera houses. Call or visit the website for program details and tickets. \| Opernpl. 1 \| 0511/9999–1111 \| www.staatstheater-hannover.de/oper. ### Shopping Hannover is one of northern Germany's most fashionable cities, and its central pedestrian zone has international shops and boutiques, as well as the very best of German-made articles, including stylish clothes and handmade jewelry. Galerie Luise. In the glassed-over Galerie Luise, accessible from an underground garage, you can spend a couple of hours browsing, with a leisurely lunch or afternoon tea at one of the restaurants and cafés. \| Luisenstr. 5 \| www.galerie-luise.de \| Weekdays 10–7, Sat. 10–6. En Route: The Fairy-Tale Road continues north of Hannover as far as Bremen, though any connection to the Grimm brothers is faint here. You can reach Bremen in less than an hour by taking autobahn A-7 to the Walsrode interchange and then continuing on autobahn A-27. An alternative is to return to Hameln and follow the Weser as it breaks free of the Wesergebirge upland at Porta Westfalica. The meandering route runs through the German plains to the sea and Bremen. You can also take a quick side trip to the northeast, to the Lüneburg Heath and Bergen-Belsen. Off the Beaten Path: Gedenkstätte Bergen-Belsen (Bergen-Belsen Memorial). The site of the infamous POW and concentration camp is now a memorial to the victims of World War II and the Holocaust. Anne Frank was among the more than 70,000 Jews, prisoners of war, homosexuals, Roma, and others who died here. A place of immense cruelty and suffering, the camp was burned to the ground by British soldiers, who liberated the camp in April 1945, arriving to find thousands of unburied corpses and typhus, typhoid fever, tuberculosis, and other diseases spreading rapidly among the survivors. All that physically remains of the camp today, which is inside a nature preserve, are the foundations of some of its prisoner barracks and a number of burial mounds overgrown with heather and grass and bearing stark inscriptions such as "Here lie 1,000 dead." The history of the camp and its victims is explained further through a series of moving video, audio, photo, and text exhibits within the slender, minimalist structure of the 200-meter-long, 18-meter-wide Documentation Center. Built almost entirely of plain concrete panels, the center is softly lit and peaceful inside, its floor sloping gently upward from the entrance and beyond the exhibits to windows that let in light and views of the trees outside. Visitors to the Memorial should plan to stay at least two or three hours. Free 90-minute tours of the site in German and English leave the Documentation Center information desk at 2:30 on Thursday and Fridays and at 11:30 and 2:30 on weekends, from March to September. TIP Don't try to see everything when visiting the memorial, but do take some time to walk around outside, visiting the site of the barracks to gain a better understanding of the atrocious living conditions inmates of the camp were forced to suffer. Bergen-Belsen is 58 km (36 miles) northeast of Hannover. Although it's possible to get here on public transport, it requires traveling first to the town of Celle by train, and then taking an hour-long bus journey. Buses run every two hours and require multiple changes. By car, take autobahn exits Mellendorf or Solltau Süd and follow the signposts to the memorial. \| Anne-Frank-Pl. \| Lohheide \| 05051/47590 \| www.bergenbelsen.de \| Free \| Apr.–Sept., daily 10–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–5. ## Bremen 110 km (68 miles) northwest of Hannover. Germany's smallest city-state, Bremen, is also Germany's oldest and second-largest port (only Hamburg is larger). Together with Hamburg and Lübeck, Bremen was an early member of the merchant-run Hanseatic League, and its rivalry with the larger port on the Elbe River is still tangible. Though Hamburg may still claim its title as Germany's "gateway to the world," Bremen likes to boast, "But we have the key." Bremen's symbol is, in fact, a golden key, which you will see displayed on flags and signs throughout the city. #### Getting Here and Around Bremen's international airport is a gate to many European destinations, and Intercity (IC) trains connect the city with much of the rest of Germany. #### Tours Bremen offers both bus and walking tours in English. The bus tours depart Tuesday through Sunday at 10:30 from the central bus station on Breiteweg, the walking tours daily at 2 from the Tourist-Information Center on Oberstrasse. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bremen Tourist-Information. \| Obernstr. 1 \| 0421/101–030 \| www.bremen-tourism.de. #### Discounts and Deals Bremen has an ErlebnisCARD, which lets you ride free on the public transportation, gets you into museums and other cultural facilities at half price, and gets you a reduction on tours. It costs €9.50 for one day and €11.50 for two days. You can buy it at tourist information centers. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Böttcherstrasse (Barrel Maker's Street). Don't leave Bremen's Altstadt without strolling down this street, at one time inhabited by coopers. Between 1924 and 1931 the houses were torn down and reconstructed, in a style at once historically sensitive and modern, by the Bremen coffee millionaire Ludwig Roselius. (He was the inventor of decaffeinated coffee, and held the patent for decades.) Many of the restored houses are used as galleries for local artists. Marktplatz. Bremen's impressive market square sits in the charming Altstadt. It's bordered by the St. Petri Dom, an imposing 900-year-old Gothic cathedral; an ancient Rathaus; a 16th-century guildhall; and a modern glass-and-steel state parliament building, with gabled town houses finishing the panorama. Alongside the northwest corner of the Rathaus is the famous bronze statue of the four Bremen Town Musicians, one atop the other in a sort of pyramid. Their feats are reenacted in a free, open-air play at the Neptune Fountain near the cathedral, at noon each Sunday, from May to September. Another well-known figure on the square is the stone statue of Roland, a knight in service to Charlemagne, erected in 1404. Three times larger than life, the statue serves as Bremen's good-luck piece and a symbol of freedom and independence. It is said that as long as Roland stands, Bremen will remain a free and independent state. Fodor's Choice \| Schnoorviertel. Stroll through the narrow streets of this idyllic district, a jumble of houses, taverns, and shops. This is Bremen's oldest district, dating back to the 15th and 16th centuries. The neighborhood is fashionable among artists and craftspeople, who have restored the tiny cottages to serve as galleries and workshops. Other buildings have been converted into popular antiques shops, cafés, and pubs. The area's definitely a great source for souvenirs, with incredibly specialized stores selling porcelain dolls, teddy bears, African jewelry, and smoking pipes, among many other things. There's even an all-year-round Christmas store. #### Worth Noting Rathaus. A 15th-century statue of Charlemagne, together with seven princes, adorns the Gothic town hall. It was he who established a diocese here in the 9th century. The Rathaus acquired a Weser Renaissance facade during the early 17th century. Tours, given when no official functions are taking place, are in German and English. \| Am Markt 21 \| Tour €5 \| Tours Mon.–Sat. at 11, noon, 3, and 4; Sun. at 11 and noon. Roselius-Haus. This 14th-century building, now a museum, stands at one end of Böttcherstrasse. It showcases German and Dutch art, notably the paintings of Paula Modersohn-Becker, a noted early expressionist of the Worpswede art colony. Notice also the arch of Meissen bells at the rooftop. TIP Except when freezing weather makes them dangerously brittle, the bells chime daily on the hour from noon to 6 from May to December (and only at noon, 3, and 6 January–April). \| Böttcherstr. 6–10 \| 0421/336–5077 \| www.pmbm.de \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. St. Petri Dom (St. Peter's Cathedral). Construction of the cathedral began in the mid-11th century. Its two prominent towers, one of which can be climbed, are Gothic, but in the late 1800s the cathedral was restored in the Romanesque style. It served as the seat of an archbishop until the Reformation turned the cathedral Protestant. It has a small museum and five functioning organs. \| Sandstr. 10–12 \| Free \| June–Sept., weekdays 10–8, Sat. 10–2, Sun. 2–6; Oct.–May, weekdays 10–5, Sat. 10–2, Sun. 2–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Fodor's Choice \| Grashoffs Bistro. FRENCH \| An enthusiastic crowd, willing to put up with cramped conditions, descends at lunchtime on this restaurant and deli. The room is so small that there's little room between the square tables; a table has to be pulled out for anyone who has a seat next to the wall. The menu has a French touch, with an emphasis on fresh fish from the Bremerhaven market. The deli has a whole wall of teas, another of cheeses, and a huge assortment of wines. \| Average main: €27 \| Contrescarpe 80 \| 0421/178–8952 \| www.grashoff.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No dinner. Ratskeller. GERMAN \| This cavernous cellar with vaulted ceilings is said to be Germany's oldest and most renowned town-hall restaurant—it's been here for 600 years. Is walls are lined with wine casks, and there are small alcoves with sliding wooden doors, once shut tight by merchants as they closed their deals. The food's solid traditionally North German fare. TIP By long tradition only German wines are served here, and the only beer you can get is Beck's and Franziskaner from the barrel. \| Average main: €15 \| Am Markt 1 \| 0421/321–676 \| www.ratskeller-bremen.de. Hotel Pension Weidmann. HOTEL \| There are only five rooms in this small and friendly family-run pension in one of the brick buildings so characteristic of Bremen. It has the most luxurious bathroom you'll find (but you have to share it). Pros: English-speaking staff; welcomes dogs (even large ones). Cons: no restaurant; shared bathroom. \| Rooms from: €50 \| Am Schwarzen Meer 35 \| 0421/498–4455 \| www.pension-weidmann.de \| 5 rooms \| No credit cards \| No meals. Fodor's Choice \| Dorint Park Hotel Bremen. HOTEL \| This palatial hotel comes with an enviable location between a small lake and an extensive area of park and forest not far from the main train station. Full of large, open spaces and light, the hotel also has a heated outdoor pool and a fireplace in the lounge, which may tempt you to linger in the public areas, no matter what the season. The rooms have large windows and swank furnishings. The Park Restaurant ($$$$) serves classic French and German dishes in a room of shimmering crystal chandeliers. Pros: traditional luxury; on a lake. Cons: expensive; outside the city. \| Rooms from: €239 \| Im Bürgerpark \| 0421/340–800 \| www.parkhotel-bremen.de \| 160 rooms, 15 suites \| No meals. ### Nightlife and the Arts Bremen may be Germany's oldest seaport, but it can't match Hamburg for racy nightlife. Nevertheless, the streets around the central Marktplatz and in the historic Schnoor District are filled with all sorts of taverns and cafés. The Bremen coffee tradition will be evident when you have your coffee and cake at a café in a charming old building with plush sofas, huge mirrors, and chandeliers. Bremen casino. Try your luck at American roulette, poker, slot machines, and blackjack at the Bremen casino, open daily noon–3 am. \| An der Schlachte 26 \| 0421/329–000 \| €3. ## Bremerhaven 66 km (41 miles) north of Bremen. This busy port city, where the Weser empties into the North Sea, is part of Bremen, which is an hour to the south. You can take in the enormity of the port from a promenade, which runs its length. In addition to being a major port for merchant ships, it is the biggest fishery pier in Europe, and its promenade is lined with excellent seafood restaurants. #### Getting Here and Around Regional trains run every two hours from Bremen to this North Sea port, and take 35 minutes to get here. Reederei HaRuFa offers a one-hour trip around the Bremerhaven harbor for €10. If you'd like to go farther afield and view Schnoorviertel and the stark, red cliff island of Helgoland from the sky, OFD has a daily round-trip flight for €175 per person. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bremerhaven Touristik. \| H.-H.-Meierstr. 6 \| 0471/946–4610 \| www.bremerhaven-touristik.de. OFD Airlines. \| Flughafen, Am Luneort 15 \| 0471/77188 \| www.fliegofd.de. Reederei HaRuFa. \| H.-H.-Meierstr. 4 \| 0471/415–850 \| www.hafenrundfahrt-bremerhaven.de. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Deutsches Auswandererhaus (German Emigration Center). Located at the point where seven million Europeans set sail for the New World, the Deutsches Auswandererhaus is made to order for history buffs and those wanting to trace their German ancestry. "Passengers" get boarding passes; wait on dimly lit docks with costumed mannequins and piles of luggage; and once on board navigate their way through cramped and creaky sleeping and dining cabins. After being processed at Ellis Island, visitors can then research their genealogy using the museum's emigration database and its extensive collection of passenger lists. Further on, there is a section of the museum dedicated to immigrants to Germany, complete with an impressive 1970s-era shopping mall, and a retro movie theater screens short films about German emigrants and their families. \| Columbusstr. 65 \| 0471/902–200 \| www.dah-bremerhaven.de \| €12.50 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Feb., daily 10–5. Deutsches Schifffahrtsmuseum (German Maritime Museum). The country's largest and most fascinating maritime museum, the Deutsches Schifffahrtsmuseum, includes a harbor, open from April through October, that shelters seven old trading ships. \| Hans-Scharoun-Pl. 1, from Bremen take A–27 to exit for Bremerhaven-Mitte \| 0471/482–070 \| www.dsm.national.museum \| €6 \| Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6. ### Where to Stay Hotel Haverkamp. HOTEL \| Not far from Bremerhaven's harbor and world-class museums, this modern hotel may not look much from the outside, but its enviable reputation is built on excellent service, a fine restaurant, and quiet, tidy guest rooms. Add to this a cozy whiskey and cigar bar, a sauna, and the only indoor pool in Bremerhaven, and it's hard to find a better place to stay in town. Pros: convenient location; quiet area; good restaurant. Cons: plain exterior; pool is very small; no views. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Pragerstr. 34 \| 0471/48330 \| www.hotel-haverkamp.de \| 85 rooms \| Breakfast. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Hamburg Exploring Hamburg Where to Eat Where to Stay Nightlife and the Arts Sports and the Outdoors Shopping Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Coffee and Cake \| Visiting the Konditorei \| Best Cakes to Try Updated by Jeff Kavanagh Frequently described as "the gateway to the world" by its proud citizens, the handsome port city of Hamburg has for centuries welcomed merchants, traders, and sailors to a rich assortment of grand hotels, fine restaurants, and, yes, seedy bars and brothels. This vibrant, affluent city's success began with its role as a founding member of the Hanseatic League, a medieval alliance of northern European cities that once dominated the shipping trade in the North and Baltic Seas. To this day, the city is known as "the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg," reflecting both its association with the league and its status as an independent city-state. Shipping continues to be a major industry. Straddling the mighty Elbe River, over 100 km (62 miles) inland from the North Sea, Hamburg's inner city harbor is the third biggest port in Europe. The city is now also one of Germany's major media hubs, serving as headquarters for the publishing giants Axel Springer, Grüner + Jahr, and Bau Verlag; and for such influential publications as Die Zeit, Der Spiegel, and Stern. The profits of these endeavors are apparent throughout Hamburg, from its imposing neo-Renaissance town hall, to the multitude of luxury boutiques studding the adjacent Neuerwall, to the Elbchausee, a long, leafy stretch of road lined with Hollywood-like mansions and overlooking the Elbe. Hamburg has more millionaires per capita than any other German city. Like many other of the country's urban centers, however, the city has suffered a tumultuous history. Since its founding as "Hammaburg" in 811, Hamburg has been destroyed by Vikings, burned down by Poles, and occupied by Danish and French armies. The Great Fire of 1842 devastated much of its commercial center, and in 1943 the Allied Forces' Operation Gomorrah bombing raids and the resulting firestorms left 40,000 people dead and large swathes of Hamburg in ruins. Scars from World War II still remain, and you need only walk down a residential street to see the plain, functional apartment buildings that were built to replace those destroyed by bombs. There are also frequent reminders of the terrible fate suffered by Hamburg's Jews, and others considered enemies of the state during this time. Memorials in HafenCity and near Dammtor train station mark where those persecuted by Nazis were deported to concentration camps. As part of a Germany-wide project, small brass plaques set into sidewalks outside apartment buildings commemorate former residents executed by the regime. Modern-day Hamburg is a progressive city endowed with attractive architecture, cultural diversity, and liberal attitudes. It's notable for its parks and trees and a pair of beautiful inner city lakes, but it's famous for its enormous red-light party district, which fans off from the seamy, neon-lit Reeperbahn. Shabby but chic quarters such as St. Pauli and the Schanzenviertel are as beloved by locals as the affluent Blankenese and Eppendorf, and the city's annual schedule of spring and summer festivals has enough room for a huge gay-pride parade in the middle of town, as well as a celebration of Hafengeburtstag—the harbor's birthday. As you'd expect in such a wealthy city, Hamburg has more than its share of world-class museums and art galleries, as well as an assortment of grand theaters and music venues, an opera company, and an internationally renowned ballet company. Not content to rest on its laurels, the city is also steaming ahead with the ambitious HafenCity, an urban-renewal project that has transformed a significant section of the city's port front. The Elbphilharmonie—a futuristic concert hall that the city hopes will become as iconic as the Sydney Opera House—is to be its centerpiece. ## Top Reasons to Go Alster cruises: Marvel at the luxurious villas gracing the shores of the Alster lakes and its canals, relax and sip Glühwein (mulled wine) or a cool beer while listening to the major and minor details about the city. Historic harbor district: Travel back in time and walk the quaint cobblestone alleys around Deichstrasse and the Speicherstadt. Hamburger Kunsthalle and the Deichtorhallen: Spend an afternoon browsing through the fantastic art collections at two of Germany's leading galleries of modern art. Retail therapy: Indulge your inner shopper as you weave your way through the streets behind the elegant Jungfernstieg, move up and down Mönckebergstrasse, stroll through Altona and the Schanzenviertel and end the afternoon at one of the funky cafés nearby. Sin City: Stroll down Reeperbahn, browse in the quirky sex shops, and dive into the nightlife of Europe's biggest party district. ## Getting Oriented The second-largest city in Germany after Berlin, Hamburg sits on northern Germany's fertile lowlands, within easy reach of the North and Baltic seas. A city-state of 1.8 million inhabitants, Hamburg covers an area of 755 square km (291 square miles), making it one of the least densely populated cities to have more than a million people. Taking up some of that space are its many parks and trees; it's centered on two major bodies of water. The Elbe River is the site of the city's busy port, and it's near some of its most colorful quarters. The inner and outer Alster lakes, meanwhile, are encircled by Hamburg's downtown, and a cluster of upscale neighborhoods. It's here, somewhere between the commerce of the river and the tranquility of the lakes, that visitors to the city tend to spend most of their time. ## What's Where Altstadt and Neustadt. Together, "Old Town" and the "New Town" make up the Innenstadt, or inner city. Humming with locals and tourists on Saturday afternoons and public holidays, the center of town is the place to come for shopping, culture, and snaps in front of the Inner Alster lake and town hall. St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel. An entertainment district since the 17th century, St. Pauli continues to draw fun seekers and night owls to its massive red light and party district. Just down the road, the Schanzenviertel is filled with little shops and chilled-out cafés. St. Georg. The center of Hamburg's gay and lesbian scene and also home to a large Turkish community, St. Georg is an intriguing mix of affluence, relaxed attitudes, and cultures. It's also full of many nice little shops and cafés. Speicherstadt and HafenCity. The old and the new are both part of Hamburg's inner city port, with formidable 19th-century redbrick warehouses at the Speicherstadt and state-of-the-art riverside apartment and office complexes at HafenCity. Altona and Ottensen. These forming working-class areas are now particularly desirable places to live and visit. Many of the old buildings and factories have been refurbished to accommodate fancy restaurants, art-house cinemas, and design hotels. Blankenese and Beyond. Many of Hamburg's outlying suburbs have their own distinct atmosphere and feel—none more so than the elegant riverside neighborhood of Blankenese, which some locals compare to the French and Italian Rivieras. ## Planning ### When to Go Known for its long, gray winters, Hamburg is frequently treated to a pleasant spring come late March or early April. Once the weather warms, the city's mood visibly improves. One of the highlights of the season is Hafengeburtstag, in early May, when the Elbe comes alive with a long parade of ships and riverside festivities. Summer may be the best time of the year to visit. Temperatures rarely exceed the mid-80s, and the days are long, with the sun rising at around 5 am and light still in the sky till after 10 pm. Tables outside cafés and bars fill up with alfresco diners and drinkers; plumes of smoke rise from grills in parks and beaches along the Elbe. From mid-June to August, the Schlemmersommer (Gourmet Summer) comes to tempt food lovers. During this time, more than 100 restaurants throughout the city, including a number of award-winners, offer four-course dinners for two for €59. September and October are usually good months to visit, despite the fact that October can often be quite cold and wet. September's Reeperbahn Festival is great for music fans hoping to see the next big thing, and Hamburg's small but popular film festival (held the same month) usually attracts one or two of the leading lights of European and world cinema. The mercury drops quickly once the clocks go back an hour at the end of October. Happily, Christmas markets selling Glühwein begin to spring up on street corners and in public squares around the last week of November, and many continue on to Silvester (New Year's Eve). December, despite temperatures frequently dropping below zero, is a fun time to visit the city. January and February, however, are quiet and fairly uneventful. #### Events Historischer Weihnachtsmarkt. Hamburg's Historischer Weihnachtsmarkt enjoys a spectacular backdrop—the city's Gothic town hall. The market's stalls are filled with rows of candy apples, chocolates, and doughnuts. Woodcarvers from Tyrol, bakers from Aachen, and gingerbread makers from Nuremburg come to sell their wares. And in an appearance arranged by the circus company Roncalli, Santa Claus ho-ho-hos his way along a tightrope high above the market every evening at 4, 6, and 8. \| Rathausmarkt 1 \| www.hamburger-weihnachtsmarkt.com \| Nov. 25–Dec. 23, Sun.–Thurs. 10–9, Fri. and Sat. 10–10. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel Hamburg Airport is 5 miles northwest of the city. S-bahn Line No. 1 runs about every 10 minutes from the airport to Hamburg's main station (Hauptbahnhof) on its way to Altona. The trip takes 25 minutes, and tickets are €2.90. A taxi to the center of the city (Alstadt and Neustadt) will cost about €20. If you're driving a rental car from the airport, follow the signs to Zentrum (Center). TIP There is an Edeka supermarket on the arrivals level between Terminal 1 and 2. It's a bit smaller than a full-size German supermarket and the prices are a bit higher than they would be in town. However, it is a great place to pick up some snacks or drinks for your hotel room or some food for an extended journey. Airport Information Hamburg Airport. \| Flughafenstr. 1–3 \| 040/50750 \| www.airport.de. #### Bus and Subway Travel The HVV, Hamburg's public transportation system, includes the U-bahn (subway), the S-bahn (commuter train), ferries, buses, and express buses (which cost an additional €1.80). Distance determines fares; a single trip costs €2.95 for longer journeys (such as the airport into Hamburg's main station); €1.90 for shorter distances (for instance, from St. Pauli or Altona into the center of town); and €1.40 if you're only traveling a couple of stops. If you're planning to make multiple trips about the city, then you may want to get the Tageskarte, or day pass, which for an adult and three children under 15 costs €7.10 when purchased before 9 am and €5.80 after that. A €10.40 Gruppenkarte is the best option for those traveling in a group. A group of five adults can use this card after 9 am on weekdays and all day on weekends. Tickets and passes are available on all buses and from vending machines in every U- or S-bahn station. HVV is partially based on the honor system. You only need to show a ticket to the bus driver after 9 pm and all day on Sunday to bus drivers, but not on trains or ferries unless asked by a ticket inspector during random checks. Those caught without a ticket are fined €40 on the spot. Subway and commuter trains run throughout the night on weekends, but stop running around 12:30 am during the week. After that, night buses (Nos. 600–640) take over. Information is available in English at www.hvv.de/en. The trip planner function gives the times, prices, walking directions, and maps for each journey. If you don't know the address of a site, you can simply type in the name of the popular destination, such as "Hamburg airport." Prepared commuters can buy tickets (even the €1.30 ticket) and passes from the website and print them out, or use HVV's smart phone app Don't be afraid to take the bus. Buses have dedicated traffic lanes, and most of their stops aren't too close together, so travel tends to be fast. It's a good way to see more of this beautiful city. Hamburg's intercity bus station, the Zentral-Omnibus-Bahnhof (ZOB), is located diagonally across from the south exit of the main train station. Contacts HVV (Hamburg Transportation Association). \| Johanniswall 2, Altstadt \| 040/19449 \| www.hvv.de. Zentral-Omnibus-Bahnhof (ZOB). \| Adenauerallee 78, St. Georg \| 040/247–576 \| www.zob-hamburg.de. #### Car Travel With its popular public transportation system, Hamburg is easier to negotiate by car than many other German cities, and traffic here is relatively free flowing outside of rush hours. Several autobahns (A-1, A-7, A-23, A-24, and A-250) connect with Hamburg's three beltways, which then lead to the Downtown area. Follow the "Zentrum" signs. #### Taxi Travel Taxi meters start at €2.90, then add €2.00 for the first 4 km; €1.90 for the next 6 km; and €1.40 after that. You can hail taxis on the street, outside subway and train stations, and at popular locations (like along Mönckebergstrasse). You can also order one by phone or online. Taxi Information Taxi. \| 040/211–211 \| www.taxi211211.de. #### Train Travel Hamburg Hauptbahnhof (Hamburg Main Station) is the city's central hub for local, regional, long-distance, and international trains. InterCity Express (ICE) trains going to and from Basel, Stuttgart, and Munich all start and terminate in Hamburg-Altona, and pass through Hauptbahnhof and Dammtor stations on the way. Train Information Deutsche Bahn. \| 0180/699–6633 \| www.bahn.de. #### Visitor Information Hamburg Tourismus (Hamburg Tourism Office) has several outlets around the city. The main office is in the Hauptbahnhof and is open Monday to Saturday 9–7, Sunday 10–6. The airport branch is open from 6 am to 11 pm daily and sits on the departure level between Terminals 1 and 2. At the harbor there's an office at the St. Pauli Landungsbrücken, between Piers 4 and 5, open 9–6 Sunday to Wednesday and 9–7, Thursday to Saturday. All tourist offices can help with accommodations, and there's a central call-in booking office for hotel and ticket reservations and general information, the Hamburg-Hotline. Visitor Information Hamburg Tourismus. \| Steinstr. 7, Altstadt \| 040/3005–1300 for hotline \| www.hamburg-travel.com. ### Tours #### Boat Tours There are few better ways to get to know the city than by taking a trip on its waters. Alster Touristik operates a variety of picturesque boat trips around the Alster lakes and through the canals. Alster and canal tours leave from a small dock at the Jungfernstieg. The round-trip Alster cruise lasts one hour, costs €14.50, and leaves every half hour, daily 10–6 from the end of March to the end of September. From the end of September until the end of October, it leaves at 10 and 5, and every half hour from 11 to 4. The Winter Warmer Trip offers trips with hot chocolate and glühwein (for an additional charge) several times a day from the end of October through to the end of March. Alster Touristik also offers twilight tours through the canals from Jungfernstieg to the bucolic Harvestehude neighborhood May through August and the waters around the historic warehouse district in September. Both tours start at 8 and run May through October, and cost €20. A one-hour Speicherstadt canal tour costs €20 and runs April through October daily at 10:45, 1:45, and 4:45, and November through December at 1:45 Friday through Sunday. All tours offer commentary in English. Rainer Abicht offers one-hour tours of the harbor in English aboard one of its small fleet of boats, which include its famous Louisiana Star riverboat. The tours leave every day at midday from April until October from Landungsbrücken Pier 4. They cost €18. Every day of the year, Kapitän Prüsse offers cruises around the Elbe harbor that last 60–90 minutes. These include a night cruise that costs €20 and leaves between 6 and 9 at night (depending on the time of the year) from Pier 3. The Maritime Circle Line tours major attractions on the Elbe; passengers embark at St Pauli Landungsbrücken Pier 10 and can hop on and hop off at a number of stops including BallinStadt, Hamburg Harbor Museum, HafenCity, and the historic ship MV Cap San Diego. The tours run every two hours daily from 10 to 4, April through October, and every two hours from noon to 4 on weekends, November to March. Tickets, which can be bought at the pier or online, are €14.50 and include discounts at all the venues. TIP An HVV public transport day pass is valid for trips on the number 62 HADAG ferry between Landungsbrücken Pier 1 and Finkenwerder, a suburb on the south side of the Elbe river. There's no commentary on the ferry, but on a fine day the top deck's a great spot to watch ships sailing in and out of the harbor, and for superb views of the city from the river. Boat Contacts Alster Touristik. \| 040/357–4240 \| www.alstertouristik.de. HADAG. \| 040/311–7070 \| www.hadag.de. Kapitän Prüsse. \| 040/357–4240 \| www.kapitaen-pruesse.de. Maritime Circle Line. \| Landungsbrücken 10, St. Pauli \| 040/2849–3963 \| www.maritime-circle-line.de. Rainer Abicht. \| 040/317–8220 \| www.abicht.de. #### Orientation Tours Sightseeing bus tours of the city, all with guides, who rapidly narrate in both English and German, leave from Kirchenallee by the main train station. A 90-minute bus tour sets off at varying times daily and costs €17.50. For €30, one of the bus tours can be combined with a one-hour boat trip on the harbor. Departure times for tours vary according to season. Contacts Hamburger Stadtrundfahrt. \| 040/792–8979 \| www.die-roten-doppeldecker.de. #### Walking Tours A great way to learn more about the city while also getting some exercise is on a walking tour. There are plenty of tours to choose from, although many only run from April through November. In addition to guided walks of the Altstadt and Neustadt, the harbor district, HafenCity, and St. Pauli, there are also themed excursions, such as Beatles tours and a red-light walking tour of the Reeperbahn. To find a guided walk in English, contact Hamburg Tourismus, the tourist office. ### Planning Your Time Hamburg's almost custom-made for a long weekend visit. Its airport is less than half an hour by train or taxi from the city center; it has an efficient and extensive public transport system; taxis are reasonably priced and plentiful; and the city's flat terrain is perfectly suited to walking and cycling. Exploring the Altstadt and Neustadt areas, where Hamburg's Rathaus (Town Hall), the Alster lakes, the Kunsthalle and Deichtorhallen galleries, and a number of the city's churches are all within a short stroll of one another, can easily fill a day and night—particularly if you throw in some shopping, and then dinner in nearby St. Georg. Another day can be spent wandering the harbor, taking a cruise and perhaps bicycling around the Speicherstadt and HafenCity, followed by a night out in St. Pauli or the Schanzenviertel. A less vigorous day's activities might include brunch in a café in Altona, lunch and a riverside walk in Blankenese, and some dinner back in Ottensen. ### Discounts and Deals Hamburg is one of Germany's most expensive cities, but the several citywide deals can make attractions more affordable. The Hamburg Card allows unlimited travel on all public transportation (including express buses) within Hamburg and discounts on more than 130 museums, cruises, restaurants, and stores. A one-day card, which is valid until 6 am the following morning, costs €8.90 for one adult and up to three children under 15. The three-day card will set you back €21.90. A Gruppenkarte costs €14.90 for one day, €38.90 for three days, and covers five people. The Hamburg Card is available from HVV buses, vending machines, and service centers; tourist offices; and many hotels and hostels; as well as online at www.hvv.deand www.hamburg-travel.com. ## Coffee and Cake When the afternoon rolls around, it's time for Kaffee und Kuchen, one of Germany's most beloved traditions. In villages and cities alike, patrons still stroll into their favorite Konditorei (pastry shop) for a leisurely cup of coffee and slice of cake. The tradition stretches back hundreds of years, when coffee beans were first imported to Germany in the 17th century. Coffee quickly became the preferred hot drink of the aristocracy, who paired it with cake, their other favorite indulgence. Within time, the afternoon practice trickled down to the bourgeoisie, and was heartily embraced. Now everyone can partake in the tradition. There are hundreds of German cakes, many of which are regional and seasonal with an emphasis on fresh fruits in summer, and spiced cakes in winter. Due to modern work schedules, not as many Germans take a daily coffee and cake break anymore. Families will have theirs at home on the weekend, and it's often an occasion for a starched tablecloth, the best china, and candles. —Tania Ralli ## Visiting the Konditorei Seek out the most old-fashioned shops, as these tend to have the best cakes. Check out what's in the glass case, since most Konditorein don't have printed menus. Don't worry about a language barrier, when it comes time to order just point to the cake of your choice. ## Best Cakes to Try #### Frankfurter Kranz The Frankfurter Kranz, or Frankfurt wreath, is a butter cake flavored with lemon zest and a touch of rum. It's then split into three layers and spread with fillings of buttercream and red preserves. The cake's exterior is generously coated with crunchy cookie crumbs or toasted nuts, and each slice is graced with a swirl of buttercream frosting and a bright red cherry. #### Gugelhupf Of all cakes, the Gugelhupf has the most distinctive shape, one that you'll likely recognize as a bundt cake. It tends to be more popular in southern Germany. Gugelhupf had its start as a bready yeast cake, studded with raisins and citrus peel, but today you're just as likely to have it as a marble cake. During the Biedermeier period, in the early 19th century, the wealthy middle class regarded the Gugelhupf as a status symbol. #### Herrentorte A layer cake of dark chocolate, Herrentorte means "gentleman's cake." It's not as sweet or creamy as most layer cakes, and thus meant to appeal to a man's palate. A Torte refers to a fancier layered cake, as opposed to the more humble Kuchen, which is more rustic. The Herrentorte has a rich and refined taste—in Germany, all chocolate is required to have a high cocoa content, improving its overall taste and texture. #### Mohnkuchen Mohnkuchen is a poppy seed cake—in fact, this is a cake so completely brimming with poppy seeds you could mistake it for a piece of chocolate cake. You'll come across it as a tall wedge, sprinkled with powdered sugar, or a fat square glazed with a lick of icing. The poppy seeds are mixed with sugar, butter, and sometimes milk. Lightly crushed they make for a very moist filling. #### Streuselkuchen This cake became especially popular in the 19th century, in Prussia. Owing to its versatility, you'll find it today all over Germany. The simple, buttery yeast cake's selling point is its sugary, crunchy topping of pebbled Streusel, which can stand on its own or be combined with rhubarb, apricots, cherries, apples, or other fruit. Streuselkuchen is baked on large sheet pans and cut into generous squares Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Altstadt and Neustadt \| St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel \| St. Georg \| Speicherstadt and HafenCity \| Altona and Ottensen \| Blankenese and Elsewhere Despite being a large, sprawling city that covers about as much ground as Berlin, Hamburg feels a lot more compact. The bulk of its major attractions and sights are between the Alster lakes to the north and the city's harbor and the Elbe River to the south. At the center of the city are the Altstadt and Neustadt—the city's historical core. East of the Altstadt is St. Georg, a major gay neighborhood. To the west of the Neutstadt lie the nightlife district of St. Pauli and its neighbor the Schanzenviertel, while farther down the river are the more multicultural areas of Altona and Ottensen, and the quaint settlement of Blankenese. Just south of the Altstadt are the portside districts of the Speicherstadt and the HafenCity. ## Altstadt and Neustadt Divided by the Binnenalster (inner Alster lake) and the Kleine Alster canal, the Altstadt (Old Town) and Neustadt (New Town) form the heart of Hamburg's Innenstadt (inner city). Stretching from Hauptbahnhof to Hamburg's town hall and down to the canals of the Speicherstadt and the Elbe, the Altstadt was heavily bombed during World War II (as was the Neustadt). Much of its splendor was restored during the postwar reconstruction of the city. Sprinkled between its office blocks and modern department stores are a number of majestic churches, handsome museums, and stately government buildings. To the west of the Altstadt, and bordered by the Aussenalster (outer Alster) to the north and the Elbe to the south, lies the Neustadt. The area dates back to the 17th century, when a second wall was built to protect the city during the Thirty Years' War. The Neustadt these days is more or less indistinguishable from its older neighbor. Similarly blessed with a number of stunning buildings, including those that line the pretty lakeside promenade of Jungfernsteig, the Neustadt is also famed many great stores. #### Getting Here and Around The best way to get to the center of the city is to take the U-bahn or S-bahn to the Hauptbahnhof or the U-bahn stations of Mönckebergstrasse, Jungfernstieg, Rathaus or Gänsemarkt. Once here, most of the sights and attractions are within an easy walk of each other. #### Timing If you plan four hours for visits to the museums and the Rathaus and two more hours for a boat tour on the Alster lakes, you'll comfortably end up spending a full day here. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Alster Lakes. The twin lakes of the Binnenalster (Inner Alster) and Aussenalster (Outer Alster) provide Hamburg with some of its most celebrated vistas. The two lakes meet at the Lombardsbrücke and Kennedybrücke (Lombard and Kennedy bridges). The boat landing at the Jungfernstieg, below the Alsterpavillon, is the starting point for lake and canal cruises. Small sailboats and rowboats, hired from yards on the shores of the Alster, are very much a part of the summer scene. Every Hamburger dreams of living within sight of the Alster, but only the wealthiest can afford it. Those that can't still have plenty of opportunities to enjoy the waterfront, however, and the outer Alster is ringed by 7 km (4.3 miles) of tree-lined public pathways. TIP Popular among joggers, these paths are also a lovely place for a stroll. \| Altstadt \| Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn). * * * The Beatles in Hamburg It was on the mean streets of St. Pauli, and specifically Grosse Freiheit, that four young lads from Liverpool cut their teeth playing to frequently hostile crowds of sailors, prostitutes, and thugs before going on to become the biggest band in the world. Signed by Bruno Koschmider, a nightclub owner and entrepreneur of dubious character, the Beatles first arrived in Hamburg in August 1960. Their first gig was at Koschmider's Indra Club, a seedy joint that doubled as a strip club, and their first lodgings consisted of a couple of windowless rooms in the back of a cinema, the Bambi Kino. Over the next two and a half years, the young Beatles would visit Hamburg five times and play almost 300 concerts in the city. During one stint in 1961, they performed 98 nights in a row, often starting at 8:30 at night and playing their last song around the same time the next morning. Perhaps surprisingly, some of the venues where the Beatles strutted their stuff remain. The Star Club, the site of their last Hamburg concert, on New Year's Eve 1962, may be gone, but the Indra Club is still at Grosse Freiheit 64. Down the road, at No. 36, is the Kaiserkeller, where the boys moved after the Indra was closed down for being too rowdy. In addition to hitting the clubs, fans of the Fab Four can pose beside the life-size, metal sculptures of the five original Beatles on the Beatles-Platz, and also retrace the band's steps on a number of walking tours, which take in the Bambi Kino and other venues they played at, along with the Gretel und Alfons pub, a favorite haunt. * * * Fodor's Choice \| Deichstrasse. The oldest residential area in the Old Town of Hamburg now consists of lavishly restored houses from the 17th through the 19th century. Many of the original, 14th-century houses on Deichstrasse were destroyed in the Great Fire of 1842, which broke out in No. 38 and left approximately 20,000 people homeless; only a few of the early dwellings escaped its ravages. Today Deichstrasse and nearby streets, which are steps away from the site of former city wall, are of great historical interest. At No. 35–39 Peterstrasse, for example, is the replica of baroque facade of the Beylingstift complex, built in 1751. Today, the Johannes Brahms Museum sits in No. 39, the composer's former home. All the buildings in the area have been painstakingly designed to look like the original buildings, thanks largely to nonprofit foundations. \| Altstadt \| Station: Rödingsmarkt (U-bahn) \| Neustadt \| Station: St. Pauli (U-bahn). Hamburger Kunsthalle (Art Gallery). One of the most important art museums in Germany, the Kunsthalle has 3,500 paintings, 650 sculptures, and a coin and medal collection that dates from the ancient Roman era. In the postmodern, cube-shaped building designed by Berlin architect O. M. Ungers, the Galerie der Gegenwart has housed a collection of international modern art since 1960, including works by Andy Warhol, Joseph Beuys, Georg Baselitz, and David Hockney. With 1,200 drawings and other works, graphic art is well represented, including works by Pablo Picasso and Horst Janssen, a Hamburg artist famous for his satirical worldview. In the other areas of the museum, you can view works by local artists dating from the 16th century. The outstanding collection of German Romantic paintings includes pieces by Caspar David Friedrich. Paintings by Holbein, Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Tiepolo, and Canaletto are also on view, while late-19th-century Impressionism is represented by works by Leibl, Liebermann, Manet, Monet, and Renoir. \| Glockengiesserwall, Altstadt \| 040/4281–31200 \| www.hamburger-kunsthalle.de \| €12 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–9. \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Jungfernstieg. This wide promenade looking out over the Alster lakes is the beginning of the city's premier shopping district. Laid out in 1665, it used to be part of a muddy millrace that channeled water into the Elbe. Hidden from view behind the sedate facade of Jungfernstieg is a network of several small shopping centers that together account for almost a mile of shops selling everything from souvenirs to haute couture. Many of these passages have sprung up in the past two decades, but some have been here since the 19th century; the first glass-covered arcade, called Sillem's Bazaar, was built in 1845. \| Neustadt \| Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn). Quick Bites: Alex im Alsterpavillon. Perhaps Hamburg's best-known café, the Alex im Alsterpavillon is sleek yet comfortable, and an ideal spot for observing the constant activity on the Binnenalster. \| Jungfernstieg 54, Neustadt \| 040/350–1870. Mönckebergstrasse. This broad street of shops—Hamburg's major thoroughfare—cuts through the city's Altstadt. Built between 1908 and 1911 to connect the main train station to the town hall, but only open to taxis and buses, the street is perfect for a stroll. Home to the Karstadt and Galeria Kaufhof department stores, electronics mega-store Saturn, as well as a host of global brand stores from Adidas to Zara, it swells with local and out-of-town shoppers on Saturday and public holidays. TIP The best cafés and restaurants tend to be found on side streets off Mönckebergstrasse, where the rents for shop space are generally not as high. \| Altstadt \| Station: Mönckebergstrasse (U-bahn), Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Rathaus (Town Hall). To most Hamburgers this impressive neo-Renaissance building is the symbolic heart of the city. The seat of the city's Senate (State Government) and Bürgerschaft (Parliament), it was constructed between 1886 and 1897, with 647 rooms and an imposing clock tower. Along with much of the city center, the Rathaus was heavily damaged during World War II, but was faithfully restored to its original beauty in the postwar years, and it's now one of the most photographed sights in Hamburg. The forty-minute tours of the building begin in the ground floor Rathausdiele, a vast pillared hall. Although visitors are only shown the state rooms, their tapestries, glittering chandeliers, coffered ceilings, and grand portraits give you a sense of the city's great wealth in the 19th century and the Town Hall's status as an object of civic pride. Outside, the Rathausmarkt (Town Hall Square) is the site of regular festivals and events, including the annual Stuttgarter Wine Festival and the city's biggest Christmas market. \| Rathausmarkt, Altstadt \| 040/42831–2064 \| www.hamburgische-buergerschaft.de \| €4 \| Daily tours in English hourly from 10:15 on \| Station: Rathaus (U-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn). St. Jacobi Kirche (St. James's Church). This 15th-century church was almost completely destroyed during World War II. Only the interiors survived, and reconstruction was completed in 1963. The interior is not to be missed—it houses such treasures as a massive baroque organ and three Gothic altars from the 15th and 16th centuries. \| Jacobikirchhof 22, at Steinstr., Altstadt \| 040/303–7370 \| www.jacobus.de \| Apr.–Sept., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. after service; Oct.–Mar., Mon.–Sat. 11–5, Sun. after service. German guided tours: 1st Sat. at 2 and 3; 3rd Fri. at 12:30. English guided tours available on request by emailing ahead of time. \| Station: Rathaus (U-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| St. Michaelis Kirche (St. Michael's Church). The Michel, as it's called locally, is Hamburg's principal church and northern Germany's finest baroque-style ecclesiastical building. Its first incarnation, built between 1649 and 1661 (the tower followed in 1669), was razed after lightning struck almost a century later. It was rebuilt between 1750 and 1786 in the decorative Nordic baroque style, but was gutted by a terrible fire in 1906. The replica, completed in 1912, was demolished during World War II. The present church is a reconstruction. The distinctive 436-foot brick-and-iron tower bears the largest tower clock in Germany, 26 feet in diameter. Just above the clock is a viewing platform (accessible by elevator or stairs) that affords a magnificent panorama of the city, the Elbe River, and the Alster lakes. TIP Twice a day, at 10 am and 9 pm (Sunday at noon), a watchman plays a trumpet solo from the tower platform. In the crypt a 30-minute movie about the 1,000-year history of Hamburg and its churches is shown. For a great view of Hamburg's skyline, head to the clock tower at night. In the evenings you can sip a complimentary soft drink while listening to classical music in a room just below the tower. This is usually held from 5:30 to 11:00: check www.nachtmichel.de to confirm times. \| Englische Planke 1, Neustadt \| 040/376–780 \| www.st-michaelis.de \| Tower €5; crypt and movie €4; show, tower, and crypt €7 \| May–Oct., daily 9–7:30; Nov.–Apr., daily 10–5:30 \| Station: Rödingsmarkt (U-bahn), Stadthausbrücke (S-bahn). St. Petri Kirche (St. Peter's Church). This church was created in 1195 and has been in continuous use since then. St. Petri is the only one of the five main churches in Hamburg that came out of World War II relatively undamaged. The current building was built in 1849, after the previous building burned down in the Great Fire of 1842.TIP Every Wednesday at 5:15 pm brings the Stunde der Kirchenmusik, an hour of liturgical organ music. \| Bei der Petrikirche 2, Altstadt \| 040/325–7400 \| www.sankt-petri.de \| Mon., Tues., Thurs., Fri. 10–6:30, Wed. 10–7, Sat. 10–5, Sun. 9–8. Tower: Mon.–Sat. 11–5, Sun. 11:30–4. Tours: Thurs. at 3 and 1st Sun. of month at 11:30 \| Station: Rathaus (U-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn). Quick Bites: Old Commercial Room. Just opposite the St. Michaelis Kirche is one of Hamburg's most traditional and best loved restaurants, the Old Commercial Room. Book a table in one of its cozy booths for one of the local specialties, such as Labskaus (a curious mixture of potato, corned beef, beet, and herring). If you don't make it to the restaurant, you can buy cans of the stuff in Hamburg supermarkets and department stores. \| Englische Planke 10, Neustadt \| 040/366–319 \| www.oldcommercialroom.de. ### Worth Noting Bucerius Kunst Forum. This independent art gallery, considered one of the leading exhibition houses in northern Germany, has staged four major exhibitions a year since opening in 2002 inside a historic Reichsbank building next door to the Rathaus. The museum commissions guest curators from around the world to create shows that cover every art period and style. \| Rathausmarkt 2, Neustadt \| 040/360–9960 \| www.buceriuskunstforum.de \| €8, €5 on Mon. \| Fri.–Wed. 11–7, Thurs. 11–9 \| Station: Rathaus (U-bahn). Deichtorhallen. A pair of large markets built in 1911–12, not far from the main train station, now house two of Germany's largest exhibition halls for contemporary art and photography. One of the Deichtorhallen's modern, airy interiors resembles an oversized loft space, and its changing exhibits have presented the works of such artists as Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and Miró. \| Deichtorstr. 1–2, Altstadt \| 040/321–030 \| www.deichtorhallen.de \| €9 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6 \| Station: Steinstrasse (U-bahn). Hamburg Hauptbahnhof (Main Train Station). This central train station's cast-iron-and-glass architecture evokes the grandiose self-confidence of imperial Germany. The chief feature of the enormous 680-foot-long structure is its 446-foot-wide glazed roof. One of the largest structures of its kind in Europe, it's remarkably spacious and bright inside. Though completed in 1906 and having gone through many modernizations, it continues to have tremendous architectural impact. Today it sees a heavy volume of international, national, and suburban rail traffic. \| Steintorpl., St. Georg \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn). FAMILY \| Hamburg Museum (Museum of Hamburg History). The museum's vast and comprehensive collection of artifacts gives you an excellent overview of Hamburg's development, from its origins in the 9th century to the present. Pictures and models portray the history of the port and shipping here, from 1650 onward. \| Holstenwall 24, Neustadt \| 040/42813–22380 \| www.hamburgmuseum.de \| €7.50 \| Tues.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 10–6 \| Station: St. Pauli (U-bahn), Hamburger Museum (Bus No. 112). Krameramtswohnungen (Shopkeepers' Houses). The shopkeepers' guild built this tightly packed group of courtyard houses between 1620 and 1626 for members' widows. The houses became homes for the elderly after 1866. The half-timber, two-story dwellings, with unusual twisted chimneys and decorative brick facades, were restored in the 1970s. A visit inside gives you a sense of what life was like in these 17th-century dwellings. \| Historic House C, Krayenkamp 10, Neustadt \| 040/3750–1988 \| €2 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5 \| Station: Rödingsmarkt (U-bahn), Stadtbahnstrasse (S-bahn). Mahnmal St. Nikolai (St. Nicholas Memorial). Originally erected in 1195 and destroyed by fire in 1842, the church was rebuilt in neo-Gothic style, before it burned down again during the air raids of World War II. Today, the remains of the church serve as a memorial for the victims of war and persecution from 1933 to 1945. The memorial features an exhibition on the air raids and the destruction of Hamburg and other European cities. A glass elevator on the outside of the building takes visitors 250 feet up to the steeple, which offers magnificent views of the surrounding historic streets. Lectures, film screenings, panel discussions, and concerts also take place at the memorial. \| Willy-Brandt-Str. 60, at Hopfenmarkt, Altstadt \| 040/371–125 \| www.mahnmal-st-nikolai.de \| €5 \| Oct.–Mar., daily 10–5; Apr.–Sept., daily 10–8 \| Station: Rödingsmarkt (U-bahn). Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg (Arts and Crafts Museum). The museum houses a wide range of exhibits, from 15th- to 18th-century scientific instruments to an art-nouveau interior complete with ornaments and furnishings. It was built in 1876 as a combination museum and school. Its founder, Justus Brinckmann, intended it to be a bastion of the applied arts that would counter what he saw as a decline in taste owing to industrial mass production. A keen collector, Brinckmann amassed a wealth of unusual objects, including ceramics from around the world. \| Steintorpl., Altstadt \| 040/4281–34880 \| www.mkg-hamburg.de \| €10, €7 Thurs. after 5 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 11–6, Thurs. 11–9 \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). FAMILY \| Planten un Blomen (Plants and Flowers Park). In 1821, a botanist planted a sycamore tree in a park near Dammtor train station. From this tree, a sanctuary for birds and plants evolved and a botanical garden that resembles the current park opened in 1930. This 116-acre oasis features a grand Japanese garden, a mini-golf course, an outdoor roller-skating rink, trampolines, pony rides, and water features. The original sycamore tree still stands near an entrance. If you visit on a summer evening, you'll see the Wasserlichtkonzerte, the play of an illuminated fountain set to organ music. TIP Make sure you get to the lake in plenty of time for the nightly show, which begins at 10 May through August and at 9 in September. \| Stephanspl., Neustadt \| 040/4285–44723 \| www.plantenunblomen.hamburg.de \| Free \| Apr., daily 7 am–10 pm; May–Sept., daily 7 am–11 pm; Oct.–Mar., daily 7 am–8 pm \| Station: Dammtor-Bahnhof (S-bahn), Messehallen (U-bahn), St. Pauli (S-bahn), Handwerkskammer (Bus No. 112). Portugiesenviertel (Portuguese Quarter). On the edge of the harbor, tucked in between Landungsbrücken and Baumwall, lies a small slice of Iberia in Hamburg. Famed for its cluster of tapas restaurants and little cafés on and around Ditmar-Koel-Strasse, the Portugiesenviertel is a great place to go to feast on a plate of grilled sardines or have a creamy galão (espresso with foamed milk). Head here in summer, when the streets are flooded with tables and diners making the most of the good weather. \| Ditmar-Koel-Str., Neustadt \| Station: Landungsbrücken (U-bahn and S-bahn), Baumwall (U-bahn). St. Katharinen Kirche (St. Katharine's Church). Founded in 1250 and completed in 1660, this house of worship was severely damaged during World War II, but has since been carefully reconstructed. The interior was once dotted with plaques honoring different people, but only two of the epitaphs remain. \| Katharinenkirchhof 1, near Speicherstadt, Altstadt \| 040/3037–4730 \| www.katharinen-hamburg.de \| Weekdays 10–5, weekends 11–5 \| Station: Messberg (U-bahn), Brandstwiete (Bus 3, 4, and 6). ## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel The harborside quarter of St. Pauli is perhaps the city's best-known neighborhood, its web of narrow streets branching off the bright neon vein of the Reeperbahn. Named after the rope makers that once worked here, the long street runs the length St Pauli's extensive red-light district—one of the largest in Europe. The broad sidewalks here are lined with strip joints, sex shops, and bars. In the early 1960s, the Beatles famously cut their teeth in clubs just off the street, playing 12-hour-long gigs in front of drunken revelers. These days St. Pauli's all-night bars, nightclubs, and pubs continue to be a big draw. Despite the seediness of its sex industry, however, the area has undergone some serious gentrification over the years, and those dive bars and flophouses now rub shoulders with trendy eateries and design hotels. The neighboring Schanzenviertel has also experienced a significant makeover in the last decade. Once filled with artists, punks, and students, and infused with an antiestablishment culture, the "Schanze" remains a neighborhood whose most recognizable building is the Rote Flora, an old theater occupied by squatters who use it for concerts and cultural events. Now, however, it's also a place where cool young Hamburgers go to browse through clothes boutiques and then drink and dine in laid-back, reasonably priced bars and restaurants. Germany's answer to Jamie Oliver, Tim Mälzer has a hugely popular café and restaurant here, and global labels such as Adidas and American Apparel have also set up shop in recent years. Ten minutes from the center of town by S-bahn, Schanzenviertel has elegant old apartment buildings that have found favor with Hamburg's media and finance professionals. This has driven the rents up, and forced out many of the same tenants who once imbued the Schanzenviertel with its original edginess. #### Getting Here and Around The harbor can be reached by taking a U-bahn or S-bahn train to Landungsbrücken. The mile-long Reeperbahn is bookended by the Reeperbahn S-bahn and St. Pauli U-bahn stations. The Schanzenviertel is served by the Sternschanze U-bahn and S-bahn station. #### Timing You can easily spend a full day and a long night here, starting with breakfast and shopping in the Schanzenviertel, then lunch and a river cruise at the harbor and a night on the Reeperbahn afterwards. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Fischmarkt (Fish Market). A trip to the Altona Fischmarkt is definitely worth getting out of bed early—or staying up all night—for. The Sunday markets hark back to the 18th century, when fishermen sold their catch before church services. Today, freshly caught fish sold by salty auctioneers to the locals from little stalls is only a part of the scene. You can find almost anything here: live parrots and palm trees, armloads of flowers and bananas, valuable antiques, and fourth-hand junk. Those keen to continue partying from the night before can get down to live bands rocking the historic Fischauktionshalle. \| Grosse Elbestr. 9, St. Pauli \| Apr.–Oct., Sun. 5 am–9:30 am; Nov.–Mar., Sun. 7 am–9:30 am \| Station: Landungsbrücken (U-bahn and S-bahn), Fischmarkt (Bus No. 112). FAMILY \| Landungsbrücken (Piers). Hamburgers and tourists flock to the city's impressive port (Germany's largest) to marvel at the huge container and cruise ships gliding past, pick up maritime-themed gifts from souvenir stores, and treat themselves to something from the many snack- and ice-cream stands. It's best to take a tour to get a complete idea of the massive scale of the place, which is one of the most modern and efficient harbors in the world. Barge tours leave from the main passenger terminal, along with a whole range of ferries and boats heading to other destinations on the Elbe and in the North Sea.TIP There's frequently a breeze here, so it's worth packing something warm, particularly if you're planning on taking an open-top harbor tour. \| Bei den St. Pauli Landungsbrücken, St. Pauli \| 040/3005–1300 \| Station: Landungsbrücken (U-bahn and S-bahn). Rickmer Rickmers. This majestic 19th-century sailing ship once traveled as far as Cape Town. Now it's permanently docked at Hamburg's piers, where it serves as a museum and site for exhibitons and readings. \| St. Pauli Landungsbrücken Ponton 1a, St. Pauli \| 040/319–5959 \| www.rickmer-rickmers.de \| €4 \| Sun.–Thurs. 10–6, Fri. and Sat. 10–8 \| Station: Landungsbrücken (U-bahn). Cap San Diego Cap San Diego. Close to the Rickmer Rickmers ship at Hamburg's piers sits the Cap San Diego, a seaworthy museum and hotel. Before it docked at Hamburg permanently, it regularly sailed between Germany and South America. \| Überseebrücke, Landungsbrücken, St. Pauli \| 040/364–209 \| www.capsandiego.de \| Cap San Diego €7 \| Daily 10–6 \| Station: Landungsbrücken (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Reeperbahn. The hottest nightspots in town are concentrated on and around St. Pauli's pulsating thoroughfare, the Reeperbahn, and a buzzing little side street known as Grosse Freiheit ("Great Freedom"). It was there, in the early 1960s, that a then-obscure band called the Beatles polished their live act. The Kiez, as the area is known colloquially, is a part of town that never sleeps—literally, in the case of at least a couple of bars that claim to never close their doors. It has long been famed for its music halls and drinking holes, but also for its strip clubs, sex shops, and brothels. The first brothel was registered here in the 15th century, and although the love-hungry sailors that the area became famous for no longer roam the streets, street walkers still line Davidstrasse; around the corner, on Herbertstrasse, skimpily dressed women sit in windows and offer their services to passersby. The Kiez is about more than just its red-light activities, however, and the Reeperbahn swells on evenings and weekends with bar hoppers and nightclubbers, concert- and theatergoers, and locals and out-of-towners out for dinner and a few drinks. And maybe a walk on or at least through the wild side afterward. \| Reeperbahn, St. Pauli \| Station: St. Pauli (U-bahn), Reeperbahn (S-bahn). ### Worth Noting Beatles-Platz. At the entrance to Grosse Freiheit stand life-size steel silhouettes commemorating the five original Beatles—John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Pete Best and Stuart Sutcliffe. In the summer of 1960, they played in the area while seeking fame and fortune. Although the statues are rather ordinary looking during the day, they make for a good photo op when they're lit up at night. \| Reeperbahn end of Grosse Freiheit, St. Pauli \| Station: Reeperbahn (S-bahn). ## St. Georg First-time visitors to Hamburg may have some trouble, at least initially, getting their heads around this vibrant quarter. Fanning out to the northeast of the Altstadt, St. Georg is a place whose rich diversity is best understood by trips down its three main streets: Steindamm, Lange Reihe, and An der Alster. Just across the main station, Steindamm begins as a one-way street full of sex shops and prostitutes lurking in doorways and turns into a busy road lined with Middle Eastern restaurants and minimarkets and a large mosque. A few blocks over, in the middle of the three, is Lange Reihe, a long, narrow thoroughfare brimming with gay and lesbian bars and cafés and some of the best places to drink and eat in town. Lastly, a short walk from Lange Reihe to the outer Alster lake's edge, sits An der Alster and a row of luxury hotels and penthouse apartments that come with million-euro views. #### Getting Here and Around The closest station for U-bahn and S-bahn trains is Hauptbahnhof, and the No. 6 bus runs the length of Lange Reihe. St. Georg is compact, making it easy enough to stroll around. #### Timing With all its cafés and little restaurants, St. Georg is an ideal spot for a lazy breakfast or an afternoon coffee or two. Factor in a stroll along the lake, and a few hours here can soon slip by. ## Speicherstadt and HafenCity No two places in Hamburg embody the changing commerce of the city and its love affair with the Elbe as vividly as the harbor districts of the Speicherstadt and the HafenCity. Built around a series of narrow canals, the stunning redbrick, Gothic architecture of the former's warehouses (which make up the largest complex of integrated warehouses in the world) sits next to the gleaming glass and steel of Europe's largest urban renewal development project. The Speicherstadt's 100-year-old warehouses continue to store and trade in everything from coffee to oriental carpets, but now count restaurants, museums and the world's largest model railway amongst their tenants. The HafenCity, meanwhile, has become a popular site for the headquarters of many of the city's largest firms, as well as home to a number of new apartment blocks, hotels and restaurants, a university, and the jewel in its crown, the hugely ambitious Elbphilarmonie concert hall, which is scheduled to open in 2015. #### Getting Here and Around To get to the Speicherstadt, take the U-bahn to Messberg or Baumwall stations, or walk or bike over from the Altstadt. The HafenCity is now served by the city's new U4 train line, which stops at the U-bahn stations of Überseequartier and HafenCity Universität. Both areas are close enough to each other to walk between. #### Timing This part of town is a popular spot for Sunday strollers, and ambling along its canals, taking snaps of the area's impressive riverside edifices, combined with a visit to a museum or the Miniatur Wunderland can happily fill half a day. Quick Bites: There are two good basement restaurants in this area. Alt-Hamburger Aalspeicher. The Alt-Hamburger Aalspeicher specializes in fish dishes, including Hamburg's famous Aalsuppe (a clear broth with a variety of vegetables, seafood, and meat—everything that is leftover). Over time the German word for everything—alle—became mistaken for the word for eel (aal), so some restaurants make eel the focus, while others stick with creating their own light soup. \| Deichstr. 43, Altstadt \| 040/362–990. Das Kontor. Seasonal dishes such as plaice in spring and game in winter are served at this upscale Hamburg tavern. You could also head here for some of the city's best fried potatoes and traditional desserts. \| Deichstr. 32, Altstadt \| 040/371–471 \| www.das-kontor-hamburg.de. HafenCity Infocenter Kesselhaus (HafenCity Information Center). In an old 19th-century boiler house, this popular information center documents the HafenCity urban development project. In addition to changing photographic and architectural exhibitions, the center also has an impressive 1:500 scale-model of the HafenCity. Free walking and cycling tours in English of the HafenCity are also available. They last approximately two hours and can be booked ahead of time on the center's website. \| Am Sandtorkai 30, HafenCity \| 040/3690–1799 \| www.hafencity.com \| Free \| May–Sept., Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8; Oct.–Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–6 \| Station: Baumwall (U-bahn), Überseequartier (U-bahn). FAMILY \| Fodor's Choice \| Miniatur Wunderland. You don't need to be a model railway enthusiast or a 10-year-old to be blown away by the sheer scale and attention to detail of the Miniatur Wunderland. The largest model railway in the world features more than 14,000 square feet of little trains click-clacking their way through wonderfully faithful miniature replicas of Hamburg itself as well as foreign towns in Switzerland, Austria, the United States, and elsewhere. Planes land at a little airport; every 15 minutes, day turns into night and hundreds of thousands of LED lights illuminate the trains, buildings and streets. Unsurprisingly, it's one of Hamburg's most popular attractions, so it's best to book ahead, particularly on weekends and school holidays, when waiting times for entry can stretch to a couple of hours. \| Kehrwieder 2–4, Block D, Speicherstadt \| 040/300-6800 \| www.miniatur-wunderland.com \| €12 \| Mon., Wed., and Thurs. 9:30–6, Tues. 9:30–9, Fri. 9:30–7, Sat. 8 am–9 pm, Sun. 8:30–8 \| Station: Baumwall (U-bahn), Messberg (U-bahn). Speicherstadtmuseum. The Speicherstadt's old warehouses are still used to store many products, and although you won't be able to tour them, the nonstop comings and goings of the merchants that still trade carpets and spices in the area will give you a good sense of a port at work. If you want to learn more about the area's history and architecture, detour to the small but informative Speicherstadtmuseum. \| Am Sandtorkai 36, Speicherstadt \| 040/321–191 \| www.speicherstadtmuseum.de \| €3.60 \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 10–5, weekends 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5 \| Station: Baumwall (U-bahn). ## Altona and Ottensen Generally the closer an area is to water in Hamburg, the more desirable a place it is to live. This is particularly true of the borough of Altona and Ottensen, an upscale neighborhood. Bordered by the Elbe, where Altona forms part of the port, and centered on a large domestic and international train station, the area has an allure heightened by a lively shopping boulevard and narrow side streets with bakeries, boutiques, and bars. Much of this predominantly working-class area has been transformed over the last few decades. Nineteenth-century factories and industrial plants now accommodate cultural centers, movie theaters, offices, and hotels. Despite its increasingly middle-class makeup the quarter remains multicultural, and a large Turkish population continues to live and run all sorts of businesses here. It's a part of Hamburg that in many ways feels separate from the city surrounding it, which is unsurprising given its history. Part of Denmark until 1864, Altona was an independent city as late as 1937, and its stately town hall above the river is a reminder of its distinguished past. #### Getting Here and Around The Altona train station, 15 minutes from Hauptbahnhof, is the starting and finishing point for all domestic and international InterCity Express trains that pass through the main station. It's also a stop on a number of local S-bahn lines. The main shopping area surrounds the station. #### Timing The area is a good place to while away an afternoon people-watching and browsing through shops, perhaps followed by a drink or two in one the area's many fine cafés. Holsten Brauerei. Until the 20th century, German beer consumption was a regional thing. A thirsty German would walk in to a pub and say, "Grosses Bier, bitte" and a large beer simply appeared. There was no need to request a certain brand because there was only one or, if you were lucky, two to choose from. In Hamburg's case it was Holsten and Astra, which are still brewed in the city, although both brands are now owned by the Danish brewery giant Carlsberg. To learn more about about how these brews are made and how they taste, Holsten brewery offers guided tours of the factory, with a complimentary beer or two at the end. \| Holstenstr. 224, Altona \| 040/3099–3098 \| www.carlsbergdeutschland.de \| €5 \| Tours: weekdays at 9, 11:15, and 1:15. \| Station: Holstenstrasse (S-bahn). Quick Bites: Elbe beach. No Hanseatic summer would be complete without a visit to the Elbe beach, which is alive with activity then. Chic bars, volleyball games, pulsating dance clubs, barbecue grills, and sunbathers appear on sand trucked onto the banks of the Elbe. \| Am Schulberg, Altona \| Station: Neumühlen/Övelgönne (Bus No. 112), Neumühlen (Ferry No. 62). ## Blankenese and Elsewhere Twenty or so minutes along the Elbe by car or by S-bahn from the middle of the city lies the lovely riverside suburb of Blankenese. It's nicely situated on the side of a hill, with steep flights of narrow steeps that snake between its handsome villas. It makes a popular destination for weekend walks and coffee and cake afterward. Other parts of town within easy reach of the main station, and worth a visit, include the upmarket neighborhood of Eppendorf, its more modest, less self-conscious neighbor Eimsbüttel, and the lakeside suburbs of Harvestehude, Winterhude, and Uhlenhorst. Farther afield are the BallinStadt emigration museum in Veddel and the Neuengamme Concentration Camp. Other than driving, the best way to get to Blankenese and Veddel is to take the S-bahn to their respective stations. Neuengamme is reachable by a combination of S-bahn and bus. The other suburbs are no more than 15 minutes away from the center of town by U-bahn. #### Timing Given that a major selling point of Blankenese is that's a place far from the hustle and bustle of the city, and the fact that you'll need an hour to get there and back, it's best to give yourself half a day to visit. Excursions to Ballinstadt and Neuengamme shouldn't be rushed either. BallinStadt. This museum and family-research center tells the story of European emigration to the United States and elsewhere. The complex on the peninsula here, completed in 1901, was built by the HAPAG shipping line for its passengers, which came from all across Europe to sail across the Atlantic. When the immigrants landed in the United States, there were subjected to thorough physical examinations. Those who were deemed sick were quarantined for weeks or returned to their home country. To reduce the likelihood of trouble, HAPAG began examining passengers before they left Hamburg for new shores. During the first 34 years of the 20th century, about 1.7 million people passed through emigration halls. Processing this many people took a long time, and Hamburg officials did not want foreigners roaming the city. To accommodate visitors for several days or months, the shipping company built a town, complete with a hospital, church, music hall, housing, and hotels. The emigrant experience comes to life with artifacts; interactive displays; detailed reproductions of the buildings (all but one was demolished); and firsthand accounts of oppression in Europe, life in the "city," conditions during the 60-day ocean crossing, and life in their new home. As compelling as the exhibits are, the main draw is the research booths, where you can search the complete passenger lists of all ships that left the harbor. TIP Research assistants are available to help locate and track your ancestors. From St. Pauli, the museum can be reached by S-bahn or Maritime Circle Line at St. Pauli Landungsbrücken No. 10. \| Veddeler Bogen 2, Veddel \| 040/3197–9160 \| www.ballinstadt.de \| €12.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–4:30 \| Station: Veddel (S-bahn). Konzentrationslager Neuengamme (Neuengamme Concentration Camp). Hamburg is a city of great beauty but also tragedy. On the southeastern edge of the city, between 104,000 and 106,000 people, including children, were held at Neuengamme concentration camp in its years of operation from 1938 to 1945. It was primarily a slave-labor camp, not an area focused on extermination, where bricks and weapons were the main products. German political prisoners and Europeans pushed into servitude composed most of the population. Neuengamme held gays, Roma (gypsies), and Jews. Jewish children were the subjects of cruel medical experiments; others worked with their parents or simply grew up in prison. To keep people in line, there were random acts of violence, including executions, and atrocious living conditions. Officials estimate that as many as 50,000 people died at Neuengamme before it ceased operation in May 1945. A memorial opened on the site in 2005. Where the dormitories, dining hall, and hospital once sat, there are low pens filled with large rocks. With so much open space, the camp has an eerie silence. There is still a gate at the entrance. The camp has several regions. The main area has exhibits describing working conditions in an actual factory as well as a museum. The museum has interactive displays describing the prisoner experience. Firsthand accounts, photographs from prisoners, furniture, clothing, and possessions make the experience even more affecting. \| Jean-Dolidier-Weg 75, Neuengamme \| 040/4281–31500 \| www.kz-gedenkstaette-neuengamme.de \| Free \| Grounds 24 hrs. Exhibits: Apr.–Sept., weekdays 9:30–4, weekends noon–7; Oct.–Mar., weekdays 9:30–4, weekends noon–5 \| Station: Bergedorf (S-bahn), then Bus No. 227 or 327. FAMILY \| Tierpark Hagenbeck (Hagenbeck Zoo). One of the country's oldest and most popular zoos, the Tierpark Hagenbeck was founded in 1907 and is family owned. It was the world's first zoo to let wild animals such as lions, elephants, chimpanzees, and others roam freely in vast, open-air corrals. In summer, you can ride a pony. The Tropen-Aquarium, on the same property as the zoo, is like a trip around the world. Sealife, insects, curious reptiles, marvelous birds, and exotic mammals live in replicas of their natural habitat. Detailed re-creations of deserts, oceans, rain forests, and jungles are home to birds, fish, mammals, insects, and reptiles from almost every continent, including black-tailed lemurs living in a "Madagascar" village. \| Lokstedter Grenzstr. 2, Stellingen \| 040/530–0330 \| www.hagenbeck.de \| €20 for zoo, €14 for aquarium, €30 for combination ticket \| Zoo: Mar.–June, Sept., and Oct., daily 9–6; July and Aug., daily 9–7; Nov.–Feb., daily 9–4:30. Aquarium daily 9–6 \| Station: Hagenbecks Tierpark (U-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Altstadt and Neustadt \| St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel \| St. Georg \| Speicherstadt and HafenCity \| Altona and Ottensen \| Blankenese and Elsewhere Hamburg has plenty of chic restaurants to satisfy the fashion-conscious local professionals, as well as the authentically salty taverns typical of a harbor town. There may not be a huge range of restaurants, but what's available is delicious. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ## Altstadt and Neustadt Café Paris. FRENCH \| This busy restaurant is across from the Rathaus. The excellent traditional French fare includes steak frites, beef tartare, croque-monsieur, and other classics. Breakfast here is a treat and a far cry from the traditional German bread-and-meat options. The main dining room is crowded with tables. For a more intimate experience, reserve a table in the salon. Café Paris also has an excellent French wine list. \| Average main: €20 \| Rathausstr. 4, Altstadt \| 040/3252–7777 \| www.cafeparis.net \| Station: Rathaus (U-bahn). Deichgraf. SEAFOOD \| This small and elegant fish restaurant in the heart of the historic district is a Hamburg classic. It's one of the best places to get traditional dishes such as Hamburger Pannfisch (fried pieces of the day's catch in a wine-and-mustard sauce) at a very reasonable price. The restaurant is in an old merchant house, and oil paintings in the dining room feature ships from the 19th century. Reservations are essential on weekends. \| Average main: €22 \| Deichstr. 23, Altstadt \| 040/364–208 \| www.deichgraf-hamburg.de \| Closed Sun. Sept.–June. No lunch Sat. \| Station: Rödingsmarkt (U-bahn). Die Bank. FRENCH \| Venture beyond the grand exterior of this 19th-century bank building and you'll find yourself in an elegant bar and brasserie where opulent chandeliers droop from a ceiling supported by handsome black columns. Diners can feast on steaks, lobster, and sashimi at white-clothed tables or out on the restaurant's spacious, sunny terrace. \| Average main: €27 \| Hohe Bleichen 17, Neustadt \| 040/238–0030 \| www.diebank-brasserie.de \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Gänsemarkt (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Fillet of Soul. GERMAN \| The art of fine dining is celebrated in the open show kitchen of this hip, fairly casual restaurant set among the modern art exhibits of the Deichtorhallen. The chefs prepare straightforward, light German dishes with an emphasis on fresh fish. The minimalist dining room, highlighted only by an orange wall, might not be to everyone's liking, but the buzzing atmosphere, artsy clientele, fragrant food, and great personal attention from the waitstaff make this a top choice. TIP Although it's not as sophisticated as the evening's offerings, the lunch menu here is still very good. And with most dishes hovering around €10, it's also a good deal. \| Average main: €21 \| Deichtorstr. 2, Altstadt \| 040/7070–5800 \| www.fillet-of-soul.de \| No dinner Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Steinstrasse (U-bahn). Manee Thai. THAI \| After a move to a location near the Speicherstadt, this long-running restaurant continues to deliver authentic and delicious Thai food to hungry locals and visiting businesspeople. Hamburg isn't known for its love of spicy, aromatic food, but pad thai sits happily on the menu here beside fiery red curries. The predominantly white décor, decorated with lithographs of a Buddhist temple, won't distract you from the food, but the extensive wine list is worth a look, particularly for Rieslings, which go so well with Thai dishes. \| Average main: €18 \| Brandstwiete 46, Altstadt \| 040/3339–5005 \| www.manee-thai.com \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Messberg. Parlament. GERMAN \| Set in what was once the Ratsweinkeller, the town hall's traditional pub, this restaurant is an almost ironic tribute to the basement's former occupant, with an eclectic mix of historic and modern styles. On the menu are no-nonsense meat and fish meals with a light touch of German nouvelle cuisine. This grand restaurant also creates amazing Flammkuchen, Alsace's take on pizza. \| Average main: €18 \| Rathausmarkt 1, Altstadt \| 040/7038–3399 \| www.parlament-hamburg.de \| Closed Sun. Apr.–Oct. \| Station: Rathaus (U-Bahn). Saliba Alsterarkaden. MIDDLE EASTERN \| Underneath the arches of an elegant arcade, this popular café has superb views of the Town Hall. If the sun peeks out, the inside is empty, because everyone is perched at a canalside table. There they can sip on some excellent German wine and watch swans glide across the water. The menu includes may Syrian and other Middle Eastern dishes. \| Average main: €20 \| Neuer Wall 13, Neustadt \| 040/345–021 \| www.saliba.de. Se7en Oceans. ECLECTIC \| It may not have the best location, being as it's inside a busy shopping mall, but this intriguing combination of a Michelin-starred restaurant, sushi bar, bistro, and cigar lounge, is worth a visit nonetheless. Located on the upper floor (OG2) of the large Europa Passage, Se7ven Oceans has a wall of windows to provide amazing views of the inner Alster lake and Jungfernstieg, its promenade. Promoting itself as a "multidimensional" culinary experience, the restaurant aims to cater to every size of wallet and appetite, with scallop and Persian caviar starters in the high-end restaurant, sashimi and sake, or cocktails and chicken wings at the Oceans Bar. TIP The sushi bar is a great option for lunch. It's reasonably priced and rarely crowded. \| Average main: €35 \| Europa Passage, Ballindamm 40, Altstadt \| 40/3250–7944 \| www.se7en-oceans.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel Abendmahl. ECLECTIC \| On a quiet square off the Reeperbahn, Abendmahl is a great launching point for a night out on the town. Candlelight, wooden tables, and deep red decor set the tone. Relaxed yet romantic, it's the type of place where you can show up in everything from jeans and a T-shirt to a suit, and still get the same attentive service. In addition to a small selection of primarily Mediterranean and northern German dishes on the à la carte menu, there's also a four-course menu that changes daily. \| Average main: €19 \| Hein-Köllisch-Pl. 6, St. Pauli \| 040/312–758 \| www.restaurantabendmahl.de \| No credit cards \| No lunch \| Station: Reeperbahn (S-bahn). Bullerei. STEAKHOUSE \| The success of this extremely popular café and restaurant derives from being owned and run by celebrity chef Tim Mälzer (an old colleague and friend of Jamie Oliver) and its menu's heavy emphasis on meat. The stripped-down interior with exposed brick and pipes is inside a former livestock hall in the heart of the Schanze. Every night, the busy but friendly waitstaff ferries large plates of steak and pork to tables, while diners dig into bowls of lamb bolognese in the white-tiled "deli" next door. TIP If you can't get a table, grab a place at the busy bar and eat there instead. \| Average main: €24 \| Lagerstr. 34 B, Schanzenviertel \| 040/3344–2100 \| www.bullerei.com \| Reservations essential \| No lunch \| Station: Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn). Juwelier. MODERN EUROPEAN \| Despite its luxurious name ("Jeweler"), this excellent little restaurant not far from Schanzenpark is simply laid out. Its wood tables are covered in white tablecloths, and the cream-color walls are gently lit by art deco lampshades. The food, however, is anything but plain. Diners can order enticing dishes that include chicken with asparagus, strawberries, and wild herbs, or turbot with mashed peas and bacon. There are also three- or four-course prix-fixe menus. \| Average main: €21 \| Weidenallee 27, Schanzenviertel \| 040/2548–1678 \| www.juwelier-restaurant.de \| No credit cards \| No lunch \| Station: Christuskirche (U-bahn), Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Mess. GERMAN \| This is one of the most popular restaurants in the hip Karolinenviertel (called "Karo-Viertel" by Hamburgers). It serves wild flavors like Thunfisch-Mangostapel mit Grüne Tomatenmarmelade, Pak Choi und Jasminreis (a tower of tuna and mango with green-tomato chutney served with bok choi and jasmine rice) along with more traditional German fare such as Wiener schnitzel and Bratkartoffeln (fried potatoes). For lunch, order the two-course lunch menu (€20) or the pasta special for €9. TIP In summer, try to get a table in the small garden under the pergola and sample vintages from the restaurant's own wine store. \| Average main: €25 \| Turnerstr. 9, Schanzenviertel \| 040/4325–0152 \| www.mess.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. \| Station: Feldstrasse (U-bahn). Nil. GERMAN \| The simple but cool style, excellent service, and high-quality food at this busy bistro keep the locals coming back. The focus is on seafood and modern German dishes, with seasonal variations using local produce. Inventive four-course menus merge typical German cuisine with international flavors. \| Average main: €21 \| Neuer Pferdemarkt 5, St. Pauli \| 040/439–7823 \| www.restaurant-nil.de \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Closed Tues. No lunch \| Station: Feldstrasse (U-bahn). River-Kasematten. ECLECTIC \| There is no other restaurant in town that better embodies Hamburg's international spirit and its lust for style, entertainment, and good seafood. This former jazz club, now elegantly decorated with black oak floors, leather seats, and redbrick walls, hosts a mix of hip guests. New Zealand lamb, Angus steak, spiced-up regional fish dishes, and exotic soups are the order of the day. \| Average main: €21 \| Fischmarkt 28–32, St. Pauli \| 040/892–760 \| www.river-kasematten.de \| Reservations essential \| No lunch Mon.–Sat. Closed Mon.–Wed. \| Station: Fischmarkt (Bus 112), Reeperbahn (S-bahn). ## St. Georg Café Gnosa. GERMAN \| Very much a part of Hamburg's gay and lesbian neighborhood, this local favorite has produced delicious desserts and the perfect breakfasts since 1987. It also serves delicious comfort foods like pasta and schnitzel as well as salads. The friendly service and occasional drag performances both add to its popularity. \| Average main: €9 \| Lange Reihe 93, St. Georg \| 040/243–034 \| www.gnosa.de. Cox. GERMAN \| Cox has delighted guests with its nouvelle German cuisine for years. It remains one of the hippest places around, but the waitstaff (and the patrons, for that matter) won't give you any attitude. The dishes feature the careful use of fresh produce and spices from around the globe. The simple and cool interior with red-leather banquettes is reminiscent of a French brasserie. \| Average main: €19 \| Lange Reihe 68, at Greifswalder Str. 43, St. Georg \| 040/249–422 \| www.restaurant-cox.de \| No lunch weekends. \| Station: Gurlittstrasse (Bus No. 6), Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-Bahn). * * * Hamburg's Chain Restaurants After a long day of shopping or for a break between museums, stop for delicious as well as economical bite at one of these chain restaurants. Block House. Founder Eugen Block opened the first Block House steakhouse in Hamburg in 1968 after falling in love with the concept in San Francisco. Today, there are 14 outlets in Hamburg and dozens more in the rest of Germany and Spain and Portugal. The good-size steaks come with a baked potato or fries, salad, and garlic bread. \| www.block-house.de. Campus Suite. This northern German chain started on a university campus in Kiel. The restaurant, with 14 outposts in Hamburg, serve reasonably priced Asian and pasta dishes, couscous, sandwiches, muffins, croissants, and coffee drinks. Beer, wine, and champagne are also available. \| www.campussuite.de. Schweinske. This is Germany's answer to T.G.I. Friday's. Crowds turn out for after-work drink specials and German comfort food, like schnitzel and curry wurst. This Hamburg creation has 33 outlets in the city and more throughout the rest of the country. \| www.schweinske.com. Vapiano. This hugely popular Italian restaurant was born in downtown Hamburg; there are three in central locations, and many more scattered around Germany and the world. To customize your dish, you first choose the type of pasta or pizza you want, then select the toppings, sauces, and ingredients to go with it. \| www.vapiano.com. * * * Fodor's Choice \| Doria. MODERN EUROPEAN \| At the end of 2010, Doria started drawing adventurous food-lovers to the seedy Hansaplatz. Ignoring the prostitutes and junkies outside, they came for the modern European cuisine that the convivial owner Hasko Sadrina expertly prepared—and for Doria's softly lit, rustic ambience. These days the square isn't quite as sketchy, but the food and service is just as good. You still might have to sidestep the occasional streetwalker, but you'll be rewarded with expertly prepared dishes that include poached salmon with asparagus and wild venison with cranberry sorbet. \| Average main: €20 \| Hansapl. 14, St. Georg \| 040/3867–2848 \| www.doria14.de \| Closed Mon. \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn). Il Buco. ITALIAN \| This neighborhood favorite is easily missed, sitting as it does on a street off Hansaplatz. Intrepid diners must then descend five steps and open a door to the warm and cozy dining room. The atmosphere is definitely more grandmother's living room than downtown trattoria. There's even a sofa-size painting of a cliff perched over water. In place of a menu, a server asks what you are in the mood for, describes the evening's options, and makes recommendations. In a typical evening, a hearty saltimbocca may follow a colorful antipasti plate. Even if you're dining alone, meals are comforting—and they're always quite filling. \| Average main: €18 \| Zimmerpforte 5, St. Georg \| 040/247–310 \| Closed Sun. No lunch \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Speicherstadt and HafenCity Carl's an der Elbphilharmonie. FRENCH \| This extension of the Hotel Louis C. Jacob, at the edge of the Elbe and next to the site of the Elbphilharmonie, is a pleasure on many levels. The relaxed Bistro restaurant serves quiche, tartines, and other small dishes. The more formal Brasserie looks like typically Parisian brasserie and features a large bay window with excellent views of ships gliding up the Elbe. The French menu has touches of German flavors and local fish dishes, and service here is warm and knowledgeable. Below the two restaurants sits an elegant bar and the Kultur Salon, with live classical music concerts and jazz performances. \| Average main: €25 \| Am Kaiserkai 69, HafenCity \| 40/3003–22400 \| www.carls-brasserie.de \| Reservations essential. Das Feuerschiff. EUROPEAN \| This bright-red lightship served in the English Channel before it retired to the city harbor in 1989 and became a landmark restaurant, guesthouse, and pub. Local favorites such as Hamburger Pannfisch (panfried fish with mustard sauce) and Labskaus (a mixture of corned beef, potato, onion, beet, and, if you're brave, herring) are on the ship's extensive menu, along with Argentinian steaks and Iberian pork. TIP Jazz musicians take the stage on Monday, and a variety of bands play a few times a month. \| Average main: €22 \| Vorsetzen, City Sporthafen, Speicherstadt \| 040/362–553 \| www.das-feuerschiff.de \| Station: Baumwall (U-bahn). Vlet. GERMAN \| Inspired by its location inside a Speicherstadt warehouse, this modern restaurant has exposed brick and beams that add a rustic charm to the large dining room and its sleek furniture and lighting. Like the architecture, Vlet's menu combines traditional German methods with new techniques. The restaurant's Labskaus, in a twist on the old Hamburg favorite of beef, potato and beet, is made as a clear soup instead of a stew. The kitchen also offers diverse à la carte menus, including a tasting menu that can be accompanied by corresponding glasses of wine, and the permanent "Durable" menu, which includes beef tartare prepared at the table. Although service is formal, the dining room is relaxed. \| Average main: €24 \| Am Sandtorkai 23/24, entrance at Kibbelstegbrücke, Speicherstadt \| 040/3347–53750 \| www.vlet.de \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. ## Altona and Ottensen Au Quai. INTERNATIONAL \| The Au Quai is still a shining star in the row of romantic restaurants that are along the waterfront. The dining room, like the menu, is eclectic. An Asian goddess statue looks over a koi pond, and groovy overhead lamps light a room of modernistic tables and chairs after the sun has stopped shining through the wall of windows. The outside terrace is a big draw in summer, and the restaurant is a firm favorite with the fashion and business crowds. TIP The €18 three-course Business Lunch includes parking. \| Average main: €25 \| Grosse Elbstr. 145B-D, Altona \| 040/3803–7730 \| www.au-quai.com \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. \| Station: Königstrasse (S-bahn). Fischereihafen Restaurant Hamburg. SEAFOOD \| For some of the best fish in Hamburg, book a table at this splendid portside restaurant. Plain from the outside, the restaurant feels like a dining room aboard a luxury liner inside, with oil paintings of nautical scenes hanging on the walls and white linen on the tables. The menu changes daily according to what's available in the fish market that morning; the elegant oyster bar here is a favorite with the city's beau monde. TIP In summer, try to get a table on the sun terrace for a great view of the Elbe. \| Average main: €29 \| Grosse Elbstr. 143, Altona \| 040/381–816 \| www.fischereihafenrestaurant.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Altona (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Landhaus Scherrer. GERMAN \| Though this establishment is just a 10-minute drive from the center of town, its parklike setting seems worlds away from the high-rise clamor of the city. A proud owner of a Michelin star since it opened its doors in 1978, Landhaus Scherrer continues to be one of the city's best-known and most celebrated restaurants. The restaurant's focus is on the use of organic, sustainable ingredients to produce classic and modern German cuisine with international touches. Wood-panel walls and soft lighting create a low-key mood in the main building, which was once a brewery. Unsurprisingly, the accompanying wine list is exceptional. There's also a small bistro here, where diners can feast on similar fare at lower prices. For delicious German comfort food (currywurst and potato salad), try the sister property, Ö1. \| Average main: €32 \| Elbchaussee 130, Ottensen \| 040/880–1325 \| www.landhausscherrer.de \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Hohenzollernring (Bus Nos. 15 and 36), Königstrasse (S-bahn). Restaurant Eisenstein. ITALIAN \| A longtime neighborhood favorite, Eisenstein serves fantastic food at affordable prices. The bubbly and mostly stylish crowd enjoys the Italian and Mediterranean dishes. The Pizza Helsinki (made with crème fraîche, onions, and salmon) is truly delicious. The setting, a 19th-century industrial complex with high ceilings and dark brick walls, feels very rustic. \| Average main: €14 \| Friedensallee 9, Ottensen \| 040/390–4606 \| www.restaurant-eisenstein.de \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Station: Altona (S-bahn). Rive. SEAFOOD \| This handsome harborside oyster bar is known for both its German nouvelle cuisine and its classic local dishes. Media types come to this shiplike building for the fresh oysters and clams, as well as its spectacular views. Choose between such dishes as hearty Matjes mit dreierlei Saucen (herring with three sauces) or Loup de Mer in der Salzkruste (European sea bass in a salt crust). \| Average main: €23 \| Van-der-Smissen-Str. 1, Kreuzfahrt-Center, Altona \| 040/380–5919 \| www.rive.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Königstrasse (S-bahn). ## Blankenese and Elsewhere Vienna. AUSTRIAN \| The trick to getting a table at this much-loved little bistro in Eimsbüttel is to get there early. The kitchen officially opens for business at 7, but Vienna opens its doors midafternoon for those wanting an espresso or aperitif from their tiny bar. Early arrivers might still be asked to share a table in the dining room or outside in the courtyard but, given the delicious schnitzels, fresh fish dishes, and hearty deserts coming out of the kitchen, it will matter little to most. \| Average main: €17 \| Fettstr. 2, Eimsbüttel \| 040/439–9182 \| www.vienna-hamburg.de \| Reservations not accepted \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. No lunch \| Station: Christuskirche (U-bahn). Zipang. JAPANESE \| Hamburg may not have that many good Japanese restaurants, but this modern bistro-style restaurant is undoubtedly a gem. It's in the middle of Eppendorfer Weg, a long artery of little eateries and clothes and jewelry shops between Eppendorf and Eimsbüttel. Zipang has developed a loyal clientele of locals and Japanese expats through its warm service and modern interpretation of Japanese haute cuisine. As well as the typical offerings of sushi and tempura udon, the menu here features such treats as Wagyu beef with dipping sauces and duck and eggplant in red miso sauce. TIP The restaurant has a daily lunch special with a small miso soup and a dessert for around €10. \| Average main: €18 \| Eppendorfer Weg 171, Eppendorf \| 040/4328–0032 \| www.zipang.de \| Closed Tues. No lunch Sun. \| Station: Hoheluftbrücke (U-bahn). Genno's. ITALIAN \| Genno's is far from the downtown district, in Hamburg-Hamm—a rundown residential area where you would hardly expect to find such a gem of high-quality dining. Chef Eugen Albrecht makes you feel at home with warm service and tasty dishes. The cuisine is a mixture of his personal preferences, including dishes such as Lammfilet mit Rotweinsauce (filet of lamb with red-wine sauce). \| Average main: €16 \| Hammer Steindamm 123, Hamm \| 040/202–567 \| www.gennos.de \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. No lunch \| Station: Hasselbrook (S-bahn). Seven Seas. FRENCH \| The location of this sophisticated hotel and restaurant complex, a small hill in the countryside along the Elbe, comes with one of the greatest views of the river you'll find anywhere. The Seven Seas' award-winning French kitchen is run by one of Europe's premier chefs, Karlheinz Hauser, and features fish specialties served in three- to five-course dinners. \| Average main: €36 \| Süllbergsterrasse 12, Blankenese \| 040/8662–5212 \| www.suellberg-hamburg.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch Wed.–Sat. \| Station: Blankenese (S-bahn), Kahlkamp (Bus No. 48). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Altstadt and Neustadt \| St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel \| St. Georg \| Speicherstadt and HafenCity \| Altona and Ottensen \| Blankenese and Elsewhere Hamburg has simple pensions as well as five-star luxury enterprises. Nearly year-round conference and convention business keeps most rooms booked well in advance, and the rates are high. But many of the more expensive hotels lower their rates on weekends, when businesspeople have gone home. The tourist office can help with reservations if you arrive with nowhere to stay. In Hamburg, independent hotels may not have coffeemakers or an information book in the guest rooms, but, in general, you will find generously sized rooms and staffs willing to answer questions about the hotel. Hotels without business centers will fax and copy for you. At hotels without concierges, front-desk staff will whip out a map and give recommendations. All accommodations offer no-smoking rooms. Although breakfast is not usually included, those who opt for the meal are usually greeted with an all-you-can-eat masterpiece with hot food options that sometimes includes an omelet station. Keep in mind that you'll probably encounter nudity in coed saunas at most hotels. Also, most double beds are made of two single beds on a large platform and an individual blanket for each mattress. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ## Altstadt and Neustadt Adina Apartment Hotel Hamburg Michel. HOTEL \| The Adina is less like a hotel and more like an apartment swap involving some really cool friends. The decor is neither too slick nor too generic, and the incredible amount of space and amenities are the stars here. The modern guest rooms feature full kitchens with dishwashers and full-size fridges, which can be prestocked for a €5 fee. The hominess might keep businesspeople and families coming back, but the location near the Reeperbahn also draws in a younger crowd on weekends. lThe hotel is down the street from an Edeka supermarket. Pros: excellent location; huge guest rooms with many amenities; free Wi-Fi in public spaces. Cons: indoor pool area is small and can be rowdy; Wi-Fi fee in guest rooms. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Neuer Steinweg 26, Altstadt \| 040/226–3500 \| www.adina.eu \| 128 apartments \| No meals \| Station: Stadhausbrücke (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Fairmont Vier Jahreszeiten. HOTEL \| Some claim that this beautiful 19th-century town house on the edge of the Binnenalster is the best hotel in Germany. Antiques - the hotel has a set of near-priceless Gobelin tapestries - fill the public rooms and accentuate the stylish bedrooms; fresh flowers overflow from massive vases; rare oil paintings adorn the walls; and all rooms are individually decorated with superb taste. Thankfully the technology found in the rooms is up-to-date, with Nespresso pod coffeemakers, DVD players, and iPod docking stations. lWith ten different places for dining and drinking within its premises, you don't necessarily need to stay overnight to get a taste of the Vier Jahreszeiten's famous luxury. Pros: luxury hotel with great view of Alster lakes; close to shopping on Jungfernstieg; large, charming rooms. Cons: high prices even in off-season; not much in way of nightlife outside of the hotel. \| Rooms from: €395 \| Neuer Jungfernstieg 9–14, Neustadt \| 040/34940 \| www.fairmont-hvj.de \| 123 rooms, 33 suites \| No meals \| Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn). Grand Elysée Hamburg. HOTEL \| The "grand" at the Grand Elysée Hamburg refers to its size, from the near 11,000-square-foot wellness area and five restaurants to the 511 guest rooms and extra-wide beds. The centerpiece of the hotel is the Boulevard, which was modeled after the Champs Elysée and is lined with restaurants and a bar. The Grand Foyer features a lush, tropical installation with a waterfall and an accompanying bar, a large, quiet sitting area, and abstract art. Outside the Bourbon Street Bar, a piano player fills the air with music throughout the afternoon and evening. Pros: large guest rooms; close to tourist sites; diverse art throughout hotel; free Wi-Fi. Cons: rooms are rather plain; busy public spaces. \| Rooms from: €200 \| Rothenbaumchaussee 10, Altstadt \| 040/414–120 \| www.grand-elysee.com \| 494 rooms, 17 suites \| No meals \| Station: Dammtor (S-bahn). Henri Hotel. HOTEL \| Concealed down a side street not far from the main station, this small boutique hotel, with its retro-styled rooms, furniture, and phones, will undoubtedly please fans of film noir and Mad Men. The hotel's designers wanted regular business clients to feel at home, too, so guest rooms are softly lit, their dark, wooden chairs and cabinets offset by light green walls, gray curtains, and white wood panels behind the beds. As a result, the Henri feels a lot like a stylish bachelor pad, a sensation heightened by the hotel's small, denlike lobby and lounge, which flow on to an open-plan kitchen space, where there's a communal refrigerator stacked with bottles of beer and tubs of ice cream. Pros: intimate, friendly service; very quiet; excellent house cocktail; stylish black-and white-tiled bathrooms. Cons: may seem a little masculine for some tastes; on an otherwise uninspiring side street; limited nightlife in the area. \| Rooms from: €118 \| Bugenhagenstr. 21, Altstadt \| 040/554–3570 \| www.henri-hotel.com \| 65 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), Mönckebergstrasse (U-bahn). Hotel Baseler Hof. HOTEL \| It's hard to find fault with this handsome central hotel near the Binnenalster and the opera house; the service is friendly and efficient, the rooms are neatly albeit plainly furnished, and the prices are reasonable for such an expensive city. The hotel caters to both individuals and convention groups, so the otherwise roomy lounge area can be crowded at times. A small gym, a bar, and a restaurant ($$) specializing in German and French cuisine round off the facilities. Pros: directly across from the casino; walking distance from Dammtor train station. Cons: small rooms; rooms at the front of the hotel face onto a busy street. \| Rooms from: €154 \| Esplanade 11, Neustadt \| 040/359–060 \| www.baselerhof.de \| 176 rooms, 8 suites \| No meals \| Station: Stephansplatz (U-bahn). Hotel Fürst Bismarck. HOTEL \| Despite its slightly sketchy location on a busy street opposite the Hauptbahnhof, the Fürst Bismarck is a surprisingly attractive hotel that feels homey yet contemporary. Grandfather clocks and old-fashioned chests of drawers decorate the hundred-year-old hallways, and the hotel's rooms are reasonably sized and comfortable, although sometimes a little plain. Shopping on Mönckebergstrasse, whiling away afternoons at museums, and dining on Lange Reihe are just footsteps away from here. lGuests get a free three-day public transport pass. Pros: centrally located; competitive prices; free pass for public transportation. Cons: basic bathrooms; small rooms; small additional fee for Wi-Fi. \| Rooms from: €129 \| Kirchenallee 49, Altstadt \| 040/280–1091 \| www.fuerstbismarck.de \| 102 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Motel One Am Michel. HOTEL \| This branch of the Motel One chain is ideal for those looking for a trendy, design-minded, central yet inexpensive base. The bed linens are sumptuous, towels are lush, and the bed is crowned with real leather and dark wood. The bathrooms have rainfall showerheads, and the shampoo and conditioner are made from organic ingredients. The rooms are small, however, and lack basics like telephones, chairs, closets (there is a bar for hanging clothes), and information about the hotel or the city in the guest rooms (you can't call anyone to ask a question, either). There are flat-screen TVs, though. The coffee machines and juice dispenser used at breakfast are hidden behind panels in the lobby, which is a breakfast room in the morning and a bar at night. Despite this efficiency, breakfast can be chaotic. It's close to the convention center, the Reeperbahn, St. Michaelis Kirche, and Planten un Blomen. Pros: close to the best nightlife in town; bar open 24 hours; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no amenities; no restaurant; small rooms. \| Rooms from: €84 \| Ludwig-Erhard-Str. 26, Altstadt \| 040/3571–8900 \| www.motel-one.com \| 437 rooms \| No meals. Fodor's Choice \| Park Hyatt Hamburg. HOTEL \| Housed within the historic Levantehaus, a luxury mall on the city's main shopping drag, the Park Hyatt delivers the hospitality and comfort expected of one of Germany's best hotels, with plush beds, marble bathrooms, and peace and quiet. The open lobby is full of wood panels and soft illumination, and this feeling of space and light extends to the hotel's large guest rooms and bathrooms. Those weary after a long day can relax in the hotel's stylish bar, or book a massage in the huge, 10,800-square-foot wellness area, which includes a 20-meter-long pool and a fully equipped gym. Suitably refreshed, guests can take high tea in the Park Lounge or indulge in something more substantial from the grill in the Apples Restaurant ($$$$). lThe hotel's back faces busy Mönckebergstrasse, making this the most centrally located five-star property in town. Pros: close to museums; warm interior design; large, quiet rooms with all modern amenities; friendly and helpful service. Cons: area can feel dead on Sunday, when all the stores are closed; far from most nightlife. \| Rooms from: €235 \| Bugenhagenstr. 8, Neustadt \| 040/3332–1234 \| www.hamburg.park.hyatt.com \| 176 rooms, 21 suites, 31 apartments \| No meals \| Station: Mönckebergstrasse (U-bahn). Radisson Blu Hotel, Hamburg. HOTEL \| There's no missing the black glass and gray concrete form of the Radisson Blu, which towers 100 meters above Dammtor train station, with sweeping views of Planten un Blomen and the city. Built in 1973, it's a bold yet welcoming property that resembles a giant harmonica balanced on one end. Guest rooms here have three modern design styles: pale wood and earth tone furnishings; bold aquas and mustard interiors; and black lacquer accents, dark wood, and turquoise carpets. Connected to a congress center, the hotel is a favorite of business travelers, and has all the amenities to keep them happy. Pros: some of the best views in town; very stylish; next to a major train station; ladies-only sauna. Cons: small gym; sleeping area has a window into bathroom, and the blinds are controlled from outside the bathroom; few good restaurants in immediate area. \| Rooms from: €175 \| Marseiller Str. 2, Neustadt \| 040/35020 \| www.radissonblu.de \| 556 rooms, 9 suites \| No meals \| Station: Dammtor (S-bahn). SIDE. HOTEL \| Futuristic, minimalistic—call it what you like, but this hip five-star hotel has been a byword for inner city cool since its opening in 2001. On a side street near the opera, SIDE stands out from the rest of the crowd not because of its exterior, which is rather bland, but because of what's on the inside. Guests are greeted by a soaring, glass-paneled atrium and sleek, space-age interiors decorated with brightly colored cubes and pebble-shape furniture, all designed by the Milanese maestro Matteo Thun. The hotel's popularity with its business clientele and local fashionistas is enhanced by its excellent cocktail bar and eatery restaurant, which many claim does the best dry-aged beef in town. Pros: Nespresso pod coffeemakers in rooms; convenient but quiet location. Cons: some might find decor sterile; most guest rooms lack views. \| Rooms from: €160 \| Drehbahn 49, Neustadt \| 040/309–990 \| www.side-hamburg.de \| 168 rooms, 10 suites \| No meals \| Station: Gänsemarkt (U-bahn). Sofitel Hamburg Alter Wall. HOTEL \| Behind the facade of a centrally located, former Deutsche Post building hides the sleek décor and famously comfortable beds of one of the city's finest business hotels. Dominated by gray, white, and dark-brown hues, rooms are furnished with tasteful, contemporary furniture, huge beds (by German standards), and even bigger marble bathrooms. The Sofitel's Ticino restaurant serves flavors from around the world, its lunch bistro and Seagull restaurants focus on specialties from France. Downstairs there's a cozy indoor pool and spa area, decked out in Italian tiles and natural stone, as well as a small gym. Pros: in the historic downtown area; close to luxury shops; large rooms. Cons: somewhat cold design; no real nightlife within walking distance. \| Rooms from: €215 \| Alter Wall 40, Altstadt \| 040/369–500 \| www.sofitel.com \| 223 rooms, 18 suites \| No meals \| Station: Rödingsmarkt (U-bahn). ## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel The Boston. HOTEL \| Taking its cue from the funky Sternschanze neighborhood where it's located, The Boston is ultramodern and sleek, and its small staff works hard for its mostly business clientele. The hotel's public spaces are created with a dark palette of black and grays, with white and orange highlights. The bright guest rooms are enormous and comfortable. The so-called Design rooms are a bit more adventurous, than the Classic ones, with clever innovations like closets hidden behind fake walls. The gym is small but rarely used; people come to the Boston for its proximity to the convention center, the Neue Flora Theatre, and the cool bars and restaurants in Sternschanze, not to work out. Pros: the design is chic and comfortable; staff is very helpful; close to great bars and restaurants. Cons: no a/c (the hotel has some fans for guests); windows open but noise from street traffic can be a problem. \| Rooms from: €160 \| Missundestr. 2, Schanzenviertel \| 040/5896–66700 \| www.boston-hamburg.de \| 34 rooms, 12 suites \| No meals \| Station: Holstenstrasse (S-bahn). Empire Riverside Hotel. HOTEL \| The location near the Reeperbahn and the harbor, the clever use of space and light, and a cool bar that attracts thousands every weekend make the Empire a favorite. The white-walled guest rooms feel spacious and airy, and most have river views. Dark-wood banquettes replace traditional desks, and pocket doors allow entry into the bright bathrooms. Even though the hotel is three short blocks from the center of the Reeperbahn, there is little noise. You cannot even hear the revelers who line up to sip expensive cocktails in the 20 Up bar, which sits on the hotel's top level and has awesome views of the Elbe and Hamburg. On Saturday night, the line for the popular bar snakes through the lobby. lAfter 5 pm, a sushi bar opens in David's bar on the ground floor. Pros: close to nightlife; excellent view of the city and river; bright rooms; free Wi-Fi. Cons: a steep hill separates the hotel from the harbor; top-floor bar gets crowded after 9 pm on weekends. \| Rooms from: €159 \| Bernhard-Nocht-Stra. 97, St. Pauli \| 040/311–190 \| www.empire-riverside.de \| 315 rooms, 12 suites \| No meals \| Station: Reeperbahn (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| east Hotel. HOTEL \| Not content to limit itself to merely being a place to sleep, this chic landmark hotel combines a buzzing cocktail bar with a similarly trendy sushi and steak restaurant to create one of the hottest spots in town. In contrast to the brickwork on its facade, the inside of this former iron foundry is full of curvy, funky shapes and forms and open spaces of deep oranges, dark browns, and creams. The effect, whether in the hotel's lobby bar or in one of its funky, open-plan guest rooms, is one of almost immediate comfort and a sense of escape from the frenetic nighttime activity of the Reeperbahn, a few blocks away. Pros: unique; popular nightclub on third floor (Friday and Saturday only); excellent service. Cons: a small fee for the gym after 6 pm; parking garage is removed from main building; area around the hotel can be frenetic on weekends. \| Rooms from: €190 \| Simon-von-Utrecht-Str. 31, St. Pauli \| 040/309-930 \| www.east-hamburg.de \| 122 rooms, 6 suites \| No meals \| Station: St Pauli (U-bahn). fritzhotel. HOTEL \| Squeezed into an old apartment building in the center of the Schanzenviertel, the hotel has small but modern and comfortable rooms that are best for those who just want somewhere good to lay their head for a night or two. There may not be much in the way of amenities, and breakfast is limited to free coffee and fresh fruit, but the hotel's location in the middle of an area famous for its cool cafés, restaurants, and bars will be more than enough for some. Pros: tidy, clean rooms for reasonable prices; the S- and U-bahn are across the street. Cons: noisy due to the S-bahn tracks; area crowded on weekend nights; can be difficult to find a parking place near the hotel. \| Rooms from: €97 \| Schanzenstr. 101–103, Schanzenviertel \| 040/8222–2830 \| www.fritzhotel.com \| 15 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Hafen Hamburg. HOTEL \| This harbor landmark, just across from the famous St. Pauli Landungsbrücken, is a good value considering its four-star status. The main part of the hotel has small but nicely renovated rooms, while the modern tower annex offers a great view of the harbor. The location makes this hotel a perfect starting point for exploring St. Pauli and the Reeperbahn. Venture to the Portuguese Quarter to try unbelievable food from the Iberian Peninsula. lThe Tower Bar is a popular Hamburg hangout and a great spot for a sundowner. Pros: top location for harbor and St. Pauli sightseeing; great views; comfortable, fairly large rooms; free Wi-Fi. Cons: smoking allowed in Tower Bar; poor restaurant selection in immediate neighborhood; a bit of a climb to reach hotel from the pier. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Seewartenstr. 7–9, St. Pauli \| 040/311–130 \| www.hotel-hafen-hamburg.de \| 380 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Landungsbrücken (U-bahn). Mövenpick Hotel Hamburg. HOTEL \| For its Hamburg outpost, the Mövenpick chain transformed a 19th-century water tower on a hill in the middle of the leafy Schanzenpark into a state-of-the-art business hotel. Inside the handsome facade, much of the original tower still remains; the lobby features brick walls and vaulted ceilings, while steel from the structure frames guest-room doors. The guest rooms are all reasonably sized and stylishly modern, but the further you climb the hotel, the greater the comfort and views. The many amenities here include an excellent restaurant serving international and Swiss cuisine, as well as a gym, pool, and spa. Pros: in the middle of a quiet park; unique building; amazing views from upper floors; English-language newspaper available in restaurant. Cons: paid Wi-Fi in some guest rooms; some lower level rooms have ordinary views. \| Rooms from: €139 \| Sternschanze 6, Schanzenviertel \| 040/334–4110 \| www.moevenpick-hamburg.com \| 226 rooms, 10 suites \| No meals \| Station: Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## St. Georg The George Hotel. HOTEL \| At the end of a strip of funky cafés and bars, the George, with its groovy New British styling, fits right in; despite the sleek look and the hip guests, the staff is eager to please. Champagnes, grays, and browns mix throughout guest rooms, and large arty photographs add life throughout the hotel. In the small lobby, wingback chairs and textured wallpaper, both covered in shades of black, are illuminated by candlelight. The hotel has a rooftop bar that offers views of the Alster and the setting sun. lKeeping with the British theme, afternoon tea is served in the bar at 3 pm. Pros: free Wi-Fi; DJs play in the hotel on weekends; a stone's throw from the Alster. Cons: can be noisy, particularly for guests on the first floor; some may find the design unwelcoming. \| Rooms from: €185 \| Barcastr. 3, St. Georg \| 040/280–0300 \| www.thegeorge-hotel.de \| 118 rooms, 7 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), AK St. Georg (Bus No. 6). Hotel Village. HOTEL \| Near the central train station and once a thriving brothel, this hotel and its red-and-black carpets, glossy wallpaper, and dinky chandeliers still exudes lasciviousness. In keeping with the hotel's sordid past, some rooms even have replicas of the old large beds, complete with a canopy and revolving mirror. It's a popular location for magazine shoots. Pros: in the heart of downtown; individually designed rooms; fun decor; free coffee at reception. Cons: sometimes casual service; although it's slowly being gentrified, the neighborhood remains a little seedy. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Steindamm 4, St. Georg \| 040/480–6490 \| www.hotel-village.de \| 20 rooms, 3 suites, 4 apartments \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Atlantic Kempinski Hamburg. HOTEL \| There are few hotels in Germany more sumptuous than this gracious Edwardian palace facing the Aussenalster, which draws both celebrities and the not-so-famous searching for a luxe retreat. Built in 1909 for first-class passengers about to travel across the Atlantic, the hotel still exudes class. Tasteful desert hues mingle with deep-color furnishings in guest rooms, and Murano crystal chandeliers light belle -époque interiors. The marble-covered bathrooms have heated floors, and there are Bose sound systems and iPod docking stations in the large rooms. Guests can relax in the stately elegance of the lobby or in the outdoor courtyard, with only a gurgling fountain to disturb the peace. Pros: large rooms; great views of lakeside skyline; impeccable service; historic flair; free Wi-Fi throughout the hotel. Cons: public areas can be crowded; faces onto a busy thoroughfare. \| Rooms from: €229 \| An der Alster 72–79, St. Georg \| 040/28880 \| www.kempinski.com \| 215 rooms, 30 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Le Royal Méridien Hamburg. HOTEL \| This luxury hotel along the Alster offers you beauty inside and outside its walls. Contemporary art is on view throughout the hotel, including the elevator. The sleek but unassuming facade and ultramodern interior might border on cold, but the outstanding spa and wellness area (complete with an indoor lap pool) and the impeccable service make you feel comfortably at ease. The staff is the perfect blend of helpful and friendly. lYou can snack on fruit at the reception. In warm weather, a free ferry takes you across the Aussenalster to Jungfernstieg. Pros: great location with views of the Alster; smartly designed, large rooms; outstanding pool area; Wi-Fi free in lobby. Cons: pricey Wi-Fi; top-floor bar and restaurant can get crowded. \| Rooms from: €189 \| An der Alster 52–56, St. Georg \| 040/21000 \| www.leroyalmeridienhamburg.com \| 265 rooms, 19 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Steen's Hotel. HOTEL \| This small, family-run hotel in a four-story town house near the central train station provides modest but congenial service. The rooms have enough space but lack atmosphere. Bathrooms are tiny. A great plus are the comfortable beds with reclining head and foot rests. The breakfasts amply make up for the uninspired rooms, and the hotel's garage is a blessing, because there's never a parking space in this neighborhood. Pros: highly competitive prices; good breakfast; friendly service. Cons: rooms fairly plain; few amenities and hotel services; no elevator; fee for Wi-Fi. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Holzdamm 43, St. Georg \| 040/244–642 \| www.steens-hotel.com \| 15 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). Wedina. HOTEL \| A laid-back oasis in the bustling neighborhood of St. Georg, this unique small hotel is spread over four different buildings a short amble from the outer Alster. The Wedina's red, blue, green, and yellow houses bear themes that include "Tuscany" as well as "Literature." It's renowned for the famous authors, including J. K. Rowling and Jonathan Safran Foer, who have stayed here while giving readings at the nearby Literaturhaus. The red house has a small library of books signed by the hotel's literary guests, while the green "architecture" house is distinguished by smooth concrete and natural wood and views on to a peaceful "Swiss Zen" garden. lAll lodgings are a half block from the Aussenalster and a brisk 10-minute walk from the train station. Rent a bike from the hotel to tour the Alster. Pros: cozy, comfortable, and quiet rooms; very accommodating; knowledgeable staff; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel; great breakfast. Cons: hotel spread over several buildings; smallish rooms. \| Rooms from: €145 \| Gurlittstr. 23, St. Georg \| 040/280–8900 \| www.wedina.de \| 46 rooms, 13 apartments \| Breakfast \| Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), Gurlittstrasse (Bus No. 6). ## Speicherstadt and HafenCity 25Hours Hotel HafenCity. HOTEL \| Although the trendy 25hours Hotel HafenCity is a little more kitsch than absolutely necessary, it does take guests on a fun trip back to Hamburg's maritime past. The hotel information book is called a Logbook, which, along with guidance about the property and the city, contains the stories of 25 sailors. Guest rooms are outfitted with wooden buckets and rope ladders, and some rooms have bunks. The rooms include modern touches like iPod docking stations. The Club Room is a relaxing spot where guests can play vintage vinyl; the lobby boasts a Skype Cabin for calling home; and there's space for local bands to jam. There's also a little shop selling magazines and souvenirs, and a groovy bar and restaurant to hang out in on the ground floor. Pros: cool design; up-and-coming part of town; free Wi-Fi. Cons: trendy decor might be too trendy for some; not a lot of other nightlife options within walking distance. \| Rooms from: €125 \| Überseeallee 5, Speicherstadt \| 040/257–7770 \| www.25hours-hotels.com \| 170 rooms \| Station: Überseequartier (U-bahn). ## Altona and Ottensen 25hours Hotel Number One. HOTEL \| Packing fun and retro design into a relaxed package that includes beanbag chairs, shag carpets, and bold wallpapers, this is the type of place for travelers seeking something a bit different. Happily for those who decide to stay here, there's a load of freebies that come on top. Guests get a free bottle of beer at check-in, free ice cream in summer, free songs from a jukebox in the lounge, and free use of a MINI car or bikes during the day. There's also a 15% discount for those under 26, but given all the extras and the hotel's friendly staff, it's unsurprising that it's popular with families and business travelers as well. Pros: free Wi-Fi; shopping center and supermarket nearby. Cons: removed from the city center; a 10-minute walk to the nearest train station. \| Rooms from: €135 \| 2 Paul-Dessau-Str., Altona \| 040/855–070 \| www.25hours-hotels.com \| 128 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Bahrenfeld (S-bahn). Gastwerk Hotel Hamburg. HOTEL \| Proudly dubbing itself Hamburg's first design hotel, the Gastwerk, named after the 100-year-old gasworks housed inside, is certainly one of the most stylish places to stay in town. Incredibly chic furnishings, warm woods, and thick carpets complement the industrial grandeur of the hotel, and its large, modern guest rooms all have newly renovated bathrooms and flat-screen TVs. lThe loft rooms, with large windows, exposed brick walls, and tons of space, are well worth the extra cost. Pros: large and well-equipped health club; free use of a MINI car. Cons: removed from downtown area and most sightseeing spots; breakfast room, bar and other public spaces can get crowded. \| Rooms from: €160 \| Beim Alten Gaswerk 3, Altona \| 040/890–620 \| www.gastwerk.com \| 127 rooms, 14 suites \| No meals \| Station: Bahrenfeld (S-bahn). ## Blankenese and Elsewhere Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Louis C. Jacob. HOTEL \| Those who make the effort to travel 20 minutes from the center of town to this small yet luxurious hotel perched above Elbe will gain a mixture of sophistication, Michelin-starred dining, and fine Hanseatic hospitality. Founded in 1791, the hotel has drawn plenty of famous names to its chandeliered dining room and oak floored guest rooms over the years. Artist Max Liebermann stayed here and painted its leafy terrace with linden trees, and a suite still bears his name. From one of the hotel's tastefully appointed, river-view rooms you can watch passing ships, while the spacious rooms of the hotel's more modern wing across the road look on to manicured little courtyards. Pros: outstanding service with attention to personal requests; quiet, serene setting; historic building; extremely comfortable beds. Cons: lounge is a little stuffy; away from downtown area and most nightlife, restaurants, and shopping; expensive. \| Rooms from: €275 \| Elbchausee 401–403, Blankenese \| 040/822–550 \| www.hotel-jacob.de \| 66 rooms, 19 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hochkamp (S-bahn). FAMILY \| Lindner Park-Hotel Hagenbeck. HOTEL \| Everything at this hotel is aimed at transporting you from metropolitan Hamburg to the wilds of Asia and Africa. Inspired by its location right next to the zoo, the hotel features artwork, furnishings, and even smells from these continents to create spaces reminiscent of 19th-century safari outposts. The hotel also has every modern amenity, and the staff is friendly and competent. Because it is not in the heart of Hamburg, rooms are generous in size and many have balconies. Restaurant Augila produces an eclectic array of Indian and African dishes, which taste great but are not overly spicy. lYou can buy tickets to Tierpark Hagenbeck and the Tropen Aquarium at a 25% discount from the concierge. Pros: smartly designed Africa and Asia theme carried throughout hotel; a/c in guest rooms; good restaurants. Cons: removed from the city center; not much else going on in the immediate area; fee for Wi-Fi. \| Rooms from: €149 \| Hagenbeckstr. 150 \| 040/8008–08100 \| www.lindner.de \| 151 rooms, 7 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hagenbecks Tierpark (U-bahn). Nippon Hotel. HOTEL \| You'll be asked to remove your shoes before entering your room at this small but welcoming Japanese-style hotel, where tatami mats line the floor and shoji blinds cover the windows. The authenticity might make things a bit too spartan for some, but by cutting some Western-style comforts without skimping on service, the hotel offers good value in the attractive lakeside neighborhood of Uhlenhorst. Pros: quiet, residential neighborhood; a/c in guest rooms; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel. Cons: location removed from major sightseeing sights; limited parking. \| Rooms from: €126 \| Hofweg 75, Uhlenhorst \| 040/227–1140 \| www.nipponhotel.de \| 41 rooms, 1 suite \| No meals \| Station: Mundsburg (U-bahn), Zimmerstrasse (Bus No. 6). YoHo. HOTEL \| Housed in a historic villa that's an easy walk from the Schanzenviertel, this friendly, modern little hotel was originally designed and priced to attract a young, cosmopolitan crowd, but lots of others head here, too. Guest rooms, can sometimes be on the small side, but they are all tastefully outfitted with wooden shutters on the windows and black slate in the bathrooms. Most rooms also have flat-screen TVs, and despite the minimal decor, the hotel has an obvious warmth. Staff are helpful, and if you find yourself wanting a quiet night in, there's a good Middle Eastern restaurant, Mazza, on the ground floor, as well as DVDs you can borrow from reception. Pros: quiet neighborhood; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel; free parking. Cons: sometimes noisy due to young travelers; removed from all major sightseeing sights. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Moorkamp 5, Eimsbüttel \| 040/284–1910 \| www.yoho-hamburg.de \| 30 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Christuskirche (U-bahn), Schlump (U-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents The Arts \| Nightlife ## The Arts The arts flourish in this cosmopolitan city. Hamburg's ballet company is one of the finest in Europe, and the Hamburger Ballett-Tage, its annual festival, brings the best from around the world to Hamburg. At the end of September, the city comes alive with movie showings. The Hamburg Film Festival features the best feature films, documentary, short films, and children's movies. About 80% of the films are in English or have English subtitles. For two weeks, thousands of people watch mainstream and quirky films in various theaters around town. Information on all major events are available on the Hamburg Tourism Office website. TIP The best way to order tickets for all major Hamburg theaters, musicals, and most cultural events is through the Hamburg-Hotline ( 040/3005–1300). Funke Konzertkassen. Hamburg's largest ticket seller has box offices throughout Hamburg, including one at Dammtor train station with English-speaking agents. The website is only in German, but a ticket hotline will connect you with English-speaking representatives. \| Dammtorbahnhof, Dag-Hammarskjöldpl., Neustadt \| 040/663–661 \| www.funke-ticket.de. Hamburg.de. The city's official website is a good source for information about cultural and arts events going on in the city. Just click the "What's on" tab. \| www.english.hamburg.de. Landungsbrücken. A number of agencies, including the Hamburg tourist office at Landungsbrücken, sell tickets for plays, concerts, and the ballet. \| Between Piers 4 and 5,between Brücke 4 and 5, St. Pauli \| 040/3005–1300 \| www.hamburg-travel.com. ### Ballet and Opera Hamburgische Staatsoper. One of the most beautiful theaters in the country, the Hamburgische Staatsoper is the leading northern German venue for opera and ballet. The Hamburg Ballet is directed by the American John Neumeier. \| Grosse Theaterstr. 25, Neustadt \| 040/356–868 \| www.hamburgische-staatsoper.de. TUI Operettenhaus. The TUI Operettenhaus stages productions of top musicals. A musical adaptation of Rocky has called the theater home since November 2011. Tour of the theater are also available. \| Spielbudenpl. 1, St. Pauli \| 01805/4444 for tickets \| www.stage-entertainment.de. ### Concerts Laeiszhalle. Both the Philharmoniker Hamburg (Hamburg Philharmonic) and the Hamburger Symphoniker (Hamburg Symphony) appear regularly in the magnificent neo-baroque interior of the Laeiszhalle, which also hosts international orchestras and some of the biggest names in contemporary music. \| Johannes-Brahms-Pl., Neustadt \| 040/3576–6666 \| www.elbphilharmonie.de. ### Film Abaton. Mainstream, art-house, and independent films are shown at this comfy, three-screen movie theater next to the University of Hamburg. \| Allendepl. 3, Neustadt \| 040/320–320 \| www.abaton.de. Savoy Filmtheater. The Savoy's a fantastic, old-school movie theater with impressive modern features that include high-quality sound and enormous, reclinable leather seats. It shows mainstream and independent movies in English. \| Steindamm 54, St. Georg \| 040/2840–93628 \| www.savoy-filmtheater.de. ### Theater Ticket and theater information is available at www.stage-entertainment.de or by calling \| 01805/4444. Deutsches Schauspielhaus. One of Germany's leading drama stages, Deutsches Schauspielhaus has been lavishly restored to its full 19th-century opulence. It's the most important venue in town for classical and modern theater. \| Kirchenallee 39, St. Georg \| 040/248–710 \| www.schauspielhaus.de. English Theatre of Hamburg. The name says it all: the English Theatre, first opened in 1976, is the city's premier theater for works in English. Actors from near and far bring contemporary and classic drama to life on the small stage of this historic building. \| Lerchenfeld 14, Uhlenhorst \| 040/227–7089 \| www.englishtheatre.de. Neue Flora Theater. Handily located just across the street from the Holstenstrasse S-bahn, the 2,000-seat Neuer Flora attracts big crowds, who come for popular, long-running musicals such as Tarzan and The Phantom of the Opera. \| Stresemannstr. 159a, at Alsenstr., Schanzenviertel \| 01805/4444 for tickets, 040/4316–5133 for theater \| www.stage-entertainment.de. Theater im Hamburger Hafen. Theater im Hamburger Hafen is home to Der König der Löwen, a German version of the hit musical The Lion King. The easiest way to reach the theater, which is on the south side of the Elbe, is by ferry from St. Pauli Landungsbrücken. \| Norderelbstr. 6, at Hamburger Hafen, follow signs to Schuppen 70, St. Pauli \| 01805/4444 \| www.stage-entertainment.de. ## Nightlife ### Altstadt and Neustadt #### Jazz and Live Music Cotton Club. A visit to the Cotton Club, Hamburg's oldest jazz club, is worth it for the house beer alone. Throw in the club's relaxed vibe and nights devoted to jazz, blues, soul and Dixieland, and it's not difficult to find a reason to drop in. \| Alter Steinweg 10, Neustadt \| 040/343–878 \| www.cotton-club.de. Brahmskeller. Guests at this relaxed bar can easily get caught up in friendly conversation. It's the kind of place where everyone is a regular, even newcomers. \| Grosse Bleichen 31, on the ground floor inside Kaufmannshaus, Neustadt \| 040/353–306 \| www.brahmskeller.de. ### St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel Whether you think it sexy or gross, the Reeperbahn, in the St. Pauli District, is as important to the Hamburg scene as the classy shops along Jungfernstieg. On nearby Grosse Freiheit you'll find a number of the better-known dance clubs. Hans-Elber-Platz has a cluster of bars, some with live music. #### Bars Hamburg has many buzzy and upscale bars, with many spots that feature live music or DJs and dancing. 20 Up at the Empire Riverside Hotel. For a smooth cocktail, cool lounge music, and amazingly good views over the city and harbor, try this bar, which is one of the most popular nightspots in town. It's best to book ahead. \| Bernhard-Nocht-Str. 97, St. Pauli \| 040/31119–70470 \| www.empire-riverside.de. Christiansen's. The cozy Christiansen's Fine Drinks & Cocktails, a short distance from the Fischmarkt, mixes some of the best cocktails in town. \| Pinnasberg 60, St. Pauli \| 040/317–2863 \| www.christiansens.de. Mandalay. This is one of several upscale, sleek bars catering to thirtysomethings that are in and around St. Pauli and Sternschanze. \| Neuer Pferdemarkt 13, Schanzenviertel \| 040/4321–4922 \| www.mandalay.tv. Tower Bar at Hotel Hafen Hamburg. The view from this bar that's almost 200 feet up, on top of a riverside hotel, makes it an ideal spot to sip cocktails and watch the sun go down—particularly if you're a smoker. \| Seewartenstr. 9, St. Pauli \| 040/31113–70450 \| www.hotel-hafen-hamburg.de. Yakshi's Bar at the East Hotel. With its combination of exposed brickwork, soft lighting, and soothing, curvy shapes—not to mention a drink list that runs to over 250 drinks—it's little wonder that this popular cocktail bar draws fashionable people of all ages. \| Simon-von-Utrecht-Str. 31, St. Pauli \| 040/309–930 \| www.east-hamburg.de. #### Cabaret Theater Schmidts Theater and Schmidts Tivoli. The quirky Schmidt Theater and Schmidts Tivoli has become Germany's most popular variety theater, presenting a classy repertoire of live music, vaudeville, and cabaret. \| Spielbudenpl. 24–28, St. Pauli \| 040/3177–8899 \| www.tivoli.de. * * * Nightlife in Hamburg People flock to Hamburg for shopping, but there's much more to experience come nightfall. The city has plenty of places where you can hop from bar to bar or lounge to lounge. Here are some of the most fun streets in Hamburg: Grindelallee and side streets in the Univiertel: Home to the Universität der Hamburg, the quarter, with its mix of affordable cafés and Asian and Middle Eastern restaurants, is popular with students and townies alike. Grosse Elbstrasse in Altona: This is the home of the Altona Fischmarkt and a variety of popular riverside restaurants and bars. Grossneumarkt: This square is packed with comfortable, relaxing pubs and German restaurants. In summer it's a popular meeting point for Hamburgers who want to sit outside and eat and drink in relaxed surroundings. Reeperbahn, Grosse Freiheit, and the streets around Spielbudenplatz in St. Pauli: This sinful mile has everything—strip clubs, pubs, live music, dive bars, and nightclubs. It's loud and crazy and fun just to walk up and down the streets. Schanzenstrasse in Sternschanze: Hipsters flock to this compact row of buzzing bars and laid-back lounges that pour onto the sidewalk when the weather is warm. * * * #### Dance Clubs China Lounge. The China Lounge, in a former Chinese restaurant, remains one of Hamburg's coolest lounges, attracting many hip and beautiful thirtysomethings. \| Nobistor 14, St. Pauli \| 040/3197–6622 \| www.china-hamburg.de. Mojo Club. After changing locations, the storied Mojo Club has been reborn and is now located beneath a spaceship-like hatch, which rises out of the sidewalk to allow in revelers who come to dance to its live DJs and their eclectic mix of jazz, funk, soul, and electronic beats. \| Reeperbahn 1, St. Pauli \| 040/430–4616 \| www.mojo.de. Stage Club. One of the most appealing and entertaining clubs in Hamburg, Stage Club, on the first floor of the Theater Neue Flora, welcomes a varied crowd for soul, funk, or jazz every night, followed by a DJ. \| Stresemannstr. 163, Schanzenviertel \| 040/4316–5460 \| www.stageclub.de. #### Jazz and Live Music Docks. There's a stylish bar here, as well as one of Hamburg's largest venues for live music acts from around the world. When the concert stage is empty, a hip-hop club takes over. \| Spielbudenpl. 19, St. Pauli \| 040/317–8830 \| www.docks.de. Grosse Freiheit 36. One of the best-known nightspots in town, Grosse Freiheit 36 has made its name as both a popular venue for big names from around the world and as the location of the Kaiserkeller, a nightclub where the Beatles once played that's still going strong. \| Grosse Freiheit 36, St. Pauli \| 040/317–7780 \| www.grossefreiheit36.de. Indra Club. The Beatles' first stop on the road to fame was the Indra Club. The club's owner, Bruno Koschmider, asked for one thing, and that was a wild show. These days, the Indra is still a nightclub, with live music acts nearly every night. \| Grosse Freiheit 64, St. Pauli \| www.hotel-jacob.de. #### Pubs Altes Mädchen. Beer fans will be hard pressed to find a better spot in town to sample that amber nectar. With a number of local beers on tap and more than 60 craft beers to order from, plus a decent selection of German pub food, it's unsurprising that this gastropub quickly developed a glowing reputation after opening in early 2013. \| Lagerstr. 28b, Schanzenviertel \| 040/8000–77750 \| www.altes-maedchen.com. Gretel und Alfons. Germans are not known for mingling, but at this small pub in the middle of Grosse Freiheit, you can strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you. Perhaps that's why it was a firm favorite with the Beatles, who could often be found here when not performing at a number of clubs on the street. \| Grosse Freiheit 29, St. Pauli \| 040/313–491 \| www.gretelundalfons.de. ### St. Georg #### Bars Bar DaCaio at the George Hotel. This bar has a black-on-black design, good looks all over, great service, and endless drink options. It's also located in one of the hottest hotels in town. \| Barcastr. 3, St. Georg \| 040/280–0300 \| www.thegeorge-hotel.de. #### Dance Clubs Golden Cut. At Golden Cut, just across from the main train station, DJs spin house, hip-hop, and electronic music. \| Holzdamm 61, St. Georg \| 040/8510–3532 \| www.goldencut.org. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents ### Bicycling More or less flat as a pancake, and with dedicated cycle paths running parallel to sidewalks throughout the city, Hamburg's an incredibly bike-friendly place. A number of hotels let their guests borrow bikes, but perhaps the most convenient option is to hire a "Stadtrad"—a city bike. Chunky and red-framed, and outfitted with locks and lights, they can be picked up and dropped off at a multitude of locations around the city, including at the Hauptbahnhof, at larger U-bahn and S-bahn stations, and near popular tourist spots. Bikes are free for the first 30 minutes, and then cost 8¢ per minute up to a maximum daily rate of €12. For more information and to register, visit www.stadtradhamburg.de. Hamburg City Cycles. From a central location, this friendly little outfit rents bikes and also offers guided tours and day trips to destinations that are farther afield. \| Bernhard-Nocht-Str. 89–91, St. Pauli \| 040/7421–4420 \| www.hhcitycycles.de. ### Jogging The best places for going for a run are the Planten un Blomen and Alter Botanischer Garten parks and along the leafy promenade around the Alster. The latter route is about 7 km (4.3 miles) long. ### Sailing You can rent rowboats and sailboats on the Alster in summer between 10 am and 9 pm. Rowboats cost around €10 to €12 an hour, sailboats around €16 an hour (and they usually accommodate two adults). The largest selection of boats is at the Gurlitt-Insel pier off An der Alster (on the east bank of the Aussenalster). Another rental outlet is at the very tip of the Alster, at the street Fernsicht. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Shopping Districts \| Altstadt and Neustadt \| St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel \| Altona and Ottensen \| Blankenese and Elsewhere Although not appearing as rich or sumptuous as Düsseldorf or Munich, Hamburg is nevertheless expensive, and ranks first among Germany's shopping experiences. Some of the country's premier designers, such as Karl Lagerfeld, Jil Sander, and Wolfgang Joop, are native Hamburgers, or at least worked here for quite some time. Hamburg has the greatest number of shopping malls in the country—they're mostly small, elegant Downtown arcades offering entertainment, fashion, and fine food. All the big luxury names—Chanel, Versace, Armani, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Tiffany—are found in the warren of streets bounded by Jungferstieg, the Rathaus, and Neue ABC-Strasse. International chain stores, like Fossil, Adidas and MAC, and European chains, such as Görtz shoe stores, Zara clothing stores, and Christ jewelry stores, and German department stores mingle on Mönckebergstrasse. Independent boutiques sell primarily distinguished and somewhat conservative fashion; understatement is the style here. Eppendorf offers miles of unique shops for shoes, clothes, home design, and housewares with quaint cafés sprinkled among them. Sternschanze offers a funky mix of stores selling cool home accessories and fashion, with dive bars and small restaurants for pit stops. ## Shopping Districts Hamburg's shopping districts are among the most elegant on the continent, and the city has Europe's largest expanse of covered shopping arcades, most of them packed with small, exclusive boutiques. The streets Grosse Bleichen and Neuer Wall, which lead off Jungfernstieg, are a big-ticket zone. The Grosse Bleichen holds four malls with the most sought-after labels, and several of these shopping centers are connected. The marble-clad Galleria is reminiscent of London's Burlington Arcade. Daylight streams through the immense glass ceilings of the Hanse-Viertel, an otherwise ordinary reddish-brown brick building. At 101, Kaufmannshaus is one of the oldest malls in Hamburg. Steps away from these retail giants are the fashionable Hamburger Hof, the historic Alte Post with a beautiful, waterfront promenade, the posh Bleichenhof, and the stunningly designed, larger Europa Passage. In the fashionable Rotherbaum district, take a look at Milchstrasse and Mittelweg. Both are filled with small boutiques, restaurants, and cafés. Walk down Susannenstrasse and Schanzestrasse in Sternschanze to find unique clothes, things for the home, and even LPs. Eppendorfer Landstrasse and Eppendorfer Weg are brimming with stores that sell clothing in every flavor—high-end labels, casual wear, sportswear, German designers—and elegant and fun home decor. Running from the main train station to Gerhard-Hauptmann-Platz, the boulevard Spitalerstrasse is a pedestrians-only street lined with stores. TIP Prices here are noticeably lower than those on Jungfernstieg. ## Altstadt and Neustadt ### Antiques Neustadt and St.Georg. ABC-Strasse in the Neustadt is a happy hunting ground for antiques lovers, as are the shops in the St. Georg district behind the train station, especially those along Lange Reihe and Koppel. You'll find a mixture of genuine antiques (Antiquitäten) and junk (Trödel) there. You'll also be lucky if you find many bargains, however. ### Department Stores Alsterhaus. Hamburg's large and high-end department store is a favorite with locals, as well as an elegant landmark. A food hall and a champagne bar on the top level are both worth a stop. \| Jungfernstieg 16–20, Neustadt \| 040/3590–1218 \| www.alsterhaus.de. Karstadt. Germany's leading department-store chain isn't as posh as the Alsterhaus, but it still has a good and varied selection of clothing, perfume, watches, household goods, and food. TIP Hamburg's downtown Karstadt Sports, which is up the street from the main store at Lange Mührn 14, is the city's best place to shop for sports clothing and gear. \| Mönckebergstr. 16, Altstadt \| 040/30940 \| www.karstadt.de. ### Jewelry Wempe. Germany's largest seller of fine jewelery has two locations in Hamburg, and this is its flagship. The selection of watches here is particularly outstanding. \| Jungfernstieg 8, Neustadt \| 040/3344–8824 \| www.wempe.com. ### Men's Clothing Thomas I-Punkt. The five-story Thomas I-Punkt, a Hamburg tradition, sells fashion-conscious clothes and its own private-label suits and shirts. \| Mönckebergstr. 21, Altstadt \| 040/327–172 \| www.thomas-i-punkt.de. Wormland. The Hamburg outlet of the chain store is the city's largest store for men's clothes. Wormland offers both affordable no-name yet very fashionable clothes, as well as (much more expensive) top designer wear. \| Europa Passage, Ballindamm 40, Altstadt \| 040/4689–92700 \| www.wormland.de. ### Women's Clothing Hamburger Hof. The historic Hamburger Hof is one of the most beautiful, upscale shopping complexes, with a wide variety of designer clothing, jewelry, and gift stores that are primarily for women. \| Jungfernstieg 26–30/Grosse Bleichen, Neustadt \| 040/350–1680 \| www.hhof-passage.de. Linette. A small but elegant store, Linette stocks only top designers. \| Hohe Bleichen 17, Neustadt \| 040/346–411 \| www.linette-hamburg.de. ## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel ### Antiques Flohschanze. Germans in search of a great deal love a good Flohmarkt (flea market). These markets unfold every weekend throughout Hamburg, and the best of the lot may be the one at Flohschanze. With acres of clothes, furniture, books, CDs, records, home accessories, jewelry, and art, the market attracts both collectors and bargain hunters every Saturday from 8 until 4. \| Neuer Kamp 30, Schanzenviertel \| 040/270–2766 \| www.marktkultur-hamburg.de. ### Gifts Baqu. The two storefronts of this store are filled with wacky knickknacks, useful home appliances, and modern decor. \| Susannenstr. 39, Schanzenviertel \| 040/433–814. Captain's Cabin. Don't miss this Hamburg institution, which is the best place for all of the city's specialty maritime goods, including elaborate model ships and brass telescopes. This souvenir emporium is open daily. \| Landungsbrücken 3, St. Pauli \| 040/316–373 \| www.captains-cabin.de. Lille/Stor. Head here for a mix of casual clothes, shoes, colorful items for the home, and small jewelry. \| Schanzenstr. 97, Schanzenviertel \| 040/343–741 \| www.lille-stor.de. Mimulus Naturkosmetik. The all-natural cosmetics and toiletries here, as well as the facial and body treatments, are available at surprisingly reasonable prices. \| Schanzenstr. 39a, Schanzenviertel \| 040/430–8037 \| www.mimulus-kosmetik.de. Yokozuna. At this funky little shop, the quirky notebooks, earrings, handbags and postcards are all made by local designers, who rent shelves in the shop to sell their products. It's a great place for creative gift ideas. \| Weidenallee 17, Schanzenviertel \| 040/3199–3729 \| www.yokozuna.de. ### Men's Clothing Herr von Eden. Fine suits and everything else you need to become a true gentleman are sold at this elegant store on the vintage-clothing-filled Marktstrasse. \| Marktstr. 33, Schanzenviertel \| 040/439–0057 \| www.herrvoneden.com. ### Women's Clothing Anna Fuchs. One of Hamburg's most famous fashion designers is widely known for her modern and elegant but still-affordable dresses. \| Karolinenstr. 27, Schanzenviertel \| 040/4018–5408 \| annafuchs.de. Fräuleinwunder. This small emporium sells trendy sportswear, shoes, accessories, and jewelry for women. There's also a small selection of casual clothing for men. \| Susannenstr. 13, Schanzenviertel \| 40/3619–3329. Kauf dich glücklich. With a name that translates to "Shop yourself happy," this inviting store selling clothes and shoes for men and women, as well as sunglasses, jewelry, scarves, hats, and other accessories. \| Susannenstr. 4, Schanzenviertel \| 040/8000–6155 \| www.kaufdichgluecklich-shop.de. La Paloma. This small store features a well-edited collection of trendy clothes from casual labels from around the world. There's a focus on Danish designers. \| Susannenstr. 5, Schanzenviertel \| 040/4321–5333. Purple Pink. A tiny shop that sells a good selection of cool Scandinavian labels, such as Stine Goya, Carin Wester, and Minimarket. It's also great for jewelery and bags. \| Weidenallee 21, Schanzenviertel \| 040/4321–5379 \| www.purple-pink.de. ## Altona and Ottensen ### Antiques Kleidermarkt. This massive secondhand clothes shop is a few blocks down the road from the Altona train station. If the normal thrift-store prices for these duds from the 1960s through '80s aren't enough of an enticement, keep in mind that the store offers shoppers a 30% discount from 11 to 4 each Wednesday. \| Max-Brauer-Allee 174, Altona \| 040/433–717 \| www.kleidermarkt.de. ### Department Stores Stilwerk. This ultra-stylish shopping center next to the fish market is a one-stop source for contemporary furniture and home accessories. \| Grosse Elbstr. 68, Altona \| 040/3062–1100 \| www.stilwerk.de. ## Blankenese and Elsewhere ### Food Markets Wochenmarkt Blankenese. This small but top-class food market in the heart of Blankenese manages to preserve the charm of a small village. It sells only fresh produce from what it considers environmentally friendly farms. \| Blankeneser Bahnhofstr., Blankenese \| Tues. 8–2, Fri. 8–6, Sat. 8–1 \| Station: Blankenese (S-bahn). ### Gifts WohnDesign Così. The most interesting pieces of contemporary design from around the world are on view at this home-furnishings store. \| Eppendorfer Landstr. 48, Eppendorf \| 040/470–670 \| www.wohndesign-cosi.de. ### Women's Clothing Anita Hass. This impressive store covers several storefronts and carries the newest apparel, shoes, jewelry, handbags, and accessories, such as iPhone covers. It's a Hamburg classic that carries both international brands and several German designers. \| Eppendorfer Landstr. 60, Eppendorf \| 040/465–909 \| www.anitahass.de. Jonas Ariaens Schuhe. This boutique sells a variety of women's shoes, including many comfortable styles. There's a good stock of shoes size 10 and larger. \| Eppendorfer Landstrasse 8, Eppendorf \| 040/4609–3248. Kaufrausch. The upscale shop Kaufrausch carries mostly clothing and accessories stores for women. \| Isestr. 74, Harvestehude \| 040/477–154 \| www.kaufrausch-hamburg.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast Schleswig-Holstein Western Mecklenburg Vorpommern Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Baltic Coast Beaches \| Baltic Amber \| Baltic Coast Best Beaches Updated by Lee A. Evans Germany's true north is a quiet and peaceful region that belies, but takes a great deal of pride in, its past status as one of the most powerful trading centers in Europe. The salty air and lush, green landscape of marshlands, endless beaches, fishing villages, and lakes are the main pleasures here, not sightseeing. The Baltic coast is one of the most visited parts of Germany, but because most visitors are German, you'll feel like you have discovered Germany's best-kept secret. On foggy November evenings, or during the hard winter storms that sometimes strand islanders from the mainland, you can well imagine the fairy tales spun by the Vikings who lived here. In Schleswig-Holstein, Germany's most northern state, the Danish-German heritage is the result of centuries of land disputes, flexible borders, and intermarriage between the two nations—you could call this area southern Scandinavia. Since the early 20th century its shores and islands have become popular weekend and summer retreats for the well-to-do from Hamburg. The island of Sylt, in particular, is known throughout Germany for its rich and beautiful sunbathers. The rest of Schleswig-Holstein, though equally appealing in its green and mostly serene landscape, is far from rich and worldly. Most people farm or fish, and often speak Plattdütsch, or Low German, which is difficult for outsiders to understand. Cities such as Flensburg, Husum, Schleswig, Kiel (the state capital), and even Lübeck all exude a laid-back, small-town charm. The neighboring state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern includes the Baltic Coast and is even more rural. On the resort islands of Hiddensee and Usedom, the clock appears to have stopped before World War II. Though it has long been a popular summer destination for families and city-weary Berliners, few foreign tourists venture here. ## Top Reasons to Go Gothic architecture: The historic towns of Lübeck, Wismar, and Stralsund have some of the finest redbrick Gothic architecture in northern Europe. A walk through medieval Stralsund, in particular, is like a trip into the proud past of the powerful Hansetic League. Rügen: One of the most secluded islands of northern Europe, Rügen is a dreamy Baltic oasis whose endless beaches, soaring chalk cliffs, and quiet pace of life have charmed painters, writers, and artists for centuries. Schwerin: Nestled in a romantic landscape of lakes, rivers, forests, and marshland, the Mecklenburg state capital and its grand water palace make a great place to relax. Sylt: A windswept outpost in the rough North Sea, Sylt is home to Germany's jet set, who come here for the tranquility, the white beaches, the gourmet dining, and the superb hotels throughout the year. ## Getting Oriented The three major areas of interest are the western coastline of Schleswig-Holstein, the lakes inland in Western Mecklenburg, and Vorpommern's secluded, tundralike landscape of sandy heath and dunes. If you only have three days, slow down to the area's pace and focus on one area. In five days you could easily cross the region. Berlin is the natural approach from the east; Hamburg is a launching point from the west. ## What's Where Schleswig-Holstein. Rural Schleswig-Holstein is accented by laid-back, medieval towns and villages famed for their fresh seafood and great local beers (such as Asgaard in Schleswig), and the bustling island of Sylt, a summer playground for wealthy Hamburgers. Western Mecklenburg. Lakes, rivers, and seemingly endless fields of wheat, sunflowers, and yellow rape characterize this rural landscape. Although the area is extremely popular with Germans, only a few western tourists or day-trippers from nearby Berlin venture here to visit beautiful Schwerin or enjoy the serenity. The area is famous for its many wellness and spa hotels, making it a year-round destination. Vorpommern. Remote and sparsely populated, Vorpommern is one of Europe's quietest corners. Compared to the coast and islands in the West, sleepy Vorpommern sea resorts like Putbus, Baabe, and the Darss area have preserved a distinct, old-fashioned charm worth exploring. Bismarck popularized the area by saying that it was like going back 20 years in time. ## Planning ### When to Go The region's climate is at its best when the two states are most crowded with vacationers—in July and August. Winter can be harsh in this area, and even spring and fall are rather windy, chilly, and rainy. TIP To avoid the crowds, schedule your trip for June or September. But don't expect tolerable water temperatures or hot days on the beach. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel The international airport closest to Schleswig-Holstein is in Hamburg. For an eastern approach to the Baltic Coast tour, use Berlin's Tegel or Schönefeld Airports. #### Boat and Ferry Travel The Weisse Flotte (White Fleet) line operates ferries linking the Baltic ports, as well as short harbor and coastal cruises. Boats depart from Warnemünde, Zingst (to Hiddensee), Sassnitz, and Stralsund. In addition, Scandlines ferries run from Stralsund and Sassnitz to destinations in Sweden, Denmark, Poland, and Finland. Scandlines also operates ferries between Rostock/Warnemünde and the Danish island of Bornholm, as well as Sweden. Contacts Scandlines. \| 01805/116–688 \| www.scandlines.de. Weisse Flotte. \| 0180/321–2120 for Warnemünde and Stralsund, 0385/557–770 for Schwerin \| www.weisseflotte.de. #### Bus Travel Local buses link the main train stations with outlying towns and villages, especially the coastal resorts. Buses operate throughout Sylt, Rügen, and Usedom islands. #### Car Travel The two-lane roads (Bundesstrassen) along the coast can be full of traffic in summer. The ones leading to Usedom Island can be extremely log-jammed, as the causeway bridges have scheduled closings to let ships pass. Using the Bundesstrassen takes more time, but these often tree-lined roads are by far more scenic than the autobahn. Sylt island is 196 km (122 miles) from Hamburg via Autobahn A-7 and Bundesstrasse B-199 and is ultimately reached via train. B-199 cuts through some nice countryside, and instead of A-7 or B-76 between Schleswig and Kiel you could take the slow route through the coastal hinterland (B-199, B-203, or B-503). Lübeck, the gateway to Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, is 56 km (35 miles) from Hamburg via A-1. B-105 leads to all sightseeing spots in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. A faster route is the A-20, connecting Lübeck and Rostock. From Stralsund, B-96 cuts straight across Rügen Island, a distance of 51 km (32 miles). From Berlin, take A-11 and head toward Prenzlau for B-109 all the way to Usedom Island, a distance of 162 km (100 miles). A causeway connects the mainland town of Anklam to the town of Peenemünde, on Usedom Island; coming from the west, use the causeway at Wolgast. #### Train Travel Trains connect almost every notable city in the area and it's much more convenient than bus travel. Sylt, Kiel, Lübeck, Schwerin, and Rostock have InterCity train connections to either Hamburg or Berlin, or both. A north–south train line links Schwerin and Rostock. An east–west route connects Kiel, Hamburg, Lübeck, and Rostock, and some trains continue through to Stralsund and Sassnitz, on Rügen Island. ### Tours Although tourist offices and museums have worked to improve the English-language literature about this area, English-speaking tours are infrequent and must be requested ahead of time through the local tourist office. Because most tours are designed for groups, there's usually a flat fee of €20–€30. Towns currently offering tours are Lübeck, Stralsund, and Rostock. Schwerin has two-hour boat tours of its lakes. Many of the former fishermen in these towns give sunset tours of the harbors, shuttle visitors between neighboring towns, or take visitors fishing in the Baltic Sea, which is a unique opportunity to ride on an authentic fishing boat. In Kiel, Rostock, and on Sylt, cruise lines make short trips through the respective bays and/or islands off the coast, sailing even as far as Denmark and Sweden. Inquire at the local tourist office about companies and times, as well as about fishing-boat tours. ### Restaurants Don't count on eating a meal at odd hours or after 10 pm in this largely rural area. Many restaurants serve hot meals only between 11:30 am and 2 pm, and 6 pm and 9 pm. You rarely need a reservation here, and casual clothing is generally acceptable. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels In northern Germany you'll find both small Hotelpensionen and fully equipped large hotels; along the eastern Baltic Coast, some hotels are renovated high-rises dating from GDR (German Democratic Republic, or East Germany) times. Many of the small hotels and pensions in towns such as Kühlungsborn and Binz have been restored to the romantic, quaint splendor of German Bäderarchitektur (spa architecture) from the early 20th century. In high season all accommodations, especially on the islands, are in great demand. TIP If you can't book well in advance, inquire at the local tourist office, which will also have information on the 150 campsites along the Baltic Coast and on the islands. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time The bigger coastal Hanse cities make for a good start before exploring smaller towns. Lübeck is a natural base for exploring Schleswig-Holstein, particularly if you arrive from Hamburg. From here it's easy to venture out into the countryside or explore the coastline and towns such as Schleswig, Flensburg, or Husum. The island of Sylt is a one- or two-day trip from Lübeck, though. If you have more time, you can also travel east from Lübeck into Mecklenburg-Vorpommern: Some of the must-see destinations on an itinerary include Schwerin and the surrounding lakes, the island of Rügen, and the cities Wismar and Rostock. ### Discounts and Deals Larger cities such as Kiel, Lübeck, Wismar, Schwerin, and Rostock offer tourism "welcome" cards, which include sometimes-considerable discounts and special deals for attractions and tours as well as local public transport. Ask about these at the visitor information bureaus. ### Visitor Information Tourismusverband Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. \| Pl. der Freundschaft 1, \| Rostock \| 0381/403–0500 \| www.tmv.de. ## Baltic Coast Beaches Although Germany may not be the first place on your list of beach destinations, a shore vacation on the Baltic never disappoints. The coast here ranges from the remote bucolic shores of Usedom to the chic beaches of Sylt. Be sure to rent a Strandkorb, a kind of beach chair in a wicker basket, which gives you all of the sun, but protects you from the wind and flying sand. You can rent these chairs by the hour, half day, or day. There is usually an office near the chairs; look for the kiosk that sells sundries and beach toys nearest the chair you want. Look for the blue flag on the beach that indicates that the water is safe for swimming. But, be aware that water temperatures even in August rarely exceed 20°C (65°F). There's a Kurtaxe (a tax that goes to the upkeep of the beaches) of €1.50–€5 for most resort areas; the fees on Sylt average €3 per day. Fees are usually covered by your hotel; you should get a card indicating that you've paid the tax. You can use the card for discounted services, but don't need to present it to visit the beach. ## Baltic Amber It is believed that a pine forest once grew in the area that is now the Baltic Sea about 40 million years ago. Fossilized resin from these trees, aka amber, lies beneath the surface. In fact, this area has the largest known amber deposit, at about 80% of the world's known accessible deposits. The best time for amber "fishing," dipping a net into the surf, is at low tide after a storm when pieces of amber dislodge from the sea floor. ## Baltic Coast Best Beaches #### Hiddensee Island If you're looking for bucolic and tranquil, head to the car-free island of Hiddensee, Rügen's neighbor to the west. With a mere 1,300 inhabitants, Hiddensee is the perfect place to look for washed-up amber. #### Rügen Island Germany's largest island, Rügen is dotted with picture-perfect beaches, chalk cliffs, and pristine nature. It also served as the stomping ground for the likes of Albert Einstein, Christopher Isherwood, and Caspar David Friedrich. An easy day trip from Berlin, the town of Binz is the perfect Rügen getaway. Binz has a nice boardwalk, a pretty beach dotted with Strandkörbe, and fine mansions. You'll find a wonderful white sand beach at Prora and a smattering of artist studios; the hulking abandoned resort here was designed by the Nazis to house 20,000 vacationers in the Kraft durch Freude (Strength Through Joy) program. #### Sylt Germany's northernmost island is the granddaddy of all beach resorts and by far the most popular seaside destination in Germany. Sylt is chic and trendy, but, despite being overrun by tourists, it is still possible to find your own romantic abandoned stretch of beach. Westerland is the most popular beach, with its long promenade and sun-drenched sand. The "Fun-Beach Brandenburg" bursts at the seams with family-friendly activities, volleyball, and other sporting contests. Farther afield, the red cliffs of Kampen are the perfect backdrop for a little mellow sun and schmoozing with the locals. It's a lovely place for a walk along the shore and up the cliffs, where the view can't be beat. The best beach for families is at Hörnum, where a picture-perfect red-and-white lighthouse protects the entrance to the bay. #### Usedom Island The towns of Ahlbeck and Herringsdorf are the most popular on Usedom Island, with pristine 19th-century villas and mansions paired with long boardwalks extending into the sea. For the true and unspoiled experience, head west to Ückeritz, where the beach feels abandoned. #### Warnemünde A resort town popular with German tourists and local day-trippers from Rostock, the 20 km (12.4 miles) of wind-swept white-sand beach can't be beat. A fun beach promenade stretches the length of the beach and features daily music performances and restaurants ranging from fine dining to fish shacks where you can get a paper bag filled with fried mussels. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Husum \| Sylt \| Schleswig \| Kiel \| Lübeck This region once thrived, thanks to the Hanseatic League and the Salzstrasse (Salt Route), a merchant route connecting northern Germany's cities. The kings of Denmark warred with the dukes of Schleswig and, later, the German Empire over the prized northern territory of Schleswig-Holstein. The northernmost strip of land surrounding Flensburg became German in 1864. The quiet, contemplative spirit of the region's people, the marshland's special light, and the ever-changing face of the sea are inspiring. Today the world-famous Schleswig-Holstein-Musikfestival ushers in classical concerts to farmhouses, palaces, and churches. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Husum 158 km (98 miles) northwest of Hamburg. The town of Husum is the epitome of northern German lifestyle and culture. Immortalized in a poem as the "gray city upon the sea" by its famous son, Theodor Storm, Husum is actually a popular vacation spot in summer. The central Marktplatz (Market Square) is bordered by 17th- and 18th-century buildings, including the historic Rathaus (Town Hall), which houses the tourist-information office. The best impression of Husum's beginnings in the mid-13th century is found south of the Marktplatz, along Krämerstrasse; the Wasserreihe, a narrow and tortuous alley; and Hafenstrasse, right next to the narrow Binnenhafen (city harbor). #### Essentials Visitor Information Husum. \| Grossstr. 27 \| 04841/89870 \| www.husum.de. ### Exploring Schloss vor Husum (Husum Castle). Despite Husum's remoteness, surrounded by the stormy sea, wide marshes, and dunes, the city used to be a major seaport and administrative center. The Husum Castle, which was originally built as a Renaissance castle in the late 16th century, was transformed in 1752 by the dukes of Gottorf into a redbrick baroque country palace. \| Professor-Ferdinand-Tönnies-Allee, König-Friedrich V. –Allee \| 04841/897–3130 \| €5 \| Mar.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 11–5. Theodor-Storm-Haus. This is the most famous house on Wasserreihe, where writer Theodor Storm (1817–88) lived between 1866 and 1880. It's a must if you're interested in German literature or if you want to gain insight into the life of the few well-to-do people in this region during the 19th century. The small museum includes the poet's living room and a small Poetenstübchen (poets' parlor), where he wrote many of his novels. \| Wasserreihe 31 \| 04841/803–8630 \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Fri. 10–5, Mon. and Sun. 2–5, Sat. 11–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues., Thurs., and Sat. 2–5. ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Geniesser Hotel Altes Gymnasium. HOTEL \| In a former redbrick high school behind a pear orchard, you'll find a surprisingly elegant country-style hotel. The rooms are spacious, with wood floors and modern office amenities. The restaurant Eucken ($$) serves game (from its own hunter) and German country cooking such as Rücken vom Salzwiesenlamm mit Kartoffel-Zucchini-Rösti (lamb fed on saltwater grass with potato and zucchini hash browns). Pros: stylish and quiet setting; a perfect overnight stop on the way to Sylt. Cons: far from any other sights. \| Rooms from: €179 \| Süderstr. 2–10 \| 04841/8330 \| www.altes-gymnasium.de \| 66 rooms, 6 suites \| Breakfast. ## Sylt 44 km (27 miles) northwest of Husum, 196 km (122 miles) northwest of Hamburg. Sylt (pronounced ts-oo-LT) is a long, narrow island (38 km [24 miles] by as little as 220 yards) of unspoiled beaches and marshland off the western coast of Schleswig-Holstein and Denmark. Famous for its clean air and white beaches, Sylt is the hideaway for Germany's rich and famous. A popular activity here is Wattwanderungen (walking in the Watt, the shoreline tidelands), whether on self-guided or guided tours. The small villages with their thatch-roof houses, the beaches, and the nature conservation areas make Sylt one of the most enchanting German islands. #### Getting Here and Around Trains are the only way to access Sylt (other than flying from Hamburg or Berlin). The island is connected to the mainland via the train causeway Hindenburgdamm. Deutsche Bahn will transport you and your car from central train stations at Dortmund, Düsseldorf, Hamburg, Stuttgart, and Frankfurt directly to the station Westerland on the island. In addition, a daily shuttle car train leaves Niebüll roughly every 30 minutes from 5:10 am to 10:10 pm (Friday and Sunday from 5:10 am to 9:40 pm). There are no reservations on this train. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourismus-Service Kampen. \| Hauptstr. 12, \| Kampen \| 04651/46980 \| www.kampen.de. Marketing GmbH. \| Stephanstr. 6, \| Sylt / OT Rantum \| 04651/82020 \| www.sylt.de. Westerland. There's also a location at Stephanstr. 6. \| Strandstr. 35, \| Westerland \| 04651/9988 \| www.westerland.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Kampen. The Sylt island's unofficial capital is the main destination for the wealthier crowd and lies 9 km (6 miles) northeast of Westerland. Redbrick buildings and shining white thatch-roof houses spread along the coastline. The real draw—apart from the fancy restaurants and chic nightclubs—is the beaches. Rotes Kliff (Red Cliff). One of the island's best-known features is this dune cliff on the northern end of the Kampen beaches, which turns an eerie dark red when the sun sets. \| Kampen. #### Worth Noting Altfriesisches Haus (Old Frisian House). For a glimpse of the rugged lives of 19th-century fishermen, visit the small village of Keitum to the south, and drop in on the Old Frisian House, which preserves an Old World peacefulness in a lush garden setting. The house also documents a time when most seamen thrived on extensive whale hunting. \| Am Kliff 13, Keitum \| 04651/31101 \| €3.50 \| Easter–Oct., weekdays 10–5, weekends 11–5; Nov.–Easter, Tues.–Fri. 1–4. FAMILY \| The Naturschutzgebiet Kampener Vogelkoje (Birds' Nest Nature Conservation Area). Built in the mid-17th century, this conservation area once served as a mass trap for wild geese. Today it serves as a nature preserve for wild birds. \| Lister Str., Kampen \| 04651/871–077 \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., weekdays 10–5, weekends 11–5. St. Severin Church. The 800-year-old church was built on the highest elevation in the region. Its tower once served the island's fishermen as a beacon. Strangely enough, the tower also served as a prison until 1806. Today the church is a popular site for weddings. \| Pröstwai 20, Keitum \| 04651/31713 \| www.st-severin.de \| Free \| Church daily 9–6. Tours: Apr.–Oct., Sun. at 10; Nov.–Mar., Sun. at 4. Sylter Heimatmuseum (Sylt Island Museum). This small museum tells the centuries-long history of the island's seafaring people. It presents traditional costumes, tools, and other gear from fishing boats and tells the stories of islanders who fought for Sylt's independence. \| Am Kliff 19, Keitum \| 04651/31669 \| €3.50 \| Easter–Oct., weekdays 10–5, weekends 11–5; Nov.–Easter, Tues.–Fri. 1–4. FAMILY \| Westerland. The island's major town is not quite as expensive as Kampen, but it's more crowded. An ugly assortment of modern hotels lines an undeniably clean and broad beach. Each September windsurfers meet for the Surf Cup competition off the Brandenburger Strand, the best surfing spot. ### Where to Eat Dorfkrug Rotes Kliff. GERMAN \| The Dorfkrug has fed the island's seafaring inhabitants since 1876. Enjoy meals such as Steinbuttfilet (turbot filet) or Gebratener Zander (fried perch filet) in a homey setting where the walls are covered in traditional blue-and-white Frisian tiles. The same owners run the Wiinkööv wine bar next door. Visitors to both venues can take advantage of their impressive wine knowledge and cellar \| Average main: €16 \| Braderuper Weg 3, Kampen \| 04651/43500 \| Closed Mon. in Jan. Fodor's Choice \| Hotelrestaurant Jörg Müller. SEAFOOD \| Set in an old thatch-roof farmhouse, which doubles as a small hotel, chef and owner Jörg Müller is considered by many to be the island's leading chef, delivering haute cuisine served in a gracious and friendly setting. Müller even makes his own salt from the North Sea water. Of the two restaurants, the Pesel serves local fish dishes, whereas the formal Jörg Müller offers a high-quality blend of international cuisines, where any of the four- to six-course menus are a nice option. \| Average main: €46 \| Süderstr. 8, Westerland \| 04651/27788 \| www.hotel-joerg-mueller.de \| Reservations essential. Sansibar. ECLECTIC \| A longtime favorite, Sansibar is the island's most popular restaurant—more a way of life than a place to eat. A diverse clientele often make it a rambunctious night out by imbibing loads of drinks under the bar's maverick logo, crossed pirates' sabers. The cuisine includes seafood and fondue; more than 800 wines are on offer. The Sunday brunch is incredible. TIP To get a table even in the afternoon, you must reserve at least six weeks in advance. \| Average main: €28 \| Strand, Rantum-Süd, Hörnumer Str. 80 \| 04651/964–546 \| www.sansibar.de \| Reservations essential. ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Dorint Söl'ring Hof. RESORT \| This luxurious resort is set on the dunes in a white, thatch-roof country house: the view from most of the rooms is magnificent—with some luck you may even spot frolicking harbor porpoises. The brightly furnished rooms are spacious, covering two floors, and equipped with a fireplace. The real attraction here, however, is the restaurant ($$$), where renowned chef Johannes King creates delicious German-Mediterranean fish dishes. The hotel is in quiet Rantum, at the southeast end of the island. Pros: one of the few luxury hotels on the island with perfect service and a top-notch restaurant; right on the beach. Cons: remote location; often fully booked; rooms tend to be small. \| Rooms from: €395 \| Am Sandwall 1 \| 04651/836–200 \| www.soelring-hof.de \| 11 rooms, 4 suites \| Breakfast. Ulenhof Wenningstedt. B&B/INN \| The Ulenhof, one of Sylt's loveliest old thatch-roof apartment houses, is a quiet alternative to the busier main resorts in Kampen and Westerland. The Ulenhof has two buildings 750 yards away from the beach in Wenningstedt. lThe larger apartments, for up to three persons, are a good deal. A separate bathing facility offers a huge wellness area with two saunas, a pool, and a Tecaldarium, a Roman bathhouse. Pros: a great, but small, spa. Cons: off the beaten track and away from the main action in Kampen and Westerland. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Friesenring 14, Wenningstedt \| 04651/94540 \| www.ulenhof.de \| 35 apartments \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Club Rotes Kliff. The nightspots in Kampen are generally more upscale and more expensive than the pubs and clubs of Westerland. One of the most classic clubs on Sylt is the Club Rotes Kliff, a bar and dance club that attracts a hip crowd of all ages. \| Braderuper Weg 3, Kampen \| 04651/43400. Compass. The Compass is not as trendy as the typical Sylt nightclub. The mostly young patrons, however, create a cheerful party atmosphere on weekend nights. \| Friedrichstr. 40, Westerland \| 04651/23513. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Beaches Buhne 16 and Roter Kliff. Kampen's beach—divided into the Buhne 16 and the Roter Kliff—is the place where the rich and famous meet average joes. Bunhe 16 is Germany's most popular nudist beach and Germans call this section the great equalizer, as managers, stars, bus drivers, and carpenters are all equal without clothing. The Red Cliff section is less crowded than Buhne 16 and clothing is required. The beach access point offers one of the best views of the Cliffs and North Sea; the viewing platform is wheelchair accessible. The beaches are surrounded by a ring of dunes that beg for exploration. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; nudists; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking; windsurfing. \| Kurstr. 33, Kampen. Fun-Beach Brandenburg. Westerland's Fun-Beach Brandenburg bursts at the seams in the summer months. More than 4 miles of pristine white sand is filled with more than 4,000 Strandkorbs, a kind of beach chair in a wicker basket, which are all for rent. There's also volleyball, soccer, darts, and other beach sports, and everyone is invited to participate in the Beach Olympics, which are held every Friday at 2 in the summer months. Despite its popularity, it is easy to find some privacy on the many secluded bike and foot paths. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; swimming; walking. \| Kurpromenade \| Westerland. Hornum Beach. The town of Hornum is surrounded on three sides by a rock-free, fine-white-sand beach that is perfect for paddling, quick dips in the sea, or simply lounging in one of the ever-present Strandkorben. The main beach is one of the most family-friendly on the island and it's easily accessible from the promenade. A magnificent red-and-white lighthouse looms over the beach. Hornum is the best place to take long walks along the Wattenmeer. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking; windsurfing. \| An Der Dune \| Hornum. ## Schleswig 82 km (51 miles) southeast of Sylt, 114 km (71 miles) north of Hamburg. Schleswig-Holstein's oldest city is also one of its best-preserved examples of a typical north German town. Once the seat of the dukes of Schleswig-Holstein, it has not only their palace but also ruins left by the area's first rulers, the Vikings. The Norse conquerors, legendary and fierce warriors from Scandinavia, ruled northern Germany between 800 and 1100. Although they brought terror and domination to the region, they also contributed commerce and a highly developed social structure. Under a wide sky, Schleswig lies on the Schlei River in a landscape of freshwater marshland and lakes, making it a good departure point for bike or canoe tours. #### Getting Here and Around Schleswig's train station is 3 km (2 miles) from the city center. It's easiest to take Bus No. 1501, 1505, or 1506 into town. The buses leave from across the street from the front of the train station, and all stop at Schloss Gottorf. * * * What to Eat in Schleswig-Holstein The German coastline is known for fresh and superb seafood, particularly in summer. A few of the region's top restaurants are on Sylt and in Lübeck. Eating choices along the Baltic Coast tend to be more down-to-earth. However, restaurants in both coastal states serve mostly seafood such as Scholle (flounder) or North Sea Krabben (shrimp), often with fried potatoes, eggs, and bacon. Mecklenburg specialties to look for are Mecklenburger Griebenroller, a custardy casserole of grated potatoes, eggs, herbs, and chopped bacon; Mecklenburger Fischsuppe, a hearty fish soup with vegetables, tomatoes, and sour cream; Gefüllte Ente (duck with bread stuffing); and Pannfisch (fish patty). A favorite local nightcap since the 17th century is Grog, a strong blend of rum, hot water, and local fruits. * * * ### Exploring The Holm. The fishing village comes alive along the Holm, an old settlement with tiny and colorful houses. The windblown buildings give a good impression of what villages in northern Germany looked like 150 years ago. \| Süderholmstr., Holm. Schloss Gottorf. The impressive baroque Schloss Gottorf, dating from 1703, once housed the ruling family. It has been transformed into the Schleswig-Holsteinisches Landesmuseum (State Museum of Schleswig-Holstein) and holds a collection of art and handicrafts of northern Germany from the Middle Ages to the present, including paintings by Lucas Cranach the Elder. \| Schlossinsel 1 \| 04621/8130 \| www.schloss-gottorf.de \| €9 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Fri. 10–4, weekends 10–5. FAMILY \| Wikinger-Museum Haithabu (Haithabu Viking Museum). The most thrilling museum in Schleswig is at the site of an ancient Viking settlement. This was the Vikings' most important German port, and the boats, gold jewelry, and graves they left behind are displayed in the museum. Be sure to walk along the trail to the Viking village, to see how the Vikings really lived. The best way to get there is to take the ferry across the Schlei from the Schleswigs main fishing port. \| Haddeby, Am Haddebyer Noor 2 \| Busdorf \| 04621/813–222 \| www.schloss-gottorf.de \| €7 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–5; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Eat and Stay Asgaard Brauerei. GERMAN \| Taste the "Divine beer of the Vikings" at Schleswig's only brewery. While the restaurant offers typical brewpub fare, it is the small Viking twists, like roast meat served only with a knife and horned glasses that make this place worth a visit. The Divine beer is a malty cold-fermented amber lager that can be highly addictive. \| Average main: €12 \| Königstr. 27 \| 04621/29206 \| www.asgaard.de. Stadt Flensburg. GERMAN \| This small restaurant in a city mansion dating back to 1699 serves mostly fish from the Schlei River. The food is solid regional fare such as Zanderfilet (pike-perch filets) or Gebratene Ente (roast duck). The familial, warm atmosphere and the local dark tap beers more than make up for the simplicity of the setting. Reservations are advised. \| Average main: €13 \| Lollfuss 102 \| 04621/23984 \| Closed Wed. Ringhotel Strandhalle Schleswig. HOTEL \| A modern hotel overlooking the small yacht harbor, this establishment has surprisingly low rates. The rooms are furnished in timeless dark furniture. Pros: hotel occupies central spot in the heart of Schleswig with great views. Cons: lack of flair; rather bland rooms. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Strandweg 2 \| 04621/9090 \| www.hotel-strandhalle.de \| 25 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Shopping Keramik-Stube. The tiny Keramik-Stube offers craft work and beautiful traditional handmade pottery. \| Rathausmarkt 14 \| 04621/24757. Teekontor Hansen. Northern Germans are devout tea-drinkers, and the best place to buy tea is Teekontor Hansen. Try the Schliekieker, a strong blend of different types, or the Ostfriesenmischung, the traditional daily tea. \| Kornmarkt 3 \| 04621/23385. ## Kiel 53 km (33 miles) southeast of Schleswig, 130 km (81 miles) north of Hamburg. The state capital of Schleswig-Holstein, Kiel, is known throughout Europe for the annual Kieler Woche, a regatta that attracts hundreds of boats from around the world. Despite the many wharves and industries concentrated in Kiel, the Kieler Föhrde (Bay of Kiel) has remained mostly unspoiled. Unfortunately, this cannot be said about the city itself. Because of Kiel's strategic significance during World War II—it served as the main German submarine base—the historic city, founded more than 750 years ago, was completely destroyed. Sadly, due to the modern reconstruction of the city, there is no real reason to spend more than half a day in Kiel. #### Essentials Visitor Information Kiel. \| Andreas-Gayk-Str. 31 \| 0431/679–100 \| www.kiel.de. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Kieler Hafen (Kiel Harbor). At Germany's largest passenger-shipping harbor, you can always catch a glimpse of one of the many ferries leaving for Scandinavia from the Oslokai (Oslo Quay). \| Oslokai. Kunsthalle zu Kiel (Kiel Art Gallery). One of northern Germany's best collections of modern art can be found here. Russian art of the 19th and early 20th centuries, German expressionism, and contemporary international art are on display. \| Düsternbrooker Weg 1 \| 0431/880–5756 \| www.kunsthalle-kiel.de \| €7 \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. 10–8. FAMILY \| Schifffahrtsmuseum (Maritime Museum). Housed in a hall of the old fish market, this museum pays tribute to Kiel's impressive maritime history. The exhibit includes two antique fishing boats. Althought the museum is currently under renovation, it is scheduled to re-open in early 2014. \| Wall 65 \| 0431/901–3428 \| www.kiel.de \| €3 \| Mid-Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 10–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. U-Boot-Museum (Submarine Museum). A grim reminder of a different marine past is exhibited at this museum in Kiel-Laboe. The vessels of the much-feared German submarine fleet in both World Wars were mostly built and stationed in Kiel, before leaving for the Atlantic, where they attacked American and British supply convoys. Today the submarine U995, built in 1943, serves as a public-viewing model of a typical World War II German submarine. The 280-foot-high Marineehrenmal (Marine Honor Memorial), in Laboe, was built in 1927–36. You can reach Laboe via ferry from the Kiel harbor or take B–502 north. \| Strandstr. 92 \| Kiel-Laboe \| 04343/42700 \| Memorial €5.50, museum €4, combination €8.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9:30–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 9:30–4. ### Where to Eat and Stay Kieler Brauerei. GERMAN \| The only historic brewery in town has produced beer since the Middle Ages. You can try the Naturtrübes Kieler and other north German beers in pitchers. TIP You can also order a small barrel for your table and tap it yourself (other patrons will cheer you). The hearty food—mostly fish, pork, and potato dishes—does not earn awards, but it certainly helps get down just one more beer. \| Average main: €10 \| Alter Markt 9 \| 0431/906–290. Quam. ECLECTIC \| Locals aren't looking for old-fashioned fish dishes—that's why there isn't a traditional fish restaurant in town. They prefer preparations of fish from all over the world. The stylish Quam, its yellow walls and dimmed lights paying homage to Tuscany, serves specialties from Germany, Italy, France, and Japan to a mostly young, very chic crowd. \| Average main: €15 \| Düppelstr. 60 \| 0431/85195 \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. No lunch. Hotel Kieler Yachtclub. HOTEL \| This traditional hotel provides standard yet elegant, newly refurbished rooms in the main building and completely new, bright accommodations in the Villentrakt. The restaurant ($$$) serves mostly fish dishes; in summer try to get a table on the terrace. The club overlooks the Kieler Föhrde. Pros: central location in the heart of Kiel; nice views. Cons: service and attitude can feel a bit too formal at times. \| Rooms from: €197 \| Hindenburgufer 70 \| 0431/88130 \| www.hotel-kyc.de \| 57 rooms, 4 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Hemingway. This is one of the many chic and hip bars in Kiel. \| Alter Markt 19 \| 0431/96812. Traumfabrik. A college crowd goes to Traumfabrik to eat pizza, watch a movie, or dance (Friday is best for dancing). \| Grasweg 19 \| 0431/544–450. ## Lübeck 60 km (37 miles) southeast of Kiel, 56 km (35 miles) northeast of Hamburg. The ancient core of Lübeck, dating from the 12th century, was a chief stronghold of the Hanseatic merchant princes. But it was the roving Heinrich der Löwe (King Henry the Lion) who established the town and, in 1173, laid the foundation stone of the redbrick Gothic cathedral. The town's famous landmark gate, the Holstentor, built between 1464 and 1478, is flanked by two round squat towers and serves as a solid symbol of Lübeck's prosperity as a trading center. #### Getting Here and Around Lübeck is accessible from Hamburg in 45 minutes either by InterCity trains or by car via the A-24 and A-1, which almost takes you from one city center to the other. Lübeck is also well connected by autobahns and train service to Kiel, Flensburg, and the neighboring eastern coastline. The city, however, should be explored on foot or by bike, as the many tiny, medieval alleys in the center cannot be accessed by car. Tours of Old Lübeck depart daily from the tourist Welcome Center on Holstentorplatz (€7 \| June–Aug., Sat. at 11:30). #### Essentials Visitor Information Lübeck. \| Holstentorpl. 1 \| 00451/889–9700 \| www.luebeck.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Altstadt (Old Town). In the egg-shaped Altstadt, proof of Lübeck's former position as the golden queen of the Hanseatic League is found at every step.TIP More 13th- to 15th-century buildings stand in Lübeck than in all other large northern German cities combined. This fact has earned the Altstadt a place on UNESCO's register of the world's greatest cultural and natural treasures. Lübecker Dom (Lübeck Cathedral). Construction of this, the city's oldest building, began in 1173. \| Domkirchhof \| 0451/74704 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–4. Rathaus. Dating from 1240, the Rathaus is among the buildings lining the arcaded Marktplatz, one of Europe's most striking medieval market squares. \| Breitestr. 64 \| 0451/122–1005 \| Guided tour in German €4 \| Tour weekdays at 11, noon, and 3, Sat. at 1:30. #### Worth Noting Buddenbrookhaus. Two highly respectable-looking mansions are devoted to two of Germany's most prominent writers, Thomas Mann (1875–1955) and Günter Grass (born 1927). The older mansion is named after Mann's saga Buddenbrooks. Mann's family once lived here, and it's now home to the Heinrich und Thomas Mann Zentrum, a museum documenting the brothers' lives. A tour and video in English are offered. \| Mengstr. 4 \| 0451/122–4240 \| www.buddenbrookhaus.de \| €6 \| Jan.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 11–5; Apr.–Dec., daily 10–5. Günter Grass-Haus. Near the museum is the second mansion, which is devoted to Germany's most famous living writer and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1999), Günter Grass. \| Glockengiesserstr. 21 \| 0451/122–4230 \| grass-haus.de \| €6 \| Jan.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 11–5; Apr.–Dec., daily 10–5. Heilig-Geist-Hospital (Hospital of the Holy Ghost). Take a look inside the entrance hall of this Gothic building. It was built in the 14th century by the town's rich merchants and was one of the country's first hospitals. It still cares for the sick and infirm. \| Am Koberg 11 \| 0451/790–7841 \| Free \| Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–5; Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church). The impressive redbrick Gothic structure, which has the highest brick nave in the world, looms behind the Rathaus.TIP Look for the old bells, as they are still in the spot where they fell during the bombing of Lübeck. \| Marienkirchhof \| 0451/397–700 \| www.st-marien-luebeck.de \| Nov.–Feb., daily 10–4; Mar. and Oct., daily 10–5; Apr.–Sept., daily 10–6. ### Where to Eat Fodor's Choice \| Schiffergesellschaft. GERMAN \| This dark, wood-paneled restaurant dating back to 1535 is the city's old Mariners' Society house, which was off-limits to women until 1870. Today locals and visitors alike enjoy freshly brewed beer and great seafood in church-style pews at long 400-year-old oak tables. Above are a bizarre collection of low-hanging old ship models. A good meal here is the Ostseescholle (plaice), fried with bacon and served with potatoes and cucumber salad. \| Average main: €18 \| Breitestr. 2 \| 0451/76776 \| schiffergesellschaft.com \| Reservations essential. Wullenwever. GERMAN \| This restaurant has set a new standard of dining sophistication for Lübeck. Committed to the city's maritime heritage, Wullenwever serves fish such as bass, halibut, plaice, pike, and trout, which is fried or sautéed according to local country cooking. It's certainly one of the most attractive establishments in town, with dark furniture, chandeliers, and oil paintings on pale pastel walls. In summer, tables fill a quiet flower-strewn courtyard. Don't order à la carte here; instead choose one of the three- to seven-course menus, paired with wine. \| Average main: €40 \| Beckergrube 71 \| 0451/704–333 \| www.wullenwever.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch. ### Where to Stay Hotel zur Alten Stadtmauer. B&B/INN \| This historic town house in the heart of the city is Lübeck's most charming hotel with small, modest, well-kept guest rooms on two floors. Comfortable beds, bright birch-wood furniture, a quiet setting, and a great (not to mention nutritious) German breakfast buffet make this a perfect choice for budget travelers looking for romance. Pros: cozy hotel with personal, friendly service; great location. Cons: rather simply furnished rooms; if fully booked, the hotel feels cramped. \| Rooms from: €93 \| An der Mauer 57 \| 0451/73702 \| www.hotelstadtmauer.de \| 22 rooms \| Breakfast. Ringhotel Friederikenhof. HOTEL \| A lovely country hotel set in 19th-century, redbrick farmhouses 10 minutes outside Lübeck, the family-run Friederikenhof is a perfect hideaway with a soothing garden and great view of the city's skyline. Rooms are fairly large and appointed in a slightly modernized, country-house style with all the amenities of a four-star hotel. If you don't want to drive into the city for dinner, try the fresh seafood at their intimate restaurant. Pros: charming, old-style farmhouse typical of the region; personal and very friendly service. Cons: distant location outside Lübeck. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Langjohrd 15–19 \| 0451/800–880 \| www.friederikenhof.de \| 30 rooms \| Breakfast. Ringhotel Jensen. HOTEL \| Only a stone's throw from the Holstentor, this hotel is close to all the main attractions and faces the moat surrounding the Old Town. It's family run and very comfortable, with modern rooms, mostly decorated with bright cherrywood furniture. Though small, the guest rooms are big enough for two twin beds and a coffee table and come with either a shower or a bath. Pros: perfect location in the heart of Lübeck's downtown area; major sights are all within walking distance. Cons: small pensionlike hotel without many of the amenities of larger hotels; blandly decorated rooms. \| Rooms from: €93 \| An der Obertrave 4–5 \| 0451/702–490 \| www.hotel-jensen.de \| 41 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. SAS Radisson Senator Hotel Lübeck. HOTEL \| Close to the famous Holstentor, this ultramodern hotel, with its daring architecture, still reveals a north German heritage: the redbrick building, with its oversize windows and generous, open lobby, mimics an old Lübeck warehouse. lWhen making a reservation, ask for a (larger) Superior Class room, whose price includes a breakfast. A big plus are the very comfortable beds, which are large by German standards. The Nautilo restaurant ($$) serves light Mediterranean cuisine. Pros: luxury hotel in a central location. Cons: lacks the historic charm typical of medieval Lübeck. \| Rooms from: €137 \| Willy-Brandt-Allee 6 \| 0451/1420 \| www.senatorhotel.de \| 217 rooms, 7 suites \| Multiple meal plans. ### The Arts Musik und Kongresshallen Lübeck. Contact the Musik und Kongresshallen Lübeck for schedules of the myriad concerts, operas, and theater performances in Lübeck. \| Willy-Brandt-Allee 10 \| 0451/79040 \| www.muk.de. Schleswig-Holstein Music Festival. In summer, try to catch a few performances at this annual music festival (mid-July–late August), which features orchestras composed of young musicians from more than 25 countries. Some concerts are held in the Dom or the Marienkirche; some are staged in barns in small towns and villages. For exact dates and tickets, contact Schleswig-Holstein Konzertorganisation. \| 0431/570–470 \| www.shmf.de. ### Shopping Local legend has it that marzipan was invented in Lübeck during the great medieval famine. According to the story, a local baker ran out of grain for bread and, in his desperation, began experimenting with the only four ingredients he had: almonds, sugar, rosewater, and eggs. The result was a sweet almond paste known today as marzipan. The story is more fiction than fact; it is generally agreed that marzipan's true origins lie in the Middle East. TIP Lübecker Marzipan, an appellation that has been trademarked, is now considered among the best in the world. Any Marzipan that uses the appellation Lübecker, must be made within the city limits. Holstentor-Passage. The city's largest downtown shopping mall is next to the Holstentor and is filled with stores selling clothing or home accessories. \| An der Untertrave 111 \| 0451/75292. Konditorei-Café Niederegger. Lübeck's most famous marzipan maker, Konditorei-Café Niederegger, sells the delicacy molded into a multitude of imaginative forms at its flagship store. \| Breitestr. 89 \| 0451/530–1127. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Wismar \| Schwerin \| Bad Doberan \| Rostock \| Warnemünde This long-forgotten Baltic Coast region, pinned between two sprawling urban areas—the state capital of Schwerin, in the west, and Rostock, in the east—is thriving with trade, industry, and tourism. Though the region is close to the sea, it's made up largely of seemingly endless fields of wheat and yellow rape and a hundred or so wonderful lakes. "When the Lord made the Earth, He started with Mecklenburg," wrote native novelist Fritz Reuter. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Wismar 60 km (37 miles) east of Lübeck on Route 105. The old city of Wismar was one of the original three sea-trading towns, along with Lübeck and Rostock, which banded together in 1259 to combat Baltic pirates. From this mutual defense pact grew the great and powerful private-trading bloc, the Hanseatic League (the Hanse in German), which dominated the Baltic for centuries. The wealth generated by the Hanseatic merchants can still be seen in Wismar's ornate architecture. #### Essentials Visitor Information Wismar Stadthaus. \| Am Markt 11 \| 03841/19433 \| www.wismar.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Marktplatz (Market Square). One of the largest and best-preserved squares in Germany is framed by patrician gabled houses. Their style ranges from redbrick late Gothic through Dutch Renaissance to 19th-century neoclassical. The square's Wasserkunst, the ornate pumping station built in Dutch Renaissance style, was constructed between 1580 and 1602 by the Dutch master Philipp Brandin. St. Georgen zu Wismar. This church, another victim of the war, stands next to the Fürstenhof. One of northern Germany's biggest Gothic churches, built between 1315 and 1404, it has been almost completely restored. \| St.-Georgen-Kirchhof 6. To'n Zägenkrog. If you have an hour to spare, wander among the jetties and quays of the port, a mix of the medieval and the modern. To'n Zägenkrog, a seamen's haven decorated with sharks' teeth, stuffed seagulls, and maritime gear, is a good pit stop along the harbor. \| Ziegenmarkt 10 \| 03841/282–716. #### Worth Noting Fürstenhof (Princes' Court). The home of the former dukes of Mecklenburg stands next to the Marienkirche. It's an early-16th-century Italian Renaissance palace with touches of late Gothic. The facade is a series of fussy friezes depicting scenes from the Trojan War. \| Fürstenhof 1. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church). The ruins of this church with its 250-foot tower, bombed in World War II, lie just behind the Marktplatz; the church is still undergoing restoration.TIP At noon, 3, and 5, listen for one of 14 hymns played on its carillon. \| St.-Marien-Kirchhof. St. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas's Church). The late-Gothic church, with a 120-foot-high nave, was built between 1381 and 1487. A remnant of the town's long domination by Sweden is the additional altar built for Swedish sailors. \| St.-Nikolai-Kirchhof 15 \| 03841/210–143 \| May–Sept., daily 8–8; Apr. and Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., daily 11–4. ### Where to Eat Alter Schwede. GERMAN \| Regarded as one of the most attractive, authentic taverns on the Baltic—and correspondingly busy—this eatery focuses on Mecklenburg's game and poultry dishes, such as the traditional Mecklenburger Ente (Mecklenburg duck). This filling dish is filled with baked plums, apples, raisins, and served with red cabbage and potatoes. \| Average main: €14 \| Am Markt 19 \| 03841/283–552. Brauhaus am Lohberg. GERMAN \| Wismar's first brewery (1452) is the only place that still brews Wismarer Mumme, a dark beer with enough alcohol to keep it fresh for export as far away as St. Petersburg. The restaurant serves up good-value typical pub food in an old half-timber house near the harbor. \| Average main: €13 \| Kleine Hohe Str. 15 \| 03841/250–238. ### Where to Stay Citypartner Hotel Alter Speicher. B&B/INN \| This small and very personal family-owned hotel is behind the facade of an old merchant house in the downtown area. Some of the rooms may be tiny, but their size contributes to the warm and cozy atmosphere. The lobby and restaurants are decorated with wooden beams and panels. The main restaurant ($$$) primarily serves game, but it also prepares regional dishes. Pros: good location, as medieval parts of Wismar are within easy walking-distance. Cons: rooms have outdated furnishings and ambience. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Bohrstr. 12–12a \| 03841/211–746 \| www.hotel-alter-speicher.de \| 70 rooms, 3 suites, 2 apartments \| Breakfast. Seehotel Neuklostersee. B&B/INN \| Set at the dreamy Naun Lake, this country hotel is a hidden gem 15 km (9 miles) east of Wismar. The redbrick farmhouse and old thatch-roof barn constitute an upscale yet casual hotel. Each room has a different design (the owners are acclaimed Berlin interior designers), with white walls and terra-cotta tiles. There's a fine restaurant ($) serving German-Italian seafood on a terrace. Pros: great rural setting in quaint surroundings. Cons: outside Wismar; many day-trip visitors. \| Rooms from: €135 \| Seestr. 1 \| Nakenstorf \| 038422/4570 \| www.seehotel-neuklostersee.de \| 10 suites, 3 apartments \| Breakfast. Steigenberger–Hotel Stadt Hamburg. HOTEL \| This first-class hotel hides behind a rigid gray facade dating back to the early 19th century. The interior is surprisingly open and airy, with skylights and a posh lobby. The rooms have elegant cherrywood art deco style furnishings. Downstairs, the Bierkeller, a cavernous 17th-century room with vaulted ceilings, is a trendy nightspot. Pros: the only upscale hotel in town, with an appealing interior design; great package deals available. Cons: lacks atmosphere and personal touches. \| Rooms from: €96 \| Am Markt 24 \| 03841/2390 \| www.wismar.steigenberger.de \| 102 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ## Schwerin 32 km (20 miles) south of Wismar on Route 106. Schwerin, the second-largest town in the region after Rostock and the capital of the state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, is worth a trip just to visit its giant island castle. #### Essentials Visitor Information Schwerin. \| Am Markt 14 \| 0385/592–5212 \| www.schwerin.de. ### Exploring FAMILY \| Alter Garten (Old Garden). The town's showpiece square was the setting of military parades during the years of Communist rule. It's dominated by two buildings: the ornate neo-Renaissance state theater, constructed in 1883–86; and the Kunstsammlungen Schwerin (Schwerin Art Collection), which houses an interesting collection of paintings by Max Liebermann and Lovis Corinth. \| Alter Garten 3 \| 0385/595–8119 \| www.museum-schwerin.de \| €8 \| Mid-Apr.–mid-Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Schweriner Dom (Schwerin Cathedral). This Gothic cathedral is the oldest building (built 1222–48) in the city. The bronze baptismal font is from the 14th century; the altar was built in 1440. Religious scenes painted on its walls date from the late Middle Ages. Sweeping views of the Old Town and lake await those with the energy to climb the 219 steps to the top of the 320-foot-high cathedral tower. \| Am Dom 4 \| 0385/565–014 \| Tower and nave: May–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. noon–5; Nov.–Apr., weekdays 11–4, Sat. 11–4, Sun. noon–4. Schlossmuseum. North of the main tower is the Neue Lange Haus (New Long House), built between 1553 and 1555 and now used as the Schlossmuseum. The Communist government restored and maintained the fantastic opulence of this rambling, 80-room reminder of an absolutist monarchy—and then used it to board kindergarten teachers in training. Antique furniture, objets d'art, silk tapestries, and paintings are sprinkled throughout the salons (the throne room is particularly extravagant), but of special interest are the ornately patterned and highly burnished inlaid wooden floors and wall panels. \| Lennéstr. 1 \| 0385/525–2920 \| www.museum-schwerin.de \| €6 \| Mid-Apr.–mid-Oct., daily 10–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Schweriner Schloss. On island near the edge of Lake Schwerin, the meticulously restored palace once housed the Mecklenburg royal family. The original palace dates from 1018, but was enlarged by Henry the Lion when he founded Schwerin in 1160. Portions of it were later modeled on Chambord, in the Loire Valley. As it stands now, the palace is surmounted by 15 turrets, large and small, and is reminiscent of a French château. The portions that are neo-Renaissance in style are its many ducal staterooms, which date from between 1845 and 1857. \| Lennéstr. 1. FAMILY \| Weisse Flotte. The quintessential experience in Schwerin is one of the Weiss Flotte boat tours of the lakes—there are seven in the area. A trip to the island of Kaninchenwerder, a small sanctuary for more than 100 species of waterbirds, is an unforgettable experience. Boats for this 1½-hour standard tour depart from the pier adjacent to the Schweriner Schloss. \| Anlegestelle Schlosspier \| 0385/557–770 \| www.weisseflotteschwerin.de \| €12.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5:30. ### Where to Eat Alt-Schweriner Schankstuben. GERMAN \| A small family-owned restaurant and hotel with 16 guest rooms, the Schankstuben emphasizes Mecklenburg tradition. Its inviting restaurant is perfect for sampling local recipes such as Rullbraten von Spanferkel (roast suckling pig) or Maisscholle (corn-fed plaice). \| Average main: €12 \| Schlachtermarkt 9–13 \| 0385/592–530 \| www.alt-schweriner-schankstuben.de. Weinhaus Krömer. GERMAN \| One of the most traditional and popular eateries in Schwerin, this restaurant has a long history of serving good wines that date from 1740. The Weinbistro offers primarily German wine and a small menu (mostly cheese plates or soups such as lobster cream soup). Regional and international specialties are served in the modern restaurant, while in summer the Weingarten courtyard is one of the city's most secluded spots to enjoy a good glass of wine. \| Average main: €13 \| Grosser Moor 56 \| 0385/562–956. Zum Stadtkrug-Altstadtbrauhaus. GERMAN \| Don't be fooled by the prefab exterior, Schwerin's only brewery is an oasis of great beer and down-to-earth regional and Brauhaus specialties like the Malzsack (a cordon bleu breaded with brewing malt) or Mecklenburger lamb. Wash it down with the house-brewed unfiltered light or dark beer. \| Average main: €10 \| Wismarsche Str. 126 \| 0385/593–6693 \| www.altstadtbrauhaus.de \| No credit cards. ### Where to Stay Hotel Niederländischer Hof. HOTEL \| The city's most elegant hotel has a 4½-star rating in view of its luxurious interior, decorated in a classic style; its romantic, airy rooms; the impeccable service; and, of course, the fine nouvelle cuisine à la Mecklenburg (mostly seafood dishes). All this is tucked inside a late-19th-century historic mansion located on old Schwerin's Pfaffenteich. Pros: interesting packages include tours, dinner, and more; great location right off a lake and within walking distance of the Schloss, boat docks, and downtown museums. Cons: formal atmosphere. \| Rooms from: €150 \| Alexandrinnenstr. 12–13 \| 0385/591–100 \| www.niederlaendischer-hof.de \| 27 rooms, 6 suites \| Breakfast. Sorat-Hotel Speicher am Ziegelsee. HOTEL \| Towering seven stories above the old harbor, the Speicher am Ziegelsee was once a wheat warehouse. The 1939 building's rooms and spacious apartments are decorated with natural materials and earthy tones and have all the amenities of a modern, first-class hotel. A choice spot for sitting is the wooden terrace bordering the lake. Pros: unbeatable location on a lovely lake and lakeside dining; very friendly and professional service. Cons: old-style warehouse building, whose rooms may seem cramped for some travelers; a bit far from the action. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Speicherstr. 11 \| 0385/50030 \| www.speicher-hotel.com \| 59 rooms, 20 apartments \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts Mecklenburgisches Staatstheater. The Mecklenburgisches Staatstheater stages German drama and opera. \| Am Alten Garten \| 0385/53000 \| www.theater-schwerin.de. Mexxclub. This is the city's hottest dance club. It features house and soul DJs who attract a stylish young crowd every Saturday night. \| Klöresgang 2. Schlossfestspiele. Started in 1993, this annual summertime festival features open-air drama or comedy performances, which are held at various venues around Schwerin including the Mecklenburg State Theatre, the castle garden, the National Theatre, and the National Museum. \| Schlossstr. 1 \| Schwein. ### Shopping Antiques and bric-a-brac that have languished in cellars and attics since World War II are still surfacing throughout eastern Germany, and the occasional bargain can be found. The best places to look in Schwerin are on and around Schmiedestrasse, Schlossstrasse, and Mecklenburgstrasse. ## Bad Doberan 60 km (37 miles) east of Wismar on Route 105, 90 km (56 miles) northeast of Schwerin. Bad Doberan, mostly famous for its cathedral, is a quaint town that also has Germany's oldest sea resort, Heiligendamm. The city is a popular weekend and summer getaway for people from Rostock and Berlin, but it's managed to maintain its laid-back charm. #### Essentials Visitor Information Bad Doberan. \| Severinstr. 6 \| 038203/62154 \| www.bad-doberan.de. ### Exploring Doberaner Münster (Monastery church). Bad Doberan is home to the meticulously restored redbrick church, one of the finest of its kind in Germany. It was built by Cistercian monks between 1294 and 1368 in the northern German brick Gothic style, with a central nave and transept. The main altar dates from the early 14th century. \| Klosterstr. 2 \| 038203/62716 \| www.doberanermuenster.de \| €2 \| May–Sept., Mon.–Sat. 9–6, Sun. 11–6; Mar., Apr., and Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 11–5; Nov.–Feb., Mon.–Sat. 10–4, Sun. 11–4. Tours: May–Oct., Mon.–Sat. at noon and 3; Nov.–Apr., Mon.–Sat. at 11 and 1. FAMILY \| Molli. No visit to this part of the country would be complete without a ride on this narrow-gauge steam train that has been chugging the 16 km (10 miles) through the streets of Bad Doberan to the nearby beach resorts of Heiligendamm and Kühlungsborn since 1886. The train was nicknamed after a little local dog that barked its approval every time the smoking iron horse passed by. In summer Molli runs 13 times daily between Bad Doberan and Kühlungsborn. \| Mecklenburgische Bäderbahn Molli, Küstenbus GmbH, Am Bahnhof \| 038203/4150 \| www.molli-bahn.de \| Same-day round-trip €8–€12 \| From Bad Doberan: May–Sept., daily 8:35–6:45; Oct.–Apr., daily 8:35–4:40. ### Where to Eat and Stay Weisser Pavillon. GERMAN \| Here's a mixed setting for you: a 19th-century Chinese-pagoda-type structure in an English-style park. Come for lunch or high tea; regional specialties are featured. In summer the café stays open until 10 pm. \| Average main: €9 \| Auf dem Kamp \| 038203/62326 \| No credit cards. Fodor's Choice \| Grand Hotel Heiligendamm. HOTEL \| The small beach resort of Heiligendamm has regained its prewar reputation as a getaway for Berlin's up-and-coming crowd. Nestled in five meticulously restored, gleaming white structures on a secluded beach, the hotel displays an almost Californian Bel Air charm and offers timelessly furnished rooms decorated in soft colors. There are endless activities offered, and the spa area is breathtaking. Pros: the only real first-class hotel on the Baltic Coast, with a wide range of sports and activities. Cons: very large hotel spread out in somewhat long distances; service is formal and stiff at times; books up quickly in high season. \| Rooms from: €220 \| Grand Hotel at Heiligendamm, Prof.-Dr.-Vogel-Str. 16–18 \| Heiligendamm \| 038203/7400 \| www.grandhotel-heiligendamm.de \| 118 rooms, 107 suites \| Breakfast. ## Rostock 14 km (9 miles) east of Bad Doberan on Route 105. Rostock, the biggest port and shipbuilding center of the former East Germany, was founded around 1200. Of all the Hanseatic cities, the once-thriving Rostock suffered the most from the dissolution of the League in 1669. The GDR reestablished Rostock as a major port, but shipbuilding work has been cut in half since unification. Ferries from Gedser (Denmark) and Trelleborg (Sweden) come here. The population of Rostock doubles in the summer due to Baltic cruise ships that dock in Warnemünde. TIP The biggest local annual attraction is Hanse Sail, a week of yacht racing held in August. #### Essentials Visitor Information Rostock. \| Universitätspl. 6 \| 0381/32222 \| www.rostock.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Kröpelinerstrasse. This pedestrian-only shopping street stretches from the old the Kröpeliner Tor (the old western gate) to the Neuer Markt. Here you'll find the finest examples of late-Gothic and Renaissance houses of rich Hanse merchants. St. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church). This four-century-old church, the Gothic architectural prize of Rostock, boasts a bronze baptismal font from 1290 and some interesting baroque features, notably the oak altar (1720) and organ (1770). The huge astronomical clock, dating from 1472, has a calendar extending to 2017. \| Am Ziegenmarkt 4 \| 0381/492–3396 \| Oct.–Apr., Mon.–Sat. 10–12:15 and 2–4, Sun. 11–12:15; May–Sept., Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. 11:15–5. Universitätsplatz (University Square). The triangular University Square, commemorating the founding of northern Europe's first university here in 1419, is home to Rostock University's Italian Renaissance–style main building, finished in 1867. #### Worth Noting Neuer Markt (Town Square). Here, you'll immediately notice the architectural potpourri of the Rathaus. The pink baroque facade from the 18th century hides a wonderful 13th-century Gothic building underneath. The town hall spouts seven slender, decorative towers that look like candles on a peculiar birthday cake. Walk around back to see more of the Gothic elements. Historic gabled houses surround the rest of the square. FAMILY \| Schifffahrtsmuseum (Maritime Museum). Tracing the history of shipping on the Baltic, this museum displays models of ships, which especially intrigue children. It's just beyond the city wall, at the old city gateway, Steintor. \| August-Bebel-Str. 1 \| 0381/492–2697 \| www.schifffahrtsmuseum-rostock.de \| €4 \| Tues.–Sun. 11–6. FAMILY \| Zoologischer Garten (Zoological Garden). Here you'll find one of the largest collections of exotic animals and birds in northern Germany. This zoo is particularly noted for its polar bears, some of which were bred in Rostock. If you're traveling with children, a visit is a must. \| Rennbahnallee 21 \| 0381/20820 \| www.zoo-rostock.de \| €16 \| Nov.–Mar., daily 9–5; Apr.–Oct., daily 9–7. ### Where to Eat Petrikeller. GERMAN \| Once you've crossed the threshold of the Petrikeller, you'll find yourself in the medieval world of Hanseatic merchants, seamen, and wild pirates such as Klaus Störtebecker. The restaurant's motto, "Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang" ("He who doth not love wine, woman and song will be a fool his whole life long"), a quote from reformer Martin Luther no less, sets the right tone. \| Average main: €13 \| Harte Str. 27 \| 0381/455–855 \| www.petrikeller.de \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. No lunch. Restaurant & Bar Silo 4. ASIAN \| Rostock's latest culinary venture is proof that eastern Germany can do sleek and modern. At the top of a waterfront office tower, this innovative restaurant offers spectacular views of the river and a fun and interesting approach to Asian-fusion cuisine. The buffet consists of a list of ingredients and seasonings. Guests choose what they like and then leave it to the experts in the show kitchen to work their magic. \| Average main: €23 \| Am Strande 3d \| 0381/458–5800 \| www.silo4.de \| Closed Mon. No lunch. Zur Kogge. SEAFOOD \| Looking like the cabin of a Kogge, a Hanseatic sailing vessel, the oldest sailors' beer tavern in town serves mostly fish. Order the Mecklenburger Fischsuppe (fish soup) if it's on the menu. The Grosser Fischteller, consisting of three kinds of fish—depending on the day's catch—served with vegetables, lobster and shrimp sauce, and potatoes, is also a popular choice. \| Average main: €12 \| Wokrenterstr. 27 \| 0381/493–4493 \| Reservations essential. ### Where to Stay Pental Hotel. HOTEL \| A 19th-century mansion, this hotel is a genuine part of Rostock's historic Old Town. It provides smooth service, and the modern rooms are tastefully decorated. Despite its downtown location, it's a quiet place to stay. Pros: good location; very quiet backstreet. Cons: restaurant isn't very good; bland room design. \| Rooms from: €76 \| Schwaansche Str. 6 \| 0381/49700 \| www.pentahotels.com \| 150 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. Steigenberger–Hotel zur Sonne Rostock. HOTEL \| With more than 200 years of history behind it, the "Sun," located within the Old Town, is one of the nicest hotels in Rostock. Guests here relax and enjoy the Hanseatic mansion's maritime atmosphere, the inviting wine bar, very friendly service, and large, modern rooms. lAsk for a top-floor room, cozily fitted under the eaves. Pros: nice view and near many sights; good restaurants, cafés, and bars nearby. Cons: rooms get direct sunlight in summer, and therefore are very warm; open setting of bed in the middle of the room may be unsettling for some. \| Rooms from: €159 \| Neuer Markt 2 \| 0381/49730 \| www.rostock.steigenberger.de \| 90 rooms, 21 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts The summer season brings with it a plethora of special concerts, sailing regattas, and parties on the beach. Volkstheater. The Volkstheater presents plays and concerts, from the classics to more contemporary works. \| Patriotischer Weg 33 \| 0381/4600. ### Shopping Echter Rostocker Doppel-Kümmel und -Korn, a kind of schnapps made from various grains and flavored with cumin, is a traditional liquor of the area around Rostock. Fishermen have numbed themselves to the cold for centuries with this 80-proof beverage. A bottle costs €8–€11; Lehmmet is the best brand of this local moonshine. ## Warnemünde 14 km (9 miles) north of Rostock on Route 103. Warnemünde is a quaint seaside resort town with the best hotels and restaurants in the area, as well as 20 km (12 miles) of beautiful white-sand beach. It's been a popular summer getaway for families in eastern Germany for years. There is little to do in Warnemünde except relax, and the town excels brilliantly at that. However, Warnemünde is a major cruise ship terminal. Whenever there is more than one ship at dock, the town explodes with a county fair–like atmosphere, where shops and restaurants stay open until the ships leave at midnight. The city celebrates the dreifache Anlauf, when three ships dock simultaneously, with fireworks. #### Getting Here and Around Thanks to its close location to Rostock and the A-20, Warnemünde is easily accessible from any major city in the region. Traffic between the seaside district of Rostock and the downtown area can be heavy on summer weekends. The best way to explore the city is by riding a bike or walking. ### Exploring Alter Strom (Old Stream). Inland from the lighthouse is this yacht marina. Once the entry into the port of Warnemünde, it now has bars, plenty of good restaurants, and touristy shops. The fishing boats lining the Strom sell the day's catch, smoked fish, and bags of fried mussels. \| Alter Strom 1. FAMILY \| Leuchtturm. Children enjoy climbing to the top of the town landmark, a 115-foot-high lighthouse, dating from 1898; on clear days it offers views of the coast and Rostock Harbor. \| Seepromenade. ### Where to Eat and Stay Fischerklause. SEAFOOD \| Sailors have stopped in at this restaurant's bar since the turn of the 20th century. The smoked fish sampler, served on a lazy Susan, is delicious, and the house specialty of fish soup is best washed down with some Rostocker Doppel-Kümmel schnapps. An accordionist entertains the crowd on weekends. \| Average main: €11 \| Am Strom 123 \| 0381/52516 \| Reservations essential. Landhotel Ostseetraum. RESORT \| This family-owned hotel, in a thatch-roof farmhouse outside Warnemünde, blends contemporary style with rural architecture. The refurbished apartments all feature a kitchenette and separate sitting or living areas. The standard rooms are smaller - some have a maritime flair with dark, heavy furniture and large beds; others, which are even smaller, have a country feel with bright pinewood furnishings. The hotel is 500 yards from the beach. Pros: quiet; green setting not far away from the sea; friendly and personalized service; very private apartments. Cons: old-fashioned interior design in need of updating in some rooms and public areas; located outside Warnemünde proper. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Stolteraerweg 34b \| Warnemünde-Diedrichshagen \| 0381/519–1848 \| www.ostseetraum.de \| 18 rooms \| Breakfast. Yachthafenresidenz Hohe Düne. RESORT \| The star on the Baltic Coast is this huge, modern resort comfortably residing on a peninsula between the yacht harbor, a sandy beach, and the port entrance. Setting a new standard of luxury in the region, the smartly designed Hohe Düne offers maritime-themed rooms and suites with names reminiscent of ship quarters, such as "Boatman's Cabin" or "Captain's Suite." A real catch is the spa, taking up a full three floors with a pool, several saunas, and plenty of massage rooms. Pros: very well run; stylish hotel with a great ambience and all the amenities; impressive wellness and spa area. Cons: outside Warnemünde; accessible only by ferry from the town center and not along the central promenade; only a few attractions and restaurants in walking distance, pretentious staff. \| Rooms from: €205 \| Hohe Düne, Am Yachthafen 1–8 \| 0381/5040 \| www.yhd.de \| 345 rooms, 23 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife The pubs in the marina Alter Strom are fun gathering places. Skybar. The Skybar is open Friday and Saturday until 3 am. TIP Roof access gives you the chance to sit under the stars and watch ship lights twinkle on the sea. \| Neptun Hotel, Seestr. 19, 19th fl. \| Rostock-Warnemünde \| 0381/7770. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Beaches Warnemünde. The beach fronting the resort town of Warnemünde is one of Germany's most popular beaches and it can get fairly crowded in summer. The expansive beach, with its soft, clean sand, is fabulous for sunbathing, relaxing, or walking. The pleasant sea breeze invites kite-flyers and you can purchase different kinds of kites from the open-air market along the promenade. Food and drink are available from many vendors and at several supermarkets in the town itself. Amenities: food and drink; parking; showers; toilets; water sports.Best for: partiers; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking. \| Seepromende 1. En Route: Ribnitz-Damgarten. This town, 30 km (19 miles) northeast of Warnemünde, is the center of the amber (in German, Bernstein) business, unique to the Baltic Coast. Amber is a yellow-brown fossil formed from the sap of ancient conifers. Head for a beach and join the locals seeking the amber stones washed up among the seaweed. Deutsches Bernsteinmuseum (German Amber Museum). At this museum, which adjoins the main amber factory, you can see a fascinating exhibit of how "Baltic gold" is collected from the sea and refined to make jewelry. Some of the amber here is between 35 and 50 million years old. \| Im Kloster 1–3 \| Ribnitz-Damgarten \| 03821/2931 \| www.deutsches-bernsteinmuseum.de \| €8.50 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 9:30–6; Nov.–Feb., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–5; last entry 30 mins before closing. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Stralsund \| Rügen Island \| Usedom Island The best description of this region is found in its name, which simply means "before Pomerania." This area, indeed, seems trapped between Mecklenburg and the authentic, old Pomerania farther east, now part of Poland. Its remoteness ensures an unforgettable view of unspoiled nature, primarily attracting families and younger travelers. ## Stralsund 68 km (42 miles) east of Rostock on Route 105. This jewel of the Baltic has retained its historic city center and parts of its 13th-century defensive wall. The wall was built following an attack by the Lübeck fleet in 1249. In 1815 the Congress of Vienna awarded the city, which had been under Swedish control, to the Prussians. #### Getting Here and Around Stralsund is well linked to both Rostock and Berlin by A-20 and A-19. The city is an ideal base for exploring the coast via the well-developed network of Bundesstrassen around it. Inside the city, walking or biking are better options, though, as the dense, historic downtown area makes it difficult to drive. #### Essentials Visitor Information Stralsund. \| Alter Markt 9 \| 03831/24690 \| www.stralsund.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Alter Markt (Old Market Square). The Alter Markt has the best local architecture, ranging from Gothic to Renaissance to baroque. Most homes belonged to rich merchants, notably the late-Gothic Wulflamhaus, with 17 ornate, steeply stepped gables. Stralsund's architectural masterpiece, however, is the 14th-century Rathaus, considered by many to be the finest secular example of redbrick Gothic. The Rathaus is a mirror image of the a similar building in Lübeck, Stralsund's main rival in the Hanseatic League \| Alter Markt 1. FAMILY \| Deutsches Meeresmuseum (German Sea Museum). The Stralsund aquarium of Baltic Sea life is part of this three-floor museum, which also displays the skeletons of a giant whale and a hammerhead shark, and a 25-foot-high chunk of coral. \| Katharinenberg 14–20, entrance on Mönchstr. \| 03831/265–021 \| www.meeresmuseum.de \| €9 \| Oct.–May, daily 10–5; June–Sept., daily 10–6. St. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church). This enormous church is the largest of Stralsund's three redbrick Gothic churches. With 4,000 pipes and intricate decorative figures, the magnificent 17th-century Stellwagen organ (played only during Sunday services) is a delight to see and hear. The view from the church tower of Stralsund's old city center is well worth climbing 349 steps. \| Neuer Markt, entrance at Bleistr., Marienstr. \| 03831/293–529 \| Tour of church tower €4 \| May–Oct., weekdays 9–6, weekends 10–noon; Nov.–Apr., weekdays 10–noon and 2–6, weekends 10–noon. #### Worth Noting Katherinenkloster (St. Catherine's Monastery). A former cloister, 40 of its rooms now house two museums: the famed Deutsches Meeresmuseum, and the Kulturhistorisches Museum. \| Bielkenhagen. Kulturhistorisches Museum (Cultural History Museum). This museum exhibits diverse artifacts from more than 10,000 years of this coastal region's history. Highlights include a toy collection and 10th-century Viking gold jewelry found on Hiddensee. You reach the museums by walking along Ossenreyerstrasse through the Apollonienmarkt on Mönchstrasse. \| Kulturhistorisches Museum, Mönchstr. 25–27 \| 03831/28790 \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun.10–5. St. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas's Church). The treasures of the 13th-century Gothic church include a 15-foot-high crucifix from the 14th century, an astronomical clock from 1394, and a famous baroque altar. \| Alter Markt \| 03831/297–199 \| Apr.–Sept., Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. 11–noon and 2–4; Oct.–Mar., Mon.–Sat. 10–noon and 2–4, Sun. 11–noon and 2–4. ### Where to Eat and Stay Wulflamstuben. SEAFOOD \| This restaurant is on the ground floor of the Wulflamhaus, a 14th-century gabled house on the old market square. Steaks and fish are the specialties; in late spring or early summer, get the light and tasty Ostseescholle (grilled plaice), fresh from the Baltic Sea. In winter the hearty Stralsunder Aalsuppe (Stralsund eel soup) is a must. \| Average main: €14 \| Alter Markt 5 \| 03831/291–533 \| www.wulflamstuben.de \| Reservations essential. Zum Alten Fritz. GERMAN \| It's worth the trip here just to see the rustic interior and copper brewing equipment. Since the restaurant is owned by the Stralsunder Brewery, all Stralsunder and several Störtebecker beers are on tap, including the rare Störtebecker Roggen-Weizen, a wheat beer made with rye, and Germany's first India Pale Ale. In summer the beer garden gets somewhat rambunctious. \| Average main: €11 \| Greifswalder Chaussee 84–85, at B–96a \| 03831/25550. Hotel zur Post. HOTEL \| This redbrick hotel is a great deal for travelers looking for a homey yet first-class ambience. It's on the market square near the Old Town. The hotel's interior is a thoughtful mix of traditional north German furnishings and modern design. Pros: very good location in the heart of the historic downtown area; good deals offered on hotel website. Cons: very small rooms with too much furniture; some rooms in need of updating. \| Rooms from: €122 \| Am Neuen Markt, Tribseerstr. 22 \| 03831/200–500 \| www.hotel-zur-post-stralsund.de \| 104 rooms, 2 suites, 8 apartments \| Breakfast. Norddeutscher Hof. HOTEL \| Don't let the weathered facade fool you; this hotel is in good shape, even if the lobby and restaurant were not as tastefully redecorated as the guest rooms. You get the basics at a fair price. Pros: small family-run hotel with friendly service in a perfect downtown location. Cons: very basic; small and simple rooms in need of updating. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Neuer Markt 22 \| 03831/293–161 \| www.norddeutscher-hof.de \| 13 rooms \| Breakfast. Radisson Blu Hotel Stralsund. HOTEL \| This hotel, part of the Radisson brand, is a modern property with winning amenities and great hospitality at an unbeatable price. The high-rise hotel doesn't look appealing at first glance, but the spacious rooms (featuring many extras such as a baby bed, satellite TV, and a work desk) are furnished in bright colors and ensure a most pleasant stay. The biggest attraction, the hotel's Vital Spa, is a huge wellness facility. Pros: top spa; solid and reliable services and amenities; long breakfast service (until 11 am). Cons: for Stralsund, this is a large; busy hotel; far away from city center (15 minutes). \| Rooms from: €129 \| Grünhofer Bogen 18–20 \| 03831/37730 \| www.radissonblu.com/hotel-stralsund \| 109 rooms, 5 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife Bar Hemingway. This bar lures a thirtysomething clientele with the best cocktails in town. \| Tribseerstr. 22 \| 03831/200–500. Fun und Lollipop. A young crowd dances at Fun und Lollipop. \| Grünhofer Bogen 11 \| 03834/399–039. Störtebeker-Keller. For a genuine old harbor Kneipe (tavern), head to the Störtebeker-Keller, named for an infamous pirate. \| Ossenreyerstr. 49 \| 03831/292–758. ### Shopping Buddelschiffe (ships in a bottle) are a symbol of the magnificent sailing history of this region. They look easy to build, but they aren't, and they're quite delicate. Expect to pay more than €70 for a 1-liter bottle. Also look for Fischerteppiche (fishermen's carpets). Eleven square feet of these traditional carpets take 150 hours to create, which explains why they're meant only to be hung on the wall—and why they cost from €260 to €1,200. They're decorated with traditional symbols of the region, such as the mythical griffin. ## Rügen Island 4 km (2½ miles) northeast of Stralsund on B-96. Rügen's diverse and breathtaking landscapes have inspired poets and painters for more than a century. Railways in the mid-19th century brought the first vacationers from Berlin and many of the grand mansions and villas on the island date from this period. The island's main route runs between the Grosser Jasmunder Bodden (Big Jasmund Inlet), a giant sea inlet, and a smaller expanse of water, the Kleiner Jasmunder Bodden (Little Jasmund Inlet Lake), to the port of Sassnitz. You're best off staying at any of the island's four main vacation centers—Sassnitz, Binz, Sellin, and Göhren. #### Getting Here and Around Rügen is an easy two-hour drive from Rostock and a 15-minute drive from Stralsund via the B-96. As there is only one bridge connecting the island to the mainland, the road can get clogged occasionally in summer. On the island, a car is highly recommended to reach the more-remote beaches, but watch out for island teenagers and their infatuation with muscle cars; give them a wide berth. #### Essentials Visitor Information Rügen Island. \| Tourismusverband Rügen, Bahnhofstr. 15, \| Bergen \| 03838/807–780 \| www.ruegen.de. Sassnitz. \| Bahnhofstr. 19a, \| Sassnitz \| 038392/6490 \| www.insassnitz.de. ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Binz. The largest resort town on Rügen's east coast, it has white villas and a beach promenade. Four kilometers (2½ miles) north of Binz are five concrete quarters of Bad Prora, where the Nazis once planned to provide vacation quarters for up to 20,000 German workers. The complex was never used, except by the East German army. Museums and galleries here today include one that documents the history of the site. \| Strandpromenade 1, Binz. Jagdschloss Granitz. Standing on the highest point of East Rügen is the Jagdschloss Granitz, a hunting lodge built in 1836. It offers a splendid view in all directions from its lookout tower and has an excellent hunting exhibit. \| 2 km (1 mile) south of Binz \| 038393/663–814 \| www.jagdschloss-granitz.de \| €3 \| May–Sept., daily 9–6; Oct.–Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–4 Kap Arkona. Marking the northernmost point in eastern Germany is the lighthouse at Kap Arkona, a nature lover's paradise filled with blustery sand dunes. The redbrick lighthouse was designed by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, the architect responsible for so many of today's landmarks in Berlin. \| Kap Arkona, Putgarten. Sassnitz. This small fishing town is the island's harbor for ferries to Sweden. Sassnitz is surrounded by some of the most pristine nature to be found along the Baltic Coast. Ten kilometers (6 miles) north of Sassnitz are the twin chalk cliffs of Rügen's main attraction, the Stubbenkammer headland. From here you can best see the much-photographed white-chalk cliffs called the Königstuhl, rising 350 feet from the sea. A steep trail leads down to a beach. \| Merkelstr., Sassnitz. Jasmund Nationalpark. From Sassnitz, walk to Jasmund Nationalpark to explore the marshes, lush pine forests, and towering chalk cliffs. \| Johanniskirchstr., Sassnitz \| www.nationalpark-jasmund.de #### Worth Noting Bergen. This small town is the island's administrative capital, founded as a Slavic settlement some 900 years ago. The Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church) has geometric murals dating back to the late 1100s and painted brick octagonal pillars. The pulpit and altar are baroque. Outside the front door and built into the church facade is a gravestone from the 1200s. \| Bergen. Putbus. The heart of this town, 28 km (17 miles) southwest of Binz, is the Circus, a round central plaza dating back to the early 19th century. The immaculate white buildings surrounding the Circus give the city its nickname, "Weisse Stadt" (White City). In summer the blooming roses in front of the houses (once a requirement by the ruling noble family of Putbus) are truly spectacular. \| Alleestr., Putbus. Rasender Roland (Racing Roland). From Putbus you can take a ride on the 90-year-old narrow-gauge steam train, which runs 24 km (16 miles) to Göhren, at the southeast corner of Rügen. Trains leave hourly from Göhren to Binz and every two hours from Binz to Putbus; the ride takes 70 minutes one way. \| Binzer Str. 12, Putbus \| 038301/8010 \| www.rasender-roland.de \| €20 day ticket \| Apr.–Oct., daily 7:48 am–7:46 pm; Nov.–Mar., daily 7:48 am–5:44 pm. Off the Beaten Path: Hiddensee. Off the northwest corner of Rügen is a smaller island called Hiddensee. The undisturbed solitude of this sticklike island has attracted such visitors as Albert Einstein, Thomas Mann, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Sigmund Freud. As Hiddensee is an auto-free zone, leave your car in Schaprode, 21 km (13 miles) west of Bergen, and take a ferry. Vacation cottages and restaurants are on the island. \| Insel Hiddensee. ### Where to Eat Panoramahotel Lohme. GERMAN \| Dinner at this restaurant dubbed "Rügen's balcony" offers some of the most beautiful views on the island. While enjoying fresh fish from local waters, prepared with a light Italian touch, you can watch the sunset over the cliffs of Kap Arkona. Chef Marcus Uhlich uses fresh produce from local farmers, and the superb vintages are from small private wineries. TIP Make a reservation, and insist on a table in the Fontane-Veranda (in winter) or the Arkonablick-Terrasse (in summer). \| Average main: €15 \| An der Steilküste 8, Lohme \| 038302/9110. ### Where to Stay Hotel Godewind. B&B/INN \| This small hotel offers food and lodging at very reasonable prices. In addition, the hotel rents small cottages and apartments around the island, which are a good value if you intend to stay for more than a few days. lGodewind's restaurant ($) is known on the island for its regional dishes. Pros: quiet setting; very cozy rooms with nice furniture. Cons: almost no amenities and services offered. \| Rooms from: €98 \| Süderende 53, Vitte-Hiddensee \| 038300/6600 \| www.hotelgodewind.de \| 23 rooms, 19 cottages \| Breakfast. Hotel Villa Granitz. RENTAL \| This mostly wooden mansion is a small and quiet retreat for those who want to avoid the masses. All rooms are spacious and have a large terrace or balcony; pastel colors (a soft white and yellow) add to the tidy, fairy-tale look of the building. The apartments have small kitchenettes. Pros: cozy hotel in the traditional architectural style of the area; very competitive prices for the size and comfort of rooms. Cons: off the beaten track at the outskirts of the city; a distance from the beach. \| Rooms from: €78 \| Birkenallee 17, Baabe \| 038303/1410 \| www.villa-granitz.de \| 44 rooms, 6 suites, 8 apartments \| Breakfast. Travel Charme Hotel Kurhaus Binz. HOTEL \| The grand old lady of the Baltic Sea, the neoclassical 19th-century Kurhaus Binz is reviving the splendor of times past, when Binz was called the Nice of the North. The four-star Kurhaus is right on the beach, with a breathtaking sea view from most of the spacious and elegantly furnished rooms. The huge Egyptian-themed spa and wellness area is a real treat. Of the two restaurants, the Kurhaus-Restaurant ($$ - $$$) is the better choice - it serves traditional seafood but adds exotic touches with special fusion-cuisine. Pros: great breakfast buffet; extremely clean rooms and public areas; highly trained and friendly personnel; all the amenities. Cons: lacks the feel of a typical Rügen hotel; not very personal or intimate. \| Rooms from: €206 \| Strandpromenade 27, Binz \| 038393/6650 \| www.travelcharme.com \| 106 rooms, 20 suites \| Breakfast. Vier Jahreszeiten. HOTEL \| This first-class beach resort in Binz is a sophisticated blend of historic seaside architecture and modern elegance. Behind the ornamental white facade the hotel boasts spacious rooms decorated with 19th-century reproduction furniture, as well as more-secluded apartments. A great plus is the nearly 6,000-square-foot spa and wellness center, one of the best in Mecklenburg-Pomerania. Pros: one of the area's few four-star hotels; varied cultural and entertainment programs; stylish spa with great massages. Cons: small rooms and bathrooms; many rooms with worn-out mattresses. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Zeppelinstr. 8, Binz \| 038393/500 \| www.vier-jahreszeiten.de \| 69 rooms, 7 suites, 50 apartments \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Beaches Vitte. Tucked away on the west coast of Hiddedsee near Vitte, is a 5-km-long (3-mile-long) beach with shimmering turquoise waters and sand so fine that you might mistake it for the Caribbean. The 50-meter-wide beach is ideal for families with children, but is only accessible by bicycle. The water is quite shallow and it's easy to walk out to the sandbanks. Vitte is divided between a nudist section to the south and a textile section to the north. Locals decorate the beach with baskets of flowers in summer. Amenities: showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: solitude; nudists; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; swimming; walking. \| Süderende, Insel Hiddensee. Binz. The rule of the Baltics most exclusive beach is "see and be seen." The 5-km-long (3-mile-long) and 54-yard-wide beach is the perfect place to sunbathe and swim, as well as stroll—there's a 150-year-old beach path promenade. The somewhat rocky beach is punctuated by the Seebrücke, a boardwalk that extends into the sea, and the nearby Smart Beach Tour Stadium, which regularly hosts parties, beach volleyball tournaments, and other events. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; swimming; walking. \| Strandpromenade \| Binz. Prora. This is one of the finest beaches on Rügen, and there's probably not another place like it in the world—think fine white beach bordered by a dense pine forest sitting in the shadows of the ruins of a monstrous Nazi beach resort. Prora actually sits in the Prorer Wiek, a pleasant cove with shallow water and plentiful sandbanks. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: solitude, partiers; nudists; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking; windsurfing. \| Binz. ## Usedom Island 67 km (42 miles) to Wolgast bridge from Stralsund. Usedom Island has almost 32 km (20 miles) of sandy shoreline and a string of resorts. Much of the island's untouched landscape is a nature preserve that provides refuge for a number of rare birds, including the giant sea eagle, which has a wingspan of up to 8 feet. Even in summer this island is more or less deserted, and is ready to be explored by bicycle. #### Getting Here and Around From the west, Usedom is accessed via the causeway at Wolgast. The bridge closes to traffic at times to allow boats to pass through. From the south, the B-110 leads from Anklam to Usedom. In summer, particularly before and after weekends, traffic can be very heavy on both roads. #### Essentials Visitor Information Usedom Island Tourismus GmbH. \| Waldstr. 1, \| Seebad Bansin \| 038378/47710 \| www.usedom.de. ### Exploring Ahlbeck. The island's main town is also one of its best resorts. The tidy and elegant resort is one of the three Kaiserbäder (imperial baths)—the two others are Heringsdorf and Bansin—where the Emperor Wilhelm II liked to spend his summers in the early 20th century. Noble families and rich citizens followed the emperor, turning Ahlbeck into one of the prettiest villas on the Baltic Coast. Ahlbeck's landmark is the 19th-century wooden pier with four towers. Stroll the beach to the right of the pier and you'll arrive at the Polish border. \| 1 Kurstr., Ahlbeck. Peenemünde. At the northwest tip of Usedom, 16 km (10 miles) from landside Wolgast, is the launch site of the world's first jet rockets, the V1 and V2, developed by Germany during World War II. You can view these rockets as well as models of early airplanes and ships at the extensive \| Fährstr. 10, Peenemünde. Das Historisch-Technische Museum Peenemünde (Historical-Technical Museum Peenemünde). At this museum housed in the former factory power plant, one exhibit in particular covers the moral responsibility of scientists who develop new technology, by focusing on the secret plants where most of the rocket parts were assembled and where thousands of slave laborers died. Explanations of the exhibits in English are available. \| Im Kraftwerk, Peenemünde \| 038371/5050 \| www.peenemuende.de \| €8 \| Apr.–Sept., daily 10–6; Oct.–Mar., daily 10–4; Nov.–Feb., Tues.–Sun. 10–4 ### Where to Stay Romantik Seehotel Ahlbecker Hof. HOTEL \| The first lady of Ahlbeck, this four-star hotel calls to mind the island's past as a getaway for Prussian nobility in the 19th century. The restored building sits rights on the beach, just a few steps from the pier. It offers spacious, elegantly appointed rooms overlooking the water. Pros: has one of the area's best spas; two gourmet restaurants; near beach. Cons: no elevator. \| Rooms from: €207 \| Dünenstr. 47, Ahlbeck \| 038378/620 \| www.seetel.de \| 70 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors #### Beaches Ückeritz. One of the best-kept secrets on Usedom, this 7½-mile-long beach is quite busy in the north but almost abandoned further south. The area is quite rustic and the perfect beach to feel like you have the place to yourself. Amenities: food and drink; parking Best for: solitude; nudists; sunrise; sunset; walking. \| Uferpromenade \| Ückeritz. Kaiserbäder. The Kaiserbäder Strand stretches for more than 12 km (7 miles) along Usedom Island's northeast coast from Bansin to Herringsdorf to Ahlbeck. A promenade connects the three towns and the Imperial Bathing Beaches are a mix of 19th-century beach architecture on one side and beach chair relaxation on the other. A stroll through the windy sea air is said to have magical recuperative powers and the beach is so pure and pristine that the locals claim that when the conditions are right, the sand actually sings when the grains rub together. The wide beach bustles with weekend Berliners and long-term visitors in summer. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; sunrise; sunset; swimming; walking. \| Strandpromenade \| Herringsdorf. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Berlin Exploring Berlin Where to Eat Where to Stay Nightlife and the Arts Shopping Side Trip to Potsdam Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Berlin Wall Walk \| Follow the Cobblestones \| Two Berlin Wall Walks \| Iconic East Berlin Updated by Sally McGrane and Giulia Pines Since the fall of the Iron Curtain, no other city in Europe has seen more change than Berlin, the German capital. The two Berlins that had been physically separated for almost 30 years have become one, and the reunited city has become a cutting-edge destination for architecture, culture, entertainment, nightlife, and shopping. After successfully uniting its own East and West, Berlin now plays a pivotal role in the European Union. But even as the capital thinks and moves forward, history is always tugging at its sleeve. Between the wealth of neoclassical and 21st-century buildings there are constant reminders, both subtle and stark, of the events of the 20th century. Berlin is quite young by European standards, beginning as two separate entities in 1237 on two islands in the Spree River: Cölln and Berlin. By the 1300s, Berlin was prospering, thanks to its location at the intersection of important trade routes, and rose to power as the seat of the Hohenzollern dynasty. The Great Elector Friedrich Wilhelm, in the nearly 50 years of his reign (1640–88), touched off a cultural renaissance. Later, Frederick the Great (1712–86) made Berlin and Potsdam glorious centers of his enlightened yet autocratic Prussian monarchy. In 1871, Prussia, ruled by the "Iron Chancellor" Count Otto von Bismarck, unified the many independent German states into the German Empire. Berlin maintained its status as capital for the duration of that Second Reich (1871–1918), through the post–World War I Weimar Republic (1919–33), and also through Hitler's so-called Third Reich (1933–45). The city's golden years were the Roaring '20s, when Berlin evolved as the energetic center for the era's cultural avant-garde. World-famous writers, painters, and artists met here while the impoverished bulk of its 4 million inhabitants lived in heavily overpopulated quarters. This "dance on the volcano," as those years of political and economic upheaval have been called, came to a grisly and bloody end after January 1933, when Adolf Hitler became chancellor. The Nazis made Berlin their capital but ultimately failed to remake the city into a monument to their power, as they had planned. By World War II's end, 70% of the city lay in ruins, with more rubble than in all other German cities combined. Along with the division of Germany after World War II, Berlin was partitioned into American, British, and French zones in the West and a Soviet zone in the East. The three western-occupied zones became West Berlin, while the Soviets, who controlled not only Berlin's eastern zone but also all of the east German land surrounding it tried to blockade West Berlin out of existence. (They failed thanks to the year-long Berlin Airlift [1948–49], during which American airplanes known in German as "raisin bombers," dropped supplies until the blockade lifted.) In 1949 the Soviet Union established East Berlin as the capital of its new satellite state, the German Democratic Republic (GDR). The division of the city was cruelly finalized in concrete in August 1961, when the GDR erected the Berlin Wall, the only border fortification in history built to keep people from leaving rather than to protect them. For nearly 30 years, the two Berlins served as competing visions of the new world order: Capitalist on one side, Communist on the other. West Berlin, an island of democracy in the Eastern bloc, was surrounded by guards and checkpoints. Nonetheless, thanks in part to being heavily subsidized by Western powers, the city became a haven for artists and freethinkers. Today, with the Wall long relegated to history (most of it was recycled as street gravel), visitors can appreciate the whole city and the anything-goes atmosphere that still pervades. ## Top Reasons to Go Affordability: Of the European capitals, Berlin is the best bargain. It's a city of high culture and low prices—tickets for the opera, theater, and museums tend to hover around €10. Long, creative nights: The only European city without official closing hours, Berlin's young artists put on installations, performance events, and parties to keep you up all night. Museum Island (Museuminsel): The architectural monuments and art treasures here will take you from an ancient Greek altar to Egyptian busts and a Roman market town to 18th-century Berlin and back. The Reichstag's cupola: Reserve a coveted spot on a tour of Berlin's seat of parliament to admire the spectacular glass cupola, and to enjoy great views of Berlin. Trace history's path: The division of Berlin was a major historical event and an anomaly in urban history. Follow the cobblestone markers of the Wall's path. ## Getting Oriented In eastern Germany, almost halfway between Paris and Moscow, Berlin is Germany's largest city. When the city-state of Berlin was incorporated in 1920, it swallowed towns and villages far beyond what had been the downtown area around the two main rivers, the Spree and the Havel. After World War II, Berlin was divided among the conquering powers, and in 1961 the East German government built a wall through the middle of the city, more or less overnight. For the next decades, the city was divided. In November 1989, the wall fell, and a peaceful revolution put an end to the Communist East German regime. In 1999, Berlin became the capital of a reunified Germany, once again. ## What's Where Mitte. It means "center" or "middle" in German, and it's the neighborhood at the center of the city. Once home to the city's Jewish quarters, after the war Mitte was part of East Berlin. Today, it's the center of the city once again, packed with monuments, museums, galleries, and shops. Tiergarten. The Tiergarten neighborhood extends around the Tiergarten ("animal garden"), which is Berlin's version of New York's Central Park. Potsdamer Platz. One of the busiest squares in prewar Europe, Potsdamer Platz is still the center of commercial action. Friedrichshain. In the former East, Friedrichshain's offbeat bars, restaurants, clubs, and parks draw creative types from around the world. Kreuzberg. When Berlin was divided, West Berlin's Kreuzberg was right alongside the wall. The neighborhood drew punks, artists, and anarchists, as well as a large Turkish population. Today, it's still edgy and artsy. Prenzlauer Berg. Once a working class neighborhood, Prenzlauer Berg is now one of the city's most gentrified areas, perfect for strolling leafy streets, past sidewalk cafés. Wedding. A working class neighborhood in the former West, this is where Berlin's artists are heading, as rents rise elsewhere. Whether you're looking for an underground art gallery or authentic Turkish coffee, Wedding is the place to go. Neukölln. Neukölln has gone from bleak to chic. Abandoned storefronts have turned into DIY art galleries, homemade fashion shops, secondhand shops, and funky wine bars. Charlottenburg. Lovely Charlottenburg is as elegant as Berlin gets. This beautifully sedate West Berlin neighborhood hasn't changed as much as much of the rest of the city. Wannsee and Oranienburg. The concentration camp in Oranienburg is a somber excursion; Wannsee also has a dark past but there are also parks and lakes to explore. ## Planning ### When to Go Berlin tends to be gray and cold; it can be warm and beautiful in summer but there's no guarantee, so it's best to always pack a jacket. The best time to visit is from May to early September, though late July and early August can get hot—in which case, everyone heads to one of the city's many lakes. Many open-air events are staged in summer, when the exceedingly green city is at its most beautiful. October and November can be overcast and rainy, though the city occasionally sees crisp blue autumn skies. If you want to get a real feel for Berlin, come during the long winter months, when a host of indoor cultural events combat perpetually gray skies, but bring a heavy winter coat to combat the sleet, icy rain, strong winds, and freezing temperatures. ### Discounts and Deals The Berlin WelcomeCard (sold by EurAid, Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe offices, the tourist office, and some hotels) entitles one adult and three children up to age 6 to two, three, or five days of unlimited travel in the ABC zones for €20.50, €26.50, or €36.50, respectively, and includes admission and tour discounts detailed in a booklet. The CityTourCard, good for two, three, or five days of unlimited travel in the ABC zones, costs €18.90, €24.90, and €34.90, respectively, and details 50 discounts on a leaflet; up to three children under age 6 can accompany an adult. Many of the 17 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin (state museums of Berlin) offer several ticket options (children up to 18 are welcomed free of charge). A single ticket ranges €8–€12. A three-day pass (Tageskarte or SchauLust Museen Ticket) to all state museums costs €24. This ticket allows entrance to all state museums plus many others for three consecutive days. State museums tend to cluster near one another, and usually a single entrance ticket grants admission to all museums in that area. These areas include Charlottenburg (€12), Dahlem (€8), the Kulturforum in Tiergarten (€12), Hamburger Bahnhof in Moabit (€14), and all museums on Museum Island (€18) in Mitte. Except for the Hamburger Bahnhof ticket, which includes all temporary exhibits, all these entrance tickets are for the permanent exhibitions only, and include an audio guide. ### Getting Here and Around #### Airport Transfers Tegel Airport is 6 km (4 miles) from the downtown area. The express X9 airport bus runs at 10-minute intervals between Tegel and Bahnhof Zoologischer Garten (Zoo Station), the center of west Berlin. From here you can connect to bus, train, or subway. The trip takes 19 minutes; the fare is €2.60. The express bus TXL runs at 10-minute intervals between Tegel and Alexanderplatz via Hauptbahnhof and takes about 30 minutes. Alternatively, you can take Bus No. 128 to Kurt Schumacher Platz or Bus No. 109 to Jakob-Kaiser-Platz and change to the U-bahn, where your bus ticket is also valid. Expect to pay about €20 for a taxi from the airport to most destinations in central Berlin. If you rent a car at the airport, follow the signs for the Stadtautobahn into Berlin. The exit to Kurfürstendamm is clearly marked. At Schönefeld, which is quite a bit farther out, buy an Einzelfahrschein or single ride ticket (€3.20) for the ABC zone from the DB (Deutsche Bahn) office or from an S-bahn platform vending machine (no credit cards) to get you into town. This ticket is good for both the S-bahn and the Airport Express train, which runs about every half hour from a track that has no vending machine. To take the Airport Express, look for a small dark-blue sign at the foot of the stairs leading to its platform. Bus 171 also leaves Schönefeld every 20 minutes for the Rudow U-bahn station. A taxi ride from Schönefeld Airport takes about 40 minutes and will cost around €35. By car, follow the signs for Stadtzentrum Berlin. Airport Information Central airport service. \| 030/500–0186 \| www.berlin-airport.de. #### Air Travel Major airlines will continue to serve western Berlin's Tegel Airport (TXL) after a first stop at a major European hub (such as Frankfurt or London) until eastern Berlin's Schönefeld Airport, about 24 km (15 miles) outside the center, has been expanded into BBI "Berlin-Brandenburg International," otherwise known as "Willy Brandt"—the international airport of the capital region. Until then, Schönefeld is mostly used by charter and low-budget airlines. The two working Berlin airports share a central phone number. #### Bicycle Travel Berlin is a great city for biking. Particularly in summer, you can get just about anywhere you want by bike. An extensive network of bike paths are generally marked by red pavement or white markings on the sidewalks (when you're walking, try to avoid walking on bike paths if you don't want to have cyclists ring their bells at you). Many stores that rent or sell bikes carry the Berlin biker's atlas, and several places offer terrific bike tours of the city. Bicycle Information Fahrradstation. This company rents bikes for €15 per day (12 hours) or €35 for three days. Bring ID and call for its other locations. \| Dorotheenstr. 30, Mitte \| 0180/510–8000 \| www.fahrradstation.de. #### Bus Travel BerlinLinien Bus is the only intra-Germany company serving Berlin. Make reservations through ZOB-Reisebüro, or buy your ticket at its office at the central bus terminal, the Omnibusbahnhof. Public buses are the best way to reach the bus terminal, served by line nos. X34, X49, 104, 139, 218, and 349. A more central place to buy bus tickets is Mitfahrzentrale, a tiny, busy office that also arranges car-ride shares. Only EC bank cards and cash are accepted. Bus Information Mitfahrzentrale. \| 01805/194–444 \| www.mf24.de \| Weekdays 9–6, weekends 10–2. ZOB-Reisebüro. \| Zentrale Omnibusbahnhof, Masurenallee 4–6, at Messedamm, Charlottenburg \| 030/301–0380 for reservations \| www.zob-reisebuero.de \| Weekdays 6 am–9 pm, weekends 6 am–8 pm. #### Car Travel Rush hour is relatively mild in Berlin, but the public transit system is so efficient here that it's best to leave your car at the hotel altogether (or refrain from renting one in the first place). All cars entering downtown Berlin inside the S-bahn ring need to have an environmental certificate. All major rental cars will have these—if in doubt, ask the rental-car agent, as without one you can be fined €40. Daily parking fees at hotels can run up to €18 per day. Vending machines in the city center dispense timed tickets to display on your dashboard. Thirty minutes costs €0.50. #### Public Transit The city has an efficient public-transportation system, a smoothly integrated network of subway (U-bahn) and suburban (S-bahn) train lines, buses, and trams (almost exclusively in eastern Berlin). Get a map from any information booth. TIP Don't be afraid to try buses and trams—in addition to being well marked, they often cut the most direct path to your destination. From Sunday through Thursday, U-bahn trains stop around 12:45 am and S-bahn trains stop by 1:30 am. All-night bus and tram service operates seven nights a week (indicated by the letter N next to bus route numbers). On Friday and Saturday nights some S-bahn and all U-bahn lines except U4 run all night. Buses and trams marked with an M for Metro mostly serve destinations without an S-bahn or U-bahn link. Most visitor destinations are in the broad reach of the fare zones A and B. The €2.60 ticket (fare zones A and B) and the €3.20 ticket (fare zones A, B, and C) allow you to make a one-way trip with an unlimited number of changes between trains, buses, and trams. There are reduced rates for children ages 6–13. Buy a Kurzstreckentarif ticket (€1.50) for short rides of up to six bus or tram stops or three U-bahn or S-bahn stops. The best deal if you plan to travel around the city extensively is the Tageskarte (day card for zones A and B), for €6.70, good on all transportation until 3 am (€7.20 for A, B, and C zones). A 7-Tage-Karte (seven-day ticket) costs €28.80, and allows unlimited travel for fare zones A and B; €35.60 buys all three fare zones. Tickets are available from vending machines at U-bahn and S-bahn stations. After you purchase a ticket, you are responsible for validating it when you board the train or bus. Both Einzelfahrt and Kurzstreckentarif tickets are good for 120 minutes after validation. If you're caught without a ticket or with an unvalidated one, the fine is €40. TIP The BVG website (www.bvg.de) makes planning any trip on public transportation easier. Enter your origin and destination point into their "Journey Planner" to see a list of your best routes, and a schedule of the next three departure times. If you're not sure which station is your closest, simply type in your current address and the system will tell you (along with the time it takes to walk there). Most major S-bahn and U-bahn stations have elevators, and most buses have hydraulic lifts. Check the public transportation maps or call the Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe. The Deutscher Service-Ring-Berlin e.V. runs a special bus service for travelers with physical disabilities, and is a good information source on all travel necessities, that is, wheelchair rental and other issues. Public Transit Information Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe (BVG). \| 030/19449 \| www.bvg.de. S-Bahn Berlin GmbH. \| 030/2974–3333 \| www.s-bahn-berlin.de. VBB. \| 030/2541–4141 for info \| www.vbbonline.de \| Weekdays 8–8, weekends 9–6. #### Taxi Travel The base rate is €3.20, after which prices vary according to a complex tariff system. Figure on paying around €8–€10 for a ride the length of the Ku'damm. TIP If you've hailed a cab on the street and are taking a short ride of up to 2 km (1 mile), ask the driver as soon as you start off for a special fare (€4) called "Kurzstreckentarif." You can also get cabs at taxi stands or order one by calling; there's no additional fee if you call a cab by phone. U-bahn employees will call a taxi for passengers after 8 pm. BikeTaxi, rickshawlike bicycle taxis, pedal along Kurfürstendamm, Friedrichstrasse, Unter den Linden, and in Tiergarten. Just hail a cab on the street along the boulevards mentioned. The fare is €5 for up to 1 km (½ mile) and €3 for each additional kilometer, and €22.50 to €30 for longer tours. Velotaxis operate April–October, daily noon–7. TIP Despite these fixed prices, make sure to negotiate the fare before starting the tour. Taxi Information Taxis. \| 030/210–101, 030/443–322, 030/261–026. #### Train Travel All long-distance trains stop at the huge and modern central station, Hauptbahnhof, which lies at the northern edge of the government district in central Berlin. Regional trains also stop at the two former "main" stations of the past years: Bahnhof Zoo (in the West) and Ostbahnhof (in the East), as well as at the central eastern stations Friedrichstrasse and Alexanderplatz. ### Visitor Information The main information office of Berlin Tourismus Marketing is in the Neues Kranzler Eck, a short walk from Zoo Station. There are branches in the south wing of the Brandenburg Gate, at Hauptbahnhof (Level 0), and in a pavilion opposite the Reichstag that are open daily 10–6. The tourist-information centers have longer hours April–October. The tourist office publishes the Berlin Kalender (€1.60) six times a year and Berlin Buchbar (free) two times a year; both are written in German and English. The tourist office and Berlin's larger transportation offices (BVG) sell the Berlin WelcomeCard (€18.50 to €36.50), which pays for between three and five days of transportation depending on which one you get, along with 25%–50% discounts at museums and theaters (it does not include the state museums). Some Staatliche (state) museums are closed Monday. A free audio guide is included at all state museums. The MD Infoline provides comprehensive information about all of Berlin's museums, exhibits, and themed tours. Visitor Information Visit Berlin (Berlin Tourist Info). \| Kurfürstendamm 22, in the Neues Kranzler Eck, Charlottenburg \| 030/250–025 \| www.visitberlin.de \| Mon.–Sat. 9:30–8, Sun. 10–6. Museumsinformation Berlin. \| 030/2474–9888 \| Weekdays 9–4, weekends 9–1. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. \| 030/2664–24242 operator \| www.smb.museum \| Weekdays 9–4. Tourist-Information Center in Prenzlauer Berg. \| Kuturbrauerei closest entrance Schönhauser Allee 36, Schönhauser Allee 36, in the Kulturbrauerei, entrances on Knaackstr. or Sredzkistr., Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/4435–2170 \| www.tic-berlin.de \| Daily, 11-7. ### Tours #### Boat Tours Tours of central Berlin's Spree and the canals give you up-close views of sights such as Museum Island, Charlottenburg Palace, the Reichstag, and the Berliner Dom. Tours usually depart twice a day from several bridges and piers in Berlin, such as Schlossbrücke in Charlottenburg; Hansabrücke and Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Tiergarten; Friedrichstrasse, Museum Island, and Nikolaiviertel in Mitte; and near the Jannowitzbrücke S-bahn and U-bahn station. Drinks, snacks, and wurst are available during the narrated trips. Reederei Riedel offers multiple inner-city trips that range from €11.50 to €20 depending on theme and distance. A tour of the Havel Lakes (which include Tegeler See and Wannsee) begins at the Wannsee, where you can sail on either the whale-shape vessel Moby Dick or the Havel Queen, a Mississippi-style boat, and cruise 28 km (17 miles) through the lakes and past forests (Stern- und Kreisschiffahrt). Tours can last from one to seven hours, and cost between €10.50 and €20. There are 20 operators. Boat Tour Information Reederei Bruno Winkler. \| 030/349–9595 \| www.reedereiwinkler.de. Reederei Riedel. \| 030/6796–1470 \| www.reederei-riedel.de. Stern und Kreisschiffahrt. \| 030/536–3600 \| www.sternundkreis.de. #### Bus Tours Four companies (Berliner Bären Stadtrundfahrten, Berolina Berlin-Service, Bus Verkehr Berlin, and BEX Sightseeing) jointly offer city tours on yellow, double-decker City Circle buses, which run every 15 or 30 minutes, depending on the season. The full circuit takes two hours, as does the recorded narration listened to through headphones. For €20 you can jump on and off at between 13 and 20 stops depending on the company. The bus driver sells tickets. During the warmer months, the last circuit leaves at 6 pm from the corner of Fasanenstrasse and Kurfürstendamm. Most companies have tours to Potsdam. The Stadtrundfahrtbüro Berlin offers a 2¼-hour (€15) or 2¾-hour (€20) tour at 10:15, 10:45, 11, 11:30, 1, and 1:30, 2, 3:30, and 4. A guide narrates in both German and English. The bus departs from Tauentzienstrasse 16, at the corner of Marbuger Strasse. Bus Tour Information BBS Berliner Bären Stadtrundfahrt (BBS). \| 030/3519–5270 \| www.bbsberlin.de. Berolina Berlin-Service. \| 030/8856–8030 \| www.berolina-berlin.com. BEX Sightseeing. \| Mannheimer Str. 33–34, Wilmersdorf \| 030/880–4190 \| www.bex.de. Stadtrundfahrtbüro Berlin. \| Kurfürstendamm 236, Western Downtown \| 030/261–2001 \| www.stadtrundfahrtbuero-berlin.de. #### Walking and Bike Tours Getting oriented through a walking tour is a great way to start a Berlin visit. In addition to daily city highlight tours, companies have themed tours such as Third Reich Berlin, Potsdam, and pub crawls. Berlin Walks offers a Monday "Jewish Life" tour, a Potsdam tour on Thursday and Sunday, and visits to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. Insider Tours has a "Cold War" Berlin tour about the Soviet era and a bike tour as well as a Cruise'n'Walk tour, a combination of boating and walking. Brit Terry Brewer's firsthand accounts of divided and reunified Berlin are a highlight of the all-day "Brewer's Best of Berlin" tour. Tours cost €15. Printable discount coupons may be available on the tour operators' websites; some companies grant discounts to WelcomeCard and CityCard holders. Fat Tire Bike Tours rides through Berlin daily early March–November and has a Berlin Wall tour; the 4½-hour city tour costs €24, bike rental included. For a truly memorable experience, check out Berliner Unterwelten, which translates as "Berlin Underworlds." The company offers access to several of Berlin's best-preserved WWII bunkers that are normally closed to the public on intriguing yet eerie tours that take you literally underground. Walking and Bike Tour Information Berliner Unterwelten e. V. \| Brunnenstr. 105, at the U Gesundbrunnen exit, Wedding \| 030/499–1517 \| www.berliner-unterwelten.de. Brewer's Berlin Tours. \| 0177/388–1537 \| www.brewersberlintours.com. Fat Tire Bike Tours. \| Panoramastr. 1a, base of TV tower, Mitte \| 030/2404–7991 \| www.fattirebiketoursberlin.com. Insider Tour. \| Bahnhof Zoologischer Garten, outside McDonalds, Charlottenburg \| 030/692–3149 \| www.insidertour.com. Original Berlin Walks. \| 030/301–9194 \| www.berlinwalks.com. ## Berlin Wall Walk The Berlin Wall (Berliner Mauer) came down more than 20 years ago, but it's still a major tourist draw. How does a structure no longer standing affect the city even in its absence? When the Wall fell on November 9, 1989, it followed massive protests, an astonishing amount of community organizing, and the prayers of thousands in both west and east, all of whom couldn't quite believe such a momentous event was happening in their lifetimes. Many had felt the same way 28 years earlier, when the East German government, in an attempt to keep their beleaguered citizens from leaving, built the wall practically overnight. Now, except for a few sections left standing, all that remains of one of history's most notorious symbols of postwar oppression and imprisonment is a line of cobblestones wending its way through the streets of Berlin. ## Follow the Cobblestones When the wall fell, Berliners couldn't wait to get rid of it and there are few places where it remains intact. One is the East Side Gallery; another is the Gedenkstätte Berliner Mauer (the Berlin Wall Memorial Site) at the former Checkpoint Charlie. Or just look down: where the wall used to stand, a cobblestone path bifurcates the city, with plaques stating "Berliner Mauer 1961–1989." ## Two Berlin Wall Walks #### Friedrichshain to Treptow via the Oberbaumbrücke and the Flutgraben Starting at the East Side Gallery, cross the Oberbaumbrücke, a former border checkpoint, and turn left at Schlesische Strasse. There's no sign of the Wall here, but ubiquitous graffiti and crumbling buildings make it easy to imagine isolated Kreuzberg when it stood. At Am Flutgraben, you'll pick up the trail again, and up ahead is the Grenzwachturm (border watchtower). Stop at the nonprofit art collective Flutgraben e.V., which hosts infrequent exhibitions. Turn right to follow the Flutgraben (small canal) south until you reach an overpass, part of an elevated railway that used to lead to the prewar train station Görlitzer Bahnhof. Now, the railway is a park connecting Treptow with Görlitzer Park, the site of the old station and a meeting point for anarchist groups, punks, and revolutionaries before the Wall fell. #### Bernauer Strasse to Bornholmer Brücke via Mauer Park Behind Nordbahnhof (S-bahn), follow Bernauer Strasse to the Gedenkstätte Berliner Mauer, located in the former "death strip," where a church was blown up by the East because it was an obstruction to guards and an alleged hiding place for those trying to flee. Follow Bernauer Strasse until you reach the corner of Schwedter Strasse, then take the path that cuts through Mauer Park. Also in the former death strip, the park has one of the best flea markets in town (and, in summer, massive karaoke shows). At the park's northern end, Schwedter Strasse turns into the Schwedter Steg, a footbridge over an impressive chasm of connecting train tracks and S-bahn lines. Turn around for a spectacular view of the TV tower. Head down steps on your left and continue along Norwegerstrasse. After going under the famous Bornholmer Brücke, take the flight of steps up to it. This is where East Berliners, having heard an official announcement that the wall was open, first pushed through to West Berlin. ## Iconic East Berlin Many East Berlin designs have crept into daily life in Berlin, including the stocky East Berlin Ampelmann ("streetlight man") that appears on the crosswalk traffic lights. He wears a wide-brim hat and walks with an animated gait. After the wall fell, this icon found himself at the center of heated controversy, as the city decided to replace him with the more dour West Berlin traffic men. Easterners felt like this was a symbol of the ways in which the West was acting like a colonizing power, rather than an equal partner in reunification, and mounted a protest. The Ampelmann was saved. And he's now a mini-franchise: adorning coffee cups and T-shirts, and there's even candy made in his image. Entire gift shops are dedicated to selling items imprinted with his likeness. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Mitte \| Tiergarten \| Potsdamer Platz \| Kreuzberg \| Prenzlauer Berg \| Wedding \| Neukölln \| Charlottenburg \| Wannsee \| Oranienburg With so much to see, a good place to start your visit is in Mitte. You can walk around the Scheunenviertel, which used to be the city's Jewish quarter and is now a center for art galleries and upscale shops, punctuated by memorials to the Holocaust. For culture buffs, great antique, medieval, Renaissance, and modern art can be found at the Kulturforum in the Tiergarten, and on Museum Island in Mitte—both cultural centers are a must, and either will occupy at least a half day. On your way to the Tiergarten, visit the emotionally moving Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (referred to by many as simply the Holocaust Memorial), the Brandenburg Gate, and the Reichstag with its astonishing cupola. Most of the historic sights of German and Prussian history line the city's other grand boulevard, Unter den Linden, in Mitte. Unter den Linden, which can be strolled in a leisurely two hours, with stops. Other spots not to miss are Potsdamer Platz and the Kulturforum in Tiergarten, and the hip and edgy neighborhoods of Wedding and Neukölln. Walk along the East Side Gallery in Freidrichshain, then head to Simon-DachStrasse or cross the bridge over the Spree to Kreuzberg for something to eat. Head over to Charlottenburg for an elegant, old-fashioned afternoon of coffee and cake. If you need to spiff up your wardrobe with major labels, Kurfürstendamm is the city's premier shopping boulevard. Note that most shops are closed on Sunday, with the exception of those located in major train stations. The city's outlying areas offer palaces, lakes, and museums set in lush greenery. In Zehlendorf, just a short ride on the S-Bahn from the center, you can swim in the lovely Schlachtensee Lake. The nearby town of Potsdam has the fabulous palace, Schloss Sanssouci, as well as extensive parks and lakes. To the north, in Oranienburg, is the Gedenkstätte und Museum Sachsenhausen concentration camp. ## Mitte After the fall of the wall, Mitte, which had been in East Germany, became the geographic center of Berlin, once again. The area has several minidistricts, each of which has its own distinctive history and flair. Alexanderplatz, home of the TV Tower, was the center of East Berlin. With its communist architecture, you can still get a feel for the GDR aesthetic here. The Nikolaiviertel nearby, was part of the medieval heart of Berlin. Left largely intact by the war, it was destroyed for ideological reasons, then rebuilt decades later by the Communist regime. The Scheunenviertel, part of the Spandauer Vorstadt, was home to many of the city's Jewish citizens. Today, the narrow streets that saw so much tragedy house art galleries and upscale shops. Treasures once split between East and West Berlin museums are reunited on Museuminsel, the stunning Museum Island, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Bordering Tiergarten and the government district is the meticulously restored Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate), the unofficial symbol of the city, and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, whose design and scope engendered many debates. The historic boulevard Unter den Linden proudly rolls out Prussian architecture and world-class museums. Its major cross street is Friedrichstrasse, which was revitalized in the mid-1990s with car showrooms (including Bentley, Bugatti, and Volkswagen) and upscale malls. The Scheunenviertel (Barn Quarter) is the hip part of Mitte and the historic core of Berlin. It's made up of narrow streets and courtyard mazes in the old Spandauer Vorstadt (the old Jewish neighborhood), and the area around Oranienburger Strasse. There are upscale shops, tony bars, and increasingly excellent restaurants, as well as successful art galleries. During the second half of the 17th century, artisans, small-businessmen, and Jews moved into this area at the encouragement of the Great Elector, who sought to improve his financial situation through their skills. As industrialization intensified, the quarter became poorer, and in the 1880s many East European Jews escaping pogroms settled here. #### Timing You must reserve a spot on a tour in advance in order to visit the Reichstag, but don't let that stop you: the new rules have done a lot to dissipate the lines that used to snake around the building. The Hamburger Bahnhof, Museum für Gegenwart–Berlin is just down the street from Hauptbahnhof. A quick ride on Berlin's newest—and with only three stops, shortest—underground line, the U55, will get you there from the Brandenburg Gate or the Reichstag. To speed your way down Unter den Linden, there are three bus lines that make stops between Wilhelmstrasse and Alexanderplatz and act as unofficial tourist buses. Note that a few state museums in this area are closed Monday. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Bebelplatz. After he became ruler in 1740, Frederick the Great personally planned the buildings surrounding this square (which has a huge parking garage cleverly hidden beneath the pavement). The area received the nickname "Forum Fridericianum," or Frederick's Forum. On May 10, 1933, Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi minister for propaganda and "public enlightenment," organized one of the nationwide book-burnings here. The books, thrown on a pyre by Nazi officials and students, included works by Jews, pacifists, and Communists. In the center of Bebelplatz, a modern and subtle memorial (built underground but viewable through a window in the cobblestone) marks where 20,000 books went up in flames. The Staatsoper Unter den Linden (State Opera) is on the east side of the square. St. Hedwigskathedrale is on the south side. The Humboldt-Universität is to the west. \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral). A church has stood here since 1536, but this enormous version dates from 1905, making it the largest 20th-century Protestant church in Germany. The royal Hohenzollerns worshipped here until 1918, when Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated and left Berlin for Holland. The massive dome wasn't restored from World War II damage until 1982; the interior was completed in 1993. The climb to the dome's outer balcony is made easier by a wide stairwell, plenty of landings with historic photos and models, and even a couple of chairs. The 94 sarcophagi of Prussian royals in the crypt are significant, but to less trained eyes can seem uniformly dull. Sunday services include communion. \| Am Lustgarten 1, Mitte \| 030/2026–9136 \| www.berlinerdom.de \| €8 with audio guide, €5 without \| Mon.–Sat. 9–8, Sun. noon–8 \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). FAMILY \| Berliner Fernsehturm (TV Tower). Finding Alexanderplatz is no problem: just head toward the 1,207-foot-high tower piercing the sky. Built in 1969 as a signal to the west—clearly visible over the Wall, no less—that the East German economy was thriving, it is deliberately higher than both western Berlin's broadcasting tower and the Eiffel Tower in Paris. You can get the best view of Berlin from within the tower's disco ball–like observation level; on a clear day you can see for 40 km (25 miles). One floor above, the city's highest restaurant rotates for your panoramic pleasure.TIP During the summer season, order VIP tickets online to avoid a long wait. \| Panoramastr. 1a, Mitte \| 030/247–5750 \| €12.50 \| Nov.–Feb., daily 10 am–midnight; Mar.–Oct., daily 9 am–midnight; last admission ½ hr before closing \| Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate). Once the pride of Prussian Berlin and the city's premier landmark, the Brandenburger Tor was left in a desolate no-man's-land when the Wall was built. Since the Wall's dismantling, the sandstone gateway has become the scene of the city's Unification Day and New Year's Eve parties. This is the sole remaining gate of 14 built by Carl Langhans in 1788–91, designed as a triumphal arch for King Frederick Wilhelm II. Its virile classical style pays tribute to Athens's Acropolis. The quadriga, a chariot drawn by four horses and driven by the Goddess of Victory, was added in 1794. Troops paraded through the gate after successful campaigns—the last time in 1945, when victorious Red Army troops took Berlin. The upper part of the gate, together with its chariot and Goddess of Victory, was destroyed in the war. In 1957 the original molds were discovered in West Berlin, and a new quadriga was cast in copper and presented as a gift to the people of East Berlin. A tourist-information center is in the south part of the gate. The gate faces one of Europe's most famous historic squares, Pariser Platz, with bank headquarters, the ultramodern French embassy, and the offices of the federal parliament. On the southern side, Berlin's sleek Academy of Arts, integrating the ruins of its historic predecessor, and the DZ Bank, designed by star architect Frank Gehry, stand next to the new American embassy, rebuilt on its prewar location and reopened on July 4, 2008. The legendary Hotel Adlon (now the Adlon Kempinski) looks on from its historic home at the southeast edge of the square. \| Pariser Pl., Mitte \| Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| DDR Museum. Half museum, half theme park, the DDR Museum is an interactive and highly entertaining exhibit about life during socialism. It's difficult to say just how much the museum benefits from its prime location beside the Spree, right across from the Berliner Dom, but it's always packed, filled with tourists, families, and student groups trying to get a hands-on feel for what the East German experience was really like. Exhibitions include a re-creation of an East German kitchen, all mustard yellows and bilious greens; a simulated drive in a Trabi, the only car the average East German was allowed to own; and a walk inside a very narrow, very claustrophobic interrogation cell. For an added glimpse into the life of an "Ossi" (an "easterner"), stop at the DDR Restaurat Domklause, where traditional East German dishes provide sustenance with a side of history. \| Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 1, at the Spree opposite the Berliner Dom, Mitte \| 030/8471-23731 \| www.ddr-museum.de \| €6 \| Sun.-Fri. 10-8, Sat. 10-10 \| Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn), Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Denkmal für die Ermordeten Juden Europas (Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe). An expansive and unusual memorial dedicated to the 6 million Jews who were killed in the Holocaust, the monument was designed by American architect Peter Eisenman. The stunning place of remembrance consists of a grid of more than 2,700 concrete stelae, planted into undulating ground. The abstract memorial can be entered from all sides and offers no prescribed path.TIP An information center that goes into specifics about the Holocaust lies underground at the southeast corner. \| Cora-Berliner-Str. 1, Mitte \| 030/2639–4336 \| www.stiftung-denkmal.de \| Free \| Daily 24 hrs. Information center: Oct.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–7; Apr.–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–8 (last admission 45 mins before closing) \| Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn). Deutsches Historisches Museum (German History Museum). The museum is composed of two buildings. The magnificent pink, baroque Prussian arsenal (Zeughaus) was constructed between 1695 and 1730, and is the oldest building on Unter den Linden. It also houses a theater, the Zeughaus Kino, which regularly presents a variety of films, both German and international, historic and modern. The new permanent exhibits, reopened after much debate in mid-2006, offer a modern and fascinating view of German history since the early Middle Ages. Behind the arsenal, the granite-and-glass Pei-Bau building by I. M. Pei holds often stunning and politically controversial changing exhibits, such as 2010's unprecedented blockbuster "Hitler und die Deutschen" ("Hitler and the Germans"), which explored the methods of propaganda used by Hitler and the Nazis to gain power, and 2013's "Zerstörte Vielfalt" or "Destroyed Diversity," which documents the multi-faceted societal, ethnic, and political ruination of Berlin in the years leading up to WWII. The museum's Café im Zueghaus is a great place to stop and restore your energy. \| Unter den Linden 2, Mitte \| 030/203–040 \| www.dhm.de \| €8 \| Daily 10–6. Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule. This boxy brick building in central Berlin, which formerly served as a Jewish girls' school and then a military hospital during WWII, sat neglected until recently. Now it is one of the city's newest star attractions: a renovated multiplex with art galleries, restaurants, and a bar. The former gymnasium is now the restaurant Pauly Saal; upstairs, three art galleries share space with the newly relocated Kennedys museum. Berlin's now-thriving Jewish community still owns the building and leases it out to the current management. Both Jewish and non-Jewish visitors will rejoice at the inclusion of Mogg & Melzer, a deli dedicated to Jewish delicacies like matzoh ball soup, pastrami, and shakshuka. \| Auguststr. 11–13, Mitte \| www.maedchenschule.org \| Varies according to business \| Station: Oranienburger Strasse (S-bahn). Friedrichstrasse. The once-bustling street of cafés and theaters of prewar Berlin has risen from the rubble of war and Communist neglect to reclaim the crowds with shopping emporiums. Heading south from the Friedrichstrasse train station, you'll pass hotels and various stores (including the sprawling, comprehensive bookstore Dussmann and its large but cozy new English-language bookshop around the corner). After crossing Unter den Linden, you'll come upon the Berlin outpost of the Parisian department store Galeries Lafayette on your left. North of the train station you will see the rejuvenated heart of the entertainment center of Berlin's Roaring Twenties, including the Admiralspalast and the somewhat kitschy Friedrichstadt Palast. Admiralspalast. The meticulously restored Admiralspalast is the successful rebirth of a glittering Jazz Age entertainment temple. Reopened with a hotly debated production of Brecht's Threepenny Opera, it now houses two stages, a club, and an upscale but generic Italian restaurant. \| Friedrichstr. 101, Mitte \| 030/4799–7499. Gendarmenmarkt. This is without a doubt the most elegant square in former East Berlin. Anchored by the beautifully reconstructed 1818 Konzerthaus and the Deutscher Dom and Französischer Dom (German and French cathedrals) and lined with some of the city's best restaurants, it also hosts one of Berlin's classiest annual Christmas markets. Hugenottenmuseum. Inside the Französischer Dom (French Cathedral), built by Kaiser Friedrich II for the Protestant Huguenots who fled France and settled in Berlin, is the Hugenottenmuseum, with exhibits charting their history and art. The Huguenots were expelled from France at the end of the 17th century by King Louis XIV. Their energy and commercial expertise contributed much to Berlin. \| Französischer Dom, Gendarmenmarkt 5, Mitte \| 030/229–1760 \| €2 \| Tues.–Sun. noon–5. Hackesche Höfe (Hacke Courtyards). Built in 1905–07, this series of eight connected courtyards is the finest example of art-nouveau industrial architecture in Berlin. Most buildings are covered with glazed white tiles, and additional Moorish mosaic designs decorate the main courtyard off Rosenthaler Strasse. Shops (including one dedicated to Berlin's beloved street-crossing signal, the "Ampelmann"), restaurants, the variety theater Chamäleon Varieté, and a movie theater populate the spaces once occupied by ballrooms, a poets' society, and a Jewish girls' club. \| Rosenthaler Str. 40–41, and Sophienstr. 6, Mitte \| 030/2809–8010 \| www.hackesche-hoefe.com \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Museumsinsel (Museum Island). On the site of one of Berlin's two original settlements, this unique complex of five state museums—a UNESCO World Heritage Site—is an absolute must. The Alte Nationalgalerie (Old National Gallery, entrance on Bodestrasse) houses an outstanding collection of 18th-, 19th-, and early 20th-century paintings and sculptures. Works by Cézanne, Rodin, Degas, and one of Germany's most famous portrait artists, Max Liebermann, are part of the permanent exhibition. Its Galerie der Romantik (Gallery of Romanticism) collection has masterpieces from such 19th-century German painters as Karl Friedrich Schinkel and Caspar David Friedrich, the leading members of the German Romantic school. The Altes Museum (Old Museum), a red-marble, neoclassical building abutting the green Lustgarten, was Prussia's first structure purpose-built to serve as a museum. Designed by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, it was completed in 1830. The permanent collection of the Altes Museum consists of everyday utensils from ancient Greece as well as vases and sculptures from the 6th to 4th century BC. Etruscan art is its highlight, and there are a few examples of Roman art. Antique sculptures, clay figurines, and bronze art of the Antikensammlung (Antiquities Collection) are also housed here; the other part of the collection is in the Pergamonmuseum. At the northern tip of Museum Island is the Bode-Museum, a somber-looking gray edifice graced with elegant columns. The museum presents the state museums' stunning collection of German and Italian sculptures since the Middle Ages, the Museum of Byzantine Art, and a huge coin collection. Even if you think you aren't interested in the ancient world, make an exception for the Pergamonmuseum (entrance Am Kupfergraben), one of the world's greatest museums. The museum's name is derived from its principal display, the Pergamon Altar, a monumental Greek temple discovered in what is now Turkey and dating from 180 BC. The altar was shipped to Berlin in the late 19th century. Equally impressive are the gateway to the Roman town of Miletus and the Babylonian processional way. Museum Island's new shining star, however, is the Neues Museum (New Museum), which reopened in 2009. Originally designed by Friedrich August Stüler in 1843–55, the building was badly damaged in World War II and has only now been elaborately redeveloped by British star architect David Chipperfield, who has been overseeing the complete restoration of Museum Island. Instead of completely restoring the Neues Museum, the architect decided to integrate modern elements into the historic landmark, while leaving many of its heavily bombed and dilapidated areas untouched. The result is a stunning experience, considered by many to be one of the world's greatest museums. Home to the Egyptian Museum, including the famous bust of Nefertiti (who, after some 70 years, has returned to her first museum location in Berlin), it also features the Papyrus Collection and the Museum of Prehistory and Early History. If you get tired of antiques and paintings, drop by any of the museums' cafés. \| Museumsinsel, Mitte \| 030/2664–24242 \| www.smb.museum \| All Museum Island museums: €18 \| Pergamonmuseum: Fri.–Wed. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8. Alte Nationalgalerie: Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8. Altes Museum: Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8. Neues Museum: Fri.–Wed. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8. Bode-Museum: Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Neue Synagoge (New Synagogue). This meticulously restored landmark, built between 1859 and 1866, is an exotic amalgam of styles, the whole faintly Middle Eastern. Its bulbous, gilded cupola stands out in the skyline. When its doors opened, it was the largest synagogue in Europe, with 3,200 seats. The synagogue was damaged on November 9, 1938 (Kristallnacht—Night of the Broken Glass), when Nazi looters rampaged across Germany, burning synagogues and smashing the few Jewish shops and homes left in the country. It was destroyed by Allied bombing in 1943, and it wasn't until the mid-1980s that the East German government restored it. The effective exhibit on the history of the building and its congregants includes fragments of the original architecture and furnishings. TIP Sabbath services are held in a modern addition. \| Oranienburger Str. 28–30, Mitte \| 030/8802–8300 \| www.zentrumjudaicum.de \| €3.50 \| Apr.–Sept., Sun. and Mon. 10–8, Tues.–Thurs. 10–6, Fri. 10–5; Nov.–Feb., Sun.–Thurs. 10–6, Fri. 10–2; Mar. and Oct., Sun. and Mon. 10–8, Tues.–Thurs. 10–6, Fri. 10–2. English/Hebrew audio guides €3 \| Station: Oranienburger Tor (U-bahn), Oranienburger Strasse (S-bahn). Nikolaiviertel (Nicholas Quarter). Renovated in the 1980s and a tad concrete-heavy as a result, this tiny quarter grew up around Berlin's oldest parish church, the medieval, twin-spire St. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas's Church), now a museum, dating from 1230. The adjacent Fischerinsel (Fisherman's Island) area was the heart of Berlin 765 years ago, and retains a bit of its medieval character. At Breite Strasse you'll find two of Berlin's oldest buildings: No. 35 is the Ribbeckhaus, the city's only surviving Renaissance structure, dating from 1624, and No. 36 is the early baroque Marstall, built by Michael Matthais between 1666 and 1669. The area feels rather artificial, but draws tourists to its gift stores, cafés, and restaurants. \| Nikolaikirchpl., Mitte \| 030/2400–2162 \| www.stadtmuseum.de \| Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Off the Beaten Path: The Kennedys. John F. Kennedy, whose historic 1963 speech in West Berlin secured his fame throughout Germany, is honored in this small but intriguing museum, which used to reside opposite the American embassy on Pariser Platz, but has since found a new home in the Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule. Presenting photographs, personal memorabilia, documents, and films, the collection traces the fascination JFK and the Kennedy clan evoked in Berlin and elsewhere. \| Auguststr. 11-13, in the Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule, Mitte \| 030/2065–3570 \| www.thekennedys.de \| €5 \| Daily 11–7 \| Station: Oranienburger Strasse (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Reichstag (Parliament Building). After last meeting here in 1933, the Bundestag, Germany's federal parliament, returned to its traditional seat in the spring of 1999. British architect Sir Norman Foster lightened up the gray monolith with a glass dome, which quickly became one of the city's main attractions: you can circle up a gently rising ramp while taking in the rooftops of Berlin and the parliamentary chamber below. At the base of the dome is an exhibit on the Reichstag's history, in German and English. Completed in 1894, the Reichstag housed the imperial German parliament and later served a similar function during the ill-fated Weimar Republic. On the night of February 27, 1933, the Reichstag burned down in an act of arson, a pivotal event in Third Reich history. The fire led to state protection laws that gave the Nazis a pretext to arrest their political opponents. The Reichstag was rebuilt but again badly damaged in 1945. The graffiti of the victorious Russian soldiers can still be seen on some of the walls in the hallways. After terrorism warnings at the end of 2010, the Reichstag tightened its door policy, asking all visitors to register their names and birthdates in advance and reserve a place on a guided tour. Since then, the crowds that used to snake around the outside of the building have subsided, and a visit is worth the planning.TIP As always, a reservation at the pricey rooftop Käfer restaurant ( \| 030/2262–9933) will also get you in. Those with reservations can use the doorway to the right of the Reichstag's main staircase. The building is surrounded by ultramodern federal government offices, such as the boxy, concrete Bundeskanzleramt (Federal Chancellery), which also has a nickname of course: the "Washing Machine." Built by Axel Schultes, it's one of the few new buildings in the government district by a Berlin architect. Participating in a guided tour of the Chancellery is possible if you apply in writing several weeks prior to a visit. A riverwalk with great views of the government buildings begins behind the Reichstag. \| Pl. der Republik 1, Mitte \| 030/2273–2152 for Reichstag Bundeskanzleramt \| www.bundestag.de \| Free with prior registration \| Daily 8 am–11 pm \| Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn), Bundestag (U-bahn). Unter den Linden. The name of this historic Berlin thoroughfare, between the Brandenburg Gate and Schlossplatz, means "under the linden trees," and it was indeed lined with fragrant and beloved lindens until the 1930's. Imagine Berliners' shock when Hitler decided to fell the trees in order to make the street more parade-friendly. The grand boulevard began as a riding path that the royals used to get from their palace to their hunting grounds (now the central Berlin park called Tiergarten). It is once again lined with linden trees planted after World War II. ### Worth Noting Alexanderplatz (Alexander Square). This bleak square, bordered by the train station, the Galeria Kaufhof department store, and the 37-story Park Inn Berlin-Alexanderplatz hotel, once formed the hub of East Berlin and was originally named in 1805 for Czar Alexander I. German writer Alfred Döblin dubbed it the "heart of a world metropolis"—text from his 1929 novel Berlin Alexanderplatz is written on a building across the northeastern side of the square. Today it's a basic center of commerce and the occasional demonstration. The unattractive modern buildings are a reminder not just of the results of Allied bombing but also of the ruthlessness practiced by East Germans when they demolished what remained. A famous meeting point in the south corner is the World Time Clock (1969), which even keeps tabs on Tijuana. FAMILY \| AquaDom & Sea Life Berlin. These commercially run, giant indoor tanks showcase local marine life, beginning with the Spree River, moving on to Berlin's lakes, and then taking you from fresh- to saltwater. Waterfront city scenes are part of the decor, which gradually give way to starfish-petting beds, overhead tanks, and a submarine-like room. Don't come looking for sharks or colorful tropical fish: the most exotic creatures here are perhaps the tiny sea horses and spotted rays. The aquarium's finale is the Aquadom, a state-of-the-art glass elevator that brings you through a silo-shaped fish tank to the exit. Young children love this place, but the timed wait for the elevator can be frustrating for all ages. Be prepared for a line at the entrance, too. \| Spandauer Str. 3, Mitte \| 030/992–800 \| www.sealife.de \| €17.50, €11.35 in advance \| Daily 10–7 (last admission at 6) \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Berliner Rathaus (Berlin Town Hall). Nicknamed the "Rotes Rathaus" (Red Town Hall) for its redbrick design, the town hall was completed in 1869. Its most distinguishing features are its neo-Renaissance clock tower and frieze that depicts Berlin's history up to 1879 in 36 terra-cotta plaques, each 20 feet long. Climb the grand stairwell to view the coat-of-arms hall and a few exhibits. TIP The Rathaus has a very inexpensive, cafeteria-style canteen offering budget lunches. The entrance is inside the inner courtyard. \| Rathausstr. 15, Mitte \| 030/90260 \| Free \| Weekdays 9–6 \| Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Deutscher Dom. The Deutscher Dom holds an extensive exhibition on the emergence of the democratic parliamentary system in Germany since the late 1800's. The free museum is sponsored by the German parliament. Leadership and opposition in East Germany are also documented. TIP An English-language audio guide covers a portion of the exhibits on the first three floors. Floors four and five have temporary exhibitions with no English text or audio. \| Gendarmenmarkt 1, Mitte \| 030/2273–0431 \| Free \| Oct.–Apr., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; May–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–7. Hamburger Bahnhof - Museum für Gegenwart (Museum of Contemporary Art). This light-filled, remodeled train station is home to a rich survey of post-1960 Western art. The permanent collection includes installations by German artists Joseph Beuys and Anselm Kiefer, as well as paintings by Andy Warhol, Cy Twombly, Robert Rauschenberg, and Robert Morris. An annex presents the hotly debated Friedrich Christian Flick Collection, the largest and most valuable collection of the latest in the world's contemporary art. The 2,000 works rotate, but you're bound to see some by Bruce Naumann, Rodney Graham, and Pipilotti Rist. \| Invalidenstr. 50–51, Mitte \| 030/3978–3411 \| www.smb.museum \| €12 \| Tues., Wed., Fri. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8, weekends 11–6 \| Station: Naturkundemuseum (U-bahn), Hauptbahnhof (S-bahn). Märkisches Museum (Brandenburg Museum). This redbrick attic includes exhibits on the city's theatrical past, its guilds, its newspapers, and the March 1848 revolution. Paintings capture the look of the city before it crumbled in World War II.TIP On Sunday at 3 pm, fascinating mechanical musical instruments from the collection are played. \| Am Köllnischen Park 5, Mitte \| 030/2400–2162 \| www.stadtmuseum.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 \| Station: Märkisches Museum (U-bahn). Neue Wache (New Guardhouse). One of many Berlin projects by the early-19th-century architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel, this building served as both the Royal Prussian War Memorial (honoring the dead of the Napoleonic Wars) and the royal guardhouse until the kaiser abdicated in 1918. In 1931 it became a memorial to those who fell in World War I. Badly damaged in World War II, it was restored in 1960 by the East German state and rededicated as a memorial for the victims of militarism and fascism. After unification it regained its Weimar Republic appearance and was inaugurated as Germany's central war memorial. Inside is a copy of Berlin sculptor Käthe Kollwitz's Pietà, showing a mother mourning over her dead son. The inscription in front of it reads, "To the victims of war and tyranny." \| Unter den Linden, Mitte \| Daily 10–6. Staatsoper Unter den Linden (State Opera). Frederick the Great was a music lover and he made the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, on the east side of Bebelplatz, his first priority. The lavish opera house was completed in 1743 by the same architect who built Sanssouci in Potsdam, Georg Wenzeslaus von Knobelsdorff. The house is currently undergoing a complete makeover, set to be completed in 2015, when the historic interior will be replaced with a modern design. The show goes on at the Schiller Theater across town, where maestro Daniel Barenboim continues to oversee a diverse repertoire. \| Unter den Linden 7, Mitte \| www.staatsoper-berlin.de \| Box office: Mon.–Sat. 10–8, Sun. 12–8 \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). Siegessäule (Victory Column). The 227-foot granite, sandstone, and bronze column is topped by a winged, golden goddess and has a splendid view of Berlin. It was erected in front of the Reichstag in 1873 to commemorate Prussia's military successes and then moved to the Tiergarten in 1938–39. You have to climb 270 steps up through the column to reach the observation platform, but the view is rewarding. The gold-tipped cannons surrounding the column are those the Prussians captured from the French in the Franco-Prussian War. \| Str. des 17. Juni, am Grossen Stern, Mitte \| 030/391–2961 \| €2.20 \| Nov.–Mar., weekdays 10–5, weekends 10–5:30; Apr.–Oct., weekdays 9:30–6:30, weekends 9:30–7; last admission ½ hr before closing. \| Station: Tiergarten (S-bahn), Bellevue (S-bahn). Sowjetisches Ehrenmal Tiergarten (Soviet Memorial). Built immediately after World War II, this monument stands as a reminder of the Soviet victory over the shattered German army in Berlin in May 1945. The Battle of Berlin was one of the deadliest on the European front. A hulking bronze statue of a soldier stands atop a marble plinth taken from Hitler's former Reichkanzlei (headquarters). The memorial is flanked by what are said to be the first two T-34 tanks to have fought their way into the city. \| Str. des 17. Juni, Mitte \| Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn). ## Tiergarten The Tiergarten, a bucolic 630-acre park with lakes, meadows, and wide paths, is the "green heart" of Berlin. In the 17th century it served as the hunting grounds of the Great Elector (its name translates into "animal garden"). Now it's the Berliners' backyard for sunbathing and barbecuing. The government district, Potsdamer Platz, and the embassy district ring the park from its eastern to southern edges. #### Timing A leisurely walk from Zoo Station through the Tiergarten to the Brandenburger Tor and the Reichstag will take at least 90 minutes. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Tiergarten (Animal Garden). The quiet greenery of the 630-acre Tiergarten is a beloved oasis, with some 23 km (14 miles) of footpaths, meadows, and two beer gardens. The inner park's 6½ acres of lakes and ponds were landscaped by garden architect Joseph Peter Lenné in the mid-1800s. \| Tiergarten. Café am Neuen See. On the shore of the lake in the southwest corner of the park, you can relax at the Café am Neuen See, a café and beer garden. TIP For a particularly nice walk here from the S-bahn stop at Zoologischer Garten, take the path into the Tiergarten, then turn right at Schleusenkrug to follow the Landwehrkanal around the back of the zoo. Sneak a peek at the owls, flamingoes, and ostriches for free. \| Lichtensteinallee 2, Tiergarten \| 030/254–4930 \| www.cafe-am-neuen-see.de \| Daily 9–late. Haus der Kulturen der Welt. Off the Spree River and bordering the Kanzleramt (Chancellery) is the former congress hall, now serving as the Haus der Kulturen der Welt. It is fondly referred to as the "pregnant oyster" because the sweeping, 1950's design of its roof resembles a shellfish opening. Thematic exhibits, festivals, and concerts take place here, and it's also a boarding point for Spree River cruises. \| House of World Cultures, John-Foster-Dulles Allee 10, Tiergarten \| 030/397–870 \| www.hkw.de \| Daily 10–7. Quick Bites: Schleusenkrug. Forget the fast-food options at Zoo Station. Instead, follow the train tracks to the back of the taxi and bus queues, where you'll enter Tiergarten and within 100 yards come upon the best hideaway in the area: Schleusenkrug. In warmer weather you can order at the window and sit in the beer garden or on the back patio, watching pleasure ships go through the lock. Inside is a casual restaurant with a changing daily menu. Between November and mid-March the Krug closes at 7 pm. \| Müller-Breslau-Str., Tiergarten \| 030/313–9909 \| www.schleusenkrug.de/ \| Daily 10 ammidnight. ## Potsdamer Platz The once-divided Berlin is rejoined at Potsdamer Platz, which now links Kreuzberg with the former East once again. Potsdamer Platz was Berlin's inner-city center and Europe's busiest plaza before World War II. Bombings and the Wall left this area a sprawling, desolate lot, where tourists in West Berlin could climb a wooden platform to peek into East Berlin's death strip. After the Wall fell, various international companies made a rush to build their German headquarters on this prime real estate. In the mid-1990s, Potsdamer Platz became Europe's largest construction site. Today's modern complexes of red sandstone, terra-cotta tiles, steel, and glass have made it a city within a city. A few narrow streets cut between the hulking modern architecture, which includes two high-rise office towers owned by Daimler, one of which was designed by star architect Renzo Piano. The round atrium of the Sony Center comes closest to a traditional square used as a public meeting point. Farther down Potsdamer Strasse are the state museums and cultural institutes of the Kulturforum. ### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Kulturforum (Cultural Forum). This unique ensemble of museums, galleries, and the Philharmonic Hall was long in the making. The first designs were submitted in the 1960s and the last building completed in 1998. Now it forms a welcome modern counterpoint to the thoroughly restored Prussian splendor of Museum Island, although Berliners and tourists alike hold drastically differing opinions on the area's architectural aesthetics. Whatever your opinion, Kulturforum's artistic holdings are unparalleled and worth at least a day of your time, if not more. The Kulturforum includes the Gemäldegalerie (Picture Gallery), the Kunstbibliothek (Art Library), the Kupferstichkabinett (Print Cabinet), the Kunstgewerbemuseum (Museum of Decorative Arts), which is closed until at least 2014 for renovations, the Philharmonie, the Musikinstrumenten-Museum (Musical Instruments Museum), and the Staatsbibliothek (National Library). \| Potsdamer Platz. Gemäldegalerie (Picture Gallery). The Kulturforum's Gemäldegalerie reunites formerly separated collections from East and West Berlin. It's one of Germany's finest art galleries, and has an extensive selection of European paintings from the 13th to 18th century. Seven rooms are reserved for paintings by German masters, among them Dürer, Cranach the Elder, and Holbein. A special collection has works of the Italian masters—Botticelli, Titian, Giotto, Lippi, and Raphael—as well as paintings by Dutch and Flemish masters of the 15th and 16th centuries: Van Eyck, Bosch, Brueghel the Elder, and van der Weyden. The museum also holds the world's second-largest Rembrandt collection. \| Kulturforum, Matthäikirchpl., Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2664–24242 \| www.smb.museum \| €10 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn) Kunstbibliothek (Art Library). With more than 400,000 volumes on the history of European art, the Kunstbibliothek, in the Kulturforum, is one of Germany's most important institutions on the subject. It contains art posters and advertisements, examples of graphic design and book design, ornamental engravings, prints and drawings, and a costume library. Visitors can view items in the reading rooms, but many samples from the collections are also shown in rotating special exhibitions. \| Kulturforum, Matthäikirchpl., Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2664–24242 \| www.smb.museum \| Varies according to exhibition \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 11-6. Reading room weekdays 9–8. Kupferstichkabinett (Drawings and Prints Collection). One of the Kulturforum's smaller museums, Kupferstichkabinett has occasional exhibits, which include European woodcuts, engravings, and illustrated books from the 15th century to the present (highlights of its holdings are pen-and-ink drawings by Dürer and drawings by Rembrandt). You can request to see one or two drawings in the study room. Another building displays paintings dating from the late Middle Ages to 1800. \| Kulturforum, Matthäikirchpl. 4, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2664–24242 \| www.smb.museum \| €6 \| Tues.–Fri. 10–6, weekends 11–6. Musikinstrumenten-Museum (Musical Instruments Museum). Across the parking lot from the Philharmonie, the Kulturforum's Musikinstrumenten-Museum has a fascinating collection of keyboard, string, wind, and percussion instruments. TIP These are demonstrated during an 11 am tour on Saturday, which closes with a 20-minute Wurlitzer organ concert for an extra €2. \| Kulturforum, Ben-Gurion-Str. 1, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2548–1178 \| www.sim.spk-berlin.de \| €6 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri. 9–5, Thurs. 9–8, weekends 10–5. Staatsbibliothek (National Library). The Kulturforum's Staatsbibliothek is one of the largest libraries in Europe, and was one of the Berlin settings in Wim Wenders's 1987 film Wings of Desire. \| Kulturforum, Potsdamer Str. 33, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2664-32333 \| staatsbibliothek-berlin.de \| Weekdays 9–9, Sat. 10–7. Neue Nationalgalerie (New National Gallery). Bauhaus member Mies van der Rohe originally designed this glass-box structure for Bacardi Rum in Cuba, but Berlin became the site of its realization in 1968. The main exhibits are below ground. Highlights of the collection of 20th-century paintings, sculptures, and drawings include works by expressionists Otto Dix, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, and Georg Grosz. Special exhibits often take precedence over the permanent collection. \| Potsdamer Str. 50, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2664–24242 \| www.smb.museum \| Varies according to exhibition \| Tues., Wed., and Fri. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8, weekends 11–6 \| Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Panoramapunkt. Located 300 feet above Potsdamer Platz at the top of one of its tallest towers, the new Panoramapunkt (Panoramic Viewing Point) not only features the world's highest-standing original piece of the Berlin wall, but also a fascinating, multimedia exhibit about the dramatic history of Berlin's former urban center. A café and a sun terrace facing west make this open-air viewing platform one of the city's most romantic. \| Potsdamer Pl. 1, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2593–7080 \| www.panoramapunkt.de \| €5.50 \| Summer, daily 10–8; winter, daily 10–5 (last entrance 30 mins before closing). Sony Center. This glass-and-steel construction wraps around a spectacular circular forum. Topping it off is a tentlike structure meant to emulate Mount Fuji. The architectural jewel, designed by German-American architect Helmut Jahn, is one of the most stunning public spaces of Berlin's new center, filled with restaurants, cafés, movie theaters, and apartments. A faint reminder of glorious days gone by is the old Kaisersaal (Emperor's Hall), held within a very modern glass enclosure, and today a pricey restaurant. The hall originally stood 75 yards away in the Grand Hotel Esplanade (built in 1907) but was moved here lock, stock, and barrel. Red-carpet glamour returns every February with the Berlinale Film Festival, which has screenings at the commercial cinema within the center. \| Potsdamer Platz. Deutsche Kinemathek Museum für Film und Fernsehen. Within the Sony Center is the small but fun Museum für Film und Fernsehen, which presents the groundbreaking history of German moviemaking with eye-catching displays. Descriptions are in English, and there's an audio guide as well. Memorabilia includes personal belongings of Marlene Dietrich and other German stars, while special exhibitions go into depth about outstanding directors, movements, and studios. A good selection of films, from the best classics to the virtually unknown art house finds, are shown in the theater on the lower level. During the Berlinale film festival in February, this place becomes one of the centers of the action. \| Sony Building, Potsdamer Str. 2, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/300–9030 \| www.deutsche-kinemathek.de \| €7 \| Tues., Wed., and Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8. Legoland Discovery Centre. A must-see when traveling with children is the Legoland Discovery Centre, the Danish toy company's only indoor park. Children can build their very own towers while their parents live out their urban development dreams, even testing if the miniature construction would survive an earthquake. In a special section, Berlin's landmarks are presented in a breathtaking miniature world made up of thousands of tiny Lego bricks. \| Potsdamer Str. 4, Tiergarten \| 030/301–0400 \| www.legolanddiscoverycentre.de \| €15.95, €7 online \| Daily 10–7; last admittance. Friedrichshain There's plenty to see in Friedrichshain, including Karl-Marx-Allee, a long, monumental boulevard lined by grand Stalinist apartment buildings (conceived of as "palaces for the people" that would show the superiority of Communist system over the Capitalist one); the area's funky parks; the East Side Gallery; and lively Simon-Dach-Strasse. It's cool, it's hip, it's historical. If you're into street art, this is a good place to wander. ### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| East Side Gallery. This 1-km (½-mile) stretch of concrete went from guarded border to open-air gallery within three months. East Berliners breached the Wall on November 9, 1989, and between February and June of 1990, 118 artists from around the globe created unique works of art on its longest-remaining section. Restoration in 2010 renewed the old images with a fresh coat of paint, but while the colors of the artworks now look like new, the gallery has lost a bit of its charm. One of the best-known works, by Russian artist Dmitri Vrubel, depicts Brezhnev and Honnecker (the former East German leader) kissing, with the caption "My God. Help me survive this deadly love." The stretch along the Spree Canal runs between the Warschauer Strasse S- and U-bahn station and Ostbahnhof. The redbrick Oberbaumbrücke (an 1896 bridge) at Warschauer Strasse makes that end more scenic. Just past the bridge there's also a man-made beach with a bar, restaurant, and club popular with the after-work crowd, called Strandgut (www.strandgut-berlin.com). \| Mühlenstr., Friedrichshain \| Station: Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn), Ostbahnhof (S-bahn). ## Kreuzberg Kreuzberg, stretching from the West Berlin side of the border crossing at Checkpoint Charlie all the way to the banks of the Spree next to Friedrichshain, was and is a lively Berlin district. A large Turkish population shares the residential streets with a variegated assortment of political radicals and bohemians of all nationalities. In the minds of most Berliners, it is split into two even smaller sections: Kreuzberg 61 is a little more upscale, and contains a variety of small and elegant shops and restaurants, while Kreuzberg 36 has stayed grittier, as exemplified by the garbage-strewn, drug-infested, but much-beloved Görlitzer Park. Oranienstrasse, the spine of life in the Kreuzberg 36 district, has mellowed from hardcore to funky since reunification. When Kreuzberg literally had its back against the Wall, West German social outcasts, punks, and the radical left made this old working-class street their territory. Since the 1970s the population has also been largely Turkish, and many of yesterday's outsiders have turned into successful owners of shops and cafés. The most vibrant stretch is between Skalitzer Strasse and Oranienplatz. Use Bus No. M29 or the Görlitzer Bahnhof or Kottbusser Tor U-bahn stations to reach it. #### Timing Owing to its small size and popularity, you may experience a wait or slow line at the Checkpoint Charlie Museum. Monday is a popular day for this museum—and for the nearby, must-see Jüdisches Museum—since the state museums are closed that day. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Mauermuseum-Museum Haus am Checkpoint Charlie. Just steps from the famous crossing point between the two Berlins, the Wall Museum–House at Checkpoint Charlie presents visitors with the story of the Wall and, even more riveting, the stories of those who escaped through, under, and over it. An infamous hot spot during the Cold War, this border crossing for non-Germans was manned by the Soviet military in East Berlin's Mitte district and, several yards south, by the U.S. military in West Berlin's Kreuzberg district. Tension between the superpowers in October 1961 led to an uneasy standoff between Soviet and American tanks. Today the touristy intersection consists of a replica of an American guardhouse and signage, plus cobblestones that mark the old border. This homespun museum reviews the events leading up to the Wall's construction and, with original tools and devices, plus recordings and photographs, shows how East Germans escaped to the West (one of the most ingenious contraptions was a miniature submarine). Exhibits about human rights and paintings interpreting the Wall round out the experience. TIP Come early or late in the day to avoid the multitudes dropped off by tour buses. Monday can be particularly crowded because the state museums are closed on Mondays. \| Friedrichstr. 43–45, Kreuzberg \| 030/253–7250 \| www.mauermuseum.com \| €12.50 \| Daily 9 am–10 pm \| Station: Kochstrasse (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Topographie des Terrors (Topography of Terror). Before 2010, Topographie des Terrors was an open-air exhibit, fully exposed to the elements. Now, in a stunning new indoor exhibition center at the same location, you can view photos and documents explaining the secret state police and intelligence organizations that planned and executed Nazi crimes against humanity. The fates of both victims and perpatrators are given equal attention here. The cellar remains of the Nazis' Reich Security Main Office (composed of the SS, SD, and Gestapo) where the main exhibit used to be, are still open to the public and now contain other exhibitions, which typically run from April to October as the remains are open air. \| Niederkirchnerstr. 8, Mitte \| 030/2545–0950 \| www.topographie.de \| Free \| Daily 10–8. ### Worth Noting Berlinische Galerie. Talk about site-specific art: all the modern art, photography, and architecture models and plans here, created between 1870 and the present, were made in Berlin (or in the case of architecture competition models, intended for the city). Russians, secessionists, Dadaists, and expressionists all had their day in Berlin, and individual works by Otto Dix, George Grosz, and Georg Baselitz, as well as artists' archives such as the Dadaist Hannah Höch's, are highlights.There's a set price for the permanent collection, but rates vary for special exhibitions, which are usually well-attended and quite worthwhile. TIP Bus No. M29 to Waldeckpark/Oranienstrasse is the closest transportation stop. \| Alte Jakobstr. 124–128, Kreuzberg \| 030/7890–2600 \| www.berlinischegalerie.de \| €8 \| Wed.–Mon. 10–6 \| Station: Kochstrasse (U-bahn). Deutsches Technikmuseum (German Museum of Technology). A must if you're traveling with children, this museum will enchant anyone who's interested in technology or fascinated with trains, planes, and automobiles. Set in the remains of Anhalter Bahnhof's industrial yard and enhanced with a newer, glass-enclosed wing, the museum has several floors of machinery, including two airplane rooms on the upper floors crowned with a "Rosinenbomber," one of the beloved airplanes that delivered supplies to Tempelhof Airport during the Berlin Airlift of 1948. Don't miss the train sheds, which are like three-dimensional, walkable timelines of trains throughout history, and the historical brewery, which has a great rooftop view of today's trains, U-bahn line nos. 1 and 2, converging at the neighboring Gleisdreieck station. \| Trebbiner Str. 9, Kreuzberg \| 030/902–540 \| €6 \| Tues.–Fri. 9–5:30, weekends 10–6 \| Station: Gleisdreieck (U-bahn), Anhalter Bahnhof (S-bahn). Golgatha. This beloved local watering hole has taken up space in Viktoriapark since 1928. Open all day long and late into the night, it's the perfect place to while away the hours with a cup of coffee during the day, or sip a cocktail or beer during the evening, when a DJ is spinning. It's also a reliable lunch spot, with salads, grilled meats, and the "German pizzas" known as Flammkuchen on the menu. \| Dudenstr. 40–64, in Viktoriapark, closest entrance at Katzbachstr., Kreuzberg \| 030/785–2453 \| www.golgatha-berlin.de \| Apr.–Oct., 9 am–late \| Closed Nov.–Mar. \| Station: Yorckstrasse (S-bahn and U-bahn). Jüdisches Museum Berlin (Jewish Museum). The history of Germany's Jews from the Middle Ages through today is chronicled here, from prominent historical figures to the evolution of laws regarding Jews' participation in civil society. A few of the exhibits document the Holocaust itself, but this museum celebrates Jewish life and history far more than it focuses on the atrocities committed during WWII. An attraction in itself is the highly conceptual building, designed by Daniel Libeskind, where various physical "voids" in the oddly constructed and intensely personal modern wing of the building represent the idea that some things can and should never be exhibited when it comes to the Holocaust. Libeskind also directed the construction of the recently opened "Akademie" of the museum just across the street, which offers a library and temporary exhibitions, as well as space for workshops and lectures.TIP Reserve at least three hours for the museum and devote more time to the second floor if you're already familiar with basic aspects of Judaica, which are the focus of the third floor. \| Lindenstr. 9–14, Kreuzberg \| 030/2599–3300 \| www.jmberlin.de \| €7 \| Mon. 10–10, Tues.–Sun. 10–8 \| Station: Hallesches Tor (U-bahn). Käthe-Kollwitz-Museum. Right next door to the Literaturhaus, this small but lovingly curated museum in a formerly private home pays homage to one of Berlin's favorite artists, the female sculptor, print-maker, and painter Käthe Kollwitz. Perhaps best known for her harrowing sculpture of a mother mourning a dead child inside the Neue Wache on Unter den Linden, she also lent her name to one of the city's most beautiful squares, the posh, leafy Kollwitzplatz, which contains a sculpture of her. \| Fasanenstr. 24, Charlottenburg \| 030/882–5210 \| www.kaethe-kollwitz.de \| €6 \| Daily 10–6 \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn). Martin-Gropius-Bau. This magnificent palazzo-like exhibition hall first opened in 1881, and once housed Berlin's Arts and Crafts Museum. Its architect, Martin Gropius, was the great-uncle of Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus architect who also worked in Berlin. The international, changing exhibits on art and culture have recently included Aztec sculptures, Henri Cartier-Bresson's photographs, an expansive Frida Kahlo retrospective, and works from Anish Kapoor and Meret Oppenheim. \| Niederkirchnerstr. 7, Kreuzberg \| 030/254–860 \| www.gropiusbau.de \| Varies with exhibit \| Wed.–Mon. 10–7 \| Station: Kochstrasse (U-bahn), Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Prenzlauer Berg Once a spot for edgy art spaces, squats, and all manner of alternative lifestyles, Prenzlauer Berg has morphed into an oasis of artisanal bakeries, cute kids clothes stores (where the prices could knock your socks off) and genteel couples with baby strollers. That said, it's a beautiful area, with gorgeous, perfectly renovated buildings shaded by giant plantain and chestnut trees. If you're in the mood for an upscale, locally made snack and a nice stroll, this is the place to be. You'll find a denser concentration of locals and long-settled expats in Prenzlauer Berg than in other parts of the city like the Scheunenviertel. ### Worth Noting Brecht-Weigel-Gedenkstätte (Brecht-Weigel Memorial Site). You can visit the former working and living quarters of playwright Bertolt Brecht and his wife, actress Helene Weigel, and scholars can browse through the Brecht library (by appointment only). The downstairs restaurant serves Viennese cuisine using Weigel's recipes. Brecht, Weigel, and more than 100 other celebrated Germans are interred in the Dorotheenstädtischer Friedhof (Dorotheenstadt Cemetery) next door. TIP The house can only be visited on tours, which take place every half-hour, in German. Call ahead to schedule an English tour. \| Chausseestr. 125, Mitte \| 030/20057-1844 \| Apartment €3, library free. Jüdischer Friedhof Weissensee (Jewish Cemetery). More than 150,000 graves make up this peaceful retreat in Berlin's Weissensee district, Europe's largest Jewish cemetery. The grounds and tombstones are in excellent condition—a seeming impossibility, given its location in the heart of the Third Reich—and wandering through them is like taking an extremely moving trip back in time through the history of Jewish Berlin. To reach the cemetery, take Tram No. M4 from Hackescher Markt to Albertinenstrasse and head south on Herbert-Baum-Strasse. At the gate you can get a map from the attendant. The guidebook is in German only. \| Herbert-Baum-Str. 45, Weissensee \| 030/925–3330 \| Summer, Mon.–Thurs. 7:30–5, Fri. 7:30–2:30, Sun. 8–5; Winter., Mon.–Thurs. 7:30–4, Fri. 7:30–2:30, Sun 8–4. Kollwitzplatz (Kollwitz Square). Named for the painter, sculptor, and political activist Käthe Kollwitz (1867–1945), who lived nearby, the square is the center of the old working-class district of Prenzlauer Berg. Kollwitz, who portrayed the hard times of area residents, is immortalized here in a sculpture based on a self-portrait. Ironically, this image of the artist now has a view of the upwardly mobile young families who have transformed the neighborhood since reunification. Bars and restaurants peal off from the square, and one of the best organic markets in town takes over on weekends. \| Prenzlauer Berg. * * * Jewish Berlin Today As Berlin continues to grapple with the past, important steps toward celebrating Jewish history and welcoming a new generation of Jews to Berlin are in the making. Somber monuments have been built in memory of victims of the Holocaust and National Socialism. An especially poignant but soft-spoken tribute is the collection of Stolpersteine (stumbling blocks) found all over Berlin, imbedded into sidewalks in front of the pre-Holocaust homes of Berlin Jews, commemorating former residents simply with names and dates. German artist Gunter Demnig has personally installed these tiny memorials in big cities and small towns across Germany and Austria, and continues to do so as requests come in from communities across Europe. The Ronald S. Lauder Foundation has gone a step further. Along with Lauder Yeshurun, Berlin's Jewish communities have been further strengthened by building housing for Jews in the city center, founding a Yeshiva, a rabbinical school, and offering special services for returning Jews. It's difficult to say how many Jews live in Berlin today, but an official estimate puts the number at 22,000–27,000. About 12,000 members of the Jewish community are practicing Jews, mostly from the former Soviet Union, who belong to one of several synagogues. Berlin is also gaining in popularity among young Israelis, and today, some estimates say there may be as many as 20,000 Israelis who call Berlin home. These numbers don't include the secular and religious Jews who wish to remain anonymous in the German capital. The government supports Jewish businesses and organizations with funding, keeps close ties with important members of the community, and, perhaps most visibly, provides 24-hour police protection in front of any Jewish establishment that requests it. Two recent events proved that Jewish Berlin is thriving once again. On November 4, 2010, three young rabbis were ordained at the Pestalozzi Strasse synagogue, the first ceremony of its kind to occur in Berlin since before the Holocaust. Also in 2010, Charlotte Knobloch, a Holocaust survivor and the president of the German Jewish Council at the time, showed the ultimate faith in Germany's recovery and reparation efforts by declaring the country "once again a homeland for Jews." * * * Kulturbrauerei (Culture Brewery). The redbrick buildings of the old Schultheiss brewery are typical of late-19th-century industrial architecture. Parts of the brewery were built in 1842, and at the turn of the 20th century the complex expanded to include the main brewery of Berlin's famous Schultheiss beer, then the world's largest brewery. Today, the multiplex cinema, pubs, clubs, and a concert venue that occupy it make up an arts and entertainment nexus (sadly, without a brewery). Pick up information at the Prenzlauer Berg tourist office here, and come Christmastime, visit the Scandinavian-themed market, which includes children's rides. \| Schönhauser Allee 36, entry at Sredzkistr. 1 and Knaackstr. 97, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/4431–5152 \| www.kulturbrauerei-berlin.de \| Station: Eberswalder Strasse (U-bahn). ## Wedding While much of Berlin has gentrified rapidly in recent years, Wedding, north of Mitte, is still an old-fashioned, working-class district. Because rents are still relatively low, it will probably be the next hot spot for artists and other creative types looking for cheap studios and work places. If you want to be on the cutting edge, ferret out an underground show or two in this ethnically-diverse neighborhood. For an historical perspective on the years of Berlin's division, head to the excellent Berlin Wall Memorial Site. This illuminating museum (some of which is open-air) is located along one of the few remaining stretches of the wall, and chronicles the sorrows of the era. Gedenkstätte Berliner Mauer (Berlin Wall Memorial Site). This site combines memorials and a museum and research center on the Berlin Wall. The division of Berlin was particularly heart-wrenching on Bernauer Strasse, where neighbors and families on opposite sides of the street were separated overnight. The Reconciliation Chapel, completed in 2000, replaced the community church dynamited by the Communists in 1985. The church had been walled into the "death strip," and was seen as a hindrance to patrolling it. A portion of the Wall remains on Bernauer Strasse, along with an installation meant to serve as a memorial, which can be viewed 24/7. The documentation center will be closed until late 2014 for renovation and the addition of a new permanent exhibition. \| Bernauer Str. 111, Wedding \| 030/4679–86666 \| www.berliner-mauer-gedenkstaette.de \| Free, tours €3 \| Memorial 24 hrs. Visitor center: Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–7; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 9:30–6 \| Station: Bernauer Strasse (U-bahn), Nordbahnhof (S-bahn). ## Neukölln If you missed Prenzlauer Berg's heyday, you can still get a good feel for its raw charm and creative flair if you head to ultrahip Neukölln. Just southeast of Kreuzberg below the Landwehrkanal, Neukölln was an impoverished, gritty West Berlin neighborhood until the hip crowd discovered it a few years ago. It's since been almost completely transformed. Makeshift bars/galleries brighten up semi-abandoned storefronts, and vintage café or breakfast spots put a new twist on old concepts. Everything has a salvaged feel, and the crowds are young and savvy. If you're looking for nightlife, there are bars galore. ## Charlottenburg An important part of former West Berlin but now a western district of the united city, Charlottenburg has retained its old-world charm. Elegance is the keyword here. Whether you're strolling and shopping around Savignyplatz or pausing for a refreshment at the LiteraturHaus, you'll be impressed with the dignity of both the neighborhood's architecture and its inhabitants. Kurfürstendamm (or Ku'damm, as the locals call it) is the central shopping mile, where you'll find an international clientele browsing brand-name designers, or drinking coffee at sidewalk cafés. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Top Attractions Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtnis-Kirche (Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church). A dramatic reminder of World War II's destruction, the ruined bell tower is all that remains of this once massive church, which was completed in 1895 and dedicated to the emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm I. The Hohenzollern dynasty is depicted inside in a gilded mosaic, whose damage, like that of the building, will not be repaired. The exhibition revisits World War II's devastation throughout Europe. On the hour, the tower chimes out a melody composed by the last emperor's great-grandson, the late Prince Louis Ferdinand von Hohenzollern. In stark contrast to the old bell tower (dubbed the "Hollow Tooth"), which is in sore need of restoration now, are the adjoining Memorial Church and Tower, designed by the noted German architect Egon Eiermann and finished in 1961. These ultramodern octagonal structures, with their myriad honeycomb windows, have nicknames as well: the "Lipstick" and the "Powder Box." Brilliant, blue stained glass designed by Gabriel Loire of Chartres, France dominates the interiors. Church music and organ concerts are presented in the church regularly, which is slated for restoration in the near future. \| Breitscheidpl., Charlottenburg \| 030/218–5023 \| www.gedaechtniskirche-berlin.de \| Free \| Memorial church daily 9–7 \| Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Kurfürstendamm. This busy thoroughfare began as a riding path in the 16th century. The elector Joachim II of Brandenburg used it to travel between his palace on the Spree River and his hunting lodge in the Grunewald. The Kurfürstendamm (Elector's Causeway) was transformed into a major route in the late 19th century, thanks to the initiative of Bismarck, Prussia's Iron Chancellor. Even in the 1920s, the Ku'damm was still relatively new and by no means elegant; it was fairly far removed from the old heart of the city, Unter den Linden in Mitte. The Ku'damm's prewar fame was due mainly to its rowdy bars and dance halls, as well as the cafés where the cultural avant-garde of Europe gathered. Almost half of its 245 late-19th-century buildings were completely destroyed in the 1940s, and the remaining buildings were damaged to varying degrees. As in most of western Berlin, what you see today is either restored or newly constructed. Many of the 1950s buildings have been replaced by high-rises, in particular at the corner of Joachimstaler Strasse. Although Ku'damm is still known as the best shopping street in Berlin, its establishments have declined in elegance and prestige over the years. Nowadays you'll want to visit just to check it off your list, but few of the mostly down-market chain stores will impress you with their luxury. Museum Berggruen. This small modern-art museum just reopened in 2013 after extensive renovations. It holds works by Matisse, Klee, Giacometti, and Picasso, who is particularly well represented with more than 100 works. Heinz Berggruen (1914–2007), a businessman who left Berlin in the 1930s, collected the excellent paintings. He narrates portions of the free audio guide, sharing anecdotes about how he came to acquire pieces directly from the artists, as well as his opinions of the women portrayed in Picasso's portraits. \| Schlossstr. 1, Charlottenburg \| 030/2664-24242 \| www.smb.museum \| €10 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 \| Station: Sophie-Charlotte-Platz (U-bahn), Richard-Wagner-Platz (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Schloss Charlottenburg (Charlottenburg Palace). A grand reminder of imperial days, this showplace served as a city residence for the Prussian rulers. The gorgeous palace started as a modest royal summer residence in 1695, built on the orders of King Friedrich I for his wife, Sophie-Charlotte. In the 18th century Frederick the Great made a number of additions, such as the dome and several wings designed in the rococo style. By 1790 the complex had evolved into a massive royal domain that could take a whole day to explore. Behind heavy iron gates, the Court of Honor—the front courtyard—is dominated by a baroque statue of the Great Elector on horseback.TIP Buildings can be visited separately for different admission prices, or altogether as part of a €19 Tageskarte. The Altes Schloss is the main building of the Schloss Charlottenburg complex, with the ground-floor suites of Friedrich I and Sophie-Charlotte. Paintings include royal portraits by Antoine Pesne, a noted court painter of the 18th century. A guided tour visits the Oak Gallery, the early-18th-century palace chapel, and the suites of Friedrich Wilhelm II and Friedrich Wilhelm III, furnished in the Biedermeier style. Tours leave hourly from 9 to 5. The upper floor has the apartments of Friedrich Wilhelm IV, a silver treasury, and Berlin and Meissen porcelain and can be seen on its own. The Neuer Flügel (New Building), where Frederick the Great once lived, was designed by Knobbelsdorff, who also built Sanssouci. It is closed for restoration until 2015. \| Spandauer Damm 20–24, Charlottenburg \| 030/331–9694–200 \| www.spsg.de \| Tageskarte €19, covers admission for all buildings, excluding tour of Altes Schloss baroque apartments \| Station: Richard-Wagner-Platz (U-bahn). Schlosspark Charlottenburg. The park behind the Charlottenburg Palace was laid out in the French baroque style beginning in 1697, and was transformed into an English garden in the early 19th century. In it stand the Neuer Pavillon by Karl Friedrich Schinkel and Carl Langhan's Belvedere Pavillon, which overlooks the lake and the Spree River and holds a collection of Berlin porcelain. \| www.spsg.de \| €3 \| Park daily. Belvedere: Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., weekends 10–5. FAMILY \| Zoologischer Garten (Zoological Gardens). Even though Knut, the polar bear cub who captured the heart of the city, is sadly no longer with us, there are 14,000 other animals to see here, many of whom may be happy to have their time in the spotlight once again. There are 1,500 different species (more than any other zoo in Europe), including those rare and endangered, which the zoo has been successful at breeding. New arrivals in the past years include a baby rhinoceros. The animals' enclosures are designed to resemble their natural habitats, though some structures are ornate, such as the 1910 Arabian-style Zebra House. Pythons, frogs, turtles, invertebrates, Komodo dragons, and an amazing array of strange and colorful fish are part of the three-floor aquarium.TIP Check the feeding times posted to watch creatures such as seals, apes, hippos, crocodiles, and pelicans during their favorite time of day. \| Hardenbergpl. 8 and Budapester Str. 32, Charlottenburg \| 030/254–010 \| www.zoo-berlin.de \| Zoo or aquarium €13, combined ticket €20 \| Zoo: Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 9–5; mid-Mar.–Aug., daily 9–7; Sept.–Oct., daily 9–6:30. Aquarium: daily 9–6 \| Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). ### Worth Noting Käthe-Kollwitz-Museum. Right next door to the Literaturhaus, this small but lovingly curated museum in a formerly private home pays homage to one of Berlin's favorite artists, the female sculptor, print-maker, and painter Käthe Kollwitz. Perhaps best known for her harrowing sculpture of a mother mourning a dead child inside the Neue Wache on Unter den Linden, she also lent her name to one of the city's most beautiful squares, the posh, leafy Kollwitzplatz, which contains a sculpture of her. \| Fasanenstr. 24, Charlottenburg \| 030/882–5210 \| www.kaethe-kollwitz.de \| €6 \| Daily 10–6 \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn). Literaturhaus Berlin. This grand, 19th-century villa on one of West Berlin's prettiest streets, is best known for its café, which approximates a Viennese coffeehouse in both food and atmosphere. It also serves as an intellectual meeting place for high-minded and well-to-do Berliners. The house hosts readings, literary symposia, exhibitions and writing workshops year-round, and has a cozy and comprehensive bookstore (one of the city's best) on the lower level. \| Fasanenstr. 23, Charlottenburg \| 030/887–2860 \| www.literaturhaus-berlin.de \| Bookshop weekdays 10:30–7:30, Sat. 10:30–6. Café daily 9–midnight \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn). Museum für Fotografie–Helmut Newton Stiftung. Native son Helmut Newton (1920–2004) pledged this collection of 1,000 photographs to Berlin months before his unexpected death. The man who defined fashion photography in the 1960s through the 1980s was an apprentice to Yva, a Jewish fashion photographer in Berlin in the 1930s. Newton fled Berlin with his family in 1938, and his mentor was killed in a concentration camp. The photographs, now part of the state museum collection, are shown on a rotating basis in the huge Wilhelmine building behind the train station Zoologischer Garten. You'll see anything from racy portraits of models to serene landscapes. \| Jebensstr. 2, Charlottenburg \| 030/2664–24242 \| www.helmutnewton.com \| €10 \| Tues., Wed., Fri.–Sun. 10–6, Thurs. 10–8 \| Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). FAMILY \| The Story of Berlin. You can't miss this multimedia museum for the airplane wing exhibited outside. It was once part of a "Raisin bomber," a U.S. Air Force DC-3 that supplied Berlin during the Berlin Airlift in 1948 and 1949. Eight hundred years of the city's history, from the first settlers casting their fishing lines to Berliners heaving sledgehammers at the Wall, are conveyed through hands-on exhibits, film footage, and multimedia devices in this unusual venue. The sound of footsteps over broken glass follows your path through the exhibit on the Kristallnacht pogrom, and to pass through the section on the Nazis' book-burning on Bebelplatz, you must walk over book bindings. Many original artifacts are on display, such as the stretch Volvo that served as Erich Honnecker's state carriage in East Germany. TIP The eeriest relic is the 1974 nuclear shelter, which you can visit by guided tour on the hour. Museum placards are also in English. \| Ku'damm Karree, Kurfürstendamm 207–208, Charlottenburg \| 030/8872–0100 \| www.story-of-berlin.de \| €12 \| Daily 10–8 (last entry at 6) \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn). ## Wannsee Most tourists come to leafy, upscale Wannsee to see the House of the Wannsee Conference, where the Third Reich's top officials met to plan the "Final Solution." Beyond this dark historical site, however, there are parks, lakes, and islands to explore. Leave a day for a trip here, especially in warm weather: the Wannsee lake is a favorite spot for a summer dip. ### Top Attractions Gedenkstätte Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz (Wannsee Conference Memorial Site). The lovely lakeside setting of this Berlin villa belies the unimaginable Holocaust atrocities planned here. This elegant edifice hosted the fateful conference held on January 20, 1942, at which Nazi leaders and German bureaucrats, under SS leader Reinhard Heydrich, planned the systematic deportation and mass extinction of Europe's Jewish population. Today this so-called Endlösung der Judenfrage ("Final Solution of the Jewish Question") is illustrated with a chilling exhibition that documents the conference and, more extensively, the escalation of persecution against Jews and the Holocaust itself. A reference library offers source materials in English. \| Am Grossen Wannsee 56–58, from the Wannsee S-bahn station, take Bus No. 114, Zehlendorf \| 030/805–0010 \| www.ghwk.de \| Free, tour €2 \| Daily 10–6; library weekdays 10–6 \| Station: Wannsee (S-bahn). ## Oranienburg In this little village a short drive north of Berlin, the Nazis built one of the first concentration camps (neighbors claimed not to notice what was happening there). After the war, the Soviets continued to use it. Only later did the GDR regime turn it into a memorial site. If you feel like you've covered all the main sites in Berlin, this is worth a day trip. ### Exploring Fodor's Choice \| Gedenkstätte und Museum Sachsenhausen (Sachsenhausen Memorial and Museum). This concentration camp was established in 1936 and held 200,000 prisoners from every nation in Europe, including British officers and Joseph Stalin's son. It is estimated that tens of thousands died here, among them more than 12,000 Soviet prisoners of war. Between 1945 and 1950 the Soviets used the site as a prison, and malnutrition and disease claimed the lives of 20% of the inmates. The East German government made the site a concentration camp memorial in April 1961. Many original facilities remain; the barracks and other buildings now hold exhibits. To reach Sachsenhausen, take the S-bahn Line No. 1 to Oranienburg, the last stop. The ride from the Friedrichstrasse Station will take 50 minutes. Alternatively, take the Regional Train No. 5, direction north, from one of Berlin's main stations. From the Oranienburg Station it's a 25-minute walk (follow signs), or you can take a taxi or Bus No. 804 (a 7-minute ride, but with infrequent service) in the direction of Malz. TIP An ABC zone ticket will suffice for any type of train travel and bus transfer. Allow three hours at the memorial, whose exhibits and sites are spread apart. Oranienburg is 35 km (22 miles) north of Berlin's center. \| Str. der Nationen 22 \| Oranienburg \| 03301/200–200 \| www.stiftung-bg.de \| Free, audio guide €3 \| Visitors center and grounds: Mid-Mar.–mid-Oct., daily 8:30–6; mid-Oct.–mid-Mar., daily 8:30–4:30; last admission ½ hr before closing. Museum closed Mon. \| Station: Oranienburg (S-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Mitte \| Tiergarten \| Kreuzberg \| Prenzlauer Berg \| Wedding \| Neukölln \| Charlottenburg \| Wilmersdorf \| Schöneberg Updated by Giulia Pines Berlin has plenty of unassuming neighborhood restaurants serving old-fashioned German food; but happily, the dining scene in this thriving city has expanded to incorporate all sorts of international cuisine. Italian food is abundant, from relatively mundane "red sauce" pizza and pasta establishments to restaurants offering specific regional Italian delicacies. Asian food, in particular, has made a big entrance, with Charlottenburg's Kantstrasse leading the way as Berlin's unofficial "Asiatown." Turkish food continues to be popular, too, especially döner kebab shops that sell pressed lamb or chicken in flat-bread pockets with a variety of sauces and salads, which are great for a quick meal. Wurst, especially Currywurst—pork sausage served with a mildly curried ketchup—is also popular if you're looking for a quick meal on the go. And as in other big cities around the world, eating local is more and more the rage in Berlin. Restaurants are beginning to understand that although they could import ingredients from other European countries, fresh farm resources are closer to home. Surrounding the city is the rural state of Brandenburg, whose name often comes before Ente (duck) on a menu. In spring, Spargel, white asparagus from Beelitz, is all the rage, showing up in soups and side dishes. It's worth noting that Berlin is known for curt or slow service, except at high-end restaurants. And keep in mind that many of the top restaurants are closed Sunday. If you want to experience that old-fashioned German cuisine, Berlin's most traditional four-part meal is Eisbein (pork knuckle), always served with sauerkraut, pureed peas, and boiled potatoes. Other old-fashioned Berlin dishes include Rouladen (rolled stuffed beef), Spanferkel (suckling pig), Berliner Schüsselsülze (potted meat in aspic), and Hackepeter (ground beef). ## Mitte Altes Europa. GERMAN \| By day, this is a quiet café reminiscent of a classic Viennese coffeehouse, shabby but trendy, with fashionable Mitte-ites chatting in while middle-aged intellectuals page through newspapers and magazines. At night, it turns into a comfortable but bustling neighborhood pub, just crowded enough to look like a scene, but never too packed. And throughout it all, Altes Europa ("Old Europe") manages to construct a daily menu of six or seven tasty dishes like classic German Knödel (dumplings) baked with mushrooms and spinach or Tafelspitz (boiled beef) with potatoes. The food is inventively prepared and served in record time. \| Average main: €8 \| Gipsstr. 11, Mitte \| 303/2809–3840 \| No credit cards \| Station: Weinmeisterstrasse (U-bahn). Bandol sur Mer. FRENCH \| This tiny, 20-seat eatery serves French classics. The foie gras, tartar, and entrecôte are standouts, and desserts like crème brûlée round out the menu. The wine selection is good and the atmosphere is comfortable, though ever since Brad Pitt paid Bandol a visit, getting a table has gotten much more difficult. Its location, right in the middle of bustling Torstrasse, makes it a magnet for the hip and fashionable. TIP If you can't get a reservation here, try their sister restaurant next door: the larger and slightly more casual 3 Minutes Sur Mer is also open for lunch. \| Average main: €15 \| Torstr. 167, Mitte \| 030/6730–2051 \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. No lunch weekdays \| Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn). Borchardt. BRASSERIE \| The menu changes daily at this celebrity meeting place—the location near Gendarmenmarkt makes it a popular power lunch spot for politicians and influential people, though the food and service are not what you'd expect from the high prices. The high ceiling, plush maroon benches, art nouveau mosaic (discovered during renovations), and marble columns make the atmosphere feel like the 1920s. The cuisine is French-German and there are generally several fish dishes and oyster choices on the menu, as well as carnivorous classics like veal schnitzel or beef fillet. The courtyard garden is lively in warm weather, and fills with a rotating cast of wealthy regulars. Beware, though: this restaurant tends to treat customers better when they appear well-heeled and well-connected. \| Average main: €19 \| Französischestr. 47, Mitte \| 030/8188–6262 \| www.borchardt-restaurant.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). Chén Chè. ASIAN \| Tucked into a courtyard behind the bflat jazz club, this elegant restaurant benefits from fresh ingredients, expert cooking, and an enticing exotic tea list. It has a lovely location; the outdoor space is adorned with paper lamps and canopies. You'll find the usual suspects, like fresh summer rolls and skewered meats with peanut sauce, but there are also some excellent original dishes, like the pickled Vietnamese eggplant and the rice "burger" with smoked tofu and lotus root. Brunch is served on the weekends. \| Average main: €8 \| Rosenthalerstr. 13, Mitte \| 030/2888–4282 \| www.chenche-berlin.de \| No credit cards \| Station: Weinmeisterstrasse (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Cookies Cream. VEGETARIAN \| With three restaurants, a club, and a bar to his name, Berlin nightlife "mogul" Cookie is a fixture on the Mitte scene and Cookies Cream, the vegetarian fine-dining establishment above the club Cookies, is his crowning achievement. The restaurant is accessible only via a dingy alleyway between the Westin Grand Hotel and the Komische Oper next door, and its entrance seems designed to deter would-be visitors but once you're through the door the service is friendly and casual, and the vibe not at all intimidating. Chef Stephan Hentschel makes a point of never serving pasta or rice dishes, saying that would be too easy in a vegetarian restaurant. Instead, he focuses on innovative preparations like kohlrabi turned into ravioli-esque pockets filled with lentils, or celery that's wrapped canneloni-style around potato puree and chanterelle mushrooms. \| Average main: €18 \| Behrenstr. 55, Mitte \| 030/2749–2940 \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). Habel Weinkultur. GERMAN \| Under the arches of the S-bahn tracks connecting Friedrichstrasse with Hauptbahnhof, Habel Weinkultur seems unassuming from outside, but inside you'll find a typical old Berlin ambience melding elegance with industrial chic: leather banquettes, crystal chandeliers dangling from the arched brick ceilings, and rumbling trains overhead. The no-nonsense waiters serve local classics, like lamb, Wiener schnitzel, weisser Spargel (white asparagus), and Knödel with mushrooms and ham. There's a huge wine selection. \| Average main: €24 \| Luisenstr. 19, Mitte \| 030/2809–8484 \| www.wein-habel.de \| No dinner Sun. \| Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hackescher Hof. GERMAN \| This huge-yet-cozy German restaurant is in the middle of the action at bustling Hackesche Höfe, and one of the best places to munch on internationally flavored German food while doing some excellent people-watching. The Hackescher Hof—which sports the walking green man symbol from East Berlin's stoplights—is a mix of Ostalgie (nostalgia for the East), solid cooking (if available, go for the regional country dishes like Brandenburg wild boar), and an intriguing clientele made up of tourists, intellectuals, artists, and writers, in a beautiful, wood-paneled but always smoky dining hall—there are also some outside tables in the courtyard, too. It's usually packed in the evening, so reservations are strongly recommended. \| Average main: €16 \| Rosenthalerstr. 40–41, inside Hackesche Höfe, Mitte \| 030/283–5293 \| www.hackescher-hof.de \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Lutter & Wegner. AUSTRIAN \| One of the city's oldest vintners (Sekt, German champagne, was first conceived here in 1811 by actor Ludwig Devrient), Lutter & Wegner has returned to its historic location across from Gendarmenmarkt. The dark-wood-panel walls, parquet floor, and multiple rooms take diners back to 19th-century Vienna, and the food, too, is mostly Austrian, with superb game dishes in winter and, of course, the classic Wiener schnitzel with potato salad. The sauerbraten with red cabbage is a national prizewinner. TIP In the Weinstube, a cozy room lined with wine shelves meat and cheese plates are served until 3 am. There are several other locations around Berlin but this one is widely considered the best. \| Average main: €23 \| Charlottenstr. 56, Mitte \| 030/2029–5417 \| www.l-w-berlin.de \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn), Stadtmitte (U-bahn). Mädchenitaliener. MODERN ITALIAN \| This cozy Mitte spot has two different spaces: the bustling and sometimes drafty front room with high tables where they put walk-ins, and a darker, more romantic back room for those who remember to reserve ahead—so you should, too. The short but well-thought-out menu includes small and large antipasti plates with grilled vegetables, olives, cheeses, and meats, and unusual pastas like tagliatelle with crawfish in a lemon-mint sauce, or with pine nuts and balsamic-roasted figs. Chestnut-filled ravioli with pears is a favorite in winter. The lunch menu, with an appetizer and a pasta dish for only €8.50, is a great deal, especially for the area. \| Average main: €11 \| Alte Schönhauserstr. 12, Mitte \| 030/4004–1787 \| No credit cards \| Lunch served Mon.–Sat. \| Station: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn). Monsieur Vuong. VIETNAMESE \| This hip Vietnamese eatery is a convenient place to meet before hitting Mitte's galleries or clubs, or for a light lunch after browsing the area's popular boutiques. The atmosphere is always lively, and the clientele is an entertaining mix of tech geeks on their lunch breaks from the area's many start-ups, fashionistas with multiple shopping bags, tourists lured in by the crowd, or students from the nearby Goethe Institut, Germany's most prestigious language school. There are only five items and two specials to choose from, but the delicious goi bo (spicy beef salad) and pho ga (chicken noodle soup) keep the regulars coming back. The teas and shakes are also excellent. \| Average main: €7 \| Alte Schönhauserstr. 46, Mitte \| 030/9929–6924 \| www.monsieurvuong.de \| Reservations not accepted \| Station: Weinmeister Strasse (U-bahn), Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Pauly Saal. GERMAN \| A new meeting point for the hip Mitte set, Pauly Saal is in the newly renovated and converted Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule (Old Jewish Girls' School), a worthy destination in its own right due to its beautifully restored interior and several noteworthy galleries. With indoor seating in what used to be the school gym, and outdoor tables taking over the building's expansive courtyard, the setting alone is a draw, but the food is also some of the most exquisite in this part of Mitte. The focus is on artful presentation and local ingredients, like meat sourced directly from Brandenburg. TIP The lunch prix fixe (€28) is a great way to sample the restaurant's best dishes. \| Average main: €34 \| Auguststr. 11–13, Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule, Mitte \| 030/3300–6070 \| www.paulysaal.com \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Tucholskystrasse (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Restaurant Reinstoff. CONTEMPORARY \| One of the top newcomers of the past few years, the Michelin-starred Reinstoff is a delight. The perfectly crafted and creative haute cuisine, prepared by renowned chef Daniel Achilles, focuses on traditional German ingredients but gives them an avant-garde twist and often playful presentations. The competent yet relaxed service and great atmosphere make this one of the most enjoyable dining destinations. Guests choose from five-, six-, or eight-course menus (there is no à la carte) that are carefully orchestrated to create an unforgettable dining experience. The wine selection is heavy on German and Spanish wines. \| Average main: €50 \| Schlegelstr. 26c, in Edison Höfe, Mitte \| 030/3088–1214 \| www.reinstoff.eu \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Nordbahnhof (S-bahn). Mogg & Melzer. CAFÉ \| In the renovated Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule (Old Jewish Girls' School), this deli-style café pays homage to the building's roots in the best way possible: with delectable Jewish delicacies that are hard to find elsewhere in Berlin—think matzoh-ball soup or pastrami on rye. At breakfast there is a delicious shakshuka (tomato stew with eggs) and the classic New York bagel with cream cheese and lox. More standard fare like a beet and goat cheese salad and French onion soup round out the menu. The space is comfortable, too, with a simple interior featuring wooden floors and tables, light blue walls, and low, deep purple banquettes. \| Average main: €10 \| Auguststr. 11–13, Ehemalige Jüdische Mädchenschule, Mitte \| 030/3300–60770 \| www.moggandmelzer.com \| No credit cards \| Station: Tucholskystrasse (S-bahn). Rosenthaler Grill und Schlemmerbuffet. GERMAN \| Döner kebab aficionados love this restaurant for the delicious food; the fact that it's in the middle of the city and open 24 hours a day is an added bonus. The friendly staff expertly carve paper-thin slices of perfectly cooked meat from the enormous, revolving spit. If you like things spicy, ask for the red sauce. \| Average main: €6 \| Torstr. 125, Mitte \| 030/283–2153 \| Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn). Sra Bua. THAI \| There aren't many Thai restaurants in Berlin but even if the competition was fierce, this exciting addition to the city's high-end dining scene would stand out. The service is attentive and the setting is lavish at this fourth Sra Bua location (after Bangkok, Switzerland, and St. Moritz). Spicy, flavorful curries are front and center on the menu, excellently complemented by salads and raw fish starters that play with some of the freshest ingredients around. Save room for the "deconstructed" yuzu cheesecake dessert, and make sure to sample the cocktails, which also pay homage to Southeast Asia with ingredients like chili, ginger, mango, and sesame oil. \| Average main: €24 \| Adlon Kempinski Hotel, Behrenstr. 72, Mitte \| 030/2261–1590 \| www.srabua-adlon.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn). * * * Turkish Market and Cafés On Tuesday and Friday from noon to 6:30 you can find the country's best selection of Arab and Turkish foods on the Maybachufer lining the southern bank of the Landwehrkanal. The quirky student bar and café on the Kottbusser bridge, Ankerklause, or those on Paul-Lincke-Ufer, the opposite bank, are great places for a late breakfast, coffee break, and local color. The closest U-bahn stations are Kottbusser Tor and Schönleinstrasse. For Turkish fast food (a chicken or lamb kebab, or falafel), walk up to Hasir's, believed by many to have the best falafel in Berlin. Although there are five Berlin outposts, the one on Adalbertstrasse just up from Kottbusser Tor has both a walk-in counter and a more upscale, sit-down dining room (Adalbertstr. 10, 030/6142–373). If it's meat you crave, walk down Kottbusserdamm from the market to Boppstrasse, where Imren Grill serves up tasty lamb Döners. (Boppstr. 5, 030/4302–7868). * * * VAU. GERMAN \| Trendsetter VAU defined hip in the Mitte district years ago and remains a favorite even as it ages. The excellent German fish and game dishes prepared by chef Kolja Kleeberg have earned him endless praise and awards. Menu options might include duck with red cabbage, quince, and sweet chestnuts, or turbot with veal sweetbread with shallots in red wine. The six-course dinner menu is €120, but dishes you can also order á la carte. The best bargain is a lunch entrée at €18. The cool interior was designed by Meinhard von Gerkan, one of Germany's leading industrial architects. \| Average main: €40 \| Jägerstr. 54–55, Mitte \| 030/202–9730 \| www.vau-berlin.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn), Stadmitte (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Weinbar Rutz. GERMAN \| Rutz might be the most unassuming Michelin-starred restaurant in the world. Its narrow facade is tucked away on a sleepy stretch of Chausseestrasse, but the elegant and enjoyable interior matches the quality of the food, with surprising combinations like roe deer with stinging nettle puree, or monkfish with a ginger and radish ragout. The restaurant's "Inspiration" tasting menus of 6, 8, or 10 courses (starting at €115s) offer dual interpretations (labeled "experiences") of luxury ingredients like goose liver or Wagyu beef, though there are à la carte options as well. For those wishing for just a taste of the magic rather than a multicourse affair, the separate Weinbar (downstairs) has a more reasonably priced à la carte menu. Sommelier and owner, Billy Wagner, is usually in-house to recommend wines from a list of more than 1,000 vintages. \| Average main: €60 \| Chausseestr. 8, Mitte \| 030/2462–8760 \| www.weinbar-rutz.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Oranienburger Tor (S-bahn). Zur Letzten Instanz. GERMAN \| Berlin's oldest restaurant (established in 1621) lies half hidden in a nest of medieval streets, though it's welcomed some illustrious diners: Napoléon is said to have sat alongside the tile stove, Mikhail Gorbachev sipped a beer here in 1989, and Chancellor Gerhard Schröder treated French president Jacques Chirac to a meal here in 2003. The small menu focuses on some of Berlin's most traditional specialties, including Eisbein (pork knuckle), and takes its whimsical dish titles from classic legal jargon—the national courthouse is around the corner, and the restaurant's name is a rough equivalent of the term "at the 11th hour." Inside, the restaurant is cozy, and while the service is always friendly it can sometimes feel a bit erratic. \| Average main: €11 \| Waisenstr. 14–16, Mitte \| 030/242–5528 \| www.zurletzteninstanz.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. \| Station: Klosterstrasse (U-bahn). ## Tiergarten Fodor's Choice \| Facil. ECLECTIC \| One of Germany's top restaurants, Facil is also one of the more relaxed of its class. The elegant, minimalist setting—it's in the fifth-floor courtyard of the Mandala Hotel, with exquisite wall panels and a glass roof that opens in summer—and impeccable service give the place an oasislike feel. Diners can count on a careful combination of German classics and Asian inspiration; the options are to choose from the four- to eight-course set meals, or order à la carte. Seasonal dishes include goose liver with celery and hazelnuts, char with an elderflower emulsion sauce, or roasted regional squab. The wine list is extensive but the staff can provide helpful advice. \| Average main: €40 \| Mandala Hotel, Potsdamerstr. 3, Tiergarten \| 030/5900–51234 \| www.facil.de \| Closed weekends \| Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Paris-Moskau. ECLECTIC \| If you're looking for a one-of-a-kind dining experience, head to the rather barren stretch of land between Hauptbahnhof and the government quarter, where a single half-timbered house stands, now dwarfed by a government complex going up around it: The restaurant Paris-Moskau was built more than 100 years ago as a pub and guesthouse along the Paris-Moscow railway. Today, it serves dishes so intricately prepared they look like works of art, with refreshing flavor combinations such as smoked eel with pork belly ray, or guinea hen with beetroots and dates. In addition to the à la carte menu, there are a variety of set menus in the evening menu—you can choose four, five, six, or eight courses. The well-edited wine list and attentive service help make this restaurant a standout. \| Average main: €25 \| Alt-Moabit 141, Tiergarten \| 030/394–2081 \| www.paris-moskau.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Wed., no lunch weekends \| Station: Berlin Hof (S-bahn). ## Kreuzberg Café Morgenland. MIDDLE EASTERN \| Within view (and earshot) of the elevated U-bahn Line No. 1, Café Morgenland is a relatively unremarkable neighborhood haunt on weekdays but on Sunday it devotes an entire room to its extremely popular brunch buffet, which means table space can be scarce. The Turkish-inspired dishes (an ode to the home country of many a Kreuzberg native) are the perfect alternative to more traditional brunches in town. \| Average main: €10 \| Skalitzerstr. 35, Kreuzberg \| 030/611–3291 \| www.morgenland-berlin.de \| No credit cards \| Station: Görlitzer Bahnhof (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Curry 36. GERMAN \| This currywurst stand in Kreuzberg has a cult following and anytime of day or night you'll find yourself amid a crowd of cab drivers, students, and lawyers while you have your currywurst mit Darm (with skin) or ohne Darm (without skin). Most people order their sausage with a big pile of crispy fries served rot-weiss (red and white)—with ketchup and mayonnaise. Curry 36 stays open until 5 in the morning. \| Average main: €6 \| Mehringdamm 36, Kreuzberg \| 030/251–7368 \| Station: Mehringdamm (U-bahn). Defne. TURKISH \| In a city full of Turkish restaurants, Defne stands out for its exquisitely prepared food, friendly service, and pleasant setting. Beyond simple kebabs, the fresh and healthy menu here includes a great selection of hard-to-find fish dishes from the Bosphorus, such as acili ahtapot (spicy octopus served with mushrooms and olives in a white-wine-and-tomato sauce), as well as a selection of delicious meze (small plates) and typical Turkish dishes like "the Imam Fainted," one of many eggplant preparations. The vegetable dishes are especially popular. Defne is near the Maybachufer, on the bank of the Landwehrkanal that runs through Berlin, and its beloved Turkish market. \| Average main: €11 \| Planufer 92c, Kreuzberg \| 030/8179–7111 \| www.defne-restaurant.de \| No credit cards \| No lunch \| Station: Kottbusser Tor (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Die Henne. GERMAN \| This 100-year-old Kreuzberg stalwart has survived a lot. After two world wars, it found itself quite literally with its back against the wall: the Berlin Wall was built right next to the front door, forcing it to close its front-yard beer garden. But Die Henne (which means "the hen") has managed to stick around thanks in part to its most famous dish, which is still just about all they serve: crispy, buttermilk fried chicken. The rest of the menu is short: coleslaw, potato salad, a few boulette (meat patty) options, and several beers on tap. For "dessert," look to their impressive selection of locally sourced brandies and fruit schnapps. The small front yard beer garden, reopened after 1989, is once again a lovely and lively place to sit in summer. Die Henne is full nearly every night it's open so make reservations a few of days in advance to secure a table. \| Average main: €8 \| Leuschnerdamm 25, Kreuzberg \| 030/614–7730 \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. \| Station: Moritzplatz (U-bahn). Gugelhof. ECLECTIC \| Although far from Alsatian France and the Mosel and Saar regions of Germany's southwest that inspire the hearty fare here, a visit to this busy but homey Kollwitzplatz restaurant will leave you pleasantly surprised—and thoroughly stuffed. The raclette for two and the pâté de canard (Alsatian duck pâté) are the best you're likely to get this side of the Rhine, and classic choucroute comes with Blutwurst (blood sausage) provided by an award-winning Berlin butcher. The vegetarian Tarte Flambée, a crispy crust topped with creamy cheese and grilled vegetables, holds its own on the meat-centric menu. Breakfast and lunch are served only on the weekends; it's dinner only during the week. \| Average main: €14 \| Knaackstr. 37, Kreuzberg \| 030/442–9229 \| www.gugelhof.de \| Reservations essential \| Station: Senefelderplatz (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Hartmanns Restaurant. GERMAN \| Named for the acclaimed chef Stefan Hartmann, Hartmanns Restaurant is in the heart of Kreuzberg, on a residential street that manages to be both elegant and jarringly historical (a 19th-century gasometer used as a bunker in WWII sits directly opposite). The restaurant's sublevel interior, however, is all warm lighting and white-painted walls. The changing menu uses market-fresh ingredients to revive classic German dishes, though there are also some Mediterranean influences here and there. You can order à la carte, but the real treat is the chef's three- to seven-course tasting menu, which cost between €65 and €110, and can be served with or without wine pairings. Each plate is like a work of art, and the service is impeccable and friendly. \| Average main: €30 \| Fichtestr. 31, Kreuzberg \| 030/6120–1003 \| www.hartmanns-restaurant.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Südstern (U-bahn). Jolesch. AUSTRIAN \| With a front bar area and a cozy, sage-color dining room, Jolesch is usually filled with chattering locals and the occasional dog peeking out from under the table (pets are allowed in unexpected places in Berlin, including many restaurants). The house specialties include Viennese classics like Wiener schnitzel and apple strudel, but there are surprises on the seasonal daily menu, which is full of inspiring ingredients and unusual combinations like grilled octopus with saffron sorbet in spring, or a trio of duck, including silky foie gras, in fall. TIP Look for a special menu if you're here in late April and May, during "Spargelzeit," the white asparagus season. \| Average main: €15 \| Muskauerstr. 1, Kreuzberg \| 030/612–3581 \| www.jolesch.de \| Station: Görlitzer Bahnhof (U-bahn). Mustafa's. MEDITERRANEAN \| For a twist on the traditional döner kebab, head to to Mustafa's for mouthwateringly delicious vegetable kebabs. The specialty is toasted pita bread stuffed full of roasted veggies—carrots, potatoes, zucchini—along with fresh tomato, lettuce, cucumber, and cabbage. The sandwich is topped with sauce, a generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and sprinkling of the creamy feta cheese. You'll lick your fingers and contemplate getting in line for another. \| Average main: €7 \| Mehringdamm 32, Kreuzberg \| 283/2153 \| Station: Mehringdamm (U-bahn). ## Prenzlauer Berg The Bird. AMERICAN \| Yes it serves burgers, and yes it's run by Americans, but the Bird, overlooking a corner of Mauerpark in Prenzlauer Berg, is more than just an expat burger joint. Burger spots have recenly been popping up everywhere, but the Bird remains one of the best, and is practically the only place in town where the word "rare" actually means pink and juicy on the inside. Besides cheekily named burgers like the "Bronx Jon" (mushrooms and swiss cheese) and "Da Woiks" (everything, including guacamole if you ask for it), the Bird also serves up a mean steak frites suitable for two. Your best bet is to grab a seat at the bar, yell out the order, chow down, and be on your way unless you're with a large group, as the place can get pretty packed. \| Average main: €12 \| Am Falkpl. 5, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/5105–3283 \| www.thebirdinberlin.com \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Lunch on weekends. Fleischerei. GERMAN \| In an old butcher shop, Fleischerei (which means "butcher shop") is a meat-lover's paradise—and probably not the place to bring your vegetarian friends. The oversize, black-and-white images of pork halves dominating the room give you a hint that the emphasis is on meat, like Berlin-style calves liver (with apple, onion, and potato puree) and the famous beef fillet. Service can be slow and sometimes even unfriendly, but the atmosphere, enhanced by several elaborate chandeliers, wall mirrors, and a projection screen, is unique and stylish. \| Average main: €18 \| Schönhauser Allee 8, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/501–82117 \| www.fleischerei-berlin.com \| Reservations essential \| No lunch weekends \| Station: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn). Konnopke's Imbiss. GERMAN \| Under the tracks of the elevated U-bahn Line No. 2 is Berlin's most beloved sausage stand. Konnopke's is a family business that's been around for more than 70 years and it's famous for currywurst, which is served on a paper tray with a plastic prong that can be used to spear the sauce-covered sausage slices. The location, in the center of one of Berlin's trendiest neighborhoods, makes it super convenient. \| Average main: €18 \| Schönhauser Allee 44b, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/442–7765 \| Station: Eberswalderstrasse (U-bahn). Maria Bonita. MEXICAN \| This Mexican restaurant is an unassuming space on Prenzlauer Berg's Danziger Strasse. The young owners (hailing from Mexico and Australia) had different ideas of what Mexican food could be, but shared one dream: to bring the authentic cuisine to Berlin. The food is authentic, as fans will attest, and the hot sauce is satisfyingly hot in a country known for sensitive taste buds and blandly spiced dishes. But diners also keep coming back is the sense of camaraderie: the restaurants host frequent parties (Cinco de Mayo is the most raucous, of course) and have done a lot to invite the neighborhood in. TIP If you get a craving for Mexican food in Kreuzberg, visit the sister restaurant Santa Maria at \| Oranienstrasse 170. \| Average main: €6 \| Danzigerstr. 33, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/2025–5338 \| www.mariabonitaberlin.wordpress.com \| Reservations not accepted \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. \| Station: Eberswalderstr. (U-bahn). Pasternak. RUSSIAN \| Russian-inspired treats such as deviled eggs topped with salmon roe, blini with sour cream and dill, and pierogi, are the draw at Pasternak. Lunch and dinner are popular, but brunch is the major reason to come here, and it gets quite crowded. At €12 per person, it's not the cheapest brunch in town, but it's far from the most expensive and the food is tasty and inventive. If you nab an outside table, you'll be eating within view of a Berlin oddity: a historic brick water tower that is now an apartment complex. \| Average main: €13 \| Knaackstr. 22–24, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/441–3399 \| www.restaurant-pasternak.de \| No credit cards \| Station: Senefelder Platz (U-bahn). Sasaya. JAPANESE \| In a city that still sometimes struggles to get sushi right, Sasaya's concept can seem groundbreaking: simple, authentic Japanese food in an equally comfortable, no-fuss atmosphere. Don't expect sushi rolls to be the center of the menu, though—the focus is on reasonably priced small plates made for sharing. Pickled vegetables, seaweed salad, crispy pork belly, raw octopus, and a number of soups served with the traditional Japanese dashi (fish and seaweed) broth are highlights. Dessert favorites include green tea ice cream and satisfyingly chewy balls of mochi. TIP Reservations are essential; call early enough and you might score one of the low tables by the windows, where long, low couches mean you can recline languidly during your meal. \| Average main: €12 \| Lychenerstr. 50, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/4471–7721 \| www.sasaya-berlin-en.tumblr.com \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Closed Tues.–Wed. \| Station: Eberswalder Strasse (U-bahn). ## Wedding Da Baffi. ITALIAN \| At the quieter end of bustling Leopoldplatz, Da Baffi is a bright Italian light in Berlin. The interior is charming and casual, with white-painted wood, community tables, fresh wildflowers, and dish-towel placemats—all of which complement the fresh, seasonal menu, which is presented in a notebook and changes weekly. Favorites tend to stick around though, and that means the paper-thin octopus carpaccio and the aromatic tagliatelle with shaved black truffles are almost always available, along with cannelloni with wild boar ragù, or whole grilled fish stuffed with herbs and lemon. TIP Hungry for Italian in Kreuzberg? Da Baffi's sister café Salumeria Lamuri ( \| Köpenickerstr. 183) is open weekdays for breakfast and lunch. \| Average main: €15 \| Nazarethkirchstr. 41, Wedding \| 0175/692–6545 \| www.dabaffi.com \| Reservations essential \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Leopoldplatz (U-bahn). ## Neukölln Lavanderia Vecchia. ITALIAN \| Hidden away in a courtyard off a busy Neukölln street, Lavanderia Vecchia is no longer the secret it was when it opened, in 2010, in a space that used to contain an old laundrette (hence the name, which means "old laundrette" in Italian) but it's still very much a destination spot, and one of the best meals in the city. Come hungry, though, as the prix-fixe-only menu includes at least 10 appetizers, a pasta "primi," a meat or fish "secondi," and a dessert, followed by coffee and a digestif. The open kitchen allows diners to watch as the chef makes classics like Insalata di Polpo (octopus and potato salad) or homemade tagliatelle with eggplant, and the contrast of the industrial space strewn with wash lines hung with vintage kerchiefs and aprons is oh-so-Berlin. \| Average main: €45 \| Flughafenstr. 46, Neukölln \| 030/6272–2152 \| www.lavanderiavecchia.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Boddinstrasse (U-bahn) and Rathaus Neukölln (U-bahn). ## Charlottenburg Engelbecken. GERMAN \| The beer coasters are trading cards of the Wittelsbach dynasty in this relaxed restaurant that focuses on food from Bavaria and the Alps. Excellent renditions of classics like Wiener schnitzel and grilled saddle steak are made of "bio" meat and vegetable products, meaning that even the veal, lamb, and beef are the tasty results of organic and humane upbringing. The corner location facing a park on Lake Lietzensee makes this a lovely spot for open-air dining. Lunch is only served on Sunday and holidays. \| Average main: €17 \| Witzlebenstr. 31, Charlottenburg \| 030/615–2810 \| www.engelbecken.de \| No lunch Mon.–Sat. \| Station: Sophie-Charlotte-Platz (U-bahn). Florian. GERMAN \| The handwritten menu is just one page, but everything on the menu is fresh and delicious at this well-established restaurant in the heart of the buzzing nightlife scene around Savignyplatz. Steinbeisser, a white, flaky fish, might be served with a salsa of rhubarb, chili, coriander, and ginger, or you can opt for some Franconian comfort cuisine such as Kirchweihbraten (marinated pork with baked apples and plums) or their legendary Nürnberger Rostbratwurst (small pork sausages) served as late-night snacks. TIP The kitchen is open until 1 am, and smaller dishes are available until 2 am. \| Average main: €18 \| Grolmanstr. 52, Charlottenburg \| 030/313–9184 \| www.restaurant-florian.de \| Reservations essential \| No lunch \| Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn). Glass. ECLECTIC \| One of the only Berlin restaurants tackling the world of molecular gastronomy, Glass is also one of the newest dining establishments in Charlottenburg. Diners choose the six- or eight-course option from the regular or the vegan menu and then enjoy surprises that emerge from the kitchen burning, smoking, enveloped by a whiff of dry ice, or arranged in cubes and dustings on UFO-like dishware. Israeli chef Gal Ben Moshe has worked in top restaurants around the world, including Chicago's Alinea, and his culinary expertise is tempered by playfulness. One dish, with fruits, vegetables, and edible breadcrumb "earth" is an homage to Berlin's parks and gardens. A highlight is the wacky dessert made up of childhood sweets including marshmallows, fruit gummies, and exploding chocolate pop rocks, served directly on the tabletop. \| Average main: €50 \| Uhlandstr. 195, Charlottenburg \| 030/5471–0861 \| www.glassberlin.de \| Reservations essential \| Closed Sun. and Mon. \| Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn). Hot Spot. CHINESE \| In a city that's unfortunately full of mediocre pseudo-Asian restaurants that serve bland, tasteless versions of curries, noodles, and rice dishes, Hot Spot stands out for its daring and authenticity. The menu features recipes from the provinces of Sichuan, Jiangsu, and Shanghai, and the freshest ingredients are guaranteed—with no MSG. Mala (spicy) dishes are a specialty, and the mostly cold appetizers, like the beef in chili sauce, can't be found anywhere else in Berlin. Mr. Wu and his wife, who own the restaurant, have a love for German wines and offer a large selection. In summer, make a reservation for a table on the sidewalk for the added bonus of people-watching. \| Average main: €14 \| Eisenzahnstr. 66, Charlottenburg \| 030/8900–6878 \| www.restaurant-hotspot.de \| Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn). Lubitsch. GERMAN \| One of the few traditional, artsy restaurants left in bohemian Charlottenburg, the Lubitsch—named after the famous Berlin film director Ernst Lubitsch—exudes an air of faded elegance and serves hearty local fare (and lighter international options) that's hard to find these days. Dishes like Königsberger Klopse (cooked dumplings in a creamy caper sauce) and Kassler Nacken mit Sauerkraut (salted, boiled pork knuckle) are examples of home-style German cooking. The local clientele don't mind the dingy seating or good-humored, but sometimes cheeky service. In summer the outdoor tables are perfect for people-watching on one of Berlin's most beautiful streets. The three-course lunch is a great bargain at €10. \| Average main: €13 \| Bleibtreustr. 47, Charlottenburg \| 030/882–3756 \| www.restaurant-lubitsch.de \| No lunch Sun. \| Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn). Ottenthal. AUSTRIAN \| This intimate restaurant with white tablecloths is owned by Austrians from the small village of Ottenthal, and serves as an homage to their hometown—the wines, pumpkinseed oil, and organic ingredients on the menu all come from there. Interesting and delicious combinations might include pike-perch with lobster sauce and pepper-pine-nut risotto, or venison medallions with vegetable-potato strudel, red cabbage, and rowanberry sauce. The huge Wiener schnitzel extends past the plate's rim, and the pastas and strudel are homemade. TIP Ottenthal opens at 5 pm, which makes it a good option for a leisurely meal before catching a show at Theater des Westens around the corner. This is also a good choice on Sunday evening, when many of Berlin's fine restaurants are closed. \| Average main: €16 \| Kantstr. 153, Charlottenburg \| 030/313–3162 \| www.ottenthal.com \| No lunch \| Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Wilmersdorf Francucci's. ITALIAN \| This upscale restaurant on the far western end of Kurfürstendamm is one of the best-kept Italian secrets in Berlin. You won't find many tourists here but the posh neighborhood's residents pack the cheerful, rustic dining room. The high-quality, straightforward cooking means incredibly fresh salads and appetizers (the bruschetta is excellent), as well as homemade breads and exquisite pasta dishes. More refined Tuscan and Umbrian creations might include meat options like wild boar but there might also be Mediterranean fish classics such as grilled loup de mer or dorade. In warm weather there are tables on the sidewalk. \| Average main: €24 \| Kurfürstendamm 90, at Lehniner Pl., Charlottenburg \| 030/323–3318 \| www.francucci.de \| Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn). ## Schöneberg Café Aroma. ITALIAN \| A neighborhood institution, Café Aroma sits in the curve of a small winding street in an area between Kreuzberg and Schöneberg known as Rote Insel or "red island" because of its location between two S-bahn tracks and its socialist, working-class history. An early advocate of the Slow Food movement, Aroma serves some of the most eclectic Italian food in town, made from locally sourced ingredients. Brunch here is on the pricier side, but well worth it: pile your plate high with Italian delicacies like stuffed mushrooms, meatballs in homemade tomato sauce, and bean salads, but leave room for the fluffy tiramisu, which, of course, they'll bring out the moment you declare yourself stuffed. \| Average main: €13 \| Hochkirchstr. 6, Schöneberg \| 030/782–5821 \| www.cafe-aroma.de \| No credit cards \| No lunch weekdays \| Station: Yorkstrasse (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Café Einstein Stammhaus. AUSTRIAN \| The Einstein is a Berlin landmark and one of the leading coffeehouses in town. In the historic grand villa of silent movie star Henny Porten, it charmingly recalls the elegant days of the Austrian-Hungarian empire, complete with slightly snobbish waiters gliding across squeaking parquet floors. The Einstein's very own coffee roasting facility produces some of Germany's best java, and the cakes are fabulous, especially the fresh strawberry cake—probably best enjoyed in summer, in the shady garden behind the villa. The café also excels in preparing solid Austrian fare such as schnitzel or goulash for an artsy, high-brow clientele. TIP Up one flight of stairs is the cocktail bar Lebensstern, which matches the restaurant in sumptuous, old-world feel. \| Average main: €18 \| Kurfürstenstr. 58, Schöneberg \| 030/2639–1918 \| www.cafeeinstein.com \| Station: Kurfürstenstrasse (U-bahn). Hisar. TURKISH \| The lines here are often long, but they move fast and the combination of seasoned, salty meat, with crunchy salad and warm bread is unbeatable. If you're just stopping for a quick döner kebab, line up outside on the sidewalk and order from the window. If you prefer a more leisurely sit-down meal, head into the adjoining Turkish restaurant for the Dönerteller (döner plate), heaped with succulent meat, rice, potatoes, and salad. \| Average main: €18 \| Yorckstr. 49, Schöneberg \| 030/216–5125 \| Station: Yorckstrasse (U-bahn and S-bahn). Renger-Patzsch. GERMAN \| Black-and-white photographs from German landscape photographer Albert Renger-Patzsch, the restaurant's namesake, decorate the darkwood-paneled dining room at this beloved local gathering place.With a changing daily menu, chef Hannes Behrmann focuses on top-notch ingredients, respecting the classics while also reinventing them. Juicy bits of quail sit atop a bed of celery puree, and lamb is braised in red wine and oranges with crisp polenta dumplings. Lighter bites like selection of Flammküchen (Alsatian flatbread pizzas) are great to share. The attentive and good-humored service makes this an excellent place to relax, even on the busiest nights. \| Average main: €16 \| Wartburgstr. 54, Schöneberg \| 030/784–2059 \| Station: Eisenacherstr. (U-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Mitte \| Tiergarten \| Kreuzberg \| Friedrichshain \| Prenzlauer Berg \| Charlottenburg \| Friedenau \| Grunewald Updated by Katherine Sacks Tourism is on the upswing in Berlin. Though prices in midrange to luxury hotels have increased, Berlin's first-class hotels still tend to be cheaper than their counterparts in Paris, London, or Rome. Many are housed in beautiful historic buildings and, compared to other European cities, most hotel rooms in Berlin are large, though many are part of chains that allow for less individual character. Hotel prices often come down on weekdays or when there is low demand. You often have the option to decline the inclusion of breakfast, which can save you anywhere from €8 to €30 per person per day. TIP The least expensive accommodations are in pensions, which are similar to bed-and-breakfasts. They providing basic lodgings with limited services and amenities, but with breakfast included. These are mostly found in western districts such as Charlottenburg, Schöneberg, and Wilmersdorf. German and European travelers often use apartment rental agencies for longer stays, and Americans on a budget should consider this as well (apartments start at €350 per month). In Berlin, double rooms with shared bathrooms in private apartments begin around €33 per day. Wohn-Agentur Freiraum. RENTAL \| This English-speaking agency has its own guesthouse with rooms and apartments, as well as private room listings all over Berlin. \| Rooms from: €36 \| Wiener Str. 14, Kreuzberg \| 030/618–2008 \| www.frei-raum.com \| No meals. ## Mitte Fodor's Choice \| Arte Luise Kunsthotel. HOTEL \| The Luise is one of Berlin's most original boutique hotels, with each fantastically creative room in the 1825 building or 2003 built-on wing—facing the Reichstag—styled by a different artist. The location, at the division between east and west Berlin, and just a short walk from the Reichstag, is great, although rooms can be noisy when the windows are open. Memorable furnishings range from a suspended bed and airplane seats to a gigantic sleigh bed and a freestanding, podlike shower with multiple nozzles. A breakfast buffet in the neighboring restaurant costs €11. Pros: central location; historic flair; individually designed rooms. Cons: simple rooms with limited amenities and hotel facilities; can be noisy because of the nearby rail station. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Luisenstr. 19, Mitte \| 030/284–480 \| www.luise-berlin.com \| 54 rooms, 36 with bath \| No meals \| Station: Friedrichstrasse (U-bahn and S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Grand Hyatt Berlin. HOTEL \| Stylish guests feel at home at Europe's first Grand Hyatt, which has a feng shui–approved design that combines inspirations from tropical decor, thought-provoking modern art, and the city's history with Bauhaus photographs. The large rooms (they start at 409 square feet) have cherrywood furniture and luxurious bathrooms. There are wonderful views of Potsdamer Platz from the top-floor pool. The restaurant and bar, Vox, whets guests' appetites for its international and Asian cuisine with an open kitchen; there are also regular live jazz shows. Pros: large rooms; excellent service; stylish spa; large pool area. Cons: location can be very busy; ongoing construction may be a nuisance for some travelers; in-room Wi-Fi is only free for the first 30 minutes. \| Rooms from: €210 \| Marlene-Dietrich-Pl. 2, Mitte \| 030/2553–1234 \| www.berlin.grand.hyatt.de \| 326 rooms, 16 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Honigmond Hotel and Garden Hotel. HOTEL \| These two hotels are charming, quaint oases only a few steps away from the buzzing neighborhoods of Mitte. The former tenement houses, typical of late-19th-century Berlin, have been meticulously restored, with wooden floor planks and hand-selected, historic furniture. A small restaurant in the main hotel hearkens back to its proud history as a meeting point for political opponents of the East German regime, serving a variety of German standards to a younger, international clientele. The Garden Hotel (set in a house that dates to 1845) is grouped around a surprisingly green courtyard, and it offers a quiet getaway. Pros: individually designed rooms; warm, welcoming service; quiet courtyard rooms. Cons: front rooms can be noisy due to busy street; restaurant is expensive relative to the area's budget choices. \| Rooms from: €125 \| Tieckstr. 12 and Invalidenstr. 122, Mitte \| 030/284–4550 \| www.honigmond.de \| 50 rooms \| Breakfast \| Station: Nordbahnhof (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Adlon Kempinski Berlin. HOTEL \| The first Adlon was considered Europe's ultimate luxury resort until it was destroyed in the war and the new version, built in 1997, has a nostalgic aesthetic, and the elegant rooms are furnished with turn-of-the-century photos of the original hotel, along with cherrywood trim, mahogany furnishings, and brocade silk bedspreads. With its prime setting on Pariser Platz, this is the government's unofficial guesthouse. Book a suite for a Brandenburger Tor view. Sipping coffee in the lobby of creamy marble and limestone makes for good people-watching. The Adlon Spa by Resense made a huge splash in the city, as did fine restaurants like the Michelin-starred Lorenz Adlon and the new Sra Bua by Tim Raue, which features modern Asian-inspired cuisine. Pros: top-notch luxury hotel; surprisingly large rooms; excellent in-house restaurants. Cons: sometimes stiff service with an attitude; rooms off Linden are noisy with the windows open; inviting lobby often crowded. \| Rooms from: €260 \| Unter den Linden 77, Mitte \| 030/22610 \| www.kempinski.com/adlon \| 304 rooms, 78 suites \| No meals \| Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Amano. HOTEL \| Built as a "budget design hotel," the basic rooms of the Amano are faily small, and there is no real restaurant or room service, but stay here and you'll be in the center of the action. The excellent downstairs cocktail bar hosts frequent parties for the creative set, and come summer, there are barbecues open to all on its roof deck and in its courtyard garden. Some apartments on the fifth floor have small balconies, and there are also several large, beautifully designed but minimalistic apartments available in their adjoining, renovated "Altbau" (old building). Pros: excellent location; happening bar scene; roof deck and garden. Cons: no room service; too trendy for some. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Auguststr. 43, Mitte \| 030/809–4150 \| www.hotel-amano.com \| 71 rooms, 46 apartments \| No meals \| Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Hotel de Rome. HOTEL \| Discreet service and a subdued but boutiquey atmosphere make the Hotel de Rome a major draw for the Hollywood jet set. The general feel is traditional, but eccentric design details like oversize furniture and bright-color accents add an undercurrent of excitement. Rooms run the gamut from classic to ultramodern and sleek, though all share fantastic views of Berlin landmarks around Unter den Linden. In a 19th-century former bank, the hotel offers a unique spa experience in the old bank vault, with the relaxation room hidden behind original safe doors. Pros: great location; large rooms. Cons: design may be over the top for some guests; expensive even for five-star hotel; can be dark during the day due to low lighting. \| Rooms from: €270 \| Behrenstr. 37, Mitte \| 030/460–6090 \| www.hotelderome.com \| 109 rooms, 37 suites \| No meals \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). Hotel Hackescher Markt. HOTEL \| Amid the nightlife around Hackescher Markt, this hotel provides discreet and inexpensive top services. Unlike those of many older hotels in eastern Berlin, rooms here are spacious and light and furnished with wicker chairs and floral patterns in an English cottage style. In winter you'll appreciate the under-floor heating in your bathroom, and in summer you can enjoy a coffee or breakfast in the small courtyard. The staff is friendly and attentive. Pros: great location for shops, restaurants, and nightlife; large rooms. Cons: some rooms may be noisy due to tram stop; rooms in need of an update. \| Rooms from: €119 \| Grosse Präsidentenstr. 8, Mitte \| 030/280–030 \| www.hotel-hackescher-markt.com \| 27 rooms, 5 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Lux Eleven. HOTEL \| This designer apartment hotel is coveted for its discreet service and great minimalist design. All apartments come with a fully equipped kitchenette, satellite TV with DVD players, and there's even a laundry room with washers and dryers. Rooms seem as if they were designed for a Miami Beach hotel, decorated either in off-white or subdued browns with pops of neon pinks and purples. A restaurant and bar, stylish fashion store, and a coffee bar are also on the premises. Pros: great location in northern Mitte; extremely stylish yet comfortable rooms; friendly, knowledgeable service. Cons: immediate neighborhood may be noisy; not a good choice for families. \| Rooms from: €119 \| Rosa-Luxemburg-Str. 9–13, Mitte \| 030/936–2800 \| www.lux-eleven.com \| 72 rooms, 1 suite \| No meals \| Station: Weinmeisterstrasse (U-bahn). Regent Berlin. HOTEL \| One of Germany's most esteemed hotels, the Regent pairs the opulence of gilt furniture, thick carpets, marble floors, tasseled settees, and crystal chandeliers with such modern conveniences as flat-screen TVs. First time guests are escorted to the large guest room, where you'll find first-class amenities, such as satellite TV, DVD player, and two phone lines with personal answering machines. Twice-daily housekeeping, overnight dry cleaning, and valet parking are other services. The intimate feel of the property is a sign of its exclusiveness, and the privacy of the often-famous Hollywood guests is well guarded. Pros: Berlin's most hushed five-star hotel; unobtrusive service; very large rooms and top location off Gendarmenmarkt. Cons: some public areas in need of update; the primary hotel restaurant specializes in fish only. \| Rooms from: €225 \| Charlottenstr. 49, Mitte \| 030/20338 \| www.regenthotels.com \| 156 rooms, 39 suites \| No meals \| Station: Französischestr. (U-bahn). The Ritz-Carlton Berlin. HOTEL \| Judging from the outside of this gray, high-rise hotel that soars above Potsdamer Platz, you may never guess that inside it's all luxurious, 19th-century grandeur. The lobby has glitzy gold leaf and heavy marble columns, while the "Curtain Club" has the subdued look of a gentleman's cigar lounge. Rooms are nicely appointed with exquisite furniture, marble bathrooms, and great views of bustling Potsdamer Platz and the Tiergarten. The hotel's spa is exceptional and the historic French Brassierie Desbrosses (brought here from southern France lock, stock, and barrel) serves great steak frites and seafood. Pros: stylish and luxurious interior design; great views; elegant setting yet informal service. Cons: rooms surprisingly small for a luxury hotel; not family-friendly (business-oriented atmosphere). \| Rooms from: €215 \| Potsdamer Pl. 3, Mitte \| 030/337–777 \| www.ritzcarlton.com \| 264 rooms, 39 suites \| No meals \| Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn). Sofitel Berlin Gendarmenmarkt. HOTEL \| This luxurious place to stay has maximized the minimalist look of East Berlin architecture. In the formerly austere conference room the designers added an illuminated glass floor that made it a masterpiece. The spa tucked under the mansard roof is suffused with light, thanks to the new, angled windows. Rooms feel clean, bright, and airy thanks to the abundant use of white. Request a room facing Gendarmenmarkt, one of the city's most impressive squares. Pros: great location off one of the city's most beautiful squares; sumptuous breakfast buffet; great Austrian restaurant, Aigner. Cons: limited facilities for a luxury hotel; smallish rooms. \| Rooms from: €200 \| Charlottenstr. 50–52, Mitte \| 030/203–750 \| www.sofitel.com \| 70 rooms, 22 suites \| No meals \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). The Westin Grand Hotel Berlin. HOTEL \| This large hotel in a renovated East German building has a great location at the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. Rooms have mustard-color floral wallpaper, easy chairs, and the trademark Heavenly Bed found at all Westin hotels. The inner courtyard view is of an attractive garden area with an unusual Dragon House conference pagoda. Soundproof bay windows make for a good night's sleep in any room. The marble-and-brass lobby is light-filled and enlivened with a piano and guests taking a coffee break at the sofas. Pros: impressive lobby; recently updated rooms; perfect location for historic sights and shopping. Cons: service often not on five-star level; no great views; may feel street vibrations in lower rooms off Friedrichstrasse, as well as noise due to street construction. \| Rooms from: €250 \| Friedrichstr. 158–164, Mitte \| 030/20270 \| www.westingrandberlin.com \| 350 rooms, 50 suites \| No meals \| Station: Französische Strasse (U-bahn). ## Tiergarten Fodor's Choice \| Das Stue. HOTEL \| History meets contemporary style in the heart of Berlin, in a building that once housed the Royal Danish Embassy and still retains governmental grandeur—from the classical facade to the dramatic entry staircase—now mixed with warming touches like cozy nooks designed by Patricia Uriquola. Public spaces showcase the leafy neighborhood through walls of windows, and the photography of noted shutterbugs like Helmut Newton, Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Diane Arbus. The 80 rooms are spread out over the historic or new wings, and feature views of the courtyard, nearby park, or the Zoo. Some have balconies or terraces, or perks like curved bathtubs, but all feature a decor of streamlined furnishings, high ceilings, dark wood floors, and amenities like free Wi-Fi, premium TV channels, and HD Apple entertainment systems. Michelin-starred Catalonian chef Paco Perez oversees two on-site eateries—one casual, one fine dining—that draw upon the Mediterranean flavors of his homeland, while the zoo-view bar-and-tapas lounge serves everything from cocktails of the 1920s and '30s to a list of 400 German and Spanish wines. A well-equipped gym, swimming pool, Finnish sauna, and holistic-minded spa help relax both the leisure and post-meeting crowds. Pros: central location; popular restaurants and bar; Berlin Zoo views. Cons: small spa can book up fast. \| Rooms from: €153 \| Drakestr. 1, Tiergarten \| 49/3031–17220 \| www.das-stue.com/en \| 80 rooms and suites \| No meals. ## Kreuzberg Eastern Comfort. The Spree River is one of Berlin's best assets, and at Eastern Comfort you'll wake up on it in this moored, three-level ship with simple cabins. Most cabins have a private bath. Views are either of the river or the stretch of the Berlin Wall called the East Side Gallery. Within sight of the wraparound deck is the turreted Oberbaum bridge, a great setting for watching the sunset and close to plenty of nightlife. The crew minds the reception desk 24 hours. The lounge/bar area hosts a "world language" party on Wednesday followed by live music. Recent eco-updates include solar panels and solar-heated water. Pros: unique accommodation on a boat; friendly staff; perfect location for nightclubbing in Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain. Cons: insects may be a bother in summer; smallish rooms not pleasant in rainy or stormy weather; lack of privacy. \| Rooms from: €62 \| Mühlenstr. 73–77, Kreuzberg \| 030/6676–3806 \| www.eastern-comfort.com \| 26 cabins \| No meals \| Station: Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn). ÏMA Loft Apartments. RENTAL \| A comfortable cross between apartment rental and hotel, ÏMA's aim is to throw its guests into the fray of Kreuzberg's hectic, artistic, multicultural scene. The loft apartments take up only one corner of this old brick factory complex; the rest of the buildings in the courtyard are live-work spaces for local and international artists—everyone from dancers and photographers to painters and graphic designers. Rooms are fairly basic in design, but large and light-filled, ranging from the small "standard lofts," with beds up a narrow flight of stairs, to large "loft suites," with full kitchens and separate living and sleeping areas. The café on the ground floor serves vegetarian dishes like the Middle Eastern tomato stew shakshuka. Pros: maximum privacy (a separate entrance means you never have to interact with hotel staff and other guests unless you want to). Cons: minimal amenities and services. \| Rooms from: €79 \| Ritterstr. 12–14, Kreuzberg \| 030/6162–8913 \| www.imalofts.com \| 20 apartments \| No meals \| Station: Moritzplatz (U-bahn). Riehmers Hofgarten. HOTEL \| The appeal of this late-19th-century apartment house with a leafy courtyard is its location in a lively neighborhood. The richly decorated facade hints that 100 years ago the aristocratic officers of Germany's imperial army lived here. Rooms have low-lying beds and are spartanly modern and quiet, but with the added touches of tea- and coffee makers as well as iPod docks. Downstairs is a light-filled lounge and restaurant. In less than five minutes you can reach the subway that speeds you to Mitte and the Friedrichstrasse train station. Pros: good location for exploring Kreuzberg; typical Berlin, high-ceiling, historic rooms; great on-site restaurant, E.T.A. Hoffmann. Cons: street-side rooms are noisy; breakfast is nothing special. \| Rooms from: €128 \| Yorckstr. 83, Kreuzberg \| 030/7809–8800 \| www.hotel-riehmers-hofgarten.de \| 22 rooms, 1 suite \| No meals \| Station: Mehringdamm (U-bahn). ## Friedrichshain Hotel Klassik. HOTEL \| One of the best things about the Hotel Klassik is its central location, walking distance to Friedrichshain's countless eating, drinking, and shopping hot spots. The building may look a bit generic from the outside, but inside, the decor is stylish and modern with its dark wood and white furniture. Rooms are well appointed with comfortable beds, flat-screen TVs, writing desks, Wi-Fi, minibar, and large sliding glass windows. The in-house restaurant serves an impressive full breakfast as well as Mediterranean-inspired fare. Guests may also wine and dine in the charming terrace garden in warm weather. Pros: excellent location for neighborhood vibe and access to transportation; plentiful, fresh breakfast buffet; friendly and helpful staff. Cons: Located on a loud and busy corner. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Revaler Str. 6 \| 30/319–8860 \| www.hotelklassik-berlin.com \| 57 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn). Michelberger Hotel. HOTEL \| Started by a group of young Berliners who dreamed of a uniquely designed, artsy space, the Michelberger Hotel is part budget hotel, part clubhouse, and part bar and restaurant. The style is eclectic flea market, fitting with its location in an old factory space, and the vibe is casual and fun. Rooms have playful names such as "Band" for four to five people and "Luxus" for suites. The bright, street-side restaurant space offers breakfast and weekend brunch to hotel guests and anyone dropping by, as well as DJ sets during dinner Friday and Saturday. Pros: located at the epicenter of eastern Berlin nightlife; great design and fun atmosphere; affordable prices. Cons: busy thoroughfare and transit hub, so front rooms can be noisy; casual service without luxury amenities; no phone in rooms. \| Rooms from: €60 \| Warschauer Str. 39–40, Friedrichshain \| 030/2977–8590 \| www.michelbergerhotel.com \| 113 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Warschauer Strasse (S-bahn). ## Prenzlauer Berg Radisson Blu Berlin. HOTEL \| This hotel has an ideal location in the heart of Berlin near the Berlin Cathedral, Nikolai Church, and Unter den Linden, but you may prefer a view into the courtyard, where the world's largest cylindrical aquarium is located. Despite the aquatic theme, this is a full-service business hotel, with trouser pressers in the comfortable rooms and a shoe-shine machine on each floor. Request plush robes, which are free of charge. The spa area includes a gym, two saunas, and a pool, plus beauty treatments and massages. Pros: central location; discounted entry to the adjacent Sea Life Berlin. Cons: location can be very busy. \| Rooms from: €159 \| Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 3, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/238–280 \| www.radissonblu.com/hotel-berlin \| 403 rooms, 24 suites \| No meals \| Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Soho House. HOTEL \| The Berlin branch of this luxury hotel–club brings the chic atmosphere of London and New York's Soho to the German capital. Inside the grand, restored Bauhaus building, the rooms are quite large, designed in an eclectic style, with all amenities of a luxury hotel for a moderate price. The main draws, however, are the communal spaces (open only to hotel guests and club members)—the library and lounge, and the city's only hotel rooftop pool, which has a magnificent view of Berlin's skyline. Pros: great staff; perfect location for club- and bar-hopping; rooftop pool. Cons: may seem too clubby. \| Rooms from: €180 \| Torstr. 1, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/405–0440 \| www.sohohouseberlin.com \| 65 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn). ## Charlottenburg ART Hotel Charlottenburger Hof. HOTEL \| No-fuss travelers will find great value in this low-key hotel. The variety of rooms, all brightened by sunlight and primary-color schemes with prints by Kandinsky, Miró, and Mondrian. All have computers with free Internet access as well as Wi-Fi if you've brought your own, and amenities include hair dryers; try to avoid the three tiny "king-size" rooms, which are rented as doubles or singles. The restaurant, which serves traditional German dishes, draws locals. The Ku'damm is a 10-minute walk, and the bus to and from Tegel Airport stops on the next block. Pros: budget hotel in great location; solid restaurant; quiet setting. Cons: rooms in need of update; few amenities; immediate neighborhood may seem seedy and is not suitable for children. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Stuttgarter Pl. 14, Charlottenburg \| 030/329–070 \| www.charlottenburger-hof.de \| 46 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Charlottenburg (S-bahn). Bleibtreu Berlin. HOTEL \| Opened in 1995, Berlin's first design hotel is relatively unassuming, with simple and serene rooms decorated with untreated oak, polished stone, and neutral shades. The eye candy lies in the terra-cotta-tile courtyard, where you can sip drinks at the 23-foot-long table, which is covered in shiny blue ceramic shards and rests on a bed of glass pebbles. A tall chestnut tree lends shade. To reinvigorate after shopping at the nearby Ku'damm boutiques, help yourself to the free items in your mini-refrigerator or slip into the herbal steam bath inside the wellness center. Pros: warm, welcoming service; top location on one of Ku'damm's most beautiful side streets; international clientele. Cons: design somewhat dated; rooms not overly comfortable for price; few amenities. \| Rooms from: €92 \| Bleibtreustr. 31, Charlottenburg \| 030/884–740 \| www.bleibtreu.com \| 60 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn). Brandenburger Hof. HOTEL \| On a quiet residential street this turn-of-the-20th-century mansion feels like a hideaway even though Ku'damm is a short walk away. Luxurious minimalism reigns once you get inside. You can breakfast and sip afternoon tea at the sun-soaked tables in the atrium courtyard or, in the evening, sit and listen to piano music. Between courses of New Nordic cuisine in the restaurant Quadriga, diners lean back in cherrywood chairs by Frank Lloyd Wright. Guest-room furnishings include pieces by Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe. Complementing the timeless Bauhaus style are ikebana floral arrangements. Pros: great mansion; quiet location only steps away from the Ku'damm; large rooms. Cons: stuffy atmosphere; extras are expensive; no pool or fitness club on site. \| Rooms from: €215 \| Eislebenerstr. 14, Tiergarten \| 030/214–050 \| www.brandenburger-hof.com \| 58 rooms, 14 suites \| No meals \| Station: Augsburger Strasse (U-bahn). Fodor's Choice \| Ellington Hotel Berlin. HOTEL \| Tucked away behind the beautiful, historic facade of a grand Bauhaus-style office building, this sleek, modern hotel has small but stylish rooms, accentuated with modern art. Views are either of the street or of a pretty courtyard. The location is great, too: just around the corner from KaDeWe and Kurfürstendamm. The quiet courtyard and the restaurant and bar, with an open kitchen, offer a welcome respite from sightseeing in the area. Pros: stylish interior design with alluring 1920s touches; perfect location off Tauentzienstrasse and great for shopping sprees; nice bar; great, green courtyard. Cons: small rooms; no spa. \| Rooms from: €128 \| Nürnbergerstr. 50–55, Tiergarten \| 030/683–150 \| www.ellington-hotel.com \| 285 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Wittenbergplatz (U-bahn). Hotel Art Nouveau. B&B/INN \| The English-speaking owners' discerning taste in antiques, color combinations, and even televisions (a few designed by Philippe Starck) makes this B&B-like pension a great place to stay. Each room has a prize piece, such as a hand-carved 18th-century Chinese dresser or a chandelier from the Komische Oper's set of Don Carlos. Several rooms are hung with a large black-and-white photo by Sabine Kacunko. The apartment building shows its age only in the antique wood elevator, high stucco ceilings, and an occasionally creaky floor. You can serve yourself tea or coffee in the breakfast room throughout the day and mix your own drinks at the honor bar. Pros: stylish ambience; friendly and personal service; great B&B feeling; despite being a hotel. Cons: front rooms can be noisy due to heavy traffic on Leibnizstrasse; few amenities for a hotel of this price category; downtown location, yet longer walks to all major sights in the area. \| Rooms from: €126 \| Leibnizstr. 59, Charlottenburg \| 030/327–7440 \| www.hotelartnouveau.de \| 16 rooms, 6 suites \| Breakfast \| Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn). Hotel Astoria at Kurfürstendamm. HOTEL \| Each simple room in this small building, which dates back to 1898, is different, and the service is standout. When making a reservation, state whether you'd like a bathtub or shower and ask about weekend specials or package deals for longer stays. A few rooms have air-conditioning for an extra charge. Two terraces allow you to sun yourself, and a stroll down the charming street leads to the shops along Ku'damm. Pros: some rooms are individually designed with old-world style; warm and personal service; quiet location on central Ku'damm side street. Cons: furniture and rooms need update; many rooms on the smaller side; many rooms without a/c. \| Rooms from: €94 \| Fasanenstr. 2, Tiergarten \| 030/312–4067 \| www.hotelastoria.de \| 32 rooms \| No meals \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn), Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel Bogota. B&B/INN \| Fashion photography and colorful artwork remind guests of the artists and designers who lived in this circa 1900 apartment house on an elegant Ku'damm side street. Each basic room is different, but they all share retro elements such as rotary phones or sherbet-color carpeting and walls, and the overall feel is more B&B than hotel, including the fact that some rooms share bathrooms. lFourth-floor rooms tend to be quieter. Special offers may be available in winter and for additional nights. Pros: historic ambience; on one of Ku'damm's most beautiful side streets; large, comfortable rooms. Cons: thin walls; some rooms with 1950s feeling; breakfast is included, but nothing special. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Schlüterstr. 45, Charlottenburg \| 030/881–5001 \| www.bogota.de \| 114 rooms, 70 with bath \| Breakfast \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn). Hotel Palace. HOTEL \| This is one of the only privately owned first-class hotels in the heart of western downtown, and although it may not look like much from the outside, inside, the friendly staff and spacious rooms make it a popular choice. The First Floor restaurant, with views over the nearby zoo's greenery, is a destination in its own right. The exercise room has state-of-the-art equipment and natural light, thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto the city's skyline. The extensive spa includes an ice grotto and Finnish sauna. Pros: large rooms; quiet, central location; impeccable service. Cons: interior design outdated in some areas; nearby area of Europa-Center and Breitscheidplatz not the most interesting. \| Rooms from: €128 \| Europa-Center, Budapesterstr. 45, Tiergarten \| 030/25020 \| www.palace.de \| 238 rooms, 40 suites \| No meals \| Station: Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). Hotel-Pension Dittberner. B&B/INN \| For traditional Berlin accommodations, this third-floor pension (with wooden elevator) run by Frau Lange since 1958 is the place to go. Close to Olivaer Platz and next to Ku'damm, the turn-of-the-20th-century house shows its age, but the huge rooms are wonderfully furnished with antiques, plush stuffed sofas, and artwork selected by Frau Lange's husband, a gallery owner. The high ceilings have stuccowork, and some rooms have balconies. Pros: personal touch and feel of a B&B; unusually large rooms; good location on quiet Ku'damm side street. Cons: unexciting breakfast; some rooms and furniture in need of update; staff sometimes not up to task. \| Rooms from: €115 \| Wielandstr. 26, Charlottenburg \| 030/884–6950 \| www.hotel-dittberner.de \| 21 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast \| Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn). Hotel Q!. HOTEL \| The Q! is the recipient of several international design awards, and it's easy to see how the gently sloping, sweeping interior of the hotel could charm any judge. The rooms feel like larger-than-life artscapes: they're excruciatingly modern, with clean lines and a modular, innovative use of space (some even have a bathtub right next to the bed). In-room distractions include including Ninetendo Wii and iPod docks; the spa has a sauna, steam room, and Japanese wellness area. Pros: beautiful design; affordable rates; great location for exploring western downtown. Cons: not for families; nightlife makes hotel noisy at times. \| Rooms from: €120 \| Knesebeckstr. 67, Charlottenburg \| 030/810–0660 \| www.loock-hotels.com \| 73 rooms, 4 suites \| No meals \| Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn), Savignyplatz (S-bahn). Motel One. HOTEL \| The Motel One Berlin-Tiergarten is a stylish budget hotel in a prime location; breakfast is served in the loungelike lobby, where guests also enjoy free Wi-Fi. All rooms have comfortable beds, flat-screen TV sets, air-conditioning, and a rain-forest shower. Other Berlin locations include Alexanderplatz and Hauptbahnhof. Pros: stylish accommodation at budget prices; central location near to Zoologischer Bahnhof and Theater des Westens; good for families. Cons: noise from nearby railway station can be felt and heard; immediate surroundings may appear seedy to some travelers; no real restaurant on-site. \| Rooms from: €79 \| Kantstr. 7–11a, Tiergarten \| 030/3151–7360 \| www.motel-one.de \| 409 rooms \| Station: Wittenbergplatz (U-bahn). Propeller Island City Lodge. B&B/INN \| At this wildly eccentric accommodation, you can choose from 27 Wonderlands, each with one-of-a-kind design by multitalented artist Lars Stroschen. Theatrical settings such as the Upside Down and Flying Bed rooms predominate, but there are tamer abodes, like the monastic Orange and Temple rooms. lThis creative getaway serves breakfast (€7), but is not service-oriented; reception is open 8 am–noon only. The location is near the far western end of Ku'damm, but the subway station is only a short walk away. Pros: individually designed rooms; personal and friendly atmosphere; quiet location on Ku'damm side street. Cons: designer art rooms can be overwhelming; few amenities; slow service. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Albrecht-Achilles-Str. 58, Charlottenburg \| 030/891–9016 8 am–noon, 0163/256–5909 noon–8 pm \| www.propeller-island.de \| 25 rooms, 20 with bath, 2 suites \| Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn). Swissôtel Berlin. HOTEL \| At the bustling corner of Ku'damm and Joachimsthaler Strasse, this hotel excels with its reputable Swiss hospitality—from accompanying guests to their floor after check-in to equipping each room with an iron, an umbrella, and a Nespresso espresso machine that preheats the cups. Beds are specially designed to avoid allergens and provide maximum comfort. You can store and recharge your laptop in the room safe (the safe also charges cell phones). The unusual, rounded building has a sleek interior with original artwork by Marcus Lüpertz and a respected restaurant. Your room's soundproof windows give you a fantastic view of the area. Pros: large rooms; unobtrusive service; great location. Cons: the lobby is on the third floor, with shops on the lowers levels; mostly for business travelers. \| Rooms from: €130 \| Augsburger Str. 44, Charlottenburg \| 030/220–100 \| www.swissotel.com \| 296 rooms, 20 suites \| No meals \| Station: Kurfürstendamm (U-bahn). Waldorf Astoria Berlin. HOTEL \| This impressive skyscraper, a nod to the Waldorf's original New York location, has a chic art deco look and unparalleled service. The interior is suitably glamorous, with marble staircases and gold detailing; rooms are spacious, with velour furniture, the Waldorf's signature bed, and Salvatore Ferragamo bath products. Acclaimed French chef Pierre Gagnaire's restaurant, Les Solistes, is on the first floor, and the 15th floor café offers a small menu, a large, up-to-date selection of books to peruse, and impressive views of West Berlin. Pros: ideal location near Ku'damm; large, luxurious rooms and bathrooms; several eateries and bars. Cons: limited amenities for the price; nearby construction may bother some travelers. \| Rooms from: €230 \| Hardenbergst. 28, Charlottenburg \| 030/814–0000 \| www.waldorfastoriaberlin.com \| 152 rooms, 50 suites \| No meals \| Station: Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## Friedenau Hotel Klee. HOTEL \| Located on a quiet residential street, this new basic hotel is a great option if you're looking for a reasonable price with some extras. The decor is based on artist Paul Klee, as the name suggests, with a bright palate and modular furniture. Amenities include free Wi-Fi, a free first-round of minibar goodies, and eco bath products. The hotel's Chimney Room hosts readings and jazz performaces, a nod to the building's former life as a café where prolific writers hung out in the 1960s. For an additional 20€, upgrade to a spacious superior room, many of which have fantastic balconies. Pros: large rooms and good amenities for the price; pretty, quiet street; near transportation with quick access to city center. Cons: very residential neighborhood is not within walking distance to landmarks; smallish beds; furniture a bit dated. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Bundesallee 75, Friedenau \| 030/4050–8630 \| www.hotelklee.com \| 79 rooms, 3 suites \| No meals \| Station: Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz (U-bahn). ## Grunewald InterContinental Berlin. HOTEL \| From the heavily trafficked street, the huge "InterConti," the epitome of old West Berlin, evokes the Louvre with its glass pyramid entrance. In the rooms, modern gray, black, and beige furnishings are offset by pops of color and a rotating wall unit that allows you to watch TV while soaking in a tub. The Club rooms on the seventh and eighth floors have a private check-in area, and come with their own lounge, meeting rooms, and other extras. The spa's saunas and the 14th-floor restaurant, Hugo's, are incentive to stick around the hotel. Pros: large rooms with great views; friendly and impeccable service; one of Berlin's best spa areas. Cons: street is not inviting; huge hotel lacks atmosphere and can feel businesslike; room design somewhat bland. \| Rooms from: €104 \| Budapester Str. 2, Charlottenburg \| 030/26020 \| www.berlin.intercontinental.com \| 498 rooms, 60 suites \| Station: Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn). Schlosshotel im Grunewald. HOTEL \| In the beautiful, verdant setting of residential Grunewald, the small but palatial hotel is full of classic style and lavish decor. You might be reminded of a late-19th-century château. The interior was designed by Chanel's Karl Lagerfeld, whose personal suite is available to guests if the master himself is not in town. Service is amazingly personal but never intrusive. Arrange for a car, as this location is not convenient for seeing the central sights. Pros: quiet and green setting with lovely garden; large rooms in classic style; impeccable service. Cons: far away from any sights; sometimes stiff atmosphere; not for families. \| Rooms from: €239 \| Brahmsstr. 10, Grunewald \| 030/895–840 \| www.schlosshotelberlin.com \| 43 rooms, 10 suites \| No meals \| Station: Grunewald (S-bahn). Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Nightlife \| The Arts Updated by Giulia Pines ## Nightlife Clubs often switch the music they play from night to night, so crowds and popularity can vary widely. Although club nights are driven by the DJ name, the music genres are written in English in listing magazines. Clubs and bars in Charlottenburg and in Mitte tend to be dressier and more conservative; the scene in Kreuzberg, Prenzlauer Berg, the Scheunenviertel, and Friedrichshain is laid-back and alternative. For the latest information on Berlin's house, electro, and hip-hop club scene, pick up (030), a free weekly. Dance clubs don't get going until about 12:30 am, but parties labeled "after-work" start as early as 8 pm for professionals looking to socialize during the week. Note that Berlin's nightspots are open to the wee hours of the morning, but if you stay out after 12:45 Sunday–Thursday, you'll have to find a night bus (designated by "N" before the number, which often corresponds to the subway line it is replacing) or catch the last S-bahn home. On Friday and Saturday nights all subway lines (except U-bahn Line No. 4) run every 15 to 20 minutes throughout the night. * * * Berlin's Hot Spots Here's a quick list of the city's best streets and squares. • Savignyplatz in Charlottenburg: great restaurants and shopping. • Ludwigkirchplatz in Wilmersdorf: charming cafés surrounding a beautiful church. • Nollendorfplatz and Winterfeldplatz in Schöneberg: the cultural centers of Schöneberg; the latter hosts a fabulous weekly market. • Oranienstrasse and Wiener Strasse as well as both riverbanks of the Spree in Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain to Treptow: the former is the lively center of Turkish Kreuzberg; the banks of the Spree have a number of large clubs in industrial spaces. • Hackescher Markt and Oranienburgerstrasse as well as the surrounding side streets in Mitte-Scheunenviertel: the center of historical and cultural Berlin, with the most mainstream and popular nightlife. • Kastanienallee and Helmholzplatz in Prenzlauer Berg: a widely trafficked street and square in Berlin, full of both young expats and local families. • Boxhagenerplatz and Boxhagener Strasse in Friedrichshain: home to a weekly flea market, this is a busy area, day and night, with cafés, bars, and restaurants. • Hermannplatz in Neukölln: the jumping off point for a night out in one of Berlin's hip districts. * * * ### Bars and Lounges In Germany the term Kneipen is used for down-to-earth bars that are comparable to English pubs. These places are pretty simple and laid-back; you probably shouldn't try to order a three-ingredient cocktail at one unless you spot a lengthy drink menu. Elegant bars and lounges can be found in Mitte's Scheunenviertel, in Charlottenburg, and in Berlin's five-star hotels, and new cocktail bars are cropping up in Kreuzberg and Schöneberg, too. #### Mitte Newton Bar. This posh bar in Mitte has been around for ages. Helmut Newton's larger-than-life photos of nude women decorate the walls. \| Charlottenstr. 57, Mitte \| 030/2029–5421 \| www.newton-bar.de \| Station: Stadtmitte U2 (U-bahn). Redwood. Run by a California native, this simple, solid cocktail bar serves near-perfect concoctions that belie the bare wood surroundings. If loud crowds and smoky rooms aren't your thing, this is the place for you—the cocktails are excellent and you'll be able to carry on a conversation in a normal voice. The menu is helpfully arranged according to "dry" or "sweet and sour" but if you're still unsure whether to go for a Dark and Stormy or a Blood and Sand, ask the friendly young bartenders—everyone speaks English here. \| Bergstr. 25, Mitte \| 030/7024–8813 \| www.redwoodbar.de \| Closed Sun.–Mon. \| Station: Nordbahhof (S-bahn). #### Tiergarten ### Casinos Victoria Bar. The elegant Victoria Bar is a stylish homage to 1960s and '70s jet-setters, and the cocktails are mixed with care. It usually attracts a middle-age, affluent, and artsy crowd. \| Potsdamerstr. 102, Tiergarten \| 030/2575–9977 \| www.victoriabar.de \| Station: Kurfürstenstr. (U-bahn). #### Kreuzberg Bellmann Bar. The candle-lit, rough wood tables, water-stained walls, and frequent appearances by local musicians just dropping by for a few tunes gives this cozy cocktail bar an artsty old-world feel. Lovingly nicknamed "the gramophone bar" for the old gramophone that sits in its window, Bellmann is a place to linger and chat over a glass of wine or a whiskey from the outstanding collection. \| Reichenbergerstr. 103, Kreuzberg \| 030/3117–3162 \| Station: Görlitzer Bahnhof (U-bahn). Freischwimmer. When it's warm out, the canalside deck chairs at Freischwimmer are the perfect place to be, though heat lamps and an enclosed area make this a cozy setting for cool nights, too. To get here, walk five minutes east of the elevated Schlesisches Tor U-bahn station and turn left down a path after the 1920s Aral gas station, the oldest in Berlin. \| Vor dem Schlesischen Tor 2a, Kreuzberg \| 030/6107–4309 \| www.freischwimmer-berlin.com \| Station: Schlesisches Tor (U-bahn). Würgeengel. Named after a 1962 surrealist film by Luis Buñuel (it's "The Exterminating Angel" in English), this classy joint has offered an elaborate cocktail menu in a well-designed space off Kottbusser Tor since 1992—long before this part of Kreuzberg was hip, or even safe. Today, the bar's loyal fans spill out onto the streets on busy nights, and an evening tapas menu comes from the neighboring restaurant Gorgonzola Club. The team behind the restaurant Renger-Patzsch run Würgeengel and the Gorgonzola Club. \| Dresdenerstr. 122, Kreuzberg \| Dresdenerstr. is reachable through passageway under buildings at Kottbusser Tor, next to Adalbertstr. \| 030/615–5560 \| www.wuergeengel.de \| Daily 7–late \| Station: Moritzplatz (U-bahn). #### Schöneberg Green Door. A grown-up crowd focused on conversation and appreciating outstanding cocktails heads to Green Door, a Schöneberg classic. The decor is 1960s retro style, with gingham walls and stand-alone lamps. TIP Although the expertly crafted drinks are not cheap by Berlin standards, happy hour (6–8) means you can order them at nearly half price. \| Winterfeldstr. 50, Schöneberg \| 030/215–2515 \| www.greendoor.de \| Station: Nollendorfplatz (U-bahn). ### Clubs #### Mitte Fodor's Choice \| Clärchen's Ballhaus. A night out at Clärchen's Ballhaus (Little Clara's Ballroom) is like a trip back in time. Opened in 1913, the club is an impressive sight on Mitte's now-upscale Auguststrasse. On summer nights, lines often stretch out the door, while the front courtyard comes alive with patrons dining alfresco on brick-oven pizzas. The main ballroom features a different style of music every night and there are often dance lessons before the party starts. One of the best things about this place, though, is the variety of people of different ages, nationalities, and social backgrounds mix. The upstairs Spiegelsaal ("mirror hall") has intimate, salon-type concerts on Sunday. \| Auguststr. 24, Mitte \| 030/282–9295 \| www.ballhaus.de \| Lunch and dinner daily \| Station: Rodenthaler Platz (U-bahn). Felix. The over-the-top Felix greatly benefits from its location behind the famous Adlon Kempinski Hotel—Hollywood stars drop by when they're in town, or during the frenzied weeks of the Berlinale. The door policy can be tough, but dress in your finest and hope for the best. \| Behrenstr. 72, Mitte \| 030/3011–17152 \| www.felix-clubrestaurant.de \| Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn). Kaffee Burger. More of a neighborhood clubhouse than a bar, there's always something going on at Kaffee Burger. The original home of writer Wladimir Kaminer's popular Russendisko ("Russian disco") nights, this spot has a cozy dance floor and a separate smoking room. On any given night, you might encounter electro, rock, funk, swing, or Balkan beats; live bands play frequently. \| Torstr. 58–60, Mitte \| 030/2804–6495 \| www.kaffeeburger.de \| Station: Rosa-Luxembourgstr. (U-bahn). Sage Club. House and techno music make this a popular venue for a younger crowd. On some nights it can be tough getting past the man with the "by invitation only" list. Expect a line out the door, and very different partiers depending on the night of the week (check the program on the website). \| Köpenicker Str. 76, Mitte \| 030/278–9830 \| www.sage-club.de \| Station: Heinrich-Heimestr. (U-bahn). Weekend. More like a lounge and party venue than a club, Weekend has great views of East Berlin's skyline and several different floors of music, including the occasional international DJ act. But beware: the crowd is seriously young, and on weekends you may find yourself caught in a crowd of tourists, or rowdy study-abroad students on their night out. Only open Thurs.–Sun. \| Alexanderstr. 5, Mitte \| 030/2463–1676. #### Kreuzberg Watergate. The elegant Watergate is a club for people who usually don't like clubbing. It sits languidly at the base of the Oberbaumbrücke, on the Kreuzberg side, and has two dance floors with bars. The terrace extending over the River Spree is one of the city's best chill-out spaces. In addition to hosting internationally renowned DJs, the club is beautiful and intimate setting for infrequent but popular classical music nights. \| Falckensteinstr. 49, Kreuzberg \| 030/6128–0396 \| www.water-gate.de \| Station: Schlesisches Tor (U-bahn), Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn). #### Schöneberg Havanna Club. Berlin's multiculti crowd frequents the Havanna Club, where you can dance to soul, R&B, or hip-hop on four different dance floors. The week's highlights are the wild salsa and merengue nights (Wednesday at 9, Friday and Saturday at 10). If your Latin steps are weak, come an hour early for a lesson. TIP Friday and Saturday are "ladies free" nights until 11. \| Hauptstr. 30, Schöneberg \| 030/784–8565 \| www.havanna-berlin.de \| Station: Julius-Leber-Brücke (S-bahn). #### Treptow Fodor's Choice \| Club der Visionaere. It may not be much more than a series of wooden rafts and a few shoddily constructed shacks, but this club is one of the most beloved outdoor venues in town. The place is packed at all hours, either with clubbers on their last stop of the evening, or with students soaking up the sunshine on a Sunday morning. Since it shares a narrow canal with Freischwimmer, which hosts a massive brunch on Sunday, an easy hop across the water (by bridge, of course) will get you coffee and breakfast at dawn. \| Am Flutgraben 1, Treptow \| Follow Schlesische Str. east from the U-bahn station until you cross two small canals. After the second bridge, look left. \| 030/6951–8942 \| Weekdays 2 pm–late, weekends noon–late \| Station: Schlesisches Tor (U-bahn). MS Hoppetosse. Thursday through Saturday, the docked boat MS Hoppetosse rocks steady to reggae and dance hall, house, techno, or hip-hop. A few steps into Treptow from Kreuzberg (if you pass Freischwimmer you're on the right track), there are fantastic views of the Spree River from both the lower-level dance floor or the top deck. \| Eichenstr. 4, Treptow \| 030/5332–030 \| www.arena-berlin.de. * * * Gay Berlin The area around Nollendorfplatz is the heart and soul of gay Berlin, even though areas like Schönhauser Allee in Prenzlauer Berg, Schlesische Strasse in Kreuzberg, and various clubs in the Mitte-Scheunenviertel area are more popular with the younger crowd. However, in a city that historically has been a center of gay culture and one that has an openly gay mayor, Klaus Wowereit, the gay scene is not limited to these areas. Typical for Berlin is the integration of homosexuals of all walks of life throughout the city—from the politician and manager to the bus driver and waiter. The general attitude of most Berliners toward gays is tolerant and open-minded; however, openly gay couples should avoid outer areas such as Lichtenberg and Marzahn or towns in Brandenburg, the region surrounding Berlin. These areas are exceptions in a city that has an estimated 300,000 gays and lesbians in residence. Large festivals such as the annual Christopher Street Day bring together hundreds of thousands of gays and lesbians each summer. Gay travelers are embraced by the city's tourist office: up-to-date information is provided in special brochures, such as "Out in Berlin" at tourist info-stores. Mann-o-Meter. Detailed information on gay-friendly hotels and the clubbing and bar scene are provided by the city's largest gay community center, the Mann-o-Meter. Talks are sometimes held in the café, which has a variety of books and magazines. It's open Tues.–Fri. 5–10, and Sat.–Sun. 4–8. \| Bülowstr. 106, Schöneberg \| 030/216–8008 \| www.mann-o-meter.de. * * * ### Gay and Lesbian Bars Berlin is unmistakably Germany's gay capital, and many Europeans come to partake in the diverse scene, which is concentrated in Schöneberg (around Nollendorfplatz) and Kreuzberg. Check out the magazines Siegessäule, (030), and blu. #### Kreuzberg Roses. If you don't find any eye candy at tiny Roses there are always the furry red walls and kitschy paraphernalia to admire. It opens at 10 pm. \| Oranienstr. 187, Kreuzberg \| 030/615–6570 \| Station: Kottbusser Tor (U-bahn). SchwuZ. This spot moved to the newly hip Neukölln neighborhood from its original location on Mehringdamm, in Kreuzberg, and the new digs in the old Kindl brewery should serve it well: in addition to 1980s music and house dance nights, expect more varied offerings like exhibitions, as well as a new stage and lounge room. \| Rollbergstr. 26, Neukölln \| 030/629–0880 \| www.schwuz.de \| Station: Rathaus Neukölln (U-bahn). #### Friedrichshain Fodor's Choice \| Berghain. In an imposing power station in a barren stretch of land between Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain (the name borrows from both neighborhoods), Berghain has achieved international fame as the hedonistic heart of techno music—it was originally a '90s techno club called Ostgut. Although it's also a well-respected center of gay nightlife in Berlin, the club welcomes both genders. It's only open on weekends (for 48 hours straight, from midnight on Friday to midnight on Sunday), and it has become something of a local tradition to arrive on Sunday morning and dance until closing. Upstairs, the slightly smaller (but by no means intimate) Panorama Bar offers different beats and a place to go on Friday before the main club opens at midnight. \| Am Wriezener Bahnhof, Friedrichshain \| Exit north from Ostbahnhof and follow Str. der Pariser Kommune, then make a right on badly marked Am Wriezener Bahnhof and look for a line \| 030/2936–0210 \| Station: Ostbahnhof (S-bahn). #### Schöneberg Connection Club. Just south of Wittenbergplatz, the dance club Connection is known for heavy house music and lots of dark corners. \| Fuggerstr. 33, Schöneberg \| 030/218–1432 \| www.connection-berlin.de \| Station: Augsburgerstr. (U-bahn). Hafen. The decor and the energetic crowd at Hafen make it a popular singles hangout. \| Motzstr. 19, Schöneberg \| 030/211–4118 \| www.hafen-berlin.de \| Station: Nullendorf Platz (U-bahn). ### Jazz Clubs #### Mitte b-flat. Young German artists perform most nights at b-flat. The club has some of the best sight lines in town, as well as a magnificent floor-to-ceiling front window that captures the attention of passersby. The well-known and well-attended Wednesday jam sessions focus on free and experimental jazz, and once a month on Thursday the Berlin Big Band takes over the small stage with up to 17 players. Snacks are available. \| Rosenthalerstr. 13, Mitte \| 030/283–3123 \| www.b-flat-berlin.de \| Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn). Kunstfabrik Schlot. Schlot hosts Berlin jazz scenesters, aspiring musicians playing Monday night free jazz sessions, and local heavy-hitters. It's a bit hard to find—it's in the cellar of the Edison Höfe—but enter the courtyard via Schlegelstrasse and follow the music. \| Invalidenstr. 117, entrance at Schlegelstr. 26, Mitte \| 030/448–2160 \| Station: Nordbahnhof (S-bahn), Naturkundemuseum (U-bahn). #### Charlottenburg A-Trane. A-Trane in West Berlin has hosted countless greats throughout the years, including Herbie Hancock and Wynton Marsalis. Weekly free jam nights on Saturday and numerous other free events make it a good place to see jazz on a budget. \| Bleibtreustr. 1, Charlottenburg \| 030/313–2550 \| www.a-trane.de \| Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn). Quasimodo. To get to Quasimodo, the most established and popular jazz venue in the city, you'll need to descend a small staircase to the basement of the Theater des Westens. Despite its college-town pub feel, the club has hosted many Berlin and international greats. Seats are few, but there's plenty of standing room in the front. \| Kantstr. 12a, Charlottenburg \| 030/312–8086 \| www.quasimodo.de \| Station: Zoologischer Garten Bahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn). ## The Arts Detailed information about events is covered in the Berlin Programm, a monthly tourist guide to Berlin arts, museums, and theaters. The magazines Tip and Zitty, which appear every two weeks, provide full arts listings (in German), although the free weekly (030) is the best source for club and music events. For listings in English, consult the monthly Ex-Berliner, or their website (www.exberliner.com), which is updated regularly. Hekticket offices. The Hekticket offices offers discounted and last-minute tickets, including half-price, same-day tickets daily at 2pm. \| Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 13, off Alexanderpl., Mitte \| Station: Alexanderplatz Bahnhof (S-bahn). Showtime Konzert und Theaterkassen. If your hotel can't book a seat for you or you can't make it to a box office directly, go to a ticket agency. Surcharges are 18%–23% of the ticket price. Showtime Konzert und Theaterkassen has offices within the major department stores, including KaDeWe and Karstadt. \| KaDeWe, Tauentzienstr. 21, Charlottenburg \| 030/8060–2929 \| www.showtimetickets.de. ### Concerts Konzerthaus Berlin. The beautifully restored hall at Konzerthaus Berlin is a prime venue for classical music concerts. The box office is open from noon to curtain time. \| Gendarmenmarkt, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/2030–92101 \| www.konzerthaus.de. Berliner Philharmonie. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra is one of the world's best and their resident venue is the Philharmonie, comprising the Grosser Saal or large main hall, and the smaller Kammermusiksaal, dedicated to chamber music. Tickets sell out in advance for the nights when Sir Simon Rattle or other star maestros conduct, but other orchestras and artists appear here as well. TIP Tuesday's free Lunchtime Concerts fill the foyer with eager listeners of all ages at 1 pm. Daily guided tours (€3) also take place at 1 pm. \| Herbert-von-Karajan-Str. 1, Tiergarten \| 030/254–880 \| www.berliner-philharmoniker.de. ### Dance, Musicals, and Opera Berlin's three opera houses also host guest productions and companies from around the world. Vladimir Malakhov, a principal guest dancer with New York's American Ballet Theatre, is a principal in the Staatsballett Berlin as well as its director. The company performs its classic and modern productions at the Deutsche Oper and the Schiller Theater while the famed Staatsoper on Unter den Linden undergoes renovations. Deutsche Oper Berlin. Of the 17 composers represented in the repertoire of Deutsche Oper Berlin, Verdi and Wagner are the most frequently presented. \| Bismarckstr. 35, Charlottenburg \| 030/343–8401 \| www.deutscheoperberlin.de. Hebbel am Ufer Theater (HAU). This theater consists of three houses (HAU 1, 2, 3) within a five-minute walk of one another. Fringe theater, international modern dance, and solo performers share the stages. \| Stresemannstr. 29, Kreuzberg \| 030/2590–0427 \| www.hebbel-am-ufer.de. Komische Oper. Most of the operas performed here are sung in German but the lavish and at times over-the-top and kitschy staging and costumes make for a fun night even if you don't speak the language. \| Behrenstr. 55–57, Mitte \| 030/4799–7400 \| www.komische-oper-berlin.de. Neuköllner Oper. The small and alternative Neuköllner Oper puts on fun, showy performances of long-forgotten operas as well as humorous musical productions. It also is more likely than other Berlin opera houses to stage productions offering modern social commentary and individual takes on the immigrant experience—which is fitting for this international neighborhood. \| Karl-Marx-Str. 131–133, Neukölln \| 030/6889–0777. Schiller Theater. Currently serving as interim stage for the Staatsoper, until renovations are finished in 2015, the Schiller Theater is also known for light musical and theater fare. \| Bismarckstr. 110, Charlottenburg \| 030/2035–4555. Tanzfabrik. The Tanzfabrik is Berlin's best venue to see young dance talent and the latest from Europe's avant-garde. \| Möckernstr. 68, Kreuzberg \| 030/786–5861 \| www.tanzfabrik-berlin.de. Tempodrom. The white, tentlike Tempodrom, beyond the ruined facade of Anhalter Bahnhof, showcases international music and rock stars. \| Möckernstr. 10, behind Askanischer Pl., Kreuzberg \| 01806/554–111 \| www.tempodrom.de. Theater des Westens. The late-19th-century Theater des Westens, one of Germany's oldest musical theaters, features musicals such as Dance of the Vampires; We Will Rock You, the over-the-top musical about the rock band Queen; and recently, the German-language version of the international sensation War Horse. \| Kantstr. 12, Western Downtown \| 030/01805–4444 \| www.stage-entertainment.de. ### Festivals Berliner Festspiele. This annual Berlin festival, held from late August through September or early October, unites all the major performance halls as well as some smaller venues for concerts, opera, ballet, theater, and art exhibitions. It also sponsors some smaller-scale events throughout the year. \| Ticket office, Schaperstr. 24 \| 030/2548–9100 \| www.berlinerfestspiele.de. ### Film International and German movies are shown in the big theaters on Potsdamer Platz and around the Ku'damm. If a film isn't marked "OF" or "OV" (Originalfassung, or "original version") or "OmU" ("original with subtitles"), it's dubbed. Many Berlin theaters let customers reserve seats in advance when purchasing tickets, so buy them early to nab those coveted center spots. TIP Previews and commercials often run for 25 minutes, so don't worry if you walk in late. Babylon. Partially hidden behind Kottbusser Tor, Babylon shows English-language films with German subtitles. Ticket prices vary according to the day of the week, with Monday being the cheapest at €6. \| Dresdener Str. 126, Kreuzberg \| 030/6160–9693 \| www.yorck.de. CineStar im Sony Center. Mainstream U.S. and British movies are screened in their original versions at the CineStar im Sony Center. Tuesday is a discount evening. \| Potsdamer Str. 4, Tiergarten \| 030/2606–6400. Freiluftkinos. When warm weather hits the city and Berliners come out of hibernation, they often head to the Freiluftkinos (open-air cinemas). These outdoor viewing areas are in just about every park in town, offer food and drinks, and screen a good balance of German and international films, many of them new releases. Check the website for schedules from three of the city's best, in Volkspark Friedrichshain, Mariannenplatz Kreuzberg, and Volkspark Rehberge in Wedding. \| www.freiluftkino-berlin.de \| €6.50. Hackesche Höfe Kino. Documentary films, international films in their original language, and German art-house films are shown at the Hackesche Höfe Kino, or cinema. There's no elevator to this top-floor movie house, but you can recover on the wide banquettes in the lounge. Monday and Tuesday are discount evenings. \| Rosenthaler Str. 40–41, Mitte \| 030/283–4603 \| www.hoefekino.de. Berlinale: Internationale Filmfestspiele (Internationale Filmfestspiele). In February, numerous cinemas band together to host the prestigious Internationale Filmfestspiele, or Berlinale, a 10-day international festival at which the Golden Bear award is bestowed on the best films, directors, and actors. Ticket counters open three days before the party begins, but individual tickets are also sold on each day of the festival, if you're willing to wait in line for what can be hours.TIP Film buffs should purchase the season pass, or act quickly when tickets are sold online. \| www.berlinale.de \| 10 days in Feb. ### Theater Theater in Berlin is outstanding, but performances are usually in German. The exceptions are operettas and the (nonliterary) cabarets. Keep in mind that tourist high season is always theater low season: most theaters take a one- to two-month break in July and August. Berliner Ensemble. The excellent Berliner Ensemble is dedicated to Brecht and works of other international playwrights. The company might be losing its lease in 2013 so check the website for updates about a new location. \| Bertolt Brecht-Pl. 1, off Friedrichstr., Mitte \| 030/2840–8155 \| www.berliner-ensemble.de. Deutsches Theater. The theater most renowned for both its modern and classical productions is the Deutsches Theater. \| Schumannstr. 13a, Mitte \| 030/2844–1225 \| www.deutschestheater.de. English Theatre Berlin. The English Theatre presents dramas and comedies in English. \| Fidicinstr. 40, Kreuzberg \| 030/691–1211 \| www.etberlin.de. Grips Theater. For children's theater, head to the world-famous Grips Theater, whose musical hit Linie 1, about life in Berlin viewed through the subway, is just as appealing for adults. \| Altonaer Str. 22, Tiergarten \| 030/3974–740 \| www.grips-theater.de. Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz. The rebellious actors at the Schaubühne am Lehniner Platz, once the city's most experimental stage, have mellowed somewhat but still put on great performances. Their frequent, avant-garde stagings of well-known Shakespeare plays are a wonderful opportunity to enjoy German theater, even if you don't know a word of German. (You can always brush up on the story beforehand and follow along with your own English text.) \| Kurfürstendamm 153, Wilmersdorf \| 030/890–023 \| www.schaubuehne.de. Volksbühne am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz. The Volksbühne am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz is unsurpassed for its aggressively experimental style, and the 750 seats are often sold out. The unusual building was reconstructed in the 1950s using the original 1914 plans. It also houses two smaller performance spaces—the Roter Salon and the Grüner Salon—which host everything from retro motown nights and salsa classes for all levels to touring pop and rock acts. \| Linienstr. 227, Mitte \| 030/2406–5777 \| www.volksbuehne-berlin.de. ### Variety Shows, Comedy, and Cabaret Berlin's variety shows can include magicians, circus performers, musicians, and classic cabaret stand-ups. Be aware that in order to understand and enjoy traditional cabaret, which involves a lot of political humor, your German has to be up to snuff. Admiralspalast. The completely restored 1920s entertainment emporium Admiralspalast draws on its glitzy Jazz Age glamour, and houses several stages and a restaurant. The main theater features everything from large-scale shows to theater, comedy, and concerts. \| Friedrichstr. 101, Mitte \| 030/4799–7499 \| www.admiralspalast.de. Bar Jeder Vernunft. The intimate Bar Jeder Vernunft is inside a glamorous tent and usually showcases intriguing solo entertainers. Note that the venue is set back from the street and is hard to find. Just to the left of Haus der Berliner Festspiele, look for a lighted path next to a parking lot and follow it until you reach the tent. \| Schaperstr. 24, Wilmersdorf \| 030/883–1582 \| www.bar-jeder-vernunft.de. BKA–Berliner Kabarett Anstalt. Social and political satire has a long tradition in cabaret theaters and the BKA–Berliner Kabarett Anstalt is known for performances by Germany's leading young comedy talents as well as chanson vocalists. \| Mehringdamm 34, Kreuzberg \| 030/202–2007 \| www.bka-theater.de. Chamäleon Varieté. Within the Hackesche Höfe, the Chamäleon Varieté is the most affordable and offbeat variety venue in town. German isn't required to enjoy most of the productions. \| Rosenthaler Str. 40–41, Mitte \| 030/4000–590 \| www.chamaeleonberlin.com. Grüner Salon. This is one of Berlin's hippest venues for live music, cabaret, dancing, and drinks. The programs change almost daily. \| Freie Volksbühne, Rosa-Luxemburg-Pl., Mitte \| 030/2859–8936 \| www.gruener-salon.de. Tipi am Kanzleramt (Tipi am Kanzleramt). Tipi is a tent venue between the Kanzleramt (Chancellor's Office) and Haus der Kulturen der Welt. Artists featured are well suited for an international audience, and you can opt to dine here before the show. Even the back-row seats are good. \| Grosse Querallee, Tiergarten \| 030/3906–6550 \| www.tipi-am-kanzleramt.de. Wintergarten Varieté. The Wintergarten Varieté pays romantic homage to the old days of Berlin's original variety theater in the 1920s. \| Potsdamer Str. 96, Tiergarten \| 030/588–433 \| www.wintergarten-variete.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents What's fashionable in Berlin is creative, bohemian style, so designer labels have less appeal here than in Hamburg, Düsseldorf, or Munich. For the young and trendy, it is bad form to be seen wearing clothes that appear to have cost much more than a Brötchen (bread roll), so most step out in vintage and secondhand threads. ### Mitte The finest shops in historic Berlin are along Friedrichstrasse, including the French department store Galeries Lafayette and the international luxury department store Departmentstore Quartier 206. Nearby, Unter den Linden offers a few souvenir shops and a Meissen ceramic showroom, while the area surrounding the picturesque Gendarmenmarkt is home to top fashion designers and many international brands. Tthe charming side streets of Mitte's Scheunenviertel area have turned into a true destination for serious fashion aficionados. The area between Hackescher Markt, Weinmeister Strasse, and Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz alternate pricey independent designers with groovy secondhand shops, and a string of ultrahip flagship stores by the big sports and fashion designer brands. Neue Schönhauser Strasse meets up with Rosenthaler Strasse on one end and curves into Alte Schönhauser Strasse on the other. All three streets are full of stylish and original casual wear. Galleries along Gipsstrasse and Sophienstrasse round out the mix. #### Book Stores Fodor's Choice \| Do You Read Me?. Whether you're looking for something to read on the plane or a special present, this charming bookstore is guaranteed to have something to pique your literary interests. The wide selection of magazines and literature—many of the titles are in English—comes from around the world and spans fashion, photography, architecture, interior design, and cultural topics. \| Auguststr. 28, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/6954–9695 \| www.doyoureadme.de \| Closed Sun. #### Clothing 14 oz. Inside a beautiful old building in the heart of Mitte's Hackescher Markt shopping district, 14 oz. sells high-end denim (Citizens of Humanity, Dondup, 3x1 Denim), along with sneakers, accessories, knitwear, and outerwear. For true VIP treatment, a private shopping area is available on the second floor. \| Neue Schönhauserstr. 13, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| www.14oz-berlin.com/berlin \| Closed Sun. Apartment. Don't be deterred when you arrive at this seemingly empty storefront: the real treasure lies at the bottom of the black spiral staircase. On the basement level you'll find one of Berlin's favorite shops for local designs and wardrobe staples for both men and women. Think distressed tops, shoes, leather jackets, and skinny jeans. \| Memhardstr. 8, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2804–2251 \| www.apartmentberlin.de \| Closed Sun. Baerck. This shop artfully displays its mix of European and Berlin men's and women's wear on wheeled structures, allowing them to be rearranged in the store whenever necessary. Along with designers like Stine Goya, Henrik Vibskov, and Hope, you'll find the store's own labels NIA and llot llov. Lifestyle and interior decor items are on the basement level. \| Mulackstr. 12, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2404–8994 \| www.baerck.net \| Closed Sun. Claudia Skoda. One of Berlin's top avant-garde designers, Claudia Skoda's creations are mostly for women, but there's also a selection of men's knitwear. \| Mulackstr. 8, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/4004–1884 \| www.claudiaskoda.com \| Closed Sun. The Corner Berlin. In the heart of the stunning Gendarmarkt, this luxury concept store sells a contemporary collection of new and vintage clothing from high-end designers like Yves Saint Laurent and Chloé, as well as cosmetics, home furnishings, and art books. The shop is also a popular venue for exclusive fashion events and is home to a gallery and café. \| Franzoesischestr. 40, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/2067–0940 \| www.thecornerberlin.de \| Closed Sun. #### Clothing: Men's Fodor's Choice \| Atelier Akeef. This Mitte store combines men's luxury style with a holistic, eco-conscious shopping approach. The upcycled wood-paneled store was constructed using nontoxic colorants, sustainable clay, and energy-saving lightening, and each garment comes with a tag outlining the specifics of its eco-production. \| Max-Beer-Str. 31, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2198–2645 \| www.atelierakeef.com. Fodor's Choice \| SOTO. The name of the hip, fashion-forward area of Mitte stands for 'SOuth of TOrstrasse. The shop is filled with charming side streets and numerous fashion boutiques. At the SOTO boutique you'll find a mix of timeless and trendsetting menswear including the house label, Le Berlinois, along with brands like Band of Outsiders, Norse Projects, and Our Legacy, grooming products, and accessories ranging from cameras to lanyards. \| Torstr. 72, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/257–62070 \| www.sotostore.com \| Closed Sun. Made in Berlin. One of the more established second hand shops in Berlin, this outpost has popular two locations that crowd with trend-setting locals and discerning visitors looking for hidden gems. The selection is more curated thrift looks than high-end designs, and includes an extensive range of 1980s wear as well broad selection of shoes. TIP Make sure to pop in for the shops' happy hours, where you'll get 20 percent off on purchases (Tues. 12–3 at Neue Schönhauser Str.; Wed 10–3 at Friedrichstr.). \| Neue Schönhauser Str. 19, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2404–8900 \| www.facebook.com/MadeinBerlinVintage \| Mon.–Sat. 12–8. #### Clothing: Women's Annette Görtz. This Gendarmenmarkt showroom is German fashion icon Annette Görtz's Berlin flagship. Her collection of women's clothing is known for the clean lines, dark colors, and a combination of comfort and refined tailoring and elegance. \| Markgrafenstr. 42, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/20074–613 \| www.annettegoertz.de. Fodor's Choice \| C'est Tout. Formerly the head of style for MTV networks, Katja Will opened this boutique in 2007 to share her love of French style and bring a Parisian look to the German capital. Layering the neutral pieces here with a touch of sparkle creates a defininte ooh-la-la effect. \| Mulackstr. 26, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2759–5530 \| www.cesttout.de \| Closed Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Das Neue Schwarz. Whether you want a new little black dress or a cool vintage bag to carry around this season, a peek into the lovely Das Neue Schwarz (The New Black) is guaranteed to result in some special finds. In the midst of Mitte's fashionista neighborhood of avant-garde designers and exclusive boutiques, this shop holds its own with a collection secondhand items, many never worn, from big name designers including Vivienne Westwood, Helmet Lang, and Yves Saint Laurent. \| Mulackstr. 38, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2787–4467 \| www.dasneueschwarz.de \| Closed Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Lala Berlin. Former MTV editor Lelya Piedayesh is one of Berlin's top young design talents and she has a contemporary boutique on Mulackstrasse. It's pricey, but the scarves are to die for; clothes have bold prints on high-quality fabric. \| Mulackstr. 7, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2576–2924 \| www.lalaberlin.com \| Closed Sun. Oukan. This demure boutique originally began as a fundraising project during Berlin's Fashion Week in response to the 2011 Japanese tsunami. Along with two floors of avant garde Japanese designs, lifestyle products, and interior décor, the space is also home to Avan, an in-house tea house serving a variety of Asian-fusion dishes like banh mi sandwiches, dumplings, and curries. \| Kronenstr. 71, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/2062–6700 \| www.oukan.de \| Mon.–Sat. 12–7. #### Department Stores Fodor's Choice \| DepartmentStore Quartier 206. The smallest, and often considered the most luxurious, department store in town, DepartmentStore Quartier 206 has a wide range of women's and men's international designers from the likes of Prada, Givenchy, and Tom Ford. Much of the store's inventory is handpicked by founder Anne Maria Jagdfeld on travels around the world, and the store also carries a variety of cosmetics, perfumes, home accessories, art, and books. \| Friedrichstr. 71, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/2094–6500 \| www.dsq206.com \| Closed Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Galeries Lafayette. At the corner of Französische Strasse (it means "French Street" and is named for the nearby French Huguenot cathedral) is the French department store Galeries Lafayette. French architect Jean Nouvel included an impressive steel-and-glass funnel at the center of the building, and it's surrounded by four floors of expensive clothing and luxuries as well as an excellent food department with counters offering French cuisine, and a market with some of the best produce in the area. Intimate and elegant, Galeries Lafayette carries almost exclusively French products. \| Friedrichstr. 76–78, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/209–480 \| www.galerieslafayette.de \| Closed Sun. Hackesche Höfe. Tucked behind the tourist heavy streets of Hackesche Markt, this labyrinth of small galleries, boutiques, and shops offers a wide range of fashion. The outdoor shopping mall links Rosenthaler- and Sophienstrassen with big brands like H&M and Mac Cosmetics, as well as independent boutiques and small gift shops. \| Rosenthalerstr. 40–41, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/280–98010 \| www.hackesche-hoefe.com. #### Gifts Ampelmann. This gallery shop opened in the mall-like Hackesche Höfe shopping area in 2001, promoting the red and green Ampelmännnchen, the charming symbol used on the former East traffic lights. The brand now operates six shops in Berlin, and you can find the logo on everything from T-shirts and umbrellas to ice cube trays and candy. Perfect for souvenirs. \| Hackesche Höfe, Hof 5, Rosenthalerstr. 40–41, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/4472–6515 \| ampelmann.de \| Mon.–Sat. 9:30–10, Sun. 10–7. ausberlin. This small shop near Alexanderplatz provides a wide range of Berlin memories, all designed and manufactured in the city. There is everything from Berlin-themed emergency candy bars and tote bags with city landmark designs to Berlin produced liquors. \| Karl-Liebknechtstr. 17, Mitte: Alexanderplatz \| 030/4199–7896 \| www.ausberlin.de \| Closed Sun. Berlin Story. More than 5,000 different books, maps, and souvenirs about the city of Berlin can be found at this shop, which is, unlike many, open on Sunday. The company also runs a translation and publishing house and a small museum, as well as a webshop for those still looking for souvenirs after the trip is over. \| Unter den Linden 40, Mitte: Unter den Linden \| 030/2045–3842 \| www.berlinstory.de. Fodor's Choice \| Bonbonmacherei. Tucked into a small courtyard near the New Synagogue, this charming candy store has been making and selling handmade sweets for the past 100 years. The brightly colored sugar bonbons are pressed on vintage molds into leaf, raspberry, and diamond shapes, and more than 30 different varieties are available. For a real insider's peek at candy production, join one of the store's daily tours, which walk customers step-by-step through the candy production. Note that the store is only open Wednesday and Thursday. \| Oranienburgerstr. 32, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/4405–5243 \| www.bonbonmacherei.de \| Closed Sun.–Tues., and July and Aug. #### Jewelry Fodor's Choice \| Hecking. Designer Luisa Hecking opened this accessories boutique in 2007 as a showcase for her timeless collection of HeckingHandermann bags and sunglasses. It's one of the best place for scarves in the city, with a wide selection of designs, at a variety of price points. \| Gormannstr. 8–9, entrance on Mulackstr., Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/2804–7528 \| www.hecking-shop.com \| Closed Tues. and Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Sabrina Dehoff. The flagship store of German jewelry designer Sabrina Dehoff balances bling and minimalism—bright crystals are paired with chunky metals. \| Torstr. 175, Mitte: Scheunenviertel \| 030/9362–4680 \| www.sabrinadehoff.com \| Closed Sun. ### Prenzlauer Berg Stretching east of Mitte's Rosenthaler Platz, the fashionable boutiques continue into Prenzlauer Berg. This area is well known for its own collection of designer boutiques, secondhand shops, and original designs. The busy Kastanienallee is packed with shops and boutiques, as is the more quiet area around Hemholzpatz. #### Clothing Fodor's Choice \| Garments. This chic store offers Prenzlauer Berg's fashion lovers an excellent selection of vintage and secondhand clothing, costume jewelry, and accessories. There is also a branch in Mitte, at Linienstrasse 204–205. \| Stargarderstr. 12 A, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/7477–9919 \| www.garments-vintage.de \| Closed Sun. Kauf Dich Glücklich. With an odd assortment of retro furnishings, this ice cream café and waffle shop takes over the entire corner of a Prenzlauer Berg sidewalk, especially on sunny days. Head to the second story and you'll find a shop the captures young Berliner style, with vintage pieces, bold prints, and skinny fits, as well as shoes and jewelry. The collection focuses on womenswear although there is also a small offering of men's clothing. \| Kastanien Allee 54, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/4172–5651 \| www.kaufdichgluecklich-shop.de \| Mon.–Sat. 10–8. Temporary Showroom. This small boutique showcases a revolving collection of select European and international designers, spanning high fashions, streetwear, and accessories. The store is rearranged every six months in collaboration with a new designer's collection. \| Kastanienallee 36a, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/6220–4563 \| www.temporaryshowroom.com \| Mon.–Sat. 11–7. Workaholic Fashion. This showroom puts Berlin's music culture front and center, with fashion inspired by the DJ and club scene. Along with a collection of shoes, bags, accessories, the store also carries records and CDs and has a separate music room with a DJ stand. \| Kastanienallee 60, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/8411–8358 \| www.workaholicfashion.net \| Mon.–Fri. 11–8, Sat. 12–8. #### Gift Ideas Fodor's Choice \| Dr. Kochan Schapskultur. This small shop embodies traditional German liquor culture; there are schnapps and fruit brandies from family farms and independent distilleries for sale, among other items to pique a tippler's interest. \| Immanuelkirchstr. 4, Prenzlauer Berg \| 030/3462–4076 \| www.schnapskultur.de \| Closed Sun. #### Markets Markt am Kollwitzplatz. One of the city's best farmer's markets sits on the pretty Kollwitplatz Square in Prenzlauer Berg. During its smaller Thursday and bustling Saturday markets, you'll not only find a suburb selection of organic produce, meats, cheeses, and pantry items, but also an array of prepared foods and sellers offering handmade home goods and gifts. \| Kollwitzpl., Prenzlauer Berg \| Thurs. 12–7, Sat. 9–4. ### Potsdamer Platz On the border between the city's former east and west regions, this touristy area is popular thanks to the towering Sony Center, which offers an English-language movie theater as well as restaurants and bars. The main shopping arcade here, also named Potsdamer Platz, offers a wide selection of chain shops, but you'll find a few original shops tucked on the side streets. #### Clothing Andreas Murkudis. Andreas Murkudis moved his successful concept shop from Mitte to the former Taggespiegel newspaper office space near Potsdamer Platz in 2011. Inside the stark white room you'll find hand-picked mens, women's, and children's clothing, including designs by brother Kostas Murkudis, Dries van Noten, and Christian Haas, as well as accessories, and contemporary homeware. \| Potsdamer Str. 81e, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/6807–98306 \| www.andreasmurkudis.com \| Closed Sun. F95. This designer showroom is the permanent space for the biannual international fashion trade fair Premium. The rest of the time, the space showcases established brands like T by Alexander Wang and Diane von Furstenberg, alongside up-and-coming designers. Expect a combination of offbeat looks, trendsetting pieces, and classic wardrobe staples. \| Luckenwalderstr. 4–6, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/4208–3358 \| www.f95store.com \| Closed Sun. #### Gift Ideas Fodor's Choice \| Frau Tonis Parfum. This elegant perfumery will help you create a completely personal scent; choose from vials filled with perfumes like acacia, linden tree blossoms, cedar wood, or pink peppercorns. All the perfumes are produced locally in Berlin, creating a really one-of-a kind gift. \| Zimmerstr. 13, Potsdamer Platz \| 030/2021–5310 \| www.frau-tonis-parfum.com \| Closed Sun. ### Friedrichshain The cobblestone streets and densely packed neighborhoods of cafés, shops, and boutiques make the area between Frankfurter Allee and Warschauer Strasse an ideal shopping stretch. Both Boxhagener Platz and Simon-Dach Strasse are home to fashionable shops, and the neighborhood holds shopping nights on select Saturdays. #### Clothing Prachtmädchen. Nearby Boxhagener Platz, this is great shop to find a piece of Berlin's young, hip style. Prachtmädchen specializes in trendy T-shirts, fashion forward coats, sustainable pieces from Scandinavian and Japanese brands, and accessories from their own line. There is also a small inventory of menswear. \| Wühlischst. 28, Friedrichshain \| 030/97002780 \| www.prachtmaedchen.de \| Weekdays 11–8, Sat. 11–4. Latte Wie Hose. This shop understands the importance of keeping energized during shopping sprees, and dishes out illy coffee specialties alongside their high ends jeans. Denim labels include Dr. Denim, Patrick Mohr, and Friis & Company, and the store also stocks shoes, bags, and other accessories. \| Kopernikusstr. 13, Friedrichshain \| 030/61740817 \| www.lattewiehose.com \| Mon.–Sat. 11–8. #### Clothing: Women's Something Coloured. This Friedrichshain boutique looks like a trendy concept shop at first glance, but inside you'll find a selection of stylish second hand pieces. Among their advertised "1,000 pieces paired with rationality," expect to find jeans from Paige and J brand, bags from Chanel, and pieces from COS, Comptoir des Cotonniers, and Zoe Karssen. \| Grünberger Str. 90, Friedrichshain \| 030/29352075 \| www.facebook.com/sometimescoloured \| Tue.–Fri. 12–8, Sat. 11–7. ### Kreuzberg Locals love Kreuzberg for its grittier, gratified landscape, and the fashion style here is more urban as well. The lively Bergmannstrasse is home to several worthy destinations, as is Mehringdamm. This, along with neighboring Neukölln, is the place to score a unique Berlin find. #### Clothing Fodor's Choice \| Voo. This "super boutique" in former locksmith's workship is a Berlin favorite for women's and men's separates, shoes, accessories, and outwear, often from rare collections around the world. It's also home to Companion Coffee, for when you need a shopping pick-me-up. \| Oranienstr. 24, Kreuzberg \| 030/6165–1119 \| www.vooberlin.com \| Closed Sun. #### Gift Ideas Hardwax. This iconic record store is run by music veteran Mark Ernestus, who handpicks all the vinyl and CDs with a heavy focus on techno, electronic, and dubstep. On the third floor of a heavily graffitied building, it's the true essence of Berlin grunge and totally worth a visit for music lovers. \| Paul-Lincke-Ufer 44a, Kreuzberg \| 030/6113–0111 \| www.hardwax.com \| Closed Sun. Süper Store. Located in the charming neighborhood of Kreuzberg known as the Graefekiez, this cute little shop supplies a variety of lovely odds and ends, sourced from all over the world, including Turkey, Italy, and Switzerland, as well as locally produced items. Inside you'll find items linens, housewares, pantry items, and jewelry. \| Dieffenbachstr. 12, Kreuzberg \| 030/98327944 \| www.sueper-store.de \| Tue.–Fri. 11–7, Sat. 11–4. ### Neukölln Just over the canal from Kreuzberg, the neighborhood of Neukölln is home to a large Turkish population, and brims with Turkish shops, cafés, and restaurants, as well as a lovely weekly market. More and more of the city's young creatives are moving into this area, and it caters to their bohemian lifestyle with a number of second-hand and vintage shops. #### Clothing Let Them Eat Cake. A favorite of the vintage shoppers in Nuekölln, this delightful shop offers a mixture of handmade pieces and high-quality second-hand. \| Weserstr. 164, Neukölln \| 030/6096–5095 \| letthemeatcake-berlin.tumblr.com \| Tue.–Sat. 1–7. Shio. This shop not only stocks a variety of redesigned second hand and vintage wear, as well as new-label sustainable lines, but also offers dressmaking and alteration services, and encourages customers to bring in their own pieces for trendy modifications. \| Weichselstr. 59, Neukölln \| www.shiostore.com \| Mon.–Sat. 12–8. Sing Blackbird. This Kreuzkölln shop, located on the border between Kreuzberg and Neukölln, has become popular for its carefully edited collection of vintage finds, dating back to the 1960s and 70s. The shop also holds a monthly flea market, as well as occasional movies nights, and is also home to a popular café, where a menu of homemade cakes and weekend vegan brunch is served on mismatched vintage china. \| Sanderstr. 11, Neukölln \| 030/5484–5051 \| www.facebook.com/singblackbir \| Daily 12–7. Vintage Galore. Imagine bringing the midcentury European look home with a walk through this shop, which features a collection of Scandinavian furniture and lamps. The shop also has a limited selection of clothing, bags and accessories, as well as small housewares like teapots and ceramics, which should all fit more comfortably inside a suitcase. \| Sanderstr. 12, Neukölln \| 030/6396–3338 \| www.vintagegalore.de \| Tues.–Fri. 2–8, Sat. 12–6. #### Markets Türkischer Markt. On the edge of the Kreuzberg-Neukölln border, this weekly market is a gathering spot for the local Turkish community, and offers many traditional products, including delicious delicacies (olives, cheese, dried fruits, hummus, and fresh breads) and a bazaar of house goods. \| Maybachufer, Kreuzberg \| 030/9170–0700 \| www.tuerkenmarkt.de. ### Charlottenburg Although Ku'damm is still touted as the shopping mile of Berlin, many shops are ho-hum retailers. The best stretch for exclusive fashions, such as Louis Vuitton, Hermès, and Jil Sander, are the three blocks between Leibnizstrasse and Bleibtreustrasse. For home furnishings, gift items, and unusual clothing boutiques, follow this route off Ku'damm: Leibnizstrasse to Mommsenstrasse to Bleibtreustrasse, then on to the ring around Savignyplatz. Fasanenstrasse, Knesebeckstrasse, Schlüterstrasse, and Uhlandstrasse are also fun places to browse. Ku'damm ends at Breitscheidplatz, but the door-to-door shopping continues along Tauentzienstrasse, which, in addition to international retail stores, offers continental Europe's largest department store, the upscale Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe. #### Bookstores Fodor's Choice \| Bucherbogen. Peek under the rails of Charlottenburg's Savignyplatz and you'll find this much-loved bookstore. The large selection of books, many special-edition or out-of-print, include numerous titles on art, design, and architecture, and the international offerings are extensive. \| Stadtbahnbogen 593, Charlottenburg \| 303/186–9511 \| www.buecherbogen.com \| Closed Sun. #### Clothing: Men's Fodor's Choice \| Chelsea Farmer's Club. This living-room-like space is the go-to for sophisticated menswear with a British posh edge; you'll find everything from tuxedoes to hunting jackets on their shelves. The owner's manufacture their own line of quality British-style smoking jackets, and the inventory also includes top brands and small fashion accessories. There's a small bar in the back, where you can toast your latest purchase in style. \| Schlüterstr. 50, Charlottenburg \| 030/8872–7474 \| www.chelseafarmersclub.de \| Closed Sun. #### Clothing: Women's Jil Sander. The flagship store of German designer Jil Sander carries the newest collections from this iconic, understated brand, including fashions for men. \| Kurfürstendamm 185, Charlottenburg \| 030/886–7020 \| www.jilsander.com. #### Department Stores Fodor's Choice \| Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe). The largest department store in continental Europe, classy Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe) has a grand selection of goods, spread over seven floors, as well as food and deli counters, champagne bars, beer bars, and a beautiful art deco–style atrium café on the top floor. The wealth of services offered here includes luxury gift basket arrangements, exclusive travel guides, and an international box office. \| Tauentzienstr. 21–24, Charlottenburg \| 030/21210 \| www.kadewe.de \| Closed Sun. #### Gifts and Souvenirs Harry Lehmann. If you want a taste—or rather, a smell—of old Berlin, head to Harry Lehmann on Kantstrasse in Charlottenburg. The shopkeeper will greet you in a white lab coat, helpfully explaining the origin and inspiration of the expertly mixed perfumes, which fill large apothecary jars along a mirrored wall. This is definitely old school—the shop has been opened in 1926. Scents are fresh, simple, and clean, and a 30-ml bottle (€15.50) makes for a reasonably priced gift or souvenir. \| Kantstr. 106, Charlottenburg \| 030/324–3582 \| www.parfum-individual.de \| Closed Sun. Königliche Porzellan Manufaktur. Fine porcelain is still produced by Königliche Porzellan Manufaktur, the former Royal Porcelain Manufactory for the Prussians, also called KPM. You can buy this delicate handmade, hand-painted china at KPM's two stores, but it may be more fun to visit the factory salesroom, which also sells seconds at reduced prices. \| Wegelystr. 1, Tiergarten \| 030/390–09215 \| de-de.kpm-berlin.com \| Kurfürstendamm 27, Charlottenburg \| 030/8862–7961. Fodor's Choice \| Paper & Tea. Enter this serene shop just off Kantstrasse and you'll be stepping into a world of high-quality, looseleaf teas. Rather than bulk up on inventory, the store has a restrained selection of 70 teas, all displayed in museumlike cases, where you can smell the wares. There are two tasting areas, where expert attendants brew and explain the teas. \| Bleibtreust. 4, Charlottenburg \| 030/9561–5468 \| www.paperandtea.com \| Closed Sun. Fodor's Choice \| Wald Konesberg Marzipan. This third-generation artisan shop offers a taste of the old-world treat marzipan, using a family recipe that dates back to the turn of the 20th century. The vintage-style shop features candy-striped wallpaper, vintage tools, and rows of handmade marzipan, all wrapped in delicate packaging. \| Pestalozzistr. 54 a, Charlottenburg \| 030/323–8254 \| www.wald-koenigsberger-marzipan.de \| Closed Sun. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Exploring \| Where to Eat Updated by Katherine Sacks A trip to Berlin wouldn't be complete without paying a visit to Potsdam and its park, which surrounds the important Prussian palaces Neues Palais and Sanssouci. This separate city, the state capital of Brandenburg (the state surrounding Berlin), can be reached within a half hour from Berlin's Zoo Station and most major Berlin S-bahn stations. Potsdam still retains the imperial character it earned during the many years it served as a royal residence and garrison quarters. The Alter Markt and Neuer Markt show off stately Prussian architecture, and both are easily reached from the main train station by any tram heading into the town center. #### Getting Here and Around Potsdam is 20 km (12 miles) southwest of Berlin's center and a half-hour journey by car or bus. From Zoo Station to Potsdam's main train station, the regional train RE-1 takes 17 minutes, and the S-bahn Line No. 7 takes about 30 minutes; use an ABC zone ticket for either service. City traffic is heavy, so a train journey is recommended. Several Berlin tour operators have Potsdam trips. There are several tours that include Potsdam (most are two or six hours). They leave from the landing across from Berlin's Wannsee S-bahn station between late March and early October. Depending on the various tours on offer, a round-trip ticket costs €7.50–€23. #### Essentials Visitor Information Potsdam Tourist Office. Two-hour walking tours (9€) are led around Potsdam's historical center from this tourist information center. \| Touristenzentrum Potsdam, Brandenburgerstr. 3, at Brandenburger Tor, Potsdam \| 0331/275–580 \| www.potsdamtourismus.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Exploring Alter Markt. This "Old Market" Square is the hub of Potsdam's historical center and was, for three centuries, home to the city's baroque palace. The area was heavily damaged by Allied bombing in World War II and then destroyed by the East German regime in 1960. After reunification, Potsdam decided to rebuild its palace, and the reconstructed structure will house the state parliament. Thanks to private donors, the first element, a magnificent replica of the Fortunaportal, now stands proudly on the square, while the palace's main sections are currently being built with a combination of modern and historic elements. \| Am Alten Markt 1. Haus der Brandenburg-Preussischen Geschichte (House of Brandenburg-Prussian History). The region's history museum, the Haus der Brandenburg-Preussischen Geschichte, is in the royal stables in the square opposite the Nikolaikirche. \| Am Neuen Markt 9 \| 0331/620–8550 \| www.hbpg.de \| €4.50 \| Tues.–Thurs. 10–5, Fri.–Sun. 10–6. Holländisches Viertel. The center of the small Holländisches Viertel—the Dutch Quarter—is an easy walk north along Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse to Mittelstrasse. Friedrich Wilhelm I built the settlement in the 1730s to entice Dutch artisans who could support the city's rapid growth. The 134 gabled, mansard-roof brick houses make up the largest Dutch housing development outside of the Netherlands today. Antique shops, boutiques, and restaurants fill the buildings now, and the area is one of Potsdam's most visited. Neues Palais (New Palace). The Neues Palais, a much larger and grander palace than Sanssouci, stands at the end of the long avenue that runs through Sanssouci Park. It was built after the Seven Years' War (1756–63), when Frederick loosened the purse strings. It's said he wanted to demonstrate that the state coffers hadn't been depleted too severely by the long conflict. Interiors that impress include the Grotto Hall with walls and columns set with shells, coral, and other aquatic decor. The royals' upper apartments have paintings by 17th-century Italian masters. You can opt to tour the palace yourself only on weekends between late April and mid-May. \| Str. am Neuen Palais, Sanssouci \| 0331/969–4200 \| www.spsg.de \| €8 \| Apr.–Oct., Wed.–Mon. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Wed.–Mon. 10–5. Nikolaikirche. Karl Friedrich Schinkel designed the Alter Markt's domed Nikolaikirche. In front of it stands an Egyptian obelisk erected by Schloss Sanssouci architect von Knobelsdorff. \| Am Alten Markt. Altes Rathaus. A gilded figure of Atlas tops the tower of the old Rathaus, built in 1755. \| Am Alten Markt 9. Quick Bites: Wiener Restaurant. Fine coffee blends and rich cakes are available at the Wiener Restaurant, an old-style European coffeehouse not far from the Grünes Gitter entrance to Sanssouci. \| Luisenpl. 4 \| 0331/6014–9904 \| www.wiener-potsdam.de. Schloss Cecilienhof (Cecilienhof Palace). Resembling a rambling, Tudor manor house, Schloss Cecilienhof was built for Crown Prince Wilhelm in 1913, on a newly laid-out stretch of park called the Neuer Garten (New Garden), which borders the Heiliger See. It was in this, the last palace to be built by the Hohenzollerns, that the Allied leaders Stalin, Truman, and Churchill (later Attlee) hammered out the fate of postwar Germany at the 1945 Potsdam Conference.TIP From Potsdam's main train station, take a tram to Reiterweg/Alleestrasse, and then transfer to Bus No. 603 to Schloss Cecilienhof. \| 0331/969–4200 \| www.spsg.de \| €6 with tour (mandatory Nov.–Mar.), €4 tour of royal couple's private apartments \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6.; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Tours of royal couple's private apartments at 10, 12, 2, 4. Schloss Charlottenhof. Schloss Charlottenhof is in the southern part of Sanssouci Park, an expansive, landscaped promenade with fountains, streams, manicured gardens, and wide walkways as well as some hidden paths. After Frederick the Great died in 1786, the ambitious Sanssouci building program ground to a halt, and the park fell into neglect. It was 50 years before another Prussian king, Friedrich Wilhelm IV, restored Sanssouci's earlier glory. He engaged the great Berlin architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel to build this small palace for the crown prince. Schinkel's demure interiors are preserved, and the most fanciful room is the bedroom, decorated like a Roman tent, with its walls and ceiling draped in striped canvas. Between the Sanssouci palaces are later additions to the park. \| 0331/969–4228 \| €4 with tour \| May–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Chinesisches Teehaus (Chinese Teahouse). The Chinesisches Teehaus was erected in 1754 in the Chinese style that was all the rage at the time. It houses porcelain from Meissen and Asia. \| €2 \| May–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Friedenskirche (Peace Church). Completed in 1854, the Italianate Friedenskirche houses a 13th-century Byzantine mosaic taken from an island near Venice. \| 0331/974–009 \| Free \| Apr. 24–30, Mon.–Sat. 11–5, Sun. 12–5; May–Sept., Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. 12–6; Oct. 2–16, Mon.–Sat. 11–5, Sun. 12–5; Oct. 17–Apr. 23, Sat. 11–4, Sun. 11:30–4. Orangerieschloss und Turm. The Orangerieschloss und Turm was completed in 1864; its two massive towers linked by a colonnade evoke an Italian Renaissance palace. Today it houses more than 50 copies of paintings by Raphael. \| Guided tour €4, tower only €2 \| Apr., weekends and holidays 10–6; May–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Römische Bäder. (Roman Baths) Friedrich Wilhelm IV built the Römische Bäder (Roman Baths), also designed by Schinkel, from 1829 to 1840. Like many of the other structures in Potsdam, this one is more romantic than authentic. Half Italian villa, half Greek temple, the structure is nevertheless a charming addition to the park. \| €3 with exhibit \| May–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Schloss Sanssouci. Prussia's most famous king, Frederick the Great, spent more time at his summer residence, Schloss Sanssouci, than in the capital of Berlin. Its name means "without a care" in French, the language Frederick cultivated in his own private circle and within the court. Some experts believe that Frederick actually named the palace "Sans, Souci," which they translate as "with and without a care," a more apt name, since its construction caused him a lot of trouble and expense, and sparked furious rows with his master builder, Georg Wenzeslaus von Knobelsdorff. His creation nevertheless became one of Germany's greatest tourist attractions. The palace lies on the edge of Park Sanssouci, which includes various buildings and palaces with separate admissions and hours. TIP Be advised that during peak tourism times, timed tickets for Schloss Sanssouci tours can sell out before noon. Executed according to Frederick's impeccable French-influenced taste, the palace, built between 1745 and 1747, is extravagantly rococo, with scarcely a patch of wall left unadorned. Leading up to the building is an unusual formal terrace where wine grapes were once cultivated. \| Park Sanssouci \| 0331/969–4200 \| www.spsg.de \| €12 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Bildergalerie (Picture Gallery). Just east of Sanssouci Palace sits the picture gallery, which displays Frederick II's collection of 17th-century Italian and Dutch paintings, including works by Caravaggio, Rubens, and Van Dyck. The main cupola contains expensive marble from Siena. \| 0331/969–4181 \| €6 \| May–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Neue Kammern (New Chambers). To the west of the palace are the Neue Kammern, which housed guests of the king's family after its beginnings as a greenhouse. \| 0331/969–4206 \| €4 guided tour only \| Apr.–Oct, Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Quick Bites: Drachenhaus (Dragon House). Halfway up the hill leading to the Belvedere, past the Orangerie, stands the curious Drachenhaus, modeled in 1770 after the Pagoda at London's Kew Gardens and named for the gargoyles ornamenting the roof corners. It now houses a popular restaurant and café. \| Maulbeerallee 4 \| www.drachenhaus.de. ## Where to Eat Restaurant Juliette. FRENCH \| In a city proud of its past French influences, the highly praised French cuisine here is often delivered to your table by French waiters, no less. The intimate restaurant at the edge of the Dutch Quarter has old-fashioned brick walls and a fireplace. The menu offers small portions of dishes such as rack of lamb, quail with roasted chanterelles, and a starter plate of seasonal foie-gras preparations. Its wine list of 120 French vintages is unique in the Berlin area. TIP Company chief Ralph Junick has really cornered the market in Potsdam, with four other French restaurants, including a tasty crêperie and a coffee shop. If you'll be in Potsdam for more than one meal, check Juliette's website to see what else is in town. \| Average main: €20 \| Jägerstr. 39 \| 0331/270–1791 \| www.restaurant-juliette.de. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Welcome to Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia Saxony Saxony-Anhalt Thuringia Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Top Reasons to Go \| Getting Oriented \| What's Where \| Planning \| Following Martin Luther \| Luther Quotes \| On the Trail of Martin Luther \| Reformation Timeline \| Bauhaus in Weimar \| Bauhaus in Dessau \| A Bauhaus Walk in Weimar \| Style Elements Updated by Lee A. Evans Germany's traditional charm is most evident in the eastern states of Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia. The area formed the core of the former communist German Democratic Republic (referred to by its German acronym, DDR, or its English equivalent, GDR), but there is hardly any left today. Instead an unspoiled German state of mind predominates. Eastern Germans resolutely cling to their German heritage. They proudly preserve their connections with such national heroes as Luther, Goethe, Schiller, Bach, Handel, Wagner, and the Hungarian-born Liszt. Towns in the regions of the Thüringer Wald (Thuringian Forest) or the Harz Mountains—long considered the haunt of witches—are drenched in history and medieval legend. The area hides a fantastic collection of rural villages and castles unparalleled in other parts of the country. Many cities, such as Erfurt, escaped World War II relatively unscathed, and the East Germans extensively rebuilt towns damaged by bombing. Although historical city centers were faithfully restored to their past glory, there are also plenty of eyesores of industrialization and stupendously bland housing projects, which the Germans refer to as Bausünden (architectural sins). Famous palaces and cultural wonders—the rebuilt historical center of Dresden, the Wartburg at Eisenach, the Schiller and Goethe houses in Weimar, Luther's Wittenberg, as well as the wonderfully preserved city of Görlitz—are waiting for to have their subtle and extravagant charms discovered. ## Top Reasons to Go Following Martin Luther: Trace the path of the ultimate medieval rebel in Wittenberg, Erfurt, Eisenach, and the Wartburg, and gain valuable insight into the mind and culture of a person whose ideas helped change the world. Frauenkirche in Dresden: Rising like a majestic baroque phoenix, the church is a worthy symbol of a city destroyed and rebuilt from its ashes. Görlitz: Balanced on the border between Germany and Poland, this architectural gem is relatively undiscovered; you'll feel as if you have the whole town to yourself. Weimar: The history of Germany seems to revolve around this small town, whose past residents are a veritable who's who of the last 400 years, including Goethe, Schiller, Bach, Liszt, and Gropius. Wine tasting in the Salle-Unstrut: The castle-topped, rolling hills covered in terraced vineyards are perfect for biking, hiking, and horseback riding. ## Getting Oriented These three states cover the southeastern part of the former East Germany, and the area holds Germany's most historical and beautiful cities. You'll still see old, dirty, and depressing industrial towns that recall the Communist past, but 25 years of reconstruction programs have slowly turned them into things of the past. Dresden revels in its reputation as "the Florence on the Elbe," and just downstream Meissen has undergone an impressive face-lift. Weimar, one of the continent's old cultural centers, and Leipzig, in particular, have washed off their grime and almost completely restored their historic city centers. Görlitz, Germany's easternmost city, benefited from an infusion of cash and is consistently lauded as one of the country's 10 most beautiful cities. ## What's Where Saxony. The pearl of eastern Germany, Saxony's countryside is dotted with beautifully renovated castles and fortresses, and the people are charming and full of energy. (They also speak in an almost incomprehensible local dialect.) Dresden and Leipzig are cosmopolitan centers that combine the energy of the avant-garde with a distinct respect for tradition. Saxony-Anhalt. Although long ignored by travelers, Saxony-Anhalt has more UNESCO World Heritage sites than any other region in Europe. The city of Naumburg is famed for its cathedral and for the wines produced in the surrounding vineyards. Thuringia. Of all the eastern German states, Thuringia has the best tourist infrastructure. Visitors to the classical jewel of Weimar and those interested in outdoor sports in the lush Thuringian Forest flock to the area, much as they have for centuries. Thuringia offers unparalleled natural sights as well as classical culture at reasonable prices. ## Planning ### When to Go Winters in this part of Germany can be cold, wet, and dismal, so unless you plan to ski in the Harz Mountains or the Thüringer Wald, visit in late spring, summer, or early autumn. Avoid Leipzig at trade-fair times, particularly in March and April. In summer every city, town, and village has a festival, with streets blocked and local culture spilling out into every open space. ### Getting Here and Around #### Air Travel It's easiest, and usually cheapest, to fly into Berlin or Frankfurt and rent a car from there. Dresden and Leipzig both have international airports that are primarily operated by budget carriers serving European destinations. Dresden Flughafen is about 10 km (6 miles) north of Dresden, and Leipzig's Flughafen Leipzig-Halle is 12 km (8 miles) northwest of the city. Airport Contacts Dresden Flughafen. \| Flughafenstr., \| Dresden \| 0351/881–3360 \| www.dresden-airport.de. Flughafen Leipzig-Halle. \| Termanalring 11, \| Schkeuditz \| 0341/224–1155 \| www.leipzig-halle-airport.de. #### Bus Travel Long-distance buses travel to Dresden and Leipzig. Bus service within the area is infrequent and mainly connects with rail lines. Check schedules carefully at central train stations or call the service phone number of Deutsche Bahn (German Railway) at local railway stations. #### Car Travel Expressways connect Berlin with Dresden (A-13) and Leipzig (A-9). Both journeys take about two hours. The A-4 stretches east–west across the southern portion of Thuringia and Saxony. A road-construction program in eastern Germany is ongoing, and you should expect traffic delays on any journey of more than 300 km (186 miles). The Bundesstrassen throughout eastern Germany are narrow, tree-lined country roads, often jammed with traffic. Roads in the western part of the Harz Mountains are better and wider. Cars can be rented at the Dresden and Leipzig airports, at train stations, and through all major hotels. Be aware that you are not allowed to take rentals into Poland or the Czech Republic. #### Train Travel The fastest and least expensive way to explore the region is by train. East Germany's rail infrastructure is exceptional; trains serve even the most remote destinations with astonishing frequency. Slower S, RB, and RE trains link smaller towns, while Leipzig, Dresden, Weimar, Erfurt, Naumburg, and Wittenberg are all on major InterCity Express (ICE) lines. Some cities—Dresden and Meissen, for example—are linked by commuter trains. From Dresden a round-trip ticket to Leipzig costs about €43 (a 1½-hour journey one-way); to Görlitz it's about €38 (a 1½-hour ride). Trains connect Leipzig with Halle (a 30-minute ride, €10), Erfurt (a 1-hour ride, €28), and Eisenach (a 1½-hour journey, €28). The train ride between Dresden and Eisenach (2½ hours) costs €56 one-way. TIP Consider using a Länder-Ticket: a €22 (plus €3 per person up to five people) regional day ticket from the German Railroad that covers local train travel in the respective state (for example, within Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, or Thuringia). ### Tours With two luxury ships, Viking K–D operates a full program of cruises on the Elbe River, from Hamburg as far as Prague. They run up to eight days from mid-April until late October. All the historic cities of Saxony and Thuringia are ports of call—including Dresden, Meissen, Wittenberg, and Dessau. Weisse Flotte's historic paddle-steam tours depart from and stop in Dresden, Meissen, Pirna, Pillnitz, Königsstein, and Bad Schandau. Besides tours in the Dresden area, boats also go into the Czech Republic. For more information contact the Sächsische Dampfschiffahrt. In Saxony two historic narrow-gauge trains still operate on a regular schedule. Both the Lössnitzgrundbahn, which connects Ost-Radebeul-Ost and Radeburg, as well as the Weisseritzelbahn, which operates between Freital-Hainsberg and Kurort Kipsdorf, are perfect for taking in some of Saxony's romantic countryside and the Fichtelberg Mountains. A round-trip ticket is between about €7 and €11, depending on the length of the ride. For schedule and information, contact Deutsche Bahn's regional Dresden office. The famous steam locomotive Harzquerbahn connects Nordhausen-Nord with Wernigerode and Gernerode in the Harz Mountains. The most popular track of this line is the Brockenbahn, a special narrow-gauge train transporting tourists to the top of northern Germany's highest mountain. For schedule and further information, contact the Harzer Schmalspurbahnen GmbH. Tour Contacts German Railroad (Deutsche Bahn). \| 0180/599–6633 \| www.bahn.de. Harzer Schmalspurbahnen GmbH. \| Friedrichstr. 151, \| Wernigerode \| 03943/5580 \| www.hsb-wr.de. Lössnitzgrundbahn. \| Geyersdorfer Str. 32, \| Annaberg-Buchholz \| 0351/46165–63684. Sächsische Dampfschiffahrt. \| Hertha-Lindner-Str. 10, \| Dresden \| 0351/866–090 \| www.saechsische-dampfschiffahrt.de. Weisseritztalbahn. \| Dresdner Str. 280, \| Freital \| 0351/641–2701 \| www.weisseritztalbahn.de. ### Restaurants Enterprising young managers and chefs have established themselves in the East, so look for new, usually small, restaurants. People in the region are extremely particular about their traditional food (rumor has it that one can be deported for roasting Mützbraten over anything other than birch), but some new chefs have successfully blended contemporary German with international influences. Medieval-theme restaurants and "experience dining," complete with entertainment, are all the rage in the East, and warrant at least one try. Brewpubs have sprouted up everywhere, and are a good bet for meeting locals. Prices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch. ### Hotels Hotels in eastern Germany are up to international standards and, due to economic subsidies in the 1990s, often far outshine their West German counterparts. In the East it's quite normal to have a major international hotel in a 1,000-year-old house or restored mansion. Smaller and family-run hotels are more charming local options, and often include a good restaurant. Most big hotels offer special weekend or activity-oriented packages that aren't found in the western part of the country. All hotels include breakfast, unless indicated otherwise. During the trade fairs and shows of the Leipziger Messe, particularly in March and April, most Leipzig hotels increase their prices. Prices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season. ### Planning Your Time Eastern Germany is a small, well-connected region that's well suited for day trips. Dresden and Leipzig are the largest cities with the most facilities, making them good bases from which to explore the surrounding countryside, either by car or train. Both are well connected with Berlin, Munich, and Frankfurt. Leipzig, Dresden, Lutherstadt-Wittenberg, and Dessau can be explored as day trips from Berlin. Any of the smaller towns offer a quieter, possibly more authentic look at the area. A trip into the Salle-Unstrut wine region is well worth the time, using Naumburg as a base. ### Discounts and Deals Most of the region's larger cities offer special tourist exploring cards, such as the Dresdencard, Hallecard, Leipzigcard, and Weimarcard, which include discounts at museums, concerts, hotels, and restaurants or special sightseeing packages for up to three days. For details, check with the local visitor information office. ## Following Martin Luther Saxony-Anhalt and Thuringia are currently celebrating the "Luther decade," preparing to mark the Protestant Reformation's 500th anniversary in 2017. A drive between the Lutherstädte (Luther Cities) allows for a deeper understanding of Martin Luther and the Reformation. Dissatisfaction was already brewing, but Martin Luther (1483–1546) was the first German to speak out against the Catholic Church. He took issue with the sale of indulgences—letters from the Pope purchased by wealthy Christians to absolve them of sins. His 95 Theses, which he brashly nailed to a church door, called for a return to faith in the Bible's teachings over the Pope's decrees, and an end to the sale of indulgences. Despite such so-called heretical beginnings, Luther overcame condemnation by the Pope and several other governing bodies. He continued to preach, building a family with Katharina von Bora, a former nun he married after "rescuing" her from a convent. After his death, Lutheranism spread across Europe as an accepted branch of Christianity. —Giulia Pines ## Luther Quotes "I am more afraid of my own heart than of the pope and all his cardinals. I have within me the great pope, Self." "When the Devil... sees men use violence to propagate the gospel, he... says with malignant looks and frightful grin: 'Ah, how wise these madmen are to play my game! Let them go on; I shall reap the benefit... '" ## On the Trail of Martin Luther Start in the town of Wittenberg, the unofficial capital of the Reformation. The comprehensive Lutherhaus museum is in the Augustinian monastery where Luther lived twice, first as a monk and later with his family. This multilevel, bilingual museum will convince the skeptics that Luther is worth remembering. From the museum, it's a short walk down the main thoroughfare Collegienstrasse to two churches that felt the influence of his teachings. The first is Stadtkirche St. Marien (Parish Church of St. Mary), where Luther often preached. The second, Schlosskirche (Castle Church), is where Luther changed history by posting his 95 Theses. The original wooden doors were destroyed in a 1760 fire, now replaced by bronze doors with the Latin text of the 95 Theses. On the way from one church to the other, stop to admire the statues of Luther and his friend and collaborator Philipp Melanchthon—they are buried next to each other in Schlosskirche. In the nearby town of Eisleben, the houses where Luther was born, the Luthers Geburtshaus (Lutherstr. 15 \| 03475/714–7814), and died, Luthers Sterbehaus (Sangerhäuser Str. 46 \| 03475/67680) lie 10 minutes from each other. From there, it's easy to spot the steeples of two churches: St. Petri-Pauli-Kirche (Church of Sts. Peter and Paul \| Petristr. \| 03475/602–229) and St. Andreaskirche (St. Andrew's Church \| Andreaskirchpl. \| 03475/602–229). The first was Luther's place of baptism, while the second houses the pulpit where Luther gave his last four sermons. His funeral was also held here before his body was taken back to Wittenberg. Continuing southwest the stunning medieval castle Wartburg is in the hills high above the town of Eisenach. Luther took refuge here after he was excommunicated by the Pope and outlawed by a general assembly called the Diet of Worms, famously translating the New Testament from the original Greek into German. ## Reformation Timeline 1517: Luther nails his 95 Theses to Wittenberg's Schlosskirche. 1521: Refusing to recant, Luther is excommunicated. 1537: Denmark's Christian III declares Lutheranism the state religion, leading to its spread in Scandinavia. 1555: Charles V signs Peace of Augsburg, ending open hostilities between Catholicism and Lutheranism and granting the latter official status. Due to the rise of Calvinism, conflict bubbles under the surface. 1558: Queen Elizabeth I of England supports the establishment of the English Protestant Church. 1577: The Formula of Concord ends disputes between sects, strengthening and preserving Lutheranism. 1618: Religious tensions explode in Bohemia, thrusting Europe into the Thirty Years' War. At war's end, much of Central Europe is in ruins, with 40% of people dead. 1650s and beyond: Lutheran explorers and settlers bring their beliefs to the New World. ## Bauhaus in Weimar Begun in Weimar, the Bauhaus movement's futuristic design, "form from function" mentality, and revolutionary spirit have inspired artists worldwide. Founded in 1919 by architect Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus movement had roots in the past but was also unabashedly modern. Based on the principles of William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement, Bauhaus promoted the idea of creation as a service to society, holding practical objects such as a chair, teapot, or lamp to the same high standards as true works of art. Its style was art deco but less ornate, machine-age but not industrial, its goal to put both spaces and materials to their most natural and economical uses. Although the Bauhaus school was shut down by the Nazis in the early 1930s, many former Bauhaus students left Germany and went to work in other parts of the world. Today, their influence can even be seen as far away as Tel Aviv, where Jewish architects fleeing Europe came to build their vision of a modern city. —Giulia Pines ## Bauhaus in Dessau If you have an extra day, take the train to Dessau, Bauhaus's second city, to see the iconic Bauhaus Building, adorned on one side with vertical block lettering spelling out "Bauhaus." Still an architecture school, it now houses the Bauhaus Dessau Foundation, and a multilevel Bauhaus Museum. You can even stay in the monastic Bauhaus studio flats here. ## A Bauhaus Walk in Weimar Start with the Bauhaus Museum in Weimar's central Theaterplatz, which offers a film about the history of Bauhaus and rotating exhibitions covering much of what there is to see in Weimar. Head south along Schützengasse and continue down Amalienstrasse to catch a glimpse of the Henry van de Velde–designed main building of Bauhaus University (Geschwister-Scholl-Str. 8 \| 03643/580 \| www.uni-weimar.de), formerly the Grand Ducal School of Arts and Crafts. A faithful reconstruction of Gropius's office can be found here as well. The Bauhaus Atelier (Geschwister-Scholl-Str. 6a \| 03643/583–000) at the university is a central meeting place for students. It contains a café and shop offering books about the movement as well as Bauhaus-designed souvenirs, and also marks the starting point for university-run Bauhaus walks. Head just south for the Gropius-designed Monument to the March Dead in Weimar's Historischer Friedhof (Historical Cemetery). This jagged expressionist structure, built in 1921, commemorates those who died in the Kapp Putsch, an attempt to overthrow the Weimar Republic a year earlier. Follow the signs for Goethes Gartenhaus (perhaps the most visited historical structure in Weimar) through the Park on the Ilm, and look just beyond it for the Haus am Horn (Am Horn 61 \| 03643/904–056). This modest, cubical structure designed by Georg Muche for the 1923 Bauhaus exhibition was meant to be a model of Bauhaus's functional philosophy. It was fully restored in 1999 to mark the 80 anniversary of the founding of Bauhaus. ## Style Elements According to the standards of Bauhaus, good design should be accompanied by good engineering. That's why so many Bauhaus buildings still look strikingly modern, even industrial, even though they may have been designed as early as the 1920s. Bauhaus's timelessness results from its use of three basic shapes—square, circle, and triangle—and three basic colors—red, blue, and yellow. To spot its influence, look for unadorned, boxlike structures with repeating parallel lines, flat roofs, and rectangular windowpanes. Furniture and household objects feature strong lines, retro-futuristic shapes, and the abundant use of metals. Bauhaus designers also revolutionized typography: the sign on the Bauhaus Building in Dessau is a prime example: look for clear, boxy typefaces, often combined collagelike with photographs and colorful graphics and shapes to create bold messages. The Swedish furniture chain IKEA owes a lot to Bauhaus. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Leipzig \| Dresden \| Meissen \| Bautzen/Budyšin \| Görlitz The people of Saxony identify themselves more as Saxon than German. Their hardworking and rustic attitudes, their somewhat peripheral location on the border with the Czech Republic and Poland, and their almost incomprehensible dialect are the targets of endless jokes and puns. However, Saxon pride rebuilt three cities magnificently: Dresden and Leipzig—the showcase cities of eastern Germany—and the smaller town of Görlitz, on the Neisse River. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ## Leipzig 184 km (114 miles) southwest of Berlin. Leipzig is, in a word, cool—but not so cool as to be pretentious. With its world-renowned links to Bach, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Martin Luther, Goethe, Schiller, and the fantastic Neue-Leipziger-Schule art movement, Leipzig is one of the great German cultural centers. It has impressive art-nouveau architecture, an incredibly clean city center, meandering narrow streets, and the temptations of coffee and cake on every corner. In Faust, Goethe describes Leipzig as "a little Paris"; in reality it's more reminiscent of Vienna, while remaining a distinctly energetic Saxon town. Leipzig's musical past includes Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750), who was organist and choir director at Leipzig's Thomaskirche, and the 19th-century composer Richard Wagner, who was born in the city in 1813. Today's Leipzig continues the cultural focus with extraordinary offerings of music, theater, and opera, not to mention fantastic nightlife. Wartime bombs destroyed much of Leipzig's city center, but reconstruction efforts have uncovered one of Europe's most vibrant cities. Leipzig's art-nouveau flair is best discovered by exploring the countless alleys, covered courtyards, and passageways. Some unattractive buildings from the postwar period remain, but only reinforce Leipzig's position on the line between modernity and antiquity. With a population of about 535,000, Leipzig is the third-largest city in eastern Germany (after Berlin and Dresden) and has long been a center of printing and bookselling. Astride major trade routes, it was an important market town in the Middle Ages, and it continues to be a trading center, thanks to the Leipziger Messe (trade and fair shows) throughout the year that bring together buyers from East and West. Unfortunately, Leipzig has a tendency to underwhelm first-time visitors. If you take Leipzig slow and have some cake, its subtle, hidden charms may surprise you. #### Getting Here and Around Leipzig is an hour from Berlin by train. Leipzig-Halle airport serves many European destinations, but no North American ones. #### Festivals Music Days. Leipzig's annual music festival is in June. \| Augustuspl. #### Timing Leipzig can easily be explored in one day; it's possible to walk around the downtown area in just about three hours. The churches can be inspected in less than 20 minutes each. But if you're interested in German history and art, plan for two full days, so you can spend one day just visiting the museums and go to the symphony. The Völkerschlachtdenkmal is perfect for a three-hour side trip. #### Essentials Visitor Information Leipzig Tourismus und Marketing. \| Augustuspl. 9 \| 0341/710–4260 \| www.leipzig.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Grassimuseum. British star architect David Chipperfield restored and modernized this fine example of German art deco in 2003–05. The building, dating to 1925–29, houses three important museums. \| Johannispl. 5–11 \| www.grassimuseum.de \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Museum für Angewandte Kunst (Museum of Applied Art). This museum showcases 2,000 years of works from Leipzig's and eastern Germany's proud tradition of handicrafts, such as exquisite porcelain, fine tapestry art, and modern Bauhaus design. \| Johannispl. 5–11 \| 0341/222–9100 \| www.grassimuseum.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 Museum für Völkerkunde (Ethnological Museum). Presenting arts and crafts from all continents and various eras, this museum includes a thrilling collection of Southeast Asian antique art and the world's only Kurile Ainu feather costume, in the Northeast Asia collection. \| Johannispl. 5–11 \| 0341/973–1300 \| www.grassimuseum.de \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 Museum für Musikinstrumente (Musical Instruments Museum). Historical musical instruments, mostly from the Renaissance, include the world's oldest clavichord, constructed in 1543 in Italy. There are also spinets, flutes, and lutes. Recordings of the instruments can be heard at the exhibits. \| Johannispl. 5–11 \| 0341/973–0750 \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 Mädlerpassage (Mädler Mall). The ghost of Goethe's Faust lurks in every marble corner of Leipzig's finest shopping arcade. One of the scenes in Faust is set in the famous Auerbachs Keller restaurant, at No. 2. A bronze group of characters from the play, sculpted in 1913, beckons you down the stone staircase to the restaurant. TIP Touching the statues' feet is said to bring good luck. A few yards away is a delightful art-nouveau bar called Mephisto. \| Grimmaische Str. Markt. Leipzig's showpiece is its huge, old market square. One side is completely occupied by the Renaissance town hall, the Altes Rathaus. Stadtgeschichtliches Museum. Inside the Altes Rathaus, this museum documents Leipzig's past. The entrance is behind the Rathaus. The museum is expanding its exhibition space behind the Museum for Applied Arts. \| Böttchergässchen 3 \| 0341/965–130 \| www.stadtgeschichtliches-museum-leipzig.de \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 Museum der Bildenden Künste (Museum of Fine Arts). The city's leading art gallery is minimalism incarnate, set in a huge concrete cube encased in green glass in the middle of Sachsenplatz Square. The museum's collection of more than 2,700 paintings and sculptures represents everything from the German Middle Ages to the modern Neue Leipziger Schule. Especially notable are the collections focusing on Lucas Cranach the Elder and Caspar David Friedrich.TIP Be sure to start at the top and work your way down. Don't miss Max Klinger's Beethoven as Zeus statue. \| Katharinenstr. 10 \| 0341/216–990 \| www.mdbk.de \| €5, €6–€8 for special exhibits \| Tues. and Thurs.–Sun. 10–6, Wed. noon–8. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas Church). This church with its undistinguished facade was center stage during the demonstrations that helped bring down the Communist regime. Every Monday for months before the government collapsed, thousands of citizens gathered in front of the church chanting "Wir sind das Volk" ("We are the people"). Inside are a soaring Gothic choir and nave. Note the unusual patterned ceiling supported by classical pillars that end in palm-tree-like flourishes. Martin Luther is said to have preached from the ornate 16th-century pulpit.TIP The prayers for peace that began the revolution in 1989 are still held on Monday at 5 pm. \| Nikolaikirchhof \| 0341/960–5270 \| Free \| Mon.–Sat. 10–6; Sun. services at 9:30, 11:15, and 5. Fodor's Choice \| Thomaskirche (St. Thomas's Church). Bach was choirmaster at this Gothic church for 27 years, and Martin Luther preached here on Whitsunday 1539, signaling the arrival of Protestantism in Leipzig. Originally the center of a 13th-century monastery, the tall church (rebuilt in the 15th century) now stands by itself. Bach wrote most of his cantatas for the church's famous boys' choir, the Thomanerchor, which was founded in the 13th century; the church continues as the choir's home as well as a center of Bach tradition. The great music Bach wrote during his Leipzig years commanded little attention in his lifetime, and when he died he was given a simple grave, without a headstone, in the city's Johannisfriedhof (St. John Cemetery). It wasn't until 1894 that an effort was made to find where the great composer lay buried, and after a thorough, macabre search, his coffin was removed to the Johanniskirche. That church was destroyed by Allied bombs in December 1943, and Bach subsequently found his final resting place in the church he would have selected: the Thomaskirche. You can listen to the famous boys' choir during the Motette, a service with a special emphasis on choral music. Bach's 12 children and the infant Richard Wagner were baptized in the early-17th-century font; Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels also stood before this same font, godfathers to Karl Liebknecht, who grew up to be a revolutionary as well. In front of the church is a memorial to Felix Mendelssohn, rebuilt with funds collected by the Leipzig Citizens Initiative. The Nazis destroyed the original in front of the Gewandhaus. \| Thomaskirchhof \| 0341/222–240 \| www.thomaskirche.org \| Free, Motette €2 \| Daily 9–6; Motette Fri. at 6 pm, Sat. at 3; no Motette during Saxony summer vacation (usually mid-July–Aug.). #### Worth Noting Bach-Museum im Bach-Archiv Leipzig (Bach Museum at the Bach Archives Leipzig). The Bach family home, the old Bosehaus, stands opposite the Thomaskirche, and is now a museum devoted to the composer's life and work. The newly renovated museum offers several interactive displays; arranging the instrumental parts of Bach's hymns is by far the most entertaining. \| Thomaskirchhof 16 \| 0341/913–7200 \| www.bach-leipzig.de (German only)) \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Hauptbahnhof. With 26 platforms, Leipzig's main train station is Europe's largest railhead. It was built in 1915 and is now a protected monument, but modern commerce rules in its bilevel shopping mall (the Promenaden). The only thing the complex is missing is a pub. Many of the shops and restaurants stay open until 10 pm and are open on Sunday. Thanks to the historic backdrop, this is one of the most beautiful shopping experiences in East Germany. \| Willy-Brandt-Pl. \| 0341/141–270 for mall, 0341/9968–3275 for train station. Leipziger Universitätsturm (Leipzig University Tower). Towering over Leipzig's city center is this 470-foot-high structure, which houses administrative offices and lecture rooms. Dubbed the "jagged tooth" or "wisdom tooth" by some University of Leipzig students, it supposedly represents an open book. Students were also largely responsible for changing the university's name, replacing its postwar title, Karl Marx University, with the original one. The Augustusplatz spreads out below the university tower like a space-age campus. \| Augustuspl. 9. Mendelssohn Haus (Mendelssohn House). The only surviving residence of the composer Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy is now Germany's only museum dedicated to him. Mendelssohn's last residence and the place of his death has been preserved in its original 19th-century state. Concerts are held every Sunday at 11. \| Goldschmidtstr. 12 \| 0341/127–0294 \| www.mendelssohn-haus.de \| €4.50, concert €15 \| Daily 10–6. Museum in der Runden Ecke (Museum in the Round Corner). This building once served as the headquarters of the city's detachment of the Communist secret police, the dreaded Staatssicherheitsdienst. The exhibition Stasi—Macht und Banalität (Stasi—Power and Banality) presents not only the Stasi's offices and surveillance work, but also hundreds of documents revealing the magnitude of its interests in citizens' private lives. Though the material is in German, the items and atmosphere convey an impression of what life under the regime might have been like. The exhibit about the death penalty in the GDR is particularly chilling. \| Dittrichring 24 \| 0341/961–2443 \| www.runde-ecke-leipzig.de \| Free; €4 with tour in English, by appointment \| Daily 10–6. Museum zum Arabischen Kaffeebaum (Arabic Coffee Tree Museum). This museum and café-restaurant tells the fascinating history of coffee culture in Europe, particularly in Saxony. The café is one of the oldest on the continent, and once proudly served coffee to such luminaries as Gotthold Lessing, Schumann, Goethe, and Liszt. The museum features many paintings, Arabian coffee vessels, and coffeehouse games. It also explains the basic principles of roasting coffee. The café is divided into traditional Viennese, French, and Arabian coffeehouses, but no coffee is served in the Arabian section, which is only a display.TIP The cake is better and the seating more comfortable in the Viennese part. \| Kleine Fleischerg. 4 \| 0341/960–2632 \| www.coffe-baum.de \| Free \| Tues.–Sun. 11–5. Neues Gewandhaus (New Orchestra Hall). In the shadow of the Leipziger Universitätsturm is the glass-and-concrete home of the Leipzig Philharmonic Orchestra. Kurt Masur is a former director, and Michael Köhler is currently at the helm. Owing to the world-renowned acoustics of the concert hall, a tone resonates here for a full two seconds. \| Augustuspl. 8 \| 0341/127–0280 \| www.gewandhaus.de. Opernhaus (Opera House). Leipzig's stage for operas was the first postwar theater to be built in Communist East Germany. Its solid, boxy style is the subject of ongoing local discussion. \| Augustuspl. Völkerschlachtdenkmal (Memorial to the Battle of the Nations). On the city's outskirts, Prussian, Austrian, Russian, and Swedish forces stood ground against Napoléon's troops in the Battle of the Nations of 1813, a prelude to the French general's defeat two years later at Waterloo. An enormous, 300-foot-high monument erected on the site in 1913 commemorates the battle. Despite its massiveness, the site is well worth a visit, if only to wonder at the lengths—and heights—to which the Prussians went to celebrate their military victories, and to take in the view from a windy platform (provided you can climb the 500 steps to get there). The Prussians did make one concession to Napoléon in designing the monument: a stone marks the spot where he stood during the three-day battle. An exhibition hall explains the history of the memorial, which can be reached via Streetcar 15 or 21 (leave the tram at the Probstheida station). \| Str. des 18 Oktober 100 \| 0341/878–0471 \| www.stadtgeschichtliches-museum-leipzig.de \| €6 \| Nov.–Apr., daily 10–4; May–Oct., daily 10–6; tour Tues. at 5. Zeitgeschichtliches Forum Leipzig (Museum of Contemporary History Leipzig). This excellent history museum focuses on issues surrounding the division and reunification of Germany after World War II. \| Grimmaische Str. 6 \| 0341/225–0500 \| www.hdg.de \| Free \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. ### Where to Eat Fodor's Choice \| Auerbachs Keller. GERMAN \| The most famous of Leipzig's restaurants is actually two restaurants: one that's upscale, international, and gourmet (down the stairs to the right), and a rowdy beer cellar (to the left) specializing in hearty Saxon fare, mostly roasted meat dishes. The fine-dining section's five-course menus (€110) are worth a splurge, and it also has a good wine list. The beer cellar has been around since 1530, making it one of the oldest continually running restaurants on the continent. Goethe immortalized one of the vaulted historic rooms in his Faust, and Bach was a regular here because of the location halfway between the Thomaskirche and the Nikolaikirche. \| Average main: €15 \| Mädlerpassage, Grimmaische Str. 2–4 \| 0341/216–100 \| Reservations essential \| Closed Mon. Barthels Hof. GERMAN \| The English-language menu at this restaurant explains not only the cuisine but also the history of Leipzig. Waitresses wear traditional Trachten, but the rooms are quite modern. With a prominent location on the Markt, the restaurant is popular with locals, especially for the incredible breakfast buffet. Barthels has managed to elevate the local Leipziger Allerlei (vegetables and crayfish in beef bouillon) to an art form. Enjoy a meal here with a fresh Bauer Gose. \| Average main: €12 \| Hainstr. 1 \| 0341/141–310. Gasthaus & Gosebrauerei Bayrischer Bahnhof. GERMAN \| Hidden on the far southeast edge of the city center, the Bayrischer Bahnhof was the terminus of the first rail link between Saxony and Bavaria. The brewery here is the heart of a cultural renaissance, and is the only place currently brewing Gose in Leipzig. The restaurant is well worth a visit for its solid Saxon and German cuisine. Brewery accents surface in dishes such as rump steak with black-beer sauce, and the onion rings can't be beat. If the Gose is too sour for your tastes, order it with one of the sweet syrups—raspberry is the best. Groups of four or more can try dinner prepared in a Römertopf (a terra-cotta baking dish; the first was brought to Germany by the Romans, centuries ago). TIP In summer the beer garden is a pleasant place to get away from the bustle of the city center. \| Average main: €11 \| Bayrischer Pl. 1 \| 0341/124–5760 \| www.bayrischer-bahnhof.de \| No credit cards. Kaffeehaus Riquet. CAFÉ \| The restored art nouveau house dates from 1908. Riquet is a company that has had dealings in the coffee trade in Africa and East Asia since 1745, as is indicated by the large elephant heads adorning the facade of the building. The upstairs section houses a pleasant Viennese-style coffeehouse—the best views are had from up here—while downstairs is noisier and more active. TIP Afternoon coffee and cake are one of Leipzig's special pleasures (in a country with an obsession for coffee and cake), and Riquet is the best place in the city to satisfy the urge. \| Average main: €4 \| Schulmachergässchen 1 \| 0341/961–0000 \| No credit cards \| No dinner. Thüringer Hof. GERMAN \| One of Germany's oldest restaurants and pubs (dating back to 1454) served its hearty Thuringian and Saxon fare to Martin Luther and the like—who certainly had more than a mere pint of the beers on tap. The menu in the reconstructed, cavernous, and always buzzing dining hall doesn't exactly offer gourmet cuisine, but rather an impressively enormous variety of game, fish, and bratwurst dishes. The Thuringian sausages (served with either sauerkraut and boiled potatoes or onions and mashed potatoes) and the famous Thuringian Sauerbraten (beef marinated in a sour essence) are musts. \| Average main: €12 \| Burgstr. 19 \| 0341/994–4999. Zill's Tunnel. GERMAN \| The "tunnel" refers to the barrel-ceiling ground-floor restaurant, where foaming glasses of excellent local beer are served with a smile. The friendly staff will also help you decipher the Old Saxon descriptions of the menu's traditional dishes. Upstairs there's a larger wine restaurant with an open fireplace. Try the pan-seared Maischolle, a type of flatfish. \| Average main: €13 \| Barfussgässchen 9 \| 0341/960–2078. * * * What to Eat in Saxony The cuisine of the region is hearty and seasonal, and almost every town has a unique specialty unavailable outside the immediate area. Look for Sächsische Sauerbraten (marinated sour beef roast), spicy Thüringer Bratwurst (sausage), Schlesische Himmelreich (ham and pork roast smothered in baked fruit and white sauce, served with dumplings), Teichlmauke (mashed potato in broth), Blauer Karpfe (blue carp, marinated in vinegar), and Raacher Maad (grated and boiled potatoes fried in butter and served with blueberries). Venison and wild boar are standards in forest and mountainous areas, and lamb from Saxony-Anhalt is particularly good. In Thuringia, Klösse (potato dumplings) are virtually a religion. Eastern Germany is experiencing a renaissance in the art of northern German brewing. The first stop for any beer lover should be the Bayrische Bahnhof in Leipzig, to give Gose a try. Dresden's Brauhaus Watzke, Quedlinburg's Lüddebräu, and even the Landskron Brauerei in Görlitz are bringing craft brewing back to a region inundated with mass-produced brew. Saxony has cultivated vineyards for more than 800 years, and is known for its dry red and white wines, among them Müller-Thurgau, Weissburgunder, Ruländer, and the spicy Traminer. The Sächsische Weinstrasse (Saxon Wine Route) follows the course of the Elbe River from Diesbar-Seusslitz (north of Meissen) to Pirna (southeast of Dresden). Meissen, Radebeul, and Dresden have upscale wine restaurants, and wherever you see a green seal with the letter S and grapes depicted, good local wine is being served. One of the best-kept secrets in German wine making is the Salle-Unstrut region, which produces spicy Silvaner and Rieslings. * * * ### Where to Stay Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Fürstenhof Leipzig. HOTEL \| The city's grandest hotel—part of Starwood's Luxury Collection—is inside the renowned Löhr-Haus, a revered old mansion 500 meters from the main train station on the ring road surrounding the city center. The stunning banquet section is the epitome of 19th-century grandeur, with red wallpaper and black serpentine stone; the bar is a lofty meeting area under a bright glass cupola. Rooms are spacious and decorated with cherrywood designer furniture. Pros: an elegant full-service hotel with stunning rooms; safes big enough for a laptop are a nice touch. Cons: the ring road can be noisy at night, especially on Friday and Saturday. \| Rooms from: €149 \| Tröndlinring 8 \| 0341/140–370 \| www.luxurycollection.com \| 80 rooms, 12 suites. Park Hotel-Seaside Hotel Leipzig. HOTEL \| A few steps from the central train station, this hotel is primarily geared to the business traveler. The modern rooms may lack some character, but the warm service and exceptional bathrooms make for a pleasant stay. The Orient Express restaurant, a reconstruction of the famous 19th-century train, is another plus. Pros: pleasant swimming-pool area. Cons: not the place for romantic weekends. \| Rooms from: €85 \| Richard-Wagner-Str. 7 \| 0341/98520 \| www.parkhotelleipzig.de/ \| 281 rooms, 9 suites \| Breakfast. Ringhotel Adagio Leipzig. HOTEL \| The quiet Adagio, tucked away behind the facade of a 19th-century city mansion, is centrally located between the Grassimuseum and the Neues Gewandhaus. All rooms are individually furnished; when making a reservation, ask for a "1920s room," which features the style of the Roaring '20s and bathtubs almost as large as a whirlpool. Pros: large rooms with luxurious bathrooms; breakfast available all day. Cons: room decor is slightly bland; hotel not built to accommodate disabled guests. \| Rooms from: €75 \| Seeburgstr. 96 \| 0341/216–690 \| www.hotel-adagio.de \| 30 rooms, 2 suites, 1 apartment \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts #### The Arts Krystallpalast. This variety theater features a blend of circus, vaudeville, and comedy that is fairly accessible for non-German speakers. \| Magazing. 4 \| 0341/140–660 \| www.krystallpalast.de. Leipziger Pfeffermühle. One of Germany's most famous cabarets has a lively bar off a courtyard opposite the Thomaskirche. On pleasant evenings the courtyard fills with benches and tables, and the scene rivals the indoor performance for entertainment. \| Katharinenstr. 17 \| 0341/960–3196 \| www.kabarett-leipziger-pfeffermuehle.de. Neues Gewandhaus. This controversial piece of architecture is home to an undeniably splendid orchestra. Tickets to concerts are difficult to obtain unless you reserve well in advance. Sometimes spare tickets are available at the box office a half hour before the evening performance. \| Augustuspl. 8 \| 0341/127–0280 \| www.gewandhaus.de. #### Nightlife With a vast assortment of restaurants, cafés, and clubs to match the city's exceptional musical and literary offerings, Leipzig is a fun city at night. The Kneipenszene (pub scene) is centered on the Drallewatsch (a Saxon slang word for "going out"), the small streets and alleys around Grosse and Kleine Fleischergasse and the Barfussgässchen. Moritzbastei. A magnet for young people, this is reputedly Europe's largest student club, with bars, a disco, a café, a theater, and a cinema. Nonstudents are welcome—if you're cool enough. \| Universitätsstr. 9 \| 0341/702–590. Schauhaus. A favorite hangout among the city's business elite, this stylish bar serves great cocktails. \| Bosestr. 1 \| 0341/960–0596. Spizz Keller. This hip place is one of the city's top dance clubs. \| Markt 9 \| 0341/960–8043. Tanzpalast. In the august setting of the Schauspielhaus (city theater), the Tanzpalast attracts a thirtysomething crowd. This was the place to be seen in GDR Leipzig. \| Bosestr. 1 \| 0341/960–0596. Weinstock. This upscale bar, pub, and restaurant in a Renaissance building offers a huge selection of good wines. \| Markt 7 \| 0341/1406–0606. ### Shopping Small streets leading off the Markt attest to Leipzig's rich trading past. Tucked in among them are glass-roof arcades of surprising beauty and elegance, including the wonderfully restored Specks Hof, Barthels Hof, Jägerhof, and the Passage zum Sachsenplatz. Invent a headache and step into the Apotheke (pharmacy) at Hainstrasse 9—it is spectacularly art nouveau, with finely etched and stained glass and rich mahogany. For more glimpses into the past, check out the antiquarian bookstores of the nearby Neumarkt Passage. Hauptbahnhof. Leipzig's main train station has more than 150 shops, restaurants, and cafés, all open Monday through Saturday 9:30 am–10 pm; many are also open on Sunday, with the same hours. \| Willy-Brandt-Pl. En Route: Colditz. The A–14 leads to Dresden, but for a scene out of World War II, head south toward Borna, taking B-176 to Colditz. A pretty river valley holds a pleasant Saxon village whose name still sends a chill through Allied veterans. During the war the Germans converted the town's massive, somber castle into what they believed would be an escape-proof prison for those regarded as security risks. Many managed to flee, however, employing a catalog of ruses that have since been the stuff of films and books. The castle is now a home for the elderly, but the courtyards and some of the installations used during the war can be visited. The town itself is worth a stop and is an interesting day trip from Leipzig. To avoid driving, take the train from Leipzig to Grossbothen and a bus to Colditz. \| Colditz. ## Dresden 25 km (16 miles) southeast of Meissen, 140 km (87 miles) southeast of Leipzig, 193 km (120 miles) south of Berlin. Sitting in baroque splendor on a wide sweep of the Elbe River, Dresden has been the capital of Saxony since the 15th century, although most of its architectural masterpieces date from the 18th century and the reigns of Augustus the Strong and his son, Frederick Augustus II. Today the city's yellow and pale-green facades are enormously appealing, and their mere presence is even more overwhelming when you compare what you see with photographs of Dresden from February 1945. That's when Allied bombing destroyed the Altstadt (Old City) overnight. But Dresden has risen from these ashes, regaining its reputation as "the Florence on the Elbe." Although parts of the city center still look stuck between demolition and construction, the city's rebuilding is an enormous tribute to Dresdeners' skill, dedication, and thoroughness. The resemblance of today's riverside to Dresden cityscapes painted by Canaletto in the mid-1700s is remarkable. Unfortunately, war-inflicted gaps in other parts of the city are too big to be closed anytime soon. Main sights are contained within the Altstadt. On the other side of the river, the Neustadt (New City), which escaped wartime destruction, is the place to go out at night. #### Getting Here and Around Dresden is two hours from Berlin on the Hamburg-Berlin-Prague-Vienna train line. The city's international airport serves mostly European destinations with budget airlines. The newly completed Norman Foster train station is a short walk along the Prager Strasse from the city center. Streetcars are cheap and efficient. Dresden bus tours (in German and English, run by the Dresdner Verkehrsbetriebe) leave from Postplatz daily at 10, 11:30, and 3; the Stadtrundfahrt Dresden bus tours (also in German and English) leave from Theaterplatz/Augustusbrücke (April–October, daily 9:30–5, every 30 minutes; November–March, daily 10–3, every hour) and stop at most sights. #### Festivals Filmnächte am Elbufer (Elbe Riverside Film Nights). In addition to the annual film festival in April, open-air Filmnächte am Elbufer take place on the bank of the Elbe from late June to late August. \| Am Königsufer, next to State Ministry of Finance \| 0351/899–320. Jazz. May brings an annual international festival of Dixieland jazz, and the Jazz Autumn festival follows in October. \| Altmarkt. #### Timing A long full day is sufficient for a quick tour of historic Dresden with a brief visit to one of the museums. The focus of your day should be a visit to the Grünes Gewölbe. If you plan to explore any of the museums at length, such as the Zwinger, or take a guided tour of the Semperoper, you'll need more time. One of the best ways to see Dresden is as a stop between Berlin and Prague. #### Essentials Tour Information Dresdner Verkehrsbetriebe AG. \| Service Center, Postpl. 1 \| 0351/857–2201. Stadtrundfahrt Dresden. \| Theaterpl. \| 0351/899–5650. Visitor Information Dresden Tourist. \| Schlossstr. 1, inside the Kulturpalast \| 0351/491–920 \| www.dresden.de. Previous Map \| Next Map \| Germany Maps ### Exploring #### Top Attractions Fodor's Choice \| Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). This masterpiece of baroque church architecture was completed in 1743. The huge dome set on a smaller square base, known as the Stone Bell, was the inspiration of George Bähr, who designed the church to be built "as if it was a single stone from the base to the top." On February 15, 1945, two days after the bombing of Dresden, the burned-out shell of the magnificent Stone Bell collapsed. For the following five decades the remains of the church, a pile of rubble, remained a gripping memorial to the horrors of war. In a move shocking to the East German authorities, who organized all public demonstrations, a group of young people spontaneously met here on February 13, 1982, for a candlelight vigil for peace. Although the will to rebuild the church was strong, the political and economic situation in the GDR prevented it. It wasn't until the reunification of Germany that Dresden began to seriously consider reconstruction. In the early 1990s a citizens' initiative, joined by the Lutheran Church of Saxony and the city of Dresden, decided to rebuild the church using the original stones. The goal of completing the church by 2006, Dresden's 800th anniversary, seemed insurmountable. Money soon started pouring in from around the globe, however, and work began. The rubble was cleared away, and the size and shape of each stone were cataloged. Computer-imaging technology helped place each recovered stone in its original location. On Sunday, October 30, 2005 (almost a year ahead of schedule), Dresden's skyline became a little more complete with the consecration of the Frauenkirche. Leading the service was the Bishop of Coventry. Although the church is usually open to all, it closes frequently for concerts and other events. Check the English-language schedule next to Entrance D. \| An der Frauenkirche \| 0351/498–1131 \| www.frauenkirche-dresden.org \| Free, cupola and tower €8, audio guides in English €2.50 \| Weekdays 10–noon and 1–6, cupola and tower daily 10–6. Residenzschloss (Royal Palace). Restoration work is still under way behind the Renaissance facade of this former royal palace, much of which was built between 1709 and 1722. Some of the finished rooms in the Georgenbau (Count George Wing) hold historical exhibits, among them an excellent one on the reconstruction of the palace itself. The palace's main gateway, the Georgentor, has an enormous statue of the fully armed Saxon count George. TIP From April through October, the palace's old Hausmannsturm (Hausmann Tower) offers a wonderful view of the city and the Elbe River. The main attraction in the Royal Palace, though, is the world-famous Grünes Gewölbe (Green Vault). Named after a green room in the palace of Augustus the Strong, the collection is divided into two sections. The palace also houses the Münzkabinett (Coin Museum) and the Kupferstichkabinett (Museum of Prints and Drawings), with more than 500,000 pieces of art spanning several centuries. Changing exhibits at the Kupferstichkabinett have presented masterworks by Albrecht Dürer, Peter Paul Rubens, and Jan van Eyck; 20th-century art by Otto Dix, Edvard Munch, and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner; East European art; and some Southeast Asian prints. The Türckische Cammer (Turkish Chamber) comprises a huge number of Ottoman artifacts collected by Saxon dukes over centuries. It's worth going just to see the six carved Arabian horses, bedecked with jeweled armor. \| Schlosspl. \| 0351/491–4619 \| www.skd.museum \| All museums and collections except Historic Green Vault €10; Historic Green Vault €14 \| Wed.–Mon. 10–6; Historic Green Vault by appointment. Historisches Grünes Gewölbe (Historic Green Vault). This section of the castle most reflects Augustus the Strong's obsession with art as a symbol of power. The intricately restored baroque interior is an integral part of the presentation, highlighting the objects in the collection. The last section of the museum houses the Jewel Room, which displays the ceremonial crown jewels of Augustus the Strong and his son. Access to the Historic Green Vault is limited to 100 visitors per hour and is by appointment only, reserved by phone or online. \| Taschenberg 2 \| 0351/4919–2285 for tours \| www.skd.museum \| €14 \| By appointment. Neues Grünes Gewölbe (New Green Vault). The exquisite collection here consists of objets d'art fashioned from gold, silver, ivory, amber, and other precious and semiprecious materials. Among the crown jewels are the world's largest "green" diamond, 41 carats in weight, and a dazzling group of tiny gem-studded figures called Hofstaat zu Delhi am Geburtstag des Grossmoguls Aureng-Zeb (the Court at Delhi during the Birthday of the Great Mogul Aureng-Zeb). The unwieldy name gives a false idea of the size of the work, dating from 1708; some parts of the tableau are so small they can be admired only through a magnifying glass. Somewhat larger and less delicate is the drinking bowl of Ivan the Terrible, perhaps the most sensational artifact in this extraordinary museum. \| Taschenberg 2 \| www.skd.museum. Semperoper (Semper Opera House). One of Germany's best-known and most popular theaters, this magnificent opera house saw the premieres of Richard Wagner's Rienzi, Der Fliegende Holländer, and Tannhäuser and Richard Strauss's Salome, Elektra, and Der Rosenkavalier. The Dresden architect Gottfried Semper built the house in 1838–41 in Italian Renaissance style, then saw his work destroyed in a fire caused by a careless lamplighter. Semper had to flee Dresden after participating in a democratic uprising, but his son Manfred rebuilt the theater in the neo-Renaissance style you see today, though even Manfred Semper's version had to be rebuilt after the devastating bombing raid of February 1945. On the 40th anniversary of that raid—February 13, 1985—the Semperoper reopened with a performance of Der Freischütz, by Carl Maria von Weber, the last opera performed in the building before its destruction. There is a statue of Weber, another artist who did much to make Dresden a leading center of German music and culture, outside the opera house in the shadow of the Zwinger. Even if you're no opera buff, the Semper's lavish interior can't fail to impress. Velvet, brocade, and well-crafted imitation marble create an atmosphere of intimate luxury (it seats 1,323). Guided tours (must be reserved in advance) of the building are offered throughout the day, depending on the opera's rehearsal schedule. Check the website for schedules. Tours begin at the entrance to your right as you face the Elbe River. \| Theaterpl. 2 \| 0351/491–1496 \| www.semperoper-erleben.de \| Tour €9. Fodor's Choice \| Zwinger (Bailey). Dresden's magnificent baroque showpiece is entered by way of the mighty Kronentor (Crown Gate), off Ostra-Allee. Augustus the Strong hired a small army of artists and artisans to create a "pleasure ground" worthy of the Saxon court on the site of the former bailey, part of the city fortifications. The artisans worked under the direction of the architect Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann, who came reluctantly out of retirement to design what would be his greatest work, begun in 1707 and completed in 1728. Completely enclosing a central courtyard filled with lawns, pools, and fountains, the complex is made up of six linked pavilions, one of which boasts a carillon of Meissen bells, hence its name: Glockenspielpavillon. The Zwinger is quite a scene—a riot of garlands, nymphs, and other baroque ornamentation and sculpture. Wide staircases beckon to galleried walks and to the romantic Nymphenbad, a coyly hidden courtyard where statues of nude women perch in alcoves to protect themselves from a fountain that spits unexpectedly. The Zwinger once had an open view of the riverbank, but the Semper Opera House now occupies that side. Stand in the center of this quiet oasis, where the city's roar is kept at bay by the outer wings of the structure, and imagine the court festivities once held here. \| Ostra–Allee \| www.skd.museum \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister (Gallery of Old Masters). This museum, in the northwestern corner of the complex, was built to house portions of the royal art collections. Among the priceless paintings are works by Dürer, Holbein, Jan van Eyck, Rembrandt, Rubens, Van Dyck, Hals, Vermeer, Raphael, Titian, Giorgione, Veronese, Velázquez, Murillo, Canaletto, and Watteau. On the wall of the entrance archway you'll see an inscription in Russian, one of the few amusing reminders of World War II in Dresden. It rhymes in Russian: "Museum checked. No mines. Chanutin did the checking." Chanutin, presumably, was the Russian soldier responsible for checking one of Germany's greatest art galleries for anything more explosive than a Rubens nude. The highlight of the collection is Raphael's Sistine Madonna, whose mournful look is slightly less famous than the two cherubs who were added by Raphael after the painting was completed, in order to fill an empty space at the bottom. \| 0351/491–4679 \| €12 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 Porzellansammlung (Porcelain Collection). Stretching from the curved gallery that adjoins the Glockenspielpavillon to the long gallery on the east side, this collection is considered one of the best of its kind in the world. The focus, naturally, is on Dresden and Meissen china, but there are also outstanding examples of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean porcelain. \| 0351/491–4619 \| €6 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 Rüstkammer (Armory). Holding medieval and Renaissance suits of armor and weapons, the Rüstkammer is in two parts: the main exhibit in the Semperbau and the Türckische Cammer in the Residenzschloss. \| 0351/491–4619 \| €10 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 #### Worth Noting Albertinum. Named after Saxony's King Albert, who between 1884 and 1887 converted a royal arsenal into a suitable setting for the treasures he and his forebears had collected, this massive, imperial-style building houses one of the world's great galleries featuring works from the romantic period to the modern. The Galerie Neue Meister (New Masters Gallery) has an extensive collection ranging from Caspar David Friedrich and Gauguin to Ernst Kirchner and Georg Baselitz. \| Am Neumarkt, Brühlsche Terrasse \| 0351/49849–14973 \| www.skd.museum \| €10 \| Wed.–Mon. 10–6. Altmarkt (Old Market Square). Although dominated by the nearby, unappealing, Kulturpalast (Palace of Culture), the Altmarkt is a fascinating concrete leftover from the 1970s (check out the workers and peasants GDR mosaic); the broad square and its surrounding streets are the true center of Dresden. The colonnaded beauty (from the Stalinist-era architecture of the early 1950s) survived the efforts of city planners to turn it into a huge outdoor parking lot. The rebuilt Rathaus (Town Hall) is here (go around the front to see bullet holes in the statuary), as is the yellow-stucco, 18th-century Landhaus, which contains the Stadtmuseum Dresden im Landhaus. TIP Dresdners joke that you should never park your car here because the square is under almost constant construction and you might never find it again. Augustusbrücke (Augustus Bridge). This bridge, which spans the river in front of the Katholische Hofkirche, is the reconstruction of a 17th-century baroque bridge blown up by the SS shortly before the end of World War II. It was restored and renamed for Georgi Dimitroff, one of the Bulgarian Communists accused by the Nazis of instigating the Reichstag fire; after the fall of Communism the original name, honoring Augustus the Strong, was reinstated. Off the Beaten Path: Deutsches Hygiene-Museum Dresden. This unique (even in a country with a national tendency for excessive cleanliness) and unfortunately named museum relates the history of public health and science. The permanent exhibit offers lots of hands-on activities. The building itself housed the Nazi eugenics program, and the special exhibit on this period is not recommended for children under 12. \| Lingnerpl. 1 \| 0351/48460 \| www.dhmd.de \| €7 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. Johanneum. At one time the royal stables, this 16th-century building now houses the Verkehrsmuseum (Transportation Museum), a collection of historic conveyances, including vintage automobiles and engines. The former stable exercise yard, behind the Johanneum and enclosed by elegant Renaissance arcades, was used during the 16th century as an open-air festival ground. A ramp leading up from the courtyard made it possible for royalty to reach the upper story to view the jousting below without having to dismount. More popular even than jousting in those days was Ringelstechen, a risky pursuit in which riders at full gallop had to catch small rings on their lances. Horses and riders often came to grief in the narrow confines of the stable yard. TIP On the outside wall of the Johanneum is a remarkable example of porcelain art: a 336-foot-long Meissen tile mural of a royal procession. More than 100 members of the royal Saxon house of Wettin, half of them on horseback, are represented on the giant mosaic, known as the "Procession of Princes," which is made of 25,000 porcelain tiles, painted in 1904–07 after a design by Wilhelm Walther. The representations are in chronological order: at 1694, Augustus the Strong's horse is trampling a rose, the symbol of Martin Luther and the Protestant Reformation. The Johanneum is reached by steps leading down from the Brühlsche Terrasse. \| Am Neumarkt at Augustusstr. 1 \| 0351/86440 \| www.verkehrsmuseum-dresden.de \| €7 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Katholische Hofkirche (Catholic Court Church). The largest Catholic church in Saxony is also known as the Cathedral of St. Trinitatis. Frederick Augustus II (who reigned 1733–63) brought architects and builders from Italy to construct a Catholic church in a city that had been the first large center of Lutheran Protestantism (like his father, Frederick Augustus II had to convert to Catholicism to be eligible to wear the Polish crown). Inside, the treasures include a beautiful stone pulpit by the royal sculptor Balthasar Permoser and a painstakingly restored 250-year-old organ, said to be one of the finest ever to come from the mountain workshops of the famous Silbermann family. In the cathedral's crypt are the tombs of 49 Saxon rulers and a reliquary containing the heart of Augustus the Strong, which is rumored to start beating if a beautiful woman comes near. \| Schlosspl. \| 0351/484–4712 \| Free \| Mon.–Thurs. 9–5, Fri. 1–5, Sat. 10–5, Sun. noon–4:30. Kreuzkirche (Cross Church). Soaring high above the Altmarkt, the richly decorated tower of the baroque Kreuzkirche dates back to 1792. The city's main Protestant church is still undergoing postwar restoration, but the tower and church hall are open to the public. A famous boys' choir, the Kreuzchor, performs here regularly (check website or call for times). \| Altmarkt \| 0351/439–390 \| Tower €1.50 \| Nov.–Mar., weekdays 10–4, Sun. 11–4; Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6. Pfund's Molkerei (Pfund's Dairy Shop). This decorative 19th-century shop has been a Dresden institution since 1880, and offers a wide assortment of cheese and other goods. The shop is renowned for its intricate tile mosaics on the floor and walls. Pfund's is also famous for introducing pasteurized milk to the industry; it invented milk soap and specially treated milk for infants as early as 1900. \| Bautzener Str. 79 \| 0351/808–080 \| www.pfunds.de \| Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. 10–3. Off the Beaten Path: Panometer Dresden. You can step back in time and get a sense of how Dresden looked in 1756 by viewing this 360-degree panorama portrait of the city. Artist Yadegar Asisi's monumental 105-by-27-meter painting locates the viewer on the tower of the Stadtschloss, with extremely detailed vistas in all directions. The painting is located in an old natural-gas store. To get here from Dresden Main Station, take S1 or S2 to the station Dresden-Reick/Asisi Panometer (five minutes). From the Altmarkt take Tram No. 1 or 2 to the Liebstädterstrasse stop (15 minutes). \| Gasanstaltstr. 8b \| 0351/860–3940 \| www.asisi.de \| €10 \| Tues.–Fri. 9–7, weekends 10–8. Stadtmuseum Dresden im Landhaus (Dresden City Museum at the Landhaus). The city's small but fascinating municipal museum tells the ups and downs of Dresden's turbulent past—from the dark Middle Ages to the bombing of Dresden in February 1945. There are many peculiar exhibits on display, such as an American 250-kilogram bomb and a stove made from an Allied bomb casing. The building has the most interesting fire escape in the city. \| Wilsdruffer Str. 2 \| 0351/656–480 \| www.stmd.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6 (Fri. until 8). ### Where to Eat Alte Meister. GERMAN \| Set in the historic mansion of the architect who rebuilt the Zwinger, and named after the school of medieval painters that includes Dürer, Holbein, and Rembrandt, the Alte Meister has a sophisticated Old World flair that charms locals and tourists alike. The food is very current, despite the decor, and the light German nouvelle cuisine with careful touches of Asian spices and ingredients has earned chef Dirk Wende critical praise. In summer this is one of the city's premier dining spots, offering a grand view of the Semperoper from a shaded terrace. \| Average main: €18 \| Theaterpl. 1a \| 0351/481–0426. Ball und Brauhaus Watzke. GERMAN \| One of the city's oldest microbreweries, the Watzke offers a great reprieve from Dresden's mass-produced Radeberger. Several different homemade beers are on tap—you can even help brew one. Tours of the brewery cost €5 with a tasting, or €12.50 with a meal, and you can get your beer to go in a 1- or 2-liter jug called a Siphon. The food is hearty, contemporary Saxon. When the weather is nice, enjoy the fantastic panoramic view of Dresden from the beer garden. \| Average main: €12 \| Koetzschenbroderstr. 1 \| 0351/852–920. Sophienkeller. GERMAN \| One of the liveliest restaurants in town re-creates an 18th-century beer cellar in the basement of the Taschenberg Palace. The furniture and porcelain are as rustic as the food is traditional, including the typically Saxon Gesindeessen (rye bread, panfried with mustard, slices of pork, and mushrooms, baked with cheese). The Sophienkeller is popular with larger groups; you might have to wait if you're a party of three or fewer. During the wait, check out the bread baker near the entrance. \| Average main: €12 \| Taschenbergpalais, Taschenberg 3 \| 0351/497–260. * * * Dresden's Experience Dining One of the most touristy but fun experiences to be had in Dresden is a meal at Erlebnis Restaurants (Experience Dining). They run two period restaurants that have meals, decor, and costumes of a particular historical era. Yes, it's tacky, perhaps corny, but it's also extremely entertaining, and even Dresdeners get a big kick out of it. Both restaurants have the same basic menu of standard German food, with specialties relevant to their particular themes. The food is good and the prices decent. Be sure to try the Dresdner Trichter (Dresden Funnel), an interesting story of the excesses of Augustus the Strong followed by a sample of a homemade herbal liqueur. Reservations, though not essential, are recommended. Pulverturm. Dine with remnants of the Saxon army as they defend Dresden against enemy invaders. Each room is decorated in the style and with the weapons of Dresden's attackers, be they Turkish, Swedish, or Russian. The ambience at this eatery is militarily spartan, with medieval weaponry, the odd cannon, and lots of roast meat. Try the Spanferkel (suckling pig); groups of 10 can enjoy the "Executioner's Last Meal." \| Average main: €12 \| An der Frauenkirche 12 \| 0351/262–600 \| www.pulverturm-dresden.de. * * * Watzke Brauereiausschank am Goldenen Reiter. GERMAN \| Watzke microbrewery operates this smaller restaurant with the same beer and hearty menu, directly across from the Goldene Reiter statue of Augustus the Strong. \| Average main: €12 \| Hauptstr. 11 \| 0351/810–6820. ### Where to Stay art'otel Dresden. HOTEL \| This hotel keeps the promise of its name: it's all modern, designed by Italian interior architect Denis Santachiara, and decorated with more than 600 works of art by Dresden-born painter and sculptor A R. Penck. Some find the heavily styled rooms a bit much, but it's definitely a place for the artsy crowd. Apart from offering art, the hotel's rooms and service have genuine first-class appeal at reasonable prices. Pros: art elements make the hotel fun. Cons: bathrooms have an opaque window into the room; decor is not for everyone. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Ostra-Allee 33 \| 0351/49220 \| www.artotels.com \| 155 rooms, 19 suites \| Breakfast. Hotel Bülow-Residenz. HOTEL \| One of the most intimate first-class hotels in eastern Germany, the Bülow-Residenz is in a baroque palace built in 1730 by a wealthy Dresden city official. Each spacious room has thick carpets and mostly dark, warm cherrywood furniture as well as individual accents and modern amenities. In summer the verdant courtyard is a romantic setting for dinner. The Caroussel restaurant serves a large variety of sophisticated fish and game dishes. Pros: extremely helpful staff. Cons: a/c can be noisy; hotel is located in Neustadt, a 10-minute walk across the river to the city center. \| Rooms from: €159 \| Rähnitzg. 19 \| 0351/80030 \| www.buelow-residenz.de \| 25 rooms, 5 suites. Hotel Elbflorenz. HOTEL \| This centrally located hotel with Dresden's somewhat presumptuous nickname ("Florence on the Elbe") contains Italian-designed rooms bathed in red and yellow and arranged alongside a garden courtyard. There's a fine sauna and relaxation area, and the hotel's restaurant, Quattro Cani della Citta, serves delicious Italian seafood and other specialties. Pros: extraordinary breakfast buffet. Cons: in need of renovation; located at edge of city center. \| Rooms from: €86 \| Rosenstr. 36 \| 0351/86400 \| www.hotel-elbflorenz.de \| 212 rooms, 15 suites \| Breakfast. Kempinski Hotel Taschenbergpalais Dresden. HOTEL \| Rebuilt after wartime bombing, the historic Taschenberg Palace—the work of Zwinger architect Matthäus Daniel Pöppelmann—is Dresden's premier address and the last word in luxury, as befits the former residence of the Saxon crown princes. Rooms are as big as city apartments, and suites earn the adjective "palatial"; they are all furnished with bright elm-wood furniture. Pros: ice-skating in the courtyard in winter; concierge knows absolutely everything about Dresden. Cons: expensive extra charges for breakfast and Internet. \| Rooms from: €199 \| Taschenberg 3 \| 0351/49120 \| www.kempinski-dresden.de \| 188 rooms, 25 suites. Rothenburger Hof. HOTEL \| One of Dresden's smallest and oldest luxury hotels, the historic Rothenburger Hof opened in 1865, and is only a few steps away from the city's sightseeing spots. A highlight is the dining room, which gives some insight as to how Dresden's wealthy wined and dined 150 years ago. The rooms are not large, but they're comfortable and enticingly decorated with furniture that looks antique but, in fact, is reproduction. Pros: nice garden and indoor pool. Cons: across the river in Neustadt, about 20 minutes from the city center; street can be noisy in summer. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Rothenburger Str. 15–17 \| 0351/81260 \| www.dresden-hotel.de \| 26 rooms, 13 apartments \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife and the Arts #### The Arts Philharmonie Dresden (Philharmonic Orchestra Dresden). Dresden's fine orchestra takes center stage in the city's annual music festival, from mid-May to early June. \| Kulturpalast am Altmarkt \| 0351/486–6286 \| en.dresdnerphilharmonie.de. Semperoper Dresden (Semper Opera House). The opera in Dresden holds an international reputation largely due to its opera house. Destroyed during the war, the building has been meticulously rebuilt and renovated. Tickets are reasonably priced but also hard to come by; they're often included in package tours.TIP Try reserving tickets on the website, or stop by the box office about a half hour before the performance. If that doesn't work, take one of the opera-house tours, a nice consolation that gets you into the building. \| Theaterpl. \| www.semperoper.de \| Evening box office (Abendkasse), left of main entrance \| 0351/491–1705. #### Nightlife Dresdeners are known for their industriousness and efficient way of doing business, but they also know how to spend a night out. Most of Dresden's pubs and Kneipen (bars) are in the Neustadt district, across the river from most sights, and along the buzzing Münzgasse (between the Frauenkirche and the Brühlsche Terrasse). Aqualounge. This groovy and hip place is one of the best bars in town. \| Louisenstr. 56 \| 0351/810–6116 \| www.aqualounge.de. Bärenzwinger. Folk and rock music are regularly featured here. \| Brühlscher Garten \| 0351/495–1409 \| www.baerenzwinger.de. Motown Club. Hot African rhythms attract a young and stylish crowd. \| St. Petersburger Str. 9 \| 0351/487–4150. Planwirtschaft. The name ironically refers to the planned socialist economic system; it attracts an alternative crowd. \| Louisenstr. 20 \| 0351/801–3187. Tonne Jazz Club. Jazz musicians perform most nights of the week at this friendly, laid-back club. \| Waldschlösschen, Am Brauhaus 3 \| 0351/802–6017. ### Shopping Dresden's Striezelmarkt. Dating to 1434, this market was named after the city's famous Stollen, a buttery Christmas fruitcake often made with marzipan and sprinkled with powdered sugar. The market hosts a festival in its honor, complete with a 9,000-pound cake, on the Saturday of the second weekend of Advent. Traditional wooden toys produced in the nearby Erzgebirge mountains are the other major draw. \| Altmarkt \| www.dresden-striezelmarkt.de \| Nov. 24–Dec. 23, daily 10–9; Dec. 24, 10–2. Freital. Dresden is almost as famous as Meissen for its porcelain. The wares are manufactured outside the city in Freital, where there's a showroom and shop. Sächsische Porzellan-Manufaktur Dresden. Open Monday through Saturday 9–5. \| Carl-Thieme-Str. 16 \| Freital \| 0351/647–130 Karstadt. Exquisite Meissen and Freital porcelain can be found at this department store. \| Prager Str. 12 \| 0351/490–6833. Kunststube am Zwinger. For sale here are wooden toys and the famous Saxon Räuchermännchen (Smoking Men) and Weihnachtspyramiden (Christmas Lights Pyramids) manufactured by hand in the Erzgebirge Mountains. \| Hertha-Lindner-Str. 10–12 \| 0351/490–4082. ## Meissen 25 km (15 miles) northwest of Dresden. This romantic city with its imposing castle looming over the Elbe River is known the world over for Europe's finest porcelain, emblazoned with its trademarked crossed blue swords. The first European porcelain was made in this area in 1708, and in 1710 the Royal Porcelain Workshop was established in Meissen, close to the local raw materials. The story of how porcelain came to be produced here reads like a German fairy tale: the Saxon elector Augustus the Strong, who ruled from 1694 to 1733, urged his court alchemists to find the secret of making gold, something he badly needed to refill a state treasury depleted by his extravagant lifestyle. The alchemists failed to produce gold, but one of them, Johann Friedrich Böttger, discovered a method for making something almost as precious: fine hard-paste porcelain. Already a rapacious collector of Oriental porcelains, the prince put Böttger and a team of craftsmen up in a hilltop castle—Albrechtsburg—and set them to work. #### Getting Here and Around Meissen is an easy 45-minute train ride from Dresden. On arrival, exit the station and walk to the left; as you turn the corner there is a beautiful view of Meissen across the river. Trains run about every 30 minutes. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Meissen. \| Markt 3 \| 03521/41940 \| www.touristinfo-meissen.de. ### Exploring Albrechtsburg. The story of Meissen porcelain actually began high above Old Meissen. Towering over the Elbe River, this 15th-century castle is Germany's first truly residential one, a complete break with the earlier style of fortified bastions. In the central Schutzhof, a typical Gothic courtyard protected on three sides by high rough-stone walls, is an exterior spiral staircase, the Wendelstein, a masterpiece of early masonry hewn in 1525 from a single massive stone block. The ceilings of the castle halls are richly decorated, although many date only from a restoration in 1870. Adjacent to the castle is an early Gothic cathedral. It's a bit of a climb up Burgstrasse and Amtsstrasse to the castle, but a bus runs regularly up the hill from the Marktplatz. \| 03521/47070 \| www.albrechtsburg-meissen.de \| €8 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Feb., daily 10–5. Altes Brauhaus (Old Brewery). Near the Frauenkirche, the Altes Brauhaus dates to 1460 and is graced by a Renaissance gable. It now houses city offices. \| An der Frauenkirche 3. Franziskanerkirche (St. Francis Church). The city's medieval past is recounted in the museum of this former monastery. \| Heinrichspl. 3 \| 03521/458–857 \| €3 \| Daily 11–5. Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady). A set of porcelain bells at the late-Gothic Frauenkirche, on the central Marktplatz, was the first of its kind anywhere when installed in 1929. \| An der Frauenkirche. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas Church). Near the porcelain works, this church holds the largest set of porcelain figures ever crafted (8¼ feet tall) as well as the remains of early Gothic frescoes. \| Neumarkt 29. Staatliche Porzellan–Manufaktur Meissen (Meissen Porcelain Works). Outgrowing its castle workshop in the mid-19th century, today's porcelain factory is on the southern outskirts of town. One of its buildings has a demonstration workshop and a museum whose Meissen collection rivals that of Dresden's Porzellansammlung. \| Talstr. 9 \| 03521/468–208 \| www.meissen.de \| €9 including workshop and museum \| May–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Apr., daily 9–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Domkeller. GERMAN \| Part of the centuries-old complex of buildings ringing the town castle, this ancient and popular hostelry is a great place to enjoy fine wines and hearty German dishes. It's also worth a visit for the sensational view of the Elbe River valley from the large dining room and tree-shaded terrace. \| Average main: €12 \| Dompl. 9 \| 03521/457–676. Restaurant Vincenz Richter. GERMAN \| Tucked away in a yellow wooden-beam house, this historic restaurant has been painstakingly maintained by the Richter family since 1873. The dining room is adorned with rare antiques, documents, and medieval weapons, as well as copper and tin tableware. Guests can savor the exquisite dishes on the Saxon-German menu while sampling the restaurant's own personally produced white wines; a bottle of the Riesling is a real pleasure. Try the delicious wild rabbit with bacon-wrapped plums, paired with a glass of Kerner Meissener Kapitelberg. \| Average main: €13 \| An der Frauenkirche 12 \| 03521/453–285 \| Closed Mon. No dinner Sun. Welcome Parkhotel Meissen. HOTEL \| Most of the luxuriously furnished and appointed rooms are in newly built annexes, but for turn-of-the-century charm, opt for a room in the art-nouveau villa, which sits on the bank of the Elbe across from the hilltop castle. For a stunning view book the Hochzeitssuite (wedding suite), on the top floor. The restaurant ($$) serves nouvelle cuisine in a dining room with original stained glass and elegantly framed doors. Pros: gorgeous views; elegant rooms; fine dining. Cons: villa rooms are not as newly furnished; international chain hotel. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Hafenstr. 27–31 \| 03521/72250 \| www.welcome-hotel-meissen.de \| 92 rooms, 5 suites \| Breakfast. ### The Arts Concerts. Regular concerts are held at the Albrechtsburg castle, and in early September the Burgfestspiele—open-air evening performances—are staged in the castle's romantic courtyard. \| 03521/47070. Dom. Meissen's cathedral, the Dom, has a yearlong music program, with organ and choral concerts every Saturday in summer. \| Dompl. 7 \| 03521/452–490. ### Shopping Sächsische Winzergenossenschaft Meissen. To wine connoisseurs, the name "Meissen" is associated with vineyards producing top-quality white wines much in demand throughout Germany. Müller-Thurgau, Weissburgunder, and Goldriesling are worth choices and can be bought directly from the producer, Sächsische Winzergenossenschaft Meissen. \| Bennoweg 9 \| 03521/780–970. Staatliche Porzellan–Manufaktur Meissen. Meissen porcelain is available directly from the porcelain works as well as in every china and gift shop in town. \| Talstr. 9 \| 03521/468–700. ## Bautzen/Budyšin 53 km (33 miles) east of Dresden. Bautzen has perched high above a deep granite valley formed by the River Spree for more than 1,000 years. Its almost-intact city walls hide a remarkably well-preserved city with wandering back alleyways and fountain-graced squares. Bautzen is definitely a German city, but it is also the administrative center of Germany's only indigenous ethnic minority, the Sorbs. In the area, the Sorb language enjoys equal standing with German in government and education, and Sorbs are known for their colorful folk traditions. As in all Slavic cultures, Easter Sunday is the highlight of the calendar, when ornately decorated eggs are hung from trees and when the traditional Osterreiten, a procession of Catholic men on horseback who carry religious symbols and sing Sorbian hymns, takes place. #### Getting Here and Around Bautzen is halfway between Dresden and Görlitz. Trains leave both cities once every hour; travel time is about an hour. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Bautzen-Budyšin. \| Hauptmarkt 1 \| 03591/42016 \| www.bautzen.de. ### Exploring Alte Wasserkunst (Old Waterworks). Erected in 1558, the Alte Wasserkunst served as part of the town's defensive fortifications, but its true purpose was to pump water from the Spree into 86 cisterns spread throughout the city. It proved so efficient that it provided the city's water supply until 1965. It is now a technical museum. \| Wendischer Kirchhof 7 \| 03591/41588 \| €3 \| Daily 10–5. Dom St. Petri (St. Peter's Cathedral). Behind the Rathaus is one of Bautzen's most interesting sights: Dom St. Petri is Germany's only Simultankirche, or "simultaneous" church. In order to avoid the violence that often occurred during the Reformation, St. Peter's has a Protestant side and a Roman-Catholic side in the same church. A short fence, which once reached a height of 13 feet, separates the two congregations. The church was built in 1213 on the sight of a Milzener (the forerunners of the Sorbs) parish church. \| An der Petrikirche 6 \| 03591/31180 \| www.dompfarrei-bautzen.de \| Free \| May–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–3, Sun. 1–4; Nov.–Apr., daily 11–noon. Hexenhäuser (Witches' Houses). Below the waterworks and outside the walls, these three reddish houses were the only structures to survive all the city's fires—leading Bautzeners to conclude that they could only be occupied by witches. \| Fischerg. Rathaus. Bautzen's main market square is actually two squares, the Hauptmarkt (Main Market) and the Fleischmarkt (Meat Market), separated by the yellow, baroque Rathaus. The current town hall dates from 1705, but there has been a town hall in this location since 1213. Bautzen's friendly tourist-information center, next door, has a great Bautzen-in-two-hours walking-tour map and an MP3 guide to the city. \| Fleischmarkt 1. Reichenturm (Rich Tower). Bautzen's city walls have a number of gates and towers. This one, at the end of Reichenstrasse, is the most impressive. Although the tower base dates from 1490, it was damaged in four city fires (in 1620, 1639, 1686, and 1747) and rebuilt, hence its baroque cupola. The reconstruction caused the tower to lean, however, and its foundation was further damaged in 1837. The "Leaning Tower of Bautzen" currently sits about 5 feet off center.TIP The view from the top is a spectacular vista of Bautzen and the surrounding countryside. \| Reichenstr. 1 \| 03591/460–431 \| €1.40 \| Daily 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Wjelbik. EASTERN EUROPEAN \| The name of Bautzen's best Sorbian restaurant means "pantry." Very popular on Sorb holidays, Wjelbik uses exclusively regional produce in such offerings as the Sorbisches Hochzeitsmenu (Sorb wedding feast)—a vegetable and meatball soup followed by beef in creamed horseradish. The restaurant is in a 600-year-old building near the cathedral. \| Average main: €14 \| Kornstr. 7 \| 03591/42060. Hotel Goldener Adler. HOTEL \| This pleasant hotel occupies a 450-year-old building on the main market square, and great effort has been made to incorporate traditional building elements into the modern and spacious rooms. The restaurant, Bautzen's oldest, serves regional Saxon cuisine. Fondue by candlelight in the wine cellar is highly recommended but must be booked in advance. Pros: a complete package: comfortable historical hotel, good restaurant, and yummy fondue. Cons: a little too modern for a historical town. \| Rooms from: €90 \| Hauptmarkt 4 \| 03591/48660 \| www.goldeneradler.de \| 30 rooms. ## Görlitz 48 km (30 miles) east of Bautzen, 60 km (38 miles) northeast of Dresden. Tucked away in the country's easternmost corner (bordering Poland), Görlitz's quiet, narrow cobblestone alleys and exquisite architecture make it one of Germany's most beautiful cities. It emerged from the destruction of World War II relatively unscathed. As a result it has more than 4,000 historic houses in styles including Gothic, Renaissance, baroque, rococo, Wilhelminian, and art nouveau. Although the city has impressive museums, theater, and music, it's the ambience created by the casual dignity of these buildings, in their jumble of styles, that makes Görlitz so attractive. Notably absent are the typical socialist eyesores and the glass-and-steel modernism found in many eastern German towns. The Gothic Dicker Turm (Fat Tower) guards the entrance to the city; it's the oldest tower in Görlitz, and its walls are 5 meters thick. #### Getting Here and Around Görlitz can be reached by hourly trains from Dresden (1½ hours) and from Berlin (3 hours, with a change in Cottbus). Görlitz's train station (a wonderful neoclassical building with an art nouveau interior) is a short tram ride outside town. #### Essentials Visitor Information Görlitz-Information und Tourist-Service. \| Bruderstr. 1 \| 03581/47570 \| www.goerlitz.de. ### Exploring Biblical House. This house is interesting for its Renaissance facade decorated with sandstone reliefs depicting biblical stories. The Catholic Church banned religious depictions on secular buildings, but by the time the house was rebuilt after a fire in 1526, the Reformation had Görlitz firmly in its grip. \| Neissestr. 29. Dreifaltigkeitskirche (Church of the Holy Trinity). On the southeast side of the market lies this pleasant Romanesque church with a Gothic interior, built in 1245. The interior houses an impressive Gothic triptych altarpiece. The clock on the thin tower is set seven minutes fast in remembrance of a trick played by the city guards on the leaders of a rebellion. In 1527 the city's disenfranchised cloth makers secretly met to plan a rebellion against the city council and the powerful guilds. Their plans were uncovered, and by setting the clock ahead the guards fooled the rebels into thinking it was safe to sneak into the city. As a result they were caught and hanged. \| Obermarkt \| €3. Karstadt. Dating from 1912–13, Germany's only original art-nouveau department store has a main hall with a colorful glass cupola and several stunning freestanding staircases. The store dominates the Marienplatz, a small square outside the city center that serves as Görlitz's transportation hub. It's next to the 15th-century Frauenkirche, the parish church for the nearby hospital and the poor condemned to live outside the city walls. TIP Though the department store is closed (the city is trying to open it to the public), you can peek inside through the perfume shop. \| An der Frauenkirche 5–7 \| 03581/4600. Kirche St. Peter und Paul (St. Peter and Paul Church). Perched high above the river is one of Saxony's largest late-Gothic churches, dating to 1423. The real draw is the church's famous one-of-a-kind organ, built in 1703 by Eugenio Casparini. The Sun Organ gets its name from the circularly arranged pipes and not from the golden sun at the center. Its full and deep sound, as well as its birdcalls, can be heard on Sunday and Wednesday afternoons. \| Bei der Peterkirche 5 \| 03581/409–590 \| Free \| Mon.–Sat. 10:30–4, Sun. 11:30–4; guided tours Thurs. and Sun. at noon. Off the Beaten Path: Landskron Brauerei (Landskron Brewery). Germany's easternmost Brauhaus is one of the few breweries left that gives tours. Founded in 1869, Landskron isn't very old by German standards, but it's unique in that it hasn't been gobbled up by a huge brewing conglomerate. Görlitzer are understandably proud of their own Premium Pilsner, but the brewery also produces good dark, Silesian, and winter beers. Landskron Hefeweizen is one of the best in the country. \| An der Landskronbrauerei \| 03581/465–121 \| www.landskron.de \| Tours €7–€18 \| Tours Sun.–Thurs., by appointment. Obermarkt (Upper Market). The richly decorated Renaissance homes and warehouses on the Obermarkt are a vivid legacy of the city's wealthy past. During the late Middle Ages the most common merchandise here was cloth, which was bought and sold from covered wagons and on the ground floors of many buildings. Napoléon addressed his troops from the balcony of the house at No. 29. Schlesisches Museum (Silesian Museum). Exploring 900 years of Silesian culture, this is a meeting place for Silesians from Germany, Poland, and the Czech Republic. The museum is housed in the magnificent Schönhof building, one of Germany's oldest Renaissance Patrizierhäuser (grand mansions of the city's ruling business and political elite). \| Brüderstr. 8 \| 03581/87910 \| www.schlesisches-museum.de \| €5 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Untermarkt (Lower Market). One of Europe's most impressive squares, this market is a testament to the prosperity brought by the cloth trade. It's built up in the middle, and the most important building is No. 14, which formerly housed the city scales. The duty of the city scale masters, whose busts adorn the Renaissance facade of the Gothic building, was to weigh every ounce of merchandise entering the city and to determine the taxes due. The square's most prominent building is the Rathaus. Its winding staircase is as peculiar as its statue of the goddess of justice, whose eyes—contrary to European tradition—are not covered. The corner house on the square, the Alte Ratsapotheke (Old Council Pharmacy), has two intricate sundials on the facade, painted in 1550. Verrätergasse (Traitors' Alley). On Verrätergasse, across the Obermarkt square from the church, is the Peter-Liebig-Haus, where the initials of the first four words of the rebels' meeting place, Der verräterischen Rotte Tor (the treacherous gang's gate), are inscribed above the door. The Obermarkt is dominated by the Reichenbach Turm, a tower built in the 13th century, with additions in 1485 and 1782. Until 1904 the tower housed the city watchmen and their families. The apartments and armory are now a museum. There are great views of the city from the tiny windows at the top. The massive Kaisertrutz (Emperor's Fortress) once protected the western city gates, and now houses late-Gothic and Renaissance art from the area around Görlitz, as well as some impressive historical models of the city. Both buildings are part of the Kulturhistorisches Museum. \| 03581/671–355 \| www.museum-goerlitz.de \| €10, tickets valid on day of purchase and following day \| Tues.–Thurs. and weekends 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Die Destille. GERMAN \| This small family-run establishment overlooks the Nikolaiturm, one of the towers from the city's wall. The restaurant offers good solid Silesian fare and absolutely the best Schlesische Himmelreich (ham and pork roast smothered in baked fruit and white sauce, served with dumplings) in town. There are also eight inexpensive, spartan guest rooms where you can spend the night. \| Average main: €10 \| Nikolaistr. 6 \| 03581/405–302 \| No credit cards \| Sometimes closed in Sept. Hotel Bon-Apart. HOTEL \| The name says it all: this hotel is an homage to Napoléon, whose troops occupied Görlitz, and it's a splendid departure from a "normal" hotel. Located slightly behind the Marienplatz, the Bon-Apart's real draw is the antique-meets-modern interior design. Pros: large rooms with kitchens and artistically decorated bathrooms; huge breakfast buffet. Cons: eclectic design may not appeal to everyone; neighboring market can be noisy in the morning; no elevator. \| Rooms from: €95 \| Elisabethstr. 41 \| 03581/48080 \| www.bon-apart.de \| 20 rooms. Romantik-Hotel Tuchmacher. HOTEL \| The city's best hotel is also its most modern accommodation in antique disguise. In a mansion dating to 1528, guest rooms with wooden floors and thick ceiling beams are sparsely furnished with modern, dark cherrywood furniture. The colorful ceilings may remind you of Jackson Pollock paintings, but they are original ornaments from the Renaissance. The Schneider-Stube serves traditional Saxon dishes. Pros: luxury hotel in the heart of Görlitz pedestrian zone. Cons: limited parking near the hotel; lovers of church bells will be happy. \| Rooms from: €134 \| Peterstr. 8 \| 03581/47310 \| www.tuchmacher.de \| 42 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Off the Beaten Path: Zgorzelec. In 1946 everything on the eastern side on the Neisse River was ceded to Poland and Görlitz lost its eastern suburb. A walk across the river is like a trip back in time. Zgorzelec certainly isn't as well off as Görlitz, but there are some nice patrician houses and wide parks whose decay resembles the state of Görlitz in the 1980s. For a stroll through, cross the Altstadtbrücke (Old Town Bridge) behind the Peterskirche, turn right, and walk approximately a kilometer (half mile), then cross back into Germany at the former official border crossing. Great Polish food is in plentiful supply at the Piwnica Staromiejska at Wrocławska 1, just across the bridge. \| Zgorzelec, Poland. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Lutherstadt-Wittenberg \| Dessau \| Halle \| Naumburg \| Freyburg \| Quedlinburg \| Goslar The central state of Saxony-Anhalt is a region rich in history and natural beauty, almost completely untouched by modern visitors. In the Altmark, on the edge of the Harz Mountains, fields of grain and sugar beets stretch to the horizon. In the mountains themselves are the deep gorge of the Bode River and the stalactite-filled caves of Rubeland. The songbirds of the Harz are renowned, and though pollution has taken its toll, both the flora and the fauna of the Harz National Park (which encompasses much of the region) are coming back. Atop the Brocken, the Harz's highest point, legend has it that witches convene on Walpurgis Night (the night between April 30 and May 1). Previous Map \| Germany Maps ## Lutherstadt-Wittenberg 107 km (62 miles) southwest of Berlin, 67 km (40 miles) north of Leipzig. Protestantism was born in the little town of Wittenberg (officially called Lutherstadt-Wittenberg). In 1508 the fervently idealistic young Martin Luther, who had become a priest only a year earlier, arrived to study and teach at the new university founded by Elector Frederick the Wise. Nine years later, enraged that the Roman Catholic Church was pardoning sins through the sale of indulgences, Luther attacked the policy by posting his 95 Theses on the door of the Schlosskirche (Castle Church). Martin Luther is still the center of attention in Wittenberg, and sites associated with him are marked with plaques and signs. You can see virtually all of historic Wittenberg on a 2-km (1-mile) stretch of Collegienstrasse and Schlossstrasse that begins at the railroad tracks and ends at the Schlosskirche. #### Getting Here and Around Lutherstadt-Wittenberg is approximately halfway between Berlin and Leipzig, and is served by regional and ICE trains. The station is slightly outside the city center, a pleasant walking distance away. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Lutherstadt Wittenberg. \| Schlosspl. 2 \| 03491/498–610 \| www.wittenberg.de. Wittenberg District Rural Information Office. \| Neustr. 13 \| 03491/402–610. #### Festivals Luthers Hochzeit (Luther's Wedding). The best time to visit Wittenberg is during this city festival that commemorates (and reenacts) Martin Luther's marriage to Katharina von Bora. On the second weekend in June the city center goes back in time to 1525, with period costumes and entertainment. \| www.lutherhochzeit.de. ### Exploring Cranachhaus (Cranach House). Lucas Cranach the Elder—court painter, printer, mayor, pharmacist, friend of Luther's, and probably the wealthiest man in Wittenberg—lived in two houses during his years in town. This Cranachhaus is believed to have been the first one. His son, the painter Lucas Cranach the Younger, was born here. Some of the interior has been restored to its 17th-century condition. It's now a gallery with exhibits about Cranach's life and work. Check out the goldsmith and potter that are occasionally on hand demonstrating their crafts in the courtyard. \| Markt 4 \| 03491/420–190 \| €3 \| Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 1–5. Cranachhaus (Cranach House). In the second Wittenberg home of Cranach the Elder, the Renaissance man not only lived and painted but also operated a print shop, which has been restored, and an apothecary. The courtyard, where it's thought he did much of his painting, remains much as it was in his day. Children attend the Malschule (painting school) here. \| Schlossstr. 1 \| 03491/410–912 \| Free \| Mon.–Thurs. 8–4, Fri. 8–3. Haus der Geschichte (House of History). This museum makes a valiant attempt to evaluate the history of the GDR. It provides fascinating insight into the day-to-day culture of East Germans through the display of more than 20,000 objects, including detergent packaging and kitchen appliances. A special section deals with Germans and Russians in the Wittenberg region. \| Schlossstr. 6 \| 03491/409–004 \| www.pflug-ev.de \| €6 \| Weekdays 10–5, weekends 11–6. Luther Melanchthon Gymnasium (Luther Melanchthon High School). In 1975 the city erected a typical East German prefab building to house the Luther Melanchthon Gymnasium, but in the early 1990s, art students contacted Friedensreich Hundertwasser, the famous Austrian architect and avant-garde artist who designed the Hundertwasserhaus in Vienna. Hundertwasser, who argued that there are no universal straight lines or completely flat surfaces in nature, agreed to transform the school, and renovations were completed in 1998. The school is one of only three Hundertwasser buildings in eastern Germany and an interesting contrast to the medieval architecture in the rest of the city. Although the building is a school, the students operate a small office that distributes information about the school and Hundertwasser's art. \| Str. der Völkerfreundschaft 130 \| 03491/881–131 \| www.hundertwasserschule.de \| €2 \| Tues.–Fri. 2:30–4, weekends 10–4. Luthereiche (Luther Oak). In a small park, the Luthereiche marks the spot where, in 1520, Luther burned the papal bull excommunicating him for his criticism of the Church. The present oak was planted in the 19th century. \| Weserstr. and Collegienstr. Fodor's Choice \| Lutherhaus (Luther's House). Within Lutherhhaus is the Augustinian monastery where Martin Luther lived both as a teacher-monk and later, after the monastery was dissolved, as a married man. Today it's a museum dedicated to Luther and the Reformation. Visitors enter through a garden and an elegant door with a carved stone frame; it was a gift to Luther from his wife, Katharina von Bora. Be sure to visit the monks' refectory, where works by the painter Lucas Cranach the Elder, Luther's contemporary, are displayed. The room that remains closest to the original is the dark, wood-panel Lutherstube. The Luthers and their six children used it as a living room, study, and meeting place for friends and students. Prints, engravings, paintings, manuscripts, coins, and medals relating to the Reformation and Luther's translation of the Bible into the German vernacular are displayed throughout the house. \| Collegienstr. 54 \| 03491/42030 \| www.martinluther.de \| €6 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 9–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Marktplatz (Market Square). Two statues are the centerpiece here: an 1821 statue of Luther by Johann Gottfried Schadow, designer of the quadriga and Victory atop Berlin's Brandenburg Gate, and an 1866 statue of Melanchthon by Frederick Drake. Gabled Renaissance houses containing shops line part of the square. Rathaus. The handsome, white High Renaissance town hall forms the backdrop for the Marktplatz's two statues. \| Markt 26 \| 03491/421–720 \| Daily 10–5. Melanchthonhaus (Melanchthon House). In this elegantly gabled Renaissance home, the humanist teacher and scholar Philipp Melanchthon corrected Luther's translation of the New Testament from Greek into German. Luther was hiding in the Wartburg in Eisenach at the time, and as each section of his manuscript was completed it was sent to Melanchthon for approval. (Melanchthon is a Greek translation of the man's real name, Schwarzerdt, which means "black earth"; humanists routinely adopted such classical pseudonyms.) The second-floor furnishings have been painstakingly re-created after period etchings. \| Collegienstr. 60 \| 03491/403–279 \| www.martinluther.de \| €4 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Fodor's Choice \| Schlosskirche (Castle Church). In 1517 an indignant Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses, which attacked the Roman Catholic Church's policy of selling indulgences, to this church's doors. Written in Latin, the theses might have gone unnoticed had not someone—without Luther's knowledge—translated them into German and distributed them. In 1521 the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V summoned Luther to Worms when Luther refused to retract his position. On the way home from his confrontation with the emperor, Luther was "captured" by his protector, Elector Frederick the Wise, and hidden from papal authorities in Eisenach for the better part of a year. Today the theses hang in bronze on the door, while inside, simple bronze plaques mark the burial places of Luther and his contemporary, Philipp Melanchthon. \| Schlosspl. 1 \| 03491/402–585 \| Free, tower €2 \| May–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 10–5, Sun. 11:30–5; Nov.–Apr., Mon.–Sat. 10–4, Sun. 11:30–4. Stadtkirche St. Marien (Parish Church of St. Mary). From 1514 until his death in 1546, Martin Luther preached two sermons a week in the twin-tower Stadtkirche St. Marien. He and Katharina von Bora were married here (Luther broke with monasticism in 1525 and married the former nun). The altar triptych by Lucas Cranach the Elder includes a self-portrait, as well as portraits of Luther wearing the knight's disguise he adopted when hidden at the Wartburg; Luther preaching; Luther's wife and one of his sons; Melanchthon; and Lucas Cranach the Younger. Also notable is the 1457 bronze baptismal font by Herman Vischer the Elder. On the church's southeast corner is a discomforting juxtaposition of two Jewish-related monuments: a 1304 mocking caricature called the Jewish Pig, erected at the time of the expulsion of the town's Jews, and, on the cobblestone pavement, a contemporary memorial to the Jews who died at Auschwitz. \| Kirchpl. \| 03491/404–415 \| €1.50, including tour \| May–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Apr., daily 10–4. Wittenberg English Ministry. English-speaking visitors can worship in the churches where Martin Luther conducted his ministry thanks to this ministry. During the summer months it brings English-speaking pastors from the United States to provide Lutheran worship services in the Schlosskirche and Stadtkirche St. Marien. Services follow German Protestant tradition (albeit in English) and conclude with singing Luther's "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," accompanied on the organ. Tours of Wittenberg and other Luther sites are also offered. \| Schlosspl. 2 \| 03491/498–610 \| www.wittenberg-english-ministry.com \| May–Oct., Sat. at 5, other times by appointment. ### Where to Eat Brauhaus Wittenberg. GERMAN \| This historic brewery and restaurant is the perfect stop for a cold beer after a long day of sightseeing. TIP Set in the Old Town's magnificent Beyerhof courtyard, the Brauhaus still produces local beer such as Wittenberger Kuckucksbier. In the medieval restaurant with its huge beer kettles, you can sample local and south German cuisine; a specialty is the smoked fish—such as eel, trout, and halibut—from the Brauhaus smokery. In summer, try to get a table in the courtyard. \| Average main: €10 \| Markt 6 \| 03491/433–130. Schlosskeller. GERMAN \| At the back of the Schlosskirche, this restaurant's four dining rooms are tucked away in a basement with 16th-century stone walls and barrel-vaulted ceilings. The kitchen specializes in German dishes, such as Kümmelfleisch mit Senfgurken (caraway beef with mustard-seed pickles). \| Average main: €12 \| Schlosspl. 1 \| 03491/480–805. ## Dessau 35 km (22 miles) southwest of Wittenberg. The name "Dessau" is known to students of modern architecture as the epicenter of architect Walter Gropius's highly influential Bauhaus school of design. During the 1920s, Gropius hoped to replace the dark and inhumane tenement architecture of the 1800s with standardized yet spacious and bright apartments. His ideas and methods were used in building 316 villas in the city's Törten neighborhood in the 1920s. #### Getting Here and Around Dessau makes an excellent day trip from Berlin. The direct Regional Express train leaves Berlin every hour, and the trip takes 90 minutes. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Dessau. \| Zerbster Str. 2c \| 0340/204–1442 \| www.dessau.de. ### Exploring Bauhaus Building. The architecture school is still operating in this building, where artists conceived styles that influenced the appearance of such cities as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. Other structures designed by Gropius and the Bauhaus architects, among them the Meisterhäuser, are also open for inspection off Ebertallee and Elballee. \| Gropiusallee 38 \| 0340/650–8251 \| www.bauhaus-dessau.de \| €17, includes all Bauhaus sites \| Daily 10–6; Meisterhäuser: mid-Feb.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–mid-Feb., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Georgkirche (St. George's Church). Like other older buildings in downtown Dessau, this Dutch-baroque church, built in 1712, is quite a contrast to the no-nonsense Bauhaus architecture. \| Georgenstr. 15. Technikmuseum Hugo Junkers (Hugo Junkers Technical Museum). The Bauhaus isn't the only show in town. Professor Hugo Junkers, one of the most famous engineers-cum-inventors of the 20th century, was at the forefront of innovation in aircraft and industrial design until his inventions were expropriated by the Nazis in 1933. The star of the museum is a completely restored JU-52/3—the ubiquitous German passenger airplane transformed into military transport. The museum also houses a fascinating collection of industrial equipment, machinery, engines, and the original Junkers wind tunnel. \| Kühnauerstr. 161a \| 0340/661–1982 \| www.technikmuseum-dessau.de \| €4 \| Daily 10–5. ## Halle 52 km (32 miles) south of Dessau. This city deserves a second look. The first impression of ever-under-construction train station and dismal tram ride into town hides a pretty 1,000-year-old city built on the salt trade. The name Halle comes from the Celtic word for salt, while the Saale, the name of the river the city straddles, is derived from the German word for salt. Halle has suffered from the shortfalls of Communist urban planning, yet the Old Town has an unusual beauty, particularly in its spacious central marketplace, the Markt, with its five distinctive sharp-steeple towers. #### Getting Here and Around Frequent S-bahn trains connect Halle with Leipzig (30 minutes) and with Naumburg (20 minutes). #### Festivals Handel Festival. This annual festival takes place in the first half of June, and two youth-choir festivals occur in May and October. \| 0345/5009–0222. #### Essentials Visitor Information Stadtmarketing Halle. \| Marktpl. 1360 \| 0345/122–9984 \| www.halle.de. ### Exploring Dom (Cathedral). Halle's only early-Gothic church, the Dom stands about 200 yards southeast of the Moritzburg. Its nave and side aisles are of equal height, a common characteristic of Gothic church design in this part of Germany. \| Dompl. 3 \| 0345/202–1379 \| Free \| June–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 2–4. Off the Beaten Path: Halloren Schokoladenfabrik. Germany's oldest chocolate factory was founded in 1804 and has changed hands several times (including a brief period when it was used to manufacture airplane wings during the war). Its Schokoladenmuseum explores 200 years of chocolate production and contains a 27-square-meter room made entirely from chocolate. Entrance to the museum also allows entrance to the glass-enclosed production line, where you can watch almost all aspects of chocolate making. TIP The factory is on the other side of the train station from the main town. To get here, take Tram No. 7 to Fiete-Schultze-Strasse and walk back 200 meters. \| Delitzscherstr. 70 \| 0345/5642–192 \| www.halloren.de \| €4, includes samples \| Mon.–Sat. 9–4. Halle-Neustadt. A side trip to Halle-Neustadt (nicknamed Hanoi by the locals), is worthwhile for anyone interested in socialist city planning. The huge planned residential community comprises block after block of prefabricated housing units that are commonly associated with Eastern Europe. The project resulted from the construction of a large chemical factory complex near Schkopau and Leuna (to the south) and the need to quickly house thousands of workers and their families in the 1960s. Compared to other Plattenbau, as such houses are called in German, Halle-Neustadt is generously proportioned, with wide thoroughfares, large-scale art and beautification projects, and theaters and cinemas. In its heyday, more than 92,000 people lived here. To get here from the Marktplatz, take Tram 2 to Soltauer Strasse or Tram 10 to Göttinger Bogen. Händelhaus (Handel House). Handel's birthplace is now a museum devoted to the composer. The entrance hall displays glass harmonicas and curious musical instruments perfected by Benjamin Franklin in the 1760s. TIP Be sure to look for the small courtyard where Handel played as a child. \| Grosse Nikolaistr. 5 \| 0345/500–900 \| Free \| Tues.–Wed. and Fri.–Sun. 9:30–5:30, Thurs. 9:30–7. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church). Of the four towers belonging to the late-Gothic Marienkirche, two are connected by a vertiginous catwalk bridge. Martin Luther preached in the church, and George Friedrich Handel (Händel in German), born in Halle in 1685, was baptized at its font. He went on to learn to play the organ beneath its high, vaulted ceiling. \| An der Marienkirche 2. Marktschlösschen (Market Palace). This late-Renaissance building just off the market square houses an interesting collection of historical musical instruments, some of which could have been played by Handel and his contemporaries. \| Marktpl. 13 \| 0345/202–9141 \| Free \| Tues.–Fri. 10–7, weekends 10–6. Moritzburg (Moritz Castle). The Archbishop of Magdeburg built the Moritzburg in the late 15th century, after he claimed the city for his archdiocese. The typical late-Gothic fortress, with a dry moat and a sturdy round tower at each of its four corners, is a testament to Halle's early might, which vanished with the Thirty Years' War. Prior to World War II the castle contained a leading gallery of German expressionist paintings, which were ripped from the walls by the Nazis and condemned as "degenerate." Some of the works are back in place at the Staatliche Galerie Moritzburg, together with some outstanding late-19th- and early-20th-century art. TIP You'll find Rodin's famous sculpture The Kiss here. \| Friedemann-Bach-Pl. 5 \| 0345/212–590 \| stiftung-moritzburg.de \| €7 \| Tues. 11–8:30, Wed.–Sun. 10–6. Neue Residenz (New Residence). This 16th-century, former archbishop's home houses the Geiseltalmuseum and its world-famous collection of fossils dug from brown coal deposits in the Geisel Valley, near Halle. \| Dornstr. 5 \| 0345/552–6135 \| Free \| Weekdays 9–noon and 1–5; every 2nd and 4th weekend 9–1. Roter Turm (Red Tower). The Markt's fifth tower is Halle's celebrated Roter Turm, built between 1418 and 1506 as an expression of the city's power and wealth. The carillon inside is played on special occasions. \| Markt. FAMILY \| Technisches Halloren- und Salinemuseum (Technical Saline Extraction Museum). The salt trade on which Halle built its prosperity is documented in this museum. A replica brine mill shows the salt-extraction process, and the exquisite silver-goblet collection of the Salt Workers' Guild (the Halloren) is on display. The old method of evaporating brine from local springs is sometimes demonstrated. The museum is on the south side of the Saale River (across the Schiefer Bridge). \| Mansfelderstr. 52 \| 0345/202–5034 \| www.salinemuseum.de \| €5.20 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Halle's café scene spreads out along the Kleine Ullrichstrasse. It's a good area for searching out an affordable meal and lively conversation. Hallesches Brauhaus Kühler Brunnen. GERMAN \| Halle's first and best brewpub serves traditional brewery fare in huge portions at reasonable prices. The Brauhaus is most famous for its large selection of Flammkuchen, a kind of thin-crust pizza originated in the Alsace region of France. The best beer is the brewery's own Hallsch, an amber top-fermented ale served in funky glasses. \| Average main: €9 \| Grosse Nikolaistr. 2 \| 0345/212–570 \| No credit cards. FAMILY \| Restaurant Mönchshof. GERMAN \| Hearty German fare in heartier portions is served in high-ceiling, dark-wood surroundings. Lamb from Saxony-Anhalt's Wettin region and venison are specialties in season, but there are always fish and crisp roast pork on the menu. The wine list is extensive, with international vintages. The restaurant is popular with locals, and the staff are particularly accommodating with children. \| Average main: €12 \| Talamtstr. 6 \| 0345/202–1726. Ankerhof Hotel. HOTEL \| In an old warehouse, this reflection on Halle's salt-strewn past contains individually decorated rooms, most with wooden ceiling beams, bare stone walls, and heavy furniture made from exquisite wood. The hotel's Saalkahn restaurant ($ - $$) serves both regional and international dishes based on fresh fish and game. The Geschmorte Hirschkeule "Dubener Heide" (braised venison shank) is particularly tasty. Pros: casual elegance worked into a traditional setting. Cons: building creaks and groans when it is windy; can be cold in winter. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Ankerstr. 2a \| 0345/232–3200 \| www.ankerhofhotel.de \| 49 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. ### The Arts The city of Handel's birth is, not surprisingly, an important music center. Halle is famous for its opera productions, its orchestral concerts, and particularly its choirs. Opernhaus (Opera House). Both Halle's opera and its venue are renowned. \| Universitätsring 24 \| 0345/5110–0355. Philharmonisches Staatsorchester Halle (State Philharmonic Orchestra). The city's main orchestra performs at the Konzerthalle. \| Grosse Gosenstr. 12 \| 0345/523–3141 \| www.staatskapelle.halle.de. ### Shopping Halle is home to Kathi, the GDR's own Betty Crocker. In 1951 Rainer Thiele opened a factory here to produce uncomplicated products that made baking doable for everyone. By 1955 the popular cake and bread mixes were common on supermarket shelves in Scandinavia and Western Europe. The company was taken over by the state in 1980, then reprivatized in 1990, and is riding a wave of success due to the cult status of its products in the East. Pick up a mix for Händel-torte, and top it with Halloren-Kügel. En Route: Eisleben. To reach Quedlinburg in the Harz, you can take E–49 directly, or take a somewhat longer route via E–80, stopping in Eisleben first. Martin Luther came into and out of the world here: both the square Franconian house with the high-pitched roof that was his birthplace (Luthers Geburtshaus) and the Gothic patrician house where he died (Luthers Sterbehaus) are open to the public, as are, on request, the St. Petri-Pauli Kirche (Church of Sts. Peter and Paul), where he was baptized, and the St. Andreaskirche (St. Andrew's Church), where his funeral was held. From Eisleben take B–180 north to join with E–49 to Quedlinburg. \| Eisleben, Germany. ## Naumburg 60 km (65 miles) south of Halle. Once a powerful trading and ecclesiastical city, 1,000-year-old Naumburg is the cultural center of the Salle-Unstrut. Although the city is most famous for its Romanesque/Gothic cathedral, it hides a well-preserved collection of patrician houses, winding back alleys, and a marketplace so distinctive that it warrants the appellation "Naumburger Renaissance." #### Getting Here and Around From the train station the fun way to get into the city is to take the Naumburger Historical Tram, which runs every 30 minutes. A single ride on Europe's smallest tramway, in antique streetcars, costs €1.50. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist und Tagungsservice Naumburg. \| Markt 12 \| 03445/273–125 \| www.naumburg-tourismus.de. ### Exploring Dom St. Peter und Paul (St. Peter and Paul Cathedral). Perched high above the city and dominating the skyline, this cathedral is the symbol of Naumburg. For the most part constructed during the latter half of the 13th century, it's considered one of the masterpieces of the late Romanesque period. What makes the cathedral unique, however, is the addition of a second choir in the Gothic style less than 100 years later. The Gothic choir is decorated with statues of the cathedral's benefactors from the workshop of the Naumburger Meister. The most famous statues are of Uta and Ekkehard, the city's most powerful patrons. Uta's tranquil face is everywhere, from postcards to city maps. \| Dompl. 16 \| 03445/23010 \| €4 \| Mon.–Sat. 10–4, Sun. noon–4; guided tours by appointment. Marientor. Naumburg was once ringed by a defensive city wall with five gates. The only remaining one, the Marientor, is a rare surviving example of a dual-portal gate from the 14th century. The museum inside the gate provides a brief history of the city's defenses. TIP A pleasant walk along the remaining city walls from Marienplatz to the Weingarten is the easiest way to explore the last intact section of Naumburg's wall, moat, and defensive battlements. \| Marienpl. \| €0.50 \| Daily 10–4:30. Marktplatz. Naumburg's historic market square lies strategically at the intersection of two medieval trade routes. Although the market burned in 1517, it was painstakingly rebuilt in Renaissance and baroque styles. Kaysersches Haus (Imperial House). Supported by seven Gothic gables, the Kaysersches Haus has a carved oak doorway from the Renaissance. \| Markt 10. Rathaus. Naumburg's town hall, rebuilt in 1523, incorporates the remnants of the original building destroyed by fire. \| Markt 1. Schlösschen (Little Castle). The Schlösschen houses the offices of Naumburg's first and only Protestant bishop, Nikolaus von Amsdorf, who was consecrated by Martin Luther in 1542. \| Markt 2. Naumburger Wein und Sekt Manufaktur (Naumburg Wine and Sparkling Wine). Producing fine still and sparkling wines on the bank of the Salle River, this winery in a 200-year-old monastery is a pleasant 2-km (1-mile) walk or bike ride from Naumburg's city center. Tours of the production rooms and the vaulted cellar, with wine tastings, take place whenever a group forms and last about an hour. The wine garden is a pleasant place to relax on the bank of the river and the restaurant serves small snacks. Larger appetites find relief across the street at the Gasthaus Henne. \| Blütengrund 35 \| 03445/202–042 \| www.naumburger.com \| Tours €5 \| Daily 11–6; tours Apr.–Oct. Nietzsche Haus Museum. The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche's family lived in Naumburg from 1858 to 1897, in a small classical house in the Weingarten. The Nietzsche Haus Museum documents the life and times of one of Naumburg's most controversial residents. The exhibition does not delve too deeply into Nietzsche's philosophy, but focuses a great deal on his bizarre relationship with his sister and her manipulation of his manuscripts. \| Weingarten 18 \| 03445/703–503 \| www.mv-naumburg.de \| €3 \| Tues.–Fri. 2–5, weekends 10–4. St. Wenceslas. The parish church of St. Wenceslas dominates the southern end of the Markt. A church has stood on this spot since 1218, but the current incarnation dates from 1426, with interior renovations in 1726. The church is most famous for its huge Hildebrandt Organ, which was tested and tuned by J. S. Bach in 1746. Fans of Lucas Cranach the Elder get their due with two of his paintings, Suffer the Little Children Come Unto Me and the Adoration of the Three Magi. The 73-meter-tall tower belongs to the city, not the church, and was used as a watchtower for the city guards, who lived there until 1994. \| Topfmarkt \| 03445/208–401 \| Free, tower €2 \| Mon.–Sat. 10–noon and 2–5; tower daily 10–5. ### Where to Eat and Stay Alt-Naumburg. GERMAN \| Enjoy simple but tasty regional specialties directly in front of the Marientor. The beer garden is a good place to relax away from the action of the city center. The three-room pension is often booked far in advance. \| Average main: €11 \| Marienpl. 13 \| 03445/234–425 \| No credit cards. Hotel Stadt Aachen. HOTEL \| Many of the simply decorated rooms overlook the central market at this pleasant hotel in a medieval house. The staff gladly arranges wine tasting in the Ottonenkeller (wine cellar). The restaurant Carolus Magnus serves decent regional cuisine with a good selection of local wine. Pros: comfortable hotel in the middle of the action; helpful staff. Cons: location by the market is sometimes noisy. \| Rooms from: €83 \| Markt 11 \| 03445/2470 \| www.hotel-stadt-aachen.de \| 38 rooms. ## Freyburg 10 km (6 miles) north of Naumburg. Stepping off the train in the sleepy town of Freyburg, it is not difficult to see why locals call the area "the Tuscany of the North." With clean, wandering streets, whitewashed buildings, and a huge castle perched on a vine-terraced hill, Freyburg is a little out of place. The town owes its existence to Schloss Neuenburg, which was built by the same Thuringian count who built the Wartburg. Although most visitors head straight for the wine, the historic Old Town and castle certainly warrant a visit. Freyburg is surrounded by a 1,200-meter-long, almost completely intact city wall. The Ekstädter Tor was the most important gate into the city and dates from the 14th century. The gate is dominated by one of the few remaining barbicans in central Germany. #### Essentials Visitor Information Freyburger Fremdenverkehrsverein. \| Markt 2 \| 034464/27260 \| wwwfreyburg-info.de. ### Exploring Rotkäppchen Sektkellerei (Little Red Riding Hood Sparkling Wine). Freyburg is the home of one of Europe's largest producers of sparkling wine, a rare eastern German product with a significant market share in the West. Hour-long tours of the production facility include the world's largest wooden wine barrel. \| Sektkellereistr. 5 \| 034464/340 \| www.rotkaeppchen.de \| €5 \| Daily 10–6; tours weekdays at 11 and 2, weekends at 11, 12:30, 2, and 3:30. St. Marien Kirche (St. Mary's Church). In 1225 the Thuringian count Ludwig IV erected the St. Marien Kirche as a triple-nave basilica and the only church within the city walls. The coquina limestone building, which resembles the cathedral in Naumburg, was renovated in the 15th century into its current form as a single-hall structure. The great carved altarpiece also dates from the 15th century and the baptistery from 1592. \| Markt 2. Schloss Neuenburg (Neuenburg Castle). Since its foundation was laid in 1090 by the Thuringian Ludwig I, this castle has loomed protectively over Freyburg. The spacious residential area and huge towers date from the 13th century, when Neuenburg was a part of Thuringia's eastern defenses. The spartan, Gothic double-vaulted chapel from 1190 is one of the few rooms that evokes an early medieval past, since most of the castle was renovated in the 15th century. \| Schloss 1 \| 34464/35530 \| €7 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Winzervereinigung-Freyburg (Freyburg Vintner's Association). The best way to try Salle-Unstrut wine is with this trade group. Its 500 members produce some of Germany's finest wines, both white and red, mostly varietals, with some limited blends. (A wonderful light red from a hybrid of the Blauer Zweigelt and St. James grape, called Andre, may change how you think about German red wine.) Tastings and tours must be arranged in advance—with options ranging from a simple tour of one of Germany's largest barrel cellars to the grand tasting (€15)—or you can simply show up on Fridays at 1 (€10). The association goes out of its way to cater to the tastes of its guests, and bread, cheese, and water are always in plentiful supply. \| Querfurter Str. 10 \| 034464/30623 \| www.winzervereinigung-freyburg.de \| Mon.–Sat. 10–6, Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Eat Burgwirtschaft. GERMAN \| Where better than a castle serenely overlooking the village of Freyburg for a medieval restaurant? Everything is prepared according to historical recipes with ingredients from the region. Try the roast chicken with honey or any of the grilled meats. Most menu items are available in the spacious beer garden. \| Average main: €9 \| Schloss 1 \| 034464/66200. ## Quedlinburg 79 km (49 miles) northwest of Halle. This medieval Harz town has more half-timber houses than any other town in Germany: more than 1,600 of them line the narrow cobblestone streets and squares. The town escaped destruction during World War II and was treasured in GDR days, though not very well preserved. Today the nicely restored town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. For nearly 200 years Quedlinburg was a favorite imperial residence and site of imperial diets, beginning with the election in 919 of Henry the Fowler (Henry I) as the first Saxon king of Germany. It became a major trading city and a member of the Hanseatic League, equal in stature to Köln. #### Essentials Visitor Information Quedlinburg Tourismus-Marketing GmbH. \| Markt 2 \| 03946/905–624 \| www.quedlinburg.de. ### Exploring Lyonel Feininger Gallery. This sophisticated, modern gallery is placed behind half-timber houses so as not to affect the town's medieval feel. When the art of American-born painter Lyonel Feininger, a Bauhaus teacher in both Weimar and Dessau, was declared "decadent" by the Hitler regime in 1938, the artist returned to America. Left behind with a friend were engravings, lithographs, etchings, and paintings. The most comprehensive Feininger print collection in the world is displayed here. \| Finkenherd 5a \| 03946/2238 \| www.feininger-galerie.de \| €6 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–5. Marktplatz. The Altstadt (Old Town) is full of richly decorated half-timber houses, particularly along Mühlgraben, Schuhof, the Hölle, Breitestrasse, and Schmalstrasse. Notable on the Marktplatz are the Renaissance Rathaus, with a 14th-century statue of Roland signifying the town's independence, and the baroque 1701 Haus Grünhagen. Street and hiking maps and guidebooks (almost all in German) are available in the information office at the Rathaus. \| Markt 2 \| 03946/90550 \| Free \| Mon.–Sat. 9–3. Schlossmuseum (Castle Museum). Quedlinburg's largely Renaissance castle buildings perch on top of the Schlossberg (Castle Hill), with a terrace overlooking woods and valley. The grounds include the Schlossmuseum, which has exhibits on the history of the town and castle, artifacts of the Bronze Age, and the wooden cage in which a captured 14th-century robber baron was put on public view. Restored 17th- and 18th-century rooms give an impression of castle life at that time. \| Schlossberg 1 \| 03946/2730 \| €4 \| Mar.–Oct., daily 10–6; Nov.–Feb., Sat.–Thurs. 10–4. Ständerbau Fachwerkmuseum (Half-Timber House). The oldest half-timber house in Quedlinburg, built about 1310, is now a museum. \| Wordg. 3 \| 03946/3828 \| €3 \| Apr.–Oct., Fri.–Wed. 10–5; Nov.–Mar., Fri.–Wed. 10–4. Stiftskirche St. Servatius (Collegiate Church of St. Servatius). This simple, graceful church is one of the most important and best-preserved 12th-century Romanesque structures in Germany. Henry I and his wife Mathilde are buried in its crypt. The renowned Quedlinburg Treasure of 10th-, 11th-, and 12th-century gold and silver and bejeweled manuscripts is also kept here (what's left of it). Nazi SS leader Heinrich Himmler made the church into a shrine dedicated to the SS, insisting that it was only appropriate, since Henry I was the founder of the First German Reich. \| Schlossberg 1 \| 03946/709–900 \| €4 \| May–Oct., Tues.–Fri. 10–6, Sat. 10–5, Sun. noon–6; Nov.–Apr., Tues.–Sat. 10–4, Sun. noon–4. ### Where to Eat and Stay Lüdde Bräu. GERMAN \| Brewing Braunbier (a hoppy, top-fermented beer) has been a Quedlinburg tradition for several centuries. The Lüdde brewery traces its history to 1807, when Braunbier breweries dotted the Harz Mountains, and it was the last surviving brewery when it closed its doors in 1966. After German reunification, Georg Lüdde's niece reopened the business, and it remains the only Braunbier brewery in Quedlinburg. Sampling the reemergence of an almost lost German tradition as well as some incredible beer-based game dishes, makes the restaurant well worth a visit—the top-fermented Braunbier is called Pubarschknall. \| Average main: €11 \| Carl-Ritter-Str. 1 \| 03946/901–481 \| www.hotel-brauhaus-luedde.de. Hotel Zum Brauhaus. HOTEL \| In a beautifully restored half-timber house, many of the rooms incorporate the bare load-bearing timbers and have pleasant views of the castle. An excellent breakfast is served in a huge dining room. Pros: friendly staff; location next to Lüdde brewery. Cons: a little rough around the edges; upper rooms get hot in summer. \| Rooms from: €77 \| Carl-Ritter-Str. 1 \| 03946/901–481 \| www.hotel-brauhaus-luedde.de \| 50 rooms, 1 suite \| Breakfast. Hotel Zur Goldenen Sonne. HOTEL \| Rooms in this baroque half-timber inn are furnished in a pleasing, rustic fashion. The cozy restaurant ($ - $$) offers such Harz fare as venison stew with plum sauce and potato dumplings, and smoked ham in apricot sauce. Pros: beautiful half-timber house with modern conveniences; reasonable rates. Cons: the clock on the square strikes every 15 minutes; rooms in the renovated section not quite as nice as the ones in the half-timber house. \| Rooms from: €69 \| Steinweg 11 \| 03946/96250 \| www.hotelzurgoldenensonne.de \| 27 rooms \| Breakfast. Romantik Hotel Theophano. HOTEL \| This 1668 baroque half-timber merchant's house was the seat of the tanners' guild in the 18th century, a restaurant-coffeehouse in the early 20th century, and a domestic linen store until the Communists "deprivatized" the business. Now restored with care, its elegant rooms have country antiques. The vaulted-ceiling restaurant ($$) serves such dishes as Harz trout and local wild boar. Pros: location on the main market square. Cons: no elevator. \| Rooms from: €99 \| Markt 13–14 \| 03946/96300 \| www.hoteltheophano.de \| 22 rooms \| Breakfast. ## Goslar 48 km (30 miles) northwest of Quedlinburg. The lovely, unofficial capital of the Harz region, Goslar is one of Germany's oldest cities and is known for the medieval glamour expressed in the fine Romanesque architecture of the Kaiserpfalz, an imperial palace of the German Empire. Thanks to the deposits of silver ore close to the town, Goslar was one of the country's wealthiest hubs of trade during the Middle Ages. In this town of 46,000, time seems to have stood still among the hundreds of well-preserved (mostly typical northern German half-timber) houses built over the course of seven centuries. Despite Goslar's rapid decline after the breakup of the Holy Roman Empire, the city—thanks to its ore deposits—maintained all the luxury and worldliness born of economic success. #### Getting Here and Around Hourly trains whisk travelers from Hanover to Goslar in about an hour. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Goslar. \| Markt 7 \| 05321/78060 \| Fax 05321/780–644 \| www.goslar.de. ### Exploring Erzbergwerk Rammelsberg (Rammelsberg Mine). The source of the town's riches is outside the city at the world's only silver mine in continuous operation for more than 1,000 years. It stopped operating in 1988, but you can explore the many tunnels and shafts of the old mine. \| Bergtal 19 \| 05321/7500 \| www.rammelsberg.de \| €20, including 3 tours \| Daily 9–6; tours given as needed 9:30–4:30. Kaiserpfalz (Imperial Palace). The impressive Kaiserpfalz, set high above the historic downtown area, dates to the early Middle Ages. It once was the center of German imperial glory, when emperors held their regular diets here. Among the rulers who frequented Goslar were Heinrich III (1039–56) and his successor, Heinrich IV (1056–1106), who was also born in Goslar. You can visit an exhibit about the German medieval kaisers who stayed here, inspect the small chapel where the heart of Heinrich III is buried (the body is in Speyer), and view the beautiful ceiling murals in the Reichssaal (Imperial Hall). \| Kaiserbleek 6 \| 05321/311–9693 \| €7.50 \| Apr.–Oct., daily 10–5; Nov.–Mar., daily 10–4. Rathaus. With its magnificent Huldigungssaal (Hall of Honor), this town hall dates to 1450 and testifies to the wealth of Goslar's merchants. \| Markt 7 \| 05321/78060 \| €3.50 \| Daily 11–3. ### Where to Stay Kaiserworth-Hotel und Restaurant. HOTEL \| Hidden behind the reddish-brown walls of a 500-year-old house, the seat of medieval tailors and merchants, this hotel offers small but bright, pleasantly furnished rooms. Front rooms have windows on the medieval city market. The restaurant offers reliable German food. Pros: great central location in a unique historical building Cons: old building with some quirks and unlevel floors \| Rooms from: €122 \| Markt 3 \| 05321/7090 \| www.kaiserworth.de \| 66 rooms \| Breakfast. ### Sports and the Outdoors ##### Skiing Many cross-country trails (lighted at night for after-dark skiing) wind their way through the evergreen forests of Goslar and the surrounding towns. Alpine skiers have five ski slopes and a ski jump. The jump was closed until the Wall fell—because the bottom of it was in the GDR. For Alpine skiing, a cable car rises to the top of the 3,237-foot-high Wurmberg. It has three ski lifts. There are also toboggan runs, horse-drawn sleigh rides, ski instruction, and equipment rentals. Contact the tourist office for more information. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Eisenach \| Erfurt \| Weimar Unlike other eastern states, unassuming Thuringia was not taken from the Slavs by wandering Germanic tribes but has been German since before the Middle Ages. The hilly countryside is mostly rural and forested, and it preserves a rich cultural past in countless small villages, medieval cities, and country palaces. In the 14th century traders used the 168-km (104-mile) Rennsteig ("fast trail") through the dark depths of the Thuringian Forest, and cities such as Erfurt and Eisenach evolved as major commercial hubs. Today the forests and the Erzgebirge Mountains are a remote paradise for hiking and fishing. The city of Weimar is one of Europe's old cultural centers, where Germany attempted its first go at a true democracy in 1918. Thuringia is the land of Goethe and Schiller, but it is also tempered by the ominous presence of one of the Third Reich's most notorious concentration camps: Buchenwald. ## Eisenach 140 km (90 miles) southwest of Quedlinburg, 95 km (59 miles) northeast of Fulda. When you stand in Eisenach's ancient market square it's difficult to imagine this half-timber town as an important center of the East German automobile industry. Yet this is where Wartburgs (very tiny, noisy, and cheaply produced cars, which are now collector's items) were made. The cars were named after the Wartburg, the famous castle that broods over Eisenach from atop one of the foothills of the Thuringian Forest. Today West German automaker Opel continues the tradition by building one of Europe's most modern car-assembly lines on the outskirts of town. #### Getting Here and Around Hourly trains connect Eisenach with Leipzig (two hours) and Dresden (three hours). There are frequent connections to Weimar and Erfurt. #### Essentials Visitor Information Eisenach-Information. \| Markt 24 \| 03691/79230 \| www.eisenach.de. ### Exploring Bachhaus. Johann Sebastian Bach was born in Eisenach in 1685. The Bachhaus has exhibits devoted to the entire lineage of the musical Bach family and includes a collection of historical musical instruments. It is the largest collection of Bach memorabilia in the world, and includes a bust of the composer built using forensic science from a cast of his skull. \| Frauenplan 21 \| 03691/79340 \| www.bachhaus.de \| €8.50 \| Daily 10–6. Lutherhaus. This downtown house has many fascinating exhibits illustrating the life of Martin Luther, who lived here as a student. \| Lutherpl. 8 \| 03691/29830 \| www.lutherhaus-eisenach.de \| €4.50 \| Daily 10–5. Narrowest house. Built in 1890, this is said to be the narrowest house in eastern Germany. Its width is just over 6 feet, 8 inches; its height, 24½ feet; and its depth, 34 feet. \| Johannespl. 9. Reuter-Wagner-Museum. Composer Richard Wagner gets his due at this museum, which has the most comprehensive exhibition on Wagner's life and work outside Bayreuth. Monthly concerts take place in the old Teezimmer (tearoom), a hall with wonderfully restored French wallpaper. The Erard piano, dating from the late 19th century, is occasionally rolled out. \| Reuterweg 2 \| 03691/743–293 \| €4 \| Tues.–Wed. and Fri.–Sun. 11–5, Thurs. 3–8. Fodor's Choice \| Wartburg Castle. Begun in 1067 (and expanded through the centuries), this mighty castle has hosted a parade of German celebrities. Hermann I (1156–1217), count of Thuringia and count palatine of Saxony, was a patron of the poets Walther von der Vogelweide (1170–1230) and Wolfram von Eschenbach (1170–1220). Legend has it that this is where Walther von der Vogelweide, the greatest lyric poet of medieval Germany, prevailed in the celebrated Minnesängerstreit (minnesinger contest), which is featured in Richard Wagner's Tannhäuser. Within the castle's stout walls, Frederick the Wise (1463–1525) shielded Martin Luther from papal proscription from May 1521 until March 1522, even though Frederick did not share the reformer's beliefs. Luther completed the first translation of the New Testament from Greek into German while in hiding, an act that paved the way for the Protestant Reformation. You can peek into the simple study in which Luther worked. TIP Be sure to check out the place where Luther saw the devil and threw an inkwell at him. Pilgrims have picked away at the spot for centuries, forcing the curators to "reapply" the ink. Frederick was also a patron of the arts. Lucas Cranach the Elder's portraits of Luther and his wife are on view in the castle, as is a very moving sculpture, the Leuchterengelpaar (Candlestick Angel Group), by the great 15th-century artist Tilman Riemenschneider. The 13th-century great hall is breathtaking; it's here that the minstrels sang for courtly favors. TIP Don't leave without climbing the belvedere for a panoramic view of the Harz Mountains and the Thuringian Forest. \| Auf der Wartburg 1 \| 03691/2500 \| www.wartburg-eisenach.de \| €9, including guided tour \| Mar.–Oct., daily 8:30–5; Nov.–Feb., daily 9–3:30. ### Where to Stay Hotel auf der Wartburg. HOTEL \| In this castle hotel, where Martin Luther, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Richard Wagner were guests, you'll get a splendid view over the town and the countryside. The standard of comfort is above average, and antiques and Oriental rugs mix with modern furnishings. The hotel runs a shuttle bus to the rail station and to the parking lot of the Wartburg. Pros: medieval music and fireplaces in the lobby. Cons: it's a hike to and from the city center. \| Rooms from: €235 \| Wartburg \| 03691/7970 \| www.wartburghotel.de \| 35 rooms \| Breakfast. Hotel Glockenhof. HOTEL \| At the base of Wartburg Castle, this former church-run hostel has blossomed into a handsome hotel, cleverly incorporating the original half-timber city mansion into a modern extension. The excellent restaurant ($ - $$) has been joined by a brasserie. The hotel offers many packages that include cultural attractions and city tours. Pros: out of the hustle and bustle of the downtown; plenty of parking; an incredible breakfast buffet. Cons: uphill walk from the station is strenuous; location is a bit far from the city center. \| Rooms from: €89 \| Grimmelg. 4 \| 03691/2340 \| www.glockenhof.de \| 38 rooms, 2 suites \| Breakfast. ## Erfurt 55 km (34 miles) east of Eisenach. The city of Erfurt emerged from World War II relatively unscathed, with most of its innumerable towers intact. Of all the cities in the region, Erfurt is the most evocative of its prewar self, and it's easy to imagine that many of the towns in northern Germany would look like this had they not been destroyed. The city's highly decorative and colorful facades are easy to admire on a walking tour. TIP Downtown Erfurt is a photographer's delight, with narrow, busy, ancient streets dominated by a magnificent 14th-century Gothic cathedral, the Mariendom. #### Essentials Visitor Information Erfurt Tourist-Information. \| Benediktspl. 1 \| 0361/66400 \| www.erfurt-tourist-info.de. ### Exploring The Anger. Erfurt's main transportation hub and pedestrian zone, the Anger developed as a result of urban expansion due to the growth of the railroad in Thuringia in the early 19th century. With some exceptions, the houses are all architecturally historicized, making them look much older than they really are. The Hauptpostgebäude was erected in 1892 in a mock-Gothic style. Domplatz (Cathedral Square). This square is bordered by houses dating from the 16th century. Klein Venedig (Little Venice). The area around the bridge, crisscrossed with old streets lined with picturesque and often crumbling homes, is known as Little Venice because of the recurrent flooding it endures. Fodor's Choice \| Krämerbrücke (Merchant's Bridge). Behind the predominantly neo-Gothic Rathaus, Erfurt's most outstanding attraction spans the Gera River. This Renaissance bridge, similar to the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, is the longest of its kind in Europe and the only one north of the Alps. Built in 1325 and restored in 1967–73, the bridge served for centuries as an important trading center. Today antiques shops fill the majority of the timber-frame houses built into the bridge, some dating from the 16th century. The bridge comes alive on the third weekend of June for the Krämerbrückenfest. Mariendom (St. Mary's Cathedral). This catherdral's Romanesque origins (foundations can be seen in the crypt) are best preserved in the choir's glorious stained-glass windows and beautifully carved stalls, and its biggest bell, the Gloriosa, is the largest free-swinging bell in the world. Cast in 1497, it took three years to install in the tallest of the three sharply pointed towers, painstakingly lifted inch by inch with wooden wedges. No chances are taken with this 2-ton treasure; its deep boom resonates only on special occasions, such as Christmas and New Year's. The Mariendom is reached by way of a broad staircase from the expansive Cathedral Square. \| Dompl. \| 0361/646–1265 \| Tour €2.50 \| May–Oct., Mon.–Sat. 9–5, Sun. 1–4; Nov.–Apr., Mon.–Sat. 10–11:30 and 12:30–4, Sun. 1–4. St. Augustin Kloster (St. Augustine Monastery). The young Martin Luther studied the liberal arts as well as law and theology at Erfurt University from 1501 to 1505. After a personal revelation, Luther asked to become a monk in the St. Augustin Kloster on July 17, 1505. He became an ordained priest here in 1507, and remained at the Kloster until 1511. Today the Kloster is a seminary and retreat hotel. \| Augustinerstr. 10 \| 0361/576–600 \| www.augustinerkloster.de \| Mon.–Sat. 10–noon and 2–4, Sun. hrs vary. St. Severus. This Gothic church has an extraordinary font, a masterpiece of intricately carved sandstone that reaches practically to the ceiling. It's linked to the cathedral by a 70-step open staircase. \| Dompl. Zum Stockfisch. Erfurt's interesting local-history museum is in a late-Renaissance house. \| Johannesstr. 169 \| 0361/655–5644 \| Museum €4 \| Tues.–Sun. 10–6. ### Where to Eat Clara. GERMAN \| This restaurant in the historic, elegant Kaisersaal edifice is the jewel in Erfurt's small gourmet crown. Thuringia native chef Maria Gross has worked in top restaurants around Germany and developed her own minimalist style. Here she is pursuing her vision of a gourmet restaurant: a cozy, service-oriented oasis in which to enjoy delicious international dishes with a Thuringian accent. Using local producers, Clara serves delicious four- and five-course menus from a list of 10 dishes. The wine list is one of the best in eastern Germany, offering more than 300 wines from around the world. \| Average main: €59 \| Futterstr. 1, 15–16 \| 0361/568–8207 \| www.restaurant-clara.de \| Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch. Faustus Restaurant. GERMAN \| In the heart of historic Erfurt the stylish Faustus defines fine Thuringian dining. This restaurant is in an old mansion, with both an inviting summer terrace and a bright, airy dining room. An after-dinner drink at the superb bar is a must. \| Average main: €13 \| Wenigermarkt 5 \| 0361/540–0954 \| No credit cards. Luther Keller. GERMAN \| Head down the straw-covered stairs in front of Clara restaurant, and you'll find yourself transported to the Middle Ages. The Luther Keller offers simple but tasty medieval cuisine in a candlelit vaulted cellar. Magicians, minnesingers, jugglers, and other players round out the enjoyable experience. Sure, it's pure kitsch, but it is entertaining, and the roast wild boar is delicious. \| Average main: €12 \| Futterstr. 15 \| 0361/568–8205 \| Closed Mon. and Sun. No lunch. Zum Goldenen Schwan. GERMAN \| Beer lovers rejoice: in addition to the Braugold brewery, Erfurt has six brewpubs, among which the Golden Swan is by far the best. The house beer is a pleasant unfiltered Kellerbier, and other beers are brewed according to the season. The constantly changing seasonal menu is a step above normal brewpub fare, and the sauerbraten defines how the dish should be made. \| Average main: €10 \| Michaelisstr. 9 \| 0361/262–3742. ### Where to Stay Radisson Blu Hotel Erfurt. HOTEL \| Since the SAS group gave the ugly high-rise Kosmos a face-lift, the socialist-realist look of the GDR years no longer intrudes on Hotel Erfurt. The hotel underwent several renovations, and the rooms now have bright, modern colors and fabrics (including leather-upholstered furniture). The Classico restaurant ($ - $$) serves mostly local dishes and is one of Erfurt's best. Pros: a safe, clean option in the city center; good restaurant. Cons: rather characterless business hotel. \| Rooms from: €105 \| Juri-Gagarin-Ring 127 \| 0361/55100 \| www.radissonblu.com \| 282 rooms, 3 suites \| Breakfast. Off the Beaten Path: Schmölln. On the A–4 between Dresden and Erfurt lies the picture-perfect, lost-in-time Thuringian village of Schmölln. The town became famous at the end of the 19th century as the center of Europe's button trade. Schmölln's industrial ambitions ended with the confiscation of the button industry as war reparations by the Red Army. Schmölln's medieval Marktplatz, which the city rebuilt after a fire destroyed many of the buildings in 1772, is the largest in central Germany and a protected monument. Schmölln is also famous for Schmöllner Mutzbraten, a fist-size piece of marinated pork-shoulder, spiced with marjoram and spit-roasted over birch. Climb the 30-meter-high Ernst-Agnes-Turm, the Eiffel Tower of East Thuringia, for incredible views of the rolling hills surrounding the Sprotte Valley. \| Schmölln. Regional and Button Museum. This museum explores Schmölln's history and culture, while providing a charming insight into the history of the button. \| Sprotter/Ronneburger Str. \| Schmölln \| 034491/7692 \| www.schmoelln.de \| €3 \| Wed. and Fri. 10–5, weekends 12:30–6 Hotel Reussischer Hof. The best place to sample Schmölln's local delicacy is the beer garden of this hotel, which is also a good place to spend the night. \| Gössnitzer Str. 14 \| Schmölln \| 034491/23108 \| www.hotel-reussischer-hof.de \| No credit cards ## Weimar 21 km (13 miles) east of Erfurt. Sitting prettily in the geographical center of Thuringia, Weimar occupies a place in German political and cultural history completely disproportionate to its size (population 63,000). It's not even particularly old by German standards, with a civic history that started as late as 1410. Yet by the early 19th century the city had become one of Europe's most important cultural centers, where poets Goethe and Schiller wrote, Johann Sebastian Bach played the organ for his Saxon patrons, Carl Maria von Weber composed some of his best music, and Franz Liszt was director of music, presenting the first performance of Lohengrin here. In 1919 Walter Gropius founded his Staatliches Bauhaus here, and behind the classical pillars of the National Theater the German National Assembly drew up the constitution of the Weimar Republic, the first German democracy. As the Weimar Republic began to collapse in 1926, Hitler chose the little city as the site for the second national congress of his Nazi party, where he founded the Hitler Youth. On the outskirts of Weimar the Nazis built—or forced prisoners to build for them—the infamous Buchenwald concentration camp. #### Getting Here and Around Weimar is on the ICE line between Dresden/Leipzig and Frankfurt. IC trains link the city with Berlin. Weimar has an efficient bus system, but most sights are within walking distance in the compact city center. #### Essentials Visitor Information Tourist-Information Weimar. \| Markt 10 \| 03643/7450 \| www.weimar.de. ### Exploring Bauhaus Museum. Walter Gropius founded the Staatliches Bauhaus (Bauhaus design school) in Weimar in 1919. It was Germany's most influential and avant-garde design school, and it ushered in the era of modern architecture and design just before the start of World War II. Although the school moved to Dessau in 1925, Weimar's Bauhaus Museum is a modest, yet superb collection of the works of Gropius, Johannes Itten, and Henry van de Velde. \| Theaterpl. \| 03643/545–961 \| www.klassik-stiftung.de \| €5 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. Off the Beaten Path: Gedenkstätte Buchenwald (Buchenwald Memorial). Just north of Weimar, amid the natural beauty of the Ettersberg hills that once served as Goethe's inspiration, sits the blight of Buchenwald, one of the most infamous Nazi concentration camps. Sixty-five thousand men, women, and children from 35 countries met their deaths here through forced labor, starvation, disease, and gruesome medical experiments. Each is commemorated by a small stone placed on the outlines of the barracks, which have long since disappeared from the site, and by a massive memorial tower. In an especially cruel twist of fate, many liberated inmates returned to the camp as political prisoners of the Soviet occupation; they are remembered in the exhibit Soviet Special Camp #2. Besides exhibits, tours are available. To reach Buchenwald by public transportation, take Bus No. 6 (in the direction of Buchenwald, not Ettersburg), which leaves every 10 minutes from Goetheplatz in downtown Weimar. The one-way fare is €1.90. \| 03643/4300 \| www.buchenwald.de \| Free \| May–Sept., Tues.–Sun. 10–5:30; Oct.–Apr., Tues.–Sun. 9–4:30. Fodor's Choice \| Goethe Nationalmuseum (Goethe National Museum). Goethe spent 57 years in Weimar, 47 of them in a house two blocks south of Theaterplatz that has since become a shrine attracting millions of visitors. The Goethe Nationalmuseum consists of several houses, including the Goethehaus, where Goethe lived. It shows an exhibit about life in Weimar around 1750 and contains writings that illustrate not only the great man's literary might but also his interest in the sciences, particularly medicine, and his administrative skills (and frustrations) as minister of state and Weimar's exchequer. You'll see the desk at which Goethe stood to write (he liked to work standing up) and the modest bed in which he died. The rooms are dark and often cramped, but an almost palpable intellectual intensity seems to illuminate them. \| Frauenplan 1 \| 03643/545–320 \| www.weimar-klassik.de/english \| €10.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Fri., and Sun. 9–4, Sat. 9–7. Goethes Gartenhaus (Garden House). Goethe's beloved Gartenhaus is a modest country cottage where he spent many happy hours, wrote much poetry, and began his masterly classical drama Iphigenie. The house is set amid meadowlike parkland on the bank of the River Ilm. Goethe is said to have felt very close to nature here, and you can soak up the same rural atmosphere on footpaths along the peaceful little river. \| Im Park an der Ilm, Hans-Wahl-Str. 4 \| 03643/545–375 \| www.weimar-klassik.de/english \| Cottage €6 \| Apr.–Oct., Wed.–Mon. 9–6; Nov.–Mar., Wed.–Mon. 10–4. Herderkirche (Herder Church). The Marktplatz's late-Gothic church has a large winged altar started by Lucas Cranach the Elder and finished by his son in 1555. The elder Cranach lived in a nearby house (two blocks east of Theaterplatz) during his last years, 1552–53. Its wide, imposing facade is richly decorated and bears the coat of arms of the Cranach family. It now houses a modern art gallery. \| Herderpl. 8. Historischer Friedhof (Historic Cemetery). Goethe and Schiller are buried in this leafy cemetery, where virtually every gravestone commemorates a famous citizen of Weimar. Their tombs are in the vault of the classical-style chapel. The cemetery is a short walk past Goethehaus and Wieland Platz. \| Am Poseckschen Garten \| 03643/545–400 \| Goethe-Schiller vault €2.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Wed.–Mon. 9–1 and 2–6; Nov.–Mar., Wed.–Mon. 10–1 and 2–4. Neues Museum Weimar (New Museum Weimar). The city is proud of eastern Germany's first museum exclusively devoted to contemporary art. The building, dating from 1869, was carefully restored and converted to hold collections of American minimalist and conceptual art and works by German installation-artist Anselm Kiefer and American painter Keith Haring. In addition, it regularly presents international modern-art exhibitions. \| Weimarpl. 5 \| 03643/545–930 \| www.kunstsammlungen-weimar.de \| €5.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 11–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 11–4. Schillerhaus. This green-shuttered residence, part of the Goethe National Museum, is on a tree-shaded square not far from Goethe's house. Schiller and his family spent a happy, all-too-brief three years here (he died here in 1805). Schiller's study is tucked underneath the mansard roof, a cozy room dominated by his desk, where he probably completed Wilhelm Tell. Much of the remaining furniture and the collection of books were added later, although they all date from around Schiller's time. \| Schillerstr. 17 \| 03643/545–350 \| www.klassik-stiftung.de \| €7.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 9–4. Stadtschloss (City Castle). Around the corner from the Herderkirche, this 16th-century castle has a finely restored classical staircase, a festival hall, and a falcon gallery. The tower on the southwest projection dates from the Middle Ages but received its baroque overlay circa 1730. The Kunstsammlung (art collection) here includes several works by Cranach the Elder and many early-20th-century pieces by such artists as Böcklin, Liebermann, and Beckmann. \| Burgpl. 4 \| 03643/545–930 \| www.klassik-stiftung.de \| €7.50 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 10–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. Theaterplatz. A statue on this square, in front of the National Theater, shows Goethe placing a paternal hand on the shoulder of the younger Schiller. Wittumspalais (Wittum Mansion). Much of Weimar's greatness is owed to its patron, the widowed countess Anna Amalia, whose home, the Wittumspalais, is surprisingly modest. In the late 18th century the countess went talent hunting for cultural figures to decorate the glittering court her Saxon forebears had established. She discovered Goethe, and he served the countess as a counselor, advising her on financial matters and town design. Schiller followed, and he and Goethe became valued visitors to the countess's home. Within this exquisite baroque house you can see the drawing room in which she held soirées, complete with the original cherrywood table at which the company sat. The east wing of the house contains a small museum that's a fascinating memorial to those cultural gatherings. \| Am Theaterpl. \| 03643/545–377 \| €6 \| Apr.–Oct., Tues.–Sun. 9–6; Nov.–Mar., Tues.–Sun. 10–4. ### Where to Eat Felsenkeller. GERMAN \| When Ludwig Deinhard purchased the Weimar Stadtbrauerei in 1875, Felsenkeller was already 100 years old. Beer has been brewed here in small batches ever since. Although the brewpub is outside the city center, it's worth a trip to sample the brews and the inventive seasonal selections. The pub serves standard fare at reasonable prices. \| Average main: €9 \| Humboldtstr. 37 \| 03643/414–741 \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. Ratskeller. GERMAN \| This is one of the region's most authentic town hall–cellar restaurants. Its whitewashed, barrel-vaulted ceiling has witnessed centuries of tradition. At the side is a cozy bar, where you can enjoy a preprandial drink beneath a spectacular art nouveau skylight. The delicious sauerbraten and the famous bratwurst (with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes) are the highlights of the Thuringian menu. If venison is in season, try it—likewise the wild duck or wild boar in red-wine sauce. \| Average main: €11 \| Am Markt 10 \| 03643/850–573. FAMILY \| Scharfe Ecke. GERMAN \| If Klösse (dumplings) are a religion, this restaurant is their cathedral. Thuringia's traditional Klösse are at their best here, but be patient—they're made to order and can take up to 20 minutes. The Klösse come with just about every dish, from roast pork to venison stew, and the wait is well worth it. The ideal accompaniment to anything on the menu is one of the three locally brewed beers on tap or the fine selection of Salle-Unstrut wines. \| Average main: €11 \| Eisfeld 2 \| 03643/202–430 \| No credit cards \| Closed Mon. Sommer's Weinstuben und Restaurant. GERMAN \| The city's oldest pub and restaurant, a 130-year-old landmark in the center of Weimar, is still going strong. The authentic Thuringian specialties and huge Kartoffelpfannen (potato pans), with fried potatoes and various kinds of meat, are prepared by the fifth generation of the Sommer family, and are as tasty as ever. Add to that a romantic courtyard and a superb wine list with some rare vintages from local vineyards. \| Average main: €10 \| Humboldtstr. 2 \| 03643/400–691 \| No credit cards \| Closed Sun. No lunch. ### Where to Stay Amalienhof VCH Hotel. HOTEL \| Book far ahead to secure a room at this friendly little hotel central to Weimar's attractions. It opened in 1826 as a church hostel. Double rooms are furnished with first-rate antique reproductions; public rooms have the real thing. Pros: surprisingly good value; rooms are often upgraded to the highest available category at check-in. Cons: street noise can be bothersome. \| Rooms from: €97 \| Amalienstr. 2 \| 03643/5490 \| www.amalienhof-weimar.de \| 23 rooms, 9 apartments \| Breakfast. Fodor's Choice \| Grand Hotel Russischer Hof. HOTEL \| This historic, classical hotel, once the haunt of European nobility and intellectual society, continues to be a luxurious gem in the heart of Weimar—it's one of eastern Germany's finest hotels. Tolstoy, Liszt, Schumann, Turgenev, and others once stayed at this former Russian city palace, whose (partly historic) rooms are decorated today with antique French tapestries, linens, and furniture. The service is impeccable, and the atmosphere is casual yet serene and elegant. The restaurant Anastasia ($$) serves fine Austrian-Thuringian cuisine. Pros: a quiet hotel in the city center. Cons: rooms are on the small side, with thin walls; some overlook an unsightly back courtyard. \| Rooms from: €110 \| Goethepl. 2 \| 03643/7740 \| www.russischerhof.com \| 119 rooms, 6 suites. Fodor's Choice \| Hotel Elephant. HOTEL \| The historic Elephant, dating from 1696, has been famous for its charm—even through the Communist years. Book here (well in advance), and you'll follow the choice of Goethe, Schiller, Herder, Liszt (after whom the hotel bar is named) - and Hitler - all of whom were guests. Behind the sparkling white facade are comfortable modern rooms decorated in beige, white, and yellow in a timeless blend of art deco and Bauhaus styles. A sense of the past is ever-present. Pros: a beautiful historical building right in the city center. Cons: no a/c; rooms in the front are sometimes bothered by the town clock if windows are open. \| Rooms from: €131 \| Markt 19 \| 03643/8020 \| www.hotelelephantweimar.com \| 94 rooms, 5 suites \| Breakfast. ### Nightlife Shakespeares. Weimar's lively after-dark scene is focused on bars and nightclubs around the Marktplatz, such as this Bauhaus-style bar and restaurant. \| Windischenstr. 4–6 \| 03643/901–285. Previous Chapter \| Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Chronology Table of Contents Early Middle Ages \| Middle Ages \| Renaissance and Reformation \| Thirty Years' War \| Absolutism and Enlightenment \| Road to Nationhood \| Modernism \| Weimar Republic \| Nazi Germany \| The Cold War \| Reunification ca. 5000 bc Indo-Germanic tribes settle in the Rhine and Danube valleys. ca. 2000–800 bc Distinctive German Bronze Age culture emerges, with settlements ranging from coastal farms to lakeside villages. ca. 450–50 bc Salzkammergut people, whose prosperity is based on abundant salt deposits (in the area of upper Austria), trade with Greeks and Etruscans; Salzkammerguts spread as far as Belgium and have first contact with the Romans. 9 bc–ad 9 Roman attempts to conquer the "Germans"—the tribes of the Cibri, the Franks, the Goths, and the Vandals—are only partly successful; the Rhine becomes the northeastern border of the Roman Empire (and remains so for 300 years). 212 Roman citizenship is granted to all free inhabitants of the empire. ca. 400 Pressed forward by Huns from Asia, such German tribes as the Franks, the Vandals, and the Lombards migrate to Gaul (France), Spain, Italy, and North Africa, scattering the empire's populace and eventually leading to the disintegration of central Roman authority. 486 The Frankish kingdom is founded by Clovis; his court is in Paris. 497 The Franks convert to Christianity. ## Early Middle Ages 776 Charlemagne becomes king of the Franks. 800 Charlemagne is declared Holy Roman Emperor; he makes Aachen capital of his realm, which stretches from the Bay of Biscay to the Adriatic and from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. Under his enlightened patronage there is an upsurge in art and architecture—the Carolingian renaissance. 843 The Treaty of Verdun divides Charlemagne's empire among his three sons: West Francia becomes France; Lotharingia becomes Lorraine (territory to be disputed by France and Germany into the 20th century); and East Francia takes on, roughly, the shape of modern Germany. 911 Five powerful German dukes (of Bavaria, Lorraine, Franconia, Saxony, and Swabia) establish the first German monarchy by electing King Conrad I. Henry I (the Fowler) succeeds Conrad in 919. 962 Otto I is crowned Holy Roman Emperor by the pope; he establishes Austria—the East Mark. The Ottonian renaissance is marked especially by the development of Romanesque architecture. ## Middle Ages 1024–1125 The Salian dynasty is characterized by a struggle between emperors and the Church that leaves the empire weak and disorganized; the great Romanesque cathedrals of Speyer, Trier, and Mainz are built. 1138–1254 Frederick Barbarossa leads the Hohenstaufen dynasty; there is temporary recentralization of power, underpinned by strong trade and Church relations. 1158 Munich, capital of Bavaria, is founded by Duke Henry the Lion. He is deposed by Emperor Barbarossa, and Munich is presented to the House of Wittelsbach, which rules it until 1918. 1241 The Hanseatic League is founded to protect trade; Bremen, Hamburg, Köln, and Lübeck are early members. Agencies are soon established in London, Antwerp, Venice, and along the Baltic and North seas; a complex banking and finance system results. mid-1200s The Gothic style, exemplified by the grand Köln Cathedral, flourishes. 1349 The Black Death plague kills one-quarter of the German population. ## Renaissance and Reformation 1456 Johannes Gutenberg (1400–68) prints the first book in Europe. 1471–1553 The Renaissance flowers under influence of painter and engraver Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528); Dutch-born philosopher and scholar Erasmus (1466–1536); Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472–1553), who originates Protestant religious painting; portrait and historical painter Hans Holbein the Younger (1497–1543); and landscape-painting pioneer Albrecht Altdorfer (1480–1538). Increasing wealth among the merchant classes leads to strong patronage of the revived arts. 1517 The Protestant Reformation begins in Germany when Martin Luther (1483–1546) nails his 95 Theses to a church door in Wittenberg, contending that the Roman Church has forfeited divine authority through its corrupt sale of indulgences. Luther is outlawed, and his revolutionary doctrine splits the Church; much of north Germany embraces Protestantism. 1524–30 The (Catholic) Habsburgs rise to power; their empire spreads throughout Europe (and as far as North Africa, the Americas, and the Philippines). Erasmus breaks with Luther and supports reform within the Roman Catholic Church. In 1530 Charles V—a Habsburg—is crowned Holy Roman Emperor; he brutally crushes the Peasants' War, one in a series of populist uprisings in Europe. 1545 The Council of Trent marks the beginning of the Counter-Reformation. Through diplomacy and coercion, most Austrians, Bavarians, and Bohemians are won back to Catholicism, but the majority of Germans remain Lutheran; persecution of religious minorities grows. ## Thirty Years' War 1618–48 Germany is the main theater for the Thirty Years' War. The powerful Catholic Habsburgs are defeated by Protestant forces, swelled by disgruntled Habsburg subjects and the armies of King Gustav Adolphus of Sweden. The bloody conflict ends with the Peace of Westphalia (1648); Habsburg and papal authority are severely diminished. ## Absolutism and Enlightenment 1689 Louis XIV of France invades the Rhineland Palatinate and sacks Heidelberg. At the end of the 17th century, Germany consolidates its role as a center of scientific thought. 1708 Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750) becomes court organist at Weimar and launches his career; he and Georg Friederic Handel (1685–1759) fortify the great tradition of German music. Baroque and, later, rococo art and architecture flourish. 1740–86 Reign of Frederick the Great of Prussia; his rule sees both the expansion of Prussia (it becomes the dominant military force in Germany) and the spread of Enlightenment thought. ca. 1790 The great age of European orchestral music is raised to new heights with the works of Joseph Haydn (1732–1809), Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756–91), and Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827). early 1800s Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) is part of the Sturm und Drang movement, which leads to Romanticism. Painter Caspar David Friedrich (1774–1840) leads early German Romanticism. Other luminary cultural figures include writers Friedrich Schiller (1759–1805) and Heinrich von Kleist (1777–1811); and composers Robert Schumann (1810–56), Hungarian-born Franz Liszt (1811–86), Richard Wagner (1813–83), and Johannes Brahms (1833–97). In architecture, the severe lines of neoclassicism become popular. ## Road to Nationhood 1806 Napoléon's armies invade Prussia; it briefly becomes part of the French Empire. 1807 The Prussian prime minister Baron vom und zum Stein frees the serfs, creating a new spirit of patriotism; the Prussian army is rebuilt. 1813 The Prussians defeat Napoléon at Leipzig. 1815 Britain and Prussia defeat Napoléon at Waterloo. At the Congress of Vienna the German Confederation is created as a loose union of 39 independent states, reduced from more than 300 principalities. The Bundestag (national assembly) is established at Frankfurt. Already powerful Prussia increases its territory, gaining the Rhineland, Westphalia, and most of Saxony. 1848 The "Year of the Revolutions" is marked by uprisings across the fragmented German Confederation; Prussia expands. A national parliament is elected, taking the power of the Bundestag to prepare a constitution for a united Germany. 1862 Otto von Bismarck (1815–98) becomes prime minister of Prussia; he is determined to wrest German-populated provinces from Austro-Hungarian (Habsburg) control. 1866 Austria-Hungary is defeated by the Prussians at Sadowa; Bismarck sets up the Northern German Confederation in 1867. A key figure in Bismarck's plans is Ludwig II of Bavaria. Ludwig—a political simpleton—lacks successors, making it easy for Prussia to seize his lands. 1867 Karl Marx (1818–83) publishes Das Kapital. 1870–71 The Franco-Prussian War: Prussia lays siege to Paris. Victorious Prussia seizes Alsace-Lorraine but eventually withdraws from all other occupied French territories. 1871 The four South German states agree to join the Northern Confederation; Wilhelm I is proclaimed first kaiser of the united empire. ## Modernism 1882 The Triple Alliance is forged between Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy. Germany's industrial revolution blossoms, enabling it to catch up with the other great powers of Europe. Germany establishes colonies in Africa and the Pacific. ca. 1885 Daimler and Benz pioneer the automobile. 1890 Kaiser Wilhelm II (rules 1888–1918) dismisses Bismarck and begins a new, more aggressive course of foreign policy; he oversees the expansion of the navy. 1890s A new school of writers, including Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926), emerges. Rilke's Sonnets to Orpheus gives German poetry new lyricism. 1905 Albert Einstein (1879–1955) announces his theory of relativity. 1906 Painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner (1880–1938) helps organize Die Brücke, a group of artists who, along with Der Blaue Reiter, create the avant-garde art movement expressionism. 1907 Great Britain, Russia, and France form the Triple Entente, which, set against the Triple Alliance, divides Europe into two armed camps. 1914–18 Austrian archduke Franz-Ferdinand is assassinated in Sarajevo. The attempted German invasion of France sparks World War I; Italy and Russia join the Allies, and four years of pitched battle ensue. By 1918 the Central Powers are encircled and must capitulate. ## Weimar Republic 1918 Germany is compelled by the Versailles Treaty to give up its overseas colonies and much European territory (including Alsace-Lorraine to France) and to pay huge reparations to the Allies; Kaiser Wilhelm II repudiates the throne and goes into exile in Holland. The tough terms leave the new democracy, called the Weimar Republic, shaky. 1919 The Bauhaus school of art and design, the brainchild of Walter Gropius (1883–1969), is born. Thomas Mann (1875–1955) and Hermann Hesse (1877–1962) forge a new style of visionary intellectual writing. 1923 Germany suffers runaway inflation. Adolf Hitler's Beer Hall Putsch, a rightist revolt, fails; leftist revolts are frequent. 1925 Hitler publishes Mein Kampf (My Struggle) 1932 The Nazi party gains the majority in the Reichstag (parliament). 1933 Hitler becomes chancellor; the Nazi "revolution" begins. In Berlin, Nazi students stage the burning of more than 25,000 books by Jewish and other politically undesirable authors. ## Nazi Germany 1934 President Paul von Hindenburg dies; Hitler declares himself Führer (leader) of the Third Reich. Nazification of all German social institutions begins, spreading a policy that is virulently racist and anticommunist. Germany recovers industrial might and re-arms. 1936 Germany signs anticommunist agreements with Italy and Japan, forming the Axis; Hitler reoccupies the Rhineland. 1938 The Anschluss (annexation): Hitler occupies Austria. Germany occupies the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia. Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass), in November, marks the Nazis' first open and direct terrorism against German Jews. Synagogues and Jewish-owned businesses are burned, looted, and destroyed in a night of violence. 1939–40 In August Hitler signs a pact with the Soviet Union; in September he invades Poland. War is declared by the Allies. Over the next three years there are Nazi invasions of Denmark, Norway, the Low Countries, France, Yugoslavia, and Greece. Alliances form between Germany and the Baltic states. 1941–45 Hitler launches his anticommunist crusade against the Soviet Union, reaching Leningrad in the north and Stalingrad and the Caucasus in the south. In 1944 the Allies land in France; their combined might brings the Axis to its knees. In addition to the millions killed in the fighting, more than 6 million Jews and other victims die in Hitler's concentration camps. Germany is again in ruins. Hitler kills himself in April 1945. East Berlin and what becomes East Germany are occupied by the Soviet Union. ## The Cold War 1945 At the Yalta Conference, France, the United States, Britain, and the Soviet Union divide Germany into four zones; each country occupies a sector of Berlin. The Potsdam Agreement expresses the determination to rebuild Germany as a democracy. 1946 East Germany's Social Democratic Party merges with the Communist Party, forming the SED, which would rule East Germany for the next 40 years. 1948 The Soviet Union tears up the Potsdam Agreement and attempts, by blockade, to exclude the three other Allies from their agreed zones in Berlin. Stalin is frustrated by a massive airlift of supplies to West Berlin. 1949 The three western zones are combined to form the Federal Republic of Germany; the new West German parliament elects Konrad Adenauer as chancellor (a post he held until his retirement in 1963). Soviet-held East Germany becomes the Communist German Democratic Republic (GDR). 1950s West Germany, aided by the financial impetus provided by the Marshall Plan, rebuilds its devastated cities and economy—the Wirtschaftswunder (economic miracle) gathers speed. The writers Heinrich Böll, Wolfgang Koeppen, and Günter Grass emerge. 1957 The Treaty of Rome heralds the formation of the European Economic Community (EEC); West Germany is a founding member. 1961 Communists build the Berlin Wall to stem the outward tide of refugees. 1969–74 The vigorous chancellorship of Willy Brandt pursues Ostpolitik, improving relations with Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union and acknowledging East Germany's sovereignty. mid-1980s The powerful German Green Party emerges as the leading environmentalist voice in Europe. ## Reunification 1989 Discontent in East Germany leads to a flood of refugees westward and to mass demonstrations. Communist power collapses across Eastern Europe; the Berlin Wall falls. 1990 In March the first free elections in East Germany bring a center-right government to power. The Communists, faced with corruption scandals, suffer a big defeat but are represented (as Democratic Socialists) in the new, democratic parliament. The World War II victors hold talks with the two German governments, and the Soviet Union gives its support for reunification. Economic union takes place on July 1, with full political unity on October 3. In December, in the first democratic national German elections in 58 years, Chancellor Helmut Kohl's three-party coalition is reelected. 1991 Nine months of emotional debate end on June 20, when parliamentary representatives vote to move the capital from Bonn—seat of the West German government since 1949—to Berlin, the capital of Germany until the end of World War II. 1998 Helmut Kohl's record 16-year-long chancellorship of Germany ends with the election of Gerhard Schröder. Schröder's Social Democratic Party (SPD) pursues a coalition with the Greens in order to replace the three-party coalition of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU), Christian Social Union (CSU), and Free Democratic Party (FDP). 1999 The Bundestag, the German parliament, returns to the restored Reichstag in Berlin on April 19. The German federal government also leaves Bonn for Berlin, making Berlin capital of Germany again. 1999–2003 For the first time since 1945, the German army (the Bundeswehr) is deployed in combat missions in the former Yugoslavia and Afghanistan. 2000 Hannover hosts Germany's first world's exposition, expo 2000, the largest ever staged in the 150-year history of the event. 2005 Chancellor Schröder asks for a vote of confidence in parliament and fails. After a new election in September, Angela Merkel (CDU) becomes the new chancellor with a "grand coalition" of CDU/CSU and SPD. 2006 Germany hosts the 2006 FIFA World Cup, the world's soccer championship. 2007 Angela Merkel as German chancellor and also in her role as the then President of the Council of the European Union hosts the G-8 summit in Heiligendamm, Germany. 2008 Chancellor Merkel (CDU) together with her minister of Finance Steinbrück (SPD) announce at a specially called nationwide TV press conference the safety of all private savings accounts. 2009 In Bundestag elections the alliance of the CDU/CSU and FDP receive an outright majority of seats, ensuring that Angela Merkel continues as chancellor. Beginning of Chapter \| Table of Contents _Main Table of Contents_ Getting Here and Around Essentials Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Air Travel \| Boat Travel \| Bus Travel \| Car Travel \| Cruise Ship Travel \| Train Travel Germany's transportation infrastructure is extremely well developed, so all areas of the country are well connected to each other by road, rail, and air. The autobahns are an efficient system of highways, although they can get crowded during holidays. In winter you may have to contend with closed passes in the Alps or difficult driving on smaller roads in the Black Forest and the Saarland region. High-speed trains are perhaps the most comfortable way of traveling. Munich to Hamburg, for example, a trip of around 966 km (600 miles), takes 5½ hours. Many airlines offer extremely cheap last-minute flights, but you have to be fairly flexible. ## Air Travel The least-expensive airfares on major carriers to Germany are often priced for round-trip travel and usually must be purchased in advance. Budget airline tickets are always priced one way. Airlines generally allow you to change your return date for a fee; most low-fare tickets, however, are nonrefundable. Fares between the British Isles and Germany on "no-frills" airlines such as Air Berlin and EasyJet can range from €15 to €70. TIP Although a budget airfare may not be refundable, new EU regulations require that all other supplemental fees and taxes are. That means that when the €1 fare from Berlin to Munich turns out to cost €70 with fuel surcharges and the like, you only lose €1. Refund procedures vary between airlines. Flying time to Frankfurt is 1½ hours from London, 7½ hours from New York, 10 hours from Chicago, and 12 hours from Los Angeles. Lufthansa is Germany's leading carrier and has shared mileage plans and flights with Air Canada and United, as well as all members of the Star Alliance. Germany's internal air network is excellent, with flights linking all major cities in, at most, little more than an hour. Germany's second-largest airline, Air Berlin, is a low-cost, full-service operation flying domestic and international routes from its hubs in Berlin, Stuttgart, Dusseldorf, and Hamburg. It is almost always a cheaper and more comfortable option than a flag carrier. A handful of smaller airlines—Germanwings, EasyJet, and TUIfly—compete with low-fare flights within Germany and to other European cities. These companies are reliable, do business almost exclusively over the Internet, and often beat the German rail fares. The earlier you book, the cheaper the fare. Airlines Within Germany Air Berlin. \| 030/737–800, 866/266–5588 in U.S. \| www.airberlin.com. EasyJet. \| 01805/666–000. \| www.easyjet.com. Germanwings. \| 0180/191–9100 \| www.germanwings.com. Lufthansa. \| 01805/805–805 \| www.lufthansa.com. TUIfly. \| 0180/1000–2000 \| www.TUIfly.com. Major Airlines Air Canada. \| 888/247–2262 \| www.aircanada.com. Lufthansa. \| 800/645–3880 \| www.lufthansa.com. United Airlines. \| 800/864–8331 for U.S. reservations, 800/538–2929 for international reservations \| www.united.com. ### Airports Frankfurt is Germany's air hub. The large airport has the convenience of its own long-distance train station, but if you're transferring between flights, don't dawdle or you could miss your connection. Munich is Germany's second air hub, with many services to North America and Asia. The airport is like a minicity, with plenty of activities to keep you entertained during a long layover. Experience a true German tradition and have a beer from the world's first airport brewery at the Hofbräuhaus here. For a more active layover, play miniature golf, beach volleyball, or soccer, or ice skate in winter. There's also a playground. Live concerts and 150 shops with downtown prices draw locals to the airport as well. If you're an airplane aficionado (and German speaker), you can take advantage of a small cinema showing movies on aviation themes or take a bus tour of the airport's facilities, including maintenance hangars and engine-testing facilities. Looking for some R&R? The airport offers massages at the gate, relaxation zones, and napcabs (soundproof minirooms to nap in). Munich's S-bahn railway connects the airport with the city center; trips take about 40 minutes, and trains leave every 10 minutes. United and Air Berlin have nonstop service between New York and Berlin-Tegel. Air Berlin also flies from Berlin-Tegel to Chicago, Miami, and Los Angeles. Major airlines, like Lufthansa, fly in and out of Berlin-Tegel, while most budget airlines use Berlin-Schönefeld. Once the Berlin Brandenburg airport finally opens, both Tegel and Schönefeld will close. United also has nonstop service between New York and Hamburg. There are a few nonstop services from North America to Düsseldorf. Stuttgart is convenient to the Black Forest. Also convenient to the Black Forest is the EuroAirport Freiburg-Basel-Mulhouse, which is used by many airlines for European destinations and as a stopover. Airlines and Airports Airline and Airport Links.com. \| www.airlineandairportlinks.com. Airline Security Issues Transportation Security Administration. \| www.tsa.gov. #### Airport Information Berlin: Berlin Brandenburg (BER). \| 030/6091–1150 €0.14 per min \| www.berlin-airport.de. Schönefeld (SXF). \| 030/000–186 €0.14 per min \| www.berlin-airport.de. Tegel (TXL). \| 030/000–186 €0.14 per min \| www.berlin-airport.de. Düsseldorf: Flughafen Düsseldorf (DUS). \| 0211/4210 \| www.duesseldorf-international.de. Frankfurt: Flughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA). \| 01805/372–4636, 069/6900 from outside Germany \| www.frankfurt-airport.de. Freiburg: EuroAirport Freiburg-Basel-Mulhouse (MLH). \| 0033/3899–03111 French number—airport is across the border in France] \| [www.euroairport.com. Hamburg: Hamburg International Airport (HAM). \| 040/50750 \| www.ham.airport.de. Köln: Flughafen Köln/Bonn (CGN). \| 02203/404–001 \| www.koeln-bonn-airport.de. Munich: Flughafen München (MUC). \| 089/97500 \| www.munich-airport.de. Stuttgart: Flughafen Stuttgart (STR). \| 01805/948–444 €0.14 per min \| www.stuttgart-airport.de. ## Boat Travel Eurailpasses and German Rail Passes are honored by KD Rhine Line on the Rhine River and on the Mosel River between Trier and Koblenz. (If you use the fast hydrofoil, a supplementary fee is required.) The rail lines follow the Rhine and Mosel rivers most of their length, meaning you can go one way by ship and return by train. Cruises generally operate between April and October. If you are planning to visit Denmark or Sweden after Germany, note that Scandlines ferries offer discounts for Eurailpass owners. The MS Duchess of Scandinavia carries passengers and cars three times a week for the 19½-hour run between Cuxhaven, Germany, and Harwich, England. Information KD Rhine Line. \| 0221/208–8318 \| www.k-d.com. MS.Duchess of Scandinavia \| 08705/333–111 for DFDS Seaways in U.K., 040/389–0371 in Germany \| www.dfdsseaways.co.uk. Scandlines. \| 0381/54350 \| www.scandlines.de. ## Bus Travel Germany has good local bus service. Many cities are served by BerlinLinien Bus. Deutsche Touring, a subsidiary of the Deutsche Bahn, has offices and agents countrywide, and travels from Germany to cities elsewhere in Europe. It offers one-day tours along the Castle Road and the Romantic Road. The Romantic Road route is between Würzburg (with connections to and from Frankfurt) and Füssen (with connections to and from Munich, Augsburg, and Garmisch-Partenkirchen). With a Eurailpass or German Rail Pass you get a 10% discount on this route. Buses, with an attendant on board, travel in each direction between April and October. All towns of any size have local buses, which often link up with trams (streetcars) and electric railway (S-bahn) and subway (U-bahn) services. Fares sometimes vary according to distance, but a ticket usually allows you to transfer freely between the various forms of transportation. Bus Information BerlinLinien Bus. \| 030/861–9331 \| www.berlinlinienbus.de. Deutsche Touring. \| 069/790–3501 \| www.touring.de. ## Car Travel Entry formalities for motorists are few: all you need is proof of insurance; an international car-registration document; and a U.S., Canadian, Australian, or New Zealand driver's license. If you or your car is from an EU country, Norway, or Switzerland, all you need is your domestic license and proof of insurance. All foreign cars must have a country sticker. There are no toll roads in Germany, except for a few Alpine mountain passes. Many large German cities require an environmental sticker on the front windshield. If your rental car doesn't have one, it's likely you'll be required to pay the fine. ### Car Rental It is easy to rent a car in Germany, but not always cheap. You will need an International Driving Permit (IDP); it's available from the American Automobile Association (AAA) and the National Automobile Club. These international permits are universally recognized, and having one in your wallet may save you problems with the local authorities. In Germany you usually must be 21 to rent a car. Nearly all agencies allow you to drive into Germany's neighboring countries. It's frequently possible to return the car in another West European country, but not in Poland or the Czech Republic, for example. Rates with the major car-rental companies begin at about €55 per day and €300 per week for an economy car with a manual transmission and unlimited mileage. It is invariably cheaper to rent a car in advance from home than to do it on the fly in Germany. Most rentals are manual, so if you want an automatic, be sure to request one in advance. If you're traveling with children, don't forget to ask for a car seat when you reserve. Note that in some major cities, even automobile-producing Stuttgart, rental firms are prohibited from placing signs at major pickup and drop-off locations, such as the main train station. If dropping a car off in an unfamiliar city, you might have to guess your way to the station's underground parking garage; once there, look for a generic sign such as Mietwagen (rental cars). The German railway system, Deutsche Bahn, offers discounts on rental cars. Depending on what you would like to see, you may or may not need a car for all or part of your stay. Most parts of Germany are connected by reliable rail service, so it might be a better plan to take a train to the region you plan to visit and rent a car only for side trips to out-of-the-way destinations. Major Rental Agencies Avis. \| 800/331–1212 \| www.avis.com. Budget. \| 800/472–3325 \| www.budget.com. Europecar. \| www.europecar.com. Hertz. \| 800/654–3001 \| www.hertz.com. Wholesalers Auto Europe. \| 888/223–5555 \| www.autoeurope.com. Europe by Car. \| 212/581–3040 in New York, 800/223–1516 \| www.europebycar.com. Eurovacations. \| 877/471–3876 \| www.eurovacations.com. Kemwel. \| 877/820–0668 \| www.kemwel.com. ### Gasoline Gasoline costs are around €1.60 per liter—which is higher than in the United States. Some cars use diesel fuel, which is about €0.15 cheaper, so if you're renting a car, find out which fuel the car takes. German filling stations are highly competitive, and bargains are often available if you shop around, but not at autobahn filling stations. Self-service, or SB-Tanken, stations are cheapest. Pumps marked Bleifrei contain unleaded gas. ### Parking Daytime parking in cities and small, historic towns is difficult to find. Restrictions are not always clearly marked and can be hard to understand even when they are. Rental cars come with a "time wheel," which you can leave on your dashboard when parking signs indicate free, limited-time allowances. Larger parking lots have parking meters (Parkautomaten). After depositing enough change in a meter, you will be issued a timed ticket to display on your dashboard. Parking-meter spaces are free at night. In German garages you must pay immediately on returning to retrieve your car, not when driving out. Put the ticket you got on arrival into the machine and pay the amount displayed. Retrieve the ticket, and upon exiting the garage, insert the ticket in a slot to raise the barrier. TIP You must lock your car when it is parked. Failure to do so risks a €25 fine and liability for anything that happens if the car is stolen. ### Road Conditions Roads are generally excellent. Bundesstrassen are two-lane state highways, abbreviated "B," as in B-38. Autobahns are high-speed thruways abbreviated with "A," as in A-7. If the autobahn should be blocked for any reason, you can take an exit and follow little signs bearing a "U" followed by a number. These are official detours. ### Road Maps The best-known road maps of Germany are put out by the automobile club ADAC, by Shell, and by the Falk Verlag. They're available at gas stations and bookstores. ### Roadside Emergencies The German automobile clubs ADAC and AvD operate tow trucks on all autobahns. "Notruf" signs every 2 km (1 mile) on autobahns (and country roads) indicate emergency telephones. By picking up the phone, you'll be connected to an operator who can determine your exact location and get you the services you need. Help is free (with the exception of materials). Emergency Services Roadside assistance. \| 01802/222–222. ### Rules of the Road In Germany, road signs give distances in kilometers. There are posted speed limits on much of the autobahns, and they advise drivers to keep below 130 kph (80 mph) or 110 kph (65 mph). A sign saying Richtgeschwindigkeit and the speed indicates this. Slower traffic should stay in the right lane of the autobahn, but speeds under 80 kph (50 mph) are not permitted. Speed limits on country roads vary from 70 kph to 100 kph (43 mph to 62 mph) and are usually 50 kph (30 mph) through small towns. Don't enter a street with a signpost bearing a red circle with a white horizontal stripe—it's a one-way street. Blue "Einbahnstrasse" signs indicate you're headed the correct way down a one-way street. The blood-alcohol limit for driving in Germany is very low (.05%), and passengers, but not the driver, are allowed to consume alcoholic beverages in the car. Note that seatbelts must be worn at all times by front- and back-seat passengers. German drivers tend to drive fast and aggressively. There is no right turn at a red light in Germany. Though prohibited, tailgating is the national pastime on German roads. Do not react by braking for no reason: this is equally prohibited. You may not use a handheld mobile phone while driving. ### Scenic Routes Germany has many specially designated tourist roads that serve as promotional tools for towns along their routes. The longest is the Deutsche Ferienstrasse, the German Holiday Road, which runs from the Baltic Sea to the Alps, a distance of around 1,720 km (1,070 miles). The most famous, however, is the Romantische Strasse, which runs from Würzburg to Füssen, in the Alps, covering around 355 km (220 miles). Among other notable touring routes are the Strasse der Kaiser und Könige (Route of Emperors and Kings), running from Frankfurt to Passau (and on to Vienna and Budapest); the Burgenstrasse (Castle Road), running from Mannheim to Bayreuth; the Deutsche Weinstrasse, running through the Palatinate wine country; and the Deutsche Alpenstrasse, running the length of the country's Alpine southern border from near Berchtesgaden to the Bodensee. Less well-known routes are the Märchenstrasse, the Weser Renaissance Strasse, and the Deutsche Fachwerkstrasse (German Half-Timber Road). ## Cruise Ship Travel The American-owned Viking River Cruises company tours the Rhine, Main, Elbe, and Danube rivers, with four- to eight-day itineraries that include walking tours at ports of call. The longer cruises (up to 18 days) on the Danube (Donau, in German), which go to the Black Sea and back, are in great demand, so reserve six months in advance. The company normally books American passengers on ships that cater exclusively to Americans. If you prefer to travel on a European ship, specify so when booking. Köln–Düsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt (KD Rhine Line) offers trips of one day or less on the Rhine and Mosel. Between Easter and October there's Rhine service between Köln and Mainz, and between May and October, Mosel service between Koblenz and Cochem. Check the website for special winter tours. You'll get a free trip on your birthday if you bring a document verifying your date of birth. Cruise Lines KD Rhine Line. \| 0221/208–8318 \| www.k-d.com. Viking River Cruises. \| 0800/258–4666, 800/1887–10033 in Germany, 800/319–6660 in U.K. \| www.vikingrivercruises.com. ## Train Travel Deutsche Bahn (DB—German Rail) is a very efficient, semi-privatized railway. Its high-speed InterCity Express (ICE), InterCity (IC), and EuroCity (EC) trains make journeys between the centers of many cities—Munich–Frankfurt, for example—faster by rail than by air. All InterCity and InterCity Express trains have restaurant cars and trolley service. RE, RB, and IRE trains are regional trains. It's also possible to sleep on the train and save a day of your trip. CityNightLine (CNL) trains serving domestic destinations and neighboring countries have sleepers, couches, and recliners. Once on your platform or Bahnsteig—the area between two tracks—you can check the notice boards that give details of the layout of trains (Wagenstandanzeiger) arriving on that track (Gleis). They show the locations of first- and second-class cars and the restaurant car, as well as where they will stop along the platform. Large railroad stations have English-speaking staff handling information inquiries. For fare and schedule information, the Deutsche Bahn information line connects you to a live operator; you may have to wait a few moments before someone can help you in English. The automated number is toll-free and gives schedule information. On the DB website, click on "English." A timetable mask will open up. To calculate the fare, enter your departure and arrival points, any town you wish to pass through, and whether you have a bike. If you would like to work out an itinerary beforehand, Deutsche Bahn has an excellent website in English (www.bahn.de). It will even tell you which type of train you'll be riding on—which could be important if you suffer from motion sickness. The ICE, the French TGV, the Swiss ICN, and the Italian Cisalpino all use "tilt technology" for a less jerky ride. One side effect, however, is that some passengers might feel queasy, especially if the track is curvy. An over-the-counter drug for motion sickness should help. ### Baggage Most major train stations have luggage lockers (in four sizes). By inserting exact change into a storage unit, you release the unit's key. Prices range from €1 for a small locker to €3 for a "jumbo" one. Smaller towns' train stations may not have any storage options. Throughout Germany, Deutsche Bahn can deliver your baggage from a private residence or hotel to another or even to one of six airports: Berlin, Frankfurt, Leipzig-Halle, Munich, Hamburg, or Hannover. You must have a valid rail ticket. Buy a Kuriergepäck ticket at any DB ticket counter, at which time you must schedule a pickup three workdays before your flight. The service costs €13.80 for each of the first two suitcases and €15.80 for each suitcase thereafter. ### Discounts Deutsche Bahn offers many discount options with specific conditions, so do your homework on its website or ask about options at the counter before paying for a full-price ticket. For round-trip travel you can save 25% if you book at least three days in advance, 50% if you stay over a Saturday night and book at least three to seven days in advance. However, there's a limited number of seats sold at any of these discount prices, so book as early as possible, at least a week in advance, to get the savings. A discounted rate is called a Sparpreis. If you change your travel plans after booking, you will have to pay a fee. The surcharge for tickets bought on board is 10% of the ticket cost, or a minimum of €5. Most local, RE, and RB services do not allow for purchasing tickets on board. Not having a ticket is considered Schwarzfahren (riding black) and is usually subject to a €40 fine. Tickets booked at a counter always cost more than over the Internet or from an automated ticket machine. Children under 15 travel free when accompanied by a parent or relative on normal, discounted, and some, but not all, special-fare tickets. However, you must indicate the number of children traveling with you when you purchase the ticket; to ride free, the child (or children) must be listed on the ticket. If you have a ticket with 25% or 50% off, a Mitfahrer-Rabatt allows a second person to travel with you for a 50% discount (minimum of €15 for a second-class ticket). The Schönes Wochenend Ticket (Happy Weekend Ticket) provides unlimited travel on regional trains on weekends for up to five persons for €37 (€35 if purchased online or at vending machine). Groups of six or more should inquire about Gruppen & Spar (group) savings. Each German state, or Land, has its own Länder-Ticket, which lets up to five people travel from 9 am to 3 am for around €25. If you plan to travel by train within a day after your flight arrives, purchase a heavily discounted "Rail and Fly" ticket for DB trains at the same time you book your flight. Trains connect with 14 German airports and two airports outside Germany, Basel and Amsterdam. ### Fares A first-class seat is approximately 55% more than a second-class seat. For this premium you get a bit more legroom and the convenience of having meals (not included) delivered directly to your seat. Most people find second class entirely adequate and first class not worth the cost. Many regional trains offer an upgrade to first class for as little as €4. This is especially helpful on weekends when local trains are stuffed with cyclists and day-tripping locals. ICs and the later-generation ICE trains are equipped with electrical outlets for laptops and other gadgets. Tickets purchased through Deutsche Bahn's website can be retrieved from station vending machines. Always check that your ticket is valid for the type of train you are planning to take, not just for the destination served. If you have the wrong type of ticket, you will have to pay the difference on the train, in cash or by credit card. If you book an online ticket and print it yourself, you must present the credit card used to pay for the ticket to the conductor for the ticket to be valid. The ReisePacket service is for travelers who are inexperienced, elderly, disabled, or just appreciative of extra help. It costs €11 and provides, among other things, help boarding, disembarking, and transferring on certain trains that serve major cities and vacation areas. It also includes a seat reservation and a voucher for an onboard snack. Purchase the service at least one day before travel. ### Passes If Germany is your only destination in Europe, consider purchasing a German Rail Pass, which allows 4 to 10 days of unlimited first- or second-class travel within a one-month period on any DB train, up to and including the ICE. A Twin Pass saves two people traveling together 50% off one person's fare. A Youth Pass, sold to those 12–25, is much the same but for second-class travel only. You can also use these passes aboard KD Rhine Line along certain sections of the Rhine and Mosel rivers. Prices begin at $257 per person in second class. Twin Passes begin at $380 for two people in second class, and Youth Passes begin at $205. Additional days may be added to either pass, but only at the time of purchase and not once the pass has been issued. Extensions of the German Rail Pass to Brussels, Venice, Verona, Prague, and Innsbrück are also available. Rail 'n' Drive combines train travel and car rental. For instance, two people pay $207 each for two rail-travel days and two car-rental days within a month. You can add up to three more rail days ($66 each), and each additional car-rental day is $63. Germany is one of 21 countries in which you can use a Eurailpass, which provides unlimited first-class rail travel in all participating countries for the duration of the pass. Two adults traveling together can pay either €482 each for 15 consecutive days of travel or €622 each for 21 consecutive days of travel. The youth fare is €369 for 15 consecutive days and €435 for 10 days within two months. Eurailpasses are available from most travel agents and directly from www.eurail.com. Eurailpasses and some of the German Rail Passes should be purchased before you leave for Europe. You can purchase a Eurailpass and 5- or 10-day German Rail Passes at the Frankfurt airport and at some major German train stations, but the cost will be higher (a youth ticket for five days of travel is just under €149). When you buy your pass, consider purchasing rail pass insurance in case you lose it during your travels. In order to comply with the strict rules about validating tickets before you begin travel, read the instructions carefully. Some tickets require that a train official validate your pass, while others require you to write in the first date of travel. Many travelers assume that rail passes guarantee them seats on the trains they wish to ride. Not so. You need to book seats ahead even if you are using a rail pass; seat reservations are required on some European trains, particularly high-speed trains, and are a good idea in summer, on national holidays, and on popular routes. If you board the train without a reserved seat, you risk having to stand. You'll also need a reservation if you purchase sleeping accommodations. Seat reservations on InterCity trains cost €6, and a reservation is absolutely necessary for the ICE-Sprinter trains (€12 for second class). There are no reservations on regional trains. ### Travel from Great Britain There are several ways to reach Germany from London on British Rail. Travelers coming from the United Kingdom should take the Channel Tunnel to save time, the ferry to save money. Fastest and most expensive is the route via the Channel Tunnel on Eurostar trains. They leave at two-hour intervals from St. Pancras International and require a change of trains in Brussels, from which ICE trains reach Köln in 2½ hours and Frankfurt in 3½ hours. Prices for one-way tickets from London to Köln begin at €100–€129. Cheapest and slowest are the 8 to 10 departures daily from Victoria using the Ramsgate–Ostend ferry, jetfoil, or SeaCat catamaran service. Channel Tunnel Car Transport Eurotunnel. \| 0870/535–3535 in U.K., 070/223–210 in Belgium, 0810/630–304 in France \| www.eurotunnel.com. Rail Europe. \| 0870/241–5415 \| www.raileurope.co.uk. Channel Tunnel Passenger Service Eurostar. \| 08432/186–186 in the U.K., 1233/617–575 outside the U.K. \| www.eurostar.co.uk. Rail Europe. \| 888/382–7245 in U.S., 0870/584–8848 in U.K., for inquiries and credit-card bookings \| www.raileurope.com. Train Information Deutsche Bahn (German Rail). \| 0800/150–7090 for automated schedule information, 11861 for 24-hr hotline (€0.39 per min), 491805/996–633 from outside Germany (€0.12 per min) \| www.bahn.de. Eurail. \| www.eurail.com. Eurostar. \| 0870/518–6186 \| www.eurostar.com. Beginning of Chapter \| Next Chapter \| Table of Contents Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents Accommodations \| Communications \| Customs and Duties \| Eating Out \| Electricity \| Emergencies \| Etiquette \| Health \| Hours of Operation \| Mail \| Money \| Packing \| Passports and Visas \| Restrooms \| Safety \| Taxes \| Time \| Tipping \| Trip Insurance \| Visitor Information ## Accommodations The standards of German hotels, down to the humblest inn, are very high. You can nearly always expect courteous and polite service and clean and comfortable rooms. In addition to hotels proper, the country has numerous Gasthöfe or Gasthäuser (country inns that serve food and also have rooms). At the lowest end of the scale are Fremdenzimmer, meaning simply "rooms," normally in private houses. Look for the sign reading "Zimmer frei" (room available) or "zu vermieten" (to rent) on a green background; a red sign reading "besetzt" means there are no vacancies. If you are looking for a very down-to-earth experience, try an Urlaub auf dem Bauernhof, a farm that has rooms for travelers. This can be especially exciting for children. You can also opt to stay at a winery's Winzerhof. Room rates are by no means inflexible and depend very much on supply and demand. You can save money by inquiring about deals: many resort hotels offer substantial discounts in winter, for example. Likewise, many $$$$ and $$$ hotels in cities cut their prices dramatically on weekends and when business is quiet. Major events like Munich's Oktoberfest and the Frankfurt Book Fair will drive prices through the ceiling. Tourist offices will make bookings for a nominal fee, but they may have difficulty doing so after 4 pm in high season and on weekends, so don't wait until too late in the day to begin looking for your accommodations. If you do get stuck, ask someone—like a mail carrier, police officer, or waiter, for example—for directions to a house renting a Fremdenzimmer or to a Gasthof. Most hotels and other lodgings require you to give your credit-card details before they will confirm your reservation. If you don't feel comfortable emailing this information, ask if you can fax it (some places even prefer faxes). However you book, get confirmation in writing and have a copy of it handy when you check in. Be sure you understand the hotel's cancellation policy. Some places allow you to cancel without any kind of penalty—even if you prepaid to secure a discounted rate—if you cancel at least 24 hours in advance. Others require you to cancel a week in advance or penalize you the cost of one night. Small inns and B&Bs are most likely to require you to cancel far in advance. Most hotels allow children under a certain age to stay in their parents' room at no extra charge, but others charge for them as extra adults; find out the cutoff age for discounts. ### Apartment and House Rentals If you are staying in one region, renting an apartment is an affordable alternative to a hotel or B&B. Ferienwohnungen, or vacation apartments, are especially popular in more rural areas. They range from simple rooms with just the basics to luxury apartments with all the trimmings. Some even include breakfast. The best way to find an apartment is through the local tourist office or the website of the town or village where you would like to stay. International Agencies At Home Abroad. \| 212/421–9165 \| www.athomeabroadinc.com. Barclay International Group. \| 516/364–0064, 800/845–6636 \| www.barclayweb.com. Drawbridge to Europe. \| 541/482–7778, 888/268–1148 \| www.drawbridgetoeurope.com. Forgetaway. \| www.forgetaway.com. Home Away. \| 512/493–0382 \| www.homeaway.com. Interhome. \| 954/791–8282, 800/882–6864 \| www.interhome.us. Suzanne B. Cohen & Associates. \| 207/622–0743 \| www.villaeurope.com. Vacation Home Rentals Worldwide. \| 201/767–9393, 800/633–3284 \| www.vhrww.com. Villanet. \| 206/417–3444, 800/964–1891 \| www.rentavilla.com. Villas & Apartments Abroad. \| 212/213–6435, 800/433–3020 \| www.vaanyc.com. Villas International. \| 415/499–9490, 800/221–2260 \| www.villasintl.com. Villas of Distinction. \| 707/778–1800, 800/289–0900 \| www.villasofdistinction.com. Wimco. \| 800/449–1553 \| www.wimco.com. ### Bed-and-Breakfasts B&Bs remain one of the most popular options for traveling in Germany. They are often inexpensive, although the price depends on the amenities. For breakfast, expect some muesli, cheese, cold cuts, jam, butter, and hard-boiled eggs at the very least. Some B&Bs also supply lunch baskets if you intend to go hiking, or arrange an evening meal for a very affordable price. Reservation Services Bed & Breakfast.com. \| 512/322–2710, 800/462–2632 \| www.bedandbreakfast.com. Bed & Breakfast Inns Online. \| 615/868–1946, 800/215–7365 \| www.bbonline.com. BnB Finder.com. \| 212/432–7693, 888/469–6663 \| www.bnbfinder.com. ### Castle-Hotels Staying in a historic castle, or Schloss, is a great experience. The simpler ones may lack character, but most combine four-star luxury with antique furnishings, four-poster beds, and a baronial atmosphere. Some offer all the facilities of a resort. Euro-Connection can advise you on castle-hotel packages, including four- to six-night tours. Contacts Euro-Connection. \| 800/645–3876 \| www.euro-connection.com. ### Farm Vacations Almost every regional tourist office has a brochure listing farms that offer bed-and-breakfasts, apartments, and entire farmhouses to rent (Ferienhöfe). The German Agricultural Association provides an illustrated brochure, Urlaub auf dem Bauernhof (Vacation Down on the Farm), that covers more than 2,000 inspected and graded farms, from the Alps to the North Sea. It costs €9.90 and is also sold in bookstores. German Agricultural Association DLG Reisedienst, Agratour (German Agricultural Association). \| 069/247–880 \| www.landtourismus.de. ### Home Exchanges With a direct home exchange you stay in someone else's home while they stay in yours. Some outfits also deal with vacation homes, so you're not actually staying in someone's full-time residence, just their vacant weekend place. Exchange Clubs Home Exchange.com. $120 for a one-year online listing. \| 800/877–8723 \| www.homeexchange.com. HomeLink International. $119 yearly for Web membership. \| 800/638–3841 \| www.homelink.org. Intervac U.S. $99 for annual membership. \| 800/756–4663 \| www.intervacus.com. ### Hostels Germany's more than 600 Jugendherbergen (youth hostels) are among the most efficient and up-to-date in Europe. The DJH Service GmbH provides a complete list of hostels it represents, but remember that there are also scores of independent hostels. Hostels must be reserved well in advance for midsummer, especially in eastern Germany. Note that weekends and holidays can mean full houses and noisy nights. Either bring earplugs or choose more expensive, but quieter, accommodations. Many hostels are affiliated with Hostelling International (HI), an umbrella group of hostel associations with some 4,500 member properties in more than 70 countries. Membership in any HI association, open to travelers of all ages, allows you to stay in HI-affiliated hostels at member rates. One-year membership is about $28 for adults; hostels charge about $10–$30 per night. Members have priority if the hostel is full; they're also eligible for discounts around the world, even on rail and bus travel in some countries. ###### Information DJH Service GmbH.\| 05231/99360 \| www.jugendherberge.de. Hostelling International—USA.\| 301/495–1240 \| www.hiusa.org. ### Hotels Most hotels in Germany do not have air-conditioning, nor do they need it, given the climate and the German style of building construction that uses thick walls and recessed windows to help keep the heat out. Smaller hotels do not provide much in terms of bathroom amenities. Except in four- and five-star hotels, you won't find a washcloth. Hotels often have nonsmoking rooms or even nonsmoking floors, so it's always worth asking for one when you reserve. Beds in double rooms often consist of two twin mattresses placed side by side within a frame. When you arrive, if you don't like the room you're offered, ask to see another. Among the most delightful places to stay—and eat—in Germany are the aptly named Romantik Hotels and Restaurants. The Romantik group has 98 members in Germany. All are in atmospheric and historic buildings—a condition for membership—and are run by the owners with the emphasis on excellent amenities and service. Prices vary considerably, but in general they are a good value. Contacts Romantik Hotels and Restaurants. \| 800/650–8018, 817/678–0038 from the U.S., 069/661–2340 in Germany \| www.romantikhotels.com. ### Spas Taking the waters in Germany, whether for curing the body or merely pampering, has been popular since Roman times. More than 300 health resorts, mostly equipped for thermal or mineral-water, mud, or brine treatments, are set within pleasant country areas or historic communities. The word Bad before or within the name of a town means it's a spa destination, where many patients reside in health clinics for two to three weeks of doctor-prescribed treatments. Saunas, steam baths, and other hot-room facilities are often used "without textiles" in Germany—in other words, naked. Wearing a bathing suit is sometimes even prohibited in saunas, but sitting on a towel is always required. (You may need to bring your own towels.) The Deutsche Heilbäderverband has information in German only. Contacts Deutsche Heilbäderverband (German Health Resort and Spa Association). \| 0228/201–200 \| www.deutscher-heilbaederverband.de. ## Communications ### Internet Nearly all hotels have in-room data ports, but you may have to purchase, or borrow from the front desk, a cable with an end that matches German phone jacks. If you're plugging into a phone line, you'll need a local access number for a connection. Wireless Internet (called WLAN in Germany) is more and more common in even the most average hotel. The service is not always free, however. Sometimes you must purchase blocks of time from the front desk or online using a credit card. The cost is fairly high, however, usually around €4 for 30 minutes. There are alternatives. Some hotels have an Internet room for guests needing to check their email. Otherwise, Internet cafés are common, and many bars and restaurants let you surf the Web. Cybercafes.com lists more than 4,000 Internet cafés worldwide. Contacts Cybercafes. \| www.cybercafes.com. ### Phones The good news is that you can make a direct-dial telephone call from Germany to virtually any point on Earth. The bad news? You can't always do so cheaply. Calling from a hotel is almost always the most expensive option; hotels usually add huge surcharges to all calls, particularly international ones. In some countries you can phone from call centers or even the post office. Calling cards usually keep costs to a minimum, but only if you purchase them locally. Because most Germans own mobile phones, finding a telephone booth is becoming increasingly difficult. As expensive as mobile phone calls can be, they are still usually a much cheaper option than calling from your hotel. The country code for Germany is 49. When dialing a German number from abroad, drop the initial "0" from the local area code. Many companies have service lines beginning with 0180. The cost of these calls averages €0.12 per minute. Numbers that begin with 0190 can cost €1.85 per minute and more. #### Calling Within Germany The German telephone system is very efficient, so it's unlikely you'll have to use an operator unless you're seeking information. For information in English, dial \| 11837 for numbers within Germany and \| 11834 for numbers elsewhere. But first look for the number in the phone book or online (www.teleauskunft.de), because directory assistance is costly. Calls to 11837 and 11834 cost at least €0.50, more if the call lasts more than 30 seconds. A local call from a telephone booth costs €0.10 per minute. Dial the "0" before the area code when making a long-distance call within Germany. When dialing within a local area code, drop the "0" and the area code. Telephone booths are no longer a common feature on the streets, so be prepared to walk out of your way to find one. Phone booths have instructions in English as well as German. Most telephone booths in Germany are card-operated, so buy a phone card. Coin-operated phones, which take €0.10, €0.20, €0.50, €1, and €2 coins, don't make change. #### Calling Outside Germany The country code for the United States is 1. International calls can be made from any telephone booth in Germany. It costs only €0.13 per minute to call the United States, day or night, no matter how long the call lasts. Use a phone card. If you don't have a good deal with a calling card, there are many stores that offer international calls at rates well below what you will pay from a phone booth. At a hotel, rates will be at least double the regular charge. Access Codes AT&T Direct. \| 0800/225–5288. MCI WorldPhone. \| 0800/888–8000. Sprint International Access. \| 0800/888–0013. #### Calling Cards Post offices, newsstands, and exchange places sell cards with €5, €10, or €20 worth of credit to use at public pay phones. An advantage of a card: it charges only what the call costs. A €5 card with a good rate for calls to the United States, United Kingdom, and Canada is Go Bananas! #### Mobile Phones You can buy an inexpensive unlocked mobile phone and a SIM card at almost every corner shop and even at the supermarket. Most shops require identification to purchase a SIM card, but you can avoid this by purchasing a card at any number of phone centers or call shops, usually located near train stations. This is the best option if you just want to make local calls. If you bring a phone from abroad, your provider may have to unlock it for you to use a different SIM card and a prepaid service plan in the destination. You'll then have a local number and can make local calls at local rates. If your trip is extensive, you could also simply buy a new cell phone in your destination, as the initial cost will be offset over time. Many prepaid plans, like Blau World, offer calling plans to the United States and other countries, starting at €0.03 per minute. Many Germans use these SIM cards to call abroad, as the rates are much cheaper than from land lines. If you have a multiband phone (some countries use different frequencies from what's used in the United States) and your service provider uses the world-standard GSM network (as do T-Mobile, AT&T, and Verizon), you can probably use your phone abroad. Roaming fees can be steep, however: 99¢ a minute is considered reasonable. And overseas you normally pay the toll charges for incoming calls. It's almost always cheaper to send a text message than to make a call, because text messages have a very low set fee (often less than 5¢). Cellular Abroad rents and sells GMS phones and sells SIM cards that work in many countries. Mobal rents mobiles and sells GSM phones (starting at $49) that will operate in 140 countries. Planet Fone rents cell phones, but the per-minute rates are expensive. TIP If you travel internationally frequently, save one of your old mobile phones or buy a cheap one on the Internet; ask your cell phone company to unlock it for you, and take it with you as a travel phone, buying a new SIM card with pay-as-you-go service in each destination. Contacts Cellular Abroad. \| 800/287–5072 \| www.cellularabroad.com. Mobal. \| 888/888–9162 \| www.mobalrental.com. Planet Fone. \| 888/988–4777 \| www.planetfone.com. ## Customs and Duties German Customs and Border Control is fairly simple and straightforward. The system works efficiently and professionally, and 99% of all travelers will have no real cause to interact with them. You're always allowed to bring goods of a certain value back home without having to pay any duty or import tax. But there's a limit on the amount of tobacco and liquor you can bring back duty-free, and some countries have separate limits for perfumes; for exact figures, check with your customs department. The values of so-called duty-free goods are included in these amounts. When you shop abroad, save all your receipts, as customs inspectors may ask to see them as well as the items you purchased. If the total value of your goods is more than the duty-free limit, you'll have to pay a tax (most often a flat percentage) on the value of everything beyond that limit. For anyone entering Germany from outside the EU, the following limitations apply: (1) 200 cigarettes or 100 cigarillos or 50 cigars or 250 grams of tobacco; (2) 2 liters of still table wine; (3) 1 liter of spirits over 22% alcohol by volume (ABV) or 2 liters of spirits under 22% ABV (fortified and sparkling wines) or 2 more liters of table wine; (4) 50 grams of perfume and 250 milliliters of eau de toilette; (5) 500 grams of roasted coffee or 200 grams of instant coffee; (6) other goods to the value of €175. If you have questions regarding customs or bringing a pet into the country, contact the Zoll-Infocenter. Information in Germany Zoll-Infocenter. \| 0351/4483–4510 \| www.zoll.de. U.S. Information U.S. Customs and Border Protection. \| www.cbp.gov. ## Eating Out Almost every street in Germany has its Gaststätte, a sort of combination restaurant and pub, and every village its Gasthof, or inn. The emphasis in either is on simple food at reasonable prices. A Bierstube (pub) or Weinstube (wine cellar) may also serve light snacks or meals. Service can be slow, but you'll never be rushed out of your seat. Something else that may seem jarring at first: people can, and do, join other parties at a table in a casual restaurant if seating is tight. It's common courtesy to ask first, though. Since Germans don't generally drink from the tap, water always costs extra and comes as still or sparkling mineral water. ### Budget Eating Tips Imbiss (snack) stands can be found in almost every busy shopping street, in parking lots, train stations, and near markets. They serve Würste (sausages), grilled, roasted, or boiled, and rolls filled with cheese, cold meat, or fish. Many stands sell Turkish-style wraps called döner kebab. Prices range from €1.50 to €2.50 per portion. It's acceptable to bring sandwich fixings to a beer garden so long as you order a beer there; just be sure not to sit at a table with a tablecloth. Butcher shops, known as Metzgereien, often serve warm snacks or very good sandwiches. Try warmer Leberkäs mit Kartoffelsalat, a typical Bavarian specialty, which is a sort of baked meat loaf with mustard and potato salad. In northern Germany try Bouletten, small meatballs, or Currywurst, sausages in a piquant curry sauce. Thuringia has a reputation for its bratwurst, which is usually broken in two and packed into a roll with mustard. Up north, the specialty snack is a herring sandwich with onions. Restaurants in department stores are especially recommended for appetizing and inexpensive lunches. Kaufhof, Karstadt, Wertheim, and Horton are names to note. Germany's vast numbers of Turkish, Italian, Greek, Chinese, and Balkan restaurants are often inexpensive. ### Meals and Mealtimes Most hotels serve a buffet-style breakfast (Frühstück) of rolls, cheese, cold cuts, eggs, cereals, yogurt, and spreads, which is often included in the price of a room. Cafés, especially the more trendy ones, offer breakfast menus sometimes including pancakes, omelets, muesli, or even Thai rice soup. By American standards, a cup (Tasse) of coffee in Germany is very petite, and you don't get free refills. Order a Pot or Kännchen if you want a larger portion. For lunch (Mittagessen), you can get sandwiches from most cafés and bakeries, and many fine restaurants have special lunch menus that make the gourmet experience much more affordable. Dinner (Abendessen) is usually accompanied by a potato or spätzle side dish. A salad sometimes comes with the main dish. Gaststätten normally serve hot meals from 11:30 am to 9 pm; many places stop serving hot meals between 2 pm and 6 pm, although you can still order cold dishes. If you feel like a hot meal, look for a restaurant advertising durchgehend geöffnet, or look for a pizza parlor. Once most restaurants have closed, your options are limited. Take-out pizza parlors and Turkish eateries often stay open later. Failing that, your best option is a train station or a gas station with a convenience store. Many bars serve snacks. Unless otherwise noted, the restaurants listed in this guide are open daily for lunch and dinner. ### Paying Credit cards are generally accepted only in moderate to expensive restaurants, so check before sitting down. You will need to ask for the bill (say "Die Rechnung, bitte.") in order to get it from the waiter, the idea being that the table is yours for the evening. Round up the bill 5% to 10% and pay the waiter directly rather than leaving any money or tip on the table. The waiter will likely wait at the table for you to pay after he has brought the check. He will also wear a money pouch and make change out of it at the table. If you don't need change, say "Stimmt so." ("Keep the change."), otherwise tell the waiter how much change you want back, adding in the tip. Meals are subject to 19% tax (abbreviated as "MwSt" on your bill). ### Reservations and Dress Regardless of where you are, it's a good idea to make a reservation if you can. In most fine dining establishments it's expected. We only mention them specifically when reservations are essential (there's no other way you'll ever get a table) or when they are not accepted. For popular restaurants, book as far ahead as you can (often 30 days), and reconfirm as soon as you arrive. (Parties of more than four should always call ahead to check the reservations policy.) We mention dress only when men are required to wear a jacket or a jacket and tie. Note that even when Germans dress casually, their look is generally crisp and neat. Jeans are acceptable for most social occasions, unless you're meeting the president. ### Smoking For such an otherwise health-conscious nation, Germans do smoke. A lot. New anti-smoking laws came into effect in 2008, effectively banning smoking in all restaurants and many pubs, but many Germans, particularly in Berlin and Hamburg, tend to ignore them. Many hotels have nonsmoking rooms and even nonsmoking floors. However, a smoker will find it intrusive if you ask him or her to refrain. ### Wines, Beer, and Spirits Wines of Germany promotes the wines of all 13 German wine regions and can supply you with information on wine festivals and visitor-friendly wineries. It also arranges six-day guided winery tours in spring and fall in conjunction with the German Wine Academy. It's legal to drink beer from open containers in public (even in the passenger seat of a car), and having a beer at one's midday break is nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Bavaria is not the only place to try beer. While Munich's beers have achieved world fame—Löwenbräu and Paulaner, for example—beer connoisseurs will really want to travel to places farther north like Alpirsbach, Bamberg, Erfurt, Cologne, or Görlitz, where smaller breweries produce top-notch brews. Wine Information German Wine Academy. \| 06131/28290 \| www.germanwines.de. Wines of Germany. \| 212/994–7523 \| www.germanwineusa.org. ## Electricity The electrical current in Germany is 220 volts, 50 cycles alternating current (AC); wall outlets take Continental-type plugs, with two round prongs. Consider making a small investment in a universal adapter, which has several types of plugs in one lightweight, compact unit. Most laptops and mobile phone chargers are dual voltage (i.e., they operate equally well on 110 and 220 volts) so require only an adapter. These days the same is true of small appliances such as hair dryers. Always check labels and manufacturer instructions to be sure. Don't use 110-volt outlets marked "for shavers only" for high-wattage appliances such as hair dryers. Steve Kropla's Help for World Travelers has information on electrical and telephone plugs around the world. Walkabout Travel Gear has good coverage of electricity under "adapters." Contacts Steve Kropla's Help for World Travelers. \| www.kropla.com. Walkabout Travel Gear. \| www.walkabouttravelgear.com. ## Emergencies Throughout Germany call \| 110 for police \| 112 for an ambulance or the fire department. Foreign Embassies U.S. Embassy. \| Pariser Platz 2, \| Berlin \| 030/83050, 030/8305–1200 for American citizens (2 pm–4 pm only) \| www.usembassy.de. ## Etiquette ### Customs of the Country Being on time for appointments, even casual social ones, is very important. There is no "fashionably late" in Germany. Germans are more formal in addressing each other than Americans. Always address acquaintances as Herr (Mr.) or Frau (Mrs.) plus their last name; do not call them by their first name unless invited to do so. The German language has informal and formal pronouns for "you": formal is Sie, and informal is du. Even if adults are on a first-name basis with one another, they may still keep to the Sie form. Germans are less formal when it comes to nudity: a sign that reads "freikörper" or "fkk" indicates a park or beach that allows nude sunbathing. At a sauna or steam bath, you will often be asked to remove all clothing. ### Greetings The standard "Guten Tag" is the way to greet people throughout the country. When you depart, say "Auf Wiedersehen." "Hallo" is also used frequently, as is Hi among the younger crowd. A less formal leave-taking is "Tschüss" or "ciao." You will also hear regional differences in greetings. ### Language English is spoken in most hotels, restaurants, airports, museums, and other places of interest. However, English is not widely spoken in rural areas or by people over 40; this is especially true of the eastern part of Germany. Learning the basics before going is always a good idea, especially bitte (please) and danke (thank you). Apologizing for your poor German before asking a question in English will make locals feel respected and begins all communication on the right foot. A phrase book and language-tape set can help get you started. TIP Under no circumstances use profanity or pejoratives. Germans take these very seriously, and a slip of the tongue can result in expensive criminal and civil penalties. Calling a police officer a "Nazi" or using vulgar finger gestures can cost you up to €10,000 and two years in jail. ## Health Warm winters have recently caused an explosion in the summertime tick population, which often causes outbreaks of Lyme disease. If you intend to do a lot of hiking, especially in the southern half of the country, be aware of the danger of ticks spreading Lyme disease. There is no vaccination against them, so prevention is important. Wear high shoes or boots, long pants, and light-color clothing. Use a good insect repellent, and check yourself for ticks after outdoor activities, especially if you've walked through high grass. ### Over-the-Counter Remedies All over-the-counter medicines, even aspirin, are only available at an Apotheke (pharmacy): the German term Drogerie, or Pharmacie, refers to a shop for sundry items. Apotheken are open during normal business hours, with those in train stations or airports open later and on weekends. Apotheken are plentiful, and there is invariably one within a few blocks. Every district has an emergency pharmacy that is open after hours. These are listed as Apotheken Notdienst or Apotheken-Bereitschaftsdienst on the window of every other pharmacy in town, often with directions for how to get there. Pharmacies will have a bell you must ring to enter. Most pharmacists in larger cities speak enough English to help. Some drugs have different names: acetominophen—or Tylenol—is called paracetomol. ### Shots and Medications Germany is by and large a healthy place. There are occasional outbreaks of measles—including one in North Rhine–Westfalia—so be sure you have been vaccinated. ## Hours of Operation Business hours are inconsistent throughout the country and vary from state to state and even from city to city. Banks are generally open weekdays from 8:30 or 9 am to 3 or 4 pm (5 or 6 pm on Thursday), sometimes with a lunch break of about an hour at smaller branches. Some banks close by 2:30 on Friday afternoon. Banks at airports and main train stations open as early as 6:30 am and close as late as 10:30 pm. Most museums are open from Tuesday to Sunday 10–6. Some close for an hour or more at lunch. Many stay open until 8 pm or later one day a week, usually Thursday. In smaller towns or in rural areas, museums may be open only on weekends or just a few hours a day. All stores are closed Sunday, with the exception of those in or near train stations. Larger stores are generally open from 9:30 or 10 am to 8 or 9 pm on weekdays and close between 6 and 8 pm on Saturday. Smaller shops and some department stores in smaller towns close at 6 or 6:30 on weekdays and as early as 4 on Saturday. German shop owners take their closing times seriously. If you come in five minutes before closing, you may not be treated like royalty. Apologizing profusely and making a speedy purchase will help. Along the autobahn and major highways, as well as in larger cities, gas stations and their small convenience shops are often open late, if not around the clock. ### Holidays The following national holidays are observed in Germany: January 1; January 6 (Epiphany—Bavaria, Saxony-Anhalt, and Baden-Württemberg only); Good Friday; Easter Monday; May 1 (Workers' Day); Ascension; Pentecost Monday; Corpus Christi (southern Germany only); Assumption Day (Bavaria and Saarland only); October 3 (German Unity Day); November 1 (All Saints' Day—Baden-Württemberg, Bavaria, North Rhine-Westphalia, Rhineland-Pfalz, and Saarland); December 24–26 (Christmas). Pre-Lenten celebrations in Cologne and the Rhineland are known as Karneval, and for several days before Ash Wednesday work grinds to a halt as people celebrate with parades, banquets, and general debauchery. Farther south, in the state of Baden-Württenburg, the festivities are called Fasching, and tend to be more traditional. In either area, expect businesses to be closed both before and after "Fat Tuesday." ## Mail A post office in Germany (Postamt) is recognizable by the postal symbol, a black bugle on a yellow background. In some villages you will find one in the local supermarket. Stamps (Briefmarken) can also be bought at some news agencies and souvenir shops. Post offices are generally open weekdays 8–6, Saturday 8–noon. Airmail letters to the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand cost €1.70; postcards, €1. All letters to the United Kingdom and within Europe cost €0.55; postcards, €0.45. These rates apply to standard-size envelopes. Letters take approximately 3–4 days to reach the United Kingdom, 5–7 days to the United States, and 7–10 days to Australia and New Zealand. You can arrange to have mail (letters only) sent to you in care of any German post office; have the envelope marked "Postlagernd." This service is free, and the mail will be held for seven days. Or you can have mail sent to any American Express office in Germany. There's no charge to cardholders, holders of American Express traveler's checks, or anyone who has booked a vacation with American Express. ### Shipping Packages Most major stores that cater to tourists will also ship your purchases home. You should check your insurance for coverage of possible damage. The Deutsche Post has an express international service that will deliver your letter or package the next day to countries within the EU, within one to two days to the United States, and slightly longer to Australia. A letter or package to the United States weighing less than 200 grams costs €48.57. You can drop off your mail at any post office, or it can be picked up for an extra fee. Deutsche Post works in cooperation with DHL. International carriers tend to be slightly cheaper (€35–€45 for the same letter) and provide more services. Express Services Deutsche Post. \| 08105/345–2255 \| www.deutschepost.de. DHL. \| 0800/225–5345 \| www.dhl.de. FedEx. \| 0800/123–0800 \| www.fedex.com. UPS. \| 0800/882–6630 \| www.ups.com. ## Money Credit cards are welcomed by most businesses, so you probably won't have to use cash for payment in high-end hotels and restaurants. Many businesses on the other end of the spectrum don't accept them, however. It's a good idea to check in advance if you're staying in a budget lodging or eating in a simple country inn. Prices throughout this guide are given for adults. Substantially reduced fees are almost always available for children, students, and senior citizens. TIP Banks almost never have every foreign currency on hand, and it may take as long as a week to order. If you're planning to exchange funds before leaving home, don't wait until the last minute. ### ATMs and Banks Twenty-four-hour ATMs (Geldautomaten) can be accessed with Plus or Cirrus credit and banking cards. Your own bank will probably charge a fee for using ATMs abroad, and some German banks exact €3–€5 fees for use of their ATMs. Nevertheless, you'll usually get a better rate of exchange via an ATM than you will at a currency-exchange office or even when changing money in a bank. And extracting funds as you need them is a safer option than carrying around a large amount of cash. Since some ATM keypads show no letters, know the numeric equivalent of your password. Always use ATMs inside the bank. TIP PINs with more than four digits are not recognized at ATMs in many countries. If yours has five or more, remember to change it before you leave. ### Credit Cards All major U.S. credit cards are accepted in Germany. The most frequently used are MasterCard and Visa. American Express is used less frequently, and Diners Club even less. Since the credit-card companies demand fairly substantial fees, some businesses will not accept credit cards for small purchases. Cheaper restaurants and lodgings often do not accept credit cards. It's a good idea to inform your credit-card company before you travel, especially if you're going abroad and don't travel internationally very often. Otherwise, the credit-card company might put a hold on your card owing to unusual activity—not a good thing halfway through your trip. Record all your credit-card numbers—as well as the phone numbers to call if your cards are lost or stolen—in a safe place, so you're prepared should something go wrong. If you plan to use your credit card for cash advances, you'll need to apply for a PIN at least two weeks before your trip. Although it's usually cheaper (and safer) to use a credit card abroad for large purchases (so you can cancel payments or be reimbursed if there's a problem), note that some credit-card companies and the banks that issue them add substantial percentages to all foreign transactions, whether they're in a foreign currency or not. Check on these fees before leaving home, so there won't be any surprises when you get the bill. TIP Before you charge something, ask the merchant whether he or she plans to do a dynamic currency conversion (DCC). In such a transaction the credit-card processor (shop, restaurant, or hotel, not Visa or MasterCard) converts the currency and charges you in dollars. In most cases you'll pay the merchant a 3% fee for this service in addition to any credit-card company and issuing-bank foreign-transaction surcharges. Dynamic currency conversion programs are becoming increasingly widespread. Merchants who participate in them are supposed to ask whether you want to be charged in dollars or the local currency, but they don't always do so. And even if they do offer you a choice, they may well avoid mentioning the additional surcharges. The good news is that you do have a choice. And if this practice really gets your goat, you can avoid it entirely thanks to American Express; with its cards, DCC simply isn't an option. Reporting Lost Cards American Express. \| 800/333–2639 in U.S., 715/343–7977 collect from abroad \| www.americanexpress.com. Diners Club. \| 800/234–6377 in U.S., 303/799–1504 collect from abroad \| www.dinersclub.com. MasterCard. \| 800/622–7747 in U.S., 636/722–7111 collect from abroad \| www.mastercard.com. Visa. \| 800/847–2911 in U.S., 410/581–9994 collect from abroad \| www.visa.com. ### Currency and Exchange Germany shares a common currency, the euro (€), with 16 other countries: Austria, Belgium, Cyprus, Estonia, Finland, France, Greece, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, Malta, the Netherlands, Portugal, Slovakia, Slovenia, and Spain. The euro is divided into 100 cents. There are bills of 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, and 500 euros and coins of €1 and €2, and 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 cents. Many businesses and restaurants do not accept €200 and €500 notes. It is virtually impossible to pay for anything in U.S. dollars, but you should have no problem exchanging currency. The large number of banks and exchange services means that you can shop around for the best rate, if you're so inclined. But the cheapest and easiest way to go is using your ATM card. At this writing time, the exchange rate was €0.75 for a U.S. dollar. But the exchange rate changes daily. TIP Even if a currency-exchange booth has a sign promising no commission, rest assured that there's some kind of huge, hidden fee. (Oh... that's right. The sign didn't say no fee.) And as for rates, you're almost always better off getting foreign currency at an ATM or exchanging money at a bank. #### Exchange Rates There are a number of handy websites that can help you find out how much your money is worth. Google does currency conversion; just type in the amount and how you want it converted (e.g., "100 dollars in euros"), and voilà. Onada allows you to print out a handy table with the current day's conversion rates. XE also does currency conversion. Conversion Sites Google. \| www.google.com. Oanda. \| www.oanda.com. XE. \| www.xe.com. ## Packing For visits to German cities, pack as you would for an American city: dressy outfits for formal restaurants and nightclubs, casual clothes elsewhere. Jeans are as popular in Germany as anywhere else, and are perfectly acceptable for sightseeing and informal dining. In the evening, men will probably feel more comfortable wearing a jacket in more expensive restaurants, although it's almost never required. Many German women wear stylish outfits to restaurants and the theater, especially in the larger cities. Winters can be bitterly cold; summers are warm but with days that suddenly turn cool and rainy. In summer, take a warm jacket or heavy sweater if you are visiting the Bavarian Alps or the Black Forest, where the nights can be chilly even after hot days. In Berlin and on the Baltic, it is windy, which can be quite pleasant in summer but a complete bear in winter. To discourage purse snatchers and pickpockets, carry a handbag with long straps that you can sling across your body bandolier style and with a zippered compartment for money and other valuables. For stays in budget hotels, pack your own soap. Many provide no soap at all or only a small bar. ## Passports and Visas Visitors from the United States and Canada, including children, are required to have a passport to enter the EU for a period of up to 90 days. There are no official passport controls at any of Germany's land borders, although customs checks are becoming more frequent. Most travelers will only show their documents on entering and leaving the EU. Your passport should be valid for up to six months after your trip ends or this will raise questions at the border. EU citizens can enter Germany with a national identity card or passport. Traveling with children can be problematic. Single parents traveling with their own children rarely face any hassle, but overzealous border guards have been known to ask children about their relationship with the other parent. If you are a parent or grandparent traveling with a child, it helps to have a signed and notarized power of attorney in order to dispel any questions. ## Restrooms Public restrooms are found in large cities, although you are not guaranteed to find one in an emergency. If you are in need, there are several options. You can enter the next café or restaurant and ask very politely to use the facilities. You can find a department store and look for the "WC" sign. Museums are also a good place to find facilities. Train stations are increasingly turning to McClean, a privately run enterprise that demands €0.60 to €1.10 for admission to its restrooms. These facilities, staffed by attendants who clean almost constantly, sparkle. You won't find them in smaller stations, however. Their restrooms are usually adequate. On the highways, the vast majority of gas stations have public restrooms, though you may have to ask for a key—we won't vouch for their cleanliness. You might want to wait until you see a sign for a restaurant. Restrooms almost always cost money. It's customary to pay €0.20–€0.70 to the bathroom attendant. To read up on restrooms in advance of your trip, the Bathroom Diaries is flush with unsanitized info on restrooms the world over—each one located, reviewed, and rated. Find a Loo The Bathroom Diaries. \| www.thebathroomdiaries.com. ## Safety Germany has one of the lowest crime rates in Europe. There are some areas, such as the neighborhoods around train stations and the streets surrounding red-light districts, where you should keep an eye out for potential dangers. The best advice is to take the usual precautions. Secure your valuables in the hotel safe. Don't wear flashy jewelry, and keep expensive electronics out of sight when you are not using them. Carry shoulder bags or purses so that they can't be easily snatched, and never leave them hanging on the back of a chair at a café or restaurant. Avoid walking alone at night, even in relatively safe neighborhoods. Due to increasing incidents of violence in Berlin, Hamburg, and Munich, use caution late at night in the subway. When withdrawing cash, don't use an ATM in a deserted area or one that is outside. It is best to avoid freestanding ATMs in subway stations and other locations away from a bank. Make sure that no one is looking over your shoulder when you enter your PIN. And never use a machine that appears to have been tampered with. TIP Distribute your cash, credit cards, IDs, and other valuables between a deep front pocket, an inside jacket or vest pocket, and a hidden money pouch. Don't reach for the money pouch once you're in public. Contacts Transportation Security Administration (TSA). \| www.tsa.gov. ## Taxes Most prices you see on items already include Germany's 19% value-added tax (V.A.T.). Some goods, such as food, books, and antiquities, carry a 7% V.A.T. as a percentage of the purchase price. An item must cost at least €25 to qualify for a V.A.T. refund. When making a purchase, ask for a V.A.T. refund form and find out whether the merchant gives refunds—not all stores do, nor are they required to. Have the form stamped like any customs form by customs officials when you leave the country or, if you're visiting several European Union countries, when you leave the EU. After you're through passport control, take the form to a refund-service counter for an on-the-spot refund (which is usually the quickest and easiest option), or mail it to the address on the form (or the envelope with it) after you arrive home. You receive the total refund stated on the form, but the processing time can be long, especially if you request a credit-card adjustment. Global Refund is a Europe-wide service with 225,000 affiliated stores and more than 700 refund counters at major airports and border crossings. Its refund form, called a Tax Free Check, is the most common across the European continent. The service issues refunds in the form of cash, check, or credit-card adjustment. ### V.A.T. Refunds at the Airport If you're departing from Terminal 1 at Frankfurt Airport, where you bring your purchases to claim your tax back depends on how you've packed the goods. If the items are in your checked luggage, check in as normal, but let the ticket counter know you have to claim your tax still. They will give you your luggage back to bring to the customs office in Departure Hall B, Level 2. For goods you are carrying on the plane with you, go to the customs office on the way to your gate. After you pass through passport control, there is a Global Refund office. If you're departing from Terminal 2, bring goods in luggage to be checked to the customs office in Hall D, Level 2 (opposite the Delta Airlines check-in counters). For goods you are carrying on the plane with you, see the customs office in Hall E, Level 3 (near security control). At Munich's airport, the Terminal 2 customs area is on the same level as check-in. If your V.A.T. refund items are in your luggage, check in first, and then bring your bags to the customs office on Level 04. From here your bags will be sent to your flight, and you can go to the Global Refund counter around the corner. If your refund items are in your carry-on, go to the Global Refund office in the customs area on Level 05 south. Terminal 1 has customs areas in modules C and D, Level 04. V.A.T. Refunds Global Refund. \| 800/566–9828 \| www.globalblue.com. ## Time All of Germany is on Central European Time, which is six hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time and nine hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time. Daylight Saving Time begins on the last Sunday in March and ends on the last Sunday in October. Timeanddate.com can help you figure out the correct time anywhere. Germans use the 24-hour clock, or "military time" (1 pm is indicated as 13:00), and write the date before the month, so October 3 will appear as 03.10. Time Zones Timeanddate.com. \| www.timeanddate.com/worldclock. ## Tipping Tipping is done at your own discretion. Theater ushers do not necessarily expect a tip, while waiters, tour guides, bartenders, and taxi drivers do. Rounding off bills to the next highest sum is customary for bills under €10. Above that sum you should add a little more. Service charges are included in all restaurant checks (listed as Bedienung), as is tax (listed as MwSt). Nonetheless, it is customary to round up the bill to the nearest euro or to leave about 5%–10%. Give it to the waitstaff as you pay the bill; don't leave it on the table, as that's considered rude. ## Trip Insurance Comprehensive trip insurance is valuable if you're booking a very expensive or complicated trip (particularly to an isolated region) or if you're booking far in advance. Comprehensive policies typically cover trip-cancellation and interruption, letting you cancel or cut your trip short because of illness, or, in some cases, acts of terrorism in your destination. Such policies might also cover evacuation and medical care. Some cover you for trip delays because of bad weather or mechanical problems as well as for lost or delayed luggage. Another type of coverage to consider is financial default—that is, when your trip is disrupted because a tour operator, airline, or cruise line goes out of business. Generally you must buy this when you book your trip or shortly thereafter, and it's available to you only if your operator isn't on a list of excluded companies. Always read the fine print of your policy to make sure that you're covered for the risks that most concern you. Compare several policies to be sure you're getting the best price and range of coverage available. Comprehensive Insurers AIG Travel Guard. \| 800/826–4919 \| www.travelguard.com. Allianz Global Assistance. \| 866/284–8300 \| www.allianztravelinsurance.com. CSA Travel Protection. \| 800/873–9855 \| www.csatravelprotection.com. Travelex Insurance. \| 888/228–9792 \| www.travelexinsurance.com. Travel Insured International. \| 800/243–3174 \| www.travelinsured.com. Insurance Comparison Information Insure My Trip. \| 800/487–4722 \| www.insuremytrip.com. Square Mouth. \| 800/240–0369 \| www.squaremouth.com. ## Visitor Information Staff at the smaller offices might not speak English. Many offices keep shorter hours than normal businesses, and you can expect some to close during weekday lunch hours and as early as noon on Friday. Almost all German cities and towns have an Internet presence under www.cityname.de, for example www.naumburg.de. The Internet portal Deutschland.de has lots of information about the country's best-known sights, as well as those that are often overlooked. Contacts Deutschland.de. \| www.deutschland.de. German National Tourist Office. \| 212/661–7200 \| www.germany.travel. Previous Chapter \| Table of Contents # About Our Writers Leonie Adeane once convinced a German boy visiting her native New Zealand to introduce her to his homeland—and she's been there ever since. Based in Munich, she misses the New Zealand seaside, but consoles herself with the excellent food, beer, and storybook scenery of her new backyard: Upper Bavaria. When she's not editing magazines and websites for international companies, she sometimes blogs about her gustatory German adventures at www.eatdrinkgermany.wordpress.com. After circumnavigating its shores on her bicycle (accompanied by that German boy), Leonie updated the Bodensee chapter for this edition. Dan Allen has spent the last three years as an American expat in his beloved Berlin, fulfilling a lifelong dream and using the city as a home base to explore the rest of Germany's riches. A veteran global travel writer whose compiled work can be seen on www.danalyzed.com, he has covered Germany extensively for numerous North American publications and websites, and is the co-editor of the Berlin-based Spartacus Traveler International magazine. He updated the Rhineland chapter this edition. A California-born midwestern New Yorker, writer and editor Kimberly Bradley has lived in Berlin since 2003, covering art, design, architecture, art, and travel for publications including the New York Times, Monocle, and ArtReview. She also frequently contributes to monographs and art catalogs as an editor or writer, and teaches contemporary art at NYU Berlin. She's sad to see the art world's epicenter shift out of her neighborhood, Mitte, where she lives with her partner, an artist, and their daughter. She updated the feature on Berlin's Evolving Art Scene. Lee Evans left his secluded eastern Washington home on a Congress-Bundestag youth exchange in 1986 and witnessed firsthand the revolutions that swept the Eastern Block in 1989. Since then, he's had a front-row seat as his favorite city, Berlin, has transformed into one of the cultural epicenters of Europe. He has worked extensively as a travel writer and tour manager, led the German railroad's Eurail Aid Office by helping thousands of travelers discover the secrets of Eastern Germany, and currently serves on the board of the Berlin Historical Association. He lives happily with his wife and daughter in a quiet, bucolic Charlottenburg neighborhood and is a closet currywurst aficionado. Visit his website at www.berlinandbeyond.de. He updated the Franconia, Black Forest, Saxony, and Travel Smart chapters this edition. Liz Humphreys is a recent transplant to Amsterdam from New York City, where she spent a decade in senior editorial positions for publications including Lucky, iVillage, and Everyday Health and was awarded an advanced certificate in wine studies from the WSET (Wine & Spirit Education Trust). She currently writes and edits for Fodors.com and Forbes Travel Guide on destinations across Europe. To indulge her obsessions with food, wine, and travel, she frequently takes the train down or hops on a short flight to Germany, especially its wine regions, and chronicles her wine-fueled adventures on her blog, \| winederlust.com. She updated The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace chapter for this edition. Evelyn Kanter is a NYC-based travel and automotive journalist who visits Germany often, where she succumbs to what she describes as her "wurst eating habits," prowls car museums, and sees relatives in her parents' hometowns of Munich and Frankfurt. A former on-air consumer reporter for ABC News and CBS News in New York, she now writes for publications including USA Today, airline in-flights and AAA magazines, and online for AOL Autos. Evelyn also writes two websites—NYC on the Cheap, which is also a smartphone app, and ecoXplorer, about green travel and green cars. She updated the Frankfurt and Heidelberg/Neckar Valley chapters this edition, and has contributed in the past to Fodor's New York City, Canada, and Bahamas guidebooks. Jeff Kavanagh is a freelance writer from New Zealand based in Hamburg. Having left his hometown of Dunedin in the South Island of the country in 1997, he lived in Korea, Japan, and England before coming to Germany in 2002. Since moving to the Hanseatic port city he has developed an enhanced appreciation for German food, wine, sports, and culture. His work has appeared in a number of publications and websites including Germany's The Local, and NZ Adventure Magazine, and the Listener in New Zealand. He wrote the Wine Tasting in the Mosel Valley, Outdoors in the Bavarian Alps, Germany's Christmas Markets, and Spas features, and updated The Fairy-Tale Road and Hamburg chapters. Ben Knight lives in Berlin and was born in Manchester, UK. He studied literature in Britain, the United States, and Poland. His journalism has been published in both English and German publications including Deutsche Welle, The Local, Vice and Der Freitag, and he has contributed to several German city guides. Check out his Web site, \| www.benknight.de, for more details. He wrote the features on Oktoberfest and German beer. Originally from San Francisco, Sally McGrane moved to Berlin ten years ago. As a journalist she has written for the New York Times, TheNewYorker.com, TIME, Wired, Dwell, and others. She updated the Experience chapter and contributed to the Berlin chapter for this edition. For Catherine Moser, Munich has always felt like another home. Catherine's German-born mother cherished her traditions while raising her kids in the Arizona desert so much so that even the family business was named after the Alps of Bavaria. After more than a decade first studying, then working in Los Angeles, Catherine seized the opportunity to move to Munich, where she works as a freelance copywriter. She updated the Romantic Road chapter for this edition. Giulia Pines spent her first 23 years in New York, and is now proud to call Berlin home. She is a writer, photographer, and avid traveler who has contributed to numerous online and print publications in the German capital, including ExBerliner, Electronic Beats, Slow Travel Berlin, and Berlin.Unlike. She contributed to the Berlin chapter for this edition. Katherine Sacks is a food and travel journalist living in Berlin. She developed a taste for the flavors of German brezel and zitroneneis (pretzels and lemon ice) while living on U.S. Army bases in Manheim, Mainz, and Wiesbaden during childhood. Her writing has been published in Deutsche Welle, Kinfolk magazine, and Food & Wine, among others. She contributed to the Berlin chapter this edition. Munich-based Paul Wheatley is a British writer with an interest in all things German. He writes on a diverse range of subjects, from travel and sport to art and architecture. History is his passion, and his first book, Munich: From Monks to Modernity, was published in 2010. Paul updated the Munich and Bavarian Alps chapters of this edition. Many of his articles are gathered at www.paul-wheatley.eu, including his articles for The Guardian. # Fodor's Germany Writers: Leonie Adeane, Dan Allen, Kimberly Bradley, Lee A. Evans, Liz Humphreys, Evelyn Kanter, Jeff Kavanagh, Ben Knight, Sally McGrane, Catherine C. Moser, Giulia Pines, Katherine Sacks, Paul Wheatley Editorial Contributors: Alexis Kelly, Andrea Lehman, Penny Phenix Editors: Salwa Jabado, lead editor; Caroline Trefler, Berlin editor; John Rambow, Amanda Sadlowski Production Editor: Jennifer DePrima Ebook Production: Garth Graeper, James Nash Design: Jennifer Romains, Tina Malaney, Ann McBride-Alayon Copyright Copyright © 2014 by Fodor's Travel, a division of Random House LLC Fodor's is a registered trademark of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Fodor's Travel, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. No maps, illustrations, or other portions of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. 27th Edition eBook ISBN 978–0–8041–4198–7 Excerpted from Fodor's Germany (978–0–8041–4197–0) AN IMPORTANT TIP & AN INVITATION Although all prices, opening times, and other details in this work are based on information supplied to us at publication, changes occur all the time in the travel world, and Fodor's cannot accept responsibility for facts that become outdated or for inadvertent errors or omissions. So always confirm information when it matters, especially if you're making a detour to visit a specific place. Your experiences—positive and negative—matter to us. If we have missed or misstated something, please write to us. We follow up on all suggestions. Contact us at fodors.com/contact-us. ENRICH YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH FODORS.COM Research your destination. Talk to like-minded travelers. Get great deals. Sign up for Fodor's weekly newsletter. PHOTO CREDITS Germany Cover, Sodapix/F1Online/photolibrary.com Album 1, WGXC / Shutterstock Album 2, Scirocco340 / Shutterstock Album 3, Zanna Karelina / Shutterstock Album 4, S.Borisov / Shutterstock Album 5, Dan Breckwoldt / Shutterstock Album 6, Alexander Chaikin / Shutterstock Album 7, EUROPHOTOS / Shutterstock Album 8, Kletr / Shutterstock L Album 9, LianeM / Shutterstock Album 10, LENS-68 / Shutterstock Germany Contents, © Aprescindere \| Dreamstime.com Germany Maps, Jan-Dirk Hansen/shutterstock Experience Germany, yozks/iStockphoto Germany Today, Vladimir Wrangel/Shutterstock What's Where, © Juergen Pollak/Deutsche Zentrale für Tourismus e.V./GNTB Germany Planner, Mapics/Shutterstock Quintessential Germany, Markus Gann/Shutterstock Top Attractions in Germany, anweber/Shutterstock Best Things to Do in Germany, mkrberlin/Shutterstock If You Like, Oleg Senkov/Shutterstock Flavors of Germany, HLPhoto/Shutterstock Beers of Germany, Nikada/istockphoto Wines of Germany, Weingut Karp-Schreiber Great Itineraries, Munich 2010 100 by Daniel Stockman http://www.flickr.com/photos/evocateur/5912169499/Attribution-ShareAlike License Lodging Primer, The Leading Hotels of the World Discovering Your German Ancestors, Neustadt a.d. 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Cover 2. Contents 3. Images of Germany 4. Germany Maps 5. Experience Germany 1. Germany Today 2. What's Where 3. Germany Planner 4. Quintessential Germany 5. Top Attractions in Germany 6. Best Things to Do in Germany 7. If You Like 8. Flavors of Germany 9. Beers of Germany 10. Wines of Germany 11. Great Itineraries 12. Lodging Primer 13. Discovering Your German Ancestors 14. World War II Sites 6. Munich 1. Welcome to Munich 2. Exploring Munich 3. Where to Eat 4. Where to Stay 5. Nightlife and the Arts 6. Sports and the Outdoors 7. Shopping 8. Side Trips from Munich 7. The Bavarian Alps 1. Welcome to The Bavarian Alps 2. Werdenfelser Land and Wetterstein Mountains 3. Chiemgau 4. Berchtesgadener Land 8. The Romantic Road 1. Welcome to The Romantic Road 2. Toward the Alps 3. Central Romantic Road 4. Northern Romantic Road 9. Franconia and the German Danube 1. Welcome to Franconia and the German Danube 2. Northern Franconia 3. Nürnberg (Nuremberg) 4. The German Danube 10. The Bodensee 1. Welcome to The Bodensee 2. The Northern Shore 3. The Upper Swabian Baroque Road 4. Around the Bodanrück Peninsula 11. The Black Forest 1. Welcome to The Black Forest 2. The Northern Black Forest 3. The Central Black Forest 4. The Southern Black Forest 12. Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley 1. Welcome to Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley 2. Heidelberg 3. The Burgenstrasse (Castle Road) 4. Swabian Cities 13. Frankfurt 1. Welcome to Frankfurt 2. Exploring Frankfurt 3. Where to Eat 4. Where to Stay 5. Nightlife and the Arts 6. Sports and the Outdoors 7. Shopping 8. Side Trips from Frankfurt 14. The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace 1. Welcome to The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace 2. The German Wine Road 3. The Rhine Terrace 15. The Rhineland 1. Welcome to The Rhineland 2. The Rheingau 3. The Mittelrhein 4. The Mosel Valley 5. Bonn and the Köln (Cologne) Lowlands 16. The Fairy-Tale Road 1. Welcome to The Fairy-Tale Road 2. Hesse 3. Lower Saxony 17. Hamburg 1. Welcome to Hamburg 2. Exploring Hamburg 3. Where to Eat 4. Where to Stay 5. Nightlife and the Arts 6. Sports and the Outdoors 7. Shopping 18. Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast 1. Welcome to Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast 2. Schleswig-Holstein 3. Western Mecklenburg 4. Vorpommern 19. Berlin 1. Welcome to Berlin 2. Exploring Berlin 3. Where to Eat 4. Where to Stay 5. Nightlife and the Arts 6. Shopping 7. Side Trip to Potsdam 20. Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia 1. Welcome to Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia 2. Saxony 3. Saxony-Anhalt 4. Thuringia 21. Understanding Germany 1. Chronology 22. Travel Smart Germany 1. Getting Here and Around 2. Essentials 23. About Our Writers 24. Credits and Copyright 1. Cover 2. Cover 3. Contents 4. Contents	{'title': "Fodor's Germany - Fodor's"}
_Uncommon Tongues_ _Uncommon Tongues_ _Eloquence and Eccentricity in the English Renaissance_ Catherine Nicholson UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS PHILADELPHIA Copyright © 2014 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data ISBN 978-0-8122-4558-5 _Contents_ Introduction: Antisocial Orpheus Chapter 1. Good Space and Time: Humanist Pedagogy and the Uses of Estrangement Chapter 2. The Commonplace and the Far-Fetched: Mapping Eloquence in the English Art of Rhetoric Chapter 3. "A World to See": Euphues's Wayward Style Chapter 4. Pastoral in Exile: Colin Clout and the Poetics of English Alienation Chapter 5. "Conquering Feet": Tamburlaine and the Measure of English Coda: Eccentric Shakespeare 164 Notes Index Acknowledgments _Introduction_ Antisocial Orpheus In the late sixteenth century, just as England began to assert its integrity as a nation and English its value as a literate tongue, vernacular writing took a turn for the eccentric. John Lyly's _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (1578), Edmund Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ (1579), and Christopher Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ (1587) loudly announced their authors' ambitions for the English language, but in their extravagant ornamentation, obscure archaism, and violent bombast they stood at a seemingly deliberate remove from the tongue whose reputation they helped to secure. Indeed to some early critics, the inaugural achievements of what Richard Foster Jones has termed "the triumph of the English language" seemed in their extremity hardly English at all. Edward Blount credited _Euphues_ with inventing a "new English," but Philip Sidney likened its showy effects to the glittering of a bejeweled "Indian." Joseph Hall dismissed _Tamburlaine_ 's blank verse as a "Turkish" concoction of "big-sounding sentences" and "termes Italianate." Ben Jonson carped that Marlowe had taken the poet's privilege to "differ from the vulgar somewhat" as license to "fly from all humanity," and he praised the matter of Spenser's poems but lamented that in them he "writ no language." Indian, Turkish, Italianate, inhuman—in laying claim to eloquence, it appears, English became increasingly strange to itself. That estrangement is the subject of this book, which situates eccentricity at the paradoxical heart of sixteenth-century pedagogical, rhetorical, and literary culture. In doing so it departs from, or at least qualifies, a fantasy that has shaped both the English Renaissance and our perception of it. According to the founding myth of the classical rhetorical tradition, eloquence is the essence of sociability: mankind's natural vagrancy yields to the attractive power of language. "Because there has been implanted in us the power to persuade each other and to make clear to each other what we desire... we have come together and founded cities and made laws and invented arts," Isocrates declares in his defense of rhetoric. Before the invention of rhetoric, as Cicero writes in the opening chapter of _De Inventione_ , humankind "wandered at large... scattered in the fields and hidden in sylvan retreats"; only when men had learned the art of persuasion could this wayward flock be "assembled and gathered... in a single place," reconciled to domesticity and society. In the _Ars Poetica_ Horace identifies the eloquence of the aboriginal poets Orpheus and Amphion with the power to "distinguish the public from private weal, things sacred from things profane," to "plan out cities," and to "engrave laws on tables of wood." "I cannot imagine," declares Quintilian in his _Institutio Oratoria_ , "how the founders of cities would have made a homeless multitude come together to form a people, had they not moved them by their skillful speech." Sixteenth-century English rhetoricians found in this fantasy a potent justification for their efforts on behalf of the vernacular: if eloquence was the original antidote to errancy, more eloquent English would make for a stronger and more cohesive England. According to Thomas Wilson's 1560 _Arte of Rhetorique_ , the cultivation of the vernacular is thus England's chief safeguard from the perils of what he punningly terms "roming"—which is to say, both "roaming" speech and "Rome-ing" souls, wayward tongues and Papist hearts. In a similar vein, George Puttenham's 1589 _Arte of English Poesie_ names Orpheus and Amphion as "the first Legislators and polititians in the world," cites their verses as "th'originall cause and occasion" of civil society, and interprets poetic precepts as guides to social and political acculturation. When Puttenham hails Queen Elizabeth I as England's "most excellent Poet," the compliment redounds to poetry, which is reimagined as a rarefied form of statecraft. "Nothing can bee more excellently giuen of Nature then Eloquence," declares Richard Rainolde in his 1563 _Foundacion of Rhetorike_ , "by the which the florishyng state of commonweales doe consiste [and] kyngdomes vniuersally are gouerned." Even Henry Peacham, whose 1577 _Garden of Eloquence_ is a barely elaborated listing of tropes and figures, claims a patriotic motive for his text: "My wel meaning," he declares, "is... to profyte this my country." And profit it did. Indeed we are now likely to credit the flourishing of the vernacular not simply with enriching England but with inventing it. As a large body of recent scholarship attests, the ascendancy of English as a learned and eloquent tongue in Shakespeare's day fostered a new and durable form of collective identification: an "imagined community," in Benedict Anderson's influential formulation, founded on the "deep, horizontal comradeship" of reading and writing in a common tongue. Anderson's account of the origins of modern nationalism updates the mythology of eloquence for the purposes of modern literary and political history: now poets, playwrights, and pamphleteers play the part of Orpheus, as the once atomized inhabitants of premodern England are, beginning in the sixteenth century, "connected through print, form[ing], in their secular, visible invisibility, the embryo of the nationally imagined community." Although critics continue to debate the contours of this emergent nationalism—is it English or British, Elizabethan or more broadly Tudor?—there is widespread agreement about its origins in literary practice. In the sixteenth century, Richard Helgerson argues, vernacular authors in virtually every genre worked "to articulate a national community whose existence and eminence would then justify their desire to become its literary spokesmen," participating in "what retrospectively looks like a concerted generational project": the "writing of England." Defining and consolidating "Englishness," by means of what Claire McEachern calls "the poetics of nationhood," is now understood as a central ambition and defining achievement of Renaissance literature; in the age of Shakespeare and Spenser, McEachern argues, imaginative writing worked "to syncretize and synchronize competing interests in utopian visions of union." As Andrew Escobedo argues, literary authors used "narrative representations of nationhood" to compensate for an otherwise hopelessly fractured sense of history, knitting together "the English past, present, and future in a complete and continuous story." In the context of "writing England," the work of promoting and improving the mother tongue mattered more than ever, for as Ian Smith claims, "on both the local and, more strikingly, the national scale, speaking English amount[ed] to a performative act of being English, a performance of the nation." But such arguments rely on what sixteenth-century writers and rhetoricians would have recognized as a partial version of the classical account of eloquence, which, as Derek Attridge points out in his seminal book on literature as "peculiar language," "seems to be based on two mutually inconsistent demands—that the language of literature be recognizably different from the language we encounter in other contexts, and that it be recognizably the same." Indeed, from its inception within the rhetorical theory of ancient Greece, eloquence has had as much to do with estrangement as with intimacy and familiarity. At the outset of his _Art of Rhetoric_ , Aristotle defines eloquence as the realization of common bonds in and through language: an orator succeeds in both his particular task and his larger social function by establishing "what seems true to people of a certain sort," wooing men to consensus by accommodating his argument to "instances near their experience." But when it comes to style, he acknowledges, the reverse holds true: the skilled speaker should make his "language unfamiliar, for people are admirers of what is far off, and what is marvelous is sweet." In this regard, eloquence belongs not only to the poet-legislator who founds the rhetorical "commonplace" but also—even especially—to the outsider whose marginal glamour disturbs and dazzles that community. Following Aristotle, rhetoricians parsed style ever more finely in an effort to adjudicate between the rival virtues of accessibility and wonder: Dionysius of Helicarnassus contrasted Attic simplicity to Asiatic flamboyance; Cicero's triad of high, middle, and low styles assigned plainness to certain subjects and occasions and extravagance to others; Hermogenes's seven-part taxonomy of stylistic "ideas" ranged from the fundamental virtues of clarity and distinctness to the more striking effects of dignity, solemnity, and brilliance. Such rubrics did not resolve the tension between likeness and difference within Aristotle's account, however; on the contrary, they codified and elaborated it, enshrining strangeness as both the antithesis and the epitome of style. In other words, sixteenth-century English writers inherited a rhetorical culture that was doubly far-fetched: literally far-fetched in that it entailed a deepening investment in remote antiquity; but also far-fetched as a matter of principle in that it had long regarded eloquence as _no one's_ native speech. As Puttenham acknowledges in book 3 of his _Arte_ , "there is yet requisite to the perfection of this arte, another maner of exornation, which resteth in the fashioning of our makers language and stile, to such purpose as it may delight and allure as well the mynde as the eare of the hearers with a certaine noueltie and strange maner of conueyance, disguising it no litle from the ordinary and accustomed." Rhetoric and poetry might thus beautify and enrich English, conferring upon it the allurements of novelty and strangeness, but in doing so they threatened to deprive the vernacular of its most essential and widely acknowledged virtue, its status as the common—"the ordinary and accustomed"—tongue. Puttenham hastens to allay this anxiety: the cultivation of an eloquent style should, he insists, make the poet's or orator's words "nothing the more vnseemely or misbecomming, but rather decenter and more agreable to any ciuill eare and vnderstanding." But classical precedent suggested that the effects of eloquence might in fact seem uncivil and misbecoming. Quintilian observes that Cicero's own superlative eloquence led the decorous denizens of the Roman courtroom to applaud wildly, forgetful of their sober surroundings. "Nor," Quintilian explains, "would his words have been greeted with such extraordinary approbation if his speech had been like the ordinary speeches of every day": In my opinion, the audience did not know what they were doing, their applause sprang neither from their judgment nor their will; they were seized with a kind of frenzy and unconscious of the place in which they stood, burst forth spontaneously into a perfect ecstasy of delight. (Atque ego illos credo qui aderant nec sensisse quid facerent nec sponte iudicioque plausisse, sed velut mente captos et quo essent in loco ignaros erupisse in hunc voluptatis adfectum.) What Quintilian describes as being "unconscious of... place" and Puttenham allegorizes as "strange conveyance" is identified by both rhetoricians as the consummation of rhetorical skill—even though it is also an exact inversion of the sensitivity to local circumstance that is the essence of rhetorical wisdom: what the Greeks call _to prepon_ and the Romans _decorum_. The eloquence that anchors men in place thus also transports them, turning the common language into something profoundly and singularly strange. In order to be recognized as such, eloquence must exceed to the point of superseding the very sense of communal identification it is tasked with creating. As the myth of Orpheus itself suggested, the pressure of such irreconcilable impulses could prove violently disintegrative. The aboriginal orator presented himself to sixteenth-century readers in two guises: not simply as the voice that summons vagrant and bestial mankind into civilized communion but also as the half-mad, self-exiled singer who reviles marriage, dotes on boys, and plays his lyre to an inhuman audience of trees, stones, and wild animals. In book 11 of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , the latter Orpheus faces a doom that is the antithesis of his earlier achievement: his scorn incites the Ciconian women to turn the instruments of agriculture and religion into blunt objects; they brandish "mattocks, rakes, and shouels," as Arthur Golding writes in his 1567 translation, and batter the poet with "their thyrses greene... which for another use than that invented been." In a gruesome inversion of Cicero's fantasy of the gathering of scattered mankind, Orpheus's bruised limbs are flung "in sundrie steds," and his still-singing head, washed downstream from Thrace to Lesbos, is "cast aland" on a "forreine coast." It is this antisocial, outcast Orpheus who presides over the most significant stylistic innovations of the late sixteenth century, so much so that outlandishness becomes not simply the point of departure for English authors but the point of arrival as well. Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe achieve renown by subjecting English to extreme elaborations, even deformations, in the name of eloquence. Rather than affirming vernacular literature as the medium of cultural and political synthesis, they foreground its departures from both ordinary speech and the decorums of classical rhetoric and poetry. Far from mythologizing eloquence as a force that binds vagrant individuals into social communion, they allegorize its effects in narratives of willful unsociability, featuring protagonists whose astonishing powers of persuasion dislodge them from anything resembling stable community: Euphues's witty tongue leads away from a home to which he can never truly return; Colin Clout retreats from pastoral fellowship into sullen isolation; Tamburlaine struts across the civilized world leaving rubble and ashes in his wake. These are paradigmatic figures of English style from the late sixteenth century, but they are hardly representatives of a "common tongue" around whom a new national community might form. Nor are they meant to be. Throughout the sixteenth century, in theoretical treatises and literary works alike, tropes of intimacy and sociability, the traditional virtues of artful speech, were made to coexist with unexpectedly compelling fantasies of alienation, errancy, and disunity. The appeal of those fantasies stems from a peculiar confluence of historical and cultural pressures, as English scholars, rhetoricians, and literary authors discovered both practical and theoretical advantages to what had once seemed like linguistic infirmities. Primed by their sensitivity to "England's classical nowhereness," they prove keenly alert to the contradictory stances on familiarity and foreignness that structure classical accounts of eloquence, and the very moments at which they seem most urgently concerned with the particularities of their own Englishness are often the moments at which they come closest to the preoccupations of their Greek and Roman predecessors. The mutually inconsistent demands of classical rhetorical theory mirrored the mutually inconsistent demands exerted upon English writers by the classical tradition as a whole, that enticing yet alienating corpus of speeches, poems, and plays that both invited their efforts at emulation and impugned their status as barbarous outsiders. Relative to classical Greek and Latin, after all, English was _already_ a peculiar language: haphazardly composed, indiscriminately mixed, awkwardly pronounced, and indelibly strange. Capitulation to the alien order of eloquence could thus seem curiously like doubling down on a native eccentricity. As Jones documents in his magisterial study of the vernacular in English Renaissance culture, in a brief span of years beginning around 1575 the status of English was revised dramatically upward. Novel achievements in prose, verse, and drama earned for the vernacular the reputation of an "eloquent tongue," and decades of skepticism give way to the assertive experiments of an age that, in Jones's words, "believed wholeheartedly in the literary value of its language." But this belief was not identical to—or even, perhaps, compatible with—faith in the vernacular's power to organize and sustain the body politic, for making English eloquent was also a way of dislocating it from the imagined community of native speakers. As Jones observes, the first fruits of this new faith were often willfully off-putting: "No longer was the vernacular only a practical instrument, the efficacy of which depended upon simple clarity and humble plainness; it was, instead, a free medium of expression, in which brave new words and elaborate figures could puzzle or displease whom they would." Jones does not dwell on this curiously negative formulation of poetic license, nor have subsequent scholars taken it up, but sixteenth-century critics were sensitive to its implications for the mother tongue. Although the authors of rhetorical and poetic handbooks promoted artful English as the expression of a well-fashioned England, others identified eloquence as a more disorienting and disruptive force. Thus William Harrison writes in his _Description and Historie of England_ , printed in 1577 as part of the first volume of Holinshed's _Chronicles_ , that the unprecedented investment of literary writers in their mother tongue seems to have made it both more excellent and less English than ever before. "Our tongue," Harrison allows, "never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein... sundry learned and excellent writers have fully accomplished the ornature of the same," but he cautions that "not a few other doo greatlie seeke to staine the same, by fond affectation of forren and strange words, presuming that to be the best English, which is most corrupted with externall termes of eloquence." Harrison was not alone in identifying the pursuit of eloquence with the affectation of strangeness or externality. Samuel Daniel's 1603 _Defence of Ryme_ deplores the "affectation" of poets who show themselves "to be both unkinde and vnnaturall to our owne natiue languge, in disguising or forging strange or vnusuall words, as if it were to make our verse seeme another kind of speech out of the course of our vsuall practice," while the preface to Robert Cawdrey's 1604 dictionary, _A TableAlphabeticall_, adapts a passage from Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_ to its own homogenizing purposes, urging readers that unless they are prepared to "make a difference of English, and say, some is learned English, and othersome is rude English, or the one is Court talke, the other is Country-speech," they "must of necessitie banish all affected Rhetorique, and vse altogether one manner of language." Such admonishments remind us that, notwithstanding the myth of eloquence's attractive power, the promotion of the vernacular as a literary tongue was not easily aligned with the promotion of a unified national identity. If laying claim to "the best English" meant disavowing the obligations of familiarity and mutual intelligibility, then the triumph of English begins to look like a more equivocal—even self-defeating—achievement. The mingled pride and concern Harrison expresses is in some respects typical of his moment, a moment at which England appeared to its inhabitants as simultaneously provincial and cosmopolitan, isolated and expansive. Both perspectives can be grounded in historical fact. As David Wallace points out, only in 1558, with the loss of Calais, did England lose its foothold on the Continent and "become... an island." At the same time, however, travel and trade brought the rest of Europe, and even Asia, closer: foreigners—and foreign books—swarmed London; the wool trade boomed; Englishmen crossed the channel in pursuit of wealth, learning, and pleasure; and the authors of texts such as Richard Hakluyt's _Principle Navigations of the English Nation_ (1589) took pride in representing England's reach as unprecedentedly large. "Whoever heard of Englishmen at Goa before now?" Hakluyt asks. "What English ships did heretofore... range along the coast of Chile, Peru, and all the backside of Nova Hispania?" It is not surprising that the excitement and anxiety elicited by such changes inflect English authors' perceptions of what Thomas Nashe half-jokingly calls "our homely Island tongue." Nashe tells readers who object to his "huge words," "I had as lieve have... no clothes rather than wear linsey wolsey"; the language that Thomas Wilson likens favorably to "our Countrie cloth" strikes him as too homespun altogether. So too George Chapman, who in the preface to his translation of Homer refuses to apologize for his "farre fetcht and, as it were, beyond sea manner of writing": English would be better off, he insists, if its native authors did not restrict themselves to "nothing but what mixeth it selfe with ordinarie table talke." For Richard Mulcaster, Spenser's grammar-school master and a fierce advocate for the mother tongue, the mobility of England's merchant class was a sign of the vernacular's own potential for expansion and enrichment: "Will all kindes of trade, and all sorts of traffik, make a tung of account?" he asks. "If the spreading sea, and the spacious land could vse anie speche," he declares, "theie would both shew you, where, and in how manie strange places, theie haue sene our peple, and also giue you to wit, that theie deall in as much, and as great varietie of matters, as anie other peple do, whether at home or abrode." But the success of England's efforts to extend its influence across the globe could intensify as well as assuage concerns about the value of English. Those far-flung merchants and travelers could hardly expect to use English in their dealings with foreigners. Puttenham worries in his _Arte_ that the vernacular would suffer from such encounters, as the English of "Secretaries and Marchaunts and trauailours" was inevitably corrupted by the "straunge termes of other languages." Debates about the vernacular's literary potential thus intersected with, reflected, and informed more widespread debates about England's place in the world—historically marginal, newly insular, increasingly mobile, and uncertainly bounded. Throughout the sixteenth century terms such as insularity and estrangement, homeliness and exoticism, proximity and distance served as analogies for a whole range of (often contradictory) attitudes toward English eloquence, and the immediate experiences of geographic expansion and isolation supplied vernacular writers with a rich fund of metaphors for their linguistic predicament. Like England in the sixteenth century, English seemed poised to embark on a potentially enriching, potentially ruinous venture beyond its native plot. Indeed the ambivalence with which many authors allude to England's geographic circumstances—its long-standing marginality, its burgeoning global reach—turns out to be a useful guide for articulating their ambivalence about eloquence. If geographic insularity was both an asset and an impediment to England's cultural, moral, and intellectual development, so too was confining oneself to the strict limits of common usage both an aid and an obstacle to rhetorical success. If travel, trade, and other foreign engagements were either the key to the nation's growth and enrichment or the fastest route to degradation and decline, so too was the allure of strange terms either the vernacular's greatest hope or its most persistent source of error. Compounding this ambivalence was the fact that, as Paula Blank has shown, it proved impossible to position oneself as a defender of linguistic commonality without exacerbating the problem of linguistic diversity. Language reformers who appealed to the notion of a common tongue invariably also highlighted divisions within the language: the alternative to banishing rhetoric is, as Cawdrey writes, "mak[ing] a difference of English," dismembering the vernacular in order to distinguish good uses from bad, proper from improper, usual from eccentric. Harrison's account works at just such cross-purposes of consolidation and differentiation, and his repeated invocations of the phrase "our tongue" jar with a tendency to characterize the vernacular's virtues in terms of narrowness and exclusivity. English is, he acknowledges, just one of "the languages spoken in this Iland"; its "excellency" is found only "in one, and the south part of this Iland," and strangers to that part find its sounds and syntax near impossible to master. Instead of producing English as the locus of "deep, horizontal community," then, the promotion of the vernacular depended on discriminatory judgments that threatened to undo the pretense of a common tongue. The terms of that adjudication exerted further stress on the ideal of commonality: even Harrison's mistrust of eloquence's "externall termes" does not preclude him from reaching for a neo-Latinate loan-word—"ornature"—to characterize the achievements of the vernacular's truly English stylists, the "learned and excellent" writers whose style he distinguishes from that of their fondly affected rivals. We might point out in Harrison's defense that the identification of eloquence with the classical tongues makes "externall termes" nearly impossible to avoid. As Wayne Rebhorn has observed, like the Roman rhetoricians before them, who depended on a theoretical lexicon borrowed from Greece, English rhetoricians and language reformers had "almost no choice but to use literally outlandish words from foreign languages." However firmly he might wish to draw the boundaries of vernacularity, then, Harrison, like any Renaissance critic, had to look elsewhere for a language to describe its literary virtues. That necessity yields a minor dissonance in Harrison's prose, but it resonated in a far more consequential way through the literature and literary theories of his time. That is to say, the tension between insularity and externality in sixteenth-century debates about eloquence is not exclusively, or even primarily, a function of the vernacular's "real-world" contexts; it is also the residue of its immersion in the classical tradition. The efforts of pedagogues and rhetoricians to fix rules and examples by which the best English might be recognized and perpetuated had the disorienting effect of embedding norms of vernacularity in the emulation of frankly alien tongues, the "peculiar languages" of ancient Athens and Rome. To speak English eloquently was, by definition, to speak it strangely. Indeed, although modern historians and literary critics have characterized sixteenth-century rhetorical culture as "unequivocally and resolutely social in outlook," its rituals of argument aimed at producing "a community of individuals sharing a common language," the translation of this culture into England and into English pushed Renaissance writers up against the limits of the assumed virtues of community and commonality. To begin with, as Sean Keilen has emphasized, English scholars and writers working to augment their notoriously deficient tongue were repeatedly confronted with reminders of their insularity and marginality; looking for models in the classical past, they discovered a legacy of barbarous exclusion, remedied only through submission to conquest. As Jenny Mann's work on figures of speech reveals, even small-scale transactions between antiquity and the present could trigger a jarring sense of dislocation and devaluation: vernacular rhetoricians may have fantasized the nation as "an ideally united community of native English speakers," but in ferrying schemes and tropes out of classical prose and poetry and into English, they upset that native unity, "threaten[ing] to overwhelm their vernacular with foreign devices." All too often, then, as Carla Mazzio demonstrates, vernacular texts that modeled themselves on classical literature became sites of "language trouble," marred by stammering, mumbling, lexical confusion, and other forms of inarticulacy. Like these critics, I am interested in the distorting, even disabling pressure that classical antiquity exerts on the theory and practice of vernacular eloquence—in particular in the impossibility of validating modern native practice without resorting to the definitively ancient and nonnative. But this paradoxical conflation of eloquence and alienation, although it speaks in seemingly direct ways to the belated and marginal predicament of English writers, is by no means particular to the sixteenth century; it is a legacy of the classical tradition's unresolved attitude toward linguistic difference. In this sense the very incommensurability of the classical past and the vernacular present could prove enabling for English writers, for even as their study of ancient rhetoric and poetry taught them to recognize their estrangement from antiquity, it also taught them to perceive in that estrangement—or any estrangement of language—the essence of literary value. Thus within any number of sixteenth-century English texts, the expressed desire to domesticate eloquence, reconciling antique precepts to the rhetorical imperatives of the here and now, clashes with an equally pervasive tendency to privilege distance and difference as the ideal attributes of eloquent speech. This willful embrace of strangeness is not, as William Harrison assumes, the purview of the unlearned, those self-alienated "other[s]" whose perversity threatens the ideal course of linguistic progress. On the contrary, it is a _learned_ technique, cultivated in deference to the very texts and theories that made English seem so strange. * * * That learning is the first subject of this study. However radically innovative they appeared, the stylistic experiments of the late 1570s and early 1580s are rooted in theoretical ground prepared by an earlier humanism, as two seemingly antagonistic strains of linguistic reform worked to alter the nature and status of the English language. The earlier decades of the sixteenth century bear witness, on the one hand, to the concerted effort to imbue a generation of English schoolboys with perfect Latinity and, on the other hand, to the equally concerted effort to define rhetorical and poetic standards for the vernacular, achieving parity with antiquity by giving English an eloquence of its own. Although they aim at distinct, even rivalrous, visions of linguistic achievement, in practice the two movements shared significant overlap: those who sought to inculcate Latinity necessarily wrote in English and, in consequence, valued the vernacular more highly and altered its course more definitively than is often allowed; meanwhile the authors of vernacular arts of rhetoric and poetics served as conduits for conspicuously foreign terms, concepts, and writerly practices—for an ideal of Englishness that remains in constant, jostling contact with tongues elsewhere. In a more basic sense, both Latin pedagogues and vernacular rhetoricians presented readers with an essentially paradoxical vision of what it might mean for England, as a whole, to lay claim to eloquence. Although each movement addresses itself to a broad audience, invoking a self-justifying rhetoric of intimacy and domesticity—proper instruction will make Latin "familiar" and "easy" to any learner; the vernacular merits development because it is the "common" and "mother" tongue—each ends by accepting, and even valorizing, estrangement and exile as the necessary conditions of a properly English eloquence. Conventional narratives of vernacularization and nation-building tend to obscure both the sympathies between these two movements and the tensions within them. To begin with, although the rise of vernacular literature is often yoked to the "fall" or "dethronement" of the classical tongues, this equation is misleading. For much of the sixteenth century, as I argue in my opening chapter, a stubborn attachment to frankly impracticable fantasies of Latinization was a primary motive for the cultivation of the vernacular by literate authors. The elegant and inventive use of English in Sir Thomas Elyot's _Boke named the Governour_ (1531) and Roger Ascham's _Scholemaster_ (1570) anticipates the outpouring of vernacular literature that marks the end of the sixteenth century, but the two texts manifest as well a seemingly self-abnegating devotion to the cultivation of the classical tongues. Critics have responded by treating their stylistic influence as distinct from, even opposed to, their expressed pedagogical commitments. In fact, however, both Elyot's unself-conscious neologizing and Ascham's artfully balanced syntax arise out of their philosophies of foreign language study: what they bequeath to English is an indelible sense of its own difference from Latin and Greek. As architects of ambitious new programs for the study of classical literature, men tasked with managing the transfer of eloquence from one time and place to another, radically unlike it, Elyot and Ascham scrutinize the relationship of learning to intimacy and estrangement. Both their pedagogical theories and their prose work to remedy the seemingly catastrophic fact of England's alienation from classical civilization—what Elyot calls the "infelicitie of our tyme and countray." They arrive, however, at very different conceptions of how that infelicitous gap ought to inform the pursuit of eloquence. For Elyot, both pedagogy and language are sustained by acts of hospitality, inviting strangeness into the home so as to be transformed and enriched by it: classical authors (and foreign loan-words) are akin to the Greek wet nurses who raised Roman infants, foreigners welcomed as intimate familiars. For Ascham, such receptivity to outside influence is morally perilous, pedagogically ineffective, and rhetorically unwise: remoteness and insularity may be obstacles to linguistic sophistication, but they are sure safeguards of virtue. Thus while Elyot's pedagogy and prose work to reduce the distance between English and Latin, Ascham—more pragmatically and more radically—embraces distance as the engine of linguistic refinement. His pedagogical method and his prose style foreground the necessity and virtue of _mediation_ : for him, classical authors are not wet nurses but sea captains, guides on a necessarily prolonged and difficult journey between tongues. This forced detour, enshrined in the artificially arduous practice of double translation, returned a generation of English writers to their mother tongue as, in effect, a second language—what was once the enforced predicament of the exile and the barbarian becomes the deliberately cultivated pose of the would-be eloquent author. Estrangement—temporal, geographic, cultural, and linguistic—is urgently and obviously a concern for those who would transplant Latin eloquence to England, those who measure their own language and culture by its distance from antiquity. It is less clearly an issue for the authors of the first vernacular arts of rhetoric and poetics: in these texts, it would seem, the goal is to establish eloquence as an essentially homely value. But as I have suggested above, their acquaintance with classical rhetoric brings English rhetoricians and poetic theorists into conversation with a tradition _already_ divided between allegiance to home and attraction to the remote and alien. Chapter 2 explores the outworkings of that internal division within a corpus of texts that stake their own highly contested value on a myth of linguistic sociability that proves inadequate, or even opposed, to their visions of linguistic transport. As Thomas Wilson emphasizes in the first full-fledged English art of rhetoric, the claims that rhetoric makes to truth are essentially local in character; proximity is the guarantor of plausibility, and ordinary or common speech therefore exerts a particularly strong claim on the attention and commitment of an audience. But persuasion, as Wilson also allows, is not simply a matter of plausibility: style, ornament, and figuration have always been acknowledged to play some part in the achievement of eloquence, and in this regard, rhetorical success depends not on the familiarity of one's speech but precisely on its novelty and difference. The sense that eloquence resides elsewhere is endemic to rhetoric, however emphatically "Englished." The archive of rhetorical handbooks and poetic treatises that is often invoked as evidence of literature's nationalizing force is thus equally available as testimony to literature's appeal as _uncommon_ speech: especially in the guise of what William Harrison calls "ornature," eloquence retains persistent associations with foreignness. Like their predecessors in Athens and Rome, English rhetoricians identify the orator's and the poet's power both with the fashioning of community and with the uncircumscribed pleasures of travel, with familiarity and estrangement. Wilson abjures those who affect "outlandish English" in the name of eloquence, but he praises the beauty of "farre fetcht" figures of speech. Richard Sherry apologizes that the title of his 1550 _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ will sound "all straunge unto our English eares," but he also imagines that the strangeness of terms such as "scheme" and "trope" may appeal to readers who are "moued with the noueltye thereof." Puttenham defines "the best English" as that used in "London and the shires lying about London within sixty miles, and not much above," but he urges vernacular poets to ornament their language with "rich Orient colours," to embrace the "forraine and coloured talke" of figuration, and to risk "trespasses in speech" in order to achieve the "novelty of language evidently (and yet not absurdly) estranged from the ordinary." Without the cultivation of a certain degree of alienation—without translation and metaphor—eloquence collapses into mere talk; taken too far, the exoticism of eloquence becomes affectation and absurdity. Of course, the distance between evident estrangement and absurdity proves much more difficult to gauge than the sixty miles between London and its outermost suburbs: far from securing the vernacular as the locus of communal identification, sixteenth-century efforts to define eloquence in (and on) native terms make the province of "the best English" increasingly difficult to map. Decoupling the trajectories of vernacularity and nationhood in this fashion allows us to regain an appreciation of the productive role that affectation—that most maligned of literary strategies—plays in the effort to claim eloquence for the mother tongue. The vernacular rhetorician joins with the Latin schoolmaster in calculating both the hazards and the rewards of linguistic eccentricity; together they fashion the conceptual frame within which Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe enact their self-consciously bold experiments in vernacular style. In other words, the extravagantly strung-on clauses of _Euphues_ , the exaggeratedly "uncouth" terms of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , and _Tamburlaine_ 's savage bombast are not incidental to the bids these texts make on behalf on the vernacular; they are, rather, the means by which English asserts itself in an age that places a premium on the alienating force of artful speech. I have called strangeness a learned achievement, and as I will emphasize in my readings, eccentricity is in many ways a calculated effect of Lyly's prose, Spenser's verse, and Marlowe's drama: these writers and the styles they promote are not quite as strange as they strive to appear. Lyly's hyperabundant prose arises from utterly conventional compositional practices; the oddity of Spenser's pseudo-archaic diction is exaggerated by E. K.'s gloss; Marlowe's blank-verse line has closer antecedents in English than we usually recall, or than Marlowe admits. Their efforts earned them outrage as well as admiration, but in either case they succeeded in fixing their individual achievements within a much larger conversation about the nature and purpose of vernacular eloquence. Commonality might be the premise from which that conversation began, but estrangement was where it invariably tended: thus the writers credited with accomplishing the most in and for the mother tongue were those who underscored its freaks, fissures, and indecorums, transferring it "by a strange maner of conveyance," as Puttenham might say, into the mouths of errant cosmopolitans, exiled shepherds, and barbarian warlords. Reading Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe in this light means acknowledging that eccentricity is the ideal that shapes their visions of eloquence. Euphues, Colin Clout, and Tamburlaine articulate new forms of English, and of Englishness, but they also enact the dramas of displacement, alienation, and trespass that make those innovations possible—and, what is perhaps more important, legible as such. The substance of their stylistic eccentricity—Lyly's assiduously balanced clauses, Spenser's quasi-medieval diction, Marlowe's chest-thumping orotundity—is well known, but the motives and mechanisms for announcing that eccentricity to readers are not. For this reason I am less concerned to delineate what is new or distinctive in each style—less, perhaps, than critics have tended to assume—than I am to show how novelty and distinction are promoted, theorized, and critiqued with the texts themselves: how and why familiar words, forms, and literary techniques are burdened or burnished with strangeness. In Lyly's case, the romance of estrangement was built into the commonplace tradition. My third chapter highlights the interplay within Erasmus's rhetorical handbooks—the most influential and prestigious source for Lyly's style—of the satisfactions of stylistic amplitude and the pleasures of geographic errancy. The _De Copia_ taught a generation of English schoolboys to define eloquence as the ability to speak as expansively as possible on any subject—and to identify that ability with a more literal freedom of movement, a protocosmopolitan approach to being at home in the world. Erasmus demonstrates _copia_ by generating over a hundred versions of a single sentence—"your letter greatly pleased me"—and the link between letter writing and stylistic abundance persists throughout his pedagogical program. In _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ (another staple of the sixteenth-century English schoolroom), Erasmus makes clear that he favors letter writing as an educational exercise because the epistle, like the ideal of _copia_ , defies the usual boundaries governing speech, passing from one rhetorical context to another with the same ease that a well-trained schoolboy might pass from one commonplace to the next. It is no coincidence, then, that vernacular _copia_ finds its limit in a text filled to bursting with both letters and commonplaces. Incorporating similitudes, sententiae, and exempla from an array of classical and contemporary sources, including many from Erasmus, the ornate rhetorical set-pieces of Lyly's _Euphues_ are as wide ranging—and as hard to pin down, logically speaking—as his eponymous hero. Frequently, however, neither Euphues nor Lyly arrives at his projected end, succumbing to an errant superfluity that overrides the more local demands of narrative and rhetorical coherence. Generations of readers have taxed _Euphues_ with this as an oversight, charging Lyly with allowing his enthusiasm for _copia_ to carry him past the boundaries of stylistic decorum. But Lyly is hardly blind to the eccentricities of his style: on the contrary, his failure to inaugurate a sustainable model of vernacular eloquence is prefigured in the pages of his 1580 sequel, _Euphues and His England_ , which exiles Euphues to the margins of his own plot, branding him as a perpetual outsider. Lyly does not succumb to Erasmian excess so much as he deliberately subjects English to its hidden costs. A similarly self-marginalizing drive fuels Edmund Spenser's efforts to invent a poetic diction that redeems the vernacular's onerous debt to the classical tradition. Chapter 4 argues that _The Shepheardes Calender_ adopts a poetics of deliberate self-estrangement, foregrounding England's remoteness from antiquity and poetry's remoteness from ordinary speech. Despite its conventional associations with poetic and even political ambition, pastoral is a singularly inhospitable genre for an English poet: in Virgil's first eclogue Britain appears as the antithesis of pastoral contentment, a place of exile and colonial abjection. By treating English as a quasi-foreign tongue and adopting the errant and alienated persona of Colin Clout, Spenser repeats this marginalizing gesture, finding in exile a means to reinvigorate vernacular poetry. The pedantic E. K. plays a crucially paradoxical role in this endeavor: positioned as guide to the odd corners and rough edges of Spenser's verse, he often serves as a means of detaining and dislocating our attention, supplying the poem as a whole with an aura of estrangement in excess of its own peculiarities. Ultimately his insistence on the virtues of this kind of deliberate self-alienation allows Spenser to find a place for pastoral—and for Colin Clout—in England's own abject colonial sphere, beyond the Irish pale. Chapter 5 takes up the persistent problem of how to set limits for poetic expression, especially given the lack of a universally accepted system of measuring English verse. Hailed as the source of English verse's "mighty line"—the iambic pentameter that gives classical shape to unruly rhyme—Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ nevertheless offers an ominous vision of linguistic trespass, in the person of a barbarous yet eloquent Scythian whose disdain for territorial limits is matched by his tendency to rhetorical excess. The violence that attends persuasion in Marlowe's poetry suggests that abuse is the inevitable counterpart of eloquence—and that cages, bits, and harnesses are the necessary implements of linguistic refinement. However, if we situate Marlowe's play within the context of debates over rhyme and metrical form, we discover a multiplicity of Tamburlaines: in addition to Marlowe's famous overreacher, there are the unexpectedly terse—even measured—Timur Cutzclewe of book 2 of Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ and the Tamburlaine of Daniel's _Defence_ , who emerges as the unwitting progenitor of a cultural movement—Renaissance humanism—that Daniel indicts precisely for its neglect of so-called barbarian culture. Marlowe's Tamburlaine, Puttenham's Timur Cutzclewe, and Daniel's Tamburlaine chart very different courses for English verse, but they stand together as figures for a more expansive definition of linguistic excellence, what Daniel calls eloquence "in what Scythian sorte soeuer." As a group, these Scythian warrior-poets remind us that at the end of Elizabeth I's reign and the height of what we now call the Renaissance, English writers were far from agreed on the ideal trajectory of the English literary tradition—a tradition whose contours they refused to equate with those of England (or even Britain). Why, then, do we continue to associate their age with the consolidation of English identity under the banner of language? Clearly the answer has something to do with Shakespeare, the Orpheus around whom the idea of an English literary tradition still coheres. But as I remark in a brief coda, Shakespeare is not an obvious candidate for that role. To seventeenth- and eighteenth-century critics, the extremity of linguistic experimentation in the late sixteenth century cried out for reform, and no one needed disciplining more than Shakespeare. As those early critics recognized, the poet who is largely hailed today for the universal accessibility of his art thrived in his own time by imitating and even exaggerating the excesses of his most outrageous peers and predecessors. It is no coincidence that, in the sequence of plays that for many modern critics exemplify the "poetics of nationhood," Falstaff speaks with the voice of Euphues and Pistol in the tones of Tamburlaine. These disreputable companions, figures for the outlandishness that has always haunted eloquence, both aid and impede the articulation of Hal's (eventually) kingly English; vagabonds and strays can also serve as scouts, marking by their trespasses the boundaries of authorized expression. In the end, of course, they must be banished—but they very nearly take Shakespeare with them. Indeed the poet we continually invoke as a figure for language's unifying power may have more to teach us about the self-alienating gestures on which our vernacular literary tradition is founded. _Chapter 1_ Good Space and Time: Humanist Pedagogy and the Uses of Estrangement A rich body of criticism attests to the imprint left on Renaissance writers by their grammar-school education in classical literature, but a basic feature of this pedagogical program has received little attention: in order to promote their vision of Latinity, sixteenth-century humanist pedagogical theorists first had to reinvent English. As Ardis Butterfield points out, the training bestowed on educated Englishmen from the medieval period through the sixteenth century gave them "much greater eloquence and indeed fluency in [Latin] than they possessed in the vernacular"; far from representing a reversion to a more natural voice, writing in English "was thus a source of strain, a sense that there was a gulf to cross between one form of language and the other." And yet such men were, of necessity, some of the first to publish in the vernacular, eager to disseminate their methods of study to an audience that had not yet achieved perfect Latinity. In pedagogical treatises such as Thomas Elyot's _The Boke named the Governour_ (1531) and Roger Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ (1570), the fashioning of English as a literate tongue thus models, in reverse, the fashioning of English schoolboys as literate classicists: the vernacular is advanced, with self-conscious effort, as a means to its own supersession. For many critics, this ambivalent stance toward the vernacular constitutes an essential difference between humanist writers of the early and mid-sixteenth century and their late Elizabethan successors. If, as Richard Foster Jones argues, the final decades of the sixteenth century were marked by wholehearted faith in the vernacular's expressive powers, this is a faith that Elyot and Ascham evidently did not share. The fact that such writers "employed the vernacular is no proof that [they] admired it," Jones observes: Elyot, though he "did not disdain to use the vernacular in _The Governour_ ," treats eloquence as "a quality beyond the abilities of the vernacular," while Ascham "gives [in _The Scholemaster_ ] unmistakable evidence that the language he is using has no claim to eloquence." In a broader sense, Latin-promoting humanists such as Elyot and Ascham are understood to have chosen the wrong side in an unfolding rivalry between the vernacular and the classical tongues: English "triumphs" at the necessary expense of Latin and Greek. Or, in Richard Helgerson's more neutral phrasing, "the sufficiency or insufficiency of the English language... came to matter with a special intensity" only when "other sources of identity and cultural authority mattered less." But such formulations cannot account for the pains both Elyot and Ascham took to shape their prose and the cause that justified those pains: these are texts whose innovative and artful English is crafted in the service of Latinity. Indeed, _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_ suggest that for early English humanists—who might otherwise, and with greater ease, have written in Latin—the vernacular came to matter precisely because other sources of cultural authority mattered so much more. For the most part, however, the formal achievements of Elyot's and Ascham's prose have been read against the grain of their pedagogical commitments: for literary critics, _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_ are exemplary of a movement at odds with itself, obtusely blind to the real value of its own investment in the vernacular. Thus C. S. Lewis credits Elyot as a "convinced and conscious neologizer," the composer of "lucid" and "literary" sentences, and one of the first English writers to be "aware of prose as art," but he insists that, as a work of pedagogical theory, _The Governour_ has "nothing in it which suggests a mind of the first order." Ascham he hails as an "irresistible" writer, but only if one pays minimal attention to his educational precepts: "the literary historian can have no opinion on the mischief of 'making Latines' or the virtues of the 'two paper bokes,' " he writes, but "once get [Ascham] out of the schoolroom and he pleases us all." In more recent criticism, Lewis's instinctive distaste for humanism's classicizing ambitions has ramified into a consensus about the adversarial relationship between pedagogy (and, above all, foreign language learning) and literature in the sixteenth century. According to this consensus, humanist pedagogy, with its emphasis on rote learning and unthinking submission to authority, threatened to develop in English schoolboys the very qualities least conducive to linguistic experimentation and literary achievement, and the vernacular Renaissance testifies to the happy failure of its methods. Classical education is still acknowledged as a shaping influence on Elizabethan writers, but attention has fixed on "the slippage between the august ideals of humanist education and its practical shortcomings, between its ambitions and its unintended consequences." In a similar way, by dint of their prowess as writers and their influence as theorists, Elyot and Ascham continue to find their way into studies of sixteenth-century literature, but the lines of formal influence are traced across a more basic plot of departure: prodigality, opposition, rebellion, and critique. Thomas Greene's admiration for Elyot and (especially) Ascham as prose stylists prompts him to offer the most generous possible version of this plot. The crucial feature of early English humanism, he writes, is that "it lacked still a sure sense of where it was headed": what seems like a rigid adherence to antique precepts is simply a not-yet-realized sense of literary and linguistic ambition. But if Jones's description of Elyot and Ascham exaggerates their disdain for English, Greene's account understates their confidence in the classical tongues. To say that early English humanism lacked a clear sense of where it was headed dismisses the one thing Elyot and Ascham thought they knew for sure: "[A]ll men couet to haue their children speake Latin: and so do I verie earnestlie too," Ascham reassures readers of _The Scholemaster_. "We bothe, haue one purpose: we agree in desire, we wish one end: but we differ somewhat in order and waie, that leadeth rightlie to that end." From Ascham's perspective, the end of the journey was its only fixed point: well-intentioned humanists might disagree about how to arrive at fluency in the Latin tongue (and, as we shall see, he and Elyot emphatically do), but it never occurs to him that anyone might question the goal itself. It is precisely the firmness, even the stubbornness, with which _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_ cling to this end that draws them closest to the vernacular poets and playwrights of a later generation, with whom they share—to whom they communicate—the notion that eloquence both depends and thrives on estrangement. Indeed it is in the writing of men strenuously committed to a linguistic ideal anchored in classical antiquity, and prone to see England in terms of its remoteness from that ideal, that we find a rationale for the willfully eccentric literary vernaculars of the late sixteenth century: in the context of the humanist schoolroom, English is a language constituted and regenerated by its difference and distance from the classical tongues. We find, moreover, a precedent for the impulse to _narrate_ the experience of linguistic estrangement, projecting one's own rhetorical maneuvers onto characters whose actions allegorize fraught transactions within and between languages. The self-reflexive stories of errancy, alienation, and trespass in _Euphues_ , _The Shepheardes Calender_ , and _Tamburlaine_ riff on fantasies of estrangement and transport original to scenes of foreign language learning in _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_. In their eloquence and their indelible strangeness Euphues, Colin Clout, and Tamburlaine are kin to a cluster of imaginary figures who preside over the transmission of eloquence in Elyot's and Ascham's treatises: classical writers reimagined in the guise of foreign-born nursemaids and native archers, expert sea captains and wayward exiles, figures whose skill resides precisely in their negotiation of estrangement. From our own perspective, the linguistic transactions such figures are asked to mediate can appear, as Richard Halpern writes of humanist education as a whole, like "miracle[s] of impracticality." That impracticality is, in fact, a central preoccupation for Elyot and Ascham, manifested most clearly in their self-conscious reflections on their own use of the vernacular—a practical necessity that begets a sense of possibility. For both writers, the strain of moving between tongues is initially legible only as an obstacle to their ambitions for England, a country whose historic marginality and insularity seem to condemn it to rusticity, if not outright barbarity. Each ultimately arrives, however, at a more positive sense of what distance and difficulty might mean for English culture and language: the labor of translating their classical ideals into the vernacular subtly refashions their conceptions of eloquence. Virgil the Nursemaid When Ascham says that he and his fellow pedagogues "differ somewhat in [the] order and waie" of language study, he points to a debate that swirls around a single, fundamental question: how were sixteenth-century English schoolmasters, self-appointed heirs to classical antiquity, to accommodate the fact of living in sixteenth-century England? As he observes in _The Scholemaster_ , "if ye would speake as the best and wisest do, ye must be conuersant, where the best and wisest are, but if yow be borne or brought vp in a rude contrie, ye shall not chose but speake rudelie: the rudest man of all knoweth this to be trewe." For Elyot, this truth is a source of frequent embarrassment, a recurring impediment to his desire to "devulgate or sette fourth" the substance of classical learning. The difficulties arise literally from the start. As he acknowledges in the opening pages of _The Governour_ , classical theories of education have little to say about language instruction for infants: most "olde authors holde oppinion that, before the age of seuen yeres [the moment at which the care of the mother or nursemaid yields to the supervision of the _pedagogue_ ] a chylde shulde nat be instructed in letters." But Elyot insists that it is only by distinguishing itself from the classical example in this one particular that the English can hope to equal Greece and Rome in any other: "[For] those writers were either grekes or latines, amonge whom all doctrine and sciences were in their maternall tonges; by reason wherof they saued all that longe tyme whiche at this dayes is spente in understandyng perfectly the greke or latyne. Wherfore it requireth nowe a longer tyme to the understandynge of bothe. Therfore that infelicitie of our tyme and countray compelleth us to encroche some what upon the yeres of children, and specially of noble men, that they may sooner attayne to wisedome and grauitie" (18r). This apology reveals the double bind at the heart of Elyot's approach to foreign language study: for sixteenth-century English schoolboys, the infelicitous circumstances of time and place have made it difficult to access learned speech, and that difficulty compounds the burden of temporal and geographic alienation. The "longer time" that must be devoted to the acquisition of classical tongues—the years spent in grammar school grasping painfully by rote what was once held by birthright—both exposes and exacerbates England's distance from civilized antiquity. But Elyot's perception of the doubling of lost time and wasted space that occurs whenever a seven-year-old English boy opens his Greek or Latin grammar for the first time points him toward a possible solution: a pedagogy that makes the acquisition of foreign learning an experience of immediacy, intimacy, and domesticity—a pedagogy that conceals its own "encroachment" on the infant by masking itself as something like maternal care. "Hit is expedient," he therefore urges, "that a noble mannes sonne, in his infancie, haue with hym continually onely suche as may accustome hym by litle and litle to speake pure and elegant latin," and even "the nourises and other women aboute hym, if it be possible, [are] to do the same" (19v). In this manner, he insists, "nothing can be more conuenient than by litle and litle to trayne and exercise [a child] in spekyng of latyne: infourmyng them to knowe first the names in latine of all thynges that cometh in syghte, and to name all the partes of theyr bodies: and gyuynge them some what that they couete or desyre, in most gentyl maner to teache them to aske it agayne in latine" (18r). Such convenient and gentle exchanges supply the infant with a foreign speech adapted to his own possessions, his own body, his own desires: what the child acquires almost as a matter of course in Elyot's imaginary nursery is a fully domesticated Latinity, an ease and comfort with the alien tongue that mimics the always already intimate knowledge of native speech. If Englishmen cannot possess Latin as a "maternall tongue," they may at least adopt it as a nursemaid tongue: any well-born child might come to "use the latin tonge as a familiar langage," Elyot promises, provided that his familiars, those "seru[ing] him or kepyng hym company," are all "suche as can speake latine elegantly" (30r–v). There is an obvious flaw in this plan: where, in sixteenth-century England, are such companions to be found? If, as Lynn Enterline urges, it is time to look more skeptically at the promises made by humanist pedagogical theorists, this far-fetched scheme to entrust the basics of classical instruction to nursemaids and playmates (a plan that arouses Lewis's particular scorn) would seem an excellent place to begin. Here Elyot's logic is conspicuously self-defeating: the effort to imagine a way out of the constraints of time and country merely returns the reader to them. After all, as Elyot laments, English parents who shared his enthusiasm for classical learning were hard-pressed to find qualified tutors or schoolmasters, since even men boasting university training often possessed but a "spone full of latine" (61r). The idea of a wet nurse who speaks "pure and elegant latin" to the child at her breast may provide an appealing imaginary contrast to the scant intellectual nourishment afforded in actual English schoolrooms, but it is hardly an "expedient" basis for pedagogical practice. The fantasy of the Latin-speaking wet nurse nonetheless proves generative for Elyot, for it supplies him with a conceptual model both for his pedagogical program and for his prose. Both _The Governour_ 's pedagogy and its prose gently enlarge the meaning of supposedly familiar terms, forging increasingly capacious—even far-fetched—boundaries for concepts such as "home," the "mother tongue," and "eloquence." The very absurdity of the idea of a classically fluent wet nurse triggers one such subtle expansion: conscious that no such nurses exist in sixteenth-century England, Elyot quickly amends his suggestion to allow for nurses who, "at the leste way,... speke none englisshe but that which is cleane, polite, perfectly and articulately pronounced" (19v). The Latin-speaking wet nurse figures one strategy by which eloquence might be domesticated—through the adoption of Latin as a familiar tongue—but her English replacement figures another: by differentiating the vernacular from itself, creating an incremental critical distance between English speakers and their native speech. The Latin-speaking nurse shows how learning might be permitted to encroach on an ideal of domesticity; the English-speaking nurse shows how the vernacular might be permitted to encroach on an ideal of eloquence. If "pure" and "elegant" are not exact synonyms for "clean," "polite," and "perfectly and articulately pronounced," the passage from one set of adjectives to another nonetheless begins to effect a transfer of linguistic standards from a purely classical tradition to its no longer homely counterpart. The two strategies are not identical—Elyot's "at the leste way" marks a significant capitulation—but that too is the point. The fact that the Latin-speaking wet nurse is so quickly supplanted by a more attainable ideal does not undo the logic of the original proposal so much as intensify it: surrogacy is the name of the game. As Robert Matz observes, the efficacy of Elyot's _Boke_ depends on the reader's willingness to assent to a sequence of necessary but potentially unconvincing analogies: virtue is like dancing, reading like eating, study like leisure, and scholarly achievement like aristocratic honor. The same holds true of Elyot's philosophy of linguistic refinement, which even as it is characterized by its investment in immediacy, intimacy, and ease is distinguished as well by a pragmatic willingness to effect the illusion of those qualities through substitution or approximation. "If not this, then _at least_ that" is the modest mechanism by which one begins to narrow the gap, "by little and little," as Elyot might say, between eloquence and an infant (which is to say, inarticulate) tongue. Each substitution or similitude repeats the service provided by the imaginary Latin-speaking nursemaid, taking the place of an elusive ideal—approximating but also distancing us from that original fantasy of truly maternal Latinity. Thus the initial attempt to immerse the infant in Latin from birth yields to an effort to populate his world with companions who speak only pure and elegant Latin, or perhaps clean and polite English, and then to descriptions of exercises and games that provide in a more piecemeal and painstaking way the illusion of familiarity with the classical tongue. Finally the companions fall away, and the conversation becomes purely textual: nursemaids are replaced by books. But here too the pedagogical ideal is an experience of intimacy, familiarity, and proximity—by way of analogy, at least. Virgil's poetry, Elyot writes, ought to be the first Latin any English child reads because it "so nighe approcheth to the commune daliaunce and maners of children" that nothing "can be more familiar" (32v). According to Elyot, the bucolic landscape of Virgil's pastorals evokes the child's own favored haunts, the husbandry of the georgics appeals to his practical instincts, and Aeneas's escapades satisfy his longing for adventure. Indeed, Elyot insists, "there is nat that affect or desire, wherto any childes fantasie is disposed, but in some of Virgils warkes may be founden matter therto apte and propise." Virgil thus presents himself as compensation for the impossible fantasy of the Latin-speaking wet nurse, for he "like to a good norise, giueth to a childe, if he wyll take it, euery thinge apte for his witte and capacitie" (34r). This nurselike Virgil is not just a surrogate for the unobtainable actual Latin nursemaid; he is also the stand-in for a more arduous and potentially alienating course of study. Elyot's ideal classical education begins with Homer, "from whom as a fountaine, proceded all eloquence and learning"—"there is no lesson... to be compared with Homer," he declares (31v–32r). But finding a comparable lesson proves necessary: Greek is more difficult than Latin, and Homer's long epics "require therefore a great time to be all lerned and kanned," so Virgil presents himself as the next best thing, being "most lyke to Homere, and all moste the same Homere in latine" (32v). Elyot's term for this miraculous _aptness_ of Virgil's poetry, its dual kinship both to Homer and to the interests and experiences of the English child, is "eloquence." And although he insists on the necessity of learning Latin in order to access eloquence where it is most readily found, he insists that eloquence transcends disciplinary and linguistic boundaries, enfolding all other intellectual and cultural achievements. "They be moche abused, that suppose eloquence to be only in wordes or coulours of Rhetorike," he declares, "for... in an oratour is required to be a heape of all maner of lernyng: whiche of some is called the worlde of science, of other the circle of doctrine, whiche is in one worde of greke _Encyclopedia_ " (48v). Such a vast, indeed global, competence necessarily extends far beyond "the elegant speking of latin": "latine," Elyot observes, "is but a naturall speche, and the frute of speche is wyse sentence, whiche is gathered and made of sondry lernynges" (47v). Precisely because it transcends the boundaries of any particular language, eloquence is—paradoxically—accessible to all, inherent "in euery tonge... whereof sentences be so aptly compact that they by a vertue inexplicable do drawe unto them the mindes and consent of the herers" (47v–48r). It is this generous perception of linguistic potential and rhetorical efficacy, of the _sameness_ of eloquence whenever and wherever it is heard—as much as any hopefulness about the hitherto untapped linguistic talents of nursemaids—that sustains Elyot's vision of an otherwise impossible intimacy with classical antiquity. To read Virgil is to escape the infelicitous constraints of time and country: to traverse a world of learning but to experience it as inexplicably familiar, aptly compact. However, that is not exactly the lesson one takes away from Virgil's great poem of civilization building and travel, which takes a rather darker view of the satisfactions afforded by nurses. The _Aeneid_ is all about generative displacements—Troy is rubble and must be rebuilt in Rome—but Aeneas's encounter with Dido makes clear that the logic of substitution is not infallible: some forms of intimacy only increase the hunger they are meant to satisfy. Indeed, as J. S. C. Eidinow has suggested, book 4 of Virgil's poem—and in particular Dido's fantasy of fostering Ascanius as a _parvulus Aeneas_ —can be read as a historically topical meditation on the limits of cross-cultural and extrafamilial intimacy. Dido may romanticize herself as the wet nurse of Aeneas's ambitions, but Virgil ironizes the image, recasting the nurse or foster mother as an emblem of mutually unsatisfactory exchanges and unfulfilled yearning, of losses that cannot be made good. _The Boke named the Governour_ remains defensive about the implications of this lesson for its own nursemaidlike endeavors: that is, both the substitution of Virgilian nutriments for easier and more natural bodies of knowledge—the exchanges on which Elyot's pedagogy depends—and the translation of classical learning and culture into English—the exchanges on which Elyot's prose depends. What must be displaced? What will get left behind? For much of book 1, Elyot's anxiety is clearly on behalf of the classics. "I am (as god iuge me)," he writes in the opening lines of the dedicatory epistle to King Henry VIII, "violently stered to devulgate or sette fourth some part of my studie, trustynge therby tacquite me of my dueties to god, your hyghnesse, and this my contray" (aiir). This declaration, David Baker writes, "marks one of the first significant attempts by English humanists to make their learning accessible to a vernacular reading public," but, as Baker observes, even the violent steering to which Elyot has been subjected persuades him only to publish "some part" of his own wide reading. Baker attributes this incompleteness to reticence: wary of the heretical and revolutionary potential of classical learning, Elyot provides only a partial account of his study, insisting on maintaining the boundaries between the learned and the unlearned. But while diplomacy and piety may help to define _The Governour_ 's boundaries, Elyot tends to attribute its defects to the constraints of vernacularity. Repeatedly throughout book 1 he interrupts the flow of his argument to redirect our attention to his labored, at times frustrated, efforts to put it into English. The very "name" of the _Governour_ , he confesses early in book 1, is not quite apt as a descriptor for the sort of educated nobleman his text is designed to produce, as governance properly speaking belongs to the sovereign alone: "herafter," he explains, "I intende to call them Magistratis, lackynge a more conuenient worde in englisshe" (14r). But then, reminding himself that his subject in book 1 is not governance but the education and virtue necessary to produce good government, which learning and virtue noblemen "haue in commune with princes," Elyot reconsiders, concluding that he might "without anoyance of any man, name them gouernours at this tyme," trusting readers to maintain the necessary distinction between this general term and the "higher preeminence" reserved to kings and princes. Other lexical impasses prove absolute: Elyot recommends Aristotle's _Ethicae_ and Cicero's _De Officiis_ as indispensable sources of moral instruction, revealing the "propre significations of euery vertue," but insists that the former is "to be lerned in greke; for the translations that we yet haue be but a rude and grosse shadowe of the eloquence and wisedome of Aristotell." As for the latter, he confesses, even the title must remain obscure to English readers, since there "yet is no propre englisshe worde to be gyuen" for the Latin "officium" (41r–v). He writes enthusiastically of the learning to be attained by the reading of classical poetry too, boasting that he "coulde recite a great nombre of semblable good sentences" out of Ovid and other "wantone poets" but then declining to do so, for they "in the latine do expresse them incomparably with more grace and delectation to the reder than our englisshe tonge may yet comprehende" (51v). Even when he turns from the study of literature to more practical ethical and political matters, Elyot often finds himself thrown back on the classical tongues in order to describe virtues that have no precise vernacular analogue: "constrained to usurpe a latine worde" such as "maturitie" for "the necessary augmentation of our langage" (85r–v), or to clarify the meaning of a term such as "modestie," "nat... knowen in the englisshe tonge, ne of al them which under stode latin, except they had radde good authors" (94r), or to invent words altogether, hoping that they, "being... before this time unknowen in our tonge, may be by the sufferaunce of wise men nowe receiued by custome... [and] made familiare" (94v). Elyot's success in expanding the boundaries of the language is rather remarkable, it must be said, and his strategies can be quite subtle. Philologists have long cited Elyot as a devotee of the "neologistic couplet," a syntactical unit that pairs a new or strange term with a more familiar vernacular counterpart. Thus, in the opening lines of the _Governour_ , the phrase "to devulgate or sette fourth" facilitates the introduction of the Latinate coinage "devulgate" by yoking it to the homely Anglo-Saxon "sette fourth." Elyot was proud of his couplets: in 1533, in the preface to _Of the Knowledge which Maketh a Wise Man_ , he writes that, although in the _Governour_ he "intended to augment our Englyshe tongue," nonetheless "through out the boke there was no terme newe made by me of a latine or frenche worde, but it is there declared so playnly by one mene or other to a diligent reder that therby no sentence is made derke or harde to be understande." From Elyot's perspective, then, the phrase "to devulgate or sette fourth" gracefully performs what it promises. But as Stephen Merriam Foley points out, the neologistic couplet also highlights the author's anxiety that he will not be understood: Elyot's compulsive pairings are, Foley argues, "the traces of a mind insecurely poised between competing discourses of intellectual authority." In this regard the neologistic couplet is yet another rhetorical counterpart for the Latin-speaking nursemaid; it simultaneously exposes and disguises a cultural defect by drawing together two unlike and perhaps incompatible terms. Like any wet nurse, the neologistic couplet risks the charge of redundancy: if the familiar term is adequate to express the meaning of the borrowed or invented term, why borrow or invent? If it is not, how useful is it as a guide to the unfamiliar word? What is forestalled (but also registered) by such a compound is the vexed question of linguistic and cultural parity. That question—as much or more than any political or religious fears—accounts for the violence and the coercion attendant upon Elyot's admittedly partial devulgation of learning: if the approximations attendant upon the work of translation necessarily entail a loss of meaning or value, how, nonetheless, is meaning or value to be transferred without such fudged equations, such compromised and compromising resemblances? Because he understands eloquence as a quality that speaks across linguistic, cultural, geographic, and temporal divides—as the most mobile of linguistic effects—Elyot can conceive of the study of remote, long-dead tongues as an experience of profound, near-perfect intimacy, and he can write prose that effaces lexical difference even as it testifies to persistent gaps in expressive capability. In addition he can dream of a time when such education and such prose produce an English home, and perhaps even a mother tongue, whose walls enclose the "encyclopedia" of eloquence. But would such a home, and such a tongue, remain English? In his 1533 preface to _Knowledge_ , Elyot scoffs at the question, berating for their ingratitude those readers who are "offended (as they say) with my strange terms." But in _The Governour_ he seems—briefly and obliquely—to wonder. In the final chapter of book 1, having just urged the _Governour_ 's readers to set themselves vigorously to the work of translating classical wisdom into England, he departs conspicuously from that wisdom. Citing, but then disavowing, Cicero's injunction against sports and games, he proceeds to make a rather plaintive case for the merits of the dying art of English longbow shooting, a skill that "is, and always hath ben" England's security "from outwarde hostilitie" and the source of its fame throughout the world, "as ferre as Hierusalem" (99v–100r). Elyot attributes the decline of longbow shooting to an encroaching cosmopolitanism, as foreign and new-fangled modes of defense—crossbows and handguns—have eroded a skill that "continuell use" made "so perfecte and exacte amonge englisshe men" (102r). "O what cause of reproche shall the decaye of archers be to us nowe liuyng?" he demands. "Ye what irrecuperable damage either to us or them in whose time nede of semblable defence shall happen?" (100r). This plangent appeal for the preservation of an already (or once) "perfect" native art—an art that has shored up England's defenses against outsiders and extended its renown to the far corners of the world—makes for an odd conclusion to the litany of _not yets_ that propels the rest of book 1 and justifies its radical conflations of domesticity and estrangement. Indeed, Elyot rather casually observes at one point, midway through his attack on English legal discourse, that eloquence is no different than embroidery, drawing, or sculpture: if Englishmen are not able or willing to cultivate a particular skill at home—if, that is, they are to face the fact that they inhabit a realm where "the langage is barberouse" and "the steering of affections of the mind," rhetoric itself, "was never used" (56r)—they must "be constrained... to abandone [their] owne countraymen and resorte unto straungers" (55r). That matter-of-fact resorting unto strangers exacts an unexpected toll in the final pages of book 1, as Elyot imagines a future England enervated and demoralized by its blind embrace of things novel and strange, its neglect of what it once knew and practiced best. Cicero the Sea Captain It is a bit of an interpretive leap to link this elegiac defense of the longbow to a latent concern for the vernacular, but I am nudged to make that leap by the fact that Elyot's most important sixteenth-century reader—the heir to his zeal both for the English longbow and for foreign-language study—seems to have made it too. In 1545, a year before Elyot's death, Roger Ascham, the young Cambridge lecturer in Greek, made his debut as an author, publishing a pseudo-Socratic dialogue on the merits of longbow shooting, citing Elyot's enthusiasm for the sport as inspiration for his own labors on its behalf. "[T]o haue written this boke either in latin or Greke... had bene more easier and fit for mi trade in study," he confesses in the dedicatory epistle to _Toxophilus: The Schole of Shotyng_ , "yet neuerthelesse," he deems it best to "haue written this Englishe matter in the Englishe tongue, for Englishe men" (x). The epistle to readers amplifies this claim by way of a fable borrowed from Herodotus: Bias the wyse man came to Cresus the ryche kyng, on a tyme, when he was makynge newe shyppes, purposyng to haue subdued by water the out yles lying betwixt Grece and Asia minor: What newes now in Grece, saith the king to Bias? None other newes, but these, sayeth Bias: that the yles of Grece haue prepared a wonderful companye of horsemen, to ouerrun Lydia withall. There is nothyng vnder heauen, sayth the kynge, that I woulde so soone wisshe, as that they durst be so bolde, to mete vs on the lande with horse. And thinke you sayeth Bias, that there is anye thyng which they wolde sooner wysshe, then that you shulde be so fonde, to mete them on the water with shyppes? And so Cresus hearyng not the true newes, but perceyuyng the wise mannes mynde and counsell, both gaue then ouer makyng of his shyppes, and left also behynde him a wonderful example for all commune wealthes to folowe: that is euermore to regarde and set most by that thing whervnto nature hath made them moost apt, and vse hath made them moost fitte. (xii) "By this matter," Ascham explains, "I mean the shotynge in the long bowe, for English men," but the fable—like _Toxophilus_ —serves equally well as defense of the practice of writing in the vernacular: English, after all, is the language that nature and use have conspired to make most apt and fit for his own undertaking; to write in Latin or Greek would be to set sail in unseaworthy vessels. Indeed, as Ryan Stark and Thomas Greene have suggested, Ascham's interest in archery is always also an interest in eloquence: the strengths developed by the former (clarity of vision, precision of aim) are, to his mind, exactly correspondent to the skills requisite for the latter. In his epistle to _Toxophilus_ Ascham elucidates the analogy: "Yf any man wyll applye these thynges [that is, writing and shooting] togyther, [he] shal nat se the one farre differ from the other," he alleges, for "[i]n our tyme nowe,... very many do write, but after suche a fashion, as very many do shoote... , tak[ing] in hande stronger bowes, than they be able to mayntayne" (xiii). For Ascham, his defense of the longbow and his advocacy for the vernacular are interchangeable commitments, and he scoffs at "any man [who] woulde blame me, eyther for takynge such a matter in hande, or els for writing it in the Englyshe tongue" (xiii). Ascham's attitude toward his mother tongue is hardly uncritical, but neither does it partake of Elyot's faith in the enriching effect of intimacy with foreign tongues. Indeed what Ascham seems to have taken from his reading of Elyot—and especially from his reading of the mournful conclusion to book 1—is a keen awareness of the dangers of false intimacy or overeager identification. Like Elyot, he frames his decision to write in English in terms of a desire to improve the tongue and profit his vernacular readership, but he betrays no optimism that such improvement or profit will come easily or without cost. Where Elyot emphasizes likeness, contiguity, and kinship, Ascham insists on a radical and perhaps insuperable estrangement: "as for ye Latin or greke tonge, euery thing is so excellently done in them, that none can do better," he bluntly declares, but "in the Englysh tonge contrary, euery thinge in a maner so meanly, bothe for the matter and handelynge, that no man can do worse" (xiv). Rather than search for terms or syntactical arrangements that might, like Elyot's neologistic couplets, ease the passage between the learned and the vulgar, Ascham advocates for prose that eschews foreign affectations and neologistic borrowings, arguing that "[h]e that wyll wryte well in any tongue, muste... speake as the common people do" and lamenting the fact that "[m]any English writers haue not done so, but vsinge straunge wordes as latin, french and Italian, do make all thinges darke and harde" (xiv). As for the possibility that the vernacular requires such augmentation, he dismisses it summarily: "Ones I communed with a man whiche reasoned the englyshe tongue to be enryched and encreased therby, sayinge: Who wyll not prayse that feaste, where a man shall drinke at a diner, bothe wyne, ale and beere? Truely quod I, they be all good, euery one taken by hym selfe alone, but if you putte Maluesye and sacke, read wyne and white, ale and beere, and al in one pot, you shall make a drynke, neyther easie to be knowen, nor yet holsom for the bodye" (xiv). Where Elyot sees nurturing and intimacy—the infant at his nurse's breast—Ascham sees the threat of contamination, an unwholesome and unpalatable brew. This is not to suggest that Ascham believed the vernacular had nothing to learn from the classical tongues, nor English youth from the study of classical literature. His career as a writer and a teacher was founded on the promotion of Greek and Latin literacy, and indeed in the very next lines he hints that not all attempts at linguistic enrichment are doomed to failure, noting that "Cicero in folowyng Isocrates, Plato and Demosthenes, increased the latine tounge after an other sorte" (xiv). Of this "other sorte" or "waye" he will say only that it has fallen into neglect and disrepute—"bycause dyuers men that write, do not know, they can neyther folowe it, bycause of theyr ignorauncie, nor yet will prayse it, for verye arrogauncie"—but it is clear that it must bear little resemblance to Elyot's own methods. For Ascham, the infelicities of time and country that have consigned England and English to the cultural and intellectual margins are to be remedied not by a pedagogy that simulates proximity, familiarity, and immediacy but rather by a pedagogy that makes distance, strangeness, and the very passage of time into instruments of instruction. Estrangement may be the root cause of barbarism, but it is also the guarantor of purity: this conviction undergirds _The Scholemaster_ 's fierce objection to the practice of sending English youths to study in Catholic Italy, and it governs the treatise's pedagogical philosophy no less. _The Scholemaster_ advertises itself as a method of teaching a young boy Latin "with ease and pleasure, and in short time" (1v). But in truth Ascham has little regard for—or confidence in—ease, pleasure, or quickness. He famously prefers "hard" to "quick" wits on the grounds that the former, however resistant to instruction, are liable to retain what they learn, while the latter "commonlie, be apte to take" but "vnapte to keepe," "more quicke to enter spedelie, than hable to pearse farre," and "delit[ing] them selues in easie and pleasant studies,... neuer passe farre forward in hie and hard sciences" (4v). That eloquence itself is such a high and hard science follows from Ascham's insistence that, contrary to Elyot's notion of it as a universal inheritance, proper to any "natural" tongue, true eloquence is to be found only in the remote and rarefied provinces of antiquity: "[I]n the rudest contrie, and most barbarous mother language, many be found [that] can speake verie wiselie," he observes, "but in the Greeke and Latin tong, the two onelie learned tonges, we finde always wisdome and eloquence, good matter and good vtterance, neuer or seldom asunder" (46r). For Ascham, as for Elyot, the rudeness of the English vernacular—its grammatical inconsistency, its inability to replicate the rhythms of classical prose and verse, its impoverished vocabulary and patchwork etymologies—is a natural consequence of England's own inescapable rusticity, its alienation from Athens and Rome, the wellsprings of learning and eloquence. But in Ascham's ideal schoolroom the distance between antiquity and modernity, Rome and England, becomes a productive and necessary guard against moral corruption and linguistic vulgarity. To begin with, in direct opposition to Elyot's promotion of the use of Latin as a familiar tongue—indeed, if possible, as a _family_ tongue—Ascham insists that Latin must not be spoken at all, neither at home nor at school, until students have mastered fully the arts of translation and composition. "In very deede," he allows, "if children were brought vp, in soch a house, or soch a Schole, where the latin tonge were properlie and perfitlie spoken, as Tib[erius] and Ca[ius] Gracci were brought vp, in their mother Cornelias house, surelie, than the dailie vse of speaking, were the best and readiest waie, to learne the latin tong" (2v). But such homes and such mothers did not exist in sixteenth-century England, as Ascham's notorious anecdote of Lady Jane Grey, born to parents whose crudity is matched only by their cruelty, makes plain. Indeed when he reflects on the kind of language learning that might plausibly occur in an English home, it is only to offer a cautionary tale: "This last somer," he recalls, "I was in a Ientlemans house: where a yong childe, somewhat past fower years olde, cold in no wise frame his tonge, to saie, a little shorte grace: and yet he could roundly rap out so manie vgle othes, and those of the newest facion, and some good man of fourscore yeare olde hath neuer hard named before.... This Childe vsing moche the companie of servinge men, and geuing good eare to their taulke, did easily learne, whiche he shall hardlie forget, all daies of his life hereafter" (16v). This recollection exactly inverts Elyot's fantasy of the child nurtured with ease and companionship into pure Latinity, or even clean and polite vernacularity: here easy learning and a good ear are the agents of moral and linguistic corruption. The best parents can hope for, Ascham suggests, is to preserve their children from the "confounding of companies" (16v): domestic intimacies are imagined strictly in negative terms. The schoolroom presents a similar challenge, for even in "the best Scholes" the habitual use of poor Latin by masters and schoolboys alike means that "barbariousnesse is bred vp so in yong wittes, as afterward they be, not onelie marde for speaking, but also corrupted in iudgement: as with moch adoe, or neuer at all, they be brought to right frame againe" (2v). Ascham's own pedagogical precepts work to provide this "right frame": a space where children's instinct for imitation—so often, for him, a source of danger—can be put to safe and profitable use. The basic method is simple: Ascham requires the student to translate a passage from Latin or Greek to English and then back again, using the original classical text to correct his own. Through its carefully regulated employment of classical models, such "double translation" remedies the estrangement of rude English from classical eloquence, facilitating exchanges between the learned and unlearned tongues, but it also guards against the dangers of straying too far from the classical precedent, by imposing a calculated retreat from and return to its bounds. Much as Elyot's neologistic couplets modeled for readers the enriching effects of intimacy with foreign tongues, Ascham's distinctive prose mirrors the controlled comparisons on which his pedagogy depends: ideas are worked out by way of "fit similitude" (19r), in cautiously elaborated analogies whose resemblances are expressed in neatly balanced parallel clauses. Thus he writes of the distinction between educated and uneducated noblemen: The greatest shippe in deede commonlie carieth the greatest burden, but yet alwayes with the greatest ieoperdie, not onelie for the persons and goodes committed vnto it, but euen for the shyppe it selfe, except it be gouerned, with the greater wisedome. But Nobilitie, gouerned by learning and wisedome, is in deede, most like a faire shippe, hauyng tide and winde at will, vnder the reule of a skilfull master: whan contrarie wise, a shippe, caried, yea with the hiest tide & greatest winde, lacking a skilfull master, most commonlie, doth either, sinck it selfe vpon sandes, or breake it selfe vpon rockes. And euen so, how manie haue bene, either drowned in vaine pleasure, or ouerwhelmed by stout wilfulnesse, the histories of England be able to affourde ouer many examples vnto vs. (13v–14r) "But yet," "not onelie," "but euen," "except," "but... in deede," "whan contrarie wise," "and euen so": where Elyot might have compressed the comparison into a single suggestive metaphor, Ascham attenuates it over several sentences, parsing the original commonplace formulation—men are like ships—into an ever more precise diagnosis of the difference between virtue and vice, wisdom and folly. Indeed the similitude, a figure of likeness, becomes in Ascham's hands an instrument for the expression of otherwise elusive distinctions, and the ideal figure for a pedagogical philosophy founded on mistrust of what is close at hand. For as he explains via another similitude: [T]here be manie faire examples in this Court, for yong Ientlemen to follow.... But they be, like faire markes in the feild, out of a mans reach, to far of, to shote at well. The best and worthiest men, in deede, be somtimes seen, but seldom taulked withall: A yong Ientleman, may somtime knele to their person, smallie vse their companie, for their better instruction. But yong Ientlemen ar faine commonlie to do in the Court, as yong Archers do in the feild: that is take soch markes, as be nie them, although they be neuer so foule to shote at. I meene, they be driuen to kepe companie with the worste: and what force ill companie hath, to corrupt good wittes, the wisest men know best. (14r) Here again the initial comparison between imitation and archery is revised and revised again, yielding a taxonomy of likeness and difference: fair marks versus foul, far off versus nigh, worthy men versus the worst, seeing versus talking, kneeling versus keeping company, instruction versus corruption. In every case virtue is aligned with remoteness: if archery and seamanship are Ascham's favored analogies for the work of moral and rhetorical education, that is surely because each case skill increases with distance. So it is with double translation, for the crucial step of the process, what transforms it from a display of rote repetition or memory to an exercise of eloquence in the making, is the _gap_ that Ascham imposes at its center. Once the child has completed his initial translation, from Latin into English, the master is to "take from him his latin booke, and _pausing an houre, at the least,_ than let the childe translate his owne Englishe into latin againe, in an other paper booke" (1v, emphasis mine). The hour or more that intervenes between the two Latin versions—Cicero's original and the child's imitation—during which the child is left alone with his own English, recapitulates in miniature the infelicitous gap of time, country, and language that divides sixteenth-century England from ancient Rome. What survives that lapse is an inevitably partial reconstruction, akin to "the shadow or figure of the ancient Rhetorique" that Elyot just barely discerns in English legal discourse (56v). Of course the loss of an original perfection is not the only problem: in the schoolroom as in the course of history, errors and barbarisms accumulate in the interval. The child, as Ascham confesses, is likely to "misse, either in forgetting a worde, or in chaunging a good with a worse, or misordering the sentence" (1v). As Jeff Dolven suggests, this "meantime" between tongues is "a window of necessary risk" since learning "depend[s]... on the hazards of the middle." But such language is perhaps unduly monitory, for Ascham is surprisingly sanguine about the likelihood of forgetfulness and confusion, urging the teacher not to "froune, or chide with him, if the childe haue done his diligence, and vsed no trewandship therein" (1v–2r). Indeed such errors are what the pause of an hour or more is designed to produce; they are essential to the cultivation of eloquence. "For I know by good experience," Ascham assures his readers, "that a childe shall take more profit of two fautes, ientlie warned of, then of foure thinges, rightly hitt.... For than, the master shall haue good occasion to saie vnto him. _Tullie_ would haue vsed such a worde, not this: _Tullie_ would haue placed this word here, not there: would haue vsed this case, this number, this person, this degree, this gender" (2r). Lynn Enterline describes this friendly colloquy as "connect[ing] master and student via the student's likeness to Tullie," but in fact the emphasis falls on difference: it is only when he lays his own Latin next to that of Cicero that the child learns to measure and value the distance between them, only then that he perceives the countless tiny calculations of diction, syntax, arrangement, and style that distinguish eloquence from mere speech. It is this final act of correction that prevents the student from wandering off course, even as he cultivates his own expressive style, but the errors that will so often precede it are no less necessary or productive. Allow the child " _good_ space and time" to complete the exercise, Ascham urges schoolmasters (31v, emphasis added). Because double translation assumes error as the precondition of learning, it redeems both distance and time, and the waywardness they enable, from their roles as the agents of barbaric decline. It is not surprising that the "Tullie" who presides over these interlingual exchanges bears no resemblance to Elyot's nurselike Virgil, who entices the child with sweetly familiar morsels. Instead, Ascham imagines Cicero as an "expert Sea man" who "set[s] vp his saile of eloquence, in some broad deep Argument, [and] caried with full tyde and winde, of his witte and learnyng," outdistances all rivals, who "may rather stand and looke after him, than hope to ouertake him, what course so euer he hold, either in faire or foule" (63r). Ascham's method allows the inexpert schoolboy to accompany Cicero on those perilous rhetorical journeys, with the full expectation that he will run off course in the attempt: translation, which Ascham initially champions as an alternative to travel abroad because "learning teacheth safelie" while the traveler is "made cunning by manie shippewrakes" (18r–v), in fact mimics the perils of foreign travel, recuperating the shipwreck as the point of the voyage. We might recall here the fable that introduces _Toxophilus,_ in which a barbarian landlubber is persuaded to give up shipbuilding in order to confront his Greek antagonists on (literally) familiar ground. _The Scholemaster_ offers a less stark take on the folly of meeting an ancient civilization (or its most eloquent exponent) at sea: imitation by way of double translation allows rude and hard-witted schoolboys to set themselves up in direct competition with Cicero and recuperates their inevitable losses as gain. Ultimately, Ascham allows himself to dream of an England so enriched by such exchanges that even Cicero might prefer it to the nurseries of his own eloquence. Recalling that "Master _Tully_ " once declared of England that "[t] here is not one scruple of siluer in that whole Isle, or any one that knoweth either learning or letter," he imagines making a triumphant rejoinder: "But now master _Cicero_ ,... sixteen hundred yeare after you were dead and gone, it may trewly be sayd, that... your excellent eloquence is as well liked and loued, and as trewlie followed in England at this day, as it is now, or euer was, sence your owne tyme, in any place of _Italie_ , either at _Arpinum_ , where ye were borne, or els at _Rome_ where ye were brought vp" (62r–v). Such a fantasy would seem to answer Elyot's yearning for perfect intimacy with the past, for an erasure of distance and difference; but, in fact, it is precisely Ascham's consciousness of his remove from that past, and of England's inglorious place within it, that gives his fantasy its savor. The sixteen hundred years (and thousands of miles) that separate Ascham's England from Cicero's Arpinum or his Rome are here not the source of cultural and linguistic shame but rather evidence of a triumph—the triumph of a pedagogy that turns the "infelicitie of... tyme and countray" into time and space for learning. Sallust the Exile In Ascham's fantasy of an England made eloquent, the natives speak and write in Cicero's Latin, but he insists that a similar transformation may eventually be effected in the mother tongue. Indeed his first allusion to double translation, _Toxophilus_ 's reference to the "other" method followed by Cicero, comes in a discussion of how best to enrich "the englyshe tongue" (xiv). In addition his gleeful rebuke to Cicero in _The Scholemaster_ is prompted not by the improved Latinity of his countrymen but by their growing skill as _vernacular_ writers. This is as he hopes and expects: the rigorous method of double translation, he writes, is intended "not onelie to serue in the _Latin_ or _Greke_ tong, but also in our own English language. But yet, bicause the prouidence of God hath left vnto vs in no other tong, saue onelie in the _Greke_ and _Latin_ tong, the trew preceptes, and perfite examples of eloquence, therefore must we seeke in the Authors onelie of those two tonges, the trewe Paterne of Eloquence, if in any other mother tongue we looke to attaine, either to perfit vtterance of it our selues, or skilfull iudgement of it in others" (56v). But when Ascham describes the results of that patterning in England, he has less to say about what vernacular writers do well than about what they now (rightly) perceive themselves to do badly: like the boys in his imaginary schoolroom, English authors are learning to "know the difference" between themselves and antiquity (60r). He applauds, therefore, the sentiments behind recent efforts to replace "barbarous and rude Ryming" (60r) with verses modeled on classical quantitative measures, but he is cheered less by results of those experiments than by the knowledge that English writers have, at last and at least, become conscious of their own barbarity: "I rejoice that euen poore England preuented Italie, first in spying out, than in seekying to amend this fault" (62r). That those amendments so far have yielded verses that "rather trotte and hobble, than runne smoothly in our English tong" (60v) is, to his way of thinking, further proof of the virtue of the undertaking itself: those who dissent are lazy homebodies who, for "idleness" or for "ignorance," "neuer went farder than the schole... of Chaucer at home" (61v)—home, as ever, being the very worst place to take one's schooling. Helgerson cites Ascham's misguided faith in English quantitative measures as an instantiation of a larger truth: "at the historic root of national self-articulation," he writes, "we find... self-alienation." It is this self-alienating investment in the authority of classical example, he argues, that later Elizabethan writers must learn to overcome in order to fashion English as a truly national tongue. But alienation and eloquence are more complexly entwined, both in the sixteenth century and in Cicero's Rome, as Ascham is fully aware. On the one hand, as he insists, the greatest classical writers became great because of their willingness to depart from common practice: he cites approvingly Cicero's dictum that by studying at Rhodes, he exchanged the speech he received at home for a better one (though Ascham adds, characteristically, that he doubts that study abroad helped Cicero as much as "binding himself to translate" the great Attic orators [44v]). On the other hand, he acknowledges that those who leave home may struggle to find their way back: thus _The Scholemaster_ concludes with an uneasy meditation on the difference between Cicero and Sallust, each living "whan the Latin tong was full ripe" (63r), each blessed with wisdom and learning, and only one capable of eloquence. As Ascham recalls, his beloved former tutor John Cheke, whom he credits with the invention of double translation, once cautioned him that it "was not verie fitte for yong men, to learne out of [Sallust], the puritie of the Latin tong," for "he was not the purest in proprietie of wordes, nor choisest in aptnes of phrases, nor the best in framing of sentences," and his writing was all too often "neyther plaine for the matter, nor sensible for mens vnderstanding" (64v). When Ascham asks how a well-educated Roman of Cicero's time should have succumbed to such awkwardness and bad taste, Cheke confesses that he does not know but adds that he has developed a private "fansie." Sallust's youth was, he observes, marked by "ryot and lechery," and it was only "by long experience of the hurt and shame that commeth of mischief" that he was brought to "the loue of studie and learning." His reward for this conversion of mind and habits was a post as "Pretor in _Numidia_ ," a North African outpost of the empire, "where he [was] absent from his contrie, and not inured with the common talke of Rome, but shut vp in his studie, and bent wholy to reading" (65r). This geographic and scholarly isolation was productive insofar as it yielded Sallust's great _Historiae_ , Cheke observes, but the voice of the work betrays the stress of its author's alienation: depending on older authors, especially Cato and Thucydides, for his matter, arrangement, and style, Sallust lapses into archaisms and—when he can find no suitable word for his purposes in Cato or Thucydides—invents new terms wholesale. The worst defect of his style, Cheke continues, is "neyther oldnes nor newnesse of wordes" but the "strange phrases" that result when "good Latin wordes" are recast in imitation of Greek, "placed and framed outlandish like" (65v). It is this outlandish quality that distinguishes Sallust from Cicero: like his model Thucydides, who "wrote his storie, not at home in Grece, but abrode in Italie, and therefore smelleth of a certaine outlandish kinde of talke" (66r), Sallust loses the ease and familiarity of the native speaker, holding his mother tongue at an awkward and unmistakable remove. Cheke offers Sallust as proof of the urgency of choosing one's models wisely: Plato and Isocrates, "the purest and playnest writers, that euer wrote in any tong," are the "best examples for any man to follow whether he write, Latin, Italian, French, or English" (66r). But his fanciful vision of Sallust laboring in a North African study with only Cato and Thucydides for company bears a striking resemblance to Ascham's vision of the ideal English schoolroom, in which scripted interchanges with dead Latin authors take the place of conversation, and the familiar contours of the mother tongue are gradually refashioned to fit the impress of a language now found only in books. _The Scholemaster_ ends shortly after these reflections, with Ascham noting simply that "these... reules, which worthie Master _Cheke_ dyd impart vnto me concernyng _Salust,_ " are to be taken as guides for the "right iudgement of the _Latin_ tong" (67r). His readers are left with the surmise that, as far as the English tongue is concerned, the pedagogy of Cheke and Ascham seems liable to produce not a nation of Ciceros but an island of Sallusts. As far as we can tell, few English schoolboys were subjected regularly to the rigors of double translation, and even fewer, if any, must have learned Latin at the breast, but the ideals of English humanist pedagogical theory nonetheless threatened to alter the course of vernacular usage. So argues Richard Mulcaster, master of London's Merchant Taylors' School (where his pupils included a young Edmund Spenser) and outspoken critic of humanist efforts to impose classical standards on the mother tongue. Mulcaster was a humanist by training, steeped in the example of classical authors, but he took from his study of antiquity a very different lesson than Elyot or Ascham did: rhetoric and pedagogy are, he concludes, essentially local arts. As he writes in _Positions_ , his 1581 treatise on the education of children, in seeking to fashion England along the lines of Athens or Rome, a schoolmaster may overlook the fact that "the circunstance of the countrie, will not admit that, which he would perswade." This inattention to local particularities makes the schoolmaster like the biblical parable's foolish builder who erects his house on sand: "mistaking his ground, [he] misplaceth his building, and hazardeth his credit." The same care, he points out, is required of the orator: it is only by "mastering of the circunstance"—that is, both the rhetorical circumstances of his case and the actual circumstances of the place in which he speaks—that he may effectively instruct and persuade his fellow citizens. Both travel and an undue regard for alien traditions jeopardize such mastery, since they distance the orator from the ground on which his argument must be built. In the very causes he chooses to espouse, Mulcaster writes, an orator reveals the depth of his loyalty to his native land: "by it each countrie discouereth the travellour, when he seeketh to enforce his forreigne conclusions, and clingeth to that countryman, which hath bettered her still, by biding still at home" (9). Excessive devotion to Greek or Latin, he emphasizes, constitutes just such an enforcement of "forreigne conclusions." Even the most revered ancient authorities must bow to the imperative of local circumstance, for in rhetorical matters, "where circunstance is prescription, it is no proufe, bycause _Plato_ praiseth it, bycause _Aristotle_ alloweth it, bycause _Cicero_ commendes it, bycause _Quintilian_ is acquainted with it... that therfore it is for vs to vse." "What if our countrey honour it in them," Mulcaster asks, "and yet for all that may not vse it her selfe, bycause circunstance is her check" (11)? On this basis Mulcaster makes his radical case for a pedagogy of the mother tongue: an orthography, grammar, rhetoric, and poetics fashioned specifically for English, according to English models and English habits. He challenges fidelity to Latin exemplars as a servile remainder of England's colonial past: as he reminds readers of his 1582 treatise on English spelling, _The First Part of the Elementarie_ , "[t]he Romane autoritie first planted the Latin among vs here, by force of their conquest," and "the vse thereof for matters of learning, doth cause it continew, tho the conquest be expired." He reproaches "the opinion of som such of our peple, as desire rather to please themselues with a foren tung, wherewith theie ar acquainted, then to profit their cuntrie, in hir naturall language, where their acquaintance should be" (255); such misplaced allegiance, he argues, grants the classical tongues and the contemporary continental languages an unjust advantage over the English vernacular. "No one tung is more fine then other naturallie," Mulcaster argues, "but by industrie of the speaker,... [who] endeuoreth himself to garnish it with eloquence, & to enrich it with learning" (254). To claim that rude countries inevitably breed rude tongues is, he continues, to misunderstand the character of eloquence, which thrives in every place such industry is employed; sounding rather like Elyot, he writes that true eloquence is "neither limited to language, nor restrained to soil, whose measur the hole world is" (258). But where Elyot deplores England's provinciality, blaming its rusticity for the roughness of its speech, Mulcaster proclaims his pride in all aspects of English identity: "I loue Rome, but London better, I fauor Italie, but England more, I honor the Latin, but I worship the English" (255). Instead of being "pilgrims to learning by lingring about tungs," he argues, English authors may find "all that gaietie [to] be had at home, which makes vs gase so much at the fine stranger" (256). To the charge that English is "vncouth," Mulcaster responds that it is merely "vnused" and must attain praise "thorough purchace, and planting in our tung, which theie [that is, Greeks and Romans] were so desirous to place in theirs" (256–57). His own treatise, devoted to the establishment of rules for pronunciation and spelling in the vernacular, is meant as a mere pretext to such purchase and planting; ultimately, he writes, the English language must cultivate the whole of the art of rhetoric, becoming "enriched so in euerie kinde of argument, and honored so with euerie ornament of eloquence, as she maie vy with the foren." In pursuit of that enrichment, he cheerfully advocates the adoption of foreign words and phrases, cautioning only that spelling be anglicized: "For if the word it self be english in dede, then is it best in the natural hew, if it be a stranger, & incorporate among vs, let it wear our colors, sith it wil be one of vs" (227). In Mulcaster's view, England's relationship to foreign languages ought not to be construed as a choice between alienation and dependence. Instead, he urges, English may partake freely of all other linguistic models while retaining a strong sense of its own local virtues. Mulcaster admits that England's geographic insularity and remoteness have contributed to its lack of rhetorical polish; he acknowledges that the vernacular has been treated as if it were "of no compas for ground & autoritie" because "it is of small reatch" and "stretcheth no further then this Iland of ours, naie not there ouer all." But concerns about England's isolation and peripherality miss the mark, he argues. The very geography responsible for the vernacular's modest reach is also the guarantee of its rhetorical sufficiency: "[t]ho it go not beyond sea, it will serue on this side." In the same way he admits that England's place in the world is limited—"our state is no Empire to hope to enlarge it by commanding ouer cuntries," and "no stranger, nor foren nation, bycause of the bounder & shortnesse of our language, wold deal so with vs, as to transport from vs as we do from other"—but this too he regards as a point in its favor: "tho it be neither large in possession, nor in present hope of great encrease, yet where it rules, it can make good lawes, and as fit for our state, as the biggest can for theirs, and oftimes better to, bycause of confusion in greatest gouernments, as most vnwildinesse in grossest bodies" (257). He concludes by revising England's history of foreign conquest and colonial subordination, imagining a newly pacific invasion of its borders by strangers who come not to conquer or pillage but to satiate their desire for learning and eloquence. If Latin is the language of England's colonial past, English is the tongue of its mercantile future: "Why maie not the English wits... in their own tung be in time as well sought to, by foren students for increase of their knowledge," he wonders, "as our soil is sought to at this same time, by foren merchants, for encrease of their welth?" As yet, he concedes, wisdom and eloquence are not counted among the island's domestic riches, but that may change: as England's "soil is fertile, bycause it is applyed," he remarks, "so the wits be not barren if theie list to brede" (257). If those fertile wits are cultivated—in the Merchant Taylors' School and in schoolrooms throughout the nation where Mulcaster's grammatical precepts are applied—then England need no longer choose between exile from the mother tongue or isolation in a rude vernacular: the homely island tongue may play host to a world of learning. This vision of an England (and an English) whose relationship to the outside world is one of mutual increase offers those invested in the vernacular—and Mulcaster encourages the mercantile metaphor—an alternative to slavish dependency and close-minded insularity. Destiny, he writes, elects some particular age in the history of each tongue and culture to bless it with perfection: "Such a period in the Greke tung was that time, when Demosthenes liued, and that learned race of the father philosophers: such a period in the Latin tung, was that time, when Tullie liued, and those of that age: Such a period in the English tung I take this to be in our daies, for both the pen and the speche." "[T]he question," he concludes, "is wherein finenesse standeth." When it comes to Latin, he is no different than any other well-read sixteenth-century Englishman, making Cicero his standard and Sallust his cautionary tale: "So was Salust deceiued among the Romans, liuing with eloquent Tullie, and writing like ancient Cato" (160). The consequences of that deceived attachment to a past provide the motive for Mulcaster's own career and his passionate advocacy for the embrace of English on its own terms and merits. If eloquence is to be found, he argues, it will be found here and now, and if patterns of that eloquence are required, they too must be local ones: "it must nedes be, that our English tung hath matter enough in hir own writing, which maie direct her own right, if it be reduced to certain precept, and rule of Art, tho it haue not as yet bene thoroughlie perceaued" (77). However, in seeking to avoid the fate of Sallust for a generation of English schoolboys, Mulcaster may well help to bring it about. For a native speaker, after all, nothing is more alienating than the effort of relearning one's mother tongue in the form of precepts and rules of art; what was easy and instinctive threatens to become, in Mulcaster's schoolroom, laborious and artificial. As Ascham might point out, this is not necessarily a bad thing. The internalized sense of strangeness for which Mulcaster blames his humanist colleagues is, in some sense, the essential precondition for a full-fledged art of English eloquence. Answering what Mulcaster calls the question of "finenesse"—"thoroughly perceiving" what one has learned at the breast—demands a certain strategic distance. The late sixteenth century bears witness to a revolution on what can seem, at first, like Mulcaster's terms: in rhetorical handbooks and literary texts alike, the English tongue begins to "direct her own right." But direction comes, as ever, from afar: within the new vernacular rhetorics and poetics, the distance between English and antiquity becomes, if anything, an even more pressing concern. At the same time strangeness emerges as an essential aspect of eloquence in _any_ tongue, the element that distinguishes artful from ordinary speech and gives rhetoric and poetry their power. Shaped by their long detour in the classical tongues, English writers reconstitute their mother tongue as a second language, self-consciously belated and usefully eccentric. Errancy and exoticism, the instruments of Sallust's corruption as a writer, are promoted as the master tropes of rhetorical and poetic fineness. _Chapter 2_ The Commonplace and the Far-Fetched: Mapping Eloquence in the English Art of Rhetoric As Thomas Elyot reminds readers of _The Boke named the Governour_ , rhetoric was the foundation of the earliest commonwealths: "[I]n the firste infancie of the worlde, men, wandring like beastes in woddes and on mountaines, regardinge neither the religion due unto god, nor the office pertaining unto man, ordred all thing by bodily strength: untill Mercurius (as Plato supposeth) or some other man holpen by sapience and eloquence, by some apt or propre oration, assembled them to geder and perswaded to them what commodite was in mutual conuersation and honest maners." When Elyot surveys sixteenth-century England, he is therefore dismayed to find in it only "a maner, a shadowe, or figure of the auncient rhetorike": the stunted ritual of "motes," or moot courts, observed by students at the law schools. Such mock trials insured that educated men were acquainted with the rudiments of invention and arrangement, but they failed to produce anything like the eloquence of Mercury, Orpheus, or Amphion. On the contrary, Elyot laments, far from fostering "mutual conversation," the speech of most English lawyers verges on unintelligibility: "voyde of all eloquence," it "serveth no commoditie or necessary purpose, no man understanding it but they whiche haue studied the lawes" (53v). He attributes this defect to ignorance of eloquence's higher purpose: "the tonge wherin it is spoken is barberouse, and the sterynge of affections of the mynde in this realme was neuer used," he observes, "and so there lacketh Eloquution and Pronunciation, the two principall partes of rhetorike" (56r–v). Only if educated Englishmen address themselves to the cultivation of _style_ , marrying "the sharpe wittes of logicians" and "the graue sentences of philosophers" to "the elegancie of the poetes," will England possess "perfect orators" and "a publike weale equiualent to the grekes or Romanes" (57v, 59v). In 1531, when _The Governour_ first appeared in print, "elegancie" was literally absent from the English art of rhetoric. The only existing rhetorical handbook in the vernacular, Leonard Cox's _Art or Crafte of Rhetoryke_ (c. 1524–30), sets elocution and pronunciation pointedly to the side. "[M]any thynges be left out of this treatyse that ought to be spoken of," Cox allows in his preface, but not, he insists, in a handbook to be read only by "suche as haue by negligence or els fals persuacions" failed to "attayne any meane knowlege of the Latin tongue." For an audience defined by linguistic incompetence, he reasons, the rudiments of invention and arrangement "shall be sufficyent"—what Roger Ascham calls "good utterance" is no plausible object. Some twenty years later, however, a pioneering English rhetorician cited Elyot as proof of the elegancy of the mother tongue. The title page of Richard Sherry's 1550 _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ advertises it as an aid to "the better vnderstanding of good authors," and those who picked it up probably assumed that the authors in question were classical writers: here, presumably, was a handbook to help schoolboys recognize and reproduce a Ciceronian _paraphrasis_ or a Virgilian _metalepsis_. The _Treatise_ 's preface initially reinforces this assumption, as Sherry apologizes for the conspicuous classicism of his title, which must sound "all straunge unto our Englyshe eares" and may cause "some men at the fyrst syghte to marvayle what the matter of it should meane." He urges readers to consider that "use maketh straunge thinges familier": with time, alien terms such as "scheme" and "trope" may become as common "as if they had bene of oure owne natiue broode." But as Sherry soon reveals, the strange things his treatise seeks to domesticate are not strictly the property of the classical tongues: on the contrary, what is foreign to English readers is the virtue of their own native speech. "It is not vnknowen that oure language for the barbarousnes and lacke of eloquence hathe bene complayned of," he writes, and yet not trewely, for anye defaut in the toungue it selfe, but rather for slackenes of our countrimen, whiche haue alwayes set lyght by searchyng out the elegance and proper speaches that be ful many in it: as plainly doth appere not only by the most excellent monumentes of our auncient forewriters, Gower, Chawcer and Lydgate, but also by the famous workes of many other later: inespeciall of ye ryght worshipful knyght syr Thomas Eliot,... [who] as it were generallye searchinge oute the copye of oure language in all kynde of wordes and phrases, [and] after that setting abrode goodlye monumentes of hys wytte, lernynge and industrye, aswell in historycall knowledge, as of eyther the Philosophies, hathe herebi declared the plentyfulnes of our mother tounge. (A2v–[A3]r) The "good authors" of the title page thus include not simply Cicero and Virgil but also Thomas Elyot and the "manye other... yet lyuyng" (sig. [A3]v) whose very familiarity—whose Englishness—has obscured the "copye" or riches of their speech. In truth, it is hard to imagine any reader consulting the litany of arcane tropes and figures that ensues and finding Elyot's prose easier to read as a consequence, but that perhaps is the point. English schoolboys were accustomed to the notion that understanding a classical text meant retreating from the immediate perception of meaning to a more remote appreciation of artifice: "surely," writes Ascham, "the minde by dailie marking, first, the cause and matter: than, the words and phrases: next, the order and composition: after the reason and arguments: than the forms and figures... [and] lastelie, the measure and compass of euerie sentence, must nedes, by litle and little, draw vnto it the like shape of eloquence, as the author doth vse, which is red." When Sherry promises his readers "better understanding" of a writer such as Elyot, he therefore offers them a mode of access to their mother tongue that is also a process of alienation from it—the strange things made familiar are also familiar things made enticingly strange. We—and presumably sixteenth-century readers—do not need Sherry's definition of the figure he calls "Metaphora" or "translacion"—"a worde translated from the thynge that it properlye signifieth, vnto another whych may agre with it by a similitude" (C4v)—to understand what Elyot means when he describes moot-court exercises as the "shadow or figure" of an ancient rhetoric, but the label and the definition call our attention to the artfulness of the phrase, its capacity to suggest the way time has attenuated and flattened a once substantive art. In this sense the domestication of classical rhetorical precepts and practices brings with it a deliberate and profitable remove from the mother tongue, whose own shadows and figures come into fresh relief. In its foregrounding of the vernacular's capacity for figuration, Sherry's _Treatise_ marks the beginning of a decisive shift in the discipline of English rhetoric. Throughout the second half of the sixteenth century, a rapidly proliferating corpus of vernacular arts redefines eloquence almost exclusively in terms of elocution, and elocution itself in terms of an ever-burgeoning catalog of figures of speech. Historians of rhetoric have tended to look askance at this metastasis of style, naming "attention to ornament alone" as the "chief Renaissance abuse of the classical system" and dismissing the ubiquitous catalogs of rhetorical figures, with their elaborate taxonomies of scheme and trope, as "derivative... patchworks" of more comprehensive classical and continental treatises. More recently, however, critics have recovered a sense of what elocution (or its absence) signified to Thomas Elyot and his successors in sixteenth-century England, recuperating the style-obsessed English art of rhetoric as a crucial instrument in the fashioning of a self-consciously literate mother tongue. Far from signaling the decline of a robust art of public discourse into a scholarly fetish, Wolfgang G. Müller argues, its investment in elocution constitutes "the most original part" of the English rhetorical treatise: a singular space of linguistic and national self-assertion. By making the "elegancie" of English speech and writing their concern, the authors of sixteenth-century vernacular arts of rhetoric and poesy display a novel kind of interest and confidence in the vernacular, expecting it to serve not simply their commodity but their pleasure. As the editors of a recent collection of essays on Renaissance figures of speech point out, "it was in the area of _elocution_ —and specifically the theory and description of the figures—that Renaissance rhetoric managed actually to take classical theory forwards," adding to the stock of ancient devices and doing "something new with them." No longer merely ornamental, schemes and tropes become "flowers" and "colours" whose multiplication in the pages of vernacular treatises proves, as Jenny Mann argues, England's fitness "as a garden or field where rhetoric can grow and thrive." But in doing something new with figuration, ensconcing it at the center of rhetorical theory and practice and asking it to shore up their claim to eloquence as a common good, English rhetoricians run up against a very old dilemma. In an almost literal sense, as rhetorical theorists from Aristotle onward discover, style _reorients_ rhetoric, transforming its defining investments in commodity and commonality into a fascination with exoticism and excess. In this sense elocution and pronunciation are not so much ancient rhetoric's "principal partes" as its most problematic: even in ancient Athens and Rome, style remains stubbornly unassimilated to accounts of eloquence as civic discourse, retaining dangerous and enticing associations with the uncivilized beyond. Elyot allows that the attractions of eloquence are not necessarily identical to the imperatives of the common good: "divers men... will say," he admits, "that the swetnesse that is contayned in eloquence... shulde utterly withdrawe the myndes of yonge men from the more necessary studie of the lawes of this realme" (55v). He dismisses this suspicion rather glibly, first by urging that legal doctrine be made eloquent, recast "either in englisshe, latine, or good French, written in a more clene and elegant stile," and second by insisting that greed and ambition guarantee that the law will always have its devotees (55v–56r), but it unsettles the sturdily civic-minded foundation of his pedagogical program, hinting at a potentially prodigal future for English eloquence. And indeed, as they proceed through invention, arrangement, and memory into the alien precincts of style, sixteenth-century rhetoricians find themselves promoting the vernacular in radically altered guise: not as the necessary and commodious instrument of social communion but as a medium of transfiguration and transport—most potently attractive when it is most conspicuously far-fetched. "Neither Cesar, nor Brutus, Builded the Same": England as _Topos_ Leonard Cox and Richard Sherry may have written the first English arts of rhetoric, but Thomas Wilson wrote the first art of _English_ rhetoric: a work that takes for granted its interest and value as an account of the mother tongue and that establishes England as the necessary measure of eloquence in the vernacular. Cox justifies his vulgarization of classical rhetoric on the principle that "euery goode thynge,... the more commune that it is the better it is," but to his mind commonness is all English has to recommend it: he assumes that an educated readership will greet his vernacular rhetoric as "a thyng that is very rude and skant worthe the lokynge on." For Wilson, by contrast, commonness is at the heart of "the orator's profession," which is fulfilled when he "speake[s] only of all such matters, as may largely be expounded... for all men to heare them": what is intelligible to all Englishmen is thus neither rude nor scant but the very fullness of rhetorical decorum. He therefore conjures for his 1553 _Arte of Rhetorique_ a readership not of poor Latinists but " _of all suche as are studious of Eloquence_ ": "Boldly... may I aduenture, and without feare step forth to offer that... which for the dignitie is so excellent, and for the use so necessarie," he announces in his prologue to the revised and expanded edition of 1560 (Aivr). He dedicates both the 1553 and 1560 editions to his patron John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, whose "earnest... wish" that he "might one day see the precepts of Rhetorique set forth... in English" Wilson attributes not to his defects as a Latinist but to the "speciall desire and Affection" he "beare[s] to Eloquence" (Aiiv). He anticipates a time when the "perfect experience, of manifolde and weightie matters of the Commonweale, shall haue encreased the Eloquence, which alreadie doth naturally flowe" in Dudley to such an extent that his own _Arte_ will be "set... to Schoole" in Dudley's home, "that it may learn Rhetorique of... daylie talke"—for men learn best, he concludes, by following "their neyghbours deuice" (Aiiiv). The fancy that eloquence might be schooled by an Englishman's "daylie talke" or patterned on one's "neyghbours deuice" upends Elyot's fantasy of the English home as a nursery for Latinity and issues a bracing challenge to Ascham's conviction that the "trewe Paterne of Eloquence" must be sought not "in common taulke, but in priuate bookes." Indeed, although for Ascham the imitation of foreign eloquence recommends itself as a more profitable, less perilous alternative to actual travel abroad, in Wilson's view the two pursuits are dangerously kin. Having forsaken their mother country and mother tongue, he observes, "some farre iorneid ientlemen at their returne home, like as thei loue to goe in forraine apparel, so thei will pouder their talke with oversea language," but no less foolish are those would-be eloquent speakers who "seeke so far for outlandish English, that they forget altogether their mothers language." Orphaned and alienated by their own affectations, they "will say, they speake in their mother tongue," but "if some of their mothers were aliue, they were not able to tell what they say." The hybrid tongues that result from such excursions, whether literal or rhetorical, are invariably ludicrous and ineffective, "as if an Oratour that professeth to vtter his mind in plaine Latin, would needes speake Poetrie, and farre fetched colours of straunge antiquitie" (86r). Actual foreign loan-words, Wilson implies, are merely the most obvious sign of linguistic corruption: the enticements of "straunge antiquitie"—excessive ornamentation, pseudo-archaisms, and pretentious classicisms—lure even educated speakers beyond the bounds of rhetorical community. "But thou saiest, the olde antiquitee doeth like thee best, because it is good, sobre, & modest," he jibes. "Ah, liue man as thei did before thee, and speake thy mynde now, as menne do at this daie." Instead of fretting over England's infelicitous isolation or the distinctions between its speech and the language of classical authors, he urges readers to learn from the classics precisely the integrity of their own native speech: "[R]emember that, whiche Cesar saith, beware as long as thou liuest, of straunge woordes, as thou wouldest take hede and eschewe greate rockes in the Sea" (2r). When Wilson urges would-be vernacular orators to "seke... such words as are commonly receiued" (87v), he represents the cultivation of rhetorical skill as an inquiry into a shared English life, depicted vividly in his anecdotes of Lincolnshire clergymen, Tindale ruffians, and London lawyers. He returns often to the image of bad oratory as a transgression of that secure and bounded existence, an ill-advised journey most often aimed in the direction of a Rome that is no longer Caesar's but the pope's. The folly of those who identify eloquence with circumlocution, "swaruing from their purpose" and introducing matters "farthest" from it, reminds him, for instance, of the cautionary example of an Anglican preacher who, intending to speak "of the generall resurrection," instead "hath made a large matter of our blessed Ladie, praysing her to bee so gentle, so curteous, and so kinde, that it were better a thousand fold, to make sute to her alone, then to Christ her sonne." He imagines the audience for such a speech responding with indignation—"Now, whether the deuill wilt thou, come in man againe for very shame"—for such errant discourse is "both vngodly, and nothyng at al to the purpose." Ultimately, Protestant England is abandoned, as rhetorical laxity makes way for heresy: "[A]ssuredly," he concludes, "many an vnlearned and witlesse man, hath straied in his talke much farther a great deale, yea truly as farre as hence to Roome gates" (48r). Such jests have led critics to discern "a decidedly nationalistic spirit" in Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_. The "goal that he established for himself," Albert Schmidt argues, "was less to teach Englishmen... rhetoric than to teach citizenship." There is indeed little doubt that Wilson's rhetorical precepts reflect his political commitments: the language he uses against foreign loan-words, for instance, is very like the language he uses in a 1571 parliamentary speech against vagabonds, in which he urges Englishmen that it is "no charity to give to such a one as we know not, being a stranger unto us." But any vernacular rhetorician who quotes Caesar to persuade English orators not to be seduced by the luster of "olde antiquitee" has a rather complicated sense of what belongs to England and what is foreign to it. In reading Wilson's stylistic injunctions as proof of his nationalizing ambitions, critics have disregarded the complexity of "England" and "Englishness" within his _Rhetorique_ , a text whose nativism is bound to—and shadowed by—its classicism. Insofar as he _theorizes_ his resistance to foreign loan-words, pointless digressions, and ostentatious Latinity, justifying his preference for familiar speech in terms of rhetoric's own bias toward shared understanding, Wilson plants his English _Arte of Rhetorique_ in what he identifies as foreign ground: the classical theory of topical invention. Wilson comes to the topics by way of rhetoric's sister art, dialectic, which he introduces to English readers in a 1551 treatise titled _The Rule of Reason, Conteinyng the Arte of Logique_ (1551). Despite its name, Wilson's _Logique_ draws most directly on theories of invention outlined in Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ and Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_. And yet his _Logique_ appears to readers—and has been treated by critics—as a very different undertaking than his _Rhetorique_ , largely because it displays such a different attitude toward its source material: if Wilson claims eloquence as England's native property, he regards the apparatus of logical reasoning as a distinctly foreign import. Compared to the preface he wrote for his _Rhetorique_ , the preface to his _Logique_ is modest, even tentative, in tone. He insists that the endeavor was undertaken "not as though none could dooe it better; but because no Englishman until now, hath gone through with this enterprise." He cautions that the result may alienate some readers: "this fruit being of a straunge kind (soche as no Englishe ground hath before this tyme, and in this sort by any tillage brought forthe) maie perhaps in the firste tastyng, proue somewhat rough and harsh in the mouthe, because of the straungenesse." And yet the very strangeness of the art is indicative of its value: Wilson compares his "strange labour" and "earnest trauaile" as translator to the work of "some poore meane man, or simple personne, whose charge were to be a lodesman to conuey some noble princesse into a straunge land where she was neuer before." Nevertheless he continues, believing that "the capacitie of my country men the English nacion is... not inferiour to any other," hopeful that logic will prove "apte for the English wittes," and convinced that its precepts "myght with as good grace be sette forth in Thenglishe [tongue], I... enterprised to ioyne an acquaintaunce betwiene Logique, and my countrymen from the whiche they haue bene hetherto barred" and "make Logique familiar to Thenglishe man." Ironically, given his insistence on its strangeness to England, it is the art of logic—or rather the art of topical invention he draws from classical rhetoric and names logic—that secures Wilson's faith in England's fitness as a home for the arts of "reason[ing] probably" ( _Logique_ , A4v–A5r). As he explains to readers, probability is intimately linked to place in the classical tradition. By consulting a familiar repertoire of mental "commonplaces"—abstract categories such as cause and effect, possibility or impossibility, virtue or vice—a speaker discovers the content of his argument: each "place" is "the restyng corner of an argumente, or els a marke whiche geveth warning to our memorie" ( _Logique_ , J5v–[J6r]). This process of invention is localized in a more literal fashion: tailored to fit the contours of a particular subject, audience, time, and place. Wilson illustrates this premise by way of an analogy he adapts from the _Institutio_ _Oratoria_ , in which Quintilian likens the skilled orator's knowledge of the _loci communes_ to an Italian fisherman's knowledge of the Mediterranean coast: "For just as all kinds of produce are not provided by every country, and as you will not succeed in finding a particular bird or beast, if you are ignorant of the localities where it has its usual haunts or birthplace, as even the various kinds of fish flourish in different surroundings, some preferring a smooth and others a rocky bottom, and are found on different shores and in diverse regions (you will, for instance, never catch a sturgeon or wrasse in our [Italian] seas), so not every kind of argument can be derived from every circumstance, and consequently our search requires discrimination." Wilson, however, rewrites the analogy so that the classical _loci communes_ become features of a recognizably English landscape: Those that bee good harefinders will soone finde the hare by her fourme. For when thei see the ground beaten flatte round about, and faire to the sighte: thei have a narrowe gesse by al likelihode that the hare was there a litle before. Likewise the Huntesman in hunting the foxe, wil soone espie when he seeth a hole, whether it be a foxe borough or not. So he that will take profeicte in this part of Logique [that is, invention], must bee like a hunter, and learn by labour to know the boroughs. For these places bee nothing else but coverts or boroughs, wherein if any one searche diligently, he maie finde game at pleasure. Therfore if any one will do good in this kynde, he must go from place to place, and by serching euery borough, he shall haue his purpose vndoubtedlie in moste part of them, if not in all. ( _Logique_ , J5v–[J6r]) This transformation of Quintilian's Italian fisherman into the English hare finder or huntsman reflects Wilson's determination that English readers be made to feel at home in places from which they were formerly barred—in this case in the places of invention. It shows as well his understanding of the topics, which demand such local accommodations. Indeed, homely as it may seem, Wilson's metaphor of the hunt is rigorously classical in its account of the genesis of plausibility or "likelihode": it is only when the hare finders thoroughly acquaint themselves with the environs near the hare's burrow and "see the ground beaten flatte round about" that they are able to call upon the resources of probability, knowing "by al likelihode that the hare was there a litle before." This notion, that familiarity with one's surroundings ("know[ing] the boroughs") yields proximity to the truth ("a narrowe gesse"), is the central premise of Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ , which elevates the "narrowe gesse" to a valid form of knowledge—valid, that is, within the strictly delineated space of local deliberation. By transforming the topics or "commonplaces" of sophistic oratory from mere rhetorical shortcuts to a method of reasoning, Aristotle's _Rhetoric_ attempts to rescue rhetoric from both the stringent criticisms of Plato's Socratic dialogues and the excessive relativism of the sophists, anchoring the art's disciplinary and epistemological legitimacy in a new conception of the relationship between persuasion and place. Aristotle's _topoi_ establish rhetoric as a "situated competence," as Walter Jost and Michael J. Hyde explain: they are "the places—issues, values, commitments, beliefs, likelihoods—that we hold in common with others, that we dwell in and argue over." They are also the "place" rhetoric holds in common with its neighbor, dialectic. Finally, they are in an important sense linked to literal experiences of place, to those communal sites of "public" or "social" discourse that make up the arena of "practical knowledge in use." In Plato's _Gorgias,_ Socrates insists that truth must be universally recognizable as such, declaring that even though "almost everyone in Athens" would find his opponent's defense of rhetoric plausible, as long as "there's still a dissenting voice, albeit a single one—mine," Gorgias cannot claim to have established his argument as true. In his _Rhetoric_ , Aristotle pointedly sidesteps both the issue of individual conviction and the question of universal or abstract truth by insisting that the orator does not "theorize about each opinion—what may seem so to Socrates or Hippias—but about what seems true to people of a certain sort." From the law courts, the political forum, and the public gathering places of Athens, the orator therefore draws the materials he needs to fashion his arguments. The local specificity of this knowledge is crucial because audiences make judgments "on the basis of what [particulars] they know and instances near their experience." Such advice may sound ominously similar to the kind of appeasement that, according to Socrates, casts rhetoric into "the same province" as sophistry, but by focusing on the importance of locating an argument within a particular context, Aristotle defines a valid role for argument by approximation. His definition of rhetorical truth, that is, pertains to arguments "not... only from what is necessarily valid"—so-called "inartificial" proofs, such as eyewitness testimony—"but also what is true for the most part," what, by virtue of its affinity with received wisdom and commonly held opinions, comes _close_ to the truth. The arguments produced by topical invention are thus intimately shaped by the orator's knowledge of actual locales, for plausibility is contingent upon time, place, and persons. But the _theory_ of the topics is eminently and necessarily portable; otherwise rhetoric would be no teachable art. In this sense Wilson's _Logique_ and his _Rhetorique_ collaborate in a sleight-of-hand: as the abstract basis of probable reasoning, the topics constitute the classical tradition's movable goods; as the engines of purely local conviction, the topics remain anchored in—indeed help to produce—a specifically English discursive community. Wilson seems to have taken pleasure in this irony, using his accounts of the individual topics in both treatises as occasions to meditate, playfully, on the idea of England as _topos_ , both the product and the a priori condition of classical invention. To demonstrate reasoning from the topic of "deeds done," he therefore argues that "[i]f Iulius Cesar came into England, then there was such a man called Iulius Cesar"; to illustrate the use of the topic of "contraries," he argues that "King Lud is not the same, that Iulius Cesar, or Brutus was: Kyng Lud buylded London, of whom the citee had his name, beyng called Luddes toune, and afterwarde, by alteracion of letters, called London. Ergo neither Cesar, nor Brutus, builded the same" ( _Logique_ , sigs. [K8r], [N6r]). Such references to ancient British history and myth skirt delicately around the fact of Wilson's own reliance on classical tradition, as he oscillates between boldly asserting England's independence from antiquity ("neither Cesar, nor Brutus, builded the same") and, more boldly still, asserting antiquity's dependence on England ("[i]f Iulius Cesar came into England, then there was such a man called Iulius Cesar"). Of course, the reverse is more properly true of England-as- _topos_ : when Wilson cites "The Realm," "The Shire," and "The Toune" as primary topics of deliberative oratory in his _Arte of Rhetorique_ (6v), he positions England as the literal ground of rhetorical invention but also offers it as the "strange fruit" of his own foray into Greek and Latin learning. This is not necessarily a contradiction of his _Rhetorique_ 's stylistic precepts, for even at his strictest moments Wilson is no Anglo-Saxon purist. When Greek or Latin terms are required "to set forth our meaning in the English tongue, either for lacke of store, or els because we would enrich the language: it is well doen to vse them," he explains, provided that "all other are agreed to followe the same waie." Such words, "being vsed in their place," should cause no one to be "suspected for affectation," he writes, as long as they are "apt and meete... to set out the matter." In fact, rhetoric may describe just such a matter, for the examples Wilson cites of apt and meet borrowing are suggestively redolent of his earlier account of the art as a whole: "There is no man agreued, when he heareth (letters patentes) & yet patentes is latine, and signifieth open to all men. The Communion is a felowship, or a commyng together, rather Latine then Englishe: the Kynges prerogatiue, declareth his power royall aboue all other, and yet I knowe no man greued for these termes, beeyng vsed in their place, nor yet any one suspected for affectacion, when suche generall wordes are spoken. The folie is espied, when either we will vse suche wordes, as fewe men doo vse, or vse theim out of place, when another might serue muche better" (87v). Wilson's rationale is plain enough and consistent with his reasoning throughout the _Rhetorique_ : as always, his concern is with place, that words be accommodated to the place in which they are written or spoken and that they do not displace more familiar and proper terms. Nonetheless his examples are, in context, provocative: the phrase "open to all men" recalls his definition of the province of rhetoric as "all such matters, as may largely be expounded... for all men to heare them"; the description of communion as "a fellowship, or a coming together" echoes the myth of rhetoric's origins; the description of "power... aboue all other" mimics the account of the orator's supreme power in his dedicatory epistle to Dudley. These are, according to Wilson, places where English speakers either must or may turn to the classical tongues for assistance, but they map quite closely onto the central concerns of his own treatise: accessibility, community, and authority. Is rhetoric a native discourse, after all, or a place where Englishmen must agree to follow a foreign way? The three samples of deliberative oratory placed at the center of Wilson's _Arte_ introduce further notes of uncertainty. The first is devoted, unexpectedly given his loudly aired prejudices against foreign travel, to persuading young Englishmen of the virtues of travel abroad—in praise of which he cites, especially, "the swetnesse of the tongue[s]" spoken elsewhere (16v). The second, urging a young man "to study the laws of England," gives way to a disquisition against the stubborn "kepyng of Commons for custome sake," even though lands fenced for private use "might gain ten tymes the value"—an argument that sits uneasily beside Wilson's vision of the vernacular as just such a common space (19r). Third, he translates the entirety of an Erasmian epistle in praise of marriage, returning in the process to the figure of Orpheus, mythical orator and lawgiver. When Orpheus rescued Eurydice from Hades, he demands, "what other thinge do we thinke that the Poets meant, but only to set forthe vnto vs the loue in wedlocke the whiche euen amonge the Deuilles was compted good and Godlye?" "Emonge diuers countries, and diuers menne, there haue bene diuers lawes and customes vsed," he allows, "[y]et was there neuer anye countrey so sauage, none so farre from all humanitie, where the name of wedlocke was not counted holye, and hadde in great reuerence. This the Thracian, this the Sarmate, this the Indian, this the Grecian, this the Latine, yea, this the Britain that dwelleth in the furtheste parte of all the worlde, or if there be anye that dwell beyonde them haue euer counted to be most holy" (26v). Suddenly, in the midst of the first English art of rhetoric, a treatise that works diligently to establish England's native claim to the strange fruits of classical civilization, Britain finds itself back on the margins, in "the furthest parte of all the worlde." Sixteenth-century English readers may have been accustomed to seeing their home cited by ancient authors as a byword for savage extremity, but the inclusion of such language in Wilson's _Arte_ is particularly jarring—both because it reminds us, rather tactlessly, that Wilson has had to borrow his central example of eloquence from a non-English author and because it produces a rhetorical geography that conflates Thracian and Sarmation, Greek and Latin, Indian and British with no regard for the boundaries that Wilson elsewhere cherishes and defends. Indeed, for all its emphasis on home, the "pattern of eloquence" on which Wilson's _Rhetorique_ relies remains every bit as far-fetched as Roger Ascham's: the England that underwrites his _Arte_ is an imaginary (and occasionally awkward) synthesis of classical ideals and local anecdotes. The terms in which Wilson's contemporaries received his work reflect this ambiguity. Gabriel Harvey hailed the _Rhetorique_ as "the daily bread of our common pleaders and discoursers," and there is little doubt that both the dailiness of the use and the commonness of the users would have pleased Wilson. At the same time, when the poet Barnabe Barnes credited _The Arte of Rhetorique_ with "redress[ing] our English barbarism," he signaled how far Wilson's ideal of English remained from the ordinary speech of his day. As Wilson allows, familiarity may be the basis of persuasive power, but the best orator does not blend into the crowd his eloquence assembles: "among all other, I thinke him most worthie fame," he writes, "that is among the reasonable of al most reasonable, and among the wittie, of all most wittie, and among the eloquent, of all most eloquent: him thinke I among all men, not onely to be taken for a singuler man, but rather to be coumpted for halfe a God" ( _Rhetorique_ , A7v). The singularity and near divinity of the eloquent man—his ability to invent the place in which he speaks—derive not from his speaking commonly but his speaking extraordinarily. Wilson's own account of this paradoxical process highlights the mixed genealogy of his supposedly English _Rhetorique_. In the opening pages of his _Arte,_ Wilson, like so many other sixteenth-century humanists, turns to the origins of eloquence, but he gives the familiar narrative of communal gathering a distinctive twist, marrying the classical legend of Orpheus to a quasi-biblical saga of sin and salvation. "After the fall of our firste father," Adam, Wilson writes, the "eloquence first giuen by God" was lost, and with it the foundation of human community: "all things waxed sauage, the earth vntilled, societie neglected." Lacking a productive relation to the land, or to each other, men "grased vpon the ground" and "romed" like wild beasts, "liu[ing] brutishly in open feeldes, hauing neither house to shroude them in, nor attire to clothe their backes" (Aiiir). Wilson's allusion to the Fall reminds his readers that linguistic degeneracy and geographic dispersal are the twin plots of the book of Genesis: Adam and Eve lose the divine speech when they are cast out of the garden; Cain becomes, in the words of the 1560 Geneva Bible, "a vagabond and a runnagate in the earth" (Gen. 4:12); Noah's sons are "deuided in their lands, euery one after his tongue; [and] after their families, in their nations" (Gen. 10:5); and, at last, at Babel, God resolves to "confound the language of all the earth" and "scatter them vpon all the earth" (Gen. 11:9). At this point in the story, however, Wilson grafts onto his biblical narrative the pagan myth of Orpheus _,_ which contrasts the vagrancy of prerhetorical mankind with the purposeful solidarity of a people "moved" by eloquence: alienation and confusion persist, he alleges, until God's "faithfull and elect... called [men] together by vtteraunce of speech," persuading them "to live together in fellowship of life" and "to maintain Cities." By no "other meanes," he asserts, echoing Quintilian, could men have been brought to submit to the authority of God and his ministers (Aiiiv). The conclusion to this curiously hybrid story is Wilson's own: man's natural vagrancy would lead him to seek to move to a higher station, he writes, "were [he] not persuaded, that it behoueth [him] to liue in his owne vocation: and not to seeke any higher roume" (Aiiiir). Eloquence creates community, that is, but also maintains, according to degree, the natural boundaries between peoples, classes, nations, and all other entities otherwise vulnerable to motion, error, and change. It is a stirring claim with which to begin England's first full-fledged vernacular rhetoric but an odd moral to append to a narrative that thrives on an illicit mingling of Christian theology, pagan myth, and Tudor political doctrine, straying heedlessly close to heresy in its conflation of eloquence and election, and assigning to Orphic orators and poets a redemptive role the Bible reserves to Christ. Here, as in his descriptions of the topics, Wilson seems eager to test the boundaries of what may be claimed as English, asserting the virtue of native purity at the very moment he indulges in a more complicated, potentially more generative kind of cross-breeding. His _Rhetorique_ testifies to the changes wrought upon a classical ideal of eloquence when it is identified with England's daily talk, but it testifies as well to the changes wrought upon sixteenth-century ideals of Englishness as they assimilate an alien theory of eloquence. Marveling at Strangers: Ancient Rhetoric's Foreign Figures In its boldest gesture, the preface to Sherry's _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ construes ancient rhetoric's foreign provenance as its chief enticement for the vernacular reader. Although he worries that some readers will scan the title of his book, "marvayle," and cast it aside as "some newe fangle," he imagines "other[s], whiche moued with the noueltye thereof, wyll thynke it worthye to be looked vpon, and se what is contained therin" (A2r). In appropriating wonder as a productive response to the foreign terminology of style—schemes and tropes, metaphors, zeugmas, and antistrophes—Sherry does not simply make good on an inevitable feature of his own rhetorical project, the need to reckon with peculiar Greek and Latin terms of art; he also recovers for the vernacular a central, and puzzling, feature of what Elyot calls "the ancient rhetoric": for all its emphasis on the importance of familiarity and proximity to the genesis of plausibility, when it comes to style, classical rhetoric places a counterintuitive premium on the orator's ability to impress his audience with the _unlikelihood_ of his expressions. In consequence, a particular, paradoxical glamour attaches to precisely those figures whose speech locates them outside, or on the margins, of the linguistic community. "Style contrary to the usage of well-bred Greeks," cautions Diogenes Laertes in his treatise on grammar, is "barbarism." But when the historian Diodorus Siculus describes the sophist Gorgias's arrival in Athens from his home in Sicily, he attributes the power of his eloquence to its very difference from the usage of well-bred Greeks. "When [Gorgias] had arrived in Athens and had been brought before the people," Diodorus writes, "he addressed them on the subject of an alliance" and won them over "by the novelty of his style," which "amazed" them with its "extravagant figures of speech marked by deliberate art: antithesis and clauses of exactly or approximately equal length and rhythm and others of such a sort, which at the time were thought worthy of acceptance because of the strangeness of the method, but now seem tiresome and often appear ridiculous and excessively contrived." The mingled notes of admiration and of censure in Diodorus's account of Gorgias persist throughout the classical tradition: the subject of style invariably elicits, in almost equal measure, both the impulse to protect ordinary speech and the yearning to depart from it. Aristotle, for instance, reserves any mention of style to the third and final book of his _Art of Rhetoric_ , which begins with the cautious concession that "the subject of expression [ _lexis_ ]... has some small necessary place in all teaching; for to speak in one way rather than another does make some difference in regard to clarity, though not a great difference; but all these things are forms of outward show and intended to affect the audience." In addition to his skepticism about the tendency of "outward show[s]" to distract an audience from their real task of evaluating probability, Aristotle worries about the disciplinary propriety of ornamentation. In his view the stylistic excesses of sophistic oratory improperly blur the distinction between rhetoric and poetry: "[S]ince the poets, while speaking sweet nothings, seemed to acquire their reputation through their _lexis_ , a poetic style came into existence [in prose as well], for example, that of Gorgias. Even now, the majority of the uneducated think such speakers speak most beautifully. This is not the case; but the _lexis_ of prose differs from that of poetry." The only valid aims of rhetorical style, Aristotle insists, are "to be clear"—for "speech is a kind of sign, so if it does not make clear it will not perform its function"—and "appropriate," that is, "neither flat nor above the dignity of the subject, but appropriate." To achieve both clarity and appropriateness, the orator must adhere to the standards of ordinary speech: "The use of nouns and verbs in their prevailing [ _kyrios_ ] meaning makes for clarity; other kinds of words, as discussed in the _Poetics_ , make the style ornamented rather than flat." Thus far Aristotle's theory of style is consistent with his account of topical invention: the limits of both invention and ornamentation reflect the bounds of the place in which the orator speaks. What is familiar or prevalent in that community determines what is persuasive, clear, or appropriate, so that style, like probability, is essentially local. But if ordinary usage sets the standards of clarity and propriety, it is nonetheless true that speech is only _recognizable_ as stylish insofar as it departs from the ordinary and expected. Thus, in a striking inversion of the terms of his discussion of clarity, Aristotle notes, "To deviate [from prevailing ( _kyrios_ ) usage] makes language seem more elevated; for people feel in the same way in regard to style [ _lexis_ ] as they do in regard to strangers compared with citizens. As a result, one should make the language unfamiliar, for people are admirers of what is far off, and what is marvelous is sweet." Here stylized or figurative language is likened to a foreign traveler—and unexpectedly, the presumed response to this strange intruder is not defensiveness but _hospitality_ : his very remoteness from the familiar experiences of those he encounters makes him "marvelous" and "sweet" to them. As Aristotle admits, this effect of language, the appeal of the unfamiliar, is more often associated with poetic fictions than with arguments. "Many [kinds of words] accomplish this in verse," he observes, "for what is said [in poetry] about subjects and characters is more out of the ordinary, but in prose much less so." Nevertheless and in spite of his own earlier cautions against the poeticizing of rhetoric, he directs readers interested in these "other kinds of words, [which] make the style ornamented rather than flat" to his discussion of figurative language in the _Poetics_. The relevant passages further elaborate the relationship between ornamentation and strangeness. Indeed cultural and geographic distinctions form the basis of Aristotle's theory of figurative language: "By a current [ _kyrion_ ] noun," Aristotle explains, "I mean one which is in use among a given people; by a non-standard [ _glotta_ ] noun I mean one which is in use among other people." Standard and nonstandard, strange and familiar, figurative and proper are not therefore fixed categories for Aristotle. Instead language is strange or familiar only in relation to one's place in the world: "Obviously the same noun may be both current and non-standard, but not for the same people," Aristotle notes. " _Sigunon_ is current among the Cypriots, but non-standard to us; 'spear' is current among us, but non-standard to them." The crucial point to be made here is that—while the terms "standard" and "non-standard" appear to make strangeness the mark of improper, and hence ineffective, usages—both the _Poetics_ and the _Rhetoric_ assign strange language a valuable and even necessary function in the work of persuasion. A poet or orator alters his language to achieve the effect of strangeness not primarily through the borrowing of foreign terms but through metaphor, which Aristotle defines as "the application of a noun which properly applies to something else" or "a movement [ _epiphora_ ] of an alien [ _allotrios_ ] name." This movement from the "proper" to the "alien" transforms language from what is _kyrion_ , or common, to what is _glotta_ , or strange. As the term "metaphor," which literally means "carrying something from one place to another," suggests, it enacts a kind of travel within language: the stranger is brought among citizens. Both the general requirements of _lexis_ , or style, and the particular operations of metaphor require Aristotle to grant foreignness a role in the work of rhetorical persuasion that is seemingly at odds with his insistence that rhetorical style not violate the norms of clarity and common usage. Discussions of style after Aristotle run into the same apparent contradiction: the excesses and transgressions that mark barbarous speech as improper are the same gestures by which figurative speech achieves its distinction from ordinary prose. For instance, when he turns to the subject of metaphor, Quintilian admits that "in dealing with ornament, I shall occasionally speak of faults which have to be avoided, but which are hard to distinguish from virtues." The difficulty of the distinction, he observes, derives from the fact that the figuration that provides rhetoric with its supreme ornament "originates from the same sources as errors of language": that is, from deviations from the common idiom and from "proper" relationships of meaning. He is reduced to the relativistic conclusion that "propriety... must be tested by the touchstone of the understanding, not the ear," and turns at last to intention as the only distinction between flaws and figures of speech: "every figure would be an error, if it were accidental and not deliberate." The near identity between rhetorical ornamentation and rhetorical abuse (indeed, as Quintilian notes, there is a rhetorical figure, _catachresis_ , whose name literally means "abuse") produces a constant anxiety over the desirable and dangerous effects of language that departs from ordinary usage. As in Diodorus Siculus's anecdote of Gorgias, this anxiety about strange language often merges with an anxiety about the strange origins of the orator himself: geographic or cultural distance, that is, became a sign of the innate foreignness of figuration. As the debate over proper rhetorical language evolved, style was literally mapped onto the globe: rhetoric that eschewed ornate gestures and artificial phrasing, hewing closely to supposedly natural patterns of speech, was dubbed "Attic," while rhetoric adorned with elaborate figures and carefully wrought periods was dubbed "Asiatic." Initially, at least, there was some descriptive accuracy to such geographic distinctions. As the once powerful Greek Empire fragmented, cultural and political power shifted to the outlying cities of Alexandria and Pergamon, in which a more rarefied and literary mode of eloquence developed. The first orator to be dubbed "Asiatic," Hegesias of Magnesia, lived in the third century and developed a neatly epigrammatic form of address. This "Asiatic" style was perpetuated in the second century by the brothers Menecles and Hierocles of Alabanda in Asia Minor and made more ornate by Aeschines of Miletus and Aeschylus of Cnidus. But what originated as a descriptive taxonomy—a way of distinguishing the new rhetoric from that which had flourished in Athens—quickly acquired a more value-laden set of connotations and a more polemical intent. As Jeffrey Walker points out, the accounts of Asiatic rhetoric written in the Hellenistic period vastly overstate the real link between eastern oratory and the emergence of a more "florid" style: "If there is a 'literaturizing' or belletristic turn in Hellenistic rhetoric," he observes, "it would seem to make its clearest appearance not in the sophistic or even 'Asianist' tradition... but in the Peripatetic, Aristotelian-Theophrastian tradition embodied in Demetrius' _On Style_." The association between Asiaticism and an ornate style owes less to real rhetorical history, he suggests, than it does to a desire to disavow tendencies within the Greek tradition that seemed to threaten rhetoric's practical and ethical functions. Indeed an array of later texts written after the summit of Athenian rhetorical accomplishment sought to maintain the vitality of that tradition by asserting the inherent aesthetic and moral superiority of Attic style and blaming the decline of "pure," philosophically based rhetoric on the influence of Asiatic oratory. Caecilius of Calacte, the author of a Hellenistic treatise on figuration that defined figuration pejoratively as "a turning to a form of thought and diction which is not in accordance with nature" and argued for the possibility of a purely literal mode of expression, also wrote two polemics of which only the titles survive: "How the Attic Style Differs from the Asian" and "Against the Phrygians." In a similar vein, at the end of the first century B.C., Dionysius of Halicarnassus illustrated his critique of rhetorical excess, _Peri ton Archaion Rhetoron_ ("On the Ancient Orators"), with an analogy likening true eloquence to an Attic wife who has been displaced by a lewdly flamboyant Asiatic mistress: In the time before our own, the old and philosophic rhetoric was so abused and endured such terrible mistreatment that it fell into decline; after Alexander of Macedon's final breath it gradually withered away, and by our generation had come to seem almost extinct. Another stole past the guards and took its place, intolerably shameless and theatrical, and comprehending nothing either of philosophy or of any other liberal training [ _eleutherios paideuma_ ], escaping notice and misleading the ignorance of the masses, it came to enjoy not only greater wealth, luxury and splendor than the other, but also the honors and high offices of cities, which rightfully belong to the philosophic, and it was wholly vulgar and importunate, and finally made Greece resemble the households of the profligate and evil-starred. For just as in these there sits the freeborn, sensible wife with no authority over her domain, while a senseless harlot brings ruin upon her life and claims control of the whole estate, casting filth upon her and putting her in terror, so too in every city and even among the well-educated (for this was the utmost evil of them all) the ancient and indigenous Attic muse was dishonored and deprived of her possessions, while the new arrival, some Mysian or Phrygian or Carian trash just recently come from some Asian pit, claimed the right to rule over Greek cities and drove her rival from the commons, the unlearned driving out the philosophic and the crazed the sensible. Dionysius's account of rhetorical excess is clearly itself excessive, even, as Walker comments, "histrionic," but it mobilizes a series of associations between eloquence and place that become conventions of rhetorical history and theory, conventions that sixteenth-century English writers absorb and transform. On the one side we have the old, properly "philosophic" rhetoric—legitimate, ancient, indigenous, honest, restrained, chaste, sensible, self-effacing, and decorous—whose rightful (and painstakingly earned) place within the local community is usurped by enthusiasm for a "theatrical" rhetoric of stylistic ornamentation—alien, Eastern, novel, luxurious, vulgar, sexually profligate, morally degenerate, deceitful, crazed, and power-hungry. The stereotype of Asiatic eloquence thus establishes a link between metaphor's effect on plain language and the foreign interloper's effect on the Greek _oikos_ or the English commons. The geographic, cultural, and racial prejudices that structure the history of rhetoric bespeak discomfort with the alien allure of figuration: foreignness, distance, and travel come to represent tensions internal to eloquence. "Faire and Orient": The Asiatic English Poet Within the sixteenth-century English art of rhetoric these ancient tensions produce a conspicuous metaphorical volatility: the imagery of estrangement so often invoked to stigmatize awkward or affected speech proves equally available for positive representations of a vernacular enriched and transformed by style. In the final section of his _Arte of Rhetorique_ , Thomas Wilson hails elocution as "that part of _Rhetorique_ , the which aboue all other is most beautifull," and without which reason "walk[s]... both bare and naked" or, worse, clad "in apparel... so homely" that its virtue goes unrecognized (85v). Wilson represents ornamentation as the logical addendum to invention and arrangement—"when wee haue learned apte wordes, and vsuall phrases to set foorth our meaning, and can orderly place them," he writes, then "wee may boldely commende and beautifie our talke" (89v–90r)—but it adheres to a very different set of values: boldness and beauty are the marks at which the truly expert speaker aims, even if their attainment means violating the standards of apt, usual, and orderly speech. That such violations will be necessary is apparent from Wilson's account of "exornation," which he defines as "a gorgeous beautifying of the tongue with borrowed wordes, and change of sentence or speech with much varietie," so that "our speech may seeme as bright and precious, as a rich stone is faire and orient" (90r). The contrast with his earlier prohibitions on strange words grows more marked as Wilson's discussion of exornation proceeds: ornament, he writes, is most often achieved by figures of speech, which are "vsed after some newe or straunge wise, much vnlike to that which men commonly vse to speake." Without such new and strange figures, Wilson claims, "not one can attaine to be coumpted an Oratour, though his learning otherwise be neuer so great" (90v). Among the most skilled speakers, he observes, "[m]en coumpt it a point of witte, to passe ouer such words as are at hand, and to vse such as are farre fetcht and translated"—by such diversions from common use, he concludes, "[a]n Oration is wonderfullye enriched" (91v–92r). Most English rhetorical manuals of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries are more interested in the new and strange effects of figuration than they are in the invention of topics or the elaboration of commonplaces for arguments. By means of figures and tropes, as Abraham Fraunce writes in his _Arcadian Rhetorike_ (1588), language is transformed: "turned" or "drawen away from his first proper signification, to another," but "so conuenientlie, as that it seem rather willingly ledd, than driuen by force." The effect of such "turning" or "drawing away" is not, as with the commonplaces, an articulation or confirmation of shared experience or belief but rather the introduction of something different: "A Figure," writes Henry Peacham in _The Garden of Eloquence_ (1577), "is a forme of words, oration, or sentence, made new by art, differing from the vulgar maner and custome of writing or speaking." The virtues of figurative speech are thus difficult to distinguish from the vices of Wilson's far-journeyed gentleman. Indeed in sixteenth-century England as in ancient Athens and Rome, the subject of style entails a striking reversal of the relationship presumed to exist between place and eloquence: now rhetoric leads away to the alien and exotic rather than sustaining the common and usual. George Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ (1589) famously provides precise geographic coordinates for proper English usage, which he locates "in London and the shires lying about London within lx. myles, and not much aboue." The best speech in any language, Puttenham writes, is not that which is spoken "in the marches or frontiers, or in port townes, where straungers haunt for traffike sake, or yet in Vniuersities where Schollers vse much peeuish affectation of wordes out of the primatiue languages, or finally, in any vplandish village or corner of a Realme, where there is no resort but of poore rusticall or vnciuill people"; rather it is strictly that dialect that is used "in the kings Court, or in the good townes and Cities within the land"—a dictum that, in sixteenth-century England, disallows "any speech vsed beyond the riuer of Trent." But Puttenham also urges his readers to cultivate "a maner of utterance more eloquent and rethoricall than the ordinarie prose... because it is decked and set out with all maner of fresh colours and figures." This kind of speech, he claims, is eminently fit not only for the delight of one's audience but also for the task of persuasion: figurative speech "sooner inuegleth the iudgement of man, and carieth his opinion this way and that" (24). Like Aristotle's _lexis_ and Wilson's "exornation," Puttenham's figuration owes its persuasive force not to familiarity or likelihood but to the luster of its "rich Orient coulours," which "delight and allure as well the mynde as the eare of the hearers with a certain noueltie and strange maner of conueyance, disguising it no little from the ordinary and accustomed" (149–50). As figuration, rhetoric recapitulates the pleasurable effects of travel, transporting listeners from "the ordinary and accustomed" to things novel and strange. Metaphor, as all of these writers well knew, means "to carry across"—as Puttenham says, it might be dubbed "the figure of _transport_ ," since it entails "a kinde of wresting of a single word from his own right signification, to another not so naturall" (148). That less "naturall" signification might imply a transgression of decorum—Ben Jonson notes in his commonplace book that " _Metaphors_ farfet hinder to be understood" and that a speaker should take care not to "fetcheth his translations from a wrong place"—but it also opens language up to exotic delights and strange riches. "There is a greater Reverence had of things remote, or strange to us, then of much better, if they be nearer, and fall under our sense," Jonson allows, and although he pauses to wonder "why... men depart at all from the right, and naturall wayes of speaking," he promptly answers his own question: they do so "sometimes for necessity, [and] sometimes for pleasure, and variety, as Travailers turne out of the high way, drawne, either by the commodity of a footpath, or the delicacy or freshnesse of the fields." Jonson's fields and footpaths are plausibly English, but in treatises such as Wilson's and Puttenham's, the transports of metaphor invariably lead East, to an exotic and gem-rich Orient. In part this association may reflect the persistence of the belief that the vernacular as it was commonly spoken was inadequate—too narrowly provincial—to serve as a staging ground for eloquence, but it reflects as well the conviction that eloquence demands liberal bounds. If English were to become eloquent, Englishness would need to be more expansively construed. This, according to Puttenham, was the function of all figurative language: "As figures be the instruments of ornament in euery language, so be they also in a sorte abuses or rather trespasses in speech, because they passe the ordinarie limits of common vtterance," becoming a "manner of forraine and coloured talke" (128). Ultimately, Puttenham suggests, the effect of rhetoric on an audience is not to confirm their sense of place in the world but to provide the illusion of leaving it: figures of speech, he writes, "carieth [the listener's] opinion this way and that, whither soeuer the heart by impression of the eare shalbe most affectionately bent and directed," "drawing [the minde] from plainnesse and simplicitie to a certain doublenesse" (6, 128). This "doublenesse," the "inuersion of sense by transport" (128), serves as yet another response to the relationship understood to exist between English language and England's place. Here neither the vernacular nor the foreign is shunned, since figuration allows for the coexistence of the two in a single discourse: "euery language" has the capacity to become a "manner of forraine... talke." In other words, every language is capable of poetry. Puttenham's treatise begins with the assertion that eloquence is bred only by the influence of poets upon a language. "The vtterance in prose is not of so great efficacie," he writes, "because... it is dayly vsed, and by that occasion the eare is ouerglutted with it" (5). Whereas Wilson cautioned orators against adopting the extravagant style of the poet, Puttenham offers poetry as the ideal model for rhetorical excellence: "the Poets were... from the beginning the best perswaders, and their eloquence the first Rhethoricke of the world" (6). The division between poetry and "ordinarie prose" thus becomes another boundary to be trespassed in the pursuit of eloquence. How is it that poetic language accomplishes this internal estrangement of the vernacular? George Gascoigne offers one explanation in "Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making of Verse," an essay appended to his 1575 anthology _The Posies_. Gascoigne begins the essay by urging his fellow vernacular poets _not_ to regard poetic diction as alienated from ordinary speech and encouraging them rather to hew to "playne Englishe" in the composition of their verses. Take care, he writes, that "you wreste no woorde from his natural and vsuall sounde" and, when possible, choose short and simple words, for "the more monosyllables that you vse, the truer Englishman you shall seeme" (50–51). Gascoigne particularly urges vernacular poets to "eschew straunge words, or _obsoleta et inusitata_ ," and to "use your verse after theenglishe phrase, and not after the maner of other languages" (52–53). Nevertheless it is by no means obvious to Gascoigne that poetic language always can or should adhere to the boundaries of "playne Englishe." Indeed he quickly qualifies his own ruling, allowing that archaisms and other "unnatural" words are sometimes permitted to verse by "poetic license": "Therefore even as I have advised you to place all wordes in their naturall or most common and usuall pronunciation, so would I wishe you to frame all sentences in their mother phrase and proper Idioma, and yet sometimes (as I have sayd before) the contraries may be borne, but that is rather where rime enforceth, or _per licentiam Poeticam_ , than it is otherwise lawfull or commendable" (53). Gascoigne's own language at this moment ironically and playfully enacts the permeability of that supposedly lawful and commendable boundary between "theenglishe phrase" and "the maner of other languages," even in prose: "straunge words" is glossed with the Latin " _obsoleta et inusitata_ "; the "mother phrase" is elaborated—gratuitously—by the Greek "Idioma"; and " _per licentiam Poeticam_ " substitutes for the perfectly serviceable vernacular equivalent. Recourse to language outside of the common usage, it seems, is not simply a freedom allowed to English verse: prose stylists too may find themselves straying into foreign tongues, either where the paucity of the vernacular "enforceth" such transgressions or simply where the whim of the author makes them desirable. As Gascoigne unfolds his theory of " _licentiam poeticam_ ," he further multiplies the qualifications to his own rule against "straunge words." "This poeticall license," he writes, is "a shrewde fellow," which "covereth many faults in a verse." Poetic license, he observes, has the procrustean ability to "maketh words longer, shorter, of mo syllables, of fewer, newer, older, truer, falser, and to conclude it turkeneth all things at pleasure" (53–54). Here again Gascoigne's own language partakes of the license he describes: "turkeneth," according to the _Oxford English Dictionary_ , is emphatically a "newer" word in 1575, perhaps even Gascoigne's own coinage. The twofold connotation of the word preserves a sense of Gascoigne's ambivalence about poetic license: on the one hand, "to turken" (or, to use an earlier, related form of the word, "to turkesse") means either "to transform or alter for the worse; to wrest, twist, distort, pervert" or—much less negatively—"to alter the form or appearance of; to change, modify, refashion (not necessarily for the worse)." Which definition applies to the "turkening" of that shrewd fellow, poetic license, is uncertain in Gascoigne's account. Are the alterations wrought in the common language by poetic usage "perversions" of that language, or are they simply acts of "refashioning" and "modification"? Is poetic license an invitation to poetic licentiousness? Insofar as it signifies a potentially illicit "turning" of language, "turken" is also a synonym for "trope," the operation by which words, as Puttenham says, "haue their sense and understanding altered and figured... by transport, abuse, crosse-naming, new-naming, change of name" (189). Such conversions force both language and listeners from their common uses: when speech is ornamented with "figures rhethoricall," Puttenham writes, it possesses, in addition to the "ordinarie vertues" of "sententiousnes, and copious amplification," an "instrument of conueyance for... carrying or transporting [meaning] farther off or nearer" and for making the mind of the listener "yielding and flexible," susceptible to persuasion in any direction (207). Figuration invests language with the power to transport listeners, both within and beyond the confines of the mother tongue. There is, of course, another ambiguity nested in Gascoigne's uncommon turn of phrase, with its etymological relation to early modern England's preeminent figure for _global_ difference and licentious excess: the Turk. According to the _OED_ , while "turken" and "turkesse" are understood by some as versions of the French "torquer" or the Latin "torquere," meaning "to twist," this etymology presents "difficulties both of form and sense." An alternative derivation, "from Turk and Turkeys, [or] Turkish," is suggested since, as the _OED_ observes, "they were often associated with these words." A survey of the citations provided in the _OED_ suggests that these two etymologies converged in the early seventeenth century, when "turken," "turkesse," and "turkize" were used to describe the transformation or conversion of sacred language or objects or individuals from Christian truth to Islamic error. In _Purchas His Pilgrimage_ (1613), for instance, Samuel Purchas describes how "the Turkes, when they turkeised it [St. Sophia], threw downe the Altars, [and] turned the Bells into great Ordinance," while a citation from 1648 deplores "those... which are so audacious as to turcase the revealed, and sealed Standard of our salvation... to the misshapen models of their intoxicated phansies." Gascoigne's use of "turkeneth" does not explicitly invoke the presence of Islam, but his witty phrasing invites readers to locate his discussion of poetic license within a larger conversation about the boundary between the native and the foreign, the natural and the unnatural, the lawful and the unlawful. The link between the foreign and the poetic, Gascoigne suggests, inheres in the (dangerously) transformative power of each. In texts such as Sherry's _Treatise_ , Puttenham's _Arte_ , Gascoigne's _Notes_ , and even Wilson's concertedly domesticated _Rhetorique_ , eloquence thus finds a place within the vernacular that is as extravagant as it is English. Critics are not wrong to claim these texts as important contributions to the formulation of cultural and linguistic identity, but the versions of English and Englishness they produce resist assimilation to England itself: depending on where one looks in the corpus of vernacular rhetoric, language becomes eloquent either by reinscribing the boundaries of intimacy and familiarity or by transgressing those bounds in the pursuit of the exotic and the new. That indeterminacy is, as suggested throughout this chapter, a mark of English rhetoric's persistent classicism, its grounding in a tradition that simultaneously denigrated and romanticized the speech of strangers, positing foreignness as both the antithesis and the epitome of linguistic refinement. Because it so insistently foregrounded the distinction between native and foreign, the discourse of racial, cultural, and geographic identity internal to the classical conception of eloquence both impeded and abetted its translation into England: on the one hand, sixteenth-century England's distance and difference from classical antiquity were all too easily read as markers of barbarity; on the other hand, the ancient geography of eloquence proved surprisingly amenable to the incursions of outsiders. Insofar as their attempts to translate classical terms and precepts into English met with resistance, then, this was not necessarily (or at least not only) cause for alarm on the part of the first vernacular rhetoricians and poetic theorists, for they could claim alienation as the signal feature of style and imagine an English language enriched and enlarged by its estrangement from both the classical past and itself. For vernacular literary writers too, the discovery that their own prose or verse would have to depart from the models of Greek and Roman eloquence engendered both self-consciousness and daring—daring to assert native custom against antique precept and daring to discard native custom in favor of eccentric alternatives. The chapters that follow assess formal strategies that arise from frustrating, even humiliating, linguistic confrontations: English sentences' inability to mimic the periodic structure of classical prose; English poets' exclusion from the breeding ground of classical poetry; English meter's failure to adhere to the rules of Greek and Roman versification. In each case linguistic necessity proves the mother of stylistic innovation, and stylistic innovation unmoors seemingly fixed categories of identity and difference. _Chapter 3_ "A World to See": Euphues's Wayward Style Reprinted in some twenty editions in the decades following its initial publication, _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (1578) made John Lyly the most influential prose writer of the late sixteenth century. The richly ornamented, densely patterned style of Lyly's romance produced a popular sensation, a host of imitators, and a distinctly mixed set of critical responses: for every Francis Meres, whose litany of English authors in his 1598 _Palladis Tamia_ named "eloquent and wittie Iohn Lilly" as one of "the best... amongst vs," there was a Gabriel Harvey, who bluntly declared, "I cannot stand... Euphuing." The vehemence with which those early readers responded to _Euphues_ 's distinctive style has guaranteed its place in literary history, but the text has persisted in seeming marginal—too "peculiarly mannered," as a recent editor notes, to fit in any larger narrative of vernacular literature and culture. But _Euphues_ , both as a cultural phenomenon and as a literary work, has much to teach us about the encounter between ideals of eloquence and of Englishness in the late sixteenth century—and, precisely because it is so ostentatiously "peculiar," about the rivalrous impulses toward familiarity and estrangement that structure that encounter. At the heart of the heated debate over "euphuing" or euphuism, as Lyly's style came to be known, was an implicit question about the English language's own natural limits: to some readers, _Euphues_ 's hyperornate expressivity proved that the boundaries of English had been too narrowly fixed; to others, it fostered a perilous conflation of eloquence with excess. Lyly does not simply provide the fodder for that debate; he also helps to set its terms, crafting a narrative of errancy and promiscuity that reflects cannily on its own departure from the usual precincts of vernacular style. Anticipating and even prescribing responses to the extremity of its rhetoric, _Euphues_ transforms the conventional romance plot into an ironic and insightful critique of the English pursuit of eloquence. One Step Further The story of _Euphues_ 's reception by late sixteenth-century readers is a familiar one, but the precise texture of that response bears closer examination. Acclaim for _Euphues_ tended to focus on how directly its style seemed to answer anxieties about the adequacy of English as a literary language. As Graham Tulloch observes, Lyly was no inkhornist: "For all the elaboration of his style Lyly shows very little fondness for aureate diction; his vocabulary is basically that of the vernacular." Thus William Webbe's 1586 _Discourse of English Poetrie_ could hail _Euphues_ as a "manifest example" of "the great good grace and sweete vayne, which Eloquence hath attained in oure speech." What made _Euphues_ remarkable in Webbe's eyes was its reconciliation of vernacular diction to classical rhetorical forms: here, at last, was an "English worke answerable, in respect of the glorious ornaments of gallant handling," to the greatest achievements of Greek and Latin oratory. "[S]urely," Webbe enthuses, "in respecte of his singuler eloquence and braue composition of apt words and sentences, let the learned examine and make tryall thereof thorough all the partes of Rethoricke, in fitte phrases, in pithy sentences, in gallant tropes, in flowing speeche, in plaine sence, and surely in my iudgment, I thinke he wyll yeelde him that verdict, which Quintilian giueth of bothe the best Orators Demosthenes and Tully, that from the one nothing may be taken away, to the other nothing may be added." Lyly, he concludes, "hath deserved most high commendations as hee which hath stept one steppe further then any either before or since he first began the wyttie discourse of his Euphues." But that "steppe further" could equally be perceived as a step out of bounds: Thomas Nashe, Lyly's sometime friend, accused him of having "surfetted vnawares with the sweete sacietie of eloquence, which the lavish of our copious language maie procure," surely the first time that an English author was charged with such an error. More pointedly critical is Philip Sidney's assault on euphuism in his _Apologie for Poetrie_ (1595), which charged Lyly and his imitators with having "appareled, or rather disguised" that "hony-flowing Matron Eloquence... in a Curtisan-like painted affectation," adorning her "with so farre fetched words, that many seeme Monsters, but must seeme strangers to any poore English man." In love with "figures and phrases" gathered from arcane sources, Sidney jibed, the euphuists "cast sugar and spice upon every dish that is served to the table"; like barbarous "Indians, not content to weare eare-rings at the fit and naturall place of the eares," they "thrust jewels through their nose and lippes, because they will be sure to be fine." _Astrophil and Stella_ (1591), composed at the height of _Euphues_ 's initial fame, glances slightingly at Lyly in its mockery of those "dainty wittes" who "flaunt in their phrases fine" and "with straunge similes inrich each line, / Of hearbes and beasts, which _Inde_ or _Affricke_ hold"—readers should not look for such curiosities in his own verse, Sidney cautions, for "straunge things cost too deere for my poore sprites." Like Webbe's image of the "step further," Sidney's painted courtesan, the spiced and sugared dish, and the jewel-laden Indian implicate euphuism in a larger debate about the insular linguistic identity of the "poor English man"—and, especially, about the vernacular's capacity for _copia_ , or rhetorical abundance. In Webbe's view euphuism extends the reach of a tongue whose constraints otherwise betray "the rudenesse [and] vnaptenesse of our Countrey" (20); in Sidney's view it nurtures a taste for strangeness more likely to bankrupt the vernacular than to enrich it. As it happens, this very tension between constraint and excess, poverty and prodigality structures Lyly's own perspective on _Euphues_. In the dedicatory epistle to the text's first edition, he announces that certain kinds of eloquence lie beyond his reach: comparing himself to a humble "butcher," "horse-leech," "shoemaker," or "hedger," he begs pardon for the "rudeness" of his "discourse" and consoles himself with the thought that "[t]hough the style nothing delight the dainty ear of the curious sifter, yet will the matter recreate the mind of the courteous reader." And yet, anticipating Sidney's equation of stylistic ornament with the costliness of "strange things," he adds, "Things of greatest profit are set forth with least price." Having made the case for rhetorical simplicity, however, Lyly promptly—and paradoxically—proceeds to enrich it: When the wine is neat there needeth no ivy bush. The right coral needeth no colouring. Where the matter itself bringeth credit, the man with his gloss winneth small commendation. It is, therefore, me thinketh, a greater show of a pregnant wit than perfect wisdom in a thing of sufficient excellency to use superfluous eloquence. We commonly see that a black ground doth best beseem a white countenance. And Venus, according to the judgment of Mars, was then most amiable when she sat close by Vulcanus. If these things be true which experience trieth—that a naked tale doth most truly set forth the naked truth, that where the countenance is fair there need no colours, that painting is meeter for ragged walls than fine marble, that verity then shineth most bright when she is in least bravery—I shall satisfy mine own mind, though I cannot feed their humours which greatly seek after those that sift the finest meal and bear the whitest mouths. It is a world to see how Englishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language will allow, to eat finer bread than is made of wheat, to wear finer cloth than is made of wool. (5–6) This is euphuism in a (necessarily somewhat roomy) nutshell—the relentless use of parataxis, the heaping of example upon example, the mingling of homespun proverbial wisdom and references to classical lore—but it is also a maddeningly difficult passage to interpret. Obviously, Lyly chooses a needlessly elaborate way of making a case against needless elaboration, and it is hard to take his reproof of "superfluous eloquence" or his indignation at the immoderate desires of English readers at face value when those statements are couched in prose whose only stylistic rule would seem to be that more is more. Indeed threaded through the homily on sufficiency is a pattern of rhymes and near-rhymes—read/need/feed/eat/see/seek—that tell a rather different story about the self-perpetuating nature of both desire and language. If, as Lyly charges, the English reader's desire for fine speech exceeds the reach of his homely mother tongue, his own fondness for what Sidney calls "sugar and spices"—for curious analogies, ear-catching patterns of alliteration, and rhythmically stylized phrasing—belies his professed attachment to the language of wheat and wool. For C. S. Lewis, this disjuncture was evidence of hypocrisy: inverting Lyly's injunction to mind his matter and not his style, Lewis declared that _Euphues_ could "only be read... for the style," for "the more seriously we take [its content] the more odious [it] will appear." Judith Rice Henderson more generously assumes that the passage—in fact, the whole of _Euphues_ —is a kind of joke, Lyly's way of poking fun at the moral pretensions of his age: in Lyly, she argues, we find the rare "humanist capable of laughing at himself." And surely some allowance must be made for wit—the object of the "anatomy," after all—but Lyly may be in earnest when he suggests that the desire for fine speech strains the resources of the vernacular just as the desire for other foreign commodities strains the limits of the native economy, for this very tension between the virtues of home and the appeal of the far-fetched is central to the story he proposes to tell. Euphues's near-dissolution in a seductive foreign landscape provides an apt reflection of Lyly's self-consciously daring effort to extend the reach of vernacular prose, and his errant progress from Athens to Naples mimics the dilatory drift of Lyly's sentences. Indeed, as a number of more recent critics have argued, it is impossible to read Lyly for the style without noticing its entanglement in his subject: "[I]t is not merely the extravagance but the entirety of Lyly's audacious examination of humanism that now so fixes us," writes Arthur Kinney; "humanist ideas as well as humanist rhetoric are seen from multiple view [within _Euphues_ ] and become the _total_ matter and manner of his fiction." Neither is it possible to separate his reflections on the vernacular from his concern for his wayward protagonist. For the insatiable English reader of Lyly's epistle bears an unmistakable resemblance to the figure introduced in the opening passage of the narrative: "Euphues, whose wit being like wax apt to receive any impression, and having the bridle in his own hands either to use the rein or the spur, disdaining counsel, leaving his country, loathing his old acquaintance, thought either by wit to obtain some conquest or by shame to abide some conflict and leaving the rule of reason, rashly ran into destruction; who preferring fancy before friends and his present humour before honour to come, laid reason in water, being too salt for his taste, and followed unbridled affection most pleasant for his tooth" (11). Like Lyly's superfluous sermonizing on superfluity, the strung-on clauses and convoluted conjunctions of this sentence seem designed in ironic counterpoint to its moralizing against its subject's undisciplined careering. Indeed it is worth pausing to notice how closely Euphues's impulsive and greedy disposition corresponds to euphuism's compulsively additive syntax. As Janel Mueller observes, Lyly draws heavily on the parallel structure of biblical rhetoric, but his intricately wrought equivocations tend not to resolve into straightforward declarations; rather they "thwart closure... by a surplusage of contrastive elements"—"one step further" is exactly the impulse that drives his style. Here the surplus of syntactical units unbalances Lyly's sentences in ways that mimic the unbalancing of Euphues's own mind: the seeming parallelism of "being," "having," "disdaining," "leaving," "loathing," "leaving," "preferring," and "being" occludes an oscillation between subjects—"Euphues," his waxen "wit," and "reason"—that Lyly eventually pinpoints as the essence of his protagonist's folly. For the reader, the indeterminacy of reference creates a niggling sense of uncertainty as to the moral of his story: does Euphues leave the rule of reason before or after he leaves his home in Athens? Is travel abroad the cause or merely a symptom of his degradation? At a later point in the narrative, Euphues will debate these very questions with a would-be counselor; should we refer back to the narrator's own original account of things to settle the matter, we discover that the sonorous but shifty quality of Lyly's prose resists any conclusive judgment. In its propensity to mislead the unwary reader, the euphuistic sentence foregrounds—even exaggerates—a basic distinction between English and the classical tongues; far from approximating antique oratorical style, as William Webbe alleges, the hyperextensibility of many of Lyly's sentences is the clearest mark of their vulgarity. Classical and neo-Latin prose stylists relied on the _periodos_ , or "period," to reconcile the demands of rhetorical expansiveness with those of logical and syntactical coherence. The recursive structure of the periodic sentence—which, as Demetrius observes in his treatise _On Style_ , takes its name from "paths traversed in a circle"—enabled orators to digress and amplify without sacrificing what Sidney identifies as the "chiefe marke of Oratory," the impression of "playne sensibleness" that is "the nearest step to perswasion." "I call a period an expression having a beginning and end in itself and a magnitude easily taken in at a glance," writes Aristotle in book 3 of the _Art of Rhetoric_. "This is pleasant and easily understood, pleasant because opposed to the unlimited, and because the hearer always thinks he has a hold of something, in that it is always limited by itself." If, as Aristotle insists, eloquence ought to generate a sense of communal belonging, founded on the invocation of shared assumptions and ideals, the period builds this sensation into each individual utterance, so that every sentence, however amplified or digressive, resembles a collective journey home. But the self-limiting power of the classical period depends on the syntactical flexibility of an inflected language: the artful deferral of completion of the main subject-verb clause until the sentence's end allows the orator to circumscribe his thoughts so that they arrive at what feels like a logically necessary end. Because it depends on word order to convey the relation between terms, the English sentence lacks this homeward thrust; its meaning is yoked much more closely to conventional arrangements of its component parts, and sentences that stray from those conventions flirt with unintelligibility. Sixteenth-century English writers understood this constraint as a major obstacle to the attainment of eloquence in the vernacular; paradoxically it is a constraint that betrays itself as superfluity. In the preface to his 1570 translation of three orations by Demosthenes, Thomas Wilson confesses that the chief beauty of the Greek orator's style, "his short knitting vp of his matters together" in periodic form, is absent from his own prose, being "hard and vnable to be translated, according to the excellencie of his tongue"; at times, he admits, he has been forced to resort to "addicions in the margine" or an italicized "sentence or half a sentence... not in the Greeke, but added onely, for the more playne vnderstanding of the matter." Sounding a good deal like John Lyly, Wilson protests in defense of his translation that "all can not weare Veluet, or feede with the best, and therefore such are contented for necessities sake to weare our Countrie cloth, and to take themselues to harde fare, that can haue no better." Wilson's embarrassment that he has been forced to supplement Demosthenes's neat periods mirrors the embarrassment Lyly expresses at the immoderate desires of English readers, or that Sidney embodies in the figure of the barbarously bejeweled Indian: in each case excess is an outward sign of a fundamental impoverishment. But the reverse is no less true: the loosely conjunctive structure of the English sentence also aids the proliferation of illustrations, examples, similitudes, and other ornaments, and such figurative abundance—or _copia_—is what sixteenth-century writers were taught to identify as the essence of rhetorical skill. It is no wonder, then, that _Euphues_ aroused such conflicted responses in early readers, or that even Lyly seems ambivalent about his style: euphuism thrives on the conjunction of one of the vernacular's most glaring defects with one of its most alluring prospects for enrichment. The sweet-toothed, straying youth introduced in _Euphues_ 's opening pages does not simply resemble the narrative's readers; he is also a figure for its author, whose endlessly digressive style flaunts his own capacious appetite for the wealth to be gotten from alien texts. Words on the Move _Euphues_ is a story about the perils and pleasures of foreign travel, but it is also a story about the perils and pleasures of a rhetorical technique—commonplacing, or the harvesting of proverbs, sententiae, similitudes, and exempla from classical texts for reuse in one's own writing—whose kinship to travel made it at once seductive and suspect to an English audience. This latter claim requires some explication, for commonplacing is typically understood as an attempt to anchor texts in the firmest possible ground, that of ancient authority. Indeed, on the face of it, commonplacing is the least likely of all early modern rhetorical practices to arouse the fear and fascination associated with foreign travel: if travel means leaving behind the familiar and courting the unknown, commonplacing, as Walter Ong has shown, entails "an organized trafficking in what in one way or another is already known." It is this recycling of knowledge, Henderson argues, that "prescribes the plot" of Lyly's romance, which "illustrates a series of 'olde sayed sawes' ": "witte is the better is it bee the deerer bought"; "wit... deemeth no pennye good silver but his own"; "amitie grounded upon a little affection... shall be dissolved upon a light occasion"; the fool "thinketh all to bee golde that glistered." It is not simply that such phrases, and the ideas they express, lack originality; rather, as Jeff Dolven has argued, commonplaces are "a kind of teaching antithetical to the career of accident" that romance is meant to describe, and the formulaic and familiar wit they display "is a kind of enemy of narrative." Dolven's thoughtful effort to read _Euphues_ 's plot alongside its style leads him to conclude that the two are at cross-purposes: Lyly's substitution of the atemporal, fixed discourse of commonplacing for the fictive progress typical of his genre constitutes, in Dolven's view, a perverse and self-defeating experiment, as the prospect of discovery held out by Euphues's foreign travels is repeatedly frustrated by the fundamentally conservative impulses of "purely bookish, schoolmasterly authority." But _Euphues_ and the excited (even alarmed) responses it aroused in its first readers point us to a rather different understanding of commonplacing, especially as it relates to the aspirations of vernacular writers. For all its modern associations with the most conservative impulses of Renaissance rhetoric and pedagogy, in the early modern imagination commonplacing was a mode of exploration and discovery, feeding as much on desires for novelty and variety as it did on admiration for the ancient and unchanging. For as Ong also points out, it was the strangeness and novelty of the classical tradition—the fact that "Latin... was a foreign language to all its users" and its wisdom "much newer than the products of more recent centuries"—that made commonplacing so necessary to early modern readers: the "common knowledge" presumed by classical authors required self-conscious cultivation on the part of a Renaissance schoolboy. Thus Thomas Wilson, even as he obsesses over the incompatibility of Greek with English, urges his readers of his translation to appropriate Demosthenes's style for themselves by copying passages from his orations in their own hands: For... who can euer come to any such excellencye that doth not acquaynte himselfe first wyth the best, yea and seeketh to followe the chiefest that haue traueyled in those thinges, the perfection whereof hee wysheth to gette? So did Plato traueyle from Greece into Aegypt: Aristotell from Stagira in Macedonie, to Athens in Greece, to heare his maister Plato: and Cicero from Rome to Athens, and Anacharsis that barbarous Scithian to talke with Solon that wyse law maker of Athens, seeking euerye one of them the best abrode, when they coulde not haue them at home. ("A Preface to the Reader," _Three Orations_ , sig. [a3v]) Lyly's exclamation in his dedicatory epistle that "It is a world to see how Englishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language will allow" draws on this same association of travel and travail, reading and seeking. "It is a world to see" is a conventional expression of incredulity, but in this context it also signals the expansive ambition of the humanist reader, trained (by schoolmasters and rhetoricians alike) to regard classical literature as foreign material awaiting conversion to his personal use. The habit of dissecting what one read and entering it into a notebook for reuse in one's own writing was, as Wilson suggests, a way of domesticating this vast and alien tradition. But the condensed form of the typical commonplace-book entry—often as brief as a sentence or phrase—also made the diversity of the classical tradition a source of intellectual stimulation and pleasure: skipping from one entry to the next, juxtaposing citations from disparate sources, and extracting passages at will for use elsewhere, the owner of a commonplace book was in possession of an endlessly mobile form of eloquence. "The transformation of the text into notebooks," writes Rebecca Bushnell, "converted... pieces of writing into counters of currency, spatially distinct, usable and distinguishable"—commonplacing allowed readers to take possession of texts by transporting them, bit by bit, into new places of their own. In this regard, Bushnell points out, commonplacing plays a double role: as a means of generating new writing, of saying more about any given topic, the commonplace book was an instrument in service of the multiplication of words and texts; as a method of "cutting books into pieces and compressing the pieces in a 'small compass,' " commonplacing rendered an unmanageably diverse—and rapidly proliferating—world of books traversable. Traversable and profitable: as one early modern schoolboy observed in his commonplace book, the goal was not to collect everything but only those things likely to prove useful to the collector, to "note some Rhetoricall expressions, Description, or some very apt Simile, or a very applicative story, and the most choise morrall sentences, and here a mans sense must direct him, when he considers how aptly such a thing would fitt with an exercise of his." The literal portability of the commonplace book was, as Peter Beal has noted, crucial to its value; its suitability for "use as a _vade mecum_ " guaranteed its owner's readiness for any rhetorical occasion. This portability is the focus of a letter written in 1521 by the man chiefly responsible for English schoolboys' indoctrination in commonplacing, the Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus. Erasmus's letter congratulates its recipient, Adrianus Barlandus, on the completion of a pocket-sized version or epitome of the _Adagia_ , Erasmus's massive compilation of "brilliant aphorisms, apt metaphors, proverbs, and similar figures of speech... from approved authors of every sort." If the personal or manuscript commonplace book was a way of distilling one's own reading to more manageable proportions, the _Adagia_ represented an even more useful tool: a predigested compendium of the whole classical tradition. And yet, Erasmus confesses, his constant additions to the collection had made it "too large a volume to be within reach of those in modest circumstances, or to be read in grammar schools, or to be carried round with them by those who like strolling players are always on the move." However, thanks to Barlandus's "admirable undertaking," he writes, the _Adagia_ "can be bought by anyone however ill endowed, and thumbed by schoolboys, and will add little weight to a traveler's baggage." Erasmus's concern for those readers who "are always on the move" may stem from his own ample experience of the rigors of early modern travel: as Kathy Eden recalls, the _Adagia_ was born out of a spectacularly bad trip, a journey Erasmus made to England at the end of the fifteenth century. The aim of the journey was to secure the patronage of a young nobleman, Lord Mount-joy, but the money Mountjoy gave to Erasmus never made it out of England: when the Dutch humanist attempted to leave the country, he was informed by customs officials that it was illegal to export English coins and that his purse would therefore have to remain with them. Erasmus's loss was England's gain: needing cash and eager to assure his patron that he bore him no ill will, Erasmus hastily assembled his collection of commonplaces, dedicated the text to Mountjoy, and published it in 1500 as the _Adagiorum collectanea_ , or _Collection of Adages_. Eden's reading of this anecdote (which Erasmus recounts in a letter he then includes as part of his 1522 treatise on letter writing, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ ) highlights Erasmus's concern with the transmission and sharing of property across time, space, and cultural distance, especially between ancient and modern writers. Eden places particular emphasis on the word Erasmus uses to describe his ongoing additions to the _Adages_ , the "curious compound _locupletare_ from _locus-plenus_ [full of places]," a term she identifies with his anxiety about the confiscation of his property and his desire to redress that loss with rhetorical abundance. "Full of places" is also, of course, an apt description of the universalizing intent of the commonplace book, which in its Latin form, as Ann Moss argues, served as "the common ground for a European culture increasingly divided by language." This perception of the commonplace book as an easily traversable, shared space conforms, moreover, to Erasmus's understanding of the adage, which is, as he emphasizes in his introduction to the edition of 1508, a rhetorical form whose value rests entirely in its portability. The Greek word for "adage," _paroemia_ , means "a road... well polished in use," while the Latin _adagium_ refers to "something passed around." Thus, he explains, the adage derives its persuasive force from the fact that it "travels everywhere on the lips of men" and may be transferred from one context to another without losing its value. In this sense the adage is emblematic of Erasmus's whole approach to rhetoric, which depends on the writer's ability to treat words and phrases as movable goods, appropriating language from one textual locale and transplanting it to another, all the while enlarging and enriching his private store, organized under topical headings that could themselves be conceived as "places" for visiting and inhabiting. According to the _Adagia_ 's theoretical counterpart, Erasmus's 1512 treatise _De duplici copia verborum ac rerum comentarii duo_ , the transfer of phrases from source text to commonplace book serves as an engine for eloquence, the travel between rhetorical places yielding a correspondingly vigorous and mobile style. "The speech of man is a magnificent and impressive thing when it surges along like a golden river, with thoughts and words pouring out in rich abundance," _De Copia_ begins. But if Erasmus promoted commonplacing as a way of evening the distribution of rhetorical wealth—securing from abroad what could not be had at home, as Wilson puts it—he also burnishes its allure by representing it as a potentially dangerous and costly adventure. "Yet the pursuit of speech like this involves considerable risk," _De Copia_ continues: "As the proverb says, 'Not every man has the means to visit the city of Corinth.' " Erasmus glosses the saying, which appears in the earliest edition of the _Adagia_ , as an illustration of the skill and perseverance needed to master the rhetoric of abundance or _copia_ : like the merchants who sought access to the ancient city of Corinth, whose position on a narrow isthmus between Europe and Asia made it both uncommonly wealthy and uncommonly difficult to approach, he explains, the student who wishes to cultivate his own abundant style faces an arduous but richly rewarding journey. The commonplace book's topical headings set the itinerary for this journey: "Anyone training with a view to acquire eloquence," Erasmus instructs, "will have to look at all the possible places—that is, topics—in turn, go knocking from door to door so to speak, to see if anything can be induced to emerge." Each individual topic then becomes its own point of departure, as the student is urged to generate a variety of perspectives on his theme. It is only by entertaining all possible means of expression, Erasmus emphasizes, that an orator can adapt his speech perfectly to the demands of a given situation, choosing to perform Attic brevity, or "the exuberance of Asianism," or "the intermediate style of Rhodes." Commonplacing was not only a means of mastering the vast topical resources—"all the possible places"—of classical eloquence and its richly various stylistic geography; it was also an instrument for appropriating to the arts of eloquence all that the classical world did _not_ know, precisely because its own geography was so limited. Those eager for wealth of expression, Erasmus reminds readers of _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , would do well not to restrict themselves to Homer and Cicero but to draw on what is "readily available and close to hand" and what is exotically far-fetched: "For each race," he reminds his readers, "has its own marvels, ceremonies, and institutions," and "Africans, Jews, Spaniards, French, English, or Germans" are as likely sources for an apt simile or a striking expression as the Greeks and Romans. "One should therefore apply as many different illustrations as possible at each point, derived not only from the whole range of Greek and Latin literature, but also from the sayings of other nations": true _copia_ , he emphasizes, derives not simply from "antiquity" but from "recent history, and things in our own lives," for "[e]ven today, sailors and traders, who rush across land and sea in their eagerness to acquire wealth," report "wonders no less extraordinary than those antiquity is thought to have invented." The model of those eager sailors and traders inspired quite a few early modern commonplacers—indeed the analogy between global exploration and the labor of reading and writing functions as a kind of meta-commonplace of sixteenth-century humanism. Thus, Theodor Zwinger, compiler of the immense _Theatrum humanae vitae_ (1565), repeatedly compares his work as a collector and organizer of classical quotations to that of geographers and cartographers, likening his "ranging of _exempla_ under titles ( _tituli_ )... to the plotting of travels such as those of Alexander the Great and of Ulysses." Another sixteenth-century collector of commonplaces, Ravisius Textor, made actual geography the foundation of his popular compendia: the _Specimen Epithetorum_ (1518) contains long lists of epithets fit for various parts of the globe (Africa is "glowing, fertile, full of fords, bristling, teeming with wild beasts"; the inhabitants of Arabia are "rich in odours, palm-bearing, incense-collecting, tender, Oriental, wealthy, ardent, opulent, and so on"), while the _Cornucopia_ section of Textor's _Officina_ (1520) charts the natural abundance of various goods in countries around the world. For Erasmus and his contemporaries, then, commonplacing figures as the ideal and essential rhetorical strategy of a cosmopolitan age, a practice that allows writers to enfold geographic and historical diversity into a unified whole, "passing," as Erasmus says in _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , "from Egyptian and Phrygian to Persian, from Persian and Syrian to Greek, from Greek to Hebrew and thence to Roman, from Roman to barbarian, from Gentile to Christian, from foreign to those of our own country, until we reach the events of our own nation and finally our own home." Stylistic abundance, like material wealth, is the function of an extraordinarily wide-ranging, even global ambition: the student desirous of this kind of eloquence must, Erasmus famously claims, "ma[ke] up [his] mind to cover the whole field of literature": "no discipline," he insists, "is so remote from rhetoric that you cannot use it to enrich your collection." As evidence of "how far one can go" in this pursuit, Erasmus offers a "practical demonstration" of _copia_ , concluding the introductory section of _De Copia_ with a list of more than a hundred variations of a single sentence, _Tuae litterae me magnopere delectarunt_ , or "Your letter greatly pleased me." His modifications range from the blandly local—inserting a proper name in place of "your," using "delighted" instead of "pleased"—to the sumptuously far-fetched: "The pages of my dear Faustus were more splendid to me than Sicilian feasts"; "The lotus tastes not as sweet to any mortal man as your letters do to me"; "Your letter was to me a positive 'choice morsel' for a Persian, as the Greeks say." Some of these variants may, he confesses, seem implausible—"hardly... tolerable in prose"—but that is the beauty of the rhetoric of _copia_ : its expansiveness permits experimentation and even errancy in pursuit of the perfect expression. "It is foolish to bind utterance to fixed laws," Erasmus scolds in _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , and to expect all eloquence "to conform to a single type, or to teach that [it] should,... is in my view at least to impose a narrow and inflexible definition on what is by nature diverse and capable of almost infinite variation." _Almost_ infinite: although he dedicated the _Adagia_ to an English patron and wrote _De Copia_ for John Colet's pupils at St. Paul's School, Erasmus nowhere suggests that the promise of _copia_ extends so far as English itself—his energies are directed solely to the cultivation of Latin eloquence. And yet to his sixteenth-century English readers, the method propounded in _De Copia_ and exemplified by the _Adagia_ offered an irresistible prospect, that of commonplacing as a means of transcending geographic and temporal alienation and transporting eloquence across textual and linguistic boundaries: "seeking... the best abrode, when they coulde not haue them at home," as Wilson writes. The breadth and heterogeneity of the commonplace book compensated for the narrowness and sameness of private experience: Erasmus, Gabriel Harvey wrote in the margins of his copy of the _Similia_ , "will teach a man to Temporize and Localize at occasion"—to find a manner of expression fit for any circumstance. Erasmus's friend William Warham, the archbishop of Canterbury, claimed to carry his copy of the _Adagia_ "with him wherever he went," so as never to be without an apt means of expressing himself. Thomas Elyot confessed that although a rigorous course of study in Greek and Latin authors was the ideal prerequisite for anyone seeking to write well, _De Copia_ alone made a fair substitute: "in good faythe to speake boldly that I think: for him that nedeth nat, or doth nat desire to be an exquisite oratour, the litle boke made by the famous Erasmus (whom all gentill wittis are bounden to thanke and supporte) which he calleth _Copiam verborum et rerum_ , that is to say, plenty of wordes and maters, shall be sufficient." Indeed, although Erasmus defines _copia_ in terms of the rich potential of Latin, his methods had a particular appeal to those who wished to promote the rhetorical and poetic fortunes of a vernacular typically characterized in terms of its rudeness and rusticity. To English authors accustomed to thinking of their native tongue as homespun and coarse grained, commonplacing offered the opportunity to introduce into the language a new world of ideas and expressions: the habit of scouring texts for bits and pieces of quotable material, as Steven Zwicker notes, "focused the mind... on what was translatable and transportable." Not surprisingly, then, the sixteenth century witnessed more than one attempt to import the wealth of Erasmian eloquence into the vernacular, beginning with Richard Taverner's 1539 _Proverbes or Adagies_ , an English version of the _Adagia_ dedicated "to the furtheraunce... of my natiue country." And yet Erasmian commonplaces did not necessarily or easily accommodate the aims of the English translator: the preface to Thomas Chaloner's 1549 translation of Erasmus's _Moriae encomium_ notes that Erasmus's fondness for proverbial expressions made him—like Demosthenes—an especially _difficult_ subject for translation, since the ideas that commonplaces express may have universal appeal, but their phrasing is often explicitly local. "[I]n my translacion I haue not peined my selfe to render worde for woorde," Chaloner confesses, "nor prouerbe for prouerbe, werof many be... such as haue no grace in our tounge: but rather markyng the sense, I applied it to the phrase of our englishe. And where the prouerbes would take no englishe, I aduentured to put englisshe prouerbes of like waight in their places, whiche maie be thought by some cunnyng translatours a deadly sinne." Gabriel Harvey certainly thought so, accusing Taverner, Chaloner, and their ilk of having "turkissed" Erasmus's Latin eloquence—a charge that equates vernacularization with sacrilege and English translators with the specter of encroaching Islam. Some, such as Sir Henry Wotton, regarded the dissemination of printed commonplace books, whether English or Latin, as a dubious endeavor, however well done: Wotton complains that such collections, by relieving readers not only of the effort of reading classical texts in their original form but even of learning Latin at all, "show a short course to those who are contented to know a little, and a sure way to such whose care is not to understand much." It is in this context that we might best understand both the appeal and the danger of _Euphues_ , for no English author made more diligent use of the many versions of Erasmus available to the early modern English reader than John Lyly. _Euphues_ is written in what Ann Moss calls "the language of the commonplace book" and is organized, as Arthur Kinney observes, as "a series of exercises in copia." Both the moralizing frame and the hyperstylized diction are, Judith Rice Henderson argues, "most easily explained as Elizabethan schoolboy rhetoric"—as a carefully wrought tribute to the principles and the pattern of Erasmus's own eloquence. The hundreds of proverbs, illustrations, similitudes, and sententiae with which Lyly fleshes out the skeleton of his plot are nearly all derived not from primary sources but from the pages of the _Adagia_ and its companion texts, the _Similia_ and the _Apophthegmata_ , while the epistles collected at the end of the narrative are structured according to the instructions provided in _De Conscribendis Epistolis_. "Reading through the _De Copia_ ," Joel Altman observes, "one can recapture momentarily the excitement that a man like John Lyly must have experienced"—excitement at the prospect of an eloquence limited only by its author's willingness to amass textual fragments and compound them into something new. Wandering in Study It was the spectacle of those glittering fragments that distinguished Lyly from his predecessors and peers, earning him his place in Thomas Lodge's canon of England's "divine wits, in many things as sufficient as all Antiquity": " _Lilly_ , the famous for facility in discourse," is the first vernacular author to achieve something like Erasmian abundance. But _Euphues_ also deliberately confronts readers with the ethical and rhetorical hazards of commonplacing, with the allure of the short cut and the risk of the false turn: "Lyly," Andrew Hadfield observes, "appears to... enjoy the copiousness of his style and simultaneously to be suspicious of it." For if commonplacing encourages writers to regard language as eminently portable, transferable across temporal, linguistic, and textual boundaries, it is this portability of language that Lyly's prose both exploits and critiques, turning a story of geographic errancy, in which travel functions as an impetus to morally wayward behavior, into a far more complicated meditation on the waywardness of rhetoric itself. Euphues's copious expressivity permits him a kind of cosmopolitan ease, but it threatens to leave him morally and socially unmoored. Here we would do well to recall the influence of the text from which Lyly derived not only his title but also the geographic lineaments of his plot—the course of Euphues's ill-fated journey from virtuous Athens to decadent Naples and (not quite) back—and his suspicion of rhetorical errancy: Roger Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ , in which _euphues_ appears as the first of seven qualities requisite in the ideal pupil, describing "he that is apte by goodnes of witte, and appliable by readines of will, to learning." The kind of learning that interests Ascham, of course, is the learning of Latin, and one of _The Scholemaster_ 's primary aims is to propose a course of study that would allow English youths to master that tongue without being exposed to "the inchantmentes of Circes, the vanitie of licencious pleasure, [and] the inticements of all sinne" (24v)—in other words, to Italy. Ascham identifies Italian decadence with the devaluation of eloquence, falsely claimed by those who are "common discourser[s] of all matters" and "faire speaker[s]" with "talkatiue tonge[s]" but are not, emphatically, the kind of orators England so desperately needs (30r). But when it comes to the devaluation of eloquence, Ascham, it is worth noting, is equally suspicious of the commonplace book. Compiling one's own collection of wise and witty sayings is, he allows, a potentially worthwhile pursuit: "In deede bookes of common places be verie necessarie, to induce a man, into an orderlie generall knowledge," that he might "not wander in studie." But to rely exclusively on the collections of others—on Erasmus, for instance, or on the truncated versions of Erasmus produced by Barlandus, Taverner, and others—promotes the opposite fault, a kind of intellectual and textual tourism: "to dwell in _Epitomes_ and in bookes of common places, and not to binde himselfe dailie by orderlie studie," Ascham warns, "maketh so many seeming, and sonburnt ministers as we haue, whose learning is gotten in a sommer heat, and washed away, with a Christmas snow againe" (43r). This sounds very much like the language that John Lyly uses, rather less seriously, to characterize the fruits of his own learning, _Euphues_ itself, which, he writes in his preface, "I am content this winter to have read... for a toy that in summer [it] may be ready for trash" (8). In fact, the whole of Lyly's plot may be read as, in R. W. Maslen's words, "an impudent response" to _The Scholemaster_ : _Euphues_ takes Ascham's ideal pupil, furnishes him with an endless supply of commonplaces, and then exposes him to the very Circean enchantments, vanities, and enticements against which Ascham inveighs. Lyly's Naples is certainly faithful to the anti-Italian prejudices of Ascham's treatise: "a place of more pleasure than profit, and yet of more profit than piety," it is replete with "all things necessary and in readiness that might either allure the mind to lust or entice the heart to folly" (11–12). And Euphues's reaction to those enticements more than confirms Ascham's suspicions about the nefarious effects of travel on youthful minds and morals: he promptly falls in with a fast crowd, squanders his wealth, neglects his studies, and becomes the sort of "common discourser" and "faire speaker" whose glibness Ascham deplores. If Erasmus taught Gabriel Harvey to "localize at occasion," his methods seem to have taught Euphues to mimic the worst in any locale: "Being demanded of one what countryman he was," Euphues blithely responds, " 'What countryman am I not? If I be in Crete I can lie, if in Greece I can shift, if in Italy I can court it' " (13). Witnessing his folly, Eubulus, an elderly resident of the city, confronts Euphues and attempts to persuade him of the error of his ways. Eubulus echoes Ascham in wondering at the folly of Euphues's parents in permitting their young son to embark on a life of travel: did they fail to remember, he asks Euphues, "that which no man ought to forget, that the tender youth of a child is like the tempering of new wax apt to receive any form," that "the potter fashioneth his clay when it is soft," and that "the iron being hot receiveth any form with the stroke of the hammer" (14)? Such commonplaces, he argues, bespeak a general truth about the dangerous malleability of youth, which is most vulnerable to the allurements of novelty and change. Likening Euphues's moral danger to the perils of Odysseus, he cautions, "Thou art here amidst the pikes between Scylla and Charybdis.... If thou do but hearken to the Sirens thou wilt be enamoured, if thou haunt their houses and places thou wilt be enchanted" (16–17). But Euphues, in his turn, contends that Eubulus's argument is of no force, since his own rhetorical artillery is as well stocked as his adversary's—"as you have ensamples to confirm your pretence, so I have most evident and infallible arguments to serve for my purpose" (19)—and he proceeds to mount a case that the places one haunts are in no way determinative of moral character. "[S]uppose that, which I will never believe," he states, "that Naples is a cankered store-house of all strife, a common stews for all strumpets, the sink of shame, and the very nurse of sin. Shall it therefore follow of necessity that... whosoever arriveth here shall be enticed to folly and, being enticed, of force shall be entangled" (22)? In a fine display of rhetorical virtuosity, Euphues demonstrates that the raw materials of Eubulus's own commonplaces—the new wax, the soft clay, the hot iron—are themselves subject to sudden transmutations: "The similitude you rehearse of the wax argueth your waxing and melting brain, and your example of the hot and hard iron showeth in you but cold and weak disposition," he retorts, for although "the sun doth... melt the wax," making it "apt to receive any impression," it also "harden[s] the dirt." "Do you not know that which every man doth affirm and know," he rudely demands, that "there is framed of the self-same clay as well the tile to keep out water as the pot to contain liquor," and "though iron be made soft with fire it returneth to its hardness" (20)? Euphues's argument is not a refutation of Eubulus's premises; rather it is a devastatingly effective manipulation of the forms those premises take, of the endless iterability of the commonplace. It is because the similitude of the wax is, like all similitudes, waxen—apt to receive any impression—that it may be pressed as easily into service on one side of an argument as to another; conversely it is because the proverb of the iron is, like all proverbs, ironlike in its formal durability, that it may be used and reused without losing its force. Of course, Elizabethan schoolboys were trained to value such adaptability and durability as the chief signs of aptitude, not only in a rhetorical figure but also in the orator: arguing on both sides of a question, _sic et non_ , was the essence of early modern rhetorical pedagogy, the foundation of what Joel Altman calls "the Tudor play of mind." According to Erasmus, commonplaces are uniquely useful tools in this enterprise, precisely because of their lack of contextual grounding. In _De Copia_ he urges his readers, when distributing proverbs, similitudes, and sententiae into the topics of their commonplace books, to remember that "[s]ome material can serve diverse uses, and for that reason must be recorded in different places," that "[i]t is easy to modify related ideas and adapt them to neighbouring concepts," and that "[o]ne can even twist material to serve the opposite purpose." This conceit of the "neighbouring concept" raises the possibility of an argument founded not on a strict progression of logical claims but on similitude and adjacency: on the sort of witty but spurious associations Euphues uses to craft his response to Eubulus. And yet, as Euphues perceives, the very copiousness such wit engenders makes similitudes and proverbs and all the other sayings a clever and diligent schoolboy might amass in his book curiously self-defeating, indeed static. As he points out to Eubulus, they might remain at the same literal and rhetorical crossroads for the rest of their lives, should the twisting, turning, and trading of commonplaces be their only means of moving one another: "Infinite and innumerable were the examples I could allege and declare... were not the repetition of them needless, having showed sufficient, or bootless, seeing those alleged will not persuade you," he observes (20). "Seeing therefore it is labour lost for me to persuade you, and wind vainly wasted for you to exhort me," he concludes, "here I found you and here I leave you, having neither bought nor sold with you but exchanged ware for ware" (24). Euphues's departure from the scene of the debate prompts a pained interjection from the narrator, who blames "too much study," by which he seems to mean too much commonplacing, for his protagonist's intractability. More than travel itself, it is the sophistical inhabitation of _rhetorical_ places—what Ascham calls "dwell[ing] in commonplace books"—that "doth intoxicate the brains" of witty young men, according to Lyly's narrator: " 'For,' say they, 'although iron the more it is used the brighter it is, yet silver with much wearing doth waste to nothing; though the cammock' "—or crooked stick—" 'the more it is bowed, the better it serveth, yet the bow the more it is bent the weker it waxeth; though the camomile the more it is trodden and pressed down the more it spreadeth, yet the violet the oftener it is handled and touched the sooner it withereth and decayeth. For neither is there anything but that hath his contraries' " (26–27). Once again the figures can be read reflexively; the oppositions they embody—between currency and devaluation, flexibility and laxity, commonness and corruption—are tensions built into the practice of commonplacing. This passage is perhaps the most famous in all of _Euphues,_ for it is the one that Falstaff mocks in his parody of euphuism in _Henry IV, Part 1_ , when pretending to be the king, he playfully chides Hal for his youthful errancy. What Falstaff fails to remark, however, is that the passage is already parodic in tone—even critiques of Lyly's style end up sounding redundant. For _Euphues_ , here and elsewhere, is a peculiarly and powerfully self-critical text: Lyly seems bent on eviscerating the rhetoric on which his own style depends, exposing commonplacing as a kind of anti- _copia_ , the profitless changing of "ware for ware," and _copia_ itself not as a golden torrent but as an aimless overflow of speech, capable of setting men and morals adrift. It is this peculiar rhetorical drift that structures Lyly's plot, which is, as Dolven remarks, devoid of the "pointless narrative wandering" typical of its genre. Instead what _Euphues_ indulges in is a series of pointless arguments: "It hath been a question often disputed, but never determined..." begins a typical episode (35). Nor is it Euphues's ambition to put periods to such questions: for all his reputation for eloquence—traditionally understood as the power to produce conviction—undecidability is the essence of his appeal. The opening line of _Euphues_ introduces the title character as "a young man of great patrimony and of so comely a personage that it was doubted whether he was more bound to Nature for the lineaments of his person or to Fortune for the increase of his possessions" (10). It is such doubt—the potentially ceaseless oscillation between equally plausible contraries—that Lyly's narrative increasingly identifies, paradoxically, as the real mechanism of persuasion: discourse moves its audience not by leading them to a conclusion but rather by refusing to settle on any single point of view, putting them, as Lyly often says, in "a quandary" or "a maze." The setting of the romance itself is a kind of quandary or maze: Euphues "determine[s] to make his abode in Naples" not because that is where he intends to go when he leaves Athens, but rather because "for weariness he could not or wantonness would not go any further" (12). That indecisive "or"—and its syntactical cousins "but" and "but yet"—is the engine driving his progress: as long as another alternative can be imagined, no journey or argument can reach any definitive end. Erasmus warns of this possibility in _De Copia_ when, several pages into his variations on the theme of receiving a letter, he abruptly breaks off, saying, "But let us make an end, as it is not our purpose to demonstrate how far we can go in inventing alternatives," since "pursuing every possible [variant of thought and expression] would involve endless work" and "an attempt to pursue the infinite would be madness." It is to the lure of such infinite alternation that Euphues falls prey, when "disdaining counsel, leaving his country, [and] loathing his old acquaintance," he "follows unbridled affection" and makes his commonplace book his guide. Visiting Corinth Where, then, does commonplacing lead Euphues, and where does it lead the English language? In one sense, Euphues's mastery of the abundant style takes him exactly where Erasmus promises it will, to a remote city stocked with pleasures and the promise of wealth. "[N]ot every man has the means to visit the city of Corinth," observes the opening paragraph of _De Copia_ , but the journey to Corinth is one for which Euphues, to borrow Ascham's phrase, is both apt and appliable. Erasmus, as noted earlier, uses this proverb to establish at the outset of his treatise the value of commonplacing, the riches of invention and expression it makes accessible to those willing to conduct the arduous journey through the whole field of literature. But this is not the only way to read the proverb—in fact, it is not the only way Erasmus reads it. Although the 1500 edition of the _Adagia_ , in which the proverb first appears, notes simply that it applies to "things which are not to be attempted by all and sundry," subsequent editions add a less innocuous interpretation, glossing the expression as a reference "to the luxury of Corinth and its courtesans." "In this city," Erasmus writes, "there was a temple dedicated to Venus, so rich that it had over a thousand girls whom the Corinthians had consecrated to Venus as prostitutes in her honour. And so for their sake a large multitude crowded into the city, with the result that the public funds became enriched on a vast scale; but the traders, visitors and sailors were drained of resources by the extravagance to which the city's luxury and voluptuousness led them." In other words, Erasmus's commonplace, when pressed to yield its own copious significations, offers not a promise of wealth and abundance but a warning against the depletion of meaning and abandonment of sense that haunt the orator's quest for stylistic abundance: this Corinth is populated not by that "hony-flowing Matron Eloquence" but by her monstrous twin, the painted courtesan who, according to Philip Sidney, is the true source of euphuism. But if Sidney finds a painted courtesan in the pages of Lyly's narrative, that is surely because Lyly puts her there. For as Euphues's journey proceeds, both the pleasures and the perils of _copia_ are increasing aligned not with Lyly's hero but with the woman he briefly takes as his lover, his best friend's fiancée, Lucilla. Lucilla first appears as the rare Neapolitan unimpressed by the agility of Euphues's mind or the fluency of his speech: indeed in her presence he is uncharacteristically tongue-tied, breaking off a lengthy discourse in praise of women's love with the apology that "I feel in myself such alteration that I can scarcely utter one word" (39). Ironically, Euphues's abrupt silence accomplishes what his "filed speech" does not: "struck into... a quandary with this sudden change," Lucilla, we are told, "began to fry in the flames of love" (39). Alone in her chamber, she compulsively picks up the dropped threads of his argument, "enter[ing] into... terms and contrarieties" whose dizzying rhetorical heights and hairpin logical turns sway her more effectively than any of Euphues's own words (39). She moves rapidly from the moral dilemma of which man she ought to love ("Why Euphues perhaps doth desire my love, but Philautus hath deserved it.... Aye, but the latter love is most fervent; aye, but the first ought to be most faithful" [40]) to the more immediate uncertainty of whether or not Euphues will return her love ("Dost thou think Euphues will deem thee constant to him, when thou hast been unconstant to his friend?... But can Euphues convince me of fleeting, seeing for his sake I break my fidelity?"[40]) and finally to the baldly pragmatic question of how to dissemble her infidelity ("I hope so to behave myself, as Euphues shall think me his own and Philautus persuade himself I am none but his" [42]). In keeping with this resolution, when Lucilla finds herself alone at last with Euphues, she pretends to doubt his sincerity, protesting, "But alas, Euphues, what truth can there be found in a traveler, what stay in a stranger; whose words and bodies both watch but for a wind, whose feet are ever fleeting, whose faith plighted on the shore is turned to perjury when they hoist sail" (61)? Drawing on the same rich array of classical allusions as Euphues typically does, she summons a host of examples to confirm her suspicions: "Who more traitorous to Phyllis than Demophon?" she asks, "Yet he a traveler. Who more perjured to Dido than Aeneas? And he a stranger.... Who more fals than Ariadne to Theseus? Yet he a sailor. Who more fickle than Medea to Jason? Yet he a starter." "Is it then likely," she demands, "that Euphues will be faithful to Lucilla being in Naples but a sojourner" (62)? She does not, of course, pause to give Euphues time to answer these questions; instead she moves quickly to her next point: Euphues has met his match. But the love that begins in discourse never actually proceeds any further: aside from several minutes spent "pleasantly conferring one with the other" (67), the time Lucilla and Euphues waste in debating whether or not to pursue one another occupies the whole of their affair. Hardly does Euphues have time to boast of his success to the jilted Philautus—"Dost thou not know that far fet and dear bought is good for ladies?" he mockingly asks (79)—before his own commonplace justification rebounds on him. Lucilla, he learns, has deserted him for a man whose name, Curio, suggests that he is the embodiment of all strangeness and novelty, and yet whose utter unlikelihood as a candidate for Lucilla's affections—he is poor, stupid, and lame to boot—seems to be his chief attraction. Curio is the far-fetched demystified and devalued, the trash only a savage would mistake for treasure. The reader is given to understand that Curio is simply a placeholder for the next man, and the next: what Lucilla ultimately falls in love with is change—rhetorically speaking, with the freedom she discovers in the endless succession of positions that commonplacing allows her to inhabit. Progressing from one plausible point to another, equally plausible, from "but" to "but yet" and back again, she learns to regard no conclusion as conclusive: "I am not to be led by their persuasions," she announces; "I will follow my own lust" (42). In support of this aim, she even rewrites what Roger Chartier and Peter Stallybrass have dubbed "the commonplace of commonplacing," Seneca's image of the industrious bee who flits through the garden of literature sucking nectar from each text and compounding it into the honey of his own inventions: for Lucilla, however, the bee's search for nectar is an image of the careening and self-serving course of desire, which will "gathereth honey out of the weed, [but] when she espieth the fairest flower flieth to the sweetest." Lucilla uses proverbs and similitudes as she does men, changing one for the next as her needs demand, and it falls to her to point out the unsettling resemblance between the rhetoric of commonplacing and the exercise of sexual promiscuity. When her father urges her to accept Philautus as her husband, just as she welcomed him as a friend, she retorts, "I fear I shall be challenged of as many as I have used to company with, and be a common wife to all those that have commonly resorted hither" (70). As Kathy Eden has shown, Erasmus promoted commonplacing as a mode of intimacy with antiquity and with other readers—"Friends hold all things in common" is the watchword of the _Adagia_—and Lucilla follows this premise to its least savory conclusion. She is guided throughout by the "infinite and innumerable... ensamples" that she, like Euphues, can marshal in support of whatever argument or man most pleases her at the moment: "Myrrha was enamoured of her natural father, Biblis of her brother, Phaedra of her son-in-law," she recalls when her affection for Euphues is challenged (73); "Venus was content to take the blacksmith with his polt-foot," she notes in defense of Curio's lameness (82). And when Euphues reproaches her for her infidelity, she is ready with a litany of fickle women from the pages of history and literature, from Venus to Helen of Troy, and concludes that she is determined to join their ranks, becoming "an ensample to all women of lightness" (82). Euphues belatedly—and rather hypocritically—protests that this is not the purpose to which exempla are meant to be put: "These are set down that we should fly the like impudency, not follow the like excess," he exclaims. "Shall the lewdness of others animate thee in thy lightness? Why then dost thou not haunt the stews because Lais frequented them" (83)? Euphues's own example is inadvertently revealing, for Lais is the most famous of the Corinthian prostitutes: it is her rapacity that inspires Erasmus's adage, and her insatiable appetites that impinge most closely on the history of eloquence. "It was notorious," Erasmus writes in the _Adagia_ , that "the great [orator] Demosthenes went to her in private and asked for her bounty. But Lais demanded ten thousand drachmas. Demosthenes, much struck and alarmed by the woman's impudence and the amount of money, withdrew, and said as he departed, 'I'm not spending ten thousand drachmas on something I should be sorry for.' " Of course, Demosthenes is not only famous as the man canny enough to resist Lais's charms; more important, he is the classical orator whose brevity becomes a byword for the virtues of rhetorical restraint—it is Demosthenes whose compact periods defy Thomas Wilson's efforts at translation, Demosthenes from whose eloquence, as William Webbe recalls, "nothing may be taken away" (sig. C1v). Webbe is surely the only critic ever to contend that such praise could reasonably be applied to _Euphues_ , for if Euphues fails to follow Demosthenes's course in avoiding the enticements of Lais, he certainly fails to follow him in avoiding the enticements of _copia_. Superfluous Ends In this regard he is not so different from Lyly, who dispenses—or tries to dispense—with Lucilla by informing the reader that her "end, seeing as it is nothing incident to the history of Euphues, it were superfluous to insert it, and being so strange, I should be in a maze in telling what it was" (89). But superfluity and strangeness are the hallmarks of Lyly's style, and Lucilla's very impertinence makes her all the more irresistible: although the "history" ostensibly concludes with Euphues's return to Athens and his abjuration of idle women and idle words, the text is further drawn out—in a maze, as it were—by a series of letters Euphues sends back to Naples, many of which concern Lucilla's strange end: after losing her inheritance to Curio, she takes up harlotry, gains "great credit" with the local gentlemen, is stricken by a sudden illness, and dies "in great beggary in the streets" (170). Although Lucilla is gone—consumed by her lust—her immoderate discourse lives on, for no one, it seems, can stop talking about her: "It is a world to see how commonly we are blinded with the collusions of women, and more enticed by their ornaments being artificial than their proportions being natural," complains Euphues. "[T]he nature of women is grounded only upon extremities" (102–3). He seems utterly blind to the degree to which his own attachment to extremities and opposition has led him astray, enticed by the ornaments of rhetorical artifice to depart from the natural proportions of truth. Of course, Lyly's readers are likely to hear in Euphues's protest an echo of Lyly's own, in his dedicatory epistle, that "It is a world to see how Englishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language will allow." Ultimately, Lucilla's "superfluous end" and the "superfluous eloquence" with which she is identified are integral to Lyly's narrative because they are emblems of an England and an English tired of wheat and wool but wary of sugar and spice, addicted to the far-fetched and dear-bought but unnerved by its implications for what Sidney calls "the poor Englishman." For all Euphues's misogynist ranting, Lucilla does not bear the burden of superfluity and strangeness on her own. The final sentences of _Euphues_ leave its hero "ready to cross the seas to England," and a 1580 sequel entitled _Euphues and His England_ describes his adventures in what is presented—in a witty reversal of the usual relationship between English readers and the Italianate settings of romance—as an exotic foreign land: Euphues presents his account of England as one might show off "little dogs from Malta or strange stones from India or fine carpets from Turkey" (415). Indeed, England first appears, like Naples in the _Anatomy_ , as a dangerously exotic foreign land: hardly has his ship set sail before Euphues is declaiming against the folly of his journey, recalling (in a peculiar conflation of his own narrative with Erasmus's _Adagia_ ) the story of "the young scholar in Athens" who "went to hear Demosthenes' eloquence at Corinth and was entangled with Lais' beauty," and inveighing (like Roger Ascham) against "our travellers which pretend to get a smack of strange language to sharpen their wits" but "are infected with vanity by following their wills" (206). For Lyly's English readers, who are imagined as foreigners in their own land, the joke resides in the identification of provincial England with cosmopolitan Corinth and of homely English with "strange language." But stock associations between strange tongues and moral disorder are not the true concern of _Euphues and His England_ —unlike his time in Naples, Euphues's visit to England never threatens to corrupt him with foreign influence. On the contrary, Lyly's melancholy sequel is more preoccupied by a vision of its protagonist as somehow existentially strange, insular, and peripheral wherever he goes. For in a cruel trick, Euphues is summoned out of Athens only to be forced, repeatedly, to the margins of his own story, the odd man out in a narrative overflowing with more or less happy couples. Although he proclaims that being in England fills him with delight in society—"In sooth... if I should tarry a year in England, I could not abide an hour in my chamber" (299)—that proclamation accords ill with Euphues's actual behavior. Having quarreled with Philautus soon after his arrival, he spends much of his visit huddled in his chamber, "determined... to lie aloof" (369). "You have been so great a stranger," his English host rebukes him when he does emerge (383), and even Philautus treats him with "much strange courtesy,... being almost for the time but strangers because of [his] long absence" (375). Eventually, we are told, Euphues "with all became so familiar that he was of all earnestly beloved" (410), but before we can see him in this comfortable position, he is called back to Athens, alone, on unspecified urgent business: "England," he says sadly, is "not for Euphues to dwell in" (412). Once home, however, he is more isolated than ever before, for his yearning for England unfits him for life anywhere else: "I know not how it fareth me," he writes pitifully to a friend in Naples, "for I cannot as yet brook mine own country, I am so delighted with another" (414). Finally, the narrator reports, he "gave himself to solitariness, determining to sojourn in some uncouth place." "And so I leave him," Lyly concludes, "neither in Athens nor elsewhere that I know" (462). As Leah Scragg observes, this ending is largely inscrutable: "the precise cause of [Euphues's] 'cruelly martyred condition' remains... uncertain." But like Lucilla's superfluous end, Euphues's sad end hints at Lyly's suspicion of the claims made on behalf of rhetoric by its most eager humanist advocates—promises not simply of ever-increasing abundance but also of intimacy and community. It is no coincidence that the sentence Erasmus chose for his first "practical demonstration" of _copia_ is a profession of delight at a letter from a friend, or that _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ promotes the exercise of letter writing as the ideal path to rhetorical mastery: the genre of the friendly epistle epitomizes the Erasmian faith in the power of eloquence to overcome the distance between men, turning strangers into friends and friends into "other selves." For Erasmus, both the letter and the commonplace are emblems of eloquence's social function: a letter is "a mutual conversation between absent friends," while the commonplace facilitates such conversation across centuries and cultures. The abundant style testifies to the pleasures of human companionship: the object of the other "practical demonstration" of _copia_ is a sentence professing Erasmus's undying affection for his friend Thomas More. And yet for Euphues, the rhetoric of _copia_ yields only solitude and strangeness—and so it proves for euphuism as well. If commonplacing confers upon the vernacular what at first seems like a Corinthian abundance, that very abundance tends toward extravagance, prodigality, and impoverishment: to a language so alienated from its natural proportions that it must be cast off. By the turn of the seventeenth century, John Hoskins's _Directions for Speech and Style_ (c. 1600) interpreted euphuism's success not as evidence of how far English eloquence had come, but of how narrow its limits remained: referring to Lyly's copious similitudes, he mocks, "See to what preferment a figure may aspire if it once get credit in a world that hath not much true rhetoric!" Twenty years after Lyly's death, his publisher Edward Blount offered a more generous but in its own way equally damning assessment of _Euphues_ 's legacy. In the preface to his 1632 edition of six of Lyly's dramatic works, Blount reminds readers that the now obscure author was once hailed as England's chief literary talent, the savior of the vernacular, the "onely rare poet of that time": "Our nation are in his debt for a new English which hee taught them," he urges; "Euphues began first that language, and that Beautie in Courte, who could not Parley euphuism was as little regarded as shee there now who speaks not French." Blount means to revive Lyly's literary fortunes, but in the very act of praising Lyly, he may well bury him: euphuism, Blount makes clear, is no longer new, and its closest analogue is not even English but an affected foreign tongue. Whatever euphuism did bring to the vernacular in the way of eloquence has already come to seem the relic of a distant time and place, a world without much rhetoric. It remained to another writer, Edmund Spenser, to show how exile might be productive of eloquence: published just a year after _Euphues_ 's debut, _The Shepheardes Calender_ turns the identification of England as "a world without much rhetoric" into the ground of its stylistic and generic innovation. As for Lyly, his real legacy may reside not in the way English was spoken or written but in the way it was read. "Before the final years of the sixteenth century," Ann Moss has observed, "there is little evidence that vernacular literature (as distinct from vernacular translations, proverbs, and the sayings of important historical figures) had acquired sufficient status to be excerpted for commonplace-books, at least in print." In England, as Roger Chartier and Peter Stallybrass have shown, that changed with the publication of Nicholas Ling's _Politeuphuia: Wit's Commonwealth_ (1597) and Francis Meres's _Palladis Tamia: Wit's Treasury_ (1598), both of which mingle quotations from classical sources with those from contemporary vernacular texts. The prominence of _Euphues_ in each collection—Ling's title nods in the direction of Lyly's protagonist, while Meres relies extensively on quotations from the text—bespeaks the ease with which it was disassembled and returned to its component parts. This fragmentary quality may to us seem symptomatic of _Euphues_ 's defects: its scanty and inconsistent characterization, the cursory development of its plot, the awkward joinery of its many segments. To its early modern audience, however, dispersal into commonplaces was the lot of even the most distinguished texts— _especially_ the most distinguished texts—and the generous contribution _Euphues_ made to the common stock of tropes and figures, sentences and similitudes may well have seemed its great and enduring achievement. Not long exemplary in its own right, _Euphues_ nevertheless made exemplarity something to which English prose might aspire. _Chapter 4_ Pastoral in Exile: Colin Clout and the Poetics of English Alienation No writer labors more conspicuously to claim the mantle of exemplarity than the "new poete" of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , who presents himself to readers as the latest to walk a hallowed and well-trod path to literary glory. As E. K.'s introduction to the 1579 poem reminds us, pastoral is the time-honored birthplace of poetic excellence, the "nest" of literary ambition: "So flew Theocritus, as you may percieue he was all ready full fledged. So flew Virgile, as not yet well feeling his winges. So flew Mantuane, as being not full somd. So Petrarque. So Boccace; So Marot, Sanazarus, and also diuers other excellent both Italian and French Poetes, whose foting this Author euery where followeth, yet so as few, but they be well sented can trace him out." Because the _Calender_ was quickly recognized as a signal achievement not only for the then-anonymous "new poete" Edmund Spenser but also for the hitherto undistinguished canon of English poetry, E. K.'s analysis of its generic orientation has remained persuasive. It has become, as Anne Lake Prescott observes, "a scholarly commonplace" that by "mask[ing] in lowly shepherds' weeds... Spenser was gesturing at a laureate Virgilian career." Pastoral is the "inaugural phase" in what Patrick Cheney dubs "the New Poet's flight pattern"; it serves, in Louis Montrose's words, as "a vehicle for the highest personal aspirations and public significance a poet can claim" and "demonstrate[s] the capacity of the vernacular to produce a poetry 'well grounded, finely framed, and strongly trussed up together.' " But if pastoral is a logical generic locus for the expression of literary ambition, it is a rather more vexed starting point for an _English_ poet—or for an English poetic renaissance—than E. K. and most subsequent critics acknowledge. After all, the most influential poems in the tradition, Virgil's eclogues, establish their vision of the genre on the assumption that Britain is no place for pastoral. Indeed, as the first English translation of the eclogues makes clear, only a few years before _The Shepheardes Calender_ , England may have been no place for poetry at all. Certainly such a dismal conclusion is not the intended message of Abraham Fleming's _The Bucoliks of Publius Virgil_ (1575). Rather, Fleming undertook his translation in order to remove the barriers between English readers and what he regarded as an unnecessarily remote poetic tradition. By rendering Virgil's elegant Latin into "ye vulgar and common phrase of speache," amplified by an abundance of marginal notes and glosses, Fleming hoped to foster a new sense of "familiaritie and acquaintance with Virgils verse": to guarantee "readie and speedie passage" across the distances imposed by geographic, historical, and linguistic difference. This desire to domesticate Virgilian pastoral takes its most literal form in the compilation of marginal glosses defining all place names and geographical features cited in the poems. Like a map of a foreign country, Fleming writes, his glosses will prevent "the ignorant" from "wander[ing] wyde" by erroneously "applying... the name of a mountaine to a man, the name of a fountaine to a towne, the name of a village to a floud, the name of a citie to a riuer" (sig. A3v). Thus freed from all "stoppes and impediments" to understanding, the reader may use Fleming's translation as a stile or bridge "to passe ouer into the plaine fields of the Poets meaning" (sig. A2v). But if Fleming's translation, and especially his glossary, is meant to help readers traverse an unfamiliar poetic landscape, it also exposes England's own place in—or displacement from—that landscape. It is not only that the glosses highlight precisely those aspects of Virgil's diction—namely the "proper names of gods, goddesses, men, women, hilles, flouddes, cities, townes, and villages &c." (sig. A1r)—least amenable to vernacular translation, since by definition proper names cannot be rendered "plaine and familiar Englishe" (sig. A1r). More important, the focus on strange place names and geographic features foregrounds the fact that Virgilian pastoral is emphatically—and literally— _topical_ , rooted in the particular place and time of its composition. Critics of the genre rarely identify pastoral with a language of geographic and historical specificity; indeed, its landscape is associated with an allegorical conventionality that would seem to exclude proper names. As one critic asserts, contingencies of time and place are precisely what the pastoral poet must eschew in his pursuit of "a world of his own, a cleared space counterfeited from tradition and his own inventive wit," a "green world" crucially and definitively "distant from our own." But Fleming's readers do not have the luxury of subsuming Virgil's landscape into such amorphous generalities: the challenges of translation, and the compensatory labor of Fleming's assiduous glosses, force attention to the fact that pastoral abounds in local particularity. The problem is more pointed—and painful—than this. Virgil's eclogues locate pastoral existence firmly within the world of Augustan Rome in order to make a claim about the interdependence of poetry and place. The eclogues begin by contrasting the circumstances of two pastoral poets: Tityrus, a figure, Fleming informs us, "represent[ing] _Virgilles_ person" (C1r); and his neighbor, Meliboeus. Tityrus attributes his poetic success to his happy proximity to "the Citye... call'd Rome," whose "God... hath graunted these my beastes to grase, and eake my selfe with glee / To playe vpon my homelye pipe such songes as liked mee" (C1v). He laments the fate of less fortunate foreigners—the "Parthian banisht man" and the "German stranger"—who, if they would seek Rome, are condemned to "wandring others ground" (C2r). Meliboeus concurs in praising Rome: although "in fieldes abroade such troubles bee," in Roman pastures a shepherd "lying at [his] ease, vnder the broad beeche shade, / A countrye song does tune right well" (C1r–v). But Meliboeus's associations with the city and its ruler have proved less fortunate: his land has just been confiscated to pay one of Caesar's mercenaries, and he therefore faces an imminent departure from Rome: "Our countrey borders wee doe leaue, and Medowes swete forsake" (C1r). Anticipating an end to his pastoral contentment, Meliboeus bids his sheep "[d]epart... a[nd] Cattell once full happye goe and flytt, / I shall not see you after this, in greene caue where I sytt" (C2r). He and his fellow exiles must seek refuge on the outskirts of the Roman Empire, whose territories he enumerates in a grim litany: "[S]ome of vs to droughte Affrike land hence wyll go, / To Scythia and to Candy, where Oaxis scarce doth flowe" (C2r). But he saves the worst for last: some, perhaps he himself, will be sent "[a]s farre as Britan Ile, cut of from the wide world" (C2r). Just in case any of his English readers should have missed the point, Fleming drives it mercilessly home: "Britan," he notes, "is an Ilande, compassed about with the sea,... called also Anglia because it standeth in a corner of the world alone" (C2r–v, note n). In such a place, Meliboeus glumly concludes, "no sonnets will I syng" (C2r). This assumption—that to go to Britain is to abandon poetry—poses serious difficulties for Fleming and his readers. After all, what kind of "familiaritie" or "speedie passage" can be fashioned in relation to a poem that locates England—and English readers—on the far side of an apparently unbridgeable divide? Tityrus's response to Meliboeus in the eclogue's final lines, the offer of a final night's rest in his cottage, tacks on a consolatory ending and temporarily forestalls the threat of exile. But for the English reader, there is no reprieve: in the poem that inaugurates the career of Rome's greatest poet, Britain remains the sign of all that is antithetical to poetry. The somewhat fanciful claim Fleming makes on behalf of his translation, that it carries Virgilian pastoral out of Rome and into England, turns out, on the poem's own terms, to be impossible. I have dwelled at some length on Fleming's translation—admittedly a very minor entry in the canons of late sixteenth-century classical scholarship and vernacular poetry—because it provides an especially concrete demonstration of the challenges facing all those who sought to use classical texts and forms as vehicles for importing poetic excellence into England. "[I]n the process of retrieving from Antiquity the terms and concepts that introduced new distinctions to the field of English writing," Sean Keilen has argued, "vernacular writers were obliged to confront the radical alterity of England to the ancient world, and of English to the languages and aesthetic canons they wanted to assimilate." Of course, the challenge of bridging the gap created by this "radical alterity" was not unique to English poets: vernacular authors on the Continent struggled under similar burdens of belatedness and distance from the classical world, and as E. K. points out, Spenser's efforts are inspired by the successes of such poets as Marot and Sannazaro. And yet, as my reading of Fleming's translation suggests, would-be authors of English pastoral encounter the difficulties—and perhaps the opportunities—of alienation from antiquity in their most stringent guise, for no other form insists so strongly on the interdependence of poet and place, song and setting. It is therefore crucial that we not forget what E. K.'s survey of pastoral poets and poetry conveniently overlooks: that in the form's preeminent incarnation, the Virgilian eclogue, English readers find their own native place located beyond poetry's pale. This inescapable fact invites us to reconsider Spenser's choice of pastoral as the generic locus of his own ambitious foray into vernacular poetics: "the best and most Auncient Poetes" may, as E. K. claims, have valued pastoral for its "homely" qualities, but for Spenser, the pastoral tradition has more to say about the "unhomely"—about alienation, exclusion, and the paradoxical virtues of exile. The ironies and incongruities of Fleming's English Virgil may therefore help us to appreciate in a new way how and why Spenser's vernacular pastoral embraces linguistic estrangement and geographic dislocation as the emblems, and engines, of English poetry. For if alienation is the defining characteristic of Colin Clout, with his neglected flocks and his shattered pipe, it is also the central strategy of Spenser's poetry, which forces his readers to reencounter their native tongue through a process of occlusion and defamiliarization. In the world of Virgilian pastoral, exile to Britain marks the limits of geographic and poetic possibility; in the world of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , distance and disability become the necessary conditions of writing and reading English verse. "Cut off from the wide world"—by virtue of its Englishness but also by virtue of its willfully difficult language—Spenser's _Calender_ finds in the rudeness and rusticity of the mother tongue the materials of its own peculiar eloquence. A Familiar Acquaintance Far Estranged The reader's experience of estrangement begins on the _Calender_ 's title page, which, although it names the poem, offers a brief description of its contents, and announces its dedication to Philip Sidney, makes no mention of an author. Turning the page, one learns that this omission is deliberate: a verse _envoi_ instructs the poem to present itself "[a]s child whose parent is vnkent" and cautions, "if that any aske thy name, / Say thou wert base begot with blame, / For thy thereof thou takest shame." The poem is famously signed " _Immeritô_ " (24), which translates as "the unworthy one." The following page introduces a new character, the equally mysterious E. K., whose introductory epistle claims as its goal to "commendeth the good lyking... and the patronage of the new Poete" (25) but who proves a rather jealous guard of the privileges of his own "familiar acquaintance" (29) with both poet and poem. He boasts, for instance, of having been "made priuie to [ _Immeritô_ 's] counsel and secret meaning" in writing the _Calender_ but unhelpfully adds that, "[t]ouching the generall dryft and purpose of his Aeglogues, I mind not to say much, him selfe labouring to conceale it" (29). As Lynn Staley Johnson observes, E. K.'s remarks frequently afford _Immeritô_ an "opaque cover" not unlike the pseudonym itself, as the commentator "interposes himself between _Immeritô_ " and his public. In his epistle's final paragraph, therefore, when E. K. addresses the mystery of _Immeritô_ 's identity, he does so simply to declare himself an accessory to the poet's desire to keep himself, for the time being, "furre estraunged": "worthy of many, yet... knowen to few" (30). The peculiarities of E. K.'s relation to the poem sharpen when he turns to the issue of _Immeritô_ 's language. As he acknowledges, his own "maner of glosing and commenting" must "seeme straunge and rare" (29) when applied to a poem ostensibly written in the reader's "own country and natural speech," his very "mother tongue" (27). In fact, these glosses and commentary seem more suited to an edition of classical verse—such as Fleming's translation of Virgil—or the work of a celebrated modern poet such as Petrarch or Sannazaro. Both Fleming and E. K. offer prefatory essays on the history of pastoral and the etymology of the word "eclogue," provide prose "arguments" summarizing each eclogue, and surround the poems with an abundance of editorial notes and glosses. Fleming can justify such an elaborate apparatus by appealing to the distance separating his English readers from the language and landscape of Virgil's poetry. As E. K. confesses, his own interventions are less easily accounted for: why should an English reader require a gloss or commentary to assist his comprehension of a work set in his own time, place, and native tongue? Rather, such commentary as E. K. does provide seems calculated to _intensify_ the reader's sense of remove from the poem he is about to read—to function, that is, as the very sort of "stoppes and impediments" (sig. A2) Fleming is so eager to remove from his own reader's path. Certainly a scholarly apparatus would have seemed out of place in earlier English pastorals, whose authors tend to apologize for the straightforward and uncomplicated nature of their verses rather than offer any aid in understanding them. Indeed poets such as Alexander Barclay and George Turbervile worry that the language of their pastorals will seem all too familiar to the average reader. Urging readers of his _Egloges_ (c. 1530) "not to be grieved with any playne sentence / Rudely conuayed for lacke of eloquence," Barclay reminds them that "[i]t were not fitting a heard or man rurall / To speak in termes gay and rhetoricall." Turbervile, whose _Eglogs_ (1567) mimic those of Mantuan, apologizes for "forcing" that poet's Latin-speaking shepherds "to speake with an English mouthe" and cautions that "as ye conference betwixt Shepherds is familiar stuffe and homely: so haue I shapt my stile and tempred it with suche common and ordinarie phrase of speech as Countrymen do vse in their affaires." E. K. mentions the homely style of pastoral verse, but he also declares that _Immeritô_ 's "words" are "the straungest" of "many thinges which in him be straunge" (25). When he insists on the need for a gloss for those words or feels constrained to point out that they are "both English, and also vsed of most excellent Authors and most famous Poetes" (25–26), he redefines the limits of both pastoral and the vernacular: neither will be confined to the familiar or homely. Although he begins by asserting an equivalence, or at least a dependence, between familiarity and admiration, he ultimately advances a more complicated understanding of that relationship. Just as his avowed longing to make _Immeritô_ familiar to all conflicts with his wish to protect his own "familiar acquaintance" with the poet's "secret meanings," his observations on Spenser's language seem poised between the impulse to demystify and a desire to highlight its peculiarities. His glosses, for instance, serve a double purpose: added "for thexposition of old wordes and harder phrases," they are necessary lest the "excellent and proper devises" of Spenser's verse "passe in the speedy course of reading, _either as vnknowen, or as not marked_ " (29, emphasis added). The gloss is a corrective, that is, against two equal and opposite dangers: that Spenser's language will strike readers as so remote as to be incomprehensible, or that it will fail to strike them at all. Where Fleming sought a "readie and speedie passage" into Virgil's poem, E. K. aimed to slow his readers down—to function, in Fleming's terms, as both pathway _and_ impediment, both stop _and_ stile, champion of the poem's "seemely simplicity" _and_ gatekeeper of its "graue... straungenesse" (25). The seemingly paradoxical claims that E. K. makes on behalf of Spenser's poetic diction—that it is a function of both "custome" and "choyse" (26), that its archaisms are both a source of "great grace and... auctoritie" and a "rough and harsh" foil to more "glorious words" (26–27), and that it generates a style both "straunge" (25) and "homely" (29)—are hard to reconcile with the straightforward equation of pastoral and plainness found in the prefaces to so many other vernacular poems, but they do reflect the complicated and at times contradictory interpretive practices of another important literary genre of sixteenth-century England: biblical translation. That Spenser's _Calender_ is a profoundly Protestant text is a familiar claim, but most accounts of the poem's religious affiliations restrict themselves to questions of content, to analyses of the eclogues' satirical and allegorical engagements with doctrinal and ecclesiastical controversies. I suggest that Protestantism also provides a matrix for understanding the poem's language and the way that language is represented and mediated by E. K. Among the translators of scripture, we find an approach to the vernacular that is, like that of E. K., precariously poised between the values of simplicity and strangeness—and here, as in _The Shepheardes Calender_ , the practice most likely to disturb this equilibrium is glossing. As Lynne Long has established, glossing was the original point of contact between the vernacular and sacred writing, an essential and often controversial precursor to full-fledged biblical translation. The vernacular notes that appeared, as early as the eighth century, in the margins and between the lines of English biblical texts served as important aids to readers whose Latin was weak or nonexistent, but they also forced translators and editors to think carefully about the relative values of accessibility and difficulty. Of his vernacular edition of the _Lives of the Saints_ , the Anglo-Saxon translator Aelfric writes that his desire to render his text "into the usual English speech [ad usitatem Anglicam sermocinationem]" conflicted at times with his wish to preserve the challenges and mysteries of his source-text as guards against an unfit readership: "I do not promise however to write very many in this tongue,... lest peradventure the pearls of Christ be had in disrespect." The sixteenth century, and especially the decades preceding the publication of _The Shepherd's Calender_ , witnessed an explosion of English translations of the Bible and a corresponding rise in both the estimation of the vernacular and the anxiety about its adequacy as a vehicle for divine wisdom and eloquence. Like Aelfric, the translators and editors of these texts often seem to have been torn between a desire to promote the plain and homely virtues of their vernacular scriptures and to insist upon the salutary challenges posed by correct interpretation. Thus, although the title page to the 1560 Geneva Bible promises readers "the holy Scriptures faithfully and playnely translated" into their own native tongue, the translators later note that "we moste reuerently kept the proprietie of the [original Greek and Hebrew] wordes" and "in many places reserued the Ebrewe phrases, notwithstanding that thei may seme somewhat hard in their eares that are not well practiced" because the preservation of such interpretive challenges accords with the practice of the Apostles, "who spake and wrote to the Gentiles in the Greke tongue, [but] rather constrained them to the liuely phrase of the Ebrewe, then enterprised farre by mollifying their langage to speake as the Gentils did." The English of the Bible, it appears, must seem both familiar and strange in order to elicit the proper readerly response—like E. K., these commentators are eager both to assist and to impede the "speedy course" of their readers' understanding, to engender a sense of connection and proximity to the text even as they retain a sense of its distance and difficulty. The English Bible translators also anticipate E. K. in that they must justify the deployment of often elaborate explanatory apparatuses alongside texts ostensibly written in plain English. Indeed the desire to eliminate obtrusive and potentially misleading glosses was a primary impetus for translating scripture into the vernacular in the first place: in the preface to his 1534 _New Testament_ , William Tyndale assails the obscurantism and elitism of the Catholic Church, whose mystique depends on the labor of those "false prophets and malicious hypocrites, whose perpetual study is to leaven the scripture with glosses." But Tyndale's concern for the proper reception of his own translation prompts him "in many places" to "set light in the margin to understand the text by": as he admits, due to allegorical figuration or theological complexity, "the scripture and word of God, may be so locked up, that he which readeth or heareth it, cannot understand it" unless it is "dress[ed]" and "season[ed]" for "weak stomachs." So too the Geneva translators, who chastise those (Catholic) scholars who "pretend" that ordinary readers "can not atteine to the true and simple meaning" of the scriptures even as they admit "how hard a thing it is to vnderstand the holy Scriptures." Indeed it is precisely because such understanding is so elusive that their translation comes equipped with a complex apparatus of "brief annotations," "figures and notes," and even "mappes of Cosmographie" to guide the reader through scriptures' "hard" and "darke... places" and their "diuers... countries." Is the vernacular Bible easy or difficult to read? Are its "places," whether textual or geographic, accessible to or remote from the understanding and experiences of the English reader? The translators of the English Bible leave such questions largely unresolved, and they resonate with E. K.'s contradictory descriptions of the "new Poet's" simple yet strange verses. Indeed the similarities between the presentation of the Geneva Bible and that of _The Shepheardes Calender_ —the prefatory essays, prose arguments, marginal annotations and glosses, and woodcut illustrations—suggest that Spenser's pastoral is designed to elicit a reading practice like that promoted by the authors of the English Bibles, in which the value of accessibility is in constant, productive tension with the value of alienation. We might further note that the _Calender_ 's affinity with England's vernacular Bibles affords the poem and its readers a very different view of Rome, and of classical antiquity, than that associated with the pastoral tradition. If, for Virgil's shepherds and their English heirs, eloquence must be anchored in Rome and Britain remain forever beyond the pale, within the context of the Protestant Reformation, this geography could be wholly reversed. When the Geneva Bible translators proclaim in their dedication to Queen Elizabeth I that "the eyes of all that feare God in all places beholde your countreyes as an example to all that beleue," they are, of course, making a calculated appeal to the vanity of a monarch whose support was crucial to the success, indeed the survival, of their text. But they also invoke England's historic importance to the Protestant cause in general and Bible translation in particular. In this one area, thanks to a long tradition of vernacular homiletics and scriptural translation—from Aelfric through Wycliffe—England could position itself in the vanguard of linguistic progress and cultural achievement, even as it anchored itself to a past more authentically antique than that of Rome: as the title page to the Geneva Bible states, it was "[t]ranslated according to the Ebrue and Greke," "the languages wherein [the scriptures] were first written by the holy Gost," and not, pointedly, according to the Latin Vulgate edition used by the Church of Rome. Far from being the sign of a privileged antiquity, as it is in Virgil's pastorals and in the rest of the secular literary tradition, for the translators of English scriptures Latin is the language of a belated and debased tradition, itself remote from the true origins of divine wisdom and Christian eloquence. The distance between the vernacular and Latin is thus touted as an advantage by Tyndale, who defends his own early sixteenth-century scriptural translations on the grounds that English is closer to the truly biblical languages: "For the Greek tongue agreeth more with the English than with the Latin. And the properties of the Hebrew tongu agreeth a thousand times more with the English than with the Latin." Tyndale's rationale upends the linguistic hierarchy assumed by secular translators such as Abraham Fleming and brings the vernacular into desirable proximity with a religious history and geography in which Rome (and Latin) is more peripheral than privileged. The complex, even contradictory, attitudes toward the vernacular evinced by E. K.'s epistle to _The Shepheardes Calender_ produce a similarly radical reworking of linguistic and literary values. E. K.'s epistle does more than simply characterize _Immeritô_ 's peculiar poetic voice; like the prefaces to English Bibles, it also reflects upon the peculiar position of the English language at the end of the sixteenth century. That is, if E. K. seeks to characterize _Immeritô_ 's voice as simultaneously rare and unremarkable, he also seeks to characterize English as a paradoxical blend of the foreign and the familiar—a language that may appear most alien and inaccessible precisely when it hits closest to home. As the epistle draws to a close, E. K.'s argument thus shifts from the particular case of _The Shepheardes Calender_ to that of the vernacular as a whole. Those who "will rashly blame [ _Immeritô_ 's] purpose in choyce of old and vnwonted words," he writes, are themselves to be "more iustly blame[d] and condemne[d]" for failing to appreciate one of the chief beauties of his poetry, which aims "to restore, as to theyr rightfull heritage, such good and naturall English words as haue ben long time out of vse and almost cleane disherited" (27). This disregard for the origins of the language has deprived the vernacular of its own best resources and "is the onely cause, that our Mother tonge, truely of it self is both ful enough for prose and stately enough for verse, hath long time ben counted most bare and barrein of both" (27). Even worse than those who neglect English's roots are those who, "endeuour[ing] to salue and recure" the language's perceived deficits, have "patched vp the holes with peces and rags of other languages, borrowing here of the French, there of the Italian, euery where of the Latine, not weighing how il those tongues accord with themselues, but much worse with ours" (27). Over time, E. K. argues, the very concepts of foreign and familiar have been so confused that, while the adoption of alien terms has "made our English tongue, a gallimaufray or hodgepodge of al other speeches," the "very naturall and significant" words on which the tongue was founded are rejected as "no English, but gibberish" (27). Thanks to such linguistic promiscuity, England has become estranged from itself, a nation "whose first shame is, that [its inhabitants] are not ashamed, in their owne mother tonge strangers to be counted and alienes" (27). If it is "straunge and rare" for a vernacular author to require the mediation of an editor in order to be understood by a native readership, that very peculiarity is, in E. K.'s view, what marks _Immeritô_ 's work as truly and properly English. In Virgil's first eclogue, and in Fleming's translation, distance is inimical to poetry: Meliboeus's exile threatens to end his song, and the unguided reader, "wander[ing] wyde" of Virgil's meaning, loses both the pleasure and the profit of his labor. Familiarity—whether it appears in the guise of a fellow shepherd's hospitality or a helpful translator's marginal glosses—becomes the only defense against an alienation that threatens to dissolve the pastoral landscape into a foreign wasteland, to turn eloquent Rome into mute and barren Britain. In pre-Spenserian English pastorals, by contrast, familiarity and proximity—"homeliness"—are qualities that threatened to deny the vernacular poet his bid to participate in a more elevated literary tradition—without the sponsorship of remote authorities, English verse has no value. E. K.'s epistle reformulates these dilemmas—and offers _Immeritô_ a way out of the impasse—by refusing to admit an opposition between familiarity and strangeness. Instead he makes familiarity (such as that he claims between himself and Spenser) an excuse for secrecy and identifies the strangeness of Spenser's language with its most native and homely virtues. The Unrestful Shepherd Spenser's pastoral narrative performs a similarly complex rereading of the literary significance of exile. For most sixteenth-century English rhetorical and poetic theorists, exile functions as a metaphor for the exclusion of the vernacular from the company of learned and eloquent tongues, and for the hardships vernacular speakers endure as a result of this exclusion. In _The Pastime of Pleasure_ , Stephen Hawes identifies "elocucyon" with a process of purification that consigns the homely vernacular "to exyle": separating "the dulcet speech / from the langage rude," "the barbary tongue / it doth ferre exclude." In _The Boke named the Governour_ , Thomas Elyot makes the more literal point that if they wish to master the most rarefied arts, eloquence included, Englishmen must often endure exile, being "constrained... to leave our owne countraymen and resorte vs vnto strangers." But for England's Bible translators, who endured unpredictable and often violent reversals of fortune under the Tudors, exile bore a more complicated relation to eloquence, as it was often the necessary condition of writerly survival. William Tyndale concluded as a young man that "there was no place... in all England" for someone who believed as strongly as he did in the virtues of an English Bible, and the very name of the Geneva Bible betrays the fact that well into the sixteenth century this continued to be the case. Striking too is that Bible's curious gloss of Psalm 137, whose well-known opening lines recall the Israelites' refusal to sing during their exile from the promised land: "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. / We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. / For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us [required of us] mirth, [saying], Sing us [one] of the songs of Zion." The Israelites' insistence that "the songs of Zion" belong to Zion alone would seem to make Psalm 137 a kind of sacred precursor to the lament of Meliboeus in Virgil's first eclogue, with the same melancholy alignment of poetry and place, exile and silence; but the Geneva translators interpret it rather differently, as a mournful comment on the necessity of self-imposed exile from a people who have lost their way. Its opening plaint is glossed as a response not to the insults of foreign captivity but to the disappointments of home: "Even though the country [of Babylon] was pleasant," the translators remark, "yet it could not stay [the Israelites'] tears" when they recalled "[t]he decay of God's religion in their country," which "was so grievous that no joy could make them glad, unless it was restored." In other words, the roots of the Israelites' silence lie not in Babylon but in Zion; exile is simply the literal expression of—or even a consolation for—a more profound and painful internal alienation. There is little in the psalm to support such a reading—on the contrary, the psalmist emphatically identifies his own ability to sing with his attachment to his native land, vowing, "let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy"—but much, perhaps, in the translators' own experiences, as writers whose preference for English meant leaving England behind. Spenser's poem both invokes and recasts these associations: while acknowledging the loneliness of the poet severed from his native land, it also embraces alienation as the paradoxically enabling condition of a truly native eloquence. Like Tyndale and the Geneva translators, Spenser follows the "barbary tongue" and "langage rude" into exile, finding there the materials for renovating and replenishing an impoverished tradition. _The Shepheardes Calender_ thus transforms Meliboeus, Virgil's unwilling victim of exile, into Colin Clout, a poet whose exile from the pastoral community is both self-imposed and strangely productive. Like Meliboeus, Colin enters the pastoral world on the verge of departing from it, breaking his pipes at the end of the "Januarye" eclogue and quitting himself of the "rurall musick" to which his "vnlucky Muse" has called him (ll. 64, 69). His break with pastoral poetry, we learn, is the consequence of infidelity to the pastoral landscape, a fatal "long[ing]" to see "the neighbour towne" (l. 50). This wanderlust leads to an unrequited passion for Rosalind, a town-dwelling lady who loathes "shepheards devise" (l. 65), "laughes" (l. 66) at shepherds' songs, and infects Colin with a similar disdain. Although he returns to his flocks and farm, he remains alienated from the pleasures they once provided: neither his own verses nor the "clownish giftes and curtsies," "kiddes," "cracknelles," and "early fruits" of his rustic companion Hobbinol please Colin any longer. In his gloss of this passage, E. K. observes that "[n]eighbour town... express[es] the Latine Vicina" (38n50), a clarification many critics have cited as characteristically egregious—why bother to translate a perfectly clear English phrase into its Latin equivalent? But if the note violates the usual function of a gloss, its estranging effect captures perfectly the paradox inherent in both E. K.'s apparatus and Spenser's diction. Indeed the very word _vicina_ is suggestively apt, as it denotes a locale that is at once elsewhere and close at hand, remote and proximate. And when Hobbinol appears in the "Aprill" eclogue, he characterizes Colin's defection in similar terms: "now his frend is changed for a frenne" (l. 28). The latter word, E. K. informs us, is a term "first poetically put, and afterward vsed in commen custome of speech for forenne" (66–67n28). Colin's rejection of his familiar friend in favor of Rosalind—who, like the "neighbour towne" or _vicina_ in which she dwells, is both "forenne" and familiar—casts him into a state of self-division that, as Hobbinol reports, alienates him from the sources of his poetic inspiration: Shepheards delights he doth them all forsweare, Hys pleasaunt Pipe, which made vs merriment, Hy wylfully hath broke, and doth forbear His wonted songs, wherein he all outwent. (ll. 13–16) The measure of this loss to the pastoral community becomes clear when, at his companion's request, Hobbinol recites one of the songs Colin composed in happier days, when "by a spring he laye" and "tuned" his music to the rhythm of "the Waters fall" (ll. 35–36). The reader is invited to compare such domestic harmony to the frigid sympathy between poet and place that Colin expresses in "Januarye," when the frozen barrenness of the wintry fields merely encourages the poet to forsake his pipes and regard his own youth as similarly wasted. The song presents Colin as master of both a local and a classical poetics—he invokes the "dayntye Nymphes" of his own "blessed Brooke" (l. 37) to join the Muses "that on Parnasse dwell" (l. 41) and help in the fashioning of his praise for Elisa, whose glory is likened to that of " _Phoebus_ " (l. 73) and " _Cynthia_ " (l. 82). The two-part Latin tag with which the eclogue concludes—Aeneas's " _O quam te memorem virgo,_ " " _O dea certe_ "—casts Spenser as a second Virgil, even as it presents Elisa, England's queen, as "no whit inferiour to the Maiestie" of the goddess Venus and England, perhaps, as the fertile ground of a new poetic and political imperium. Such sympathetic affinities—between poet and place, local and classical, vernacular and Latin, England and Rome—are, however, the stuff of the past, as Hobbinol regretfully notes: "But nowe from me hys madding minde is starte" (l. 25). The breach between Colin and his "clownish" friend signals a more pervasive state of alienation. A disinclination to sing, in fact, is the inauspicious starting point of nearly all of the _Calender_ 's eclogues—whether it be the consequence of cold or age ("Februarie"), the afflictions of love ("March," "August"), the disapproval of one's fellow shepherds ("Maye," "Julye"), or the lack of a patron to support the poet's efforts ("October"). This last circumstance leads the shepherd Cuddie to despair of the future of English pastoral: Virgil, "the Romish _Tityrus_ " ("October," l. 55), had both matter and means for his art, but now "Tom Piper" (l. 78) with his "rymes of rybaudrye" (l. 78) is the only poet who thrives. Once inspiration, like the Roman Empire itself, seemed boundless; the muse "stretch[ed] her selfe at large from East to West" (l. 44). Now, with neither empire nor Caesar to sustain it, it lies "pend in shamefull coupe" (l. 72). "O pierlesse Poesye," Piers exclaims, "where then is thy place?" (l. 79). Its place, Cuddie replies, is with Colin Clout—with his departure, poetry too has been "expell[ed]" (l. 99). The apparent solution, then, is to woo Colin back to the place (and time) in which his poetry flourished, to the domesticity and community represented and advocated by homely, humble Hobbinol, who becomes the voice of what Harry Berger has dubbed the poem's "paradisal" imperative: the call to a kind of "literary withdrawal" that is also "characteristically a 'return to'... a set of _topoi_ , of 'places' as well as conventions, authenticated by their durability." Reunited with Colin in the "June" eclogue, Hobbinol does his best to woo his friend from his errant existence: Lo _Colin_ , here the place, whose pleasaunt syte From other shades hath weand my wandring mynde. Tell me, what wants me here, to worke delyte? The simple ayre, the gentle warbling wynde, So calme, so coole, as no where else I fynde. (ll. 1–5) Colin concurs with Hobbinol's evaluation of his own happy lot but insists that such domestic bliss is not for him: O happy _Hobbinoll_ , I blesse thy state, That Paradise hast found, whych _Adam_ lost... But I unhappy man, whom cruell fate, And angry Gods pursue from coste to coste, Can nowhere fynd, to shroude my lucklesse pate. (ll. 9–10, 14–16) Hobbinol responds with an obvious solution—Colin must come home: Forsake the soyle, that so doth the bewitch: Leaue me those hilles, where harbrough nis to see, Nor holybush, nor brere, nor winding witche: And to the dales resort, where shepheards ritch, And fuictfull flocks bene every where to see. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Such pierlesse pleasures haue we in these places. (ll. 18–22, 32) Colin counters that his dilemma is not situational but existential: "since I am not, as I wish I were" (l. 105)—that is, since he is exiled from Rosalind's affections—no place, "[w]hether on hylls, or dales, or other where" (l. 107), can do more than "[b]eare witnesse" (l. 108) to his suffering. The aptness of Hobbinol's advice is cast into further doubt by his encounter with Diggon Davie in the "September" eclogue. In many ways Diggon is a clear surrogate for Colin, another wayward prodigal, "a shepheard," as E. K. describes him, "that in hope of more gayne, droue his sheepe into a farre countrye" (116). Like Colin, who "curse[s]" the "carefull hower" of his departure from his pastoral home ("Januarye," l. 49), Diggon comes to regret his waywardness, "curs[ing] the stounde / That euer I caste to haue lorne this grounde" (ll. 56–57). He eventually makes his way back home, but errancy has marked his speech, which Hobbinol professes not to understand: "speake not so dirke" (l. 102), he urges. Diggon acknowledges that "this English is flatt" (l. 105), and E. K. comments that the peculiar "Dialecte and phrase of speache in this Dialogue," which "seemeth somewhat to differ from the comen," reflects Diggon's travels: having "bene long in foraine countries, and there seene many disorders," his very speech has become alien and disordered (125). Diggon would appear to represent an extreme case of the dangers facing Colin Clout, whose defection from the pastoral world also threatens to divorce him from its poetry. But the "September" eclogue takes on a more ambiguous meaning in light of the _Calender_ 's own departures from linguistic and pastoral convention. After all, one of the expressions that E. K. singles out as foreign and disorderly is the word "uncouthe" (l. 60), which Diggon uses to disparage his decision to leave home—but which E. K. himself used in his epistle to describe the poem's author and which he attributed to England's own "olde" and "famous" poet Chaucer (25). The moral of the "September" eclogue is further complicated by Diggon's choice of a Latin tag, _Inopem me copia fecit_ (l. 261), a phrase drawn, as E. K. observes, from Ovid's version of the tale of Narcissus. Diggon uses it, he hypothesizes, to show that "by tryall of many wayes, [he] founde the worst," but this is, he admits, "to other purpose" than "fyrste Narcissus spake it" (127). And indeed Narcissus is an odd figure for Diggon: while Diggon's desire for "chaunge" (l. 69) displaces him, leading him to abandon the "grounde" (l. 57) he knows best, Narcissus's self-love engrafts him in one place—if anyone could be said to be "[c]ontent [to] liue with tried state" (l. 70), as Hobbinol urges Diggon to be, it is Narcissus. If both Narcissus and Diggon ultimately find cause to mourn that "plenty has made me poor," they seek for plenty in very different places: one in the too-close circuit formed by his own person and its reflection; and the other by "measur[ing] much grownd,... wandr[ing] the world rounde" (ll. 21–22). They are linked, perhaps, by their inability to judge distances rightly: for Narcissus, distance from the object of his desire is both unattainable and inescapable; for Diggon, whose very name proclaims his homely, earth-bound calling, distance is a false lure, an invitation to riches that vanish when seen up close. Ultimately, Narcissus is perhaps a less apt figure for Diggon (of whom he is, at best, an inverted or mirror image) than he is for Colin Clout—not as he is, but as Hobbinol wishes him to be. The self-love and stasis that waste Narcissus are not so different from the paradisal pleasures Hobbinol urges upon Colin in the "June" eclogue, pleasures of proximity, familiarity, and sameness. And indeed when the reader first encounters Colin, in "Januarye," his condition is perilously Narcissus-like. The icy sheen of the frozen ground, he claims, had been "made a myrrhour, to behold my plight" (l. 20), and his own self-absorbed reflection threatens to consume him. The very syntax of his verse seems governed by a logic of reflexivity, replete with chiastic echoes, parallel structures, and insistent repetitions. When he falls to the ground after breaking his pipe, it seems possible that he, like Narcissus, will never get up again. It is only by rousing himself to abandon the pastoral place, rejecting home and its comforts, that Colin rediscovers his poetic voice—although it is no longer the same voice that once delighted his fellow shepherds with its sweetness. Thus when Hobbinol pleads "to heare thy rymes and roundelays, / Which thou were wont on wastfull hylls to singe" (ll. 49–51), Colin announces that "such delights... amongst my peeres" no longer entice him (l. 35). His exile has taught him "newe delightes" (l. 40), "play[ing] to please my selfe, all be it ill" (l. 72). These new songs, he says, do not imitate or emulate the songs of others, "to winne renowne, or passe the rest" (l. 74); instead they are fitted to the peculiar demands of his situation: "I wote my rhymes bene rough, and rudely drest," but "[t]he fitter they, my carefull case to frame, / Enough is me to paint out my vnrest" (ll. 77–79). In making the case for his songs of "vnrest," Colin does not claim to have abandoned his roots altogether. Instead, he argues, he follows the example of his master, "[t]he God of shepheards _Tityrus_... / Who taught me homely, as I can to make" (ll. 81–82). This "homely" art is, nevertheless, as remote and inaccessible as any of the prospects Hobbinol has described: " _Tityrus_... is dead" (l. 81), and "all hys passing skil with him is fledde" (l. 91). Colin's own song is thus defined by relationships of proximity and likeness—to Chaucer, to Virgil—that perpetually fall away into distance and alienation, just as his "place in [Rosalind's] heart" ("Argvment" to "June," 87) turns out to be no place at all—indeed turns out to spoil and evacuate all places. Chaucer and Virgil share the role of Tityrus, Colin's poetic mentor, with an unacknowledged third poet: Ovid, the "poet... of exile and complaint," who, as Syrithe Pugh argues, through "an accumulation of mostly covert allusions" becomes the _Calender_ 's silent "presiding genius." One such allusion may be found in the song Colin sings in the "Nouember" eclogue, a dirge in honor of Dido, "dead alas and drent" (l. 37)—a passage which long puzzled Spenser's readers since the Virgilian Dido dies a famously fiery death. Donald Cheney solves the conundrum by pointing to the "March" section of the _Fasti_ , Ovid's never-completed calendrical poem celebrating Rome's mythic and imperial history, which recounts the fate of Dido's lesser-known sister, Anna. Exiled from Carthage after her sister's death, Anna is driven across the sea to Italy, where she seeks help from Aeneas and then, fearing his wife's jealousy, casts herself into the river Numicius. In fact, the parallels between this sister of Dido and the figure mourned by Colin are even more striking than Cheney suggests: like Ovid's Anna, Colin's Dido is remembered for her generosity to the rustic poor ( _Fasti_ 3.670–71; "Nouember," ll. 95–96), memorialized in the bawdy songs of young girls ( _Fasti_ 3.675–6; "Nouember," ll. 77–79), and transcends her watery death to achieve immortality ( _Fasti_ 3.653–54; "Nouember," l. 175). Ultimately, however, Colin's Dido surpasses her Ovidian model; "raign[ing] a goddesse now emong the saintes" (l. 175), she achieves a glory inaccessible to the pagan Anna. The Spenserian Dido's supersession of her classical predecessor reflects her creator's supersession of his own classical predecessor, for Ovid's calendrical poem has no "November" section—indeed nothing at all past "June." _The Shepheardes Calender_ may follow "the ensample of... Ovid," as E. K.'s final note observes (156), but it also succeeds where Ovid failed, simply in arriving at an end. The significance of this implicit contest with Ovid deepens if we recall the reason Ovid's calendar lacks an ending: his banishment from Rome. The fate of the _Fasti_ 's author recalls that of Virgil's Meliboeus: Ovid abandoned the poem when Auguistus ordered him to abandon Rome and take up residence in Tomis, on the Black Sea—like Britain, a desolate colonial outpost on the frontier of the Roman Empire. Instead of completing his calendar—a project he now regarded with bitterness—Ovid began the series of poems known as the _Tristia_ , in which he bemoans the cultural and linguistic impoverishment of his new home "at the world's end." The _Tristia_ are haunted by Ovid's fear that, cut off from other native speakers of Latin, he will lose his poetic voice, descending to the barbarous accents of those around him. He obsessively charts the decline of his once-eloquent tongue, complaining that, surrounded by "Thracian and Scythian voices, I've unlearned the art of speech" (3.14.46). "If some phrases sound un-Latin," he apologizes, "remember / They were penned on barbarian soil" (3.1.17–18). His poetry has become a mass of "barbarous solecisms," for which, he insists, "you must blame the place, not the author" (5.7.60–61). Ovid's mournful insistence that it is "the place," the non-Roman North, which stops his once eloquent tongue resonates with many sixteenth-century accounts of the English language: for instance, Thomas Elyot's argument that the "infelicitie of our time and countray... compelleth" the English to labor in the study of classical tongues; and Gabriel Harvey's claim that a "revolution of the heavens" was needed to bring eloquence "to these remote parts of the world." By completing the poetic project left unfinished by Ovid in his _Fasti_ , and by rooting it in the seemingly unpromising locale of the rude vernacular, Spenser challenges, yet again, the classical tradition's equation of exile, especially exile to the barbarous North, with poetic impotence. The rocks on which Ovid's calendar founders become the ground in which Spenser's _Calender_ thrives. Thus, when begged by Hobbinol to "forsake the soyle" that stifles his once fluent song—soil identified by E. K. as "the Northparts" ("Glosse" to "June," 91)—Colin Clout refuses to do so, embracing alienation and distance as inspirations for his "rough, and rudely drest" verses ("June," l. 77): he is, as Colin Burrow has noted, the "poet of loss, exile, and solitude." In the epilogue to the _Calender_ , Spenser embraces the distance between himself and other poets, claiming that his poem has earned "a free passeporte" to "followe" from "farre off" the works of earlier authors ("Epilogue," ll. 7, 11). The claim sustains a conventional gesture of modesty—he "dare[s] not match [his] pipe" (l. 9) with those greater—but it also identifies distance, whether linguistic, temporal, cultural, or geographic, with an expansion of literary possibility and with a challenge to the hierarchies that had kept vernacular poets in their place. The strangeness that, for E. K., makes _Immeritô_ 's English truly and virtuously homely works its way through the narrative of Colin Clout's poetic development, which emerges out of the same paradoxical play of distance and proximity, foreignness and familiarity, exile and return. Poetry Beyond the Pale For all the admiration that _The Shepheardes Calender_ garnered from contemporary readers, not all of Spenser's peers appreciated the poem's embrace of strangeness. William Webbe, author of _A Discourse of English Poetrie_ (1586), proclaims Spenser "the rightest English Poet, that euer I read," but his praise of _The Shepheardes Calender_ betrays a certain unease. Spenser's "trauell in that peece of English Poetrie," he writes, "I think verily is so commendable, as none of equall iudgement can yeelde him lesse prayse for hys excellent skyll, and skyllful excellency shewed foorth in the same, then they would to eyther _Theocritus_ or _Virgill_ , whom in mine opinion, if the coursenes of our speeche (I meane the course of custome which he woulde not infringe) had beene no more let vnto him, then theyr pure natiue tongues were vnto them, he would haue (if it might be) surpassed them." High praise, undoubtedly—the highest, for a critic who longs to see English poetry converted to quantitative measures "in imitation of the Greekes and Latines"—but Webbe's punning admission that "the coursenes of our speeche" or "the course of custome which he woulde not infringe" has prevented Spenser from surpassing his classical models introduces a rather serious qualification, especially since, earlier in the treatise, he identifies "the canckred enmitie of curious custome" as the single most pernicious influence on modern vernacular poets, the chief cause of England's persistent linguistic and poetic backwardness. Moreover, as readers of _The Shepheardes Calender_ know, far from being unwilling to "infringe" upon the "course of custome," according to E. K., Spenser's diction is the result of a _deliberately_ "curious" poetic practice, his "choyce of old and vnwonted words" (27). Sidney, the poem's dedicatee, expresses distaste for this choice in his _Apologie for Poetrie_ (1595), granting that Spenser "hath much _Poetrie_ in his Egloges, indeed worthie the reading," but insisting that he "dare not allow" the "framing of his style to an olde rusticke language." It is difficult to understand how one might commend the pastoral conceit of Spenser's _Calender_ —what Sidney calls its " _Poetrie_ "—while disapproving of the rustic language that seems so central to that conceit, and the strain the _Calender_ placed on its early modern readers is plain: in Sidney's treatise, as in Webbe's, admiration for the _Calender_ 's unmistakable genius wars with the perception that there is something flawed, even self-defeating, at work in the poem. Such ambivalent responses reproduce, almost uncannily, the tensions within the poem between the admiration expressed for Colin Clout and the irritation at his refusal to occupy a place commensurate with his talents: like Colin, Spenser is hailed by peers such as Sidney and Webbe as an exemplary genius even as he is reproached for what seems to be a posture of willful self-estrangement. Certainly Ben Jonson sounds rather Hobbinol-like when he warns readers of medieval poetry against "falling too much in love with antiquity" lest "they grow rough and barren in language only" and holds up Spenser as an example of one overcome with an unwise and immoderate affection for things remote from his experience. If antiquity—specifically, England's antiquity—is Spenser's Rosalind in this allegory of misplaced affection, his archaic diction is an instrument as fractured and self-indulgent as Colin's shattered pipe: "Spenser, in affecting the ancients," Jonson famously concludes, "writ no language." The judgments of Webbe, Sidney, and Jonson have shaped many later accounts of the poem, but it is possible that they exaggerate the strangeness and difficulty of Spenser's diction. The eighteenth-century critic Thomas Warton sounded an early note of skepticism: "The censure of Jonson, upon our author's style, is perhaps unreasonable.... The groundwork and substance of his style is the language of his age. This indeed is seasoned with various expressions, adopted from the elder poets; but... the affectation of Spenser in this point, is by no means so striking and visible, as Jonson has insinuated; nor is his phraseology so difficult and obsolete, as it is generally supposed to be." Warton's argument has encouraged a few twentieth-century critics to reconsider the prevailing view of the language of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , especially when it is placed alongside lesser-known works of the mid-sixteenth century. Certainly Spenser embraces an array of archaic and dialect terms to ornament his shepherds' speech, but so too, as Roscoe Parker points out, did most earlier writers of English pastoral, and Spenser's antiquated, rustic-sounding shepherds are not so different from those found in the eclogues of Barclay, Turbervile, and Barnabe Googe. Veré Rubel adds that "it is interesting to note how many of the archaisms, poetic borrowings, and poetic constructions which distinguish the language of _The Shepheardes Calender_ are to be found in _Tottel's Miscellany_ as well." To argue, as W. L. Renwick does, that "[t]he solemn Introduction and Notes contributed by E. K. are evidence that the [linguistic] innovation was acutely felt and required explanation; further, that it claimed serious consideration; and again, that it was deliberate," may be to acquiesce too much to E. K.'s own commentary, which, as I have argued, is at least as invested in emphasizing the innovative strangeness of Spenser's language as it is in dispelling that strangeness. Perhaps most intriguing in this regard is Megan Cook's observation that sixteenth-century editions of Chaucer were not glossed for "hard words" until _after_ the publication of _The Shepheardes Calender_ ; until Thomas Speght's 1598 edition of Chaucer's poems, readers apparently were not expected to require assistance in decoding Chaucer's English or to experience that English as substantially different from their own. Speght's claim that his edition has "restored [Chaucer] to his owne Antiquitie" makes plain the double impulse behind his gloss—at once to facilitate the reader's encounter with poetry deemed too remote for easy comprehension and to guarantee that this remoteness is recognized and appreciated. It is a mode of annotation Speght might well have learned from E. K. Such observations help to contextualize Spenser's language and encourage us to adopt a more skeptical view of E. K.'s claims on its behalf. They also allow us to conceive of Spenser's collaboration with E. K. as an attempt—bolstered by the mystery surrounding _Immeritô_ 's identity and by the archaizing effect of the blackletter type in which the poem was printed—to generate a kind of "alienation effect" for _The Shepheardes Calender_ , to cultivate remoteness as a deliberate mode of relation to readers. Readers of _The Shepheardes Calender_ have observed that Colin Clout's gestures of alienation and abandonment—his broken pipes, his exile to the North, his refusal to sing—are rarely permanent or wholehearted. Colin and his songs are, in fact, everywhere in the world of the _Calender_ , if often at a remove, present only through the mediating influence of his fellow shepherds. The same might be said of Spenser's language, which, if it is "the straungest" of "many thinges which in him be straunge," is also the aspect of the poem most insistently present to its readers, thanks to the mediating influence of E. K. This chapter began by noting that the pastoral tradition, especially Virgil's eclogues, posed difficulties for English authors and readers who wished to assert a greater affinity between their own language and culture and that of Rome. Because Virgilian pastoral acknowledges Britain only as an emblem of distance, deprivation, and barbarism, it frustrated, or at least complicated, the efforts of English translators and imitators to use pastoral as a vehicle for overcoming their geographic, temporal, and linguistic remoteness from classical Latinity. _The Shepheardes Calender_ seems to have frustrated readers such as Webbe, Sidney, and Jonson—all equally, although differently, invested in the project of classicizing English poetry—for a similar reason, by both appealing to and resisting their desire for proximity to the classical world. The very aspects of the _Calender_ that most clearly advertise its affiliation to the classical tradition—its genre and its scholarly apparatus—are also precisely the elements that most challenge that affiliation. E. K.'s epistle and notes habitually conflate foreignness with familiarity and estrangement with identification, insisting on such paradoxes as the necessary attributes of a truly English poetics; likewise Spenser's pastoral plot fashions itself around a figure whose perpetual departures and returns challenge any effort to fix the place of pastoral and so lay claim to it for England. To write (or read) vernacular poetry may mean estrangement from one's native tongue; to locate pastoral in Britain, "cut of[f] from the wide world," may mean leaving the community of shepherd-poets behind. From 1580 on, of course, Spenser spent virtually his entire life in a state of literal proximity to and alienation from his native land and fellow English poets: as a functionary of Ireland's colonial administration, he watched from afar the dissolution of his hopes for a reform-minded Protestant court, a court that would nurture the kind of poetic community the language deserved. Ireland is thus a crucial figure for Spenser's ambivalent engagement with English vernacular poetry; it is the site of his own unwilling but productive displacement, the barren and rude prospect from which he, like Meliboeus or Ovid, must reenvision his native land. It is also, as Willy Maley and Andrew Had-field have argued, the place where Spenser encountered a version of the vernacular, that spoken by members of the "Old English" colonial community, purified of modern corruptions by virtue of having been "preserved in the colonial margins rather than the cosmopolitan center." Finally, Ireland is where Colin Clout reappears in Spenser's poetry, in a 1595 pastoral whose title, _Colin Clouts Come Home Againe,_ invokes a "home" that turns out to be preserved in these same colonial margins. This late work both intensifies and seeks to resolve the dynamics of displacement and estrangement that Spenser and E. K. negotiate in _The Shepheardes Calender_. It begins in what is for readers of the _Calender_ a familiar vein, with Hobbinol hailing Colin's return from recent wanderings and begging him not to leave again: " _Colin_ my liefe, my life, How great a losse / Had all the shepheards nation by the lacke?" For the moment it appears that we are right back in the "June" eclogue and that the intervening years have been occupied with more unhappy departures from and fretful returns to the place of pastoral. The discourse of departure and return is given an unexpected twist, however, when Colin's "late voyage" (l. 34) abroad turns out to have taken him, of all places, to England: the shepherd's nation has been transplanted, like Spenser himself, beyond the Irish pale. The rest of the poem elaborates this ironic inversion of home and abroad, what Julia Reinhardt Lupton refers to as "the _unheimlich_ contradictions and displacements implicit in the pastoral foundations of the Spenserian home." When his fellow shepherds ask him to describe his exotic journey, ascribing their interest to a love of "forreine thing[s]" (l. 162), Colin obliges by describing a country "farre away, / so farre that land our mother vs did leaue, / and nought but sea and heauen to vs appeare" (ll. 225–27). At first this England appears as an ideal home for poets, where "shepheards abroad... may safely lie" (l. 316), where "learned arts do florish in great honor, / And Poets wits are had in peerlesse price" (ll. 320–21), and where a gracious queen "enclin[es] her eare" to "take delight" in the "rude and roughly dight" music of Colin's pipe (ll. 360–63). As Colin enumerates the fortunate poets who enjoy this happy place, however, his descriptions betray a darker view: Harpalus is "woxen aged / In faithfull service" (ll. 380–81); Corydon is "meanly waged" (l. 382); "sad _Alcyon_ " is "bent to mourne" (l. 384); Palin is "worthie of great praise" but consumed by "envie" (ll. 392–93); Alcon requires "matter of more skill" (l. 395); Palemon "himself may be rewed, / That sung so long vntill quite hoarse he grew" (ll. 398–99); Alabaster is "throughly taught" but "knowen yet to few" and not "knowne... as he ought" (ll. 400–402); Amyntas "quite is gone and lies full low" (l. 435); and the best of them all, Astrofell, "is dead and gone" (l. 449). By the time the litany ends, Colin's remark that "[a]ll these do florish in their sundry kind" (l. 452) can be read only as bitter irony, and when Thestylis asks, "Why didst thou euer leaue that happie place?" (l. 654), the answer seems self-evident: "[S]ooth to say, it is no sort of life, / For shepheard fit to lead in that same place" (ll. 688–89). There is more at stake here than the usual pastoral satire of courtly life. Colin redefines the terms of his own apparent alienation so that exile becomes the necessary condition of poetic excellence and the paradoxical guarantee of a higher home. He and his fellow Irish swains may live on "barrein soyle / Where cold and care and penury do dwell" (ll. 656–57), but he anticipates a final reckoning at which the poets whose cunning has earned them proximity to power will suffer a worse fate: "Ne mongst true louers will they place inherit / But as exuls out of [Love's] court be thrust" (ll. 893–94). For Colin—and perhaps for Spenser—the very extremity of Irish colonial existence becomes an ideal, and bracingly material, figure for the displacement and alienation that have always characterized, indeed made possible, his peculiar inhabitation of the pastoral world. _Chapter 5_ "Conquering Feet": Tamburlaine and the Measure of English The Plain Show of a Manifest Maim Part 1 of _Tamburlaine the Great_ (1587–88) forcefully inverts Spenser's vision of the English poet as exile, recasting him as a violent intruder. Christopher Marlowe, a recent arrival to the professional London theater, invited audiences to see in the audacious progress of his barbarian hero the image of his own poetic daring, claiming Tamburlaine's legendary conquest of the East as a vehicle for his campaign to enlarge the boundaries of English verse: "From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits, / And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, / We'll lead you to the stately tent of War," promises his prologue, "Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine / Threat'ning the world with high astounding terms / And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword." This announcement of a newly elevated voice and kingly measure for the English stage now seems as prophetic as any of Tamburlaine's boasts: "will" and "shall" befit the mighty Marlovian line as well as they do its Scythian champion. Londoners swarmed to see the outrageous and eloquent Tamburlaine make his bloody way across the vast imaginary terrain of Marlowe's play, and an inevitable host of lesser playwrights sought to capitalize on _Tamburlaine_ 's success with their own spectacles of exotic savagery and their own blank verse tragedies. Together with its sequel, _Tamburlaine_ launched Marlowe's theatrical career and altered the course of English literary history, establishing blank verse as the keynote of vernacular heroics. Marlowe dramatizes this conquest at the climax of part 1, when his ruthlessly ambitious hero mounts his imperial throne by stepping on the kneeling form of Bajazeth, "treading him," as the Turkish sultan's wife laments, "beneath [his] loathsome feet" (4.2.64). Critics promptly seized upon the punning analogy between Tamburlaine's martial feet and Marlowe's insistent iambs, and they have not let it go. In the sixteenth century the satirist Joseph Hall lampooned the "Turkish _Tamberlaine,_ " whose "huf-cap termes and thundring threats" echo "the stalking steps of his great personage"; in a less mocking vein, the twentieth-century scholar Alvin Kernan identifies "the steady, heavy beat of 'Marlowe's mighty line,' carrying authority, determination, and steady onward movement" as the most novel and distinctive feature of the poet's verse. The spectacle of Bajazeth's humiliation also reminds us that, like Tamburlaine's military conquest, Marlowe's literary historical triumph is a drama of usurpation: the deposed Turk whom Tamburlaine makes his "footstool" has a double in the person of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, a sixteenth-century poet whose blank-verse translation of books 2 and 4 of Virgil's _Aeneid_ , published several decades before _Tamburlaine_ , is now regularly cast as a footnote to the arrival and ascent of Marlowe's mighty line. But the analogy is not quite apt: strangely there is no particular arrogance—or "tamberlaine contempt," to borrow Gabriel Harvey's phrase—in Marlowe's identification of blank verse as a bold and self-authorized departure from established usage. For by the 1580s English poets and critics had largely concurred in writing off the unrhymed, accented line of Surrey's translation as an interesting but misbegotten experiment in vernacular prosody. Roger Ascham, for instance—one of the most vocal and eager proponents of unrhymed English verse in the mid-sixteenth century—treats Surrey's _Aeneid_ with condescension: although he praises its author as the "first of all English men" to "haue... by good iudgement, auoyded the fault of Ryming," he dismisses the poem as a well-intentioned failure, saying that it does not "fullie hite perfite and trew versifying." Contrasted to Virgil's quantitative measures, he declares, Surrey's iambic feet are "feete without ioyntes, that is to say, not distinct by trew quantitie of sillables: And... soch feete, be but numme feete: and be, euen as vnfitte for a verse to turne and runne roundly withall, as feete of brasse or wood be vnweeldie to go well withall. And as a foote of wood, is a plaine shew of a manifest maime, euen so feete, in our English versifiing, without quantitie and ioyntes, be sure signes, that the verse is either, borne deformed, vnnaturall and lame, and so verie vnseemlie to looke vpon, except to men that be gogle eyed them selues." This damning assessment of blank verse was enough to obscure Surrey's achievement from view for decades to come: in _Palladis Tamia_ (1598) Francis Meres praises Surrey as a love poet but repeats Ascham's criticism of his _Aeneid_ verbatim, while William Webbe, despite the fact that his _Discourse of English Poetry_ (1586) works hard to revive the cause of metrical versification, classes the "olde Earl of Surrey" among those native poets whose praise, for all their modest talents, would make his "discourse much more tedious." So total is the neglect of Surrey's poem that O. B. Hardison concludes that "there is no reason to doubt Milton's sincerity" when, in his prefatory note to _Paradise Lost_ , he claimed his own epic poem to be "the first [example] in English" of heroic verse freed from the fetters of rhyme. _Tamburlaine_ thus presents us with a peculiar literary historical phenomenon: the triumph of a formal choice that had proved an utter failure just decades earlier, when it appeared in a guise far more likely to appeal to the prejudices and preconceptions of its readers. Derek Attridge has written extensively on the question of why sixteenth-century English poets and critics found it so difficult to recognize, much less appreciate, the accentual patterns of their own verse; here, he suggests, in an especially direct and pervasive way, their formation in the classics estranged those writers from their mother tongue, whose native accents were muffled by antique precepts. Confounded by the differences between classical "quantities" and English "accents," they were liable to conclude, as Paula Blank writes, "that English poetry had no meter, no 'true' numbers at all, and moreover that the English language itself was intrinsically unfit for true measure." Even so, the tepid reception of Surrey's achievement by his contemporaries and successors remains "one of the curiosities of the history of English poetry." For if we attend to the metaphorical terms of the debate over rhyme and quantitative measure in the sixteenth century, Surrey's _Aeneid_ seems perfectly positioned to satisfy anxieties about the legitimacy of English as a literary language. More than any other attribute of the language, the vernacular's supposed lack of measure was perceived as the tell-tale sign of England's barbarous, nonimperial past. Thus Ascham calls upon readers of _The Scholemaster_ to "acknowledge and vnderstand rightfully our rude beggerly ryming" as the legacy of barbarian conquest, "brought first into Italie by _Gothes_ and _Hunnes,_ whan all good verses and all good learning... were destroyd by them: and after caryed into France and Germanie: and at last, receyued into England" (60r). Ascham's "at last" ruefully acknowledges England's perpetual belatedness: isolated on the periphery of ancient civilization, it is the last to hear even the unwelcome news of barbaric overthrow. But it also stakes out a place for England as the last standing outpost of that civilization, a lone preserve of once-widespread values and practices of eloquence, and in the efforts of his own generation of humanist scholars and pedagogues to overthrow barbaric rhyme and reinstate classical versification, Ascham sees signs that the trajectory of gothic decline might be reversed: "I rejoyce," he writes, "that euen poore England preuented _Italie,_ first in spying out, than in seekyng to amend this fault in learning" (62r). Were it not for his dismissive treatment of the blank-verse _Aeneid_ , we might reasonably suppose that Ascham's joy had something to do with the Earl of Surrey: given the Virgilian ambitions that inspired the quest for vernacular metrics, the arrival of an English Aeneas who speaks in unrhymed iambic pentameter seems like an occasion for celebration—or at least for something more urgent than the general shrug that Surrey's poem receives. As Margaret Tudeau-Clayton observes, translating Virgil was a "high stakes" literary enterprise in sixteenth-century England, offering an occasion both for authorial self-promotion and "for the promotion of cultural forms,... national equivalents to the unifying model furnished for the Roman people" by Virgil himself, "the 'columen linguae latinae' ('the pillar of the Latin language')." By anchoring blank verse in the great classical poem of the founding of civilization and the translation of empire, Surrey's _Aeneid_ speaks directly to the twin desires for poetic measure and imperial stature. Indeed rarely has a literary text been better positioned for success: Surrey's translation appears in print (in Richard Tottel's widely read "Miscellany" of 1557) just as the quest for an alternative to rhyme becomes the centerpiece of English humanist efforts to achieve parity with ancient Greece and Rome. To perpetuate rhyme "now, when men know the difference, and haue the examples, both of the best and the worst," Ascham famously declares, would be to embrace marginality and exclusion, to affirm one's own place outside the boundaries of civilization: "to follow rather the _Gothes_ in rhyming than the _Greekes_ in trew versifying were euen to eate ackornes with swine, when we may freely eate wheate bread emonges men" (60r). Ascham's metaphor echoes the opening lines of Virgil's _Georgics_ , the great classical poem of civilization and culture, which hymns the dawn of human society as the moment when "earth... exchanged wild acorns for plump grains of wheat." The allusion invites English readers to imagine themselves as potential heirs to the empire envisioned in the _Georgics_ , which hails Octavian as lord of "the great circling world," "god of the great sea," and master of "more than a fair share of heaven," while effacing—or at least downplaying—the labor and toil that are the poem's unceasing theme. "I am sure," Ascham reassures his audience, "our English tong will receiue _carmen Iambicum_ as naturallie, as either _Greke_ or _Latin._ " If no English iambic verse has yet succeeded, he concludes, only "ignorance" is to blame (60v). What Ascham calls "ignorance"—a culpable but passive defect of knowledge and education—may seem to us like a more active failure of recognition, but it is possible that Surrey's affiliation of his formal innovation with Virgil's great epic did English blank verse no favors. Ascham, for one, seems to feel that he has been subjected to a shoddy sleight-of-foot: where Virgil's dactylic hexameters obey the classical laws of quantity—which measure syllables according to duration in time—Surrey accommodates his iambic pentameter to the vernacular's own patterns of accentual stress. To a classicist's ear, the substitution of accent for quantity makes the English feet seem to stumble haltingly behind Virgil's own: blank verse exposes the language's native defects, making a "plaine shew of a manifest maime." English poets who tried, as Ascham urges them, to subject the vernacular to the principles of quantitative measure fared still worse: Surrey's blank verse may seem to have been "borne deformed," but according to Edmund Spenser, the imposition of classical quantities crippled even the strongest English feet. Subjected to the alien rule of duration in time, Spenser confesses in a 1580 letter to Gabriel Harvey that "the Accente" of his English hexameters "sometime gapeth, and as it were yawneth ilfauouredly, comming shorte of that it should, and sometime exceeding the measure of the Number,... seemeth like a lame Gosling, that draweth one legge after hir... [or] like a lame Dogge that holds vp one legge." Ascham may present the quest for English measure as a wholly natural turn from humiliation, deprivation, and hardship to abundance and ease—trading in wild acorns for plump grains of wheat, the company of pigs for the company of men—but Spenser's experience suggests that escaping the barnyard was not so simple: quantitative versification entailed hardships, deprivations, and humiliations of its own. Harvey, who initially responded with encouragement to Spenser's efforts at quantitative verse, wrote back urging him to leave off. Spenser's insistence that "rough words must be subdued with Vse," so that English poets "might... as else the Greekes, haue the kingdome of our owne Language," arouses his particular indignation: what Spenser dubs a "kingdome of... language" Harvey regards as closer to a military occupation. Objecting to his friend's heavy-handed manipulation of a familiar English noun, he warns, "[Y]ou shall never have my subscription or consent to make your _Carpēnter_ our _Carpênter_ an inche longer or bigger than God and his Englishe people have made him." "Is there no other pollicie to pull downe Ryming and set vppe Versifying," he demands, "but you must needes... forcibly vsurpe and tyrannize vppon a quiet companie of wordes?" As Richard Helgerson has shown, the debate between Spenser and Harvey over the future of vernacular versification turns not on the question of whether English accents are compatible with classical numbers—Harvey hears the same strain and stress in Spenser's hexameters that Spenser does—but on the question of how to interpret that mismatch metaphorically. The contest between rhyme and quantitative meter in late sixteenth-century vernacular criticism serves as a surrogate for arguments about the kind of rule fit for England, about the ideal balance between centralized authority and the rule of custom. But it also precipitates anxieties about the terms of Britain's relationship with the empires of antiquity. Poems written in English approximations of quantitative meter might be claimed as emblems of cultural parity, poetic fulfillment of the longing—encoded in the myth of Brutus—for a genealogical bond with antiquity. But they were also vulnerable to charges of ongoing cultural subjection, extensions of an ancient dependency. Was the application of classical prosody to English akin to the domestication of a savage and bestial herd, or was it an instance of tyrannical violence inflicted on innocent humanity? That question, which accounts for the urgency with which English humanists treated the arcana of classical prosody, points the way toward a deeper understanding of Marlowe's otherwise astonishing success with _Tamburlaine_. For the two rival narratives of the debate about metrical versification—civilizing order versus intolerable tyranny—coexist within sixteenth-century accounts of the career of the fourteenth-century Scythian warlord known variously as Timur Khan, Timur Cutlu, and Timur-i-Lenk. Timur was a popular subject for European and English moralists, who offered his life both as an exemplary instance of spectacular self-improvement—the rude shepherd becomes master of an empire—and as a cautionary tale about violent excess and unbridled ambition—the savage conqueror who is himself cut down by death, leaving his hard-won throne prey to a series of squabbling successors. As most of these narratives also note, the historical Timur walked with a limp: hence the title _Tamburlaine_ —Timur-i-Lenk, or Timur the Lame. Calling upon Tamburlaine as the champion of his blank verse, Christopher Marlowe thus foregrounds the very anxieties—barbarity and cultural degeneracy, tyranny and lameness—that plagued figures such as Ascham, Spenser, and Harvey in their efforts to rehabilitate English quantitative measure. By doing so he eludes the unfortunate comparisons that condemned Surrey's _Aeneid_ to the margins of literary history. When Ascham read Surrey's _Aeneid_ , its hero's imperial progress seems to have contrasted unfavorably with the effortful pacing of the poet's own feet; Tamburlaine, by contrast, was already "the plaine shewe of a manifest maime": English poetry could only look more refined, more humane by comparison. Mary Floyd-Wilson calls Marlowe's adoption of Tamburlaine "a clever joke," the reverse of type-casting," but it is possible that Tamburlaine's Scythian rudeness made him a better advocate for a novel-seeming poetic form than the Trojan Aeneas. After all, as Attridge makes plain, what sixteenth-century poetic theorists needed (and often failed) to reckon with were the fundamental differences between the classical tongues and English, differences that Timur, with his strangeness and his striving, cast in a fresh light. Not everyone welcomed the sound of _Tamburlaine_ 's voice, to be sure, but even the criticisms leveled at Marlowe's verse by rivals such as Joseph Hall testify to its imperious effect, its "big-sounding sentences, and words of state." Indeed critics such as Hall seem to take their cues from Marlowe himself, who crafts an overtly self-serving analogy between his own poetic ambitions and Tamburlaine's triumphs: Marlowe's "base-born hero," observes David Riggs, "is an extemporaneous oral poet whose verses... are his passport to wealth and dominion," a "fable [that] transforms the cycle of poverty, poetry, and social mobility that had cast Marlowe on the margins of Elizabethan society into an unexampled success story." In a more complicated fashion, I suggest, the Scythian Timur also serves the needs of sixteenth-century English rhetorical and poetic theorists, not as "an unexampled success story" but as a figure for the contradictory values ascribed to prosodic form as an index of cultural achievement. Ascham, for instance, presents quantitative measure as the antithesis of native brutality, a necessary submission to civilizing order, but he also covets classical meter as an emblem of England's capacity to resist invasion and conquest. As the exchanges between Spenser and Harvey demonstrate, efforts to adapt quantitative measures into English tend to get caught between the twin perils of barbaric marginality and tyrannical coercion: either way subjection lies. By yoking the future of the unrhymed iambic line to the rise of a notoriously violent barbarian, confounding eloquent measure with vulgar excess and outlandish extremity, Marlowe points an unlikely way out of the doomed contest between vernacular and classical prosody, suggesting that English poetry stake its legitimacy precisely on its disregard for the decorums of more civilized tongues. He is not the only one to do so: at least two of Marlowe's contemporaries found in the legend of the lawless Timur Khan a possible solution to the question of vernacular prosody. For Marlowe, Tamburlaine serves as the avatar of English poetry freed from the petty constraints of rhyme, but for the rhetorician George Puttenham, a figure dubbed Temir Cutzclewe—Timur Cutlu, or Timur the Lucky—models a form of poetic measure that excels the classical quantities in its rigor. Meanwhile for the poet and critic Samuel Daniel, a staunch proponent of vulgar rhyme, Tamburlaine is the figure for a literary tradition that exceeds the narrow worldview of antiquity and an eloquence that is its own law. Marlowe, Puttenham, and Daniel take very different stances when it comes to defining what English measure ought to look and sound like, but they each recognize in the debate over versification an opportunity to reexamine the most basic terms of rhetorical and poetic judgment, exposing the violence within eloquence, the transgressions on which the rules of restraint depend, and the willfulness with which lines of verse and the boundaries of linguistic community are drawn. Such internal contradictions expose the inadequacy of Ascham's binary of Greeks and Goths, humans and beasts: both Englishness and eloquence are found to inhabit a terrain where brutality is the handmaid of _humanitas_ , and Scythians are the progenitors of civilization. Noticing Tamburlaine's odd prominence within the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century history of prosody means noticing as well that the paradoxes he comes to embody—violence married to sweetness, measure to excess, barbarity to civility, and license to restraint—are embedded in the foundation of vernacular literary theory and practice. But foundation may be the wrong term altogether, for the strikingly diverse solutions offered by Marlowe, Puttenham, and Daniel (not to mention Ascham, Spenser, and Harvey) to the nagging problem of measure suggest how very unstable and contested that theory and practice remained. More forcefully than even Euphues or Colin Clout, the Scythian Timur resists domestication as a figure of Orphic communion—which seems to have made him the ideal figure for English poetry. Temir Cutzclewe's Arte of Poesie "[W]hat is unrhythmical is unlimited," Aristotle writes of metrical prose and verse in book 3 of the _Art of Rhetoric_ , "and there should be a limit,... for the unlimited is unpleasant and unknowable." In the opening lines of book 2 of his 1589 _Arte of English Poesie_ , Puttenham echoes Aristotle, observing that "all things stand by proportion, and that without it nothing could stand to be good or beautiful"(53). What was at stake, then, in the seemingly picayune debate over rhyme, quantities, and other forms of measure was the viability both of English eloquence and of English theories of English eloquence: without fixed formal standards, English poetry risked condemnation as unpleasant and unknowable, artless in every sense of the word. Marlowe's Tamburlaine understands the problem precisely; his quest for global dominion is propelled by his desire to know the outermost limits of his power: "Since they measure our deserts so mean... / They shall be kept our forcèd followers / Till with their eyes they view us emperors," he informs an early set of captives ( _One_ 1.2.63, 66–67), and on the point of death he will beg for a map to "see how much / Is left for me to conquer all the world" ( _Two_ 5.3.123–24). More pointedly than any other literary critical issue, prosody forced vernacular authors to recognize the interdependence of theory and practice: the question of whether or not the vernacular was eloquent could not, finally, be distinguished from the question of whether and how its eloquence could be measured. Marlowe's Tamburlaine dies before he reaches that outermost bound, leaving a pair of inept sons "to finish all [his] wants" ( _Two_ 5.3.125), but in book 2 of Puttenham's _Arte,_ the Scythian Timur helps to rescue the author from his own unbounded—perhaps unhinged—attempt to measure English verse. Puttenham dedicates his second book, "Of Proportion Poeticall," to fulfilling the bold pronouncement he makes in the _Arte_ 's opening pages, which claim that the vernacular's lack of quantitative feet is not a defect but a sign of superabundance. Even if English poetry does not obey the strict laws of classical versification, "the nature of our language and wordes not permitting it," he declares, it possesses "in stead thereof twentie other curious points in that skill more then they euer had, by reason of our rime and tunable concords or simphonie, which they neuer obserued" (4). Puttenham is assisted in making good on his boast because of his willingness to play fast and loose with the etymologies of terms such as _rithmos_ , _arithmos_ and rhyme, "arithmeticall" and _ars metrica_ : as the first ten chapters of book 2 demonstrate, a motivated rhetorician can invent meaningful ratios for every possible dimension of a poem, from the arrangement of accents within a line of verse to the number of syllables in each line, the number of lines in a stanza, the ratio of internal rhyme to end-rhyme, the distances between end-rhymes, and the degree of latitude to be granted poets in orthographical and accentual variation. And yet for all its pretensions to mathematical precision, Puttenhamian proportion (like Puttenhamian ornament) is a contingent, not an absolute value: a function not simply of a poem's internal workings—of the length of a line relative to its fellows or to the length of the poem as a whole—but also of its relation to an unpredictable outside world. As Lawrence Manley has written, this paradox of rigidity and flexibility defines all literary—indeed, all human—conventions, which "behave as both timeless forms of objective order and temporal expressions of changing values." Book 2 encounters this paradox in terms of place as well as time: Puttenham aims to fix proportion and measure on English terms, but he retains a sense of skepticism about any overly rigid boundary. "[S]hort distaunces [between end-rhymes] and short measures pleas[e] onely the popular eare," Puttenham declares at one point: "we banish them vtterly" (69). Nonetheless, he adds, it "can be obiected against this wide distance... that the eare by loosing his concord is not satisfied," and "therefore the Poet must know to whose eare he maketh his rime, and accommodate himselfe thereto, and not giue such musicke to the rude and barbarous, as he would to the learned and delicate eare" (71–72). This willingness to accommodate oneself, to be obedient to both the laws of proportion and the tastes of one's audience, is the paradoxical precondition of poetic supremacy. The "rhymer that will be tied to no rules at all, but range as he list, may easily utter what he will," Puttenham allows (62), but the true poet thrives on limitation: what makes verse proportionate is not the absence or presence of rhyme or quantitative feet but responsiveness to the demands and desires of a locally specific set of listeners. But this locally specific audience is not easily defined or limited: indeed Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ establishes a conspicuously broad range of reference for courtly English poets, a geography of eloquence extending well past Ascham's world of Greeks and Goths. According to Puttenham, in fact, rhyme was not the compensatory innovation of barbarous, late-antique poets unable to master quantitative verse but rather an ancient poetic device literally beyond the ken of Homer and Virgil. Citing the testimony of sixteenth-century England's "marchants and trauellers, [whose] late nauigations haue surueyed the whole world, and discouered large countries and strange peoples wild and sauage," he "affirm[s] that the American, the Perusine, and the very Canniball do sing and also say their highest and holiest matters in certaine riming versicles, and not in prose." The correspondence between New World verses and English poetry "proues also that our maner of vulgar Poesie is _more ancient_ than the artificiall of the Greeks and Latines, ours coming by instinct of nature, which was before Art or obseruation, and vsed with the sauage and vnciuill, who were before all science and ciuilitie." The values enshrined in classical poetic theory are, Puttenham implies, the product of an overly narrow frame of cultural reference. The global perspective afforded by England's new commercial and colonial ventures allows him to upend the ancient hierarchy of poetic virtues, as the wildness, savagery, and strangeness of rhyme—the very qualities that alienate it from the classical models of poetic excellence—become points of proud commonality with all other tongues. "[I]t appeareth that our vulgar running Poesie was common to all the nations of the world besides, whom the Latines and greekes in speciall called barbarous," he concludes. Rhyme is not only "the first and most ancient poesie"; it is also "the most vniuersall" (7). This investment in poetry as an art whose values are at once local and universal produces a noticeably wayward treatise on measure. "I could not forbeare to adde this forraine example," Puttenham apologizes after a digression into the uniforms worn by members of the Chinese court ([89]). "One other pretie conceit we will impart vnto you and then trouble you with no more," begins a section on anagrams devised from the titles of various foreign monarchs ([90]). "Thus farre... we will aduenture and not beyond," he promises in a section exploring possible adaptation of classical feet into English—an approach he earlier dismissed as far-fetched (86); then, a bit further on, "I intend not to proceed any further in this curiositie" (91); and again, a number of pages later, still on the same subject, announcing that it "nothing at all furthers the pleasant melody of our English meeter," "I leaue to speake any more of them" (107). Indeed the whole of book 2, with its haphazard juxtaposition of diagrams, digressions, anecdotes, and pseudo-learned disquisitions on the habits of exotic cultures, seems to constitute a metadiscourse on the difficulty of assessing and maintaining the proportions of its own argument. But book 2's willingness to entertain diverse and even contradictory conceptions of measure also transforms the virtue of measure from an attribute of language to an attribute of poets. Thus, at the close of the tenth chapter of book 2, Puttenham condenses all of his rules and precepts into a single exercise, which discerns whether or not a poet is "of a plentiful discourse," "copious in his language," and "his crafts maister" by subjecting him to a stringently limited and wholly arbitrary system of measure: Make me... so many strokes or lines with your pen as ye would haue your song containe verses: and let euery line beare his seuerall length, euen as ye would haue your verse of measure.... Then where you will haue your time or concord to fall, marke it with a compast stroke or semicircle passing ouer those lines, be they farre or neare in distance.... [Finally,] bycause ye shall not thinke the maker hath premeditated beforehand any such fashioned ditty, do ye your selfe make one verse whether it be of perfect or imperfect sense, and giue it him for a theame to make all the rest vpon: if ye shall perceiue the maker do keepe the measures and rime as ye haue appointed him, and besides do make his dittie sensible and ensuant to the first verse in good reason, then may ye say he is his crafts maister. (74) In this test poetic mastery is recognized through obedience to conditions that are at once contingent and inflexible, subject to change but nonetheless binding at any given moment. The extraordinary influence and power Puttenham bestows on his poet in book 1—his ability to "mollify... hard and stonie hearts by his sweete and eloquent perswasion," to bring "rude and sauage people to a more ciuill and orderly life," to "redresse and edifie the cruell and sturdie courage of man" (4)—is the consequence of his own willingness to "keep the measures and rime as ye haue appointed him," "follow[ing] the rule of... restraint." Puttenham's exercise shifts the burden of measure off the English language and onto English poets, but it also cannily redefines measure so as to put it within reach of the vernacular. The measure set by "you" is not a fixed pattern of long and short syllables but an actual line drawn on the page: a line might be a meter, or a foot, in length, but it need not contain any metrical feet. In the following chapter Puttenham sets aside the entire question of how a poem ought to sound, proposing instead that English poets try to achieve what he calls "proportion in figure"—poems set "in forme of a _Lozange_ or square, or such other figure." He claims to have learned the technique from "a certaine gentleman, who had long trauailed the Orientall parts of the world, and seene the courts of the great Princes of China and Tartarie": chief among them the court of the "great Emperor in Tartary whom they call _Can_ ," and who "for his good fortune in the wars & many notable conquests he had made, was surnamed _Temir Cutzclewe_ " (77). This Temir's oriental pattern-poem, he argues, both epitomizes and transcends the virtue of classical metrical proportion: even more than the strict laws of quantitative measure, "the restraint of the figure" fixes a limit "from which ye may not digresse." Because "the maker is restrained to keep him within [the shape's] bounds," Temir's pattern-poem "sheweth not onely more art, but serueth also much better for briefenesse and subtilitie of deuice" than either English accentual rhymes or classical meters. Why Temir Cutzclewe, famed for his fortune in war and his notable conquests? In part Puttenham is once again drawn to a position outside the arena in which English faces off against the classical tongues. Proportion in figure is, he emphasizes, "not... vsed by any of the Greeke or Latine Poets" nor found "in any vulgar writer." As A. L. Korn points out, this insistence on the alien origin of "proportion in figure" is either an uncharacteristic error or a patent falsehood: Greek, Latin, continental, and even English poets had experimented amply with shape- or pattern-poems well before the late sixteenth century. It is, Korn notes, a curiositie of Puttenham's discourse that this otherwise erudite author gives the impression of having known almost nothing at all of the earlier pattern-poems composed by his numerous European predecessors. Puttenham's role as the naïve discoverer of an Oriental type of pattern-poetry, a literary genre he believed to be alien to the European tradition, has therefore a certain historic interest. In _The Arte of English Poesie_ we find perhaps for the first time an English critic drawing upon Eastern materials, or what he conceives to be such, in the routine practice of his profession. Or maybe not so naive: after all, the far-fetched pedigree of his shape-poems constitutes much of their appeal for Puttenham, and perhaps for his readers as well. The English critic had no need of yet one more classical or continental form for the vernacular poet to emulate, but to claim the shape-poem as an exotic import from the Far East invokes a much more appealing cultural narrative: not the Englishman as laggard but the Englishman as adventurer, scouring the globe in search of foreign treasures. And indeed Puttenham's admiration for the pattern-poem's obvious formal restraint is coupled with fascination with its conspicuous material extravagance. Typically "engraven in gold, silver or ivory, and sometimes with letters of amethyst, ruby, emerald, or topaz curiously cemented and pieced together," the Tartarian or Chinese shape-poem becomes a sign of fabulous wealth and power. For Puttenham, moreover, the visuality of the pattern-poem is of a piece with its supposed exoticism: both elements make the pattern-poem a useful addition to a debate stuck on the aural incompatibilities of English accents and classical quantities. Read aloud, Temir's pattern-poems would not register as poetry at all: the rhymes fall at the ends of unevenly matched lines, and accentual stresses are distributed at random. Puttenham cautions that "[a]t the beginning they wil seeme nothing pleasant to an English eare" (76), but his intent may be to bypass the troublesome English ear altogether. By choosing Temir Cutzclewe as the patron and master of this most excellent form of proportion, Puttenham also underlines the central claim of his treatise on measure: namely that proportion is in the eye of the beholder. Like cannibal rhyme, the "great Emperor in Tartary" and his poems may be barbarous from the perspective of Homer or Virgil, but that judgment is a mark of antiquity's own provinciality, contrasted implicitly and unfavorably to the more expansive awareness of the sixteenth-century English reader: Temir is "known" to the reader both by virtue of his vast empire and thanks to Puttenham's own cosmopolitan adventures. The poems Puttenham offers as examples of Temir's art testify vividly to the splendors of global conquest but also to the tyrannical excesses by which it proceeds. The first, composed by Temir's lover, was set as a brooch "in letters of rubies and diamonds" and describes Temir's "sharp / Trenching blade of bright steel... cleaving hard down unto the eyes / the raw skulls of his enemies." The reply, written by Temir and fashioned "with letters of emeralds and amethysts artificially cut and intermingled," heralds "Five / Sore battles / Manfully fought / In bloody field," whereby Temir has "forced... many a king his crown to vail, / Conquering large countries and land" (77). As a figure for Puttenham's own rhetorical project, Temir Cutzclewe embodies the simultaneity of ambition and insecurity within sixteenth-century vernacular poetic theory. He offers Puttenham a way out of the prolonged, perhaps irresolvable, contest between rhyme and classical quantities, but his poems present a conspicuously brutal model of poetic self-assertion. The analogy is not merely metaphorical: the violent deeds celebrated within the poems have a formal analog in the typographical devices used to achieve the desired shape. The outer edges of each poem may manifest the virtues of restraint, but the field within is marked by forcings and cleavings within words, as each line is stretched or compressed to fit the boundaries of the imposed shape. In chapter 8 of book 2, Puttenham sternly reprimands the "licentious maker" who twists a word's natural spelling of pronunciation "to serue his cadence" (67), but in these poems he grants the Scythian Temir license not simply to alter the spelling of words but to sever them into fragments and force them together, leaving gaping holes in some lines and scant room in others, syllables as "artificially cut and entermingled" (78) as the gemstones with which they are set. Those internal gaps and forcings work to Puttenham's advantage, however, insofar as they provide a foil for the English pattern-poems that follow—two obelisk-shaped verses, two pillars, and two "roundels," composed by Puttenham and dedicated to Elizabeth I. Contrasted with Temir's bloody and spangled verses, Puttenham's poems adopt a more measured tone and less ostentatious visual effects. This formal conservatism mirrors a shift in thematic content: unlike the bloodthirsty, land-hungry Temir Cutzclewe, the English queen is celebrated as a monarch wise enough to be content with the limits of her domain. Her tireless quest "to mount on high," mimicked by the obelisk-poem's upward climb, aims at a heavenly reward: hers is "an higher / Crown and empire / Much greater, / And richer, / And better" than any merely earthly conquest (79). The Temir Cutzclewe of the first poem may have won "honor... all the / World / Round" (77), but Elizabeth's honor is "assured / In the / Azured / Sky" (79): at its pinnacle the English pattern-poem reverts to assonance, to the unostentatious pleasures of the ear. In fact the two "roundels" are not even round—whatever hint they contain of a desire for global mastery is sublimated into praise for Elizabeth's chaste self-containment and her preservation of "the dominion great and large / Which God hath given to her charge": England's own "most spacious bound" (83). Figure 1. "Orientall" pattern-poems from the court of Temir Cutzclewe, in George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (1589). Image courtesy of the Beinecke Library, Yale University. This decorous sublimation contrasts, in the following chapter, with the too-obvious ambition of Elizabeth's rival Philip of Spain, who adopts as his emblem the copper figure of "a king sitting on horsebacke vpon a _monde_ or world, the horse prauncing forward with his forelegges as if he would leape of, with this inscription, _Non sufficit orbis_ , meaning, as it is to be conceaued, that one whole world could not content him" (118). The motto's boast has come to naught, Puttenham observes, since "[t]his immeasurable ambition of the Spaniards" was, by "her Maiestie [and] by God's prouidence,... prouidently stayed and retranched," to the gratification of "all the Princes and common wealthes in Christendome, who haue found themselues long annoyed with his excessiue greatnesse." Within the roundels Puttenham fashions for his queen, greatness is the antidote to excess and measure the key to perfection. Puttenham's pattern-poems present English insularity—its lack of vast territories and dazzling sources of wealth—as the product of a sophisticated aesthetic and political sensibility: like the maker of the pattern-poem, who displays his genius by severely restricting its expression, Elizabeth's imperial might is best manifested by the modest proportions of her empire. Elizabeth is the protagonist of the _Arte of English Poesie_ , then, precisely because she is not the ruler of a vast empire; rather in her power resides her talent for keeping measure in all things. Figure 2. "A special and particular resemblance of her Maiestie to the Roundell," in George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (1589). Image courtesy of the Beinecke Library, Yale University. Marlowe's Violent Measures Of course vast empires, whether poetic or real, have an undeniable appeal, and despite Puttenham's stated commitment to the virtues of modesty and measure, his discussion of proportion is repeatedly pulled off course by his fascination with disproportion, excess, prodigality, extremity, and even loss of control. In this he resembles Marlowe: both _Tamburlaine the Great_ and Puttenham's _Arte_ invite comparisons between the state of English verse and the state of the English polity. That the playwright and the rhetorician should independently and virtually simultaneously turn to Timur, reimagining the fourteenth-century Scythian warlord as a late sixteenth-century English poet-conqueror, is more than an interesting coincidence. It accentuates the proximity of politics and prosody in the early modern English imagination, and the interplay of boundaries and transgression on which both national and poetic identities depended. When Puttenham, in the opening section of his _Arte_ , names Elizabeth as England's "most excellent poet" (95), he is not only deploying flattery; he is also suggesting that the contours of English verse correspond to the contours of English empire. Book 2 complicates this equation, however, with its far-flung quest for poetic models: the task of defining the vernacular's limits gives way to the pursuit of extravagant curiosities. As Emily Bartels, Richmond Barbour, Stephen Greenblatt, John Gillies, and others have argued, _Tamburlaine the Great_ speaks to a similarly complex sense of English identity, as Marlowe's expansive approach to vernacular drama captured the enthusiasms and ideals of an increasingly mobile and outward-looking society. Tamburlaine, especially, with his habit of cataloging his conquests in rich detail, has been claimed as a figure for the "emergence of imperialist ideologies and propaganda," for "England's desire to encompass and enjoy the world," and for "the acquisitive energies of English merchants, entrepreneurs, and adventurers." As it happens, Marlowe scholars are indebted to Puttenham's _Arte_ for this reading of the Marlovian aesthetic: Puttenham's Englishing of _hyperbole_ as "the overreacher" in book 3's catalog of tropes and figures supplied Harry Levin with both a title and a guiding conceit for his seminal study of Marlowe's dramatic career. Puttenham's epithet, Levin argues, "could not have been more happily inspired to throw its illumination upon Marlowe—upon his style, which is so emphatically himself, and on his protagonists, overreachers all." It is not simply that Marlowe's protagonists are prone to hyperbolic utterances; rather, for Levin and his successors, it is Puttenham's notion of _hyperbole_ as a figure that flirts with infinity, threatening to pass "beyond all measure" (276), as Puttenham cautions his readers, that so perfectly captures both the material and the rhetorical excesses of the Marlovian hero. And it is the empire-hungry hero of _Tamburlaine_ who, with his imperial conquests and soaring rhetoric, provides the "barbaric prototype" for a newly extravagant and frankly imperial vernacular poetics. There is, however, an implicit irony to Levin's conception of Tamburlaine as the paradigmatic Marlovian "overreacher": the Scythian's "conquering feet" ( _One_ 3.3.230), as Marlowe punningly calls them, do not merely trample down his foes and march across vast expanses of territory; they also regulate and sustain the precisely measured and neatly contained blank verse that the play's prologue identifies as its foremost achievement. Whatever one might say about its hero, _Tamburlaine_ does not pass beyond all measure so much as it _defines_ English measure. Thus although _Tamburlaine_ has been read as the expression of explicitly far-fetched ambitions, "the Renaissance wish-dream of global empire," it also makes a compelling case for the pleasure and discipline of confinement. The power of "Marlowe's dramatic poetry," writes Russ McDonald, "proceeds from his unique combination of the transgressive and the conventional": "The 'mighty line'... is marked by irrepressible energy, thrilling sonorities, and dazzling verbal pictures, but it is still a _line_ , an ordering system, an invariable and comforting rhythmic standard that organizes words and ideas." Levin acknowledges this tension, noting that "[m]ore than a third" of the exotic place names that litter Tamburlaine's speech and signal his imperial ambitions "gain peculiar stress by coming at the end of a line," so that the very geographic sweep of the plot helps to cement the impression of metrical containment. It is tempting, therefore, to read Marlowe's play as reconciling the rivalrous demands that eloquence has imposed on its practitioners from the beginning: to confine and regulate wayward impulses, while satisfying the longing for estrangement. But what McDonald identifies as _Tamburlaine_ 's distinctive contribution to the history of English eloquence—its novel juxtaposition of high astounding terms and distant locales with rhythmic regularity and metrical restraint—seems to have been lost on Marlowe's earliest auditors, who are as often critical of the immoderation of Marlowe's verse as they are outraged by his protagonists' rhetorical and moral trespasses. Absent the audible boundary inscribed by end-rhyme, the measure of Marlowe's line proved disconcertingly elusive to the English ear: Thomas Nashe heard in Marlowe's verse both ill-disguised insufficiency—"the swelling bombast of a bragging blanke verse"—and blatant excess—the "ingrafted ouerflow" and "spacious volubility of a drumming decasillabon"; while Joseph Hall dismissed Marlowe's "pure Iambick verse" as a far-fetched concoction "patch[ed]... up" with "termes Italianate." What Harvey called Marlowe's "tamberlaine contempt" was not countered but exemplified by his formal innovation: the "English blancke verse" of "that Atheist Tamburlan" might be rich and sonorous, wrote Robert Greene in 1588, "euerie word filling the mouth like the faburden of Bo-Bell," but it is "intolerable poetrie." Even Ben Jonson, admiring heir to what he christens "Marlowe's mighty line," betrays in his commonplace book a more skeptical view of his predecessor's influence on English theater and English ears: "The True Artificer will not run away from nature, as hee were afraid of her, or depart from life and the likenesse of Truth, but speake to the capacity of his hearers. And though his language differ from the vulgar somewhat, it shall not fly from all humanity, with the _Tamerlanes_ and _Tamer-Chams_ of the late Age, which had nothing in them but the _scenicall_ strutting, and furious vociferation to warrant them to the ignorant gapers." Like Levin, Jonson credits Marlowe with the invention of a "barbaric prototype," but that prototype is here imagined as an agent of degeneracy, the begetter of a Scythian horde whose language is neither vulgar nor humane, neither common nor classical. Vested as they are in their own notions of English eloquence, Nashe, Harvey, Greene, and Jonson are hardly disinterested auditors of Marlowe's verse, but their skeptical, even scathing, commentary provides a useful corrective to the appreciative responses of many modern scholars. For although the critical tradition has long identified blank verse as Marlowe's "most meaningful contribution" to English drama, the meaning of that contribution, as McDonald also notes, resides in its unlikelihood: however much unrhymed iambic pentameter now sounds like the natural voice of English drama, making it so entailed the "renovation and development of a hitherto undistinguished poetic form," a "strange tongue" fit for the strange figures with which his plays are peopled. Marlowe himself suggests that comfort, order, and regularity were not the governing principles of his new poetic form; in fact Jonson's accusation of reckless departure is more in keeping with the playwright's own claims for blank verse. According to the prologue to part 1 of _Tamburlaine_ , vernacular verse suffered from needless constraint, from the limited talents and provincial tastes of "rhyming mother wits"; what English poetry requires above all, Marlowe declares, is freedom from end-rhyme's petty bounds and access to the rhetorical terrain of "high astounding terms." The prologue thus "invites English auditors away," "throwing off [the] domestic confinements [of] comedy, rhyme, location" in pursuit of what Richmond Barbour calls "an eloquence of nomadism." To put it in Jonson's terms, if this Scythian struts, it is because we are meant to notice his feet. According to most early modern histories, the real Tamerlane walked with a limp—hence his name, Timur the Lame—but George Whetstone's _English Myrrour_ (1586) rejects this bit of the legend, claiming that "the strength and comeliness of [Tamburlaine's] body, aunswered the haughtiness of his hart." Marlowe takes full advantage of his source, imagining a Tamburlaine whose gait is as steady as the stressed and unstressed beats of an iambic pentameter line. In case we should miss the pun, Marlowe's play is full of references to feet: "A thousand horsemen! We, five hundred foot! / An odds too great for us to stand against!" Tamburlaine exclaims on the verge of an encounter with the Persian monarch's host ( _One_ 1.2.121–22). But stand they do: Tamburlaine's forceful eloquence persuades the Persian general to join forces with him against the rest of the Persian army. Later, when he seizes the Turkish sultan's crown and the title of emperor of the East, Tamburlaine exults that "[t]he pillars that have bolstered up those terms / Are fall'n in clusters at my conquering feet," and to drive the point home, he uses the former sultan, Bajazeth, as his footstool, "treading him beneath [his] loathsome feet"( _One_ 3.3.229–30, 4.2.64). Such self-conscious jokes invite us to see Tamburlaine's imperial progress as the perfect and perhaps necessary analog to his creator's literary innovation: "repeatedly in the play," observes J. S. Cunningham, "metre and syntax... become analogues of other kinds of capability." But Zabina's revulsion at Tamburlaine's "loathsome feet" anticipates the resentment Marlowe's supposedly orderly and comforting standard occasioned in some auditors. It is not simply that Marlowe's verse sounded strange in the ears of early modern English audiences; it also seemed to manifest a particularly willful, even violent disregard for the proper limits of poetic expression. If we take those reactions seriously, what can appear as distinct, even opposed qualities of the play—on the one hand, its disregard for geographic and moral boundaries and, on the other, its investment in the apparent regularity and order of the blank-verse line—may better be read as complimentary dimensions of its interest in the often problematic relationship between eloquence and abuse, measure and trespass. Indeed Marlowe makes it difficult for us to distinguish his protagonist's extreme strategies for global dominion from his own poetic tactics. Initially, to be sure, the contrast between eloquence and abuse is externalized in the contrast between the smooth-spoken Tamburlaine and his ham-fisted, spluttering rivals. Having promised audiences an outsize spectacle, the prologue to part 1 gives way to a startling anticlimax: instead of the Scythian Tamburlaine with his high astounding terms and conquering sword, the audience is confronted with the Persian Mycetes, feeble and tongue-tied master of a "maimed empery" ( _One_ 1.1.126). "Brother Cosroe, I find myself aggrieved, / Yet insufficient to express the same, / For it requires a great and thund'ring speech," he whines (1–3). Cosroe's withering response establishes Mycetes's rhetorical ineptitude as the sign of a more profound unfitness for the task of empire: "Unhappy Persia, that in former age / hast been the seat of mighty conquerors/ that in their prowess and their policies / Have triumphed over Afric, and the bounds / Of Europe," he laments, while "Now Turks and Tartars shake their swords at thee, / meaning to mangle all thy provinces" (6–10, 16–17). Mycetes protests at the insubordination—"I might command you to be slain for this!"—but the pretense of imperiousness is undercut by his childish appeal for confirmation: "Meander, might I not?" "Not for so small a fault, my sovereign lord," comes the humiliating reply. "I mean it not, but yet I know I might," the embarrassed king insists, and then, in a last-ditch effort to save face, "Yet live, yea, live, Mycetes wills it so" (23–24, 25, 26–27). The inability to maintain order within his own throne room is tied to the impoverishment of Mycetes's speech. Cosroe has at least a rudimentary grasp of rhetorical effect, evident in the aggressive alliteration of "Turks and Tartars... meaning to mangle," but his brother's retort degenerates into a mumble, while his sole attempt at wordplay sounds more like a stutter: "I refer me to my noblemen, / That know my wit and can be witnesses" (21–22). Such incompetence effectively sets the stage for Tamburlaine's vastly more eloquent and effective sovereignty. The Tamburlaine who appears onstage in the first act of part 1 not only satisfies the expectations aroused by Marlowe's prologue but also fulfills the fantasy on which the English rhetorical tradition is founded: that eloquence offers a bloodless path to imperial might. "[W]hat worthier thing can there bee, then with a word to winne Cities and whole Countries?" Thomas Wilson asks in the dedicatory epistle to his _Arte of Rhetorique_ (1560). "[W]hat greater gaine can we haue, then without bloudshed achiue to a Conquest? [And] what greater delite doe wee knowe, then to see a whole multitude, with the onely talke of man, rauished and drawne which way he liketh best to haue them?" Rhetoric, Wilson urges, is the key to such profit and pleasure, for "such force hath the tongue, and such is the power of Eloquence and reason, that most men are forced, euen to yeeld in that which most standeth against their will." Wilson substantiates his claim by invoking the figure of the Gallic Hercules, described by the Greek sophist Lucian as having "all men lincked together by the eares in a chaine" attached to his tongue, "to drawe them and leade them euen as he lusted." For, Wilson explains, "his witte was so great, his tongue so eloquent, and his experience such, that no man was able to withstande his reason, but eueryone was rather driven to doe that which he would, and to will that which he did, agreeing to his aduise both in word and worke in all that euer they were able." But as Sean Keilen observes, the Gallic Hercules is an ambivalent figure for the civilizing power of eloquence, "a half-divine, half-bestial man," towering over his captives but swathed in animal skins. In the numerous sixteenth-century editions of Andrea Alciato's popular _Emblematum Liber_ , the figure of the Gallic Hercules appears under the motto _Eloquentia fortitudine praestantior_ but rests his weight on a stout club (or, in the image reproduced here, from a 1584 Paris edition, lofts it menacingly in the air): physical force is eloquence's silent partner. "The addressees of [Hercules's] eloquence," observes Wolfgang G. Müller, "appear as a kind of rhetorical chain gang, with no choice but to listen and accept the wisdom which the orator instills into them." In the first act of _Tamburlaine_ , Marlowe provides his audience with a similarly equivocal spectacle of bloodless conquest, in which the eloquence of the Scythian warlord triumphs over the far greater military might of the Persian army. Faced with "a thousand horsemen" against his own "five hundred foot," Tamburlaine "play[s] the orator": "Forsake thy king and do but join with me," he invites his opponent, the Persian captain Theridamas, "And we will triumph over all the world" ( _One_ 1.2.121, 129, 171–72). It is a patently ludicrous claim—as Tamburlaine admits, the "odds" of a battle between his own force and the Persian army are "too great for us to stand against" (122)—but one Tamburlaine buttresses with impressive argumentative skill. Improvising as he goes, he builds credibility from hints and shreds of evidence—a hastily assembled display of booty becomes proof that Jove favors Tamburlaine's prospects, "rain[ing] down heaps of gold in showers, / As if he meant to give my soldiers pay," while a recent captive, the daughter of the Egyptian sultan, is trotted out "as a sure and grounded argument / That I shall be the monarch of the East" (181–84). Tamburlaine's bravado succeeds; almost in spite of himself, Theridamas is convinced. "Not Hermes, prolocutor to the gods, / Could use persuasions more pathetical," he marvels (209–10). In a touch that would have been especially gratifying to an English audience, Theridamas claims that Tamburlaine's rude origins only make his eloquence the more potent: "What strong enchantments 'tice my yielding soul? / Are these resolved, noble, _Scythians_ " (223–24)? In an ironic reversal, the praise Mycetes conferred upon the Persian captain in scene 1—"thy words are swords, / And with thy looks thou conquerest all thy foes" ( _One_ 1.1.74–75)—comes to rest on his opponent, as Theridamas concedes to Tamburlaine without a fight: "Won with thy words, and conquered with thy looks, / I yield myself, my men and horse to thee" ( _One_ 1.2.227–28). Figure 3. " _Eloquentia fortitudine praestantior_ ," in Andrea Alciato, _Emblematum Liber_ (Paris, 1584). Image courtesy of Glasgow University Library. Thus far Marlowe's Tamburlaine makes good on the promise of bloodless conquest that underwrites Wilson's bid for vernacular eloquence. "[W]hat working words he hath!" the dazzled Theridamas exclaims ( _One_ 2.3.25). But the spectacle of Tamburlaine's rhetorical triumph over the Persian army is embedded in a scene that offers a more troubling account of the relationship between persuasion and conquest. For it is not until the middle of scene 2 that Tamburlaine encounters Theridamas; when the audience first sees him, his "working words"—and, more to the point, his weapons—are leveled not against the awesome forces of the Persian army but against the weak capacity of "a silly maid" ( _One_ 1.2.10): Zenocrate, the sultan's daughter ambushed by Tamburlaine's men and paraded before the Persions as proof of his imperial destiny. To be sure, the Tamburlaine who appears in scene 2 cuts a very different figure from "that sturdy Scythian thief" of the Persians' imaginings, who "with his lawless train / Daily commits incivil outrages" ( _One_ 1.1.36, 39–40). This Tamburlaine is courtly, even gentle, in his dealings with the Egyptian princess, addressing her as "lady" and "fair madam" ( _One_ 1.2.1, 252), assuring her that her "jewels and treasure... shall be reserved" (2) and she herself kept "in better state / Than... in the circle of your father's arms" (3, 5). But the dazzling oration that crowns the scene bears a queasy formal resemblance to the violence it seeks to conceal. Beginning with a series of short, measured questions, the speech opens out into a litany of declarations, each literally and figuratively more expansive than the one before: Disdains Zenocrate to live with me? Or you, my lords, to be my followers? Think you I weigh this treasure more than you? Not all the gold in India's wealthy arms Shall buy the meanest solder in my train. Zenocrate, lovelier than the love of Jove, Brighter than is the silver Rhodope, Fairer than the whitest snow on Scythian hills, Thy person is more worth to Tamburlaine, Than the possession of the Persian crown, Which gracious stars have promised at my birth. A hundred Tartars shall attend on thee Mounted on steeds swifter than Pegasus; Thy garments shall be made of Median silk, Enchased with precious jewels of mine own More rich and valurous than Zenocrate's; With milk-white harts upon an ivory sled Thou shalt be drawn amidst the frozen pools And scale the icy mountains' lofty tops, Which with thy beauty will soon be resolved; My martial prizes with five hundred men Won on the fifty-headed Volga's waves Shall all we offer to Zenocrate, And then myself to fair Zenocrate. (82–105) The dilatory power of Tamburlaine's rhetoric cannot be extricated from the scene of sexual violence that it both anticipates and seeks to assuage: the speech begins and ends with the invocation of Zenocrate's name, and her body is, ultimately, the territory it claims (and promises to enlarge). Indeed listening from the perspective of Zenocrate, we can begin to understand the resentment expressed toward Marlowe's verse by so many of his early auditors. Like George Gascoigne, who penned his 1576 satire, _The Steel Glass_ , "In rymeless verse, which thundreth mighty threats," Marlowe identifies the open-ended capaciousness of blank verse with aggression, although in Marlowe's case that aggression masquerades as generosity. The association is by no means strictly metaphorical: in a literal sense, the absence of end-rhyme creates a potentially limitless space for rhetorical amplification or _auxesis_ , the steady accumulation of pentameter lines into the free-standing verse paragraph that James Shapiro identifies as the paradigmatic expressive unit of Marlovian poetry. As Tamburlaine's address to Zenocrate makes plain, _auxesis_ enacts a double display of dominance, as both syntax and audience are held hostage to the speaker's whim. The reality of Zenocrate's situation, her position as one of Tamburlaine's "forced followers" (66), makes a mockery of the conventional association between rhetorical suasion and erotic seduction. "[W]omen must be flattered," Tamburlaine explains to his companions (107), but prisoners, of course, need not be, and once the threat of a Persian attack has been dispelled—thanks in part to the mute, unwilling testimony afforded by Zenocrate herself—Tamburlaine abandons his courtly pose: "If you will willingly remain with me / You shall have honours as your merits be— / Or else you shall be forced with slavery" (252–55). Neatly anticipating Milton's judgment against rhyme as a form of "bondage," the chiming end sounds of this triplet emphasize the truth of Zenocrate's predicament: whatever choice she makes, the result will be the same. But Marlowe is far more cynical than Milton when it comes to the asymmetric liberty afforded by unrhymed verse. Zenocrate's attendant Agydas replies promptly and politely on her behalf in terms that maintain the fiction of mutuality—"We yield unto thee, happy Tamburlaine" (256)—but the princess's own response is bitterer and more true: "I must be pleased perforce. Wretched Zenocrate!" (257). To be "pleased perforce" is a nasty paradox, a grim euphemism for the rape that has actually occurred, and an unsettling inversion of the idea that eloquence makes subjection pleasurable. By giving the Egyptian princess the last word—the scene concludes on this unhappy note—Marlowe makes Zenocrate the authority on all that has transpired, hinting at a much darker reading of the fantasy of rhetorical conquest. "Linking persuasion to coercion, Wilson minimizes the terror of that equation," as Barbour writes, but "Marlowe maximizes it... mak[ing] terms and swords not alternative but synergistic." Blank verse is the crucial instrument of that synergy: it is what English poetry sounds like in the mouth of a tyrant who fancies himself a lover. Of course Zenocrate does eventually fall in love with her captor, so that his once threatening words grow welcome to her ears, "his talk much sweeter than the Muses' song" ( _One_ 3.2.50). But even this development takes a nightmarish turn: when Zenocrate confesses her growing attraction to Agydas, he protests, not realizing that Tamburlaine is nearby, urging his mistress, "Let not a man so vile and barbarous... be honoured with your love, but for necessity" (26, 30). When Tamburlaine reveals himself, he pointedly says nothing, leaving Agydas "aghast" and "most astonied to see his choler shut in secret thoughts, / And wrapped in silence of his angry soul." As the unhappy Agydas prophesies, this uncharacteristic reticence bespeaks his doom, and when Tamburlaine's deputy enters bearing a dagger, he requires no further instruction: "It says, Agydas, thou shalt surely die" (95). "He needed not with words confirm my fear," the Egyptian lord mournfully observes, "For words are vain where working tools present / The naked action" (92–94). The observation is prescient. Although there is no diminution of his rhetoric, as Tamburlaine proceeds on his march toward global domination, eloquence plays less and less of a role in his successes. His crucial first victory, over the Persian army, may be attributable to the power of his "working words," but subsequent triumphs are openly reliant on the "naked action" of an increasingly baroque display of "working tools": "his sword, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes, / And jetty feathers menace death and hell" ( _One_ 4.1.60–61), but so do his curtle axes and cannons, his cages and guns, even his bridles and harnesses. When Tamburlaine encounters the Turkish sultan Bajazeth, he delegates the task of rhetorical conquest to Zenocrate, urging her to abuse the Turkish queen Zabina, "vaunt of my worth, / And manage words with her as we will arms" ( _One_ 3.3.130–31). Zenocrate's insults infuriate Zabina, but it is Tamburlaine's military victory that stops her mouth: when she reproves him for his insolence to an empress, he bluntly informs her that "the pillars that have bolstered up those terms / Are fall'n in clusters at my conquering feet" (229–30). It is precisely this shattering of linguistic distinction that Marlowe makes the paradoxical achievement of his distinctive poetic style. "There is no greater difference betwixt a ciuill and brutish vtteraunce then cleare distinction of voices," writes Puttenham in book 2 of his _Arte_ : "the most laudable languages are always most plaine and distinct, and the barbarous the most confuse and indistinct" (61). Puttenham has in mind the civilized pauses—the commas and colons—built into Greek and Latin periods, and especially early on, Marlowe uses line breaks to achieve a similarly measured effect in Tamburlaine's sententious speeches. But the distinctions effected by meter are gradually effaced as Tamburlaine's charismatic style is aped by his followers: in this sense the more successful Marlowe's hero, the more brutish his play. For it is not only Zenocrate who adopts Tamburlaine's vaunting speech; as Tamburlaine's imperial might spreads across Asia and into Africa, so too does the influence of his "high astounding terms," and what was once a distinctive, indeed singular voice dissipates into a cacophony of competing tongues, each more outrageously boastful than the next. Mark Thornton Burnett reads this as a sign of the waning of Tamburlaine's powers, as the rhetorical precedence he wields early on gives way in a world "inhabited by a number of rival speakers," but in fact Tamburlaine is the chief agent of that leveling of rhetorical distinction. For one thing, as Emily Bartels observes, many of his own best lines are stolen: "Even when Tamburlaine marks out his own distinctive rhetorical territory, claiming that ' _will_ and _shall_ best fitteth Tamburlaine,' he does so after hearing Theridamas 'speak in that mood' ( _One_ 3.3.40–41) and applauding him for it. And... he first terms himself the scourge of god after noting that he has been 'term'd the Scourge and Wrath of God' ( _One_ 3.3.44) by others." Tamburlaine's rhetorical thievery—what Burnett calls his "magpie-like" appropriation of glittering words and well-turned phrases—provides the template, even the impetus, for his thefts of land and titles. Thus when the Persian lord Menaphon congratulates the newly crowned Cosroe with the thought that they shall soon "ride in triumph through Persepolis" ( _One_ 2.5.49), Tamburlaine seizes on the phrase and makes it the theme of his own desires. So potent is the force of recitation that simply by repeating the phrase to himself, Tamburlaine is "strongly moved, / that if I should desire the Persian crown, / I could attain it with a wondrous ease" ( _One_ 2.5.75–77)—and so he does. The inverse of this acquisitive talent is Tamburlaine's compulsion to see his own image and hear his own name wherever he goes. Thus when two of his sons wrangle over who, after their father's death, deserves to be called "the scourge and terror of the world," Tamburlaine insists that all three boys bear the epithet: "Be all a scourge and terror of the world / Or else you are not sons of Tamburlaine" ( _Two_ 1.3.62–64). It is because his third son, Calyphas, resists the impress of his father's character that Tamburlaine despises him. "Let me accompany my gracious mother," Calyphas requests, for two sons "are enough to conquer all the world, / and you have won enough for me to keep" ( _Two_ 1.3.67–68). In a world filled with the hyperbole of would-be Tamburlaines, Calyphas stands out as a proponent of witty understatement—"What a coil they keep!" he observes of the climactic encounter between Tamburlaine's army and the assembled forces of his rival kings; "I believe there will be some hurt done anon amongst them" ( _Two_ 4.1.74–75)—and it is this singularity that dooms him. "Thou shalt not have a foot" of empire, Tamburlaine rebukes him, and when he discovers that Calyphas has avoided the battle, he stabs him. Immediately after, Tamburlaine turns to his (literally) captive audience of fallen kings and boasts, "Now you shall feel the strength of Tamburlaine, / And by the state of his supremacy / Approve the difference twixt himself and you" ( _Two_ 4.1.135–37). But as Calyphas's corpse attests, difference is in fact precisely what Tamburlaine seeks to eradicate: his vision of empire entails the imposition of a radical sameness, a sameness achieved through total war and the passionate self-assertion that becomes its rhetorical equivalent. It is a critical commonplace that "Marlowe takes particular delight in geographical nouns," and as we have seen, the recitation of those names possesses an incantatory power for Tamburlaine, as it must also have done for Marlowe's audience. But Tamburlaine's true gift, the real expression of his genius, is in unnaming and renaming. When he first meets the Turkish sultan, he asserts his authority over him by calling him "that Bajazeth" ( _One_ 3.3.65). The sultan, understandably outraged, exclaims to his followers, "Kings of Fez, Moroccus, and Argier, / He calls me Bajazeth, whom you call lord! / Note the presumption of this Scythian slave" ( _One_ 3.3.66–68). But when the battle is won, so are the titles: Tamburlaine distributes the titles of Fez, Moroccus, and Argier to his own loyal deputies, and as for the sultan, "Bring out my footstool," Tamburlaine commands ( _One_ 4.2.1). Zenocrate's own Damascus is leveled as well, and the victor urges the conquered Egyptian king to regard his new role as Tamburlaine's father-in-law, "a title higher than thy Sultan's name" ( _One_ 5.1.435). Zenocrate begs that her homeland be spared, but Tamburlaine is adamant that nothing mar the uniform perfection of his empire, a world "reduce[d]... to a map" on which all "the provinces, cities, and towns" are "call[ed]... after thy name and mine" ( _One_ 4.4.82–84). So total is the scope of Tamburlaine's ambition to "see [his] name and honour... spread" ( _One_ 1.2.204) that even the alterity of the past becomes an affront to his self-regard: it is only because antiquity knew not Zenocrate, he claims, that Helen, Lesbia, and Corinna are named. "And had she lived before the siege of Troy," he insists, "Her name had been in every line" that Homer, Catullus, or Ovid wrote, herself "the argument / Of every epigram or elegy" ( _Two_ 2.4.90, 94–95). The ceaseless echo of "Tamburlaine" and "Zenocrate" throughout the two plays is not simply evidence of the Scythian's boundless egotism; it is also a sheerly pragmatic feature of Marlowe's prosody, which depends on Tamburlaine's appetite for conquest to satisfy the demands of metrical form. Indeed there is an unmistakable kinship between the playwright's metrical strategies and his hero's ruthless course to empire. "[T]here can not be in a maker a foweler fault, then to falsifie his accent to serue his cadence, or by vntrue orthographie to wrench his words," Puttenham declares (67). Puttenham calls upon Temir Cutzclewe as the master of a poetic form—the shape-poem or the pattern-poem—that prevents this foul fault by making cadence and other aural effects secondary to visual appeal. As noted, the pattern-poem appealed to Puttenham partly because it depends on a formal rigor that has nothing to do with the way words sound: the wrenching on which Temir Cutzclewe's poems depend is entirely visual. But in other kinds of poetry, Puttenham cautions, the temptation to "falsify accents" and "wrench words" is strong for the vernacular poet, since "our naturall and primitiue language of the Saxon English, beares not any wordes (at least very few) of moe sillables then one (for whatsoeuer we see exceede, commeth to vs by the alterations of our language growen vpon many conquests and otherwise)" (56–57). According to Puttenham, then, to the extent that English poets do possess the linguistic resources necessary to conform to the classical laws of prosody, it is only thanks to their own miserable history of invasion and subjugation. Here, yet again, the distinction between violence and generosity is uncomfortably blurred: the enrichment of monosyllabic England with the polysyllables of Latin and French cannot be extricated from its humiliation and defeat. _Tamburlaine_ 's far-flung plot returns repeatedly to this conundrum, but it also affords Marlowe the opportunity to reverse the unhappy association of poetic mastery and imperial conquest: to enrich his line with an enormous quantity of three- and four-syllable words drawn not only, or even primarily, from the Latin and French terms of England's colonial past but also from the new and strange fruits of Tamburlaine's own conquests. The names that most enchant Tamburlaine—"Zenocrate," "Persepolis"—are seductive not only because of what they describe but also because of how they sound, the regular iambs into which they fall; thus the march of Tamburlaine's conquering feet across the territories of Asia and Africa sustains the rhythm of Marlowe's own feet. But not without violence: the wrenching and falsifying against which Puttenham inveighs is evident in many of Marlowe's lines, and it tends to mirror the protagonist's own outrageous impositions of will. Thus Bajazeth's humiliating turn as Tamburlaine's footstool is accompanied by what Cunningham calls "the play's most deviant metrical line," a spondaic command whose piling on of stressed monosyllables mimics the physical abuse it describes: "Stoop, villain, stoop, stoop, for so he bids" ( _Two_ 4.2.22). If, as Marjorie Garber says, the "dramatic tension" in _Tamburlaine_ "derives from the dialectic between aspiration and limitation," ambition and enclosure, a similar tension is at work in the play's verse. At the ends of his lines, Marlowe imposes strong syntactical breaks—as Russ McDonald writes, "For all Marlowe's reputation as an overreacher, only rarely did he overreach the poetic line"—but what happens _within_ those end-stopped lines is, as in Puttenham's pattern-poems, often rather irregular. Cunningham notes that "reading Marlovian blank verse" is a delicate operation: "the ear seeks an appropriate tact of pace, breath-interval, and emphasis," for " 'Cosroe' sometimes, it seems, asks for two syllables, sometimes three; 'Fesse' two or one" (91). What Cunningham views as occasions for readerly tact might just as well be seen as the imprints of Tamburlaine's own extraordinarily tactless pace. For as Cunningham's examples help us notice, the disregard Tamburlaine shows for the boundaries of foreign kingdoms and the property of foreign kings has its counterpart in Marlowe's high-handed treatment of the names of those kings and their kingdoms. "Asia" and "Scythia," "Media" and "India," "Syria," "Parthia," and all the rest may have two syllables or three; "Egypt" has two, but "Egyptia" three or four; "Greece" possesses merely one, but "Graecia" a lordly four: the willful compressions and elongations of visual space with Puttenham's pattern-poems find an aural counterpart in Marlowe's manipulation of foreign polysyllables. When the deposed Turk protests that Tamburlaine's "Ambitious pride shall make thee fall as low / For treading of the back of Bajazeth," for instance, Tamburlaine responds, "Thy names and titles and thy dignities, / Are fled from Baj'zeth and remain with me," and he marks his entitlement by shearing a syllable from the Turk's once-proper name ( _One_ 4.2.76–77, 79–80). So skeptical is Puttenham of such manipulations—or "metaplasms"—that he dubs the "joining or unjoining of syllables and letters, suppressing or confounding their several sounds" as "figures of the smallest importance" and "forbears] to give them any vulgar name" (246). In his view they verge on mere mispronunciation, the tell-tale sign of the barbarous outsider. In his _Notes on the Making of English Verse_ , however, George Gascoigne dubs this Procrustean stretching and lopping of syllables "turkening"—a phrase whose etymological roots identify it with twisting or troping but whose contemporary associations, as observed in [Chapter 2, inevitably summon the specter of Islam and of other violent conversions. In _The Garden of Eloquence_ , Henry Peacham allows fourteen distinct varieties of metaplasm to the English poet, permitting not simply "the cleauing a dipthong in sunder... as Aethiopia, for æthiopia," but even the alteration of emphasis in Greek or Latin words, "necessity of meter so compelling, as... Orphêus, for Orphēus": "our carpênter" may, according to Gabriel Harvey, be off-limits to the wrenching, lopping, and cleaving of the vernacular poet, but the father of classical eloquence receives no such consideration. Marlowe's imperious turkening of the geography of the East and his carelessness for the propriety of the proper noun, receive spectacular embodiment in Tamburlaine's most striking and barbarous display of power. Close to the end of part 2, on the road to Babylon, with his empire at what will prove to be its utmost bound, Tamburlaine celebrates his recent triumphs in Asia Minor by harnessing the former kings of Natolia, Jerusalem, Trebizond, and Soria and forcing them to draw his chariot. He represents the degrading treatment as apt repayment for the insults they have hurled at him, "bridl[ing] their contemptuous cursing tongues / That like unruly never-broken jades / Break through the hedges of their fateful mouths / And pass their fixed bounds exceedingly" ( _Two_ 4.3.44–47). This is hardly the outcome Wilson imagined for English eloquence, when, in the dedicatory epistle to his _Arte of Rhetorique_ , he described that "greater delite" of "see[ing] a whole multitude, with the onely talke of man, rauished and drawne which way he liketh best to haue them." Wilson's delightful spectacle is a fantasy of eloquence that Marlowe permits his audience—with qualifications—at the beginning of Tamburlaine's career, when he wins over the Persian general, but as Marlowe's hero enlarges his empire, the operations of eloquence and the mechanics of brute force are increasingly indistinguishable. In the notorious staging of the human chariot, tongues are not instruments of moral suasion but silent stubs of flesh. Here men are not "drawne" but made to draw, like beasts; here is not "onely talke" but its blunt objects—harnesses, whips, and "bits of burnished steel" ( _Two_ 4.1.183). The mute lurching of those captive kings across the English stage is the antithesis of the sweet traction Wilson describes, the eloquence that drew beasts and bestial men to Orpheus, but it is an apt image for the violent methods on which Marlowe's verse often depends for its singularly potent effects. Tamburlaine comes to seem both the agent and the thrall of what George Gascoigne terms "poeticall license," that "shrewde fellow" who "maketh words longer, shorter, of mo syllables, of fewer, newer, older, truer, falser, and... turkeneth all things at pleasure." "I love to live at liberty," he boasts in his first appearance onstage ( _One_ 1.2.26), but as he later confesses, "since I exercise a greater name,... I must apply myself to fit those terms" ( _Two_ 4.1.153–55). Applying oneself to fit the terms, applying the terms to fit oneself: such is the license that Marlowe claims for his play, whose exotic and elastic phrasing both defines and defies the limits of his native tongue. "What Scythian Sorte Soeuer" The most radical and unexpected articulation of this idea—the idea that eloquence is the exercise of an idiosyncratic and autocratic poetic will—appears in the work of a poet who did his utmost to confine _Tamburlaine_ 's feet to the stage, a poet whose own verse struck many of his contemporaries as too restrained altogether. A decade and a half after Marlowe announced his departure from rhyme, Samuel Daniel bowed to _Tamburlaine_ 's influence, "confess[ing]" in his 1603 _Defence of Ryme_ that his adversaries in the war over English measure had "wrought this much vpon me, that I thinke a Tragedie would indeede best comporte with a blank Verse, and dispence with Ryme." But Daniel had his own uses for Tamburlaine, whom he invokes in the _Defence_ as a counterweight to the humanist tendency to revile native poetic forms as signs of cultural and intellectual barbarism. In a lengthy digression Daniel argues that the notoriously immoderate battle tactics of the Scythian Tamburlaine ought to be recognized as the point of origin for what we now call the Renaissance: the revival of learning in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Italy begins, he claims, at the margins of so-called civilization with a series of rather brutal acts of conquest (sig. H[1]r–v). By tallying European humanism's debts to the inhumane achievements of a barbarian warlord, Daniel lays the ground for his critique of humanist rhetoric's own coercive tendencies, but he also advances his case for a more expansive and elastic version of literary history. His crude yet effective Tamburlaine stands as a rebuke to those who would make the boundaries of eloquence coextensive with those of ancient Athens and Rome, those who fail to recognize in homely rhyme a power that "swais th'affection of the Barbarian" as well as "the harts of Ciuill nations" (sig. G4r). Daniel may allow blank verse its dominion over English tragedy, but he insists on retaining the rest of the poetic landscape for rhyme, accusing partisans of quantitative meter of cultural and linguistic tyranny. The _Defence_ begins by dismissing the familiar anxieties over numbers, accents, and feet as inconsequential. Where Puttenham and others—chiefly Thomas Campion, whose 1602 _Apologie of Poetrie_ prompts Daniel's response—fretted over the difficulty of making English conform to cadences of classical measure, Daniel argues that English poets have no need for such artificial constraints, possessing already a much pleasanter and more natural method of giving shape to their lines. "[W]e are told," he writes, "that our measures go wrong, all Ryming is grosse, vulgare, barbarous," but this is mere chauvinism, for "[e]uery language hath her proper number or measure fitted to vse and delight," and in England rhyme "performes those offices" best, "delighting the eare, stirring the hart, and satisfying the iudgment in such sort as I doubt whether euer single numbers will doe in our Climate" (sigs. G3r, G4v–[G5r]). But not only "our climate": rhyme, according to Daniel, has "so naturall a melodie" and "so vniuersall," that "it seemes to be generally borne with al the nations of the world." Thus the barbarism that is imputed to rhyme as its great defect in fact "argues the generall power of it:... it hath a power in nature on all" (sig. G4r). Daniel goes on to invent a genealogy for this universal melody, imagining the spread of rhyme across the globe as an unforced, triumphal march. It is an itinerary that uncannily replicates the course of Tamburlaine's own progress to world domination: "borne no doubt in Scythia," rhyming verse is "brought ouer Caucasus and Mount Taurus" to Turkey, carried to "a great part of Asia and Affrique," adopted by "the Muscouite, Polack, Hungarian, German, Italian, French, and Spaniard," and finally either brought thence or possessed already by "[t]he Irish, Briton, Scot, Dane, Saxon, English, and all the Inhabitours of this Iland" (sig. G4v). As for the "single numbers" of Greece and Rome, "notwithstanding their excellencie," they "seemed not sufficient to satisfie the eare of the world" (sig. [G5]r), and the veneration they are accorded is, according to Daniel, the fruit of tyranny. The Greeks and Romans, he argues, "may thanke their sword that made their tongues so famous and vniuersall as they are"—and their verses bear the impress of this history, being composed of the "scattered limbs" of severed clauses and "examples... of strange crueltie, in torturing and dismembering of words" (sig. [G5]v): according to Daniel, classical poets are the original turkeners of language. "We should not," he therefore urges, "so soone yield our consents captiue to the authoritie of Antiquitie"; although English poets may be accustomed to thinking of themselves as inhabitants of a remote corner of the world, "we are not so placed out of the way of iudgement, but that the same Sun of Discretion shineth vpon vs" (sig. [G6]v). To exchange rhyme for "single numbers" would be a bad bargain indeed, an exchange of native discretion for strange cruelty, and the loss of "an hereditary eloquence proper to all mankind" (sig. G4r). But in order to claim this status for rhyme, Daniel must confront the foundational myth of Renaissance humanism, whereby eloquence is always already defined in relation to the classical literary tradition and Goths are the natural antagonists of Greeks. According to Daniel's mocking summary of this myth, "all things lay pitifully deformed in those lacke-learning times from the declining of the Roman Empire, till the light of the latine tongue was revived by Rewcline, Erasmus and Moore." This, Daniel says, is "a most apparent ignorance," for "three hundred yeeres before them about the coming downe of Tamburlaine into Europe," the "best notions of learning" in the same "degree of excellencie" were already at work, and "our nation... concurrent with the best of all this lettered world" (sig. H[1]r). Indeed, Daniel claims, it is thanks to Tamburlaine that the Renaissance happened at all. By taking "Bajazeth... prisoner," he argues, Tamburlaine inadvertently triggered an intellectual and literary revival: for upon learning of the Turk's defeat, the learned inhabitants of Constantinople, who had traveled to Italy in hopes of forging political alliances against Bajazeth, were now free to remain in Italy as scholars and teachers, "transport[ing] Philosophie beaten by the Turke out of Greece into Christendome." "Heereuppon," Daniel concludes, "came that mighty confluence of learning in these parts," which "meeting with the new inuented stampe of Printing, spread itself indeede in a more vniuersall sort then the world euer heretofore had it" (sig. H[1]v). Instead of being the achievement of dedicated scholars, intent on redeeming ancient beauty and truth, Daniel's Renaissance is the accidental by-product of war and new technologies. Eloquence, meanwhile, is not the instrument of imperial conquest but the sole surviving property of a transient community of refugees: a Gothic barbarian rescues Greek civilization, and poetic measure survives thanks to barbarous excess. Daniel derives this account of Tamburlaine's role in the preservation of classical learning and literature from a French historian, Louis Le Roy, whose treatise _De la vicissitude ou variété des choses en l'univers_ (1576; English translation, 1594) takes "the great and inuincible tamberlan" as the emblem of "the power, learning, and other excellence of this age." For Le Roy, the Scythian Timur appeals as a counterweight to humanism's obligatory sense of indebtedness to the classical past: as Mary Floyd-Wilson argues, his Tamberlan "embodies the paradoxically barbaric origins of early modern cultural advancement" and "refute[s] the geographic truisms of the conventional civilizing narrative—that barbarousness flows from the north and civilization emerges in the south." But Le Roy also dwells on Tamberlan as the embodiment of a historiographic injustice: having created the circumstances for "the restitution of the tongues; and of all sciences," the Scythian warlord has been written out of the record by the beneficiaries of that restitution, men whose study of antiquity taught them to disdain his achievements as those of an unlettered barbarian. "Yet fortune hauing allwaies fauoured him, without euer hauing bin contrary vnto him," Le Roy laments, "seemeth among so many admirable euents, which exceed the ordinary course of Conquerours, to haue denyed him an Historyographer of excellent learning, and eloquence; agreeable to his vertues: to celebrate them worthily" (fol. 108v). Le Roy's account of Tamberlan as the victim of his own radically transformative power—a figure who made history happen and was promptly shut out of it—authorizes Daniel's own revisionary project, in which Tamburlaine stands at the head of a long list of those whose contributions to learning and eloquence have been unfairly neglected: "witnesse," he commands his readers, "the venerable _Bede_ , that flourished about a thousand yeeres since: _Aldelmus Durotelmus_ that lived in the yere 739,... _Walterus Mape_ , _Gulielmus Nigellus_ , _Geruasius Tilburiensis_ , _Bracton_ , _Bacon_ , _Ockam_ , and an infinite Catalogue of excellent men" (sigs. H[1]v–H2r). To claim the authors of medieval Latin texts, even the scholastics—the most barbarous of barbarians, according to humanist orthodoxy—as "excellent men" in the cause of learning is to deny that the so-called revival of learning and letters was any such thing. The very idea that such institutions should need reviving is founded, Daniel insists, on a misguided assumption about the identification of eloquence with particular times and places: in truth, he writes, "[t]he distribution of giftes are vniuersall, and all seasons hath them in some sort" (sig. H2r). The theory of eloquence Daniel formulates in concert with this leveling of cultural history is at once homely and expansive, firm in its commitment to English forms but catholic in its appreciation of local variation. Daniel may be an apologist for rhyme, but he does not pretend that it possesses any merits beyond that of satisfying the ear and swaying the judgment; that satisfaction, vulgar as it may be, is sufficient guarantee of its value. "Suffer then the world to injoy that which it knows, and what it likes," he pleads. "Seeing that whatsoeuer forme of words doth mooue, delight and sway the affections of men, in what Scythian sorte soeuer it be disposed or vttered, that is true number, measure, eloquence, and the perfection of speech: which I said, hath as many shapes as there be tongues or nations in the world" (sig. [G5]r). "In what Scythian sorte soeuer": the example of Le Roy's Tamberlan authorizes Daniel in bestowing an unprecedented degree of latitude upon the English author, and in granting an unprecedented weight to the enjoyment of the English tongue and ear. Of course, the "suffering" that Daniel commends to his readers somewhat collapses the distinction between ease and difficulty: like the appalled delight English audiences took in the spectacular barbarity and forceful rhythms of Marlowe's _Tamburlaine_ , or the rigorous fascination George Puttenham finds in the unforgiving boundaries of the Tartarian shape-poem, Daniel's idea of "the perfection of speech" marries seemingly intuitive pleasure to the shock of alienation. But we should not gloss over the differences between—indeed the outright incommensurability of—the forms that perfection assumes for each writer. Although they find inspiration in the same unlikely figure of eloquence, Puttenham, Marlowe, and Daniel arrive at radically disparate versions of vernacularity: oriental pattern-poems, blank verse, and rhyming couplets resist incorporation into any unified account of linguistic progress. Nor should we be too quick to assume that sixteenth-century readers would have found the choice between them an obvious one: Marlowe's spectacularly successful stage play offers one extremely influential account of where English poetry was headed at the end of the sixteenth century, but it is not the only story, then or now. By charting the unexpected range of associations between the Scythian warlord and the problem of measure, it is thus possible to defamiliarize ourselves with the trajectory of vernacular literature, recovering the confusion and excitement of a moment when the shape of England's literary history and its literary future were, as Daniel argues, no more distinct or fixed than "a superficiall figure of a region in a Mappe" (sig. H2r) The Scythian Timur may prove useful to the modern literary critic as well, insofar as his curious position within Renaissance culture—where he is at once ubiquitous and marginal, a catalyst of widespread change and the begetter of a degenerate line—forecasts the roles assumed by writers such as Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe, whose self-consciously strange versions of vernacularity inaugurate a literary culture from which they are rather quickly exiled, marked as eccentric, idiosyncratic, and unfitting of imitation. What G. K. Hunter says of euphuism, that "though it contributed to the clarification of vernacular style... it had no real heirs," is equally true of Spenser's pseudo-archaism: even the tolerant (and otherwise admiring) Daniel politely declined to imitate his "aged accents and untimely words." Marlowe's blank-verse line may seem the exception to this rule, for it has come to sound like the natural and inevitable voice of English eloquence, certainly so far as Renaissance drama is concerned. But blank verse survived the close of the sixteenth century only by being severed from the person of the strutting Scythian, who within a little more than a decade had come to seem, once again, rather lame. "[B]y the turn of the century," observes Alexander Legatt, "[n]o one was writing plays like _Tamburlaine_ any more, and you could raise a laugh by quoting it." There was worse to come. In 1681 a playwright by the name of Charles Saunders published a play titled _Tamerlane the Great_ , with an epilogue by John Dryden and a preface in which Saunders defends himself from charges of plagiarism. Addressing those malefactors who have "give[n] out, that this was only an Old-Play Transcrib'd," Saunders writes: I hope I may easily unload my self of that Calumny, when I shall testifie that I never heard of any Play on the same Subject, untill my own was Acted, neither have I since seen it, though it hath been told me, there is a Cock-Pit Play, going under the name of the _Scythian Shepherd,_ or _Tamberlain the Great,_ which how good it is, any one may Iudge by its obscurity, being a thing, not a Bookseller in _London,_ or scarce the Players themselves, who Acted it formerly, cou'd call to Remembrance, so far, that I believe that whoever was the Author, he might e'en keep it to himself secure from invasion, or Plagiary. Jonson's caution to playwrights against following in Marlowe's footsteps seems to have succeeded better than he could have hoped: like Milton, who disregards Surrey's _Aeneid_ in claiming to originate the blank-verse English epic, Saunders appears sincere in his belief that he was the first English writer to take up the life of Tamburlaine. In an irony the Earl of Surrey might well have savored, the great stage poet of imperial ambition is himself relegated to the margins, the anonymous proprietor of a plot so obscure that no one would bother to usurp his place in it. _Coda_ Eccentric Shakespeare The period of theoretical and formal innovation that we now claim as a point of origin for modern literary history appeared to its immediate successors as a dead end. Neither the ministrations of Latin-speaking nursemaids nor the rigors of double translation succeeded in naturalizing classical eloquence in Renaissance England. No English compiler of tropes and figures achieved the authority of an Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Quintilian, nor did rhetoric long maintain its reign as the queen of the liberal arts: as early as 1605, Francis Bacon looked back with disdain at the sixteenth century's "affectionate study of eloquence"; by the mid-seventeenth century the tide of rhetorical handbooks had receded; and in 1691 John Locke dismissed "all the Art of Rhetoric, besides Order and Clearness, all the artificial and figurative application of Words Eloquence hath invented, are for nothing," as a "perfect cheat." To a seventeenth-century eye—Ben Jonson's, for instance—Lyly's ornate prose, Spenser's odd diction, and Marlowe's thundering verse looked like failed experiments, useful only insofar as they marked the outer limits of vernacular decorum. A century later Samuel Johnson would describe the age of Elizabeth I as a period of violent and self-inflicted upheaval, in which "above all others experiments were made upon our language which distorted its combinations, and disturbed its uniformity." Johnson articulates that view in his 1756 "Proposals for Printing... the Dramatick Works of Shakespeare," and if we are now likely to regard the late sixteenth century in a rather different light—as a period in which English received the refinements that ushered it into a graceful and uniform maturity—that perspective has much to do with Shakespeare. Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe may rapidly assume the status of linguistic outsiders and, to varying degrees, still hover at the margins of literary culture, but Shakespeare is the ultimate insider: "the exemplary author of the English canon," as Margreta de Grazia puts it. And yet, as she points out, for a century and a half after his death—until Edmond Malone's pioneering 1790 edition of the complete works fashioned for him a legitimating carapace of scholarly respectability—the circumstances of Shakespeare's renown were decidedly otherwise: both his life and his art were judged wayward by early critics, as his famously extravagant fancy was matched by equally extravagant lapses in judgment. Thus Johnson offers his judgment of the Elizabethan period not in order to rescue Shakespeare from it but to place him firmly within it: the reader of Shakespeare's text, he confesses, is "embarrassed at once with dead and with foreign languages, with obsoleteness and with innovation," the disorienting stylistic impress of a "desultory and vagrant" wit. Embarrassment—in both the eighteenth-century sense of perplexity or difficulty and our own sense of cringing awkwardness—seems indeed to have been a primary effect of reading Shakespeare throughout the seventeenth and much of the eighteenth centuries. For such readers Shakespeare did not transcend the eccentricities of his contemporaries; he epitomized them. Although Jonson's elegy for Shakespeare in the opening pages of the 1623 Folio hails the playwright as far greater than the "disproportion'd Muses" of Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe, his commonplace book lumps all four writers together in its disparaging account of the stylistic extremity of what he calls "the late age." In the same pages that record his judgments against Lyly's unrestrained _copia_ , Spenser's queer pseudo-archaisms, and Marlowe's strutting bombast, Jonson laments the judgment of "the multitude," who "commend Writers, as they doe Fencers or Wrastlers; who if they come robustiously, and put for it, with a deale of violence, are received for the braver-fellows," and implies that Shakespeare was just such a robustious and violent sort: "His Wit was in his own Power, would Rule of it had been so too." Subsequent critics tended to agree in finding Shakespeare unruly: his genius, as Walter Harte wrote in 1730 with both admiration and dismay, "soar'd beyond the reach of Art"; his plots were deficient (or nonexistent); his style was passionately irregular; and his diction, as Francis Atterbury complained to Alexander Pope, less intelligible than "the hardest part of Chaucer." In 1693 Thomas Rymer notoriously judged Shakespeare so eccentric as to be downright un-English, calling _Othello_ a play whose absurdities and excesses "can only be calculated for the latitude of Gotham," the proverbial home of fools and simpletons. John Dryden rebuked Rymer for his want of generosity but allowed that Shakespeare's "whole stile is so pester'd with Figurative expressions, that it is as affected as it is obscure." Lewis Theobold diagnosed Shakespeare's obscure style as the outworking of a wondering, wandering mind, whose "Acquaintance [with the world] was rather That of a Traveller, than a Native," addicted "to the Effect of Admiration begot by Novelty"; while Oliver Goldsmith found him prone to "far-fetch't conceit, and unnatural hyperbole." "To judge... of _Shakespear_ by _Aristotle's_ rules," Pope cautioned, "is like trying a man by the Laws of one Country, who acted under those of another"—but if Shakespeare's country was not Aristotle's, nor was it obviously the English reader's own. Rather, Pope advised readers of his 1725 edition of the plays to approach the text as they would "an ancient majestick piece of _Gothick_ Architecture," admiring its "nobler apartments; tho' we are often conducted to them by dark, odd, and uncouth passages." As de Grazia suggests, it was because he remained stubbornly outside the norms of vernacular decorum that Shakespeare became so central to the concerns of critics eager, in Pope's words, "to form the Judgment and Taste of our nation": "It was precisely because Shakespeare had traditionally been associated with irregular and artless Nature that he served this purpose so well." As Michael Dobson has shown, it took the strenuous labor of scholars, politicians, and theatrical entrepreneurs in the late eighteenth century to groom this outlandish Shakespeare into the poet of English empire: ruled by their judgment, Shakespeare could proceed to rule Britannia. Of course, certain parts of Shakespeare's corpus resisted this chastening. The most striking example is the eloquence of Othello, that "extravagant and wheeling stranger / Of here and everywhere": Coleridge sought refuge in the "pleasing possibility" that Shakespeare intended Othello as a light-skinned Moor, not a black African, but in 1920 it was still possible for T. S. Eliot to claim that he had "never seen a cogent refutation of Rymer's objections to _Othello._ " The character of Falstaff too was persistently associated with Shakespeare's immoderate and licentious pen and became the focus of a (still ongoing) argument about his creator's tolerance or promotion of subversion. For Dryden, writing in 1668, Falstaff was proof of Shakespeare's "largest and most comprehensive Soul," a marvel of "ridiculous extravagance," but for the straight-laced Jeremy Collier, writing in 1698, Falstaff's banishment by Henry V was crucial evidence of Shakespeare's capacity for moral and aesthetic judgment: the poet, like the newly crowned king, "was not so partial as to let his humour compound for his lewdness." Modern critics continue to debate the implications of Hal's transformation from libertine prince to authoritarian king and to highlight the banishing of Falstaff as a turning point, if not in Shakespeare's personal psychology, at least in the ideological orientation of the English history play: a critical step toward Henry's apotheosis as "England" and Shakespeare's as England's "national poet." Indeed for all the disagreement over the ethics and politics of the second tetralogy, critics concur in identifying the ideal that emerges by way of Henry's famous eloquence: "the model of an English community"; "an emerging English nationalism"; "a fantasy of national (male) bondedness"; "an acceptable national self"; a "unitary state"; "a secure English polity"; "a nation conceived in strikingly modern terms." If one wishes to make a case for the sixteenth-century origins of the English national community, it is Shakespeare's Henry V who, as one critic puts it, "springs to mind." Within the second tetralogy, however, eloquence is not so easily domesticated. Although the banishment of Falstaff consigns one particular embodiment of linguistic extravagance to the margins of Shakespeare's plot, it signals the ascendancy of another. For it is not simply the case that, as a number of critics have pointed out, the second tetralogy permits a number of rival voices to threaten the dominance of the king's "good English." That "good English" is itself the product of studied eccentricity: indeed of an apprenticeship to the strange literary vernaculars this book highlights. Hal foregrounds the link between willfully outlandish speech and his own royal authority early in his career, when he claims his aptitude for tavern slang as a sign of his fitness to rule: "When I am King of England I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap," he boasts to Poins. "I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life" ( _1 Henry IV_ 2.5.12–17). Of course this "proficiency" can also be read as a defect, the sign of a loose tongue and an unstable realm. The prince's worried father, for instance, hears in his son's indiscriminate talk a dangerously inverted form of Orphic eloquence: "For the fifth Harry from curbed licence plucks the muzzle of restraint," he laments on his deathbed, "O my poor kingdom!... O thou wilt be a wilderness again, / Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!" ( _2 Henry IV_ 4.3.258–59, 261–65). The Earl of Warwick reconciles these opposed views by urging the king to regard Hal's waywardness as a mode of progress toward political mastery—which he too likens to the cultivation of a strange tongue: The prince but studies his companions Like a strange tongue wherein, to gain the language, 'Tis needful that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learn'd; which once attain'd, Your highness knows, comes to no further use But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, The prince will in the perfectness of time Cast off his followers.... ( _2 Henry IV_ 4.3.67–75) Warwick's analogy points up the fact that throughout the two parts of _Henry IV_ , linguistic eccentricity is both an index of political insubordination and a repeated strategy of self-promotion. Most famously there is Falstaff, who adopts the sing-song rhythm, showy similitudes, and moralizing sententiousness of _Euphues_ when impersonating the king in the tavern at Eastcheap. In the scene that immediately follows, Spenser's self-consciously obscure style is parodied in the faux-mystical raving of Owen Glendower, the Welsh magician, who claims to have "framed to the harp / many an English ditty lovely well, / And gave the tongue a helpful ornament" (3.1.120–22) and who annoys Hotspur with his fanciful tales of Arthur and Merlin, occult prophecies and mythical beasts. Finally, in _Henry IV, Part Two_ , Marlowe's "high astounding terms" are lampooned in the bluster of ensign Pistol, who speaks exclusively in the ranting voice of a stage Scythian. Like the vagabonds and rebels with whom they are aligned, Lyly's, Spenser's, and Marlowe's styles are forced to the margins of Shakespeare's plot—first indulged and then indicted—becoming, as Stephen Greenblatt writes of the play's Welsh and French speakers, "voices that... dwell outside the realms ruled by the potentates of the land." As each of these potentially disruptive figures is, as Warwick predicts, finally cast off, Shakespeare clears the way for Hal to assert his own distinctive style: the blend of sonorous formality and folksy directness in which so many critics have heard the voice of an emergent English national community, a refined yet homely vernacular whose Orphic appeal transforms strangers into brothers. But those onstage perceive Henry, and his eloquence, rather differently: from the moment he ascends his father's throne, the magic of his presence and the charisma of his speech reside not in intimacy or familiarity but in the residue of his earlier estrangement. Early on, Henry IV warns Hal that his indiscriminate mixing with the likes of Falstaff and Pistol has made him "almost an alien to the hearts / Of all the court and princes of my blood" ( _1 Henry IV_ 3.2.34–35), and when Hal greets his father's courtiers for the first time as Henry V, we see that this is so: noting their anxious faces, he teases, "This is the English, not the Turkish court; / Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, / But Harry Harry" ( _2 Henry IV_ 5.2.47–49). As Benedict Robinson observes, the unexpected invocation of Elizabeth I's Ottoman counterpart, Sultan Murad, may be meant as an assertion of Henry's fundamental kinship both to his father and to his countrymen, but it also raises the specter of his permanent alienation from them. Indeed no sooner has Henry moved to allay the sense of distance, assuring the court, "I'll be your father and your brother, too," then he returns to it, saying with some satisfaction, "You all look strangely on me" (5.2.57, 63). Robinson notes that Henry's thoughts "turn to the Turks" with some regularity once he is king—in his proposal to Katherine that they "compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard" ( _Henry V_ 5.2.204–7) and in his vision of failure as burial in an unmarked urn, "like a Turkish mute" with "a tongueless mouth" (1.2.232)—and reads in such asides the haunting traces of Henry's own bloody and illegitimate origins. Henry's eloquence is, Robinson suggests, the antidote to this haunting, for it "tactically displaces attention from the vexed question of dynastic inheritance" by "turning Englishness into... common property." But that vision of intimacy through vernacularity was dispelled long before, banished from the second tetralogy along with Thomas Mowbray in the opening act of _Richard II_. The "heavy sentence" of his exile prompts Mowbray to protest the infliction of "so deep a maim" (1.3.148, 150): The language I have learn'd these forty years, My native English, now I must forego: And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. (153–59) As Mowbray makes clear, language is not a "common property"; rather it is what he loses by being "cast forth in the common air" (1.3.151). Nor is his "native English" a purely natural inheritance: it is the tongue he has "learn'd these forty years," a "cunning instrument" requiring a knowing touch. In this regard his lament charts a kind of progress for the mother tongue, but it is progress away from the ideals of commonness and accessibility, toward the incommensurable values of intricacy and art. Speaking _this_ English is no durable means of cultural identification but a rare privilege, bestowed and rescinded at the whim of a fickle king. Henry's own eloquence does not redress the "maim" done to English by Richard's "heavy sentence"—its severing from the fantasy of a shared and inalienable identity—so much as transform that injury into an enticement. In the opening scene of _Henry V_ , the Archbishop of Canterbury marvels at the strange power of his tongue, which seems to solicit the very transgressive desires it also reproves: ... when he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is still, And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences: So that the art and practic part of life Must be the mistress of his theoric. (1.1.48–53) Like the imperious sultan who trims the tongues of his harem attendants (and their other parts as well), Henry's masterful speech makes mistresses and mutes of all who hear. It indicts and indulges, threatens and seduces, penning up the chartered libertine even as it turns the wondering listener to a lurker and a thief. Although "speechless death"—the fate of Thomas Mowbray—is what Henry particularly hopes to avoid for himself, his desire that "history shall with full mouth / Speak freely of our acts" ( _Henry V_ 1.2.230–31) depends on his ability to induce speechlessness in those around him: his sweet and honeyed sentences are precisely what they are not invited to share. While Robinson traces "the fragility of Henry's fraternal rhetoric" to the uneasy political kinship of Englishman and Saracen, we might therefore trace it as well to the uneasy rhetorical kinship of enticement and alienation, to the honeyed sentences and turkened phrases that made English both eloquent and strange—eloquent _because_ strange, just as Henry's "happy few" (4.3.60) are happy _because_ few. Indeed where modern critics see fragility—fissures and flaws in Henry's attempt to fashion a perfect rhetorical union—their sixteenth-century counterparts might rather have seen strength: the persistent if paradoxical appeal of language that refuses identification with the common tongue. This appeal is at the core of Henry's famous speech at Agincourt, which, although it has so often been read as a transcendent (if transitory) evocation of national unity, fashions its "band of brothers" both outside of and in opposition to England. To the extent that, as many critics have suggested, Henry relies on xenophobia to secure the boundaries of his imagined community, that xenophobia is here directed most forcefully at the supposed home front, at "gentlemen in England now abed" who "shall think themselves accursed they were not here" (4.3.64–65). The speech is prompted by Warwick's wish for the company of his countrymen—"O that we now had here / But one ten thousand of those men in England / That do no work today" (17–19)—to which Henry sternly replies, "No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.... O do not wish one more" (30, 33). From the beginning, then, the rhetoric of kinship and belonging—"my coz," Henry calls Warwick—is predicated on the exclusion of those at home. The remainder of the speech develops this opposition into a prolonged fantasy of privileged isolation from a broad and undifferentiated English community. Although we tend to interpret it as if it were addressed to the whole of Henry's host, "inscribing these men together in a shared and all but hagiographic history and a glorious future," as one critic writes, it is addressed primarily to Warwick, who proves its success when he responds by wishing away not only the ten thousand Englishmen of his earlier imagining but also the five thousand actual Englishmen waiting close at hand: "God's will, my liege, would you and I alone, / without more help, could fight this royal battle" (74–75). His reaction reminds us that the only element of the speech extended to its general audience is an invitation to leave with passport in hand: Rather proclaim it presently throughout my host That he which hath no stomach to this fight Let him depart. His passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. (34–39) From a practical perspective, of course, the widespread defection of Henry's troops would mean disaster, but the appeal of his rhetoric is concentrated in the image of "you and I alone": a vision of belonging so exclusive as to verge on exile. "Perish the man whose mind is backward now," Warwick declares (72): this is no time to think of England. Indeed even as Henry imagines his army returned "safe home" again, feasting their neighbors and teaching their sons, he insists that they will remain men apart, a select community oriented around a language that—while it resembles ordinary speech—belongs singularly and strangely to them: He that shall see this day and live to old age Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours And say, "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember with advantages What feats he did that day: then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words— Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester— Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. (44–55) Familiar in _his_ mouth as household words: the point is not that proper aristocratic names will be familiar to everyone, as the value of participation in Henry's royal condition is distributed down the social scale; on the contrary, other Englishmen will "hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks / That fought with us" (66–67). Once again the familiarity Henry invokes is ultimately a mode of estrangement: his rhetoric carves out of the common tongue—the tongue of actual families and households—a peculiar language belonging exclusively to those whose bodies bear the foreign tracery of his war. The soldier who strips his sleeve and shows his scars and says, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day" speaks the plainest English, but his speech inscribes a boundary between himself and his neighbors; no less than Lyly's ornate periphrases, Spenser's archaic diction, or Marlowe's mighty line, what such language is meant to produce is the alluring and alienating effect of _style_. To the extent that Henry's famous speech conjures a national community, then, it does so only in order to assert the desirability of distance from it. "You know your places," Henry concludes (78), dismissing Warwick and the rest to battle. His eloquence teaches them their places, positioning them at the privileged and perilous extremity of linguistic community. That margin is not where we are now accustomed to locate Shakespeare, but it is where his eloquent English king finds it useful to reside: Henry may banish Euphues, Colin Clout, and Tamburlaine, but he also seems determined to join them. They hold their strangeness in common. _Notes_ INTRODUCTION . In Richard Foster Jones, _The Triumph of the English Language_ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1953), the author argues that the publication and reception of _Euphues_ , _The Shepheardes Calender_ , and _Tamburlaine_ mark the culmination of a decades-long process of linguistic self-assertion: "eloquence in English compositions becomes an accomplished fact, and the rhetorical potentialities of the mother tongue are revealed once and for all. The rude, gross, base, and barbarous mother tongue recedes into the past, and its place is taken by an eloquent language, confidence in which mounts higher and higher until it yields nothing even to Latin and Greek" (169–70). . Edward Blount, "To the Reader," _Sixe Court Comedies... by Iohn Lilly_ (London: Edward Blount, 1632), sig. [A5v]; Philip Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetrie_ (London: Henry Olney, 1595), sigs. [K4]r–v. . Joseph Hall, "Virgidimarium," in _Christopher Marlowe: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Millar MacLure (New York: Routledge, 1995), 42. . Ben Jonson, _Discoveries: A Critical Edition_ , ed. Maurice Castelain (Paris: Librairie Hachette, 1906), 41, 90. . For a thorough account of the extension of this myth into twentieth-century theories of civic discourse and the public sphere, see Walter Jost and Michael J. Hyde, "Introduction," in _Rhetoric and Hermeneutics in Our Time: A Reader_ , ed. Walter Jost and Michael J. Hyde (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 1–31. Wayne Rebhorn, _The Emperor of Men's Minds: Literature and the Renaissance Discourse of Rhetoric_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 23–29, provides a lengthy consideration of classical and Renaissance accounts of the origins of rhetoric, paying particular attention to the distinctive political ideologies that inflect versions of the foundational myth offered in republican and monarchic societies. Neil Rhodes, _The Power of Eloquence and English Renaissance Literature_ (New York: St. Martin's, 1999), chap. 1, likewise reflects on Renaissance ideas of eloquence. See also Heinrich F. Plett, _Rhetoric and Renaissance Culture_ (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 396–410. . Isocrates, _Antidosis_ , trans. G. Norlin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 253–56, qtd. in Jost and Hyde, 2. . Marcus Tullius Cicero, _De Inventione_ , trans. H. M. Hubbell (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1949), 5–7. . Horace, _Ars Poetica_ , in _The Works of Horace_ , trans. C. Smart (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1896), 322. . Quintilian, _Institutio Oratoria_ , 4 vols., trans. Donald Russell (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 1:373. . Thomas Wilson, _The Arte of Rhetorique_ (London: Richard Grafton, 1560), sig. Aiiir, fol. 48r. . George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (London: Richard Field, 1589), sigs. Cr–Ciiv. . Richard Rainolde, _A Book called the Foundacion of Rhetorike_ (London: John Kingston, 1563), sig. Air. . Henry Peacham, "The Epistle," in Henry Peacham, _The Garden of Eloquence_ (London: H. Jackson, 1577), sig. Aiiir–v. . Benedict Anderson, _Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism_ , rev. ed. (New York: Verso, 2006), 7, 44. . David J. Baker, _Between Nations: Shakespeare, Spenser, Marvell, and the Question of Britain_ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997), argues that the collective identity produced by sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century literature is "only ambiguously" English and that Britishness is an equally important site of literary and cultural identification (16). Andrew Hadfield, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Matter of Britain_ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), argues as well that it is "the notion of Britain" that "loomed so large in the horizons and imaginations of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century writers" (4). See also Adrian Hastings, _The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion, and Nationalism_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), which credits the English Bible with fostering a sense of linguistic commonality; and Joan Fitzpatrick, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Contours of Britain: Reshaping the Atlantic Archipelago_ (Hertfordshire: University of Hertfordshire Press, 2004). Other authors have traced the stirrings of national imagining, both English and British, to earlier Tudor literature: see Cathy Shrank, _Writing the Nation in Reformation England, 1530–1580_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); Philip Schwyzer, _Literature, Nationalism, and Memory in Early Modern England and Wales_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004)—although Schwyzer cautions that "[w]hat we discern in some early modern texts is not the nation _per se_ so much as the nation _in potential_ " (9); Herbert Grabes, "England or the Queen?: Public Conflict of Opinion and National Identity under Mary Tudor," in _Writing the Early Modern English Nation: The Transformation of National Identity in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England_ , ed. Herbert Grabes (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 47–87; and Stewart Mottram, _Empire and Nation in Early English Renaissance Literature_ (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2008). . Richard Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood: The Elizabethan Writing of England_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 1–2. . Claire McEachern, _The Poetics of English Nationhood, 1590–1612_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 4. . Andrew Escobedo, _Nationalism and Historical Loss in Renaissance England_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004), 3. . Ian Smith, "Barbarian Errors: Performing Race in Early Modern England," _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 49:2 (Summer 1998): 172–73. . Derek Attridge, _Peculiar Language: Literature as Difference from the Renaissance to James Joyce_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 3. . Aristotle, _Art of Rhetoric_ 1.1356, 2.1395; translated and edited by George A. Kennedy as _On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 41, 187. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.1404; trans. Kennedy, 221. . On the value-laden (and often specious) distinction between Attic and Asiatic styles, see Chapter 2, below, and Jeffrey Walker, _Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). For a more thorough account of the afterlives of specific classical theories of style in Renaissance rhetorical handbooks and literary texts, see George A. Kennedy, _Classical Rhetoric and Its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times_ , 2nd ed. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999); Kenneth Graham, _The Performance of Conviction: Plainness and Rhetoric in the Early English Renaissance_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994); Debora Shuger, _Sacred Rhetoric: The Christian Grand Style in the English Renaissance_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988); and Annabel Patterson, _Hermogenes and the Renaissance: Seven Ideas of Style_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1970). . Puttenham, 147. . Puttenham, 147. . Marcus Fabius Quintilian, _Institutio Oratoria_ , 4 vols., trans. H. E. Butler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 3:212–13. . As Kathy Eden, _Hermeneutics and the Rhetorical Tradition: Chapters in the Ancient Legacy and Its Humanist Reception_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), observes, in his _Rhetoric_ Aristotle makes very little distinction between _to prepon_ and _to oikeon_ , between "appropriateness" and "homeliness"; Cicero follows him in defining decorum "as the ability to accommodate the occasion, taking account of times, places, and persons" and identifying this capacity as the key to success as an orator, a poet, and more broadly speaking, a moral being (25–26). See also Kathy Eden, "Petrarchan Hermeneutics and the Rediscovery of Intimacy," in _Petrarch and the Textual Origins of Interpretation_ , ed. Teodolinda Barolini and H. Wayne Storey (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 233–34. . Arthur Golding, _The xv. bookes of P. Ouidius Naso, entytuled Metamorphosis_ (London: William Seres, 1567), fols. 135v–136r. As Sean Keilen, _Vulgar Eloquence: On the Renaissance Invention of English Literature_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), notes, Renaissance emblem books sometimes conflate these two aspects of the classical myth, depicting the civilizing poet as himself half-wild—disheveled, barefoot, and perpetually on the verge of retreat to the untamed woods from which he emerged. Keilen argues that such hybrid images provided a particularly nourishing form of sustenance to vernacular authors, encouraging "the idea that Orpheus' eloquence was inseparable from his barbarism" and fostering the hope that their own unseemly origins might prove similarly generative (84–88). . Jeffrey Knapp, _An Empire Nowhere: England, America, and Literature from_ Utopia _to_ The Tempest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 21. . Jones, 212. . Jones, 169. . William Harrison, "The Description and Historie of England," in Raphael Holinshed, _The first and second volume of Chronicles_ (London, 1577), 14. . Samuel Daniel, _The Defence of Ryme_ (London: Edward Blount, 1603), sig. H7r; Robert Cawdrey, "To the Reader," in Robert Cawdrey, _A Table Alphabeticall_ (London: Edmund Weaver, 1604), sig. [A3]v. Cawdrey lifts his epistle wholesale from the pages of Wilson's _Arte_ , but the passage has a very different import when used as a justification for the first vernacular dictionary: Cawdrey clearly believes that "making a difference of English" is an absurdity; Wilson, as we shall see, and somewhat in spite of himself, does not. . David Wallace, _Premodern Places: Calais to Surinam, Chaucer to Aphra Behn_ (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004), 53. . Richard Hakluyt, _Principle Navigations of the English Nation_ (London, 1589), 33. . Thomas Nashe, "Have With You to Saffron Walden," in _The Unfortunate Traveller and Other Works_ , ed. J. B. Steane (New York: Penguin Books, 1973), 490. . Thomas Nashe, "Nashe's Lenten Stuff," in _The Unfortunate Traveller and Other Works_ , ed. J. B. Steane (New York: Penguin Books, 1973), 377. . Thomas Wilson, _The three orations of Demosthenes_ (London: Henrie Denham, 1570), "To the right Honorable Sir William Cecill," sigs. A1r–v. . Cloth is a particularly suggestive metaphor for the virtues and limitations of the mother tongue. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, wool and unfinished cloth constituted England's most valuable exports and the foundation of its economic stature abroad, but English clothiers "remained incapable of producing the sophisticated dyeing and finishing processes that were established in the Low Countries, Italy, Persia, India, and China," and attempts to redress the imbalance by mandating the sale of finished cloth ended in "catastrophic failure": Flemish merchants imposed an embargo, and as it turned out, "no one wanted to buy finished cloth of such poor quality anyway" (Peter Stallybrass, "Marginal England: The View from Aleppo," in _Center or Margin: Revisions of the English Renaissance in Honor of Leeds Barroll_ , ed. Lena Cowen Orlin [Selinsgrove: Susquehanna University Press, 2006], 31). . George Chapman, "A Defence of Homer," in _Elizabethan Critical Essays_ , ed. Gregory Smith (London: Oxford University Press, 1904), 304. . Richard Mulcaster, _The First Parte of the Elementarie_ (London: T. Vautroullier, 1582), 257. . As Gabriele Stein has shown in her work on European polyglot dictionaries, English was a late and lesser object of study abroad, playing a "subordinate role," if any, in the most popular dictionaries and phrase books on the Continent; not until 1580, for instance, was English added to the eleven-language edition of Calepinus's _Dictionarium_ , in which it "constituted a final group together with Polish and Hungarian and within that group... occupied the final position" ("The Emerging Role of English in the Dictionaries of Renaissance Europe," _Folia Linguistica Historica_ 9:1 [1989], 30, 58). Barbara Strang estimates that in 1570 English was "spoken by a population of about four and a half million and lacking all overseas branches" ( _A History of English_ [London: Methuen, 1970], 104). . Puttenham, 158. . Paula Blank, _Broken English: Dialects and the Politics of Language in Renaissance Writings_ (London: Routledge, 1996), 16–23. . Harrison, 14. . Although the _Oxford English Dictionary_ (hereafter _OED_ ) attests its use in the late fifteenth century (s.v. "ornature"), "ornature" still merits inclusion in Edward Phillips's 1658 dictionary of neologisms and hard words, the _New World of English Words_ ; more tellingly, it is a favored term of Ben Jonson's "poetaster" Crispinus—precisely the sort of would-be Orpheus whose corrupt phrasing Harrison decries. "Ornature" particularly offends Jonson's Horace, the voice of poetic reason: "Is't not possible to make an escape from him?" he pleads upon hearing Crispinus use the word (Ben Jonson, _Poetaster, or The Arraignment_ [London: M. L., 1602], sig. D3r). . Wayne Rebhorn, "Outlandish Fears: Defining Decorum in Renaissance Rhetoric," _Intertexts_ 4:1 (Spring 2000): 22. . Graham, 16. Graham's account jibes with the emphasis placed on the social and political contexts of rhetoric within a number of foundational studies of Renaissance humanism: see especially Joel B. Altman, _The Tudor Play of Mind: Rhetorical Inquiry and the Development of Elizabethan Drama_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978); Lisa Jardine, _Francis Bacon: Discovery and the Art of Discourse_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974); Victoria Kahn, _Rhetoric, Prudence, and Skepticism_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985); and Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine, _From Humanism to the Humanities: Education and the Liberal Arts in Fifteenth and Sixteenth Century Europe_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986). . Citing the demise of the myth of Brutus and the discovery, by English antiquarians, of physical remnants of Britain's colonial past, Keilen argues that in the late sixteenth century, "England's broader relationship to Rome was suffering an unprecedented strain.... H]istory obliged English poets to regard themselves as the victims of the Roman Conquest, rather than the rightful heirs of classical Latin culture"; what is more, as the assiduous study of that culture revealed, "derogatory passages about ancient Britain were scattered throughout the corpus of Latin literature. The most infamous of these occurred in texts whose authority and value were unimpeachable, like Virgil's _Eclogues_ and Cicero's _Letters_ " (15–16). In [Chapters 1 and I consider how two particular English writers, Roger Ascham and Edmund Spenser, respond to the sting of those insults. . Jenny Mann, _Outlaw Rhetoric: Figuring Vernacular Eloquence in Shakespeare's England_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012), 13, 14. . See Carla Mazzio, _The Inarticulate Renaissance: Language Trouble in an Age of Eloquence_ (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). "Speech located at the nexus of classical and vernacular organization," whether grammatical or rhetorical, often "prove[d] vividly inarticulate," Mazzio observes (6). Mazzio's reading of _The Spanish Tragedy_ offers a useful critique too of the assumption that cultivating the vernacular promoted national unity: Kyd's play and, especially, its play-within-a-play expose "the ambivalence about forms of cultural fusion and confusion inherent in the establishment of a national tongue" (103). . Anderson, 19. . Wilson, _Rhetorique_ 162, 171–72. . Richard Sherry, _A Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ (London, 1550), sigs. A1v–A2r. . Puttenham, 157, 143, 159–60. . Daniel, _Defence_ , sig. [G5]r. CHAPTER 1 . See, for example, T. W. Baldwin, _Shakespere's Small Latine & Lesse Greeke_ (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1944); Joel B. Altman, _The Tudor Play of Mind: Rhetorical Inquiry and the Development of Elizabethan Drama_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978); Jonathan Bate, _Shakespeare and Ovid_ (Oxford: Clarendon Paperbacks, 1994); Rebecca Bushnell, _A Culture of Teaching: Early Modern Humanism in Theory and Practice_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996); Leonard Barkan, "What Did Shakespeare Read?," in _The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare_ , ed. Margreta de Grazia and Stanley Wells (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 31–47; and Colin Burrow, "Shakespeare and Humanistic Culture," in _Shakespeare and the Classics_ , ed. Charles Martindale and A. B. Taylor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 9–27. . Ardis Butterfield, _The Familiar Enemy: Chaucer, Language, and Nation in the Hundred Years War_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), describes the written English of such writers, for whom either French or Latin would have been the usual language of composition, as a "neo-language" (342). . Jones, 13–15. . The rivalry is implicit throughout Jones's book but is made explicit in its final paragraph, which identifies the pursuit of vernacular eloquence by late Elizabethan writers as the generative spirit of a world in which "English reigns supreme" and "Latin, Greek, and the classical spirit have all but disappeared" (323). A similar premise undergirds Benedict Anderson's narrative in _Imagined Communities_ , whereby the rise of national vernaculars coincides with and is contingent upon "the fall of Latin" (18). . Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 3. . C. S. Lewis, _English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1944), 274–75, 279–81. . Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine offer the strongest and most influential version of this argument in _From Humanism to the Humanities._ . Burrow, "Shakespeare and Humanistic Culture," 15. . Richard Helgerson credits the flourishing of romance in the late sixteenth century to the rebellious efforts of "Elizabethan prodigals," whose literary ambitions for the vernacular simultaneously refuse and reframe the devoutly classicized, civic-minded precepts of their fathers' generation ( _The Elizabethan Prodigals_ [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976]; Helgerson recapitulates this argument in the introduction and first chapter of _Forms of Nationhood_ ). Arthur Kinney offers a similar account of late sixteenth-century poetic practice, discerning in it a pointed critique of its authors' humanist training in rhetoric ( _Humanist Poetics: Thought, Rhetoric, and Fiction in Sixteenth-Century England_ [Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1986]). More recently Georgia Brown has identified in the 1590s novel "forms of authorship defined by their opposition to... the principles of humanist morality" ( _Redefining Elizabethan Literature_ [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004], 24), while Jeff Dolven reads the self-undermining tendencies of Elizabethan romance as "artifacts... of an unresolved opposition between story and school" ( _Scenes of Instruction in Renaissance Romance_ [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007], 59), and Lynn Enterline finds that "Shakespeare creates convincing effects of character and emotion... precisely when undercutting the socially normative categories schoolmasters invoked as the goal of their new form of pedagogy" ( _Shakespeare's Schoolroom: Rhetoric, Discipline, Emotion_ [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012], 10). . Thomas M. Greene, "Roger Ascham: The Perfect End of Shooting," _English Literary History_ 36:4 (December 1969): 623. . Roger Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ (1570; reprinted, Menston, UK: Scolar Press, 1967), [2]–3. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Richard Halpern, _The Poetics of Primitive Accumulation: English Renaissance Culture and the Genealogy of Capital_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 24. . Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , 46r. . Thomas Elyot, _The Proheme,_ in Elyot, _The Boke named the Governour_ (1531; reprinted, Menston, UK: Scolar Press, 1970), sig. aiir. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . "Of education in its nursery stage Elyot has nothing of value to say," Lewis sniffs. "Like all his kind he issues rigid instructions which would be scattered to the winds by ten minutes' experience of any real child or any real nurse" (Lewis, 274–75). . "We have long accepted the word of humanist teachers and theorists about the effects of their pedagogy," Enterline writes. "It is time to listen to the testimony of grammar school students" (Enterline, 10). This chapter may seem to flout that sensible advice: Elyot's pronouncements about wet nurses, like Ascham's prescriptions for double translation, interest me precisely because they are so self-consciously unrealistic. It is my belief, however, that such impracticable fantasies are, in large part, how English writers trained in humanist schoolrooms learned to think of eloquence. . The example of the young Michel de Montaigne, born the year after Elyot published _The Governour_ , is the exception that proves the rule. As Montaigne recalls in his essay "Of the Institution and Education of Children," his father, Pierre, went to extraordinary lengths to establish Latin as his son's first language, insisting that all household staff communicate with the child exclusively in Latin and supplying the boy with a tutor who spoke no French. Thanks to his father's "exquisite toile," Montaigne writes, by the age of six he spoke fluent Latin but knew "no more French... then Arabike" ( _Essays written in French by Michael Lord of Montaigne_ , trans. John Florio [London, 1613], 84–85). . On the afterlife of the English nurse as a locus of cultural anxieties about class, language, and national identity, see Katie Trumpener, _Bardic Nationalism: The Romantic Novel and the British Empire_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 196–241. . Robert Matz, _Defending Literature in Early Modern England_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 36–48. . J. S. C. Eidinow, "Dido, Aeneas, and Iulus: Heirship and Obligation in _Aeneid_ 4," _Classical Quarterly_ , n.s., 53:1 (May 2003): 260–67. . As Eidinow points out, Virgil fixes attention of the empty space of Dido's "lap" or "womb" ( _gremio_ ), and on her various and unsuccessful efforts to fill it. As book 4 draws to its embittered conclusion, Dido abandons these efforts, recasting nursing as the primal scene of abandonment and neglect: "No goddess was your mother," she rails at Aeneas. "Hyrcanian tigresses suckled you" (nec tibi diva parens... Hyrcanaeque admorunt ubera tigres). The narrator undercuts the potential pathos of the scene by noting, as an aside, that Dido's own nurse, who might have comforted her, is now just ashes in the land she left behind when she married (namque suam [nutricem] patria antique cinis ater habebat). The aside has a clear bearing on the Carthaginian queen's present predicament: "We, too, have the right to seek a foreign realm" (et nos fas extera quaerere regna), Aeneas says pointedly, reminding Dido of all that she herself has abandoned in pursuit of empire ( _Aeneid_ , trans. H. R. Fairclough [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1916), 445–47). . David Baker, " 'To Divulgate or Set Forth': Humanism and Heresy in Sir Thomas Elyot's _The Book named the Governor_ ," _Studies in Philology_ 90:1 (Winter 1993): 46. . And was said, as I mention in the following chapter: in the dedicatory epistle to his 1550 _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ , Richard Sherry hails "ye right worshipfull knight syr Thomas Eliot," who "as it were generally searching out the copye of oure language in all kynde of wordes and phrases,... hath hereby declared the plentyfulnes of our mother tounge, loue toward hys country, hys tyme not spent in vanitye and trifles" (sig. [A3]r–v). . Stephen Merriam Foley, "Coming to Terms: Thomas Elyot's Definitions and the Particularity of Human Letters," _English Literary History_ 61:2 (Summer 1994): 221. . Thomas Elyot, _Of the knowledge whiche maketh a wise man_ (London: Thomas Berthelet, 1533), sig. A3r–v. . For a reading of the phrase's possible associations with a more dangerous sense of vulgarization, verging on threats of sedition and popular revolt, see Baker, "To Divulgate or Set Forth." . Foley, 221. . Elyot, _Of the knowledge_ , sig. A2v. . Ascham claims to have had a conversation with Elyot about the origins of longbow shooting, during which Elyot claimed to be writing a much longer work treating that subject and other "olde monuments of England"; Ascham's anecdote is the only surviving record of this (lost? never completed?) treatise, _De rebus memorabilibus Angliae_. See Roger Ascham, _Toxophilus: The Schole of Shoting_ , in _English Works_ , ed. William Aldis Wright (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1904), 53. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Ryan J. Stark, "Protestant Theology and Apocalyptic Rhetoric in Roger Ascham's The Schoolmaster," _Journal of the History of Ideas_ 69:4 (October 2008): 517–32. Greene points out that archery is Ascham's favorite metaphor for the arts of language, "recur[ring] so often in _The Scholemaster_ as to almost seem obsessive." Of the goose, Greene notes, Ascham writes in _Toxophilus_ , "How fit, even as her fethers be onlye for shootynge, so be her quylls fytte onlye for wrytyng" (qtd. in Greene, 619). . Dolven, 55–56. . Enterline, 12. . Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 22. . He charts both Lyly's and Spenser's careers in terms of their progress away from "Aschamite" values (Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 25–59). . So concludes William E. Miller, judging from the preponderance of "vulgars," or English crib sheets for Latin phrases, in surviving documents; see Miller, "Double Translation in English Humanist Education," _Studies in the Renaissance_ 10 (1963): 163–74. We have as well the testimony of William Kempe, whose treatise _The Education of Children in Learning_ (London: Thomas Orwin, 1588) offers an account of his experience as schoolmaster at the Plymouth School. Kempe says that Ascham's method is "good" but is to be used only "when opportunitie and leisure will serve" (sig. G1v). . Precisely this fear motivated Stephen Gardiner when, as chancellor of Cambridge University in the 1540s, he forbade Cheke and his colleague Thomas Smith from promulgating their new method of pronouncing ancient Greek; see Bror Danielsson's introduction to _Sir Thomas Smith, Literary and Linguistic Works_ , part 1, _Stockholm Studies in English_ 50 (Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 1978), 13–20. In a 1542 letter Gardiner objects that, in their eagerness to bridge "the distance in time and space that separates us from them," the pair have "treat[ed] our English tongue as though it were a Lesbian measuring stick in accordance with which you take the measure of the Greek diphthongs." He goes on, "For just as Lesbian craftsmen adapt their measuring-stick to the marble, so you from time to time adapt English to Greek and, employing a new method of spelling, write our word _pay_ with an _I_ instead of a _y_... so that if we were to follow your example we should to that extent transform English orthography.... It was in order that this might not happen that I issued my edict" (qtd. in Danielsson, 213). Cheke made a politic retreat, but Smith persisted. In 1568 he published a fresh edition of _De Recta et Emendata Linguae Graecae Pronuntiatione_ , bound together—just as Gardiner feared—with a new dialogue, _De Recta et Emendata Linguae Anglicae Scriptione_ , proposing a reformed orthography for the English language: "vagabond" _C_ and "beggarly, intruding" _Q_ are to be "exile[d] far away"; while other English sounds, "so far vagrant"—the "th" in "father," for instance, which has been forced to share a grapheme with "th" in "thief"—are to be given "place[s] of eternal habitation" through the revival of the Anglo-Saxon letters þ and ð (Danielsson, 140). For more on spelling controversies, see Blank, _Broken English_ , 24–29. . Richard Mulcaster, _Positions... for the training vp of children_ (London: Thomas Vautroullier, 1581), 8, 11. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Richard Mulcaster, _The First Part of the Elementarie Which Entreateth Chieflie of the Right Writing of Our English Tongue_ (London: Thomas Vautroullier, 1582), 254. Mulcaster's was one of the first English grammars; for an account of subsequent approaches to analyzing and standardizing vernacular usage, see Blank, _Broken English_ ; and Emma Vorlat, _The Development of English Grammatical Theory, 1586–1737_ (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1975). . Mulcaster, _First Part of the Elementarie,_ 75. CHAPTER 2 . Elyot, _The Boke named the Governour_ (1970), fol. 49v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Leonard Cox, _The Arte or Crafte of Rhetoryke_ (London, 1532), sigs. [Fvi]r–[Fvii]r; Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , fol. 46r. . Sherry, (1550), sigs. A1v–A2r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , fol. 35r–v. . Jenny Mann identifies only one sixteenth-century vernacular rhetoric, Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique,_ that addresses the full classical complement of rhetorical techniques, from invention through pronunciation; the majority of the rest deal exclusively with style, although a few address only invention and arrangement, most often under the auspices of logic or dialectic (17–18 and appendix, 219–20). As style consumed rhetoric, it grew proportionately: as Sylvia Adamson, Gavin Alexander, and Katrin Ettenhuber note, the pseudo-Ciceronian _Ad Herennium_ "gave its students sixty-five figures to learn," while "the second edition of Peacham's _Garden of Eloquence_ (1593) raised the number to two hundred" ("Introduction," in _Renaissance Figures of Speech_ , ed. Sylvia Adamson, Gavin Alexander, and Katrin Ettenhuber [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007], 3). . Lee Sonnino, _A Handbook to Sixteenth-Century Rhetoric_ (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1968), 7; Thomas Conley, _Rhetoric in the European Tradition_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 134. . Wolfgang G. Müller, "Directions for English: Thomas Wilson's _Art of Rhetoric_ , George Puttenham's _Art of English Poesy_ , and the Search for Vernacular Eloquence," in _The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature, 1485–1603_ , ed. Mike Pincombe and Cathy Shrank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 317, 320–21. . Adamson et al., 3. . Mann, 41. . The program he proposes is in fact rather lavish in its expense of time and money: ideally, he believes, the reading of classical poetry, oratory, and philosophy would occupy young men until the age of twenty-one—a full seven years after most Tudor youths began their professional training (see Elyot, _The Governour_ , fol. 46v–55v). . Cox, sig. Fviv. . Thomas Wilson, _The Arte of Rhetorique,_ rev. and exp. 2nd ed. (London: Richard Grafton, 1560), fol. 1r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , 146. . Peter E. Medine, "Introduction," in Thomas Wilson, _The Art of Rhetoric (1560)_ , ed. Peter E. Medine (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994), 5. "Wilson seems to have deliberately made his book look as English as may be," Müller notes, citing his _Arte_ as "a significant contribution to the growth of national identity" (311, 321). "More than any other early guide, Wilson's _Arte of Rhetoric_ reminds the reader that _England_ is the site" of the eloquence it imagines, Mann argues: "Wilson repeatedly cites the topic of the nation as the most fitting subject of vernacular discourse" and offers "examples of rhetorical speech... ever more particularized to the geography of England" (44). His lexical and syntactical precepts reflect what Cathy Shrank describes as the "ideal of a self-regulating island nation": a "vision of a unified, obedient nation rest[ing] on the reformation of English speech" and the exclusion of "the polluting effect of foreign words" ( _Writing the Nation in Reformation England 1530–1580_ [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004], 188, 189–90). Shrank's account highlights the authoritarian political cast of Wilson's writings, situating the publication of the two editions of his _Rhetorique_ in the context of his suffering under the Marian regime. For more on this context, see Peter E. Medine, _Thomas Wilson_ (Boston: Twayne, 1986); and Martin Elsky, _Authorizing Words: Speech, Writing, and Print in the English Renaissance_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989). . Albert J. Schmidt, "Thomas Wilson and the Tudor Commonwealth: An Essay in Civic Humanism," _Huntington Library Quarterly_ 23:1 (1959): 50. . B. M. Cotton MSS, Titus, F. i., fol. 163 (qtd. in Schmidt, 59). . Thomas Wilson, _The Rule of Reason, Conteinyng the Arte of Logique, Set Forth in Englishe_ ([London], 1551), sigs. A2v–A4r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Especially as concerns the importance of invention and its "places," Wilson makes no strong distinction between logic and rhetoric, regarding "both these Artes as much like" in their concern with probable argumentation, differing only in that the former "doeth playnly and nakedly set furthe with apt wordes the summe of thinges," while the latter "vseth gay paincted Sentences, and setteth furth those matters with fresh colours and goodly ornamentes" ( _Logique_ , sigs. B3r–v). Thus, although he calls his treatise an art of logic, he includes in it discussions of enthymemes, commonplaces, arguments from literature, and even sophistical tricks, all of which might more properly be considered elements of rhetoric. . Quintilian, _Institutio Oratoria_ , 4 vols., trans. H. E. Butler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 5.10.21, 2:213. . The _topoi_ appear in Isocrates's _Encomium of Helen_ and other sophistic texts in reference to tried-and-true strategies of argumentation and their material counterparts, the "places" in rhetorical handbooks where lists of such strategies could be found by an orator in need of guidance or inspiration. These topics, however, differ from Aristotle's in that they serve a primarily conservative function: they are textual repositories of "key ideas" or particular "forms of expression" available for imitation or replication, especially by novice orators. Aristotle, by contrast, seeks to endow rhetoric with the capacity for innovative rational thought; his topics redress the perceived imbalance between rhetorical and logical argument by serving as the engine of a uniquely rhetorical strategy of invention and persuasion. See William M. A. Grimaldi, _Studies in the Philosophy of Aristotle's Rhetoric_ (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag GMBH, 1972), 121; and George Kennedy, _A New History of Classical Rhetoric_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 28. . Jost and Hyde, "Introduction," 2, 12. . Dilip Parmeshwar Gaonkar, "Introduction: Contingency and Probability," in _A Companion to Rhetoric and Rhetorical Criticism_ , ed. Walter Jost and Wendy Olmsted (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 7. . Plato, _Gorgias,_ trans. Robin Waterfield (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 45. In the _Gorgias_ Socrates challenges the chief of the sophists to identify the actual knowledge on which the attainment of rhetorical success depends. His critique amounts to the charge that, as Gaonkar puts it, eloquence is untrustworthy "precisely because it is rootless": because it is grounded in no particular realm of expertise, its claims are malleable to the expectations and desires of a given audience (5). Asked by Socrates to identify "the particular province" of his art, Gorgias finally claims that rhetorical expertise excludes no form of knowledge as alien to its purposes—a claim that Socrates argues amounts to saying that rhetoric has no knowledge of its own to impart. In the _Phaedrus_ , by contrast, Plato's other major antirhetorical dialogue, Socrates alleges that rhetoric is inferior to dialectic because its arguments are too deeply rooted in circumstances (geographic, cultural, historical, political, and personal) irrelevant to the determination of universal truths; the _Gorgias_ suggests that this local particularity is the symptom of a misguided aspiration to generality—rhetoric is both too narrow and too expansive in its claims. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 1.2.11, trans. Kennedy (1991), 41. For more on the relationship between consensus and topical argument, see John D. Schaeffer, "Commonplaces: _Sensus Communis_ ," in _A Companion to Rhetoric and Rhetorical Criticism_ , ed. Walter Jost and Wendy Olmsted (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 278–93; and Carolyn R. Miller, "The Aristotelian _Topos_ : Hunting for Novelty," in _Re-Reading Aristotle's Rhetoric_ , ed. Alan G. Gross and Arthur E. Walzer (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2000), 130–46. . As Barbara Warnick points out, much recent rhetorical criticism has obscured Aristotle's emphasis on the contextual, local character of the rhetorical topics precisely because it has failed to take seriously the relationship between topics and the actual, physical places that define a community: "The topics are often referred to in spatial terms—as 'seats' of argument, 'regions' in which argument resides, containers, receptacles, and places where one can 'find' an argument, [but] few authors have speculated as to where these 'places' might be." Warnick observes that Aristotle's theory of topics goes beyond the strategies and formulas of the sophists' handbooks in this emphasis on locale: "[T]he rhetor must also know the values, presumptions, predispositions, and expectations of the audience, and he must locate both his starting points (special topics) _and_ forms of inference (common topics) with these in mind. Thus, in addition to the cognitive processes of the individual [orator], one must look to another 'space' to locate the reservoir of common topics available to a speaker. One must look to the habits of thought, value hierarchies, forms of knowledge, and cultural conventions of the host society." See Barbara Warnick, "Two Systems of Invention: The Topics in the _Rhetoric_ and _The New Rhetoric_ ," in _Re-Reading Aristotle's Rhetoric_ , ed. Alan G. Gross and Arthur E. Walzer (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2000), 107–8. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 2.22.1, trans. Kennedy (1991), 187. . Plato, _Gorgias_ 465c, trans. Waterfield, 33. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 2.22.1, trans. Kennedy (1991), 187. . Mann elaborates on the significance of these, especially the conspicuously English _Shire_ (44–45). . The observation is penciled on the final page of Harvey's copy of Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ (qtd. in Medine, _Thomas Wilson_ , 55). . Barnes's remark dates to 1593 (qtd. in Schmidt, 55). . Qtd. in Kennedy (1994), 91. . Qtd. in Kennedy (1994), 18. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.1.6, trans. Kennedy (1991), 219. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.1.9, trans. Kennedy (1991), 219. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.1–2, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.2–3, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.3, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221–22. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.2, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221. . Aristotle, _Poetics_ , trans. Malcolm Heath (London: Penguin Books, 1996), 34 (section 9.3). . Aristotle, _Poetics_ 9.3, trans. Heath, 34. . Aristotle, _Poetics_ 9.3; the first translation is Heath's (34), and the second is Kennedy's (1991, 222n25). . Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 8.3.58, trans. Butler (1966), 3:243. . Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 8.2.6, trans. Butler (1966), 3:199. . Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 9.3.2–5, trans. Butler (1966), 3:444–45. . Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 8.2.6, trans. Butler (1966), 3:199. . Kennedy (1994), 96. . Jeffrey Walker, _Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 55. . Kennedy (1994), 160–61. . Qtd. in Walker, 68–69. . Walker, 69. . Abraham Fraunce, _The Arcadian Rhetorike,_ (London: Thomas Orwin, 1588), sig. D1v. . Peacham, sig. B1r. . Puttenham, 120–21. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 95. . Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 75, 103–4. . Indeed, as Paula Blank, _Broken English_ , argues, "words usually characterized as examples of Renaissance 'poetic diction' " may be "better understood as dialects of early modern English" (3). Blank cites Alexander Gill's Latin history of the English language, _Logonomia Anglica_ (1619), which places the "Poetic" alongside "the general, the Northern, the Southern, the Eastern, [and] the Western" as one of the "major dialects." "Along with regional languages implicitly defined, geographically and socially, by their relation to the 'general' language (i.e., an elite variety of London English)," Blank writes, we might consider " 'Poetic' language as a province of the vernacular." For a discussion of the "generic intertextuality" enacted by Puttenham's conflation of poetry and eloquence, see Heinrich F. Plett, _Rhetoric and Renaissance Culture_ (New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004), 151–52, 162–73. . George Gascoigne. "Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making of Verse or Ryme in English," in _Ancient Critical Essays upon English Poets and Poesy_ , vol. 2, ed. Joseph Haslewood (London: Robert Triphook, 1815), 53. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . _OED_ , s.v. "turkesse." CHAPTER 3 . For a record of surviving editions from 1578 through 1902, see the table of editions in John Lyly, _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit; Euphues and His England_ , ed. Morris William Croll and Harry Clemens (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1916), x. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. Leah Guenther cites a spate of imitations, including John Dickenson's _Arisbas, Euphues amidst His Slumbers_ (1594); Robert Greene's _Euphues, His Censure to Philatus_ (1597) and _Menaphon, Camilla's Alarum to Slumbering Euphues_ (1589); and Thomas Lodge's _Rosalynde, Euphues Golden Legacy_ and _Euphues Shadow, the Battaile of the Sences_ (1592), which as she says, "effectively saturated the market" for euphuism "during the last two decades of the sixteenth century" (" 'To Parley Euphuism': Fashioning English as a Linguistic Fad," _Renaissance Studies_ 16:1 [2002]: 25n5). . Francis Meres, _Palladis Tamia Wits Treasury being the second part of Wits Commonwealth_ (London: P. Short, 1598), 627. . Qtd. in R. Warwick Bond, "Life of John Lyly," in _The Complete Works of John Lyly_ , vol. 1, ed. R. Warwick Bond (Oxford: Clarendon, 1902), 80n2. This, Bond says, is "the absolutely earliest instance of direct disapproval of Euphuism": it appears in a pamphlet written in 1589, _Advertisement to Papp-Hatchett_ (1593), Harvey's retort to _Pappe with a Hatchett_ , Lyly's contribution to the virulent Martin Marprelate controversy. . Leah Scragg, "Introduction," in John Lyly, _"Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit" and "Euphues and His England,"_ ed. Leah Scragg (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003), 1. . Graham Tulloch, "Sir Walter Scott's Excursion into Euphuism," _Neuphilologische Mitteilungen_ 78 (1977): 70. . William Webbe, _A Discourse of English Poetry_ (London: Robert Walley, 1586), sig. C1v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Philip Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetry_ (London: Robert Olney, 1595), sigs. [K4]r–v. . Philip Sidney, _Syr P. S. His Astrophel and Stella_ (London: Thomas Newman, 1591), 2. . Lyly, 5. . C. S. Lewis, _English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1954), 314–15. Lewis loathes _Euphues_ —Lyly's "fatal success," as he terms it, and the work that prevents him from classing Lyly among the "golden" authors of his period. Lewis's criticisms of the text are, to a certain extent, just—Euphues _is_ least interesting once he reforms his ways and takes up the mantle of moral exemplarity—but Lyly's narrative, as I will show, is less indulgent of its protagonist's "confident fatuity" than Lewis allows (315). . Judith Rice Henderson, "Euphues and His Erasmus," _English Literary Renaissance_ 12:2 (1982): 161. . Arthur Kinney, _Humanist Poetics: Thought, Rhetoric, and Fiction in Sixteenth-Century England_ (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1986), 136. . Janel Mueller, _The Native Tongue and the Word: Developments in English Prose Style, 1380–1580_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 390. . Demetrius, _Demetrius On Style: The Greek Text of Demetrius' De Elocutione_ , trans. W. Rhys Roberts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1902), 75. . Philip Sidney, _Apologie_ , sig. L[1]r. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ , trans. Kennedy (1991), 240. . Wilson, _The three orations of Demosthenes_ , "To the right Honorable Sir William Cecill," sigs. A1r–v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. It is no surprise to find Wilson sounding so much like Lyly: his _Arte of Rhetorique_ is, as Mueller shows, the most useful guide to the nuts and bolts of euphuistic style (see Mueller, 387–423). I do not believe she or others have considered the relevance of Wilson's efforts as a translator, however, and although it is not my intent to revive here the once lively debate over the source(s) of Lyly's style, which have been traced from Gorgias and Isocrates through the Middle Ages and to the Oxford lecture hall of John Rainolds (see Eduard Norden, _Die Antike Kunstprosa,_ vol. 2 [Leipzig, 1898], 773–809; Albert Feuillerat, _John Lyly: Contribution à l'histoire de la Renaissance en Angleterre_ [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1910]; George Williamson, _The Senecan Amble: A Study of Prose Form from Bacon to Collier_ [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951], 11–120; G. K. Hunter, _John Lyly: The Humanist as Courtier_ [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962], 280–89; Morris W. Croll, "Introduction," in Lyly, _"Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit" and "Euphues and His England,"_ ed. Croll and Clemens, xxiv–lxiv; William A. Ringler Jr., "The Immediate Source of Euphuism," _PMLA_ 53 [1938]: 678–86), it is worth adding Wilson's Demosthenes to the list. . "The etymologies of _copia_ ," writes Terrence Cave, "originate in a spectacularly successful outgrowth... from the parent form _ops_ , which already embraces the domains of material riches, natural plenty (personified as the goddess Ops), and figurative abundance,... [and] draws into its semantic net connotations of military strength (pl. _copiae_ , 'forces') and above all of eloquent speech ( _copia dicendi_ ), while retaining its connection with riches and a broad range of more general notions—abundance, plenty, variety, satiety, resources" ( _The Cornucopian Text: Problems of Writing in the French Renaissance_ [Oxford: Clarendon, 1979], 3). Most, if not all, of these senses are relevant to the debate over euphuism, which, as Sidney's criticism suggests, can be framed as an argument over the virtues of English's native resources and those ornaments it might attain by force or artifice. . Walter J. Ong, "Commonplace Rhapsody: _Ravisius Textor_ , Zwinger and Shakespeare," in _Classical Influences on European Culture, 1500–1700_ , ed. R. R. Bolgar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 94. . Henderson, 151. . Dolven, 78, 83, 95. . Ong, 102. . Rebecca Bushnell, _A Culture of Teaching: Early Modern Humanism in Theory and Practice_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), 133. . Qtd. in William Sherman, _John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance_ (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1995), 61–62. . Peter Beal, "Notions in Garrison: The Seventeenth-Century Commonplace Book," in _New Ways of Looking at Old Texts: Papers of the Renaissance English Text Society_ , _1985–1991_ , ed. W. Speed Hill (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1993), 132, 134. . Desiderius Erasmus, Epistle 1204:12–19, trans. R. A. B. Mynors, in _Collected Works of Erasmus_ (hereafter _CWE_ ), vol. 8, ed. R. A. B. Mynors (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988), 212–13. See also William Barker, "Introduction," in _The Adages of Erasmus,_ ed. William Barker (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), xxiiii. . Kathy Eden, _Friends Hold All Things in Common_ : _Tradition, Intellectual Property, and the_ Adages _of Erasmus_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), 1, 4. . Ann Moss, _Printed Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 207. . _The Adages of Erasmus_ , ed. Barker, 5. For a modern reader, Barker notes, the _Adagia_ , or indeed any Renaissance commonplace book, may yet retain this force, as the encounter with a still current expression "gives us an uncanny realization that what seems to us to be of homely, local, and oral origin is in fact sophisticated, widely traveled, and literary" (xxxvi). . Desiderius Erasmus, _De duplici copia verborum ac rerum commentarii duo (De Copia)_ (1512; revised and expanded, 1514, 1526, 1534), trans. Betty I. Knott, in _CWE_ , vol. 24, ed. Craig R. Thompson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978), 295. . _CWE,_ 24:606. . _CWE,_ 24:301. . Desiderius Erasmus, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ (1522), trans. Charles Fantazzi, in _CWE_ , vol. 25, ed. Craig R. Thompson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978), 87. . _CWE,_ 24:607–8. . Ong, 114. Travel and commonplacing are, for Zwinger, more than metaphorically related; they are mutually illuminating activities. Zwinger's interest in the geographic dimensions of commonplacing—what Ong calls his "concern for a topography of the mind"—leads him to the _Methodus apodemica_ , a treatise on "how to travel and to describe what one encounters" (115). . Ong, 100. . Erasmus, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , in _CWE,_ 25:87. . Erasmus, _De Copia_ , in _CWE,_ 24:636, 638. . _CWE,_ 24:348. . See _CWE,_ 24:348–54. . _CWE,_ 24:354. . Erasmus, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , in _CWE,_ 25:19, 12. . Noted in the margins of Harvey's copy of the _Similia_ , the text on which John Lyly relies most heavily; qtd. in David Norbrook, "Rhetoric, Ideology, and the Elizabethan World Picture," in _Renaissance Rhetoric_ , ed. Peter Mack (London: Macmillan, 1994), 144. . DeWitt T. Starnes, "Introduction," in Richard Taverner, _Proverbs or Adages_ (Gainesville, FL: Scholars' Facsimiles and Reprints, 1956), vi. . Elyot, _Governour_ , fol. 48. . Steven N. Zwicker, "Habits of Reading and Early Modern Literary Culture," in _The Cambridge History of Early Modern English Literature_ , ed. David Loewenstein and Janel Mueller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 186. . Richard Taverner, _Proverbs or Adages_ (Gainesville, FL: Scholars' Facsimiles and Reprints, 1956), sig. A2r. . Qtd. in Clarence H. Miller, "The Logic and Rhetoric of Proverbs in Erasmus's _Praise of Folly_ ," in _Essays on the Works of Erasmus_ , ed. Richard L. DeMolen (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 83. . Qtd. in Barker, xxxvii. This is a version of the same peculiar coinage that George Gascoigne uses to describe the operations of "poetic license" upon language (see Chapter 2). In both cases the term suggests an illegitimate and perhaps violent wrenching of words; in Harvey's usage, the hint of barbarous or "turk"-like degeneracy is even more strongly implied. . Qtd. in Beal, 139. . Moss, 211. . Kinney, 149. . Henderson, 151. . Morris Croll and Harry Clemens's edition builds on that of R. W. Bond in tracing the sources of almost all of _Euphues_ 's commonplace material; in the vast majority of cases, Erasmus is the "likely source" (Lyly, _Euphues_ , ed. Croll and Clemens, 24n2). . Joel Altman, _The Tudor Play of Mind_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 205. . Qtd. in Edward Arbor, "Introduction," in _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit; Euphues and His England_ , English Reprints, vol. 2 (New York: AMS Press, 1966), 16. Lodge records his views of contemporary vernacular authors in a 1596 epistle; Lyly's fellow laureates are Spenser, Daniel, Drayton, and Nashe. For a modern assessment of _Euphues_ 's contribution to the store of English commonplaces, see Morris Palmer Tilley, _Elizabethan Proverb Lore in Lyly's_ Euphues _and in Petties's_ Petite Pallace (New York: Macmillan, 1926), which credits Lyly with unprecedented skill in the incorporation of foreign—often Erasmian—proverbs into the vernacular. . Andrew Hadfield, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Matter of Britain_ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 113. . Ascham, _Scholemaster_ , 7. All subsequent citations to this work in this chapter refer to this edition. The many and complicated ways in which _Euphues_ reflects and refashions _The Scholemaster_ make Ascham's treatise, in Arthur Kinney's phrase, "a Senecan model" for Lyly's fiction: a pretext that is so thoroughly digested and transmuted that its precise influence on the work it inspires can be hard to gauge (see Kinney, 164). For more on the interrelation of Lyly's romance and Ascham's pedagogical precepts, see Dolven, 65–79. . R. W. Maslen, _Elizabethan Fictions: Espionage, Counter-Espionage, and the Duplicity of Fiction in Early Elizabethan Prose Narratives_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 5. Maslen links Lyly's impudence to his embrace of the novella form: "Where [Ascham] sought to stem [the] threatening tide [of Italianate fictions]," Lyly is one of a cluster of late sixteenth-century English authors who "reveled in the rich abundance of exotic objects it carried to their shore, and chose to make the problems and perils of writing fiction the subject of their fictions" (2). . Indeed the figure of wax is _especially_ waxen: when Erasmus advises readers of _De Copia_ to "take a group of sentences and deliberately set out to express each of them in as many versions as possible, as Quintilian advises, using the analogy of a piece of wax which can be molded into one shape after another" ( _CWE,_ 24:302–3), his analogy draws upon a long history of poetic and philosophical figuration. Behind the overt allusion to Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ lurk implicit allusions to Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , where wax represents for Pythagoras the constancy of the soul and the mutability of form, while it supplies Pygmalian and Daedalus with the substance of artistic creation; to Aristotle's theory of sensory impressions in _De Anima_ ; and to Plato's philosophy of memory in the _Theaetetas_. . See especially Altman, 204–6, on Lyly's indebtedness to Erasmus in fashioning his rhetoric of ambivalence. . _CWE,_ 24:647. . Sidney mounts a nearly identical critique of argument-by-similitude in his comments on euphuism in the _Apologie_ —the amassing of similitudes in defense of an argument is, he writes, "as absurd a surfet to the eares as is possible: for the force of a similitude not being to prove anything to a contrary disputer but onely to explain to a willing hearer, when that is done the rest is a most tedious prattling" (sig. [K4]v)—but he seems to give Lyly no credit for self-awareness. . Dolven, 83. . _CWE_ 24, 364. . Erasmus, _Adagia_ 1.4.1, in _CWE_ , vol. 31, trans. Margaret Mann Phillips, annotated by R. A. B. Mynors (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), 317–19. . Roger Chartier and Peter Stallybrass, "Reading and Authorship: The Circulation of Shakespeare 1590–1619," in _A Concise Companion to Shakespeare and the Text_ , ed. Andrew Murphy (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 12. . Eden, 4–5 and throughout. . Erasmus, _Adagia_ 1.4.1, in _CWE,_ 31:318. . Scragg, 10. . _CWE,_ 25:20. . John Hoskins, _Directions for Speech and Style_ , ed. Hoyt H. Hudson (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1935), 16. . Edward Blount, "To the Reader," in John Lyly, _Sixe Court Comedies... by Iohn Lilly_ , ed. Edward Blount (London: Edward Blount, 1632), sig. [A5v]. . Moss, 209. . "[T]o use popular, contemporary writers as suitable materials for commonplacing" is, as Chartier and Stallybrass argue, "radical": it confers upon English texts an authority equal to that of the classical tradition (9–10). . See especially, and unsurprisingly, the sections devoted to "wit." CHAPTER 4 . E. K., "Epistle" to _The Shepheardes Calender_ , in Edmund Spenser, _The Shorter Poems_ , ed. Richard A. McCabe (New York: Penguin, 1999), 23. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Anne Lake Prescott, "The Laurel and the Myrtle: Spenser and Ronsard," in _World-making Spenser: Explorations in the Early Modern Age_ , ed. Patrick Cheney and Lauren Silberman (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2000), 63. . Patrick Cheney, _Spenser's Famous Flight_ (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993), 19. . Louis Adrian Montrose, " 'The Perfecte Paterne of a Poete': The Poetics of Courtship in _The Shepheardes Calender_ ," in _Critical Essays on Edmund Spenser_ , ed. Mihoko Suzuki (New York: G. K. Hall, 1996), 8. . My interest here is in the generic problems encountered if we take pastoral, especially Virgilian pastoral, as the normative locus of poetic birth or rebirth. For a related consideration of _The Shepheardes Calender_ 's appropriation of and negotiations with Virgilian poetics, specifically the trope of "ruin," see Rebeca Helfer, "The Death of the 'New Poete': Virgilian Ruin and Ciceronian Recollection in Spenser's _The Shepheardes Calender_ ," _Renaissance Quarterly_ 56:3 (Autumn 2003): 723–56. . Abraham Fleming, _The Bucoliks of Pvblivs Virgilius Maro, with Alphabeticall annotations vpon proper names of Gods, Goddesses, men, women, hilles, flouddes, cities, townes, and villages orderly placed in the margent_ (London: John Charlewood, 1575), sigs. A2r–A3r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Fleming's second translation of Virgil's eclogues, published in 1589 along with his version of the _Georgics_ , dispenses with the glosses of proper nouns and place names, substituting fewer and more general marginal notes. Indeed, although the preface to this later edition reiterates Fleming's desire to provide "weake Grammarians" with Virgil "in a familiar phrase," the new translation is less obviously positioned to orient and assist the unlearned vernacular reader—it repudiates, for instance, the "foolish" rhymed couplets of the 1575 translation in favor of an English line approximating the "due proportion and measure" of classical verse ( _The Bucoliks of Publius Virgilus Maro... Together with his Geogiks or Ruralls_ [London: Thomas Orwin, 1589], sigs. A2r, A4v). . Richard Mallette, _Spenser, Milton, and Renaissance Pastoral_ (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1981), 21. In his work on English pastoral, Patrick Cullen offers a similar interpretation of the genre's geography, arguing that while the urban spaces from which pastoral figures flee—Virgil's Rome, Dante's Florence, or Sannazaro's Naples—may differ, the place to which they retreat—Arcadia—is eternally the same ( _Spenser, Marvell, and Renaissance Pastoral_ [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970], 99). . As Julia Reinhardt Lupton observes, "the pastoral genre, in this brilliant commencement of the Latin tradition, is instituted as performing the necessary yet often violent cultural work of finding a home," and this home, "the paradigmatic object of nostalgia, is a category of experience only fashioned in the alienated desiring distance from it" ("Home-Making in Ireland: Virgil's Eclogue I and Book VI of _The Faerie Queene_ ," _Spenser Studies_ 8 [1987]: 120–21). Lupton's remark reminds us that in the early modern period nostalgia retained its etymological significance as an essentially _geographic_ affliction: to feel nostalgia is to be, literally, homesick. Her argument, which anticipates this essay's interest in the paradoxical interdependence of home and exile in the pastoral mode, identifies the Meliboee episode in book 6 of _The Faerie Queene_ as a "revision" of eclogue 1 that allows Spenser to "accommodate the positions of both exile and home-maker" (119). . The Latin reads: "At nos hinc alii sitientis ibimus Afros, / pars Scythiam et rapidum cretae veniemus Oaxen / et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos." . In Virgil's equally blunt phrase, "carmina nulla canam." . And, in fact, Meliboeus reappears in eclogue 7, no longer in any apparent danger of losing his land, his flocks, or his poetic identity. . Keilen, 78. . Although this chapter seeks to articulate why, given Britain's pointed exclusion from the world of Virgil's _Eclogues_ , pastoral might have posed a particular challenge—and opportunity—to an English poet, one might profitably pursue a similar line of argument with regard to either Marot or Sannazaro, each of whom suffered exile from his homeland. For more on the impact of political exile on Sannazaro's poetic career, see William Kennedy, _Jacopo Sannazaro and the Uses of Pastoral_ (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1983), 21–27. For a discussion of Marot's experiences as a religious exile, as well as an account of his influence on Spenser and other sixteenth-century English poets, see Anne Lake Prescott, _French Poets and the English Renaissance_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 3–15. . Contra Nancy Jo Hoffman's assertion that Spenser "frees pastoral... from attachment to real geographic place" and "is the first to sense that pastoral can become an integral, inclusive landscape" ( _Spenser's Pastorals:_ The Shepheardes Calender _and Colin Clout_ [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977], 11), I would argue that Spenser forces pastoral to reckon with its attachment with real geographic place, and in particular with the limitations and exclusions incumbent upon England (and English) itself. In this regard, my reading of the poem is akin to that offered by Paula Blank in _Broken English_ , which highlights Spenser's use of English rural dialects to construct a fragmented and alienated pastoral landscape. . Spenser, "To His Booke," ll. 2, 13–15. . Among many theories propounded as to the identity of the mysterious E. K., Louis Waldman has proposed a deliberately veiled and estranged version of Spenser himself: Edmundus Kedemon, with the Greek _khdemwn_ , meaning "procurator" or "spencer," substituting for the poet's English surname ("Spenser's Pseudonym 'E. K.' and Humanist Self-Naming," _Spenser Studies_ 9 [1988]: 21–31). Louise Schleiner has similarly proposed that the initials be deciphered "Edmund Kent," a double pun signaling "of Kent" and "kenned" ("Spenser's 'E. K.' as Edmund Kent (Kenned / of Kent): Kyth (Couth), Kissed, and Kunning-Conning," _English Literary Renaissance_ 20:3 [1990]: 374–407). Such conjectures jibe nicely with my own understanding of E. K.'s obfuscatory relation to the _Calender_ and of Spenser's alienated and alienating mode of authorship, but for the purposes of this essay, I am content to take E. K. at face value—as the poem's first reader and critic. . Lynn Staley Johnson, _The Shepheardes Calender: An Introduction_ (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990), 31. . Alexander Barclay, _The Egloges of Alexander Barclay_ (Southwark: P. Traveris, c. 1530), sig. [A3]r. . George Turbervile, _The Eglogs of the Poet B. Mantuan Carmelitas_ (London: Henrie Bynneman, 1567), sigs. A2r, A3v. . The word "gloss" distills this tension between familiarization and estrangement, since it comes from a Greek word meaning "strange" or "foreign" but is used in English to describe practices whereby a word or passage is clarified or made more plain. . Robert Lane's _Shepheards Devises: Edmund Spenser's_ Shepheardes Calender _and the Institutions of Elizabethan Society_ (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1993) is an exception: Lane considers both how Spenser's rustic diction might signal opposition to the elitism of contemporary homiletic practice and how E. K.'s often unhelpful glosses reflect the self-protective strategies of reformist authors in response to an increasingly centralized state religion (see esp. 28–35, 56–73). . For a history of vernacular glosses of scripture, see Lynne Long, _Translating the Bible: From the 7th to the 17th Century_ (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2001). . Qtd. in Long, 47. . _The Geneva Bible_ : _A Facsimile of the 1560 Edition_ , with an introduction by Lloyd E. Berry (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969), sigs. *ir and iiiir. . William Tyndale, _Tyndale's New Testament_ , ed. David Daniell (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), 3–4. . _Geneva Bible_ , sig. iiiiv. . _Geneva Bible_ , sig. iiiiv. . Not just geography, of course, but temporality as well: however innovative their approach to biblical translation might seem from the perspective of Catholic tradition, Protestant translators (and Protestants more generally) insisted that their labors were in fact more consistent with the practices of the early church, and that their version of Christian revelation simply returned the faith to its true origins. Such a claim obviously also resonates with E. K.'s insistence that Spenser's apparently newfangled diction restores to English poetry a long-lost dignity and richness of expression. . _Geneva Bible_ , sig. ir. . From the preface to Tyndale's _Obedience of a Christian Man,_ qtd. in Long, 148. . Indeed in the _Geneva Bible_ , Paul's Epistle to the Romans is preceded by a map illustrating just how belated and marginal Rome's place was in the world of biblical antiquity: purporting to represent the spread of the gospel outward from Jerusalem, the map includes Rome barely at all, relegating it to the far northwest corner of the world—precisely where English readers would have been accustomed to finding their own remote island. Such a map literalizes the ambitions of England's sixteenth-century Bible translators, whose insistence on the more-than-adequate character of the English vernacular was simply one aspect of their effort to displace Rome from the center of Christianity, restoring a more antique and authentic Church whose home was, properly, everywhere—and perhaps especially in England. . A promiscuity enacted in E. K.'s own words, since both "gallimaufray" and "hodgepodge" are borrowings from French: see _OED,_ s.v. "gallimaufry" and "hotchpot." . Qtd. in Veré L. Rubel, _Poetic Diction in the English Renaissance from Skelton through Spenser_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1941), 6. . Elyot, _The Governour_ , fol. 55r. . "W. T. to the Reader," in William Tyndale, _Tyndale's Old Testament_ , ed. David Daniell (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), 5. . _Geneva Bible_ , Psalm 137, notes a and e. . _Geneva Bible_ , Psalm 137:6. . Harry Berger, _Revisionary Play: Studies in the Spenserian Dynamics_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 288. Roland Greene's reading of the poem also focuses on the shepherds' desire to restore Colin to a dialogic model of poetic creativity: the "hypothetical discourse... associated since 'Januarye' with Colin's lost expression and defined by its absence... lies just beyond the circumscription of the poem" and is "hypostasize[d] as a kind of _place_.... It is invoked, one might say, as a pastoral within the general pastoral landscape of the _Calender_ , a particularly ideal 'here'.... [T]o entice Colin 'here' would be to reinstall the common voice of those shepherds and so to cancel the curse of isolation and divergence" (" _The Shepheardes Calender_ , Dialogue, and Periphrasis," _Spenser Studies_ 8 [1990]: 16–17, emphasis added). . These lines, which cast Colin as Aeneas, suggest that Spenserian pastoral already incorporates the geographic restlessness usually identified with epic. . For more on the narcissistic pleasures and perils of "Januarye," see Berger's essay on "The Mirror Stage of Colin Clout" in _Revisionary Play_ , 325–46. . Syrithe Pugh, _Spenser and Ovid_ (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2005), 12. Pugh does not discuss the "Nouember" eclogue, which is my focus here, but her chapter on _The Shepheardes Calender_ as a "New _Fasti_ " shares many of this chapter's preoccupations, especially with regard to Spenser's emphasis on exile and alienation as the defining experiences of the English pastoral poet. . Colin's song is a translation of Clément Marot's "Eclogue sur le Trespas de ma Dame Loyse de Savoye, Mere du Roy Francoys," the first French eclogue, written in 1531, and also framed within a dialogue between two shepherds named Colin and Thenot, but the name "Dido" is Spenser's innovation. . Donald Cheney, "Spenser's Currencies," in _Edmund Spenser: Essays on Culture and Allegory_ , ed. Jennifer Klein Morrison and Matthew Greenfield (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2000), 42. See also Donald Cheney, "The Circular Argument of _The Shepheardes Calender_ ," in _Unfolded Tales: Studies in Renaissance Romance_ , ed. G. M. Logan and Gordon Teskey (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989), 137–61. . This message is driven home by the eclogue's emblem, " _La mort ny mord_ " (l. 210), which, as E. K. explains, serves as a reminder that "death biteth not" since "being ouercome by the death of one, that dyed for all, it is now made (as Chaucer sayth) the grene path way to life" (147). For more on the "Nouember" eclogue's reworking of classical narratives of female suffering, see John Watkins, _The Specter of Dido: Spenser and Virgilian Epic_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 79–82, although Watkins does not cite the Ovidian parallel. . The _Calender_ 's verse coda seems to advertise this triumph by beginning in words that echo—and overgo—the famous boast at the end of the _Metamorphoses_ : where Ovid brags of a poem that will last as long as Rome, Spenser declares, "I haue made a Calender for euery yeare, / That steele in strength, and time in durance shall outweare," a poem made to endure not to the end of an empire but to the very limits of the Christian eschaton, "to the worlds dissolution" (156). . For more on the murky circumstances surrounding Ovid's exile to Tomis, see the foreword and introduction to Peter Green's translation of Ovid's _Poems of Exile_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), vii–xii, xxiv–xxxv. . Ovid., _Tristia_ , 1.1.128. This and all subsequent citations from the _Tristia_ are from Green's translation. . Elyot, _The Governour_ , fol. 18r. . Gabriel Harvey, _Pierce's Supererogation, or A New Praise of the Old Asse_ (London: John Wolfe, 1593), sig. B4v. . Colin Burrow, _Edmund Spenser_ (Plymouth: Northcote House, 1996), 9. . For the full range of responses to _The Shepheardes Calender_ , see R. M. Cummings, _Spenser: The Critical Heritage_ (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1971), which contains a section devoted to comments on Spenser's language. . Webbe, 35, 53, 20, 19. . Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetrie_ , sig. [I4]v. . Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 90. . Thomas Warton, _Observations on the Fairy Queen of Spenser_ , 2nd ed., enlarged and corrected, vol. 1 (London, 1762), 133. . Roscoe E. Parker, "Spenser's Language and the Pastoral Tradition," _Language_ 1:3 (1925): 80–87. . Rubel, 145. . Qtd. in Rubel, 136n11. . Lynn Staley Johnson notes, furthermore, that E. K. encourages a kind of linguistic disorientation in his own readers, when, for instance, he categorizes the _Calender_ 's eclogues as "moral," "plaintive," and "recreative": "His tone implies that he speaks of what everyone knows, that the terms he uses are standard critical usage.... But 'moral,' 'plaintive,' and 'recreative' are in no dictionary of rhetorical terms, no handbook of poetic forms.... [T]hey exist only within the closed world and language of _The Shepheardes Calender_ " and "are defined [only] in terms of what they define," so that the reader "seems to have stumbled into a particularly zany world [of] unknown but familiar-sounding words" (38). . See Megan L. Cook, "Making and Managing the Past: Lexical Commentary in Spenser's _Shepheardes Calendar_ (1579) and Chaucer's _Works_ (1598/1602)," _Spenser Studies_ 26 (2011): 179–222. Cook identifies a number of suggestive parallels between Speght's editorial practice and that of E. K., including the identification of Chaucer with an exemplary and purified form of the vernacular and the application of classical rhetorical theory to the use of vernacular archaisms. She points out that E. K.'s gloss has been marshaled as a key piece of evidence in tracing the evolution of attitudes toward Chaucer's language, but that critics have failed to consider that the gloss might affect that trajectory as much or even more than it reflects it. And, in fact, most of the sixteenth-century comments on Chaucer's English that emphasize its difference from contemporary usage postdate _The Shepheardes Calender_. . Qtd. in Cook, 183. . Such type "would have looked decidedly old fashioned in 1579," notes Colin Burrow ( _Edmund Spenser_ , 12). For a broader discussion of typographical archaism in the sixteenth century, see Zachary Lesser, "Typographic Nostalgia: Play-Reading, Popularity, and the Meanings of Black Letter," in _The Book at the Play: Playwrights, Stationers, and Readers in Early Modern England_ , ed. Marta Straznicky (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006), 99–126. . Willy Maley, "Spenser's Languages: Writing in the Ruins of English," in _The Cambridge Companion to Spenser_ , ed. Andrew Hadfield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 169. See also Andrew Hadfield, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Matter of Britain_ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), esp. 32–33. . Edmund Spenser, _Colin Clout's Come Home Againe_ (1595), ll. 16–17, in Spenser, _The Shorter Poems_ , ed. Richard A. McCabe (New York: Penguin Books, 1999), 343–71. All subsequent citations to this poem refer to this edition. . Lupton, 141. CHAPTER 5 . Christopher Marlowe, _Tamburlaine the Great_ , ed. J. S. Cunningham and Eithne Henson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), _One_ prologue.1–6. All subsequent citations to this play refer to this edition. . The earliest evidence of _Tamburlaine_ 's popularity comes in the prologue to part 2, which claims, "[t]he general welcomes Tamburlaine received / When he arrived last upon our stage" as justification for a sequel ( _Two_ prologue.1–2). See also Richmond Barbour, _Before Orientalism: London's Theatre of the East, 1576–1626_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 39–41; and Russ McDonald, "Marlowe and Style," in _The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Patrick Cheney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 56. . Hall, "Virgidimarium" (1597–98), in _Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. MacLure, 42; Alvin Kernan, "The Play and Playwrights," in J. Leeds Barroll, Alexander Leggatt, Richard Hosley, and Alvin Kernan, eds., _The Revels History of Drama in English_ , 8 vols., gen. ed. Clifford Leech and T. W. Craik (London: Methuen, 1975), 3:255. . Gabriel Harvey, "A New Letter of Notable Contents" (1593), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe: The Critical Heritage,_ ed. Millar MacLure (New York: Routledge, 2005), 41. . Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , fol. 61v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Francis Meres, _Palladis Tamia: Wit's Treasury, being the second part of Wit's Commonwealth_ (London: Cuthbert Barbie, 1598), 618. . Webbe, sig. Ciiiv . O. B. Hardison, "Tudor Humanism and Surrey's Translation of the _Aeneid_ ," _Studies in Philology_ 83:3 (Summer 1986): 243. . Derek Attridge, _Well-Weighed Syllables: Elizabethan Verse in Classical Metres_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), esp. 89–92. . Paula Blank, _Shakespeare and the Mismeasure of Renaissance Man_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006), 54. . Hardison, 259. . Margaret Tudeau-Clayton, "What Is My Nation?: Language, Verse, and Politics in Tudor Translations of Virgil's _Aeneid_ ," in _The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature, 1485–1603_ , ed. Mike Pincombe and Cathy Shrank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 389–403, 390. See also Colin Burrow, "Virgil in English Translation," in _The Cambridge Companion to Virgil_ , ed. C. Martindale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 21–37. . Tudeau-Clayton discusses Surrey in relation to a number of rival translations: Gavin Douglas's 1513 rhyming translation appeared in 1553, a year before John Day printed Surrey's translation of book 4; in 1558, a year after Tottel published both books of Surrey's translation, John Kingston published Thomas Phaer's rhyming translation of books 1–7, Rowland Hall printed a nine-book translation by Phaer in 1562, and Thomas Twyne completed Phaer's translation in a 1573 edition of the poem, written in pseudo-quantitative meter; in 1582 the Catholic exile Richard Stanyhurst's translation of books 1–4, also "quantitative," was published in Leiden by John Pates (Tudeau-Clayton, 389–91). . Virgil, _Georgics_ , trans. Janet Lembke (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 3. . Edmund Spenser, _Three proper, and wittie, familiar letters: Lately passed betvveene tvvo vniuersitie men; touching the earthquake in Aprill last, and our English refourmed versifying_ (London: H. Bynnemen, 1580), 6. . Spenser, _Three... letters_ , 6; Gabriel Harvey, _The Works of Gabriel Harvey, D.C.L._ , 3 vols., ed. Alexander Balloch Grosart (London: Camden Society, 1884), 1:100. . Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 27–30. . A similar question runs through the _Georgics_ , verses composed during the bloody civil wars that marked the end of the Roman Republic and presented to the man whose victories made him the first Roman emperor: the _Georgics_ are poems celebrating man's civilizing influence on unruly nature, but they are also poems that note the violence that sustains and shadows the course of progress. Sixteenth-century English readers would have found "Britain's sons" ranked among "the victims felled," whose humiliation testifies to the triumph of imperial Rome, and the debate between Spenser and Harvey over how to interpret the stress imposed on English by quantitative versification resonates uneasily with that earlier narrative of colonial subjection. . Mary Floyd-Wilson, _English Ethnicity and Race in Early Modern Drama_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 99, 103. Floyd-Wilson emphasizes Tamburlaine's supposed racial affinities with his English admirers, citing "England's intimate though fraught relationship with the Scythians," believed to be "among the earliest settlers of the British Isles," and the etymological conflation of "Scythian" with "Scots" as factors in Tamburlaine's cultural appeal. She notes that the Scythian warlord spoke to the insecurities and aspirations of "a culture that fears not only its native barbarism but also the subjugation and implicit softness inherent in adopting a classical model of civility" (89–90). . Hall, "Virgidemiarum" (1597–98), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe,_ ed. MacLure, 42. . David Riggs, "Marlowe's Life," in _The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Patrick Cheney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 30. . Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ , trans. Kennedy (1991), 237. . See Blank, _Shakespeare_ , 42. As Blank notes, the confusion of these terms was common in sixteenth-century England—see _OED_ , s.v. "rhyme," "rhythm," "arithmetic," and "arsmetry"—but Puttenham's conflations are more deliberate than most, for he is well aware of the spuriousness of the etymological link between rhyme and rhythm. Meter, he writes, "was in Greek called [rithmus]: whence we have deriued this word _ryme_ but improperly & not wel because we haue no such feet or times or stirres in our meeters.... This _rithmus_ of theirs, is not therfore our rime, but a certaine musicall numerositie in vtterance, and not a bare number as that of the Arithmetical computation is, which therfore is not called _rithmus_ but _arithmus_ " (Puttenham, 57). . Lawrence Manley, _Convention, 1500–1700_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), 2. . This identification of rhyme with the New World resonates with Sidney's appeal to Native American poets as "a sufficient probability" for the necessary and virtuous role of poetry in civilizing savage wits ( _Apologie for Poetrie_ , sig. B3v). It contrasts interestingly, however, with the rhetorical use to which Montaigne puts Native American poetry in his essay "Of the Caniballes," where as part of his argument that "there is nothing in that nation, that is either barbarous or savage," he cites two examples of supposed cannibal verse and concludes, "I am so conversant with Poesie, that I may judge, this invention hath no barbarisme at all in it, but is altogether Anacreontike. Their language is a kinde of pleasant speech, and hath a pleasing sound, and some affinitie with the Greeke terminations" ( _Essays written in French by Michael Lord of Montaigne_ , trans. John Florio [London, 1602], 101, 106). More broadly, we might observe that the tendency of Renaissance writers to look far East and West for confirmation of their poetic precepts bespeaks the contradictory status of eloquence as civilized discourse and exotic speech: that Indians and cannibals use verses like European or classical poets implies both that Indians and cannibals may be civilized and that poetry is itself, as Puttenham says, "a maner of foreign talk." . The actual page is unnumbered, as a gathering of eight pages appears to have been dropped from some printings of the _Arte_ following page 84 and then re-added in subsequent printings. The pages remain unnumbered, and what would have been page 93 is labeled 85. When I refer to the unnumbered pages, I will provide what would have been the correct number in brackets. . In fact eight—not sixteen—pages later, since the pagination of the 1589 edition jumps from 92 to 101. . A. L. Korn, "Puttenham and the Orientall Pattern-Poem," _Comparative Literature_ 6:4 (Autumn 1964): 290. Korn's article draws on the work of several earlier scholars who assess the poems as part of comparatist studies of Asian and European poetry. See, for instance, Chung-Su Chi'en, "China in the Literature of the Seventeenth Century," _Quarterly Bulletin of Chinese Bibliography_ 1:4 (December 1940): 355–56; Margaret Church, "The First English Pattern Poems," _PMLA_ 61 (1946): 648; William W. Appleton, _A Cycle of Cathay_ (New York, 1951); and E. G. Browne, _A Literary History of Persia: From Firdawsi to Sa'di_ (London, 1906), 60. . As Attridge argues, this debate was troubled by fundamental confusions of eye and ear: sixteenth-century poetic theorists might insist that they heard the "numbers" of classical verse, but in fact—because their mother tongue had no such numbers and because even the Latin they learned to speak retained little trace of the classical quantities—they reckoned syllabic quantities by rote, according to position, spelling, and other visual cues. The accentual patterns of English verse were, by contrast, invisible; neither syntax nor orthography determined the stress on a syllable. To early modern poetic theorists, Attridge suggests, those patterns were consequently—and curiously—inaudible: the jingling of rhyme was English poetry's only tonal quality ( _Well-Weighed Syllables_ , 108–11). . Emily C. Bartels, _Spectacles of Strangeness: Imperialism, Alienation, and Marlowe_ (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), xiii–xiv. . Barbour, 41. . Stephen Greenblatt, _Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 194. . Harry Levin, _The Overreacher: A Study of Christopher Marlowe_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), 23, 31. . John Gillies, "Marlowe, the _Timur_ Myth, and the Motives of Geography," in _Playing the Globe: Genre and Geography in English Renaissance Drama_ (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1998), 209. . McDonald, 56. . Thomas Nashe, "To the Gentlemen Students of Both Universities," in Robert Greene, _Menaphon_ (London: Thomas Orwin, 1589), sig. ; Hall, "Virgidimarium" (1597–98), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. MacLure, 42. . Robert Greene, "Perimedes the Blacksmith" (1588), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Millar MacLure (New York: Routledge, 1995), 27. . Ben Jonson, "To the memory of my beloued, the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare: And what he hath left vs" in William Shakespeare, _Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies_ (London: Isaac Iaggard and Ed. Blount, 1623), sig. [A4]r, l. 30. . Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 41. . McDonald, 56. See also Steven Mullaney, _The Place of the Stage: License, Play, and Power in Renaissance England_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 76–85. Before Marlowe, as Paula Blank observes, blank verse was a "means of translating or simulating the exotic grace of Latin quantitative verse," as in Surrey's Virgil, which advertises its use of "straunge metre" ( _Shakespeare_ , 60). In Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton's _Gorboduc_ (1561), Tucker Brooke notes, the same is true: blank verse is used to give English verse "an elevated, foreign character" ("Marlowe's Versification and Style," _Studies in Philology_ 19:2 [1922]: 187–88). . Barbour, 41. . Whetstone's treatise is a gathering of historical anecdotes based on Claude Gruget's _Diverse Lecons_ (1552) and Pedro Mexia's _Silva de varia lecon_ (1540); Marlowe's other main source seems to have been Petrus Perondinus, _Magni Tamerlanis Scytharum Imperatoris_ (Florence, 1553). See Ethel Seaton, "Fresh Sources for Marlowe," _Review of English Studies_ 5:20 (1929): 385–401. . J. S. Cunningham, "Introduction," in Christopher Marlowe, _Tamburlaine_ , ed. J. S. Cunningham (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1981), 57. . Bartels, for instance, hears in Tamburlaine's blank verse the sound of internal division, a self "torn between two extremes": the barbarous and violent and the majestic and potent (60). . Wilson, _Arte of Rhetorique_ , sigs. A2v, [A7r]. . Keilen, 21–22. . See also the title page of Aulus Gellius's _Noctium Atticarum libri_ (1519), which represents an exceptionally aggressive Gallic Hercules as the figure of eloquence: here Hercules actually points his loaded bow directly in the faces of his chained followers, making the threat of force rather explicit (reprinted in Müller, 314). . Müller, 313. . All this is contra the reading of Jonathan Burton, who argues that "the seduction of Zenocrate" is "carefully distinguished from coercion" ( _Traffic and Turning: Islam and English Drama, 1579–1624_ [Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2005], 86). . Qtd. in Levin, 11. . James Shapiro, " 'Metre Meete to Furnish Lucans Style': Reconsidering Marlowe's _Lucan_ ," in _"A Poet and a Filthy Play-maker": New Essays on Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Kenneth Friedenreich, Roma Gill, and Constance B. Kuriyama (New York: AMS Press, 1988), 319. . Barbour, 53. . Jill Levenson catalogs the criticisms that have been leveled at this aspect of the play, beginning with Swinburne's dismissal of Marlowe's style as the "stormy monotony of Titanic truculence" (qtd. in Levenson, " 'Working Words': The Verbal Dynamic of _Tamburlaine_ ," in _"A Poet and a Filthy Play-maker": New Essays on Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Friedenreich, Gill, and Kuriyama, 99–115, 99). T. B. Tomlinson observes, "The lines move with a firm deliberation which Marlowe applies equally to _any_ situation, any imagery," while Donald Peet attributes the effect of sameness to Tamburlaine's favorite rhetorical strategy: "the techniques of amplification... are quite impersonal; they may be effectively employed by any speaker without being significantly modified to reflect his individual nature. Relying almost exclusively upon these techniques, Marlowe thus was unable to distinguish his characters from one another by varying the tone, structure, or style, of their individual speeches. Every one of his characters must amplify all the time; and every one of them must amplify in very much the same manner. As a result, they all tend to talk alike" (qtd. in Levenson, 99–100). Levenson discovers uniformity at a more basic level, finding "the ultimate source of the plays' continuity" in "the most basic units of the dramas' composition: the words and the patterns of their distribution.... From Mycetes to Zenocrate, the personae employ the same lexicon, a collection of words both idiosyncratic and relatively large" (100). But she also notices more subtle rhetorical modulations, patterns of assonance and alliteration that give to particular speakers and dramatic occasions a distinct musicality. . Mark Thornton Burnett, " _Tamburlaine the Great, Parts One_ and _Two_ ," in _The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Patrick Cheney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 129. . Bartels, 67. . Burnett, 129. Patrick Cheney links Tamburlaine's copy-catting to Marlowe's own rivalry with Edmund Spenser: "[T]he _Tamburlaine_ plays, which often hint at Tamburlaine's poetic powers, function as Marlowe's critically charged, metadiscursive project—his public attempt to overgo Spenser as England's new national poet.... The many documented borrowings from Spenser in the two plays insist that much of what we say about Tamburlaine we see as Marlowe's competitive rewriting of Spenser" ( _Marlowe's Counterfeit Profession: Ovid, Spenser, Counternationhood_ [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997], 121). On patterns of repetition and citation and their relation to the problems of literary and genealogical succession, see Claire Harraway, _Re-citing Marlowe: Approaches to the Drama_ (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000). . McDonald, 61. . Marjorie Garber, " 'Infinite Riches in a Little Room': Closure and Enclosure in Marlowe," in _Two Renaissance Mythmakers: Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson_ , ed. Alvin Kernan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), 3, 8. . McDonald, 56. . M. R. Ridley ascribes this irregularity to the playwright's metrical sophistication: "Marlowe had an ear acute enough to perceive that though the base, the 'norm,' of English blank verse was to be the five-stress 'iambic' line, and though the hearer's awareness of that norm must not be lost, yet few lines should strictly conform to the norm, and that five is, so far from being the desirable, almost the forbidden, number" ( _Marlowe's Poems and Plays_ , ed. M. R. Ridley [London, 1955], 14). . Gascoigne, "Certayne Notes of Instruction," 53. _OED_ , s.v. "turken" records the evolution in the word's connotations over the span of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries: see Chapter 2 above. . Peacham, _Garden of Eloquence_ (1577), sig. Ciiir. . Wilson, _Arte of Rhetorique_ , sig. Aiv. . Gascoigne, _Certayne Notes_ , 53–54. . Spenser's reaction is typical of the general view: he grants Daniel a prime position in the litany of English poets in _Colin Clouts Come Home Againe_ (1595) but has Colin add, "Yet doth his trembling _Muse_ but lowly flie, / As daring not too rashly mount on hight" (sig. C2r). Daniel writes "a very pure, and copious English, and words as warrantable as any Mans," grants Edmund Bolton, but "somewhat... flat" and "fitter perhaps for Prose than Measure" ( _Hypercritica_ [1622], in Joseph Haslewood, _English Poets and Poesy_ , vol. 2 [London: Robert Triphook, 1815], 250). For more on the early reception of Daniel's work, see Raymond Himelick, "Introduction," in Samuel Daniel, _Samuel Daniel's_ Musophilus, ed. Raymond Himelick (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Studies, 1965), 10. . Samuel Daniel, _Defence of Ryme_ , sig. [H6]v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. . Louis, Leroy. _Of the Interchangeable Course, or variety of things in the whole world_ , trans. R. A. (London: Charles Yetsweirt, 1594), fol. 107 r–4. . This upending of geographical hierarchies is clearly a large part of what appeals to Daniel about Le Roy's historiography: "Le Roy's thesis," writes Floyd-Wilson, "allow[s] us to see how Tamburlaine's destruction of the order of things could potentially be interpreted by the English as a radically revisionist bid for the northerner's role in the progress of civilization (94). . Hunter, 280. . Samuel Daniel, _Delia: Contayning certayne Sonnets; with the Complaint of Rosamond_ (London, 1592), sig. G3v. . Alexander Leggatt, "The Companies and Actors," in _The Revels History_ , ed. Barroll et al., 3:101. . C. Saunders, "The Preface," in Saunders, _Tamerlane the Great, a Tragedy_ (London: Richard Bentley, 1681), sig. av. CODA . Francis Bacon, _The Advancement of Learning,_ in _The Major Works_ , ed. Brian Vickers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 139; John Locke, _An Essay Concerning Human Understanding_ , ed. Peter H. Nidditch (Oxford: Clarendon, 1975), 508. On the decline of rhetoric after the early seventeenth century, see Brian Vickers, _In Defense of Rhetoric_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988); John Bender and David E. Wellbery, eds., _The Ends of Rhetoric_ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990); and Mann, 201–18. . Samuel Johnson, "Proposals for Printing... the Dramatick Works of Shakespeare" (1756), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage,_ 6 vols., ed. Brian Vickers (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1974), 4:270. For a thorough consideration of how Johnson and his contemporaries relied on characterizations of sixteenth-century English literature to consolidate their own sense of literary identity and authority, see Jack Lynch, _The Age of Elizabeth in the Age of Johnson_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). . Margreta de Grazia, _Shakespeare Verbatim: The Reproduction of Authenticity and the 1790 Apparatus_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 1. . See, for instance, de Grazia's account of early anecdotal versions of Shakespeare's biography: "The repeated focus [in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century biographies] on Shakespeare in various indecorous and transgressive acts... may have reflected a certain unease about his particular bent of genius: its unruliness, or, in the terms repeated in commentary of this period, its 'extravagance' and 'licentiousness' " (76). . Samuel Johnson, "Preface" to _The Plays of William Shakespeare_ (1765), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 5:92. . Ben Jonson, "To the memory of my beloved," in Shakespeare, _Comedies, Histories and Tragedies_ , sig. [A4]r, l. 26. . Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 22–23. . Vickers offers an excellent overview of neoclassicist objections to Shakespeare's art in his introduction to _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage,_ 2:1–12. Harte is quoted on 10, Atterbury on 7. . Thomas Rymer, _A Short View of Tragedy_ (1693), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 2:28. . John Dryden, "The Preface," in Dryden , _Troilus and Cressida, or Truth Found Too Late_ (London, 1717), 15. . Lewis Theobold, "The Preface" to _The Works of Shakespeare_ (1733), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 2:489. . Oliver Goldsmith, "Of the Stage" (1759), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 4:373. . Alexander Pope, Preface to _The Works of Shakespeare_ (1725), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 2:406, 415. . De Grazia, 196–97; Pope qtd. on 197. De Grazia also quotes Johnson's claim that "shakespeare stands in more need of critical assistance than any other of the English writers" (199). . See Michael Dobson, _The Making of the National Poet: Shakespeare, Adaptation, and Authorship, 1660–1769_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1992); and Michael Dobson, "Bowdler and Britannia: Shakespeare and the National Libido," _Shakespeare Survey_ 46 (1994): 137–44. . _Othello_ 1.1.137–38; S. T. Coleridge, _Notes and Lectures on Shakespeare_ (Liverpool: Edward Howell, 1881), 248–49. Eliot's comment appears, unelaborated, as a note to his essay on " _Hamlet_ and Its Problems," in T. S. Eliot, _The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism_ (London: Methuen, 1920), reprinted as _The Sacred Wood and Major Early Essays_ (Mineola, NY: Dover, 1998), 55n1. On the tenacity of Rymer's critique and its implications for contemporary arguments about rhetoric and race, see Catherine Nicholson, " _Othello_ and the Geography of Persuasion," _English Literary Renaissance_ 40:1 (Winter 2010): 56–87. . John Dryden, "An Essay of Dramatick Poesie" (1668), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 1:138–39. . Jeremy Collier, "A Short View of the Immorality and Prophaneness of the English Stage" (1698), qtd. in Dobson, "Bowdler and Britannia," 138. . See especially Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 215–45. . On Shakespeare's courting of contrary views of Hal's authority, see Norman Rabkin, "Rabbits, Ducks, and _Henry V_ ," _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 28:3 (1977): 279–96. On state power and its mystification or subversion in the Henriad, see Stephen Greenblatt, _Shakespearean Negotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 21–65; Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield, "History and Ideology: The Instance of _Henry V_ ," in _Alternative Shakespeares_ , ed. John Drakakis (New York: Routledge, 1985), 206–27; Jean Howard and Phyllis Rackin, _Engendering a Nation: A Feminist Account of Shakespeare's English Histories_ (New York: Routledge, 1997), 137–215; and David Scott Kastan, _Shakespeare After Theory_ (New York: Routledge, 1999), 99–133. . Benedict Robinson, "Harry and Amurath," _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 60:4 (Winter 2009): 405. . Christopher Dowd, "Polysemic Brotherhoods in _Henry V,_ " _Studies in English Literature 1500–1900_ 50:2 (Spring 2010): 377. . McEachern, _The Poetics of English Nationhood_ , 107. . Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 243. . Kastan, _Shakespeare After Theory_ , 118. . Allison Outland, " 'Eat a Leek': Welsh Corrections, English Conditions, and British Cultural Communion," in _This England, That Shakespeare: New Perspectives on Englishness and the Bard_ , ed. Willy Maley and Margaret Tudeau-Clayton (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010), 88, 91. . Howard and Rackin, 187. . So writes Johann V. Sommerville in "Literature and National Identity [The Earlier Stuart Era]," in _The Cambridge History of Early Modern English Literature_ , ed. David Loewenstein and Janel Mueller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 461. Sommerville's observation is borne out by the fact that of the four essays on "Literature and National Identity" in the _Cambridge History_ —one each for the Tudor period before Elizabeth I, the era of Elizabeth and James VI, the earlier Stuart era, and the Civil War period—all but the last cite the second tetralogy in their accounts of literary nationalism. . See, for instance, Michael Neill, "Broken English and Broken Irish: Nation, Language, and the Optic of Power in Shakespeare's Histories," _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 45:1 (Spring 1994): 1–32; and Karen Newman, _Fashioning Femininity and English Renaissance Drama_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 95–108. Paula Blank highlights the unsettling function of both French and Welsh voices and accents in _Henry V_ ( _Broken English_ , 136–39, 165–67), as does Patricia Parker in "Uncertain Unions: Welsh Leeks in _Henry V_ ," in _British Identities and English Renaissance Literature_ , ed. David J. Baker and Willy Maley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 81–100. Matthew Greenfield's essay in the same volume traces that linguistic unrest back to the generic and tonal diversity of _Henry IV, Part One_ , whose unruly parts manifest a "distinct centrifugal tendency" that threatens to undo the "plot-magic" of the whole (" _I Henry IV_ : Metatheatrical Britain," in _British Identities and English Renaissance Literature_ , ed. Baker and Maley,74). . All Shakespeare citations are from William Shakespeare, _The Norton Shakespeare_ , ed. Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard, and Katherine Eisaman Maus (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997).. . Bid by Hal to "stand for my father and examine me on the particulars of my life," Falstaff intones, "Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied. For though the chamomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, so youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.... I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not on words only, but in woes also" (2.5.342–43, 364–67, 378–80). . Hotspur scoffs, "I think there's no man speaketh better Welsh," and dismisses Glendower's "mincing poetry" as "such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff" ( _1 Henry IV_ 3.1.48, 130, 150). David Kastan hears in their heated exchange parodic echoes of the debate between Spenser and Harvey over metrical versification (William Shakespeare, _King Henry IV, Part One_ , ed. David Scott Kastan [London: Arden Shakespeare, 2002], 248). . "Shall pack-horses / And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, / Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day, / Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals, / And Trojan Greeks?" he demands when Mistress Quickly begs him to moderate his tone; "Nay, rather damn them with / King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar" ( _2 Henry IV_ 2.4.140–46). . Greenblatt, _Shakespearean Negotiations_ , 43. . "Dost thou speak like a king?" ( _1 Henry IV_ 2.5.394), Hal retorts to Falstaff and proceeds to bombard him with a fusillade of insults, culminating in a devastatingly terse promise of banishment, fulfilled at the end of _Henry IV, Part Two_ , when he is ordered not to come within ten miles of the new-crowned king. Glendower simply vanishes from the plays following the defeat of his forces at the end of _Henry IV, Part One_. As for Pistol, the would-be Tamburlaine is exposed as a cowardly pretender on the battlefield of _Henry V_ , his bombast much worse than his bite: "For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword, by means whereof 'a breaks words and keeps whole weapons," jokes an onlooker ( _Henry V_ 3.3.32–34). . Robinson, 399. . Robinson, 415. . Robinson, 417. . Outland, 93. See also Dowd, who claims that Warwick's wish that he alone could fight with Harry expresses "the sentiments of all the soldiers at Agincourt after Henry's speech" and that the speech "unifies everyone who hears him into one proud force" ("Polysemic Brotherhood in _Henry V_ ," 344)—even though the two modes of feeling are hardly compatible. _Index_ _The index that appeared in the print version of this title was intentionally removed from the eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below._ adages Adam and the Fall, biblical narrative of Adamson, Sylvia Aelfric's _Lives of the Saints_ Aeschines of Miletus Aeschylus of Cnidus Alciato, Andrea, _Emblematum Liber_ Alexander, Gavin Altman, Joel Amphion Anderson, Benedict Aristotle: _Art of Rhetoric_ ; Elyot on; _Ethicae_ ; on metrical prose and verse; on the periodic sentence; _Poetics_ ; theories of topical invention; theory of rhetorical style and figuration; _topoi_ and conception of rhetoric and place; Wilson's _Logique_ and _Arte of English Poesie_ (Puttenham). _See also_ Puttenham, George _Arte of Rhetorique_ (Wilson); and Cawdrey's _A Table Alphabeticall_ ; contemporary reception; and euphuistic style; readership; on rhetoric and eloquence; use of Greek or Latin terms. _See also_ Wilson, Thomas Ascham, Roger; and Cicero; and commonplace books; defense of the writing in the vernacular; on difference between Cicero and Sallust; distinctive prose style; double translation method; and Elyot's pedagogical methods; on England's barbarous past; on English longbow shooting (archery); and English quantitative measure; and _euphues_ ; and "fit similitudes"; humanist pedagogy and language teaching; and Lyly's _Euphues_ ; pedagogical emphasis on estrangement; _The Scholemaster_ ; and Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ ; _Toxophilus: The Schole of Shotyng_ Asiatic rhetorical style Atterbury, Francis Attic rhetorical style Attridge, Derek _auxesis_ Bacon, Francis Baker, David J. Barbour, Richmond Barclay, Alexander, _Egloges_ Barker, William Barlandus, Adrianus Barnes, Barnabe Bartels, Emily Beal, Peter Berger, Harry Bible translation, sixteenth-century: exile and eloquence; glossing and interpretive practices Blank, Paula blank verse: and aggression; and _auxesis_ ; debate between Spenser and Harvey; and England's barbarous past; Marlowe's ambitions for; Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; Surrey's translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_. _See also_ English metrical form and poetic expression Blount, Edward Bolton, Edmund Brooke, Tucker Brown, Georgia Burnett, Mark Thornton Bushnell, Rebecca Butterfield, Ardis Caecilius of Calacte Calepinus's _Dictionarium_ Campion, Thomas, _Apologie of Poetrie_ Cato Cave, Terrence Cawdrey, Robert; preface to 1604 dictionary, _A Table Alphabeticall_ Chaloner, Thomas Chapman, George Chartier, Roger Chaucer, Geoffrey: glosses; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ Cheke, John Cheney, Donald Cheney, Patrick Cicero: _De Inventione_ ; _De Officiis_ ; on eloquence and rhetoric; Quintilian on eloquence and style of; style and decorum; triad of high, middle, and low styles Coleridge, Samuel Taylor collective identity, English. _See_ nationalism and English collective identity Collier, Jeremy commonplacing; Ascham's warning against; contemporary vernacular texts as material for; Erasmus and; Erasmus's demonstrations of _copia_ ; ethical and rhetorical hazards; and foreign travel; and sexual promiscuity ( _Euphues_ ); Lyly's _Euphues_ ; Lyly's _Euphues and His England_ ; Ong on; similitude and adjacency; as traversable and portable; and Wilson Cook, Megan _copia_ : Erasmus's _De copia_ ; Erasmus's demonstrations; etymology; and the vernacular's capacity for rhetorical abundance Cox, Leonard, _Art or Crafte of Rhetoryke_ Cullen, Patrick Cunningham, J. S. Daniel, Samuel: critique of Renaissance humanism; _Defence of Ryme_ ; genealogy of rhyme; and Louis Le Roy; and Tamburlaine; theory of eloquence de Grazia, Margreta _Defence of Ryme_ (Daniel) Demetrius, _On Style_ Demosthenes: and Lais; Wilson on orations of Dido: Ovid's/Spenser's; Virgil's _Aeneid_ Diodorus Siculus Diogenes Laertes Dionysius of Helicarnassus; _Peri ton Archaion Rhetoron_ Dobson, Michael Dolven, Jeff double translation Dowd, Christopher Dryden, John Dudley, John, Earl of Warwick Eden, Kathy Eidinow, J. S. C. Eliot, T. S. Elizabeth I, Queen: as England's poet; and Geneva Bible translators; Puttenham's pattern-poems (roundels) dedicated to elocution: English rhetoric and the shift toward style; and figuration; redefinition of eloquence in terms of eloquence. _See_ rhetorical style and eloquence Elyot, Thomas; analogies, substitutions, and surrogates; and Ascham; _The Boke named the Governour_ ; classical language instruction for children; on English longbow shooting; and Erasmus's _De Copia_ ; on exile and eloquence; and Homer's epics; humanist pedagogical program and Latin language teaching; _Of the Knowledge which Maketh a Wise Man_ ; and the "neologistic couplet"; Sherry's dedicatory epistle; understanding of eloquence; on Virgil's poetry English Bible (Tyndale's) English metrical form and poetic expression; anxieties about England's relationship with antiquity; Ascham's faith in quantitative measures; the classic periodic sentence/English sentence structure; Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_ ; debate of Harvey and Spenser; debate over English accents and classical quantities; Marlowe's blank verse; and "metaplasms"; and New World poetry and rhyme; pattern-poems; Puttenham on proportion and measure; Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ ; Puttenham's conflation of rhyme and rhythm; Puttenham's "proportion in figure"; Puttenham's shifted burden of measure onto poets; Puttenham's skepticism about manipulation of foreign syllables; Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ ; and Timur/Tamburlaine legend. _See also_ Tamburlaine/Timur legend Enterline, Lynn Erasmus, Desiderius: and the adage; _Adagia_ ; and commonplacing; _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ ; _De copia_ ; demonstrations of _copia_ ; on Lais; _Moriae encomium_ ; and practice of letter writing; on travel and commonplacing Escobedo, Andrew estrangement and eccentricity in English vernacular writing; Ascham's pedagogical emphasis on estrangement; eloquence and linguistic estrangement; humanist linguistic pedagogical theory; and Marlowe's rhetorical excesses; pastoral genre and linguistic estrangement; Shakespeare's stylistic eccentricity; Sherry's _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ ; Spenser's pseudo-archaic rustic diction; Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ and deliberate estrangement Ettenhuber, Katrin _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (Lyly); and commonplacing; conclusion; critical reception; dedicatory epistle to first edition; Euphues and Lucilla's promiscuity; Euphues's introduction and resemblance to euphuism; Euphues's journey; Euphues's yearning for England; and humanism; legacy of; and Shakespeare's parody of euphuism euphuism; and adequacy of English as literary language; critics' debate over; Euphues's resemblance to; Lewis's criticism of; Shakespeare's parody; Sidney's assault on; Webbe on; and Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_. See also _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (Lyly) exile: and Bible translation; and Ovid's calendrical poem, _Fasti_ ; Psalm 137 and; Spenser's; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ figuration; Aristotle's theory of; and classical rhetorical style; and elocution; Gascoigne on; and metaphor; Puttenham on Fitzpatrick, Joan Fleming, Abraham: _The Bucoliks of Publius Virgil_ ; glosses; translations of Virgil's pastorals; Virgil's _Georgics_ Floyd-Wilson, Mary Foley, Stephen Merriam foreign loan-words: Ascham and; Elyot and; and Elyot's "neologistic couplets"; Gascoigne's theory of poetic license; language reformers; Marlowe's polysyllabics; Mulcaster's advocacy for; "ornature"; Puttenham on; "turkeneth"; Wilson and foreign travel. _See_ travel, foreign Fraunce, Abraham, _Arcadian Rhetorike_ Gallic Hercules Gaonkar, Dilip Parmeshwar Garber, Marjorie Gardiner, Stephen Gascoigne, George: on figuration; _Notes on the Making of English Verse_ ("Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making of Verse"); _The Steel Glass_ ; theory of poetic license ( _"licentiam poeticam"_ ); word "turkeneth" Geneva Bible (1560) Gillies, John glossing: and Aelfric's _Lives of the Saints_ ; and Chaucer; and English biblical translation; Fleming's translation of Virgil's eclogues; pastoral genre; Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ (E. K.'s glosses) Golding, Arthur Goldsmith, Oliver _The Governour_ (Elyot). _See also_ Elyot, Thomas; humanist linguistic pedagogy Greenblatt, Stephen Greene, Robert Greene, Roland Greene, Thomas Greenfield, Matthew Hadfield, Andrew Hakluyt, Richard, _Principle Navigations of the English Nation_ Hall, Joseph Halpern, Richard Hardison, O. B. Harrison, William; _Description and Historie of England_ Harte, Walter Harvey, Gabriel; and blank verse; debate with Spenser over vernacular verse; on Erasmus and commonplacing; on Lyly and "euphuing"; on Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; on Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_ Hastings, Adrian Hawes, Stephen, _The Pastime of Pleasure_ Hegesius of Magnesia Helgerson, Richard Henderson, Judith Rice _Henry IV, Part I_. _See also_ Shakespeare, William _Henry IV, Part II_. _See also_ Shakespeare, William _Henry V_. _See also_ Shakespeare, William Hermogenes Hierocles of Alabanda Hoffman, Nancy Jo Holinshed's _Chronicles_ Homer Horace, _Ars Poetica_ Hoskins, John, _Directions for Speech and Style_ humanism, Renaissance: Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_ and critique of; and linguistic pedagogy; Lyly's examination of humanist linguistic pedagogy; ambivalence toward the vernacular; Ascham on authority of classical examples; Ascham on language study; Ascham's advocacy of vernacular writing; Ascham's double translation method; Ascham's "fit similitudes"; Ascham's pedagogical emphasis on estrangement; Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ ; and Cicero; and early English humanism; Elyot's analogies, substitutions, and surrogates; Elyot's fantasy of the Latin-speaking wet nurse; Elyot's "neologistic couplets"; Elyot's _The Governour_ ; Elyot's understanding of eloquence; and English longbow shooting; and Homer; influences on vernacular usage; Lewis's scorn for; and linguistic estrangement from classical languages; Mulcaster's case for pedagogy of the vernacular; Mulcaster's criticisms; overlap of the two reform movements; and Sallust; and Virgil's pastoral poetry Hunter, G. K. Hyde, Michael J. _hyperbole_ , Puttenham's notion of Isocrates; _Encomium of Helen_ Johnson, Lynn Staley Johnson, Samuel; "Proposals for Printing... the Dramatick Works of Shakespeare" Jones, Richard Foster Jonson, Ben; and Crispinus's use of word "ornature"; on Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; on Shakespeare; on Spenser; on transports of metaphor Jost, Walter Kastan, David Keilen, Sean Kempe, William Kernan, Alvin Kinney, Arthur Korn, A. L. Lane, Robert Latin language pedagogy. _See_ humanist linguistic pedagogy Latin Vulgate Le Roy, Louis: _De la vicissitude ou variété des choses en l'univers_ ; Tamburlaine thesis Legatt, Alexander Levenson, Jill Levin, Harry Lewis, C. S.: on Ascham's _Scholemaster_ ; on Elyot's _The Governour_ ; and humanist pedagogy Ling, Nicholas, _Politeuphuia: Wit's Commonwealth_ Locke, John Lodge, Thomas _Logique_ (Wilson); and Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ ; and classical theory of topical invention; metaphor of the hunt; preface; and Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ ; as treatise on rhetoric. _See also_ Wilson, Thomas Long, Lynne Lucian Lupton, Julia Reinhardt Lyly, John: and Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ ; and commonplacing; and the debate over euphism; _Euphues and His England_ ; _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ ; and humanism; and Shakespeare's parody of euphuism; stylistic excess. See also _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (Lyly) Maley, Willy Malone, Edmond Manley, Lawrence Mann, Jenny Marlowe, Christopher: blank verse; contemporary critics of; eloquence and abuse; geographical place-names and polysyllabic foreign words; rhetorical excesses and eccentric style; Shakespeare's parody of. See also _Tamburlaine the Great_ (Marlowe) Marot, Clément Maslen, R. W. Matz, Robert Mazzio, Carla McDonald, Russ McEachern, Claire Menecles of Alabanda Merchant Taylors' School (London) Meres, Francis: on Lyly; _Palladis Tamia_ meter. _See_ English metrical form and poetic expression Miller, William E. Milton, John; _Paradise Lost_ Montaigne, Michel de Montrose, Louis More, Thomas Moss, Ann Mueller, Janel Mulcaster, Richard; on eloquence in English; on England's relationship to outside world; _The First Part of the Elementarie_ ; on foreign loan-words and phrases; on humanist pedagogical theory's effect on vernacular usage; _Positions_ (treatise on education) Müller, Wolfgang G. Narcissus Nashe, Thomas nationalism and English collective identity; Anderson's "imagined community"; and cultivation of the vernacular; and eloquence of Henry V; geographic expansion and isolation; Mulcaster's vision of England's relationship to outside world; the use of English language abroad; Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_ neologistic couplets New World (Native American) poetry Norton, Thomas, _Gorboduc_ Ong, Walter "ornature" Orpheus myth: and eloquence; Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ (book II); Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ ; Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_ Ovid: Dido and Anna; Elyot on reading of; exile of; _Fasti_ ; _Metamorphoses_ ; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ ; tale of Narcissus; _Tristia_ Parker, Roscoe pastoral poetry: England's displacement from, Fleming's translations of Virgil's eclogues; glossing; and literary ambition; and nostalgia; and Spenser's embrace of linguistic estrangement; Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ ; strangeness and familiarity; Virgil's eclogues pattern-poems: "oriental"; Puttenham's roundels dedicated to Elizabeth I Peacham, Henry, _Garden of Eloquence_ pedagogy, linguistic. _See_ humanist linguistic pedagogy Peet, Donald periodic sentence, classical Phillips, Edward, _New World of English Words_ Plato; _Gorgias_ ; _Phaedrus_ ; Socrates on rhetoric poetry: and eloquence; Gascoigne's theory of poetic license. _See also_ blank verse; English metrical form and poetic expression; pastoral poetry polyglot dictionaries Pope, Alexander Prescott, Anne Lake proportion: pattern-poems; Puttenham on measure; Puttenham's "proportion in figure" Protestantism and English biblical translation Pugh, Syrithe Purchas, Samuel, _Purchas His Pilgrimage_ Puttenham, George: _Arte of English Poesie_ ; conflation of rhyme/rhythm; and Elizabeth I; on English metrical form and rhyme; on enrichment of English with foreign words; on figuration and cultivation of eloquent style; global perspective (the New World and rhyme); literary nationalism; and Marlowe's rhetorical excesses; notion of _hyperbole_ ; pattern-poems; proportion and measure; "proportion in figure"; and Temir Cutzclewe quantitative measure. _See_ English metrical form and poetic expression Quintilian: on Cicero's eloquence and style; on eloquence and rhetoric; _Institutio Oratoria_ ; on metaphor and figuration; theories of topical invention Rainholde, Richard, _Foundacion of Rhetorike_ Rebhorn, Wayne Renwick, W. L. rhetorical style and eloquence; Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ ; Aristotle's _topoi_ and conception of rhetoric and place; classical rhetorical style and figuration; Cox's vernacular rhetorical handbook; dilemma of style and eloquence (style reorients rhetoric); Elyot's _The Governour_ on; figuration and figurative speech; poetry and eloquence; Sherry's vernacular rhetorical handbook; shift to elocution; Wilson and topical invention; Wilson on cultivation of rhetorical skill and shared English life; Wilson on logic and rhetoric; Wilson on ornamentation and exornation; Wilson on the origins of eloquence rhyme: Ascham on quantitative measure and; Daniel's genealogy of; Daniel's defense of; Milton's argument against; and New World (Native American) poetry; Puttenham's conflation of rhyme/rhythm. _See also_ blank verse; English measure/metrical form and poetic expression Ridley, M. R. Riggs, David Robinson, Benedict Rubel, Veré Rymer, Thomas Sackville, Thomas, _Gorboduc_ Sallust Sannazaro, Jacopo Saunders, Charles Schleiner, Louise Schmidt, Albert _The Scholemaster_ (Ascham). _See also_ Ascham, Roger; humanist linguistic pedagogy Schwyzer, Philip Scragg, Leah Shakespeare, William; early critics on stylistic eccentricity of; Falstaff's banishment by Henry V; Falstaff's chiding Hal for youthful errancy; Falstaff's linguistic immoderation; _Henry IV, Part I_ ; _Henry IV, Part II_ ; _Henry V_ ; Henry's eloquence and alienation; Henry's speech at Agincourt; _Othello_ ; Othello's eloquence; parody of Lyly; parody of Marlowe; parody of Spenser; _Richard II_ and Mowbray's English language Shapiro, James _The Shepheardes Calender_ (Spenser); Colin Clout's exile from the pastoral community; Colin's Dido/Ovid's Anna; Colin's embrace of distance and exile; Colin's rediscovery of his poetic voice; deliberate estrangement; E. K.'s introductory epistle and glosses; E. K.'s relation to the poem; and England's linguistic estrangement; and exile; Hobbinol; " _Immeritô_ "; and Ovid; Ovid's calendrical poem, _Fasti_ ; and pastoral genre; Spenser's characterization of English; Spenser's diction Sherry, Richard, _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ Shrank, Cathy Sidney, Philip: _Apologie for Poetrie_ ; _Astrophil and Stella_ ; on Lyly and euphuism; and Native American/New World poets; on the periodic sentence; on Spenser's archaic diction and rustic language; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ similitude: Ascham's pedagogical method and "fit similitude"; and commonplacing Smith, Ian Smith, Thomas Sommerville, Johann V. Speght, Thomas Spenser, Edmund: _Colin Clouts Comes Home Again_ ; and Daniel's poetry; debate with Harvey over vernacular verse; Irish exile; Jonson on; pseudo-archaic rustic diction; rivalry with Marlowe; Shakespeare parody of; Sidney on; Webbe on. See also _The Shepheardes Calender_ (Spenser) Stallybrass, Peter Stark, Ryan Stein, Gabriele Strang, Barbaran Sultan Murad Surrey, Earl of (Henry Howard), blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ Swinburne, Algernon Charles _Tamburlaine the Great_ (Marlowe); blank verse; geographical place-names; Mycetes's rhetorical ineptitude; popularity of the play; Tamburlaine and sexual violence; Tamburlaine and Zenocrate; Tamburlaine as "barbaric prototype"; Tamburlaine's "conquering feet"; Tamburlaine's eloquence; Tamburlaine's humiliation of Bajazeth; Tamburlaine's imperial conquest; Tamburlaine's naming and unnaming; Tamburlaine's rhetorical thievery; Tamburlaine's son, Calyphas Tamburlaine/Timur legend; Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_ ; Daniel's Tamburlaine and critique of Renaissance humanism; Le Roy's Tamburlaine; Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; as popular subject; Puttenham's Temir Cutzclewe; and sexual violence. _See also_ English metrical form and poetic expression Taverner, Richard, _Proverbes or Adagies_ Textor, Ravisius: _Officina_ ; _Specimen Epithethorum_ Theobold, Lewis Thucydides Tomlinson, T. B. topical invention: Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ ; Aristotle's _topoi_ and conception of rhetoric and place; Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ ; Wilson's _Loqique_ Tottel, Richard, "Miscellany" translation: Ascham's double translation method; Bible translation and glossing; Fleming's translations of Virgil's pastorals; Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_. _See also_ foreign loan-words travel, foreign: and Aristotle's theory of stylized or figurative language; Ascham on; and commonplacing; Lyly's Euphues's journey; Wilson on; Zwinger on Tudeau-Clayton, Margaret Tulloch, Graham Turbervile, George, _Eglogs_ "turkeneth"/"turkesse": Gascoigne's use of; Harvey's term for translations of Erasmus Tyndale, William Virgil: _Aeneid_ ; Elyot on reading of; Fleming's English translations and glosses; _Georgics_ ; pastoral genre and _Eclogues_ ; Surrey's blank-verse translation of _Aeneid_ Waldman, Louis Walker, Jeffrey Wallace, David Warham, William Warnick, Barbara Warton, Thomas Webbe, William: and Demosthenes; _Discourse of English Poetrie_ ; on Lyly's _Euphues_ ; on Spenser's archaic diction; on Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ Whetstone, George, _English Myrror_ Wilson, Thomas: _Arte of Rhetorique_ ; and classical theory of topical invention; and commonplacing; on England as literal place of rhetorical invention; on foreign loan-words; on foreign travel; _Logique_ ( _The Rule of Reason, Conteinyng the Arte of Logique_ ); on orations of Demosthenes; on the origins of eloquence; on ornamentation and "exornation"; and Orpheus myth; on rhetoric and eloquence Wotton, Sir Henry Zwicker, Steven Zwinger, Theodor; _Theatrum humanae vitae_ _Acknowledgments_ I am an avid and grateful reader of acknowledgments. Poring over others' books taught me what I wanted my book to be; poring over their acknowledgments taught me that I couldn't—and didn't have to—get there on my own. No doubt there are people for whom writing is an ideally solitary pursuit, but for me it's a necessarily communal endeavor (so much so that there's a long list of Philadelphia and New Haven coffee shops whose proprietors ought to get a mention here for their forbearance), and I've been incredibly fortunate in the company I keep. That good fortune begins with two extraordinary teachers and mentors. Margreta de Grazia is my most generous, most rigorous, and most constant reader, whose good opinion is worth any number of revisions. I hope she likes this book because I wrote it for her. David Kastan is a bottomless well of enthusiasm, insight, and plain good sense; for the sake of its junior members, the profession should seriously consider cloning him. Not far behind Margreta and David stand a host of advisers, colleagues, and friends who have been pressed into service (or offered themselves) as readers of this book in its many earlier forms: Sean Keilen and Ania Loomba, who got me started; David Quint, who helped me to the finish; Larry Manley and John Rogers, who give the role of senior colleague a good name; Barbara Fuchs, who invited me to California when I really needed the sunshine; J. K. Barret, who tells me what I want _and_ what I need to hear (in that order); and Ian Cornelius, Wendy Lee, and Aaron Ritzenberg, partners in the struggle against the blank screen. Thanks are also due to Stephanie Elsky, John Guillory, Jenny Mann, Joe Roach, Caleb Smith, Peter Stallybrass, Brian Walsh, and John Williams for offering advice, encouragement, inspiration, and camaraderie and for sustaining my conviction that academia is a remarkably friendly place. Briallen Hopper deserves a paragraph of her own: she's the best prose stylist, close reader, and godmother I know, and the most loyal friend I've got. I owe an enormous debt to Jerry Singerman at the University of Pennsylvania Press, who has offered warm encouragement and savvy advice at every step of the publication process—I'm lucky to have had him as a reader and champion. The two anonymous readers for the press treated the manuscript with exceptional care, searching out its merits and its defects with unerring keenness and helping me to see, at last, what sort of book I wanted to write. I am most grateful to them both. I've benefited as well from the opportunity to share portions of this project with smart and responsive audiences at the Yale Medieval-Renaissance Colloquium, the Center for Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Studies at UCLA, the Medieval-Renaissance Colloquium at the University of Pennsylvania, and the Massachusetts Center for Interdisciplinary Renaissance Studies. Yale University provided essential and generous support in the form of a Morse Junior Faculty Fellowship for 2011–12. I'm grateful to _Spenser Studies_ and Oxford University Press for permission to reuse previously published material: a portion of Chapter 2 appears as "Englishing Eloquence: Vernacular Rhetorics and Poetics," in _The Oxford Handbook of Renaissance Prose_ , ed. Andrew Hadfield (Oxford University Press, forthcoming in 2013); an earlier version of Chapter 3 appeared as "Pastoral in Exile: Spenser and the Poetics of English Alienation," _Spenser Studies_ 23 (2008). Finally, there are those who don't read a word I write, and whose support is all the more precious for it. Diarmuid and Donna Nicholson are the best parents an early-career academic could ask for: serenely oblivious to the minutia of the profession, firmly convinced of my capacity to surmount all obstacles, undaunted by my setbacks, and delighted (but unsurprised) by my successes. Marc, Miriam, and Ruth Levenson are the source of my deepest and most durable joys. Marc makes writing possible, through endless gifts of time and reassurance; Miriam and Ruthie make it nearly impossible, but that can be a gift too. This book is also for them, with all my heart.	{'title': 'Uncommon Tongues - Nicholson, Catherine;'}
# Embellished Crochet # Bead, Embroider, Fringe, and More # 28 STUNNING DESIGNS TO MAKE USING CARON INTERNATIONAL YARN # Cari Clement The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:http://us.macmillan.com/content.aspx?publisher=macmillansite&id=25699. THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE YOUNG CROCHETERS AT THE IMBABAZI ORPHANAGE IN GISENYI, WHERE I VISIT WHEN I GO TO RWANDA. # contents FOREWORD INTRODUCTION BASIC TECHNIQUES FOCUS ON COLOR Beaded Ruffled Shrug Mini-Squares Wrap Tulips Shawl Gypsy Skirt Flower Wrap THE DOMINO EFFECT Midnight Duster Fly Away Purse Elegant Squares Wrap Cropped Vest OUT OF AFRICA Sahara Shawl Desert Trader's Tote Circular Yoke Blouse Hoop Earrings Kente Cloth Scarf GOT THE BLUES Medallions Belt Denim Skirt Easy Beaded Camisole Color-Me-Blue Jacket ORIENT EXPRESS Kimono Shrug Hobo Boho Bag Wrap Jacket Boho Bangles India Tunic EVENING ELEGANCE Opera Shrug Drama Necklace Evening Capelet Opera Purse Elegant Bolero Jacket RESOURCES GLOSSARY METRIC CONVERSION INDEX # foreword BY NICKY EPSTEIN When my longtime friend, Cari Clement, asked if I would consider writing the foreword to her book, _Embellished Crochet,_ I said, "Of course!" Whether it's embellishing on, over, or beyond edges, embellishing for me is what makes a garment truly special, a signature the creator gives to her garment that makes it uniquely hers. While many crocheters can use the same basic stitch pattern to make a garment, adding a touch of embellishing can change a garment's look dramatically and beautifully. It's the addition of just a few beads, some embroidery touches, a tassel, beaded fringe—simple and easy techniques—that make the garment special. The projects in this book are just right—not too much embellishing, not too few added accents. They range from the super-easy to the more challenging, encouraging you to learn as you create. What's so wonderful about them is their simplicity of silhouette—allowing the embellishing to make them stand-out pieces. These designs also inspire you to incorporate the techniques learned from making them into other projects down the road. I am honored to have been asked to write this foreword, and I feel the designers featured in _Embellished Crochet_ should really be complimented for their amazing creativity, attention to detail, and willingness to dive into the expanding world of embellishing, headfirst. # introduction The word _"_ embellished _"_ denotes a certain unique and very special individual type of creativity given to a garment. Nothing could be truer of the embellishing incorporated into the designs in this book: there are as many takes on the word as there are designers, and their talent and exacting attention to every detail is apparent in the amazing works of art they've created. I initially planned to create a pattern book, but as the designs began to arrive, I realized that technique descriptions, photographs, and charts would be necessary to enable readers to better understand the techniques used, and often created, by each designer. So this book has evolved into a combination of pattern _and_ technique—two books in one! The techniques used by a number of patterns throughout are described in Basic Techniques. All the other embellishing techniques that are unique to the individual patterns are shown in photographs and have detailed step-by-step instructions with the appropriate patterns. The yarns in this book are as versatile as the techniques. Simply Soft is an exceptionally great yarn for bead crochet due to its size (light 4-ply), its smoothness (beads slide on well), and its ability to be easily split into two 2-plies for use in traditional and bead embroidery. And the colors are ideal for so many of the projects. Other Caron yarns, such as Bliss and Glimmer, also lend themselves especially well to the techniques employed by the designers. But one of the things I like most about the designs in this book is how versatile the embellishing applications are. You can take a medallion, an embroidery stitch, a bead motif, or a stitch/embroidery combination and apply them to just about any project, making it a truly couturelike creation. So have fun, enjoy the adventure, and crochet away! # Basic Techniques These are techniques that are used throughout this book. Check the instructions for the project you are doing to determine if it incorporates any of these and, if so, take a few minutes to learn the steps. INTEGRAL EMBELLISHING: BEAD CROCHET While embellishing is usually reserved for the "finishing" section of a pattern, crocheting beads _into_ a garment is really a separate technique from embellishing that often uses beads as applied accents. There are many types of bead crochet stitches, ranging from at what point a bead is placed into the stitch to the type of stitch into which a bead is placed, and how frequently the beads are added. Bead crochet is usually worked on a wrong-side row, so that the bead will be on the right side of the fabric when the row is completed. There are five different types of bead crochet used throughout this book: * bead chain * bead single crochet * bead half-double crochet * bead double crochet * bead slip stitch Each of these techniques is described below, and will be referred to in the pattern instructions. While there are several different ways to execute each of these techniques, usually at what point in executing the stitch the bead is slid down to the hook, we wanted to keep this book as easy-to-follow as possible, so only those techniques used in the pattern instructions are described here. BEAD CHAIN (BC) Note: There may be a bead on every chain or every other chain or whatever spacing the designer calls for in the pattern instructions. 1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads. 2. Begin by making a slip knot on hook; yarn over hook and pull up a loop (first chain). 3. Slide down a bead as close to the hook as it can go. 4. Yarn over and pull through a loop one; chain worked after the bead. 5. Continue in this manner, working the number of chains indicated in the instructions between each bead. BEAD SINGLE CROCHET (BSC) Note: There may be a beaded stitch for every stitch, every other stitch or however many beads the designer calls for on a single row. This is also true for bead double crochet and bead slip st. 1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads. 2. Work the foundation chain as indicated. 3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads. 4. Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop. 5. Slide a bead down as close to the hook as it can go. 6. Yarn over and draw through both loops on hook (bsc) or all 3 loops on hook (bhdc); one stitch has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch. 7. Continue in this manner, working the number of stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead. BEAD HALF-DOUBLE CROCHET (BHDC) 1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads. 2. Work the foundation chain as indicated. 3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads. 4. Yarn over hook. 5. Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop. 6. Slide a bead down as close to the hook as it can go. 7. Yarn over and draw through both loops on hook all 3 loops on hook; one stitch has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch. 8. Continue in this manner, working the number of stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead. BEAD DOUBLE CROCHET (BDC) 1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads. 2. Work the foundation chain as indicated. 3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads. 4. Yarn over hook. 5. Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop. 6. Slide a bead down, as close to the hook as it can go. 7. (Yarn over and draw through two loops) twice; one bdc has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch. 8. Continue in this manner, working the number of stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead. BEAD SLIP STITCH (BSS) 1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads. 2. Work the foundation chain as indicated. 3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads. 4. Insert hook into next stitch. 5. Slide a bead down, as close to the hook as it can go. 6. Yarn over and draw through the stitch and the loop on hook; one slip stitch has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch. 7. Continue in this manner, working the number of slip stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead. BEADS AND BEADING TOOLS Beads come in an almost mind-numbing variety of shapes and sizes, but what, to me, seems to be more important for both bead crochet and bead embellishing is the size of the bead's hole. This determines whether or not you can thread yarn or sewing thread through the bead and what tool you will need to do so. Since beads come in such a variety, I felt it best not to display any here but to focus on the tools you'll need for various projects in this book. Beads' outer dimensions are sized in millimeters (mm), but the holes are _not_ sized, so it's important to know if the bead you'd like to use can be worked using the technique the pattern calls for. Mostly, it's just a matter of "eyeballing" the bead's hole, but if you're ordering beads by mail, be sure the catalog company shows a side view of the bead's hole before you order. In cases where there are lots of the same bead used or where I felt the bead may be hard to find, I've listed the name and item number of the bead and the bead manufacturer and listed its Web site (see "Resources" at the back of this book). With the increasing popularity of using beads in knitting and crochet, there are more and more beads with ample-sized holes that are quite suitable for bead crochet. Obviously you'll need a crochet hook for the basic construction of the garment. But when it comes to beads, the only size hook suggested in this book (other than for bead crochet) is a size 11 steel hook. FROM LEFT TO RIGHT IN THE ABOVE PHOTO ARE: 1. Three sizes of tapestry needles, from size 16–22 (the higher the number, the smaller the needle). These are also used for the embroidery found in this book. 2. A traditional small-eye beading needle. 3. A large-eye beading needle made from two small wires twisted together (not good for sewing through crocheted fabric, but helpful for making beaded fringes, etc.). 4. A "large eye" beading needle (made from two pieces of wire soldered together, leaving a very long "eye." ) This needle can be used to sew through crocheted fabric as long as it's not too densely crocheted. 5. A dental floss threader. This is one of my favorite tools to use—not only is it widely available and very cheap, but it threads beads onto yarn quite well. 6. Steel crochet hooks used to insert into beads and hook a loop of sewing thread that is pulled through a small-holed bead. SPLITTING HAIRS—ER, YARN A number of patterns in this book call for splitting 4-ply yarn into two 2-plies—even four single plies, primarily used for embroidery and beading. This is quite simple, as you can see in the photo above. 1. Wind off the length of 4-ply yarn called for in the pattern. 2. Leaving approximately 1 yard free, wind the remaining yarn into a loose ball. 3. Secure the ball with a yarn needle to hold the ball intact, or attach a clip to the ball for weight, as shown above. 4. Separate the unsecured yarn end into two 2-ply strands, allowing the ball to spin freely. 5. Wind each 2-ply strand onto an embroidery floss bobbin. 6. Release another yard of yarn from the ball, secure it again with the yarn needle or clip. 7. Repeat Steps 4–6 until the entire length of yarn has been separated into 2-ply strands. 8. If the pattern calls for a single ply, you can repeat the above process with a 2-ply strand to get two single-ply strands, but be aware that these are fragile and can pull apart easily, so treat them gently. IMPORTANT NOTES TO PATTERNS * Patterns are written with _suggested_ crochet hook sizes. _Be sure_ to check your gauge before beginning a project, using the hook size that achieves the gauge. * Difficulty ratings are for the difficulty level of crochet, not for embellishing. Some projects will be easy to crochet and easy to embellish, others easy to crochet but more challenging to embellish. Be sure to read through the pattern ahead of time to note the embellishing required. * Schematics given are for the actual size of the crocheted pieces _before_ they are assembled. They are _not_ finished measurements, which will differ from schematics measurements. * While all of our readers have heard this many times, I cannot emphasize the importance of testing for gauge. It may not matter for wraps, purses, scarves and shawls, but to achieve not only a good fit but the right look for your project, be sure to check the gauge. * Also, if you are using yarns with a dye lot printed on the label, be sure to purchase enough yarn of the same dye lot to complete your garment. IMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT THE CARE OF YOUR EMBELLISHED PROJECT Most, but not all, of the yarns used in _Embellished Crochet_ are machine washable and dryable. Be sure to check the label on the yarn before you wash or dry your garment. However, if you have used glass beads that could break or get scratched in a washing machine and dryer, consider hand washing the garment and rolling it in a towel to get out most of the moisture, then laying flat to dry. Some beads can also snag yarn, so also take care when washing these garments—and try to choose beads without uneven or irregular edges. So now you're well-armed to begin your journey through _Embellished Crochet_! Have fun! # Focus on Color Think deep, saturated colors... bright, sparkling colors... intense, eye-popping colors... # Beaded Ruffled Shrug DESIGNED BY KIM RUTLEDGE INTERMEDIATE Bliss is the perfect yarn for this embellishing technique using beads. The super-soft, slightly fuzzy nature of Bliss totally disguises the thread and the dangle-bead technique easily shows off the beads. The technique is easy, takes little time, and results in a young, unique look. SIZES Small (Medium/Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS To fit Bust 32 – 35 (36 – 39)"⁄81 – 89 (91.5 – 99) cm Back Length 17 (18)"⁄43 (45.5) cm, including ruffle YARN Caron International's Bliss (60% acrylic, 40% nylon; 1.76 oz/50 g, 82 yds/75 m ball): • #0008 Sour Apple, 10 (11) balls CROCHET HOOK One size US K-10.5 (6.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS 502 (570) – 6 mm Lime Glass Miracle Beads Beading needle (thin enough to fit through bead) Beading nylon or beading thread to match Yarn needle Row counter (optional) GAUGE In stitch pattern, 12 sts and 8 rows = 4"⁄10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTE Shrug is worked in one piece; beads are added before assembly, allowing the option of adding as many or as few beads as preferred. SHRUG Chain 155 (171). Row 1 (RS): Hdc in third ch from hook, hdc in next ch, * ch 1, skip 1 ch, hdc in next ch; repeat from * across to last 3 ch, ch 1, skip 1 ch, hdc in each of last 2 ch, turn—78 (86) hdc. Row 2: Ch 3 (counts as hdc, ch-1), skip first 2 hdc, * hdc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next hdc; repeat from * to last hdc, hdc in last hdc, turn. Row 3: Ch 2 (counts as hdc), * hdc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next hdc; repeat from * across, end hdc in last ch-1 space and in last hdc, turn. Rows 4 – 27: Repeat Rows 2 and 3. Size Small: Fasten off. Size Medium/Large, work 3 more rows, ending with Row 2. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. FINISHING EMBELLISHING Note: Add beads to body of Shrug before assembling. Thread the tapestry needle with the beading thread. 1. With RS facing, beginning Row 2 (see Bead Placement Chart, here), secure beading yarn to WS of piece. 2. Thread needle through the first hdc on the WS of piece. 3. Bring needle to RS at Point A (see Attach Bead Illustration). 4. Thread one bead onto thread. 5. Holding bead down, insert needle through Point B to the WS of the piece, leaving the bead on a loop of beading thread long enough so that the bead hangs down to the ch-1 space on the row below. 6. Bring needle to the RS at Point C, then to WS at Point D, which secures the loop in place. 7. Thread needle through the next hdc, to hide the thread. 8. Repeat Steps 4–8, referring to Row 2 of Bead Placement Chart. Tip: Give a lengthwise tug on the shrug to be sure you're not pulling the beading nylon or thread too tightly and gathering the stitches. 9. Thread needle through the backs of two rows, using the same method as for Step 8. 10. Repeat Steps 3–8 for the next and every third row. ASSEMBLY SLEEVE SEAMS Fold shrug in half lengthwise with WS tog. Measure and mark 17 (17 ½)" / 43(44) cm from each end (see diagram here). Sew seams, leaving 18 (21 ¾)" / 46(55) cm open in center. RUFFLE – CUFFS Work around each Cuff. Round 1: With RS facing, join yarn with slip st at seam; ch 1, sc an odd number of sts evenly around, join with slip st in first sc. Round 2: Ch 1, sc in each sc around, join with slip st in first sc. Round 3: Ch 3 (counts as hdc, ch 1), * skip 1 sc, hdc in next sc, ch 1; repeat from * around, end skip last sc, join with slip st in first hdc. Round 4: Slip st in first ch-1 space, ch 3, hdc in same ch-1 space, * ch 1, skip next hdc, [hdc, ch 1, hdc] in next ch-1 space; repeat from * around, end ch 1, skip next hdc, join with slip st in first st. Round 5: Repeat Round 4. Round 6: Slip st in first ch-1 space, ch 3, hdc in same ch-1 space, * ch 1, skip next hdc, hdc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next hdc, [hdc, ch 1, hdc] in next ch-1 space; repeat from * around, end ch 1, join with slip st to first hdc. Fasten off Cuffs. RUFFLE — COLLAR Work around center opening for Collar. Rounds 1–6: As above. Repeat Round 3 once. Fasten off Collar. Weave in all ends. BEADING — CUFFS AND COLLAR Work bead loops as for Shrug, working on every third hdc (skipping two hdc between each bead loop), across the last round only of the Cuffs and Collar. # Mini-Squares Wrap DESIGNED BY KIM BIDDEX WITH MARILYN LOSEE EASY This colorful wrap is the perfect way to top off a summer dress or liven up a winter coat. The beautiful embroidery embellishing is easy to do and makes this Simply Soft wrap a real eye-catcher! ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width 15"⁄38 cm Length 61"⁄155 cm, excluding fringe YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9742 Grey Heather (MC), 1 skein Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9604 Watermelon (A), 1 skein * #9608 Blue Mint (B), 1 skein * #9610 Grape (C), 1 skein * #9607 Limelight (D), 1 skein * #9606 Lemonade (E), 1 skein * #9605 Mango (F), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn/tapestry needle size 13 or 16 GAUGE In single crochet, 16 rows = 4"⁄10 cm; each square = 2 ½"⁄6.25 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTE Make 108 squares, 18 each using colors A, B, C, D, E, and F. SQUARES Using appropriate color, chain 3. Round 1: Work 2 dc in third ch from hook (counts as first cluster), ch 1; in same ch, work [3 dc, ch 1] 3 times, join with slip st to top of beginning ch-3—4 dc clusters. Round 2: Ch 3, * work [3 dc, ch 1, 3 dc] in next ch-1 space, ch 1; repeat from * 2 times, end by working [3 dc, ch 1, 2 dc] in last ch-1 space, join with slip st to second ch of beginning ch-3. Fasten off. ASSEMBLY Using yarn needle and appropriate color(s), join Squares in rows of 6, then join rows to form a rectangle as shown (see Assembly Diagram). BORDERS (work on both ends of rectangle) With RS facing, using MC, join yarn with a slip st to corner on one short end of piece. Row 1: Ch 1, sc evenly across, working 9 sc across each Square; turn—54 sc. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in each sc across; turn. Repeat Row 2 until Border measures 8"⁄20.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off. FINISHING Using yarn/tapestry needle, weave in all ends. EMBELLISHING Note: Embellishing is worked on both sides, making the Borders reversible. References to WS and RS are for clarity of instructions only. Use photo and illustrations as guides for placement of Vine, Flowers, and Leaves. FLOWERS (make 20: 4 each using A, B, C, E, and F) 1. Leaving a 6"⁄15 cm tail for attaching Flower to Wrap, chain 3. 2. Work 2 dc in third ch from hook, ch 2, slip st in third ch (first petal made); in the same ch, work [ch 2, 2 dc, ch 2, slip st] four times—5 petals. Fasten off. 3. Sew 10 Flowers randomly to each border, 5 on RS, 5 on WS opposite those on RS. VINE Work on both borders of Wrap. 1. Thread tapestry needle with one strand of D. 2. Referring to Border Embroidery/Flowers illustration for stitch placement, work 1⁄4"⁄.6 cm Running stitches between the flowers (stitches show alternately on both sides of the work). 3. Work Whip stitch through the Running stitches on both sides of the Border. (Note: The arrows in the Assembly Diagram show the path of the Whip stitch through the Running stitches.) LEAVES 1. Thread tapestry needle with a double strand of D. 2. * Insert needle at Point A (see Leaf Illustration) through the border to the WS, then bring needle to the RS at Point B, 1" to 1 ½"⁄ 2.5 to 3.5 cm from the entry point. Work loosely to allow leaf shape to form on both RS and WS of piece. 3. Repeat from * 3 or 4 times, until the leaf is the desired shape and thickness. Fasten off securely and weave ends into Leaf. FRINGE 1. Cut 16"⁄41 cm -long strands of A, B, C, D, E, and F. 2. Holding 2 strands of one color together, fold the strands in half lengthwise. 3. Using crochet hook, * insert hook from WS to RS into corner st of Border, pull through fold of strands (loop), insert ends into loop, and pull tight against edge of Border. 4. Repeat from * in color sequence of A, B, C, D, E, F, or as desired, working into every sc along last row of Border. 5. Trim Fringe ends even. # Tulips Shawl DESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN INTERMEDIATE Crochet provides the perfect background for embellishments of all kinds. Cross stitch with beads makes a bold statement on this truly elegant shawl. Simply Soft provides the drape and intense color that creates an impressive piece. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width 68"⁄ 172.5 cm Length 44"⁄112 cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black (MC), 4 skeins * #9610 Grape (A), 1 skein * #9608 Blue Mint (B), 1 skein * #9609 Berry Blue (C), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle 30 g tube #3 seed rocaille beads in mixed shades of blue and purple, 2 tubes Beading needle thin enough to fit through beads GAUGE Gauge is not critical in this project. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet sc: single crochet sc2tog: single crochet 2 together—insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up loop (two loops on hook), insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all three loops on hook. slip st: slip stitch Mesh Stitch (multiple of 2 sts + 1) * NOTE: Each mesh (st) is made up of one dc and a ch-1; the last dc completes the final mesh (st). * ROW 1: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), dc in next st (first mesh) [ch1, dc], repeat from [to] across, working final dc in last st, turn. * Repeat Row 1 for Mesh st. NOTES * Tulip Square is worked first, then embroidered in beaded Cross stitch, using the Chart; mesh side panels are worked separately and attached to upper two sides of the Square. An additional mesh panel is worked at the upper edge to complete Shawl. * Each square on the Chart represents one beaded Cross stitch on the Tulip Square. HELPFUL Using a strand of contrast-color thread or yarn, work a Basting st from corner to corner in both directions on the Tulip Square; these lines correspond to the red lines on the Chart, and indicate where to center the Tulip Motif. TULIP SQUARE Using MC, chain 2. Row 1: Work 3 sc in second ch from hook, turn—3 sc. Row 2: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first sc (increase), sc in next sc, work 2 sc in last sc (increase), turn—5 sc. Row 3: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first sc, sc in each sc across to last sc, work 2 sc in last sc, turn—7 sc. Rows 4 – 40: Repeat Row 3—81 sc. Row 41: Sc2tog, sc in each space across to last 2 sc, sc2tog, turn—79 sc remain. Rows 42 – 79: Repeat Row 41—3 sc remain. Row 80: Sc3tog—1 sc remains; do NOT fasten off. BORDER With RS facing, working into last sc worked (corner), ch 1, * work 3 sc in corner sc, sc in each row end to next corner; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. EMBELLISHING TULIP MOTIF 1. Working in Cross st from Chart and photos above, cross-stitch the Tulip Motif. 2. For the cross-stitched areas with beads, separate a length of desired yarn into a 2-ply strand (see here), thread beading needle, and secure yarn to WS, bringing up needle to begin the first stitch. 3. Slide 2 beads onto needle and slide down next to square when making the first leg of your Cross stitch ( / ). 4. Slide 3 beads onto needle and slide down next to square when finishing second leg of Cross stitch ( \ ). MESH PANELS (MAKE 2) Using MC, chain 5. Row 1: Dc in the fifth ch from hook — this is the first ch worked (counts as dc, ch 1, dc)—1 mesh. Row 2: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), dc in first dc (second ch of beginning ch-5), ch 1, skip next ch, [dc, ch 1, dc] in 4th ch of beginning ch-5, turn—3 meshes. Row 3: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), dc in first dc (increase), ch 1, skip ch-1 space, work [dc, ch 1] in each dc across to last dc (third ch of beginning ch-4), [dc, ch 1, dc] in last dc (increase), turn—5 meshes. Rows 4 – 20: Repeat Row 3, increasing 1 mesh st each side every row—39 meshes. Fasten off, leaving a 20"⁄51 cm tail. Using yarn needle and tail, sew one Mesh Panel to each upper side edge of Tulip Square. Weave in ends. UPPER EDGE With RS facing, attach yarn to first dc (corner) of right-hand side Mesh Panel, ready to work across the upper edge. Row 1: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch-1), dc in same space as joining (increase), ch 1, skip ch-1 space, work [dc, ch 1] in each dc across to last st, work [dc, ch 1, dc] in last st (increase), turn—80 meshes. Rows 2 – 18: Repeat Row 3 of Mesh Panels, increasing 1 mesh st each side every row—114 meshes. BORDER Round 1 (RS): Working across the upper edge, ch 3 (counts as first dc), work 2 dc in first dc (upper right-hand corner); dc in each dc and ch-1 space across to last dc; work 5 dc in last dc (upper left-hand corner); work 3 dc in each row end along side of Mesh Panel; dc in each sc along side of Tulip Square to lower edge (point of Tulip Square); work 3 dc in center st at point; dc in each sc along side of Tulip Square; work 3 dc in each row end along side of Mesh Panel to upper right-hand corner; work 2 dc in same st as first st, join with a slip st in beginning ch-3, turn. Round 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in same space as joining (upper right-hand corner), dc in each dc around, working 3 dc in the center dc at lower edge point, and 5 dc in center st at upper left-hand corner; end by working 2 dc in same st as first st, join with a slip st in beginning ch-3, turn. Rounds 3 – 5: Repeat Round 2. Round 6: Ch 1, work 3 sc in same space as joining, sc in each dc around, working 3 sc in the center dc at lower point, and 5 sc in center dc at upper corner; end by working 2 sc in same st as first st, join with a slip st in beginning ch-1, turn. Round 7: Ch 1, sc in same space as joining, ch 1, [sc, ch 1] in each sc across upper edge to center st of sc-5 (corner); * ch 5, skip 4 sc, work 2 sc in next st; repeat from * around, working [sc, ch 5, sc] in center st at lower edge point, join with a slip st to beginning sc at upper edge corner. Fasten off. FINISHING FRINGE Using yarn needle, weave in ends. Cut strands 16"⁄41 cm long; holding 6 strands together, fold Fringe in half. Using crochet hook, * insert hook from WS to RS into first ch-5 space, pull through fold of stands (loop), insert ends into loop and pull tight against edge, repeat from , working into each ch-5 space around. Separate each 12-strand Fringe into two 6-strand groups; combine one 6-strand group with the adjacent group from the next Fringe (see illustration). Tie an overhand knot in new 12-strand group, approximately 2"⁄5 cm down from the edge of Shawl; repeat from * across, leaving one 6-strand group free at each side. # Gypsy Skirt DESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN INTERMEDIATE This versatile skirt can be worn year-round and is the ideal design for experimenting with color. The bands separating the tiers make great "canvases" for different types of embroidery and embellishing. Simply Soft gives the skirt the perfect drape. SIZES Small (Medium, Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Waist 25 (31, 37)"⁄63.5 (78.5, 94) cm Length 32"⁄81 cm, all sizes YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9707 Dark Sage (MC), 3 (3, 4) skeins * #9705 Sage (A), 1 skein * #9723 Raspberry (B), 1 skein * #9721 Victorian Rose (C), 1 skein * #9710 Country Blue (D), 1 skein * #9709 Lt. Country Blue (E), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle 30 g tube frosted green #3 seed beads, 1 tube Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) GAUGE In Shell pattern, 4 shell-and-dc groups = 5"⁄12.5 cm; 10 rows = 5"⁄12.5 cm SPECIAL TERMS Shell: Work (2 dc, ch 1, 2 dc) in stitch indicated. Picot: Ch 5, sc in fifth ch from hook. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet picot—ch 5, sc in fifth ch from hook. sc: single crochet shell—work (2 dc, ch 1, 2 dc) in stitch indicated. slip st: slip stitch SKIRT Using MC, beginning at waist, chain 120 (150, 180); join with a slip st to form a ring, being careful not to twist chain. Round 1: Ch 1, sc in same space as joining and in each ch around; join with a slip st to beginning sc—120 (150, 180) sc. Round 2: Ch 4 (counts as first dc, ch 1), * skip 1 st, dc in next st, ch 1; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-4—60 (75, 90) dc. Round 3: Ch 1, sc in same space and in each dc and ch-1 space around, join with a slip st to beginning sc—120 (150, 180) sc. Round 4: Begin Shell pattern—Ch 3 (counts as first dc here and throughout), skip 2 st, shell in next st, skip 2 sts, * dc in next st, skip 2 sts, shell in next st, skip 2 sts; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-3—20 (25, 30) shells, 20 (25, 30) dc. Round 5: Ch 3; skip 2 dc, shell in ch-1 space, skip 2 dc, * dc in next dc, skip 2 dc, shell in ch-1 space, skip 2 dc; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-3. Rounds 6 – 13: Repeat Round 5. Round 14: Ch 1, sc in same space and in each dc and ch-1 space around, join with a slip st to beginning sc—120 (150, 180) sc. Round 15: Ch 1, sc in same space and in each sc around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Rounds 16 – 21: Repeat Round 15. Round 22: Increase Round — Ch 1, sc in same space and in each of the next 3 sc, * work 2 sc in next sc, sc in each of the next 4 sc; repeat from * to around, end work 2 sc in last sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc—144 (180, 216) sc. Round 23: Repeat Round 4—24 (30, 36) shells, 24 (30, 36) dc. Rounds 24 – 34: Repeat Round 5. Round 35: Repeat Round 14—144 (180, 216) sc. Rounds 36 – 42: Repeat Round 15. Round 43: Increase Round — Ch 1, sc in same space and in each of the next 4 sc, * work 2 sc in next sc, sc in each of the next 5 sc; repeat from * around, end work 2 sc in last sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc—168 (210, 252) sc. Round 44: Repeat Round 4—28 (35, 42) shells; 28 (35, 42) dc. Rounds 45 – 55: Repeat Round 5. Round 56: Repeat Round 14—168 (210, 252) sc. Rounds 57 – 63: Repeat Round 15. Round 64: Increase Round — Ch 1, sc in same space and in each of the next 5 sc, * work 2 sc in next sc; sc in each of the next 6 sc; repeat from * around, end work 2 sc in last sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc—192 (240, 288) sc. Round 65: Repeat Round 4—32 (40, 48) shells, 32 (40, 48) dc. Rounds 66 – 76: Repeat Round 5. EDGING Ch 1, sc in same space, skip 2 dc, work [3 dc, picot, 3 dc] in ch-1 space, skip 2 dc, * sc in next dc, skip 2 dc, work [3 dc, picot, 3 dc] in next ch-1 space, skip 2 dc; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Fasten off. EMBELLISHING EMBROIDERY 1. Flowers: Using B, C, D, and E, referring to photo as a guide for color placement, embroider 12 to 14 evenly spaced 3-petal flowers on each sc band of Skirt, using Lazy Daisy stitch (see Illustration and photo). 2. Vine: Separate a 36" to 42"⁄92 to 107 cm length of A into 2-ply strands (see here). Using a 2-ply strand of A, embroider vine (see Embroidery Diagram and photo), adding beads as shown. # Flower Wrap DESIGNED BY KIM RUTLEDGE EXPERIENCED The flowers really "pop" against the black base of this spectacular design. The base is crocheted first, then the flowers and beads are attached to create this dramatic but playful look. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width 84"⁄213 cm Length 32"⁄81 cm (upper edge to point) YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/ 170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black (MC), 3 skeins Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9604 Watermelon (A), 1 skein * #9605 Mango (B), 1 skein * #9606 Lemonade (C), 1 skein * #9607 Limelight (D), 1 skein CROCHET HOOKS One each size US I-9 (5.5 mm) and US G-6 (4 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle Pony beads 4 × 7 mm: 53 green, 152 pink, 105 yellow, 116 orange GAUGE One triple-picot cluster (tp-cluster) = 3"⁄7.5 cm; 6 rows = 3 ½"⁄8.75 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED bead-picot (Wrap edging) — chain 1, pull up a bead, yarn over, pull up a loop, chi 1, slip st in back loop of first ch. ch: chain dc: double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch tp-cluster: triple picot cluster—work [sc, ch 7] 3 times, sc all in same stitch. tr: treble crochet tr4tog: treble crochet 4 together—leaving last loop of each tr on hook, work 2 tr in next sc and 2 tr in the following sc, yarn over, draw through all 5 loops on hook. WRAP Using larger hook and MC, chain 288. Row 1 (RS): Work tp-cluster in twelfth ch from hook, * ch 4, skip 4 ch, dc into next ch + , ch 4, skip 4 ch, work tp-cluster in next ch; repeat from * across, ending last repeat at + , working final dc in last ch, turn—28 tp-clusters. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in first st, * ch 1, sc into first arch of next tp-cluster, [ch 3, sc in next arch of same tp-cluster] twice, ch 1, skip 4 ch + , sc in next dc; repeat from * across, ending last repeat at +, sc in next ch (top of turning-ch), turn. Row 3: Slip st (in each of next sc, ch-1, sc, ch-3, sc) to middle of first tp-cluster; ch 7 (counts as dc, ch 4), * skip [ch-3, sc, ch-1], work tp-cluster in next sc, ch 4, skip [ch-1, sc, ch-3], dc in next sc +, ch 4; repeat from * across, ending last repeat at +; leave remaining [ch-3, sc, ch-1, sc] unworked, turn—27 tp-clusters remain. NOTE Wrap is worked from upper edge to point at lower edge. Bead-picot stitch is worked along edges of Wrap, then Flowers are attached while working Picot Bead edging around each Flower. HELPFUL When threading a large number of beads onto a length of yarn, wax the tip of the yarn with a little candle wax; shape to a point before wax has fully cooled. Rows 4 – 56: Repeat Rows 2 and 3, ending with Row 2—1 tp-cluster remains; do NOT turn after Row 56. EDGING Row 1: Working along row edges, ch 5, sc in final sc at end of last repeat of Row 2 (below); * ch 5,sc in final sc of next repeat of Row 2; repeat from * to corner; working across upper edge (in remaining loops of beginning chain), sc in each of next 2 ch, work 3 sc in next ch (upper corner), sc in each of next 4 ch, sc in ch beneath next tp-cluster, sc in next 4 ch, sc in chain beneath next dc; repeat from to ch beneath last dc of row, work 2 more sc in same dc (opposite upper corner); working along row edges, work 3 sc over post of same dc, sc in beginning sc of first repeat of Row 2 (above), * ch 5, sc in beginning sc of next repeat of Row 2; repeat from * to beginning of Row 56 (lower point). Fasten off. Using MC, thread 57 beads onto yarn, alternating colors (yellow, orange, green, and pink), ending with yellow; join yarn with a slip st to upper left-hand corner. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in same st, sc in each of the next 4 sc, * work bead-picot, sc in next ch-5 space, ch 4, sc in next sc ; repeat between s along side edge to lower corner, work bead-picot, ch 4, skip [ch-1, sc, ch-3], sc in next sc, work bead-picot, sc in same sc, ch 4, skip [ch-3, sc, ch-1], sc in next sc; repeat between s across to last 6 sts before next corner, work bead-picot, sc in each of next 5 sc, slip st in next sc. Fasten off. FLOWERS* Make 41 in the following colorways: 6 using A as Color 1, C as Color 2 (A/C), 5 C/B, 6 B/A, 5 A/D, 4 C/A, 6 B/C, 5 A/B, and 4 D/A. Using smaller hook and Color 1, leaving a 6"⁄15 cm tail for sewing, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring. Round 1: Ch 1, work 9 sc in ring, join with a slip st in first sc—9 sc. Round 2: Ch 1, work 2 sc in each sc around, join with a slip st in first sc—18 sc. Fasten off Color 1; join Color 2 with a sc in any sc. Round 3: Ch 4, work [tr4tog (petal made), ch 4, sc in next sc, ch 4] 6 times, join with a slip st in first sc—6 petals. Fasten off. Using Flower Placement Diagram as a guide, pin Flowers in place on Wrap. EMBELLISHING ATTACH FLOWERS 1. Pull 6"⁄15 cm tail from center of flower to right side. Thread 3 beads, matching petal color of Flower. 2. Thread yarn back through center hole of Flower to WS, being careful not to pull the beads through to the hole to the WS. 3. Sew Flower to the base of tp-cluster (see Diagram 2). Hint: Use a French knot to secure the yarn; pass the needle under the loop attaching the Flower to Wrap, pass needle through the loop just made, pull tight. Weave in end. Add beads to centers of remaining Flowers, attaching Flowers to Wrap as you go. PICOT BEAD EDGING This round adds a beaded edging to the Flowers and attaches the petals to the Wrap. 1. Thread Color 1 (center of Flower) with 6 beads, matching petal color of Flower. 2. Using smaller hook and Color 1 of Flower, working from the RS of Round 2, join yarn with a sc in the same sc of Round 2 as any sc on Round 3. 3. Working in front of Round 3, * ch 4, sc into top of petal, ch 1, slide down bead, yarn over, draw through loop on hook. 4. Remove loop from hook and pick up a stitch on the Wrap (below the bead), by inserting hook under the stitch. 5. Return the dropped loop to hook and pull the loop through the stitch on the Wrap. 6. Ch 1, insert hook in last sc made, yarn over, pull up a loop; push bead through the stitch to the RS; yarn over and draw through both loops on hook. Note: Working the sc in this manner will place the bead on the RS of the piece. 7. Ch 4, sc in same sc on Round 2 as next sc of Round 3 of flower; repeat from * of Step 3 around, end ch 4, join with a slip st to joining sc. Fasten off and weave in ends. Repeat Picot Bead Edging on each Flower. # The Domino Effect Think high contrasts... yin yang... domino games... North Pole and the Black Sea... # Midnight Duster DESIGNED BY LISA GONZALES INTERMEDIATE This easy-to-crochet duster is a modern take on a granny square theme. The center of each square is highlighted with a bead, making the duster simple but elegant. Dress it down for work or wear it over a frilly top for the evening. SIZES Small/Medium (Medium/Large, 1X/2X) To Fit Bust 32–36 (38–42, 44–48)"⁄80–90 (95–105, 110–120) cm FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 40 (50, 55)"⁄100 (125, 138) cm Length 40"/101.5 cm, all sizes YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black, 9 (10, 12) skeins CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS * #16 tapestry needle * 70 (86, 94) beads of choice (with a hole large for tapestry needle to fit through) * Yarn needle GAUGE One Motif = 5"/12.5 cm square In Mesh pattern (on sleeves), 5 sts and 5 rows = 4"/10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED beginning cluster—ch 2 [ yarn over, insert hook in same space, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] twice, yarn over and pull through all 3 loops on hook. ch: chain cluster—[ yarn over, insert hook in space indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] 3 times, yarn over and pull through all 4 loops on hook. dc: double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTES 1. Duster is designed to be loose fitting; fabric is very flexible, sizes are approximate. 2. Wear Duster overlapped in front, or open as shown in photo. 3. Motifs are worked, then joined into Strips and assembled for Back and Fronts. 4. Instructions given are for one length for all sizes; to shorten, work 1 or 2 fewer Motifs for each Strip. 5. Sleeves are worked upward from a 3-Motif strip, in Mesh pattern. MOTIF [MAKE 70 (86, 94)] Using larger hook, leaving a 6"/15 cm tail for attaching bead, chain 6; join with a slip st to form a ring, being careful not to twist chain. Round 1: Ch 4 (counts as dc and ch 1), in the ring work [dc, ch 1] eleven times, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-4—12 ch-1 spaces. Round 2: Work a slip st and beginning cluster in next ch-1 space, ch 3 (counts as dc), work * cluster in next ch-1 space, ch 3; repeat from around, join with a slip st in second ch of beginning cluster—12 clusters, 12 ch-3 spaces. Round 3:* Sc in next ch-3 space, ch 5, * sc in next ch-3 space, ch 5; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in first sc. Round 4: Slip st in next ch-5 space, ch 3 (counts as dc), in same ch-5 space, work [dc, ch 1, 2 dc, ch 3, (2 dc, ch 1) twice] for first corner, sc in next ch-5 space, ch 5 (center space), sc in next ch-5 space, * in next ch-5 space, work [(ch 1, 2 dc) twice, ch 3, (2 dc, ch 1) twice] for corner, sc in next ch-5 space, ch 5 (center space), sc in next ch-5 space; repeat from * twice, ch 1, join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-3. Fasten off. EMBELLISHING _Note that photos do not show Round 4._ ATTACH BEADS 1. After completing the motif, thread the tapestry needle with the 6"/15 cm tail. 2. Thread bead onto yarn. 3. Push the bead so it is close to the center ring of the Motif. 4. Use the yarn needle to attach the yarn end to the WS of the center ring. Knot securely and weave in end. Tip: Put a very small drop of fabric glue on the knot to secure. STRIPS [USING 8 MOTIFS PER STRIP, MAKE 8 (10, 11) STRIPS] JOIN MOTIFS Note: Edging is worked along one side of first Motif, then edging is worked along one side of second Motif, and AT THE SAME TIME, the 2 Motifs are joined together at each corner and in the center of the Motifs. FIRST MOTIF With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st in ch-3 corner space, * [ (ch 2, slip st in next ch-1 space) twice, ch 5, slip st in center ch-5 space ], ch 5; (slip st in ch-1 space, ch 2) twice, slip st in corner ch-3 space, ch 2, turn (WS of first Motif is now facing). Do NOT fasten off. SECOND MOTIF Place second Motif in front of first Motif, with WSs of the Motifs facing each other; slip st in the ch-3 corner space of second Motif, repeat from first bracket ([) under "First Motif" above through second bracket (]). Ch 1, slip st in the slip st worked in the center ch-5 space of First Motif, joining Motifs at center, ch 5; work to end as for First Motif, join last ch-2 worked with a slip st in ch-3 corner space of First Motif. Fasten off—2 Motifs joined. Work 3 more sets of 2 Motifs—4 sets of 2 Motifs. Join 2 sets together to make two 4-Motif strips; join 4-Motif strips to make 8-Motif Strip. Continue in this manner until all 8-Motif Strips are completed. JOIN 8-MOTIF STRIPS Join 4 (4, 5) Strips for Back and 2 (3, 3) Strips for each Front as follows: Hold 2 Strips together, with WS facing each other; join yarn with a sc in corner ch-3 space, working through both Strips; working along long edge through both Strips, * ch 3, slip st in next ch-space; repeat from * to end. Fasten off. Continue in this manner until all Strips are joined for Back and Fronts. Join side seams in the same manner, leaving 6 (6 3⁄4, 7 1⁄2)"⁄15 (17, 19.5) cm open at upper edge for armhole. Join shoulders, leaving 6 (6, 6 1⁄2)"⁄15 (15, 16.5) cm free for Back neck; remainder of Fronts will fold forward. SLEEVES (MAKE 2) Join 3 Motifs to make a Strip. With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st to corner ch-3 space of right-hand Motif. Row 1: * Ch 3, sc in next ch-space; repeat from * twenty-two times evenly across, end by working last sc in corner ch-3 space, turn—23 ch-3 spaces (Mesh pattern). Row 2: Decrease Row — Ch 3, skip first ch-3 space, sc in next ch-3 space, * ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * across, end sc in last ch-3 space, turn—22 ch-3 spaces remain. Repeat Row 2 until 13 (15, 17) ch-3 spaces remain. Next Row: * Ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * across; turn—13 (15, 17) ch-3 spaces. Work 3 rows even. Next Row: Increase Row — Ch 3, sc in first ch-3 space, ch 3, sc in same ch-3 space, * ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * across, turn—14 (16, 18) ch-3 spaces. Work 4 rows even. Repeat Increase Row—15 (17, 19) ch-3 spaces. Work even until piece measures 19 (19 1⁄2, 20)"⁄49 (50, 51) cm from beginning. Fasten off. FINISHING Join sleeves to armholes in the same manner as side seams, working evenly around armhole. Join Sleeve seams. Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. # Fly Away Purse DESIGNED BY CARI CLEMENT EASY This chic purse is the perfect accessory for a night on the town. The feather fringe is a beautiful embellishment that makes the piece stand out. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width (lower edge) 10 1⁄2"/26.5 cm; (upper edge) 7"/18 cm Height 10 1⁄2"/26.5 cm, excluding handles Depth 2"/5 cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black, 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US G-6 (4 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Handles: One pair black plastic purse handles, with hooks at lower ends Lining: Two sheets black plastic canvas, 10" × 12"/25 × 30.5 cm Trim: 1⁄2 yard/45.5 cm each of the following: * 4" – 5"/10 – 12.5 cm -wide feather trim; * black and gray beaded trim; * ½"/1.3 cm -wide black braid Yarn needle Chalk marker Fabric glue Scissors GAUGE Gauge is not critical for this project. In half double crochet (hdc), 15 sts and 8 rows = 4"/10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTE Purse is worked in 5 pieces; Back, Front, Bottom, and 2 Gussets. Back and Front of Purse are lined with plastic canvas to maintain its shape. Trim is applied after Purse is assembled. BACK AND FRONT (BOTH ALIKE) Chain 45. Row 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—43 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn—43 hdc. SHAPE SIDES Row 3: Ch 2, skip first hdc, hdc in each st across—42 hdc remain. Repeat Row 3, decreasing 1 stitch every row until 25 hdc remain. Work even, if necessary, until piece measures 10 1⁄2"/26.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off. GUSSETS (MAKE 2) Chain 11. Row 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—9 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn. Work even, repeating Row 2, until piece measures 3 1⁄2"/9 cm from beginning. SHAPE GUSSET Increase Row: Ch 2, work 2 hdc in first st, hdc in each st across to last st, work 2 hdc in last st, turn—11 hdc. Work even, repeating Row 2 until piece measures 7"/18 cm from beginning. Repeat Increase Row—13 hdc. Work even, repeating Row 2, until piece mea-sures 10 1⁄2"/26.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off. BOTTOM Chain 11. Row 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—9 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn. Work even, repeating Row 2, until piece mea-sures 10 1⁄2"/26.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off. FINISHING Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. LINING Using Front, Back, and Bottom pieces as patterns, trace shapes onto plastic canvas, using a marker. Using scissors, cut out plastic canvas lining pieces. Using yarn needle threaded with a strand of yarn, whipstitch the lower edges of Front and Back lining pieces to the Bottom lining piece. ASSEMBLE PURSE With WS held together, join Front and Back pieces to Gussets by working 1 row of sc evenly along side edges through both pieces; join Bottom to Front, Back, and Gussets in the same manner. HANDLE LOOPS (MAKE 2 EACH ON BACK AND FRONT) Right-hand side: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, one st in from right-hand seam on upper edge. Row 1: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sts, turn—3 sc. Continuing on these 3 sts, repeat Row 1 until piece measures 1 1⁄2"/3.5 cm from beginning, end with a WS row, turn. Fold loop to WS; working through last row of Handle Loop and upper edge of Purse, slip st across, joining loop to WS of piece in the same sts worked on Row 1. Left-hand side: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, 4 sts in from left-hand seam on upper edge. Work as for right-hand side. Insert Lining into Purse: Whipstitch in place along upper edges of Back and Front. Insert the hook ends of the Purse Handles into the Handle Loops. EMBELLISHING Attach trims: Note above photo shows each layer of trim in the order it is applied. 1. Cut feather trim to width of top edge of Purse. 2. Apply thin line of glue to back side of trim; adhere along top edge. 3. Cut beaded trim to width of top edge of Purse plus 1"/2.5 cm. Turn in 1⁄2"/1.3 cm on each end; glue wrong sides of each trim end together to secure. 4. Apply glue along top edge of feather trim; press beaded trim in place. 5. Cut braid trim to width of top edge of Purse plus 1"/2.5 cm. Turn in 1⁄2"/1.3 cm on each end; glue ends as for beaded trim. 6. Apply glue along top of beaded trim; press braid trim in place. # Elegant Squares Wrap DESIGNED BY MARILYN LOSEE INTERMEDIATE This comfortable wrap is another take on granny squares, but this version is completely updated. It's sophisticated, sparkly, and so easy to make! ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Small Squares measures 14"/35.5 cm; Large Square measures 20"/51 cm Wrap measures 48"/122 cm along one side, after assembly, excluding fringe YARN Caron International's Glimmer (85% acrylic, 15% polyester; 1.76 oz/50 g, 49 yds/45 m ball): * #0019 Charcoal (A), 4 balls * #0020 Black (B), 5 balls Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9701 White (C), 1 skein, use double strand throughout CROCHET HOOKS One each size US K-10 1⁄2 (6.5 mm) and L-11 (8 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle 3 yards/2.75 m beaded fringe 1 skein black embroidery floss Sewing needle and black thread 6"/15 cm -wide piece of cardboard Safety pin GAUGE Gauge is not critical for this project. NOTE Wrap is worked in 5 Squares, then joined (see Diagram); purchased beaded fringe is sewn to 2 long sides, Tassel is added to the neck edge of large Square and end folded down. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain ch-loop: chain loop—ch 10, slip st in top of dc just made. dc: double crochet joining-dc: joining double crochet—yarn over, insert hook in next dc, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook, insert hook in ch-loop, yarn over and draw through ch-loop and both loops on hook. sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch SMALL SQUARE (MAKE 4) Note: RS is facing for all rounds. Using larger hook and A, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring. Round 1: Using A, ch 5 (counts as dc, ch 2), in the ring work 2 dc, work ch-loop, * dc, ch 2, 2 dc, work ch-loop; repeat from * twice, join with a slip st to third ch of beginning ch-5—4 ch-loops. Round 2: Slip st in first ch-2 space, ch 7 (counts as first dc plus ch 4, now and throughout), work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 2 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, dc in next 2 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc (beginning ch-7), join with a slip st to first dc (third ch of beginning ch-7)—28 dc, 4 ch-4 spaces. Fasten off A; join double strand of C with a slip st in first ch-4 space. Round 3: Using 2 strands of C held together, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 4 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next 3 dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc in next ch-4 space] for corner, dc in next 4 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next 3 dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st in first dc—44 dc. Fasten off C; join A with a slip st in first ch-4 space. Round 4: Using A, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 6 dc, work ch-loop, dc in each dc to corner, * work corner in next ch-4 space, dc in next 6 dc, work ch-loop, dc in each dc to corner; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st to first dc—60 dc. Fasten off A; join B with a slip st in first ch-4 space. Round 5: Using B, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 15 dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc] in next ch-4 space (corner), dc in next 15 dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st to first dc—76 dc. Do NOT fasten off. Transfer loop from hook to safety pin, to keep piece from unraveling while braiding ch-loops. BRAID CHAIN-LOOPS Working from center to outside edge, insert hook from front to back in first ch-loop (Round 1), * pull ch-loop on next round through ch-loop on hook; repeat from * twice, leaving last ch-loop free (to be joined on next round). Repeat braiding on remaining 3 sides. Round 6: Continuing with B, return loop on safety pin to hook; slip st in first ch-4 space, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 9 dc, work joining-dc, dc in next 9 dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc] in next ch-4 space (corner), dc in \|next 9 dc, work joining-dc, dc in next 9 dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st to first dc. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. LARGE SQUARE (MAKE 1) Work Rounds 1–4 of Small Square—60 dc. Round 5: Using B, work as for Round 4 of Small Square, working ch-loop above ch-loop of previous round—76 dc. Round 6: Using A, repeat Round 5 of Large Square—92 dc. Round 7: Using C, repeat Round 5 of Large Square—108 dc. Round 8: Using A, work as Round 5 of Small Square, working dc in each dc between corners, work corners as established—124 dc. Place last loop on safety pin. Braid ch-loops. Round 9: Using B, work as Round 6 of Small Square, joining ch-loops with joining-dc. Round 10: Using B, work as Round 5 of Small Square, working dc in each dc between corners, work corners as established. Fasten off. Weave in ends. FINISHING ASSEMBLY (SEE SCHEMATIC) Using yarn needle and B, [join 2 Small Squares together] twice—2 strips of 2 Squares each. Join one strip to each side of Large Square, as shown. EDGING Using smaller hook and B, join yarn with a slip st in any corner ch-space on outer edge; ch 1, work 2 sc in same space, work sc in each dc around, working 2 sc in corner loops where squares are joined and 4 sc in next 3 corners; in last corner (at beginning of round), work 2 sc in same space as beginning sc, join with a slip st to first st. Fasten off. Weave in end. EMBELLISHING ATTACH BEADED FRINGE 1. Pin beaded fringe to WS of lower edge of Wrap, turning in ends. 2. Sew to lower edge of Wrap using sewing thread. MAKE TASSEL: 1. Wrap B around 6"⁄15 cm piece of cardboard to desired thickness. 2. Tie top of Tassel with length of embroidery floss. 3. Cut a 1-yard/92 cm length of B and thread through top of Tassel. 4. Trim bottom of Tassel evenly. 5. Wrap neck of Tassel with embroidery floss, leaving a 10"⁄25.5 cm length at one end, and secure. Pull long end of floss through top of Tassel. Tie securely at top of Tassel. 6. Thread short end through neck to skirt of Tassel. 7. With smaller hook and using floss end at top of Tassel, make a 2"⁄ 5 cm -long ch. 8. Fasten off, but do not cut yarn end. 9. Cut enough beaded fringe to encircle neck of Tassel and sew in place. 10. Using end of floss, sew Tassel securely to the point of large square, using Schematic as guide. # Cropped Vest DESIGNED BY CARI CLEMENT EASY Tie an outfit together with this simple cropped vest. The beading and detail around the trim is sure to spice up any look. SIZES X-Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52)"⁄81 (91.5, 101.5, 112, 122, 132) cm Back Length (from shoulder) 13 (13, 13, 13 1⁄2, 13 1⁄2, 14)"⁄33 (33, 33, 34, 34, 35.5) cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft Tweed (98% Acrylic, 2% Rayon; 3 oz/85 g, 150 yds, 137 m ball): * #0002 Off White (MC), 2 (3, 3, 4) balls Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black (CC), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge GAUGE In Pebble st, 16 sts and 15 rows = 4"⁄10 cm ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn Needle #16 tapestry needle 294 (312, 330, 362, 384, 406) large-hole 5/0 E seed beads, Matte Black (Miyuki) CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch Bead Pebble Stitch (Edging) Work as for Pebble st (below), sliding a bead down after dc and before sc; to turn corners, in corner work [3 sts in pattern in same st, adding 2 beads]. Decrease (dec) Work 2 sts together in pattern to decrease 1 st, as follows: * In pattern: [begin the next st in pattern, but to not complete it (leave 1 loop from the stitch on hook)] twice, yarn over, draw through all 3 loops on hook. * For sc: insert hook into next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, leaving loop on hook. * For dc: yarn over, insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops, leaving remaining loop on hook. Pebble Stitch (multiple of 2 sts) * ROW 1: Dc in third ch from hook, * sc in next st, dc in next st; repeat from * across, end dc in last ch, turn. * ROW 2: Ch 2, * dc in next sc, sc in next dc, repeat from * across, end dc in top of beginning ch. * Repeat Row 2 for Pebble st. NOTES 1. Vest is worked in one piece to underarms, then Back and Fronts are worked separately to shoulders. 2. Beaded trim is worked after garment is assembled. HELPFUL Place a marker at the beginning of first row to indicate RS. Pebble stitch looks the same on both sides, therefore indications of RS and WS in instructions are to clarify instructions only. VEST Using MC, chain 130 (146, 162, 178, 194, 210). Begin Pebble st, Row 1—128 (144, 160, 176, 192, 208) sts, counting beginning ch. Work even in pattern, repeating Row 2, until piece measures 4 1⁄2"/ 11.5 cm from beginning (all sizes), end with a WS row; count in 33 (37, 41, 45, 49, 53) sts from each side, place a marker (pm) on these sts (center of underarm)—32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52) sts each side for Fronts; 64 (72, 80, 88, 96, 104) sts for Back, including marked sts. DIVIDING ROW (RS) Work across 26 (30, 32, 34, 36, 38) sts in pattern for right Front, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked. RIGHT FRONT SHAPE ARMHOLE WS) Beginning this row, at armhole edge (beginning of WS rows, end of RS rows), dec 1 st every row 12 (12, 12, 14, 14, 14) times—14 (18, 20, 20, 22, 24) sts remain. SHAPE NECK AND SHOULDER WS) Work across to last 3 (5, 7, 5, 7, 7) sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—12 (14, 14, 16, 16, 18) sts remain. RS) Beginning this row, at neck edge (end of WS rows, beginning of RS rows), dec 1 st every row 10 times—2 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until armhole measures 8 1⁄2 (8 1⁄2, 8 1⁄2, 9, 9, 9 1⁄2)"⁄21.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm (from dividing row. Fasten off. BACK With RS facing, beginning with marked st, skip 6 (6, 8, 8, 10, 12) sts to the left, counting underarm marked st; join yarn with a slip st in next st. Ch 2, work in pattern across to 5 (5, 7, 7, 9, 11) sts before second marked st, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—52 (60, 64, 72, 76, 80) sts for Back. SHAPE ARMHOLES WS) Beginning this row, dec 1 st each side every row 12 (12, 12, 14, 14, 14) times—28 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52) sts remain. Work even until armhole measures 6 (6, 6, 6 1⁄2, 6 1⁄2, 7)"⁄ 15 (15, 15, 16.5, 16.5, 18) cm from dividing row, end with a WS row. SHAPE RIGHT SHOULDER RS) Continuing in pattern, work across 8 (10, 10, 12, 12, 14) sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked for neck and left shoulder. WS) Beginning this row, at neck edge dec 1 st every row 6 times—2 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until armhole measures 8 1⁄2 (8 1⁄2, 8 1⁄2, 9, 9, 9 1⁄2)"⁄21.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm from dividing row. Fasten off. With RS facing, skip center 12 (16, 20, 20, 24, 24) sts; join yarn with a slip st 8 (10, 10, 12, 12, 14) sts from left armhole edge, work to end. WS) Beginning this row, at neck edge dec 1 st every row 6 times—2 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until armhole measures 8 1⁄2 (8 1⁄2, 8 1⁄2, 9, 9, 9 1⁄2)"⁄21.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm from dividing row. Fasten off. LEFT FRONT With RS facing, skip 6 sts after marked st, join yarn with a slip st in next st; ch 2, work in pattern to end. SHAPE ARMHOLE (WS) Beginning this row, at armhole edge (end of WS rows, beginning of RS rows), dec 1 st every row 12 (12, 12, 14, 14, 14) times—14 (18, 20, 20, 22, 24) sts remain. SHAPE NECK AND SHOULDER (RS) Work across to last 3 (5, 7, 5, 7, 7) sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—12 (14, 14, 16, 16, 18) sts remain. (WS) Beginning this row, at neck edge (end of RS rows, beginning of WS rows), dec 1 st every row ten times—2 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until armhole measures 8 1⁄2 (8 1⁄2, 8 1⁄2, 9, 9, 9 1⁄2)"⁄ 21.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm from dividing row. Fasten off. FINISHING Sew shoulders seams. Bead counts are what were used on sample garment, plus 10 to 12 extra; it's easier to have a few beads left on the yarn after finishing than to have to string additional beads to complete the edging; sample garment used approximately 14 beads per 6"⁄15 cm. BEADED EDGING 1. Vest: Using tapestry needle, thread 164 (182, 196, 220, 238, 252) beads onto MC. 2. With WS facing, join yarn with a slip st to right Back neck edge at left shoulder seam. 3. Begin Bead Pebble st; work 1 row evenly across Back neck, along right Front neck shaping, down Front edge, across lower edge, up left Front and neck shaping (be sure to work the same number of beads on left Front as on right Front) to shoulder. 4. Armholes: Thread 70 (70, 72, 76, 78, 82) beads onto MC. 5. With WS facing, join yarn with a slip st to underarm at marker. 6. Begin Bead Pebble st; work 1 row evenly around armhole. Fasten off. 7. Count the number of beads used for armhole and thread an equal number for remaining armhole. Repeat Step 6 for remaining armhole. EMBELLISHING CROCHETED LOOP STITCH TRIM 1. Join CC to the WS of the center Back neck edge on the last row of the vest. 2. Insert the hook between the last row of the Vest and the beaded trim row from RS to WS; yarn over and pull loop through to RS and through loop on hook. 3. Skip 2 sts (1 bead); repeat Step 2. 4. Continue in this manner around Vest, taking care not to pull the loops too tightly. 5. Make three Lazy Daisy stitches on each corner of the lower Front and upper Front (see illustration here), using photos as a guide. # Out of Africa Think desert shades... colorful African fabrics... equatorial jungles... deep shadows and intense sunlight... # Sahara Shawl DESIGNED BY MARGARET WILLSON INTERMEDIATE This amazing work of art is a definite show-stopper—you're bound to get noticed wherever you wear it. A variety of techniques (crochet stitches, embroidery stitches, and bead embellishments) are all showcased in this sophisticated shawl. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width 60"⁄152 cm, lower edge Length 35"⁄89 cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black (MC), 2 skeins * #9703 Bone (A), 2 skeins * #9742 Grey Heather (B), 1 skein * #9702 Off White (C), 1 skein Caron International's Simply Soft Shadows (100% acrylic; 3 oz/85 g, 150 yds/137 m ball): * #0001 Pearl Frost (D), 2 balls * #0008 Opal Twist (E), 1 ball CROCHET HOOK One size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle Tapestry needle Black beading thread Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) 3 yards/2.75 m black flat braid or twill tape, 1⁄2"/1.3 cm wide Straight pins 190 round wood bead, 6 mm, earthtone (Darice—Jewelry Designer #1905-08) — Bead-A 19 grams assorted bone beads, natural (The Beadery — elements #1433H) — Bead-B 23 grams assorted antiqued bone beads, black with white (The Beadery — elements #1438H) — Bead-C 75 wood beads, 8 mm — Bead-D 66 split cowrie shells — Bead-E Split-ring stitch markers (optional) GAUGE In stitch pattern, Rows 1 – 12 form a triangle that measures 9" × 5"⁄ 23 cm × 12.5 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED bsc: bead single crochet (see here) ch: chain dc: double crochet dc2-cluster: double crochet 2 together cluster—[ yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook (one cluster made). dc3-cluster: double crochet 3 together cluster—[ yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times, yarn over and draw through 4 loops on hook (one cluster made). hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTES 1. Shawl is shaped by working increases both in the center st and at the beginning and end of rows, or at each of the 3 corners when rows are worked in the round (indicated as rounds). 2. Pay special attention to whether a row or round is indicated in the instructions, and whether it is right-side (RS) or wrong-side (WS) facing; do NOT turn unless indicated. 3. Beads are added on WS rows so that they will show on the RS. 4. It may be helpful to place a marker in center st when working increases, and move it up each row/round. SHAWL Note: All odd-numbered rows and rounds are RS until indicated otherwise. Using tapestry needle and A, string 5 Bead-A on yarn, chain 6. Row 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook, hdc in next ch, work 3 dc in next ch (2-sts increased — center), hdc in next ch, sc in last ch, turn—7 sts. Row 2: Ch 1, [sc, bsc] in first st (increase), sc in next st, bsc in next st, work [sc, bsc, sc] in next st (center), bsc in next st, sc in next st, [bsc, sc] in last st (increase), turn—11 sts. Fasten off A; join C. Row 3: Using C, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st (increase), sc in each st to center, work 3 sc in center st, sc in each st across to last st, work 2 sc in last st (increase), turn—15 sts. Row 4: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st to center, work 3 sc in center st, sc in each st across to last st, work 2 sc in last st, turn—19 sts. Fasten off C. Using E, string 13 Bead-B on yarn; join E. Row 5: Using E, ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first sc, dc in next 8 sts, work 5 dc in center st, dc in next 8 sts, work 2 dc in last st, turn— 25 sts. Row 6 (WS): Ch 1, work [sc, bsc] in first st, * sc, bsc; repeat from * across next 10 sts, sc in next st ** [sc, bsc, sc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across next 11 sts, in last st work [bsc, sc], turn—29 sts. Fasten off E; join C. Rows 7 and 8: Repeat Rows 3 and 4— 37 sts. Fasten off C. Using A, string 23 Bead-A on yarn; join A. Row 9 (RS): Using A, ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first sc, dc in each of next 17 sts, work 5 dc in center st, dc in next 17 sts, work 2 dc in last st, turn—43 sts. Row 10: Ch 1, work [sc, bsc] in first st, * sc, bsc; repeat from * across next 20 sts *, [sc, bsc, sc] in center st; repeat from to ** across next 20 sts, in last st work bsc, sc, turn—47 sts. Fasten off A; join C. Rows 11 and 12: Repeat Rows 3 and 4—55 sts. Fasten off C; join MC, begin working in-the-round. Round 13 (RS): Using MC, work 3 sc in first st (corner), sc in each st across to center, work 3 sc in center st; sc in each st across to last st (corner), work 3 sc in corner; working across top edge, work [1 sc in end of each sc row, 2 sc in end of each dc row and 1 sc in the remaining loop of each ch of beginning-ch (30 sc across top edge)], join with a slip st in beginning-sc, turn. Round 14 (WS): Ch 1, * sc in each st around, working 3 sc in each corner and in center st, join with a slip st in beginning-sc, turn. Fasten off MC; join B. Row 15 (RS): Using B, ch 3, dc in same st, dc in each of next 30 st, work 3 dc in center st, dc in each of next 30 st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Row 16: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first dc, sc in each st to center st, work 3 sc in center st, sc in each st across to last st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Fasten off B. Using C, string 19 Bead-C on yarn; join C. Row 17 (RS): Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 18: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, work [sc (bsc, sc in next 3 sts) 8 times, bsc, sc in next 2 sc] across to center st, work [sc, bsc, sc] in center st, sc in next 2 sts; repeat from [ to ] once, sc in next st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 19: Ch 1, sc in each st across, working 3 sc in center st, turn. Fasten off C; join B. Row 20 (WS): Using B, ch 1, sc in each st across, working 3 sc in center st, turn. Row 21: Ch 3, dc in first sc, dc in each sc across to last sc, working 3 dc in center st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off B; join MC. Row 22 (WS): Ch 3, dc in next 2 st, work [ch 3, skip 1 st, work dc3-cluster over next 3 sts] 10 times, ch 3, skip next st, work 3 dc in center st, ch 3, skip next st, work [dc3-cluster, ch 3, skip next st] 10 times, dc in next st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off MC; join A. Row 23 (RS): Using A, ch 1, sc in first 3 sts, [(working in front of ch-3 loop, work 3 dc in skipped st 1 row below, sc in top of next cluster) 10 times, work 3 dc in skipped st 1 row below] sc in next st, work 3 sc in center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, sc in each of last 3 sts, turn. Row 24: Ch 3, dc in first sc [(work 3dc-cluster, ch 3, skip next st) 11 times, work dc3 cluster] ch 7, skip center st; repeat from [ to ] once, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off A. Using MC, string 24 Bead-D on yarn; join MC. Row 25 (RS): Using MC, ch 1, sc in next 2 st, sc in top of next cluster, [(working in front of ch-3 A-loop and around MC ch-3 loop (into the space) from 3 rows below, work 3 dc in skipped st 1 row below, sc in top of next cluster) 11 times], work 7 dc in skipped center st 1 row below, sc in top of next cluster; repeat from [ to ] once, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 26: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in next st, work [bsc, sc in next 3 sts] 12 times, work 3 sc in center st, [sc in next 3 sc, bsc] 12 times, sc in next st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Fasten off MC; join C. Row 27 (RS): Using C, ch 3, work 2 dc in same st, skip next st, sc in next st, [(skip next st, work 5 dc in next st working around ch-3 loop (into the space) that is at back of piece, skip next st, sc in next st) 12 times], work 5 dc in center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, skip next st, work 3 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off C; join E. Round 28 (WS): Using E, ch 1, sc in next 2 st, [(work dc3-cluster, sc in next 3 sts] 12 times, work dc3-cluster], sc in next st, work 3 sc in center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, work dc3-cluster, sc in next st, work 3 sc in corner st, sc evenly across top edge as for Round 13, working 1 sc in each sc of Round 13, work 2 sc in corner, join, turn. Round 29 (RS): Ch 1, then sc in each st around, working 3 sc in each corner and in center st, join. Fasten off E. Do NOT turn. Using C, string 64 Bead-A on yarn; join C. Note: Even numbered rows and rounds are now RS until otherwise indicated. Row 30 (RS): Using C, ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in same st, [(skip next st, work 2 dc in next st) 27 times, skip next st], work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat [ to ] once, work 3 dc in last st (upper right corner), turn. Row 31: Ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in space between first and second dc, * work 2 dc in each space ** to center st, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last 3-dc group, work 3 dc between second and third dc of last group, turn. Row 32: Repeat Row 31. Row 33: Ch 1, [sc, bsc] in first st, * work ch 2, skip 2, bsc in next space ** across to center st, [bsc, ch 3, bsc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last st, sc in last st, turn. Fasten off C; join A. Row 34 (RS): Using A, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, [work (3 sc in next ch-2 loop, 2 sc in next ch-2 loop) 15 times, 3 sc in next loop], work 5 sc in center st; repeat from [ to ] once, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Rows 35 – 38: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working, 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 39 (WS): Ch 1, sc in first st, ch 2, sc in next st, [(ch 2, skip 3 sts, sc in next st, ch 2, skip 2 st, sc in next st) 12 times, ch 2, skip 3 st, sc in next st], ch 3, skip center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, sc in next st, ch 2, sc in last st, turn. Fasten off A; join E. Row 40 (RS): Using E, ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in first space, * work 3 dc in each ch-2 space ** across to center st, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last ch-2 space, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in last st, turn. Row 41: Ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc between first and second dc, * work 3 dc in each space ** across to center st, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st, repeat from * to ** across to last 3-dc group, work 2 dc between second and third dc of last group, dc in last dc, turn. Row 42: Repeat Row 41, turn. Fasten off E; join A. Row 43 (WS): Using A, [sc, ch 1, sc] in first st, * ch 3, sc in next space *; repeat from to center st, work [sc, ch 3, sc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last st, work sc, ch 1, sc] in last st, turn. Row 44: Ch 1, sc in first st, work 2 sc in ch-1 space, * work 3 sc in each space** across to center st, work 5 sc in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last ch-1 space, work 2 sc in last space, sc in last st, turn. Rows 45 – 47: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 48 (RS): Work as Row 45, do NOT turn. Fasten off A; join MC, ready to work a RS row. Row 49 (RS): Using MC, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, * ch 2, sk 2, sc in next st; repeat from * across ** to center st, ch 3, skip corner st, sc in next st; repeat * to ** to last st, work 2 sc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join C, ready to work a RS row. Row 50 (RS): Using C, ch 3, * work 3 dc in next st [skip ch-2 space, work 3 dc in next sc across] ** to center ch-3 space, work 3 dc in center ch-3 space; repeat from * to ** to last st, dc in last st, turn. Fasten off C; join MC. Row 51 (WS): Using MC, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, work [ch 2, sc in center dc of next 3-dc group across] to center st, ch 2, work [sc, ch 3, sc] in center st; repeat from [ to ] to last st, ch 2, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 52 (RS): Ch 3, dc in first st, * skip next ch-2 space, work 3 dc in each sc across ** to center ch-3 space, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center ch-3 space; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 2 dc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join C, ready to work a RS row. Rows 53 and 54: Using C; work as Rows 51 and 52. Fasten off C; join MC, ready to work a RS row. Row 55 (RS): Using MC, work as Row 51, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join B, ready to work a RS row. Row 56 (RS): Using B, ch 3, dc in same st, * work 3 dc in each ch-2 space across ** to center st, work [3 dc, ch 1, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last st, 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off B; join A. Row 57 (WS): Using A, ch 1, work 2 sc in same st, sc in each st across to last st, working 3 sc in center ch-1 space, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 58: Ch 3, dc in first sc, dc in each st across to last st, working 5 dc in center st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Row 59: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across, working 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Fasten off A; join D in first sc. Row 60 (RS): Using D, ch 3, work 2 dc in same st, * (skip 2 sc, work 3 dc in next st) across ** to center st, skip 2 sc, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last 3 sts, skip 2 sc, work 3 dc in last st, turn. Row 61: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working 5 sc in center ch-3 space, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Row 62: Ch 3, dc in first st, skip next st, work 3 dc in next st, * skip 2 sts, work [3 dc in next st, skip 2 sts] across ** to center st, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last 2 sts, work 3 dc in next st, skip next st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Row 63: Repeat Row 61, turn. Row 64: Ch 3, work 2 dc in first st, * skip 2 sts, work [3 dc in next st, skip 2 sts across ** to center st, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 3 dc in last st, turn. Row 65: Repeat Row 61, turn. Fasten off D; join MC. Row 66 (RS): Using MC, ch 3, work 2 dc in same st, * skip next st, work [2 dc in next st, skip next st] across ** to center st, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 3 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off MC; join A. Row 67 (WS): Using A, ch 3, dc in same st * work 2 dc between the sts of each 2-dc group across ** to center ch-3 space, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in space; repeat from * to ** across to last st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off A; join MC in first st. Row 68 (RS): Using MC, ch 3, dc between first and second st, ch 1, work dc2-cluster over next 2 spaces, ch 1, * work [dc2-cluster over previous and next space, ch 1] across ** to center space, working last dc in center ch-3 space, work [ch 1,dc] 3 times in center space, ch 1, work dc2-cluster over center space and next space, ch 1; repeat from * to ** to last 3 sts, work 2 dc between 2 sts, dc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join C, ready to work a RS row. Row 69 (RS): Using C, sc in first st, work 2 sc between next 2 sts, * work 2 sc in each ch-1 space across ** to center st, work 3 sc in center dc; repeat from * to ** to last 3 sts, work 2 sc between next 2 sts, sc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off C; join B, ready to work a RS row. Row 70 (RS): Using B, ch 3, work 2 dc between first and second sc, skip 2 sc, * work 2 dc in each space between 2-dc groups across ** to center st, skip 3 sc, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center sc, skip 3 sc; repeat from * to to last st, work 2 dc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off B; join MC, ready to work a RS row. EDGING** Note: Work in rounds, join with a slip st in beginning sc at the end of each round. Round 1 (RS): Using MC, work 3 sc in first st, * work 2 sc between sts of each 2-dc group across ** to center ch-3 space, work 5 sc in center space; repeat from * to to last st (corner), work 3 sc in corner, sc evenly across top edge as for Round 13, working 1 sc in each sc across sc of Round 28, join. Rounds 2 – 4 (RS): Ch 1, then sc in each sc around, working 3 sc in center st and in each corner, join. Fasten off after Round 4. EMBELLISHING EMBROIDERY 1. Using tapestry needle and 2 strands B, work Cross stitch across Rows 17–19 between beads. 2. Using tapestry needle and 2 strands MC, work Fly stitch on Rows 35–37, working from each side toward center. 3. Using tapestry needle and 2 strands D, work Fly stitch on Rows 45–47, working from each side toward center. 4. Using tapestry needle and 1 strand MC, work Herringbone stitch on Rows 57–59, working from left to right to center, end at center; begin again, work to end. BEADED FRINGE PREPARE BRAID OR TWILL TAPE 1. Lay braid on flat surface. 2. Measure 1"⁄2.5 cm from end of braid, place marker. 3. Measure 1 1⁄2"/3.5 cm from previous marker, place marker. 4. Repeat Step 3 for a total of 57 markers. 5. Leave 1"⁄2.5 cm of braid after last marker and cut away any excess braid. MAKE BEADED FRINGE ON BRAID 1. Thread beading needle. 2. Working from right to left, on WS of braid, backstitch to first marker. 3. Needle up at marker, thread 3 Bead-A (cream, tan, dark brown), thread cowrie shell from back to front, then thread needle up through first 3 beads. 4. Needle down at same marker, remove marker. 5. Backstitch on WS of braid to next marker. 6. Repeat Steps 3–5 across braid—57 Beaded Fringes. ATTACH BEADED FRINGE TO SHAWL 1. With beaded edge of fringe against outside edge of Shawl, pin fringe to WS of edging, matching center dangle to center point and working toward each upper corner. 2. With WS facing, using tapestry needle and MC, baste fringe in place. 3. With RS facing, using tapestry needle and one strand of E, work Cross and brick stitch border over last 3 rows of edging, encasing Beaded Fringe (as follows): Right-hand side: With RS facing, and straight edge of piece nearest, begin in corner with 3 straight stitches fanning out from same point. Work from right to left to upper corner. Left-hand side: With RS facing, turn piece so that point of triangle is nearest and work from right to left to upper corner. # Desert Trader's Tote DESIGNED BY CANDI JENSEN EASY This tote is a wonderful blend of sophistication and creativity, but is versatile enough to be paired with almost any outfit—whether you're out shopping or at the theater. This one-of-a-kind tote is not only functional, but a hip eye-catcher, too! ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS 14"⁄35 cm square YARN** Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9703 Bone (MC), 1 skein * #9727 Black (A), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS * Yarn needle * 1 package Foiled Oval Cheetah beads (The Beadery — Elements #1366H560) * 2 packages cowrie shell beads, Natural (The Beadery — Elements #2050H) * 1 42-oz package small oval gold beads * 6 shell buttons * 1⁄2 yard beaded fringe trim * Blunt-end sewing needle * Black sewing thread * Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) GAUGE In half double crochet, 14 sts and 12 rows = 4"⁄10 cm SPECIAL TECHNIQUE Change color in last hdc: Work across to last st in current color; yo, insert hook in last st to be worked in current color and pull up a loop, drop current color, pick up next color, yo and draw through 3 loops on hook. Continue with new color. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet fpdc: front-post double crochet—(RS) yarn over, insert hook from right-hand side of stitch to WS of piece, return to RS of piece at left-hand side of stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, complete as dc. hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch BACK AND FRONT (BOTH ALIKE) Using A, chain 11; join MC and chain 28; join another strand of A and chain 12. Row 1: Using A, hdc in second ch from hook and in each of the next 10 ch, changing to MC in last st; using MC, hdc in next 28 ch, changing to A in last st; using A, hdc in last 11 ch, turn—50 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, changing colors as established, turn. Work even, repeating Row 2, until piece measures 12"⁄30.5 cm from the beginning. Fasten off. MEDALLIONS (MAKE 2) Using A, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring. Round 1: Ch 1, in center of ring work 12 sc, join with a slip st to first sc, turn—12 sc. Round 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first st, * dc in next st, work 2 dc in next st, repeat from * around, end dc in last st, turn. Round 3: Ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first st, * work [2 dc in next st, dc in next st] 5 times, work 2 dc in each of next 2 sts; repeat from * around. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. EMBELLISHING 1. Using sewing needle and black thread, sew gold beads and shell beads in place on Medallions (see photo here). 2. Sew a shell button to each Medallion center. 3. Sew Medallions to Front (see photo here). EMBROIDERY String 16 Foiled Oval beads onto a strand of A (8 for each side of MC panel). 1. With WS of Front facing, beginning at lower edge, approximately 1 1⁄2"/3.5 cm in from edge of MC panel, hold yarn to RS of piece; pull a loop from RS to WS through the Front and the loop on hook; * insert hook 1 1⁄2"/3.5 cm above previous loop, slide a bead down, pull a loop through as for Step 1; repeat from * in a straight line to upper edge of Front (see photo). 2. Repeat 1 1⁄2"/3.5 cm from opposite side edge of MC panel. Weave in ends. FINISHING With wrong sides facing, join Front to Back with a row of slip st, using A, along sides and lower edge. EDGING Work in rows; join at the end of each row before turning. Row 1: With RS facing, using A, join yarn with a slip st to upper edge of Tote at side seam; ch 2, hdc in each hdc around, join with a slip st to first st, turn—100 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc around, changing to MC in last st, join with a slip st to first st, turn. Row 3: Using MC, ch 2, * hdc in next 4 hdc, fpdc in next hdc of Round 1, repeat from * around, changing to A in last st, join with a slip st to first st, turn. Rows 4 and 5: Using A, hdc in each st around, join with a slip to first st, turn. Fasten off. Weave in ends. Cut 4 pieces of beaded fringe the width of side panels (A), plus 1"⁄2.5 cm. Fold under 1⁄2"/1.3 cm at each end; using sewing needle and thread, tack ends to WS, then sew fringe in place (see photo). STRAPS (MAKE 2) Using A, chain 80. Row 1: Hdc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—79 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across. Fasten off. Sew Straps to WS at upper edge of Tote (see photo). Sew a shell button on RS through both thicknesses to secure Handles to Tote. # Circular Yoke Blouse DESIGNED BY GAYLE BUNN INTERMEDIATE Simply Soft yarn paired with the easy bead crochet stitch makes this project feel more like a knitted blouse than a sweater. This young and beautiful design is something you can wear to work, school, or play. SIZES Small (Medium, Large, Extra-Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 36 (40, 44, 48)"⁄91.5 (101.5, 112, 122) cm Length 24 1⁄2 (25, 25 1⁄2, 26)"⁄62 (63.5, 64.5, 66) cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9703 Bone, 4 (4, 5, 5) skeins CROCHET HOOK One size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size needed to obtain gauge. ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Stitch marker Tapestry needle (thin enough to fit through beads) 54 (54, 62, 62) approximate 8 mm × 12 mm oval painted wood beads GAUGE In Cluster pattern, 6 clusters and 11 rounds = 4"⁄10 cm. SPECIAL TERM Cluster: Work 2 hdc in same space/st. CROCHET STITCHES USED bsc: bead single crochet (see here) ch: chain dc: double crochet dc2tog: double crochet 2 together—[ yarn over, insert hook in next dc and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook. hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet sc2 tog: single crochet 2 together—insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and pull through 3 loops on hook. slip st: slip stitch BODY Ch 126 (138, 150, 162) loosely; join with a slip st to first ch to form round, being careful not to twist chain. CLUSTER PATTERN Round 1: Ch 2 (counts as hdc), hdc in same ch as join (beginning cluster made), * skip next ch, work 2 hdc in next ch (cluster made); repeat from * around to last ch, skip last ch, join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2—63 (69, 75, 81) clusters. Round 2: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2. Repeat Round 2 for Cluster pattern until piece measures 5"⁄12.5 cm from beginning. NOTES 1. Body and Sleeves are worked in joined rounds to underarm, then armhole and neck shaping are worked in rows before working yoke in rounds. 2. Rounds are joined at the Back of garment; this will appear as a diagonal line across the piece. 3. Embellishing (bead sc) is worked with WS facing as you crochet the yoke. When working in rounds, turn at the end of the round prior to the Bead round, work Bead round with WS facing; turn. Continue working with RS facing. First Decrease Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 18 (20, 22, 24) times, * [hdc in next space between 2 clusters] twice (cluster-dec made—counts as cluster) *, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 19 (21, 23, 25) times; repeat from once; then from * to ** once; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2—60 (66, 72, 78) clusters remain. Work even in Cluster pattern until piece measures 9"⁄23 cm from beginning. Second Decrease Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 17 (19, 21, 23) times, * [hdc in next space between 2 clusters] twice *, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 18 (20, 22, 24) times; repeat from once; then from * to ** once; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2—57 (63, 69, 75) clusters remain. Work even in Cluster pattern until piece measures 13"⁄33 cm from beginning. Third Decrease Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 16 (18, 20, 22) times, * [hdc in next space between 2 clusters] twice *, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 17 (19, 21, 23) times; repeat from once; then from * to once; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2—54 (60, 66, 72) clusters remain. Work even in Cluster pattern until piece measures 15 (15, 15 1⁄2, 15 1⁄2)"⁄38 (38, 39.5, 39.5) cm from beginning. LEFT FRONT** Row 1: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times; leave remaining sts unworked; turn—6 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Left Front. Decrease Row: Slip st in each of first 2 hdc, slip st in space between first 2 clusters, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * to last cluster, leave last cluster unworked; turn—5 (6, 7, 8) clusters remain. Repeat Decrease Row 3 (4, 5, 6) times—2 clusters remain. Fasten off. RIGHT FRONT Row 1: With RS facing, skip next 12 (13, 14, 15) spaces between clusters; join yarn with slip st in next space, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times, leave remaining sts unworked; turn—6 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Right Front. Complete as for Left Front. RIGHT BACK Row 1: With RS facing, skip next 3 spaces between clusters (underarm); join yarn with slip st in next space, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times, leave remaining sts unworked; turn—6 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Right Back. Complete as for Left Front. LEFT BACK Row 1: With RS facing, skip next 12 (13, 14, 15) space between clusters; join yarn with slip st to next space, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times, leave remaining sts unworked; turn—6 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Left Back. Complete as for Left Front. SLEEVES (MAKE 2) Ch 34 (34, 36, 36) loosely; join with a slip st to first ch to form round, being careful not to twist chain. Round 1: Work as for Body—17 (17, 18, 18) clusters. Continue in Cluster pattern until piece measures 2 1⁄2"/3.5 cm from beginning. First Increase Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around to last cluster, hdc in each hdc of last cluster (cluster-inc made — counts as cluster); join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2—18 (18, 19, 19) clusters. Place a marker (pm) on cluster-inc (underarm seam). Work 9 rounds even in Cluster pattern. Second Increase Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around to cluster above marked cluster-inc, hdc in each hdc of next cluster (cluster-inc made), work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from around; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2—19 (19, 20, 20) clusters. Move marker to cluster-inc. Repeat last 10 rounds twice—21 (21, 22, 22) clusters. Work even in Cluster pattern until sleeve measures 18"⁄46 cm from beginning. Fasten off. SHAPE SLEEVE CAP Row 1: Place marker on final row of sleeve at underarm seam. Leaving 3 spaces between clusters unworked at underarm, join yarn with slip st in next space between 2 clusters, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 17 (17, 18, 18) times; leave remaining sts unworked, turn—18 (18, 19, 19) clusters remain. Decrease Row: Slip st in each of first 2 hdc, slip st in space between first 2 clusters, ch 2, hdc in same space, * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * to last cluster, leave remaining cluster unworked; turn—17 (17, 18, 18) clusters remain. Repeat Decrease Row 3 (4, 5, 6) times more—14 (13, 13, 12) clusters remain. Fasten off. YOKE Sew Sleeves to Body at underarms. Using tapestry needle, thread 28 (28, 32, 32) beads onto yarn. Round 1: With RS facing, join yarn with slip st in right Back underarm seam; work 168 (168, 192, 192) sc evenly around yoke edge; join with a slip st to first sc. Round 2: Ch 1, sc in same st as join, * ch 3, skip next 2 sc, sc in next sc; repeat from * around, end ch 3, skip last 2 sc; join with a slip st to first sc; turn—56 (56, 64, 64) ch-3 spaces. Round 3 (WS): Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, ch 3, bsc in next ch-3 space, ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from around, ending with ch 3, bsc in next ch-3 space, ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc; turn—28 (28, 32, 32) bsc. Round 4 (RS): Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space, skip next sc and next ch-3 space, work 5 dc in next sc (fan made), skip next ch-3 space and next sc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc—14 (14, 16, 16) 5-dc fans. Round 5: Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * [dc in next dc, ch 1] 4 times, dc in next dc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc. Round 6: Slip st in next dc, ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), [dc in next dc, ch 1] 3 times, * dc2tog (last dc of fan and first dc of next fan) [ch 1, dc in next dc] 3 times, ch 1; repeat from * around, end dc in last dc; join with a slip st to third ch of ch 4 (counts as dc2tog)—56 (56, 64, 64) ch-1 spaces. Round 7: Ch 1, sc in same st as join, ch 3, skip next ch-1 space, sc in next ch-1 space, ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space, ch 3, skip next ch-1 space, sc in top of next dc2tog; repeat from around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc—42 (42, 48, 48) ch-3 spaces. Round 8: Slip st in next ch-3 space, ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in same ch-3 space, * work 2 dc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-3—84 (84, 96, 96) dc. Fasten off. Using tapestry needle, thread 24 (24, 28, 28) beads onto yarn. Round 9 (WS): With WS facing, join yarn with slip st in first dc, ch 1, sc in each of first 3 dc, * bsc in next dc, sc in each of next 6 dc; repeat from * around to last 4 (4, 2, 2) dc, bsc in next dc, sc in last 3 (3, 1, 1) dc; join with a slip st to first sc; turn—12 (12, 14, 14) bsc. Round 10 (RS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * ch 3, skip next 2 sc, sc in next sc; repeat from * around, end ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc—28 (28, 32, 32) ch-3 spaces. Round 11: Work as Round 8—56 (56, 64, 64) dc. Do NOT fasten off. Round 12: Slip st in next dc, slip st in space before next dc, ch 1, sc in same space, * ch 3, skip 2 dc, sc in space before next dc; repeat from * around, end ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc; turn—28 (28, 32, 32) ch-3 spaces. Round 13 (WS): Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * ch 3, bsc in next ch-3 space, [ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space] 4 times; repeat from * 4 (4, 5, 5) times, end [ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space] 2 (2, 1, 1) time(s), ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc; turn—6 (6, 7, 7) bsc. Round 14 (RS): Work as Round 8; turn—56 (56, 64, 64) dc. Do NOT fasten off. Round 15 (WS): Slip st in next dc, slip st in space before next dc, ch 1, sc in same space, ch 3, skip 2 dc, bsc in space before next dc, * [ch 3, skip 2 dc, sc in space before next dc] 4 times, ch 3, skip 2 dc, bsc in space before next dc; repeat from * 4 times, end [ch 3, skip 2 dc, sc in space before next dc] 1 (1, 0, 0) time(s), ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc—6 (6, 7, 7) bsc. Fasten off. FINISHING TIE Work a chain 58 (58, 60, 60)"⁄147 (147, 152, 152) cm long. Fasten off. Thread Tie through Round 13 of Yoke, beginning and ending at center Front. Attach one bead to each end of Tie. CUFF EDGING With RS facing, join yarn with slip st at under-arm of cuff edge in space between 2 clusters; ch 1, sc in same space, * ch 3, sc in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around ending with ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off. BODY EDGING Round 1: With RS facing, join yarn with slip st at center back of lower edge in space between 2 clusters, ch 1, sc in same space, * ch 3, sc in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around to last 1 (2, 1, 2) clusters, ch 3, skip 0 (1, 0, 1) cluster, sc between 2 hdc of next cluster, ch 3, skip remaining st(s); join with a slip st to first sc—64 (68, 76, 80) ch-3 spaces. Round 2: Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space, skip next sc and next ch-3 space, work 5 dc in next sc (fan made), skip next ch-3 space and next sc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc—16 (17, 19, 20) 5-dc fans. Round 3: Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * [dc in next dc, ch 1] 4 times, dc in next dc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc. Round 4: Slip st in next [dc, ch 1 and next dc], ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), [dc in next dc, ch 1] twice, * sc2tog (last dc of fan and first dc of next fan), [ch 1, dc in next dc] 3 times, ch 1; repeat from * around, end sc2tog, ch 1; join with slip st to third ch of beginning ch-4. Round 5: Slip st in next ch-1 space, ch 1, sc in same ch-1 space, [ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space] twice, ch 3, * sc in next sc2tog, [ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space] 4 times, ch 3; repeat from * around, end sc in last sc2tog, ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space, ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off. # Hoop Earrings DESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY BEGINNER There's no better way to learn bead crochet than by making these accessories. By splitting the four strands of Simply Soft Shadows into two strands, you can choose from a range of shadowed yarns to create your own unique earrings. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS 2 1⁄2"/6.5 cm in diameter YARN Caron International's Simply Soft Shadows (100% acrylic; 3 oz/85 g, 150 yds/137 m ball): * #0004 Autumn, 1 ball CROCHET HOOK One size US C-2 (2.75 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS 1 pair hoop earrings, 2 1⁄4"/ 5.5 cm in diameter 46 gold glass E beads, 4 mm Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) 2 embroidery floss bobbins Yarn needle GAUGE Gauge is not critical to this project. CROCHET STITCHES USED bss: bead slip stitch (see here) ch: chain dc: double crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTES Earrings are worked using a 2-ply strand of yarn. Here is how to divide the strands. 1. Cut a 7-yard length of yarn and wind into a ball, leaving approximately 1 yard/92 cm free; secure ball with a yarn needle to hold the ball intact. 2. Separate the unsecured yarn end into two 2-ply strands, making sure there is one striped ply and one solid ply to each new pairing. Allow the ball to spin freely as it unwinds. 3. Wind 2-ply strand onto an embroidery floss bobbin. 4. Release another yard of yarn from the ball, secure it again with the yarn needle. 5. Repeat Steps 2–4 until the entire length of 4-ply yarn has been separated into two 2-ply strands. EARRINGS (MAKE 2) Using beading needle and 2-ply strand of yarn, thread 23 beads onto yarn; tie yarn end to earring hoop. Wrap yarn end around earring hoop and work over it while working Row 1. Row 1: Insert hook into loop on earring and pull up a loop. Insert hook into center of earring hoop, yarn over and pull up a loop, take hook over earring hoop, yarn over and draw through both loops on hook (first chain made); ch 2, (counts as first dc), work 46 dc enclosing earring hoop. Row 2: Flip the stitches through the earring hoop so they are standing vertically; working from back to front, bss 23 times. FINISHING Using beading needle threaded with tail, weave tail inside dc along outer edge of hoop. Trim ends. Repeat for second earring, beginning at the opposite end of the earring hoop. # Kente Cloth Scarf DESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY INTERMEDIATE This Tunisian crochet (a.k.a. Afghan stitch) scarf was inspired by traditional Kente cloth fabric. The colors in the scarf are mirrored by the delicate beaded fringe. Simply Soft makes this scarf super soft, and Noreen's experimentation with color makes this a bright, fun accessory to spice up any look. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width 6 1⁄2"/16.5 cm Length 65"⁄165 cm, excluding fringe YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black (A), 1 skein Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9607 Limelight (B), 1 skein * #9609 Berry Blue (C), 1 skein * #9604 Watermelon (D), 1 skein * #9605 Mango (E), 1 skein * #9606 Lemonade (F), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One Tunisian hook size US L-11 (8 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle Tapestry needle Beading needle (thin enough to go through beads) Beading thread 4 large glass beads, 5⁄8"/1.5 cm, orange 24 glass beads, 5⁄8"/1.5 cm long, assorted greens 35 grams beads, 1⁄2"/1 cm, yellow mixed 35 grams beads, 1⁄2"/1 cm, blue mixed 2 packages beads (70 beads each) 6 mm, transparent blue 35-gram tube E seed beads, orange 35-gram tube E seed beads, assorted blues 35-gram tube E seed beads, assorted greens 35-gram tube E seed beads, black Row counter (optional) Ruler (for reading chart) (optional) Beading tray (or muffin pan) for arranging beads (optional) GAUGE In Tunisian crochet, 15 sts and 9 rows = 4"⁄10 cm STITCH USED ch: chain SPECIAL TECHNIQUE Tunisian Crochet (Afghan stitch) Each row of Tunisian crochet is worked in two steps after the Foundation Row. Foundation Row Chain the number of sts indicated in the instructions; skip first ch, * insert hook in next ch, yarn over and draw up a loop (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each ch. Complete Foundation Row by working Step 2. Repeat Steps 1 and 2 for remainder of piece. STEP 1. With RS facing, working from right to left, pick up stitches for the row: Beginning in the second vertical bar of the previous row, * insert hook into the vertical bar of the previous row, yarn over and draw loop through the vertical bar (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each vertical bar. STEP 2. Working from left to right, work off the stitches: yarn over and draw through first loop on hook, * yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook; repeat from * across. NOTES 1. Front of Scarf is worked first, from the Chart; the lining is picked up from the sts on the left-hand side of the scarf and worked across the width, then seamed. This means that it's not necessary to weave in yarn ends while working the Front. 2. Each square on the Chart represents one stitch. 3. When changing colors, always bring the new color under the working color to avoid holes from forming. 4. Bobbins are not recommended (see Helpful, below). HELPFUL 1. When working from Chart, place a ruler on the Chart, covering the rows above the row that is being worked. 2. Due to the many color changes, it is recommended to cut yarn into 5-yard/4.5 m lengths; let them hang freely at the WS of the piece. The yarns will still tend to tangle, but the short lengths are easy to untangle. FRONT Foundation Row: Using A, chain 25. Follow instructions under Special Technique—24 sts. Work one row even. Begin Chart; work Rows 1–48 of Chart 3 times—145 rows total. Using A, work 1 row. Work 1 slip st in each st across, ending at upper left-hand corner of scarf. LINING (REVERSE SIDE) Continuing with A, ch 1; pick up 146 sts along side edge of Scarf; work sts off as Step 2—146 sts. Stripe Sequence: Continuing to work in Tunisian crochet, work 2 rows using A, 2 rows F, 2 rows B, 2 rows D, 2 rows C, 2 rows E, 2 rows C, 2 rows D, 2 rows B, 2 rows F, 2 rows A. Begin Stripe Sequence, counting pickup row as first row of A. Work even for 22 rows. Fasten off. FINISHING Fold Scarf in half lengthwise and stitch Lining to right-hand side of Front; stitch ends closed. If desired, steam Scarf, pressing flat with fingers; do not allow iron to touch Scarf. Using yarn needle, weave in ends from seaming. EMBELLISHING BEADED FRINGE 1. Sort beads into 24 groups, one for each 5"⁄12.5 cm fringe; begin by dividing larger beads, then filling in with the assorted colors of E beads. 2. Join the beading thread at one corner of the Scarf, anchoring securely. 3. Working across width of Scarf, using one group of beads at a time, thread the beads, ending with a large green bead and an E bead; working around the E bead, thread the needle up through the remaining beads to the edge of the Scarf. 4. Stitch through end of Scarf to anchor Fringe strand; stitch over one edge stitch of Scarf. 5. Working as for Steps 3 and 4, attach 12 Fringe strands across Scarf end. Fasten off securely. 6. Attach 12 Fringe strands to opposite end. # Got the Blues Think denims... basics blues accented with intense hues... applied embellishments... embroidered and trimmed jeans... # Medallions Belt DESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN EASY Denim is a wonderful color to which you can add bright shades and sparkly trimmings, and the premade discs of plastic canvas act as a great armature or base to use in your embellishing projects. Play with the yarn, tassels, and beads to create your own signature belt. SIZES Small (Medium, Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Length 33 (38, 43)", excluding Tassels YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9711 Dk. Country Blue (A), 1 skein * #9710 Country Blue (B), 1 skein Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9605 Mango (C), 1 skein * #9604 Watermelon (D), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle 6—3" plastic canvas circles 30 g tube #3 seed rocaille glass beads, colors of mixed orange and hot pink, 1 tube Larger blue beads for Tassels Beading needle 2—2" D-rings Large safety pin or sewing needle and thread (optional) T-pins or straight pins (optional) Cork board (optional) GAUGE Gauge is not critical for this project. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet dc3tog (cluster): double crochet 3 together—[ yarn over, insert hook in next ch-2 space and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times, yarn over and draw through 4 loops on hook. fpsc: front-post single crochet—(RS) insert hook from left-hand side of stitch to WS of piece, return to RS at right-hand side of next dc from previous round (Note: This is the opposite direction from the normal working method for fpsc), yarn over and pull up loop, complete as sc. sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch SPECIAL TECHNIQUE FIVE-STRAND BRAID Note: The illustration here shows the path of each strand as it is braided; when repeating Steps 2 and 3, for each repeat the strand at the far left will be worked as for Strand 1 (Step 2), the strand at the far right will be worked as Strand 5 (Step 3). 1. Stitch or pin the ends of five strands together to secure, then pin strands to ironing board or cork board with T-pins. 2. Referring to the diagram, bring the left-hand strand (1) over the strand to its immediate right (2). 3. Weave the right-hand strand (5) over the strand to its immediate left (4), under the next strand (3) and over the next strand (1). Strand 2 is now at the far left, and Strand 4 at the far right. 4. Repeat Steps 2 and 3, always using the outer left-hand and right-hand strands. NOTES 1. Depending on the hole size of the beads, it may be necessary to separate the yarn into 2-ply strands to be able to string on the beads. ( See here.) 2. Make Belt longer or shorter by adjusting the number of beginning chains. 3. Flower Motifs are worked separately, applied to medallion bases, then attached to Braided Belt as desired. BELT Make 3 strands using A and 2 strands using B as follows: Chain 276 (301, 326). Row 1: Sc in the second ch from the hook and in each ch across, turn—275 (300, 325) sc. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in each sc across. Fasten off. Alternating colors (A, B, A, B, A), pin or baste strands together, then secure them to ironing board or a piece of cork board. Following instructions for 5-strand Braid technique, beginning at pinned end, braid cords until 18"⁄46 cm of cord remains at opposite end. Wrap a strand of A or B securely around strands to form a Tassel. ATTACH D-RINGS Using yarn needle and A, join the strands together close to the beginning of the Braid. Fold the ends through both D-rings; sew ends securely to WS. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. FLOWERS FLOWER MOTIF 1 (MAKE 2) Using D, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring. Round 1: Ch 5 (counts as dc, ch 2), working in the center of the ring, [dc, ch 2] 5 times; changing to C, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-5—6 dc; 6 ch-2 spaces. Round 2: Continuing with C, ch 4, * work cluster in ch-2 space of beginning ch of previous round, ch 4, work fpsc around next dc, ch 4; repeat from * 4 times, end cluster in next ch-2 space, ch 4, sc around first ch 2 of Round 1, join with a slip st in first ch of Rnd 2. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. Using beading needle and yarn, attach 2 beads to each dc post of Round 1 (see photo above). Using C, chain 4, join with a slip st to form a ring. Round 1: Ch 1, work 12 sc into ring; do NOT cut C, changing to D, join with a slip st in first sc—12 sc. Round 2: Using D, ch 1, [sc, ch 4, sc] in the front loop only of each sc of Round 1, join with a slip st in first sc of Round 2—12 small petals; cut D. Round 3: Using C, working in back loops only of each sc of Round 1, ch 1, [sc, ch 7, sc] in back loop of each sc around, join with slip st in first sc of Round 3—12 large petals. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. Using beading needle and yarn, attach 12 to 14 beads to the sc sts of Round 1 (see photo above). FLOWER MOTIF 3 (MAKE 2) Using C, chain 4, join with a slip st to form a ring. Round 1: Ch 1, work 12 sc into ring; join with slip st to beginning sc—12 sc. Round 2: Ch 5 (counts as dc, ch 2), dc in same space, skip 1 sc, [(dc, ch 2, dc) in next sc, skip 1 sc] 5 times; changing to D, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-5—12 dc; 6 ch-2 spaces. Round 3: Slip st in ch-2 space of beginning ch of Round 2, ch 3 (counts as dc), work 6 dc in same space, skip 1 dc, sc in space between skipped dc and next dc, skip 1 dc, * work 7 dc in next ch-2 space, skip 1 dc, sc in space between skipped dc and next dc, skip 1 dc; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to top of beg ch-3. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. Using beading needle and yarn, attach beads in an × shape over the sc on Round 1; use 4 beads crossing from upper right to lower left, 5 beads crossing from upper left to lower right (see photo above). MEDALLION BASES 1. Using plastic canvas circles and sharp, pointed scissors, remove 1 outer section and 3 inner sections from 4 circles. 2. Remove 2 outer sections and 3 inner sections from 2 circles. 3. Using yarn needle and a double strand of A, cover circles with yarn, leaving last row at outer edge free (see photo above). ATTACH FLOWERS TO MEDALLION BASES 1. Place Flower Motif on Medallion. Using yarn needle and a double strand of A, cover last row of canvas circle while attaching Flower to Medallion. 2. Attach Flower Motifs 2 and 3 to larger Medallions, Flower Motif 1 to smaller Medallions; when attaching Flower Motif 2, use 3 beads when securing outer petals to Medallion. FINISHING ASSEMBLY Using yarn needle and A, attach assembled Medallions securely to the Braided Belt, evenly spaced. Note: Photo shows the smaller Medallions at each end. TASSEL Using beading needle and A or B, attach 3 larger beads to the end of each strand of Tassel (at opposite end from D-rings). If desired, attach 3 smaller beads, randomly spaced, up the length of each Tassel. Be creative! # Denim Skirt DESIGNED BY GAYLE BUNN EASY The classic, straight denim skirt was the inspiration for this more embellished version. Using different types of fringes and beads or, by changing the colors, you can create a whole wardrobe of Simply Soft skirts! SIZES Small (Medium, Large, Extra-Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Hips 37 (39, 42, 45)"⁄ 94 (99, 106.5, 114) cm Length 24 (24, 25, 25)"⁄ 61 (61, 63.5, 63.5) cm (including edging) YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9710 Country Blue, 3 (3, 4, 4) skeins CROCHET HOOKS Sizes US B-1 (2.25 mm) and US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge GAUGE In half double crochet, using larger hook, 12 sts and 8 rows = 4"⁄10 cm ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Stitch markers Yarn needle 2 (2, 3, 4) spools metallic thread (5 yards/meters each) Bead threader 33 (35, 38, 42) barrel beads 1 1⁄4 (1 3⁄8, 1 3⁄8, 1 1⁄2) yards fringe, 2 1⁄2" wide Sewing needle and thread to match fringe trim and to match skirt 70 (74, 79, 84) square beads, 6 mm Zipper, 7"⁄18 cm long CROCHET STITCHES USED bsc: bead single crochet (see here) ch: chain cl: cluster—work [2 dc, ch 1, 2 dc] in next stitch (or chain). dc: double crochet hdc: half double crochet hdc2tog: half double crochet 2 together—yarn over, insert hook in next st, pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and pull through 5 loops on hook (1 st decreased). sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTE Turning chain (ch-2) does not count as a stitch. BACK AND FRONT (BOTH ALIKE) Beginning at lower edge, using larger hook, chain 65 (68, 73, 77). Row 1 (RS): Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—63 (66, 71, 75) hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn. Repeat Row 2 until piece measures 3"⁄7.5 cm from beginning. Decrease Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each hdc across to last 2 hdc, hdc2tog, turn—61, (64, 69, 73) hdc remain. Work even for 3 rows. Repeat last 4 rows 3 more times—55 (58, 63, 67) hdc remain. Work even until piece measures 11 (11, 12, 12)"⁄27.5 (27.5, 30.5, 30.5) cm from beginning; place a marker (pm) each end of last row. Next Row: Repeat Decrease Row, every other row until 41 (44, 49, 53) hdc remain for waist. Work even until piece measures 7"⁄18 cm from markers. Fasten off. BOTTOM EDGING Using larger hook, chain 21. Row 1 (RS): Dc in fourth ch from hook (counts as 2 dc), * skip next 3 ch, work cluster in next ch; repeat from * twice, skip next 3 ch, dc in each of last 2 ch, turn—2 dc at each end, 3 clusters. Row 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in next dc, work [cluster in ch-1 space of next cluster] 3 times, dc in each of last 2 dc, turn. Repeat Row 2 until piece, slightly stretched, measures 42 (44, 47, 50)"⁄107 (112, 118, 126) cm from beginning. Fasten off. EMBELLISHING BEADED ACCENT 1. Thread 17 (18, 19, 21) barrel beads onto 1 spool of metallic thread; thread 16 (17, 19, 20) barrel beads onto next spool(s) of metallic thread. 2. Using smaller hook, join metallic thread with a slip st in top corner of Bottom Edging. 3. Ch 1, sc in same space, work 3 sc across side of next row, * bsc in corner of next dc, work 6 sc across side of next 2 rows; repeat from * across, joining new spool(s) of thread as needed. Fasten off. FRINGE 1. Using sewing needle and matching thread, sew square beads to top edge of fringe trim at 5⁄8"/1.6 cm intervals (see photo above). 2. Sew fringe trim across lower edge of Bottom Edging. FINISHING With RS facing, sew side seams of Back and Front, leave opening above markers on left side for zipper. Using sewing needle and matching thread, sew zipper in place. Sew seam of Bottom Edging; sew Bottom Edging to lower edge of Skirt, with seam at left side seam. WAIST EDGING With RS facing, using larger hook, join yarn with a slip st at upper edge beside zipper opening; slip st in each sc around waistline. Fasten off. # Easy Beaded Camisole DESIGNED BY GAYLE BUNN EASY This elegant camisole is a great design for your first embellishing project. It's versatile enough to wear by itself in the evening or over a shirt for a sophisticated look for day. SIZES Small (Medium, Large, Extra-Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 34 1⁄2 (36 3⁄4, 40, 45 1⁄4)"⁄87.5 (93.5, 101.5, 115) cm Length 18 1⁄2 (18 1⁄2, 19 1⁄2, 20 1⁄4)"⁄46.5 (46.5, 49, 51) cm, including Straps YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * # 9709 Lt. Country Blue, 2 (2, 2, 2) balls CROCHET HOOK One size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge GAUGE In half double crochet, 15 sts and 9 rows = 4"⁄10 cm ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) 90 (92, 104, 110) beads, 8 mm, crystal 26 (26, 32, 34) beads, 8 mm, silver Yarn needle CROCHET STITCHES USED bhdc: bead half double crochet—work as bsc, working hdc instead of sc. bsc: bead single crochet (see here) ch: chain dc: double crochet hdc: half double crochet hdc2tog: half double crochet 2 together—yarn over, insert hook in next st, pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and pull through 5 loops on hook (1 st decreased). sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTES 1. Chain-2 does not count as a hdc. 2. The beads are added in bead single crochet as the piece worked. BACK Thread 16 (16, 18, 20) crystal beads onto yarn. Chain 64 (68, 74, 84). LOWER EDGING Row 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—63 (67, 73, 83) sc. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in first 1 (3, 2, 3) sc, * bsc in next st, sc in each of the next 3 sc; repeat from * until last 2 (0, 3, 0) sc, bsc 1 (0, 1, 0) time, sc in each of last 1 (0, 2, 0) sc, turn. Row 3: Ch 2, hdc in each of the first 2 (2, 1, 2) sts, * ch 1, skip next sc, hdc in next st; repeat from * to last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, hdc in last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, turn. Row 4: Ch 2, hdc in each of the first 2 (2, 1, 2) sts, * hdc in next ch-1 space, hdc in next hdc; repeat from * to last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, hdc in last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, turn. SHAPE SIDES (Note: Side shaping is written out below; it is also shown on Front Bead Placement Chart; work armhole and neck shaping as given for Back.) Rows 1–4: Ch 2, hdc in each st across, turn. Row 5: Decrease Row — Ch 2, hdc2tog (decrease), hdc in each hdc across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn—61 (65, 71, 81) sts remain. Rows 6–8: Work even in hdc, (ch 2, hdc in each st across, turn). Row 9: Repeat Decrease Row—59 (63, 69, 79) sts remain. Rows 10–12: Work even in hdc. Row 13: Increase Row — Ch 2, work 2 hdc in first st (increase), hdc in each hdc across to last st, work 2 hdc in last st, turn—61 (65, 71, 81) sts. Rows 14–21: Repeat Rows 10 – 13 twice—65 (69, 75, 85) sts. Rows 22–24: Work even in hdc. SHAPE ARMHOLES Row 25: Slip st in each of the first 7 (8, 9, 11) sts; ch 2, hdc in same space as last slip st, hdc in each hdc across to last 6 (7, 8, 10) sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—53 (55, 59, 65) sts remain. Row 26: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each st across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn—51 (53, 57, 63) sts remain. Repeat last row 3 (3, 4, 6) times more—45 (47, 49, 51) sts remain. SHAPE NECK Next Row: Ch 2 [hdc2tog] twice, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—2 sts remain. Next Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog. Fasten off. With RS facing, skip center 37 (39, 41, 43) sts, join yarn with a slip st to next st; ch 2, hdc2tog over this st and next st, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn. Next Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog. Fasten off. FRONT Thread beads onto yarn in the following sequence: 1 (1, 1, 2) silver beads, 7 (9, 9, 9) crystal beads, 8 (8, 8, 10) silver beads, [7 (7, 9, 9) crystal beads, 8 (8, 8, 10) silver beads] twice, and 16 (16, 18, 20) crystal beads. EDGING Work Rows 1–4 as for Back. Begin working from Front Bead Placement Chart, placing beads as indicated and working side shaping as for Back. Work Rows 1–24 of Chart. SHAPE LEFT ARMHOLE AND NECK Next Row: Slip st in each of the first 6 (7, 8, 10) sts; ch 2, hdc in same space as last slip st, hdc in each of the next 13 (13, 15, 19) hdc, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—14 (14, 16, 20) sts. SIZES SMALL, MEDIUM, AND LARGE ONLY Next Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each of the next 4 (3, 3) hdc, bhdc, hdc in each st across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn—12 (12, 14) sts remain. SIZE EXTRA-LARGE ONLY Next Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each of the next 3 hdc, bhdc, hdc in each of the next 7 hdc, bead hdc, hdc in each hdc across to last 2 hdc, hdc2tog over last 2 hdc, turn—18 sts. ALL SIZES Next Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each st across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn—10 (10, 12, 16) sts remain. Repeat last row until 2 sts remain. Next Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog. Fasten off. SHAPE RIGHT ARMHOLE AND NECK Thread 1 (1, 1, 2) silver beads onto yarn. With RS facing, skip center 25 (27, 27, 25) sts, join yarn with a slip st to next st; ch 2, hdc in same space as the slip st, hdc in each hdc across until last 6 (7, 8, 10) sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—14 (14, 16, 20) sts. Work as for left Armhole and Neck, reversing shaping. FINISHING NECK EDGING AND STRAPS Thread 35 (36, 38, 40) crystal beads onto yarn. With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at top corner of right Back neck edge. Ch 1, work 40 (42, 44, 48) sc evenly across Back neck edge to left side; ch 25 (25, 27, 27) for Strap, join with a slip st at top of left Front side; work 50 (52, 54, 58) sc evenly across Front neck edge to right side; ch 25 (25, 27, 27) for Strap, join with a slip st to first sc—140 sts, counting Strap chains. Round 1: Ch 1, sc in each sc and ch around, join with a slip st to first sc. Round 2: Ch 2, hdc in same space as joining; * ch 1, skip next sc, hdc in next sc; repeat from * around to last st, ch 1, skip last st, join with a slip st to first hdc, turn. Round 3: Ch 1, sc in first hdc, sc in next ch-1 space, * bsc in next hdc, sc in next ch-1 space, sc in next hdc, sc in next ch-1 space; repeat from * around to last 2 sts, bsc in next hdc, sc in last ch-1 space, join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off. Sew side seams. ARMHOLE EDGING With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at side seam; work 1 round of sc evenly around armhole edge and sc in each remaining loop of chain along Strap, join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends. # Color-Me-Blue Jacket DESIGNED BY SUSAN SHILDMYER EXPERIENCED Crochet this lacy and delicate jacket to make a beautifully feminine garment. The floral embellishments and detailed trims make this jacket truly one of a kind. SIZES Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 36 (40, 44, 48, 52)"⁄ 91.5 (101.5, 112, 122, 132) cm Length 24 (25, 25 1⁄2, 26 1⁄4, 27)"⁄ 61 (63.5, 64.5, 66.5, 68.5) cm, including edging YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9710 Country Blue (MC), 3 (3, 4, 4, 4) skeins * #9709 Lt. Country Blue (A), 2 (3, 3, 3, 4) skeins * #9712 Soft Blue (B) 1 (1, 1, 1, 1) skeins Caron International's Fabulous (100% nylon; 1.76 oz/50 g, 160 yds/146 m ball): * #0010 Blue Lagoon (C), 1 (1, 1, 1, 1) ball, for embroidery CROCHET HOOKS One each size US 7 (4.5 mm) and US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle Two stitch markers Embroidery needle and floss Embellish Knit® **Automatic Spool Knitter, (optional) OR 2 double-pointed knitting needles, for cording GAUGE In Stitch pattern, 17 sts and 13 rows = 4"⁄10 cm, using smaller hook and MC CROCHET STITCHES USED** ch: chain dc: double crochet dc2tog: double crochet 2 together—[yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook. hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch Stitch Pattern (any number of sts) using MC * ROW 1 (RS): Dc across all sts. * ROW 2 (WS): Sc across all sts. * Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for St pattern. Lace Pattern (multiple of 8 + 1) NOTE: Count sts on WS rows only; stitch count varies on RS rows. * ROW 1 (RS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * ch 1, skip 3 sts, work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in next st, skip 3 sts, ch 1, sc in next sc; repeat from * across, turn. * ROW 2: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), skip [ch-1 space and dc], dc in next 2-ch space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc, * ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in next ch-2 space, ch 1, skip next [dc, sc, dc], dc in next ch-2 space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc; repeat from * across, end, ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in ch-2 space, ch 1, dc in beginning sc, turn. * ROW 3: Ch 5 (count as dc, ch 2), skip first dc, work [dc, ch 2, dc] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next sc, * ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in sc; repeat from * across, end ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc, ch 2] twice in turning-ch, dc in third ch of turning-ch, turn. DESIGNER'S NOTE: _[dc, ch 2] twice in turning ch, dc in third ch of turning ch_ at end of this and subsequent rows means: _Work the sts from [ to ] into the loop of the turning-ch, then work the dc in the actual third ch of the turning-ch_ ; this maintains a consistently straight edge to work from when finishing the Jacket. * ROW 4: Ch 1, sc in first st, * ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in next ch-space, ch 1, skip [dc, sc, dc], dc in next ch-2 space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc; repeat from * across, working final sc in third ch of turning-ch, turn. * ROW 5: Ch 1, * sc in first sc, ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2]; repeat from * across, end sc in last sc, turn. * Repeat Rows 2 – 5 for Lace pattern. NOTES 1. Garment is worked in one piece from lower edge to armhole; then Fronts and Back are worked separately to shoulders. 2. While working Intarsia section, use larger hook for Lace pattern with A; smaller hook for Stitch pattern with MC. JACKET Using larger hook and A, chain 155 (171,187, 202, 219). Setup Row: Sc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—153 (169, 185, 201, 217) sts. Begin Lace pattern; work Rows 1 – 5 once, Rows 2 – 5 once, then Row 2 once—155 (171, 187, 202, 219) sts after Row 2; 153 (169, 185, 201, 217) sts after Row 4. BEGIN INTARSIA Row 11: Work in Lace pattern, repeating from * 8 (9, 10, 11, 12) times, dc in next sc; change to smaller hook and MC; work [2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc] twice, dc in next sc; change to larger hook and join a second ball of A; ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next sc; continuing in Lace pattern, work to end. Row 12: Work in Lace pattern, repeating from * 8 (9, 10, 11, 12) times, ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in ch-2 space, ch 1; with MC; sc in each of next 17 dc; with A; ch 1, dc in next ch-2 space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc; continuing in Lace pattern, repeat from * of Row 5 across, end as Row 5—155 (171, 187, 203, 219) sts. Rows 13–22: Continue working Lace pattern as est, each side of MC section; work for your size as follows: Small: Work Rows 13–16 twice, then Rows 19–22 twice. Medium: Work Row 13–16 once, Rows 15–18 three times, then Rows 19–22 once. Large: Work Rows 13–16 once, Rows 15–18 three times, then Rows 19–22 once. 1X: Work Rows 13–16 twice, Rows 15–18 twice, then Rows 19–22 once. 2X: Work Rows 13–16 three times, Rows 15–18 once, then Rows 19–22 once. Row 13: Work in Lace pattern across to 20 sts before previous color change, end sc in next sc, ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space; with MC, work [dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space] twice, dc in each of the next 17 sc, work [dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc] twice; with A, work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space, ch 1; continue in Lace pattern to end. Rows 14, 16, 18, and 20: Work in Lace pattern across to color change; with MC, sc in each dc across MC section; with A, work in Lace pattern to end—155 (171, 189, 203, 219) sts. Row 15: Work in Lace pattern across to 8 sts before color change, end dc in next sc; with MC, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, dc in each sc across MC section, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space; with A, dc in next sc, work in Lace pattern to end. Row 17: Work in Lace pattern work across to 13 sts before color change, end sc in next sc, ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [(dc, ch2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space; with MC, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in each st across MC section, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc; with A work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space, ch 1, work in Lace pattern to end. Row 19: Work in Lace pattern across to 4 sts before color change, end ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space; with MC, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, dc in each st across MC section, dc in next sc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc; with A, work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space, work in Lace pattern to end. Row 21: Ch 1, sc in first sc, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, 2 dc) twice] in ch-1 space; with MC, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, dc in each st across MC section, dc in next sc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc; with A, work [dc (ch 2, dc) twice] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in last sc, turn. Row 22: Repeat Row 14. ALL SIZES Row 23: Change to MC on all sts; ch 2, skip next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in each st across MC section, dc in next sc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in turning-ch, turn. Row 24: Ch 1, work even in St pattern (sc in each st across), turn—155 (171, 189, 203, 219) sts. SHAPE FRONT NECK Row 1 (RS): Ch 2 (count as dc), at right Front neck edge, skip first sc, dc2tog across next 2 sts (decrease), dc in each sc across to last 3 sts, dc2tog across next 2 sts, dc in turning ch, turn—153 (169, 185, 201, 217) sts remain. Row 2 (WS): Ch 1 (count as first st), skip first dc, sc in each dc across, turn. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 once, then work even, if necessary, until piece measures 13 1⁄2 (14, 14, 14 1⁄2, 14 1⁄2)"⁄34.5 (36.5, 36.5, 37, 37) cm from beginning, end with a WS row—151 (167, 183, 199, 215) sts remain. DIVIDING ROW Row 1 (RS): At right Front neck edge, ch 2, skip first sc, dc2tog, dc across next 26 (30, 35, 37, 39) sts; at armhole edge, dc2tog, place marker (pm), turn, leave remaining sts unworked—29 (33, 38, 40, 42) sts for right Front. Row 2 (WS): Ch 1, skip first dc, work even in sc, turn. Rows 3–4 (4, 6, 6, 6): Repeat Rows 1 and 2—27 (31, 34, 36, 38) sts remain. Next Row (RS): Ch 2, skip first sc, dc2tog, dc to end—26 (30, 33, 35, 37) sts remain. Continue in pattern; at neck edge, dec 1 st every other row 10 (11, 11, 10, 10) times—16 (19, 22, 25, 27) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until armhole measures 7 1⁄2 (8, 8 1⁄2, 8 3⁄4, 9)"⁄19.5 (20.5, 21.5, 22, 23) cm from marker, end with a WS row. SHAPE SHOULDER Row 1 (RS): Ch 2, skip first sc, dc in next 7 (10, 12, 14, 16) sc, hdc in next st, sc in next st, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—10 (13, 15, 17, 19) sts. Row 2 (WS): Slip st in first st, sc in each st across to last st, slip st in last st, turn—9 (12, 14, 16, 18) sts remain. Row 3: Ch 2 (counts as dc), skip first sc, dc in next 2 (4, 5, 5, 6) sts, hdc in next st, sc in next st, leave remaining sts unworked. Fasten off. BACK With RS facing, beginning at underarm marker, skip 14 (16, 16, 18, 20) sts; join MC with a slip st in next st. Row 1 (RS): Ch 2, dc2tog (1 st decrease), dc in each of the next 51 (57, 63, 71, 79) sts, dc2tog, dc in next st; pm, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—55 (61, 67, 75, 83) sts. Row 2 (WS): Ch 1, skip first dc, work even in sc, turn. Rows 3–4 (4, 6, 6, 6): Repeat Rows 1 and 2–53 (59, 63, 71, 77) sts. Work even in established pattern until Back measures the same as right Front to shoulder shaping, end with a WS row. SHAPE SHOULDERS AND NECK (RS): Slip st in next 5 (6, 6, 8, 8) sts, [sc, hdc] across next 2 sts, dc in each sc across to last 7 (8, 8, 10, 10) sts, hdc, sc, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—43 (47, 51, 55, 61) sts remain. (WS): Slip st in first st, sc in each st across to last st, slip st in last st, turn — 41(45, 49, 53, 59) sts remain. (RS): Slip st in next 5 (5, 6, 8, 9) sts, [sc, hdc] across next 2 sts, dc in next 2 (5, 6, 6, 7) sts. Fasten off. Skip center 27 (28, 29, 29, 32) sts for Back neck. Join MC with a slip st in next st; ch 2, dc in the next 2 (4, 5, 5, 6) sts, [hdc, sc] across next 2 sts, leave remaining sts unworked. Fasten off. LEFT FRONT With RS facing, beginning at marker, skip 14 (16, 16, 18, 20) sts; join MC with a slip st in next st. Work as for right Front, reversing all shaping SLEEVES Using A and larger hook, ch 50 (50, 58, 58, 58), turn. Row 1: Sc in second ch from hook and in each sc across, turn—49 (49, 57, 57, 57) sts. (RS): Begin Lace pattern; work even until piece measures 6 1⁄2 (7, 7, 7 1⁄2, 7 1⁄2)"⁄16.5 (18, 18, 19.5, 19.5) cm from beginning, end with a WS row. Change to MC and smaller hook. Note: Work next row as Row 1a or Row 1b, depending on last Row of Lace pattern worked, then continue as indicated. IF LAST ROW WAS ROW 2 OF LACE PATTERN: Row 1a (RS): Ch 2, dc in ch-1 space,* dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next st, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next 2 sts; repeat from * to end, working last dc in the fourth ch of the turning ch, turn—49 (49, 57, 57, 57) sts. IF LAST ROW WAS ROW 4 OF LACE PATTERN: Row 1b (RS): Ch 2, * work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next st; repeat from * to end, turn—49 (49, 57, 57, 57) sts. Row 2 (WS): Ch 1, work even in sc, turn. SHAPE SLEEVE Row 3 (RS): Work 2 dc in first sc (increase), dc in each sc across to last sc, work 2 dc in last sc (increase), turn. Continuing in pattern, work 1 row even. Repeat last 2 rows 7 (9, 7, 8, 9) times, increasing 1 st each side every other row—65 (69, 73, 75, 77) sts. Work even in pattern until MC section of piece measures 14 (14, 14 1⁄2, 14 1⁄2)"⁄36.5 (36.5, 37, 37, 38) cm from beginning, end with a WS row. SHAPE CAP (RS): Dec 1 st each side every other row 2 (2, 3, 3, 4) times—61 (65, 67, 69, 69) sts remain. Fasten off. FINISHING Sew shoulder seams. LOWER EDGING Note: Row 1 is worked in the remaining loops of beginning-ch. Row 1 (RS): Join A with a slip st in first ch; ch 1, sc in next 3 ch, * ch 2, skip next ch, work [2 dc, ch 2] twice in next ch, skip 1 ch, sc in next 5 ch; repeat from * across, turn. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in next 4 sc, skip next st, * ch 3, skip ch-2 space, work [2 dc, ch 2, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, ch 3, skip [next ch-2 space and sc], sc in next 3 sc, skip 1; repeat from * across, end last repeat skip [next ch-2 space and sc], sc in next 2 sc, sc in turning ch, turn. Row 3: Ch 1, first 2 sc, skip next sc, * ch 5, skip ch-3 space, work [2 dc, ch 2, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, ch 5, skip [next ch-3 space and sc], sc in next sc; repeat from * across to last 2 sts, sc in last 2 sc. Sizes Small, Medium, Large, and 1X — Fasten off. SIZE 2X ONLY: Row 4: Ch 1, sc in first st, skip next sc * ch 7, skip ch-5 space, work [2 dc, ch 2, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, ch 7, skip ch-5 space, sc in next sc; repeat from * across to last 2 sts, skip next sc, sc in last sc. Fasten off. NECK EDGING With RS facing, beginning at right Front at beginning of neck shaping, using smaller hook and MC, join yarn with a slip to first st; ch 1, work 1 row sc evenly around neck shaping, ending at left Front. LOWER FRONT EDGING With RS facing, working along lace sections of each Front, using larger hook and A, join yarn and work as for neck edging, working 1 row sc evenly along Front edges. Fasten off. SLEEVE EDGING Work same as for Lower Edging along each Sleeve. EMBELLISHING MAKE CORDING Note: Make each length of cord slightly longer than actual garment measurement, bind off loosely; do not weave in ends. Length will be adjusted after couching. Ends will be used to secure Cording. Using method of choice listed below, work two cords, each 12"⁄30.5 cm long for Sleeves; one cord 33"⁄84 cm long for neck, one cord 66"⁄167 cm long for lower edge between MC and Lace sections and ties. 1. Using Embellish Knit Automatic Spool Knitter, work cord, following instructions included with Knitter. 2. Using crochet hook, ch 5, join with a slip st to form a ring. Working around in a spiral, slip st in each st until cord is desired length. Fasten off. 3. Using 2 double pointed needles, work I-cord to desired lengths. COUCH (ATTACH) CORDING Neck Edge 1. Beginning with the cast on end of cording at right center Front, lay cording along neckline just inside sc edging. 2. Using yarn needle and C, work Cross stitch over cording, stretching cording slightly. 3. Slowly unravel cording at bind-off end to meet garment exactly, bind off. 4. Use ends of cording to secure cord to Jacket edge. Lower Edge of MC Section 1. Beginning at right center Front, leaving approximately 12" to 14"⁄30.5 to 36 cm for tie, couch cording to lower edge between MC and lace sections as for neckline. 2. Leave 12" to 14"⁄30.5 to 36 cm for tie at left Front. 3. Unravel as for neckline. Secure loose ends inside ties and tie knot at end. Sleeves Attach cording to each Sleeve between MC and CC sections. EMBROIDERY 1. Trace embroidery pattern onto tracing paper, reversing patterns for left side and left sleeve. Pin paper to Jacket and Sleeves. 2. Using embroidery needle and any color embroidery floss, work Running stitch along all pattern lines to mark. Carefully tear away tracing paper. Helpful: Use different color of floss for leaves. Embroider patterns as shown using Stem st and C for all line work and Satin st and B for leaves. ASSEMBLY Sew in Sleeves; sew sleeve seams. Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. # Orient Express Think Indonesia and India... sparkly, vibrant eolors... accents and embroidery... curry, coriander, and cumin... # Kimono Shrug DESIGNED BY TAMMY HILDEBRAND WITH CARI CLEMENT EASY In this easy project the embellishing is done along the fronts where the colors meet. By using different color trims and beads, you can create shrugs to go with as many outfits as you like. SIZES Small (Medium, Large, Extra-Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 36 (40, 44, 48)"⁄91.5 (101.5, 112, 122) cm Length 18 1⁄2"/46.5 cm, all sizes NOTE: Shrug is loose fitting and designed to be worn as shown in photo. Bust measurements are suggested sizes for a standard fitting garment; choose accordingly. Due to shaping, garment is wider than measurements indicate on schematic. YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9730 Autumn Red (MC), 3 (3, 4, 4) skeins * #9711 Dk. Country Blue (CC), 2 (2, 2, 2) skeins CROCHET HOOKS One each size US G-6 and J-10 (4 and 6 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle 1 1⁄4 yards/118 cm flat braid trim, 3⁄4"/1.9 cm wide, in color desired (shown in red, with gold metallic threads) 28 textured brass beads, 4 mm × 6 mm 14 bugle beads, 11 mm long, dark red 14 glass beads, in various sizes, no smaller than 6 mm, no larger than 11 mm, dark red Tapestry or beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) Beading or quilting thread to match braid Sewing needle and thread to match garment Straight pins or small safety pins GAUGE In Stitch Pattern, 12 sc and 12 rows = 4"⁄10 cm, using larger hook and MC; in single crochet, 13 sc and 16 rows = 4"⁄10 cm, using smaller hook and CC CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch Stitch Pattern (Multiple of 2 sc + 1) * ROW 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and each ch across, turn. * ROW 2: Ch 1, sc in first st, * ch 1, skip next st, sc in next st; repeat from * across, turn. * ROW 3: Ch 1, sc in first st and in each ch-1 space and sc across, turn. * Repeat Rows 2 and 3 for Stitch pattern. NOTES 1. Shrug is worked from lower edge of Front, across shoulders to lower edge of Back. 2. Side Front/Sleeve is worked to shoulder; CC panels are then worked on each Front. 3. Back/Sleeves are joined at shoulders to Side Front/Sleeve and CC Panels, then worked down. 4. Cuffs are worked down from lower edge of Sleeves. LEFT SIDE FRONT/SLEEVE Using larger hook and MC, chain 14 (18, 22, 26). Row 1 (RS): Work Row 1 of Stitch pattern—13 (17, 21, 25) sc. Row 2: Work Row 2 of Stitch pattern—7 (9, 11, 13) sc; 6 (8, 10, 12) ch-1 spaces. Row 3: Work Row 3 of Stitch pattern—13 (17, 21, 25) sc. Rows 4–16: Work even in pattern, repeating Rows 2 and 3, end with (WS) Row 2. SHAPE SIDE AND UNDERARM Row 17 (RS): At side edge, ch 1, work [2 sc in first st (increase)], beginning at , work in pattern to end, turn—14 (18, 22, 26) sc. Row 18: Work in pattern across to last st, [ch 1, sc in last st, (increase)], turn—8 (10, 12, 14) sc; 7 (9, 11, 13) ch-1 spaces. Rows 19–25: Work in pattern, increasing 1 st at side edge every row, turn—22 (26, 30, 34) sc. Row 26: Work in pattern across to last st, ch 1, sc in last st; do NOT turn—12 (14, 16, 18) sc; 11 (13, 15, 17) ch-1 spaces. SLEEVE Chain 31, turn. Row 27 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and in next 29 ch; sc in next st and in each sc and ch-1 space to end—53 (57, 61, 65) sc. Rows 28–42: Work even in pattern, end with a WS row. SHAPE NECK Row 43: Work in pattern across to last st, turn, [leaving last st at neck edge unworked (decrease)]—52 (56, 60, 64) sc. Row 44: Slip st in next st (decrease), ch 1, sc in same st, work in pattern to end, turn—26 (28, 30, 32) sc; 25 (27, 29, 31) ch-1 spaces remain. Rows 45–56: Work in pattern, decreasing 1 st at neck edge every row—20 (22, 24, 26) sc; 19 (21, 23, 25) ch-1 spaces remain at shoulder edge. Fasten off. FRONT PANEL With RS facing, using smaller hook and CC, join yarn with a sc in first row end of neck (at shoulder edge). Row 1: Sc in each row end along Front edge to lower edge, turn—56 sc. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in each st across, turn. Rows 3–18: Work even in sc, repeating Row 2. Fasten off. RIGHT SIDE FRONT/SLEEVE* Using larger hook and MC, chain 14 (18, 22, 26). Work as for left Front for 16 rows, end with (WS) Row 2. SHAPE SIDE AND UNDERARM Row 17 (RS): Work in pattern across to last st, work [2 sc in last st (increase)], turn—14 (18, 22, 26) sc. Row 18: Ch 1, sc in first st, [ch 1, sc in next st (increase)], work in pattern to end—8 (10, 12, 14) sc; 7 (9, 11, 13) ch-1 spaces. Rows 19–26: Work in pattern, increasing 1 st at side edge every row—12 (14, 16, 18) sc; 11 (13, 15, 17) ch-1 spaces. At front edge, drop yarn, do NOT fasten off. With RS facing, join another strand of MC with a slip st in first st of Row 26 (side edge), chain 30. Fasten off; return to front edge, pick up dropped strand of yarn. SLEEV Row 27 (RS): Work in pattern across to chain, sc in each ch to end, turn—53 (57, 61, 65) sc. Rows 28–42: Work even in pattern, end with a WS row. SHAPE NECK Row 43: Slip st in next ch-1 space (decrease), ch 1, sc in same space, work in pattern to end, turn—52 (56, 60, 64) sc. Row 44: Work in pattern across to last st, turn, leaving last st unworked (decrease)—26 (28, 30, 32) sc; 25 (27, 29, 31) ch-1 spaces. Rows 45–56: Work in pattern, decreasing 1 st every row—20 (22, 24, 26) sc; 19 (21, 23, 25) ch-1 spaces at shoulder edge. Fasten off. FRONT PANEL With RS facing, using smaller hook and CC, join yarn with a sc in first row end at lower edge. Work as for left Front. BACK Joining Row—With RS facing, using larger hook and MC, join yarn with a slip st in first sc of left Sleeve; ch 1, work in pattern (sc in each sc and ch-1 space) across to left Front Panel; working in row ends, sc in each row end across; chain 17 for Back neck; working in row ends, sc in each row end across right Front Panel; work in pattern to end, turn—57 (61, 65, 69) sc each side of chain. Row 2: Work in pattern across to chain; sc in each ch across Back neck; work in pattern to end, turn—29 (31, 33, 35) sc; 28 (30, 32, 34) ch-1 spaces each side, 17 sc at center Back. Row 3: Work in pattern (sc in each sc and ch-1 space) across, turn—131 (139, 147, 155) sc. Row 4: Work in pattern across all sts—66 (70, 74, 78) sc; 65 (69, 73, 77) ch-1 spaces. Rows 5–29: Work even in pattern. Fasten off. SLEEVES Row 30 (WS): Skip first 30 sts (Sleeve); join MC with a sc in next st; work in pattern across to last 30 sts, turn, leaving last 30 sts unworked for Sleeve—36 (40, 44, 48) sc, 35 (39, 43, 47) ch-1 spaces remain. SHAPE SIDE AND UNDERARM Row 31: Slip st in next ch-1 space, slip st in next st (2 sts decreased); ch 1, sc in same st, work in pattern across to last 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked (2 sts decreased)— 67 (75, 83, 91) sc remain. Row 32: Slip st in next 2 sts (2 sts decreased), ch 1, sc in same st, work in pattern across to last 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked (2 sts decreased—32 (36, 40, 44) sc, 31 (35, 39, 43) ch-1 spaces remain. Rows 33–38: Continuing in pattern, decrease 2 sts each side every row 6 times, working as for Rows 31 and 32—20 (24, 28, 32) sc, 19 (23, 27, 31) ch-1 spaces remain. Rows 39: Work even in pattern—39 (47, 55, 63) sc. Rows 40–56: Work even in pattern. Fasten off. FINISHING Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. ASSEMBLY With WS facing each other, sew side and Sleeve seams, matching shaping. CUFFS Note: Work in joined rows, turning at the end of each row. Row 1: Using smaller hook and CC, join yarn with a sc in row end at seam; sc in each row around, join with a slip st in beginning sc, turn. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in each sc around, join with a slip st in beginning sc, turn. Rows 3–22: Work even in sc, repeating Row 2. Fasten off. LOWER EDGE With WS facing, using smaller hook and CC, working in row ends of lower edge of Front Panel, join yarn with a sc in corner row of right Front Panel; sc in each row end across to Side-Front; change to MC, working in remaining loops of foundation ch, sc in each st across Front; sc in each st across Back; working as for Right Side-Front, work across Left Side-Front; change to CC, work across row ends of Left Front Panel to end. Fasten off. EMBELLISHING 1. Separate the beads into 3 groups: bugle beads, red glass beads, and brass beads. 2. Measure distance of contrast band from shoulder to lower edge and cut trim accordingly, adding 1⁄2"/1.3 cm for turn-under. 3. Fold in 1⁄4"/.6 cm hem at lower edge of trim and stitch. 4. Mark the trim with pins for bead placement. 5. Thread sewing needle with matching thread and bring to RS. Sew on beads as follows: brass bead, bugle bead, glass bead. Repeat in that order for the length of the trim. 6. Pin trim to Kimono over the seam and stitch in place with sewing thread. # Hobo Boho Bag DESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY INTERMEDIATE Inspired by paisley motifs from India, this Hobo Bag is a great splash of color! The Tunisian crochet (Afghan stitch) creates a bag that is fun to make and a true palette for embellishments. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width 12 1⁄2"/32 cm Length (at center of Bag) 7"⁄18 cm Strap Length 22"⁄56 cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9723 Raspberry (A), 1 skein * #9727 Black (B), 1 skein Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9605 Mango (C), 1 skein CROCHET HOOK One Tunisian hook size US N-15 (10 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Crochet hook size US H-8 (5 mm), for embellishment 2 packages (1 yard/.92 cm each) beaded trim (2"⁄5 cm wide shown on model) 3 skeins gold metallic embroidery floss 30 gram tube mixed E beads 30 gram tube rocaille E beads, hot pink Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) Pins Row counter (optional) Ruler (for reading chart) (optional) GAUGE In Tunisian crochet, 10 sts and 8 rows = 4"⁄10 cm, using 2 strands of yarn held together CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch NOTES 1. Use a double strand of each color throughout. 2. Each square on the Chart represents one stitch. 3. When changing colors, always bring the new color under the working color to avoid holes from forming. HELPFUL READING CHART: When working from Chart, place a ruler on the Chart, covering the rows above the row that is being worked. SPECIAL TECHNIQUES Tunisian Crochet (Afghan stitch) Each row of Tunisian crochet is worked in two steps after the Foundation Row. Foundation Row (counts as Step 1) Chain the number of sts indicated in the instructions; skip first ch, * insert hook in next ch, yarn over and draw up a loop (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each ch. Complete Foundation Row by working Step 2. Repeat Steps 1 and 2 for remainder of piece. STEP 1. With RS facing, working from right to left, pick up stitches for the row: Beginning in the second vertical bar of the previous row, * insert hook into the vertical bar of the previous row, yarn over and draw loop through the vertical bar (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each vertical bar. STEP 2. Working from left to right, work off the stitches: Yarn over and draw through first loop on hook, * yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook; repeat from * across. INCREASE IN TUNISIAN CROCHET: At the beginning of Step 1, insert hook into first vertical bar; at end of Step 1, pick up 2 sts in last vertical bar. DECREASE IN TUNISIAN CROCHET: Insert hook into 2 vertical bars, yarn over and draw loop through both vertical bars. BAG AND STRAPS (MAKE 2) Using Tunisian hook and 2 strands of C, working in Tunisian Crochet throughout, chain 8; join 2 strands A, chain 9. Begin working from Chart; work Rows 1–52, working each strap separately. Fasten off. EMBELLISHING 1. Cut an 18"⁄46 cm length of A and split it into 4 single strands (see here). 2. Fold one strand in half, thread ends through beading needle, and pick up 10 beads. 3. Take the needle through the loop, pull up to form a ring of beads. 4. Pull one of the strands of yarn out of the needle; thread 7 beads onto the remaining strand and push them snugly against the bead ring. 5. Skip 1 bead in bead ring, and stitch through next bead in ring (see Diagram); repeat 4 more times to create 5 petals. 6. Stitch one flower to the center of the contrasting color motifs on both sides; scatter and stitch the other flowers randomly. SLIP STITCH OUTLINES (CENTER OF BAG, MOTIF OUTLINES, BOTTOM EDGE OF STRAPS) Work along lines of color changes. 1. With 2 strands of metallic embroidery floss, make a slip knot. 2. Hold slip knot and embroidery floss to WS of piece; insert hook through bag, pull up the slip knot. 3. Insert hook into Bag again, moving along the line that you want to outline, pull up a loop of yarn, pulling it through to the RS and through the loop on the hook; repeat until outline is complete. Fasten off. FINISHING ASSEMBLY Lay one piece on the other, WS together. OUTER EDGE 1. Using smaller hook and 1 strand of B, beginning at tip of one strap, work 2 sc in the row ends of the strap inner edge; working through both layers to join, continue to Chart Row 18. 2. Work 1 hdc in each st, through one layer only, to form opening of Bag. 3. At bottom of other strap (Row 18), work through both layers from Chart Row 18 to Row 52. 4. At tip of second strap, turn, ch 1, work slip st in each sc down to opening of Bag (Row 18). 5. Work 1 hdc in each st across through one layer only to form opening of bag, then slip st up to tip of first strap. Do NOT cut yarn. EDGING Beginning at the tip of strap, ch 2, sc evenly around outside edge of Bag, working through both layers to join front of bag to back. ATTACHING BEADED FRINGE TRIM 1. Lay one strand of beaded trim on top of the other; join B to the outside edge of Chart Row 18. 2. Fold over 4"⁄10 cm of trim and pin in place at bottom edge of Strap; using B, sc over the trim to secure it, working into the sc at lower edge of Bag. Note: The hook will come up between the bead fringes to allow beads to hang freely. 3. Work 2 sc in corner sc to ease curves. 4. After the first side and lower edge have been worked, pin the remaining trim, folding trim end over at Chart Row 18. 5. Work over the doubled trim, finishing at the fold. 6. Cut yarn, leaving an 8"⁄20.5 cm tail to weave in; take tail to WS and weave in securely. 7. Join B with a slip st to opening edge of Bag; work a slip st in each hdc to stabilize opening. Cut yarn, weave in ends. 8. Tie strap tips into a knot. # Wrap Jacket DESIGNED BY MARGARET WILLSON EASY This Asian-inspired design is chic and quite easy to crochet, but it's the detailed embellishing that really makes this a work of art. SIZES Small (Medium, Large, Extra-Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 37 (41, 45, 49)"⁄94 (104, 114, 124.5) cm Length 22 1⁄2 (23, 24, 24 1⁄2)"⁄ 57 (58.5, 61, 62) cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g; 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9748 Rubine Red (MC) 5 (6, 7, 7) skeins * #9727 Black (A), 1 skein * #9742 Grey Heather (B), 1 skein CROCHET HOOKS One each size US H-8 (5 mm), US 1-9 (5.5 mm), US J-10 (6 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) Beading thread or black quilting thread Two 7⁄8"/2.2 cm plastic rings Straight pins Safety pin 73 grams E-beads, opaque black — Bead-A 30 grams rocailles, red — Bead-B 24 grams glass spacer beads, ruby — Bead-C 30 grams E-beads, black opal — Bead-D 40 spacers, leaves, silver — Bead-E 12 metal oval barrel beads, silver — Bead-F 7 grams 11/0 round silver-lined beads, It. gray — Bead-G GAUGE In Stitch pattern, using largest hook (J-10), 17 sts and 17 rows 4"⁄10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain sc: single crochet sc2tog: single crochet 2 together—insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook), insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up loop, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook. slip st: slip stitch Stitch Pattern (multiple of 2 sts + 1) * ROW 1 (WS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * sc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next sc; repeat from * across until last ch-1 space, sc in next ch-1 space, sc in last sc, turn. * ROW 2 (RS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * ch 1, skip next sc, sc in next ch-1 space; repeat from * across to last 2 sc, ch 1, skip next sc, sc in last sc, turn. * Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for St patt. * NOTE:Ch-1 space counts as 1 st for counting stitches or measuring gauge. BACK (RS) Using medium hook (I-9) and MC, chain 82 (90, 100, 108). Row 1: Sc in second ch from hook, * ch 1, skip next ch, sc in next ch; repeat from * across, turn—81 (89, 99, 107) sts. (WS) Change to largest hook ( J-10) and St patt; work even until piece measures 21 1⁄2 (22, 23, 23 1⁄2)"⁄54.5 (56, 58.5, 60) cm from beginning. Fasten off. LEFT FRONT (RS) Using medium hook and MC, ch 76 (84, 92, 102). Row 1: Work as for Back—75 (83, 91, 101) sts. Continuing as for Back, work even until piece measures 8 1⁄2 (8, 8, 7)"⁄21.5 (20.5, 20.5, 18) cm from beginning, end with a WS row. SHAPE NECK (RS) Beginning this row, at neck edge (end of RS rows, beginning of WS rows) dec 1 st (sc2 tog) every row 50 (54, 58, 64) times—25 (29, 33, 37) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until piece measures same as Back to shoulders. Fasten off. RIGHT FRONT Work as for Left Front, reversing all shaping by working neck shaping at beginning of RS rows, end of WS rows. SLEEVE (MAKE 2) Using medium hook and MC, ch 48 (50, 52, 54). Row 1: Work as for Back—47 (49, 51, 53) sts. (WS) Change to largest hook and St patt; work even for 1 row. SHAPE SLEEVE Inc 1 st each side (work 2 sc in first st and last st of row) every 2 rows 0 (8, 14, 20) times, then every 4 rows 16 (12, 9, 6) times—79 (89, 97, 105) sts. Work even until piece measures 15 1⁄2"/39.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off. FINISHING Note: It will be easier to work Part I of the embellishing before assembling garment. EMBELLISHING—PART I Following Sleeve Chart and Illustrations, work Beaded Lazy Daisy stitch and Upright Cross stitch over center 27 sts of sleeve. 1. Beaded Lazy Daisy: Thread beading needle with beading thread, make Back stitch on WS to secure, * needle up at 1 (center-point), thread [Bead-A, Bead-B] six times, Bead-A, 2 Bead-B, Bead-A, [Bead-B, Bead-A] 6 times, needle down at 1 and up at 2 inside the thread, then between the 2 B-beads and down at 3; needle up at 2, thread one Bead-C, 7 Bead-G, then go back through same C-bead, needle down at 3 once more. 2. Couch (see photo) one side of petal to return to center-point 1. Repeat from * 3 more times to complete 4 petals, couch remaining strands, make Back stitch on WS to secure and cut thread. UPRIGHT CROSS STITCH: Using yarn needle and single strand of A, begin at bottom of Chart. 1. Secure with Back stitch on WS, * needle up at 1, down at 2, up at 3, down at 4, repeat from * for each Cross stitch, working clockwise around diamond shape. 2. Make Back stitch and secure end on WS. ASSEMBLY Sew shoulder seams. Measure down 9 (10, 11, 12)"⁄23 (25.5, 27.5, 30) cm from shoulder on Back and Fronts; place a marker for underarm. Sew Sleeves between markers; sew Sleeve and side seams. EDGING Round 1: With RS facing, using medium hook and A, join yarn at right-hand side seam at lower edge; ch 1, sc in same st, work [skip next st, 2 sc in next space] across to Front corner; work 3 sc in corner st; work [skip next row, 2 sc in next row] along right Front edge to beginning of neck shaping; work 2 sc in corner; work [skip next row, 2 sc in next row] along right Front neck shaping, across Back neck, and down left Front neck shaping to beginning of shaping; work 2 sc in corner; work [skip next row, 2 sc in next row] along left Front edge to lower corner; work 3 sc in corner; work [skip next st, 2 sc in next space] across to beginning of round, join with a slip st to first st; do NOT turn. Rounds 2–5: Ch 1, sc in each sc to corner, work 3 sc in corner st, work [sc in each st to beginning of neck shaping, 2 sc in corner] twice, sc in each st to lower corner, work 3 sc in corner st, sc in each remaining st, join with a slip st to first st. Fasten off. SLEEVE EDGING Round 1: With RS facing, using medium hook and A, join yarn with a slip st at Sleeve seam; ch 1, sc in same st, work [skip next st, 2 sc in next space] around, join with a slip st in first st; do NOT turn. Rounds 2–5: Ch 1, sc in each st around, join with a slip st in first st. Fasten off. EMBELLISHING—PART II TWISTED CORD (BODY) 1. Cut two 10-yard/9.15 m lengths of B. 2. Fold in half. 3. Knot free ends together, leaving 2"⁄5 cm free after knot. 4. Pin knotted end to fixed surface with safety pin. 5. Holding folded end, stand far enough away that the cord is taut, and with pencil inserted in loop formed at fold, twist until the length is evenly twisted. 6. Bring folded end and tied ends together, knot ends together. 7. Allow the strands to twirl around each other. 8. Remove safety pin. COUCH TWISTED CORD TO BODY 1. Using crochet hook, draw one end of Cord through to WS of center Back neck, below Round 1 of edging. 2. Thread beading needle with beading thread. 3. Attach with Back stitch at WS of Back neck. 4. Needle up below twist in Cord. 5. String 1 Bead-A, 2 Bead-B, 1 Bead-D, 2 Bead-B, 1 Bead-A. 6. Needle down above twist, encasing cord. 7. Make Back stitch on WS. 8. Repeat Steps 4–7 for each twist in Cord, around entire outer edge. Fasten off. 9. Using crochet hook, draw opposite end of Cord through to WS of Back neck, beside beginning end of Cord. 10. Tie knot in Cord. Cut any excess Cord, leaving 2"⁄5 cm after knot. 11. With yarn needle, weave each separate strand of Cord into edging on WS of Back neck. TWISTED CORD (SLEEVES) 1. For each Sleeve, cut two 1-yard/.9 cm lengths of B. 2. Repeat Steps 2–8 of Twisted Cord (Body). COUCH TWISTED CORD TO SLEEVES 1. Beginning at Sleeve seam, using crochet hook, draw one end of Cord to WS at Sleeve seam. 2. Couch cord to both Sleeves as for Body. CORDED TIES WITH RING TASSELS Right Front Tie and Tassel Using smallest hook (H-8) and A, leave 6"⁄15 cm yarn tail before making slip knot. 1. Chain 35. 2. Leaving 6"⁄15 cm yarn tail after chain, cut A. Fasten off. ATTACH CORDED TIE TO RING 1. Fold chain in half. 2. Insert folded end through plastic ring, forming a loop. 3. Draw both cut ends through loop. 4. Holding the ring in one hand and cut ends in the other, pull to form a half-hitch knot. MAKE TASSEL ON RING Note: Bead-C includes a variety of ruby shades; refer to photo, or use your choice from mixture when directed to use Bead-C. 1. Using small hook and A, insert hook through right edge of half-hitch knot on ring and draw up loop. 2. Work 18 sc over ring, join with a slip st at left side of knot. 3. Cut A, fasten off ends securely. 4. Thread beading needle with beading thread and make Back stitch on WS of knot. 5. Thread 3 beads, 1 Bead-C, 1 Bead-A, 1 Bead-C. 6. Working counterclockwise, bring needle from WS around outer edge and down through next sc. 7. Work Back stitch on WS of same sc. 8. Repeat Steps 5–7 five more times. 9. Beaded Fringe: Back stitch on WS, needle up in next sc, thread Bead-C, Bead-F, Bead-C, Bead-A, Bead-C, Bead-A, 2 Bead-C, Bead-D, Bead-C, Bead-E; after Bead-E, thread needle up through beads to beginning, needle down in same sc. 10. Repeat Step 9 five more times. 11. Repeat Steps 5–7 six times, returning to half-hitch knot. Fasten off. Tip: Use a small dot of fabric glue where beading thread begins and ends; knots made using nylon or silk thread have a tendency to loosen over time. Using yarn needle, sew ends of Corded Tie to corner at beginning of neck shaping on right Front, weaving 6"⁄15 cm ends through edging to secure. 1. Using small hook and A, leave 6"⁄15 cm yarn tail before making slip knot. 2. Ch 195 (215, 235, 250). 3. Leaving 6"⁄15 cm yarn tail after chain, cut A. LEFT FRONT TIE AND TASSEL Complete as for right Front Tassel. Using yarn needle, run end of Tassel Cord through right side seam and sew securely to corner of Left Front. Weave in ends. TO WEAR Wrap long Hanging Cord across Back and around to Front; meeting short Hanging Cord to cinch Jacket. # Boho Bangles DESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY BEGINNER Don't you love looking around hardware stores for something you can use in your projects? Plumbers' clear plastic tubing is ideal for these bangles, and the softness of Simply Soft makes them so comfy to wear. You can coordinate your whole wardrobe by making bangles with any color beads. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Customize to fit wrist while fitting over hand. YARN Caron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9608 Blue Mint and #9605 Mango: 1 skein each CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm) ADDITIONAL MATERIALS 10 1⁄2"/26.5 cm length of 1⁄4"/.6 cm diameter clear plastic tubing for each bangle (available in aquarium section of pet store or in plumbing department of hardware store) 1 tube (30 grams) assorted glass E beads, colors to coordinate with yarn (420 beads needed) Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads) Yarn needle Fabric glue Sharp scissors or a craft knife Clear tape (optional) GAUGE Gauge is not critical to this project. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain sc: single crochet NOTE The length of tubing will determine the size of the Bangle; be sure that the length chosen will slide over hand easily. For a larger bracelet, cut a longer piece of tubing; for a smaller bracelet, cut the length shorter. BANGLE BASE 1. Measure the circumference of a bracelet you have that fits over your wrist well plus 1⁄4"/.6 cm. 2. Cut plastic tubing to length, allowing 1⁄2"/1.3 cm for overlap. 3. Cut a 1⁄2"/1.3 cm long, V-shaped notch at one end of the tubing. 4. Push the end of scissors or a pencil into the other end to stretch the tubing slightly. 5. Push the notched end into the stretched end. 6. If desired, secure the overlap with clear tape. EMBELLISHING 1. To reduce bulk approximately 2"⁄5 cm from end of yarn strand, separate 4-ply yarn into two 2-ply strands and cut off one 2-ply strand so that the yarn will fit through the eye of the beading needle; thread the remaining 2-ply strand through beading needle. 2. Fold the yarn over and glue so the threaded 2-ply ends touch the cut 4-ply ends. When the glue is thoroughly dry, thread all 420 beads onto the yarn. 3. Tie yarn to Bangle (tubing) leaving a 3"⁄7.5 cm tail; hold the yarn tail against the tubing and work over it so that it does not have to be woven in later. BANGLE 1. Holding the yarn at the outer edge of tubing, [insert the hook into the center of the Bangle from front to back; yarn over and pull up a loop, pulling the hook and loop from back to front, wrapping loop around the tubing; bring the hook up to the outer edge of the hoop (where the yarn is attached)], yarn over and draw through loop on hook (first ch made). 2. Repeat from [to] (2 loops on hook), yarn over and draw through both loops on hook (sc made). 3. Slide 7 beads snugly against the hook. 4. Working over the tied-on end, repeat Steps 2 and 3 around, spiraling the stitches, until tubing is completely covered. 5. Fasten off, leaving a 6"⁄15 cm tail. FINISHING Using beading needle threaded with tail, weave tail in and out along edge of crochet to secure. Put a dot of glue on woven end; trim end. Turn the stitches so the chain is on the inside of the Bangle. # India Tunic DESIGNED BY HEIDI STEPP INTERMEDIATE This comfy, unique tunic will surely garner admiration from friends and family. The beading and embellishment pattern is absolutely gorgeous and worthy of praise. SIZES Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 36 (40, 44, 48, 52)"⁄91.5 (101.5, 112, 122, 132) cm Length 31"⁄78.5 cm, all sizes YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9750 Chocolate (MC), 6 (7, 8, 8, 9) skeins * #9608 Blue Mint (A), 1 skein * #9703 Bone (B), 1 skein CROCHET HOOKS One each size US 1-9 (5.5 mm), US J-10 (6 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Yarn needle Sewing needle Sewing thread to match A, B, or beads Tapestry or sewing needle (thin enough to fit through beads) Large-eye beading needle Stitch markers Straight pins Marking pen or chalk pen in contrasting color from B 165 round beads, 6 mm, aqua semitransparent 165 seed beads, 4 mm, brown 238 seed beads, 4 mm, gold 4 wood beads, 8 mm, blue 10 wood beads, 5 mm, blue 80 shell beads, 10 mm long GAUGE In single crochet, 17 sts and 20 rows = 4"⁄10 cm, using smaller hook and B In Stitch pattern (1 row sc, 1 row dc), 12 sts and 9.6 rows = 4"⁄10 cm, using larger hook and MC NOTES 1. Beaded Yoke and Sleeve bands are worked separately, then attached to Back and Front and Sleeves. 2. Bead Embellishment will be easier to work on individual pieces, before assembly; final embroidery Embellishment is worked after Yoke and Sleeve bands have been attached. CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet dc2tog: double crochet 2 together—[yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook. dc3tog: double crochet 3 together—[yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times, yarn over and draw through 4 loops on hook. dec: decrease 1 st—work next 2 sts together in pattern (sc2tog or dc2tog). dec 2: decrease 2 sts—work next 3 sts together in pattern (sc3tog or dc2 tog) inc: increase 1 st—work 2 sts in next st in pattern. sc: single crochet sc2tog: single crochet 2 together—insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook), insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook. sc3tog: single crochet 3 together—[insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop] 3 times, yarn over and pull through all 4 loops on hook. slip st: slip stitch Stitch Pattern (Body and Sleeves) * ROW 1: Ch 1, sc in each st across. * ROW 2: Ch 2, dc in each st across. * Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for St patt. BACK AND FRONT YOKE (INSERT) Note: First 13 rows are the neckband. Beginning at neck edge, using smaller hook and B, chain 67. Row 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from the hook and in each ch across, turn—66 sc. Row 2: Ch 1, work [sc in next 3 sts, inc in next st] twice, sc in next 10 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 10 sc, work [inc in next st, sc in next 3 sts] twice, turn—72 sc. Row 3: Ch 1, sc in next 15 sc, work [inc in next st, sc in next 2 sts] twice, inc in next st, sc in next st, inc in next st, sc in next 24 sc, inc in next st, sc in next st, work [inc in next st, sc in next 2 sts] 3 times, turn—80 sc. Row 4: Ch 1, inc in first st, sc in next 8 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 54 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 8 sc, inc in last st, turn—86 sts. Row 5: Ch 1, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 5 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 5 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 27 sc, turn—92 sts. Row 6: Ch 1, sc in next 5 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 5 sc, turn—96 sc. Row 7: Ch 1, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 11 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 4 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 36 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 4 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 11 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, turn—102 sc. Row 8: Ch 1, sc in next st, inc in next st, sc in next 19 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 58 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 19 sc, inc in next st, sc in last sc, turn—106 sc. Row 9: Ch 1, sc in next 18 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 36 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 18 sc, turn—110 sc. Row 10: Ch 1, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 6 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 6 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 7 sc, turn—116 sc. Row 11: Ch 1, sc in next 38 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 38 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 38 sc, turn—118 sc. Row 12: Ch 1, inc in first st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 14 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st; sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 14 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in last st, turn—128 sc. Row 13: Ch 1, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 70 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, turn—130 sc. RIGHT FRONT SHAPING Row 14 (WS): Ch 1, work across 13 sc, turn. Row 15: Ch 1, dec across first 2 sts, sc in next 11 sc, turn—12 sc remain. Row 16: Ch 1, sc in next 10 sc, dec across last 2 sts, turn—11 sc remain. Rows 17–27: Work even in sc. Fasten off. LEFT FRONT SHAPING With WS facing, join yarn 13 sts in from opposite edge. Row 14: Ch 1, sc in same st and in next 12 sc, turn—13 sc. Row 15: Ch 1, sc in next 11 sc, dec across last 2 sts, turn—12 sc remain. Row 16: Ch 1, dec across first 2 sts, sc in next 10 sc, turn—11 sc remain. Rows 17–27: Work even in sc. JOINING ROW Row 28 (WS): Continuing on Left Front, ch 1, sc in next 10 sc, inc in last st; with WS of Right Front facing, sc across (11 sts), turn—23 sc. Rows 29–44: Work even in sc. Dec 1 st each side every row 10 times—3 sc. Last Row: Ch 1, sc3tog. Fasten off. FINISHING Using smaller hook and A, work 1 row of sc evenly around outer and inner edges of Insert, working 3 sc in corner stitches and skipping a stitch as needed to keep work flat (see photo). Fasten off. FRONT Using MC and larger hook, chain 64 (70, 76, 82, 88). Row 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and each ch across, turn—63 (69, 75, 81, 87) sc. Row 2: Ch 2, dc in first st and in each st across, turn—63 (69, 75, 81, 87) dc. Row 3: Ch 1, sc in first st and in each st across, turn. Work even in St patt until piece measures 5 1⁄2"/14 cm from beginning. SHAPE SIDES Dec 1 st each side every 6 rows 4 times—55 (61, 67, 73, 79) sts. Work even until piece measures approximately 16"⁄41 cm from beginning—39 rows, end with a RS row. Begin working Side Shaping from Chart and instructions below. Note: Shaping is mirror image on each side; Chart shows left-hand side of Front, with RS facing. Beginning Row 45 (right Front), read WS rows from right to left, RS rows from left to right. Row 42 (WS): Inc 1 st each side—57 (63, 69, 75, 81) sts. Work 1 row even, placing a marker on center st. RIGHT FRONT Divide for Neck and Insert Opening. Row 44 (WS): Work across to 3 sts before center st, dc3tog, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—26 (29, 32, 35, 39) sts. Row 45: At neck edge, ch 1, dec across first 2 sts, sc in each st across, turn—1 st decreased. Row 46: Ch 2, inc 0 (0, 0, 0, 1) st, dc across to last 3 sts, dc3tog at neck edge, turn—2 sts decreased. Continue Neck and Side Shaping as established from Chart, and AT THE SAME TIME, SHAPE ARMHOLES Beginning Row 55 (53, 53, 51, 49), dec 1 (0, 1, 0, 1) st each side once, then 2 sts each side every row 3 (4, 4, 5, 5) times, working dc2tog or dc3tog as appropriate—14 (16, 18, 20, 22) sts remain when armhole shaping is complete. Work armhole edge even while completing neck shaping. SHAPE SHOULDERS Row 74: Slip st across 2 (3, 4, 5, 6) sts, sc to end.Fasten off. LEFT FRONT Row 44: With WS facing, skip center st, join yarn with a slip st in next st; ch 2, dc3tog in this and next 2 sts, dc in each st across, turn—26 (29, 32, 35, 39) sts. Work as for right Front, reversing all shaping.Fasten off. BACK Work as for Front, for 42 rows, ending with a WS row. Continue working side and armhole shaping from Chart and written instructions; do NOT divide for neck shaping. Work even until Row 66 is completed, end with a WS row. SHAPE NECK Right Back Neck and Shoulder Row 67 (RS): Ch 1, sc in next 11 (13, 15, 17, 19) sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—12 (14, 16, 18, 20) sts. Row 68: At neck edge, slip st in first two sts, ch 2, dec, work to end, turn—9 (11, 13, 15, 17) sts remain. Row 69: Ch 1, work across to last 4 sts, dec, turn, leaving remaining 2 sts unworked—6 (8, 10, 12, 14) sts remain. Row 70: Ch 2, dec, work to end, turn—5 (7, 9, 11, 13) sts remain. Row 71: Ch 1, sc across to last 2 sts, dec, turn—4 (6, 8, 10, 12) sts remain. Work even for 2 rows. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work as for Front. Fasten off. LEFT NECK AND SHOULDER With RS facing, join yarn 13 (15, 17, 19, 21) sts from left armhole edge; ch 1, dec in same and next st, sc in each st across, turn—12 (14, 16, 18, 20) sts. Row 68: Ch 2, dc in each st across to last 4 sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—9 (11, 13, 15, 17) sts remain. Row 69: Slip st in first two sts, dec, sc in each st across, turn—6 (8, 10, 12, 14) sts remain sts. Row 70: Ch 2, dc across to last 2 sts, dec, turn—5 (7, 9, 11, 13) sts remain. Row 71: Ch 1, dec, sc across, turn—4 (6, 8, 10, 12) sts remain. Work even for 2 rows. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work as for Front. Fasten off. SLEEVE (MAKE 2) Using MC and larger hook, chain 44. Row 1: Sc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—43 sc. Row 2: Ch 2, dc in each st across, turn. Row 3: Work even in pattern. Row 4: Continuing in pattern, dec 1 st at each side this row, then every 5 (7, 7, 7, 7) rows 2 (1, 1, 1, 1) times—37 (39, 39, 39, 39) sts remain. Work even for 4 (4, 4, 2, 2) rows. Inc 1 st at each side this row then every 5 (4, 4, 3, 3) rows 4 (6, 6, 9, 10) times—47 (53, 53, 57, 61) sts. Work even until sleeve measures 16 1⁄2 (17 1⁄2, 17 1⁄2, 18, 18)"⁄42 (44, 44, 46, 46) cm from beginning, end with a WS row. SHAPE CAP Dec 1 st at each side every row 6 (6, 6, 6, 7) times—35 (41, 41, 45, 47) sts remain. Fasten off. SLEEVE BAND (MAKE 2) Beginning at lower edge of Sleeve band, using smaller hook and B, chain 66. Row 1: Sc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—65 sts. Row 2: Ch 1, sc in each st across, turn. Rows 3–7: Work even in sc. Row 8: Dec 1 st each side, turn—63 sts remain. Rows 9–13: Work even in sc. Fasten off. BAND EDGING With right sides together, sew seam; turn right side out. With RS facing, using smaller hook and A, join yarn with a slip st at seam; ch 1, work 1 row of sc around both edges of each band. Fasten off. FINISHING ASSEMBLY Sew shoulder seams. EMBELLISHING YOKE INSERT 1. Measure 4"⁄10 cm from center Fronts around inside neck edge and place markers for shoulder seams. 2. Measure 15 1⁄2"/39.5 cm around outer edges of Yoke beginning at lowest center front point and place markers at shoulder seams. 3. Fold Yoke in half and place marker at upper and lower center Back. EMBELLISH YOKE AND SLEEVE BANDS 1. Using Yoke and Sleeve Band illustrations as a guide, with a marking pen or chalk, mark the blue curved lines and circles on all pieces. 2. Thread tapestry needle with A and work Stem stitch (see illustrations here) along marked curved lines and circles. RANDOM BEADS ALONG STEM STITCH Using sewing thread that matches the color of the bead, sew on beads along the edges of the Stem stitch, using photo above as guide. BEAD FLOWER 1. Thread 6 seed beads onto sewing needle threaded with sewing thread matching color B, leaving a 6"⁄15 cm end of thread. 2. Tie threads together to form a circle. Cut thread, leaving a 6"⁄15 cm end. 3. Thread sewing needle with one end of the thread and attach beads to inside of stem-stitched circle. Make a stitch across the top and bottom of the circle of seed beads. Sew a seventh seed bead to the center of the beaded circle. Secure ring of beads with 1 or 2 more stitches as needed. INNER CIRCLE AROUND BEAD FLOWER Thread tapestry needle with MC and work Stem stitch circle between Bead Flower and outer circle in A. SHELL FLOWER 1. Cut two 10"⁄25.5 cm long lengths of sewing thread and thread through beading needle. Thread through shell bead. 2. Repeat above for each shell bead. 3. Using thread that matches the bead, sew a turquoise bead into position in center. 4. Then sew the shell beads into position using the sewing thread following illustrations and photo here. 5. Thread tapestry needle with MC and work Lazy Daisy stitch around shell bead to complete Shell Flowers. ATTACH YOKE TO FRONT 1. Match shoulder seam markers of Yoke to shoulder seams, and lower point of Yoke to center Front. 2. Pin Yoke, RS facing, onto RS of Front, overlapping Edging over Front; turn to WS. 3. Divide MC into a 2-ply strand and rethread tapestry needle. Overcast Yoke to Front, inserting needle in sts of first sc row of Yoke. ATTACH YOKE TO BACK Pin Insert, RS facing, onto RS of Back, matching centers and overlapping Edging over Back; turn to WS. Attach as for Front. YOKE EDGING EMBROIDERY With RS facing, using A and tapestry needle, with Short and Long sts all around outer edges of Yoke, spaced groups 1"⁄2.5 cm apart (see photo above and Illustrations). Set in sleeves, matching shaping; sew Sleeve and side seams. SLEEVE BANDS 1. Embellish bands as for Yoke, following the chart for Sleeve Bands. 2. With RS facing, pin top of Sleeve Band to lower edge of Sleeve, overlapping Band Edging over lower Sleeve edge. 3. Attach as for Front and Back Yoke. 4. With RS facing, using A and a tapestry needle, work Short and Long sts all around upper edge of Bands, spaced 1"⁄2.5 cm apart (see photo here and Illustrations). Weave in all ends. # Evening Elegance Think understated opulence... dinner at eight... country concerts... evenings at the symphony... # Opera Shrug DESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY INTERMEDIATE Using an easy filet crochet stitch, you can use this shrug as either a hip fashion accessory or a casual layering piece, all depending on the color of Simply Soft you choose. The band is ideal for highlighting the beaded flowers and adding that extra flair to this versatile top. SIZES Small (Medium, Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Bust 36 (40, 44)"⁄91.5 (101.5, 112) cm Length 18"⁄45.5 cm, all sizes NOTE: Filet crochet produces a very flexible fabric—sizes are approximate. YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): • #9727 Black, 2 (3, 3) balls CROCHET HOOK One size US H/8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS One steel crochet hook, size 10 (1 mm), for edging Two 30-gram tubes E beads, black opal One 30-gram tube E beads, black One spool black thread Beading needle GAUGE In filet crochet, 6 mesh sts and 6 rows = 4"⁄10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet dt: double treble crochet—yarn over hook 3 times, insert hook into st indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 4 times. hdc: half double crochet mesh st: mesh stitch—dc, ch 2; next dc completes one mesh. sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch tr: treble crochet—yarn over hook twice, insert hook into st indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times. SPECIAL TECHNIQUES Decrease in Filet Crochet * At the beginning of a row, slip st in the back bar of the [ch-2 and dc] of the first space * At the end of a row, do not work the last space. Increase in Filet Crochet * At the beginning of a row, ch 7, then dc in the top of the last dc. * At the end of a row, ch 2, then work a dtr into the base of the last dc. NOTES 1. The Shrug is worked in one piece in filet crochet, following Shrug Chart; Cuffs are worked following Cuff Chart. 2. The edging is worked after side edges are joined. WORKING FILET CROCHET FROM CHARTS 1. Each square represents one mesh space (mesh stitch) in filet crochet. 2. When working from Charts, place a ruler on the Chart covering the rows above the row that you are working on. When you finish Row 1, slide the ruler up to reveal Row 2, and so on. 3. Odd-numbered rows are read from the right to left; even-numbered rows from the left to right. BACK Chain 7. Foundation Row: Dc in seventh ch from hook, ch 5, dc in base of dc, * turn, ch 5, skip 2 ch, dc in next ch; repeat from * until there are 14 (20, 26) mesh sts, turn. Begin working from Shrug Chart; work Rows 1–13, shaping as indicated and turning at the end of each row. SLEEVES Rows 14 and 15: Continuing from Shrug Chart, ch 25 for foundation of Sleeve; dc in eighth ch from the hook, * ch 2, skip 2 ch, dc in next ch; repeat from * five times, ch 2, dc in last dc of previous row; continue in pattern as established across. FRONTS Following Chart, work to beginning of neck shaping. Work across to neck edge, turn. Work each Front separately, following Chart, shaping neck, Sleeves and Front as indicated. Fasten off.Using yarn needle, weave in ends. CUFFS (MAKE 2) Chain 7. Work Foundation Row as for Back until there are 8 mesh sts. Begin working from Cuff Chart; work Rows 1–6, shaping as indicated and turning at the end of every row. Rows 7–14: Work each side of Cuff separately. Row 15: Work across to center; rejoin into one piece and complete Chart. FINISHING SIDE SEAMS With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at side on last row of one Front (Row 58 of Chart); ch 3, slip st in side edge mesh st of Back (Row 1 of Chart), * ch 3, slip st in next mesh st of Front, ch 3, slip st in next mesh st of Back; repeat from , working back and forth between the edge pieces to end of Sleeves. Fasten off. Repeat for remaining seam. FRONT BAND�SHRUG Round 1: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at one side seam on lower edge; ch 2, work 3 hdc in each ch-2 space around lower edge, center Fronts and neck edge, join with a slip st to first st. Rounds 2 and 3: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc around, join with a slip st in first st. Fasten off. EDGING�CUFFS Join yarn with a slip st in any ch-2 space on outer edge; ch 2, work 3 hdc into each ch-2 space around edge of cuff, join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2. Fasten off. Weave in ends. EMBELLISHING* BEAD EDGING�CUFFS 1. Mix one-half of the black E-beads and one-half of the black opal E-beads in a container, then randomly thread onto a strand of black sewing machine thread; using steel hook, join the thread to the outside edge of the cuff. 2. With WS facing (so beads with be on the RS when edging is completed), ch 2, * in next hdc, work [2 sc, slip bead, 2 sc] all in same st; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in first st. 3. Fasten off. Weave end securely into band. JOIN CUFFS TO SLEEVES After completing bead edging on Cuffs, join to Sleeves in the same manner as side seams. Join yarn with a slip st at Sleeve seam; * ch 3, slip st to mesh st on Cuff, ch 3, slip st to mesh st on Sleeve; repeat from * around. BEAD EDGING�SHRUG 1. Thread remaining E-beads onto black sewing machine thread; using steel hook, join the thread to the outside edge of the front band. 2. With WS facing, ch 2, * in next hdc, work [2 sc, slip bead, 2 sc] all in same st; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in first st. 3. Fasten off. Weave end securely into band. BEAD FLOWERS 1. Using remaining beads, make Bead Flowers; see instructions and Illustrations for Hobo Boho bag, here. 2. Make as many Bead Flowers as desired. 3. Stitch the Bead Flowers to the Front bands, and 1 on each Cuff. # Drama Necklace DESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY EASY This easy-to-make necklace made from chained chains is embellished with multiple types of beads, and is sure to add a gorgeous and elegant touch to any outfit. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Necklace shown measures approximately 20"⁄51 cm to the end of the longest strand. YARN Caron International's Fabulous (100% nylon; 1.76 oz/50 g, 160 yds/146 m ball): * #0013 Country Cottage, 1 ball CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm) ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Two safety pins or small stitch holders Beading or quilting thread Sewing or beading needle (small enough to fit through beads), with a sharp point 6, 8 × 10 mm rectangular silver beads Approx. 100 large (10 mm to 20 mm) glass beads in assorted shapes in shades of gray, black, silver, tan, and brown Approx. 200 small (#3 seed to 6 mm) glass beads in assorted neutral colors Steel crochet hook size US 11 (.75mm) (optional) GAUGE Gauge is not critical for this project. CROCHET STITCH USED ch: chain NOTE The necklace is created from 4 Cords (chained chains), which are made by working a chain with one strand of yarn, and then chaining the chain (using it as if it were a strand of yarn) to form the Cord. When the Cords are completed, they're embellished with beads of your choice, using either or both of the Beading Techniques that follow. NECKLACE CORDS (CHAINED CHAINS) Make 4, each between 35" and 40"⁄88 and 102 cm in length. Using larger hook and 1 strand of yarn, chain 100. Do NOT fasten off. Remove hook from last chain; place the last chain on a holder or safety pin. 1. Return to the beginning of the chain just worked (the opposite end from the holder); using larger hook, insert hook into the center of the first ch stitch. 2. Using the length of chain as if it were a strand of yarn, yarn over and pull up a loop; continue to _chain the chain_ until the stitch holder is reached; do NOT fasten off. 3. Measure the Cord (chained chain); if it's not the desired length, place the last chain worked on a holder. 4. Remove the first holder (on the original chain); using larger hook and strand of yarn attached to the original chain, work additional chains. 5. Place last ch on holder as before; remove the holder from the last chain of the Cord, and _chain the chain_ to the desired length. 6. When the desired length is reached, unravel any excess chain, cut yarn, leaving a tail long enough to weave into cord and secure.Fasten off. BEADING TECHNIQUES 1. To attach beads with small holes to the Cords, use Beading Technique One. 2. To attach beads with slightly larger holes, use Beading Technique Two, if desired. 3. To add large-hole beads, slide them onto the Cords. BEADING TECHNIQUE ONE 1. Place the beads in a shallow bowl or jar lid. 2. Thread the beading needle; work a couple of stitches into the Cord to secure the thread. 3. Pick up a bead with the tip of the needle, slide down against the Cord. 4. Stitch through the Cord to secure the bead; work small sts into the Cord for approximately 1⁄2"/1.3 cm from the bead. 5. Repeat Steps 3 and 4, adding beads every 1⁄2"/1.3 cm along the length of the Cord. 6. Fasten off thread and weave end into Cord. BEADING TECHNIQUE TWO (OPTIONAL) 1. Place the beads in a shallow bowl or jar lid. 2. Tie the thread to the Cord securely, leaving an end long enough to weave in. 3. Using the steel hook and attached strand of thread, work 7–9 chains; attach thread chain to Cord with a sc; remove hook from loop, enlarging the loop slightly; insert hook into the hole of a bead, slide the bead onto the hook, pick up the loop of thread with the hook and pull it through the hole in the bead; attach thread and bead to Cord with a sc. 4. Repeat Step 3, adding beads every 1⁄2"/1.3 cm along the length of the Cord. 5. Fasten off thread and weave end into Cord. EMBELLISH NECKLACE 1. Working each Cord separately, attach beads to the Cords, using Beading Method of choice. 2. Stitch large beads to both ends of each Cord, one at a time. 3. Fold each Cord in half, gathering the center of the Cords together with a temporary tie to hold them in place while making the Tassel on the ends; ends will not all be exactly the same length. 4. Using beading thread, tie the ends together, 4" or 5" (10–12 cm) up from the ends, to form a Tassel; wrap yarn around Tassel, 1 1⁄2"–2"⁄3.5–5 cm below where they are tied together, forming the neck of the Tassel. 5. Using needle and thread, attach beads around the wraps; fasten off securely. 6. Weave any remaining loose ends inside the Cords, stitching in place to secure. 7. Remove temporary tie around the center of the Cords. # Evening Capelet DESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN INTERMEDIATE This lacy, beautiful capelet is sure to grab attention and admirers. The beaded yoke adds a feminine and delicate touch to this outstanding garment. SIZES Small (Medium, Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Chest/around upper arms 41 (44, 47)"⁄ 103 (110, 118) cm Length 16"⁄40 cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9721 Victorian Rose, 2 skeins CROCHET HOOK One size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Floss threader 182 (196, 210) beads with hole large enough to accommodate yarn Yarn needle GAUGE In half double crochet, 18 sts and 11 rows = 4"⁄10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED bc: bead chain (see here) bhdc: bead half double crochet—work as bsc, working hdc instead of sc. ch: chain dc: double crochet hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch Lace Pattern (multiple of 14 sts) * ROW 1: Dc in third ch from hook (counts as first 2 dc), dc in next ch, * skip 3 ch, ch 3, sc in the next 5 ch, skip 3 ch, ch 3, dc in next 3 ch; repeat from * across to last 3 ch, dc in last 3 ch, turn. * ROW 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc, ch 1), * skip 3 dc, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip sc, ch 3, sc in next 3 sc, skip next sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space; repeat from * across, end skip 2 dc, ch 1, dc in turning ch, turn. * ROW 3: Ch 2 (counts as dc), * dc in ch-1 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next sc, ch 3, dc in next sc, skip next sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3; repeat from * across, end dc in ch-1 space (turning ch), dc in second ch of turning ch-3, turn. * ROW 4: Ch 1, sc in next 2 dc, * sc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next dc, ch 1, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, sc in ch-3 space, sc in dc; repeat from * across, end with sc in ch-3 space, sc in dc, sc in turning ch, turn. * ROW 5: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sc, sc in ch-3 space, ch 3, skip 3 dc, work 3 dc in ch-1 space, ch 3, skip 3 dc, sc in ch-3 space; repeat from * across, end sc in ch-3 space, sc in next 3 sc, skip turning ch, turn. * ROW 6: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sc, skip next sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 1, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next sc, ch 3; repeat from * across, end sc in next 3 sc, skip turning ch, turn. * ROW 7: Ch 2 (counts as dc), dc in second sc, * skip sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, dc in ch-1 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip sc, ch 3, dc in sc; repeat from * across, end skip next sc, dc in next 2 sc, skip turning ch, turn. * ROW 8: Ch 2, skip 2 dc, * ch 1, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, sc in ch-3 space, sc in dc, sc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next dc; repeat from * across, end ch 1, dc in turning ch, turn. * ROW 9: Ch 2 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in ch-1 space, * skip 3 dc, ch 3, sc in ch-3 space, sc in next 3 sc, sc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-1 space; repeat from * across, end work 3 dc in ch-1 space, skip turning ch-2, turn. * Repeat Rows 2–9 for pattern. NOTE Thread 26 (28, 30) beads at the beginning of each bead row to complete beading for that entire row. YOKE Thread beads for first row; chain 81 (87, 93). Row 1 (WS): Hdc in third ch from hook (counts as first 2 hdc), * bhdc in next ch, hdc in next 2 ch; repeat from * across, turn—80 (86, 92) hdc, 26 (28, 30) beads. Row 2: Ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next st, * work 3 hdc in next st, hdc in next 2 sts; repeat from * across, turn—132 (142, 152) hdc. Row 3: Thread beads; ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next 2 sts, bhdc in next st, * hdc in next 4 sts, bhdc in next st; repeat from * across to last 3 sts, hdc in last 3 sts, turn. Row 4: Ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in each st across, turn. Row 5: Repeat Row 3. Row 6: Ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next 2 sts, work 3 hdc in next st, * hdc in next 4 sts, work 3 hdc in next st; repeat from * across to last 3 sts, hdc in last 3 sts, turn—184 (198, 212) hdc. Row 7: Thread beads; ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next 3 sts, bhdc in next st, * hdc in next 6 sts, bhdc in next st; repeat from * across to last 4 sts, hdc in last 4 sts, turn. Row 8: Repeat Row 4. Rows 9–13: Repeat Rows 7 and 8 twice, then Row 7 once. Row 14: Repeat Row 4, increasing 12 stitches, evenly spaced across—196 (210, 224) hdc. BODY Begin Lace pattern; work even for 21 rows as follows: Work Rows 1–9 once, Rows 2–9 once, then Rows 2–5 once. EDGING Round 1 (RS): Ch 1, * sc in each sc across to ch-3, ch 3, skip [ch-3 and next dc], work 5 dc in next dc, ch 3, skip [next dc and ch-3]; repeat from * across to the last 4 sc, sc in each of the next 3 sc, work 3 sc in last sc (corner); work 34 evenly spaced sc along Front edge, work 3 sc in first ch of beginning ch (corner); working in remaining loops of beginning ch, sc in each ch across to last ch, work 3 sc in last ch (corner), work 34 evenly spaced sc along Front edge, work 2 sc in same sc as beginning sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Round 2: Ch 2 (counts as sc, ch 1), * sc in next st, ch 1; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to second ch of beginning ch-2. Fasten off. FINISHING Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. TIE (MAKE 2) Cut a strand of yarn 72"⁄183 cm long. Thread one end of yarn through upper Front corner of Capelet; pull through until ends of yarn are even. Thread 12 beads onto strands; working with both strands of yarn, ch 2, * bc, ch 2; repeat from * eleven times, ch 2. Fasten off. Repeat for opposite side. # Opera Purse DESIGNED BY CARI CLEMENT INTERMEDIATE Whether it's for the opera or the office, this purse is made in sections and is a great way to try your hand at bead crochet. The plastic canvas works perfectly as a purse liner by giving the purse dimension that allows you to carry your wallet, cell phone (oops, not at the opera... ), and makeup kit without sagging. ONE SIZE FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Width (lower edge) 13 1⁄2"/34 cm; (upper edge) 6 3⁄4"/17 cm Height 7 1⁄2"/19 cm Depth 2 1⁄2"/6 cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9727 Black, 1 skein CROCHET HOOKS One each size US F-5 (3.75 mm) and US G-6 (4 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Split-ring stitch marker One pair black plastic purse handles, with slots in lower ends Two sheets black plastic canvas, 10" × 14"⁄25.5 × 35.5 cm (for lining) One vial (30 grams) glass E beads, Iris Iridescent One 3"⁄7.5 cm black rayon tassel Yarn needle #16 tapestry needle Scissors Beading needle or floss threader Straight pins GAUGE Gauge is not critical for this project. In half double crochet (hdc), using larger hook, 15 sts and 8 rows = 4"⁄10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED bc: bead chain (see here ) bsc: bead single crochet (see here ) bss: bead slip stitch (see here ) ch: chain hdc: half double crochet sc: single crochet slip st: slip stitch FRONT AND BACK (MAKE 2) Using larger hook, chain 54. Row 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across—52 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across. Row 3: Ch 2, skip first hdc, hdc in each st across to last st, turn, leaving remaining st unworked—50 hdc. Repeat Row 3 twelve times, dec 1 st each side every row until 26 hdc remain. Work even, if necessary, until piece measures 7 1⁄2"/19.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off. BOTTOM AND SIDE GUSSETS Using larger hook, ch 12. Row 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across—10 hdc. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across. Repeat Row 2 until piece measures 28 1⁄2"/72 cm or matches measurement along sides and lower edge of Purse Front. Fasten off. FLAP Using beading needle or floss threader, thread yarn with 124 beads; slide beads along yarn until needed. Beginning at upper edge, using smaller hook, chain 14. Row 1 (WS): Work bsc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn—13 sc. Row 2 and all even-numbered rows: Ch 1, slip st in each sc across, turn. Row 3: Ch 1, work 2 bsc in first st, work bsc in each st across to last st, work 2 bsc in last st—15 sc. Row 5: Repeat Row 3–17 sc; place a marker (pm) for lower corner of Flap. Row 7: Ch 1, skip first st, work bsc in each st across to last st, turn leaving last st unworked—15 sc. EDGING Rows 9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 19, and 21: Repeat Row 7 —1 st remains. Fasten off. With RS facing, using smaller hook, join yarn with a slip st to lower corner of Flap, ready to work along the shaped side edge. Row 1 (RS): Ch 2, work 13 hdc along side edge to point; work 3 hdc in point, place a marker (pm) in center st; work 13 hdc along remaining side to opposite corner, turn. Row 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc to marked st; work 3 hdc in marked st, move marker to center st; hdc to end, turn. Repeat Row 2 until Edging measures 1 1⁄2"/3.5 cm from the beginning, end with a RS row.Fasten off. BEAD EDGING Thread 57 beads onto yarn. With RS facing; join yarn with a slip st at upper edge of Flap (beginning chain), ready to work along side edge.Ch 1, work 33 bsc along side edge to point, work bsc at center point, work 33 bsc along remaining side to upper edge. Fasten off. FINISHING LINING Using yarn needle, weave in all ends. Using the Front as a pattern, cut 2 pieces of plastic canvas (Front and Back); cut a strip of plastic canvas the width and length of the Bottom and Side Gussets, piecing as necessary. Join the Back and Front plastic canvas pieces to the Bottom and Side Gussets piece, using an Overcast stitch. Set Lining aside. ASSEMBLY With wrong sides facing, pin Bottom and Side Gussets to Front, matching upper edges and easing to fit at lower corners. With RS facing, beginning at upper edge, join yarn with a slip st; working through both pieces, sc evenly down one side, across lower edge, and up opposite side to the upper edge. Fasten off. Repeat to join Bottom and Side Gussets to Back. Place a marker at center of upper edge on Back; place a marker at center of straight edge of Flap (see Schematic). With RS facing, match center markers and pin Flap in place. Using smaller hook, join yarn at one edge of Flap and work a row slip st evenly across. HANDLE CARRIERS (MAKE 4; 2 EACH ON BACK AND FRONT) Right-hand side: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, one st in from seam on upper edge. Row 1: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sts, turn—3 sc. Continuing on these 3 sts, repeat Row 1 until piece measures 1 1⁄4"/3 cm from beginning.Fasten off, leaving a 12"⁄30.5 cm tail for sewing. Thread carrier through opening at lower edge of Purse handle; fold carrier to WS; using yarn needle threaded with tail, stitch end of carrier securely in place along upper edge of Purse. Left-hand side: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, 4 sts in from left-hand seam on upper edge. Work as for right-hand side. Insert Lining into Purse: whipstitch in place along upper edges of Back and Front. EMBELLISHING 1. Cut a 12"⁄30.5 cm length of yarn and thread with 40 beads. 2. Tie end of yarn around Tassel neck, slide down the beads and wrap beaded yarn around neck of Tassel. 3. Secure yarn and thread through center of Tassel skirt. Fasten off. 4. Make Tassel loop: Cut a 1-yard/92 cm length of yarn and attach yarn to point of Flap; thread with 10 beads. 5. Work bc for 10 ch, thread chain through hanging cord of Tassel; join chain where it was attached. Weave in all ends. # Elegant Bolero Jacket DESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN EASY This super-soft jacket is ideal for evening or day wear. The unique embellishing technique on this project creates a challenge for everyone to figure out how you added the beads and leaves them admiring the results. SIZES Small (Medium, Large) FINISHED MEASUREMENTS Chest 36 (38 1⁄2, 40)"⁄91.5 (97.5, 101.5) cm Length 20 3⁄4 (20 3⁄4, 22 1⁄4)"53 (53, 56.5) cm YARN Caron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein): * #9703 Bone (MC), 2 (3, 3) skeins * #9702 Off White (A), 1 skein CROCHET HOOKS One each size US I-9 (5.5 mm) and US J-10 (6 mm), or size to obtain gauge ADDITIONAL MATERIALS Stitch markers Yarn needle Long-eye beading needle 100 Rectangle Mop Shell Component-Style Pure Allure Beads (#370045) Straight pins or small safety pins to use as markers GAUGE In Cluster-stitch pattern, 12 hdc clusters and 10 rows = 4"⁄10 cm CROCHET STITCHES USED ch: chain dc: double crochet hdc: half double crochet hdc3tog: half double crochet 3 together—[ yarn over, insert hook in st indicated and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through 5 loops on hook. sc: single crochet sc2tog: single crochet 2 together—insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook), insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook. slip st: slip stitch Cluster-stitch Pattern * ROW 1: Inserting hook in third and fourth ch from hook, hdc2tog (cluster made), * inserting hook in same ch as last st, then in next ch, hdc2tog (cluster made); repeat from * to end, turn. * ROW 2: Ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook into first and second cluster, * work cluster by inserting hook in same place as last st, then in next cluster; repeat from , working last insertion in top of ch 2, turn. Repeat Row 2 for Cluster-st. NOTES 1. Cluster-st pattern looks the same on both sides, therefore both Fronts are worked alike. 2. Bolero is meant to be worn open; there are no buttons or closures. BACK Using smaller hook and MC, chain 56 (60, 62). Row 1: Work Row 1 of Cluster-st—54, (58, 60) clusters. Rows 2–30: Work even in Cluster-st, repeating Row 2. SHAPE ARMHOLE Row 1: Slip st in first 3 sts; ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook in same space as last slip st and in next st, continue in pattern across to last 3 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—48 (52, 54) clusters remain. Row 2: Decrease Row—ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern across to last 3 st; hdc3tog over last 3 clusters, turn—46 (50, 52) clusters remain. Rows 3 and 5: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.) Row 4: Repeat Decrease Row—44 (48, 50) clusters remain. Row 6: Repeat Decrease Row—42 (46, 48) clusters remain. Rows 7–22 (22, 26): Work even in pattern.Fasten off. FRONT (MAKE 2, BOTH ALIKE) Using smaller hook and MC, chain 26 (28, 29). Row 1: Work Row 1 of Cluster-st—24, (26, 27) clusters. Rows 2–30: Work even in Cluster-st, repeating Row 2. SHAPE ARMHOLE Row 1: Continue in pattern across to last 3 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked for underarm—21 (23, 24) clusters remain. Row 2: Decrease Row—ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern to end—20 (22, 23) clusters remain. Rows 3 and 5: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.) Row 4: Repeat Decrease Row—19 (21, 22) clusters remain. Row 6: Repeat Decrease Row—18 (20, 21) clusters remain. Rows 7–11 (11, 15): Work even in pattern. SHAPE NECK Row 1: Work in pattern across to last 3 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked for neck—15 (17, 18) clusters. Row 2: Decrease Row—ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern to end, turn—14 (16, 17) clusters. Rows 3, 5, and 7: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.) Row 4: Repeat Decrease Row—13 (15, 16) clusters remain. Row 6: Repeat Decrease Row—12 (14, 15) clusters remain. Row 8: Repeat Decrease Row—11 (13, 14) clusters remain. Rows 9–11: Work even in pattern. Fasten off. SLEEVES (MAKE 2) Using smaller hook and MC, chain 30 (30, 32). Row 1: Work Row 1 of Cluster-st—28, (30, 30) clusters. Rows 2 and 3: Work even in Cluster-st, repeating Row 2. Row 4: Increase Row—ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook in ch-2 space and first cluster; continue in pattern across to last st, work 2 clusters in last st—30 (30, 32) clusters. Rows 5–7, 9–11 and 13–15: Work even in pattern. Row 8: Repeat Increase Row—32 (32, 34) clusters. Row 12: Repeat Increase Row—34, (34, 36) clusters. Row 16: Repeat Increase Row—36 (36, 38) clusters. Rows 17–32: Work even in pattern. SHAPE CAP Row 1: Slip st in first 4 sts; ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook in same space as last slip st and in next st, work in pattern across to last 3 clusters, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked—30 (30, 32) clusters remain. Row 2: Decrease Row—ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern across to last 3 st; hdc3tog over last 3 clusters, turn—28 (28, 30) clusters remain. Row 3: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.) Rows 4–18: Repeat Decrease Row every other row eight times more, ending with a Decrease Row—12 (12, 14) clusters remain. Fasten off. FINISHING BOLERO EDGING Using yarn needle and MC, sew shoulder seams, set in Sleeves, sew side and underarm seams. Round 1: With RS facing, using larger hook and MC, join yarn with a slip st at right Front side seam; ch 1, working in remaining loops of beginning ch, sc in same space, sc evenly across to lower right Front corner; work 3 sc in next st (corner), place a marker in the center of these 3 sc; [work 2 sc in each row-rnd] to neck edge; work corner, pm; sc in each of next 2 sc; repeat from [to] to right shoulder seam; sc in each st across to left shoulder seam; repeat from [to] to beginning of neck shaping; sc in each of next 2 sc; work corner, pm; repeat from [to] to lower left Front corner; work corner, pm; working in remaining loops of beginning ch, work across to right Front seam, join with a slip st to beginning sc, changing to CC in last st before joining. SHAPE NECK EDGING Rounds 2 and 3: Using CC, ch 1, sc in same space and in each st across to marked corner st, work 3 sc in marked st, moving marker to the center of these 3 sc (corner); sc in each st to next marker; work corner; sc in each of the next 2 sts, sc2tog over next 2 st (decrease), sc in each st across to 4 sts before next marker; sc2tog over next 2 st, sc in each of the next 2 sts; work corner; sc in each st to next marked st, work corner; sc in each st around to beginning, join with a slip st to beginning sc, changing to MC in last st of Round 3 before joining. Rounds 4 and 5: Using MC, ch 1, sc in same space and in each st around, working 3 sc in each marked corner st. Round 6: Using MC, ch 1, sc in same space, ch 1, * sc in next sc, ch 1; repeat from * around; join with a slip st to beginning sc. SLEEVE EDGING Round 1: With RS facing, using larger hook and MC, join yarn with a slip st at sleeve seam; ch 1, working in the remaining loops of beginning ch, sc in same space and in each ch around; join with a slip st to beginning sc. Round 2: Ch 1, sc in same space and in each sc around, join with a slip st to beginning sc, changing to A in last st before joining. Rounds 3 and 4: Using A, work even in sc (as for Round 2), changing to MC in last st of Round 4. Rounds 5 and 6: Using MC, work even in sc. Round 7: Using MC, ch 1, sc in same space, ch 1, * sc in next sc, ch 1; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Weave in all ends. EMBELLISHING BEADING 1. Separate 4-ply yarn into 2-ply strand (See here). 2. Place pins as markers approx 1"⁄2.5 cm apart for bead placement. 3. Attach yarn on WS of jacket where first bead is to be attached. 4. Bring yarn through to RS, draw yarn through bead, sliding bead down to jacket. 5. Leaving enough space for the bead to lie flat, insert needle through jacket border to WS as shown in photo above. 6. On the WS, slide the needle through the inside of the stitches of the jacket border up to where the next bead should be placed. 7. Repeat Steps 5 and 6 until all beads have been attached. # resources _Please note that some of the links referenced in this work are no longer active_. Caron International PO Box 222 Washington, NC 27889 800 868 9194 www.caron.com www.shopcaron.com Bead Crazy (for Myuki beads in Cropped Vest) 21 Taft Corners Shopping Center Williston, VT 05495 802 228 9666 www.beadcrazyvt.com The Beadery (for African-motif beads used in Sahara Shawl, pony beads used in Flower Wrap, and others) PO Box 178 Hope Valley, RI 02832 401 539 2432 www.thebeadery.com Cousin Corp (for miracle beads used in Beaded Ruffled Shrug and others) PO Box 2939 Largo, FL 22779 727 536 3568 www.cousin.com Darice, Inc (for rocaille and seed beads used in Boho Bangles and others) 13000 Darice Parkway, Park 82 Strongsville, OH 44149 866 432 7423 www.darice.com Fire Mountain Gems (for beads used in Midnight Duster, Evening Capelet, and others) One Fire Mountain Way Grants Pass, OR 97526-2373 800 355 2137 www.firemountaingems.com Pure Allure (for shell and crystal beads used in Elegant Bolero Jacket and others) 4005 Avenida De La Plata Oceanside, CA 92056 800 536 6312 www.pureallure.com # glossary # CROCHET STITCHES Chain (ch): Begin by making a slip knot on your hook. * Wrap the yarn around the hook (yarn over) and pull up a loop [draw the yarn through the loop on the hook to form the first chain]. Repeat from * for number of chains required. Note: The loop on the hook is not included when counting the number of chains. Cluster: A group of stitches worked together for decorative purposes, instead of to decrease; work as instructions indicate. Double Crochet (dc): Yarn over hook, insert hook into stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through two loops on hook] twice. Double Treble Crochet (dtr): Yarn over hook three times, insert hook into stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through two loops] four times. Half Double Crochet (hdc): Yarn over hook, insert hook into stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all three loops on hook. Picot: A decorative edge pattern stitch used for edgings; work as instructions indicate. Shell: A number of stitches worked into one stitch for decorative purposes instead of to increase; work as instructions indicate. Single Crochet (sc): Insert hook in stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through both loops on hook. Slip Stitch (slip st): Insert hook in the stitch indicated, yarn over and draw through both the stitch and the loop on the hook. Treble Crochet (tr): Yarn over hook two times, insert hook in stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through two loops] three times. # SPECIAL TERMS AND ABBREVIATIONS dc2tog (single decrease): Double crochet 2 together—[ Yarn over, insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] twice, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook. dc3tog (double decrease): Double crochet 3 together—[ Yarn over, insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] 3 times, yarn over and draw through all 4 loops on hook. dec: Decrease—work 2 (or the number indicated in the instructions) stitches together _in pattern_ unless instructed otherwise. FPdc: Front-post double crochet: (RS) Yarn over, insert hook from right-hand side of stitch to WS of piece, return to RS at left-hand side of stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up loop, returning to starting point, complete as dc. hdc2tog (single decrease): Half double crochet 2 together—[ Yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through 5 loops on hook. inc: Increase—work 2 (or the number indicated in the instructions) stitches into the next stitch. sc2tog (single decrease): Single crochet 2 together—[Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook. sc3tog (double decrease): Single crochet 3 together—[Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop] 3 times, yarn over and draw through all 4 loops on hook. slip st 2tog (single decrease): Slip stitch 2 together—Insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, insert hook in next st, yarn over and draw through st and loops on hook. # SPECIAL TECHNIQUES Base Chain/Single Crochet (Base ch/sc) NOTE: ***This technique creates a foundation chain and a row of sc at the same time. FIRST STITCH Begin with a slip knot; ch 2, insert hook into second ch from hook, * yarn over and pull up a loop, yo and draw through one loop (this is the chain), yo and draw through 2 loops (this is the sc). * NEXT STITCH: __NOTE: The next st is worked under the forward 2 loops of the stem of the previous st (the chain) made when working the st. Insert hook into the bottom of the previous st, under 2 loops, repeat from * of first st. Repeat this step for number of sts indicated in instructions. Bead Crochet: See Basic Techniques (here). Tunisian Crochet/Afghan Stitch (any number of stitches) NOTE: ***Each row of Tunisian Crochet is worked in two steps. FOUNDATION ROW (counts as Step 1 for first Row only) Chain the number of sts indicated in the instructions. Skip the first chain, * insert hook in second chain from hook, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, pulling up a loop in each chain. Complete Foundation Row by working Step 2 (below). * STEP 1: With RS facing, working from right to left, pick up the stitches: Beginning in the second vertical bar of the previous row, * insert hook into the vertical bar, yarn over and draw a loop through the vertical bar (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each vertical bar. * STEP 2: ***With RS facing, working from left to right, work off the stitches: Yarn over and draw through first loop on hook, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook; repeat from * across. * Repeat Steps 1 and 2 for Tunisian Crochet. # Metric Conversion Inches to cm = 2.54 Yards to Meters = .92 Meters to Yards = 1.08 Oz to Grams = 28.6 40g = 1.4 oz 25g = .88 oz # Index The index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages in your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below. A abbreviations and terms special Afghan stitch (Tunisian Crochet) B bags and purses _Desert Trader's Tote_ _Fly Away Purse_ _Hobo Boho Bag_ _Opera Purse_ bangles _Boho Bangles_ _See also_ jewelry base ch/sc (base chain/single crochet) basic techniques bc (bead chain) bdc (bead double crochet) bead chain (bc) Bead Crazy bead crochet basic techniques yarn for bead double crochet (bdc) bead half-double crochet (bhdc) bead single crochet (bsc) bead slip stitch (bss) _Beaded Ruffled Shrug_ Beadery beads and beading tools dental floss threader large-eye beading needle "large-eye" beading needle (for sewing) small-eye beading needle steel crochet hooks tapestry needles belts _Medallions Belt,_ bhdc (bead half-double crochet) Biddex, Kim Bliss (Caron International yarn) _Boho Bangles,_ blouses _Circular Yoke Blouse,_ _Easy Beaded Camisole,_ _India Tunic,_ bracelets _Boho Bangles,_ _See also_ jewelry bsc (bead single crochet) bss (bead slip stitch) Bunn, Gayle C camisoles _Easy Beaded Camisole,_ capelets Evening Capelet _See also_ shawls and wraps Caron International ch (chain) _Circular Yoke Blouse,_ Clement, Cari cluster coats and jackets _Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_ _Cropped Vest,_ _Elegant Bolero Jacket,_ _Midnight Duster,_ _Wrap Jacket,_ _Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_ couched cording Cousin Corp Crone-Findlay, Noreen _Cropped Vest,_ D Darice, Inc. dc (double crochet) dc2tog (single decrease) dc3tog (double decrease) dec (decrease) _Denim Skirt,_ dental floss threader _Desert Trader's Tote,_ double crochet (dc) double decrease (dc3tog) _Drama Necklace,_ E earrings _Hoop Earrings,_ _See also_ jewelry _Easy Beaded Camisole,_ _Elegant Bolero Jacket,_ _Elegant Squares Wrap,_ embellished projects care of Epstein, Nicky _Evening Capelet,_ F Fire Mountain Gems five-strand braid _Flower Wrap,_ _Fly Away Purse,_ Fpdc (front-post double crochet) G Glimmer (Caron International yarn) glossary Gonzales, Lisa _Gypsy Skirt,_ H half double crochet (hdc) hdc (half double crochet) hdc2tog (single decrease) Hildebrand, Tammy _Hobo Boho Bag,_ _Hoop Earrings,_ I inc (increase) _India Tunic,_ J jackets and coats _Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_ _Cropped Vest,_ _Elegant Bolero Jacket,_ _Midnight Duster,_ _Wrap Jacket,_ Jensen, Candi jewelry _Boho Bangles,_ _Drama Necklace,_ _Hoop Earrings,_ K _Kente Cloth Scarf_ _Kimono Shrug,_ L large-eye beading needle "large-eye" beading needle (for sewing) Losee, Marilyn M McCain, Treva G. _Medallions Belt,_ metric conversion _Midnight Duster,_ _Mini-Squares Wrap,_ N necklaces _Drama Necklace_ _See also_ jewelry O _Opera Purse,_ _Opera Shrug,_ P patterns, notes on picot Pure Allure purses and bags _Desert Trader's Tote_ _Fly Away Purse,_ _Hobo Boho Bag,_ _Opera Purse,_ R resources Rutledge, Kim S _Sahara Shawl,_ sc (single crochet) sc2tog (single decrease) sc3tog (double decrease) scarfs _Kente Cloth Scarf,_ _See also_ shawls and wraps shawls and wraps _Beaded Ruffled Shrug,_ _Elegant Squares Wrap,_ _Evening Capelet,_ _Flower Wrap,_ _Kimono Shrug,_ _Mini-Squares Wrap,_ _Opera Shrug,_ _Sahara Shawl,_ _Tulips Shawl,_ shell Shildmyer, Susan shrugs _Beaded Ruffled Shrug,_ _Kimono Shrug,_ _Opera Shrug,_ _See also_ shawls and wraps Simply Soft (Caron International yarn) single crochet (sc) single decrease (dc2tog) skirts _Denim Skirt,_ _Gypsy Skirt,_ slip st (slip stitch) slip st 2tog (single decrease) small-eye beading needle special techniques special terms and abbreviations splitting yarn steel crochet hooks Stepp, Heidi T tapestry needles techniques, special terms and abbreviations special tops _Circular Yoke Blouse,_ _Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_ _Cropped Vest,_ _Easy Beaded Camisole,_ _Elegant Bolero Jacket,_ _India Tunic,_ _Midnight Duster,_ _Wrap Jacket,_ totes _Desert Trader's Tote,_ tr (treble crochet) Tulips Shawl tunics _India Tunic,_ Tunisian Crochet (Afghan stitch) V vests _Cropped Vest_ W Willson, Margaret _Wrap Jacket,_ wraps and shawls _Beaded Ruffled Shrug,_ _Elegant Squares Wrap, _ _Evening Capelet,_ _Flower Wrap,_ _Kimono Shrug,_ _Mini-Squares Wrap,_ _Opera Shrug,_ _Sahara Shawl,_ _Tulips Shawl,_ Y yarn for bead crochet splitting EMBELLISHED CROCHET. Copyright © 2007 by Cari Clement. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. PHOTOGRAPHY BY Jack Deutsch TECHNICAL EDITORS: Barb Sunderlage, Karen J. Hay, and Dee Neer BOOK DESIGN BY Georgia Rucker Design HAIR AND MAKEUP BY Laly Zambrana CHARTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY Dee Neer CONTRIBUTORS INCLUDE: Kim Biddex, Gayle Bunn, Cari Clement, Noreen Crone-Findlay, Lisa Gonzales, Tammy Hildebrand, Candi Jensen, Marilyn Losee, Treva McCain, Kim Rutledge, Susan Shildmyer, Heidi Stepp, and Margaret Willson. www.stmartins.com eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected]. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Clement, Cari. Embellished crochet: bead, embroider, fringe, and more: 28 stunning designs to make using Caron International Yarn / Cari Clement. — 1st ed. p.cm. ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36439-7 ISBN-10: 0-312-36439-3 eISBN: 978-1-466-87204-2 1. Crocheting--Patterns. 2. Fancy work. I. Title. TT825.C63255 2007 746.43'4041--dc22 2007021177 First Edition: November 2007 # Contents 1. Cover 2. Title Page 3. Copyright Notice 4. Dedication 5. Contents 6. Foreword 7. Introduction 8. Basic Techniques 9. Focus on Color 1. Beaded Ruffled Shrug 2. Mini-Squares Wrap 3. Tulips Shawl 4. Gypsy Skirt 5. Flower Wrap 10. The Domino Effect 1. Midnight Duster 2. Fly Away Purse 3. Elegant Squares Wrap 4. Cropped Vest 11. Out of Africa 1. Sahara Shawl 2. Desert Trader's Tote 3. Circular Yoke Blouse 4. Hoop Earrings 5. Kente Cloth Scarf 12. Got the Blues 1. Medallions Belt 2. Denim Skirt 3. Easy Beaded Camisole 4. Color-Me-Blue Jacket 13. Orient Express 1. Kimono Shrug 2. Hobo Boho Bag 3. Wrap Jacket 4. Boho Bangles 5. India Tunic 14. Evening Elegance 1. Opera Shrug 2. Drama Necklace 3. Evening Capelet 4. Opera Purse 5. Elegant Bolero Jacket 15. Resources 16. Glossary 17. Metric Conversion 18. Index 19. Copyright ## Guide 1. Cover 2. Copyright 3. Table of Contents	{'title': 'Embellished Crochet - Cari Clement'}
Other Boson Books by Fred Chappell Moments of Light The Inkling It Is Time, Lord The Gaudy Place DAGON by Fred Chappell BOSON BOOKS Raleigh Published by Boson Books 3905 Meadow Field Lane Raleigh, NC 27606 ISBN (print) 978-0-917990-94-6 ISBN (ebook) 978-1-886420-29-8 An imprint of C&M Online Media, Inc. Copyright 2009 Fred Chappell All rights reserved For information contact C&M Online Media, Inc. 3905 Meadow Field Lane Raleigh, NC 27606 Tel: (919) 233-8164 Fax: (919) 233-8578 e-mail:[email protected] URL: <http://www.bosonbooks.com> Cover art by Joel Barr >Contents Other Boson Books by Fred Chappell I ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX II ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX Dedicated to Those Who Cast Their Shadows Out of Time upon our days Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. I ONE About 9:30 the next morning he entered the downstairs room which faced the almost painfully blue west and the tall ridge across the little valley, the room which his grandparents had used to call the "sun parlor." He advanced into the room a way and halted, seeming to feel the whole fabric of the house tremulous with his footsteps. And he had paused to consider, well, to think about how much there actually was to consider. The onus of inheritance was already beginning to rub a bit.—The room was familiarly musty and the two windows, eyed and wavy, were decent in their gray gauzy curtains. Over the bisected window in the door which opened to the outside, the glass curtain was stretched tight with rods at top and bottom so that the cloth was pulled into stiff ribs, stiff as fingers of the dead. He took another step and again hesitated, hearing the quiet wary rattle of glassware somewhere. Meditating, he shifted his weight forward and back, rocking on the balls of his feet. Had all the floor timbers melted away with dry rot? He couldn't quite bring himself to doubt, staring down frowning at the regular lines of dark oak flooring, board laid solid by board. Even the layer of dust which was spread like cheesecloth about his feet didn't entirely dull the hard polish of the wood. He disliked thinking of these careful rows ripped up, exposing the broad rough subflooring; and then that too taken away to get at the flaking bones of the house. But there was probably no preventing it. He sighed, and as he inhaled, agitated atoms of dust pierced his nostrils brightly. Twice he sneezed, and rubbed his nose roundly with his wrist, squeezed his eyebrows in his palm. Had he really heard an echo to his sneeze? The room hardly seemed large enough to give up echoes—it was about twenty feet square with a high ceiling—but it was a room truly made for secondary presences, for reverberations. This wasn't the whole room. Opposite him, double doors, divided into small glass rectangles, closed off what was actually the remainder of this room. In the left door his image stood, hand still over his face, and he was all cut into pieces in the panes. He dropped his pale hand to his side, and in the glass the movement coruscated. He moved toward the west wall and once again his image, larger now and darker, accosted him. His head and torso stood before him, sliced now into the pattern of an oval enclosed in roundish triangles and seemingly stacked in the shelves of the dark old writing cabinet. He shrugged, turned away. The low sofa, piled with fancy pillows and cushions, sat stolid against the opposite wall. The obese horror was draped over with a picture rug, but it was easy enough to guess how it was: covered with a vinous prickly nap and with three huge cushions laid on the springs. The wool picture rug had two fringes of red tassel and displayed a Levantine scene: in the market place the wine seller sits comfortably beneath his awning while the dark and turbaned stranger looms above him on his camel, and behind in the dusty street the woman returns from the well, her water jug shouldered. This tableau splotched with a profusion of pillows and cushions, green, red, yellow, gaudy flowers, knowing birds, birds darkly wise. In the center of the sofa were two oblong companion pillows, shouldered so closely together that they looked like the Decalogue tablets. They were white, or had been white, and painfully stitched upon them with blue thread were companion mottoes, companion pictures. In the left pillow lies a girl, her long blue hair asprawl about her face, her eyes innocently shut, asleep. The motto: I SLEPT AND DREAMED THAT LIFE WAS BEAUTY. But the story continued, and on the next pillow her innocence is all torn away: there she stands, gripping a round broom; her hair now is pinned up severely and behind her sits a disheartening barrel churn. I WOKE AND FOUND THAT LIFE WAS DUTY. The pillows sat, stuffed and stiff as disapproving bishops; they could, he thought, serve as twin tombstones for whole gray generations. It was in no way difficult to imagine the fingers of his grandmother, tough and knobbly, wearily working upon these wearying legends, these most speaking epitaphs. It was more discouraging still to wonder if perhaps this task hadn't been performed by his grandmother's mother. Even without thinking he doubted that there was anything in his blood which could now fight back to that bitter use of mind; he just wasn't so tough....No; no, that wasn't true, either. Slow, wet, easy living hadn't got to his Puritan core, not really. He could hump logs together to make a house; he could plow the long furrow as straight as a killing arrow. It was simply that he didn't have to: the world had got easier, even the sky. All that temper was still in him and not really very hidden, and it was no strange matter that these two pillows could cause to rise in his mind narrow visions of those stringent decades. He could see his male ancestry as grainy and rough as if they had all been hacked from stone. They didn't drink, didn't smoke; they didn't read, and all books other than the great black one were efficient instruments of Sathanas. The only fun they had was what he was living evidence of.—And very probably not.—He could imagine them, his whiskery forefathers, stalking wifeward to beget, stolid, unmoved as men readying themselves to slaughter hogs. And some hint of that too. The women were no better. Their hands were pained knots, like blighted unopenable buds. Their eyes were stuffed with the opaque ice which had clenched over the fear of their hearts....And yet, and yet there was always something faintly comforting in thinking upon the gelid principles with which his grandfathers had shored up themselves for duty, military or familial, or for the rich farming business. He was vaguely bothered, nettled, and he turned away from contemplating the pillows. Across from him was the wide entry to a dark formal dining room, and in the near corner a complacent fat club chair. He turned round and round, feeling the windows slide over his sight and the serrated glitter of the glass doors, and found himself, in a momentary accident, face to face with the wall. It was plaster, and he could discern in its grain the sweep of the maker's trowel and swirled signs of the hair. In the morning silence the wall seemed as vocal as everything else in the room. Illumination, a gilt tin contraption which sported naked light bulbs, hung suspended from the ceiling by a gilt chain, and a thick webby electric cord sidled through the links. Before the piled sofa sat a low table, the wood mahogany-stained, with a glass top which displayed photographs that could dim, but not curl, with age: four rows of gray-and-black squares, instants of frozen miming that he would not examine. More gilt, on the wall above the sofa: a rectangular frame which enclosed a photograph in anemic—"tinted"—colors, the faces of his grandfather and grandmother. Both the progenitors seemed masked for the picture, as severe as if they had plotted beforehand to judge the photographer, to sentence him to a life of hard labor. The eyes of the grandfather were frigid blue, the color of the windwashed March sky reflected in the ice of a puddle. Somehow the tinting process, whatever it was, had made those eyes inviting targets for wishful darts. Set jaws, assured noses, ears which would admit only acquiescent sounds. The eyes of the grandmother were gray and, though doubtless resolute, the gaze was not so personally stationed. In her clear forehead and in the rather distant aiming of her eyes there was not so much of her husband's belligerent certainty; there was a hint of troubled—but still (he had to admit it)—unshaken humanity. But it was an unyielding countenance, and he found himself brushing his hand over his face as if he had just walked through a cobweb. Awkwardly he stepped back, as though he could retreat from his unrealized action or, rather, from whatever vague thought had inspired it. Nor was he delighted to see his mind so often turning upon himself. He pawed a mass of pillows heavily aside and sat down on the sofa; fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The odor of the sofa submerged him; it wasn't sour exactly, but rather sweet-and-sour, palpable; musty, of course, but with an aura of times past so striking as almost to give an impression of freshness. The smell betokened what? Voluminous clothes kept with a sachet too old, so that its power had disappeared into the cloth. Or long dutiful Sunday afternoons spent with the Methodist preacher over a box of stale chocolate candies. Or dripping afternoon funerals set up in this room and garnished with flowers which had very recently given up their sickly ghosts. His spirit seemed drowning in the smell of the sofa, in the swift flood of pastness it poured out. He lit the cigarette and sucked the smoke deep, as if protecting himseff, almost in fact as if smoking was an act of defiance toward the past. The smoke rose slowly, the lax strands of it parting and hanging almost motionless in the air, seemingly very solid. It was himself, in fact, who seemed flimsy; even his body, whose weight the hard sofa barely accepted, felt vaporous, tenuous: there was not enough real event attached to it to force it to existence. The room was so silent that he could hear his chest rasp against the cloth of his shirt as he breathed, and for one scary moment he imagined that this sound became increasingly faint, was dying away. He dropped the blackened paper match into a silly little ashtray, a tiny china circle with—again—gilt lines and in the center an ugly pink rose. The dead match lay across the face of the rose like a disastrous scar, and he noted it with a twinge of guilty triumph; so that almost reflexively he mashed the new cigarette into the flower, leaving there a raw streak of black ash. The small coals died immediately. He rose and crossed the room. As he had suspected, the desk section of the dark secretary was locked, but through the glass cabinet doors he saw the small brass key lying on the middle shelf. The lock was reluctant, but the section did at last let down, exposing an interior less musty than he had imagined. There were half a dozen tight-ranked drawers and a number of bulging pigeonholes. Letters, photographs, books of check stubs, a bottle in which the ink had dried to a circular black scab, a Waterman pen with a discolored yellow nib. He pulled from one of the pigeonholes a resisting envelope and shook the letter from it. The cheap paper had darkened with dust and the recalcitrant words had been formed with blunt pencil strokes, gray on gray. He held the sheet above his head and turned his back to the window. The words came dimly to his eyes:...guess Jasper's note will be alright anyway for this year and can renew with confidance, I guess in the neighborhood of 1500. It would of course be concerned with money. He let it drop unfluttering and wiped his fingers on his trousers leg. From a closed drawer peeped the shiny corner of a snapshot, which he slipped out without opening the drawer. At first he couldn't comprehend what object was pictured, but it was, after all, merely an automobile, a Dodge or a Plymouth of the late '30's, black, hardily at repose before the immaculately vertical lines of a walnut tree. Why this photograph? He stared at it as if it were an urgent but indecipherable message, intently personal. The car was not new, had not been photographed on that account. It was perhaps no more than the thoughtless effort to finish up a roll of film so that a brother with his arm about the shoulders of an aunt or a wide-eyed distressed baby cousin might sooner see the light of day in their own white-edged squares. Yet here it was, the car, as bluntly and totally itself as if it had been invented for the purpose of perplexing. He tried to slide the snapshot back through the crack in the top of the drawer, but it encountered a hidden tightness and folded up, the brittle surface suddenly webbed with fine lines like a cracked china plate. He desisted, and let the picture loll out of the front of the desk like an idiot untasting tongue. When he once more glimpsed his darkly reflected face in the cabinet doors, his eyes looked fearful. He turned again to the panes of glass in the double doors, this time erasing his features by bringing his face directly against one of the panes. He cupped his hands, extending them from his temples as if he were trying to see for a long distance through blinding sunlight. The interior of this room swam forward to meet him. Although there was a row of windows in the opposite wall, they were darkened by a shaggy row of fir bushes growing by the outside wall, so that this room was even dimmer than the one in which he was standing. When he tried the knob the lock uttered an unnerving scrape, but the right-hand door swung inward easily enough. Here was real mustiness, an odor so stuffed with unmoving time that it seemed strange the pressure of it hadn't burst' the doors and windows. Entering, he left unclear tracks in the dust behind him, and the dust muted his footsteps, seemed to adhere like cobweb to his shoes. The dust seemed a huge powdery cobweb. A long low comfortless-looking lounge was pushed against the wall, and the tough ornate wood of the back of it jammed into the window sill. This sofa was undraped, but the upholstery was decorated with looping broad arabesques which suggested a badly stylized jungle. There were four identical knickknack tables on thin legs; they were cluttered with more of the tiny uninviting ashtrays and with a number of small pale wooden boxes. Against the east wall sat a black upright piano which somehow seemed sagging. He crossed to it and opened it. The keys were discolored, yellowish, cracked, and in some cases the ivory was missing almost completely. He punched gingerly at middle A, then experimented with a simple triad. Middle C sounded merely a dull thump; the E and A keys produced a dissonance. No doubt the strings had rusted, the whole guts of the instrument diseased and disordered. Again he wiped his fingers on his trousers, trying to wipe away that dust which seemed to seep into the pores of his skin. With his cold hand he brushed his face too, and the back of his neck. Over the top of the piano drooped a big elaborately embroidered doily; it looked like a fishnet, a fantastic net to catch—what? Oh, whatever inhabited the surcharged air of this room. Even after he backed away from the instrument, that acrid chord seemed to hang still in his hearing; it was as if he had written indelible curse words upon something which was supposed to remain sacredly blank. He raised and dropped his shoulders in a sigh; he felt almost as if he had been working away in hard physical labor; he had never before felt his will be so ringed about, so much at bay. Never before had he realized so acutely the invalidity of his desires, how they could be so easily canceled, simply marked out, by the impersonal presence of something, a place, an object, anything vehemently and uncaringly itself....But the pastness which these two rooms (really, one room divided) enclosed was not simply the impersonal weight of dead personality but a willful belligerence, active hostility. Standing still in the center of the first room, he felt the floor stirring faintly beneath his feet, and he was convinced that the house was gathering its muscles to do him harm; it was going to spring. But then he heard the sharp-heeled foot-steps which caused the quivering, and then Sheila, his blond pale pretty wife, stuck her head through the hall door. "Come on outside, Peter," she said. "Come away." TWO I didn't have the faintest idea it was even near lunchtime," he said. Standing out here under the shiny June sky, he felt perfectly at ease to stretch his arms and shoulder muscles, as if he had just awakened from a dreary, unrefreshing sleep. He opened his mouth, tasting the bright air. It was warm; he hadn't realized how cold he had become in the house. Not far away he could hear a bird singing unstintingly, pure filigree of sound. "Here," he said. "Let me take that." He lifted the big wicker basket from his wife's strained hand. "Where are we going?" Her voice was clear and easy as water. "It's your farm; you tell me. Where is the best place on this magnificent estate to have a picnic?" "I don't know any more about the place than you do. But maybe we'd better not go too far. They're liable to deliver our stuff today." Sheila looked at Peter with a secret eye: her tall gangly husband, all bones and corners his body was, had already begun worrying himself. The "stuff" which was to come was mostly books and notebooks and cryptic files of index cards. Already he was concerned about finishing his book—he called it his "study"—in time. They still had about twenty-five hundred dollars left of the amount they had allowed themselves and now this nice quiet place to work, this farm willed to him by his grandparents, had dropped into their laps, and still he was worrying himself. In this warmly glowing landscape his eyes were turned inward. As they went through the sparse front lawn of the house she broke a tall stalk of plaintain off at the top and put the oozy stem end into her mouth. He swung the basket unrhythmically as he walked. His height and boniness made him seem loping. When they came to the reddish-yellow dirt road which ran northward past the house, he hesitated. "Now which way?" he said. "We can go either way here and still be in our own domain." It was true. The big ugly house sat almost in the center of the wide farm, the four hundred acres shaped vaguely like an open hand. It sat among smooth hills, so that if they went very far in any direction they would have to climb. "Your wish is my command," she said. "Well..." He gave her a look. Lightness and irony more or less sweet, that was Sheila. He shrugged a shoulder and started toward their car, the old blue Buick parked in the sloping driveway behind the house. "But let's do walk," she said. "It's a warm lovely day, and walking won't take so terribly much time. It'll be soon enough you're back to your nasty old books and note cards. Surely we're not here just for you to work." "Still, that's mostly why we're here. At least, I hope it is." But he gave over anyway, and turning suddenly to her took her hand. As quickly, involuntarily, she almost drew away. His hand on hers was dry and cool, actually cold, and startling in the warm sunlight. "You'll have to get used to walking," she said. "Now that you're in the country, you'll have to do all sorts of rustic things. You'll have to drink fresh milk and rob the honeybees and eat wild flowers. You're going to become a happy child of nature. I'm sure you'll make a great success of it." "Oh, that's me. A happy child of nature." In a hundred yards or so the road had climbed, cutting along the side of the hill. A slow dark stream ran in the narrow bottom field below; serpentine, sluggish, it reflected no light through the tall weeds and bushes that crowded to its edges. Sheila pointed toward it. "Maybe we could spread our blanket by the creek down there," she said. "It looks so nice and cool." "Do you really want to go crawling through those weeds? I bet the whole field is full of snakes and spiders. And the ground down there'll be wet, so close to the stream." "Weeds won't hurt you," she said. She patted the smooth leg of her pink cotton slacks. "Come on, chicken heart, it'll be very nice, bet you a pretty." She tugged at his hand, drew him to the side of the road. "Hold on a minute." He shifted the basket to his other hand, and his body tilted perceptibly with the weight. "What in the world did you put in here, anyway? Heavy as lead." "All kinds of surprises," she said. "Lead hamburgers, lead rolls, lead mustard..." They got through the field without much difficulty and she was right, here by the stream it was cool. They found a circle of long cool grass, almost free of weeds, and shadowed by a stand of scrubby willow bushes. Sheila wafted a blue tablecloth over the ground and crawled over it on hands and knees to smooth it out. Then she stood and fingered her fine blond hair back from her temples. "Oh, this is lovely." She looked at him, an anxious inquiry. "Isn't it lovely?" The stream lapped intermittently at the banks, the dark water moved slow and dreamy through the shadows; now and again it splashed up a wink of reflected sunlight. Her face gleamed momentarily in a pure reflection of the sun. "We ought to take all our meals down here." "Not me," he said. "I m not getting out of bed and wallow through weeds and mud for breakfast." "No, not breakfast. You don't have to be silly about it." She laughed. She began taking paper plates from the basket: held one up and flourished it ruefully. "These really ought to be very fine china," she said. "I've decided that we're celebrating." "If those had been china, I'd never have got here with the basket." She produced a large brown paper bag and drew a pretty baked hen from it. "Volla!" And there was wine too, a California white wine in a green bottle with a red foil wrapping over the top. And a mixed salad tied up in a little plastic bag. "The plates are just for the salad, anyway. You'll have to be a child of nature and eat the chicken with your own crude hands. And look: I bought some ready-made dressing." She held up a small bottle and began shaking it furiously. He had been staring at her, awestruck. "Where did you get all this stuff? The chicken and everything....What is it we're supposed to be celebrating?" "There's a little old restaurant in the town. They were just delighted to sell me a nice baked chicken. See—while you were mooning around the house all morning I kept myself busy, planning and preparing these nice things for us. Everything just to make you happy." He sighed. "And what is it we're celebrating?" "Our vacation....Or just being here in this good cool spot by the water. Or anything. Why not?" "Mmnh." Descending tone of regret. He felt that he had so much yet to do that even to be happy for the opportunity would be in some way to harm it, to jinx the chance for finishing. "Anything, we're celebrating anything you like. Remnant Pagan Forces in American Puritanism." "A bit prematurely, perhaps." He cut his words short, isolated each of them with brief pauses. He couldn't help it. She pouted. "Now please don't be a grouch. If you begin now, you'll just be a grouch all summer and neither of us will have a good time, and you won't get any more work done than if you'd been cheerful." "Sorry," he said. But still the word was clipped. "Look now..." She leaned carefully from her kneeling position, carefully across the spread tablecloth and pulled his ear lobe. "Eat. Drink. Enjoy. Relax. Nothing bad has happened, and nothing bad is going to happen....And look what I got for you for after lunch." She fumbled in the basket for a moment and took out a fat masculine cigar. "If you don't like it, I'll strangle you," she said. "It was the most expensive one they had." Finally he relented, or at least his body did; he threw himself back on the grass and laughed. Sunlight spotted his chest and face, spots like shiny yellow eyes. She was laughing too, a liquid twittering, but suddenly stopped. "I hope you're not laughing at me," she said. She blinked her eyes wide. He only laughed the harder, laughing at both of them, laughing most of all at the hard core of stodginess in himself that he was afraid of. Unresting shadows poured down his throat, leaf shadows twinkled on his face. "Oh, you are." She was going to become angry. She looked about for something to throw at his convulsed thin chest. "I'm not laughing at you." He lifted his hand, smiled at her. "No, really, I'm not....But you're too much for me. You're simply too much." "Yes, that's right. You're a happy child of nature. Simple. Pure. You can't understand my sophisticated complexity." She dumped salad from the moist plastic bag onto a paper plate. "Here, nature boy, eat....You're an animal." "In a lot of ways, that's true," he said, his voice taking an unconsciously serious edge. "I am simple, and you are pretty sophisticated. Anyway, you understand both of us better than I understand myself." She took the wine bottle, peeled away the foil, unscrewed the top and poured. "Here," she said. "Drink this down and shut up. You'll give me a headache with all that psychological talk." He hushed and they ate in silence. He kept looking at her, at her cool blond hair so spattered with light and shadow, at the way she moved her hands so freely, at the whiteness of her throat. So pretty she was, small and womanly, clear-eyed; it was a catch in his breathing. Her emotions were so mobile—she felt and responded to the slightest movement of things about her immediately and without hindrance —that he often forgot the chromium-bright hard mind which shone in the center. She was, after all, possessed of a nice intellect, superior perhaps to his own. In the core of his throat he breathed a wistful sigh, still looking. She colored slightly under his fixed gaze; she had misinterpreted it. Ho-ho-ho: so that was the drift of the breeze, was it? Her careful picnic was really a praeludium to the unaccustomed joy of making love in the open air. "In sight of God and everybody." He leaned back and got out his handkerchief and wiped at his fingers all runny with the juices of the bird. He smiled a slight dark smile. She moved again, looked away; grew fretful under his stare. "Well, what is it then?" she said. "Do you see something you haven't seen before?" He grinned, picked up the waxed paper cup and held it toward her, "Let's have another drink." She mimed drawing away. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe you've had enough already. Maybe too much. You've already got staring drunk." She poured the cup full. "That's the way, baby," he said. "Lay it on me." She put down the bottle and flung a chicken bone at him. He sprang at her—the motion exaggerated, sudden—caught her shoulder and tumbled her over. She almost wiggled loose, but he caught her forearm and held her. She tugged as hard as she could; her face was hot and scarlet. They rolled wildly over and over in the grasses and tablecloth. Finally she got his shoulder under a pink-clad knee and held him pinned fast on one side. Her voice took a hoarse false edge. "You idiot." "Who, me?" He lay still. He touched her breast gently with his forefinger; held it cupped. "Yes, yes indeed," he said. "You idiot," she said. The hard edge had melted off her voice. He felt soft and lazy, murmuring, "Yes, yes indeed." Her hair had come undone; a twig and a few blades of grass were caught in the bright net of it. She loomed above him, as eminent as if she leaned out of the sky. She seemed yielding and fiercely happy. Caught in the top limbs of the undergrowth behind her was a red round flicker he had first took to be a balloon. It bobbed, disappeared. "Stop a minute," he said. He clasped the back of her hand, squeezed it firmly. "Wait...Let me up." She got off and sat, clasping her knees with her forearms. He rose and the little fat man stepped out of the alder thicket. His face was like a balloon, red as catsup from wind and sun, and his grimy grin was so fixed it might have been painted. Yellowish whisker stubble was smeared on his chin and neck. He came forward in a sort of rolling slouch, his hands balled, stuffed into the pockets of his overalls. Under the overalls he wore no shirt and the fat on his chest moved with a greasy undulation as he breathed; one nipple was not covered by the bib of the overalls and it shone, obese; it was like the breast of a girl just come to puberty. Though he wore no shirt he wore a hat, a misshapen black felt object which looked as if it had been kicked a countless number of times. He must have been in his late fifties. "Who are you?" Peter asked. Thin and ragged query. "Well," he said. "I'm Ed Morgan. I live a little ways back over yonder." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder pointing north. "I was just kind of follerin' along the creek here. I've got me some muskrat traps strung out along the creek, and I was just checking up on them. Course it's a little late in the day, but I been busy all morning." He didn't ask the question he wanted to, but the first one that came to his mind. "Why is it late in the day?" The fat man gave him a wide ingenuous stare. "Why," he said, "a man ought to get down to his traps first thing in the morning. A mushrat'll just chew off his foot and get away. Or even if he is good and drownded might be an old mongrel dog'll come along and carry him off. I ought to got down here real early, but like I said I been busy this morning." "Who gave you permission to trap along here?" In the fat man's manner there was a careless oily geniality, an attitude of unmovable self-possession, which irked Peter, made the muscles along his shoulder blades feel as if they might begin to twitch. He gave his question a flat tone. "Well now, I guess nobody did," he said. "I never have thought about that. I just always have set out my traps here. My daddy did, and I reckon his daddy before him. Tell the truth, I was just getting ready to ask you folks what you was doing here. And then I thought maybe I better not." The dingy grin never left his face, not even when he jerked his head aside to loose a spate of tobacco. Without moving his body he drew himself up stiffly. "I'm Peter Leland," he said. "I own this farm." For what seemed a long time the old man just looked at him. "Well, I declare," he said finally. "You must be Miz Annie's grandbaby. I don't know how many times I've heard her tell all about you. She set a lot of store by you, you being a preacher and all. Law, she was just as proud of you as a peacock. I don't believe there was ever what you'd call a whole lot of preachers in the Leland family." He felt the fat man's eyes gauging him, measuring his weight, his probable worth. He would probably look at his caught muskrats in the same way. Peter felt nettled to the point of exasperation. "Am I to understand that you live on this farm?" "Well, honey, I reckon so. Unless you was to take a notion to put me off. As far as I ever heard tell of, us Morgans has always lived right here on the Leland farm, and even before that, back when it was the old Jimson place. And no telling how long before that, no telling how long we might've been here." His grin broadened slightly, and Peter had the impression that in the measuring of himself he had been found lacking. Not a pleasant impression. He let the muscles of his forearms relax and found, surprised, that since the little man had come he had been stifling the impulse to strike him in the face. This fat old man's assurance bordered upon, without trespassing into, cockiness. Peter sharply resented being called honey. "No one told me there was a tenant family on the farm. Mr. Phelps didn't say a word about it." Mr. Phelps was the lawyer who had made the title arrangements, had done all the legal work. Morgan lifted his hat, scratched the back of his head. Atop his head was a perfectly circular bald spot, the size and color of the crown of a large toadstool. "Well I declare I don't know," he said. "I guess maybe we been here so long now that folks just takes us for granted. All I know's we been here a long time." His gaze shifted momentarily. "Is that your pretty little wife?" Sheila still sat on the grass, her knees caught to her chest. Again her face reddened slightly. She gave Morgan a short jerky nod. "Yes, this is Mrs. Leland," Peter said. He was unwilling to say it; he felt somehow as if he were giving away an advantage. "She sure is a pretty little thing," he said. "I reckon she's about the prettiest Leland woman I ever seen." She pulled a weed, flung it down again, a gesture of overt annoyance. He sharpened his tone, cut through the thread of this subject. "Where do you live then? I suppose you have a house on the farm." He felt that the brunt of her annoyance fell upon him rather than upon Morgan, and this exasperated him; it was unfair. Again the old man jerked his thumb over his flaccid shoulder. "Just right up yonder, across the creek. You could see it from here if it wasn't for this here thicket. You want to come on over, I'll take you around. It ain't much, but it's what we're used to, what we've always had." "I think maybe I'd better," Peter said. "I'd better see what I've got into." He turned to her. "Do you want to come along, sweetheart?" She let drop another weed stem from her fingers. "Not this time," she said. She rose and brushed off her slacks with ostentatious care. "I'll go back to the house. There's so much work I have to do." "I'll be along shortly," he said, turning from her regretfully. Morgan had already started through the underbrush, parting the branches carelessly before him, letting them slap back. Sheila began to gather the debris of the meal, piling everything into the basket. There was still a quarter bottle of wine. She screwed the cap more tightly, looking at the bottle with ran almost sorrowful expression. He followed along clumsily in Morgan's wake. The grass was strident with insects and an occasional saw brier clawed at his trousers legs. Once he almost tripped because the earth around the mouth of a muskrat hole crumbled under his foot. A very narrow footlog lay across the stream; the top of it was chipped flat, bore the marks of the hatchet, but worn smooth. Morgan crossed before him, his hands nonchalantly in his pockets, but Peter had to go gingerly, holding out his arms to balance himself. Once through the thicket on the other side of the creek, they could see Morgan's house. It was a low weather-stained cabin, nudged into the side of the hill so that while the east end of the house sat on the ground, the wall and the little porch on the west side were stilted up by six long crooked locust logs. There was a tin roof which didn't shine but seemed to waver, to metamorphose slightly, in the sunny heat. Few windows and dark, and a stringy wisp of smoke from the squat chimney. In a corner of the yard of hard-packed dirt below the house sat a darkened outhouse. "There it is yonder," Morgan said. "I reckon you can tell it ain't much, but it's what we're used to. It'll do for us, I guess." Before them lay what must once have been a fairly rich field of alfalfa; now it was spotted with big patches of Queen Anne's lace and ragweed, and the alfalfa looked yellow and sickly, its life eaten away at by the dodder parasite. Morgan waded through it cheerfully, obviously complacent about the condition of the crop, and Peter kept as much as possible in the fat man's footsteps. He felt that he didn't know what he might step into in that diseased field. They went over the slack rusty barbed wire that enclosed the yard and went around the house to the low back stoop. There was a familiar kitchen clatter inside, but when Morgan stepped up on the wide slick boards all noise from inside ceased suddenly. He turned around, grinning still and even more broadly than before. "Come on in," he said. "We're just folks here." He entered. At first he couldn't breathe. The air was hot and viscous; it seemed to cling to his hair and his skin. The black wood range was fired and three or four kettles and pans sat on it, steaming away industriously. The ceiling was low, spotted with grease, and all the heat lay like a blanket about his head. The floor was bare, laid with cracked boards, and through the spaces between them he could see the ground beneath the house. There was a small uncertain-looking table before the window on his right, and from the oilcloth which covered it large patches of the red-and-white pattern were rubbed away, showing a dull clay color. From the ceiling hung two streamers of brown flypaper which seemed to be perfectly useless; the snot-sized creatures crawled about everywhere; in an instant his hands and arms were covered with them. And through the steamy smell of whatever unimaginable sort of meal was cooking, the real odor of the house came: not sharp but heavy, a heated odor, oily, distinctly bearing in it something fishlike, sweetly bad-smelling; he had the quick impression of dark vegetation of immense luxuriance blooming up and momentarily rotting away; it was the smell of rank incredibly rich semen. By the black range stood a woman who looked older than Morgan, her hair yellowish white, raddled here and there with gray streaks. She was huge, fatter even than Morgan, her breadth was at least half the length of the stove. She bulged impossibly in her old printed cotton dress and he shuddered inwardly at the thought of her finally bulging out of it, standing before him naked. In proportion to her great torso her arms and legs were very short and in tending her cooking she made slow short motions; she used her limbs no more than she had to, as if these were more or less irrelevant appendages. What was obviously important was the great fatness of her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She gave Peter a slow but only cursory look, turned her unmoved, unmoving gaze to Morgan. When Morgan introduced Peter she didn't acknowledge him by so much as a nod. "This here's my wife Ina," Morgan said. "And this here's my daughter Mina. She's the only one of our young'uns that's left with us now. The rest has all gone off different places, they couldn't find nothing to stay around here for, I guess. But Mina's stayed on with the old folks." She sat at the weak-looking table. He couldn't guess her age, maybe fourteen or fifteen or sixteen. She sat playing with a couple of sticky strands of hair as black as onyx. She leaned back in a little creaky wooden chair and gave him a bald stark gaze. He felt enveloped in the stare, which was not a stare but simply an act of the eyes remaining still, those eyes which seemed as large as eggs, so gray they were almost white, reflecting, almost absolutely still. His skin had prickled at first, he had thought she had no nose, it was so small and flat, stretched on her face as smooth as wax. Leaned back in the chair that way, her body, flat and square, seemed as complacent as stone, all filled with calm waiting; this was her whole attitude. She played listlessly with her hair, looking at him. It was impossible. That body so stubby and that face so flatly ugly—something undeniably fishlike about it—and still, still it exercised upon him immediately an attraction, the fascination he might have in watching a snake uncoil itself lazily and curl along the ground. He couldn't believe it; maybe it was the crazy musky odor of the house, confusing all his impressions, his senses. He had to use his whole will to take his eyes off her. "This here's Pete Leland," Morgan said. "He's the one that owns the place now, the whole farm. He's Miz Annie's grandson, and he's a preacher. He's the only Leland I ever heard of that was a preacher." Mina gave a soft slow nod, still looking at him, and it was directly to him that she spoke. "You're awful good-looking," she said. "You're so good-looking I could just eat you up. I bet I could just eat you up." Her voice was soft and thick as cotton. Morgan sniggered. "Don't pay her no mind," he said. "If you pay her any mind she'll drive you crazy, I swear she will." But it had started and the whole while he walked back to the big brick house—going not the way he came, but following the winding red dirt road along the hillside—her flat dark face hung like a warning lantern in his mind. He couldn't unthink her image. THREE Peter Leland would have admitted himself that his choice of the ministry as profession had risen hazy from his soiled smoky imagination. He would have admitted that he saw the Christian religion as a singularly uncheerful endeavor, and this he would have admitted as a fault in himself, one he felt powerless to remedy. It was simply that his black imagination forced him to take everything all too seriously, and exercised a partially debilitating influence on his work. He had, for instance, no very consoling bedside manner, and his hospital visits with members of his congregation turned out invariably to be extremely awkward affairs. And a few of his sermons might vie with some of Jonathan Edwards' for gloominess, though Peter lacked that zealous fire. One symptom of his racked fancy showed itself in his fantasies about his father, who had died when Peter was so young that he could not at all remember him. His father had died when the family lived here on the farm, and Peter's mother had taken him away then to live with her and her parents in the eastern part of the state. Her family was pretty well off financially—her father owned an important electrical-appliance distributorship—and they were able to send Peter to the single large privately endowed university in the state. During his freshman year there his mother had died. Peter was shocked, grieved deeply, but he was not surprised. His mother had been long waning; she had always been a pale silent little woman, and this white quietude he had only half-consciously attributed to her grieving for his dead father. This was the one subject, at any rate, upon which she was completely reticent. The remarks of her family, that before her marriage she had been very gay and lively, he hardly credited; his observation wouldn't bear them out. When he had asked her how his father had died she had absolutely refused to speak of it, had only hinted that there was a terrifying disease of some sort. So that in his dark mid-adolescence he had begun to imagine that this disease was probably hereditary, had begun to wonder when it might overtake him also. He would imagine it as sudden and painlessly fatal, a black stifling area of wool dropped over him abruptly; or he would think of it as gradual and excruciating, a blob of soft metal dissolving in acid. And even when his adolescence was gratefully behind him he had never lost completely a secret vague conviction that his days were limited, that a deep bitter end awaited him at some random juncture of his life. This notion accounted in part for his mordant turn of mind, but still it was mainly a symptom: his whole nature was self-minatory. And it was mostly because of this that he had become an active minister, for he would have enjoyed much more, and would have been more at ease in, a purely scholarly life. He would have much preferred the examination of Greek manuscripts and of his own looming conscience to the responsibility—he felt it a heavy responsibility—for the welfare of the souls of his little congregation of the First Methodist Church of Afton, North Carolina. His mind wouldn't let him rest in the leather-bound study. When he considered this inviting possibility a voice warning him that he was choosing a career of self-indulgence spoke in his head, and this voice he heeded without too regretful a delay. In his senior year and then during his years in the seminary he had armed himself the best he knew how to meet the world as an active, even a militant, Christian minister. That he had strange ideas about how to prepare himself to encounter the world was a consequence of his sheltered life. His mother had been understandably protective of him, and her family, curiously, had maintained her attitude. It was as if they shared some of his own premonition about his fate. They had been content somehow—they had seemed relieved—with his choice of profession and had willingly seen him through the seminary. And despite the unworldliness of his younger life he had made a competent though hardly a thunderously successful minister. Perhaps it was the continued awareness of his own frailty which made him tolerant of the frailties of others, but his admonishment of the peccadilloes of his congregation—and in the town of Afton they were only peccadilloes—was couched in gentle terms gravely humorous. But the scholar in him would come out. A lecture concerning a historical problem of theology was sometimes offered them for a sermon; and they on their side were tolerant also. Perhaps they were pleased finally at having a preacher with brains, for their tolerance actually came to something more than that. Perhaps they even interpreted the intent of these scholarly discourses correctly, as gestures he wanted to make to indicate that even on the other side, out of the competitive fight which comprised the world they knew, it wasn't easy; that a faith doesn't drop as the gentle rain from heaven but is formed in continual intellectual and spiritual agony. Also it was simple enough to give a conventional sermonizing point to such discourse, for every genuine moral problem does ultimately impinge on a man's daily life. It was from one of his sermons, in fact, that his present project had emerged. Although the problem had at first been no more than a pretext for a sermon, when he had later pondered his own words the subject had seized him, and as much time as he could in conscience squeeze from his duties he devoted to a sketchy research. In time he decided to write a monograph, perhaps a book. He allowed himself a couple of months' vacation—the sudden inheriting of the farm was an almost unbelievable slice of luck—and from their inconsiderable savings account he had allowed himself three thousand dollars, even though he wasn't quite certain how all that money was to be utilized. "Three thousand is an outside figure," he told Sheila. For the sermon he had taken his texts from the First Book of Samuel, "And when they arose early on the morrow morning, behold, Dagon was fallen upon his face to the ground before the ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stump of Dagon was left to him. Therefore neither the priests of Dagon, nor any that come into Dagon's house, tread on the threshold of Dagon in Ashdod unto this day." Then he reminded them of Samson, delivered into the hands of the Philistines by the bitch Delilah. "Then the lords of the Philistines gathered them together for to offer a great sacrifice unto Dagon their god, and to rejoice: for they said, Our god hath delivered Samson our enemy into our hand." It was that temple of Dagon, he said, which Samson had destroyed with his hands, pulling it down with its pillars. Peter, seeming even taller in his perpendicular robe, pale and angular leaning forward in the pulpit, had informed his not very attentive audience that Dagon was simply one more of the pagan fertility deities; in Phoenicia his name was connected with the word dagan, meaning "corn," though this name finally derived from a Semitic root meaning "fish." He recalled the description by Milton in the catalogue of fallen angels: Next came one Who mourn'd in earnest, when the Captive Ark Maim'd his brute Image, head and hands lopt off In his own Temple, on the grunsel edge, Where he fell flat, and sham'd his Worshipers: Dagon his Name, Sea Monster, upward Man And downward Fish. He had noted how the figure of Dagon had attached to the sensibilities of Renaissance historians, his story being told by Selden, Sandys, Purchas, Ross, and by Sir Walter Raleigh in his history of the world. The congregation shifted from ham to ham, resentfully itchy under this barrage of verse and unfamiliar names. But Peter had continued to read from his notes, saying that the human imagination had been hard put to it to let go this crippled fertility figure. The worship of Dagon had even traveled to America. He read to them from William Bradford's history of the Plymouth colony the story of Mount Wollaston: After this they fell to great licentiousness and led a dissolute life, pouring out themselves into all profaneness. And Morton became Lord of Misrule, and maintained (as it were) a School of Atheism. And after they had got some goods into their hands, and got much by trading with the Indians, they spent it as vainly in quaffing and drinking, both wine and strong waters in great excess.... They also set up a maypole, drinking and dancing about it many days together, inviting the Indian women for their consorts, dancing and frisking together like so many fairies, or furies, rather; and worse practices. As if they had anew revived and celebrated the feasts of the Roman goddess Flora, or the beastly practices of the mad Bacchanalians. Morton likewise, to show his poetry composed sundry rhymes and verses, some tending to lasciviousness, and others to the detraction and scandal of some persons, which he affixed to this idle or idol maypole. They changed also the name of their place, and instead of calling it Mount Wollaston they call it Merry-mount, as if this jollity would have lasted ever. But this continued not long, for after Morton was sent for England... shortly after came over that worthy gentleman Mr. John Endecott, who brought over a patent under the broad seal for the government of Massachusetts. Who, visiting those parts, caused that maypole to be cut down and rebuked them for their profaneness and admonished them to look there should be better walking. So they or others now changed the name of their place again and called it Mount Dagon. Here he had closed his notes and in the few minutes remaining he preached in earnest. The worship of Dagon, he said, still persisted in America. The characteristics which had made this god attractive to men were clearly evident in the society that encircled them. Didn't the Dagon notion of fertility dominate? Frenzied, incessant, unreasoning sexual activity was invited on all sides; every entertainment, even the serious entertainment, the arts, seemed to suppose this activity as basis. This blind sexual Bacchanalia was inevitably linked to money—one had only to think of the omnipresent advertisements, with all those girls who alarmed the eye. A mere single example. And wasn't the power of money finally dependent upon the continued proliferation of product after product, dead objects produced without any thought given to their uses? Weren't these mostly objects without any truly justifiable need? Didn't the whole of American commercial culture exhibit this endless irrational productivity, clear analogue to sexual orgy? And yet productivity without regard to eventual need was, Peter maintained, actually unproductivity, it was really a kind of impotence. This was the paradox which the figure of Dagon contained. To worship Dagon was to worship a maimed, a mutilated god, a god to whom "only the stump" remained. Dagon had lost both head and hands, only his loins remained; and below the waist he was fish, most unthinking of animals. Dagon was symbol both of fertility and infertility; he represented the fault in mankind to act without reflecting, to do without knowing why, to go, without knowing where. Was it simply coincidence that Merry-mount had changed its name to Mount Dagon after Endicott had chopped down the maypole? Or might it not be a continuation of the worship of crippled sexuality? The ruined Dagon and the chopped maypole mirrored each other too clearly, didn't they? It couldn't be coincidence. But even if these manifestations were independent they still emerged from that human sickness, the worship of uncaring physical discharge, onanism, impotence, nihilism hurtling at a superspeed. It was this unconscious regard that he wished them to root from their hearts. He insisted that a Christian life was of necessity a reflective life, that useless movement, unresting expenditure of substance and spirit, was alien to it. He exhorted them to continual vigilance. He admitted that it wasn't an easy thing he asked. Here he ended, and was aware for the first time of the weighty boredom his words had created. His congregation sat before him listless as sun-bleached stones. He looked at them tiredly, then looked at Sheila sitting before him in her encouraging front pew. Her yellow hair shone bright, falling over the shoulders of her dark blue dress. She grinned. Her torso rose and fell with the burden of a heavy mock sigh. With the back of her hand she wiped away imaginary sweat from her forehead....Anger flooded him momentarily. If it was a dull sermon for her, tough luck. It had been for him an earnest try, he had said something that he honestly cared about. His wife, for God's sake, ought to stand with him....But the effort was too much after the long sermon and his anger evaporated. He was merely annoyed and tired. He answered her with a resigned shrug and announced the final hymn. "Let us sing number 124. 'Thou hidden love of God," he said. "Let us please sing only the first and last verses." He reckoned on a long afternoon of relentless teasing—half-serious—from his bright pretty wife. And in some ways he dreaded it. As an intellectual opponent she was formidable, and once she had caught him in an awkward position she wouldn't let up. This was an attitude of hers he couldn't help resenting at times, even though he recognized that it was an attitude which his own nature needed for any kind of wholesome balance. If he had been deliberately shopping for temperaments, he couldn't have got better than Sheila's—wry, tough, at times baldly sarcastic—as an antidote for his own pessimistic nature, which was too often unwillingly pompous. Marriage with a gloomier, less sceptical nature would surely have been consummated in a suicide pact. Sheila simply refused to take him as seriously as he took himself. "All that nonsense..." He couldn't help, in a way, envying her her full generosity of movement and feeling; but he was simply not like that, he was too knotted, ponderous. She would twit him then, he took it as one takes a too-acid medicine: it tastes so bitter, it must do some good. He would like to have the barrier broken, that wall between him and the ordinariness of life. This he genuinely wanted, to prank and disport in the tepid waters of dailiness, of pettiness, of the trivia which comprise existences. He would like to spend hours dawdling over his morning coffee, or choosing which socks to buy or which greeting card to send. But he was as he was, not even Sheila could break that down. An enervating sense of guilt drove him to study, to learn, to preach, to visit, to harass, to perform good works. He could not answer the question whether works properly good could proceed from an exaggerated feeling of guilt; neither could he suppress the question. But there was Sheila. She had married him as soon as he was out of seminary, though their contact in those four years had been through letters almost entirely. The courtship and actual wooing had gone on before, when he was at the university where she was a student. She had lasted out the four-year wait easily enough, rather gaily; and he couldn't help wondering if her nature didn't demand his as much as his demanded hers. His faults were the faults of solidity, and perhaps the solidity was what she needed to attach to. It might be all too easy for her free humor to fog away into frivolity. A comforting thought, her need for him; made him feel less parasitic....She was a fine girl, would be a fine mother, but though they had been married four years—he was now thirty-two—there were no children. The childlessness bothered Peter; he felt it almost as a debt he owed and which he might be called upon to pay at any time, any moment when he would be unprepared. Simply one more instance of the way his impending fate would catch him up helpless. "Why didn't you just read us the whole encyclopedia?" she asked. She dished out pertly the cool Sunday luncheon salad. "That really would have been entertaining." "I'm not so sure you ought to come to church to be entertained," he said. "Wow. You can say that again." "Maybe you should come with a reasonable hope for edification." She peeped at him tartly. "Do you know what hell is? It's edification without entertainment. Big mountains of boredom." His anger wouldn't come back, he felt empty. "Oh, come on. It wasn't that bad, was it?" "I don't know. How bad did you want it to be?" "I didn't want it to be bad at all. Matter of fact, I thought it was pretty interesting myself. Sort of sexy." "That's because it's an idea you found. That's the reason you like it. I doubt if any of it applies much to people now. It all seemed so...historical. So distant." "But that's the point. I don't think it is. Didn't you listen to the last part? I was trying to show the pertinence..." "Yes, yes. I heard. But I don't like it." She got up abruptly and left the table. He felt morose and dissatisfied. But she came back in a few minutes and poured the coffee. "Hurry up and drink that down. I want to find out firsthand all this crazy wild endless American sex you keep talking about." FOUR The work wasn't coming along so easily. The idea still held him, it still seemed a valid and terrifying notion, but so far he hadn't unpacked his notes and books and papers. He would sleep late in the mornings, a habit alien to him, would lie tossing in the tall dark bed in the upstairs bedroom they had chosen. Dreams tortured him, jerking him awake sweating and with a dusty acrid taste in his mouth, but he was unable to remember these dreams; he could recall only dark queer impressions, odors. Then when he rose and had eaten—for some reason his appetite had increased; he who had never really cared for food seemed now always hungry—he wandered about the house, not speaking much; and in the afternoons he would take long walks over the farm, usually alone. Now and then, with nothing he could perceive to trigger it, the queer face of Mina would pop into his mind, and always at her image his stomach felt queasy, his skin prickly. He complained a great deal. "Sure enough," Sheila said, "I've never seen you so restless." "I just can't get started." "I wouldn't worry about it so much. I've always heard that people who write things have to go a long time sometimes when they can't write. Professional writers and people, I mean." "This isn't like that." He wished that he didn't sound so abrupt. She shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. You deserve a nice vacation, anyway." "Not till I've really done something." The house managed to occupy much of his attention. It was large enough to explore: sixteen rooms in all, not counting the many closets and areaways and the tall attic. Standing in a room on another floor and at the opposite end of the building he could sense Sheila's movements; that was how alive the house was for him. The pleasure he took in poking about was rather a morose pleasure—like so many of his pleasures. He opened trunks and drawers and stood contemplating the masses of stiff gauzy dresses and dark woolen shirts and trousers. Uncomfortable as the clothing looked he had sometimes to suppress the impulse to dress himself in it, to try to find out, like a child, exactly how his grandparents had felt in it. Now it seemed to him, as he became more closely acquainted with the house, that all his surmises about his grandparents had been only partially correct, that he had missed something central, something essential about them that he could discover in himself if only he looked hard enough. It was not all just soured Puritanism, it was something even darker, if that were possible. One trunk was almost filled with correspondence and receive Christmas cards and beneath these, lying loose, about three dozen shotgun shells of varying gauges; but there was no gun in the house. In one drawer was a small tin box half filled with dynamite caps. The correspondence was impossible. Very few of the letters were signed and the writing was always illegible, always bordering upon illiteracy. "Our if i ca'nt pay that much Why then i will exspect just what You had oferd the 1st time...my legel rites ech time...the religiun you clame to profess." There were words so entirely illegible they looked almost like transliterations from some exotic tongue, ancient Pnakotic perhaps: "Nephreu," "Yogg Sothoth," "Ka nai Hadoth," "Cthulhu." The effort he spent in trying to decipher these letters tired him, and he sometimes got headaches staring at the dimmed writing in bad light. He felt that the letters were obscurely responsible for the bad dreams that came on him late in the mornings. The letters coated his hands with a dust that he had almost to scrape off. Sheila regarded his explorations with her usual amused tolerance, but this attitude of hers which he had always so needed now rankled him. He felt childish enough on his own without her rubbing it in. She found things enough to do. She kept herself busy with the house; keeping clean just the four or five rooms that they used was almost a day-long task. And she was making a dress, using the old foot-treadle sewing machine which sat in a downstairs hall. The awkward intermittent clacking of it sang through the house with a sound like a hive of bees. When Peter passed by her as she worked, just wandering through, she looked up and grinned at him in what she had to begin to hope was a friendly manner, but he didn't grin back. He laid a tactless absent-minded hand on her shoulder and wandered away, just passing by. The attic was the worst. It was narrow but tall, and admitted light through a single small round window, like a porthole, high, just under the arch of the roof. But the light that entered, acrid yellow light, filled the whole space. The light locked with the dust—tons of dust up here—and the atmosphere of the place stuffed his head like a fever. The yellow light was blinding and hot; he breathed slowly and deliberately. It seemed that he perceived this light with every nerve in his body. The attic was mostly empty. On the left side the naked rafters ran down, and here and there nails had been driven into them to hold up a couple of wool coats, which looked almost steamy in the heat, and a couple of long plaited tobacco bed canvases. Piled on the floor were thick sheaves of newspapers, brittle and yellow like the light, and in the light the printed words were withering into unintelligibility. When he nudged a thick folded paper with his toe, it slid forward silently in the thick dust. In his head the sight of Mina's face bobbed backward and forward like an empty floating bottle. Against the right wall—which was simply ranked joists and nude lathes through which hardened plaster seemed to be oozing—sat a broken sausage grinder and a small empty keg over the mouth of which generations of spiders had stretched webs. Toward the south, the wall where the light entered, there was a queer arrangement of chains. At the angle where the attic floor and two joists met, two thick spikes were driven through two chain links, pinching each chain tightly into the wood. The chains, large chains, ran up each joist to a height of about eight feet, secured at intervals by big hasps, and then from this height they dangled down about a foot. Attached to the ends of the chains were broad iron bands which looked something like colters for plow tongues except that they were hinged on one side so that they could open and shut. Snap. The lock for each chain was some sort of internal affair—the bands were at least a half-inch thick. There was a fairly flexible tongue, notched on one side only, which slipped into the band itself, and on the top of the band was a tiny lever which could be wiggled back and forth. Obviously this lever released the ratchet inside the band so that it could be opened. The chains looked red in the yellow light; he had spent a long time looking at them. He held one of the bands with his index finger and swung it gently. A soft unnerving creak as the chain rubbed against the top hasp. He estimated that the empty oval the band enclosed was about four inches in diameter the long way. He stroked his finger along the inside of the band and it came away reddish. Rust, he thought; but it didn't flake, it wasn't gritty like rust. He stood on tiptoe and examined the opening where the band was hinged, where it would pinch. Small hairs gleamed yellow on the red iron, hairs like the down on arms, or eyelashes. His eyes were wide. He sucked his lips. He put the band about his wrist and snapped it shut. It fit exactly; he nodded. And if his other wrist was in the other cuff he wouldn't be able to reach the little lever to free himself. Standing flat he had a sensation of lightness, of dizzy buoyancy, his arm dangling upward like that. The iron was at first cool, then warm; his wrist began to sweat a little in it. Immediately he felt thirsty. I could just eat you all up, she had said. I could just throw you down and jerk all your clothes off, she said. He swung his arm idly; it wasn't so uncomfortable after all. Iron rasped on iron. He turned his wrist round in the cuff and, yes, it did pinch and pull at the hinge opening. He thumbed the release lever and it went over quite easily, too easily, and the cuff didn't open. He flipped the lever back and forth and jerked his wrist hard again and again. Then he stood quite still. Plumes of dust rose and settled reluctantly, the yellow motes spiraling down. It was clear that he wasn't going to get himself loose. He tried to remember where in the house he had run across the large old file. Could he signal Sheila? She was on the first floor, busy at something. He shouted twice, and his voice seemed muffled even to himself. The sound locked with the dust and lay silent on the floor. His feet were shuffling, and he sneezed twice, three times. Up here it was simply lifeless; the house which was so alive everywhere else was dead at the top. Or perhaps Sheila was insensitive to the liveliness of the house. He reached to the other cuff and grasped the margin of chain above it and swung the cuff against the joist. He banged it again and again and he could see that the joist was throbbing quite soundly, he could feel the floor reverberating beneath his feet, but when he stopped banging he heard no footsteps. She wasn't coming; she hadn't heard. And then he did hear footsteps, but they didn't come closer, didn't go anywhere at all. It was just his imagination; no one was walking. She had no nose, Mina, any more than a fish. She deeped in oceans of semen. The dust rose to his waist, not so violently yellow now. Time was passing, the light was growing less virulent. He leaned against the wall, trying not to breathe too deeply, but it was no good; he kept sneezing and sneezing, and his eyes filled with water, which made the light go all bright again. How could she not feel the house quiver when he hammered? It shuddered all over, the whole fabric of it was shaken. He banged with the chain for a while and then stopped again. His legs ached, it was unbearable. The guts had rusted in the cuff lock, he must have known. Not rust but blood his finger had searched out on the iron cuff; it was old caked blood, it didn't flake like rust. It had got later and later. His mind and his eyes had got full of fear and the house was full of sounds, all the wrong kind, scraping and slithering. It was as though iron were freezing on his legs. He was trying to take shallow breaths, for when he breathed deeply he had to choke and sneeze; but thinking about it made it impossible and he would finally have to take a long deep breath, and the coughing would turn into retching. The thought came to him, as immediate as the binding iron, that this was where his father had died. There wasn't evidence, his mind didn't need evidence, the whole house was full of the fact. His mind was full of the house. The cuff fitted exactly. The image in his head was an event he had already experienced; had stood here with both arms chained, fallen against the hot wall and sweating furiously in the clothes he had fouled all over. He didn't think he could manage to live through it again. But then he realized that the man he knew, both arms locked in the chains, was too short and he carried too much flesh....They had told him his father had died when he was four. He was a shorter man than his son, the chains wouldn't reach down so far for him; his arms he must have wrenched from their sockets almost. And why had they brought him, Peter, up here to see? His father, not mad, but furiously raging in inhuman anger, with the sweat all over him like yellow paint. His shattered eyes. What was it they had wanted him to see? He could not see. There was only a round whitish glow in the top of the wall, noseless, unreadable as Mina. In the darkness objects, the broken sausage mill, the hanging coats, had seeped over their edges, occupied space where they had no mass. Now it was night; the house multiplied its imagined noises which would advance and advance certainly and never arrive. But under the narrow door a soft thick pane of light appeared, arced and disappeared; appeared again. He heard her. "Peter? Peter? Are you up here?" "Here," he said. He didn't say it. His throat was clogged. He croaked, his mouth was thick and helpless. When she opened the door the draught blew up the dust, invisible now in the darkness. And he coughed and then gagged; wiped his caked mouth on his hanging arm. He imagined how he would look to her, he would frighten her to death; he turned his head to face the light and made his black lips smile. She was holding a kerosene lamp she had found somewhere in the house. He tried to hold his breath again, but drew it in hard and shuddering. It was Mina, it was not Sheila. He was almost weeping and he turned his face away, then turned to look again....No. It was Sheila, with the darkness gathered on her blond hair, and with the lamp held before her and low like that so that her nose had no outlines, looked gone. "A fuse must have blown, I think," she said. "This is all the light I could find. What are you doing up here, anyway?" She held the light close; she could just make him out as yet. He got the smile back, tried to fix it. "My God." She saw him. He kept hoping she wouldn't drop the lamp. The attic would burn, go up like a box of matches. "My God, Peter..." His speech was like bitter black syrup. "There's a big file in the top drawer of the chest in the downstairs hall, if you could..." She came to him. The warmth of the lamp spread on his face and neck. "What is..." "If you could get the file. Sheila." He couldn't be franker in begging. She stared at his face and then stared away, looking into the glow of the lamp. She had turned the wick too high; sooty threads of smoke rose from the lamp and the bulbous chimney was still blackening. "Yes," she said. When she turned from him her shadow was huge, fell like thick musty cloth on the whole room, on him. Gathered around the light her shape was bunched and dark and it was licked up softly by the dust and fear of the room. He felt relieved when she went out the door, but then she would have to come back again. He feared for her. It was as bad, the way she found him, as he had imagined. He felt a terrifying pity for her. His legs felt as if they would topple any moment; trembled, trembled. He heard her going down the stairs, and then after that a complete unexpected silence. There were no noises now to imagine. He hawked up sticky spittle, rolled his tongue in it, licked his lips. They tasted acrid, felt puffy. When she came back she seemed to have regained herself. She came quickly and confidently toward him, holding the file in her left hand. "I declare," she said, "just like a child. I don't see how you could get yourself into such a predicament. Just like a child, can't stay out of trouble." He took the file she held out. "I need water," he said. "I don't think I can do it without water." He began rubbing immediately at the bottom of a chain link. "I declare," she said. She went away again. In the darkness he rubbed hastily at the chain and then his arm would tire and he would have to stop. He had begun sweating again, and as he worked he was panting. He thought about how silly he must look and he felt very clearly that someone was watching him, noted amusedly his every motion, even his thoughts: Mina. She came back with the water. "I brought a whole bunch of water," she said. "You seemed to want it pretty badly." She set down a galvanized pail half-filled. Inside, a metal cup rolled about slowly. "Here," she said, giving him the cup. The first gulps turned the thickness in his mouth into a slick coagulant film and he spat the water out. It dropped in the dust with a sound like rope dropping. He began to swallow hard; he wanted it so much he felt he could almost bite it. He squatted dizzily and dipped his hand into the water and smeared it on his face. Immediately the dust was in it, his face darkening. He went back to his filing. Sheila was all right, better than he had expected. "Do you know how they catch monkeys for zoos, monkeys out in the jungle? They make a hole in the coconut shell—they have the shell tied tight first, of course—and inside they put some kind of small nuts a monkey likes. The hole is just large enough for him to get his hand in, but when he clenches his hand to hold the nuts, then the hole is too small and he can't get loose. He's too stingy or too stupid to let go the nuts. That's how they do it. But you know, I never really believed that they could capture monkeys that way until I saw you standing here with your hand caught like that. And not even having the excuse of nuts or whatever to get you to stick your hand in. Did you ever stick your hand in the fire because it looked so nice and hot? I don't mean now, I know you're too smart to do something like that now; but when you were younger, maybe. Maybe when you were in college?" He shook his head, keeping the grimness of his face away from her. He had got the link through in one place now and had begun to make a new cut. He thought that she was talking in order to quell her nervousness. He sweated heavily, wishing that he hadn't dirtied the water in the pail; the thirst was on him again. "But you know, when I couldn't find you, I honestly just knew it was something like this, I honestly did. The way you've been poking about into every nook and cranny in this house a person would think you were expecting to find a fortune, a pot of gold. Behind a secret panel or something like that. Really. I've never seen anyone so dopey about something before. Of course, that's your way—I know it—if there's anything at all around you can take as seriously as cancer, you'll do it. Know what? Watching you wander around all mopey like that, I've just wanted to tell you that if the house bothered you all that much we could get a tent and set up in the fields. Or if you were really bothered we could go home. But you wouldn't let loose of the house, not for anything. Just like those monkeys they catch." He was almost free now, but he had to stop. The muscles in his forearm were jerking from the fiery exertion. She went on talking and now he wished she would be quiet, just hush up. He stroked his forearm against his thigh and wiped the sweat from his face on his left shoulder where his shirt was already wet and filthy from the reflex. He went back to work. "...And if you think I'm giving you a hard time, you're right," she said. "And don't think you don't deserve it, every bit." The longer length of chain slapped against the wall, rebounded. His arm plummeted, the cuff banged against his thigh; there would be a bruise there. He was free. He sat down, hugging his knees, pain rushing to them. He put his head on his knees. His seeing was contracting and expanding in circles. He was almost weeping. At last he stood up, Sheila helping him. "Let's go down," he said. He took the lamp from her, turned down the wick, and they went down together. He had retained the file; the four links dangled from the cuff, touched his leg. Stranger than ever, the house in the moving lamplight; shadows deeper and alive, shifting upon themselves. The varnished furniture reflected the dull glow in spots like dull eyes. They were enclosed in the lamp's burning, he leaning slightly against her, dirty, tired, musing, the chain flopping; she took his weight on her shoulder, her arm thrown over his shoulders, her hand gripping his shirt. In the kitchen they let go. He set the lamp on the drainboard of the sink, ran cold water on his face and hair, shaking his head. When he straightened the water streaked his shirt. "Okay," he said. "I'll take a look at the fuse box." Now she took the lamp and followed him to the short hallway by the kitchen. He didn't open the box. "The switch is thrown," he said. His foot encountered something soft and warm, and he bent and picked up a heavy woolen overcoat; blue this one was. The house was cluttered with them. "This coat," he said, "it must have got hung on the switch here. The weight of it pulled the power off." She put her fingers on her open mouth, all embarrassed. "I was just straightening up," she said. "I didn't know that it...I'm sorry." She brushed her chin lightly, a gesture of disbelief. "I'm sorry." He threw the switch. All the lights went on. Everything looked naked now, the walls, the furniture; and they seemed naked too and turned away from each other as if in shame. Only for a moment. He took the lamp from her and screwed the wick down almost out of sight; a fragile bloom of black smoke rose from the chimney where the flame went out. "Here." He handed her the heavy coat and she took it, not quite meeting his gaze yet, and hugged it to her. The tail of it fell, hiding her body. She stared at him. "I really am sorry," she said. "Really." He tapped the cuff on his wrist with the big file. "I'm going to get this off," he said, "and then I'm going to take a bath. Hot water and six bars of soap." "All right," she said. "Good enough. And I'll fix us some supper. It must be nine o'clock." He considered. "None for me, though. I really don't feel like eating." "Well...How about coffee then?" "Coffee, fine." FIVE He had found a little straight chair with a sagging cane bottom and he sat there in the short hallway slowly and steadily rasping at the cuff. The grainy powder dripped on his shoes. He figured he could cut through on one edge where the cuff snapped shut and then cut through the tongue. Then he would be free. There was no hurry now, but fear wouldn't leave him. He had seen his father like that, a short man with huge terrifying eyes. Inheriting the farm he had inherited Mina, inheriting the house he had inherited chains. There was more to come, something was catching up with him. He had never considered that fright could have such dimensions as when Sheila had brought in the lamp, he taking her for Mina. He ought to see the girl again; of course, she was only poor and ordinary. It was the house and the isolation working in his head. Incongruous images falling together all silly. But he could not convince himself; all his thoughts, and even his body, lacked conviction. How well, really, was he remembering? He has lost the way, his grandmother said. But her voice couldn't have sounded the way it did in his mind, like metal creaking on metal; no one had ever sounded like that—it was the way her image in the tinted photograph in the sun parlor would speak. He has lost the way, now see what he has come to. You will too if you ever get lost like your father. He was squirming to get away from her, struggling not to see, but her fingers, complacently strong as iron, held his wrists. He would not look at the attic wall, but he could not help looking. Now he felt that he had been called upon to judge his father, but now he did not know the standards by which judgment was to be made. He stopped the filing and rubbed his nose. Perhaps in his first encounter with the house he had been correct: those standards had disappeared from the earth forever....No.... What was certain was that he couldn't quench the image of Mina; it came to his mind ever more insistently. The confusion between Mina and his wife seemed incredible, even with the crouched darkness and the bad light. It could be explained only by expectancy; he had been convinced that it was Mina who would come through that door. And her face remembered was intractable entirely; it wouldn't respond to any maneuver of his imagination, it offered no similes, as totally itself as the taste of garlic. But what did it mean? Why did it drift in his thought unattached, coming and going like a light winking an indecipherable code? The cuff dropped to the cool tile floor and he let the file drop too, his right hand hot from the pressure of it. The weight of the iron he still felt on his wrist. He leaned forward to rest, his elbows on his knees. Then he straightened in his chair and kicked the gaping iron ring as hard as he could. It slid across the floor, struck the wall and rebounded, came slithering back and touched against his foot. He rose and went down the hall to the bathroom, rubbing his wrist. He leaned over the ugly yellowing tub which sat high on four legs with claw feet, and pushed in the plug. He breathed gratefully the steam that rose when he drew the hot water; he had been afraid that the power had been off so long the water would be cold in the tank. When he saw his face in the little streaked cabinet mirror he wasn't shocked, but regretfully assured instead. His eyes and mouth seemed holes poked in stiff gray paper. His eyes were pink-edged, his hair stiff and spiky with the clotted dust. While the water was drawing he washed his face at the little chipped lavatory. The water made his wrist itch and burn and he saw there the broad raw ichorous streak the iron had put on him. Then he stripped; his shirt and undershirt came off reluctantly, plastered to his skin with sweat and grime. He held them at arm's length, they were almost unrecognizable. He let them drop, he had decided to burn them. He climbed into the tub and lolled back, just letting the water lap into the dust. After a while he began to scrub earnestly and the water became almost inky. He had to let it out and draw a new tub. He lay there, eyes closed, resting in the new water. He heard the door open and looked to see Sheila entering, her full arms cradled. He watched her face, pink and oval but with the sharp chin, a face like a brightly buffed fingernail. "Well," she said, you seem well out of danger now." "I think I'll live." He spoke very slowly, his throat still feeling dense. "I hope to God." "I brought you some clean clothes and things. You think maybe that will help?" "It'll be fine. How about the coffee?" "You want it now—in the bathtub?" Then, seeing his expression: "Oh. Okay. I'll go get it. It ought to be about ready now." In a while she came back, carrying cup and saucer, balancing them with exaggerated care in her left hand. He sat up and reached for it, but she stepped back sharply. The coffee slopped into the saucer. "My God," she said. "Look at your wrist. It looks horrible. Just look at your poor wrist." He was totally ashamed; dropped his injured hand into the water, hid it behind his naked left thigh. "It's nothing," he said. "It's not nothing. It's all torn up. Here, let me see it. We're going to have to do something about that. It looks just awful." "It's all right, it's nothing." She searched his face with the cool gray gaze. It felt like a spray of cold water on him. He discovered that he wanted to cower away from her stare; now she had the goods on him, now she knew his whole guilt. She stepped carefully away from him and around and set the cup and saucer atop the cistern of the toilet. Then she came back, sat on the tub edge. "It's not all right. How can you say that? It's raw and bleeding....Here." She reached for the wrist, but he jerked it away, behind his back. "No," he said. She straightened herself, shook water from her gleaming plump hand. She began to talk slowly, in a quiet voice. "Peter, what is it? What's been wrong with you lately? What happened up there in that attic?" He shook his head. "Nothing; nothing happened. I was just being silly, messing around with those chains." "That's not right." She too shook her head, setting the blond strands atwitch. "I've never seen you like that. I've never seen anyone like that." She rubbed her eyes with her forearm. "I hope I never see anybody in such a state again." She was merciless. He waited, but finally had to speak. "There's nothing wrong. I just got too curious about the chains. Like the monkeys you were talking about. There's not much that can happen to a fellow alone in an attic, after all." And now he felt that he was betraying her, betraying both of them. But, really, wasn't it merely a harmless lie designed to shelter her feelings? "Oh, that's not right, that's not right at all." Verge of exasperation. "You know it's not like that....Because it's been going on too long. There's been something wrong with you ever since we got to the farm." "What's that? What are you talking about?" A question meant to embarrass her, to force her to describe behavior for which there was no good description; thus, to draw from her an accusation because of the lack of concreteness. Perhaps an accusation was what he most wanted.... She skirted the trap as easily as a plump dowager, lifting her hem demurely, would avoid a puddle. She looked at his dampening forehead. "I don't think this place is healthy for you, I know it's not. I don't think we ever should have come here." Now he knew he was on safer ground, but he didn't feel any more confident. "That's pretty silly, don't you think? I mean, really; it sounds like something out of a horror story or a Bela Lugosi movie or something....It doesn't really mean anything, does it?" She rose slowly (but she was angry) and began walking up and down, taking precise military strides like a man. How often it had seemed to Peter that she was a man, maybe more male in the way it counted than he...."Don't you do that," she said. Baldly warning tone. "Don't you patronize me. Don't say to me, 1 mean, really. You're not the kind to patronize, you don't have the weight. And you know me too well. You know I don't talk just to be talking." "I didn't mean it that way. Of course I didn't. But you'll have to admit, the way you, put it, it does seem sort of silly and made-up." "No, it doesn't." She was behind him now, standing still. Her voice was tight and even. "But you've made up your mind not to talk to me about it. You don't even know whether you ever will talk to me again. You're as transparent as a child. Fuck you, just fuck you, Peter Leland." He turned amazed, his torso jerked around, and she flung at him the cup of coffee. Her face was hot and white, pale as her eyes. She threw it at him with the awkward grace of a ten-year-old boy. —The fierce coffee splashed on his shoulder and side. The cup smashed on one of the tub faucets. Coffee, the dark stain, spread in the water like a storm filling the sky. He could not speak, could not think; could never have guessed her violence. She did not relent. She marched out, again tightly military, not glancing at him. Going away, she held her back and shoulders stiff. She didn't slam the door, didn't close it. The cold air of the hall poured in on him. He could not speak, he could not smile at her rage. He had never felt less humorous. He got up very slowly and carefully. It was hard to see the chips of the broken cup in the darkened water. He sat poised on the edge of the tub, searching the floor. There lay the slim curved handle of the cup, retaining its identity in a surprising manner. He picked his way tiptoe over the floor and put on his underwear and his socks and shoes. Then he felt safer, but no better. He picked up the shards from the floor and dropped them into the toilet; he drained the tub, but let the broken china remain. Then he felt that he had nothing to do, he was at a loss. Had it really been so bad, trapped in the chains? He went through, sensing the whole presence of the house about him, and in the kitchen took down cup and saucer and poured coffee. A package of Sheila's menthol-flavored cigarettes lay on the table and he got one out and lit it. He hadn't smoked one of this sort since he was twenty years old. The sensation was surprising, but not unpleasant. He puffed assiduously and felt gratified. He drank the coffee slowly. Then he rose; he felt, rather than heard, Sheila's movements in the upstairs bedroom. She was readying for bed. He went back through the house again, turning out the lights, and he mounted the stairs in the dark, sliding his hand along the solid cool banister. As he went up, it came to him how the things in the house, the furniture, even the stairs and the walls, seemed important to him, seemed to mean intelligible puzzling comments, while things not connected with the house, with his new knowledge—whatever sort it was—did not touch and were unimportant. Even alien, perhaps. What real connection did Sheila have with the house, with his past? With him? The thought felt true, that she was an intruder, nettlesome. She lay in the bed with her face turned away from him toward the wall. The bed had a high solid headboard, about six feet tall, and was dark, like almost all the furniture in the house. Her pale head looked small, settled at the bottom of the headboard, not larger than a thumbnail. It would be best not to speak to her. She had left only the lamp on the big dark vanity burning, and by this light he undressed. His body was reflected in the three mirrors. He looked extremely pallid—the lamp was very small and had a clear white shade—but he looked dark too somehow. It was as if his body gathered some of the darkness of the furnishings, or as if it had been tinged by the thick obscurity of the attic. Especially about his eyes the shadows stayed, and the eyes too looked dark and liquescent, reflecting only in pinpoints the light of the lamp. He was extremely thin and ribby, as if there were just barely enough skin to cover him. But it all seemed natural. He turned off the lamp, went cautiously through the dark to the bed and clambered awkwardly in. The sheets were of coarse cotton, but they felt soothing. He stretched his thin legs and then let them relax, and it seemed he could feel strength draining into them again. He hadn't quite realized how exhausted he had become. He spoke softly, "Sheila." But she wouldn't answer; her body didn't respond to his voice even by a movement of aversion. It was no good trying to talk to her now. Wearily he began to wonder exactly what there was between them that he had to patch up; he honestly couldn't say what the quarrel was about. And he abruptly put it out of his mind, just shrugged it away, and fell asleep. A bitter sleep, immediately shot through with yellow sick dreaming. He was still himself, but somehow impersonally so, huge, monolithic. There was no one else, but there were momentary impressions of great deserted cities which flashed through his consciousness, gleaming white cities with geometrics so queer and dizzying as to cause nausea. And when the cities remained stationary they were immediately engulfed by a milky-white odorous ocean. This same smelly chalky sea water was attacking him also and he began to dissolve away; he was becoming transparent, he was a mere threadlike wraith, merely a long nerve, excruciatingly alive. Somehow he perceived a voice in the milky substance, talking clearly and with immense resonance. "Iä, iä. Yogg Sothoth. Nephreu. Cthulhu." ...And all that, flashing away. Still dreaming, but now the next dream came to him lucid and so immediate he could taste its pattern. Sheila lay by him, still, absolute, still as rock. His limbs had gathered a terrible energy, felt too light, moved too easily and quickly under his great dry hunger for her. He murdered her. He was confused, the whole time he was killing her he imagined he was making love. And she never spoke, never uttered a sound.... The night had increased, it was much later; a shred of moon had driven into the gabled window. The moon looked thin and cheap, like something made of plastic. He was talking, kept murmuring monotonously, his voice thick and deep and full of words he could not distinguish, could not hear. Light poured into the room webby and grimy. It clung to all objects like a gritty gray ash. He kept speaking to her and she would not answer, but in the bed lay a tangle of blood, dark, bluish, in the cheap moonlight. It was streaked, blue, on his forearm and shoulder and chest. It lay tangled with his sperm in the bed; and his body was trembling, evanescent as steam from coffee. He wanted to rise but he kept floundering back; it was like bathing or drowning. The tall headboard stood over him, a black threshold. Every fiber of him was sinuous, but frenzied and impotent. His body suffered agony in the detestable light. He opened his eyes. Cold with sweat, he stared above him at the black threshold of the headboard. Sheila lay by him unmoving but breathing easily and deeply; sighed once in her warm sleep. He lay for a while thinking, then turned on his side and went back to sleep, to dream even more bitterly and heavily. SIX The succeeding days widened the strangeness between them. Sheila would hardly speak to him, even averting her eyes as he passed. And he merely passed, going by thoughtlessly, caught up in himself once more, preoccupied with the house. His books and the notes for the monograph on Puritanism lay unused, asprawl after a halfhearted opening of boxes. The house had claimed him, he examined the corners and the walls, finding or seeming to find that the geometry was awry, windows and doors slightly misplaced. He went back to the letters. Peering intently at faint markings under their coatings of dust. ...that pece of Land wch boarders on the Mackintosh prop. and probable worth about 500 dols. more or less...shamefull incidents talked...all the time they talk, one would not think so many idel tonges...and even if his religiun is as you clame, no resoun to believe that he wo'nt break down and come under...Sothoth, Nephreu, maybe...all in whispers...This day I walked the seven miles to Madison switchback and made good going of it and found myself in good health, much better than the dr. had intimated to me. Of course took pains to keep well away from Ransom's grove where body of xxxxxx was found dead, and torn in the most awful fashion. Weather delightful even for May, already some of the summer heat is into it. Observed no interesting birds: crows mostly, cardinals, a barn swallow wch I hope will take up residence among us. Cthulhu [?J. Nyarlath—[?]...and will have my SATISFACTION as i have before this told you...will make no difference, he can craul and beg, he can lick my shoes...SATISFACTION— ...what rites best employed to bring this about, I do'nt know & must consult. It may be that Stoddard [?] is better informed, certainly the Morgans hold the key to any endeavour of this sort, but are close-mouthed, being the most high adepts. Anyway, it ought to be performed, and although I find myself truly unsuitable, I can only say that, at the least, I am willing and that no one else has come forward. Recognize that it demands a discipline almost intolerable for anyone with a sign of weakness and that considerable bodily pain is involved. I hope mightily that I am equal to the task and that I may live to see it accomplished. If not, there is, of course, no great loss when one weighs what is lost against what may be gained. ...this night evermore the darkness Cthu— He rubbed the dust between his lingers, like a film of oil or sweat, and sneezed. He let the brittle papers fall to the open leaf of the secretary and regarded the loose pile with absent-minded distaste. Not a line of them did he understand, hardly a word; and yet he could not stop himself from whittling away hours and days looking at them. "All that nonsense," Sheila would say, had indeed said. He pushed himself away regretfully and went outside. A clear day, early afternoon. Sheila sat in a kitchen chair at the untended edge of the yard, reading a novel. For a moment he was tempted to go to her, to try to make up to her and trample this silly barrier between them. But pride was still in him, stiff and gloomy, and he would not move. He turned instead to the hill behind the house, going between the house and the woodshed, seeking the open fields. But he came running back quickly when he heard her shout, shriek. "Peter! Peter!" Her book lay tumbled open on the ground. She was standing behind her chair, gripping the back of it, and staring at the ground before her. There a snake was poised, not coiled, not menacing to strike, simply waiting, with round head alift and trembling tongue. It was a dull brown color, about three feet long. Peter found a broken rake handle in the litter at the front of the woodshed and walked, not hurrying, to the edge of the yard. The snake oozed smoothly round—not a ripple in that movement—to meet him. It was harmless, just an errant ground snake. "It won't hurt you," he said. "Perfectly harmless." He felt unaccountably cheerful. "Kill it," she said. "I don't care about that. Kill it." He poked the rake handle at it and it recoiled suddenly. Sheila squealed and gave a little jump backward. "I m not going to kill it," he said. "There's no reason to. It can't hurt you, and anyway they're good to have around. They eat mice and things." He was unsure of this last notion. "Will you hush up and kill that thing? I can't stand it. I can't bear to look at it." "No. I won't. Let me get another stick and I'll carry it..." She tried to lift the chair to strike the snake, but it was too heavy. She pushed it aside and strode forward and snatched the rake handle from his hand. He stepped back automatically, bewildered. She was awkward and frightened; beat the snake behind the head and down the length of it, hitting blindly. It writhed, hissed, twisted, trying to get away but injured now. She dropped the handle and ran away, out to the middle of the yard. Tears rolled on her cheeks, and she was sobbing. "Peter, damn you..." Enraged, he picked up the handle. He was burning angry, regretting that now he had to kill the snake. Two sharp blows precisely on its head he gave it, and it rolled over and over. He got the end of the handle under the twisting body and pitched it down into the weeds. As he came back through the yard toward Sheila he could hear it thrashing about in a drift of dead leaves. "Why wouldn't... You wouldn't kill it because you hate me. You really do. And I hate you too. I hate the sight of you." "You bitch." His anger had congealed, and was a hot weight in him. His feelings were blunted. He threw the handle spinning into the depths of the woodshed, getting a slight satisfaction from the clatter it made. Slowly he turned his back on his wife and walked deliberately away, going into the house. Inside he breathed more easily. Confused and dully angry, he walked from room to room, a certainty growing within him. Again in the sun parlor, near the littered secretary, he stopped; stood rigid and still. He recognized the thought that was in him and nodded gravely once, gravely agreeing with himself. And then he put the thought aside and turned almost automatically to the papers which lay there. —ulhu Iä! Iä! Yogg— ...the moon draws wrong has the wrong horn draws wrong has the wrong horn draws wrong has the wrong horn this night evermore this very night this night evermore this very night evermore this night evermore darkness Cthu— Had feared that the cows, being alarmed by the Occasion and the pasture already sere in this deathly September, wd. go dry, but have so far maintained their milk, giving 3 or 4 quarters per diem. Some will freshen soon. The sky continues very red at eve (tho' sometimes with green or purplish streaks intermixt) so that the dry weather will probably hold. Mister Peter much concerned with his Chemical researches, very abstracted, the indifferent success of his attempts making palpable effect on his disposition. Gloomy at times, oftimes mistrustful. The weather presently having fretful effect on everyone. And for a number of nights Peter had kept watch alone, sitting at the kitchen table, smoking his wife's cigarettes one after another—not tasting them—and drinking ugly black coffee that he brewed himself until two in the morning. Sheila had gone to bed long before and slept stubbornly. Then he went up and to bed, but did not sleep; lay wide-eyed in the darkness in the bed apart from his wife, careful not to touch her. He was filled with disgust....And now this night he sat alone again, silently smoking and gulping down the acrid coffee until four in the morning. Occasionally he nodded deliberately, still assenting to himself. Finally he rose and turned off the bare overhead light—there was already a dim light outside—and left the kitchen. He was going to murder her. As he went through the smaller downstairs sitting room, he took the long poker that leaned by the blackened empty fireplace. It was cool and weighty; he was vaguely gratified by the heft of it. He held it forward away from his body, as if he were guiding his way with it like a flashlight. Then through the sitting room and through the long dark hall and, one by one, silently up the stairs. He paused a moment before the bedroom door, then eased the latch over and let himself in. The air was cool but smelled warm. He found the fuzzy outlines of the furniture, instantly aware of Sheila's muffled form in the bed. She was breathing deeply, sighed now and again in her sleep. He drew near the bed. She was on the other side, scrupulously away from his place, her back turned toward him. She slept, but her body was tense. Her hair gleamed and he stared at it, trying to find the base of her skull. He would like to snap the nape-nerve, to be finished at once. He struck. She rose from the waist instantly, her eyes wide and unseeing, staring, silent, terrible. She flopped back, roiling, still silent. He struck, he struck. *** He had murdered her. The poker dropped. He stood by the bed, regarding it uncomprehendingly, the confused pool, sheet and cold thigh and litter of stain. It had got colder; he clasped his arms around his chest, trying to restrain the trembling of his body. He could not see what lay in the bed, the arc of shoulder and the hair not bright now and the huddle of fouled sheet, but he could not stop staring. He turned, stumbled, going to find his clothes in the dark, and he got them on somehow. He would not turn on the lamp. In the mirrors, even with the light behind him, he seemed hardly there, his body as gauzy as the light, something made to poke holes through. There was a bad smell, rich and chalky. He kept swallowing, but a rancid film stayed in his mouth and throat. He was very cold; now his body seemed capable of feeling only terrifying extremes. He went out, down the hall, down the stairs, through all the house without feeling his way, his footsteps numb and certain, now his own. The clotted dingy light was everywhere, a grimy dawn was yawning up. He coughed, and spat on one of the curd-colored walls, but his mouth was still adhesive with a clumsy film. He reached the side door and even put his hand on the cold knob, but did not turn it; turned himself instead and went marching back through the downstairs rooms, through room after room, avoiding only the narrow darkened hallway which led to the stairs. In mirrors, glassed doors, cabinet windows his figure appeared, disappeared; and he kept rubbing himself with his palms, as if his body was all a various itch. He did not observe but perceived all the furniture, which perceived him silently, knowing, darkly wise. In the sun parlor he found that he had halted, had turned round and round, stood facing the two whited oblong sister pillows. I SLEPT AND DREAMED THAT LIFE...He uttered unresonant laughter, the sound coming flat out of his mouth, inexpressive, hard. Through the glassed door to his left he could make out the heavy squat form of the diseased piano. Again he turned round and round. Then he went through the house once more to the side door and entered to the outside. Nothing lifted, there was no sense of release, relief. The light seemed no brighter out here, and still hung to him like dank cloth. The sun was not yet up; over the eastern hills was only a lighter grayish smear. The two vertical walnut trees in the lower side yard looked massive and glassy, and the full branches let fall on the lower trunks a dimness—not a real shadow—vaguely shaped like an automobile. He averted his gaze. He went under the dark side of the house out to the dirt road and walked along it for about twenty yards. The prospect was larger, the mountains colorless on the north sky, the nation-shaped fields below him cut through with the smoke-shaped stream, but it seemed no less narrow; it seemed all miniature, enclosing, funneled. In the gray light perched a single gleam of orange-yellow light, steady; it seemed round, but it streaked from the kitchen window of the tenant house. Without hesitation he began to walk the winding descending road, drawn to the single patch of flame on the landscape. He had not thought Morgan would be awake. He didn't know the time. The hour whitened slowly, but the landscape remained iron-colored, the bad light pervading the dew. Twice he had to stop; he struggled in the wet weeds at the roadside and leaned forward against the bank of the road, clenching the orange clay tightly. He fought to keep the support of his legs. Then he pushed himself into the road again and went along, one numb foot before the other. He got there, paused on the edge of the road above, then let himself down into the yard with a loose ugly shamble. The house looked small now, heavy, squat, diseased. On the tin roof the dew had begun to coagulate, to run off in thin streams. As he went into the shaky eaveless little porch a splash of dew fell on the back of his neck, ran icy under his shirt. He opened the door, didn't knock, and stood limned there. Morgan was absent. The air was still almost unbreathable, the rancid wood range already cooking, and the flies already industrious, swarming on him immediately. The shaky kitchen table covered by the rubbed dull oilcloth, and on the table the kerosene lamp shedding a glow so yellow and small that it seemed unlikely now he had seen it from the road. Even as he wondered about it, Mina leaned to the screw and turned the wick down, out of sight. The glow was gone. A thread of black smoke rose heavily out of the lamp chimney. They were alone in the gritty sullen dawn light. Gray in the gray light, her face seemed as impenetrable, as noseless, as he had again and again remembered. Now it was luminous almost, and looked somehow as if it were floating forward. And again her figure, flat and square, without dimension, was all filled with calm waiting, complacent as stone. And again her eyes rested on him, simply remaining still, and he felt enveloped in the gaze; those eyes seemed large as eggs. Her raddled hair hung loose, black as onyx, aggravated the luminescence of the smooth face.—Now in the steaming kitchen he felt hot. Her voice was soft and thick as cotton. "You're about the worst-looking mess I ever saw," she said. "I never seen such a mess as you are." He didn't answer, had begun to shudder again. The oily fishy odor stuffed his head. "You better come here and set down," she said. "You've got a bad case of something, I guess. You sure do look like a mess." He sat across from her in a creaky little chair, the cane bottom drooping. He slid his hands aimlessly about on the oilcloth. "You just set there and I'll get you some coffee. It looks to me like you sure could use it. I don't reckon I ever seen anybody in worse shape." Involuntarily he cowered away. He was sitting by the range. She would have to cross by him to get the coffee. He didn't want her to come near him. She rose and started toward the stove, but stopped. A slow smile seeped into her inexpressive face. "But it looks like to me you could use something that'd do you more good than coffee. They's a jug back here I'll get. That's what'd do you more good, I bet anything." She turned and went through the door behind her. He heard her displacing a box, rummaging among things which must have been cloth. She returned, holding a gallon jug by its stubby neck, swinging it easily by her side, brushing the black cotton skirt. Her calves were full and muscular, olive-colored. She set the jug on the table, not letting it thump, and went by him to the stove. He twisted away from her, his buttocks clenched tight in the sagging chair. She brought a thick chipped coffee mug back to the table and poured it about half full from the jug. She laughed humorlessly. "I don't reckon a Leland would want to be drinking out of a jug," she said. She put the cup gently before him and turned the handle round toward him. "There you go." It smelled and tasted oily, of rotting corn. He swallowed it eagerly; and immediately droplets of sweat were on his forehead. He knew absolutely that he was going to be ill, sick to death. He drank again. He had never been more grateful for something to drink. It was going to be a hot day. Now it was full dawn, and the kitchen was filled with the warm dank religious light, yellow. She stood across the room by the open bedroom door. He felt he saw her with fine clarity, totally, every inch. He wiped his forehead with his blood-smeared wrist. He felt sticky. II ONE The little house, so humid and rickety—everywhere you stepped the floor gave a little and creaked—was always full of movement. The old man came and went incessantly, God only knew what his errands were. The mother was almost motionless, she moved her great bulk but seldom, and even standing still she occupied much space; sometimes it seemed to Peter that the air of the house and the movements of body and mind of all the others were loaded by her presence, that somehow she affected even his blood. Mina was always coming and going too, she came to Peter and went away. "I got to look after you," she said. "Somebody's got to take care of you." He lay in the shabby shaggy bed in the little room that seemed mostly a storeroom. Or he would wander from room to room, keeping away from the windows and open doors; and then he would return to Mina's bed and sit straight, holding his knees with his hands, watching with fixed gaze the unchanging splotched opposite wall. He kept drinking; he had not halted in the three weeks—was it three weeks now?—he had been here. Mina kept bringing moonshine to him, wearing on her face an impassive but still wearily sardonic expression. He loathed the oily raw taste of the stuff; he gulped it quickly and breathed with his mouth open. At night she bore him down in the torn greasy quilts and made love: silent as standing water. It was he who might cry out, her fingernails in him and her cold teeth on his shoulder and neck and face. He struggled desperately not to make a sound; when he did groan, his throat hoarse and tight, he was able later to persuade himself that he had made no sound. Mina was relentless as cold wind, she had no feelings, no passion; she seemed to perform with a detached curiosity. He was continually in a clear acid delirium. Things leaped forward and would get brighter, so clearly he saw them. The unsteady table, the chipped dull blue porcelain coffee pot, the barred iron bedhead, all had outlines strong and burning. Now he lay in the wadded quilts and thought of her father, his face round and red. If you suddenly jabbed him with a pin behind his ear, wouldn't his face pop and go to shreds like a balloon? He drank, and speculated that if you grasped a man's mouth by its corner, you could rip away his meaningless little grin and expose to daylight the real expression on his face. And what would it be? Disgust? A terrible pitiless joy? Anything at all? But it couldn't be done, the grin was too greasy to get a grip on. He drank quickly and regretfully. Or at times he would suddenly find himself on his knees, holding the bars of the bed's footboard as tightly as he could. "Our Father who art," he would say. "Our Father, Our Father, Our Father, Our Father." He could get no further. He would bang his head against the bars until broad red welts appeared on his forehead. And then he would sweat and roll like a pig on the floor. Now tenderly he felt his cheeks; his face must be all ravaged with his own beatings and with Mina's cold teeth. He didn't need a shave. He couldn't remember shaving. Had Mina shaved him? Nausea rose in him to think of her standing with a razor at his face. Or he would talk, feverishly but clearly; he would actually hold forth with true brilliance, he thought. He spoke about the tragic inevitable division between the cultural aims of a civilization, any society whatever, and the aims of the religion which that culture included. He told how he had at last come to recognize the necessity for a diseased temperament in the understanding of any religious code. He slapped the table softly with open palm. "It's only through suffering that one comes to realize this," he said. "Only through the purest, most intense sort of suffering." He wagged his head gravely. "That's how I have come to know the things I know." At these times he felt he was sixty-five or seventy years old, and a benevolent paternal feeling washed through him; he felt oddly protective of people. They would watch him with slow eyes and stolid expressions. He would expound elaborate theological justifications for suicide, for extreme poverty, for every emotional and physical excess. Sometimes he merely sat in the broken stained stuffed chair in the living room and stared into the tiny fireplace, where lay yet the powdery ashes of the last fire of the winter. He would mutter continuously to himself then, but he wasn't certain what he was saying. It seemed to be a long disquisition on the nature of fault, whether it was ever entirely personal. But he would suddenly break off and shout for help, for it seemed to him that he had become very small and that he lay smothering in the pinkish-gray ash. Mina would come in and press his shoulders into the chair with her cold dark hands. "Hold on there," she said. "You're all right. You just hold on there." She kept her face steady above his so long that he couldn't avoid looking up into it. And then he couldn't look away, and he was awed into silence. Into this unending monologue would creep nonsensical words, words he did not know, an unknown language of despair. "Yogg Sothoth...Cthulhu...Nephreu..." Then his mouth tasted bad, and he would drink again. It was early July; it was scorching. In the fields the weeds—there didn't seem to be any crops growing—drooped lank and fat in the sun, and there was the continual sawing of insects. Sunlight was hot and heavy in the air, and the tin roof banged like firecrackers sometimes, expanding in the heat. For a while there was no rain and the road was muffled with pinkish-yellow dust, which would rise in long tall plumes as cars passed and then settle, coating the leaves of the weeds and bushes. At night it was cooler and quieter; the crickets sang, but the darkness made the sound seem distant. Then he heard the stream running below and the infrequent splash of something small and dark entering the stream. He hoped it was one of Morgan's muskrats. Visitors were incessant, and Peter kept out of their sight as much as possible, where he could collect himself. They were mostly farmers, large taciturn men with large weathered rancid faces. He was startled to think how long it had taken him to realize how Morgan made his real living: he was a bootlegger. Somewhere on the farm his still was smoking away, digesting and distilling corn. He was even rather amused to think that Morgan must have to buy the grain from some of his customers; he certainly didn't grow the stuff himself. Was it a profitable business, was Morgan—for all his outward poverty—actually a wealthy man? This thought too was amusing. And now he could account for the endless supply of the alcohol that Mina was fetching him. But he didn't like it when on some evenings there would be six or seven of Morgan's customers gathered in the hot kitchen. Then he didn't move, but lay stockstill in the raddled quilts, frozen like an animal trying to camouflage itself. He had to guess the number of them from the guttural muttering he heard and the occasional solemn clomp of a heavy shoe. Often enough there were furtive wheezy giggles uttered, and sometimes, there was a single voice shouting, not words, but merely a sound of...of...of fearful surprise, of quick pain, of pained delight. None of these kinds of sounds, and maybe all of them together. What? He struggled to imagine what Mina was doing in there among them. It would be Morgan's idea, that Mina would encourage the men to drink. But he would not find out, he would not move to look. She would come in now and then to check on him, to bring him liquor if he needed it. She would toss a quilt over him and tuck it tightly and contemptuously under his chin. Her blouse would be unbuttoned at the top and when she bent over the bed he observed her small thick inexpressive breasts. Her skin would be warmer than usual from the heat of the kitchen, but it was still cool. The next day there was a long massive July storm. It was the first time the light hadn't seemed unbearable to him and he had gone out onto the narrow back porch which ran the length of the house. A cool wind, and the yearning stirring of the wild cherry tree below the house, the limbs asway; flies swarmed out of the wide air and gathered on his face and arms, and he didn't brush them away. He sat in a slouched slat-bottomed rocking chair and moved nothing but the forefinger of his right hand, with which he tapped his knee slowly and steadily, in time to a rhythm by which he felt the storm was gathering. Very gradually he accelerated his tapping. Dark gray on gray: the sky was bunching its muscle; it was slow and broad as dreamless sleep. There seemed miles of air between the big first drops of rain. Then it was all loosened at once, noisily drenching the tin roof. The first stroke of lightning was blinding; it seemed that the nearest western hill cleft open, the lightning ascended the skies like something scurrying up a crooked ladder. There was no warning rumble, the thunder issued immediately all in a bang. He dropped to the worn boards of the porch on his hands and knees, heaving and shuddering like a shot dog. Momentarily he imagined the air full of electric particles; if he breathed, his lungs would be electrocuted. Then he was up and ran stumbling into the darkened living room and stood by the fireplace, clutching the daubed stream rock with both hands. He turned round and round. Then he put his hands in his pockets and walked quite casually to the corner of the room and pressed his shoulders against the walls, pressed his face hard into the corner. He kept quivering, but he felt that now it was all right to breathe. When Mina passed her damp fingers along the back of his neck he didn't move at first, but then turned around suddenly, his eyes unseeing and his face blanched. She grasped his shoulders and steered him into the stuffed chair before the fireplace, and he sat there watching it, turned away from the murderous storm. An inky ooze spread on the walls of the fireplace, the rain running down the chimney sides, and an occasional drop fell straight down the chimney, fell into the powdery ashes with a sound like someone letting out his breath suddenly. He gave no sign that he observed anything. Later he had calmed a great deal, but was very voluble and seemed joyfully excited. The storm had gone away, but trees and the roof were letting down the final drops. The landscape burned with the reflected sunlight. "Look," he said, "look, it's true what they said, that God does speak to you out of the storm cloud. I was sitting there, and my ears had never been more closed. It came to me when I was sitting there that I was dead, as dead as anyone buried in the ground. It seemed to me that I would like to struggle to come alive again, to make myself alive somehow, but I didn't know how. Even if I knew how I wouldn't have dared, I didn't have courage, I didn't have the strength to find courage. God spoke through the sky to me, and then I was dead, but I came back to life. I had to be killed first, you see, truly killed. The trouble was, you know, not that I didn't have courage to come to life, but that I didn't have courage to be truly dead. I had to accept that I was dead before anything good could happen like that for me. And then when it thundered I knew I was dead, and I remained dead for a long time. Whole ages passed while I was dead—I just vaguely knew they were passing. I was in a void, you know, I was where it was all darkness and empty space. Then at last I felt the breath of God, I actually felt it." He ran his fingertips gently, reverently, across the back of his neck. "Here, right here. I literally felt the breath of God pass over my neck." Mina held him folded in her slow gaze. "That was just me," she said. "I was just trying to get you to pay some mind." He appeared not to have heard her. He smiled in painful bewilderment. "But I can't remember the words," he said. "Not exactly, anyway. Not the exact words....Isn't it strange that I should forget the words? I can remember all sorts of other things, and none of that is important now. It's very strange, don't you think?" "Anyhow, you're okay now," she said. "I guess I better get you something to drink." He shook his head, absently impatient. "I want to think," he said. He felt he was on the verge of remembering, if not the words he so badly needed, then something equally important, a revelation. Mina went off; she smiled carelessly. He sat where he was and slowly, helplessly, watched the bright event flicker in his mind and go out. For a panic moment he couldn't remember even the flavor of what had happened to him; but something at least seemed to come back, and he felt happy again. Now he was sure that an important event had occurred, something happy and eminent. That was enough. You had to be happy with what you got, he thought. No use expecting too much, it wouldn't be handed to you on a platter. He rose and went to find Mina in the kitchen. "I think that was a good idea you had about having a drink." She stood with her legs apart, her hands on her hips. "You reckon?" "Yes." He chewed his upper lip. "I don't know about that," she said. "I don't see why I always got to be hauling liquor to you, just whenever you want. I don't hardly see no good I get out of it." He looked at her uncertainly. "Well..." "If I was to expect you to look after me hand and foot, you wouldn't be doing it, I don't reckon. I don't see the good I get out of it at all." She gazed steadily on his face. "Well..." A slight perspiration came on his forehead. She put her fingertips against his chest and shoved him backward lightly. "You better go and sit down," she said. "I'll bring it to you, I guess, when I get a chance." He went back and sat waiting, sadly puzzled. What made her act like that, anyway? What had he done? He rubbed his left side slowly and thoughtfully with a vague circular movement. Lately he had a recurrent pain, sharp at times but mostly a blunt heavy ache, and now it seemed to have settled there. The room was much too bright; there was too much light outside, as there always is after a storm has cleared. In a while she came, bearing a quart Mason jar of the slightly yellow alcohol. No glass or cup this time, he would have to drink it from the jar. "There you are then," she said. "Is there anything else I got to do to keep you satisfied?" When he looked up at her his face was unknowingly appealing. But she had no mercy. He wiped his mouth and drank. It was too warm, almost hot, and his stomach surged in an effort to reject the stuff, but he made it stay down. He clenched the jar tightly with both hands and a few drops sloshed on his soiled shirt, a shirt stiff and filthy. The ridges of the edge of the jar rattled against his teeth. He felt better now, but had cleanly forgot the whole day, everything that had happened. It was gone from him immediately and silently, so that he sat drinking blankly for a time with no sense of loss. He was very tired. And then the feeling of having forgot something important began to gnaw in his mind and he became uneasy. He set the jar on the floor and began to rub his face with his hot palms. His chest and legs began to itch too and he scratched energetically. He shifted his feet about and tipped over the jar. He looked at it stupidly for a moment and then jerked down to set it upright. The oily liquid oozed slowly over the worn floor, and the odor of it rose all about the chair, surrounding him entirely, a heavy invisible curtain. There was only about an inch of it left in the jar and he swallowed it down quickly, as if it too might be lost to him. Then he held the jar languidly, and empty tears came into his eyes and rolled down his face. He was motionless, not sobbing, but hopelessly weeping and weeping, without sign of surcease. He was so stupid, so stupid. She wouldn't bring him more after he had wasted it; she was implacable. Maybe he could keep her from knowing about it. And as soon as he thought, he was getting his shirt off. He was on his knees, trying to soak up the liquor with his shirt, which became black and smelly instantly. He turned to wring it out in the fireplace. "Now what is it? What do you think you're doing now?" He jumped to his feet, dropped the wet shirt on the chair. He shook his head mutely. "Get that goddam thing off the chair," she said. "What kind of a mess have you made now?" She was calm as ice, her voice expressionless. "Nothing," he said. "You ain't been getting sick, have you? Is that the kind of a mess you're trying to clean up?" "No," he said. "It's nothing." She came closer. "Oh. You've went and spilled that shine I brought you. What did you want to do that for? You was the one wanted it yourself. I got no call to go hauling liquor around for you." "It was an accident." "You don't make no sense to me, did you know it? I can't hardly get no sense out of you at all." "I'm sorry about it. I didn't mean to spill it." "It ain't hardly the craziest thing you ever done, now is it? You ain't been doing nothing but crazy things around here. It's enough to drive ever' one of us crazy. And look how you was mopping it up. What are you going to wear for a shirt now? Or didn't you think about that?" He was still holding the soaked smelly shirt. He looked at it mournfully. "I don't know." "I don't think you got anything to know with," she said. "You ain't got no brains, that's all." He grew sadder; it was clear she wouldn't let him have any more to drink. "Let me tell you what I want you to do with that shirt. You take it in there in the kitchen and put it in the stove. I don't want to see no such of a mess as that around here. You go on and do it." When he got to the kitchen door she said, "I guess we'll just have to put you on a water ration." He went on in. He couldn't find the handle to insert into the stove eye to lift it. He opened the high shelf on the range and took out a table fork; reversed it so he could lift with it. "Now what do you think you're doing?" She had come to the doorway. "I couldn't find the handle for it." "What? I can't hear for you mumbling like that." "I couldn't find the handle," he said. "It's right there on top," she said. "Oh." He put the table fork back and got down the handle and lifted off the eye. A few coals were live in the bottom of the firebox. He stuffed the shirt in—it didn't seem likely that it would burn—and set the eye back. He got the handle out and held it, a curious warm cast-iron thing, the tip of it shaped like a square-toed shoe. He imagined hitting Mina with it; he would put blue and red streaks on her face, he would make blood come. "You just better not, buddy boy," she said. "You better not even think about it. You just put that goddam thing down and come on back here. I sure would like to know what's got into you. You're the craziest damn thing I ever seen. Go on, I said, and put it down." He hesitated no longer, put the handle on top of the shelf and came to the door. She was back in the living room, regarded him with cold amusement. "There ain't nobody in the world would be afraid of you no more. You couldn't hurt a cat, and you can just go on pretending all you want but all you can do is just make trouble, make a little mess here and there. That's all. Nobody is going to take you serious." Again she came to him and put her fingertips on his bare thin chest and pushed him lightly backward. "I guess the best way I can think of to keep you from making trouble is just to put you in bed and let you drink. I don't guess you can bother anything there but yourself." She pushed him again. "You go on and get in the bed. I'll be there in a minute and baby you." He went. He sat on the bed and stripped off his shoes and socks and pants, and then lay back wearily, wearing only his soiled underpants. He lay on his side and tried to go to sleep, but his nerves were acrawl with tiredness and unreleased anger, and he didn't want to close his eyes. He breathed hoarsely. Then she came in, carrying another of the endless jars of corn whiskey. "Here," she said, "and if you spill this or make a mess it's the last of it you'll get to drink in this house, I can tell you. I got more things to do than keep putting up with you." She set the jar on the floor by the side of the bed, and as she straightened she looked flat into his eyes. "I mean it," she said. Then she left, closing the door firmly behind her. He waited a few moments, until his breathing had slowed. He tried not to think how much Mina had begun to frighten him. Why was she like that? He had done nothing to her, not really. He leaned and took up the fruit jar. Gray and white, but slightly tinged with yellow, Sheila's pert face looked at him through the whiskey. She was smiling: a fixed stiff smile. His hand shook; her face wavered. He was doing well, only a few large drops splashed on his belly. She was smiling. He turned the jar around and peeled the wet photograph off the side, where Mina had stuck it. She had taken it from his wallet. Now he wished he had hit her, that he had made the blood come. Sheila's face was draped between his fingers, the paper all limp, wet. He felt that no one had ever been so abjectly miserable as he; and he let his head roll on his chest from side to side. The photograph wouldn't come loose from his fingers; he shook his hand hard again and again. But he was still extremely careful. He didn't spill any more of the liquor, he had to preserve himself somehow. Finally he wiped the photograph off on the quilts, as if it were a sort of filth which soiled his fingers. Then he leaned and set the jar down carefully, and then lay back, still, his arms along his sides. He began to moan, and it got louder and louder. It got louder, and it didn't sound like a moan any more. He was moaning like a cow gone dry; moo upon moo, and he couldn't stop it. He might have gone on for hours. But Mina came back in, came straight to him. "Hush up," she said. "Hush up that goddam noise." She slapped his face hard. "Just hush up now." She slapped him again, harder this time, and he heard mixed with his own hollow fear a tinny ringing sound. He began to breathe more steadily, and the noise subsided to a moan. She slapped him once more, not so hard now, and turned away. "I'm goddam if you just wouldn't drive anybody plumb wild with all of your craziness." She went out. He lay moaning for a while, and then managed to collect himself. The photograph was in wet bits, tangled in the quilt. He began to console himself with the jar. Or there were times he would be gently melancholy, even rather humorous; would smile sadly but not bitterly and speak in a calm even voice. "The lachrimae rerum," he would say. "There's something in the part of a landscape you can see from a window that gives you the clearest idea of what Virgil's phrase really means. The way the window limits the landscape, you know; it intensifies the feeling of being able to see the universe in miniature. Which is what you do when you think of those two words, though I don't think you do it consciously at all. But in the back of your mind somewhere there's a real picture of the smallness of physical existence, of its real boundaries; and there's a corresponding sense of the immensities of the void, of nothingness, which encloses physical existence and to which it really belongs. And then to include the human personality, oneself, in this small universe is to see oneself really minuscule." He chuckled softly. "It's all a question of proportion, you know." "You're as full of shit as a Christmas turkey," Mina said. He nodded and smiled gently. He felt very old. "I don't mean to bore you, he said, "but I know I am. But you can see—can't you?—how hard it is for me to keep my mind alive, to keep it going. With the weight of the circumstances, well, with the way I am now, I feel I've got to keep my wits about me somehow. I know these are nothing but foolish empty speculations, but it begins to seem more and more that my mind won't operate on the material that's given it. The things that happen more and more don't mean anything, and I can't make them mean anything. And as limited as my life has been—and it's always been severely limited—I was always able to make something useful out of a few events. By 'useful' I guess I mean intellectually edifying or...or morally instructive. That's what I mean, in fact: every event that happened to me was a moral event. I could interpret it. And now I can't. It seems to me that a morality just won't attach any more; events won't even attach to each other, no one thing seems to produce another. Things are what they are themselves, and that's all they are. Or maybe I'm just troubling myself to no end. One of my troubles always, too many useless scruples." "Scrooples," she said. She had got his checkbook from somewhere, and she got him to sign all the checks, blank. He didn't hesitate; it couldn't have mattered less. He felt a detached mild curiosity about the purposes to which she would put the money, but he didn't question her. He knew she wouldn't have told him, and anyway he had no use for it. What could he buy? He himself had been sold, sold out. The days got hotter. The weedy field below was noisy with grasshoppers. The sun was white as sugar and looked large in the sky. Sometimes he was very depressed, kept a strict silence. He thought of suicide, thought of slashing his wrists. He pictured his long body lying all white and drained. Perhaps there would be a funeral for him in the brick house, in the dark disused sun parlor there, his body lying in a soft casket beside the disordered piano. But he knew that that was all wrong. There was no doubt he would be cast just as he lay into an open field and left to ferment in the sun. Muskrat food. Yet this seemed appropriate; it was, after all, a proper burial, wasn't it? He wouldn't expect any more than this for himself. In fact, he would stop expecting. —It would take him entire hours to think through a daydream like this, and then he would be mollified but sullen. His body would feel too heavy. And in the bed too she was relentless. He came away nerveless and exhausted, his face and neck and shoulders aching with the cold bitter hurt. Why, why? Whatever she wanted there finally, it was nothing his body could give, poor dispirited body. She was not satisfied; even blood, he discovered, would not satisfy her. What was it she wanted? How could such stolidness be so demanding? He burrowed against her, spent his last, came fighting for breath. His heart would feel ready to burst; convulsed, convulsed. And it was unhealthy, the whole business.—Or afterwards he would fall into a deep sleep and dream bad dreams which once again he could not remember; but felt in his sleep still the fishy breath of her and the oily taste of her skin.—Or he would have one of the blinding headaches, his mind riven like a stone with the pain. What was it she wanted? There was nothing left.—He would not admit that he cried out in her grip. After dark the visitors would come again, every night of the week. This time he was drinking in the living room, and Mina let him stay there, didn't lead him through to the bedroom. She closed the kitchen door. He sat in a stupor in the soiled chair and heard without listening the shuffle and thump of the big shoes, the muttering. Finally he rose and went out on the back porch. It was cooler than he'd thought and stars of the deep summer were spread all over the sky; no moon. The night smelled good, snug odor of weeds and flowers and field earth and the cool smell of the running stream. It was the first night he had been outside, and going down the bowed wooden steps he felt slightly elated. He stretched out his arms; he felt he had forgotten until now the feeling of bodily freedom; it was as if a woolen musty coat had been snatched from him. He wandered about in the sparse lower yard, swinging his arms, and looked up at the stars, held still as if tangled in a net, among the small leaves of the wild cherry tree. A faint breeze moved the branches and the stars moved too, seemed to jiggle quietly. He went round the right corner of the house, going up toward the roadbed. The light from the single small lamp in the living room—it sat on a small table next to the stuffed chair—fell on him as he passed the living-room window and caused him to appear pink and insubstantial. It was a queer sensation to stand here outside and look into the room he had just come out of. He could almost see himself sitting there in the chair, drawn and sullenly silent. Such a pitiable figure he made, or so contemptible a figure. The quart jar sat by the lamp; he had drunk half of it. He went up into the road, not walking steadily, but sliding his feet before him as if he moved on snowshoes. In the gravel of the road he found two small rounded stones and he held one in each hand, squeezing them slightly, reassuring himself of their solidity, their reality. Then he threw them high away into the field below. The kitchen window framed an irregular rectangle of orange light on the sloping ground, and once more he heard that unfathomable intense cry and was attracted by it to the bare kitchen window. He stood angled away from view. The room was choked with large forms of men. Along the edge of the table next the window a hand lay asplay in the lamplight. It looked huge. The freckles on the hand seemed large as dimes, the distent veins thick as cord. It didn't look like a hand, but, oversized, like a parody of a hand, an incomprehensible hoax. Against the far wall, by the door to the bedroom where Peter slept, a tall farmer leaned. He was dressed in blue jeans and wore a cotton plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled to his biceps, exposing long bony forearms and sharp elbows. His face was narrow and small for his body, seemed as disproportionately small as the near hand seemed large. His nose was prominent and sharp, but his eyes under the shaggy eyebrows looked shrunken, aglitter with concentration. He gazed fascinated at something out of Peter's view, and he licked his thin mouth with a sudden flicker of his tongue. He rubbed his chin with the back of his wrist. Then he moved forward to the table and took up a jelly glass half filled with corn whiskey and drank it suddenly. It spilled a little from the side of his mouth and darkened his shirt, and as he stood by the table close to the lamp his shadow loomed big and fell dark on the bedroom door. Then he stepped back and leaned against the wall once more; and he had not once moved his fierce gaze from what he stared upon. Peter wanted to see, but he was afraid Mina would see him. Then what? It would be bad. He had to go all the way back up to the road and skirt round the patch of light. Again he picked up a stone and kept rolling it in his hands. His hands were damp with mounting excitement. What was it that everyone in the world knew but he? There was something grave and black being kept from him, and he could feel how important it was, how imminent, and he was desperate to know. There were two other men aligned against the west wall, by the door to the living room. Both wore bibbed overalls. One, a blondish thickset man, wore a faded red sweatshirt, looked yellow in the yellow light. He too stared—as did his companion. His face twitched and he was almost smiling, but not happily; in anticipation, perhaps, as one smiles involuntarily the moment before a vaccination. The other wore a rough blue workshirt, the collar open below the high bib of the overalls. He was taller and looked older than the other man. Spriggy gray hair lay on his chest. He wore an expression almost as unmoving as Mina's, but his stare was as intensely fixed as the others'. Morgan himself stood by the outside door, his hands in his pockets. His face was red as always, his eyes filled with lazy mischief. Mina had her back toward him. At first he could not make it out: her dark tangled hair on her shoulders; the blouse loose, obviously open all down the front; her thigh olive and bare beneath the edge of the table. He could not see her waist. She was reversed, sitting backward in the chair, straddled on the short fat man who sat round the other way. Her bare leg swung rhythmically and not idly, and it seemed to Peter that she was singing, singing softly music he could not hear. Astraddle, her leg moving to and fro. She gripped the farmer's shoulders and stared intently into his face; it was the way she treated Peter when she was calming him from one of his bad hours. The red fat face was thrown against the chairback, the mouth was open, and the lips tightened and relaxed like a pulse around the dark cavity; lips were frothy and saliva trickled gleaming from one side of the mouth. And now the mouth began to open wider and then almost to close: a fish drowning in air. Mina's naked leg swung easily but more quickly now. And now the muscles under his eyes twitched, this tic rhythmic also, and the man's breath was a hoarse clatter in his throat. Still gripping his shoulder with her right hand, Mina reached behind to the table without looking. She drew forth a snake which was limp at first and then grew taut. She held it just below its head and it wrapped about her forearm. It was brown and splotched with a darker brown; he didn't know what kind it was. She held it apart from her for a moment and then began slowly to bring it toward the man's face. Below the edge of the table her leg swung ever more quickly. The farmer breathed a big bubble of spit; his breathing was louder now. Mina knew when. In time she brought the snake to his face, rubbed it slowly on his cheek. The mottled body writhed carefully, a slow cold movement of the skin without a catch. The man cried out, but the sound seemed not to come from him, but to fall from everywhere out of the hollow air of the kitchen; the sound totally itself, pure unintelligible feeling. "Iä! Iä!" he cried. Mina spoke gravely and quietly. "Iä!" She spoke in affirmation. It was over. Again she held the snake apart from them, and then leaned her head forward and put her mouth to the man's neck. When she straightened, the white oval impress of her teeth was plain to Peter. Her leg had stopped swinging. She unbound the snake from her forearm, just as she might take off a spiral bracelet, and dropped the thing carelessly on the table. There it crawled a moment and then lay still; Peter thought that it might be dead now. She got off the lap of her victim easily—it was like crossing a low stone wall—and stood on the other side of the table straightening her black skirt. She brushed her thighs slowly with her fingers. The drab blouse still hung open all down the front and one small solemn breast peered blindly through the window at Peter. He stepped back quickly out of the light. He turned his back to the window. They had begun talking again. He went again, avoiding the oblong of yellow light, to the road and came back down into the yard. It felt much cooler now than when he had first come outside. Passing the dimly lit living-room window he glanced inside and then stopped. At first he couldn't understand, but looking more carefully, he saw that it was he himself who sat in the ugly stuffed chair. His gangly body was all angles and still. There he sat, uncomfortably asleep, the quart jar still half filled beside him. He stood looking for a few minutes until it all came clear; then he went on, round the house and up the steps; entered the living room and went to sit in the chair. He arranged his body carefully in an angular repose. It was all going to be a bad dream, one of the terrible dreams which caused the sweat to stand on him unmoving and cold. He arranged himself carefully, according to plan, and almost immediately he fell asleep, breathing easily and regularly, not stirring. He stirred once, only slightly, when that hard inexpressive cry sounded again; a different voice, and this time followed by an outbreak of hoarse laughter. TWO In early August Mina found what she wanted. Now the heat was tortuous. The sky pressed more closely than before, the landscape seemed flatter, rolled out before the eye, baked, seamless; in the metal heat the different kinds of plants were not to be distinguished. The great white sun was cluttered with yellow and black specks. "I got somebody who can drive us," Mina said. "I'm sick of this place. I don't want to hang around here forever." The short blond boy leaned against the doorframe, relaxed and indifferent. He always had about him a liquid uncaring gracefulness. His arms hung at his sides and smoke rose along his body from the cigarette he held in his fingers with a cool exquisite droop. His name was Coke Rymer. Peter, sitting in the stuffed chair, looked at him. He detested Coke Rymer thoroughly; he hated him. He couldn't remember when the fellow had shown up, yawning, glancing about with watery blue eyes which seemed to take in nothing and yet seemed always observing, observing without curiosity. The dark-streaked blond hair was gathered upward in a stiff greased pompadour and was bunched behind in a shabby d.a. "Coke here can drive," Mina said. "He can take us anywhere we want to go." Peter nodded. Why was she telling him? She didn't care what he thought about it; she had given him up, for a while at least. He sat in his chair all day, slept in it at night; had denied himself Mina's bed, or had been denied it. "What good are you if you can't fuck?" she had asked, and the question had no answer, of course. He couldn't care, either; for the moment at least that was one ordeal he was spared. Many things in him were damaged; one thing in him was broken, but he didn't know what exactly, was hardly interested. He had gone stale in the ability to suffer, but was certain that Mina knew it; she would find some way to rouse him again. He could contemplate without rancor long intense days of pain, thought of it dispassionately, as if it were a solid library of books that he had to read through. "I can drive anything with wheels on it," Coke Rymer said. "Take you anywhere you want to go, honey." He had a thin watery tenor voice which wavered on the verge of a grating falsetto. "Just point me on the road and we're gone." Peter nodded again. What difference did it make? "They's some things I got to look after first," she said. "But it won't be long now." She sidled through the door by Coke and went through the kitchen into the back bedroom. She'd grazed him with her thigh. The blond boy stood where he was, watching Peter with nonchalant eyes, not moving except to puff slowly at his cigarette, which was burned almost down now. Peter was thirsty again; these last few days that he hadn't been drinking the corn whiskey he couldn't seem to get enough water, made innumerable trips to the bucketed dipper in the kitchen. He rose and went toward the door, and Coke Rymer shifted his stance slightly, setting his right foot in the opposite corner of the doorsill. Peter stopped immediately before him, looking carelessly into the pasty blond face with its fixed smile, a meanly dissembling expression. He was indifferent; it wasn't worth it. He turned about and went out the other door onto the porch, down the steps into the yard. The heat was impossible; stuffed the air like metal wool, would abrade the skin. The copper clangor of the sun filled his ears. There was no breeze, not a hint of it, not even a current in the air. It was so still and hot he felt a match flame would be invisible here in the open. The roaring heat quite overpowered the sound of insects. Under the rough cotton shirt—it was one of Morgan's which Mina had brought him—his ribs trickled with sweat. He walked into the unmoving shade of the wild cherry and stood looking across the glaring fields to the tall glaring hill beyond. He heard footsteps on the sagging porch steps and turned. Coke Rymer came toward him through the brassy light. In the heat the blond body seemed to waver like steam, to have less weight than a normal human body. He stopped before Peter once again, still wearing the creepy unmeaning smile. "Was there something you was looking for out here, baby?" He inclined his head gently to one side. He shrugged heavily. The only thing he noticed was how silly this boy was. How old was he, anyway? He couldn't be over nineteen or twenty, was probably seventeen or eighteen. Merely a beer-joint hood, cheap as a plastic toy; something you could wind up and let scoot across the floor, its movements predictable and dull: before long the stretched rubber that made it go would snap and you'd throw it out. What use was he to Mina? He couldn't see what she saw in him. He began to turn away to go back into the house. Coke Rymer put a wet hand on his shoulder. "Wait a minute, feller. It ain't polite to go walking off while somebody's talking to you. I don't much like it when people don't treat me polite." He turned again. "Get your hand off," he said. His voice was drowsy. "I don't much like people giving me orders, neither. Especially when it's some chicken bastard like you. I don't know what you're doing, hanging around here anyhow. Why don't you just cut out while you got the chance? There ain't nothing to hold you here. If I was you I'd just point myself on the road and get gone." Without hesitating, almost without thinking, he aimed a kick at the blond boy's knee; missed. His foot caught him on the lower thigh. Coke Rymer blundered backward a couple of steps. "You're right mean, ain't you? By God, we'll see about that." But in the middle of his speech his voice cracked into a hoarse falsetto, and this as much as the kick seemed to anger him finally. He clenched his fists and held them apart close to his body and lowered his head and charged at Peter like a clumsy yearling. He was calm as wood, unthinking. Again he didn't hesitate, but stepped forward and brought his elbow up fair into Coke Rymer's face. It jolted through his arm like an electric shock, but he disregarded it. This sort of pain was meaningless; the whole struggle was meaningless. It was simply one more task he hadn't asked for but which he had to get through. Again Coke Rymer staggered back. Peter had clubbed him on the forehead. The yellowish skin reddened, but Peter guessed that it wouldn't bruise or cut easily. "You...son of a bitch." He was gasping. Peter could almost feel in his own lungs the weight of the heat of the boy sucked in. He came at Peter again in exactly the same way, but then stopped short and threw an awkward punch with his left hand, catching him on the biceps. He was surprised at the lack of force in the punch and, without bothering to guard himself, stepped backward. Coke Rymer came on unsteadily, and they began circling. In the intense heat it was like fighting under water. Coke made innumerable foolish feints with his fist and kept gulping the hot air. Peter backed slowly, keeping his eyes dreamily over the boy's left shoulder. Somehow that seemed a very clever strategy. He could draw the kid off guard and step in when he pleased. He was momentarily delighted. The mechanics of this struggle, inept and silly as it was, had begun to interest him. He felt a paternal pity for the boy, for his stupidity and awkwardness; it was too bad how he was floundering himself to fatigue out here in the heat. Surely this boy ought to be smarter about fighting than he was. He was still backing, and now he made a feint himself; stepped forward and flicked a short left jab. He had surprised him. Coke Rymer hadn't been touched, but stumbled over his own feet and fell backward, rolling in the dust. He came up breathing hard, his tee shirt caked with the reddish grit. Lips apart, he breathed through dark crooked teeth. He looked warily about him and again assumed his ludicrous boxing pose. It was too much. Peter giggled, then laughed hard. He smiled at the boy, fondly amused for the moment. He turned abruptly and walked toward the porch steps, and would have gone back into the house if he hadn't heard Coke Rymer come stamping after him. He looked and ducked; began backing again slowly and carefully. The knife was shining in Coke's hand; the boy held it loosely but confidently. This was different, he could kill him with that knife, he was that silly. Peter felt completely at a loss, kept his balance gingerly and made himself stop looking at the weapon. Where had he read that you mustn't look at the knife but at the man's eyes instead? Some stupid crime novel probably. He wasn't at all certain that it was a wise policy. Out here, even in the broad light, Coke Rymer's eyes were all iris; the pupils had diminished to mere dots. Now he was frightened. He remembered the boy's queer clumsiness and thought of it as his only advantage; he was backing slowly and weaving, careful to keep his balance. He tried his former tactic, stepping forward suddenly and feinting a jab, but it was a mistake. Coke Rymer leaned out casually and pinked him in the left shoulder. He jumped away and began circling again. The cut itself hadn't hurt much, but in a few moments it began to sting; he hadn't realized he'd been sweating so hard. He took a quick peep over his shoulder and then broke and ran, ducking under the floor beams of the porch. The space under the house was wedge-shaped, the building resting almost on the ground in the ascent of the hill, stilted up on crooked log lengths down toward the west. It was dim and silent under here but not cool. The air was no easier to breathe, stuffed with dust, stagnant. His body remembered it as the air that had stuffed the black attic room before. He ran up a little way under the house and stopped and turned. He couldn't see about him yet; he watched the open space beneath the porch where Coke Rymer would come through. Casual appearance of legs in the blue jeans with the broad glass-studded leather belt, the soiled tee shirt. He heard the boy giggling furiously. "Why don't you run one time, you bastard?" Coke Rymer said, "I'd just like to see how good you can run." He broke down into giggles. He held the knife at his side, then began carelessly whittling at one of the porch steps. "If you think I'm going to go crawling around in there after you, you're crazy as hell," he said. "That ain't my way, to go crawling around under a house for some chicken bastard. No sir, baby, I just don't cotton to it. Me, I'm just going to wait right here till you come out." He jabbed the knife into one of the log supports and let it remain, near at hand. The sound of his high voice under the house was hollow, had an unearthly whistle in it. "I'll wait right here, me, if I have to for five years. And when you take a notion to come out I'll cut your ass good." More giggling. Slowly the boy took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and lit one. Except for the open end of the porch the space beneath the house was sided with raw boards which let streaks of light between them. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dimness. He was half bent now and to get comfortable he would have to squat; he didn't want to do that, he didn't want to see that yellow fixed face. The dust was thick, came almost to his shoe tops. He maneuvered about a bit, trying to find a measure of comfort, and glass snapped under his foot. Looking, he saw bits of a broken Mason jar. "I'd sure like to know what the hell you think you're doing under there," Coke Rymer said. "There ain't no way out for you, sweetheart, except just by me. Why don't you just face it?" He moved to his left and squatted. Now the boy's face was hidden by the porch steps; visible were a blue knee, a hand laxly holding a burning cigarette, the knife protruding from the log support. He waited to grow calm again, to steady his breathing. He thought of trying to get out, going quietly and keeping the steps between them, but he knew it was no good. The boy, standing, would see him; he wouldn't get halfway down into the yard. But if he waited here long enough Mina would stop them. Surely she wouldn't let the blond boy kill him....But why not? What did he know about her, anyway? She was unfathomable. The simple fact that she countenanced Coke Rymer at all was unfathomable. All her motives were buried under the ocean. He sighed. Moving to the left still, still trying to get out of his sight every part of Coke Rymer and the knife, he struck with his foot something solid and metal. At first he couldn't find it; buried in the deep dust. He dug in and dredged it out: a handle for a water pump: It was lovely, it was about two and a half feet long, dull iron. It had a very slight S curve and the end of the handle was smooth, his hand fitted it perfectly. The opposite end of the handle tapered to a flat iron plate which contained three quarter-inch holes evenly spaced. He imagined how the holes would whisper when he swung the weapon. It fitted his hand perfectly, it was proper. He held it before him, admiring the heft and the subtle curve of it. Suddenly in love, he wagged it before him. Now he could go out. He could keep the steps between him and Coke Rymer—if he could just move silently under the house (the dust would muffle the noise)—and he could come out standing and ready to fight. He went forward on his knees and crawled toward the light. He pushed the pump handle gently along before him, breathed shallowly and quickly, not wanting to sneeze with the dust. When he reached the edge of the house, he took a ready grip on the handle, then rose slowly to a crouch. The boy was talking again; he talked a great deal, Coke Rymer. "I'm telling you, sweetheart, I don't mind waiting five years for you to come out if I have to. I got all the time in the world." He stooped and flicked the live cigarette butt under the house, into the dust. Peter came out immediately; his eyes had got used to the light. The boy heard and turned, plucking the knife from the log with the quick careless movement one would use in striking a match. They stared at each other over the descent of the sagging steps; it was a moment or two before Coke Rymer glimpsed the pump handle. "What's that thing you've got?" he said. He began to edge round the steps. "That won't do you no good, just a ole pump handle. I got something here can cut your ass good." But he didn't come forward; kept still, watching the swing of the handle. Was he going to duck under the house now? That would be too much; Peter thought he would laugh himself sick if he drove the boy to ground like a rat, as he had been driven. No, now Coke began to sidle away from the porch, going back down into the yard. "It won't do you no good. I can throw this here knife." Almost without looking, and with the one hand, he reversed the knife, holding it lax between thumb and forefinger about halfway down the blade. But there was no conviction in his eyes, and his voice was again teetering on the edge of a falsetto. Peter jumped forward and poked him in the stomach with the handle, holding it like a broadsword. Not a hard blow, but telling, assertive of his advantage. The watery blue eyes bulged; the yellow face splotched with red. "Throw down the knife," Peter said. He was surprised; his own voice was whispering and rough. "If you throw the knife down I won't have to knock your brains out." "Hell you say. I ain't putting this knife down for no son of a bitch. I throw it anywhere, it'll be in your belly." But surely it was obvious, even to the boy, the superiority... "Go on, go at it. I want to see you kill each other off." Mina, of course. She stood on the porch watching and now began to let herself gently down into the broken rocking chair. She rocked complacently, enfolding the whole scene with her still gaze. "Go on," she said. "Kill each other off, why don't you? Ain't neither one of you worth what it takes to keep you alive. It's been a long time since I seen a good fight. Let's see you do it." They looked at one another helplessly. Their animosity was smothered completely. She saw it too and laughed, a hard flat faceless laugh. "And I guess it'll be a good long time before I ever see another good fight, if it's up to you two. You ain't hardly got no fight in you, have you?" Again, the flat hard laugh. "Aw shit," Coke Rymer said. He stuck the knife listlessly into the porch steps. "I can take care of honeybunch here any time I want to. He don't bother me none, him and his goddam pump handle. I can take care of him without batting a eye." Peter knew better; he was silent, vowing not to let the handle out of his sight. His life was bound to it now; he could see the connection as simply as if it were a glittering chain, a handcuff which held him to the junked iron. For a while now his life had been bound to iron, and the necessity of the handle didn't surprise him; it was inevitable. "I don't know whether you can or not," Mina said. "Mr. Leland might be some tougher than you think. What I do know is, you ain't going to try it no time soon. It ain't something I'd just let go on and on. Work to get done around here. We got to get packed up to leave and you got to help get it done." "That's all right with me," Coke Rymer said. "I'm ready to go any time, anywhere you want to." Peter was ascending the steps, clutching the iron tight. It was the only thing solid in him now. His legs trembled, and his empty right hand. The delayed fear in the struggle with the blond boy had settled on him now and his heart staggered in him. His seeing was blurred with fear. He stopped at the porch edge, Mina watching him amused. "And what do you think you're up to?" she said. He licked his caked lips. He was careful to look away from her face, over her head into the shadowed sullen air. "I'd like to have a drink," he said. "I guess you don't mean water then," she said. "I guess you mean you want liquor." "Yes." He was still not looking at her. "What makes you think you'd get any? What have you done to get any? Have you done anything for me lately?" "No." He spoke slowly. "No, but..." "But what?" His mind was empty. He let his shoulders rise and drop. Helpless. Coke Rymer spoke, his voice at once belligerent and whining. "I don't see why you want to put up with him. What do you want with some crazy old drunk anyhow?" "Hush," she said. "Me and Mr. Leland's still got lots of things to do together. Don't we, Mr. Leland?" He nodded numbly. "Even if you can't fuck no more." He nodded again. She rose easily and came toward him and he sank back in himself, though his body didn't move. Her silvery eyes held the whole range of his knowledge; she placed her hand casually on his penis, withdrew it without haste. "No. Not any more. But there's always something else, ain't there? Why don't you just go and set down in the rocking chair and I'll see if I can't find what you're looking for. Something'll put hair on your chest." She grinned. "Make a man out of you." She stepped lightly away and went to the door and turned. She spoke to Coke Rymer; her voice was sharp and peremptory. "Quit that fiddling around and come on in here. They's work got to be done if we're ever going to get going." "All right," he said. "I done told you I'm ready to go." He stopped his scraping of the notched edge of the porch step and folded the knife and put it into his pocket. He came up the steps with his buoyant grace and followed Mina into the house, pausing only to give Peter a single swift foul-natured glance. Peter giggled. That one last glance had so much about it of the impulse of the hindered child who sticks out his tongue. That was Coke Rymer, all right: a spoiled child. Spoiled, soiled; but also despoiling, assoiling. He darkened the heavy brightness of the air, and even in his total blind paleness there was a dimness, as of a furry rot-inducing mold. He tipped the rocking chair forward and back, but the motion augmented the queasiness that his belated fear had brought on and he stopped quickly, sat in the shadowed porch gazing out. The settled heat had not moved. The limbs of the wild cherry tree dropped, the sharp leaves looked buttery in the sunlight. He was simply waiting, and in a while Mina did appear, holding one of the too-familiar jars loosely at the ridged top. "Here now," she said. "Here it is, you can drink it. But I don't want to see that you've poured none of it out or spilled it or wasted it, or you'll never see another drop from me as long as you live." She went back into the house. He looked through it at the landscape, which was streaked and crazed and looked even hotter through the yellowish liquid. He began to drink, drank steadily, and within the hour he was delirious and lying on the porch in foetal position, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He was prophesying in a loud voice, heedless. And then he began to whisper. "Mina's right," he said, and the sibilance of his whisper was echoed in the sibilance of his clothing as it rasped on the boards of the porch. He squirmed on the floor but made no progress. "Mina's right about the snake. We live as serpents, sucking in the dust, sucking it up. The stuff we were formed of, and we ought to inhabit it. We ought to struggle to make ourselves secret and detestable, we should cultivate our sicknesses and bruise our own heads with our own heels. Where's the profit in claiming to walk upright? There's no poisonous animal that walks upright, a desecration. It's better to show your true shape, always. It's better to s—..." But now he had squirmed forward, to the edge of the porch, and his forehead knocked against a supporting post. He raised his head and began to gnaw feverishly at the base of the post. The wood tasted of bitter salty dust. He closed his eyes and kept gnawing until the fit had passed off him and then he lay weak throughout his whole body. He was sweating, the bitterness of the post streamed out his pores; and a fine-edged clarity possessed him. He felt unutterably ashamed, and he turned his eyes toward the door, knowing already what he would see, his face and mouth and ears burning with fearful shame. "Ain't you something?" Mina said. "Ain't you a sight?" She didn't laugh, but turned away and disappeared again. Grasping the post, he pulled himself shakily upright and shook his head hard, trying to clear it. He staggered to the rocking chair and folded into it and began to drink again. That was Mina's way, that was always her way: she simply appeared and disappeared when she liked, everything was always under her control. He remembered that only a few weeks ago he had day-dreamed that when she had finished the life of his body she would have it discarded—dumped—in the fields under the brutal sun. Naked to the corrupting heat...Now he realized that he wouldn't be so lucky. That fate had been reserved for his wife's white body; Sheila, whom he had murdered, lay out there somewhere, going to pulp in the southern weather. Trying to turn the thought away, he turned his head, shook it hard again. He didn't have to guess about Sheila; Mina had told him what she had had done, repeated it again and again. Of course....Mina would always do exactly as she pleased. Coming and going, her movements admitted of no prediction, except that she would continually find him in the moments of his worst shame. Now he had guessed that this was her motive in keeping him, to observe how far downward he had gone. He had become a queer experimental animal; Mina used him purposely to try to gauge through him the fiber of the whole species. And he too felt a chilly detached curiosity. How far into this rushing darkness could a man go? When he had devoured his heart, what was there to push the machine along? At what point was this machine no longer recognizable as himself? He glimpsed a blurred moment of illumination: at that bodiless point—whenever, wherever it was—that the humanity in him melted, disappeared, the universe rested. At least one universe, the humane one. In this momentary half-vision (which he could hardly believe he had been granted) he felt obscurely the presence of other systems, other universes, to which humanity—his humanity—was irrelevant. Mocking crowded points of corruscation. Infinite coldness. He shook his head for the third time and drank again, feeling gratefully the flush of the liquor leap upward in his body from his belly. THREE They were traveling. They had loaded Peter into the back seat with the same uncaring gesture they had loaded whatever it was Mina was carrying into the trunk of the car. He sat numb while they made the final preparations, overwhelmed by the all-too-familiar look and odor of the machine. It was his car, of course; Mina had taken possession of everything that had once belonged to him and Sheila. No question about her purposes with his possessions; she would waste them totally and carefully. He observed the scratchy ribbed felt overhead, the frayed latticework of the seat covers. Wouldn't it be funny if the dome light worked, now that Mina had the car? It had never once worked when the car was his. He wondered if the little leather-bound copy of the Gospel of St. John was still in the glove compartment; surely Mina would have no use for that. He was still slightly drunk; he sat carefully steady and kept his hands clasped between his knees. They were simply leaving, no goodbyes. Neither Morgan nor his wife—who was almost never seen in the house—came out to speak or to wave. She and Coke Rymer finished what business they had inside the house (without doubt she bore Coke Rymer, too, desperate down into the rancid quilts) and got into the car. He drove and she sat listlessly, her bare arm stretched along the top of the front seat. She glanced about with a placid curiosity. Peter had none; sat stolid, feeling the pour of warm air on him, heaviness of the moving landscape. Behind the car the reddish-yellow dust rose solid as wood and then dispersed to separate particles. Peter looked behind once to see the tenant cabin tossing, as if swimming away in the yellow haze. They passed the big brick house, the house of the murder, and Peter turned his head. There, it had loomed before him suddenly round a sharp curve of the road and stood shocking in the glacis of the hill. He turned his head. Even the single glimpse of it disturbed, served to force into his gullet the sour taste of the guilt he had been so long now trying to swallow and to keep down. No specific memory—nothing so acutely defined—but a shapeless huge nausea overwhelmed his nerves, and he kept his head turned. He simply would not remember, he denied it all. On this road it was farmland all the way. On a board fence bordering the roadway, a large gaudy metallic-looking rooster flapped wings and crowed, too late in the day. The racking crow sounded mechanical. Through the bottom fields the creek wandered, not appearing very different from where it ran by Morgan's cabin. Sunlight burning in ovules on the glassy leaves of poison oak. Two white butterflies involved in hectic acrobatics. The passing in and out of the shadows dropped by massy oaks. Splotched cattle on the splotched hills. Barbed-wire fences, the weathered posts leaning awry, sagging rusty wire. Hot gray roofs of squat chicken houses. Barns red and gray, looking fat and hollow at the same time. The neat white houses and the battered tenant cabins, each garnished on one side with lines of hung washing, spectacular in the breeze. Noise of flung gravel, of wind. And then they hit pavement and Coke Rymer drove faster. The wind that poured in on Peter cooled and increased in volume. Coke was intent on his driving; he drove savagely but with a flashy accuracy, carefully watching the road before him, though he never seemed to look into his rear-view mirror. Nor did Mina glance into the back seat at Peter. Now and again she would draw her fingers slowly along the top of the front seat; she was caught up in her own listless thoughts, and even the slight curiosity she had at first shown in the passing scenery had vanished. Peter let himself relax; the first motion of the car had made him feel faintly ill, but now he let himself drift with it, tried to enclose the oblique movements of the machine in his body and, lax now, felt that he had partially succeeded. It was not a good car, an old one—it was what he had been able to afford—and it quivered mercilessly and, after a full stop, shuddered alarmingly climbing into the gears. He ought to have got a new car long ago, but there hadn't seemed a real need and, of course, there was the question of money. Even now, he didn't know what the need for the car was. He had no notion where they were headed, except that the direction was easterly, out of the mountains. He didn't even know whether Mina had planned a definite destination. She was perfectly capable of truly aimless movement, he thought, but then he knew the thought was false. Even if there was no destination, her moving would never be purposeless; all her energies were bent to a single purpose, she never swerved. This he had observed again and again—and a lot of good his observation was. What this purpose was he had never fathomed, so that all her actions were mysterious and sometimes seemed almost crazy; but he didn't doubt that there was a single principle which would bring it all to him clear if he once could grasp it. These thoughts made him restless and he shifted his feet on the floorboard, feeling for the solid presence of the pump handle. He touched it with his toe and was grateful and comforted. He glanced down at it, permitted himself a faint smile in the roaring windstream. He planned to take care of the weapon, to polish it till it gleamed, and then—and then a light oil bath to prevent its rusting again. He pondered. And perhaps too, a rubber grip for it; he would need only a few inches from a rubber garden hose.... He felt that he really ought to know Mina's purpose: it seemed so closely dependent on Peter himself. There was a reason, yes, why he had been subjected to what he had. The idea of punishment formed in his mind, but the idea of the crime for which he was being punished would not come. It was not murder—ah, that was a mere word to him now; the memory of Sheila herself had disappeared, to leave only an impression of bright sheeny light, no person at all—no, not murder, but something more terrifying, something previous to anything he could ever remember, previous, he sometimes thought, maybe to his whole life, previous to his birth. Regular monotony of the passing telephone poles, dark, spearlike. The shadows slipped through the interior of the car like spears. Now racing the candescent threads of railway track which lay along the road. He could follow the progress of the stretched shape of the sun as it zipped on the iron. Impression of heatless light. And then they caught up with the train, passed the red caboose, went exhilaratingly by the rollicking freight cars. He heard them bounding along the track. Rocker unrocker rocker unrocker. Passed the diesel engine which let go with its ugly sour horn. Shot through narrow concrete bridges. Up and breathtakingly down dark wooded hills. Coke Rymer was taking the secondary highways; Mina must have asked him to keep off the broad fast interstate system. Again Peter couldn't guess her reasoning; it was no less public the way they were going. Cars came toward them and slipped by, momentary as a wink. Trucks loaded with heavy paper bags of fertilizer lumbered along before them, and Coke Rymer cursed, slowing suddenly; Peter was always certain they would bang into the trucks. He cowered inside himself; imagined smothering under a flood of smelly fertilizer. They rode on and on. Occasionally they would pull into a nondescript service station for gas, or Coke Rymer would say, "I got to go to the little boy's room," or "I got to powder my nose." His coy silliness, something always grim about it. Mina would go into the station and return, bringing Peter a soft drink and cheese crackers with peanut butter. The cellophane packages were always dusty, he wiped his fingers on his trousers. But he ate and drank dutifully. Four empty soft-drink bottles rolled clinking together on the floor. In one station Peter went to the restroom, and there, in the acrid odor of the disinfectant, looked out the window before him, a narrow slot in the white concrete block wall, and thought absurdly of escape. But there was nothing to escape from. He was not a prisoner, not held by force. He was simply bound to Mina wholly; he was his own prisoner, he could escape by dying, by no other way. He uttered an involuntary sob, zipped his fly, lurched out. The sunlight struck his eyes like a slap. It got later, the sun was behind them. The eastern sky was orange, wild with queer cloud shapes. Still they went on. The land got flatter, and towns were glimpsed before they were arrived at, the lights making ghostly white aureoles on the horizon. The young men were out, dolled up, restlessly courting the girls. Gay convertibles; shaggy fox tails pendent from radio aerials. One little town like the others, all flat on the landscape like stamps pasted in an album. Sharp brick buildings in the evening light; they looked like biscuits set out of the oven to cool. And yet it all fitted. The landscape was perfectly integral. Across the slim horizontal rows of cotton or cane, the weathered vertical form of the farmhouse seemed truly correct: its gabled porches, its uprightness, its bony angularity. On the whole land a somnolent watchfulness, a waiting for the night, for coolness, for the justice of stars. They passed drive-in movies, and the great flat faces of strangers fluttered away in the darkness; they were quickly oppressive, these visions of bright love and violence, a tipsy staggered glimpse of the secret heart of the land. Peter felt conspicuous and embarrassed at seeing the great screens; it was like peeking into bathroom windows. It had begun to cool, but he still felt hot. His body was gritty with dust, filmed over with evaporated sweat. The oncoming headlights burned his eyes, scraped on his exacerbated nerves. They kept driving on and on, and he wanted to cry out for them to stop it, to stop it: they were going nowhere, there was nowhere to go. Why couldn't they let up? Why was it so necessary to squash oneself to a handy ball and keep torturing it along over the flimsy landscape? He leaned and picked up the comforting pump handle and held it tightly across his lap. He gripped it hard, not to let go, and the tightness began to seep out of his chest. He ran his finger along the clear curve of the metal; it was he, this weapon; he could punch holes in the world, he possessed heroism kept carefully in check. He settled his head back against the seat. His eyelids flickered. He dozed resistlessly, still gently fingering the pump handle. In the sharp restive dream he was a spider; no, a daddy longlegs. He scoured in jagged lines over the fields, searching out water with an unerring hunger. His size was protean; grew monstrously; diminished. On the skin of the great water, when he found it, he would drift in coolness, the big overhanging leaves of the weeping willow would keep away the sunlight. The soft fields were singing softly. In the harsh embittering dream was a peaceful dream, of waters shot with healthy shadows, of the rounded spaces under trees enclosing as with cool arms. But in the heated fields his six-legged unstable body was painful, crazy. All his eyes had nowhere to look; a glazed glare held his vision with unbreakable force. He moved crookedly; he did not want to move. There was no reason for it, there was no purpose in it. The six-legged machine was its own volition, and he a prisoner trapped. It came to him that this at last was the true image of his sickness, and in his sleep he was somewhat mollified. The sweat ceased to trickle down his sides from his armpits and his grip on the pump handle gentled. "All right, honey, you can climb out of there. You've got the place we're looking for." He was awake immediately. They had stopped. Coke Rymer tugged at his shoulder through the open window. He didn't know where they were. It was full dark and cool. All round the car were trees, sibilant in the night breeze. He clambered out, stiff and dizzy, and raised his head to look at the sky. Random stars pierced the foliage, and the tree limbs moved now to sweep them from sight. He flexed his arms, held them out straight, rotated his neck on his shoulders. He breathed deep, grateful, but when he walked forward he staggered, the stiffness still in his legs. Mina was leaning against the front fender, resting easily. Nothing bothered her; she knew where they were, why they were here. "I hope you had a good nap," she said. "That might be what you're good for, you know it? Just to sleep. You might could get to be a real expert." He turned away from her, scratched the small of his back with both hands. "Or you could drink liquor," she said. "I forgot about that. There's two things you can do, right there." He wandered away from the car, heading ignorantly into the darkness. "Where do you think you're going?" Mina said. "I'll be back in just a few seconds," he said. "He's going off to take a leak," Coke Rymer said. "Do you want me to go with you, honey? To hold your hand?" It was dark and cool, and he began to feel better, not so heavy. His body was still sticky with travel, and as he stood to urinate he listened hopefully for the sound of a stream nearby, water to slice away some of the road dust. No sound of water, but a sound, the night breeze hazing the foliage, like water; and even this seemed to help, to refresh. There...Now he did feel refreshed, and as he walked back toward the car he permitted himself a vague half-smile, thinking, 1 woke and found that life was duty. They were waiting, still standing by the car. "We're going to sleep in the back. You can sleep up in the front, if you want to," Coke Rymer said. "The steering wheel gets in the way, that's why." "All right." "Or if you want to, you can sleep out here on the cold ground. I don't give a damn what you do." "All right," he said. His acquiescence robbed Coke Rymer of anything to say. He stood uncertainly. "Well..." "Oh goddammit, come on," Mina said. She caught the blank boy by the arm and opened the car door and propelled him into the back. "If it was up to you-all, I guess you'd just stand around talking all night. There's better things to do than that." She turned. "Why don't you just take another nice little walk? I don't reckon they's anything around here to eat you up. So all you have to do is just not to get lost. You can take a little walk and watch out where you're going." She got in and closed the door. He didn't feel that a nice little walk was what he needed, he was tired. But he'd better go. He put his hands in his pockets and started away, heavily desiring alcohol. How much easier the trip would be if there were something to drink. Mina would know that, and yet she had allowed him nothing....He tried to put it out of his mind, but his resolve simply made it all the worse; his very neurons seemed to cry out for the stuff. The breeze had not abated and now it was cooler than he wanted. He hunched his shoulders forward. He walked aimlessly, noticing nothing about him. Now and again he looked up, walking on, and the stars seemed to float backward over the various shapes of the trees. He kept wondering if he had come far enough, if he had been gone from the car long enough to satisfy Mina. Finally he turned back and began to retrace his path. It wasn't difficult here; the undergrowth was sparse, the trees were mostly large and well spaced. Two or three times he wandered off the track and had to extricate himself from patches of bush and briar. But there was no real trouble, and he got back too soon. He came to the edge of the little clearing where the car sat and there he stopped, hearing Coke Rymer's choked muttering from the back seat. He let himself clumsily to the ground and sat with his legs crossed, listening. Again he let himself smile, irony without joy; and he waited. The low whistling intake of breath he heard, the unnerving muttering: all the cruel mechanics of the lovelessness of the deed. He waited knowingly, certain of what would come. And he heard it: Coke Rymer's anguished last outcry, uttered twice and enveloped in the breezy darkness. Coke too was under the pain of it. Snap. O, her cold cold teeth, the fishy breath of her. It was unremitting and continual; she was relentless. He smiled with solid satisfaction for the first time in a long while. She had no mercy, none. Now it wouldn't be very long before Coke Rymer was like Peter, not male; he wouldn't be able to fuck any more. He would be broken, a figure paper thin.... Abruptly he hankered after his pump handle. He should have brought it with him, he felt frightened without it. It was his weapon, and if anyone ever needed a weapon, it was he, for surely there had never been anyone so utterly defenseless, so helpless and so caught in incomprehensible dangerous toils. The land and sky looked upon his helplessness. What was ever going to satisfy her? He lingered; waited until what he hoped was a decent time had elapsed—smiled, a third time, because the word "decent" had come into his mind—and then rose, brushed absently at the moist earth that clung to his trousers. He went to the car, walked round the front and opened the door at the driver's seat as quietly as he could. It remained dark in the car, the dome light didn't work, not even for Mina. He looked into the back. Coke Rymer lay squashed against the seat, already asleep and breathing heavily, wearily, through his gaped mouth. Mina lay on the outside, propped on her elbow, taking up most of the room. She wasn't even disheveled. She regarded Peter with her pale, almost luminous eyes; spoke in a level, quiet—but not hushed—voice. "Well, did you have a nice walk?" "It was all right," he said. There was a glitter of petty triumph in his voice that he couldn't keep out, and he hoped she wouldn't notice it. "Good for you," she said. "Get some exercise, that's the best way to get your strength back." He leaned in and began to crawl across the seat on his hands and knees. He wanted to have the steering wheel at his feet. "You know," she said, "it wouldn't bother me none to turn old Coke out of the back seat here. He's just going to sleep like a dead man. If you was to want to come back here and try your luck for a while, I'd roust him out." Her voice was lazy and impassive, her eyes two gray patches. "You reckon you feel up to a little more exercise?" All his little happiness melted away. "I'm afraid not," he said. She sniffed; sheer disdain. "I didn't reckon you would." He lay down, then squirmed around to close the door; got his position back and lay there, sour and painful. He needed fiercely the pump handle, but he was determined he would not ask her for it. He lay awake, holding his genitals in his left hand. But sleep at last caught him, held him silent and dreamless and he woke into the daylight without rancor, feeling rested. But thirsted harshly for Mina's dispensed alcohol. In the early afternoon they came to Gordon, a town not different, so far as Peter could tell, from the scores of towns they had passed through. The surrounding countryside was flat, and on the easterly breeze was a whiff of brackishness; it couldn't be many miles from the ocean side. Grass struggled to grow here, and the earth was often bare, a pinkish-white dust blanketed over packed burning clay. Here clay land was changing over into sandy land; the two soils melted together. The sunlight too seemed powdery, thick on the leaves of magnolia trees, collected in drifts like burning snow in the upper crevices of boxwood shrubs. "Well, this here's the town you wanted to get to," Coke Rymer said. "Where do you want me to go from here?" "Just drive us around a little and let me look," Mina said. "I'll let you know where I want you to stop." "Well, you're the doctor." "That's right," she said. The streets of Gordon were quiet. Cars were parked along each side of the main street, pocketed when it was possible in the shade of tall oak or magnolia trees. Grave-eyed negro children passed on the sidewalks, swinging wet bathing suits by their sides. The houses here were mostly white wooden houses of two storeys, but here and there were small brick duplexes with the silvered boxed air conditioners protruding from the less sunny windows. Through the main square of the town ran two railroad tracks, side by side, and the town was truly divided by them. On the east side of the tracks the moneyed houses began to grade finely down into grudging respectability and then at last into frank poverty. The asphalt pavement narrowed and was broken along the edges. Here were the one-storey white frame houses, held off the naked dusty yards by unpainted concrete blocks. "You can turn here," Mina said, and Coke Rymer obediently turned left into a red jolting dirt road. The sloping ditches were filled with black cinders, and the houses were no longer white, but stained brown or weathered gray. They were in a negro section, and there were no longer signs at the corners telling the names of the streets. Here the streets were nameless. There was an occasional shabby grocery store, its false brick siding plastered over with advertisements for soft drinks and headache powders. "Right here, now," she said, and he braked the car, let the motor idle. They had come out of the negro section into a beaten-down poor-white area. On the right was a squat white house, but Mina was observing the house on the left. It was small, looked as if it would contain four rooms or so; the rough oak siding was stained a dark brown, as dark almost as creosote, and the white trim was mostly battered away. The unfenced front yard was as bare and dusty as the others. The roof was gray galvanized tin, no different from the roof of Morgan's house back in the mountains. Peter saw nothing interesting about the place. There were a hundred, a million others which would mirror it without a scrap of difference.... But it was what Mina wanted, what she must have been looking for. "You can turn off the car," she said. "This here's the place we been looking for." He turned off the motor and they climbed out, leaned resting against the heated metal of the car. "I don't see what's so wonderful about this place," Coke Rymer said. "Who is it lives here, anyhow?" "They don't nobody live here," she said. "This is where we're going to live." The blond boy shrugged, sucked his front teeth. Peter was at first bewildered—it made no sense, none—but then he was grateful. They could move the stuff in the trunk of the car into the house, he would help move it, and then Mina would give him something to drink. FOUR When Peter woke, his gangly frame was shuddering all over, not just from the morning cool, but because this was the condition of his awaking body. He struggled with his limbs. The chains clashed and thumped on the splintery kitchen floor. He didn't want to open his eyes. The early sunlight would strike like a bullet into his brain. The smell of slopped liquor, of chewed rancid scraps of food, hung in the room, only slightly freshened by the raw air that poured in. A window was broken or maybe somebody had left the door open. The light was on his eyelids, forming behind them a coarse abrasive red curtain which made his temples ache. An uncontrollable belch brought up the whole fetor of his gut and while he struggled to breathe, keeping his mouth open to dissipate the deathly taste, droplets of sweat popped out over his whole length, dampening his shirt and pants which were already salty and sour from the weeks before. He gasped. Then he lay still, trying to listen, but all he could hear was his own thick choked breathing. When he held his breath he could hear only the blood swarming in his ears. But no one seemed to be awake but himself; he had to lie still. If he woke them, moving his chains loud enough to wake them, they would kick him to bits. He tried to place his head, without moving his arms and legs, so that the sun couldn't get at his eyes. It was no good. The day had already begun its dreadful course, the sun was poisoning the sky. He felt the baleful rays sink into his pores. His spine felt as if metallic cold hands squeezed it intermittently. He couldn't get his face out of the sunlight. He lapsed into a fitful red doze, but was jarred awake by the fear of rattling the chains in his sleep. With her big mouth Mina would tear his Adam's apple out of his throat. She would spit it on the floor and crush it with her big mean heel, like killing a cockroach. He could almost see her unmoving face hovering over his, feel the cold fishy breath of her; her teeth would be like hundreds of relentless needles. He whimpered helplessly, but stopped it off, constricting his throat like a ball of iron inside. If he began whimpering hard he couldn't stop and it would get louder and louder until the moos came on him, and then they would beat him until he stopped. He stopped the whimper. His chest already felt jagged inside where they had kicked him. He fought to make all his muscles relax from the quivering, and stream on stream of tears rolled down his face. If he opened his eyes the tears would shoot sharp spears through them. But he was so tired he was almost inanimate. He fell into a yellow sleep, bitter with a drilling electric sound and the smell of black mud and fish. He dreamed that he had no face at all and that his eyes were unseeing dark splotches on his gray stony back and that he swam forever through this world of solid objects which were to his body liquid. In the dream there was nothing he could touch, his body was mere extension without knowable presence. Again he came awake, now with the black thirst upon him. The sunlight no longer filled his face, and yet he did not think that he had slept long. He felt a warm presence. At first his eyes wouldn't open, and he thought that they had clicked them shut forever with locks and he thrashed around, beginning to whimper again, not caring about the chains now. He got his eyes open, though they were still unseeing, but it was hard to breathe. He blew his breath out hard and an inexplicable chicken feather blew up and stuck on his cheek. He gagged. Then when he could look it was all dim, but behind the dimness was a bright white ball with the hurt strained out of it. He could not think any more. Everything in his head was gone. At last he realized he was looking at the sun. It shone through the dark gray cloth, reddening faintly the stretched muscles of the legs which arched over his face. He knew them already, Mina's plump steady legs, taut curve at calf and thigh, arrogant, careless. He looked up the pink-tinged insides of her legs. He knew he had always been right. There at the X of here where her woman-thing ought to be was a spider as big as a hand, furred over with stiff belligerent hairs straight as spikes. He couldn't stop looking. His gullet closed and his chest began to strain for air; he could hear it begin to crackle. His throat opened again, but it was hard to breathe because the whimpering had started. It started loud and he knew there was no hope stopping. The moos had got to come now; and then they would kick him to bits. "Hush up, just hush up," she said. "Can't you never take a joke?" With the hand which wasn't holding up the front of her skirt she reached down there and plucked the spider away. She held it free above him and though he could see it was only a toy, only wire and fuzz and springy legs, he couldn't keep the whimpering back. It got louder; the moos had got to come. She dropped her skirt and leaned her face over him, rolling it a little so that he could see she was disgusted. "Well there then," she said. She shook the toy spider in her hand and then dropped it on his face. He tried not to, he clenched his teeth and tried to keep it back, but the noiseless loud fear poured out of his mouth, moo after moo of it, pure craziness. He was so frightened he couldn't hear himself, and he heard Mina calling: "Coke! Coke! Come in here right now. Come in here." Before she had stopped shouting the watery blond boy came in. He didn't even look at Mina but simply put the heel of his boot on Peter's chest and ground his foot round and round, pushing down hard. The blond boy pushed harder until Peter couldn't breathe any more, and he had to stop mooing. Then the boy squatted and sat on his chest, bouncing his weight up and down so that he couldn't get out his fear. He drummed his arms and legs, banging the chain links, rubbing them across the floor. The blond boy began to slap his face first with one hand and then with the other. "What's my name?" he said. "Coke." He slapped him again and again. "What's the rest of it? What's my full name?" Peter was cold with unknowing. He formed sounds but no name emerged from them. "Come on, baby. Stick with it. What's my full name, now?" The slapping had got progressively harder. "Coke Rymer," he said. "That's my baby," the blond boy said in a soothing tone of voice. "That's a way to go." He stood up with the meaningless nonchalance he always had about him. "We'll get you a drink now, okay?" Without pausing for an answer he kicked Peter hard on the side of his neck. "That's a baby," he said. He groaned at the kick, but after the first uttering of pain was out he subsided into the whimpering which finally became only a strained silent heaving of his chest. He kept looking up at Coke's liquescent blue gaze; his own eyes were charged with pain and fear but not with hate. He would never have any more hate. Apparently satisfied, Coke Rymer knelt and began to unlock the chained cuffs at his wrists and ankles. He was still murmuring soothingly. "All right now, you're coming right along. You're going to do all right, honey, you're going to do all right." When he finished with the locks he handed the bunch of keys on the long chain to Mina. She dropped the chain loop over her head, tucked the keys into her cotton blouse and buttoned it up. She stood away from the two of them, her arms folded. Coke Rymer hoisted him to his feet and held him up until he seemed steady enough to stand by himself. He stood wavering, his head dropped almost to his chest and lolling back and forth; floundered across the room and leaned backward against the flimsy dinette table. He stroked carefully at his wrists; there were scarlet ichorous bands on them where the broad iron cuffs had rubbed the skin away. It made him feel very pitying to see his poor wrists like this. "Huh," Mina said. "You ain't hurt. That's nothing." "We'll get him a drink of liquor," Coke Rymer said. "That'll fix our little honeybunch up before you know it. Make a new man out of him." He swung open one of the rickety wall cupboard doors. Inside, it was full of empty bottles and broken glass. He brought down a pint bottle of murky stuff and shook it, looked at it against the broad light that streamed through the open door. "What'll you give me for this?" he said. He showed his dim little teeth in a stretched smile. He could barely grunt. It sounded like gravel rattling in a box. "Oh, go on and give it to him," Mina said. She watched him patiently, as if she was curious. Of course curiosity would never show in that locked face. The boy held it out to him and he waited a wary moment to see if it would be jerked away. He got hold of it in both hands and then momentarily just stood clutching it out of fear of dropping or spilling it. He drank in short convulsive swallows. It tasted thick and mushy and warm, but it had a burning around the edges. As he lowered the bottle he lowered his head too and then again he stood clenching the bottle and, with the muscles of his chest, clenching his insides too. He had to keep it down, couldn't let it get away from him; he stood taut from his heels to his chin. After a long time the writhing spasms stopped. Again sweat came out on him all over. Mina was still watching him. She spoke in an observing even tone: "They's chicken blood in that liquor." He was still stuporous; her face was as blank to him as paper. "You was the one done it yourself," she said. "You was the one pulled that chicken's head off and crammed that neck down in the bottle. I guess you didn't know it, but that's what you done. It was just last night." In the morning sunlight her eyes seemed paler than ever. Coke Rymer sniggered. He looked clumsily at the bottle in his hands, then put it carefully on the table. He was a long way past caring now. He stood still, waiting and dazed. She stirred her feet and began talking to the blond boy. She had the full relaxed air of someone who has just seen a difficult juggling trick performed successfully. "Me and the girls has got to go off," she said. "I got to get me something to wear for tonight. You better keep your eye on him good while we're gone and see he gets this place cleaned up some. Don't let him drink too much of that liquor so he can't do nothing. You better get him something to eat at dinnertime too. We got to make him eat something." His mind was clearing some. The narrow avenues of what he knew of his labors and his fear had emerged a little from the wet smoke. He understood that she was talking about him but that he didn't have to listen. And then he had to. She was telling him something. "Go on in there and wake them girls up," she said. "We got to get going." "Wait a minute," Coke Rymer said. He turned to her. "I want to show him something." He came across to where Peter stood and spread his hand flat on the table, his fingers wide apart. "Look here," he said, "I want to show you something." He fetched a big folded knife from his pocket and let it roll in his hand. When he moved his thumb a sharp crying blade jumped from his fist, circled in the air. Peter moved back a little, trembling. The knife was Coke Rymer's man-thing, he didn't want it to hurt him; he didn't want to see it. Coke Rymer laid it on the table and twirled it around with his index finger. He was giggling. He picked the knife up at the end of the blade, pinching it with his thumb and forefinger. "Look at this," he said. He hesitated and then flipped the knife quickly upward. It spun round and round, a flashing pinwheel. When it came down the blade chucked into the tabletop in the space between the third and fourth fingers of Coke Rymer's left hand. He giggled. The knife quivered to stillness. "That's enough of that stuff now," Mina said. "I want him to get some things done today. I don't want you messing around and playing with him all the time. He's got to get some things done." Coke Rymer folded the knife and put it away. He turned toward her. "You want me to take away that old pump handle?" "I reckon not. You just quit deviling him and leave him alone. He's enough trouble the way he is already, without you picking at him." "I wasn't hurting him none." "Just leave him alone, I said." She spoke to Peter. "I thought I told you already to get them girls out of bed. I ain't got all day to fool around with you." He slouched forward, going reluctantly toward the bedroom. He wanted her to make sure the yellow-haired boy wouldn't disturb the pump handle. She ought to stop him. The pump handle solaced him with its length and its fine heaviness in his hand; he loved to stroke along the long subtle curve of it; he liked just to have it near him, to hold it out before himself, admiring its blazing shininess and its heft. Hours and hours he had spent scrubbing and shining and oiling it. He knew that Mina derived a clear satisfaction from knowing that it was his man-thing, and he thought she ought not let Coke Rymer dally with it.—He couldn't understand the blond boy. There was nothing in him, nothing at all; he didn't understand why Mina tolerated him. He lumbered through the narrow doorway into the living room. In here the light was dimmer and didn't bulge in his head so much. The torn shade was pulled almost down in the north window; little chinks and blocks of light shone in the holes. Through the west window he could see the squat cheap white frame house across the street, all yellow in the sunlight. One pillow lay staggered on the floor, dropped from the springs of the stained greasy wine-colored sofa across the room; along the top of the sofa back all the prickly nap had worn away. On the black little end table was the radio, which was on—the radio was always on—but now nobody had bothered to tune it to a station and it uttered only staccato driblets of static. There were a couple of broken cardboard boxes in one corner of the room, and a few sheets of newspaper were scattered on the floor. On the east wall beside the door were dime-store photographs of Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield and Elvis Presley, all dotted with flyshit. At the edge of the sofa and in two corners of the room were blurred remnants of the pattern which had once covered the dull rubbed linoleum. The bedroom was to the south of the living room and he entered without knocking. A dark green shade covered the single bedroom window and in here it was much dimmer than in the living room. He had to wait until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Heaped together in the small bed in the corner—the big double bed on the left was Mina's—the girls stirred restlessly, sensing in their sleep Peter's presence in the room. He went to the bed, grasped a protruding pale shoulder and shook it as gently as he could. The startled flesh moved under his nerveless hand. "Whah." He shook her again and she mumbled some more and sat up. Because of the bad light her sharp face looked detached, a soft lantern. It was Bella. Her black hair came forward, hiding her face; she shook her head, raised her arms and stroked her hair back over her shoulders. Only her face and her breasts stood visible. Her breasts were like featureless faces; they bobbed softly as she fixed her hair. Enid shifted in her sleep, turning toward them, and flung her thin arm over Bella's gentle belly. She stopped manipulating her hair and for a moment stroked carefully the arm which lay on her.—He knew that this too was one of Mina's satisfactions, that Bella and Enid were after the woman in each other.—Then she tapped Enid's arm. "Sweetheart," she said, her voice thick and throaty from sleep, "wake up. Mina must want us to get up. Come on." Enid dug deeper into the bed. Bella looked up at him, her gaze abstracted, visionless. Momentarily it seemed to him that there was something she wanted from him, and the thought frightened him. He stumbled back from the bedside. "What do you think you're doing?" she said. Her voice was regaining its natural sharpness. "Go on away. Go get where you belong." As he went out the door he saw Bella resume her loving ministering to Enid. Mina was talking to Coke Rymer in the living room, and Peter went straight through and on through the kitchen out to the back porch. He wanted to check his pump handle, to see if it was still where he had hidden it—that was the one thing he could remember from the day before. The porch cracked and swayed under his footsteps, the boards weakening with rot or termites. A double handful of big blue-and-green flies was flocked on the carcass of the headless chicken that lay there. They skipped about on the queasy body, making a noise like muttered swearing. Already the air was hot, viscid, and the singing of the flies seemed to increase the oppressiveness of the heat. He nudged the chicken with his bare toe and the flies swirled up in a funnel-shaped pattern and then settled again immediately. With his forearm he wiped his mouth; he couldn't understand how he could do something like that. All the glare of the sun seemed focused on the murdered bird. He stepped down into the fluffy dust of the back yard. The yard was small, and underneath the dust was burning packed clay. A ruptured hog-wire fence unevenly straggled the rectangular borders, and here and there long shoots of blackberry vine poked through. In the north corner of the yard was the little low weather-stained shed from which he averted his eyes without even thinking about it, with the strength of a habit enforced by sheer instinct. He went around the edge of the little porch, which was laid out at the back of the house like a perfunctory throw rug, and peeked underneath, where the pile of daubed stones supported it. There, crosswise in a space between two joists, lay the pump handle. He hadn't realized until he found the handle that he'd been holding his breath and it came in a swoop out his mouth and nose, all too heavily redolent of what had happened to his insides. He wiped his mouth. He got the pump handle and stood and held it before him, hefting it warm and solid in his hand, beholding it in the sunlight. He examined it all over for a speck of rust or dirt, but it was clean and shiny as quicksilver. "Well, so that's where you keep it then? Well, that's all I wanted to know." He looked up. Coke Rymer was standing at the edge of the porch, leaning against the post support and whittling slowly at the edge of it. Dismayed, Peter stepped back. Coke Rymer showed his meaningless grin; his teeth were little and yellow. "That's all in the world I needed to know, where you keep hiding that ole pump handle." He stepped farther back, gingerly swinging the bright handle like a pendulum in front of his legs. He decided that if the watery blond boy got down into the yard after him he would hit him, he would make blood come. Already now he was whimpering. The other folded his knife and returned it to his pocket. "Aw, hush up. I ain't going to hurt you." He grinned again. "You better come on in here now and get started on this stuff Mina wants you to get done. She's liable to get mad if you don't, and I guess you don't want her to get mad at you. You'd be a even more pitiful sight than you are if she was to get mad and get ahold of you." Still he hung back, but he had stopped swinging the pump handle. He clasped it fondly across his belly. Coke Rymer looked at him. "Aw, you can bring that old thing with you. What's it matter to me?" He turned and briskly went inside. He shuffled unsteadily up the two creaky steps onto the porch. He didn't mind the work so much. He was just hoping they wouldn't make him eat the gooey soft-fried eggs and toast for lunch. FIVE It wasn't long until September. In another one of his moments of clarity he sat inspecting his body. A good view of it; they dressed him now in only these tattered blue swimming trunks, no matter the weather. The boards of the hated floor were sharp with cold in the mornings, and sweated dirt streaked his body like paint. On his lower shoulder were still pieces of the silvery quarter-moon scars that Mina's teeth had left on him, but now these were beginning to be lapped over by the tattooing. Where he wasn't filthy dirty he was gaudy as a comic book. They had begun at the base of his spine. He had lain stretched on Mina's bed, grasping the iron bars hard and weeping without control, while Coke Rymer, nervous and sweating and cursing him, held the nervous hot electric needle and Mina stood calmly watching. "No, not there, you're not doing it right," she had said. "No, you're not doing it right." And then she would lean over and touch softly the spot she wanted decorated and Peter's body would jerk, as shocked as if her cold finger were the burning needle again. "Yeah, yeah, I see," Coke Rymer would say, his voice querulous, whining asperity. "If I could just get this son of a bitch to hold still." The sweat dripped oily from his face onto Peter's back and then ran itching down his side. It was maddening. At the end of the first session they had got a couple of mirrors so that he could see the handiwork. He rose weakly from the bed, where the imprint of his body was wet and vehement. He looked where they directed and he couldn't help crying out, "Is that all? Is that all?" in anguish and impotent rage. In the mirrored mirror was his skin and on it only a small misshapen yellow circle, about the size of a quarter, with an indistinguishable dark head in it and letters—he supposed these marks were letters—in a tongue he had never seen. It was a coin on his spine, or the sun, sardonically injured. Was that all? The intolerable waiting and the nervous pain, just for that?—But now he had got used to it, it was no more than being swarmed over by a troop of red ants. They all took turns, Coke and Bella and Enid, but he wept no more under the needle, the artwork had come to seem necessary to him, and he was coolly curious as to how it would turn out. The little gold coin—or maybe it was a sun—had been obscured almost; in his mirrored skin he had to search hard to find this starting point in the crawly fantastic turf his back had become. On his back nothing was what it was, there were no demarcations, no outlines; nothing was formed, it was all in the process of becoming. Except here a large eye, marbled and fluid; there a crippled hand, the fingers webbed together with sperm. Scattered purple lumps which might be grapes, but pendent from nothing, not attached; knives which looked melting but still cruel; blue fernlike hair; smeared yellowish-white spots, which might be stars dripping down the soundless void, spots of startling silence on this raucous grating jungle, the polychrome verdure suggesting an impossible pointless fecundity and even the odor of this, but the whole impression transitory as dew. Here, was this an inky bird struggling into shape? Really, were these great fish? Or bared unjoined tendons? Was this a clot of spiny seaweed?...A worm?...And now lapping over his shoulder onto his chest, covering over the scars of Mina's bites, these looked like green licks of flame, upside-down. In a muffled flimsy way Peter could share their clear pleasure in the work. It was Bella's turn now, and now that they laid him on his back to perform he observed the intense concentration in her bladelike face. She used the needle as carefully as if she were making a painful embroidery, and he felt obscurely flattered. When she worked on him she had about her none of the contemptuous stupor she used with the men that she and Enid brought to the house. But of course she had no interest in the men except for their money: a dark manner she had, and her body smelled always of earth, of the sandy dirt outside, beaten clangorous by the sun. Mina too was intent on the tattooing, though her face, forever closed, wouldn't show her interest. But Peter knew it was there, and felt a crazy gladness. Clearly he was being prepared, clearly he was being readied, although he didn't know for what. But that finally was unimportant to him. He guessed that his evening performances, which he could not remember, were growing in intensity and in absurdity, and that he was gradually fixing for some simple horrifying climax to it all; but he didn't care. The careful progress of the tattooing gave him the feeling of being new-made; his old self—perhaps his only self (that was all right too)—was being obliterated; it was almost as if he were being reborn, inch by inch, and this feeling was effervescent in him, sometimes buoyed him over his hard depressions and the moments when he let go and felt himself falling, falling, falling through the void shaft between all the atoms. He was sitting on the tiny back porch, the pump handle near, and the early afternoon sunlight was on his chest like thick cotton. The air seemed sugary and the scores of heavy flies fumbled about in it. Enid came out of the house to sit beside him; hitched her skirt over her white thighs and let her legs dangle in the sunlight. He didn't squirm away. He wasn't afraid of Enid, felt even a sort of melting pity for her: she was nothing, she was airy, empty as air, and herself fearful. She was blond very much as Coke Rymer was blond, but she was thin and graceless, had no cruelty in her. But still, he had furtively to move his hand and touch the pump handle. There; he felt better. Her voice was a singsong whisper. "I always have to do like you do," she said. "I have to do whatever Bella tells me to, just like you have to do whatever Coke tells you to do. It's funny, the way it is." Peter didn't answer. It hurt to talk; his throat had been stripped raw by the drinking. Her legs flashed when she moved them in the light. "And Bella and Coke have to do what Mina wants them to. It's funny." She shrugged; her shoulders were thin as dry leaves. "But I don't care what they do, they can't do anything that would really bother me." He almost spoke. He wanted to tell her that she just didn't know, that they could do things to her she couldn't imagine, she would have pain and humiliation she could never understand. And worse, she would be deprived the solace of her outrage, she would have none. "I guess I'm next too," she said, "I know it. When you're all gone, I mean, when they're finished with you, they'll start on me. But I really don't care, because I've put up with just about everything already." He dropped his head sadly. It was all too clear that she referred to his death. He wondered for an instant why she had been told, and why they had kept it from him, for surely his foreknowledge would be the most closely observed part of their treatment of him. But he discarded the thought: she had not been told, no; she knew about his death in the same way that he did, for he had known long ago, even before the death of Sheila. He corrected himself. Before he had murdered her....But Enid was still mistaken; there were things in store which would pain her impossibly. She was made for a victim too: empty and pliant as air, she had neither will nor way to strike back. Even so, he must admire her courage. She could guess something of what was coming, at least, and still she kept a resigned composure. Of course, any kind of courage was of no use without some allegiance to, some tenacity for, one's life, and Enid was void of these. To the end she would simply be what she was already, a ready-made victim. And perhaps it would be easier for her. He had sometimes thought that it would be much less painful for him if he could just resign himself, could just accept without struggle whatever black looming entry they'd shove him through next....And a darker thought rose to the surface: he wondered if Enid was being set as an example to him by Mina. Was her acquiescence, for all its show of courage, one of the final temptations for him? Were they trying finally to rupture in him a last thin shard of integrity, an integrity which must disturb Mina but which he could not himself discover? Or was this thought a single piece of self-flattery? The doubt in his mind was like a hard iron ring and, as ever, he hefted up his shiny pump handle for some kind of affirmation. And now it was not enough. Self-pity welled in his heart like empty tears to the eye. The pump handle too, like every other object, like everything but his tough chains and the boards of the floor and the quivery tattooing needle, was losing its presence. It lacked its former heft, its authority. It was going away from him; now he was going to be entirely alone. Enid pushed lightly off the edge of the porch and went round in front of him up the steps into the house. He listened to the whisper of her bare feet on the wood, over the linoleum. And he heard Bella's sharp voice accost the blond girl as she entered the living room. "Here's Enid now, and she's a pretty thing, isn't she?" A piercing voice, a throaty male tenor, Bella's. "You ought to put some meat on your bones, honey," she said. "You're just a bag of bones. I still love you, though, because you're so blond. I always was crazy about blonds. You'd be just about perfect, I think, if you'd just put some meat on those bones." She was silent for a moment, and Peter could picture the scene: Bella was sitting in the balding sofa in her long brown dress, her legs crossed like a man's, ankle laid across knee, exposing her long stale dusty thighs; and now she stubbed out her cigarette with a single jab of her wrist, sharp. "Come here," he heard her say. "Come here to mama." He sighed. The afternoon was blazing away; the sun had dipped lower, but the light was still white, still hot. It didn't seem the sun had moved, but that the landscape had ached upward after it, as if the heat that had soaked through the dust into the pressed earth was not enough, would never be enough. In the center of the world was a fast deep iciness, pure recalcitrant cold, which could absorb the whole heat of the sun and every point of light; yearned after it. This coldness impinged upon him; he had felt its approach and now he felt it so imposing that his body shivered, anticipated.—The hand of every natural thing was turned against him, he knew it. The pump handle felt light as balsa wood, bodiless. There was no point at which his body was in contact with the world; his body garish, he floated a garish emptiness. But something with a weight was dipping into his shoulder. He looked. Coke Rymer's hand upon him, and he rose as steadily as he could, not wanting the boy cruelly to help him to his feet. But he lurched into him—it was almost impossible for him to keep his feet any more—and Coke Rymer shoved him sharply backward and smacked his left jaw with a sharp elbow. "Goddam you," the boy said. "By God, I'll learn you." He slapped him across the eyes and then took his hand and led him inside. His vision was dazed with tears. Something in his head bored like a big auger. Coke Rymer leaned him against the spotted kitchen wall, the way one might prop a board up while he turned to something else. The blond boy stepped back to look at him, but even in his mean eyes most of the cruel interest was gone. This handling of him was routine, and the performance was much too far along for the routine to carry interest. Now all was bent toward acceleration, toward the meaty ending. "Well, honeybunch, can I give you a drink?" Coke Rymer's figure swam blurry before him; he tried to fix it tight, but couldn't. He shook his head. He couldn't drink any more. His body would no longer accept the stuff; he couldn't keep it down and there was no comfort in it. "You sure now, sweetheart? Used to be, you 'd hanker after a drink some." He kept mute and still. "Well, okay then, whatever you say. Come on in here." He led—half carried-Peter into the darkened bedroom, and Peter fell almost gratefully into Mina's wide bed. Voluntarily he grasped the bars of the bedhead, readying himself for the tattooing session. It was Coke's turn once more; Mina stood away, slightly behind him, ready to supervise. Bella turned on the naked overhead bulb, and the room went stark and shadowless. Peter gazed down at his long body with clinical interest. He hadn't imagined that his thin being could grow so much thinner; he was all angles and knobs. His ribs were distressingly evident, stiff, stiff as fingers of the dead. When he breathed his skin seemed to move reluctantly over his ribs, he could almost hear a susurration. Ah, poor body, with its single destination, powerless and expectant. Coke Rymer reached to a cord at Peter's navel, snapped it loose, began to maneuver the tattered bathing trunks from his waist. He squirmed and croaked. "Now don't start that goddam meowling," Mina said. "You just hush up. Because they ain't nothing you can do about it anyhow." Only disjointed croaks he could muster from his throat. "Hush. They ain't nothing there that could hardly get hurt, is there? You ain't got nothing down there to be touchous about. Just you keep quiet." The bare bedroom was filling with men. They jostled together, unreal, tough-looking; they wore sport shirts or white shirts open at the collar. He couldn't count them, the light from the big bulb jabbed his eyes. He thought that he recognized some of them; they were customers, the men the whores brought in. They had red faces, baked, hoodlums from the town of Gordon, scoured, God knew how, out of the beer joints and hamburger joints, and brought here for the spectacle. They didn't speak; they were silent except for an occasional single whisper and an accompanying titter. Coke Rymer gave a final tug and the swim trunks came off his feet. "There, by God," the blond boy said. Peter watched him; he was trembling and sweating. He was more fearful than Peter, and somehow it made sense. Coke still had to fear Mina, but Peter didn't any longer. No matter what happened to him, he was well out of that. It was a strange funny thought, but when he laughed he uttered only a scraping gurgling sound. "Hush up," Mina said. "I ain't going to tell you no more." He clenched his teeth, he could hear the unnerving rub of them together; he was going to keep silent, not from fear of Mina but in the hope of frustrating Coke Rymer. He knew that Coke hoped for his pained reactions, that they were a great part of what he had now to subsist upon. He too was losing grip. After she was finished with Peter and with Enid, it would be Coke's turn. Peter began to wish that he could see it, he would like to know how Coke would bear up under what Mina had planned for him. Whatever it was, it would be different from Peter's treatment; and he guessed that it would be worse. Abruptly he felt a queer sympathy for the boy, who was pushing forward now through the ring of strangers, bearing the black-handled needle with its black cord dangling; abruptly he was glad that he wouldn't have to watch the spectacle of Coke Rymer's going. As the blond boy squatted by the bedhead, grunting, to plug in the electric needle Peter glanced at the top of his sticky hair. He felt that he almost smelled the bad nerves in him. It was a performance for Coke as well as for Peter. He held the bars of the bedhead as tightly as he could, as Coke Rymer stood above him, leaning forward in a sort of triumphant uncertainty. But those bars seemed to go away from his grip; like the pump handle they had lost substance. In all the world there was nothing in which he could touch, find his maleness; all drifted. Mina came closer. She was ready to begin. She put the tip of her index finger on her cold tongue and leaned and touched Peter's chest just below the right nipple. "There," she said. "You can start right there." Coke turned about and sat on the edge of the bed, pressing it so that Peter slid slightly against him. "Scoot your ass over," Coke said. His voice had become the uncertain liquid falsetto once more. Peter shifted. Coke leaned sidewise over him; he was already sweating heavily and the oily drops fell from his forehead onto Peter's belly, trickled into his navel. He held on as tight as he could and kept silent as long as he could. From the circle of the strangers came an occasional restless unsurprised mutter....Perhaps they had expected more from him; he was being too quiet to please them, and he didn't want to please them. But in a while he was muttering hoarsely; they all peered at him more closely. He couldn't see very well what Coke was up to with the needle; it hurt his neck to look because of the way he had to crane. There was a murky green-and-purple band filling in from right to left across his chest, joining the place where the tattooing had already lapped over his shoulder. Around the tattooing the bare skin was flushed, heated, swollen; the design, if it could be called a design, appeared on him like a great lurid continent thrusting itself out of the sea. The upper part of his chest was numb, but it afforded him no real relief. He had ceased muttering, though. The only sounds now were the intense breathing of the five or six men gathered about and the warm steady hum of the electric needle, like the flight of a hornet near away in summer air. Not enough was happening; he felt Mina's boredom, and he wasn't surprised when she wet her finger and placed it high on his left cheek, not far below his eye. "There," she said. "Start there again." Coke Rymer held the needle above Peter's neck and turned to look at her. "How come you want me to start up there now?" he said. "Ain't I done enough work for one day?" His voice, the watery feminine whine. "Work; you don't know what it means, work. You don't know what the word is. You go ahead now, like I showed you." He turned back to Peter. His hand was shaking savagely. For the first time Peter felt that he saw in those wet blue eyes an attitude toward himself that was not indifferent, nor fearful, nor contemptuous, but almost fellowly, almost sympathetic. And this discovery was more frightening than any other. If this sort of feeling could be roused in Coke Rymer, it meant that the edge really was close, was nearing steadily. "Here we go then, sweetheart," Coke said. "Hold on to your hat." At the first prick of the needle he jerked his head aside, sputtered with stifling pain. Enid was standing at the foot of the bed, and through his pinched eyes he saw that her mouth was working, rounding and widening on breaths of air, though she made no sound. She had in her eyes a full wasted pity. He thought that she had better keep it for herself, Mina was killing two birds with one stone. Coke grasped him harshly with his left hand under his chin; his fingers were tight on the spit glands under his ears. "Goddam your eyes," he said. "Hold your head still." He acquiesced in his mind; he wanted as little trouble as possible, he wanted it to be over soon. But when the needle was at his cheek again, his head recoiled. He couldn't help it. Now his body was taut with apprehension, and warm liquid streamed down his face, across his mouth. Taste of salt. When his head moved, the needle must have ripped his cheek. He looked at Coke in despair. He had made him angry, he hadn't wanted to. It would be easy for the boy enraged to plunge the vibrant needle into his eye. But Coke turned away, turned toward Mina. "I ain't going to do it no more," he said. "I'm tired of it. You can do it your goddam self." She didn't smile, but her voice was levelly humorous. "All right. That's fine. I guess you've had a hard day and I feel real sorry for you. You give Bella that needle and then you can go and lie down and take a little rest." In the blazing room she was the only cool thing. "I'll be around and tend to you in just a little while." Bella poked her way through the waiting unreal circle of men. "Give me the needle," she said. "I never have believed that you had the guts of a weasel....Isn't it true that he shamed him in a fight once?" She asked the question of Mina. "Isn't that true? That Coke was afraid of something like him?" She gestured toward Peter with the needle she had taken from the blond boy. It was still running, humming. Coke rose from the bed and pushed his way clumsily through the group. He rubbed his streaming face. Mina took his place on the edge of the bed, a neat aggressive motion. "I won't be able to do it, I can't hold it still," Peter said. But the words became mere grating gasps, formed from pain and fear. Mina surveyed him from the foot of the bed. There seemed clear in her steady eyes the knowledge of what he was saying. "That's all right, honey," she said to Peter. "Don't you worry about a thing. We'll take care of you fine." She touched two of the near men in the circle and they looked at her, waiting, shamefully scared. "Take hold of his feet," she said. "Hold him down good and tight." They grasped Peter's ankles, unhesitating; pressed them so hard into the lumpy mattress that he had to let go the bars of the bedhead. His forearms were prickly with exhaustion, his wrists felt all injured tendon, his palms were bruised scarlet. "You-all grab his hands too. We got to stop him from jumping all over the place." One of the men, fantastic and red-faced as the others, took Peter's right hand, bent his elbow hard, bringing his forearm under his neck, and then took both wrists together, one atop the other; held them crossed hard with his knee. His face was unreadable. He steadied his stance by holding to the bedhead. Bella took Coke's place at the bed edge. She took Peter's chin with thumb and finger and turned the torn cheek toward her. "Look at that," she said. "Coke's made a mess of this, it's just a mess." "You can let that part go then," Mina said. "You'll have to start lower down." She wet her finger, leaned over the foot of the bed, touched him where it would be most sexually excruciating; but there was no longer sexuality in him. She straightened, her eyes still plainly bored; and from the strangers a murmur of...Was it satisfaction? They were expectant. He nodded. It was as he had thought; there was no way out of Mina's thinking. He came at last to anticipate her every maneuver, horrified because she had so usurped his mind. It was his own head that labored so to produce his own humiliation. Bella rose and moved lower on the bed. The moos were on him, implacable, but now they didn't care; they let him sound away, absorbed in their work. He kept passing out and rousing again to consciousness. The world was flaring brightly before him; gasping and flickering down again. It was the most fragile tendril that held him tied to it all. At last they brought him back again for the final time. Coke Rymer had returned, and he helped one of the strangers hoist Peter to his feet. They almost dropped him; he had no control. "That's all, sweetie," Coke said. "That's all there is." Mina came forward and looked him over. They held him pinioned by arms and shoulders. He couldn't see her well, he didn't look at her face, but felt the cold wash of her gaze on all his body. "Wouldn't you like to see how it turned out?" she said. "I believe you've improved a whole lot." She spoke to Coke and the other. "Bring him over here in front of the mirror." They dragged him standing before the wardrobe. He saw the image; nodded wisely. His legs were still naked, untouched by the needle, but they were no longer his, no longer even supported his body. They looked irrelevant and alien, detachable. The remainder of his body was obliterated; it had been absorbed entirely into another manner of existence, a lurid placeless universe where all order was enlarged bitter parody. Even his bare skin where the needle had not tracked was a part of it all, and the bloodstain over his face was integral, was assuredly important. His body now was a river, was flowing away. He nodded again. "Well now," Mina said, "I'm glad to see that you like it. I think it does you a lot of good myself." She spoke to Coke Rymer and the other man. "Well, take him out there where I told you to." Immediately they began dragging him toward the door. The line of strangers fell away and they went through into the living room, turned, went through the kitchen. It was dark and no cooler. The stars looked close and hot, and in the darkness were clumps of darker shadow. He breathed deep, convulsively; he felt almost as if he had been holding his breath for hours. No, but in the air he had been breathing had been no sustenance for his lungs. The porch floor creaked as they shuffled across it; the board steps cried out. He was not resisting, but he couldn't aid them, either. There was nothing left in his body. He had no body. Shuffling in the thick dust they took him across the barren ground. He gazed upward and the sky looked narrow and vile, hurrying against him. They were taking him, he knew it, to the low weather-stained shed. There the god permitted his being at times to obtrude into perception. He had feared the obscure shed and the altar with all his deep and fearful hate, but now he was hopeful for it. He wished that he could move toward it under his own volition. Coke Rymer unlatched the shabby raspy door and they flung him in. He fell on his back, and for a few minutes lay still. He knew that they wouldn't come in to help him sit up; they wouldn't enter at all. Coke Rymer gazed at him through the door only for a moment; threw him—it was like throwing a foul scrap of meat to a dog—a limp mock salute. "Well, bye-bye sweetheart," he said. "I guess I won't be seeing you for a while. Might be a good long time." He turned and followed the other man, both forms dissolving into shadowed night. They left the door open, dark gray rectangle scratched with the wiry lines of blackberry vines. He heard Mina coming; and he pushed himself backward through the dirt floor littered with wads of paper and corncobs. She leaned forward in the low door, putting her hands at the top to hold herself. "Well, there you are now," she said. "You look like you're comfortable. You look like you're going to be all right. You're all right, ain't you?" He couldn't answer. "Well, you look all right to me. I'll just leave you here and I'll be back in a little while." All he could make out of her was her luminous gray eyes, spots in the darkness. He nodded, he was sure she could see him. "Yeah, I knew you knew I'd be back." She laughed, a slight dry sound, humorless. She stepped back; shut the door lightly; shot the solid latch forward. He waited. He heard her going away, and then he heard nothing for a long while. Then, a faint rustling in a far corner: a rat, perhaps. And then again silence, disturbed by his own unsteady breathing. Inside his chest it was as painful as outside. In here it was inky dark and his eyes did not grow accustomed to it. He could barely make out the shape of the silly altar, loose boards of uneven lengths laid over two rickety sawhorses. Very gradually his breathing grew in volume, stertorous, bladed in the throat. It grew and grew; he could feel the passage of it on his skin. It was not his breathing. He understood. He opened his mouth to breathe. The galaxies poured down his throat, thick tasteless dust he could not spit out, could not vomit. The breathing was icy on his skin; impression of swift wind continually on him, but the dust of the floor not stirring. Slowly he raised his hands to rub his face. It was cold and dry and felt not like flesh, but like wood or leather. It was himself no longer....Point of vague light somewhere in the air, but then not light: a circle of blackness, a funnel that sucked all the light away, even the light of his body which was glowing with a faint phosphorescent pulse. He looked into his body, looked through it: wide clots of dust, a thin winking membrane where the nebulae were being born....Something solid out there. An angleless wall without protuberance; no, not solid; a bending wall, breathing upon him. Eye. Tooth. Glimpsed and then erased, wiped coolly from vision. The god Dagon assumed the altar. Reptilian. Legless. Truncated scaly wings, flightless, useless. The god Dagon was less than three feet long. Fat and rounded, like the belly of a crocodile. He couldn't see the mouth hidden away under the body, but he knew it: a wirelike grin like a rattlesnake's; double rows of venomous needles in the maw. On this side a nictitating eye, but he thought that on the other side there would be no eye, but merely a filmy blind spot, an instrument to peer into the marrow of things. The visible eye gray, almost white. A body grayish-pink like powdery ashes. Chipped and broken scales covered it, tightly overlapped. It breathed and this took a long time. The froglike belly distended, contracted.—The reptilian shape was immobile; there was no way for it to move upon the earth. He recognized the god Dagon. An idiot. The god was omnipotent but did not possess intelligence. Dagon embodied a naked will uncontrollable. The omnipotent god was merely stupid. Peter laughed, his teeth shone in the dark. He confronted the god. The presence of Dagon displaced time, as a stone displaces water in a dish. Surely hours elapsed in the stare that was between them. Merely a ruptured idiot stubby reptile. The god Dagon went away. Suddenly winked out; whisked. At last Peter relaxed. He smiled in the dark. He had faced the incomprehensible manifestation and he still maintained himself; he was still Peter Leland. He blinked his eyes gratefully, casually turned his head from the altar. He heard Mina coming and turned to face the door, still smiling in the dark, uncaring and relaxed. She opened the flimsy door and entered without hesitation. In her right hand she bore Coke Rymer's man-thing, faintly gleaming. She took a handful of his hair in her left hand and Peter knelt forward on his knees and raised his head. Happily he bared his throat for the knife. SIX Peter Leland died and came through death to a new mode of existence. He did not forget his former life, and now he understood it. The new vantage point of his psyche was an undefined bright space from which he could look back upon this little spot of earth and there see the shape of his life in terms not bitterly limited by misery and fear. At his death he did not relinquish the triumphant grasp of his identity he had acquired in encountering Dagon face to face. He had come through. In this surrounding brightness there was no time, and he watched his career unfold itself again and again beneath him and he laughed, without rancor and without regret. Now his whole personality was a benevolent clinical detachment. He understood suffering now and the purpose of suffering. In an almost totally insentient cosmos only human feeling is interesting or relevant to what the soul searches for. There is nothing else salient in the whole tract of limitless time, and suffering is simply one means of carving a design upon an area of time, of charging with human meaning each separate moment of time. Suffering is the most expensive of human feelings, but it is the most intense and most precious of them, because suffering most efficiently humanizes the unfeeling universe. Not merely the shape of his own life taught him this, but the history of all lives, for from here he perceived with a dispassionate humor the whole of human destiny. Metaphor amused him—and this was necessary, for in this place metaphor was a part of substance. Here he had no properly physical form apart from metaphor. And now it seemed his task to find and take his likeness in every possible form in the universe; he was to become a kind of catalogue of physical existence and of the gods. There were metaphors for everything: sometimes all his past life appeared to him in the image of a gleaming snail track over a damp garden walk; or a black iron cube, two inches square; or a shred of discolored cuticle; or a frayed shoelace. No regret and no anger in him, no nostalgia for the painful limits he had metamorphosed out of. He was filled with an unrepressed motiveless benevolence. He contemplated with joy the unity of himself and what surrounded him. He deliberated what form his self should take now, thinking in a tuneless dreaming fashion of every possible guise. Galactic ages must have passed before he finally gave over and took the form of Leviathan. Peter took the form of the great fish, a glowing shape some scores of light-years in length. He was filled with calm; and joyfully bellowing, he wallowed and sported upon the rich darkness that flows between the stars. END	{'title': 'Dagon - Fred Chappell'}
Big Green Egg Cookbook Expecting recipes for omelets and scrambles? Not in this EGG book (although both could be done). Instead, the _Big Green Egg Cookbook_ celebrates the EGG as cooker, or more accurately, the world's best smoker, grill, and oven. For more than thirty years, company president Ed Fisher has lovingly and painstakingly nurtured this ancient kamado-style cooker, taking it from an obscure, quirky, fragile, clay cooking vessel to an updated, hip, and still quirky barbecue made of durable state-of-the-art ceramics. Along the way, Big Green Egg has amassed legions of fans, some of whom are so devoted and passionate they refer to themselves as "EGGheads." If you consider yourself part of this enthusiastic group, you well know the charcoal-fueled EGG is unrivaled in its versatility, and creates moister and more flavorful food than any other outdoor cooker. Even if you're not an EGGhead™ (yet) but just love great food and cooking outdoors, by the time you finish this book, you'll understand what all the fuss is about. This comprehensive guide to the EGG explores the history of the kamado-style grill and pays tribute to the EGGhead culture that has sprung up around it. It offers tips, techniques, and how-tos to satisfy every skill level. And best of all, the book provides over 160 newly developed, carefully tested recipes for appetizers, meats, fish, vegetables—including vegetarian dishes, breads, desserts, and rubs and sauces—some contributed by well-known professional chefs, pitmasters, and EGGheads who love cooking in the ceramic EGG. The recipes, which range from classic barbecue favorites to fresh and innovative new ideas for the grill, are artistically photographed and sure to inspire you to get out and get cooking. You'll soon discover that whether it's grilled, smoked, baked, or roasted, everything tastes better year round when cooked in the EGG. _Big Green Egg Cookbook: Celebrating the World's Best Smoker & Grill_ Recipes © 2009 Big Green Egg, Inc. Photographs © 2009 Mark O'Tyson. All rights reserved Printed in China No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. For information, write Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, an Andrews McMeel Universal company, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106. E-ISBN: 978-1-4494-0220-4 Library of Congress Control Number: 200993-1318 www.andrewsmcmeel.com For additional information about Big Green Egg products and the company, or to find Big Green Egg dealers near you, visit www.biggreenegg.com. BIG GREEN EGG and EGG are registered trademarks of The Big Green Egg, Inc. EGGhead, EGGheads, EGGfest, and EGGcessories are trademarks of The Big Green Egg, Inc. The particular green color and overall configuration of the cooker in this color are also trademarks of The Big Green Egg, Inc. www.andrewsmcmeel.com Produced by Donna Myers, DHM Group, Inc. Packaged and designed by Jennifer Barry Design, Fairfax, California Recipe development and food styling: Sara Levy Food styling and recipe testing assistance: Bree Williams and Bryan Hartness Design and art direction assistance: Leslie Barry Layout production: Kristen Hall Copyediting: Leslie Evans Photography by Mark O'Tyson and Text by Lisa Mayer Attention: Schools and Businesses Andrews McMeel books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchase for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please write to: Special Sales Department, Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106. [email protected] # contents Foreword Introduction Appetizers Beef & Lamb Pork Poultry Seafood Vegetarian Meals Side Dishes Sauces & Rubs Baked Goods Breakfasts Desserts EGGhead Recipes Chefs & Pitmasters Chef & Pitmaster Biographies Acknowledgments Metric Conversions & Equivalents " _If you are new to the world of ceramic cookers, welcome and congratulations! You have some great meals in your future._" —Ed Fisher # Foreword # We might as well break it to you right now: your kitchen oven is about to become a high-priced storage cabinet. So versatile is the Big Green Egg ceramic cooker that you may never use your indoor appliances again. If you are new to the world of ceramic cookers, welcome and congratulations! You have some great meals in your future. We hope this book will help you master the basics and quickly join the legions of enthusiasts for whom cooking in their EGG is not just their favorite way to prepare a meal but a way of life. This dedicated band of followers, affectionately known as EGGheads, considers the EGG more than just a grill. To them it is The Ultimate Smoker and Grill, much like a Harley is more than just a motorcycle—it's the ultimate motorcycle. And as many Harley owners live, sleep, and breathe the Harley lifestyle, so too do many of these passionate EGG owners. Ed Fisher, president and founder, Big Green Egg If you already are one of these seasoned EGGheads, you know what we mean. We thank you for your support and loyalty to our ceramic cooker. Your fervent passion for the EGG is among the reasons for its growing success over the past three decades. We recognize your tremendous contributions to the evolution of our product, including ideas for new products and features, and we are profoundly grateful. After all, no one knows the EGG better than those passionate enough to use it day in and day out. Like most of us, you probably have grilled, smoked, roasted, and baked your way to culinary bliss in the Big Green Egg. But what you'll find new here are fabulous recipes, nearly 170 of them, that take cooking in a ceramic cooker to a whole new level. From modern twists on tried-and-true barbecue favorites to exotic, gourmet dishes with sophisticated flavors, you'll find inventive menus to scramble up your repertoire (pardon the pun!) and challenge you with new techniques. Could there be anything better than cooking good food in the great outdoors? We don't think so. The mix of sweet fresh air, spicy wood smoke, and the zesty aroma of food cooking over the coals is an intoxicating elixir that will not only get your mouth watering but also light the desire to cook every meal in the EGG all year long. So stoke up the fire, don the apron, and take up the tongs. A very tasty adventure awaits. Happy cooking, Ed Fisher, president and founder, Big Green Egg _The Big Green Egg creates food that is moister, more flavorful, and far superior to food cooked on an ordinary barbecue grill._ # Introduction # ## The Ceramic Cooker: A Newfangled Grill with a Long History What exactly is a ceramic cooker? It is a type of thick-walled, elliptically shaped barbecue sometimes called a "kamado." While it may be an unusual appliance by today's standards, evidence of enclosed, rounded earthen cooking vessels has been found by archaeologists in the ruins of practically every ancient civilization since cavemen (or, more likely, cavewomen) figured out that meat tasted a whole lot better when it was cooked over a fire. The ceramic cookers found in the United States today are most closely related to clay cookers first used in China during the Qin Dynasty (221 B.C.-207 B.C.). The Japanese adopted these domed cooking vessels in the third century C.E. and called them "kamados," which has been translated to mean oven, stove, heater, or fireplace. Initially, pots were hung over the fire inside the kamado, and eventually a slatted cooking grid was fitted inside for grilling and roasting meats. Versatile even then, the base of the unit also provided heat to the house. Throughout the centuries there were a number of variations on the theme, including stationary indoor kamados, portable outdoor kamados (could this be the first-ever barbecue grill?), and even "mushi-kamados" used exclusively for cooking rice. Not able to get enough of a good thing, wealthy Japanese often had two or more kamados lined up inside the home to prepare meals. Now, skip ahead to World War II. U.S. servicemen first encountered kamados in Japan, loved cooking in them, and brought them home when they returned to America after the war. They discovered that the rounded shape and thick walls of the ceramic cooker retained both heat and moisture extremely well. The kamados were an unusual but exciting alternative to the barbecue grills of the day, and early fans were soon sold on the added flavor and juiciness the "new" cooker gave to foods. ## How the Modern Ceramic Cooker Was Hatched Ed Fisher was one of the first people in the United States to catch on to the fun and flavor of kamado cooking. After eating a meal prepared in a kamado grill in the early 1970s, Fisher declared it the "best food he had ever eaten" and made it his mission to perfect these ancient ceramic cookers and get them into backyards everywhere. In fact, so convinced was he of the benefits of this quirky barbecue that he began importing kamados from Asia and selling them out of an Atlanta storefront in 1974. These kamados, made of the same fireclay and design that had been used for thousands of years, produced great results and began to attract a following. However, the material of these original ceramic cookers became brittle and cracked if they got too hot or after a few years of use and exposure to the elements. Fisher sought out skilled ceramic artisans closer to home and found a state-of-the-art tile factory in Mexico to manufacture his ceramic cookers. Company engineers incorporated a new type of ceramics originally developed by NASA for the space program. This sophisticated material is impervious to the elements, has excellent insulating properties, and is incredibly durable, able to withstand extreme heat, cold, heavy use, and all kinds of weather conditions without cracking or incurring other damage. _The Big Green Egg is foolproof and fuel efficient and can cook anything from fish and steak to pizza and pie. It really does it all._ # How to Speak EGGlish: EGGstraordinary: The way food tastes cooked in the EGG. EGGceptional: The quality of EGG products. EGGcessories: All the fabulous cooking gear for the EGG. EGGheads: People who love this cooker. EGGfests: Cooking festivals for all who love the EGG. EGGstravaganza: A meal cooked entirely in the EGG. While working on a marketing strategy to generate awareness of this next-generation ceramic cooker, Fisher realized how much the product resembled an oversized egg. And perhaps subconsciously inspired by Dr. Seuss's whimsical story, he decided to make the egg-shaped cooker fun and distinctive by coloring it green. Thus, the Big Green Egg was born and named, with a look and moniker he hoped would be very memorable for prospective customers. Right he was. Once someone sees the Big Green Egg, or hears the name, he or she might chuckle, but is not likely to forget it. With no money for sales staff or advertising in the early days of the company, Fisher relied on dedicated fans of the EGG to be his de facto sales force. These enthusiasts wanted everyone to experience food preparation in the ceramic cooker and convinced untold numbers of neighbors and friends to buy them. Faithful owners were also Fisher's first research and development team, regularly returning to his store to suggest ideas for new product features and complementary accessories. Thanks to them, the Big Green Egg has benefited from dozens of additional tweaks over the years to improve performance and durability. For instance, a proprietary, permanent nontoxic glaze ensures the signature green color will not fade or discolor under any outdoor conditions. The improved ceramics and draft system offer better insulation and wider, more easily regulated temperature ranges. Other updates include a convenient spring-band hinge system that makes the lid easier to open and close and heavy-duty porcelain coated or cast-iron cooking grids. Practically unheard-of in barbecue grills, the EGG is backed by a lifetime warranty on the ceramics. Today, the Big Green Egg is the largest manufacturer and distributor of ceramic kamado cookers in the world, with dealers in twenty-four countries. Its world headquarters in Tucker, Georgia, is not far from the Atlanta store where the company was founded. ## Versatile Ceramic Cookers: Better Than a Barbecue Ceramic cookers create food that is moister, more flavorful, and far superior to anything cooked on an ordinary metal barbecue. A bold statement, we know, but it's true. While metal grills may be perfectly satisfactory to grill a quick-cooking burger or boneless chicken breast directly over high heat, their design and materials are limiting when it comes to smoking, roasting, or baking a variety of foods. What makes a ceramic cooker different? For one, amazing heat retention thanks to thick ceramic walls that insulate and hold heat inside the grill while it remains cool to the touch on the exterior. A proven, centuries-old draft design, updated with modern engineering, circulates the heat within the cooker and controls temperatures with precision. The dome-shaped lid remains closed during all cooking and allows heat to radiate from the top as well as from the coals below the cooking grid. And finally, the properties of the ceramic material, together with the tight seal of the lid, hold moisture in food, lock in natural flavors and juices for better taste, and prevent or minimize food shrinkage. Another key difference between ceramic cookers and other grills is the all-natural, lump charcoal fuel that gives food cooked in the EGG its distinctive flavor and texture. Entirely different from briquettes, lump charcoal contains no additives, chemicals, or petroleum by-products; it is purely, simply charred wood. As a result, it burns clean with less ash and adds a delicate wood smoke flavor to food. The EGG is a multitasker, too, eliminating the need for several outdoor appliances that each perform a specific type of outdoor cooking. It can sear at 750°F temperatures like an infrared grill, slow-smoke over a 200°F charcoal and wood fire like an old-fashioned smoker, and roast and bake to crusty perfection like a brick oven. And, because the heat is retained, circulated, and radiated so evenly, a cumbersome rotisserie is never needed to achieve evenly browned, rotisserie-like results. To learn more about mastering these specific cooking techniques, see pages 24–25. One more benefit: Not only does it light quickly, but it also cooks faster than other barbecue grills, conserving both fuel and time. And who doesn't need more of that? ## This Cooker Has Actually Spawned a Culture It's unusual, dare we say unheard-of, that a cooking appliance would inspire a whole culture and way of life. Can you imagine an organized and extremely passionate band of followers for the microwave called The Micromaniacs or electric cooktop enthusiasts called The Electric Rangers? We can't either. But that's exactly what the EGG has inspired. So unique and so exceptional is this ceramic cooker that, one by one, like-minded EGG enthusiasts began to find one another via the Internet. They were eager to share recipes, new techniques, and praise for the EGG with others who, like themselves, considered the Big Green Egg the secret to culinary success. United in their desire to promote and celebrate cooking in the EGG, the group evolved and expanded. They communicated online more frequently and began calling themselves "EGGheads." Before long they were asking, "Wouldn't it be fun to get together in person to meet one another and celebrate the EGG?" It proved such a good idea that they came away feeling they had just attended a big family reunion. The annual gathering continues even today, only on a much larger scale than the original, relatively intimate get-together. ## EGGheads Even if you have heard the term EGGhead in relation to the Big Green Egg, you may still be wondering, what the heck is that? Think Trekkies to _Star Trek,_ Deadheads to the Grateful Dead, Cheeseheads to the Green Bay Packers, and HOGs to Harley motorcyclists. EGGhead is the affectionate term for a passionate devotee of the EGG. To call them enthusiastic would be an understatement. Zealous, fervent, dedicated, obsessive, and anything else along those lines much more accurately describes the level of interest and enthusiasm these folks have for this distinctive method of cooking. Most would rather cook in their EGG, brag about cooking in it, chat online about what they are cooking in it, or plan the next thing they will cook in this ceramic wonder than do practically anything else. But it's not a private club with limited membership; those who are already members take every opportunity to "EGGvangelize" barbecuers everywhere and welcome them into the extended family. ## The EGGhead Forum Many EGGheads maintain a close friendship and communicate regularly online via the EGGhead Forum. This lively web spot attracts postings from potential EGG buyers doing research, from EGG newbies who request assistance and advice on elementary topics, and from veterans who have owned EGGs for decades and wish to share their latest EGG triumph with other like-minded compatriots. Even retailers of the EGG refer prospective buyers to the Forum for information and feedback on the product. Many Forum regulars consider each other extended family members. The Forum's homepage says, "Everyone is welcome," and it's true. How do I smoke cheese? What's the best wood chip to use with lamb? Have you ever made elk jerky? These are just a few of the topics bantered about by the online chat group. The Forum is a great place to learn insiders' secrets to success and to adopt great techniques and new recipes to try on your own. EGGheads love to share, whether it is opinions, advice, or their favorite recipes. The EGGhead Forum has been very influential in the development, popularity, and success of the EGG. A testament to the power of word-of-mouth recommendations, many a tire-kicker has been inspired to buy an EGG after visiting the Forum. In addition, ideas for enhancements to the EGG and even EGGcessory products have their roots in the threads of online discussions over the years. hot tip: You can access the EGGhead Forum at www.eggheadforum.com or by visiting the Big Green Egg website at www.biggreenegg.com and clicking on the link to the EGGhead Forum. ## EGGtoberfest and EGGfests More than a decade ago, this band of EGGhead Forum friends was looking for a way to meet in person to show off their cooking skills and signature dishes and to finally put faces with names that had become familiar. Over a series of online chats, the idea for EGGtoberfest was born. When Ed Fisher heard about the plans, he decided to host the event and provide EGGs for cooking in recognition of the early EGGheads' importance to the company. No one dreamed this would grow into an annual event. But the weekend was so successful that since 1998 people have gathered from all over the globe on the third weekend in October to cook, taste, share recipes, and soak up the camaraderie of other Big Green Egg enthusiasts at EGGtoberfest. Held in Tucker, Georgia, on the grounds of the Big Green Egg headquarters, it is an unbridled, unabashed celebration of the "world's best smoker and grill." One hundred people attended the first EGGtoberfest and fired up 15 EGGs to cook all kinds of delicacies. The following year, the event doubled in size, and 50 EGGs were used to cook for 200 attendees. On the tenth anniversary of this event, 1,600 people from thirty states and as far away as England, Mexico, and Canada tasted their way through dishes prepared by more than 375 cooks who fired up 220 EGGs. The weekend-long "EGGstravaganza" gets bigger, better, and more fun every year. The festival's agenda also includes a series of demonstrations, prize giveaways, and lots of family fun. But, unquestionably, food is the highlight of EGGtoberfest weekend. EGGheads take the opportunity to strut their stuff and show off a little (okay, sometimes a lot). These volunteer cooks provide all the food they serve to attendees at their own expense. All food for the event is prepared exclusively in EGGs, and while the menu changes from year to year, it always includes traditional favorites interspersed with imaginative offerings not typically thought of as barbecue fare. You'll find classic barbecued ribs, brisket, and pulled pork sharing the spotlight with such inventive dishes as Jerked Grouper with Papaya Jam, Twice EGGed Potatoes, Spicy Grilled Chicken Soup, and Apple Crostatas. Sometimes the food represents the geographic region of the chef who is cooking it, like a fresh-caught whole Alaskan salmon or Tex-Mex stuffed jalapeño peppers. Other dishes have a little one-upmanship in mind. Moose satays, ostrich steaks, barbecued turkey necks, and turducken—a boneless chicken stuffed into a duck, which in turn is stuffed into a turkey—are clearly made to impress. The success and popularity of the annual EGGtoberfest has inspired nearly two dozen local EGGfests, including one in the Netherlands. Regional events are held in California, Illinois, Minnesota, Missouri, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Oklahoma, Texas, Florida, Maryland, Washington, Colorado, and Nebraska, among other locations, with more added every year. Like the original, these local EGGfests are fun-filled gatherings of EGG fans doing what they love best—cooking in an EGG and sharing stories, techniques, and delicious food with each other and the hundreds of people who attend. Some local EGGfests are family friendly, low-key, and laid-back, with little formality or fanfare. Others feature a more structured schedule of activities throughout the weekend, complete with events like Iron Chef-style cook-offs, vendor displays, guest celebrity chefs, and a roster of educational seminars such as Cooking the Thanksgiving Turkey Outdoors or Plank Cooking for Added Flavor. You won't leave one of these festivals without learning something new and tasting something you've never tried before! ## This Recipe Collection Generally speaking, EGGheads are not a very by-the-book lot. As kids, they might have been the ones least likely to color between the lines. Likewise with the art of cooking in the EGG, devotees are inclined to stretch the boundaries, often developing dishes that are way beyond what most people consider barbecue fare. These creative types are the inspiration behind the recipes in this book. The innovative flavor combinations, ingredients, and techniques showcased here define new parameters for EGG cooking. We believe the most seasoned EGGheads will get ideas for gourmet fare they've never before tried in the EGG, yet the recipes are not so complicated or highbrow that they won't appeal to budding EGG artists. For every meal and every occasion, you'll find recipes to inspire you and make your mouth water. To start the day, how about a Spicy Spanish Frittata with Chorizo, Apple Pancake, or Tropical Breakfast Muffins for breakfast? All are prepared in the EGG. In the Baked Goods chapter, there is a United Nations-style collection of bread recipes, including lavash, naan, pita, and pizza dough, along with such all-American favorites as buttermilk biscuits and two differently flavored cornbreads, as well as Prosciutto, Fontina & Arugula Stromboli with Spicy San Marzano Sauce, which defies classification. Having a dinner party? You might want to start your meal off with appetizers like Chilled White Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp Relish; Mission Figs with Mascarpone, Honey & Chopped Walnuts; or Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes. hot tip: EGGtoberfest and many regional EGGfests provide a great way to get a feel for EGG culture. To find out more about EGGtoberfest or any of the regional EGGfests across the country, visit www.biggreenegg.com and click on Events Calendar. For the main course, how about Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce, Beer-Brined Chicken, or Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri? There are extensive chapters on pork, beef, and poultry, each with numerous recipes to choose from. Hungry for pizza? Skip the basic Margherita style and try Greek Pizza with Yogurt-Mint Sauce or Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula. In the mood for seafood? How about Thai Sea Bass in Banana Leaves or Cedar-Wrapped Scallops with Orange Beurre Blanc? Vegetarians will enjoy the Vegetable Reuben Sandwich, Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice, and Root Vegetable Pot Pie. Hope you saved room for dessert! You'll definitely want to try the Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing, Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies, and Apple-Walnut Crostata with Caramel Sauce, among other temptations. You'll also find favorite EGG recipes from members of the Big Green Egg extended family as well as celebrity chefs and restaurateurs. Hungry yet? ## Getting Acquainted with EGGs and EGGcessories What started with a single-size EGG has now grown into a family of five models and an extensive complementary line of accessory products, each specially designed for the EGG. Used in tandem, EGGs and EGGcessories make an incredibly versatile and convenient cooking experience. The Big Green Egg comes in five sizes with a model to suit the needs of every backyard chef, even ones who like to take their cookout on the road. Extra-Large 205 pounds 24-inch cooking grid 452-square-inch cooking surface Holds 2 (20-pound) turkeys, 24 burgers, 11 whole chickens, 12 steaks, or 14 racks of ribs vertically Big enough to cook an entire meal for a crowd Large 140 pounds 18-inch cooking grid 255-square-inch cooking surface Holds 1 (20-pound) turkey, 12 burgers, 6 whole chickens, 8 steaks, or 7 racks of ribs Most popular size, suits the needs of most families Medium 95 pounds 15-inch cooking grid 177-square-inch cooking surface Holds 1 (18-pound) turkey, 6 burgers, 3 whole chickens, 4 steaks, or 4 racks of ribs Good for smaller families of two to four Small 65 pounds 13-inch cooking grid 133-square-inch cooking surface Holds 1 (12-pound) turkey, 4 burgers, 1 whole chicken, 2 steaks, or 1 rack of ribs Perfect for individuals or couples and even tailgating Mini 30 pounds 9-inch cooking grid 64-square-inch cooking surface Holds 2 chicken breasts, 2 pork chops, or 1 steak Just right for picnics, tailgates for two, camping, or RVing ## EGGcessories Simply put: EGGcessory products help you create endless possibilities for your dinner plate. Roasting a turkey to golden brown, succulent perfection? Cooking authentic trattoria-style pizza with a crispy crust and a hint of wood smoke? Baking a moist and delicious cake? All are easily accomplished in the EGG with the right gear. Other EGGcessories help increase the amount of cooking space, make cleanup a snap, and allow you to monitor whatever you're cooking from a remote location. Here is a rundown of some essential EGGcessories, a number of which you'll find used in the recipes in this book. ## The Basics: For the Sake of Convenience Charcoal Tools: How do we spell convenience? With gadgets like an Ash Tool to stoke, sift, rearrange coals, and pull ashes into the Ash Pan, a Grill Gripper to raise the cooking grid to add more fuel, and an Ash Pan to help remove ashes after the fun is over. Nest: The easiest way to raise the EGG to a good work height and be able to move it about the patio is by placing it in a wheeled metal base called an EGG Nest. Side Shelves: Need a spot to rest tongs, platters, or a bowl of sauce? Fold-down side shelves fit on the EGG and provide a handy work surface beside the grill. Two options are available: Wooden EGG Mates come in pairs and fit on either side of the EGG. Solid Composite Side Shelves are weather resistant and easily wiped clean. They are available in pairs or with the option of a third shelf for the front of the cooker. hot tip: Because the natural lump charcoal produces very little ash, there is minimal cleanup for an EGG. Periodically, use the Ash Tool to draw out ashes through the draft door into an Ash Pan or other noncombustible container. This is also a good time to clear the air holes in the Fire Box of ash or small bits of charcoal, which could impede airflow. The Plate Setter in the "legs down" and "legs up" positions. Surround Tables: For an upscale, built-in look, attractive wooden surround tables for the EGG are the way to go. Made of durable cypress wood from responsibly managed forests, the workstations bring the cooker up to a standard counter height and provide plenty of prep and serving surface. Vinyl Covers: The durable EGG is tough enough to withstand the harshest weather, but you'll want to keep your baby clean anyway. Heavy-duty vinyl covers shield the cooker from the elements while vents let it breathe. Covers come in sizes to fit all EGGs, including versions to completely cover Surround Table workstations. ## Cooking Tools of the Trade Plate Setters: What jelly is to a peanut butter sandwich and frosting is to a cupcake, the Plate Setter is to the Big Green Egg; without it, the EGG is only half as versatile. In fact, the Plate Setter is practically essential to helping the EGG achieve its full potential. Perhaps the most versatile EGGcessory ever, a Plate Setter is a flat, ceramic disk with three legs that acts as a heat shield. It is the best way to accomplish any type of cooking in the EGG where you don't want direct exposure to the flame and heat. The Plate Setter can be used to turn your EGG into a brick oven for baking bread, pizza, and desserts, a convection oven for roasting meats and vegetables, or a smoker for making down-home barbecue. Use it in conjunction with other EGGcessories, such as a Drip Pan, V-Rack, Grill Extender, or Vertical Roaster, and you have the tools to accomplish anything in your EGG that you can do in your indoor oven. For more information on cooking with a Plate Setter, see page 26. Baking Stones: To make pizza, bread, and other baked goods, heavy-duty, ceramic Baking Stones will help you achieve authentic brick-oven results. The thick round disks come in three sizes, as well as half-moon configurations for combining indirect brick-oven baking and direct grilling over the coals at the same time. Cast Iron Grids: What's the secret to world-class grill marks? A Cast Iron Grid. Heavyweight Cast Iron Grids get very hot and retain heat for an awesome steakhouse-style sear. A Cast Iron Grid can be used as an alternative to the porcelain coated grid that comes with the EGG. Dutch Oven: Great for simmering stews, soups, and chili, preparing baked beans, or even baking cobblers, this five-quart, heavy-duty Dutch Oven is a valuable tool to have in your accessory arsenal. It truly enables you to cook an entire meal on the grill at once. Grill Extenders: Cooking for a crowd? Grill Extenders are the perfect way to double or triple the size of your cooking surface by creating a second or even third cooking tier above the main cooking grid. Thanks to heat circulation within the EGG, food cooks to perfection whether it's on the main cooking grid or a higher level. Half Moon Raised Grids: If you are cooking the whole meal in the EGG, you may find not only that you need more space but also that you need to cook some foods over direct heat while simultaneously cooking other foods over indirect heat. Half Moon Raised Grids make this possible by dividing the cooking area into separate direct- and indirect-cooking zones. There are many combinations and configurations for a versatile Half Moon Raised Grid. Used as is, it provides a second level for direct cooking over half the surface of the EGG, so you can grill pork chops over the flame on the lower cooking grid and vegetables on the Half Moon Raised Grid above them. Or use half the porcelain coated grid for direct grilling, and on the other side, with a Half Moon Baking Stone, and a Half Moon Drip Pan in place, you can take advantage of a double layer of indirect heat to bake biscuits in a pan on one tier and sweet potatoes on the second tier. Thermometers: Thermometers are an important part of every Big Green Egg cooking experience. Indispensable meat thermometers should be used whenever possible, not only to achieve rare, medium-rare, medium, or well-done meat as desired but also to determine internal temperatures for food safety too. An external thermometer, which comes built in as a standard feature on the Big Green Egg lid, measures the cooking temperature inside the EGG. Food should always be cooked to temperatures high enough to destroy any food-borne bacteria. A programmable Remote Smoker Thermometer lets you monitor both meat and cooking chamber temperatures from your poolside or garden or the comfort of your easy chair. It conveniently signals when food is done, so you don't have to lift the lid to peek and let heat escape unnecessarily. A Digital Pocket Thermometer inserted in the thickest part of the meat gives a quick read on its internal temperature. Other thermometer options include the Instant Read Thermometer, the Instant Read Digital Thermometer, a Digital Probe Thermometer, and a Stick and Stay Thermometer. Vertical Roasters: More convenient than a rotisserie, the Vertical Roaster, available in two sizes, fits inside the cavity of a chicken or turkey and suspends it vertically to produce even browning. The Vertical Roaster can be used in tandem with a Drip Pan to catch drippings or hold juice, beer, wine, or other liquids to infuse the bird with flavor and juiciness from the inside out. It also makes carving the bird much easier. V-Racks: Depending on your menu, this double-duty gadget will turn out perfectly roasted meats or enough ribs to feed a small army. Use it right side up to hold beef or pork roasts, or two chickens, and combine with a Drip Pan beneath to catch drippings for gravy. Or invert, and it holds racks of ribs vertically between the slats. The ceramic cooker's design ensures heat circulates perfectly throughout the grill, providing a convection effect and cooking multiple racks of ribs to pit-barbecue tenderness. ## Fuel: What to Use and How to Light It Ceramic cookers are fueled by charcoal, but not all charcoal is created equal. Natural lump charcoal is the recommended fuel for the Big Green Egg. An understanding of what makes this type of fuel so superior requires knowledge of what makes natural lump charcoal different from traditional charcoal briquettes. Natural lump charcoal is made from a variety of 100 percent hardwoods that are turned into charcoal the old-fashioned way: by charring the wood in a closed oxygen-free kiln or pit. What emerges is lumpy, irregularly shaped pieces (hence the name _lump)_ of pure carbon, called charcoal. hot tip: Take advantage of the extra cooking surface gained with Grill Extenders and Half Moon Raised Grids and cook two meals at once. Enjoy one dinner tonight and refrigerate the other to reheat tomorrow night for a fast home-cooked meal with a cooked-over-the-coals taste that's much better than fast food. Saves time, money, and fuel. Unlike most standard briquettes, natural lump charcoal is 100 percent natural, so only the authentic wood smoke flavor comes through to enhance the taste of food. Natural lump charcoal burns hotter than traditional briquettes, and because there are no by-products, it burns clean. Another benefit of natural lump charcoal is that it is very fuel efficient. It requires less charcoal than briquettes, lasts longer, and produces very little ash to clean up. After you have finished cooking, the fire can be extinguished by closing the dampers and cutting off the air supply. Any remaining charcoal can be relit for the next cookout. Most traditional charcoal briquettes are made from scrap lumber that has been charred, ground to a powder, and combined with ground coal, limestone, starch binders, fillers, and petroleum-based additives to make them easier to light. The mixture is then compressed into the familiar pillow-shaped briquettes we all know. The large pile of ash remaining after a cookout fueled by traditional briquettes is composed mainly of these leftover additives. All-natural briquettes are available in some organic stores and are acceptable to use if you can find them. _Self-lighting charcoal briquettes should never be used in a ceramic cooker. The petroleum additives can penetrate the ceramic surface and permanently impart an off flavor to foods._ _Cooking temperatures can be precisely controlled to within a few degrees, even for long cooking periods._ # ## Lighting Your Fire Most people find the ritual of lighting the fire a satisfying process that adds to the enjoyment and naturalness of cooking in a ceramic cooker. But whether you consider it a necessary chore or part of the fun, the good news is—it's fast, easy, and virtually hassle-free. The Golden Rule to remember: Never use lighter fluid. The petroleum-based liquid can permanently penetrate the porous ceramic interior of the EGG and thereafter impart a chemical off taste to food. Rather, there are two equally fast and all-natural options for lighting the fire. Option 1: Solid Fire-Lighting Cubes These little blocks of compressed sawdust are coated with a natural paraffin wax. To use, fill the Fire Box of the EGG with natural lump charcoal to at least one inch above the air holes. With the lid open, slide the draft door completely open. Nestle one or two Natural Fire Starters into the charcoal and light with a match or long-handled lighter. After eight to ten minutes, or when the coals are burning, close the lid and adjust the top and bottom dampers to regulate the temperature; when the desired temperature is reached, you are ready to cook. Option 2: Electric Fire Starter If you have access to an electrical outlet, an Electric Charcoal Lighter is a simple and surefire way to light the charcoal. Arrange charcoal on the Fire Grate in the Fire Box to at least one inch above the air holes, burying the Electric Charcoal Lighter's coil into the charcoal. As the coil turns red hot, it will ignite the coals in approximately seven minutes. Then remove the Electric Charcoal Lighter, and set it in a noncombustible place until it cools. Close the lid of the EGG and adjust the dampers to reach the desired temperature. Adjusting the Temperature Precise cooking temperatures can be achieved easily by monitoring the exterior temperature gauge and adjusting the draft openings accordingly. For lower temperatures, reduce the airflow by minimizing the openings of both the Dual Function Metal Top and the Draft Door in the base. To boost temperatures, open the dampers wider. Keep in mind that the greater the Draft Door openings, the higher the temperature. With a little practice, cooking temperatures can be controlled to within a few degrees, even for long cooking periods. Regulating temperature is easy by monitoring the external gauge and adjusting the air flow in the Dual Function Metal Top and the Draft Door in the base of the EGG. hot tip: The secret to the extraordinary food cooked on the Big Green Egg centers on heat retention, air circulation, and temperature control. The lid should be left down while cooking to allow heat to radiate off the top as well as off the coals. Leaving the lid open reduces the Big Green Egg to an ordinary, inefficient barbecue grill that allows foods to dry out. Adding More Fuel During Cooking: You can cook for many hours when the Fire Box in the EGG is fully loaded with natural lump charcoal—more time if your cooking temperatures are lower, less time if temperatures are higher. Because the EGG is so fuel efficient, it is rare that you would roast or smoke something that would take more than one load of charcoal. If necessary, however, you may add charcoal during the cooking process. The best way to do this is to remove the food and lift the cooking grid with a Grill Gripper. Then you can add more natural lump charcoal around the outside edges of the burning coals, which will be lit by the existing fire. Readjust the dampers to recover the desired cooking temperature. Extinguishing the Fire: To put out the fire, simply close both dampers completely to shut off airflow. This will extinguish the fire and preserve any unused charcoal for the next cookout. Remember, because of the thick ceramic walls, which retain heat inside the cooker, it may take a while to cool down and for coals to be fully extinguished. Never use water to put out coals inside your EGG. Wait at least twenty-four hours or longer until all the ash is completely cooled before removing it from the EGG. Restarting the Fire: You will notice that some of the natural lump charcoal from your previous cookout was not burned and remains in the Fire Box. This charcoal can be reused next time you fire up your EGG. Before relighting the fire, stir or rake the coals across the Fire Grate using the Ash Tool, allowing any ash to fall through the holes in the Grate and into the bottom of the EGG. Then add more charcoal to the leftovers to bring the height to just above the air holes, and light as described on page 20. _If you have been cooking at temperatures above 300°F, be very careful when opening the lid of your EGG. First raise the lid an inch or two and pause to "burp" it before raising the lid completely. This will allow the sudden rush of oxygen to burn safely inside the cooker without causing a "flashback" that could startle or injure you._ ## Cooking with Wood Flavor Enhancers Cooking with wood chips, chunks, pellets, and planks adds a whole new dimension of flavor to foods without adding a single calorie or gram of fat. Think of cooking woods as seasonings. Just as each herb or spice in your spice rack imparts a different flavor to foods, each variety of wood, from apple to mesquite to hickory and beyond, seasons food with its unique flavor. As you experiment with aromatic woods, you will master the art of mixing and matching them with certain foods to suit your preferences. You may even want to combine two or more varieties of wood to create a distinctive blend of smoke flavors. And remember that any given wood will react differently with one food than another. There are no rules here, so have fun trying new combinations. Just remember to stick with hardwoods such as apple, alder, cherry, maple, pecan, oak, hickory, and mesquite and stay away from softwoods like pine and cedar (with the exception of western red cedar), which release tar and resins that can impart a bitter taste to foods. _Think of cooking woods as seasonings—each variety of wood, from apple to mesquite to hickory and beyond, seasons food with its unique flavor._ Variety \| Flavor \| Best with ---\|---\|--- Hickory \| Pungent, smoky, bold, hearty \| Southern-style barbecue, pork, beef, poultry Mesquite \| Rich, tangy, strong; can turn bitter with too much smoke \| Southwestern-style dishes, beef, duck, lamb, pork Pecan \| Light, nutty, mellow \| Pork, poultry, game birds Alder \| Mild, delicate \| Salmon, shellfish, poultry Apple \| Subtle sweetness \| Poultry, pork, sausages, ham, bacon Cherry \| Mild, fruity; adds a rosy color to foods \| Duck, game birds, beef, pork, lamb, poultry Maple \| Mild, sweet, subtle, all-purpose \| Chops, steaks, ribs, pork, beef, poultry, seafood, vegetables, fruits Wine Barrel Oak Chips \| Rich, wine-infused flavor \| Pork, poultry, beef, hearty fish like tuna Whiskey Barrel Oak Chips \| Distinctive whiskey flavor \| Pork, beef (especially steaks), poultry Soak wood chips (for at least 30 minutes) and wood chunks (for at least 2 hours) before adding them to the fire. A handful of wood chips, shown scattered in a spiral pattern on top of the coals, adds a distinctive smoky aroma and flavor to foods. hot tip: The type of aromatic wood you choose to provide the smoke flavor is a matter of preference. Although experienced barbecue chefs do not all agree on whether to soak wood in water before adding it to the fire, soaking helps wood to smolder rather than burn quickly, releasing a swirl of smoke that envelops and permeates the food. Wood Chips and Chunks: Made especially for the EGG, our alder chips, pecan chips, hickory chips, or mesquite chips should be soaked in water for at least thirty minutes and wood chunks for two hours before adding to the charcoal fire. This will allow the wood to smolder rather than incinerate quickly, so it will release the smoky aromas and flavors to permeate food. Instead of water, use wine, beer, or fruit juice to soak the wood to add another flavor dimension. Because of the efficient design of the EGG, a little smoke enhancement goes a long way; a handful of chips should be enough to boost the flavor of most meals. Experienced outdoor chefs sometimes wrap long-cooking meats in foil after a few hours of smoking if they prefer a milder smoke flavor. Wood Pellets: Wood pellets, tiny compressed pellets of hardwood sawdust, may be substituted for wood chips to achieve the same delicious smoky results. They are convenient to use, especially since they do not require advance soaking. Simply place about one-third cup of wood pellets inside a pouch made from heavy-duty aluminum foil. Poke one small hole in the foil to allow the smoke to escape and place the packet directly into the fire. It will begin to smolder and release the smoke. If cooking longer than an hour, replace the pellet pouch with a second one to ensure sufficient smoke flavor. Wood Planks: The technique of cooking on wood planks originated with Native Americans. They discovered that fish and meats turned out not only incredibly moist but also imbued with smokiness from the smoldering plank. Today, plank grilling is a popular restaurant technique that is easy to re-create at home in your ceramic cooker. Wood planks are increasingly used for cooking everything from steaks, chops, and fish to vegetables and desserts. To use, submerge the plank in water to soak for at least one hour. Then, place it on the hot cooking grid for a few minutes, flip the plank, and position the food directly on the heated side, cooking without turning until the food is done. Serving directly from the plank at the table makes a dramatic presentation. _Grilling planks may be reused if they are not overly charred and blackened. Scrub the used plank with a brush and hot water and allow it to dry. When reusing, soak and preheat it again according to the above directions, using the same side as before for food. After two uses, break up the charred plank (it is now natural hardwood charcoal) into smaller pieces and add them to your next charcoal fire. If using the plank for indirect cooking, you may get more than two uses out of it._ ## Now You're Cooking More than just a grill—although it grills exceptionally well—the Big Green Egg offers versatility unrivaled in the world of barbecues or even indoor cooking appliances, for that matter. Smoke? Superbly. Bake? Beautifully. Roast? Outrageously. An EGG offers cooking flexibility, flavor, and juiciness second to none. Here is a sampling of what you can accomplish in the EGG. Direct Grilling: Think hot and fast. For direct grilling, food is placed over the fire and cooked by direct exposure to the flame and heat. Generally, foods that are tender, less than two inches thick, and boneless are good candidates for direct grilling. It is the ideal way to cook steaks, chops, burgers, boneless chicken breasts, kabobs, fish fillets, many vegetables, and other quick-cooking foods. And with a Wok Topper, a specially designed wok pan, in place directly over the hot fire, you can even make a tasty stir-fry Direct grilling over intense heat from 600° to 750°F is hot enough to sear the exterior surface of the meat to form a delicious crust, much like cooking on a restaurant-style infrared grill. Juices are locked inside and any drippings sizzle on the coals, evaporating into flavor-filled smoke that is redeposited back onto the meat, adding more taste. Because of the ingenious design of the EGG and the fact that grilling is always done with the lid closed, flare-ups and hot spots are virtually eliminated. For some foods, you will want to start out searing over high temperatures and then reduce the heat by adjusting the dampers to finish cooking. Indirect Grilling and Roasting: In indirect grilling and roasting, the food is not directly exposed to the flames and heat of the fire. Rather, a shield such as a Drip Pan or Plate Setter is placed beneath the food to deflect the heat. Food is cooked by convection heat—actually the heated air—and radiant heat, which reflects off the coals, side walls, and lid of the cooker. Using a Drip Pan is ideal for indirect cooking of pork or beef roasts or whole chickens. Place the Drip Pan directly beneath food to catch drippings and deflect heat. To use the Plate Setter for indirect cooking, refer to "The Plate Setter: The Most Versatile Accessory" on page 26. Indirect grilling or roasting is best for larger cuts of meat such as turkeys, chickens, roasts, and hams, which take longer to cook. In general, use this method to cook anything thicker than two inches or with a bone, such as chicken pieces; otherwise the exterior will be charred before the interior is cooked through. One exception to this would be bone-in steaks, such as T-bone or porterhouse, which are best grilled directly over the fire. While indirect grilling and roasting are possible on other types of barbecue grills, because of the insulating properties of the ceramics and the elliptical design of the EGG, food cooks much faster, with even browning and moister results. In addition, once the dampers are adjusted to the desired temperature, the charcoal fire will burn steadily for hours without requiring frequent tending or replenishing. _Having a grill, smoker, and oven in one cooker is having the best of all worlds at your fingertip._ —Larry, Georgia # Baking: With the addition of a Plate Setter and a Baking Stone, your ceramic cooker becomes a classic brick oven that bakes fantastic breads, biscuits, pies, pizzas, cobblers, cookies, and cakes. The combination of precise temperature control and heat retention, with the properties of the ceramics in the EGG itself and the Baking Stone, create the perfect environment for baking. As pizza cooks, moisture is drawn to the Baking Stone for an authentic, crispy, brick-oven-style crust that is impossible to re-create in an indoor oven or on an ordinary barbecue grill. _A variety of ovenproof bakeware may be used to bake in the EGG. Depending on the type of baking dish used, you may need to adjust the cooking time and temperature. It is important to note that paper muffin cups and parchment paper should not be used when baking in the EGG, as they may burn._ Smoking: Cooking slowly over low heat infused with wood smoke is what smoking—and what some call "real barbecue"— is all about. Cooking "low and slow" is the only way to break down connective tissue and tenderize tough (and typically less expensive) cuts of meat like beef brisket, pork shoulder, pork butts, and spare ribs. For smoking these kinds of foods, cooking times are measured in hours rather than minutes. But boy, is it worth it! The result is succulent, fall-off-the-bone tenderness with the tangy, complex combination of spices, smoke, and natural meat flavors—exactly like pit barbecue. Of course, you can also smoke other types of foods that do not fit the standard profile. Fish, turkey, nuts, vegetables, and even cheeses do not need to be tenderized with slow cooking, but they taste even better when kissed with the essence of wood smoke. True smoking temperatures generally range from 225° to 275°F. Once you get the hang of it, it's a piece of cake to adjust the draft openings to set the proper temperature. But unlike a true pitmaster, who must work hard to maintain those low temperatures steadily throughout the extended smoking period, an EGG can retain heat at precise temperatures for many hours of cooking with little attention required. Resist the urge to peek under the lid to check the progress while you are smoking. Every time you raise the cover, you release precious heat and smoke and extend your cooking time. Simply check the reading on the external thermometer and follow the timing in the recipe. As long as the temperature stays within the desired range, your results will be predictable every time—and usually faster than in a traditional metal smoker, which is affected by external weather conditions such as wind and temperature. Unlike some metal smokers that require a water pan to create steam to keep foods from drying out, food smoked in an EGG retains its moisture. There is no need for a water pan or the hassle of continually refilling one. A Plate Setter is particularly useful when smoking because it acts as a barrier between the food and the direct heat of the fire but allows the hot air and smoke to flow around the food. In addition, it eliminates the need to turn food during the smoking process. If you are preparing your EGG for a very long, slow smoke, you can alternately layer the lump charcoal with wood chips to ensure sufficient smoke flavor throughout the extended process. First, pour a layer of charcoal into the Fire Box, then sprinkle a small handful of wood chips over the top. Add another layer of charcoal and another handful of chips, alternating until the layers reach the top of the Fire Box. This should provide enough heat and wood smoke to last for a long period of smoking at 200° to 250°F. _There is no other way to achieve the fantastic flavor, moistness, and juiciness of food cooked in a Big Green Egg._ # ## The Plate Setter: The Most Versatile Accessory If you could own only one accessory product for your Big Green Egg, this would be the one. A Plate Setter is probably the most practical and versatile multipurpose tool around, allowing you to make the most of your EGG by being able to do indirect cooking, smoking, roasting, and baking. A Plate Setter looks like a ceramic pizza stone with three legs. To use it as a brick-oven baker, place it with the legs facing down, positioning the legs directly on the fire ring. Place a Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter, and you can bake pizza, bread, biscuits, and cookies or other desserts on the stone. Although the direct heat from the fire is blocked, the hot air is able to circulate under and around the Plate Setter and about the interior of the EGG in a convection pattern. To roast, smoke, or grill indirectly in your ceramic cooker, place the Plate Setter on the fire ring with the legs facing up. This acts as a barrier between the food and the direct heat of the charcoal fire, cooking food as if it were in a convection oven. You may place your cooking grid on the three upturned ceramic legs and place food directly on the cooking grid. Or you may put food in a V-Rack, Vertical Roaster, or other type of cooking rack placed on the cooking grid. A Drip Pan can even be positioned beneath food directly on the Plate Setter to catch drippings or hold juice, wine, beer, stock, or other liquids to infuse foods with another layer of flavor. The Plate Setter can also be used in conjunction with one of several Grill Extender options to gain a second and even a third tier of cooking surface. Because of the unique design of the EGG, the convection effect ensures that food browns as perfectly on the upper rack as it does on the main cooking grid. hot tip: Cleaning the Plate Setter is easy. Simply wash it in water only; do not use soap or detergents. Use a plastic scouring pad to remove burned-on bits, or make a paste of baking soda and water and scrub with a toothbrush. Even after cleaning, the Plate Setter may appear stained from the food and drippings. This is perfectly normal and will not affect the performance in any way. ## Ready to Roll In a world of high-tech gadgets and electronic bells and whistles, a ceramic cooker is a low-tech throwback that is relatively simple compared with other barbecues. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, this type of cooker has withstood the test of time and is more popular today than ever before. Even people who surround themselves with the latest high-tech gadgets are reconnecting with the old-fashioned ritual of building and lighting the fire and taming the temperature, now made even easier thanks to modern design improvements. They are embracing the organic connection to the way people have cooked for centuries: real food over a real fire in a cooker made from the earth. They understand that there is no other way to achieve the fantastic flavor, moistness, and juiciness of food cooked in a heavy-duty Big Green Egg ceramic cooker. We hope that you find these recipes as satisfying for the soul as for the stomach—and that you have a whole lot of fun and good eating in the process. _enjoy!_ # _eggceptional!_ appetizers recipes * Eggplant Fries with Spicy Romesco Sauce * Bruschetta with White Bean Salad * Asparagus with Truffle Aioli & Parmigiano-Reggiano * Mission Figs with Mascarpone, Honey & Chopped Walnuts * Roasted Fingerling Potatoes with Crème Fraîche & Caviar * Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes * Mesquite Lemon-Pepper Wings with Creamy Feta Dressing * Grilled Moroccan Lamp Pops with Spicy Tzatziki Sauce * Red Chile Scallops with Cool Mango-Mint Salsa * Alder-Smoked Mushrooms with Bacon, Arugula & Walnut Oil * Greek Pizza with Yogurt-Mint Sauce * Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula * Shrimp, Artichoke & Pesto Pizza * Chilled White Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp Relish * Barbecue Chicken Soup ### Eggplant Fries with Spicy Romesco Sauce _When you think of cooking or grilling in the EGG, frying might not be the first thing that comes to mind. These eggplant fries will change that! They are crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. Be prepared, however, for these are so good they may not make it to the table!_ * Ingredients * 6 cups all-purpose flour * 1 cup confectioners' sugar * ½ cup cornstarch * 2 tablespoons garlic powder * 2 tablespoons table salt * 2 cups buttermilk * 2 cups whole milk * 1 (2-pound) eggplant, peeled * 8 cups vegetable oil * Kosher salt * ¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese * ¼ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley * 1 cup Romesco Sauce (page 201) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 375°F. Mix the flour, sugar, cornstarch, garlic powder, and table salt in a medium bowl and blend well. Using a whisk, combine the buttermilk and milk in a medium bowl. Cut the eggplant into finger-size wedges. Pour the oil into the Dutch Oven and set on top of the grid to preheat. Have ready a rimmed sheet pan lined with paper towels. Heat the oil until it reaches 350° to 400°F, or test to see if the oil is ready by adding one eggplant wedge to the oil—if it starts to boil, the oil is ready. Toss the eggplant in the flour mixture, dip in the buttermilk mixture, then return the fries to the flour mixture to coat well. Working in small batches, carefully add the eggplant to the oil. Close the lid of the EGG and fry for about 5 minutes, or until light golden brown. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the eggplant to the prepared sheet pan. Repeat the process until all of the fries are cooked. Sprinkle the fries with kosher salt. Transfer the fries to a platter and dust with the cheese and parsley. Serve immediately with the sauce. Serves 4 ### Bruschetta with White Bean Salad _You will find that this salad plays heavily on earthy flavors. Cannellini beans, which are Italian white beans known for their nutty flavor, are tossed with grilled mushrooms and asparagus, then drizzled with white truffle oil. White truffle oil is an olive oil that has been infused with white truffles, which are often called "white diamonds," as they are one of the most costly and exotic foods in the world. Truffle oil can be found at most specialty markets or gourmet stores. If you can't find truffle oil, substitute extra-virgin olive oil. Serve this salad with Cioppino (page 124) or Shrimp Fra Diavolo (page 278) at a dinner under the stars, and you will feel as if you have been transported to the Italian countryside._ * Ingredients * 8 ounces asparagus, cut into bite-size pieces * 1¼ cups quartered white mushrooms * ½ cup shiitake mushrooms, halved * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 (15-ounce can) cannellini beans, drained and rinsed * Dressing * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard * 1 tablespoon water * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 fresh baguette, sliced 1 inch thick diagonally * Extra-virgin olive oil for brushing * White truffle oil * ½ cup shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan or Wok Topper Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid and perforated grill pan or Wok Topper. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Toss the asparagus and mushrooms in the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and place in the grill pan or wok. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 4 to 5 minutes, until tender. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan or wok from the grid, and transfer the vegetables to a medium bowl. Add the cannellini beans and mix well. Set aside. To make the dressing, mix the garlic, rosemary, lemon juice, mustard, water, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Using a whisk, slowly add the olive oil, whisking constantly until emulsified. Pour the dressing over the bean salad, toss, and refrigerate. Brush both sides of the bread with olive oil, place on the grid, and grill the bread for 20 seconds per side, or until golden brown. Using a long-handled spatula, remove the bread and transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Place each slice of bread on a small plate and top with ½ cup of the bean salad. Drizzle with truffle oil and sprinkle with cheese. Serve immediately. Serves 8 ### Asparagus with Truffle Aioli & Parmigiano-Reggiano _Asparagus become white in color when they are deprived of sunlight during the growing period and cannot produce chlorophyll, which is necessary to give them their green color. They tend to be slightly milder in flavor than the green asparagus. Fresh white asparagus are seasonal and sometimes hard to find. If they are not available, you can substitute green asparagus._ * Ingredients * 10 ounces white asparagus, peeled * 8 ounces green asparagus * 2 tablespoons plus ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 tablespoon water * 1 large egg yolk * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1 teaspoon white truffle oil * ½ cup shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Drizzle the asparagus with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the white asparagus on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and cook over high heat for 4 minutes. Add the green asparagus and continue cooking for 4 more minutes, turning occasionally. When the asparagus are tender, transfer to a plate and refrigerate for 30 minutes to 1 hour. Mix the water, egg yolk, and lemon juice in a small bowl. Slowly drizzle the ½ cup of olive oil into the bowl, whisking constantly. Whisk the truffle oil into the sauce and season with salt and pepper. Divide the asparagus onto plates and drizzle with the truffle aioli. Top each serving with cheese and serve. Serves 4 ### Mission Figs with Mascarpone, Honey & Chopped Walnuts _Figs are seasonal and are available in many varieties. Though this recipe calls for Mission figs, which are a teardrop shape and purple with a crimson interior, you can substitute any type of fresh fig that is available in your local market. These can be served either as an hors d'oeuvre or as a light dessert._ * Ingredients * 12 fresh Mission figs * 1 cup mascarpone cheese, at room temperature (8 ounces) * ¼ cup chopped walnuts * ¼ cup honey Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, 12 bamboo or metal skewers Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. If using bamboo skewers, soak the skewers in water for 30 minutes. Remove the stems from the figs and cut the figs in half lengthwise. Insert a bamboo or metal skewer in the end of each fig half until the skewer runs through the length of the fig and the fig is secure on the skewer. Place the figs on the Grid, bottom side down. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 1 to 2 minutes. Carefully turn the figs over, close the lid again, and grill for another 1 to 2 minutes. Do not overcook. Transfer the figs to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Remove the skewers. Using a melon baller or teaspoon, remove a small amount from the center of each fig. Fill the figs with cheese and top with chopped walnuts. Place the figs on a dish and drizzle with honey. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Serves 4 ### Roasted Fingerling Potatoes with Crème Fraîche & Caviar _Fingerling potatoes are naturally small, usually elongated, and a little bumpy. They come in a variety of colors, from gold to red to purple. Because of their size, they are superb for hors d'oeuvres, and by topping them with caviar, they become a wonderful beginning to an elegant dinner. If you are unable to find crème fraîche, you can use sour cream in its place or make your own._ * Ingredients * 2 pounds white fingerling potatoes (about 16) * ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup crème fraîche, purchased or homemade (see below) * 1 ounce sturgeon caviar * Fresh chives for garnish Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Toss the potatoes in ¼ cup of the olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and roast for 20 minutes, turning occasionally. Cut each potato in half and, using a melon baller or teaspoon, scoop out the flesh from the potato, leaving a little around the edges. Discard the flesh or save it for another use. Brush the potatoes inside and out with the 2 tablespoons of olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the potatoes, cut side down, on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and grill for 3 to 4 minutes, until brown and crisp. Using tongs or a long-handled spatula, transfer the potatoes to a rimmed sheet pan. Let the potatoes cool for 5 minutes. Place 1 teaspoon of the crème fraîche inside each potato, top with ½ teaspoon of the caviar, and garnish with chives. Serve immediately. Serves 8 Homemade Crème Fraîche In a small saucepan on the stovetop, add 1 tablespoon buttermilk, sour cream, or yogurt to 1 cup heavy cream and whisk with a spoon. Heat almost to the boiling point and then let the mixture stand, covered, in a warm place for 24 hours, or until it thickens. The crème fraîche can then be refrigerated for 4 to 5 days. ### Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes _The nutty flavor of wild rainbow trout is preferred over farm raised, but for this dip, either type will work well. Make sure that you remove all of the bones before adding the trout to the dip. Pita Bread (page 215) would be perfect for dipping._ * Ingredients * 1 pound rainbow trout, butterflied and bones removed * 1 tablespoon plus 1 tablespoon olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * ⅓ cup minced shallots * 16 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature * ½ cup mayonnaise * ½ cup sour cream * ½ cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese * 1 (10-ounce) package chopped frozen spinach, thawed and drained well * 1 cup canned artichoke hearts packed in water, drained and chopped * 2 tablespoons chopped capers * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1 cup dried bread crumbs Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, hickory chips, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish Preheat the EGG to 400°F without the porcelain coated grid. Place 1 cup of hickory chips in a large bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Brush the trout with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Scatter the presoaked hickory chips over the preheated charcoal, and place the grid on the EGG. When the chips begin to smoke (about 2 minutes), place the trout on the grid, skin side down, and close the lid of the EGG. Smoke for 7 to 8 minutes, until completely cooked. To check if the trout is done, slide a spatula along one of the back (dorsal) fins to see if the flesh is no longer shiny. Using a long-handled spatula, remove the trout from the heat and place on a rimmed sheet pan. Carefully remove the skin and crumble the trout into bite-size pieces, picking out all the bones. Place in a small bowl and set aside. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Heat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in a small saucepan on the stovetop, add the garlic and shallots, and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until translucent but not brown. Transfer the garlic-shallot mixture to the bowl of an electric mixer. Add the cream cheese, mayonnaise, sour cream, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, spinach, artichokes, garlic-shallot mixture, capers, lemon juice, 1 ½ teaspoons salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper to the mixer bowl and combine the ingredients on low speed until just mixed. Add the smoked trout and combine briefly; do not overmix. Pour the mixture into the baking dish and cover tightly with foil. Place the dish on the Plate Setter and bake for 30 minutes. Uncover and top with the bread crumbs. Cook for 10 to 15 minutes more, until brown and bubbly. Remove the trout dip from the Plate Setter. Let the dip rest for 10 to 15 minutes before serving. Serves 8 ### Mesquite Lemon-Pepper Wings with Creamy Feta Dressing _If you are looking for the perfect food for game day, this is it! These wings have just the right amount of lemon, pepper, and spices to please all of your friends. For an irresistible combo, serve them with Mac & Cheese (page 165) and Kahlúa Coffee Brownies (page 251) for dessert._ * Ingredients * Creamy Feta Dressing * ½ cup mayonnaise * ½ cup sour cream * ½ cup feta cheese * 2 teaspoons red wine vinegar * 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ¼ cup lemon zest, lemons reserved (about 6 medium lemons) * ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 2 tablespoons granulated garlic * 1 tablespoon kosher salt * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper * 2 pounds chicken wings Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Mix the mayonnaise, sour cream, cheese, vinegar, and Worcestershire sauce in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper, blend well, and refrigerate. Mix the lemon zest and olive oil in a small bowl and set aside. Mix the garlic, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Reserve 1 tablespoon of the garlic seasoning for later use. Toss the chicken with the remaining 3 tablespoons of seasoning. Place the chicken on the Grid and baste with the olive oil mixture. Close the lid of the EGG. Turn the chicken wings every few minutes, basting often, closing the lid each time. Grill for 15 minutes, or until golden brown and slightly crisp. Season with the reserved garlic mixture and cook for another minute. Transfer the chicken wings to a platter, squeeze the reserved lemons over the wings, and serve immediately with the dressing. Serves 4 ### Grilled Moroccan Lamb Pops with Spicy Tzatziki Sauce _These zesty lamb pops will be a big hit! But since they are small, you'll want to double or triple the recipe for a larger crowd. They require no utensils; just pick them up, dip them in the yogurt sauce, and enjoy!_ * Ingredients * Marinade * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * 2 teaspoons lemon zest * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1 teaspoon ground cumin * 1 teaspoon ground coriander * 1 teaspoon smoked paprika * ½ teaspoon ground cardamom * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * 1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 (1½-pound) rack of lamb, cut into individual chops * Spicy Tzatziki Sauce * 2 tablespoons hot water * 1 teaspoon saffron threads * ½ cup plain Greek yogurt * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh mint * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * Lemon wedges Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To make the marinade, combine the garlic, lemon zest, lemon juice, cumin, coriander, paprika, cardamom, cinnamon, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and mix well. Lay the lamb chops flat in a large shallow pan, pour the marinade over, and toss well to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 6 hours or overnight. To make the sauce, pour the water into a small cup, add the saffron, and let sit for 10 minutes, then strain, reserving the water. Put the yogurt in a small bowl, add the saffron water, mint, lemon juice, and salt and stir well. Transfer to a small serving bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to use. Remove the lamb from the marinade, discarding the remaining marinade, and place the lamb on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 to 3 minutes on each side, until the instant read thermometer inserted in the center of one of the lamb chops registers 125°F for medium-rare. Using tongs, transfer the lamb to a platter and garnish with lemon wedges. Serve immediately with the sauce on the side. Serves 4 ### Red Chile Scallops with Cool Mango-Mint Salsa _First rubbed with Red Chile Rub, then topped with a sweet mango salsa, these scallops are like yin and yang, a perfect balance between cool and spicy. When served, the scallops should look like they have been dusted with confetti, so when making the salsa, be sure to finely dice all of the vegetables._ * Ingredients * Mango-Mint Salsa * ¾ cup diced fresh mango * ¼ cup diced red bell pepper * ¼ cup diced red onion * ¼ cup thinly sliced scallions * 2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh mint * 1 clove garlic, crushed * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil * 2 teaspoons honey * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 pound large sea scallops (12) * 2 tablespoons Red Chile Rub (page 197) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Using a wooden spoon, combine the mango, bell pepper, red onion, scallions, mint, garlic, lime juice, olive oil, honey, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and stir well. Set aside. Season the scallops generously with the chile rub and place on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the scallops for about 2 minutes on each side, or until golden and lightly cooked. Transfer the scallops to a platter. To assemble the dish, place 3 scallops on each plate and top with ¼ cup of the salsa. Serve immediately. Serves 4 " _Food cooked on the Big Green Egg is more than just grilled food—it's a culinary experience!_ " —Terry, Nevada ### Alder-Smoked Mushrooms with Bacon, Arugula & Walnut Oil _Because of their ability to impart a sweet yet smoky flavor, alder chips are a great choice for smoking these rich and flavorful mushrooms. Alder chips come from the red alder tree, a member of the birch family found in the Pacific Northwest, where Native Americans frequently used them for smoking fish. They are widely used today in the smoked-salmon industry. For this recipe, if large white mushrooms are not available, use your favorite mushrooms and adjust the cooking time._ * Ingredients * 12 large white mushrooms, gills removed (about 1 pound) * ¼ cup olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Filling * 8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature * 2 tablespoons finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese * 1 cup finely chopped arugula * ¼ cup plus ¼ cup panko or bread crumbs * Freshly ground black pepper * 12 ounces bacon, finely chopped (about 14 slices) * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * 2 tablespoons minced shallots * Sauce * 1 cup white wine * ¼ cup sliced shallots * 5 peppercorns * 1 bay leaf * ½ cup heavy cream * 1 cup unsalted butter, cut into cubes * Freshly squeezed lemon juice * Kosher salt * Freshly cracked black pepper * ¼ cup walnut oil or olive oil * Chopped fresh chives or flat-leaf parsley for garnish Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, alder chips Preheat the EGG to 400°F without the Cast Iron Grid. Place 1 cup of alder chips in a large bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Put the mushrooms in a large bowl, add the olive oil, toss the mushrooms in the oil until completely coated, season with salt and pepper, and set aside. To make the filling, using a wooden spoon, mix the cream cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, arugula, and ¼ cup of the panko in a small bowl. Season with pepper and set aside. Cook the bacon in a sauté pan on the stovetop over medium heat, stirring occasionally until almost crisp. Add the garlic and shallots and cook for about 2 minutes, or until the shallots are translucent. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon mixture to the bowl of cream cheese and, using a wooden spoon, stir until completely blended. Fill each mushroom with 1 to 1½ tablespoons of the cream cheese filling, sprinkle the tops with 1 teaspoon of panko, place on a rimmed sheet pan, and set aside. To make the sauce, mix the white wine, shallots, peppercorns, and bay leaf in a small saucepan on the stovetop, cook over medium-high heat, and reduce to about 2 tablespoons. Add the cream and reduce for 4 to 5 minutes, until the cream has thickened. Remove from the heat, add the butter a little at a time, and season with lemon juice and salt. Strain and set aside. Scatter the presoaked alder chips over the preheated charcoal and place the Grid on the EGG. When the chips begin to smoke (about 2 minutes), place the mushrooms on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 minutes, or until the mushrooms are tender. Transfer the mushrooms to a rimmed sheet pan. Spoon the butter sauce onto individual plates, set two mushrooms on each plate on top of the sauce, season with pepper, and drizzle with the walnut oil. Garnish with fresh chives and serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Greek Pizza with Yogurt-Mint Sauce _The Greek-themed topping for this pizza is made with deliciously seasoned ground lamb, feta cheese, kalamata olives, and a touch of mint. The Yogurt-Mint Sauce, added just before serving, provides an unexpected burst of flavor. Ground beef can be substituted for the lamb. If you make the Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto for this recipe, you will have about 1 cup left, which can be frozen for later use._ * Ingredients * Yogurt-Mint Sauce * 1 cup sour cream * ½ cup plain Greek yogurt * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint * ¼ teaspoon ground cumin * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * Lamb * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 1 pound lean ground lamb * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1 tablespoon dried oregano * 1 teaspoon ground cumin * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 4 pizza dough disks (page 216) * Cornmeal for dusting * ½ cup Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto (page 200) * 1 cup crumbled feta cheese * 1 cup quartered marinated artichokes, drained * 1 cup pitted and chopped kalamata olives * 1 cup thinly sliced red onions * Olive oil for drizzling Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 600°F. To make the sauce, using a spatula, combine the sour cream, yogurt, mint, cumin, lemon juice, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and stir to blend. Transfer the sauce to a squeeze bottle and refrigerate until ready to use. To cook the lamb, heat the olive oil in a medium sauté pan on the stovetop, add the lamb and garlic, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the meat is browned. Add the oregano, cumin, cinnamon, salt, and pepper and continue to cook for another 2 to 3 minutes, until the meat is thoroughly cooked. Remove the pan from the heat and let cool. Set aside. To assemble the pizzas, place a pizza dough disk on a lightly floured surface and, using a rolling pin, roll the disk into a 10-inch circle ¼ inch thick. Dust the pizza peel with cornmeal and place the dough disk on the peel. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick. Top the disk with 2 tablespoons of the pesto, ½ cup of the lamb, and ¼ cup each of the cheese, artichokes, olives, and onions. Drizzle with olive oil. Using the pizza peel, gently slide the pizza onto the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 minutes. Remove the pizza from the EGG using the pizza peel. Drizzle the sauce over the pizza before serving. Cut the pizza with a knife or pizza wheel into desired portions and serve immediately. Repeat this process with the remaining dough disks. Serves 4 ### Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula _You might balk at the idea of using eggs on top of a pizza, but give this a try. Eggs add incredible flavor and texture to the pizza. If you can't find quail eggs, break one large hen egg into the center of the pizza once you have transferred it to the Baking Stone._ * Ingredients * 4 pizza dough disks (page 216) * Cornmeal for dusting * 1 cup Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce (page 199) * 1 pound thinly sliced mozzarella _di bufala_ * 2 cups chopped baby arugula * 11/3 cups chopped prosciutto * 16 quail eggs, or 4 large hen eggs * 1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (4 ounces) * 4 teaspoons white truffle oil Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 600°F. Place a pizza dough disk on a lightly floured surface and, using a rolling pin, roll the disk into a 10-inch circle ¼ inch thick. Dust the pizza peel with cornmeal and place the dough disk on the peel. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick. Top the pizza with ¼ cup of the sauce, ¼ pound of the mozzarella, ½ cup of the arugula, and 1/3 cup of the prosciutto. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick. Slide the pizza onto the hot Baking Stone, crack 4 quail eggs in a circle on top of the pizza, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 minutes, or until the edges are lightly browned and crisp. Using the pizza peel, remove the pizza from the grill, sprinkle with ¼ cup of the cheese, and drizzle with 1 teaspoon of truffle oil. With a knife or pizza wheel, cut the pizza into desired portions and serve immediately. Repeat this process with the remaining dough disks. Serves 4 ### Shrimp, Artichoke & Pesto Pizza _If this is your first try at making pizza in the EGG, this is an easy recipe to prepare, and the combination of shrimp and pesto is unbeatable. Make sure you have the ingredients to make the pesto on hand. This pizza requires only ½ cup of the pesto, so freeze the rest in ice trays and take the cubes out as needed to season other dishes._ * Ingredients * 4 pizza dough disks (page 216) * Cornmeal for dusting * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined * ½ cup Fresh Basil Pesto (page 201) * 2 cups marinated artichokes, drained * 2 cups thinly sliced red onions * 16 ounces goat cheese * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 600°F. Place a pizza dough disk on a lightly floured surface and, using a rolling pin, roll the disk into a 10-inch circle ¼ inch thick. Dust the pizza peel with cornmeal and place the dough disk on the peel. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick. Using a paring knife, butterfly the shrimp by cutting them open along the bottom side and opening them up, but leave the two sides connected so that the shrimp will lie flat on the pizza. Top the pizza with 2 tablespoons of the pesto, ¼ pound of the shrimp, ½ cup of the artichokes, ½ cup of the onion, and 4 ounces of the cheese. Season with salt and pepper. Gently slide the pizza onto the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 minutes, or until light brown and crisp around the edges. Using the pizza peel, remove the pizza from the heat and let it sit for 2 minutes before cutting. Using a knife or pizza wheel, cut the pizza into desired portions and serve immediately. Repeat this process with the remaining dough disks. Serves 4 ### Chilled White Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp Relish _Gazpacho originated in Andalusia, a region in the southern part of Spain. The gazpacho most people are familiar with is a cold, tomato-based, raw-vegetable soup. White gazpacho, better known as garlic soup or_ ajo bianco, _is from the same region. One common thread is that both of these soups use bread as a thickening agent. Unlike the Spanish version, which is made with white grapes, this version is made with white grape juice and topped with a delicious grilled shrimp relish. Serve this with Seafood Paella (page 277) for a festive Spanish meal._ * Ingredients * 3 cups chopped English cucumbers * 1 cup grilled and cubed French bread (about three ½-inch slices) * 1 cup white grape juice * 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup heavy cream * 4 ounces large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and tails removed * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for brushing * 1 avocado, halved, peeled, pitted, and diced * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * ¼ cup finely crumbled feta cheese * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh mint Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, bamboo or metal skewers Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. If using bamboo skewers, soak the skewers in water for 30 minutes. Combine the cucumbers, bread, grape juice, horseradish, garlic, and 1½ teaspoons salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Process for 2 to 3 minutes, until the ingredients are completely pureed and the liquid is smooth and creamy. Transfer the soup to a large bowl and chill for 30 minutes. In a large bowl using an electric mixer, whip the cream for 1 to 2 minutes, until soft peaks form. Chill the whipped cream for 30 minutes. Thread the shrimp on skewers, brush with olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Place the skewers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2½ minutes on each side. Remove the skewers from the grid and place on a rimmed sheet pan to cool. Remove the shrimp from the skewers, chop into bite-size pieces, and place in a small bowl. Add the avocado, lemon juice, cheese, mint, and the 1 tablespoon olive oil to the bowl and mix well. Season with salt and pepper. To assemble, using a rubber spatula, gently fold the whipped cream into the cucumber mixture until combined. Pour the soup into chilled bowls, place a large spoonful of the shrimp relish in the middle of each bowl, and serve. Serves 4 ### Barbecue Chicken Soup _This version of barbecue soup is a cross between Brunswick stew and a traditional soup. It is a meal on its own but can also be served in small portions as a first course. Though the recipe calls for leftover Beer-Brined Chicken, Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket (page 284) or shredded pork (page 90) would work just as well. For a real treat, serve this with Southwestern Cornbread (page 217)._ * Ingredients * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon, diced (about 14 slices) * 4 tablespoons Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * 1½ pounds tomatoes, chopped (about 4 cups) * 1½ cups chopped yellow onions * ¼ cup minced garlic * 1 chipotle pepper in adobo * 12 ounces lite lager beer * 4 cups chicken stock * 2 cups ketchup * ¼ cup yellow mustard * ½ cup apple cider vinegar * 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar * 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce * 2 cups yellow corn kernels (about 2 ears) * 1 pound tomatoes, grilled and chopped (about 3 cups; page 170) * 3 cups fresh or frozen lima beans, cooked and drained * 4 cups chopped Beer-Brined Chicken (page 98) * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Preheat the Dutch Oven on the grid for 10 minutes. Place the bacon in the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a small bowl lined with paper towels and set aside. Reserve the bacon fat in the Dutch Oven. Add the barbecue rub to the bacon fat and cook for 1 minute. Add the tomatoes, onions, garlic, and chipotle and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the onions are translucent. Slowly add the beer to the Dutch Oven, stirring with a wooden spoon to deglaze. Add the chicken stock, ketchup, mustard, vinegar, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce. Leave the Dutch Oven uncovered, but close the lid of the EGG. Simmer for 30 minutes, or until the soup has thickened slightly. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Puree the soup using an immersion blender, or carefully spoon it into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade, process until smooth, and return to the Dutch Oven. Add the corn, grilled tomatoes, lima beans, chicken, and pepper and stir until completely combined. Serve topped with the reserved bacon pieces. Serves 8 # _eggxemplary!_ beef & lamb recipes * Barbecued Beef Ribs * Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri * Beef Tenderloin with Béarnaise Sauce * Rib-Eye Steaks with Shallot & Garlic Butter * Burgers with Avocado BLT Salsa * Italian Meat Loaf with Smoked-Tomato Chutney * Skirt Steak Fajitas * Belgian Beef Stew * Standing Rib Roast * Veal Chops with Bercy Butter * Napa Cabbage Beef Wraps * Herb-Crusted Rack of Lamb * Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb ### Barbecued Beef Ribs _Ribs really benefit from long, slow cooking. After coating the ribs with Basic Barbecue Rub, place them in the V-Rack and let them cook, low and slow. Once they are pull-away-from-the-bone tender, place them on the grid, douse them with Basic Barbecue Sauce, and cook until they are thoroughly browned. What you will end up with are juicy, rich, flavorful ribs._ * Ingredients * 2 (2½ to 3-pound) racks beef ribs * ½ cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * 1 cup Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192) Equipment: Plate Setter, V-Rack set inside 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, porcelain coated grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. Season the ribs on all sides with the rub. Place the ribs in the V-Rack and set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Set the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2½ to 3 hours, until tender or the instant read thermometer registers 190°F. Remove the ribs. Add the grid to the EGG, and raise the temperature to 500°F. Place the ribs directly on the grid and baste with the sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the ribs, turning and basting the ribs every few minutes, for 5 to 7 minutes, until the ribs are well covered with the sauce. Transfer the ribs to a platter and serve immediately Serves 4 ### Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri Chimichurri _is a piquant herbed sauce that is often served in Argentina and other Latin American countries as an accompaniment to grilled meats. In this recipe, the tenderloin is marinated in half of the sauce prior to grilling. The other half of the sauce is reserved to use as a dipping sauce._ Chimichurri _is also terrific served with chicken, lamb, and fish._ * Ingredients * 2 pounds beef tenderloin * 2 cups extra-virgin olive oil * 1 cup red wine vinegar * ½ cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes) * 4 jalapeños, seeded and chopped * 8 cloves garlic * 2 cups firmly packed fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves * 1 cup firmly packed fresh oregano leaves * 2 teaspoons red chile flakes * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, bamboo or metal skewers Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Trim the beef and cut into 1½-inch cubes. Place in a shallow pan and set aside. Add the olive oil, vinegar, lime juice, jalapeños, garlic, parsley, oregano, and red chile flakes to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Blend for 30 seconds, season with salt and pepper, then process for another 10 seconds. Pour half of the sauce over the beef, reserving the remainder. Toss the meat in the marinade until completely coated and refrigerate for 4 to 8 hours. If using bamboo skewers, place the skewers in a pan and cover with water. Soak for 1 hour. Remove the beef from the marinade and divide it into 4 (8-ounce) portions. Discard the used marinade. Thread the meat on the skewers and then place the skewers on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG. Turn the skewers every 2 minutes for a total of 8 minutes for medium-rare to medium, making sure to grill the meat on all sides. Transfer the skewers to a platter and let the meat rest for 5 minutes before serving. Serve with the remaining sauce. Serves 4 ### Beef Tenderloin with Béarnaise Sauce _It doesn't get any better than a beef tenderloin covered in classic béarnaise sauce, except when that roast is cooked in the EGG. This is food fit for a king or your favored guests._ * Ingredients * 1 (5 to 6-pound) beef tenderloin, trimmed and tied * 1 tablespoon olive oil * 2 teaspoons kosher salt * 2 tablespoons freshly ground black pepper * Béarnaise Sauce * 1 ½ ounces tarragon sprigs * 1 large egg yolk * ½ cup white wine vinegar * 1 shallot, thinly sliced * 5 black peppercorns * 1 cup unsalted butter, melted * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * Pinch of cayenne pepper * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Brush the beef with olive oil and season with the salt and pepper. Sear the meat on the grid, turning occasionally until browned on all sides. Transfer the meat to the V-Rack, set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan, and put the Drip Pan on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 to 40 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 130°F for medium-rare. Let the meat rest for 15 minutes before slicing. To make the béarnaise sauce, separate the tarragon leaves from the stems, reserving the stems. Finely chop the tarragon leaves and set aside. Beat the egg yolk in a small bowl and set aside. Place the vinegar, shallot, peppercorns, and reserved tarragon stems in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer over medium heat until the liquid is reduced to 2 tablespoons. Strain the liquid into the bowl with the egg yolk. Place the bowl over a pot of simmering water on the stovetop and slowly add the butter in a thin stream, whisking constantly until thickened. Add the chopped tarragon leaves and stir well. Remove the bowl from the heat and season with the lemon juice, cayenne pepper, salt, and black pepper. Slice the beef and serve with the sauce. Serves 8 to 10 ### Rib-Eye Steaks with Shallot & Garlic Butter _The rib-eye is one of the most tender, juicy steaks on the market because it is so heavily marbled. Grilling it fast, over high heat, sears in all of the juices. Whether you are new to ceramic cooking or an old hand, you will not taste a better rib-eye steak than one cooked in the EGG._ * Ingredients * 4 (1-inch-thick) rib-eye steaks * ¼ cup olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Shallot & Garlic Butter * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1 tablespoon finely minced garlic * ¼ cup minced shallots * 1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 550°F. Using a basting brush, lightly coat each of the rib-eye steaks with the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and set aside. To make the garlic butter, melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. When the butter begins to foam, add the garlic and cook for 2 minutes, being careful not to let the garlic brown. Remove the pan from the heat, add the shallots, and stir. Let the butter cool for 30 minutes. Add the parsley, season with salt and pepper, and mix well. Pour equal amounts of the mixture into 2 small bowls, reserving one for basting and one for serving. Place the steaks on the Grid, baste with some of the garlic butter, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 3 minutes. Turn the steaks over and baste with more garlic butter. Close the lid and continue cooking for 3 more minutes for medium-rare. Discard the remaining basting butter. Transfer the steaks to a platter and baste them with some of the garlic butter reserved for serving. Let the steaks rest for 5 minutes. Slice across the grain and serve with the remaining garlic butter. Serves 4 ### Burgers with Avocado BLT Salsa _Combine ground round and ground chuck, then place the burgers in the EGG and grill them to the desired doneness. Top them off with an avocado and applewood-smoked bacon salsa and melted Havarti cheese for the best burger you've ever tasted._ * Ingredients * 1 pound ground chuck * 1 pound ground round * 2 tablespoons granulated garlic * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Avocado BLT Salsa * 1 cup diced vine-ripened tomatoes * 2 cups chopped applewood-smoked bacon, cooked until crisp (12 to 14 slices) * ½ cup chopped scallions * 1 cup diced avocado * ½ cup mayonnaise * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 4 poppy seed buns * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 4 slices Havarti cheese * 4 leaves butter lettuce (Boston or Bibb) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 600°F. Combine the ground chuck and ground round in a large bowl. Form the meat into 4 (8-ounce) patties about 1 inch thick. Season with the granulated garlic, salt, and pepper and set aside. To make the salsa, mix the tomatoes, bacon, scallions, avocado, mayonnaise, lemon juice, salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Cover and refrigerate. Cut the buns in half horizontally and brush the inside of each half with butter. Place the hamburgers on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 3 minutes per side, for medium-rare. Top each burger with a slice of cheese, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 seconds longer, until the cheese is melted. Transfer the burgers to a plate and let them rest while you grill the buns, buttered side down, until lightly toasted. To assemble, place each burger inside a bun and top with a lettuce leaf. Place 2 tablespoons of the salsa on top of each burger and serve. Serves 4 ### Italian Meat Loaf with Smoked-Tomato Chutney _This recipe is not complicated to make. Grilling the tomatoes before turning them into chutney adds a gentle smokiness and intensifies the tomato flavor. It is the perfect accompaniment to this well-seasoned meat loaf._ * Ingredients * Smoked-Tomato Chutney * 1 pound Roma tomatoes, cored and cut in half * 2 tablespoons olive oil * ½ cup minced yellow onion * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * ¼ cup granulated sugar * ¼ cup balsamic vinegar * ¼ cup chopped fresh basil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Meat Loaf * 2 tablespoons olive oil * 1 cup minced yellow onions * 1/3 cup minced red bell pepper * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 8 ounces ground chuck * 8 ounces ground round * 8 ounces ground veal * 8 ounces ground pork * 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar * 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce * ½ teaspoon red chile flakes * ¾ cup fresh or dried bread crumbs * ¼ cup whole milk * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano * 1 cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (4 ounces) * ½ cup tomato paste * 2 large eggs * 1½ teaspoons kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Plate Setter, hickory chips, 9-inch loaf pan, instant read thermometer Preheat the EGG to 350°F without the Plate Setter. Soak 1 cup of hickory chips in a pan of water for 1 hour. Scatter the hickory chips over the preheated charcoal and, using barbecue mitts, place the Plate Setter, legs down, in the EGG. To make the chutney, smoke the tomatoes for 10 minutes on the Plate Setter, with the lid of the EGG closed. Transfer the tomatoes to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Remove and discard the tomato skins, chop the tomatoes, and reserve. Add the olive oil to a medium saucepan on the stovetop. Sauté the onion and garlic for 2 minutes, cover, then cook for 5 minutes. Add the reserved tomatoes, sugar, and vinegar and simmer uncovered for 15 minutes. Transfer the tomato mixture to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Puree the sauce, add the basil, and season with salt and pepper. Set aside. To make the meat loaf, heat the olive oil in a medium saucepan on the stovetop. Sauté the onions, bell pepper, and garlic for 3 to 5 minutes, until softened. Transfer to a large bowl. Crumble the meat into the bowl, add the vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, red chile flakes, bread crumbs, milk, oregano, cheese, tomato paste, eggs, salt, and pepper. Using a wooden spoon, mix all the ingredients until completely blended. Scrape the meat mixture into the loaf pan and cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil. Place on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the thermometer reaches 140°F. Remove the foil and baste the meat loaf with one-half of the tomato chutney. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 15 minutes more, or until the internal temperature is 160°F. Remove the meat loaf from the EGG and let it rest for 10 minutes. Slice the meat loaf and serve with the remaining chutney. Serves 6 " _We do not order steak at steakhouses anymore because they do not compare with a steak cooked on the Big Green Egg._ " —Kevin, Alabama ### Skirt Steak Fajitas _Skirt steak is the most traditional and popular cut of meat used to make fajitas. To boost the flavor, marinate the meat for at least eight hours or as long as twenty-four hours if possible._ * Ingredients * Marinade * ½ cup pineapple juice * ¼ cup soy sauce * ¼ cup canola oil * ¼ cup minced garlic * 1 teaspoon ground cumin * 2 pounds skirt steak * ¼ cup canola oil * 1 green bell pepper, sliced ¼ inch thick * 1 red bell pepper, sliced ¼ inch thick * 1 medium yellow onion, sliced ¼ inch thick * 8 to 10 flour tortillas * Toppings (optional) * Shredded semisoft cheese (queso blanco), such as Monterey Jack, farmer's cheese, or queso asadero * Sour cream * Salsa * Cilantro * Guacamole Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Half Moon Griddle Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and the Half Moon Griddle on one side of the Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To make the marinade, use a whisk to combine the pineapple juice, soy sauce, canola oil, garlic, and cumin in a small bowl. Place the steak in a shallow pan and pour the marinade over the steak. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 8 hours or overnight. Carefully pour the canola oil on the Griddle, and add the peppers and onion. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté until tender. While the peppers and onion are still cooking, remove the steak from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the steak on the exposed Grid, close the lid, and grill for 3 to 4 minutes on each side for medium-rare. Transfer the steak, peppers, and onions to a rimmed sheet pan. Let the steak rest for 10 minutes. While the steak is resting, place the tortillas on the Grid and grill for 15 seconds on each side. Transfer the tortillas to a sheet of aluminum foil and wrap tightly to keep warm. To assemble, slice the steak across the grain into thin strips, place in a large bowl, add the peppers and onions, and toss together. Transfer to a platter and serve with the warm tortillas and your choice of toppings. Serves 4 ### Belgian Beef Stew _In some European countries, wheat beers, pale in color, are traditionally called "white beer." The addition of Belgian white beer gives this stew rich, robust flavor. Be sure to add water to the pot periodically to keep the meat from drying out._ * Ingredients * 1 (2-pound) chuck or sirloin tip roast * 6 sprigs thyme * 2 bay leaves * Zest of 1 lemon * Zest of 1 orange * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon, cut into small strips (about 14 slices) * 2 cups diced carrots * 2 cups diced celery * 2 cups diced onions * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * 4 (12-ounce) bottles Belgian white beer * 1 teaspoon ground coriander * 9 cups water * 3 cups diced russet potatoes * 2 cups diced Roma tomatoes * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * ¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * ½ cup frozen peas * ½ cup thinly sliced fresh chives Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes. Trim the beef, cut into 1½-inch cubes, and set aside. To make a seasoning sachet, put the thyme, bay leaves, lemon zest, and orange zest on a small piece of cheesecloth, pull up the sides all around, and tie with string. Set aside. Add the bacon to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 6 minutes, or until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a plate lined with paper towels and set aside. Reserve the bacon fat in the Dutch Oven. Add the carrots, celery, and onions to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook until caramelized and golden brown in color. Remove the vegetables with a slotted spoon and place them in a small bowl. Allow the Dutch Oven to reheat for about 2 minutes. Season the beef with salt and pepper, and add to the hot Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG, and sear on all sides for about 10 minutes, or until brown. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, then add the flour and stir. Slowly add 1 bottle of beer, stirring constantly. Add the rest of the beer, one bottle at a time. Add the reserved sachet and bacon and the coriander and stir well. Cover the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer for 30 minutes. Reduce the heat to 300°F. After 30 minutes, add 3 cups of water, cover the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer for 30 minutes. Add 3 more cups of water, cover, close, and simmer for 15 more minutes. Add 1 more cup of water, cover, close, and simmer for another 15 minutes. Add the potatoes, tomatoes, and reserved carrots, celery, and onions. Add the remaining 2 cups of water, cover, close, and simmer for another 30 minutes. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Discard the sachet and add the lemon juice, orange juice, butter, peas, and chives. Season with salt and pepper. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Standing Rib Roast _Before cooking the rib roast, it is best if the bones are cut away and reattached tightly to the body of the roast with butcher's twine. Once it is cooked, you can cut the butcher's twine, and the bones will easily fall away, making it much easier to carve. Most butchers will gladly prep the roast for you. Try serving the roast with Twice-Baked Potatoes (page 159) and Grilled Caesar Salad (page 171)._ * Ingredients * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 2 tablespoons minced fresh rosemary * 1 teaspoon garlic salt * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 (5-pound) bone-in rib roast Equipment: V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, porcelain coated grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 425°F. Using a fork, combine the garlic, rosemary, garlic salt, kosher salt, and pepper. Stir to blend well. Stand the roast up on a cutting board with the bones facing upward. Using a very sharp knife, cut the bones away from the meat by following the line of the bones. Remove the bones completely, then tie them back on with butcher's twine. Season the roast all over with the herb mixture. Place the roast, bone side down, in the V-Rack and set the V-Rack inside the Drip Pan. Put the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Roast for 20 minutes at 425°F to sear the meat. Reduce the heat to 350°F, and continue cooking for 1 hour and 20 minutes, or until the instant read thermometer registers 135°F for medium-rare. Remove the pan from the EGG and let the roast rest for 15 minutes. Remove the butcher's twine and discard. Remove the bones and slice the roast to the desired thickness. Serve immediately. Serves 6 to 8 ### Veal Chops with Bercy Butter _Easy-to-prepare veal chops make a superb special-occasion dinner. Hot off the grill, these chops are topped with a dollop of Bercy butter, an effortless-to-prepare reduction sauce that is named after a neighborhood in Paris. For a truly French-inspired dinner, serve these with Braised Leeks (page 185)._ * Ingredients * 4 (1½ to 2-inch) veal loin chops * 1 tablespoon olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Bercy Butter * 1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * ½ cup dry white wine * ¼ cup minced shallots * 2 tablespoons veal demi-glace, or * ½ cup beef broth * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Brush each veal chop with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. To make the Bercy butter, blend the butter, parsley, and lemon juice in a small bowl and set aside. Simmer the white wine, shallots, and demi-glace in a small saucepan on the stovetop until the liquid is reduced to about 1 teaspoon. Allow the liquid to cool completely. Place a small strainer over the bowl of butter and pour the reduced liquid through the strainer. Using a fork, mix the liquid and butter until completely blended, then season with salt and pepper. Place the veal chops on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 8 minutes per side. Transfer the veal chops to a platter and brush generously with Bercy butter. Let the veal rest for 5 minutes, then top with more Bercy butter before serving. Serves 4 ### Napa Cabbage Beef Wraps _This Asian-influenced beef wrap makes a tasty and fun entrée. Try it with a side of the Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice (page 148) or make a mini version and serve as an hors d'oeuvre at a cocktail party._ * Ingredients * Marinade * ½ cup chopped fresh basil * ½ cup chopped fresh mint * ½ cup chopped fresh cilantro * ½ cup thinly sliced fresh ginger * ¼ cup chopped garlic * 1 cup canola oil * 1 lime, cut into eighths * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 2 pounds flank steak * Sauce * ½ cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes) * ½ cup water * ¼ cup granulated sugar * 2 teaspoons fish sauce * ½ teaspoon chili garlic sauce * Kosher salt * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 head napa cabbage, separated into leaves * 1 cup julienned carrots * ½ cup thinly sliced radishes * 1/3 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves * 1/3 cup chopped fresh mint * 1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro * ½ cup thinly sliced shallots Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To make the marinade, combine the basil, mint, cilantro, ginger, garlic, canola oil, lime, and salt in a medium bowl and mix well. Place the flank steak in a large resealable plastic bag, pour in the marinade, seal the bag, and let the steak marinate overnight in the refrigerator. Turn occasionally. To make the sauce, mix the lime juice, water, sugar, fish sauce, and chili garlic sauce in a small bowl. Season with salt and refrigerate. Remove the steak from the plastic bag and discard the marinade. Season the steak with salt and pepper on both sides and place on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 5 minutes per side for medium-rare. Transfer to a platter and let rest for 10 minutes. To assemble, slice the steak across the grain. Place a few slices inside a cabbage leaf and top with carrots, radishes, basil, mint, cilantro, and shallots. Wrap the cabbage leaf around the beef and toppings. Repeat with the rest of the ingredients. Serve with the sauce for dipping. Serves 4 to 6 ### Herb-Crusted Rack of Lamb _Rack of lamb is very easy to prepare and makes a great special-occasion dinner. Sear the lamb on the grid before applying Dijon mustard and any spices, to help seal in the flavor and give the lamb an appealing golden brown color._ * Ingredients * 2 (1-pound) racks of lamb * 2 tablespoons plus 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ½ cup packed fresh flat-leaf parsley * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1 tablespoon minced shallots * ¼ cup Dijon mustard Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Brush the lamb with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the racks on the grid, fat side down, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer the lamb to a rimmed sheet pan and set aside. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Lower the temperature to 400°F. Combine the parsley, garlic, shallots, and the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in the bowl of a food processor. Blend for 15 seconds, then season with salt and pepper. Coat all sides of the lamb with the mustard. Press one-half of the herb mixture firmly onto the seared side of each rack of lamb. Place the racks of lamb together on the Plate Setter, leaning the ribs into each other so that the bones are intertwined and the meat is standing up on end. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, or until the instant read thermometer registers 125°F for medium-rare. Transfer the lamb to a rimmed sheet pan and let the meat rest for 10 minutes before carving and serving. Serves 4 ### Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb _Sometimes simple is just better. Thin slices of garlic and sprigs of rosemary are inserted into small slits that have been made all over the outside of the lamb. This infuses the rosemary and garlic flavors into the meat as it slow-roasts. Serve with the Grilled Vegetable Ratatouille (page 187) or slice the lamb thinly and use it to make sandwiches with the Pita Bread (page 215)._ * Ingredients * 1 (5 to 6-pound) leg of lamb * 5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced * 20 (1-inch) pieces fresh rosemary * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Equipment: V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. Using a small paring knife, make 20 (1-inch) cuts evenly all over the lamb. Stuff each hole with a slice of garlic and a piece of rosemary. Brush the lamb with the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Transfer the lamb to the V-Rack and set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Put the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Roast for 2 to 2½ hours, until the instant read thermometer registers 140°F. Remove the pan from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes. Carve the lamb, transfer to a platter, and serve immediately. Serves 6 to 8 # _eggxtraordinary!_ pork recipes * Chili-Spiced Pork Tenderloin with Caramelized Blackberry Sauce * Asian Pork Loin * Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Yam Puree * Ham Steaks with Jalapeño & Cherry Cola Glaze * Mojo Pork Ribs with Mango-Habanero Glaze * Asian Pork Ribs * Shredded Pork Sandwich with Fennel Slaw * Carnitas * Italian Sweet Sausage Subs * Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce ### Chili-Spiced Pork Tenderloin with Caramelized Blackberry Sauce _The addition of a rich blackberry sauce makes this pork tenderloin sufficiently elegant to serve at a dinner party. Your family will no doubt lobby to have it served as a weeknight dinner so they can enjoy it more often. If you are not a fan of blackberries, or if they are not readily available, substitute peach or apricot preserves in the sauce._ * Ingredients * 2 (1-pound) pork tenderloins, trimmed Olive oil * 1 tablespoon chili powder * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ½ cup granulated sugar * ½ cup balsamic vinegar * 1¼ cups blackberry preserves * ½ cup chicken stock * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Brush each tenderloin with olive oil and season with the chili powder, salt, and pepper. Set aside. Add the sugar to a small saucepan on the stovetop and cook over medium heat until the sugar is melted and caramelized. Add the vinegar, preserves, and chicken stock and whisk together. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes, or until the sauce is heated through and the flavors have combined. Remove the saucepan from the heat, add the butter, and stir well. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside. Place the pork on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 minutes on each side. Turning the meat occasionally, cook until the instant read thermometer registers 145°F or the desired doneness. Transfer the pork to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 5 minutes. Slice the pork and serve with the blackberry sauce. Serves 6 ### Asian Pork Loin _Allspice, the berry of the evergreen pimento tree, and slices of garlic are inserted in slits in this pork loin to give it a piquant flavor, which is then complemented by a rich, creamy sauce that melds peanut butter, orange juice, and honey. It's a unique combination destined to have diners asking for a second helping—and the recipe._ * Ingredients * ½ cup honey * ½ cup creamy peanut butter * ½ cup freshly squeezed orange juice * 2 teaspoons chili garlic sauce * 1 (3½ to 4-pound) boneless pork loin * 7 cloves garlic, sliced into thirds * 20 allspice berries * 2 tablespoons olive oil Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Whisk the honey, peanut butter, orange juice, and chili garlic sauce in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Simmer over medium heat for 5 minutes, or until incorporated. Remove ¾ cup of the sauce for basting. Reserve the remaining sauce. Place the pork loin on a cutting board and, using a small knife, make 10 (1-inch) slits down the length of the roast. Alternate putting a sliver of garlic and an allspice berry in each slit. Turn the roast over and repeat the process. Brush the loin with the olive oil and the peanut sauce. Place the roast on the V-Rack and put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Place the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Basting the pork every 15 minutes, cook for 1 hour, or until the instant read thermometer registers 140° to 145°F for medium. Let the roast rest for 15 minutes. Reheat the reserved sauce. Slice the roast and serve with the sauce. Serves 6 ### Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Yam Puree _Pork tenderloin gets an added boost of flavor when sliced into thick medallions and rubbed with coffee and spices before grilling. Yams are baked in the EGG to bring out their wonderful caramelized flavor before being pureed with aged Gouda, heavy cream, and butter. A bed of yam puree topped with the pork medallions contrasts the sweet and savory, and a coffee sauce pulls all of the flavors together. The yam puree also makes a perfect side for Smoked Turkey (page 108)._ * Ingredients * 2 (1-pound) pork tenderloins * 2 tablespoons plus 1 tablespoon ground coffee * 1 tablespoon ancho chile powder * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 tablespoons canola oil * 1 cup peeled and chopped carrots * 1 cup chopped yellow onions * 1 tablespoon tomato paste * 4 cups water * 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, chopped * 2 tablespoons plus 3 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 pounds yams * 1 cup shredded aged Gouda cheese * 2 tablespoons heavy cream Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Cut 8 (4-ounce) slices from the center portion of the pork tenderloins, and reserve the ends and trimmings for another meal. To make the coffee rub, mix 2 tablespoons of the ground coffee, the chile powder, 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 teaspoon pepper in a small bowl and set aside. Heat the canola oil in a small saucepan on the stovetop and add the carrots, onions, and pork trimmings. Cook over medium-high heat for 8 to 10 minutes, until brown and caramelized. Add the tomato paste and cook for 2 more minutes. Deglaze the saucepan by adding the water, and use a wooden spoon to scrape all of the vegetables from the bottom of the pan. Add the remaining tablespoon of ground coffee and the thyme and simmer over low heat for 1 hour, or until reduced by half. Pour the sauce through a fine-mesh strainer into a small bowl. Using a whisk, add 2 tablespoons butter into the strained broth, stirring until blended. Season with salt and pepper and set aside. Wrap the yams with aluminum foil and place on the outside edge of the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes. Season the pork medallions with the coffee rub. After the yams have been cooking for 30 minutes, put the pork slices on the middle of the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the pork for 5 to 6 minutes on each side, until the instant read thermometer registers 145°F. Remove the yams and pork. Let the pork rest while you prepare the yams. Peel the yams and place in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Add the cheese, cream, and the remaining 3 tablespoons butter and season with salt. Puree until smooth. Place ½ cup of the yams in the center of each plate and top with 2 medallions of pork. Top with the sauce and serve. Serves 4 ### Ham Steaks with Jalapeño & Cherry Cola Glaze _Don't balk at the idea of using cherry cola in this sauce—when combined with jalapeño peppers, it makes an incredible glaze. The cola's sweetness balances perfectly with the heat of the peppers. The seeds and veins of the jalapeño are what give food heat, so remove the seeds and the veins and use just the pepper if you want a more subtle taste. When handling hot peppers, it's a good idea to wear gloves and avoid touching your eyes until your hands are clean._ * Ingredients * 1 cup cherry cola * 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar * 4 red jalapeños, seeded and chopped * 1 green jalapeño, chopped with seeds * 4 tablespoons cornstarch * 4 tablespoons grenadine * 4 (4-ounce) ham steaks * 2 tablespoons olive oil * Freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Combine the cherry cola, brown sugar, and jalapeños in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer for 10 minutes. Using a fork, mix the cornstarch with the grenadine and add to the saucepan. Whisk together and cook for 1 minute, or until thickened. Carefully pour the hot glaze into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and process for 30 seconds. Pour the glaze into a small bowl and set aside. Brush the ham steaks with the oil and season with pepper. Place the ham steaks on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 minutes, turn the steaks over, baste with the glaze, and continue cooking for 5 more minutes. Transfer the steaks to a platter and baste them with the glaze. Pour the rest of the glaze into a dish. Serve the ham steaks immediately with the glaze on the side. Serves 4 ### Mojo Pork Ribs with Mango-Habanero Glaze _Ribs really benefit from long, slow cooking. However, for easier entertaining, these can be roasted a day ahead, then refrigerated. When ready to serve, simply brush with sauce and grill. These ribs are paired with a cool cucumber dipping sauce made by pureeing cucumbers and using the reserved strained liquid to make the sauce. Though the sauce contrasts nicely with the spicy ribs, the ribs are also delicious without the sauce._ * Ingredients * 1½ cups mango nectar * 1 cup rice wine vinegar * 1 habanero pepper * 2 full racks baby back ribs * ½ cup dry mojo seasoning * Dipping Sauce (optional) * 2 to 3 whole English cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and chopped * ½ cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes) * 1/3 cup granulated sugar * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * 1 cup Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192) * ½ cup chopped fresh cilantro Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan, porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. Pour the mango nectar and vinegar into the Drip Pan and add the habanero pepper. Cut each rack of ribs in half between the bones and season liberally with the mojo seasoning. Add the ribs to the Drip Pan and cover tightly with aluminum foil. Place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2 hours, or until tender. Remove the Drip Pan from the EGG and set aside. To make the dipping sauce, place the cucumber in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Process for about 2 minutes, or until the cucumbers have been completely pureed. Place a strainer over a small bowl and pour the pureed cucumbers into the strainer, reserving the liquid until you have 1½ cups of cucumber liquid. Place the liquid in a small bowl and add the lime juice, sugar, and salt. Mix until the sugar has completely dissolved. Refrigerate until needed. Add the grid to the EGG, and raise the temperature to 450°F. Remove the ribs from the Drip Pan and strain the juices from the pan into a bowl. Skim the fat from the top of the juices, add the barbecue sauce, and mix well. Place the ribs on the grid. Brush the ribs with the barbecue sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 5 minutes. Turn the ribs, baste with more sauce, and cook with the lid closed for another 5 minutes, or until the sauce has caramelized. Remove and let cool for 5 minutes. Remove the cucumber sauce from the refrigerator, add the cilantro, and blend well. Pour the sauce into a small bowl. Place the ribs on a platter and serve with the cucumber sauce. Serves 4 ### Asian Pork Ribs _These ribs are amazing! The Asian flair results from the use of distinctive five-spice powder with Asian Mop and Asian Barbecue Sauce. To ensure pit-barbecue tenderness, the ribs are cooked low and slow like traditional ribs. A dusting of toasted sesame seeds adds a finishing touch. Serve these with Veggie Noodle Stir-Fry (page 147) or Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice (page 148)._ * Ingredients * 2 full racks baby back pork ribs (8 pounds total) * ¼ cup five-spice powder * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup Asian Mop (page 195) * 2 cups Asian Barbecue Sauce (page 195) * 1 tablespoon white sesame seeds, toasted Equipment: Plate Setter, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. Season the ribs on all sides with the five-spice powder, salt, and pepper. Place the ribs in the V-Rack and set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 3 hours, basting with the mop every 30 minutes. At the end of 3 hours, brush with the sauce, and discard any remaining mop. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, brushing with sauce every 10 minutes. Remove the ribs from the EGG. Cut the racks of ribs in half, baste the ribs with more sauce, sprinkle with the sesame seeds, and serve. Serves 4 ### Shredded Pork Sandwich with Fennel Slaw _Despite its name, pork butt is cut from the upper shoulder of the front leg of the pig. Slow-roasted pork butt makes an incredible sandwich, but this sandwich goes one step further, enhanced by a topping of crisp fennel slaw. The slaw is so delicious that you may even want to make it as a side dish. It would be equally good with any grilled meat or even served on top of a hot dog!_ * Ingredients * Fennel Slaw * 1 cup mayonnaise * ½ cup sour cream * ¼ cup red wine vinegar * ¼ cup granulated sugar * 1 teaspoon celery seed * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 6 cups finely shredded green cabbage * 1 cup finely shredded purple cabbage * ¾ cup finely shredded carrots * 2 cups shaved fennel * 2 tablespoons fennel fronds * 1 (4-pound) Boston pork butt * ½ cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * 1 cup freshly squeezed orange juice (1 medium navel orange; reserve the peel) * 1 cup Pernod * 1 cup red wine vinegar * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 8 kaiser rolls Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect heat with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. To make the slaw, whisk the mayonnaise, sour cream, vinegar, sugar, and celery seed together in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Mix the cabbages, carrots, fennel, and fennel fronds in a large bowl. Pour the dressing over the slaw and toss until completely blended. Refrigerate until ready to use. Season the pork all over with the rub and place in the baking dish. Put the orange juice, Pernod, vinegar, and orange peel in a small bowl and stir well. Pour the Pernod mixture over the pork. Cover the baking dish tightly with aluminum foil. Place the dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 3 hours, or until the meat is tender. Remove the baking dish from the Plate Setter and let the pork cool slightly. Reserve the juices. Transfer the pork roast to a cutting board. Using two forks, shred the pork roast and place the meat in the baking dish with the reserved juices. Season with salt and pepper. To assemble, place shredded pork on each bun and top with ¼ cup of the slaw. Serve immediately. Serves 8 " _All the food that comes off the Big Green Egg is phenomenal. Whenever I'm cooking, the neighbors start coming over, and soon we end up with a party._ " —Paul, Michigan ### Carnitas _Carnitas are small bits of well-seasoned pork that are tenderized by simmering them in water before browning them until they are caramelized. This adds deep, bold flavor to the meat. You can use carnitas to make burritos or tacos or wrap them in flour tortillas and top them with cotija, a semisoft cheese often used in Mexican cooking._ * Ingredients * 1 (4-pound) pork butt (shoulder) * ½ cup Tricolor Pepper Rub (page 197) * 4 cups water * 3 cloves garlic * 3 cinnamon sticks * 3 bay leaves * Accompaniments (optional) * Flour tortillas * Salsa * 1 cup diced yellow onions * 1 cup crumbled cotija cheese * ½ cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. Season the pork all over with the rub. Place the meat inside the Dutch Oven, and add the water, garlic, cinnamon sticks, and bay leaves. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven, put the Dutch Oven on the grid, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1½ hours. Remove the lid of the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for an additional 30 minutes, or until most of the liquid has evaporated and the meat is brown and caramelized. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes. Cut the pork into large bite-size pieces. Add any remaining liquids to the pork and mix well. Serve with warm tortillas, salsa, onions, cheese, and cilantro. Serves 6 ### Italian Sweet Sausage Subs _Traditional Italian sausages with peppers and onions are enhanced with a smoky flavor imparted by grilling over charcoal before topping with provolone cheese on a hoagie roll. But don't confine this tasty combination to sandwiches. Try tossing the grilled mixture with your favorite pasta and sprinkling liberally with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. For variety, experiment with different types of sausage._ * Ingredients * 1 red bell pepper * 1 green bell pepper * 1 red onion * 4 (6 to 7-ounce) sweet or hot Italian sausages * 3 cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200) * 4 sausage rolls (hoagies) * 8 slices provolone cheese Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Cut off the ends of the bell peppers and remove the seeds. Using a small paring knife, cut from the top of one of the peppers to the bottom, on one side only, so that you are able to flatten the pepper into one long piece. Repeat for the other pepper. Slice the onion into ½-inch-thick rounds. Place the peppers, onion, and sausages on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 8 minutes, or until tender and brown. Transfer the peppers, onion, and sausages to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the peppers and onion on a cutting board and, with a knife, cut them into ½-inch strips. Put the peppers, onion, and sausages in the Dutch Oven, add the sauce, and stir. Lower the temperature of the EGG to 350°F. Put the Dutch Oven on the Grid, uncovered, and close the lid of the EGG. Simmer for 20 to 30 minutes, until the mixture is heated through and the flavors are combined. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG and place 1 sausage in each roll. Top with peppers, onion, and sauce. Place 2 slices of provolone cheese on top of each sausage roll and transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the sheet pan on the Grid with the lid of the EGG closed for 1 minute, or until the cheese is melted. Serve immediately with the remaining sauce on the side. Serves 4 ### Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce _Poblano peppers, used in the sauce for these pork chops, are a mild chile pepper that originates in Mexico. These peppers impart subtle heat rather than make a bold statement. The dried version of poblano pepper, ancho chile pepper, is often ground and used as a spice. The stuffing is made from cornbread and sausage. This recipe could also be made using boneless, skinless chicken breasts in place of the pork chops._ * Ingredients * Poblano Cream Sauce * 2 poblano peppers * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * ½ cup ham or chicken stock * 1½ cups heavy cream * ¼ cup yellow cornmeal * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lime juice * ½ cup chopped fresh cilantro * 4 double-cut pork chops * 1 tablespoon olive oil * 4 tablespoons Red Chile Rub (page 197) * 1 cup firmly packed Southwestern Cornbread (page 217), or store-bought * ½ cup chopped smoked chorizo sausage * ½ cup chopped fresh cilantro * ½ cup ham or chicken stock Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Half Moon Baking Stone, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct and indirect cooking with the porcelain coated grid and Half Moon Baking Stone. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Place the poblano peppers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook, turning occasionally, for 3 to 5 minutes, until the peppers are black on all sides. Transfer the peppers to a resealable plastic bag. Seal the bag and let the peppers steam for 5 minutes. Remove the peppers from the bag and place on a cutting board. Using a paring knife, cut the peppers open lengthwise and remove and discard the seeds. Dice the peppers into small pieces. Combine the peppers, garlic, stock, and cream in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer for 15 minutes. Using a whisk, add the cornmeal and continue to cook for 7 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove the saucepan from the heat and add the lime juice and cilantro. Keep warm. Using a paring knife, cut a 1½ to 2-inch-long pocket along the meat side of each pork chop. Season each pork chop with olive oil and 1 tablespoon of the rub. Crumble the cornbread into a small bowl, add the chorizo, cilantro, and stock, and mix well. Divide the stuffing into quarters and place one-quarter of the stuffing inside the pocket of each pork chop. Place the pork chops on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 minutes on each side. Transfer the pork chops to the Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 145°F or the desired doneness. Transfer the pork chops to a platter, top with the sauce, and serve immediately. Serves 4 # _eggxalted!_ poultry recipes * Beer-Brined Chicken * Tandoori Chicken * Lemon-Infused Cornish Game Hens * Chicken & Spinach Salad * Linguini with Grilled Chicken Breast & Asparagus * Chicken & Vegetable Stir-Fry * Smoked Turkey * Turkey & Spinach Burgers with Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto * Turkey & Wild Mushroom Pot Pie * Roasted Turkey Breast with White Wine, Soy Sauce & Mushrooms ### Beer-Brined Chicken _Meats low in fat, such as poultry and pork, may be soaked in a salt solution, which seasons the meat all the way through and adds moisture so that the meat does not become dry during cooking. When brining, make sure that the meat is totally covered with the liquid and that you leave ample time for the process. Brining a whole chicken takes a minimum of twelve hours. This method produces a fall-off-the-bone moist, well-seasoned chicken. Water is the usual liquid in a brine, but in this recipe, lager beer is used instead to impart added flavor. Since the chicken is seasoned from the salt solution, you may omit the salt from the barbecue rub if you like._ * Ingredients * 8 cups water * 1 cup granulated sugar * ½ cup kosher salt * 24 ounces lite lager beer * 1 (5-pound) chicken * ¼ cup olive oil * ¼ cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) Equipment: Plate Setter, hickory chips, Vertical Roaster, 8-inch Drip Pan, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F with the Plate Setter removed. Combine the water, sugar, salt, and beer in a large stock-pot. Stir to dissolve the sugar and salt. Add the chicken to the brine, place the lid on the pot, and refrigerate for 12 hours or overnight. Place 1 cup of hickory chips in a medium bowl, cover with water, and soak for 1 hour. Spread the hickory chips over the coals, and place the Plate Setter in the EGG. Remove the chicken from the brine, rinse thoroughly, and pat dry with a paper towel. Discard the brining liquid. Brush the chicken with the olive oil and season with the rub. Place the chicken upright on the Vertical Roaster. Place the Drip Pan on top of the Plate Setter, then place the chicken, on the Vertical Roaster, in the Drip Pan, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1 to 1½ hours, until the instant read thermometer registers 165°F. Remove the chicken from the EGG and let the chicken rest for 10 to 15 minutes. Carve and serve. Serves 4 " _The Big Green Egg is the stand-alone champion of smokers. Metal smoker users just don't realize what they're missing!_ " —Michael, Kansas ### Tandoori Chicken _A tandoor is the traditional oven used to cook this typical Indian dish. The tandoor can be charcoal burning or wood burning and can reach almost 500°F. This is where the EGG really shines; with its ability to reach high temperatures, it can reproduce any tandoori dish. Garam masala, a traditional Indian spice blend, is combined with yogurt to marinate the tandoori chicken. Pair it with Naan Bread (page 217) for a perfect Indian meal._ * Ingredients * 1 cup plain yogurt * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes) * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro * 3 cloves garlic, crushed * 2 teaspoons garam masala * 2 teaspoons kosher salt * 1 teaspoon red curry paste * 1 teaspoon ground cumin * 1 red chile pepper (such as cayenne chile pepper, also known as finger chile) * 2 tablespoons peanut oil * 1 (4 to 5-pound) chicken, quartered Equipment: Plate Setter, porcelain coated grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up, and the porcelain coated grid on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To make the marinade, combine the yogurt, lime juice, cilantro, garlic, garam masala, salt, curry paste, cumin, chile pepper, and peanut oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and process for 30 seconds. Place the chicken in a sealable plastic bag, add the marinade, and toss to coat. Close the bag tightly and refrigerate for 24 hours. Remove the chicken from the plastic bag and discard the marinade. Place the chicken, skin side up, on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 30 minutes, or until the instant read thermometer reaches 165°F. Transfer the chicken to a platter and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Lemon-Infused Cornish Game Hens _Cornish game hens are full-grown small chickens. They tend to have less meat than a chicken, so if you are serving big eaters, count on using a whole Cornish game hen per person. Try Honey-Roasted Acorn Squash (page 162) as a side._ * Ingredients * 4 large lemons * 1/3 cup chopped fresh rosemary * ¼ cup chopped garlic * 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 (1¼-pound) Cornish game hens Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Zest the lemons and measure 1/3 cup. Juice the lemons and measure 6 tablespoons. Reserve the lemons. Combine the lemon zest, lemon juice, rosemary, garlic, olive oil, 1 tablespoon salt, and 1 teaspoon pepper in a medium bowl and mix well. Cut the Cornish game hens in half lengthwise. Place the hens in a resealable plastic bag and add the marinade, reserving ½ cup of the marinade for basting. Marinate in the refrigerator for 12 hours. Remove the Cornish game hens from the plastic bag, discard the marinade, and season with salt and pepper. Place the hens on the preheated Grid, skin side down. Close the lid of the EGG and cook over low heat for 10 to 12 minutes, until the skin is golden brown. Turn the hens over and baste the skin with the reserved marinade. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for an additional 15 minutes, basting often with the marinade. Remove the hens from the EGG when the instant read thermometer registers 165°F. Transfer the Cornish game hens to a platter. Squeeze the remaining juice from the reserved lemons over the chicken and let the chicken rest for 5 minutes before serving. Serves 4 _(See recipe photograph on page 96.)_ ### Chicken & Spinach Salad _Warm bacon drippings do double duty in this classic spinach salad. Crunchy applewood-smoked bacon is crumbled in the salad, and the warm drippings are reserved and used to make the dressing. Not only does this add flavor, but it also slightly wilts the spinach! If you aren't a bacon fan, omit the bacon dressing and use your favorite salad dressing in its place._ * Ingredients * 8 ounces baby spinach, rinsed and dried * ½ cup thinly sliced red onion * ½ cup thinly sliced small white mushrooms * 2 cups 1-inch cubes French bread * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 4 to 5 slices applewood-smoked bacon * ¼ cup minced shallots * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * ¼ cup red wine vinegar * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar * ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 (6-ounce) boneless, skinless chicken breasts * 4 large eggs, hard-boiled and peeled Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, perforated grill pan, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and perforated grill pan. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Combine the spinach, onion, and mushrooms in a large bowl and set aside. To make the croutons, in a medium bowl, toss the bread cubes with the melted butter to coat. Place the croutons on the grill pan and cook, turning constantly, until the bread is toasted on all sides. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan from the Grid, and transfer the croutons to a plate and let cool. Add the croutons to the salad. To make the vinaigrette, cook the bacon in a small frying pan on the stovetop until crisp, then transfer the bacon to a plate lined with paper towels. Reserve the bacon fat in the frying pan. Dice the bacon and add to the salad. Reheat the bacon fat if necessary, then add the shallots and garlic and cook for 2 minutes. Add the vinegar, mustard, and sugar and stir well. Using a whisk, slowly add ½ cup of the olive oil and whisk to blend until emulsified. Season with salt and pepper and set aside. To grill the chicken, lightly brush the chicken breasts with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the chicken on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 8 minutes per side or until the instant read thermometer registers 165°F. Allow the chicken to cool to warm or room temperature. To assemble, pour the vinaigrette over the spinach salad, season with salt and pepper, and toss well. Divide the salad between individual plates. Slice the chicken breasts and arrange 1 breast on top of each salad. Quarter the eggs, and arrange 4 quarters on each plate. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Linguini with Grilled Chicken Breast & Asparagus _This delicious pasta dish has it all: fresh vegetables, lots of flavor, and a delicious sauce. It would be equally good with Maple-Smoked Salmon (page 280) or grilled shrimp in place of chicken. You can also replace the linguini with any pasta you choose. For a complete meal, all you need is a salad and dessert. Try the Grilled Caesar Salad (page 171) and the Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing (page 259). Note that this recipe calls for artichoke hearts rather than bottoms._ * Ingredients * 4 (6-ounce) boneless, skinless chicken breasts * 1 pound asparagus * 2 tablespoons plus ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 1 (15-ounce) can artichoke hearts, drained and quartered * 1 cup dry white wine * 2 cups chicken stock * 1 cup heavy cream * 1 pound linguini, cooked al dente * 1 cup dry-packed sun-dried tomatoes * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * 3 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * ½ cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, rolled and thinly sliced Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Brush the chicken and asparagus with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and set the asparagus aside. Place the chicken on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 7 to 8 minutes, turn, and continue cooking for 8 minutes, or until the juices run clear. Transfer to a plate and keep warm. Place the asparagus on the Grid and cook for 2 minutes, turning to cook on all sides. Remove from the Grid and chop into ½-inch pieces. Set aside. Place the Dutch Oven on the Grid and allow to preheat for 10 minutes. Add the remaining ¼ cup olive oil, the garlic, and artichokes and sauté for 1 minute. Carefully pour the wine into the Dutch Oven while scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Cook for 3 minutes, or until the wine is reduced by half. Add the chicken stock. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 10 minutes, or until the sauce is reduced by half. Add the cream. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 4 minutes, or until the sauce is slightly thickened. Add the pasta and cook for 1 minute while gently tossing. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Add the tomatoes, cheese, butter, asparagus, lemon juice, and basil. Season with salt and pepper. Slice the chicken breasts. Transfer the pasta to individual bowls and top each serving with a sliced chicken breast. Serves 4 ### Chicken & Vegetable Stir-Fry _Stir-frying is a fast, easy, and healthful way to cook and shows just how versatile the EGG can be. Though chicken is used here, you can easily make this dish with just about any meat or vegetable that you have on hand. Just remember that to ensure even cooking, try to cut all of your vegetables about the same size. The Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice (page 148) is a great side to serve with this dish._ * Ingredients * 2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil * 1½ teaspoons plus 1½ teaspoons minced garlic * 1½ teaspoons plus 1½ teaspoons minced fresh ginger * 2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed * ½ cup rice wine * ½ cup light soy sauce * ½ cup chicken stock * ¼ cup hoisin sauce * 2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar * 2 tablespoons granulated sugar * 2 tablespoons cornstarch * 1 teaspoon chili garlic sauce (optional) * ½ cup canola oil * 4 cups broccoli florets * 1 cup broccoli stems, trimmed and julienned * 1 cup julienned carrots * 1 cup drained water chestnuts, diced * 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven or a wok Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Combine the sesame oil, 1½ teaspoons of the garlic, and 1½ teaspoons of the ginger in a small bowl, add the chicken, and toss to coat. Let the chicken marinate for 30 minutes. To make the sauce, mix the remaining 1½ teaspoons garlic, 1½ teaspoons ginger, rice wine, soy sauce, chicken stock, hoisin sauce, rice wine vinegar, sugar, cornstarch, and chili garlic sauce in a small bowl. Set aside. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Place the canola oil and chicken in the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 to 6 minutes, until seared on all sides. Add the broccoli florets and stems, carrots, and water chestnuts and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring well. Add the sauce and continue to cook until the sauce has thickened. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG. Transfer the stir-fry to a bowl and garnish with the sesame seeds. Serves 6 ### Smoked Turkey _Once you try this brined turkey, you'll agree that nothing does a better job of smoking meats than the EGG. The turkey has a subtle smoky flavor and is moist and succulent, but if you prefer a bolder smoky flavor, add more chips in increments during cooking. This turkey would be great for holidays, and you can use the leftovers to make wonderful sandwiches or Turkey & Wild Mushroom Pot Pie (page 111)._ * Ingredients * 16 cups (1 gallon) water * ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar * Rind of 1 navel orange * 3 sprigs rosemary * 1 cup kosher salt * 3 yellow onions, quartered * 2 heads garlic, halved * 1 (12-pound) turkey * 2 lemons, quartered * 10 sprigs thyme * 10 sprigs sage * 1 cup chopped potatoes * ¼ cup olive oil * Freshly ground black pepper * Garlic powder Equipment: Plate Setter, hickory chips, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer Preheat the EGG to 350°F without the Plate Setter. Pour the water into a large bowl. Add the brown sugar, orange rind, rosemary, salt, two-thirds of the quartered onions, and 1 halved garlic head. Mix until the sugar and salt dissolve. Remove the giblets from inside the turkey and reserve for another use. Rinse the turkey well. Place the turkey in a 2½-gallon resealable plastic bag or any container that is large enough to hold the turkey and the liquid. Pour the brine over the turkey, making sure it's completely covered. Refrigerate for 12 hours, turning occasionally. Soak 4 cups of hickory chips in water in a medium bowl for 1 hour. Remove the turkey from the brine, rinse well to remove the brining liquid, and pat dry with paper towels. Discard the brining liquid and solids. Stuff the turkey with the lemon quarters, the remaining halved garlic head and onion, thyme, sage, and potatoes. Brush the turkey with olive oil and season with pepper and garlic powder. Scatter 1 cup of the hickory chips over the hot coals and, using barbecue mitts, place the Plate Setter, legs up, in the EGG. Place the turkey on the V-Rack and put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2½ hours, adding more chips every 30 minutes. If the turkey starts to brown too quickly, carefully tent the turkey with aluminum foil. Continue cooking until the instant read thermometer registers 165°F. Remove the turkey from the EGG and let rest for 15 to 20 minutes. Carve and serve immediately. Serves 8 ### Turkey & Spinach Burgers with Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto _This might be one of the best turkey burgers you will ever eat! This is a bold statement, but if you usually eat beef burgers, this good-for-you burger just might change your mind. Though it might take a little more effort, be sure to make the Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto, as it adds a huge amount of flavor._ * Ingredients * 10 ounces spinach * 1½ pounds white and dark ground turkey * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1½ teaspoons kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * ½ cup mayonnaise * 2 tablespoons whole-grain mustard * 4 slices Swiss cheese * 4 whole wheat hamburger buns * 1 cup Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto (page 200) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Rinse the spinach in a large bowl of water, then lift it from the water and place in a saucepan with some of the water still clinging to the leaves. Cook the spinach in the saucepan on the stovetop until wilted. Mix the turkey, spinach, garlic, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Form the turkey into 4 (6-ounce) patties and set aside. Blend the mayonnaise and mustard in a small bowl. Set aside. Place the turkey burgers on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 5 minutes, turn the burgers over, close the lid, and cook for 4 minutes more. Add 1 slice of the cheese to each burger. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 1 more minute, or until the cheese is melted. Transfer the burgers to a platter and let them rest. Spread the cut sides of the buns with 1 tablespoon of pesto and place them on the Grid, pesto side down. Grill until the buns are toasted, about 20 seconds. To assemble, brush 1½ teaspoons of pesto and 1 teaspoon of the mayonnaise mixture on the toasted sides of all the buns and place the burgers on the buns. Serve immediately, with the remaining pesto and mayonnaise mixture on the side. Serves 4 ### Turkey & Wild Mushroom Pot Pie _There is nothing better than a pot pie on a cold winter's night. Loaded with juicy, tender pieces of roasted turkey breast and wild mushrooms, this pie is the ultimate comfort food. You could also use meat from the smoked turkey recipe (page 108) to make this pie._ * Ingredients * 1 ½ cups mixed dried wild mushrooms * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 tablespoons olive oil * 1 cup diced onions * 1 cup diced carrots * 1 cup diced celery * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 1/3 cup all-purpose flour * ¼ cup white wine * 3 cups low-sodium chicken stock * 1 cup diced potatoes * 1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme * 1 cup frozen green peas * 2 cups chopped roasted turkey breast (page 112) * 1 (9-inch) deep-dish pie shell and 1 pie dough disk (page 223) * 1 large egg * 1 tablespoon water Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9-inch pie plate Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 375°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes. Cover the mushrooms with hot water and let rehydrate until needed. Heat the butter and olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions, carrots, and celery. Close the lid of the EGG and cook uncovered for 5 to 6 minutes, until the vegetables are light brown and softened. Add the garlic and stir for 1 minute, then add the flour and stir. Add the wine and cook for 3 minutes. Drain the mushrooms, reserving the liquid. Add the chicken stock and the reserved mushroom liquid to the Dutch Oven and stir well. Add the potatoes. Close the lid of the EGG and continue cooking, covered, for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are cooked through. Add the reserved mushrooms, thyme, peas, and turkey, stir, and cook for 2 to 3 more minutes. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat and let cool for 15 minutes. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Replace the grid and preheat the EGG to 400°F. Spoon the filling into the pie shell. Roll out the pie dough disk on a lightly floured surface until it is large enough to cover the top of the pie. Unroll the pie dough onto the pie. Press the top and bottom edges of the dough together and crimp. Using a knife, cut four small slits on the top of the crust. Beat the egg with the water and brush the top with the egg wash. Place the pie on top of the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 30 to 40 minutes, until the dough is light brown and the filling is hot and bubbling. Let rest for 5 minutes before serving. Serves 4 to 6 ### Roasted Turkey Breast with White Wine, Soy Sauce & Mushrooms _Turkey breast is ideal for a small Thanksgiving gathering. This turkey is easy to prepare, and by adding the mushrooms to the Drip Pan, a rich, dark gravy is created as the turkey roasts. All you need is the Grilled Squash Casserole (page 163) and Chocolate Pecan Bourbon Pie (page 252), and you are set for Thanksgiving! You could also prepare this recipe using a whole turkey; just remember to baste the turkey often, as it helps make the meat juicier._ * Ingredients * 4 ounces mixed dried mushrooms * 1 (8-pound) turkey breast * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 8 tablespoons plus 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 teaspoons sweet paprika * 1 teaspoon garlic powder * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup dry white wine * ½ cup soy sauce * 1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary * 4 cups water Equipment: Plate Setter, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for indirect cooking with Plate Setter, legs up. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. In a small bowl, cover the mushrooms with hot water and let rehydrate until needed. Coat the turkey breast with the olive oil. Carefully lift the skin of the breast and separate it from the meat. Thinly slice 8 tablespoons of the butter. Gently lift the skin and place the butter slices under the skin, making sure to place the butter evenly over the whole breast. Mix the paprika, garlic powder, thyme, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Sprinkle the seasoning evenly over the turkey breast. Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Add the wine, soy sauce, and rosemary and mix well. Place the turkey breast on the V-Rack, put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan, and place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter. Add the water, mushrooms, and mushroom liquid to the Drip Pan. Using a basting brush, coat the turkey with the butter mixture and close the lid of the EGG. Basting every 10 to 15 minutes, roast the turkey for 2½ to 3 hours, until the instant read thermometer registers 165°F. Remove the turkey from the EGG and transfer to a carving board. Reserve the pan gravy. Let the turkey rest for 15 minutes. Reheat the pan gravy. Slice the turkey and serve immediately with the gravy. Serves 8 # _eggsquisite!_ seafood recipes * Cedar-Planked Salmon with Honey Glaze * Grilled Salmon on Toasted Croissant with Havarti & Avocado Relish * Grilled Tuna with Salsa Verde * Smoked Halibut with Sake Sauce * Thai Sea Bass in Banana Leaves * Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary * Cioppino * Cedar-Wrapped Scallops with Orange Beurre Blanc * Glazed Lobster Salad with Hearts of Palm & Grapefruit * Grilled Whole Lobster * Greek Shrimp & Orzo Salad * Grilled Oysters with Pink Peppercorn Mignonette ### Cedar-Planked Salmon with Honey Glaze _Grilling on a cedar plank infuses the salmon with a woodsy, smoky flavor while keeping the fish moist. The flavor is boosted by basting the fish with a honey glaze enlivened with citrus. Serve this right on the plank for a rustic presentation._ * Ingredients * ½ cup Dijon mustard * ¼ cup honey * 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar * 2 teaspoons grated orange zest * 1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme plus extra for garnish * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 4 (7-ounce) salmon fillets, skin on * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 2 cedar planks Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the cedar planks in a pan, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Whisk the mustard, honey, balsamic vinegar, orange zest, and 1 teaspoon thyme together in a small bowl. Place the cedar planks on the grid, close the lid of the EGG, and preheat for 3 minutes. Open the lid and turn the planks over, brush them with the olive oil, and place 2 salmon fillets on each plank. Season the salmon with salt and pepper and brush generously with the honey glaze. Close the lid of the EGG. Cook the salmon for 12 to 15 minutes for medium. Remove from the heat, garnish with thyme, and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Grilled Salmon on Toasted Croissant with Havarti & Avocado Relish _Grilled salmon sandwiches are perfect for breakfast, brunch, or lunch. Though it may seem that these have a lot of flavors going on, when combined they meld into one perfect, tasty sandwich!_ * Ingredients * 1 large Hass avocado, halved, peeled, pitted, and chopped * ½ cup diced Roma tomatoes * 1 teaspoon chopped dill * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 large croissants * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 4 (3-ounce) salmon fillets * ½ teaspoon Old Bay seasoning * 4 large eggs * 4 slices Havarti cheese Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Half Moon Griddle Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and the Half Moon Griddle. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the avocado relish, use a fork to lightly mash the avocado in a small bowl. Add the tomatoes, dill, lemon juice, ¼ teaspoon salt, and 1/3 teaspoon pepper and toss. Set aside. Cut the croissants in half lengthwise, brush with 2 tablespoons of the butter, and place, cut side down, on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and toast lightly. Transfer the croissants to a platter and set aside. Brush the salmon fillets with 2 tablespoons of the butter. Season each fillet with Old Bay seasoning, salt, and pepper. Place the salmon on the exposed Grid. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons butter to the Griddle and crack the eggs into the butter. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the salmon and eggs for 3 minutes, turn both the salmon and the eggs over, and continue cooking for 2 more minutes. The interior of the fish should be opaque. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. To assemble, place a piece of salmon on the bottom half of a toasted croissant and top the salmon with an egg and a slice of cheese. Repeat this process for the remaining croissants. Return the croissants to the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and let the cheese melt for 30 seconds. Spread 2 tablespoons of relish on top of each sandwich. Place the top of the croissant on the sandwich and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Grilled Tuna with Salsa Verde _Grilled tuna, salsa verde, and pureed navy beans are combined in this wonderful rustic dish. Salsa verde, also known as green sauce, is a provincial Italian condiment made with green herbs—parsley, basil, and oregano—which give the sauce its bright green color. The dish is bumped up a notch by setting the tuna on a bed of navy bean puree. Navy beans are small white beans that are often used to make commercial baked beans. If you can't find navy beans, use Great Northern beans as a substitute._ * Ingredients * Salsa Verde * 2 cloves garlic * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves * 1 cup firmly packed fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves * ¼ cup firmly packed fresh oregano leaves * 2 tablespoons capers * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard * 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 (8-ounce) tuna steaks * 2 (15-ounce) cans navy beans, drained and rinsed * 2 cloves garlic, minced * ½ cup cream * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * Kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. To make the salsa, place the garlic, basil, parsley, oregano, capers, mustard, and olive oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 30 seconds. Season with salt and black pepper and set aside. Place the tuna in a resealable plastic bag. Pour one-half of the salsa over the tuna, seal the bag, and marinate for 30 minutes. Reserve the remaining salsa. Place the beans, garlic, and cream in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer over low heat for 15 minutes. Pour the beans into the bowl of a food processor, add the butter, and pulse until the beans are pureed and smooth. Season with salt and white pepper and set aside. Remove the tuna from the plastic bag and discard the marinade. Season the tuna with salt and white pepper and place on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes per side for medium-rare. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the tuna to a rimmed sheet pan. Place a large spoonful of puree in the center of each plate, place a tuna steak on top, and serve with a drizzle of the reserved salsa. Pass the remaining salsa at the table. Serves 4 ### Smoked Halibut with Sake Sauce _Alder planks are used to give this halibut its unique smoky flavor. The fish is topped with a shiitake mushroom and sake sauce. Sake is a Japanese alcoholic beverage made from rice. Often referred to as rice wine, it is actually a beer, since it is made from grain rather than fruit. This recipe can also be prepared using grilled halibut rather than smoked. Just place the halibut right on the cooking grid to grill and, when done, serve with the sake sauce._ * Ingredients * 1 teaspoon toasted or cold-pressed sesame oil * ¼ teaspoon white sesame seeds * ¼ teaspoon black sesame seeds * Sake Sauce * 3 cups thinly sliced shiitake mushrooms * 2 cups chicken stock * 1 cup sake * ½ cup soy sauce * 1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * 1 jalapeño, seeded and chopped * 2 tablespoons honey * 1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar * 1 tablespoon cornstarch * 1 tablespoon water * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 4 (7-ounce) halibut fillets * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ¼ cup thinly sliced scallions Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 2 alder planks Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Place the alder planks in a pan, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Mix the sesame oil and white and black sesame seeds in a small bowl and set aside. To make the sake sauce, mix the mushrooms, chicken stock, sake, soy sauce, ginger, garlic, and jalapeño in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Cover and simmer over low heat for 15 minutes, or until the sauce is hot and the flavors have combined. Add the honey and rice wine vinegar, stir, cover, and simmer over low heat for 15 minutes more. Place the cornstarch in a small bowl, add the water, and stir to dissolve. Using a whisk, add the cornstarch to the sauce, stirring constantly until the sauce has thickened. Remove the sauce from the heat and set aside. Brush 1 side of the alder planks with olive oil and place 2 halibut fillets on the oiled side of each plank. Brush the halibut with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the planks on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 7 to 8 minutes, until the interior of the fish is opaque. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the halibut to a plate. Spoon the sake sauce over the halibut and sprinkle with the sesame seed mixture. Top with the scallions and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Thai Sea Bass in Banana Leaves _Banana leaves are often used in Thai cooking to wrap around fish, much as Americans use aluminum foil. The leaves add subtle flavor to whatever food they surround. Banana leaves are not only useful for cooking; they also make a unique presentation. If you cannot find these leaves fresh in your local grocery or specialty food store, they are often sold frozen, or you can order them online. If you find yourself with extra leaves, just wrap them with plastic wrap, place them in a tightly sealed plastic freezer bag, and store them in the freezer._ * Ingredients * 1 (15-ounce) can coconut milk * 1 teaspoon red curry paste * ½ cup chicken stock * ½ cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil * ½ cup firmly packed chopped fresh mint * ½ cup firmly packed chopped fresh cilantro * ½ cup grated fresh ginger * ¼ cup crushed garlic * 1 thinly sliced red jalapeño or serrano pepper * 4 banana leaves (about 12 inches square) * 4 (6 to 7-ounce) sea bass fillets * 1 lime, cut into 8 thin slices * 2 tablespoons canola oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. To make the sauce, combine the coconut milk, curry paste, and chicken stock in a small saucepan. Simmer on the stovetop over medium heat for 10 minutes, then keep warm. Combine the basil, mint, cilantro, ginger, garlic, and jalapeño in a medium bowl and mix well. Lay the banana leaves out flat. Place 3 to 4 tablespoons of the herb mixture on the center of each leaf. Put a piece of fish on top of each mound of herbs, and top with 2 lime slices and ½ teaspoon of canola oil. Season with salt and pepper. For each packet, fold the sides of the leaf inward, fold the top and bottom over, tuck the ends under, and secure the leaf with butcher's twine. Brush the leaves with the remaining canola oil and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 7 to 8 minutes per side, until the interior of the fish is opaque (unwrap a package and insert a knife into the fish). Transfer the fish to individual plates, remove the twine, open the top, and spoon the sauce over the fish. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary _Here is an uncomplicated recipe that is very healthful, looks beautiful, and tastes terrific. The fish you purchase should be fresh, as indicated by eyes that are crystal clear rather than milky. If your local fish market does not carry whole snapper, you can ask to order it. For extra flavor and an unusual presentation, after grilling the fish on the first side, turn the fish over and place thin slices of lemon over the entire body of the fish, much like scales, then place the whole fish on the grill pan and continue cooking._ * Ingredients * 1 (4 to 5-pound) whole snapper, cleaned and scales removed * 10 cloves garlic, thinly sliced * 1 lemon, thinly sliced * 10 sprigs rosemary, leaves only * ¼ cup plus ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 1 to 2 lemons) * 2 tablespoons water Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Rinse the fish under cold water and pat dry with paper towels. Make 3 to 4 slits vertically down to the bone on both sides of the fish. Place garlic slices, lemon slices, and a pinch of rosemary inside each slit. Drizzle the fish with ¼ cup of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place any remaining garlic slices, lemon slices, and rosemary leaves inside the cavity of the fish. Place the fish on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 10 minutes per side. Transfer the fish to the grill pan. Close the lid and continue cooking for 30 minutes, or until the fish is opaque. Transfer the fish to a platter. Using a whisk, mix the remaining ¼ cup olive oil, the lemon juice, and water in a small bowl. Pour the sauce over the grilled fish and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Cioppino _Cioppino is an Italian-inspired fish stew usually made from leftover chopped fish. It was thought to have originated in San Francisco, where it was prepared on fishing boats by Italian immigrants. This very forgiving stew will work well with any fresh fish or seafood that you want to include._ * Ingredients * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 8 ounces red snapper, cut into 2-inch cubes * 6 ounces halibut, cut into 2-inch cubes * 12 sea scallops * 1 cup diced yellow onions * 1 thinly sliced fennel bulb, fronds reserved * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 2 cups white wine * 1 cup water * 1 cup Pernod * 1 cup clam juice * 1 (28-ounce) can crushed San Marzano tomatoes * 1 pinch saffron * ¼ cup firmly packed fresh tarragon leaves * 12 clams, scrubbed * 12 mussels, scrubbed and beards removed * 12 large shrimp, peeled and deveined * 4 ounces calamari, cut into rings * ½ cup firmly packed torn fresh basil leaves * 6 (1-inch-thick) slices ciabatta bread, grilled Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes. Pour the olive oil into the Dutch Oven. Add the snapper and halibut. Close the lid of the EGG and sear for 2 minutes. Turn the fish over, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for 2 more minutes. Transfer the fish to a plate and set aside. Add the scallops to the Dutch Oven and sear for 30 seconds. Turn the scallops over and cook for another 30 seconds. Transfer the scallops to the plate with the fish and cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate until needed. Add the onions, fennel, and garlic to the Dutch Oven and sauté for 1 minute. Carefully add the wine, water, Pernod, clam juice, tomatoes, saffron, and tarragon and mix well. Close the lid of the EGG and simmer uncovered for 20 minutes. Add the clams, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 3 minutes. Add the mussels and shrimp, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 3 minutes. Add the reserved fish and scallops and the calamari and basil. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 2 minutes. Place the bread slices on the Grid, around the Dutch Oven, and toast for 30 seconds per side. Remove the Dutch Oven and transfer the bread to a rimmed sheet pan. To assemble, place a piece of the toasted bread in the bottom of each bowl, spoon the stew over the bread, sprinkle with the fennel fronds, and serve. Serves 4 ### Cedar-Wrapped Scallops with Orange Beurre Blanc _The slightly sweet and creamy sea scallop is the largest of all the scallops. These are wrapped in cedar grilling papers, then placed on the grid. The papers not only impart a woodsy taste but also make for a beautiful presentation. These scallops are served with an orange beurre blanc sauce, a classic white butter sauce infused with orange zest. They could be served as an appetizer or for a main course._ * Ingredients * Orange Beurre Blanc * 1 to 1½ teaspoons orange zest * 1/3 cup sliced shallots * 5 sprigs thyme * 1 bay leaf * 5 black peppercorns * 1 cup white wine * ½ cup heavy cream * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 pounds jumbo sea scallops (about 20) * 2 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, cedar grilling papers Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the cedar papers in a bowl, cover with water, and soak for 10 minutes. To make the sauce, place the orange zest, shallots, thyme, bay leaf, peppercorns, and wine in a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Simmer for 10 minutes, or until most of the wine has evaporated. Add the cream and simmer for 5 to 7 minutes, until thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk the butter into the sauce a little at a time. Add the sugar, season with salt and pepper, and mix well. Strain the sauce into a small bowl and keep in a warm place until ready to serve. Brush the scallops with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper on both sides. Place 3 scallops in the center of each cedar paper. Wrap the paper around the scallops and secure the paper in place using butcher's twine. Brush the outside of the cedar wraps with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil. Place the scallop wraps on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 minutes on each side, then open a wrap and slide a small knife into a scallop to check the interior. Transfer the wraps to individual plates. Serve immediately with the sauce on the side. Serves 4 ### Glazed Lobster Salad with Hearts of Palm & Grapefruit _This lobster salad makes a great luncheon salad. It can also be made using Grilled Whole Lobster (page 129) instead of just tails. For a complete meal, serve this with an Apple-Walnut Crostata (page 255) for dessert._ * Ingredients * Pink Brandy Sauce * ½ cup sour cream * ¼ cup mayonnaise * 3 tablespoons ketchup * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1½ teaspoons brandy * ½ teaspoon dry mustard * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Vinaigrette * ½ cup freshly squeezed or bottled grapefruit juice * 2 tablespoons champagne vinegar * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar * ½ cup canola oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 (14-ounce) can hearts of palm * ½ cup julienned red bell pepper * ½ cup julienned orange bell pepper * ½ cup julienned yellow bell pepper * 1 cup julienned English cucumber * 2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced * 2 ruby red grapefruit, peeled and segmented * 4 (4-ounce) lobster tails * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * Old Bay seasoning * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon * 4 butter lettuce leaves * 1 tablespoon thinly sliced fresh chives Equipment: Porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To make the sauce, mix the sour cream, mayonnaise, ketchup, lemon juice, brandy, and mustard in a small bowl and season with salt and pepper. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to serve. To make the vinaigrette, combine the grapefruit juice, vinegar, sugar, and oil in a small bowl, mix well, and season with salt and pepper. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Place the hearts of palm on the grid and grill, turning constantly, for 1 to 2 minutes. Using tongs, transfer them to a cutting board and slice diagonally. In a bowl, mix the hearts of palm, peppers, cucumber, shallots, and grapefruit. Brush the lobster with the olive oil and season with Old Bay seasoning and salt and pepper. Place the lobster tails on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for about 4 minutes on each side. Using kitchen scissors, cut along the underside of the tail from end to end, removing the underside of the shell but leaving the back of the shell and the bottom tail fan intact. To assemble, whisk the tarragon into the vinaigrette, pour over the salad, and toss to coat. Place 2 tablespoons of the sauce in the center of each plate. Put a lettuce leaf on the sauce and ¾ cup of the salad inside the lettuce leaf. Top each salad with a lobster tail, garnish with chives, and serve. Serves 4 _(See recipe photograph on page 114.)_ ### Grilled Whole Lobster _Fresh lobster does not need a lot of ingredients to enhance its flavor. The meat is firm and sweet and is usually served with melted butter. Whole lobsters must be purchased live. It is difficult to find a more elegant dish than grilled lobster for a special-occasion luncheon or dinner._ * Ingredients * 1 cup unsalted butter * 4 (1 ½-pound) live lobsters * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup heavy cream * 1 lemon, cut into 8 wedges Equipment: Porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To clarify the butter, melt it in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Skim the foam from the top with a spoon. Pour the melted butter into a glass measuring cup and refrigerate until it becomes solid. Poke a hole through the butter to the bottom of the cup with a knife; this will release the milk solids underneath. Pour the milk solids out and discard; the remaining butter is clarified. Melt the clarified butter. Wearing heavy gloves, place one of the lobsters on a cutting board and hold the lobster firmly with the head toward you. Insert the tip of a sharp knife into the center of the head and quickly bring the knife down to the board. Split the front of the lobster in half, then split the tail of the lobster in half, lengthwise, leaving some of the shell unsplit in the center of the body. Repeat for the other lobsters. Brush the inside of the lobsters with the clarified butter and season with salt and pepper. Place the lobster on the grid, meat side up, and pour ¼ cup of the cream into the cavities and over the meat. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 8 to 10 minutes, brushing the lobster with the remaining cream every 2 minutes. Transfer the lobsters to a platter and serve with the remaining clarified butter and lemon wedges. Serves 4 ### Greek Shrimp & Orzo Salad _Orzo is a type of pasta the size and shape of a grain of rice. It is used throughout the Middle East and the Mediterranean and is particularly popular in Greece. This orzo salad is loaded with other ingredients that are commonly used throughout Mediterranean countries—artichokes, garbanzo beans, mint, dill, and kalamata olives. Removing the pits from kalamata olives is easy. Just set the olive on a cutting board and hit it with the flat side of a large knife. The pit can then be easily separated. The salad will be most delicious if the shrimp are cooked just before needed: Chilling shrimp permanently hardens them._ * Ingredients * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1½ cups whole wheat orzo, cooked according to package directions * 1 cup peeled and diced English cucumber * 1 cup halved grape tomatoes * 1 cup drained canned garbanzo beans * 1 cup drained, chopped canned artichoke hearts * 1 cup pitted and chopped kalamata olives * 1 cup crumbled feta cheese * ½ cup thinly sliced red onion * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 1 to 2 lemons) * ¼ cup red wine vinegar * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard * ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon minced garlic Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 6 bamboo or metal skewers Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. If using bamboo skewers, place the skewers in a pan, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Place the shrimp on the skewers. Brush them with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the skewers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes on each side. Transfer the skewers to a rimmed sheet pan. Remove the shrimp from the skewers and place them in a large bowl. Add the orzo, cucumber, tomatoes, garbanzo beans, artichoke hearts, olives, cheese, onion, dill, and mint to the bowl and toss to blend. Combine the lemon juice, vinegar, mustard, olive oil, and garlic in a small bowl and whisk to combine. Pour the dressing over the orzo salad and toss well. Season with salt and pepper and serve. Serves 4 " _The Big Green Egg is the most versatile cooker I have ever used. In very little time you will be enjoying food prepared on it more than restaurant food._ " —Wess, Maryland ### Grilled Oysters with Pink Peppercorn Mignonette _This is an easy and delicious way to cook oysters, but make sure that the oysters you purchase are fresh and still alive. To ensure freshness, tap the top of the shell with your fingers. If the oyster is still alive, it will shut its shell tightly; if it does not, discard it. Prior to grilling, keep the oysters in the refrigerator. Store them with the cupped-shell side down so that the liquid does not leak out, or they will become dry. After grilling, discard any unopened oysters, as this is an indication that the oyster is not safe to eat. This dish can be served as an appetizer or main course. Just remember that the cooking time will vary depending on the size of your oysters._ * Ingredients * ½ cup champagne vinegar * ¼ cup minced shallots * 1 tablespoon pink peppercorns, crushed * ¼ cup minced fresh chervil or fresh flat-leaf parsley * 48 fresh oysters Equipment: Porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. To make the sauce, combine the vinegar, shallots, peppercorns, and chervil in a small bowl and refrigerate. Place the oysters on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 to 4 minutes, until the shells open and release steam. Transfer to a platter. If you have any oysters that do not open, try cooking for a minute or two longer. If they still do not open, discard, as they are not edible. For each oyster, remove the top lid of the shell and separate the oyster from the bottom shell, but do not remove it. Spoon 1 teaspoon of the sauce over each oyster. Serve the oysters immediately in their shells. Serves 4 # _eggxotic!_ vegetarian meals recipes * Grilled Vegetable Lasagna * Spinach & Mushroom Quesadillas * Caramelized Onion Tart * Grilled Polenta with Puttanesca Sauce * Eggplant Rollatini * Root Vegetable Pot Pie * Veggie Noodle Stir-Fry * Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice * Portobello Mushroom Burgers * Veggie Burgers * Vegetable Reuben Sandwich ### Grilled Vegetable Lasagna _Layers of lasagna noodles are interspersed with grilled vegetables, cheese, and tomato sauce, then blanketed with Mornay sauce, for this vegetarian version of lasagna. Although lasagna noodles are used in this recipe, wonton skins, prepared according to package instructions, make a perfect and lighter substitute for traditional lasagna noodles. This dish can be made ahead of time and reheated for a quick weeknight dinner._ * Ingredients * 1 tablespoon plus ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 10 ounces fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried * 2 zucchini, quartered lengthwise * 2 yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise * 2 Japanese eggplants, quartered lengthwise * 1½ cups portobello mushrooms, gills removed (6 ounces) * 1½ teaspoons garlic powder * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 roasted red bell peppers, chopped (page 170) * 2 cups ricotta cheese (1 pound) * ½ cup goat cheese (2 ounces), at room temperature * 1 large egg * ½ cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, chopped * 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, chopped * Mornay Sauce * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * 1¼ cups whole milk * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper * 5 cups Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce (page 199) * 1 pound lasagna noodles, cooked according to package directions * 1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese (4 ounces) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a large sauté pan on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the spinach and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until wilted. Set aside. Brush the zucchini, squash, eggplant, and mushrooms with the remaining ¼ cup olive oil and season with the garlic powder and salt and pepper. Place the vegetables on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes per side. Transfer the vegetables to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool slightly. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Lower the temperature to 350°F. Dice the zucchini, squash, eggplant, and mushrooms into ½-inch cubes and place in a large bowl. Add the bell peppers and spinach and stir to incorporate. Combine the ricotta cheese, goat cheese, egg, basil, and thyme in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper and mix well. Set aside. To make the Mornay sauce, melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Add the flour and cook on low heat for 3 minutes, or until the roux is bubbly and the flour is no longer raw. Using a whisk, add the milk. Simmer for 5 minutes, or until thick. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheese, nutmeg, and pepper. Stir well to combine. Reserve 2 cups of tomato sauce and keep warm in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. To assemble the lasagna, spread 1 cup of the tomato sauce over the bottom of the baking dish. Add layers, starting with one-third of the noodles, then adding one-half of the grilled vegetables and 1 cup of the tomato sauce. Make 1 more layer and top the layer of tomato sauce with the remaining noodles. Pour the Mornay sauce evenly over the lasagna ingredients and sprinkle with the mozzarella cheese. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 45 minutes, or until the cheese is melted and the lasagna is thoroughly heated. Remove the baking dish and allow the lasagna to rest for 10 minutes. Cut into 3 by 4-inch pieces and serve with the remaining heated tomato sauce. Serves 8 " _The beauty of the Big Green Egg is that it holds heat so well, much better than a metal grill._ " —Paul, Michigan ### Spinach & Mushroom Quesadillas _This recipe takes a traditional quesadilla and adds sautéed spinach, wild mushrooms, and goat cheese to the mix. The filling is placed in a flour tortilla and grilled until the cheese is melted and yummy. Serve this with a side of homemade spicy tomato salsa._ * Ingredients * Tomato Salsa (optional) * 1 jalapeño, seeded and chopped * 2 cups chopped tomatoes * 3 cloves garlic * ¼ cup chopped yellow onion * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes) * ½ cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for brushing * ½ cup chopped red onion * 4 cups mixed mushrooms (such as cremini, oyster, and shiitake), wild or cultivated * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1 pound fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried * 4 (10-inch) flour tortillas * 1 pound white American cheese, shredded * 2 cups crumbled goat cheese (8 ounces) * Lime wedges Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Half Moon Griddle Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. To make the salsa, place the pepper, tomatoes, and garlic in a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Simmer for 15 minutes, or until the peppers are tender and the skin begins to peel off the tomatoes. Strain the ingredients and remove the skins from the tomatoes. Place the tomato mixture, onion, lime juice, and cilantro in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 30 seconds. Season with salt and pepper. Heat the ¼ cup of the olive oil in the Dutch Oven and add the onion and mushrooms. Close the lid of the EGG and cook slowly for 10 minutes, or until the onion is browned. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Add the spinach and cook until it is wilted. Remove the Dutch Oven from the grid. Using a strainer, drain the mushroom mixture well and transfer it to a medium bowl to cool. To assemble, spoon 1 cup of the American cheese in the center of each tortilla, place one-quarter of the mushroom mixture in each center, add the goat cheese, and fold the tortillas in half. Brush each outside surface with olive oil. Place the Griddle on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes. Place two stuffed tortillas on the Griddle. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes per side, until the tortillas are golden brown and the cheese is melted. Transfer the quesadillas to a platter, and cook the other two tortillas. Transfer the quesadillas to the same platter and cut each one into 4 wedges. Serve with salsa and lime wedges. Serves 4 ### Caramelized Onion Tart _Caramelized onions are the star of this show. Though caramelizing onions takes time and patience, the result is well worth the wait. These sweet and creamy onions are added to a custard base, placed in a buttery tart shell, and baked in the EGG until golden brown. Add a mixed green salad and dinner is ready!_ * Ingredients * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 2 pounds thinly sliced Vidalia or other sweet onions * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar * 2 teaspoons minced garlic * 1 (11-inch) tart shell (page 223) * 1 cup shredded Gruyère cheese (4 ounces) * 1/3 cup ricotta cheese * 1 cup heavy cream * 6 large egg yolks * ¼ cup minced fresh chives * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, 11-inch round tart pan Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Heat the olive oil in a large sauté pan on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the onions, sugar, and garlic and mix well using a wooden spoon. Turn the heat to low and cook for 2 hours, or until the onions are soft and caramel in color. Strain the onions, discarding any liquid. Transfer the caramelized onions to the tart shell and spread evenly. Sprinkle the Gruyère cheese over the onions, and distribute the ricotta cheese over the onion mixture by teaspoonfuls. In a small bowl, mix the cream, egg yolks, chives, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Pour the cream mixture over the tart. Place the tart on the Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 10 minutes. Sprinkle the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese over the tart and bake for an additional 10 minutes, or until the tart is set. Remove the tart and place on a cooling rack. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. Serves 6 ### Grilled Polenta with Puttanesca Sauce _Polenta is a northern Italian dish made by boiling cornmeal in milk, cream, or chicken stock. Use high-quality, stone-ground yellow cornmeal for this polenta, which is first boiled and then baked. Serve this dish with the robust red sauce enhanced with capers and olives. Carefully follow the instructions for adding the eggs to the polenta to keep the eggs from curdling._ * Ingredients * Puttanesca Sauce * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * ½ cup thinly sliced red onion * ½ cup white wine * 1 (12-ounce) can crushed tomatoes * 1 roasted red bell pepper, chopped (page 170) * ½ cup chopped assorted olives * 2 tablespoons capers * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 to 2 lemons) * ¼ cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, rolled and thinly sliced * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Polenta * 2 cups whole milk * 2 cups chicken stock * 1 cup polenta (not quick-cooking) * 1 cup shredded fontina cheese (4 ounces) * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * ½ cup mascarpone cheese (4 ounces) * 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 large eggs, at room temperature * ¼ cup shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce) * ¼ cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, for garnish Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. To make the sauce, place the olive oil, garlic, and onion in a medium saucepan on the stovetop and sauté over medium heat for 3 to 4 minutes. Add the wine, tomatoes, bell pepper, olives, and capers and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice and basil. Season with salt and pepper and set aside. To make the polenta, simmer the milk and chicken stock in a large saucepan on the stovetop over medium-low heat. Slowly add the polenta and cook, stirring, for 20 minutes, or until thick and creamy. Add the fontina, grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, and mascarpone cheeses and the olive oil to the pan. Season with salt and pepper and stir well. Using a whisk, beat the eggs in a small bowl and slowly add 1 cup of the polenta to the eggs, whisking constantly. Once incorporated, add the egg mixture back into the saucepan of polenta and stir until blended. Pour the polenta into the prepared baking dish and spread evenly, using a spatula. Place the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until the polenta is firm. Remove the polenta and let cool for 10 minutes before serving. To assemble, spoon ½ half cup polenta onto individual plates. Top with the sauce and shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and garnish with basil leaves. Serves 6 ### Eggplant Rollatini _Rollatini is an Italian dish made of thin slices of eggplant that have been covered with cheese and then rolled and baked. For this dish, there is no need to salt the eggplant to reduce any bitterness. The EGG does a superb job of grilling eggplant—it turns out tender with a wonderful subtle smokiness. The peel of the eggplant is edible, so it is not necessary to peel it before cooking._ * Ingredients * 1 (2-pound) eggplant, cut lengthwise into ⅛-inch-thick slices (16 slices) * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 large egg, beaten * 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese (8 ounces) * 1 cup whole milk ricotta cheese (8 ounces) * ¼ cup plus ¼ cup grated Romano cheese (2 ounces total) * ½ cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, rolled and thinly sliced * 1½ cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Brush the eggplant slices on both sides with the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the eggplant on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes per side, or until tender. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Raise the temperature to 600°F. Mix the egg, mozzarella cheese, ricotta cheese, ¼ cup of the Romano cheese, and the basil in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper and mix well. Place ½ cup of the Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce in the bottom of the baking dish. Place 2 tablespoons of the cheese mixture on one end of each slice of eggplant and roll the eggplant toward the other end. Repeat the process until all the eggplant is rolled. Place the eggplant, seam side down, in the pan, forming 2 rows. Ladle the remaining 1 cup tomato sauce over the top of the eggplant and sprinkle with the remaining ¼ cup of Romano cheese. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 15 minutes, or until the eggplant is thoroughly heated and the cheese is melted. Remove the baking dish and let the eggplant rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serve 4 rolls per person. Serves 4 ### Root Vegetable Pot Pie _Root vegetables are used to great effect in this rustic pot pie. Celery root, also known as celeriac, is combined in a creamy sauce with turnips, parsnips, and carrots, all of which impart a subtle sweet taste to an otherwise very savory pie. A glass of red wine and a roaring fire are all you will need to accompany this cool-weather dish._ * Ingredients * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 cup diced red onions * 1 cup diced celery * 1 cup diced carrots * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * ¼ cup all-purpose flour * 3 cups chicken stock * 1 cup diced parsnips * 1 cup diced turnips * 1 cup diced celery root * 1 cup diced russet potatoes * 1 cup diced yams * 1/3 cup heavy cream * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter * ¼ cup minced chives * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 (9-inch) pie shell and 1 pie dough disk (page 223) * 1 large egg * 1 tablespoon water Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9-inch glass or ceramic deep-dish pie plate Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Heat the olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions, celery, and carrots. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté for 3 to 4 minutes, until the vegetables begin to brown. Add the garlic and continue to cook for 1 minute. Add the flour and stir until blended. Slowly add the chicken stock and simmer until the sauce has thickened. Add the parsnips, turnips, celery root, potatoes, and yams, cover the Dutch Oven, and close the lid of the EGG. Simmer, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes, or until the vegetables can easily be pierced with a fork. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat and add the cream, butter, and chives, and season with salt and pepper. Let cool slightly. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Spoon the vegetables into the pie shell. Roll out the pie dough disk on a lightly floured surface until it is large enough to cover the top of the pie. Press the top and bottom edges of the dough together and crimp. Using a paring knife, add small vent holes to the top of the pie crust or prick with the tines of a fork. Mix the egg and water in a small bowl and brush the top of the crust with the egg wash. Place the pie on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown. Remove the pie and let rest for 15 minutes before serving. Serves 4 to 6 ### Veggie Noodle Stir-Fry _Use a vegetable peeler to slice the carrots, zucchini, and squash into wide, thin ribbons, then cut the ribbons lengthwise into thin julienned slices with a knife. You will have a medley of brightly colored vegetables all intertwined like long, thin, beautiful noodles. This is a dish that cooks in a matter of minutes and would go well as a side dish with roasted chicken or pork._ * Ingredients * Sauce * ½ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (3 lemons) * ½ cup freshly squeezed orange juice (1 orange) * ½ cup rice wine vinegar * ½ cup soy sauce * 4 teaspoons red curry paste * ½ cup peanut oil * 1 cup sliced shallots * 2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger * 2 teaspoons minced garlic * 2 cups julienned red bell pepper * 2 cups snow peas * 4 cups julienned napa cabbage * 2 cups julienned carrots * 2 cups julienned zucchini * 2 cups julienned yellow crookneck squash * 4 cups bean sprouts * 18 to 20 scallions, green parts only, cut in half lengthwise * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves * 1 cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves * ½ cup firmly packed fresh mint leaves * 1 cup thinly sliced red radishes * 1 cup chopped peanuts Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Set the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. To make the sauce, use a whisk to stir the lemon juice, orange juice, vinegar, soy sauce, and red curry paste together in a small bowl. Pour the peanut oil into the preheated Dutch Oven. Add the shallots, ginger, garlic, bell pepper, and snow peas. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté for 30 seconds. Add the cabbage, carrots, zucchini, squash, bean sprouts, and scallions and cook for 1 minute. Add the sauce and cook for 30 seconds. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat, then add the basil, cilantro, and mint and stir. Place the mixture in individual bowls and garnish with the radishes and peanuts. Serve immediately. Serves 4 as a main course, or 8 as a side dish ### Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice _The Dutch Oven is the ideal vessel to use when stir-frying in the EGG. Place it right on the grid to preheat it before adding the ingredients, and it's ready to go. A traditional wok with all-metal handles can also be used in lieu of the Dutch Oven. The fried rice is a great main course, but it also makes a great side dish to serve with Napa Cabbage Beef Wraps (page 73)._ * Ingredients * ¼ cup peanut oil * 1½ cups diced yellow onions * 1½ cups diced carrots * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 4 large eggs * 1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil * 2 ¾ cups uncooked long grain rice, cooked according to package directions and cooled * ½ cup rice wine * 1/3 cup soy sauce * 1 cup English peas * ½ cup thinly sliced scallions Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven or all-metal wok Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Preheat the Dutch Oven on the grid for 10 minutes. Heat the peanut oil in the Dutch Oven and add the onions and carrots. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté for 3 to 4 minutes, until the carrots are tender. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, stirring occasionally. Using a wooden spoon, move the vegetables to the outer edges of the Dutch Oven, leaving the center exposed. Using a whisk, beat the eggs and sesame oil in a small bowl. Pour the beaten eggs into the center of the Dutch Oven. Using a wooden spoon, stir until the eggs are scrambled. Add the rice and rice wine. Close the lid of the EGG and and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring often, until all the ingredients are combined. Add the soy sauce, peas, and scallions. Stir to combine and cook for 1 minute. Transfer the rice to a bowl and serve immediately. Serves 6 as a main course, or 8 as a side dish ### Portobello Mushroom Burgers _Portobello mushrooms are large, meaty mushrooms that are substantial enough to substitute for meat in a burger. They are best marinated before grilling, so be sure to allow a little extra time for this process. These burgers are dressed with Muenster cheese, lettuce, and tomato, but you also could add Roasted Red Bell Peppers (page 170) and fresh spinach leaves._ * Ingredients * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1 tablespoon minced fresh thyme * ¼ cup soy sauce * ¼ cup balsamic vinegar * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for brushing * 4 large portobello mushrooms, gills and stems removed * ½ cup mayonnaise * ½ cup chopped fresh basil * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard * 4 kaiser rolls * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 thick slices red onion * 4 slices Muenster cheese * 1 beefsteak tomato, cut into 4 slices * 4 green leaf lettuce leaves Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Whisk the garlic, thyme, soy sauce, vinegar, and olive oil in a small bowl. Place the mushrooms in a resealable plastic bag and pour the marinade over the mushrooms. Seal the bag and marinate for a minimum of 30 minutes or up to 1 hour. Combine the mayonnaise, basil, and mustard in a small bowl. Set aside. Brush the insides of the rolls with olive oil and set aside. Remove the mushrooms from the marinade and season with salt and pepper. Place the mushrooms and onion slices on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes on each side, until the mushrooms are tender. Place a slice of cheese on top of each mushroom and close the lid of the EGG for 1 minute. Open the lid and place the rolls on the Grid, cut sides down. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 30 seconds, or until the rolls are lightly toasted. Transfer the mushrooms, onions, and rolls to a platter. To assemble, spread the inside of the rolls with the basil mayonnaise. Place a mushroom on the bottom of each roll, top with a tomato slice, a lettuce leaf, and an onion slice. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Veggie Burgers _Packed with wholesome goodness, this is the perfect veggie burger! These burgers begin with brown rice and black beans and take off from there. The burger is finished with a hoisin glaze, placed on a toasted bun, and dressed like a traditional burger. Healthy never tasted so good! Do not be daunted by the ingredients list. It is mostly measure-and-stir!_ * Ingredients * ½ cup brown rice, cooked and chilled * 1 (15-ounce) can black beans, drained and rinsed * ¼ cup Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192) * ¼ cup diced mixed mushrooms (such as white and cremini) * ¼ cup quick-cooking oats * ¼ cup plain dried bread crumbs, purchased or homemade * 2 tablespoons minced roasted beets (page 175) * 2 tablespoons finely chopped golden raisins * 1 tablespoon grated yellow onion * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1 teaspoon chili powder * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon ground cumin * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 2 tablespoons soy sauce * 2 tablespoons hoisin sauce * 1 tablespoon molasses * 4 whole wheat buns * 4 lettuce leaves * 4 tomato slices * 4 slices red onion Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Mix the brown rice, black beans, barbecue sauce, mushrooms, oats, bread crumbs, beets, raisins, onion, garlic, chili powder, salt, cumin, and pepper in a medium bowl. Let rest for 10 minutes. Using a whisk, combine the soy sauce, hoisin sauce, and molasses in a small bowl and set aside. Divide the rice mixture into 4 equal parts and form patties. Place the burgers on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 minutes. Turn the burgers over and brush with the hoisin glaze. Close the lid of the EGG and continue cooking for 3 more minutes, or until heated through. To assemble, place the cut sides of the buns on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 30 seconds, or until lightly toasted. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the burgers to a rimmed sheet pan and brush each burger with more glaze. Transfer the toasted buns to a platter and place a burger on the bottom half of each bun. Top each burger with a lettuce leaf, a tomato slice, and an onion slice, and the top half of the bun. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Vegetable Reuben Sandwich _You won't miss the corned beef in this vegetarian version of a classic Reuben sandwich. Marbled rye bread is the landing pad for sautéed mushrooms, peppers, spinach, and onions that are topped with Swiss cheese and sauerkraut, then grilled until warm and toasty._ * Ingredients * Dressing * ½ cup mayonnaise * ¼ cup ketchup * ¼ cup sweet relish * 1 teaspoon prepared horseradish * ½ teaspoon chili garlic sauce * ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 4 cups thinly sliced white mushrooms * 1 cup sliced red onions * 2 teaspoons minced garlic * ½ roasted red bell pepper, chopped (page 170) * 10 ounces fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 8 slices marbled rye bread * 8 slices Swiss cheese * 1 cup fresh sauerkraut * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Half Moon Griddle Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. To make the dressing, combine the mayonnaise, ketchup, relish, horseradish, chili garlic sauce, and Worcestershire sauce in a small bowl and mix well. Place the olive oil in the Dutch Oven and add the mushrooms, onions, and garlic. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté for 3 to 4 minutes, until caramelized. Add the bell pepper and spinach, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Remove the Dutch Oven and put the Griddle on the grid. To assemble, spread 4 slices of bread on one side with 2 teaspoons of the dressing each. Place a slice of cheese on top of each slice of bread, followed by one-quarter of the spinach mixture and ¼ cup of the sauerkraut. Place another slice of cheese over the sauerkraut and top with a slice of bread. Melt 2 tablespoons of butter on the Griddle. Place two sandwiches on the Griddle, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 1 minute on each side. Transfer the sandwiches to a platter. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter on the Griddle and cook the other two sandwiches. Remove and serve immediately. Serves 4 # _eggstensive!_ side dishes recipes * Barbecued Baked Beans * Twice-Baked Potatoes with Smoked Gouda & Grilled Scallions * Candied Sweet Potatoes * Honey-Roasted Acorn Squash * Grilled Squash Casserole * Mac & Cheese * Warm Southwestern Potato Salad * Panzanella Salad * Roasted Red Bell Peppers * Grill-Roasted Tomatoes * Grilled Caesar Salad * Prosciutto-Wrapped Haricots Verts * Roasted Beets with Goat Cheese & Truffle Oil * Cauliflower au Gratin * Roasted Fennel with Parmigiano-Reggiano * Roasted Corn with Cotija Cheese & Chipotle Butter * Creamed Corn * Dutch Oven Succotash * Grilled Corn with Roasted Garlic Butter * Roasted Corn with Blue Cheese & Ancho Chile * Brussels Sprouts & Pancetta Carbonara * Braised Leeks * Grilled Vegetable Ratatouille * Cremini Mushroom & Cheese Turnovers ### Barbecued Baked Beans _Once you make homemade baked beans in the EGG, you will never again settle for just opening a can of beans off the shelf. Cannellini beans (Italian white beans) are blended with applewood-smoked bacon in a rich, smoky sauce that's near perfection. Serve these with Barbecued Beef Ribs (page 56) or Shredded Pork Sandwich with Fennel Slaw (page 90)._ * Ingredients * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (12 to 14 slices), diced * 2 cups finely diced yellow onions * 3 cups Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192) * 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar * ½ cup maple syrup * ½ cup yellow mustard * 4 (15-ounce) cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed, 1 cup bean liquid reserved * 1 cup water * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Add the bacon to the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook until crisp. Transfer the bacon with a slotted spoon to a paper towel to drain and set aside, reserving the fat in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions to the bacon fat. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 8 minutes, or until caramelized. Add the reserved bacon, barbecue sauce, brown sugar, maple syrup, mustard, reserved cannellini bean liquid, and water to the Dutch Oven, and mix well. Add the cannellini beans and stir. Cover the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid of the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer, continuing to stir, for 15 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Season with salt and pepper when the beans are nearly done. Let the beans rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 8 ### Twice-Baked Potatoes with Smoked Gouda & Grilled Scallions _Smoked Gouda is the secret ingredient in these twice-baked potatoes. Loaded with butter, heavy cream, and cheese, these might be the most decadent potatoes you have ever tasted. They would be perfect served with Standing Rib Roast (page 70) at a dinner party or with a simple grilled steak._ * Ingredients * 3 large russet potatoes (about 1 pound each) * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1 cup plus ½ cup grated smoked Gouda cheese (6 ounces total) * ¾ cup heavy cream * 1 tablespoon Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * ¼ cup chopped scallions Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Brush each potato with olive oil, pierce holes in it with the tines of a fork, and season with salt. Wrap each potato with aluminum foil and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes. Turn the potatoes over, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 minutes more, or until the potatoes are soft and easily pierced with a fork. Transfer the potatoes to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 15 minutes. Unwrap the potatoes, cut them in half lengthwise, and scoop out the flesh of each potato, leaving a little of the potato around the edges of the shells. Place the flesh in a large bowl. Add the butter and 1 cup of the cheese. Heat the cream in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat for 1 to 2 minutes, then add the barbecue rub and the scallions. Add the cream to the potato-cheese mixture, and using an electric mixer, beat on medium speed until combined. Season with salt and pepper. Spoon the mixture into the shells and top with the remaining ½ cup of cheese. Put the potatoes in a baking dish and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and heat for 3 to 5 minutes, or until the cheese is melted. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Candied Sweet Potatoes _Sweet potatoes are an edible root and are a member of the morning glory family. They have dark orange skin with a rich, vivid orange interior; they are often confused with yams, which have pale yellow skin and a light yellow interior. These sweet potatoes are baked in the EGG, then peeled, sliced, and layered in a baking dish. Enhanced with orange juice, brown sugar, and corn syrup, they're topped with thin orange slices, then returned to the EGG and baked until wonderfully caramelized. They are sure to get rave reviews!_ * Ingredients * 2 pounds sweet potatoes * 1½ cups plus 2 tablespoons firmly packed light brown sugar * ¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice * 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons light corn syrup * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into cubes * 1 navel orange, peeled and thinly sliced Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the sweet potatoes on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 7 to 8 minutes. Turn the potatoes, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking for 7 to 8 minutes, until easily pierced with a fork. Remove the potatoes from the Plate Setter and let cool completely. Peel the sweet potatoes and cut them into ¼-inch-thick rounds. Lay the potatoes in the baking dish. Sprinkle 1½ cups of the brown sugar evenly over the sweet potatoes. Drizzle with the orange juice and 1 cup of the corn syrup and dot with the butter. Place the orange slices on the sweet potatoes, drizzle the remaining 2 tablespoons corn syrup on the orange slices, and sprinkle with the remaining 2 tablespoons brown sugar. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 1 hour, or until the sweet potatoes are tender. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Honey-Roasted Acorn Squash _Acorn squash is a dark green winter squash that has a vivid orange interior. The squash is cut in half and a healthy blend of oats, raisins, and nuts is added in the center before drizzling with honey and baking. Try this with Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb (page 76) for a perfect dinner on a cold winter night!_ * Ingredients * 1 large egg, beaten * ¼ cup firmly packed light brown sugar * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 1 cup all-purpose flour * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ cup dark raisins * ¼ cup golden raisins * ¼ cup rolled quick-cooking oats * ½ cup chopped pecans * 2 acorn squashes * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * ¼ cup honey Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish lined with aluminum foil Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Combine the egg, sugar, butter, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt in a large bowl. Add the dark and golden raisins, the oats, and pecans and gently fold together. Cut each squash in half crosswise. Using a tablespoon, remove the seeds from the center of each squash. With a sharp knife, cut a thin slice off the bottom of each squash half so that it will rest flat in the pan. Place the squash in the prepared baking dish and fill the center of each half with the oatmeal-raisin mixture. Combine the oil and honey in a small bowl and stir well. Drizzle the mixture over the squash. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the squash is easily pierced with a fork. Remove the baking dish from the EGG and allow to cool for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 4 ### Grilled Squash Casserole _Yellow crookneck squash and zucchini are both referred to as summer squash. The yellow crookneck has a long, slender neck and a wider body and is mild and creamy when cooked. Zucchini is green, long, and slender and has a light-colored interior and a delicate flavor. When mixed in a casserole, they create a comforting dish that can be served on weeknights as well as with your Thanksgiving meal._ _When purchasing squash, try to pick the smaller, younger ones; they will be more tender, and the skin will not be as tough._ * Ingredients * 1 pound yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise * 1 pound zucchini, sliced * 2 (½-inch) slices yellow onion * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup heavy cream * 1 cup mayonnaise * 3 large eggs, beaten * 1 cup shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (4 ounces) * 1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese (4 ounces) * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * 1 cup plus 1 cup Ritz cracker crumbs * 1 cup thinly sliced scallions * 2 teaspoons minced garlic * 1 cup panko * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Brush the squash, zucchini, and onion with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the squash, zucchini, and onion on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 8 to 10 minutes, turning frequently until tender. Transfer the squash, zucchini, and onion to a rimmed sheet pan and allow to cool completely Place the vegetables on a cutting board and chop into medium pieces. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Combine the cream, mayonnaise, eggs, cheeses, 1 cup of the cracker crumbs, scallions, and garlic in a large bowl. Add the grilled vegetables and, using a wooden spoon, stir until combined. Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish and spread evenly, using a spatula. Toss the remaining 1 cup cracker crumbs and the panko with the melted butter. Sprinkle the crumbs evenly over the top of the squash. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until set. Remove the baking dish from the EGG and let rest for 15 minutes before serving. Serves 10 _"After many years of buying metal cookers that only lasted a few years here in cold, wet Michigan, I bought a Big Green Egg. The ability to cook year-round now is a major plus!"—Ron, Michigan_ ### Mac & Cheese _The following version of this ultimate comfort food has a combination of five cheeses that come together to form a rich, creamy sauce that clings to the macaroni. Though macaroni and cheese is thought of as a typical American dish, it is believed to be of Italian origin. Elbow macaroni is generally used in this dish, but shells, twists, or ribbons will also work just fine._ * Ingredients * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 4 tablespoons all-purpose flour * 1 teaspoon dry mustard * 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce * 2 teaspoons Tabasco sauce * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 3 cups heavy cream * 2 cups whole milk * 2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (8 ounces) * 1 cup shredded Gruyère cheese (4 ounces) * 1 cup shredded fontina cheese (4 ounces) * 1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese (4 ounces) * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * 1 pound medium pasta shells or macaroni, cooked al dente * Topping * 2 cups panko * 2 teaspoons paprika * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted Equipment: Plate Setter, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Melt the butter in a large pot on the stovetop. Add the flour and, using a whisk and stirring constantly, cook for 2 minutes. Continue stirring as you add the dry mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Slowly add the cream and milk and continue cooking, stirring constantly, for 7 to 8 minutes, until the sauce bubbles slightly. Do not let the sauce boil. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheeses to the sauce. Using a wooden spoon, stir until the cheese is melted. Add the pasta and fold it into the sauce. Pour the pasta into the Dutch Oven. To make the topping, use a fork to mix the panko, paprika, and butter in a small bowl, blending well. Sprinkle the mixture over the top of the pasta and place the uncovered Dutch Oven on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Warm Southwestern Potato Salad _If ever there were a macho potato salad, this is it! Grilled cactus and chopped jicama add an unexpected twist to this warm, spicy red potato salad. To complete the Southwestern theme, these ingredients are tossed in a dressing of freshly squeezed lime juice and adobo sauce mixed with a heavy dose of chopped cilantro. Though the cactus adds a unique flavor to this salad, if it is not available at your local grocery store, it can be omitted._ * Ingredients * 2 pounds red potatoes, halved * ¼ cup olive oil * 1 tablespoon Red Chile Rub (page 197) * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 large cactus leaf * 1 medium red onion, thickly sliced * 1 medium jicama, peeled and diced * 1 teaspoon sliced pickled red jalapeño, seeded and chopped * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lime juice (2 to 3 limes) * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon adobo sauce (from a can of chipotles in adobo sauce) * ½ cup chopped fresh cilantro Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Toss the potatoes with the olive oil in a medium bowl and add the rub. Season with salt and pepper and blend well. Place the potatoes on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 20 minutes, or until tender when pierced with a fork. Transfer the potatoes to a rimmed sheet pan. Using a paring knife, remove the thorns from the cactus. Place the cactus leaf and the onion slices on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes on each side. Transfer the cactus and onion to another rimmed sheet pan. Cut the potatoes, cactus, and onion into bite-size pieces and place in a large bowl. Add the jicama and jalapeño and mix well. To make the dressing, mix the lime juice, olive oil, and adobo sauce in a small bowl. Pour the dressing over the potato mixture and add the cilantro and ½ teaspoon salt. Toss to combine. Serve immediately, while the salad is still slightly warm. Serves 6 to 8 _(See recipe photograph on page 154.)_ ### Panzanella Salad _Panzanella is an Italian salad that contains tomatoes, onions, basil, and large chunks of bread. You can use any type of crusty bread, but you'll love the way ciabatta grills in the EGG. Ciabatta (Italian for "slipper") is a long, wide loaf that is soft on the inside, with a thin, crisp crust. Do not substitute a soft-crusted bread, because the bread is what this salad is all about._ * Ingredients * 2 tablespoons plus 1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil * 3 cups 1-inch cubes ciabatta bread * 2 cups diced heirloom tomatoes * 1 cup halved grape tomatoes * 1 cup canned garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed * 1 cup peeled and diced English cucumber * 1 cup small fresh mozzarella _di bufala_ balls (bocconcini) * ½ cup chopped fresh basil leaves * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * ¼ cup red wine vinegar * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and perforated grill pan. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. In a medium bowl, mix 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and the bread cubes, turning to coat. Place the bread on the grill pan and grill, turning constantly, for 2 to 3 minutes, until toasted light brown. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Combine the heirloom tomatoes, grape tomatoes, garbanzo beans, cucumber, mozzarella balls, and basil in a large bowl and mix well. Add the toasted bread, toss, and set aside. Whisk the remaining 1/3 cup olive oil, the mustard, garlic, and vinegar together in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Drizzle the dressing over the tomato mixture and toss gently. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Roasted Red Bell Peppers _Bell peppers come in five vibrant colors—green, red, purple, yellow, and orange. They add not only flavor but also appealing color to many dishes. Of all the colors, the red pepper has the sweetest and most subtle flavor, which is why it is used throughout this book. This method for roasting peppers is easy and they can be used for cooking or in salads and sandwiches._ * Ingredients * 4 red bell peppers Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Place the peppers on the Grid. Cook on all sides, turning constantly with long-handled tongs. Grill for 8 to 10 minutes, until blackened all over. Transfer the peppers to a large resealable plastic bag. Seal tightly and allow the peppers to steam in the bag for about 10 minutes. Remove the peppers from the bag and peel away the skin. Slice the peppers open and remove the stem, seeds, and ribs. Makes approximately 2 cups ### Grill-Roasted Tomatoes _Grilling or slow-roasting a tomato intensifies the tomato's flavor. Roma tomatoes are used in this recipe, but you can grill any variety of tomato in this manner—just adjust your grilling time according to the size of the tomato. Grilled tomatoes can be served as a side or used in sandwiches, sauces, or salads._ * Ingredients * 2 pounds Roma tomatoes * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Cut the tomatoes in half lengthwise, through the stem end. Place the tomatoes, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl and toss to coat. Using tongs, place the tomatoes on the Grid, cut side down. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes. Turn the tomatoes over, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking for 2 to 3 minutes, until the skin starts to peel away from the flesh of the tomato. Remove the tomatoes from the EGG, transfer to a plate, and allow to cool. Serves 6 ### Grilled Caesar Salad _Lightly grilled romaine is used in a Caesar salad made with traditional dressing. This recipe is purported to have been created in Mexico by a chef named Caesar Cardini. Anchovies are included, though they are not thought to have been part of the original recipe. Even though this recipe is a departure from the original, there is no doubt Caesar would have loved this version!_ * Ingredients * Dressing * 2 egg yolks * 2 cloves garlic * 3 anchovy fillets * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard * 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 to 2 lemons) * ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce * ¼ teaspoon Tabasco sauce * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Croutons * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 4 cloves garlic, crushed * 2 cups ½-inch cubes ciabatta bread * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 heads romaine lettuce, cut in half lengthwise * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil * ¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and perforated grill pan. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the dressing, place the egg yolks, garlic, anchovies, and mustard in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse for 10 seconds. Slowly add the olive oil in a steady stream. Add the cheese, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco sauce. Season with salt and pepper and pulse until combined. Refrigerate. To make the croutons, melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop, add the garlic, and cook over low heat for 10 minutes, making sure not to let the butter brown. Strain the butter into a small bowl. Add the bread cubes, season with salt and pepper, and toss together. Place the bread on the perforated grill pan and grill for 2 to 3 minutes, turning constantly, until toasted light brown on all sides. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan from the Grid and allow the croutons to cool. Brush the inside of each lettuce half with olive oil. Place the lettuce on the Grid, cut side down. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 1 minute, or until lightly browned. Remove and let cool. To assemble, place a lettuce half on each plate, grilled side up. Pour the desired amount of dressing over the lettuce and top with croutons and cheese. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Prosciutto-Wrapped Haricots Verts Haricot _is the French word for "bean," and vert is the word for "green." Haricots verts are smaller and thinner than most American green beans, and they also tend to be a little more tender. These delicate beans can be served at an elegant dinner, either as an appetizer or as a side. If you can't find haricots verts, American-size green beans are an acceptable substitute. Try this dish with Beef Wellington (page 287)._ * Ingredients * 8 ounces haricots verts, trimmed * 2 tablespoons plus 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for drizzling * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 ounces prosciutto, thinly sliced * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard * 1 ounce Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, shaved Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid and perforated grill pan. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. In a medium bowl, toss the haricots verts with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the haricots verts on the perforated grill pan, close the lid of the EGG, and grill for 2 to 3 minutes, until slightly soft. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan from the grid and transfer the beans to a work surface. Divide the cooked beans into 6 bundles and wrap each bundle with prosciutto slices. Whisk together the lemon juice, the 1 tablespoon olive oil, and the mustard in a small bowl until emulsified. Place the bundles of haricots verts directly on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 1 minute. Transfer the bundles to a platter. Drizzle with a little olive oil and sprinkle with cheese. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Roasted Beets with Goat Cheese & Truffle Oil _Beets have a wonderful, earthy flavor and can be found in deep red or gold. Pairing them with goat cheese and truffle oil turns them into an elegant side salad. If you are unable to find truffle oil, you can substitute a high-quality olive oil._ * Ingredients * 6 red or golden beets, or a combination, trimmed and washed * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 8 ounces goat cheese, sliced into ¼-inch-thick rounds, chilled * White truffle oil or extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling * 1 head frisée, washed and patted dry (optional) Equipment: Plate Setter Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Toss the beets with the olive oil and 1 tablespoon of salt in a medium bowl. Wrap each beet in aluminum foil and place on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until a fork easily pierces the beets. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Using a paring knife, peel the beets and slice them into ¼-inch rounds. To serve, alternate slices of beets with slices of cheese on individual plates. Drizzle the beets and cheese with truffle oil and season with salt and pepper. Garnish with frisée leaves, if desired, and serve. Serves 4 ### Cauliflower au Gratin _Here, cauliflower—a member of the lowly cabbage family—is given the royal treatment. First the cauliflower is grilled, then it is mixed with a creamy cheese sauce, topped with panko (Japanese bread crumbs), and baked in the EGG. This elegant dish can be served at any holiday meal or dinner party with Standing Rib Roast (page 70). Though this is a side dish, it can also serve as a main course for vegetarians if you double the recipe._ * Ingredients * Mornay Sauce * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup heavy cream * 1 cup whole milk * 1 cup shredded white Cheddar cheese (4 ounces) * 1 head cauliflower (about 1 pound), cored and cut into large pieces * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup shredded white Cheddar cheese (4 ounces) * 1 cup panko Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 7 by 11-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the Mornay sauce, melt the butter in a heavy-bottomed medium saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Using a whisk, add the flour, salt, and pepper, stirring constantly for 2 minutes. Slowly add the cream to the flour mixture, stirring constantly to avoid lumps. Add the milk, stir well, and let simmer for 5 minutes, or until thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheese, stirring constantly, until it is completely melted. Keep the sauce warm over low heat. Put the cauliflower in a medium bowl. Pour the olive oil over the cauliflower, add the salt and pepper, and toss. Place the cauliflower on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook, turning occasionally, for 6 minutes, or until the cauliflower can easily be pierced with a fork. Place the cauliflower in the baking dish. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the Grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Pour the sauce evenly over the cauliflower. Toss the cheese and panko together in a small bowl and sprinkle this mixture evenly over the cauliflower. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 25 minutes, or until light golden brown. Remove the baking dish and let the cauliflower rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Roasted Fennel with Parmigiano-Reggiano _The bulb, fronds, and seeds of the anise-flavored fennel plant are used often in the culinary world. Grilled fennel bulbs can be used in soups, salads, and even risotto. Roast it, then toss with orange segments and braise in the EGG with chicken stock. The roasted fennel is delicious with Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary (page 123)._ * Ingredients * 3 fennel bulbs, trimmed and quartered, fronds reserved * 2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * ½ cup navel orange segments (from 1 orange) * ¼ cup chicken stock * ¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Using a basting brush, coat the fennel with the olive oil, then season with salt and pepper. Place the fennel on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 5 minutes, or until the fennel is browned on all sides. Transfer the fennel to a medium bowl. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the Grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Lower the temperature to 400°F. Add the orange segments to the fennel, and toss well. Place the fennel and oranges in the baking dish. Pour the chicken stock and the orange juice over the fennel, dot with the butter, and sprinkle with ½ cup of the cheese. Set aside. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until the cheese is melted and the fennel is tender. Remove the pan from the EGG. Sprinkle with the remaining 2 tablespoons cheese. Chop 1 tablespoon of the reserved fennel fronds and sprinkle over the top. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Roasted Corn with Cotija Cheese & Chipotle Butter _Butter is laced with chipotle chiles—dried smoked jalapeño peppers—then used to baste this corn on the cob as it roasts right on the Grid. Peeling back the husks and tying them with butcher's twine makes for easy basting and a playful presentation._ * Ingredients * 4 ears corn * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature * 2 tablespoons chopped dried chipotle chiles * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ½ cup crumbled cotija cheese or feta cheese (2 ounces) * ¼ cup finely chopped fresh cilantro * 1 fresh lime, cut into quarters Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the corn into a large pan and cover with cold water. Let soak for 1 hour. Pull the husks back from each ear of corn and tie them into a bundle with butcher's twine. Completely remove the silk from each ear. Combine the butter, chiles, and salt in a small bowl and mix well. Using a knife or small spatula, spread 1 tablespoon of the butter evenly over each ear. Place the corn on the Grid with a piece of aluminum foil under each husk to prevent the husks from burning. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 6 minutes, basting the corn with the chipotle butter and turning every 2 minutes. Continue grilling for 6 more minutes, or until the corn is tender. Transfer the corn to a platter and coat with more chipotle butter. Sprinkle with the cheese and cilantro. Serve immediately with lime wedges. Serves 4 ### Creamed Corn _When mounds of fresh-from-the-field sweet corn appear in your local market, you can be sure that summer is in full swing. In this recipe, whole ears of corn packed with plump, sweet kernels are placed right on the grid to roast. The crisp kernels are then removed from the cob and blended with chicken stock and heavy cream to make this delicious side dish. Pair this with All-American Burgers (page 283) for a meal that's sure to be a winner with children and adults alike._ * Ingredients * 8 ears yellow corn, husks and silk removed * 2 tablespoons plus 6 tablespoons unsalted butter * 8 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (about 6 slices), chopped * 1 cup minced onions * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 2 cups chicken stock * 1 sprig rosemary * 1 cup heavy cream * ¼ cup cornmeal * ¼ cup granulated sugar * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the corn on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning often, for 10 minutes, or until the corn is tender. Let cool. Using a sharp knife, remove the corn kernels from the cobs; you should have about 8 cups. Place half of the corn kernels in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse until the corn is pureed. Reserve the remaining corn kernels. Set aside. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Add 2 tablespoons of the butter and the bacon to the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook until the bacon is lightly crisp. Add the onions and garlic and continue cooking for 1 minute. Add the whole corn kernels and the pureed corn kernels, the chicken stock, rosemary sprig, and cream. Close the lid of the EGG and simmer for 30 minutes, or until the liquid has reduced. Add the cornmeal and continue cooking for 5 to 7 minutes more, stirring occasionally, until thickened. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Add the sugar and the remaining 6 tablespoons butter. Season with salt and pepper. Remove the rosemary sprig and serve. Serves 6 ### Dutch Oven Succotash Succotash _translates from the Narragansett Indian word as "boiled whole kernels of corn." This traditional Southern dish is best made in the summer, when corn is fresh and sweet, tomatoes are reaching peak flavor, and fresh lima beans can be purchased from your local market. Succotash goes well with just about any grilled meat and adds a burst of color to any plate._ * Ingredients * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 1 cup chopped yellow onions * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 8 cups yellow corn kernels (about 8 ears) * 2 red bell peppers, seeded and diced * 4 cups fresh or frozen lima beans, cooked * 2 cups chicken stock * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme * 1 cup chopped Roma tomatoes * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * ¼ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Heat the olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions and garlic. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté for 2 to 3 minutes, using a wooden spoon to stir, until the onions are translucent. Add the corn, bell peppers, lima beans, chicken stock, rosemary, and thyme and stir until combined. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer for 5 minutes. Open the EGG, remove the lid of the Dutch Oven, and add the tomatoes. Replace the lid of the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 5 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG, add the butter and parsley, season with salt and pepper, and stir. Serve immediately. Serves 6 to 8 ### Grilled Corn with Roasted Garlic Butter _A summer barbecue isn't complete without grilled corn on the cob. Mix a dollop of creamy butter with fresh roasted garlic and add to the corn when it is hot off the grill. The only other thing you'll need is a napkin!_ * Ingredients * 4 ears corn * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature * 12 cloves roasted garlic (page 202) * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the corn in a large pan and cover with water. Let soak for 1 hour. Using a wooden spoon, combine the butter, garlic, salt, and pepper in a small bowl until thoroughly blended. Remove the corn from the water and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 45 minutes, or until the corn is tender. Transfer the corn to a rimmed sheet pan. Husk the corn and transfer to a platter. Serve with the roasted garlic butter. Serves 4 ### Roasted Corn with Blue Cheese & Ancho Chile _Gorgonzola, Roquefort, and Stilton are all varieties of cheese that have been treated with mold to form either blue or green veins. These cheeses tend to be sharp and pungent. Sprinkling a little blue cheese and ancho chile powder on top of roasted corn gives it a bit of zip and spice. Serve this with Beer-Brined Chicken (page 98)._ * Ingredients * 4 ears corn * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature * Kosher salt * 1 teaspoon ancho chile powder * ½ cup crumbled blue cheese (2 ounces) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 425°F. Remove the husks and silks from each ear of corn, rinse well, and pat dry. Brush each ear of corn with butter and sprinkle with salt. Wrap each ear separately in aluminum foil, twisting the ends to seal tightly. Place the ears on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 45 minutes, or until the corn is tender. Remove the corn from the grid and remove the foil. Sprinkle each ear with ¼ teaspoon ancho chile powder and 2 tablespoons cheese. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Brussels Sprouts & Pancetta Carbonara _Grilled brussels sprouts give this carbonara a rich, smoky flavor. If you don't have pancetta on hand, you can substitute high-quality bacon or, if you want a vegetarian dish, omit the meat altogether. This dish makes a great dinner on its own, but can also be served as a side with grilled chicken or fish._ * Ingredients * 1 pound brussels sprouts, halved * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 10 ounces pancetta, sliced ¼ inch thick * 4 large eggs * 1 cup heavy cream * 1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (4 ounces) * 1 pound spaghetti * Shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Toss the brussels sprouts and olive oil together in a small bowl and season with salt and pepper. Place the brussels sprouts on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 8 to 10 minutes, until tender. Set aside. Place the pancetta on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 to 4 minutes, until slightly crisp. Transfer the pancetta to a cutting board and dice, then move to a rimmed sheet pan and set aside. In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, and grated cheese. Cook the spaghetti in a large pot of water on the stovetop until al dente. Drain over a bowl, reserving 1 cup of the cooking liquid. Return the pasta to the pot and set on the stovetop over low heat. Add the egg mixture, brussels sprouts, pancetta, and the reserved pasta liquid. Season with salt and pepper and mix well. Transfer to a dish and top with shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Serves 6 ### Braised Leeks _Leeks belong to the same family as garlic and onions and are often used to flavor soups and sauces. They are long and sleek with white stalks and tough, dark green tops. For this recipe, the dark green tops are removed and only the white stalks are used. They are braised in chicken stock and heavy cream, making them tender, mild, and delicious. These go well with Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary (page 123)._ * Ingredients * 4 leeks * 1 cup chicken stock * ½ cup heavy cream * 1 teaspoon cornstarch * 1 teaspoon minced garlic * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley Equipment: Plate Setter, 7 by 11-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Remove the dark green tops and root end of the leeks. Using the white part only, cut the leeks in half lengthwise and rinse well. Place the leeks, cut side up, in the baking dish. Using a whisk, combine the chicken stock, cream, cornstarch, garlic, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and mix well. Pour the liquid evenly over the leeks. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until the leeks are tender. Remove the baking dish from the EGG and let the leeks rest for 10 minutes. Garnish with parsley and serve. Serves 4 ### Grilled Vegetable Ratatouille _Ratatouille comes from the French region of Provence. This dish is a medley of vegetables that can be either cooked separately and tossed together or cooked in one pot. The vegetables are grilled first and then tossed in Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce. This dish can be served either hot or cold._ * Ingredients * ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil * 1 pound yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise * 1 pound zucchini, quartered lengthwise * 1 pound eggplant, cut into ½-inch-thick rounds * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 6 ounces portobello mushrooms, sliced ¼ inch thick * 1 red onion, cut into 6 (¼-inch) slices * 6 Roma tomatoes, halved lengthwise * 6 cloves roasted garlic, crushed (page 202) * 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar * ½ cup Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200) or your favorite tomato sauce * 1 cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil leaves Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Pour 1/3 cup of the olive oil into a large bowl, toss in the squash, zucchini, and eggplant, and season with salt and pepper. Brush the mushrooms and red onion with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil. Place the squash, zucchini, eggplant, red onion, and tomatoes on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 4 to 5 minutes on each side, until light brown and tender. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the mushrooms on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes per side. Transfer to the rimmed sheet pan. Remove the skin from the tomatoes and cut into bite-size pieces. Cut the red onions, zucchini, squash, eggplant, and mushrooms into bite-size pieces. Place all the vegetables into a large bowl and toss with the garlic, vinegar, tomato sauce, and basil. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Cremini Mushroom & Cheese Turnovers _Because cremini mushrooms are a baby version of the portobello, they are often referred to as Baby Bellas. In this dish, mushrooms, spinach, and two kinds of cheese are blended into a filling that is encased in a triangle of puff pastry and baked until golden. Great for lunch, these can also be served as an appetizer or hors d'oeuvre._ * Ingredients * 3 tablespoons unsalted butter * 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * ½ cup diced shallots * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 cups quartered white mushrooms * 4 cups quartered cremini mushrooms * 10 ounces fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried * 6 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature * 1 cup shredded provolone cheese (4 ounces) * 2 sheets puff pastry (1-pound box), thawed * 1 egg white, beaten * 1 tablespoon water Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Heat the butter and olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the garlic and shallots. Close the lid of the EGG and sauté for 2 to 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add the white and cremini mushrooms and sauté for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the spinach and sauté for 5 to 6 minutes, until the spinach wilts. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG. Using a spoon, remove any excess liquid from the spinach mixture. Add the cream cheese and provolone cheese and stir until all the cheese is melted. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Unroll the puff pastry onto a lightly floured surface. Cut each puff pastry sheet in half lengthwise and then cut in half crosswise, making four equal squares from each sheet. Place ¼ cup of the spinach mixture in the middle of each square, fold the pastry from corner to corner to form a triangle, and pinch the edges closed. Repeat this process until you have used all of the spinach mixture. Lightly beat the egg white and water in a small bowl. Brush the top of the pastry with the egg wash. Place the pastry on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until golden brown. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the turnovers to a platter and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 4 " _The versatility of the Big Green Egg as a smoker, grill, and oven is unmatched. And just watch how it can start the conversation among family, friends, and neighbors!_ " —Ron, Michigan # _eggspressive!_ sauces & rubs recipes * Basic Barbecue Sauce * KC Barbecue Sauce * Asian Barbecue Sauce * Asian Mop * Beer Mop * Basic Barbecue Rub * Red Chile Rub * Tricolor Pepper Rub * Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce * Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce * Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto * Fresh Basil Pesto * Romesco Sauce * Roasted Garlic & Garlic Butter * Smoked Almonds & Almond Butter * Peach-Amaretto Butter * Coriander Butter ### Basic Barbecue Sauce _Barbecue sauces vary from region to region, with every area claiming to have the best. This version is rich and thick and has just the right proportion of sweet and sour. A chipotle pepper is thrown in for a bit of heat; add a few more if you dare!_ * Ingredients * 2 (15-ounce) cans tomato sauce * 2 cups apple cider vinegar * ½ cup Worcestershire sauce * 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * ½ teaspoon celery seed * ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon * 2 teaspoon smoked paprika * 1 teaspoon ground cloves * 1 teaspoon garlic powder * 1 teaspoon onion powder * 1 chipotle pepper in adobo Place the tomato sauce, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, and brown sugar in a medium saucepan and mix well. Whisk the salt, pepper, celery seed, cinnamon, paprika, cloves, garlic powder, onion powder, and chipotle together in a small bowl until completely blended. Add to the saucepan and mix well. On the stovetop, simmer the sauce over low heat for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove the chipotle with a slotted spoon and serve. You may refrigerate the sauce in a sealed container for up to 2 weeks. Makes 8 cups ### KC Barbecue Sauce _Kansas City barbecue sauce is traditionally a sweet, tomato-based sauce with molasses added. The version given here is thick, rich, and finger-licking good! You'll love using it on Spatchcocked Chicken (page 274), but you will find many creative ways to use this delectable sauce._ * Ingredients * 2 cups ketchup * ½ cup apple cider vinegar * ¼ cup molasses * ½ cup honey * ½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar * ¼ cup yellow mustard * 2 tablespoons Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Combine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan and, using a wooden spoon, stir until blended. Simmer on the stovetop over low heat, stirring occasionally, for 10 minutes, or until the sauce is hot and the ingredients are combined. Refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. Makes 3½ cups _Note: To keep a portion of the sauce for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._ ### Asian Barbecue Sauce _Hoisin sauce, a Chinese dipping sauce that is traditionally made from soybeans, is the primary component in this Asian barbecue sauce. Fresh ginger and chili garlic sauce are added to give this blend a bit of a kick. In this cookbook, the sauce is paired with Asian Pork Ribs (page 89), but it would be equally appealing on chicken wings._ * Ingredients * 1 cup hoisin sauce * ½ cup rice wine vinegar * 2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 2 teaspoons chili garlic sauce Combine all the ingredients in a small saucepan and, using a whisk, mix well. Simmer on the stovetop over medium heat for 20 minutes, until the flavors are combined and the sauce is hot. Let cool. Store in an airtight container and refrigerate until ready to use. Makes 2 cups _Note: To keep a portion of the sauce for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._ ### Asian Mop _Chinese five-spice powder is touted to be the perfect balance of sweet, sour, bitter, savory, and salty. Every recipe for five-spice powder consists of a different combination of cinnamon, anise, cloves, fennel, and ginger. This fragrant spice blend is used in the mop that helps make Asian Pork Ribs (page 89) so flavorful._ * Ingredients * 1 cup rice wine vinegar * 2 teaspoons kosher salt * 2 teaspoons five-spice powder * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Using a whisk, combine all the ingredients in a small bowl. If not using immediately, store in an airtight container in the refrigerator. Makes 1 cup _Note: To keep a portion of the mop for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._ ### Beer Mop _You can really get creative with this mop recipe. Lager (light beer) is used here, but for a more pronounced flavor try using a more robust beer. You can also change the flavor by substituting a more exotic, flavored vinegar for the white vinegar. This mop does great things for Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket (page 284)._ * Ingredients * 1 cup white vinegar * 1 cup beer * ½ cup sliced red onion * 2 cloves garlic, minced * 1 tablespoon kosher salt Using a whisk, combine all the ingredients in a small bowl. If not using immediately, store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 1 week. Makes 2 cups _Note: To keep a portion of the mop for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._ ### Basic Barbecue Rub _Bursting with flavor, Basic Barbecue Rub can be used on everything from Spatchcocked Chicken (page 274) to Barbecued Beef Ribs (page 56). It even adds a spicy kick to Barbecue Chicken Soup (page 53). When you are not sure what spice to use on your meat, this is it! If you would like to add a little more heat, increase the amount of cayenne pepper._ * Ingredients * 3 tablespoons sweet paprika * 1 ½ teaspoons celery seed * 2 teaspoons garlic powder * 2 teaspoons cayenne pepper * ¼ teaspoon ground cloves * 2 tablespoons kosher salt * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper * ¼ cup firmly packed light brown sugar Combine all the ingredients in a small bowl and mix well. Store in an airtight container for up to 3 months. Makes ¾ cup ### Red Chile Rub _Ancho chiles are the dried version of the poblano pepper. They are also the sweetest of the dried chiles. Here ground ancho chile is mixed with toasted spices to produce a favorite rub. It has even found its way into Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies (page 261)._ * Ingredients * 1 tablespoon cumin seed * 1 tablespoon coriander seed * 1 tablespoon red chile flakes * 1 tablespoon ancho chile powder * 1 tablespoon kosher salt * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika * 1 teaspoon garlic powder Toast the cumin seed, coriander seed, and chile flakes in a small skillet on the stovetop for about 5 minutes, or until fragrant. Remove from the heat and allow to cool. Transfer the toasted spices to a spice grinder along with the chile powder, salt, paprika, and garlic powder. Grind for 15 to 20 seconds, until the spices are completely ground. Transfer to an airtight container until ready to use. Makes ½ cup ### Tricolor Pepper Rub _Peppercorns come from berries that grow in clusters on vines. The berries are dried and sold either whole or ground. The most common and recognized peppercorns are black; however, tricolored peppercorns, which can be found in the spice section of most grocery stores, are used in this rub. If these are not available, substitute black peppercorns._ * Ingredients * 2 tablespoons freshly ground tricolored peppercorns (black, white, and pink) * 2 tablespoons sweet paprika * 2 tablespoons garlic powder * 2 tablespoons onion powder * 2 tablespoons kosher salt * 2 tablespoons dried oregano * 1 tablespoon chili powder * 1 teaspoon celery seed * 2 tablespoons light brown sugar Place all the ingredients in a small bowl. Using a wooden spoon, stir to blend well. Store in an airtight container. Makes ¾ cup _Note: To keep a portion of the rub for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._ ### Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce _Grilling tomatoes before adding them to this sauce gives the tomato flavor a big boost. This sauce can be used for topping Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula (page 49), but it's also delicious on pastas or grilled meats. Since the sauce freezes well, you can make it in large quantities and freeze it in small batches for later use._ * Ingredients * 2 pounds Roma tomatoes, roasted and cooled (page 170) * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * ¼ cup dry white wine * ½ teaspoon granulated sugar * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Peel the tomatoes. Place a mesh strainer over a small bowl and gently squeeze each tomato half over the strainer to remove any seeds. Reserve the liquid from the tomatoes and discard any seeds or pulp that remain in the strainer. Coarsely chop the tomatoes and place them in a small bowl. Heat the oil in a medium saucepan on the stovetop over medium-low heat. Add the garlic and sauté for 1 minute, or until the garlic is golden in color. Add the tomatoes along with the remaining liquid, and the wine, sugar, and salt, stirring to blend. Gently simmer the sauce for 15 to 18 minutes, until the sauce has reduced and thickened. Remove the tomato mixture from the heat and allow to cool completely in the pan. Add the basil and pepper and mix well. Place the sauce in the bowl of a blender or food processor and pulse for 1 to 2 minutes, until the sauce is smooth. Makes 2½ cups ### Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce _The San Marzano tomato gets its name from a small town in Italy just outside Naples in the Campania region. The San Marzano is a plum tomato that is sweeter, has thinner skin, and has fewer seeds than the Roma tomato, making it ideal for this spicy sauce. If you want a hotter sauce, increase the amount of red chile flakes._ * Ingredients * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * ½ cup chopped yellow onion * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 1 (28-ounce) can whole San Marzano tomatoes, chopped * ½ to 1 teaspoon red chile flakes * 1 teaspoon dried oregano * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Heat the olive oil in a 3-quart saucepan on the stovetop. Add the onion and sauté for 3 to 4 minutes, uncovered, until translucent. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, then add the tomatoes and chile flakes and simmer for 15 to 18 minutes, until the flavors are combined. Remove the sauce from the heat and add the oregano, basil, salt, and pepper. Carefully spoon the sauce into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade or into a blender, or use an immersion blender. Puree the sauce until it is completely smooth. Refrigerate for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 1 month in an airtight container or a resealable plastic bag. Makes 3 cups ### Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto _Sun-dried tomatoes are made by cutting tomatoes in half, removing the seeds, and letting them dry in the sun for several days. A much quicker method is to place the tomatoes on a tray, drizzle them with a little olive oil, and let them bake on very low heat for several hours. Drying the tomatoes intensifies their taste. You will find many uses for this pesto, from sandwich spreads to pizza toppings. You can readily find sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil at your local grocery store._ * Ingredients * 1 ¼ cups oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes (10 ounces) * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * ¼ cup pine nuts * ¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce) * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil Drain the tomatoes, reserving ¼ cup of the oil. Add the tomatoes to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 1½ minutes, or until finely chopped. Add the garlic, pine nuts, cheese, olive oil, and the reserved tomato oil. Turn the food processor on high and blend for 2 minutes, or until the pesto is completely smooth. Makes 1½ cups ### Fresh Basil Pesto _Pesto is traditionally made by using a mortar and pestle to crush basil, garlic, and pine nuts, then adding olive oil to create a thin paste. This pesto is made in the food processor, but a blender will work, too. Although pesto is traditionally made using basil, today pestos are also made with such ingredients as sun-dried tomatoes, mint, and cilantro. Pesto can be refrigerated for up to 1 month or frozen in ice trays so the cubes can be removed one at a time and added to a variety of recipes._ * Ingredients * 2 cups firmly packed fresh basil leaves * ½ cup fresh flat-leaf parsley * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * ¼ cup pine nuts * ¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 to 2 ounces) * ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Place the basil, parsley, garlic, pine nuts, and cheese in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Puree the ingredients for 2 to 3 minutes, until almost smooth. With the machine running, drizzle the olive oil through the feed tube and continue mixing until all the ingredients combine to form a thin paste. Season with the salt and pepper and blend for another 30 seconds. Using a spatula, transfer the pesto to an airtight container and refrigerate for up to 1 month or in the freezer until ready to use. Makes 1 cup ### Romesco Sauce _This version of the classic sauce, which originated in the Catalonia region of Spain, uses roasted garlic (page 202) and smoked almonds (page 204). Try it as a dipping sauce for Eggplant Fries (page 30)._ * Ingredients * 2 cups boiling water * 2 ancho chiles * 1½ cups Roma tomatoes, skins removed * 1 roasted red bell pepper (page 170) * 5 cloves roasted garlic (page 202) * ¼ cup smoked almonds (page 204) * ¼ cup red wine vinegar * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon honey * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Pour the water over the chiles in a small bowl. Cover the bowl with plastic and let the chiles soak for 15 minutes. Drain the chiles and remove the stems and seeds. Place the ancho chiles, tomatoes, bell pepper, garlic, almonds, vinegar, olive oil, honey, salt, and pepper in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Blend for 1 minute. Refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. Makes 1½ cups ### Roasted Garlic & Garlic Butter _Fresh garlic is a member of the onion family. It has a strong and pungent taste, but when roasted, it turns mild and sweet and has a creamy consistency. Mixed with butter, it can be used as a spread on bread or for cooking meats and vegetables._ * Ingredients * 2 heads garlic * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To roast the garlic, use a paring knife to remove the top one-third of the garlic heads. Place each garlic head in the center of a small piece of aluminum foil. Add 1 tablespoon olive oil to each garlic head, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and wrap the garlic tightly in the foil. Place the garlic on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 30 to 35 minutes, turning occasionally, until the garlic cloves are soft. Using tongs, remove the garlic from the heat and allow to cool. To make the garlic butter, place the butter in a small bowl. Separate the cloves from the garlic heads and squeeze each clove into the butter. Using a fork, mash the garlic into the butter, add salt and pepper, and mix well. Store the butter in an airtight container for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 1 month. Makes ½ cup _Note: To keep a portion of the butter for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat or seafood, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._ ### Smoked Almonds & Almond Butter _Almonds make a healthful snack and can also be used in cooking. Mesquite wood chips impart a wonderful, smoky flavor to these almonds, making them unbelievably flavorful. Since they freeze well, you can double or triple the recipe so you will always have a supply on hand. For variety, try using alder chips or Jack Daniel's wood-smoking chips in place of the mesquite chips. You can use this same method to smoke pecans or walnuts._ * Ingredients * ½ cup whole almonds * 1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature * ½ teaspoon kosher salt Equipment: Plate Setter, mesquite chips Preheat the EGG to 375°F without the Plate Setter. To smoke the almonds, soak 2 cups of mesquite chips in water for 1 hour. Scatter the chips over the coals to smoke and, using barbecue mitts, place the Plate Setter, legs down, in the EGG. Once the chips begin to smoke, place the almonds in a small roasting pan on top of the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Let the almonds smoke for 8 minutes, or until they have a smoky flavor. Remove the pan from heat and let cool. To make the smoked almond butter, place the almonds in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse for 1 minute, add the butter and salt, and blend for 1 minute, or until the butter is almost smooth. Using a spatula, transfer the butter to an airtight container. Refrigerate for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 1 month. Makes 1½ cups ### Peach-Amaretto Butter _Amaretto is an almond-flavored liqueur that originated in Italy. Here, it's combined with cream cheese and peach preserves to produce a yummy spread for hot Buttermilk Biscuits (page 220)._ * Ingredients * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature * 1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, at room temperature * ¾ cup (6-ounce jar) peach preserves * 1/3 cup confectioners' sugar * 2 tablespoons amaretto Combine all the ingredients in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 30 seconds, or until blended. Scrape the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula and pulse for another 5 seconds. Put the butter in a small bowl and serve immediately or refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks. Makes 2 cups ### Coriander Butter _A tangy green herb with a pungent flavor, coriander is widely used in Asian and Mexican cooking. To make this savory butter, use coriander seeds along with lemon and orange zest. The butter enhances Apricot Bread with Rosemary & Coriander Butter (page 208), and it is also great on grilled vegetables. For an elegant appetizer, simply spread it on hot Naan Bread (page 217) or Pita Bread (215)._ * Ingredients * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature * ¼ cup all-purpose flour * 2 tablespoons granulated sugar * 1 tablespoon orange zest * 1 teaspoon lemon zest * 2 teaspoons ground coriander * 1 teaspoon ground ginger * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt Combine all the ingredients in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Turn the processor on and let it run until all the ingredients are completely combined. Carefully remove the blade. Using a spatula, scrape the butter into a small bowl and refrigerate until ready to use, or freeze for up to 1 month. Makes ¾ cup # _eggcellent!_ baked goods recipes * Apricot Bread with Rosemary & Coriander Butter * Prosciutto, Fontina & Arugula Stromboli with Spicy San Marzano Sauce * Mediterranean Bread * Lavash with Sea Salt & Toasted Sesame Seeds * Pita Bread * Pizza Dough * Naan Bread * Southwestern Cornbread * Skillet Cornbread with Fresh Roasted Corn * Buttermilk Biscuits * Pie Dough ### Apricot Bread with Rosemary & Coriander Butter _This recipe produces two loaves of bread made with a hint of condensed milk, giving the dough a slightly sweet taste. After the dough is rolled out, it is dotted with coriander butter and topped with dried fruits and pistachios. Then the dough is rolled up, creating a pinwheel of flavors and colors. This bread is perfect for breakfast, or as an accompaniment to a dinner of Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb (page 76) or Tandoori Chicken (page 100)._ * Ingredients * ½ cup plus 2 cups evaporated milk * 6 tablespoons condensed milk * 2½ teaspoons active dry yeast * 5½ cups bread flour plus extra as needed * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 1 tablespoon salt * Olive oil for brushing * 1 cup chopped pistachios * 1 cup chopped dried apricots * ¾ cup chopped dried dates * ½ cup golden raisins * 2 tablespoons chopped crystallized ginger * 2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh rosemary * 8 tablespoons Coriander Butter (page 205) or unsalted butter, cut into small pieces * 1 large egg * 2 tablespoons water Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place ½ cup of the evaporated milk in a small saucepan on the stovetop and heat until warm. Pour the milk into a small bowl, then add the condensed milk and yeast. Set aside and allow the yeast to proof for 5 minutes, or until frothy. Combine the flour, the remaining 2 cups evaporated milk, the butter, salt, and proofed yeast in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. Mix the ingredients on low speed until the dough forms a ball. If the dough is still sticky, add more flour a little at a time, until the dough is smooth and elastic. Place the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place. Let the dough rise for 2½ hours, or until doubled in size. Once the dough has doubled, push it down with the heel of your palms and place it on a lightly floured work surface. Knead briefly until the dough is smooth and elastic, then divide it in half and dust with flour. Using a rolling pin, roll each half into a 12 by 15-inch loaf, dusting with flour as necessary, to prevent the dough from sticking to the rolling pin. Brush each loaf with olive oil. Mix the pistachios, apricots, dates, raisins, ginger, and rosemary in a small bowl. Sprinkle half the mixture over each loaf, leaving one end exposed. Dot each loaf with half of the Coriander Butter. Starting with the filled short end of a loaf, carefully roll up the dough into a log, then stretch the ends of the dough and fold under, pressing to create a seal. Turn the dough seam side down. Repeat with the other loaf. Allow the loaves to rise for 45 minutes, or until doubled in size. Cover 1 loaf with plastic wrap and set aside. Mix the egg with the water to make an egg wash. Brush the remaining loaf with the egg wash and place on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. With a large spatula, transfer the bread to a rimmed sheet pan. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. Repeat for the second loaf. Serves 6 ### Prosciutto, Fontina & Arugula Stromboli with Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce _Stromboli consists of dough that is filled with meats and cheeses and then rolled into a loaf. Vary this recipe by changing the type of filling and cheese. No matter which ingredients you decide to try, the stromboli is even better served with Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce on the side._ * Ingredients * ¼ cup warm water (105° to 115°F) * 2 teaspoons honey * 1½ teaspoons active dry yeast * 2 cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed * 1 cup whole wheat flour * 1 tablespoon plus 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 1 large egg, beaten * 1 tablespoon water * 6 ounces prosciutto, thinly sliced * 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese (8 ounces) * 1 ½ cups shredded fontina cheese (6 ounces) * ½ pound Roma tomatoes, thinly sliced * ½ cup firmly packed baby arugula leaves * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 2 cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200) Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Pour the water into a liquid measuring cup, add the honey, and gently stir until the honey is dissolved. Sprinkle the yeast over the water and set aside for 5 to 10 minutes, until the liquid becomes frothy. Place the all-purpose flour and whole wheat flour in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. With the mixer on the lowest speed, add the yeast mixture and 1 tablespoon of the olive oil and continue mixing until the liquid is completely incorporated. Increase the speed to medium and continue kneading the dough for 5 minutes, or until smooth and elastic. Place the dough on a lightly floured surface and knead by hand for 2 minutes. Form the dough into a ball, place in a lightly oiled bowl, and turn to coat lightly. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place for hours, or until doubled in size. Mix the egg and water in a small bowl to create an egg wash. Set aside. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and, using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll it into a 15-inch square about ¼ inch thick. Brush three-quarters of the square with the remaining 3 tablespoons olive oil and arrange the prosciutto over the oiled portion. Layer the mozzarella cheese, fontina cheese, Roma tomatoes, and arugula on top of the prosciutto, leaving the last quarter of the dough exposed. Sprinkle with the salt and pepper. Starting with the filled end of the dough, carefully roll the dough into a log, then stretch the ends of the dough and fold under, pressing to create a seal. Place the dough in the baking dish seam side down. Using a sharp knife, cut about six slits across the top of the stromboli and brush with the egg wash. Place the stromboli on the preheated Baking Stone, seam side down, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. Transfer to a platter and allow to rest for 10 minutes. Slice and serve with the sauce. Serves 6 ### Mediterranean Bread _This slightly sweet bread dough is filled with the flavors of the Mediterranean: black olive tapenade, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and freshly roasted peppers all rolled into one. You will be glad that this recipe makes two loaves—one to eat straight off the grill and the other to share with your friends!_ * Ingredients * ½ cup plus 2 cups evaporated milk * 6 tablespoons condensed milk * 2½ teaspoons active dry yeast * 6 cups bread flour plus extra as needed * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 1 tablespoon table salt * 1 large egg * 2 tablespoons water * Olive oil for brushing * ¼ cup plus ¼ cup black olive tapenade * 4 roasted red bell peppers, chopped (page 170) * 2 cups grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (8 ounces) Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place ½ cup of the evaporated milk in a small saucepan on the stovetop and cook over low heat until just warm. Pour the milk into a small bowl and add the condensed milk and active dry yeast. Allow the yeast to proof for 5 minutes, or until frothy. Combine the flour, the remaining 2 cups of evaporated milk, the butter, salt, and proofed yeast to the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. Mix the ingredients on low speed until the dough forms a ball. If the dough is still sticky, add more flour a little at a time. Place the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place for 2½ hours, or until doubled in size. Mix the egg and water in a small bowl to create an egg wash. Set aside. Once the dough has doubled, push down the dough with the heels of your palms and turn onto a lightly floured work surface. Knead briefly until the dough is smooth and elastic. Divide the dough in half. Using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll one-half of the dough into a 12 by 15-inch rectangle, dusting with flour as necessary to prevent sticking. Brush with olive oil. Starting from the short end of the dough, spread ¼ cup tapenade over the rectangle, leaving about 4 to 5 inches of one end exposed. Add ½ cup peppers and sprinkle with 1 cup cheese. Starting with the filled short end of the dough, carefully roll up the dough into a log. Stretch the ends of the dough and fold under, pressing to create a seal. Turn the dough seam side down and allow it to rise for 45 minutes, or until doubled in size. Brush the loaf with the egg wash and place it on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. Transfer the bread to a rimmed sheet pan. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. While the first loaf is baking, repeat the process for the second loaf. Serves 6 ### Lavash with Sea Salt & Toasted Sesame Seeds _Lavash is a crisp flatbread of Middle Eastern origin. It will go with just about any cheese or dip. To change its flavor, you can use other toppings, such as poppy seeds, cumin seeds, or freshly cracked black pepper. Try it with Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes (page 38)._ * Ingredients * 1 cup plus 1½ cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed * 1 cup plus ½ cup whole wheat flour * 2 teaspoons active dry yeast * 1 tablespoon kosher salt * 1 cup hot water (120° to 125°F) * 1 cup dry white wine, at room temperature * ¼ cup whole milk * 1/3 cup black sesame seeds * 1/3 cup white sesame seeds * Sea salt Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 10 by 15-inch cookie sheet Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Add 1 cup of the all-purpose flour and 1 cup of the whole wheat flour to the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. On the lowest speed, add the yeast, kosher salt, water, and wine. Mix the ingredients on low speed for 2 minutes. Slowly add the remaining ½ cup whole wheat flour and continue to knead the dough for 5 to 7 minutes, until smooth and elastic. Add the remaining 1½ cups all-purpose flour, ¼ cup at a time. If the dough is still sticky, add a little more all-purpose flour until the dough forms a ball. Place the dough on a lightly floured surface and, using your hands, form the dough into a ball. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place to rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size. Press the dough down with the heels of your palms, cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and let the dough rise for 30 minutes, or until about one-third larger. Place the dough on a lightly floured surface and form into a log. Cut the log into 8 equal pieces and form each piece into a rectangle about 8 by 10 inches. Dust the dough with flour and use a rolling pin to roll it about 1/16 inch thick. Place 1 piece of dough on the cookie sheet. Using your hands, stretch the dough until it is as thin as possible without breaking. Brush the dough with milk and sprinkle with the black and white sesame seeds and sea salt. Place the cookie sheet on the Plate Setter, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for 10 minutes, or until the cracker is light brown around the edges. Transfer the cracker from the pan onto a rack and allow to cool. Repeat the process with the remaining dough. Store in an airtight container. Serves 6 ### Pita Bread _Pita bread, also known as pocket bread, is eaten throughout the Middle East and Mediterranean countries. Stuff it with grilled meat or roasted vegetables for a satisfying sandwich or cut it into small pieces and serve it with your favorite dip._ * Ingredients * 1 ½ cups warm water (105° to 115°F) * 2 teaspoons honey * 1½ teaspoons active dry yeast * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 2 teaspoons kosher salt * 1 ½ cups whole wheat flour * 2 cups plus ½ cup all-purpose flour plus extra as needed Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Pour the water into a liquid measuring cup, add the honey, and gently stir until the honey is dissolved. Sprinkle the yeast over the water and set aside for 5 to 10 minutes, until the mixture becomes frothy. Add the olive oil, salt, whole wheat flour, and 2 cups of the all-purpose flour to the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. With the mixer on low, add the yeast mixture and combine the ingredients for 2 to 3 minutes, until the dough forms a ball. Slowly add the remaining ½ cup all-purpose flour until the dough is no longer sticky. Continue kneading on medium speed for 7 to 8 minutes, until smooth and elastic, adding a little all-purpose flour at a time as necessary so the dough will not stick to the rolling pin. Place the dough on a lightly floured surface and form it into a ball. Put the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to coat lightly. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set it in a warm place to let the dough rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and form it into an 18-inch log. Using a sharp knife, cut the dough into 12 equal pieces. Form each piece into a ball and set the balls on a rimmed sheet pan. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside for 10 to 12 minutes. Place 1 ball at a time on the lightly floured surface and, using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll the ball into a 5 to 6-inch disk. Place the dough disk on the preheated Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 4 minutes, then turn the bread over. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for another 2 minutes, or until the pita has puffed up and is golden brown. Repeat this process until all the dough has been baked. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Pizza Dough _If you have never cooked a pizza over the coals, you are missing a real treat! The EGG produces the same results as cooking pizza in a brick oven. This particular dough recipe cooks thin and crisp and is the perfect base for your favorite toppings. You will get the best results if the EGG and the Baking Stone are very hot before you begin cooking._ * Ingredients * 1 cup warm water (105° to 115°F) * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar * 1 teaspoon active dry yeast * 3 cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed * 1 teaspoon table salt * 1 teaspoon olive oil * Cornmeal for dusting Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel or flat baking sheet Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 600°F. Pour the water into a liquid measuring cup, add the sugar, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water, and let sit for 5 to 10 minutes, or until the liquid becomes frothy. Pour the flour and salt into the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook, add the yeast mixture, and mix on low speed until combined. Add the olive oil and continue to mix on low. Once blended, knead the dough on low speed for 5 to 6 minutes, until the dough becomes smooth and elastic. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and form into a ball. Place the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn to coat with oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let sit for 1½ hours, or until doubled in size. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead briefly. Form the dough into a ball and, using a sharp knife, cut the dough into 4 equal parts. Shape each part into a disk and dust with flour. To roll and bake, using a rolling pin, roll a dough disk into a 10 to 12-inch circle. Lightly dust the pizza peel with cornmeal. Place the rolled-out dough onto the pizza peel, top with the desired toppings, and gently slide the dough directly onto the preheated Baking Stone. Cook for 5 minutes or until the dough is lightly brown and crisp. Repeat for the remaining dough disks. Makes 4 pizzas ### Naan Bread _Naan bread is Asian in origin and resembles pita bread, but it is much softer in texture. The EGG's ability to reach high temperatures makes it the perfect environment in which to make this bread._ * Ingredients * 3 cups bread flour * 1 teaspoon active dry yeast * 1 teaspoon table salt * 2 tablespoons sunflower oil * 1 teaspoon honey * ¾ cup warm water (105° to 115°F) * 4 tablespoons plain low-fat yogurt Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 425°F. Place the flour, yeast, and salt in a medium bowl. Using a wooden spoon, blend well, until combined. Add the sunflower oil, honey, water, and yogurt, stirring gently until a dough forms. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and, using your hands, form the dough into a ball. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and let it rise for 2 hours, or until doubled in size. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and cut into 8 equal pieces. Using your hands, roll each piece of dough into a ball. Using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll each ball into a ½-inch-thick disk. Place the disks on the preheated Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 4 minutes per side, or until golden brown. Serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Southwestern Cornbread _Jalapeño chiles add a little heat to this cornbread, making it ideal to serve as a side dish or to turn into a spicy stuffing. It also can be used for Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce (page 95)._ * Ingredients * 2 cups cornmeal * 1 cup all-purpose flour * 2 teaspoons baking powder * 2 teaspoons table salt * 2 cups buttermilk * 2 large eggs, beaten * ½ cup sour cream * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 1 cup roasted yellow corn kernels (about 1 ear; page 180) * ¾ cup diced red bell pepper * 2 jalapeños, seeded and chopped Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 425°F. In a medium bowl, combine the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the buttermilk, eggs, sour cream, butter, corn, bell pepper, and jalapeños. Using a large spatula, stir all the ingredients until combined. Pour the batter into the baking dish and, using a spatula, spread evenly. Place the dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 25 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove from the grill and let rest for 10 minutes. Cut into 3-inch squares and serve immediately. Serves 12 ### Skillet Cornbread with Fresh Roasted Corn _Take the old-fashioned Southern route by baking this cornbread in a well-seasoned iron skillet. You can also use a baking dish or muffin pan (without paper liners); just be sure to adjust the cooking time. This recipe includes fresh roasted yellow corn and heavy cream producing a very rich and moist cornbread. Though it could be served with any of the grilled meats, it's the consummate accompaniment for Barbecue Chicken Soup (page 53) or EGGfest Chili (page 286)._ * Ingredients * 2 cups all-purpose flour * 1 tablespoon baking powder * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 cup stone-ground yellow cornmeal ½ cup granulated sugar * 3 large eggs, beaten * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 2 cups heavy cream * 1¼ cups roasted yellow corn kernels (about 2 ears; page 180) Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 425°F. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together in a medium bowl. Using a wooden spoon, mix the cornmeal, sugar, and eggs in another medium bowl and stir well. Add the flour mixture to the cornmeal and continue stirring until completely blended. Add the butter, cream, and corn kernels and continue to mix until smooth. Pour the batter into the skillet and, using a spatula, spread the batter evenly in the dish. Place on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 35 minutes, or until golden brown and an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove the pan from the EGG and let cool for 10 minutes before cutting into 3-inch squares. Serves 12 ### Buttermilk Biscuits _You will find many uses for these light and flaky biscuits. Serve with a dollop of Peach-Amaretto Butter (page 205) or split them and fill with thin slices of juicy beef tenderloin and a bit of horseradish cream (page 230) for a heartier breakfast._ * Ingredients * 1½ cups cake flour * 1 cup all-purpose flour plus extra as needed * 4 teaspoons baking powder * ½ teaspoon baking soda * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar * 1 teaspoon table salt * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * ½ cup solid vegetable shortening, cold * 1¼ cups buttermilk, cold Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Sift the cake flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl. Add the butter and shortening. Using a pastry cutter or fork, work the butter and shortening into the flour until the butter is pea size. Using a fork, slowly stir the buttermilk into the flour until the dough forms a ball. Do not overwork the dough. The ingredients should be just incorporated, because overmixing will produce a tougher biscuit. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll the dough into a 1-inch-thick rectangle, dusting with flour as needed to prevent sticking. Fold the dough into thirds, then roll it again into a 1-inch-thick rectangle. Using a 3-inch diameter cookie cutter, cut the dough into 10 biscuits. Place the biscuits side by side in the baking dish. Place the dish on the Plate Setter, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for 20 to 22 minutes, until the biscuits are light golden brown. Serves 4 to 6 ### Pie Dough _The combination of butter and vegetable shortening makes a crust light without sacrificing the buttery flavor. If you are making a pie that requires a top and bottom crust, double this recipe._ * Ingredients * 2 cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed * ½ teaspoon table salt * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening * 4 to 5 tablespoons cold water To make the dough by hand, put the flour and salt in a medium bowl and stir to blend. Add the butter and shortening and, using a pastry cutter or fork, work the butter into the flour until the pieces of butter are pea size. Add the water 1 tablespoon at a time and mix just until you can form a ball. Do not overwork the dough. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and form the dough into a ball. To make the dough with a food processor, put the flour and salt in the work bowl fitted with the steel blade. Add the butter and shortening. Pulse the machine to work the butter and shortening into the flour until the mixture resembles cornmeal. With the machine running, add the water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until the dough forms a ball. Do not overwork the dough. Using the palm of your hand, flatten the ball into a disk, wrap with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. Remove from the refrigerator about 15 minutes before rolling the dough. If you need a pie shell or a tart shell for your recipe, use a rolling pin to roll the dough into a circle to fit your pan, allowing for the sides of the pan plus some overhang. Roll the dough on a lightly floured surface, using a lightly floured rolling pin. Roll the dough straight out and once or twice to the sides. Put the rolling pin down, pick up the dough with both hands, give the dough a quarter turn, then roll again. Repeat until the pie dough is the size you need. This technique helps keep the dough in an even circle. To line the pie plate or tart pan, fold the dough in half, fold in half again, place in the pie plate or tart pan, then unfold. Alternatively, roll up the dough on a rolling pin and unroll it into the pan. Lightly press the dough into the bottom edge of the pie plate or tart pan. If you're making a pie, trim the edge of the dough to a ½-inch overhang and fold the dough under so it's even with the edge of the pie plate. If you're making a single-crust pie, you can crimp the edge. If you're making a tart, roll the rolling pin across the top of the tart pan to cut off any excess. Refrigerate the pie shell or tart shell until ready to use. Makes 1 (8 to 12-inch) pie shell or 1 pie dough disk # _eggciting!_ breakfasts recipes * Italian Frittata with Prosciutto & Buffalo Mozzarella * Grilled Salmon Frittata with Cream Cheese, Capers & Dill * Spicy Spanish Frittata with Chorizo * Beef Tenderloin Sandwich with Horseradish Cream * Applewood-Smoked Bacon & Grilled Vegetable Strata * Stone-Ground Grits & Sausage Casserole * Apple Pancake * Baked French Toast with Pears & Cherries * Tropical Breakfast Muffins * Lemon & Lavender Scones ### Italian Frittata with Prosciutto & Buffalo Mozzarella _Buffalo mozzarella (mozzarella_ di bufala) _is made from a combination of whole cow's milk and the milk of the water buffalo. It is so highly regarded in Italy that it enjoys protected geographic status. This means that the producers, under Italian law, are responsible for protecting the quality and marketing of this cheese. Here, creamy buffalo mozzarella combines with fresh basil, fresh tomatoes, and prosciutto to make this version of frittata. If you have trouble finding buffalo mozzarella, use a good-quality mozzarella made solely from whole cow's milk in its place._ * Ingredients * 10 large eggs, beaten * ½ cup heavy cream * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 3 ounces thinly sliced prosciutto, cut into small pieces * ½ cup chopped fresh basil * 1 cup chopped grilled Roma tomatoes (page 170) * 1½ cups diced mozzarella _di bufala_ (6 ounces) * 16 cloves roasted garlic (page 202) Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking pan Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the eggs, cream, salt, and pepper in a large bowl and mix well. Pour the egg mixture into the oiled baking dish. Add layers of prosciutto, basil, and tomatoes. Top with the cheese and roasted garlic, distributing them evenly over the egg mixture. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the eggs are set. Let the frittata rest for 5 minutes. Cut it into 6 equal wedges and serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Grilled Salmon Frittata with Cream Cheese, Capers & Dill _Perfect for a brunch or luncheon, grilled salmon, tomato, and onion are combined with heavy cream, cream cheese, capers, and dill, giving this dish an elegant air. Fresh salmon should be available at most supermarkets all year long._ * Ingredients * 1 large red onion, sliced ½ inch thick * 1 Roma tomato, cored and halved lengthwise * 1 tablespoon plus 1 tablespoon canola oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 (8-ounce) salmon fillets * ½ teaspoon Old Bay seasoning * 1 large lemon, halved * 10 large eggs, beaten * ½ cup heavy cream * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 4 ounces cream cheese, cut into small pieces * 1 tablespoon capers * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh dill Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 650°F. Brush the onion and tomato slices with 1 tablespoon of the canola oil, season with salt and pepper, and set aside. Rinse the salmon in cold water and pat dry. Brush each salmon fillet with the remaining 1 tablespoon canola oil. Season with the Old Bay and salt and pepper. Place the onion, tomato, and salmon on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 minutes, or until browned on one side. Using a long-handled metal spatula, turn the onion, tomato, and salmon over. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 more minutes, or until the salmon is browned on the exterior and opaque in the center. Using the spatula, transfer the onion, tomato, and salmon to a rimmed sheet pan. Squeeze a lemon half on each salmon fillet. Let cool. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Reduce the temperature of the EGG to 400°F. Using a fork, break the salmon into bite-size pieces and put in a small bowl. Chop the onion and tomato and add to the small bowl. Set aside. Mix the eggs, cream, butter, ½ teaspoon kosher salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper in a medium bowl until completely combined. Pour the egg mixture into the oiled baking dish. Add the ingredients, one at a time, to the egg mixture, beginning with the salmon mixture and continuing with the cheese and capers. Sprinkle with the dill and place on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 35 minutes, or until the eggs have set. Remove the pan and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Spicy Spanish Frittata with Chorizo _This spicy frittata is all about bold flavors. Smoky Spanish chorizo sausage is combined with manchego cheese, a sheep's milk cheese that comes from La Mancha, Spain. The chorizo and cheese are blended with eggs, grilled scallions, peas, and cream. The frittata is then baked to intensify the smoky flavors._ * Ingredients * 10 large eggs, beaten * ½ cup heavy cream * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup diced, grilled Spanish chorizo * ¼ cup chopped grilled scallions * ¾ cup shredded manchego cheese (3 ounces) * ¼ cup chopped pimientos * ¼ cup fresh green peas * ¼ teaspoon smoked Spanish paprika Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Mix the eggs, cream, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Pour the egg mixture into the oiled baking dish. Add the following ingredients, one at a time, to the egg mixture: chorizo, scallions, cheese, pimientos, and peas. Sprinkle with the paprika. Place the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 35 minutes, or until the eggs are set. Remove the pan from the grill. Let the frittata rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Beef Tenderloin Sandwich with Horseradish Cream _It doesn't get any better than this succulent steak-and-egg combo! It is the ultimate breakfast sandwich and is sure to become an EGGhead favorite. Don't try to eat this one on the run, though, because you're apt to need several napkins._ * Ingredients * Horseradish Cream * ¼ cup sour cream * 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish * 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 4 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter * 4 English muffins, cut in half * 4 slices beefsteak tomato, ¼ inch thick * 4 (4-ounce) beef tenderloin steaks * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 large eggs * 4 slices white Cheddar cheese Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Half Moon Griddle Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and the Half Moon Griddle, set flat side up on one-half of the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the horseradish cream, whisk the sour cream, horseradish, chives, salt, and pepper in a small bowl until blended. Set aside. Melt 4 tablespoons of the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Using a pastry brush, spread the muffin halves with butter. Place the muffin halves on the Griddle, cut side down, until toasted and lightly browned. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the muffins to a platter. Spread each of 4 muffin halves with 2 teaspoons of the horseradish cream. Set aside. Brush all the tomato slices first and then the steaks with butter, and season with salt and pepper. Place the steaks on the Grid and, while they are cooking, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter on the Griddle. Crack the eggs onto the hot Griddle. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 minutes, or until the whites of the eggs are set. Using a long-handled spatula, turn the steaks and eggs over and top each egg with a slice of cheese. Close the lid of the EGG and continue to cook for 2 minutes, or until the cheese is melted. Using a long-handled spatula, remove each steak and place it on the bottom half of an English muffin. Top each steak with 1 egg, a slice of tomato, and the top of the English muffin. Place the assembled sandwiches on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and heat for 1 minute, until the sandwiches are hot. Transfer the sandwiches to a platter and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Applewood-Smoked Bacon & Grilled Vegetable Strata _You can make a strata and bake it immediately. Or you can let it sit uncooked in the refrigerator overnight and bake it the next morning. Because it can be prepared in advance, it is a great dish to serve when you have houseguests._ * Ingredients * 10 large eggs, beaten * ½ cup plus ½ cup heavy cream * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 red bell pepper * 1 green bell pepper * 1 pound red potatoes, sliced ¼ inch thick * 1 small red onion, sliced ½ inch thick * 8 scallions * 1 pound applewood-smoked bacon * 5 to 6 medium croissants (12 ounces) * 2 cups plus 2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (1 pound total) * 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Half Moon Griddle, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Using a whisk, mix the eggs, ½ cup of the cream, kosher salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Refrigerate. Place the bell peppers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning often, for 10 minutes, or until tender. Transfer the peppers to a sealable plastic bag. Seal the bag and let the peppers steam for 5 minutes. Remove the peppers from the bag and, using your hands, peel off the skin. Cut the ends off the peppers and remove and discard the seeds. Place them on a rimmed sheet pan and set aside. Place the potatoes and red onion on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 to 4 minutes per side, until the potatoes and red onions are tender. Add the scallions and grill for 30 seconds on each side, until just wilted. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the potatoes, red onions, and scallions to the rimmed sheet pan. Set aside. Place the Griddle, smooth side up, on the grid to preheat for 5 minutes. Place the bacon on the Griddle. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 to 6 minutes, turning occasionally, until crisp. Using tongs, transfer the bacon to the rimmed sheet pan. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the Griddle and the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Reduce the heat of the EGG to 400°F. Transfer the bell peppers, potatoes, red onion, scallions, and bacon to a cutting board. Using a knife, coarsely chop the vegetables and bacon into bite-size pieces. Cut the croissants into 1-inch cubes. Add the vegetables, bacon, and croissant cubes to the egg mixture. Stir well. Pour one-half of the mixture into the oiled baking dish and sprinkle with 2 cups of the shredded cheese. Pour the rest of the egg mixture into the dish and sprinkle with the remaining 2 cups cheese. Drizzle with the remaining ½ cup cream and sprinkle with the minced chives. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 minutes, or until the eggs are set. Remove the pan and let the strata rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Stone-Ground Grits & Sausage Casserole _Long associated with the Southern part of the United States, grits are no longer confined to the South. They can be found throughout the country served in a variety of ways—as a side dish, a pudding, a soufflé, or most commonly as breakfast food. This casserole is great for breakfast or brunch, especially because it can be prepared the night before, refrigerated, and baked the next morning._ * Ingredients * 5 cups water * 2½ cups white stone-ground grits * 1 cup heavy cream * 2 cups plus 2 cups shredded white Cheddar cheese (1 pound) * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * 1 pound pork sausage links, grilled and chopped * ½ cup sliced fresh chives * 2 teaspoons kosher salt * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 cup panko (Japanese bread crumbs) Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Bring the water to a boil in a large stock pot. Slowly add the grits and simmer on low for 30 to 35 minutes, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon to prevent sticking, until the water has been absorbed. Remove the grits from the heat, whisk in the cream, and add 2 cups of the cheese, the butter, sausage, chives, salt, and pepper. Continue mixing until the cheese is melted. Pour the grits into the oiled baking dish and, using a spatula, spread evenly. Top with the remaining 2 cups cheese. Sprinkle the panko on top of the cheese. Place the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until firm. Remove the pan and let the casserole rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 " _The temperature control of the Big Green Egg is second to none in its ease of use. I haven't had one bad experience with this cooker yet—it keeps getting better!_ " —Mike, Pennsylvania ### Apple Pancake _Apple pancake can be served with maple syrup or crème fraîche, but this recipe is so yummy that all it really needs is a dusting of confectioners' sugar, a knife, and a fork! This can be served as a sweet accompaniment to a savory breakfast, or as a dessert with your favorite ice cream or homemade caramel sauce (page 255)._ * Ingredients * ½ cup all-purpose flour * 2 tablespoons granulated sugar * ¼ teaspoon table salt * 2 large eggs, beaten * 1 cup heavy cream * ½ teaspoon vanilla extract * 2 Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and sliced * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 1 tablespoon lemon zest (1 to 2 lemons) * ¼ teaspoon kosher salt * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar * Confectioners' sugar for dusting Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, 8-inch glass or ceramic pie plate Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Place the pie plate on the Plate Setter to preheat for 30 minutes. Combine the flour, sugar, table salt, eggs, cream, and vanilla in a medium bowl and mix well. Set aside. Place the apple slices in a medium bowl. Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon zest, and kosher salt. Toss to combine. Place the butter in the hot pie plate and let the butter melt. Pour the apple mixture into the butter and sauté for 8 to 10 minutes, until the apples are tender. Add the lemon juice and sprinkle with the brown sugar. Pour the batter evenly over the top of the apple mixture. Carefully remove the pie plate from the heat and place the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Place the pie plate on top of the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 12 minutes, or until the batter is set and firm. Transfer to a baking dish and allow the pancake to cool slightly. Carefully invert the pancake onto a large platter. Dust with confectioners' sugar and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Baked French Toast with Pears & Cherries _Challah bread is used for this French toast, but you can make the recipe your own. Try substituting brioche or French bread, and add your favorite nuts, fruits, or flavoring._ * Ingredients * 4 Bartlett pears, peeled, cored, and diced * ¾ cup dried cherries * ½ cup chopped walnuts * ¼ cup butter, melted * ½ teaspoon plus ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * ¼ teaspoon plus ½ teaspoon table salt * ½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar * 6 large eggs, beaten * ¼ cup heavy cream * 1 teaspoon vanilla extract * 3 tablespoons granulated sugar * ½ (8-ounce) loaf challah bread or brioche, sliced ¾ inch thick * Confectioners' sugar (optional) * Warm maple syrup (optional) Equipment: Plate Setter, buttered 7 by 11-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Combine the pears, cherries, walnuts, butter, ½ teaspoon of the cinnamon, the nutmeg, and ¼ teaspoon of the salt in a medium bowl until well blended. Pour the fruit mixture into the buttered baking dish, sprinkle with the brown sugar, and spread evenly in the bottom of the dish. Combine the eggs, cream, vanilla, the remaining ½ teaspoon cinnamon, sugar, and the remaining ½ teaspoon salt in a large bowl and mix well. Dredge each bread slice in the egg mixture, and layer the bread, one slice slightly overlapping the other, until the fruit mixture is completely covered. Pour the remaining egg mixture over the bread and cover the dish with aluminum foil. Place the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 15 minutes. Remove the foil, close the lid of the EGG, and continue baking for 10 minutes, or until the eggs are completely cooked. Remove the dish and let rest for 5 minutes. Run a knife along the edges of the dish and carefully invert the French toast onto a platter. Dust with confectioners' sugar and serve with maple syrup. Serves 6 ### Tropical Breakfast Muffins _Laced with fresh pineapple, white chocolate, and macadamia nuts, these muffins are so good that you could even top them with your favorite cream cheese frosting and serve them for dessert. Do not line the muffin pan cups with paper liners when baking in the EGG, because the papers will burn. Just butter and flour the cups, and then add the batter. Once the muffins are baked and cooled, they should come out of the cups easily._ * Ingredients * 2 cups all-purpose flour * 1 teaspoon baking powder * 1 teaspoon baking soda * ½ teaspoon table salt * ½ cup granulated sugar * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * ½ cup half-and-half * 3 large eggs * 1 tablespoon coconut extract * 2 cups diced fresh pineapple * 1½ cups shredded, sweetened coconut (4 ounces) * 1 cup crushed macadamia nuts * 8 ounces white chocolate chunks Equipment: Plate Setter, buttered and floured muffin pans (do not use paper liners) Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Using a wooden spoon, stir the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and sugar in a small bowl and mix well. Add the butter, half-and-half, eggs, and coconut extract. Continue stirring until completely combined. Using a spatula, fold the pineapple, coconut, macadamia nuts, and white chocolate into the batter. This batter will be very thick. Using a spoon, fill the prepared muffin pan cups three-quarters full. Do not overfill. Place the muffin pans on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into a muffin comes out clean. Remove from the EGG and let the muffins cool in the pans. Remove the muffins from the pan and serve. Makes 18 muffins ### Lemon & Lavender Scones _Lavender is a member of the mint family, and its flowers are widely used in the culinary world. Dried lavender buds are steeped in milk and cream to give these scones their slightly sweet floral flavor. If you cannot find lavender in your local supermarket or specialty food market, it can be ordered from a specialty spice company. If you are unable to find lavender, substitute 1 cup of dried cranberries or cherries for a distinctive flavor._ * Ingredients * ½ cup whole milk * ¼ cup heavy cream * 1 tablespoon dried lavender * 2½ cups all-purpose flour * 1 cup cake flour * ½ cup granulated sugar * 1 tablespoon baking powder * ½ teaspoon table salt * 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * 1 tablespoon lemon zest (1 to 2 lemons) * 2 large eggs, beaten * Glaze * 1 cup confectioners' sugar * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. In a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium-low heat, combine the milk, cream, and lavender. Let the milk steep for 3 to 4 minutes, until the lavender flavor has blended into the liquids. Do not boil. Remove the pan from the heat and strain the milk mixture into a small bowl, discarding the lavender. Set aside and let the milk cool completely. Combine the all-purpose flour, cake flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Mix until well blended. Using a pastry cutter or fork, work the butter into the flour until the butter is pea size. Add the lemon zest and mix well. Add the beaten eggs to the milk mixture and stir well. Using a fork, slowly add the milk mixture to the dry ingredients, stirring until a dough forms. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Form the dough into a ball and, using a sharp knife, divide the dough into 3 equal parts. Using a rolling pin, flatten each section into a 5-inch circle. Cut each circle into 4 equal wedges. Place the scones on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 18 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Using a spatula, transfer the scones to a platter. Let cool for 10 minutes. To make the glaze, whisk the confectioners' sugar, lemon juice, and butter in a small bowl until smooth. Drizzle 1 tablespoon of the glaze over each scone. Serve immediately. Makes 12 scones; serves 6 # _eggxhilarating!_ desserts recipes * Grilled Pineapple Upside-Down Cake * Bananas Foster * Pound Cake with Strawberries & Berry Coulis * Black & White Cupcakes * Kahlúa Coffee Brownies * Chocolate Pecan Bourbon Pie * Apple-Walnut Crostata with Caramel Sauce * Apple Crumble * Blackberry, Peach & Amaretto Cobbler * Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing * EGGstraordinary Doughnuts * Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies ### Grilled Pineapple Upside-Down Cake _For this delicious cake, fresh pineapple rings are grilled and then placed on the bottom of the cake pan before the cake batter is added. Once the cake is baked and inverted onto a plate, the caramelized pineapple rings will be sitting on top of the cake like a crown. This would be a great dessert to serve after grilled Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri (page 59)._ * Ingredients * ½ cup plus ½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar * 1 (14-ounce can) sweetened condensed milk * 7 fresh pineapple slices, ¼ inch thick * 1½ cups all-purpose flour * 1½ teaspoons baking powder * ¼ teaspoon table salt * 1 cup unsalted butter * 3 large eggs * 5 large egg yolks * 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract * 1 cup granulated sugar * 7 maraschino cherries Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 9-inch round cake pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 325°F. Mix ½ cup brown sugar and the condensed milk in a small bowl, blending well. Cut a hole, the same diameter as the cherries, in the center of each pineapple slice. Dredge the pineapple slices in the milk mixture and place them on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes on each side. Transfer the pineapple to a plate and let cool. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together in a medium bowl. Set aside. Melt the butter in a saucepan on the stovetop and let cool. Set aside. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolks together. Add the vanilla, remaining ½ cup brown sugar, and granulated sugar and stir until all the ingredients are incorporated. Slowly add the flour mixture to the egg mixture. Add the melted butter and mix well. Arrange the pineapple slices on the bottom of the cake pan. Place a cherry in the center of each pineapple ring, then pour the batter over the top of the pineapple. Use a spatula to smooth the batter until it is evenly distributed. Place the cake pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove the pan and let cool for 10 minutes. Gently run a knife around the outside edge of the pan. Cover the top of the cake pan with a platter and, holding the cake pan and the platter firmly together, gently turn the platter right side up with the pan upside down. Remove the pan and serve. Serves 6 _(See recipe photograph on page 242.)_ ### Bananas Foster _This classic banana dessert, first prepared by Paul Belange at Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans, is traditionally served over vanilla ice cream. It is usually prepared at the tableside. At the end of the preparation, the banana liqueur and rum are ignited, making for a dramatic presentation._ * Ingredients * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter * ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar * ½ cup granulated sugar * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * 4 bananas, peeled and sliced lengthwise * ¼ cup banana liqueur * ½ cup dark rum * 1 pint vanilla ice cream Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid. Stir the butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and cinnamon together in the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, whisking constantly until smooth. Add the bananas, cut side down. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the bananas are completely coated in the sugar mixture. Add the banana liqueur and the rum. Using a long match, carefully light the liqueur and rum, and cook until the flame burns off. Remove the Dutch Oven from the grid. Portion the ice cream into bowls, spoon the bananas and sauce over the top, and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Pound Cake with Strawberries & Berry Coulis _Strawberries mean summer has arrived! This is the perfect dessert to make when strawberries and raspberries are fresh and plentiful. This pound cake is particularly moist because of the addition of yogurt to the recipe. The coulis is a thick strained fruit sauce and joins the macerated berries on top of the cake. The coulis is also delightful served over ice cream with fresh berries._ * Ingredients * Pound Cake * 1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature * 3 cups granulated sugar * 6 large eggs * 3 cups cake flour * ¼ teaspoon table salt * ¼ teaspoon baking soda * 1 cup plain yogurt * 2 teaspoons vanilla extract * Strawberry-Raspberry Coulis * 1 pound fresh strawberries, hulled and quartered * 1 cup raspberries, fresh or frozen * 1 cup granulated sugar * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * Whipped Cream * 1 cup heavy cream * ½ cup confectioners' sugar * ½ teaspoon vanilla extract Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled and floured loaf pan Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 325°F. To make the pound cake, in a large bowl using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar for 3 to 5 minutes. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, with the mixer on low. Blend until the eggs are completely incorporated. Mix the flour, salt, and baking soda in a separate bowl. With the mixer on low, add the yogurt and the flour mixture, alternately, until both are completely incorporated. Add the vanilla and continue mixing for 15 seconds. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and place the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 1 hour, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. To make the coulis, using a small paring knife, quarter the strawberries and place them in a small bowl with the raspberries. Add the sugar and lemon juice. Using a spoon, toss the strawberries and raspberries in the sugar. Place half of the strawberries and raspberries in the bowl of a blender or food processor fitted with the steel blade and refrigerate the other half. Puree the berries in the blender for 3 minutes on high. Strain the coulis into a small bowl. To make the whipped cream, using a whisk or electric mixer, beat the cream, confectioners' sugar, and vanilla for 5 minutes, or until light and fluffy. To assemble, place a slice of cake on each plate. Top with the macerated strawberries and raspberries, spoon the coulis over the berries, and top with the whipped cream. Serves 6 to 8 ### Black & White Cupcakes _Serving cupcakes at a barbecue is very traditional, but you probably wouldn't think of baking the cupcakes on the barbecue grill. For these cupcakes, chocolate cake is married with a Cointreau-laced icing. Cointreau is an orange-flavored liqueur produced in France using a combination of sweet and bitter oranges. Buy the best-quality chocolate to make these exceptionally rich cupcakes. When baking these in the EGG, do not use paper liners inside the muffin pans, as the papers will burn._ * Ingredients * 1½ cups cake flour * ½ cup all-purpose flour * 1½ cups granulated sugar * 1 teaspoon baking soda * ¼ teaspoon baking powder * ½ teaspoon table salt * 1 cup warm water * 1 tablespoon instant coffee * ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder * 2 large eggs * ½ cup canola oil * 1 teaspoon orange extract * 2 cups semisweet chocolate chips * Icing * 10 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature * 2¼ cups confectioners' sugar * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice * 3 tablespoons Cointreau * 1 teaspoon orange zest Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled and floured 12-cup muffin pan (do not use paper liners) Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Combine the cake flour, all-purpose flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Stir until blended. Pour the water into another medium bowl. Add the instant coffee and cocoa powder. Using a whisk, stir until the coffee and cocoa are completely dissolved. Add the eggs, canola oil, and orange extract to the bowl and mix until completely combined. Add the flour mixture to the liquid, a little at a time, stirring constantly. Fold the chocolate chips into the batter. Pour the batter into a 4-cup liquid measuring cup. Pour 1/3 cup of the batter into each muffin cup. Place the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 25 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove the pan. Allow the cupcakes to cool completely before removing them from the cups. To make the icing, in a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the butter until it is light and creamy. Add the confectioners' sugar and continue beating until the sugar is completely incorporated. Slowly add the orange juice, Cointreau, and orange zest and beat until the icing is light and fluffy. Spread the icing on top of the cupcakes and serve. Makes 12 cupcakes ### Kahlúa Coffee Brownies _Three types of chocolate are blended in these rich, fudgelike brownies, resulting in the most decadent brownies you will ever taste. Once baked, top them with a cream cheese frosting flavored with Kahlúa, a coffee liqueur from Mexico. If you love coffee and chocolate, these are a real treat!_ * Ingredients * 1 cup unsalted butter * 1 tablespoon instant coffee * 4 ounces unsweetened chocolate * 4 large eggs * 2 cups granulated sugar * 1½ cups all-purpose flour * ⅛ teaspoon table salt * 1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips * 1 cup white chocolate chips * Kahlúa Icing * 1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, at room temperature * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 2 tablespoons Kahlúa * 2½ cups confectioners' sugar Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Melt the butter in a medium saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Add the coffee and stir until dissolved. Remove the saucepan from the heat, add the unsweetened chocolate, and stir until smooth. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, and continue mixing. Add the sugar and mix well. Add the flour and salt and gently combine. Using a spatula, fold the bittersweet chocolate and white chocolate chips into the batter. Spread the batter evenly into the prepared baking dish. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove and let the brownies cool before icing them. To make the icing, in a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the cheese and butter for 3 to 4 minutes, until creamy. Add the Kahlúa and confectioners' sugar and mix for 1 to 2 minutes, until completely blended. Using a spatula, spread the icing on the brownies. Cut the brownies into 3-inch squares and serve. Makes 12 brownies ### Chocolate Pecan Bourbon Pie _Pecan pie is a typical Southern dish made from corn syrup, brown sugar, and pecans and is often served on holidays. This traditional pie filling has a touch of bourbon and combines with dark chocolate morsels. It is perfect for a fall dinner or winter holiday dessert and would be especially good served after a smoked turkey dinner (page 108)._ * Ingredients * 1 cup dark corn syrup * 3 large eggs, beaten * 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar * ¼ cup bourbon * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips * 1 cup chopped pecans * 1 (9-inch) pie shell (page 223) * Whipped Cream * 1 cup heavy cream * ½ cup confectioners' sugar * ½ teaspoon vanilla extract Equipment: Plate Setter Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Using a wooden spoon, mix the corn syrup, eggs, butter, brown sugar, bourbon, and flour in a medium bowl until combined. Add the chocolate and pecans and blend well. Pour the filling into the pie shell. Place the pie plate on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until the filling is set and the pie is golden brown. Remove the pie and let cool completely, then refrigerate. To make the whipped cream, using a whisk or an electric mixer, beat the cream, confectioners' sugar, and vanilla for 5 minutes, or until light and fluffy. Serve slices of pie garnished with the whipped cream or pass separately. Serves 6 to 8 ### Apple-Walnut Crostata with Caramel Sauce _A crostata is nothing more than a fruit tart that is meant to be rustic, so do not be too concerned if this is your first time working with pie dough. Three different types of apple are used in this crostata: the tart, green Granny Smith; the sweet, crisp, red Fuji; and the very sweet Golden Delicious. By blending these three different varieties, the flavor of the crostata becomes more complex and balanced. Fresh berries, pears, or peaches work equally well._ * Ingredients * 1 pie dough disk (page 223) * ¼ cup firmly packed light brown sugar * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed orange juice * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 3 cups apple slices, 1/3 inch thick (1 cup each Granny Smith, Fuji, and Golden Delicious) * ½ cup chopped walnuts * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * 1 large egg white, beaten * 1 tablespoon water * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar * Caramel Sauce * 1 cup granulated sugar * ¼ cup water * 1 cup heavy cream * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Dust the pizza peel with flour. Roll the pie dough into a 12-inch circle on a lightly floured surface and place the dough on the peel. Mix the brown sugar, orange juice, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a large bowl. Add the apples and walnuts and toss until well coated with the brown sugar mixture. Spread the apple mixture in the center of the pastry, leaving a 2-inch border of dough exposed. Fold over the pastry edge toward the center, leaving the edges and folds of the dough very rustic. Dot the exposed apples with the butter. Mix the egg white and water in a small bowl and brush the outside of the dough with the egg wash. Sprinkle the top of the crostata with the granulated sugar. Carefully transfer the crostata to the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 minutes, or until golden brown. Using the pizza peel, transfer the crostata to a platter. To make the sauce, using a whisk, stir the sugar and water together in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan on the stovetop. Cook over medium heat for 15 minutes, occasionally brushing the sides of the pan with a wet brush. Do not stir. When the sugar is amber in color, slowly add the cream, whisking constantly for 3 to 5 minutes, until the sugar is dissolved. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk the butter into the caramel, 1 tablespoon at a time, until smooth and creamy. Let the caramel sauce cool for 10 to 15 minutes. Pour into a pitcher and serve with the crostata. Serves 6 ### Apple Crumble _Slightly tart Granny Smith apples, which originated in Australia, are ideal for baking. They are crisp, hold their color longer than most apples, and do not break down as quickly as most apples when cooked. The tart flavor of this apple is a nice contrast with the sweet topping. Though wonderful on its own, try serving the crumble with whipped cream or a scoop of your favorite ice cream._ * Ingredients * 1½ cups sour cream * 2 large eggs, beaten * ½ cup all-purpose flour * ¾ cup granulated sugar * ¼ teaspoon table salt * 2 teaspoons vanilla extract * 3 tablespoons Grand Marnier * 4 pounds Granny Smith apples * Topping * ¾ cup all-purpose flour * ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar * ½ cup granulated sugar * 3½ teaspoons ground cinnamon * ½ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into cubes * 1 ¼ cups walnut pieces Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect heat with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Using a whisk, mix the sour cream and eggs in a large bowl. Add the flour, sugar, salt, vanilla, and Grand Marnier. Stir until completely combined. Core and peel the apples, cut them in half lengthwise, and cut each half into thin slices. The apples may also be sliced in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the slicing blade. Add the sliced apples to the sour cream mixture and blend gently until the apples are completely coated. Pour the apple mixture into the pan and, using a rubber spatula, spread evenly. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until the custard is set. Remove the pan from the EGG and let cool for 5 minutes. To make the topping, place the flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse until the ingredients are thoroughly blended. Add the butter and walnuts and pulse briefly until the butter is roughly pea size. Sprinkle the topping evenly over the apples. Place the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake another 15 minutes, or until golden brown. Serve hot or cold. Serves 6 ### Blackberry, Peach & Amaretto Cobbler _There's something magical about the way the batter reacts in this very Southern dish. It's poured into the pan before anything else is added and then topped with the fruit filling. While baking in the EGG, the batter slowly rises to the top, creating a beautiful golden crust. Underneath lies a luscious combination of blackberries and peaches in a thick amaretto syrup. If you can't find fresh blackberries or peaches, use any fresh berry that is available at your local market or substitute thawed frozen fruit._ * Ingredients * ½ cup plus 1 cup granulated sugar * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * 2 teaspoons lemon zest * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * ¼ cup amaretto * 1 tablespoon cornstarch * ½ teaspoon plus ¼ teaspoon table salt * 5 cups peach slices, ½ inch thick * 2½ cups fresh blackberries * 10 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1 cup all-purpose flour * 1 tablespoon baking powder * ¾ cup whole milk * ½ teaspoon vanilla extract * Vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, or powdered confectioners' sugar (optional) Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Mix ½ cup sugar, cinnamon, lemon zest, lemon juice, amaretto, cornstarch, and ½ teaspoon of the salt in a large bowl. Add the peaches and blackberries. Toss to coat. Set aside. Melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat and pour into the baking dish. Whisk the flour, remaining 1 cup granulated sugar, baking powder, milk, vanilla, and ¼ teaspoon salt together in a small bowl. Pour the batter into the baking dish over the melted butter. Top with the fruit mixture. Place the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until the crust is light golden brown. Remove and let cool for 15 minutes. Serve with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, or confectioners' sugar, if desired. Serves 6 ### Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing _Peaches are a member of the rose family. There are many varieties, and they are usually classified by their pit or stone. In a clingstone peach, the flesh clings most tightly to the pit. These are the sweetest and juiciest of the peaches. However, the freestone is the peach usually found in your local grocery. The pit of the freestone is easily removed, making it ideal for eating or baking. For this simple dessert, use ripe and juicy freestone peaches, fill them with pecan praline stuffing, and bake in the EGG. Dessert doesn't get any better or easier than this!_ * Ingredients * 4 ripe peaches, unpeeled * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * ¾ cup firmly packed light brown sugar * ¼ cup all-purpose flour * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * ½ teaspoon table salt * ¼ teaspoon ground ginger * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 3 tablespoons plus 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed * ¼ cup chopped pecans Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Cut the peaches in half and remove the pits. Using a teaspoon, core the red centers from each of the peach halves. Dip the cut side of each peach into the lemon juice. Place the peaches in the baking dish, cut side up. In a medium bowl, stir the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt, ginger, and nutmeg until completely blended. Add 3 tablespoons of the butter to the flour mixture. Using a fork or pastry cutter, cut the butter into the dry ingredients until the pieces of butter are pea size. Using a spatula, fold the chopped pecans into the flour mixture until the pecans and the flour mixture are completely combined. Place 2 tablespoons of the filling into the center of each peach half. Put the peaches inside the baking dish and put the remaining 3 tablespoons butter in the pan. Place the baking dish on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until the stuffing has set and the peaches begin to soften. Remove the dish and let the peaches rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 8 ### EGGstraordinary Doughnuts _These doughnuts take a bit of time to make, but they are melt-in-your-mouth delicious and well worth the effort. After cooking, they are tossed in cinnamon and granulated sugar, but any topping can be used, from confectioners' sugar or melted chocolate to a lemon glaze. Doughnuts are fun to make for a crowd—just be aware that they will disappear fast, so you might want to double the recipe._ * Ingredients * ½ cup warm water (105° to 110°F) * 1 tablespoon active dry yeast * ¼ cup whole milk * ¼ cup buttermilk * 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening, melted * ¼ cup plus 1 cup granulated sugar * 1½ cups plus ½ cup all-purpose flour * 1 tablespoon baking powder * 1 teaspoon table salt * 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon * 4 cups peanut oil Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Pour the warm water into a medium bowl, add the yeast, and let sit for 5 minutes, or until frothy. Add the milk, buttermilk, shortening, ¼ cup of the sugar, 1½ cups of the flour, the baking powder, and salt. Mix well. Continue to add the remaining ½ cup flour until a soft dough forms. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Knead briefly, about 5 times. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough ½ inch thick. Use a 2½-inch round biscuit cutter or a small drinking glass to cut the dough into rounds. Place the dough onto a lightly floured cookie sheet and cover with plastic wrap. Let the dough rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size. Mix the cinnamon and the remaining 1 cup sugar in a small bowl until blended. Set aside. Fill the Dutch Oven with 2 inches of peanut oil. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and heat the oil to 375°F. Carefully place 3 or 4 of the doughnuts into the hot oil. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, until a light golden brown. Using tongs, turn each doughnut over. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer the doughnuts to a plate lined with paper towels to drain. Repeat the process until you have fried all the dough. Toss the cooked doughnuts, a few at a time, in the cinnamon-sugar mixture until coated. Serve. Makes 12 doughnuts ### Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies _This traditional butter shortbread has a bit of Red Chile Rub added, giving these cookies a subtle hint of heat. Scoring the dough into wedges before it is baked makes it very easy to break into individual cookies. Once cooled, gently break the cookies along the lines. This dough may also be rolled out and cut with a cookie cutter, if you prefer._ * Ingredients * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter * ¼ cup granulated sugar * ½ teaspoon table salt * 2 teaspoons lime zest (1 to 2 limes) * 1 teaspoon Red Chile Rub (page 197) * 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour Equipment: Plate Setter, 9-inch round cake pan Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 300°F. In a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the butter, sugar, salt, lime zest, and Red Chile Rub on low speed until the butter is creamed but not completely smooth. Scrape the butter off the sides of the bowl. With the mixer on low, gradually add the flour until the dough forms a ball. Transfer the dough to a lightly floured surface. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough ¼ inch thick. Place the dough in the cake pan. Spread the dough evenly with your fingers, pressing the dough into the edges of the pan. Using a paring knife, score the dough into 8 to 12 equal wedges. Do not cut all the way through the dough. Place the cake pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 7 to 8 minutes, or until light brown. Let the shortbread cool. Break the shortbread into wedges and serve. Makes 8 to 12 cookies # _eggsperimental!_ egghead recipes recipes * Caribbean Stuffed Peppers * ABTs * Tomatoes with Cornbread Stuffing * Tomato Pie * Crab-Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms * Baked Brie * Moussaka * Sausage & Mushroom Quiche * Spatchcocked Chicken * Seafood Paella * Shrimp Fra Diavolo * Maple-Smoked Salmon * Triple-Treat Tacos * Asian Marinated Flank Steak * All-American Burgers * Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket * EGGfest Chili * Beef Wellington * Pork Crown Roast * Caribbean-Style Pork Tenderloin * Mediterranean Pork Tenderloins * Bread Pudding with Figs & Pine Nuts ### Caribbean Stuffed Peppers _Jerk seasoning, which comes from Jamaica, is often used to impart flavor to grilled meats. The ingredients in jerk seasoning vary but generally include chiles, thyme, garlic, and onions, and so-called sweet spices, such as cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and cloves. In this version, the blend of chiles and spices is added directly to the ground meat, and the highly spiced meat is used to stuff bell peppers._ * Ingredients * 6 bell peppers (red, yellow, green, or a combination) * 2 tablespoons olive oil * 1 pound ground chuck or ground round * 1 cup diced red onion * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 3 tablespoons jerk seasoning * 1 cup white rice * 2 cups chicken stock * 1 (28-ounce) can diced tomatoes, drained * 1 Scotch bonnet chile pepper * 4 sprigs thyme * 2 bay leaves * 1 (1½-inch) piece peeled fresh ginger * 1 (15-ounce) can black beans, drained and rinsed * ½ cup firmly packed chopped fresh cilantro * ½ cup thinly sliced scallions * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes) * ½ cup crumbled cotija cheese (2 ounces) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Cut off the tops of the bell peppers and remove the seeds and ribs. If the peppers will not sit upright, cut a thin slice of flesh off the base to level the bottom. Set aside. Pour the olive oil into the Dutch Oven to heat briefly. Add the ground chuck, onion, and garlic. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until the meat is browned. Add the jerk seasoning and stir. Close the lid of the EGG and continue to cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until the ground beef is completely cooked. Add the rice, chicken stock, tomatoes, chile pepper, thyme sprigs, bay leaves, and ginger to the Dutch Oven and stir gently. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Simmer for 15 minutes, or until the rice is cooked and the liquid is absorbed. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat and let it sit, covered, for 10 minutes. Remove the lid and, using a fork, gently fluff the rice mixture. Remove and discard the chile pepper and thyme sprigs. Gently stir in the black beans, cilantro, scallion, and lime juice. Fill each of the bell peppers with 1 to 1½ cups of the filling. Place the peppers on the perforated grill pan and place the pan on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, or until the ingredients are thoroughly cooked. Transfer the peppers from the EGG to a platter and sprinkle each pepper with cheese. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### ABTs _You will find ABTs wherever EGGheads gather. This classic EGG dish is taken to the next level by adding Red Chile Rub, a red pepper glaze, and applewood-smoked bacon. These are great for a big gathering, especially on game day._ * Ingredients * 12 whole jalapeño peppers or red Fresno peppers * ½ cup red pepper jelly * 2 tablespoons water * 24 Little Smokies sausages * 8 ounces cream cheese, cubed, at room temperature * ½ cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (12 to 14 slices), cut in half * 2 tablespoons Red Chile Rub (page 197) Equipment: Plate Setter, porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up, and the porcelain coated grid on top of the Plate Setter. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Remove the stems from the peppers, cut in half lengthwise, and remove the seeds and membranes. Set aside. To make the glaze, heat the red pepper jelly and water in a small saucepan on the stovetop, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon. Set aside. Place the Little Smokies in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse briefly, until coarsely chopped. Add the cheese and cilantro and continue pulsing until combined. Place 1 tablespoon of the cheese mixture into the cavity of each pepper half. Wrap each half with a half-slice of the applewood-smoked bacon, and secure the bacon with a toothpick. Sprinkle each pepper with the Red Chile Rub. Place the peppers on the perforated grill pan and place the pan on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG. Cook, brushing often with a generous portion of the red pepper glaze, for 30 minutes, or until the bacon is crisp. Transfer the ABTs to a platter and serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Tomatoes with Cornbread Stuffing _Nothing tastes better than the first plump, ripe, juicy tomatoes of the season. Whether they are homegrown or from a roadside market, they signal that summer is near. For this dish, you can use any type of fresh tomatoes that are available, as long as they are round tomatoes rather than Roma. Only the round ones will sit upright on the grid once they are stuffed._ * Ingredients * 2 cups crumbled Southwestern Cornbread (page 217) * 1 cup julienned prosciutto * ½ cup diced mozzarella cheese (2 ounces) * ½ cup plus ¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (3 ounces total) * ¼ cup chopped oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes * ¼ cup chopped fresh basil * 2 tablespoons plus ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 8 vine-ripened tomatoes, tops removed and cored Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Using a wooden spoon, combine the cornbread, prosciutto, mozzarella cheese, ½ cup of the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, the sun-dried tomatoes, basil, and 2 tablespoons of the olive oil in a medium bowl. Season the stuffing with salt and pepper and mix well. Cut the tops off the tomatoes and, using a teaspoon or melon baller, remove some of the flesh from inside the tomatoes and discard it. Using a spoon, fill each tomato with some of the cornbread mixture, drizzle the tomatoes with the remaining ¼ cup olive oil, and sprinkle the tops of the tomatoes with the remaining ¼ cup Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Place the tomatoes on the perforated grill pan. Place the grill pan with the tomatoes on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 20 minutes, or until browned and heated thoroughly. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the tomatoes to a platter. Let the tomatoes rest for 5 minutes before serving. Serves 4 ### Tomato Pie _This is the perfect savory pie to make when tomatoes are at their peak, using beefsteak, Roma, or other vine-ripened tomatoes. It is perfect for lunch with Grilled Caesar Salad (page 171) or can be served as a side dish with Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb (page 76) or Spatchcocked Chicken (page 274)._ * Ingredients * 3 or 4 tomatoes * ¼ cup olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 1 (9-inch) pie shell (page 223) * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * 1 cup grated white Cheddar cheese (4 ounces) * 1 cup mayonnaise * 1 cup cooked and crumbled applewood-smoked bacon (about 6 slices) * ½ cup chopped scallions * ½ cup julienned fresh basil leaves Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Cut the tomatoes in half and place them in a small bowl, toss with the olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Place the tomatoes on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2 minutes per side, or until the tomatoes are roasted and the skin pulls away from the tomato. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the tomatoes from the grid to a platter and let cool completely. Peel and slice thinly. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. To blind bake the pie shell, cover with aluminum foil and place pie weights on top of the foil. Place the pie plate on the Plate Setter, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for about 12 minutes. Set aside and let cool. Using a wooden spoon, mix the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, Cheddar cheese, and mayonnaise in a medium bowl and stir well. Cover the bottom of the pie shell with the bacon, and layer with the scallions, basil, and sliced tomatoes. Season the tomatoes with pepper. Spread the cheese mixture evenly in the pie shell. Place the pie plate on the Plate Setter again and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 20 minutes, or until the top is lightly browned. Remove the pie plate and let stand for 10 minutes before slicing. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Crab-Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms _Portobello mushrooms are large, meaty brown mushrooms. When the mushrooms are ready to stuff, be sure to handle the crabmeat gently so that it does not break into small pieces. Served with a piquant rémoulade sauce, this dish can be served as an appetizer or main course._ * Ingredients * Rémoulade * ½ cup mayonnaise * ¼ cup chopped dill gherkin pickles * 1 tablespoon chopped pimientos * 1 tablespoon capers * ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce * ¼ teaspoon Tabasco sauce * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill * 2 tablespoons plus 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted * 2 tablespoons minced shallot * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * 1 cup whole milk * 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning * ¼ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce) * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard * 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce * ½ teaspoon Tabasco sauce * 1 pound lump crabmeat * ¼ cup chopped fresh chives * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 to 6 large portobello mushrooms, stems and gills removed * ¼ cup panko (Japanese bread crumbs) * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the rémoulade, place all the ingredients into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Turn the food processor on and let it run for 30 seconds only. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the shallot and garlic and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the shallot is translucent. Add the flour and cook for 1 minute, until the flour is incorporated. Using a whisk, add the milk and Old Bay seasoning. Stir for 5 minutes, or until the sauce thickens. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheese, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco sauce. Stir until completely blended. Let cool completely. Place the crabmeat in a medium bowl. Add the chives and season with salt and pepper. Using a rubber spatula, mix gently. Pour the sauce over the crab and gently fold the mixture together until combined. Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Brush some butter on both sides of the portobello mushrooms, and place the mushrooms in the baking dish. Spoon the crab filling into the prepared mushrooms. Brush the filling with the remaining melted butter, top with panko, and sprinkle with paprika. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until golden brown. Place the mushrooms on a platter or plates, and serve with the rémoulade. Serves 4 to 6 ### Baked Brie _This is a great party dish, and it's easy to make. Just be sure that you seal the puff pastry tightly around the edges so that the Brie cheese does not escape during baking. Feel free to experiment with other jellies, fruits, and nuts._ * Ingredients * 2 sheets puff pastry (1-pound box), thawed * 1 (2-pound) wheel Brie cheese * ½ cup raspberry preserves * ½ cup dried cherries * ½ cup golden raisins * ½ cup smoked pecans (page 204) * 1 large egg, beaten * 1 tablespoon water Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Unroll a sheet of puff pastry. Using a sharp knife, remove the rind from the top of the cheese. Discard the rind and place the whole cheese in the center of the unrolled sheet of puff pastry. Spread the top of the exposed cheese with the raspberry preserves and set aside. Place the cherries, raisins, and pecans in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse on and off, until the fruit is coarsely chopped into small pieces. Spread the fruit mixture evenly over the top of the preserves. Unroll the remaining sheet of puff pastry and place it on top of the cheese. Tuck the edges of the puff pastry under and press to seal, trimming any excess. Mix the egg and water in a small bowl. Use a pastry brush to brush the egg wash over the top and sides of the puff pastry. Transfer the cheese, wrapped in its puff pastry, to a cold Baking Stone. Using barbecue mitts, place the Baking Stone on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 25 minutes, or until golden brown. Using a large spatula, transfer the baked Brie to a platter and let cool for 5 minutes before serving. Serves 8 ### Moussaka _Although this eggplant and meat dish is served throughout the Middle East, it is the Greek version that is most familiar._ * Ingredients * 2 pounds eggplant, unpeeled, sliced ¼ inch thick * ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Freshly ground black pepper * Filling * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1 pound ground beef or lamb * 1 cup chopped yellow onions * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 1 tablespoon dried oregano * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 2 tablespoons tomato paste * ½ cup tomato sauce * ¼ cup red wine * 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * Mornay Sauce * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1/3 cup all-purpose flour * 2 cups whole milk * 1 cup heavy cream * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * ½ cup shredded Gruyère cheese (2 ounces) * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * Kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * ½ cup shredded Gruyère cheese (2 ounces) Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 375°F. To prepare the eggplant, brush the eggplant with olive oil and season lightly with pepper. Place the eggplant slices on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2 minutes on each side, or until softened and brown. Transfer the eggplant onto a rimmed sheet pan. Set aside. To make the filling, melt the butter in a large sauté pan on the stovetop and cook the meat, onions, garlic, oregano, cinnamon, sugar, and nutmeg over medium heat, until the meat is thoroughly cooked. Add the tomato paste, tomato sauce, wine, vinegar, salt, and pepper. Stir well and cook for 1 minute. Set aside. To make the Mornay sauce, melt the butter in a medium saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat, add the flour, and cook for 1 minute. Add the milk and cream. Simmer on medium heat for 5 minutes, or until thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and add the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, the Gruyère cheese, and the nutmeg. Season the sauce with salt and white pepper. Set aside. To assemble, arrange half of the eggplant over the bottom of the oiled baking dish. Spread the meat mixture evenly over the eggplant, pour the sauce evenly over the top, and sprinkle with the remaining cheeses. Place the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter and set the baking dish on top of the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 35 minutes, or until light golden brown in color. Remove the baking dish and let the moussaka rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Sausage & Mushroom Quiche _Quiche is a classic French custard-based tart made from eggs and cream. There are many different types of quiche, with the bacon-laden quiche Lorraine being the most popular. This version is heartier, with the addition of sausage, mushrooms, and three kinds of cheese that bake to perfection in the EGG. This dish freezes well, so make an extra quiche or two for later use._ * Ingredients * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter * 8 ounces sausage, crumbled * 4 cups sliced white mushrooms (8 ounces) * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 1/3 cup cream cheese, at room temperature (2 to 3 ounces) * 1 cup ricotta cheese (8 ounces) * ½ cup all-purpose flour * 1 tablespoon baking powder * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * 7 large eggs, beaten * 2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese (8 ounces) * 1 cup shredded extra-sharp Cheddar cheese (4 ounces) * ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces) * ½ cup heavy cream * 1 cup thinly sliced scallions (about 6) * 1 (9-inch) pie shell (page 223) Equipment: Plate Setter Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Melt the butter in a large skillet on the stovetop over medium heat, add the sausage, and sauté for 4 to 6 minutes, until the sausage is browned. Add the mushrooms and sauté for 3 to 4 minutes, until the mushrooms are tender. Season with the black pepper and stir well. Remove the pan from the heat to cool. In a large bowl, using an electric mixer, combine the cream cheese, ricotta cheese, flour, baking powder, and salt on low speed. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, and continue mixing until they are completely incorporated. Using a wooden spoon or spatula, stir in the sausage mixture, Monterey Jack cheese, Cheddar cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, cream, and scallions. Pour the mixture into the pie shell. Set the pie plate on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 35 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove the quiche from the EGG and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6 ### Spatchcocked Chicken _This is an easy method and a great way to prepare a whole chicken without cutting it into pieces. To spatchcock a chicken, remove the backbone. The chicken then opens like a book, so that it lies perfectly flat when grilled. This recipe would be terrific served with Barbecued Baked Beans (page 156) and grilled corn on the cob (page 182)._ * Ingredients * 1 (4 to 5-pound) chicken * 6 cups water * ½ cup kosher salt * ½ cup granulated sugar * 5 cloves garlic, crushed * 10 whole cloves * 3 tablespoons canola oil * ¼ cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * ½ cup KC Barbecue Sauce (page 192) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, hickory chips, instant read thermometer Preheat the EGG to 300°F without the Grid. Cut the chicken, from the neck down, along both sides of the backbone. Then remove the backbone, so that the chicken lies flat. Combine the water, salt, sugar, garlic, and cloves in a large bowl. Whisk until the salt and sugar are dissolved. Place the chicken in a large resealable plastic bag and pour the brine over the chicken. Place the bag inside a bowl or pan and refrigerate overnight. Remove the chicken from the brine and discard the brine. Rinse well and pat dry. Brush the chicken with the canola oil and season with the barbecue rub. Place 1 cup of hickory chips in a large bowl. Cover with water and soak for 1 hour. Scatter the hickory chips over the preheated charcoal and let the chips smoke for a few minutes. Spray the Grid with cooking spray and, using barbecue mitts, place it on the EGG. Place the chicken, skin side down, on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 20 minutes, checking occasionally. Turn the chicken over and brush it liberally with one-third of the barbecue sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 10 minutes. Turn the chicken over and brush it with the barbecue sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 20 minutes. Then continue basting every 5 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 165°F. Transfer the chicken to a platter, baste with barbecue sauce, and let the chicken rest for 10 minutes. Carve and serve. Serves 4 ### Seafood Paella _There are many variations of this Spanish saffron rice dish, some including pork, chicken, or chorizo. This version is made exclusively with seafood, but this is a great dish to experiment with, as the combinations of meat and shellfish are endless. You can also try adding artichokes or diced tomatoes. There are special pans for making paella, but the Dutch Oven does an amazing job._ * Ingredients * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * ½ pound large sea scallops * 1 cup diced yellow onions * ½ cup diced red bell pepper * 1 tablespoon minced garlic * 2 cups Arborio rice * 1 cup white wine * 1 cup clam juice * 3 ½ cups chicken stock * 1 teaspoon saffron * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika * 1 pound littleneck clams, scrubbed * 1 pound mussels, scrubbed and beards removed * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, tails left on * 1 cup fresh or frozen peas * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 2 lemons, cut into wedges Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Pour the oil into the Dutch Oven, add the scallops, and sauté for 1 minute. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the scallops to a small bowl and set aside. Add the onions, bell pepper, and garlic to the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Sauté for 1 minute, until the onions are translucent and the peppers are tender. Add the rice, wine, clam juice, chicken stock, saffron, and paprika, and stir well. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 12 minutes, or until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is cooked. Add the clams, place the lid on the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 5 minutes. Add the mussels and shrimp. Cook until the mussels are open and the shrimp are opaque. Remove the Dutch Oven. Stir in the reserved scallops, peas, parsley, and lemon juice. Discard any unopened clams or mussels. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with lemon wedges and serve. Serves 6 ### Shrimp Fra Diavolo _You and your guests are sure to love this dish! It is made with Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce, but if you want it even hotter, turn up the heat by adding extra red chile flakes._ Diavolo _is Italian for "devil," referring to the heat and color of this red sauce._ * Ingredients * 1 pound spaghetti * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and tails removed * 1 cup diced tomatoes ½ cup dry white wine * 3 cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200) * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice * ½ cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Cook the spaghetti according to the package directions, reserving ½ cup of the cooking water. Let the pasta cool completely and set aside. Pour the olive oil into the Dutch Oven, add the shrimp, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for 1 minute. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the cooked shrimp to a small bowl and let cool. Add the tomatoes to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and sauté for 1 minute. Add the white wine, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking until the wine is reduced by half. Add the tomato sauce and the reserved pasta water, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 minutes, or until the sauce begins to simmer. Add the spaghetti and the reserved shrimp, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 more minutes, or until the pasta is thoroughly heated. Remove the Dutch Oven. Add the lemon juice and chopped basil to the pasta and sauce. Stir gently. Season with salt and pepper and serve immediately. Serves 4 _"This is the best outdoor cooker I have ever used. Nothing else even comes close. Everything turns out perfect!" –_ Larry, Georgia ### Maple-Smoked Salmon _This salmon gets the royal treatment. Marinated overnight and then cooked on cedar planks for a smoky flavor, it turns out moist and delicious. Horseradish is added to this marinade to give the salmon some zing. Make sure that the prepared horseradish is fresh and that you use real maple syrup to maximize the flavors._ * Ingredients * Marinade * 1 cup maple syrup * ¼ cup prepared horseradish * ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 to 2 lemons) * 4 (5-ounce) salmon fillets * 2 tablespoons canola oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 2 cedar planks Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the marinade, use a whisk to combine the maple syrup, horseradish, and lemon juice in a small bowl. Place the fillets in a resealable plastic bag, pour the marinade over the fillets, and seal the bag tightly. Refrigerate for 24 hours, turning occasionally. Place the cedar planks in a large pan, cover with water, and soak for 1 hour. Remove the cedar planks from the water and place them on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and allow the cedar planks to heat for 3 minutes. Turn the cedar planks over, close the lid of the EGG, and continue heating. Brush each cedar plank with canola oil. Remove the salmon fillets from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place 2 salmon fillets on each cedar plank and season the fillets with salt and pepper. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the desired doneness is reached. Transfer the salmon fillets to a platter and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Triple-Treat Tacos _This recipe takes tacos to a whole new level. There is something for everyone—steak, chicken, and shrimp—all served in corn tortillas. These have just the right amount of heat and smokiness. All you need is guacamole and margaritas!_ * Ingredients * 3 ancho chile peppers * 1 cup hot water * 2 chipotle peppers in adobo * ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 teaspoon dried oregano * 1 teaspoon ground cumin * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon * ¼ teaspoon ground cloves * 2 bay leaves * 5 cloves garlic * 1 teaspoon kosher salt * 1 pound boneless sirloin steak, cut in half lengthwise * 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and tails removed * 12 corn tortillas * ½ cup corn oil * Crumbled queso fresco, minced yellow onions, cilantro leaves, Mexican green sauce (optional) Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Place the ancho chiles in a small bowl, pour the water over the chiles, cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and let steam for 10 minutes. Strain the chiles over a bowl, reserving ½ cup of the water for the marinade. Place the rehydrated ancho chiles, the chipotle peppers, olive oil, reserved water from the ancho chiles, the oregano, cumin, cinnamon, cloves, bay leaves, garlic, and salt into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Process the ingredients until they are pureed. Place the steak, chicken, and shrimp in 3 separate resealable plastic bags. Divide the marinade into thirds and pour one-third into each bag. Seal all of the bags tightly and refrigerate for 8 to 12 hours. Remove the steak, chicken, and shrimp from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the chicken on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill the chicken for 8 minutes per side, or until the juices run clear. Transfer the chicken to a rimmed sheet pan, place the steak on the Grid, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 4 minutes per side, or until medium-rare. Transfer the steak to the sheet pan, place the shrimp on the Grid, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1 minute per side. Transfer the shrimp to the rimmed sheet pan. Cut the steak and chicken into bite-size pieces. Cut each shrimp into small pieces (in half or in thirds, depending on the size of the shrimp). Cover the steak, chicken, and shrimp with aluminum foil until ready to serve. Brush the corn tortillas on both sides with the corn oil. Place the tortillas on the Grid and grill for 10 seconds per side, until heated. Transfer the tortillas to a sheet of aluminum foil and keep the tortillas tightly wrapped until ready to serve. Place the steak, chicken, and shrimp on a platter with the warm tortillas. Serve with the cheese, onions, cilantro, and sauce. Serves 4 to 6 ### Asian Marinated Flank Steak _You can easily find chili garlic sauce, one of the ingredients in this recipe, in the ethnic foods section of your local grocery store. If you like your sauce good and hot, just bump up the amount of chili garlic sauce._ * Ingredients * ½ cup soy sauce * ½ cup pineapple juice * ½ cup canola oil * ½ cup sliced scallions * ¼ cup chopped fresh ginger * ¼ cup chopped garlic * 1 tablespoon five-spice powder * 1 tablespoon chili garlic sauce * 1 (2-pound) flank steak Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 600°F. Using a whisk, mix the soy sauce, pineapple juice, canola oil, scallions, ginger, garlic, five-spice powder, and chili garlic sauce in a small bowl. Place the flank steak in a large resealable plastic bag, pour the marinade over the steak, and seal the bag tightly. Refrigerate for 24 hours, turning occasionally. Remove the flank steak from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the steak on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the steak for 3 to 4 minutes on each side for medium-rare. Transfer the flank steak to a platter and let it rest for 5 minutes. Slice and serve. Serves 4 ### All-American Burgers _This is your good old classic American hamburger. Barbecue spice is added for more flavor, but the real star is the meat, so be sure to buy the best quality available. Serve these burgers with Warm Southwestern Potato Salad (page 166) and fresh Grilled Corn with Roasted Garlic Butter (page 182)._ * Ingredients * 1 pound ground chuck * 1 pound ground round * ¼ cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * 4 hamburger buns Equipment: Cast Iron Grid Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 650°F. Place the ground chuck, ground round, barbecue rub, salt, and pepper into a large bowl and combine. Form the beef mixture into 4 equal patties 1 inch thick. Place the patties on a rimmed sheet pan. Let the patties sit at room temperature for 30 minutes before grilling. Place the patties on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Sear for 3 minutes. Turn the burgers over, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for another 3 minutes for medium-rare. Transfer the hamburgers to a plate. Let the hamburgers rest for 5 minutes. Place the hamburger buns on the Grid, cut side down, for 30 seconds. Transfer the hamburger buns to a platter. Place a hamburger in each bun and serve. Serves 4 ### Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket _If not cooked properly, brisket tends to be a tough cut of meat. Topped with sweet and spicy mango chutney, this brisket is best cooked low and slow to ensure tenderness. When slicing the brisket, always be sure to slice against the grain; otherwise, the meat will be stringy. Leftover brisket is great shredded and turned into barbecue beef sandwiches. Try it with Fennel Slaw (page 90)._ * Ingredients * 1½ cups mango chutney * 1 cup apple cider vinegar * 1 cup tomato sauce * ½ cup ketchup * ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar * 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce * 1 (6-pound) beef brisket * 2 cups white vinegar * ¾ cup Tricolor Pepper Rub (page 197) * 2 cups Beer Mop (page 196) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 200°F. Mix the chutney, apple cider vinegar, tomato sauce, ketchup, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce in a medium bowl, until all the ingredients are combined, and set aside. Place the brisket in a large bowl, pour the white vinegar over the brisket, and let the brisket sit for 5 minutes. Transfer the brisket to a rimmed sheet pan and season all over with the pepper rub. Place the brisket on the preheated grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 30 minutes, mopping with the beer mop every 15 minutes. Turn the brisket over and close the lid of the EGG. Mopping every 15 minutes, cook for another 30 minutes, or until the brisket is brown. Transfer the brisket to a rimmed sheet pan lined with aluminum foil. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Pour the chutney mixture over the brisket, wrap with the foil, and seal tightly. Place the brisket on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Continue to cook for 4 hours, or until the brisket is very tender. Transfer the brisket to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 10 minutes, still in the foil. Remove the foil, slice the brisket against the grain, and place on a platter. Serve immediately. Serves 8 ### EGGfest Chili _This recipe was inspired by one of the original EGGheads, who was very instrumental in organizing the first EGGtoberfest. This version of the recipe is slightly elaborated. All you need is a bowl of this satisfying chili, some buttery cornbread (page 219), and a few good friends to share it with to understand what the EGG is all about._ * Ingredients * 6 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (about 7 slices) * 2 cups diced yellow onions * 2 cups diced celery * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 2 pounds ground chuck * ¼ cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * ¼ cup chili powder * 2 tablespoons ground cumin * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon * 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder * 2 teaspoons dried oregano * 1 ½ cups beef stock * 2 (28-ounce) cans diced tomatoes * 2 (14-ounce) cans pinto beans, drained and rinsed * 1 (14-ounce) can kidney beans, drained and rinsed * 1 (14-ounce) can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed * 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar * Tabasco sauce * 2 chipotle peppers in adobo * Grated Cheddar cheese, thinly sliced scallions, and sour cream (optional) Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, pecan chips Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place 2 cups of pecan chips in a large bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes. Add the bacon to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a small bowl lined with paper towels. Set aside. Place the onions, celery, and garlic in the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until soft. Add the ground chuck, barbecue rub, chili powder, cumin, cinnamon, cocoa powder, and oregano and stir well. Close the lid of the EGG and cook until the meat is cooked through and lightly browned. Add the beef stock, tomatoes, all the beans, and the vinegar, mixing until thoroughly combined. Season with Tabasco sauce. Add the chipotle peppers and stir gently. Remove the Dutch Oven from the grill. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid. Scatter the pecan chips over the coals and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Place the uncovered Dutch Oven on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Reduce the heat of the EGG to 300°F. Cook for 1½ to 2 hours, until the meat is thoroughly cooked and the chili has a smoky flavor. Using a slotted spoon, carefully remove the chipotles and discard. Close the lid of the EGG and continue to cook the chili uncovered for 30 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove the Dutch Oven. Serve the chili with the cheese, scallions, and sour cream. Serves 8 to 10 ### Beef Wellington _A traditional beef Wellington is a tenderloin that is coated in pâté de foie gras and duxelles, surrounded in puff pastry, and baked, but here, the pâté is omitted. Having the butcher trim the meat for you will make this dish easier to prepare. Duxelles is made by cooking mushrooms in butter with shallots and garlic until the water from the mushrooms has completely evaporated. The duxelles is then spread on the puff pastry before it is wrapped around the tenderloin and baked. Duxelles can be made with any type of mushroom._ * Ingredients * 1 (4 to 5-pound) beef tenderloin, trimmed and tied * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon kosher salt * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper * Duxelles * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter * 1 pound baby bella (cremini) or small white mushrooms, finely chopped * ¼ cup minced shallots * 2 tablespoons minced garlic * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley * 2 large eggs * 8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature * 1 tablespoon water * 2 sheets puff pastry (1-pound box), thawed Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Plate Setter, Baking Stone, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 500°F. Brush the tenderloin with the olive oil and season all over with the salt and pepper. Place the tenderloin on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Sear for 2 to 3 minutes per side, until the whole tenderloin has been seared. Transfer the tenderloin to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Reduce the heat of the EGG to 425°F. To make the duxelles, place the butter, mushrooms, shallots, garlic, and thyme in a large sauté pan on the stovetop over medium heat. Cook for 10 to 15 minutes, until all the excess liquid from the mushrooms has evaporated. Remove the pan from the heat, add the parsley, and stir well. Let cool completely. Using a wooden spoon, beat 1 of the eggs in a large bowl, then add the cheese and the cooled mushroom mixture and stir well. Set aside. To assemble, use a whisk or fork to beat the remaining egg with the water in a small bowl, until frothy. Set aside. Unroll the 2 sheets of puff pastry onto a lightly floured surface. Overlap the 2 short ends of the pastry and, using a rolling pin, roll the 2 pastry sheets together into a 12 by 20-inch rectangle. Spread the duxelles evenly over one of the joined pastry sheets, leaving a 2-inch border on the edges. Place the whole tenderloin on the duxelles, parallel to the short end of the pastry sheet. Starting at the duxellecoated end of the pastry, roll the pastry with the tenderloin halfway and then brush all the exposed borders with the egg wash. Continue to roll the tenderloin, using all of the puff pastry. Seal both ends by tucking the ends of the pastry under. Brush the entire pastry with the egg wash. Transfer the tenderloin to the cold Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 135°F. Transfer the tenderloin to a rimmed sheet pan. Let cool for 15 minutes. Slice and serve. Serves 8 ### Pork Crown Roast _The crown roast is formed using the rib section of the loin. The reason for its name is apparent because once tied in a circle, it resembles a crown. The center is usually filled with a stuffing before the roast is baked. Because of the elaborate presentation, a crown roast makes a perfect holiday or special-occasion dinner._ * Ingredients * 1 (8 to 9-pound) pork crown roast * ½ cup Dijon mustard * 1 pound ground pork-sage sausage * 8 cups quartered small white mushrooms * 2 cups diced yellow onions * 1 cup diced celery * 1 cup peeled and diced Granny Smith apple * 1 cup chicken stock * 1 large egg, beaten * 4 cups plain croutons Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Using a basting brush, cover the crown roast, both inside and outside, with the mustard and set aside. Brown the sausage, mushrooms, onions, celery, and apple in the Dutch Oven on the stovetop over medium-high heat, until caramelized. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the mixture to a medium bowl and let cool. Using a wooden spoon, stir the chicken stock and the beaten egg together in a large bowl, add the croutons, and continue to mix. Add the sausage mixture to the croutons and combine until all the ingredients are thoroughly blended. Put the stuffing in the center of the crown roast and cover the top of the roast with aluminum foil. Place the roast in the V-Rack and put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Set the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1½ hours. Remove the foil, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 to 45 minutes longer, until the instant read thermometer registers 145°F. Remove the roast from the heat and let rest for 15 minutes. Slice and serve. Serves 8 ### Caribbean-Style Pork Tenderloin _A dry sherry is used in the marinade of this highly spiced dish. Sherry is a fortified wine that originated in the Andalusia region of Spain but is now made in other parts of the world. Mango nectar and hot peppers complement the sherry, giving this meat a sweet yet hot and spicy flavor._ * Ingredients * Marinade * 1 ancho chile pepper * 1 cup hot water * 1 chipotle pepper in adobo * 1 teaspoon jerk seasoning * 1 cup mango nectar * ½ cup dry sherry * ¼ cup canola oil * 2 (1½ to 2-pound) pork tenderloins * Sauce * 1 red bell pepper * 1 large vine-ripened tomato * 1 teaspoon saffron * 1 teaspoon honey * 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar * 5 cloves roasted garlic (page 202) * ½ cup mayonnaise * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the marinade, place the ancho chile in a small bowl and cover with the water. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the chile sit for 10 minutes. Drain and place the ancho chile, chipotle pepper, jerk seasoning, mango nectar, sherry, and canola oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse for 30 seconds to blend. Place the pork tenderloins in a resealable plastic bag and pour the marinade over the pork. Seal the bag tightly and refrigerate for 8 to 12 hours, turning occasionally. To make the sauce, place the bell pepper on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill, turning occasionally, until the pepper is roasted on all sides. Place the pepper in a resealable plastic bag and allow to steam. Place the tomato on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 2 to 3 minutes, until roasted and the skin begins to pull away. Place the roasted red pepper, grilled tomato, saffron, honey, vinegar, garlic, mayonnaise, and olive oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Let the food processor run until all of the ingredients are completely blended. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Remove the tenderloins from the marinade and discard the marinade. Season the tenderloins with salt and pepper. Place the tenderloins on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 5 to 6 minutes per side, until the instant read thermometer registers 145°F. Transfer the pork to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 10 minutes. Slice the pork. Place 2 tablespoons of sauce in the middle of each plate and top with the sliced pork. Serve immediately. Serves 6 ### Mediterranean Pork Tenderloins _This dish requires that you butterfly the pork in order to stuff it. Don't be too intimidated to try this technique. Once you have mastered it, you will find it very easy. After it is butterflied, the pork is lined with grape leaves and stuffed with a blend of rice, olives, and Mediterranean spices. Grape leaves are often used in Greece and the Middle East to wrap around food before cooking. You may not be able to find these fresh, but your local grocery store will most likely sell brined grape leaves in jars._ * Ingredients * 2 (1 to 1½-pound) pork tenderloins * 8 to 10 grape leaves * 1/3cup white rice, cooked * ½ cup julienned oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes * ½ cup crumbled feta cheese (2 ounces) * ¼ cup pitted kalamata olives * ¼ cup pitted manzanilla olives * ½ cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves * ½ cup firmly packed fresh oregano leaves * 4 anchovy fillets * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice * 2 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil * 1 tablespoon sweet paprika * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. Place each pork tenderloin on a cutting board and cut lengthwise three-quarters of the way through the pork. Open the tenderloins so that they lie flat. Place 4 or 5 grape leaves to cover the inside of each tenderloin. Place the white rice, tomatoes, cheese, all the olives, the basil, oregano, anchovy fillets, lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons of the olive oil into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse briefly about 10 times, or until the ingredients are coarsely chopped. Carefully remove the steel blade. Using a spatula, spread half of the filling on each of the tenderloins. Close the tenderloins and tie them in place with butcher's twine. Brush each tenderloin with the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Rub with the paprika and season with salt and pepper. Place each tenderloin on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 7 to 8 minutes per side, until the instant read thermometer registers 145°F. Transfer the tenderloins to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 10 minutes. Slice and serve. Serves 6 ### Bread Pudding with Figs & Pine Nuts _Pine nuts, the seeds harvested from pine cones, and dried figs combine to make this hearty bread pudding. To top it off, it's served with a side of caramel sauce flavored with sambuca, an Italian anise-flavored liqueur. Bread pudding can be made with any variety of dried fruits and nuts, and any leftover bread can be used in place of the challah._ * Ingredients * 8 slices challah bread, 1 inch thick * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus 8 tablespoons butter, melted * 2 cups whole milk * 2 cups heavy cream * ½ cup granulated sugar * 8 large eggs, beaten * 1 teaspoon vanilla extract * ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon * ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg * 2 cups dried figs, quartered * ½ cup pine nuts * Caramel Sauce * ½ cup granulated sugar * 1 tablespoon light corn syrup * ¼ cup water * ½ cup heavy cream * 1 tablespoon sambuca * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 10 by 15-inch cookie sheet, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. Preheat a kitchen oven to 350°F. Spread one side of each slice of bread with the 2 tablespoons of room temperature butter. Place the bread buttered side up on the oiled cookie sheet and put the cookie sheet in the oven for 3 to 4 minutes, until the bread is lightly toasted. Let the bread cool, then cut into 1-inch cubes. Using a wooden spoon, mix the milk, cream, sugar, the 8 tablespoons of melted butter, the eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, figs, and pine nuts in a large bowl and stir until completely combined. Add the bread and mix well until the bread is thoroughly coated. Cover and refrigerate for 6 to 8 hours or overnight. Spread the bread mixture evenly in the oiled baking dish. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove the bread pudding and let rest for 10 minutes. To make the sauce, while the bread pudding is baking, heat the sugar, corn syrup, and water in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat for 6 to 8 minutes, until it is caramel in color. Add the cream, sambuca, and butter and whisk until smooth and creamy. Remove the pan from the heat and let cool for 15 minutes, then keep warm. Serve with the bread pudding. Serves 6 _I cannot tell you how happy my family is with the Big Green Egg! Rain or snow, I enjoy getting it going in the middle of winter and just letting the aroma drift to my neighbors' yards."—Doug, New York_ # _eggsclusive!_ chefs & pitmasters recipes * Grilled Island Chicken with Tropical Salsa by Lee Ann Whippen * Beer-Butt Chicken by Rick Browne * Bourbon-Brined Barbecue Turkey by Steven Raichlen * Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Peach Barbecue Drizzle by Ray Lampe * Smoked Beef Short Ribs by Kevin Rathbun * Brisket with Kale by Chef S. Dean Corbett * Pepper-Crusted Rib-Eye with Morel Cognac Cream Sauce by Ken Hess * Molten Chocolate Cake by Andy Husbands ### Grilled Island Chicken with Tropical Salsa by Lee Ann Whippen _Whippen's grilled chicken breasts are bathed for several hours in a coconut milk marinade before grilling, then topped with Tropical Salsa, turning chicken into a dish that family and guests will ask for repeatedly._ * Ingredients * Marinade * 1 (14-ounce) can unsweetened coconut milk * 3 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro * ⅛ teaspoon ground cinnamon * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes) * 1 large jalapeño, seeded and minced * 6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts * Tropical Salsa * ¼ cup chopped red onion * ½ cup seeded and chopped tomato * ½ cup chopped mango * ¼ cup chopped green bell pepper * ¼ cup chopped yellow bell pepper * 1 tablespoon minced jalapeño * ½ teaspoon kosher salt * ½ teaspoon chili powder * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes) 1 tablespoon honey * Lime wedges for garnish * Cilantro sprigs for garnish Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 350°F. To make the marinade, using a whisk, mix the coconut milk, cilantro, cinnamon, lime juice, and jalapeño in a small bowl. Place the chicken breasts in a large shallow dish and pour the marinade over the chicken to cover. Cover the dish with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours. To make the salsa, toss the onion, tomato, mango, green bell pepper, yellow bell pepper, jalapeño, salt, chili powder, lime juice, and honey in a medium bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use. Remove the chicken breasts from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the chicken on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 10 to 12 minutes per side, until the instant read thermometer reads 160°F. Transfer the chicken to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the chicken breasts on plates and top with the salsa. Garnish each plate with lime wedges and a sprig of cilantro. Serves 6 ### Beer-Butt Chicken by Rick Browne People _magazine dubbed Browne "The Godfather of Beer-Butt Chicken," but he humbly admits that he borrowed the technique from a barbecue contest competitor. However, Rick was the first in the country to publish the recipe and to prepare it on national television. When you try this fascinating, fun, and delicious way to cook a chicken, you'll want to serve it again and again._ * Ingredients * Rub * 1 teaspoon brown sugar * 1 teaspoon garlic powder * 1 teaspoon onion powder * 1 teaspoon dried summer savory * ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper * 1 teaspoon chili powder * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika * 1 teaspoon dry mustard * 1 tablespoon sea salt or kosher salt * 1 (4 to 5-pound) chicken * 1 (12-ounce) can beer * 1 cup apple cider * 2 tablespoons olive oil * 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 1 (12-ounce) beer can or "Sittin' Chicken" Ceramic Roaster, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan, spray bottle, Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 375°F. To make the rub, combine the brown sugar, garlic powder, onion powder, summer savory, cayenne pepper, chili powder, paprika, mustard, and salt in a small bowl. Stir until incorporated. Apply the rub all over the chicken, even inside the cavity. Work the mixture gently into the skin and under the skin wherever possible. Cover the chicken and set aside at room temperature for 30 minutes. Pour half of the beer into the spray bottle. Add the apple cider, olive oil, and vinegar and set aside. If using the Ceramic Roaster, pour the remaining beer into the cavity of the Roaster and slide the chicken onto the Roaster, through the tail end. If using the beer can, slide the chicken down over the can. Place the chicken, still on the Roaster, on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook, using the spray bottle to baste the chicken once or twice, for 20 minutes, or until the chicken is just beginning to brown all over. Carefully lift the chicken (still on the Roaster) into the Drip Pan and close the lid of the EGG. Cook, spraying the chicken with the basting spray several times, for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until the internal temperature of the thigh reaches 170°F and the chicken is a mahogany brown color. Using barbecue mitts, remove the chicken and present it on the Roaster to your guests. After they have reacted appropriately, remove the chicken from the Roaster. Be careful: The can and the liquid inside are very hot. Spray the chicken once more with the basting spray, cover with foil, and let rest for 10 minutes. Carve and serve. Serves 4 ### Bourbon-Brined Barbecue Turkey by Steven Raichlen _Raichlen's Bourbon-Brined Barbecue Turkey owes its superb taste and wonderfully moist meat to a generous marinade injection of chicken stock, bourbon, and butter, and a zippy spice mixture. Apple chips and natural lump charcoal add another flavor dimension. You'll be proud to bring this burnished bird to the table._ * Ingredients * Injector Sauce * 1 tablespoon Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * 2 tablespoons salted butter * 1/3 cup chicken stock, preferably homemade, or low-sodium store-bought, at room temperature * 2 tablespoons bourbon * 1 (8 to 10-pound) turkey * 2 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196) * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted Equipment: Plate Setter, Drip Pan, porcelain coated grid, apple chips, marinade injector, instant read thermometer Preheat the EGG to 350°F without the Plate Setter. Place the apple chips in a large bowl and cover with water. Soak for at least 1 hour. Drain and scatter over the preheated charcoal. Place the Plate Setter, legs up, in the EGG, set the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter, and set the grid on top. To make the injector sauce, if the rub has any coarse bits or spices, finely grind it in a spice mill or coffee grinder so it doesn't clog the injector. Melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Using a whisk, add the chicken stock, bourbon, and the rub and mix well. Let cool to room temperature. Remove the neck and giblets from the turkey and reserve for another use. Remove and discard the fat just inside the cavities of the turkey. Rinse the turkey inside and out under cold running water, then blot dry inside and out with paper towels. Season the inside of the cavities with 2 tablespoons of the rub. Fill the injector with the injector sauce. To do this, push the plunger all the way down, place the tip of the needle in the sauce, and slowly draw the plunger up. The syringe will fill with sauce. Inject the sauce directly into the turkey breast, thighs, and drumsticks. Don't be surprised if a little sauce squirts out; this is okay. Discard the remainder of the injector sauce. Trussing the turkey is optional, but it will give the bird a more dignified appearance. Brush the outside of the turkey with the melted butter and sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons rub all over the turkey, patting it on the skin with your fingertips. Place the turkey, breast side up, in the center of the grid, over the Drip Pan, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook the turkey until the skin is nicely browned and the meat is cooked through, about 2 to 2½ hours. To check for doneness, the instant read thermometer should be inserted in the thickest part of a thigh, not touching bone, and should register 165°F. If the wing tips start to burn, cover them loosely with aluminum foil; if the skin starts to darken too fast, cover the bird loosely with foil. Transfer the grilled turkey to a platter, cover loosely with foil, and let the turkey rest for 10 minutes. Remove any trussing from the turkey. Carve and serve. Serves 10 ### Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Peach Barbecue Drizzle by Ray Lampe _If you've never used coffee in a rub, you're in for a real treat with this coffee-rubbed pork tenderloin. Quick and easy to prepare, it's served with Peach Barbecue Drizzle, which relies on peach preserves. Add grilled peaches on the side for a colorful and tasty presentation if desired. This is sure to be added to your list of favorite recipes._ * Ingredients * Coffee Rub * 2 tablespoons ground coffee * 1 tablespoon turbinado sugar (coarse, raw sugar) * 1 tablespoon chili powder * 1½ teaspoons table salt * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * 2 (1-pound) pork tenderloins * 1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil * Peach Barbecue Drizzle * 1 ½ cups peach preserves * ½ cup ketchup * 2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar * 2 tablespoons light brown sugar * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 400°F. To make the rub, combine the coffee, sugar, chili powder, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Mix well and set aside. Trim the fat and silver skin from the tenderloins. Brush the tenderloins with the olive oil and season liberally with the rub. Let the meat rest for 10 minutes before cooking. To make the drizzle sauce, mix the preserves, ketchup, vinegar, brown sugar, and pepper in a small saucepan. Place the pan on the stovetop over medium heat and cook for 3 minutes. Transfer the sauce to a bowl and let cool. Place the tenderloins on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 to 6 minutes, until browned. Turn the meat, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking for another 5 to 6 minutes, until the meat is brown on all sides. Cook until the instant read thermometer reads 140°F. Transfer the meat to a platter and tent loosely with aluminum foil. Let the tenderloins rest for 5 minutes. Slice the meat thinly and serve drizzled with the sauce. Serves 6 ### Smoked Beef Short Ribs by Kevin Rathbun _These smoked short ribs are a tribute to Rathbun's appetite for beef. He takes a once-lowly cut of meat and with innovative seasoning, hickory chips, and slow cooking turns it into tender, tasty fare, sure to please even the most discriminating palate. Ask the butcher to cut the short ribs 2 to 2½ inches thick, because they shrink during cooking. And be prepared for everyone to ask for second helpings._ * Ingredients * Rub * 1 teaspoon garlic powder * 1 teaspoon onion powder * 1 teaspoon smoked Spanish paprika * ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper * ½ teaspoon dried thyme * ½ teaspoon ground coriander * 1 tablespoon kosher salt * 4 pounds bone-in beef short ribs, cut 2 to 2½ inches thick * 16 ounces lager beer * 2 cups chicken stock * 2 cups white balsamic vinegar * 4 tablespoons salted butter, cubed Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, hickory chips, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish Preheat the EGG to 180° to 200°F without the grid. Place the hickory chips in a small bowl, cover with water, and let soak for at least 1 hour. Drain and scatter over the preheated charcoal. Using barbecue mitts, place the grid in the EGG. To make the rub, mix the garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, cayenne pepper, thyme, coriander, and salt in a small bowl. Generously rub the short ribs with the spices. Place the ribs on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Let the ribs smoke for 1½ to 2 hours. Mix the beer and the chicken stock in a large bowl and set aside. Place the vinegar in a heavy-bottomed saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat for about 15 minutes, or until the liquid has reduced by half. Set aside. Preheat a kitchen oven to 375°F. Once the short ribs have finished smoking, transfer the ribs to the baking dish and pour the beer and chicken stock mixture over the ribs. Cover the dish tightly with aluminum foil. Place in the preheated oven for 2½ hours, or until the ribs are fork tender. Warm the reduced vinegar over low heat. Using a whisk, add the butter a little at a time, stirring constantly, until the butter is emulsified. Do not boil. Transfer the ribs to plates, top with the sauce, and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Brisket with Kale by Chef S. Dean Corbett _Chef Corbett's brisket is coated with a spicy dry rub and refrigerated for twenty-four hours. It is then slow cooked to "pit-barbecue tender" and served with a kale side dish that gets its delicious, sweet flavor from applewood-smoked bacon, sweet onions, and brown sugar. This is upscale comfort food._ * Ingredients * Rub * ¼ cup Cavender's Greek Seasoning * 1 tablespoon anise seed * 1 teaspoon cumin seed * 1 teaspoon coriander seed * 1 teaspoon fennel seed * 1 teaspoon mustard seed * 1 tablespoon kosher salt * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper * 1 (5-pound) beef brisket * Kale * 2 to 3 pounds kale, washed and dried * 1 pound applewood-smoked bacon, minced * 1 large sweet onion, chopped * 1 cup rice wine vinegar * 1⅛ cup (½ pound) light brown sugar * 2 cups chicken stock * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, Dutch Oven, instant read thermometer Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid. Preheat the EGG to 275°F. To make the rub, place the seasoning, anise seed, cumin seed, coriander seed, fennel seed, mustard seed, salt, and pepper in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse on and off until the spices are ground. Rub the spices generously over the entire brisket. Store any extra spice mixture for another use. Put the brisket on a tray, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 24 hours. Place the brisket on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes. Turn the brisket over, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 minutes longer. Remove the brisket and, using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, remove the grid. Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter legs up and put the grid on top. Reduce the temperature to 225°F. Place the brisket on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for about 6 hours, or until the instant read thermometer registers 190°F. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan, cover with foil, and allow to rest briefly. To prepare the kale, while the brisket is cooking, remove the center stalks from the kale leaves and discard. Coarsely chop the leaves. Place the bacon in the Dutch Oven on the stovetop and cook over medium heat to render the fat. Drain all but 2 tablespoons fat from the pan. Add the onion and sauté, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes, or until the onion is tender. Add the kale and cook briefly. Add the vinegar to deglaze the pan, then add the brown sugar and chicken stock. Season with salt and pepper and stir well. Continue cooking for 1½ hours, or until the kale is wilted and flavorful. Slice the brisket against the grain and serve hot with the kale. Serves 8 to 10 ### Pepper-Crusted Rib-Eye with Morel Cognac Cream Sauce by Ken Hess _If you're a steak lover, this tender, tasty rib-eye topped with a rich, creamy mushroom and Cognac sauce will surpass all of your expectations. When morels are not in season, substitute any available variety of mushrooms. Chopped shallots add a lovely, subtle flavor, but try ramps instead if you can find them; these wild green onions, abundant throughout the Appalachian Mountains in spring, are more readily found in produce sections today. If you don't think of yourself as a steak enthusiast, this mouthwatering combination will convert you._ * Ingredients * Morel Cognac Cream Sauce * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter * ¼ cup morel mushrooms, quartered * ¼ cup chopped shallots or ramps * 1 clove garlic, minced * ½ cup cognac or brandy * 2 cups heavy cream * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper * Pinch of cayenne pepper * 2 (1½-pound) bone-in rib-eye steaks * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Dutch Oven or 12-inch cast iron skillet Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid. Preheat the EGG to 650°F. Place the Dutch Oven on the Grid and allow to preheat. Place the butter in the Dutch Oven and cook until slightly brown. Once the butter is brown, add the mushrooms and sauté until tender. Add the shallots and garlic and stir briefly. Carefully add the cognac—it will ignite, so add it slowly, then step away from the EGG. Allow the cognac to burn off, then stir, and close the lid of the EGG. Continue cooking until the cognac reduces by two-thirds. Add the cream, stirring constantly for 3 to 4 minutes, until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon. Season the sauce with salt and pepper (if you add the salt too early, the sauce will become too salty as it reduces). Add a pinch of cayenne or more if desired. Cayenne will cut some of the richness of the cream. Keep the sauce warm on the stovetop over low heat. Coat both sides of the steaks with salt and pepper. Place the steaks on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for about 6 minutes for medium-rare. When the steak is ready, transfer to a rimmed sheet pan and allow to rest. Slice the steaks against the grain ¼ inch thick and place the slices on a platter or plates. Pour the sauce over the steaks and serve immediately. Serves 4 ### Molten Chocolate Cake by Andy Husbands _Andy Husbands's exquisite molten chocolate cake with its rich, saucy center is one of the most spectacular desserts you'll ever taste and certainly not something you would expect to cook in a grill. Fortunately, it is also one of the easiest to prepare. Serve it hot before the liquid center congeals._ * Ingredients * Granulated sugar for dusting (about 1 cup) * 1 cup unsalted butter * ¾ cup plus 2 tablespoons bittersweet chocolate chips * 4 large eggs * 4 large egg yolks * 1 teaspoon vanilla extract * 2 cups confectioners' sugar * ¾ cup all-purpose flour * 2 cups heavy cream, whipped Equipment: Plate Setter, 10 (8-ounce) glass or metal baking cups Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 450°F. Spray the baking cups with cooking spray and dust the entire inside with the granulated sugar. Set aside. Place the butter and chocolate in a saucepan on the stovetop over low heat, stirring frequently, until the chocolate is melted. Set aside and let cool for 10 minutes. Place the eggs and egg yolks in the bowl of an electric mixer. Using the whisk attachment, beat on medium speed for 3 to 4 minutes, until light and ribbony. Add the vanilla and confectioners' sugar and beat for 1 minute more. Slowly add the melted chocolate and beat for 1 minute, then add the flour and beat for 1 more minute, or until just incorporated. Fill each baking cup three-quarters full. Refrigerate for a minimum of 30 minutes and up to 24 hours. Place the cups on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until slightly firm to the touch. The cakes should be firm but not cooked all the way through. Immediately turn out onto individual plates and serve with whipped cream (see page 248). Serves 10 # Chef & Pitmaster Biographies Rick Browne is the creator, host, and executive producer of public television's _Barbecue America_ and the author of a number of books, including _Grilling America_ and _The Frequent Fryer,_ and coauthor of _The Barbecue America Cookbook._ A writer, photographer, pitmaster, restaurant critic, and consultant, he is also a Doctor of Barbecue, holding an honorary Ph.B. (Doctor of Barbecue Philosophy) bestowed on him by the prestigious Kansas City Barbeque Society for his expertise and commitment to barbecue. Browne serves as a spokesman for numerous corporations that have barbecue-related products and has spent many years researching barbecue across the United States and Canada by visiting festivals and barbecue restaurants and interviewing dozens of pitmasters. His work has been published in many magazines, including _Time, Newsweek, People,_ and _Reader's Digest,_ and he has appeared on _FOX & Friends,_ the _Today_ show, _Live with Regis & Kelly,_ and CNN. www.barbecueamerica.com S. Dean Corbett has polished his reputation of culinary excellence as a chef in Louisville, Kentucky's fine dining scene for more than twenty years. After turning his first restaurant, Equus, into one of the city's best restaurants, he launched Corbett's An American Place, which serves American cuisine in a beautifully restored farmhouse in northeast Louisville. Corbett's features a chef's interactive tasting room and a unique 150-year-old "wineskeller." Chef Corbett hosts _The Secrets of Louisville Chefs Live,_ a popular weekly television cooking show, as well as producing a line of gourmet products including seven sauces and three soups. He is recognized locally, giving back to the community via Equus's participation in many charity fund-raising events. Corbett is also heavily involved in efforts to support all local and regional farmers and purveyors. www.corbettsrestaurant.com Ken Hess earned a degree in hotel restaurant management before starting his training at the Culinary Institute of America. He began his career at the renowned Greenbrier Hotel and Resort in West Virginia as a culinary apprentice and ultimately became the catering and barbecue chef in charge of all on-property catering facilities. He was responsible for preparing repasts ranging from eight-course meals to a barbecue buffet for fourteen hundred guests. He was proud to perform several private cooking demonstrations for distinguished patron Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and her colleagues. One of the Greenbrier's butchers nicknamed Hess "Hoss" after TV character Hoss Cartwright, whom he resembles, so when Hess formed his competition barbecue team it was an easy decision to name it Hoss's BBQ & Catering Company. His team has earned many coveted awards, including first place in the rib competition and Reserve Grand Champion. He credits his eclectic style to having lived in many areas of the country, picking up food traditions from each region. Chef Hess believes in keeping food simple in terms of seasonings, so that the natural taste of the food prevails. He loves smoking pizzas on his EGG, and while working at Greenbrier he often held parties at his house where chefs would gather, bringing their own ingredients and taking turns making pizzas throughout the night. www.theonlyhossbbq.com Andy Husbands is a chef and the proud owner of four very popular restaurants: Tremont 647, Sister Sorrel, and Rouge in Boston, and Kestral in Providence. He is known for his commitment to locally grown fresh ingredients, as well as his inventive approach to food. Teaming up with the writer Joe Yonan, Husbands's first cookbook, _The Fearless Chef: Innovative Recipes from the Edge of American Cuisine,_ became wildly successful. His honors and awards are too extensive to recount, but include being named Chef/Restaurateur of the Year in 2004 by the nation's leading hunger relief organization, Share Our Strength. In 2005 the National Pork Board recognized him as one of only five "Celebrated Chefs" in the country. Husbands, together with some good ole friends, participates in barbecue competitions under the team name iQue BBQ. They have won numerous championships including the Yahoo Cup for "Team of the Year," a title they earned three times from the New England Barbecue Society. They were New Hampshire State Champions and Vermont State Champions, and took home the New England Regional BBQ Championship for two consecutive years. www.tremont647.com Ray Lampe, better known as Dr. BBQ, grew up in Chicago and spent twenty-five years in his family's trucking business. He participated in barbecue competition cook-offs as a hobby for many years, and when the time came for a career change, he jumped right into barbecue cooking and never looked back. Since then he has written five barbecue cookbooks, including _The NFL GameDay Cookbook,_ with others in the works. He is the executive chef at Southern Hospitality, a New York City barbecue restaurant, and he's the featured barbecue chef at the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia. Lampe travels the country as the "spokeschef" for the Big Green Egg, and frequently appears as a guest chef at food-related events. He has been featured in many newspapers and magazines and has appeared on more than a dozen TV shows on the Food Network, HGTV, CNN, and the Discovery Channel. www.drbbq.com Steven Raichlen is a multi-award-winning author, journalist, teacher, and television host. His best-selling books and public television shows— _Primal Grill_ and _Barbecue University_ —have redefined American barbecue. Raichlen's twenty-eight books include _The Barbecue Bible, How to Grill,_ and _BBQ USA,_ and they have been translated into fifteen languages. His work has appeared in major food and travel magazines, including _National Geographic Traveler, Food & Wine,_ and _Bon Appetit._ Raichlen founded Barbecue University, which now takes place at the Broadmoor resort in Colorado Springs. He has lectured on the history of barbecue at the Smithsonian Institution, the Library of Congress, and the National Press Club, and hosts a French TV show called _Le Maitre du Grill._ www.barbecuebible.com Kevin Rathbun is a widely acclaimed chef and restaurateur with a history of fine dining and entertainment that runs in his family. His mother spent thirty-five years operating fine restaurants in and around Kansas City, and his father, a jazz musician, entertained patrons at night. At the Rathbun home, steak was nightly fare and dinner was always a formal production with china, crystal, silver, and friends, followed by jam sessions that continued into the wee hours of the morning. After gaining years of experience working with many famous chefs in top restaurants and serving as Corporate Chef of the renowned Buckhead Life Restaurant Group in Atlanta, Rathbun opened Rathbun's in Atlanta in 2004. _Esquire_ magazine soon named it one of the Top New Restaurants in the Country. He has since added a second restaurant, Krog Bar, and, most recently, Kevin Rathbun Steak, which pays homage to the big-league steakhouses and continues his Kansas City heritage. Rathbun's awards, honors, TV appearances, and print feature stories are legendary, and include the _Today_ show, Food Network's _Iron Chef America, USA TODAY,_ and the _Wall Street Journal._ He admits that in his next life he would pursue his passion for designing restaurants. www.kevinrathbunsteak.com Lee Ann Whippen is a food expert extraordinaire who has been involved in every aspect of food preparation. President, owner, and pitmaster of Wood Chick's BBQ Restaurants & Catering Company in Chesapeake, Virginia, she is a former newspaper food columnist who spent fifteen years in hotel catering and management. She is a longtime barbecue competitor who has won multiple state grand championships, and as a Kansas City Barbeque Society-certified judge, she has tasted untold amounts of barbecued ribs, brisket, and other entries from the country's top-notch competitors. A popular guest with radio and TV hosts, as well as newspaper editors, Whippen was named the 2008 "Food Network Throwdown Champ" over Bobby Flay for Best Barbecue Pork. She has appeared on the _Today_ show and VERSUS Network and has been featured in _People_ magazine. www.woodchicksbbq.com # Acknowledgments _This book is dedicated to a very special couple, Jack and Edie Fischer, without whose love and support the Big Green Egg business might not have existed, and hence this book would not have been written._ It's been said it takes a village to raise a child; the same is true for publishing a cookbook. Many, many people lent their talents to this project, nurturing and incubating the newest "EGG" until it was ready to hatch into this beautiful book. Throughout the nearly two-year undertaking, the team has been immersed in everything EGG, the best part of which was tasting, and tasting again, some of the best food to ever grace a plate. The Big Green Egg Company wishes to thank and gratefully acknowledge all of the following who have been instrumental in developing of the _Big Green Egg Cookbook._ First and foremost, we recognize Ed Fisher, president and founder of the Big Green Egg Company, whose thirty-five years of dedication provided the reason for writing and producing this cookbook. His vision, passion, and unbridled enthusiasm for the EGG have helped it become the best and fastest-growing outdoor cooking appliance in the United States and beyond. It might be said that he is, at least indirectly, responsible for putting some pretty awesome meals on dinner tables across the country. Jodi Burson, marketing manager for the company, assumed overall responsibility for the creation and production of this book, guiding its direction and implementation. Understanding the vital role this comprehensive work would play in providing assistance to existing and future EGG owners, Jodi enthusiastically supported and was involved in every aspect of bringing it to fruition. Regina Matthews, marketing resources coordinator, had the enviable task of chief recipe taster, and ably assisted the recipe development team and photographer. The Big Green Egg staff is a close-knit family whose members make invaluable contributions to the company's success on a daily basis. Of course, they are all experienced EGGheads, so it is not surprising that since the book's inception they have been involved in and excited about the project. Under the leadership and watchful eye of Jim Nufer, vice president and general manager, employees have eagerly contributed their favorite recipes and ideas, managed to do a bit of tasting, offered encouragement, and prodded the team to deliver the finished book more quickly because they couldn't wait for it to be finished. Senior staff members Lou West, John Creel, Dave Furbish, and Bobby Cresap deserve special accolades. Donna Myers, after assisting the Big Green Egg Company for years with marketing as president of DHM Group, Inc., developed the idea and concept for the cookbook. Her vision was to share the exciting history of the EGG and the company with both new and experienced EGG owners and provide them a wealth of recipes designed specifically for the ceramic cooker. Donna pulled together the team that ultimately made the book a reality and supervised it from beginning to end. Patty Ross, DHM Group office manager, kept all the details in order. She spent countless hours distributing copies of many versions of the manuscript, tracking down information, attending to the many scheduling requirements, and ensuring that everything went smoothly. Many thanks go to our publisher at Andrews McMeel Publishing, Kirsty Melville. Her extensive experience in the cookbook field guided the entire team as the book took shape. Andrews McMeel cookbook editor Jean Lucas maintained a strong liaison with the recipe development team and packager throughout the many months of book development. Book packager Jennifer Barry creatively designed and produced the book, which was a considerable undertaking. Jennifer was responsible for turning the extensive information, recipes, and photographs into book format, as well as overseeing production, photography, and editing, with the ultimate goal of making the book attractive and user-friendly for readers. Assisting her were production artist Kristen Hall, designer Leslie Barry, copyeditor Leslie Evans, and Editcetera editorial services, all of whom helped in innumerable ways to bring the work to completion. Sara Levy, recipe author, with tremendous creativity, energy, and culinary talent, developed the incredible array of innovative recipes, from appetizers to entrées to desserts, which showcased every aspect of cooking in the Big Green Egg and used EGGcessories™ that are available to enhance EGG cooking. Sara, with her accomplished assistants, Bree Williams and Bryan Hartness, was responsible for recipe testing to ensure each dish turned out perfectly every time and was also the food stylist who produced the picture-perfect food for photography. The hard work and dedication over many months by Sara and her assistants contributed enormously to the quality of the _Big Green Egg Cookbook._ Lisa Mayer skillfully wrote the entire front end of the book, a labor of love considering her twenty-year knowledge of the barbecue industry, her familiarity with Big Green Egg as a company, and her fondness for cooking in the EGG. She helped explain the uniqueness of the EGG as a cooker and the phenomenon of the Big Green Egg Company, and translated the enthusiasm of its users and fans into text! Mark O'Tyson, our talented food photographer, created photographs of more than one hundred of the recipes, which are sure to make readers want to fire up the coals and start cooking in their EGGs. Each dish is showcased with mouthwatering appeal thanks to his creative eye. Mark was aided by his assistant Scott Moore, who was truly a jack-of-all-trades. He did a great job scouring for last-minute props and maneuvering EGGs, backdrops, and other equipment in and out of the set. He kept the entire crew "fed and watered" and was ready to lend a helping hand wherever needed. A number of highly recognized chefs and barbecue celebrities generously shared some of their favorite EGG recipes for the book. Their recipes, in our special Chefs & Pitmasters chapter, are ones that they serve to their restaurant patrons, highlight in their own cookbooks and newsletters, or feature on their national television shows. Karen Adler, president of Pig Out Publications, author of numerous books on outdoor cooking, and one of the two BBQ Queens, gave us her invaluable counsel in the early stages of planning the book. She guided us regarding efficiencies, encouraged us when we were uncertain about a direction, and cautioned us when we veered off course. Special thanks go to the EGGheads™, who have been such a major factor in the success of the Big Green Egg. Their ideas, recipes, enthusiasm, camaraderie, and total dedication to "the World's Best Smoker, Grill, and Oven" constantly inspire us, and we are truly grateful for their support over the past three decades. The wonderful recipes that many of our EGGhead™ friends have shared with us were the inspiration for the classic recipes found in the EGGhead Recipes chapter. We owe them tremendous thanks for their contributions, which planted the seed for this book long ago. Very special recognition and appreciation goes to Brenda Miller and her late husband, Bill. They were two of the earliest EGGheads and most vocal and involved supporters of the EGG and the company. Bill developed the original Big Green Egg Forum, Brenda played an important role in launching the first EGGtoberfest celebration, and together they initiated the idea of using the distinctive EGG words such as EGGstraordinary and EGGcessories. Today Brenda continues on as a legendary Big Green Egg employee. The Big Green Egg staff at company headquarters in Tucker, Georgia. # Metric Conversions & Equivalents Metric Conversion Formulas To Convert \| Multiply ---\|--- Ounces to grams \| Ounces by 28.35 Pounds to kilograms \| Pounds by .454 Teaspoons to milliliters \| Teaspoons by 4.93 Tablespoons to milliliters \| Tablespoons by 14.79 Fluid ounces to milliliters \| Fluid ounces by 29.57 Cups to milliliters \| Cups by 236.59 Cups to liters \| Cups by .236 Pints to liters \| Pints by .473 Quarts to liters \| Quarts by .946 Gallons to liters \| Gallons by 3.785 Inches to centimeters \| Inches by 2.54 Approximate Metric Equivalents Volume \| ---\|--- ¼ teaspoon \| 1 milliliter ½ teaspoon \| 2.5 milliliters ¾ teaspoon \| 4 milliliters 1 teaspoon \| 5 milliliters 1 ¼ teaspoons \| 6 milliliters 1½ teaspoons \| 7.5 milliliters 1 ¾ teaspoons \| 8.5 milliliters 2 teaspoons \| 10 milliliters 1 tablespoon (½ fluid ounce) \| 15 milliliters 2 tablespoons (1 fluid ounce) \| 30 milliliters ¼ cup \| 60 milliliters 1/3 cup \| 80 milliliters ½ cup (4 fluid ounces) \| 120 milliliters 2/3 cup \| 160 milliliters ¾ cup \| 180 milliliters 1 cup (8 fluid ounces) \| 240 milliliters 1 ¼ cups \| 300 milliliters 1½ cups (12 fluid ounces) \| 360 milliliters 12/3 cups \| 400 milliliters 2 cups (1 pint) \| 460 milliliters 3 cups \| 700 milliliters 4 cups (1 quart) \| .95 liter 1 quart plus ¼ cup \| 1 liter 4 quarts (1 gallon) \| 3.8 liters Information compiled from a variety of sources, including _Recipes into Type_ by Joan Whitman and Dolores Simon (Newton, MA: Biscuit Books, 2000); _The New Food Lover's Companion_ by Sharon Tyler Herbst (Hauppauge, NY: Barron's, 1995); and _Rosemary Brown's Big Kitchen Instruction Book_ (Kansas City, MO: Andrews McMeel, 1998). Approximate Metric Equivalents Weight \| ---\|--- ¼ ounce \| 7 grams ½ ounce \| 14 grams 1¾ ounce \| 21 grams 1ounce \| 28 grams 1¼ ounce \| 35 grams 1½ ounces \| 42.5 grams 12/3 ounces \| 45 grams 3 ounces \| 57 grams 3 ounces \| 85 grams 4 ouncess (¼ pound) \| 113 grams 5 ounces \| 142 grams 6 ounces \| 170 grams 7 ounces \| 198 grams 8 ounces(½ pound) \| 227 grams 16 ounces (1 pound) \| 454 grams 35.25 ounces (2.2 pounds) \| 1 kilogram Length \| ---\|--- ⅛ inch \| 3 millimeters ¼ inch \| 6 millimeters ½ inch \| 1¼ centimeters 1 inch \| 2½ centimeters 2 inches \| 5 centimeters 2½ inches \| 6 centimeters 4 inches \| 10 centimeters 5 inches \| 13 centimeters 6 inches \| 15¼ centimeters 12 inches (1 foot) \| 30 centimeters Oven Temperatures Description \| °F \| °C \| British Gas Mark ---\|---\|---\|--- Very cool \| 200° \| 95° \| O Very cool \| 225° \| 110° \| ¾ Very cool \| 250° \| 120° \| ½ Cool \| 275° \| 135° \| 1 Cool \| 300° \| 150° \| 2 Warm \| 325° \| 165° \| 3 Moderate \| 350° \| 175° \| 4 Moderately hot \| 375° \| 190° \| 5 Fairly hot \| 400° \| 200° \| 6 Hot \| 425° \| 220° \| 7 Very hot \| 450° \| 230° \| 8 Very hot \| 475° \| 245° \| 9 To convert Fahrenheit to Celsius, subtract 32 from Fahrenheit, multiply the result by 5, then divide by 9. Common Ingredients & Their Approximate Equivalents * 1 cup uncooked white rice = 185 grams * 1 cup all-purpose flour = 140 grams * 1 stick butter (4 ounces •½ cup • 8 tablespoons) = 110 grams * 1 cup butter (8 ounces • 2 sticks • 16 tablespoons) = 220 grams * 1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed = 225 grams * 1 cup granulated sugar = 200 grams Sara Levy is a food stylist, recipe developer, and food writer, whose work has appeared in the _Atlanta Journal-Constitution_ , local and national magazines, television, cookbooks, and advertising. She has worked with many top food TV personalities and shared her expertise by teaching food styling at the International Culinary School at the Art Institute of Atlanta. She resides in Atlanta with her husband, Pierre, their two Weimaraners, Sophie and Winston, and her three Big Green Eggs, which are often used to barbecue for her visiting adult children, Darren and Kailey. Mark O'Tyson has spent the last twenty-five years photographing everything from one of the first cell phones to CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. In 2001, he turned his focus to food photography and hasn't looked back. He enjoys the challenge of bringing out the best that each dish has to offer, whether it's a savory steak or a simple sorbet. When he's not busy shooting, he enjoys spending time with his wife, Cathi, in their Atlanta home, although he confesses to letting her do most of the cooking. Lisa Readie Mayer has been writing about grilling, barbecuing, and outdoor living topics for over twenty years. An avid cook, Lisa has grilled, smoked, roasted, rotissed, and planked her way to barbecue bliss. Her favorite meal is a variety of vegetables grilled straight from her garden or the local farmers' market. But the most frequent 'que request of her husband, David, and daughters, Emily and Hannah, is pulled pork—prepared in the EGG of course. www.biggreenegg.com	{'title': 'Big Green Egg Cookbook - Big Green Egg'}
AGAINST NATURE JORIS-KARL HUYSMANS was born in Paris in 1848, the only son of a French mother and a Dutch father. After a childhood saddened by his father's death and his mother's speedy remarriage, he became a junior clerk in the Ministry of the Interior, where he remained for thirty-two years. He spent the first half of the Franco-Prussian War in hospital, suffering from dysentery, and the second half under fire in the besieged capital. When peace returned he went back to the Ministry, and three years later published his first book, _Le Drageoir à épices_ (1874), a collection of prose-poems after Baudelaire. He then turned to novel-writing and published _Marthe_ (1876), _Les Sæurs Vatard_ (1879), _En Ménage_ (1881) and _A Vau-l'Eau_ (1882). _A Rebours_ , published in 1884 and hailed by Arthur Symons as 'the breviary of the Decadence', marked his break with Zola's Medan Group and the beginning of an attempt to widen the scope of the novel. His other novels were _En Rade_ (1887), _Là-Bas_ (1891), _En Route_ (1895), _La Catbédrale_ (1898) and _L'Oblat_ (1903). He died in 1907. ROBERT BALDICK, the late co-editor of the Penguin Classics, received his MA and D. Phil. from Oxford University, where he was a Fellow of Pembroke College. A Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, he wrote biographies of J.-K. Huysmans, Frédérick Lamaître and Henry Murger, a study of the Goncourts, _The Siege of Paris_ and _The Duel_. Authors whose work he translated from the French include the Goncourts, Montherlant, Radiguet, Restif de la Bretonne, Sartre, Simenon and Jules Verne. For the Penguin Classics he translated Flaubert's _Three Tales_ and _Sentimental Education_ , Chateaubriand's _Memoirs_ and Huysmans' _Against Nature_. He died in 1972. PATRICK MCGUINNESS was born in 1968 in Tunisia. He is a fellow of St Anne's College, University of Oxford, where he lectures in French. He is the author of _Maurice Maeterlinck and the Making of Modern Theatre_ (2000), and has edited T. E. Hulme's _Selected Writings_ (1998), _Symbolism, Decadence and the Fin de siècle_ (2000), _Anthologie de la poésie Symboliste et décadente_ (Paris, 2001) and Laura Riding and Robert Graves's _A Survey of Modernist Poetry_ (2002). His translation of Stéphane Mallarmé's _For Anatole's Tomb_ was published in 2003. In 1998 he won an Eric Gregory Award for poetry from the Society of Authors, and his poems and translations have appeared in a variety of books and reviews. He lives in Cardiff. JORIS – KARL HUYSMANS # Against Nature _Translated by_ ROBERT BALDICK _With an Introduction and Notes by_ PATRICK MCGUINNESS PENGUIN BOOKS PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11, Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England www.penguin.com This edition first published, 2003 1 Translation copyright © Robert Baldick, 1956 Introduction, Notes and translation of Appendices copyright © Patrick McGuinness, 2003 Chronology copyright © Terry Hale, 2001 All rights reserved The moral right of the editors have been asserted Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser EISBN: 978–0–141–90660–7 ## Contents Chronology Introduction Further Reading Note on this Translation Against Nature Appendix I: Preface, Written Twenty Years After the Novel Appendix II: Reviews of and Responses to _Against Nature_ Notes ## Chronology 1815 Birth of Godfried Huysmans, father of the novelist, in the Dutch town of Breda. A lithographer and miniaturist by profession, he settles in Paris as a young man. 1845 June Godfried Huysmans proposes to a young French schoolmistress, Malvina Badin. 1848 5 Feb. Birth of Charles Marie Georges Huysmans at no. 11 (now no. 9) rue Suger in the 6th Arrondissement. 1848 Ordination of Joseph Antoine Boullan. 1856 24 June Death of Godfried Huysmans. 1857 Mother re-marries, to a M. Jules Og. 1858 May Mother and stepfather purchase a small bookbindery at no. 11 rue de Sèvres in the 7th Arrondissement. 1862 Huysmans enrols at the Lycée Saint-Louis. 1864 First sexual experiences with prostitutes. 1866 7 Mar. Huysmans passes _baccalauréat_. 1866 1 Apr. Following in the footsteps of other members of the family on his mother's side, Huysmans enters the Ministry of the Interior as an _employé de sixième classe_ (employee: sixth grade) on a salary of 1,500 francs p.a. 1866 Autumn Enrols in the Faculties of Law and Letters of the University of Paris. 1867 8 Sept. Death of stepfather. 1868 15 Aug. Salary increases to 1,800 francs p.a. 1870 30 July Mobilized in the 6th Battalion of the Garde Mobile during the Franco-Prussian War. Dysentery prevents him from seeing action. 1870 15 Aug. Salary increases to 2,100 francs p.a. 1871 Feb. The Government and its staff relocate to Versailles. 1871 Summer Huysmans rents rooms in Paris. 1872 First draft of his war memoirs which will become _Sac au dos_. 1873 1 Feb. Salary increases to 2,400 francs p.a. 1874 10 Oct. _Le Drageoir à épices_ (tr. _Dish of Spices_ , 1927), a collection of prose-poems, is published at the author's own expense. 1876 4 May His mother dies, leaving Huysmans responsible for his two half-sisters and the management of the bookbindery. He transfers to a post at the Sûreté Générale in Paris. 1876 12 Sept. _Marthe, histoire d'une fille_ (tr. _Marthe_ , 1927 (US) and 1958 (UK)), a short novel dealing with the life of a prostitute in a licensed brothel, is published in Brussels. 1877 Early Enters into contact with Zola, Flaubert and Edmond de Goncourt. 1877 Aug. _L'Artiste_ serializes _Sac au dos_. 1878 1 Jan. Salary increases to 2,700 francs p.a. 1879 26 Feb. _Les Soeurs Vatard_ (tr. _The Vatard Sisters_ , 1983), a study of the lives of women working as bookbinders, is published. The work is dedicated to Zola. 1879 17 May _Le Voltaire_ , on Zola's recommendation, publishes Huysmans' first article on the Salon, the main artistic event in the Parisian calendar. 1880 1 Jan. Salary increases to 3,000 francs p.a. 1880 April _Sac au dos_ (tr. _Knapsack_ , 1907) appears in _Les Soirées de Medan_ , a collection of war stories, together with tales by Zola and Maupassant. 1881 Feb. _En Ménage_ (tr. _Living Together_ , 1969), a pessimistic study of everyday life, is published. 1881 22 May _Croquis Parisiens_ (tr. _Parisian Sketches_ , 1962) is published. 1882 1 Jan. Salary increases to 3,300 francs p.a. 1882 26 Jan. _A Vau-l'Eau_ (tr. _Downstream_ , 1927 (US) and 1952 (UK)), the study of the wretched existence of a minor _fonctionnaire_ (civil servant), is published in Brussels. 1883 May _L'Art Moderne_ , a collection of critical essays championing progressive artists (Odilon Redon, Gustave Moreau, the Impressionists), is published. 1884 1 Jan Salary increases to 3,600 francs p.a. 1884 May _A Rebours_ (tr. _Against the Grain_ , 1922; _Against Nature_ , 1959) is published to enormous acclaim. Friendship commences with Léon Bloy. 1886 Jan. Only a loan from the poet François Coppée prevents Huysmans from becoming bankrupt due to losses incurred by the bookbindery. 1887 1 Jan. Salary increases to 4,500 francs p.a. 1887 16 April Salary increases to 4,800 francs p.a. 1887 26 April _En Rade_ (tr. _Becalmed!_ , 1992 (UK) and _A Haven_ , 1998 (US)) is published but fails to find favour with the public. 1887 31 Oct. Letter to Zola first mentioning _Là-Bas_. 1888 Spring _The Universal Review_ commissions a novella from Huysmans but subsequently declines _La Retraite de M. Bougran_ ( _M. Bougran's Retirement_ ). 1888 Summer Huysmans encounters the work of the Primitives during a visit to Germany. 1889 21 Aug. Funeral of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. Mallarmé and Huysmans are named his literary executors. 1889 Sept. Huysmans visits Tiffauges, the stronghold of Gilles de Rais. Huysmans meets Berthe de Courrière. 1889 Nov. Publication of _Certains_ , the author's second volume of critical essays. 1890 5 Feb. Huysmans writes to introduce himself to the former Abbé Boullan. 1890 July _La Bièvre_ (tr. _The Bièvre River_ , 1986), an evocation of the river and its surroundings, is published. 1890 Sept. Huysmans visits Boullan in Lyons. Berthe de Courrière is interned in Bruges. 1891 15 Feb. _L'Echo de Paris_ begins serialization of _Là-Bas_ ( _The Damned_ ). 1891 March Henriette Maillat attempts to blackmail Huysmans over the author's use of her correspondence in _Là-Bas_. 1891 April _Là-Bas_ published in book form. 1891 28 May Berthe de Courrière introduces Huysmans to the Abbé Mugnier, who will become his spiritual director. 1891 July Pilgrimage to La Salette, followed by a visit to Boullan in Lyons. 1891 25 Sept. Paul Valéry visits Huysmans in his office. 1892 Jan Huysmans holds a seance in his flat. 1892 1 Feb. Salary increases to 5,000 francs p.a. 1892 July Huysmans' first retreat at Notre-Dame d'Igny. 1893 3 Jan. Boullan dies at Lyons. 1893 3 Sept. Huysmans appointed Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur. 1894 Spring Huysmans meets Dom Besse, who is seeking to develop the small Benedictine community at Saint Wandrille in Normandy. 1895 1 Jan. Salary increases to 6,000 francs p.a. 1895 12 Feb. Death of Anna Meunier, his mistress, in Sainte-Anne. 1895 25 Feb. Publication of _En Route_ (tr. 1896), which describes Durtal's conversion and subsequent retreat at Notre-Dame d'Igny. 1896 Oct. Sojourn at the Benedictine Abbey of Solesmes. 1898 Jan. _La Cathédrale_ (tr. _The Cathedral_ , 1898), the third volume in the Durtal cycle, is published. 1898 16 Feb. Huysmans retires from the Civil Service after thirty-two years' service. 1899 June Leaves Paris to take up residence in his purpose-built house at Ligugé. Publication of _La Magie en Poitou_ ( _Magic in Poitou_ ). 1900 18 Mar. Huysmans undergoes the ceremony of taking the robes of an oblate novice. 1900 April First meeting of the Académie Goncourt, of which Huysmans is president. 1901 Jan. Three studies by Huysmans of the old quarters of Paris – _La Bièvre; Les Gobelins, St-Séverin_ – are reissued in a de luxe edition. 1901 21 March Huysmans takes his final vows as an oblate. 1901 8 June Publication of _Sainte Lydwine de Schiedam_ (tr. 1923), the harrowing story of the Dutch martyr. 1901 Nov. Publication of _De Tout_ ( _This and That_ ), a collection of articles. 1901 Oct. Government laws on religious communities oblige Huysmans to leave the abbey at Ligugé. 1903 April Publication of _L'Oblat_ (tr. _The Oblate_ , 1924), the last volume in the Durtal cycle, recounting his stay at Ligugé. 1906 Sept. _Les Foules de Lourdes_ (tr. _The Crowds of Lourdes_ , 1926) published. 1906 8 Nov. Huysmans, realizing the gravity of his condition, drafts his will. 1907 Jan. Promoted to Officier de la Légion d'Honneur. 1907 12 May Death of Huysmans half an hour after the departure of Lucien Descaves, his literary executor. 1907 15 May Huysmans is buried at the Montparnasse Cemetery in the family grave. 1908 Posthumous publication of _Trois Eglises et Trois Primitifs_ ( _Three Churches and Three Primitives_ ). ## Introduction Thus when the universal sun has set does the moth seek the lamplight of privacy. Karl Marx ' _Against Nature_ fell like a meteorite into the literary fairground,' Joris-Karl Huysmans remembered in the preface to the 1903 de luxe edition of this notorious book. The image of the meteorite – spectacular, explosive, otherworldly – to convey literary strangeness had been used by the poet Stéphane Mallarmé in his enigmatic poem 'Le Tombeau d'Edgar Poe' ('The Tomb of Edgar Poe', 1877). 'Calm block fallen here below from an obscure disaster', Mallarmé had written, and it is perhaps this line that Huysmans had in mind when he recalled the bemusement, the outrage and the marvel _Against Nature_ provoked when it appeared in May 1884. In France and across Europe the book was read as the most flamboyant expression of what came to be known as 'the Decadence'. It was held up by some as a cautionary tale and by others as a manual of modern living; it was read as a moral fable and as a chilling case study of crisis and debauchery. Many felt that it marked the end of the novel, while a few saw it as the beginning of a new way of writing. For many critics, including Huysmans' former mentor and friend Emile Zola, _Against Nature_ was an eccentric and unhealthy book, passionless, introspective, and above all glorying in its removal from the world. For others, like the critic and novelist Remy de Gourmont, it was formally and thematically liberating. It was a novel that seemed not to want to _be_ a novel; nothing happened, and yet the writing was dense, crowded and allusive. It was obscene, garish, depraved; but it was also a curiously ascetic and inward book. It dwelt fascinatedly on bodily functions, messy ailments and lurid sexual adventures, but it appeared also to strive for serenity and peace. In at least one respect _Against Nature_ can be called a classic: it portrayed its time but also intervened in it. There are poems and stories inspired by or indebted to _Against Nature_ in almost every European language, and Huysmans' creation even found its way into fiction as every wit, dandy or _femme fatale_ had a copy ready to hand. The novel's hero, Duke Jean Floressas Des Esseintes – hoarder of literary treasures, lover of artifice and liver of the artistically mediated life – had joined Edgar Allan Poe, Schopenhauer and Baudelaire on the _fin de siècle_ bookshelf. _Against Nature_ is a brazen enough title in English, but in fact _Against the Grain_ would better have captured the suggestive range of its French original, _A Rebours_ , a far more open-ended title. To do something _à rebours_ is to run countercurrent, to go against the flow, to do things the wrong way around; but it also suggests stubbornness, perversity, wilful difficulty – qualities and tendencies which Huysmans' hero, Des Esseintes, shares with the novel that tells his story. By contrast, _Against Nature_ is too reductive and unsubtle a title, and reflects the climate of its English reception rather than the range and complexity of the novel Huysmans wrote. By comparison with some of the more outlandish titles that appeared in 1884 – such as Péladan's _Le Vice suprême_ ( _The Supreme Vice_ ), Rachilde's _Monsieur Vénus_ or Elémir Bourges' _Crépuscule des Dieux (Twilight of the Gods) – A Rebours_ seemed mysterious and understated. The novel has proved critically inexhaustible, but it is also exhaustively written and perhaps exhausting to read. It is also _about_ exhaustion: racial, social, moral, historical and aesthetic. It is a book of endings; yet for its author in his 'Preface Written Twenty Years after the Novel' (Appendix I), it is also a compendium of beginnings. Arthur Symons, the poet and critic who interpreted European Symbolism for modernists such as Yeats and Eliot, called it the 'breviary of the Decadence', while its most famous fictional reader, Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray, found it 'poisonous' and 'the strangest book that he had ever read'. The novel has retained its cultish hold, as Marianne Faithfull recalls in her autobiography: 'You would ask your date, "Do you know Genet? Have you read _A Rebours_?'' and if he said yes you'd fuck.' It is a fine irony that a novel about an impotent, reclusive and prematurely aged reactionary should become a must-read in the vigorous counter-culture of the 1960s. Today's readers may or may not feel the same as Dorian Gray or Marianne Faithfull; what is certain is that they will find it unlike any work of fiction they have encountered. ### HUYSMANS, 'DECADENCE' AND _AGAINST NATURE_ [I]t is the difference between the raw, white and direct light of a midday sun beating down on all things equally, and the horizontal light of evening, firing the strange clouds with reflections... Does the setting sun of decadence deserve our contempt and anathema for being less simple in tone than the rising sun of morning? Théophile Gautier, _Histoire du romantisme (History of Romanticism_ ) For Gautier, discussing his friend Charles Baudelaire, 'Decadence' is the dying sun as it projects its intricate and complex fires across the sky. It is twilight; not the Yeatsian 'Celtic Twilight' prior to daybreak and revival, but the twilight of a sun setting for the last time on a tired globe and its tired inhabitants. For the artists and writers who proclaimed themselves 'Decadent', it was a compelling metaphor: 'we are dying of civilization', wrote Edmond de Goncourt, a writer Huysmans admired and learned from. Many artists of the period invoked the decline and fall of the hyper-civilized Roman Empire as the most resonant 'culture rhyme' for modern France. Certainly there were grounds for such views: a sense of historical decline symbolized by a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Prussians, who marched on the French capital in 1870, followed by the Commune and the siege of Paris in 1871, a bloody and divisive episode in French history whose memory endured until the Second World War. This they called 'the débâcle', and the symbolism was powerful: invaded and humiliated by the 'barbarian' Germans, then ruinously tearing itself apart, French civilization, guardian of 'Latin' values, appeared to have peaked and begun a slow collapse. Huysmans, a (non-combatant) soldier during the Franco-Prussian war and a civil servant during the siege of Paris, witnessed the French defeat, the Commune and its brutal repression, and the national soul-searching that came in their aftermath. But there was also a _malaise_ more difficult to pin down: a sense that everything had been done, said, written, felt. As Des Esseintes muses reading Baudelaire, the late nineteenth century's was a 'mind that ha[d] reached the October of its sensations'. Yet there was something wilfully self-dramatizing about all these decadent attitudes – after all, the nineteenth century had known extraordinary technological, political and scientific advances, and all of these had happened at breathtaking pace. While many embraced these changes, others saw them in unambiguously negative terms: 'we have spent the nineteenth century splitting hairs; how shall we spend the twentieth? Splitting them into four?' asked one of Huysmans' contemporaries. _Against Nature_ is full of references to the century's end, the end of art, the end of creativity, and it was to what Mallarmé called the 'modern muse of Impotence' that the new generation looked: all writing seemed a rewriting, every reading a rereading. But there was another story, equally compelling: in art, literature, social and political theory and in science, the second half of the nineteenth century was a time of unprecedented innovation. With poets such as Mallarmé, Verlaine and the Symbolists, novelists such as Zola and Maupassant, artists such as Manet and Rodin, composers such as Debussy or Erik Satie, we might object that, on the contrary, this was no decadence but a period of astonishing artistic richness and diversity. Perhaps the belief that there was nothing new was itself a necessary prelude to creating the new. This is one of the great paradoxes of the late nineteenth century: that these contradictory views – of decadence and renewal, beginnings and ends, exhaustion and innovation – could be held simultaneously and often by the same people. One of the great formative novels of French Romanticism, Chateaubriand's _René_ (1802), had helped define what came to be called the 'sickness of the century' ( _mal du siècle_ ) felt by the rootless, aimless, self-indulgent aristocrats in a world which seemed not to need them. 'Alone in the great desert of men' was how René, 'last of his race', put it: it was a historical, sexual and cultural dispossession, but it gave the Romantic writer opportunity to explore the mysteries of the infinitely desiring but finite self. As late as 1878 Robert Louis Stevenson mocked the persistence of 'René's malady' among the young of his own period: 'Young gentlemen with three or four hundred a year... look down from their pinnacle of doleful experience on all the grown and hearty men who have dared to say a good word for life.' When Huysmans loosed Des Esseintes upon the reading public, people interpreted his character, for all his disturbing newness, as part of an unfolding tradition: an orphan perhaps, but an orphan with a pedigree. The end of the nineteenth century seemed to mirror its beginning, but whereas the Romantics had their illusions shattered, the Decadents merely had their disillusionment reinforced. Osip Mandelstam uses a 1913 review of a Russian translation of Huysmans' _Croquis Parisiens (Parisian Sketches_ , 1881) to distinguish between the Romantics and their Decadent successors, between the beginning and the end of the nineteenth century: This book is almost intentionally physiological. Its primary theme is the clash between the defenceless but refined external organs of perception and insulted reality. Paris is hell... Huysmans's boldness and innovation stem from the fact that he managed to remain a confirmed hedonist under the worst possible conditions... The decadents did not like reality, but they did know reality, and that is what distinguishes them from the romantics. 'Live? Our servants will do that for us': the defiant words of the heroic and princely recluse of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam's _Axël_ (1890) became a supreme idealist battle-cry, uttered in heroic defiance of materialist society and its stultifying cult of bourgeois 'common sense'. This was the epoch of the superman and of the individualist, but it was also the epoch of his less fortunate twin: the sickly, the consumptive, the neurotic. In Huysmans' novels, the self is not a goal but a refuge, no longer an aspiration but a point of final fallback; the heritage of individualism remained, but wounded, humiliated and in retreat. The Romantic heroes had travelled to exotic places in search of themselves, only to discover that it was themselves they were trying to escape. They had, like René, posed on seashores, mountain tops and volcanoes. Their Decadent successors were mired in the filth of the crawling cityscape, compulsively drawn to its alternating tedium and exhilaration; but they were drawn also to interiors, the ornate, meticulously furnished, airless rooms that symbolize their retreat. Huysmans' characters, as Mandelstam notes, are among the most physiologically sensitive in literature, and their quest for peace or fulfilment takes its toll not just on their spirits but on their bodies. In Des Esseintes's case, the quest terminates indoors, the final bastion of the privacy that feeds on itself until there is nothing left. Des Esseintes thus became the exemplary Decadent figure: the last, sickly scion of a once great family, his mind addled by fantastical luxury and his body wracked by abuse, he retires from the nineteenth century – the 'American century' as both Des Esseintes and Huysmans call it – to build his own dream fortress. _Against Nature_ is the tale of this obsession. ### HUYSMANS AND _AGAINST NATURE_ It was as if everything that was disgusting and horrible in every sphere of life forced itself on his attention, and that all manner of abomination had produced an artist uniquely made to paint them and a man created expressly to suffer from them. Paul Valéry, 'Souvenirs de J.-K. Huysmans' ('Memories of J.-K. Huysmans') Joris-Karl Huysmans was born in 1848, the revolutionary year in which Flaubert set part of _L'Education sentimentale (Sentimental Education_ ), the novel Huysmans claimed in his 1903 preface had most influenced him. His father, who died in 1856, was an artist of Dutch origins, and the son would later refer to himself as a mystical Fleming beneath the skin of a neurotic Parisian. J.-K. Huysmans would produce some of the finest art criticism of his generation, and his attention was particularly drawn to nordic artists, the Flemish and Dutch, with whose cultures he retained a lifelong sympathy. In 1866, Huysmans joined the Ministry of the Interior, where he remained until 1898. The drudgery of bureaucratic routine was minutely detailed in a number of works, notably _A Vau-l'Eau (Downstream_ , 1882), the novella that gave rise to _Against Nature_ , and the strange story, _La Retraite de M. Bougran (Mr. Bougran's Retirement_ ), written in 1888 but first published in 1964), of a retired bureaucrat addicted to the banality of his job. In 1870 Huysmans was conscripted into the army and later worked for the Versailles War Ministry during the Paris Commune. He describes some of his army experiences in _Sac au dos (Knapsack_ , 1880), the story he contributed to the volume _Les Soirées de Medan (Medan Evenings_ ), a collective book by Zola and his disciples intended to showcase the work of the Naturalist writers. However, Huysmans' first published work, _Le Drageoir à épices (Dish of Spices_ , 1874), was far from being a Naturalist specimen. It was a collection of lurid, flashy and precocious prose-poems which one Parisian publisher, refusing the manuscript, accused of launching a 'revolutionary Paris Commune in the French language'. Two years later, when Huysmans became associated with the Naturalists, he was a vocal defender of Zola and his principles, publishing a passionate defence of Zola's _L'Assommoir_ and of Naturalist writing. Huysmans soon became acquainted with the most innovative writers and artists of the period. Among his friends and correspondents were Flaubert, the Goncourt brothers, Maupassant, Villiers de l'Isle-Adam and Mallarmé – a representative cross-section of the many literary tendencies of the time. Huysmans' first novel, _Marthe, histoire d'une fille (Marthe: Story of a Prostitute_ ), was published in 1876. According to his biographer (and the translator of this edition of _Against Nature_ ), Robert Baldick, it was the first novel to deal with prostitution in licensed brothels, memorably described as 'slaughterhouses of love'. His next book, _Les Soeurs Vatard (The Vatard Sisters_ ), which appeared in 1879, contains a character, the artist Cyprien Tibaille, who is eccentric and inward, an idealist caught in a disappointing world. Flaubert, to whom Huysmans sent his novel, admired it but criticized it on two counts. First, he claimed that, like his own _L'Education sentimentale_ , there was no 'false perspective' in the novel and thus no 'progression of effect': 'art is not reality', Flaubert told him, 'like it or not, we must choose carefully among the elements [reality] provides' (undated letter of February–March, 1879). Flaubert's second criticism concerned Huysmans' passion for rare, difficult or specialized vocabulary: whether refined or coarse, arcane or streetwise, Huysmans' love of words attracted notice from his earliest work. After _Les Soeurs Vatard_ , there followed _En Ménage (Living Together_ , 1881), about a failing and claustrophobic marriage, which Zola describedas'a page of human life, banalyet poignant'. Interestingly, several of Huysmans' early 'Naturalist' novels were important to André Breton, the self-styled leader of the Surrealists, who was fascinated by Huysmans' apparently subversivelife: a penpusher and bureaucrat writing his disturbing novels at his ministry desk, often on ministry headed paper. This is how Breton, in his _Anthologie de l'humour noir (Anthology of Black Humour_ , 1939), imagined Huysmans at work: With a derision whose secret pleasure he has discovered, the life of this great imaginative writer ebbed away between ministerial filing boxes (reports from his superiors depict him as a model employee). It fits perfectly with this writer's style, at once crushing and elevating, that in breaks from work, with a few technical manuals within reach and a cookery book always open before him, Huysmans should – with unique foresight – have pieced together most of the laws which would govern modern feeling. Huysmans was attached to the bureaucratic life. It gave him time to write as well as subjects to write about; but above all it kept the world at bay. When in 1893 he retired from his ministry he kept the headed notepaper, doctoring it so that it read 'Ministry of the Interior [ _Life_ ]'. Some critics have suggested that there was little in Huysmans' previous work to prepare for _Against Nature_ , but this is misleading. Readers of his early novels had already noticed his fixation with the demeaning mundanities of life, with daily existence as a pleasureless assault course of disappointment and minor degradation. Huysmans was interested in the stuff of lives that would never amount to tragedy, but this did not mean that his prose needed to be flat and factual. Besides the descriptive detail, documentary precision and social observation associated with Naturalism, Huysmans' style – as Goncourt, Flaubert and Zola noticed – was colourful and nervy, full of rare words and startling adjectives. Edmond de Goncourt had found even in _Marthe_ that Huysmans was too easily tempted by 'the fine expression, the brilliant, startling or oddly archaic word', and that this threatened to 'kill the reality of [his] well-conceived realistic scenes' (letter of October 1879). Reviewing _Sac au dos_ , the novelist Jean Richepin had called Huysmans' writing 'the debauchery of style: rare substantives, strange epithets, unexpected fusions of words, archaisms and neologisms' ( _Gil Blas_ , 21 April 1880). It is curious to see how responses to Huysmans' 'Naturalist' work resemble responses to _Against Nature_ , in which, as Léon Bloy puts it, Huysmans is 'continually dragging Mother Image by the hair or the feet down the worm-eaten staircase of terrified Syntax'. Huysmans' contemporaries had noticed also his attentiveness to the intimate emotional and intellectual processes of characters who were often sensitive creatures, men (very occasionally women) designed for pain and disappointment, battered by the casual brutality of modern life. These characters were often isolated; lost and bruised and ill-fitted to their lives, they were not 'types' but exceptions. Where Zola excelled at painting the crowd, Huysmans excelled at portraying the individual; where Zola plotted the progress of a family, Huysmans fixed his eye on the bachelor, the unpartnered or the isolated. The Naturalists are often simplistically read, with critics crying foul whenever they spot a metaphor or an imaginative reflex in a 'Naturalist' book. We do not need to worry about classifying Huysmans, but to remember that there was plenty of room in Naturalist theory and practice to exercise the imagination and to perfect the art of illusion. A valuable insight into Huysmans' style and his contexts (those in which he was read as well as those in which he wrote) comes from James Joyce. 'The very intensity and refinement of French realism betrays its spiritual origins', wrote Joyce, before noting, in a beautiful and precise formulation, 'the angry fervour of corruption... that illuminates Huysmans's sad pages with a blighted phosphorescence'. The nearest analogy to Huysmans' manner, this sense of 'blighted phosphorescence', was what was known as _'écriture artiste'_ , the rarefied, hypersensitive style of the Goncourt brothers, the aristocrats of Naturalist writing. In one of _Against Nature_ 's most memorable images, Des Esseintes describes the Goncourts' style as 'gamey', and calls Edmond de Goncourt's writing 'penetrating and sickly, tense and subtle'. For Des Esseintes, language, like meat, is at its tastiest as it is turning – as, on the cusp of rotting, the flavours are released. It is one of _Against Nature_ 's recurrent analogies: between food and language, and if the reader finds Huysmans' style 'hard to swallow' or 'hard to keep down' this is as it should be. After all, this was an author who regularly wrote to his friends asking for information on technical language, bureaucratic lingo, street slang, and who relished the strange words he dredged up from glossaries and manuals. It was the short novel _A Vau-l'Eau_ that opened the way for _Against Nature_. Its hero Folantin searches without success for good food, decent furnishings, good male and female company. The story ends with him crying out, echoing Schopenhauer, the German philosopher whose pessimism shaped a generation of French writers: 'only the worst happens'. In the 1903 preface Huysmans recalled that in starting _Against Nature_ , he had pictured another Mr Folantin, better-read, more refined and richer, who had discovered in artifice a diversion from the disgust of life's petty torments and the Americanized manners of his day. I envisaged him soaring upwards into dream, seeking refuge in illusions of extravagant fantasy, living alone, far from his century, among memories of more congenial times, of less base surroundings. Although _Against Nature_ is unique, it forms part of a series of novels of retreat that occupied Huysmans up to and including his extraordinary tale of satanism and sadism _Là-Bas (The Damned_ ) of 1891. Three years after _Against Nature_ Huysmans published _En Rade (Becalmed_ ), the story of a young couple who move to the countryside to escape the expense and stress of Paris. Their rural idyll becomes a hell, as they are swindled by rapacious peasants and tormented by sickness and pests; their food is disgusting, the countryside too hot, too wet, too cold. In _La Retraite de M. Bougran_ a retired ministry clerk misses his job so much that he has his flat decorated exactly like his former office and pays a retired office boy to bring him the letters he has posted to himself the previous day. He drafts tedious reports in his most bureaucratic French and is eventually found dead at his desk having scribbled a few last words of ministerial jargon. Huysmans' books are full of retreats: to the office, the bedroom, the library, the past, the monastery. The working title of _Against Nature_ had been 'Seul' ('Alone'), but in a sense all of his novels and stories had explored solitude, the aspirations of the yearning individual in a valueless world. It now remained for Huysmans to attempt a book that banished that world. ### WRITING _AGAINST NATURE_ This book will at least have curiosity value among your works. Zola to Huysmans, May 1884 In spring 1883 Huysmans told his friend, the Belgian poet Théodore Hannon, that he was 'immersed in a very strange novel, vaguely clerical, a bit homosexual... A novel with only one character!', adding that the book would contain 'the ultimate refinement of everything: literature, Art, flowers, perfumes, furnishings, gemstones, etc.' A few months earlier Huysmans had requested help from Mallarmé for the literary dimension of this 'ultimate refinement', asking him to send a few uncollected poems for use in depicting Des Esseintes's tastes in modern literature. Huysmans addresses Mallarmé as 'Dear Colleague', praising the 'troubling sublimity' of his poetry, but his correspondence reveals that he was playing literary double agent. In May 1884 he told Zola that in _Against Nature_ , 'I expressed ideas diametrically opposed to my own... this complete dichotomy with my own preferences allowed me to enunciate really sick ideas and celebrate the glory of Mallarmé, which I thought was quite a joke.' In the same letter he insists on the book's methodological Naturalism, assuring Zola that he had followed the medical treatises on breakdown and nervous disorder, and emphasizing his extensive use of documents. But the following year (in September 1885), he was telling Jules Laforgue: When I wrote that chapter on modern profane literature in _Against Nature_ and I praised Corbière, Verlaine and Mallarmé, I thought I was writing for myself, and did not suspect that the whole movement was getting under way in that direction... As yet no one has penetrated the intimate depths of that chapter, despite the fact that I explained Mallarmé, that most abstruse of poets, so as to make him almost clear. Compositionally, _Against Nature_ has much in common with the 'classic' Naturalist novel. André Breton's image of the scribe at his desk surrounded by manuals and guidebooks, treatises on nervous illness, precious stones or horticulture is also the image of the Naturalist writer at work. What Breton goes on to mention – the cookery book – is no frivolous afterthought either, since it refers not just to the fact that food is never far away in a Huysmans novel (though gastronomic satisfaction is unattainable), but to the importance of 'composition', the measuring out of ingredients to make the right novelistic mix. This mix has confused critics, and _Against Nature_ 's relationship with the literary tendencies of the period still poses difficulties. It is an unclassifiable book in that it seems to invite a number of classifications only to play them off – inconclusively – against each other. Is it Naturalist or Decadent or Symbolist? Need it be any of these? Is it perhaps a book in which Naturalist writing practice (document and description, analysis of symptoms) converges on 'Symbolist' subjects (solitude, refinement, fantasy) with a guiding thread of Decadent philosophy (pessimism, perversion, cultural élitism)? All of these literary tendencies are reflected in _Against Nature_ , but all are ambiguously and at times parodically treated too. Mallarmé felt that the book contained 'not one atom of fantasy', and that Huysmans had proved himself 'more strictly documentary' than any other writer; but Zola condemned its incoherence and 'confusion'. What may partly have disturbed Zola was not that Naturalism had been abandoned in _Against Nature_ , but rather that it had been followed perversely. The relationship between _Against Nature_ and Naturalism resembles the relationship between the negative and the photograph. Huysmans produced an inverted version of the Naturalist ' _race, moment, milieu_ ': Des Esseintes is the last of his race attempting to flee his historical moment by creating an artificial _milieu_. It was not that _Against Nature_ was anti-Naturalist, but that it was Naturalist _enough_ to have disturbing implications for Zola and his methods. The discussion in chapter III of Petronius' _Satyricon_ is tellingly framed in this respect: Des Esseintes reads it as a 'realist novel', a 'slice cut from Roman life' (echoing the famous Naturalist dictum that a novel must be a 'slice of life'), but also emphasizes the fact that it is a 'story with no plot'. This genre-defying satirical feat of documentary imagination might be a clue to what _Against Nature_ is attempting. As for _Against Nature_ 's celebrated espousal of the 'Symbolist' poets, who in 1884 were neither a movement nor a school (the Symbolist 'manifesto' appeared in 1886), this too is complicated. Many of Huysmans' contemporaries would have seen Des Esseintes as a caricature of the Decadent reader-consumer, a misanthropic drop-out in a fetishistic relationship with his books and artworks. Although his tastes are new-fangled, quirky and rare, and although the 'exquisite' poetry of Mallarmé and 'pidgin' verse of Corbière were little known at the time, the fact that these are the tastes of a burned-out and spiteful elitist makes the compliment Huysmans pays to these writers ambiguous – it was certainly ambiguously interpreted by reviewers, as our appendix of critical responses to the novel shows. Des Esseintes _predicts_ rather than _reflects_ artistic tastes: we know the influence of Mallarmé on twentieth-century thought, we know too of Corbière's impact on Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Edgar Allan Poe and Baudelaire are classics while Gustave Moreau and Odilon Redon are among the most widely recognized image-makers of their time. In 1884, however, his favourite artists and writers seemed obscure, irrelevant, and – with a few exceptions – destined for oblivion. One reviewer wrote that Des Esseintes's selection of authors would, once their flashing fame had died, 'date the book and limit its future value'. What promised to 'date' Huysmans' novel in 1884 is one of the elements that keeps it modern. Huysmans' 1903 preface is misleading, seeking as it does to rewrite the history of the book's composition and interpretation to suit a different cultural moment and a different – Catholic – Huysmans. The Huysmans of 1903 sees _Against Nature_ as evidence of the 'underground workings' of the soul groping for salvation. For him each chapter of _Against Nature_ contains the 'seed' of the novels that followed: _Là-Bas, En Route, La Cathédrale (The Cathedral_ ) and _L'Oblat (The Oblate_ ). He also retrospectively interprets Des Esseintes's final words of the book as a prelude to conversion. There are problems with this, not least the fact that Huysmans did not convert until 1892 and that his writing meanwhile showed little evidence of these 'underground workings'. The 1903 preface also takes the opportunity to settle a few scores and rewrites a few premises. By claiming Flaubert's ( _L'Éducation Sentimentale_ as the key book, the novel after which nothing can be written, Huysmans downplays the value of Naturalism and the aesthetic and sociopolitical project of Zola, who had died the previous year. He also caricatures the principles of Naturalist writing and overplays his break with Zola and the Naturalists when in fact he maintained good relations with his former colleagues for several years. The rejection of Naturalism is to be found less in _Against Nature_ than in the 1903 preface, an ambiguous text which is published here in an appendix because it should be treated with caution. ### THEMES AND STRUCTURES _Against Nature_ was not the starting point but the consecration of a new literature... the novel is free at last. Remy de Gourmont, _Le Livre des masques (The Book of Masks_ ) Des Esseintes is a fictional character, but he is not pure invention. Huysmans was a shrewd observer of the dandies and eccentrics who frequented the literary haunts of Paris. Many of the people he knew seemed themselves larger than life: Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, the great playwright and novelist reduced to sparring partner in a boxing gym; Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly, dandy, ultramontane Catholic and sadist; Francis Poictevin, dandified young novelist and aesthete. Among the specific models for Des Esseintes was the eccentric King Ludwig II of Bavaria, who designed an artificial forest with mechanical animals, but there were also Baudelaire himself, Edmond de Goncourt and a variety of fictional characters such as Samuel Cramer in Baudelaire's _Fanfarlo_ and Charles Demailly in the Goncourts' eponymous 1868 novel. The most obvious model, however, was Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac, an aesthete and eccentric who provided the model for Proust's Baron Charlus in _A la_ _recherche du temps perdu_ (Montesquiou was a relatively capable poet and critic and not wholly ridiculous or mad). Many of the elements of Des Esseintes's interior are based on details of Montesquiou's lodgings as described by Mallarmé in letters to Huysmans, but it gives some indication of the strange times Huysmans lived through to recall that one of the book's most implausible episodes – the jewel-encrusted tortoise – is based on fact. Montesquiou had the poor creature customized to his tastes, and when it died wrote a poem in its memory in his collection _Les Hortensias bleus (The Blue Hortensias_ ), 1896). Zola (revealing his preoccupation with dirt, hygiene and tidiness of plot) was particularly exercised by the tortoise, telling Huysmans: 'a rather bourgeois preoccupation niggled me: it's lucky [the tortoise] died because it would have crapped on the carpet' (letter of May 1884). Des Esseintes is a kind of Decadent everyman, but he is also a prototype. He has the classic Decadent childhood: a mother who inhabits dark rooms with some unspecified nervous disorder, dying for no clear reason. There is an absent father, a boarding school and loveless family existence. We are told that the Des Esseintes have used up their strength through generations of inbreeding, and that the present Duke is the last in the line, the culmination of a long process of 'degeneration'. _Against Nature_ opens, on the one hand, with a model of linearity and of the cyclic nature of Decadence; on the other, with crisis and dislocation. The Prologue notes not just the gradual decline of the family, but also the gaps suggested by the missing paintings. In the chapter on Latin Decadent poets we read that parts of the literary history are followed in immense detail, others are lost; Des Esseintes's editions 'tailed away to nothing' and his collection makes a 'prodigious jump of several centuries' to the modern period. These two ways of organizing and narrating time are projected across the book's treatment of genealogy and biology, in its use of political and cultural history, and its assessments of literature and art. This in turn is reflected in _Against Nature_ 's structure: a narrative that progresses in a linear manner but is driven by ruptures, flashbacks and recollections that erupt unpredictably and often destructively into a nearstatic present. Des Esseintes attempts to recall certain memories by means of various stimuli, but he is also victim of memories he cannot control or does not want to revisit. This aspect of Huysmans' novel has led to comparisons with Proust, though for Huysmans it remains purely at the level of narrative expedient. In _Against Nature_ , the traditional novelistic plot has 'degenerated' and come to a near standstill; even Des Esseintes is often 'squeezed out' from entire swathes of his story by the renegade memories and the lists and inventories he has amassed. Des Esseintes, like the book that tells his story, is prodigiously but selectively learned. Not for him the rounded education, the balanced mind and healthy body. His tastes are for the quirky, the difficult, the outrageous. He savours the Latin Decadents, he enjoys the sense of the language losing its clarity, becoming complex and strange, 'a pagan tongue as it decomposed like venison, dropping to pieces'. Des Esseintes is also impotent, and, like his creator, a misogynist. We should not refine this fact away: in _Against Nature_ , as in so many 'Decadent' works, the misogyny is not incidental but in built. Des Esseintes has sought ever richer, more dazzling and dangerous pleasures; ever more eccentric, artificial or stage-managed sexual encounters – his literary and artistic tastes are exclusive and his sexual tastes eclectic. There is something of the theatrical director in him, a thwarted creativity that expresses itself in a need to stage and direct his fantasy scenarios. Most importantly, he has the money to indulge these tastes and play out these scenarios. We notice how, despite his tirades against the 'American century', modern consumerism and ownership, he takes advantage of all of these. He _owns_ , and money is rarely far from the surface of this book ostensibly about the ascetic and cultured life, the search for the uncontaminated pleasure of pure art. Indeed, his passion for reproducing, commissioning copies, having finely bound books and made-to-measure interiors is uncannily like that of the early twentieth-century (American) millionaire: buying, transporting, transplanting. He is also a book fetishist, in whom the bibliophile – the lover of the book as object – overcomes the reader. Des Esseintes does not read, preferring instead to wax lyrical about paper quality and bindings. Reading in _Against Nature_ is only ever remembered or replayed, and all the evocative passages about Baudelaire or Mallarmé are memories of readings that finished before the novel began. _Against Nature_ is about consumption in all its forms: financial, material, gastronomic, literary and artistic. With consumption there is also, inevitably (and in keeping with the Naturalist logic displayed by Zola's concern for the defecating tortoise), expulsion. Des Esseintes takes enemas, has problems with his digestion, diets and then gorges himself. He takes strong literary medicine, and the artistic equivalent of the beef-tea he drinks may be found in the prose poetry he favours, what he calls the 'osmazome' or concentrated juice of literature. Des Esseintes does not simply wish to abandon the world, but to poison it (as his dealings with August Langlois reveal). We see him exercise his authority over servants and tradesmen, in a relationship which replicates the social order of the world he tries to escape. The more _Against Nature_ banishes the world, the more it returns to haunt Des Esseintes, just as he himself is the mirror image of the materialism he hates. Another sense of the term 'Decadence' was provided for Huysmans' generation by the classical scholar Désirée Nisard in his 1834 _Etude de mæurs et de critique sur les poètes latins de la décadence (Critical and Cultural Study of the Latin Poets of the Decadence_ ). Nisard defined Decadence in literary terms as the period of description, where verbal ingenuity replaced moral vision, ornament replaced substance and false complexity replaced clarity of thought and language. _Against Nature_ certainly fulfils Nisard's definition, though Des Esseintes's ambition is not so much to collect as to select: he tries to distil, to anthologize, to sift. Edmond de Goncourt's _La Maison d'un artiste (An Artist's House_ , 1881) had stretched the boundary between the novel and the inventory, and Goncourt's influence can be detected in _Against Nature_ , weighed down by detail, buckling and coming to a standstill under the weight of description, as the poor tortoise dies beneath the burden of its finery. We may detect also Poe's 'Philosophy of Furniture' and Baudelaire's 'The Double Chamber' in Des Esseintes's interiors. In _Against Nature_ , objects, like knowledge and memories, are collected and stored as the reader toils through thickets of descriptive prose. The language that had once described the world has edged out the world. In this respect, _Against Nature_ is a Decadent book, but it would be mistaken to see it as a book that _advocated_ Decadence. Early on in _Against Nature_ Des Esseintes expresses his preference for the artificial over the natural, one of the defining attitudes of Decadence. 'Nature... has had her day', he muses, seeking the copy or the mechanically produced, not as a substitute for the natural but in preference to it. His is an artificial world: abstracted and decontextualized, full of gadgets and refined objects, custom-built and chemical. In the marvellous chapter on tropical flowers we see his logic reach an extreme point of Decadent perversion. Not content with artificial flowers, Des Esseintes goes further, choosing real flowers that seem to imitate artificial ones, thereby reversing the relationship between natural and artificial, copy and original. The dominant influence here is Baudelaire, who in his art writings argued a philosophically impressive as well as morally extreme case against _la Nature_. For Baudelaire, nature was what pushed human beings to kill and brutalize each other; the authority and civilization that maintained humane values were themselves artificial: laws, religions, moral codes. Baudelaire's was a reaction against the given towards the made ('who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?' he demanded in _Peintre de la vie moderne_ [ _The Painter of Modern Life_ ]), seeking to free art from the tyranny of representation. Des Esseintes's view is subtly different: like Baudelaire he prefers the artificial, but unlike Baudelaire he still relies on reference to the model; he seeks the copy but needs to know what it has been copied _from_. As with his dependence on the tradesmen and suppliers who furnish his house, Des Esseintes constantly refers to what he claims to have abandoned. He is more outrageous in tone but less daring in intellectual substance than Baudelaire; we might even suggest that his views are a kind of crude copy of his mentor's – that with Des Esseintes Baudelaire's ideas have in fact 'degenerated'. Thanks principally to Oscar Wilde, who repeated or paraphrased its contents not just in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and _The Decay of Lying_ but in an array of on-and off-stage witticisms, this is the book's most famous chapter. _Against Nature_ has suffered from this, because Wilde focused attention on only one – highly ambiguous – thread in Huysmans' novel; it is possible that Dorian Gray misinterprets his mentor Des Esseintes much as Des Esseintes misinterprets his mentor Baudelaire. One of Huysmans' achievements in _Against Nature_ , regardless of the double-dealing evident in his letters to Mallarmé and Zola, is to have imagined – or predicted – an alternative literary canon. The chapters on modern literature are subtle and forward-looking, and Des Esseintes's tastes are more than simply indicated: they are justified and often compellingly analysed, while his dislikes are expressed in trenchant criticism. Des Esseintes's thoughts on Mallarmé and Villiers, Verlaine and Corbière, Edmond de Goncourt and Flaubert are precise and analytical as well as perversely sophisticated. Huysmans was proud of his reading of Mallarmé, and his pages on Edgar Allan Poe are among the finest accounts of the French debt to the American poet who cast his spell over several generations of poets and prose writers. Des Esseintes is fascinated that this Decadent literary field exists in a spectacular contraction of time: all of these modes of writing, all of these stages of French and all of these artistic tendencies coexist in Des Esseintes's Paris, a modernist living museum of artists and artworks. In order to establish his literary tastes, Huysmans must also set out his distastes, and the great names of French writing, both living and dead, are paraded before us: Victor Hugo (still alive at the time Huysmans was writing), Rousseau, Voltaire, Molière are among the 'classics' Des Esseintes finds unoriginal, overblown or bourgeois. In painting, he admires Gustave Moreau for the luxury of his conceptions and the mythological dimension of his paintings, and for his removal from the 'hateful period' in which he lived. Moreau belongs nowhere, and it is revealing that in plans for _Against Nature_ Huysmans had intended to use Degas as his exemplary artist, thus giving a very different slant to Des Esseintes's artistic tastes. He admires the contortions of El Greco, and the Dutch engraver Jan Luyken for his depictions of suffering and torment, for images that 'reek[ed] of burnt flesh'. There are also the 'bad dreams and fevered visions' of another contemporary, Odilon Redon, whose spare and mysterious paintings contrast with Moreau's detail and incrustation. It was not just the content of _Against Nature_ but its structure that was felt to be unusual. Dorian Gray noted that 'It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character', but Ezra Pound decades later put it more bluntly: 'Huysmans escaped by putting an exceptionally dull young decadent in the midst of no milieu whatsoever.' For Remy de Gourmont _Against Nature_ 'freed' the novel, but Zola condemned its lack of progress, its circularity and its 'painful transitions'. How could a novel so ending-obsessed, plotless and grid-locked by description be seen as liberating? In certain respects, it was a version of Flaubert's dream of a book 'about nothing'. Huysmans took pride in his novel's lack of plot, telling Zola that he had 'emasculated dialogue'. In his 1903 preface Huysmans claimed to have sought to break the limits of the novel in order to allow in 'more serious work'. _Against Nature_ is a hybrid, composed of different modes of writing: catalogue, inventory, case study, encyclopedia and scholarly treatise, while the chapters are arranged as compartments or glass cases. In Flaubert's _Bouvard et Pécuchet_ (posthumously published in 1881), Bouvard and Pécuchet retire to a country house to become great scientists and scholars. They read books, perform experiments and discuss big subjects, but the problem is that they understand nothing. New knowledge and new ways of knowing simply lead to new ways of being stupid. Ahead of our era of artificial intelligence, Flaubert exposed the era of artificial stupidity, and there is an element of Bouvard and Pécuchet in Des Esseintes. It is legitimate to find some of his antics farcical: his world of knowledge without context, reference without points of reference, discovery without application is in part related to theirs. The scene where Des Esseintes plays his 'mouth organ' of liqueurs or orchestrates scents with his vaporizer, his imaginary trip to Britain based on reading of Dickens and Poe and port bottle labels in the restaurant, or his extraordinary sexual relationship with a ventriloquist who recites Flaubert – all these are eccentric adventures, but with a strain of comical pedantry too. Des Esseintes searches for essences, but lives amid clutter. The most poignant moments occur when he tries to impose order on his world, or to uncover the hidden order of the world outside. He constantly tries to classify: people, plants, ideas, information, objects, sounds, scents, tastes. He dreams of the 'syntax' of precious stones, the 'grammar' of scents; he tries to compose symphonies of tastes and reads the entire social order into the different varieties of exotic plants. The Baudelairean world, alive with 'correspondences' becomes, in _Against Nature_ , a dead world where the metaphor and the model run rife, where the classificatory structure dominates, and where mediated knowledge wins out over experience. His black feast to mourn his virility signals also the death of a creative urge, buried under heaps of books and paintings. Just as the house in Fontenay becomes a kind of living tomb, so _Against Nature_ becomes a catacomb of reference and allusion, full of dead learning. Des Esseintes is a cross between a jailer and a curator; he can neither invent nor create, only absorb, consume and occasionally _re_ order what already exists. He is no more exemplary than Chateaubriand's René, Camus' Meursault or Goethe's Werther. Though he became one of literature's most famous and most imitated characters, for Huysmans and many of his more alert contemporaries Des Esseintes was a ridiculous figure, a caricature trapped in his own claustrophobic farce. _Against Nature_ was a self-exhausting genre, a one-off. It has more in common with the seemingly plotless and non-linear narratives of modernism than with most of the French _fin de siècle_ fiction it inspired and pre-emptively surpassed. Perhaps only Remy de Gourmont's _Sixtine_ (subtitled _Novel of the Cerebral Life,_ 1890) and Georges Rodenbach's Symbolist masterpiece _Bruges-la-Morte_ (1892) measured up to the novel that made them possible. _Against Nature_ sits more comfortably alongside the works of Proust, Musil, Joyce and Woolf than those of Jean Lorrain or Rachilde or Octave Mirbeau. It is a literature of retreat, of reaction and of revolt, but it is also a penetrating and innovative study of individualism and alienation. _Against Nature_ is a novel of surfeit: surfeit of knowledge, sensation, culture; and it culminates in a surfeit of self. It is a kind of Symbolist or Decadent _Heart of Darkness_ in its thwarted dreams of isolation, power and discovery. Like _Heart of Darkness_ it analyses the deadly game of self-fulfilment and self-escape; like Conrad's great novel it ends with a snarl of pessimism both at the world and at the counter-world forged in its stead – _forged_ in the sense of _faked_ as well as _newly created_. It is a mysterious, difficult and absurd book. Des Esseintes is the last of his race but perhaps the first of his kind: the modernist anthologist, caught between a desire for cultural preservation and a drive for apocalypse. He too might have surveyed his dying century and foreseen the one to come; and he too, like the voice in T. S. Eliot's _The Waste Land_ , might have murmured: 'These fragments I have shored against my ruins'. ### NOTES . See Appendix I, for the preface. . Writers such as Oscar Wilde in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and 'The Decay of Lying', Arthur Symons in _The Symbolist Movement in Literature_ (1899) and Havelock Ellis in _Affirmations_ made Huysmans' work appear as an example – rather than a diagnosis – of decadence and aestheticism. . Symons, _The Decadent Movement in Literature_ (London: Constable, 1899), p. 39. . Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , ed. by Robert Mighall (London: Penguin Classics, 2000), pp. 121–2. See Appendix II. . Marianne Faithfull, _Faithfull_ (London: Penguin, 1995), p. 100. . Robert Louis Stevenson, 'Walt Whitman' (1878), _Essays and Poems_ , ed. Claire Harman (London: Everyman, 1992), p. 138. . Osip Mandelstam, _The Collected Critical Prose and Letters_ , ed. Jane Gary Harris, tr. Jane Gary Harris and Constance Link (London: Harvill, 1991), p. 100. . Quoted in Robert Baldick, _The Life of J.-K. Huysmans_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), p. 27. Baldick's biography is still a key reference work for modern Huysmans _amateurs_ and scholars. . André Breton, _Anthologie de l'humour noire_ , _Oeuvres complètes_ , vol. II, ed. Bonnet et al. (Paris: Pléiade, 1992), p. 997. . Léon Bloy, 'Les Représailles du Sphinx', _Le Chat Noir_ , 14 June 1884. . James Joyce, 'Realism and Idealism in English Literature', _Occasional, Critical and Political Writings_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 173. . _The Damned (Là-Bas_ ), tr. Terry Hale (London: Penguin, 2001). . _The Road from Decadence: From Brothel to Cloister. Selected Letters of J. K. Huysmans_ , tr. and ed. Barbara Beaumont (London: Athlone, 1989), p. 48. . Ibid., p. 46. . Ibid., p. 55. . Ibid., p. 72. . The following year (1885) saw the publication of a parodic volume, _The Deliquescences_ , by one 'Adoré Floupette', written by two poets – Vicaire and Beauclair – as a send-up of their 'Decadent' contemporaries. As Appendix II of contemporary reviews and responses shows, some of Huysmans' readers thought of _Against Nature_ as at least in part parodic. . For an account of images and representations of women in this period, see Shearer West, _Fin de Siècle: Art and Society in an Age of Uncertainty_ (London: Bloomsbury, 1993). . Ezra Pound, 'The Approach to Paris', New Age, 9 October 1913. ## Further Reading ### EDITIONS OF _AGAINST NATURE_ _A Rebours_ (Paris: Charpentier, 1884). First edition. _A Rebours_ (Paris: A. Lepère, 1903). Limited edition (130 copies) with 'Preface written twenty years after the novel'. _A Rebours_ appears in volume VII of the _Oeuvres complètes_ of Huysmans (Paris: Crès, 1929; reprinted Geneva: Slatkine, 1972). There are two outstanding modern editions: Marc Fumaroli's (Paris: Folio/Gallimard, 1977), and Rose Fortassier's (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1981). ### ON HUYSMANS Baldick, Robert, _The Life of J. K. Huysmans_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955). Banks, Brian R., _The Image of Huysmans_ (New York: AMS Press, 1990). Beaumont, Barbara, (trans.), _The Road from Decadence: From Brothel to Cloister. Selected Letters of J. K. Huysmans_ (London: Athlone, 1989). Borie, Jean, _Huysmans: Le Diable, le célibataire et Dieu_ (Paris: Grasset, 1991). Cogny, Pierre, _J.-K. Huysmans à la recherche de l'unité_ (Paris: Nizet, 1953). Grojnowski, Daniel, _À Rebours de J.-K. Huysmans_ (Paris: Gallimard/Foliothèque, 1996). Huneker, James Gibbons, 'The Pessimist's Progress', in _Egoists: A Book of Supermen_ (New York: Scribner, 1909). Lloyd, Christopher, _J.-K. Huysmans and the 'Fin-de-siècle' Novel_ (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, _c_.1990). ### BACKGROUND AND CONTEXTS Birkett, Jennifer, _The Sins of the Fathers: Decadence in France, 1870–1914_ (London: Quartet, 1986). Griffiths, Richard, _The Reactionary Revolution: The Catholic Revival in French Literature 1870–1914_ (London: Constable, 1966). Hustvedt, Asti (ed.), _The Decadent Reader: Fiction, Fantasy and Perversion from 'Fin de Siècle' France_ (New York: Zone Books, 1998). McGuinness, Patrick (ed.), _Symbolism, Decadence and the 'Fin de Siècle': French and European Perspectives_ (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2000). Pierrot, Jean, _The Decadent Imagination 1880–1900_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). Praz, Mario, _The Romantic Agony_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951). Spackman, Barbara, _Decadent Genealogies: The Rhetoric of Sickness from Baudelaire to D'Annunzio_ , (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989). Symons, Arthur, _The Symbolist Movement in Literature_ (London: Constable, 1911). West, Shearer, _Fin de Siècle: Art and Society in an Age of Uncertainty_ (London: Bloomsbury, 1993). ## Note on this Translation I have used Volume VII of Huysmans' _Œ uvres complètes_ (Paris: Crès, 1929), in which certain errors contained in the first edition and in the standard Fasquelle edition have been corrected. Huysmans' style, which Bloy described as 'continually dragging Mother Image by the hair or the feet down the worm-eaten staircase of terrified Syntax', is one of the strangest literary idioms in existence, packed with purple passages, intricate sentences, weird metaphors, unexpected tense changes and a vocabulary rich in slang and technical terms. I have tried to achieve the same effect, using the same constituents, in this English translation; and it is only fair to warn the reader that he may find that the resultant mixture, like the French original, is best taken in small doses. I should like to thank the Delegates of the Clarendon Press for permission to reproduce passages I had already translated in my _Life of J.-K. Huysmans_ (Oxford, 1955); my long-suffering friends and colleagues for help with the terminology of a wide range of subjects Robert Baldick May 1957 I would like to thank Margaret Bartley, Robert Mighall and Jonathan Patrick for their help and advice at various stages of this edition. Patrick McGuinness 2003 ## AGAINST NATURE I must rejoice beyond the bounds of time... though the world may shudder at my joy, and in its coarseness know not what I mean. Jan Van Ruysbroeck ## PROLOGUE Judging by the few portraits preserved in the Château de Lourps the Floressas Des Esseintes family had been composed in olden times of sturdy campaigners with forbidding faces. Imprisoned in old picture-frames which were scarcely wide enough for their broad shoulders, they were an alarming sight with their piercing eyes, their sweeping mustachios and their bulging chests filling the enormous cuirasses which they wore. These were the founders of the family; the portraits of their descendants were missing. There was, in fact, a gap in the pictorial pedigree, with only one canvas to bridge it, only one face to join past and present. It was a strange, sly face, with pale, drawn features; the cheekbones were punctuated with cosmetic commas of rouge, the hair was plastered down and bound with a string of pearls and the thin, painted neck emerged from the starched pleats of a ruff. In this picture of one of the closest friends of the Duc d'Epernon and the Marquis d'O, the defects of an impoverished stock and the excess of lymph in the blood were already apparent. Since then, the degeneration of this ancient house had clearly followed a regular course, with the men becoming progressively less manly; and over the last two hundred years, as if to complete the ruinous process, the Des Esseintes had taken to intermarrying among themselves, thus using up what little vigour they had left. Now, of this family which had once been so large that it occupied nearly every domain in the Ile de France and La Brie, only one descendant was still living: the Duc Jean des Esseintes, a frail young man of thirty who was anaemic and highly strung, with hollow cheeks, cold eyes of steely blue, a nose which was turned up but straight and thin, papery hands. By some freak of heredity, this last scion of the family bore a striking resemblance to his distant ancestor the court favourite, for he had the same exceptionally fair pointed beard, and the same ambiguous expression, at once weary and wily. His childhood had been overshadowed by sickness. However, despite the threat of scrofula and recurrent bouts of fever, he had succeeded in clearing the hurdle of adolescence with the aid of good nursing and fresh air; and after this his nerves had rallied, had overcome the languor and lethargy of chlorosis and had brought his body to its full physical development. His mother, a tall, pale, silent woman, died of nervous exhaustion. Then it was his father's turn to succumb to some obscure illness when Des Esseintes was nearly seventeen. There was no gratitude or affection associated with the memories he retained of his parents: only fear. His father, who normally resided in Paris, was almost a complete stranger; and he remembered his mother chiefly as a still, supine figure in a darkened bedroom in the Château de Lourps. It was only rarely that husband and wife met, and all that he could recall of these occasions was a drab impression of his parents sitting facing each other over a table that was lighted only by a deeply shaded lamp, for the Duchess had a nervous attack whenever she was subjected to light or noise. In the semi-darkness they would exchange one or two words at the most, and then the Duke would unconcernedly slip away to catch the first available train. At the Jesuit school to which Jean was sent to be educated, life was easier and pleasanter. The good Fathers made a point of cosseting the boy, whose intelligence amazed them; but in spite of all their efforts, they could not get him to pursue a regular course of study. He took readily to certain subjects and acquired a precocious proficiency in the Latin tongue; but on the other hand he was absolutely incapable of construing the simplest sentence in Greek, revealed no aptitude whatever for modern languages and displayed blank incomprehension when anyone tried to teach him the first principles of science. His family showed little interest in his doings. Occasionally his father would come to see him at school, but all he had to say was: 'Good day, goodbye, be good and work hard.' The summer holidays he spent at Lourps, but his presence in the Château failed to awaken his mother from her reveries; she scarcely noticed him, or if she did, gazed at him for a few moments with a sad smile and then sank back again into the artificial night which the heavy curtains drawn across the windows created in her bedroom. The servants were old and tired, and the boy was left to his own devices. On rainy days he used to browse through the books in the library, and when it was fine he would spend the afternoon exploring the local countryside. His chief delight was to go down into the valley to Jutigny, a village lying at the foot of the hills, a little cluster of cottages wearing thatch bonnets decorated with sprigs of stonecrop and patches of moss. He used to lie down in the meadows, in the shadow of the tall hayricks, listening to the dull rumble of the water-mills and breathing in the fresh breezes coming from the Voulzie. Sometimes he would go as far as the peateries and the hamlet of Longueville with its green and black houses, or else he would scramble up the windswept hillsides from which he could survey an immense prospect. On the one hand he could look down on the Seine valley, winding away into the distance where it merged into the blue sky, and on the other he could see, far away on the horizon, the churches and the great tower of Provins, which seemed to tremble under the sun's rays in a dusty golden haze. He would spend hours reading or daydreaming, enjoying his fill of solitude until night fell; and by dint of pondering the same thoughts his intelligence grew sharper and his ideas gained in maturity and precision. At the end of every vacation he went back to his masters a more serious and a more stubborn boy. These changes did not escape their notice: shrewd and clearsighted men, accustomed by their profession to probing the inmost recesses of the human soul, they treated this lively but intractable mind with caution and reserve. They realized that this particular pupil of theirs would never do anything to add to the glory of their house; and as his family was rich and apparently uninterested in his future, they soon gave up any idea of turning his thoughts towards the profitable careers open to their successful scholars. Similarly, although he was fond of engaging with them in argument about theological doctrines whose niceties and subtleties intrigued him, they never even thought of inducing him to enter a religious order, for in spite of all their efforts his faith remained infirm. Finally, out of prudence and fear of the unknown, they let him pursue whatever studies pleased him and neglect the rest, not wishing to turn this independent spirit against them by subjecting him to the sort of irksome discipline imposed by lay tutors. He therefore lived a perfectly contented life at school, scarcely aware of the priests' fatherly control. He worked at his Latin and French books in his own way and in his own time; and although theology was not one of the subjects in the school syllabus, he finished the apprenticeship to this science which he had begun at the Château de Lourps, in the library left by his great-great-uncle Dom Prosper, a former Prior of the Canons Regular of Saint-Ruf. The time came, however, to leave the Jesuit establishment, for he was nearly of age and would soon have to take possession of his fortune. When at last he reached his majority, his cousin and guardian, the Comte de Montchevrel, gave him an account of his stewardship. Relations between the two men did not last long, for there could be no point of contact between one so old and one so young. But while they lasted, out of curiosity, as a matter of courtesy, and for want of something to do, Des Esseintes saw a good deal of his cousin's family; and he spent several desperately dull evenings at their town-house in he Rue de la Chaise, listening to female relatives old as the hills conversing about noble quarterings, heraldic moons and antiquated ceremonial. Even more than these dowagers, the men gathered round their whist-tables revealed an unalterable emptiness of mind. These descendants of medieval warriors, these last scions of feudal families, appeared to Des Esseintes in the guise of crotchety, catarrhal old men, endlessly repeating insipid monologues and immemorial phrases. The fleur-de-lis, which you find if you cut the stalk of a fern, was apparently also the only thing that remained impressed on the softening pulp inside these ancient skulls. The young man felt a surge of ineffable pity for these mummies entombed in their Pompadour catafalques behind rococo panelling; these crusty dotards who lived with their eyes for ever fixed upon a nebulous Canaan, an imaginary land of promise. After a few experiences of this kind, he resolved, in spite of all the invitations and reproaches he might receive, never to set foot in this society again. Instead, he took to mixing with young men of his own age and station. Some of them, who like himself had been brought up in religious institutions, had been distinctively marked for life by the education they had received. They went to church regularly, took communion at Easter, frequented Catholic societies and shamefacedly concealed their sexual activities from each other as if they were heinous crimes. For the most part they were docile, good-looking ninnies, congenital dunces who had worn their masters' patience thin, but had nonetheless satisfied their desire to send pious, obedient creatures out into the world. The others, who had been educated in state schools or in _lycèes_ , were less hypocritical and more adventurous, but they were no more interesting and no less narrow-minded than their fellows. These gay young men were mad on races and operettas, lansquenet and baccarat, and squandered fortunes on horses, cards, and all the other pleasures dear to empty minds. After a year's trial, Des Esseintes was overcome by an immense distaste for the company of these men, whose debauchery struck him as being base and facile, entered into without discrimination or desire, indeed without any real stirring of the blood or stimulation of the nerves. Little by little, he dropped these people and sought the society of men of letters, imagining that theirs must surely be kindred spirits with which his own mind would feel more at case. A fresh disappointment lay in store for him: he was revolted by their mean, spiteful judgements, their conversation that was as commonplace as a church-door, and the nauseating discussions in which they gauged the merit of a book by the number of editions it went through and the profits from its sale. At the same time, he discovered the free-thinkers, those bourgeois doctrinaires who clamoured for absolute liberty in order to stifle the opinions of other people, to be nothing but a set of greedy, shameless hypocrites whose intelligence he rated lower than the village cobbler's. His contempt for humanity grew fiercer, and at last he came to realize that the world is made up mostly of fools and scoundrels. It became perfectly clear to him that he could entertain no hope of finding in someone else the same aspirations and antipathies; no hope of linking up with a mind which, like his own, took pleasure in a life of studious decrepitude; no hope of associating an intelligence as sharp and wayward as his own with that of any author or scholar. He felt irritable and ill at ease; exasperated by the triviality of the ideas normally bandied about, he came to resemble those people mentioned by Nicole who are sensitive to anything and everything. He was constantly coming across some new source of offence, wincing at the patriotic or political twaddle served up in the papers every morning, and exaggerating the importance of the triumphs which an omnipotent public reserves at all times and in all circumstances for works written without thought or style. Already he had begun dreaming of a refined Thebaid, a desert hermitage equipped with all modern conveniences, a snugly heated ark on dry land in which he might take refuge from the incessant deluge of human stupidity. One passion and one only – woman – might have arrested the universal contempt that was taking hold of him, but that passion like the rest had been exhausted. He had tasted the sweets of the flesh like a crotchety invalid with a craving for food but a palate which soon becomes jaded. In the days when he had belonged to a set of young men-about-town, he had gone to those unconventional supper-parties where drunken women loosen their dresses at dessert and beat the table with their heads; he had hung around stage-doors, had bedded with singers and actresses, had endured, over and above the innate stupidity of the sex, the hysterical vanity common to women of the theatre. Then he had kept mistresses already famed for their depravity, and helped to swell the funds of those agencies which supply dubious pleasures for a consideration. And finally, weary to the point of satiety of these hackneyed luxuries, these commonplace caresses, he had sought satisfaction in the gutter, hoping that the contrast would revive his exhausted desires and imagining that the fascinating filthiness of the poor would stimulate his flagging senses. Try what he might, however, he could not shake off the overpowering tedium which weighed upon him. In desperation he had recourse to the perilous caresses of the professional virtuosos, but the only effect was to impair his health and exacerbate his nerves. Already he was getting pains at the back of his neck, and his hands were shaky: he could keep them steady enough when he was gripping a heavy object, but they trembled uncontrollably when holding something light such as a wineglass. The doctors he consulted terrified him with warnings that it was time he changed his way of life and gave up these practices which were sapping his vitality. For a little while he led a quiet life, but soon his brain took fire again and sent out a fresh call to arms. Like girls who at the onset of puberty hanker after weird or disgusting dishes, he began to imagine and then to indulge in unnatural love-affairs and perverse pleasures. But this was too much for him. His overfatigued senses, as if satisfied that they had tasted every imaginable experience, sank into a state of lethargy; and impotence was not far off. When he came to his senses again, he found that he was utterly alone, completely disillusioned, abominably tired; and he longed to make an end of it all, prevented only by the cowardice of his flesh. The idea of hiding away far from human society, of shutting himself up in some snug retreat, of deadening the thunderous din of life's inexorable activity, just as people deadened the noise of traffic by laying down straw outside a sick person's house – this idea tempted him more than ever. Besides, there was another reason why he should lose no time in coming to a decision: taking stock of his fortune, he discovered to his horror that in extravagant follies and riotous living he had squandered the greater part of his patrimony, and that what remained was invested in land and brought in only a paltry revenue. He decided to sell the Château de Lourps, which he no longer visited and where he would leave behind him no pleasant memories or fond regrets. He also realized his other assets and with the money he obtained bought sufficient government stocks to assure him of an annual income of fifty thousand francs, keeping back a tidy sum to buy and furnish the little house where he proposed to steep himself in peace and quiet for the rest of his life. He scoured the suburbs of Paris and eventually discovered a villa for sale on the hillside above Fontenay-aux-Roses, standing in a lonely spot close to the Fort and far from all neighbours. This was the answer to his dreams, for in this district which had so far remained unspoilt by rampaging Parisians, he would be safe from molestation: the wretched state of communications, barely maintained by a comical railway at the far end of the town and a few little trams which came and went as they pleased, reassured him on this point. Thinking of the new existence he was going to fashion for himself, he felt a glow of pleasure at the idea that here he would be too far out for the tidal wave of Parisian life to reach him, and yet near enough for the proximity of the capital to strengthen him in his solitude. For, since a man has only to know he cannot get to a certain spot to be seized with a desire to go there, by not entirely barring the way back he was guarding against any hankering after human society, any nostalgic regrets. He set the local mason to work on the house he had bought; then suddenly, one day, without telling anyone of his plans, he got rid of his furniture, dismissed his servants and disappeared without leaving any address with the concierge. ## CHAPTER 1 Over two months elapsed before Des Esseintes could immerse himself in the peaceful silence of his house at Fontenay, for purchases of all sorts still kept him perambulating the streets and ransacking the shops from one end of Paris to the other. And this was in spite of the fact that he had already made endless inquiries and given considerable thought to the matter before entrusting his new home to the decorators. He had long been a connoisseur of colours both simple and subtle. In former years, when he had been in the habit of inviting women to his house, he had fitted out a boudoir with delicate carved furniture in pale Japanese camphor-wood under a sort of canopy of pink Indian satin, so that their flesh borrowed soft warm tints from the light which hidden lamps filtered through the awning. This room, where mirror echoed mirror, and every wall reflected an endless succession of pink boudoirs, had been the talk of all his mistresses, who loved steeping their nakedness in this warm bath of rosy light and breathing in the aromatic odours given off by the camphor-wood. But quite apart from the beneficial effect which this tinted atmosphere had in bringing a ruddy flush to complexions worn and discoloured by the habitual use of cosmetics and the habitual abuse of the night hours, he himself enjoyed, in this voluptuous setting, peculiar satisfactions – pleasures which were in a way heightened and intensified by the recollection of past afflictions and bygone troubles. Thus, in hateful and contemptuous memory of his childhood, he had suspended from the ceiling of this room a little silver cage containing a cricket which chirped as other crickets had once chirped among the embers in the fireplaces at the Château de Lourps. Whenever he heard this familiar sound, all the silent evenings of constraint he had spent in his mother's company and all the misery he had endured in the course of a lonely, unhappy childhood came back to haunt him. And when the movements of the woman he was mechanically caressing suddenly dispelled these memories and her words or laughter brought him back to the present reality of the boudoir, then his soul was swept by tumultuous emotions: a longing to take vengeance for the boredom inflicted on him in the past, a craving to sully what memories he retained of his family with acts of sensual depravity, a furious desire to expend his lustful frenzy on cushions of soft flesh and to drain the cup of sensuality to its last and bitterest dregs. At other times, when he was weighed down by splenetic boredom, and the rainy autumn weather brought on an aversion for the streets, for his house, for the dirty yellow sky and the tar-macadam clouds, then he took refuge in this room, set the cage swinging gently to and fro and watched its movements reflected _ad infinitum_ in the mirrors on the walls, until it seemed to his dazed eyes that the cage itself was not moving but that the boudoir was tossing and turning, waltzing round the house in a dizzy whirl of pink. Then, in the days when he had thought it necessary to advertise his individuality, he had decorated and furnished the public rooms of his house with ostentatious oddity. The drawing-room, for example, had been partitioned off into a series of niches, which were styled to harmonize vaguely, by means of subtly analogous colours that were gay or sombre, delicate or barbarous, with the character of his favourite works in Latin and French. He would then settle down to read in whichever of these niches seemed to correspond most exactly to the peculiar essence of the book which had taken his fancy. His final caprice had been to fit up a lofty hall in which to receive his tradesmen. They used to troop in and take their places side by side in a row of church stalls; then he would ascend an imposing pulpit and preach them a sermon on dandyism, adjuring his bootmakers and tailors to conform strictly to his encyclicals on matters of cut, and threatening them with pecuniary excommunication if they did not follow to the letter the instructions contained in his monitories and bulls. By these means he won a considerable reputation as an eccentric – a reputation which he crowned by wearing suits of white velvet with gold-laced waistcoats, by sticking a bunch of Parma violets in his shirt-front in lieu of a cravat and by entertaining men of letters to dinners which were greatly talked about. One of these meals, modelled on an eighteenth-century original, had been a funeral feast to mark the most ludicrous of personal misfortunes. The dining-room, draped in black, opened out on to a garden metamorphosed for the occasion, the paths being strewn with charcoal, the ornamental pond edged with black basalt and filled with ink, and the shrubberies replanted with cypresses and pines. The dinner itself was served on a black cloth adorned with baskets of violets and scabious; candelabra shed an eerie green light over the table and tapers flickered in the chandeliers. While a hidden orchestra played funeral marches, the guests were waited on by naked negresses wearing only slippers and stockings in cloth of silver embroidered with tears. Dining off black-bordered plates, the company had enjoyed turtle soup, Russian rye bread, ripe olives from Turkey, caviare, mullet botargo, black puddings from Frankfurt, game served in sauces the colour of liquorice and boot-polish, truffle jellies, chocolate creams, plum-puddings, nectarines, pears in grape-juice syrup, mulberries and black heart-cherries. From dark-tinted glasses they had drunk the wines of Limagne and Roussillon, of Tenedos, Valdepeñ as and Oporto. And after coffee and walnut cordial, they had rounded off the evening with kvass, porter and stout. On the invitations, which were similar to those sent out before more solemn obsequies, this dinner was described as a funeral banquet in memory of the host's virility, lately but only temporarily deceased. In time, however, his taste for these extravagant caprices, of which he had once been so proud, died a natural death; and nowadays he shrugged his shoulders in contempt whenever he recalled the puerile displays of eccentricity he had given, the extraordinary clothes he had worn and the bizarre furnishing schemes he had devised. The new home he was now planning, this time for his own personal pleasure and not to astonish other people, was going to be comfortably though curiously appointed: a peaceful and unique abode specially designed to meet the needs of the solitary life he intended to lead. When the architect had fitted up the house at Fontenay in accordance with his wishes, and when all that remained was to settle the question of furniture and decoration, Des Esseintes once again gave long and careful consideration to the entire series of available colours. What he wanted was colours which would appear stronger and clearer in artificial light. He did not particularly care if they looked crude or insipid in daylight, for he lived most of his life at night, holding that night afforded greater intimacy and isolation and that the mind was truly roused and stimulated only by awareness of the dark; moreover he derived a peculiar pleasure from being in a well-lighted room when all the surrounding houses were wrapped in sleep and darkness, a sort of enjoyment in which vanity may have played some small part, a very special feeling of satisfaction familiar to those who sometimes work late at night and draw aside the curtains to find that all around them the world is dark, silent and dead. Slowly, one by one, he went through the various colours. Blue, he remembered, takes on an artificial green tint by candlelight; if a dark blue like indigo or cobalt, it becomes black; if pale, it turns to grey; and if soft and true like turquoise, it goes dull and cold. There could, therefore, be no question of making it the keynote of a room, though it might be used to help out another colour. On the other hand, under the same conditions the iron greys grow sullen and heavy; the pearl greys lose their blue sheen and are metamorphosed into a dirty white; the browns become cold and sleepy; and as for the dark greens such as emperor green and myrtle green, they react like the dark blues and turn quite black. Only the pale greens remained – peacock green, for instance, or the cinnabar and lacquer greens – but then artificial light kills the blue in them and leaves only the yellow, which for its part lacks clarity and consistency. Nor was there any point in thinking of such delicate tints as salmon pink, maize and rose; for their very effeminacy would run counter to his ideas of complete isolation. Nor again was it any use considering the various shades of purple, which with one exception lose their lustre in candlelight. That exception is plum, which somehow survives intact, but then what a muddy reddish hue it is, unpleasantly like lees of wine! Besides, it struck him as utterly futile to resort to this range of tints, in so far as it is possible to see purple by ingesting a specified amount of santonin, and thus it becomes a simple matter for anyone to change the colour of his walls without laying a finger on them. Having rejected all these colours, he was left with only three: red, orange and yellow. Of the three, he preferred orange, so confirming by his own example the truth of a theory to which he attributed almost mathematical validity: to wit, that there exists a close correspondence between the sensual make-up of a person with a truly artistic temperament and whatever colour that person reacts to most strongly and sympathetically. In fact, leaving out of account the majority of men, whose coarse retinas perceive neither the cadences peculiar to different colours nor the mysterious charm of their gradation; leaving out also those bourgeois optics that are insensible to the pomp and glory of the clear, bright colours; and considering only those people with delicate eyes that have undergone the education of libraries and art-galleries, it seemed to him an undeniable fact that anyone who dreams of the ideal, prefers illusion to reality and calls for veils to clothe the naked truth, is almost certain to appreciate the soothing caress of blue and its cognates, such as mauve, lilac and pearl grey, always provided they retain their delicacy and do not pass the point where they change their personalities and turn into pure violets and stark greys. The hearty, blustering type on the other hand, the handsome, full-blooded sort, the strapping he-men who scorn the formalities of life and rush straight for their goal, losing their heads completely, these generally delight in the vivid glare of the reds and yellows, in the percussion effect of the vermilions and chromes, which blind their eyes and intoxicate their senses. As for those gaunt, febrile creatures of feeble constitution and nervous disposition whose sensual appetite craves dishes that are smoked and seasoned, their eyes almost always prefer that most morbid and irritating of colours, with its acid glow and unnatural splendour – orange. There could therefore be no doubt whatever as to Des Esseintes's final choice; but indubitable difficulties still remained to be solved. If red and yellow become more pronounced in artificial light, the same is not true of their compound, orange, which often flares up into a fiery nasturtium red. He carefully studied all its different shades by candlelight and finally discovered one which he considered likely to keep its balance and answer his requirements. Once these preliminaries were over, he made every effort to avoid, in his study at any rate, the use of Oriental rugs and fabrics, which had become so commonplace and vulgar now that upstart tradesmen could buy them in the bargain basement of any department-store. The walls he eventually decided to bind like books in large-grained crushed morocco: skins from the Cape glazed by means of strong steel plates under a powerful press. When the lining of the walls had been completed, he had the mouldings and the tall plinths lacquered a deep indigo, similar to the colour coachbuilders use for the panels of carriage bodies. The ceiling, which was slightly coved, was also covered in morocco; and set in the middle of the orange leather, like a huge circular window open to the sky, there was a piece of royal-blue silk from an ancient cope on which silver seraphim had been depicted in angelic flight by the weavers' guild of Cologne. After everything had been arranged according to plan, these various colours came to a quiet understanding with each other at nightfall: the blue of the woodwork was stabilized and, so to speak, warmed up by the surrounding orange tints, which for their part glowed with undiminished brilliance, maintained and in a way intensified by the close proximity of the blue. As to furniture, Des Esseintes did not have to undertake any laborious treasure-hunts, in so far as the only luxuries he intended to have in this room were rare books and flowers. Leaving himself free to adorn any bare walls later on with a few drawings and paintings, he confined himself for the present to fitting up ebony bookshelves and bookcases round the greater part of the room, strewing tiger skins and blue fox furs about the floor, and installing beside a massive money-changer's table of the fifteenth century, several deep-seated wing-armchairs and an old church lectern of wrought iron, one of those antique singing-desks on which deacons of old used to place the antiphonary and which now supported one of the weighty folios of Du Cange's _Glossarium mediae et infimae Latinatis_. The windows, with panes of bluish crackle-glass or gilded bottle-punts which shut out the view and admitted only a very dim light, were dressed with curtains cut out of old ecclesiastical stoles, whose faded gold threads were almost invisible against the dull red material. As a finishing touch, in the centre of the chimney-piece, which was likewise dressed in sumptuous silk from a Florentine dalmatic, and flanked by two Byzantine monstrances of gilded copper which had originally come from the Abbaye-au-Bois at Bièvre, there stood a magnificent triptych whose separate panels had been fashioned to resemble lace-work. This now contained, framed under glass, copied on real vellum in exquisite missal lettering and marvellously illuminated, three pieces by Baudelaire: on the right and left, the sonnets _La Mort des amants_ and _L'Ennemi_ , and in the middle, the prose poem bearing the English title _Anywhere out of the World_. ## CHAPTER 2 After the sale of his goods, Des Esseintes kept on the two old servants who had looked after his mother and who between them had acted as steward and concierge at the Château de Lourps while it waited, empty and untenanted, for a buyer. He took with him to Fontenay this faithful pair who had been accustomed to a methodical sickroom routine, trained to administer spoonfuls of physic and medicinal brews at regular intervals and inured to the absolute silence of cloistered monks, barred from all communication with the outside world and confined to rooms where the doors and windows were always shut. The husband's duty was to clean the rooms and go marketing; the wife's to do all the cooking. Des Esseintes gave up the first floor of the house to them; but he made them wear thick felt slippers, had the doors fitted with tambours and their hinges well oiled, and covered the floors with long-pile carpeting, to make sure that he never heard the sound of their footsteps overhead. He also arranged a code of signals with them so that they should know what he needed by the number of long or short peals he rang on his bell; and he appointed a particular spot on his desk where the household account-book was to be left once a month while he was asleep. In short, he did everything he could to avoid seeing them or speaking to them more often than was absolutely necessary. However, since the woman would have to pass alongside the house occasionally to get to the woodshed, and he had no desire to see her commonplace silhouette through the window, he had a costume made for her of Flemish faille, with a white cap and a great black hood let down on the shoulders, such as the beguines still wear to this day at Ghent. The shadow of this coif gliding past in the twilight produced an impression of convent life, and reminded him of those peaceful, pious communities, those sleepy villages shut away in some hidden corner of the busy, wide-awake city. He went on to fix his mealtimes according to an unvarying schedule; the meals themselves were necessarily plain and simple, for the feebleness of his stomach no longer allowed him to enjoy heavy or elaborate dishes. At five o'clock in winter, after dusk had fallen, he ate a light breakfast of two boiled eggs, toast and tea; then he had lunch about eleven, drank coffee or sometimes tea and wine during the night and finally toyed with a little supper about five in the morning, before going to bed. These meals, the details and menu of which were decided once for all at the beginning of each season of the year, he ate at a table in the middle of a small room linked to his study by a corridor which was padded and hermetically sealed, to allow neither sound nor smell to pass from one to the other of the two rooms it connected. This dining-room resembled a ship's cabin, with its ceiling of arched beams, its bulkheads and floorboards of pitch-pine, and the little window-opening let into the wainscoting like a porthole. Like those Japanese boxes that fit one inside the other, this room had been inserted into a larger one, which was the real dining-room planned by the architect. This latter room was provided with two windows. One of these was now invisible, being hidden behind the bulkhead; but this partition could be lowered by releasing a spring, so that when fresh air was admitted it not only circulated around the pitch-pine cabin but entered it. The other was visible enough, as it was directly opposite the porthole cut into the wainscoting, but it had been rendered useless by a large aquarium occupying the entire space between the porthole and this real window in the real house-wall. Thus what daylight penetrated into the cabin had first to pass through the outer window, the panes of which had been replaced by a sheet of plate-glass, then through the water and finally through the fixed bull's-eye in the porthole. On autumn evenings, when the samovar stood steaming on the table and the sun had almost set, the water in the aquarium, which had been dull and turbid all morning, would turn red like glowing embers and shed a fiery, glimmering light upon the pale walls. Sometimes of an afternoon, when Des Esseintes happened to be already up and about, he would set in action the system of pipes and conduits which emptied the aquarium and refilled it with fresh water, and then pour in a few drops of coloured essences, thus producing at will the various tints, green or grey, opaline or silvery, which real rivers take on according to the colour of the sky, the greater or less brilliance of the sun's rays, the more or less imminent threat of rain – in a word, according to the season and the weather. He could then imagine himself between-decks in a brig, and gazed inquisitively at some ingenious mechanical fishes driven by clockwork, which moved backwards and forwards behind the port-hole window and got entangled in artificial seaweed. At other times, while he was inhaling the smell of tar which had been introduced into the room before he entered it, he would examine a series of colour-prints on the walls, such as you see in packet-boat offices and Lloyd's agencies, representing steamers bound for Valparaiso and the River Plate, alongside framed notices giving the itineraries of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Line and the Lopez and Valéry Companies, as well as the freight charges and ports of call of the transatlantic mail-boats. Then, when he was tired of consulting these timetables, he would rest his eyes by looking at the chronometers and compasses, the sextants and dividers, the binoculars and charts scattered about on a side-table which was dominated by a single book, bound in sea-calf leather: the _Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym_ , specially printed for him on laid paper of pure linen, hand picked and bearing a seagull water-mark. Finally he could take stock of the fishing-rods, the brown-tanned nets, the rolls of russet-coloured sails and the miniature anchor made of cork painted black, all piled higgledy-piggledy beside the door that led to the kitchen by way of a corridor padded, like the passage between dining-room and study, in such a way as to absorb any noises and smells. By these means he was able to enjoy quickly, almost simultaneously, all the sensations of a long sea-voyage, without ever leaving home; the pleasure of moving from place to place, a pleasure which in fact exists only in recollection of the past and hardly ever in experience of the present, this pleasure he could savour in full and in comfort, without fatigue or worry, in this cabin whose deliberate disorder, impermanent appearance and makeshift appointments corresponded fairly closely to the flying visits he paid it and the limited time he gave his meals, while it offered a complete contrast to his study, a permanent, orderly, well-established room, admirably equipped to maintain and uphold a stay-at-home existence. Travel, indeed, struck him as being a waste of time, since he believed that the imagination could provide a more-than-adequate substitute for the vulgar reality of actual experience. In his opinion it was perfectly possible to fulfil those desires commonly supposed to be the most difficult to satisfy under normal conditions, and this by the trifling subterfuge of producing a fair imitation of the object of those desires. Thus it is well known that nowadays, in restaurants famed for the excellence of their cellars, the gourmets go into raptures over rare vintages manufactured out of cheap wines treated according to Monsieur Pasteur's method. Now, whether they are genuine or faked, these wines have the same aroma, the same colour, the same bouquet; and consequently the pleasure experienced in tasting these factitious, sophisticated beverages is absolutely identical with that which would be afforded by the pure, unadulterated wine, now unobtainable at any price. There can be no doubt that by transferring this ingenious trickery, this clever simulation to the intellectual plane, one can enjoy, just as easily as on the material plane, imaginary pleasures similar in all respects to the pleasures of reality; no doubt, for instance, that anyone can go on long voyages of exploration sitting by the fire, helping out his sluggish or refractory mind, if the need arises, by dipping into some book describing travels in distant lands; no doubt, either, that without stirring out of Paris it is possible to obtain the health-giving impression of sea-bathing – for all that this involves is a visit to the Bain Vigier, an establishment to be found on a pontoon moored in the middle of the Seine. There, by salting your bath-water and adding sulphate of soda with hydrochlorate of magnesium and lime in the proportions recommended by the Pharmacopoeia; by opening a box with a tight-fitting screw-top and taking out a ball of twine or a twist of rope, bought for the occasion from one of those enormous roperies whose warehouses and cellars reek with the smell of the sea and sea-ports; by breathing in the odours which the twine or the twist of rope is sure to have retained; by consulting a life-like photograph of the casino and zealously reading the _Guide Joanne_ describing the beauties of the seaside resort where you would like to be; by letting yourself be lulled by the waves created in your bath by the backwash of the paddle-steamers passing close to the pontoon; by listening to the moaning of the wind as it blows under the arches of the Pont Royal and the dull rumble of the buses crossing the bridge just a few feet over your head; by employing these simple devices, you can produce an illusion of sea-bathing which will be undeniable, convincing and complete. The main thing is to know how to set about it, to be able to concentrate your attention on a single detail, to forget yourself sufficiently to bring about the desired hallucination and so substitute the vision of a reality for the reality itself. As a matter of fact, artifice was considered by Des Esseintes to be the distinctive mark of human genius. Nature, he used to say, has had her day; she has finally and utterly exhausted the patience of sensitive observers by the revolting uniformity of her landscapes and skyscapes. After all, what platitudinous limitations she imposes, like a tradesman specializing in a single line of business; what petty-minded restrictions, like a shopkeeper stocking one article to the exclusion of all others; what a monotonous store of meadows and trees, what a commonplace display of mountains and seas! In fact, there is not a single one of her inventions, deemed so subtle and sublime, that human ingenuity cannot manufacture; no moonlit Forest of Fontainebleau that cannot be reproduced by stage scenery under floodlighting; no cascade that cannot be imitated to perfection by hydraulic engineering; no rock that papier-mâché cannot counterfeit; no flower that carefully chosen taffeta and delicately coloured paper cannot match! There can be no shadow of doubt that with her never-ending platitudes the old crone has by now exhausted the good-humoured admiration of all true artists, and the time has surely come for artifice to take her place whenever possible. After all, to take what among all her works is considered to be the most exquisite, what among all her creations is deemed to possess the most perfect and original beauty – to wit, woman – has not man for his part, by his own efforts, produced an animate yet artificial creature that is every bit as good from the point of view of plastic beauty? Does there exist, anywhere on this earth, a being conceived in the joys of fornication and born in the throes of motherhood who is more dazzlingly, more outstandingly beautiful than the two locomotives recently put into service on the Northern Railway? One of these, bearing the name of Crampton, is an adorable blonde with a shrill voice, a long slender body imprisoned in a shiny brass corset, and supple catlike movements; a smart golden blonde whose extraordinary grace can be quite terrifying when she stiffens her muscles of steel, sends the sweat pouring down her steaming flanks, sets her elegant wheels spinning in their wide circles and hurtles away, full of life, at the head of an express or a boat-train. The other, Engerth by name, is a strapping saturnine brunette given to uttering raucous, guttural cries, with a thick-set figure encased in armour-plating of cast iron; a monstrous creature with her dishevelled mane of black smoke and her six wheels coupled together low down, she gives an indication of her fantastic strength when, with an effort that shakes the very earth, she slowly and deliberately drags along her heavy train of goods-wagons. It is beyond question that, among all the fair, delicate beauties and all the dark, majestic charmers of the human race, no such superb examples of comely grace and terrifying force are to be found; and it can be stated without fear of contradiction that in his chosen province man has done as well as the God in whom he believes. These thoughts occurred to Des Esseintes whenever the breeze carried to his ears the faint whistle of the toy trains that shuttle backwards and forwards between Paris and Sceaux. His house was only about a twenty minutes' walk from the station at Fontenay, but the height at which it stood and its isolated position insulated it from the hullabaloo of the vile hordes that are inevitably attracted on Sundays to the purlieus of a railway station. As for the village itself, he had scarcely seen it. Only once, looking out of his window one night, had he examined the silent landscape stretching down to the foot of a hill which is surmounted by the batteries of the Bois de Verrières. In the darkness, on both right and left, rows of dim shapes could be seen lining the hillsides, dominated by other far-off batteries and fortifications whose high retaining-walls looked in the moonlight like silver-painted brows over dark eyes. The plain, lying partly in the shadow of the hills, appeared to have shrunk in size; and in the middle it seemed as if it were sprinkled with face-powder and smeared with coldcream. In the warm breeze that fanned the colourless grass and scented the air with cheap spicy perfumes, the moon-bleached trees rustled their pale foliage and with their trunks drew a shadow-pattern of black stripes on the white-washed earth, littered with pebbles that glinted like fragments of broken crockery. On account of its artificial, made-up appearance, Des Esseintes found this landscape not unattractive; but since that first afternoon he had spent house-hunting in the village of Fontenay, he had never once set foot in its streets by day. The greenery of this part of the country had no appeal whatever for him, lacking as it did even that languid, melancholy charm possessed by the pitiful, sickly vegetation clinging pathetically to life on the suburban rubbish-heaps near the ramparts. And then, on that same day, in the village itself, he had caught sight of bewhiskered bourgeois with protuberant paunches and mustachioed individuals in fancy dress, whom he took to be magistrates and army officers, carrying their heads as proudly as a priest would carry a monstrance; and after that experience his detestation of the human face had grown even fiercer than before. During the last months of his residence in Paris, at a time when, sapped by disillusionment, depressed by hypochondria and weighed down by spleen, he had been reduced to such a state of nervous sensitivity that the sight of a disagreeable person or thing was deeply impressed upon his mind and it took several days even to begin removing the imprint, the human face as glimpsed in the street had been one of the keenest torments he had been forced to endure. It was a fact that he suffered actual pain at the sight of certain physiognomies, that he almost regarded the benign or crabbed expressions on some faces as personal insults, and that he felt sorely tempted to box the ears of, say, one worthy he saw strolling along with his eyes shut in donnish affectation, another who smiled at his reflection as he minced past the shop-windows and yet another who appeared to be pondering a thousand-and-one weighty thoughts as he knit his brows over the rambling articles and sketchy news-items in his paper. He could detect such inveterate stupidity, such hatred of his own ideas, such contempt for literature and art and everything he held dear, implanted and rooted in these mean mercenary minds, exclusively preoccupied with thoughts of swindling and money-grubbing and accessible only to that ignoble distraction of mediocre intellects, politics, that he would go home in a fury and shut himself up with his books. Last but not least, he hated with all the hatred that was in him the rising generation, the appalling boors who find it necessary to talk and laugh at the top of their voices in restaurants and cafés, who jostle you in the street without a word of apology and who, without expressing or even indicating regret, drive the wheels of a baby-carriage into your legs. ## CHAPTER 3 One section of the bookshelves lining the walls of Des Esseintes's blue and orange study was filled with nothing but Latin works – works which minds drilled into conformity by repetitious university lectures lump together under the generic name of 'the Decadence'. The truth was that the Latin language, as it was written during the period which the academics still persist in calling the Golden Age, held scarcely any attraction for him. That restricted idiom with its limited stock of almost invariable constructions; without suppleness of syntax, without colour, without even light and shade; pressed flat along all its seams and stripped of the crude but often picturesque expressions of earlier epochs – that idiom could, at a pinch, enunciate the pompous platitudes and vague commonplaces endlessly repeated by the rhetoricians and poets of the time, but it was so tedious and unoriginal that in the study of linguistics you had to come down to the French style current in the age of Louis XIV to find another idiom so wilfully debilitated, so solemnly tiresome and dull. Among other authors, the gentle Virgil, he whom the school-mastering fraternity call the Swan of Mantua, presumably because that was not his native city, impressed him as being one of the most appalling pedants and one of the most deadly bores that Antiquity ever produced; his well-washed, beribboned shepherds taking it in turns to empty over each other's heads jugs of icy-cold sententious verse, his Orpheus whom he compares to a weeping nightingale, his Aristaeus who blubbers about bees and his Aeneas, that irresolute, garrulous individual who strides up and down like a puppet in a shadow-theatre, making wooden gestures behind the ill-fitting, badly oiled screen of the poem, combined to irritate Des Esseintes. He might possibly have tolerated the dreary nonsense these marionettes spout into the wings; he might even have excused the impudent plagiarizing of Homer, Theocritus, Ennius and Lucretius, as well as the outright theft Macrobius has revealed to us of the whole of the Second Book of the _Aeneid_ , copied almost word for word from a poem of Pisander's; he might in fact have put up with all the indescribable fatuity of this rag-bag of vapid verses; but what utterly exasperated him was the shoddy workmanship of the tinny hexameters, with their statutory allotment of words weighed and measured according to the unalterable laws of a dry, pedantic prosody; it was the structure of the stiff and starchy lines in their formal attire and their abject subservience to the rule of grammar; it was the way in which each and every line was mechanically bisected by the inevitable caesura and finished off with the invariable shock of dactyl striking spondee. Borrowed as it was from the system perfected by Catullus, that unchanging prosody, unimaginative, inexorable, stuffed full of useless words and phrases, dotted with pegs that fitted only too foreseeably into corresponding holes, that pitiful device of the Homeric epithet, used time and again without ever indicating or describing anything, and that poverty-stricken vocabulary with its dull, dreary colours, all caused him unspeakable torment. It is only fair to add that, if his admiration for Virgil was anything but excessive and his enthusiasm for Ovid's limpid effusions exceptionally discreet, the disgust he felt for the elephantine Horace's vulgar twaddle, for the stupid patter he keeps up as he simpers at his audience like a painted old clown, was absolutely limitless. In prose, he was no more enamoured of the long-winded style, the redundant metaphors and the rambling digressions of old Chick-Pea, the bombast of his apostrophes, the wordiness of his patriotic perorations, the pomposity of his harangues, the heaviness of his style, well fed and well covered, but weak-boned and running to fat, the intolerable insignificance of his long introductory adverbs, the monotonous uniformity of his adipose periods clumsily tied together with conjunctions, and finally his wearisome predilection for tautology, all signally failed to endear him to Des Esseintes. Nor was Caesar, with his reputation for laconism, any more to his taste than Cicero; for he went to the other extreme, and offended by his pop-gun pithiness, his jotting-pad brevity, his unforgivable, unbelievable constipation. The fact of the matter was that he could find mental pabulum neither among these writers nor among those who for some reason are the delight of dilettante scholars: Sallust who is at least no more insipid than the rest, Livy who is pompous and sentimental, Seneca who is turgid and colourless, Suetonius who is larval and lymphatic and Tacitus, who with his studied concision is the most virile, the most biting, the most sinewy of them all. In poetry, Juvenal, despite a few vigorous lines, and Persius, for all his mysterious innuendoes, both left him cold. Leaving aside Tibullus and Propertius, Quintilian and the two Plinys, Statius, Martial of Bilbilis, Terence even and Plautus, whose jargon with its plentiful neologisms, compounds, and diminutives attracted him, but whose low wit and salty humour repelled him, Des Esseintes only began to take an interest in the Latin language when he came to Lucan, in whose hands it took on new breadth, and became brighter and more expressive. The fine craftsmanship of Lucan's enamelled and jewelled verse won his admiration; but the poet's exclusive preoccupation with form, bell-like stridency and metallic brilliance did not entirely hide from his eyes the bombastic blisters disfiguring the _Pharsalia_ , or the poverty of its intellectual content. The author he really loved, and who made him abandon Lucan's resounding tirades for good, was Petronius. Petronius was a shrewd observer, a delicate analyst, a marvellous painter; dispassionately, with an entire lack of prejudice or animosity, he described the everyday life of Rome, recording the manners and morals of his time in the lively little chapters of the _Satyricon_. Noting what he saw as he saw it, he set forth the day-to-day existence of the common people, with all its minor events, its bestial incidents, its obscene antics. Here we have the Inspector of Lodgings coming to ask for the names of any travellers who have recently arrived; there, a brothel where men circle round naked women standing beside placards giving their price, while through half-open doors couples can be seen disporting themselves in the bedrooms. Elsewhere, in villas full of insolent luxury where wealth and ostentation run riot, as also in the mean inns described throughout the book, with their unmade trestle beds swarming with fleas, the society of the day has its fling – depraved ruffians like Ascyltus and Eumolpus, out for what they can get; unnatural old men with their gowns tucked up and their cheeks plastered with white lead and acacia rouge; catamites of sixteen, plump and curly-headed; women having hysterics; legacy-hunters offering their boys and girls to gratify the lusts of rich testators, all these and more scurry across the pages of the _Satyricon_ , squabbling in the streets, fingering one another in the baths, beating one another up like characters in a pantomime. All this is told with extraordinary vigour and precise colouring, in a style that makes free of every dialect, that borrows expressions from all the languages imported into Rome, that extends the frontiers and breaks the fetters of the so-called Golden Age, that makes every man talk in his own idiom – uneducated freedmen in vulgar Latin, the language of the streets; foreigners in their barbaric lingo, shot with words and phrases from African, Syrian and Greek; and stupid pedants, like the Agamemnon of the book, in a rhetorical jargon of invented words. There are lightning sketches of all these people, sprawled round a table, exchanging the vapid pleasantries of drunken revellers, trotting out mawkish maxims and stupid saws, their heads turned towards Trimalchio, who sits picking his teeth, offers the company chamber-pots, discourses on the state of his bowels, farts to prove his point and begs his guests to make themselves at home. This realistic novel, this slice cut from Roman life in the raw, with no thought, whatever people may say, of reforming or satirizing society, and no need to fake a conclusion or point a moral; this story with no plot or action in it, simply relating the erotic adventures of certain sons of Sodom, analysing with smooth finesse the joys and sorrows of these loving couples, depicting in a splendidly wrought style, without affording a single glimpse of the author, without any comment whatever, without a word of approval or condemnation of his characters' thoughts and actions, the vices of a decrepit civilization, a crumbling Empire – this story fascinated Des Esseintes; and in its subtle style, acute observation and solid construction he could see a curious similarity, a strange analogy with the few modern French novels he could stomach. Naturally enough he bitterly regretted the loss of the _Eustion_ and the _Albutia_ , those two works by Petronius mentioned by Planciades Fulgentius which have vanished for ever; but the bibliophile in him consoled the scholar, as he reverently handled the superb copy he possessed of the _Satyricon_ , in the octavo edition of 1585 printed by J. Dousa at Leyden. After Petronius, his collection of Latin authors came to the second century of the Christian era, skipped tub-thumping Fronto with his old-fashioned expressions, clumsily restored and unsuccessfully renovated, passed over the _Noctes Atticae_ of his friend and disciple Aulus Gellius, a sagacious and inquisitive mind, but a writer bogged down in a glutinous style, and stopped only for Apuleius, whose works he had in the editio princeps, in folio, printed at Rome in 1469. This African author gave him enormous pleasure. The Latin language reached the top of the tide in his _Metamorphoses_ , sweeping along in a dense flood fed by tributary waters from every province, and combining them all in a bizarre, exotic, almost incredible torrent of words; new mannerisms and new details of Latin society found expression in neologisms called into being to meet conversational requirements in an obscure corner of Roman Africa. What was more, Des Esseintes was amused by Apuleius' exuberance and joviality – the exuberance of a southerner and the joviality of a man who was beyond all question fat. He had the air of a lecherous boon companion compared with the Christian apologists living in the same century – the soporific Minucius Felix for instance, a pseudo-classic in whose _Octavius_ Cicero's oily phrases have grown thicker and heavier, and even Tertullian, whom he kept more perhaps for the sake of the Aldine edition of his works than for the works themselves. Although he was perfectly at home with theological problems, the Montanist wrangles with the Catholic Church and the polemics against Gnosticism left him cold; so, despite the interest of Tertullian's style, a compact style full of amphibologies, built on participles, shaken by antitheses, strewn with puns and speckled with words borrowed from the language of jurisprudence or the Fathers of the Greek Church, he now scarcely ever opened the _Apologeticus_ or the _De Patientia_ ; at the very most he sometimes read a page or two of the _De Cultu Feminarum_ where Tertullian exhorts women not to adorn their persons with jewels and precious stuffs, and forbids them to use cosmetics because these attempt to correct and improve on Nature. These ideas, diametrically opposed to his own, brought a smile to his lips, and he recalled the part played by Tertullian as Bishop of Carthage, a role which he considered pregnant with pleasant day-dreams. It was, in fact, the man more than his works that attracted him. Living in times of appalling storm and stress, under Caracalla, under Macrinus, under the astonishing high-priest of Emesa, Elagabalus, he had gone on calmly writing his sermons, his dogmatic treatises, his apologies and homilies, while the Roman Empire tottered, and while the follies of Asia and the vices of paganism swept all before them. With perfect composure he had gone on preaching carnal abstinence, frugality of diet, sobriety of dress, at the same time as Elagabalus was treading in silver dust and sand of gold, his head crowned with a tiara and his clothes studded with jewels, working at women's tasks in the midst of his eunuchs, calling himself Empress and bedding every night with a new Emperor, picked for choice from among his barbers, scullions and charioteers. This contrast delighted Des Esseintes. He knew that this was the point at which the Latin language, which had attained supreme maturity in Petronius, began to break up; the literature of Christianity was asserting itself, matching its novel ideas with new words, unfamiliar constructions, unknown verbs, adjectives of super-subtle meaning and finally abstract nouns, which had hitherto been rare in the Roman tongue and which Tertullian had been one of the first to use. However, this deliquescence, which was carried on after Tertullian's death by his pupil St Cyprian, by Arnobius, by the obscure Lactantius, was an unattractive process. It was a slow and partial decay, retarded by awkward attempts to return to the emphasis of Cicero's periods; as yet it had not acquired that special gamey flavour which in the fourth century – and even more in the following centuries – the odour of Christianity was to give to the pagan tongue as it decomposed like venison, dropping to pieces at the same time as the civilization of the Ancient World, falling apart while the Empires succumbed to the barbarian onslaught and the accumulated pus of ages. The art of the third century was represented in his library by a single Christian poet, Commodian of Gaza. His _Carmen Apologeticum_ , written in the year 259, is a collection of moral maxims twisted into acrostics, composed in rude hexameters, divided by a caesura after the fashion of heroic verse, written without any respect for quantity or hiatus and often provided with the sort of rhymes of which church Latin could later offer numerous examples. This strained, sombre verse, this mild, uncivilized poetry, full of everyday expressions and words robbed of their original meaning, appealed to him; it interested him even more than the already over-ripe, delightfully decadent style of the historians Ammianus Marcellinus and Aurelius Victor, the letter-writer Symmachus and the compilator and grammarian Macrobius, and he even preferred it to the properly scanned verse and the superbly variegated language of Claudian, Rutilius and Ausonius. These last were in their day the masters of their art; they filled the dying Empire with their cries – the Christian Ausonius with his _Cento Nuptialis_ and his long, elaborate poem on the Moselle; Rutilius with his hymns to the glory of Rome, his anathemas against the Jews and the monks and his account of a journey across the Alps into Gaul, in which he sometimes manages to convey certain visual impressions, the landscapes hazily reflected in water, the mirage effect of the vapours, the mists swirling round the mountain tops. As for Claudian, he appears as a sort of avatar of Lucan, dominating the entire fourth century with the tremendous trumpeting of his verse; a poet hammering out a brilliant, sonorous hexameter on his anvil, beating out each epithet with a single blow amid showers of sparks, attaining a certain grandeur, filling his work with a powerful breath of life. With the Western Empire crumbling to its ruin all about him, amid the horror of the repeated massacres occurring on every side, and under the threat of invasion by the barbarians now pressing in their hordes against the creaking gates of the Empire, he calls Antiquity back to life, sings of the Rape of Proserpine, daubs his canvas with glowing colours and goes by with all his lights blazing through the darkness closing in upon the world. Paganism lives again in him, sounding its last proud fanfare, lifting its last great poet high above the floodwaters of Christianity which are henceforth going to submerge the language completely and hold absolute and eternal sway over literature – with Paulinus, the pupil of Ausonius; with the Spanish priest Juvencus, who paraphrases the Gospels in verse; with Victorinus, author of the _Machabaei_ ; with Sanctus Burdigalensis, who in an eclogue imitated from Virgil makes the herdsmen Egon and Buculus bewail the maladies afflicting their flocks. Then there are the saints, a whole series of saints – Hilary of Poitiers, who championed the faith of Nicaea and was called the Athanasius of the West; Ambrosius, the author of indigestible homilies, the tiresome Christian Cicero; Damasus, the manufacturer of lapidary epigrams; Jerome, the translator of the Vulgate; and his adversary Vigilantius of Comminges, who attacks the cult of the saints, the abuse of miracles, the practice of fasting, and already preaches against monastic vows and the celibacy of the priesthood, using arguments that will be repeated down the ages. Finally, in the fifth century, there comes Augustine, Bishop of Hippo. Him Des Esseintes knew only too well, for he was the most revered of all ecclesiastical writers, the founder of Christian orthodoxy, the man whom pious Catholics regard as an oracle, a sovereign authority. The natural consequence was that he never opened his books any more, even though he had proclaimed his loathing for this world in his _Confessions_ , and, in his _De Civitate Dei_ , to the accompaniment of pious groans, had tried to assuage the appalling distress of his time with sedative promises of better things to come in the afterlife. Even in his younger days, when he was studying theology, Des Esseintes had become sick and tired of Augustine's sermons and jeremiads, his theories on grace and predestination, his fights against the schismatic sects. He was much happier dipping into the _Psychomachia_ of Prudentius, the inventor of the allegorical poem, a genre destined to enjoy uninterrupted favour in the Middle Ages, or the works of Sidonius Apollinaris, whose correspondence, sprinkled with quips and sallies, archaisms and enigmas, captivated him. He always enjoyed rereading the panegyrics in which the good Bishop invokes the pagan deities in support of his pompous praises; and in spite of himself, he had to admit to a weakness for the conceits and innuendoes in these poems, turned out by an ingenious mechanic who takes good care of his machine, keeps its component parts well oiled and if need be can invent new parts which are both intricate and useless. After Sidonius, he kept up his acquaintance with the panegyrist Merobaudes; with Sedulius, the author of rhymed poems and alphabetical hymns of which the Church has appropriated certain parts for use in her offices; with Marius Victor, whose gloomy treatise _De Perversis Moribus_ is lit up here and there by lines that shine like phosphorus; with Paulinus of Pella, who composed that icy poem the _Eucharisticon_ ; and with Orientius, Bishop of Auch, who in the distichs of his _Monitoria_ inveighs against the licentiousness of women, whose faces, he declares, bring down disaster upon the peoples of the world. Des Esseintes lost nothing of his interest in the Latin language now that it was rotten through and through and hung like a decaying carcase, losing its limbs, oozing pus, barely keeping, in the general corruption of its body, a few sound parts, which the Christians removed in order to preserve them in the pickling brine of their new idiom. The second half of the fifth century had arrived, the awful period when appalling shocks convulsed the world. The barbarians were ravaging Gaul while Rome, sacked by the Visigoths, felt the chill of death invade her paralysed body and saw her extremities, the East and the West, thrashing about in pools of blood and growing weaker day by day. Amid the universal dissolution, amid the assassinations of Caesars occurring in rapid succession, amid the uproar and carnage covering Europe from end to end, a terrifying hurrah was suddenly heard which stilled every other noise, silenced every other voice. On the banks of the Danube, thousands of men wrapped in ratskin cloaks and mounted on little horses, hideous Tartars with enormous heads, flat noses, hairless, jaundiced faces and chins furrowed with gashes and scars, rode hell-for-leather into the territories of the Lower Empire, sweeping all before them in their whirlwind advance. Civilization disappeared in the dust of their horses' hooves, in the smoke of the fires they kindled. Darkness fell upon the world and the peoples trembled in consternation as they listened to the dreadful tornado pass by with a sound like thunder. The horde of Huns swept over Europe, threw itself on Gaul and was only halted on the plains of Châlons, where Aetius smashed it in a fearful encounter. The earth, gorged with blood, looked like a sea of crimson froth; two hundred thousand corpses barred the way and broke the impetus of the invading avalanche which, turned from its path, fell like a thunderbolt on Italy, whose ruined cities burned like blazing hay-ricks. The Western Empire crumbled under the shock; the doomed life it had been dragging out in imbecility and corruption was extinguished. It even looked as if the end of the universe were also at hand, for the cities Attila had overlooked were decimated by famine and plague. And the Latin language, like everything else, seemed to vanish from sight beneath the ruins of the old world. Years went by, and eventually the barbarian idioms began to acquire a definite shape, to emerge from their rude gangues, to grow into true languages. Meanwhile Latin, saved by the monasteries from death in the universal debacle, was confined to the cloister and the presbytery. Even so, a few poets appeared here and there to keep the flame burning, albeit slowly and dully – the African Dracontius with his _Hexameron_ , Claudius Mamert with his liturgical poems and Avitus of Vienne. Then there were biographers such as Ennodius, who recounts the miracles of St Epiphanius, that shrewd and revered diplomatist, that upright and vigilant pastor, or Eugippius, who has recorded for us the incomparable life of St Severinus, that mysterious anchorite and humble ascetic who appeared like an angel of mercy to the peoples of his time, frantic with fear and suffering; writers such as Veranius of the Gévaudan, who composed a little treatise on the subject of continence, or Aurelian and Ferreolus, who compiled ecclesiastical canons; and finally historians such as Rotherius of Agde, famed for a history of the Huns which is now lost. There were far fewer works from the following centuries in Des Esseintes's library. Still, the sixth century was represented by Fortunatus, Bishop of Poitiers, whose hymns and _Vexilla Regis_ , carved out of the ancient carcase of the Latin language and spiced with the aromatics of the Church, haunted his thoughts on certain days; also by Boethius, Gregory of Tours and Jornandes. As for the seventh and eighth centuries, apart from the Low Latin of such chroniclers as Fredegarius and Paul the Deacon, or of the poems contained in the Bangor Antiphonary, one of which – an alphabetical, monorhymed hymn in honour of St Comgall – he sometimes glanced at, literary output was restricted almost exclusively to Lives of the Saints, notably the legend of St Columban by the cenobite Jonas and that of Blessed Cuthbert compiled by the Venerable Bede from the notes of an anonymous monk of Lindisfarne. The result was that he confined himself to dipping at odd moments into the works of these hagiographers and rereading passages from the Lives of St Rusticula and St Radegonde, the former related by Defensorius, a Ligugé synodist, the latter by the naive and modest Baudonivia, a Poitiers nun. However, he found certain remarkable Latin works of Anglo-Saxon origin more to his taste: to wit, the whole series of enigmas by Aldhelm, Tatwin and Eusebius, those literary descendants of Symphosius, and above all the enigmas composed by St Boniface in acrostics where the answer was provided by the initial letters of each stanza. His predilection for Latin literature grew feebler as he neared the end of these two centuries, and he could summon up little enthusiasm for the turgid prose of the Carolingian Latinists, the Alcuins and the Eginhards. As specimens of the language of the ninth century, he contented himself with the chronicles by Freculf, Reginon and the anonymous writer of Saint-Gall; with the poem on the Siege of Paris contrived by Abbo le Courbé; and with the _Hortulus_ , the didactic poem by the Benedictine Walafrid Strabo, whose canto devoted to the glorification of the pumpkin as a symbol of fecundity tickled his sense of humour. Another work he appreciated was the poem by Ermold le Noir celebrating the exploits of Louis le Débonnaire, a poem written in regular hexameters, in an austere, even sombre style, an iron idiom chilled in monastic waters but with flaws in the hard metal where feeling showed through; and another, a poem by Macer Floridus, _De Viribus Herbarum_ , which he particularly enjoyed for its poetic recipes and the remarkable virtues it attributed to certain plants and flowers – to the aristolochia, for instance, which mixed with beef and laid on a pregnant woman's abdomen invariably results in the birth of a male child, or borage, which served as a cordial makes the gloomiest guest merry, or the peony, whose powdered root is a lasting cure for epilepsy, or fennel, which applied to a woman's bosom clears her urine and stimulates her sluggish periods. Except for a few special books which had not been classified; certain undated or modern texts; some cabbalistic, medical or botanical works; sundry odd volumes of Migne's patrology, containing Christian poems to be found nowhere else, and of Wernsdorff's anthology of the minor Latin poets; except for Meursius, Forberg's manual of classical erotology, the moechialogy and the diaconals intended for the use of father-confessors, which he took down and dusted off at long intervals, his collection of Latin works stopped at the beginning of the tenth century. By that time, after all, the peculiar originality and elaborate simplicity of Christian Latinity had likewise come to an end. Henceforth the gibble-gabble of the philosophers and the scholiasts, the logomachy of the Middle Ages, would reign supreme. The sooty heaps of chronicles and history books, the leaden masses of cartularies, would steadily pile up, while the stammering grace, the often exquisite clumsiness of the monks, stirring the poetical left-overs of Antiquity into a pious stew, were already things of the past; the workshop turning out verbs of refined sweetness, substantives smelling of incense, and strange adjectives crudely fashioned out of gold in the delightfully barbaric style of Gothic jewellery, had already closed down. The old editions so beloved of Des Esseintes tailed away to nothing – and making a prodigious jump of several centuries, he stacked the rest of his shelves with modern books which, without regard to the intermediate ages, brought him right down to the French language of the present day. ## CHAPTER 4 A carriage drew up late one afternoon outside the house at Fontenay. As Des Esseintes never had any visitors and the postman did not so much as approach this uninhabited region, since there were no newspapers, reviews or letters to be delivered, the servants hesitated, wondering whether they should answer the door or not. But when the bell was sent jangling violently against the wall, they ventured so far as to uncover the spy-hole let into the door, and beheld a gentleman whose entire breast was covered, from neck to waist, by a huge buckler of gold. They informed their master, who was at breakfast. 'Yes indeed,' he said; 'show the gentleman in' – for he remembered having once given his address to a lapidary so that the man might deliver an article he had ordered. The gentleman bowed his way in, and on the pitch-pine floor of the dining-room he deposited his golden buckler, which rocked backwards and forwards, rising a little from the ground and stretching out at the end of a snake-like neck a tortoise's head which, in a sudden panic, it drew back under its carapace. This tortoise was the result of a fancy which had occurred to him shortly before leaving Paris. Looking one day at an Oriental carpet aglow with iridescent colours, and following with his eyes the silvery glints running across the weft of the wool, which was a combination of yellow and plum, he had thought what a good idea it would be to place on this carpet something that would move about and be dark enough to set off these gleaming tints. Possessed by this idea, he had wandered at random through the streets as far as the Palais-Royal, where he glanced at Chevet's display and suddenly struck his forehead – for there in the window was a huge tortoise in a tank. He had bought the creature; and once it had been left to itself on the carpet, he had sat down and subjected it to a long scrutiny, screwing up his eyes in concentration. Alas, there could be no doubt about it: the negro-brown tint, the raw Sienna hue of the shell, dimmed the sheen of the carpet instead of bringing out its colours; the predominating gleams of silver had now lost nearly all their sparkle and matched the cold tones of scraped zinc along the edges of this hard, lustreless carapace. He bit his nails, trying to discover a way of resolving the marital discord between these tints and preventing an absolute divorce. At last he came to the conclusion that his original idea of using a dark object moving to and fro to stir up the fires within the woollen pile was mistaken. The fact of the matter was that the carpet was still too bright, too garish, too new-looking; its colours had not yet been sufficiently toned down and subdued. The thing was to reverse his first plan and to deaden those colours, to dim them by the contrast of a brilliant object that would kill everything around it, drowning the gleams of silver in a golden radiance. Stated in these terms, the problem was easier to solve; and Des Esseintes accordingly decided to have his tortoise's buckler glazed with gold. Back from the workshop where the gilder had given it board and lodging, the reptile blazed as brightly as any sun, throwing out its rays over the carpet, whose tints turned pale and weak, and looking like a Visigothic shield tegulated with shining scales by a barbaric artist. At first, Des Esseintes was delighted with the effect he had achieved; but soon it struck him that this gigantic jewel was only half-finished and that it would not be really complete until it had been encrusted with precious stones. From a collection of Japanese art he selected a drawing representing a huge bunch of flowers springing from a single slender stalk, took it to a jeweller's, sketched out a border to enclose this bouquet in an oval frame and informed the astonished lapidary that the leaves and petals of each and every flower were to be executed in precious stones and mounted on the actual shell of the tortoise. Choosing the stones gave him pause. The diamond, he told himself, has become terribly vulgar now that every businessman wears one on his little finger; Oriental emeralds and rubies are not so degraded and they dart bright tongues of fire, but they are too reminiscent of the green and red eyes of certain Paris buses fitted with headlamps in the selfsame colours; as for topazes, whether pink or yellow, they are cheap stones, dear to people of the small shopkeeper class who long to have a few jewel-cases to lock up in their mirror wardrobes. Similarly, although the Church has helped the amethyst to retain something of a sacerdotal character, at once unctuous and solemn, this stone too has been debased by use in the red ears and on the tubulous fingers of butchers' wives whose ambition it is to deck themselves out at little cost with genuine, heavy jewels. Alone among these stones, the sapphire has kept its fires inviolate, unsullied by contact with commercial and financial stupidity. The glittering sparks playing over its cold, limpid water have as it were protected its discreet and haughty nobility against any defilement. But unfortunately in artificial light its bright flames lose their brilliance; the blue water sinks low and seems to go to sleep, to wake and sparkle again only at daybreak. It was clear that none of these stones satisfied Des Esseintes's requirements; besides, they were all too civilized, too familiar. Instead he turned his attention to more startling and unusual gems; and after letting them trickle through his fingers, he finally made a selection of real and artificial stones which in combination would result in a fascinating and disconcerting harmony. He made up his bouquet in this way: the leaves were set with gems of a strong and definite green – asparagus-green chrysoberyls, leek-green peridots, olive-green olivines – and these sprang from twigs of almandine and uvarovite of a purplish red, which threw out flashes of harsh, brilliant light like the scales of tartar that glitter on the insides of wine-casks. For the flowers which stood out from the stem a long way from the foot of the spray, he decided on a phosphate blue; but he absolutely refused to consider the Oriental turquoise which is used for brooches and rings, and which, together with the banal pearl and the odious coral, forms the delight of the common herd. He chose only turquoises from the West – stones which, strictly speaking, are simply a fossil ivory impregnated with coppery substances and whose celadon blue looks thick, opaque and sulphurous, as if jaundiced with bile. This done, he could now go on to encrust the petals of such flowers as were in full bloom in the middle of his spray, those closest to the stem, with translucent minerals that gleamed with a glassy, sickly light and glinted with fierce, sharp bursts of fire. For this purpose he used only Ceylon cat's-eyes, cymophanes and sapphirines – three stones which all sparkled with mysterious, deceptive flashes, painfully drawn from the icy depths of their turbid water: the cat's-eye of a greenish grey streaked with concentric veins which seem to shift and change position according to the way the light falls; the cymophane with blue waterings rippling across the floating, milky-coloured centre; the sapphirine which kindles bluish, phosphorescent fires against a dull, chocolate-brown background. The lapidary took careful notes as it was explained to him exactly where each stone was to be let in. 'What about the edging of the shell?' he then asked Des Esseintes. The latter had originally thought of a border of opals and hydrophanes. But these stones, interesting though they may be on account of their varying colour and vacillating fire, are too unstable and unreliable to be given serious consideration; the opal, in fact, has a positively rheumatic sensitivity, the play of its rays changing in accordance with changes in moisture or temperature, while the hydrophane will burn only in water and refuses to light up its grey fires unless it is wetted. He finally decided on a series of stones with contrasting colours – the mahogany-red hyacinth of Compostella followed by the sea-green aquamarine, the vinegar-pink balas ruby by the pale slate-coloured Sudermania ruby. Their feeble lustre would be sufficient to set off the dark shell but not enough to detract from the bunch of jewelled flowers which they were to frame in a slender garland of subdued brilliance. Now Des Esseintes sat gazing at the tortoise where it lay huddled in a corner of the dining-room, glittering brightly in the half-light. He felt perfectly happy, his eyes feasting on the splendour of these jewelled corollas, ablaze with colour against a golden background. Suddenly he had a craving for food, unusual for him, and soon he was dipping slices of toast spread with superlative butter in a cup of tea, an impeccable blend of Si-a-Fayoun, Mo-you-Tann and Khansky – yellow teas brought from China into Russia by special caravans. He drank this liquid perfume from cups of that Oriental porcelain known as egg-shell china, it is so delicate and diaphanous; and just as he would never use any but these adorably dainty cups, so he insisted on plates and dishes of genuine silver-gilt, slightly worn so that the silver showed a little where the thin film of gold had been rubbed off, giving it a charming old-world look, a fatigued appearance, a moribund air. After swallowing his last mouthful he went back to his study, instructing his man-servant to bring along the tortoise, which was still obstinately refusing to budge. Outside the snow was falling. In the lamplight icy leaf-patterns could be seen glittering on the blue-black windows, and hoar-frost sparkled like melted sugar in the hollows of the bottle-glass panes, all spattered with gold. The little house, lying snug and sleepy in the darkness, was wrapped in a deep silence. Des Esseintes sat dreaming of one thing and another. The burning logs piled high in the fire-basket filled the room with hot air, and eventually he got up and opened the window a little way. Like a great canopy of counter-ermine, the sky hung before him, a black curtain spattered with white. Suddenly an icy wind blew up which drove the dancing snowflakes before it and reversed this arrangement of colours. The sky's heraldic trappings were turned round to reveal a true ermine, white dotted with black where pinpricks of darkness showed through the curtain of falling snow. He shut the window again. This quick change, straight from the torrid heat of the room to the biting cold of mid-winter had taken his breath away; and curling up beside the fire again, it occurred to him that a drop of spirits would be the best thing to warm him up. He made his way to the dining-room, where there was a cupboard built into one of the walls containing a row of little barrels, resting side-by-side on tiny sandalwood stands and each broached at the bottom with a silver spigot. This collection of liqueur casks he called his mouth organ. A rod could be connected to all the spigots, enabling them to be turned by one and the same movement, so that once the apparatus was in position it was only necessary to press a button concealed in the wainscoting to open all the conduits simultaneously and so fill with liqueur the minute cups underneath the taps. The organ was then open. The stops labelled 'flute', 'horn' and 'vox angelica' were pulled out, ready for use. Des Esseintes would drink a drop here, another there, playing internal symphonies to himself, and providing his palate with sensations analogous to those which music dispenses to the ear. Indeed, each and every liqueur, in his opinion, corresponded in taste with the sound of a particular instrument. Dry curaçao, for instance, was like the clarinet with its piercing, velvety note; kümmel like the oboe with its sonorous, nasal timbre; crème de men the and anisette like the flute, at once sweet and tart, soft and shrill. Then to complete the orchestra there was kirsch, blowing a wild trumpet blast; gin and whisky raising the roof of the mouth with the blareof their cornets and trombones; marc-brandy matching the tubas with its deafening din; while peals of thunder came from the cymbal and the bass drum, which arak and mastic were banging and beating with all their might. He considered that this analogy could be pushed still further and that string quartets might play under the palatal arch, with the violin represented by an old brandy, choice and heady, biting and delicate; with the viola simulated by rum, which was stronger, heavier and quieter; with vespetro as poignant, drawn-out, sad and tender as a violoncello; and with the double-bass a fine old bitter, full-bodied, solid and dark. One might even form a quintet, if this were thought desirable, by adding a fifth instrument, the harp, imitated to near perfection by the vibrant savour, the clear, sharp, silvery note of dry cumin. The similarity did not end there, for the music of liqueurs had its own scheme of interrelated tones; thus, to quote only one example, Benedictine represents, so to speak, the minor key corresponding to the major key of those alcohols which wine-merchants' scores indicate by the name of green Chartreuse. Once these principles had been established, and thanks to a series of erudite experiments, he had been able to perform upon his tongue silent melodies and mute funeral marches; to hear inside his mouth crème-de-menthe solos and rum-and-vespetro duets. He even succeeded in transferring specific pieces of music to his palate, following the composer step by step, rendering his intentions, his effects, his shades of expression, by mixing or contrasting related liqueurs, by subtle approximations and cunning combinations. At other times he would compose melodies of his own, executing pastorals with the sweet blackcurrant liqueur that filled his throat with the warbling song of a nightingale; or with the delicious cacaochouva that hummed sugary bergerets like the _Romances of Estelle_ and the ' _Ah! vous dirai-je, maman_ ' of olden days. But tonight Des Esseintes had no wish to listen to the taste of music; he confined himself to removing one note from the keyboard of his organ, carrying off a tiny cup which he had filled with genuine Irish whiskey. He settled down in his armchair again and slowly sipped this fermented spirit of oats and barley, a pungent odour of creosote spreading through his mouth. Little by little, as he drank, his thoughts followed the renewed reactions of his palate, caught up with the savour of the whiskey, and were reminded by a striking similarity of smell of memories which had lain dormant for years. The acrid, carbolic bouquet forcibly recalled the identical scent of which he had been all too conscious whenever a dentist had been at work on his gums. Once started on this track, his recollections, ranging at first over all the different practitioners he had known, finally gathered together and converged on one of these men whose distinctive method had been graven with particular force upon his memory. This had happened three years ago: afflicted in the middle of the night with an abominable toothache, he had plugged his cheek with cotton-wool and paced up and down his room like a madman, blundering into the furniture in his pain. It was a molar that had already been filled and was now past cure; the only possible remedy lay in the dentist's forceps. In a fever of agony he waited for daylight, resolved to bear the most atrocious operation if only it would put an end to his sufferings. Nursing his jawbone, he asked himself exactly what he should do when morning came. The dentists he usually consulted were well-to-do businessmen who could not be seen at short notice; appointments had to be made in advance and times agreed. 'That's out of the question,' he told himself. 'I can't wait any longer.' He made up his mind to go and see the first dentist he could find, to resort to a common, lower-class tooth-doctor, one of those iron-fisted fellows who, ignorant though they may be of the useless art of treating decay and filling cavities, know how to extirpate the most stubborn of stumps with unparalleled speed. Their doors are always open at daybreak, and their customers are never kept waiting. Seven o'clock struck at last. He rushed out of doors, and remembering the name of a mechanic who called himself a dentist and lived in a corner house by the river, he hurried in that direction, biting on a handkerchief and choking back his tears. Soon he arrived at the house, which was distinguished by an enormous wooden placard bearing the name 'Gatonax' spread out in huge yellow letters on a black ground, and by two little glass-fronted cases displaying neat rows of false teeth set in pink wax gums joined together with brass springs. He stood there panting for breath, with sweat pouring down his forehead; a horrid fear gripped him, a cold shiver ran over his body – and then came sudden relief, the pain vanished, the tooth stopped aching. After staying for a while in the street, wondering what to do, he finally mastered his fears and climbed the dark staircase, taking four steps at a time as far as the third floor. There he came up against a door with an enamel plaque repeating the name he had seen on the placard outside. He rang the bell; then, terrified by the sight of great splashes of blood and spittle on the steps, he suddenly turned tail, resolved to go on suffering from toothache for the rest of his life, when a piercing scream came from behind the partition, filling the well of the staircase and nailing him to the spot with sheer horror. At that very moment a door opened and an old woman asked him to come in. Shame overcame fear, and he let her show him into what appeared to be a dining-room. Another door banged open, admitting a great, strapping fellow dressed in a frock-coat and trousers that seemed carved in wood. Des Esseintes followed him into an inner sanctum. His recollections of what happened after that were somewhat confused. He vaguely remembered dropping into an armchair facing a window, putting a finger on the offending tooth and stammering out: 'It has been filled before. I'm afraid there's nothing can be done this time.' The man promptly put a stop to this explanation by inserting an enormous forefinger into his mouth; then, muttering to himself behind his curly waxed mustaches, he picked up an instrument from a table. At this point the drama really began. Clutching the arms of the chair, Des Esseintes felt the cold touch of metal inside his cheek, then saw a whole galaxy of stars and in unspeakable agony started stamping his feet and squealing like a stuck pig. There was a loud crack as the molar broke on its way out. By now it seemed as if his head were being pulled off and his skull smashed in; he lost all control of himself and screamed at the top of his voice, fighting desperately against the man, who bore down on him again as if he wanted to plunge his arm into the depths of his belly. Suddenly the fellow took a step backwards, lifted his patient bodily by the refractory tooth and let him fall back into the chair, while he stood there blocking the window, puffing and blowing as he brandished at the end of his forceps a blue tooth tipped with red. Utterly exhausted, Des Esseintes had spat out a basinful of blood, waved away the old woman who came in to offer him his tooth, which she was prepared to wrap up in a piece of newspaper, and after paying two francs had fled, adding his contribution to the bloody spittle on the stairs. But out in the street he had recovered his spirits, feeling ten years younger and taking an interest in the most insignificant things. 'Ugh!' he said to himself, shuddering over these gruesome recollections. He got to his feet to break the horrid fascination of his nightmare vision, and coming back to present-day preoccupations he felt suddenly uneasy about the tortoise. It was still lying absolutely motionless. He touched it; it was dead. Accustomed no doubt to a sedentary life, a modest existence spent in the shelter of its humble carapace, it had not been able to bear the dazzling luxury imposed upon it, the glittering cape in which it had been clad, the precious stones which had been used to decorate its shell like a jewelled ciborium. ## CHAPTER 5 Together with the desire to escape from a hateful period of sordid degradation, the longing to see no more pictures of the human form toiling in Paris between four walls or roaming the streets in search of money had taken an increasing hold on him. Once he had cut himself off from contemporary life, he had resolved to allow nothing to enter his hermitage which might breed repugnance or regret; and so he had set his heart on finding a few pictures of subtle, exquisite refinement, steeped in an atmosphere of ancient fantasy, wrapped in an aura of antique corruption, divorced from modern times and modern society. For the delectation of his mind and the delight of his eyes, he had decided to seek out evocative works which would transport him to some unfamiliar world, point the way to new possibilities, and shake up his nervous system by means of erudite fancies, complicated nightmares, suave and sinister visions. Among all the artists he considered, there was one who sent him into raptures of delight, and that was Gustave Moreau. He had bought Moreau's two masterpieces, and night after night he would stand dreaming in front of one of them, the picture of Salome. This painting showed a throne like the high altar of a cathedral standing beneath a vaulted ceiling – a ceiling crossed by countless arches springing from thick-set, almost Romanesque columns, encased in polychromic brickwork, encrusted with mosaics, set with lapis lazuli and sardonyx – in a palace which resembled a basilica built in both the Moslem and the Byzantine styles. In the centre of the tabernacle set on the altar, which was approached by a flight of recessed steps in the shape of a semicircle, the Tetrarch Herod was seated, with a tiara on his head, his legs close together and his hands on his knees. His face was yellow and parchment-like, furrowed with wrinkles, lined with years; his long beard floated like a white cloud over the jewelled stars that studded the gold-laced robe moulding his breast. Round about this immobile, statuesque figure, frozen like some Hindu god in a hieratic pose, incense was burning, sending up clouds of vapour through which the fiery gems set in the sides of the throne gleamed like the phosphorescent eyes of wild animals. The clouds rose higher and higher, swirling under the arches of the roof, where the blue smoke mingled with the gold dust of the great beams of sunlight slanting down from the domes. Amid the heady odour of these perfumes, in the overheated atmosphere of the basilica, Salome slowly glides forward on the points of her toes, her left arm stretched out in a commanding gesture, her right bent back and holding a great lotus-blossom beside her face, while a woman squatting on the floor strums the strings of a guitar. With a withdrawn, solemn, almost august expression on her face, she begins the lascivious dance which is to rouse the aged Herod's dormant senses; her breasts rise and fall, the nipples hardening at the touch of her whirling necklaces; the strings of diamonds glitter against her moist flesh; her bracelets, her belts, her rings all spit out fiery sparks; and across her triumphal robe, sewn with pearls, patterned with silver, spangled with gold, the jewelled cuirass, of which every chain is a precious stone, seems to be ablaze with little snakes of fire, swarming over the mat flesh, over the tea-rose skin, like gorgeous insects with dazzling shards, mottled with carmine, spotted with pale yellow, speckled with steel blue, striped with peacock green. Her eyes fixed in the concentrated gaze of a sleepwalker, she sees neither the Tetrarch, who sits there quivering, nor her mother, the ferocious Herodias, who watches her every movement, nor the hermaphrodite or eunuch who stands sabre in hand at the foot of the throne, a terrifying creature, veiled as far as the eyes and with its sexless dugs hanging like gourds under its orange-striped tunic. The character of Salome, a figure with a haunting fascination for artists and poets, had been an obsession with him for years. Time and again he had opened the old Bible of Pierre Variquet, translated by the Doctors of Theology of the University of Louvain, and read the Gospel of St Matthew which recounts in brief, naive phrases the beheading of the Precursor; time and again he had mused over these lines: 'But when Herod's birthday was kept, the daughter of Herodias danced before them, and pleased Herod. 'Whereupon, he promised with an oath to give her whatsoever she would ask. 'And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, ''Give me here John Baptist's head in a charger.'' 'And here the king was sorry: nevertheless, for the oath's sake, and them which sat with him at meat, he commanded it to be given her. 'And he sent, and beheaded John in the prison. 'And his head was brought in a charger, and given to the damsel: and she brought it to her mother.' But neither St Matthew, nor St Mark, nor St Luke, nor any of the other sacred writers had enlarged on the maddening charm and potent depravity of the dancer. She had always remained a dim and distant figure, lost in a mysterious ecstasy far off in the mists of time, beyond the reach of punctilious, pedestrian minds, and accessible only to brains shaken and sharpened and rendered almost clairvoyant by neurosis; she had always repelled the artistic advances of fleshly painters, such as Reubens who travestied her as a Flemish butcher's wife; she had always passed the comprehension of the writing fraternity, who never succeeded in rendering the disquieting delirium of the dancer, the subtle grandeur of the murderess. In Gustave Moreau's work, which in conception went far beyond the data supplied by the New Testament, Des Esseintes saw realized at long last the weird and superhuman Salome of his dreams. Here she was no longer just the dancing-girl who extorts a cry of lust and lechery from an old man by the lascivious movements of her loins; who saps the morale and breaks the will of a king with the heaving of her breasts, the twitching of her belly, the quivering of her thighs. She had become, as it were, the symbolic incarnation of undying Lust, the Goddess of immortal Hysteria, the accursed Beauty exalted above all other beauties by the catalepsy that hardens her flesh and steels her muscles, the monstrous Beast, indifferent, irresponsible, insensible, poisoning, like the Helen of ancient myth, everything that approaches her, everything that sees her, everything that she touches. Viewed in this light, she belonged to the theogonies of the Far East; she no longer had her origin in biblical tradition; she could not even be likened to the living image of Babylon, the royal harlot of Revelations, bedecked like herself with precious stones and purple robes, with paint and perfume, for the whore of Babylon was not thrust by a fateful power, by an irresistible force, into the alluring iniquities of debauch. Moreover, the painter seemed to have wished to assert his intention of remaining outside the bounds of time, of giving no precise indication of race or country or period, setting as he did his Salome inside this extraordinary palace with its grandiose, heterogeneous architecture, clothing her in sumptuous, fanciful robes, crowning her with a nondescript diadem like Salammbô's, in the shape of a Phoenician tower, and finally putting in her hand the sceptre of Isis, the sacred flower of both Egypt and India, the great lotus-blossom. Des Esseintes puzzled his brains to find the meaning of this emblem. Had it the phallic significance which the primordial religions of India attributed to it? Did it suggest to the old Tetrarch a sacrifice of virginity, an exchange of blood, an impure embrace asked for and offered on the express condition of a murder? Or did it represent the allegory of fertility, the Hindu myth of life, an existence held between the fingers of woman and clumsily snatched away by the fumbling hands of man, who is maddened by desire, crazed by a fever of the flesh? Perhaps, too, in arming his enigmatic goddess with the revered lotus-blossom, the painter had been thinking of the dancer, the mortal woman, the soiled vessel, ultimate cause of every sin and every crime; perhaps he had remembered the sepulchral rites of ancient Egypt, the solemn ceremonies of embalmment, when practitioners and priests lay out the dead woman's body on a slab of jasper, then with curved needles extract her brains through the nostrils, her entrails through an opening made in the left side, and finally, before gilding her nails and her teeth, before anointing the corpse with oils and spices, insert into her sexual parts, to purify them, the chaste petals of the divine flower. Be that as it may, there was some irresistible fascination exerted by this painting; but the water-colour entitled _The Apparition_ created perhaps an even more disturbing impression. In this picture, Herod's palace rose up like some Alhambra on slender columns iridescent with Moresque tiles, which appeared to be bedded in silver mortar and gold cement; arabesques started from lozenges of lapis lazuli to wind their way right across the cupolas, whose mother-of-pearl marquetry gleamed with rainbow lights and flashed with prismatic fires. The murder had been done; now the executioner stood impassive, his hands resting on the pommel of his long, bloodstained sword. The Saint's decapitated head had left the charger where it lay on the flagstones and risen into the air, the eyes staring out from the livid face, the colourless lips parted, the crimson neck dripping tears of blood. A mosaic encircled the face, and also a halo of light whose rays darted out under the porticoes, emphasized the awful elevation of the head, and kindled a fire in the glassy eyeballs, which were fixed in what happened to be agonized concentration on the dancer. With a gesture of horror, Salome tries to thrust away the terrifying vision which holds her nailed to the spot, balanced on the tips of her toes, her eyes dilated, her right hand clawing convulsively at her throat. She is almost naked; in the heat of the dance her veils have fallen away and her brocade robes slipped to the floor, so that now she is clad only in wrought metals and translucent gems. A gorgerin grips her waist like a corselet, and like an outsize clasp a wondrous jewel sparkles and flashes in the cleft between her breasts; lower down, a girdle encircles her hips, hiding the upper part of her thighs, against which dangles a gigantic pendant glistening with rubies and emeralds; finally, where the body shows bare between gorgerin and girdle, the belly bulges out, dimpled by a navel which resembles a graven seal of onyx with its milky hues and its rosy finger-nail tints. Under the brilliant rays emanating from the Precursor's head, every facet of every jewel catches fire; the stones burn brightly, outlining the woman's figure in flaming colours, indicating neck, legs and arms with points of light, red as burning coals, violet as jets of gas, blue as flaming alcohol, white as moonbeams. The dreadful head glows eerily, bleeding all the while, so that clots of dark red form at the ends of hair and beard. Visible to Salome alone, it embraces in its sinister gaze neither Herodias, musing over the ultimate satisfaction of her hatred, nor the Tetrarch, who, bending forward a little with his hands on his knees, is still panting with emotion, maddened by the sight and smell of the woman's naked body, steeped in musky scents, anointed with aromatic balms, impregnated with incense and myrrh. Like the old King, Des Esseintes invariably felt overwhelmed, subjugated, stunned when he looked at this dancing-girl, who was less majestic, less haughty, but more seductive than the Salome of the oil-painting. In the unfeeling and unpitying statue, in the innocent and deadly idol, the lusts and fears of common humanity had been awakened; the great lotus-blossom had disappeared, the goddess vanished; a hideous nightmare now held in its choking grip an entertainer, intoxicated by the whirling movement of the dance, a courtesan, petrified and hypnotized by terror. Here she was a true harlot, obedient to her passionate and cruel female temperament; here she came to life, more refined yet more savage, more hateful yet more exquisite than before; here she roused the sleeping senses of the male more powerfully, subjugated his will more surely with her charms – the charms of a great venereal flower, grown in a bed of sacrilege, reared in a hot-house of impiety. It was Des Esseintes's opinion that never before, in any period, had the art of water-colour produced such brilliant hues; never before had an aquarellist's wretched chemical pigments been able to make paper sparkle so brightly with precious stones, shine so colourfully with sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, glitter so splendidly with sumptuous garments, glow so warmly with exquisite fleshtints. Deep in contemplation, he would try to puzzle out the antecedents of this great artist, this mystical pagan, this illuminee who could shut out the modern world so completely as to behold, in the heart of present-day Paris, the awful visions and magical apotheoses of other ages. Des Esseintes found it hard to say who had served as his models; here and there, he could detect vague recollections of Mantegna and Jacopo de Barbari; here and there, confused memories of Da Vinci and feverish colouring reminiscent of Delacroix. But on the whole the influence of these masters on his work was imperceptible, the truth being that Gustave Moreau was nobody's pupil. With no real ancestors and no possible descendants, he remained a unique figure in contemporary art. Going back to the beginning of racial tradition, to the sources of mythologies whose bloody enigmas he compared and unravelled; joining and fusing in one those legends which had originated in the Middle East only to be metamorphosed by the beliefs of other peoples, he could cite these researches to justify his architectonic mixtures, his sumptuous and unexpected combinations of dress materials and his hieratic allegories whose sinister quality was heightened by the morbid perspicuity of an entirely modern sensibility. He himself remained downcast and sorrowful, haunted by the symbols of superhuman passions and superhuman perversities, of divine debauches perpetrated without enthusiasm and without hope. His sad and scholarly works breathed a strange magic, an incantatory charm which stirred you to the depths of your being like the sorcery of certain of Baudelaire's poems, so that you were left amazed and pensive, disconcerted by this art which crossed the frontiers of painting to borrow from the writer's art its most subtly evocative suggestions, from the enameller's art its most wonderfully brilliant effects, from the lapidary's and etcher's art its most exquisitely delicate touches. These two pictures of Salome, for which Des Esseintes' admiration knew no bounds, lived constantly before his eyes, hung as they were on the walls of his study, on panels reserved for them between the bookcases. But these were by no means the only pictures he had bought in order to adorn his retreat. True, none were needed for the first and only upper storey of his house, since he had given it over to his servants and did not use any of its rooms; but the ground floor by itself demanded a good many to cover its bare walls. This ground floor was divided as follows: a dressing-room, communicating with the bedroom, occupied one corner of the building; from the bedroom you went into the library, and from the library into the dining-room, which occupied another corner. These rooms, making up one side of the house, were set in a straight line, with their windows overlooking the valley of Aunay. The other side of the building consisted of four rooms corresponding exactly to the first four in their lay-out. Thus the corner kitchen matched the dining-room, a big entrance-hall the library, a sort of boudoir the bedroom and the closets the dressing-room. All these latter rooms looked out on the opposite side to the valley of Aunay, towards the Tour du Croy and Châtillon. As for the staircase, it was built against one end of the house, on the outside, so that the noise the servants made as they pounded up and down the steps was deadened and barely reached Des Esseintes' ears. He had had the boudoir walls covered with bright red tapestry and all round the room he had hung ebony-framed prints by Jan Luyken, an old Dutch engraver who was almost unknown in France. He possessed a whole series of studies by this artist in lugubrious fantasy and ferocious cruelty: his _Religious Persecutions_ , a collection of appalling plates displaying all the tortures which religious fanaticism has invented, revealing all the agonizing varieties of human suffering – bodies roasted over braziers, heads scalped with swords, trepanned with nails, lacerated with saws, bowels taken out of the belly and wound on to bobbins, finger-nails slowly removed with pincers, eyes put out, eyelids pinned back, limbs dislocated and carefully broken, bones laid bare and scraped for hours with knives. These pictures, full of abominable fancies, reeking of burnt flesh, dripping with blood, echoing with screams and curses, made Des Esseintes's flesh creep whenever he went into the red boudoir, and he remained rooted to the spot, choking with horror. But over and above the shudders they provoked, over and above the frightening genius of the man and the extraordinary life he put into his figures, there were to be found in his astonishing crowd-scenes, in the hosts of people he sketched with a dexterity reminiscent of Callot but with a vigour that amusing scribbler never attained, remarkable reconstructions of other places and periods: buildings, costumes and manners in the days of the Maccabees, in Rome during the persecutions of the Christians, in Spain under the Inquisition, in France during the Middle Ages and at the time of the St Bartholomew massacres and the Dragonnades, were all observed with meticulous care and depicted with wonderful skill. These prints were mines of interesting information and could be studied for hours on end without a moment's boredom; extremely thought-provoking as well, they often helped Des Esseintes to kill time on days when he did not feel in the mood for reading. The story of Luyken's life also attracted him and incidentally explained the hallucinatory character of his work. A fervent Calvinist, a fanatical sectary, a zealot for hymns and prayers, he composed and illustrated religious poems, paraphrased the Psalms in verse, and immersed himself in Biblical study, from which he would emerge haggard and enraptured, his mind haunted by bloody visions, his mouth twisted by the maledictions of the Reformation, by its songs of terror and anger. What is more, he despised the world, and this led him to give all he possessed to the poor, living on a crust of bread himself. In the end he had put to sea with an old maid-servant who was fanatically devoted to him, landing wherever his boat came ashore, preaching the Gospel to all and sundry, trying to live without eating – a man with little or nothing to distinguish him from a lunatic or a savage. In the larger adjoining room, the vestibule, which was panelled in cedar-wood the colour of a cigar-box, other prints, other weird drawings hung in rows along the walls. One of these was Bresdin's _Comedy of Death_. This depicts an improbable landscape which bristles with trees, coppices and thickets in the shape of demons or phantoms and full of birds with rats' heads and vegetable tails. From the ground, which is littered with vertebrae, ribs and skulls, there spring gnarled and shaky willow-trees, in which skeletons are perched, waving bouquets and chanting songs of victory, while a Christ flies away into a mackerel sky; a hermit meditates, with his head in his hands, at the back of a grotto; and a beggar dies of privation and hunger, stretched out on his back, his feet pointing to a stagnant pool. Another was _The Good Samaritan_ by the same artist, a lithograph of a huge pen-and-ink drawing. Here the scene is a fantastic tangle of palms, service-trees and oaks, growing all together in defiance of season and climate; a patch of virgin forest packed with monkeys, owls and screech-owls, and cumbered with old tree-stumps as unshapely as mandrake roots; a magic wood with a clearing in the centre affording a distant glimpse, first of the Samaritan and the wounded man, then of a river and finally of a fairytale city climbing up to the horizon to meet a strange sky dotted with birds, flecked with foaming billows, swelling, as it were, with cloudy waves. It looked rather like the work of a primitive or an Albert Dürer of sorts, composed under the influence of opium; but much as Des Esseintes admired the delicacy of detail and the impressive power of this plate, he paused more often in front of the other pictures that decorated the room. These were all signed Odilon Redon. In their narrow gold-rimmed frames of unpainted pear-wood, they contained the most fantastic of visions: a Merovingian head balanced on a cup; a bearded man with something of the bonze about him and something of the typical speaker at public meetings, touching a colossal cannon-ball with one finger; a horrible spider with a human face lodged in the middle of its body. There were other drawings which plunged even deeper into the horrific realms of bad dreams and fevered visions. Here there was an enormous dice blinking a mournful eye; there, studies of bleak and arid landscapes, of burnt-up plains, of earth heaving and erupting into fiery clouds, into livid and stagnant skies. Sometimes Redon's subjects actually seemed to be borrowed from the nightmares of science, to go back to prehistoric times: a monstrous flora spread over the rocks, and among the ubiquitous boulders and glacier mud-streams wandered bipeds whose apish features – the heavy jaws, the protruding brows, the receding forehead, the flattened top of the skull – recalled the head of our ancestors early in the Quaternary Period, when man was still fructivorous and speechless, a contemporary of the mammoth, the woolly rhinoceros and the cave-bear. These drawings defied classification, most of them exceeding the bounds of pictorial art and creating a new type of fantasy, born of sickness and delirium. In fact, there were some of these faces, dominated by great wild eyes, and some of these bodies, magnified beyond measure or distorted as if seen through a carafe of water, that evoked in Des Esseintes's mind recollections of typhoid fever, memories which had somehow stayed with him of the feverish nights and frightful nightmares of his childhood. Overcome by an indefinable malaise at the sight of these drawings – the same sort of malaise he experienced when he looked at certain rather similar _Proverbs_ by Goya, or read some of Edgar Allan Poe's stories, whose terrifying or hallucinating effects Odilon Redon seemed to have transposed into a different art – he would rub his eyes and turn to gaze at a radiant figure which, in the midst of all these frenzied pictures, stood out calm and serene: the figure of Melancholy, seated on some rocks before a disk-like sun, in a mournful and despondent attitude. His gloom would then be dissipated, as if by magic; a sweet sadness, an almost languorous sorrow would gently take possession of his thoughts, and he would meditate for hours in front of this work, which, with its splashes of gouache amid the heavy pencil-lines, introduced a refreshing note of liquid green and pale gold into the unbroken black of all these charcoal drawings and etchings. Besides this collection of Redon's works, covering nearly every panel in the vestibule, he had hung in his bedroom an extravagant sketch by Theotocopuli, a study of Christ in which the drawing was exaggerated, the colouring crude and bizarre, the general effect one of frenzied energy, an example of the painter's second manner, when he was obsessed by the idea of avoiding any further resemblance to Titian. This sinister picture, with its boot-polish blacks and cadaverous greens, fitted in with certain ideas Des Esseintes held on the subject of bedroom furniture and decoration. There were, in his opinion, only two ways of arranging a bedroom: you could either make it a place for sensual pleasure, for nocturnal delectation, or else you could fit it out as a place for sleep and solitude, a setting for quiet meditation, a sort of oratory. In the first case, the Louis-Quinze style was the obvious choice for people of delicate sensibility, exhausted by mental stimulation above all else. The eighteenth century is, in fact, the only age which has known how to develop woman in a wholly depraved atmosphere, shaping its furniture on the model of her charms, imitating her passionate contortions and spasmodic convulsions in the curves and convolutions of wood and copper, spicing the sugary languor of the blonde with its bright, light furnishings, and mitigating the salty savour of the brunette with tapestries of delicate, watery, almost insipid hues. In his Paris house he had had a bedroom decorated in just this style, and furnished with the great white lacquered bed which provides that added titillation, that final touch of depravity so precious to the experienced voluptuary, excited by the spurious chastity and hypocritical modesty of the Greuze figures, by the pretended purity of a bed of vice apparently designed for innocent children and young virgins. In the other case – and now that he meant to break with the irritating memories of his past life, this was the only one for him – the bedroom had to be turned into a facsimile of a monastery cell. But here difficulties piled up before him, for as far as he was concerned, he categorically refused to put up with the austere ugliness that characterizes all penitential prayer-houses. After turning the question over in his mind, he eventually came to the conclusion that what he should try to do was this: to employ cheerful means to attain a drab end, or rather, to impress on the room as a whole, treated in this way, a certain elegance and distinction, while yet preserving its essential ugliness. He decided, in fact, to reverse the optical illusion of the stage, where cheap finery plays the part of rich and costly fabrics; to achieve precisely the opposite effect, by using magnificent materials to give the impression of old rags; in short, to fit up a Trappist's cell that would look like the genuine article, but would of course be nothing of the sort. He set about it in the following way: to imitate the yellow distemper beloved by church and state alike, he had the walls hung with saffron silk; and to represent the chocolate-brown dado normally found in this sort of room, he covered the lower part of the walls with strips of kingwood, a dark-brown wood with a purple sheen. The effect was delightful, recalling – though not too clearly – the unattractive crudity of the model he was copying and adapting. The ceiling was similarly covered with white holland, which had the appearance of plaster without its bright, shiny look; as for the cold tiles of the floor, he managed to hit them off quite well, thanks to a carpet patterned in red squares, with the wood dyed white in places where sandals and boots could be supposed to have left their mark. He furnished this room with a little iron bedstead, a mock hermit's bed, made of old wrought iron, but highly polished and set off at head and foot with an intricate design of tulips and vine-branches intertwined, a design taken from the balustrade of the great staircase of an old mansion. By way of a bedside table, he installed an antique priedieu, the inside of which could hold a chamber-pot while the top supported a euchologion; against the opposite wall he set a churchwardens' pew, with a great openwork canopy and misericords carved in the solid wood; and to provide illumination, he had some altar candlesticks fitted with real wax tapers which he bought from a firm specializing in ecclesiastical requirements, for he professed a genuine antipathy to all modern forms of lighting, whether paraffin, shale-oil, stearin candles or gas, finding them all too crude and garish for his liking. Before falling asleep in the morning, as he lay in bed with his head on the pillow, he would gaze at his Theotocopuli, whose harsh colouring did something to dampen the gaiety of the yellow silk hangings and put them in a graver mood; and at these times he found it easy to imagine that he was living hundreds of miles from Paris, far removed from the world of men, in the depths of some secluded monastery. After all, it was easy enough to sustain this particular illusion, in that the life he was leading was very similar to the life of a monk. He thus enjoyed all the benefits of cloistered confinement while avoiding the disadvantages – the army-style discipline, the lack of comfort, the dirt, the promiscuity, the monotonous idleness. Just as he had made his cell into a warm, luxurious bedroom, so he had ensured that his everyday existence should be pleasant and comfortable, sufficiently occupied and in no way restricted. Like an eremite, he was ripe for solitude, exhausted by life and expecting nothing more of it; like a monk again, he was overwhelmed by an immense weariness, by a longing for peace and quiet, by a desire to have no further contact with the heathen, who in his eyes comprised all utilitarians and fools. In short, although he had no vocation for the state of grace, he was conscious of a genuine fellow-feeling for those who were shut up in religious houses, persecuted by a vindictive society that cannot forgive either the proper contempt they feel for it or their averred intention of redeeming and expiating by years of silence the ever-increasing licentiousness of its silly, senseless conversations. ## CHAPTER 6 Buried deep in a vast wing-chair, his feet resting on the pear-shaped, silver-gilt supports of the andirons, his slippers toasting in front of the crackling logs that shot out bright tongues of flame as if they felt the furious blast of a bellows, Des Esseintes put the old quarto he had been reading down on a table, stretched himself, lit a cigarette and gave himself up to a delicious reverie. His mind was soon going full tilt in a pursuit of certain recollections which had lain low for months, but which had suddenly been started by a name recurring, for no apparent reason, to his memory. Once again he could see, with surprising clearness, his friend D'Aigurande's embarrassment when he had been forced to confess to a gathering of confirmed bachelors that he had just completed the final arrangements for his wedding. There was a general outcry, and his friends tried to dissuade him with a frightening description of the horrors of sharing a bed. But it was all in vain: he had taken leave of his senses, believed that his future wife was a woman of intelligence and maintained that he had discovered in her quite exceptional qualities of tenderness and devotion. Des Esseintes had been the only one among all these young men to encourage him in his resolve, and this he did as soon as he learnt that his friend's fiancée wanted to live on the corner of a newly constructed boulevard, in one of those modern flats built on a circular plan. Persuaded of the merciless power of petty vexations, which can have a more baneful effect on sanguine souls than the great tragedies of life, and taking account of the fact that D'Aigurande had no private means, while his wife's dowry was practically non-existent, he saw in this innocent whim an endless source of ridiculous misfortunes. As he had foreseen, D'Aigurande proceeded to buy rounded pieces of furniture – console-tables sawn away at the back to form a semi-circle, curtain-poles curved like bows, carpets cut on a crescent pattern – until he had furnished the whole flat with things made to order. He spent twice as much as anybody else; and then, when his wife, finding herself short of money for new dresses, got tired of living in this rotunda, and took herself off to a flat with ordinary square rooms at a lower rent, not a single piece of furniture would fit in or stand up properly. Soon the bothersome things were giving rise to endless annoyances; the bond between husband and wife, already worn thin by the inevitable irritations of a shared life, grew more tenuous week by week; and there were angry scenes and mutual recriminations as they came to realize the impossibility of living in a sitting-room where sofas and console-tables would not go against the walls and wobbled at the slightest touch, however many blocks and wedges were used to steady them. There was not enough money to pay for alterations, and even if there had been, these would have been almost impossible to carry out. Everything became a ground for high words and squabbles, from the drawers that had stuck in the rickety furniture to the petty thefts of the maid-servant, who took advantage of the constant quarrels between her master and mistress to raid the cash-box. In short, their life became unbearable; he went out in search of amusement, while she looked to adultery to provide compensation for the drizzly dreariness of her life. Finally, by mutual consent, they cancelled their lease and petitioned for a legal separation. 'My plan of campaign was right in every particular,' Des Esseintes had told himself on hearing the news, with the satisfaction of a strategist whose manoeuvres, worked out long beforehand, have resulted in victory. Now, sitting by his fireside and thinking about the break-up of this couple whose union he had encouraged with his good advice, he threw a fresh armful of wood into the hearth and promptly started dreaming again. More memories, belonging to the same order of ideas, now came crowding in on him. Some years ago, he remembered he had been walking along the Rue de Rivoli one evening, when he had come across a young scamp of sixteen or so, a peaky-faced, sharp-eyed child, as attractive in his way as any girl. He was sucking hard at a cigarette, the paper of which had burst where bits of the coarse tobacco were poking through. Cursing away, the boy was striking kitchen matches on his thigh; not one of them would light and soon he had used them all up. Catching sight of Des Esseintes, who was standing watching him, he came up, touched his cap and politely asked for a light. Des Esseintes offered him some of his own scented Dubèques, got into conversation with the boy and persuaded him to tell the story of his life. Nothing could have been more banal: his name was Auguste Langlois, he worked for a cardboard-manufacturer, he had lost his mother and his father beat him black and blue. Des Esseintes listened thoughtfully. 'Come and have a drink,' he said, and took him to a café where he regaled him with a few glasses of heady punch. These the boy drank without a word. 'Look here,' said Des Esseintes suddenly; 'how would you like a bit of fun tonight? I'll foot the bill, of course.' And he had taken the youngster off to an establishment on the third floor of a house in the Rue Mosnier, where a certain Madame Laure kept an assortment of pretty girls in a series of crimson cubicles furnished with circular mirrors, couches and wash-basins. There a wonderstruck Auguste, twisting his cap in his hands, had stood gaping at a battalion of women whose painted mouths opened all together to exclaim: 'What a duck! Isn't he sweet!' 'But dearie, you're not old enough,' said a big brunette, a girl with prominent eyes and a hook nose who occupied at Madame Laure's the indispensable position of the handsome Jewess. Meanwhile Des Esseintes, who was obviously quite at home in this place, had made himself comfortable and was quietly chatting with the mistress of the house. But he broke off for a moment to speak to the boy. 'Don't be so scared, stupid,' he said. 'Go on, take your pick – remember this is on me.' He gave a gentle push to the lad, who flopped on to a divan between two of the women. At a sign from Madame Laure, they drew a little closer together, covering Auguste's knees with their peignoirs and cuddling up to him so that he breathed in the warm, heady scent of their powdered shoulders. He was sitting quite still now, flushed and dry-mouthed, his downcast eyes darting from under their lashes inquisitive glances that were all directed at the upper part of the girls' thighs. Vanda, the handsome Jewess, suddenly gave him a kiss and a little good advice, telling him to do whatever his parents told him, while all the time her hands were wandering over the boy's body; his expression changed and he lay back in a kind of swoon, with his head on her breast. 'So it's not on your own account that you've come here tonight,' said Madame Laure to Des Esseintes. 'But where the devil did you get hold of that baby?' she added, as Auguste disappeared with the handsome Jewess. 'Why, in the street, my dear.' 'But you're not tight,' muttered the old lady. Then, after a moment's thought, she gave an understanding, motherly smile. 'Ah, now I see! You rascal, so you like'em young, do you?' Des Esseintes shrugged his shoulders. 'No, you're wide of the mark there,' he said; 'very wide of the mark. The truth is that I'm simply trying to make a murderer of the boy. See if you can follow my line of argument. The lad's a virgin and he's reached the age where the blood starts coming to the boil. He could, of course, just run after the little girls of his neighbourhood, stay decent and still have his bit of fun, enjoy his little share of the tedious happiness open to the poor. But by bringing him here, by plunging him into luxury such as he's never known and will never forget, and by giving him the same treat every fortnight, I hope to get him into the habit of these pleasures which he can't afford. Assuming that it will take three months for them to become absolutely indispensable to him – and by spacing them out as I do, I avoid the risk of jading his appetite – well, at the end of those three months, I stop the little allowance I'm going to pay you in advance for being nice to the boy. And to get the money to pay for his visits here, he'll turn burglar, he'll do anything if it helps him on to one of your divans in one of your gaslit rooms. 'Looking on the bright side of things, I hope that, one fine day, he'll kill the gentleman who turns up unexpectedly just as he's breaking open his desk. On that day my object will be achieved: I shall have contributed, to the best of my ability, to the making of a scoundrel, one enemy the more for the hideous society which is bleeding us white.' The woman gazed at him with open-eyed amazement. 'Ah, there you are!' he exclaimed, as he caught sight of Auguste sneaking back into the room, all red and sheepish, and hiding behind his Jewess. 'Come on, my boy, it's getting late. Say good night to the ladies.' Going downstairs, he explained to him that once a fortnight he could pay a visit to Madame Laure's without spending a sou. And then as they stood outside on the pavement, he looked the bewildered child in the face and said: 'We shan't see each other again. Hurry off home to your father, whose hand must be itching for work to do, and remember this almost evangelic dictum: Do unto others as you would not have them do unto you.' 'Good night, sir.' 'One other thing. Whatever you do, show a little gratitude for what I've done for you, and let me know as soon as you can how you're getting on – preferably through the columns of the Police Gazette.' Now, sitting by the fire and stirring the glowing embers, he muttered to himself: 'The little Judas! To think that I've never once seen his name in the papers! It's true, of course, that I haven't been able to play a close game, in that I couldn't guard against certain obvious contingencies – the danger of old mother Laure swindling me, pocketing the money and not delivering the goods; the chance of one of the women taking a fancy to Auguste, so that when his three months were up she let him have his fun on the nod; and even the possibility that the handsome Jewess's exotic vices had already scared the boy, who may have been too young and impatient to bear her slow preliminaries or enjoy her savage climaxes. So unless he's been up against the law since I came to Fontenay and stopped reading the papers, I've been diddled.' He got to his feet and took a few turns round the room. 'That would be a pity, all the same,' he went on, 'because all I was doing was parabolizing secular instruction, allegorizing universal education, which is well on the way to turning everybody into a Langlois: instead of permanently and mercifully putting out the eyes of the poor, it does its best to force them wide open, so that they may see all around them lives of less merit and greater comfort, pleasures that are keener and more voluptuous, and therefore sweeter and more desirable. 'And the fact is,' he added, following this line of thought still further, 'the fact is that, pain being one of the consequences of education, in that it grows greater and sharper with the growth of ideas, it follows that the more we try to polish the minds and refine the nervous systems of the under-privileged, the more we shall be developing in their hearts the atrociously active germs of hatred and moral suffering.' The lamps were smoking. He turned them up and looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning. He lit a cigarette and gave himself up again to the perusal, interrupted by his dreaming, of the old Latin poem, _De Laude Castitatis_ , written in the reign of Gondebald by Avitus, Metropolitan Bishop of Vienne. ## CHAPTER 7 Beginning on the night when, for no apparent reason, he had conjured up the melancholy memory of Auguste Langlois, Des Esseintes lived his whole life over again. He found he was now incapable of understanding a single word of the volumes he consulted; his very eyes stopped reading, and it seemed as if his mind, gorged with literature and art, refused to absorb any more. He had to live on himself, to feed on his own substance, like those animals that lie torpid in a hole all winter. Solitude had acted on his brain like a narcotic, first exciting and stimulating him, then inducing a languor haunted by vague reveries, vitiating his plans, nullifying his intentions, leading a whole cavalcade of dreams to which he passively submitted, without even trying to get away. The confused mass of reading and meditation on artistic themes that he had accumulated since he had been on his own like a barrage to hold back the current of old memories, had suddenly been carried away, and the flood was let loose, sweeping away the present and the future, submerging everything under the waters of the past, covering his mind with a great expanse of melancholy, on the surface of which there drifted, like ridiculous bits of flotsam, trivial episodes of his existence, absurdly insignificant incidents. The book he happened to be holding would fall into his lap, and he would give himself up to a fearful and disgusted review of his dead life, the years pivoting round the memory of Auguste and Madame Laure as around a solid fact, a stake planted in the midst of swirling waters. What a time that had been! – a time of elegant parties, of race-meetings and card-games, of love-potions ordered in advance and served punctually on the stroke of midnight in his pink boudoir! Faces, looks, meaningless words came back to him with the haunting persistence of those popular tunes you suddenly find yourself humming and just as suddenly and unconsciously you forget. This phase lasted only a little while and then his memory took a siesta. He took advantage of this respite to immerse himself once more in his Latin studies, in the hope of effacing every sign, every trace of these recollections. But it was too late to call a halt; a second phase followed almost immediately on the first, a phase dominated by memories of his youth, and particularly the years he had spent with the Jesuit Fathers. These memories were of a more distant period, yet they were clearer than the others, engraved more deeply and enduringly in his mind; the thickly wooded park, the long paths, the flower-beds, the benches – all the material details were conjured up before him. Then the gardens filled up, and he heard the shouting of the boys at play, and the laughter of their masters as they joined in, playing tennis with their cassocks hitched up in front, or else chatting with their pupils under the trees without the slightest affectation or pomposity, just as if they were talking to friends of their own age. He recalled that paternal discipline which deprecated any form of punishment, declined to inflict impositions of five hundred or a thousand lines, was content with having unsatisfactory work done over again while the others were at recreation, resorted more often than not to a mere reprimand and kept the child under active but affectionate surveillance, forever trying to please him, agreeing to whatever walks he suggested on Wednesday afternoons, seizing the opportunity afforded by all the minor feast-days of the Church to add cakes and wine to the ordinary bill of fare or to organize a picnic in the country – a discipline which consisted of reasoning with the pupil instead of brutalizing him, already treating him like a grown man yet still coddling him like a spoilt child. In this way the Fathers managed to gain a real hold upon their pupils, to mould to some extent the minds they cultivated, to guide them in certain specific directions, to inculcate particular notions and to ensure the desired development of their ideas by means of an insinuating, ingratiating technique which they continued to apply in after-years, doing their best to keep track of their charges in adult life, backing them up in their careers and writing them affectionate letters such as the Dominican Lacordaire wrote to his former pupils at Sorrèze. Des Esseintes was well aware of the sort of conditioning to which he had been subjected, but he felt sure that in his case it had been without effect. In the first place, his captious and inquisitive character, his refractory and disputatious nature had saved him from being moulded by the good Fathers' discipline or indoctrinated by their lessons. Then, once he had left school, his scepticism had grown more acute; his experience of the narrow-minded intolerance of Legitimist society, and his conversations with unintelligent churchwardens and uncouth priests whose blunders tore away the veil the Jesuits had so cunningly woven, had still further fortified his spirit of independence and increased his distrust of any and every form of religious belief. He considered, in fact, that he had shaken off all his old ties and fetters, and that he differed from the products of _lycées_ and lay boarding-schools in only one respect, namely that he retained pleasant memories of his school and his schoolmasters. And yet, now that he examined his conscience, he began to wonder whether the seed which had fallen on apparently barren ground was not showing signs of germinating. As a matter of fact, for some days he had been in an indescribably peculiar state of mind. For a brief instant he would believe, and turn instinctively to religion; then, after a moment's thought, his longing for faith would vanish, though he remained perplexed and uneasy. Yet he was well aware, on looking into his heart, that he could never feel the humility and contrition of a true Christian; he knew beyond all doubt that the moment of which Lacordaire speaks, that moment of grace 'when the last ray of light enters the soul and draws together to a common centre all the truths that lie scattered therein', would never come for him. He felt nothing of that hunger for mortification and prayer without which, if we are to believe the majority of priests, no conversion is possible; nor did he feel any desire to invoke a God whose mercy struck him as extremely problematical. At the same time the affection he still had for his old masters led him to take an interest in their works and doctrines; and the recollection of those inimitable accents of conviction, the passionate voices of those highly intelligent men, made him doubt the quality and strength of his own intellect. The lonely existence he was leading, with no fresh food for thought, no novel experiences, no replenishment of ideas, no exchange of impressions received from the outside world, from mixing with other people and sharing in their life, this unnatural isolation which he stubbornly maintained, encouraged the re-emergence in the form of irritating problems of all manner of questions he had disregarded when he was living in Paris. Reading the Latin works he loved, works almost all written by bishops and monks, had doubtless done something to bring on this crisis. Steeped in a monastic atmosphere and intoxicated by the fumes of incense, he had become over-excited, and by a natural association of ideas, these books had ended up by driving back the recollections of his life as a young man and bringing out his memories of the years he had spent as a boy with the Jesuit Fathers. 'There's no doubt about it,' Des Esseintes said to himself, after a searching attempt to discover how the Jesuit element had worked its way to the surface at Fontenay; 'ever since boyhood, and without my knowing it, I've had this leaven inside me, ready to ferment; the taste I've always had for religious objects may be proof of this.' However, he tried his hardest to persuade himself of the contrary, annoyed at finding that he was no longer master in his own house. Hunting for more acceptable explanations of his ecclesiastical predilections, he told himself he had been obliged to turn to the Church, in that the Church was the only body to have preserved the art of past centuries, the lost beauty of the ages. She had kept unchanged, even in shoddy modern reproductions, the goldsmiths' traditional forms; preserved the charm of chalices as slender as petunias, of pyxes simply and exquisitely styled; retained, even in aluminium, in fake enamel, in coloured glass, the grace of the patterns of olden days. Indeed, most of the precious objects which were kept in the Cluny Museum, and which by some miracle had escaped the bestial savagery of the sansculottes, came from the old abbeys of France. Just as in the Middle Ages the Church saved philosophy, history and literature from barbarism, so she had safeguarded the plastic arts and brought down to modern times those marvellous examples of costume and jewellery which present-day ecclesiastical furnishers did their best to spoil, though they could never quite succeed in destroying the original qualities of form and style. There was therefore no cause for surprise in the fact that he had hunted eagerly for these antique curios, and that like many another collector he had bought relics of this sort from Paris antiquaries and country dealers. But however much he dwelt on these motives, he could not quite manage to convince himself. It was true that, after careful thought, he still regarded the Christian religion as a superb legend; a magnificent imposture; and yet, in spite of all his excuses and explanations, his scepticism was beginning to crack. Odd as it might seem, the fact remained that he was not as self-confident now as in his youth, when the Jesuits' supervision had been direct and their teaching inescapable, when he had been entirely in their hands, belonging to them body and soul, without any family ties or outside influences to counteract their ascendancy. What is more, they had implanted in him a certain taste for things supernatural which had slowly and imperceptibly taken root in his soul, was now blossoming out in these secluded conditions, and was inevitably having an effect on his silent mind, tied to the treadmill of certain fixed ideas. By dint of examining his thought-processes, of trying to join together the threads of his ideas and trace them back to their sources, he came to the conclusion that his activities in the course of his social life had all originated in the education he had received. Thus his penchant for artificiality and his love of eccentricity could surely be explained as the results of sophistical studies, super-terrestrial subtleties, semi-theological speculations; fundamentally, they were ardent aspirations towards an ideal, towards an unknown universe, towards a distant beatitude, as utterly desirable as that promised by the Scriptures. He pulled himself up short, and broke this chain of reflections. 'Come, now,' he told himself angrily. 'I've got it worse than I thought: here I am arguing with myself like a casuist.' He remained pensive, troubled by a nagging fear. Obviously, if Lacordaire's theory was correct, he had nothing to worry about, seeing that the magic of conversion was not worked at a single stroke; to produce the explosion the ground had to be patiently and thoroughly mined. But if the novelists talked about love at first sight, there were also a number of theologians who spoke of conversion as of something equally sudden and overwhelming. Supposing that they were right, it followed that nobody could be sure he would never succumb. There was no longer any point in practising self-analysis, paying attention to presentiments or taking preventive measures: the psychology of mysticism was non-existent. Things happened because they happened, and that was the end of it. 'Dammit, I'm going crazy,' Des Esseintes said to himself. 'My dread of the disease will bring on the disease itself if I keep this up.' He managed to shake off this fear to some extent, and his memories of boyhood faded away; but other morbid symptoms supervened. Now it was the subjects of theological disputations that haunted him to the exclusion of everything else. The school garden, the lessons, the Jesuits might never have been, his mind was so completely dominated by abstractions; in spite of himself, he began pondering over some of the contradictory interpretations of dogma and the long-forgotten apostasies recorded in Father Labbe's work on the Councils of the Church. Odd scraps of these schisms and heresies, which for centuries had divided the Western and Eastern Churches, came back to mind. Here, for instance, was Nestorius denying Mary's right to the title of Mother of God because, in the mystery of the Incarnation, it was not the God but the man she had carried in her womb; and there was Eutyches maintaining that Christ could not have looked like other men, since the Godhead had elected domicile in his body and had thereby changed his nature utterly and completely. Then there were some other quibblers asserting that the Redeemer had had no body at all and that references to his body in the Holy Books should be understood figuratively; Tertullian could be heard positing his famous quasi-materialistic axiom: 'Anything which lacks a body does not exist; everything which exists has a body of its own'; and finally that hoary old question debated year after year came up again: 'Was Christ alone nailed to the cross, or did the Trinity, one in three persons, suffer in its triple hypostasis on the gibbet of Calvary?' All these problems teased and tormented him; and automatically, as if he were repeating a lesson he had learnt by heart, he kept asking himself the questions and responding with the answers. For several days in succession, his brain was a seething mass of paradoxes and sophisms, a tangle of split hairs, a maze of rules as complicated as the clauses of a law, open to every conceivable interpretation and every kind of quibble, and leading up to a system of celestial jurisprudence of positively baroque subtlety. Then these abstract obsessions left him, and a whole series of plastic impressions took their place, under the influence of the Gustave Moreau pictures hanging on the walls. He saw a procession of prelates passing before his eyes, a line of archimandrites and patriarchs lifting their golden arms to bless the kneeling multitudes, or wagging their white beards as they read or prayed aloud; he saw silent penitents filing into crypts; he saw great cathedrals rising up with white-robed monks thundering from their pulpits. Just as De Quincey, after a dose of opium, had only to hear the words 'Consul Romanus' to conjure up whole pages of Livy, to see the consuls coming forward in solemn procession or witness the Roman legions moving off in pompous array, so Des Esseintes would be left gasping with amazement as some theological expression evoked visions of surging multitudes and episcopal figures silhouetted against the fiery windows of their basilicas. Apparitions like these kept him entranced, hurrying in imagination from age to age, and coming down at last to the religious ceremonies of modern times, to the accompaniment of endless waves of music, mournful and tender. Here there was no longer any room for argument or discussion; there was no denying that he had an indefinable feeling of veneration and fear, that his artistic sense was subjugated by the nicely calculated scenes of Catholic ceremonial. His nerves shuddered at these memories, and then, in a sudden mood of revolt, a swift volte-face, ideas of monstrous depravity came to him – thoughts of the profanities foreseen in the Confessors' Manual, of the impure and ignominious ways in which holy water and consecrated oil could be abused. An omnipotent God was now confronted by the upright figure of a powerful adversary, the Devil; and it seemed to Des Esseintes that a frightful glory must result from any crime committed in open church by a believer filled with dreadful merriment and sadistic joy, bent on blasphemy, resolved to desecrate and befoul the objects of veneration. The mad rites of magical ceremonies, black masses and witches' sabbaths, together with the horrors of demonic possession and exorcism, were enacted before his mind's eye; and he began to wonder if he were not guilty of sacrilege in possessing articles which had once been solemnly consecrated, such as altar cards, chasubles and custodials. This idea, that he was possibly living in a state of sin, filled him with a certain pride and satisfaction, not unmixed with delight in these sacrilegious acts – which might not be sacrilegious at all, and in any case were not very serious offences, seeing that he really loved these articles and did not put them to any depraved uses. He beguiled himself in this way with prudent, cowardly thoughts, the uncertainty of his soul preventing him from perpetrating overt crimes, robbing him of the necessary courage to commit real sins of real iniquity with real intent. Eventually, little by little, this casuistic spirit left him. He then looked out, as it were, from the summit of his mind, over the panorama of the Church and her hereditary influence on humanity down the ages; he pictured her to himself in all her melancholy grandeur, proclaiming to mankind the horror of life, the inclemency of fate; preaching patience, contrition, the spirit of self-sacrifice; endeavouring to salve the sores of men by pointing to the bleeding wounds of Christ; guaranteeing divine privileges and promising the better part of paradise to the afflicted; exhorting the human creature to suffer, to offer to God as a holocaust his tribulations and his offences, his vicissitudes and his sorrows. He saw her become truly eloquent, speaking words full of sympathy for the poor, full of pity for the oppressed, full of menace for tyrants and oppressors. At this point, Des Esseintes found his footing again. It is true that this admission of social corruption had his entire approval, but on the other hand, his mind revolted against the vague remedy of hope in a future life. Schopenhauer, in his opinion, came nearer to the truth. His doctrine and the Church's started from a common point of view; he too took his stand on the iniquity and rottenness of the world; he too cried out in anguish with the _Imitation of Christ_ : 'Verily it is a pitiful thing to live on earth!' He too preached the nullity of existence, the advantages of solitude, and warned humanity that whatever it did, whichever way it turned, it would always remain unhappy – the poor because of the sufferings born of privation, the rich because of the unconquerable boredom engendered by abundance. The difference between them was that he offered you no panacea, beguiled you with no promises of a cure for your inevitable ills. He did not drum into your ears the revolting dogma of original sin; he did not try to convince you of the superlative goodness of a God who protects the wicked, helps the foolish, crushes the young, brutalizes the old and chastises the innocent; he did not extol the benefits of a Providence which has invented the useless, unjust, incomprehensible and inept abomination that is physical pain. Indeed, far from endeavouring, like the Church, to justify the necessity of trials and torments, he exclaimed in his compassionate indignation: 'If a God has made this world, I should hate to be that God, for the misery of the world would break my heart.' Yes, it was undoubtedly Schopenhauer who was in the right. What, in fact, were all the evangelical pharmacopoeias compared with his treatises on spiritual hygiene? He claimed no cures, offered the sick no compensation, no hope; but when all was said and done, his theory of Pessimism was the great comforter of superior minds and lofty souls; it revealed society as it was, insisted on the innate stupidity of women, pointed out the pitfalls of life, saved you from disillusionment by teaching you to expect as little as possible, to expect nothing at all if you were sufficiently strong-willed, indeed, to consider yourself lucky if you were not constantly visited by some unforeseen calamity. Setting off from the same starting-point as the _Imitation_ , but without losing itself in mysterious mazes and unlikely by-paths, this theory reached the same conclusion, an attitude of resignation and drift. However, if this resignation, frankly based on the recognition of a deplorable state of affairs and the impossibility of effecting any change, was accessible to the rich in intellect, that made it all the more difficult of attainment for the poor, whose clamorous wrath was more easily appeased by the kindly voice of religion. These reflections took a load off Des Esseintes's mind; the great German's aphorisms calmed the tumult of his thoughts, while at the same time the points of contact between the two doctrines helped each to remind him of the other. Nor could he forget the poetic and poignant atmosphere of Catholicism in which he had been steeped as a boy, and whose essence he had absorbed through every pore. These recurrences of belief, these fearful intimations of faith had been troubling him more particularly since his health had begun to deteriorate; they coincided with certain nervous disorders that had recently arisen. Ever since his earliest childhood, he had been tormented by inexplicable revulsions, by shuddering fits which chilled him to the marrow and set his teeth on edge whenever, for instance, he saw a maid wringing out some wet linen. These instinctive reactions had continued down the years, and to this day it still caused him real suffering to hear a piece of stuff being torn in two, to rub his finger over a bit of chalk, to feel the surface of watered silk. The excesses of his bachelor days and the abnormal strains put on his brain had aggravated his neurosis to an astonishing degree and still further diluted the impoverished blood of his race. In Paris he had been obliged to have hydropathic treatment for trembling of the hands and for atrocious neuralgic pains that seemed to cut his face in two, hammered away at his temples, stabbed at his eyelids and brought on fits of nausea he could only overcome by lying flat on his back in the dark. These troubles had gradually disappeared, thanks to the steadier, quieter life he was leading; but now they were coming back in a different form and affecting every part of his body. The pains left his head to attack his stomach, which was hard and swollen, searing his innards with a red-hot iron and stimulating his bowels to no effect. Then a nervous cough, a dry, racking cough, always beginning at the same time and lasting precisely the same number of minutes, woke him as he lay in his bed, seizing him by the throat and nearly choking him. Finally he lost his appetite completely; the hot, gassy fires of heartburn flared up inside his body; he felt swollen and stifled, and could not bear the constriction of trouser-buttons or waistcoat-buckles after a meal. He gave up drinking spirits, coffee and tea, put himself on a milk diet, tried applying cold water to his body, stuffed himself with asafoetida, valerian and quinine. He even went so far as to leave the house and go for strolls in the country, where the rainy weather had established peace and quiet, forcing himself to keep walking and take exercise. As a last resort, he laid aside his books for the time being; and the result was such surpassing boredom that he decided to occupy the idle hours with carrying out a project he had put off time and again since coming to Fontenay, partly out of laziness and partly out of dislike of the trouble involved. No longer able to intoxicate himself afresh with the magical charms of style, to thrill to the delicious sorcery of the unusual epithet which, while retaining all its precision, opens up infinite perspectives to the imagination of the initiate, he made up his mind to complete the interior decoration of his thebaid by filling it with costly hothouse flowers, and so provide himself with a material occupation that would distract his thoughts, soothe his nerves and rest his brain. He also hoped that the sight of their strange and splendid colours would compensate him to some extent for the loss of those real or fancied nuances of style which, on account of his literary dieting, he would now have to forget for a little while or for ever. ## CHAPTER 8 Des Esseintes had always been excessively fond of flowers, but this passion of his, which at Jutigny had originally embraced all flowers without distinction of species or genus, had finally become more discriminating, limiting itself to a single caste. For a long time now he had despised the common, everyday varieties that blossom on the Paris market-stalls, in wet flower-pots, under green awnings or red umbrellas. At the same time that his literary tastes and artistic preferences had become more refined, recognizing only such works as had been sifted and distilled by subtle and tormented minds, and at the same time that his distaste for accepted ideas had hardened into disgust, his love of flowers had rid itself of its residuum, its lees, had been clarified, so to speak, and purified. It amused him to liken a horticulturist's shop to a microcosm in which every social category and class was represented – poor, vulgar slum-flowers, the gilliflower for instance, that are really at home only on the window-sill of a garret, with their roots squeezed into milk-cans or old earthenware pots; then pretentious, conventional, stupid flowers such as the rose, whose proper place is in pots concealed inside porcelain vases painted by nice young ladies; and lastly, flowers of charm and tremulous delicacy, exotic flowers exiled to Paris and kept warm in palaces of glass, princesses of the vegetable kingdom, living aloof and apart, having nothing whatever in common with the popular plants or the bourgeois blooms. Now, he could not help feeling a certain interest, a certain pity for the lower-class flowers, wilting in the slums under the foul breath of sewers and sinks; on the other hand, he loathed those that go with the cream-and-gold drawing-rooms in new houses; he kept his admiration, in fact, for the rare and aristocratic plants from distant lands, kept alive with cunning attention in artificial tropics created by carefully regulated stoves. But this deliberate choice he had made of hothouse flowers had itself been modified under the influence of his general ideas, of the definite conclusions he had now arrived at on all matters. In former days, in Paris, his inborn taste for the artificial had led him to neglect the real flower for its copy, faithfully and almost miraculously executed in indiarubber and wire, calico and taffeta, paper and velvet. As a result, he possessed a wonderful collection of tropical plants, fashioned by the hands of true artists, following Nature step by step, repeating her processes, taking the flower from its birth, leading it to maturity, imitating it even to its death, noting the most indefinable nuances, the most fleeting aspects of its awakening or its sleep, observing the pose of its petals, blown back by the wind or crumpled up by the rain, sprinkling its unfolding corolla with dewdrops of gum and adapting its appearance to the time of year – in full bloom when branches are bent under the weight of sap, or with a shrivelled cupula and a withered stem when petals are dropping off and leaves are falling. This admirable artistry had long enthralled him, but now he dreamt of collecting another kind of flora: tired of artificial flowers aping real ones, he wanted some natural flowers that would look like fakes. He applied his mind to this problem, but did not have to search for long or go far afield, seeing that his house was in the very heart of the district which had attracted all the great flower-growers. He went straight off to visit the hothouses of Châtillon and the valley of Aunay, coming home tired out and cleaned out, wonder-struck at the floral follies he had seen, thinking of nothing but the varieties he had bought, haunted all the while by memories of bizarre and magnificient blooms. Two days later the wagons arrived. List in hand, Des Esseintes called the roll, checking his purchases one by one. First of all the gardeners unloaded from their carts a collection of Caladiums, whose swollen, hairy stems supported huge heart-shaped leaves; though they kept a general air of kinship, no two of them were alike. There were some remarkable specimens – some a pinkish colour like the Virginale, which seemed to have been cut out of oilskin or sticking-plaster; some all white like the Albane, which looked as if it had been fashioned out of the pleura of an ox or the diaphanous bladder of a pig. Others, especially the one called Madame Mame, seemed to be simulating zinc, parodying bits of punched metal coloured emperor green and spattered with drops of oil-paint, streaks of red lead and white. Here, there were plants like the Bosphorus giving the illusion of starched calico spotted with crimson and myrtle green; there, others such as the Aurora Borealis flaunted leaves the colour of raw meat, with dark-red ribs and purplish fibrils, puffy leaves that seemed to be sweating blood and wine. Between them, the Albane and Aurora Borealis represented the two temperamental extremes, apoplexy and chlorosis, in this particular family of plants. The gardeners brought in still more varieties, this time affecting the appearance of a factitious skin covered with a network of counterfeit veins. Most of them, as if ravaged by syphilis or leprosy, displayed livid patches of flesh mottled with roseola, damasked with dartre; others had the bright pink colour of a scar that is healing or the brown tint of a scab that is forming; others seemed to have been puffed up by cauteries, blistered by burns; others again revealed hairy surfaces pitted with ulcers and embossed with chancres; and last of all there were some which appeared to be covered with dressings of various sorts, coated with black mercurial lard, plastered with green belladonna ointment, dusted over with the yellow flakes of iodoform powder. Gathered together, these sickly blooms struck Des Esseintes as even more monstrous than when he had first come upon them, mixed up with others like hospital patients inside the glass walls of their conservatory wards. 'Sapristi!' he exclaimed, in an access of enthusiasm. Another plant, of a type similar to the Caladiums, the _Alocasia_ _Metallica_ , roused him to still greater admiration. Covered with a coat of greenish bronze shot with glints of silver, it was the supreme masterpiece of artifice; anyone would have taken it for a bit of stove-pipe cut into a pike-head pattern by the makers. Next the men unloaded several bunches of lozenge-shaped leaves, bottle-green in colour; from the midst of each bunch rose a stiff stem on top of which trembled a great ace of hearts, as glossy as a pepper; and then, as if in defiance of all the familiar aspects of plant life, there sprang from the middle of this bright vermilion heart a fleshy, downy tail, all white and yellow, straight in some cases, corkscrewing above the heart like a pig's tail in others. This was the Anthurium, an aroid recently imported from Colombia; it belonged to a section of the same family as a certain Amorphophallus, a plant from Cochin-China with leaves the shape of fish-slices and long black stalks crisscrossed with scars like the limbs of a negro slave. Des Esseintes could scarcely contain himself for joy. Now they were getting a fresh batch of monstrosities down from the carts – the Echinopsis, thrusting its ghastly pink blossoms out of cotton-wool compresses, like the stumps of amputated limbs; the Nidularium, opening its sword-shaped petals to reveal gaping flesh-wounds; the _Tillandsia Lindeni_ , trailing its jagged plough-shares the colour of wine-must; and the Cypripedium, with its complex, incoherent contours devised by some demented draughtsman. It looked rather like a clog or a tidy, and on top was a human tongue bent back with the string stretched tight, just as you may see it depicted in the plates of medical works dealing with diseases of the throat and mouth; two little wings, of a jujube red, which might almost have been borrowed from a child's toy windmill, completed this baroque combination of the underside of a tongue, the colour of wine lees and slate, and a glossy pocket-case with a lining that oozed drops of viscous paste. He could not take his eyes off this unlikely-looking orchid from India, and the gardeners, irritated by all these delays, began reading out themselves the labels stuck in the pots they were bringing in. Des Esseintes watched them open-mouthed, listening in amazement to the forbidding names of the various herbaceous plants – the _Encephalartos horridus_ , a gigantic artichoke, an iron spike painted a rust colour, like the ones they put on park gates to keep trespassers from climbing over; the _Cocos Micania_ , a sort of palm-tree, with a slim, indented stem, surrounded on all sides with tall leaves like paddles and oars; the _Zamia Lehmanni_ , a huge pineapple, a monumental Cheshire cheese stuck in heath-mould and bristling on top with barbed javelins and native arrows; and the _Cibotium Spectabile_ , challenging comparison with the weirdest nightmare and out-doing even its congeners in the craziness of its formation, with an enormous orang-outang's tail poking out of a cluster of palm-leaves – a brown, hairy tail twisted at the tip into the shape of a bishop's crozier. But he did not linger over these plants, as he was waiting impatiently for the series which particularly fascinated him, those vegetable ghouls the carnivorous plants – the downy-rimmed Fly-trap of the Antilles, with its digestive secretions and its curved spikes that interlock to form a grille over any insect it imprisons; the Drosera of the peat-bogs, flaunting a set of glandulous hairs; the Sarracena and the Cephalothus, opening voracious gullets capable of consuming and digesting whole chunks of meat; and finally the Nepenthes, which in shape and form passes all the bounds of eccentricity. With unwearying delight he turned in his hands the pot in which this floral extravaganza was quivering. It resembled the gum-tree in its long leaves of a dark, metallic green; but from the end of each leaf there hung a green string, an umbilical cord carrying a greenish-coloured pitcher dappled with purple markings, a sort of German pipe in porcelain, a peculiar kind of bird's nest that swayed gently to and fro, displaying an interior carpeted with hairs. 'That really is a beauty,' murmured Des Esseintes. But he had to cut short his display of pleasure, for now the gardeners, in a hurry to get away, were rapidly unloading the last of their plants, jumbling up tuberous Begonias and black Crotons flecked with spots of red lead like old iron. Then he noticed that there was still one name left on his list, the Cattleya of New Granada. They pointed out to him a little winged bell-flower of a pale lilac, an almost imperceptible mauve; he went up, put his nose to it and started back – for it gave out a smell of varnished deal, a toy-box smell that brought back horrid memories of New Year's Day when he was a child. He decided he had better be wary of it, and almost regretted having admitted among all the scentless plants he possessed this orchid with its unpleasantly reminiscent odour. Once he was alone again, he surveyed the great tide of vegetation that had flooded into his entrance-hall, the various species all intermingling, crossing swords, creeses or spears with one another, forming a mass of green weapons, over which floated, like barbarian battle-flags, flowers of crude and dazzling colours. The air in the room was getting purer, and soon, in a dark corner, down by the floor, a soft white light appeared. He went up to it and discovered that it came from a clump of Rhizomorphs which, as they breathed, shone like tiny night-lights. 'These plants are really astounding,' he said to himself, stepping back to appraise the entire collection. Yes, his object had been achieved: not one of them looked real; it was as if cloth, paper, porcelain and metal had been lent by man to Nature to enable her to create these monstrosities. Where she had not found it possible to imitate the work of human hands, she had been reduced to copying the membranes of animals' organs, to borrowing the vivid tints of their rotting flesh, the hideous splendours of their gangrened skin. 'It all comes down to syphilis in the end,' Des Esseintes reflected, as his gaze was drawn and held by the horrible markings of the Caladiums, over which a shaft of daylight was playing. And he had a sudden vision of the unceasing torments inflicted on humanity by the virus of distant ages. Ever since the beginning of the world, from generation to generation, all living creatures had handed down the inexhaustible heritage, the everlasting disease that ravaged the ancestors of man and even ate into the bones of the old fossils that were being dug up at the present time. Without ever abating, it had travelled down the ages, still raging to this day in the form of surreptitious pains, in the disguise of headaches or bronchitis, hysteria or gout. From time to time it came to the surface, generally singling out for attack ill-to-do, ill-fed people, breaking out in spots like pieces of gold, ironically crowning the poor devils with an almeh's diadem of sequins, adding insult to injury by stamping their skin with the very symbol of wealth and well-being. And now here it was again, reappearing in all its pristine splendour on the brightly coloured leaves of these plants! 'It is true,' continued Des Esseintes, going back to the starting point of his argument, 'it is true that most of the time Nature is incapable of producing such depraved, unhealthy species alone and unaided; she supplies the raw materials, the seed and the soil, the nourishing womb and the elements of the plant, which man rears, shapes, paints and carves afterwards to suit his fancy. 'Stubborn, muddle-headed and narrow-minded though she is, she has at last submitted, and her master has succeeded in changing the soil components by means of chemical reactions, in utilizing slowly matured combinations, carefully elaborated crossings, in employing cuttings and graftings skilfully and methodically, so that now he can make her put forth blossoms of different colours on the same branch, invents new hues for her, and modifies at will the age-old shapes of her plants. In short, he rough-hews her blocks of stone, finishes off her sketches, signs them with his stamp, impresses on them his artistic hall-mark. 'There's no denying it,' he concluded; 'in the course of a few years man can operate a selection which easy-going Nature could not conceivably make in less than a few centuries; without the shadow of a doubt, the horticulturists are the only true artists left to us nowadays.' He was a little tired and felt stifled in this hothouse atmosphere; all the outings he had had in the last few days had exhausted him; the transition between the immobility of a sequestered life and the activity of an outdoor existence had been too sudden. He left the hall and went to lie down on his bed; but, engrossed in a single subject, as if wound up by a spring, his mind went on paying out its chain even in sleep, and he soon fell victim to the sombre fantasies of a nightmare. He was walking along the middle of a path through a forest at dusk, beside a woman he had never met, never even seen before. She was tall and thin, with tow-like hair, a bulldog face, freckled cheeks, irregular teeth projecting under a snub nose; she was wearing a maid's white apron, a long scarlet kerchief draped across her breast, a Prussian soldier's half-boots, a black bonnet trimmed with ruches and a cabbage-bow. She looked rather like a booth-keeper at a fair, or a member of some travelling circus. He asked himself who this woman was whom he felt to have been deeply and intimately associated with his life for a long time, and he tried to remember her origins, her name, her occupation, her significance – but all in vain, for no recollection came to him of this inexplicable yet undeniable liaison. He was still searching his memory when suddenly a strange figure appeared before them on horseback, went ahead for a minute at a gentle trot, then turned round in the saddle. His blood froze and he stood rooted to the spot in utter horror. The rider was an equivocal, sexless creature with a green skin and terrifying eyes of a cold, clear blue shining out from under purple lids; there were pustules all round its mouth; two amazingly thin arms, like the arms of a skeleton, bare to the elbows and shaking with fever, projected from its ragged sleeves, and its fleshless thighs twitched and shuddered in jack-boots that were far too wide for them. Its awful gaze was fixed on Des Esseintes, piercing him, freezing him to the marrow, while the bulldog woman, even more terrified than he was, clung to him and howled blue murder, her head thrown back and her neck rigid. At once he understood the meaning of the dreadful vision. He had before his eyes the image of the Pox. Utterly panic-stricken, beside himself with fear, he dashed down a side path and ran for dear life until he got to a summerhouse standing on the left among some laburnums. Safely inside, he dropped into a chair in the passage. A few moments later, just as he was beginning to get his breath back, the sound of sobbing made him look up. The bulldog woman stood before him, a grotesque and pitiful sight. She was weeping bitterly, complaining that she had lost her teeth in her flight and, taking a number of clay pipes out of her apron pocket, she proceeded to smash them up and stuff bits of the white stems into the holes in her gums. 'But she's mad!' Des Esseintes said to himself; 'those bits of stem will never hold' – and, true enough, they all came dropping out of her jaws, one after the other. At that moment a galloping horse was heard approaching. Terror seized Des Esseintes and his legs went limp under him. But as the sound of hoofs came nearer, despair stung him to action like the crack of a whip; he flung himself upon the woman, who was now stamping on the pipe bowls, begging her to be quiet and not to betray them both by the noise of her boots. She struggled furiously, and he had to drag her to the end of the passage, throttling her to stop her crying out. Then, all of a sudden, he noticed a tap-room door with green-painted shutters and saw that it was unlatched; he pushed it open, dashed through – and stopped dead. In front of him, in the middle of a vast clearing, enormous white pierrots were jumping about like rabbits in the moonlight. Tears of disappointment welled up in his eyes; he would never, no, never be able to cross the threshold of that door. 'I'd be trampled to death if I tried,' he told himself – and as if to confirm his fears, the number of giant pierrots kept increasing; their bounds now filled the whole horizon and the whole sky, so that they bumped alternately against heaven and earth with their heads and their heels. Just then the sound of the horse's hoofs stopped. It was there in the passage, behind a little round window; more dead than alive, Des Esseintes turned round and saw through the circular opening two pricked ears, a set of yellow teeth, a pair of nostrils breathing twin jets of vapour that stank of phenol. He sank to the ground, giving up all thought of resistance or flight; and he shut his eyes so as not to meet the dreadful gaze of the Pox, glaring at him from behind the wall, though even so he felt it forcing its way under his closed eyelids, gliding down his clammy back and travelling over the whole of his body, the hairs of which stood on end in pools of cold sweat. He was prepared for almost anything to happen and even hoped for the _coup de grâce_ to make an end of it all. What seemed like a century, and was probably a minute, went by; then he opened his eyes again with a shudder of apprehension. Everything had vanished without warning; and like some transformation scene, some theatrical illusion, a hideous mineral landscape now lay before him, a wan, gullied landscape stretching away into the distance without a sign of life or movement. This desolate scene was bathed in light: a calm, white light, reminiscent of the glow of phosphorus dissolved in oil. Suddenly, down on the ground, something stirred – something which took the form of an ashen-faced woman, naked but for a pair of green silk stockings. He gazed at her inquisitively. Like horsehair crimped by over-hot irons, her hair was frizzy, with broken ends; two Nepenthes pitchers hung from her ears; tints of boiled veal showed in her half-opened nostrils. Her eyes gleaming ecstatically, she called to him in a low voice. He had no time to answer, for already the woman was changing; glowing colours lit up her eyes; her lips took on the fierce red of the Anthuriums; the nipples of her bosom shone as brightly as two red peppers. A sudden intuition came to him, and he told himself that this must be the Flower. His reasoning mania persisted even in this nightmare; and as in the daytime, it switched from vegetation to the Virus. He now noticed the frightening irritation of the mouth and breasts, discovered on the skin of the body spots of bistre and copper and recoiled in horror; but the woman's eyes fascinated him, and he went slowly towards her, trying to dig his heels into the ground to hold himself back, and falling over deliberately, only to pick himself up again and go on. He was almost touching her when black Amorphophalli sprang up on every side and stabbed at her belly, which was rising and falling like a sea. He thrust them aside and pushed them back, utterly nauseated by the sight of these hot, firm stems twisting and turning between his fingers. Then, all of a sudden, the odious plants had disappeared and two arms were trying to enfold him. An agony of fear set his heart pounding madly, for the eyes, the woman's awful eyes, had turned a clear, cold blue, quite terrible to see. He made a superhuman effort to free himself from her embrace, but with an irresistible movement she clutched him and held him, and pale with horror, he saw the savage Nidularium blossoming between her uplifted thighs, with its swordblades gaping open to expose the bloody depths. His body almost touching the hideous flesh-wound of this plant, he felt life ebbing away from him – and awoke with a start, choking, frozen, crazy with fear. 'Thank God,' he sobbed, 'it was only a dream.' ## CHAPTER 9 These nightmares recurred again and again, until he was afraid to go to sleep. He spent hours lying on his bed, sometimes the victim of persistent insomnia and feverish restlessness, at other times a prey to abominable dreams that were interrupted only when the dreamer was shocked into wakefulness by losing his footing, falling all the way downstairs or plunging helplessly into the depths of an abyss. His neurosis, which had been lulled to sleep for a few days, gained the upper hand again, showing itself more violent and more stubborn than ever, and taking on new forms. Now it was the bedclothes that bothered him; he felt stifled under the sheets, his whole body tingled unpleasantly, his blood boiled and his legs itched. To these symptoms were soon added a dull aching of the jaws and a feeling as if his temples were being squeezed in a vice. His anxiety and depression grew worse, and unfortunately the means of mastering this inexorable illness were lacking. He had tried to install a set of hydropathic appliances in his dressing-room, but without success: the impossibility of bringing water as high up the hill as his house, not to mention the difficulty of getting water in sufficient quantity in a village where the public fountains only produced a feeble trickle at fixed hours, thwarted this particular plan. Cheated of the jets of water which, shot at close range at the disks of his vertebral column, formed the only treatment capable of overcoming his insomnia and bringing back his peace of mind, he was reduced to brief aspersions in his bath or in his tub, mere cold affusions followed by an energetic rub-down that his valet gave him with a horsehair glove. But these substitute douches were far from checking the progress of his neurosis; at the very most they gave him a few hours' relief, and dear-bought relief at that, considering that his nervous troubles soon returned to the attack with renewed vigour and violence. His boredom grew to infinite proportions. The pleasure he had felt in the possession of astonishing flowers was exhausted; their shapes and colours had already lost the power to excite him. Besides, in spite of all the care he lavished on them, most of his plants died; he had them removed from his rooms, but his irritability had reached such a pitch that he was exasperated by their absence and his eye continually offended by the empty spaces they had left. To amuse himself and while away the interminable hours, he turned to his portfolios of prints and began sorting out his Goyas. The first states of certain plates of the _Caprices_ , proof engravings recognizable by their reddish tone, which he had bought long ago in the sale-room at ransom prices, put him in a good humour again; and he forgot everything else as he followed the strange fancies of the artist, delighting in his breathtaking pictures of bandits and succubi, devils and dwarfs, witches riding on cats and women trying to pull out the dead man's teeth after a hanging. Next, he went through all the other series of Goya's etchings and aquatints, his macabre _Proverbs_ , his ferocious war-scenes, and finally his _Garrotting_ , a plate of which he possessed a magnificent trial proof printed on thick, unsized paper, with the wire-marks clearly visible. Goya's savage verve, his harsh, brutal genius, captivated Des Esseintes. On the other hand, the universal admiration his works had won rather put him off, and for years he had refrained from framing them, for fear that if he hung them up, the first idiot who saw them might feel obliged to dishonour them with a few inanities and go into stereotyped ecstasies over them. He felt the same about his Rembrandts, which he examined now and then on the quiet; and it is of course true that, just as the loveliest melody in the world becomes unbearably vulgar once the public start humming it and the barrel-organs playing it, so the work of art that appeals to charlatans, endears itself to fools, and is not content to arouse the enthusiasm of a few connoisseurs, is thereby polluted in the eyes of the initiate and becomes commonplace, almost repulsive. This sort of promiscuous admiration was in fact one of the most painful thorns in his flesh, for unaccountable vogues had utterly spoilt certain books and pictures for him that he had once held dear; confronted with the approbation of the mob, healways ended up by discovering some hitherto imperceptible blemish, and promptly rejected them, at the same time wondering whether his flair was not deserting him, his taste getting blunted. He shut his portfolios and once more fell into a mood of splenetic indecision. To change the trend of his thoughts, he began a course of emollient reading; tried to cool his brain with some of the solanaceae of literature; read those books that are so charmingly adapted for convalescents and invalids, whom more tetanic or phosphatic works would only fatigue: the novels of Charles Dickens. But the Englishman's works produced the opposite effect from what he had expected: his chaste lovers and his puritanical heroines in their all-concealing draperies, sharing ethereal passions and just fluttering their eyelashes, blushing coyly, weeping for joy and holding hands, drove him to distraction. This exaggerated virtue made him react in the contrary direction; by virtue of the law of contrasts, he jumped from one extreme to the other, recalled scenes of full-blooded, earthy passion, and thought of common amorous practices such as the hybrid kiss, or the columbine kiss as ecclesiastical modesty calls it, where the tongue is brought into play. He put aside the book he was reading, put from him all thoughts of strait-laced Albion and let his mind dwell on the salacious seasoning, the prurient peccadilloes of which the Church disapproves. Suddenly he felt an emotional disturbance; his sexual insensibility of brain and body, which he had supposed to be complete and absolute, was shattered. Solitude was again affecting his tortured nerves, but this time it was not religion that obsessed him but the naughty sins religion condemns. The habitual subject of its threats and obsecrations was now the only thing that tempted him; the carnal side of his nature, which had lain dormant for months, had first been disturbed by his reading of pious works, then roused to wakefulness in an attack of nerves brought on by the English writer's cant and was now all attention. With his stimulated senses carrying him back down the years, he had soon begun wallowing in the memory of his old dissipations. He got up, and with a certain sadness he opened a little silver-gilt box with a lid studded with aventurines. This box was full of purple bonbons. He took one out and idly fingered it, thinking about the strange properties of these sweets with their frosty coating of sugar. In former days, when his impotency had been established beyond doubt and he could think of woman without bitterness, regret or desire, he would place one of these bonbons on his tongue and let it melt; then, all of a sudden, and with infinite tenderness, he would be visited by dim, faded recollections of old debauches. These bonbons, invented by Siraudin and known by the ridiculous name of 'Pearls of the Pyrenees', consisted of a drop of schoenanthus scent or female essence crystallized in pieces of sugar; they stimulated the papillae of the mouth, evoking memories of water opalescent with rare vinegars and lingering kisses fragrant with perfume. Ordinarily he would smilingly drink in this amorous aroma, this shadow of former caresses which installed a little female nudity in a corner of his brain and revived for a second the savour of some woman, a savour he had once adored. But today the bonbons were no longer gentle in their effect and no longer confined themselves to evoking memories of distant, half-forgotten dissipations; on the contrary, they tore the veils down and thrust before his eyes the bodily reality in all its crudity and urgency. Heading the procession of mistresses that the taste of the bonbon helped to define in detail was a woman who paused in front of him, a woman with long white teeth, a sharp nose, mouse-coloured eyes and short-cropped yellow hair. This was Miss Urania, an American girl with a supple figure, sinewy legs, muscles of steel, and arms of iron. She had been one of the most famous acrobats at the Circus, where Des Esseintes had followed her performance night after night. The first few times, she had struck him as being just what she was, a strapping, handsome woman, but he had felt no desire to approach her; she had nothing to recommend her to the tastes of a jaded sophisticate, and yet he found himself returning to the Circus, drawn by some mysterious attraction, impelled by some indefinable urge. Little by little, as he watched her, curious fancies took shape in his mind. The more he admired her suppleness and strength, the more he thought he saw an artificial change of sex operating in her; her mincing movements and feminine affectations became ever less obtrusive, and in their place there developed the agile, vigorous charms of a male. In short, after being a woman to begin with, then hesitating in a condition verging on the androgynous, she seemed to have made up her mind and become an integral, unmistakable man. 'In that case,' Des Esseintes said to himself, 'just as a great strapping fellow often falls for a slip of a girl, this hefty young woman should be instinctively attracted to a feeble, broken-down, short-winded creature like myself.' By dint of considering his own physique and arguing from analogy, he got to the point of imagining that he for his part was turning female; and at this point he was seized with a definite desire to possess the woman, yearning for her just as a chlorotic girl will hanker after a clumsy brute whose embrace could squeeze the life out of her. This exchange of sex between Miss Urania and himself had excited him tremendously. The two of them, so he said, were made for each other; and added to this sudden admiration for brute strength, a thing he had hitherto detested, there was also that extravagant delight in self-abasement which a common prostitute shows in paying dearly for the loutish caresses of a pimp. Meanwhile, before deciding to seduce the acrobat and see if his dreams could be made reality, he sought confirmation of these dreams in the facial expressions she unconsciously assumed, reading his own desires into the fixed, unchanging smile she wore on her lips as she swung on the trapeze. At last, one fine evening, he sent her a message by one of the circus attendants. Miss Urania deemed it necessary not to surrender without a little preliminary courting; however, she was careful not to appear over-shy, having heard that Des Esseintes was rich and that his name could help a woman in her career. But when at last his wishes were granted, he suffered immediate and immeasurable disappointment. He had imagined the American girl would be as blunt-witted and brutish as a fairground wrestler, but he found to his dismay that her stupidity was of a purely feminine order. It is true that she lacked education and refinement, possessed neither wit nor common sense, and behaved with bestial greed at table, but at the same time she still displayed all the childish foibles of a woman; she loved tittle-tattle and gewgaws as much as any petty-minded trollop, and it was clear that no transmutation of masculine ideas into her feminine person had occurred. What is more, she was positively puritanical in bed and treated Des Esseintes to none of those rough, athletic caresses he at once desired and dreaded; she was not subject, as he had for a moment hoped she might be, to sexual fluctuations. Perhaps, if he had probed deep into her unfeeling nature, he might yet have discovered a penchant for some delicate, slightly built bedfellow with a temperament diametrically opposed to her own; but in that case it would have been a preference, not for a young girl, but for a merry little shrimp of a man, a spindle-shanked, funny-faced clown. There was nothing Des Esseintes could do but resume the man's part he had momentarily forgotten; his feelings of femininity, of frailty, of dependence, of fear even, all disappeared. He could no longer shut his eyes to the truth, that Miss Urania was a mistress like any other, offering no justification for the cerebral curiosity she had aroused. Although, at first, her firm flesh and magnificent beauty had surprised Des Esseintes and held him spellbound, he was soon impatient to end their liaison and broke it off in a hurry, for his premature impotence was getting worse as a result of the woman's icy caresses and prudish passivity. Nevertheless, of all the women in this unending procession of lascivious memories, she was the first to halt in front of him; but the fact was that if she had made a deeper impression on his memory than a host of others whose charms had been less fallacious and whose endearments had been less limited, that was because of the healthy, wholesome animal smell she exuded; her superabundant health was the very antipode of the anaemic, scented savour he could detect in the dainty Siraudin sweet. With her antithetical fragrance, Miss Urania was bound to take first place in his recollections, but almost immediately Des Esseintes, shaken for a moment by the impact of a natural, unsophisticated aroma, returned to more civilized scents and inevitably started thinking about his other mistresses. These now came crowding in on his memory, but with one woman standing out above the rest: the woman whose monstrous speciality had given him months of wonderful satisfaction. She was a skinny little thing, a dark-eyed brunette with greasy hair parted on one side near the temple like a boy's, and plastered down so firmly that it looked as if it had been painted on to her head. He had come across her at a café where she entertained the customers with demonstrations of ventriloquism. To the amazement of a packed audience that was half-frightened by what it heard, she took a set of cardboard puppets perched on chairs like a row of Pandean pipes and gave a voice to each in turn; she conversed with dummies that seemed almost alive, while in the auditorium itself flies could be heard buzzing around and the silent spectators noisily whispering among themselves; finally, she had a line of non-existent carriages rolling up the room from the door to the stage, and passing so close to the audience that they instinctively started back and were momentarily surprised to find themselves sitting indoors. Des Esseintes had been fascinated, and a whole crop of new ideas sprouted in his brain. First of all he lost no time in firing off a broadside of banknotes to subjugate the ventriloquist, who attracted him by the very fact of the contrast she presented to the American girl. The brunette reeked of skilfully contrived scents, heady and unhealthy perfumes, and she burned like the crater of a volcano. In spite of all his subterfuges, Des Esseintes had worn himself out in a few hours; yet he none the less allowed her to go on fleecing him, for it was not so much the woman as the artiste that appealed to him. Besides, the plans he had in view were ripe for execution, and he decided it was time to carry out a hitherto impracticable project. One night he had a miniature sphinx brought in, carved in black marble and couched in the classic pose, its paws stretched out and its head held rigidly upright, together with a chimera in coloured terra-cotta, flaunting a bristling mane, darting ferocious glances from its eyes and lashing flanks as swollen as a blacksmith's bellows with its tail. He placed one of these mythical beasts at either end of the bedroom and put out the lamps, leaving only the red embers glowing in the hearth, to shed a dim light that would exaggerate the size of objects almost submerged in the semi-darkness. This done, he lay down on the bed beside the ventriloquist, whose set face was lit up by the glow of a half-burned log, and waited. With strange intonations that he had made her rehearse beforehand for hours, she gave life and voice to the monsters, without so much as moving her lips, without even looking in their direction. There and then, in the silence of the night, began the marvellous dialogue of the Chimera and the Sphinx, spoken in deep, guttural voices, now raucous, now piercingly clear, like voices from another world. 'Here, Chimera, stop!' 'No, that I will never do.' Spellbound by Flaubert's wonderful prose, he listened in breathless awe to the terrifying duet, shuddering from head to foot when the Chimera pronounced the solemn and magical sentence: 'I seek new perfumes, larger blossoms, pleasures still untasted.' Ah! it was to him that this voice, as mysterious as an incantation, was addressed; it was to him that it spoke of the feverish desire for the unknown, the unsatisfied longing for an ideal, the craving to escape from the horrible realities of life, to cross the frontiers of thought, to grope after a certainty, albeit without finding one, in the misty upper regions of art! The paltriness of his own efforts was borne in upon him and cut him to the heart. He clasped the woman beside him in a gentle embrace, clinging to her like a child wanting to be comforted, never even noticing the sullen expression of the actress forced to play a scene, to practise her profession, at home, in her leisure moments, far from the footlights. Their liaison continued, but before long Des Esseintes's sexual fiascos became more frequent; the effervescence of his mind could no longer melt the ice in his body, his nerves would no longer heed the commands of his will, and he was obsessed by the lecherous vagaries common in old men. Feeling more and more doubtful of his sexual powers when he was with this mistress of his, he had recourse to the most effective adjuvant known to old and undependable voluptuaries – fear. As he lay holding the woman in his arms, a husky, drunken voice would roar from behind the door: 'Open up, damn you! I know you've got a cully in there with you! But just you wait a minute, you slut, and you'll get what's coming to you!' Straight away, like those lechers who are stimulated by the fear of being caught _flagrante delicto_ in the open air, on the river bank, in the Tuileries Gardens, in a public lavatory or on a park bench, he would temporarily recover his powers and hurl himself upon the ventriloquist, whose voice went blustering on outside the room. He derived extraordinary pleasure from this panic-stricken hurry of a man running a risk, interrupted and hustled in his fornication. Unfortunately these special performances soon came to an end; in spite of the fantastic fees he paid her, the ventriloquist sent him packing, and the very same night gave herself to a fellow with less complicated whims and more reliable loins. Des Esseintes had been sorry to lose her, and the memory of her artifices made other women seem insipid; even the corrupt graces of depraved children appeared tame in comparison, and he came to feel such contempt for their monotonous grimaces that he could not bring himself to tolerate them any longer. Brooding over these disappointments one day as he was walking by himself along the Avenue de Latour-Maubourg, he was accosted near the Invalides by a youth who asked him which was the quickest way to get to the Rue de Babylone. Des Esseintes showed him which road to take, and as he was crossing the esplanades too, they set off together. The young fellow's voice, as with unreasonable persistence he asked for fuller instructions – 'So you think if I went to the left it would take longer; but I was told that if I cut across the Avenue I'd get there sooner' – was both timid and appealing, very low and very gentle. Des Esseintes ran his eyes over him. He looked as though he had just left school, and was poorly clad in a little cheviot jacket too tight round the hips and barely reaching below the small of the back, a pair of close-fitting black breeches, a turn-down collar and a flowing cravat, dark-blue with thin white stripes, tied in a loose bow. In his hand he was carrying a stiff-backed school-book, and on his head was perched a brown, flat-brimmed bowler. The face was somewhat disconcerting; pale and drawn, with fairly regular features topped by long black hair, it was lit up by two great liquid eyes, ringed with blue and set close to the nose, which was dotted with a few golden freckles; the mouth was small, but spoilt by fleshy lips with a line dividing them in the middle like a cherry. They gazed at each other for a moment; then the young man dropped his eyes and came closer, brushing his companion's arm with his own. Des Esseintes slackened his pace, taking thoughtful note of the youth's mincing walk. From this chance encounter there had sprung a mistrustful friendship that somehow lasted several months. Des Esseintes could not think of it now without a shudder; never had he submitted to more delightful or more stringent exploitation, never had he run such risks, yet never had he known such satisfaction mingled with distress. Among the memories that visited him in his solitude, the recollection of this mutual attachment dominated all the rest. All the leaven of insanity that a brain over-stimulated by neurosis can contain was fermenting within him; and in his pleasurable contemplation of these memories, in his morose delectation, as the theologians call this recurrence of past iniquities, he added to the physical visions spiritual lusts kindled by his former readings of what such casuists as Busenbaum and Diana, Liguori and Sanchez had to say about sins against the sixth and ninth commandments. While implanting an extra-human ideal in this soul of his, which it had thoroughly impregnated and which a hereditary tendency dating from the reign of Henri III had possibly preconditioned, the Christian religion had also instilled an unlawful ideal of voluptuous pleasure; licentious and mystical obsessions merged together to haunt his brain, which was affected with a stubborn longing to escape the vulgarities of life and, ignoring the dictates of consecrated custom, to plunge into new and original ecstasies, into paroxysms celestial or accursed, but equally exhausting in the waste of phosphorus they involved. At present, when he came out of one of these reveries, he felt worn out, completely shattered, half dead; and he promptly lit all the candles and lamps, flooding the room with light, imagining that like this he would hear less distinctly than in the dark the dull, persistent, unbearable drum-beat of his arteries, pounding away under the skin of his neck. ## CHAPTER 10 In the course of that peculiar malady which ravages effete, enfeebled races, the crises are succeeded by sudden intervals of calm. Though he could not understand why, Des Esseintes awoke one fine morning feeling quite fit and well; no hacking cough, no wedges being hammered into the back of his neck, but instead an ineffable sensation of well-being; his head had cleared and his thoughts too, which had been dull and opaque but were now turning bright and iridescent, like delicately coloured soap-bubbles. This state of affairs lasted some days; then all of a sudden, one afternoon, hallucinations of the sense of smell began to affect him. Noticing a strong scent of frangipane in the room, he looked to see if a bottle of the perfume was lying about unstoppered, but there was nothing of the sort to be seen. He went into his study, then into the dining-room; the smell went with him. He rang for his servant. 'Can't you smell something?' he asked. The man sniffed and said that he smelt nothing unusual. There was no doubt about it: his nervous trouble had returned in the form of a new sort of sensual illusion. Irritated by the persistence of this imaginary aroma, he decided to steep himself in some real perfumes, hoping that this nasal homoeopathy might cure him or at least reduce the strength of the importunate frangipane. He went into his dressing-room. There, beside an ancient font that he used as a wash-basin, and under a long looking-glass in a wrought-iron frame that held the mirror imprisoned like still green water inside the moon-silvered curb-stone of a well, bottles of all shapes and sizes were ranged in rows on ivory shelves. He placed them on a table and divided them into two categories: first, the simple perfumes, in other words the pure spirits and extracts; and secondly, the compound scents known by the generic name of _bouquets_. Sinking into an armchair, he gave himself up to his thoughts. For years now he had been an expert in the science of perfumes; he maintained that the sense of smell could procure pleasures equal to those obtained through sight or hearing, each of the senses being capable, by virtue of a natural aptitude supplemented by an erudite education, of perceiving new impressions, magnifying these tenfold and co-ordinating them to compose the whole that constitutes a work of art. After all, he argued, it was no more abnormal to have an art that consisted of picking out odorous fluids than it was to have other arts based on a selection of sound waves or the impact of variously coloured rays on the retina of the eye; only, just as no one, without a special intuitive faculty developed by study, could distinguish a painting by a great master from a paltry daub, or a Beethoven theme from a tune by Clapisson, so no one, without a preliminary initiation, could help confusing at first a _bouquet_ created by a true artist with a potpourri concocted by a manufacturer for sale in grocers' shops and cheap bazaars. One aspect of this art of perfumery had fascinated him more than any other, and that was the degree of accuracy it was possible to reach in imitating the real thing. Hardly ever, in fact, are perfumes produced from the flowers whose names they bear; and any artist foolish enough to take his raw materials from Nature alone would get only a hybrid result, lacking both conviction and distinction, for the very good reason that the essence obtained by distillation from the flower itself cannot possibly offer more than a very distant, very vulgar analogy with the real aroma of the living flower, rooted in the ground and spreading its effluvia through the open air. Consequently, with the solitary exception of the inimitable jasmine, which admits of no counterfeit, no likeness, no approximation even, all the flowers in existence are represented to perfection by combinations of alcoholates and essences, extracting from the model its distinctive personality and adding that little something, that extra tang, that heady savour, that rare touch which makes a work of art. In short, the artist in perfumery completes the original natural odour, which, so to speak, he cuts and mounts as a jeweller improves and brings out the water of a precious stone. Little by little the arcana of this art, the most neglected of them all, had been revealed to Des Esseintes, who could now decipher its complex language that was as subtle as any human tongue, yet wonderfully concise under its apparent vagueness and ambiguity. To do this he had first had to master the grammar, to understand the syntax of smells, to get a firm grasp on the rules that govern them, and, once he was familiar with this dialect, to compare the works of the great masters, the Atkinsons and Lubins, the Chardins and Violets, the Legrands and Piesses, to analyse the construction of their sentences, to weigh the proportion of their words, to measure the arrangement of their periods. The next stage in his study of this idiom of essences had been to let experience come to the aid of theories that were too often incomplete and commonplace. Classical perfumery was indeed little diversified, practically colourless, invariably cast in a mould fashioned by chemists of olden times; it was still drivelling away, still clinging to its old alembics, when the Romantic epoch dawned and, no less than the other arts, modified it, rejuvenated it, made it more malleable and more supple. Its history followed that of the French language step by step. The Louis XIII style in perfumery, composed of the elements dear to that period – orris-powder, musk, civet and myrtle-water, already known by the name of angel-water – was scarcely adequate to express the cavalierish graces, the rather crude colours of the time which certain sonnets by Saint-Amand have preserved for us. Later on, with the aid of myrrh and frankincense, the potent and austere scents of religion, it became almost possible to render the stately pomp of the age of Louis XIV, the pleonastic artifices of classical oratory, the ample, sustained, wordy style of Bossuet and the other masters of the pulpit. Later still, the blasé, sophisticated graces of French society under Louis XV found their interpreters more easily in frangipane and _maréchale_ , which offered in a way the very synthesis of the period. And then, after the indifference and incuriosity of the First Empire, which used eau-de-Cologne and rosemary to excess, perfumery followed Victor Hugo and Gautier and went for inspiration to the lands of the sun; it composed its own Oriental verses, its own highly spiced salaams, discovered new intonations and audacious antitheses, sorted out and revived forgotten nuances which it complicated, subtilized and paired off, and in short resolutely repudiated the voluntary decrepitude to which it had been reduced by its Malesherbes, its Boileaus, its Andrieux, its Baour-Lormians, the vulgar distillers of its poems. But the language of scents had not remained stationary since the 1830 epoch. It had continued to develop, had followed the march of the century, had advanced side-by-side with the other arts. Like them, it had adapted itself to the whims of artists and connoisseurs, joining in the cult of things Chinese and Japanese, inventing scented albums, imitating the flower-posies of Takeoka, mingling lavender and clove to produce the perfume of the Rondeletia, marrying patchouli and camphor to obtain the singular aroma of China ink, combining citron, clove and neroli to arrive at the odour of the Japanese Hovenia. Des Esseintes studied and analysed the spirit of these compounds and worked on an interpretation of these texts; for his own personal pleasure and satisfaction he took to playing the psychologist, to dismantling the mechanism of a work and reassembling it, to unscrewing the separate pieces forming the structure of a composite odour, and as a result of these operations his sense of smell had acquired an almost infallible flair. Just as a wine-merchant can recognize a vintage from the taste of a single drop; just as a hop-dealer, the moment he sniffs at a sack, can fix the precise value of the contents; just as a Chinese trader can tell at once the place of origin of the teas he has to examine, can say on what estate in the Bohea hills or in what Buddhist monastery each sample was grown and when the leaves were picked, can state precisely the degree of torrefaction involved and the effect produced on the tea by contact with plum blossom, with the Aglaia, with the Olea fragrans, indeed with any of the perfumes used to modify its flavour, to give it an unexpected piquancy, to improve its somewhat dry smell with a whiff of fresh and foreign flowers; so Des Esseintes, after one brief sniff at a scent, could promptly detail the amounts of its constituents, explain the psychology of its composition, perhaps even give the name of the artist who created it and marked it with the personal stamp of his style. It goes without saying that he possessed a collection of all the products used by perfumers; he even had some of the genuine Balsam of Mecca, a balm so rare that it can be obtained only in certain regions of Arabia Petraea and remains a monopoly of the Grand Turk. Sitting now at his dressing-room table, he was toying with the idea of creating a new _bouquet_ when he was afflicted with that sudden hesitation so familiar to writers who, after months of idleness, make ready to embark on a new work. Like Balzac, who was haunted by an absolute compulsion to blacken reams of paper in order to get his hand in, Des Esseintes felt that he ought to get back into practice with a few elementary exercises. He thought of making some heliotrope and picked up two bottles of almond and vanilla; then he changed his mind and decided to try sweet pea instead. The relevant formula and working method escaped his memory, so that he had to proceed by trial and error. He knew, of course, that in the fragrance of this particular flower, orange-blossom was the dominant element; and after trying various combinations he finally hit on the right tone by mixing the orange-blossom with tuberose and rose, binding the three together with a drop of vanilla. All his uncertainty vanished; a little fever of excitement took hold of him and he felt ready to set to work again. First he made some tea with a compound of cassia and iris; then, completely sure of himself, he resolved to go ahead, to strike a reverberating chord whose majestic thunder would drown the whisper of that artful frangipane which was still stealing stealthily into the room. He handled, one after the other, amber, Tonquin musk, with its overpowering smell, and patchouli, the most pungent of all vegetable perfumes, whose flower, in its natural state, gives off an odour of mildew and mould. Do what he would, however, visions of the eighteenth century haunted him: gowns with panniers and flounces danced before his eyes; Boucher Venuses, all flesh and no bone, stuffed with pink cotton-wool, looked down at him from every wall; memories of the novel _Thémidore_ , and especially of the exquisite Rosette with her skirts hoisted up in blushing despair, pursued him. He sprang to his feet in a fury, and to rid himself of these obsessions he filled his lungs with that unadulterated essence of spikenard which is so dear to Orientals and so abhorrent to Europeans on account of its excessive valerian content. He was stunned by the violence of the shock this gave him. The filigree of the delicate scent which had been troubling him vanished as if it had been pounded with a hammer; and he took advantage of this respite to escape from past epochs and antiquated odours in order to engage, as he had been used to do in other days, in less restricted and more up-to-date operations. At one time he had enjoyed soothing his spirit with scented harmonies. He would use effects similar to those employed by the poets, following as closely as possible the admirable arrangement of certain poems by Baudelaire such as _L'Irréparable_ and _Le Balcon_ , in which the last of the five lines in each verse echoes the first, returning like a refrain to drown the soul in infinite depths of melancholy and languor. He used to roam haphazardly through the dreams conjured up for him by these aromatic stanzas, until he was suddenly brought back to his starting point, to the motif of his meditation, by the recurrence of the initial theme, reappearing at fixed intervals in the fragrant orchestration of the poem. At present his ambition was to wander at will across a landscape full of changes and surprises, and he began with a simple phrase that was ample and sonorous, suddenly opening up an immense vista of countryside. With his vaporizers he injected into the room an essence composed of ambrosia, Mitcham lavender, sweet pea and other flowers – an extract which, when it is distilled by a true artist, well merits the name it has been given of 'extract of meadow blossoms'. Then into this meadow he introduced a carefully measured amalgam of tuberose, orange and almond blossom; and immediately artificial lilacs came into being, while linden-trees swayed in the wind, shedding on the ground about them their pale emanations, counterfeited by the London extract of tilia. Once he had roughed out this background in its main outlines, so that it stretched away into the distance behind his closed eyelids, he sprayed the room with a light rain of essences that were half-human, half-feline, smacking of the petticoat, indicating the presence of woman in her paint and powder – stephanotis, ayapana, opopanax, chypre, champaka and schoenanthus – on which he superimposed a dash of syringa, to give the factitious, cosmetic, indoor life they evoked the natural appearance of laughing, sweating, rollicking pleasures out in the sun. Next he let these fragrant odours escape through a ventilator, keeping only the country scent, which he renewed, increasing the dose so as to force it to return like a ritornel at the end of each stanza. The women he had conjured up had gradually disappeared, and the countryside was once more uninhabited. Then, as if by magic, the horizon was filled with factories, whose fearsome chimneys belched fire and flame like so many bowls of punch. A breath of industry, a whiff of chemical products now floated on the breeze he raised by fanning the air, though Nature still poured her sweet effluvia into this foul-smelling atmosphere. Des Esseintes was rubbing a pellet of styrax between his fingers, warming it so that it filled the room with a most peculiar smell, an odour at once repugnant and delightful, blending the delicious scent of the jonquil with the filthy stench of guttapercha and coal tar. He disinfected his hands, shut away his resin in a hermetically sealed box, and the factories disappeared in their turn. Now, in the midst of the revivified effluvia of linden-trees and meadow flowers, he sprinkled a few drops of the perfume 'New-mown Hay', and on the magic spot momentarily stripped of its lilacs there rose piles of hay, bringing a new season with them, spreading summer about them in these delicate emanations. Finally, when he had sufficiently savoured this spectacle, he frantically scattered exotic perfumes around him, emptied his vaporizers, quickened all his concentrated essences and gave free rein to all his balms, with the result that the suffocating room was suddenly filled with an insanely sublimated vegetation, emitting powerful exhalations, impregnating an artificial breeze with raging alcoholates – an unnatural yet charming vegetation, paradoxically uniting tropical spices such as the pungent odours of Chinese sandalwood and Jamaican hediosmia with French scents such as jasmine, hawthorn and vervain; defying climate and season to put forth trees of different smells and flowers of the most divergent colours and fragrances; creating out of the union or collision of all these tones one common perfume, unnamed, unexpected, unusual, in which there reappeared, like a persistent refrain, the decorative phrase he had started with, the smell of the great meadow and the swaying lilacs and linden-trees. All of a sudden he felt a sharp stab of pain, as if a drill were boring into his temples. He opened his eyes, to find himself back in the middle of his dressing-room, sitting at his table; he got up and, still in a daze, stumbled across to the window, which he pushed ajar. A gust of air blew in and freshened up the stifling atmosphere that enveloped him. He walked up and down to steady his legs, and as he went to and fro he looked up at the ceiling, on which crabs and salt-encrusted seaweed stood out in relief against a grained background as yellow as the sand on a beach. A similar design adorned the plinths bordering the wall panels, which in their turn were covered with Japanese crape, a watery green in colour and slightly crumpled to imitate the surface of a river rippling in the wind, while down the gentle current floated a rose petal round which there twisted and turned a swarm of little fishes sketched in with a couple of strokes of the pen. But his eyes were still heavy, and so he stopped pacing the short distance between font and bath and leaned his elbows on the window-sill. Soon his head cleared, and after carefully putting the stoppers back in all his scent-bottles, he took the opportunity to tidy up his cosmetic preparations. He had not touched these things since his arrival at Fontenay, and he was almost surprised to see once again this collection to which so many women had had recourse. Phials and jars were piled on top of each other in utter confusion. Here was a box of green porcelain containing schnouda, that marvellous white cream which, once it is spread on the cheeks, changes under the influence of the air to a delicate pink, then to a flesh colour so natural that it produces an entirely convincing illusion of a flushed complexion; there, lacquered jars inlaid with mother-of-pearl held Japanese gold and Athens green the colour of a blisterfly's wing, golds and greens that turn dark crimson as soon as they are moistened. And beside pots of filbert paste, of harem serkis, of Kashmir-lily emulsions, of strawberry and elderberry lotions for the skin, next to little bottles full of China-ink and rose-water solutions for the eyes, lay an assortment of instruments fashioned out of ivory and mother-of-pearl, silver and steel, mixed up with lucern brushes for the gums – pincers, scissors, strigils, stumps, hair-pads, powder-puffs, back-scratchers, beauty-spots and files. He poked around among all this apparatus, bought long ago to please a mistress of his who used to go into raptures over certain aromatics and certain balms – an unbalanced, neurotic woman who loved to have her nipples macerated in scent, but who only really experienced complete and utter ecstasy when her scalp was scraped with a comb or when a lover's caresses were mingled with the smell of soot, of wet plaster from houses being built in rainy weather, or of dust thrown up by heavy rain-drops in a summer thunderstorm. As he mused over these recollections, one memory in particular haunted him, stirring up a forgotten world of old thoughts and ancient perfumes – the memory of an afternoon he had spent with this woman at Pantin, partly for want of anything better to do and partly out of curiosity, at the house of one of her sisters. While the two women were chattering away and showing each other their frocks, he had gone to the window and, through the dusty panes, had seen the muddy street stretching into the distance and heard it echo with the incessant beat of galoshes tramping through the puddles. This scene, though it belonged to a remote past, suddenly presented itself to him in astonishing detail. Pantin was there before him, bustling and alive in the dead green water of the moon-rimmed mirror into which his unthinking gaze was directed. An hallucination carried him away far from Fontenay; the looking-glass conjured up for him not only the Pantin street but also the thoughts that street had once evoked; and lost in a dream, he said over to himself the ingenious, melancholy, yet consoling anthem he had composed that day on getting back to Paris: 'Yes, the season of the great rains is upon us; hearken to the song of the gutter-pipes retching under the pavements; behold the horse-dung floating in the bowls of coffee hollowed out of the macadam; everywhere the foot-baths of the poor are overflowing. 'Under the lowering sky, in the humid atmosphere, the houses ooze black sweat and their ventilators breathe foul odours; the horror of life becomes more apparent and the grip of spleen more oppressive; the seeds of iniquity that lie in every man's heart begin to germinate; a craving for filthy pleasures takes hold of the puritanical, and the minds of respected citizens are visited by criminal desires. 'And yet here I am, warming myself in front of a blazing fire, while a basket of full-blown flowers on the table fills the room with the scent of benzoin, geranium and vetiver. In mid-November it is still springtime at Pantin in the Rue de Paris, and I can enjoy a quiet laugh at the expense of those timorous families who, in order to avoid the approach of winter, scuttle away at full speed to Antibes or to Cannes. 'Inclement Nature has nothing to do with this extraordinary phenomenon; let it be said at once that it is to industry, and industry alone, that Pantin owes this factitious spring. 'The truth is that these flowers are made of taffeta and mounted on binding wire, while this vernal fragrance has come filtering in through cracks in the window-frame from the neighbouring factories where the Pinaud and St James perfumes are made. 'For the artisan worn out by the hard labour of the workshops, for the little clerk blessed with too many offspring, the illusion of enjoying a little fresh air is a practical possibility – thanks to these manufacturers. 'Indeed, out of this fabulous counterfeit of the countryside a sensible form of medical treatment could be developed. At present, gay dogs suffering from consumption who are carted away to the south generally die down there, finished off by the change in their habits, by their nostalgic longing for the Parisian pleasures that have laid them low. Here, in an artificial climate maintained by open stoves, their lecherous memories would come back to them in a mild and harmless form, as they breathed in the languid feminine emanations given off by the scent factories. By means of this innocent deception, the physician could supply his patient platonically with the atmosphere of the boudoirs and brothels of Paris, in place of the deadly boredom of provincial life. More often than not, all that would be needed to complete the cure would be for the sick man to show a little imagination. 'Seeing that nowadays there is nothing wholesome left in this world of ours; seeing that the wine we drink and the freedom we enjoy are equally adulterate and derisory; and finally, seeing that it takes a considerable degree of goodwill to believe that the governing classes are worthy of respect and that the lower classes are worthy of help or pity, it seems to me,' concluded Des Esseintes, 'no more absurd or insane to ask of my fellow men a sum total of illusion barely equivalent to that which they expend every day on idiotic objects, to persuade themselves that the town of Pantin is an artificial Nice, a factitious Menton.' 'All that,' he muttered, interrupted in his reflections by a sudden feeling of faintness, 'doesn't alter the fact that I shall have to beware of these delicious, atrocious experiments, which are just wearing me out.' He heaved a sigh. 'Ah, well, that means more pleasures to cut down on, more precautions to take!' – and he shut himself up in his study, hoping that there he would find it easier to escape from the obsessive influence of all these perfumes. He threw the window wide open, delighted to take a bath of fresh air; but suddenly it struck him that the breeze was bringing with it a whiff of bergamot oil, mingled with a smell of jasmine, cassia and rose-water. He gave a gasp of horror, and began to wonder whether he might not be in the grip of one of those evil spirits they used to exorcize in the Middle Ages. Meanwhile the odour, though just as persistent, underwent a change. A vague scent of tincture of Tolu, Peruvian balsam and saffron, blended with a few drops of musk and amber, now floated up from the sleeping village at the foot of the hill; then all at once the metamorphosis took place, these scattered whiffs of perfume came together, and the familiar scent of frangipane, the elements of which his sense of smell had detected and recognized, spread from the valley of Fontenay all the way to the Fort, assailing his jaded nostrils, shaking anew his shattered nerves and throwing him into such a state of prostration that he fell fainting, almost dying, across the window-sill. ## CHAPTER 11 The frightened servants immediately sent for the Fontenay doctor, who was completely baffled by Des Esseintes's condition. He muttered a few medical terms, felt the patient's pulse, examined his tongue, tried in vain to get him to talk, ordered sedatives and rest and promised to come back the next day. But at this Des Esseintes summoned up enough strength to reprove his servants for their excessive zeal and to dismiss the intruder, who went off to tell the whole village about the house, the eccentric furnishings of which had left him dumbfounded and flabbergasted. To the amazement of the two domestics, who now no longer dared to budge from the pantry, their master recovered in a day or two; and they came upon him drumming on the windowpanes and casting anxious glances at the sky. And then, one afternoon, he rang for them and gave orders that his bags were to be packed for a long journey. While the old man and his wife hunted out the things he said he would need, he paced feverishly up and down the cabin-style dining-room, consulted the timetables of the Channel steamers and scrutinized the clouds from his study window with an impatient yet satisfied air. For the past week, the weather had been atrocious. Sooty rivers flowing across the grey plains of the sky carried along an endless succession of clouds, like so many boulders torn out of the earth. Every now and then there would be a sudden downpour, and the valley would disappear under torrents of rain. But that particular day, the sky had changed in appearance: the floods of ink had dried up, the clouds had lost their rugged outlines and the heavens were now covered with a flat, opaque film. This film seemed to be falling ever lower, and at the same time the countryside was enveloped in a watery mist; the rain no longer cascaded down as it had done the day before, but fell in a fine, cold, unrelenting spray, swamping the lanes, submerging the roads, joining heaven and earth with its countless threads. Daylight in the village dimmed to a ghastly twilight, while the village itself looked like a lake of mud, speckled by the quicksilver needles of rain pricking the surface of the slimy puddles. From this desolate scene all colour had faded away, leaving only the roofs to glisten brightly above the supporting walls. 'What terrible weather!' sighed the old man-servant, as he laid on a chair the clothes his master had asked for, a suit ordered some time before from London. Des Esseintes made no reply except to rub his hands and sit down before a glass-fronted bookcase in which a collection of silk socks was displayed in the form of a fan. For a few moments he hesitated between the various shades; then, taking into account the cheerless day, his cheerless clothes and his cheerless destination, he picked out a pair in a drab silk and quickly pulled them on. They were followed by the suit, a mottled check in mouse grey and lava grey, a pair of laced ankle-boots, a little bowler hat and a flax-blue Inverness cape. In this attire, and accompanied by his man-servant, who was bent under the burden of a trunk, an expanding valise, a carpet-bag, a hat-box, and a bundle of sticks and umbrellas rolled up in a travelling-rug, he made his way to the station. There, he told his man that he could not say definitely when he would be back – in a year perhaps, or a month, or a week, or even sooner; gave instructions that during his absence nothing in the house should be moved or changed; handed over enough money to cover household expenses; and got into the train, leaving the bewildered old man standing awkward and agape behind the barrier. He was alone in his compartment. Through the rain-swept windows the countryside flashing past looked blurred and dingy, as if he were seeing it through an aquarium full of murky water. Closing his eyes, Des Esseintes gave himself up to his thoughts. Once again, he told himself, the solitude he had longed for so ardently and finally obtained had resulted in appalling unhappiness, while the silence which he had once regarded as well-merited compensation for the nonsense he had listened to for years now weighed unbearably upon him. One morning, he had woken up feeling as desperate as a man who finds himself locked in a prison cell; his lips trembled when he tried to speak, his eyes filled with tears and he choked and spluttered like someone who has been weeping for hours. Possessed by a sudden desire to move about, to look upon a human face, to talk to some other living creature, and to share a little in the life of ordinary folk, he actually summoned his servants on some pretext or other and asked them to stay with him. But conversation was impossible, for apart from the fact that years of silence and sick-room routine had practically deprived the two old people of the power of speech, their master's habit of keeping them at a distance was scarcely calculated to loosen their tongues. In any event, they were a dull-witted pair, and quite incapable of answering a question in anything but monosyllables. Scarcely had Des Esseintes realized that they could offer him no solace or relief than he was disturbed by a new phenomenon. The works of Dickens, which he had recently read in the hope of soothing his nerves, but which had produced the opposite effect, slowly began to act upon him in an unexpected way, evoking visions of English life which he contemplated for hours on end. Then, little by little, an idea insinuated itself into his mind – the idea of turning dream into reality, of travelling to England in the flesh as well as in the spirit, of checking the accuracy of his visions; and this idea was allied with a longing to experience new sensations and thus afford some relief to a mind dizzy with hunger and drunk with fantasy. The abominably foggy and rainy weather fostered these thoughts by reinforcing the memories of what he had read, by keeping before his eyes the picture of a land of mist and mud, and by preventing any deviation from the direction his desires had taken. Finally he could stand it no longer, and he had suddenly decided to go. Indeed, he was in such a hurry to be off that he fled from home with hours to spare, eager to escape into the future and to plunge into the hurly-burly of the streets, the hubbub of crowded stations. 'Now at last I can breathe,' he said to himself, as the train waltzed to a stop under the dome of the Paris terminus, dancing its final pirouettes to the staccato accompaniment of the turn-tables. Once out in the street, on the Boulevard d'Enfer, he hailed a cab, rather enjoying the sensation of being cluttered up with trunks and travelling-rugs. The cabby, resplendent in nut-brown trousers and scarlet waistcoat, was promised a generous tip, and this helped the two men to reach a speedy understanding. 'You'll be paid by the hour,' said Des Esseintes; and then, remembering that he wanted to buy a copy of Baedeker's or Murray's Guide to London, he added: 'When you get to the Rue de Rivoli, stop outside _Galignani's Messenger_.' The cab lumbered off, its wheels throwing up showers of slush. The roadway was nothing but a swamp; the clouds hung so low that the sky seemed to be resting on the rooftops; the walls were streaming with water from top to bottom; the gutters were full to overflowing; and the pavements were coated with a slippery layer of mud the colour of gingerbread. As the omnibuses swept by, groups of people on the pavement stood still, and women holding their umbrellas low and their skirts high flattened themselves against the shopwindows to avoid being splashed. The rain was slanting in at the windows, so that Des Esseintes had to pull up the glass; this was quickly streaked with trickles of water, while clots of mud spurted up from all sides of the cab like sparks from a firework. Lulled by the monotonous sound of the rain beating down on his trunks and on the carriage roof, like sacks of peas being emptied out over his head, Des Esseintes began dreaming of his coming journey. The appalling weather struck him as an instalment of English life paid to him on account in Paris; and his mind conjured up a picture of London as an immense, sprawling, rain-drenched metropolis, stinking of soot and hot iron, and wrapped in a perpetual mantle of smoke and fog. He could see in imagination a line of dockyards stretching away into the distance, full of cranes, capstans and bales of merchandise, and swarming with men – some perched on the masts and sitting astride the yards, while hundreds of others, their heads down and bottoms up, were trundling casks along the quays and into the cellars. All this activity was going on in warehouses and on wharves washed by the dark, slimy waters of an imaginary Thames, in the midst of a forest of masts, a tangle of beams and girders piercing the pale, lowering clouds. Up above, trains raced by at full speed; and down in the underground sewers, others rumbled along, occasionally emitting ghastly screams or vomiting floods of smoke through the gaping mouths of air-shafts. And meanwhile, along every street, big or small, in an eternal twilight relieved only by the glaring infamies of modern advertising, there flowed an endless stream of traffic between two columns of earnest, silent Londoners, marching along with eyes fixed ahead and elbows glued to their sides. Des Esseintes shuddered with delight at feeling himself lost in this terrifying world of commerce, immersed in this isolating fog, involved in this incessant activity, and caught up in this ruthless machine which ground to powder millions of poor wretches – outcasts of fortune whom philanthropists urged, by way of consolation, to sing psalms and recite verses of the Bible. But then the vision vanished as the cab suddenly jolted him up and down on the seat. He looked out of the windows and saw that night had fallen; the gas lamps were flickering in the fog, each surrounded by its dirty yellow halo, while strings of lights seemed to be swimming in the puddles and circling the wheels of the carriages that jogged along through a sea of filthy liquid fire. Des Esseintes tried to see where he was and caught sight of the Arc du Carrousel; and at that very moment, for no reason except perhaps as a reaction from his recent imaginative flights, his mind fixed on the memory of an utterly trivial incident. He suddenly remembered that, when the servant had packed his bags under his supervision, the man had forgotten to put a toothbrush with his other toilet necessaries. He mentally reviewed the list of belongings which had been packed and found that everything else had been duly fitted into his portmanteau; but his annoyance at having left his toothbrush behind persisted until the cabby drew up and so broke the chain of his reminiscences and regrets. He was now in the Rue de Rivoli, outside _Galignani's Messenger_. There, on either side of a frosted-glass door whose panels were covered with lettering and with newspaper-cuttings and blue telegram-forms framed in passe-partout, were two huge windows crammed with books and picture-albums. He went up to them, attracted by the sight of books bound in paper boards coloured butcher's-blue or cabbage-green and decorated along the seams with gold and silver flowers, as well as others covered in cloth dyed nut-brown, leek-green, lemon-yellow or currant-red, and stamped with black lines on the back and sides. All this had an un-Parisian air about it, a mercantile flavour, coarser yet less contemptible than the impression produced by cheap French bindings. Here and there, among open albums showing comic scenes by Du Maurier or John Leech and chromos of wild cross-country gallops by Caldecott, a few French novels were in fact to be seen, tempering this riot of brilliant colours with the safe, stolid vulgarity of their covers. Eventually, tearing himself away from this display, Des Esseintes pushed open the door and found himself in a vast bookshop crowded with people, where women sat unfolding maps and jabbering to each other in strange tongues. An assistant brought him an entire collection of guidebooks, and he in turn sat down to examine these volumes, whose flexible covers bent between his fingers. Glancing through them, he was suddenly struck by a page of Baedeker describing the London art-galleries. The precise, laconic details given by the guide aroused his interest, but before long his attention wandered from the older English paintings to the modern works, which appealed to him more strongly. He remembered certain examples he had seen at international exhibitions and thought that he might well come across them in London – pictures by Millais such as _The Eve of St Agnes_ , with its moonlight effect of silvery-green tones; and weirdly coloured pictures by Watts, speckled with gamboge and indigo, and looking as if they had been sketched by an ailing Gustave Moreau, painted in by an anaemic Michael Angelo and retouched by a romantic Raphael. Among other canvases he remembered a _Curse of Cain_ , an _Ida_ and more than one _Eve_ , in which the strange and mysterious amalgam of these three masters was informed by the personality, at once coarse and refined, of a dreamy, scholarly Englishman afflicted with a predilection for hideous hues. All these paintings were crowding into his memory when the shop-assistant, surprised to see a customer sitting daydreaming at a table, asked him which of the guidebooks he had chosen. For a moment Des Esseintes could not remember where he was, but then, with a word of apology for his absentmindedness, he bought a Baedeker and left the shop. Outside, he found it bitterly cold and wet, for the wind was blowing across the street and lashing the arcades with rain. 'Drive over there,' he told the cabby, pointing to a shop at the very end of the gallery, on the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue Castiglione, which with its brightly lit windows looked like a gigantic night-light burning cheerfully in the pestilential fog. This was the Bodega. The sight which greeted Des Esseintes as he went in was of a long, narrow hall, its roof supported by cast-iron pillars and its walls lined with great casks standing upright on barrel-horses. Hooped with iron, girdled with a sort of pipe-rack in which tulip-shaped glasses hung upside-down and fitted at the bottom with an earthenware spigot, these barrels bore, besides a royal coat of arms, a coloured card giving details of the vintage they contained, the amount of wine they held and the price of that wine by the hogshead, by the bottle and by the glass. In the passage which was left free between these rows of barrels, under the hissing gas-jets of an atrocious iron-grey chandelier, there stood a line of tables loaded with baskets of Palmer's biscuits and stale, salty cakes, and plates heaped with mince-pies and sandwiches whose tasteless exteriors concealed burning mustard-plasters. These tables, with chairs arranged on both sides, stretched to the far end of this cellar-like room, where still more hogsheads could be seen stacked against the walls, with smaller branded casks lying on top of them. The smell of alcohol assailed Des Esseintes' nostrils as he took a seat in this dormitory for strong wines. Looking around him, he saw on one side a row of great casks with labels listing the entire range of ports, light or heavy in body, mahogany or amaranthine in colour, and distinguished by laudatory titles such as 'Old Port', 'Light Delicate', 'Cockburn's Very Fine' and 'Magnificent Old Regina'; and on the other side, standing shoulder to shoulder and rounding their formidable bellies, enormous barrels containing the martial wine of Spain in all its various forms, topaz-coloured sherries light and dark, sweet and dry – San Lucar, Vino de Pasto, Pale Dry, Oloroso and Amontillado. The cellar was packed to the doors. Leaning his elbow on the corner of a table, Des Esseintes sat waiting for the glass of port he had ordered of a barman busy opening explosive, eggshaped soda-bottles that looked like giant-sized capsules of gelatine or gluten such as chemists use to mask the taste of their more obnoxious medicines. All around him were swarms of English people. There were pale, gangling clergymen with clean-shaven chins, round spectacles and greasy hair, dressed in black from head to foot – soft hats at one extremity, laced shoes at the other and in between, incredibly long coats with little buttons running down the front. There were laymen with bloated pork-butcher faces or bulldog muzzles, apoplectic necks, ears like tomatoes, winy cheeks, stupid bloodshot eyes and whiskery collars as worn by some of the great apes. Further away, at the far end of the wine-shop, a tow-haired stick of a man with a chin sprouting white hairs like an artichoke, was using a microscope to decipher the minute print of an English newspaper. And facing him was a sort of American naval officer, stout and stocky, swarthy and bottle-nosed, a cigar stuck in the hairy orifice of his mouth, and his eyes sleepily contemplating the framed champagne advertisements on the walls – the trademarks of Perrier and Roederer, Heidsieck and Mumm, and the hooded head of a monk identified in Gothic lettering as Dom Pérignon of Reims. Des Esseintes began to feel somewhat stupefied in this heavy guard-room atmosphere. His senses dulled by the monotonous chatter of these English people talking to one another, he drifted into a daydream, calling to mind some of Dickens's characters, who were so partial to the rich red port he saw in glasses all about him, and peopling the cellar in fancy with a new set of customers – imagining here Mr Wickfield's white hair and ruddy complexion, there the sharp, expressionless features and unfeeling eyes of Mr Tulkinghorn, the grim lawyer of _Bleak House_. These characters stepped right out of his memory to take their places in the Bodega, complete with all their mannerisms and gestures, for his recollections, revived by a recent reading of the novels, were astonishingly precise and detailed. The Londoner's home as described by the novelist – well lighted, well heated and well appointed, with bottles being slowly emptied by Little Dorrit, Dora Copperfield or Tom Pinch's sister Ruth – appeared to him in the guise of a cosy ark sailing snugly through a deluge of soot and mire. He settled down comfortably in this London of the imagination, happy to be indoors, and believing for a moment that the dismal hootings of the tugs by the bridge behind the Tuileries were coming from boats on the Thames. But his glass was empty now; and despite the warm fug in the cellar and the added heat from the smoke of pipes and cigars, he shivered slightly as he came back to reality and the foul, dank weather. He asked for a glass of Amontillado, but at the sight of this pale dry wine, the English author's soothing stories and gentle lenitives gave place to the harsh revulsives and painful irritants provided by Edgar Allan Poe. The spine-chilling nightmare of the cask of Amontillado, the story of the man walled up in an underground chamber, took hold of his imagination; and behind the kind, ordinary faces of the American and English customers in the Bodega he fancied he could detect foul, uncontrollable desires, dark and odious schemes. But then he suddenly noticed that the place was emptying and that it was almost time for dinner; he paid his bill, got slowly to his feet and in a slight daze made for the door. The moment he set foot outside, he got a wet slap in the face from the weather. Swamped by the driving rain, the street lamps flickered feebly instead of shedding a steady light, while the sky seemed to have been taken down a few pegs, so that the clouds now hung below roof level. Des Esseintes looked along the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, bathed in shadow and moisture, and imagined that he was standing in the dismal tunnel beneath the Thames. But sharp pangs of hunger recalled him to reality, and going back to the cab, he gave the driver the address of the tavern in the Rue d'Amsterdam, by the Gare Saint-Lazare. It was now seven o'clock by his watch: he had just time enough to dine before catching his train, which was due to leave at eight-fifty. He worked out how long the crossing from Dieppe to Newhaven would take, added up the hours on his fingers and finally told himself: 'If the times given in the guide are correct, I shall arrive in London dead on twelve-thirty tomorrow afternoon.' The cab came to a stop in front of the tavern. Once again Des Esseintes got out, and made his way into a long hall, decorated with brown paint instead of the usual gilt mouldings, and divided by means of breast-high partitions into a number of compartments, rather like the loose-boxes in a stable. In this narrow room, which broadened out near the door, a line of beer-pulls stood at attention along a counter spread with hams as brown as old violins, lobsters the colour of red lead, and salted mackerel, as well as slices of onion, raw carrot and lemon, bunches of bay-leaves and thyme, juniper berries and peppercorns swimming in a thick sauce. One of the boxes was empty. He took possession of it and hailed a young man in a black coat, who treated him to a ceremonious bow and a flow of incomprehensible words. While the table was being laid, Des Esseintes inspected his neighbours. As at the Bodega, he saw a crowd of islanders with china-blue eyes, crimson complexions and earnest or arrogant expressions, skimming through foreign newspapers; but here there were a few women dining in pairs without male escorts, robust Englishwomen with boyish faces, teeth as big as palette-knives, cheeks as red as apples, long hands and long feet. They were enthusiastically attacking helpings of rump-steak pie – meat served hot in mushroom sauce and covered with a crust like a fruit tart. The voracity of these hearty trencherwomen brought back with a rush the appetite he had lost so long ago. First, he ordered and enjoyed some thick, greasy oxtail soup; next, he examined the list of fish and asked for a smoked haddock, which also came up to his expectations; and then, goaded on by the sight of other people guzzling, he ate a huge helping of roast beef and potatoes and downed a couple of pints of ale, savouring the musky cowshed flavour of this fine pale beer. His hunger was now almost satisfied. He nibbled a bittersweet chunk of blue Stilton, pecked at a rhubarb tart and then, to make a change, quenched his thirst with porter, that black beer which tastes of liquorice with the sugar extracted. He drew a deep breath: not for years had he stuffed and swilled with such abandon. It was, he decided, the change in his habits together with the choice of strange and satisfying dishes which had roused his stomach from its stupor. He settled contentedly in his chair, lit a cigarette and prepared to enjoy a cup of coffee laced with gin. Outside, the rain was still falling steadily; he could hear it pattering on the glass skylight at the far end of the room and cascading into the water-spouts. Inside, no one stirred; all were dozing like himself over their liqueur glasses, pleasantly conscious that they were in the dry. After a while, their tongues were loosened; and as most of them looked up in the air as they spoke, Des Esseintes concluded that these Englishmen were nearly all discussing the weather. Nobody laughed or smiled, and their suits matched their expressions: all of them were sombrely dressed in grey cheviot with nankin-yellow or blotting-paper-pink stripes. He cast a pleased look at his own clothes, which in colour and cut did not differ appreciably from those worn by the people around him, delighted to find that he was not out of keeping with these surroundings and that superficially at least he could claim to be a naturalized citizen of London. Then he gave a start: what of the time? He consulted his watch; it was ten minutes to eight. He still had nearly half-an-hour to stay where he was, he told himself; and once again he fell to thinking over his plans. In the course of his sedentary life, only two countries had exerted any attraction upon him – Holland and England. He had surrendered to the first of these two temptations; unable to resist any longer, he had left Paris one fine day and visited the cities of the Low Countries, one by one. On the whole, this tour had proved a bitter disappointment to him. He had pictured to himself a Holland such as Teniers and Jan Steen, Rembrandt and Ostade had painted, imagining for his own private pleasure ghettoes swarming with splendid figures as suntanned as cordovan leather, looking forward to stupendous village fairs with never-ending junketings in the country, and expecting to find the patriarchal simplicity and riotous joviality which the old masters had depicted in their works. There was no denying that Haarlem and Amsterdam had fascinated him; the common people, seen in their natural unpolished state and their normal rustic surroundings, were very much like Van Ostade's subjects, with their rowdy, untamed brats and their elephantine old gossips, big-bosomed and potbellied. But there was no sign of wild revelry or domestic drunkenness, and he had to admit that the paintings of the Dutch School exhibited in the Louvre had led him astray. They had in fact served as a spring-board from which he had soared into a dream world of false trails and impossible ambitions, for nowhere in this world had he found the fairyland of which he had dreamt; nowhere had he seen rustic youths and maidens dancing on a village green littered with wine casks, weeping with sheer happiness, jumping for joy and laughing so uproariously that they wet their petticoats and breeches. No, there was certainly nothing of the sort to be seen at present. Holland was just a country like any other, and what was more, a country entirely lacking in simplicity and geniality, for the Protestant faith was rampant there with all its stern hypocrisy and unbending solemnity. Still thinking of this past disappointment, he once more consulted his watch: there were only ten minutes now before his train left. 'It's high time to ask for my bill and go,' he told himself. But the food he had eaten was lying heavy on his stomach, and his whole body felt incapable of movement. 'Come now,' he muttered, trying to screw up his courage. 'Drink the stirrup-cup, and then you must be off.' He poured himself a brandy, and at the same time called for his bill. This was the signal for a black-coated individual to come up with a napkin over one arm and a pencil behind his ear – a sort of majordomo with a bald, eggshaped head, a rough beard shot with grey and a clean-shaven upper lip. He took up a concert-singer's pose, one leg thrown forward, drew a note-book from his pocket, and fixing his gaze on a spot close to one of the hanging chandeliers, he made out the bill without even looking at what he was writing. 'There you are, sir,' he said, tearing a leaf from his pad and handing it to Des Esseintes, who was examining him with unconcealed curiosity, as if he were some rare animal. What an extraordinary creature, he thought, as he surveyed this phlegmatic Englishman, whose hairless lips reminded him, oddly enough, of an American sailor. At that moment the street door opened and some people came in, bringing with them a wet doggy smell. The wind blew clouds of steam back into the kitchen and rattled the unlatched door. Des Esseintes felt incapable of stirring a finger; a soothing feeling of warmth and lassitude was seeping into every limb, so that he could not even lift his hand to light a cigar. 'Get up, man, and go,' he kept telling himself, but these orders were no sooner given than countermanded. After all, what was the good of moving, when a fellow could travel so magnificently sitting in a chair? Wasn't he already in London, whose smells, weather, citizens, food and even cutlery, were all about him? What could he expect to find over there, save fresh disappointments such as he had suffered in Holland? Now he had only just time enough to run across to the station, but an immense aversion for the journey, an urgent longing to remain where he was, came over him with growing force and intensity. Lost in thought, he sat there letting the minutes slip by, thus cutting off his retreat. 'If I went now,' he said to himself, 'I should have to dash up to the barriers and hustle the porters along with my luggage. What a tiresome business it would be!' And once again he told himself: 'When you come to think of it, I've seen and felt all that I wanted to see and feel. I've been steeped in English life ever since I left home, and it would be madness to risk spoiling such unforgettable experiences by a clumsy change of locality. As it is, I must have been suffering from some mental aberration to have thought of repudiating my old convictions, to have rejected the visions of my obedient imagination and to have believed like any ninny that it was necessary, interesting and useful to travel abroad.' He looked at his watch. 'Time to go home,' he said. And this time he managed to get to his feet, left the tavern and told the cabby to drive him back to the Gare de Sceaux. Thence he returned to Fontenay with his trunks, his packages, his portmanteaux, his rugs, his umbrellas and his sticks, feeling all the physical weariness and moral fatigue of a man who has come home after a long and perilous journey. ## CHAPTER 12 During the days that followed his return home, Des Esseintes browsed through the books in his library, and at the thought that he might have been parted from them for a long time he was filled with the same heart-felt satisfaction he would have enjoyed if he had come back to them after a genuine separation. Under the impulse of this feeling, he saw them in a new light, discovering beauties in them he had forgotten ever since he had bought and read them for the first time. Everything indeed – books, bric-à-brac and furniture – acquired a peculiar charm in his eyes. His bed seemed softer in comparison with the pallet he would have occupied in London; the discreet and silent service he got at home delighted him, exhausted as he was by the very thought of the noisy garrulity of hotel waiters; the methodical organization of his daily life appeared more admirable than ever, now that the hazard of travelling was a possibility. He steeped himself once more in this refreshing bath of settled habits, to which artificial regrets added a more bracing and more tonic quality. But it was his books that chiefly engaged his attention. He took them all down from their shelves and examined them before putting them back, to see whether, since his coming to Fontenay, the heat and damp had not damaged their bindings or spotted their precious papers. He began by going through the whole of his Latin library; then he rearranged the specialist works by Archelaus, Albertus Magnus, Raymond Lully and Arnaud de Villanova dealing with the cabbala and the occult sciences; and lastly he checked all his modern books one by one. To his delight he discovered that they had one and all kept dry and were in good condition. This collection had cost him considerable sums of money, for the truth was that he could not bear to have his favourite authors printed on rag-paper, as they were in other people's libraries, with characters like hobnails in a peasant's boots. In Paris in former days, he had had certain volumes set up just for himself and printed on hand-presses by specially hired workmen. Sometimes he would commission Perrin of Lyons, whose slim, clear types were well adapted for archaic reimpressions of old texts; sometimes he would send to England or America for new characters to print works of the present century; sometimes he would apply to a house at Lille which for hundreds of years had possessed a complete fount of Gothic letters; sometimes again he would commandeer the fine old Enschedé printing-works at Haarlem, whose foundry has preserved the stamps and matrices of the so-called _lettres de civilité_. He had done the same with the paper for his books. Deciding one fine day that he was tired of the ordinary expensive papers – silver from China, pearly gold from Japan, white from Whatman's, greyish brown from Holland, buff from Turkey and the Seychal mills – and disgusted with the machine-made varieties, he had ordered special hand-made papers from the old mills at Vire where they still use pestles once employed to crush hemp-seed. To introduce a little variety into his collection, he had at various times imported certain dressed fabrics from London – flock papers and rep papers – while to help mark his contempt for other bibliophiles, a Lübeck manufacturer supplied him with a glorified candle-paper, bluish in colour, noisy and brittle to the touch, in which the straw fibres were replaced by flakes of gold such as you find floating in Danzig brandy. In this way he had got together some unique volumes, always choosing unusual formats and having them clothed by Lortic, by Trautz-Bauzonnet, by Chambolle, by Capé's successors, in irreproachable bindings of old silk, of embossed ox-hide, of Cape goat-skin – all full bindings, patterned and inlaid, lined with tabby or watered silk, adorned in ecclesiastic fashion with metal clasps and corners, sometimes even decorated by Gruel-Engelmann in oxidized silver and shining enamel. Thus he had had Baudelaire's works printed with the admirable episcopal type of the old house of Le Clere, in a large format similar to that of a mass-book, on a very light Japanese felt, a bibulous paper as soft as elder-pith, its milky whiteness faintly tinged with pink. This edition, limited to a single copy and printed in a velvety China-ink black, had been dressed outside and lined inside with a mirific and authentic flesh-coloured pigskin, one in a thousand, dotted all over where the bristles had been and blind-tooled in black with designs of marvellous aptness chosen by a great artist. On this particular day, Des Esseintes took this incomparable volume down from his shelves and fondled it reverently, rereading certain pieces which in this simple but priceless setting seemed to him deeper and subtler than ever. His admiration for this author knew no bounds. In his opinion, writers had hitherto confined themselves to exploring the surface of the soul, or such underground passages as were easily accessible and well lit, measuring here and there the deposits of the seven deadly sins, studying the lie of the lodes and their development, recording for instance, as Balzac did, the stratification of a soul possessed by some monomaniacal passion – ambition or avarice, paternal love or senile lust. Literature, in fact, had been concerned with virtues and vices of a perfectly healthy sort, the regular functioning of brains of a normal conformation, the practical reality of current ideas, with never a thought for morbid depravities and other-worldly aspirations; in short, the discoveries of these analysts of human nature stopped short at the speculations, good or bad, classified by the Church; their efforts amounted to no more than the humdrum researches of a botanist who watches closely the expected development of ordinary flora planted in common or garden soil. Baudelaire had gone further; he had descended to the bottom of the inexhaustible mine, had picked his way along abandoned or unexplored galleries and had finally reached those districts of the soul where the monstrous vegetations of the sick mind flourish. There, near the breeding-ground of intellectual aberrations and diseases of the mind – the mystical tetanus, the burning fever of lust, the typhoids and yellow fevers of crime – he had found, hatching in the dismal forcing-house of _ennui_ , the frightening climacteric of thoughts and emotions. He had laid bare the morbid psychology of the mind that has reached the October of its sensations, and had listed the symptoms of souls visited by sorrow, singled out by spleen; he had shown how blight affects the emotions at a time when the enthusiasms and beliefs of youth have drained away, and nothing remains but the barren memory of hardships, tyrannies and slights, suffered at the behest of a despotic and freakish fate. He had followed every phase of this lamentable autumn, watching the human creature, skilled in self-torment and adept in self-deception, forcing its thoughts to cheat one another in order to suffer more acutely, and ruining in advance, thanks to its powers of analysis and observation, any chance of happiness it might have. Then, out of this irritable sensitivity of soul, out of this bitterness of mind that savagely repulses the embarrassing attentions of friendship, the benevolent insults of charity, he witnessed the gradual and horrifying development of those middle-aged passions, those mature love-affairs where one partner goes on blowing hot when the other has already started blowing cold, where lassitude forces the amorous pair to indulge in filial caresses whose apparent juvenility seems something new, and in motherly embraces whose tenderness is not only restful but also gives rise, so to speak, to interesting feelings of remorse about a vague sort of incest. In a succession of magnificent pages he had exposed these hybrid passions, exacerbated by the impossibility of obtaining complete satisfaction, as well as the dangerous subterfuges of narcotic and toxic drugs, taken in the hope of deadening pain and conquering boredom. In a period when literature attributed man's unhappiness almost exclusively to the misfortunes of unrequited love or the jealousies engendered by adulterous love, he had ignored these childish ailments and sounded instead those deeper, deadlier, longer-lasting wounds that are inflicted by satiety, disillusion and contempt upon souls tortured by the present, disgusted by the past, terrified and dismayed by the future. The more Des Esseintes reread his Baudelaire, the more he appreciated the indescribable charm of this writer who, at a time when verse no longer served any purpose except to depict the external appearance of creatures and things, had succeeded in expressing the inexpressible – thanks to a solid, sinewy style which, more than any other, possessed that remarkable quality, the power to define in curiously healthy terms the most fugitive and ephemeral of the unhealthy conditions of weary spirits and melancholy souls. After Baudelaire, the number of French books that had found their way on to his shelves was very limited. Without a doubt he was utterly insensible to the merits of those works it is good form to enthuse over. The 'side-splitting mirth' of Rabelais and the 'common-sense humour' of Molière had never brought so much as a smile to his lips; and the antipathy he felt to these buffooneries was so great that he did not hesitate to liken them, from the artistic point of view, to the knockabout turns given by the clowns at any country fair. As regards the poetry of past ages, he read very little apart from Villon, whose melancholy ballades he found rather touching, and a few odd bits of D'Aubigné that stirred his blood by the incredible virulence of their apostrophes and their anathemas. As for prose, he had little respect for Voltaire and Rousseau, or even Diderot, whose vaunted 'Salons' struck him as remarkable for the number of moralizing inanities and stupid aspirations they contained. Out of hatred of all this twaddle, he confined his reading almost entirely to the exponents of Christian oratory, to Bourdaloue and Bossuet, whose sonorous and ornate periods greatly impressed him; but he was even fonder of tasting the pith and marrow of stern, strong phrases such as Nicole fashioned in his meditations, and still more Pascal, whose austere pessimism and agonized attrition went straight to his heart. Apart from these few books, French literature, so far as his library was concerned, started at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It fell into two distinct categories, one comprising ordinary profane literature, the other the works of Catholic writers – a very special literature, almost unknown to the general reader, and yet disseminated by enormous, long-established firms to the far corners of the earth. He had summoned up enough courage to explore these literary crypts, and as in the realm of secular literature, he had discovered, underneath a gigantic pile of insipidities, a few works written by true masters. The distinctive characteristic of this literature was the absolute immutability of its ideas and its idiom; just as the Church had perpetuated the primordial form of its sacred objects, so also it had kept intact the relics of its dogmas and piously preserved the reliquary that contained them – the oratorical style of the seventeenth century. As one of its own writers – Ozanam – declared, the Christian idiom had nothing to learn from the language of Rousseau, and should employ exclusively the style used by Bourdaloue and Bossuet. In spite of this declaration, the Church, showing a more tolerant spirit, winked at certain expressions, certain turns of phrase borrowed from the lay language of the same century; and as a result the Catholic idiom had to some extent purged itself of its massive periods, weighed down, especially in Bossuet's case, by the inordinate length of its parentheses, the painful redundancy of its pronouns. But there the concessions had stopped, and indeed any more would doubtless have been superfluous, for with its ballast gone, this prose was quite adequate for the narrow range of subjects to which the Church restricted itself. Incapable of dealing with contemporary life, of making visible and palpable the simplest aspect of creatures and things, and ill fitted to explain the complicated ruses of a brain unconcerned about states of grace, this idiom was none the less excellent in the treatment of abstract subjects. Useful in the discussion of a controversy, in the qualification of a commentary, it also possessed more than any other the necessary authority to state dogmatically the value of a doctrine. Unfortunately, here as everywhere else, an immense army of pedants had invaded the sanctuary and by their ignorance and lack of talent debased its noble and uncompromising dignity. As a crowning disaster, several pious females had decided to try their hands at writing, and maladroit sacristies had joined with silly salons in extolling as works of genius the wretched prattlings of these women. Des Esseintes had been curious enough to read a number of these works, among them those of Madame Swetchine, the Russian general's wife whose house in Paris attracted the most fervent of Catholics. Her writings had filled him with an infinite and overwhelming sense of boredom; they were worse than bad, they were banal; the abiding impression was of a lingering echo from a private chapel in which a clique of sanctimonious snobs could be heard muttering their prayers, asking in whispers for each other's news and repeating with a portentous air a string of commonplaces on politics, the predictions of the barometer and the present state of the weather. But there was worse to come: there was Mrs Augustus Craven, an accredited laureate of the Institut, author of the _Récit d'une Soeur_ as well as of an _Éliane_ and a _Fleurange_ , books which were all greeted with blaring trumpets and rolling organ by the entire apostolic press. Never, no never, had Des Esseintes imagined that it was possible to write such trivial trash. These books were based on such stupid concepts and were written in such a nauseating style that they almost acquired a rare and distinctive personality of their own. In any case, it was not among the female writers that Des Esseintes, who was neither pure in mind nor sentimental by nature, could expect to find a literary niche adapted to his particular tastes. However, he persevered and, with a diligence unaffected by any feeling of impatience, tried his hardest to appreciate the work of the child of genius, the blue-stocking virgin of this group, Eugénie de Guérin. His efforts were in vain: he found it impossible to take to the famous _Journal_ and _Letters_ in which she extols, without any sense of discretion or discrimination, the prodigious talent of a brother who rhymed with such marvellous ingenuity and grace that one must surely go back to the works of Monsieur de Jouy and Monsieur Ecouchard Lebrun to find anything so bold or so original. Try as he might, he could not see what attraction lay in books distinguished by remarks such as these: 'This morning I hung up by papa's bed a cross a little girl gave him yesterday', and 'We are invited tomorrow, Mimi and I, to attend the blessing of a bell at Monsieur Roquier's – a welcome diversion'; or by mention of such momentous events as this: 'I have just hung about my neck a chain bearing a medal of Our Lady which Louise sent me as a safeguard against cholera'; or by poetry of this calibre: 'Oh, what a lovely moonbeam has just fallen on the Gospel I was reading!' – or finally, by observations as subtle and perspicacious as this: 'Whenever I see a man cross himself or take his hat off on passing a crucifix, I say to myself: There goes a Christian.' And so it went on for page after page, without pause, without respite, until Maurice de Guérin died and his sister could launch out into her lamentations, written in a wishy-washy prose dotted here and there with scraps of verse of such pathetic insipidity that Des Esseintes was finally moved to pity. No, in all fairness there was no denying the fact that the Catholic party was not very particular in its choice of protégées, and not very perceptive either. These lymphs it had made so much of and for whom it had exhausted the goodwill of its press, all wrote like convent schoolgirls in a milk-and-water style, all suffered from a verbal diarrhoea no astringent could conceivably check. As a result, Des Esseintes turned his back in horror on these books. Nor did he think it likely that the priestly writers of modern times could offer him sufficient compensation for all his disappointments. These preachers and polemists wrote impeccable French, but in their sermons and books the Christian idiom had ended up by becoming impersonal and stereotyped, a rhetoric in which every movement and pause was predetermined, a succession of periods copied from a single model. All these ecclesiastics, in fact, wrote alike, with a little more or a little less energy or emphasis, so that there was virtually no difference between the grisailles they turned out, whether they were signed by their Lordships Dupanloup or Landriot, La Bouillerie or Gaume, by Dom Guéranger or Father Ratisbonne, by Bishop Freppel or Bishop Perraud, by Father Ravignan or Father Gratry, by the Jesuit Olivain, the Carmelite Dosithée, the Dominican Didon, or the sometime Prior of Saint-Maximin, the Reverend Father Chocarne. Time and again Des Esseintes had told himself that it would need a very genuine talent, a very profound originality, a very firm conviction to thaw this frozen idiom, to animate this communal style that stifled every unconventional idea, that suffocated every audacious opinion. Yet there were one or two authors whose burning eloquence somehow succeeded in melting and moulding this petrified language, and the foremost of these was Lacordaire, one of the few genuine writers the Church had produced in a great many years. Confined, like all his colleagues, within the narrow circle of orthodox speculation; obliged, as they were, to mark time and to consider only such ideas as had been conceived and consecrated by the Fathers of the Church and developed by the great preachers, he none the less managed to pull a bluff, to rejuvenate and almost modify these same ideas, simply by giving them a more personal and lively form. Here and there in his _Conférences de Notre-Dame_ , happy phrases, startling expressions, accents of love, bursts of passion, cries of joy and demonstrations of delight occurred that made the time-honoured style sizzle and smoke under his pen. And then, over and above his oratorical gifts, this brilliant, gentle-hearted monk who had used up all his skill and all his energy in a hopeless attempt to reconcile the liberal doctrines of a modern society with the authoritarian dogmas of the Church, was also endowed with a capacity for fervent affection, for discreet tenderness. Accordingly, the letters he wrote to young men used to contain fond paternal exhortations, smiling reprimands, kindly words of advice, indulgent words of forgiveness. Some of these letters were charming, as when he admitted his greed for love, and others were quite impressive, as when he sustained his correspondents' courage and dissipated their doubts by stating the unshakeable certitude of his own beliefs. In short, this feeling of fatherhood, which under his pen acquired a dainty feminine quality, lent his prose an accent unique in clerical literature. After him, few indeed were the ecclesiastics and monks who showed any signs of individuality. At the very most, there were half-a-dozen pages by his pupil the Abbé Peyreyve that were readable. This priest had left some touching biographical studies of his master, written one or two delightful letters, produced a few articles in a sonorous oratorical style and pronounced a few panegyrics in which the declamatory note was sounded too often. Obviously the Abbé Peyreyve had neither the sensibility nor the fire of Lacordaire; there was too much of the priest in him and too little of the man; and yet now and then his pulpit rhetoric was lit up by striking analogies, by ample, weighty phrases, by well-nigh sublime flights of oratory. But it was only among writers who had not been ordained, among secular authors who were devoted to the Catholic cause and had its interests at heart, that prosaists worthy of attention were to be found. The episcopal style, so feebly handled by the prelates, had acquired new strength and regained some of its old masculine vigour in the hands of the Comte de Falloux. Despite his gentle appearance, this Academician positively oozed venom; the speeches he made in Parliament in 1848 were dull and diffuse, but the articles he contributed to the _Correspondant_ and later published in book form were cruel and biting under their exaggerated surface politeness. Conceived as polemic tirades, they displayed a certain caustic wit and expressed opinions of surprising intolerance. A dangerous controversialist by reason of the traps he laid for his adversaries, and a crafty logician forever outflanking the enemy and taking him by surprise, the Comte de Falloux had also written some penetrating pages on the death of Madame Swetchine, whose correspondence he had edited and whom he revered as a saint. But where the man's temperament really showed itself was in two pamphlets which appeared in 1846 and 1880, the later work bearing the title _L'Unité nationale_. Here, filled with a cold fury, the implacable Legitimist delivered a frontal assault for once, contrary to his usual custom, and by way of peroration fired off this round of abuse at the sceptics: 'As for you, you doctrinaire Utopians who shut your eyes to human nature, you ardent atheists who feed on hatred and delusion, you emancipators of woman, you destroyers of family life, you genealogists of the simian race, you whose name was once an insult in itself, be well content: you will have been the prophets and your disciples will be the pontiffs of an abominable future!' The other pamphlet was entitled _Le Parti catholique_ and was directed against the despotism of the _Univers_ and its editor Veuillot, whom it took care not to mention by name. Here the flank attacks were resumed, with poison concealed in every line of this brochure in which the bruised and battered gentleman answered the kicks of the professional wrestler with scornful sneers. Between them they represented to perfection the two parties in the Church whose differences have always turned to uncompromising hatred. Falloux, the more arrogant and cunning of the two, belonged to that liberal sect which already included both Montalembert and Cochin, both Lacordaire and Broglie; he subscribed wholeheartedly to the principles upheld by the _Correspondant_ , a review which did its best to cover the imperious doctrines of the Church with a varnish of tolerance. Veuillot, a more honest, outspoken man, spurned these subterfuges, unhesitatingly admitted the tyranny of ultramontane dictates, openly acknowledged and invoked the merciless discipline of ecclesiastical dogma. The latter writer had fashioned for the fight a special language which owed something to La Bruyère and something to the working-man living out in the Gros-Caillou. This style, half solemn, half vulgar, and wielded by such a brutal character, had the crushing weight of a life-preserver. An extraordinarily brave and stubborn fighter, Veuillot had used this dreadful weapon to fell free-thinkers and bishops alike, laying about him with all his might, lashing out savagely at his foes whether they belonged to one party or the other. Held in suspicion by the Church, which disapproved of both his contraband idiom and his cut-throat conduct, this religious blackguard had none the less compelled recognition by sheer force of talent, goading the Press on till he had the whole pack at his heels, pummelling them till he drew blood in his _Odeurs de Paris_ , standing up to every attack, kicking himself free of the vile pen-pushers that came snapping and snarling after him. Unfortunately, his undeniable brilliance showed only in a fight; in cold blood, he was just a run-of-the-mill writer. His poems and novels were pitiful; his pungent language lost all its flavour in a peaceful atmosphere; between bouts, the Catholic wrestler was transformed into a dyspeptic old man, wheezing out banal litanies and stammering childish canticles. Stiffer, starchier and statelier was the Church's favourite apologist, the Grand Inquisitor of the Christian idiom, Ozanam. Though he was not easily surprised, Des Esseintes never failed to wonder at the aplomb with which this author spoke of the inscrutable purposes of the Almighty, when he should have been producing evidence for the impossible assertions he was making; with marvellous sangfroid the man would twist events about, contradict, with even greater impudence than the panegyrists of the other parties, the acknowledged facts of history, declare that the Church had never made any secret of the great regard it had for science, describe heresies as foul miasmas and treat Buddhism and all other religions with such contempt that he apologized for sullying Catholic prose by so much as attacking their doctrines. From time to time religious enthusiasm breathed a certain ardour into his oratorical style, under whose icy surface there seethed a current of suppressed violence; in his copious writings on Dante, on St Francis, on the author of the _Stabat_ , on the Franciscan poets, on Socialism, on commercial law, on everything under the sun, he invariably undertook the defence of the Vatican, which he considered incapable of doing wrong, judging every case alike according to the greater or lesser distance separating it from his own. This practice of looking at every question from a single point of view was also followed by that paltry scribbler some people held up as his rival – Netternent. The latter was not quite so strait-laced, and what pretensions he had were social rather than spiritual. Now and again he had actually ventured outside the literary cloister in which Ozanam had shut himself up, and had dipped into various profane works with a view to passing judgement on them. He had groped his way into this unfamiliar realm like a child in a cellar, seeing nothing around him but darkness, perceiving nothing in the gloom but the flame of the taper lighting his way ahead for a little distance. In this total ignorance of the locality, in this absolute obscurity, he had tripped up time and time again. Thus he had spoken of Murger's style as 'carefully chiselled and meticulously polished'; he had said that Hugo sought after what was foul and filthy, and had dared to make comparisons between him and Monsieur de Laprade; he had criticized Delacroix because he broke the rules, and praised Paul Delaroche and the poet Reboul because they seemed to him to have the faith. Des Esseintes could not help shrugging his shoulders over these unfortunate opinions, wrapped up in a dowdy prose-style, the well-worn material of which caught and tore on the corner of every sentence. In another domain, the works of Poujoulat and Genoude, of Montalembert, Nicolas, and Carné failed to awaken any livelier feelings of interest in him; nor was he conscious of any pronounced predilection for the historical problems treated with painstaking scholarship and in a worthy style by the Duc de Broglie, or for the social and religious questions tackled by Henry Cochin – who had, however, given his measure in a letter describing a moving ceremony at the Sacré-Cœur, a taking of the veil. It was years since he had opened any of these books, and even longer since he had thrown away the puerile lucubrations of the sepulchral Pontmartin and the pitiable Féval, and had handed over to the servants for some sordid purpose the little tales of such as Aubineau and Lasserre, those contemptible hagiographers of the miracles performed by Monsieur Dupont of Tours and the Blessed Virgin. In a word, Des Esseintes failed to find in this literature even a passing distraction from his boredom; and so he tucked away in the darkest corners of his library all these books that he had read long ago after leaving the Jesuit college. 'I'd have done better to leave these behind in Paris,' he muttered, as he pulled out from behind the rest two sets of books he found particularly insufferable: the works of the Abbé Lamennais and those of that fanatical bigot, that pompous bore, that conceited ass, Comte Joseph de Maistre. On one shelf, a solitary volume was left standing within his reach, and that was _L'Homme_ , by Ernest Hello. This man was the absolute antithesis of his colleagues in religion. Virtually isolated in the group of devotional writers, who were shocked by the attitudes he adopted, he had ended up by leaving the main road that leads from earth to heaven. Sickened no doubt by the banality of this highway, and by the mob of literary pilgrims who for centuries had been filing along the same road, following in each other's footsteps, stopping in the same spots to exchange the same commonplaces about religion and the Fathers of the Church, about the same beliefs and the same masters, he had turned off into the by-paths, had come out in the bleak forest clearing of Pascal, where he had stopped for quite a time to get his second wind; then he had gone on his way, penetrating deeper than the Jansenist, whom he happened to despise, into the regions of human thought. Full of subtle complexity and pompous affectation, Hello with his brilliant, hair-splitting analyses reminded Des Esseintes of the exhaustive and meticulous studies of some of the atheistic psychologists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There was something of a Catholic Duranty in him, but more dogmatic and perceptive, a practised master of the magnifying-glass, an able engineer of the soul, a skilful watchmaker of the brain, who liked nothing better than to examine the mechanism of a passion and show just how the wheels went round. In this oddly constituted mind of his were to be found the most unexpected associations of thought, the most surprising analogies and contrasts; there was also a curious trick he had of using etymological definitions as a springboard from which to leap in pursuit of fresh ideas, joined together by links that were sometimes rather tenuous but almost invariably original and ingenious. In this way, and in spite of the faulty balance of his constructions, he had taken to pieces, so to speak, with remarkable perspicacity, the miser and the common man, had analysed the liking for company and the passion for suffering, and had revealed the interesting comparisons that can be established between the processes of photography and memory. But this skill in the use of the delicate analytical instrument he had stolen from the Church's enemies represented only one aspect of the man's temperament. There was another person in him, another side to his dual nature – and this was the religious fanatic, the biblical prophet. Like Hugo, whom he recalled at times by the twist he gave to an idea or a phrase, Ernest Hello had loved posing as a little St John on Patmos, only in his case he pontificated and vaticinated from the top of a rock manufactured in the ecclesiastical knick-knack shops of the Rue Saint-Sulpice, haranguing the reader in an apocalyptic style salted here and there with the bitter gall of an Isaiah. On these occasions he displayed exaggerated pretensions to profundity, and there were a few flatterers who hailed him as a genius, pretending to regard him as the great man of his day, the fount of knowledge of his time. And a fount of knowledge he may have been – but one whose waters were often far from clear. In his volume _Paroles de Dieu_ , in which he paraphrased the Scriptures and did his best to complicate their fairly simple message, in his other book _L'Homme_ , and in his pamphlet _Le Jour du Seigneur_ , which was written in an obscure, uneven biblical style, he appeared in the guise of a vindictive apostle, full of pride and bitterness, a mad deacon suffering from mystical epilepsy, a Joseph de Maistre blessed with talent, a cantankerous and ferocious bigot. On the other hand, reflected Des Esseintes, these morbid excesses frequently obstructed ingenious flights of casuistry, for with even greater intolerance than Ozanam, Hello resolutely rejected everything that lay outside his little world, propounded the most astonishing axioms, maintained with disconcerting dogmatism that 'geology had gone back to Moses', that natural history, chemistry, indeed all modern science furnished proof of the scientific accuracy of the Bible; every page spoke of the Church as the sole repository of truth and the source of superhuman wisdom, all this enlivened with startling aphorisms and with furious imprecations spewed out in torrents over the art and literature of the eighteenth century. To this strange mixture was added a love of sugary piety revealed in translations of the _Visions_ of Angela da Foligno, a book of unparalleled stupidity and fluidity, and selections from Jan van Ruysbroeck, a thirteenth-century mystic whose prose presented an incomprehensible but attractive amalgam of gloomy ecstasies, tender raptures and violent rages. All the affectation there was in Hello the bumptious pontiff had come out in a preface he wrote for this book. As he said himself, 'extraordinary things can only be stammered out' – and stammer he did, declaring that 'the sacred obscurity in which Ruysbroeck spreads his eagle's wings is his ocean, his prey, his glory, and for him the four horizons would be too close-fitting a garment'. Be that as it may, Des Esseintes felt drawn to this unbalanced but subtle mind; the fusion of the skilled psychologist with the pious pedant had proved impossible, and these jolts, these incoherences even, constituted the personality of the man. The recruits who joined his standard made up the little group of writers who operated on the colour-line of the clerical camp. They did not belong to the main body of the army; strictly speaking, they were rather the scouts of a religion that distrusted men of talent like Veuillot and Hello, for the simple reason that they were neither servile enough nor insipid enough. What it really wanted was soldiers who never reasoned why, regiments of those purblind mediocrities Hello used to attack with all the ferocity of one who had suffered their tyranny. Accordingly Catholicism had made haste to close the columns of its papers to one of its partisans, Léon Bloy, a savage pamphleteer who wrote in a style at once precious and furious, tender and terrifying, and to expel from its bookshops, as one plague-stricken and unclean, another author who had bawled himself hoarse singing its praises: Barbey d'Aurevilly. Admittedly this latter writer was far too compromising, far too independent a son of the Church. In the long run, the others would always eat humble pie and fall back into line, but he was the _enfant terrible_ the party refused to own, who went whoring through literature and brought his women half-naked into the sanctuary. It was only because of the boundless contempt Catholicism has for all creative talent that an excommunication in due and proper form had not outlawed this strange servant who, under the pretext of doing honour to his masters, broke the chapel windows, juggled with the sacred vessels and performed step-dances round the tabernacle. Two of Barbey d'Aurevilly's works Des Esseintes found particularly enthralling: _Un Prêtre marié_ and _Les Diaboliques_. Others, such as _L'Ensorcelée_ , _Le Chevalier des Touches_ and _Une Vieille Maîtresse_ , were doubtless better balanced and more complete works, but they did not appeal so strongly to Des Esseintes who was really interested only in sickly books, undermined and inflamed by fever. In these comparatively healthy volumes Barbey d'Aurevilly was constantly tacking to and fro between those two channels of Catholic belief which eventually run into one: mysticism and sadism. But in the two books which Des Esseintes was now glancing through, Barbey had thrown caution to the winds, had given rein to his steed, and had ridden full tilt down one road after another, as far as he could go. All the horrific mystery of the Middle Ages brooded over that improbable book _Un Prêtre marié_ ; magic was mixed up with religion, sorcery with prayer; while the God of original sin, more pitiless, more cruel than the Devil, submitted his innocent victim Calixte to uninterrupted torments, branding her with a red cross on the forehead, just as in olden times he had one of his angels mark the houses of the unbelievers he meant to kill. These scenes, like the fantasies of a fasting monk affected with delirium, were unfolded in the disjointed language of a fever patient. But unfortunately, among all the characters galvanized into an unbalanced life like so many Hoffmann Coppelias, there were some, the Néel de Néhou for instance, who seemed to have been imagined in one of those periods of prostration that always follow crises; and they were out of keeping in this atmosphere of melancholy madness, into which they introduced the same note of unintentional humour as is sounded by the little zinc lordling in hunting-boots who stands blowing his horn on the pedestal of so many mantelpiece clocks. After these mystical divagations, Barbey had enjoyed a period of comparative calm, but then a frightening relapse had occurred. The belief that man is an irresolute creature pulled this way and that by two forces of equal strength, alternately winning and losing the battle for his soul; the conviction that human life is nothing more than an uncertain struggle between heaven and hell; the faith in two opposed entities, Satan and Christ – all this was bound to engender those internal discords in which the soul, excited by the incessant fighting, stimulated as it were by the constant promises and threats, ends up by giving in and prostitutes itself to whichever of the two combatants has been the more obstinate in its pursuit. In _Un Prêtre marié_ , it was Christ whose temptations had been successful and whose praises were sung by Barbey d'Aurevilly; but in _Les Diaboliques_ , the author had surrendered to the Devil, and it was Satan he extolled. At this point there appeared on the scene that bastard child of Catholicism which for centuries the Church has pursued with its exorcisms and its _autos-da-fé_ – sadism. This strange and ill-defined condition cannot in fact arise in the mind of an unbeliever. It does not consist simply in riotous indulgence of the flesh, stimulated by bloody acts of cruelty, for in that case it would be nothing more than a deviation of the genetic instincts, a case of satyriasis developed to its fullest extent; it consists first and foremost in a sacrilegious manifestation, in a moral rebellion, in a spiritual debauch, in a wholly idealistic, wholly Christian aberration. There is also something in it of joy tempered by fear, a joy analogous to the wicked delight of disobedient children playing with forbidden things for no other reason than that their parents have expressly forbidden them to go near them. The truth of the matter is that if it did not involve sacrilege, sadism would have no _raison d'être_ ; on the other hand, since sacrilege depends on the existence of a religion, it cannot be deliberately and effectively committed except by a believer, for a man would derive no satisfaction whatever from profaning a faith that was unimportant or unknown to him. The strength of sadism then, the attraction it offers, lies entirely in the forbidden pleasure of transferring to Satan the homage and the prayers that should go to God; it lies in the flouting of the precepts of Catholicism, which the sadist actually observes in topsy-turvy fashion when, in order to offend Christ the more grievously, he commits the sins Christ most expressly proscribed – profanation of holy things and carnal debauch. In point of fact, this vice to which the Marquis de Sade had given his name was as old as the Church itself; the eighteenth century, when it was particularly rife, had simply revived, by an ordinary atavistic process, the impious practices of the witches' sabbath of medieval times – to go no further back in history. Des Esseintes had done no more than dip into the _Malleus Maleficorum_ , that terrible code of procedure of Jacob Sprenger's which permitted the Church to send thousands of necromancers and sorcerers to the stake; but that was enough to enable him to recognize in the witches' sabbath all the obscenities and blasphemies of sadism. Besides the filthy orgies dear to the Evil One – nights devoted alternately to lawful and unnatural copulation, nights befouled by the bestialities of bloody debauch – he found the same parodies of religious processions, the same ritual threats and insults hurled at God, the same devotion to his Rival – as when the Black Mass was celebrated over a woman on all fours whose naked rump, repeatedly soiled, served as the altar, with the priest cursing the bread and wine, and the congregation derisively taking communion in the shape of a black host stamped with a picture of a he-goat. This same outpouring of foul-mouthed jests and degrading insults was to be seen in the works of the Marquis de Sade, who spiced his frightful sensualities with sacrilegious profanities. He would rail at Heaven, invoke Lucifer, call God an abject scoundrel, a crazy idiot, spit on the sacrament of communion, do his best in fact to besmirch with vile obscenities a Divinity he hoped would damn him, at the same time declaring, as a further act of defiance, that that Divinity did not exist. This psychic condition Barbey d'Aurevilly came close to sharing. If he did not go as far as Sade in shouting atrocious curses at the Saviour; if, out of greater caution or greater fear, he always professed to honour the Church, he nonetheless addressed his prayers to the Devil in true medieval fashion, and in his desire to defy the Deity, likewise slipped into demonic erotomania, coining new sensual monstrosities, or even borrowing from _La Philosophie dans le boudoir_ a certain episode which he seasoned with fresh condiments to make the story _Le Dîner d'un athée_. The extraordinary book that contained this tale was Des Esseintes's delight; he had therefore had printed for him in bishop's-purple ink, within a border of cardinal red, on a genuine parchment blessed by the Auditors of the Rota, a copy of _Les Diaboliques_ set up in those _lettres de civilité_ whose peculiar hooks and flourishes, curling up or down, assume a satanic appearance. Not counting certain poems of Baudelaire's which, in imitation of the prayers chanted on the nights of the witches' sabbath, took the form of infernal litanies, this book, among all the works of contemporary apostolic literature, was the only one to reveal that state of mind, at once devout and impious, towards which nostalgic memories of Catholicism, stimulated by fits of neurosis, had often impelled Des Esseintes. With Barbey d'Aurevilly, the series of religious writers came to an end. To tell the truth, this pariah belonged more, from every point of view, to secular literature than to that other literature in which he claimed a place that was denied him. His wild romantic style, for instance, full of twisted expressions, outlandish turns of phrase and far-fetched similes, whipped up his sentences as they galloped across the page, farting and jangling their bells. In short, Barbey looked like a stallion among the geldings that filled the ultramontane stables. Such were Des Esseintes's reflections as he dipped into the book, rereading a passage here and there; and then, comparing the author's vigorous and varied style with the lymphatic, stereotyped style of his fellow writers, he was led to consider that evolution of language so accurately described by Darwin. Closely associated with the secular writers of his time, brought up in the Romantic school, familiar with the latest books and accustomed to reading modern publications, Barbey inevitably found himself in possession of an idiom which had undergone many profound modifications, and which had been largely renovated since the seventeenth century. The very opposite had been the case with the ecclesiastical writers; confined to their own territory, imprisoned within an identical, traditional range of reading, knowing nothing of the literary evolution of more recent times and absolutely determined, if need be, to pluck their eyes out rather than recognize it, they necessarily employed an unaltered and unalterable language, like that eighteenth-century language which the descendants of the French settlers in Canada normally speak and write to this day, no variation in vocabulary or phraseology having ever been possible in their idiom, cut off as it is from the old country and surrounded on all sides by the English tongue. Des Esseintes's musings had reached this point when the silvery sound of a bell tinkling a little angelus told him that breakfast was ready. He left his books where they were, wiped his forehead and made for the dining-room, telling himself that of all the volumes he had been rearranging, the works of Barbey d'Aurevilly were still the only ones whose thought and style offered those gamey flavours and unhealthy spots, that bruised skin and sleepy taste which he so loved to savour in the decadent writers, both Latin and monastic, of olden times. ## CHAPTER 13 The weather had begun behaving in the most peculiar fashion. That year the seasons all overlapped, so that after a period of squalls and mists, blazing skies, like sheets of white-hot metal, suddenly appeared from over the horizon. In a couple of days, without any transition whatever, the cold, dank fogs and pouring rain were followed by a wave of torrid heat, an appallingly sultry atmosphere. As if it were being energetically poked with gigantic fire-irons, the sun glowed like an open furnace, sending out an almost white light that burnt the eyes; fiery particles of dust rose from the scorched roads, grilling the parched trees, browning the dry grass. The glare reflected by whitewashed walls and the flames kindled in window-panes and zinc roofs were absolutely blinding; the temperature of a foundry in full blast weighed down on Des Esseintes's house. Wearing next to nothing, he threw open a window, to be hit full in the face by a fiery blast from outside; the dining-room, where he next sought refuge, was like an oven, and the rarefied air seemed to have reached boiling-point. He sat down feeling utter despair, for the excitement that had kept his mind busy with daydreams while he was sorting out his books had died away. Like every other victim of neurosis, he found heat overpowering; his anaemia, held in check by the cold weather, got the better of him again, taking the strength out of a body already debilitated by copious perspiration. With his shirt clinging to his moist back, his perineum sodden, his arms and legs wet and his forehead streaming with sweat that ran down his cheeks like salty tears, Des Esseintes lay back exhausted in his chair. Just then he became aware of the meat on the table before him and the sight of it sickened him; he ordered it to be taken away and boiled eggs brought instead. When these arrived, he tried to swallow some sippets dipped in the yolk, but they stuck in his throat. Waves of nausea rose to his lips, and when he drank a few drops of wine they pricked his stomach like arrows of fire. He mopped his face, where the sweat, which had been warm a few minutes before, was now running down his temples in cold trickles; and he tried sucking bits of ice to stave off the feeling of nausea – but all in vain. Overcome with infinite fatigue, he slumped helplessly against the table. After a while he got to his feet, gasping for breath, but the sippets had swollen and were slowly rising in his throat, choking him. Never had he felt so upset, so weak, so ill at ease; on top of it all, his eyes were affected and he started seeing double, with things spinning round in pairs; soon he lost his sense of distance, so that his glass seemed miles away. He told himself he was the victim of optical illusions, but even so he was unable to shake them off. Finally he went and lay down on the sofa in the sitting-room; but it promptly began pitching and rolling like a ship at sea, and his nausea grew worse. He got up again, this time deciding to take a digestive to help down the eggs, which were still troubling him. Returning to the dining-room, he wryly likened himself, there in his ship's cabin, to a traveller suffering from seasickness. He staggered over to the cupboard and looked at the mouth organ, but refrained from opening it; instead, he reached up to the shelf above for a bottle of Benedictine – a bottle he kept in the house on account of its shape, which he considered suggestive of ideas at once pleasantly wanton and vaguely mystical. But for the moment he remained unmoved, and just stared dully at the squat, dark-green bottle, which normally conjured up visions of medieval priories for him, with its antique monkish paunch, its head and neck wrapped in a parchment cowl, its red seal quartered with three silver mitres on a field azure and fastened to the neck with lead like a Papal bull, its label inscribed in sonorous Latin, on paper apparently yellowed and faded with age: _Liquor Monachorum Benedictinorum Abbatiae Fiscanensis_. Under this truly monastic habit, certified by a cross and the ecclesiastical initials D. O. M., and enclosed in parchment and ligatures like an authentic charter, there slumbered a saffron-coloured liqueur of exquisite delicacy. It gave off a subtle aroma of angelica and hyssop mixed with seaweed whose iodine and bromine content was masked with sugar; it stimulated the palate with a spirituous fire hidden under an altogether virginal sweetness; and it flattered the nostrils with a hint of corruption wrapped up in a caress that was at once childlike and devout. This hypocrisy resulting from the extraordinary discrepancy between container and contents, between the liturgical form of the bottle and the utterly feminine, utterly modern soul inside it, had set him dreaming before now. Sitting with the bottle in front of him, he had spent hours thinking about the monks who sold it, the Benedictines of the Abbey of Fécamp who, belonging as they did to the congregation of Saint-Maur, famous for its historical researches, were subject to the Rule of St Benedict, yet did not follow the observances of either the white monks of Cîteaux or the black monks of Cluny. They forced themselves upon his imagination, looking just as if they had come straight out of the Middle Ages, growing medicinal herbs, heating retorts, distilling in alembics sovereign cordials, infallible panaceas. He took a sip of the liqueur and felt a little better for a minute or two; but soon the fire a drop of wine had kindled in his innards blazed up again. He threw down his napkin and went back into his study, where he began pacing up and down; he felt as if he were under the receiver of an air-pump in which a vacuum was being gradually created, and a dangerously pleasant lethargy spread from his brain into every limb. Unable to stand any more of this, he pulled himself together and, for perhaps the first time since his coming to Fontenay, sought refuge in the garden, where he took shelter in the patch of shadow cast by a tree. Sitting on the grass, he gazed vacantly at the rows of vegetables the servants had planted. But it was only after an hour's gazing that he realized what they were, for a greenish mist floated before his eyes, preventing him from seeing anything more than blurred, watery images which kept changing colour and appearance. In the end, however, he recovered his balance and was able to distinguish clearly onions and cabbages in front, further off a huge patch of lettuce and at the back, all along the hedge, a row of white lilies standing motionless in the sultry air. A smile puckered his lips, for he suddenly remembered the quaint comparison old Nicander once made, from the point of view of shape, between the pistil of a lily and the genitals of an ass, and also the passage in Albertus Magnus where that miracle-worker expounds a most peculiar method of discovering, with the aid of a lettuce, whether a girl is still a virgin. These recollections cheered him up somewhat, and he began looking round the garden, examining the plants that had been withered by the heat and noticing how the baked earth was smoking under the scorching, dusty rays of the sun. Then, over the hedge separating the low-lying garden from the raised roadway going up to the Fort, he caught sight of a bunch of boys rolling about on the ground in the blazing sunshine. He was fixing his attention on them when another lad appeared on the scene. He was smaller than the rest, and a really squalid specimen; his hair looked like sandy seaweed, two green bubbles hung from his nose and his lips were coated with the disgusting white mess he was eating – skim-milk cheese spread on a hunk of bread and sprinkled with chopped garlic. Des Esseintes sniffed the air, and a depraved longing, a perverse craving took hold of him; the nauseating snack positively made his mouth water. He felt sure that his stomach, which rebelled against all normal food, would digest this frightful titbit and his palate enjoy it as much as a banquet. He sprang to his feet, ran to the kitchen and ordered his servants to send to the village for a round loaf, some white cheese, and a little garlic, explaining that he wanted a snack exactly like the one the child was having. This done, he went back to where he had been sitting under the tree. The lads were fighting now, snatching bits of bread from each other's hands, ramming them into their mouths and licking their fingers afterwards. Kicks and blows fell thick and fast, and the weaker boys were knocked to the ground, where they lay thrashing about and crying as the broken stones dug into their bottoms. The sight put new life into Des Esseintes; the interest this fight aroused in him took his mind off his own sickly condition. Faced with the savage fury of these vicious brats, he reflected on the cruel and abominable law of the struggle for life, and contemptible though these children were, he could not help feeling sorry for them and thinking it would have been better for them if their mothers had never borne them. After all, what did their lives amount to but impetigo, colic, fevers, measles, smacks and slaps in childhood; degrading jobs with plenty of kicks and curses at thirteen or so; deceiving mistresses, foul diseases and unfaithful wives in manhood; and then, in old age, infirmities and death-agonies in workhouses or hospitals? And the future, when you came to think of it, was the same for all, and nobody with any sense would dream of envying anybody else. For the rich, though the setting was different, it was a case of the same passions, the same worries, the same sorrows, the same diseases – and also the same paltry pleasures, whether these were alcoholic, literary or carnal. There was even a vague compensation for every sort of suffering, a kind of rough justice that restored the balance of unhappiness between the classes, granting the poor greater resistance to physical ills that wreaked worse havoc on the feebler and thinner bodies of the rich. What madness it was to beget children, reflected Des Esseintes. And to think that the priestery, who had taken a vow of sterility, had carried inconsistency to the point of canonizing St Vincent de Paul because he saved innocent babes for useless torments! Thanks to his odious precautions, the man had postponed for years to come the deaths of creatures devoid of thought or feeling, so that later, having acquired a little understanding and a far greater capacity for suffering, they could look into the future, could expect and dread that death whose very name had hitherto been unknown to them, could even, in some cases, call upon it to release them from the hateful life-sentence to which he had condemned them in virtue of an absurd theological code. And since the old man's death, his ideas had won universal acceptance; for instance, children abandoned by their mothers were given homes instead of being left to die quietly without knowing what was happening; and yet the life that was kept for them would grow harder and bleaker day by day. Similarly, under the pretext of encouraging liberty and progress, society had discovered yet another means of aggravating man's wretched lot, by dragging him from his home, rigging him out in a ridiculous costume, putting specially designed weapons into his hands and reducing him to the same degrading slavery from which the negroes were released out of pity – and all this to put him in a position to kill his neighbour without risking the scaffold, as ordinary murderers do who operate single-handed, without uniforms and with quieter, poorer weapons. What a peculiar age this was, Des Esseintes thought to himself, which, ostensibly in the interests of humanity, strove to perfect anaesthetics in order to do away with physical suffering, and at the same time concocted stimulants such as this to aggravate moral suffering! Ah! if in the name of pity the futile business of procreation was ever to be abolished, the time had surely come to do it. But here again, the laws enacted by men like Portalis and Homais stood in the way, ferocious and unreasonable. Justice regarded as perfectly legitimate the tricks that were used to prevent conception; it was a recognized, acknowledged fact; there was never a couple in the land, no matter how well-to-do, that did not send its children to the wash or use devices that could be bought openly in the shops – devices nobody would ever dream of condemning. And yet, if these natural or mechanical subterfuges proved ineffectual, if the trickery failed and if to make good the failure recourse was had to more reliable methods, why then there were not prisons, jails or penitentiaries enough to accommodate the people convicted out of hand, and in all good faith, by other individuals who the same night, in the conjugal bed, used every trick they knew to avoid begetting brats of their own. It followed that the fraud itself was not a crime, but that the attempt to make good its failure was. In short, society regarded as a crime the act of killing a creature endowed with life; and yet expelling a foetus simply meant destroying an animal that was less developed, less alive, certainly less intelligent and less prepossessing, than a dog or a cat, which could be strangled at birth with impunity. It should also be remarked, thought Des Esseintes, that to add to the justice of it all, it was not the unskilful operator – who generally beat a speedy retreat – but the woman in the case, the victim of his clumsiness, who paid the penalty for saving an innocent creature from the misery of life. All the same, it was a fantastically prejudiced world that tried to outlaw operations so natural that the most primitive of men, the South Sea islander, was led to perform them by instinct alone. Just then Des Esseintes's man-servant interrupted these charitable reflections of his by bringing him the snack he had asked for on a silver-gilt salver. His gorge rose at the sight; he had not the courage to take even a bite at the bread, for his morbid appetite had deserted him. A dreadful feeling of debility came over him again, but he was forced to get to his feet; the sun was moving round and gradually encroaching on his patch of shadow, the heat becoming fiercer and more oppressive. 'You see those children fighting in the road?' he said to the man. 'Well, throw the thing to them. And let's hope that the weaklings are badly mauled about, that they don't get so much as a crumb of bread, and that on top of it all they're soundly thrashed when they get home with their breeches torn and a couple of black eyes to boot. That'll give them a fore-taste of the sort of life they can expect!' And he went back into the house, where he sank limply into an armchair. 'Still, I really must see if there isn't something I can eat,' he muttered – and he tried soaking a biscuit in a glass of old J. P. Cloete Constantia, of which he still had a few bottles in his cellar. This wine, the colour of singed onion skins, and tasting of old malaga and port, but with a sugary bouquet all its own and an after-taste of grapes whose juices have been condensed and sublimated by burning suns, had often braced him up and even given new vigour to a stomach weakened by the fasting he was forced to practise; but this time the cordial, usually so helpful, failed to have any effect. Next, in the hope that an emollient might cool the hot irons that were burning his innards, he resorted to Nalifka, a Russian liqueur contained in a bottle covered with a dull gold glaze; but this unctuous, raspberry-flavoured syrup was just as ineffective. Alas, the time was long past when Des Esseintes, then enjoying comparatively good health, would get into a sledge he kept at home – this in the hottest period of the year – and sit there wrapped in furs that he pulled tightly round him, shivering to the best of his ability and saying through deliberately chattering teeth: 'What an icy wind! Why, it's freezing here, it's freezing!' – until he almost convinced himself that it really was cold. Unfortunately, now that his sufferings were real, these remedies were no longer of any avail. Nor was it any use his having recourse to laudanum; instead of acting as a sedative, it irritated his nerves and thus robbed him of his sleep. At one time he had also resorted to opium and hashish in the hope of seeing visions, but these two drugs had only brought on vomiting and violent nervous disorders; he had been obliged to stop using them at once and, without the help of these crude stimulants, to ask his brain, alone and unaided, to carry him far away from everyday life into the land of dreams. 'What a day!' he groaned as he mopped his neck, feeling what little strength was left in him melting away in fresh floods of perspiration. A feverish restlessness again prevented him from sitting still, so that once more he wandered from room to room, trying one chair after another. Finally, tired of walking round the house, he sank into his desk-chair, and resting his elbows on the desk, started idly and unconsciously playing with an astrolabe that was being used as a paper-weight on top of a pile of books and notes. He had bought this instrument, which was made of engraved and gilded copper, of German workmanship and dating from the seventeenth century, in a second-hand dealer's in Paris, after a visit he had paid to the Cluny Museum, where he had stood for hours enraptured by a wonderful astrolabe of carved ivory, whose cabbalistic appearance had captivated him. The paper-weight stirred up in him a whole swarm of memories. Set in motion by the sight of this little curio, his thoughts went from Fontenay to Paris, to the old curiosity shop where he had bought it, then back to the Thermes Museum; and he conjured up a mental picture of the ivory astrolabe while his eyes continued to dwell, though now unseeingly, on the copper astrolabe on his desk. Then, still in memory, he left the Museum and went for a stroll through the city streets, wandering along the Rue de Sommerard and the Boulevard Saint-Michel, turning off into the adjoining streets and stopping outside certain establishments whose multiplicity and peculiar appearance had often struck him. Beginning with an astrolabe, this mental excursion ended up in the low taverns of the Latin Quarter. He remembered what a tremendous number of these places there were all along the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince and down the Odéon end of the Rue de Vaugirard; sometimes they stood cheek by jowl like the old _riddecks_ of the Rue du Canal-aux-Harengs at Antwerp, lined up along the pavement one after the other, all looking very much alike. Through half-open doors and windows only partially obscured by coloured panes or curtains, he could recall catching glimpses of women walking up and down, dragging their feet and sticking their necks out like so many geese; others sitting dejectedly on benches were wearing their elbows out on marble-topped tables, lost in their thoughts and singing softly to themselves, with their heads in their hands; yet others would be swaying about in front of looking-glasses, patting with their fingertips the switches of hair they had just dressed; others again would be emptying purses with broken clasps of piles of silver and copper, and methodically arranging the money in little heaps. Most of them had heavy features, hoarse voices, pendulous breasts, and painted eyes, and all of them, like automata wound up at the same time with the same key, threw out the same invitations in the same tone of voice, flashed the same smiles, made the same odd remarks, the same peculiar comments. Ideas began to link up in Des Esseintes's mind, and he found himself coming to a definite conclusion, now that his memory had provided him, so to speak, with a bird's-eye view of these crowded taverns and streets. He grasped the true significance of all these cafés, realized that they corresponded to the state of mind of an entire generation and saw that they offered him a synthesis of the age. The symptoms were indeed plain and undeniable; the licensed brothels were disappearing, and every time one of them closed its doors, a tavern opened in its place. This diminution of official prostitution in favour of unofficial promiscuity was obviously to be accounted for by the incomprehensible illusions to which men are subject in affairs of the flesh. Monstrous as this might appear, the tavern satisfied an ideal. The fact was that although the utilitarian tendencies handed down by heredity, and encouraged by the precocious discourtesies and constant incivilities of school life, had made the younger generation singularly boorish and also singularly cold and materialistic, it had nonetheless kept, deep down in its heart, a little old-fashioned sentimentality, a vague, stale, old-fashioned ideal of love. The result was that nowadays, when its blood caught fire, it could not stomach just walking in, taking its pleasure, paying the bill and walking out again. This, in its eyes, was sheer bestiality, like a dog covering a bitch without any preamble; besides, a man's vanity obtained no sort of satisfaction in these houses of ill fame where there was no show of resistance, no semblance of victory, no hope of preferential treatment, no possibility even of obtaining liberal favours from a tradeswoman who measured out her caresses in proportion to the price paid. On the other hand, to court a girl in a tavern was to avoid wounding all these amorous susceptibilities, all these sentimental feelings. There were always several men after a girl like that, and those to whom she agreed, at a price, to grant a rendezvous, honestly imagined that they were the object of an honorary distinction, a rare favour. Yet the staff of a tavern were every bit as stupid and mercenary, as base and depraved, as the staff of a brothel. Like the latter, they drank without being thirsty, laughed without being amused, drooled over the caresses of the filthiest workman and went for each other hammer and tongs at the slightest provocation. But in spite of everything, the young men of Paris had still not learnt that from the point of view of looks, dress and technique, the waitresses in these taverns were vastly inferior to the women cooped up in the luxurious sitting-rooms of licensed houses. Lord, what fools they must be, Des Esseintes used to think to himself, these young chaps who hang around the beer-houses, because quite apart from their ridiculous illusions, they actually come to forget the risks involved in sampling shop-soiled goods of dubious quality, and to take no account of the money spent on a fixed number of drinks priced beforehand by the landlady, the time wasted in waiting for delivery of the goods, which are held back to raise the price, and the perpetual shillyshallying intended to start the money flowing and keep it flowing. This idiotic sentimentality combined with ruthless commercialism clearly represented the dominant spirit of the age; these same men who would have gouged anybody's eyes out to make a few coppers, lost all their flair and shrewdness when it came to dealing with the shifty tavern girls who harried them without pity and fleeced them without mercy. The wheels of industry turned, and families cheated one another in the name of trade, only to let themselves be robbed of money by their sons, who in turn allowed themselves to be swindled by these women, who in the last resort were bled white by their own fancy men. Over the whole of Paris, from east to west and north to south, there stretched an unbroken network of confidence tricks, a chain of organized thefts acting one upon the other – and all because, instead of being served straight away, customers were kept waiting and left to cool their heels. The fact was that human wisdom was essentially a matter of spinning things out, of saying no first and yes later; for the best way of handling men has always been to keep putting them off. 'Ah, if only the same were true of my stomach!' sighed Des Esseintes, as he was suddenly doubled up with a spasm of pain that jolted his thoughts back to Fontenay from the distant regions they had been roaming. ## CHAPTER 14 The next few days went by without too much trouble, thanks to various devices that were used to trick the stomach into acquiescence; but one morning the sauces which disguised the smell of fat and the aroma of blood rising from Des Esseintes's meat proved unacceptable in themselves, and he anxiously asked himself whether his already alarming weakness was not going to get worse and force him to keep to his bed. Then, all of a sudden, a gleam of light shone through his distress: he remembered that one of his friends who had been very ill some time before had succeeded, by using a patent digester, in checking his anaemia, halting the wasting process and keeping what little strength remained in him. He sent his man-servant off to Paris to buy one of these precious instruments, and with the help of the manufacturer's directions, he was able to instruct his cook how to chop some roast beef up into little pieces, put it dry into the digester, add a slice of leek and one of carrot, then screw down the lid and leave the whole thing to boil in a double saucepan for four hours. At the end of that time you pressed the juice out of the threads of meat, and you drank a spoonful of this muddy, salty liquid that was left at the bottom of the digester. Then you felt something slipping down like warm marrow-fat, with a soothing, velvety caress. This meat extract put a stop to the pains and nausea caused by hunger, and even stimulated the stomach so that it no longer refused to take in a few spoonfuls of soup. Thanks to the digester, Des Esseintes's nervous trouble got no worse, and he told himself: 'At any rate, that's so much gained; now perhaps the temperature will drop and the heavens scatter a little ash over that abominably enervating sun. If that happens I'll be able to hang on till the first fogs and frosts without too much difficulty.' In his present state of apathy and bored inactivity, his library, which he had been unable to finish rearranging, got on his nerves. Tied as he was to his chair, he was confronted all the time with his profane books, stacked higgledy-piggledy on their shelves, leaning against each other, propping each other up or lying flat on their sides like a pack of cards. This disorder shocked him all the more in that it formed such a contrast to the perfect order of his religious works, carefully lined up on parade along the walls. He tried to remedy this confusion, but after ten minutes' work he was bathed in sweat. The effort was obviously too much for him; utterly exhausted, he lay down on a couch and rang for his servant. Following his instructions, the old man set to work, bringing him the books one by one so that he could examine each and say where it was to go. This job did not take long, for Des Esseintes's library contained only a very limited number of contemporary lay works. By dint of passing them through the critical apparatus of his mind, just as a metal worker passes strips of metal through a steel drawing-machine, from which they emerge thin and light, reduced to almost invisible threads, he had found in the end that none of his books could stand up to this sort of treatment, that none was sufficiently hardened to go through the next process, the reading-mill. Trying to eliminate the inferior works, he had in fact curtailed and practically sterilized his pleasure in reading, emphasizing more than ever the irremediable conflict between his ideas and those of the world into which chance had ordained that he should be born. Things had now got to the point where he found it impossible to discover a book that satisfied his secret longings; indeed, he even began to lose his admiration for the very works that had undoubtedly helped to sharpen his mind and make it so subtle and critical. Yet his literary opinions had started from a very simple point of view. For him, there were no such things as schools; the only thing that mattered to him was the writer's personality, and the only thing that interested him was the working of the writer's brain, no matter what subject he was tackling. Unfortunately this criterion of appreciation, so obviously just, was practically impossible to apply, for the simple reason that, however much a reader wants to rid himself of prejudice and refrain from passion, he naturally prefers those works which correspond most intimately with his own personality, and ends by relegating all the rest to limbo. This process of selection had taken place slowly in his case. At one time he had worshipped the great Balzac, but as his constitution had become unbalanced and his nerves had gained the upper hand, so his tastes had been modified and his preferences changed. Soon indeed, and this although he realized how unjust he was being to the prodigious author of the _Comédie humaine_ , he had given up so much as opening his books, put off by their robust health; other aspirations stirred him now, that were in a way almost indefinable. By diligent self-examination, however, he realized first of all that to attract him a book had to have that quality of strangeness that Edgar Allan Poe called for; but he was inclined to venture further along this road, and to insist on Byzantine flowers of thought and deliquescent complexities of style; he demanded a disquieting vagueness that would give him scope for dreaming until he decided to make it still vaguer or more definite, according to the way he felt at the time. He wanted, in short, a work of art both for what it was in itself and for what it allowed him to bestow on it; he wanted to go along with it and on it, as if supported by a friend or carried by a vehicle, into a sphere where sublimated sensations would arouse within him an unexpected commotion, the causes of which he would strive patiently and even vainly to analyse. Lastly, since leaving Paris, he had withdrawn further and further from reality and above all from the society of his day, which he regarded with ever-growing horror; this hatred he felt had inevitably affected his literary and artistic tastes, so that he shunned as far as possible pictures and books whose subjects were confined to modern life. The result was that, losing the faculty of admiring beauty in whatever guise it appeared, he now preferred, among Flaubert's works, _La Tentation de Saint Antoine_ to _L'Education sentimentale_ ; among Goncourt's works, _La Faustin_ to _Germinie Lacerteux_ ; among Zola's works, _La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret_ to _L'Assommoir_. This seemed to him a logical point of view; these books, not as topical of course but just as stirring and human as the others, let him penetrate further and deeper into the personalities of their authors, who revealed with greater frankness their most mysterious impulses, while they lifted him, too, higher than the rest, out of the trivial existence of which he was so heartily sick. And then, reading these works, he could enter into complete intellectual fellowship with the writers who had conceived them, because at the moment of conception those writers had been in a state of mind analogous to his own. The fact is that when the period in which a man of talent is condemned to live is dull and stupid, the artist is haunted, perhaps unknown to himself, by a nostalgic yearning for another age. Unable to attune himself, except at rare intervals, to his environment, and no longer finding in the examination of that environment and the creatures who endure it sufficient pleasures of observation and analysis to divert him, he is aware of the birth and development in himself of unusual phenomena. Vague migratory longings spring up which find fulfilment in reflection and study. Instincts, sensations, inclinations bequeathed to him by heredity awake, take shape and assert themselves with imperious authority. He recalls memories of people and things he has never known personally, and there comes a time when he bursts out of the prison of his century and roams about at liberty in another period, with which, as a crowning illusion, he imagines he would have been more in accord. In some cases there is a return to past ages, to vanished civilizations, to dead centuries; in others there is a pursuit of dream and fantasy, a more or less vivid vision of a future whose image reproduces, unconsciously and as a result of atavism, that of past epochs. In Flaubert's case, there was a series of vast, imposing scenes, grandiose pageantries of barbaric splendour in which there participated creatures delicate and sensitive, mysterious and proud, women cursed, in all the perfection of their beauty, with suffering souls, in the depths of which he discerned atrocious delusions, insane aspirations, born of the disgust they already felt for the dreadful mediocrity of the pleasures awaiting them. The personality of the great writer was revealed in all its splendour in those incomparable pages of _La Tentation de Saint Antoine_ and _Salammbô_ in which, leaving our petty modern civilization far behind, he conjured up the Asiatic glories of distant epochs, their mystic ardours and doldrums, the aberrations resulting from their idleness, the brutalities arising from their boredom – that oppressive boredom which emanates from opulence and prayer even before their pleasures have been fully enjoyed. With Goncourt it was a case of nostalgia for the eighteenth century, a longing to return to the elegant graces of a society that had vanished for ever. The gigantic backcloth of seas dashing against great backwaters, of deserts stretching away to infinity under blazing skies, found no place in his nostalgic masterpiece, which confined itself, within the precincts of an aristocratic park, to a boudoir warm with the voluptuous effluvia of a woman with a weary smile, a pouting expression and pensive, brooding eyes. Nor was the spirit with which he animated his characters the same spirit Flaubert breathed into his creations, a spirit revolted in advance by the inexorable certainty that no new happiness was possible; it was rather a spirit revolted after the event, by bitter experience, at the thought of all the fruitless efforts it had made to invent new spiritual relationships and to introduce a little variety into the immemorial pleasure that is repeated down the ages in the satisfaction, more or less ingeniously obtained, of lusting couples. Although she lived in the late nineteenth century and was physically and effectively a modern, by virtue of ancestral influences La Faustin was a creature of the eighteenth century, sharing to the full its spiritual perversity, its cerebral lassitude, its sensual satiety. This book of Edmond de Goncourt's was one of Des Esseintes's favourites, for the dream-inducing suggestiveness he wanted abounded in this work, where beneath the printed line lurked another line visible only to the soul, indicated by an epithet that opened up vast vistas of passion, by a reticence that hinted at spiritual infinities no ordinary idiom could compass. The idiom used in this book was quite different from the language of Flaubert, inimitable in its magnificence; this style was penetrating and sickly, tense and subtle, careful to record the intangible impression that affects the senses and produces feeling, and skilled in modulating the complicated nuances of an epoch that was itself extraordinarily complex. It was, in fact, the sort of style that is indispensable to decrepit civilizations which, in order to express their needs, and to whatever age they may belong, require new acceptations, new uses, new forms both of word and phrase. In Rome, expiring paganism had modified its prosody and transmuted its language through Ausonius, through Claudian, above all through Rutilius, whose style, careful and scrupulous, sensuous and sonorous, presented an obvious analogy with the Goncourt brothers' style, especially when describing light and shade and colour. In Paris, a phenomenon unique in literary history had come about; the moribund society of the eighteenth century, though it had been well provided with painters, sculptors, musicians and architects, all familiar with its tastes and imbued with its beliefs, had failed to produce a genuine writer capable of rendering its dying graces or manifesting the essence of its feverish pleasures, that were soon to be so cruelly expiated. It had had to wait for Goncourt, whose personality was made up of memories and regrets made still more poignant by the distressing spectacle of the intellectual poverty and base aspirations of his time, to resuscitate, not only in his historical studies but also in a nostalgic work like _La Faustin_ , the very soul of the period, and to embody its neurotic charms in this actress, so painfully eager to torment her heart and torture her brain in order to savour to the point of exhaustion the cruel revulsives of love and art. In Zola the longing for some other existence took a different form. In him there was no desire to migrate to vanished civilizations, to worlds lost in the darkness of time; his sturdy, powerful temperament, enamoured of the luxuriance of life, of full-blooded vigour, of moral stamina, alienated him from the artificial graces and the painted pallors of the eighteenth century, as also from the hieratic pomp, the brutal ferocity and the effeminate, ambiguous dreams of the ancient East. On the day when he too had been afflicted with this longing, this craving which in fact is poetry itself, to fly far away from the contemporary society he was studying, he had fled to an idyllic region where the sap boiled in the sunshine; he had dreamt of fantastic heavenly copulations, of long earthly ecstasies, of fertilizing showers of pollen falling into the palpitating genitals of flowers; he had arrived at a gigantic pantheism, and with the Garden of Eden in which he placed his Adam and Eve he had created, perhaps unconsciously, a prodigious Hindu poem, singing the glories of the flesh, extolling, in a style whose broad patches of crude colour had something of the weird brilliance of Indian paintings, living animate matter, which by its own frenzied procreation revealed to man and woman the forbidden fruit of love, its suffocating spasms, its instinctive caresses, its natural postures. With Baudelaire, these three masters had captured and moulded Des Esseintes's imagination more than any others; but through rereading them until he was saturated with their works and knew them completely by heart, he had eventually been obliged, to make it possible to absorb them again, to try and forget them, to leave them for a while undisturbed on his shelves. Accordingly, he scarcely looked at them when his man handed them to him. He confined himself to pointing out where they should go, taking care to see that they were arranged in an orderly fashion and given plenty of elbow-room. Next the man brought him another series of books which caused him rather more trouble. These were works of which he had gradually grown fonder, works which by their very defects provided a welcome change from the perfect productions of greater writers. Here again, the process of elimination had led Des Esseintes to search through pages of uninspiring matter for odd sentences which would give him a shock as they discharged their electricity in a medium that seemed at first to be non-conducting. Imperfection itself pleased him, provided it was neither base nor parasitic, and it may be that there was a certain amount of truth in his theory that the minor writer of the decadence, the writer who is incomplete but nonetheless individual, distils a balm more irritant, more sudorific, more acid than the author of the same period who is truly great and truly perfect. In his opinion, it was in their confused efforts that you could find the most exalted flights of sensibility, the most morbid caprices of psychology, the most extravagant aberrations of language called upon in vain to control and repress the effervescent salts of ideas and feelings. It was therefore inevitable that, after the masters, he should turn to certain minor writers whom he found all the more attractive and endearing by reason of the contempt in which they were held by a public incapable of understanding them. One of these writers, Paul Verlaine, had made his début a good many years before with a volume of verse, _Poèmes saturniens_ , a work which might almost be described as feeble, in which pastiches of Leconte de Lisle rubbed shoulders with exercises in romantic rhetoric, but which already revealed in certain pieces, such as the sonnet _Mon Rêve familier_ , the real personality of the poet. Looking for his antecedents, Des Esseintes discovered underlying the unsureness of these early efforts a talent already profoundly marked by Baudelaire, whose influence had since become more obvious, though the borrowings Verlaine had made from his generous master had never amounted to flagrant thefts. Moreover, some of his later books, _La Bonne Chanson, Fêtes galantes, Romances sans paroles_ and finally his last volume, _Sagesse_ , contained poems in which a writer of originality was revealed, standing out against the mass of his fellow authors. Furnished with rhymes provided by the tenses of verbs, and sometimes even by lengthy adverbs preceded by a monosyllable, from which they fell like a heavy cascade of water dropping from a stone ledge, his lines, divided by unlikely caesuras, were often singularly obscure, with their daring ellipses and curious solecisms that were yet not without a certain grace. Handling metre better than anyone, he had tried to rejuvenate the stereotyped forms of poetry, the sonnet for example, which he turned upside down, like those Japanese fish in coloured earthenware that are stood gills down on their pedestals, or which he perverted by coupling only masculine rhymes, for which he seemed to have a special affection. Similarly and not infrequently he had adopted a weird form such as a stanza of three lines with the middle one left unrhymed, or a mono-rhyme tercet followed by a single line serving as a refrain and echoing itself, like the line 'Dansons la gigue' in the poem _Streets_. He had used other rhythms too whose faint beat could be only half-heard behind the stanzas, like the muffled sound of a bell. But his originality lay above all in his ability to communicate deliciously vague confidences in a whisper in the twilight. He alone had possessed the secret of hinting at certain strange spiritual aspirations, of whispering certain thoughts, of murmuring certain confessions, so softly, so quietly, so haltingly that the ear that caught them was left hesitating, and passed on to the soul a languor made more pronounced by the vagueness of these words that were guessed at rather than heard. The essence of Verlaine's poetry could be found in those wonderful lines from his _Fêtes galantes_ : _Le soir tombait, un soir équivoque d'automne: Les belles se pendant rêveuses à nos bras, Dirent alors des mots si spécieux, tout bas, Que notre âme depuis ce temps tremble et s'étonne._ This was not the vast horizon revealed through the portals of Baudelaire's unforgettable poetry, but rather a glimpse of a moonlit scene, a more limited, intimate view peculiar to the author who, incidentally, had formulated his poetic method in a few lines of which Des Esseintes was particularly fond: _Car nous voulons la nuance encore, Pas la couleur, rien que la nuance ... Et tout le reste est littérature_. Des Esseintes had gladly followed him through all his varied works. After the publication of his _Romances sans paroles_ , distributed by the printing-office of a newspaper at Sens, Verlaine had written nothing for quite a time; then, in charming verses that echoed the gentle, naive accents of Villon, he had reappeared, singing the Virgin's praises, 'far from our days of carnal spirit and weary flesh'. Often Des Esseintes would reread this book, _Sagesse_ , allowing the poems it contained to inspire in him secret reveries, impossible dreams of an occult passion for a Byzantine Madonna able to change at a given moment into a Cydalisa who had strayed by accident into the nineteenth century; she was so mysterious and so alluring that it was impossible to tell whether she was longing to indulge in depravities so monstrous that, once accomplished they would become irresistible, or whether she herself was soaring heavenwards in an immaculate dream, in which the adoration of the soul would float about her in a love for ever unconfessed, for ever pure. There were other poets, too, who could still excite his interest and admiration. One of these was Tristan Corbière, who in 1873, amid general indifference, had published a fantastically eccentric book of verse entitled _Les Amours jaunes_. Des Esseintes, who, in his hatred of all that was trite and vulgar, would have welcomed the most outrageous follies, the most bizarre extravagances, spent many happy hours with this book in which droll humour was combined with turbulent energy, and in which lines of disconcerting brilliance occurred in poems of wonderful obscurity. There were the litanies in his _Sommeil_ , for instance, where he described sleep at one point as the _Obscène confesseur des dévotes mort-nées_. It was scarcely French; the poet was talking 'pidgin', using a telegram idiom, suppressing far too many verbs, trying to be waggish and indulging in cheap commercial-traveller jokes; but then, out of this jungle of comical conceits and smirking witticisms there would suddenly rise a sharp cry of pain, like the sound of a violoncello string breaking. What is more, in this rugged, arid, utterly fleshless style, bristling with unusual terms and unexpected neologisms, there sparkled and flashed many a felicitous expression, many a stray line that had lost its rhyme but was none the less superb. Finally, to say nothing of his _Poèmes parisiens_ , from which Des Esseintes used to quote this profound definition of woman: _Éternel féminin de l'éternel jocrisse,_ Tristan Corbière had, in a style of almost incredible concision, sung of the seas of Brittany, the sailors' seraglios, the Pardon of St Anne, and had even attained the eloquence of passionate hatred in the insults he heaped, when speaking of the camp at Conlie, on the individuals whom he described as 'mountebanks of the Fourth of September'. The gamey flavour which Des Esseintes loved, and which was offered him by this poet of the condensed epithet and the perpetually suspect charm, he found also in another poet, Théodore Hannon, a disciple of Baudelaire and Gautier who was actuated by a very special understanding of studied elegances and factitious pleasures. Unlike Verlaine, who was directly descended from Baudelaire, without any cross-breeding, especially in his psychology, in the sophistical slant of his thought, in the skilled distillation of his feeling, Théodore Hannon's kinship with the master could be seen chiefly in the plastic side of his poetry, in his external view of people and things. His delightful corruptness corresponded with Des Esseintes's tastes, and when it was foggy or raining the latter would often shut himself up in the retreat imagined by this poet and intoxicate his eyes with the shimmer of his fabrics, with the sparkle of his jewels, with all his exclusively material luxuries, which helped to excite his brain and rose like cantharides in a cloud of warm incense towards a Brussels idol with a painted face and a belly tanned with perfumes. With the exception of these authors and of Stéphane Mallarmé, whom he instructed his man to put on one side, to be set in a class apart, Des Esseintes was only very moderately drawn to the poets. In spite of his magnificent formal qualities, in spite of the imposing majesty of his verse, which had such a splendid air that even Hugo's hexameters seemed dull and drab in comparison, Leconte de Lisle could now no longer satisfy him. The ancient world which Flaubert had resuscitated with such marvellous success remained cold and lifeless in his hands. Nothing stirred in his poetry; it was all a façade with, most of the time, not a single idea to prop it up. There was no life in these empty poems, and their frigid mythologies ended up by repelling him. Similarly, after cherishing him for many years, Des Esseintes was beginning to lose interest in Gautier's work; his admiration for the incomparable painter of word-pictures that Gautier was had recently been diminishing day by day, so that now he was more astonished than delighted by his almost apathetic descriptions. Outside objects had made a lasting impression on his remarkably perceptive eye, but that impression had become localized, had failed to penetrate any further into brain or body; like a marvellous reflector, he had always confined himself to sending back the image of his surroundings with impersonal precision. Of course, Des Esseintes still appreciated the works of these two poets, in the same way that he appreciated rare jewels or precious substances; but none of the variations of these brilliant instrumentalists could now enrapture any more, for none possessed the makings of a dream, none opened up, at least for him, one of those lively vistas that enabled him to speed the weary flight of the hours. He used to put their books down feeling hungry and unsatisfied, and the same was true of Hugo's. The Oriental, patriarchal aspect was too trite and hollow to retain his interest, while the nursery-maidish, grandfatherly pose annoyed him intensely. It was not until he came to the _Chansons de srues et des bois_ that he could unreservedly enjoy the impeccable jugglery of Hugo's prosody; and even then, he would gladly have given all these _tours de force_ for a new work of Baudelaire's of the same quality as the old, for the latter was without a doubt almost the only author whose verses, underneath their splendid shell, contained a balsamic and nutritious kernel. Jumping from one extreme to the other, from form bereft of ideas to ideas bereft of form, left Des Esseintes just as circumspect and critical. The psychological labyrinths of Stendhal and the analytical amplifications of Duranty aroused his interest, but their arid, colourless, bureaucratic style, their utterly commonplace prose, fit for nothing better than the ignoble industry of the stage, repelled him. Besides, the most interesting of their delicate analytical operations were performed, when all was said and done, on brains fired by passions that no longer moved him. Little he cared about ordinary emotions or common associations of ideas, now that his mind had grown so overstocked and had no room for anything but superfine sensations, religious doubts and sensual anxieties. In order to enjoy a literature that united, just as he wished, an incisive style and a subtle, feline skill in analysis, he had to wait till he reached that master of induction, the wise and wonderful Edgar Allan Poe, for whom his admiration had not suffered in the least from rereading his work. Better perhaps than anyone else, Poe possessed those intimate affinities that could satisfy the requirements of Des Esseintes's mind. If Baudelaire had made out among the hieroglyphics of the soul the critical age of thought and feeling, it was Poe who, in the sphere of morbid psychology, had carried out the closest scrutiny of the will. In literature he had been the first, under the emblematic title _The Imp of the Perverse_ , to study those irresistible impulses which the will submits to without fully understanding them, and which cerebral pathology can now explain with a fair degree of certainty; he had been the first again, if not to point out, at least to make known the depressing influence fear has on the will, which it affects in the same way as anaesthetics which paralyse the senses and curare which cripples the motory nerves. It was on this last subject, this lethargy of the will, that he had concentrated his studies, analysing the effects of this moral poison and indicating the symptoms of its progress – mental disturbances beginning with anxiety, developing into anguish and finally culminating in a terror that stupefies the faculties of volition, yet without the intellect, however badly shaken it may be, giving way. As for death, which the dramatists had so grossly abused, he had in a way given it a sharper edge, a new look, by introducing into it an algebraic and superhuman element; though to tell the truth, it was not so much the physical agony of the dying he described as the moral agony of the survivor, haunted beside the death-bed by the monstrous hallucinations engendered by grief and fatigue. With awful fascination he dwelt on the effects of terror, on the failures of will-power, and discussed them with clinical objectivity, making the reader's flesh creep, his throat contract, his mouth go dry at the recital of these mechanically devised nightmares of a fevered brain. Convulsed by hereditary neuroses, maddened by moral choreas, his characters lived on their nerves; his women, his Morellas and Ligeias, possessed vast learning steeped in the mists of German philosophy and in the cabbalistic mysteries of the ancient East, and all of them had the inert, boyish breasts of angels, all were, so to speak, unsexed. Baudelaire and Poe, whose two minds had often been compared on account of their common poetic inspiration and the penchant they shared for the examination of mental diseases, differed radically in the emotional concepts which played a large part in their works – Baudelaire with his thirsty, ruthless passion, whose disgusted cruelty recalled the tortures of the Inquisition, and Poe with his chaste, ethereal amours, in which the senses had no share and only the brain was roused, followed by none of the lower organs, which, if they existed at all, remained for ever frozen and virgin. This cerebral clinic where, vivisecting in a stifling atmosphere, this spiritual surgeon became, as soon as his attention wandered, the prey of his imagination, which sprayed about him, like delicious miasmas, angelic, dream-like apparitions, was for Des Esseintes a source of indefatigable conjectures; but now that his neurosis had grown worse, there were days when reading these works exhausted him, when it left him with his hands trembling and his ears cocked, overcome, like the unfortunate Usher, by an unreasoning fear, an unspoken terror. He therefore had to hold himself in check and only rarely indulge in these formidable elixirs, just as he could no longer visit with impunity his red entrance-hall and feast his eyes on the horrors of Odilon Redon and the tortures of Jan Luyken. And yet, when he was in this frame of mind, almost anything he read seemed insipid after these terrible philtres imported from America. He would therefore turn to Villiers de I'Isle-Adam, in whose scattered writings he discovered observations just as unorthodox, vibrations just as spasmodic, but which, except perhaps in _Claire Lenoir_ , did not convey such an overwhelming sense of horror. Published in 1867 in the _Revue des lettres et des arts_ , this _Claire Lenoir_ was the first of a series of stories linked together by the generic title of _Histoires moroses_. Against a background of abstruse speculations borrowed from old Hegel, there moved two deranged individuals, a Doctor Tribulat Bonhomet who was pompous and puerile, and a Claire Lenoir who was droll and sinister, with blue spectacles as big and round as five-franc pieces covering her almost lifeless eyes. This story concerned a commonplace case of adultery, but ended on a note of indescribable terror when Bonhomet, uncovering the pupils of Claire's eyes as she lay on her death-bed, and probing them with monstrous instruments, saw clearly reflected on the retina a picture of the husband brandishing at arm's length the severed head of the lover and, like a Kanaka, howling a triumphant war-chant. Based on the more or less valid observation that, until decomposition sets in, the eyes of certain animals, oxen for instance, preserve like photographic plates the image of the people and things lying at the moment of death within the range of their last look, the tale obviously owed a great deal to those of Edgar Allan Poe, from which it derived its wealth of punctilious detail and its horrific atmosphere. The same was true of _L'Intersigne_ , which had later been incorporated in the _Contes cruels_ , a collection of stories of indisputable talent which also included _Véra_ , a tale Des Esseintes regarded as a little masterpiece. Here the hallucination was endowed with an exquisite tenderness; there was nothing here of the American author's gloomy mirages, but a well-nigh heavenly vision of sweetness and warmth, which in an identical style formed the antithesis of Poe's Beatrices and Ligeias, those pale, unhappy phantoms engendered by the inexorable nightmare of black opium. This story too brought into play the operations of the will, but it no longer showed it undermined and brought low by fear; on the contrary, it studied its intoxication under the influence of a conviction which had become an obsession, and it also demonstrated its power, which was so great that it could saturate the atmosphere and impose its beliefs on surrounding objects. Another book of Villiers', _Isis_ , he considered remarkable for different reasons. The philosophical lumber that littered _Claire Lenoir_ also cluttered up this book, which contained an incredible hotch-potch of vague, verbose observations on the one hand and reminiscences of hoary melodramas on the other – oubliettes, daggers, rope-ladders, in fact all the romantic bric-àbrac that would reappear, looking just as old-fashioned, in Villiers' _Elēn_ and _Morgane_ , long-forgotten works published by a Monsieur Francisque Guyon, an obscure little printer in Saint-Brieuc. The heroine of this book, a Marquise Tullia Fabriana, who was supposed to have assimilated the Chaldean learning of Poe's women and the diplomatic sagacity of Stendhal's Sanseverina-Taxis, not content with all this, had also assumed the enigmatic expression of a Bradamante crossed with an antique Circe. These incompatible mixtures gave rise to a smoky vapour in which philosophical and literary influences jostled each other around, without managing to sort themselves out in the author's mind by the time he began writing the prolegomena to this work, which was intended to fill no less than seven volumes. But there was another side to Villiers' personality, altogether clearer and sharper, marked by grim humour and ferocious banter; when this side was uppermost, the result was not one of Poe's paradoxical mystifications, but a lugubriously comic jeering similar to Swift's bitter raillery. A whole series of tales, _Les Demoiselles de Bienfilâtre, L'Affichage céleste, La Machine à gloire_ and _Le plus beau dîner du monde_ , revealed a singularly inventive and satirical sense of humour. All the filthiness of contemporary utilitarian ideas, all the money-grubbing ignominy of the age were glorified in stories whose pungent irony sent Des Esseintes into raptures of delight. In this realm of biting, poker-faced satire, no other book existed in France. The next best thing was a story by Charles Cros, _La Science de l'amour_ , originally published in the _Revue du Monde Nouveau_ , which was calculated to astonish the reader with its chemical extravagances, its tight-lipped humour, its icily comic observations; but the pleasure it gave was only relative, for in execution it was fatally defective. Villiers' style, solid, colourful, often original, had disappeared, to be supplanted by a sort of sausage-meat scraped from the table of some literary pork-butcher. 'Lord, how few books there are that are worth reading again!' sighed Des Esseintes, watching his man as he climbed down the step-ladder he had been perched on and stood to one side to let his master have a clear view of all the bookshelves. Des Esseintes gave a nod of approval. There were now only two thin booklets left on the table. Dismissing the old man with a wave of his hand, he began looking through one of these, comprised of a few pages bound in onager-skin that had been glazed under a hydraulic press, dappled in water-colour with silver clouds and provided with end-papers of old lampas, the floral pattern of which, now rather dim with age, had that faded charm which Mallarmé extolled in a truly delightful poem. These pages, nine in all, had been taken out of unique copies of the first two _Parnasses_ , printed on parchment, and preceded by a title-page bearing the words: _Quelques vers de Mallarmé_ , executed by a remarkable calligrapher in uncial letters, coloured and picked out, like those in ancient manuscripts, with specks of gold. Among the eleven pieces brought together between these covers, a few _Les Fenêtres, L'É pilogue_ and _Azur_ , he found extremely attractive, but there was one in particular, a fragment of _Hérodiade_ , that seemed to lay a magic spell on him at certain times. Often of an evening, sitting in the dim light his lamp shed over the silent room, he had imagined he felt her brush past him – that same Herodias who in Gustave Moreau's picture had withdrawn into the advancing shadows, so that nothing could be seen but the vague shape of a white statue in the midst of a feebly glowing brazier of jewels. The darkness hid the blood, dimmed the bright colours and gleaming gold, enveloped the far corners of the temple in gloom, concealed the minor actors in the criminal drama where they stood wrapped in their dark garments and, sparing only the white patches in the water-colour, drew the woman from the scabbard of her jewels and emphasized her nakedness. His eyes were irresistibly drawn towards her, following the familiar outlines of her body until she came to life again before him, bringing to his lips those sweet, strange words that Mallarmé puts into her mouth: _...O miroir! Eau froide par l'ennui dans ton cadre gelée Que de fois et pendant les heures, désolée Des songes et cherchant mes souvenirs qui sont Comme des feuilles sous ta glace au trou profond, Je m'apparus en toi comme une ombre lointaine, Mais, horreur! des soirs, dans ta sévère fontainé, J'ai de mon rêve épars connu la nudité!_ He loved these verses as he loved all the works of this poet who, in an age of universal suffrage and a time of commercial greed, lived outside the world of letters, sheltered from the raging folly all around him by his lofty scorn; taking pleasure, far from society, in the caprices of the mind and the visions of his brain; refining upon thoughts that were already subtle enough, grafting Byzantine niceties on them, perpetuating them in deductions that were barely hinted at and loosely linked by an imperceptible thread. These precious, interwoven ideas he knotted together with an adhesive style, a unique, hermetic language, full of contracted phrases, elliptical constructions, audacious tropes. Sensitive to the remotest affinities, he would often use a term that by analogy suggested at once form, scent, colour, quality and brilliance, to indicate a creature or thing to which he would have had to attach a host of different epithets in order to bring out all its various aspects and qualities, if it had merely been referred to by its technical name. By this means he managed to do away with the formal statement of a comparison that the reader's mind made by itself as soon as it had understood the symbol, and he avoided dispersing the reader's attention over all the several qualities that a row of adjectives would have presented one by one, concentrating it instead on a single word, a single entity, producing, as in the case of a picture, a unique and comprehensive impression, an overall view. The result was a wonderfully condensed style, an essence of literature, a sublimate of art. It was a style that Mallarmé had first employed only sparingly in his earliest works, and then used openly and audaciously in a piece he wrote on Théophile Gautier and in _L'Après-midi d'un faune_ , an eclogue in which the subtleties of sensual pleasure were unfolded in mysterious, tender verse, suddenly interrupted by this bestial, frenzied cry of the faun: _Alors m'éveillerai-je à la ferveur première, Droit et seul sous un flot antique de lumière, Lys! et l'un de vous tous pour l'ingénuité._ This last line, which with the monosyllable _Lys!_ carried over from the previous line, conjured up a picture of something tall, white and rigid, and the meaning of which was made even clearer by the choice of the noun _ingénuité_ to provide the rhyme, expressed in an allegorical manner and in a single word the passion, the effervescence, the momentary excitement of the virgin faun, maddened with desire by the sight of the nymphs. In this extraordinary poem, new and surprising images occurred in almost every line when the poet came to describe the longings and regrets of the goat-footed god, standing on the edge of the swamp and looking at the clumps of rushes that still retained an ephemeral impression of the rounded forms of the naiads who had rested there. Des Esseintes also derived a certain perverse pleasure from handling this minute volume, whose covers, made of Japanese felt as white as curdled milk, were fastened with two silk cords, one China pink, the other black. Concealed behind the covers, the black ribbon met the pink ribbon, which was busy adding a note of silken luxury, a suggestion of modern Japanese rouge, a hint of eroticism, to the antique whiteness, the virginal pallor of the book, and embraced it, joining together in a dainty bow its own sombre hue and the other's lighter colour, and thereby giving a discreet intimation, a vague warning, of the melancholy regrets that follow the appeasement of sexual desire, the abatement of sensual frenzy. Des Esseintes put _L'Après-midi d'un faune_ back on the table and began glancing through another slim volume which he had had printed for his personal pleasure – an anthology of prose poetry, a little chapel dedicated to Baudelaire and opening on to the cathedral square of his poems. This anthology included selected passages from the _Gaspard de la nuit_ of that whimsical author Aloysius Bertrand, who applied Leonardo da Vinci's methods to prose and painted with his metal oxides a series of little pictures whose brilliant colours shine like bright enamels. To these Des Esseintes had added Villiers' _Vox populi_ , a superb piece struck in a style of gold with the effigies of Flaubert and Leconte de Lisle, and a few extracts from that dainty _Livre de jade_ whose exotic perfume of ginseng and tea is mingled with the fresh fragrance of the moonlit waters that ripple through the book from cover to cover. But this was not all. The collection also contained sundry pieces rescued from extinct reviews: _Le Démon de l'analogie, La Pipe, Le Pauvre Enfant pâle, Le Spectacle interrompu, Le Phénomène futur_ and _above all Plainte d'automne_ and _Frisson d'hiver._ These were Mallarmé's masterpieces and also ranked among the masterpieces of prose poetry, for they combined a style so magnificently contrived than in itself it was as soothing as a melancholy incantation, an intoxicating melody, with irresistibly suggestive thoughts, the soul-throbs of a sensitive artist whose quivering nerves vibrate with an intensity that fills you with painful ecstasy. Of all forms of literature, the prose poem was Des Esseintes's favourite. Handled by an alchemist of genius it should, he maintained, contain within its small compass and in concentrated form the substance of a novel, while dispensing with the latter's long-winded analyses and superfluous descriptions. Many were the times that Des Esseintes had pondered over the fascinating problem of writing a novel concentrated in a few sentences and yet comprising the cohobated juice of the hundreds of pages always taken up in describing the setting, drawing the characters and piling up useful observations and incidental details. The words chosen for a work of this sort would be so unalterable that they would take the place of all the others; every adjective would be sited with such ingenuity and finality that it could never be legally evicted, and would open up such wide vistas that the reader could muse on its meaning, at once precise and multiple, for weeks on end, and also ascertain the present, reconstruct the past and divine the future of the characters in the light of this one epithet. The novel, thus conceived, thus condensed in a page or two, would become an intellectual communion between a hieratic writer and an ideal reader, a spiritual collaboration between a dozen persons of superior intelligence scattered across the world, an aesthetic treat available to none but the most discerning. In short, the prose poem represented in Des Esseintes's eyes the dry juice, the osmazome of literature, the essential oil of art. This succulent extract concentrated in a single drop could already be found in Baudelaire, and also in those poems of Mallarmé's that he savoured with such rare delight. When he had closed his anthology, the last book in his library, Des Esseintes told himself that in all probability he would never add another to his collection. The truth of the matter was that the decadence of French literature, a literature attacked by organic diseases, weakened by intellectual senility, exhausted by syntactical excesses, sensitive only to the curious whims that excite the sick, and yet eager to express itself completely in its last hours, determined to make up for all the pleasures it had missed, afflicted on its death-bed with a desire to leave behind the subtlest memories of suffering, had been embodied in Mallarmé in the most consummate and exquisite fashion. Here, carried to the further limits of expression, was the quintessence of Baudelaire and Poe; here their refined and potent substances had been distilled yet again to give off new savours, new intoxications. This was the death-agony of the old tongue which, after going a little greener every century, had now reached the point of dissolution, the same stage of deliquescence as the Latin language when it breathed its last in the mysterious concepts and enigmatic phrases of St Boniface and St Adhelm. The only difference was that the decomposition of the French language had occurred suddenly and speedily. In Latin, there had been a lengthy period of transition, a gap of four hundred years, between the superbly variegated idiom of Claudian and Rutilius and the gamey idiom of the eighth century. In French, on the contrary, there had been no lapse of time, no intervening sequence of centuries; the superbly variegated style of the Goncourts and the gamey style of Verlaine and Mallarmé rubbed shoulders in Paris, where they existed at the same time, in the same period, in the same century. And Des Esseintes smiled to himself as he glanced at one of the folios lying open on his church lectern, thinking that the time would come when a learned professor would compile for the decadence of the French language a glossary like the one in which the erudite Du Cange had recorded the last stammerings, the last paroxysms, the last brilliant sallies of the Latin language as it perished of old age in the depths of the medieval monasteries. ## CHAPTER 15 After blazing up like a flash in the pan, Des Esseintes's enthusiasm for his digester died down just as suddenly. His dyspepsia, banished for a little while, began plaguing him again, while all this concentrated food was so binding and brought on such an irritation of the bowels that he had to stop using the apparatus straight away. His illness promptly resumed its course, accompanied by hitherto unknown symptoms. The nightmares, the eye troubles, the hacking cough that came on at fixed intervals as regular as clockwork, the throbbing of the arteries and heart and the cold sweats were now followed by aural illusions, the sort of derangement that occurs only when the complaint has entered its final phase. Consumed with a burning fever, Des Esseintes suddenly heard the sounds of running water, of buzzing wasps; then these noises merged into one which resembled the humming of a lathe, and this humming grew shriller and clearer until it eventually changed into the silvery note of a bell. At this point he felt his disordered brain being carried away on waves of music and plunged into the religious atmosphere of his adolescence. The chants he had learnt from the Jesuit Fathers came back to him, recalling the college chapel where they had been sung, and passing the hallucinations on to the senses of sight and smell, which they enveloped in clouds of incense and the gloomy light filtering through stained-glass windows under lofty vaults. With the Fathers, the rites of religion were performed with great pomp; an excellent organist and a remarkable choir made sure that these pious exercises provided both spiritual edification and aesthetic pleasure. The organist loved the old masters, and on feast-days he would make his choice from Palestrina's or Orlando Lasso's masses, Marcello's psalms, Handel's oratorios, and Bach's motets, rejecting the sensuous, facile compilations of Father Lambillotte, so popular with the clergy, in favour of certain _Laudi spirituali_ of the sixteenth century whose hieratic beauty had many a time captivated Des Esseintes. But above all else he had derived ineffable pleasure from listening to plainsong, to which the organist had remained faithful in defiance of current fashion. This type of music, at present considered an effete and barbarous form of the Christian liturgy, as an archaeological curiosity, as a relic of the distant past, was the idiom of the ancient Church, the very soul of the Middle Ages; it was the sempiternal prayer, sung and modulated to accord with the movements of the soul, the diuturnal hymn which had risen for centuries past towards the Most High. This traditional melody was the only one which, with its powerful unison, its harmonies as massive and imposing as blocks of freestone, could tone in with the old basilicas and fill their Romanesque vaults, of which it seemed to be the emanation, the very voice. Time and again an awe-struck Des Esseintes had bowed his head in response to an irresistible impulse when the _Christus factus est_ of the Gregorian chant had soared up in the nave, whose pillars trembled amid the floating clouds of incense, or when the faux-bourdon of the _De Profundis_ groaned forth, mournful as a stifled sob, poignant as a despairing appeal by mankind bewailing its mortal destiny and imploring the tender mercy of its Saviour. Compared with this magnificent chant, created by the genius of the Church, as impersonal and anonymous as the organ itself, whose inventor is unknown, all other religious music struck him as profane. At bottom, in all the works of Jomelli and Porpora, of Carissimi and Durante, in the finest compositions of Handel and Bach, there was no real renunciation of popular success, no real sacrifice of artistic effect, no real abdication of human pride listening to itself at prayer; only in the imposing masses by Lesueur he had heard at Saint-Roch did the true religious style come into its own again, solemn and august, approaching the austere majesty of plainsong in its stark nudity. Since then, utterly revolted by the pretexts a Rossini and a Pergolese had thought up for composing a _Stabat Mater_ , by the general invasion of liturgical art by fashionable artists, Des Esseintes had held aloof from all these equivocal compositions tolerated by the over-indulgent Church. The fact was that this indulgent attitude, ostensibly intended to attract the faithful and really intended to attract their money, had promptly resulted in a crop of arias borrowed from Italian operas, contemptible cavatinas and objectionable quadrilles, sung with full orchestra accompaniment, in churches converted into boudoirs, by barnstormers bellowing away up in the roof, while down below the ladies waged a war of fashions and went into raptures over the shrieks of the mountebanks whose impure voices were defiling the sacred notes of the organ. For years now he had steadfastly refused to take part in these pious entertainments, preferring to recall his memories of childhood, even regretting having heard certain of the great masters' _Te Deums_ when he remembered that admirable _Te Deum_ of plainsong, that simple, awe-inspiring hymn composed by some saint or other, a St Ambrose or a St Hilary, who, without the complicated resources of an orchestra, without the musical contrivances of modern science, displayed a burning faith, a delirious joy, the faith and joy of all humanity, expressed in ardent, confident, well-nigh celestial accents. The odd thing was that Des Esseintes's ideas on music were in flagrant contradiction with the theories he professed about the other arts. The only religious music he really approved of was the monastic music of the Middle Ages, that emaciated music which provoked an instinctive nervous reaction in him, like certain pages of the old Christian Latinists; besides, as he himself admitted, he was incapable of understanding whatever new devices the present-day masters might have introduced into Catholic art. In the first place, he had not studied music with the same passionate enthusiasm that had drawn him to painting and literature. He could play the piano as well as the next man, and after long practice had learnt how to read a score more or less inefficiently; but he knew nothing of the harmony and the technique that were necessary to be able really to appreciate every nuance, to understand every subtlety, to derive the maximum pleasure from every refinement. Then again, secular music is a promiscuous art in that you cannot enjoy it at home, by yourself, as you can a book; to savour it he would have had to join the mob of inveterate theatre-goers that fills the Cirque d'Hiver, where under a broiling sun and in a stifling atmosphere you can see a hulking brute of a man waving his arms about and massacring disconnected snatches of Wagner to the huge delight of an ignorant crowd. He had never had the courage to plunge into this mob-bath to listen to Berlioz, even though he admired some fragments of his work for their passionate ardour and fiery spirit; and he was well aware that there was not a single scene, not even a single phrase, in any of the mighty Wagner's operas that could be divorced from its context with impunity. Slices cut off and served up at a concert lost all sense and meaning, for like chapters in a book that are complementary to one another and combine to reach the same goal, the same conclusion, Wagner's melodies were used to define the characters of his dramatis personae, to represent their thoughts, to express their visible or secret motives, and their ingenious and persistent repetitions could only be understood by an audience that followed the subject from the start and watched the characters gradually taking shape and developing in a setting from which they could not be removed without dying like branches cut from a tree. Des Esseintes was therefore convinced that of the mob of melomaniacs who went into ecstasies every Sunday on the benches of the Cirque d'Hiver, barely twenty could tell what the orchestra was murdering, even when the attendants were kind enough to stop chattering and give it a chance of being heard. Considering also that the intelligent patriotism of the French made it impossible for any theatre in the country to put on a Wagner opera, there was nothing left for the keen amateur who was ignorant of the arcana of music and could not or would not travel to Bayreuth but to stay at home, and this was the reasonable course Des Esseintes had adopted. On a different level, cheaper, more popular music and isolated extracts from the old operas scarcely appealed to him; the trivial little tunes of Auber and Boïeldieu, of Adam and Flotow, and the rhetorical commonplaces turned out by such men as Ambroise Thomas and Bazin were just as repugnant to him as the antiquated sentimentalities and vulgar graces of the Italians. He had therefore resolutely abstained from all musical indulgence, and the only pleasant memories he retained from these years of abstinence were of certain chamber concerts at which he had heard some Beethoven and above all some Schumann and Schubert which had stimulated his nerves in the same way as Poe's most intimate and anguished poems. Certain settings for the violoncello by Schumann had left him positively panting with emotion, choking with hysteria; but it was chiefly Schubert's _Lieder_ that had excited him, carried him away, then prostrated him as if he had been squandering his nervous energy, indulging in a mystical debauch. This music thrilled him to the very marrow, reawakening a host of forgotten sorrows, of old grievances, in a heart surprised at containing so many confused regrets and vague mortifications. This desolate music, surging up from the uttermost depths of the soul, terrified and fascinated him at the same time. He had never been able to hum _Des Mädchens Klage_ without nervous tears rising to his eyes, for in this _lamento_ there was something more than sadness, a note of despair that tore at his heartstrings, something reminiscent of a dying love-affair in a melancholy landscape. Every time they came back to his lips, these exquisite, funereal laments called to mind a suburban scene, a shabby, silent piece of waste land and in the distance, lines of men and women, harassed by the cares of life, shuffling away, bent double, into the twilight, while he himself, steeped in bitterness and filled with disgust, felt alone in the midst of tearful Nature, all alone, overcome by an unspeakable melancholy, by an obstinate distress, the mysterious intensity of which precluded any prospect of consolation, of pity, of repose. Like the sound of a passing-bell, these mournful melodies haunted him now that he lay in bed, exhausted by fever and tormented by an anxiety that was all the more irresistible in that he could no longer discover its cause. He finally abandoned himself to the current of his emotions, swept away by the torrent of anguish let loose by this music – a torrent that was suddenly stemmed for a moment by the sound of the psalms echoing slowly and softly in his head, whose aching temples felt as though they were being beaten by the clappers of tolling bells. One morning, however, these noises died away; he felt in fuller possession of his faculties and asked his man to hand him a mirror. After a single glance it slipped from his hands. He scarcely knew himself; his face was an earthen colour, the lips dry and swollen, the tongue all furrowed, the skin wrinkled; his untidy hair and beard, which his servant had not trimmed since the beginning of his illness, added to the horrific impression created by the hollow cheeks and the big, watery eyes burning with a feverish brightness in this hairy death's-head. This change in his facial appearance alarmed him more than his weakness, more than the uncontrollable fits of vomiting that thwarted his every attempt at taking food, more than the depression into which he was gradually sinking. He thought he was done for; but then, in spite of his overwhelming despondency, the energy of a man in desperate straits brought him to a sitting position in bed and gave him the strength to write a letter to his Paris doctor and order his servant to go to him immediately and bring him back with him, whatever the cost, the same day. His mood promptly changed from the darkest despair to the brightest hope. This doctor he had sent for was a famous specialist, a physician renowned for his successes in treating nervous disorders, and Des Esseintes told himself: 'He must have cured plenty of cases that were more difficult and dangerous than mine. No, there's no doubt about it – I shall be on my feet again in a few days' time.' But soon this spirit of confidence was followed by a feeling of blank pessimism. He was convinced that no matter how learned or perspicacious they might be, doctors really knew nothing about nervous diseases, not even their causes. Like all the rest, this man would prescribe the inevitable zinc oxide and quinine, potassium bromide and valerian. 'Who knows?' he went on, clinging to a last, slender hope. 'If these remedies have done me no good so far, it's probably because I haven't taken the proper doses.' In spite of everything, the prospect of obtaining some relief put new heart into him, but then fresh anxieties assailed him: perhaps the doctor was not in Paris, perhaps he would refuse to come and see him, perhaps his servant had not even succeeded in finding him. He began to lose heart again, jumping, from one minute to the next, from the most unreasonable hopefulness to the most illogical apprehension, exaggerating both his chances of sudden recovery and his fears of immediate danger. The hours slipped by and eventually, exhausted and in despair, convinced that the doctor would never come, he angrily told himself over and over again that if only he had been seen to in time he would undoubtedly have been saved. Then his anger at his servant's inefficiency and his doctor's callousness in apparently letting him die abated, and he finally took to blaming himself for having waited so long before sending for help, persuading himself that by now he would have been completely fit if, even the day before, he had insisted on having potent medicines and skilled attention. Little by little these alternating hopes and fears jostling around in his otherwise empty mind subsided, though not before the succession of swift changes had worn him out. He fell into a sleep of exhaustion broken by incoherent dreams, a sort of swoon interrupted by periods of barely conscious wakefulness. He had finally forgotten what he wanted and what he feared so completely that he was simply bewildered, and felt neither surprise nor pleasure, when the doctor suddenly came into the room. The man-servant had doubtless told him what kind of life Des Esseintes had been leading, and described the various symptoms he himself had been in a position to observe since the day he had found his master lying by the window, overcome by the potency of his perfumes, for he put hardly any questions to his patient, whose medical history over the past few years was in any case well known to him. But he examined him, sounded him and carefully scrutinized his urine, in which certain white streaks told him what one of the chief determining causes of his nervous trouble was. He wrote out a prescription, and after saying he would come again soon, took his leave without another word. His visit revived Des Esseintes's spirits, but he was somewhat alarmed at the doctor's silence and told his servant not to keep the truth from him any longer. The man assured him that the doctor had shown no signs of anxiety, and, suspicious as he was, Des Esseintes could detect no trace of prevarication in the old man's expressionless face. His thoughts now became more cheerful; besides, his pains had gone and the weakness he felt in every limb had taken on a certain sweet languorous quality, at once vague and insinuating. What is more, he was both astounded and delighted at not being encumbered with drugs and medicine bottles, and a faint smile hovered over his lips when his servant eventually brought him a nourishing peptone enema and informed him that he was to repeat this injection three times every twenty-four hours. The operation was successfully carried out, and Des Esseintes could not help secretly congratulating himself on this experience which was, so to speak, the crowning achievement of the life he had planned for himself; his taste for the artificial had now, without even the slightest effort on his part, attained its supreme fulfilment. No one, he thought, would ever go any further; taking nourishment in this way was undoubtedly the ultimate deviation from the norm. 'How delightful it would be,' he said to himself, 'to go on with this simple diet after getting well again. What a saving of time, what a radical deliverance from the repugnance meat inspires in people without any appetite. What an absolute release from the boredom that invariably results from the necessarily limited choice of dishes! What a vigorous protest against the vile sin of gluttony! And last but not least, what a slap in the face for old Mother Nature, whose monotonous demands would be permanently silenced!' And talking to himself under his breath, he went on: 'It would be easy enough to get up an appetite by swallowing a strong aperient. Then, when you felt you might reasonably say: ''Isn't it time for dinner? – I'm as hungry as a hunter,'' all you'd have to do to lay the table would be to deposit the noble instrument on the cloth. And before you had time to say grace you'd have finished the meal – without any of the vulgar, bothersome business of eating.' A few days later, the servant brought him an enema altogether different in colour and smell from the peptone preparations. 'But it's not the same!' exclaimed Des Esseintes, anxiously inspecting the liquid that had been poured into the apparatus. He asked for the menu as he might have done in a restaurant, and unfolding the doctor's prescription, he read out: Cod-liver oil \| 29 grammes ---\|--- Beef-tea \| 200 grammes Burgundy \| 200 grammes Yolk of one egg \| This set him thinking. On account of the ruinous condition of his stomach, he had never been able to take a serious interest in the art of cooking, but now he found himself working out recipes of a perverse epicurism. Then an intriguing idea crossed his mind. Perhaps the doctor had supposed that his patient's unusual palate was already tired of the taste of peptone; perhaps, like a skilled chef, he had decided to vary the flavour of his concoctions, to prevent the monotony of the dishes leading to a complete loss of appetite. Once started on this line of thought, Des Esseintes began composing novel recipes and even planning meatless dinners for Fridays, increasing the doses of cod-liver oil and wine and crossing out the beef-tea because being meat it was expressly forbidden by the Church. But soon he had no need to deliberate any longer over these nourishing liquids, for the doctor gradually managed to stop his vomiting and to make him swallow through the ordinary channels a punch syrup containing powdered meat and giving off a vague aroma of cocoa that lingered pleasantly in his real mouth. Weeks went by and at last the stomach decided to function properly; from time to time fits of nausea would still recur, but these were effectively overcome with potions of ginger-beer and Rivière's antemetic. Eventually, little by little, the organs recovered, and with the help of pepsins ordinary food was digested. Des Esseintes's strength returned and he was able to get up and hobble around his bedroom, leaning on a stick and holding on to the furniture. But instead of being pleased with his progress, he forgot all his past sufferings, fretted over the time his convalescence was taking and accused the doctor of spinning it out. It was true that a few unsuccessful experiments had slowed things down; iron proved no more acceptable than quinquina, even when it was mixed with laudanum, and these drugs had to be replaced by arseniates – this after a fortnight had been wasted in useless efforts, as Des Esseintes angrily pointed out. At last the time came when he could stay up all afternoon and walk about the house unaided. Now his study began to get on his nerves; faults he had overlooked by force of habit struck him at once on coming back to the room after a long absence. The colours he had chosen to be seen by lamplight seemed at variance with one another in daylight; wondering how best to change them, he spent hours planning heterogeneous harmonies of hues, hybrid combinations of cloths and leathers. 'I'm on the road to recovery, and no mistake,' he told himself, noting the return of his former preoccupations, his old predilections. One morning, as he was looking at his blue and orange walls, dreaming of ideal hangings made of stoles designed for the Greek Church, of gold-fringed Russian dalmatics, of brocaded copes inscribed with Slavonic lettering in pearls or in precious stones from the Urals, the doctor came in and, following the direction of his patient's gaze, asked him what he was thinking. Des Esseintes told him of his unrealizable ideals and was beginning to outline new experiments in colour, to talk about new combinations and contrasts that he meant to organize, when the doctor threw cold water on his enthusiasm by declaring in peremptory fashion that wherever he put his ideas into effect it would certainly not be in that house. Then, without giving him time to breathe, he stated that he had attended to the most urgent problem first by putting right the digestive functions, and that now he must tackle the general nervous trouble, which had not cleared up at all and to do so would require years of strict dieting and careful nursing. He concluded by saying that before trying any particular remedy, before embarking on any sort of hydropathic treatment – which in any case was impracticable at Fontenay – he would have to abandon this solitary existence, to go back to Paris, to lead a normal life again, above all to try and enjoy the same pleasures as other people. 'But I just don't enjoy the pleasures other people enjoy!' retorted Des Esseintes indignantly. Ignoring this objection, the doctor simply assured him that this radical change of life he prescribed was in his opinion a matter of life and death – that it meant the difference between a good recovery on the one hand and insanity speedily followed by tuberculosis on the other. 'So I have to choose between death and deportation!' cried Des Esseintes in exasperation. The doctor, who was imbued with all the prejudices of a man of the world, smiled and made for the door without answering. ## CHAPTER 16 Des Esseintes shut himself up in his bedroom and stopped his ears against the sound of hammering outside, where the removal men were nailing up the packing-cases his servants had got ready; every blow seemed to strike at his heart and send a stab of pain deep into his flesh. The sentence pronounced by the doctor was being executed; the dread of enduring all over again the sufferings he had recently undergone, together with the fear of an agonizing death, had had a more powerful effect on him than his hatred of the detestable existence to which medical jurisdiction condemned him. 'And yet,' he kept telling himself, 'there are people who live on their own with no one to talk to, who spend their lives in quiet contemplation apart from human society, people like Trappists and prisoners in solitary confinement, and there's nothing to show that those wise men and those poor wretches go either mad or consumptive.' These examples he had quoted to the doctor, but in vain; the latter had simply repeated, in a curt manner that excluded any further argument, that his verdict, which incidentally was in line with the opinions of every specialist in nervous disorders, was that only relaxation, amusement and enjoyment could have any effect on this complaint, which on the mental side remained entirely unaffected by chemical remedies. Finally, infuriated by his patient's recriminations, he had stated once for all that he refused to go on treating him unless he agreed to a change of air and a move to more hygienic conditions. Des Esseintes had promptly gone to Paris to consult other specialists, to whom he had submitted his case with scrupulous impartiality; they had all unhesitatingly approved their colleague's advice. Thereupon he had taken a flat that was still vacant in a new apartment-house, had come back to Fontenay and, white with rage, had ordered his servants to start packing. Buried deep in his armchair, he was now brooding over this unambiguous prescription which upset all his plans, broke all the ties binding him to his present life and buried all his future projects in oblivion. So his beatific happiness was over! So he must leave the shelter of this haven of his and put out to sea again in the teeth of that gale of human folly that had battered and buffeted him of old! The doctors spoke of amusement and relaxation, but with whom, with what, did they expect him to have fun and enjoy himself? Had he not outlawed himself from society? Had he heard of anybody else who was trying to organize a life like this, a life of dreamy contemplation? Did he know a single individual who was capable of appreciating the delicacy of a phrase, the subtlety of a painting, the quintessence of an idea, or whose soul was sensitive enough to understand Mallarmé and love Verlaine? Where and when should he look, into what social waters should he heave the lead, to discover a twin soul, a mind free of commonplace ideas, welcoming silence as a boon, ingratitude as a relief, suspicion as a haven and a harbour? In the society he had frequented before his departure for Fontenay? – But most of the squireens he had known in those days must since have reached new depths of boredom in the drawing-room, of stupidity at the gaming table and of depravity in the brothel. Most of them, too, must have got married; after treating themselves all their lives to the leavings of street-arabs, they now treated their wives to the leavings of street-walkers, for like a master of the first-fruits, the working class was the only one that did not feed on left-overs! 'What a pretty change of partners, what a glorious game of general post this prudish society of ours is enjoying!' muttered Des Esseintes. But then, the decayed nobility was done for; the aristocracy had sunk into imbecility or depravity. It was dying from the degeneracy of its scions, whose faculties had deteriorated with each succeeding generation till they now consisted of the instincts of gorillas at work in the skulls of grooms and jockeys; or else, like the Choiseul-Praslins, the Polignacs and the Chevreuses, it was wallowing in the mud of law-suits that brought it down to the same level of ignominy as the other classes. The very mansions, age-old escutcheons, heraldic pomp and stately ceremonial of this ancient caste had disappeared. As its estates had stopped yielding revenue, they and the great country houses had been put up for auction, for there was never enough money to pay for all the dark venereal pleasures of the besotted descendants of the old families. The least scrupulous and the least obtuse among them threw all shame to the winds; they joined in shady deals, splashed about in the financial gutter and finished up like common criminals in the Assize Court, serving at least to add a little lustre to human justice, which, finding it impossible to maintain absolute impartiality, solved the problem by making them prison librarians. This passion for profits, this love of lucre, had also taken hold of another class, a class that had always leant upon the nobility – the clergy. At present, on the back page of every newspaper, you could see a corn-cure advertisement inserted by a priest. The monasteries had been turned into factories or distilleries, with every order manufacturing its specialities or selling the recipes. Thus the Cistercians derived their income from chocolate, Trappistine, semolina and tincture of arnica; the Marists from biphosphate of chalk for medicinal purposes and arquebus water; the Dominicans from antapoplectic elixir; the disciples of St Benedict from Benedictine; the monks of St Bruno from Chartreuse. Commercialism had invaded the cloisters, where, in lieu of antiphonaries, fat account-books lay on the lecterns. Like a foul leprosy, the present-day greed for gain was playing havoc with the Church, making the monks pore over inventories and invoices, turning the Superiors into confectioners and medicasters, the lay-brothers into common packers and base bottle-washers. And yet, in spite of everything, it was still only among the ecclesiastics that Des Esseintes could hope to enjoy relations in some degree of accordance with his tastes. In the company of canons, who were generally men of learning and good breeding, he might have spent some affable and agreeable evenings; but then he would have had to share their beliefs and not oscillate between sceptical ideas and sudden fits of faith which recurred from time to time under the impulse of his childhood memories. He would have had to hold identical views and refuse to acknowledge, as he readily did in his moments of enthusiasm, a Catholicism that was seasoned with a touch of magic, as in the reign of Henri III, and a touch of sadism, as in the closing years of the eighteenth century. This special brand of clericalism, this subtly depraved and perverse type of mysticism, to which he occasionally felt drawn, could not so much as be discussed with a priest, who would either have failed to understand him or would have instantly ordered him out of his sight in sheer horror. For the twentieth time this insoluble problem tormented him. He would have dearly loved to escape from the state of doubt and suspicion against which he had struggled in vain at Fontenay; now that he was forced to turn over a new leaf, he would have liked to force himself to possess the faith, to glue it down as soon as he had it, to fasten it with clamps to his soul, in short to protect it against all those reflections that tend to shake and dislodge it. But the more he longed for it, the less the void in his mind was filled and the longer the visitation of Christ was delayed. Indeed, in proportion as his hunger of religion increased and he passionately craved, as a ransom for the future and a help in his new life, this faith that now showed itself to him, though the distance separating him from it appalled him, doubts crowded into his fevered mind, upsetting his unsteady will, rejecting on grounds of common sense and by mathematical demonstration the mysteries and dogmas of the Church. 'It ought to be possible to stop arguing with yourself,' he told himself miserably; 'it ought to be possible to shut your eyes, let yourself drift along with the stream and forget all those damnable discoveries that have blasted religion from top to bottom in the last two hundred years. 'And yet,' he sighed, 'it isn't really the physiologists or the sceptics who are demolishing Catholicism; it's the priests themselves, whose clumsy writings would shake the firmest convictions.' Among the Dominicans, for instance, there was a Doctor of Theology, the Reverend Father Rouard de Card, a preaching friar who, in a booklet entitled _The Adulteration of the Sacramental Substances_ , had proved beyond all doubt that the majority of Masses were null and void, simply because the materials used by the priest were sophisticated by certain dealers. For years now, the holy oil had been adulterated with poultry-fat; the taper wax with burnt bones; the incense with common resin and old benzoin. But what was worse was that the two substances that were indispensable for the holy sacrifice, the two substances without which no oblation was possible, had also been adulterated: the wine by repeated diluting and the illicit addition of Pernambuco bark, elderberries, alcohol, alum, salicylate and litharge; the bread, that bread of the Eucharist which should be made from the finest of wheats, with bean-flour, potash and pipe-clay! And now they had gone even further; they had had the effrontery to leave out the wheat altogether, and most hosts were made by shameless dealers out of potato-flour! Now God refused to come down to earth in the form of potato-flour; that was an undeniable, indisputable fact. In the second volume of his Moral Theology, His Eminence Cardinal Gousset had also dealt at length with this question of fraud from the divine point of view; according to this unimpeachable authority it was quite impossible to consecrate bread made of oatmeal, buckwheat or barley, and if there was at least some doubt in the case of rye bread, there could be no doubt or argument about potato-flour, which, to use the ecclesiastic phrase, was in no sense a competent substance for the Blessed Sacrament. Because of the easy manipulation of this flour and the attractive appearance of the wafers made with it, this outrageous swindle had become so common that the mystery of transubstantiation scarcely existed any longer and both priests and faithful communicated, all unwittingly, with neutral species. Ah, the days were far distant when Radegonde, Queen of France, used to make the altar-bread with her own hands; the days when, according to the custom at Cluny, three fasting priests or deacons, clad in alb and amice, after washing face and fingers, sorted out the wheat grain by grain, crushed it under a millstone, kneaded the dough with pure, cold water and baked it themselves over a bright fire, singing psalms all the while. 'Still, there's no denying,' Des Esseintes told himself, 'that the prospect of being constantly hoodwinked at the communion table itself isn't calculated to consolidate beliefs that are already far from steady. Besides, how can you accept the idea of an omnipotent deity balked by a pinch of potato-flour and a drop of alcohol?' These thoughts made his future look gloomier than ever, his horizon darker and more threatening. It was clear that no haven of refuge or sheltering shore was left to him. What was to become of him in this city of Paris where he had neither relatives nor friends? He no longer had any connexion with the Faubourg Saint-Germain, which was now quavering with old age, crumbling away into the dust of desuetude, lying in the midst of a new society like a rotten, empty husk. And what point of contact could there possibly be between him and that bourgeois class which had gradually climbed to the top, taking advantage of every disaster to fill its pockets, stirring up every sort of trouble to command respect for its countless crimes and thefts? After the aristocracy of birth, it was now the turn of the aristocracy of wealth, the caliphate of the counting-house, the despotism of the Rue du Sentier, the tyranny of commerce with its narrow-minded, venal ideas, its selfish, rascally instincts. More cunning and contemptible than the impoverished aristocracy and the discredited clergy, the bourgeoisie borrowed their frivolous love of show and their old-world arrogance, which it cheapened through its own lack of taste, and stole their natural defects, which it turned into hypocritical vices. Overbearing and underhand in behaviour, base and cowardly in character, it ruthlessly shot down its perennial and essential dupe, the mob, which it had previously unmuzzled and sent flying at the throats of the old castes. Now it was all over. Once it had done its job, the plebs had been bled white in the interests of public hygiene, while the jovial bourgeois lorded it over the country, putting his trust in the power of his money and the contagiousness of his stupidity. The result of his rise to power had been the suppression of all intelligence, the negation of all honesty, the destruction of all art; in fact, artists and writers in their degradation had fallen on their knees and were covering with ardent kisses the stinking feet of the high-placed jobbers and low-bred satraps on whose charity they depended for a living. In painting, the result was a deluge of lifeless inanities; in literature, a torrent of hackneyed phrases and conventional ideas – honesty to flatter the shady speculator, integrity to please the swindler who hunted for a dowry for his son while refusing to pay his daughter's, and chastity to satisfy the anti-clerical who accused the clergy of rape and lechery when he himself was forever haunting the local brothel, a stupid hypocrite without even the excuse of deliberate depravity, sniffing at the greasy water in the wash-basins and the hot, spicy smell of dirty petticoats. This was the vast bagnio of America transported to the continent of Europe; this was the limitless, unfathomable, immeasurable scurviness of the financier and the self-made man, beaming down like a shameful sun on the idolatrous city, which grovelled on its belly, chanting vile songs of praise before the impious tabernacle of the Bank. 'Well, crumble then, society! perish, old world!' cried Des Esseintes, roused to indignation by the ignominious spectacle he had conjured up – and the sound of his voice broke the oppressive spell the nightmare had laid on him. 'Ah!' he groaned, 'To think that all this isn't just a bad dream! To think that I'm about to rejoin the base and servile riff-raff of the age!' To soothe his wounded spirit he called upon the consoling maxims of Schopenhauer, and repeated to himself Pascal's sorrowful maxim: 'The soul sees nothing that does not distress it on reflection'; but the words echoed in his mind like meaningless noises, his weariness of spirit breaking them up, stripping them of all significance, all sedative virtue, all effective and soothing force. He realized at last that the arguments of pessimism were powerless to comfort him, that only the impossible belief in a future life could bring him peace of mind. A fit of rage swept away like a hurricane all his would-be resignation, all his attempted indifference. He could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that there was nothing to be done, nothing whatever, that it was all over; the bourgeois were guzzling like picnickers from paper bags among the imposing ruins of the Church – ruins which had become a place of assignation, a pile of debris defiled by unspeakable jokes and scandalous jests. Could it be that the terrible God of Genesis and the pale martyr of Golgotha would not prove their existence once for all by renewing the cataclysms of old, by rekindling the rain of fire that once consumed those accursed towns, the cities of the plain? Could it be that this slime would go on spreading until it covered with its pestilential filth this old world where now only seeds of iniquity sprang up and only harvests of shame were gathered? The door suddenly flew open. In the distance, framed in the opening, some men in cocked hats appeared with clean-shaven cheeks and tufts of hair on their chins, trundling packing-cases along and moving furniture; then the door closed again behind the man-servant, who disappeared carrying a bundle of books. Des Esseintes collapsed into a chair. 'In two days' time I shall be in Paris,' he told himself. 'Well, it is all over now. Like a tide-race, the waves of human mediocrity are rising to the heavens and will engulf this refuge, for I am opening the flood-gates myself, against my will. Ah! but my courage fails me, and my heart is sick within me! – Lord, take pity on the Christian who doubts, on the unbeliever who would fain believe, on the galley-slave of life who puts out to sea alone, in the night, beneath a firmament no longer lit by the consoling beacon-fires of the ancient hope!' ## Appendix I Preface, Written Twenty Years After the Novel _Huysmans' preface was written for the 1903 publication of Against Nature, a luxury limited edition of the novel with engravings by Auguste Lepère. It is usually reprinted at the head of the standard French editions. Here translated by Patrick McGuinness_. I believe that all literary people are like me, that they never reread their works once they have been published. Indeed, there is nothing more disillusioning or more painful than to look over one's sentences after so many years. They have, as it were, been decanted, and settled to the bottom of the book; and generally books are not like wines, improving with age; once discoloured by time the chapters have gone flat and their bouquet faded. I had this feeling about certain of the bottles stored in the bin marked _Against Nature_ when the time came for me to uncork them. And, with a certain melancholy, I am trying to recall, as I leaf through these pages, my possible state of mind when I wrote them. In those days Naturalism was at its height; but this school of writers, which was to fulfil the invaluable service of placing real characters in precise settings, was condemned to repeat itself over and over, and endlessly to go over the same ground. Naturalism had no room – in theory at least – for exceptions; it thus confined itself to the portrayal of ordinary experience, striving, under the pretext of being true to life, to create characters who came as close as possible to the average person. This ideal had been achieved, in its way, in a masterpiece which – far more than _L'Assommoir_ – was the embodiment of Naturalism: Gustave Flaubert's, _L'Education sentimentale_. For those of us who met at the 'Soirées de Medan', this novel was a bible; but little came of it. It was perfectly achieved, and even Flaubert himself could not write another book like it, so in those days we were all reduced to roaming around it and exploring more or less beaten tracks. It must be admitted that Virtue is an exception here on earth, and so it was excluded from the Naturalist framework. Not having the Catholic conception of the fall from grace and of temptation, we were unaware of the struggles and sufferings from which Virtue springs; the heroism of the soul, triumphing over life's pitfalls, escaped us. It would not have occurred to us to describe this struggle, with its highs and lows, its wily attacks and feints, or the able allies standing at the ready deep in their cloisters and often far from those the Devil is assailing. Virtue seemed to us the attribute of individuals without curiosity or bereft of sense, and in any case of too little emotional interest to treat from an artistic point of view. This left the vices; but there was little left uncultivated in that field. It was limited to the terrain of the Seven Deadly Sins, and even then only one of these – the one that set itself against God's sixth commandment – was more or less available to us. The others had been dreadfully over-harvested, and there were barely any grapes left to pick. Avarice, for example, had been pressed to its last drop by Balzac and Hello. Pride, Anger and Envy had been dragged through every Romantic publication, and these dramatic subjects had been so unrecognizably distorted by theatrical overuse that it would have taken real genius to reinvigorate them in a book. As for Gluttony and Sloth, they seemed more suited to being embodied in minor characters and to fit supporting roles rather than lead roles and prima donnas in novels of manners. The truth is that Pride would have been the most magnificent of sins to study, with its infernal ramifications of cruelty to others and false humility, or that Gluttony, dragging in its wake Luxury and Sloth and Covetousness, would have provided the material for surprising investigations, if these sins had been scrutinized by a Believer with the lamps and the torch of the Church; but none of us was ready for this task; so we had no alternative but to chew over the easiest offence of all to dissect, the sin of Luxury in all its forms. And God knows how we chewed over it, but this kind of roundabout ride was short-lived. Whatever we thought up, the novel could be summed up in these brief lines: knowing why Mr so-and-so committed or did not commit adultery with Mrs so-and-so. If one wanted to be distinguished and make one's mark as an author of the most fashionable sort, one made this sexual transaction occur between a marquise and a count; if on the contrary one wanted to be a popular novelist, a writer with all the tricks of the trade, one set it up between a low-class suitor and a common working girl; only the setting was different. The distinguished tone seems to have prevailed with today's reader, for I see that at present he favours not plebeian or bourgeois love-affairs but continues to relish the waverings of the _marquise_ as she goes to join her seducer in some small apartment whose appearance changes according to the decorative fashions of the day. Will she? Won't she? This is called a psychological study. Personally I have nothing against that. However, I admit that when I happen to open a book and find the inevitable seduction and the no less inevitable adultery, I hasten to close it, having absolutely no interest in finding out how the promised idyll will end. Books with no documentary value, books which teach me nothing, no longer interest me. When _Against Nature_ appeared, that is, in 1884, this then was the situation: Naturalism was wearing itself out going over the same ground. The reservoir of insights that each writer had built up, drawing on himself and on others, was beginning to run out. Zola, who was a great designer of theatrical scenery, got along by painting bold and more or less accurate canvases. He was very good at suggesting the illusion of movement and life; his protagonists were bereft of soul, quite simply impelled by impulses and instincts, and this simplified the task of analysis. They moved about, accomplished a few summary acts, and their bold silhouettes peopled the settings that became the main characters of his dramas. In this way he celebrated the markets, department stores, railways, mines, and the human beings caught up in these settings played only secondary or walk-on roles. But Zola was Zola, that is to say a somewhat unwieldy artist, but with powerful lungs and heavy fists. The rest of us, less broad-shouldered and seeking a more subtle and more truthful art, must have wondered whether Naturalism was not coming to a dead end, and whether we might soon be running into a brick wall. To tell the truth, these reflections only came to me much later. I was vaguely searching for ways out of a dead end in which I was suffocating, but I had no fixed plan and _Against Nature_ , which liberated me from a dead-end literature by letting me breathe again, is a perfectly unconscious work, put together without preconceived ideas, without plans for the future, without anything at all. It came to me first as a brief fantasy, in the form of a bizarre short story; I imagined it partly as a counterpart to _A Vau-l'Eau_ transferred to another world; I had pictured another Mr Folantin, better-read, more refined and richer, who had discovered in artifice a diversion from the disgust of life's petty torments and the Americanized manners of his day. I envisaged him soaring upwards into dream, seeking refuge in illusions of extravagant fantasy, living alone, far from his century, among memories of more congenial times, of less base surroundings. And, as I thought about it, the subject grew, requiring patient research: each chapter became the sublimate of a specialism, the refinement of a different art; it became condensed into an essence of jewellery, perfumes, flowers, religious and secular literature, of profane music and plain-chant. The strange thing was that, without my realizing it at first, I was drawn by the nature of my work itself to study the Church from a number of angles. It was in fact impossible to trace one's way back to the only unblemished times humanity has ever known, to the Middle Ages, without realizing that the Church was at the centre of everything, that art existed through her and by her. Not being a believer, I looked at her, a little defiant, taken aback by her greatness and her glory, wondering why a religion which seemed to me to have been created for children could have inspired such marvellous works of art. I prowled around her, groping my way, guessing more than I could see, piecing together a whole for myself from the odds and ends I found in museums and in books. Today, after surer and more extensive investigations, as I look over the pages of _Against Nature_ which deal with Catholicism and religious art, I am aware that this minute panorama, painted on the pages of notepads, is accurate. What I was painting then was succinct; it lacked development but it was truthful. Since then I have simply expanded and elaborated my sketches. I could certainly sign my name at the bottom of the pages of _Against Nature_ about the Church, for they seem indeed to have been written by a Catholic. Yet I thought myself so far from religion! I did not imagine that it was only a short step from Schopenhauer, whom I admired beyond reason, to _Ecclesiastes_ and the _Book of Job_. The premises about Pessimism are the same, only when the time comes to reach a conclusion, the philosopher disappears. I liked his ideas about the horror of life, the stupidity of the world, the mercilessness of destiny; I like them also in the Holy Scriptures; but Schopenhauer's observations lead nowhere; he leaves you, so to speak, in the lurch; in the end, his aphorisms are only a herbarium of dry plaints; whereas the Church explains the origins and the causes, indicates the conclusions, offers remedies. She does not limit herself to giving you a spiritual consultation, but treats and cures you, whereas the German quack, once he has proved the incurability of your condition, simply sneers and turns his back on you. His Pessimism is nothing other than that of Scriptures from which he has borrowed it. He has said no more than Solomon, no more than Job, no more even than the _Imitation_ , which long before him summed up his philosophy in a single sentence: 'In truth it is a wretched thing to live on this earth.' From a distance these similarities and differences are clearly pronounced, but in those days if I noticed them I hardly lingered over them; the urge to conclude did not tempt me; the route marked out by Schopenhauer was smooth and scenic, I drove calmly along it with no desire to learn where it led. In those days I had no clear grasp of when debts would need to be repaid, no apprehension of when the end would come; the mysteries of the catechism seemed to me childish; besides, like all Catholics, I was completely ignorant about my religion; I did not grasp that all is mystery, that we live only in mystery, that if such a thing as chance existed it would be even more mysterious than Providence. I did not accept the idea of suffering inflicted by a God, I imagined that Pessimism could console elevated souls. What stupidity! It was precisely this that lacked evidence, that, to use a term beloved of Naturalism, had no 'human document' to support it. Never has Pessimism been of any comfort to those sick in body or in soul! After all these years, when I reread these pages where such resolutely false theories are presented as true, I smile. But what strikes most as I read is this: all the novels I have written since _Against Nature_ are there in embryo in this book. The chapters are, in fact, only the starting-points for the volumes that followed them. The chapter on the Latin literature of the Decadent period was, if not developed, at least more searchingly explored when I wrote about liturgy in _En Route_ and _L'Oblat_. I would republish it today without any changes, except in the case of Saint Ambrose, whose thin prose and turgid rhetoric I still dislike. He still seems to me as I described him then – a 'tedious Christian Cicero' – but, by contrast, as a poet he is charming; and his hymns and those of his followers contained in the Breviary are among the most beautiful that the Church has preserved. I should add that the admittedly rather unusual literature of the hymnal could have found a place in the reserved compartment of this chapter. I have no more taste for the classical Latin of Maro [Virgil] and of Chick-Pea [Cicero] now than I did in 1884; as in the days of _Against Nature,_ I prefer the language of the Vulgate to the language of the Augustan age, even to that of the Decadent period, stranger though it may be, with its gamey stink and its marbled streaks of mould. After disinfecting and rejuvenating the language, in order to address a category of so far unexpressed ideas, the Church created a range of high-sounding expressions and exquisitely tender diminutives, and seems to me to have fashioned for herself a language far superior to that of Paganism, and Durtal still has the same views as Des Esseintes on this subject. The chapter on precious stones I took up again in _La Cathédrale_ , but from the perspective of the symbolism of gems. I gave life to the lifeless stones of _Against Nature_. I do not for a moment deny that a beautiful emerald may be admired for the sparks that glitter in the fire of its green water, but if one is unaware of the language of symbols, is it not a silent stranger with whom one cannot converse and who is herself silent because we cannot understand her speech? But she is more and better than that. Without going so far as to say, like the old sixteenth-century writer Estienne de Clave, that precious stones, like human beings, propagate by means of a scattering of seeds in the womb of the earth, one can certainly say that they are meaningful minerals, substances that speak; that they are, in a word, symbols. They have been seen in this way since earliest antiquity, and the figurative language of gems is one of the branches of a Christian symbolism completely forgotten by priests and laymen of our own day and which I have tried to reconstitute in outline in my books on the basilica of Chartres. The chapter in _Against Nature_ is thus only superficial and skimming the surface. It is not what it should be, an array of jewels from another world. It is made up of gems more less well described and more or less well displayed. That is all, and it is not enough. The paintings of Gustave Moreau, the engravings by Luyken, the lithographs by Bresdin and Redon are as I still see them. I have no modifications to make to the arrangement of that little museum. As for the terrible chapter VI, whose number corresponds, without any preconceived plan, to that of the commandment it transgresses, and for certain parts of chapter IX which may be classed with it, I would obviously not write them again in the same way. It would at least have been necessary to explain them more thoroughly in terms of that diabolical perversity that, in the shape of sexual depravity, takes over people's exhausted minds. It seems indeed as if nervous disorders opened fissures in the soul through which the spirit of Evil enters. There is an enigma in this that remains unexplained; the word 'hysteria' resolves nothing; it may be enough to define a physical condition, to denote the uncontrollable turbulence of the senses, but it does not get at the spiritual consequences that fasten upon it, or especially, the sins of duplicity and falsehood which nearly always take root in it. What are the ins and outs of sin-laden malady? The sick one, his soul as it were possessed by a sort of domination entrenched in the disorder of his wretched body – how much is his responsibility lessened? Nobody knows: on this subject, medicine talks nonsense and theology remains silent. In the absence of a solution which he could obviously not offer, Des Esseintes should have considered the question from the point of view of transgression and at least expressed some regret; he refrained from self-blame, and he was wrong. But although he was brought up by Jesuits whose praises – more than Durtal – he sings, he later grew so defiant of divine constraints, so brutishly determined to wallow in the mud of his carnality! In any case, these chapters seem like staging-posts unconsciously planted to show the way to _Là-Bas_. It should also be noted that des Esseintes' library contained a certain number of books of magic and that the ideas on sacrilege put forward in chapter VII of _Against Nature_ are a hook on which to hang a future volume which will treat the subject in a more sustained way. As for _Là-Bas_ , which terrified so many people, I would not write the book in the same way now that I have returned to the Church. Certainly the wicked and sensual side of the book is reprehensible, yet I affirm that I skipped a great deal. I hardly said anything; the evidence found in that book is, by comparison with what I omitted and what I still have in my files, insipid and flavourless confections! But I believe that despite its cerebral dementia and its alvine madness, this book, by virtue of its very subject, rendered a service. It refocused attention on the machinations of the Evil One who had succeeded in making people disbelieve his existence; it was the starting-point for all the renewed studies of the eternal advance of Satanism. By revealing the hateful practices of necromancy it has helped to annihilate them; in short, the book took the side of the Church and fought against the Devil. To return to _Against Nature_ , for which _Là-Bas_ is a substitute, I can only say about the chapter on flowers what I have already said about the chapter on precious stones. _Against Nature_ considers them only from the point of view of their shapes and shades, not from the meanings they might divulge; Des Esseintes only chose bizarre orchids, but silent ones. I should add that in this book it would have been difficult to make voiceless flora speak, for the symbolic language of flowers died with the Middle Ages, and the vigorous pidgins cherished by Des Esseintes were unknown to the allegorists of that period. The companion-piece to this botanical chapter I have since written in _La Cathédrale_ on the subject of the horticultural liturgy which is the source of such strange pages by Saint Hildegaard, Saint Meliton and Saint Eucher. Quite different is the question of scents, whose mystical symbols I revealed in the same book. Des Esseintes was interested only in secular perfumes, essences or extracts, and worldly perfumes, composites or bouquets. He might also have tried out the aromas of the Church, incense, myrrh, and that strange Thymiama cited in the Bible which is still required in ritual to be burned with incense beneath the mouths of church bells when they are baptized, after the Bishop has washed them with holy water and made the sign of the cross over them with the Holy Chrism and the oil of extreme unction; but this fragrance seems to have been forgotten by the Church itself and I suspect that it would astonish a priest if he were asked for Thymiama. The recipe is none the less recorded in _Exodus_. Thymiama was made of storax, galbanum, incense and onycha, and this last substance is nothing other than the operculum of a certain kind of shell which is dredged up from the marshes of the Indies and yields purple dye. Given how little is known about this shellfish and where it comes from, it is difficult, not to say impossible, to prepare authentic Thymiama. This is a pity, for had it been otherwise this lost perfume would surely have aroused in Des Esseintes lavish imaginings of ceremonial festivals and liturgical rites of the Orient. As for the chapters on contemporary secular and religious literature, these have, to my mind, like those on Latin literature, remained true. The chapter devoted to secular writing helped throw into relief poets who were then not widely known among the public: Corbière, Mallarmé, Verlaine. I retract nothing of what I wrote nineteen years ago: my admiration for these writers remains; indeed the admiration I professed for Verlaine has even grown. Arthur Rimbaud and Jules Laforgue would have deserved a place in Des Esseintes' anthology, but they had at the time published nothing and it was only much later that their works appeared. I do not imagine, on the other hand, that I shall ever come to enjoy the modern religious authors that _Against Nature_ laid waste to. No one will change my opinion that the critical works of the late Nettement are imbecilic and that Mrs Augustus Craven and Miss Eugènie de Guèrin are flabby bluestockings and sterile bigots. To me their concoctions are flavourless; Des Esseintes passed on his taste for spices to Durtal, and I believe that they would still understand one another well enough to create, in place of these insipid emulsions a spicey essence of art. I have not changed my mind about the literature produced by the Poujoulat and Genoude fraternity either, but I would be less harsh today on Father Chocarne, mentioned among a bunch of pious cacographers, who at least composed a few pithy pages on mysticism in his introduction to the works of Saint John of the Cross, and I would likewise be gentler on de Montalbert who, though lacking in talent, provided us with an incoherent and incomplete but in the end moving work on monks. Above all, I would no longer write that the visions of Angela de Foligno are silly and shapeless; it is the opposite that is true, but I must say in my defence that I had only read Hello's translation. And the latter was possessed by a mania for pruning, sweetening and tidying up the mystics, for fear of offending the pretended modesty of the Catholics. He squeezed dry a work of passion, full of sap, and extracted from it only a cold and colourless juice, tepid in the feeble flame of his style. That said, if as a translator Hello revealed himself to be a pious old fuss-pot, it is only fair to declare that he was, when he wrote for himself, a wielder of original ideas, a perspicacious exegete and a most impressive analyst. He was even, among the writers of his ilk, the only thinker. I came to d'Aurevilly's aid in promoting the work of such an uneven but fascinating man, and _Against Nature_ has I believe contributed towards the success that his best book, _L'Homme_ , has had since his death. The conclusion of this chapter on modern Church literature was that among the geldings of religious art there was only one stallion, Barbey d'Aurevilly; and this estimation remains unshakeably correct. This man was the only artist, in the pure sense of the word, produced by the Catholicism of the period; he was a great prose writer, an admirable novelist whose audacity made all the prudes bray in exasperation at the explosive vehemence of his expressions. Finally, if ever a chapter may be considered the starting-point of other books, it is the chapter on plain-song on which I have subsequently elaborated in all of my books, in _En Route_ and especially in _L'Oblat_. After this brief examination of each of the specialities displayed in the windows of _Against Nature_ , the only conclusion is this: the book was the beginning of all of my Catholic work, which may be found there entire in its embryonic form. And the incomprehension and stupidity of a few dumb-witted and over-excited priests yet again appears unfathomable to me. For years they called for the destruction of this work which, incidentally, is not my property, without even realizing that the mystical books which followed it are incomprehensible without it, because it is, I repeat, the source from which they spring. Besides, how can one appreciate the work of a writer as a whole if one does not take it from its beginning and trace it step by step; most importantly, how can one follow the progress of Grace in a soul if one suppresses the traces of its passage, if one wipes out its first prints? What is in any case true is that _Against Nature_ broke with what preceded it, with _Les Soeurs Vatard_ , _En Ménage_ , _A Vau-l'Eau_ , and that the book put me on a road whose destination I had no idea of. Zola, shrewder than the Catholics, sensed this. I remember going to spend a few days in Mèdan after the publication of _Against Nature_. One afternoon as the two of us were walking in the countryside he suddenly stopped, his brow darkened and he reproached me for having written the book, saying that I had dealt a terrible blow to Naturalism, that I was leading the school astray, that I was in fact burning my boats with such a novel, for no literature could come from a genre exhausted in a single volume, and he urged me – in a friendly way, for he was a very kind man – to return to the beaten track, to harness myself to a study of manners. I listened, thinking that he was both right and wrong, – right to accuse me of undermining Naturalism and barring any future path, – wrong in the sense that the novel as he conceived it seemed to me moribund, worn out with repetition, and, whether he liked it or not, of no interest to me. There were many things that Zola could not understand; first of all, my need to open windows, to escape from an atmosphere which was stifling; then, the urge which possessed me to shake prejudices, break the limits of the novel, to bring art, science, history into it; in short, no longer to use the novel form except as a frame in which to set more serious work. For me, that was what struck me most at the time, the need to suppress the traditional plot, to abolish even love, womankind, to concentrate the spotlight on a single character – at all costs to do something new. Zola did not reply to these arguments with which I was trying to persuade him, but went on repeating the same declaration: 'I cannot accept that people cast aside their style and their beliefs; I cannot accept that people reject what they once adored.' But see here! Did he himself not once play the part of the good Sicambrian? If he did not indeed modify his technique of composition and writing, he at least varied his way of conceiving humanity and explaining life. After the dark pessimism of his first books, have we not been given, under the guise of Socialism, the smug optimism of his last works? It has to be admitted that no one understood the human soul less than the Naturalists who took it upon themselves to observe it. They saw existence only as a single entity; they only accepted it as conditioned by what is believable, and I have since learned by experience that the unbelievable is not always the exception in this world, that the adventures of Rocambole are sometimes as truthful as those of Gervaise and Coupeau. But the idea that Des Esseintes could be as true to life as one of his own characters threw Zola off balance, it almost angered him. In these few pages I have so far discussed _Against Nature_ mostly from the point of view of literature and art. I must now discuss it from the point of view of Grace, and show how much of the unknown, what projections of a soul which does not know itself, can often be found in this book. I must admit that the clear and obvious Catholic direction _Against Nature_ takes remains a mystery to me. I did not go to a religious school but to a _lycée_ ; I was never pious in my youth, and the element of childhood memory, of first communion, of religious education, which so often plays a prominent part in religious conversion, played none in mine. And what further complicates the problem and confuses my analysis is that, while I was writing _Against Nature_ , I did not set foot in a church, I knew no practising Catholics, and no priests; I sensed no Divine influence guiding me towards the Church, I lived quietly in my trough; it seemed perfectly natural to satisfy the whims of my senses, and the thought that such self-indulgence were prohibited never occurred to me. _Against Nature_ appeared in 1884 and I entered a Trappist monastery to be converted in 1892; nearly eight years passed before the seeds sown in this book germinated; let us say two years, three even, for the muffled, obstinate, sometimes palpable work of Grace to go forward. That would still leave five years during which I cannot remember having the slightest inclination towards Catholicism, any remorse for the life I was leading or any desire to change it. Why and how was I switched on to a track that was at the time lost to me in the night? I absolutely cannot say: apart from the influence of the convent and the cloister and the prayers of a Dutch family of fervent believers, which I hardly knew anyway, nothing will explain the complete unconsciousness of that last cry, the religious call, on the last page of _Against Nature_. Yes, I am aware that there are determined characters who draw up plans, who plot in advance the course of their existence and who follow it; it is even accepted, if I am not mistaken, that with will power one can achieve anything. I am prepared to believe it, but I must confess that for my part I have never been a determined man or a crafty writer. My life and my writing have a strong element of passivity, of unawareness, and of forces outside myself. Providence showed me pity and the Virgin Mary was kind. I limited myself to not thwarting them when they revealed their intentions; I simply obeyed; I was led by what are known as 'mysterious ways'; if there is anyone who can be certain of the emptiness he would be without God's help, then it is I. Those without Faith will object that with ideas like these one is not far from fatalism and the denial of all psychology. Not so, for Faith in our Lord is not fatalism. Free will remains unaffected. If I so wished I could continue to yield to lustful excitements and remain in Paris and not go and suffer in a Trappist monastery. I am sure God would not have insisted; but despite insisting that free will remains intact, it has to be admitted that the Lord is heavily involved, that he harasses you, tracks you down, that he 'grills' you, to use a colourful term from rough policemen; but the fact remains that one can, if one wishes and at one's own risk, tell Him to mind his own business. As for psychology, that is another matter. If we see it, as I do, from the perspective of conversion, then in its initial stages it is impossible to disentangle; certain areas of it might be clear, but others not; the subterranean workings of the soul remain out of our sight. There was undoubtedly, as I was writing _Against Nature_ , a land-shift, the earth was being mined to lay foundations of which I was unaware. God was digging to set his fuses and he worked only in the darkness of the soul, in the night. Nothing could be seen; it was only years later that the sparks began to run along the wires. I felt my soul moving to these shocks; it was at the time neither especially painful nor especially clear: the liturgy, mysticism, art were its vehicles or its means; this generally happened in churches, in Saint-Séverin especially, which I would visit out of curiosity, out of boredom, when I had nothing to do. During the ceremonies I felt nothing more than an inner trepidation, a trembling that one feels when one sees or hears or reads a beautiful work of art, but there was no precise warning to get me ready to make up my mind. I was simply emerging, little by little, from the shell of my moral impurity; I was beginning to be disgusted with myself, but still I balked at the articles of faith. The objections I placed in my path seemed irresistible to me; and one morning, when I awoke, they were resolved, how I have never known. I prayed for the first time and the explosion happened. To people who do not believe in God, all this seems mad. For those who have felt his work, no surprise is possible; and, if there were surprise, it would only be during the incubation period, when one sees and perceives nothing, the time of clearing the way for the foundations which we had no idea of were being laid. To sum up, I can understand up to a point what happened in the years 1891 – 5, between _Là-Bas_ and _En Route_ , but I understand nothing about the years 1884 – 91, between _Against Nature_ and _Là-Bas_. If I myself did not understand, it was no wonder that others could not understand what drove Des Esseintes. Thus, _Against Nature_ fell like a meteorite into the literary fairground and there was astonishment and fury; the press was thrown into confusion; never had it raved and roared in so many articles; after having called me an impressionistic misanthrope and called Des Esseintes a complicated imbecile and maniac products of the Ecole normale supérieure like M. Lemaître were indignant that I had not eulogized Virgil, and declared in a peremptory tone that the Latin writers of the Decadence were no more than 'drivellers and cretins'. Other critical entrepreneurs took it upon themselves to advise me to take cold showers in a thermal prison; then it was the turn of the academics to get involved. In the Salle des Capucines, that arbiter of taste Sarcey, stunned, cried out: 'I'll be hanged if I can understand a single word of this novel.' Eventually, to cap it all, serious reviews such as in the _Revue des deux mondes_ dispatched their leader M. Brunetière to compare the book with the vaudeville farces of Waflard and Fulgence. In all this hubbub, only one writer saw clearly, Barbey d'Aurevilly, who moreover did not know me. In an article in the _Constitutionnel_ dated 28 July 1884, which has since been published in his book, _Le Roman contemporain_ , he wrote: 'After such a book, the only choice left open to the author is between the muzzle of a pistol and the foot of the cross.' The choice is made. J.-K. Huysmans (1903) ### NOTE . In _En Route_ , a similar metaphor is used for the mystery of conversion of Durtal: 'Yes, but this operation is like what happens to a mine which explodes only after having been dug...; I could have followed it, followed the movement of the spark as it burned along the fuse, but in this case I could not. I exploded without warning' ( _En Route_ , Paris: Gallimard/Folio, 1996), p. 76. ## Appendix II Reviews of and Responses to _Against Nature_ A. Meunier (J.-K. Huysmans), _Les Hommes d'aujourd'hui_ , no. 263 (1885) ...I watched the man as he talked to me. He was like a courteous cat, very polite, almost likeable, but edgy, ready to show his claws at the least word. Dry, thin, greying, with an expressive face and a look of boredom – this was my first impression. – So, I said, getting to the heart of the matter, you must be pleased with the literary success of _Against Nature_? – Yes, the book exploded into the midst of literary youth like a grenade. I thought I had been writing for ten people, crafting a kind of hermetic book, locked to idiots. To my great surprise, it happened that a few thousand people scattered around the globe were in a state of mind analogous to mine, sickened by the ignominious roguishness of this century, hungry also for works of art that had been more or less well executed, but which had at least been honestly put together, and without that despicable rush to get into print that runs so rife in France at present... – And if I asked you about Naturalism, since after all you are taken to be one of its most out-and-out adherents? – I would simply answer that I write what I see, what I live, what I feel, and that I write the least badly I can. If that is Naturalism, so much the better. When it comes down to it, there are writers with talent and writers without talent, regardless of whether they are Naturalists, Romantics, Decadents, take your pick, I don't care! To my mind, it's a matter of having talent, and that's all there is to it!... All in all, my first impression was borne out: Huysmans is definitely the sour misanthrope, the anaemic nerve-bundle of his books, which I shall briefly consider here. * He began with a mediocre collection of prose poems entitled _Le Drageoir à épices_ ; then he wrote a novel, his first, about prostitutes, _Marthe_ , which was published in Brussels in 1876, and which, despite its chaste approach, was banned in France as an affront to morality. _L'Assommoir_ had not yet made the remarkable impact we all now know. _Marthe_ has since been republished in Paris and has met with a degree of success. The book contains, here and there, valuable insights, already betraying a certain feverishness of style, but for me its language is too redolent of the Goncourt brothers. It is the work of a beginner, curious and vibrant but too short and without enough personality. It is not until _Les Soeurs Vatard_ that we discover the bizarre temperament of this writer, a puzzling mix of refined Parisian and Dutch painter. It is from this fusion, to which one could add a pinch of black humour and rough English comedy, that gives these books their distinctive imprint. _Les Soeurs Vatard_ has some fine pages; it appeared in 1879, and introduces for the first time into modern literature remarkably painstaking descriptions of railways and locomotives. It is a slice of life, of the lives of the women who bind books, earthy and lewd and true to life, straight from the brush of old Steen, but wielded by an alert and supple Parisian hand, but I personally prefer _En Ménage_ , which remains my favourite among the books we owe to this author. This is because the book gives insights into melancholy and explores particular stricken and feeble souls. It is the anthem of Nihilism! An anthem made even darker by outbursts of ominous light-heartedness and the language of a ferocious mind... But in _Against Nature_ furious rage emerges, the apathetic mask cracks, denunciations of life blaze in every line; we are far from the quiescent and disappointed philosophy of the two books that precede it. It is madness, foaming at the mouth; I do not think that hatred and contempt for a century has ever been so passionately expressed as in this strange novel, which falls so far outside all contemporary literature. One of the great faults of M. Huysmans' books is, in my opinion, that it is the _same character_ who pulls the strings in each of his works. _Cyprien Tibaille_ and _André Folantin_ are, after all, no more than one and the same person, transported into different settings. And this person is quite obviously M. Huysmans, one can feel it; we are a long way from the flawless artistry of Flaubert, who concealed himself behind his work and created such marvellously diverse characters. M. Huysmans is quite incapable of such self-restraint. His sardonic face appears, lying in wait, on every page, and the constant intrusion of a personality, however interesting it may be, in my opinion diminishes the quality of a work, and eventually wearies with its predictability. I will not deal here with his style. It has all been said in a judicious article by M. Hennequin. Certain of his pages are of unequalled splendour, especially in _Against Nature_ , in which a chapter on _Gustave Moreau_ , to mention but one, is and will rightly remain famous. But there is another element which critics have generally pretended not to notice. I mean the psychological analysis of his characters – or rather his character, for as I have said, there is only one: a weak-willed character, troubled, self-tormenting, rational, and far-sighted enough to explain himself the direction in which his illness was taking him and to describe it in fluent and precise language. One of the original features of this author lies in his analysis of character, an originality equal, in my view, to that of his style. Read _La Crise juponnière_ , in _En Ménage_ , and reflect that none of this tiny corner of the soul had ever been glimpsed before him. How authentic is this examination of the crisis, and with what skilful clarity the author reveals it to us! Or read the splendid chapter in _Against Nature_ , the chapter devoted to childhood memories and to artfully narrated theological convolutions, and decide if these explorations of the deep vaults of the spirit are not wholly profound and wholly new! Over and above his works, M. Huysmans has published a volume of _Croquis parisiens_ , where, following Aloysius Bertrand and Baudelaire, he tried to fashion prose poetry. To some extent he renewed and reinvigorated the genre, using strange conceits, blank verse as refrains, and beginning and ending his poems with strange, repeated rhythmic lines, even adding a kind of separate ritournelle or _'envoi'_ , as in the ballads of Villon and Deschamps. There are also writings on art, collected in his book _L'Art moderne_ , the first book seriously to explain the work of the Impressionists and to give Degas the high position he will occupy in the future. M. Huysmans was also the first to champion Raffaëlli, at the time when no one paid any attention to the painter; and he was the first to interpret and launch the work of Odilon Redon. What modern art critic has such gifts of unerring taste and understanding of art in all its most diverse forms? In short, if there is any justice, M. Huysmans, once so despised by vulgar folk, will receive his share of acclaim. At the moment I must admit that, as far as I am concerned, I share very few of his beliefs. Personally, I believe in a healthier literature, in a less showy style perhaps, but also less complicated. I also believe in a more expansive and general and less rarefied psychological analysis. From this point of view, Balzac seems to me the master – he so carefully dissected the great and universal passions of human beings, fatherly love, greed. However high I place M. Huysmans among the true writers of a century that has so few of them, I cannot help considering him an exception, a bizarre and morbid writer, jerky and showy, an artist to his fingertips. In the words of another strange writer of contorted and luxuriant epithets, with disconcerting and remote ideas, Léon Bloy, 'dragging the image by the hair or by the feet down the worm-eaten staircase of terrified syntax'. But all that, however much we may admire him, does not seem to me to add up to the beautiful healthiness of conception and style of which undoubted and absolute masterpieces are made. Paul Ginisty, _Gil Blas_ (21 May 1884) M. Huysmans, a strange character with a bizarre and alembicated talent, is the type of man to have pulled off this immense mystification, a prodigious artistic hoax... The task, if task there was, was not an easy one. It required an exceptional breadth of reading, for M. Huysmans's neurotic, like some new kind of Bouvard and Pécuchet, goes through the repertoire of human knowledge. Above all, it required, so as to stay bearable throughout its three hundred pages, the surprise value of a violent, intense, irritating style, but a style where brilliance might flash amid the shocks... Léo Trézenik, _Lutéce_ (1 – 8 June 1884) Decadence of what? This is pure and simple collapse. Moral society, like the intellectual world, is founded on a framework of prejudices, conventions and reciprocal back-scratching, etc., which only stays upright by some miracle of balance. The social wheels only keep turning because of the speed and because no one has, until now, dared put a stick into the spokes and blow up the whole machine. Some, like M. Huysmans, sap the foundations, attack the base directly, show you that these great blocks, seemingly so solid, are just pale cardboard boxes, perfect imitations of stone but in reality full of wind. That is why a book like _Against Nature_ is a book to put in a corner of one's library, within reach, because it is a formidable pickaxe-blow to the pale cardboard of social and literary conventions, and comes from a wholehearted atheist, a robust pessimist – complete, absolute, and at peace with himself. It's as if we barely hear the blow of the pickaxe as it demolishes the edifice, so seduced are we by the stunning erudition that overflows from these pages, so blinded by the silkiness of this precious language, so refined and yet so nervous and muscular and full-blooded. Emile Goudeau, _L'Echo de Paris_ (10 June 1884) [...] M. Huysmans, with a remarkable talent and stupefying erudition, has put together in his book _Against Nature_ all the elements of human despair. He has solidly spat on every pleasure, and kept for himself the terrible joy of abolishing human joy. An unhealthy book, but artistically very beautiful, perfectly crafted and skilfully wrought. His despairing conclusion nonetheless leaves a faint hope, since his hero Des Esseintes, instead of taking refuge in suicide, agrees on doctor's orders to return to the world he so despised... Read this majestically hopeless book, then bury your impossible illusions, drink fresh water, and start loving – anything, even a dog. Barbey d'Aurevilly, _Le Pays_ (29 July 1884) ...Des Esseintes is not a human being created like _Obermann, Renè_ or _Adolphe_ , these passionate and guilty heroes from human novels. He is a machine that has gone haywire. Nothing more. ...When [Des Esseintes] is not a scoundrel he is a coward... He has ridiculous and idiotic inventions. Remember the story of the tortoise whose shell he has gold-plated and in which he has jewels incrusted! Remember the books in his library whose spirit the bindings are meant to translate! Remember those flowers which are supposed to kill natural flowers! remember the alchemy of his scents, madly sought in combinations of well-known perfumes! and tell me if these fantasies are not absurd! I can quite understand that the vulgarities of life offend a proud and elevated spirit, but in order to escape and to replace them one must not stoop to these piffling trifles... And M. Huysmans' Des Esseintes, who plays the Titan face to face with life, shows himself to be a stupid Tom Thumb when it comes to changing it. ...This is the punishment of such a book, one of the most decadent we can number among the decadent books of this century of decadence... Undertaken in despair, the book ends with a despair that is greater than that with which it began. At the end of all the unbelievable follies he has dared, this author has felt the shattering sorrow of disappointment. A mortal anguish pervades his book. The miserable little castle of cards – his little cardboard Babel – built against God and the world, collapses on top of him [...] The Revolutionary has felt his own nothingness... 'After _Les Fleurs du mal'_ , I once told Baudelaire, 'you have only to choose between the muzzle of a pistol and the foot of the cross.' Baudelaire chose the foot of the cross. Will the author of _Against Nature_ choose it also? Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1891), chapter 10 His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it? he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-coloured octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicatesound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. Max Nordau, _Degeneration_ (1892; English translation, 1895) We will now examine the ideal 'decadent' that Huysmans draws so complacently and in such detail for us, in _Against Nature_. First, a word on the author of this instructive book. Huysmans, the classical type of the hysterical mind without originality, who is the predestined victim of every suggestion, began his literary career as a fanatical imitator of Zola, and produced in his first period of development, romances and novels which... greatly surpassed his model in obscenity. Then he swerved from naturalism... and began to ape the Diabolists, particularly Baudelaire. A red thread unites both of these otherwise abruptly contrasted methods, viz., his lubricity... He is, as a languishing 'Decadent', quite as vulgarly obscene as when he was a bestial 'Naturalist'. _Against Nature_ can hardly be called a novel, and Huysmans, in fact, does not call it so... We have seen how slavishly M. Huysmans, in his drivel about tea, liqueurs and perfumes, follows to the letter the fundamental principle of the Parnassians – of ransacking technical dictionaries. He has evidently been forced to copy the catalogues of commercial travellers dealing in perfumes and soaps, teas and liqueurs, to scrape together his erudition in current prices... We have him now, then, the 'super-man' ( _surhomme_ ) of whom Baudelaire and his disciples dream, and whom they wish to resemble: physically, ill and feeble; morally, an arrant scoundrel; intellectually, an unspeakable idiot who passes his whole time choosing the colours and stuffs which are to drape his room artistically, in observing the movements of mechanical fishes, in sniffing perfumes and sipping liqueurs... A parasite of the lowest grade of atavism, a sort of human sacculus, he would be condemned, if he were poor, to die miserably of hunger in so far as society, in misdirected charity, did not assure to him the necessities of life in an idiot asylum. Emile Zola, Letter to Huysmans, 20 May 1884 ...Now shall I tell you frankly what bothers me in the book? First, I repeat, confusion. Maybe this is the builder in me protesting, but I am not happy that Des Esseintes is as mad at the start as he is at the end, that there is no form of progression, that the different parts come about through painful authorial transitions, and that you show us a kind of magic lantern, changing arbitrarily. Is it the character's neurosis that makes him lead such a life, or is it the life that makes him neurotic? There is a reciprocity is there not? But none of this is clearly set out. I think the work would have had a more shocking effect, especially in its dealings with ineffable things, if you had based it on something more logical, however crazy it might have been. Another thing: why is Des Esseintes so afraid of illness? He's obviously not a Schopen-hauerean if he's afraid of death? It would have been best for him to get carried off by his stomach illness, since the world doesn't seem habitable to him. Your ending, his resignation to the stupidity of living, grates with me. It would have been good to see him mull death over more if you didn't want to finish with the crude closure of his death. There you are my friend, those are all my reservations... All in all, I have spent three very happy evenings. This book will at least count as a curiosity among your works; be proud to have written it. Stéphane Mallarmé, Letter to Huysmans, 18 May 1884 Here it is, this unique book, which had to be written – and it has, by you – and at no other moment in literature than now! ...The great thing in all of this, and the strength of your work (which will be attacked as a work of demented imagination, etc.) is that there is not one atom of fantasy: you have managed, in your refined enjoyment of essences, to reveal yourself more documentary than any contemporary... ...I cannot wait, not to thank you (for you have not spoken to please me), but to say how simply and deeply glad I am that my name circulates, quite at home, in this beautiful book (the back room of your mind), a guest dressed in proud clothes designed by the most exquisite artistic sympathy! I believe in only two kinds of glory, each almost as illusory as the other; one is to be found in the delirium of a people for whom one could artistically fashion a new idol; the other in seeing oneself, reading a much-loved book, appearing from the depths of its pages where one had been, without knowing it, all along and by the author's will. You have made this latter glory known to me, truly, delightfully! Arthur Symons, 'The Decadent Movement in Literature', _Dramatis Personae_ (1923) [Huysmans'] work, like that of the Goncourts, is largely determined by the _maladie fin de siècle_ – the diseased nerves that, in his case, have given a curious personal quality of pessimism to his outlook on the world, his view of life. Part of his work – Marthe, _Les Soeurs Vatard, En Mènage, A Vau l'Eau_ – is a minute and searching study of the minor discomforts, the commonplace miseries of life, as seen by a peevishly disordered vision, delighting, for its own self-torture, in the insistent contemplation of human stupidity, of the sordid in existence. Yet these books do but lead to the unique masterpiece, the astonishing caprice of _A Rebours_ , in which he has concentrated all that is delicately depraved, all that is beautifully, curiously poisonous, in modern art. _A Rebours_ is the history of a typical Decadent – a study, indeed, after a real man, but a study which seizes upon the type rather than the personality... [H]e has expressed not merely himself, but an epoch. And he has done so in a style which carries the modern experiments upon language to their furthest development. Formed upon Goncourt and Flaubert, it has sought for novelty, _l'image peinte_ , the exactitude of colour, the forcible precision of epithet, wherever words, images or epithets are to be found. Barbaric in its profusion, violent in its emphasis, wearying in its splendour, it is – especially in regard to things seen – extraordinarily expressive, with all the shades of a painter's palette. Elaborately and deliberately perverse, it is in its very perversity that Huysmans's work – so fascinating, so repellent, so instinctively artificial – comes to represent, as the work of no other writer can be said to do, the main tendencies, the chief results, of the Decadent movement in literature. Translations by Patrick McGuinness ## Notes These notes are designed to aid a reading of the novel rather than to furnish copious context and apparatus. Huysmans generally gives enough bio-bibliographical or historical information in _Against Nature_ for the reader to follow and to get the gist of the references. For more detailed and specialized information, the reader is referred to the editions prepared by Marc Fumaroli and Rose Fortassier noted in Further Reading. ### EPIGRAPH . _I must rejoice... Jan Van Ruysbroeck_ : The epigraph is from Jan Van Ruysbroeck, or Ruysbroeck the Admirable, the fourteenth-century Flemish mystic, as translated by Ernest Hello in 1869. Both Ruysbroeck and Hello are discussed in chapter 12 (see also note to chapter 12) ### PROLOGUE . _Château de Lourps_ : Huysmans visited the Château de Lourps, near the village of Jutigny in Seine-et-Marne, in 1881, and subsequently returned there to spend parts of the summer with his companion Anna Meunier and her family in 1884 and in 1885. They were joined there in 1885 by Léon Bloy, a novelist and polemicist described as 'a savage pamphleteer' in chapter 12. Bloy, an early enthusiast of Huysmans' work, was later to become one of his most vituperative detractors. . _The Duc d'Epernon and the Marquis d'O_ : Jean-Louis de Nogaret, Duke of Epernon (1554–1642) and the Marquis d'O (1535–94) were favourites of King Henri III. . _degeneration_ : Huysmans uses the word _décadence_ for 'degeneration' here, but the two are not synonymous. Contemporary readers would have recognized the language of heredity and degeneration theory that _Against Nature_ shares with Naturalism. . _Nicole_ : The hero of the novel _Port-Royal_ , by the novelist and critic Sainte-Beuve (1804–69). . _Already he was getting pains... wineglass_ : Huysmans takes pride in the exactness and documentary truth of his descriptions. In a May 1884 letter to Zola, he claims to have followed 'step by step' Axenfeld's _Traité des névroses (Treatise on the Neuroses_ , 1883) and Bouchut's _Du névrosisme aigu et chronique et des maladies nerveuses (On Acute and Chronic Neurosis and Nervous Illness_ , 1860). . _Fontenay-aux-Roses... far from all neighbours_ : Huysmans was sent to Fontenay-aux-Roses to recuperate from illness in 1881. The description of a district just far enough from Paris to be isolated and just near enough for Paris not to seem alluringly distant echoes Huysmans' description to Zola of Fontenay-aux-Roses as 'pseudo-countryside' (letter of June 1881). ### CHAPTER 1 . _he had decorated and furnished... taken his fancy_ : Among the sources for Des Esseintes' interior decoration are Mallarmé's descriptions, in a letter to Huysmans, of the home of Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac. Other possible sources for the preoccupation with interior decoration and furnishing is Edmond de Goncourt's aesthetic inventory _La Maison d'un artiste (House of an Artist_ , 1881) and Edgar Allan Poe's 'Philosophy of Furniture' (1840). . _dandyism_ : The notion of the Dandy was popularized by Barbey d'Aurevilly's _Du dandysme (On Dandyism_ , 1844), and taken up by Baudelaire in _Peintre de la vie moderne (Painter of Modern Life_ , 1863). For Baudelaire the Dandy was 'half-priest, half-victim', and represented 'a hero in decadent times'. It should be noted that Barbey's and Baudelaire's notion of the Dandy is very different from the camper version taken up by Wilde and the writers and artists of the English 1890s. For Baudelaire it denoted a kind of spirituality and asceticism, rather than a luxuriously diplayed social persona. . _One of these meals... temporarily deceased_ : Huysmans' idea for the wake for Des Esseintes' virility is based on a description by Grimod de la Reynière (1758–1838), who at the age of twenty-five hosted a dinner in 1783 to help launch his book _Réflexions philosophiques sur le plaisir par un célibataire (Philosophical Reflections on Pleasure by a Bachelor_ ). . _What he wanted was colours... artificial light_ : The following section takes as its starting-point Baudelaire's art criticism essay, the 'Salon of 1846'. As Huysmans says in his 1903 preface to _Against Nature_ , these ideas about colour symbolism culminate in the research done for his 1898 novel _La Cathédrale (The Cathedral_ ). . _Du Cange's Glossarium mediae et infimae Latinatis_ : Charles du Fresne Du Cange (1610–88) was a historian and philologist, whose _Glossarium ad scriptores mediae et infimae latinatis_ (1878) is mentioned again in chapter 14, as Des Esseintes muses on the need for a glossary to capture 'the last paroxysms' of a decaying French language. . _three pieces by Baudelaire... World_ : The two poems by Baudelaire 'The Death of the Lovers' and 'The Enemy' are from _Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil_ , 1857), while 'Anywhere out of the world' (a title taken from Thomas Hood) is from Baudelaire's _Petits poèmes en prose (Short Poems in Prose_ , 1869). ### CHAPTER 2 . _such as the beguines still wear to this day at Ghent_ : The Béguinage convent in Ghent was founded in the seventeenth century, and like many Flanders cityscapes it provided suggestive images for Symbolist writers and painters. Georges Rodenbach's _Bruges-la-Morte_ (1892), a Symbolist novel indebted to _Against Nature_ , takes the cityscape of Bruges as both a location and an active force. . _a large aquarium... porthole_ : The image of the aquarium evoked in this and other episodes in the novel is – like the hothouse – a key decadent theme, reflected in Symbolist writers such as Laforgue, Rodenbach and Maeterlinck. . _the Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym_ : _The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket_ , by Edgar Allan Poe (1838), is a tale of seafaring mystery, mutiny and horror. It was translated by Baudelaire. . _Monsieur Pasteur's method_ : Louis Pasteur (1822–95), the famous chemist and author of _Études sur le vin (Studies on Wine_ , 1866) and _Études sur la bière (Studies on Beer_ , 1876). Huysmans is alluding here to Pasteur's discovery of a means of preserving wine and beer. . _artifice... human genius_ : This and the rest of the passages in this chapter are reminiscent of Baudelaire's _Peintre de la vie moderne_. For contemporary readers, many of Des Esseintes' ideas here would have seemed like an absurd over-literalization of Baudelaire's influential principles. ### CHAPTER 3 . _'the Decadence'_ : For Désiré Nisard, on whose _Etude de moeurs et de critique sur les poètes latin de la décadence (Moral and Critical Study of the Latin Poets of the Decadence_ , 1834) Huysmans based some of this chapter, the term 'Decadence' was pejorative, denoting a literary period where ornament and description ran rife. For Des Esseintes, as for many of Huysmans' contempor-aries, it was a positive term. Much of the debate around Decadence was conducted through discussions of language: against the refining, complicating and neologizing tendencies of so-called 'Decadent' writing, traditional French critics posited what was known as the 'genius' of the Latin (and by extension, French) language: clear, precise and economical. Des Esseintes is anti-classical in his tastes, dismissing Virgil, Cicero, Horace, etc. in often trenchant criticism, and preferring the 'refined sweetness' and 'barbaric style' of the writers Nisard had condemned. . _old Chick-Pea_ : Cicero, whose name in Latin means chick-pea. . _Petronius... Satyricon_ : Des Esseintes uses Petronius, author of _The Satyricon_ , to upbraid Naturalist writing. . _Although he was perfectly at home with theological problems_ : From here onwards, Remy de Gourmont notes, Huysmans borrowed freely (or as Gourmont put it, 'stole') from Adolphe Ebert's _Histoire générale de la littérature du Moyen Age en Occident (General History of Medieval Literature in the West_ , published in French translation in 1883). Marc Fumaroli's Gallimard edition copiously annotates the chapter, and makes use of a definitive article on Huysmans and Latin literature: Jean Céard, 'Des Esseintes et la décadence latine', _Studi Francesi_ , 65–6 (May–December 1978), pp. 297–310. . _he stacked the rest of his shelves... the present day_ : After the seemingly exhaustive account in this chapter, we are brought abruptly to the present day. Des Esseintes leaves out swathes of historical development, all the while insisting on the continuity of the Decadence and making an implicit link between the Latin 'Decadence' and his own period. This chapter, with its critical values and polemical statements, forms a counterpart to the chapters on modern sacred and profane literature that occur later in the novel. ### CHAPTER 4 . _and Des Esseintes accordingly decided... gold_ : This episode is based on Montesquiou's gold-plated and jewel-encrusted tortoise. Edmond de Goncourt in a diary entry for 14 June 1882 calls it a 'walking _bibelot_ ', and one of the poems in Montesquiou's collection _Les Hortensias bleus (Blue Hydrangeas_ ) mentions the unhappy creature. . _This collection... he called his mouth organ_ : Des Esseintes' 'mouth organ', an early version of a cocktail mixer, seems to have been based on a reading of Polycarpe Poncelet's _Chimie du goûtet del'odorat (Chemistry of Taste and Smell, 1755_ ). The following passage is also permeated with Baudelaire's ideas about correspondence and the harmonious joining of different orders of sensation. ### CHAPTER 5 . _He had bought Moreau's two masterpieces... Salome_ : The two works by Gustave Moreau (1826–98) that Des Esseintes possesses – _Salome Dancing Before Herod_ and _The Apparition_ – had been exhibited at the 1876 Salon and the 1878 Exposition universelle in Paris. Huysmans wrote an essay on Moreau in his book of art criticism _Certains_ , and Moreau, despite being one of the most celebrated painters of the period, remained outside the various literary groupings that laid claim to his images. For Des Esseintes Moreau transcends history but also, significantly, genealogy: he has 'no real ancestors and no possible descendants'. . _like Salammbô's_ : The priestess in Flaubert's exotic novel _Salammbô_ (1862), set in Carthage after the first Punic war and describing the revolt of Carthage's mercenary army. . _Jan Luyken_ : Dutch engraver (1649–1712), on whom Huysmans wrote an essay in _Certains_. Huysmans, like Des Esseintes, was attracted to the sensuality of the broken or suffering body. . _Bresdin's Comedy of Death_ : Rodolphe Bresdin (1822–85) was a hallucinatory artist and engraver, and a friend of Gautier and Baudelaire. Montesquiou had written two pamphlets on Bresdin's life and work. His _Comedy of Death_ appeared in 1854. . _These were all signed Odilon Redon_ : Odilon Redon (1840–1916) illustrated the works of, among others, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Mallarmé and Poe (his illustrations have appeared on the covers of Penguin Classics Poe editions). Redon's _Homage to Goya_ , a series of lithographs, appeared in 1885. Huysmans reviewed them in the _Revue indépendante_ and wrote an essay on Redon entitled 'Le Monstre' ('The Monster') in _Certains_ , his 1887 book of art criticism. . _Proverbs by Goya_ : This painting by Goya (1746–1828) was a favourite of Baudelaire, who wrote enthusiastically on Goya's ability to wring the beautiful from the ugly. . _Theotocopuli_ : Domenikos Theotokopoulos (1541–1614), better known as El Greco. ### CHAPTER 6 . _De Laude Castitatis... Bishop of Vienne_ : _De consolatoria laude Castitis ad Fuscinam sororem (In Praise of Chastity_ ), by Avitus, Bishop of Vienne, has already been mentioned in Des Esseintes' library inventory of chapter III. ### CHAPTER 7 . _the Dominican Lacordaire... Sorrèze_ : Jean-Baptiste-Henri Lacordaire (1802–61) was a politically active preacher whose best-known work is his _Conférences_. He merged a belief that faith was compatible with reason with an emphasis on the mysticism of Christianity. The college of Sorrèze was a famous educational establishment in Tarn. . _De Quincey_ : The work of Thomas De Quincey had been translated by the Romantic poet Alfred de Musset in 1818, and had profoundly affected Baudelaire (who adapted parts of _Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_ in his _Paradis artificiels_ ). . _ideas of monstrous depravity... abused_ : Huysmans studied and took long documentary notes on black masses, and satanism was partly the subject of his book, _Là-Bas (The Damned_ , 1891). . _Schopenhauer... came nearer to the truth_ : Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860), the German philosopher and contemporary of Hegel, was extraordinarily influential in France at the time. His _World as Will and Idea_ and _Aphorisms_ had massive impact. A key book in Schopenhauer reception is Elme-Marie Caro's _Le Pessimisme au XIXe siècle: Léopardi, Schopenhauer, Hartmann (Pessimism in the Nineteenth Century_ , 1878), and Théodule Ribot's _La Philosophie de Schopenhauer_ (1874). In his preface of 1903, Huysmans reassesses his attraction to Schopenhauer as a poor substitute for Christian faith. . _Imitation of Christ_ : _The Imitation of Christ_ was written by Thomas à Kempis (1380–1471). As he later does in his 1903 preface, Huysmans makes the connection between Schopenhaurean resignation and the resigned sorrow of Thomas à Kempis. . _hydropathic treatment_ : Hydrotherapy was at the time a treatment for neurosis. Fumaroli notes the autobiographical dimension to this section, referring to Huysmans' description in a letter to Zola (April 1882) of gruelling hydrotherapeutic treatment. ### CHAPTER 8 . _It amused him... bourgeois blooms_ : The Baudelairean strain in this is clear. Baudelaire's poems had been described as 'flowers of evil sprung in the hothouses of decadence', and the hothouse became the symbol of the rare, etiolated, unnatural growths of which the Decadents were fond. The ultimate expression of hothouse imagery is Maeterlinck's poems _Serres chaudes (Hothouses_ , 1889), but the image can be found in authors as different as Zola and Laforgue. We may note that even here, with the sensuality of the plants, Des Esseintes reads the labels: even these plants are textually interpreted. . _tired of artificial flowers... fakes_ : In this about-turn the logic of artifice comes to a sinister but slightly comical halt, like the tortoise. . _It all comes down to syphilis in the end_ : Syphilitic heredity is another means for the theme of heredity to wind its way into the book. Continuity in _Against Nature_ is often figured as a decline or an undermining virus, and this dream of syphilis rampaging through the ages is one memorable instance, as the disease links epochs, generations and social classes. ### CHAPTER 9 . _the solanaceae of literature_ : Solanaceous refers mainly to narcotic (and occasionally poisonous) plants, and Huysmans here evokes a kind of narcotic writing. . _Siraudin_ : A famous confectioner, frequented also by the heroine of Edmond de Goncourt's _La Faustin_ (1882). . _the Circus_ : The fascination with circus performers (such as Miss Urania) is characteristic of the late nineteenth century: Banville, Villiers and the Goncourt brothers in _Les Frères Zemganno (The Zemganno Brothers_ , 1879) had explored the life and art of acrobats and circus performers. . _dialogue of the Chimera and the Sphinx_ : The dialogue occurs in Flaubert's _La tentation de St Antoine (The Temptation of Saint Antony_ ). . _Des Esseintes ran his eyes over him_ : Marc Fumaroli notes that this episode was what attracted the young decadent poet and novelist Jean Lorrain to Huysmans. Lorrain, author of _Monsieur Phocas_ , was Huysmans' guide to underground Paris. ### CHAPTER 10 . _For years now he had been an expert in the science of perfumes_ : Huysmans researched his perfumes, like his Latin poets, exhaustively. Among the sources for this chapter are S. Piesse, _Des Odeurs, des parfums, et des cosmétiques (Smells, Perfumes and Cosmetics_ , 1877) and the catalogue _Produits spéciaux recommandés de Violet, parfumeur brèveté fournisseur de toutes les cours étrangères (Special Products Recommended by Violet, Certified Perfumier, Supplier of All Foreign Courts_ , 1874). Des Esseintes is saturated with Baudelairean ideas: exegete of scents, interpreter of olfactory symphonies, he is also, thanks to his books and treatises, a technician of perfume. Scents and perfumes represent both essences (thereby endorsing Des Esseintes' search for the distillation and concentration) and fakes (thereby satisfying his need for artifice). In this chapter, as throughout _Against Nature_ , there is an unresolvable tension between the two. . _Victor Hugo and Gautier_ : Victor Hugo (1802–85) and Théophile Gautier (1811–72) were among the greatest poets of the nineteenth century, pioneering Romantics and literary radicals. Gautier was the dedicatee of Baudelaire's _Les Fleurs du mal_ and author of _Emaux et Camées (Enamels and Gemstones_ , 1852) and the novel _Mademoiselle de Maupin_ as well as volumes of fantastical tales and innumerable critical and journalistic essays. He became an exponent of ' _l'art pour l'art_ ' and was prized by the Symbolists (and later by Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot) for his collection _Emaux et camées_. Hugo was the great figure of French literature, massively popular and active in every genre, author of, among much else, _Notre-Dame de Paris_ and _Les Misérables_ , the poetry collection _Les Orientales_ and the play _Hernani_. . _its Malesherbes, its Boileaus, its Andrieux, its Baour-Lormians_ : François Malherbe (1555–1628) was an influential French poet who prized clarity and economy in verse. Nicolas Boileau (1636–1711), author of _Art poétique_ , was one of the great neo-classical poets. François Guillaume Andrieux (1759–1833) and Pierre François Marie Baour-Lormian (1770–1854) were reactionary classicists who were against the early Romantics. Baour-Lormian wrote the influential _Le Classique et le Romantique (Classicism and Romanticism_ ) in 1825. . _Thémidore_ : Novel (1745) by Claude Godard d'Aucour. . _Pantin was there... gaze was directed_ : From the artificial tropics of the hothouse and the scents of hay and flowers, Des Esseintes moves to the reality of Pantin, on the industrial margins of Paris. ### CHAPTER 11 . _Galignani's Messenger_ : An English-language daily in Paris. The paper carried a review of _Against Nature_ , describing it as 'a work of an entirely new but by no means healthy tendency', leaving 'a decidedly bitter taste' (23 May 1884). . _comic scenes by Du Maurier or John Leech... Raphael_ : George Du Maurier (1834–96), John Leech (1817–64) and Randolph Caldecott (1846–86), were English artists and caricaturists. John Everett Millais (1829–96) and George Frederick Watts were Pre-Raphaelite painters. Some of them Huysmans had seen exhibited at the Salon of 1881 and discusses in his 1883 volume of art criticism, _L'Art moderne_. . _Little Dorrit, Dora Copperfield or Tom Pinch's sister Ruth_ : The references are to characters from Dickens. . _The spine-chilling nightmare of the cask of Amontillado_ : Des Esseintes is thinking of Poe's 'The Cask of Amontillado' (1846). . _I've been steeped in English life... change of locality_ : Des Esseintes' London, the perfect literary image, is an amalgam of the Pre-Raphaelites, De Quincey and Dickens, but also of commodities and labels. With Des Esseintes' 'journey' to England we may compare Oscar Wilde's _The Decay of Lying_ : 'if you desire to see a Japanese effect, you will not behave like a tourist and go to Tokio. On the contrary, you will stay at home and steep yourself in the work of certain Japanese artists...' ### CHAPTER 12 . _Archelaus... Arnaud de Villanova_ : Archelaus was a fifth-century BC Greek poet and alchemist. Albertus Magnus was a medieval German philosopher. Raymond Lully (1233–1315) was a Catalan poet and philosopher. Villanova was a Spanish alchemist and astrologer of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. . _This collection had cost him... peasant's boots_ : In the following passage Huysmans names past and contemporary bookbinders, and we note that Des Esseintes spends more time touching these books than reading them. . _The 'side-splitting mirth' of Rabelais... anathemas_ : François Rabelais (d. 1553), author of _Gargantua et Pantagruel_ , was known for his humour and linguistic inventiveness. Molière (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, 1622–73), was the author of some of French theatre's finest comedies. Des Esseintes dislikes his emphasis on 'good sense'. François Villon, the medieval poet and author of _Testament_ , was one of the prototypes of the _poète maudit_. Agrippa D'Aubigné (1552–1630), author of _Les Tragiques (The Tragic Ones_ ). . _As for prose... straight to his heart_ : Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet, 1694–1778), one of the most prolific writers in all genres in French literary history. A politically-engaged humanist philosopher, he fought against religious bigotry and political oppression. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), massively influential Swiss writer, author of autobiographical, critical, novelistic and political texts. Denis Diderot (1713–84), novelist, playwright and free-thinking critic, he was also politically active and editor of the _Encyclopédie_. Louis Bourdaloue (1623–1704) was a Jesuit priest known for his sermons that emphasized personal morality. Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627–1704), was a poet, historian, churchman and orator, and was a member of Louis XIV's court. Blaise Pascal (1623–62) was a philosopher, mathematician, scientist and Christian apologist. His _Pensées_ were published in 1670. . _Ozanam_ : Frédéric Ozanam (1813–53) was an influential liberal Catholic. . _All these ecclesiastics... the Reverend Father Chocarne_ : This chapter is a résumé of key figures in nineteenth-century liberal Catholicism. Marc Fumaroli's and Rose Fortassier's editions give the dates, bio-bibliographies and precise significance of these writers. . _Ernest Hello_ :(1828–85), a profound influence on the Symbolist generation, Hello translated and wrote a study of Jan Van Ruysbroeck's _Noces spirituelles (Spiritual Wedding_ ) in 1869, from which the epigraph to _Against Nature_ is taken. When the poet and playwright Maurice Maeterlinck published a translation of Ruysbroeck's book in 1891, Huysmans declared: 'There is more knowledge and understanding of the human heart in one page of [Ruysbroeck's] than in all the Stendhals, Bourgets and Barrèses in the world!' Hello was the author of a number of philosophical and aesthetic works, notably _Le Style_ (1861). . _a Catholic Duranty_ : Edmond Duranty (1833–80) was the editor of the review _Réalisme_. Also a novelist, he was an influential spokesman for realist literary doctrine. . _Léon Bloy_ :(1847–1917), novelist, journalist and polemicist, was a friend and supporter of Huysmans, before becoming one of Huysmans' most vicious critics. . _Barbey d'Aurevilly_ : Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly (1808–89), novelist and right-wing journalist, dandy and friend of Baudelaire. His stories and novels are characterized by melodrama, blasphemy and sadism. _Un Prêtre marié (A Married Priest_ ) appeared in 1865. _Les Diaboliques (The Devils_ , 1874) was prosecuted for obscenity. ### CHAPTER 13 . _Portalis and Homais_ : Auguste Portalis (1801–55) was a statesman and politician of the July Monarchy. Homais is the name of the pharmacist in _Madame Bovary_ , one of Flaubert's great images of the pernicious stupidity of 'common sense'. . _riddecks_ : Bars (Flemish). ### CHAPTER 14 . _for him, there were no such things as schools_ : Perhaps Huysmans was preparing the way for reception of his novel, but some of these ideas are reflected in his letters of the period, where he begins to doubt the validity of distinguishing between literary schools. . _He now preferred... L'Assommoir_ : Each of these books is somehow considered an atypical, exotic, even overwritten example of its author's work. Des Esseintes prefers the seemingly marginal, exotic or nostalgic novels to the more established realist 'classics' of Flaubert, the Goncourts and Zola. . _Goncourt_ : Edmond de Goncourt (1822–96) and his brother Jules (1830–70) were novelists, historians and diarists. Their _Journal_ is a fascinating and judgemental view of the period 1850–96, full of anecdotes and portaits of extraordinary people and tumultuous events. Their _Germinie Lacerteux_ (1864) is a masterpiece of Naturalist writing, while _Charles Demailly_ (1868), a story of an artistic young man brought low by a scheming wife and a malicious literary world, may have influenced Huysmans' conception of Des Esseintes. After Jules' death, Edmond continued to write. His novels include _Les Frères Zemganno_ (1879) and _La Faustin_ (1882). . _In Zola... its natural postures_ : The reference is to Zola's _La Faute de l'abbé Mouret (The Sin of Father Mouret_ , 1875), the story of a young priest and his lover Albine set in an Edenic garden called Paradou. . _Paul Verlaine_ : (1844–96), one of the main influences on the Symbolist movement and author of the influential _Les Poètes maudits (The Cursed Poets_ , 1884). Verlaine lived the life of the ' _poète maudit_ ', but his poetry is known for its musicality, deliberate imprecision of effect and precision of craft. . _Le soir tombait... s'étonne_ : Night was falling, an equivocal autumn night: the fair ones hanging dreamily on to our arms whispered words so specious that ever since our soul has been trembling and amazed. (Translation by Robert Baldick.) . _Car nous voulons... littérature_ : For we still want light and shade, not colour, nothing but light and shade... and all the rest is _literature_. (Translation by Robert Baldick.) . _Tristan Corbière_ : (1845–75), author of _Les Amours jaunes_ (1873). Corbière was more or less unknown until Huysmans and Verlaine (in _Les Poètes maudits_ ) brought him to public attention. He was one of the French poets admired by Pound and Eliot. . _Obscène confesseur des dévotes mort-nées_ : Obscene confessor of fair bigots still-born. (Translation by Robert Baldick.) . _Éternel féminin de l'éternel jocrisse_ : Eternal feminine of the eternal fool. (Translation by Robert Baldick.) . _Théodore Hannon_ : Belgian poet and author of _Rimes de joie (Rhymes of Joy_ ), which Huysman prefaced in 1881, and which contains a poem called 'Cyprien Tibaille', after one of Huysmans' characters. By the time of _Against Nature_ , the two were no longer friends. . _Stéphane Mallarmé_ : (1842–98), the pre-eminent poet of the Symbolist movement, though his work in poetry and prose surpassed even Symbolism's grand ambitions. Mallarmé responded to _Against Nature_ with his own poem 'Prose (pour Des Esseintes)', one of his most linguistically and conceptually taxing poems. . _Leconte de Lisle_ : (1818–94), leading member of the Parnassian movement, whose poetry prized impersonality, sculpted verse and stately rhythms. . _Villiers de l'Isle-Adam_ : (1838–89), one of the most eccentric and brilliant French writers of the second half of the nineteenth century. Originally a poet, Villiers moved to prose and theatre. His novel _L'Eve future (The Future Eve_ , 1886) and his play _Axël_ (1890) are masterpieces of the 'idealist reaction' in French literature. His _Contes cruels (Cruel Tales_ , 1883) contain the story 'Véra', a tale of a woman brought back to life by her husband's idealism and will power. 'Claire Lenoir' is a supernatural novella. Tullia Fabriana is a character in Villiers' _Isis_. . _Charles Cros_ : (1842–88), eccentric poet and polymath (inventor of the gramophone, pioneer of colour photography and astronomer), was, like Corbière and Villiers, a literary outsider even to literary outsiders such as the Symbolists. . _of the first two Parnasses_ : The 'Parnassian' poets prized impersonality, craft and formal perfection against Romanticism's lyrical inspiration and belief in the social value of art. The _Parnasses_ were anthologies of poetry in which a variety of the greatest poets of the nineteenth century – Verlaine, Mallarmé, Banville, Leconte de Lisle – appeared. . _O miroir... nudité_ : Oh mirror! cold water frozen by boredom within your frame, how many times, for hours on end, saddened by dreams and searching for my memories, which are like dead leaves in the deep hole beneath your glassy surface, have I seen myself in you as a distant ghost! But, oh horror! on certain evenings, in your cruel pool, I have recognized the bareness of my disordered dream! (Translation by Robert Baldick.) . _Alors m'éveillerai-je... l'ingénuité_ : Then shall I awake to the original fervour, upright and alone in an ancient flood of light, lilies! and one of you for innocence. (Translation by Robert Baldick.) . _Aloysius Bertrand_ : (1807–41), author of _Gaspard de la nuit (Gaspard and the Night_ , 1842), hallucinatory Romantic prose poems. . _Livre de jade_ : (1867), a prose poem by Judith Gautier (1846–1917), daughter of Théophile Gautier. . _a glossary... medieval monasteries_ : In 1888, a _Petit Glossaire des auteurs décadents et symbolistes (Short Glossary of Decadent and Symbolist Authors_ ) was produced by the young Symbolist and Decadent writers, principally Paul Adam and Félix Fénéon. It included extracts from Verlaine, Mallarmé and several lesser-known writers, but surprisingly nothing from Huysmans himself. ### CHAPTER 15 . _and he was well aware... with impunity_ : Huysmans was writing at a time of high Wagnerism. Baudelaire and Mallarmé had written powerful meditations on Wagner's music and its implications for poetry, and the French _Revue wagnérienne_ published a number of Symbolist texts inspired by or in response to Wagner's music. Huysmans was also a contributor to the review. It should be noted that at the time Wagner's music was heard in extracts at concerts rather than performed integrally. It is interesting in this respect that Des Esseintes, always ready to extract and anthologize and decontextualize, does not approve of these practices for music. . _of Auber and Boïeldieu, of Adam and Flotow_ : All represent the French comic opera tradition. . _Des Mädchens Klage_ : ('The Young Girl's Lament'), a poem by Schiller set to music by Schubert. ### CHAPTER 16 . _But then, the decayed nobility was done for... classes_ : Huysmans here refers to the scandals that preceded the 1848 revolution. . _Among the Dominicans... certain dealers_ : Rouard de Card's book was published in 1856. This preoccupation of Des Esseintes takes up the theme explored in the chapter on scents of real or 'essential' substances and fake, industrially produced versions.	{'title': 'Against Nature'}
## Pulitzer A Life in Politics, Print, and Power ## James McGrath Morris To Dean M. Sagar Don't tell stories about me. Keep them until I am dead. JOSEPH PULITZER (1847–1911) ## Contents Epigraph Author's Note Prologue: Havana 1909 Part I: 1847–1878 1. Hungary 2. Boots and Saddles 3. The Promised Land 4. Politics and Journalism 5. Politics and Gunpowder 6. Left Behind 7. Politics and Rebellion 8. Politics and Principle 9. Founding Father 10. Fraud and His Fraudulency 11. Nannie and Kate Part II: 1878–1888 12. A Paper of His Own 13. Success 14. Dark Lantern 15. St. Louis Grows Small 16. The Great Theater 17. Kingmaker 18. Raising Liberty 19. A Blind Croesus Part III: 1888–1911 20. Samson Agonistes Photographic Insert 21. Darkness 22. Caged Eagle 23. Trouble from the West 24. Yellow 25. The Great God Success 26. Fleeing His Shadow 27. Captured for the Ages 28. Forever Unsatisfied 29. Clash of Titans 30. A Short Remaining Span 31. Softly, Very Softly Acknowledgments Notes Bibliography Searchable Terms About the Author Credits Copyright About the Publisher Frontispiece illustration by William A. Rogers was originally published in Harper's Weekly, December 29, 1901. ## Author's Note Like Alfred Nobel, Joseph Pulitzer is better known today for the prize that bears his name than for his contribution to history. This is a shame. In the nineteenth century, when America became an industrial nation and Carnegie provided the steel, Rockefeller the oil, Morgan the money, and Vanderbilt the railroads, Joseph Pulitzer was the midwife to the birth of the modern mass media. What he accomplished was as significant in his time as the creation of television would be in the twentieth century, and it remains deeply relevant in today's information age. Pulitzer's lasting achievement was to transform American journalism into a medium of mass consumption and immense influence. He accomplished this by being the first media lord to recognize the vast social changes that the industrial revolution triggered, and by harnessing all the converging elements of entertainment, technology, business, and demographics. This accomplishment alone would make him worthy of a biography. His fascinating life, however, makes him an irresistible subject. Ted Turner-like in his innovative abilities, Teddy Roosevelt-like in his power to transform history, and Howard Hughes-like in the reclusive second half of his life as a blind man tormented by sound, Pulitzer's tale provides all the elements of a life story that is important, timely, and compelling. This book benefits from several fortunate and remarkable discoveries of items previously unavailable to other biographers. Nearly a century ago, it was reported in newspapers that Pulitzer's only living brother had written a memoir shortly before committing suicide in 1909. In 2005, I located the manuscript in the custody of his granddaughter in Paris. An extraordinarily talented sculptor of religious figures, the late Muriel Pulitzer had guarded the work all her life after her father failed to get it published as he had hoped. The memoir sheds new light on the Pulitzers' childhood in Hungary, their separate journeys to the United States, their rise as American newspaper publishers, and the prickly relationship between them. Another important source of material was rescued from a trash bin in St. Louis. More than twenty years ago, the contractor Pat Fogarty spotted some wooden cigar boxes in a Dumpster near a building undergoing renovation. He thought they were too nice to be thrown out, so he took them home. When he opened them he discovered they were filled with documents from the 1800s that had once belonged to Joseph Pulitzer's St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He put the boxes in his basement for safekeeping, thinking someday he might be able to sell the items. In 2008, Pat and Leslie Fogarty generously shared the contents with me. The papers turned out to be historically significant. They included the original receipts for Pulitzer's purchase of the Dispatch at auction in 1878, the original merger agreement several days later between the Dispatch and the Post, hundreds of canceled checks signed by Pulitzer, and a loan agreement revealing who provided Pulitzer with the money to operate his first newspaper. Two other noteworthy sets of documents surfaced in St. Louis during my research. Eric P. Newman provided a copy of a financial note signed by Pulitzer that was instrumental in piecing together his partial ownership of the Westliche Post. The St. Louis Police Department Library gave me access to the 1872 Minutes of the St. Louis Police Commission contained in books that had been found abandoned in a closet. In Washington, D.C., I pursued at length a large cache of documents relating to President Theodore Roosevelt's attempt to imprison Pulitzer for criminal libel. After years of claims by archivists that there were no such files, a threat of a lawsuit under the Freedom of Information Act from a prominent Washington law firm sped their discovery. The files provide for the first time an inside look at this important episode in abuse of presidential power. Last, a small file folder at the Lake County Historical Society in Ohio contained a set of intriguing love letters to Kate Pulitzer while she was married to Joseph. They were signed only with an initial. But another set of documents, donated to Syracuse University in 2001, helped me identify her lover. These were just several of the sources that had not been available to previous researchers and have greatly enhanced the story of Pulitzer's life. At the same time, these findings and others also contradict a number of frequently repeated tales about him. These range from the claim that his mother was Catholic to the myth that he purchased the New York World while on his way to a vacation in Europe with his family. Rather than bog down the narrative of this book, I have placed any disagreements with previous accounts in my endnotes. JAMES MCGRATH MORRIS TESUQUE, NEW MEXICO ## Prologue ## HAVANA 1909 On the afternoon of February 17, 1909, a small boat pushed off from a dock in Havana's harbor, cut through the pearl-green waters hugging the shoreline, and slid into the ultramarine-blue bay. Out ahead of it, one of the most luxurious private yachts in the world lay at anchor. The length of a football field, the Liberty was rivaled in size and extravagance only by J. P. Morgan's Corsair, which had set the standard of seagoing opulence for a decade. With two raked masts front and aft of a large smokestack, the white-hulled Liberty was like the beautiful schooners that had plied the oceans years earlier. "I have never seen a vessel of more beautiful lines," said one man on board, who had served on a yacht belonging to the second white raja of Sarawak. Inside, the spacious vessel contained a gymnasium, a library, drawing and smoking rooms, an oak-paneled dining room that could easily seat a dozen people, quarters for its forty-five-man crew, and twelve staterooms fitted by a decorator who had designed furnishings for London's Victoria and Albert Museum. At this hour, on board all was still. The engines were silent, the bulkhead doors remained closed, and the upper deck gangways were roped off. The Liberty's owner, Joseph Pulitzer, had just gone down for his after-lunch nap, and severe consequences would befall anyone who disturbed the repose of America's most powerful newspaper publisher. Since becoming blind at the apex of his rise to the top, the sixty-one-year-old Pulitzer suffered from insomnia as well as numerous other real and imagined ailments, and was tormented by even the smallest sound. Every consideration possible was made to eliminate noise on board. Engraved brass plaques in the forward part of the ship warned, "This door shall not be opened until Mr. Pulitzer is awake." At sea, the ship's twin steam engines drove propellers set at different pitches and running at varying speeds in order to minimize vibrations carried through the hull. The Liberty was a temple of silence. It was also Pulitzer's cocoon. The demons that beset him never rested. For two decades, he had roamed the globe. At any moment, he might be found consulting doctors in Germany, taking baths in southern France, resting on the Riviera, walking in a private garden in London, riding on Jekyll Island, hiding in his tower of silence in Maine, or at sea. Since his yacht was launched the year before, water had become his constant habitat. In fact, the Liberty carried sufficient coal to cross and re-cross the Atlantic without refueling. Wherever he went, it was in the company of an all-male retinue of secretaries, readers, pianists, and valets. In every practical sense, they had replaced his wife and children. From morning to night, these men tended to his every whim and kept the world at bay. By long practice, they had mastered handling his correspondence, discerned the most soothing manner by which to read books aloud from his well-stocked traveling library, and found ways to entertain at meals. However, during his long exile Pulitzer never relaxed his grip on the World, his influential New York newspaper that had ushered in the modern era of mass communications. An almost unbroken stream of telegrams, all written in code, flowed from ports and distant destinations to New York, directing every part of the paper's operation. The messages even included such details as the typeface used in an advertisement and the vacation schedule of editors. Managers shipped back reams of financial data, editorial reports, and espionage-style accounts of one another's work. Although he had set foot in his skyscraper headquarters on Park Row only three times, whenever anyone talked about the newspaper it was always "Pulitzer's World." And it was talked about. Since Pulitzer took over the moribund newspaper in 1883 and introduced his brand of journalism to New York, the World had grown at meteoric speed, becoming, at one point, the largest circulating newspaper on the globe. Six acres of spruce trees were felled a day to keep up with its demand for paper, and almost every day enough lead was melted into type to set an entire Bible into print. Variously credited with having elected presidents, governors, and mayors; sending politicians to jail; and dictating the public agenda, the World was a potent instrument of change. As a young man in a hurry, Pulitzer had unabashedly used the paper as a handmaiden of reform, to raise social consciousness and promote a progressive—almost radical—political agenda. The changes he had called for, like the outlandish ideas of taxing inheritances, income, and corporations, had become widely accepted. "The World should be more powerful than the President," Pulitzer once said. "He is fettered by partisanship and politicians and has only a four-year term. The paper goes on year after year and is absolutely free to tell the truth and perform every service that should be performed in the public interest." Like Pulitzer himself, however, the World was aging. Its politics had grown conservative, its novelty had spawned dozens of imitators, and its great achievements lay in the past. Most readers couldn't remember a time before newspapers, thick as magazines, circulated in the millions, sold for as little as a penny, and were filled with dramatically written news, riveting sports coverage, comics, marital advice, recipes, fiction, and even sheet music. On this day, a reminder of the paper's fabled past stood nearby. Rising from the waters of Havana Bay like a cadaver's finger was the top portion of a mast. It was the only visible remains of the USS Maine, which blew up a decade before, killing most of its crew. The disaster, coming at a time of rising tension between Spain and America, became incendiary kindling in the hands of battling newspaper editors in New York. William Randolph Hearst, a young upstart imitator from California armed with an immense family fortune, had done the unthinkable. In 1898 his paper, the New York Journal, was closing in on the World's dominance of Park Row. Fighting down to the last possible reader, each seeking to outdo the other in its eagerness to lead the nation into war, the two journalistic behemoths fueled an outburst of jingoistic fever. And when the war came, they continued their cutthroat competition by marshaling armies of reporters, illustrators, and photographers to cover every detail of its promised glory. The no-holds-barred attitude of the World and Journal put the newspapers into a spiraling descent of sensationalism, outright fabrications, and profligate spending. If left unchecked, it threatened to bankrupt both their credibility and their businesses. Like Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty, they fought it out at the edge of a precipice that could mean death to both combatants. In the end, the two survived this short but intense circulation war. But their rivalry became almost as famous as the Spanish-American War itself. Pulitzer was indissolubly linked with Hearst as a purveyor of vile Yellow Journalism. In fact, some critics suspected that Pulitzer's current plans to endow a journalism school at Columbia University and create a national prize for journalists were thinly veiled attempts to cleanse his legacy before his approaching death. In addition to forever sullying his name, remembrance of the war pained the publisher for another reason. Pulitzer's most formidable political foe had come home a hero. Worse, Pulitzer had contributed to this enemy's glory. When Theodore Roosevelt led his famous Rough Riders to victory on Cuba's San Juan Hill, he had brought the press along. After unleashing and glorifying the power of the press, Pulitzer watched his nemisis Roosevelt harness it as the most potent tool of political leadership in the modern age. For a quarter of a century, the Republican Roosevelt and the Democratic Pulitzer had battled for the soul of America's reform movement. It had been an epic clash. On one side was an egotistical, hard-boiled politician, convinced that Pulitzer was an impediment to the resplendent future his own leadership offered the nation. On the other side was a sanctimonious publisher who believed he was saving the republic from a demagogue. "I think God Almighty made it for the benefit of the World when he made me blind," Pulitzer had confided to one of his editorial writers a few months before. "Because I don't meet anybody, I am a recluse. Like a Blind Goddess of Justice, I sit aloof and uninfluenced. I have no friends; the World is therefore absolutely free." Now, as twilight descended on his presidency, Roosevelt hoped to take revenge for all the years of abuse. The immigrant son of Hungarian Jews—blind, tempestuous, and neurotic—had become the bête noir of the brawny, bellicose scion of the American aristocracy. Triggering the president's wrath was the temerity of Pulitzer's World in raising the possibility that the Panama Canal, Roosevelt's most sacred accomplishment, had been tainted by corruption. Under presidential orders the Justice Department was madly combing through dusty century-old law books hoping to find some means to punish Pulitzer for his most recent affront. Grand juries were convened in Washington and New York. If Roosevelt had his way, Pulitzer would spend his last years alive locked up in prison. At last the small boat from the harbor reached the Liberty. It pulled alongside and a handwritten copy of a cable from New York was passed up to Pulitzer's loyal valet and confidant, Jabez Dunningham. When he read it, Dunningham rushed to the ship's bridge and gave orders to the captain to put out to sea. Roosevelt's grand jury in Washington had announced its decision. ## Part I ## 1847–1878 ## Chapter One ## HUNGARY On a Sabbath in the spring of 1847, Fülöp and Elize Pulitzer anxiously awaited the birth of their fourth child. Their trepidation was well founded. Two of the last three children born to them in their nine years of marriage had died. Infant mortality was then common, but the siege of death surrounding the Pulitzers was not. By sundown, the news was promising. Elize's labor ended safely with the birth of a son. This one would live. Yet before he reached his teenage years, he would lose a parent and all but one of his eight siblings. For the newborn Joseph Pulitzer, death would be the most constant element of family life. The prospect of mortality attending the birth of Fülöp and Elize's children robbed them of the pleasures they should have enjoyed as the last in a line of successful Jewish merchants in the small farming town of Makó on the fringes of the Habsburg Empire. Nestled in a crook of the tranquil Maros River, the agrarian outpost was a lonely spot in the midst of the Great Alföld, a flat expanse the size of Holland running east and west across the country. Makó was like an island, surrounded in the winter by a sea of furrowed black soil stretching outward as far as the eye could see, and in the spring and summer by an undulating tapestry of green. By the time of Joseph's birth, the Pulitzers had been in Makó for three generations. Their ancestors were among a migration of Jews from Moravia in the 1700s, drawn by the promise of greater tolerance and a better economic life in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Like many other Moravians, they fit easily into a Germanic culture. Hungarian landowners, eager for the services of merchants and tradesmen, enlisted the newcomers to market the products of their estates, creating a symbiotic relationship that enriched both the Jews and the nobility. Over the years, the only connection the Pulitzers retained to their Moravian roots was their name. Since Ashkenazi Jews had no tradition of using surnames, the family adopted "Pulitzer" after the village of Pullitz they had left behind, in order to meet the legal requirement for a hereditary family name. In Makó, the Pulitzers prospered, benefiting from the town's growth into an important provincial market center. Joseph's great-grandfather Baruch Simon Pulitzer, the earliest known ancestor in Makó, sold rawhide and later grain. Unusually for Jews at that time, he owned his own house, and he was one of the leaders of the Hevrah Kadisha, which helped arrange burials in Jewish congregations. His son Mihály, Joseph's grandfather, met with even greater commercial success. He took wool and grain from Makó to market in Pest, the rapidly growing city in the north adjacent to Buda, and returned with an array of consumer goods such as spices, sugar, grapes, cloth, candles, and playing cards. Mihály was soon paying some of the highest taxes among Makó's Jews and even lent money to members of the city council. When Joseph's father, Fülöp, was old enough, he joined the flourishing family business, eventually establishing his own store. Tall, bearded, with chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a pronounced hooked nose, all traits he would pass on to Joseph, Fülöp cast about for a wife. As the third in line of wealthy tradesmen, Fülöp could have easily found one among his town's women. Instead he broke with tradition and proposed to Elize Berger, whom he had met on his frequent business trips to Pest. A sophisticated city woman, Berger complemented Fülöp's social and financial position in Makó. The tall, dark-haired young Berger was soon "regarded an enviable woman in the society of our little town," according to one of the Pulitzer children. The couple made their home across the street from Makó's marketplace in a two-story L-shaped house, considerably larger than many in town. A carriage entrance graced the front of the house, and stables extended perpendicularly from the rear. It was in this house that Joseph was born on April 10, 1847. Following Jewish custom, Joseph received his Brit Milah, or circumcision, eight days later. The Hungarian Jewish community, into which Joseph was welcomed, was no longer that of his forebearers. Support for Orthodox Judaism was waning in Makó and in other towns that fell into the cultural orbit of Pest. In these places, Jews such as the Pulitzers were joining a reformist wing of Judaism known as Neolog. It sought to abandon many of the strictures of Orthodoxy that clashed with the growing desire among Hungarian Jews to assimilate. Neologs, for instance, removed the mehitza—the lattice barriers hiding women congregants—though women remained seated apart from the men; and these reformists also brought the bimah (somewhat akin to a Christian altar) from its traditional place in the center of the synagogue to the front. Joseph's Judaic life would be less isolated from Christian life than that of young Jews growing up elsewhere in Europe. Nonetheless, as Jews the Pulitzers remained decidedly in the minority in Makó. Only 6 percent of the population was Jewish. Catholics, Greek Orthodox, and Calvinists dominated the city. Members of each faith lived in distinct neighborhoods that divided the town like wedges of a pie, each piece anchored by a place of worship. The tall steeples of the Calvinist and Catholic churches soared high above the flat landscape, and the pealing of their bells carried for miles. It took only a glance to know if one had wandered from the Christian neighborhoods. They were well laid out, with large houses erected by prosperous farmers who could afford to live away from their fields. The Jewish neighborhood, on the other hand, had evolved more haphazardly, with crooked streets and dead-end alleys. The synagogues were small and humble. Joseph would not be more than a few years old before he would have learned his place in the social order of the town. In 1848, the year following Joseph's birth, a political tsunami of revolutionary fervor swept across Europe, disturbing the order of life even in isolated Makó. Its epicenter was Paris, where a mob chased King Louis-Philippe from his throne and established the fragile but democratic Second Republic. From France the revolution spread to Italy, Germany, and all corners of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Hungarians saw this moment as a chance to establish their own state. A new government led by the nationalist Lajos Kossuth took power in Pest and established a free press, taxed the nobility, and unshackled peasants from centuries-old feudalistic practices. Jews supported the revolution in large numbers. In return, the government granted them legal emancipation. But it was a Pyrrhic victory. By the summer of 1849, what little was left of the rebellion was in retreat. Kossuth himself spent a night in Makó, just a few days before Austrian troops entered the city, and then he fled to the United States. Despite the revolution's ignoble end, the Pulitzers clung to their ideals. Two of Joseph's uncles had served in the revolution's national guard, and his father's store had supplied the troops. (Wisely, his father also supplied the Austrian occupiers, avoiding retribution.) The uprising cemented the Pulitzers' identification with nationalism. Although they were Jewish in religion, they regarded themselves as Hungarians in nationality and sentiment. Like most Jews, they came to view their social and economic fate as inextricably linked to that of the nation. In his diary, Joseph's younger brother Albert neatly inscribed a poem by Sándor Petöfi, the revolution's poet laureate, who perished in one of its battles. "Rise Magyar, your country calls!" it began. "The time for now or never falls! Are we to live as slaves or free? Choose one! This is our destiny." The end of the revolution had personal consequences for the Pulitzer children. "The Hungarian language, Hungarian manners, Hungarian traditions, were all under a ban. People would hardly dare to speak Hungarian in the lowest whispers," recalled Albert. "And thus it came that the native babble of my childhood was soon a stranger to me." School life was also altered. The new government-funded Jewish grammar school in Makó that Joseph briefly attended was tinged with secularism and less Orthodox than older schools, diminishing even farther the importance of Judaic traditions. There was nothing modern, however, about discipline in the Pulitzer household. The children learned early that "the Hungarian child never answers his father back," Albert said. When disciplining his three boys, their father terrified them by recounting the Roman historian Livy's tale of Titus Manlius who decapitated his own son for defending the family's honor in battle because he had not first sought his father's permission. For serious infractions, Fülöp banished the offender to the stables for the night, without dinner. Elize, however, frequently smuggled out food from the kitchen. In the spring of 1855, Fülöp decided to follow his father's and brother's footsteps and move his family to Pest. Thousands were making a similar trek, leaving Hungary's small towns for the economic opportunity and political freedom of the big city. Officials granted the Pulitzers' application to move, and Fülöp and Elize sold their house to one of the city's judges, closed the store, and set off to the north by wagon. For eight-year-old Joseph, the city of Pest at the end of the two-day journey was an astonishing sight. A cityscape as imperial and as majestic as that of Paris or Vienna unfolded before him as his family joined the procession of wagons navigating the cobblestone boulevards. Instead of the monochromatic Alföld of his youth, Joseph was surrounded by stone or brick buildings reaching four, five, and sometimes six stories high, many stuccoed in pastels with intricate, curlicue plaster cornices. Unlike Buda, which had developed around the royal court's massive palace on a hilly perch across the Danube, low-lying Pest was the creation of merchants and artisans. As a result it was maturing into one of the most strikingly beautiful cities in Europe. Large boulevards, lined with majestic examples of Italian architecture, flowed across Pest like paved rivers from each huge square to the next, dividing the city into well-defined neighborhoods. The Pulitzers' wagon made its way to the Golden Stern Inn, two blocks from Joseph's grandparents' house at the center of the city, where Jews had been permitted to live for eighty years. At first, only a few "tolerated Jews" had been able to rent apartments and maintain shops whose doors had to remain closed and which were barren of signs or window displays. But in subsequent years the laws were liberalized. By the time the Pulitzers arrived, approximately one-fifth of the city's population was Jewish. Not only had Pest become the center of the nation's economy, music, literature, art, and politics; it was now the center of Hungary's Judaism as well. The move to Pest proved to be an economic boon for the family. Within a year, Fülöp's business made enough money to be considered for incorporation and he was invited to become a member of the Commercial and Industrial Chamber of Pest. Increasingly wealthy, the family moved into a flat closer to the Danube, in the portion of the quarter regarded as the neighborhood of the Jewish bourgeoisie. The buildings there reached deep into the interior of each block and contained inner courtyards ringed with balconies that led to one- and two-bedroom apartments. Because of the family's elevated social position, the parents sought to educate their children for a city trade. The eldest boy was consigned to a school of economics in Vienna, Joseph was sent to a nearby trade school, and Albert was dispatched to a boarding school. After a while, the family turned to tutors. Joseph mastered German and learned to speak French. He was a difficult pupil, however, and displayed a volcanic temper. According to Albert, Joseph once chased a tutor out the window (one assumes on the ground floor) when the tutor made the mistake of insisting on teaching mathematics rather than entertaining the youth with war stories from history. If Joseph didn't take well to formal instruction, he succumbed to the pleasures of reading. The Pulitzer flat was filled with books, as the parents used their increased wealth to indulge their literary passion. Elize's favorite novelist was the English writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton, whose works had been translated into German. In particular, she loved his novel The Pilgrims of the Rhine. (He later became notorious for having penned the line "It was a dark and stormy night.") Both Joseph and Albert adopted their parents' habit. "As a child I used to devour books which were far beyond my age," recalled Albert, who had the more romantic mind of the two brothers. Among his favorite authors was the Jewish philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, known as the "German Plato." Joseph considered philosophy of little use and instead favored works of history and biography. For Joseph, Pest was an education equal to books. Whenever he crossed the city's largest market to visit his grandparents, he saw and learned about life from all parts of Europe. It was a Babel of tongues and a panoply of apparel colors, a striking contrast to the drab peasant costume of his birthplace. Here, merchants and buyers from Turkey, Serbia, Bosnia, Austria, and Germany plied their trades on a city square of covered stalls acres larger than anything Joseph would have seen in Makó. Leaving the market, and nearing his grandparents' home, Joseph entered a tranquil street with neoclassical buildings whose inner courtyards housed gold- and silversmiths, jewelers, and spice, fruit, and textile dealers. There was no mistaking that those who lived in this portion of the Jewish quarter had done well. Grandfather Mihály's success as a merchant earned him the description "the rich Mr. Pulitzer" among his neighbors. "He lived in a house of his own," said Albert, "a rare distinction in large Austrian towns where often twenty to one hundred families occupied flats or apartments in the same 'rent palaces.'" A short stroll in the other direction from Joseph's home led to the banks of the Danube River, an irresistible draw for any young boy. For upwards of a mile, riverboats from distant European cities tied up to the embankment on the Pest side of the river, where the current was less swift. There they unloaded goods from distant lands. Like the market, the Danube River revealed a tantalizing promise of a world beyond. Any exploration of the city that Joseph undertook was unfettered by his being Jewish. There were few other major European cities of the era where Jews were freer or more integrated into society. The cosmopolitan pageant of Pest's wealthy paraded by Joseph's home as carriages ferrying nobles, wealthy merchants, priests, and city officials came down the boulevard abutting his street. In the evenings, the city's elite dashed to balls, where the well-to-do displayed their equality with the ruling classes of other nations. And when not at balls, the elegant crowds gathered outside at the theater, opera, and casinos only a few blocks away. At first, only the wealthiest of Jews who had converted to Christianity were able to enter this world. But by the time the Pulitzers came to Pest the imperative to give up one's faith had greatly diminished. In fact, the Jews of Pest had their own thriving social, economic, and cultural institutions. The wealth, success, and prominence of the burgeoning Jewish quarter was symbolized by the construction of the Neolog Dohány synagogue, about five blocks south of Joseph's neighborhood. Almost a block in area, it rose to become the largest synagogue in the world, seating 3,000 congregants. The sanctuary was divided by arches from the nave, like the apse of a Christian church, and the bimah was located in the front. An organ and two pulpits were installed, both unheard of in synagogues until then. It required religious finesse to get around the Jewish prohibition against playing musical instruments on the Sabbath: a Christian was hired to play the organ. The synagogue was soon called the "Israelite cathedral" and became an architectural display of assimilation. Like the synagogue's architecture, Joseph's religious instruction in Pest renounced the strict observance of what were deemed antiquated religious laws; also, this instruction was less concerned with the careful study of the Torah. By the time Joseph reached his teenage years, being Jewish remained a part of his life, but no longer the center of it. Despite having secured a place in the upper echelons of Pest Jewish society, the succession of deaths continued to haunt the Pulitzers. Before leaving Makó, they had lost two of their children. In Pest, five more died. Because they were living in a prosperous urban setting where infant death had become rarer, the loss of these children was harder to bear than before. The deaths in Pest included their eldest son, who succumbed to tuberculosis, ending their plans for him to take over the family business. Death's grip on the family did not end here. On July 16, 1858, Fülöp died. Only forty-seven years old and at the peak of his business success, he also had contracted tuberculosis. Four years older than Albert, Joseph understood more fully the extent of the calamity. He had been nine when his older brother died, ten when his younger brothers and sister died, eleven when his father died, and thirteen at the death of his last sister. Albert, in contrast, was not yet nine when the last sibling died. Under the best of circumstances, Joseph would have felt guilty for having survived. But in his case, he responded in other ways as well. The deaths led to an obsession with his health that would remain with him until the end of his life. Every ailment, no matter how small, was accompanied by an underlying fear that he was dying. Further, he developed a phobia of funerals. Even when his closest friends died, Joseph would refuse to attend their burials, and, pointedly, he would not attend the funeral of either his mother or his only surviving brother. As an additional cruelty, his father's death created a financial nightmare. In his will, Fülöp instructed that his estate be divided among his surviving children, with his wife as ward of the shares. But Fülöp's prolonged illness had depleted his savings. By the time the executor sent ten florins to the Jewish hospital and to a poorhouse, about the price of an eimer (pail) of wine, there was almost nothing left. "Thus was my mother," said Albert, "left to provide for her boys and one daughter, alone and unfriended." Since she had no business experience, it was only a matter of time before the enterprise went bankrupt. Within six months their property was seized by authorities for failure to pay taxes. The family limped along. Elize did her best to earn an income and to keep paying for the education of her children. "What efforts she put forth to give us a thorough education," said Albert. "How she deprived herself of all that she held most dear to her comfort and well being!" Financial relief appeared in the form of a marriage proposal. Max Frey, a merchant from the southeastern Hungarian town of Detta, won Elize's consent but not that of Joseph or Albert. It's common that a child's longing for a dead father triggers a rejection of a substitute, even a well-intentioned one. In Joseph's case Frey's entrance into the family, or what little was left of the family, increased his sense of loss and solitariness. Years later, writing an intimate, confessional letter, he conveyed the toll from the deaths and the remarriage. He described himself as "a poor orphan who never even enjoyed as much of a luxury as a father." Frey's romantic interest in Elize may have also threatened Joseph's intense devotion to his mother, the one remaining vestige of childhood. Pulitzer transformed his love for his mother into a more abstract reverence, so that photographs of her took on an iconic quality. Those who became Pulitzer's friends during his young adulthood were continually shown a locket-sized illustration of his mother that he kept with him at all times. The illustration remained so important to Joseph that late in his life, when his eyes were failing, his wife commissioned an enlargement of the portrait so he could see it. The deaths and the remarriage of their mother severed the ties that bound Joseph and Albert to home and family. Early in 1864, Albert, not yet fourteen, became the first to leave. He moved into his grandfather's house and obtained work as a clerk at a life insurance company. Joseph, on the other hand, had grander plans. He was anxious to leave Hungary entirely. Walking across the square near his house one day, Joseph encountered a childhood playmate from Makó. Joseph filled his friend in on the death of his father and the financial misfortunes that had befallen his family. He then asked if he would like to go to America. "Well," replied his friend, "are you going to America?" "Yes," said Pulitzer. "I must go because my mother cannot support us and here there is no work." Going to the United States was not an outlandish plan for an ambitious Hungarian youth. Since the end of the revolution of 1848, a Jewish Emigration Society in Pest had popularized the notion, and the massive migration from Europe to the United States had begun. But Pulitzer had no money, so his options were limited. He decided his salvation lay in the path taken by his maternal uncle Wilhelm Berger, with whom he had been close. Berger had joined the Austro-Hungarian army, which was open to Jews. That spring Berger had left Hungary for Mexico to serve under Prince Maximilian, who believed he was destined to become that nation's emperor. It was not military life that Pulitzer sought, but the escape it offered. Pulitzer had grown tall—six feet one inch—and had a head of thick wavy chestnut hair, like his late father. A Roman nose, supporting thick glasses, and an angular chin protruded from his pale, smooth-skinned, boyish face. Although he was very thin, with long arms, his body had matured into a manly figure. But his poor eyesight barred his entry into to the Austrian army. Events in the United States presented him with another opportunity. The American Civil War was in its third year, soldiers were dying at a rate of 13,000 a month, and the government had instituted a draft to meet the insatiable demand for more men. To meet the quota imposed on their city, a group of wealthy Bostonians looked eastward for able bodies. They wagered that there were thousands of young men in Europe who would join the American military provided their passage could be paid. The Bostonians commissioned Julian Allen, a member of a new entrepreneurial class of men finding profit in the draft law's loopholes, to sail to Europe and launch a recruiting drive. For the plan's backers, the venture, if successful, could be politically profitable; for Allen, it could be financially profitable. Allen set up shop in Hamburg, Germany. He printed recruitment circulars and placed advertisements in European newspapers that reached Pest. He promised that those who joined would be paid travel expenses, a bounty of $100 when they reached the United States, and $12 a month while in the service in the military. As each man could fetch $900 or more as a substitute soldier, Allen hoped to make at least $650 on each transaction. The scheme became Pulitzer's escape route. In early summer of 1864, Pulitzer began making his way to Hamburg, nearly 600 miles northwest. He stopped in Vienna and met up with a cousin and two friends. They all dined at the famous Zum Lothringer inn, known for its selection of Bavarian beers and favored by many Viennese notables. After dinner, Pulitzer and one of his companions sat on a park bench and talked until dawn until he caught a train from the Nordbahnhof for Hamburg. There Pulitzer located Allen. He was still recruiting men, but by now his methods were attracting unwanted scrutiny. Complaints were made that the men who accepted Allen's offer of free passage were being misled into thinking they were headed for laboring jobs in the United States. Still, if Pulitzer heard of the complaints, he wasn't deterred. Following Allen's instructions, he traveled to the seaport of Antwerp, 285 miles west of Hamburg, from where the next ship of emigrants was scheduled to depart. For this voyage, Allen chartered the Garland, a German 548-ton, square-rigged sailing vessel. On July 18, 1864, Pulitzer and 253 other men walked up the gangway. In comparison with any other ship taking on passengers in Antwerp that day, the Garland was an unusual sight. Every passenger was male and of military age. No other ship in the harbor sailing to the New World left without families with children. Pulitzer was among the last to board. As was customary, he was quizzed by an officer filling out the ship's manifest. Pulitzer said he was a twenty-year-old laborer. His actual age was seventeen; that he lied about this suggests he knew the purpose of the voyage—being underage would have disqualified him for military service. But there were some men who did not know and found out only after the ship cleared the harbor. They probably learned of their fate from a New York recruiter who had sneaked on board in hopes of luring some of the men to his city. The men became riled and protested so vigorously that the captain was compelled to offer to let them off on the coast of England. The group held a meeting and after considering that they were penniless and spoke no English, they decided to go on with the voyage; in the words of the captain, "stand their lot." And so the Garland sailed westward. ## Chapter Two ## BOOTS AND SADDLES After nearly six weeks at sea, Pulitzer saw the craggy coastline of northeastern America on the horizon. It had been an uneventful passage until the Garland reached the calm waters of Boston harbor on August 29, 1864. There the ship and its unusual cargo were met with a forceful reception. Boats bearing federal soldiers intercepted the Garland as it neared the first of the islands that separated the harbor from Massachusetts Bay. The soldiers ordered the men on board to take their belongings and lower themselves over the side of the ship onto the smaller vessels. Clueless as to what was happening, Pulitzer and the others found themselves being ferried to Deer Island, which Allen and his partners had selected as a secure place to conduct the final bit of their business after having lost their first batch of European mercenaries to bounty hunters. Under the watchful guard of the soldiers, the men were handed military enlistment documents to sign. Those who complied were given food, a chance to rest, and $100 in greenbacks. Pulitzer knew the $100 payment was a small fraction of the money earned by the organizers of the voyage for each recruit. The New York bounty hunter, traveling incognito with the men, had promised that larger bonuses could be had in his city. Weighing his options, Pulitzer decided he didn't like the economics of Allen's contract and pursued an escape clause. Along with perhaps one or two dozen others, he sneaked away from Deer Island by wading across the narrow and shallow channel of water separating the landmass from the mainland and headed south. Reaching New York City, Pulitzer joined the hundreds of men milling about the military recruiting tents at City Hall Park, across the street from Park Row, where Horace Greeley and other giants of American newspapers plied their trade. A new recruit could get cash bounties totaling $675, a tempting offer for many, considering that the total annual earnings for a soldier were less than $150 a year. The city had just finished erecting a 216-foot-long narrow wooden recruitment building featuring the latest in technology to ward off bounty brokers. Inside, each recruit was seated on a special armchair against a wall with a movable panel. When the recruit signed the documents and was handed his cash bounty, a switch was depressed releasing a spring that swiveled the chair and the wall leaving the recruit isolated in a back room until his transfer to a training camp. Despite such efforts, bounty brokers remained busy, and the city's walls and lampposts were plastered with recruiting posters, including some in German that Pulitzer could read. One town eager for recruits was Kingston, New York, whose draft board made the eighty-mile trip down the Hudson River Valley to set up a tent in City Hall Park. The board members had completed a round of the draft a few days earlier, but the district's quota had not been met. Furthermore, many among those who were drafted wanted to take advantage of the law's provision that allowed one to pay another to take one's place. Among those seeking a substitute was twenty-two-year-old Henry Vosburgh, a member of a family of farmers in Coxsackie, in Greene County. Pulitzer became Vosburgh's salvation. At the Kingston tent, on September 20, 1864, Pulitzer agreed to serve as a soldier in his place for one year in return for approximately $200. To do so, Pulitzer swore two separate times that he was twenty years old, though he was still only seventeen. The district's provost marshal, a commissioner of the board as well as the surgeon of the board, certified that the gangly teenager before them was "free from all bodily defects and mental infirmity...sober...of lawful age" and signed Pulitzer's papers. With money in his pocket, Pulitzer entered a New York jewelry store. He had a tiny hole drilled into an 1864 gold dollar, a small coin about a half an inch in diameter. A delicate chain fastened the coin to a gold ring, thereby making a device by which a woman could hold her handkerchief, then a fashion accessory in Hungary. On the reverse side of the coin, the jeweler engraved Elize's maiden initials, "E.B." Pulitzer mailed the resulting creation to his mother, better proof than any letter of his success in the New World. A few days after enlisting, Pulitzer walked south past City Hall Park to the tip of Manhattan and boarded the steamer John Romer with other recruits. It took them rapidly up the East River, past Throgs Neck and into the western end of the Long Island Sound to the skinny, 100-acre Hart Island. The army used this isolated spot to train its recruits, but the ragtag, multilingual collection of misfits now arriving posed a considerable challenge. The brigadier general in charge was reaching the end of his patience. Draft boards were meeting recruitment quotas, he said, "with men whom they can obtain by any means of bargain, deception or fraud, with which to liquidate upon paper their old obligations to the Government, regardless alike as to whether the men so obtained are fit for soldiers." By his count only about half the recruits made decent soldiers. In the coming months, he would discharge forty-five recruits upon their examination at Hart Island, seventeen of them for being underage. Pulitzer, however, escaped his detection. Pulitzer also avoided joining the less desirable and more deadly infantry. Good timing and his childhood knowledge of horseback riding landed him a place in a cavalry company. "I wanted to ride a horse, to be a horse-soldier," Pulitzer said. "I did not like to walk." He knew that in European armies regiments were often named after famous people, such as royalty. "So I inquired for the names of some of the regiments of horsemen, and was told of one called Lincoln. I knew who he was and so went to that regiment." The First New York "Lincoln" Cavalry, as it was called, was organized at the beginning of hostilities by Carl Schurz, one of the best-known German "forty-eighters" who had come to the United States following the suppression of the revolutionary movement. By the time Pulitzer joined the First Lincoln regiment, its original luster had worn off. Three long years of chasing Confederates in Virginia, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland had taken their toll; and the men, at the end of their tours of duty, were mustering out in large numbers. On November 12, 1864, Pulitzer joined his regiment at Remount Camp near Harpers Ferry. The reinforcements were a welcome sight throughout the camps. "For a time, their arrival, appearance, equipment, created an excitement," an Ohio soldier wrote in his diary. "Many were the surmises that many of them would be minus some of their fancy equipment before another week." Pulitzer was assigned to Company L, one of four German-speaking companies under the command of German-speaking officers. The men in his company were brewers, locksmiths, mechanics, painters, tailors, and bakers from Switzerland, Austria, Hungary, Germany, and Prussia and were older than both Pulitzer's real age and his false age, which by now he gave as eighteen when asked. In completing the paperwork upon arrival, he also told his superiors that if something were to happen to him they were to contact his grandfather Mihály Pulitzer; he made no mention of his mother or stepfather. Although it was a relief to be among German speakers, Pulitzer did not get along well with the men. He may not have been at fault. Veterans who had been fighting for years resented recruits who had joined solely for the bounty. They felt, as one soldier wrote, "those money soldiers are not worth as much as they cost for when you hear firing ahead you may see them hid in the woods." When Pulitzer joined his regiment, the presidential election had just concluded and the news of Lincoln's reelection was reaching the soldiers. Pulitzer witnessed the jubilant celebration, especially among German-Americans, who overwhelmingly supported Lincoln. The moment was a remarkable contrast to the world Pulitzer had left behind. Here were troops in the midst of war voting and even permitted—though certainly not encouraged—to vote against their commander in chief. It was Pulitzer's first taste of American electoral politics. A less significant introduction to another American custom followed a few weeks later. On November 28, the men took a pause from their military duties to celebrate Thanksgiving, which Lincoln had recently proclaimed a national holiday. Turkeys and other food sent to battlefields by families, friends, and citizens in New York were distributed around the camps. "With one eye on the lookout for hungry rebels prowling around the camp, we eat our Thanksgiving feast without further molestation, and are thankful," wrote a lieutenant in Pulitzer's regiment. For the remainder of November and December 1864, Pulitzer rode about the Shenandoah Valley as General Sheridan moved his forces like chess pieces, threatening but rarely engaging the enemy. Typical of Pulitzer's rare encounters with Confederate forces was one on November 22, when his company crossed the Shenandoah River and rode in a double line toward a long hill. A line of Confederate infantrymen rose to the crest from the other side. Shots were exchanged, but no bullets found their mark, and the two forces then went their own ways. Long rides were the center of Pulitzer's life as a cavalryman. At times, engagements between Union and Confederate forces in the Shenandoah Valley that winter caused serious losses on each side; but Pulitzer spent his time traveling up and down the valley, confronting snowy, sleety weather but hardly any rebels. Nonetheless, it was arduous work. For a tall city lad like Pulitzer, the days spent in the hard wood-and-leather saddle produced chafed legs, cramps, and a sore back. At night, exhausted, he tended his horse and cleaned his weaponry during the little time that remained before bedding down. Pulitzer's pain and exhaustion were soon replaced by tedium and boredom when, at the end of December, the men set up camp for the winter near Winchester, Virginia. Pulitzer's winter home consisted of a hut made of log walls, three to five feet high, with a canvas roof and a brick or stone fireplace. Now, instead of endless miles of riding, he settled into a routine regulated by a bugle. Its call signaled each day's activities, including endless drill formations at the sound of "Boots and Saddles." Warfare resumed with the advent of spring but Pulitzer remained far from harm's way. Instead of following his company to the battle lines, he was assigned to a detachment protecting a general who remained encamped far behind the lines of engagement. The only combat Pulitzer saw was on a chessboard at which he and another recruit had, in the words of his opponent, "the pleasure of whiling away many weary hours." In this manner Pulitzer served out the end of the war only seventy-five miles from where he first joined his company. April 1865 brought elation and sadness to the troops. On April 9, Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, signaling an end to the war. Five days later, President Lincoln was assassinated. "The effect of the news of the death of the President cannot be described," wrote one member of Pulitzer's regimental. "All through the camps there was unwonted silence.... It was the saddest day in camp that the soldiers had ever known. It was as if a pall had been let down upon them." The war at an end, Pulitzer rejoined his company in Alexandria, Virginia. The victorious Union commanders planned a massive review of the forces in Washington. In the early morning of May 22, 1865, Pulitzer rode with the gathered cavalrymen west across the Long Bridge, a narrow wooden bridge that traversed the Potomac and emptied near Fourteenth Street. They continued on to Bladensburg, a few miles northeast of Washington in Maryland, where they camped for the night and groomed their horses and themselves for the grand review in the morning. May 23 dawned bright, cool, and breezy. Rain had fallen earlier in the week, subduing the dust—perfect conditions for a parade. Pulitzer woke at four o'clock when reveille was sounded. After downing breakfast, he and the men rode into Washington, halting three blocks east of the Capitol. Like the nation, the Capitol had been greatly transformed during the war years. New wings extending on each side had more than doubled its size and a cast-iron dome weighing 8.9 million pounds, topped by a statue called Freedom Triumphant in War and Peace, rose 287 feet 5.5 inches above the soldiers. In his homeland, the imperial government buildings were built for rulers whose power stemmed from their heritage; Pulitzer now stood before an equally impressive edifice that celebrated democracy. Promptly at nine, the review began. Pulitzer's company fell in behind General Custer, whose men wore a "Custer tie": a red scarf thrown dramatically over the shoulder. The regiment marched in such tight formation, with horses lined from curb to curb, that the only things in Pulitzer's line of vision were the man and horse on each side and ahead of him. Years later, he would recall little "but how sore my knees became riding in close formation and pressed against the others in line." The procession moved past the north side of the Capitol and down the hill into Pennsylvania Avenue. On the hillside, hundreds of school-children were gathered, the girls wearing colorful ribbons and the boys sashes; they sang "The Battle Cry of Freedom." Ahead of the soldiers, for as far as they could see, men and women lined the avenue leading to the Executive Mansion. The crowds were orderly—liquor sales having been banned for two days—and cheered lustily. In front of the White House, a reviewing stand was festooned with flags and floral arrangements. There the new president, Andrew Johnson; generals Grant and Sherman; and cabinet members sat, rising to their feet as the various division commanders passed. It was not until three in the afternoon that the last battery of artillery rumbled past. The reviews over, Pulitzer's military career was at an end. The government wanted to quickly disband the hundreds of thousands of armed, uniformed men. While awaiting their turn to muster out, the members of Pulitzer's Lincoln Cavalry were kept on the move. At first they camped in the hills of Annandale, roughly ten miles south of Washington; then they were relocated to a busy encampment closer to the Potomac River. Rumors swept through the camp that they might be deployed south, this time to Mexico, to enforce the Monroe Doctrine against French troops fighting against Maximilian. The news was disconcerting to the soldiers, and particularly troubling for Pulitzer. His uncle Wilhelm Berger was serving under Maximilian. The rumor died, but the troop movements didn't. For several days they moved back and forth from one encampment to another, until at last they were instructed to begin surrendering their gear and horses. When Pulitzer's turn came, he had the horse but not all of the government-issued equipment. He was missing two saddle straps; one carbine socket, sling, cartridge box, and swivel; one currycomb; one saddle blanket; one bridle; a pair of spurs and straps; and his horse's feed bag. The items were part of the standard gear given to cavalrymen. The carbine socket, for example, was a small leather thimble-like device through which one slipped the barrel of a rifle so that the weapon would be held in place when worn on one's back while riding. The clerk described Pulitzer's loss of equipment as "by his own carelessness." It may have been. But it was very likely that Pulitzer, like other men, had found it profitable to sell his equipment or, in some cases, even use it in a wager. Pulitzer was docked $13.25. On June 5, 1865, he received his honorable discharge after completing about 270 days in uniform, less than three-quarters of his promised term of enrollment. For his service to the Union cause, Pulitzer pocketed $135.35. With money to spend, the troops celebrated at night, under a full moon, with bonfires, civilian food, and illicit alcohol. The soldiers knew that they were returning to a civilian workforce already suffering considerable unemployment. The men in Pulitzer's company, all with homes overseas, had to decide where to go in the United States. The choice was soon made for them. On June 26, the regiment marched to the railroad station to begin the trip back to New York. After a journey filled with delays, the troops reached New York two days later. Because of the tardy arrival the reception committee had dismissed a musical band of thirty pieces, as well as a cavalry escort. So the men marched up Broadway unaccompanied and unnoticed except by the odd pedestrian who recognized the regimental colors, battered and torn on the battlefield. At the Eighth Regiment Armory, on Twenty-Third Street, the men were seated at tables, which had been loaded with fruit and flowers the day before, and were served the dinner that had sat waiting for them. After they finished their meal, and the dignitaries concluded their welcoming speeches—not a word of which was understandable to Pulitzer—the men marched back down Broadway to the Battery and rode the John Romer out to Hart Island, where they had begun their military service. Peace had its risks. On July 7, Pulitzer joined legions of unemployed soldiers on the streets of New York. The economy could not accommodate all the veterans looking for work. Although many returned to their farms or prewar jobs as craftsmen or professionals, others, in particular foreign-born recruits, were looking for new situations. With few employable skills and still unable to speak English, Pulitzer had no luck in finding work. His money soon ran out. Bewildered, alone, and desperate, he turned homeward for help and wrote to his family for money. In the interim he continued to look—in vain—for work, wandering the streets of New York at day, and at night sleeping in doorways and any other place he could find. Frequently his bed was a bench in City Hall Park in front of French's Hotel and the newspaper buildings that lined Park Row. "Every pleasant night until I found employment," Pulitzer said, "I slept upon the bench, and my summons to breakfast was frequently the rap of a policeman's club." One day, as he sat on his bench, Pulitzer was approached by a man who asked if he wanted a job. What kind of job? asked Pulitzer. Three years' work, replied the stranger. Food and lodging were included. Pulitzer agreed to follow him. They went down a side street to a small, unkempt office whose reception room was crowded with men, most of whom were drunk. The office belonged to a shipping agency recruiting men to ship out on a whaling vessel. Unwilling to enter a maritime purgatory, Pulitzer declined and after some effort escaped the clutches of the recruiter, whom he called a "land shark." At last, the long-awaited money arrived from Pest. Pulitzer decided to leave New York and try his luck in St. Louis. The city's large German population was like a safe harbor, and its promise of jobs was drawing German-speaking immigrants like a beacon. Passage on an immigrant railcar, with its plain bench seats and communal cooking stoves, could be had for only a few dollars. Pulitzer paid the fare for what he hoped would be a fresh start at finding a place for himself in postwar America. Once again, he headed west. ## Chapter Three ## THE PROMISED LAND When Pulitzer got off from the train at the end of its journey, he found that too much water and too little money kept him from his destination. Though railroad construction had resumed with a vengeance since the end of the war, there was still no bridge spanning the Mississippi River when Pulitzer reached its eastern bank in the fall of 1865. The only way across to St. Louis was to pay the Wiggins Ferry Company, which held a monopoly on the busy cross-river traffic. But Pulitzer had not a cent left. "I was hungry, and I was shivering with cold," he said. "I had no dinner, no overcoat. The lights of St. Louis looked like a promised land to me." Through the darkness, Pulitzer spotted a ferry pulling into a slip on his side of the river. He edged his way to the gate and, as he neared it, he overheard a pair of deck hands conversing. Surprisingly, they were speaking in German. He called out to them. One walked over and struck up a conversation with him. Finally, Pulitzer asked if there was a way he could get across. The deck hand told him that a fireman had quit and offered to go and find out if the ferry company needed to hire a replacement. The deck hand returned in the company of the engineer, who asked Pulitzer if he could fire a boiler. "I said I could," Pulitzer recalled. "In my condition I was willing to say anything and do anything." They opened the gate and led Pulitzer to the boiler, which sat exposed on an open deck, gave him a shovel, and told him to start feeding coal to the fire. "I opened the fire box door and a blast of fiery hot air struck me in the face. At the same time a blast of cold driven rain struck me in the back. I was roasting in the front and freezing in the back." Long into the night, Pulitzer fed coal to the boiler. "I don't remember how many trips back and forth across the river I made that night, but the next day I went ashore and walked the streets of St. Louis." It was like coming home. The boats along the riverbank were tied up in the same fashion as the barges that clung to the Danube's shore a few blocks from his boyhood home. Walking past the throngs of steamboat hands, stevedores, levee rats, and river men in gaiters, Pulitzer reached Second Street, where signs directed traffic to eateries and inns such as the Brod- und Kuchenbäcker, the Eichenkranz, the Basel, and the Pfälzer Hof. Men and women greeted each other with "Guten Tag," and boys hawked newspapers published in German. "One who passed through this street could imagine himself transplanted to Germany," recalled one immigrant. St. Louis was already one of the most important and most rapidly growing cities of the West. Despite recurring floods, visitations of cholera, and a fire that destroyed much of the downtown, the fourteen-square-mile city had risen to become the eighth most populated city in the United States. The war was over; local leaders predicted a golden age for their river city. But rather than the promise of St. Louis, it was the pollution from the soft Illinois coal burned in homes and businesses that visitors first noticed. "The smoke," wrote Mark Twain, "used to bank itself in a dense billowy black canopy over the town, and hide the sky from view." Nor did visitors forget their first sip of St. Louis water. Drawn from the Mississippi River, the water served in restaurants and homes was thick and muddy. "My first impression at the table d'hôte was that everyone was drinking coffee in tumblers, and from its rich color I concluded that it must be very good," said one British traveler. "How great was my dismay, therefore, when I touched the glass, and found it icy cold. 'Iced coffee,' I thought; then I sipped a little, and in great disgust set it down. It was simply muddy water!" Despite its foul air and dirty water, St. Louis was a vibrant place, drawing hundreds of newcomers every week. Its streets teamed with a multitude of nationalities and races. The original French-flavored atmosphere had become a distant memory. Germans were in the ascendant. For Pulitzer, who spoke no English, the city was a utopia. He found work and accommodations on the south side of downtown in a ward that was two-thirds German. One could wander from one end to the other without hearing any language but German. Not only were the words familiar and comfortable to Pulitzer, but so were the street noises, smells, and tastes. During the day, when the sound of a beer keg being tapped at Tony Niederwiester's Valhalla or George Wolbrecht's Tivoli rang out, work would stop so that the workers could get a fresh glass. Between ten and noon, tavern keepers would offer workers lunches of rye bread, blood or summer sausage, salted dried herring, dill pickles, and gallons of lager beer, a new, lighter style of beer. Lager had grown so popular that commercial brewers had just achieved a national production record of 1 million barrels in a year. For the first several months after reaching St. Louis, Pulitzer worked at a variety of jobs. He tended mules for a short time at the Benton military barracks, which had served as an encampment for Union troops during the war. "Never in my life did I have a more trying task," said Pulitzer. "The man who has not cared for sixteen mules does not know what work and trouble are." Next, he landed work as a coachman for a well-to-do family. The family members were apparently impressed by their French- and German-speaking driver and referred to Pulitzer as their "educated coachy." In 1866 Pulitzer labored as a deck hand on a riverboat. During his evening breaks, he would sit behind a stove on board and read one of the city's many German newspapers. The boat's captain spoke to his wife in French, hoping to keep his communications from the ears of his deck hand. Pulitzer let him know he would have to use a language other than French or German if he did not want to be understood. Ironically, that could still include English. Despite Pulitzer's inability to speak much English, he continued to pick up jobs. He worked as a stevedore unloading bales and barrels from river steamers and as a day laborer in construction. He even tried working as a waiter at Tony Faust's Oyster House on Carlonet Avenue close to his rooms. "The trial period for proprietor, guests, and, last but not least, the novice waiter was very brief," one close friend remembered. "It came to a conclusion at the end of the second meal when a beefsteak, having been rejected in a rather impolite manner, found itself, after an exchange of words that quickly developed into personal affronts, dropped onto the head of the guest rather than onto his plate, thereby bringing an end as abrupt as it was drastic to the serving glory of the presenter." One time Pulitzer, along with about forty other men, responded to an advertisement promising high-paid jobs on a sugar plantation in Louisiana. The employment agent informed the men they would need to pay $5 each as a fee for transportation down the river. That night they boarded a steamer and headed downstream. At three in the morning, they were rousted and disembarked at a deserted spot some forty miles south of the city. Realizing they had been had, the men marched back to St. Louis together, with murderous intentions. Fortunately for the agent, he was nowhere to be found. The various jobs allowed Pulitzer to improve his English and get a toehold in St. Louis. As soon as he had set aside a little money, he paid his room and board for weeks ahead. "Thus I was secure," he said. "I did not have to worry and could look about for something better." Late in 1866, Pulitzer did find something better. The Deutsche Gesellschaft, the German Immigrant Aid Society in St. Louis, recommended him for an opening as a clerk. Many immigrants owed their first employment to this aid society. It had been created seven years earlier to provide job placement and other assistance to new German-speaking residents and was funded by established members of the German community who had not forgotten their own early struggles. In Pulitzer's case the German aid society had located an assistant clerk's job at Theo Strauss's lumberyard on Franklin Street, not far from where Pulitzer roomed. Upon meeting Pulitzer, Strauss and his family were impressed. "We found him to be bright and highly educated, speaking German and French without an accent and very good English," said Theo's son Adalbert Strauss. The younger Strauss and Pulitzer were about the same age. "I was drawn to him," said Strauss, "by his uniformly kind manner and great courtesy." When meeting Strauss's mother, Pulitzer would exclaim, "Ich küss die Hand gnädige Frau," a characteristically Viennese expression from courtly etiquette. Visiting Pulitzer in his room, Strauss also learned about his new friend's devotion to his own mother when Pulitzer showed the miniature portrait of his mother he had brought with him from Hungary. Strauss was also a witness to Pulitzer's strong will. One day, Pulitzer showed up at work late, explaining that he had hardly slept, on account of an aching molar. "When I asked him how he obtained relief," said Strauss, "he informed me that he had heated an eightpenny nail red hot in the flame of a gas burner and inserted it into the cavity." With the steady pay from his job at the lumberyard, Pulitzer began to explore his new home. He discovered the Mercantile Library, one of the city's gems. A vastly successful civic project, the library was created in 1846 as a stock corporation by a group of merchants who were inspired by the example of New York City's Mercantile Library. Young single men, these merchants reasoned, lived primarily in boardinghouses with no parlors in which to entertain themselves when they were not working. A library could offer lectures, concerts, and classes for "mutual improvement," then considered the path of social and economic elevation, a much better alternative to bars and other less virtuous haunts. Pulitzer paid the $2 initiation fee and $3 annual dues and signed his name in the members' ledger on July 18, 1866. He was one of 275 clerks who joined the library that year, many enticed by a discounted membership aimed at recruiting them. Housed in a three-story building at Fifth and Locust streets, the library held a large collection of books, carried newspapers from all over the country and abroad, and was open each day of the week from morning until late at night. Pulitzer spent every free moment he had at the Mercantile, often bringing a pair of apples for sustenance so as not to waste a moment leaving the library for a meal. In the elegant library's main room, he had his choice of 27,000 books stored behind glass on shelving extending to the ceiling, with a small catwalk to reach the higher shelves. Sitting at one of the eight-sided desks, above which rested busts of important writers from the past, Pulitzer applied himself to polishing his rudimentary English. He approached the task with marked diligence and persistence. For instance, to expand his vocabulary he studied synonyms for all the words he was learning—a habit he recalled later as "the wisest weakness I had as a youth in acquiring some deeper knowledge of the English language." The librarian, who lived in a chamber off the reading room, did not entirely approve of Pulitzer's quest to use the library to learn English, because he didn't confine himself solely to books. In fact, Pulitzer badgered members in hopes of persuading, or in some cases provoking, them into conversation. To the librarian Pulitzer seemed "just a noisy and unruly young man who ignored the posted signs commanding silence." His hours in the library paid off. Not only did he polish his English, but Pulitzer came into contact with lawyers, newspapermen, politicians, and other leading figures. One group of men, in particular, exerted considerable influence on the atmosphere of the library. A few months before Pulitzer joined, a dozen or so men had created the St. Louis Philosophical Society under the leadership of Henry C. Brockmeyer, a Prussian Jew who was said to be a "midwestern Thoreau." His moniker stemmed from an episode during the previous decade, when he had spent two years in a backwoods Missouri cabin studying the work of the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel with such intensity that he might have succumbed to fever and other sicknesses had he not been found by a schoolteacher who nursed him back to health at civilization's closest outpost, St. Louis. In no time this small clutch of would-be philosophers made its mark on the city's cultural landscape, and Hegel was the rage. At the library, spirited members frequently blocked traffic at the checkout desk while arguing a philosophical point. No young member of the city's German community with intellectual leanings remained free of its influence. When he wasn't studying, Pulitzer loved to spend time in a popular chess room off the reading room. Since childhood, he had loved chess, and in the Civil War he had sharpened his skill during his monotonous winter encampment. His play attracted attention. "When he played, everyone in the room hovered about his game and watched it closely," recalled one young boy. "The attraction, of course, was his superlative playing." Among the men who took an interest in the young, studious chess player were Emil Preetorius, one of the owners of the Westliche Post; and non-German professionals such as the lawyer William Patrick, who had an office in a building on Market Street, four blocks south of the library. Patrick soon gave Pulitzer some occasional work serving legal papers and running errands. Pulitzer quit his post at the Strauss lumberyard when he was passed over for the job of head bookkeeper. "The only thing that stood in his way," recalled Adalbert Strauss, "was his handwriting which was almost vertical, very large and heavy and at a distance looking a little like Chinese." After giving up his desk at the lumberyard, Pulitzer became a regular fixture in the Market Street office building, picking up whatever work he could find. "We inferred that he was not making much of a go as his exchequer was concerned and it was a struggle with him," said a teenager who worked in Jones & Sibley's drugstore, on the first floor of the building. By the spring of 1867, Pulitzer felt confident that his future lay in the United States. On March 6, he entered a St. Louis courtroom as a subject of the emperor of Austria and left as an American citizen. Once again, Pulitzer displayed no aversion to deceiving the government. As he had done when he inflated his age to join the Union military, Pulitzer lied about how long he had been in the United States now that he sought to become a citizen. Naturalization law required, among other things, that an applicant reside in the United States for a period of five years before being eligible for citizenship. Pulitzer had been in the country for less than three years. Eight days later, he returned to court and went before the clerk to complete the necessary paperwork, as well as take an oath, to become a notary public. This time, however, there was no need for any deception; the requirements were few. Pulitzer continued working at his mix of jobs connected with the law offices on Market Street. At one point he accepted the task of recording land deeds for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad in a dozen counties to the southwest of St. Louis where the railroad planned to build a line to Springfield, Missouri. Following his railroad work, Pulitzer accepted a position as secretary of the Deutsche Gesellschaft, which had provided him with his job at the lumberyard the previous year. Now it was his turn to locate work for new immigrants. His work at the library paid off. The new post required that he write letters in English. After a few months at the immigrant society, Pulitzer learned about a job opening at the Westliche Post. Many of the highly educated and literate German refugees from the 1848 revolution found work in the bourgeoning German press that served the 5 million to 6 million German immigrants with a cultural fondness for reading newspapers. The Westliche Post was owned by two of the city's most eminent Germans: Carl Schurz, the former Civil War general in whose cavalry Pulitzer had served, and Emil Preetorius, with whom Pulitzer had made friends in the Mercantile chess room. Under their management, the paper was one of the most widely circulated German-language publications in the United States. Prosperous and growing, the Westliche Post was casting about for a new reporter. For Pulitzer the timing was fortunate. Not only did Pulitzer know Preetorius, but in recent months the elder man, as president of the German Immigration Aid Society, had observed his diligence. Louis Willich, the paper's city editor, also knew Pulitzer. As secretary of the society, Pulitzer had frequently passed on information and stories from the most recent German immigrants arriving in St. Louis. Willich had been impressed with Pulitzer's news sense. He was offered the job. "I could not believe it," Pulitzer recalled. "I, the unknown, the luckless, almost a boy of the streets, selected for such a responsibility. It all seemed like a dream." Preetorius and Willich were not disappointed. It took Pulitzer no time to confirm they had made the right decision in taking a chance on the twenty-year-old. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for with raw, resolute effort. "His time for work seemed to be all the time," said Preetorius. "I never called on him at any hour that he did not immediately respond." It wasn't long, either, before Pulitzer caught the attention of his new colleagues. On a muggy, hot summer day a pack of reporters gathered behind the city's post office to badger an official for a story. "Suddenly," said one of the men, "there appeared among us the new reporter, of whom we had heard but not yet seen." He was hard to miss. Having rushed from the office, Pulitzer was without his collar and jacket but he did have his pad of paper in one hand and his pencil in the other. Within an instant, he informed the crowd of reporters that he was with the Westliche Post, as if this might impress them, and began to ask questions. "For a beginner he was exasperatingly inquisitive," said the reporter who recorded the moment. "He was so industrious, indeed, that he became a positive annoyance to others who felt less inclined to work." If Pulitzer believed his new job would be glamorous, or at least easier than the numerous jobs he had held so far, the delusion was quickly shattered. The working day never ended. There was only one other reporter on the paper, so the duty of finding and reporting all the local news rested on the two men. Also, Pulitzer was unwilling to put forward anything but his best effort. "We would get one of his stories into type," said the compositor who handset all the type, "and when Pulitzer got the proof read there would hardly be a word left as he wrote it in the first place." While Pulitzer honed his new craft that summer, his sixteen-year-old brother in Pest was preparing to join him in the United States. Albert's motivation was political, not pecuniary. His family-bred republican ardor, combined with a fanciful imagination, had led him to believe he could divest Europe of its emperors, kings, and other potentates. "Obviously, I said to myself, if I could do so wonderful a thing I should attain the very summit of human glory. But how could I accomplish so difficult, so gigantic, apparently almost so impossible a task?" He devised a plan to cross the Atlantic, rouse the American people, and return with an army to dethrone the sovereigns of Europe. Reaching the United States was an expensive undertaking. The Civil War was over, so there were no American benefactors willing to pay for the passage. Not surprisingly, Grandfather Mihály called Albert's idea a "ridiculous project" and refused to provide any financial support. "My poor mother, seeing that a refusal would not stop me, as I was too unalterably bent upon the realization of my scheme, cried a good deal, but finally yielded a reluctant consent," Albert said. Elize accompanied her son to Hamburg and purchased him a ticket on the Allemannia. Hanging a $20 gold piece around his neck, hidden in a tiny cotton bag under his shirt, she consigned the last of her two living children to America. Albert was ill prepared for the journey. He failed to bring any necessary items such as toiletries, towels, or bedding, and without a bowl, plate, or pan he had no way to eat the ship's meals. So he remained in his hammock deep in the ship, among the 600 others in steerage. "There I lay stupefied, benumbed, absolutely paralyzed from breathing this polluted, nauseating atmosphere," Albert said. Fortunately, several Italian women took pity on him and made sure he got sustenance. On July 20, 1867, Albert reached New York, but he was soon stranded by youth and inexperience. To ward off the July heat, he impetuously consumed flavored ices. "My $20.00 capital was melting away nearly as fast as the ice-cream which I enjoyed so hugely," he said. "Thus I was fain to obey the call of my elder and only surviving brother, Joseph." After a separation of three years, the two were reunited in St. Louis. Now, Albert stood as tall as Joseph, at more than six feet, and was very slender, but without his older brother's awkward angularity. That they were brothers was undeniable. They had the same thick curly hair, high forehead, and blue eyes, but Albert's face was more balanced, with a less pronounced nose. He was the handsomer of the pair. Although the reunion was warm, the practicalities of life rapidly took center stage. Albert needed a job and his own place to live. Joseph's small room was not intended for two. Each day Albert went out and tried to find work, even going from house to house. "My inquiries always resulted either in a negative reply or, what was still more hopeless, in no reply whatsoever," he said. Albert was not alone in his bad luck. The city was filled with job seekers. Joseph showed no sympathy. After all, he had found work when he came to St. Louis two years earlier. Each morning he asked if his brother had obtained a job yet. "This query being repeated daily, irritated, upset me," said Albert. "I became restless, peevish, fretful." One evening the pair got into a heated argument over Albert's inability to secure work. Joseph, as was his habit, vented his anger with an outburst of sarcasm. He flippantly said that if things were to go on as they were, Albert might as well make an end of it by shooting himself. "Excellent advice," replied Albert grabbing the revolver his brother kept in the room and putting the barrel to his mouth. "Not here!" yelled Joseph. No, thought Albert. "It would not do to have a coroner's inquest in this very room. I desisted." Albert redoubled his efforts but still had no luck. The two brothers continued to share Joseph's cramped room, and life was glum. Again, the issue came to a head. "If you do not desire me to stay here any longer, just say the word 'go' and I shall go," said Albert. "Go," replied Joseph, in a tone that sounded to Albert as "though he really did not mean for me to go but was curious to know whether I was plucky enough to carry out my own menace." So, in the dead of the night, Albert left. It was a gesture characteristic of the impulsive nature the two brothers shared, especially in decision making. Albert wandered aimlessly until he came to a park and a bench on which to sleep. "But my slumber did not last long." A policeman woke him and told him he could be arrested for sleeping on a bench. Albert spent the rest of the night dozing on and off, keeping watch for any approaching police officers. After spending yet another futile day searching for work, Albert returned for the night to his bench. At last, the next day he obtained a position as a door-to-door salesman for Die Gartenlaube, an immensely popular illustrated family newspaper featuring articles about culture, art, history, and science, as well as short stories, serialized novels, poetry, and puzzles. With his earnings, he secured a small room in a boardinghouse. Settled at last, Albert made learning English a priority. Before leaving Hungary he had engaged an inexpensive English tutor, one so inept that Albert remained clueless as to how the language was pronounced. In St. Louis, Albert took his brother's path and turned to the Mercantile Library. "My great delight used to be to haunt its precincts from morn till night," said Albert. "I was able to see all the English and American reviews, and familiarize myself with current English and American literature, even though I could not make much progress learning the pronunciation and idiomatic use of the language." For Joseph the Westliche Post became a gateway to the German community's leading politicians, lawyers, merchants, and writers. They came to the Chestnut Street newspaper building each day to discuss the news of the day or to plot election strategy with Preetorius and Schurz. The likelihood that Schurz would become a U.S. senator made the Westliche Post a mandatory stop for anyone of significance traveling through St. Louis. Often the daytime gatherings continued into the night at Preetorius's house, which Pulitzer also frequented. Preetorius's wife, Anna, took a liking to the young reporter and doted on him, especially as he often entertained her infant son. The world into which Pulitzer peeked seemed to be one with limitless possibilities. To be a newspaper editor was to do more than report on the world; it was to shape it. Pulitzer was comfortable in the cultured and political atmosphere of the paper, and during the evenings at Preetorius's house. He was unschooled, but not uneducated. Like his younger brother, he had been inculcated with a love of literature, music, and the arts; and his strong drive to learn made up for any lack of formal instruction. It was not long before the visitors took an interest in Pulitzer. "That young fellow clinches the future," said Brockmeyer, the principal mover behind the Hegelian St. Louis Philosophical Society. "They think because he trundles about with himself a big cob-nose, a whopper jaw, and bull-frog eyes that he has no sense; but I tell you, he possesses greater dialectical ability than all of them put together—I know it for I have felt it." Pulitzer attended a few of the study groups spawned by Brockmeyer's Philosophical Society. For many of the participants, it was as though they had found the key to the universe in Hegel. Their study created a kind of secret fraternity of understanding for every field of activity from music and art to history and politics. They saw the Civil War as an inevitable conflict of the Hegelian dialectic, playing out the inherent conflict of Southern rights and the Northern morality. Most significant of all, their belief that their city would emerge as the new center of postwar America helped spark a broader "St. Louis movement" that spread among citizens, giving rise to pamphlets, books, and even legislation calling for relocating the nation's capital to St. Louis. The philosophical society "took the character of a subtle pervasive influence, rather than an organized propaganda," said one member. "Its life pulsed in the small coteries which met usually in parlors or private rooms for the study of some special book or subject." But for Pulitzer, it was not the society's philosophical insights that changed his life. Rather, the society brought him Thomas Davidson, into whose orbit he would be drawn, first as a pupil, then as something more. A nomadic philosopher from Scotland, Davidson arrived in St. Louis in the fall of 1867, shortly after alighting in Boston where he had been welcomed by the transcendentalists. The superintendent of the St. Louis school system offered the twenty-seven-year-old Davidson a position teaching Latin and Greek, in hopes of making him part of the coterie of Hegelians. It worked. Shortly after arriving, Davidson was elected an associate of the St. Louis Philosophical Society. In contrast to the serious Hegelians, the broad-framed itinerant philosopher stood out from the crowd. Davidson's rural Scottish origins, red hair, bright blue eyes, and mellifluent voice with its almost musical cadence gave him a personal charm that caught the attention of many. He was ebullient, and his laugh was infectious. "Davidson's native mood was happy," said one close friend. "He took optimistic views of life and his own share in it. A sort of personal satisfaction radiated on his face." Even when posing formally for a photograph, Davidson looked as though concealing a smile was nearly impossible. The Scot's charms engendered idolatrous feelings among young men. "His capacity for friendship was seemingly boundless, drawing to him extremes of the most startling sort among men," according to one description published shortly after his death. Women were also attracted to Davidson because he was one of the few teachers who treated them as equal to males. But Davidson was unable to sustain a romantic relationship with a woman. He broke off an eight-year engagement to the only woman he found sexually appealing. "I am cursed with a nature that makes all real marriage impossible. When I am physically attracted to a woman I always despise her," he wrote. "When I love a woman spiritually, I am always repelled from her with fearful force, that is, physically." If Davidson was attracted sexually to men, he was not about to proclaim it. With almost no exception, men in his time did not reveal their homosexuality. On the other hand, wherever he went, Davidson left a trail of young men with broken hearts. In 1867, for instance, one young Englishman wrote to Davidson, now in the United States, "I will never forget how queer I felt about my heart when once at 'Jacques Lorgues' both seated on the same sofa, you put your arms round my neck and gazing fondly in my face, you pressed me into your loving arms and said: 'Oh! If I were a woman!!'...then you rested your head on my bosom. I felt as if you had been yourself my sweet-loving bride." Five years earlier, another young man had been even more direct about the loss of Davidson's companionship. "You were pure, beautiful, intelligent and good and around you the tendrils of adoration and love—the holiest and tenderest feelings of my heart became hopefully entwined," he wrote. "The thought that you might be my wife completely filled the measure of my hopes in this world." Davidson himself confessed considerable emotional turmoil over his attraction to men. "I am not loose or wicked in my behavior, but I am naturally endowed with fearfully strong passions so much so that I am often driven by them to the verge of committing suicide." Pulitzer fell under Davidson's spell. Over time, the two came to spend nights together in each other's quarters where, as Pulitzer lay on a bed, Davidson would expound upon the classics, literature, and philosophy. These nights filled an emotional void in Pulitzer, a youth stranded in a foreign land, his father dead and his mother married to another man. Sharing a bed was a rare gesture for Pulitzer. Intimacy—especially physical intimacy—was not easy for him. He was very ill at ease when he was around others and not fully clothed. "From his earliest days he slept alone," a longtime associate would later say, "save when he shared a bed with Professor Davidson, remarking after that this unwonted intimacy showed how much he thought of his learned friend." As when Davidson abandoned other young men, Pulitzer's deep passionate bond with him came to the surface in pained letters. "If Faust had been such a cold-blooded heartless chap as you are, Goethe and Mephisto would have had a much harder time indeed," a crestfallen Pulitzer wrote when Davidson left for Boston. "But I'll have my revenge even if I have to go all the way to Massachusetts to get it." Pulitzer promised to pardon Davidson if he wrote at least once a week while they were apart. Davidson ignored this request. Calling him a "villain," Pulitzer again unburdened himself. "What a fool your friend must be to cling to you still," he wrote. "But never fear, it is my mission as it is the mission of great men to reform and perseverance like your wisdom knows no limit. Whether you go to Massachusetts, or still further north as far even the north-pole I shall stick to you—stick to you until grim death. "Do you know what I have been guilty of? I have thought! Terrible isn't it? But worse still—I have thought of you! And worse and worse—I never had that familiar Grecian countenance framed in Scottish red in my mind's eye without another face close to it—softer still, prettier still, and fully as intelligent and gentle. I have that strange face before me now." Pulitzer vowed that in two weeks time he would come to Gloucester, and he closed the letter with "Yours forever." Ten days later, Pulitzer received a reply from Davidson. It was less than he hoped. "Tom!!!" Pulitzer wrote back. "The battles of Salamis, Sadaina or Ledars were nothing compared with the struggle that just closed in my breast." Pulitzer was looking for a signal to join Davidson in the East. There was none. Instead he chose to take a business trip to Denver. Had Davidson been more forthcoming, Pulitzer said, his decision might have been different. "Well, there is hope yet. I'll be back in less than fourteen days and, if upon my return, I find a less mysterious and more detailed epistle I'll go right on to Boston." In the end, however, Davidson remained in the East and Pulitzer in St. Louis. The philosopher had abandoned Pulitzer, as he had abandoned other young men everywhere he went. But in this case, Davidson left behind a pupil whose unschooled intelligence had been polished into a studied intellect. It had been an emotionally wrenching passage for Pulitzer. Except for the letters he would write to women he later courted, there is no other existing Pulitzer correspondence so wrought with feelings. His friendship with Davidson was the deepest that he would have with anyone else except his wife. For unlike Davidson, Pulitzer would marry and father children. ## Chapter Four ## POLITICS AND JOURNALISM Politics and journalism were two sides of the same coin when Pulitzer joined the staff of the Westliche Post. Out-of-work politicians became newspaper editors, and successful editors became elected politicians. Most newspapers remained financially tied to political patrons, and often their political origins were reflected in their names, such as the Missouri Republican and Missouri Democrat.* Even the few new independent newspapers made it an all-consuming task to cover politics. Politics was the lifeblood of journalism. "Every newspaper man, if not a politician, took an interest therein," said Pulitzer's friend Charles Johnson. By coming to work for the city's most widely circulated German newspaper, Pulitzer stepped into the world of Republican politics. Germans in St. Louis were ardent Republicans, a loyalty that grew from their devotion to abolition. Radical Republicans—those members of the party who favored more punitive Reconstruction measures, the destruction of Confederate sympathies, and protection of freed slaves—were in control of Missouri. They conducted politics as they had the war, with a kind of scorched earth approach. Opposing Radical rule was futile. The keystone of Republican dominance of Missouri was a punitive constitution adopted at the end of the war. During the early years of Reconstruction, Missouri Radicals went farther than those in any other state in creating a system of registration, tests, and oaths to keep former rebels and their sympathizers from the ballot box and civic life. Missourians could not vote, become teachers, lawyers, or even ministers without stating in writing that they had never favored or supported the Confederacy. Thousands were disenfranchised on the basis of a definition of disloyalty so vague as to include men whose distant cousins might have fought on the wrong side of the war. Republicans feared that they would lose their grip on power without the constitution's loyalty provisions. But though these provisions squelched Democratic opposition, a threat was growing from within the party. The more moderate members wanted to restore suffrage to all white voters and feared that the long-run interest of the party was in danger if the restrictions weren't lifted. Among the Germans, this wing was led by Preetorius and Schurz, who was settling in as copublisher of the paper. In the English-speaking community the movement was led by politicians such as Pulitzer's friend Johnson. Pulitzer fell in line like a foot soldier. Taking orders from Schurz provided him with an apprenticeship in American immigrant politics. In the three years he had been in St. Louis, Pulitzer had worked hard to develop friendships with men whom he perceived to be on a path to power or success. Now he was with one who had both. Remarkably, Schurz was also among the very first American political figures Pulitzer had learned about when he arrived in the United States. It was Schurz, after all, who had created the First Lincoln Cavalry, in which Pulitzer served. Schurz placed the Westliche Post and himself in the service of the 1868 Republican presidential campaign, using the newspaper to persuade Germans in St. Louis that General Ulysses Grant was their man—and using his oratorical skills to persuade Germans in other states. For Schurz, journalism was one weapon on the political battlefield. His speeches were another. None of this was lost on Pulitzer, who had now spent two years working at the paper. "He was my chief," said Pulitzer. "We often traveled together, yet in all that time I never saw him pass an idle moment, either in the office or on the road, or anywhere else." Pulitzer not only assumed the Republican faith of his boss but followed Schurz's model. "Pulitzer," said Johnson, "as soon as he was fairly in harness as a reporter, became active in politics." He joined his neighborhood's Republican organization; and by August 1868 he was rewarded for his efforts by being selected as the secretary of the Radical club of the Fifth Ward. Pulitzer's ambition did not go unnoticed. "There never seemed to be any doubt in his mind," said Preetorius, "that he would succeed in something." In November, with the election won, Missouri Republicans turned their attention to selecting their next U.S. senator. Even though Schurz had barely arrived in the state, he set his sights on winning the seat. Republicans in St. Louis, heavily German, were intent on regaining control of the party from Senator Charles Drake, whom they despised. The contest gave Pulitzer a front-row seat at a battle of Reconstruction politics. One of his friends, William M. Grosvenor, editor of the Missouri Democrat, was among a group of three leaders backing Schurz who also included Gratz Brown (a former U.S. senator) and Preetorius. They considered Schurz an ideal candidate for the Senate. He had no political battle scars from Missouri, and thus few enemies; he was a Republican whose support of the party went back to Lincoln's first presidential campaign; and he had the support of the considerable German population. A New Englander of uncommon talent, Grosvenor was a big, fleshy man with olive skin and a mane of hair, a bushy beard, and heavy eyebrows that gave him the fierce look of a lion. Although one worked for a German paper and the other for an English paper, Pulitzer and Grosvenor found they shared a reformist agenda. They both wanted to restore the vote to disenfranchised Democrats and compete openly in elections. They thought it was their job as journalists to bring this about. In early January 1869, Pulitzer accompanied Preetorius and Schurz to Jefferson City, the state capital, as the legislature met and prepared to select Missouri's next senator. Schurz told the Republican caucus what it wanted to hear, that he supported President Grant and the Fifteenth Amendment, giving black citizens the right to vote. But he added that the time had also come to lift voting restrictions on disenfranchised white citizens. The appeal triggered an attack from Drake, the architect of the plan to keep Democrats from the voting booth. Drake could hardly contain his temper, and he became especially provoked when Schurz continually interrupted his speech to take issue with his various accusations. Then Drake made a fatal mistake. He broadened his assault on Schurz to include all German immigrants and questioned their loyalty. His maneuver gave Schurz the opportunity he sought. He was merciless in his rebuttal. Declaring his pride in being German-born, he reminded the audience that he and other Germans had fought to save the Union and damned Drake for having wavered on the issue of slavery. It worked. The caucus voted for Schurz. "I had one of the greatest triumphs of my life last night," he told Preetorius. "Drake was completely crushed." Preetorius and Pulitzer rushed their own accounts of the triumph into print. Preetorius's was in the refined classical German most commonly found in the paper. Pulitzer's was sprinkled with rollicking humor, biting sarcasm, and double entendres, including one that alluded to menstruation with regard to Schurz's opponent. He invoked his favorite theme as a reporter: the press illuminates the dark recesses of government to which politicians retreat at decision-making time. "A great step forward was taken with yesterday's open caucus in the Hall of Representatives," Pulitzer wrote. "The battle for the Senate has been lifted from the basement of secret intrigues to the public forum. Initially revealed to the people by the press, now it will be sorted out verbally in front of everyone in the halls of the Capitol." It was sorted out. A few days later the legislature followed the caucus's lead and gave Schurz the job. Schurz's election altered life at the Westliche Post. Soon he had gone to Washington and was overwhelmed with political work. "I have hardly time to read the newspaper, let alone to write for it," Schurz wrote back from the capital. Normally Preetorius would have picked up more of the editorial responsibilities, but he was ill. So the management of the paper fell on the shoulders of its ill-equipped city editor, Louis Willich, a twenty-seven-year-old who had been in St. Louis for less time than Pulitzer and was hardly an expert on the city or its political topology. The vacuum at the top of the staff became an opportunity at the bottom for Pulitzer. His work soon became the mainstay of the paper. He wandered around St. Louis at all hours, visiting schools and public institutions, attending public meetings and ward meetings, knocking on doors of lawyers and politicians, and opening those doors that didn't yield to a knock. "His thirst for news was unquenchable," recalled a stenographer at the St. Louis Police Commission. The commissioners often met behind closed doors. "Not infrequently on those occasions the door would softly open, and a pale, spectacled face would intrude itself on the privacy of the session, with the inquiry 'any news?' followed by the roughest but good natured cry 'Get out of here!' and a hearty laugh at the persistency of the inquisitor." Pulitzer even took his door-opening to the state capital. One night a group of Democratic legislators were caucusing, and only reporters from Democratic newspapers had been permitted in the room. Suddenly the doors were thrown open, recalled another reporter, and "through the open casement calmly walked the correspondent of the Westliche Post. He stepped to the reporters' table without a word, placed a pad of paper before him, and took his seat without question or objection from the members." It wasn't long before just about every politician and reporter had caught a glimpse of this peripatetic member of the press. Pulitzer's appearance alone was conversation-worthy and was a source of much merriment among reporters. He wore buff-colored pants too short for his long legs, a coarse hickory shirt without a tie, and a soiled jacket. To complete his singular apparel with the required head covering, he made do with a chip hat of plaited split palm leaves, probably bought for 15 cents and held together with an ordinary piece of grocer's string. Reporters poked fun at him. "They laughed at his ungainly form, his primitive attire; they made sport of his nose, coupling it with his peculiar cognomen 'pull-it-sir' in a way that was calculated to drive a supersensitive person to distraction," recalled the police stenographer. Some called him "Joey the Jew." The more charitable ones gave him the moniker "Shakespeare" for his resemblance to the bard's profile. But Pull-it-sir ignored the taunting. "He pursued his course heedless of the rebuffs and coarse witticisms and they soon began to recognize his worth," recalled the stenographer. "It was then that he won their confidence and esteem." For good reason. Although Pulitzer cut a strange figure among the reporters, there was nothing lacking in the stories he churned out for the Westliche Post. In addition to writing an endless stream of local news, the bread and butter of the business, Pulitzer wrote pithy, cogent stories on St. Louis politics in an inimitable style that stood out from the more classical, restrained German used by Preetorius and others. "We all soon learned to appreciate and make the most of his extraordinary capacity for news gathering," admitted a reporter for the competing Republican. "He was an able reporter—trenchant with the pen," Johnson said, "fearless in attacking wrong or corruption, and at times bitter and acrimonious in his assaults." As Pulitzer mastered English, though he still spoke it with a heavy accent, he widened his social circle, and Johnson became one of his best friends outside the German community. The thirty-year-old Johnson, nine years Pulitzer's senior, liked reporters, having worked in the printing trade and published a small newspaper as a teenager. After serving a term as city attorney, he had been appointed state attorney for St. Louis in 1866. Although Johnson admired his young friend's aggressive reporting, others were less enthusiastic. It worried the city councilor Anthony Ittner, another man with whom Pulitzer made friends in the course of covering politics. Like Johnson, Ittner was about a decade older than Pulitzer. He had been in St. Louis since he was seven, had built up his bricklaying trade, and was now running his own brickyard. Ittner believed Pulitzer went too far in the tone of his articles and in his arguments with others, and that he was devoid of fear. "It was not an uncommon thing for him to use language in a heated controversy or dispute that went beyond the limit," Ittner said. "In fact, I cautioned him that he must become more conservative and forbearing for fear that he might someday meet a person like himself and then there would be trouble." In Pulitzer's eyes, the villain of his new world was the notoriously corrupt county government. St. Louis County was probably no worse a den of political iniquity than most burgeoning urban areas in the years following the Civil War. Here, as in other cities, businessmen, party leaders, politicians, and, in many cases, newspaper publishers developed a web of financially beneficial relationships. Businessmen obtained lucrative contracts, party leaders gained favors for their troops of loyal followers, and politicians won elected office and enhanced their earnings. Newspapers weren't exempt from wrongdoing, either. Publishers who favored those in power were awarded legal advertisements, printing contracts, and sometimes even cash payments. In the summer of 1869 the county government's excesses were all too visible during the construction of a new insane asylum. It was an irresistible topic for Pulitzer's caustic pen. Five stories tall, with a cupola, the asylum had been built at a cost of $700,000, nearly twice the original estimate. Everything about the project had the odor of corruption. For instance, when the construction firm that had been engaged to drill a well failed to strike water at a reasonable depth, it just continued merrily drilling down. The resulting hole, 3,850 feet deep, still without water, became the second-deepest shaft in the world and an object of local ridicule when Pulitzer dubbed it the "well of fools." Pulitzer tenaciously reported on each step of the county's handling of the project. One day he discovered that county politicians were going to erase a financial mistake made by some lawyers. During the construction of the asylum, these attorneys had acted as guarantors to a brick supplier. The supplier failed to deliver all the promised materials when he realized that he had bid too low for the job and would lose money. The lawyers, in their capacity as guarantors, were thus required to pay for the undelivered bricks. Pulitzer learned that the lawyers were seeking to have the county pay them for their loss. In a session where only four of the seven county judges were in attendance, the county court agreed. From the pages of the Westliche Post, Pulitzer lashed out at the judges. Using what had become one of his favorite reportorial techniques, he filled his copy with questions for his readers: "Do the citizens want to let this infamous County Court pull the wool over their eyes? Do they want to concede, with quiet acceptance of what transpired and indifferent behavior, that the County Court can do what it wants with public money? Has the Insane Asylum not cost them enough already?" Then Pulitzer changed from questioner to instructor. "We want the citizens to answer these questions for themselves, and we want those answers in the form of energetic action. It is high time that they make their position clear to the County Court and explain to them that they were not elected to squander communal money, still damp with the people's sweat, but rather to guard this with utmost providence!" Under this withering attack, the full court voted to revoke the payment. It was a triumph for Pulitzer. He magnanimously shared the credit for the victory with Preetorius, Ittner, and several others who had promised to file suit to stop the payment if the court had not reversed itself. Pulitzer warned that the victory was limited to this one issue. There was more to be gained. "The eternal waffling on important issues, the revoltingly frivolous handling of public money, the revocation thereof only hours prior: All of this leads to only one conclusion, that the current county judges are either totally incapable of representing the interest of their constituents and the county, or that something is very rotten here." Pulitzer demanded that the judges resign. It would be a miracle if this happened, he conceded. "How can the current situation best be changed? Hereupon we answer with the words that have appeared at the head of our local column numerous times in the past weeks: Down with the County Court!" In battling the county court, Pulitzer elevated his own reputation. Even though newspapers carried no bylines, most readers and politicians knew who was the author of the attacks. He had earlier earned the respect of his colleagues in the press for his persistence and perspicacity, and now he was being noticed by people outside the ranks of the fourth estate. "Pulitzer was fighting the most powerful and corrupt ring in St. Louis with money and patronage to back it," the lime merchant Theodore Welge said, "and could have had any amount of money in the shape of gifts or otherwise. He was without funds except for the small salary he drew as a reporter for the Westliche Post." In October 1869, Pulitzer became city editor when Willich left the paper. With control of the Westliche Post's news pages, Pulitzer intensified his assault on the county government. During the fall, he reported on other exorbitant payments to contractors, on the county's insistence on paying men to light the gas streetlights rather than using the new electric ignition systems, and on the shoddy brickwork at the jail. The county court faced a new and effective enemy. Despite the interminable hours at the paper and his work with the Republican organization in his ward, Pulitzer still found time to socialize and widen his circle of friends. "When first meeting JP one would find him to be rather distant and serious, bent only on his work," recalled a friend at the police department. "But when one got to know him one found he was genial and social." At the end of the day, Pulitzer could often be found at Fritz Roeslein's bookstore, a popular gathering place for bookish Germans. The books, however, were beyond Pulitzer's reach, with the little he earned. An errand boy who worked at Roeslein's remembered Pulitzer taking an interest in a dinner of homemade sausage and bread the boy's mother had packed. "Mr. J.P. saw me go after it, he asked me what it was, I then offered some and he helped me finish up." At night, Pulitzer retreated to 307 South Third Street, only a few short blocks from the newspaper. There he rented a small room in a boardinghouse run by an aging widow and her two daughters. It was a gloomy two-story building across the street from a bathhouse that gave the block a stench of sulfur. He was, however, in good company. His friend the poet Udo Brachvogel and an editor from the Anzeiger des Westens also took rooms there. The three of them often sat together, talking, late into the night. Joseph's brother Albert, however, was still a wandering soul. After his stint selling magazines door to door, Albert had taken a tutoring job on a German farm and had taught German in the St. Louis schools. In late spring of 1868, he walked into a wealthy neighborhood south of his brother's home and came across a group of boys sitting on the steps of one of the more handsome houses on the block. Albert asked a passerby whose house it was and learned that it belonged to Thomas Allen, president of the Iron Mountain Railway and a figure of considerable political influence in St. Louis. "In my desperate lonely position," Albert said, "I cast to the winds all timidity, boldly walked up to the doorstep." He asked if Allen was home. To his amazement he was led into the house. "I stammered out that I knew German and might teach the German language to those bright boys I had seen on the doorstep." Allen said the idea appealed to him but he and his family were leaving to spend the summer in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. "Though I did not have the faintest idea where Pittsfield might be, I, nothing daunted, intimated as well as I could in broken English that I would be delighted to wend my way Pittsfield-ward." It turned into an idyllic summer. Each day after concluding his tutoring lessons, Albert, armed with an English-German dictionary, worked his way through Charles Dickens's Pickwick Papers. When the group returned to St. Louis, he spoke a passable form of English. Back at the Mercantile Library, he had a fortunate encounter with a member of the Hegelians who had become superintendent of the public schools. The man had received an inquiry from a school in Leavenworth, Kansas, that was looking for a German teacher. The $100 monthly salary was a princely sum for an eighteen-year-old. But Albert was not successful at the job and was soon returned to St. Louis. Deciding he was not cut out for teaching, he set his sights on entering his brother's field. This new plan did not sit well with his older brother. Pointing out that Albert was never without a copy of Dickens or Shakespeare in his hands, Joseph instead suggested that a literary career would be more suitable. "Think, Albert, how proud our mother would be," he said. "You are too much of a dreamer ever to make any money for the family. Leave the commercial grind to me." Ignoring Joseph's advice, Albert headed to Chicago, where, he heard, the Illinois Staats-Zeitung was hiring. Astonishingly, without any newspaper training, he duplicated Joseph's luck at getting a job on the Westliche Post and landed a reporter's position at $10 a week. "The Staats-Zeitung, however, although printed in German, was an excellent school for me, since four-fifths of its new matter was drawn from English-speaking sources. I had perforce to know English first." The paper shared a building with the Chicago Evening Post, whose reporters gave him yet more opportunity to work on his English. "His object," recalled one reporter, "was to master the language so that he could take a writing position on an English paper, and he told me that when he felt sure of himself in this respect he should go to New York and begin there." In November 1869, advertisements appeared in the Westliche Post, and other newspapers, announcing a special election in the Fifth and Sixth districts of the General Assembly to fill seats emptied by resignations. Since one of the elections would take place in the ward where Pulitzer served as a Republican Party officer, he went to work hurriedly organizing the nominating meeting necessary to select a candidate. The Democrats held their gathering first, meeting in Uncle Joe Locke's Hall on the night of December 13, 1869. Pulitzer attended in his capacity as a reporter. It was a boisterous affair and several fights almost broke out before the Democrats settled on a candidate. The Republicans held their meeting the following evening in Turner's Hall. They had little hope of victory in the election. The ward had been solidly Democratic for the past twenty-five years. Nonetheless Pulitzer urged that Republicans turn out for the meeting. "No one," he wrote in the Westliche Post, "should be nominated who does not possess the absolute trust of a majority of the citizenry and can be considered their representative." Despite bad weather, a sufficient number of Republicans turned out that night to hold the nominating meeting. It quickly became clear, however, that the man they had hoped would run was not interested in the nomination. In the disarray one man moved that the ward secretary, Pulitzer, who was then out of the room, be declared the candidate. This motion was followed by one to close the nominations, and Pulitzer was selected unanimously. The hall reacted with applause, according to Republican press accounts—or with laughter if the Democratic reporters were to be believed. More commotion arose when Pulitzer reentered the hall, unaware of what had just occurred. The next morning, Pulitzer the reporter gave a third-person account of the reaction of Pulitzer the politician. "In a few, apparently heart-felt words that he spoke to the meeting, he explained that he in no way had sought out this office, that he did not believe himself worthy of the trust that his fellow citizens had placed in him with this nomination, but that if elected, it would be always his highest and only goal to reward this trust." The Democrat, doing its best to hold up the Republican Party banner, described Pulitzer as "well-known...a gentleman of character, considerable attainment, and decided and energetic" and one "who stands high in the estimation of the Germans in the ward" with "many friends among the Americans." The paper predicted an election victory. The wishful thinking suddenly became a possibility when the Democrats ran into candidate trouble. Their first choice declined the nomination. The party turned next to Stilson Hutchins, a Democratic friend of Pulitzer who was a newspaper editor, but he too turned it down. So with only four days left before the election, the Democrats settled on a tobacco dealer with no political experience. The stand-in candidate received a rapid political baptism when Pulitzer tarred him in the Westliche Post. "Who is this new candidate exactly?" wrote Pulitzer. "Few know, but they say that he is a bankrupt merchant, who had strong Rebel sympathies during the war." A day later Pulitzer charged that the Democrat was ineligible to be a candidate. "He is neither registered in the ward that he wishes to represent in the legislature, nor has he ever voted in that ward." In this attack, Pulitzer was playing with fire. He himself was constitutionally ineligible for the office. The minimum age to serve in the General Assembly was twenty-four. Pulitzer was not yet twenty-three. With three days remaining before the election, Pulitzer went to the registrar's office to sign a loyalty oath, as required by the Reconstruction constitution. In signing the oath, Pulitzer fulfilled a requirement for election, but he also engaged once again in dishonesty about his age. The same day, the Westliche Post published a letter of support for Pulitzer's candidacy signed by a "Soldier and Worker." It defended Pulitzer against what it called the "arrogant nose-turning and diplomatic shoulder-shrugging about the young age of the Radical candidate." His youth, it argued, was no fault of his own and would "dissipate with each passing day." The letter sounded suspiciously like the work of the candidate himself. Not a day had passed when Pulitzer did not use the pages of the paper to tout his candidacy. In humble prose, sounding rather like Dickens's Uriah Heep, Pulitzer wrote—in the third person—that he would have surrendered the nomination to a more seasoned candidate had one emerged. "It is therefore the unforbearable duty of Mr. Pulitzer to accept this unanimously imposed candidacy and see it through." He contrasted his attributes of watchfulness, tirelessness, and fearlessness with his opponent's supposed Confederate sympathies, rumored bankruptcy, and alleged ineligibility. The Radical ticket is "pure gold compared to the candidates of the Irish Democrats.... They say that they would vote for the Devil himself in order to defeat the candidates of the Germans," Pulitzer wrote on election eve. "What do our German friends have to say about that?" On election day snow and freezing rain poured down. Only a little more than 300 voters, less than one-fourth the usual turnout, managed to make their way to the two polling stations: the German Emigration Society, on the river side of the ward; and R. Eitman's Grocery Store, on the western side. The eastern portion of the ward, more densely German, cast 156 votes for Pulitzer and 66 for the Democrat. The margin for Pulitzer allowed him to overcome the Democrat's anemic victory in the more Irish side of the ward, which the Democratic Party took by a vote of 81 to 53. The final count of 209 to 147 gave Pulitzer the seat in the legislature. "We doubt that an election has ever taken place in our city under such unfavorable conditions and turned out as relatively satisfying," wrote journalist and legislator-elect Pulitzer in the next day's Westliche Post. The Radical victory in the Fifth Ward was important because the ward, though not a "fortress of local Democrats" and "Rebel elements" like the neighboring Sixth Ward, might still be considered a Democratic enclave, Pulitzer said. "Regardless the ward elected a Radical representative yesterday in place of its previous Democratic one. The majority of 62 that elected Mr. Pulitzer may seem small, but not when one takes into account that the total votes for both candidates in both precincts did not top 356." As if he were giving a victory night speech, Pulitzer continued his postelection analysis by thanking his colleagues. "The local press exhibited, with one single exception, such an honorable and collegial spirit with regard to Mr. Pulitzer's campaign, that it is a true pleasure to give voice to our grateful recognition." The one miscreant was the rival German newspaper Neue Anzeiger, which, according to Pulitzer, "deviated spitefully from the generous stance of the entire rest of the press." His sensitivity to the one sour note of public criticism revealed that it had not yet dawned on Pulitzer that he had crossed the Rubicon. In only five years he had grown from a bounty-hunting Hungarian teenager to an American lawmaker. He was now an elected politician. ## Chapter Five ## POLITICS AND GUNPOWDER Shortly after New Year's Day 1870, Pulitzer left St. Louis for the state capital, Jefferson City, and his new life as a legislator. It was a short, bucolic train ride along the meandering Missouri River, whose banks alternated between rich farmland and high overhanging cliffs. For those having political business in the capital, the trip was often gratis, as the Missouri Pacific Railroad gladly offered free passage to those who were in a position to return favors. In fact, it was a common practice for newspapermen, public officials, judges, politicians, and lawmakers to ride "deadhead," as it was called. Pulitzer, who was among the poorest lawmakers that year, opted instead to obtain a travel per diem from the state. The state capital, though not necessarily a backwater, was not a destination of choice for politicians from St. Louis and Kansas City. Many legislators remained unconvinced that this isolated former river trading post was a suitable spot for their deliberations; and when Pulitzer arrived, they were still introducing resolutions to move the state capital. The annual descent of lawmakers was about the only thing that disturbed the calm of Jefferson City. Bringing with them a carnival atmosphere, the legislators packed Schmidt's Hotel and caused its bartenders to stock extra supplies. Although Pulitzer would take his meals there, he avoided Schmidt's pricey rooms. Instead, he chose to room with his friend Anthony Ittner, who had also been elected as a state legislator. The pair obtained lodgings in a boardinghouse, nicknamed the "German Diet" because of the preponderance of German legislators who favored the place. On January 5, 1870, as the legislature opened for business, Pulitzer took his oath of office, swearing, for the second time in a month, to uphold the state's constitution but meanwhile violating its minimum age for service in the legislature. For one born in Europe, state legislatures were a marvel of American democracy beyond compare. Each state had its own semi-sovereign government with a legislature in session, on average, eighty-seven days a year. Almost every law of significance—criminal, social, or economic—was made by state legislatures. It would be another half century before the federal government would begin to assume its modern dominant role in governance. In Jefferson City, and in fourteen other state capitals that month, lawyers, doctors, farmers, merchants, businessmen, and even newspapermen gathered to make the laws of the land. It was exhilarating, and Pulitzer was eager to join in. On his first day, he offered two resolutions, one dealing with printing the governor's annual message in German, the other a routine measure for printing copies of the House rules for use by members. Pulitzer's fellow Radical Republicans controlled the legislature and had one of their own in the governor's seat. Having disenfranchised some 60,000 citizens with the loyalty oath, the Radicals were at the apex of their power. But political fissures were growing among the ranks of the party. Republican rule was an unnatural state of affairs in a state with strong and deep Democratic Party roots. As in other border states, Republicans had neither a popular base nor public support. Suffrage was the dominant and most divisive issue before the lawmakers. The governor urged them to ratify the Fifteenth Amendment, giving black American men the right to vote, and to similarly amend the state constitution. But he startled many in his own party by suggesting it was time to lift voting restrictions on Democrats. Although it was only a vague promise, it gave voice to a central issue facing Republicans. How much longer could they deny taxpaying, law-abiding white voters the franchise? Pulitzer, like a growing number of Republicans, felt that the party had to respond to constituents' demands if it wanted to take permanent root in the state. Five years after the end of the war, a considerable amount of reconciliation had already taken place in Missouri, and the hatred engendered by the conflict was greatly diminished. The animus toward former rebels seemed particularly hard to justify if former slaves were to be given the vote. The state's constitution, passed during the first years of Reconstruction, specified that the legislature would be constitutionally free to begin tampering with its onerous voting restrictions in 1871. But many Republicans were unwilling to wait. They feared entering the fall campaign with only a promise to do something about lifting the restrictions later. The growing consensus among the moderates was to submit to voters that fall a constitutional amendment which would enfranchise all adult males. From the start, Pulitzer was in the moderates' camp. On his first full day, he proposed a roll-call vote to help defeat a measure aimed at stemming a slight expansion of suffrage. There was no question in his mind that the right to vote must be given to all men, regardless of their participation in the war or the color of their skin. His faith in the expansion of suffrage was sustained by his sense of wonder at American politics, his absolute faith in democracy, and his youthful idealism. Unlike the veteran legislators, he had not considered the electoral math should the vote be restored to thousands of Democrats. He "is with us," a Democratic Party leader happily told his mostly disenfranchised colleagues in Pulitzer's Fifth Ward. On a Sunday evening in late January, Pulitzer boarded a train for Jefferson City after spending the weekend in St. Louis. As the train neared Hermann, a German river town about halfway to the capital, the track, probably weakened by the winter cold, broke in three places. The locomotive remained on the railway, but the express car and the sleeping car in the rear came uncoupled and rolled down the steep embankment leading to the river. The remaining cars, including the one in which Pulitzer rode, left the track but remained upright, although teetering and appearing as if they would follow the others down the hill. Pulitzer scrambled out with the other uninjured travelers and surveyed the scene. "Picture a large sleeping-car, in which at that moment was occupied by over 50 people (and for the most part undressed and sleeping)," Pulitzer said. "One must imagine this car, imagine it rolling down a 20-foot high railroad embankment with increasing momentum until a mighty tree obstructs its passage, the car's interior smashed into a thousand pieces, and the car rests on the ground, but not in its typical position, but rather vice versa, i.e. on its head, and one will have a rough idea of how the scene of the catastrophe looked." The immediate danger was fire. Pulitzer explored the overturned wagons and found their stoves, filled with glowing ambers, hanging from what was now the ceiling. As rescuers removed the more seriously injured passengers through the windows, several small fires broke out but were quickly extinguished. Most of the injuries were lacerations and broken bones, but one woman had a broken spine and later died. The passengers stayed the night at the scene of the accident while the wounded were tended to and the serviceable wagons were put back on the track. With the break of day, what remained of the train made its way to Jefferson City, arriving late Monday morning. The legislators who were on the train along with Pulitzer were all uninjured and joined their colleagues on the floor, where their ordeal soon become the topic of conversation. The new week marked the opening of the lobbying season. Railroad men, lawyers, county politicians, and businessmen flocked to the capital. These lobbyists were so numerous and so powerful they were called the "third house." One reporter from Kansas City, sitting at his desk on the floor, looked over the men who took the seats in the rear of the chamber. "These are the strange commingling," he wrote, "the Augean stables of legislation—the seething cesspool of legislative faith; men, good, bad, corrupt and designing schemers—dupes, plotters, diminutive Richelieus and Mazarins, and petty Woolseys, all after self." Pulitzer still regarded corruption in St. Louis County as the paramount issue. His tenure as a city and county reporter had made him a legislator on a mission. In assuming his new post, Pulitzer did not give up his old one as a reporter. In his singular position as both a legislator and a journalist, he used his reporting to advance his political work. In Pulitzer's eyes the lobbyists descending on the capital were an army of darkness. Calling them "courthouse corruption aristocrats," he wrote, "The train that arrived yesterday evening seems to have transported half of St. Louis here. One encounters faces everywhere that usually lurk about the Courthouse and Fourth Street." Among the arriving men, Pulitzer singled out Edward Augustine, a notorious contractor from St. Louis County. Pulitzer had first encountered Augustine, at least by reputation, during his first summer in St. Louis. The city was preparing for a predicted return of cholera, which had killed nearly one in ten of its residents seventeen years earlier. Most of the city's ponds had been drained as a precaution, but in Pulitzer's neighborhood many residents were concerned about a quarry filled with dirty, stagnant water. It was owned by Augustine and situated on the path Pulitzer took each day to work. City officials were at first unwilling to confront Augustine, who had deep political connections, but a public demonstration changed their minds. In the years since, Augustine had risen to become an important contractor in St. Louis, participating in building the county's scandalously expensive insane asylum. In fact, it was he who held the contract to dig the unproductive well that Pulitzer had named the "well of fools." Before boarding the train for Jefferson City, Augustine had stopped in at the office of the lime merchant Theodore Welge, who rented kilns from him. Augustine asked if Welge would accompany him to take a glass of beer at Lemps, one of the largest of thirty breweries in St. Louis. Augustine was fuming. As they downed their beers, he deplored Pulitzer's activities. He told his drinking companion that he was heading for Jefferson City "to insult and publicly spit in the face of Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, to force him to stop advocating a bill that takes away from him his valuable contract with the county." On the morning of January 26, as the courthouse crowd from St. Louis settled in at Schmidt's Hotel, Pulitzer dropped a legislative bombshell. He introduced a bill to abolish the existing St. Louis county court government. In the past, county pols had considered it a nuisance when the Westliche Post advocated the abolition of the county court, but now that its representative in Jefferson City was moving to convert editorial policy into public policy, it became a threat. The city-county relationship had long been contentious. As seven-eighths of the county's population resided in the city, its residents chafed at being under the rule of county politicians. After the Civil War, the struggle between the city and county was acerbated by a new revelation of corruption in the county government. Only two months before the legislature met, it had become public knowledge that six county officers were making $120,000 a year each from fee collections while, in comparison, the mayor of St. Louis was paid only $4,000. Specifically, Pulitzer's bill would require the county court to draw up new election districts and increase the number of judges elected from within the city. This would effectively put the city in charge of all county business. The new judges would be elected in early April, less than three months away; would be paid $1,000 a year; and would be barred from participating in any county contracts or selling anything to the county. All proceedings of the new county court as well as all its expenses and revenues would be published in the largest-circulation English and German newspapers. This last provision raised criticism that Pulitzer was seeking only to enrich his own paper with government advertising. Although Pulitzer's bill was offered as a program to "reorganize the County Court of St. Louis County," its true intent—killing the court's power—was clear to all observers. Pulitzer admitted as much. The bill, he said, "does not propose to allow the present court to exercise their functions up to the general election in November next, but will decapitate them beyond a remedy on the first Tuesday of April." His actions were front-page news in St. Louis. An hour after introducing his bill, Pulitzer was accosted by Augustine and a companion. They were furious. "They spoke of the bill in a highly agitated manner and began making highly insulting comments," said Pulitzer, who excused himself and took refuge in a closed-door meeting. The next morning, Pulitzer resumed his print warfare on the lobbyists by publishing their names. For some, like his friend Johnson, who was then district attorney and had official business in the capital, this was not a problem. But for those who were mounting a stealth campaign to preserve the county court and its privileges, the mere listing of their names was an accusation. Pulitzer's list also suggested guilt by association. For instance, he sandwiched Augustine's name between those of two notorious lobbyists. At the end of his list, Pulitzer displayed his characteristic cheekiness. "I would like to pose the question," he wrote, changing from German to English, "who pays the expenses? But since this could be misinterpreted by some of these gentlemen, who are genteel types, I prefer to leave this be and turn to a more interesting topic"—and here he abruptly ended his sentence, prompting the readers to look down to the title of the next section of his dispatch from the state capital: "Abolition of the County Court." That evening the St. Louis delegation met in the parlor of Schmidt's Hotel, a large room, about sixty by fifty feet. Around seven, a dozen or so men gathered, and then their ranks swelled as others came in from supper. Several German legislators were talking with Augustine about Pulitzer's article when the author himself arrived. Pulitzer asked what they were discussing. "You," they replied. Augustine then asked Pulitzer why he had published such charges, especially as he didn't know the facts. Not so, replied Pulitzer, claiming that he knew the "facts" very well. "Nothing but a pup could make such a statement, not knowing them to be facts," Augustine said. That phrase crossed the line. In the nineteenth-century code of honor, a reference to a "liar" or a "pup" could provoke a duel. In 1817, Senator Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri used the term "puppy" in reference to the attorney Charles Lucas, and the latter died in the ensuing duel. Pulitzer warned Augustine to be more cautious with his language, and Augustine responded by calling him a "damned liar." Pulitzer moved away and joined several friends. "Pulitzer, why didn't you knock that man down when he called you a damned liar?" asked one of them, who had overheard the exchange. "You must keep up the esprit du corps, man." "Oh, it's all about the County Court," replied Pulitzer, who then left. Back at the boardinghouse, Pulitzer flung open the door to his room and stormed in, startling Anthony Ittner, who had just returned from some late-afternoon bowling. Making straight for the lounge chair, Pulitzer removed his pistol from his suitcase and pocketed it, hiding his actions from his roommate. Ittner said he was heading back to the bowling lanes to retrieve a coat he had forgotten. "Hold on, Tony," Pulitzer said, "and I'll go with you." "That damned Augustine insulted me," Pulitzer told Ittner when they reached the street. "I am going back there to call him every bad name there is in the dictionary, I am going to call him a 'son-of-a-bitch.'" Ittner admonished him not to, reminding Pulitzer that he revered his own mother by carrying her likeness in his pocket watch. "Well, Tony," Pulitzer replied, "I think you are right and I will be governed by your advice, but I assure you I will call him every other bad name I can think of." The two then walked east. At the corner, Ittner took a right turn toward the bowling alley and Pulitzer went left toward the hotel. Heading down the hill to the hotel, Pulitzer encountered two newspapermen on their way to the telegraph office. Pulitzer told them that if they headed back to the hotel they would get a good item. "Thinking he was alluding to the meeting of the delegation," one of them said, "I told him we would be back in a few minutes." When Pulitzer reached the parlor of Schmidt's Hotel, Augustine was still there, talking with a county judge and another man. Pulitzer walked directly across the room, and angry words once again passed between the two men. "Mr. Augustine, just one word, and I hope that it will be the last word that I speak to you," Pulitzer said. "I would like to explain to you that I am no longer inclined to associate with you, and I also do not wish that you speak to me again. Should you, however, persist in insulting me, you will, despite your great physical advantage, find that you have come to the wrong man." "I want to tell you in clear and understandable English that you are a damned liar and a puppy," replied Augustine in a loud booming voice that all could hear. "You are a God-damned liar," Pulitzer snapped back. Words ceased. Augustine moved toward Pulitzer. Bulky and strong, with fists twice the size of an ordinary man's, Augustine had the edge in combat with his beanpole, bespectacled opponent. Pulitzer retreated. "Everyone who knows Augustine knows that one would be hard-pressed to find one man in 100,000 who is built like him," Pulitzer said. "As far as his physical strength is considered, he was ten times my better." When Pulitzer had completed about ten to twelve paces of his retreat, Augustine raised his fist. In his assailant's hands, Pulitzer thought he saw "a heavy, gleaming yellow instrument," that he presumed to be brass knuckles. Pulitzer withdrew his pistol and fired. Incredibly, the veteran cavalryman missed his massive target. As they struggled across the parlor, Pulitzer pulled the trigger again, but the barrel of the gun was deflected downward and the bullet only grazed Augustine in the right calf. Nevertheless, the wound in his leg enraged Augustine, who, like a speared bull, charged and pinned Pulitzer in the corner of the room. There he flung Pulitzer down. "I mashed his head against the case-board of the room, and tried to get the pistol out of his hand," Augustine said. Two men rushed over to separate them. When one tried to take the pistol away from Pulitzer, he would not loosen his grip. But when the other friend asked, Pulitzer surrendered the weapon. Having retrieved his coat from the bowling alley, Ittner was strolling slowly back to his room when he heard a small boy running and yelling that a man had shot another at the hotel. "The thought instantly struck me that this was the result of Pulitzer's controversy with Edward Augustine and that it was a pistol he had taken from his valise on entering our room so abruptly a short while ago," Ittner said. He rushed to the hotel, where he found his roommate surrounded by a crowd, nursing his head wound. As he drew near, Pulitzer looked up at him with a broad grin on his face and said, "Hello, Tony." "You've been playing the 'Devil,' Joe, haven't you?" Ittner asked. Ittner, who was also a friend of Augustine's, left Pulitzer's side and went to see the wounded man in his room upstairs. Augustine was surrounded by many friends and was being tended by a doctor, who was also a fellow legislator. "I found him sitting on the edge of his bed with his wounded leg resting on same, complacently smoking a cigar; the wound being in the calf of leg and not at all dangerous," Ittner said. The crowd in the hotel room was agitated. One legislator "went so far as to suggest taking the law in their own hands," he said, "as it seems that the officers of the law in this town are not disposed to protect citizens of the State from deadly assault with intent to kill." By the time Ittner returned to the parlor, Pulitzer had left and gone back to the boardinghouse. Ittner rushed to their room. When he arrived, a police officer was knocking on the door. The man asked Pulitzer to accompany him to the station. Ittner followed and posted a bail bond for his roommate. In the morning, Pulitzer appeared in city court, where he acted as his own attorney. He was fined for "breach of peace," a violation of the city's ordinances. Though Pulitzer was only a student of law, he knew he could later face more serious criminal charges, not to mention political consequences. When the House convened, an angry representative from St. Louis waited impatiently for the conclusion of the chaplain's prayer before rising and asking the Speaker to be recognized. "The disgraceful scenes which transpired at one of the principal hotels of this city last night," he said, "demand an impartial investigation into the causes and circumstances attending that lamentable occurrence." To accomplish this, he offered a resolution to create a three-member committee to investigate the shooting and report back to the House with a recommendation of action "to maintain the dignity of the House." As soon as he concluded reading his resolution, the floor of House erupted in yelling as defenders of Pulitzer and supporters of the county court demanded to be recognized. Another representative from St. Louis protested that an investigation was unnecessary. If members didn't think that existing criminal laws were sufficient for the safety of citizens, they should amend the laws, he said. An inquiry like the one proposed "was beneath the dignity of the House, and ought not be entertained for a moment." But if Pulitzer was guilty, argued another member, it would affect the dignity of the House. "I do not want to sit with a man who would go to his room and get his pistol and put it to my breast for a trivial offense." Luckily for Pulitzer, a sympathetic representative stemmed the pressure for an inquiry by raising the specter of the precedent such a step would set. "Should members by their actions here do this it would lead to the investigation of every member's behavior that takes place outside of the House," he said. "If it undertook such a course as this, the next thing would be that when a member goes to a wine party and does something that displeases somebody, the House will investigate that. Some member might happen to kiss a pretty girl, must the House investigate that?" Seizing the moment, Pulitzer's defenders immediately moved to table the resolution. A sufficient number agreed to forestall the creation of the committee and thus killed the plan. The subject of the debate, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen. Pulitzer was off settling the $11.50 fine for disturbing the peace. The St. Louis Times called it the "Cost of Prince Pulitzer's Pugnacity." The House probe may have been thwarted, but the interest of Pulitzer's colleagues in the press was undiminished. The correspondent for the Missouri Democrat called Pulitzer's act an "insane folly" and reported that "the feeling against Pulitzer was intense, and I remarked a universal indignation at the outrage from every German fellow-citizen, both in and out of the Legislature." The Kansas City Journal said, "The town has been all afire with a shooting affair" and "the St. Louis Delegation ran around and condemned Pulitzer in strong terms, except for Ittner and [William] Phelan." Accounts of the shooting even appeared in papers in major cities such as Chicago and New York. The clamor impelled Pulitzer, who was lying low, to use the Westliche Post to rebut his opponents, who were hoping this would end his nascent political career. "To the people!" he wrote. "It is with the same reluctance that I felt during the events of the very nearly tragic scene in the state capital, that I now reach for the quill, not to defend the role that I was forced to play in this affair, but only to offer a faithful description of the affair." He called Augustine "a man of honor," but added that he "had a tendency toward violence, knew that he often carried a revolver, but always carried so-called 'dumb knuckles' on him, which are at least an equally dangerous weapon." Pulitzer then offered an account of the fight that matched that of other witnesses except for his claim that he saw what he believed to be brass knuckles in Augustine's raised hand. Pulitzer offered "the holes that it left in my head" as his proof. "Thus, the people are presented with the facts of a case that is surely regretted by no one more than myself," Pulitzer concluded. "All I ask is that before a judgment is pronounced in this matter, that the opposing view be examined and considered. I call for each man to imagine himself for a moment thrust into a similar situation, and then ask himself if he will not cast the first stone."* The Cole County grand jury was not impressed by Pulitzer's public defense. "The grand jury of this town who are a very 'rambunctious' set at the best, are determined to find a bill against Mr. Pulitzer, charging him with assault with intent to kill," reported one newspaper. Indeed, after listening to testimony from Augustine and others, the grand jury returned an indictment against Pulitzer on a charge of felonious assault. He was arrested, and once again Ittner rescued him by pledging a $1,000 bail bond. His friends rallied, and Charles Johnson agreed to represent Pulitzer and immediately won a postponement of the trial. Pulitzer sheepishly returned to the floor of the House on February 4, a little more than a week after being the object of a potential expulsion vote. He cast a vote and left. But several days later, he was back in speaking form. Instead of addressing his colleagues' many questions about the shooting, Pulitzer chose to introduce a fairly routine bill to strengthen the qualifications necessary to be a director of the St. Louis public schools. This was not entirely out of character and reflected his growing understanding of the workings of the legislature. Pulitzer knew he had little to gain by mentioning the shooting, since that would give his critics another opportunity to comment on it. He was better prepared for being a lawmaker than other newcomers to the legislature after having spent time covering the previous session as a reporter. He showed parliamentary savvy unusual for a freshman legislator when a bill came up to erect a statue of General Nathan Lyon, who is credited with preventing St. Louis from falling into Confederate hands. The funding measure, which Pulitzer supported, was going down to defeat, but there was hope that it might win approval when more members were present. As the bill headed for defeat, Pulitzer changed his vote at the last minute. By being among those who voted "no," he retained the right under parliamentary procedure to call for the bill's reconsideration. He immediately exercised the right and persuaded the House to send the bill back to committee, where it could live for another chance at passage. Pulitzer's choice of an education measure on his first full day back was good politics. Although he himself had hardly ever seen the inside of a classroom, he knew from his contacts with the Hegelian philosophers and his friendship with Davidson that the public schools were highly valued by Germans in St. Louis. Any assault on schools was seen by Germans as an attack on their community. In early March a bill reached the floor that would require the city's school board to give $10 to each pupil attending a private school. If it was enacted, the school system would effectively be bankrupt. In battling the bill, Pulitzer found himself up against his old foes, including the doctor-legislator who had attended Augustine after the shooting. Pulitzer won, warding off what the press called "a death blow aimed at their public school system" and frustrating the county court crowd, who thought they had seen the last of him. A reinvigorated Pulitzer returned to ferreting out corruption. On March 8, he seized another chance to pursue his efforts. A Democrat from St. Francois rose on the floor to give public voice to a rumor that bribes were being used widely to gain passage of legislation. Though he did not specify the source or purposes of the payments, it was widely understood that he was speaking of railroad interests. The House opted to create a five-member committee with the power to issue subpoenas to investigate these claims. Pulitzer immediately moved that the committee's charge be expanded to include determining "whether any members of the House had been employed as an attorney in any case that was pending in this body, and, as such, received any compensation whatever." His alteration was accepted. The House voted to establish the committee, and Pulitzer was given one of five seats on it. The assignment was a plum for a freshman seeking publicity, but also a minefield because it would look at the behavior of more senior and more powerful legislators. Two days later, the committee reported its recommendation that a member be expelled from the House for accepting bribes. The legislative session ground onward, and Pulitzer knew that time was running out for his main objective—throwing out the county court in St. Louis. Since introducing his measure, Pulitzer had expanded on his original efforts to restructure the county government by writing a bill that would provide for the election, rather than the appointment, of the collector, assessor, and engineer in St. Louis County. On March 10, members of the St. Louis delegation met with Pulitzer in the Senate chambers to consider his proposal languishing in legislative limbo. For two hours, the men argued. Finally, the group put the plan to a vote. Pulitzer's bill survived by a one-vote margin. Next, opponents tried to water down the bill. Again, he survived the attack by one vote. Seeking to broaden support, Pulitzer's supporters persuaded him to amend the proposal slightly by delaying the election for the new county court to the fall. Next they decided to rush the new version of the bill through the Senate and prepare for a fight in the House, where the county's strongest defenders lay in waiting. The plan almost worked. A week later, Ittner brought the moderated version up for consideration in the House. Together, he and Pulitzer argued strenuously for the bill, claiming that it would eliminate the scandalous fee-based salaries and clean up the corrupt county government, even once again bringing up the court's extravagance on Augustine's "well of fools." But it was to no avail. Though the final tally was 56 to 36 in favor of the bill, the rules required a majority of the entire House, not just those present. Pulitzer's measure fell 23 votes short. As the first day of spring approached, the session's end neared. The weather hardly seemed springlike. Late winter snow and deep cold gripped Jefferson City, and, to his misfortune, Pulitzer, along with his roommate, fell prey to a gang of coat thieves who swept through the capital, raiding the rooms of legislators careless enough to leave their doors unlocked. Pulitzer and Ittner were thus among three legislators who "made their appearance shivering" on March 12, "one of the coldest and dreariest of the session." On March 24 the session drew to a close. The train to St. Louis carried back to the city a very different man from the one who had arrived in the state capital that winter. Although none of his bills had become law, and although the county court retained the upper hand, Pulitzer's legislative efforts had turned him into a well-known figure, made him new political allies, and placed him in an emerging Liberal Republican movement poised to take center stage. ## Chapter Six ## LEFT BEHIND In March 1870, when the lawmakers went back to their farms, law offices, or places of business, Pulitzer returned to the Westliche Post. But instead of being merely a reporter covering political ward meetings, he was now a player in Missouri politics. No longer was the Westliche Post identified solely as the paper belonging to Schurz and Preetorius; it was now also the newspaper where Pulitzer worked. The shooting of Augustine had given Pulitzer considerable notoriety, which in his quixotic struggle against the county court was not necessarily a bad thing. But it also created a serious legal problem. After all, he had shot someone, perhaps with the intent to kill. So far, thanks to the legal skills of his friend Johnson, the day of reckoning had been postponed. But at some point, Pulitzer would have to face a trial. The prospect of mounting a decent legal defense improved. Theodore Welge, the lime merchant who did business with Augustine, decided to come forward. Although he considered himself a friend of Augustine's, Welge admired Pulitzer for his efforts against political corruption. "I made up my mind, come what will, that I would call on Mr. Pulitzer and tell him what Augustine told me he was going up to Jefferson City for," Welge said. So he made his way to Pulitzer's boardinghouse on Third Street. At first, the landlady informed Welge that Pulitzer could not be disturbed. "I told her to go back and say to him, that a party wanted to tell him important news probably greatly affecting his future." A few moments later, Welge was admitted to Pulitzer's room. "When I told him about the talk I had with Augustine, he stood up in a white night shirt looking like a ghost," said Welge. "I told him I was ready at any time to go to Jefferson City to testify without any summons." Pulitzer hugged his surprise visitor and repeatedly thanked him for coming. The trial was still months away, and so was the fall political season. In the interim, Pulitzer returned to Hungary for the first time since he had left six years earlier. To obtain a U.S. passport, he once again lied about his age, moving his birth back two years to conform to his previous deceptions. With the $410 that he had earned for his service in the legislative session, he booked passage out of New York on the Allemannia, the same ship that had brought Albert to the United States, and sailed to Europe on May 24. Pulitzer's return to his native land was a heady experience. The penniless teenager who had left in 1864 came back to his family and friends as a twenty-three-year-old American lawmaker with money in his pocket. He used his status to open new doors—calling, for instance, on the mayor of Buda, Ferenc Házmán, who, after years of work, was nearing his goal of uniting Buda and Pest into one city. By mid-July, Pulitzer was back in Missouri and deep in electoral politics. On August 25, 1870, he ran the Fifth Ward Republican meeting at Wolbrecht's Tivoli Concert Hall and was selected as one of the delegates for the coming state convention. There was trouble brewing for the Republican governor, Joseph McClurg. At Pulitzer's meeting, the delegates decided not to support McClurg's renomination as governor. In fact, it was a bad night throughout St. Louis for the incumbent governor. When all the ward meetings had concluded their business, McClurg won no support whatsoever. Instead, all of St. Louis's delegates lined up behind the reformist B. Gratz Brown. A former U.S. senator and Free Soil Democrat who had worked to end his party's pro-slavery position, Brown was winning favor with Republicans who wanted to restore the vote to former rebels. Pulitzer and his friend William Grosvenor, who edited the Missouri Democrat, threw their lot in with Brown. Pulitzer's German readers were already on board, but Grosvenor's editorials in favor of Brown emboldened moderate English-speaking Republicans who were growing weary of their party's extremism, which for many appeared to be sustained by hate. In addition, the clamor for reforming the civil service and the tariff was gaining strength among moderate Republicans, who had an economic interest in a growing economy as well as efficient, honest urban governments. Radicals were quick to perceive the danger posed by these "Liberal Republicans." They were called heretics, and party operatives warned President Grant that he would have to put down this Missouri rebellion politically, just as he had ended the Southern rebellion militarily. Five days following the city ward meetings, Pulitzer, Senator Schurz, and Grosvenor went to Jefferson City for the Republican state convention. At the capitol, more than 700 delegates crowded into the House chamber, which was regularly used by other groups when the legislature was not in session, and even for religious services on Sundays. This, however, was no church meeting. Within twenty-four hours the Liberals mounted their attack and turned McClurg's hoped-for political coronation into chaos. The initial confrontations developed when a resolution came to the floor supporting the suffrage amendments on the fall ballot that would immediately remove all voting disqualifications. Seeking to avoid an immediate, divisive vote, the resolutions were referred to the resolutions committee chaired by Schurz. The committee, by a slim majority, returned to the hall with an endorsement of the proposal. "Upon this question," proclaimed Schurz, "we cannot yield." The delegates, however, yielded and defeated the motion on a vote of 439 to 342. One of the Liberal delegates, yelling as loudly as he could over the noise of agitated delegates, called for those who had voted for the majority report to withdraw to the Senate chambers. Schurz, Grosvenor, and Pulitzer led the exodus. Once resettled on the other side of the capitol, the rebellious Republicans made Schurz chairman and proceeded immediately to nominate a ticket, with Gratz Brown at its head, and draft a platform. Written by Grosvenor, it contained the text of the defeated majority resolution and other planks of the Liberal cause. Before adjourning, the renegade assembly appointed Pulitzer secretary to the state executive committee. The rebellion had made a team of the beefy Grosvenor and the ectomorphic Pulitzer. Meanwhile, in the House chamber, the Radicals renominated McClurg and adjourned. The news of the bolt reached all parts of the country. "The Republican Party of Missouri has split in twain on the question of enfranchising the ex-rebels," reported the Chicago Tribune. "The Missouri Radicals are in trouble," proclaimed the Mountain Democrat in Placerville, California. The split between Liberal and Radical Republicans was far more than a debate over who should be able to vote and when. It was the beginning of a fight over the soul of the Republican Party. Liberals believed that the Radicals' opposition to restoring the vote and the corruption surrounding Grant were a betrayal of the party's ideals. For Pulitzer, Grant was Pope Leo X and the corruption scandals were the church indulgences that drove Martin Luther to pin his ninety-five theses on the church door in Wittenberg. It was a matter of political faith, not politics. With the conventions done, Pulitzer and Grosvenor returned to St. Louis to prepare for the fall electoral battle. Pulitzer threw himself into the fray. He bore all the grunt work of the Liberals' executive committee while continuing his work at the Westliche Post. On September 20, he single-handedly ran the Republican First Congressional District meeting in Turner Hall, which was filled almost entirely with Liberal Republicans. He chaired the resolutions committee, read aloud the Liberal Republican platform, obtained approval for it, and shepherded the congressional nomination to his friend Johnson, who was home ill. As exciting as it was to be at the center of a political rebellion, Pulitzer had his own reelection ahead. On October 18, he was renominated without opposition. But Radical Republicans were intent on punishing Liberal Republicans and mounted behind-the-scenes efforts to enlist new black voters, who were not eager to enfranchise former slave masters. "On the McClurg ticket," wrote Pulitzer, "the Germans are distinguished by—their absence. Of course! McClurg and Co. are depending on Negroes to carry their cause, and obviously do not expect to receive a single German vote." On their side, the Liberals counted on Democrats, many more of whom could come to the polls in 1870 because the state had eased its strict enforcement of the loyalty oath. Brown was a former Democrat, and the Democrats had no one of their party on the top of the ticket to support. But in other races, such as those for the legislature, the Democrats were fielding candidates. A high turnout among Democrats might elect Pulitzer's gubernatorial candidate but would be bad news for his own reelection. Grosvenor did his best at the Missouri Democrat to push Pulitzer's candidacy. "He makes mistakes at times, and is sometimes misinformed," he told the readers, "but the people appreciate a man who never fears to say what he thinks, and never yields to compromise of principle, and so, while he makes some enemies, he makes more friends." But Grosvenor knew that Pulitzer was in trouble. On November 3, Liberal Republicans of St. Louis gathered for a torchlight procession and rally in a large public market. Pulitzer, Anthony Ittner, and Preetorius, of the Westliche Post, were among the speakers. Later, Pulitzer went to the courthouse and signed another loyalty oath to ensure his legality as a candidate. In doing so, he once again betrayed the oath he took. Constitutionally he still remained too young to serve in the legislature. All the rhetoric, charges, countercharges, campaigning, and torchlight parades came to an end on November 8, 1870, Election Day. Brown's victory was expected, but for Pulitzer the picture looked gloomy. "In the Fifth district Mr. Pulitzer, the Liberal Republican candidate, has the opposition of the county court and court-house ring against him, on account of his opposition to their schemes in the last legislature," reported the morning's edition of the Missouri Republican. "Mr. Bell is confident of being elected by a two hundred majority." In the morning, the extent of Brown's victory astonished everyone. He carried the state by a huge margin. Liberal Republicans were ecstatic. The election of their man as governor and the 88 percent vote they garnered for the amendments were a rebuke to Radicalism and, in particular, to the Grant administration. It was "the most remarkable political revolution of the age," said the New York Journal of Commerce. "Let men look to Missouri if they would learn how the political revolution of the future is to be brought about." In Pulitzer's ward, for instance, Brown swamped McClurg by a three-to-one margin. But in Pulitzer's camp, the mood was somber. The high turnout among Democrats that propelled Brown to victory spelled trouble. Pulitzer's Democratic opponent won 991 votes to Pulitzer's 673. The vote was a complete reversal of Pulitzer's victory the prior year. Writing in the Westliche Post the following day, Pulitzer blamed his loss on 250 Negroes and 60 Frenchmen: "In general, the Negroes and the white McClurgites voted according to the maxim, better to see Democrats elected than the Liberals." The electoral truth of the matter was simple. Pulitzer had won in 1869 because the unusual political configurations had favored him. The continued legal suppression of Democratic voters, the party's ineptitude in selecting a candidate, and the traditional low voter turnout for a special election hampered by bad weather had produced Pulitzer's winning margin. A year later, with Democrats returning to the polls in large numbers, Pulitzer as a Republican—even a Liberal Republican—was doomed. Pulitzer's friend Joseph Keppler, the cartoonist, rendered a graphic interpretation of the loss. In a cartoon captioned "Too heavy a load," Keppler drew Pulitzer and two other losing politicians on a wooden platform supported by Brown, Schurz, and Grosvenor. Brown is bending down, unable to bear the weight, and Pulitzer is falling off. The revolution in which Pulitzer had played an important role had been won, but it had left him behind. Out of office but not out of work, Pulitzer returned to Jefferson City in the second week of January 1871 to cover Gratz Brown's inauguration for the Westliche Post. Instead of taking a seat as a lawmaker, he watched as a reporter when Brown was escorted to the Speaker's dais in the house chamber. "We have arrived at the close of a revolution," Brown told the hundreds who crowded the hall. "The lingering animosities of Civil War have been supplanted by an accepted reconciliation on all sides." Not quite. Schurz and Grosvenor were complaining that Democrats were gaining the upper hand and that the governor, a onetime Democrat, was being excessively friendly to his former party. As far as they could see, too many jobs in the state government were going to Democrats. Pulitzer did not share his partners' intense hostility toward Democrats. While it was certainly true that he had lost his reelection bid to a Democrat, Pulitzer recognized that the seat he had briefly held traditionally belonged to Democrats. As a newcomer to politics, he was relatively free of the war-related party animosity, unlike Grosvenor and Schurz, who were twelve and eighteen years his senior, respectively. Democrats were among his closest friends. For instance, both Charles Johnson, who was defending him in court, and Stilson Hutchins, a newspaperman, were supporting the Liberal Republican movement. To Pulitzer, it made little sense to think of Democrats as the enemy. Any concern about looming political fratricide was soon forgotten because Brown, Schurz, and Grosvenor all had a common enemy—Grant. Besides, a more serious blow to Liberal Republicans' harmony now came from the owners of the Missouri Democrat. For mysterious and suspicious reasons, they had fallen back into the ranks of Grant Republicans and fired Grosvenor. "Much as I had been warned that they would go back and throw me overboard as a journalist," Grosvenor wrote to Schurz, "I did not believe they would dare to do either, or be mean enough to do the latter." In 1870, the loss of the Missouri Democrat would have been fatal to the cause. But in 1871, editors such as Horace White at the Chicago Tribune, Samuel Bowles at the Springfield Republican, Murat Halstead at the Cincinnati Commercial, and Henry Watterson at the Louisville Courier-Journal were spreading the gospel. The growing movement thrilled Pulitzer, but he had a more mundane concern. The previous year, he had boosted his income considerably with his service in the state legislature. The election opened a fountain-head of patronage posts and Pulitzer sought one in the legislature. State Senator Louis Benecke, a Democrat who had worked with Pulitzer in the fall campaign, hired Pulitzer as a clerk for the committee on banks and corporations, which he chaired. For a second year in a row, Pulitzer spent the winter months in the capital. When the legislative session ended in March 1871, Pulitzer returned full-time to St. Louis and his work at the Westliche Post. The presidential election was still more than a year away, yet the excitement generated by Missouri's Republican rebellion infected Pulitzer's friends, most of whom were working for the cause. Optimism ran high. "And why may not the campaign of 1870 in Missouri, be reenacted in the nation?" asked Brown. Since being fired from the Missouri Democrat, Grosvenor was spending all his time directing the affairs of the ad hoc Liberal Republican organization. Schurz, though still holding out hope of taking back the party from Grant stalwarts, was increasingly identified in the national press as the movement's leader. And Preetorius was overseeing a barrage of editorials intended to rally Germans to the cause. Working at the Westliche Post put Pulitzer at the center of this growing political movement, though in the shadows of its better-known leaders. But that too was changing. A few months later, when the magazine Every Saturday commissioned the artist Alfred Waudran to produce a full page of engravings featuring the faces of about four dozen "of the foremost St. Louisans," he included, along with his depictions of Schurz, Hutchins, and Grosvenor, one of Pulitzer. A profile view accenting Pulitzer's protruding chin and nose, the drawing shows a clean-shaven Pulitzer sporting small wire-rim glasses. As the summer and fall of 1871 passed, Pulitzer divided his days between working for the Westliche Post and promoting the Liberal Republican cause with Grosvenor. The Radicals, eager to extinguish the Liberal Republican committee, set a trap. They invited all Republican leaders to an October meeting in St. Louis in order to issue a joint call for a state convention in January. Members of the State Republican Committee voted to accept the call, but Pulitzer and Grosvenor worked to organize a "no" vote by the Liberals. Accusations immediately flew that the two were violating party rules by using proxies wrongly. "Under the ill-famed leadership of Joe Pulitzer and Bill Grosvenor, Liberals bolted from that resolution, and filled up its deficit by proxies of very dubious authority," reported the Missouri Staats-Zeitung. Pulitzer's patron, State Senator Benecke, offered advice on countering the charge. "I desire to inform you," Benecke wrote to Pulitzer on October 26, "that the various lies reported in the Missouri Democrat in reference to yourself and the action of the Committee should be 'nailed' which could easily be done by publishing the whole proceedings of our Committee." Pulitzer, as well as Grosvenor, left the complaints unanswered. It was becoming increasingly clear that the Liberal Republicans now had the upper hand. If Pulitzer wanted to serve the cause in the presidential battle of 1872, he would need another, more substantial, patronage job. But to earn a gubernatorial political appointment he would have to overcome a major hurdle. Still hanging over him was an indictment in Cole County for felonious assault, stemming from his having grazed Augustine's leg with a bullet. The lobbyist had recovered from his wounds, but the political damage to Pulitzer lingered. Charles Johnson came to Pulitzer's rescue. Since the shooting, he had acted as Pulitzer's pro bono counsel. So far, each time a court date neared, Johnson had obtained a delay, often so close to the appointed time that Augustine and other witnesses had already made the trek to Jefferson City in anticipation of their day in court. By fall of 1871, delay was no longer an option. On November 20, Pulitzer stood before a Cole County judge. By his side stood Johnson, who as circuit attorney for St. Louis prosecuted criminals in his city for the state. Also appearing for Pulitzer was Britton A. Hill, a 300-pound St. Louis attorney with a reputation for coarseness and bluntness. One suspects that the prosecutor of bucolic Cole County didn't stand a chance against these big-city heavy hitters and might have been glad to be rid of the case. The charge was rapidly settled with a modest fine. In all, aside from the embarrassment, the Augustine affair cost Pulitzer approximately $400 in court costs, travel, and other expenses. It was money that he did not have. Johnson borrowed it from Pulitzer's friends. When Pulitzer became wealthy years later, he wrote to Johnson and settled his debts with the lenders who had come to his aid. Freed from this legal encumbrance, Pulitzer was now eligible for a patronage post if Governor Brown was willing to grant one. There was good reason to believe he was. Brown was increasingly convinced that he could be the Liberal Republican candidate for president in 1872, and Pulitzer had been a good foot soldier since 1870. Again, Johnson took on Pulitzer's cause. A seat on the St. Louis Police Commission was about to open up as the result of a resignation. It required very few hours of work and paid $1,000 a year, at a time when the average skilled worker earned less than $600 a year working six days a week. On January 12, 1872, Johnson met with the governor and was assured that he would appoint Pulitzer to serve out the unexpired term. Returning to St. Louis, Johnson told Pulitzer the news. But when, several days later, the nomination was sent to the state senate, Pulitzer developed cold feet. Johnson went to see him and was surprised by his reaction. "He is one of the most unreasonable men I ever knew withal," Johnson wrote in his diary. "He is really foolish." All day, Pulitzer remained obstinate. After meeting with Johnson one last time, he left the distinct impression that he would not take the job. Apparently Pulitzer feared that he would be trading one job for another, that by accepting Brown's nomination he would lose his job with the paper. If so, his fear was not without merit. Earlier that week, when Johnson stopped in at the Westliche Post, Preetorius had suggested that Pulitzer might have to leave the paper if he became a police commissioner. In the end, Pulitzer's reluctance disappeared as quickly as it had developed. He accepted the nomination and kept his job at the paper. The conservative Anzeiger des Westens railed against the appointment: the job of police commissioner required tact, dignity, and other qualities of a virtuous character, "and you will not find any of them in Pulitzer. He is undoubtedly a clever political runner. Maybe the governor fancies that in the next nomination for President the new Police Commissioner will be of good service. All of this is possible; but as Police Commissioner, Mr. Pulitzer will remain a caricature—a most ridiculous farce." The Irish newspaper The Western Celt also damned the selection: "A more infamous prostitution of the gubernatorial power it would be difficult to imagine." The grumbling by the press mattered little. The nomination moved to a vote. During the debate it was asked if Pulitzer was not the member of the House who "did a little shooting up here two years ago?" It was confirmed that he was, indeed, the man, but the senate was in a forgiving mood and approved the nomination. ## Chapter Seven ## POLITICS AND REBELLION In late January 1872, Pulitzer and Grosvenor headed to Jefferson City to light the spark of a national political rebellion. The Liberal Republican state executive committee was convening to issue a national call to disaffected Republicans to gather and select a ticket to run against President Grant. "The time is ripe for an uprising of the people, in kind not unlike that which swept this state in 1870," Grosvenor said. As these reform-minded activists traveled by train to Jefferson City for an act of popular sovereignty, the capital's station was a scene of celebration that morning for a symbol of the undemocratic Old World. A huge crowd stood in the damp cold to await Russia's Grand Duke Alexis, who was coming in his $3,500-a-day private train, to lunch with Governor Brown at the new executive mansion. The completion of the mansion was also going to be celebrated with a ball, preparation for which had required many ladies to sleep upright lest they ruin their new coiffures. As Liberal Republican activists descended amid this hallabaloo, they grabbed the last remaining hotel rooms, to the immense pleasure of the innkeepers. "There is a big crowd here—make no mistake about that," reported Joseph McCullagh. "That is to say, the hotels are what the landlords will call very comfortably, and what the guests will consider very uncomfortably, full." McCullagh was among the throngs in Jefferson City on assignment to cover the meeting for the Missouri Democrat. He had recently rejoined the paper, where he had worked as a young reporter before the war. Since his modest start, McCullagh had served as a Civil War correspondent and then won national fame as a Washington correspondent who published a series of interviews with the embattled president, Andrew Johnson. McCullagh made a memorable impression on most who met him. Born in Dublin, Ireland, the short, thick, and pugnacious reporter was known to all simply as "Mack." According to the novelist Theodore Dreiser, "He was so short, so sturdy, so napoleonic, so ursine rather than leonine, that he pleased and yet frightened me." On his first night in Jefferson City, McCullagh noticed that Senator Schurz had remained in Washington and left his less-known lieutenants Pulitzer and Grosvenor in charge. "If I had to select from the large crowds that throng the halls and doorways the most prominent managers of the Liberal movement," McCullagh wrote, "I should, at a guess, point to Joe and Bill, as they are familiarly called by each other and by all their acquaintances." From Schurz's perspective this was a worrisome state of affairs. If the convention were a henhouse, Grosvenor would be the farmhand in charge, Brown a fox, and Pulitzer an unreliable watchdog. That night Pulitzer and Grosvenor conferred with Brown, who left the festivities at the mansion to come to Schmidt's Hotel. The prospects were good. About 130 had showed for the meeting. An equally promising sign was the diversity of the delegates. "In fact, while Liberal Republicans of all classes were more fully represented than ever before," Grosvenor observed. "It was remarked with pleasure and surprise by German Liberals, that, for the first time, they were outnumbered by American Liberals." The following day, a few minutes before noon, Grosvenor and Pulitzer were caught in the sea of delegates and spectators jamming the floor of the House chambers. "Joe," Grosvenor yelled. "All right, Bill," replied Pulitzer from deep in the crowd on the floor as he made his way over to Grosvenor. "Let's organize the damned thing," Grosvenor said when Pulitzer reached him. "All right, Bill. You get into the chair and call them to order," Pulitzer instructed. Grosvenor ascended the dais and welcomed the "vanguard in the army of reform," eliciting a wave of enthusiastic applause. "The time has come, gentlemen," he said. "We are here because we can be nowhere else. The Republican party still clings to abuses which no true Republican can excuse." Charles Johnson followed Grosvenor, and stirred the crowd even further with a harangue about the Grant administration. "The word 'carpet-baggers' figured around hundreds of times in his speech," McCullagh, a defender of Grant, said. The like-minded delegates took no time to issue the call for a convention to be held in Cincinnati on May 1 and ratify the draft of a platform calling for universal suffrage and amnesty, civil service and tariff reform, and control of big business. "The times demand an uprising of honest citizens to sweep from power the men who prostitute the name of an honored party for selfish interests," proclaimed the document that was finally adopted. Their work complete, the delegates called on Governor Brown to address the convention. He promised that if Missouri led the fight against executive despotism and corruption, others would rally to the cause. It was a bit much for McCullagh, who simply couldn't resist pointing out Brown's hypocrisy to his readers. The governor, he said, had failed to give one single "instance in which Grant had made such an unfit appointment as that which has recently disgraced his own administration. I mean, of course, Pulitzer as Police Commissioner, which stands out single and alone, and challenges comparison with history or tradition." Grosvenor and Pulitzer were keenly aware that the fortunes of the Missouri declaration depended on successfully conveying to the nation's press an impression of a political groundswell. To that end, they enlisted William Hyde, the managing editor and part owner of the Missouri Republican. He persuaded the Associated Press to transmit his sympathetic coverage of the meeting. The plan succeeded to a great extent, and countless newspapers described the meeting as a political prairie fire. The success of the propaganda left the anti-movement New York Times fuming: "The Missouri Democrat, through its well-known correspondent 'Mack,' instantly exposed the fraud, but the exaggeration had got twenty-four hours start in the head-lines of thousands of newspapers all over the land, and the truth never overtook it." The "truth," according to the New York Times, "was that the Convention was contemptible in numbers and more than contemptible in the political standing of its members." In the short span of a few days, both the good and the bad press coming from the convention closely identified Pulitzer with the movement. "Among the by-no-means unimportant factors in the great multiple of Liberalism, was and is the brilliant Pulitzer, Senator Schurz's whimsical lieutenant on the Westliche Post, of St. Louis," noted one newspaper. The Jefferson City convention was a triumph for the political partnership between Pulitzer and Grosvenor, one that even McCullagh was forced to concede. "Writing now a day after the whole matter has gone into history," he said, "I cannot see a better title for it than the Bill-and-Joe Convention. What there was of it that didn't belong to Bill was purely Joe-ical, and vice versa." When he got back to St. Louis, Pulitzer took his seat on the four-member police commission. One of the other members was William Patrick, the lawyer who had given Pulitzer some work during his first years in St. Louis. Providing police protection was a serious affair. The city was the fourth-largest in the United States and quite spread out. The geographic area patrolled was larger than that of any American city except for Philadelphia. As a result, St. Louis maintained a good-sized police department with a force of 432, including detectives, sergeants, and captains, and a large budget. The police commission was charged with overseeing its operation, approving all expenses, reviewing citizens' complaints, and enforcing discipline. The last of these was a not infrequent occupation of the board. For instance, in the summer of 1872, a patrolman, Patrick Conway, was found intoxicated in a house of prostitution. That he was a police officer was evident, because he was in uniform. Drunk, he had nevertheless remained true at least to one of the police department requirements: that one remain in uniform at all times. For the first few months, Pulitzer diligently attended the biweekly meetings of the commission. He was asked to look into the police force's effectiveness at coping with gambling—a rising problem in the city. But the duties of police commissioner were not high in his mind. Rather, politics took first place. Grosvenor put Pulitzer on the road and he spent most of February and March in the East, drumming up support for the national convention. As the Cincinnati convention neared, Pulitzer continued promoting the governor's presidential candidacy. "Brown has...given Joseph an office to reward his service for an anti-patronage candidate, and the rewarded one is faithful," the Missouri Democrat snidely reported. But Pulitzer's partners were acting coy about whom they supported, particularly Schurz, who still harbored resentment at Brown's postelection behavior. There were four viable candidates for the Liberal Republican nomination aside from Brown: Charles Francis Adams, a former congressman and diplomat who was the son of President John Quincy Adams; Supreme Court Justice David Davis, appointed by Lincoln and known for having written the opinion in a landmark civil liberties case; Senator Lyman Trumbull of Illinois, who alternately was a Democrat and a Republican but while a Republican broke with his party and voted against the conviction of President Johnson during the impeachment; and Horace Greeley, the aging, famous editor of the New York Tribune. This last candidate had the virtue of unquestioned integrity, especially in contrast to Grant, but he was seen as somewhat of a screwball who supported temperance and women's rights and dabbled in a decidedly un-American European import, socialism. On an April evening, Pulitzer and Stilson Hutchins went to Johnson's house to work on plans to secure the nomination for Brown. When Hutchins went home, Johnson and Pulitzer moved to Brown's house, where they worked until two in the morning. "He is very confident of getting the nomination at Cincinnati," Johnson wrote of Brown that night in his diary. "He fears Adams of Massachusetts. Schurz is playing shy. Nobody knows how he stands." Pulitzer and Grosvenor left town by train on April 24 to arrive in advance of most delegates. Reporters from around the country were heading the same way. On the leg from Chicago, Pulitzer sat with William A. Croffut, the managing editor of the Chicago Tribune. "This tall, rawboned youth was twenty-four years old," Croffut recalled, "had a nose like Julius Caesar, had already acquired a picturesque history." Reaching Cincinnati in the early morning of April 25, Pulitzer and Grosvenor immediately repaired to the St. James Hotel, where they set up their political headquarters. "They kept their camp fires burning from dawn until after midnight," said one Chicago reporter. The St. James was the center of press attention. In particular, reporters sought out the Missourians, who had one of the largest state delegations and were considered the progenitors of the rebellion. "Considering themselves the parents of the Liberal movement," noted the Chicago reporter, "the delegation labored under the delusion that their points could be easily carried." The press was intensely interested in the convention. Only once before had Cincinnati been the host of a national political convention: in 1856, contentious Democrats had taken seventeen ballots to nominate James Buchanan for president. There was similar potential for drama at the Liberal Republicans' convention, as no candidate had enough votes to win the nomination. Not only did the convention put Pulitzer at the center of an exciting political battle, but he also met journalists from around the country. In particular, he was drawn to a local press figure, John A. Cockerill, the managing editor of the Cincinnati Enquirer. The two had a lot in common. Both were over six feet tall—six inches taller than the average American—and they were only two years apart in age. Most important, their passion for politics, reform, and journalism created an instant bond between them, which years later would bring them together in a legendary journalistic partnership. The convention was a striking example of the confluence of independent journalism and politics. Like a fly on the wall, Pulitzer witnessed a few of the nation's most powerful publishers try to impose their will on the convention. They met secretly in a room adjacent to Schurz's that Pulitzer frequented. There were five men: Schurz; Henry Watterson, of the Louisville Courier-Journal; Samuel Bowles, of the Springfield Republican; Murat Halstead, of the Cincinnati Commercial; and Horace White, of the Chicago Tribune. Though they numbered five, they named themselves the Quadrilateral, after four northern Italian fortresses that had been prominent in the Milanese insurgency of 1848. As they saw it, the task before them was not solely to report the news of the convention but to shape it. The group agreed that the convention should choose either Adams or Trumbull. "The first serious business that engaged us was the killing of the boom for Judge David Davis," said Watterson. "The power of the press must be invoked. It was our chief if not our only weapon." Sitting at the same table, the editors wrote editorials for their respective papers, saying that there was no support among the delegates for Davis, despite the arrival of 700 of his supporters in Cincinnati, and that he was allied with Democrats to steal the convention away from the movement. After the editorials had been wired to the newspapers, they were reprinted in the Cincinnati Commercial, impressing on the arriving delegates the futility of supporting Davis. The editors failed, however, to shroud their machinations. It wasn't long before the New York Times traced the "demoralization" of Davis's followers to "a newspaper caucus of independent journalists late at night, in which it was determined to kill off Davis instantly by an editorial blast in four quarters of the country." On May 1, the convention got down to business. Delegates and spectators, on foot and in carriages, streamed from hotels toward the wood-framed Exposition Hall. They were a motley group. "A livelier and more variegated omnium-gatherum was never assembled," said Watterson. "They were long-haired and spectacled doctrinaires from New England, spliced by short-haired and stumpy emissaries from New York.... The full contingent of Washington correspondents was there, of course, with sharpened eyes and pens to make the most of what they had already begun to christen a conclave of cranks." The Sängerhalle, as it was known to the large German population of the city, was ready. The three stages, typically used by musical choruses, were decorated with flags and emblems; and a larger single stage was set at the center with 300 to 400 chairs for the conventiongoers to watch each state's delegation parade in. A last-minute crisis was averted when someone discovered that the ladies' gallery—the only place in the hall where the fair sex would be permitted—had been inadvertently closed but was able to get it opened in time. At noon, Grosvenor called the convention to order. To Pulitzer and Grosvenor, who had run the Jefferson City enclave that created this gathering, the sight was an impressive achievement. Seven hundred delegates from every state in the union except Delaware sat expectantly in rows on the floor below, surrounded by stands filled with 6,000 or 7,000 spectators, many of whom had come long distances. At that time, political conventions made for good theater. "This convention originated in a single state and has now embraced representatives of the Republican Party from every state of the union," Grosvenor said, to thunderous applause. As their first order of business, the delegates accepted the nomination of officers, including Pulitzer, who was rewarded for his work by being selected as one of the secretaries. Opening business concluded, the delegates began to clamor for Schurz to speak. He declined, despite noisy cries of "Now! Now!"—but he said there would be time later. It was an intoxicating moment for Pulitzer, standing on the floor sporting a new mustache and a little tuft of a beard on his chin. Grosvenor, his political partner, held the convention's gavel, and the man for whom the audience clamored was his mentor. The Bill and Joe Show had launched a national movement. The next day the main order of business was the long-awaited speech by Schurz. He began with a litany of criticisms of the Grant administration, ranging from its alleged disrespect for law to its tyrannical tendencies. But Schurz knew that a music hall filled with idealistic Republicans would not be enough to prevail in the fall. "I earnestly deprecate the cry we have heard so frequently, 'Anybody to beat Grant,'" said Schurz. "We don't want a mere change of persons in the administration of government. We want the overthrow of a pernicious system." Schurz's speech concluded, the delegates went to work on adopting a platform. Most of the planks were polished versions of the well-known Liberal calls for reform. With the exception of a tortured compromise on the tariff plank, the platform looked pretty much like the one adopted in Jefferson City four months ago when Grosvenor and Pulitzer ran the show. In fact, one newspaper called the convention's final platform "a literal transcript from the platform of Bill and Joe." The delegates went back to their hotels for a night's rest before the anticipated long struggle to select the man who would lead the party into the fall elections. The coming battle caused the first split between Pulitzer and his mentor. Schurz had grown increasingly hostile toward Brown since the 1870 election and now favored Adams for the nomination. Pulitzer remained loyal to Brown. He was not planning to desert his political patron even if his mentor did. During the day, one of Brown's delegates had wired the governor to say that Schurz and Grosvenor were working to deny him the nomination. Brown immediately boarded a train for Cincinnati—a dramatic action in an era when candidates were expected to stay away from a nominating convention. In the company of Senator Francis Blair, Brown reached the city late that evening and went directly to the St. James Hotel. Running up and down corridors and knocking on doors, Grosvenor yelled, "Get up! Get up! Blair and Brown are here from St. Louis!" When the bleary-eyed delegates came down to the lobby, Grosvenor told them that Brown had come to Cincinnati to withdraw from the race and throw his support to Greeley. The startled delegates—especially those who supported Adams or Trumbull—stayed up into the morning hours reworking their strategies for the coming day of balloting. Members of the Quadrilateral also milled about, but they were mostly powerless because time was too short to write editorials, wire them, and publish them back home. At long last, the moment arrived to select the convention's candidate. Nominating speeches were not permitted, and the first roll call got under way. Brown, who was seated with the Missouri delegation, sent a note up to Schurz asking to be permitted to address the convention. Remarkably, Schurz consented. On the floor Pulitzer watched his candidate ascend the steps of the platform. With the light from a window far above beaming down on him, Brown thanked the delegates for voting for him. Even though the first tally had not yet been announced, most delegates kept their own count and knew he had close to 100 votes. Then Brown made public what those who had been up most of the night anticipated. He would no longer be a candidate. Instead he asked that his delegates support Greeley. Applause and hisses filled the hall, the former coming from the ladies' gallery because Greeley supported women's rights. Brown returned to his seat, and the results from the first round of balloting were announced. Adams led with 205 votes, Greeley had 147, and the other five candidates divided the remainder. The math was ominous for Adams and Trumbull. If Brown's votes went to Greeley, the New York publisher would equal or outdistance Adams. Watterson, who had been absent during the morning, arrived in the hall and found Pulitzer, who filled him in on what had just occurred. He struggled to explain why Schurz had stuck to his pledge of neutrality when he assumed the convention chair. Like many delegates, Pulitzer was convinced that Schurz had the power to direct the convention. "A word from him at that crisis would have completely routed Blair and squelched Brown," Pulitzer told Watterson. "It was simply not in him to speak it." The contest narrowed to Adams and Greeley. On the second ballot, to the relief of Adams's supporters, Brown's endorsement of Greeley was not as strong as they had feared. Their man still had the lead, though only slightly. As the balloting continued, Adams inched toward the nomination. On the fifth ballot, delegate-rich Illinois decided to throw its lot in with Adams. As the sixth ballot began, everyone assumed it would be the last. But Illinois made a tactical mistake. It decided to pass. Instead Indiana, which had swung to Greeley, announced its change of heart, setting off chaos in the hall. It looked as if Greeley might win, after all. The chair could hardly restore order. When Illinois finally reported its vote, Adams was back in the lead, but the tide had turned in Greeley's favor, washing away any chance Adams had of winning. In many conventions, a candidate whose fortune rises quickly becomes unstoppable. States changed their votes, and the convention surged in Greeley's favor. He became the nominee. Pulitzer's man, Brown, was immediately rewarded with the vice presidential nomination, and then it was over. Despite all of Schurz's work in bringing the rebellion to this point, the delegates he inspired had selected an aging editor with no electoral experience and a running mate whom Schurz regarded as his opponent. For Pulitzer, his first national convention taught him that outcomes were hard to control and even hard to predict. Schurz and Pulitzer retreated to the house of Judge John Stallo, who was an Ohioan and a Hegelian and, like Schurz, had raised a regiment of Germans during the Civil War. There the men drank and ate until evening. The convention had turned into a wake. "Reformers hoist by their own petard," said Watterson. This was a disconcerting moment for Pulitzer. Schurz was distraught by the convention's outcome. Brown, to whom Pulitzer owed his patronage post, was elated by his selection for the national ticket. But in winning his prize, Brown had wrecked Schurz's plans for the convention. This left Pulitzer at a crossroads. He couldn't oppose Brown, but to actively support him would be a blow against the man who had given him his start in politics. Back in St. Louis, Pulitzer made his choice. He, along with Grosvenor, joined the Greeley-Brown campaign while Schurz retreated to Washington to nurse his political wounds. Schurz said he didn't care if his reputation was hurt by his silence; such damage paled in comparison with "the disappointment caused by the loss of so great an opportunity as we had." Much of the German community was dismayed by the selection of Greeley, but Pulitzer gave his support unhesitatingly. He took on the job of secretary of the Liberal state executive committee in addition to continuing his work as city editor of the Westliche Post. Conveniently, the committee's offices shared the same Chestnut Street building that housed the paper. Greeley's favorable attitude toward temperance was both an economic and a cultural affront to Germans. Pulitzer urged Whitelaw Reid at the New York Tribune to persuade his boss to make some sort of personal statement distinguishing his personal views on alcohol from those he held as a candidate. Though Reid was ten years older than Pulitzer, and more experienced, the two journalists found they had much in common serving as assistants to famous politicians and were soon carrying on a backstairs correspondence about their bosses. Of concern to Reid was a meeting in New York at which leading Liberal Republicans, including Schurz, plotted to dump the convention's choice. "I knew of the danger of that conference in New York but have no fears," Pulitzer wrote. "I really think that the conference will result in strengthening Mr. Greeley though the very opposite was its original object. Our element will have the majority in it and our views will prevail." A sense of optimism prevailed in the St. Louis Liberal Republican office. Perhaps matters were not as bleak at they seemed. On June 14, Grosvenor and Pulitzer convened a meeting of the executive committee and told the press that a "larger number of Liberal Republicans in Missouri now support the ticket nominated by the Cincinnati National Convention than supported the Liberal State Ticket in 1870." But Pulitzer's work for the Greeley campaign was a nonstop effort at damage control. Not only was the candidate prone to gaffes; Pulitzer's colleagues in the press were unimpressed by having one of their own as a candidate. Riding a train to New York in midsummer, Pulitzer read in the Philadelphia papers that only one German newspaper supported Greeley, the inconsequential Davenport, Iowa, Demokrat. The Westliche Post, the article added, was also maintaining "an ominous silence." Pulitzer was incensed. It was bad enough for the item to appear in the Philadelphia Republican press; an appearance in other newspapers around the country would damage the ticket. "Each reprint," Pulitzer said, is "the theft of a falsehood." Upon reaching New York, Pulitzer immediately published an irate correction in the New York Tribune, Greeley's paper. "Instead of 'but a single German Republican daily still clinging to Greeley,'" he wrote, "every single German Republican daily (except one) that supported the principles of the Liberal movement previous to the Cincinnati Convention, now supports Horace Greeley." As for the "ominous silence of the Westliche Post," he continued, "I simply say that the paper was never more earnest and outspoken in the good cause than now. I do not hesitate to predict that when the vote shall have been counted in November it will appear even to the blindest or wildest Grant criers that Mr. Greeley has received a much larger proportion of the German vote than has ever before been united upon any Presidential candidate." In New York, Pulitzer was cheered by some good news. The Democrats, meeting in Baltimore, decided to support the Liberal Republican ticket and, for first time in party history, chose not to nominate a candidate of their own. But Pulitzer's growing skill at electoral math left little doubt that even the Democrats' support would not change the uphill nature of the election. Greeley, one of the most eccentric men ever nominated for president, was not inspiring voters. It did not take much in the way of political tea leaf reading to sense that the election was shaping up as a disaster for Liberal Republicans. After New York, Pulitzer returned briefly to St. Louis. The campaign had ended Pulitzer's diligent attendance to his duties with the St. Louis police commission. He missed all the meetings in July and almost every meeting until December. If Pulitzer worried about his attendance, his qualms did not restrain him from collecting his salary. He did make a stab, of sorts, at resigning. He confirmed to a reporter in St. Louis that he had sent a letter of resignation to Governor Brown. "Has he accepted the resignation?" asked the reporter. "I don't know," replied Pulitzer, smiling. "As far as you know, has he accepted the resignation?" "I don't know—no; the governor wrote me that he wasn't prepared..." said Pulitzer without finishing the thought. "Then he hasn't accepted it yet?" "No." Police commission work felt inconsequential to Pulitzer. He was giving his entire effort to sustaining the Westliche Post and supporting the Greeley campaign. Working every day from eight in the morning to midnight, he seamlessly switched from editor to campaigner, sometimes making no distinction between the roles. As fall approached, Pulitzer began traveling for the ticket. In an era when speeches were considered beneath the candidates' dignity, others made passionate campaign speeches on their behalf. In September Pulitzer was on the stump almost full-time. By one count, he delivered sixty speeches to German audiences in Indiana and Ohio. His campaign trail crossed the path of Simon Wolf, a prominent Jewish lawyer from Washington, D.C., who was campaigning for Grant's reelection. Wolf sat in a hotel reading the newspaper after completing a campaign speech in the same town where Pulitzer was speaking on behalf of Greeley. Two men came into the hotel, sat down near Wolf, and ordered drinks. "Did you ever hear such German as that man Pulitzer got off? Nobody could understand him," said one man to the other. "Naturally," said Wolf. "Pulitzer had spoken over their heads and they were disgusted with his culture. When I met Pulitzer that same evening, I told him, and we had a laugh at his expense." The campaign produced a surprising dividend for Pulitzer. "Some of the proprietors of the Westliche Post," he said, "became nervous, wanted to retire, thought the paper was ruined by the Greeley campaign." They approached him to see if he would like to buy into the paper. Pulitzer was the most valuable member of their staff and had toiled for them for five years. Before newspapers became big businesses, journalists dreamed of owning at least part of a newspaper. There was no money to be made in writing for a paper, only in owning one. The potential changes in the ownership of the Westliche Post were soon a subject of gossip among St. Louis Republicans. The rumors reached the Missouri Democrat, whose editors dispatched a reporter to follow up on them. "Schurz was said to be disgusted with the course of the paper, and Plate, the senior member of the firm, anxious to buy the other proprietors out," reported the Democrat. "What's the news?" asked Pulitzer when the reporter climbed the last flights of stairs leading into the Westliche Post editorial rooms. "I don't know; I hear there is trouble in the Post office." "How?" replied Pulitzer, smiling at the visitor from a desk stacked high with paper. "Well, there are rumors on the street that there is trouble in the office between Mr. Plate and Mr. Schurz and Preetorius; that he wants to buy them out, or have them buy him out." "Whoever heard of such a damned thing?" said Pulitzer, laughing and leaning back in his chair. "Then it's not true?" "No. It's a lie, it's a damned lie. Why, it's so absurd." At best, Pulitzer was being disingenuous. As in his previous dealings with reporters, Pulitzer was willing to misinform if it was to his advantage. He was not ready to make public that twenty-four hours earlier he had signed a note payable to Preetorius. It provided Pulitzer with $4,500 in credit at an interest rate of 8 percent, 2 percent lower than the rate common at the time for such loans. Pulitzer was in the process of signing other, similar notes. With these funds he bought a stake in the paper on, in his words, "very liberal terms." "They thought I was necessary to the paper," he said. "They probably would have done the same thing to any other man who worked sixteen hours a day, as I did through that campaign." Within a week, he was an owner. By late September 1872, Pulitzer was referring to the Westliche Post as "our newspaper" in a letter to Schurz. Thus seven years after reading his first copy of the Westliche Post in hopes of finding employment in St. Louis, Pulitzer was an American newspaper publisher. While Pulitzer's stock rose, Greeley's and Brown's sank. The prospect of victory was becoming increasingly dim. "Everything depends on the result of the October elections," Pulitzer wrote to Schurz in Washington in late September, referring to the states that held a first round of voting a month before others. "Here in St. Louis and Missouri it is looking miserable. The area crazies are ruining much, and it seems advisable to me that you temporarily make no arrangements for speeches but rather return as soon as possible." Pulitzer's forecast and Schurz's nightmare turned out to be true. On Election Day, Greeley and Brown carried only six states: Georgia, Kentucky, Maryland, Tennessee, Texas, and Missouri. The ticket could manage only a slim victory in the state where the movement began. Democrats carried the day in other states' races. Even St. Louis, city and county, returned to the Democratic fold. For two years Pulitzer had dutifully served the Liberal Republican cause, renouncing the Republican Party, where he had begun his political life. His break had been a principled one over fundamental political differences. Pulitzer believed in the Liberal Republican Party's precepts and had tied his political fortunes to the party's success. Greeley's ignominious defeat not only killed the party, but politically stranded Pulitzer as a man without a party in the partisan world of nineteenth-century America. ## Chapter Eight ## POLITICS AND PRINCIPLE The crushing defeat of the Liberal Republican movement imperiled Pulitzer's tenuous hold on his patronage post. His one-year term on the St. Louis police commission was set to expire in February, leaving his reappointment in the hands of the newly elected governor, the first Democrat in Missouri's executive mansion since before the Civil War. Although Governor Silas Woodson knew that he partially owed his election to Liberal Republicans, he had little interest in retaining any Republicans—Liberal or other—in state offices. Pulitzer mounted a campaign to remain on the commission. Keeping the job would allow him to retain a small foothold in politics and continue earning easy money. Governor Woodson hadn't even been sworn in before Pulitzer's loyalists took action. His friend James Broadhead, an unwavering Democrat who had been both a Unionist and a defender of slavery, was among the first to tell Woodson that Pulitzer had high standing in St. Louis, had done a good job, and represented the important German interests in the city. Others joined in. Newspaper editors, such as those at the St. Louis Dispatch and St. Louis Times, and city officeholders, including the city council president and city registrar, also wrote in support of Pulitzer. Pulitzer turned for help to Hutchins and Johnson, who now had considerable political influence. For them, the election of 1872 had been munificent. Hutchins won a seat in the House and Johnson was elected as Woodson's lieutenant governor. With friends like these, Pulitzer's case for reappointment looked strong. The governor, however, didn't show his hand. Pulitzer may have had allies in high places, but he still had strong enemies, particularly among politicians in St. Louis County who had not forgotten his efforts to depose them and deny them the pecuniary rewards of their work. Word leaked from the governor's office that Woodson was preparing to send his selections to the state senate on Monday afternoon, January 20, 1873. Hutchins feared that Pulitzer's name would not appear on the list and pleaded on behalf of his man. "If undecided to make the appointment requested by Lt. Governor Johnson and myself," Hutchins wrote Woodson, "do me the favor to hold it in abeyance until I can see you." Monday came and went without any appointments coming down from the governor's office. A silence worthy of the Vatican descended. For several weeks Pulitzer's supporters continued their campaign, framing the issue around complex ethnic politics. "The Germans of this city ought to be represented on the Police Board not for nativistical reasons but so as to make sure that not only Irish Policemen are sent into German districts," wrote one man. But this approach was undercut by the reluctance of the city's best-known representative of German interests to join the bandwagon. The Westliche Post remained mum. Preetorius was opposed to a second term for Pulitzer. In a private letter to Grosvenor, he explained his reasoning. "It was that, not in spite, but rather in consequences of my good wishes for Mr. Pulitzer, I could not recommend his reappointment," he wrote. His opposition stemmed from Pulitzer's confessions to him during his first year on the commission in which he "earnestly declared by himself, as wholly at variance with his qualifications as well as his own taste and liking." On March 4, a month after Pulitzer's term legally expired, the governor finally broke his silence. Pulitzer, he announced, would be replaced with a former Confederate and loyal Democrat. Woodson's selection left the police commission devoid of any Germans. It took only a few hours for the news to reach St. Louis. Pulitzer was infuriated. He put pencil to paper and angrily scrawled out a letter to Senator Benecke, his old ally in the state senate. Woodson's appointments were so unthinkable that Pulitzer said he couldn't find anyone who believed the report. Hurriedly he continued, impetuously scratching out unsatisfactory words as he wrote, "Nobody held it possible that the highest officer of our state evinced such a lack of all feelings of justice and propriety because it was supposed Mr. Woodson knew what everybody else knew, namely that since the existence of the Police Commission the German element always had one and for the greatest part of the time even two representatives in said Commission. "If Mr. Woodson should insist upon these appointments and put himself on the record as an 'ignoramus' and 'knownothing,'" concluded Pulitzer, "then we hope that at least the Senate will prove that it knows its duty. We have a right to expect from the Senate the prompt rejection of such ridiculous appointments." The senate did not share Pulitzer's sentiments, and the nominees were promptly approved. With this loss, it seemed as if Pulitzer's political career was at an end. He had been voted out of his House seat; the promising Liberal Republican movement had ingloriously died; and now, even with one of his best friends serving as lieutenant governor, he could not win reappointment to the police board. Pulitzer the politician was out in the cold. Pulitzer's career in journalism was also imperiled. Schurz's and Preetorius's ardor for their young protégé had cooled. The editorial office had grown too small for all three men. Preetorius's opposition to Pulitzer's reappointment to the police commission strained their relationship. Schurz, who was now a pariah in his party and knew that his reelection to the U.S. Senate was doomed, resented having to share the last bit of the public stage he held. To readers, the Westliche Post had become almost as closely identified with Pulitzer as with the mostly absent Schurz. Schurz and Preetorius offered to buy Pulitzer out. The price they proposed was commensurate with their desire to be free of him. On March 19, 1873, the men concluded a deal. After paying off his notes to Preetorius and others, Pulitzer walked away from the Westliche Post with about $30,000, three to six times his original investment. Pulitzer immediately sought out Theodore Welge, who had assisted him in his defense after he shot Augustine. He was at a loss as to what to do with his vast sum of money. "This money he wanted me to deposit for him, which I declined to do," Welge said. Instead, he introduced Pulitzer to an entrepreneur who had created a shipping empire of riverboats operating out of St. Louis. The man persuaded Pulitzer to entrust the money to the nineteen-year-old State Savings Institution, which paid 3 percent interest. Freed from the necessity of work for a while, Pulitzer left Missouri's journalism and politics behind and headed for Europe. That he would return to St. Louis, however, was certain. Before leaving, he paid a year's rent on a room adjoining Johnson's law offices. He had the room carpeted and purchased a writing desk for it. On his way to Europe, Pulitzer visited his brother, who now lived in New York. Albert had become captivated by journalism. His choice of vocation did little to lessen the competition between the brothers. After landing a job on the Illinois Staats-Zeitung in 1869, Albert had become fluent in English by obsessively studying Dickens and Shakespeare and engaging anyone he could in conversation. Later, he set his sights on New York and on breaking out of German-language journalism. "Chicago has treated your dear Baruch very well indeed," he wrote to their mother, using the Jewish name meaning "blessed," "but he is going to try his fortune once more in New York. Don't be alarmed. It is destiny." Albert arrived in New York in 1871 with no prospect of work. He rented a dark room on Bleecker Street for $1 a week and sustained himself with apples that cost a penny apiece. He began his quest for a job by knocking on doors along Park Row, home to the nation's leading newspapers. James Gordon Bennett's New York Herald, Greeley's New York Tribune, and Charles Dana's New York Sun, along with less-known papers such as the New York Times and the World, all plied their trade within earshot of one another. It was America's Fleet Street. Only twenty years old and with only brief experience at a German paper in Chicago, Albert audaciously applied to the Sun, the most successful newspaper in the nation. Established by Benjamin Henry Day in 1833, the Sun had launched a new style of journalism in antebellum America. Instead of reporting on international and national events of limited interest to the masses, it focused on city news, violence being its favorite topic, and presented this news in a highly readable, though sometimes flippant, style. In comparison with the stodgy journals favored by city's elite, the Sun was a blast of fresh air. It was compact, always four pages long, and, as the nation's first penny newspaper, it was cheap. At the time Albert approached the Sun's six-story building at Nassau and Frankfort streets, the paper was at the height of its fame and selling more than 100,000 copies a day. It had been bought three years earlier by Dana, who had been Greeley's managing editor at the Tribune and was considered a genius among editors. Building on the paper's original mission, Dana inspired and enforced a regime of tight, coherent, bright, lively writing intended to provide "a daily photograph of the whole world's doings in the most luminous and lively manner," as he put it in his first editorial. The paper was a pastiche or quilt of urban tales. It was an irresistible feast of information that won wide attention in an era of generally dull journalism. Under Dana's regime, the paper prospered even more, and its circulation rose to new, unheard-of heights. Whereas Joseph could only dream of working for Dana, Albert was not intimidated. He walked up the flight of stairs to the Sun's newsroom and spoke to the night editor. The editor asked Albert how long he had worked for a city newspaper. "Only a short time, sir," Albert replied. "That's rather vague," the editor said, adding, "You have a slight accent." "I shall not have the accent long, sir. And I write better than I speak." The editor decided to give Albert a test assignment, a rather difficult one intended to discourage the youth. Albert "made a Parisian bow and disappeared," said the editor. But to his surprise, Albert returned with the story and won himself a trial period on the staff of what many considered the best-written paper in town. In fact, soon after Albert landed this job, a letter appeared in the Sun from one reader in St. Louis. "I read The Sun regularly," Joseph Pulitzer wrote. "In my opinion it is the most piquant, entertaining, and, without exception, the best newspaper in the world." Albert rose rapidly in the ranks of city reporters. His big break came when he was assigned to cover the Halstead murder in Newark, the city's first murder in four years. General O. S. "Pet" Halstead had been shot dead in the rooms of Mary S. Wilson, described by the New York Times as "a woman of the worst character." Apparently George "Charcoal" Botts, a charcoal peddler who paid for her lodgings and company, did not take kindly to the presence of Halstead in Wilson's bedroom. Albert wrote colorful accounts of the courtroom scenes and even obtained an interview with the condemned man a few days before his execution. "It was a kind of reporting that was new in those days, especially in Newark, and made a decided hit in this city," a writer for the Newark Advertiser recalled. In February 1873, Albert moved to the New York Herald. Started by James Gordon Bennett in 1835, the Herald was in a different class from the Sun. It had pioneered the use of many modern reporting methods, such as telegraphing news and dispatching an army of correspondents to the far-flung reaches of the globe. Its in-depth reporting on finances, politics, and society, mixed with a healthy dose of crime and scandal, gave the Herald a huge circulation. Its large circulation was accompanied by heft. Unlike the Sun, the Herald was taken seriously. The fit was a good one for the tall, rosy-cheeked, twenty-one-year-old Albert, although his writing style was considerably different from that of his colleagues. "Everybody on the Herald admitted that Albert Pulitzer's style was rather florid," said an editor. "He was saturated with Dumas, Balzac, and other French writers and could 'pile on agony' in a court scene to an extent to which not another man about the place would have ventured." After the brotherly reunion, Joseph sailed for Europe. It was the second time he had gone abroad since arriving in the United States in 1864. In Paris, he met up with Henry Watterson, one of the Quadrilateral editors who had worked behind the scenes of the Liberal Republican convention. The two spent a day wandering through Montmartre, a popular drinking and entertainment quartier. They arrived at a theater (a "hole-in-the-wall" said Watterson) where Les Brigands was playing. The three-act opera by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy, set to music by Jacques Offenbach, provided a theatrical revenge for the French, who had lost the Franco-Prussian war two years earlier. Parisians erupted in wild applause when the heroine, Joan the Maid, sent the beer-guzzling Teuton chieftain sprawling onto the sawdust-covered floor. As Pulitzer and Watterson walked away from the entertainment, Pulitzer said, "We are brigands, differing according to individual character, to race and pursuit. If I were writing that play, I should represent the villain as a tyrannous city editor, meanly executing the orders of a niggardly proprietor." "And the heroine?" asked Watterson. "She should be a beautiful and rich young lady who buys the newspaper and marries the cub—rescuing genius from poverty and persecution," Pulitzer replied. In the fall, Pulitzer drifted back to St. Louis. On November 13, 1873, his friends there put on a grand celebration to mark his return. The event, held at the Southern Hotel, was so elaborate that it included a printed menu "in Commemoration of his Evacuation of Europe and Re-Invasion of St. Louis" featuring a cartoon showing a towering, skinny Pulitzer holding a top hat and looking over a crowd that included recognizable caricatures of Grosvenor, Hutchins, Johnson, and other friends. With plates filled with salmon, lobster, venison (with jelly sauce), croquettes of chicken à l'anglaise, beef, turkey, duck, and quail, the group toasted Pulitzer with Ike Cook's Imperial Champagne, bottled locally by the American Wine Company. Johnson led off the tributes and was followed by Hutchins and Grosvenor. Though he may have been without a defined place in the St. Louis establishment, this night Pulitzer was surrounded by the many successful friends he had made since he was a cub reporter on the Westliche Post six years earlier. Tellingly, neither Schurz nor Preetorius attended. Pulitzer resumed his on-again, off-again study of law in the building where he had rented a room before his trip. He spent his time studying Johnson's law books and books lent to him by another lawyer friend, William Patrick, with whom he had served on the police board. The erstwhile philosopher Brockmeyer and another attorney took turns tutoring Pulitzer. "He was charmed with the excitement and horrors of the courtroom and determined to quit journalism and become a lawyer," recalled one friend. Johnson, however, was unconvinced of the value of Pulitzer's legal studies. "To tell the truth," he said, "I never thought him cut out for a lawyer. He was too easily agitated, too restless, of too nervous a temperament." Pulitzer had not been long at the law books before he spotted a journalistic business opportunity. Although he had been enjoying a genteel life of travel, secure with a healthy bank balance, millions of others in 1873 faced a far different fate. On September 18, the collapse of the banking firm Jay Cooke and Company, which acted as the chief financing agent for the nation's railroads, started a severe national depression. Among the victims of the economic downturn was the Staats-Zeitung, a small German-language newspaper in St. Louis. The paper was put on the auction block on January 6, 1874. No newspaper had changed hands in the city since 1872, and considering the economic conditions it was unlikely that there would be many, if any, bidders for this one. But Pulitzer saw value where others didn't. He won the auction, paying a modest sum, and announced that it was his intention to start a German evening paper. This was a smoke screen. The Staats-Zeitung had too few subscribers to make it viable as a newspaper. But what the corporation owned caught Pulitzer's attention. Aside from presses and typefaces, the Staats-Zeitung was a member of the Associated Press (AP). The AP had been created as a news cooperative in 1849 by leading New York newspapers to share the high costs of news dispatches rapidly distributed by the recently invented telegraph. Because it restricted its news items to its members, a membership in AP was a valuable asset. Those that were not members were excluded from a vast source of national and international news. Membership in AP gave a newspaper a tremendous competitive advantage, and midwestern publishers had quickly grasped the importance of this cooperative monopoly. In St. Louis, all the major German and English newspapers were members of the Western Associated Press except the St. Louis Globe, which had been started by Pulitzer's friends William McKee and Daniel Houser after they lost their share of ownership in the Missouri Democrat in a contentious court case. Their St. Louis Globe was hamstrung without membership in AP. But when they tried to buy a membership, the surviving owner of the Democrat vetoed their application. Neither McKee nor Houser had thought to bid for the Staats-Zeitung. The mistake cost them. With the German newspaper's corporate papers in his hands, Pulitzer went to them with a proposal. If they bought the entire corporation, they would gain membership in AP. Pulitzer would then buy back the presses, type, and office equipment that they didn't need. The following morning, the St. Louis Globe was carrying AP stories. Its masthead explained how: McKee and Houser had purchased the Staats-Zeitung corporation and its AP membership. Then they had changed the language of the German paper to English and its name to the St. Louis Globe. The owner of the Democrat was enraged by the legal chicanery. He called for an immediate meeting of the St. Louis board of the Western Associated Press. Gathering in the library of the Missouri Republican, the owners of the eight major newspapers listened as Houser and McKee explained the transaction and examined the documents showing their purchase of the Staats-Zeitung corporation and its assets. Hutchins then offered a resolution recognizing the legitimacy of Pulitzer's sale. It prevailed. The legal maneuvering over and the last of the insults lobbed, Pulitzer disposed of the Staats-Zeitung presses, typefaces, and office furniture. These were bought by a group of investors who made a short-lived attempt to publish a German newspaper. In his forty-eight-hour tenure as a newspaper publisher Pulitzer netted between $11,000 and $20,000. For the second time in a year, he had parlayed a newspaper investment into a considerable cash return. He now had between $30,000 and $40,000 in capital. This time, instead of looking for a safe place to stash his earnings, Pulitzer was ready to gamble. In the spring of 1874, James B. Eads, one of the nation's best-known engineers, was putting the final touches on his massive stone-and-steel bridge across the Mississippi. When completed, it would be the longest arch bridge in the world and would connect St. Louis to eastern train traffic for the first time—to the horror of the Wiggins family, whose ferry had brought Pulitzer across the river nine years earlier. Eads was now looking south to an even riskier engineering challenge. He had proposed to the federal government to deepen the key channel that led from the Mississippi River into the Gulf of Mexico. If he succeeded, the government would pay him between $1 million and $2 million. But under the terms, if Eads failed the entire cost of the attempt would rest with him. Pulitzer confessed that he knew little about "jetties" but had great faith in Eads, whom he had known for five years. He took $20,000 of his capital and invested it in Eads's scheme, knowing, as Eads warned, that the "payments by the government depended wholly upon our securing deep water, and that if the jetties failed to secure the specified depths you would lose your investment." After turning the money over to Eads, Pulitzer returned to his study of law and took on the air of a gentleman of leisure. He purchased a horse and every morning rode in the company of friends; he also took rooms on the elegant street where Schurz lived. Charles Balmer, a composer of some note who had conducted the music at President Lincoln's funeral in Springfield, Illinois, also lived on this street. He had five unmarried daughters, whom Pulitzer called the "five nightingales." The Balmer house held a musical salon that Pulitzer, often in the company of the poet Eugene Field, would attend. "The front door would open and in one of them would stride, like it or not orating from some Shakespeare play," recalled Lillian Balmer, one of the five nightingales. A feast of potato herring salad, sauerbraten, beer, and wine would be set out, and soon the room would be full of music and singing, with the father on the piano and one of the daughters on the violin. Pulitzer was intrigued by Bertha Balmer, who was the more stately and intellectual of the daughters and had a fine soprano voice. But even though they were frequently left alone, nothing came of his advances. Financial freedom also permitted Pulitzer to indulge his passion for music, "the denial of which from mere poverty and the necessity of earning my livelihood was for many years the greatest of my regrets," Pulitzer said. For those with money, St. Louis offered concerts, operas, theater, and social galas. At a charity ball, the French artist Edward Jump captured Pulitzer dancing. Taller than all the other tailcoat-clad men, Pulitzer is dapper, with a new mustache and goatee, wearing pince-nez, and dancing with an unidentified woman only as tall as his shoulders. Pulitzer even joined a theater production at the Germania Club. He took the part of Mephistopheles, with a St. Louis belle, widely noted for her beauty, playing Faust's love Gretchen. Finally feeling prepared, Pulitzer stood successfully for the bar in late June. With the coming of fall, Pulitzer's interest, as always, turned to the oncoming elections. By 1874, Liberal Republicans had begun a slow drift back into the ranks of the Republican Party after their ignominious defeat in 1872. For Democrats, such as Johnson, there was no shame in returning to the fold of the party, because the Liberal Republican movement had helped restore its health. But for Pulitzer, Schurz, Preetorius, and Grosvenor, no one was welcoming them back. The treatment the bolters received from the Republican Party had been harsh. The Grant administration and party leaders did everything they could to drive the rebels out like an infestation. "Here at home," wrote an out-of-state reporter from St. Louis, "the Liberals have received no better treatment. They have been constantly insulted, vilified and persecuted by the Republican leaders during the past four years and will never be forgiven." A decision by the Missouri Grange to enter politics created an opportunity for Liberals to forestall their day of reckoning. Originally a social and educational organization for farmers, the National Grange jumped into electoral politics to fight exorbitant railroad freight rates. In July 1874, the Missouri Grange issued a call for a convention to meet in Jefferson City to create a People's Party that would be above partisan bickering. Newspapers, particularly Republican ones, applauded the idea, believing it might reunite the party under a new umbrella and provide the strength to beat the Democrats. The idea was quickly embraced by party leaders, who announced that there would be no Republican convention that year. Schurz and Grosvenor jumped at the prospect of repeating their success of 1870 and restarting the reform movement under a new banner. Pulitzer followed along. After all, Schurz was his former mentor and Grosvenor his political partner, the other half of the "political firm of Bill and Joe." On September 2, 1874, the new party met in Jefferson City to select its candidates. For governor, the party members settled on William Gentry, a prosperous, affable farmer who had no political experience and was entirely clueless regarding the major reform issues. The choice was an echo of the Cincinnati convention of 1872. The ebullient gathering, clamoring for reform, selected a candidate who pleased few of the ardent reformers. Schurz and Grosvenor supported the convention's choice. Pulitzer couldn't. He renounced the selection and abandoned the movement. In an interview in the St. Louis Globe, Pulitzer proclaimed his conversion. He repudiated his mentor and ended the political partnership on which he had risen to the top of a national movement. "The firm of Bill and Joe did not last long," said the Globe, "but it was a grand firm while it lasted." Pulitzer charged that the newspaper's interview with him was fraudulent yet he did not dispute its contents. The next day he explained his conversion in a long article in the Missouri Republican. Pulitzer said he did not question the honesty of "Farmer Gentry" nor did he impugn his friends' participation in the convention. But neither Gentry's honesty nor the good intentions of his fellow reformists could "reconcile me to so palpable a result of politics without principle." The concept of politics with principle might seem oxymoronic, given the nature of politics at the time, but Pulitzer was sincere. Unlike those who had risen through ward politics in the chaos of competing parties, interests, and causes, Pulitzer had entered politics with an inordinate amount of idealism. As a young newcomer he had been exhilarated by Schurz's rebellion against corruption. Whereas his compatriots now sought the spoils of electoral victory, Pulitzer sought principle; where they saw compromise, he saw a betrayal of promise. For Pulitzer, the convention created not a party of reform, but rather a Trojan horse carrying Grant's Republicans into power. "To men of thought and principle, both platform and ticket are deaf and dumb," Pulitzer said. "Selecting candidates upon the whole very much inferior to those of the Democracy, the convention remained still further behind by failing to protest against the real causes of the prostrate condition of the country—the corruption, the lawlessness, the usurpation and profligacy of the national administration." Drawn into civic life for idealistic reasons, Pulitzer believed that such compromises were like lying down with the devil. His belief in democracy was a civic religion, and reform was its holiest tenet. For Schurz and Grosvenor, the good fight had been waged and lost, as often happened in politics. Rejoining the party ranks was coming home for these two, who had spent all their political lives as Republicans. "I am a Liberal Republican, and nothing else," said Grosvenor in 1873. "Because that is true, I am a Republican whenever the old issues are brought up, and the choice is between the Republican and the Democratic parties. 'Do the duty that lies nearest thee,' says Goethe." But Pulitzer had none of those allegiances and was unwilling to beg forgiveness from leaders whom he perceived as having defiled democracy's temple. He was now a Democrat. The Missouri Democratic Party embraced its new member. In October, Pulitzer was dispatched on a statewide canvass for the Democratic ticket, beginning in Sedalia, a new but rapidly growing town on the Missouri Pacific rail line in the western part of the state. The town's paper, stalwartly Democratic, hailed his conversion and promoted him as a new star in the party. "Wherever Mr. Pulitzer speaks," it reported, "the people crowd to hear him, and those who hear him become convinced of the truth he so eloquently utters." In his speech, which lasted close to an hour, Pulitzer explained his conversion. "The war with bullets was over. But it left us a legacy, a war with ballots," Pulitzer began. "The enemies of the country are no longer in the South. They are in Washington." In this struggle, Pulitzer said, he was volunteering to fight "as the same humble private as which in the last war I stood on the side of the Union," thereby answering the obligatory question of whose side one had favored, still a hurdle for many aspiring Democratic politicians. The enemy in this new conflict is "the great army of office-holders, carpet-baggers, monopolists, protectionists and all those selfish people interested naturally in alliance with the 'powers that be,'" Pulitzer told the crowd at Sedalia. Across the nation they are easy to identify because they run under the Republican banner, but not so in Missouri, where reform has had the upper hand and the Republicans have gone into hiding, he said. "And so in this State alone do we enjoy the spectacle of seeing the Grant party turn with band and baggage, postmaster, gaugers, assessors, disfranchisers, colored brothers and all, into 'people,' and hear how lustily they cry for reform! Reform!" Like the James boys, highway robbers who wore masks, the People's Party was the Republican Party in disguise, Pulitzer said. To prove his point, he exhaustively compared the new party's platform with that of previous Republican Party platforms. "They say it is a party of reform, and we see as the most officious reformers, the most notorious postmasters, Federal office holders and corrupt demagogues in the state." Pulitzer lumped both Schurz and Grosvenor, mentioning them by name, in with the forces of Grant and corruption, though he studiously avoided accusing either one directly of wrongdoing. As at a revival, Pulitzer washed himself of the sin of having been a Republican. "I confess that coming fresh from the army not much more than a boy, for a very short time, I have myself belonged to the party of proscription." But his sin, he insisted, was not as great as that of the party, because when he served in the legislature he had campaigned for elimination of the disenfranchisement provisions. Opponents claimed that this action would drive out Union men and re-enslave the Negroes or, worse, massacre them. "Well, these rebels have now voted for four years, and show me the first Union man who has been disturbed, show me one Negro who has been molested on account of his Union sentiments! The only Negro who has been molested that I know of in the whole state was a fellow in St. Louis County who ravished a poor girl. And he was only lynched. Not by rebels, however, but by honest Germans and strong Union men." Not an eyebrow would have been raised at Pulitzer's approbation of a lynching. Between 50 and 100 lynchings took place each year, and almost always the victims were blacks charged with some alleged sexual crime for which there was little or no evidence. Only a few Americans, such as Ida B. Wells, spoke out against the horror. The government's effort to stop this domestic terrorism consisted solely of President Grant's Civil Rights Act of 1871, which strengthened the federal government's hand against the Ku Klux Klan. Pulitzer's animosity to Grant, fueled by his experiences with Schurz, Grosvenor, and Brown, blinded him to the virtues of that law. Like many whites, Pulitzer was indifferent to the plight of black Americans. There was little in his own experience to relate to their oppression. As a Jew in Hungary, he had experienced hardly any discrimination. He had joined the Civil War late, had remained cocooned in a platoon of non-English-speaking recruits, and was not exposed to the abolitionists' antebellum propaganda or to their triumphant rhetoric at the conclusion of the war. The worst injustice he had endured as a civilian was being the butt of anti-Semitic humor, but it had not thwarted his efforts at landing a job, finding housing, or making friends. After Sedalia, it was on to Versailles, Warrensburg, and Knob Noster. A Republican newspaper reporter was on hand to chronicle Pulitzer's visit to the small town of Knob Noster. Casting Pulitzer as a pretentious Bourbon Democrat aghast at the provincialism of rural Missouri, the reporter spun a humorous, sarcastic tale. Like his cartoonist brethren, the reporter highlighted Pulitzer's nose from the start, describing Pulitzer's arrival at the train station and his discovery that the town had no hotels. "The look of surprise and indignation that overspread his nasal protuberance was fearful to contemplate," wrote the reporter. The highlighting of Pulitzer's nose—three times in the article—was more than a humorous jab to score partisan points. Like the caricatures by Pulitzer's friend Keppler, these depictions were a minimally disguised way to let readers know that the subject was Jewish. Just as readers of Tom Sawyer knew when Jim said, "She tole me to go an' git dis water," that the speaker was black, newspaper readers knew that a person with a "nasal protuberance" was a Hebrew. The nose became a common symbol because many of the traditional markers that societies favored to distinguish Jews had fallen into disuse by the late nineteenth century. For instance, the notion that Jews could be distinguished by their "swarthy skin" had gone by the wayside when it had become widely accepted that color—with the obvious exception of "coloreds"—could be modified over time by migration and other factors. Instead, an emerging generation of social scientists obsessed with racial classification turned to the "Jew nose." They studied the "nostrility" of the Jew and connected the characteristics of the "Jewish, or Hawknose" with their view of Jews as shrewd and capable of turning an insight into profit. They determined that the "Jew nose" became even more evident in the children of mixed marriages. Thus even a Jew who gave up his or her cultural accouterments retained a marker still visible a generation later. From Knob Noster, Pulitzer turned back toward St. Louis. One of the last stops of the speech-a-day statewide tour was in Boonville. The visit offered a wonderful window into the era's partisan press. The Boonville Advertiser, the Democratic paper, referred to Pulitzer as "the eloquent German orator" and told readers he had "delivered an able and logical speech [and] was listened to with marked attention." The Republican Boonville Weekly Eagle saw things differently: "The general impression was that he had more nose than eloquence. The fact was at once palpable, but we did not like to seize it," said the paper, adding italics for its readers insufficiently witty to pick up on the editor's humor. Pulitzer's speeches were coherent, well organized, carefully composed, and weighty. It had been only a decade since his arrival in the United States as a teenager unable to speak more than a word or two of English. Now twenty-seven years old and a U.S. citizen, Pulitzer was using his newly acquired tongue with enough skill to earn praise from his supporters and to draw derision from his detractors. He still had an accent, but he was no longer simply a German orator. A few weeks after the tour, Pulitzer's gubernatorial candidate was swept into office. Had Pulitzer stood for office as a Democrat, he might have also returned to the state legislature. As it was, the election offered him a chance to relaunch his political career. By a very narrow margin (283 votes out of 222,315), voters called for a constitutional convention. Pulitzer threw his hat into the ring and joined the campaign for the sixty-eight delegate seats. On January 26, 1875, his friends James Broadhead the lawyer and Henry Brockmeyer the philosopher were among those selected by the voters. And, to Pulitzer's joy, the voters had picked him as well. His old paper, the Westliche Post, angry at his conversion to the Democracy, greeted his election with derision. It said Pulitzer was as ill-suited to draft a constitution as a hedgehog was to shave one's face. ## Chapter Nine ## FOUNDING FATHER On the evening of February 21, 1875, Pulitzer and Joseph McCullagh, of the St. Louis Globe, caught up with A. C. Hesing, the publisher of Illinois Staats-Zeitung in a hall of the elegant Southern Hotel of St. Louis, where Pulitzer now lodged. The publisher, a Republican leader of such power in Chicago that he was called "Boss Hesing," was the most sought-after man that night, according to McCullagh. "As he stood, sat or walked in the corridors of the Southern, last night, there was no minute when he was not either talking or listening to some party or other, anxious to look at him, stand by his side and hear him talk." McCullagh wanted to interview Hesing for an article. Pulitzer had a more pressing personal need. Although they were members of opposing parties, Pulitzer wanted Hesing's take on the changing political landscape. It had been only a few months since Pulitzer had converted to the Democratic Party, and he was still seeking confirmation that he had made the right decision. He got it from Hesing. "Everything is getting more and more Democratic day by day," Hesing said. What will happen to those Republicans who supported Greeley and Brown in 1872? McCullagh asked. "Probably fuse with the true Democratic Party," Hesing said. "I know they will in my state, and in many others. There's no doubt but that they are thoroughly and eternally disgusted with the present Radical Administration." "And Carl Schurz?" "Well, I tell you what I think," said Hesing, who was not only a fellow Republican but a German like Schurz. "I don't think so very much of Schurz either as a journalist or politician." Hesing's words were comforting. Pulitzer had been wise to throw his lot in with Democrats and had also made a timely end to his allegiance with his mentor Schurz. For their part, Democrats were thrilled to have Pulitzer. He had toiled in their successful effort to retain the governor's mansion, and they worked to make him feel welcome. With his political fortunes on the rise, Pulitzer's fiscal affairs also took a turn upward. James Eads's scheme for dredging the Mississippi delta, in which Pulitzer had invested $20,000, was a triumph. The payoff gave Pulitzer enough money to live for a number of years. He could concentrate on politics without any concern for finding work. Pulitzer expressed his gratitude to Eads by joining dozens of other prominent St. Louisans in the parlor (No. 5) of the Southern Hotel to plan a banquet in Eads's honor. The first to speak was Pulitzer himself. "Twenty years from now," he said, "we will have Eads Places, Eads Avenues, and, I hope, Eads monuments." Leaving the committee of citizens to do its work, Pulitzer headed east a few days later on the first of what would be half a dozen trips to New York that year. He had in mind breaking into journalism in New York. But, unlike his brother Albert, he didn't want to work for someone else's paper; he wanted to use his capital to acquire his own. He set his eyes on the Belletristisches Journal, a German weekly run by Rudolph Lexow, but the two men could not come to terms. On this trip, as well as on subsequent visits to New York in the 1870s, Pulitzer favored the Fifth Avenue Hotel between West Twenty-Third and West Twenty-Fourth streets. Completed in 1858, the six-story, marble-fronted hotel was the first to have a "vertical railroad"—or what would later be called an elevator. It became very popular after the Civil War for its luxurious rooms, each with fireplaces and private bathrooms. Deep-pile carpets with the sultry smells of anthracite and coffee in its immense public rooms, the hotel was favored for party conferences by Republicans, including Liberal Republicans when their stock was rising. By the 1870s, however, newer hotels eclipsed the Fifth Avenue. "The hotel, for all its sober state, was no longer fashionable," lamented Edith Wharton in her novella New Year's Day. "No one, in my memory, had ever known anyone who went there; it was frequented by 'politicians' and 'Westerners,' two classes of citizens whom my mother's intonation always seemed to deprive of their vote by ranking them with illiterates and criminals." At the Fifth Avenue Hotel one day in March, Pulitzer came across a newspaper from St. Louis. Eager to catch up on news from his city, he dived into the issue. Suddenly he spotted his name, in connection with a prominent trial. Several years before, in 1872, a group of businessmen in St. Louis had invested money to rejuvenate the aging Varieties Theater. Pulitzer's friend Hutchins had sunk a considerable sum into the project. It soon failed, but during the ensuing fiscal and legal chaos, Hutchins expanded his investment by buying out other members' shares, at a steep discount. His plan was to force a bankruptcy sale of the theater and its fixtures and then make a claim to the proceeds as a creditor. But other creditors and investors had outmaneuvered Hutchins. As a last resort, he sued. Pulitzer had not been involved in any part of the business and was not accused of any wrongdoing. Yet he was swept up into the scandal because of his friendship with Hutchins. The defendants wanted to put Pulitzer on the stand because they believed he would contradict Hutchins's claims and corroborate testimony helpful to them. Two of the city's most notorious and colorful attorneys, Frank J. Bowman and Britton A. Hill, who had helped Pulitzer's defense in the shooting case four years earlier, represented the defense. The legal duo made a most unlikely pairing. Bowman was a tiny man, said to weigh only 125 pounds. He looked even more minuscule next to the 300-pound Hill. But what he lacked in size, Bowman, nicknamed the "Machiavelli of the St. Louis Bar," made up for in bulldog-like tenacity. He was widely feared by attorneys and businessmen because he had little patience for legal ethics and took his legal battles outside the court, on more than one occasion, by challenging his opponent to a duel. The legal machinations of the case were so complicated that only the most sophisticated lawyers could understand the particulars. But that didn't matter. With so many prominent St. Louisans ensnared, the trial had become the city's most popular soap opera in the spring of 1875. The press suggested that Pulitzer was absent—hiding, in fact—in order to help his friend Hutchins. After setting down the newspaper at his New York hotel, Pulitzer telegraphed the judge in the case. "Never heard anything of the case until just now, and stand ready to take the next train and leave for home and testify," Pulitzer wired. "Please telegraph immediately whether there will be time enough." No reply came, but Pulitzer decided to return anyway. He boarded a train bound for St. Louis the next night, reaching the city on March 20, 1875. An enterprising reporter for the Missouri Republican got word that Pulitzer was back in town and sought him out. He first asked for Pulitzer at the Southern Hotel. "No, sah, not in," said the clerk. Next he tried the Westliche Post. A young reporter assured him not only that was Pulitzer not there but that he rarely set foot in the building. Deterred, the reporter retreated to his office. A few minutes before midnight, a messenger delivered a letter from Pulitzer. It was addressed to the "Press of St. Louis." "Just returning from New York," wrote Pulitzer, "I am both amused and amazed by the animadversions on the part of the generous and unbiased press of St. Louis to connect my purely accidental absence from the city with a pending suit of a scandalous nature." The Missouri Republican, which was used to Pulitzer's lack of honesty with the press, published his comments but added that they "must be taken as 'sarkasm'" and deemed unbelievable "the calm and lofty manner in which he remarks that the opera-house suit was too infinitesimal in proportions to have been heard of by him." The paper was correct. In both his telegram to the judge and his letter to the press, Pulitzer was playing fast and loose with the facts. He had been in St. Louis on March 9, and as an avid newspaper reader, he knew that Hutchins's widely publicized trial was opening on March 8. When the trial convened for its final day on March 23, visitors to the courthouse might have thought they had taken a wrong turn and entered the city's playhouse. That was certainly the image on the mind of the reporter from the Missouri Republican. "A good play of any kind is sure to draw, and Mr. Bowman has put on the stage the best play of the season," he wrote. "The plot of the piece is intricate, the positions startling, and the players all stars. It is no wonder therefore that the play has drawn full houses for over two weeks." The seats in the courtroom were all filled an hour before the curtain was to rise on the last act, and still spectators streamed in. Former mayors, legislators, businessmen, and even judges from other courts had come to watch. Pulitzer knew most of the audience. Among others, there were James Broadhead and Lewis Gottschalk, fellow delegates to the coming constitutional convention; and Colonel Alonzo Slayback, a prominent Democratic attorney with whom Pulitzer had worked in the campaign the previous year. A few minutes before ten o'clock, Bowman made his appearance, and at ten sharp the judge entered. Pulitzer immediately pressed to the front of the courtroom and announced his presence. He said he had learned through the papers that he had been subpoenaed and was prepared to give his testimony. "Not subpoenaed, Mr. Pulitzer," replied the judge. "Subpoenas were issued for you, but returned 'not found.'" "It has been intimated that I went away to avoid being summoned," Pulitzer continued, undeterred. "Now, your honor, I am perfectly willing to tell anything I know about the matter." The judge was unmoved. He told Pulitzer the time for testimony had passed and the case was closed. "You are a member of the bar, and, of course, understand that no further testimony can be introduced after the case is closed." Pulitzer, however, would not desist. "May it please the court," he said, "I have seen in the papers, flings and innuendoes, and insinuations calculated to throw discredit upon me, and I would like the opportunity to make a statement in my own defense." "You are not upon trial," interrupted the judge. "All I ask is simple justice, and this is a court of justice." "Not for everybody," quipped the judge, causing laughter and Pulitzer's retreat. Bowman then rose and began his two-hour summation. That afternoon the jury rewarded the loquacious attorney and returned a verdict in favor of the defense. Bowman had triumphed and Hutchins was out of his money. Hard feelings put aside, many of the same men who had battled in the courtroom gathered the following night for the planned celebration of James Eads at the Southern Hotel. Dining on Solid Rock Oysters, Mock Turtle Soup, Boiled California Salmon with Anchovy Sauce, mutton, beef, turkey, chicken, venison, and sweetbreads, and washing them down with Château Margaux and Krug champagne, the men praised the past and future achievements of their city's famous bridge builder, and Pulitzer celebrated his financial windfall from his association with Eads. In early May 1875, Pulitzer was riding the train to Jefferson City. As he had done five years earlier, he was traveling to the capital as an elected official. This time he was on his way to join sixty-seven other delegates to the constitutional convention in the chambers of the Missouri house of representatives at the capitol. The lobby was filled with spectators eager to see the men who had the task of coming up with a new constitution. The delegates were a fairly homogeneous group; all male, as women did not yet have the right to vote; wealthy, since only a few could afford to spend several weeks away from work; and mostly lawyers. Politically, they represented a backlash against Radical rule. Democrats had complete control of the proceedings. In fact, the convention was almost a Confederate reunion, with more than half of the delegates having served in the Confederacy or having been sympathetic to the cause. At age twenty-eight, Pulitzer was by far the youngest of the delegates—in fact, about twenty years younger than the average. He certainly stood out. He was the only one to have his photograph taken with a hat on, cocked ever so slightly to his right. It was a slouch hat, a style introduced to the United States by the revolutionary leader Lajos Kossuth when he fled Hungary. Along with this hat Pulitzer wore a pince-nez, a mustache, a narrow pointed goatee trimmed in a style known as a Napoleon III, and a royale (a tuft of hair under the lower lip)—if he was seeking to be noticed, he succeeded. Pulitzer had done his research, and he exuded confidence. His tenure as a reporter and a lawmaker had provided him with considerable parliamentary skills, which he was not reluctant to wield. But his sharp tongue, which had aroused Augustine's anger in 1870, was also soon heard. This time he took aim at Lewis Gottschalk, a fellow delegate from St. Louis. As the convention got under way, Gottschalk asked that the secretary of state be directed to report to the convention on rumors appearing in the press about supplementary election returns, which, if counted, would reverse the election results calling for the convention. "I believe," Pulitzer said, "it will be self-evident that the resolution is an insult to the intelligence of this Convention, which is offered by my very learned and honored colleague; and it is certainly an insult to his own intelligence." The war of words rapidly escalated. Gottschalk wanted the new constitution to include an acknowledgment that the state of Missouri and its people were part of the American nation. By themselves the words were innocuous, but coming a decade after the end of the Civil War, they were an attack on the delegates' loyalty to the Union, and they struck a nerve with Pulitzer. "Well, Mr. Chairman, I stand here as an American representative, and as an American," said Pulitzer as he took the floor. "You might as well ask a child to state in writing that he or she is the off-spring of the parent," he continued. "I ask further, Mr. Chairman, I ask the Convention upon what ground, upon what logic other than that of fear, than that of catering to an extravagant and extreme partisan spirit which for a selfish and cowardly purpose..." "Mr. Chairman," interrupted Gottschalk. "I call the gentleman to order." "I expected it," said Pulitzer, to the laughter of the delegates. "I undertake to say that this language is unparliamentary," said Gottschalk, at which point the chairman joined in. "Mr. Pulitzer will come to order," he said. "Well, the truth is never unparliamentary," rejoined Pulitzer, again eliciting a wave of laughter. "The Gentleman will confine himself to the proposition before the Committee," ordered the chairman, trying to bring an end to the dispute, which was threatening to disrupt the work of the delegates. Pulitzer prevailed and the amendment died. Despite the impression of acrimony between Gottschalk and his impertinent young sparring partner, the two men remained good friends. As the summer heat settled down on Jefferson City, the delegates worked day in and day out on crafting a new, acceptable constitution. They began their day at eight in the morning and sat until six-thirty in the evening. After a break for dinner, they met in committees, often until ten or eleven at night. "Really it is the hardest working body I ever saw," one of Pulitzer's friends wrote home. Pulitzer's style as a delegate was unchanged from when he had been a legislator. He was uninterested in the structure and form of the proposed state government. Instead he stuck to his far more parochial aim of freeing St. Louis, the city, from county rule and from state interference. The rural delegates resented St. Louis's insistence on unique consideration in the constitution. But Pulitzer and his old friend Brockmeyer argued that the city deserved preferential treatment because it held a quarter of the state's population and provided half of the state's revenue. A special committee was created to consider St. Louis's demands. Behind closed doors, the committee struggled to produce a consensus that could win the delegates' support. Pulitzer was excluded from its work. Instead, he resorted to being a gadfly on the floor, never letting the issue rest. For instance, when other delegates worried about setting an unusual and difficult precedent by caving in to the city's demands, Pulitzer applied his rhetorical weapon of choice—sarcasm. Precedent, he said, is "the feeble expression of a feeble mind, lacking the inherent ability to express original views that is compelled to seek refuge in a still feebler vestige of ancient, decayed precedents." In the end the committee produced a compromise that would allow St. Louis to separate from county jurisdiction, permanently delineate its city limits, and create its own autonomous governing institutions. The following year, the "great divorce" was mediated by the city and county governments. The city, as Pulitzer and other reformers had hoped, gained independence. St. Louis became the first American city to enact a home rule charter, and the achievement was widely hailed as the nation began to look for innovative ways to govern its burgeoning metropolises. But Pulitzer and other advocates did not foresee that their well-intentioned remedy would eventually cripple St. Louis. Barred from annexing land and facing severe constitutional restrictions on raising taxes, the city would, over time, become impoverished, deserted by its wealthier citizens, and transformed into a destitute urban core surrounded by a wealthy county. As the convention neared its end, a short-lived debate arose on freedom of the press. A delegate wanted to expand the legal safeguards for newspapers against libel suits. He modeled his amendment on an existing clause in Pennsylvania's recently adopted constitution. Under its provisions, both public and private individuals would have to convince a jury that the offending article had been maliciously or negligently published. Pulitzer was only one of three delegates to speak about the proposal. Years before he would become a publisher besieged with libel suits, he delivered his earliest public view on freedom of the press. Pulitzer said that he, like the author of the amendment, had worked in newspapers. "I, sir, stand with a guilty conscience ready to admit that the law under which I contributed some little activity perhaps in that branch of the profession should in my opinion be rather strengthened than weakened. I am sorry to say it, ready to confess that perhaps I have been myself guilty of slandering and libeling persons, not maliciously, certainly not." Under the proposed plan, he said, it would be impossible to convict any proprietor of a newspaper, because proprietors so rarely have anything to do with the content of newspapers. Rather, a newspaper is assembled by editors and reporters. "In other words those who own newspapers scarcely ever make them." For evidence he pointed to the newspapers of St. Louis. "The leading papers in that city today are run and conducted by persons who do not own them and...the persons who do own them are scarcely fit to write the smallest and most unimportant part of the paper." The law, Pulitzer claimed, needed no alteration, and newspapers required no additional constitutional protections. "The power of the press, Mr. President, is sufficiently large," Pulitzer said. "They have prospered and grown powerful under the very laws which the gentleman from Boone now charges with being dangerous and working great injustice." Then, in a singular moment, Pulitzer turned to confession. He told his fellow delegates that he had been part of three or four libel suits while at the Westliche Post. "I do not know of a single instance where injustice was done to the press and I could mention several instances to the contrary. Perhaps, if I have at this moment impressed any of my friends who have no occasion to become familiar with the practical workings of the newspaper fraternity, I shall consider it in the nature of an atonement for many acts heretofore committed for which I am sorry." Years later, when his enemies sought to rein in Pulitzer's power as a newspaper publisher, no one thought to consult the convention transcript. In July the convention ended, its work complete. Pulitzer returned to a St. Louis that seemed increasingly empty. He was unwelcome at the Westliche Post and in the homes of Schurz and Preetorius. Equally discouraging, many of his best friends were moving east to Washington and New York. Pulitzer was once again at a crossroads. Professionally, it was a stretch for him to consider himself a lawyer, as he had no established practice. Nor could he call himself a journalist, as he had no permanent affiliation to any newspaper. His small political revival as a member of the constitutional convention was at an end and there were no other such opportunities on the horizon. Financially, he had a comfortable place in his adopted country, but he remained socially adrift and professionally rudderless. In the fall of 1875, Pulitzer retreated to a quiet life in St. Louis. He handled a few minor legal chores and took on some occasional newspaper work for Hutchins at the St. Louis Times. After years that had promised success in journalism and politics, Pulitzer entered a barren stretch, compounding his aimlessness. He was twenty-eight years old. He had no definite profession, and not even a home other than a room at the Southern Hotel. A sense of failure hung over him. Even his characteristic combativeness was subdued. He declined, for instance, to enter a squabble involving Schurz, instead writing to his friend Hermann Raster, editor of the Illinois Staats-Zeitung in Chicago, "I naturally would prefer not to be pulled into the controversy, since I do not have a newspaper at my disposal." The only good news on the horizon was that Pulitzer and his Liberal Republican friends had been the cause of the newest scandal facing the Grant administration. It was sweet revenge. The public was learning that during the Missouri Republican insurgency, Grant had dispatched his supervisor general of internal revenue to St. Louis to fight the rebellion. To fund his counterinsurgency efforts, the supervisor and others recruited distillers, storekeepers, and revenue agents and others into a conspiracy to sell more whiskey than was reported, thereby defrauding the government of thousands of dollars of taxes. The money of the "Whiskey Ring" then was redirected to newspapers that favored their cause and also served to create financial incentives for those newspapers that still remained on the fence. In May, when Pulitzer had been in Jefferson City working on the new constitution, federal agents apprehended the swindlers. The five ringleaders included William McKee, formerly of the Democrat but now the proprietor of the St. Louis Globe. Suddenly, it became clear to Pulitzer and others why McKee had fired Grosvenor during the 1872 election and returned to the ranks of Grant's supporters. In December a grand jury in St. Louis indicted General Orville E. Babcock, Grant's private secretary, on a charge of conspiracy to defraud the U.S. Treasury. Babcock's trial was set for February 7, 1876, and wags in the local press promised that the event would be as important as the trial of Aaron Burr or the impeachment of President Johnson. Reporters came from all parts of the nation. Among them was Albert Pulitzer. No longer a teenage waif camping in Joseph's room at the boardinghouse, Albert returned to St. Louis for the trial as a tall, slender, dapper, twenty-five-year-old correspondent for the New York Herald. His softly spoken English betrayed only the slightest accent. His ascendency to the New York Herald had completed Albert's professional metamorphosis and also brought a dramatic change in his personal life. During his first year at the paper he was sent to the Grand Central Hotel, then the largest hotel in the country, to follow up on a story of an Englishwoman who, even in the company of a chaperone, had been defrauded of all her money upon arriving in New York. Albert located the victim and discovered that she was young, attractive, and unattached. His interview for the paper turned into a courtship and on June 15, 1873, Fanny Barnard and Albert Pulitzer were married. At the Herald, Albert won a reputation for his interviews. "Cool, genial, winning, indefatigable, incapable of being rebuffed, he was the champion interviewer of his paper," said one noted British journalist and politician. "No one could hold a candle to him." He was certainly persistent in pursuit of his quarries. Once he obtained an interview with the embattled Mayor Oakey Hall, caught up in the Tweed scandal, by shouting questions through the keyhole of a bathroom where the mayor was hiding. Joseph joined Albert at Babcock's trial. Hutchins had assigned Joseph to cover the event for his St. Louis Times, a minor paper in comparison with Albert's. A small journalistic triumph, though, helped Joseph overcome the discomfort of being overshadowed by his younger brother. About a week before the trial got under way, the attorney general sent a letter to prosecutors prohibiting any plea bargaining. The letter ostensibly reflected the "no deal" policy that the president had proclaimed in an effort to seem supportive of a vigorous criminal investigation. However, the real effect of the letter, as any lawyer knew, would be to scare off witnesses and curtail a prosecutor's best means of persuading guilty parties to testify against higher-ups. When he received his letter, U.S. District Attorney David P. Dyer in St. Louis immediately understood what its publication could do to his case. He sealed it up in another envelope and put it away. "I did not think it prudent at the time to publish the letter or let any one have it; there was no man in my office, not even my assistants, that saw it," Dyer said. A few days later, Joseph came to the U.S. attorney's office and handed Dyer a clipping from the Illinois Staats-Zeitung. Laughing, Pulitzer said, "I wish you would read this slip." Dyer took the sheet from Pulitzer, gazed at it for a moment, and replied that, as he could not read German, the only word he recognized was the name of the attorney general. "Now," Pulitzer said, "I want to read you the translation I have made of that letter and I want to know whether you have such a letter in your possession." Pulitzer then read his English translation. Dyer confirmed that, indeed, he had a letter that sounded very much like the one Pulitzer had just read. "Won't you permit me to examine your letter and compare it with my translation, to see whether the translation is correct?" asked Pulitzer. "No," Dyer said, "you cannot see any official letter in my office." "I will publish the letter anyhow tomorrow morning, whether you give it to me or not, and if not correct, you will have to take it to be correct." "You can publish what you please from other papers, but you cannot get my letters." Pulitzer returned to the St. Louis Times office. The next morning the paper published the letter. A furious Dyer, in the company of James Broadhead, who after serving in the convention with Pulitzer was now working as an assistant U.S. attorney, arrived at the office. They went immediately to see Hutchins and Pulitzer. Dyer told Hutchins he had made a mistake in publishing the letter if he really wanted to help convict the ring's members. Its publication was crippling the prosecution. His remarks were greeted by laughter by Hutchins and Pulitzer, but as a small concession, the Times ran an item the next day stating that Dyer was not the source of the leaked letter. In April, Pulitzer's restlessness prevailed. Even with the 1876 nominating season approaching, Pulitzer left for New York and took a ship bound for Europe. He went first to Paris, armed with a letter of introduction from former senator John Henderson of Missouri to Elihu Washburne, the American minister to France. Henderson detailed the political service of "my young friend" and asked that he be extended official courtesies. Washburne complied and even offered to supply Pulitzer with theater or opera tickets. Pulitzer, however, cut short his stay in Paris without availing himself of Washburne's cultural amenities. In Germany, Pulitzer took in a political meeting. Unlike the boisterous affairs he had become used to in the United States, the German gathering was orderly and businesslike. Its conclusion was also a shock for an American. "Suddenly a hitherto silent and quiet man arose upon the platform and walked up to the chairman," Pulitzer said. The chairman then interrupted the speaker and the unknown man replaced him at the podium. He revealed that he was an officer of the law and declared that the meeting was over because the speaker had violated the law by criticizing the cabinet. "The chairman muttered some words of protest," Pulitzer said, there "were some indignant expressions in the audience, but the interrupted speaker spoke no more, and in a very few moments the meeting was actually dissolved." As much as Europe captivated Pulitzer, the calendar inexorably drew him back to the United States. It was an election year—a presidential one. Ever since witnessing Lincoln's reelection while in the Union army, Pulitzer regarded elections as the high holy days of democracy. They couldn't be missed. ## Chapter Ten ## FRAUD AND HIS FRAUDULENCY The presidential campaign was under way by the time Pulitzer boarded the Cunard steamship Bothnia in Liverpool on July 15, 1876. Disembarking in New York eleven days later, he repaired to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where, in possession of New York newspapers, he caught up on the political news, having survived for three months on the incomplete and dated dispatches that reached Europe. By his absence, Pulitzer had passed up a chance to attend the Democratic national convention, which had concluded the previous month in St. Louis. His friends and political partners hadn't missed it. Hutchins and Slayback were delegates from Missouri, and Watterson was a delegate from Kentucky. In fact, Watterson had brought the hall to its feet when he urged delegates—descendants of Jackson, as he called them—"to wrest the government...from the clutches of rings and robbers." The Democrats were convinced they had, at long last, picked a winner in selecting as their candidate Governor Samuel J. Tilden of New York, who prosecuted Boss Tweed. If corruption was the issue, no better white knight could be found. Pulitzer was elated with the choice and immediately put himself at the service of the party. While his friends were asked to work solely in their own political backyards, Pulitzer was invited to engage the enemy on the important battleground of Ohio and Indiana. Because they held their state government elections in October, the two states were considered bellwethers, exercising extraordinary influence on November's federal elections. Pulitzer's status as a former Republican, widely known among German voters, made him useful in reaching voters in the two states, each of which had a large German population. In early September, Pulitzer made a jubilant return to Indianapolis, where he had campaigned in vain for Greeley four years earlier. This time he was convinced that he was traveling on behalf of a winning ticket. The Republican convention's nomination of Rutherford Hayes, whose main attribute was his inoffensiveness, only increased Democratic optimism. "The hosts of reform are marching to victory all over the state, and the days of Grantism and Mortonism are doomed," prophesied the Democratic Indianapolis Sentinel. The euphoric sense of an approaching Democratic triumph infected thousands of party stalwarts. On Saturday night, September 2, they marched to the Grand Hotel to escort Pulitzer to the hall where he was to give his address. The main thoroughfare teemed with Democrats bearing torches. "As far as the eye could reach out Delaware Street, the lights were seen until they blended in one almost on the horizon," reported the Sentinel. When Pulitzer and his entourage reached the hall, only a few seats remained empty. As the rambunctious audience quieted, Pulitzer began by describing the suppression of the political meeting in Germany he had witnessed a few months earlier. "Such is liberty in Europe!" exclaimed Pulitzer, "I, too, though but a stranger there, felt the outrage; but greater than my indignation at that moment was my pride in knowing that I, too, was an American, a free man in whose country no peaceable meeting could be dispersed at the bidding of the police." However, he continued, his pride in his American freedoms had been damaged by the actions of Republicans. In the decade since he had become an American, he had seen a president impeached in an act of "reckless partisanship" the South given up to "public plunder like so much conquered booty" a reconstruction act turn masters into "political slaves" and slaves into "masters" the election of a president who had never "read the Constitution," with a "servile Senate at his feet" a "self-confessed thief" in the cabinet; and political appointees consorting with "notorious thieves." At the heart of his complaint was that the Republican Party—the party founded on a belief in equality—"gave up principles for power," said Pulitzer. "I saw laws and Constitution trampled upon, and crime and corruption flourish." For more than an hour, Pulitzer's attacks on his former political party enthralled his decidedly partisan audience. Although he was still called a "German orator" and his command of English had been long in coming, he now displayed the erudition inspired by Davidson and acquired at the Mercantile Library. The speech was well organized, with broad themes supported by clever use of examples, possessed an effective cadence, built on alliterative lines, and marshaled such linguistic force that it both inspired converts and won grudging respect from the opposition. The Indianapolis Sentinel reproduced his speech in full, and it was quoted in newspapers as far away as Texas. Fresh from his triumph in Indianapolis, Pulitzer dashed around the state, speaking at a dozen smaller venues. He took time to stop in Cincinnati and visit with John Cockerill, whom he had met at the Liberal Republican Convention. As in 1872, Pulitzer and Cockerill were on the same side politically, but now only one of them commanded a newspaper. It wasn't Pulitzer. Cockerill had risen to become managing editor of the Cincinnati Enquirer, a Democratic paper, and was using every part of his seven-column editorial page to boost Tilden's candidacy, accusing the Republicans of illicit use of money and power. In mid-September, Pulitzer dropped off the campaign trail for two days of rest in St. Louis. From his room at the Southern Hotel, he sent an exultant letter to the famous journalist George Alfred Townsend, another veteran of Greeley's campaign. "My success was probably as astonishing to myself as it was to others. If you looked at the Western papers you probably saw how undeservedly well I was treated." The false humility of the letter was betrayed by his real objective in writing. Pulitzer wanted Townsend to publish a sketch about his life. To that end, he enclosed an entry about him from a new book. "You certainly have sufficient data now," Pulitzer wrote. "If possible try to get it into the Philadelphia Times." Campaigning for Tilden served the party's cause, but it also benefited Pulitzer's cause. "Whether Tilden or Hayes be elected," Pulitzer said, "I shall strive to bring some reputation out of this campaign." The next day Pulitzer returned to the railroad and a grueling campaign schedule that took him to Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, Boston, and New York. On the road, he continued to hammer away at Hayes, and at Levi Morton, financial chairman of the Republican National Committee. But he added a new target. With growing regularity, Pulitzer took aim at Carl Schurz, who had come in from the cold and was now supporting the Republican ticket. "If the great Schurz tells the truth, the great Morton is a liar," Pulitzer said in one speech, highlighting the inconsistencies of the two men and drawing cheers. "If the great Morton tells the truth, the great Schurz is a liar," he continued, to increasing cheers. And then, bringing down the house, he concluded, "If they both speak the truth they must both be liars!" To the delight of the press, Pulitzer challenged Schurz to debate him. Schurz's spokesman gave a dismissive response wrapped in courteous language. "In arranging for a joint discussion between gentlemen," said the spokesman, "certainly some regard should be had to their character, services, and reputation. Having this in view, of course the proposition is declined." Pulitzer's friend Hutchins couldn't resist joining the fray with a jab or two of his own in the St. Louis Times. "Of course, Mr. Schurz will not consent to a discussion of the issues of the campaign with Mr. Pulitzer, because he would be the last man to acknowledge the intellectual equality of his former lieutenant and associate." Although Schurz remained above the fray, his paper did not let the attack pass unchallenged. The Westliche Post published a long, scathing article on its former star reporter, editor, and part owner. "The advantage and gain, should such a debate have taken place, would all be on the side of Pulitzer," said the paper, taking Pulitzer's favorite tack: sarcasm. "The contest would have been like one between a louse and an elephant—the former could climb upon the latter, but the elephant would crush the louse with his left toe." Even the New York Times, which had excoriated Schurz during the Liberal Republican revolt, now took his side. Pulitzer "belongs to the large class of unappreciated fools who mistake themselves for great men. Who is there to mourn for Pulitzer? No one." Pulitzer sought to portray his feud with Schurz as political, not personal. But his actions wounded their friendship, and Pulitzer confessed as much in late September. "I followed myself in the course of this counterfeit reformer with enthusiasm and admiration only possible to the warm impulses of youth that blind cold judgment," he said. "But however much I should have preferred in ordinary times to remain silent at the grave of departed friendship, the present crisis in our history must dwarf all personal considerations." The drudgery of stump speeches, the tedium of railway travel, and battered friendships faded as October brought encouraging news. Democrats won the state elections in both Indiana and Ohio. The result was the very outcome that Tilden's opponent, Hayes, feared. It seemed as if a victory for Tilden was now only a matter of time. With a favorable political wind at his back, Pulitzer appeared at the biggest venue yet—Detroit's opera house—on October 18. He was introduced to the capacity audience as the man Schurz wouldn't face. "And," said the speaker introducing him, "Mr. Pulitzer, I promise you, will first analyze Mr. Schurz and then pulverize him." As in his other speeches, Pulitzer tore into Schurz. But this time he also offered his most direct explanation yet of his political migration during the past decade. "I am glad to say I am no partisan," he said. "I cordially cooperated with the Republican Party so long as it pursued the right path, and as cordially oppose it now, convinced that it is a mass of corruption. I do battle willingly for Tilden and Reform and will as freely oppose misrule by the Democratic Party." At the end of October, Pulitzer reached New York City. By this time he had given more than seventy speeches, but he remained willing to deliver a few more in Brooklyn, in Queens, and across the river in Hoboken, New Jersey. New York Democrats rewarded him with an honor, including him among the guests at a reception at the Manhattan Club for the party's presidential candidate. About 300 politicians attended, including members of the Democratic National Committee; August Belmont, the banker and American minister; and Oakey Hall, the former mayor, whom Albert had famously trapped in a bathroom for an interview. Pulitzer's role in the campaign came to an end the following evening with a speech at Cooper Union, the great hall where, in 1860, a relatively unknown Abraham Lincoln had given a famous address that set him on the path to the White House. To cheers and the accompaniment of a band, Pulitzer once again took up Schurz as his theme. "I came here to answer Carl Schurz," he said. "And in speaking of him you will pardon me for saying that I do so more in a spirit of sorrow than of anger. I have no ill feeling against him. "In earlier days I followed the leadership of that man, but I am free to say that if I ever did think he was a great light which any patriotic citizen could follow, I think now that he is but a great Will 'o the wisp," he continued, to the laughter of the mostly German crowd. Then, casting doubt on his claim that he had no ill feeling toward Schurz, Pulitzer continued his attack, like a dog unwilling to loosen its grip on a bone. He highlighted all of Schurz's inconsistencies, changes of heart, and electoral vacillations. "He is perfectly consistent in advocating the election of every popular candidate whose nomination he had previously denounced and damned, and also damning and denouncing the nomination of every popular candidate whose election he afterward supported and favored." Bringing his assault on Schurz to a close, Pulitzer then made his pitch to elect a Democrat for the first time since before the Civil War. "I stand here to say the war is over, and it is time that it should be," Pulitzer said. Ringing out one applause line after another, he told the audience that the Union had not been saved for robbers, thieves, and carpetbaggers. "The Southern people belong to us and we belong to them. Their interests are our interests; their rights should be our rights; their wrongs should be our wrongs. Their prosperity is our prosperity; their poverty is our poverty," he said, to waves of applause and cheers. "We are one people, one country, and one government; and whoever endeavors to make the union of all the people impossible, is a traitor to his country." The New York Sun gave front-page coverage to Pulitzer's address at Cooper Union. As an unabashed admirer of the Sun and of its editor, Pulitzer went to call on Charles Dana. The Sun was on the same block of Park Row as the New York Tribune's new building, which rose ten stories and towered over everything else in New York except the spire of Trinity Church. As newspapers sought new ways to find readers, the circulation wars of Park Row expanded into architecture. Dana had abstained from this new battle. The structure that housed his enterprise, which had once served as headquarters to Tammany Hall, was aging and run-down. To reach Dana's office, Pulitzer ascended a narrow iron spiral staircase and passed through a cavernous loft filled with reporters and editors dashing about, shouting, in an atmosphere of controlled bedlam. The famous editor's office was a quiet refuge. From its door, its occupant and his long, white flowing beard and gleaming, bespectacled eyes gave him almost a look of Santa Claus. (Years later, after Dana's time, the Sun published the famous editorial "Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus.") But Dana's personality was hardly charitable. Not only were his editorials direct, pointed, often caustic, and at times abusive; he also ran a very efficient, no-nonsense, parsimonious business. Although he was much Dana's junior, Pulitzer had a lot in common with him politically. The Grant administration had caused them both to abandon the Republican camp. But, unlike Schurz, Dana was willing to support a Democrat. Tilden had been a favorite of Dana's since his fight against the Tweed Ring, and the Sun had contributed heavily to his election as governor of New York. Now Dana hoped his paper would help put his man in the White House. After a while, Dana brought Pulitzer out of his office and introduced him to his editor and heir apparent, Edward P. Mitchell. The paper was in a frenzy over the election, but the topic foremost on Pulitzer's mind was his own desire to get a perch in New York journalism. He had tried and failed to buy the New York Belletristisches Journal. Only months before, while walking with a friend in Washington, he had confessed that he still couldn't shake off his ambition to run a New York paper. Now he shared his idea with Mitchell and Dana. Pulitzer told the men he wanted to launch a German edition of the Sun to compete with the New York Staats-Zeitung, a prominent German paper. The plan he put forward was that the Sun would own and publish the new paper but that he would edit it, translate for it, and add his own material. Dana, however, was uninterested, and Pulitzer left, no closer to breaking into Park Row. On election night, the nation's telegraph lines transmitted the results to New York, where the parties had their headquarters. As predicted, Hayes carried most of New England, but his margins were weaker than those of Grant four years earlier. Tilden carried New York and New Jersey, both states that Grant had won. In the Midwest, Tilden won Indiana, Missouri, and a solid swatch of states to the south. It looked as though the electoral count, though close, would be in the Democrats' favor for the first time since before the Civil War. The popular vote was unquestionably for the Democrat: Tilden had 51 percent of it, and Hayes 48 percent. But as the night went on, Oregon and three states in the South refused to fall into the Democratic column. The southern states were South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana—coincidentally, the last remaining Confederate states in which Grant still kept federal troops. As officials squabbled over the results, the electoral votes from the four disputed states were not tallied. In the morning, Tilden had 184 electoral votes, one short of the majority needed to win. Hayes had 165. The nation's partisan press roared to life, each newspaper declaring its man the winner and refusing to concede. Pulitzer quickly joined the fray. Writing in the St. Louis Times, he bravely proclaimed that the "hopes of Republicans about the result of the election are as groundless as the fears of the Democrats. Mr. Tilden is elected." Whether he was putting on a brave face, believing that this was tactically smart, or was unable to concede that his side might have lost, Pulitzer continued to claim Tilden had won. "I do not share the grave apprehensions of nearly all my Democratic friends," he said a week later. In every scenario that he could dream up, such as the election's being thrown into the House or the Senate's certifying the contested states, the result would still give the presidency to the Democrats. "For these reasons I don't think there's much ground for serious alarm about the final results," he said. If it were to come out differently, Grant and the Republicans "would be the rebels fighting against their country." In New York, Dana refused to doubt that the election was anything but a victory for Tilden. But it became clear that the outcome would be resolved by Congress. For the second time in a decade, Dana hired Pulitzer to write for the paper. He asked him to go to Washington and cover the disputed election. It was a choice assignment. When Pulitzer arrived in Washington in late December, the unresolved election had stirred the city into a frenzy. Armed conflict did not seem out of the question, especially after President Grant stationed additional soldiers near the city. "It is not impossible that such a condition of affairs might have led to bloodshed," wrote one politically savvy observer. As a member of the Washington press corps, Pulitzer watched the comings and goings at the Capitol, interviewed members of the Senate, and kept an ear open to the conversations of the city's politicos. His first dispatches to the Sun appeared just after Christmas. They were a marvel of optimism. "There will be no war," he began. "The woman that hesitates is lost. The Republican confederates hesitated. They will lose." By this point, both the House and the Senate had appointed special committees to devise a means of resolving the election. Pulitzer believed that the outcome rested in the hands of nine Republican senators. "My answer, based upon close observation, direct information, and personal conversation with the members of the Senate, is that these nine will be found on the right side when they are really needed," Pulitzer reported. Dana permitted Pulitzer a byline, a rare privilege in that era; and, considering that the Sun was only a four-page paper, the space devoted to his dispatches gave Pulitzer considerable prominence. For the first two weeks of January 1877, Pulitzer continued to predict a victory for Tilden. Pulitzer's reasoning was not without foundation. By the end of January, the House and Senate had passed, with strong Democratic support, a bill creating the Electoral Commission, whose job it would be to resolve the election, presumably in Tilden's favor. Pulitzer did not limit his advocacy of Tilden to the pages of the Sun. On January 8, 1877, he joined his friend Watterson at a mass meeting at Ford's Theater under the auspices of the Tilden-Hendricks Reform Club. Though the flyers had promised that prominent members of Congress would attend, the two most recognizable speakers turned out to be Watterson and Pulitzer. Watterson offered a fiery denunciation of the Republicans' efforts to thwart Tilden's election. He declared that 100,000 unarmed citizens would descend on the capital on February 14. The announcement startled many Democrats, who had heard of no plans for any demonstration. Pulitzer followed Watterson's lead and delivered a harangue that even a sympathetic newspaper called "incendiary and revolutionary." Pulitzer said he was "ready to bare his breast to the bullets of the tyrant, and rush headlong upon his glittering steel." Pulitzer's intemperate speech troubled Dana. Pulitzer's dispatches disappeared from the pages of the Sun for the remainder of the month. It was not until February 10 that Pulitzer resumed his articles. By then, it was becoming clear Tilden's cause was lost. The Electoral Commission was going to side with the Republicans because a tactical mistake had resulted in giving the deciding vote on the fifteen-member panel to a Republican. "When the work of the returning boards of South Carolina, Louisiana, and Florida was finally completed," Pulitzer wrote, "and these states given to Mr. Hayes, wresting the fruits of success from the party to whom they have seemed to belong, by a bare majority of one, the chagrin of the Democratic Party was deep seated and bitter to the last degree." On March 2, the wrangling came to an end. Congress awarded the presidency to Hayes. Democrats accepted the result because a tacit deal had been made whereby their acquiescence would be rewarded with a withdrawal of federal troops from the South. In fact, after assuming office, Hayes removed the remaining federal forces from southern state capitals, and Reconstruction came to an effective end. The Democrats lost the White House, but for southern Democrats, their second rebellion against the national government—this one nonviolent—was a success. Dana could not accept the defeat. For the next four years, his paper referred to Hayes as the "Fraudulent President." Disgusted, Pulitzer left Washington for St. Louis. A week after the inauguration, he admitted the fight was over. "We may have lost much as American citizens, but we have lost little as partisans," he wrote. "It is only four years. We have not been defeated, but defrauded." The loss stung. Pulitzer understood that politics, though exhilarating, could include defeats, but each path he took came to the same conclusion. As a Republican, he had lost his office. As an insurgent reformer, he had joined a movement that went nowhere. And, now after crossing a political Rubicon by changing his affiliation to a party whose victory seemed inevitable, the result was unchanged. It was not hard to conclude that politics, like journalism, seemed to be a dead end. In St. Louis Pulitzer took up residence again at the Southern Hotel. This time he took two rooms on the fifth floor. When the six-story Ohio sandstone hotel opened in 1865, to great fanfare, the local press had invoked the image of the Egyptian pyramids. The Southern Hotel was still among the nation's largest, occupying most of a block and capable of accommodating 700 guests. On April 10, Pulitzer celebrated his thirtieth birthday at a friend's house with Hutchins and others. At midnight, he returned to the Southern, walked through the office past the night clerk, and rode the elevator to his rooms, where he promptly went to bed. A little over an hour later, muffled noises awoke him. He thought he heard the word "fire" but concluded that the voices were coming from the street and that the fire was elsewhere, so he turned over to go back to sleep again. "Suddenly I heard women's shrieks, seemingly in the hotel," Pulitzer said. He jumped from his bed, lit the gas lamp, and looked at his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning. In his nightshirt, Pulitzer dashed into the hall. It was filled with smoke. He took the stairs down to the fourth floor, where he found two frantic women. "I tried to pacify them and took them to the parlor floor," he said. "The ladies were en negligée and I took them to a room of a lady on that floor who gave them apparel." Then, foolishly, Pulitzer ran back upstairs to his own room. There he donned his pants, which contained his wallet, and put on a vest. When he exited his room, the smoke had become so dense that the gaslights no longer illuminated the halls. Yet Pulitzer turned back one more time, to retrieve his eyeglasses, thinking they might help. As he at last descended the stairs, he saw that almost every floor was engulfed in flames. The fire engines arrived at the hotel a few minutes after Pulitzer reached the street. Red flames burst from first- and second-story windows, and smoke poured from every opening in the building. Guests continued to spill onto the street, but it became obvious to rescuers that many remained inside. "First one window and another in rapid succession were violently raised, heads of men, women, and children were seen everywhere, and a wild cry for help filled the air," said a reporter who arrived on the scene. As the firemen raised ladders into position, they urged the trapped guests to remain calm. But it soon became apparent that the ladders could not reach above the fourth floor. Panicked guests began climbing down on knotted sheets. One man slid from the sixth floor on tied sheets, only to realize when he got to the end of his makeshift rope that he was still 120 feet above the ground. With flames leaping about him, he jumped. "He was immediately picked up and carried into an adjoining saloon, and lived long enough to say that his name was J. F. Stevens, when he expired," the reporter said. "Two other faces soon appeared at the window from which he had jumped, but the flame and smoke closed them from view almost instantly, and left no doubt of the awful fate that befell them." By dawn nothing remained of the hotel. Firemen hosed down the embers as the search for bodies began. In all, twenty-one people died in the fire. On April 16, a coroner's inquest was begun. A jury was sworn in over the body of Kate Nolan, one of the servants who had perished in the fire; her body had been kept in the morgue for this purpose. Pulitzer was the first witness called. He recounted how he had been awakened, had helped the two women, had returned to his room, and then had fled the hotel. One of the jurors asked Pulitzer if he was certain about the time when he awoke. Pulitzer said he didn't know how close his watch was to "telegraph" time, but he felt confident it was between half-past one and quarter to two when he made his escape. "I will say that no alarm was given in the house, so far as I heard," he told the jurors. "I think the shrieks of the women were very fortunate, for had it not been for that, fully one hundred persons would have perished. I know I would have been one, for I am a very sound sleeper." On April 27, the jury concluded that the fire had originated in the basement of the hotel, possibly in the wine cellar, and that it had spread quickly to the upper floors through the elevator shaft. The building was deemed to have been safe, but the hotel management was faulted for doing an inadequate job of fire prevention. When the coroner's jury issued its report, Pulitzer was back in New York, again staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He and Albert had received word that their mother was ill and might be dying. They decided that only Albert would go to Hungary. Joseph had no work obligations, but his phobia of funerals overwhelmed his filial devotion. In order to make the trip, Albert persuaded the New York Herald to send him to cover the war between Russia and Turkey, which had just erupted. Before leaving he compiled in a small notebook a list of items to buy in Europe. These included lingerie, gloves, a fan, and a brooch for his wife and alpaca for his son's nurse. For Joseph, he promised to buy a frock coat and an overcoat. On April 26, Albert left New York on the Hammonia, bound for Hamburg. A month later, Albert reached Detta, the Hungarian city where their mother had moved after remarrying. The day he arrived, Elize died. Upon receiving the news, Albert's wife wrote a consoling letter from their house on Washington Square, where she had remained with their newborn son, Walter. "Oh, why can I not fly to you, my poor, bereaved darling, and mingle my heart-felt tears with thine," Fannie Pulitzer wrote. "I wish you had gone sooner. I suppose the thread of life was so fragile within her that whenever you had gone the shock would have killed her." Their mother's death left Joseph and Albert the only living members of the large, original family. For Joseph, Elize had been the single most important element of his youth in Hungary. When he reached the United States in 1864, he had sent her the gold coin handkerchief ring, bought with his first earnings. In St. Louis, he had shown his miniature portrait of her to all his new friends. At least twice in the intervening years, he had made the arduous trip home to Hungary to see her. In the best of circumstances, the loss of one's only surviving parent inspires self-reflection. For Joseph—now thirty, and with no specific profession or even a home—such introspection was demoralizing. Whenever Pulitzer was in turmoil, he would become restless and pick up and go elsewhere, as if he were searching for a geographical solution to his woes. Now he left New York and traveled to Saratoga and then to Springfield, Massachusetts. There he visited Samuel Bowles, another newspaper editor with whom he had been friends during the Liberal Republican crusade. Although Bowles edited the modest Springfield Republican, started by his father in 1824, he was one of a few editors outside New York who were nationally famous, such as Halstead in Cincinnati and Watterson in Louisville. Pulitzer found the aging editor living in a beautiful ivy-covered cottage surrounded by acres of flowers, shrubbery, fountains, and walks amid maple, oak, and magnolia trees. They spent several hours together, talking politics. To his dismay, Pulitzer discovered that Bowles supported the Hayes administration. "He may be wearied by his long fight against both parties; he may be softened by growing years and the growing sweetness of home," said Pulitzer. Because of Bowles's stature, Pulitzer's visit had the flavor of a pilgrimage. He shared the experience in a reverential account published in the New York Sun. The 800-word article, filled with praise for Bowles's journalism, revealed Pulitzer's own literary growth. It was not that Pulitzer had become a polished writer. In fact, many of his allusions seemed forced, his sentences wordy even for an era of breath-challenging sentences, and his choice of vocabulary highly self-conscious. But the piece was the work of a well-read thirty-year-old immigrant comfortable in his new tongue. He began by introducing his readers to Bowles's hometown. "Trees remarkable for size and beauty; streets picturesquely winding over promontories; every house a garden; the silver stream of the shallow Connecticut obsequiously washing the feet of precipitous bluffs; steeped in the softest green; streets well made and rarely tidy; school houses and churches numerous and of good architecture; Swiss cottages for dwellings; wherever you look, green and air and room—this is the town of Springfield, Mass." With a flourish, typical of the slow-paced style of the set pieces of the era, Pulitzer laboriously—as if confessing—revealed that the purpose of his journey was to see Samuel Bowles. "I am glad it is out," he wrote. "With all regard for delicacy, one might as well see 'Hamlet' without the part of the Prince of Denmark as write about Springfield with Sam Bowles omitted." In August, Charles Johnson came east to spend time with Pulitzer, but when he reached the Fifth Avenue Hotel he found that Pulitzer had gone to take the baths at White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. Johnson wrote and persuaded Pulitzer to meet him at Long Branch, New Jersey, a coastal resort that had become glamorous when President Grant chose to summer there. Other friends, including Alfred Townsend, joined them. They spent their days bathing in the ocean and riding horseback. "In the evening," Johnson said, "we discussed almost everything." Pulitzer sprained his ankle and was confined to his room. Albert, who had returned from Europe, came down to stay with him. A few days later, the group left Long Branch for New York, where they took in shows, including one in an old railroad depot that had been converted by P. T. Barnum into a hippodrome named Gilmore's Garden in honor of Patrick S. Gilmore, a bandmaster whose best-known composition was "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." (Two years later, the hippodrome was renamed Madison Square Garden.) Pulitzer and Hutchins tried to talk Johnson into accompanying them to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, but he declined. In early October, Pulitzer returned to St. Louis. He saw a performance of Hamlet by Edwin Booth, the nineteenth century's most famous American Shakespearean actor (and brother of the assassin). Just as Hamlet is concerned with his famous question of being, Pulitzer still had no answer for the one that confronted him. At the end of 1877 he was no closer than four years prior, when he had left the Westliche Post, to finding a place for himself in his adopted land. Politics had let him down. After experiencing New York, St. Louis confined him. And, aside from a brief attraction to a neighbor's daughter and to one of Schurz's daughters, Pulitzer had thus far remained free of love. By the end of the month, he was on the move again, this time back to Washington. ## Chapter Eleven ## NANNIE AND KATE As 1877 ended and 1878 began, Pulitzer was caught between two places, two professions, and two women. The confluence of all three problems pressed the thirty-year-old Pulitzer for decisions. "I am almost tired of this life—aimless, homeless, loveless," he wrote. St. Louis grew less attractive and Pulitzer spent more time in Washington, which he had come to know while covering the 1876 election debacle for the New York Sun. His friend Hutchins had also moved to the capital and was starting a new Democratic newspaper. On December 6, 1877, the first issue of Hutchins's Washington Post hit the streets. Four pages long, it looked a lot like the St. Louis Times. Although it had no graphics, the Post was a lively contrast to the dull papers of Washington. "The newspapers of that city were dreary mockeries of the profession," said the poet and journalist Eugene Field, who used to accompany Pulitzer to musical soirees with the "five nightingales" in St. Louis and had come to work at the Post. Field was not the only one on the Post staff that Pulitzer knew. John Cockerill, whom Pulitzer befriended at the convention of 1872, had signed on as Hutchins's managing editor. Under Cockerill's rule, the Post packed in more news per square inch than any other paper in town, wrapping it around punchy editorials. The paper was an immediate hit. "It was the marvel of Washington journalism," Field said. "The newspaper world of the continent, who had no idea any good could come out of Nazareth, gaped in astonishment when this bright, saucy, vigorous bantling pranced blithely into the ring." Journalism, however, was not on Pulitzer's mind. He had come to Washington not as a reporter but as a lawyer for an election dispute. In Missouri's Third Congressional district, the Democrat, Richard Graham Frost, had been designated the winner, with one vote more than his Republican opponent, Lyne Metcalfe. But Metcalfe persuaded the courts to award him the seat, successfully claiming that Frost's supporters had changed a "7" to a "9" in one of the poll books to supply the winning margin. Now Frost's only remaining recourse was an appeal to the House Committee on Elections. To pursue this, Frost hired Pulitzer, whom he knew as a colleague in the St. Louis bar. The Committee on Elections began its work in late January. Pulitzer asked the members to order that ballot boxes, roll books, election returns, and other documents be brought from Missouri to Washington. They turned him down and told him that the place for any recounting should be Missouri. The decision was a signal that he faced an uphill fight. He would have only one chance to make his client's case. The committee set February 20 as the last day it would hear any remaining arguments for why Metcalfe should not be seated. While awaiting judgment day, Pulitzer turned to the Washington Post. Already, the paper had given front-page coverage to the dispute and was pushing Pulitzer's argument that the race could not be decided without a recount conducted in Washington. Now Pulitzer gained access to the paper's editorial page. The resulting article was vintage Pulitzer. If the Committee on Elections should deny Frost the seat in the House, the Post editorial began, it would simultaneously decide that he was "a perjurer in several divers and sundry particulars." A decision favoring Metcalfe would mean that Frost had lied under oath. "We do not know how the Committee will act, but we do know that there is not even a political antagonist in the Third Missouri District who would dare to question R. Graham Frost's statement under oath. In fact, those who know him prefer the simple word of R. Graham Frost to the oath of many, if not most, men. Nor do we, in the least, doubt that Mr. Frost was swindled out of his seat by a series of extraordinary frauds." The editorial had little influence on the members of Congress. On the appointed day the committee listened patiently as Pulitzer read from several affidavits and begged for additional time to build his case. The following day, it unanimously turned down Pulitzer's motions for more time. The seat was Metcalfe's. Despite this loss, Washington suited Pulitzer. In the time he had spent there since the fall of 1876, he had developed a busy social life. In the first month of 1878, he was among the guests at a glamorous reception given by the Spanish legation at Wormley's Hotel in honor of their king's wedding. A week later, he was dancing to Jacques Offenbach's music at the Willard Hotel. Pulitzer also helped support the Penny Lunch Room, which opened in January to feed the many citizens who had become destitute as a result of four years of steady wage cuts caused by the economic panic of 1873. He joined a committee to raise money for this lunchroom, participated in a fund-raising ball at the Riggs House, and even ate lunch at the facility to draw attention to its work. Pulitzer did not lack for friends in the capital. Anthony Ittner, who had been his roommate in Jefferson City, had been elected to the House. Hutchins hosted a popular salon in his parlors that attracted a colorful cast of characters, such as Senator Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar, who drafted the Mississippi Ordinance of Secession and served in the Confederate diplomatic corps in Russia and other places; Representative James Proctor Knott, whose humor was known to laugh a bill off the floor; and Representative Samuel Sullivan "Sunset" Cox, a former foot soldier with Pulitzer in the 1872 Liberal Republican campaign. The men ate and drank late into the night while the colorful Freemason Albert Pike held the floor with folktales or black singers from a nearby church performed. On January 12, 1878, Pulitzer attended the wedding of Udo Brachvogel (who had been his housemate in St. Louis) at the First Trinity Lutheran Church, known as the German church of Washington. In his company was a twenty-five-year-old woman, tall and slim with large dark eyes set in a pale face framed with coils of dark brown hair. "One of the belles of Washington," proclaimed the Post. "One of the reigning belles of that city," if an out-of-town newspaper was to be believed. Her name was Kate Davis, and she was the youngest daughter of a family with both a Confederate and a social pedigree. Representative John B. Clark of Missouri, an old Confederate himself, had introduced her and Pulitzer to each other. Davis's father, William Worthington Davis, came from a Virginian family distantly related to Jefferson Davis, the president of the late Confederacy. Her mother, Catherine Worthington Davis, was a distant cousin of her father's from Baltimore, Maryland. Financially, however, the family was on a decline. William and his three brothers worked a small family farm in Tenleytown, within the city limits, with three servants who were former slaves. But to make ends meet, two of the brothers also held jobs outside the farm, and William served as a justice of the peace. Though attractive, Davis was passing the age by which most women of her time were married. Her older sister, Clara, was about to turn thirty and no closer to the altar. For his part, Pulitzer's charm, mesmerizing blue eyes, and simmering intensity made up for his awkward, gangly appearance. His intelligence, wit, evident ambition, and appearance of financial means worked to his advantage. But to Davis's parents, a match between their daughter and Pulitzer was a mixed blessing. Pulitzer had no dependable career. He did have means, having carefully husbanded the money he made from his newspaper deals, his investment with Eads, and land he owned along the south side of the newly created Forest Park in St. Louis. On the other hand, his bloodline was not likely to impress the southern landed gentry. His remaining accent betrayed his eastern European origins, and for churchgoing Episcopalians like the Davises, the issue of his religion was a concern. Trying to hide his Jewish heritage would have been futile. Although he had stayed clear of synagogues and Jewish life in the United States, he was always immediately identified as a Jew by his friends and publicly in the press. And any illusion that he was something other would have been shattered on the wedding night, as at that time virtually only Jewish males were circumcised. Pulitzer promulgated a tale that his mother had not been Jewish but rather was Catholic. Because Judaism is a maternal religion, this claim explained his Jewish appearance but freed him from its detrimental status, particularly for a family such as the Davises. Davis was not the only woman in Pulitzer's life that spring. Nannie Tunstall, a beguiling, intense, literary twenty-four-year-old Virginian who was visiting Washington, swept him off his feet. They met while moving in similar Washington social circles. In fact, Tunstall was a friend of Brachvogel's bride and went to the wedding that Pulitzer attended in the company of Davis. Born in a small town in Virginia, Tunstall was the daughter of a wealthy attorney who had been a state legislator and a railroad executive. The last of six children, all born on a plantation that had been in the family since the 1790s and was farmed by slaves, Tunstall was, like Pulitzer, a child of loss. Four of her siblings and her father had died when she was young, and she had been raised by her mother. William Corcoran, one of the city's wealthiest men, was a friend of Tunstall's mother, and he invited Nannie to stay with him in Washington. Widowed since he was young, he liked to have company with him at all times. "No one," noted the Washington Post, "was more delighted with the society of intelligent and agreeable women than Mr. Corcoran." Tunstall accepted his invitation and soon became a fixture in what she called his "enchanted castle of indolence." Tunstall certainly filled the bill. Men were drawn to her. "She excites admiration from all," said Corcoran's arts curator, who was among those smitten by Tunstall. She had melancholy eyes, set in a soft, roundish face; a slightly Roman nose; and thick, long, wavy hair. The sculptor Moses Ezekiel was so taken with her that he used her profile for a bas-relief, a bronze copy of which Corcoran purchased. Tunstall was well-educated, though, like Pulitzer, she had spent little time in school. She read widely and was sufficiently fluent in German to translate poetry; she could also quote French aphorisms in her correspondence, and write poetry and fiction, eventually publishing a novel. She displayed a dramatic excitement over life, literature, and art that seemed daring among the more demure members of Washington's high society. "I have lived fast—emotionally, I have burned the candle at both ends," she confessed late in life. In February, while he was courting Davis, Pulitzer also pursued Tunstall. "Of course, I have thought of you and would like to see you," he wrote to her when she was visiting relatives in Baltimore. "Of course, you want me to come over to Baltimore. Of course, you are consumed by that tender passion which I return with such powerful profundity and earnestness." Tunstall demurely left his notes unanswered. An anxious Pulitzer wrote again. "What day, pray? Whenever I receive the signal, Baltimore shall be invaded." Like a nervous suitor, he felt compelled to say more. "Here I should stop. But I cannot," he continued. "Brevity may be the soul of wit and it cannot be the wit of sympathetic souls. So I must go on and at least fill this sheet. And say—what? Well, I scarcely know myself. That I have thought of you much? I see the shake of your classic head? That I have, in cold blood, determined to admire you? I see another shake of incredulity that I hope there will be a due appreciation of that admiration by your ladyship? I hope you now change your gentle shake from the skeptical to the assenting." As if at the edge of a precipice, Pulitzer showed tentativeness, almost like second thoughts, referring to previous loves. "Is it well that we should fan the embers of congeniality into lurid flames of attachment?" he asked in one letter. "I really do not like the glare, fear the fire. I have been burned and too often before both actually and metaphorically speaking, both internally and externally." Another closed with similar reluctance. "What! This is going a little too fast, is it not?" In May, Tunstall put an end to Pulitzer's pursuit. Pulitzer called her letter cruel. "It has not only unnerved my soul but blasted my hopes," he wrote. "Your terrible revelation has put an awful chasm between us. "Is there no hope? Will you not mend? Will you not begin to appreciate the rare qualities of the humble subscriber—in admiring you? Cold beauty, thy lines are colder yet. The season is rapidly advancing, all nature laughs and blooms, the very air has sentiment, and poetry grains are free and sail. In your letters alone there is no spring, in your words alone still lingers cold winter. How is this for a man who is not in love?" Pulitzer's ardor suffocated Tunstall, who planned to travel unescorted in Europe—a shocking idea in her era. He was hardly the match for such a soul. On a spring day, Samuel Bowles, the son of the late publisher of the Springfield Republican, paused for lunch while visiting Washington. As he looked around the restaurant, he saw Pulitzer lunching with the prominent suffragist Isabella Beecher Hooker. She was in the capital in hopes of advancing the passage of a constitutional amendment. Sitting at a table near the door of the restaurant, Pulitzer and Hooker attracted attention. "The two," said Bowles, "were engaged in animated conversation, no doubt discussing the merits of the Sixteenth Amendment, and the intellectual sparks were pretty surely flying, for they do not agree." Indeed, Pulitzer was not a supporter of women's suffrage. When he first confronted the issue as a state legislator in 1870, he seemed somewhat sympathetic. The lawmakers were considering putting a women's suffrage amendment on a statewide ballot. Before the measure failed, Pulitzer urged that women of all races over twenty-one years old be permitted to cast ballots that would be tallied separately and would not affect the outcome of the vote. But four years later, at the constitutional convention, Pulitzer lined up with opponents of women's suffrage. In fact, he was quite dismissive, suggesting that those who supported it did so only "out of sheer gallantry and courtesy." He even opposed permitting widows and unmarried women over twenty-one who paid school taxes to vote in school elections. Tunstall's Dear John letter left Pulitzer with only one option, which he pursued with vigor. "If you knew," Pulitzer wrote to Kate Davis, "how much I thought of you these last days and how the thought of you creeps in and connects with every contemplation and plan about the present and future, you would believe it. "I cannot help saying that I am not worthy of such love, I am too cold and selfish, I know," he continued describing himself truthfully in words that might eventually haunt Davis. By his own admission, Pulitzer was driven by speculative impulses. Until now, his life had unfolded as an undirected but singular pursuit of his own goals, with no care for others. "Still I am not without honor, and that alone would compel me to strive to become worthy of you, worthy of your faith and love, worthy of a better and finer future. "There now," he wrote, "you have my first love letter." Pulitzer longed not just for stability, professionally and otherwise, but also for affection and companionship. The deaths in his family led him to think of himself as an orphan, and his competitive relationship with Albert, his only surviving sibling, kept the two apart. Pulitzer frankly described his life to Davis in melancholy terms, a life void of purpose, love, and a home. "I am impatient to turn over a new leaf and start a new life—one of which home must be the foundation, affection, ambition and occupation the corner stones, and you, my dear, my inseparable companion." They planned a June wedding in Washington. As the date neared, Pulitzer gave Davis many reasons to reconsider. He vacillated on their plans for a honeymoon in Europe. One moment he wanted to rearrange the departure date so as to travel with his actor friend John McCullough, who was appearing at the National Theater. Next, when Pulitzer heard of a newspaper for sale, he broached the idea that they shouldn't go overseas after all. "You can now see yourself what an utterly inconsistent, uncertain and inconsistent chap I am," he wrote to Davis. He said he could not make up his mind even as to where they would settle. "Funny situation, isn't it? As if to give you a foretaste of the future, you are met by difficulties even before you start on that lifelong journey which philosophers call so perilous; whatever may be thought of your indiscretion, my child, your pluck is really splendid." A week before the wedding Pulitzer dashed off to New York, again in pursuit of a newspaper. "Prospects look quite favorable for a consummation of a bargain," he wrote, without identifying the prospect—probably the New York Mail, which was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. He admitted that he knew his fiancée was upset by his absence on the eve of their wedding. "It is an important opportunity, perhaps a fortune, and you ought not to expect me to neglect it. "I must have business to occupy my mind and heart," Pulitzer continued, "you do the latter. Occupation will do the former," in an accurate forecast of the years that lay ahead. "Make all arrangements, complete every preparation upon the assumption that I will be with you on Monday for that important ceremony, thereafter to stay with you forever." The ceremony actually didn't take place until Wednesday, June 19, 1878. At eight o'clock in the evening, Pulitzer and Davis stood at an altar before a congregation of 100 in the Church of the Epiphany, on G Street in Washington, the church to which the Davis family had belonged almost since its inception in 1842. Theirs was a parish of the powerful and wealthy. In the 1870s, the capital's elite had a choice of four Episcopal churches. The Church of the Epiphany and St. John's were the only two in the mostly residential portions of downtown surrounding the White House. But while the latter served as a house of worship for presidents, the former was larger, more elegant, and more desirable. Prior to the Civil War, the congregants of the Church of the Epiphany had strong sympathies toward the South. Among their ranks was Kate Davis's distant cousin Jefferson Davis. Those members of the lost cause who had returned to Washington since the war also came back to the church. Sitting on the bride's side of the aisle were Senator Lamar of Mississippi, who knew Pulitzer from Hutchins's salon; Senator John Brown Gordon of Georgia, a lieutenant general in the Confederate army; and Representative John Ezekiel Ellis of Louisiana, a Confederate veteran who had been a prisoner of war. There were former Confederates on the groom's side also: two Missouri Democrats now in Congress. They were joined by other politicians with whom Pulitzer had become friends in a decade of electoral work. In all, one-third of Missouri's congressional delegation was in attendance, along with friends such as Hutchins and the bridge builder James Eads. The newlyweds, whose union the politicians, publishers, judges, and notables had come to celebrate, were a study in contrast. The bride was refined, delicate, and graceful. "A more gentle or lovely bride was never led to the altar than she," wrote Hutchins for the front page of the Washington Post the next morning. Her betrothed towered over her with angular awkwardness. When they knelt before the altar, Pulitzer was gripped with anxiety about his shoes. His feet were larger than normal, and the soles of his shoes had been chalked with his room number by the hotel staff, who polished them overnight. "I thought with dismay that the people in the back of me would think that I wore No. 17 shoes." The Reverend John H. Chew pronounced the couple man and wife, and the Hungarian Jew entered the ranks of one of Washington's most established Episcopal congregations. A union with Davis, unlike one with Tunstall, offered considerable benefits. Her family, her pedigree, and her religion completed Pulitzer's metamorphosis. Success, power, and wealth in the United States had only one place of worship, the Episcopal church. Appropriately, the three-paneled stained-glass window above the altar depicted Epiphany, the moment when Jews and Gentiles came together before Christ. In the fourteen years since his arrival on the shores of the United States, Pulitzer had been a carriage driver, waiter, steamador, journalist, politician, and lawyer. He had shed most traces of his immigrant origins. He had money and a beautiful bride. Still, for all that, Pulitzer remained rudderless. As he walked down the aisle with Kate, he saw the pews filled with his closest friends, each with a successful career, the one thing he still lacked. ## Part II ## 1878–1888 ## Chapter Twelve ## A PAPER OF HIS OWN In the early morning of July 6, 1878, a carriage ferrying Joseph and Kate Pulitzer made its way across Manhattan and joined a procession of others heading for Pier 52, between West Twelfth and West Fourteenth streets, where the Britannic awaited the last of its Liverpool-bound passengers. The newlyweds were among a select group of 175 persons who paid between $160 and $200 in gold for first-class cabins on the White Star Line steamship. The fare was four times what the 1,500 men, women, and children jammed below in steerage paid. The Pulitzers were given staterooms in the middle of the ship, insulated from engine noise and less susceptible to the motion of the waves. By ten o'clock that morning, the Britannic set sail and soon cleared Sandy Hook, reaching open water and refreshing ocean breezes. Ostensibly, Kate and Joseph were off on a two-month honeymoon. But Kate soon learned, or may already have deduced from Joseph's frenetic business pursuits on the eve of their wedding, that her husband's attention would never be hers alone, even on a honeymoon. His mind constantly churned with political and business schemes. As soon as they reached England, Joseph dived into the newspapers, making careful note of everything he read, and buttonholed all he met to ask endless questions. Having spent all his adult life in the United States, Pulitzer now looked at European life from an American perspective. Landing in England, he was struck by the rigidity of class. The British, he concluded, deluded themselves into thinking that their democracy and court system were open and fair. "A people with such inequalities, such artificial and unnatural arrangements and laws, are like a woman who uses French heels, tight lacing, and paints," Pulitzer wrote. "While they look well, they are like the red decayed apple. As the continuous tight lacing will ruin the woman's lungs and vital organs, and retard the free pulsation of the blood, so will the artificial and unjust arrangements of government eventually ruin the body politic." When Joseph and Kate reached Germany, he was outraged by the destruction of political freedom caused by Chancellor Otto von Bismarck's drive to suppress an emerging socialist movement. "There was not a single day," Pulitzer wrote, "in which I did not hear, either through the press, or conversation, of cases so arbitrary and unjust, so cruel and despotic, that they would be appalling to any American." What he witnessed fueled his nascent fear of leaders who traded on the passions and prejudices of the masses. "People without liberty have despots. People with too much liberty have demagogues. Both agree in abusing liberty," wrote Pulitzer. "The despot thinks there is too much of it. The demagogue thinks there is not enough. The despot rules from fear of demagogues; the demagogue from fear of despots." This fear of demagoguery remained with Pulitzer all his life. Years later, it would cause him to be one of the only progressive-minded leaders to be on the outs when William Jennings Bryan and Teddy Roosevelt took hold of the American imagination. To Kate's relief, politics did not consume the entire honeymoon. In Paris the Pulitzers toured the dazzling Exposition Universelle. The exhibits came from all across the globe and included such American technological marvels as Alexander Graham Bell's telephone and Thomas Edison's phonograph. Also on display was the completed head of Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty. Several years earlier, the French sculptor had begun designing and casting the 150-foot statue, to be presented to the United States on its centenary in 1876. The plan called for French citizens to pay for the statue and for American citizens to pay for the pedestal and foundation. The French were meeting their end of the deal, but the Americans were not. In Paris, Kate visited the city's fabled couturiers and Joseph indulged her expensive tastes. She also experienced, perhaps for the first time, Joseph's quick anger. As a joke she told him she had purchased a cook-stove. He believed her and erupted in anger at her presumed foolishness. But his temper was also short-lived. Kate left Paris pregnant. The two-month honeymoon came to a close on September 4, when the Pulitzers returned to New York on board the Russia, a modest, aging ship of the Cunard Line. The passage presented one of those singular moments in history when two figures whose names will become closely linked pass by each other unknowingly. In New York, among the passengers preparing to board the ship for its return to Europe was fifteen-year-old William Randolph Hearst, accompanied by his mother. The Pulitzers' European sojourn became a little more costly when customs officials peered into Kate's two trunks. Her Paris dresses caught their attention. One appeared not to have been worn. In the past, clothing bought overseas that had "actual use" was exempt from import duties. But stricter instructions now required that agents assess duty on almost any garment bought overseas unless the passenger was actually wearing it when disembarking. The agents were just about to let Kate's dress pass when one of them spotted a Treasury inspector looking their way. They stopped the Pulitzers and told Joseph he would have to pay a duty on the dress. He protested, and a superior was summoned who, in turn, called an appraiser over to join the debate. After an hour of listening to Pulitzer's pleas, the officials who had gathered around the trunks remained unmoved. Unless he paid the $60 duty in gold coins, they said, his luggage would be confiscated. Pulitzer paid. Because Pulitzer hated President Hayes, he viewed the episode as a personal affront and an example of the administration's corruption. He dispatched a tempestuous letter to Charles Dana's New York Sun, which had already reported the incident (though misidentifying Pulitzer as a former lieutenant governor). "Immediately next to me were two parties, each with probably five times the number of trunks and boxes," Pulitzer wrote. "Not one of those was opened at all—everything was passed smoothly and quickly. Why? Perhaps because at least one of the parties slipped a piece of paper into the hand of his inspector, which probably partook the character of legal tender." At the Sun, Pulitzer met with Dana. The aging editor still held Pulitzer in high regard and agreed to publish his reflections on politics in England, France, and Germany. The resulting six pieces, which ran in the Sun's September and October editions, not only contained astute observations but also displayed the thinking of a writer who had now developed a mature political philosophy. In comparison with the rush-to-judgment style of Pulitzer's articles in the Westliche Post, or even his recent dispatches for the Sun during the Hayes-Tilden electoral dispute, the articles—essays, really—were dispassionate analyses. After dissecting German, French, and British society and politics, Pulitzer reserved his last essay for an ode to his adopted land. He constructed an imaginary conversation between an American and a European in which the latter pointed out the many imperfections of democracy in the United States. Was not the selection of Hayes as president a violation of the nation's constitutional practices? the European asked. True, replied the American, but Hayes, unlike a European monarch, will hold office for only four years. Not one to give up easily, the European continued his faultfinding and pointed to American women who sought to marry noblemen. Surely, he said, this proves that Americans look to Europe as a model. No, replied the American, it shows only the mercenary qualities of our women. The most singular moment in Pulitzer's imaginary dialogue occurred when the European challenged the premise of universal male suffrage, one of Pulitzer's most sacred beliefs since his entry into politics. Citing Alexis de Tocqueville, Pulitzer conceded that the extension of voting rights did indeed have a tendency to elevate mediocrity, perhaps a lesson taught by the sting of the elections of 1872 and 1876. But it was a fallacy to conclude that universal suffrage was the linchpin of democracy, said Pulitzer's alter ego in the article. "The great advantages of our system certainly do not consist in giving every man a vote but in giving every man a better chance for life than other governments allow." Although long-winded, a bit showy, and at times wandering off the track, the articles were the equal of any in this genre published in New York newspapers. Dana even granted Pulitzer a byline, reinforcing his success in English-language journalism. In fact, the articles marked Pulitzer's complete transformation into an American. Never once mentioning his foreign birth, Pulitzer had opened his series of articles proclaiming, "The more I see of Europe, the more American I become." He confessed his love for the opera houses, museums, castles, and new palaces of Europe. But he also wrote, "However great the treasures of art, I prefer the treasures of liberty." Expressing a sentiment similar to that which brought his brother Albert to the United States, Joseph added, "I like still more our plain land without the glare of royalty or nobility." The articles in the New York Sun, though glamorous, brought Pulitzer no closer to finding suitable employment, a more pressing problem now that he was married. But while languishing in New York, Pulitzer heard that the Dispatch, a struggling evening paper in St. Louis, was going to be auctioned off at a bankruptcy sale. He knew the paper well. Stilson Hutchins and Charles Johnson had taken turns owning the Dispatch, but neither had made a go of it. Pulitzer telegraphed Johnson as well as John Marmaduke, a former Confederate general who edited an agricultural magazine and had discovered a new lost cause as an agitator against the increasing power of railroads. Pulitzer told them that he and his bride were leaving for St. Louis and that they were to meet him at the Lindell Hotel. The St. Louis at the end of the train ride was greatly changed from the one that had greeted Pulitzer thirteen years earlier. It was now a thriving industrial and commercial city whose air was so thick with smoke that only a dome or two could be seen through the haze from the train as it crossed the Eads Bridge. When Johnson and Marmaduke met Pulitzer at the hotel, he revealed his plans. He told them he had returned to take a shot at buying the Dispatch. The men were enthusiastic—especially Johnson, who had long pressed Pulitzer to abandon his off-and-on legal career. "I zealously urged him to embark on the newspaper business," said Johnson. Encouraged, Pulitzer next went to see Daniel Houser, the part owner of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, to whom he had sold the AP membership four years earlier. For several evenings Houser and Pulitzer worked on the financial numbers. Houser guessed that Pulitzer might win the auction with a bid of $1,500 to $1,700. Pulitzer had $5,000 in savings, so at that price the paper would be within his reach. Operating the paper, however, was an unresolved question. If Pulitzer could not eliminate its daily deficit, his cash would last only seventeen weeks. In the early morning of December 9, 1878, the day of the auction, Pulitzer strolled from the Lindell Hotel to the nearby courthouse—a Greek Revival building with a cast-iron dome modeled after St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. By the time he reached the courthouse, a small crowd was already milling around the east side; its members were doing their best to stay warm in the frigid air—this December was one of the coldest months since the city had begun keeping records. Pulitzer knew just about everyone among the thirty or so men, and they, him. "The tall, graceful figure and pale Mephistophelean face of Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, with its expression of keen irony, was the object of marked attention," wrote a reporter. There were actually two newspapers on the auction block that day. An eight-year-old failed newspaper, the St. Louis Journal, was expected to sell for less than the value of its presses, type, and furniture. The Dispatch, however, had greater potential. It had been founded as the St. Louis Union in 1862 by the late U.S. senator Frank P. Blair, to counter the Missouri Democrat's support of John Frémont, who was running against President Lincoln. Two years later, Johnson and a group of investors had bought the failing St. Louis Union and converted it to an evening publication called the Dispatch. During the following years, the Dispatch continued to change hands as different publishers took turns failing to make it financially viable. By 1878, its most recent set of owners could find no one else on whom to unload it, and the sheriff ordered a bankruptcy sale. Despite its miserable track record, the Dispatch still appealed to newspapermen. Among those who came to watch the auction were Houser; the former governor Gratz Brown, now working as an attorney representing the party who held a $15,000 mortgage on the Dispatch; John and George Knapp, owners of the Missouri Republican, and their editor William Hyde; and John A. Dillon of the Evening Post. The assembled newspapermen, lawyers, bankers, and judges tried to guess what the Dispatch might fetch. Some thought it might sell for as much as $40,000. The auctioneer suggested that the AP membership alone would be worth at least $20,000, an estimate inspired by Pulitzer's well-rememberd profit in buying and selling the Staats-Zeitung in 1874. This time, however, there was no paper in town so badly in need of the AP. The more reasonable men who were present had only modest expectations for the sale, and some had none. Asked what he would pay the paper, William Hyde replied, "I would not give a damn for it." Within a few minutes of Pulitzer's arrival at the courthouse, the auctioneer climbed onto a chair. "I propose to sell for cash two newspapers—two live papers," he said, drawing laughter. Reviewing the lamentable histories of the two papers, he said that they had sometimes made money, but at other times they had not. Again, the audience guffawed. Those who held unpaid financial notes did not share in the merriment. Brown grabbed the auctioneer's chair and warned potential buyers that anyone who purchased one of the two newspapers would be liable for the $15,000 mortgage. It took only a moment to dispense with the Journal. It fetched $600. "Gentlemen," the auctioneer said, "I now propose to sell you the Evening Dispatch, a paper that will live when all the other evening papers are dead." After more laughter, the bidding began. Simon J. Arnold, who worked for the city collector, Meyer Rosenblatt, went first, offering $1,000. Rosenblatt was an important figure in the city's Republican politics, and it was presumed that Arnold was doing his bidding. He wasn't. He was Pulitzer's Trojan horse. Pulitzer knew if he were to openly join the bidding, others would assume that he had seen in the paper something of value that had escaped their attention, and the price would soar. Arnold's opening move was countered with a bid for $1,500. The gathered men were baffled. The other bidder, standing behind the crowd in a hallway, was a complete stranger. A reporter asked his name. "I'll tell you after a while," he replied. Arnold raised his bid to $2,000. The mysterious man topped it with a bid for $2,100. Pulitzer remained silent. His well-made plan seemed to be unraveling. At $3,000, Arnold gave up and walked away. The unidentified man had topped Pulitzer's man by $100. The auctioneer declared the auction over. Pulitzer's game was up. He would not be the new owner of the Dispatch. But a commotion arose when the anonymous figure did not come to the front to claim his prize. In fact, he had vanished. Arnold rushed back and announced that he would still be willing to pay $2,500. His offer was accepted, and Arnold and the auctioneer retired to offices across the street to complete the transaction. The identity of the other bidder never emerged. During the confusion at the end of the auction, Pulitzer slipped away unnoticed. But a reporter caught up with him as he stepped into the elevator at his hotel and pressed him for an interview. "I would grant your rather sudden request with the greatest of pleasure," Pulitzer said, "if it were not for the unfortunate fact that I have been engaged all day, and now am going to see my wife for the first time since breakfast this morning, and I know you wouldn't detain even a humble individual like myself from the bosom of his family for so long a period. Even if the imperious necessities of metropolitan journalism..." "But, Mr. Pulitzer, only a question," broke in the reporter. "You have bought the Dispatch, I understand, and I would like you..." Now it was Pulitzer's turn to interrupt. "My dear fellow, without presuming to criticize your intelligence or acumen, which I would hardly dare to question, are you not assuming too much? I own the Dispatch—I?" The cat-and-mouse game continued as Pulitzer feigned ignorance, pretended to be unacquainted with Arnold, and conceded only that it was "possible" though not "probable" that he had bought the Dispatch. The reporter gave up. "No one better understands the use of language for the purpose for which Talleyrand said it was given—to conceal one's thoughts—than Mr. Pulitzer," wrote the frustrated reporter. "He parries the question like a skillful fencer, and it is as hard to pin him to a point as it is an eel." The following day, all the newspapers reported that Pulitzer was the new owner, but he had yet to confirm his purchase publicly. "The all-absorbing question this morning in newspaper circles was, had Mr. Joseph Pulitzer really bought the Evening Dispatch?" asked Dillon at the Evening Post. Gossip had it that Pulitzer intended to merge the Dispatch with another paper. "There are so many rumors afloat about evening journalism in St. Louis that we should not be surprised, as the result of all of them, to hear the newsboys crying out 'the Dispatch-Journal-Post-Star,'" wrote Mack at the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. The rumor of a merger worried Dillon. A combination of the Dispatch and Star could destroy his Evening Post. He wanted to know Pulitzer's plans without disclosing his own fears. He sent one of his reporters off to find Pulitzer and see what could be learned. Locating Pulitzer was not easy. At the Dispatch's office, the reporter found two or three employees sitting around, idly passing the time with the paper's attorney. Pulitzer was expected, they said. By nine-thirty he had not arrived. Impatient, the reporter left. He spotted his quarry on the street, across from the offices of the Westliche Post. That was, however, the extent of his good luck. Pulitzer was still uncooperative. "I do not know that I am the owner of the Dispatch," he said. "I do not know that I have authorized anybody to say that I bought it or that I intend to buy it." Frustrated, the reporter walked to the city collector's office, where Arnold, who had placed the winning bid, was employed. He spoke with Rosenblatt, Arnold's boss. "Did you buy the paper for Mr. Pulitzer?" "The Dispatch was purchased for Mr. Joseph Pulitzer," replied Rosenblatt. "This, of course," the reporter said, "looked like a positive thing, but why on earth was Mr. Pulitzer playing the sphinx?" The answer was not hard to fathom. His dodges were designed to fan public interest. He had been similarly dishonest with the St. Louis press corps when the sale of the Westliche Post was rumored, and he had also done this when he bought the Staats-Zeitung. In this present instance, his evasions served to increase the mystery surrounding his actions. The more he could get the St. Louis press to talk about the sale of the paper, the more papers he would sell. Finally, at noon, Pulitzer walked into the Dispatch's office in the company of the lawyer William Patrick, who had once used Pulitzer as an errand boy. The auctioneer, who had been cooling his heels in the office, rose from his seat. "Mr. Pulitzer comes to take formal possession of the Evening Dispatch, and will henceforth be considered its proprietor," he announced. "I only take possession temporarily and subject to future possibilities," said Pulitzer, quickly retiring to an editorial room upstairs. The two reporters on duty, though bewildered by Pulitzer's cryptic remark, went to work rushing out an edition of the Dispatch with what little they could gather in the way of news after having spent the day in idleness. Pulitzer's antics gained him a second day of front-page coverage in the morning papers. At the Globe-Democrat, McCullagh greeted Pulitzer's return to journalism in St. Louis with a warmhearted editorial. As a statesman, Pulitzer had not been very successful, he said. "What he failed to accomplish with an eloquent tongue, he may yet achieve with a brilliant pen. If the world was made no better by Mr. Pulitzer as an orator, it will, we trust, be made wiser by Mr. Pulitzer as an editor." Buying the St. Louis Dispatch was easy compared with the next hurdle Pulitzer faced. His cash would last only a few weeks; and unlike the Staats-Zeitung, the Dispatch had no salable assets with which he could turn a quick profit. Rather, Pulitzer's only option was to find new readers and do it quickly. St. Louisans already had two other English-language afternoon newspapers: the Evening Star and the Evening Post. Unlike the morning newspapers, neither of these was well established. The Star had started publishing only a few days earlier, but it had strong financial backing. It counted prominently among its investors Thomas Allen, a railroad magnate and aspiring politician, whose children Albert had tutored one summer. He was sinking money in it, in the hope of having a paper to support his planned bid for the U.S. Senate. The Evening Post, which had been launched eleven months earlier, had the lion's share of readers. Its publisher, Dillon, who looked like a patrician and wore a handlebar mustache, was about Pulitzer's age, was also an experienced journalist, and had similar political leanings. Otherwise the two men were very different. Dillon had been born into one of the leading families of St. Louis. His father was an Irish immigrant merchant who made a considerable sum in real estate. In 1861, the younger Dillon went to Harvard, rather than to war, and returned home an urbane and well-read gentleman. He won the hand of a daughter of one of the French families who founded St. Louis, and the couple spent a two-year honeymoon in Rome—the same years when Pulitzer was struggling to get a foothold in St. Louis. Their honeymoon ended when Dillon's father died. The engineer James Eads had been appointed executor of the estate, and Dillon discovered that much of his inheritance was tied up in Eads's chancy bridge project. To protect his investment, he became secretary-treasurer of the Illinois–St. Louis Bridge Company. Five years later, when the family's financial affairs were secure, Dillon sought an escape from the dull work. McCullagh offered him a job on the Globe-Democrat. Under the guidance of the venerable editor, Dillon developed into an editorial writer of some distinction. His thoughtful writing was graceful and refined. He was soon a well-known figure in St. Louis journalism. In 1878, Dillon decided the time had come to establish his own newspaper. His wife, Blanche, supplied the necessary funds. Dillon's Evening Post was an odd amalgam of his own refined, lofty writing style and McCullagh's muscular journalism. Its coverage of society news appealed to the city's elite but did not lure the potentially large audience for an afternoon paper. This was of some comfort to Pulitzer as he took the helm of the dead-in-the-water Dispatch. On one flank he faced a new, untested afternoon paper, the Star; and on the other the more established paper, the Post, stalled in its search for readers. There was bound to be an opportunity for the Dispatch. Although the flagging fortunes of the three evening papers discouraged others from venturing into the business, Pulitzer was undeterred. He was convinced that evening papers had a great future. He was right. The advent of the telegraph and faster printing presses made it possible to publish an afternoon newspaper with news as fresh as that day, making morning papers look as if they were publishing yesterday's news, which, in fact, they were. Urbanites, particularly workers and professionals heading home, had a voracious appetite for news and were primed to buy an evening paper. Gaslight, and then electric light, also made the newspaper an important evening pastime. In a few years, evening newspapers would outnumber morning ones. Pulitzer openly professed his faith in the evening press within days of buying the Dispatch. "Whether it be a collision in the Sea of Marmosa, a battle in the Peiwar Pass, a revolution in the Sultan's palace, or a row in the British Cabinet, the evening paper is invariably the first to give the news," Pulitzer told his readers. "Moreover, it reaches the subscriber when he has time to read a paper. In a city, as least, there are about three times as many people who have leisure for an evening paper as there are for a morning paper. It is merely a question whether the evening paper can occupy the field, and we propose to occupy it." Pulitzer's timing was perfect. Not only were evening papers on the rise, but production and newsprint costs were decreasing. Publishers could offer readers more for their money or drop the price. Either strategy provided a stable financial footing, permitting newspapers to wean themselves from subsidies, direct or indirect, from political parties. With this prosperity, an increasing number of newspapers began to call themselves "independent." The more independent a newspaper became, the more it drew readers seeking objective news, entertainment, and advertising to guide their growing purchases. In other words, becoming an independent newspaper was as much an economic as a political decision. "Business prosperity," noted the Chicago Tribune, "has increased with all papers in the proportion that they have maintained their independence and their freedom." Pulitzer gambled he could ride these trends to journalistic and financial success. His business acumen drove him. Although he was at times an innovator in journalism, this was not his strength. Rather, he possessed remarkable foresight and had an uncanny ability to recognize value where others didn't. He was willing to take risks based on his insights when others remained timid. But none of Pulitzer's ambitious plans would bear fruit on the minuscule subscription rolls of the Dispatch. So, like a bridge player, Pulitzer relied on his strong suit. He owned an AP membership, whereas Dillon's Post made do with a weaker alternative, the National Associated Press. Dillon could survive without an authentic AP membership, but he feared doing battle with the well-equipped Pulitzer, and he still worried that the Dispatch might combine forces with the Star. Pulitzer's ploy worked. Within twenty-four hours, Dillon agreed to merge his paper with Pulitzer's. A merger made good sense. Pulitzer and Dillon shared essentially the same reformist political views. For Dillon, the merger would prevent a potentially disastrous circulation fight. For Pulitzer, it would bring readers and, most important, time. The two men decided that their respective enterprises were worth $15,000 each. They created a new corporation that issued 300 shares, valued at $100 each. Blanche Dillon, who had funded the Post, retained 149 shares; Pulitzer had 149; and two shares were assigned to William Patrick, Pulitzer's attorney, who drew up the papers. Dillon took the posts of president and managing editor, and Pulitzer became vice president and political editor. But the agreement made it clear that Pulitzer renounced no editorial power by accepting the post of second in command. At the last minute, a clause was added to the final text, specifying that he "should write upon any subject political or otherwise without reservation." Dillon agreed to give Pulitzer free rein because financially he was bringing the most to the table. Although his Dispatch had fewer readers and was encumbered by a $15,000 lien from an unpaid mortgage, Pulitzer agreed to fund an expansion of the combined newspapers. Under the terms of the deal, he promised to lend up to $10,000 at 5 percent interest. No mention was made of where Pulitzer, who was down to his last reserves, would obtain such a sum. The next day, Pulitzer abandoned the Dispatch's headquarters and its staff. Only one employee was invited to come with Pulitzer, and he refused. Wearing a soft hat and a blue chinchilla overcoat, Pulitzer moved what little was worth keeping to the offices of the Evening Post on Pine Street, just blocks from where he had lived when he was a reporter for the Westliche Post. The following day, the new Post and Dispatch appeared. The new paper was physically unchanged by the merger. It remained four pages long, except on Saturdays, when it promised that it might be as long as ten pages. The details of the merger were to be kept secret but were described as "decreed by immutable destiny" in an editorial that bore all the marks of Pulitzer's hand. The editorial promised that the combination of an almost dead newspaper with another less than a year old would create a publication that would be "one of the best established among the newspapers of the country." Pulitzer's dominance of the combined papers was in evidence all across the editorial page. He declared the paper's political independence. "The Post and Dispatch will serve no party but the people; will be no organ of 'Republicanism,' but the organ of truth; will follow no caucuses but its own convictions; will not support the 'Administration,' but criticize it; will oppose all frauds and shams wherever and whatever they are; will advocate principles and ideas rather than prejudices and partisanship." The declaration was disingenuous. The merger agreement specified that the Post and Dispatch "would be independent with a Democratic leaning." A careful reading of Pulitzer's announcement made the preference clear. The Democrats remained the chosen tribe. But the declaration was the first pronouncement of what would become a tenet of Pulitzerian journalism. In his hands, independent journalism was a political tool. By building journalistic credibility with readers, a newspaper could build independent political power. For Pulitzer, journalism was another route to power. Anyone who knew Pulitzer knew that power was something he did not readily share. McCullagh, at the Globe-Democrat, foresaw trouble for his protégé. To succeed, Dillon would have to tone down "the crude products of Pulitzer's fiery and untamed brain," said McCullagh. This was such a tall order that should he succeed, McCullagh added, Dillon could retire to harness zebras in the wild. ## Chapter Thirteen ## SUCCESS Before the Post and Dispatch was a month old, Pulitzer announced that larger quarters and faster presses were needed to meet the surging demand for it. This was sheer chutzpah. St. Louisans weren't exactly rushing into the streets to buy the paper. True, circulation neared 4,000. But Dillon and Pulitzer had merged their subscription lists. The actual number of new subscribers was low—hardly a groundswell straining the capacity of the Globe-Democrat's presses, which printed the Post and Dispatch. In fact, Pulitzer's plan seemed economically suicidal. In the following weeks, money slipped rapidly from Dillon and Pulitzer's hands. They leased a building at 111 North Fifth Street that had once been the home of the Evening Dispatch. Crews moved in to make needed repairs and alterations. Pulitzer and Dillon ordered one of Richard M. Hoe & Company's newest and speediest four-cylinder presses, capable of printing the paper's entire press run in less than an hour. To old hands in the St. Louis press corps, the expense was unjustified. So far, except for Pulitzer's friends in politics and journalism, few people were paying any attention to the Post and Dispatch. Although it led the Star, the other afternoon paper, its circulation was one-tenth that of the leading morning newspapers. The essential problem remained. New readers were needed. And for that to happen, the paper had to be noticed. Years before, when he worked at the Westliche Post, Pulitzer had gained attention with his crusading reporting, exposing corruption in the county government and exhorting readers to action. Now, with an entire newspaper at his disposal, he went at it again, but this time he selected a larger target. He took aim at the oligarchs who controlled the city's economic life. "The trouble in St. Louis is not with either our masses or merchants or middle classes," Pulitzer wrote, "but those whose wealth would seem to make it their own interest to lead in every measure of enterprise, but who do not lead, nor even sometimes follow." He was on to something. Like many other cities of the era, St. Louis had long been under the control of a wealthy, privileged elite. This was not really a matter of corruption and graft, although those, too, certainly existed. Rather, a cabal, comprising many of the descendants of early settlers, ruthlessly safeguarded its own economic interests. City laws ensured that only a select group obtained lucrative business monopolies or provided such public services as streetcar lines and gaslights. By the middle of the 1870s, a growing number of merchants, professionals, and small businessmen chafed under the economic restrictions and monopolistic behavior of this elite. A newspaper that espoused their cause would find a ready audience. In January 1879 the St. Louis Gas-Light Company quietly sought to regain its financial stranglehold on its customers. For years, this monopoly had forced St. Louisans to pay the highest rates in the nation for heat and light, making a staggering 73 percent profit. But this profitable arrangement was shattered when a court sided with a plan to cancel the gas company's exclusive franchise. Under the pretense of offering a compromise plan, the company promised to pay all the city's legal fees from the lengthy court fight if the city council restored the monopoly. If not for Pulitzer, the plan might have worked. Like an editorial Paul Revere, Pulitzer sounded the alarm. "This is no compromise," he roared from the pages of his paper. "Hands Off! No surrender to the monopoly." The proposal, he said, reminded him of an old tale about a white man and an Indian dividing a buzzard and a turkey. "Whichever way the proposition is turned, it is the same—the city gets the buzzard, the Gas Company all the turkey." This first volley was followed by another the next day. "The most objectionable feature of this business is that its only possibility of success depends upon bribery," Pulitzer said. "Yes, we write it deliberately, bribery." Lawyers who had previously sold the city's residents into monopolistic bondage were willing to do it again, he continued. "This is an open and unblushing bid to bribe the lawyers of the city by the payment of large fees." Every day for the next two weeks, Pulitzer shoehorned into the paper articles that detailed the monopolistic practices of the gas company and featured poignant interviews with victimized customers. The flurry of articles, as well as the continuous stream of editorials—appearing, as they usually did, under the banner headline NO COMPROMISE! NO COMPROMISE! NO COMPROMISE!—caught the city's attention. None of the other English-speaking newspapers joined the campaign, and certainly not The Republican, whose editor, William Hyde, was a mouthpiece for the oligarchs. As the campaign ground on, the paper began to sound like a one-note composition. Pulitzer needed another campaign that would goad the oligarchs and attract readers. His staff obliged him by obtaining copies of the tax returns of the city's richest residents. Kept in the assessor's office, the returns were public documents, but they cast an embarrassing hue when published in a newspaper for all to see. Under the headline TAX DODGING: WHOLESALE PERJURY AS A FINE ART, Pulitzer published the financial declarations—especially the dishonest ones—of the city's wealthiest men. The declarations were damning. For example, despite being reputed to be the city's wealthiest resident, one man reported having no money in the bank or on hand and listed the value of his personal property at less than $3,000. No one escaped exposure. Judges, lawyers, politicians, and even members of the St. Louis press, such as Hyde, McCullagh, and Preetorius, found their incomplete tax returns in the paper. When citizens file incomplete returns, Pulitzer told readers, "they commit—to use the mildest term possible—a falsehood, both ridiculous and monstrous. And a much stronger term could be used without the danger of libel suits." To prove its point, the Post and Dispatch reprinted the text of the taxpayers' oath each day, with the headline WHAT TAX-DODGERS SWEAR AND SWALLOW. Pulitzer, who had lied in official oaths himself, told his readers that his paper's reporting revealed "that honor and honesty, law and oath even, are palpably violated by some of our 'eminently respectable' and 'most prominent' citizens." The gas campaign yielded a victory. The city rejected the plan in late February. The tax exposé, however, failed. A grand jury was convened but decided that there was nothing to probe, because the state law was so full of loopholes. Pulitzer concluded that reporting alone wouldn't build circulation no matter how great the story, unless one trumpeted it. To that end, he sent his reporters out to interview citizens about the tax abuses and then published reports on what they thought. This ploy paid a double dividend. It permitted the newspaper to publicize its own gallant work—THE POST AND DISPATCH MEETS WITH GENERAL APPROVAL, read one headline—and it ensured that even people who didn't read the paper learned of its contents. Pulitzer was convinced that news reporting could be combined with promotion, and he pushed his staff to do both. A typical headline would invariably include a subhead such as "Another Exposure by the Post and Dispatch." By March, his efforts had secured 540 new readers, an outstanding growth rate that, if maintained, promised profits by the end of the year. Treating every aspect of city life as unexplored territory, Pulitzer commissioned articles on who lived in the alleys and byways. "Tramps, Darkeys, Goats and Garbage" were what the reporter found. Pulitzer sent his staff to learn who owned the houses that were used as brothels: well-heeled citizens, it turned out. And he had the courage to shatter the myth, steadfastly believed by its citizens, that St. Louis was on its way to becoming the nation's next great city. Instead Pulitzer revealed that it was being outstripped in population and economic growth by its rival, Chicago. There was hardly anything Pulitzer would not try; he even picked fights with his competitors. He never missed a chance to criticize, embarrass, or simply poke fun at other newspapers, especially Hyde's Republican, with which he competed for Democratic readers. Once, he laid a trap for the Star. The Post and Dispatch published a fake article, said to be a cable dispatch from Lahore, Pakistan, reporting a massacre of an English garrison at the hands of rebellious Afghan war prisoners. The Star copied this and published the story prominently in its second edition, with the credit "special cable to the Star." The next day, the Post and Dispatch revealed on its front page how it had fooled the Star. Pulitzer's goal was to publish every day at least one article so intriguing, so unusual, so provocative that it would cause people to talk about it at the dinner table. Sensationalism was the most common way newspapers tried to attract attention. But for readers in St. Louis that was old hat. Even the staid Republican, for example, regularly ran stories likely to ruin breakfast for anyone with a sensitive stomach. On December 9, 1878, the day Pulitzer was buying the Dispatch, the Republican put on page one a report of a child's beheading by a train in Nevada. The head had rolled down a bank and had come to rest on the stump of its neck, facing the trainload of passengers. When it was lifted, the eyes opened and the mouth twitched. The mother soon reached the scene and collected her son's head, severed arm, and body, placed them in her apron, and led a procession back to her home. The Post and Dispatch ran its share of these stories. Readers learned about heinous killings by a man in Kentucky in A CRIME UNPARALLELED IN WILD AND REVENGEFUL BRUTALITY and got the details of how the rope broke in an executioner's attempt to hang another murderer in THE HORRIBLE CRIME FOR WHICH THE BLACK RASCAL DIED. Pulitzer had a more ambitious and less imitative scheme for building circulation. He wanted to make news from his own news coverage. A perfect opportunity presented itself in February. Two members of the police commission, on which Pulitzer had once served, were said to have ties to city gambling operations. The state senate dispatched a committee to look quietly into the matter. On Monday morning, February 17, the committee members gathered in one of the parlors of the Laclede Hotel, dismissed everyone else from the room except their secretary, and stationed two policemen at the door. Witnesses were admitted one at a time and were sworn not to reveal anything about the conduct of the hearing. Certain that they had outfoxed the press, the senators began their work. Pulitzer was not easily put off when he wanted a story. He conferred with his city editor, and they decided to approach a doctor whose offices in the hotel included a waiting room that had a sealed door connecting with the parlor in which the senators were to meet. By holding an ear to the door, a reporter might be able to hear the proceedings. The doctor consented to the plan. When the secret hearings began, a reporter for the Post and Dispatch who was familiar with the senators' voices was stationed at the door, while the remainder of the press wandered through the hotel's hallways, clueless about the proceedings. All day Pulitzer's reporter listened, using his hands to cup his ear against the door. Unable to take notes in this awkward, cramped position, he memorized important portions and later dictated them to the city editor. On Tuesday, the committee resumed its secret work. As its day's work drew to an end, the early edition of the Post and Dispatch appeared on the street. "The Veil Is Rent and the Doors of the Star Chamber Fall from Their Fastening," cried the newsboys, reading from the article headlined: A POST AND DISPATCH REPORTER DEFIES LOCKS AND BARS, BRICKS AND MORTAR. When one of the newsboys entered the lobby of the Laclede Hotel, a witness at the hearing grabbed a copy of the paper and incredulously read the first few lines. In seconds, the boy was cleaned out of his supply of papers. A note was sent up to the committee. One of the senators came from the closed chamber, got a copy of the newspaper, and retreated back into the room. Reading the account, the senator soon learned—as the paper proudly reported later—"that the cat was really out of the bag, that the dog was really dead, and that the jig was really up." The incensed senators summoned Pulitzer's city editor, but he refused to divulge how the paper had obtained its scoop. A policeman was dispatched to examine the doctor's office adjoining the hearing room. Completing his investigation, he told the committee that the door between the rooms, although blocked to traffic, was not necessarily closed to sound. Next, a man was stationed behind the door with sheets of paper to see if one could record what was being said from the other room. When he returned with notes, the senators glumly learned that indeed it was possible and actually quite easy. For days, the Post and Dispatch crowed about its scoop. It reprinted commentary from other papers, published articles about how its coverage had stunned the senators, and made sure no one forgot. "The piece of work," Pulitzer said, "was complete on—so complete, so surprising, so overwhelming, that it commanded recognition and acknowledgment." After weeks of delay, workers finally completed the renovations to the paper's new offices on North Fifth Street. A good-size crowd was on hand the afternoon of March 10, 1879, when Pulitzer, Dillon, and their staff moved in. For a paper with a modest, though growing, circulation, the plant was impressive. The first floor contained the counting room for the business side of the paper. An open stairway led to the newsroom on the second floor, where Pulitzer had a curtained alcove overlooking the street. The new press, and a boiler to produce the steam to run it, was in a two-story wing off the back, with the composing room on the floor above. Soon after two-thirty that afternoon, the press was started. Slowly, it began printing and folding an eight-page edition of 20,000 copies, carrying the name the paper would use from then on, the Post-Dispatch. Pulitzer boasted that this was the largest run of an evening paper in St. Louis's history. Printing the edition, however, turned into an embarrassing challenge. After only a few minutes at full speed, the roar of the press was silenced as the paper tore and jammed the rollers. It was nightfall before copies reached subscribers. Despite the paper's progress toward financial stability, Pulitzer did not relax or let up. He practically lived in the North Fifth Street office, staying late into the night working by the light of a single gas jet. "I would pass by on my way home between eleven and twelve o'clock and he was always there," recalled one nocturnal St. Louisan. No matter how late he worked, Pulitzer always arrived at the office in the early morning to examine the paper's vital signs. He demanded precise information. Exactly how many copies were printed the day before? Sold? Returned? How were street sales of the paper? How many lines of advertising had run in the last issue? During the last week? Since the beginning of the year? How much money was spent on the staff? For paper? For telegraphs? How much money was taken in? His thirst for details was insatiable. In these first days of running the Post-Dispatch, feeling the sharp anxiety of potential failure, Pulitzer learned to ask questions that provided him with the most realistic take on the financial health of his paper. He measured the number of column inches of classified advertisements, scrutinized sales figures to see if a particular news scoop increased street sales, and analyzed every aspect of the competition. He honed his questioning down to a precise mix of queries yielding a statistical portrait that revealed in a single glance where things stood. Until the end of his life, and no matter how far he wandered from the office or how much he delegated to others, he would never give up this habit. He feigned to be interested only in politics and in writing editorials, but the truth was that Pulitzer knew any power he could accumulate from an Olympian perch could not be kept by Olympian detachment. His success, after all, rested on the pennies readers spent for his paper. After concluding his business duties, which usually took an hour, Pulitzer would turn to the editorial work. He worked side by side with the reporters and editors, "just as if he was one of them," recalled a reporter. "If he wrote something he particularly fancied, he would read it aloud for the benefit of his staff. If a new reporter wrote a good story, Pulitzer, in his intensely enthusiastic way, would compliment the young fellow." Pulitzer didn't consider it beneath his position to contribute news copy. One day, on his way to work, he witnessed a runaway carriage. Upon reaching the paper, he burst into the newsroom with the enthusiasm of a cub reporter and filed his own account of the accident. Pulitzer thrived on the hubbub of the newsroom. He simultaneously wrote, edited, and conferred with his staff. "He seemed equally at ease when writing and talking at the same time," said the reporter. Interruptions were continuous. Pulitzer would get started on an editorial, and then the politicos would begin to arrive. He greeted each one with "My dear fellow," followed by an inquiry as to the person's well-being, recalled a reporter. "He would continue to dash off editorials and pungent paragraphs while discussing politics with his visitors. He seemed to be as much immersed in politics as he was in building up his newspaper." To Pulitzer, of course, these were one and the same thing. After lunch at eateries such as Faust's, where he had once made an inglorious attempt at being a waiter, Pulitzer would return to the office to review the final page proofs, often bringing them to the composition room to explain his changes. At three o'clock, when the first edition of the paper came off the press, Pulitzer would leave his desk and go to the counting room. There he would join other men in distributing bundles of the paper to the boys who would walk the delivery routes or hawk the paper on the street. The street urchins were critical to a paper's success. They could also be its Achilles' heel. Several times during his early months of managing the paper, Pulitzer clashed with them. In May, for instance, the newsboys went on strike, demanding a 50 percent share of the paper's selling price. The arrangement had been that they purchased copies of the paper at three cents and sold the copies for five cents. "It is hard to fight women, but still harder to argue with boys, especially newsboys," wrote Pulitzer. "However kindly we are disposed toward the little brigades who sell our paper, it is an absurdity which we are fully determined and able to stop—no matter how long the strike may last." He won. On April 21, 1879, the St. Louis contractor Edward Augustine returned to his house at dinnertime looking haggard. In the nine years since Pulitzer had shot him at the hotel in Jefferson City, Augustine had fallen from political power, and without county government contracts, his business ventures had failed. When he entered his house, Augustine found his family at the dinner table. His wife asked him to join them. He refused and instead asked her to come into the front parlor. She demurred—understandably. Only a few days earlier, Augustine had brought home a rifle after telling friends it was for the purpose of murdering his family. He turned and went into the parlor alone. "Then, I'll finish it," he said. A few minutes later, a shot rang out. Pulitzer resisted the temptation to use his new position to even the score with his old antagonist. In fact, the Post-Dispatch's coverage of Augustine's suicide was muted in comparison with that of the other newspapers, though it included the required graphic description of Augustine's brain "scattered all about the room." Pulitzer may have possessed a volcanic temper and held grudges for long periods, but he could be magnanimous. Pulitzer didn't have time to worry about old history. The paper needed constant tending. Although it was becoming profitable, the financial foundation of the enterprise was a house of cards. As a precaution, Pulitzer took $300 from his reserve funds and put them in a trunk at home to make sure he could cover the coming expenses of the birth of his first child. Neither Dillon nor Pulitzer had the capital necessary to continue the paper's growth. The promise of profits would not pay for the new presses or the paper's rising expenses. Pulitzer turned to Louis Gottschalk, a prominent lawyer and Democrat in St. Louis whom he had known since Gratz Brown's election as governor in 1870. In 1875, Pulitzer and Gottschalk had both served as delegates from St. Louis to the state's constitutional convention. Gottschalk, like a number of other Democrats, believed the Post-Dispatch under Pulitzer's editorship could benefit the party. He agreed to lend $13,000 so that Pulitzer, in turn, could lend money to the Post-Dispatch as promised in the merger agreement. In addition to the infusion of capital, Pulitzer had a lucky break with the $15,000 mortgage taken out by the Dispatch's former owners and thought to have been conveyed when Pulitzer bought the paper at auction. In fact, Pulitzer had been making interest payments on the mortgage. He had also taken the unusual step of making weekly payments to the Associated Press in the name of the mortgage holder. He worried that the Post-Dispatch could lose access to AP because the original embossed membership certificate had been used as collateral and was still in the hands of the mortgage holder. Lawyers who researched the mortgage discovered that the debt had been contracted personally by one of the former owners, and they reported to Pulitzer that it "was a debt never incurred by him and for which he is not in any respect responsible." As far as he was concerned, the debt was off the books, but he still fretted about the missing official AP membership document. With his new Hoe presses, Pulitzer was able to increase the space in the Post-Dispatch for both news and advertising. To persuade a hesitant readership that an afternoon paper could also carry classifieds, like the established morning papers, Pulitzer gave out classifieds free of charge for several months. The idea was to increase circulation as well as to boost advertising revenue. Pulitzer recognized that many people read the advertisements the way others read the articles. "It is our object to make the advertising columns of the Post-Dispatch not less varied and interesting than the news columns," he wrote. Indeed, the news columns were filled with the kind of stories Pulitzer craved, the kind that made people talk. The Post-Dispatch continued its relentless assault on the municipal monopolies, exposed questionable banking practices, detailed shady insurance schemes, and revealed anything else that victimized the middle class. It was scathing in its treatment of the city's upper-class families, many of whom were Pulitzer's neighbors. Editorials dripping with sarcasm poked fun at upper-class rituals and social events. These customs also served as topics for some of the paper's best stories. Nothing was too private for the circulation-hungry Pulitzer. There was a rumor that Dolly Liggett, the daughter of one of the city's wealthiest tobacco merchants, had defied her parents and married a livery stable's bookkeeper. The family refused the entreaties of two Post-Dispatch reporters seeking confirmation. Pulitzer sent off a third reporter, Florence D. White, whose unusual first name had given him the nickname "Flory." White was, at age sixteen, the youngest member of Pulitzer's staff. His passion for journalism had lured him away from Christian Brothers College, an opulent high school whose graduates often pursued more education. Pulitzer saw in White a drive that mirrored his own, and he rewarded his young reporter with increasing trust. His instinct did not let him down. White persuaded the Liggetts' maid to admit him. He returned with an exclusive interview with the mother, a mix of outburst and tears. Watching with dismay as the Post-Dispatch's circulation rose each week, the owners of the Star decided to throw in the towel. It was now their turn on the auction block. On May 14, 1879, the usual crowd gathered on the courthouse steps. Pulitzer joined in the bidding, which started at only $100 but rapidly devolved into a three-way match. When the bids reached the $700 range, Pulitzer dropped out, and one of the remaining two men prevailed with a bid of $790. As when he had bought the Dispatch at auction, Pulitzer had fooled the crowd. The man who placed the winning bid was working for him. The afternoon field now belonged solely to the Post-Dispatch. "We have passed the point," Pulitzer wrote, "where the Post-Dispatch was an experiment." Joseph settled the pregnant Kate into a house at 2920 Washington Avenue. It was of brick and had three stories, a mansard roof, a bay window in the front, and stables in the rear. The neighborhood was one of gracious dwellings, crisscrossed by private streets. By choosing this spot, Joseph placed Kate in an enclave of the city's aristocrats, who were objects of his paper's continual attacks. That mattered little to Joseph, for whom confrontation was almost a pleasure. But for Kate it was the beginning of what would be many uncomfortable experiences of being ostracized because of her husband's public conduct. On June 11, 1879, Kate gave birth to their first son. They named him Ralph. With a child at home and with the paper becoming more successful, Pulitzer carved out more time for his family. He spent Sundays with Kate and baby. All summer he came home early enough to sit on the front stoop with Kate and visit with neighbors, at least those who did not hold the conduct of his paper against him. Those who did referred to the couple as "beauty and the beast." Usually Kate, with Ralph in her arms, fetched her husband from work by carriage. Joseph would greet her and Ralph with joyous enthusiasm, as if they had been separated by a long journey. "In such an atmosphere, those were happy days for everyone," one of Joseph's reporters recalled. Indeed, even his old friend Johnson noted Joseph's happiness in his diary. Joseph had resumed horseback riding, often taking rides in Forest Park with a friend. On evenings when he did not return to the paper for late work, Joseph gathered friends for cards in his home. As the summer of 1879 drew to a close, Joseph had found all the things that he had been lacking when he confessed to Kate, on the eve of their wedding a year earlier, his need for a new life. He was now married to an enviably attractive woman, he was the father of a son, and he was no longer fretting about an impending return to poverty. The only thing that was not yet fully in his domain was the paper, which he still had to share with a partner. In the fall, it became increasingly clear to Dillon and Pulitzer that their partnership would not work. McCullagh, who predicted that the partnership would not last, attributed the breakup to "incompatibility of temper, superinduced, perhaps, by an excess of talent." The truth of the matter was that one did not work with Pulitzer. For him, surely. Against him, often. But not with him. Carl Schurz and Preetorius had learned this in 1872. Now, it was Dillon's turn. Dillon agreed to sell Pulitzer his half of the enterprise. It had been only a year since Pulitzer had sat late into the night with his friend Houser, counting how many months of operating expenses his few thousand dollars in savings would buy him. Now he could meet Dillon's asking price solely from his share of the paper's first-year profits. On November 29, 1879, the Post-Dispatch announced Dillon's departure. Pulitzer was the paper's sole proprietor. Joseph reorganized the paper's corporate structure. He made Kate vice president, putting one share in her name, and filled the rest of the board with loyal friends such as William Patrick. Next, with his hands unfettered, Pulitzer made wholesale changes to the editorial staff. He didn't want another partner, but he needed someone who could act as one. Within days of Dillon's departure, Pulitzer sent a wire to John Cockerill, whom he had first met at the Liberal Republican convention, offering him the post of managing editor. That night, Cockerill found the telegram waiting for him when he picked up his room key at Barnum's Hotel in Baltimore. Since his successful run with Hutchins at the Washington Post, he had moved on to become editor of the Baltimore Gazette. Hutchins still sang his praises. "The really notable newspaper men in the United States can be numbered upon the fingers of one's hands, and Mr. Cockerill's name would be called before the second hand was reached," he wrote. Pulitzer's offer was irresistible. The two men had similar political views, and their enthusiasm for the new journalism of the era was so great that they were like apostles of a faith. The challenge that came with the job was daunting. Although Cockerill knew of Pulitzer's early successes, the Post-Dispatch was still more a promise than an accomplishment. It was nowhere close to challenging the behemoth of St. Louis edited by Cockerill's early boss and friend McCullagh. The city belonged to the Globe Democrat. Only the Boston Herald, the New York Herald, and the Philadelphia Ledger had higher circulations. But Cockerill had confidence in Pulitzer. He took the job. ## Chapter Fourteen ## DARK LANTERN In January 1880, St. Louisans were astonished to read that the Post-Dispatch would soon be on the auction block. Advertisements in the St. Louis Times proclaimed that the rival newspaper, its machinery, type, press, furniture, and all components of business would be sold to the highest bidder at the east front of the courthouse. The advertisements were the devious work of Times publisher B. M. Chambers, an avowed enemy of Pulitzer who was frequently ill treated in the Post-Dispatch. Chambers was convinced he had found a means to put Pulitzer out of business or, at the least, make his life miserable. Before Pulitzer had bought the Dispatch, its former owners kept the paper alive using a loan from the ill-famed attorney Frank Bowman. In return for this last-ditch loan, the owners surrendered to Bowman the original, embossed certificate of the Dispatch's membership in the Associated Press. Chambers had since acquired the note and certificate. With the AP document in his hands, Chambers demanded that Pulitzer pay off the loan to get it back. But Pulitzer's lawyers had rightly concluded that he was not liable for the loan, so Pulitzer refused. Chambers put his plan for an auction into action. Pulitzer was not worried about the stunt. It would be impossible to sell the paper without a legal determination that it was liable for the old loan. "IS THIS MAN INSANE?" Pulitzer asked in a headline in the Post-Dispatch. But the Post-Dispatch's AP membership certificate was another matter, one far more serious. If Chambers somehow caused Pulitzer to lose access to the AP, it might ruin the paper. Pulitzer sought help from AP president Murat Halstead, whom he had known since the Liberal Republican days, and other members of the news service. But Pulitzer knew that in the high-stakes game of a news monopoly, business interests could trump friendship. So, as insurance, he filed suit to compel the association to issue him a new certificate to replace the one Chambers held and proposed to sell at the auction. After a week's delay, which gave Pulitzer a chance to continue his frantic work behind the scenes, a crowd assembled at the courthouse believing the sale would finally take place. Several properties were auctioned, but to the audience's disappointment Chambers, the star of the event, never showed up. Instead, he sent his attorney to announce that the sale had been postponed indefinitely. He knew what the crowd was about to learn. He had been beaten. Rather than a funeral for the Post-Dispatch, the moment was a triumph for Pulitzer. He mounted the steps in front of the crowd. With the flourish of a stump speaker, Pulitzer declared that Chambers's allegations were false and that his access to AP dispatches was secure. "Look at this," he cried out and held aloft, for all to see, a new certificate of membership in the AP. His exuberance stemmed from more than this one victory. For the first time since he had bought the Dispatch, Pulitzer felt free. Circulation was increasing at such a rate that it would almost triple by the end of the year. His books showed that if the trend held steady the paper would earn $88,000 that year. "It owes nothing beyond a few accounts which will be adjusted on presentation," wrote Pulitzer, keeping his loan from the wealthy Democrat a secret. "It has no unhappy stockholders, no unpleasant litigation, and its circulation and its patronage show each month a gratifying increase. And that's how the Post-Dispatch plunges into the New Year." With Cockerill in place as his trusted lieutenant and the staffing changes complete, Pulitzer no longer needed to give the enterprise his undivided attention. At home, his growing income allowed him to provide Kate with three servants to run the house and care for the baby. Kate also had an easier entry into St. Louis society. She and Joseph attended the exclusive Home Circle ball at the Lindell Hotel. Described as "a very brilliant brunette," she wore a costume of pale blue and delicate pink satin, with ribbon bows. "The lady's ornaments," noted the press, "were diamonds." Unencumbered by financial and managerial demands, Pulitzer turned his attention to his most important passion. Since his return to St. Louis, the silence regarding his political plans had been like waiting for the other shoe to drop. All his friends, as well as his detractors, knew that Pulitzer still wanted to hold office. His success as a newspaper publisher had strengthened his chances and his resolve. The day following his speech at the courthouse, word leaked out that he would run for the U.S. House of Representatives from the second congressional district of St. Louis. Pulitzer made plans to devote time to his own election, and to the entire Democratic ticket. But they almost all unraveled while he was out of town on his first political trip a couple of weeks later. At quarter past midnight on January 23, 1880, a Post-Dispatch employee smelled smoke. He ran into the deserted street yelling "Fire!" A nearby watchman tried to ring an alarm, but his key was so plugged with dirt he couldn't open the box. Luckily, a police officer spotted flames bursting through the windows of the paper's back building and set off an alarm, summoning two corps of firemen. By one o'clock in the morning, when the business manager arrived on the scene, the facility was a wreck: half burned, half soaked in water. Later, the foreman of the pressroom was found standing disconsolately in the midst of the steaming wreckage. The new Hoe press had been warped by the heat, and the stockpile of paper was rendered useless by the water. Telegrams were dispatched to Pulitzer, who was staying at his favorite New York hotel, the Fifth Avenue. Early estimates put the loss at more than $6,000, probably closer to $8,000. But although he had risked his savings in the enterprise and had operated for many months with little or no cash, Pulitzer had not risked going uninsured. Seven paid-up insurance policies covered his losses. Awakened with the news of the fire, McCullagh sent word that the paper could be printed at the Globe-Democrat, as it had been before the Post-Dispatch obtained its own presses. In the morning Cockerill wrote an editorial headlined OUR BLACK FRIDAY, predicting that the paper would take two weeks to get back on its feet. The paper, concluded Cockerill, "is a thoroughly established institution and is able to survive the ordinary vicissitudes of life." In New York, the fire put Pulitzer in a foul mood. A reporter for the New York Tribune approached him about the election prospects for Democrats. A Republican will be in the White House for another four years, Pulitzer curtly replied (leading Hutchins at the Post to quip that "Pulitzer should always be interviewed just after dinner and a cursory examination of rent-rolls"). Reports from Cockerill calmed Joseph and he left New York to meet Kate in Washington. There, he and Kate returned to the Church of the Epiphany, this time to baptize Ralph. Kate's unmarried older sister Clara Davis and Joseph's friend U.S. Representative John Bullock Clark Jr. served as witnesses. The priest did not ask Joseph for a profession of faith; only the godparents were required to give that. Yet standing by the baptismal font and agreeing to have his child raised as an Episcopalian, Joseph sealed his departure from Judaism. By early February, with his family in St. Louis, the paper back in its office, and circulation holding steady, Pulitzer once again turned eagerly to the oncoming election. Despite his dour pronouncement to the Tribune's reporter, all signs pointed to a Democratic victory. In 1878, the party had taken back both houses of Congress for the first time since 1858. The Democrats' political fortunes were such that the presidency, which they had not won since 1856, should at last be theirs. With a heightened sense of power as one of the new breed of independent newspaper publishers, Pulitzer intended to both direct the Missouri Democratic Party and help the national party find a suitable standard-bearer. He and his friend Henry Watterson, of the Louisville Courier-Journal, were determined to anoint a man who could win. Pulitzer's vision of himself as the party's leader in Missouri did not sit well with William Hyde, editor of the Missouri Republican. That paper, managed from an elegant five-story building with Renaissance-style ornamentation, had long been the acknowledged party sheet. Over time, however, its support of the city's oligarchs had left many Democrats out in the cold, especially those in the middle class. They were gravitating to the Post-Dispatch, creating a political and economic competition between Pulitzer and Hyde. Despite the enmity between the two men, both Hyde and Pulitzer sat on a committee assigned to lure the 1880 Democratic national convention back to St. Louis, where it had been held four years earlier. Pulitzer conveniently missed the committee's trip to the Washington meeting where it lost out to Cincinnati. Upon returning to St. Louis, Hyde discovered that Pulitzer had published a telegram suggesting that the committee failed because its members spent their time drinking in Washington's bars. If Hyde's anger was not sufficiently stoked by this, a cheeky poem continuing the paper's abuse of him appeared in the five o'clock edition of the March 1 Post-Dispatch. At six that evening, with—as one reporter described it—anger coursing though his veins "like a mountain-fed stream in the early spring," Hyde left a friend's office and headed down Olive Street to his newspaper. Meanwhile, Pulitzer exited Maranesi's candy store, where he had bought a supply of caramel, and was strolling to Willie Gray's bookstore for a copy of Harper's Weekly. At the corner of Olive and Fourth streets, the editors came face-to-face. "Now damn you, I've got you at last," said Hyde. He swung his fist at Pulitzer, but managed only a glancing blow to the right eye, knocking Pulitzer's glasses off. Blinded, Pulitzer returned the punch with equal ineffectiveness. He then grabbed Hyde by his tie and shirt and wrestled him to the ground. The two scuffled until bystanders pulled them apart in the nick of time. Pulitzer had managed to reach under his heavy overcoat and had withdrawn a pistol from his hip pocket. Before he could get a shot off, one of the men knocked the gun away. A decade after the shooting in Jefferson City, Pulitzer was still taking aim at St. Louis's pols. Pulitzer was shaken. He couldn't see without his spectacles. In the darkness and cold, he let himself be led to a nearby cigar store. As he stepped away, he yelled in Hyde's direction, "You cow! Anybody could do that." Hyde imperiously dusted himself off, and with an escort of two men retreated to a doorway next to Ettling's barbershop, where he received the congratulations of friends. The election of 1880 lacked any major issues. The economy had recovered from the doldrums of the 1870s, Reconstruction was a dead issue, and the clamor for civil service reform had faded. The partisans of the time were glad to concoct disputes, but the supposed issues were little more than proxies for regional and factional differences. When it came to the ballot, the nation was still divided by the Mason-Dixon Line. Early in the race for the Democratic nomination, Tilden was the leading contender. Pulitzer was adamantly against Tilden because he was still angry about the New Yorker's acquiescence in the 1877 bargain that gave the presidency to Hayes. As early as February 1879, Pulitzer argued against the rising tide for Tilden. "It seems absurd that Mr. Tilden should ask a vindication in the shape of the Presidency, when his own inexcusable conduct alone made the success of the electoral crime possible." Pulitzer flirted briefly with other potential candidates, but soon lost interest in them. With only a month remaining before the selection process began, Pulitzer was still without a man. He feared that if he couldn't find a strong candidate, the party would go back to Tilden. Pulitzer decided to try luring another former New York governor, Horatio Seymour, who had run against Grant in 1868, out of retirement. If Pulitzer could talk Seymour into running, he would not only save the party but score a journalistic coup. On April 24, 1880, Pulitzer traveled to Utica, New York. He rode a carriage across the Mohawk River and up the Deerfield hills to the Seymour home, a small house framed by tall hemlocks and a century-old black cherry tree in front, perched so high in the hills that it had a twenty-mile view of the valley below. Seymour greeted Pulitzer at the door. Although Seymour would turn seventy years old the following month, Pulitzer thought he hardly looked sixty. He stood tall and erect, his hair had little gray, and his hazel eyes remained clear. His only infirmity was a slight loss of hearing. They entered the house, which was filled with colonial and revolutionary era antiques. As they sat, Pulitzer displayed rare diffidence and held off raising the question of who should be the Democratic Party's nominee. Instead the two conversed about politics, the "Negro problem" (as it was then called), and the coming election. Finally the all-important topic came up as the two prepared to part. At the door to the house, Seymour said the party had a wide choice of excellent candidates and listed several of the leading ones. "I am too old," said Seymour. "You had better leave me to die gracefully by myself. That is an act few men understand, and perhaps I had best begin to try it now." "But Governor," Pulitzer replied, "if the people think you are the strongest candidate for your state as well as the country, and if their delegates at Cincinnati fix upon you as the man of all others to lead them in this campaign against centralization and imperialism, I have always said that you were too good a patriot and too good a Democrat to decline the leadership. Have I said wrong?" Seymour stood at the doorway for a while looking at his guest and made motions as if he were going to say something. Instead, he grasped Pulitzer's hand and shook it. Pulitzer told him he was satisfied with this silent reply. Seymour laughed. "You had better lay me on the shelf and get a younger man." Despite this final pronouncement Pulitzer rode away "with exultation in my heart," believing that Seymour might still be a candidate. The harsh light of reality struck Pulitzer upon his return to Missouri. Seymour had been sincere in declining the honor Pulitzer had proffered. There was no realistic way that the aging Seymour could undertake a national campaign. Without a candidate, Pulitzer could only try to deny Tilden the nomination. This goal took on a personal element because the leader of Tilden's crowd in Missouri was none other than William Hyde. Missouri Democrats gathered in late May for their state convention in Moberly, a railroad town in the middle of the state. Both Hyde and Pulitzer were delegates. When Pulitzer's turn came to address the convention, Hyde's supporters packed the galleries and tried to shout him down. But no matter what Hyde's men tried, Tilden's day had come and gone. There was nothing Hyde could do. The convention selected twenty-one of its thirty national delegates from the ranks of anti-Tilden men. Pulitzer returned to St. Louis triumphant. "A cloud of gloom rests over the Tilden cause," noted the Washington Post in reporting the results at Moberly. Hyde avoided complete defeat by securing a spot as a delegate at-large. Pulitzer was selected as one of two delegates from the Second Congressional District, which he hoped to represent after the election. At the end of June, Pulitzer traveled to Cincinnati for the Democratic national convention. Years earlier, he had come as a dewy-eyed organizer of the insurgent Liberal Republican movement. Then he had been a twenty-five-year-old dissatisfied Republican newspaper editor. Now he was one of the most talked-about newspaper publishers, and comfortable in his new political home among the Democrats. The convention, which opened on June 22, 1880, looked almost as wild as the renegade gathering of 1872. Nineteen hopefuls sought the presidential nomination. Pulitzer gained a seat on the resolutions committee, chaired by Watterson. Together they crafted a platform of fifteen planks that included opposition to centralization and to protective tariffs, support for the gold standard, and an end to Chinese immigration. The platform also stated the election of 1876 had been fraudulently stolen and that Tilden should be thanked for his selfless service to the party. With the preliminaries out of the way, the convention turned to its main business on the morning of June 24. Though stifling heat made the convention hall almost unbearable for the delegates, they began to sift through the many candidates. Tilden gracefully bowed out, and on the first ballot the new leading candidate, General Winfield Hancock, took 23 percent of the vote. It looked as though it could be a long day. But when the second ballot began, delegates abandoned their first choices and formed a bandwagon for Hancock. Pulitzer faced a quandary. He had promised to speak on behalf of the candidacy of William English, a former Indiana congressman who was now a dark horse. The changing developments on the floor made this impossible, however. "I saw before Missouri was called that the nomination would sweep through the convention like wildfire," Pulitzer later told English. "I did not think it wise to interrupt the room, and sacrificed my own inclination and pleasure rather than do what seemed needless." Pulitzer's judgment was sound. His own state, which had split its votes among five men on the first ballot, now gave Hancock all but two of those votes. The counting of the ballots would be only a formality. "The mob howled and shrieked, so that for some time no business could be done," said a reporter on the floor. "But while the disorder prevailed there were hurried consultations among the delegates and unmistakable signs of a stampede." It would be for General Hancock. With that decision made, the convention chair asked for a recess until later in the day. But Pulitzer instead moved that the convention immediately select the "next vice president," with an assurance that caused some laughter. At this moment, Pulitzer's friend English was more fortunate. His status as a former congressman from the important battleground state of Indiana made him an easy choice for the convention, and he was given the second spot on the ticket. The Republicans, meeting in Chicago, had a harder time making their selection. It took them thirty-six ballots before they settled on U.S. Representative James Garfield, from Ohio, and on the New Yorker Chester Arthur as his running mate. The Democrats' choice of Hancock meant that Pulitzer had to do some rapid editorial backpedaling. On the eve of the convention, he had warned that selecting a general as a candidate would be a "stupendous mistake" because putting a military man in the White House would be inherently dangerous to liberty. Now he did an about-face. Of all the soldier-politicians, he assured his readers, Hancock was the one most devoted to civilian rule, habeas corpus, and strict interpretation of the Constitution. On his return to St. Louis, Pulitzer spoke to a large, enthusiastic Democratic rally at the courthouse. Most men would have been physically exhausted by the travel and the long hours of the convention, but Pulitzer displayed dazzling energy, sustained by the adrenaline surge elections gave him. He had not been home for even a day before he wrote to a political operative in Indiana, "Is there anything I can do in your state on the stump? I shall be glad to serve as in 76, of course, at my expense." Back at his desk, Pulitzer found that his paper had recovered from the fire and had prevailed in a dozen libel suits, including one brought by the famous Italian soprano Carlotta Patti—the Post-Dispatch had insinuated that she was very well, perhaps too well, acquainted with liquor. But now a different danger arose. On the streets in late July, newsboys were hawking a new paper, the Evening Chronicle. It sold for two cents—three cents less than the Post-Dispatch—and the street urchins were excited because they received the paper free of charge and could pocket the entire revenue. The publisher challenging Pulitzer's dominance of the afternoon field was Edward W. Scripps. Pulitzer was not the only one who had discovered a way to succeed in the new era of independent journalism. Scripps, who had been an Illinois farmboy, launched his first newspaper at age twenty-four in Cleveland. His formula was to produce an inexpensive, tightly edited, but sprightly written paper aimed at the growing working classes of the nation's new industrial centers. His editorial policy matched the goals of the audience he sought. His papers were fierce advocates for labor unions and collective bargaining. The Evening Chronicle's fresh tone and low price attracted readers, and its pricing policy stirred up the newsboys to demand that Pulitzer sell them three, instead of two, copies of his paper for five cents. When he refused, the boys once again staged a strike of sorts. Some of them stood outside the Post-Dispatch offices and taunted others who tried to deliver papers. Pulitzer was unfazed. Unembarrassed to be waging an industrial war against children, Pulitzer knew that, as in his previous skirmish with the boys, he could withstand their assaults. He defended himself to his readers, pointing out he made only as much on each newspaper sold as the newsboys did, "and we furnish the white paper, ink, presswork, type-setting, and just enough brains to keep the thing going." Pulitzer was comforted also by the Post-Dispatch's continued growth. The paper had already surpassed the circulation of Hyde's Republican by 25 percent. Only McCullagh's morning Globe-Democrat outsold the Post-Dispatch, and Pulitzer anticipated that he would overtake it within months. With the growth in circulation came continued prosperity. Pulitzer's cashier predicted that the paper should net more than $85,000 by the end of 1880. On August 8, Charles Johnson stopped in at Pulitzer's house and found Pulitzer huddled with Irish ward bosses, discussing his plan to run for Congress. Johnson, who had earlier tried to persuade Pulitzer not to pursue a career in law or politics, told him the project was an act of folly. But Pulitzer wasn't in a mood to listen. His hunger for political office was so overpowering that he ignored both his old friend and his own ethics. To get the nomination, Pulitzer was willing to dance with the devil. In this case his name was Ed Butler, also known as "de boss of St. Louis" or more unassumingly as "the village blacksmith." Butler, who had been born in Ireland in 1838, ran a smithing business in the Fifth Ward, which Pulitzer had represented in the state legislature. Early on, Butler found it profitable to get involved in city politics. After helping one mayoral candidate in 1872, he earned the contract to shoe the city government's horses and, later, the horses that pulled the city's trolleys. By 1880, Butler's power extended over the entire city. His powerful organization was known to its detractors as the "Dark Lantern." Butler had a simple system. For the payment of a fee to the Dark Lantern, a candidate would receive the Democratic nomination. Although this was the kind of corrupt practice the Post-Dispatch denounced, Pulitzer himself paid between $6,000 and $10,000. It was worth it. Being nominated was tantamount to winning the election, as the Second District was overwhelmingly Democratic. Believing that his nomination was secure and that he would be in Congress when the Democrats regained the White House, Pulitzer refocused his energy on the national campaign. As he had in 1872 and 1876, he turned to Indiana. It was widely believed that its 15 electoral votes, perhaps with New York state's 30, would decide the election. Indiana was also one of the states that had additional political importance, because it held its elections for state office in October, helping build momentum for the winning party in the national vote a month later. "We all regard Indiana as the battle ground," Pulitzer wrote to the vice presidential candidate, English. Pulitzer crafted a speech to give in Indianapolis, where Schurz had delivered a long and widely noted address for the Republicans. In a sense, this would be a reprise of the 1876 election, when Pulitzer indirectly debated his former mentor. But in the four years that had passed since then, Pulitzer had become a newspaper publisher whose fame was equal to, if not greater than, Schurz's. The Democratic press now described Pulitzer as the editor of "one of the most influential papers" Republicans called him "notorious." In either case, he was no longer simply the "German orator." Pulitzer was pleased with this transformation. He told organizers in Indianapolis that he would make his speech in English. If they insisted, he could deliver a second address in German. "There is no difference to me whatever between the two languages," he said. "I prefer to deliver the principal speech in English solely because I know that will make it more effective—even among Germans." On the evening of August 14, Pulitzer stood before a large crowd in the Indianapolis Wigwam, an auditorium often used for political functions. For almost an hour, he accused the Republicans of demagoguery and centralization. In an unusually personal moment, Pulitzer said he was better equipped than native-born men to recognize the danger, describing how he came to the United States "friendless, homeless, tongueless, guideless" and how he renounced his allegiance to an emperor to become a citizen. "I joyfully complied with that condition," he said. "I have kept faith; I am only keeping faith now." Launching his most direct attack yet as a politician, publisher, or orator, Pulitzer challenged America's upper class and the elected officials who did its bidding. In a succession of sentences that left both speaker and audience breathless, Pulitzer said, "Show me a land where one person controls 8,000 miles of railroad, mostly built by government subsidies; where another has forty-seven million of government bonds registered in his name, and where still another can appear at a White House reception with diamonds on her body worth over a million dollars; show me a land where the money power, the organized capital, privileges and monopolies of the country, the railroads, telegraphs, banks, protected manufacturers, etc. are favored and fostered by the government...and you have shown me imperialism. It is the issue of the hour and the duty of the Democracy is to meet it, battle it, overthrow it, and restore and re-establish the sane principle of true, popular, self-government." Pulitzer did not frame the election in terms of commonplace issues such as tariffs or civil service reform. Rather, he argued that the growing prosperity of the nation endangered its political freedoms. The wealthy, who benefited most from industrialization, were seeking to protect their interests by controlling the government. "Let us have prosperity, but never at the expense of liberty, never at the expense of real self-government, and let us never have a government in Washington owing its retention to the power of the millionaires rather than the will of the millions." In September, Pulitzer set aside his work for the national ticket in order to tend to his own race for Congress. Anyone else might have been simply content to enjoy success as a publisher. But Pulitzer was not yet ready to give up his pursuit of elective office. His ambition had taken root when, at a formative age, he had watched Carl Schurz win office, respect, success, and adulation through journalism. For one who had Pulitzer's ego and need for control, politics was a siren—even more so when, after he had been rejected by voters, it offered redemption in the form of a comeback. As the primary neared, the acrimony between Pulitzer and Hyde increased. Still stinging from his defeat in Moberly, Hyde was not going to let Pulitzer seize his mantle without a fight. He and his paper's publisher, Charles Knapp, set to work to derail Pulitzer's nomination. They persuaded Thomas Allen, president of Iron Mountain Railroad, to give up his aspirations for the Senate and run for the House seat. Even though he had once charitably given Pulitzer's brother a job, Allen despised the Post-Dispatch and the older Pulitzer. There was no doubt how Pulitzer felt about him. When Allen ran for the Senate in 1879, Pulitzer had fired off an editorial barrage, attacking him as a tool of capital, and insisting that if he was elected the railroads would rule the state. "No one outside of the lunatic asylum," Pulitzer wrote, "believes that Tom Allen's name would be even mentioned if, instead of having riches and railroads, he were poor and penniless." With Allen's entry into the race, the other candidates withdrew, leaving the field to the newspaper publisher and railroad magnate. "His candidacy simply represents the spite, the hatred, the jealousy and business rivalry of the Knapp cabal," wrote Pulitzer in an editorial "There never was a better time to put a quietus on the dictatorial gang of political pirates who infest the Republican office." Calling Pulitzer a demagogue who prostituted his paper by turning it into a mudslinging machine, Hyde said that the Post-Dispatch would not thwart Allen's candidacy. "If anybody is to be hurt by the dirt-throwing, which the Post-Dispatch began as soon as Mr. Allen consented to run for Congress, it is Pulitzer. His mud will all fall back on himself, and it will stick there." Hyde enlisted the wealthiest and most influential residents of each ward to serve as delegates, election judges, and clerks in the primary. Together they brought economic pressure to bear on Butler and his Dark Lantern organization by threatening Butler's control of the streetcar shoeing business. The plan worked. The night before the primary, Butler's men were ordered to change their votes to Allen. The Republican greeted Election Day with confidence. The campaign had taken such a turn that it was almost like a chapter from Alice in Wonderland. Everything was now upside down. Allen, the railroad magnate representing St. Louis's oligarchy, was running as the candidate of reform. Pulitzer, the real enemy of entrenched interests, was tainted by his brief fling with corrupt machine politics. The paper urged voters "to bury Pulitzer out of sight at the Democratic primary election today." That's what they did. Pulitzer received only 721 votes to Allen's 4,274. In Butler's ward, Pulitzer did not receive a single vote. "The machine, as I expected, sold Pulitzer out," Johnson wrote that night in his diary. When Pulitzer lost his seat in the legislature in 1870, it had been at the hands of the opposing political party. Now his own party rejected him. Despite his ego and his mounting sense of importance, Pulitzer accepted this shellacking. Johnson was impressed. "Pulitzer takes his defeat more philosophically than I should," he said. The day following the election, Pulitzer told his readers, "The past is past. We have nothing to take back. We look and think forward, not backward." The nomination had been settled with the selection of Allen. "The next question is, Shall he be elected? We say, emphatically, Yes!" Pulitzer wasted no time before returning to the stump for the national ticket, leaving behind a pregnant Kate, nearing her due date. Only a few days after his departure, on October 3, 1880, she gave birth to their second child, Lucille Irma. Father would not meet his new baby for several weeks because in Pulitzer's world little if anything was more important than an election. In this case, he had an executive committee meeting in New York and was to give speeches along the way in Ohio. He arrived at the national Democratic headquarters full of enthusiasm. "I have not the slightest doubt of carrying Indiana," he told a reporter. "Why should I?" But, the reporter persisted, "the story is here that the Republicans are preparing to send a great deal of money into Indiana." "I see that this story is circulated," said Pulitzer. "With the shadow of the Presidential contest projected over the State battle, I do not believe money will change enough votes to affect the results in any appreciable manner." Following the party leaders' meeting, Pulitzer took to the road again. He first went to Boston and then quickly headed back to Indiana and Ohio, predicting victory to all he met. "If Ohio were to elect tomorrow it would go Democratic," Pulitzer told one reporter. But the election would turn on Indiana, he predicted. "It is agreed on all sides that as Indiana goes this year, so goes the Union." Pulitzer had one major speech scheduled before the Buckeyes and Hoosiers voted. On October 7, he was the main event at a large Democratic, and very German, rally at Memorial Park in Cleveland, Ohio. Pulitzer dug right into his class-based attack on the Republicans. He asked the Germans in the audience if they had not left their native land to escape a government controlled by one class. The ruling class would turn the United States into the same system they had escaped unless their participation in the election turned the tide. Allied against them, he warned, were an army of patronage and a coalition of corporations, banks, and railroads. "The Blaines, Conklings, Shermans and others traveling on special trains, unlike common people; hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars raised by Wall Street and capitalists in Boston, New England, and Philadelphia. Raised for what? To corrupt the elections and prevent a change." Despite the size and enthusiasm of the crowd, Pulitzer sensed that the tide in these two crucial state elections was not in the Democrats' favor. He was right. Several days later, the Republicans scored an easy victory in Ohio and squeaked by in Indiana. The prospects for the White House looked dim once again. Nonetheless Pulitzer continued his campaign, making speeches in the crucial state of New York. Speaking in Chickering Hall on Fifth Avenue, he clung tenaciously to his populist themes. "The country is in danger, not from below, but from above; not from segregation, but from centralization and imperialism—from organized corporations, organized privileges, and from the army of 100,000 office holders." Pulitzer the journalist dropped any pretense of confidence. He telegraphed a signed article back to the Post-Dispatch with a gloomy estimation of Hancock's chances in the election. In fact, Pulitzer went as far as to forecast a victory for Garfield, earning the wrath of other partisan papers. Such a prediction was the political equivalent of violating baseball's prohibition against using the term "no-hitter" before the last batter is out. When Election Day came, it looked for a brief time as if Pulitzer would be proved wrong. The popular vote turned out to be a virtual tie: each major candidate had 48.3 percent of the vote, with the remainder going to third-party candidates. But the electoral votes gave Garfield the election. With Indiana and Ohio voting Republican, New York turned out to be the key state. A shift of a few thousand votes in the Empire State—5,517, to be precise—would have made Hancock president. The lesson was not lost on Pulitzer, who studied election maps with a mania. If the Democrats were to end their drought, those votes would need to be found in New York. His dream of owning a New York paper took on new urgency. ## Chapter Fifteen ## ST. LOUIS GROWS SMALL On many nights in early 1881, Pulitzer lay awake in his bed listening to the bells of the St. Louis Pilgrim Congressional Church peal out the passing hours. The third- or fourth-largest set of bells in the United States, they could be easily heard across the city. Pulitzer liked the ringing because it let him know how much time remained until dawn. The long, taxing days and the never-ending demands at the paper had taken a toll. Even though success was near, Pulitzer found it harder to sleep. But his insomnia did not stem from business worries. It was as if he could not shut down. Neither the Post-Dispatch nor Pulitzer had financial woes. The paper's net income was growing every month, and Pulitzer himself brought home more than $4,000 a month—more than what many of his elite neighbors earned. The only business challenge facing Pulitzer that spring was a modest one. The local typographical union wanted the Post-Dispatch to recognize it as the bargaining agent for the paper's compositors and printers, as the Globe-Democrat had done. Intellectually, Pulitzer was sympathetic to the aims of the labor movement. But this was different from writing an editorial dictating the behavior of others. Pulitzer would not abide anything that challenged his rule within the paper. A few printers sought to meet with Pulitzer and threatened to stop work if their demands were not met. Pulitzer was absent, so no meeting occurred. Nor would the meeting occur upon his return, because these printers were summarily fired by his managers. The Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer declared, "declines to be told who it shall and shall not employ. It refuses to be instructed as to how to measure its type, feed its press and to be limited to the number of apprentices it shall take into office training." He conceded that workers had the right to organize "but the right to manage the internal affairs of this office, employ and discharge and to direct when and how labor shall be performed, is one that the proprietor reserves to himself." Simply put, Pulitzer was a democrat in politics, but a paternalistic despot in the office. Pulitzer, however, did not treat his workers badly. In fact, the 1881 campaign by the typographical union came to an end because an overwhelming majority of Pulitzer's compositors had signed a statement proclaiming their happiness with their working conditions and their loyalty to their boss. Pulitzer paid better than other publishers, granted vacation time, frequently rewarded good work with bonuses, and remained intensely loyal to those who served him. He even gave his employees wedding and birthday gifts. At Christmas, he made it a tradition to send turkeys to his staff, and newsboys were invited to yuletide dinners where the tables groaned under the weight of food. Pulitzer claimed that his benevolence was self-serving. "Without good men you cannot get good work, and without good work no paper can prosper largely," he said. Yet he was deeply charitable. Once he became wealthy, he rarely declined any financial appeal, and he was particularly receptive to appeals from people he had met on his way up. For the remainder of his life, he quietly made arrangements to send monthly checks to widows of men who had toiled for him. He remembered how his mother had faced poverty when her husband died. That Pulitzer was absent when the printers came to see him was not surprising. As during the 1880 campaign, he used his increasing freedom from managerial responsibilities to spend time in the East. No matter how successful he was in St. Louis, New York remained the center of American journalism and politics. Pulitzer wanted in. With its theaters, concert halls, museums, banks, corporations, and millionaires, New York was the capital of everything important in the United States. Swampy, uncivilized Washington, D.C., may have been the seat of government, but New York remained the capital of politics. In journalism, Park Row was the dream destination of every reporter and editor. In the few short blocks, more newspapers were clustered than in any other spot of the world. Their offices were so substantial, their circulation was so large, and their news gathering was so extensive that the rest of nation's papers seemed like small-town sheets. But in the last few years, New York's Park Row had changed greatly. Many of the giants who created its best-known newspapers had died. Gone were the New York Tribune's Horace Greeley, the New York Herald's James Gordon Bennett, Sr., and the New York Times's Henry J. Raymond. The new leaders were men such as Charles Dana at the New York Sun and Edwin Lawrence Godkin at the New York Evening Post. This group, however, seemed only to be caretakers. A new order of journalism—lively, independent, and crusading—was growing in other cities. It was like theatrical plays previewing out of town, working out their kinks while awaiting their chance on Broadway. Pulitzer talked Daniel Houser into accompanying him to New York to look for a newspaper to buy. Houser, who co-owned the Globe-Democrat, had helped Pulitzer plan his purchase of the Dispatch four years earlier. They took rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel on June 19, 1881. After scouting around Park Row, they failed to discover any major newspaper for sale. There was one paper, a daily called Truth, which might be bought. It had started in 1879, had been an instant hit, and had quickly attained a circulation of more than 100,000 with its irreverent, light tone, bordering on the vulgar. Recently, it had run into financial difficulties, and Pulitzer made a halfhearted bid of $50,000 for it, but he was turned down. Thinking maybe he would do better to launch his own newspaper, Pulitzer asked Houser to go in with him. "I told him I was tied up with the Globe-Democrat and that the only field in New York would be for a Democratic paper, that I could not print a Republican paper in St. Louis and a Democratic paper in New York," Houser recalled. "I advised him not to start a new paper but buy one with a location—an office, a name, a franchise." Almost as if he did not want to return to St. Louis, Pulitzer found excuses to stay in the East through the summer of 1881. He dashed up to Albany to report for the Post-Dispatch on Roscoe Conkling's fruitless bid to win back the Senate seat he had resigned over a patronage dispute with President James Garfield. The political drama culminated on July 2 when Charles Guiteau, an obscure follower of Conkling's stalwart faction who was also a disappointed office seeker himself, pumped two bullets into the president. Doctors spent the summer battling to save Garfield's life. In September, the president was moved to Elberon, part of the coastal town of Long Branch, New Jersey, where fresh sea air might speed his recovery. Pulitzer joined the pack of reporters at the West End Hotel covering the president's convalescence. It didn't take long for him to become skeptical about the doctors' optimistic bulletins. Probably, most of the reporters were also doubtful about the official pronouncements. But lacking the freedom of writing for a paper they owned, most of them dutifully transmitted to their editors the morsels of upbeat news provided to them by the president's staff. GREATLY IMPROVED reported the Chicago Tribune, and the Washington Post predicted, THE PRESIDENT SURELY ON THE ROAD TO RECOVERY. When his turn came at the telegraph office, Pulitzer handed the operator a far gloomier assessment. "There are not many in the inner circle who do not well know that the bulletins are reliable only in this, that they exaggerate and embellish to the uttermost every favorable and utterly ignore every unfavorable sign of the case," he wired to the Post-Dispatch. The operator, one of eight brought in by Western Union to handle the volume of traffic, was impressed by what he transmitted. "Mr. Pulitzer always filed what we termed 'good stuff,'" he recalled. "From the first line of his first story, Mr. Pulitzer predicted the death of Garfield and pilloried several of the attending physicians for their false bulletins on the President's condition." At the beginning of Garfield's second week in Long Branch, ominous reports about his health began circulating. Most reporters, however, continued to report otherwise. They stuck to the story that the president was improving and that any news to the contrary was a product of the sensational press. A few nervous reporters covered their tracks by mentioning the rumors. Pulitzer, on the other hand, pressed on with his baleful version of Garfield's condition. "As I said last week, the President is growing worse," he wrote. "He is wasting away. It is only a question of time. All of his troubles, all his weakness come from the blood. It is poisoned." The doctors, he said, were lying. Pulitzer was convinced that septicemia, which before antibiotics invariably resulted in death, had set in. On September 15, the president's medical team conceded that Garfield had pyemia, or septicemia. Incredibly, reporters for the Washington Post, the New York Times, and other papers downplayed this news. Pulitzer marched to the telegraph office with a blunt dispatch. "Unless his blood can be cured he cannot be saved. I said this over a week ago and I repeat it," Pulitzer wrote. "The physicians and bulletins and reporters have lied for days and weeks and months in denying this fact." The tide of bad news now overwhelmed the Pollyannas of the press. The New York Times had the most backpedaling to do. It claimed that newspapermen were astonished by the new disclosures. The Post-Dispatch bragged that the new official bulletins proved its reporting—done by its owner—had been true all along. "Even Dr. Bliss has at last been forced to confess the lamentable truth," Pulitzer said. "He now admits everything he so positively denied every day and almost every hour of the last week." On Monday morning, September 19, Pulitzer filed his final dispatch. "All hope is dead. The President is dying." That night, with his wife and daughter at his side, Garfield ceased to breathe. In New York, a messenger boy brought the news to Vice President Chester Alan Arthur as church bells began to toll. Pulitzer returned to the city and denounced Garfield's doctors. "If they had been blind-folded they could hardly have shown much less sense." The day after the president's death, the Post-Dispatch defended itself against the censorious complaints it had received during Pulitzer's coverage of Garfield's decline. "We have been charged with 'sensationalism' and with a desire to prematurely dispose of the sufferer," Cockerill wrote. "We were not blinded by the bulletins of the physicians who felt it a part of their duty to keep up the spirit of the country in the face of plain facts. We went behind the bulletins.... Our predictions, we are sorry to say, have nearly all been verified." The success of Pulitzer's Post-Dispatch ceased being a novelty. By any measure, the newspaper and its publisher had become as important in St. Louis as the established morning papers—The Republican and the Globe-Democrat—and the men at their helms. During Pulitzer's reporting from Long Branch, his paper's circulation rose to 28,475 copies, more than three times the average circulation it had at the beginning of the year. To accommodate his growing staff and new presses, Pulitzer built a four-story building. He installed Richard Hoe's latest press, which could cut and fold the paper at a high rate of speed and included the first counting devices. Since getting his first order from the upstart publisher in 1878, Hoe and his headquarters staff in New York had become very familiar with the Pulitzer name. Pulitzer trumpeted the link between the newspaper's financial independence and its political independence. "From the very commencement the cardinal principle of the paper and the chief ambition of its owner and conductor has been to achieve and maintain an absolute independence, financially, politically, personally and morally," Pulitzer wrote, celebrating the installation of the latest Hoe press. "We have absolutely no master, and no friend but the great public." Indeed, the Post-Dispatch's crusading zeal found a loyal middle-class readership. Success, however, came with costs. The paper's campaigns of civic reform left the city's landscape strewn with bruised and injured parties; its drive to clean up the city's illicit pastimes of gambling and prostitution shut down popular forms of entertainment; its continual attacks on the oligarchy embittered the powerful; and the moral haughtiness of its editorials ensured that many, including its supporters, would relish a humbling misstep. As a consequence, Pulitzer and his family faced growing social ostracism. St. Louis may have projected cosmopolitan airs to visitors, but those who lived there learned quickly that it had the pettiness of a small town. "It is encrusted," said Pulitzer's friend Stilson Hutchins, "with prejudices, which are steadily strengthened by such contemptible creatures as the Knapps—who prat high morality in the columns of their newspapers—traduce and slander everybody whom they can't use or who does not belong to their set." The hostility grew to the point where Pulitzer was assaulted on the street. In late March, as he was leaving Ecker's restaurant, where he had lunched, a burly man armed with a small whip tried to strike him. Pulitzer seized his assailant by the throat and threw him against a store window, breaking it. The man, who left no clue as to the cause of his anger, ran off, escaping through a nearby saloon. For Kate, her husband's notoriety was painful. Despite her pedigree, she found herself increasingly snubbed by the social elite whose company she coveted. The Pulitzers moved from their house on Washington Avenue, but there was little they could do to decrease their sense of isolation. Compounding Kate's unhappiness was the uncertain health of the children. Both Ralph and Lucille were delicate. Ralph, in particular, was small and weak for his age and suffered from asthma and other ailments. As 1882 began, Kate was pregnant again. She remained alone a great deal of time, especially as Joseph increasingly spent time away from St. Louis. In March, on one of half a dozen long trips to the East that year, Pulitzer joined up with Hutchins in Washington to interview Garfield's assassin in the jail where he awaited execution. Charles Guiteau had used as a legal defense the technically correct claim that the president had died not from the bullets but rather from the incompetence of the doctors who, as Pulitzer had reported, had misdiagnosed and mistreated their patient. Despite their shared low regard for Garfield's doctors, Pulitzer was filled with an intense hatred of Guiteau. When he reached the cell, his enmity grew. The prisoner jumped up and greeted Pulitzer in perhaps the most wounding manner possible. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Schurz," said Guiteau. "I know your brother very well—have spoken from the same platform with him. How much you look like him." Pulitzer turned to Hutchins with a look of disgust and they both shook their heads. "I did not care, however, to lose time by explanations as to his mistake of my identity," said Pulitzer, who decided to let the insulting misidentification go unchallenged. "My business was to study." Perhaps, but Guiteau's business was to make money. He earned about $50 a day selling photographs and autographs to visitors. Before the interview progressed, the required business was transacted, and Pulitzer and Hutchins soon owned their own Guiteau memorabilia. "He handles his greenbacks," Pulitzer said, "like a bank teller and talks about the different points and features of his different photographs precisely as if he were standing behind the counter selling ribbons or lace." Pulitzer found Guiteau unrepentant. Nor did Guiteau show any signs of lunacy. In fact, Pulitzer thought the man, whose actions had changed the leadership of the nation and the fortunes of thousands of ambitious men, seemed no different from a typical businessman or clerk. "He could have been taken precisely as he stood and transferred behind the counter of some dry-goods store as a perfectly fit figure." By the end of the visit, Pulitzer was even more repelled by the assassin than he had been at its beginning, almost as if Guiteau's apparent normality made the crime more heinous. As the two newspapermen rode away from the jail, Hutchins noticed that his companion "was constantly engaged in washing his hands with invisible soap in imperceptible water." Perhaps inspired by his brother's success with the Post-Dispatch, Albert Pulitzer was bitten by a similar ambition. He had been working as a $45-a-week reporter on Bennett's New York Herald that spring when he shared his plan with a friend who worked at the New York Times. Pausing in front of the Equitable Building on Broadway, Albert told his companion that he intended to raise $20,000 to launch a paper in the already crowded New York market. His fellow reporter questioned the wisdom of embarking on such a risky enterprise with so little money. Albert laughed. "If I once get started, I shall not stop," he said. "I can then get more capital." Albert wanted to create a newspaper that would stand in contrast to the spiritless gray sheets of the time. The idea had come to him while he rode on streetcars and ferryboats. He noticed that newspaper readers gravitated to articles written in a lighter vein. "How would it do, I often asked myself when I thus watched newspaper readers, as they read their different papers, to create a new kind of paper, bright instead of dull, light instead of heavy, gay instead of wearisome?" During his years at the Herald, Albert had become convinced that newspapers were ignoring half of their potential readership. "It is, after all, women who enrich newspaper proprietors, it is the shops who cater to them who make the great newspaper fortunes in this country by the advertising which they pour out like a shower of gold into the columns of the papers." He recalled how, when he sold subscriptions to a German newspaper door-to-door in St. Louis, women remained loyal to a publication that won their affection. Albert's ideal newspaper would be full of material interesting to women. Albert asked his now wealthy brother for money. Even though Joseph had earlier been so eager to get a foothold into New York newspaper-dom that he had been prepared to buy a gossipy rag, he said he wouldn't invest a cent in Albert's scheme. "He kindly proposed that I should come out to St. Louis for a year, go to work on the Post-Dispatch and thus learn at least the rudiments of the business side of journalism." The idea of his younger brother seeking to succeed in New York before him raised Joseph's hackles. Undeterred by either the pessimism of his friends of the parsimony of his brother, Albert began a search for capital. Failing to find anyone in New York willing to invest, in the summer of 1882 Albert sailed for London, where his wit and charm had won over many people in high social circles during his previous reporting trips for the Herald. Unlike Joseph, Albert was a bon vivant. "His delightful anecdotes and reminiscences of celebrities he had met at home and abroad, his gift for seizing upon the distinctive qualities of a personality and turning them to the best account, together with his sharp and pungent wit and sparkling repartee," recalled one smitten marquise, "rendered him an exceptionally entertaining companion." In August, Albert returned triumphantly to New York with $25,000 in capital. He put together a bare-bones staff of editors and reporters and rented space on the sixth floor of the New York Tribune's building on Spruce Street, overlooking the Sun and French's Hotel. The Tribune agreed to print his newspaper on one of its unused presses, but only after Albert had promised that none of his staff would enter the composing room, where valuable AP dispatches might be purloined. New York would soon have its first Pulitzer newspaper. In the fall of 1882, continued concern about Ralph's asthma led the Pulitzers to spend time away from St. Louis. Now with a third child—Katherine Ethel, who had been born on June 30—the family took up residence for the winter in Aiken, South Carolina, which was becoming a popular health resort. Even though this was an election year, Pulitzer left the management of the Post-Dispatch in Cockerill's hands. When it came to political coverage, readers were unlikely to notice the difference. Cockerill, if such a thing was possible, became even more excited by elections than his boss—perhaps, as it would turn out, too animated. The most important contest in St. Louis was an election to fill the congressional seat that had become vacant when Thomas Allen, Pulitzer's former opponent, died in office. The party bosses, specifically the Knapps and Hyde at the Republican, favored James Broadhead, an old friend and political ally of Pulitzer's. But under Cockerill's direction, the Post-Dispatch vigorously opposed Broadhead on the grounds that he was in the pocket of the gas monopoly and acted as Jay Gould's man in St. Louis. Broadhead's participation in the court cases involving the gas monopoly might have been excused as a mistake, but his affiliation with Gould tainted him indelibly. If the railroad was the corporate evil of the era, the railroad and industrial magnate Jay Gould was its personification. Easily one of the most hated men of the era, he served as a ready target for the editorial pen of the reformist-minded Pulitzer. Two years earlier, for instance, Pulitzer heard a rumor in New York that Gould had purchased the Democratic New York World. "The Democratic party, despite its great vitality, cannot afford to have its press contaminated by such a vampire," wrote Pulitzer on his return to St. Louis. The rumor was true. Gould had unintentionally acquired the paper when he purchased the assets of another corporation. Gould became Pulitzer's particular devil. Pulitzer began a campaign to warn Missourians of the financier's Mephistophelian intentions. From New York, in March 1882, Pulitzer filed an article claiming that Gould intended to make Missouri "his 'pocket borough,' controlling the Missouri legislature, running all the railroads, steamships, iron mills, and everything else he can gobble up, including one or two of the newspapers." The Post-Dispatch took to calling Gould "Missouri's boss." Broadhead aroused the enmity of the Post-Dispatch for two reasons. Not only was he the hand-chosen candidate of Pulitzer's archenemies in St. Louis, but he was also Gould's representative. Still, when Broadhead won the party's nomination, most people assumed the Post-Dispatch would support him, as it had done when Allen beat Pulitzer two years earlier. But Cockerill relished a fight. He did not back down. On the contrary, he went after Broadhead with a vengeance, laying out an array of charges of corruption. When the candidate remained silent, Cockerill wrote, "Perhaps the charges are unanswerable." The attacks greatly upset Broadhead's law partner Alonzo W. Slayback, not a man one would want to anger. Slayback had been a friend of Cockerill's boss since they met during Pulitzer's first political campaign as a Democrat. Slayback had tolerated the Post-Dispatch's excited political pronouncements, and in return Pulitzer had kept Slayback out of the paper's crosshairs. For example, about a year earlier an opponent of Slayback's had published a card* in the Post-Dispatch accusing the lawyer of being a coward; at great expense, Pulitzer had the card removed in the middle of a press run. Now, with Pulitzer out of town and Cockerill in charge, Slayback began to berate the paper to anyone who would listen. One night at the end of September, Slayback went on a verbal rampage against Cockerill and the paper in the reception room of the Elks club, of which Cockerill was the president. Slayback accused Cockerill of being a blackmailer, a term then considered provocation for a duel. Cockerill gently persuaded Slayback to retire to the library, where the two held an extended conversation. When it was concluded, they headed off to drink in the bar, apparently having put their differences aside. But a dozen days later, Slayback resumed sniping at Cockerill and referred to the paper as a "blackmailing sheet." The renewed attack prompted Cockerill to dig out and print the old insulting card, whose publication Pulitzer had prevented. Only an hour after the edition hit the street, the Post-Dispatch's city editor looked up from his desk to see Slayback charging through the newsroom toward Cockerill's office in the company of William Clopton, another lawyer. In his office, Cockerill was meeting with the business manager and the composing room foreman. His pistol lay on the desk, where he had placed it in anticipation of putting it into his coat when he left for home in a few minutes. Slayback threw open the door and stepped in, leaving Clopton in the hall. Then, as the men watched, Slayback took out a revolver. "Well, I'm here, sir," Slayback said. Then, spotting Cockerill's weapon on the desk, he asked, "Is that for me?" "No, it's for me to use only to defend myself," replied Cockerill. "You are prepared to draw, then draw," Slayback said. By this time Clopton had managed to gain entrance to the room and found that the confrontation had developed into a physical struggle between the men. Cockerill pulled the trigger of his gun as Clopton rushed to disarm him. The single shot met its target, traversing both of Slayback's lungs. He slumped to the floor with blood frothing at his mouth. In a moment, Slayback was dead. When word spread through town that Cockerill had killed Slayback, a mob of detractors of the Post-Dispatch gathered in front of its building. The crowd grew angry and might have stormed the building had the police not held the people back. Meanwhile, Cockerill stole away to the Lindell Hotel. Pulitzer's old friend Charles Johnson, who had defended Pulitzer when he shot Augustine, was summoned. In Johnson's company, Cockerill surrendered to the police that night. News of the shooting was reported across the country. Reporters found Pulitzer in New York. He strongly defended Cockerill, calling him "one of the quietest persons you ever knew." Even though he admitted he did not know that his editor packed a pistol, Pulitzer said Cockerill must have done so solely for self-defense. He immediately caught a train back to St. Louis. Upon arriving in St. Louis, Pulitzer went directly to Cockerill's cell and assured his editor that he would stand by him. In the paper's office, Pulitzer scrawled a short editorial, in his large, loopy handwriting, asking readers to withhold judgment until the police and the courts had completed their work. It was doubtful that any official report would please both sides. The only witnesses to the shooting each had a motive to lie. Nor was the prosecutor likely to be considered objective, since the Post-Dispatch had supported his election. Slayback's friend Clopton told the police the victim had been unarmed. The Post-Dispatch employees in the room stood by their claim that he had been armed. The gun found on Slayback seemed to corroborate Cockerill's claim of self-defense, but some people believed the gun had been planted. In fact, years later a Post-Dispatch employee confessed that he had planted it, to help Cockerill's plea of self-defense. But whether St. Louisans believed the killing was self-defense or murder depended less on evidence and more on their attitude toward the paper. Few sat on the fence, and those who were vindictive were vocal. "If this closes the career of that scandalous sheet it will be a life well spent," one woman wrote to her son. On October 18, Pulitzer and McCullagh, the Globe-Democrat editor who had once been Cockerill's boss, persuaded a judge to release Cockerill on $10,000 bail. A grand jury was convened to determine if Cockerill would be indicted for murder. Pulitzer knew that more than Cockerill's fate hung in the balance. His enemies, particularly those at the Missouri Republican, struck at him and the Post-Dispatch, claiming that Slayback's death was a direct result of his sensational journalism. For once, it seemed, Hyde had the upper hand. The Post-Dispatch's average daily circulation fell by 2,015, and several national publications joined the chorus of critics. Harper's Weekly, for instance, said the killing was "a direct result of personal journalism." Pulitzer brushed off the Republican's daily attacks and offered a spirited defense of Cockerill in the Post-Dispatch. He accepted responsibility for the content of the paper leading up to the shooting and wrote that Cockerill's conduct—in print, not with the gun—had been justified by Slayback's provocation. But, watching the circulation plummet, Pulitzer knew he had to disassociate the paper from Cockerill. He turned to John Dillon for help. In the three years since they had parted company, Dillon had spent some time writing for the Globe-Democrat, had gone to work in Mexico, and had recently returned to St. Louis to take a job with the weekly Spectator. Pulitzer now asked him to take over Cockerill's job. Dillon immediately accepted the offer, and within days his restrained, refined prose calmed the editorial page. Any mention of Broadhead's candidacy disappeared from the page. As part of this restoration, Pulitzer invited his actor friend John McCullough to put on a benefit performance of Julius Caesar at the Mercantile Library for the Slayback family. Boxes for the show were auctioned off. Kate bought one for $1,000, although most sold for less than $100. Notably absent were Pulitzer's critics at the Republican, who had so ferociously attacked him. In their anger, none of Pulitzer's enemies recognized that the victim had been a friend of his also. Years later, long after Pulitzer was no longer in St. Louis, he provided a job on the paper for Slayback's daughter. In the end, the grand jury declined to indict Cokerill, convinced that Slayback had provoked the shooting by entering the office with a weapon. Pulitzer and the Post-Dispatch had survived the crisis but St. Louis had become even less hospitable to him and his family. Once again, Pulitzer left for New York. In the early morning hours of November 16, 1882, a few days after Joseph reached New York City, Albert and his newly assembled staff left their offices to get the first copies of The Morning Journal as it came off the New York Tribune's presses. The men all returned to their desks to study their first effort and, as all journalists do, mark typos. One of the men suggested "something wet" to mark the occasion, and Albert sent the office boy out to procure some bottles. Upon his return, the editors and reporters quaffed beer and toasted the paper's birth. Albert, however, chose Apollinaris water instead. There was no food, not even "beef an," the famous ten-cent plate of corned beef and beans from nearby Hitchcock's. "So," noted one of the editors, "the Journal was baptized with Apollinaris and beer." A few hours later, New Yorkers sampled The Morning Journal. Readers who couldn't find the time to wade through the daily papers, oversize canvases of dull unbroken type, found the Journal a relief. For only a penny—a third or a fourth of the cost of other papers—readers could have their fill of short news items written in a light, breezy style. Women in particular were offered, at last, a newspaper that clearly had their interests in mind. The paper had detailed reports of weddings and balls, romantic news such as the first loves of famous men, and lots of gossipy notices. Albert, one Park Row veteran recalled, "was the first New York editor to realize the fact that shop-girls and poor clerks are interested in the daily lives of the millionaire class. He turned to their 'doings' and paved the way for the new journalism that followed." The paper was soon nicknamed the "chambermaid's delight." From the very first appearance of the Journal, Albert found readers. It was the talk of the town. From his Manhattan hotel room Joseph enviously witnessed his brother's success. ## Chapter Sixteen ## THE GREAT THEATER On April 7, 1883, Jay Gould took his family and friends by private railcar to Philadelphia for the launching of his new yacht, Atalanta, named after the huntress of Greek mythology. Built at a cost of $140,000, the yacht was a floating palace with gold-edged curtains, oriental rugs, and a built-in piano. But as Gould participated in the festivities of the day, he was beset with worries. The country was in the midst of a business downturn, his nerves were frayed, and the constant public attacks on him had begun to hit home. For the first time, he was considering retirement. At the very least, it was time to lighten his load. He decided to rid himself of the burdensome New York World. It was a Democratic paper and he was a Republican. But perhaps an even greater sin in the eyes of a railroad and industrial baron was that it had never made a dime since he acquired it four years earlier. "I never cared anything about the World," Gould said. The World had an anemic circulation of 15,000 and was losing money every week. In January, Gould had come close to disposing of the paper to John McLean, the publisher of the Cincinnati Enquirer, but McLean had been unwilling to meet the $385,000 price. There was only one man trolling for a New York paper for whom price did not seem to be a consideration. "As Joseph has more stamps than the rest of us, I might say the only one with stamps," said McLean when his bid failed, "I suspect he will get it ultimately." On the day Gould watched his new yacht slip into the water, Pulitzer was riding a train to New York. The Pulitzer family had just concluded the stay of several months in the South, undertaken out of concern for Ralph's asthma. Joseph and Kate had given up on St. Louis and were looking for a place to buy or rent in New York City. The Post-Dispatch practically ran itself. But to be sure that it remained on track, Pulitzer received daily preprinted one-page reports that showed him at a glance all the essential information, such as circulation, advertising, expenses, and the times when the presses started and ended their runs. He was forever asking the men who managed the business side of his operations to be brief in responding to his ceaseless queries. In his words, he wanted the information in "a nutshell." On the way north, Joseph dropped Kate and the children off in Washington for a stay with her family. He pushed on to New York. If the intelligence he had learned from his friend William H. Smith, director of the Associated Press, was sound and if he played his hand deftly, the World could be his. The press was reporting that Gould would leave any day for the West in the company of tycoon Russell Sage. Pulitzer would have to work fast. He obtained a meeting with Gould at his Western Union office, a few blocks from Park Row. As the two sat facing each other, it was clear there wasn't much to negotiate. For Gould, who had once stacked $53 million in stock certificates on his desk and who lived in a forty-room Gothic mansion, selling the World was a Lilliputian deal. True, owning the paper had become an irritation, and Pulitzer was a willing purchaser. But Gould could have easily closed the World without making a dent in his petty cash. He wasn't going to grant any favors to a man who made a sport of pillorying him. From a negotiating perspective, Gould's uninterest trumped Pulitzer's desire. This purchase, unlike that of the Staats-Zeitung or the Dispatch, was no fire sale. The negotiations dragged on for a couple of weeks over two issues. Gould wanted to retain a small ownership share for his son and wanted the current editor to keep his job. In the end, Gould conceded on both points and Pulitzer met his price of $346,000. The sum, according to Gould, represented the amount he had paid for the paper and the losses incurred during his four years of ownership. Pulitzer did not have that much cash. If he sold the Post-Dispatch, he would be trading a moneymaker for, in his own words, a "mummified corpse of the once bright and lively New York World." His craving for the World was so intense that he would take a loan from Gould, a man whom he deemed "one of the most sinister figures that have ever flitted bat-like across the vision of the American people." On April 28, Pulitzer drew up the sales contract in his own hand, with the advice and counsel of the former U.S. senator Roscoe Conkling, whom Pulitzer had befriended since Conkling had fallen out of favor with the Republican Party and opened a law practice. To take possession of the World, Pulitzer would give Gould a down payment of $34,600, and Gould would finance the remainder at a 5 percent interest rate. Under the terms of the loan, Pulitzer would pay $79,200 in 1884; $121,100 in 1885; and $121,100 in 1886, as well as the interest on the outstanding balance, which could amount to $33,730. In addition, Pulitzer promised to rent for a decade the Park Row building housing the World, for $13,560 a year. Signing the contract put Pulitzer nearly $500,000 in debt. Less than five years after spending his last few thousand dollars to buy the bankrupt Dispatch, he was betting he could repeat his success on a far grander scale. The stakes were high. The Post-Dispatch, which had recovered from its slump after Slayback's murder, looked as though it would generate profits of $120,000 to $150,000 in 1883. But the World was losing thousands of dollars each month. If New York didn't take to his so-called western journalism, Pulitzer would be ruined. He confessed his anxiety to Kate, who had installed herself and the children in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Five years with Joseph had convinced her that it was no use trying to restrain his ambition. He was, as he had promised in his wedding-eve letters, driven by an insatiable need to be occupied, to have meaningful work, to keep moving. On the other hand, Kate had witnessed his talent. She had, after all, accompanied him to St. Louis to spend their last dime on a bankrupt paper. She believed in him and urged him on, even if it meant risking everything they had. Word of the pending sale began to leak out. It was hard to keep it a secret, with Cockerill shuttling between New York and St. Louis and the Post-Dispatch business manager joining Pulitzer in New York. On May 6, the rival Globe-Democrat confirmed that Pulitzer had concluded the deal. On May 9, the day before Gould transferred the World to him, Pulitzer proposed to his brother that they consolidate their papers into a new one, to be called the World-Journal. Albert's seven-month-old Journal had three times the circulation of the World and was acquiring thousands of new subscribers each month. If Albert agreed to the merger, Joseph promised him a profit of no less than $100,000 a year. "That is a good deal of money," Albert said. "I shall be perfectly satisfied if I can even make a fifth of that out of the Journal." "You needn't come to the office at all, if you like you can stay at home in bed all day long," continued Joseph, who could never brook an equal in the office. In hoping to combine the papers, Joseph was following the game plan he had used in St. Louis when he had merged his new paper there with Dillon's Post. But this situation was different: Albert was making money on his own, lots of it, and his paper was not threatened by Joseph. He declined the invitation. "Don't be so cock-sure of your success," Joseph snapped. "It is the men you have got and who get the paper out every night for you that are making it what it is. When they are gone what will you do?" That night, Albert confronted this question. He discovered that his managing editor, E. C. Hancock, had resigned, his lead columnist had vanished, and his editorial writer had called in sick. "I did not lose a moment, jumped into a car as I was determined to get at the truth, rode to his house, obtained admission after some difficulty and soon learned that my surmise was true—my whole staff, my three most valuable men whom I had trained with such pains since the first issue of the Morning Journal, had gone over in the dead of night to a rival newspaper! This blow was intended to kill me." Of course, the rival paper was the World. In a city teeming with editorial talent, Joseph had chosen to raid his brother's shop. He was seeking more than editors. Driven by jealousy, he wanted to put his kid brother in his place. At the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a reporter caught up with Pulitzer, eager to learn his plans for the World. "I intend to make it a thorough American newspaper—to un-Anglicize it, so to speak," Pulitzer said. He promised that no immediate personnel changes were in the works. "I have no intention to bring any new men to the city for the purpose of placing them on the editorial staff of the paper," he said. Once again Pulitzer was resorting to his old habit of lying when talking to a reporter. He preferred to keep it quiet that Cockerill, with a reputation as an editor who shot complaining readers, was on his way to New York to run the World. "In the news sense and in other ways," Pulitzer promised, "I shall, of course, in time make considerable changes in the paper." In the company of his newly purloined editor from Albert's paper, Pulitzer went to inspect his new property on the evening of May 10. The paper was housed in a fire-damaged building at the lower end of Park Row. The fabled block housed a dozen or more daily papers. This was the newspapers' golden age, and Park Row was the richest vein. But in New York, unlike St. Louis, Pulitzer faced competition from sophisticated, well-funded, worldly publications. Aside from Albert's Morning Journal, there were the immensely profitable New York Herald, run by James Gordon Bennett Jr.; Charles Dana's Sun, still attracting more than 100,000 readers each day with its compact four-page format; the late Horace Greeley's New York Tribune, now ruled by Whitelaw Reid, a conservative Republican sheet serving the prosperous. If there was a turtle among these hares, it was the sober New York Times, slowly winning a loyal following. Pulitzer and Hancock entered the World newsroom just as the staff was putting the finishing touches on the next day's edition. Although Pulitzer's arrival had been preceded by a memo telling the employees that the new owner wished to retain them in their positions at their current salaries, the nearly 100 reporters, editors, compositors, and printers were anxious to catch a glimpse of this thirty-six-year-old outsider who held their future in his hands. The departure of the existing senior management, fleeing like ship rats, forecast great changes. Escorting Pulitzer around the newsroom, Hancock urged him to write some sort of pronouncement for the next day's edition. Taking a pen, Pulitzer hurriedly began. While a newspaper must be independent, he wrote for his first editorial in the paper, "it must not be indifferent or neutral on any question involving public interest." Then, collating phrases from his stump speeches and from five years of editorial struggles against entrenched interests in St. Louis, Pulitzer pledged that the World would fight against monopolies, organized privilege, corrupt officials, and other threats to democracy. "Its rock of faith must be true Democracy," he wrote. "Not the Democracy of a political machine. Not the Democracy which seeks to win the spoils of office from a political rival, but the Democracy which guards with jealous care the rights of all alike, and perpetuates the free institutions it first established. "Performance is better than promises. Exuberant assurances are cheap," Pulitzer continued, adding a signed announcement of the change of ownership that he had drafted to accompany his editorial. Simply watch the paper and see for yourself, he said. "There is room in this great and growing city for a journal that is not only cheap but bright, not only bright but large, not only large but truly Democratic—dedicated to the cause of the people rather than that of purse-potentates—devoted more to the news of the New than the Old World—that will expose all fraud and sham, fight all public evils and abuses—that will serve and battle for the people with earnest sincerity." Done, Pulitzer handed the sheets to an eighteen-year-old compositor, who would later become one of his editors, and his words were rapidly set into type in time for the press run. Before leaving for the night, Pulitzer made one alteration to the look of the paper that hinted at his ambitions. He dropped "New York" from the name and restored the nameplate that had been used when the World began in 1860. At its center, framed by the words "The World," was a printing press with rays of light emanating from it like the sun flanked by the two hemispheres of the globe. While Joseph made plans for his newspaper, Albert made repairs to his. He had managed to locate a new editor. In fact, the replacement turned out to be an improvement, and the stolen Hancock lasted only a few days under Joseph. Still fuming over the raid, Albert ran into Joseph at Madison Square Garden. "I congratulate you on your new recruits," Albert said. "Perhaps you would now like to offer me a stated sum annually for the sole purpose of looking up and supplying your paper with bright writers?" Joseph dismissed the sarcastic remark with a wave. "I'll admit that you have a wonderful nose for ferreting out talent," he said. "I have read your paper today and it is really not half bad." There may have been enough room for two Pulitzer papers in New York, but not enough for two Pulitzers. Although Albert was willing to share the stage, Joseph wasn't. Stung by the malevolent actions of his only living sibling, Albert took an angry swipe at Joseph's handiwork. He told the Herald that the success of the Journal showed that for a newspaper to find readers "it is not necessary to make it slanderous, vituperative, or nasty." A few weeks after their encounter, Joseph made an attempt to be civil. He stopped in at Albert's office for fifteen minutes. "He made a closer study of us and took in more during that time than another less observing man would have done in a whole day," Albert wrote, describing the visit to a friend. "After Joe left someone asked, 'I wonder what he dropped in for?' My officious office-boy quickly replied, 'I guess he dropped in to see if there was anyone else he could coax away!'" After the visit, the two brothers would forever remain estranged. The only two remaining members of Fülöp and Elize Pulitzer's children left in the world found they could not get along. For those who had watched Pulitzer climb from being a lawyer's errand boy to being a newspaper publisher, his purchase of the World held great promise. "You have entered upon the stage of a great theater and stand as if it were before the footlights in presence of the nation," one of his oldest friends from St. Louis wrote. Another compared him to a previous newspaper giant: "The present situation is not unlike that which the elder Bennett found when he moved to attack the established dailies. You are in a magnificent field and you ought to move all of America." But unless Pulitzer could spark a spectacular increase in circulation he would not ascend a pinnacle of political power. Instead, he would be crushed under an avalanche of debt. Every tactic, device, scheme, plan, and method that he employed in St. Louis would have to work in New York, and he also needed to think up new ones. But before introducing his ideas, he decided to create the appearance of change. Taking from his bag a trick he had used in St. Louis, Pulitzer sent reporters out to interview leading Democrats about the "new World," even though it still looked like the old one. Flattered by the attention and the promise of free publicity, the party figures immediately studied the paper. Typical was the response of one party official. "I guess we are going to have a real Democratic paper at last," he said. "The paper in its new dress is an immense improvement and the short distinct paragraphs, instead of running everything together, make the paper very readable." Then—also as he had done in St. Louis—Pulitzer took to reprinting all the press comments on the World's change in ownership. He sought to project a sense of dramatic change. "He took every occasion to blow his horn and tell the public what a good newspaper he was making," remarked the owner of a stationery and newspaper store on the West Side. "This was unusual in New York and by many people it was considered very bad taste on his part to be continually boasting and bragging about the merits of his publication." However distasteful it might have seemed to some, it worked. Within the first few days, circulation had a modest increase. New Yorkers were curious about the World. What they found when they picked up a copy was not all that different from before. Except for Pulitzer's tinkering with the masthead, the layout of the paper remained unchanged. He filled in the empty spaces on each side of the top of the front page with a circle or square containing promotional copy such as "Only 8-Page Newspaper in the United States Sold for 2 Cents." (This little innovation, which he may have stolen from Albert, became known in the business as "ears" and eventually was adopted by most papers.) The front page was divided into six or seven narrow columns, just as in other newspapers. The headlines remained small because convention bound them to the limits of the column width. But if the new World looked like the old, life inside its building certainly didn't. James B. Townsend, a reporter who had been absent at a funeral in Vermont when Pulitzer took over, was startled by what he found upon his return. "It seemed as if a cyclone had entered the building, completely disarranged everything, and had passed away leaving confusion." Avoiding collisions with messenger boys exiting with urgent deliveries, Townsend made his way to the city room and found his colleagues running around excitedly. He asked the general manager what was the cause of all the commotion. "You will know soon enough, young man," the manager replied. "The new boss will see you in five minutes." He then glanced up at Townsend and added. "After us the deluge—prepare to meet your fate." Indeed, Townsend was soon summoned to Pulitzer's office. As he entered, Townsend made his first examination of his new boss, and Pulitzer of him. Dressed in a frock coat and gray trousers, Pulitzer stared back through his glasses. "So, this is Mr. T," he said. "Well, Sir, you've heard that I am the new chief of this newspaper. I have already introduced new methods—new ways I proposed to galvanize this force: are you willing to aid me?" Almost as if the breath had been sucked from him by Pulitzer's vigor, Townsend stammered that he would like to remain on the staff. "Good, I like you," replied Pulitzer. "Get to work." During the following days, editors and reporters arriving in the early morning found Pulitzer already in his office, often toiling in his shirtsleeves. When the door was open and he was dictating an editorial, recalled one man, "his speech was so interlarded with sulphurous and searing phrases that the whole staff shuddered. He was the first man I ever heard who split a word to insert an oath. He did it often. His favorite was 'indegoddampendent.'" As the staff settled in for the day's work, they couldn't escape Pulitzer. One moment he would be in the city room arguing with a reporter about some aspect of a story. No detail was too small. In one case, he was overheard discussing the estimated number of cattle that an editor had expected to arrive in New York from the West the previous day. He loved debating with his staff, usually provoking the arguments himself. "It is by argument," he told Townsend, "that I measure a man, his shortcomings, his possession or lack of logic, and, above all, whether he has the courage of his convictions, for no man can long work for me with satisfaction to himself or myself unless he has this courage." Finished with the city room, Pulitzer would bark out orders in the composing room or dash into the counting room to get a report on revenues. It wasn't long before the old-timers couldn't take it anymore, and new faces, often younger, appeared in the editorial quarters. The men in the composing and printing rooms were content with their new manager, though Pulitzer had one dustup with them. On May 24, he and Cockerill returned from the dedication of the Brooklyn Bridge brimming with ideas about how to cover the momentous occasion, only to discover that forty-three of the fifty-one men had walked off the job in a wage dispute. It took Pulitzer only three hours to capitulate and agree to recognize the men's union. "The whole difficulty has been amicably settled, and the men have returned happy," Pulitzer said as he headed out with the union president and others for a glass of beer at a neighboring bar. There was a sense that Pulitzer was pushing the World forward. "We in the office felt from the first that this remarkable personality, which has so impressed us upon its arrival inside the building, would soon make its impress felt on the great cosmopolitan public of New York," Townsend said, "and in time the country." Pulitzer launched his journalistic revolution modestly. The dramatic changes for which he would eventually become known were still years away. At this point, he sought solely to condition his editorial staff to his principles of how a paper should be written and edited. This effort, however modest it may seem, is how the World began on its path to becoming the most widely read newspaper in American history. In an era when the printed word ruled supreme and 1,028 newspapers competed for readers, content was the means of competition. The medium was not the message; the message was. This was where Pulitzer started. The paper abandoned its old, dull headlines. In place of BENCH SHOW OF DOGS: PRIZES AWARDED ON THE SECOND DAY OF THE MEETING IN MADISON SQUARE GARDEN on May 10 came SCREAMING FOR MERCY: HOW THE CRAVEN CORNETTI MOUNTED THE SCAFFOLD on May 12. Two weeks later the World's readers were greeted with BAPTIZED IN BLOOD, on top of a story, complete with a diagram, on how eleven people were crushed to death in a human stampede when panic broke out in a large crowd enjoying a Sunday stroll on the newly opened Brooklyn Bridge. In a city where half a dozen newspapers offered dull, similar fare to readers each morning, Pulitzer's dramatic headlines made the World stand out like a racehorse among draft horses. If the headline was the lure, the copy was the hook. Pulitzer could write all the catchy headlines he wanted, but it was up to the reporters to win over readers. He pushed his staff to give him simplicity and color. He admonished them to write in a buoyant, colloquial style comprising simple nouns, bright verbs, and short, punchy sentences. If there was a "Pulitzer formula," it was a story written so simply that anyone could read it and so colorfully that no one would forget it. The question "Did you see that in the World?" Pulitzer instructed his staff, "should be asked every day and something should be designed to cause this." Pulitzer had an uncanny ability to recognize news in what others ignored. He sent out his reporters to mine the urban dramas that other papers confined to their back pages. They returned with stories that could leave no reader unmoved. Typical, for instance, was the World's front-page tale, which ran soon after Pulitzer took over, of the destitute and widowed Margaret Graham. She had been seen by dockworkers as she walked on the edge of a pier in the East River with an infant in her arms and a two-year-old girl clutching her skirt. "All at once the famished mother clasped the feeble little girl round her waist and, tottering to the brink of the wharf, hurled both her starving young into the river as it whirled by. She stood for a moment on the edge of the stream. The children were too weak and spent to struggle or to cry. Their little helpless heads dotted the brown tide for an instant, then they sank out of sight. The men who looked on stood spellbound." Graham followed her children into the river but was saved by the onlookers and was taken to jail to face murder charges. For Pulitzer a news story was always a story. He pushed his writers to think like Dickens, who wove fiction from the sad tales of urban Victorian London, to create compelling entertainment from the drama of the modern city. To the upper classes, it was sensationalism. To the lower and working classes, it was their life. When they looked at the World, they found stories about their world. In the Lower East Side's notorious bars, known as black and tans, or at dinner in their cramped tenements, men and women did not discuss society news, cultural events, or happenings in the investment houses. Rather, the talk was about the baby who fell to his death from a rooftop, the brutal beating that police officers dispensed to an unfortunate waif, or the rising cost of streetcar fares to the upper reaches of Fifth Avenue and the mansions needing servants. The clear, simple prose of the World drew in these readers, many of whom were immigrants struggling to master their first words of English. Writing about the events that mattered in their lives in a way they could understand, Pulitzer's World gave these New Yorkers a sense of belonging and a sense of value. In one stroke, he simultaneously elevated the common man and took his spare change to fuel the World's profits. The moneyed class learned to pick up the World with trepidation. Each day brought a fresh assault on privilege and another revelation of the squalor and oppression under which the new members of the laboring class toiled. Pulitzer found readers where other newspaper publishers saw a threat. Immigrants were pouring into New York at a rate never before seen. By the end of the decade, 80 percent of the city's population was either foreign-born or of foreign parentage. Only the World seemed to consider the stories of this human tide as deserving news coverage. The other papers wrote about it; the World wrote for it. The World's stories were animated not just by the facts the reporters dug up but by the voices of the city they recorded. Pulitzer drove his staff to aggressively seek out interviews, a relatively new technique in journalism pioneered by his brother, among others. Leading figures of the day were used to a considerable wall of privacy and were affronted by what Pulitzer proudly called "the insolence and impertinence of the reporters for the World." Not only did he have the temerity to dispatch his men to pester politicians, manufacturers, bankers, society figures and others for answers to endless questions, but he instructed them to return with specific personal details that would illustrate the resulting articles. Pulitzer was obsessed with details. A tall man was six feet two inches tall. A beautiful woman had auburn hair, hazel eyes, and demure lips that occasionally turned upward in a coy smile. Vagueness was a sin. As was inaccuracy. A disciple of the independent press movement, Pulitzer was convinced that accuracy built circulation, credibility, and editorial power. Words could paint brides as blushing, murderers as heinous, politicians as venal, but the facts had to be right. "When you go to New York, ask any of the men in the dome to show you my instructions to them, my letters written from day to day, my cables," Pulitzer told an associate late in life. "You will see that accuracy, accuracy, accuracy, is the first and the most urgent, the most constant demand I have made on them." Pulitzer practically lived at his cramped headquarters on Park Row. Kate and the children hardly ever saw him. His day began with editorial conferences—an editor who came unprepared never repeated the mistake—and ended under the harsh white gaslight as he read and reread proofs for the next morning's edition. When not writing or editing, Pulitzer studied all the New York papers as well as more than a dozen British, German, and French ones. He demanded a great deal from his staff but even more from himself. When he had been in St. Louis, if the paper was dull he would steal home feeling sick. If it met his standard, he would be elated. As spring turned into summer in New York, Pulitzer was feeling elated. In his first weeks at the World, the paper's circulation soared by 35 percent. "Increasing in circulation? You can just bet it is," said a newsstand operator on the corner of Cortland and Greenwich streets. "I used to sell fourteen Worlds a day. I now sell thirty-four. If that ain't an increase I don't know what is." The Pulitzers moved from their hotel rooms into a house they rented at 17 Gramercy Park, an elegant neighborhood surrounding a private park on the East Side, off Park Avenue. The aging Samuel Tilden, for whom Pulitzer had toiled in the disputed presidential election of 1876, lived at number 15. Once again there was talk of Tilden's running for president, but Pulitzer would have nothing to do with it. "He belongs to the past and represents an idea," Pulitzer said a few weeks after moving in next door to his famous neighbor. "Now, ideas are stronger than men, but you can't elect an idea." Even though work consumed most of Pulitzer's waking hours, he found time for socializing, particularly with political New Yorkers. One evening, shortly after taking over the World, he reminisced about the campaign of 1876 with the wealthy Democrat William C. Whitney at a dinner of Democrats. Despite their shared political convictions, Pulitzer stood out as an odd duck among the well-heeled dinner guests. "Sharp-faced with bushy hair and scraggy whiskers, an ill-fitting dress suit too large for him, antagonizing people at dinner," Whitney wrote, describing Pulitzer to his wife, who was away. Another night, Pulitzer joined Watterson at Delmonico's for a dinner promoting the Louisville Exposition. By June, Pulitzer was a member of the Manhattan Club, an almost exclusively Democratic society. Pulitzer even found time and, more remarkably, had enough interest, to take a lunchtime river cruise in Jay Gould's new yacht, along with the Sun's editor Dana and William Dorsheimer, a Democrat starting his term in Congress. That Pulitzer sought the company of these two guests was understandable. He had known both for almost a decade and shared their political beliefs. But his willingness to enjoy Gould's yacht, food, drink, and company betrayed a dichotomy in Pulitzer that widened as he accumulated wealth. He wanted to be accepted by the elite while making a living trashing them in his paper. Pulitzer may have taunted the wealthy, attacked their political power, and criticized their sense of entitlement, but he planned to be among them. A few weeks after his lunch with Gould, the World printed a list of New York's millionaires. "We find the names of only three or four newspaper publishers in the magnificent array," Pulitzer wrote. "By this time next year, as things are going, the list will be beautified with the names of at least a half-dozen journalists. We could name them now, but modesty forbids." In August, Pulitzer dashed out to Ohio in support of a Democrat, Judge Hoadly, who was a candidate for governor. The campaign had already deteriorated into a raucous, dirty, knockdown fight after a convention that one newspaper reporter said was more akin to a bullfight than a political meeting. Sitting in the smoking car from Urbana to Columbus, Pulitzer struck up a conversation with a reporter for McLean's Cincinnati Enquirer, which strongly opposed Hoadly. "This is a perfect hell you've been raising," Pulitzer said. "Just a trifle that I couldn't well help," replied the reporter. Pulitzer was unconvinced and said he thought the Enquirer's publisher was seeking revenge against Hoadly, who was involved with a competing paper. "Well, that's only natural," the reporter said. "You don't publish a newspaper as a matter of sentiment; you publish it to make money." "Now, I do publish a newspaper as a matter of sentiment—two of them," replied Pulitzer. "My paper in New York City is straight-out Democratic, because in that city I am possessed of the backing of strong Democratic sentiment. My paper in St. Louis is independent, because in that city I have a strong independent sentiment." The two then shared a number of confidences about the campaign, including Hoadly's belief that his election to governor would make him a leading contender for president the following year. "Bah," said Pulitzer, "the Democratic party will not go to Ohio to find its next candidate, and if it should, nobody need fear that it would select Hoadly." When the train reached its destination, Pulitzer was met by one of the state's leading Democrats. Pulitzer told him of the conversation on the train. The politician assured Pulitzer that the reporter could be trusted to keep it to himself. None of them, however, took account of the fact that the man in the seat behind them worked for the New York Times, which eagerly published a transcript, giving Pulitzer a taste of public embarrassment of the kind he usually dished out. By the end of August 1883, with the World's circulation twice what it had been before he bought the paper, Pulitzer felt sufficiently comfortable to leave New York for almost a month. Henry Villard, one of the nation's most prominent railroad men, had just completed the first northern transcontinental railroad. To do so, he had overstretched his financial resources, and he was deep in debt. Desperate to drum up business for his new line, Villard contrived a huge international celebration. He invited government officials, politicians, foreign dignitaries, and editors from leading newspapers on a cross-country train ride to witness the driving of the last spike. The antirailroad, antimonopolist, and anticorporate Pulitzer accepted the invitation. On August 28, Villard's private trains began leaving New York. The engines pulled Wagner sleeping cars, beautifully appointed with curtains, leather seats, carpeting, and china spittoons, and configured like long drawing rooms with tables. By the time the two trains reached Chicago, the excursion party had grown to four trains with more than 300 guests including the former president Ulysses Grant. The caravan made stops for parades and banquets. In Bismarck, the delegation laid the cornerstone of the state capitol and listened to a speech by Sitting Bull, who had been released from captivity for the event. On September 8, the trains joined up with ones coming from the West in the valley of Little Blackfoot Creek, about sixty miles from Helena, Montana. Pulitzer was surprised to find that Villard had built a pavilion, a bandstand, and promenades in this abandoned stretch. Finding a seat, Pulitzer watched as the men rapidly laid the last 1,000 feet of track. The man who had driven in the first spike on the opening of the road came forward to nail the last as the sun began to set behind the mountains. Villard spent $300,000 for the affair but he couldn't have bought better press coverage. Newspapers across the country and in Europe played up the event—that was, all except the World, which churlishly said the event was "a comparatively unimportant incident in railroad history." During Pulitzer's absence from New York, his detractors took the opportunity to spread a rumor that the World was still owned by Gould, even though Pulitzer had run a front-page two-column interview with Gould to publicize the change of ownership. The rumor had sufficient credibility, supported by Pulitzer's willingness to float around New York waters with Gould in the latter's yacht, that Cockerill was forced to issue a public statement. Neither Gould nor his son, said Cockerill, "nor any other human being connected with any monopoly or corporation own directly or indirectly one dollar's worth of interest in the World or have any more to do with its management than the Emperor of China." Despite his best efforts the rumors persisted. The Brooklyn Eagle, for instance, remarked, Pulitzer "claims that Mr. Gould has nothing to do with the paper, but the claim is simply the rankest sort of nonsense, Mr. Gould still owns the paper." The rumors were only a nuisance. When he returned from the West, Pulitzer was greeted by proof positive of his success. His competitors had flinched and were cutting their price. The Tribune went from four to three cents, the Times from four to two, and the Herald from three to two. Gloating, Pulitzer proclaimed, "Another victory for the World." As the World's circulation rose each week, Pulitzer sought to use his newfound political leverage to help bring Democrats back to power. From the start he made no pretenses about his plans. "I want to talk to a nation, not to a select committee," he said. Within days of buying the paper, Pulitzer had made his political aims clear and so specific that they formed a ten-point list consisting of only thirty-five words. The first five goals were to tax luxuries, inheritances, large incomes, monopolies, and corporations. The remaining goals were to eliminate protective tariffs, reform the civil service, and punish corrupt government officials and those who bought votes, as well as employers who coerced their employees during elections. When he returned from his western junket, Pulitzer worked to unite New York's Democrats. In 1880, the party had failed to win the White House when it lost the state by a few thousand votes. Then, Pulitzer had been a bystander. Now that he was in a position of influence in the state, he was determined that 1884 would be different. On September 24, he joined Dana at a rally of Democrats at Cooper Union. With a display of fireworks and a brass band, the Democrats pledged themselves to unity in hopes of ending their quarter-century exile from the White House. Dana, age sixty-four, who was the dean of New York editors, did not object to sharing a stage with his young rival. In May, he had been one of the few publishers in New York to comment favorably on the sale of the World, reminding readers that Pulitzer had once been his protégé. Weeks later, as the Democrats began their usual intra-party bickering, Pulitzer met with the leaders. It seemed to him as if all Democrats in New York were intent on losing the election: he was astonished by the fractious debate on the eve of the voting. One of the veteran party members asked Pulitzer if he knew anything about New York politics. Pulitzer conceded that his experience was limited to Missouri and other midwestern states but added sarcastically that the longer he lived in New York the less able he was to divine the objectives of the city's politicians. Pulitzer had shed none of his animus toward the Republican Party, which he was convinced was completely under the thumb of robber barons, monopolies, and corporate interests. "These people seem to have an idea that they are superior people—a sort of upper ruling class, and have a right through the power of their money to rule in this country as the upper classes rule in Europe," he said. "But the millions are more powerful than the millionaires." In November, Pulitzer was so confident of his paper's success that he taunted his rivals by publishing notarized statements of its circulation. The World's average circulation was now 45,000 copies a day. In six months, he had tripled the circulation and forced his rivals to cut their prices. If he continued at this rate, the previously moribund World would be the equal of any newspaper on Park Row within the next six months. If not stopped, it would eclipse them all. At Albert's Morning Journal, there was also cause to celebrate. The circulation of his paper had hit 80,000. One year earlier, most New Yorkers had never heard the name Pulitzer. Now the two most talked-about newspapers belonged to the brothers. For Albert, every upward tick in circulation meant more money. For Joseph, it brought money and political power. ## Chapter Seventeen ## KINGMAKER Despite his triumphant seven months at the helm of the World, Pulitzer approached the end of 1883 on a depressing note. Kate became sick. The family immediately left New York for warm weather and rest in Cuba. With his health phobias, Joseph was not going to take any chances. But his worst fears materialized, though not with Kate. She recovered. Rather, a few months later, it was his daughter, Katherine Ethel, who fell ill with pneumonia. Katherine died at six in the morning on Friday, May 9, 1884, the eve of Pulitzer's one-year anniversary with the World. In composing the death notice, her parents calculated her age. She was two years, eight months, and ten days old. For Joseph, who had lost all but one of his siblings, the death was what he expected of childhood. Kate, on the other hand, was unprepared. She had never experienced the grief of watching a child in the family die. On Sunday, friends gathered at the Pulitzers' Gramercy Park residence for a quiet funeral service. Characteristically, Pulitzer made immediate plans to travel, reserving a cabin on a ship to Europe. But he soon rejected any foreign destination. It was an election year, the most promising for Democrats in a generation. Instead, Pulitzer booked rooms at the Curtis Hotel in Lenox, Massachusetts, a small New England town a few hours north of New York that had recently been discovered by the city's wealthy seeking relief from the summer heat. By the time he installed Ralph, now five years old, Lucille, three, and their maid in Lenox, Kate was pregnant with their fourth child. Along with the summer's heat came the political conventions. The Republicans selected as their nominee James Blaine, a former House Speaker, U.S. senator from Maine, and secretary of state. It was a poor choice because Blaine had an odor of corruption dating back to suspicious relationships with several major railroads in the 1870s. Many Republicans, particularly the reform-minded ones, were uncomfortable with their party's choice. As the convention broke up, a reporter for the World caught up with one of the disgruntled delegates. At age twenty-five, delegate Theodore Roosevelt was a rising political figure in New York. "I am going cattle-ranching in Dakota for the remainder of the summer and part of the fall," he snapped. The reporter persisted: would he support Blaine? "That question I decline to answer. It is a subject that I do not care to talk about." But, after some reflection at his ranch, a calmer Roosevelt announced that, yes, he would vote for Blaine. A Republican who portrayed himself as a reformer but was supporting Blaine was too tempting a target for Pulitzer to ignore. When Roosevelt first attracted notice as a municipal reformer in the legislature, Pulitzer had been favorably impressed, even though the man was a Republican. But he concluded that Roosevelt had gone soft in his pursuit of corruption in return for advancement in his party's ranks. "It is not surprising that young Mr. Roosevelt should prefer to offend honesty rather than to displease the machine. He is of the finical dancing-master school of reform, whose disciples are the most useful tools of the political managers," wrote Pulitzer. "We denounced young Mr. Roosevelt as a reform fraud and a Jack-in-the-box politician who disappears whenever his boss applies a gentle pressure to his aspiring head," he said. "In short, we have discovered that young Mr. Roosevelt is a humbug who only masquerades as a reformer while in reality is one of the most subservient of machine politicians." Roosevelt was a victim of Pulitzer's stubborn, unbending insistence on principle over compromise or expediency. This was an easy stance for the nation's newest and most prominent newspaper publisher to take. His measure of accomplishment was a blistering editorial that excited partisans and attracted readers. But for an ambitious politician like Roosevelt, success demanded results, and these required both political compromise and electoral success. Had Pulitzer understood the necessity of compromise, he might have forged an alliance with Roosevelt that would have accelerated the political change they both sought. Instead, the editorial shot across Roosevelt's bow became the first of many. None of Pulitzer's attacks would be ignored by Roosevelt, who never forgave or forgot an affront. The two men were so pigheaded that they failed to see their common interest. Although Blaine had the crucial support of young Theodore Roosevelt in New York, he lacked that of Roscoe Conkling, who still commanded a considerable following. But the former U.S. senator was working as Pulitzer's attorney, fighting the many libel suits brought against the audacious World; also he was in no mood to forgive Blaine for their decades-long feud in Congress. "I have given up criminal law," Conkling said when asked if he would endorse Blaine. Instead, he worked secretly with Pulitzer to undermine Blaine by writing a series of critical columns for the World, under the pen name "Stalwart." Pulitzer could hardly restrain his optimism about his party's prospects. He told his readers that Blaine was "the embodiment of corruption in legislation, demagogism in politics and cupidity in affairs." In 1884, unlike 1880, Pulitzer had no trouble backing a candidate. Two years earlier he had cast his lot with Grover Cleveland, the rotund governor of New York, who had a well-deserved reputation for integrity. Then, however, Pulitzer was speaking only to a modest midwestern audience from his editorial pulpit at the Post-Dispatch. Now he had the World and stood in the center of the most important electoral field of battle. "New York," he said, "again becomes the battleground for the presidency." In 1880, Republicans had staved off defeat in the presidential election by only 5,517 votes in New York. Pulitzer now commanded at least that many votes, if not more. With each passing day the World's circulation rose. One morning, an observer took an informal census of newspaper preferences on the Fourth Avenue streetcar. Three passengers were reading the Herald, four the Sun, and five the World. Only the Times and Albert's Journal had more readers. Veterans of the business were astonished by the World's growth. "It cannot be expected to go on forever gaining at the gait which it has been following during the past few months," claimed the trade publication The Journalist. But it did. By midsummer 1884, the World was selling 60,000 copies on weekdays and 100,000 on Sundays, closing in on all the leading newspapers. Advertising was booming also. "A year ago the World could hardly get advertising at any price," reported The Journalist. "It now charges from twenty-five to thirty-five cents a line, and has as much advertising as it can conveniently handle on Sunday." Nothing his competitors tried seemed to slow his paper's growth. The Herald even resorted to taking out full-page advertisements in the World. When it cut its price to that of the World, the Herald compounded its woes by also trimming the commission it paid to wholesalers. One wholesaler decided to order 3,000 copies of the World instead of the Herald for his customers. "There was no complaint, and the World gained 3,000 copies, and the Herald lost them," recalled the president of the news dealers association. "I daresay the World kept many of them." In July, sitting with the press in Chicago's Exposition Building, Pulitzer watched the Democrats pick their candidate. Pulitzer did all he could to sway the convention to Cleveland. "When a blathering ward politician objects to Cleveland because he is 'more of a Reformer than a Democrat' he furnishes the best argument in favor of Cleveland's nomination and election," Pulitzer wrote in a long stream of editorials. After a bruising fight, Cleveland won the nomination. If Pulitzer's editorials were little noticed by the delegates, the efforts convinced Cleveland that in the coming election he had an ally upon whom he could depend. Most of the New York City press—the Herald, Post, and Times—joined in supporting Cleveland. But not Charles Dana at the Sun. A couple of years earlier, Cleveland had offended Dana by not granting a patronage job to a friend. Despite having worked hard for Democratic unity with Pulitzer, Dana broke ranks and supported a third-party candidate in hopes of denying Cleveland a victory in the crucial New York returns. Once again, as with Schurz years earlier, Pulitzer found himself at political odds with a man whom he had greatly admired and who had once been his mentor. On July 29, Pulitzer joined other leading Democrats in Albany to officially convey the nomination to Cleveland and to mark the formal opening of the campaign. Pulitzer was the lone newspaper publisher among the judges, elected officials, and party leaders who rode to the governor's mansion in a parade of twenty-five carriages led by the Albany city band. The deputation made its presentation, and the governor mingled with its members until the doors were opened to the dining room, where a feast had been set out. Later, full of food and optimism, the party broke up to tend to the work ahead. In the drizzling rain and dark, the delegation paraded back into the city along a route lit by torches and fireworks, to large crowds of Democrats awaiting them in the music hall and opera house. Among the few chosen by the party to speak that night was Pulitzer. Rather than boost Cleveland's candidacy, Pulitzer decided to sink Blaine's. If he could defeat Blaine in New York, the election would be won. As when he tore into Grant in 1872, Hayes in 1876, and Garfield in 1880, Pulitzer filled the pages of the World with hyperbolic attacks on Blaine. Readers learned that Blaine favored prohibition, belonged to the Know-Nothing movement that opposed Irish Catholic immigration, and took money from railroads; that his marriage was on the rocks; and that he was depressed. The charges were, at best, based on Blaine's earliest days in politics or in many cases were nothing more than a recycling of well-worn unflattering tales. Cleveland also carried some unseemly baggage. He was a bachelor, and during the campaign it was revealed that he had fathered an illegitimate child. Cleveland decided to deal with the matter by issuing a simple directive to party officials desperate for instructions on what to say. "Tell the truth," he said. Pulitzer was less circumspect. Calling the accusation slander spread by the Republicans, he publicly blackmailed Blaine by threatening to release salacious information about him. Pulitzer was only warming up. His stump-speaking style, seasoned by years of campaigning, filled the editorial pages of the World. "Is such an offense unpardonable?" Pulitzer asked. "If Grover Cleveland had a whole family of illegitimate children...he would be more worthy of the office than Blaine, the beggar at the feet of railroad jobbers, the prostitute in the Speaker's chair, the lawmaking broker in land grabs, the representative and agent of the corruptionists, monopolists, and enemies of the Republic." A candidate who was the devil's companion and a challenger with clay feet made for great copy. The growing interest in the election increased readership for all newspapers, and particularly for the World. The World's office was like a campaign headquarters. Electing Cleveland and boosting circulation were completely intertwined, the latter increasing the chance of the former. Pulitzer and Cockerill were open to any ideas that would push the World forward. One fell into their lap. The artist Walt McDougall of Newark had been peddling comic sketches, with some success, to Puck, Harper's Weekly, and other magazines. In June, he came into the city to see a baseball game. On his way he stopped by Puck's office, where he learned that the editors had turned down his cartoon of Blaine. He didn't want to trudge off to the game carrying a large rolled-up drawing, so he impetuously decided to see if he could sell it to Dana. Cartoons were, at best, a novelty in daily newspapers. It was difficult to reproduce illustrations on the high-speed presses required by newspapers, because the engraving plates regularly became clogged with ink. The presses would then have to be stopped to clean the plates, wasting precious time in a business where every lost minute could diminish circulation. As McDougall walked toward the Sun, he came to the World and decided to try his luck there first. When he entered the dim front office he lost his courage and hurriedly handed the cardboard tube to the elevator boy. "Give that to the editor and tell him he can have it if he wants it," said McDougall, who then beat a retreat and headed off to the baseball game. The next day brought a telegram from Pulitzer asking McDougall to come quickly to the World. On his way, McDougall spotted a copy of the World at a newsstand. His cartoon ran across five columns of the front page of the paper. After McDougall was ushered into Pulitzer's office, the publisher immediately took him to Cockerill's office across the hall. The editor was as excited as Pulitzer about McDougall's drawing; its style averted the ink-clogging problem, and the sample had survived an entire press run. "We have found the fellow who can make pictures for newspapers!" Pulitzer excitedly told Cockerill. McDougall was hired, given a studio, and paid $50 a week, more than twice the salary of most reporters. Pulitzer had wanted illustrations in the World since he bought the paper. On newsstands and in the arms of newsboys, the gray, unbroken front pages of the city's newspapers were indistinguishable from each other. Both he and Albert, at the Morning Journal, found every excuse possible to add illustrations to make their papers stand out. Within his first two weeks with the World, Joseph had begun printing drawings of criminals to aid in their apprehension and, of course, to bring credit to the World. Just before McDougall dropped off his drawing at the World, the newspaper had been celebrating the capture of a fugitive stockbroker by Canadian authorities who recognized him from the sketch that had appeared in the World. "This is a decided triumph for our artist," Pulitzer crowed. "Some of our jealous contemporaries have affected great contempt for our efforts in the line of cut-work. The Montreal incident attests to the value of our illustrations, and demonstrates that while we are educating the masses with our pictures we are at the same time lending a helping hand to Justice." Not all the reading public was ready for illustrations. Complaints were numerous when the World included drawings in an article on ladies of Brooklyn. "The World made an error of no small magnitude when it published its series of Brooklyn Belles in last Sunday's issue," commented The Journalist. "Brooklyn is not used to these wild western methods of journalism." The fuss pleased Pulitzer. None of the ladies who had been portrayed complained, and circulation in Brooklyn soared. "A great many people in the world require to be educated through the eyes, as it were," Pulitzer said, mindful that many of the readers he pursued were struggling to learn English. Pulitzer enlisted McDougall's talent in going after Blaine. Now a barrage of cartoons accompanied the reams of unflattering news copy and acidic editorials that the World published about Blaine. Between August and November's Election Day, McDougall's cartoons appeared twice a week on the front page. All but one of them attacked Blaine or Ben Butler, the third-party candidate supported by Dana. Readers in New York had seen nothing like this before. It was as if a rabid dog had gotten loose at a society dog show. Pulitzer had no interest in muzzling the sharp bite of the World. "It should make enemies constantly, the more the better, for only by making enemies can it expose roguery and serve the public," he said. "The most valuable and most successful paper will generally be that which has the most enemies." The style also continued to win over readers. By the end of September, the World's daily circulation passed the 100,000 mark. "This," Pulitzer exclaimed, "we hold to be our first 100,000." The maliciousness of the World perplexed some of Pulitzer's friends. "I have always believed, and do believe, that you are a generous-hearted man," wrote AP's William Henry Smith, complaining that the paper was mercilessly pursuing one official who had already lost his job. "This is not like the Joseph Pulitzer I once knew; and if he is to be forever lost, I shall never cease to regret the share I had in bringing him into this wicked New York World." Pulitzer beat on, pushing his staff like a coxswain who was never satisfied with his shell's lead. Pulitzer interrupted his frenetic editorial and campaign work on the afternoon of September 3 to take a leisurely cruise on the Hudson. The idea of owning a yacht was beginning to appeal to him, and he had begun looking into buying one. But, as with everything else this year, this cruise was a political rather than a pleasure trip. Samuel Tilden had sent his vessel, the Viking, to the Twenty-Third Street pier to bring a delegation of Democrats upstream to his riverfront mansion in Yonkers. The journey was a well-timed public reminder of Republican dastardliness. The men were delivering an official resolution from the Democratic convention thanking Tilden for his service in the disputed 1876 election. Pulitzer was the only member of the press on board. Sitting at the lunch table near his friend William Whitney, he offered to make himself useful by distributing copies of the prepared remarks to newspapermen when they disembarked. As the campaign approached its final month, New York Democrats enlisted Pulitzer to speak at a rally aimed at winning the German vote. The resplendent Academy of Music, on Irving Place between Fourteenth and Fifteenth streets, was decorated with German and American flags. A dozen bands as well as fireworks and explosives greeted the huge crowd that entered the hall on the night of September 29. Inside, the publisher of the New York Staats-Zeitung, well-known German leaders, and Pulitzer gathered on the stage between two imposing portraits of Cleveland and his running mate, Thomas Hendricks. When his turn came to speak, Pulitzer continued the evening's portrayal of Blaine as the representative of a bankrupt and corrupt party that had overstayed its turn in power. "He stands for the unholy alliance between prohibition and corruption," Pulitzer said, "while Cleveland is the representative of honesty and honor in politics, and with clean hands will bring us back to purity in official life, which Mr. Blaine could not possibly do." As he spoke, some of the organizers spied Carl Schurz sitting in one of the boxes. One of them approached Pulitzer and whispered into his ear that the eminent German-American politician was present. Eight years earlier, on a similar New York stage, Pulitzer had attacked and lampooned Schurz. Now that they were once again on the same side, Pulitzer put aside his prepared remarks. "I have a brilliant finale with which I intended to close my remarks, but what can I say that would be more brilliant than to introduce the man whom you must and will hear—Carl Schurz?" The crowd roared. A decade of bad blood between the two men came to an end as Pulitzer and Schurz stood before the cheering people. Their old friend from the 1872 rebellion, Murat Halstead, said a photographer could have earned a fortune capturing the moment. "It was a spectacle to see Pulitzer and Schurz meet at last as reformers on the Democratic platform," Halstead said, "and pouring forth their libations of eloquence for Cleveland, each telling of his goodness, and rising to the sublime height of telling us that beloved Europe itself, should be very much exercised about Blaine." The fall campaign held yet another surprise for Pulitzer. In early October, Tammany Hall nominated him for the Ninth District's congressional seat without even consulting him. It took some coaxing to persuade him to accept the nomination. The district leaders finally succeeded after making a pilgrimage to Pulitzer's office and flattering him by saying that his candidacy would help the ticket. Tammany's designation was bound to be ratified by a later convention and, as the district was overwhelmingly Democratic, it was tantamount to giving Pulitzer a seat in Congress. What he had sought and had been denied in St. Louis was brought to him on a platter in New York. The nomination was met by cheers at the Journal. Despite how Joseph had treated his younger brother, Albert applauded the news. With his special inside knowledge, Albert recounted Joseph's work in Missouri politics and said he would "make a faithful and devoted representative of the people." An editor at The Journalist couldn't resist adding, "This is very nice and brotherly, but I very much doubt that Mr. J. Pulitzer would have done as much for Mr. A. Pulitzer under the same circumstances." The editor was right. Joseph viewed his brother's newspaper no differently from any other competitor. When the Morning Journal broke the news of Lillie Langtry's pending divorce, Joseph waited until the story was printed in the Chicago Tribune so as to be able to use it in the World without crediting the Journal. On October 16, Pulitzer was among half a dozen men selected to greet Cleveland at Grand Central Terminal. Then, with a crowd of almost 1,000 in tow, the party made its way to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where the governor met with selected well-wishers. Once their hands were shaken and their concerns and advice listened to, Cleveland retired to a private lunch with Pulitzer, William Whitney, and a dozen leading Democrats. As always in the campaign, Pulitzer was the only newspaper publisher among the politicians and fund-raisers. Money was becoming an issue. The campaign's coffers were emptying fast, and it looked to Whitney for help. He contributed $20,000 and pressed others to do the same. Pulitzer, however, remained a small player when it came to political money, contributing only $1,000. His real value lay in his work at the World. Pulitzer soon proved his worth. Blaine, exhausted from a speaking tour—something candidates rarely undertook at that time—arrived in New York hoping to hold the state in the closing days of the campaign. On October 29, he committed two mistakes. In Pulitzer's hands, they became politically fatal. Blaine began his day with a speech before a group of Protestant clergymen at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The pastor who introduced Blaine called the Democrats the party of "Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion." Too tired or too distracted to notice the dangers posed by this comment, which could turn Irish voters against him, Blaine said nothing. The Democrats, who had a stenographer following Blaine, rushed a copy of the remark to newspapers. Meanwhile, Blaine moved on to a fund-raising dinner at Delmonico's, where he was toasted by nearly 200 of the richest and most powerful men in America. Pulitzer was the only editor who understood the significance of Blaine's two gaffes. The other pro-Cleveland papers in New York ran their campaign stories on the inside pages. The Tribune, which favored Blaine, reported only on the dinner, calling it a triumph. That night, Pulitzer sought out Walt McDougall and Valerian Gribayedoff, the World's other staff artist. He said he needed a large cartoon by morning. The two retreated to the studio and sketched an unusually wide cartoon. Across it were caricatures of nineteen of the most notorious and hated financial lords who had attended the dinner, seated as in a depiction of the Last Supper. Blaine sat beatifically at the center, with Jay Gould at this right and William H. Vanderbilt at his left. On the table before the men were dishes of food with such labels as "Gould Pie," "Monopoly Soup," and "Lobby Pudding." As a final touch, the artists added an impoverished, bedraggled couple, with a child, approaching the feast in hopes of a handout. Pulitzer broke open the design of the front page, eliminating the traditional seven columns to accommodate the damning art. Nothing like this had appeared in a New York publication since Thomas Nast dethroned Boss Tweed. Pulitzer topped the dramatic cartoon with the headline THE ROYAL FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR BLAINE AND THE MONEY KINGS. Pulitzer was not done yet. The World revealed every aspect of the dinner, even though the organizers had done their best to bar the press. From the Timbales à la Reine and Soufflés aux Marrons upon which the men feasted to the thousands of dollars pledged to buy votes, no detail was left out. Even more damning, the main story began with a one-paragraph account of men who had been thrown out of work at a mill in Blaine's home state and were now applying for assistance or emigrating to Canada. Other stories highlighted Blaine's silence at the slur against the Irish and his friendship with Jay Gould, and led the way to the editorial page, where Pulitzer let loose. "Read the list of Blaine's banqueters who are to fill his pockets with money to corrupt the ballot box," he wrote; railroad kings, greedy monopolists, lobbyists, all of them. They had grown rich on public money and special privilege. "Shall Jay Gould rule this country? Shall he own the President?" The "Royal Feast of Belshazzar" was reprinted by the thousands. Democrats gleefully replaced their election propaganda with copies of the World. Republicans gnashed their teeth. In a reversal of politics as usual, Pulitzer's words became more important than those of the Democratic candidate in the closing days of the campaign. It was almost as if the World were on the ballot. Only once before, in 1876, had a newspaper played such a prominent role in a presidential election, and in that case its publisher, Horace Greeley, had been a candidate. Here Pulitzer was using the power of the new independent press, whose reporting had far more credibility than that of the old partisan journals, to mobilize voters. "There has been," Pulitzer wrote, "a revolution in journalism in New York." November 4, 1884, Election Day, brought a deluge of voters in New York City and rain upstate, cheering Democrats who believed the inclement weather would dampen Republican turnout in rural areas. The day, however, ended with no clear decision. The electoral votes were evenly divided between Blaine and Cleveland—except in New York, which held the balance. Whoever won the state would win the White House. Pulitzer ordered press runs of nearly 250,000 copies, 45,000 more than the Sun and 40,000 more than the Herald. No matter who won the battle for the White House, Pulitzer had won the newspaper war. The World began reporting a Democratic triumph with its first edition at two o'clock in the morning, but the race was still too close to call. Nor could victory be firmly declared the following day as the voting tabulations continued. "Watch the count," Pulitzer warned his readers. "Guard carefully against any frauds on the part of the Republican inspectors and supervisors." In the evening, tens of thousands of people crowded into Park Row. The newspapers affixed bulletin boards to the front of their buildings and displayed the latest election bulletins. Fights broke out between rival groups, but mostly the crowds sang songs and parodies and yelled insults. All sorts of rumors began circulating. On hearing one that Jay Gould was tampering with the votes, a crowd surged up Fifth Avenue chanting, "We'll hang Jay Gould to a sour apple tree." Fortunately for the financier, the police hid him in a hotel under guard. Finally, at week's end, the results became clear. By a margin of 1,149 votes, out of 1,167,169 votes cast, New York fell to the Democrats, and the White House was theirs. A mere 575 voters had thrown the Republicans out of power. By a far more comfortable two-to-one margin, Pulitzer had defeated his Republican congressional opponent without lifting a finger for himself. Pulitzer basked in the glow of the election results. His chosen candidate was on the way to the White House. He himself had been redeemed from the ignominious election defeats he had suffered in St. Louis. But most important, Pulitzer's gamble on the World had paid off. It was now the largest-circulating newspaper in the nation and widely credited with Cleveland's election. "I should say, the election of Cleveland the first time was the most important achievement of the World," Pulitzer wrote years later. "Blaine, Conkling and other politicians with whom I was personally acquainted all said the World elected Cleveland." Pulitzer capped off his success with one final act before the year ended. He sat down and made out a check for $252,039 to Jay Gould. The amount represented the balance and interest remaining on the loan to purchase the World. Pulitzer paid off the loan two years before it was due. The World now belonged entirely to him. ## Chapter Eighteen ## RAISING LIBERTY Piled on Pulitzer's desk each day was proof of his success beyond New York. Letters poured in from all parts of the country, filled with ideas on how to boost circulation in places such as Vermont and Nebraska and hopes that he would launch a newspaper in Washington or Chicago. Priests submitted sermons for republication, and ambitious writers begged Pulitzer to open the columns of his newspaper to articles on New Guinea, archaeology, and, in one case, a "light readable history of the Fenian movement [an Irish independence movement] for the last twenty years." One pair of new parents told him they were christening their child "Joseph Pulitzer Conner," and a steamboat builder asked permission to name his newest and fastest craft after Pulitzer. It was all too much. Pulitzer could not keep up with the deluge of mail and run the World at the same time, not to mention overseeing the Post-Dispatch in St. Louis. He flirted briefly with the idea of selling the St. Louis paper but decided its income was worth the headaches. Pulitzer knew he needed lieutenants. Finding the right ones was the problem. There was no lack of applicants. "It is approaching somewhat of a craze now in the newspaper circles of the metropolis to get on the World," reported The Journalist. But Pulitzer had a string of bad luck. He hired one business manager away from the Herald, but the manager proceeded to discount advertising sold to big retailers, against Pulitzer's wishes. The next hire turned out to have pocketed some of the advertising revenue at his previous job. Frustrated, Pulitzer telegraphed to James Scott, publisher of the Chicago Herald, for help. "I have always found it easier to get good writers than good reliable men for the business office," Scott wrote back. "The business end of the World is an immense responsibility and no man of ordinary newspaper experience would be the equal to its management." The news management of the paper was safely in Cockerill's hands. But he was an exception—Pulitzer had such immense trust in Cockerill that he considered him his equal. For other positions of importance, even if Pulitzer managed to find a suitable man, he was ill suited to delegating work. He never really surrendered the responsibility, and he spent enormous amounts of time instructing, informing, and interfering with the person assigned to handle the work. His election to Congress and the public's perception that Cleveland owed the presidency to Pulitzer compounded his misery by bringing an onslaught of demands for patronage jobs. Friends and strangers plied him with requests to become postmaster in Colorado, territorial governor of New Mexico, consul to Hawaii, or American minister to Berlin. The parade of supplicants thwarted the civil service commissioner's attempts to meet with Pulitzer on legitimate government business. "I called at your office yesterday," wrote the frustrated official, "but there was such a queue of persons at the desk that I could not wait my turn to send up my card without which formality access to you was denied me." The new Congress would not convene until the end of the year, but already Pulitzer regretted accepting the nomination. After years of wanting to be an elected politician, he found that the appeal of office was fading. In early February 1885 Pulitzer traveled to Washington to see what awaited him when he assumed office. The Missouri delegation welcomed him and took him to the floor of the House of Representatives, where a debate droned on. After sitting for about an hour, Pulitzer went up to Representative James Burnes of Missouri and asked, "Have I got to stay in this place two years?" Politics seemed even less attractive when Pulitzer returned to New York. Cleveland was staying on the tenth floor of the Victoria Hotel. Job seekers, well-wishers, party officials, and cranks swarmed into the hotel. The police kept them in line while Cleveland's secretary screened calling cards. Pulitzer arrived at the hotel around noon. He scampered up a private staircase to the tenth floor and gave his card to the secretary, who disappeared into the presidential chambers. When he returned, he said that Pulitzer would have to wait a minute. "I am not accustomed to waiting," Pulitzer snapped, and then bounded down the staircase before the secretary could recover from the angry outburst. Later that evening, Pulitzer was persuaded to return to the hotel to meet Cleveland, and his bruised feelings were further assuaged when he was invited to dine with the president-elect and a small group a couple of nights later. Pulitzer expected a revolution from Cleveland. In the World, he argued that the president should accept no gifts, tolerate no nepotism, tax luxuries, and impose a tariff to protect labor. More important, Pulitzer wanted a political quail hunt. Cleveland needed to flush out all the Republicans in appointed offices, gain access to their supposedly secret records, and expose the skullduggery of past years. Democrats should be the ones to staff the government, Pulitzer said. "A President who is nominated and elected by a party also owes something to that party." Cleveland didn't share Pulitzer's fervor, and was uninterested in satisfying the party's hunger for patronage jobs after twenty-four years of exile. Even worse, the president ignored Pulitzer's choices. In particular, Pulitzer wanted his friend Charles Gibson of St. Louis appointed to the minister's post in Berlin and met with Cleveland to urge this selection. Gibson himself came to Washington, armed with an endorsement from the Post-Dispatch and a privately printed pamphlet. It was all for naught. In late March, Cleveland appointed someone else to the Berlin post. Pulitzer the reformer turned into a rejected spoils seeker. Cleveland had hardly finished taking the oath of office when it became clear that a fight was brewing between the two men. Frustrated with President Cleveland, Pulitzer turned his attention to a struggling effort to erect a prominent symbol of American immigration in New York. The French sculptor Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi's statue of Liberty Enlightening the World was collecting dust in crates in France because Americans had not yet raised the money necessary to build its pedestal on Bedloe Island in the middle of New York's harbor. Seven years earlier, in 1878, Pulitzer had been among those who had seen the head of the statue at the Paris Exposition. Since moving to New York in 1883, he had provided editorial support to the undertaking. His own experience of immigration and his devotion to American liberty made the project immensely appealing to Pulitzer. In fact, within two weeks of taking over the World, he had replaced the printing press at the center of the two globes on the masthead with a figure of Liberty, her hand holding the torch aloft. All that remained to complete the project was to build an 89-foot granite pedestal to support the 151-foot, 225-ton sculpture. But the American fund-raising efforts had been anemic, especially in comparison with the French effort, which had raised more than $750,000. After years of solicitation, the American committee remained $100,000 short of the $250,000 needed for the work. Congress refused to help, other cities complained about New York's being chosen for the statue, and most newspaper editors considered the project too costly. It seemed destined for failure. But Pulitzer was not going to give up on Lady Liberty. Even in the midst of the tumultuous 1884 election, he had taken time to support the work of the American committee. "Unless the statue goes to the bottom of the ocean," wrote Pulitzer, "it is safe to predict that it will eventually stand upon an American pedestal, and then be referred to for a very long time with more sentiment than we can now dream of." The scattered editorials in the World had little effect. By spring of 1885, as the French prepared to ship the statue, only the concrete base had been poured. Pulitzer was indignant. "What a burning disgrace it will be to the United States," he wrote, "if the statue of the goddess is brought to our shores on a French government vessel and is met by the intelligence that our people, with all their wealth, have not enough public spirit, liberality and pride to provide a fitting pedestal on which it can be placed!" But his chastisement, published on a Saturday, stirred no one. The other newspapers, especially the Herald, continued to treat the project with puzzlement and disdain. The following Monday, however, few could any longer feign ignorance of the Statue of Liberty's plight: Pulitzer made it the front-page story in his paper, now selling 150,000 or more copies a day. Under the banner headline WHAT SHALL BE DONE WITH THE GREAT BARTHOLDI STATUE? the World put America's failure to raise the needed funds on display, complete with illustrations of the stalled pedestal construction. "There is but one thing that can be done," Pulitzer railed from his editorial page. "We must raise the money!" He backed his call with a specific plan. "The World is the people paper, and it now appeals to the people to come forward and raise this money," he wrote. "Let us not wait for the millionaires to give this money. It is not a gift from the millionaires of France to the millionaires of America, but a gift of the whole population of France to the whole people of America." He called on readers to send money to the paper and promised he would deliver it to the project. "Give something, however little," Pulitzer asked. In return, he pledged that every donor's name would be published in the World. For as little as a penny, the poorest New Yorker could have his name in print in the same newspaper whose columns were populated with the names of the Vanderbilts, Whitneys, Rhinelanders, Roosevelts, and Astors. It was an audacious move. Pulitzer was, after all, asking people to send cash and checks to a corporation just like those which ran the railroads or operated the steel mills. It was only Pulitzer's word that stood as a guarantee that every dime of the money would be accounted for and would be used for the statue. If no one responded, Pulitzer would look like a fool. By the next morning, contributions began to pour in. "I am a poor man," wrote one reader, "but I will give something and I'll try to get everybody else to give something." Another wrote, "We have read what you say about the Bartholdi statue this morning and send you at once a small collection ($3.31) taken up in our office and expect to send you more very shortly." Rather than start a fund-raising campaign, Pulitzer could have expediently used his own checkbook to make up the deficit. Instead, he chose to finish the project as it had been intended, by turning to the public for support. In one stroke, Pulitzer set into motion a mammoth public effort and demonstrated the growing power and civic role of the independent press. In the past, only churches and governments had been able to marshal such financial support. Now the fourth estate held an equal power to excite and direct mass public support. The public service also turned out to be good for business. The World's circulation soared. By June, it would boast that its Sunday edition was the largest in size and in circulation of any newspaper published in the United States. It was consuming 834 miles of newsprint per edition. "No newspaper on the habitable globe consumed so much paper as the World yesterday." The long hours of work and the sleepless nights finally prompted Pulitzer to seek rest. On May 9, he and Kate left New York on the Etruria, bound for Europe. Ralph, Lucille, and the baby—Joseph Jr., born on March 21, 1885—were sent off to New Hampshire with nannies and a doctor under the watch of William H. Davis, Kate's younger brother, whom Joseph Sr. had recently hired as a much-needed personal assistant. While Kate shopped in London and Paris, Joseph talked shop with newspaper publishers who were curious about this American sensation. Not one to be outmatched, Joseph also did his fair share of consuming, with visits to wine merchants and art galleries. He engaged the help of a Parisian art dealer to search for paintings while he and Kate went off to Aix-les-Bains. "I don't think I told you that Vanderbilt has a Pahnaroli in his fine collection and although I do not know it, it will not be a better one than yours," the dealer wrote, deftly mentioning the other art collector. The Pulitzers took baths at Aix-les-Bains and at Bad Kissingen, in Germany, but they had little effect on Joseph. Instead of finding rest in his isolation and distance from New York, Pulitzer continued to meddle in every part of the World's operation. He paid to have his editors come to Europe to meet with him, he read and criticized each issue of the paper sent to him by mail, and he kept telegraph operators busy transmitting instructions back to New York. Usually Pulitzer's transatlantic chatter consisted of complaints, but he also found cause to praise the work of his staff. By July, readers had sent $75,000 to the World for the Statue of Liberty. On August 11, the paper exceeded its goal of $100,000. In less than four months, more than 120,000 readers had responded to the World's campaign. "From every single condition in life—save only the very richest of the rich and their tainted fortunes—did contributions flow," Pulitzer said. "From the honorable rich as well as the poorest of poor—from all parties, all sections, all ages, all sexes, all classes—from the cabinet member and the Union League member—from the poor news boys who sent their pennies, until the unprecedented number of 120,000 widely different contributors had joined in a common spirit for a common cause." The European sojourn was a failure. Joseph returned home no better rested than when he had left. (Kate, however, was pregnant with their fifth child in seven years of marriage.) Insomnia still gripped him, and he was in a state of nervous exhaustion. His editors suffered. He found fault in everything they did and escalated his demands for time-consuming reports on all aspects of the operation. Men were assigned to tediously count the want-ad lineage in competing papers in order to calculate the World's share of the market. To keep Pulitzer happy the results had to be broken down into categories and boiled down to their essence. "Put the thing in the nutshell," he would say over and over again. "He was the damnedest best man in the world to have in a newspaper office for one hour in the morning," said Cockerill. "For the remainder of the day he was a damned nuisance." At home it was no better. His family lived in fear. Joseph exploded over even the smallest things and Kate took the brunt of his attacks. "He said that he was uncomfortable, that I did not understand the proper relations between husband and wife," she wrote in her diary that fall. The particulars of his indictment were that she failed in what he called "the duties of a wife" and neglected to make him comfortable at home. "There was not a servant in this house who had worked harder than I had," Kate snapped back at him, losing her temper. "I had made a slave of myself," she continued, telling him that "he was entirely spoilt, that with his disposition he must have something to criticize." Her uncharacteristic outburst caused Joseph to order her from the room, telling her that he would never forgive her. "When will these scenes end or when will I be at rest?" Kate asked that night in her diary. One friend understood the depth of Joseph's troubles. Writing from St. Louis, his former partner John Dillon spoke lovingly of his admiration for Pulitzer but included a warning. "Overwork in business or in routine work will break a man down but in your case the injury is greater because you have been overworking those powers and faculty which in the main is the type of higher or divine creative power," Dillon wrote. "Not one man in ten thousand has it at all. "You have overstretched it," he continued. "You have called on it to do more than it should have done, you have put it under the services of your will, you have made it work when it should have rested, you have compelled it to furnish ideas—and you have overworked it." Dillon urged Pulitzer to leave work for six months of rest. In the end, Dillon said, his friend faced a decision. "If you wish you can do the work of a lifetime and break down; or you can do the work of a century in a lifetime, and live while you do it, which is much better." It was the frankest Dillon had ever been with Pulitzer and he asked that the letter be burned. On the morning of December 3, 1885, a New York City judge was startled to see the names of the mayor and the city's most prominent newspaper publisher in a bundle of documents handed to him. Before him was "William R. Grace, plaintiff, v. Joseph Pulitzer, defendant," prepared by one of the best law firms in the city. The lawsuit alleged that the World's editorial page had damaged Mayor Grace's good name by wrongly linking him to a financial scandal surrounding the demise of the investment firm Grant & Ward and the wreck of the Marine Bank. The collapse had wiped out most of former president Grant's fortune, sent a few men to prison, and set off a minor financial panic. The city lost $1 million in deposits it had in the firm, and the World had laid the blame on the mayor. Grace sought $50,000 in damages. Seeing that the documents were in order, the judge dispatched a deputy sheriff to arrest Pulitzer, as was then the custom in lawsuits. The deputy reached the World building and after some delay was admitted into Pulitzer's office. He explained the charges and said bail would be set at $5,000. "Do you want the money?" asked Pulitzer "I prefer two bondsmen," replied the deputy. "All right, but it would be much more convenient to pay the money," Pulitzer said wearily, well used to this legal dance. Since taking over the World, Pulitzer's lawyer Roscoe Conkling had been called on to litigate twenty-one libel cases, more than one a month. He was able to successfully defend the paper on ten of them and, with his legal skills, put the eleven others into judicial limbo. Conkling would eventually manage to make Grace's lawsuit disappear as well. But the battle cost tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees and incalculable frayed nerves. Pulitzer, recalled one staff member, "was so obsessed by the fear of libel suits that he nightly read almost every paragraph in the paper." A few days later Pulitzer escaped New York and its legal harassments, though not the crush of work. The Congress elected in 1884 was finally convening, and he headed to Washington. Pulitzer and the House of Representatives were a bad match from the start. In New York he had power and could make his own decisions. Here he was one of 325 men and nothing happened without collaboration. Even worse, as a freshman he was on the bottom rung. He drew a lot that gave him an unwanted seat in the back of the House chamber, and his assignments to the civil service and commerce committees had so little seniority that they were of little value. He would be a committee chair, he quipped, if six Democrats on one committee and seven on the other didn't show up. Pulitzer had no time for endless committee meetings, long floor debates, and late-night political socializing. As it was, his pace was already frenetic. He would hold a morning editorial meeting on Park Row, attend a Democratic caucus meeting in the evening in Washington, then breakfast with a Congressional leader the next morning before returning north for dinner with, say, the New York socialite Ward McAllister. To maintain this schedule was arduous. The tunnel under the Hudson River was still not complete, so Pulitzer had to take a ferry from Fourteenth or Twenty-Third Street to the New Jersey shore and then board a train south. Making this travel even more distasteful to Pulitzer was that he had no interest in the work of a congressman. Once, when he was supposed to be preparing a committee report, Pulitzer was instead attending an art auction in New York. "Day was turned into night and night into day," observed a reporter. "He flew from Washington to New York and from New York to Washington like a cock pigeon with a mate and nest in both places." Pulitzer found Washington politics clubby and its politicians unappreciative of his brand of journalism. One morning, he and his personal secretary were met at the Washington train station by the World's Washington correspondent. To Pulitzer's great pleasure, the reporter had discovered that the attorney general and several members of the House held stock in the Pan-Electric Telegraph Company, which stood to benefit from some forthcoming legal rulings. "The talk was all about the investigation, which was creating something of a sensation," recalled Pulitzer's personal secretary. The World trumpeted the charges, and Pulitzer used his new position as a member of the House to call for an investigation. Many of Pulitzer's colleagues, who had deep and long-standing political alliances, were unhappy about his attacks on a member of the administration. Unlike his readers, they were not limited to writing angry letters to the editor. A fellow Democrat, Representative Eustace Gibson of West Virginia, rose on the floor and accused the publisher of cowardice. Pulitzer, he said, "did not see fit in his official capacity to attack these gentlemen in an open, honest, and manly way, which a Representative should have done, but undertook to retreat behind the irresponsible columns of his newspapers for the purpose of creating a scandal for what motives I am not here to state." Another member rose quickly to point out that Pulitzer was not present to defend himself. "I cannot help that. He ought to be here," Gibson said. When a committee was finally convened in March 1886 to examine the charges, Pulitzer was almost as much a target of the investigation as the accused. The committee members suspected that the World had published the allegations in order to profit from manipulating the stock prices of Pan-Electric. Who had made the decision to publish the story, they asked. "I, and I alone, solely am responsible and no one else is," Pulitzer said. "No human being has tried to influence me in any manner whatever." He explained that he had held the story in one of the pigeonholes of his desk. "I had waited three months in the hopes that a certain gentleman—particularly one gentleman—might rid himself of the possession of Pan-Electric stock." The gentleman in question was Grover Cleveland's attorney general, Augustus Garland. Several months earlier, Garland had secretly offered to dispose of his stock by turning it over to the World. Pulitzer declined the offer, wiring to his Washington correspondent, "Garland's offer to transfer the stock to the World is against my inflexible rule never to touch any speculative stock whatever. I must adhere to that principle but if he positively wants to transfer the unclean thing to you not as a representative of the World but as a trustee for the sole purpose of getting rid of the embarrassment and publicly disposing of the stock for some charity that might be considered." Nothing came of the idea. The committee members continued with their questioning, but as they couldn't obtain any useful information from Pulitzer, he was dismissed to catch his train back to New York. Even excluding the experience of being grilled by his colleagues, Pulitzer found Capitol Hill a disappointment and reneged on his responsibilities. He was absent most of the time, never gave a speech on the floor, introduced just two bills, and completed his overdue committee work only after being reprimanded. When Pulitzer was nominated for Congress two years earlier, he and Conkling had made ambitious political plans during leisurely carriage rides through Central Park. Only his St. Louisan friend Gibson had pointedly asked him, "How can one man attend to two great newspapers and act a great part on the national stage?" Pulitzer had learned the answer the hard way. On April 10, his thirty-ninth birthday, he sat at his desk and pulled out a sheet of stationery. "Unwilling to hold the honors of a seat in Congress without fully observing all the expectations attached to it," he wrote in a letter to his constituents, "I hereby return to you the trust which you so generously confided to me." The World's Washington correspondent promised to clean out Pulitzer's desk in the Capitol. "I'm glad you have resigned your seat in Congress," he wrote. "I am sure you have a much better position as editor of the World than any official in Washington." Pulitzer's congressional career lasted a mere four months, unless one counts the eleven months he spent waiting for the opening of Congress. He donated his salary to help endow a bed in a New York hospital for use by a newspaperman; he donated his stationery allowance to an industrial school for newsboys; and, after much work, he found a recipient for the several quarts of wheat given to members of Congress by the Department of Agriculture to distribute to their constituents. The only thing he had not thought through was the consequences of his resignation. The vacancy he created could not be filled until the next election. In his hurry to dump the job, he left his district with no vote in the House and no procurer of patronage, and young military academy candidates without a sponsor. His departure was as ill-considered as his candidacy had been in the first place. In late June 1886, when Kate neared her due date, Joseph made plans to travel. As when Lucille and Katherine were about to be born, Joseph did not let Kate's pregnancy restrict his movements, though childbirth carried a considerable risk of mortality until it took place in hospitals, later in the century. Rather, Joseph remained single-mindedly focused on his own health, which continued to bedevil him. He became convinced, for reasons unknown, that the water in the house they rented at 616 Fifth Avenue was unhealthy, even though the house was in one of the toniest sections of Manhattan. Pulitzer hired plumbers to cut off the water to several of the bathrooms. Since Kate could not travel, Pulitzer enlisted his old friend Thomas Davidson of St. Louis as a companion. In the midst of the election of the previous year, Pulitzer had paused for a reunion with Davidson. It was the first time in a decade the two had seen each other. In the intervening years, Davidson had wandered through Europe, living for a while as a hermit, and had founded a utopian fellowship that included George Bernard Shaw among its members. Pulitzer insisted that Davidson stay at the house and devised a dinner to which he invited Conkling and other well-known politicians in hopes of impressing his old teacher. It didn't work. After the dinner, the skeptical philosopher wrote to a friend that he found the dinner guests lacking in character. But he was charmed by Kate, whom he had not met before, and found her to be entirely devoted to Joseph. Davidson and Pulitzer traveled through Europe for a month. Pulitzer kept the European telegraph operators busy and, as usual, was no more rested when he returned than when he had departed. At home, he met his new daughter, who was born on June 19, 1886, and was named Edith. Once again, Joseph did not want to remain in New York during the heat of the summer, so he left with the family for Lenox. But even in the relaxing Berkshires, with daily horse rides, the demands of his newspapers pressed on him. He refused to let his managers manage or his editors edit. Despite the continued success of the papers, he found fault in all they did. Pulitzer was most frustrated with the quality of the World's editorial page. In his conception, this was the most important component of a newspaper. For him, reporting the news served primarily to build a readership that would turn to the editorial page for his own sage counsel on affairs of state and politics. So far, none of the editors he had hired could write an editorial to his liking. He hoped William H. Merrill, who worked at the Boston Herald, would solve his problem. At first Merrill agreed to come to the World, which he considered "the greatest opportunity now offered in the press of America," but then he got cold feet. Pulitzer left Lenox and went to Boston to persuade Merrill in person. After some hesitation, Merrill was finally won over. The incredible $7,500 salary sufficiently assuaged his fears of working for a publisher with a demanding reputation. Next Pulitzer dashed out to St. Louis to look over plans for a new Post-Dispatch building. It was the first time he had been back since he left the city in 1883. Then he returned to New York in time to celebrate the dedication of the Statue of Liberty. Pulitzer did not want anyone to forget who had made the completion of the statue possible. In front of the World offices, he built a triumphal arch sixty feet tall spanning Park Row and festooned with French and American flags. On October 28, a great parade passed under the arch and the World's employees and their families, as well as its advertisers, boarded two steamers. The two ships, led by another with Pulitzer and his family on board, joined a flotilla that made its way to Bedloe's Island. There, President Cleveland and a huge retinue of dignitaries—few of whom had contributed to the pedestal—marked the moment with a long succession of speeches. Not being among the speakers, Pulitzer reserved his thoughts for the World's editorial page. In his inimitable style, decorated with Old World flourishes, he wrote, "The statue represents, upon a standpoint at last firmly held, the results of centuries of struggle against oppression, ignorance, bigotry and might unsupported by right. It breathes a sense of relief that so much has been won." Among those who did speak at the ceremonies was Chauncey Depew. He and Pulitzer had recently become friends, and theirs was the first of several friendships Pulitzer made among New York's elite that could challenge his ability to run a newspaper championing the common man. Not only was Depew a Republican; he was president of the New York Central, the rail line controlled by Vanderbilt and the World's most frequent target in its war against monopolies. But Depew had more savvy than most of the World's targets. He recognized that the new medium Pulitzer commanded was, at its core, a business. He and Pulitzer were both captains of industry. The difference was just that Pulitzer made his money tearing apart the other. As one of the figures in the famous "Belshazzar" cartoon that had irreparably damaged Blaine's presidential campaign, Depew had felt the World's sting. But he believed more was to be gained by being friends with Pulitzer than by being his enemy. A year earlier, Depew had disarmed Pulitzer with a dinner toast in which he recounted their first meeting. Depew said that Pulitzer warned him that the paper would include him in its attacks on New York Central, monopolies, and Vanderbilt. But, Depew said, Pulitzer then added, "'When Mr. Vanderbilt finds that you are attacked, he is a gentleman and broad-minded enough to compensate you and will grant to you both significant promotion and a large increase in salary.' "Well, gentlemen," Depew told the dinner crowd, "I have only to say that Mr. Pulitzer's experiment has been eminently successful. He has made his newspaper a recognized power and a notable organ of public opinion; its fortunes are made and so are his, and in regard to myself, all he predicted has come true, both in promotion and in enlargement of income." With the Statue of Liberty now part of New York's landscape, as he had promised, Pulitzer turned his attention to the mayoral election. Although he apparently had three choices—the Democrats' Abram Hewitt, the United Labor Party's Henry George, and the Republicans' Theodore Roosevelt—in fact he had only two. He still considered the twenty-eight-year-old Roosevelt a traitor to the cause of reform. The World would have to choose between Hewitt and George. Hewitt was a competent, honest, experienced politician; George was only famous as the author of Progress and Poverty, a wildly popular book that advocated the abolition of most taxes, the abolition of monopolies, and the creation of numerous social programs. If it were up to Pulitzer's working-class readers, the endorsement would have gone to George. But the World did not belong to them. Davidson pleaded with Pulitzer to support George. "He will be treated fairly," Pulitzer replied, saying he would meet George. "But I can't promise anything until all the candidates are known. Then I shall do whatever I think is best for the City." In the end, Hewitt won the World's editorial support, but in this election, unlike that of 1884, Pulitzer consented to restrain the news side from attacking Hewitt's opponents. Though the World criticized George in its editorials, it gave him a fair break. "You are doing excellently well by George, better than if you openly supported him," wrote Davidson. "His candidacy will, in any case, do much good in making people think and forcing the parties to put forward reputable candidates." On Election Day, Pulitzer's candidate carried the day. Roosevelt came in a distant third. It was a stinging defeat. "I do not disguise from myself that this is the end of my political career," he told a close friend. Although Pulitzer was not to blame for the loss, he had again etched his name on Roosevelt's enemies list. The double triumphs of 1886—the statue stood in the harbor, and Roosevelt had fallen in defeat—did not diminish the pressures on Pulitzer. The management of the World continued to consume his time and sap his energy. He had hired a personal secretary to cope with the flow of mail, but that put hardly a dent in the problem. "Hundreds of letters come into this office every day that I never see," Pulitzer told one correspondent who complained of not getting a reply. Most vexing was Pulitzer's spreading fame as a financial success. Masy le Doll, a widow in Martinsburg, West Virginia, read that Pulitzer "was up to his neck in money, had so much he did not know what to do with it." She hoped for some to buy a bucket of coal, some flour, and maybe a turkey for Christmas. The New Yorker Walter Hammond appealed for a donation from Pulitzer because the organized charities denied him relief, believing him to be promiscuous. During a medical exam it was determined that one of Hammond's testicles was larger than the other, and the charity workers took this as proof that he had been sexually active. Hammond denied the charge, giving his word to Pulitzer that he had had sex only with his wife, who had burned to death in a fire six years earlier, and had been celibate since. Such was welfare in 1886. Work and tension continued to wear Pulitzer down. He began to turn down social invitations, preferring to steal what rest he could at home in the evenings. When he did get out, it was now more often to visit an out-of-town friend such as the newspaper publisher George Childs of Philadelphia, who had a country house. Sitting by a blazing wood fire, Childs (who was older than Pulitzer) often counseled Pulitzer to ease up on his workload. In fact, Childs took it upon himself to deliver the same message to Pulitzer's wife. He wrote anxiously to Kate that Joseph was endangering his health. "He must be careful and remember that he has a wife and children who have a claim on him," Childs wrote. "He must try to learn to take things more rationally, he is under too great a pressure, and is doing more than anyone can do and retain his health. We all think too much of him to let him go on without a word of caution." When Kate shared Childs's message with Joseph, he was in no mood to listen. ## Chapter Nineteen ## A BLIND CROESUS Joe Howard, one of the World's leading reporters, was preparing to depart for Montreal on the evening of February 9, 1887, to cover the city's famous winter carnival. The idea had been Pulitzer's, and it was a plum assignment. Howard would spend several days visiting a monolithic illuminated ice palace and attending the carnival's many festivities. As he talked over his plans with editors in the newsroom, Pulitzer came out from his office and walked over to him. "What have you been doing today, Joe?" asked Pulitzer. "Nothing. I'm preparing, you know, to go to Montreal," replied Howard. Upon hearing this, Pulitzer remembered he had also given permission and $100 to Walt McDougall to go to Montreal. Pulitzer had no interest in having—in his words—"two high-priced men off on one job." "I don't want you to go," Pulitzer brusquely told Howard. "But," said Howard, "I've bought my tickets and engaged berths for the people who are going with me. One must do that early. There are crowds going to Canada right now." Pulitzer's face reddened. He raised his right hand and, waving his index finger close to Howard's face, said, "I tell you I don't want you to go." "Don't you point that at me," Howard snapped back, hurling an insult, later reported as one that described Pulitzer as "a sordid, grasping, covetous Israelite." Howard's revilement kindled Pulitzer's notorious temper. The publisher, who at six feet two inches towered over the squat reporter, struck Howard on the neck with his fist, sending him to the floor. As Howard fumbled for his eyeglasses, knocked off by the blow, Pulitzer told him he was fired. Rising from the floor, Howard tried to return the assault. But Cockerill and others restrained him and escorted him from the office. "Joe got so abusive that I got at him and knocked him down, and then discharged him on the spot," Pulitzer admitted to reporters from rival newspapers who chased him down later that day. But, he added, "I wouldn't for the world hurt Joe, so don't say anything about it, please." Naturally, however, the fisticuffs made the front pages of the city's papers, except for the restrained New York Times. The New York Herald, where Howard had once worked, wrote the incident up like a prizefight, complete with diagrams and sporting-style commentary. Howard was not the only talent Pulitzer had plucked from Bennett's staff at the Herald. While Bennett was in Paris, Pulitzer had persuaded the Herald's managing editor, Ballard Smith, to move over to the World. When Bennett returned, he was so angry that he abolished the job, though others ended up doing the work under a different title. Bennett's wrath was understandable. In the competitive atmosphere of Park Row, staffing remained a constant worry. Reporters were not hard to come by and most jumped at the chance to work for the World. But editors were another matter. "It is the man," Pulitzer said, "who decides what is to go into the paper and what is to be left out, and in what shape it is to go in, who has more to do with making the newspaper than the man who simply writes for it." The problem of finding the right editors was even more vexing for Pulitzer than for most publishers because the success of the World rested on an approach to news for which most editors were not trained. Pulitzer was betting that Ballard Smith would take to it. Smith was a Kentuckian who had once worked for Pulitzer's friend Henry Watterson at the Louisville Courier-Journal. After coming to New York, Smith served briefly as an editor on the old World before going to the Herald. Debonair, with an aura of erudition from his education at Dartmouth, he married the only daughter of a wealthy merchant and gained an entrée rare for a journalist into the city's close-knit social life—from which the Pulitzers were excluded. Although Smith cut an unusual figure in the crass, tumultuous world of a newspaper's city room, Pulitzer recognized in him news instincts similar to his own. Smith was daring, a master of headlines, and, most important, willing to be trained. "I have tried faithfully to reflect exactly your views," Smith wrote to Pulitzer not long after joining the paper. "I confess they often conflicted much with what I thought I knew well before." Smith, however, did not hit it off with Cockerill, who felt threatened. Like two feral dogs, they circled each other. This was not displeasing to Pulitzer. He had no interest in building a team. Rather, he preferred having managers who competed with one another and for his approbation. Without making himself superfluous, he was taking the first steps toward assembling a structure of management that could run the paper without him. With Cockerill overseeing the entire operation, Smith enforcing Pulitzer's approach to news gathering, and Merrill writing editorials, Pulitzer was freed from the day-to-day operation of the paper. The change was a necessity. He had become irascible and moody, and his health woes grew more and more apparent to those around him. "Won't you have enough confidence to let us run the place?" asked George Turner, a Bostonian, whom Pulitzer had hired as a business manager. "I am writing this to beg you to cease worrying about the paper and, if a sea voyage is possible, to take a long one where it will be impossible to get reports or issue directions." Pulitzer booked tickets to Liverpool for April 16. While Pulitzer waited to depart for Europe, the needs of the paper weighed heavily on him. The libel suits continued to swarm like gnats, despite Pulitzer's interminable precautions, including reading almost every word that went into the paper. The World Almanac also required his attention. He had revived the encyclopedic work, which was originally published by the old World but had died. Pulitzer saw both promotional and moneymaking opportunities in resurrecting it. He also loved reference works. When he got into arguments—not an infrequent occurrence—he would rush to his collection of such books to find ammunition. But like all his ideas, this one created more work for which he could not find time, and he had been disappointed by the first new editions. "That it has not received the measure of my own concept," he told an editor, "is perhaps because I had not time enough at my disposal to do all I had planned." In the meantime, Pulitzer had to tend to the opening of a printing plant in Brooklyn, because the World's main presses couldn't keep up with demand. The paper now circulated more than a quarter of a million copies each day. To celebrate this achievement, Pulitzer sent commemorative coins set in plush-lined leather cases to advertisers and leading political figures. Slightly larger than a silver dollar, the coins were 100 percent silver, 17 percent more than the amount of silver the government used in its coins. On one side was a relief of the Statue of Liberty; the other side boasted that the World's circulation was the largest ever attained by an American newspaper. The paper's average daily circulation was now three times what it had been three years earlier, when Pulitzer had already been considered a stunning success. The new high-water mark astonished newspapermen because 1887 was not an election year, when partisan fever stoked the circulation of newspapers. The World's numerical claims were also credible even in an era when circulation figures were often unsubstantiated bragging. Pulitzer dared anyone to prove him wrong. He offered to open his books to public inspection and promised to donate $10,000 to the press club if someone found he had misstated the figures. "It is a common query in the literary clubs and among the journalistic fraternity," said one commentator. "What in the World will Pulitzer do next?" Even if Pulitzer ceased his constant self-promotion, the success of the World was now so widely known that it was spawning imitators in other cities. His formula worked, even for a young dropout from Harvard. In the spring of 1887, after years of entreaties, twenty-four-year-old William Randolph Hearst persuaded his father to turn over control of the family's money-losing San Francisco Examiner to him. He had found Harvard boring in comparison with life's possibilities for someone with money who was eager to prove himself. Commuting to work in a fifty-foot speedboat, the tall, slender, handsome Hearst set about transforming the Examiner into a West Coast version of the World. For years Hearst had read, studied, and cut out articles from the World. He told his father that he would make the family's newspaper like the "New York World which is undoubtedly the best paper of the class to which the Examiner belongs—that class which appeals to the people and which depends for its success upon enterprise, energy and a certain startling originality." "To accomplish this," he continued, "we must have—as the World has—active, intelligent, and energetic young men." Hearst needed first to break his paper's association with its past incarnation, as Pulitzer had done when he took over the World. Almost as if he were Pulitzer in New York in 1883, Hearst resorted to every trick from Pulitzer's playbook. He sent his reporters out to scour the poorest neighborhoods in San Francisco for tales that would make readers weep, to look in police stations and courts for crime stories that thrilled, and to search through public records to uncover corruption. The front page not only displayed the reporters' work with headlines bold as neon lights but also trumpeted the paper's successes as if the Examiner itself were running for office. Imitation has its rewards. The Examiner's circulation began a steady climb. Hearst's approach to management also mirrored Pulitzer's. He left no part of the operation alone, and his indefatigable presence drove his staff to work even harder. He spent almost every waking hour working on the paper. "I don't suppose I will live more than two or three weeks if this strain keeps up," Hearst wrote his mother, voicing woes similar to those of Pulitzer, though he was almost twenty years Pulitzer's junior. Although he greatly admired the World and imitated it, Hearst disdained its owner. He felt he had more in common with Pulitzer's adversary Bennett, who like Hearst was heir to a family fortune and who had been given his New York Herald without spending a cent. "It is an honest and brave paper one can respect," Hearst said. "It is the kind of paper I should like the Examiner to be, while the World is, because of the Jew that owns it, a nasty, unscrupulous damned sheet that I despise but which is too powerful to insult." But as a copycat, his spite was like that of a man who enjoyed the company of a mistress, which Hearst did, and felt sullied by the experience the morning after. Despite the imitation there was a vast difference between the men. Pulitzer had started with nothing, and his newspapers were sustained and expanded by their financial success. Hearst, on the other hand, was backed by an endless reserve of family money. For any competitor, this made Hearst dangerous. He was soon boasting of the Examiner's success in full-page advertisements calling it "The Monarch of dailies. The largest, brightest and best newspaper on the Pacific Coast." But conquering the Atlantic coast would have to wait for another day. In late March 1887 the kind of criminal case Pulitzer loved to feature in the World opened in a New York City courtroom. Assistant District Attorney De Lancey Nicoll, whom Pulitzer admired, was prosecuting several aldermen on charges of corruption. One of the boodlers was defended by Ira Shafer, a colorful lawyer who made for good copy. The World illustrated its front-page coverage of the trial with comic drawings of Shafer, and the reporter had fun referring to Shafer's shoes as toboggans and to his mouth as a cave of winds. All this got to be too much for the lawyer. "That dirty, filthy sheet yesterday reviled and insulted me by the publication of a lot of vile caricatures," Shafer informed the jury, whose members were quite surprised, as they had not been permitted to read any newspapers. "A friend said to me this morning: 'Shafer, why don't you shoot that Hungarian Jew? Why don't you horsewhip him?'" Despite the judge's attempts to rein him in, Shafer continued. "Gentlemen, wait. The day will come when I will meet that Jew face to face, and when I do meet him let him beware," he told the jury, which included three Jewish members. When court adjourned, Shafer went on a similar rampage before reporters in the courthouse hall. "The first time I shall meet Mr. Pulitzer after this trial is over," he said, "I shall kill him." Lawyers who knew Shafer doubted that his threat was serious, and rather attributed it to his quick-to-anger disposition. The fiery-tempered Pulitzer figured as much. He continued to ride the elevated train to work unescorted, and he dismissed any talk of danger. "If I could have been killed by threats I should have been buried long ago," he said. "If I could be influenced by the hostility of rascals I should have conducted a very different newspaper from the World and I should have adopted a different policy when I entered journalism years ago—which was to expose fraud and crime and pursue rascals." Pulitzer was soon out of Shafer's reach anyway. Leaving Smith, Cockerill, and Merrill to run the shop, he departed with Kate on the most extensive trip they had taken since he bought the paper four years earlier. There had been scarlet fever in their house and they were eager to leave. The children were left in the care of Kate's brother, who greatly pleased seven-year-old Lucille with the purchase of a pony. Pulitzer's friend Childs came up from Philadelphia to see them off. "I have been very anxious about you all," Childs told him. "What with the illness at home and the immense pressure of your great business you had too much to bear." After a stopover in Scotland, the Pulitzers reached London, where Joseph was immediately confined to his hotel room by doctors worried that his cold was creating congestion in his lungs. Finally, in early May, the Pulitzers began their European trip in earnest—in Paris, a favorite of Kate's. There they dined with J. P. Morgan's partner Joseph Drexel, were feted by the American ambassador Robert McLane, attended balls, and purchased art and jewels. The Pulitzers took up quarters at the Hotel Bristol. Joseph's brother Albert was only a few blocks away in Le Grand Hotel, but they remained estranged. The success of Albert's Morning Journal, though now eclipsed by the World, provided him with financial freedom. His fortune made, he spent less and less time in New York and instead resided regally for long stretches in Paris and London. His marriage to Fanny was at an end. In fact, he had been romantically linked with the four-times-married Miriam Leslie, a publishing widow who was a descendant of Huguenots and sometimes went by the title Baroness de Bazus. An enterprising American reporter could not resist playing the two brothers against each other by seeking their opinions of French newspapers. "I think it is simply disgraceful the kind of thing which they produce here," said Joseph. "They are newspapers in name, but newspapers with the news left out. They print neither home news nor foreign news, in fact they print nothing but stories and essays." Au contraire, said Albert. "People in France have not got that terrible thirst for 'news' which consumes us at home; they are not at all in a hurry to know about accidents and crimes before it is necessary, and even then they don't want a great mass of sickening details. In many ways their tastes are more elevated than ours." Joseph and Kate went south for a rest in Aix-les-Bains and then recrossed the Channel to be among the dignitaries and royalty from around the globe who gathered in Westminster Abbey for Queen Victoria's celebration of her silver jubilee. Afterward they watched the royal procession from the World's London offices. While they were in London, Pulitzer flirted with the idea of buying a newspaper. Before his arrival, the World's correspondent there had inquired which newspaper could be had and made into a British version of the New York sensation. It was a tempting proposition. Pulitzer loved London and its museums, theaters, and politics. Kate and his friends who fretted about his health were in a panic. Nothing came of the idea and Pulitzer resumed his statesmanlike role. The financier Junius Morgan invited the Pulitzers to his country house; "I am but a plain farmer living on my farm," he wrote. Liberal members of Parliament feted Pulitzer in London, and he made a pilgrimage to visit their party leader, William Gladstone, at Dollis Hill Estate. Thrown out of office after his third term, as a consequence of advocating home rule for Ireland, Gladstone was living in political exile about a forty-five-minute carriage ride from Charing Cross. Pulitzer arrived with a delegation of American politicians to present him with an ornamental silver urn, a tribute paid for by contributions from thousands of readers of the World for Gladstone's failed efforts on behalf of Ireland. Gladstone, dressed in a light gray frock coat with a loosely tied blue-and-white polka-dot scarf, greeted the Americans and led them to the wooden box in which the gift had been shipped. Keys were procured and Gladstone lifted the three-foot silver urn from its container. On its top was mounted a small bust of him, and the trophy-like object was engraved with a bas-relief of Homer and Demosthenes and embossed with a rose, thistle, and shamrock. "Well, let us get the business formality of this out of the way so that everyone can come and look at it," Gladstone said. Then he leaned against the box and turned to Pulitzer, who addressed the crowd. "Mr. Gladstone," he began, "10,689 people of the first city of America ask the first citizen of England to accept this gift." As if he were giving an American stump speech, Pulitzer droned on with praises for Gladstone, with his usual references to liberty, freedom, political equality, and democracy. While the ceremony continued, an American con man took advantage of the moment. He hid behind a tree and emerged to stand behind Gladstone and Pulitzer when all the dignitaries gathered for a photograph. Later he would imply to others that he was an intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, who he claimed had once taken his picture. When the mark expressed doubts, the American operator would say he thought he might even have the picture with him and would produce a photo, trimmed to show him standing with Gladstone and Pulitzer. Unaware of the shady operator, Pulitzer relished the moment. He sent instructions to the World to play up the ceremony. Smith gave it two columns on the front page. British newspapers were less thrilled and questioned the delegation's claim of speaking for the American people. "In point of fact," said the Evening Standard, "they had no more right to such a position than the three tailors of Tooley Street, who addressed the Emperor of Russia, had to represent the people of Great Britain." The last word, however, belonged to Gladstone's daughter Mary. That night she penned a few short lines in her diary about the ceremony. "Sat. A garden party the American presentation to [father], an object of surprising hideousness." By August the Pulitzers were back in New York. They stayed only briefly, though long enough for Pulitzer to consider yet another proposal to buy a paper. He had given up on acquiring a London newspaper, but he listened attentively to a pitch from William Henry Smith, the AP's director, to acquire the Chicago Times. After all, Smith had been one of the men who had guided him to buy the World. But reason again prevailed, and Pulitzer declined the opportunity. Abandoning business and the heat, the Pulitzers spent the remainder of the summer in Lenox, where they rented one of the town's many mansions, referred to by the wealthy as "cottages." Despite the fresh country air, their daughter Lucille fell gravely ill. Three years after losing one daughter, Joseph and Kate faced the horrible possibility again. Joseph was convinced that the plumbing was the culprit, as he had been at their Fifth Avenue house. This time, he may not have been wrong. After Lucille recovered, two doctors discovered that the pipes leading to the cesspool were not properly installed and permitted gases to work their way into the bathroom Lucille had used. The Pulitzers returned to New York, in time for Joseph to witness, from the officiating yacht, the final race of the 1887 defense of America's Cup. The race had become immensely popular. In fact, during the prior year's race, the World had mounted movable miniature yachts on a track across the first floor of its building. As dispatches arrived by telegram every ten minutes, the yachts were drawn across the painted scene by hidden strings. The display attracted crowds so immense that all traffic was blocked from Park Row from morning until night. Pulitzer finally ended his family's migration from rented house to rented house. He purchased a mansion at 10 East Fifty-Fifth Street, just off Fifth Avenue, from the banker Charles Barney, brother-in-law of Pulitzer's friend Whitney. The house was almost new and had been designed by McKim, Mead, and White, architects to the rich and famous such as the Astors, the Vanderbilts, and other plutocrats who were madly building châteaus on Fifth Avenue. The targets of the World's editorial venom would now be Pulitzer's neighbors. It was, indeed, quite a neighborhood. A few blocks to the south, William Henry Vanderbilt had bought an entire block and built enormous brownstone houses for his family and two married daughters. His sons soon built their own mansions nearby. Henry Villard, who had taken Pulitzer across the country four years earlier to witness the completion of his cross-country railroad, erected an even more enormous palace comprising six linked brownstones with a courtyard in the center. Also designed by McKim, Mead, and White, the palazzo-like structure consumed a ton of coal a day for heating. Only in comparison with his neighbors' houses did Pulitzer's $200,000 manor seem modest. Broad stairs led up from the street to a carved stone entrance that opened into a large hall with a winding staircase. Four stories tall, constructed of stone and brick, the house had large, high-ceilinged rooms for entertainment on the first floor, including a magnificent oak-paneled dining room; bedrooms on the second and third floors; and servants' quarters on the fourth floor. In the rear was an attached conservatory. While negotiating for the house, Pulitzer asked his lawyers to persuade the mortgage holders to let him own it outright. Money was no longer an issue. In addition to the political power and the prominence the World gave him, the paper was making Pulitzer very rich. His annual income alone now dwarfed the entire fortune he had gambled on acquiring the World four years earlier. He invested in stocks, paid $185,000 in cash for additional buildings for the paper, and indulged in any luxury he fancied. He toyed with the idea of acquiring a $75,000 yacht, purchased paintings from Parisian and New York art dealers, and ordered 2,000 bottles of French claret from a wine merchant for $25,000. Pulitzer's taste in cigars and wine grew with his income. He stocked his house with Havana cigars and his wine cellar with Château d'Yquem and Château le Crock, among other vintages. His willingness to spend encouraged Tiffany's to put him on a list that offered buyers an early peek at its new line of jewels; and Goupil's Picture Gallery brought paintings to his house for his consideration. Pulitzer developed a preference for working at home. He had a telephone with a direct line to the office installed so that he could summon editors and business managers for meetings. He rarely left for the office before noon. Reaching the World, he would make his way through each department before settling in at his editorial offices. By six, he would be on his way home. On nights when there was a performance at the Metropolitan Opera House, Joseph and Kate could be found in their box, one of the best in the house. Going to the opera, particularly to hear German works, ranked as Joseph's favorite pastime. He rarely missed a performance, and he would whistle operatic airs after hearing them but once. The evening invariably closed with a protracted telephone consultation with the night editors at the paper. Money bought the Pulitzers more than acquisitions and leisure pursuits. It gave them access to New York's elite society. By day, Joseph may have sparred with the city's rich, but by night he dined with them. New York society began to see a lot of the Pulitzers. Sometimes they were accompanied by the socially well-connected editor Ballard Smith and his wife. The Pulitzers even received an invitation to the prestigious Patriarch Ball in December 1885. This dance was organized by Ward McAllister, a social arbiter who was famous for his list of New York's 400 most elite families. He had also initiated the Patriarchs, a group of heads of prominent families who made a vain attempt to create a social designation that could not be bought. They saw themselves as the last stand of manners and breeding. The ball was held at Delmonico's on Fifth Avenue. The ballroom was splendidly decorated with flowers and greenery from Charles Klunder, whose plants decked the tables of society. Hidden by banks of flowers, electric lights, still considered a novelty, illuminated the room. The Pulitzers arrived at eleven that evening. Mrs. Astor, the queen of New York society, presided over the soiree, and J. Pierpont Morgan was installed as a Patriarch. Punctually at midnight, two Patriarchs led the couples in the german (a cotillion) before the group retired downstairs for terrapin, canvasback duck, and pâté de foie gras. The Pulitzers' rising status gave Kate a chance to charm the Fifth Avenue crowd with her graciousness. She served as a social tour guide when her distant cousin Winnie Davis—the youngest daughter of Jefferson Davis, known as the "daughter of the Confederacy"—came to New York. Dressed in a satin gown trimmed with ostrich feathers and crystal pendants, Kate caught the eye of one society columnist. "Her manner is cordial and fascinating," the journalist wrote. "She has large black eyes fringed with long lashes, a brilliant color, perfect teeth, lovely white sloping shoulders, a head well poised and coils of dark brown hair." When the Hungarian painter Mihály Munkácsy came to New York the winter before, Pulitzer had given one dinner party in the artist's honor at Delmonico's and a second at home. The guests at both included financial luminaries such as sugar trust attorney John E. Parsons, the businessman Cyrus W. Field, and assorted wealthy politicians and statesmen such as Chauncey Depew, William Evarts, and Levi P. Morton—the same three who were among the figures in the cartoon "Belshazzar's Feast" that Pulitzer published during Blaine's campaign. In particular, Joseph enjoyed the company of August Belmont and Leonard Jerome, who dined with the Pulitzers on both evenings. Belmont and Jerome were doyens of the city's new rich, and they loved to compete ostentatiously with each other. After the ladies at one of Jerome's dinner parties found gold bracelets in their napkins, Belmont folded platinum bracelets in the napkins at his dinner party. Friendship with such men was seemingly incongruous for the publisher of the nation's leading democratic sheet, which daily proselytized for the virtues of egalitarianism. But Pulitzer did not object to wealth. In fact, he coveted it. However, the kind of wealth mattered. Inherited fortunes were a social evil for Pulitzer; but earned wealth was not, even if it was tinged by illicit gains or exploitive profits. "J.P. always cherished in his heart a sincere if unacknowledged veneration for rank and family," said the cartoonist McDougall, who spent many long hours with Pulitzer. "This was probably atavistic, coming as he did from a land where rank meant all that is desirable but, to a peasant, unattainable. He showed this feeling by an exaggerated contempt for persons of wealth and standing, yet the truth is that he was moved by quite different feelings, a strong hunger for wealth, luxury, power, predominating over all other emotions." Pulitzer did not simply socialize with those he pilloried in the pages of the World; he also became their financial partner. He joined William Rockefeller, William Vanderbilt, J. P. Morgan, and others in creating a club on Jekyll Island* off the Georgia coast as a private preserve where the nation's richest and most powerful men could hunt, fish, ride, and socialize in complete privacy. Despite distaste for his brand of journalism in many quarters of polite society, the gatekeepers could no more close the doors to Pulitzer than they could to other nouveaux riches. The time had passed when Wall Street speculators, industrial titans, and even Democratic politicians could be excluded. In New York—unlike Boston, where the Brahmins had deep roots—money was in the ascendant. But though his wealth gained him a passport to the domain of New York's plutocracy, it did not gain him genuine acceptance. In the eyes of many he remained, as he was born, a Jew. Up until now, most of the anti-Semitism Pulitzer had faced from gentiles in New York had been coated with a veneer of politeness. German Jews, among whom Pulitzer would have been placed, incurred only mild ostracism. Pulitzer's friend Belmont, a Jew who had converted and changed his name from Schönberg, traveled in all but the most exclusive of New York's circles. But when a tidal wave of Russian Jews flooded New York, the accepting spirit among the elite faded. The Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga Springs barred the Jewish banker Joseph Seligman; the Union Club closed its doors to Jews (even though many were among its founders); and Anna Morton began to insist that her husband, Levi, be referred to as L. P. Morton. A dormant anti-Semitism among New Yorkers awoke. "To decide a bet between two parties will you kindly answer the following," one reader wrote to the World. "Was the Editor of the New York World born in the country and is he of Jewish extraction." Pulitzer declined to answer the letter. Despite his Episcopalian wife, his baptized children, and his family's membership in St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue, Pulitzer could not shed his Jewish identity in the eyes of others any more than he could deny his foreign birth. In the public mind there was little doubt about Pulitzer's ethnicity. "In all the multiplicity of Nature's freaks, running from Albino Negroes to seven-legged calves, there is one curiosity that will always cause the observer to turn and stare. This freak is a red-headed Jew," began a profile of Pulitzer in the trade publication The Journalist. It described "Jewseph Pulitzer" as "combing his hair with talons," "rubbing the sores around his eyes," and remaining in the shadows "in order to escape turning rancid in the hot sun." The author of this barbarous piece was Leander Richardson, an aspiring actor with a beard and a wavy chevron mustache untrimmed at the ends so as to extend wider than his face. Richardson had worked as a gossip columnist for the World under Pulitzer until he was fired for undisclosed reasons in May 1884. He and a partner launched The Journalist, and Richardson used his new post on the widely read trade magazine to seek revenge on Pulitzer. "Any man can make money by publishing a newspaper which will defile its columns with dirty advertisements as those of Jewseph Pulitzer's World are defiled," wrote Richardson, referring to personal notices that some people believed were illicit coded messages for rendezvous with prostitutes. "A directory of assignation houses and worse, the recognized organ of prostitutes, pimps and janders," claimed Anthony Comstock, of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. When the fuss over the advertisements faded, Richardson didn't relax his attacks. "There was never a greater pretender in American journalism," he said, "than this same Jewseph Pulitzer." Pulitzer banned The Journalist from the office, but the anti-Semitic broadsides against him were not limited to Richardson's personal vendetta in the trade press. In "New Jerusalem," as the Los Angeles Times referred to New York City, others among Pulitzer's competitors adopted Richardson's methods. Their anger toward the upstart who was winning the circulation war found expression in attacks on Pulitzer for his Jewish origins. Even a man who had once been his mentor joined in. The rivalry between Charles Dana and Pulitzer, harsh and vitriolic as it had been during the 1884 election, became bitterly personal in 1887. Since Pulitzer had come to New York, the Sun's circulation had shrunk at almost the same rate that the World's had soared. In October, Pulitzer launched the Evening World to compete with the Evening Sun, which Dana had begun publishing in the spring. In his typical fashion, Pulitzer stole one of Dana's editors, Solomon S. Carvalho, to run the new paper. Carvalho, who had a goatee and was always impeccably dressed, had made a reputation as a reporter with a flair for covering murders and suicides when he had first joined the Sun nine years earlier. He instantly made the one-cent Evening World into an audacious purveyor of titillating and sensational news. Within a few weeks it surpassed the Evening Sun's circulation. The economic insult to Dana was compounded by a political dispute between him and Pulitzer. In the election for district attorney, Pulitzer was backing De Lancey Nicoll, who had prosecuted the corrupt alderman in the trial that produced the death threat against Pulitzer. Tammany Hall, however, would have nothing to do with a man seemingly hell-bent on putting corrupt politicians in jail. So Nicoll deserted the Democratic Party and won the Republican nomination. In the offing was the kind of political fight Pulitzer relished. By not abandoning Nicoll, he could prove his paper's independence. On the other hand, Dana, who had backed Nicoll, withheld his support now that Nicoll was running as a Republican. Pulitzer, in bellicose prose, demanded an explanation from Dana. He got one. "We have withdrawn from our support of Mr. Nicoll because we distrust the World and its motives," wrote Dana, "and because more than suspicions exist to indicate what these motives are." The Sun then rehashed the tale of Cockerill's shooting of Slayback and claimed that Cockerill had avoided a murder charge because the district attorney in St. Louis had been in Pulitzer's pocket. By bringing up this embarrassment, Dana initiated a verbal brawl between the two publishers that rapidly descended into the gutter. Pulitzer called the Sun's editor "Charles Ananias Dana" and Dana retorted with "Boss Judas Pulitzer" and "Dunghill Cock." As Nicoll campaigned, probably bewildered by the conduct of the two publishers, the editorial volleys worsened. Pulitzer called Dana a "mendacious blackguard" and Dana said Pulitzer was a "renegade Jew who has denied his breed" and "exudes the venom of a snake and wields the bludgeon of a bully. "The Jews of New York have no reason to be ashamed of Judas Pulitzer if he has denied his race and religion," said Dana. "The insuperable obstacle in the way of his social progress is not the fact that he is a Jew, but in certain offensive personal qualities." So that no reader was left uncertain, Dana listed them. "His face is repulsive, not because the physiography is Hebraic, but because it is Pulitzeresque.... Cunning, malice, falsehood, treachery, dishonesty, greed, and venal self-abasement have stamped their unmistakable traits." Dana's words hit their mark, tormenting Pulitzer. "The stings of that human wasp, Dana of the Sun, drove him frantic," the cartoonist McDougall recalled. Depressed and feeling harassed, Pulitzer would sometimes come to McDougall's office and lie on an old sofa. In the room was a desk that had been used by Manton Marable when he was editor of the World; it contained bundles of old letters hidden in a cavity. "I used to amuse J.P. by reading some of them to him, and he would in return tell me his troubles and narrate his adventures. I early gathered that he hadn't the courage of Cockerill, but as a writer he was as rashly bold as a rhinoceros. He once told me that the fact that Cockerill had killed Slayback had the effect of kindling his sincere admiration and respect at one time and filling him with a chilled repulsion at another." The voters soon had their say. Dana and Pulitzer acted as if their names had been on the ballot. Both of them had also spoken at rallies on behalf of their candidates. Nicoll lost, by a large margin. "And now, Pulitzer, a word with you!" wrote a triumphant Dana. Like a judge reading from a defendant's criminal record before imposing a sentence, Dana listed scandal, blackmail, and murder among Pulitzer deeds prior to coming to New York. "We wish, Pulitzer, that you had never come." An unpleasant future awaited, Dana promised. "Perhaps your lot will be like that of the mythical unfortunate of the same race you belong to and deny, that weird creation of medieval legend, a creation, by the way, far more prepossessing than you are—we mean, The Wandering Jew! "Move on, Pulitzer," said Dana, "move on!" A few days after this bitter defeat at the polls, Pulitzer went to the office to look over the next morning's editorials. Unlike Dana, he had little to gloat about. In addition to the painful brawl with Dana, the election results had subjected him to personal ridicule. After taking credit for electing a president, a governor, and a mayor, he had failed to get his man elected to the minor post of district attorney. Pulitzer had reached the limits of his physical and psychological endurance. "It was a period of terrible strain for me," he said years later. His friend Childs in Philadelphia was worried. "I told a leading newspaper man today," Childs wrote to Pulitzer, "that if your health holds out, you were bound to make the best success of the age, and you can do it, I mean that you can hold it." But despite his persistent insomnia and disregarding pleas from his friends and family, Pulitzer insisted on going to the office. Reading every line of copy before it was published remained a mania with him, even though Merrill and others were among the best editorialists one could hire. "When I picked up the sheets," said Pulitzer, "I was astonished to find that I could hardly see the writing, let alone read it." It was if a dark curtain had been pulled entirely across his right eye and partially across the left. Having long suffered from bad eyesight, frequently aggravated by reading late into the night under harsh gaslight, Pulitzer decided that this was simply a temporary affliction. He left the building without saying a word about it. The next morning, his vision still not improved, Pulitzer stopped in to consult a doctor on his way to work. In 1887, optometrists, a term then only a year old, had the use of an ophthalmoscope, which permitted a clear view of the retina and the vitreous body separating it from the lens. When the doctor peered into Pulitzer's eyes it was clear in an instant what had gone wrong. The retina in the right eye had become detached, and the left retina was in danger of detaching. The prognosis was grim. "In a great majority of cases the natural course of the disease is slowly but surely progressive, leading finally to total blindness," wrote one expert at the time. The chief remedies at the time were the application of artificial leeches, a tool that drew blood or other fluids from the patient; mercury drops; or extended bed rest. Pulitzer was ordered home to remain in a darkened room for six weeks. Pulitzer's doctors were summoned. His primary physician, James W. McLane, was worried that the vision failure was only one manifestation of Pulitzer's health problems, which he listed as insomnia, asthmatic lungs, and almost continuous indigestion. It was as if Pulitzer was having a breakdown. "I am absolutely and totally unable to read or write, or have any use of my sight," Pulitzer said plaintively, dictating a letter. "I am in the hands of the oculist, who has put me to bed, stripped me of all occupation, and enforces a course of treatment which he says, with care on my part, may give me back my sight in about six weeks. If I am not careful, he also says, I am quite apt to lose my sight altogether." For six weeks, Cockerill, Merrill, and Smith ran the World, coming occasionally to the dark confines of Pulitzer's room for advice. The children were kept at bay, and when Kate's father died, she attended the funeral in Washington alone. Almost as if he were engaged in mortal combat, Dana did not even have the good manners to lessen his attacks. Instead, he continuously reprinted the editorial about the "Jew who does want to be a Jew" under the headline, MOVE ON, PULITZER!—REPUDIATED BY HIS RACE. At the end of the bed rest, Pulitzer's sight was no better. McLane prescribed a new course of treatment: Pulitzer was to cease all work and go to California for a six-month rest. On January 14, 1888, Joseph, Kate, and Ralph, along with a personal staff, boarded a private railcar in Jersey City. Lucille, Joseph Jr., and Edith were left in the care of nannies. Congressman Walter Phelps came to see them off. Pulitzer was pessimistic about the plan and prophesied that the climate of California and the fresh air would do him no good. While he was becoming a Croesus, he told Phelps, he would eventually be a blind one. "That," said Pulitzer, "was the beginning of the end." ## Part III ## 1888–1911 ## Chapter Twenty ## SAMSON AGONISTES On a moonlit evening in late February 1888, Pulitzer stood on the veranda of San Diego's legendary Hotel del Coronado. Puffing on a cigar, he gazed out at the beach. In the pale soft light, he could discern the contours of the beach and the crashing waves tipped with white foam. "That is beautiful," Pulitzer said to a young reporter who had accompanied him out into the night air. "I am not blind by any means," he continued, as they went inside. "I can see well enough to enjoy the beauties of the country. Your harbor is wonderfully beautiful, as we saw it in the moonlight this evening." The rest of the world, however, was fading from his sight. Under the harsh electric lights of the hotel's interior, he could scarcely make out the headlines on display at the newsstand, announcing that St. Louis would be the site of the next Democratic convention. "I am half blind, and have lost the use of one eye," he conceded. "The other eye is of partial use, but I have not read a newspaper for three months." Pulitzer's doctors in New York had prescribed repose in California. It was like being sent into exile. When the Pulitzers had boarded the train in New York, Kate was handed a note from a onetime World editor and Democratic stalwart. "May I beg you to read the next page of this note to Samson Agonistes," it said. "My God, what a calamity for the party that you are ill now." The journey drained Joseph, even though they crossed the country in the comfort of a private railcar, the nineteenth-century counterpart of the corporate jet. Contributing to his exhaustion was a detour they took to Beauvoir, a crumbling mansion not far from New Orleans in Biloxi, Mississippi. There Kate's distant cousins Jefferson and Varina Davis, the former president and first lady of the Confederacy, lived in quiet solitude. The Pulitzers had come to know the Davises during the past eight years and had grown attached to their twenty-two-year-old daughter, whom they asked to be a godmother to one of their children. Winnie, called the "daughter of the Confederacy," was almost as symbolic of the lost cause as were her parents. During the visit to Beauvoir, the Pulitzers tried to talk Winnie into accompanying them on their trip. "A private car offers the two-fold temptation of comfort and economy in seeing a new and interesting country," Jefferson Davis wrote to a family member. "She says, no." The Pulitzers pushed on, stopping in Texas, where Joseph told reporters that the Confederacy's former leader, though aging, had a mind as clear as that of a thirty-year-old. A few days later, the party reached Los Angeles, where their arrival was front-page news. Joseph declined an interview, saying he had been fatigued by the journey. The group soon repaired to the Raymond Hotel in Pasadena, a popular winter residence for wealthy easterners. For the next several weeks, Pulitzer and his entourage wandered from one coastal resort to another. In Santa Barbara, the doctors he consulted had only discouraging words and suggested that he consider a sea voyage to the Sandwich Islands (later known as Hawaii), Japan, and China. It was hardly advice he wanted or was willing to follow. He was anxious about not being in charge of the World back in New York. Though he trusted Cockerill, circulation had fallen for the first time since Pulitzer bought the paper. Even worse, Pulitzer could play no part in orchestrating the paper's coverage of a terrible snowstorm hammering New York: food and medicine were in short supply, trains stood still, and few telegrams got through. During the blizzard, Pulitzer's lawyer and crony Roscoe Conkling developed an ear infection after walking from his office on Wall Street to his club at Madison Square. Though it was persistent and nagging, Conkling regarded the infection as only a nuisance. "Would gladly face greater storms to make your eyes strong enough to be squandered reading newspapers," he wired back after receiving Pulitzer's worried inquiries. But the infection created a dangerous abscess that pressed on Conkling's brain. For weeks he lay close to death, finally succumbing on April 17, 1888. All Pulitzer could do was send flowers and a telegram of condolence, and order the World to give Conkling a statesmanlike send-off. Balmy California seemed like a purgatory to him. Pulitzer nixed the idea of a Pacific voyage. By May he and his family were on a train heading back east. They stopped in St. Louis for two days so that Joseph could confer with his editors at the Post-Dispatch and again consider offers to buy his paper. He had been back to St. Louis only twice in the ten years since he had left. The place no longer had any hold on him. This would be his last visit ever. He decided, however, to hold on to the Post-Dispatch. The family reached New York as the World celebrated its fifth anniversary under Pulitzer's regime. On the front page, editors reprinted his original statement of principles, published in the first issue; they also listed the newspaper's achievements in its war on monopolists and conspirators, in its efforts to protect immigrants, and in its work on behalf of the poor. "The keystone of The World's arch of triumph is public service," they said. Daily circulation now hovered around 300,000 copies. Home again, Pulitzer confronted an unchanged prognosis by his doctors. They still insisted on prescribing rest. Stubbornly, he tried to read the World and further strained his eyes. At best, all he could now see out his good left eye was a confusion of black spots and occasional flashes of light. His primary physician, Dr. McLane, persuaded him to sail for Europe, where they could together consult renowned medical authorities. On June 9, they boarded the Etruria, bound for England. Kate and the children, joined by Winnie Davis, stayed behind and headed north to a rented house in Maine's increasingly fashionable Mount Desert Island. Once across the ocean, Pulitzer shuttled from one examining room to another in London and Paris. After a summer spent consulting the world's most celebrated physicians, Pulitzer learned nothing he had not already heard from the less famous specialists in New York. He was entirely blind in one eye, and the other was threatened with the same fate. There was no cure, procedure, or therapy. Rest might extend what vision he had left. He ceased to ride horses and take walks. Confined to dim rooms, he grew weaker. The doctors forbade travel. The order couldn't have come at a worse time. It was September of an election year. For Pulitzer, being confined to Europe was like being a captain watching his ship set sail without him. The presidential contest was in full swing, but for Pulitzer there were no editorial meetings, no strategy sessions with party operatives, no election maps to study, no supplicants seeking the World's editorial benediction. Unnatural silence surrounded him. In the election, President Cleveland's plan to cut import tariffs became the central issue. He believed that the tariff was an indirect subsidy to businesses, and that it raised prices and hurt labor and farmers. In turn, the Republicans, who nominated Benjamin Harrison, claimed that the high tariff protected American industry and workers from foreign competition. Still smarting from the president's ungracious attitude toward the World and its owner following his election to the White House, Pulitzer cared little if Cleveland went down in defeat. The paper acted as if the only elections of significance that year were those for New York State's governor and New York City's mayor. The World's silence on the presidential race was a frigid rejection of Cleveland, whom it had championed as a political messiah four years earlier. "Temperamentally, no two men could have been farther apart than the President and his foremost supporter," observed one insider at the World. "That sturdy statesman was steady and persistent; Mr. Pulitzer fiery and insistent." Resigned to his exile, Pulitzer telegraphed Kate and asked her to come to Europe with the children. He left London, engaged rooms at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, then traveled to Le Havre on the northwest coast of France to await her ship. For Joseph, this was a rare gesture that reflected his anguish. Kate and the children arrived on September 16, 1888. Kate was now visibly pregnant with their sixth child, conceived during their wanderings in California. Reunited as a family, they settled into a rented house near Paris's graceful Parc Monceau for the fall and winter. Constance Helen Pulitzer was born on December 13, 1888, and her birth was recorded by the U.S. consul in Paris, who had been appointed by Cleveland. Although Pulitzer could sign the birth certificate, he was incapable of reading or other writing. To cope with his increasing infirmity, he hired thirty-year-old Claude Ponsonby, an Englishman who had some noble relatives. Ponsonby would be the first in a long succession of young men who would handle Pulitzer's correspondence, read aloud to him, play the piano, and provide companionship as the world darkened around him. ## Photographic Insert Migrating Jewish families found economic opportunity in Makó, the Hungarian farming village where Joseph Pulitzer was born in 1847. Landowners, eager for the services of merchants and tradesmen, enlisted the newcomers to market the products of their estates. Members of the Paskesz family, whose business may be seen on the right-hand side of this nineteenth-century photo, later migrated to the United States and opened a Kosher confectionery in Brooklyn. Pulitzer was devoted to his mother, Elize, seen here with his sister Anna, who died not long after the photograph was taken. In fact, all but one of his eight siblings died before Pulitzer reached his teenage years. Merchant shops of Makó. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Pulitzer's mother and sister. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph Pulitzer's four-year-younger brother, Albert, was a consummate reader, idealistic, and ambitious. In 1867, with a twenty-dollar coin tucked under his shirt in a tiny cotton bag hung around his neck, Albert sailed for the United States and joined his brother in St. Louis. This rare moment of brotherly togetherness was probably captured by a New York photographer in the spring of 1873. Joseph visited Albert on his way to Europe after selling his shares in the Westliche Post. Albert had just started working at the New York Herald. Albert Pulitzer standing with books. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph and Albert in 1873. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) German immigrant and American politician Carl Schurz was a role model for Pulitzer in St. Louis. Pulitzer followed Schurz into the Liberal Republican movement. When the rebellion was defeated, Schurz returned to the Republican Party, but Pulitzer became a Democrat. Carl Schurz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Pulitzer Liberal Republican cartoon. (Author's collection.) With his success as a reporter and the additional income he earned as a state legislator, Pulitzer improved his dress by 1869 when this photograph was taken. During his term as a state legislator, Pulitzer's notorious temper got the best of him and he tried to shoot a lobbyist. The scene was captured by well-known cartoonist Joseph Keppler. Pulitzer profile 1869. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Cartoon of Pulitzer in fight with lobbyist that appeared in the February 5, 1870 edition of Die Vehme. (Courtesy of the Missouri History Museum.) (Above 1st)By the mid-1870s, Pulitzer added facial hair to his look. In 1878, he courted two women while living in Washington, D.C. Kate Davis(above 2nd) and Nannie Tunstall(above). In the end, Tunstall spurned Pulitzer's affections, and he married Davis. The drawing of Tunstall was done by sculptor Moses J. Ezekiel. Joseph Pulitzer and Kate Davis. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Nannie Tunstall. (Courtesy of the Virginia Military Institute Archives.) In December 1878, Pulitzer purchased the St. Louis Dispatch at a bankruptcy sale on the steps of the courthouse. In this cartoon Pulitzer is seen packing up his new paper a few days later to merge it with the St. Louis Post, a move alluded to in the comment "set the whole up on a sound Post," at the center of the drawing. The cartoon appeared in the German-language Die Laterne. Within a year of creating the Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer persuaded John Cockerill to come to St. Louis to take charge of the news operation of the paper. The two men met at the 1872 Liberal Republican convention. In the years since, Cockerill had worked as an editor at several newspapers, including the newly launched Washington Post. With their innovative style and aggressive reporting, Pulitzer and Cockerill changed the face of journalism. Cartoon of Pulitzer purchasing the Dispatch. (Author's collection.) Illustration of John Cockerill. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) When Pulitzer purchased the New York World from Jay Gould in 1883, he also agreed to lease for a decade Gould's Park Row building that housed the paper. But within six years, Pulitzer had made such a success of the World that he built the tallest building on the globe(above), without incurring a cent of debt. The thirteen-story building, topped with a gilded dome that reflected light forty miles out to sea, became an important symbol of Pulitzer's financial success and how he changed the landscape of journalism. The first sight of the New World for immigrants entering New York's harbor was not a building of commerce, banking, or industry. Rather, it was a temple of America's new mass media. New York World building owned by Jay Gould. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Pulitzer building (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Don Carlos Seitz was Pulitzer's longest-serving business manager. He was one of the few working for Pulitzer who found a way to survive under his management style. Thirteen years after Pulitzer's death, Seitz became his first biographer. Arthur Brisbane, one of Joseph Pulitzer's most brilliant news editors, was Kate Pulitzer's lover for several years. In 1897, after Kate called off the relationship, he left the World to work for Hearst, where he remained for thirty-nine years and became the nation's highest-paid editor and one of its best-read columnists. Joseph Pulitzer hoped that David Graham Phillips might be trained to lead the World after his death. Unfortunately, Phillips had literary aspirations and left the paper to write novels and muckraking articles for leading magazines. Pulitzer was wounded when he discovered that the corrupt publisher portrayed in Phillips's first novel was based, in great part, on himself. Don Carlos Seitz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Arthur Brisbane. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) David Graham Phillips. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Two publishers and two politicians challenged Pulitzer's power. Charles Dana(above 1st), who twice hired Pulitzer to write for his New York Sun, grew bitter when the World stole his circulation, and he wrote a series of anti-Semitic editorials attacking Pulitzer. William Randolph Hearst(above 2nd) bought the paper that Albert Pulitzer had started and engaged in a crippling circulation war with Joseph Pulitzer's World that almost bankrupted both newspapers. Theodore Roosevelt(above 3rd) feuded with Pulitzer for almost a quarter of century and sought to use the power of the presidency to put Pulitzer in prison. William Jennings Bryan(above) turned bitter when Pulitzer refused to support his early presidential bids and told the publisher "that the trouble with him is that he has too much money." Charles Dana, William Randolph Hearst, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Jennings Bryant. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) When the Pulitzer building was torn down in 1955, the cornerstone was recovered. It contained copies of the World and other newspapers, a wax-cylinder voice recording, and photographs of Pulitzer and his family, several of which are reproduced here for the first time since they were encased in the building. One of the last photographs taken of Joseph Pulitzer before he began to lose his vision. His increasing blindness and tormenting mental and health problems would test Kate Pulitzer's patience and love. Opening the cornerstone. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Joseph and Kate Pulitzer. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.) Ralph(above 1st), the oldest, poses with a rifle at age ten. Joe and his sister Edith(above 2nd) wear clothes often favored by wealthy parents. Constance(above 3rd) was the only child of the Pulitzers born outside the country; she was born in Paris. Lucille(above), Joseph Pulitzer's favorite, died of typhoid in 1897, eight years after this photograph was taken. Kate Pulitzer had two other children. Katherine, born in 1882, who died at age two, and Herbert, who would be born in 1895, six years after these photographs were taken. Pulitzer children. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.) (Above 1st)After becoming almost completely blind, Joseph Pulitzer avoided public appearances and became a recluse. It often fell to his oldest son Ralph to fill in for his ailing father or to accompany him on the rare times he was in New York. Usually Pulitzer(above 2nd) wore goggles to protect his eyes from light and to hide the deterioration visible to others. He increasingly became obsessed with his health and traveled to visit Europe's best doctors and spas accompanied by a large retinue of personal aides. Joseph Pulitzer walking with son Ralph, Pulitzer wearing goggles, and Pulitzer seated outside with blanket. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Joseph Pulitzer's brother Albert sold his New York Journal in 1895 for nearly $1 million and spent the remainder of his life mostly in Europe. He committed suicide in 1909, only a few years after this photograph was taken. Although Joseph was only a short train ride away, he chose not to come to the funeral. Albert is buried in the Jewish section of Vienna's Zentralfriedhof cemetery. In 1911, Pulitzer spent part of his last spring alive in Southern France. This photograph of Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo with his daughter Edith and his aide Harold Pollard was taken less than seven months from his death. He complained extensively about his health and began that June to take Veronal, a new sedative with dangerous side effects that were not yet known; its use may have lead to Pulitzer's death in October. Albert Pulitzer walking by canal. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Pulitzer used his wealth to build expensive houses in hopes of finding within their walls an escape from business pressures and a shelter from noise. With the decline of his vision, Pulitzer became tormented by sounds of all sorts. For his New York mansion on East Seventy-third Street(above 1st), he hired a Harvard acoustical expert to help create a bedroom insulated from all outside sound. At his palatial estate, Chatwold, on Mt. Desert Island, Maine(above), Pulitzer constructed a special wing of stone that aides nicknamed the "Tower of Silence." Pulitzer was never satisfied by the measures taken to guard him from noise. Pulitzer's East Seventy-Third Street house and Chatwold. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) (Above 1st)Ultimately, Pulitzer came closest to finding a refuge on his yacht, The Liberty. The length of a football field, it contained a gymnasium, a library, drawing and smoking rooms, an oak-paneled dining room quarters for its forty-five-man crew, and twelve elegant staterooms. The ship carried sufficient coal to cross and recross the Atlantic Ocean without refueling. Pulitzer also favored wintering in his house on Jekyll Island(above), a private island off the coast of Georgia where the Gilded Age's wealthiest industrialists and financiers vacationed. Liberty. (Courtesy of the St. Louis-Post Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) The Jekyll Island House. (Courtesy of the Jekyll Island Museum Archives.) When he died, Pulitzer used his wealth to create two institutions that have ensured his name would live on. A century later, his Pulitzer Prizes for journalism, the literary arts, and music are announced each spring at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, which he endowed. Many felt the creation of the school and the prizes were late-in-life attempts to improve his legacy after years of reckless so-called "Yellow Journalism." For his part, Pulitzer said his goal was to help professionalize his trade. His last will and testament offered his personal motivation, words that remain engraved in the front hall of his school. Columbia Journalism School. (Courtesy of Columbia University Archive.) Floor engraving. (Courtesy of the author.) Infirm but not incapacitated, Pulitzer sought to remain in command of his journalism empire. The World alone now had more than 600 editors, reporters, compositors, pressmen, salesmen, and business managers on its payroll. As his absence from New York became prolonged, he appointed three men to run the paper: Cockerill would manage editorial matters, George Turner would manage the business side, and Kate's brother William Davis would act as Pulitzer's personal representative when the triumvirate met. To communicate with their absent boss, Turner devised a simple cipher scheme so that telegrams could be coded to save words and keep others from understanding them. Of his newspapers, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch held the least interest for Pulitzer. It ran itself, produced a handsome income, and gave him no headaches. His heart was in New York, specifically with the affairs of the morning World, referred to as "Senior" in the coded messages of the heavy transatlantic cable traffic. Pulitzer regarded "Junior," the Evening World, with a mix of disdain and acceptance. With its base, coarse style, it thrived in the hurly-burly domain of sidewalk sales, where a good headline could sell its entire run of 100,000 copies. Pulitzer knew there was a large and growing appetite for afternoon newspapers, with their fresh news, punchy headlines, and scandalous tales. After all, he had started out as a publisher of an evening paper. Still, although it churned out profits, the Evening World was not a maker of presidents. If this were only a matter of money, Pulitzer could have disposed of the whole lot and spent the remainder of his life a wealthy man. Instead, he wanted to keep the reins of the World in his hands because it gave him what he coveted most—power. Aside from creating his triumvirate, Pulitzer embarked on a scheme of retaining control over the hiring of editors and managers. No matter how sick or how far away he might be, he would be the one to fill the key posts. Editors and managers who performed well would be rewarded by bonuses, conveyed by telegraphed instructions to the cashier. Those who didn't would face a Pulitzerian wrath in telegraphic form. Sometimes the telegram or letter would even be read aloud to the recipient by one of the members of the triumvirate. An editor knew he worked for Pulitzer, not for the World. Misdirecting his loyalty could mean the end of his employment. For years, Pulitzer had sought to lure Julius Chambers, whom he had known since 1872, away from the New York Herald. That winter Chambers was chafing under the idiosyncratic rule of his publisher, James Bennett—who, coincidently, was running the Herald from Paris, giving Pulitzer hope that he might do the same. One day Chambers joined Cockerill for lunch in the famous Room 1 of New York's Astor House. Comparing their experiences in working for absent publishers, Cockerill quickly fathomed Chambers's unhappiness and handed him a telegram he had received from Pulitzer. "See Chambers again," it read, "renew offer of $250 per week and three year contract." Chambers took the job. By similar means, Pulitzer gained a new editorial writer, hiring George Eggleston from the New York Commercial Advertiser. The new hires quickly learned that Pulitzer intended to manage them as if he were in the office rather than simply the source of telegrams piled thick on their desks. "Never fear of troubling me with any suggestion concerning either the welfare of the paper or your own," Pulitzer told Chambers. "Nothing, looking to the elevation and improvement of the paper, is too small to mention." Although Pulitzer's editors and staff could run the World satisfactorily in his absence, they could hardly find room to do their work in the cramped Park Row building he continued to rent from Jay Gould. The World needed a new building. Pulitzer owned a lot on Park Row, but it was too small for an edifice like the one he had in mind. He wanted a symbol of his power and success, something that would loom physically over the other Park Row newspapers as his paper had towered over them in circulation. While Pulitzer was in California the previous year, French's Hotel, which sat on a Park Row block at the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge, had been put up for sale. Twenty-three years earlier, as an unemployed Civil War veteran, Pulitzer had been thrown out of the hotel's lobby because its guests objected to seeing tattered former soldiers milling about. Since then the hotel had fallen into financial trouble. Pulitzer seized the opportunity and with a $100,000 deposit agreed to pay $630,000 in cash for the site. The former derelict in the lobby now owned the place. The architect George Brown Post, a student of Richard Morris Hunt, heard about Pulitzer's purchase and wrote to a friend at the World asking to be recommended to his boss. Post had just completed a design for a new Park Row building for the New York Times. "It would be an interesting problem to construct two buildings in sight of each other for rival papers, and to make the buildings as different as the politics of the papers," he wrote to his friend. Pulitzer decided to hold a design competition. Post entered and won. From Paris, Pulitzer laid down his conditions. The building had to rise a full fourteen stories, making it the tallest on the globe. The cost could not exceed $950,000, and it had to be completed by October 1, 1890. If he succeeded, Post would receive a $50,000 commission and a $10,000 bonus. If he failed, he would repay $20,000 of the commission. Finally, all design elements had to be approved by Pulitzer before any contracts for the work were awarded. And, added Pulitzer, the final building had to be "at least as good at the Times building which is now in the process of construction." Over the winter Post worked on the design. As the months passed, Pulitzer grew increasingly frustrated. It had been his intention to hire an architect as one hires a portraitist, for his artistry, his vision, and his interpretation. That is not what he got from Post. In March, the architect came to Paris to go over the plans with Pulitzer. The meeting was not a great success. "In confidence of the strictest nature, I am bound to say that I am not encouraged to greater faith in our architect by this visit," Pulitzer wrote to Turner, his business manager in New York. "He may be a great architect in carrying out other people's ideas, but he certainly is not, in this case, carrying out many of his own." Money, of course, was also a point of contention between the two. Post was unable to remain within the budget. He persuaded Pulitzer to spend another $60,000, raising the maximum allowed above $1 million. "I will not allow another cent," Pulitzer immediately informed Turner in New York. But since Pulitzer continued to insist that he be shown final drawings before any work was started at the site, the mandatory transatlantic consultations were bound to imperil the construction schedule and drive up the costs. Post returned to New York, and the two continued their struggle by mail. Pulitzer still considered his exile from New York a temporary affair. "I am glad to say that I am better in point of health, able to walk again," he wrote to Turner, his business manager. "I don't know what's the matter with me generally except that my physical machinery is decidedly out of order and in need of repairs; but it is more a question of annoyance than serious danger I suppose—Anyway, the doctors tell me (and, I have enough of them the Lord knows!) that the big vital parts of the machinery are all right except the eyes, and that I really think is improving though awfully slowly." After Post's visit, Pulitzer headed south to the Riviera and, feeling stronger, embarked on a planned trip to New York in late April with Ponsonby, leaving Kate and the children in Paris. Arriving in New York, he reviewed Post's plans, and the two were soon at loggerheads again. Although it was true that cheaper materials might not meet the requirements for a "first class" building, Post complained that Pulitzer's refusal to approve less expensive choices made it impossible to cut costs. When Post, in frustration, began to demand arbitration, Pulitzer backed down. The World's need for more space was desperate, and Pulitzer was finally willing to compromise. Pulitzer took time to see his politically-minded friends. Cleveland had lost the election, though he had won the popular vote. President Benjamin Harrison had been in office for a couple of months, and Pulitzer, whose lukewarm support for Cleveland was partially responsible for this state of affairs, suffered graciously by accepting a dinner invitation from his good Republican friend the railroad lawyer Chauncey Depew. At Depew's mansion on Fifty-Fourth Street, Pulitzer sat for a meal with a group of enemies and friends including Theodore Roosevelt, angling for a post in the new administration; the Tribune's editor Whitelaw Reid, who had just been appointed ambassador to France; Pulitzer's own rival Charles Dana; the U.S. senator William Evarts, who had led the fund-raising efforts for the Statue of Liberty; and Ward McAllister. An editor from a rival newspaper ran into Pulitzer during his stay in New York and was surprised at how well he looked. "Physically, he seems to be in perfect health, and the only thing that mars his condition at all is the loss of one eye. I never saw him in better spirits, and his remaining eye seems to be strong, clear and exceedingly alert," he said. On May 15, 1889, Pulitzer and Ponsonby departed from New York on the Eider for Bremen, Germany. Rather than rejoin Kate in Paris, Pulitzer went to Wiesbaden, also in Germany. This city had been attracting the sick and infirm since its thermal baths were first mentioned by Pliny the Elder. In the late nineteenth century it had become one of the leading destinations for those with ample means, including the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Pulitzer's favorite composer, Richard Wagner. Pulitzer did his resolute best to ignore work. In a complete break with his usual practice, he instructed that no newspapers be sent to him. "I want to experiment being without them for a fortnight," he wrote. He diligently undertook a regimen of drinking and bathing in the famous mineral and thermal waters in the mornings and taking long carriage rides in the afternoons. He stayed in the elegant Hotel DuRose and dined there in the open air near the city's main imperial building, listening to snatches of music drifting into the night air from the concerts indoors. After several days Pulitzer asked Ponsonby to send word to Kate in Paris that he was feeling better. His spirits were on the rise and he was hopeful that Wiesbaden's curative powers were having an effect. "But remember again," Pulitzer dictated to his assistant, "all my statements of improvement are comparative." Pulitzer's better mood restrained his trigger-finger temper when he submitted to a well-known doctor's care. "I have to wait sometimes in the hot anteroom with ten other people before I am received for my massage, which never takes more than one or two minutes and never gives me an opportunity to have a real talk, to which he seems opposed," Pulitzer told Kate. "Well," he added, "he is the first majesty who has made me bow down and dance attendance in the anteroom." The dictation concluded, Pulitzer took the letter from Ponsonby. Then in his own hand, he addressed it "My Dearest" and signed it "sincere love, ever your devoted husband, JP in haste." There would be only a few remaining letters to which he could sign his name. But Pulitzer was optimistic. "My spirit," Joseph told Kate, "is beginning to improve and is again hopeful." Joseph and Kate spent the summer of 1889 together in St. Moritz, the Swiss alpine resort whose 300 days of sunshine each year made it a favorite among the wealthy. In a decade, Pulitzer had gone from hiding his last savings of $300 in a trunk to earning more than that amount every hour. With money, the Pulitzers had slipped easily into the society of wealthy American expatriates in Europe. They moved about, from Paris to London to St. Moritz, with an entourage of personal servants and nannies. Kate attended weddings with royalty and wore diamonds said to have once belonged to Marie Antoinette. "And Mrs. Pulitzer has the right to wear them," said one newspaper. "Thirty years ago her husband was shoveling coal and driving drays, but his indomitable energy and active brain have placed him where he can afford to buy out half a dozen royal families." Pulitzer also increased his philanthropy. In May, he anonymously established a scholarship to send twelve New York City high school students, particularly immigrant children, to college. "My special object is to help the poor—the rich can help themselves," he told the city's school superintendent. But Pulitzer did not want the money to simply increase the earning power of its recipients. "College education is not needed for that," he said. "There are nobler purposes in life, and my hope is not that these scholarships will make better butchers, bakers, brokers, and bank cashiers, but that they will help to make teachers, scholars, physicians, authors, journalists, judges, lawyers, and statesmen." On the other hand, his friend Chauncey Depew predicted that the recipients would end up still being paupers. In the fall, the Pulitzers returned to Paris, where Joe and Edith, who had spent the summer in the care of Kate's mother and sister in New London, Connecticut, arrived for a short visit. The children found their father preoccupied with the new building for the World. Work had been under way for four months, and in October the cornerstone was scheduled to be laid in an elaborate ceremony. Pulitzer had already spent $630,000 for the land and was now paying out another $1 million for the construction. Not a dime was borrowed. Nothing about the project escaped his attention. He examined sketches and descriptions of the sculptures being made for the exterior and lists of all interior furnishings. With his poor eyesight he could discern only the larger drawings, but details were described verbally by Ponsonby. "I want to be sure that no false economy or niggardliness will mar the building inside," he wrote to Kate's brother William Davis, who increasingly acted as his emissary. Pulitzer wanted to know if anyone had seen the inside of the new Times building. "You remember the Post contract requires it to be at least as good as that of the Times." On October 10, 1889, onlookers jammed the north end of Park Row as crews prepared to lay the cornerstone of the new Pulitzer building. A platform for the ceremony stood at one corner of the construction site. The intersection in front was covered by a large canopy, under which invited dignitaries gathered, including many admiring colleagues such as George Childes of the Philadelphia Ledger and Charles Taylor of the Boston Globe. Noticeably absent was the publisher himself. Pulitzer remained at the baths in Wiesbaden. The first to emerge from the canopy was Thomas Edison, whose electric dynamo, capable of lighting 8,500 incandescent bulbs, was being installed thirty-five feet under the sidewalk. Next, Governor David Hill made his way through the crowd, pausing to shake the hands of workers, some of whom he called by name. Soon the platform was filled with well-known politicians, businessmen, religious leaders, and publishers. After a blessing from the Missouri Episcopalian bishop, John Cockerill rose. "I am authorized to pledge a faithful adherence to the principles which have won public confidence for this journal," he began, listing many of Pulitzer's principles. "This shall be indeed a temple where the right shall always secure an advocate: where liberty abides, and where justice may find all seasons summer." Chauncey Depew took the stage next, followed by Governor Hill and the aging Samuel Tilden, for whom Pulitzer had campaigned in 1876. They all heaped praise on the World and on Pulitzer's accomplishments. With the speeches at an end, Cockerill returned to the podium. He told the audience he had a cable from Pulitzer. The crowd quieted and Cockerill began to read from it. "God grant that this structure be the enduring home of a newspaper forever unsatisfied with merely printing news, forever fighting forms of wrong, forever independent—forever advancing in enlightenment and progress, forever wedded to truly democratic ideas, forever aspiring to be a moral force, forever rising to a higher plan of perfection as a public institution." For several minutes Cockerill's voice carried the words of the absent Pulitzer over the construction site and the audience. When done, the crowd exploded into applause and redoubled its clapping when Cockerill announced that the text had been transcribed onto a parchment and would be placed in the cornerstone. Then the crowd's attention turned to a set of stairs leading up to a platform along a brick wall. In place of Pulitzer, four-year-old Joe, dressed in a sailor suit, began to scale the stairs. His legs were almost too short to reach the steps, but holding his uncle William Davis's hand, he made his way to the top. Once there, he grasped a silver trowel and, using both hands, smoothed the bed of cement that workers had spread on the wall. He backed away, and the cornerstone was moved into place. Little Joe came forward again, tapped the stone twice with his trowel, and declared, "It is well done." Inside the cornerstone was a copper box made especially for the event. In it, along with the parchment containing Pulitzer's remarks, the men had placed photographs, copies of newspapers, a directory of the World's employees, and a recording made on Edison's newest invention, the wax-cylinder voice recorder. It held the voices of three of the World's newspapermen discussing the news events of the year, such as the Johnstown flood and the successes of New York City's baseball club. Many of the nation's newspapers put news of the cornerstone-laying ceremony on their front pages. The New York Times did not—it gave a short write-up on page two—but it was one of the few papers that noticed Pulitzer's architectural revenge. "The room of Mr. Charles A. Dana in the Sun building overlooks the foundations of the Pulitzer building," said the Times. "This will not be the case, however, in a few months. Then, like a certain other eminent gentleman, he, too, will sit in the shade." Back again in Paris in November, at the house near Parc Monceau, Pulitzer may have regretted his decision to leave Wiesbaden. The house was in turmoil. Ralph and Lucille were being packed off to St. Moritz with tutors and nannies. Little Joseph, back from his trip to New York, Edith, and Constance were noisily playing. The Confederacy's daughter, Winnie Davis, had just arrived, and her ill health added to the convalescent atmosphere. Like Pulitzer, she suffered from vision problems and other hard-to-diagnose ailments. Doctors hoped a six months' stay on the Riviera and in German health resorts would help her. Further complicating matters was Winnie's secret engagement, after a five-year romance, to a Yankee, the disclosure of which was bound to set off a political storm. Every day the sad group would sit down punctually for lunch at one o'clock and for dinner at seven-thirty. On some days, the World's new editorial writer George Eggleston, whom Joseph had brought over to Paris on an all-expenses-paid trip, would join them. Kate did her best to function under the circumstances. She took Winnie and ten-year-old Ralph to the Paris Opera. "You should have seen the grandeur of that little fellow in his miniature beaver and dress suit!" Winnie wrote to her father. "He opened the box with an air, and altogether behaved like the fine little gentleman he is." But a few hours after she wrote the letter, her father died. Unable to withstand a sea voyage, Winnie remained with the Pulitzers. It looked increasingly likely that Paris might become a long-term home for the family. Already, the two other publishers of major American newspapers were living there. Whitelaw Reid had arrived to begin his service as ambassador, and James Bennett was established in his home on the Champs-Élysées. Kate began looking for a suitable house but had little luck. "She has climbed up stairs, gone poking around stables to no purpose, however, as just as she thinks she has a house tight and fast away, it goes again," Winnie said. Joseph decided to get as far away as possible from the bedlam by planning a trip around the globe. Before losing his vision, he had never remained still. The thought of traveling now, however, made him aware of his growing infirmity and his dependence on others. He needed help to travel by train, stay in hotels, and simply get about. A ship, however, offered him a completely self-contained world on the move. He sent detailed and complicated instructions to Davis in New York about which steamers would most effectively carry mail to him on his journey through India, China, and Japan. He also made it clear what he wanted to receive. "You may judge from this simple rule. As many pleasant and agreeable reports as possible. No unnecessary questions for my decisions. Nothing disagreeable or annoying unless of REAL IMPORTANCE." He complained that the "regency" he left in charge of the paper had failed and explained that "you three gentlemen have ample power and discretion to settle any of the ordinary questions that may arise during my absence, and I do not want to have my trip spoilt by ordinary bothers, nor to pay a dollar or two per word for such things." In her role as Florence Nightingale, Kate took Joseph and Winnie to Naples. They were soon joined by Winnie's American suitor, who arrived in the hope of convincing her that, with her father dead, the time had come to make their engagement public. Ponsonby and others busied themselves with the final arrangements for Joseph's world tour. The planned journey would be a slow-paced imitation of another global circumnavigation under way at the time. The World's intrepid reporter Nellie Bly had left New York the month before, in an attempt to better the achievement of Jules Verne's fictional Phileas Fogg of Around the World in Eighty Days. Her undertaking, which would soon succeed, was generating immense publicity for the paper. In early December, Pulitzer and Ponsonby, along with servants, boarded the Peninsular. In a short time, it crossed the Mediterranean, called at Port Said, then descended the Suez Canal and entered the Red Sea. The protected waters were immensely peaceful. In the hot climate, the men ate their meals often in the company of the financier Charles Fearing under punkahs, swaying ceiling fans of palm fronds or cloth pulled back and forth by a servant. Just before Christmas, the ship came into the Gulf of Aden. Under a bright electric light, Pulitzer undertook to write a letter to Kate in his own hand. "Fearing and Ponsonby have written to you all about me," he said in the letter, which he wrote hurriedly so it could be posted from the port of Aden. "As it suits their fancy to think I am much better or at least to say so be it so. I am certainly no worse than when I came on ship." "He is certainly better," said Ponsonby in an accompanying letter, "but he is inclined to take a despondent view of his health and pitches to Charles and myself when we try to cheer him up by making light of his complaints and that he has already improved." Crossing the Arabian Sea, the ship encountered even more intense heat. It was New Year's Day, and Pulitzer was miserable. He couldn't sleep or shake off the cough he had when he boarded the ship, and he was bothered by what he called his rheumatism. After several more sleepless nights he decided to give up the idea of traveling across India by land and remained aboard the ship, bound for Calcutta. "Of course Fearing is terribly broken up but I am sure that the long RR journey and miserably noisy hotels throughout India would not have been good for me," he dictated in a letter to Kate. "It was the dream of my boyhood to see India and now when I am actually here, I must give up my dream no matter how great the temptation." His misery was intense. "The year closed, with the one before, represent more suffering than all the rest of my life brought me—ten times as much—I honestly think fifty times as much. And the year which opens with this day—I cannot finish the sentence." Alone, at sea, he poured out his fear that he would never again regain his health. "Travel will not cure me—no more than Metzger [his German doctor]. I am miserable, I cannot trust myself to write more whatever I feel, however, you are still the only being in this world who fills my heart and mind and hope and receives my love and tenderness and affections." Under the new plan, the men would remain on the ship until Calcutta. There they would change to a series of other vessels that would eventually bring them to Hong Kong, Singapore, Shanghai, and Japan, and then across the Pacific to San Francisco. But it was not to be. Shortly after mailing his despondent letter to Kate, Pulitzer stood on the deck of the ship with Ponsonby. The bright Indian sun beat down on the two men as they looked out over the water. "How dark it is getting," remarked Pulitzer. His remaining functioning retina had become detached. The darkness had set in. ## Chapter Twenty-One ## DARKNESS Although he had plenty of newspaper experience, fifty-nine-year-old George W. Hosmer had never gotten an assignment quite like the one he drew in the summer of 1890. A doctor who never practiced medicine and an attorney who never practiced law, Hosmer had put in almost thirty years with Bennett's New York Herald before joining the World. None of this, however, prepared him for the task he faced. He was to accompany Kate Pulitzer to Europe and return with her nearly blind, bedridden husband. That spring, the stacks of telegrams from Pulitzer that usually greeted editors at their desks ceased. For months the paper had drifted along, cautiously guided by Cockerill, Davis, and Turner. The few telegrams that did come provided little or no direction. "Silence gives consent and when you do not hear from me assume that I am satisfied," Pulitzer wrote. Earlier in the year, when the retina in Pulitzer's remaining good eye detached while he was on board a ship bound for India, he and Ponsonby had returned to Europe, where doctors recommended more time in dark rooms. The two men drifted to Paris and eventually to St. Moritz. Pulitzer was entirely in Ponsonby's care, since Kate was no longer in Europe. She and the children had left for the United States shortly after the men had embarked on the ill-fated cruise. She did not rush back across the Atlantic. Kate had learned that the consequences of showing up uninvited could be severe. But over the succeeding weeks discouraging reports reached Kate. Ponsonby telegraphed that Joseph had contracted acute bronchitis, a dangerous problem in the era before antibiotics, and was growing weak. Kate decided to launch a rescue mission, and departed with Hosmer in late July. By the time the two reached Joseph, he had been moved to a sanatorium in the Swiss city of Lucerne. They found him so weak that he was spending entire days on the sofa. "He was very ill—in a state so feeble that he could scarcely get around on foot," Hosmer said. "Physical collapse had assumed the form of nervous prostration." For two weeks, Hosmer and Kate tended him until he was well enough to travel. They went to Paris; after a few more weeks the group moved to a vacation house in Trouville, a summer resort in Normandy. "In the pleasant atmosphere of the seaside," Hosmer said, "a place which was very quiet—for the gay world was already gone—he recovered from bronchitis and to some degree from his great physical debility." Joseph regained sufficient strength to listen again to Ponsonby reading telegrams from New York. His new building neared completion, the fall elections loomed, and the Democrats seemed poised for a rebound. On October 2, 1890, Kate, Hosmer, and Ponsonby escorted the recovering Joseph onto the Teutonic in Queenstown, England, and headed home. Wearing goggle-like dark-blue glasses, Joseph walked on American soil for the first time in eighteen months. Joseph settled into the familiar surroundings of the Fifty-Fifth Street house, which grew more luxurious with each passing month. The architect Stanford White was busily spending thousands of Pulitzer's dollars employing painters and wall paperers. Silk was hung on the walls in Kate's room, and a wine cellar was being planned. Joseph also acquainted himself with the unfamiliar. He had not spent any time with his daughter Constance since she was a few months old. Kate resumed her place in New York society, attending the opera and putting on dinners such as one for Varina Davis, who was in New York revising her late husband's memoirs. Soon Pulitzer's days were filled with meetings, with a steady stream of executives and editors making their way uptown. The men's appraisal of the coming congressional elections offered encouraging news. The electorate's faith in President Harrison had been shaken by another economic panic. Support for his Republican Party was also damaged by the profligate spending of the aptly nicknamed "billion-dollar Congress," and by the passage of the McKinley Tariff Act, which increased the cost of goods but kept workers' wages stagnant. In such circumstances the World would have normally opened a floodgate of editorial abuse of Republicans and praise for Democrats. But for the first time, Pulitzer sought to restrain his paper's partisan ardor. Its ferocity was not weakened, but the frequency of its attacks was diminished. "Remember every day in the year that though politicians read the editorial page they are probably only 5 percent of our readers," Pulitzer told his main editorial writer. "A larger portion of the remaining 95 percent not being interested in politics at all." After seven years of unequaled journalistic success and immense financial reward, the political fires burned less strongly in Pulitzer. Like its master, the World was also no longer a startling new phenomenon overturning the rule of establishment newspapers and shaking up the political order. Rather, it was now the undisputed monarch of Park Row, and its reign was made even clearer when the scaffolding was peeled away and New Yorkers had their first complete view of Pulitzer's new building. Like the newspaper itself, the scale, audacity, and ornamentation of George Post's creation were impossible to ignore. A monument to Pulitzer's brand of journalism, the edifice transformed the landscape of Park Row. Towering 345 feet above the sidewalk, the building had two miles of wrought-iron columns, sixteen miles of steel beams, enough iron and steel to lay twenty-nine miles of railway, and sufficient bricks to build 250 ordinary houses. It stood on a foundation thirty feet below street level, supported by twelve-foot brick footings. The cavernous basement held Hoe's newest and fastest presses, which when running at full tilt made their rhythmic beat felt throughout the building. The gigantic high-speed presses were not mere workhorses. They were one of the technological marvels of the age, capable of churning out enough newspapers in a few hours to supply every New Yorker with a copy, and inspiring awe among the hundreds of visitors who came to watch each day. For members of the fourth estate the smell of ink was intoxicating. Few thrills compared with hearing the sound of the bell announcing the first turns of a press and the ensuing locomotive-like thumping cadence building to a deafening roar as the procession of cut, folded, and gathered pages poured forth with increasing speed. In the minds of reporters, the power of the press was both a figurative and a literal idea. To enter the Pulitzer Building, one walked through a churchlike three-story vault made of Corsehill stone from Scotland, above which stood a quartet of bronze female torchbearers, representing art, literature, science, and invention. Fast-moving elevators ferried passengers up and down fifteen stories. The first ten floors, coupled vertically with tall, Palladian windows, and banded horizontally by a stone ledge, contained offices leased to insurance salesmen, stockbrokers, and lawyers. The remaining floors, stacked above this hive of commerce, were distinguished by concave corners and four sculptured black copper figures representing the four races—Caucasian, Indian, Mongolian, Negro—and standing as if supporting a large pediment. The World itself began here, on the twelfth floor. A room with a ceiling eighteen feet high housed 210 compositors, who set the morning and evening editions entirely by hand. It was the largest operation of its kind anywhere and required thirty-two tons of lead. The men stood at forty long, raised tables with bins with lead type. Moving with lightning speed, the compositors pulled and dropped each letter of each word into composing sticks that were locked into a form the size of a newspaper page. On a raised platform at the center of the hall, thirty proofreaders worked reviewing printed samples of the composed stories and advertisements. Above it all, positioned like a throne room, Pulitzer's editorial command post occupied a tower. The largest office, facing east on the second floor of the domed structure, was reserved for Pulitzer. With frescoed ceilings, walls wainscoted with leather, and three floor-to-ceiling windows, the room looked out over the city, the Statue of Liberty in the harbor, and the Watchung Mountains in New Jersey—a privileged view lost on an almost blind publisher. Next door to Pulitzer's office three interconnected offices housed his staff of editorial writers. Capped with an 850,000-pound gilded dome, the four-story editorial enclave perched on top of the Pulitzer Building reached higher into the sky than even the Statue of Liberty's raised torch. When the sun struck the dome, it reflected a shimmering light that could be seen forty miles out at sea. The first sight of the New World for immigrants entering New York was not a building of commerce, banking, or industry. Rather, it was a temple of America's new mass media. Kate and Hosmer persuaded Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, the nation's leading neurologist, to see Joseph. Mitchell's medical reputation stemmed from his work with soldiers in the Civil War who suffered injuries to their nerves. His book Injuries of Nerves and Their Consequence, based on his experiences, was the most widely used reference for physicians in the United States and Europe. He had also pioneered research examining the relationship between eyestrain and headaches. He seemed the perfect physician for Joseph. Unfortunately, Mitchell turned out to be yet another in a long series of disappointments. The "Weir Mitchell treatment" consisting of prolonged bed rest with optimum feeding and massages had been prescribed for Pulitzer so often that he was let down when the inventor himself prescribed it. On the other hand, hearing this advice from Mitchell was like reaching the end of a long road. If Mitchell could offer no other solution, there was no recourse. As he struggled with his near-blindness, Pulitzer entered a kind of netherworld. He did not fit into the sighted world, but neither was he blind—at least not yet. Although he clung to a hope that he could regain his vision, there was little doubt of his fate. To become blind during his era was like being sentenced to a dark internal exile. There were no blind politicians, business leaders, or generals. Helen Keller was still only eight years old. It was assumed that the loss of vision meant the end of a productive life. In fact, newspapers were filled with stories of men who could not face the prospect: "DEATH PREFERRED TO TOTAL BLINDNESS" "PREFERRING DEATH TO BLINDNESS" "SHOOTS HIMSELF WHEN EYES FAIL." The Talmud, which Pulitzer had studied as a child, offered a somber interpretation: the blind were thought of as the living dead; and when encountering a blind person, believers were to offer the same benediction as was customary upon the death of a close relative. On October 16, 1890, a startling announcement greeted readers of the World. "Yielding to the advice of his physicians, Mr. Joseph Pulitzer has withdrawn entirely from the editorship of the World." Control of the newspaper would be turned over to an executive board comprised of editors who had long been in his service. News of Pulitzer's abdication spread rapidly. From Bangor, Maine, to Chillicothe, Missouri, and Galveston, Texas, small-town editors who aspired to be the Pulitzers of their communities marked the moment. But it was a neighboring newspaper on Park Row that gave Pulitzer his most gratifying acknowledgment. As if a champion boxer had withdrawn from the ring, the competing New York Herald found words of praise. "We droop our colors to him," said Bennett's editorial. "We have not always agreed with the spirit which had made his ideas a journalistic success, and we cannot refrain from regretting that he did not encourage us in the new departure which he made, instead of merely astonishing us, frightening us, and, we may add—now that it is past—perhaps a little bit disgusting us." "But," Bennett concluded, "le Roi est mort, vive the Roi! The New York World is dead, long live the World!" Barely two months later, on December 10, the tallest building on earth was ready for its grand opening. Its owner, however, was not. Pulitzer could not bring himself to attend a public event at which he would be led around like the invalid he was getting to be. It would be too humiliating. Instead, he and Kate, along with Hosmer and Ponsonby, reboarded the Teutonic, which sailed out of sight of the gold-domed Pulitzer Building only hours before thousands congregated for the ceremonies. On Park Row, the power and prestige of the World were on display. Nine governors and three governors-elect, as well as countless mayors, congressmen, judges, editors, and publishers vied for a chance to have their words mark the occasion. The huge crowd pressed up against the entrance of the building. The sea of visitors inside was so thick that movement from room to room or floor to floor was almost impossible. Even the dignitaries could not get a ride in the F.T. Ellithorpe Improved Air-Cushion with Self-Closing Elevator Door lift. The final price tag of the building topped $2 million, and not a cent had been borrowed. A PEOPLE'S PALACE WITHOUT A CENT OF DEBT OR MORTGAGE, proclaimed the World, which printed a copy of a certificate from the county recorder showing Pulitzer's unencumbered ownership. As a tribute to their publisher, the employees of the World commissioned and paid for a twenty-one-inch bas-relief of the building, made of silver melted from the coins of customers who bought copies of the paper. After reaching England on December 16, Pulitzer and his party made their way to Paris, where they remained until arrangements to charter a British yacht with crew for a Mediterranean cruise were concluded. In early January 1891, the group went south to Menton and boarded the 200-foot, two-year-old steamship Semiramis. At the last minute, Kate decided that she could not endure a long sea voyage and begged off. For almost four months, Pulitzer and his companions lazily circled the Mediterranean. He adhered rigidly to Dr. Mitchell's instructions and avoided all irritation, even remaining out of touch with his editors. "All those days on the yacht, conversation was an abundant resource to lighten the steps of time," said Hosmer. So were books. Ponsonby and Hosmer took turns reading aloud from George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss and William Thackeray's Vanity Fair, as well as works by the Victorian novelist Hall Caine. When the men left the yacht at Nice and returned to Paris, Pulitzer felt better but still suffered from anxiety and insomnia. Consulting with Dr. Mitchell, who was in Rome, Pulitzer complained that being separated from his staff and work was creating as much anxiety in him as any work-related woes had done in the past. The doctor was unconvinced and refused to alter his prescription of isolation and rest. Pulitzer defied Mitchell. He began to catch up on the conduct of the paper in his absence. He was horrified by what he found. Cockerill had taken a twelve-week vacation. He and Turner were acting like owners, and worse, they had let the paper's circulation fall by 16 percent. Pulitzer fired off cables giving Turner, his loyal business manager, a pink slip and punishing Cockerill by ordering his return to St. Louis, an impossible mission considering the fatal episode that had driven him from that city. Turner immediately landed a job as editor of a rival paper. Cockerill went to his watering hole at the Astor House and in three hours rounded up enough investors to start his own newspaper. Pulitzer's cure for the World was worse than the disease. Now his paper was devoid of leadership. He had no option but to return to New York. Leaving Kate in Paris, Joseph, Ponsonby, and Hosmer rushed to England and booked passage on the Majestic. J. P. Morgan was also on board. Despite their membership in the exclusive Jekyll Island club, as a frequent target of the World's acerbic editorials Morgan avoided socializing with Pulitzer. Arriving in New York ahead of schedule on the morning of June 10, the group went straight to Park Row, startling editors and reporters who had not expected Pulitzer this soon. The shock of Pulitzer's presence in the building accentuated the seriousness of the situation. His first visit to the building constructed to the glory of the paper was a rescue mission. Ballard Smith, the paper's highest-ranking editor now that Cockerill was gone, had not yet come in for the day. Luckily, Davis, Pulitzer's brother-in-law and the only remaining member of the triumvirate that had ruled the paper, was on hand—as was John Dillon, Pulitzer's former partner in St. Louis, who had been running the Post-Dispatch. He had rushed to New York after receiving a telegraphed plea from Pulitzer. While Hosmer tended to his boss's luggage, the men conferred, summoning other editors and managers. Pulitzer's solution to the disarray at the top was to have Smith, who had come into the office at last, officially assume most of Cockerill's duties as editor in chief. Dillon would take over for Turner. For new blood, Pulitzer turned to George B. M. Harvey. Though only twenty-seven years old, Harvey had distinguished himself as a reporter for the World and then as editor of the New Jersey and Connecticut editions. Pulitzer made Harvey the managing editor, with a salary higher than he had ever earned, and promised Harvey that he would report only to him and would be exempt from most night work. With the new structure established, Pulitzer left the World and took some time to look over his newest purchase, a $100,000 yacht that had once belonged to the duke of Sutherland. The vessel, rechristened Romola, after one of Pulitzer's favorite novels by George Eliot, was ready for his inspection at a Hudson River pier. The test cruise and dinner on board were a disaster. A heat wave blanketed New York City (the thermometer reached 97 degrees at Hudnut's Pharmacy downtown) and the inside of the yacht was like an oven. Frustrated, Pulitzer ordered the captain to sail to Europe without him. Instead, he secured rooms for the return voyage of the Majestic and, along with Hosmer and Ponsonby, said good-bye to New York after only seven days. A few weeks after Pulitzer's departure, William Randolph Hearst arrived in New York. In the four years since he had taken over his father's bankrupt daily, the San Francisco Examiner, Hearst had made a success of it, using all the techniques he had learned by carefully studying Pulitzer. But, just as his role model had felt running the Post-Dispatch in St. Louis, Hearst wanted a New York newspaper. "Between you and me," he wrote to his mother during one of many stays in the east, "I am getting so I do hate San Francisco." Because of his father's death earlier in the year, Hearst anticipated having the capital to pursue his dream. To his shock, however, he discovered that he had inherited none of his father's vast fortune. Instead, it went entirely to his mother. If he wanted to buy another paper, he would need to persuade his mother to write the check. It would have to be a large one. In the seven years since Pulitzer had bought the World, buying a New York newspaper had grown costly. When Hearst reached New York in July, he sought out Cockerill, Pulitzer's former editor. Cockerill offered Hearst a chance to buy into his new Morning Advertiser, which sold for a penny on the streets. But Hearst didn't want to acquire a one-cent paper like Cockerill's, or even Albert Pulitzer's Morning Journal, which had continued to prosper in the shadow of the World. "I think there is another way to get into New York perhaps even better than through Mr. Cockerill," Hearst wrote his mother, with whom he was now campaigning to buy a newspaper. "I dined with Ballard Smith the other night and we talked newspapers till we were black in the face," he explained. Smith—Pulitzer's managing editor—told Hearst that he believed his boss was going to give him a share of ownership in the World. It was an unrealistic expectation. Although Pulitzer paid high salaries, gave huge bonuses, and lavished presents on his editors, he had yet to relinquish any portion of ownership in either newspaper. Nonetheless, Smith's story raised Hearst's hopes. Maybe, given Pulitzer's ill health, the World itself could be bought. Pulitzer's emergency trip to New York had exacted a toll. The heat and his fretting over the paper's management had been toxic for everything that ailed him. "There was a partial loss of even the little eyesight that he possessed," noted an anxious Hosmer. Kate met the returning party in England and they retreated to Paris together. Suffering from what doctors decided was asthma and still unable to sleep through the night, Joseph was packed off to Wiesbaden for another cure. Kate, once again, remained in Paris, attending social events and displaying, as at the British embassy ball, her famous necklace of seven rows of closely set diamonds. Ponsonby and Hosmer stayed in Wiesbaden with their boss while he underwent a monotonous regimen of baths, massages, walks, and carriage rides. "Many of these days were lightened by literature—reading was the main resource to exclude the devil of worry," Hosmer said. In the company of Trollope and Scott, the three men whiled away the summer. In the fall, when Pulitzer finally returned to New York, no unpleasant surprises awaited him. During this exile, he had kept up with the affairs of the World. The paper was healthy, and the council had proved itself capable of replacing Cockerill and Turner—at least temporarily. When Pulitzer gathered his editors, the 1892 presidential election was on his mind. Governor David Hill of New York, elected and reelected in great part thanks to the World, was being touted as a candidate. But he was overshadowed by Grover Cleveland, who had decided to try to regain the White House and was currying favor with Pulitzer. The former president knew firsthand, having experienced Pulitzer's rejection in 1888, that it was better to run for office with the World on your side. Pulitzer feared that the Democrats were growing weak in their resolve to support the gold standard, under which paper money could be redeemed for gold. Along with the Republicans, they had long held that giving paper money real value helped keep the economy stable. But in the House elections of 1890, the Democrats had watched members of the Populist Party win nine Congressional seats at their expense on a "free silver" platform, essentially proposing that the U.S. mint produce an unlimited amount of silver coins. At first glance, monetary policy would seem to be an arcane subject unlikely to stir up the political cauldron. But monetary policy was widely and contentiously debated because the nation's economic life was regularly punctuated by severe depressions. Many citizens believed that the federal government controlled the value of money and that bad times were largely due to poor exercise of this power. A growing number of Americans became persuaded that the government ought to decrease the value of money to combat a deflation that was wreaking havoc in farm states. Falling prices struck farmers with a one-two punch by simultaneously reducing their income and driving up the costs of their mortgages. The debate over free silver and the gold standard grew to be more than an economic argument. The banner of free silver united the nation's disaffected citizens, farmers, and some elements of labor. They saw silver as the salvation for all the ills they faced and considered the gold standard to be an exploitive tool of banks. It was a prairie fire that soon alarmed the eastern establishment. Pulitzer shared most goals of the populists and progressives, but he could not bring himself to advocate abandoning the gold standard. Earlier in his life, he had run the Post-Dispatch on a shoestring, and as the owner of the World had been in debt to one of the most notorious barons of the Gilded Age; but now he was among the fifty richest Americans. In the last couple of years, the annual profit from the World alone had exceeded $1 million. To oversee his money, Pulitzer had engaged Dumont Clarke, a fifty-year-old investment manager who descended from a line of six bank presidents. Unlike the ever-changing guard at the paper, Clarke won Pulitzer's lasting trust by protecting his growing wealth with railroad stocks, one of the few investment options available then aside from bonds. If industrialists and financiers considered the gold standard as the bulwark protecting their fortunes, Pulitzer now had a fortune of his own to safeguard. Unlike many of the elite, however, Pulitzer was not merely defending wealth. His dread of free silver was entwined with his long-held fear of demagoguery. Even before he was operating his first newspaper or writing his first editorials, Pulitzer had worried that democracy was a breeding ground for ambitious politicians willing to tap popular desires and prejudices to gain power. This was the lesson of Germany under Chancellor Otto van Bismarck—a lesson that Pulitzer had shared in a series of articles on European politics he wrote for Dana's Sun a decade before. Nothing in the ensuing years, including his time in elected office, had diminished this fear. "I am a radical myself, progressive, liberal to the core," he told one of his editorial writers years later. "But I do not want to be thrown over by a lot of demagogues, nincompoops, and shallow shouters." As 1891 closed, Pulitzer's near-blindness, compounded by insomnia, asthma, indigestion, and various vague bodily aches, increased his sense that his working life was at an end. "It seemed as if he might be compelled, as he feared, to give up altogether," noted Hosmer. "He wanted to devote a few months to putting things in good shape out of regard to those that were to follow." Again, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell was brought in. Since Pulitzer had disobeyed most of his instructions, Mitchell was not in a charitable mood. "I want to say to you for the hundredth time what I think in regard to your present condition," Mitchell told Pulitzer. "I want to say that your present course must inevitably result in the total destruction of what remains of your eyesight; also that it is quite impossible for you to carry on your paper under present condition without total sacrifice of your general health." Mitchell even enlisted Pulitzer's friend George Childs, the Philadelphia publisher. "He agrees with me," Mitchell said, "in thinking that the course in which you are engaged is one of physical and moral disaster." Pulitzer selected a middle course. He would monitor the World, but at a distance. He spent Christmas with his family in New York, and then he, Kate, the children, and their bevy of maids, governesses, as well as valets, headed south to Jekyll Island, stopping in Washington to stay with Kate's mother. While they were in the capital, Joseph continued to mull over his choice for president. Governor Hill had been elected to the Senate, and Pulitzer was still torn between supporting his protégé or resuming his off-and-on alliance with Cleveland. One of the men in the World's Washington bureau acted as a go-between. Pulitzer offered Hill the World's support if Hill would appoint him American minister to France, a post that Pulitzer's friend the newspaper publisher Whitelaw Reid was soon to vacate. Pulitzer had watched Reid up close during his own extended stays in Paris, and this seemed like the ideal arrangement for his plan of running the World by long distance. Hill declined the deal. Unbeknownst to Pulitzer, Hill had already decided to throw in his lot with Dana's Sun. He knew he would have to choose one paper over the other, and he felt the Sun was closer to his wing of the party. By default, Cleveland was once again in the World's good graces. In February, the Pulitzers reached Brunswick, Georgia, their last stop before taking a steamer across a narrow strait to the Jekyll Island club. The townspeople of Brunswick were still not used to the parade of millionaires descending from private railcars in their hamlet to reach this new private island enclave. But the city did have a new hotel, where the Pulitzers stayed while awaiting transit to the island and to which they sometimes returned for dinner. When Kate made her appearance one evening, several weeks later, she caught everyone's attention. "Mrs. Pulitzer is a very handsome brunette, medium height and beautifully formed," wrote a smitten observer. "On her hand she wore two large magnificent diamond rings, while her neck was adorned with a lovely pearl necklace. Her beauty and jewels were the cause of much favorable comment among the guests." It was Pulitzer's first visit to Jekyll since he had invested in the retreat six years earlier. Unwanted livestock had been chased from the island and replaced with game for hunting. Roads for carriage rides had been built, bridle paths cleared, and docks built. An elegant clubhouse stood ready to receive members. "From a distance," wrote one reporter, "it looks like some English castle with its square-shaped windows and its lofty tower." For Pulitzer it was an ideal refuge. He spent his days in repose, taking walks, being read to, dictating memos to his staff of editorial writers, and adjusting to his sightless life. By June 1892, Pulitzer had alighted in Paris. Like that of a migratory bird, his path was developing regularity. But while he enjoyed his luxurious Parisian summer, workers at the Homestead Mill in western Pennsylvania were locked in battle with Henry Clay Frick, who managed Andrew Carnegie's steelworks. Frick decided to cease recognizing the union, give up bargaining, and lock the workers out of the plant. The men blocked access to the mills, with the help of the nearly 12,000 residents of Homestead. Frick vowed to reopen the plant with nonunion workers. To get his way, Frick sent for 300 guards from the Pinkerton company, a famous detective agency that had become a source of mercenaries to fight organized labor. The standoff grew into an electrifying news story. At the World, Ballard Smith dispatched his best men to Pennsylvania to report on what the paper called "the iron king's war." At length, the World exposed how despite the increasing profitability of the mills, protected by the McKinley Tariff Act, falling wages had driven workers into destitution. Merrill used the editorial page to support the strikers and linked their suffering to the McKinley Act. "The only beneficiary of the tariff is the capitalist, Carnegie, who lives in a baronial castle in Scotland, his native land." After six years of writing editorials for Pulitzer, Merrill undoubtedly felt that his words would have been those of his absent boss. So did Walt McDougall, who lampooned Carnegie in his cartoons. Their assumption made sense. Since coming to New York, Pulitzer had expanded his advocacy of labor from the modest support he had offered in St. Louis, where he catered to a more middle-class professional readership. Under Pulitzer, the World had exposed sweatshops and supported efforts to limit working hours, protect women and children from abuse in the workplace, and increase the number of schools for laborers' children. In one pro-labor campaign, Pulitzer had come to verbal blows with his antagonist Theodore Roosevelt, who was then a state legislator. Roosevelt had described a bill reducing the working hours for car drivers as communistic. "If it be Communism, nice, dainty, cultured Mr. Roosevelt to say to these favored corporations, 'Twelve hours shall be a legal day's work,'" Pulitzer wrote, "pray what is when the corporations say to their employees, 'You shall slave for sixteen hours a day or starve.'" In St. Louis, his own workers remained mostly nonunion, but Pulitzer recognized the unions in his New York shop and supported workers in several major strikes, even raising money from his readers for a strike fund. He had also rallied to the side of striking workers at the Missouri Pacific Railroad. "This is the case in a nutshell," he wrote. "Dividends paid on watered stock which was done to add to the hoards of millionaires who are sailing in their floating palaces among the soft breezes of the Antilles. Wages cut down to a miserable pittance of $1 to $1.18 a day, out of which the workman on the Western roads, if a married man, must feed and clothe a family." It was no wonder that Merrill felt comfortable bringing the World to the side of the striking Homestead workers as the conflict continued to escalate. The Pinkerton guards arrived by boat, and they and the strikers engaged in a pitched battle that resulted in deaths on both sides. But the strikers prevailed, and they paraded the captured guards through town like prisoners of war. Frick called on the governor, who sent in 8,000 state militiamen, placed the town under martial law, and reclaimed the mill for the company. The message to labor was clear. When and if workers gained the upper hand, American industry could call upon the power of the state. Merrill was outraged, calling the use of the troops "obnoxious" and "inexcusable." Pulitzer—who now traveled in floating palaces himself, vacationed with the barons of capitalism at Jekyll Island, and lived like royalty in Paris—learned about the battle of Homestead from French newspapers. He immediately told Ponsonby to cable to New York and obtain a full report on the conduct of the World. When he learned that the paper had sided with the workers, he was furious. He cabled Merrill, rebuking him and accusing him of sensationalism and of having disregarded law and order. "There is but one thing for the locked-out men to do. They must submit to the law," Pulitzer said. "They must not resist the authority of the State. They must not make war upon the community." The Pulitzer who had built up the Post-Dispatch and the World as voices for the disinherited was gone. The bitter darkness into which he had fallen and the cocoon of wealth that surrounded him had destroyed Pulitzer's empathy. When it came to supporting reform and political and social change, property was now the trump card in Pulitzer's deck. Angry about his paper's conduct, complaining about all his ailments, and dispirited, Pulitzer found no solace in Paris. He returned to Wiesbaden to see Dr. Hermann Pagenstecher, one of the many doctors with whom he had consulted when the decline in his vision began. Pagenstecher ran the largest eye hospital in Germany and treated famous patients from all over the world. He examined Pulitzer in his private clinic, a large white house with purple-blossomed creepers clinging to its columns and running along its windowsills. Peering into Pulitzer's eyes, he dictated his observations to his assistant, who dutifully recorded them. The doctor offered encouraging words to his patient even though he knew that the prognosis was bleak. Pagenstecher was more honest with Kate. "As regards to Mr. Pulitzer," he wrote to her, "I should not advise to tell him the real character of the disease of the left eye because it would take away every hope from him and would have a great and unfavorable impression on his total nervous system." Pulitzer rejoined his family in Baden-Baden, another town known for its baths, located in the western foothills of the Black Forest. The reunion was grim. The daughter of an old friend who joined them wrote to her parents that Joseph was "so melancholy of late that they did not know what to do." With the coming of fall, Pulitzer returned to Paris. Dissatisfied with the conduct of the World, he set off, by telegram, yet another round of editorial and management changes back in New York. Ballard Smith figured he had been given his walking papers when he learned of a farewell dinner at Delmonico's. "Grateful memories for loyal services," wired Pulitzer, "sorry for parting and confident hopes for happy career." As Pulitzer, from a distance, played musical chairs with his editors, the World lumbered on. It survived the managerial gyrations because it held an unchallenged position in New York. That luxury, however, would not last any more than calm waters on the ocean that Pulitzer continually crossed. ## Chapter Twenty-Two ## CAGED EAGLE It took the tenth-anniversary celebration of his ownership of the World to bring Pulitzer back to New York from Europe in May 1893, after an absence of more than a year. This was a sea change from the man who years before—when attacking the rich was his stock in trade—had asked his readers, "Why do Millionaires go to Europe to spend so much money? What has Europe to offer that America has not?" The Majestic, one of White Star's luxurious steamships, took Pulitzer across the Atlantic in a stateroom that had been specially altered for him so as to diminish sounds from the hallways and decks. Sailing on his yacht, Romola, was out of the question. He had put it up for sale after spending one sleepless night aboard it, off the coast of Italy. Another publisher in exile, the New York Herald's James Gordon Bennett, was also on board. Bennett admired Pulitzer but also he begrudged him the World's success, which had reduced the Herald's circulation to below 100,000. Almost as if Bennett didn't want his employees to be reminded of Pulitzer's dominance of Park Row, he was on his way to New York to supervise the building of new headquarters far uptown, on a triangular block at Thirty-Fifth Street, where Broadway and Sixth Avenue intersected. The building made no attempt to rival Pulitzer's stab at the sky. Rather, it was only two stories high. But in keeping with Bennett's European tastes, it was an opulent design conceived by Stanford White to look like a Veronese palazzo. Unlike Pulitzer, Bennett had leased the land on which he was building. "I could not sleep nights if I thought another owned the ground upon which my building stood," Pulitzer told Bennett in Paris. "I shall not be here to worry about it," the fifty-two-year-old Bennett replied. The publishers disembarked in New York early in the morning of May 10 and went their separate ways. Awaiting Pulitzer was a 100-page tenth-anniversary edition of the World that had been published on Sunday and had sold 400,000 copies. That evening, Pulitzer took twenty of his top editors and managers to dinner at Delmonico's. Bradford Merrill, his editorialist, was seated to his right and Solomon Carvalho, who managed the money, to his left. His old partner John Dillon and his young managing editor George Harvey raised a continual series of toasts late into the night. Despite the good cheer, Harvey was having second thoughts about working for Pulitzer. A promise from Pulitzer that he would be relieved of night work had not been kept. Harvey had slept most nights at the Pulitzer Building, in the bedroom off the city room. He had little choice. He worked for a boss who insisted that he spend six hours a day reading the papers and two hours a day reading books, while at the same time overseeing the work of the largest newspaper staff on earth. Pulitzer, for his part, had lost interest in Harvey. He had marked another member of his staff for personal grooming. That spring, David Graham Phillips, a six-foot-three Hoosier-born graduate of Princeton University who turned the heads of the women in the stenographers' pool, had joined the World after three years with Dana's Sun. He was as ambitious in character as he was striking in physique. Upon arriving in New York, in search of a reporting job, he had written to his father, "Here I am in this great city, and no man, woman or child cares whether I am dead or alive, but I will make them care before I am done with them." Phillips received an invitation to dine at Pulitzer's house—a considerable honor since the publisher was in New York for only seventy-two hours, and many of the World's staffers wanted time with him. After the meal, the two men retired to the drawing room to discuss politics, poetry, and philosophy. The sartorially splendid Phillips lived up to his advance billing as a charming conversationalist. Pulitzer invited him on the spot to return to Europe with him and become the World's correspondent in London. Within forty-eight hours, Phillips had packed, put his affairs in order, and caught up with Hosmer, Ponsonby, and Pulitzer on a ship bound for England. His presence greatly enlivened Pulitzer's traveling party. While Ponsonby and Hosmer tended to the publisher's many needs, Phillips provided the kind of lively intellectual conversation that Pulitzer cherished. More important, Pulitzer saw in Phillips a potential journalistic heir apparent. It seemed unlikely to him that his asthmatic eldest son would ever be able to take over the reins of the paper. Convinced that any one of his maladies could end his own life, Pulitzer worried that the World would die with him. Pulitzer was so completely taken with Phillips that, in a moment of weakness, he consented to give his young traveling companion something he had thus far denied to all his correspondents at the World. He would permit Phillips to publish the London dispatches with a byline. By June, Pulitzer was already back again. He now had two U.S. homes that provided privacy away from New York. He was eager to spend time at his newest one, a beautiful estate that he had leased. It was named Chatwold, and it overlooked the ocean in Bar Harbor, Maine. Despite the distance from New York, this small community was drawing the likes of the Vanderbilts, eclipsing Lenox, Massachusetts, and rivaling Newport, Rhode Island, as a summer haven for the wealthy. Geographically nearer to the World and closer to its day-to-day operations than he had been in more than a year, Pulitzer couldn't resist meddling with its management. Whereas he left the Post-Dispatch entirely to itself, he could not keep his hands off the World. Actually, at this moment, the paper needed help. Its affairs were in disarray and two of its top managers weren't speaking to each other, communicating only by memo. Pulitzer slashed the salary and powers of one of the two; but, unsurprisingly, that did little to restore harmony. The problem was larger than an office squabble. Since Pulitzer had sent Cockerill packing, he had never found an editor who was Cockerill's equal. George Harvey worked himself into exhaustion and pneumonia trying to be the next Cockerill, to no avail. The only person who ever met Pulitzer's expectations was Pulitzer himself. He believed the solution to his troubles was a brash editor working for a competitor in St. Louis. Pulitzer knew that Colonel Charles H. Jones, who had replaced William Hyde at the Missouri Republican, had boosted the paper's circulation with an aggressive style of journalism not seen in St. Louis since Pulitzer had left a decade ago. Aside from his undesirable sympathy for the populist free-silver movement, Jones seemed to possess the determination and drive Pulitzer wanted at the helm of the World. He sent Jones an invitation to Chatwold, and the editor came and stayed for a week. No one on the staff in New York knew anything about Pulitzer's intentions until one day in July when Jones walked into the Pulitzer Building and presented himself to Carvalho and Don Carlos Seitz, a rising business manager. The well-dressed man with oversize sideburns and a portentous manner handed them a blue envelope of the kind that usually held Pulitzer's correspondence. When Carvalho and Seitz opened it, they were incredulous. Jones was to have complete dominion over the paper. "The astonishment of the shop was not at the colonel," Seitz said, "but at the wide scope seemingly given a man with no knowledge of the field, and Mr. Pulitzer's disregard of those who had done much to hold the paper together successfully." Carvalho, in particular, was bewildered. Until this moment he had considered himself Pulitzer's top lieutenant. He learned, as Cockerill and Turner had before him, that while Pulitzer's personal loyalty ran deep, it counted for little in his business affairs. "It was soon manifest that the new man would not do," Seitz said. The disempowered Carvalho wanted to leave but did not want to go to a lesser paper than the World, which still had no equal in New York. Harvey, who had recovered from his pneumonia, went to Bar Harbor and submitted his resignation. Pulitzer was puzzled. He could not understand why anyone would want to leave the World. "It seems to me strange, indeed, considering all that I have tried to do, that you should not be on the paper; and most strange that you should have no feelings of regret at the termination of relations, which to me at least, were extremely sympathetic and interesting," he wrote to Harvey. Amid the managerial confusion under the dome in New York, Pulitzer's promise that Phillips's articles would carry a byline had not been kept. The London correspondent was annoyed that his hard work, including a major scoop in which he had beaten British newspapers, was unnoticed. Without a byline, he complained to Pulitzer, a correspondent's work is lost in the pages of varied and confusing foreign items. "He may have had an excellent reputation as a newspaper man before he left New York but he is soon forgotten." Pulitzer was unconvinced. He sent Phillips a polite note suggesting that his work might not yet be up to a standard that merited a byline. "The management of the Sun and the Herald have formed a rather more favorable opinion," Phillips snapped back. "And you will permit me the hope that perhaps you would have shared that better opinion had you had the time to spare to read it." Phillips then grabbed another sheet of paper, wrote out his resignation, and posted it to Jones in New York. Phillips consented to remain in London until his replacement arrived. Ballard Smith, who thought he was no longer working for the World and was idly vacationing, suddenly received orders from Pulitzer to head for London as the World's new correspondent. "Well, I suppose it's the same old story," said Smith to Phillips upon disembarking. "What story?" asked Phillips "Bad faith and broken promises." But when he returned to the United States, Phillips accepted Pulitzer's offer to stay on the World. This proved a wise decision on his part. In New York, he won his long-sought byline and gained considerable attention for his work, as well as praise from Pulitzer. He also gathered material for a novel that he was writing at night. The World, and especially Pulitzer, provided an abundance of raw material. Leaving the paper under Jones's shaky rule, Pulitzer returned to Europe. His travels had become a permanent feature of his life. He could easily afford the best accommodations. He was now listed as the twenty-fourth-richest American alive. But hotels, even the best, no longer sufficed. His sensitivity to noise had grown so severe that his wrath would descend on any staffer who made the mistake of taking lodging on a cobblestone street. "The entourage came at times to be skeptical about Mr. Pulitzer's sensitiveness to noise but rarely dared to experiment," Seitz said. "This desire for silence became almost a mania." Because blind people depend more on their other senses, they tend to listen with greater discrimination. But, contrary to common belief, they do not necessarily develop more acute hearing to compensate for their infirmity, with the possible exception of those who go blind at a very young age. The source of Pulitzer's acousticophobia, and his later sensitivity to odors, was a symptom of a much larger problem. He was so beset with anxiety that it was taking a physical toll. Pulitzer suffered from what later experts would call hyperesthesia, which in his case, was brought on by generalized anxiety disorder, a psychological condition in which a person is haunted by long-lasting anxieties that are not focused on any particular thing. This was a genuine distress for Pulitzer, not hypochondriacal. No one knows the cause. Some people believe it relates to naturally occurring chemicals in the brain; others think it may stem from life situations; and yet others subscribe to a theory that an event in combination with certain natural and environmental conditions may trigger the disorder. In Pulitzer's case it was likely that the trauma of becoming blind brought on the extreme anxieties and accompanying phobias. In fact, his symptoms manifested themselves only after he began to lose his vision. His condition, in any case, complicated the search for suitable accommodations when he was traveling. "Three or four rooms will never do," Pulitzer said. "I must have all the rooms above me or below me vacant, and as I usually have three to four gentlemen with me, a house with a dozen rooms would be more desirable." He needed a full-time advance man. "It is all very well to think about paying a salary to a man who will find a quiet hotel or rooms," one Pulitzer man wrote to another, "but no-one who is not intimately acquainted personally with Mr. Pulitzer's wants could not possibly set out on such an expedition with the slightest hope of success." In the end, the man best suited for the job was close by. John Dillon's personal assistant turned out to be perfect. About thirty, and educated at Phillips Exeter and Harvard, George H. Ledlie possessed all the skills, social training, and taste to be the scent hound for the wandering Pulitzer party. He began what would be a decades-long search for the Holy Grail—a place where his boss could find rest and repose. As if his own health weren't enough of a distraction, Pulitzer also fretted about that of his children. In particular, Ralph remained a constant worry. Ever since he was a baby, his asthma had been a source of concern. Like father, like son—Ralph also developed other woes. Pulitzer sent the boy off to Birmingham General Hospital in England for a complete examination. The British doctors reported that Ralph, who was then fourteen, had a weak lung and was prone to tuberculosis. They prescribed rest at high altitude, and Ralph was promptly sent off to St. Moritz. The older Pulitzer children, accustomed to long stretches of separation, began corresponding with each other, creating a family among themselves in the absence of their parents. Ralph, alone in St. Moritz, wrote to Lucille, who was a year younger. He described one of the rare joys in his solitary life in the Swiss Alps. He had been allowed to begin studying Greek and abandon his pursuit of Latin, which he hated. "I never imagined a language capable of such filthy, beastly rules and contradictions," he told Lucille. "If it is really a dead language, it must be baking freely in purgatory for its sins in the way of murder of youths." All winter Joseph drifted around Europe. He visited Ralph in St. Moritz and told Kate that he had found the boy much improved. "The outdoor and sporting life of St. Moritz had done that." But he kept from Kate that he was sending Hosmer all the way to Colorado to look for another place for Ralph. Joseph's mood was turning sour again. It corresponded "with the dark cloudy raining dismal weather outside," he wrote to Kate from Pfäfers-Bad in Ragatz. In New York, the World continued to suffer under Jones's incompetent rule. Not only were long-serving editors chafing under him, but he was sacrilegiously seeking to use the paper to support free silver, in contradiction to Pulitzer's well-established opposition. Distracted by his own problems, Pulitzer did nothing. Only when his friend Chauncey Depew was ill-treated in the paper did he interfere. "I have knocked the perpetrators down with a little cable club," Pulitzer wrote to Depew, "and hope there will be no further lunacies in this line." But there were to be others. Jones's ineptitude at the World had consequences beyond the bruised feelings of some staffers. He had begun ruining the editorial page, Pulitzer's prized domain, with incoherent and, worse, populist screeds on the financial panic of 1893. Pulitzer's mistake in selecting Jones grew into a public embarrassment noted as far away as Atlanta. "The World was published before Mr. Pulitzer lifted Jones out of the hole into which the St. Louis Republic dropped him," said the Atlanta Constitution. "It was not only published, but had an editorial page—and a much better one than Jones has been able to give it.... Soon there will be nothing left of the World's editorial page but an effulgent circulation statement and Jones's whiskers." With the problem of Jones weighing heavily on his mind, Pulitzer returned to New York at the beginning of the summer in 1894 in the company of Arthur Brisbane, the son of a wealthy, noted reformer, socialist, and advocate of communal living. The younger Brisbane had turned to newspaper work when he was eighteen, landing a job on Dana's Sun. In 1890, at the age of twenty-six, he came to work at the World. Erudite and accomplished—he had already been a London correspondent—Brisbane possessed maturity and sophistication beyond his years. As he had done with other men of promise, Pulitzer sought to personally groom Brisbane and had brought him to Europe for the past winter. Unlike the coterie of pliant secretaries who surrounded Pulitzer, Brisbane stood up to him and even teased him. Staying with Pulitzer in Paris, Brisbane had persuaded him to remove the mattresses that blocked the bedroom window, to take longer drives, to resume horseback riding, and to alter some of his eating habits. The two rode horses, read, and played chess and—sometimes for money—cards. Pulitzer had little interest in gambling, but he enjoyed cards and the accompanying conversation. Because of his almost complete lack of sight, the men played with specially designed cards twice the size of those in an ordinary deck. One time, this gave Brisbane an opportunity to get a leg up on his boss. Pulitzer required that many lamps be placed behind him so that he could make out the cards, and Brisbane found that he could see through the cards in Pulitzer's hand. He then pretended that he had discerned the strength of Pulitzer's hand through the tone of his voice, completely confounding him. Upon arriving in New York, Brisbane returned to the paper, and Pulitzer immediately repaired to Chatwold, which he had recently purchased after renting it for two years. Kate and the children arrived soon afterward. The family remained in Bar Harbor until early fall. It was an election year, so a continuous stream of editors came to confer with Pulitzer, and politicians arrived in hopes of having his blessings conferred upon them. Senator David Hill of New York, who had been nominated to run for governor again, wanted the World's backing despite having allied himself with Dana's Sun in the presidential contest two years earlier. He summoned George McClellan, who was the son of the controversial General Brinton McClellan and who would later become mayor of New York. "George, I want you to take the first train to Bar Harbor," said Hill. "When you get there, see Pulitzer and tell him that if he will agree to support me, I will agree to remove Brockway as soon as I am inaugurated." The prize Hill was offering, Zebulon Reed Brockway, managed the state reformatory in Elmira and was the target of an investigation by the World for alleged abuse of the inmates. The following morning McClellan presented himself at Chatwold. He told Ponsonby he had come with a message from Senator Hill. A few minutes elapsed and Pulitzer entered the room, leaning on Ponsonby's arm. Though McClellan had once worked at the World, this was the first time he had ever seen Pulitzer. "In appearance he was very like the newspaper caricatures of him," he thought. Pulitzer asked Ponsonby to get some cigars and cursed him when he returned with the wrong ones—a treatment which Ponsonby had become used to. At last, McClellan was given a chance to deliver Hill's message as instructed. Even if he lost the election, McClellan continued, Hill would make sure the new governor would carry out his pledge to fire Brockway. "I am surprised that Hill should make me such a proposition," said Pulitzer. "He knows that I am not for sale, nor is the World for sale." McClellan protested that Hill had nothing like that in mind. Rather, it was only suggested as a "friendly little arrangement." Pulitzer admitted he was eager to be rid of Brockway and conceded that he had always liked Hill. "You can tell him that I never make a political bargain. At the same time, if he agrees that Brockway shall go, I agree to support the Democratic ticket," said Pulitzer, adding with a grin, "Understand this is not a bargain, just a friendly little arrangement." Auspiciously, that summer, a horse named Pulitzer was paying off handsomely at racetracks in New York. But in the 1894 political races, the publisher Pulitzer was not as fortunate. Another financial downturn spurring foreclosures, the embarrassment of begging New York bankers for loans to maintain the government's gold reserves, and the growing free-silver movement sapped the Democrats' strength. In November, the Democratic Party went down to defeat nationally as well as in New York, despite the World's efforts. Brockway kept his job. As the weather turned cold in Maine, the Pulitzers decamped and moved into a mansion on Bellevue Avenue in Newport, Rhode Island, for a month, before returning to New York City. The election over, Pulitzer finally turned to the problem of Jones at the paper. It would not be easy to fix. Normally, Pulitzer moved his editors around like pieces on a chessboard and considered them as expendable as pawns. But in his desperate quest for managerial peace, he had foolishly given Jones an ironclad contract specifying both his remuneration and his powers. The cure had proved worse than the ailment. On his return, Pulitzer met with Jones at the house on Fifty-Fifth Street. Jones may have been ill-suited to run the World, but he was no fool. He knew he had the upper hand. He told Pulitzer he would quit the paper on two conditions: he must be given absolute control of the Post-Dispatch, and must be allowed to purchase a majority stake in it. Seeing no other way to be rid of Jones in New York, Pulitzer agreed and ordered that a contract be drawn up and sent to Jekyll Island, where he was heading. Fourteen servants worked feverishly to ready a two-story stone "cottage" on Jekyll Island. In an act of kindness, Kate consented to accompany him despite her dislike of the island's isolation, heat, and sand flies. By New Year's Day 1895, the couple, several of their children, and a carload of guns, fishing rods, and traps reached the island. Jones's contract followed Pulitzer to Jekyll Island. The first draft was absurd. Under its terms, Pulitzer would pay for Jones's shares of the Post-Dispatch. Pulitzer was desperate but not mad. For several weeks, the contract traveled back and forth between Jekyll Island and New York until it was finally agreed that Jones would be president, editor, and manager and could own as much stock as he could afford. With a signed contract in his pocket, Jones headed to St. Louis, and Pulitzer, as well as the World's staff, thought he was rid of a nightmare. For Pulitzer, Jekyll Island's main attraction was complete privacy. When a reporter from Atlanta asked at the clubhouse if he could see Pulitzer, the manager replied, "That is impossible. Mr. Pulitzer has left instructions that no one save the members of his newspaper family is to be allowed near him." Just as the reporter prepared to beat a retreat, Pulitzer entered the room on the arm of one of his secretaries, heading out for a walk. "Oh yes, I am always glad to see newspaper men," Pulitzer said. "That brotherhood which is formed between those who have had to run an item down is as strong as any formed in any other calling." The three men went out to the steps of the clubhouse, where Pulitzer submitted to a short interview, enjoying a chance to express his frustration with President Cleveland. "Men of all political views voted for him, believing that above all issues would stand the one great and overpowering fact of good government," said Pulitzer. "He has disappointed their expectations and failed in every hope." Good government, Pulitzer predicted, would be the decisive issue in the 1896 election. "The great issue before the people at all times is not silver, or gold, or the tariff, though they are all important relatively." He was wrong. As he talked with the reporter, William Jennings Bryan, an unknown U.S. representative leaving office and barely old enough to run for president, was beginning a national speaking tour on behalf of free silver. In sixteen months, Bryan would remake the American political landscape. Even when he was at his best, Joseph made their marriage an ordeal for Kate. If he was not consumed by work, he was haunted by sickness, real and imagined. As his worries about work and his fears for his health mounted, so did his notorious temper and impatience. From a practical point of view, the connubial disharmony had been resolved by an almost continuous separation since the onset of his blindness. Joseph wandered the globe in the company of secretaries, doctors, and valets, while Kate led a busy social life in Paris, London, and New York. One of the few witnesses to their turbulent domestic life was Felix Webber, a Briton who had a short, unhappy tenure as Pulitzer's secretary. He found Pulitzer an insufferable boss. "He is such an ill-mannered surly brute and keeps throwing in one's teeth that he is paying one for all one does for him—and he is evidently quite determined to get his money's worth out of one," Webber wrote to his sister after taking the post. Bitter and angry, he became the only secretary willing to break the code of silence adhered to by the other men who served as personal aides to Pulitzer. In December 1894, the Pulitzers' eldest daughter, Lucille, who was then fourteen, required a small, modest operation on her throat. Unfortunately, the wound did not heal properly, and more work had to be done. Kate was distraught and remained by Lucille's side throughout the ordeal. Although he was in New York, Joseph did not even consent to visit Lucille while she was recuperating in her room. One night at dinner, Kate asked why he was shunning his daughter. Did he not pity her? "Pity Lucille!" Joseph shouted back, according to Webber, who recorded the moment. "No! I'm the one to pity—has no one any pity for me! Does no one realize what I suffer! My own house turned into a hospital! Doctors coming at all hours! You rushing upstairs in the middle of meals, without a word of conversation for me—no one pities me, and you ask me to pity Lucille!" Kate could not bring herself to speak. She was well used to silences, especially at the beginning of the month, when she and Joseph fought over money. This time, however, she gave Webber orders that Joseph not be allowed upstairs. Contrite the following day, Joseph visited Lucille and sent Webber out to buy flowers for his daughter. When Joseph had left for Jekyll Island a few weeks later, the household breathed a sigh of relief. "Especially Mrs. P. who got up out of bed as soon as he was gone and received lying in a chaise longue in her boudoir in a vieux rose peignoir and a chinchilla fur rug also lined with vieux rose over her legs and plenty of white frou frou all about her," Webber said. "She was sighing over a a portrait of J.P. which has just come from Paris painted by [Léon] Bonnat two years ago." "I suppose I ought to hang it in my boudoir, but I won't," she told Webber. "Don't you think that a large photograph is enough for me to have in my boudoir?" Kate had certainly tried her best to tolerate Joseph's outbursts, to tend to his health, and to be with him when he permitted it, aside from the one time when she declined the Mediterranean cruise. But it was a Sisyphean task to please him. Only the year before, Kate, preoccupied with managing the house and children, had let a stretch of time go by without writing to her absent Joseph. "For two weeks you did not write me one word even inquiring whether I was dead or alive," Joseph wrote to her. "Do you think that was right? You know you have the power to keep me awake, that I chafe and worry and brood over the conduct of yours. "Again," he continued, "after all it is supposed to be the first business of a wife to be interested in the comfort and condition of her husband who is absolutely without family and as helpless as I am." Then, resurrecting his old complaint, he told Kate she never did what he asked. "You like to emphasize the word 'order,' my order, or your order, when you refer to my wishes or when I refer to them, especially a wish that is habitually trampled upon and disregarded. I wish you would not do that because it reminds me how utterly ignored my wishes are." By March, Kate had enough of Jekyll Island—and Joseph—and returned to New York. She may also have had an ulterior motive for leaving. She was having an affair. Pulitzer's new man, Arthur Brisbane, offered Kate the adoration she could not get from her husband, who was embroiled in his battles with real and doubtful demons of ill health. Only just in her forties, Kate remained an immensely attractive, outgoing, and gregarious woman. She loved parties, culture, and life, while her husband was becoming a recluse. Her separation from Joseph made it easier for Kate to take a lover, but discretion remained a necessity. "I do not discuss my actual work, much as I should like to, in these letters, because such discussion would give too clear a key to the authorship of these writings should one of them go wrong," Brisbane wrote to Kate in 1895, in a letter that he signed only with the initial "H." Brisbane's ardor was unmistakable. When they planned a rendezvous between Boston and Bar Harbor, he wrote, "That will be one of the most eagerly anticipated journeys I have ever made." "I could go on writing you for hours, for you are in my mind, and I like even the imitation of talking to you," he wrote in another letter. "The longer you are away from me, the more I want to see you, and the more real and necessary you seem. "What a shame it is that we have not the power of telegraphing ourselves from place to place. We shall have that power sometime. If we had it now, I should send myself by wire instead of sending this letter by mail, et alors, tu sais ce qui t'arriverait." In April or early May, Kate discovered that she was pregnant. But whose child was it? It had been seven years since her last pregnancy and the birth of her sixth child since marrying Joseph. It seemed possible that Joseph was the father now, as Kate might have been on Jekyll Island at the time of conception. However, considering Joseph's condition and mood, it was unlikely. Brisbane allegedly told David Graham Phillips that the child was his. In his clandestine correspondence with Kate, he expressed worries about her health. "Had you taken care of yourself, you would be in good condition now," he wrote. "You are not good to yourself. I wish you would care as much about your own health and future as you do about mine. It would be a good thing for you and for me. "Do be a good sensible girl and take care of yourself. Some of these days we shall have some fun. Keep your health for that." Joseph never doubted that the child was his. In May, Pulitzer went for a brief stay in a luxurious manor at Kensington, near London's Hyde Park. But peacocks summering in the adjacent park made such a racket with their nighttime mating screeches that Pulitzer was soon on his way back to the United States. It was as if everything conspired to wreck his life just as he reached his zenith. On board the Teutonic, Pulitzer wrote to Thomas Davidson, with whom he had fallen out of touch since 1887. "I did suffer more during those eight years by loss of sight, sleep, health and activity than in all my previous existence." That summer the remodeled Chatwold stood ready to receive Pulitzer and his guests. More than 100 men had worked through the winter rebuilding the country mansion to Pulitzer's specifications. The most difficult task had been an excavation down through fifty feet of rock to sea level, where a steam-heated underground room had been carved out for a plunge bath. Aboveground, the house had been extensively rebuilt, with the addition of a granite tower specially constructed to prevent sound from entering. Inside it, according to one reporter, "the great chief can hide away from the sordid cares of the world and be at peace with his soul—or at war with it—and no one will be the wiser." The "tower of silence," as his secretaries called it, also revealed that Pulitzer's retreat from the paper was no longer a search for a cure but rather a permanent condition. "So Mr. Pulitzer," noted one of his men, "dictated the destinies of his manifold interests at long distances in intervals between seizures when his infirmities utterly incapacitated him—a giant intelligence eternally condemned to the darkest of dungeons, a caged eagle furiously belaboring the bars." Pulitzer's talons, however, remained sharp, especially with regard to Theodore Roosevelt. The politician had recently become New York City's police commissioner and was cleaning up its notoriously corrupt police force. This cheered New Yorkers until he also decided to enforce blue laws that forbade saloons—but not private clubs—to serve alcohol on the Sabbath. Roosevelt agreed that the law was pigheaded and led to corruption, but said that he had no choice except to enforce it. Pulitzer, who had long opposed any form of temperance, directed Bradford Merrill to bring up the World's editorial guns. Roosevelt's claim that his enforcement might actually inspire a lifting of the ban was disingenuous, said the World. "You know that those who have such power are in no way annoyed by your nagging and exasperating activity in preventing the hard-working laborer from getting a pitcher of beer for his Sunday dinner," the editorial continued, addressing Roosevelt directly, as the World always did when he was the subject of Pulitzer's condemnation. "Does it commend 'reform' to have the innocent annoyed in its name while crime runs riot and criminals go free?" Reading the editorial, Roosevelt told his friend Senator Henry Cabot Lodge that the World was among the New York papers "shrieking with rage." He told another friend that the World and Herald "are doing everything in their power to make me swerve from my course; but they will fail signally; I shall not flinch one handbreadth." But being despised by drinkers and the New York press had no ill effect on Roosevelt's national popularity. In fact, it increased. One paper asked, "Will he succeed Col. Strong as Mayor; or Levi P. Morton as Governor; or Grover Cleveland as President?" Indeed, Roosevelt's ambitions far exceeded cleaning up a city's police department. He was certain that his combativeness and manliness were appealing. He was convinced that the entire nation, not just Manhattan, lacked virility. "There is an unhappy tendency among certain of our cultivated people to lose the great manly virtues, the power to strive and fight and conquer, not only in a time of peace, but on the field of battle," he told one audience. He thought the time had come for the United States to flex its military muscle outside its borders, and he saw an opportunity in a crisis brewing in Venezuela. Roosevelt, who had never seen a battlefield, wanted war. Pulitzer, who had, wanted nothing of it. For years Venezuela had been bickering with Great Britain about its border with British Guiana. After the discovery of gold, the quarrel intensified. The United States took Venezuela's side, broke off diplomatic relations with England in late 1895, and demanded arbitration. The British, who ruled the seas, considered this an insult and refused. The rebuff drew an angry message from the president to Congress. Invoking the Monroe Doctrine, Cleveland promised that if England dared to take any land the United States deemed as belonging to Venezuela, the United States would "resist by every means in its power." Congress rushed to the president's side, and the saber rattling put the little-noticed dispute on the front pages. WAR ON EVERY LIP was the Chicago Tribune's headline. WAR CLOUDS proclaimed the Atlanta Constitution. The editorial pages clamored for a fight. "Any American citizen who hesitates to uphold the President of the United States is either an alien or a traitor," said the Sun. Pulitzer refused to let the World join in. He thought Cleveland had gone too far. Put the headline A GRAVE BLUNDER on the lead editorial, Pulitzer told one of his writers over the telephone from his rented house in Lakewood, New Jersey. Weighing each word carefully, he composed a four-paragraph assault on the president's logic. Great Britain's actions in Venezuela posed no danger to the United States, he said. "It is a grave blunder to put this government in its attitude of threatening war unless we mean it and are prepared for it and can hopefully appeal to the sympathizers of the civilized world in making it." Pulitzer had long feared militarism. Seventeen years earlier, he had seen firsthand how Bismarck used the threat of French territorial claims to maintain a large standing army and impose oppressive taxes to pay for it. The ruler's actions created a warlike state, though without battle, much as Thomas Hobbes famously described it in Leviathan. "This they call peace!" the young Pulitzer had written. "Next to war itself I cannot imagine anything more terrible to a great nation than such a peace." Pulitzer now expanded his efforts to douse the war fever. Over his signature, his staff sent telegrams to leading statesmen, clergymen, politicians, editors, leaders of Parliament, and the royal family in Great Britain, urging them to publicly express their opposition to war. Within days, the World published replies from the prince of Wales, Gladstone (out of office again), the bishop of London, the archbishop of Westminster, and dozens of other leaders. Each telegram professed England's peaceful intentions and strove to lower the transatlantic rhetoric. "They earnestly trust and cannot but believe the present crisis will be arranged in a manner satisfactory to both countries," read the message from the British throne. "No feelings here but peaceful and brotherly," wired the bishop of Liverpool. "God Speed you in your patriotic endeavor," added the bishop of Chester. The World's issue for Christmas Day 1895 reproduced the telegrams from the prince of Wales and one from the duke of York under the headline PEACE AND GOOD WILL. Soon, said another of Pulitzer's editorials, the holly and mistletoe would be gone, as would the voices of children singing carols. "But we shall retain our hopes. The white doves, unseen, will be fluttering somewhere." In England, the telegrams sent by the prince and the duke generated considerable support and were on the front page of most newspapers, reported an excited Ballard Smith. The reaction in the United States was quite different. Roosevelt, who had already written a letter of congratulation to Cleveland for his belligerent threats, told Lodge that Americans were weakening in their resolve for war. "Personally, I rather hope the fight will come soon. The clamor of the peace faction has convinced me that this country needs a war." He was furious at Pulitzer and Edwin Godkin at the New York Post, who had joined in urging restraint. "As for the editors of the Evening Post and World," Roosevelt said, "it would give me great pleasure to have them put in prison the minute hostilities began." Pulitzer's intervention could not have come at a worse moment for the Cleveland administration. Its gold reserves had fallen to critically low levels again. Since the panic of 1893, the government had dealt with close calls by borrowing and buying gold in Europe. Now that Cleveland faced a new borrowing crisis, Pulitzer's peace campaign had made matters worse by eliciting a proclamation from the Rothschild banking family that Europeans should not buy American bonds. With the free-silver forces gaining strength, the economy still in the doldrums, and Pulitzer causing trouble, Cleveland met secretly with J. P. Morgan. A year earlier, when two U.S. public bond offerings had failed, Morgan had persuaded the president to permit his private syndicate to handle a bond sale like the one the president again had in mind. The first one had saved the government from defaulting on its obligations, but Morgan's alleged profits had further fueled the free-silver movement. Pulitzer had bitterly denounced the deal. He wanted to protect the gold standard, but not at the cost of enriching Morgan. He was also convinced that Morgan's plan could give the "silverites" the White House in 1896. He was dead set on preventing another such deal. Under such headlines as SMASH THE RING, the World claimed that the administration was once again entering into a secret compact with financiers. As Pulitzer had done in the ongoing crisis over Venezuela, he ordered his staff to use the telegraph wires. More than 10,000 telegrams were sent to banks and investment houses asking if they would support a public bond offering, and more than half replied, setting a one-day record for Western Union. Pulitzer then called several of his editors to Lakewood. They took the last New Jersey–bound train out of the city. "When I got there night had already fallen, and as I was without even so much as a handbag, I anticipated a night of makeshift at the hotel," said George Eggleston, one of the summoned editors. "Come in quickly. We must talk rapidly and to the point. You think you're to stay here all night, but you're mistaken," Pulitzer told the men as they entered his house. "I've ordered a special train to take you back. It will start at eight o'clock and run through in eighty minutes. Meanwhile, we have much to arrange, so we must get to work. "What we demand is that these bonds shall be sold to the public at something like their actual value and not to a Wall Street syndicate for many millions less," he said. "You are to write a double-leaded article to occupy the whole editorial page tomorrow morning. You are not to print a line of editorial on any other subject." Eggleston was to assail the idea of using Morgan as a middleman and argue that the government should sell the bonds directly to the people. "Then," Pulitzer added, "as a guarantee of the sincerity of our convictions you are to say that the World offers in advance to take one million dollars of the new bonds at the highest market price, if they are offered to the public in open markets." Pulitzer dismissed his men. The following morning, the World reported that hundreds of banks and bankers had replied to its telegraphed inquiries with pledges to buy the bonds. "To you, Mr. Cleveland, the World appeals," read Eggleston's editorial. It pleaded with the president to turn Morgan down and to turn instead to the people. "If you make your appeal to the people they will quickly respond. So sure are we of this that the World now offers to head the list with a subscription of one million dollars on its own account." Pulitzer won. Both Morgan and Cleveland realized that another private sale was now out of the question. On January 6, 1896, the administration announced a public sale of bonds. Cleveland, facing the end of his second term, had grown tired of Pulitzer's outbursts. His secretary of state dug up an old federal statute that made it a crime punishable by imprisonment to communicate with foreign leaders to influence American policy. Roosevelt's friend Senator Lodge brought the matter up in the Senate. He asked his colleagues if they did not think that Pulitzer's telegrams to the prince of Wales and others did not constitute an offense under the law. A Republican senator rose to say he thought they did. "If the President and the Attorney General do their duty," said the senator, "Mr. Pulitzer, if he ever sets foot upon the soil of America as I understand he occasionally does, ought to be prosecuted according to law." Pulitzer mounted his own defense. The World urged that the government use the "aged, obsolete, moldy, moth-eaten, dust-covered" law to prosecute the paper. "It is really time to make an example of the presumptuous editors who dare to interfere to break the force and repair the damage of an imitation jingo policy with its disturbing threat of war." Tempers cooled. The dispute between England and Venezuela moved to the back pages as the two nations agreed to arbitration. The public bond sale proceeded and was a success. Pulitzer's banker Dumont Clarke placed a bid for $1 million of bonds, as the World had promised. When the bid was received at the auction, the secretary of the treasury moved uncomfortably in his seat, and a shadow fell over Morgan's face, reported the World, which devoted an entire page to the opening of the bids. "The name of the World was not a pleasant sound and it was a bitter thing to be reminded of the past." A few days later, Clarke reported that the purchase of the bonds would bring a profit of $50,000. After having attacked Morgan for making money from bond transactions, Pulitzer panicked at this potentially embarrassing gain. The World's managers and editors were all called together for a meeting. After two hours of debate, the paper's business manager asked, "Why not keep it?" Pulitzer accepted the advice. Roosevelt, who had gotten neither war nor a criminal prosecution of Pulitzer, sought his own revenge for the paper's ill-treatment of his police commissionership. He found a vehicle when the World compiled a catalog of crimes under his watch, implying that time spent on the saloon issue had left citizens less protected. Roosevelt persuaded the New York Times, which was losing $2,500 a week and facing bankruptcy, to publish the city's official report showing the World's list to be a gross exaggeration. Roosevelt, in this small triumph, summed up a decision that all of Pulitzer's political enemies had to make. "It is always a question how far it is necessary to go in answering a man who is a convicted liar," Roosevelt said. "For the same reason it is a little difficult to decide whether it is necessary to take notice of any statement whatever appearing in Mr. Pulitzer's paper, the New York World." Pulitzer, tucked away in his cottage at Jekyll once again, chose to ignore Roosevelt. A new and more dangerous opponent than a carping politician faced him. A young upstart newspaper publisher was preparing to do to him what Pulitzer had done to the giants of Park Row in 1883. ## Chapter Twenty-Three ## TROUBLE FROM THE WEST In February 1895 an office boy at the Morning Journal spotted a corpulent man, probably nearing 300 pounds, trying to unlock the door to Albert Pulitzer's office. "Hey, there!" said the boy, "You can't go in there. That's a private room." "I want to get in there, right away," replied the man, smiling. The boy rushed to the newsroom to tell the city editor that someone was trying to get into the publisher's office. As he tried to give his report, the desk bell from Pulitzer's office began to ring. The boy ran back to see who was ringing it and found the mysterious intruder in the office seated behind the desk. Only then did he realize that it was Albert Pulitzer, who had not been at the paper in a year or two. "I fooled you, didn't I," said Pulitzer. "I-I-I, er, beg your pardon, sir, but I didn't know you," replied the boy. "Oh, that's all right, you are not the only one. I passed the Sunday editor as I was coming through the hall and he actually gave me a stony, British stare." Albert's immense weight gain made him hard to recognize, but in any case his mere presence in the office was a shock. In the years since the Morning Journal had become established, Albert had become an absentee publisher like his brother Joseph at the World. He had no health concerns to drive him from New York. Rather, he was more like James Bennett of the New York Herald. He simply preferred life in the elegant social circles of London, Paris, and other European capitals. The Morning Journal's purpose had been to make money and it had done that. At the beginning, Albert had brought the same dedication to running the Morning Journal that Joseph had lavished on the World. Every morning between three and four o'clock, a messenger brought a copy of the Morning Journal, other papers, reports on daily circulation, and the daily ledger. If the man was late, he would find the publisher pacing impatiently on the sidewalk. During breakfast, Pulitzer scrutinized his paper. "When he finished with it," recalled his son, "the thing would look like a pyrotechnical display, for he used both blue and red pencils without stint, and frequently the comments were punctuated with several exclamation points." With remarks such as "Awful!! Don't let this occur again" or "Too Evening-Postish!" plastered over the pages, the paper was sent back to the editors for their review. From its origin as a scandal sheet, the Morning Journal had grown into an immensely successful one-cent paper. It took no interest in politics. "I think one politician in the family is enough," said Albert. "My brother Joseph is welcome to that part of fame which time may allot to the name Pulitzer. Two Worlds would be more than New York could hold." The Journal's circulation hovered between 175,000 and 200,000. Its success rested on a daily array of human interest stories, spiced with risqué items, humor, and, above all, a slavish devotion to society news. "If the Vanderbilts and Astors were absent from its columns," a rewrite man said, "proprietor Albert, in Vienna or Paris, would want to know the reasons why." Although the profit paled in comparison with that of Joseph's World, the $100,000 a year Albert drew supported his leisurely life in Europe. Having divorced Fannie in 1882, after nine years of marriage, he left her to raise their son Walter on her own with a small stipend. But his years in European capitals, with their more refined journals, had lessened Albert's appetite for prurient news. Upon his return in 1895 he informed his staff that the Morning Journal would now become "the least sensational paper published" and would move into the arena of the two-cent papers such as the World. He shared the news with his readers in a front-page editorial. "As it once brought New York the gospel of brightness, so the Journal will now strive to set an example of a higher, better tone in the treatment of news," he said. "To please, to amuse, to instruct in a fascinating way, to brighten the home circle, and never to offend with an objectionable word, will be our unceasing endeavor." The readers weren't impressed, and circulation dropped precipitously. Fortunately, John McLean, the successful publisher of the Cincinnati Enquirer, rescued Albert from the consequences of his folly. McLean paid close to $1 million for the Morning Journal and its companion German edition, the Morgen Journal. He was convinced that he could make money in New York as he had done in Cincinnati. It didn't happen. Rather, the Morning Journal continued its decline. McLean dropped the price to a penny again, but to no avail. By the fall of 1895, he had to sell. He found a willing customer in William Randolph Hearst. After making a success of the San Francisco Examiner, Hearst had hungered for a newspaper in New York. His mother, who now held the family fortune, consented to back him. In September 1895, Hearst took the dying Journal off of McLean's hands for $150,000, less than 20 percent of what McLean had paid for it the year before. At long last Hearst had a toehold in New York, and he had gotten it for far less than his model, Joseph Pulitzer, had paid. But in the twelve years since Pulitzer arrived on Park Row, the fabled block had vastly changed. The city had eight other morning newspapers including the dominant World; the venerable Herald, Sun, and Tribune; and the struggling New York Times. The once gossipy, now declining sheet that Hearst bought held little promise of competing. "He may come but he can't get a reputable newspaperman in New York to work on his paper," said one editor. Hearst imported his best talent from San Francisco and, with his checkbook, persuaded several well-known journalists such as Julius Chambers and Julian Ralph to join his staff. He even lured Richard Harding Davis into covering the Harvard-Yale football game for a then unheard-of fee: $500. In November the first issue of the new, redesigned New York Journal was out. Advertisements for the paper appeared everywhere in the city and hired bands played on street corners. The Journal displayed many of the same traits that had made the World a success. The front page bristled with large bold headlines atop engrossing urban tales. Most striking were the spectacular illustrations of criminals and beautiful girls. Except for the frequency of females in the illustrations—a Hearst touch—the challenger was simply improving on Pulitzer's recipe by using splashier headlines, larger drawings, and more dramatic and compelling copy. The new kid on the block made the World look middle-aged and stodgy. In fact, in Pulitzer's absence, his paper had grown fat on its success, and stale. But no one had dared challenge its supremacy until now. Most threatening to the World was that Hearst had the luxury of being able to sacrifice revenue for circulation. He could afford to put out the most expensive newspaper in town and sell it as the cheapest for as long as he wished. Readers didn't care if Hearst was making money. What appealed to them was a newspaper that offered twice the excitement for half the price. Pulitzer's men at the World remained unconcerned. "The new venture at once began to grow, not at the expense of the high-priced but of the low-cost papers," said Don Seitz, who was now one of Pulitzer's top men. Their cockiness did not last long. From the San Francisco Examiner's New York office, on the eleventh floor of the Pulitzer Building, Hearst secretly negotiated with the editor of the Sunday World, whose circulation of nearly 500,000 copies made it the most profitable part of the paper. By January 1896, Hearst had persuaded not only the Sunday editor but the entire Sunday staff to join the Journal. Pulitzer found out about this theft when he alighted on Jekyll Island. He telegraphed Solomon Carvalho to get the staff back at any cost. Then, ordering his aides to pack, Pulitzer left the island for New York. When the club tender carrying him reached the mainland, the party ran into James Creelman, a noted World reporter, who was waiting for a launch to take him to a promised meeting with the publisher. The weary Creelman had no choice but to reboard the train that had brought him south and have his meeting in Pulitzer's private coach. After two years as one of the World's most widely traveled and colorful foreign correspondents, Creelman wanted out. He told his boss that he cared little about the World but a lot for their friendship. Pulitzer accepted the news with unusual calmness, considering the personnel problems awaiting him in New York. But he recognized traits in Creelman, similar to his own, that made it hard to work in a subordinate position. While the party traveled northward, Carvalho, in New York, managed to lure the Sunday staff back. But this reprieve lasted only twenty-four hours. Hearst's checkbook was too appealing. "The most extraordinary dollar-matching contest in the history of American journalism had begun," said Seitz, whose own pay would begin a long ascent in return for his loyalty to Pulitzer. Pulitzer's first action on reaching New York was to terminate the Examiner's lease in his building. He put Arthur Brisbane in charge of the Sunday edition and convened a war council at his residence in Lakewood. The news was grim. The Journal, in less than three months, had come within 35,000 of the World's daily circulation. Something had to be done. The business manager, John Norris, who had worked for a penny newspaper, recommended that Pulitzer cut the price of the two-cent morning World in half; the Evening World already sold for a penny. Carvalho agreed. Only Seitz held out. Pulitzer couldn't decide. A dozen years earlier he had been the one to force other publishers to cut their prices. Not being able to call the shots was a new and uncomfortable position for him. As Pulitzer prepared to head back to Jekyll Island, he had still not made up his mind, so Carvalho and Norris boarded the train with him. By the time they reached Philadelphia, Pulitzer told them his decision. He would cut the price. The pair left the train and returned to New York. "The news of the World's reduction came like a thunder clap to the great newspaper offices in Park Row," reported the Chicago Tribune. An editorial in the World announced the change. "The reason for this reduction is a secret that we are ready to share with all the people. We prefer power to profits." "The immediate effect was electric, but not as its owner had anticipated," Seitz said. Circulation did go up, by 88,000, but only the smaller competing papers suffered circulation losses. The Journal continued to gain. By stooping to compete with Hearst, Pulitzer had brought more attention to the Journal and had actually encouraged his rival. "The World in reducing to one cent must have recognized the fact that the Journal has come to stay," Adolph Ochs, a publisher in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with hopes of someday joining the Park Row fraternity, told Pulitzer. Both newspapers gained in circulation, but lost money with every copy. "Mr. Hearst felt that he had his antagonist staggering and began a furious assault," said Seitz. "He spent money as it had never been spent before on newspapers in any field." Pulitzer had the resources to match Hearst, but he no longer had the daring of a young man, especially one with inherited wealth. Hearst's entry into New York gave editors and reporters who could no longer tolerate Pulitzer's eccentric management style a practical exit, even a lucrative one. To Carvalho, who had acted as the publisher of the World in all but name, the option looked attractive. He felt as if he were at the end of a yo-yo jerked by Pulitzer's constant changing of orders and reshuffling of authority. In late March 1896, he telephoned Pulitzer on Jekyll Island, a daring act in and of itself, and said that unless his powers were restored by the end of the day—five o'clock in the afternoon, to be precise—he would quit. At five-thirty, Carvalho called Seitz into his office and said he was done, after nine years of managing the World. A few days later, he was on the Journal's payroll, where he would remain as Hearst's right-hand man for thirty years. Pulitzer's detractors watched the desertions with glee. The anti-Semitic gossip sheet Town Topics asked, "How is Mr. Pulitzer going to get unleavened bread when the young Egyptian from San Francisco is getting all the dough?" With his newspaper's supremacy threatened and managerial trouble afoot, Pulitzer found Jekyll Island insufferable. To make matters worse, a government-contracted dredge entered the waters near his cottage, its steam engine clanging as it hoisted buckets of muck to the surface. Pulitzer sent his secretary out to pay the foreman $100 a day to hold off on the work until his stay on the island was over. On Jekyll Island, word reached Pulitzer that John Cockerill, the editor who served him loyally during his rise at the Post-Dispatch and followed him to the World, had died in Cairo, Egypt. Since the two had parted company in 1891, Cockerill had run his own newspaper and then become a foreign correspondent for the New York Herald. He was on assignment for the Herald in Egypt when he succumbed to a brain hemorrhage while in a hotel barber's chair. The World made only modest note of his passing. Pulitzer was heading north and could have attended the funeral service when Cockerill's body reached New York in May, but he chose not to. Instead he left it to Chauncey Depew, who had presided with Cockerill at the laying of the cornerstone for the Pulitzer Building, to represent the missing half of the partnership that had transformed New York journalism. A few days later, Cockerill's will was probated. "I name as my executor Joseph Pulitzer," Cockerill had written, "who has been a faithful and sincere friend to me, and to whom I am indebted for much that I enjoy." Pulitzer found tranquillity at Moray Lodge, the princely manor in Kensington, England. The peacocks were done with their mating and the place was quiet. "No discordant echoes of the city's ceaseless human hum disturb the restful quiet of the place," noted one caller who found Pulitzer in the elegant study, which was lined with the landlord's books. He was in better health than he had been in several years. His worries in New York rested in an untended pile of telegrams and letters strewn over a desk. London was like a tonic. Its pleasures were made all the greater when, in June 1896, a delegation of British peace societies came to pay homage to Pulitzer and the World for helping defuse the Venezuelan crisis. They brought a proclamation, engrossed on vellum, deeming the effort a "beneficent exemplification of the marvelous facilities of modern journalism in the dark days of last December." A decade after Pulitzer had brought an American tribute to Gladstone, his own statesmanship was the subject of British praise. "I'm deeply touched," Pulitzer told the gathered religious, social, and political leaders, "but am unfortunately an invalid and under a doctor's orders and I ask permission that my response be read by a young American friend—my son." It thus fell to sixteen-year-old Ralph to read his father's long speech on the value of international arbitration. Pulitzer earnestly believed that war could almost always be avoided. He hated the saber rattling endemic in American political culture and had little taste for the bellicose rhetoric exemplified by men like Theodore Roosevelt. "Civilization is no more possible without peace than permanent peace is possible without arbitration," Ralph said, as he made his way through the thousands of words. Yet an American war loomed as Ralph read his father's speech. In Cuba, an independence movement had gained such strength that the Spanish government dispatched 150,000 troops to put it down. The Cubans who resisted were being turned into heroes by the World, the Journal, and other newspapers. Before returning to the United States, Pulitzer detoured to Wiesbaden, Germany, for a short stay at the Hotel Kaiserhof, adjacent to the Augusta Victoria baths. There, between Turkish baths and mud and hot sand treatments, Pulitzer gave more thought to his problems back in New York. "We must recognize the extraordinary competition, no doubt, but we must also recognize extraordinary foolishness, not imitate it," he wrote to Norris. Publishing a penny newspaper constrained the size of the paper but not its quality. "I regard it as more important to have the best paper than the biggest in size." Unable to let his staff do their jobs without his constant interference, Pulitzer sent a stream of telegrams through the underwater Atlantic cable bearing instructions on topics ranging from the rate for help-wanted classifieds to changing the grade of paper used in certain editions. He instructed Brisbane to make the Sunday edition of interest to intelligent readers ("Make real popular magazine not a magazine of horrors"); reviewed the World's printing capacity ("Shall we order six new color presses in order that we may meet the Journal?"); and pushed him to compete with the Journal for out-of-town readers ("if you are sure of your grounds and more particularly of the ground the Journal occupies"). By midsummer, Pulitzer was at Chatwold, readying himself for the fall's political battles. The Democrats were preparing for their convention in Chicago and the Republicans for theirs in St. Louis. Pulitzer faced a daunting political problem. Choosing whom to support in a national election remained both a political and an economic decision. Readers still regarded their selection of a newspaper as a political act. The wrong presidential choice could seriously damage the World, especially with Hearst's Journal nipping at its heels. When Pulitzer had made his bid for supremacy in New York in 1884, he had triumphed over Dana in great part because the Sun had abandoned the Democratic Party. The choice he made in the 1896 election posed similar risks for Pulitzer. The strength of the silver movement caught the old guard of the Democratic Party, including Pulitzer, by surprise. "There is not the remotest shadow of a chance that free silver can ever become a reality in the United States," Pulitzer told a reporter in June. But when William Jennings Bryan spoke to the convention he lit a political prairie fire. Bellowing to the cheering delegates whose excitement rose with each phrase of inspired rhetoric, Bryan proclaimed the movement's answer to the defenders of the gold standard. "You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold." Then, he stepped back, held his arms out and stood Christ-like before the hall. "The floor of the convention seemed to heave up," reported the World. "Everybody seemed to go mad at once." Pulitzer summoned the World's editorial writer George Eggleston to Bar Harbor. He had correctly predicted Bryan's nomination, unlike the other men covering the convention for the World. While Pulitzer and Eggleston conferred, an emissary from Bryan's campaign arrived. Since only one Democrat had been elected to the White House in forty years, and then with the support of the World, such a political pilgrimage was mandatory. Pulitzer instructed Eggleston to meet the representative. The man informed Eggleston that Bryan would win by a large majority with or without the support of the World. "For the sake of the press, and especially of so great a newspaper as the World, therefore, Mr. Bryan asked Mr. Pulitzer's attention to this danger to prestige." Nothing that could have been said was more likely to have a worse effect on Pulitzer. When Eggleston delivered the message, Pulitzer laughed. As the two men sat on the small porch, Pulitzer asked him to jot down figures. The publisher rapidly named the states and the number of electoral votes that would go to Bryan. "I don't often predict—never unless I know," he said. His calculations predicted defeat. "Let that be our answer to Mr. Bryan's audacious message." Pulitzer's electoral math was uncannily correct. "Mr. Pulitzer correctly named every state that would give its electoral vote to each candidate, and the returns of the election—four months later—varies from his prediction by only two electoral votes out of four hundred and forty-seven." But, in a larger sense, Pulitzer had misread the political tea leaves, for the first time in his life. He failed to grasp that free silver was not a public policy debate but a cry for help from the very people for whom he had built his paper. Eggleston and Pulitzer crafted an unusually long editorial as the campaign season opened. The World, it said, sympathized with any candidate who stood against Wall Street's domination and for the creation of an income tax. But before the paper could throw its support to Bryan, it raised twenty ponderous objections to the more extreme elements in the party's platform—primarily those dealing with free silver. These policies, Pulitzer claimed, could destroy the economy. If Bryan disowned these planks, then he could win over the undecided voters. "You can, if you will, decide a majority of them to vote their party's ticket," the editorial promised, "as they would very much prefer to do if they can be satisfied that it will be right and safe to do so. Will you not try to convince them?" But it was really Pulitzer who needed convincing. He strongly opposed McKinley's candidacy but could not bring himself to support Bryan. In hopes of resolving this quandary, he lured Creelman back to the paper to take on a special assignment. Creelman was to follow Bryan's campaign tour. But he was to write for two audiences: the World's readers and its publisher. Each day he sent long reports to Bar Harbor, where they were read to Pulitzer, who immediately dictated questions that were wired back. At the end of the campaign, although it had been Creelman who logged thousands of miles as Pulitzer's political eyes and ears, it was the boss who complained of exhaustion. For his part, Hearst had no reservations in supporting Bryan. He published a free weekly campaign edition and covered the nominee's every move, speech, and utterance. His support was so unquestionable that the candidate himself sent a telegram on election eve to Hearst, thanking him for it. Bryan went down to defeat but the Journal did not. Hearst had beaten Pulitzer at his own game. On the basis of his battle with the Sun in 1884, Pulitzer had anticipated that Bryan's defeat would be a crippling blow to the Journal, which had been the only major Park Row newspaper to support the insurgent Democrat in the decidedly anti-silver New York. But Pulitzer was wrong. Hearst's alliance with the Bryan campaign gave the Journal exactly what it needed. Its vigorous support for a champion of the underdog established the Journal as the city's brash newspaper for the masses and an entertaining jester of established politics while the World equivocated. In thirteen years, Pulitzer's World had gone from being the bad boy of Park Row to being a stodgy defender of the political establishment. As he had done after other setbacks, Pulitzer reacted to this one by leaving New York. Taking his old friend and editor John Dillon with him, he sailed for the Riviera, leaving his family to celebrate Christmas without him. His first stop, Monte Carlo, proved to be a nightmare. The bells of ships in the harbor rang incessantly. Two decades earlier, he had defended a church in St. Louis that rang its bells at night. Now such tolling tormented him. Scrambling, his assistants located a more suitable refuge at Hotel Cap Martin on a peninsula to the east, bathed in sea air perfumed by tangerines, lemons, and orange groves. The beauty of the setting did little to lighten Pulitzer's mood. "I have never seen him so steadily and persistently gloomy or in so deep a gloom," Alfred Butes, an English secretary who had joined Pulitzer's retinue, wrote to Kate back in New York. "His health is worse than at any time in years," Butes said. Pulitzer moped behind closed shutters, bored, and fretting about the children. "He needs more gaiety around him. And, unfortunately, that must always be accompanied by noise. Dear! Oh Dear! It's a big problem. And we haven't solved it yet." Efforts to relieve Pulitzer's ills continued, though with a touch of the comic. Dr. Ernst Schweninger, famous for helping the hefty German chancellor Bismarck lose weight, was brought to the hotel for two days of treatments. To Pulitzer, the bearded, beady-eyed doctor looked like a wild anarchist and also seemed to act like one. "He says Mr. P. can be practically cured," Butes told Kate. "Probably could, I think, if he could survive the remedies which seem too almost drastic. I hear he laid Mr. P. down on the floor and knelt on his stomach! This is the latest, most scientific way of forcing a man to take a deep breath—and it is humorous too!" Pulitzer gave up claret and cigars, but these New Year's resolutions were soon broken. "I am, in fact, kept busy from morning to night with massages and exercises," he reported to Kate. "But I have been so miserable yet in spite of, or perhaps, on account of this, I am more miserable in some respects (physical) than I have been in years." As soon as the Atlantic weather reports became encouraging, the party headed back to New York. After years of wandering the globe, Pulitzer had become expendable. In fact, his original newspaper, the Post-Dispatch, functioned smoothly and successfully in the hands of seasoned editors and managers, with only the occasional counsel from its owner. But ceding control of his beloved World to others would be an admission of surrender to his blindness and infirmities. The World was his public identity. When other newspapers or politicians cited it, they always referred to it as "Pulitzer's World." He could not give that up. It had been what he had worked to achieve, and the paper remained his greatest love. Instead, Pulitzer continued to delegate broad, but overlapping, powers to an executive council of his top three or four men. No one man had dominion over the paper or even his own portion of the operation. A single telegram sent by Pulitzer from some distant city could reduce anyone's power in an instant. Every move his men made was second-guessed. The only certainty was that each man knew that the others were watching and reporting his every move to Pulitzer in an endless series of diaries read aloud by his secretaries. This gave the council an atmosphere of intrigue reminiscent of the Roman senate. Compounding the council's woes was Pulitzer's constant vacillating over how much power to cede to his managers. One moment he would tell them to act on their own; the next minute he would micromanage even the smallest decision. For instance, Pulitzer became annoyed when he learned that one of his lieutenants had a sign saying "Editorial Manager" on his door. He sent detailed instruction to Seitz to inform the painting department that no such sign should be made without his explicit approval and to arrange for the offending sign to be removed. "But," he added quickly, "really do it early in the morning so that nobody will notice it." As the day neared in January 1897 for Pulitzer's ship from Europe to reach New York, the World's staff was put to work preparing written reports that could be read to him by those secretaries whose voices he preferred. Butes bluntly instructed Seitz on the boss's preferences. "He asks for this as conversation—especially conversations with you—has a headachy tendency and really does not furnish him with the same large number of facts which you can produce on paper." (Pulitzer also refused to eat with Seitz, because Seitz crunched his toast, smacked his lips, and talked with food in the mouth.) Pulitzer stayed in New York only long enough to receive his many reports. He discovered that his lieutenants, especially Brisbane, whom he had put in charge of the Sunday flagship edition and all news coverage, had boosted the World's circulation by descending into a sensationalist word-to-word combat with the Journal. Hearst had not only succeeded in gaining circulation but had also lured the World down into what many people in the city regarded as gutter journalism. The World had always had a sensationalistic streak, and the libel lawsuits to prove it. But in its desperate competition with Hearst the paper's baser tendencies were unrestrained. What had been called "new journalism" was soon disparagingly renamed "Yellow," after Richard F. Outcault's comic strip. His "Hogan's Alley," published in the World, was one of the first Sunday color comics. It featured the immensely popular tenement adventures of the "Yellow Kid," an odd-looking child in a long yellow nightshirt. Hearst coveted it, as he did all the World's other successes; and he lured Outcault away from Pulitzer. Since the World retained the rights to it, "Hogan's Alley" continued to appear, and both papers published Sunday comics featuring a yellow kid. These gave rise to the term "Yellow Journalism" to describe the antics of the World and the Journal. Clubs and libraries around the city began to have doubts about permitting these newspapers in their reading rooms. The General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen ordered that the World and Journal be removed from its reading rooms. "There can be no doubt that these two papers exercise a most demoralizing influence upon adults, and that they tend to corrupt the minds of the coming generation," a trustee of the society told a reporter from the New York Times, which gleefully printed his remarks. The Young Men's Christian Association Library in Brooklyn had avoided the Journal; now it dumped the World. "The paper brought into our rooms a very undesirable class of readers," said the librarian. Pulitzer knew nothing of the boycott. "It has been carefully kept from his knowledge by his family and secretaries," recalled an employee at the World, "and upon his arrival in the golden dome he made many discoveries which should have revealed to him the weakness of his system of espionage and divided responsibilities, but it made him only more strenuous in keeping tabs on each one of his aides and stricter in requiring daily accounts of everything published in his paper." Pulitzer now realized to his horror that Hearst's Journal threatened not only his financial success but the World's reputation and political power, which he valued above all. He directed his editors to focus their energy less on competing with the Journal and more on improving the character of the World. Recovering the respect and confidence of the public, he told them, would destroy "the notion that we are in the same class with the Journal, in recklessness and unreliability." He also instructed Seitz to dig deeper into Hearst's operation. "Please find somebody in Journal office with whom you can connect to discover who furnished their ideas, who is dissatisfied and obtainable or available even in the second class of executive ranks. We are getting shorter and shorter and need recruiting." In a state of depression and panic, Pulitzer fled to Jekyll Island. His private Pullman train beat the one bearing J. P. Morgan to Brunswick, Georgia, by fifteen minutes. The Jekyll Club's management, sensitive to the animosity between the two tycoons, sent separate steamships to ferry them from Brunswick to the island. On Jekyll Island, Pulitzer inspected his newest purchase, a magnificent three-story wood-shingled cottage with rounded corners and large second-story porch. After a month's rest, Pulitzer went to Washington, where he rented a mansion—Kate called it a mausoleum—from the widow of a Civil War general, who had preserved and kept on display all of her late husband's swords, uniforms, and other relics. Joseph sent for Seitz and began to hold court for Democrats, now once again as far removed from power as they had been before Cleveland's election in 1884. Among those who came to see Pulitzer was the Democratic Party's standard-bearer. Despite his defeat, Bryan remained the most important figure in the party. Pulitzer had given orders to his staff to treat him kindly. But together in the same room, the two argued vigorously. When Bryan prepared to leave, Pulitzer asked to run his hands over Bryan's face. Bryan took Pulitzer's hands, with their long delicate fingers, into his and passed them over his jaw. "You see, Mr. Pulitzer, I am a fighter," said Bryan. In turn, Pulitzer took Bryan's hands and ran them over his bearded jaw and chin. "You see I am one, too," he said. When Pulitzer reached Bar Harbor in early summer, he received good news. His long fight against Jones was over. In the two years since he had given Jones dominion over the Post-Dispatch in order to get him out of New York, the paper had became an embarrassing thorn in Pulitzer's side. Here he was waging an editorial war in the World against the Bryan tide and Jones had turned the Post-Dispatch into a proponent of free silver. As a result, Pulitzer looked like an opportunist who supported free silver where it was strong and opposed it where it was weak. Almost as soon as Jones had arrived in St. Louis, Pulitzer had launched an internecine corporate war to rectify his blunder of giving Jones control of the Post-Dispatch. It spilled over into the courts and went all the way to the Missouri supreme court, which ruled that Jones's contract was ironclad. Pulitzer won a small victory, though, by paying for the lawsuit with profits Jones had generated at the Post-Dispatch. Jones grew tired of his struggles with the obstinate publisher and sought terms of surrender. In June, Pulitzer agreed to pay Jones $100,000 to resign and return the stock he held. The agreement stipulated that no announcement of the change would be made. The paper, Pulitzer instructed, would make Jones's departure known only by its return to Pulitzer's editorial positions. "Don't want a word of national politics except against tariff, trusts, monopoly, plutocracy, corruption...not one word about Chicago platform and free silver this year." With the Jones episode at an end and no elections of importance in sight, Pulitzer turned to his own personal wants. Even though he already owned a palace in Maine, with its "tower of silence" a house on Fifty-Fifth Street in New York; and a hideaway on Jekyll Island, Pulitzer suddenly had a hankering to acquire William Rockefeller's Rockwood Hall, on the Hudson River. Rockefeller's public complaint about the taxes on this estate gave the impression he might sell it. Pulitzer sent Dillon and Seitz, who were well used to running personal errands for their boss, to investigate—under strict instructions of secrecy, especially about whom they represented. The men telegraphed Pulitzer a full report on the house, furniture, riding trails, and cost of maintaining the grounds, and even on whether trains could be heard from inside the house. In the end, though, the secret mission was a waste of time. As a phone call might have determined, Rockefeller had no interest in selling Rockwood. Investing in the Rockefeller mansion would have been fiscal folly that wiser heads would have counseled Pulitzer to abandon anyway. Aside from Dumont Clarke, who managed his personal fortune, Pulitzer trusted J. Angus Shaw, who watched over the finances of the World. The news from Shaw was terrifying. The nearly $1 million income that Pulitzer had drawn from the World each year had fallen to less than $350,000. Pulitzer ordered budget cuts and payroll reductions. But he knew that he could not economize his way out of the financial free fall the World had taken since Hearst's arrival in New York. Unless he, or his editors, came up with a solution, Pulitzer's fate would be like that of Dana and the Sun in 1884. The World would recede into history as an interesting episode in American journalism. No one was exempt from the reductions—not even Kate, who did not take kindly to the idea. Several years before, she and Joseph had worked out an agreement that she was to receive $6,000 a month to run the household and to cover her personal expenses and those of the children. But Kate continued to accumulate debts in Europe and New York. She told Butes the bills had to be paid. "I count, as I always do, upon you," she wrote, "to make things as little disagreeable as possible. "Money is such a contemptible thing to so constantly fight about," Kate told Butes, whom she had come to treat as a confidant. "I do not ask it for myself for I can do without money, the things I should love to do—the charities, the enumerable helpful things I could do for the openly poor and for the poor too proud and too well born to make their wants known. This is one of my crosses." In August 1897, Kate and Joseph were with their children at Chatwold in Maine. It was a rare moment of togetherness for the family, which had spread itself across two continents. Though Joseph and Kate often bickered about money, Kate had reconciled herself to her marriage. She had terminated her amorous relationship with Brisbane the previous year. "Separate you from me, if you think you must for your own peace of mind," Brisbane wrote upon receiving Kate's Dear John letter. "I am what I am, and I think you have seen and known the best of me. "You know that I admire you, and you know my other feelings. I do not write freely about such things, even on an anonymous machine," Brisbane typed. Yet, he offered a frank assessment of their differences. "I know first of all that no living man could ever satisfy you—and no dead one for that matter," he wrote. "As regards my feeling—change in my regard for you, etc.—you are entirely wrong. When you have urged me to make promises as to what I would or would not do, I have always told you that I could not make promises, and I think I have been more frank and truthful than many men would be—if they felt the anxiety I feel to have your good opinion." In the fall of 1897, Brisbane and Joseph broke up also. Brisbane yearned to write a column, with a byline, in the Evening World, over which Pulitzer had given him dominion. However, Pulitzer was unbending in his prohibition of signed editorial columns. Brisbane went ahead with his plan anyway. An angry Pulitzer suspended him. It was hardly a punishing move, now that the Journal's doors were open to any disgruntled editor from the World. Hearst offered to put Brisbane in charge of the Evening Journal and to give him a high enough salary to repay the $8,000 in advances he had taken from Pulitzer, with the promise of a bonus for a circulation increase. Brisbane would remain with Hearst for thirty-nine years and would become the nation's highest-paid editor and one of its best-read columnists. The social season at Bar Harbor was in full swing. "August follows in the wake of July with an array of brilliant events that must almost turn the summer girl's head," said one giddy society columnist. The Pulitzers joined in by giving Lucille a lavish coming-out party. Joseph, who continually complained about Kate's extravagances, agreed to spend $10,000 on the event. Chatwold "was transformed into a fairyland," according to one newspaper in Maine. More than 120 guests attended, most leaving with party favors—canaries in cages. Lucille made a classic debutante. She had Kate's abundant brown hair, sought-after porcelain skin, and her father's deep-set eyes, which conveyed an air of melancholy. "She was a most beautiful young girl, spiritual of face and distinguished in manner and with talents seldom equaled by a society girl of the Bar Harbor colony," said one observer. Of all his children, Lucille was the one who had not disappointed Joseph. She was most like him and the most willing to follow his social proscriptions and educational prescriptions. In comparison with her sisters, she took little interest in society and instead applied herself to her studies, learning to speak half a dozen languages, play musical instruments, and draw. Not long after the lavish soiree, Lucille developed a fever and complained of other ailments. Doctors diagnosed typhoid fever, which she had probably contracted from contaminated food or water. Cables summoned more doctors, including many of the physicians who had attended Pulitzer in New York and Europe. Nurses were assigned to Lucille's care twenty-four hours a day. Using steam and electricity, the house was heated and moistened like a tropical greenhouse. Despite everyone's best efforts, the disease took its brutal course. In October there was some improvement in the girl's health. "Thank God," Pulitzer wrote to his friend Tom Davidson, "Lucille is better and we are again hopeful of her convalescence." Merrill told Brisbane the good news. "I am sure you know that I am very glad of that," Brisbane wrote to Kate, "very glad for Lucille's own sake and very glad to think that you are free from worry." It was a false hope. The patient's condition worsened again, and by December there was little optimism in the house. "Poor Lucille is still very ill and I need not tell you that I have been worried almost to death," Pulitzer wrote to Davidson. "I have a frightful headache and am sick at heart and all broken up by Lucille's grave condition." As the winter holidays neared, Lucille rallied. She had made sure that each family member had a present. The Pulitzers spent Christmas Day together in her bedroom, joined by some of the household help to whom she was attached. Joseph, feeling more confident about Lucille's condition, made plans to move on to Jekyll Island after New Year's and sent his horse and a dozen servants ahead. Lucille's improvement, however, was a final, cruel deception. With both parents, and her brothers and sisters, by her side, Lucille died six days later, at four o'clock on New Year's Eve. It was left to Butes to inform the World. "Grieved to tell you poor Lucille just died," he telegraphed Norris. "Chief much broken. Send him no business." ## Chapter Twenty-Four ## YELLOW In the early morning of January 2, 1898, a private train lumbered from the railyard in Bangor, Maine, and headed south to pick up the Pulitzers at the Mount Desert ferry. The family had already held Lucille's funeral service at Chatwold, and all that remained now was to accompany her body home to New York. Two days later, on a cold morning, they gathered before a plot at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx that had been purchased fourteen years earlier for Lucille's baby sister Katherine. Reverend William Stephen Rainsford, the rector of the tony St. George's Church, read from the Book of Common Prayer as fine snow swirled in the breezes and thousands celebrated the early opening of the skating season in the adjacent Van Cortlandt Park. This was the second time the Pulitzers had buried a child. For Joseph, the ritual was a sorrowful return to his own childhood, when he saw all but one of his eight siblings go to the grave. Now, he was staggered by the loss of Lucille. For years afterward, Pulitzer looked for ways to commemorate her life. At first, he settled on establishing a perpetual Lucille Pulitzer Scholarship at Barnard College. In the end, he quietly dedicated one of his two most famous legacies to her. Only the inscription in the floor of the marble foyer of the Columbia University Journalism College reveals that the famous school was built in the "memory of my daughter Lucille." In death as in sickness, Lucille had brought Joseph, Kate, and the children together in a single place at a single time. The moment didn't last long. Joseph left immediately for Jekyll Island with two of the children. Kate returned to the house on Fifty-Fifth Street and to the care of her physician. She remained indoors for a month until her doctor convinced her that a trip would be beneficial. She enlisted her much-favored cousin Winnie Davis, who, never having married her Yankee beau, had come to spend increasing time in Kate's company. Together, with Ralph, on leave from Harvard, they departed for a sightseeing journey in Egypt. Meanwhile, Joseph remained in deep seclusion on Jekyll Island, with his faithful Dr. Hosmer, Butes, and a few aides for company. In a tender moment, he sent Kate an unusually warm message that included no reproaches. "Darling," she wrote back, "your telegram gave me great pleasure as any word of tenderness from you always does." Knowing that her communication would be read aloud, she continued, "Dr. Hosmer must hide his blushes now—I slept with it under my pillow. I think I forget I am an old married woman with five great children." The warmth between the two dissipated as Joseph's mood once again turned dark and frantic. He wanted Ralph to be working at the paper in New York rather than traipsing through Egypt with Kate. He became obsessed with this idea and didn't trust his secretaries to forward his orders. "He took the cable to the office himself as he evidently suspected Butes might not send it," Hosmer wrote to Kate. "The sudden change followed an attack of indigestion after two hours of work in his usual overwhelming style." Five hundred miles due south from Jekyll Island, on the moonless night of February 15, 1898, Lieutenant John Hood took a seat on the port side of the battleship Maine, anchored in Havana Bay. As chief watch officer, Hood had the duty of keeping vigil. His charge, the largest ship in the harbor, was the white-hulled Maine.* President McKinley had directed it to Havana two weeks earlier in a high-wire act of diplomatic and symbolic gestures aimed at placating the growing ranks of American supporters of Cuban independence while at the same time averting war with Spain. Hood hoisted his feet onto the rail and looked across the harbor at the lights of the city twinkling on the calm water's surface. In a flash, his reverie was shattered by an explosion coming from the front of the vessel. The massive ship lurched upward and was engulfed in flames. The harbor was illuminated by a brilliant white light. The repercussion burst windows and caused late-night strollers to dash for cover. Two of the World's correspondents ran to the harbor. Gazing across the water, they saw the Maine burning, its sinking hull lit by an exploding shell from the battleship's magazine. As it went off in the sky above, two ships circled below in search of survivors. There were fewer than ninety. Two-hundred-sixty-six men had died. Later that night, the Associated Press bulletin of the disaster broke the predawn calm in the World's city room in New York, where editors had just put the early editions to bed. The AP dispatch was soon followed by that of the paper's correspondents on the scene in Havana. Among those who got the news from the early edition of the World as it hit the streets was Arthur Brisbane, who by then had joined Carvalho and other World refugees at the Journal. His boss already knew. An early-morning telephone call from the office had awakened Hearst. "Have you put anything else on the front page?" Hearst asked the editor who called. "Only the other big news," he replied. "There is not any other big news. Please spread the story all over the page. This means war." Within twenty-four hours, the Journal was blaming the Spaniards for the destruction of the Maine and the loss of life. DESTRUCTION OF THE WAR SHIP MAINE WAS THE WORK OF AN ENEMY...NAVAL OFFICIALS THINK MAINE WAS DESTROYED BY A SPANISH MINE, screamed its front page, above a drawing showing a Spanish mine. The World began its coverage in a more circumspect fashion. MAINE EXPLOSION CAUSED BY BOMB OR TORPEDO? asked its headline, above its illustration of the ship exploding. But soon, its editors sounded as shrill as Hearst's: WORLD'S LATEST DISCOVERIES INDICATE MAINE WAS BLOWN UP BY SUBMARINE MINE. President McKinley begged the public to be patient while experts worked to determine the cause of the explosion. In the din, no one heard his pleas, especially on Park Row where the disaster released a pent-up war fever. The Cuban struggle, a dramatic and poignant fight for liberty so close to the American coast, was a story made for the newspapers. During the past two years, the World and the Journal had exploited every angle of the rebellion. It made for great reading, especially as the papers enlisted such writers as Stephen Crane and Richard Harding Davis. At times, the newspapers made their own news. The Journal, for instance, helped engineer the escape of an eighteen-year-old Spanish prisoner, described as Cuba's Joan of Arc, and brought her to New York. All journalistic conventions were thrown aside. It was almost as if the pages were not wide enough to accommodate either the headlines or the incendiary drawings. From the start, Hearst rode at the head of the pack clamoring for war. He led his reporters like troops into battle, dispatching artists and reporters by the dozen to Cuba, engaging yachts to ferry politicians to the island, offering rewards to anyone who could prove how the Spanish had blown up the Maine, and hammering the president for resisting the call to war. Every day the Journal outdid the World in size, scope, and drama, and often in readers. The Journal became the first American newspaper to circulate more than 1 million copies of its morning and evening editions, a goal Pulitzer had long sought for the World. There was an atmosphere of desperation under the gold dome of the Pulitzer Building as the publisher remained secluded on Jekyll Island, grieving over Lucille's death. The staff, from the editors at the top to the reporters on the beat, consisted of men and women whose loyalty ran so deep they had chosen to cast their lot with Pulitzer rather than Hearst. They were willing to do anything for their absent general, and not out of loyalty alone. Everyone knew that Pulitzer was pouring his own money into the paper to make up for the losses induced by Hearst. For those who remained at the World, losing to Hearst could mean the end to their careers. The staff struggled to match the Journal, but lacked the resources to compete effectively with Hearst. Unhappy at the prospect of subsidizing his money-losing papers, Pulitzer had ordered widespread budget cuts before the excitement over the Maine. To pay for the World's new Hoe color presses, Pulitzer had to sell stock. He even ordered an audit of Kate's spending. It found only a $20 discrepancy among the 2,472 checks written the prior year to cover her $77,000 in expenses. The epic battle did not pit Hearst against Pulitzer. Rather, it was Hearst against Pulitzer's leaderless troops in a helter-skelter twenty-four-hour-a-day competition. "An epoch of delirious journalism began the like of which newspaper readers had never known," said Charles Chapin, who was beginning his tenure as one of Pulitzer's most famous city editors. Unable to match Hearst's corps of correspondents in Cuba, the World took to pilfering stories from the Journal to fill out its coverage, a sin with which the Journal was not entirely unacquainted. No more stinging trap could have been laid than the one the Journal concocted for its rival. It was the same ruse Pulitzer had used to trick the Star when he was in St. Louis. The Journal printed a phony report about the heroics of a "Colonel Reflipe W. Thenuz," who was fatally wounded. After the World published its account of the good colonel's deeds, lifted entirely from the Journal, Hearst's headquarters gleefully announced that the colonel's name was an anagram that spelled "We pilfer the news." In April, when Pulitzer returned to New York, he surveyed a wreck. The World was losing its battle with Hearst, and losing badly. The newspaper that had once set the news agenda for the city, and sometimes for the nation, was engaged in a futile game of catch-up. "It has been beaten on its own dunghill by the Journal, which has bigger type, bigger pictures, bigger war scares, and a bigger bluff," Town Topics gleefully reported. "If Mr. Pulitzer had his eyesight he would not be content to play second fiddle to the Journal and allow Mr. Hearst to set the tone." From the command post of his house, Joseph again tried to fix what ailed the World. Ralph was also back in the city, having jumped on the first available ship in Cairo after receiving his father's recall order. He was bewildered and filled with anxiety about his father's command, but Joseph hardly noticed his arrival. "Mr. P. is solidly absorbed in the paper and the war times just now," Pulitzer's man George Ledlie reported to Kate, "and though I am forbidden to say so—looks and seems very well." Trying once more to rearrange the hierarchy in his paper, Pulitzer decided that the triumvirate, which he called "the sacred college," was a failure. The World needed a captain, one among the men who would have more power than the others. He turned to Bradford Merrill, whom he had recruited from the New York Press two years earlier. Merrill was summoned to the house. "You are to have general supervision over all editions of the World, subject only to my own instructions and that of the board of managers, of which you are a member," Pulitzer told him. "I want things done, and I don't want time wasted on consultations. I want men in charge to act, not wait for someone else." Pulitzer was eager to put the brakes on the paper's outlandish journalistic practices. Under Merrill, each edition was to have one editor in charge. "But," said Pulitzer firmly, "this does not relieve you of your duty of reading the papers every day, criticizing, complaining, stopping bad tendencies, killing bad schemes, vetoing sensationalism, suggesting, proposing, curbing, stimulating." Confident that Merrill would keep the staff in check, Pulitzer turned to the question of the day: should the United States go to war? There was no doubt that the Journal was champing at the bit for war. The Sun said war could not come soon enough. Almost every major metropolitan newspaper favored either war or the threat of one if Spain did not comply with American demands. Pulitzer joined the chorus. But to do so he had to support war only as a last resort, in order not to contradict his support of international arbitration three years earlier during the Venezuelan crisis. He had not renounced the idea. Only the year before, he had instructed Seitz to publish a pamphlet on arbitration and send it to every member of the Senate "with compliments of the World." "If we are on the brink of a conflict it is due to the deliberate policy of Spain—not to a desire for war by our people, by our President, or by our Congress. If Spain were to yield, even now, peace would be assured," Pulitzer began his signed editorial that appeared on his fifty-first birthday. "God forbid that the World should ever advocate an unnecessary war!" But, listing instigations ranging from the years of Spanish oppression in Cuba to the destruction of the Maine, he said the time had come for military intervention. "No lover of peace, no lover of justice, no lover of his country ought to hesitate in urging the government to strike one swift and decisive blow, now that the conflict is made inevitable by the mad folly of Spain." The war would be short and thus merciful, Pulitzer concluded. The government ought to send the fleet to Cuba and Puerto Rico, where it would easily overcome the Spanish. "With these islands captured the affair will be over—and Cuba free. It would hardly be a war, but it would be magnificent." On April 19, 1898, Congress gave President McKinley authority to use force against Spain. Three weeks later, Commodore George Dewey sailed his squadron into Manila Bay in the Philippines and in six hours overwhelmed the Spanish ships in the harbor. By then, Pulitzer was already miles from New York. Upon completing his pro-war editorial, he left for England on the Majestic. Ledlie raised Kate's hopes that Joseph had overcome the grief he had felt on Jekyll Island and "that you will be greeted on the other side by a reasonable gentleman who I think begins to be anxious to get over where you are." It was a wishful prognosis. Joseph remained unsettled by Lucille's death and distracted by the mortal combat facing his cherished World. He wandered aimlessly in England and France for several weeks. His somber mood was not even lightened when he saw Kate and his youngest daughter in Aix-les-Bains. "When are we going to see you again?" Constance wrote plaintively after her father departed without leaving a word. On his return to the United States, Pulitzer could not bring himself to open Chatwold for the summer so soon after Lucille's slow death there. Compounding his anguish were an Atlantic crossing marred by asthma attacks and a discouraging consultation with his eye doctor upon reaching New York. Instead, Pulitzer engaged a mansion at Narragansett Pier, Rhode Island, on a sea bluff overlooking a beach where he walked each day in the company of one of his men. The "Journal's war," as Hearst called it, or the "splendid little war," as a friend writing to Theodore Roosevelt described it, was a romp. Hundreds of thousands had volunteered for duty. Roosevelt gave up his post as assistant secretary of the navy to become a colonel of the U.S First Volunteer Cavalry, bound for Cuba. He sent a telegram to Brooks Brothers in New York to make him a uniform of blue cravenette. On the island, he led a regiment of Rough Riders in his famous charge up San Juan Hill. One of the most media-savvy politicians of the era, Roosevelt had made sure the press was along for the ride. By the war's end in August, both the Journal and the World had achieved record heights of circulation but were drowning in an ocean of red ink. Pulitzer had no mother with profitable copper mines to pay for his deficits. The World's executives were summoned to Narragansett. The pressure was on to cut expenses. Pulitzer punishingly lectured the business manager, John Norris, for excessive spending, at one point pinning him against a railing on the boardwalk. Also coming to Narragansett were Winnie Davis, now thirty-three years old, and her mother, Varina, who took up quarters in its fashionable resort hotel. Since returning from her trip to Egypt with Kate, Winnie had basked in her new fame as a writer. Her new novel, set in a summer house at Bar Harbor, was earning praise, and she remained the darling of the South. Only a few days before arriving in Rhode Island, Confederate veterans attending their annual reunion in Atlanta had thrown their hats into the air when she entered the hall to a general's proclamation of "Comrades, behold our daughter!" The trip through the South, however, was too taxing for Winnie, whose health was fragile. After riding in an open carriage through a heavy summertime Atlanta rain, she fell ill. Upon reaching Narragansett, she was confined to her hotel room. At first the gastritis from which the doctors concluded she suffered seemed like a surmountable problem, but as the days wore on she continued to decline. In early September, the Rockingham Hotel closed for the season but permitted her to remain in her room. A short time later, the Pulitzer home once again was in turmoil as a young woman died. On September 21, 1898, dressed in white muslin with white satin trim, Davis lay in a casket in the hotel lobby. The following day an escort of Union veterans escorted the coffin carrying the "daughter of the confederacy" to the train station, where Kate Pulitzer and others joined it for the journey to Richmond. Thousands waited there for the funeral. Pulitzer, who still avoided funerals whenever he could, left for Europe, taking with him David Graham Phillips, his favorite at the paper, who was now working as an editorial writer and whom he continued to groom for bigger things. Their stay in London and Paris was short, and by the end of the month they were back in New York. The World was desperate for Pulitzer's attention. It clung to a tenuous lead over the Journal. Before the war, the average combined daily and Sunday circulation of the World had been 419,000, to the Journal's 270,000. Since then, the World had lost more than 78,000 readers while the Journal had gained 46,000. "The circulation comparisons are menacing," Norris wrote to Pulitzer in a lengthy appraisal of the competitors' positions. On the advertising side, the situation was equally dire. Norris, along with Seitz, worked assiduously to deduce Hearst's income. They estimated that Hearst had spent $4 million in his first three years and that he had access to another $5 million. The Journal's circulation revenue was easy to compute. But it took rulers to measure the advertising space and rate cards to calculate the revenue from advertising. They determined that the Journal was earning less than half of what the World took in. But the Journal was coming on strong. A buoyant Hearst predicted that his paper would be profitable in 1899. More ominous for Pulitzer was that Hearst's success could not entirely account for the decline of his own paper. The World's decreases in circulation and advertising revenue exceeded the Journal's gains. As Seitz succinctly put it to Pulitzer, "The World has lost more than the Journal has taken from it." Fighting the Journal for readers on its terms had proved financially disastrous. The World was outmatched in every attempt to be more yellow than Hearst's editors and reporters. In the end, the effort left Pulitzer's reputation in tatters and his name inextricably linked to Hearst's. With the war—the main excuse for the excesses—at an end, Pulitzer decided that the time had come to try to restore some sanity to the World. At eleven in the morning on November 28, 1898, the World's reporters from all shifts and beats gathered in the city room under the gold dome. From the windows, they could look beyond the East River, across to Brooklyn, and out to sea. All of Manhattan was at their feet, giving reporters who watched over the city day and night a cocky sense of power. On this day, one could hardly see across the room. Though it stretched out 100 feet or more, there was not much space for this large a group. The place was already crammed with typewriter-topped desks of antique ash, standing back to back, side to side, creating a maze of aisles. Pasted on the walls and columns were large printed cards that read: "Accuracy, Accuracy!" "Who? What? When? How?" and "The Facts—the Color—the Facts." The typewriters were still and the copy boys quiet as the men and women turned toward a platform at the end of the room, normally the city editor's perch, where Seitz; Merrill; William Van Benthuysen, the Sunday editor; and other managers stood. Never before had the reporters seen a meeting like this one. Each man took a turn speaking about the excesses of the past two years, confessing his own failings as if at an addiction meeting. "The great mistakes which have been made—I speak with modesty, because I have made a number of them myself—have been caused by an excess of zeal," said Merrill. "There is and has been for two years, as you know, a fierce competition," Seitz told the group. "This has developed a tendency to rush things. It has not been to the advantage of any newspaper so doing. The World feels that it is time for the staff to learn definitely and finally that it must be a normal newspaper." "Sensational? Yes, when the news is sensational," added Van Benthuysen. "But the demand is this, that every story which is sensational in itself must also be truthful." In St. Louis, Pulitzer's old competitor Charles Knapp, who published the Missouri Republican, now renamed the Republic, decided to make a bid to dominate the city's newspaper market. Ever since Pulitzer had left the city, Knapp had longed for a chance to merge with the Post-Dispatch as his competitor, the Missouri Democrat, had done with the Globe. At first, Pulitzer had been uninterested in selling his paper. But Knapp figured that the well-known headaches arising from Jones's tenure at the Post-Dispatch and the losses incurred by the World might have changed Pulitzer's mind. His initial contact confirmed his hunch, and Knapp left for the East. Pulitzer assigned the business manager, Norris, to meet with Knapp in Washington. After days of discussion, with some sessions lasting eleven hours, they had made little headway. Pulitzer was no help. He sent Norris new demands each time the two negotiators made any progress. Pulitzer was of two minds. He said he was not averse to disposing of the Post-Dispatch, but he couldn't go through with it when he was faced with the reality of such a proposition. Pulitzer sent Norris bewildering instructions. "You should drop it and not waste your time but concentrate on the World which needs you badly enough. But if Knapp should come back with something reasonable, you will communicate it. In fact, you will communicate to me anyhow what he says." With Pulitzer blowing hot and cold, Knapp made a final effort. He went to Jekyll Island to meet Pulitzer directly. His timing was poor. Pulitzer was in a testy mood from frayed nerves and sleeplessness. A morning together and a lunch brought the two men no closer to an agreement than before. Knapp gave up and left. Kate was also buffeted by Joseph's stormy temper. She made the mistake of writing him about a problem in New York involving a household servant. "Mr. P. wishes not to be bothered on this matter any further," Butes wrote back. "He read eight letters on the subject yesterday besides your own—which is an outrageous waste of time. "He is sorry you have not been able to come down here," Butes continued. "And he asked you will not telegraph him as the expectation of telegrams keeps him in a very nervous condition. It is especially desirable that he should not get messages about sickness in the family unless really serious. They depress him and, of course, are unnecessary as he can be of no possible help." By May 1899, when Pulitzer left for England in the company of his old partner Dillon and his son Ralph, he was in better spirits. A greater sense of calm had been restored at the World, and fiscally its house was being put in order. Although its circulation had dropped to prewar levels, so had its expenditures. It remained the best place in New York to advertise and the revenue now produced a profit rather than paying for far-flung war coverage, excessive press runs, and outlandish circulation campaigns. Pulitzer told his staff to send no cables for a month, unless they were "supremely important." In Kensington he leased a different manor from the last one, and was sorely disappointed. "The barracks next door are just about as bad as they could possibly be, bugles at night, in the morning at six, there are four clocks or chimes, and peacocks in the neighborhood, all conspiring to spoil my much-needed repose." In Britain, Pulitzer tested out several new secretarial candidates. The search for suitable companions remained an unsolvable problem for his aides. Pulitzer was impossible to please. Guests found being with him hard enough—they had to put up with his strictures against slurping soup or crunching on toast—but those who worked directly for him endured intolerable demands. One candidate, who quit after two weeks, told Pulitzer that one result of his having spent so many years bossing people was that he no longer knew how to relate to others. "You have therefore become so used to command that any other position with regard to those always with you became impossible to you. "You must forgive me a further observation. Like all very successful men you have a degree of contempt for those whose lives have been to some extent failures," continued the very frank candidate. "You cannot help letting them feel that you regard them, through being in the necessity of taking such a position, an inferiority in life." Pulitzer headed back to the United States without the hoped-for addition to his private staff. With the World past its crisis, he was eager to indulge his passion for presidential elections. Before sailing, Pulitzer told the British press that Bryan was likely to be the Democratic nominee in 1900 and hinted that the World might support his candidacy this time around. "That all depends upon his good sense or folly," said Pulitzer. If Bryan was willing to drop his support of free silver, he would have a united party behind him, Pulitzer predicted. If he refused, he would lose. That summer Pulitzer reopened Chatwold, which had been unoccupied for more than a year and a half. His return to his hideaway in Maine was marred by his dissatisfaction with the remodeling of the "tower of silence." When he inspected his study he found that it was still not soundproof, and the lighting proved inadequate. The builder wanted $108,000, 250 percent more than the initial estimate. Pulitzer refused to pay the bill. His house in New York also created unexpected expenses. The city's fire marshal warned Pulitzer that unless he made some alterations, the house's current condition might prove disastrous. He reminded Pulitzer that two fires had already occurred because of defective flues. Pulitzer, who had survived the deadly fire at the Southern Hotel in St. Louis, was not one to argue. He fixed the flues, constructed an enclosed fire escape in the rear of the building, repaired the electric lights, and installed a fire alarm in his valet's room. Kate joined Joseph in Maine only briefly, preferring instead to divide her time between New York and Hot Springs, Virginia. Joseph's intolerant behavior had not abated since his grief-filled stay on Jekyll Island, and her patience with him was at a low point. It didn't help, either, that Joseph had instructed his cashier to cut $160 from her $6,000 monthly allowance, for customs duty he had paid on her behalf. Angus Shaw, the World's cashier, who was used to being in the financial crossfire between the couple, warned her, "I suppose you will understand it, but I thought it best to let you know in case of any misunderstanding." The relationship was getting back to normal. ## Chapter Twenty-Five ## THE GREAT GOD SUCCESS One icy night in February 1891, firefighters responding to a call from the New York post office were told that cries could be heard coming from one of the ventilation shafts on the sidewalk. The tin vents led from an underground engine room where the fire was raging, and flames were coming up through them. When the firefighters toppled the vent, a thirteen-year-old boy scrambled out, mostly unhurt. Told that his friend was still inside, the rescuers saw what appeared to be a bundle of burning rags. They reached in and pulled out a seventeen-year-old newsboy, John Gardarino, his clothes on fire. Gardarino was one of thousands of children on whose work the fortunes of Pulitzer and other newspaper barons rested. In cold or heat, in rain or shine, these boys stood on street corners; in front of theaters, restaurants, and clubs; in train stations; and on the docks hawking Park Row's newspapers. In the end, for all their high-speed color presses, telegraph lines connecting all points on the globe, and other technological marvels, the newspapers needed this army of street urchins to reach their readers. The injured teenager had made the fatal mistake of curling up in the ventilation shaft for the night. He could not face his family, in a Crosby Street tenement, because he had failed to sell all his newspapers that day—or perhaps had gambled away his earnings in a crap game. Because of his shame, he lay dying in a New York hospital. Newsies, as boys like Gardarino were called, played a particularly prominent role in the cutthroat competition between Pulitzer's Evening World and Hearst's Evening Journal. Despite their names, these editions began publishing in the morning and continued all day. When the news merited "extras," they might be on the streets every hour of the day and late into the night, numbered in bewildering fashion, and even printed on paper of different colors in order to gain a competitive edge. On any street corner, a New Yorker with a penny could buy a newspaper with news as fresh as the ink. Since most copies of the evening papers were sold on the street, rather than delivered to homes like the morning paper, their sales depended greatly on a partnership between the headline writers and the newsies—almost like that of a playwright and an actor. The editors would craft an oversize attention-grabbing headline, and the newsies would work the street by calling it out. The right kind of headline—TINY TOT WITH PENNY CLUTCHED IN CHUBBY HAND DIES UNDER TRAM BEFORE MOTHER'S EYES—could clean out an entire run of the paper. The Spanish-American War had been a boon for newsboys. They sold every copy of the World or Journal they could carry, even when the papers increased their press runs. Inside the Pulitzer building, however, the World's managers desperately sought ways to comply with the publisher's order to stem its deficit. Raising its price was out of the question, because that would be a signal of defeat in the struggle against Hearst. Cutting salaries was also out of the question. Reporters would jump to the Journal, and the unionized compositors and printers were untouchable. The newsies became the target of choice. The World raised the wholesale price of the paper from 50 cents per 100 to 60 cents. The Journal also raised its wholesale price, but all the other newspapers did not. Trimming a dime from a newsboy's take might not seem like much. But when this amount was spread over the paper's vast circulation, it could make up an entire annual deficit of nearly $1 million. Pulitzer's managers bet that the ragtag collection of immigrant children, who often didn't even speak the same language, could hardly put up much resistance. They were wrong. At first, the newsies tolerated the price increase. Selling sixty papers was easy during the wartime excitement. But in 1899, when newspaper sales decreased at the end of hostilities, the newsies grew anxious. Each day as they lined up on Park Row to get their bundles, the decision of how many papers to purchase weighed on their minds. Buy too few and miss out on profitable sales; buy too many and lose money. The newsies demanded that the World and the Journal return to their prewar wholesale price, the same as other newspapers charged. Pulitzer and Hearst refused. On July 18, 1899, a delivery driver for the World in Long Island City stuffed his bundles with free sample copies of the paper and sold them to unsuspecting newsboys. When they figured out what had happened, they demanded their money back. He refused, and the boys tipped his wagon over and ran him off. Word of their action spread and soon all the newsies were on strike. Within a day, customers looking for their afternoon paper found newsboys without newspapers and signs pinned to their jackets such as "Please don't buy the Evening Journal and World, because the newboys has striked" or "I ain't a scab." The strike exacted an immediate toll on the evening papers. "You could walk a mile without seeing one," one correspondent wrote home. Pulitzer got word of the strike just as he arrived in Bar Harbor after months in Europe. "Practically all the boys in New York and in many of the adjacent towns have quit selling," Seitz told his boss. "A call is out for a mass meeting of the boys in front of the Pulitzer Building and we have just been compelled to ask the police for assistance in the matter." The other newspapers were of no help. Except for the Journal, they were not targets of the boys' strike and were jubilantly running editorials in support of it. But enemies with a common foe can find ground for cooperation. Two days after the newsboys began their action, Hearst's business manager Solomon Carvalho and Seitz got together. "I have just been over to see Carvalho in a long conference in the matter," Seitz told Pulitzer. "We have determined to hire as many men as possible Monday to man selling points in sufficient force to overwhelm any assault that could be made upon them and to force a representation of the paper on the streets." Advertisers abandoned the papers in droves and demanded refunds as the circulation of the Evening Journal and the Evening World collapsed. "It is really a very extraordinary demonstration," Seitz told Pulitzer. "The people seem to be against us; they are encouraging the boys and tipping them and where they are not doing this, they are refraining from buying the papers for fear of having them snatched from their hands." Using homeless men whom Seitz had recruited, many under protection of the police, the evening editions of the Journal and World returned to the streets on Monday and managed to remain for several days, but with far reduced sales. "Our policy of putting men out was not helpful," Seitz admitted to Pulitzer, "yet it was the only thing that could be done. We had to have representation and the absolute disappearance of the paper was appalling." As the strike continued, Seitz kept Pulitzer informed at all times of the paper's hard-line policy, including the use of police to break up gatherings of the children. When they could, the boys attacked scabs, although, in a chivalrous gesture, they stayed clear of a few newsstands run by women. They did their best to continue their strike. "Ain't that ten cents worth as much as it is to Hearst and Pulitzer who are millionaires," Kid Blink, one of their leaders, told the thousands of newsies who came to a rally. But problems soon emerged. Blink was chased by strikers who thought he had been bought off when they spotted him near Park Row wearing new clothes and carrying a roll of bills. Other leaders were similarly accused of accepting bribes, and an increasing number of boys were seen selling the boycotted papers again. A clever ruse brought an end to the strike. The World and the Journal told their agents and drivers to start permitting the newsboys to return unsold copies for credit. This modest improvement was enough to bring the boys back to work. However, 60 percent of the income would continue to remain with the newspapers. Absorbing the modest cost of some unsold papers was a small price for this victory. Furthermore, the credit scheme would create an incentive for the newsies to remain on the street longer, selling fresher editions of the newspaper. Facing the resolute partnership of the Journal and the World, and weakened by the collapse of their leadership and by desertions among their ranks, the newsboys surrendered on the afternoon of July 26. "The leaders came in to me and threw up their hands," Seitz said. He immediately wired Pulitzer. "Strike broken. Much work required to restore circulation and rehabilitate the paper with the public." He then announced the strike's end to the newspapers. It had taken the two powerful newspapers only a week to dispense with this publicly awkward and economically powerless challenge. All through it, Pulitzer had remained silent. Twenty years earlier, during his first months of running the Post-Dispatch, he had been similarly confronted by newsboys who wanted a higher share of the paper's sale price. He stood his ground then, without resorting to strike breakers or the police, and even expressing sympathy with the newsboys' demands. At that time, however, as a struggling publisher trying to resurrect a bankrupt newspaper, he had limited financial options. This was no longer an excuse. The World was the richest and most successful newspaper enterprise in the nation. At any time Pulitzer could have put an end to the strike by giving the boys a chance to sell the World at the same rate as they sold other papers. But he chose not to. Although he himself had once been a teenager living on the streets of New York, Pulitzer showed no mercy over a dime. When David Graham Phillips completed his brief tour as the World's London correspondent, Pulitzer brought him back. First, Phillips worked on the news side of the paper. Then, at the suggestion of Brisbane (before he left to join Hearst), Pulitzer moved his protégé to the editorial page. This was the rarest of benedictions. The editorial page was the most important part of the World for Pulitzer. "As Mary Stuart said about her heart being left in France as she sailed for Scotland," he later confessed to Hosmer, my "heart was and still is in the editorial page and will be in spirit." Phillips was one of four men assigned to William Merrill in charge of "the Page," as it was reverently called. The quartet included John Dillon, Pulitzer's original partner on the Post-Dispatch; George Eggleston, who had worked with Pulitzer on fighting Bryan in 1896; and James W. Clarke, known for his interviews. Housed in the dome, they worked in small cubbyholes. Phillips turned his into such a mess that the cleaning woman complained about the crumbled balls of paper—from false starts on editorials—strewn over the floor. The pressure was immense. Not only were the opinions of the World read in the seats of government and widely reproduced by other newspapers, but they never escaped the attention of the boss. Every editorial of importance was read aloud twice to Pulitzer. He pushed the men to produce their best possible work, often admonishing them to write less but better. He wanted the paper to speak with one voice. "Indeed, you might talk to Dillon and Phillips and request them 'for the 400th time' to write in a similar vein," Pulitzer instructed Merrill. One could never please Pulitzer. One moment he would ban comments on political subjects, only to complain later that the page was devoid of politics. In the summer of 1899, in the midst of the newsboys' strike, he unloaded his complaints. He telegraphed Merrill and instructed that his words be read aloud to Phillips and Eggleston. "It is dictated, as you see, angrily but yet deliberately for telegraphing," Pulitzer said. "Either the editors have opinions which they are afraid to express, or they have no opinions. In either case they do not do their duty. I am tired of being both a scapegoat and scarecrow; held responsible for the very things I dislike." Despite the outburst, which most of his writers knew would pass like a summer storm, Pulitzer continued to view Phillips as his potential journalistic heir. He reserved personal guidance for Phillips that he gave no one else. Inviting him to Bar Harbor at the end of the summer, Pulitzer promised that together they would review his work and development since he had joined the World. "Promise me also to insist very emphatically—for I am so cowardly about criticizing sensitive and delicate, likeable persons, that I am sure to run away from it unless you use a club," Pulitzer continued. "Promise me further that you will use that club—with the understanding that it is for your own good, for the sake of your future. Mine is behind me, as you know." Pulitzer, however, was unaware that Phillips had a different future in mind. Over drinks, Phillips told his friends that he would remain in journalism only as long as it taught him about writing and life. In the meantime, it was providing him with the material for his first novel. In his off-hours, holed up in his room at a Washington Square boarding house between Sullivan and MacDougal streets, Phillips was crafting a novel whose central character was an amalgam of Phillips's own experiences in journalism and his observations of Pulitzer. "I had a chance to see the truth, even if the editorials didn't permit me to tell it," Phillips said. "I was impressed with the awful failures among men who were avowed great worldly successes. How unhappy they were, how puerile in their motives, how unattainable happiness or contentment was to them." In Phillips's novel, The Great God Success, a young man much like himself takes a job on a New York daily. The tone of the novel is set early. "Journalism is not a career," a seasoned reporter tells the central character, who is named Howard. "It is either a school or a cemetery. A man may use it as a stepping-stone to something else. But if he sticks to it, he finds himself an old man, dead and done for to all intents and purposes years before he's buried." To avoid this fate, Phillips continued to work secretly on his book. Following the settlement of the newsies' strike, complaints from distributors about the wholesale price of the papers brought Seitz and Carvalho back together. Carvalho told Seitz that the lesson from the past month was clear. "When I saw the advantage we had gained by co-operation during the newsboys strike," he said, "I went to Hearst and said that it seemed to me now was a good time to undertake an arrangement with the World." The two managers first began working on a détente in 1897, when Hearst proposed that the Journal and the World might find it more profitable to divide the market rather than compete endlessly. The idea was compelling enough for the publishers to meet face-to-face for the first, and only, time in their lives. At the meeting, kept secret from the press, Hearst told Pulitzer that if they could come to an agreement he was willing to diminish the scope of his paper, freeing Pulitzer to raise the price of the World. "That is to say," said Seitz, who had been part of the negotiations, "Hearst was then willing to return to his original one-cent plan of a real one-cent paper, while the World could return to its class as a two-cent paper." Proposals for a peace treaty ran into rough water as soon as the men tried to specify the details. One stumbling block was Pulitzer's continued effort to keep Hearst from using Associated Press wire copy. Ever since his days in St. Louis, Pulitzer had placed an inordinate value on such memberships. A few months before he and Hearst held their summit, a competitor of the AP's, United Press (unrelated to the present-day UPI), went out of business. Its subscribers in New York scrambled to apply for AP membership. The Herald, Times, and Tribune all were accepted, but Pulitzer used his position on the AP board to veto Hearst's application. Without any wire service, Hearst would be at an enormous competitive disadvantage. But he resorted to a trick Pulitzer had used in St. Louis. Hearst bought the New York Morning Advertiser, folded it into his own paper, and gained its AP membership for his morning edition. Keenly aware of the early failures to broker a peace agreement and the continued hostility between their bosses, Seitz and Carvalho began talking in August 1899, to try again to work out some sort of agreement. Prior to the meeting, Seitz had been to Bar Harbor to receive his instructions for the negotiations. "We will consider any proposition on good faith, that we are and have been from the start, acting on the defensive and fully realizing about the absurdity, un-durability, and profligacy of this competition, which sooner or later must come to an end," Pulitzer told Seitz. "The natural common sense of the situation is to bring it to an end on terms mutually beneficial by combination instead of competition, and by a combination which if possible should be a radical parting of the ways, giving each a field to itself, rather than paralleling the identical ground." Combination instead of competition. In short, Pulitzer was proposing a conspiracy to restrain trade, not unlike the trusts and monopolies that his paper attacked almost daily. "All trusts are not monstrous," Pulitzer later told Phillips. But even under the loosest interpretations of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act, passed nine years ago with his support, what Pulitzer sought was illegal. The idea was a betrayal of his avowed principles. Remaining in Bar Harbor, Pulitzer dictated a memo summing up his discussions with Seitz. "Please don't mention my desire for peace any more than as a personal feeling," he said. "It is of supreme importance to show no anxiety whatever." Pulitzer was worried his competitors might use his infirmity to their advantage. "They would quickly seize upon either anxiety or personal weakness and physical difficulties—on which they have already banked." He wanted Seitz to bargain from a position of power, not of necessity. "I will never negotiate under threats." Pulitzer placed high hopes on the negotiations. As Seitz and Carvalho prepared to meet, he warned Seitz not to let the other side know that the Post-Dispatch was making money and that the penalty clause they devised for the treaty needed to be strong. "The point is simply to secure confidence in the scrupulous enforcement of the agreement, which is worthless unless both parties have confidence in it," Pulitzer said. "Probably both are afraid of each other." Like a nervous suitor, Pulitzer became increasingly anxious as the two sides approached each other. He received a friendly personal message from Hearst and told Seitz to acknowledge it and to let Hearst know that while it might seem impolite not to reply personally, he wanted the negotiators to focus on potential penalties for breaking any final agreement. "Please deliver this in person to Hearst himself, but verbally—not giving it in writing but in Carvalho's presence if he desires," Pulitzer said. Hours later, he changed his mind. "Don't deliver Hearst message mailed yesterday till further notice," he urgently wired Seitz. Upon finally sitting down with Carvalho once again, Seitz announced that Pulitzer was willing to consider any proposition, however radical, but had none in mind himself. "The burden of the negotiations, therefore," Seitz told Carvalho, "gets back to us, and, primarily, it seems to me that the first step is to devise some method of dividing the field." "How would you do it?" asked Carvalho. From the start, both agreed that any combination would have to include raising the price of both papers to two cents. "As I said at Bar Harbor," Seitz reminded Pulitzer, "I believe that we would get right up against the two cent proposition in very short order. I believe now that WE ARE THERE." But vexing details remained. They had to find a way to collude on advertising rates and develop business practices that kept the cooperation secret. While the men negotiated, John Norris lunched with Adolph Ochs, who three years earlier had bought the money-losing New York Times. The paper was making large gains in circulation since it had dropped its price and adopted Ochs's style of objective reporting, expressed by the paper's new motto "All the News That's Fit to Print." (The motto of Ochs's paper in Chattanooga had been "It Does Not Soil the Breakfast Cloth.") Ochs told Norris in confidence that Carvalho had also approached him to see if the Times would go along with a price increase to two cents. Ochs favored the idea but told Carvalho he was worried that someone would start a penny paper and undercut those who had raised their prices. Carvalho assured him it couldn't happen, because the wholesalers and distributors would not handle any new paper in return for the lower price. By September, Seitz and Carvalho had completed a draft of an agreement for their bosses. Pulitzer pledged to sign a deal, although he remained doubtful that the negotiations could produce a suitable one. "It is difficult to direct a game by telegraph, from a distance, without seeing the gamesters' faces, or hearing their voices," he complained. The proposed contract that both newspapers raise their price to two cents, and only the evening editions would remain at a penny, that the papers would limit their size; and their advertising rates would be uniform. The publishers also would promise not to raid each other's staffs and not to engage in editorial warfare; and the Evening Journal would be permitted to have a membership in AP. When Norris reviewed the proposed treaty, he told Pulitzer it was a dangerous and foolish plan. Bradford Merrill had an even worse interpretation. He believed the contract would benefit only Hearst. The struggle between the papers was not about making money, Merrill said. It was a battle for supremacy. "Now the fight can never be settled finally except by one or the other tacitly, at least, yielding the primacy. It cannot be settled by any contract or trust agreement to charge the same advertising rates or to advance the price to two cents. That would not settle the war. It would prolong it. It would give the enemy fresh sinews and fresh confidence. It would simply tie the two duelists together in an embrace so close that one could not for a long time tell the victor from the vanquished." Pulitzer ignored both Norris's and Merrill's advice, and also that of Seitz, who, when asked, said he too opposed the plan. When the proposal was read to him, Pulitzer worked on strengthening the all-important enforcement clause. The draft suggested that if either side broke the terms, it would pay the other a sum of money. Pulitzer wanted to increase the size of the penalty to a minimum of $1 million. He told Seitz he would not sign any agreement unless it was "ironclad fireproof." If the two publishers were to create a secret, illegal combination, Pulitzer was correct that the penalty clause would be the most important part of the deal. Without a private remedy, the contract would be worthless, since it could not be enforced in court. Pulitzer, who had steadily railed against monopolies and trusts for almost thirty years and whose World had championed the passage of the Sherman act, voiced no qualms. He was tired and beleaguered by the trouble besetting the World since Hearst had come to town. He was willing to make a pact with the devil if he had to. As with crushing the newsies' strike, social and economic justice had become an abstract notion for Pulitzer, suitable for others but not for him. All he wanted, Pulitzer confessed to Seitz, was a truce. "That arrangement which will enable me to make the best possible paper in point of reputation and character, indulge my own inherent editorial and political tastes, and have no bother with business or other distractions. That is, peace." The negotiations dragged on into the fall, stopping and starting as each publisher altered the work of his negotiators. Hearst frankly told Seitz, "In short, we are willing to adopt Mr. Pulitzer's phrase and substitute 'Combination for Competition.'" But in the end, neither side could figure out how to do it. While the two sides negotiated, Pulitzer dispatched Phillips on a special assignment. The journalist put aside his novel and set off on a cross-country tour of numerous cities to assess the political strength of President McKinley and his probable opponent, the silver-tongued orator William Jennings Bryan. Though Pulitzer remained leery, Bryan had risen in his estimation by becoming a strong foe of American imperialism. The United States' victory in the Spanish-American War had given it authority over Cuba—and over the Philippines, where U.S. troops were trying to put down an insurrection using inhumane tactics like those of Spain. "I cannot get over the fact that this man is rendering the most conspicuous service to the country, in his brilliant bold crusade against Imperialism," said Pulitzer, dictating detailed instructions to Phillips. "I think the work he has done in this cause is inestimable, simply in arousing and aligning the entire Democratic party against what is, after all, the burning danger and evil, the first step on the path to ruin." Phillips was to end his reporting tour by visiting Bryan in Nebraska. "I want you to write up Bryan at home, the real man; his real force, his character, influence et cetera. At the same time I want you to be kind to him, tell all the truth possible, strictly and exactly, but from a kindly rather than antipathetic point of view." Phillips was already a Bryan man, and Pulitzer was becoming one. With the arrival of winter and his travels at an end, Phillips resumed work on his novel The Great God Success. His protagonist Howard was rising to power and fame as an editor and then as a publisher, following the same principles Pulitzer had used; as Howard put it, "Catch the crowd, to interest it, to compel it to read, and so to lead it to think." Phillips based Howard's days as a reporter on his own life, but he modeled the character's time as a publisher on Pulitzer's. If there was anyone in Pulitzer's entourage who had been close enough to him to see the transformation in the onetime idealistic reformer, it was Phillips. Pulitzer—blind, in misery with real and imagined ailments, and incapable of acknowledging the suffering of others—had become entirely self-absorbed. His cause was himself. Phillips recognized the angst in Pulitzer and gave it to his fictional character. "He could not deceive himself, nor can any man with the clearness of judgement necessary to great achievement," wrote Phillips about Howard. "He was well aware that he had shifted from the ideal of use to his fellow-beings to the ideal of use of his fellow-beings, from the ideal of character to the ideal of reputation. And he knew that the two ideals cannot be combined and that he not only was not attempting to combine them but had no desire so to do. He despised his former ideals; but also he despised himself for despising them." Over time, Howard sells out—first to a coal trust and then for a political appointment. As the book draws to a close, melancholy envelops him. "And he fell to despising himself for the kind of exultation that filled him, its selfishness, its sordidness, the absence of all high enthusiasm," wrote Phillips. "Why was he denied the happiness of self-deception? Why could he not forget the means, blot it out, now that the end was attained? "The answer came—because in those days, in the days of his youth, he had had beliefs, high principles; he had been incapable of slavery to appearances, to vain show, incapable of this passion for reputation regardless of character. His weaknesses were then weaknesses only, and not, as now, the laws of his being controlling his every act. "He smiled cynically at the self of such a few years ago—yet he could not meet those honest, fearless eyes that looked out at him from the mirror of memory." ## Chapter Twenty-Six ## FLEEING HIS SHADOW Muffled sounds of screaming woke Kate in the late-night hours of January 8, 1900. They came from directly underneath the window of her second-floor bedroom in the house on East Fifty-Fifth Street in New York. Through glass and heavy draperies, she made out the terrifying word "Fire!" One of their nearly two dozen household servants had seen flames at the rear of the house and was yelling for everyone to get out of the building. Kate jumped from her bed and ran into the adjacent bedrooms, where eleven-year-old Constance and thirteen-year-old Edith were sleeping. Draping them with blankets, she led the children down the smoke-filled stairs to safety on the street, where she consigned them to a neighbor. Joseph was in Lakewood, New Jersey, where he had gone shortly after the new year with his son Joe. Ralph was back at Harvard. But three-year-old Herbert, the baby of the family, was still inside. Barefooted and clad only in her sleeping garment, Kate ran back into the burning house. Through the thickening smoke from flaming curtains, wall hangings, and paintings, she inched her way up the stairs to the third floor. There she found Herbert in the arms of his panicked nurse, who was standing on the windowsill preparing to jump. Kate held her back. Then, by alternately pushing and pulling them through blinding smoke down the hall and stairs, she guided them to safety on the first floor. The footman, who had sounded the alarm, tore a curtain off a rod and draped it over Kate's shoulders. With Herbert in her arms, she rejoined her two girls, who were safe in the house next door. It took the firemen a full hour to contain the flames. The enclosed outside staircase, which Pulitzer had built at the suggestion of the fire marshal, had worked like a chimney in spreading the fire. As Kate and the children huddled in a neighboring house, the servants frantically tried to determine whether anyone was missing. Many of the staff members had fled from their top-floor bedrooms by climbing onto the roof and crossing over to adjacent houses. One of the men said he had seen Morgan Jellett, Kate's personal secretary, turn back when she reached the roof, to retrieve from her room a satchel containing her Christmas presents. When firemen entered the house, they found Jellett's body on the third floor, the satchel in her hand. Near her lay the body of Elizabeth Montgomery, one of the governesses, dressed in her bathrobe and slippers. Also presumed dead was Rickey, a King Charles spaniel that had been a favorite of Lucille's. A telephone call was placed to Lakewood. Pulitzer was told of the fire and that his family was safe. News of the deaths was initially kept from him, out of fear that it might upset him. When he learned of it, he paid for the funeral expenses and sent donations to the fire and police departments. The flames destroyed three portraits of Kate, one of Joseph, and a vast collection of other paintings, as well as bronzes—including a Buddha brought back from the Orient by James Creelman when he covered the Chinese-Japanese War—and four large antique Gobelin tapestries. Kate's diamond necklace from the French crown jewel collection and her famous $150,000 pearl necklace were never found. In all, the losses amounted to more than $500,000. Kate and the children took rooms at the Hotel Netherland, while the servants were put up in a nearby rooming house. In the afternoon, Kate dispatched someone to obtain the measurements of all the servants so as to order new clothes for them. From Lakewood, Joseph arranged to rent the Henry T. Sloane mansion on East Seventy-Second Street for $17,500 a year. Built in French Renaissance style with a light granite exterior and white marble trim, it was, according to one newspaper, "considered to be one of the handsomest of all the newer New York residences." As Pulitzer's fifty-third birthday neared, on April 10, 1900, he was hardly in a celebratory mood. He was bogged down in protracted negotiations with McKim, Mead, and White, the architectural firm he hired to design his new house on East Seventy-Third Street, where he had purchased a lot for $240,000. Like his neighbors, he wanted a mansion, but "an American home for comfort and use not for show or entertainment." It was to be without a ballroom, music room, or picture gallery, and he especially wanted it to be free of French design and furniture. He also set a limit of $250,000, including decorations, a low figure that no one around him took seriously. Kate had not yet been consulted about the plans for the house. She was still recovering from the trauma of the fire. Her doctor urged her to go for a cure at Aix-les-Bains in southern France. "She is feeling the strain of all she went through at the time of the fire and needs very much to rest and the treatment at Aix," he wrote to Joseph. Persuaded, her husband authorized his financial officer, Angus Shaw, to give Kate $750 to pay for her passage to Europe. She in turn persuaded Shaw to give her $830 to cover the cost of her maid and taxes, and Shaw feared that Joseph might make him deduct the additional $80 from a future payment. At the World, matters were no more settled than at home. Pulitzer continued to fret about the paper's sloppiness. In one story, a reporter erred in stating Standard Oil's stock value. "Accuracy! Accuracy!! Accuracy!!!" Pulitzer angrily telegraphed. Of greater concern was the restlessness among many of his key editors and managers. Since January, the business manager, John Norris, had been hinting that he was preparing to leave. On April 2, he made his plans known. "Temperamentally, I am not equipped to get along with you," Norris wrote. To be sure that Pulitzer would not try to stop him, he added that nothing could be done to keep him on the paper. Pulitzer accepted his departure, and Norris went to work for Ochs at the New York Times. Even John Dillon, Pulitzer's original partner at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, took another job. He joined the Chicago Tribune after laboring quietly in the World's editorial shop for years. Phillips was also feeling some wanderlust. Earlier in the winter, he had complained about his nerves and had requested a leave of absence. Pulitzer wanted to keep Phillips at all costs. He still believed the young writer might eventually take the helm of the paper. During a carriage ride around Lakewood, Pulitzer told Phillips he could have a two-month, all-expenses-paid trip to Europe. In late April, the young writer accepted the offer, picked up an advance on nine weeks of his salary, and left. After more than a decade of on-and-off absentee ownership, Pulitzer could still not find a suitable way to run the World to his satisfaction. Earlier, when Cockerill and Smith had been in charge, he felt that he had responsive alter egos at the helm. Now he had to beg his editors to follow his instructions. As he told them that year, "My being disabled from performing this duty, involves the necessity of your thinking, as nearly as possible, what you think I think." To run his paper by remote control, Pulitzer contrived an intricate, even labyrinthine, means of communication. He kept his secretaries busy at all hours by dictating to his editors and managers a stream of telegrams filled with complaints about even the smallest mistakes in the paper—chastisement, praise (though rare), and incessant demands for every possible kind of up-to-date information about circulation and finances. The cable offices at Wiesbaden, Germany; Cap Martin, France; London, England; Bar Harbor; and Jekyll Island always knew when Pulitzer was in town. The telegrams tested the patience of Pulitzer's personal staff. Once, on Jekyll Island, the duty of taking down and sending a telegram fell to Hosmer because Pulitzer's secretary, Butes, had remained in New York. After spending thirty minutes with Pulitzer as the latter composed a 300-word telegram, Hosmer retreated to his room and neatly transcribed the message so that the club's clerk could telephone it to Western Union. "But just as he is shirking off by the back door to place it beyond hope of recall," Billings wrote to Butes, "a messenger reaches him with instructions not to send it until Mr. P. has read it again and the circus begins afresh." The public nature of the telegraph—one of the wonders of the nineteenth century—created a further challenge. Telegraph operators were privy to the content of any message and secrets were not safe. Furthermore, like in the children's game of "whisper down the lawn,"* repeated transmissions of a message could easily garble carefully worded instructions. People in competitive businesses purchased secret codebooks designed for composing telegrams. The Acme Commodity and Phrase Code, for example, was a 902-page compendium of 100,000 five-letter codes. Pulitzer sent coded messages enthusiastically, but instead of using a commercially available codebook, he developed his own. The 5,000-entry book shed light on the concerns, interests, and obsessions of its creator. Pulitzer developed a nomenclature for all the elements of his world. He had codes for politicians, rivals, business terms, dates, amounts of money, family members, and even the weather. William Jennings Bryan became "Guilder," Theodore Roosevelt "Glutinous," and Hearst "Gush." The amount of business completed was "merciful," a gain was "piggery," and a discount—which Pulitzer loathed to grant—was "menodus." Almost every telegram asked about "potash," the term for advertising, including display ads, known as "memorials." In constructing his coded world, Pulitzer went beyond hiding corporate and political communication from prying eyes. He devised codes for his family and his fixation on sickness. The health of the children and family alone merited thirty-seven terms. The weather on his voyages was hardly an important secret, yet there were forty-eight codes for fog, clouds, sun, and temperatures. To stay out of trouble, staffers had to include the critically important word "semaphore" in their reply. A veteran editor instructed those who received a codebook to underline the word in the "reddest ink" and understand its meaning: "I have read twice and fully, clearly, surely understand and acknowledge your cable. I will do my best after consideration and would certainly cable back and ask a question if I did not understand or felt uncertain." Each of Pulitzer's lieutenants possessed one of the six-by-nine-inch books, about 300 pages long, with two alphabetically tabbed sections. Owning one was an important mark of power at the World, as the code was the sacred language of the inner court. Like high priests translating a religious text, the men sat each day at their desks under the gold dome with their own annotated codebooks, carefully deciphering a new stack of telegraphs and memos. Each man had his own code name. Don Seitz was "Gulch" Pulitzer's old partner Dillon was "Guess" the editorial writer and Pulitzer's protégé, Phillips, was "Gumboil" the business manager, Norris, was "Anfrancto" and the financial adviser, Clarke, was "Coin." For himself, Pulitzer reserved the lofty name "Andes," after the highest mountain range in the Americas. It became so frequently used by editors and reporters that the moniker no longer hid his identity. In fact, aside from JP, "Andes" became the most common nickname for Pulitzer at the World and at rival newspapers. In late June 1900 the first of the Pulitzer children graduated from college. But when Ralph accepted his Harvard degree from President Charles Eliot, his parents were nowhere to be seen. They had not considered the event sufficiently important to alter their travel plans. Ralph's father was on the ocean, returning from a month spent in England, and his mother was undergoing a cure in Aix-les-Bains. Joseph did find time to bestow a graduation check large enough for Ralph to seek investment advice from his father's banker. Like most of his 982 classmates, sons of America's wealthiest families, Ralph had passed his four years at Harvard in considerable luxury. Each month Shaw sent him $500 for living expenses, such as $30 for beer, $30 for theater tickets, $75 for meals at La Touraine restaurant, $25 for his boxing instructor, and $50 for clothes and presents. The amount had been increased by $60 in his last year, after his father suggested that Ralph should pay for the services of his manservant and a maid himself. "Not on your life!!!" Ralph had written to Butes. "When he said in London that he thought I must have a competent man to look after me, I am sure he had no notion of making me pay the man's wages." Ralph's fifteen-year-old brother, Joe, who attended St. Mark's School, an exclusive boarding school west of Boston, possessed similar expectations. In the spring, he had asked his father to spend $1,300 for a sailboat. "I am afraid you will think that pretty steep but boats are pretty expensive things, as you know," he said. He also hoped his father would hire someone to take care of the boat, should it be purchased. Neither Ralph nor Joe had much contact with the world beyond that of mansions in New York, manors in London, houses in a fashionable arrondissement of Paris, or summer cottages in Maine and Georgia. From their earliest years they had been cared for by nannies and educated by tutors until consigned to boarding schools for the finishing touches when they were as young as eight years old. It was not until Joe was a teenager that he learned of his father's Jewish ancestry. In his first year at St. Mark's, which was Episcopalian, he heard boys making a hissing sound or calling him "sheeny" when he walked by. Joe confronted his Episcopalian mother about his heritage. She told him that he had nothing to be ashamed of, that the Jews were a great people, and she proceeded to list the names of prominent Jewish New Yorkers. Pulitzer supervised the children's tutoring, training, and care—especially with Ralph, whose precarious health had required long stays in places like St. Moritz. Herbert, born late in the marriage, was still too young to be molded. To Pulitzer's immense frustration, both Ralph and Joe failed to show promise. The eldest was most willing to please his father, but was frail and more interested in the social world than the newspaper one. "I hardly know how to treat him, his ignorance is so terrible and my disappointment so great that I fear I discourage him," Pulitzer told Seitz when he sent Ralph to him for training at the World after graduation. Pulitzer had even less hope for Joe, although Joe was robust and healthy. He was willing to stand up to his father, had little interest in his studies, and had a predilection for getting into trouble. His career at St. Mark's came to an abrupt end in 1901, when he and some friends sneaked into town to buy beer. Finding the school locked on their return, Joe led them up the ivy-covered walls and through an open window. Unfortunately, it led into the bedroom of the headmaster and his wife. "He has committed a crime against his father, his mother, his sisters and his own good name and future. This should be rubbed into him," Joseph wrote to Kate, blaming her for having spoiled the child. Pulitzer took less interest in Constance and Edith. They spent far less time with him than the boys, including Herbert. This did not mean, however, that they were exempt from his supervision at a distance. Examining bills, he noticed some books by the French writer Alphonse Daudet that fourteen-year-old Edith had purchased. "I would as soon give her strychnine as let her read the average French novel at her formative impressionable age," Joseph told Kate. "You should watch this very sharply and tell the governess to do the same. I still cling to the hope that it must be a mistake." With the sole exception of his departed Lucille, Joseph endlessly expressed his disappointment in his children to his secretaries, editors, and managers; to Davidson; and especially to Kate. Once, when his mail contained only a letter from Constance, he told Kate, "To all the rest of the children you can say I do not love them and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for not writing." Most who witnessed these harangues were cowed and lacked the courage to contradict him when he tore into his children. Only his distant cousin Adam Politzer, a distinguished professor of otology in Vienna, offered rare counsel. "Do not forget, that they were born and brought up under quite different circumstances than we," Politzer wrote. "Self-made men like you and myself only come to maturity in that battle for existence—and who knows should we have been the sons of wealthy parents, if we were what we are now? Your children do not form any exception from those children who have grown up in similarly favorable conditions." As her time in Aix-les-Bains drew to a close in June 1900, Kate assumed that she would rejoin her husband in London where he had rented a house, a coachhouse, and stables for the horses he brought from the United States. But without a word, Joseph boarded the Oceanic and sailed home, leaving young Herbert behind in London with a nanny. His rapid exit was not the first. Pulitzer increasingly refused to remain in one place. As soon as he reached a destination, he was ready to leave. He might sail across the ocean only to return by the next ship. "You always remind me of the gentleman in one of Horace's fables who ran and rode and sailed, thinking to flee from his cave and finally discovered that he was fleeing from his own shadow," Phillips told him. Phillips was one of the few in his employ who had the courage to be frank with Pulitzer. When one of the governesses informed her of Joseph's sudden departure, Kate was furious. "You have surprised even me accustomed as I am to vertiginous movements," she wrote. "It looks queer to strangers that I should be ignorant of the sailing of my family." For several weeks there ensued a transatlantic battle between the two. Kate had run through her monthly $6,000 allowance and had no means of getting home. If Joseph did not wire her the money, she threatened to borrow it from the U.S. ambassador Joseph Choate in London. Pulitzer remained obstinate and refused. "Pray reconsider decision concerning passage else compelled to appeal to Ambassador," Kate wired from Paris, where she was staying in the luxurious Hotel Vendôme. After two days of back-and-forth telegrams, Joseph relented. "Steamer tickets and $250," he said. "Steamer tickets and $350 absolutely necessary to leave," she replied. He caved in. "Very much obliged," she wired back. On August 1, Kate and Herbert reached New York. Shaw paid her customs duties of $152.29 and anxiously wired Joseph in Maine to see if he should charge the amount to her personal account. Once again Shaw found himself in the midst of a spat between the two. It was not a good time to arouse Joseph's ire. On September 14, 1900, his old friend and mentor Thomas Davidson died. Aside from Udo Brachvogel, who occasionally wrote (usually in hopes of getting money for his son's education), Davidson had been the one friend who had known Pulitzer since he was a teenager. About a year before his death, Davidson had come to Maine to visit Pulitzer. It had not been a good reunion. "He is extremely morbid about himself," Joseph complained to Kate, "talks about nothing except his unspeakable troubles, sighs and moans and probably undergoes some physical suffering with vastly more of a mental nervous kind." For Pulitzer, any competition with regard to woes was hard to bear. After Davidson's death, the cause of his pain became known. When doctors operated on him, during the last months of his life, they discovered a huge bladder stone and a cancerous growth. It "must have been the main cause," wrote a friend, "of the frightful anguish our friend had been suffering for a long time." Despite his lifelong closeness to Davidson, Pulitzer could not overcome his aversion to funerals. Instead, he sent a $30 wreath of galax and orchids to Glenmore in the Adirondacks, where Davidson had chosen to be buried near a small house he owned. In the fall of 1900, another presidential election loomed. Since the last one, the United States had become a colonial power. Although he had supported the Spanish-American War, Pulitzer remained opposed to imperialism. The fact that the imperialist power was the United States made no difference. After a brief flirtation with the potential candidacy of Admiral George Dewey, Pulitzer threw his lot in with William Jennings Bryan. Pulitzer's strong opposition to imperialism put him at odds with many of his old political allies. "Mr. Pulitzer is the keenest political observer I ever knew," said his friend William Whitney. "For once his judgment is at fault." Backing Bryan put Pulitzer once again in the camp opposing Theodore Roosevelt, because Bryan's opponent, McKinley, selected the young New York governor for the vice-presidential nomination. Roosevelt traveled around the country, verbally assailing Bryan, while McKinley remained above the fray. According to Roosevelt, Bryan was espousing "communistic and socialist doctrine" and supporting him were "all the lunatics, all the idiots, all the knaves, all the cowards, and all the honest people who are slow-witted." Pulitzer had no interest in sticking around for the results at the polls. The election was a rerun of 1896, with the Republicans bound to make even more gains. For the first time ever, Pulitzer made sure he was a long way off by Election Day. In the early morning of October 9, Pulitzer was asleep in his cabin on the Oceanic, bound for England and then to Wiesbaden to take baths and consult doctors. As the ship neared the coast of Ireland, it slowed its pace, feeling its way through a rain squall. At about four o'clock, when the ship was almost at a stop so as to take a sounding, the watch crew found themselves staring at looming Irish cliffs. The engines were thrown into reverse, shaking the ship and waking all the passengers. Before its progress could be halted, the hull struck part of the outcropping rock ledge, making a grinding, grating noise. "In the few moments of doubt the watertight compartments had been closed and the life boats made ready," said Hosmer, who was in the cabin adjacent to Pulitzer's. Thinking that the ship's lurching indicated its arrival in port, Pulitzer had risen and dressed himself. "He came out in a state of perfect calm and self-possession," noted Hosmer. The two walked on the deck for an hour and then returned to bed. The ship continued safely to port in England. This was not the last mishap before the end of their journey. A train wreck blocked the rails leading to Cologne, Germany. In the middle of the night, Pulitzer and his companions had to leave their train and walk through a field to board another one on the other side of the accident. It took thirty hours to finally reach Wiesbaden. Pulitzer, who had caught a cold in London, remained in bed for twenty-four of those hours. "Inevitably," Hosmer reported to Kate, "everything was wrong all the time and the world was full of damn fools." The new century opened with greater promise for Pulitzer. More than half of the $524,600 he lent the World to keep it afloat in 1898 had been repaid as the paper regained profitability. The plan for a secret combination with Hearst, which had stalled in negotiations, lost its appeal now that money was to be made again. In fact, the paper's health was such that it withstood an advertising boycott by Bloomingdale's, Macy's, and other New York retailers who, thinking that the World was financially weak, had banded together to try to obtain a reduction in advertising rates. They miscalculated and found their sales plummeting when their large display advertisements were not printed. An upturn in the economy also gave Pulitzer immense gains in the stock market. In fact, until the end of his life, his investment earnings frequently exceeded those from his two newspapers. He relied heavily on the banker Dumont Clarke to manage his investments; but, as with his newspaper managers and editors, Pulitzer rarely left Clarke alone to do his work. Instead, he regularly sent investment instructions based on inside information, sometimes obtained by his editors from their personal contacts. Pulitzer invested in railroads, steel, and utilities, which were then the dominant industries in the stock market. Owning shares in these companies breached Pulitzer's political and moral views. He was putting his own personal wealth into companies he had long disdained because of their treatment of workers. Many were trusts and monopolies, as well. All were targets of the World's editorials. Pulitzer fretted about this and on rare occasions asked Clarke to divest him of the most odious. Still, he wanted to safeguard his wealth, and he convinced himself that there were no other means. "I do not buy to sell," he told Clarke, "but to lock up assets for my children." All the income from his newspapers and investments was put to use. Pulitzer was now spending almost $250,000 a year for household expenses and travel. This was more than 1,000 times what the average American earned. Though his newspaper made money by attacking wealth and privilege, Pulitzer's lifestyle had become indistinct from that of his neighbors on Fifth Avenue, in Bar Harbor, or at Jekyll Island who earned their fortunes on the backs of workers. When Pulitzer smoked cigars, they were Travita, among the finest made in Havana; when he drank, it was Perrier-Jouët Brut or Rüdesheimer Berg Orlean, which he imported by the hundreds of bottles; and when he ate, it was quail, duck, or goose. The new mansion on the Upper East Side was taking shape on the drawing boards of McKim, Mead, and White and was the equal of those the firm had designed for its other wealthy clients. It included an indoor swimming pool and even the previously prohibited ballroom. It is doubtful, though, that the firm ever had a more demanding or difficult client. The partners made their artist work on Sundays, and then another artist would redraw the plans with large black lines, in hopes that Pulitzer could discern the shape. Additionally, scale models were built so he could feel the contours of the house. Frequently the work had to be rushed so as to catch a ship bound for Germany or England or wherever else Pulitzer might be at the time. Just when matters seemed settled, Pulitzer would drive the architects to the end of their patience. "I was in despair when I got your letter," said Stanford White, in a typical moment of exasperation after receiving yet more alterations when construction was under way. "I will do whatever I can, but I do not see how it will be possible to have all you want done by Saturday," he warned. "I know one thing, and that is we have certainly made twice as many studies, and done twice as much work on this as we have ever done on any interior work before, and it is pretty hard where so many contrary orders are given, and so many changes made to know where we stand or what to do." On September 6, 1901, the anarchist Leon Czolgosz shot two bullets into President William McKinley, who had been touring the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York. For six days McKinley lingered close to death as Americans feared that an assassin had taken a president's life for the third time in less than four decades. Pulitzer was so anxious that even though the World had reporters on the scene, he sent Hosmer, who was a medical doctor, to Buffalo to provide him with up-to-date reports. Hosmer's telegrams back to Chatwold forecast the worst. Indeed, on September 14, McKinley died, and Pulitzer's archenemy Theodore Roosevelt became president. In the circulation war between the World and the Journal, McKinley's death provided an unexpected boon for Pulitzer's paper. Among the raft of anti-McKinley articles that had appeared in the Journal, there had been two unfortunate ones that appeared to suggest an assassination was in order. An outcry erupted against Hearst. He was hanged in effigy in a number of cities, and boycotts of the Journal were undertaken. "Large piles remain unsold on the stands and it is being execrated popularly," Seitz told Pulitzer a few days after McKinley's death. "You hear little groups discussing it and offensive remarks being made in cars about people who have it in their possession." For the first time since his arrival in New York, Pulitzer's competitor was on the ropes. Hearst changed the name of his paper to the American and Journal, later dropping "Journal," and lay low. His circulation dropped calamitously and fell 75,000 behind that of the World. Pulitzer's editors wanted to join the lynch mob. "For the first time in five years, we now have the chance to part company with the Journal in the public mind," Seitz told Pulitzer. But Pulitzer declined the opportunity. He ordered that Hearst be ignored in the pages of the World except when events occurred that were newsworthy, such as the burnings in effigy, or prominent figures mentioning him in speeches. Even then, he added, Hearst's name should come up only "if facts absolutely correct, true, and the thing is not displayed maliciously." In his earliest days as a publisher, Pulitzer had once been offered a similar opportunity. Edward Augustine, the lobbyist with whom he had done battle in Jefferson City, who committed suicide after a financial failure. Other newspaper editors in St. Louis played up the ignominy of his end, but not Pulitzer. He resisted the chance to get even and treated Augustine's death with decorum. He was not going to alter his sense of gentlemanly restraint now just because it was Hearst's turn at bad luck. On the other hand, there was no need for spite. "This McKinley business has rebounded hard against the Journal," one of Pulitzer's editors reported in a confidential memo. "It is a notable fact that in the storm of criticism directed against the Journal since the shooting, the World has scarcely once been coupled with it, although the main object of the attack throughout has been so-called 'Yellow Journalism.'" The combination of the editorial reforms at the World and Hearst's perceived complicity in McKinley's death in the public's mind accomplished what Pulitzer had sought since the Spanish-American War. Words he had longed to hear came in the confidential memo: "The result is that people do not THINK of the World and Journal together as they did, and were perhaps justified in doing some time back." The calm that Pulitzer sought at Jekyll Island was missing during the early months of 1902. He was infuriated by the rising cost of his house in New York. Instead of the $250,000 he had agreed to pay, the price was now $644,000. And on top of this, he had authorized $165,000 in renovations at Chatwold. When he wasn't worrying about the money, he was lamenting the decisions that he believed he had to make about decorating, never mind that Kate remained in New York, bearing the brunt of the work. In choosing art, Joseph became so frustrated that he considered simply buying an entire collection from someone who had taste. George Ledlie, his advance man, discouraged this idea. "You may say you have no-one to advise you," wrote Ledlie. "On the contrary, and I say this, not because Mrs. Pulitzer is Mrs. Pulitzer, but from knowledge I have obtained in various shopping expeditions with her, that I fully believe you can without hesitation, leave the final decision in any matter requiring artistic senses to her." Kate was willing in mind and spirit but not in body. She became increasingly weak and ill that spring. Pulitzer, whose list of ailments could fill a page, was not sympathetic. On board the Majestic as it approached the coast of England, he wrote to Kate that his doctor was positive there was nothing wrong with her that a little rest couldn't cure. "I am perfectly confident that all you need is a little self-restraint and philosophy. Never mind about carpets or furniture or hangings. You will get them all quickly enough when you are well." He added that he had slept better on this voyage than on any before. Kate, however, did not improve with rest. Her condition worsened after Joseph had sailed. Her doctors decided she needed to leave the city, and they gave her their usual prescription: a cure at Aix-les-Bains. With this in mind, she began to feel better, until she received a letter from Joseph, who had already traveled from England to southern France, forbidding her to bring Herbert. "The result," said Ledlie, "was that she had a bad crying spell, followed by a fainting time, declared if the baby did not go, she would not go, and we had a very bad time of it." Since the doctors had instructed the staff to humor Kate, Ledlie and the others decided to tell her that she could take the child along. Ledlie then craftily explained the situation in a private letter to Butes, who was with Joseph. They both agreed Joseph would not be informed until the morning of her arrival. Fortunately, Kate and the baby hardly weighed on Joseph's mind when they finally came together. Rather, he was recovering from listening to a reading of Phillips's novel, which had been published under the pseudonym John Graham. Phillips had to use another name because in bringing out the book, he had violated one of the World's cardinal rules, included in his contract: that publishing any work outside the paper was prohibited. The breaking of this rule, however, paled in comparison with the accusation in the novel that Pulitzer had sold out his ideals. "I not only read it but enjoyed it very much with one single reservation," Pulitzer told Phillips, without further elaboration. "The book showed undoubted talent, imagination, and skill in constructing dialogue." To Pulitzer's mind, it also showed treachery. "Mr. Pulitzer was keenly hurt when he discovered that the author of the novel was Mr. Phillips," said Seitz. He had trusted Phillips and treated him at times like a son. Pulitzer asked if Phillips had read Crime and Punishment. "If not, don't let twenty-four hours pass before you do so." In selecting Dostoyevsky's novel from the countless ones he had read, Pulitzer chose a work in which a murderer is racked by guilt. His implication would not be lost on Phillips. The Great God Success did not end their friendship, but it would never be the same again. Not long after the book's publication, Phillips resigned from the World. Joseph left Kate and the children in Aix-les-Bains and went to spend the summer of 1902 at Chatwold. Kate's French doctor warned him to send her as few letters or telegrams as possible and said that those he did send must be bright and cheery. "She is suffering from one great nervous depression which causes gastric trouble and loss of weight," reported the doctor. "It is necessary for her cure to take a very severe treatment for two months." By late summer Kate's health improved. "I am better but it takes very little to throw me back again," she wrote. "I am not yet permitted to take the douches, and the doctor does not tell me when I can do so. He says that in my condition they would be dangerous." Alone in Maine, except for his staff, Joseph mostly obeyed the doctor's orders regarding correspondence with Kate. Yet he was, once again, furious over Kate's spending. Since he could not complain to her, Joseph decided to turn over her allowance to Ledlie and have him pay the bills. This put Ledlie, who was close to Kate, in an impossible position. If Kate were to order him not to pay a bill because she felt it was Joseph's responsibility, then Ledlie would have to do battle with his boss. He and Butes, Pulitzer's main personal secretary, quickly consulted with each other behind their boss's back and decided they were both in a hopeless position as long as Joseph and Kate continued their fiscal war. In September, John Dillon, who was now fifty-nine, came to Maine for an overdue reunion with Pulitzer. After quitting the World in 1900, he had soon regretted his decision and had come back to work for his old partner. As was customary when one visited Pulitzer, the two men went out for a horseback ride, accompanied by at least one of Pulitzer's companions, who minded the horse for him. During the ride, Dillon was thrown from his mount. When they managed to get him back to the house, doctors said that he had suffered two broken ribs and some undetermined internal injuries. Telegrams to Dillon's family assured them there was no cause for alarm. "Excellent care by two nurses. Takes nourishment. Must wait healing and subsidence of inflammatory condition resulting from fall." The healing did not come. Rather, pneumonia set in, and Dillon's heart grew weak. Pulitzer called to the house the noted doctors S. Weir Mitchell and William Sydner Thayer, both of whom had treated Joseph and Kate. There was little they could do, and once again Chatwold became the scene of a deathwatch. On October 15, Dillon died with his wife and two of his children by his side. The family returned to New York with the body, and several days later Dillon was buried in St. Louis. "Am all broken up by Dillon," Pulitzer telegraphed to Florence White, who had begun his working life as a cub reporter for Dillon and Pulitzer years earlier. "Wish you would attend service...specially representing me and papers." Instead of heading west for the funeral, Pulitzer gathered up his entourage of seven employees and two servants and boarded the eastbound Celtic, leaving New York on October 31. For an additional $394.29 above the price of a first-class ticket, the White Star line had made the usual preparations for its notoriously noise-sensitive customer. Piano playing in the bars ceased at ten o'clock in the evening rather than at eleven. A custom-made green baize door was installed to close off the hall leading to Pulitzer's quarters. "The slamming of a door is most penetrating, it can be heard a half-mile off, especially along a straight corridor," Pulitzer warned the ship's owners. Portions of the deck above his room were cordoned off to redirect promenading passengers, and those who had to cross the area walked on heavy mats. "It is not a question of pleasure, luxury," Pulitzer explained when making his demands. "It is an absolute, indispensable necessity." Leaving New York for Jekyll Island in January 1903, Pulitzer instructed Seitz to ride the train with him as far as Washington. When the train pulled out of the Jersey City station, Hosmer handed Seitz a sheath of papers and told him to be prepared soon to render an opinion on its contents. Settling into an isolated compartment, Seitz dived into the file. It revealed, in a sharply condensed form, an idea Pulitzer had been mulling over for years. He wanted to use his wealth, upon his death, to create a school to train journalists and endow a prize to reward excellence among working journalists. Years before, while running the Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer had poked fun at publishers meeting in Columbia, Missouri, for wanting to create a professorship of journalism. "It is as absurd to talk of it as to talk of a professorship of matrimony, it being one of those things of which nothing can be learned by those who have never tried it." A decade later, Pulitzer began to change his mind. He conceded that a professor of journalism might be able to teach some of the technical aspects of the trade. "Of course," Pulitzer added, "the highest order of talent or capacity could no more be taught by a professor of journalism than could the military genius of a Hannibal, Caesar, or Bonaparte be taught in military academies." By the 1890s, the idea had become a central part of Pulitzer's plan on how to use his wealth. Next to power, Pulitzer most sought respectability. Much of the public thought his profession lacked dignity. The competition with Hearst had, at least for a while, bound the two men together as purveyors of the crass, sensational, and prurient fare of Yellow Journalism. Two years earlier, for instance, Life magazine had published a drawing of Pulitzer as a bird on a perch labeled Pulitzus Nundanus, listing its characteristics as "Scavenger. Eats anything, and grows fat on filth. Vindictive and noisy, but harmless." A school and the respect that might come with it would go a long way toward ennobling the profession and its most famous member. While he was at rest in Europe, Pulitzer shared his thoughts with others. One in particular was his friend Seth Low, president of what was then called Columbia College in New York. In 1892, Pulitzer's scheme was considered by Columbia's trustees. They rejected the idea. Now, a decade later, Pulitzer resurrected the plan as he contemplated the end of his life while summering at Chatwold. He revised his will and, at last, laid out his thinking about his legacy in a memo for George Hosmer, his faithful companion of many years, marking it "strictly confidential." "My idea is to recognize that journalism is, or ought to be, one of the great and intellectual professions," he said. To that end, Pulitzer proposed that journalists receive training on a par with that given to lawyers and doctors. He decided he was prepared to give Columbia University as much as $2 million—a gift almost three times the size of the institution's annual operating budget—if it was willing to create and run a journalism school. Pulitzer then added that his gift should also be used to award annual prizes to working journalists, newspapers, or writers, for achievement, excellence, and public service. This money would eventually create what became known as the Pulitzer prizes, perhaps the most highly recognized and coveted award except for those created by Alfred Nobel the previous year. Although his idea for journalism prizes may have seemed like an afterthought to the officials at Columbia, Pulitzer had long used the technique to motivate his own reporters. As early as 1887, reporters on the World competed for annual monetary awards in a number of categories such as best news story and best writing. Editors were not excluded. Pulitzer held competitions for best headline and best copyediting, as well. Pulitzer selected Columbia for his munificence because of its location in the capital of newspaper publishing and because it already had a School of Mines. ("Why not also have a School of Journalism," he said.) But if Columbia seemed uninterested, Pulitzer said he would try Yale. "My own ideas are positive enough about the general scheme, the general provisions and the general object, but when it comes to the vital details of a working plan I am quite at sea," he continued. "I cannot help thinking that there is no profession in which every student of the United States has a more direct interest, or which represents, for good or for evil, the moral forces and moral sense of a nation." Pulitzer assigned Hosmer to work secretly on the plan. He wanted it ready by his fifty-sixth birthday on April 10, 1903. For the first time since making a success of the World, Pulitzer felt the thrill of engaging in work that could outlast him. The journalism school, with its accompanying prizes for journalists from all over the country, represented an immense hope. "I don't believe I have ever done anything that will give the children and their children a better name, and that—after all—is something," he later wrote to Kate. On the train heading south on this January day, Seitz held the finished proposal in his hands. It stipulated that Pulitzer would provide Columbia with the $2 million in three installments. In return, the university would construct a building, invest the money, and use the income to pay salaries for the instructors and award the annual prizes. Before Seitz had a chance to take it all in, Pulitzer had groped his way down the hall of the train and was at his door. "You don't think much of it," he said. "I do not," replied Seitz. "Well, what should I do? I want to do something." "Endow the World. Make it foolproof." "I am going to do something for it, in giving it a new building." Ignoring Seitz's opinion after asking for it, as he often did, Pulitzer instructed Hosmer to approach Columbia and Harvard universities with the idea, without revealing who was backing it. At Columbia, President Nicholas Murray Butler, who had taken over from Low, certainly knew whose money was being offered. By summer, he had won the trustees' approval. When the agreement was signed, it was backdated to April 10, Pulitzer's birthday. On Jekyll Island the following winter, Pulitzer devoted a part of each day to listening while one of his secretaries read aloud from the World. This was, by now, a well-rehearsed ritual. Pulitzer was extraordinarily attentive. A seasoned secretary knew enough to carefully read the World, as well as other newspapers, before the appointed time and to be prepared to describe the layout, size of type, and illustrations used in each story. What Pulitzer heard during one of these readings made him erupt in anger. On Sunday, February 22, the World published an article about Katherine Mackay, a socially prominent New Yorker. It made mention of the decorations in a nursery that had been prepared for the birth of Mrs. Mackay's child. Although the article did not use the word "pregnant," it offended Pulitzer's Victorian sentiments to the core. Pregnancy was a reminder of a taboo subject: sex. Upper-class women did all they could to hide their condition during pregnancy, including remaining indoors during the final months. Pulitzer let loose a barrage of invective that was immediately telegraphed to New York. "I own the paper and am responsible for its honor and consider lies, falsehoods, gross exaggeration, puffery, yellow plushism, flunkeyism as a crime inexcusable by any direction or any circulation," he said. "Telegraph me who wrote it. See he quits office today." The editors were flabbergasted. The photographs used had been supplied by Katherine Mackay herself and no one, including the Mackay family, had objected to the article. One editor said even his sixteen-year-old daughter liked it. Another said he had heard many expectant women discussing their condition in the presence of both sexes without any objection. Pulitzer replied that it was entirely possible that the Mackays, who were his friends, were not shocked. Nonetheless, he would not tolerate this kind of story, because it represented a drift in an abhorrent direction pioneered by the Journal, which featured "well-known ladies in an interesting condition," he said, still avoiding the word "pregnant." "If that is not disgusting and sickening," he continued, "I don't know what is." Seitz identified the reporter who had written the piece. It was not a man but a woman, Zona Gale, and he promised Pulitzer she would be dropped. Gale was then a struggling freelance writer working mostly for the Evening World while creating novels in her spare time. Years later, she would win a Pulitzer prize as a playwright. On May 10, 1903, the World celebrated its twentieth anniversary under Pulitzer's ownership with a 136-page issue, the largest newspaper ever printed. A few days later, Pulitzer's daughter Edith, who attended Miss Vinton's School for Girls in Connecticut, was summoned to her headmistress's study. Such invitations usually were reserved for reprimands, so Edith was panic-stricken. When Edith arrived, Miss Vinton began reading aloud from the New York Times, the only newspaper permitted in the school. In it was an editorial written by Adolph Ochs on the anniversary of the World. In most flattering terms, it spoke about Edith's father and the accomplishments of his paper. "Whatever may be said of the ways of the World," Ochs had written, "it will be universally admitted that it has 'done the State some service,' and has fought with notable vigor and unflagging zeal for the triumph of many good causes." Pulitzer took great joy in hearing Edith's story. He was in Bad Homburg, Germany, where he had gone to try its baths, having tested the curative powers of those in Carlsbad, Wiesbaden, and Baden-Baden. But his rest was disturbed when one of his male personal assistants was caught soliciting sex from a man. The ax fell quickly. "Mr. Pulitzer wishes me to tell you that this incident has given him great pain and that he is much distressed with the duty and sorrow at the necessity of terminating your recent personal relation with him," one of the other secretaries wrote to the man. Perhaps because of his own intimate friendship as a teenager with Davidson, though, Pulitzer was unwilling to be as cruel as others might have been at the time toward a homosexual man. He arranged for him to have a job helping in the London office of the World. The forty-three-year-old, Irish-born James Tuohy, who served as the London bureau chief, was well used to doing personal services for Pulitzer. In fact, for years he had orchestrated the search for British companions, which Pulitzer preferred over Americans. This new assignment, however, seemed unlikely to succeed because London was as intolerant toward homosexuals as most other places. He warned his boss: "I note your instructions.... The difficulty is how am I to know what he is doing? If I tell him that a repetition of anything like the Homburg incident means a termination of his engagement, he simply won't tell me." In fact, not long after arriving in London, the man was propositioned in a Piccadilly restaurant by Grenadier Guardsmen who, according to Tuohy, "have a reputation, by the way, of augmenting their pay considerably by this avocation." It seemed unlikely that Pulitzer's solution for the man would work. "I am afraid that———'s fatal attraction will get him into trouble, in spite of himself, before long." From Bad Homburg, Pulitzer migrated to Étretat on the northern coast of France, and then to London for the fall. He had little interest in the mayoral race back in New York. In fact, his passion for politics was diminishing. The change was evident to careful readers of the editorial page. One reader in particular was Pulitzer's editor James W. Clarke. In preparation for the paper's twentieth anniversary earlier in the year, he had examined the state of the editorial page. Clarke's report read like a nonfiction version of Phillips's novel. He found that over the years since Pulitzer had ceased being present at the paper, the page had lost its soul and the fires of reform had dimmed to a flicker. In its first years, when Pulitzer himself wrote the editorials, "politics, politics, politics dominated the page," Clarke said. "They were hot, partisan politics, too. The tone was radical and at times violent. The masses were steadily championed, the millionaires and money power constantly denounced. "There was no mincing of words in denouncing Republican Presidents and statesmen," Clarke continued. "The page was sprinkled liberally with attacks upon other papers and upon men.... Plenty of epithets and personalities. Plenty of first-class invectives, some good satire—but humor very light. It was mostly hard pounding and expounding." This was a grim verdict for Pulitzer. His cherished editorial page had become like him, old and stodgy. He was bereft of friends, and the companions with whom he spent his days were paid to be with him. His most important connections to his beginnings in St. Louis—Davidson and Dillon—were dead. He was estranged from his only living sibling, who was also his last tie to his childhood in Hungary. Since their fights in 1883, Albert had gone to Europe, and neither man had written to the other after that. Joseph's children were a disappointment and his family provided no comfort, broken up as it was on two continents. His stoic wife, Kate, remained willing at all times to fill the void, but Joseph had spurned her offers of companionship so frequently that she ceased to ask. Writing to Joseph from Aix-les-Bains, Kate marked the moment. "Twenty-five years married, how strange it seems," she said. "When we think that, a hundred years hence, not one of us now living will be alive to care or to know, to enjoy or to suffer, what does it all amount to? To a puff of smoke which makes a few rings and then disappears into nothingness and yet we make tragedies of our lives, most of us not even making them serious comedies." ## Chapter Twenty-Seven ## CAPTURED FOR THE AGES In early 1904, the New York World's writer Samuel L. Williams stepped down from a train in Detroit, Michigan. Williams, who had been afforded a rare honor for a staffer—riding and swimming with Pulitzer at Chatwold—was on a secret scouting mission. William Merrill, the dean of the World's editorial page, was getting old, and his editorials were getting stale. Pulitzer wanted a young man in the shop who could write with a passion and verve equal to those of Phillips before he abandoned his editorial cubbyhole for fiction. "I knew pretty well what JP wanted," Williams recalled. "His young men had to know history, biography, have keen perception, and a concise, direct, simple, forceful style. In editorials he especially wanted clarity, brevity, and a punch in the last paragraph." To find the right man, Williams had traveled from city to city, reading yards and yards of ponderous editorials. "Finally," he said, "I discovered some editorials in the Detroit Free Press which seemed to meet Pulitzer's specifications." He read and reread these, and culled those he thought had been written by the same person. An old friend, a newspaperman in Detroit, identified the author as Frank Cobb and arranged for Williams to meet him at dinner. Williams took an immediate liking to the tall, broad-shouldered thirty-four-year-old Cobb. He had a mop of hair that hung down his forehead, sparkling eyes, and powerful hands and arms from working for years in a sawmill. "At the table, Cobb proved himself a brilliant conversationalist, an omnivorous reader, a shrewd observer, a forceful talker, and a keen analyzer of men and affairs. He had vitality of brain and body, yet was so simple in manner, so modest, so lovable, that I knew immediately I had found the Ideal Editor." After dinner, Williams telegraphed Pulitzer. In the morning, he received his instructions from the publisher. He was to learn everything he could about Cobb and to provide a complete account, including the color of Cobb's eyes, shape of his forehead, and his table manners. Williams grilled Cobb, who by now realized he was being considered for some post. He had read the right books, he opposed Bryan and free silver, and liked Roosevelt but had attacked him editorially, Williams reported. "As to personal appearance, cheerfulness, tone of voice and table manners—highly commendable! He ate soup without a gurgle." Cobb was not entirely sure he wanted to leave his job at the Detroit Free Press. But after a visit with Pulitzer on Jekyll Island, he was persuaded to join the World. In the spring, he reported to Merrill. In no time his crisp writing and his persistent requests for information from others drew the attention of the editorial staff. "He would end each inquiry with a sort of grunt that sounded like ubn but was really a question mark," Williams said. Once again Pulitzer had a young man to mold, and this time one who would not leave him or betray him. Over time, the relationship between the older publisher and the young writer grew into the kind of collaborative, though tumultuous, partnership Pulitzer had long sought. Cobb became the most trusted, most loyal, most effective, and longest-serving among Pulitzer's editorial lieutenants. His tenure was exceeded only by that of John Cockerill, Pulitzer's first adjutant for twelve years. For Kate, the winter of 1903–1904 had been especially depressing. She was sick for most of January, and many of their friends had died during the cold months. She felt that all she had done was send notes and cards of condolence. Though she despised Jekyll Island and had not been there in eight years, she tentatively asked Joseph if she could come for a visit. "I shall not be the least offended," she wrote, "if you think you have not room enough." Her plea reflected a change of heart. Though the pair continued to squabble over money, Kate increasingly took pity on her husband. She had grown to accept his ailments, phobias, and eccentricities as permanent attributes. The Joseph she had fallen in love with was gone. She occasionally spoke wistfully about the early years of their marriage. Gazing at a photo from many, many years ago, she remarked to a visitor about the sweet expression her husband had in the picture. "Shall be engrossed with work and the quarters are not comfortable but I shall be glad to see you if you come," Joseph replied. As if this were a courtship and she had won her prey too quickly, Kate held back. "Am very sorry but think it best not to go Jekyll," she wired, "as sure should be in your way you being engrossed in work would be an irritation to you feeling you must give me time. I quite understand and appreciate condition." Her message forced Joseph to be more emphatic in asking her to come. As soon as he was, Kate replied with alacrity that she consented. "Expect you to welcome me with joy or will leave on first raft," she teased. Remaining in New York was nineteen-year-old Joe. "The house seems very empty just at present," he wrote to his father. Since being thrown out of St. Mark's School for his nighttime escapade, he had worked at the Post-Dispatch and the World while being tutored. Unbeknownst to Joe, his father instructed Butes to check quietly to see if Harvard would take him. "Keep secret from Joe as don't want him to know," wrote Pulitzer. Harvard decided that if Joe passed a set of entrance exams, it would accept him. He was ecstatic upon getting the news and pledged to redouble his efforts with his tutor. The gift, however, did not come without strings attached. His father stipulated that Joe would have to promise to study hard in order to win admission without conditions, to work hard in college, to be satisfied with an allowance that was small by Pulitzer's standards, and not to come to New York except during vacations. After her time with Joseph on Jekyll Island, a rare interlude of comity between them, Kate returned to New York to cope with the finishing touches at their new house on East Seventy-Third Street. Joseph left for Aix-les-Bains. "I wish there was more sunshine in your life—worry and wearisome work are dull companions," Kate wrote to him when he was settled in Aix. "If you could only take pleasures in things outside your work it would be a Godsend." In his absence, the World marked the anniversary of his ownership quietly. Kate, however, couldn't let it go unnoticed. She wrote to Joseph, "We will pass over what it has been to me, and my heart was so full of the conflicting elements of pride and pain that I could not speak of it." In May 1904, George Harvey, Pulitzer's former managing editor, who was now president of Harper & Brothers, brought out a work dictated by Pulitzer describing his plans for the journalism college, as the main article in the company's North American Review, a highly regarded magazine. At length, Pulitzer explained the need for professional training and what kind of training he envisioned. But he laid out a grander vision for the school's purpose than simply churning out well-trained reporters and editors. "In all my planning the chief end I had in view was the welfare of the Republic," he wrote. Better-trained journalists would make for better newspapers that would better serve the public good. "Our republic and its press will rise or fall together," he continued, in words that would later be mounted on the walls of his school. "An able, disinterested, public-spirited press, with trained intelligence to know the right and the courage to do it, can preserve that public virtue without which popular government is a shame and a mockery. A cynical, mercenary, demagogic press will produce in time a people as base as itself." However, in the year since inking the agreement to create the journalism school, Columbia University's officials had been exposed to Pulitzer's less lofty side and had suffered from his irascibility. At first, he insisted that Columbia take the lead on the project, only to subsequently threaten to kill it if his choices—including the presidents of Cornell and Harvard—were not appointed to the advisory board. When Columbia's president, Butler, objected to the appointment of presidents from rival institutions, he was rebuked. "Understand jealousy," Pulitzer wired from St. Moritz to Bradford Merrill, into whose hands Pulitzer had entrusted the final arrangements. "Telegraph Butler my insistence. Unalterable. Final." Butler consented but counseled that the public announcement of the gift be delayed until the entire advisory board had been selected and approved by the trustees. He also believed that a board comprising illustrious men would defuse charges that Pulitzer was building a monument to himself. Pulitzer would have none of it. He ordered that the World break the news. Merrill, however, defied his boss and acquiesced to Butler's wishes. It took him less than twenty-four hours to learn what his boss thought of that decision. Pulitzer ordered Merrill off the project, forbade any further meetings with Butler, and demanded once again that the news be published. "We are certainly dealing with a wild man," Butler told an associate. Realizing that the story would soon break, Butler had his staff cobble together an announcement. In late August 1903 Pulitzer's plan finally became public. Every major newspaper in the nation gave it great prominence. Even his rivals in the press praised the idea. "By this benefaction," noted Ochs at the New York Times, "Mr. Pulitzer wins a new distinction in the history of the art he has himself so successfully practiced." Pulitzer's political opponent Theodore Roosevelt was not among the cheering crowd, telling a friend, "I share your indignation at Columbia College having accepted such money for such a purpose from such a knave." None of the public praise assuaged Pulitzer. The day after the announcement, he forbade Seitz to send him any more telegrams concerning Butler. He didn't want to hear anything more about the project until he returned to the United States in the fall. Pulitzer further ordered Seitz to inform Columbia's president that unless Butler complied with all his wishes, he would expect Columbia's trustees to have a sense of honor and return the donation. "Again: All disagreeable cables forbidden." Like Merrill, Seitz disobeyed Pulitzer, but unlike Merrill, he got away with it. "He later took me to task for not delivering his ultimatum," said Seitz. "My reply was that I did not want to spoil all the applause." In Aix-les-Bains, having just concluded his last tantrum about the journalism school, Joseph spiraled down into one of his periodic episodes of depression. The weather was insufferably hot and humid after a week of rain, and he had not slept well in ten days. Kate let Joseph know that two of the girls were back at their boarding school in Connecticut, and this news gave him a chance to pick up his favorite theme of abandonment. "I am sorry the children are at Ridgefield again in the hands of—well, whatever these women are," he said. "You know my views about the way children should be brought up, and they certainly have not had a mother in any sense in which I have been used to understand and value that idea," he continued. "I wish you could have made it possible to go with them or be with them, and almost deplore my so-called success or prosperity, which alone enable you not to do so." Joseph didn't rest after launching this volley. He continued his assault on Kate by taking up the issue of her mothering with their seven-year-old, Herbert. "Now be a good boy," Pulitzer wrote, "love your father and tell your Mother and Edith that I think it is a perfect shame having turned you away from them, that one of them ought to be with you all the time, that you ought to have a Mother or a sister to take care of you constantly as your father would so much like to do himself." When Pulitzer's mood was this somber, none of the family escaped his vengeful wrath. His son Joe, who had stoically endured a drought of letters from his father, found himself summarily judged guilty of filial disrespect. "Thirty-five days since I sailed and not one word from you," Joseph wrote to him. "Thirty-five times I have told you with pain how much pain you give me when you don't write simply as evidence of neglect—and that you do not think of." None of Pulitzer's secretaries, with the possible exception of Butes, could temper these outbursts. They recorded, typed, and mailed the venom he spewed. The most common refrain in his complaints was that his family had abandoned him and that he never received any words of appreciation. "Instead of getting them I have received only blows, and hurts and injuries," he wrote to Kate on one occasion when he threatened to withhold payment for an expense they had agreed on. "Promises of affection and kindness not appreciated are not obligatory, the consideration failing," he said. His cruelty stung a bewildered Kate, exacerbating her precarious struggle with her own mysterious ailments. When she reached Paris, her doctor convinced her that she had arrived in the nick of time. If she had a breakdown now, it would be harder for her to recover from this one than the last one, he told her. She repacked her bags and left immediately for the French baths. The elections of 1904 woke Pulitzer from his political slumber. One of his three archenemies—Hearst, Bryan, and Roosevelt—could end up occupying the White House for the next four years unless he did something about it. The year was only a few hours old when Pulitzer, in bed with a cold in New York, began to resume political command of the World, dictating memos laying out the kind of coverage he wanted and even assigning specific stories. Merrill, Cobb, and others on the editorial page of the paper awaited their instructions from the reinvigorated Pulitzer. President Roosevelt also wanted to know what was on Pulitzer's mind. Nine years after Hearst's assault on its dominance and six years after its disgrace in the Spanish-American War, the World still remained the most politically powerful newspaper. The president sent his inquiry by circuitous means. One night in January, Ralph Pulitzer, twenty-four years old and acting like an heir apparent, went out with George Harvey, Katherine Mackay (the subject of Zona Gale's article that upset Pulitzer), and Grace Vanderbilt (wife of Cornelius Vanderbilt III). After seeing the two women to their carriages, Harvey asked Ralph to take a drink with him at the Waldorf Hotel. Ralph dutifully reported to his father that Harvey drank "a monstrous Scotch and Soda" while he stuck to a "modest glass of sherry." Harvey had come from seeing the president at the White House. "Roosevelt had said he was very anxious to meet you," Ralph wrote to his father on Jekyll Island, "and had asked Harvey to ask you if you would not come and see him at anytime to suit your convenience, either lunch or dinner." Peeved at Roosevelt's indirect manner, Joseph wired back, "Tell Harvey impossible for me to answer Roosevelt's invitation received in such a roundabout accidental way." He then added disingenuously, "My health forbids Washington as you know." In fact, the train that would carry him north in a few weeks ran through the nation's capital. Roosevelt extended his invitation to the White House because there had been a fragile cease-fire between the two men for several years. It began in 1899, when Roosevelt was sworn in as governor of New York. One day, early in his term, Roosevelt took aside one of the World's reporters. "Say to Mr. Pulitzer for me," he said, "that I appreciate very highly the fairness with which the World has treated me. When I was Police Commissioner I felt I was unjustly treated and resented it, but I have noticed lately a much more conservative policy, and personally, I am grateful for the attitude of the paper toward me." After Roosevelt assumed the presidency on the death of McKinley, the World had continued its self-restraint and at times had even complimented the president for his judicial appointments, his handling of a coal strike, and his enforcement of antimonopoly laws. The paper's new attitude, however, was deceptive. It had more to do with its publisher's diminished interest in politics, his work on his journalism school, and his obsessive preoccupation with building his new house in Manhattan than with any real change of heart, as Roosevelt soon learned. Even if his paper remained quiet, Pulitzer had shed none of his misgivings about Roosevelt. But he saw no prospect of preventing Roosevelt from winning a term of office on his own. Although Bryan remained popular among Democrats, he couldn't win. More frightening to Pulitzer was the prospect of Hearst's candidacy. Hearst had been elected a U.S. representative and, unlike Pulitzer, had served out his term; he was also the owner of eight newspapers and was spending millions to win the nomination. To block these two men, Pulitzer put his hopes on Alton B. Parker, a New York judge who was a protégé of New York's governor, David Hill. Pulitzer sent Williams to Nebraska to determine Bryan's intentions. If he had expected a cordial reception for his emissary, Pulitzer was in for a surprise. Bryan had waited years for a chance to vent his disappointment in Pulitzer. He gave Williams an earful. "Tell Mr. Pulitzer that the trouble with him is that he has too much money," he said. "He used to be a socialist when he was poor but now that he has acquired wealth he is just like the rest of the capitalists. "I have discovered the secret of Mr. Pulitzer's opposition to me," Bryan continued. It had become clear to him when he watched how Pulitzer forced President Cleveland to accept the public sale of bonds. "That is the secret. Mr. Pulitzer and the World can rule Cleveland. They can make him do as they want. But they cannot rule Bryan. They cannot make me bow to their will." He said he would not be a candidate and would turn down the nomination, clearing one hurdle for Pulitzer's chosen man, Parker. But he raised another by promising to "resist any attempt to hand the Democratic Party over to the corporations and capitalists as the re-organizers are trying to do. "I want to be a Cincinnatus, I do not want the cares of millions of dollars," he said, ending his hours-long meeting with Williams. "Tell Mr. Pulitzer to come out to my farm and I will make a farmer of him. I will show him how to be free from cares and worries about investments, stocks, bonds and guarding accumulations of wealth." Toward the end of the interview, Bryan recalled the first time he and Pulitzer met. It was in Washington, after Bryan's loss in the election of 1896. "He tried to see my face and feel my bumps." Bryan said. "He felt my chin and jaw and commented on it. Tell him this jaw is stronger and firmer than ever." The Republicans enthusiastically gave their nomination to Roosevelt in June 1904 while the Democrats continued to squabble. When the Democratic Party gathered in St. Louis, Bryan's plans were still undisclosed. If he backed Hearst, who had courageously supported his bids in 1896 and 1900, Bryan could split the convention. It seemed likely that this was his plan. His opening speech drew cheers of "Bryan, Bryan!" and Governor Hill agreed to omit any reference to the gold standard in the platform to appease Bryan's supporters. As dawn approached, after a long night of speeches, Bryan made his intentions known. He declined to support Hearst and instead seconded the nomination of a free silver candidate. Parker won the nomination on the first ballot and Hearst was left out in the cold. As the Democrats settled on their nominee, Pulitzer returned to New York from Aix-les-Bains. He sailed home on the Baltic, along with J. P. Morgan, who continued to give him wide berth, especially after suffering through a monthlong rehash of the gold bond affair in the World that May. The articles, which also appeared in 2 million pamphlets, were Pulitzer's handiwork. As he told his staff, he wanted the history of how Morgan and his cronies "swindled Cleveland, government, nation," to be told "so that every child can understand. Pulitzer was elated that his man was the choice of the Democratic convention. But his obsession with cleansing the party of Bryanism soon crippled the nominee's prospects. William Speer, a reporter for the World, was on leave to serve as Parker's secretary. Working through Speer, Pulitzer insisted that Parker force the party to swear allegiance to the gold standard. Parker acquiesced and sent a telegram from his Hudson River estate to St. Louis, saying that he regarded the gold standard as sacred and that he would decline the nomination if the party didn't agree. Riled but exhausted, the delegates complied by giving him the nomination on his terms, and returned home still deeply divided on the currency issue. Although Bryan and Hearst were beaten and he had his man as the party's standard-bearer, Pulitzer was not complacent. He knew how to read an electoral map. Parker ran a lackluster campaign, modeled on those of the past, when a candidate did not sully himself with speeches or touring. But Bryan and Roosevelt, with their stirring stump speeches and national tours, had so altered the political landscape that such antiquated behavior was a prescription for defeat. If Parker wouldn't take on Roosevelt, Pulitzer would. From Bar Harbor, Pulitzer ordered Merrill to go after George Cortelyou, Roosevelt's former secretary of commerce and labor. As chairman of the Republican Party, Cortelyou supervised the collection of funds from corporate leaders and financiers for the president's election campaign. Pulitzer told Merrill to compare the party chief to the nefarious Boss Tweed, and to demand that Republicans open their books so that the public could see how much money was coming into the president's coffers from trust, monopolies, and corporations facing possible federal prosecution. Pulitzer had long sought to end corporate campaign donations, but the government was still three years away from imposing a ban. "Roosevelt is very culpable, or at least, under suspicion for not having put through bills to prevent it in Washington. All the more because he consented to the amazing impropriety of making his Secretary of Commerce, collector of these very contributions and making him afterwards Postmaster General." Merrill did his best as the fall campaign got under way, but his efforts paled in comparison with Pulitzer's own editorial, which appeared on October 1, 1904. Written as an open letter to the president, it was vintage Pulitzer, of the kind readers had not seen in years. Pulitzer castigated Roosevelt for failing to keep his pledge to remove the veil of secrecy from the affairs of corporations. Stretching across two pages, the editorial sustained its intensity to the end. Pulitzer reminded readers that Roosevelt had created a special government agency to "get the facts" on corporations but had done nothing with it. "The Bureau of Corporations was organized February 26, 1903—more than 19 months, more than 80 weeks—exactly 583 days ago—yes, exactly 583 days ago," wrote Pulitzer. Line after line, Pulitzer pointed out that the agency had obtained no documents, subpoenaed no witness, and exposed no restraint of trade or corporate misdoing, repeating the refrain "after these 583 days" with each accusation. Returning to his bête noire, Pulitzer charged that Cortelyou was collecting tribute from corporations in return for a promise of protection. Then, he posed ten repetitive questions, set in boldface type. They began with "How much has the beef trust contributed to Mr. Cortelyou?" and continued through each important trust—paper, coal, oil, steel, etc.—until the last one: "How much have the six great railroads contributed to Mr. Cortelyou?" The ten questions became an instant hit with Democrats, who were desperate for a weapon to use against their foe. It wasn't long before Democratic speakers began to lead their audiences into chants of "How much? How much? How much?" The actual answer was far less than Pulitzer surmised, especially as corporate leaders had little doubt that Roosevelt would win. Cortleyou declined to respond publicly, but sent a private message to Pulitzer. He took one of the World's reporters by the arm in a hotel lobby in Washington. "As God is my witness," he said, "I am conducting an absolutely clean campaign. I have not coerced a penny out of anyone, and my order from the start has been to accept no money on a pledge of any sort whatsoever." The message fell on deaf ears. Pulitzer continued his attacks. Roosevelt considered the attacks an attempt to divert attention from the Democrats' equally odious money-raising tactics. In the end, he easily dispatched Parker, who took a drubbing even in his home state. The results did little to change Pulitzer's antipathy toward Roosevelt. He promised that the World would remain a thorn in Roosevelt's side as he began his first full term as president. "The World," Pulitzer wrote, "thinks no more of his military megalomania and his swashbuckler tendencies than it did before; but the returns prove that an overwhelming majority of voters had no such misgiving." As 1905 began, Pulitzer once again considered an offer by Charles Knapp, the publisher of the St. Louis Republic, to buy the Post-Dispatch. Knapp had not lost his desire to acquire the Post-Dispatch, despite the discordant end to his last round of negotiations with Pulitzer several years earlier. This time he teamed up with Pulitzer's friend David Francis, who had been governor of Missouri and a member of Cleveland's cabinet. In February, during a carriage ride around Jekyll Island, Francis laid out his plan. Essentially, Pulitzer would get $2.5 million in long-term bonds at 8 percent interest. Since Pulitzer did not decline the proposal, Francis left believing he had a deal. When Francis returned to St. Louis he was shocked to learn that Pulitzer was seeking more cash and fewer loans. He protested that the publisher was changing the terms of their agreement. "Answering your telegram," replied Pulitzer, "you accepted nothing except your own imagination." In the end, the unsigned documents that had been drawn up were forwarded to Seitz in New York; he locked them away in a safe-deposit box. It was the last time Pulitzer would toy with the idea of giving up the newspaper that had launched his career as a publisher. Francis was not the only one to suffer from Pulitzer's fickleness that winter. President Butler of Columbia University was astonished to learn that his new benefactor no longer wanted to proceed with the plan to build a journalism school. The university had custody of half of the promised $2 million and was ready to proceed. But the fight over the advisory board had left bruised feelings on both sides and Pulitzer altered the terms of his gift. He left it to Merrill to explain his actions. "Mr. Pulitzer is alone responsible for the present delay," Merrill told reporters. "His present determination is that actual establishment of the college of journalism shall be postponed until his death." He explained that Pulitzer's fragile health prevented him from devoting the necessary time to the project, that a suitable leader for the college had not been located, and that waiting until his death would remove any suggestion that Pulitzer was unduly interfering with Columbia's decisions on how to set up the college, although in fact he was. "To avoid all uncertainties or misconceptions," Merrill said, "I may add that the endowment of this college is absolutely irrevocable, and its establishment beyond a shadow of doubts." All would have to wait, however, for Pulitzer's death. Columbia would pay him the income from the $1 million it held, and Butler began a deathwatch. On April 10, 1905, Joseph turned fifty-eight. Kate sent birthday wishes from London. "At least you have the consolation of feeling that your life, though full of worries and much unhappiness, has been full of achievement too, that you will have left your mark in your generation," she wrote. But the birthday reminded Joseph of his mortality and his ever-present fear that his achievement—the World—would die with him. In his eyes, neither Ralph nor Joe was preparing for a future role as a newspaper owner. He reminded Ralph that heirs, such as those in the Gould family, were often forced to sell their inherited businesses. "I wish I could still more strongly impress upon you, and above all on Joe, and your mind the necessity of the proprietor's ability to manage his property," he said. Newspaper management was not foremost on Ralph's mind. He had been courting Frederica Webb, who was the great-granddaughter of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt and thus a member of a family the World routinely assailed and ridiculed. He was getting up the courage to tell his controlling father that he had asked her to marry him. Ralph had cause to worry. For Joseph's children, any encounter with their father could go wrong. One night at dinner the prior fall, Joseph had told Edith that she must cease riding Constance's horse, which was recuperating from an injury. Edith began to defend herself, but her father cut her off. When she complained, he laughingly said he would probably interrupt her again but that she should continue. "Oh dear!" exclaimed Edith on the verge of tears. "If anything happens to any horse everybody comes to me about it and everybody says I am to blame. It is not fair. I am tired of this. I will not have it." "What do you say?" a startled Joseph asked. "I say I am tired of these accusations," Edith replied. "Please remember you are talking to your father." "Certainly, but I must defend myself. It is not fair." "Fair or not fair, don't forget that you are talking to your father. If you are going to talk that way, I wish you would leave the table." "I was going when you came, but I came back to talk to you." "I don't want you to talk to me in that way. I don't want you at the table if you intend to talk that way. Don't come to the table. Don't come back to the table at all." Kate had mailed her birthday greeting to Joseph from London because the celebrated artist John Singer Sargent was painting her portrait there. Both she and Joseph had long sought a chance to sit for Sargent. James Tuohy, the World's London bureau chief, was given the assignment to procure the sittings. Like most emissaries, Tuohy had found it hard to meet with Sargent. "He requires very delicate handling, and is absolutely overwhelmed with commissions," he had reported two years earlier. Pulitzer's longtime friend and companion George Hosmer was also enlisted in the effort and tried to chase down Sargent when he came to Boston. "Will pay anything he wants," Pulitzer telegraphed Hosmer. Finally the painter consented to having Kate sit for him. "He seems greatly interested in the portrait," Kate excitedly wrote to Joseph after her first day with Sargent. "He is a wonderful artist. I think a genius, his portraits haunt one, he has two or three in his studio now which are quite wonderful." As he sketched her, Sargent told Kate stories of other sittings, describing one of his subjects as "the most objectionable type of a money-grasping, vulgar, Sixth Avenue Jew," oblivious of the fact that Kate had married a Jew. By mid-May, the sittings came to an end. The completed painting showed Kate in a beguiling pose, standing by a table, her hair coiffed toward the back of her head, her arms to her side, wearing a low-cut dress with many folds and ruffles. She looks demurely outward as if watching someone. In Aix-les-Bains, Joseph received a firsthand report on the portrait from Edith, who wired him an excited appraisal upon its completion. Joseph sent his thanks to the painter. "Sincere thanks on behalf of future generations," he wrote. "Alas, alas that I cannot see it myself." After much inveigling by Kate, Sargent agreed to paint Joseph as well. "I feared it was a hopeless task when I broached the subject as he had refused so many," Kate wrote to Joseph, "but a woman can coax a really great man into any halfway reasonable thing." Her portrait complete, Kate left England for a cure in France in the company of Constance and Edith. Instead of joining Joseph in Aix-les-Bains, she went to Divonne-les-Bains. There Kate was told that Catherine Davis, her ninety-year-old mother, who had fallen ill a few weeks earlier, was dead. Although the news was not unexpected, its arrival hit Kate hard. "She collapsed entirely and has been neither able to eat nor sleep since, even with very large doses of medicine each night," Maud Alice Macarow, her faithful companion, wrote to Joseph. Kate wanted to leave and return immediately to the United States. Her doctor, however, insisted that she remain in Divonne-les-Bains. Joseph concurred. "I forbid your mother sailing," he wired Edith. "Both you and Constance must do your utmost to comfort your mother." He instructed Joe, who was in New York, and his secretary George Ledlie to attend the funeral in Washington, where Catherine Davis had lived with her other daughter, Clara. But a day later, Joseph changed his mind. "If you are feeling strongly to sailing, upon reflection, I withdraw my objection." By then, Kate had reconciled herself to missing the funeral. Almost in a pique of jealousy that Kate's illness outranked his, Joseph sent her one of the angry, spiteful letters he was so capable of writing. Fortunately for Kate, neither Macarow nor Edith had the courage to give her the letter. When he returned to his senses, Joseph asked to have it back. "I am glad you wish your letter to Mother returned as it will be a long time, I fear, before she is in a fit condition to read it. She, of course, knows nothing at all about it," said nineteen-year-old Edith, well accustomed to her father's volatile moods. Unaware of her husband's intercepted missive, Kate completed a long-planned, loving gesture for Joseph. Since before their marriage, he had carried a watch in which was encased a photograph of his late mother. It survived the house fire but was damaged. Kate had brought the watch to London to be repaired. Her consideration extended farther. She had hired an artist to reproduce the miniature portrait of her husband's mother on a large scale. The finished reproduction disappointed her but she sent it on anyway. "I fear it is too small for you to see but at least you can feel that you have a picture of your mother," she wrote, adding that she would have an even larger one made. Pulitzer took his turn before Sargent in June 1905. Tuohy, the London bureau chief, put aside his regular duties to prepare for Pulitzer's arrival. By now he was used to doing the personal jobs that came with the post. In this case, he made sure that the bedroom windows in the London house Pulitzer rented were refitted with thick plate glass and that Pulitzer's horse, which had been sent ahead of time, was getting acclimatized. Accompanying Pulitzer to London was Norman G. Thwaites, the thirty-two-year-old son of a British parson. A veteran of the Boer War, Thwaites had joined the cadre of secretaries in 1902. He had been recruited by Tuohy, who referred to the hunt for secretaries as the "pursuit of white mice." Pleasing Pulitzer was nearly impossible. He insisted on hiring unmarried men who could freely travel anywhere in the world. He even dictated that he would hire no short men. "As I have to walk with my companion," the six-foot two-inch Pulitzer explained, "I don't like to stoop too low." To find a suitable candidate Tuohy and Butes had to parse as many as 100 applicants responding to discreet advertisements placed in British newspapers. When Thwaites first called on Pulitzer, he was brought into a room where Butes was furiously sorting out stacks of applications. Overwhelmed by their number, Butes was preparing to send Thwaites away when Pulitzer suddenly walked in. After introductions were made, Pulitzer brought Thwaites over to the window. He ran his long tapered fingers over the man's head and face and then asked Thwaites to take him by his arm for a walk in the garden. In stronger light, Pulitzer could still distinguish contours of people and objects, but not much more. The two strolled about for an hour discussing books and plays; this gave Thwaites, a consummate London theatergoer, a chance to impress Pulitzer. It also bode well that he spoke German, could write shorthand, and knew how to ride horses. His soothing reading voice tipped the balance in his favor, and Pulitzer offered him a trial. In the three years since, Thwaites had become one of Pulitzer's most trusted men. On this trip, Thwaites had the task of taking Pulitzer for a ride in the park each day before the sittings at Sargent's legendary studio on Tite Street. The painter was a stickler for punctuality, and Kate had warned Joseph, "You will have to be on time as he gets very nervous and out of sorts if one is at all late." Pulitzer assumed that at their first meeting Sargent would want to talk and maybe, at best, execute a few sketches. The painter, however, was in no mood to chat. He immediately placed a canvas on his easel and went to work. "Sometimes I get a good likeness, so much the better for both of us," he said. "Sometimes I don't—so much the worse for my subject but I make no attempt to represent anything but what the outward appearance of a man or woman indicates." As he said this, Sargent rapidly sketched a perfect charcoal likeness of Pulitzer on the canvas before him. Over the coming days he worked to turn the outline into a portrait. "He worked at a great pace," observed Thwaites, "advancing upon his canvas and retiring much in the manner of a boxer sparring for an opening." Sargent smoked continuously as he worked, filling the studio with the odor of Egyptian cigarettes. Although Pulitzer was a cigar smoker, he despised the smell of cigarettes. "None of us dared smoke them when near him," said Thwaites. Yet now he made no objection. "For three sittings, Pulitzer behaved with singular sweetness." On the fourth visit to the studio, the painting neared completion. When Thwaites studied it, he thought it showed a genial, aging man with a beneficent countenance. But on this day Pulitzer was followed into the studio by a man who wanted an appointment with him. "Tell him to go away," Pulitzer shouted. "A look of fury and impatience entirely changed the face of the subject, and Sargent contemplated the scene with keen interest, while making a dab or two on the canvas." In the end, with his final brushstrokes, Sargent captured the dual personalities of Pulitzer. "Hide, with a sheet of paper, one-half the face and you have a benevolent middle-aged gentleman," said Thwaites. "Observe, now, the other half, and you have the malevolent, sinister and cruel expression of a Mephisto. Unconsciously, the painter had presented what he saw." ## Chapter Twenty-Eight ## FOREVER UNSATISFIED His image preserved for posterity by one of the great portrait artists of the era, Pulitzer boarded the homebound Cedric on July 5, 1905. As he crossed the Atlantic, his secretaries read to him from stacks of accumulated copies of the World, a habit he rarely shed. The paper was dominated by front-page stories about an insurance scandal rocking New York. The story had surfaced several months earlier, when twenty-nine-year-old James Hazen Hyde, heir to a vast insurance fortune, put on a costume ball for the cream of New York society. The event was held at Sherry's, in a building on Fifth Avenue designed by Stanford White, with dining and reception rooms resembling those of French palaces. Actors, dancers, and musicians were hired. Waiters were costumed and wore makeup applied by the staff of the Metropolitan Opera. And even though it was the dead of winter, the rooms were decorated with wisteria, rosebushes, and heather to replicate the gardens of Versailles. Many of Pulitzer's friends and acquaintances attended the ball, as well as his son Ralph. Katherine Mackay was dressed as Phèdre, a queen of ancient Greece whose love affair and its murderous consequences were a popular subject in French theater. Her silvery costume had a train carried by two black children. The press feasted on every aspect of the event, providing readers with pages of details and illustrations. The party, Town Topics said, "rivaled in splendor all the celebrated fancy dress affairs that have been given in the history of New York." Under normal circumstance, the event would have receded from the front pages after a few days, and into New York lore. But the outlandish cost of the event—said to be around $50,000—provided Hyde's business opponents with evidence they sought to prove his unsuitability to run his father's Equitable Life Insurance Society. The ensuing corporate battle, which eventually embroiled all three of the nation's largest life insurance firms, lifted a veil of secrecy hiding extensive corruption and misuse of funds. The revelations were milked for all they were worth by the press. They shocked readers because the money had been entrusted to the firms to protect working-class families from destitution in the event their provider died. The World aggressively followed every lead in the scandal, and by the time Pulitzer boarded the Cedric it had run 122 front-page stories. As the ship's engines drove the liner across the ocean, his secretaries droned on about the Equitable affair. He grew unhappy. When he first heard of the scandal, he had urged his staff to pursue the story. Now he thought the paper had gone too far, and he dictated nearly 100 pages of severe criticism, unloading buckets of complaints on Frank Cobb about Cobb's work on the editorial page. When Pulitzer disembarked in New York, he gave orders that temporarily checked the World's determined pursuit. Several days later, as he traveled north to his retreat in Maine and reviewed a new batch of papers, Pulitzer changed his mind yet again. "Keep up the headline of Equitable Corruption," he ordered. "Mistake to drop 'Equitable Corruption.'" The staff usually tried to ignore Pulitzer at these moments—especially Cobb, who this time was suspended and then earned a bonus as his boss's enthusiasm for scandal-mongering returned. Back in Pulitzer's good graces, Cobb learned that he could earn even more if he could keep his publisher happy. "And you could not possibly please me more than by swearing to accept my criticism in the future without feeling hurt, even if it should seem to you to be wrong," Pulitzer wrote. "Will you remember this? Swear!" How to please Pulitzer eluded those who worked for him. One reporter, who had considerable tenure at the World, finally had the temerity to sum up the frustration in a note to the boss. "To the mottos of 'Accuracy, terseness, accuracy' that are now on the office walls," he wrote to Pulitzer, "I would add another line—'Forever Unsatisfied.'" Within a month of his return to the United States, Pulitzer persuaded sixty-four-year-old William Merrill to retire and turn the editorial page over to Cobb. As soon as Merrill had packed up and left, Seitz received a telegram from Bar Harbor. "Please remove from door on the fourteenth floor the name and title of William Merrill and put on it the words: Mr. Ralph Pulitzer, Assistant Vice President." Merrill was wounded by Pulitzer's callous treatment. At his desk in the Dakota, a famous gabled apartment building on the Upper West Side, he thought back to a time when Pulitzer had held a dinner for his editors at the house on Fifty-Fifth Street. "Don't remember me, I pray you, by anything I may have done in anger," Pulitzer had told them. Then, placing his hand on Merrill's shoulder, he had continued, "There may have been a little difference between Merrill, here, and me, but we are now just as good friends as ever." Worried that he might not get a pension after nearly twenty years of working for Pulitzer, Merrill returned to the Boston Herald, from whence Pulitzer had plucked him years before. A few months later, he at last received a communication from his former employer, although it was indirect, as usual. Pulitzer, Butes wrote to Merrill, "never quite realized that he had lost a friend until he returned to New York, resumed his drives though the Park, recognized the Dakota and remembered that you were no longer there. It still seems impossible to him; he still cannot understand how such a thing could have happened." Before Merrill could feel sentimental, the next paragraph announced the true purpose of the correspondence. Merrill was asked to return the letters Pulitzer had written to him over the years. Pulitzer was worried that, should something happen to Merrill or Merrill's wife, "there is no telling into whose hands those papers might fall, and how they might be misused." Merrill complied but added that the severance of their friendship remained a mystery to him. Ralph finally screwed up his courage and informed his parents of his intention to marry Frederica Webb. His selection of a member of one of New York City's elite families was no surprise. Though Ralph worked at the World, he shared none of his father's passion for politics or social causes. Tellingly, Ralph kept a photograph of J. P. Morgan on the bureau of his bedroom. In this regard, he was far more like his mother, particularly in his interest in high society. To the public, Ralph was a typical spoiled, protected scion of wealth. Two summers earlier, he had spent three weeks hunting and floating down the Missouri River in Montana in the company of a well-known guide. He proudly sent home a photograph of three bighorn sheep he had killed. Unfortunately, he had violated Montana's game laws, and the game warden found the beheaded carcasses. The state brought charges against Ralph and threatened to have him extradited from New York if he didn't come back on his own accord. In the end, he pleaded guilty to two separate charges and paid $1,000 in fines, and his father paid the $2,000 in bills from a law firm in Montana. Money was of little concern to Ralph. When he shopped for his fiancée's engagement ring, he felt compelled to buy one costing $5,300. He told his father that the only other choice, which was half the price, "was a very commonplace emerald which would not have born a triumphant comparison with the rings she already has." Both parents made plans to attend the wedding, unlike Ralph's college graduation. At the end of September, Kate returned to the United States after a long stay at the French baths. She felt disconnected. "With the world in which we must live," she wrote to a friend, "the longer we stay out of it the harder it is for one to pick up the broken strands." On October 14, 1905, on one of the few occasions since Lucille's death seven years earlier, the entire Pulitzer family gathered to celebrate Ralph's wedding to Frederica Webb in Shelburne, Vermont. The Webbs' plans for the wedding—a union of two of New York's most prominent families—were all that one might expect. The hamlet of Shelburne had seen nothing like it before. A few lucky locals received coveted invitations. In nearby Burlington, reported one newspaper, "every dressmaker in the city is busy into the night preparing the costumes of the favored one." On the morning of the ceremony, a special train, ten cars long, brought guests from New York. Those attending the ceremony reached the little Trinity Episcopal Church in carriages with horses festooned in white chrysanthemums. Kate and the bride's mother, both dressed in white satin with white hats, entered together. Ralph stood at the altar with Joe, who was his best man, while their father sat in a pew. Boys from New York's St. Thomas Church sang as the bridal party processed. For a brief moment the wedding purged Joseph of his pained complaints about his children, particularly his boys. He became teary-eyed as Ralph and Frederica exchanged vows. It was a rare moment of sentimentality and affection for him. Ralph was similarly ashamed to show emotion in public. "I looked at you as we walked down the aisle," Ralph later told his father, "in fact, yours was the only face I saw, and I felt a lot of things that I probably would not have been able to express to you." This was as close as the Pulitzer men came to expressing affection. The father expressed his pleasure in the only way he knew. He bought Ralph a house—adjacent to his own in New York—and wrote a large check for the honeymoon. But by the end of Ralph and Frederica's tour of Europe, Joseph was his normal self again. "Your allowance has been stopped," he wrote to Ralph, "and the only thing you will get is your salary. Salaries, by the way, are not paid in advance." Early in 1906, Pulitzer learned that after all the effort to get Joe into Harvard, the school and his son were a poor match. Joe cut classes, idled away hours enjoying lunches and quiet spells by the fireplace of a fraternity house, and overspent his allowance. Summoned to New York in February, Joseph threatened to pull Joe out of Harvard unless he changed his ways. He didn't, and his father was true to his word. Joseph decided that Joe's lessons would be better taught in the newsroom and that his new teacher would be Charles Chapin of the Evening World, the most accomplished and feared city editor who had ever worked on Park Row. Chapin was already legendary by 1906; a dozen years later he would murder his wife, and thereafter he would spend the rest of his life in Sing Sing prison, tending acres of magnificent rose gardens of his own making. At Pulitzer's Evening World, Chapin was unbeatable in the guerrilla warfare of Yellow Journalism; he was also a newsroom tyrant who fired reporters for even the slightest mistake. Journalists put up with Chapin's despotism because he was one of the most innovative and daring editors in New York. "Quite possibly, viewed as a machine, he was the ablest city editor who ever lived," said Stanley Walker, the venerable city editor of the Herald Tribune. In April, Joseph called Chapin. "I am sailing for Europe in the morning, and I am sending Joe down to work under you," he said. "Treat him exactly as you would any other beginner and don't hesitate to discipline him should he need it. There is to be no partiality shown because he is my son." Under Chapin's tutelage, Joe worked assiduously at improving the writing and reporting skills he had learned at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. But he could not resist behaving like the owner's son. He began to take leave from work and was soon absent for an entire week without permission. When he returned, Chapin fired him on the spot. "The office gasped with astonishment when it got noised about that I discharged 'Prince Joe,' as they called him," recalled Chapin, "but Joe good-naturedly treated it as a joke and took the night train to Bar Harbor, where he fitted out his yacht and sailed in all the regattas that summer, or until his father returned from Europe and sent him out to St. Louis." His father's continued harshness inflicted great pain on Joe. Only a few months earlier, during a carriage ride and in front of Ralph, Joseph had dressed Joe down as "utterly worthless, ignorant, and incompetent." But in St. Louis, far from his father, Joe found the home he needed at the Post-Dispatch. He eventually developed into the most successful editor and publisher among the Pulitzers' children. Despite having named Joe after himself, Joseph would always remain to his death blind to Joe's innate journalistic talents, which matched his own. Temperament separated the two men. Later in the year, after one of their periodic dustups, Joe wisely grasped their distinctness but unwisely shared it with his father. "One of the strange differences between us two, to my mind, is the fact that you have never come near learning how to enjoy life, whereas, I, I fear, have learned the lesson only too well." After Joe was banished to St. Louis, one of Pulitzer's last remaining connections to his own years there ended. At age seventy-seven, Carl Schurz died. The German-American had inspired Pulitzer to enter politics and—although, curiously, he never mentioned Pulitzer in his memoirs—had remained fond of him, even after their harsh political confrontations in the 1870s. Shortly before his death, Schurz showed a visitor a photograph of Pulitzer that he kept on his desk. Pulitzer instructed Butes to send a wreath with his card, and instructed Kate to represent him at the memorial service. "You would have been proud of your chief," she said, after detailing the many tributes paid to Schurz. Kate, her companion Maud Alice Macarow, and Edith spent the summer in Europe, as Kate was under doctor's orders to rest at Divonne-les-Bains. Her departure was marred by another quarrel with Joseph. After a prolonged silence, Kate wrote, "Now, don't worry. Understand I have learned to make all allowances for the tricks your nerves play on you and stop being cross with me for it does you no good and does much harm." In London, Kate returned to Sargent's studio to have tea with the artist. In a pained voice, he told her, "I did not do you all justice in your portrait—you are much better looking than I painted you." It was a compliment that she immediately shared with Joseph, sparking momentary jealousy. But, Kate graciously added, "he spoke nicely of you, said you had such a splendid forehead and were a wonderful type for an artist." From London, the group went to Paris. Between stops at the salons of her favorite couturiers, on whom she dropped $15,000 that year, Kate toured the sculptor Auguste Rodin's studio. Stephen MacKenna, the World's Paris bureau chief, was a good friend of Rodin and arranged the visit. Rodin, who had begun his career as a controversial artist, had become immensely popular, and his busts were sought after by the wealthy. "He is in sculpture, as Sargent is in painting," Kate said. "There is such soul, poetry, and mystery in his work that in looking at them you feel that you are sensing his touch." The artist, donning his trademark cap, took Edith and Kate on a tour of his studio and his country estate outside Paris. "I wish he could do a bust of you," Kate wrote to Joseph, "it would be just as wonderful as the Sargent portrait." After Paris, the group moved on to Divonne-les-Bains. One night, when they came down from their hotel rooms for dinner, the waiter took them to a table right next to one where J. P. Morgan was sitting alone. As they passed by, Kate bowed slightly, and Morgan jumped up to shake her hand. During dinner, Edith noticed that whenever her mother glanced in Morgan's direction she would catch his eye and he would smile at her. Small talk soon ensued, and Morgan chatted about his farm in England, which Kate had visited when Morgan's father was living there. When he rose to leave the dining room, Morgan offered Kate a large box filled with fresh strawberries. "Isn't he hideous," Edith said to her tablemates as Morgan exited the room. "I don't think he is repulsive," replied Kate, unwilling to indulge her daughter in cattiness. Macarow, her eyes following Morgan out of the room, murmured, "Well, the back of his head isn't so bad." Later that night, before retiring, Edith wrote to her father. "Oh dear, I have never seen such a hideous face," she said. "It isn't only the nose—even with a decent nose he'd be ugly—and he had the ugliest little bits of pig's eyes." Kate returned to the United States in order to be there in time for the birth of their first grandchild, Ralph Pulitzer Jr. "I am as happy as when Ralph was born," Kate wrote to Joseph. "The baby is a darling. Terrible temper just like yours." After consecutive failed bids to become president of the United States or mayor of New York City, Hearst rose like a political phoenix in the summer of 1906. He won the Democratic Party's nomination for governor of New York. The press went wild with excitement, covering what otherwise would have been a dull campaign. Kate, who was in New York, accompanied Ralph and his bride to a rally for Hearst at Madison Square Garden. In the White House, Roosevelt could not tolerate the idea that Hearst, whom he despised almost as much as he hated Pulitzer, might hold the post he himself had held before becoming president. He worked to spread rumors of Hearst's immoral behavior. When those charges did not gain enough traction, Roosevelt, resurrecting a hurtful charge, instructed his secretary of state to let it be known that the president believed Hearst had been partially responsible for the assassination of McKinley. Of all of Hearst's enemies, Pulitzer was the one who remained fair. He issued strict instructions to his staff that his view of Hearst should not color the paper's coverage of the candidate. "Treat Hearst without a particle of feeling of prejudice, if this is possible," he wrote. Two years earlier, when Hearst had run for president, Pulitzer had similarly restrained his editorial staff. "Never for a moment fail to admit that Hearst is a very clever politician, and able man," Pulitzer wrote, ordering that he "should be treated with, at least, that respect which is due to his following." While continuing to oppose Hearst, Pulitzer privately admitted admiration for his rival's allegiance to his principles. Hearst, however, knew none of this. During his campaign, he made Pulitzer a frequent target. Over the course of seven speeches in New York and Brooklyn, Hearst damned the man he had once admired. "When Mr. Pulitzer was building up his paper he had principles, or at least he professed principles," Hearst said. "When he was appealing for the pennies of the people he proclaimed himself the champion of the people. In his old age, when he has amassed his fortune and has invested it in gas stocks and railroad stocks and other Wall Street securities, he repudiates the principles that made him and betrays the people that supported him. "False to his principles, false to his own people, he fawns and truckles to a class that uses him while it despises him. In the end, Hearst lost the election to the Republican, Charles Evans Hughes, though by only a slim margin. Exhausted, Hearst and his family left New York for a vacation in Mexico. Stopping in St. Louis, the defeated candidate went to the Post-Dispatch building in order to use the Associated Press facilities to send some business messages. As he entered the building, Joe Pulitzer, who was in exile at the Post-Dispatch, saw Hearst and followed him up to the AP office. "I want to know if you realize what you said in your speeches about my father and I want to know if you believe it," Joe said in a low tone when he caught up with Hearst. "Many things are said in a political campaign that are regrettable," replied Hearst. "That won't do," said Joe, interrupting Hearst. "I intend that you shall say whether you believe it or not." "I usually mean what I say," Hearst said. Then, noticing the young man's rising temper, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, a defensive boxing stance that Joe would have recognized as the "Harvard guard." It was done just in time. Joe struck at Hearst, who warded off the blow. The young Pulitzer tried again, but others in the office held him back while Hearst's wife, who had been seated nearby, grabbed her husband by the arm. Hearst escaped unscathed. Three decades after his father had shot at a lobbyist and brawled with an editor, St. Louis had another fighting Pulitzer on its hands. "Alas, the punch didn't land," Joe admitted nearly fifty years later, adding, "that's always been one of my regrets." Kate was proud of Joe and told her husband, "You should feel happy at Joe's feelings for you." Joseph, however, was in no mood to hear about his pugilistic son standing up for him. He had just disembarked from a grim Mediterranean cruise. Hosmer had been ill the entire voyage and had thus deprived Joseph of conversation; and the backup, a loyal secretary, was seasick. Kate tried to comfort Joseph and offered to come to Cap Martin, where he was settling in for the winter. "Whenever I hear that you are lonely and miserable and forlorn, I always want to help and shelter you." But he refused her entreaties, telling her to stay away. "If it is any comfort to you," she wrote back, "I should like you to know I think of you constantly and feel most sorry for you." Reaching age seventy-five, Hosmer decided that his health would no longer permit him to be in Pulitzer's company. After sixteen years of providing companionship to the publisher, Hosmer told Butes, "I am going home for a rest as I am too much used up by recent illness to be of any good here." He reached New York a few days before Christmas. After completing some errands for Pulitzer, he went uptown to see Kate. When he reached the house, he found Edith and Constance at the lunch table with Kate's personal companion Macarow and another guest. Kate was eating alone in her room. At length, Hosmer explained that Joseph was depressed, filled with melancholy, lonely, and without any companionship "or any sense just at the present of intimate or pleasant association with any human creature." Kate wanted to leave immediately for France. In 1890, she and Hosmer had rushed across the ocean to rescue Joseph from a similar descent into darkness. This time, though, the two decided that it might make matters worse if Kate went without her husband's consent. She stayed in New York. "I wish I could give you happiness or least contentment," she wrote to Joseph on Christmas Eve. "As one grows older, peace almost seems happiness. I wonder if that restless spirit of yours will ever accept peace as a substitute for active happiness?" On board the Honor, a yacht he had leased to take him to Greece, Pulitzer asked Thwaites to send a note to Butes in New York. "I shall eat my Christmas dinner in solitary grandeur, I suppose." Shortly after New Year's Day, 1907, Kate's trunks stood packed in her bedroom in New York. Joseph had admitted that he could use her company, and Kate had booked passage to France. But then a telegram arrived. It announced that he was out of his depression and had no need for her care. Although she was pleased that he was better, Kate's anger flared. "There is one thing you must never in your life do again," Kate told him, "that is complain that your family has neglected and deserted you. For I have kept copies of my telegrams urging and telling you to let me join you and also urging you to let the children join you, both of whom were only too willing to go. So you must get that morbidly false idea out of your mind." It was advice he would continue to ignore. "You would be so much happier, dear," Kate insisted, having regained her composure, "if you would only give people the benefit of the doubt and not assume they must necessarily be always in the wrong and that they intend either way to hurt or to injure you." To her pleasure, the World's bureau chief in Paris, Stephen MacKenna, persuaded Rodin to travel to Menton in southern France, where Joseph was staying, to execute a bust for the princely sum of 35,000 francs. Joseph, who had taken to the idea, wanted the finished work to be displayed in the Pulitzer Building in New York. But he remained his prickly self as the day neared for the sculptor's arrival. "I can't adapt myself to his pleasure, he must adapt himself to mine, come with me on my ride, not touch me in the afternoon," Pulitzer demanded. "Also, he should definitely have some idea of my character and moods and should make allowances for them. I don't care a damn how ugly he makes me, but he shouldn't misrepresent me. There are elements of romance and tragedy. "As to the sittings," Pulitzer informed MacKenna, "I cannot possibly give him more than one sitting a day as I am an invalid suffering from insomnia, usually tired." When Rodin arrived in mid-March, Pulitzer found him charming—until the artist asked him to remove his shirt, as he did with every male subject. Pulitzer, who possessed an exaggerated Victorian prudishness, refused. Rodin threatened to leave. He said he could not even begin to do a bust without studying the neck and torso of a subject. With the room cleared of everyone save Rodin's assistant, the sitting began with a shirtless Pulitzer. Pulitzer's French had grown rusty and Rodin spoke no English, so the two conversed through an interpreter. "But his great personality was easily seen," said Rodin. "His head was that of a master of destiny who by sheer will had risen from a humble beginning to the level of more fortunate fellowmen; then by same force had [reached] one still higher beyond them, where they could not follow because they lacked his character." Pulitzer asked Rodin to show him as a sighted person. "What I see in your face I will show, and not what you see," Rodin curtly replied. "Blind though he was," the sculptor recalled years later, "he was a great dominant force, and this characteristic I tried to express in my bust of him." Rodin returned to Paris, after three weeks in Menton, convinced that Pulitzer did not have long to live. He told his atelier to lose no time in making the marble bust and the bronze casts. The sittings with Rodin were the final personal service that MacKenna, who had run the Paris bureau since 1903, rendered for his boss. Unlike Tuohy in London, MacKenna resented doing errands for Pulitzer. Back in Paris, he received a telegram from Pulitzer ordering him to buy six chickens and six ducklings and deliver them to the Gare de Lyon for shipment to Menton. "Refuse de vous acheter six poulets et six canetons; ceci est ma demission," MacKenna wired back. "Refuse to buy you six chickens and six ducklings; this is my resignation." On April 10, 1907, Pulitzer turned sixty. From southern France, he sent orders for his staff in New York and St. Louis to celebrate the occasion. Sixty editors from the World and sixty from the Post-Dispatch came together for sumptuous meals at Delmonico's restaurant in New York and at Planter's Hotel in St. Louis, respectively. At an appointed hour, a long-distance telephone line was opened, connecting the two celebrations. Toasts were made late into the night and duly wired to Pulitzer. During the meals, a cable from Joseph, filled with lofty declarations of principle—like those usually chiseled on walls—announced that Ralph would become president of the Pulitzer Publishing Company. Joseph's cable also included a declaration of his retirement, a sequel to the one announced in 1890. But those who worked for him discounted it. Pointedly, no mention was made of any new responsibilities for Joe, who was hosting the dinner in St. Louis. There still was no truce between the father and his son in exile, despite Joe's endless apologies for any unintended slights. The exile would continue. "There is not one scintilla of a shadow of a shadow, or one shade of a scintilla of a shadow of reason for the thought that I even contemplated your coming to New York last year, this year or next year," Joseph wrote Joe a month after the dinner. "I do not expect perfection and Lord knows I am indulgent enough and affectionate enough and weak enough in my children," he continued. "But I leave you under no delusion; I must say that if you should work ten times as hard with a hundred times the talent you possess, it would still be no equivalent or recompense for the constant pain and suffering and distress, mental, moral and consequently physical, by day and by night, and almost every waking hour of the night and day, you have caused me this winter before and certainly one winter before that." Joseph's somber mood had worsened by the time he reached Maine in July. After giving thirteen years of selfless service to an impossible boss, Alfred Butes told Pulitzer he had accepted an offer to work for the British newspaper magnate Alfred Harmsworth, who recently had been given the title Baron Northcliffe. Pulitzer had known the British publisher since first renting houses in England in the 1890s. The two had much in common. Northcliffe, like Pulitzer, had begun his working life as a reporter. By his thirties, he had become his nation's preeminent newspaper publisher. Also, they both discovered that gaining power took a toll on friendships. "I am the loneliest man in the world," Pulitzer once told Northcliffe. "I cannot afford to have friends. People who dine at my table one night find themselves arraigned in my newspaper the next morning." That Butes went to work for Northcliffe made the desertion all the more painful. Pulitzer had assumed Butes would always remain with him, but signs of trouble had been long evident and might have been noticed by a boss who was sensitive to the feelings of those surrounding him. Butes, who was English, had a wife and child he hardly ever saw. Instead, he accompanied Pulitzer to Europe in the spring, Chatwold in the summer, Jekyll Island in the winter, and New York for occasional stays. "I am a miserable alien," he had told Seitz several years before. The break cost Butes an inheritance his boss had intended for him, and it destroyed Northcliffe's friendship with Pulitzer. Norman Thwaites was given the unfortunate task of consoling Pulitzer. The two went for a horseback ride in the woods at Bar Harbor. "I sought to keep his mind engaged by bits of news from the day's papers," Thwaites said. But Pulitzer didn't respond, so Thwaites became silent. "Well, why don't you talk?" Pulitzer suddenly said, swinging at Thwaites with his riding crop. "Is there no news in the paper? Dammit, man, talk, talk!" When Thwaites explained that he had been talking for an hour, Pulitzer "relented at once and, after apologizing, he bade me to tell him why he was treated so cruelly." In the fall, Harold Stanley Pollard, who had joined Pulitzer's cadre of assistants in 1905 after a brief tenure at the New York Times, went to Paris on a mission to determine what progress Rodin had made on the bust. At first he was turned away from the studio because Rodin was not there, but Pollard persuaded the concierge to let him have a peek at the work. Inside the studio, the man lifted the cloth off the bust. Pollard was struck at once by the resemblance that Rodin had achieved. "My mind flashed over the pictures by Bonnat, Sargent, and even the old-time photographs," he reported to Pulitzer. "He has seen in you the thoughtful mature man. He has depicted in his marble, an expression of mental introspection, a face outward quiet, immobile, gentle, and almost sad in his smooth soft lines, not a feature is harsh, aggressive or combative, but over all there is a wonderful glow of thought, of a brain studying, thinking, planning, pondering, deeply, earnestly, constantly. "He had neither made the eyes perfect nor sightless. He has given one the slight dropping difference we notice in comparison with the other," Pollard said. The concierge slowly turned the white marble bust. "I caught a sudden view, half profile, half full front. It was you as I have seen you in the quiet of the study when everything around you was quiet and peaceful, when you were thinking and planning those things that have made both history and success." At last, the attendant threw the cover back over the bust. "Is it finished?" asked Pollard. "Yes, it is finished," he replied. Pollard was not the only man on a mission for Pulitzer. In early December, the London bureau chief James Tuohy and his family traveled to Leith—in Scotland, north of Edinburgh—to join Arthur Billings for the launch of Pulitzer's new yacht. For more than a year, Billings, who had taken leave from his post at the World, had supervised the building of the yacht at the famous Ramage and Ferguson shipyard. Painted white, and christened the Liberty, the 300-hundred-foot yacht lacked only its engines, funnels, and mast. With a bottle of champagne, Tuohy's daughter Jane launched the ship down the ramp of its dry dock and into the water. The $1.5 million Liberty was the culmination of a long search for a suitable oceangoing vessel. Pulitzer had wanted to own a yacht ever since his days on Jay Gould's in 1883. After he became blind and infirm, Kate had pressed him to find one. His earlier discouraging episode as a yacht owner almost cured him of his desire. But in 1905, at Kate's urging, he began the search in earnest. He considered half a dozen yachts but none seemed suitable. "The great difficulty is that a vessel which would seem very silent to others may be very noisy to me—because of my excessive sensibility to noise," Pulitzer wrote to one seller. As a result, the Liberty had been specially designed to minimize noise, from its bulkhead to its every door and porthole. Once it passed its sea trials, Pulitzer anticipated being able to travel around the globe in a cocoon of silence, served by a forty-five-man crew and a twelve-man staff of personal assistants to read aloud, play music, or provide conversation. "I certainly expect to spend a large part of life-remains I have on the sea," Pulitzer wrote to Hosmer, who had logged more miserable nautical miles traveling with him than any other man. "You know Pulitzer's sea-ways are very far from safe," he joked about himself. On a Sunday morning in July 1908, the New York World's editor Arthur Clarke was silently sorting papers at his desk on the dais in the twelfth-floor newsroom when the telegraph editor came running in. "Arthur, Joseph Pulitzer is in the reception room!" he exclaimed. Clarke smiled but said nothing. Since the opening of the Pulitzer Building in 1890, its owner had been there only twice. If there was to be an apparition, Sunday morning was an unlikely time. "Arthur, I'm not kidding you," the editor begged. "Joseph Pulitzer is outside. I saw him when I got off the elevator. He's resting on the couch. Seitz, Lyman, Arthur Billings, and a swarm of secretaries are with him. In one minute the whole crowd will be in here." Clarke remained unmoved, ignoring the frantic excitement of the editor. Then he heard Pulitzer's unmistakable voice. "I'll go to Van Hamm's office, if you say so, but I won't go any damned roundabout way." He looked up and in came Pulitzer, inappropriately dressed for the summer in a tightly buttoned dark suit and with his eyes hidden by his usual goggle-like dark lenses. The publisher was crossing the cavernous newsroom, a maze of desks normally filled with reporters, editors, and copy boys running between them. Being guided by a secretary just barely prevented Pulitzer from striking a phone booth but caused the secretary a bruise as he, instead of his boss, smacked into it. "Clumsy!" said Pulitzer when he heard the impact. The group reached the empty office of Caleb Van Hamm, the managing editor. Sitting in Van Hamm's desk chair, Pulitzer asked Seitz how many windows there were in the room. "Three," Seitz replied. Then the party moved to the office of Robert Lyman, the night editor. Pulitzer now asked how far it was from the copy desk. When he was told that fifty feet separated the two, he became agitated. "Idiotic," he said. "Why not put it over in City Hall Park? The night editor must be near the copy desk. No nonsense about it. Swear you will change it!" All took an oath, but as with most of Pulitzer's instructions of this sort, they ignored the directive later, when he was gone. Pulitzer's irritation was exacerbated by an interview with George Carteret, the night editor. Running his hands over the head of the six-foot-tall, 250-pound editor, Pulitzer exclaimed, "God, you have a big head, Mr. Carteret!" "You are right, Mr. Pulitzer. I guess I have a big head," replied Carteret. "You can't deny it. Now tell me, Mr. Carteret, what is in that big head for tomorrow's paper?" Unfortunately, the editor had come in late and hardly knew what was in that day's edition. "My God! Only half-past eleven! And you haven't read the morning papers! Great God! What kinds of editors are running this paper?" Angry, Pulitzer rose, and his entourage followed. He paused at the city desk before beginning his trek back across the newsroom to the elevators. "I want to say a word to Arthur Clarke," said Pulitzer. The two men shook hands and, as was usual with Pulitzer, discussed their various health ailments. "Now tell me, my boy, what are you preparing for tomorrow's morning paper?" Clarke listed the various anticipated stories and the leads that reporters were following. "There isn't a good, bright Monday morning feature on the whole schedule," said Pulitzer. Putting his hands on Clarke's head, he added, "What have you in there, Mr. Clarke? That is where your Monday morning feature should be. You must cudgel your brain all week for it." Clarke promised he would. "I know you will have a good paper tomorrow, Mr. Clarke," finished Pulitzer, who then turned and was escorted from the room, never to return again. The truth was that the World functioned smoothly and successfully without Pulitzer. He had become a figurehead, an aging ruler whose only domain at the paper remained the editorial page. Even there, his hold was tenuous. He complained about its pessimistic tenor. "I am tired of this pitching into everything in this county," he told one of his editors. "I am tired of graft and corruption stories, as if the country were going to the dogs and everything corrupt." Two months before his surprise visit, the World had celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary under his ownership. Two thousand guests, including dignitaries from Washington traveling in a specially chartered train, gathered at the foot of the building for a spectacular shower of fireworks that bathed all seventeen stories in flickering light for hours. As he had been when the cornerstone was laid, and then when the building was dedicated, Pulitzer was oceans away. Ralph, who presided over the ceremonies, read a cable sent by his father from Nice, where he was testing his new yacht Liberty, which the secretarial staff was already calling The Liberty, Ha! Ha!! "Without public approval a newspaper cannot live; the people can destroy it any day by merely refusing it," Ralph said, reading the telegram aloud while standing in front of a portrait of his father draped with flags. "In its last analysis, nay, in its first and every analysis, step by step, day after day, the existence of a newspaper is dependent upon the approval of the public." That the World possessed. On an average day that month, the paper sold 707,432 copies and mailed thousands of copies to readers in every state and territory of the union. At midnight, everyone who could find space crowded into the cavernous underground press room to watch the largest Hoe presses on earth, the size of locomotives, stir to life, rhythmically stamping out a 200-page anniversary issue with eight sections in color. In August, Pulitzer sailed back across the Atlantic and summoned Seitz to his yacht to discuss coverage of the presidential election. Pulitzer's old Democratic antagonist was back. At the beginning of the year, Pulitzer had done everything in his power to discourage Democrats from turning to William Jennings Bryan for a third time. The World even printed, and distributed widely, a pamphlet called "The Map of Bryanism: Twelve Years of Demagogy and Defeat—An Appeal to Independent Democratic Thought, by the New York World." It hit its mark. "Mr. Bryan has formally and officially cussed the pamphlet from hell to Harlem," Frank Cobb told Pulitzer. In fact, Bryan's day had come and gone. Cobb, who had not heard the politician speak since he gave his famous "cross of gold" speech at the convention in 1896, was saddened after attending a New York rally. "He is fat and heavy and bald," Cobb told Pulitzer. "He looks like a traveling evangelist, who had failed as an actor, and then got religion. He speaks slowly and deliberately. He has lost all the sacred fire that made him the greatest orator I ever heard." Pulitzer instructed Cobb to promote alternative candidates. Cobb was impressed by the president of Princeton University, Woodrow Wilson, and Pulitzer urged him to draft an editorial promoting Wilson as an alternative to Bryan. "What better candidate could they present who would have a better chance to carry New York and New Jersey than anybody I can think of now," the publisher wrote. Pulitzer's efforts were of no use. Bryan easily won the nomination. Although he was convinced that Bryan would lose to Roosevelt's handpicked successor, William Howard Taft, Pulitzer ordered Cobb to support the Democratic nominee. "Bryan is as dead as a door nail," Pulitzer told Cobb when they met on the Liberty. "A vote for Bryan is not a practical living vote, but a protest; a protest against the tendencies of the party in power; a check and rebuke to stop those tendencies; an exceedingly important rebuke and check if the vote is large enough to keep the party in power after elections on the anxious seat." Without knowing Pulitzer's motives, Bryan was grateful for the World's support. In 1904 he had privately denounced Pulitzer as a slave to wealth, but now he sent a message of thanks. Pulitzer passed it on to Cobb. "It is a sign of forgiveness which might amuse you," he wrote in an accompanying note. Pulitzer believed that the World could increase its credibility and power if it mounted a campaign to resist Roosevelt's plans to create a legacy for himself as a great president. "The country has gone crazy under Roosevelt's leadership in extravagance for the war idea," Pulitzer said. "All my life I have been opposed to that so-called militarism. I may be crazy in thinking the country crazy, but the fact remains we have increased our war expenditures over one hundred millions a year." As far as Pulitzer was concerned, Roosevelt had set the nation on a course of unbridled, unneeded, and unwise military growth. "The logic of jingoism, Rooseveltism, seems to be that the greater we are in population and strength, the more afraid we must be of foreign attack and war." Roosevelt might be a lame duck, but Rooseveltism was an enemy yet to be vanquished. ## Chapter Twenty-Nine ## CLASH OF TITANS On the evening of October 2, 1908, William Speer, the editor whom Pulitzer had detailed to work for the Democratic presidential nominee in 1904, was at his desk in the editorial offices under the gold-leaf dome of the Pulitzer Building. As usual, the publisher was overseas and the editorial department was doing its best to carry on. But waging Pulitzer's fight against Roosevelt seemed a futile exercise for those, like Speer, who wrote the World's editorials. Neither its relentless attacks on the president—and thus on his successor, William Howard Taft—nor its support of Bryan was having much effect on the electorate. The day before, when Taft proclaimed in Bryan's home state of Nebraska, "I am going to be elected," few doubted his prediction. The one promising bit of hard news on this otherwise slow day was a tip that Speer received from an acquaintance. Reportedly, a group of Panamanians, disgruntled because they were not among those who profited from the canal now under construction in their new nation, had arrived in New York. If these men could be located, they might confirm a story that the World's reporters had doggedly pursued for years. According to rumors, when President Roosevelt concluded his deal in 1902 to build the canal, $40 million earmarked by the U.S. government to purchase a French company's holdings in Panama had gone to an American syndicate created by William Nelson Cromwell, the project's main lobbyist. Indeed, the transaction, along with the money, had been entrusted to J.P. Morgan & Co. which seemed short on proof that it had been used to pay off the French. Rather, the World's reporters believed, the syndicate had earlier bought out the French bondholders and then pocketed the money. Cromwell's own behavior did nothing to dampen speculation about who got the money. In 1906, when testifying before a U.S. Senate committee, he refused to discuss his part in the canal transaction, claiming it was protected by attorney-client privilege. The story had immense appeal in the anti-Roosevelt World's newsroom, which was well aware of Pulitzer's long-running battle with the one time boy wonder of New York politics. On the other hand, Roosevelt held nothing more sacrosanct than the building of the canal. He considered it one of his crowning achievements and would tolerate no questioning of his motives or actions in obtaining it—to do so meant impugning his character. Speer left his office, went down a flight of stairs to the newsroom and located the night editor. Under Pulitzer's ownership, the paper had assembled a vaunted news-gathering team and was enjoying a renaissance in prestige and power after distancing itself from its association with Hearst's American. (The Herald and the Tribune were growing progressively weaker; later, they would merge, but now the union was nearly twelve years in the future. By contrast, the once anemic New York Times was gaining strength. Among its admirers was Pulitzer himself. "You may not know that I have the Times sent to me abroad when the World is forbidden," he had written to Adolph Ochs earlier in the year, "and that most of my news I really receive from your paper.") After listening to Speer, the night editor sent out one of his best men to hunt down the rumored Panamanians. The man checked all his sources, including some among those who had participated in financing the canal. But it was to no avail. The Panamanians could not be found, if they existed at all. Meanwhile, though, his snooping was noticed. Around ten o'clock that night, Jonas Whitley, a former reporter for the World who now did publicity work for Cromwell, came into the newsroom. He confronted the managing editor, Caleb Van Hamm, about pursuing a story concerning Cromwell without checking with him. As Whitley talked, Van Hamm realized he knew nothing about it but saw an opportunity. "Dear, dear, Jonas, sorry to hear that," he said. "Tell us all about it." Whitley sat down and spewed a remarkable story that he thought wrongly the World already knew. Cromwell, he said, was being blackmailed by men who threatened to turn over evidence of his wrongdoing in the Panama affair to the Democratic Party unless he paid them off. When Whitley was done, Van Hamm promised to locate the article supposedly being written and told him to return in an hour, when he would be given a chance to review it before it appeared. As soon as Whitley left, Van Hamm hurriedly dictated an account from his notes. When Whitley came back, Van Hamm showed him proofs of the story. The public relations man made some minor corrections, picked up a telephone, and read the story to Cromwell. A few hours later it appeared in the early edition of the World. The rumors—founded or unfounded—that Cromwell and his cohorts had profited from the canal deal were in print. Among the alleged profiteers were Douglas Robinson, the president's brother-in-law; and Charles P. Taft, the brother of the presidential candidate. "But for Mr. Cromwell it is probable that no Panama story of any kind would have been printed during the campaign," said Speer's boss, Frank Cobb, "and it is certain that the names of Charles P. Taft and Douglas Robinson would not have been published in connection with the affair." After years of dormancy, the story of corruption involving the canal was back on page one. Over the next few weeks, as Taft successfully concluded his presidential campaign against Bryan, the World's reporters did everything they could to keep this story alive. Pulitzer urged them on. "Examine the record, especially his [Cromwell's] Panama record and his relations with corporations and trusts," he wired from Wiesbaden. The paper ran a long profile of the lobbyist, reported the firing of the Canal Zone governor because he had uncovered evidence of the alleged fraud, published copyrighted reports from its Paris correspondent on his efforts to solve the mystery, and even hired a prominent British lawyer and member of Parliament to dig into the French records. Finally, the paper admitted defeat. "Every source of official information as to the identity of who got the $40,000,000 is not only closed, but wiped out, obliterated, as a result of an agreement between the United States Government and the new Panama Canal Company," reported the World's Paris correspondent. The articles, while conceding that there was no evidence tying Cromwell to an illegal scheme, resurrected the public's doubts about the murky means by which the United States had acquired the Canal Zone when Roosevelt, in his words, "took the isthmus." The temerity of the World in raising these issues again at the close of his reign caught Roosevelt's attention. He had expected the worst from Pulitzer's paper, but his anger grew when other newspapers picked up on the World's reporting as if the malfeasance had been proved. "Who got the money?" asked the Indianapolis News on the eve of the election. "For weeks this scandal has been before the people," it continued. "The records are in Washington, and they are public records. But the people are not to see them—till after the election, if then." Pulitzer was sailing across the ocean in blissful ignorance of the tempest his newspaper was stirring up. He had been on course for Bermuda, but he changed his mind and arrived in New York a few days before the election. He went to bed in his house there by ten o'clock in the evening. "What is the use of sitting up for a foregone conclusion?" he told Seitz. Taft won handily, as the public endorsed Roosevelt's selection of his successor. With the election over and his man triumphant, Roosevelt vented his anger in a private letter to a friend in Indiana, where the World's accusations had received prominent attention in the press. The president charged that the men behind the articles on the Panama Canal were liars for hire or were seeking to boost circulation. "The most corrupt financiers, the most corrupt politicians are no greater menace to this country than the newspaper men of the type I have above discussed," he wrote. "Whether they belong to the yellow press or to the purchased press, whatever may be the stimulating cause of their slanderous mendacity, and whatever the cloak it may wear matters but little. In any event they represent one of the potent forces for evil in the community." By the time Roosevelt's reaction became public, Pulitzer had left New York for a postelection cruise in southern waters. Seitz jumped onto a train and caught up with the Liberty as it docked in Charleston. Roosevelt's letter, which had focused on the Indianapolis News, was on the front page of the local paper in Charleston, along with an interview with Delavan Smith, publisher of the besieged newspaper in Indiana. The two items were read to Pulitzer, who knew little of what had happened since he left New York. An astonished Pulitzer listened as his secretary read on. Smith was backpedaling as fast as he could. "The President's comments on the Panama editorial are based on statements made by a prominent New York paper, not the New York Sun," Smith told reporters who caught up with him on a train leaving Chicago. He claimed that the Indianapolis News had credited the information to "the New York newspaper making the charge and distinctly disclaimed any responsibility for its accuracy." "What New York paper does Smith mean?" asked Pulitzer. "The World," replied Seitz. "I knew damned well it must be." Roosevelt had not mentioned the World. It was entirely possible that the matter might blow over, now that he had let off steam with his attack on the Indianapolis News. But Speer was in no mood to let the president's comment pass unchallenged. He and Cobb conferred. "Up to this time the World had not discussed the Panama matter editorially," Cobb said. "But when Mr. Roosevelt went so far as to tell the American people that the United States government 'paid the $40,000,000 direct to the French government,' it seemed to the World that the time had arrived when the country was entitled to the truth and the whole truth." By the time the Liberty reached New York, Speer had published an unusually long editorial that meticulously demonstrated how Roosevelt's statement contradicted the public record. In blunt terms, he accused the president of knowingly lying. "The fact that Theodore Roosevelt as President of the United States issues a public statement about such an important matter full of flagrant untruths, reeking with misstatements, challenging line by line the testimony of his associate Cromwell and the official records, makes it imperative that full publicity come at once through the authority and action of Congress." Pulitzer did not know of Speer's remonstrations against the president. Whether Pulitzer wanted a fight with the president or not, he now had one. Roosevelt still had three months left in office, and the power to pursue his quarry. On December 9, the day after the World's editorial appeared, Roosevelt contacted Henry Stimson, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York. Two years earlier, Roosevelt had selected the thirty-eight-year-old Republican corporate lawyer—who shared the president's love of hunting and the outdoors—over other, more prominent candidates for the post. The appointment put Stimson on a road that would eventually take him to the highest level of national government. Already, he was being touted as a candidate for governor, and he remained deeply grateful to the president for his good fortune. "I do not know anything about the law of criminal libel, but I should dearly like to have it invoked about Pulitzer, of the World," Roosevelt told Stimson. "If he can be reached by proceeding on the part of the Government for criminal libel in connection with his assertions about the Panama Canal, I should like to do it," Roosevelt said, frankly confessing the depth of his enmity toward Pulitzer and setting Stimson on the publisher's trail. "When I was Police Commissioner I once and for all summed him up by quoting the close of Macaulay's article about Barère* as applying to him." The fights of 1895 between the World and Roosevelt, especially those when he sought to enforce the city's blue laws, were never far from Pulitzer's thoughts either. "Roosevelt as Police Commissioner was very much like he is in the present time," Pulitzer had warned Cobb earlier in the year. "The child is father of the man." Roosevelt wanted revenge for years of abuse from the World, and he was willing to use the federal government's prosecutorial powers in his personal vendetta. But to do so would require invoking a rule of law that had its roots in the notorious fifteenth-century English Star Chamber. Even though American common law was based in great part on that of England, the use of criminal proceedings for libel had long fallen into disfavor except in cases that involved a breach of peace. Not since the discredited Alien and Sedition Acts of 1798 had a president so brazenly sought to stifle criticism of the government. If Roosevelt had his way, Pulitzer would spend his final years behind bars. Stimson found the envelope from the White House on his desk the next day. A highly competent attorney, though one with political ambitions, he knew that the president was overreaching his powers. "Without having yet had the time to look it up in connection with this case I am of the very strong impression that there is no Federal law punishing criminal libel," he told Roosevelt, in a letter marked "Personal." In an earlier case involving attacks against a federal judge, Stimson explained, the only remedy that could be found was in state courts. "But as I said before, I will have the matter thoroughly investigated and will report to you." Impatient, Roosevelt looked for other ways to bring the might of the federal government down on Pulitzer. In hopes of getting a congressional committee to pursue the matter, the president contacted a Republican senator, Philander Chase Knox, who had served as his attorney general when the United States fostered a revolution in Panama so as to gain control of the Canal Zone. "Oh Mr. President," Knox had said at the time, "do not let so great an achievement suffer from any taint of legality." "It seems to me," Roosevelt told Knox, "at least well worth considering whether it would not be wise once and for all to nail the infamous and slandering falsehoods of Mr. Pulitzer, published in his paper, the New York World, and of those who have taken their cue from the Pulitzer publications." Next, Roosevelt composed a 4,800-word "special message" to the Senate and the House, attached a stack of documents, and sent the packet to Capitol Hill. When members of the Lake to Gulf Waterways Association visited the White House, Roosevelt publicly tipped his hand. "We have cause to be ashamed of a certain set of Americans in connection with the canal, and that is of those Americans who have been guilty of infamous falsehood concerning the acquisition of the property and the construction of the canal itself," he told the group. "If they can be reached for criminal libel, I shall try to have them reached." On December 15, 1908, the secretaries of the Senate and the House began reading the president's message to their respective chambers. Because accusations of corruption surrounding the canal had once again surfaced, Roosevelt told the lawmakers, he was submitting to them a complete rebuttal. At that, the few senators who were on the floor broke into laughter. The merriment grew when Roosevelt added that no one believed anything published in Pulitzer's newspaper. The House was more circumspect, especially as one of its members had introduced a motion to investigate the canal matter. Two minutes into the message, it became clear that Roosevelt had far more in mind than a simple refutation of the accusations. "The real offender is Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, editor and proprietor of the World," Roosevelt said. These libelous actions, he claimed, were so egregious that Pulitzer should be prosecuted by the government. "It is therefore a high national duty to bring to justice this vilifier of the American people, this man who wantonly and wickedly and without one shadow of justification seeks to blacken the character of reputable private citizens and to convict the Government of his own country in the eyes of the civilized world of wrongdoing of the basest and foulest kind, when he had not one shadow of justification of any sort of description for the charge he had made." To that end, Roosevelt announced that the attorney general was considering by what means to prosecute Pulitzer. Roosevelt did not mention Stimson's estimation that there were no applicable federal laws. In state court, both the president's brother-in-law and the brother of the president-elect had grounds to pursue a civil libel case. For that matter, so would Cromwell, if he were willing to have a court examine his conduct during the acquisition of the canal. The president, as a public figure, would have a harder time winning a libel case. But that was not his goal. By his public declaration and his behind-the-scenes orders to the Justice Department, Roosevelt made it clear he wanted to use the Federal Government as a club to silence Pulitzer. Congress returned the documents without comment. Its silent but mocking response only further aggravated the president. If the legislature didn't care about his reputation, he would make sure those who worked for him did. While Roosevelt was seeking help from Congress in punishing Pulitzer for his affront to the presidency, the Liberty docked in New York. In the soundproof underground room of Pulitzer's house on East Seventy-Third Street, it fell to Norman Thwaites to read aloud an account of Roosevelt's message appearing in the evening papers. The secretary steeled himself for an angry outburst, but none came. "Go on," Pulitzer said quietly, and Thwaites continued reading. "Suddenly," Thwaites said, "he rose from the couch on which he was taking his afternoon rest and smote the coverlet with clenched fist." "The World cannot be muzzled! That's the headline," Pulitzer burst out. Then, dictating at a clip that strained the capacity of Thwaites's shorthand, he dictated an editorial. "Send for Cobb. Tell him to be here in a half-hour." Pulitzer also summoned his managing editor, Van Hamm. They took a carriage ride around Central Park. Van Hamm brought Pulitzer unwelcome news. "We have no conclusive evidence to establish those statements which the President charges us with making," he told Pulitzer. Reviewing the course of events, he insisted that the World was not at fault. Robinson and Taft were linked to the scandal by Cromwell's public relations man, who had named them in his statement about the alleged blackmail that triggered the whole affair. This didn't satisfy Pulitzer. He ordered the paper to stop printing any more articles about Panama and the missing money. "It is idiotic, as we have no proof whatever of any of these charges. Impress this upon Mr. Van Hamm. I want accuracy, truth, and restraint," he told Seitz. "The honor and truthfulness of the paper is my honor. Much of what Roosevelt says is true. The World ought not have made that charge." There was nothing Pulitzer could do about that now. Instead, he talked with Cobb about mounting the paper's defense. Pulitzer wanted to follow up his editorial with a selection of Roosevelt's previous denunciations to illustrate the president's extreme verbal intemperance. "Now, I hope this is clear and that you will put every single one of the editorial writers to work," he told Cobb. "Tell the editorial gentlemen to dine downtown at my expense and have a good bottle of wine. Let them stay down till midnight. I consider this an emergency." By nightfall, Pulitzer also released a statement for the reporters, who had been calling all day. "So far as I am personally concerned," he said, "I was at sea during the whole of October, and, in fact, practically for two years I have been yachting on account of my health." He claimed never to have read any of the offending articles and said he had nothing to do with them. "Mr. Roosevelt knows all this perfectly well. He knows I am a chronic invalid and mostly abroad yachting on account of my health." It was a half-truth. Although Pulitzer had been unaware of the escalation of the stories about Panama, he knew that the paper was pursuing the matter. In fact, as early as June he had discussed it with Cobb. He liked to claim that his only domain was the editorial page, but he frequently called for news coverage of issues that interested him. In September, for instance, he had provided lengthy instructions for the World to go after Roosevelt's moneyman Cortelyou. Yet Pulitzer did not choose to escape blame entirely. He said that the paper was his and he took general responsibility for its continual attacks on Roosevelt and the president's policies. "I am really sorry he should be so very angry but the World will continue to criticize him without a shadow of fear even if he should succeed in compelling me to edit the paper from jail." Aid came from a surprising quarter. In Lincoln, Nebraska, William Jennings Bryan published a defense of Pulitzer in his newspaper, the Commoner. "Mr. Pulitzer is on solid ground when he resists the President's attempt to convert newspaper criticism of officials into criticism against the government itself," said Bryan. "The President's message is indefensible in so far as it asserts the right of the government to prosecute the World or Mr. Pulitzer." Pulitzer believed prison was a real possibility, and he said so to his friends, though he put on a brave face. "We are treating the thing with some hilarity," he wrote to one friend a few hours after Roosevelt's intentions became known. "I think it simply an effort to shut up the paper's criticism just as Congress and Senate have been shut up." Still, Pulitzer wanted to escape New York as soon as he could. But as the object of a possible government prosecution, he couldn't make a move without checking with the U.S. attorney. The next day, Pulitzer sent Seitz to see Stimson. "How long will Mr. Pulitzer be away?" Stimson asked Seitz. "A few days," he replied. "I will not need Mr. Pulitzer for a few days," Stimson said ominously, concluding the conversation. On December 16, 1908, as the Liberty sailed out of New York harbor, Pulitzer's editorial appeared in the World. Greatly massaged by Cobb, and improved by research, it was an eloquent defense of the newspaper and the rights of the press. "Mr. Roosevelt is mistaken. He cannot muzzle the World," the editorial began. It urged Congress to investigate the transactions involving the Panama Canal and cheekily said that the World felt complimented by the president's prosecution. "This is the first time a President ever asserted the doctrine of lèse-majesté, or proposed, in the absence of specific legislation, the criminal prosecution by the Government of citizens who criticized the conduct of the Government or the conduct of individuals who may have had business dealings with the Government." Neither the king of England nor the German emperor, the editorial noted, had such power. "Yet Mr. Roosevelt, in the absence of law, officially proposes to use all the power of the greatest government on earth to cripple the freedom of the press on the pretext that the Government itself has been libeled—and he is the Government. "So far as the World is concerned, its proprietor may go to jail, if Mr. Roosevelt succeeds, as he threatens; but even in jail the World will not cease to be a fearless champion of free speech, a free press and a free people. It cannot be muzzled." The Liberty's southerly course prompted unfounded rumors that Pulitzer was on his way to Panama to obtain vindicating evidence. A blind publisher was hardly the person to conduct the necessary research. From Norfolk, Virginia, where the Liberty paused briefly, Pulitzer ordered a reporter for the World in England to leave for Paris and "dig twelve hours a day on who really got the money" he also told Seitz to hire Wall Street investigators to conduct a similar investigation on this side of the Atlantic. All the work had to be coordinated by one editor, said Pulitzer. "Tell him to be scrupulously careful weighing every word," he said, repeating his old refrain. "But accuracy, accuracy, accuracy." Summoned, Cobb raced by train to meet the yacht at Old Point Comfort at Norfolk. On board he found a highly disquieted Pulitzer, worried about the possibility of prison but still capable of seeing the irony of his potential fate. "For years we have asked Roosevelt to send somebody to jail, so he begins on the editors of the World," Pulitzer said. He now believed that Roosevelt would seek to prosecute him in state court. "My opinion is that if anything comes out of this Roosevelt Panama matter it will be through Jerome," he told Cobb, referring to New York's district attorney William Jerome. The World had long supported Jerome but had recently aroused his ire by criticizing his prosecutorial decisions. It was an attack that now seemed ill-timed. "We pitched into Jerome because he did not do anything about wealthy lawbreakers; now he turns against the World." Pulitzer asked Cobb to convey a private message to Jerome that though he took responsibility for everything in his newspaper, he had known nothing of the articles and had been out of touch when they appeared. In effect, he was throwing his editors to the wolves. Legally, Pulitzer's guess was on the mark. Stimson had already told Attorney General Charles Bonaparte that he had found no law, precedent, or means to charge Pulitzer in federal courts. Stimson met at his house with Jerome. "He is ready and anxious to cooperate in any way, and he has told me he considers the movement of the utmost importance," Stimson said, adding that such an approach would benefit the president. "This would tend to minimize the danger of the Panama prosecution being criticized as personal to President Roosevelt." Despite Stimson's hesitance to pursue the president's plan to prosecute Pulitzer in federal court, Roosevelt felt confident. On January 30, 1909, he lunched with Douglas Robinson, one of the supposed victims of the libel; his sister Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; and the treasurer of the Republican Party. Roosevelt and his brother-in-law reviewed the case. "Both the President and Mr. Robinson," said an aide who sat in on the lunch, "think they will put Pulitzer in prison for criminal libel." Later that night, Roosevelt attended the Gridiron dinner—an annual press gathering, characterized by bawdy humor and skits—in Washington's Willard Hotel. The one representative of the World who attended reported privately to New York that he had overheard the president promising to make an example of Pulitzer for crooked journalism in deceiving people about government. "I mean to cinch these men, the ringleaders and not their hired men or agents for the damage they have done." With the clock ticking on his term of office, Roosevelt stepped up the pressure on the Justice Department to get Pulitzer. The intensity of the investigation was felt at the World. Pulitzer and others on the paper became convinced that federal agents were snooping through the mail and examining the documents carried by hired messengers between Washington and New York. The fear made the use of Pulitzer's codebooks an even greater imperative. Soon a new code word, "Charlotte," was added to the 5,000 entries already in the book. It meant extradition, and Pulitzer wanted to know if he could be extradited from Bermuda should he go there. Pulitzer could not restrain his anxiety. He repeatedly asked Cobb to play up his infirmities to "dispel the general myth and assumption that a totally blind man and confirmed invalid can be the editor of a paper like the World in any responsible sense whatsoever." At the same time, Pulitzer knew that the stakes were more than personal. If Roosevelt were to win, he told his editors, "it will stop all criticism and free thought in the majority of papers and absolutely abolish opposition of any kind—and it will give the government—nay not the government but the administration—the party in power—complete license and make it more powerful than even Roosevelt has been." The Justice Department's attorneys convened two grand juries—one in Washington, D.C., and another in New York City—and began issuing subpoenas to a wide cast of characters that included editors in New York and a boy who sold newspapers on the streets of Washington. Government lawyers, however, remained mum on the purpose of the proceedings. Attorney General Bonaparte refused all comment when reporters caught up with him in Baltimore. "I must, therefore, ask my good friends of the press to exercise the great virtue of patience just now, promising to soon let them know all there is to be known or at all events all that I can tell them," he said. Stimson was convinced that this approach was a mistake. If the government remained silent, he told Bonaparte, newspapers would use the secrecy surrounding the case as proof that it was on a fishing expedition. He was right. "This action by the Government is said to be without precedent in the history of American jurisprudence and lawyers regarded as authorities in libel actions are puzzled as to the exact course the Government will adopt," reported the New York Times, a newspaper not known for hyperbole, even then. "It is said that all the proceedings are being personally supervised by President Roosevelt." The secrecy even prompted a U.S. senator to seek a resolution to compel Bonaparte to disclose whether the president had ordered the prosecution and, if so, under what statute. Ralph, who feared he might also be indicted, met with his father's legal team. It consisted of the reform-minded lawyer De Lancey Nicoll, who had remained loyal since 1887, when Pulitzer had backed him in a contentious election; and John Bowers. Reviewing the subpoenas and other documents, the two lawyers noticed a pattern that led them to consult a federal law book so old that it was musty and its typeface used what looked like an "s" for an "f." There they at last uncovered the legal strategy that Roosevelt's lawyers planned to use in the government's pursuit of Pulitzer. Since there was no current applicable law, the Justice Department was dusting off an obscure law of 1825. Under its terms, the federal government retained the right to prosecute a crime committed on federal property, such as West Point, using state law in the absence of a federal criminal statute. Astonishingly to the lawyers, this law required that the prosecution be based on state laws that existed prior to 1825. In other words, the government was planning to prosecute Pulitzer by using century-old state laws that might no longer be in force. Everything became clear. The two grand jury proceedings were held so that the prosecutors could use a Maryland law of 1802 (the District of Columbia had, in its early days, adopted Maryland's laws) and a New York law of 1805. If one effort failed, the other might prevail. The discovery also solved the puzzle of why Jerome had participated in the investigation by the New York federal grand jury. If this plan succeeded, Jerome would try the case jointly with Stimson. Nothing like this had ever been attempted before by federal prosecutors. Pulitzer's lawyers knew that if it was made public, the government's case would appear to be on shaky ground. To make the best use of their discovery, Nicoll and Bowers gave the story to all the press, rather than holding it for the World alone. The strategy worked. Newspapers such as the New York Times reported it on the front page. The headline in the Times read, LIBEL PROSECUTION SECRET COMES OUT: HALF-FORGOTTEN LAW USED. Stimson was infuriated. He telephoned Bonaparte and, failing to reach him, sent an angry telegram. Later, a bit calmer, Stimson explained his actions to his boss. "I was anxious," he said, "that a statement of the real ground of my investigation should be issued by the Government before a biased and perverted account should be issued by the other side." Now it was too late. Pulitzer had won the first round in the court of public opinion. Cobb seized the high ground. "To prosecute the World under the antiquated statute of 1825," he wrote, "would represent the last word in the prostitution of the Federal machinery of justice to gratify the personal malice of an autocratic President." In the legal proceedings, the news was no better for the president. All the witnesses brought before the New York grand jury had invoked their Fifth Amendment right not to testify. One after another, the World's treasurer, J. Angus Shaw; Pulitzer's banker Dumont Clarke; the editor Florence White; and others remained closemouthed in front of the jury. If Stimson wanted to force them to answer his questions, he would have to bring them before a judge in an open court, and the questions the government wanted to keep secret would become public. He was getting nowhere. "Thus far, we have not connected either of the Pulitzers with the commission of the offense, and in my opinion, have not evidence to indict either," Stimson reported. This was not what the president wanted to hear. Roosevelt sent a terse note to Stimson, dropping the usual "Dear Harry," demanding that he come to the White House. The following morning, before meeting with his cabinet, the president sat down with Stimson and Bonaparte at the White House. Also present was Roosevelt's brother-in-law Douglas Robinson; he had just returned from seeing Jerome, the district attorney in New York, who had not ruled out bringing his own case against the World. When this gathering broke up, Stimson and Bonaparte returned to the Justice Department, where they conferred with the U.S. attorney for Washington and his assistant. The message was clear. Roosevelt wanted Pulitzer in the dock. Like most lawyers who examined the case, Jerome had doubts about it, but he enjoyed having a chance to torment Pulitzer. As Stimson spun his wheels, Jerome remained mostly mum about his intentions. The World assigned reporters to tail Jerome and to try to get his assistants to leak his plans. But nothing could be learned. When Pulitzer returned from his cruise, confounding those who thought he had gone to Panama, he told Seitz to find out what Jerome was planning. Seitz turned to a star writer from the Evening World, Irvin Cobb (not related to Pulitzer's editorial writer Frank Cobb). Cobb had gotten to know the district attorney when he covered the famous trial of Harry K. Thaw, who murdered Stanford White. Seitz hoped he might use this friendship to determine Jerome's plans. "To put it badly," Seitz said when he brought Cobb into his office, "we've exhausted practically every expedient, every available resource we could think of—we and our lawyers and other representatives—and without success. A grave emergency exists. Mr. Pulitzer is in a very depressed, very harassed state. The possible consequences to his health are dangerous—most dangerous. So as a last resort we are asking your cooperation." Cobb agreed and was told he could use as much money and manpower as he needed to get the job done. However, he simply hopped onto a trolley and rode down to Pontin's Restaurant, a popular hangout for lawyers. There he found Jerome having a drink. "I don't like a hair in that man's head," said Jerome when Cobb asked him about Pulitzer. "He has attacked me viciously, violently, and without due provocation. "Even so," Jerome continued, "I never intended to make either a burnt offering or a martyr out of him." In fact, Jerome said that within forty-eight hours of meeting with Stimson he had made up his own mind not to pursue the case. But because he had been annoyed by the World's behavior toward him, he admitted, "I've let King Pulitzer—and his gang of sycophants—stew in their own juice." Cobb returned to the office and reported what he had found out. Seitz put him on a telephone to Pulitzer's house and asked him to repeat this to Norman Thwaites. After hearing it, Thwaites said that Pulitzer was sitting with him and wanted to know how Cobb had obtained the information so quickly. "Well, it's like this," said Cobb, who then recounted his trolley ride and the alcohol-laced interview with Jerome. "Well, I wish I might be God-damned," said Pulitzer, loud enough to be heard over the telephone, when Thwaites had repeated the tale. Cobb turned in his expense report of ten cents for his trolley rides and returned to work. Stimson remained firmly convinced that Pulitzer was beyond his reach. In February he instructed the grand jury that there was not enough evidence to indict Joseph and Ralph Pulitzer. "I am sorry for the President's disappointment," Stimson wrote to Bonaparte, carefully choosing his words, "but feel sure he appreciates the impossibility of my allowing the grand jury to indict a man without legal evidence, no matter how much reason there might be to imagine he was also probably responsible." Further, he warned that the case in New York against the World would be endangered if the grand jury in Washington made the mistake of indicting the Pulitzers. Once they were indicted, their lawyers would be able to make public evidence revealing the weakness of the government's case. "It will also go a long way," Stimson said, "towards confirming the impression that an indictment was obtained by use of the overwhelming influence of the Government where it would not have been otherwise obtained." Bonaparte brought the U.S. attorney's letter to the White House. Roosevelt was none too happy when he read it. He told Bonaparte that if Stimson was unwilling to go after Pulitzer in New York, he himself would insist that the U.S. attorney in Washington do so. At his desk the next day, Roosevelt rebuked Stimson. "This letter is purely private and is merely to explain why I agree with Bonaparte that no effort should be made to get the District Attorney here to abandon his position, as you suggest," Roosevelt told Stimson. If the Pulitzers were not indicted, then the lesson he wanted to teach the press would be lost, he continued. "I think that much more service would be rendered by indicting the two Pulitzers with only one chance in three of convicting them, than by indicting their subordinates with three chances out of four of convicting them." Stimson did not cower. "If you had been sitting on the Grand Jury I feel perfectly confident that you would have agreed with me," he told Roosevelt. The evidence was insufficient and the law unsupportive. "But in the second place, as a matter of policy and expediency, and not of official duty, I have a very strong conviction against pulling the trigger unless I have a ball-cartridge in the gun," said Stimson, appealing to Roosevelt the hunter. In New York, as "there has been sedulously nursed a belief that the government is doing something unusual in this prosecution under pressure of your personal desires, there is more than ever before, in my opinion, the absolute necessity that the bullet discharged should be true to the mark." Roosevelt ignored Stimson's warning. If he couldn't get the U.S. attorney in New York to do his bidding, the one in Washington would. The prosecution in the capital was actually led by two men: Daniel W. Baker, who was the city's U.S. attorney; and Stewart McNamara, his assistant. Most of the work fell to McNamara, whom Bonaparte elevated to special assistant to the attorney general to show the importance the administration attached to the prosecutions. On his yacht, Pulitzer prepared for the indictment. The World's reporters were watching the proceedings in Washington carefully, even compiling biographies of the grand jury members in hopes of predicting their behavior. Pulitzer told his editors that if he was indicted, they were to prominently publish a disclaimer saying that he had been away and that he had known nothing of the stories until Roosevelt lodged the complaint. They were also to drop all editorials on Panama. On February 17, 1909, the twenty-three grand jurors in Washington indicted Pulitzer, his company, and the editors Van Hamm and Lyman on five counts of criminal libel. The indictment charged, among other things, that the men and the World had libeled President Roosevelt, Roosevelt's brother-in law Robinson, President-Elect Taft, Taft's brother Charles, the financier J. Pierpont Morgan, Secretary of State Elihu Root, and the lobbyist Cromwell. The grand jury also indicted Delavan Smith and Charles Williams of the Indianapolis News, which had used the World's articles on the Panama Canal. Frank Cobb was ready for this moment. He published an editorial ringing with defiance. "Mr. Roosevelt is an episode," wrote Cobb. "The World is an institution. Long after Mr. Roosevelt is dead, long after Mr. Pulitzer is dead, long after all the present editors of this paper are dead, the World will still go on as a great independent newspaper, unmuzzled, undaunted, and unterrorized." Arrest warrants were brought to New York. McNamara was champing at the bit to put Pulitzer in custody. New York, however, would be a hard place to do so. The city's judges were known to be reluctant to permit an extradition to Washington for this sort of indictment, as a previous case had shown. In 1895, they had refused to send the editor Charles Dana to the capital when he had been indicted for libel in a case that involved neither the federal government nor unusual applications of law. (Ironically, Dana's defense attorney, Elihu Root, was now Roosevelt's secretary of state.) "Menacing as was the Dana case to the liberty of the press, it was far less serious than this Roosevelt persecution, for the complaint against Mr. Dana was made by a bona fide resident of the District of Columbia," Pulitzer told Cobb. "The President of the United States did not instigate the proceedings and direct the persecution thereby perverting the powers of the government to the gratification of personal revenge." McNamara consulted the attorney general about the feasibility of arresting Pulitzer in Norfolk, where his yacht was to dock on its way back from a cruise to Havana. They believed it would be easier to extradite him from Virginia than from New York. But sloppy paperwork on McNamara's part thwarted the plan, and the Liberty sailed as fast as it could toward New York. Stimson was of no help to the case in Washington, either. Convinced that it was a waste of time, he ignored it while working on his own indictments in New York. The rush to arrest Pulitzer came to a standstill. Florence White sent word to Pulitzer that the attorney Nicoll had said an arrest was no longer imminent. "He also says he believes there is no danger of arrest in Charleston, and that Mr. Andes [Pulitzer] might cruise in that vicinity and return to New York when he heard from Mr. Nicoll." Meanwhile, the grand jury in New York continued gathering evidence. Only the president and his lawyers knew that Pulitzer himself was no longer a target in Stimson's planned prosecution. Half an hour after Roosevelt left office on March 4, 1909, the jury in New York issued indictments containing fourteen counts of libel against the Press Publishing company (the corporation that published the World), and Van Hamm. Despite his growing opposition to Roosevelt's vendetta, Stimson had purposely delayed the issuing of the indictments in order to protect his political patron. He was worried that Pulitzer's lawyers might try to embarrass Roosevelt by serving him with a subpoena as he prepared to sail for a well-publicized trip to Africa. "I am trying to engineer my indictments," he told the attorney general, "so there will be no issue of fact pending at the time of his departure, or if there is such an issue, I will be in a position to call the bluff and bring it on for immediate trial." These indictments, like those in Washington, were based on an unusual interpretation of law. In this case, the old federal law brought to bear was an "Act to Protect the Harbor Defense and Fortifications Constructed or Used by the United States from Malicious Injury, and for Other Purposes." Stimson reasoned that the paper could be charged under federal law for its allegedly libelous actions because twenty-nine copies of the World had been mailed to West Point and one had been delivered to the city's federal building. Noticeably absent from the indictment was Pulitzer's name. By the time the Liberty steamed into Brooklyn's Gravesend Bay, other fissures had appeared in Roosevelt's strategy. Joseph Kealing, the U.S. attorney in Indianapolis, resigned in protest after eight years on the job, rather than pursue the case. Kealing told Bonaparte he believed the government was overreaching in trying to drag the defendants in Indianapolis to trial in Washington. "I believe the principle involved is a dangerous one," he said, "striking at the very foundation of our form of government. I cannot, therefore, honestly and conscientiously insist to the court that such is the law." His nerves agitated, Pulitzer remained apprehensive. "Never was the time more propitious than now to treat judges and courts and all forms of justice with respect," he instructed his editors. He had cause to be anxious. Even after issuing its indictments, the grand jury in New York continued its probe. Hosmer was called to testify, and he sent Pulitzer a long description of his ordeal in the closed chambers. Unaware of how Stimson had stood up to Roosevelt, Hosmer insultingly compared Stimson to Lepidus in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, described by Mark Antony as "a slight unmeritable man, meet to be sent on errands." Over time, it became clear that neither the case in Washington nor the one in New York had much traction. "Panama matter at this end apparently making no progress," reported one of Pulitzer's men in New York. Roosevelt was now in Africa chasing big game, and Stimson had returned to private law practice and was rumored to be planning to run for higher office. The matter fell into the hands of President Taft's appointees, who dutifully pressed on, out of loyalty to the man who had picked their boss for the presidency. With no prospect of any trials soon, Pulitzer was granted permission to leave the country. Clearing Sandy Point, the Liberty went south, as usual. During breakfast, off the coast of southern Virginia, Pulitzer asked the captain which way the yacht was heading that morning. "Due east, sir," he replied. "If we keep on 'due east,' where will we fetch up?" asked Pulitzer. "Lisbon, sir." "Keep on, due east." It was a bad decision. The crossing took them into a severe spring gale, followed by long days of heavy swells. By the time the group reached Lisbon, they were sick and exhausted, and Pulitzer had whooping cough. Life on board worsened. A new secretary who had joined the bedraggled group came down with smallpox. The yacht had to be fumigated and everyone vaccinated before authorities allowed the Liberty to move on. The voyage was hardly an escape from Pulitzer's persecution back home. Pulitzer spent the summer and fall of 1909 on the Liberty cruising from northern Europe to the area around Gibraltar, with short stays in port cities and one in Carlsbad for another cure. Back in the United States, the legal proceedings against him and his newspaper ground on. The government prepared to prove the articles untrue by tapping into its huge archive of documents relating to the acquisition of the canal and even deposing all the members of the junta in Panama. Although they felt they had the upper hand when it came to the law, Pulitzer's lawyers took no chances. They dispatched their own investigators to Washington, Paris, and Panama to uncover proof confirming charges of corruption involving the canal. If they succeeded, not only would they have an irrefutable defense, but the World would have the scoop of the century. This undertaking, however, became increasingly expensive when Pulitzer's lawyers decided to use rogatory commissions that would permit the taking of testimony usable in a U.S. court. The Justice Department insisted that Pulitzer pay the travel and lodging costs of its attorneys who had to witness the hearings. Each side believed its foreign research benefited its case. From Paris, McNamara wrote to George W. Wickersham, Taft's attorney general, that "the witnesses who had testified have not only not substantiated in the smallest degree the contentions of the World, but have rejected their allegations in toto and have established more thoroughly the utter falsity of the libels." On the other hand, the World's reporter Earl Harding, who accompanied the lawyers to Paris, was convinced that a ledger he obtained showed the collusion of American investors in acquiring French canal stock to benefit from the U.S. payment. Harding was among those at the World who believed Cromwell and his associates had made an immense, illegal profit from the canal deal and that the truth could set Pulitzer free. On June 3, 1909, he went to the docks of New York to see off Pulitzer's attorneys, who were leaving for Panama. He saw Cromwell's law partner, Edward B. Hill, accompanying the Justice Department's attorney. "Every bit of telltale evidence in Panama would be bottled up," Harding concluded. "It was three in the afternoon. I hurried back to the World, told my misgivings to Don Seitz, and instantly got his clearance to take the next train to New Orleans, leaving at 4:40 PM." In New Orleans he boarded a Panama-bound United Fruit cargo ship. The Canal Zone was a beehive of activity and teeming with thousands of Americans. In the five years since the United States had resumed work on the canal, a large trench had begun to take shape. Despite the region's heavy rainy season, landslides, and malaria, workers were excavating 3 million cubic yards of dirt a month, creating a ditch large enough to lay down two Empire State Buildings on their sides, end to end. But it would be still five more years before the first ship would pass through the canal. Harding caught up with Pulitzer's attorney, who was quite surprised to find him in Panama. Harding determined that, as he had feared, Cromwell's men and Panamanian conspirators were obstructing the legal investigation, preventing the investigation from getting to the bottom of the story. In fact, the attorney had already been convinced that there had been no corruption. "The World has been misled," he told Harding. "We haven't a leg to stand on." Harding decided that if Panama would not yield the secrets, then they could be found in the capital of the country which once ruled Panama. Before leaving for the Colombian capital of Bogotá, he hired Edwin Warren Guyol, a native of New Orleans who spoke Spanish and had worked as a reporter in Cuba. Nicknamed "M'sié Manqueau" for having lost his arm in an accident, Guyol had a rough-and-tumble reputation. But he proved loyal to the end. When men tied to Cromwell attempted to bribe him, he told Harding. They, Guyol said, wanted him to spy on Harding and impede the research. In particular, he was to work closely with Marquis Alexander de St. Croix, a French wine salesman who was leaving for Bogotá ahead of them. The pair decided to play along as if Guyol had agreed to double-cross Harding. When Harding and Guyol reached Bogotá in August, they made their arrival conspicuous. They published an open letter in the main newspaper asking for help from Colombians, who were still smarting after the forced separation of Panama from their own territory. Officials at the U.S. legation warily watched Guyol and Harding. As it turned out, they had reason to. Harding concluded that it was time to resort to extreme means to find the documents they were looking for. "In short," he said, "it was a case, as far as we were concerned, of fighting the devil with his own tools." They selected St. Croix, the wine merchant whom they believed to be a spy for Cromwell, as their first target. Continuing to pretend that he himself had been bribed, Guyol tried to get St. Croix to let him know what Cromwell was covering up. After this effort failed to produce any results, Guyol obtained Harding's permission to spike St. Croix's brandy with chloral hydrate (a hypnotic and sedative) in order to search his luggage. To ward off any effect on himself when he drank brandy with St. Croix, Guyol drank a cup of olive oil beforehand. The luggage contained nothing incriminating. Next they turned to the U.S. legation. Harding was convinced that it held documents dating from when the United States engineered Panama's revolution, and that these would be the proof he sought. A U.S. official, who regularly indulged a passion for drink and gambling, particularly high-stakes stud poker, gave them their first opportunity. Using the World's money to pay his gambling debts at a club in Bogotá, Guyol befriended this official. One night, when the man napped on a sofa at the club, Guyol stole his keys and then unlocked and propped open a door to the legation. Twice, he repeated the maneuver, once almost getting caught and being forced to hide in the saddle room for two hours. By the end, Guyol had managed to read all the official correspondence for 1902, but he failed to find any proof of wrongdoing. Harding took matters in his own hands. On October 23, he made his own nighttime trip into the U.S. legation while the minister was dining at the presidential palace. A young clerk, who claimed he knew where an incriminating letter by John Hay was, agreed to take Harding to the file room. As they began opening document folders, the minister's son discovered them and sounded the alarm. Luckily for Harding, he was not prosecuted. The Colombians were unlikely to care, and putting Harding into custody to return him to the United States would be nearly impossible. Instead, the clerk was fired, Harding and Guyol were declared persona non grata, and a letter of complaint was sent to the World. Not one to give up, Guyol made one last attempt to discover their Holy Grail. He spotted the official whose keys he had borrowed leaving the legation with a valise in the company of St. Croix. He followed them across Colombia, plotting all the way how to steal the valise, convinced it held the wanted documents. His first plan was to grab it when they boarded a riverboat and then jump into the river and make for shore, but since he had only one arm, this plan seemed doomed from the start. Luckily, he had a better opportunity when the locked leather duffel bag was unloaded from a train. Finally alone with the bag, he broke it open, to discover that it held nothing of value. All he brought back with him to Harding were broken ribs from falling off a horse during his pursuit of the two men. With that, the far-flung search for evidence of corruption involving the canal came up empty-handed. Keeping their boss from prison would now rest solely on the legal skills of his lawyers. ## Chapter Thirty ## A SHORT REMAINING SPAN In late September 1909, Pulitzer and his personal staff of sixteen settled for the autumn in one of the fashionable districts of Berlin, near the famous Tiergarten park and the city's elegant opera house. As usual, the landlord had been required to make numerous alterations to please his tenant. Thick plate glass was added to the bedroom windows, heavy carpets were laid down, and all the windows and door hinges were well oiled. After disagreeable stays in Paris and London over many years, Pulitzer found Berlin to be just right. For once he managed to shed his woes, attend concerts and operas, and eat out with friends. He was the most content he had been in a long time. "With due reserve," Thwaites wrote to Seitz in New York, "I may say that Berlin is a great success and serenity of our daily tenor is positively uncanny." Over the past three years, Europe had become Pulitzer's new home. If he was not at sea, he was in Aix-les-Bains, Cap Martin, London, or, now, Berlin. Europe had also become the home of Joseph's brother Albert. Since his departure from New York fourteen years earlier, Albert had wandered around the continent, staying in fashionable hotels, occasionally returning to the United States, and living from the proceeds of the sale of his Morning Journal. He and Joseph had not spoken or written to each other since their confrontation over Albert's refusal to merge his newspaper with Joseph's. In a way, Albert had been revenged. Each day, as Joseph waged a life-and-death struggle with Hearst, he had been competing with the newspaper that Albert created. Albert had also cut his ties with his former wife, Fanny, years before her death that summer, and his son Walter, who was trying to make a living as a writer in New York. At the World, Walter was persona non grata because of his father. "There were strict orders that under no circumstances was he to be identified as related to or connected with the Joseph Pulitzer family in any way, shape or manner," recalled one editor. During the years after he gave up journalism, Albert wrote a romantic novel about a Napoleonic prince, Eugène de Beauharnais; toyed briefly with starting another newspaper in New York; and eventually settled down in Vienna, taking as a companion a young woman with whom he had a son. Like his brother, Albert suffered intensively from insomnia and depression—which doctors treating the wealthy called "neurasthenia"—and from other, undiagnosed ailments. For Joseph, it was sound that caused him great suffering. For Albert, it was changes in temperature and light. Over time, Albert's behavior grew increasingly odd and unpredictable. Earlier in the year, he had abruptly left Vienna and taken up residence in San Francisco, at the Fairmont Hotel. His demands on its staff and his unusual eating habits were the talk of the town. A newspaper in San Francisco published on its front page a one-day sample of what the Fairmont's kitchen fed its eccentric guest. Rising before dawn, the corpulent gourmand consumed shredded wheat and two to eight baked apples with cream. A midday plate of Corinth raisins and vegetables would hold him over until a five-o'clock glass of lemon squash, effervescent with bicarbonate of soda. At seven, he sat down for a dinner of San Francisco oysters, clam chowder, veal, chicken, and sweet russet pears, all washed down with a bottle of Moselle wine. While he was in San Francisco, Albert worked feverishly on his memoirs. He left the Fairmont and hid himself away in the remote Tavern Resort on the top of nearby Mount Tamalpais. There he drew the ire of other guests by rising before the sun to begin typing, knocking over chairs in his room, and requesting special trains when the scheduled ones had ceased running up the mountain. The novelist Gertrude Atherton claimed that at one point he burst uninvited into her rooms while showing friends around. By fall, his memoir complete, Albert returned to Vienna. He was despondent. He called on Dr. Max Neuda, his physician and friend. The two discussed the works of Baruch Spinoza, Albert's favorite philosopher. On the morning of October 4, as was his practice, his companion read to Albert from the morning newspapers. Among the stories was one of a man afflicted with insomnia who had committed suicide. "Wenn ich nur Mut dazu hätte," Albert said. "If only I had the courage." He asked his companion to leave him alone. When she departed, he went to the druggist and purchased a poisonous substance, probably a diluted form of prussic acid then used for the treatment of neuralgia. There are two kinds of suicides: one in which the person is crying for help; the other in which death is sought. Albert wanted the latter. After drinking the potion, he took up his revolver, pressed the barrel to his right temple, and pulled the trigger. Joseph learned of his brother's death from a reporter who called on him at his house in Berlin. Though only a 325-mile train ride separated him from where his brother lay in a morgue in Vienna, Joseph did not go. Instead he sent Thwaites, with several thousand German marks. Reaching Vienna, Thwaites drove out to the Zentralfriedhof, the final resting place for many of the city's most famous residents. There, in the mortuary of the Old Jewish section, he found Albert, covered with a white cloth, in a cheap wooden box. "No money having been traced, the millionaire was about to be buried as a pauper," Thwaites said. "The face was quite unmarred. The bullet had ranged upward through the temple, making the exit at the back of the head on the left side. A terrible wound." Using Joseph's money, Thwaites purchased a better casket and paid for flowers. The following day, led in song by a Jewish male chorus, a small group accompanied the casket in a long procession to the burial plot that Neuda had purchased for Albert. At the graveside, it was left to the doctor to provide a eulogy. Recalling Albert's visit to him and their philosophical chat a few days prior, he said, "It little occurred to me then, that this visit and this discussion were prompted by your decision to take leave of this earthly life, and so to say a word of farewell to me." Several days later, Joseph's cousin Adam Politzer, who lived in Vienna, met with Neuda. As executor of the estate, Neuda had carefully examined all the items in Albert's possession. "Alongside numerous love letters of extremely diverse provenance, which Neuda destroyed immediately, only credit letters and other insignificant papers were found," Politzer told Joseph. "A letter for you was not present. Nor was any other note that referenced you." Of the nine children born to Fülöp and Elize Pulitzer, only Joseph remained alive. As winter set in, Pulitzer abandoned Berlin for the warmth of Cap Martin. He was slowing down. Even those around him who discounted his continual health crises detected a change. One evening, while Pulitzer was cruising in Mediterranean waters on the Liberty, Harold Pollard brought him out on deck to see a full moon. After looking up into the night sky for a while, Pulitzer gave up. "It's no use, my dear boy," he said, "I cannot even get a glimmer of its light." Seitz, who came from New York for his usual business consultations with Pulitzer, encountered a calmer, reflective, more philosophical boss. On a car ride through the countryside, Seitz and Pulitzer were left alone for a while when the engine stalled and Pollard went for help. "You see how quiet I am," Pulitzer said. "Real troubles never bother me. It's only the small annoyances that upset me." In the silence of the parked automobile, Seitz described the view of Cap Martin below them. "You know I was here thirty-five years ago for the first time and the sight is always with me," Pulitzer remarked. Suddenly, Pulitzer changed the subject. "We will not have many rows," he told a disbelieving Seitz, who had been buffeted by Pulitzer's infamous temper for eighteen years. "No, I am serious," he continued. "I am not going to live long. I have had warnings. Besides I am no longer equal to thinking or deciding. You will have to get along without me more and more from now on and see less and less of me." Contributing to Pulitzer's melancholy was his increasing loneliness. He had entered into a time of life marked by frequent deaths. Two days after Christmas 1909, Angus Shaw "sorrowfully and faithfully" telegraphed the news that Dumont Clarke, Pulitzer's sixty-nine-year-old banker and trusted adviser, had died of pneumonia. The flags on the Pulitzer Building were lowered to half-mast. "Coin," as he was known in the codebook, had been at Pulitzer's side since the World began making him rich. The two had, in Pulitzer's words, "implicitly trustful, irregular relations in money matters." Every dollar of Pulitzer's income was funneled to Clarke's bank. Without any paperwork or signatures, Clarke had invested, transferred, or wired money as Pulitzer saw fit. He had also provided wise counsel on everything from personnel issues at the World to coping with children at home. Although Clarke's son promised to provide Pulitzer with the same service, he could not replace his father. Pulitzer's loneliness was also an unescapable consequence of the years when he had spurned Kate's tenderness and alienated his children. The unreliability of Pulitzer's affection and his unpredictable cruelty left them little choice. Though they held him in great affection, they had defensively created lives apart, accentuating his isolation. "I want some love and affection from my children in the closing short span of life that still remains," he wrote to Joe after receiving a complaining note from his son, still chafing under Pulitzer's strictures. "If I cannot have that love and affection, I may at least expect to be spared willful, deliberate disrespect disobedience, and insult." Kate did her best to try to end her husband's self-imposed exile from the family. "Pray realize that you would be so much happier yourself if you have light hearts and happy faces around you," she had written several years earlier. "Love served is always so much better than that which is bought. You cannot either buy or beat love from anyone, you can only earn it and you can, for no one can be more tender or charming than you when you wish to be." His twenty-nine-year-old son, Ralph, who came to visit in January, limited most communications with his father to matters of business relating to the World, of which he was now ostensibly the president. Twenty-four-year-old Joe was trying to build a life for himself in St. Louis, working at the Post-Dispatch. He felt certain that nothing he did could measure up to his father's expectations, and he understood his place among the sons. "I realize what a loss Mr. Clarke's death had been for you and how necessary it is for you to see Ralph," Joe wrote to his father while his older brother was in Cap Martin. "It has given me a good deal of pleasure to feel you attach at least enough importance to me and have enough confidence in me to want me here in New York when Ralph is away." Pulitzer's two daughters—twenty-three-year-old Edith and the twenty-one-year-old Constance, saw more of New York high society than of their father. Kate spent almost as much time in Europe as Joseph, but only in the rarest of circumstances were they in the same place at the same time. Little Herbert was, at thirteen, still too young to have given offense. Once again, Pulitzer revised his will. He had written his first one in 1892 and had altered it substantially in 1904 to provide instructions for the creation of the journalism school and prizes. As he cruised on the Liberty, he fretted over who would best carry out his wishes. He replaced Clarke with Governor Charles Hughes of New York as one of the trustees. The lugubrious voyage, complete with rough seas, gave Pollard cause to rename Pulitzer's entourage the "sea-sickophants." In the United States, Roosevelt's prosecutions were still working their way through the courts. In October, Pulitzer had his first victory. It came when his lawyers appeared before a federal judge in Indiana in whose courtroom the Indianapolis portion of the case had landed. Calling the case "political," the judge questioned the U.S. attorney's right to try it in Washington, suggesting that this venue would set a precedent subjecting newspapers to hundreds of libel trials. The following day he dismissed the case. "I am of the opinion," said the judge, "that the fact that certain persons were called 'thieves' and 'swindlers' does not constitute libel per se," he said. Citing a newspaper's duty to report the facts and draw inferences for its readers, the judge said the issue of the canal could use some public scrutiny. "The revolution in Panama, the circumstances concerning it, were unusual and peculiar." The ruling effectively killed the indictments in Washington. Pulitzer no longer faced any prospect of prison. But the pleasure of the victory was muted by the knowledge that the stronger legal case, the one in New York assembled by Stimson against the World before he left office, remained to be tried. On January 25, 1910, Pulitzer's attorney De Lancey Nicoll arrived at the U.S. district court in Manhattan. The day before that, a jury had been seated to hear, at long last, the criminal libel charges brought against the World and its editor Van Hamm. The case, built by Stimson, was the only remaining legal bullet from the chamber loaded by Roosevelt while he was still president. Nicoll was fully prepared to present the evidence gathered by Pulitzer's team of investigators and reporters to prove the truth of the corruption charges made against Cromwell and Roosevelt. But to go that route was to concede the federal government's power to prosecute. Instead, Pulitzer wanted Roosevelt's right to prosecute to be on trial. Thus, on the first day, Nicoll made a motion to quash the indictment on constitutional grounds. Judge Charles Hough, who owed his job to Roosevelt, surprised Nicoll by agreeing to hear him out the next day. As Nicoll began his argument, it sounded like a lecture in law school. He traced the history of libel laws in English law and demonstrated that the United States' brief experience with the Alien and Sedition Acts had given the nation an aversion to laws permitting the national government to prosecute libel. Then, turning to the old federal law being used by the prosecution, Nicoll made his case. The law was intended to punish assault and murder on the high seas, which were beyond the reach of state laws, and was never intended to be used to prosecute an offense that could easily be tried in a state court. "The curious and ingenious mind, which for the first time in eighty-five years, twisted the statute to meet the ends of this prosecution has retired, and this case has been left to the present Attorney General to press as a matter of department routine," Nicoll told Judge Hough. "You might as well revive the sedition laws, or pass another one like it. They would be a better law than this one." The U.S. attorney Henry Wise, who had taken over for Stimson, rose to challenge Nicoll's interpretation and argued that the law as amended covered libel as well. But Judge Hough had little patience with this view. "I am clear," he said interrupting the two bickering lawyers, "that the construction of the act of 1808 proposed by the prosecution in this case is contrary to the spirit which actuated the members of Congress in passing this law." Hough granted Nicoll's motion to quash the indictment and suggested strongly that the jurisdictional issue be settled not by him but by the Supreme Court. "I am naturally somewhat surprised," said Wise when reporters surrounded him outside the courtroom. "If any further action is to be taken it will rest with the Attorney General of the United States." The only party on the winning side still unhappy was Pulitzer. Anxious until the day of the trial, he now wanted to win his argument before the Supreme Court. "If there still remains the likelihood that someday another Roosevelt will prostitute his power by invoking the act to protect harbor defenses in order to prosecute newspapers that have offended him, the sooner there is a final decision of the Supreme Court of the United States the better," Frank Cobb wrote in the World the morning after the decision. As the victor, however, Pulitzer could not appeal. Only the administration could. One day before the time for an appeal would have run out, Taft's cabinet decided to take the case to the Supreme Court. In March, Joe came to Cap Martin on an important mission. In January he had pleaded with his father to grant his long-standing wish to marry Elinor Wickham, a fetching dark-haired daughter of an old family in St. Louis. "We are anxious to end the demoralizing suspense of this long three years of waiting this spring," he said, "and I beg to you to end it by giving your consent." Even Wickham had written to Joseph in hopes of softening his heart. Her letter only gave him a chance to vent. "Try your moral sense and get him to tell you the truth what his conduct toward me has been for the last ten years," Joseph wrote back, "and see whether you cannot influence him toward a father who is already old and broken, totally blind, cannot sleep, has an infinite variety of infirmities with one foot and half in the grave, and expects nothing from his children except a little less intense selfishness and some sympathy." In person, Joseph was rarely the ogre who dictated the letters. When Joe arrived, Joseph gave him a gift of $1,000 for his twenty-fifth birthday and consented to the marriage. His father's kindness, once again, had the effect of inducing guilt in Joe. As the train left, he looked back at Cap Martin and saw his father's villa. "It made me realize more keenly than I have realized in all my life under what deep obligation I am to you and how very much at fault I have been in the past in not feeling this obligation," Joe wrote to his father. "In a way I hated to leave you back there, even now, with the happy prospect that I have before me I feel very selfish in going away." The children gone, Pulitzer once again fiddled with his will. He decided to include a warning along with the ample funds he was planning to leave them. "They should never forget the dangers which unfortunately attend the inheritance of large fortunes, even though the money came from the painstaking affections of a father," he wrote. "I beg them to remember that such danger lies not only in the obvious temptation to enervating luxury but in the inducement which a fortune coming from another carries to the recipients to withdraw from the wholesome duty of vigorous, serious, useful work." After several more cruises in the Mediterranean, Pulitzer spent the summer in Chatwold and returned to roam Europe in the fall. Roosevelt's prosecution of the World played its last inning on October 24, 1910, when the government asked the Supreme Court, a majority of whose members had been appointed by Roosevelt and Taft, to overturn the lower court's decision throwing out the case. James McReynolds, appearing on behalf of the Justice Department, said the government only sought to protect those that were in the federal enclaves where the World had circulated. It didn't matter, he said, where the paper was printed. Rather, the crime of libel could occur where the paper was read, as well. Justice Holmes and others questioned him at length and pointedly asked if New York's laws had not been sufficient. Pulitzer's attorney once again presented his elaborate, theatrical history of libel, which now included a long excerpt from Roosevelt's message to Congress holding it to be a "high national duty" to prosecute Pulitzer. This time Nicoll hammered away at the pernicious nature of Roosevelt's action. With more than 2,000 federal enclaves, a president could bring simultaneous grand jury proceedings in all parts of the country, financially crippling most newspapers, Nicoll said. "Whenever the President of the United States wished to destroy a newspaper that had offended him by political criticism he would have had only to compel it to match its scanty resources against the vast resources of the United States government. "This was the real issue involved in the Roosevelt proceedings," Nicoll continued, "and in resisting the claim of Federal jurisdiction the World was fighting to preserve not only its own constitutional rights but the constitutional rights of every newspaper published in the United States." Ten weeks later, on January 3, 1911, the court ruled unanimously in favor of the World. It concluded that the federal government had no right to prosecute the case. Reading the decision from the bench, Chief Justice White said the federal government could not claim that just because a newspaper circulated on its property it could pursue a federal libel case, especially when ample state remedies existed. He placed the decision on the desk before him. "It would be impossible to sustain this prosecution without overthrowing the very State law by the authority of which the prosecution can be alone maintained," White said. In short, Roosevelt's stubborn refusal to listen to Stimson and his insistence on pursuing Pulitzer using federal powers had fatally flawed his effort from the start. By challenging a well-accepted division of prosecutorial power between the states and the national government, Roosevelt missed his mark. Pulitzer got word of the Supreme Court's decision in Cap Martin. It was one of the sweetest victories of his life. Though the Supreme Court's ruling was narrow, covering only a jurisdictional issue, Pulitzer believed he had rebuffed a wider assault on the nation's independent press. He left it to Frank Cobb to put this into words. The Court's action, Cobb wrote, meant that "freedom of the press does not exist at the whim or pleasure of the United States. It is the most sweeping victory won for freedom of speech and of the press in this country since the American people destroyed the Federalist Party more than a century ago for enacting the infamous sedition law." Pulitzer's vanquished foe was speechless. "I have nothing to say," Roosevelt told a reporter for the World who took a train out to Oyster Bay. The pleasure of the victory, however, was muted by other news from New York. On January 23, 1911, Pulitzer's onetime journalistic heir apparent, David Graham Phillips, was walking toward the Princeton Club in New York City to pick up his mail. Almost a decade had elapsed since he had worked for Pulitzer. In the intervening years he had established himself both as a successful author of socially conscious fiction and as a leading muckraking journalist. In fact, when Theodore Roosevelt in a speech coined the term "muckraking" to disparage the work of reform-minded writers, he had Phillips in mind. As Phillips neared the club, a well-dressed young man approached him. "There you go," said the man, as he pulled out a .32 caliber automatic pistol and opened fire, sending six bullets into Phillips. "Here I go," he said, firing a final round into his own head. The deranged assailant, the son of a prominent family in Washington, D.C., believed that his family, and especially his sister, had been defamed in Phillips's books. A policeman rushed over from the park and three of Phillips friends came bounding out from the club. "Graham, what happened?" asked the first friend to reach Phillips. "He shot me in the bowels," Phillips replied, referring to the dead assailant lying on the pavement. "Don't bother with him. For God's sakes get a doctor." An ambulance rushed Phillips to the hospital. At first the doctors believed he would recover from his wounds, but the hemorrhaging could not be stopped. The following evening, Phillips declined rapidly. "I could have won against two bullets, but not against six," Phillips murmured a few minutes before dying at eleven-thirty that night. Funeral services were held two days later at St. George's Episcopal Church, at East Seventeenth Street and Stuyvesant Place. Many of Phillips's former colleagues from the World packed into the church, along with admirers of the writer. Even if it had not been for Pulitzer's aversion to funerals, this was one for which distance was a legitimate excuse—not to mention that Pulitzer was beset by an increasing number of ailments. "I have been extraordinarily tired, fatigued and exhausted ever since you left," he wrote to Ralph in early March. "I am not fit for business, cannot attend to it in a perpetual state of headaches and pains." A cure in Wiesbaden brought no relief. In May, Pulitzer's men told Kate that though Joseph's blood sugar was down from a dangerous level, his nerves were shot and he was plagued with continual indigestion. One of Pulitzer's many doctors reviewed medications with him. He urged his patient to take Veronal, a relatively new sedative. "It induces a thoroughly normal sleep and, for most people, causes absolutely no side effects," he told Pulitzer. "Even over the course of multiple years, Veronal taken in doses of 8–12 grains is totally harmless, and the fear of Veronal poisoning wholly unfounded." However, patients built up tolerance to this drug and required increasingly higher dosages. Several years later, experts would warn patients of its dangerous side effects. "Veronal must be ranked among the treacherous somnifacients," reported one of the main medical manuals. "The number of serious and fatal cases of poisoning is so large that great care should be employed in its use." Neither Pulitzer nor his doctor knew this when he began taking the drug. In the summer of 1911, Republicans nervously faced the prospect that Theodore Roosevelt would challenge President Taft's renomination, and Democrats were stirred by the belief that Taft could be defeated. Presidential elections could still ignite Pulitzer's passion, and he sailed home to confer with his editorial page writers. Pulitzer's interest in "the Page," as it was called, remained strong, although he was becoming uninterested in the operation of the paper. As he told one correspondent that spring, "My whole aim and end in life is to know nothing of the affairs of the World." Pulitzer and Cobb met on board the Liberty off the shore of New York at the end of June. Pulitzer wanted the World to promote Woodrow Wilson for the presidency. With the backing of the World, Wilson had become governor of New Jersey after serving as president of Princeton University. But Pulitzer worried that Wilson's attacks on the money trust were a revival of Bryanism, which Pulitzer feared could doom his chances. Cobb disagreed but consented to follow Pulitzer's instructions to publicly chastise Wilson. "Remember I have the highest respect and regard for him," Pulitzer told Cobb. "This man is a great artist, a great genius, but he is leading himself astray and should be brought back to his senses. This should be done kindly and sympathetically and as a friend and admirer." Concluding his meeting with Cobb, Pulitzer picked up his family in New York—all except Joe and Elinor, who were traveling by train from St. Louis—and sailed north to spend the summer in Bar Harbor. Chatwold was at its best. After years of remodeling, the summer mansion at last provided the quiet refuge for which Pulitzer yearned. He slept in the upper floors of his unconventional, eccentric "tower of silence." He could swim in a pool of heated seawater in the basement and spend his days on a large veranda facing the ocean. Whereas Joseph craved solitude, Kate and their daughters thrived on the summer social whirl, which as the New York Times predicted, "will decidedly outshine that of 1910 in every way." Joseph spent time with his family at intervals. On most days he ate lunch or dinner with Kate, one of their daughters, or Herbert, and a secretary, at a table set for four in the magnificent main floor library. Visits with Ralph and Joe were mostly confined to boat rides. Joseph was exhausted by the contact with the family. "The intensity of his family emotions was such," noted Alleyne Ireland, Pulitzer's newest secretary, "that they could only be given rein at the price of sleepless nights, savage pain, and desperate weariness." Nonetheless, he remained intensely curious about his children. "Everybody had to be described over and over again, but especially young Master Ralph, a bright and handsome child, born long after his grandfather had become totally blind," Ireland said. Joseph's favorite indulgence was a ride on his large electric launch boat. He would sit in an armchair at the center of the vessel, with two companions nearby, as the boat navigated the calm waters of Frenchman Bay. In early August, Clark B. Firestone, recently hired at the World, joined Pulitzer for one of the rides, and for his requisite education as an editorial writer at the hands of the master. As the men rode about, Pulitzer began, as always, with his belief that independence was a paper's most valuable attribute. No political, financial, social, or personal influence could be brought to bear on the World's editorial positions. He warned Firestone, who only recently had been hired away from the Evening Mail, that he should not let any friendship influence his editorials, now that he was a writer for the World. "I wish," Pulitzer said, "that these writers would realize far more fully than they do the immense asset of their independence and exercise to the full their right to say anything they please, fearless of naught save overstatement and untruth." Next to independence, the most important criterion was that the editorials should be readable, Pulitzer said. To succeed in this regard, they should be on a theme of popular interest, be free of unfamiliar terms and phrases, and be trimmed to the tightest possible construction. Pulitzer recalled that when Cobb came to the paper after working in Detroit, he believed that the leading editorial should run as long as half a column. Pulitzer rapidly disabused him of that idea. In order to win Cobb over to a more terse style, Pulitzer told Firestone, he summoned as "gems of compact and telling expressions" the ten- to twelve-line editorials the Sun used to publish. The point, Pulitzer said, was to make an impression on the readers that they could not shake off. "Every day The World should contain some striking utterance, something out of the ordinary, something so independent that no other newspaper could print it; something unexpected and yet of the sort to capture the reader's conviction. "I dislike the word 'sensational' and never use it, but I want striking things to appear on the editorial page. Of course, it cannot compete with the news columns in effects of novelty, but can approach them." Pulitzer concluded his lesson with a reminder to use humor. "He urged me to exploit all my latent possibilities in the line of sarcasm and satire," Firestone said. Before they parted, Pulitzer promised that he would never ask Firestone to write an editorial on a position he opposed. Better that certain opinions of his own not be published, Pulitzer added, than that they might appear through the medium of a writer who did not honestly share them. After a full summer in Chatwold, Pulitzer was no better than he had been when he sailed back from Europe in June. "I have dreadful headaches, dyspepsia, nearly everything bad, sleep horribly and on brink of collapse," he wired to Ralph in September. As the leaves turned and the fall winds heralded the oncoming winter, Pulitzer abandoned his much-loved Maine retreat for New York. That made matters worse. In the eight years since the house on East Seventy-Third Street was built, it had defied all the work by architects and experts, and all the money spent, to make it soundproof. The failure was not for lack of effort. When the house was first built, Pulitzer's personal staff took turns sleeping in his bedroom. George Ledlie reached a point where he wasn't sure if he might be imaging sounds. Wallace C. Sabine, a renowned professor of acoustical engineering at Harvard, was enlisted. It was decided to build a new, almost windowless bedroom off the back of the house, using the firm of Foster, Gade, and Graham. When this room was completed, the contractor and Pulitzer's aide Arthur Billings closed themselves off in it while half a dozen assistants banged on pipes in the basement and around the swimming pool as well as on rooftop vents while others ran the elevators up and down. "Foster is satisfied and so am I," Billings reported to Pulitzer, "although the final success can only be assured after your acute hearing has put the room to a test." It failed. The house's proximity to the World also permitted Pulitzer's managers and editors to pester him with their business and editorial plans. It was a curse he had brought on himself by refusing to renounce power and turn decision making over to Ralph. Foremost on Seitz's mind was moving ahead with a plan to purchase a paper mill so as to wean the World from the paper trusts, which were increasing their prices by a rate 30 to 40 percent a year. Pulitzer said he almost fainted when he heard that Ralph was going to leave on vacation without concluding the deal. The time spent with Joe, who came to visit, was no better. Joseph now wanted his son to be in New York and said he had consented to let him remain in St. Louis up till now only because of his wife's family. The conversation ended when Joseph said that returning to New York was against his wishes. If his employees and his children were not making demands on him, the politicians were. The reform-minded mayor William J. Gaynor, who had just survived an assassination attempt captured in an iconic photograph in the World, told Pulitzer he was frustrated with the paper. After supporting his election, Gaynor claimed, it was now siding with Hearst in attacking him on a proposal for building a subway. "You can hear it everywhere that the World that used to be a great power is now merely an echo of Hearst. Whatever Hearst wants or stands for, the World trails along afterwards as meekly as if it had no principles," Gaynor said. "The World has done more to promote the political schemes of Hearst than all his own newspapers. Without the World, Hearst would not amount to anything." In his twenty-eight years at the helm of the nation's most important newspaper, Pulitzer had built up immunity to the complaints of his allies and to vilification by enemies. His attitude toward his greatest public opponents, William Randolph Hearst, William Jennings Bryan, and Theodore Roosevelt—unlike his attitude toward his family—was open-minded and uncommonly charitable. Roosevelt never let up on his attacks on Pulitzer after losing his court battles. In fact, in a letter to a British friend that summer, Roosevelt compared Pulitzer to Charles Dickens's Jefferson Brick. Pulitzer, on the other hand, told Cobb that it was time to give Roosevelt his due. "Personally," Pulitzer said, "I believe that the Panama work is a monumental achievement and that the paper must give Roosevelt the credit for the work and we must draw the biggest kind of line between that phase and the mere incident of his personal attack upon the paper on account of charges it made of corruption specifically and personally which it certainly could not substantiate—never did and never will." Of the three men, only Hearst noticed this generous trait in Pulitzer. Though the two had spent years in a competitive struggle that could have ended with one destroying the other, Pulitzer had always restrained his staff's spitefulness and had urged his editorial writers to recognize Hearst's strength. In October, when the World published a complimentary article about Hearst, its longtime competitor assumed that the idea had been Pulitzer's and sent his thanks. ## Chapter Thirty-One ## SOFTLY, VERY SOFTLY On October 18, 1911, the Liberty pulled up anchor and sailed from New York. On board were Pulitzer; Herbert and his tutor and nanny; five secretaries; and Pulitzer's English valet Jabez Dunningham, who had been with him since 1896. They were bound for Jekyll Island but got only as far as Charleston, where the captain anchored the yacht to wait until the course of a West Indian hurricane became clearer. Aside from a bad cold, which had confined him to his home while he was in New York, Pulitzer's health was as it always had been—a source of endless complaints but not so many as to cause alarm among his companions, or in his new traveling physician. On the second day in the harbor, Pulitzer complained of severe stomach pains. Since his physician was untested, the staff called Dr. Robert Wilson Jr., a prominent doctor in Charleston. After diagnosing the problem as severe indigestion, he gave Pulitzer a dose of Veronal. Pulitzer rallied and was well enough several days later to lunch on board with Robert Lathan, the editor of the Charleston News & Courier. The two men buoyantly shared their predictions for a Democratic victory in 1912. "I had never seen J.P. in a more genial mood or in higher spirits," Alleyne Ireland noted. The following day, however, Pulitzer felt ill again and remained below deck all day and night. In the morning, Thwaites sent a telegram to Kate in New York. Over the years, she had received dozens of similarly alarming messages, many of which she had wisely chosen to ignore. In this case, however, she ordered a private railcar. By four o'clock that afternoon, she was on her way south. At about three in the morning, as Kate's train entered the Carolinas, Joseph woke up. He asked Dunningham to send for Ireland. Rapidly putting on a dressing gown, Ireland grabbed a dozen books and headed to Pulitzer's cabin. "He was evidently suffering a good deal of pain," Ireland noted, "for he turned from side to side, and once or twice got out of bed and sat in an easy chair." Ireland tried reading from several of the books he brought. He had little success engaging Pulitzer until he happened upon the historian Macaulay's essay on Hallam's Constitutional History, written when Macaulay was very young. "I read steadily until about five o'clock," Ireland said, "and J.P. listened attentively, interrupting me from time to time with a direction to go back and read over a passage." Around five-thirty Pulitzer began to suffer again. The ship's doctor as well as Dr. Wilson was summoned. Wilson gave Pulitzer Veronal, the sedative he had been taking for six months. Resting more comfortably, Pulitzer dismissed Ireland as the sun began to rise. "You'd better go and get some sleep," Pulitzer said, "we will finish that this afternoon." Pulitzer's German reader and pianist Friedrich Mann took over for Ireland. He read from Christopher Hare's The Life of Louis XI. By midmorning, Mann reached the chapter portraying the death of the French king. Louis XI was sixty-three and had ruled for twenty-three years. Pulitzer was sixty-four and had ruled the World for twenty-eight years. As had been his habit, Pulitzer quietly murmured, when the reading began to help him doze off. "Leise, ganz leise," he said. "Softly, very softly." At one o'clock, Pulitzer awoke with a sharp pain in his chest and then fainted. Several minutes later, Kate arrived. She entered the cabin with Herbert. For about twenty minutes, they remained at the bedside as her husband of thirty-three years drew his last breaths. The following day, a coffin of silver-mounted Spanish cedar containing Joseph's body was brought to the Charleston train station and placed in a railcar lined with mourning cloth. Kate, Herbert, and four of Joseph's men boarded a second private car, the one Kate had ridden from New York. The train pulled out at four-thirty in the afternoon for the overnight ride to New York. Joe and Ralph came from St. Louis and New York, respectively, to meet the train on its route north. Constance, who was living in Colorado Springs, and Edith, who was in France, both made hurried plans to go to New York. When the train reached the city at five past two on the afternoon of October 31, 1911, flags at the World, as well as at the Tribune and other newspapers, were flying at half-mast. Pulitzer's death was on the front page of almost every newspaper in the land. The obituaries uniformly focused on Pulitzer's achievement in making the World a dominant newspaper, on his innovations in journalism, and on his financial success. It would have disappointed the subject of the stories. "I hate the idea of passing away known only as the proprietor of the paper," Pulitzer wrote a few months before his death. "Not property but politics was my passion, and not politics even in a general, selfish sense, but politics in the sense of liberty and freedom and ideals of justice." His rival Hearst understood. "In his conception, the newspaper was not merely a money-making machine," Hearst told his readers. "It was the instrument of the will and power of its hundreds of thousands of readers, the fulcrum upon which that power could be exerted in the accomplishment of broad and beneficial results." Pulitzer's death was publicly attributed to heart troubles: Dr. Wilson, who completed the death certificate, listed angina as the cause and gallstones as a contributing factor. No mention was made of Veronal or any of the other medications. The press charitably avoided comment on Pulitzer's well-known two-decade struggle with depression and other maladies. The body was brought to the family home on East Seventy-Third Street and placed in the library, which was filled with flowers and wreaths. The next morning, hundreds of the World's staffers came uptown to pay their final respects. At noon, representatives of the Grand Army of the Republic held a service for their former member and placed a flag on the coffin. Pallbearers, including President Butler of Columbia University, the former managing editor George Harvey, the former mayor Seth Low, Pulitzer's doctor James W. McLane, and the business manager Angus Shaw escorted Pulitzer's coffin to a waiting cortege of carriages. The procession made its way twenty blocks south down Fifth Avenue to St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where more than two dozen policemen did their best to keep order as a crowd of thousands gathered on the street in front. So many former editors and reporters of the World had been summoned that they were instructed to gather in the Gotham Hotel two blocks away. At the appointed time, the alumni were to emerge and join the funeral procession. However, the plan went awry. "Happy pairs, reunited after decades, danced together on the pavement," said Elizabeth Jordan, a former writer for the editorial page. "The orderly line, held for a moment, broke up in confusion. Reminiscences were yelped from one editor to another. Men ran up and down the line, seeking someone they hadn't found." The boisterous merriment continued until the group saw the casket being carried into the church and heard the ponderous notes of the organ. "Something like an electric shock swept the ranks of the former employees," said Jordan. "Every pair of shoulders straightened, every smile disappeared. The line formed as if by magic. Reverently, two by two, with bent heads and lowered eyes, and hearts full of memories, the editors who had helped Joseph Pulitzer to build his World followed their dead chief into the crowded church." A choir of forty-five men sang "Abide with Me" as Pulitzer's coffin made its way past pews filled with politicians, judges, newspapermen, and his old guard. Among them were John Norris, his longtime business manager, now with the Times; former reporters and editors such as James Creelman, Caleb Van Hamm, and Bradford Merrill; and members of Pulitzer's personal staff such as George Ledlie, Arthur Billings, Norman Thwaites, and Friedrich Mann. The flag-draped coffin was covered with a blanket of lilies of the valley and orchids. It was brought to a rest in front of the altar amid more than 100 floral pieces including a wreath of roses from the republic of Colombia bearing a card engraved "To Her Friend." Reverend Ernest Stires read from chapter 15 of the First Epistle to the Corinthians. As he began, elevator motors, ventilators, and presses were shut down, and telegraph machines and telephones were disconnected at the World and Post-Dispatch buildings. For five minutes, with all the lights extinguished, Pulitzer's staff on duty that day stood at silent attention. "For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain: he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them," Stires read on, following the traditional Episcopal burial service and eschewing a eulogy. As a second hymn was sung, Stires brought two wreaths down from the altar and placed them on the flower-draped coffin. After a moment of silent prayer, the chorus burst into song again. "Hark! hark, my soul! Angelic songs are swelling," the men sang as the coffin was brought out from the church. A special train took Pulitzer's body and his family—except for Constance and Edith, who had not yet arrived—as well as a select group of editors, members of his personal staff, and a few friends to Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. At the grave, Stires gave the final invocation before an improvised pulpit of canvas. As they all stood before the grave, the booming of guns from a naval fleet coincidentally visiting New York could be heard in the distance. With the approach of dusk, Joseph's body was lowered into a grave next to that of his beloved daughter Lucille Irma. Inside the casket, Pulitzer's right arm lay across his chest and in his hand he clasped a copy of the World. In the days following his burial, his astonished family read Joseph's will. He left the World and the Post-Dispatch in the hands of four trustees who, in time, would turn control over to his sons. Twenty-seven-year-old Joe would have to wait until he was thirty and fifteen-year-old Herbert would have to wait until he was twenty-one to assume a seat on the board. In an unintended error, Joseph failed to give thirty-two-year-old Ralph a seat in his last revision of the will. Acting on the advice of Joseph's lawyer, one of the trustees resigned and gave his place to Ralph. But what dumbfounded the brothers was their father's division of the stock. Herbert, the youngest, who had done hardly more than visit one of the newspapers, was given 60 percent of the stock. Ralph, who had practically been running the World, was given 20 percent; and Joseph, the most talented of the three, received only 10 percent. The remaining 10 percent of the shares were to be used to produce an income to be divided among editors and managers. When it came to power, Joseph provided for a more equal distribution. Each member of the board, on which each son would eventually have a seat, had only one vote. The board members in turn would select the directors for the two newspapers. In crafting the convoluted distribution of his newspaper assets and in devising his board, Joseph had had one goal in mind, and he made it clear in his final instructions. "I particularly enjoin upon my sons and my descendants," Pulitzer wrote, "the duty of preserving, perfecting, and perpetuating the World newspaper, to the maintenance and publishing of which I have sacrificed my health and strength, in the same spirit in which I have striven to create and conduct it as a public institution, from motives higher than mere gain, and it having been my desire that it should be at all times conducted in a spirit of independence and with a view of inculcating high standards and public spirit among the people and their official representatives, and it is my earnest wish that said newspapers shall hereafter be conducted upon the same principles." In addition to specifying his plans for his newspapers, Pulitzer disposed of his personal assets. For Kate, he set up a $2.5 million trust and the use of the houses in New York and Maine. His daughters, Constance and Edith, would share the income from a $1.5 million trust. Columbia University at long last received its promised gift to create the journalism school. Irascible until the end, Pulitzer also included a provision that would give the money to Harvard if Columbia failed to live up to its promises. He also left $250,000 for the Pulitzer prize and scholarships. The remainder of his money was assigned for donations to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; to the Philharmonic Society; and to the city, for a fountain—which was eventually built on the Grand Army Plaza there—and for a statue of Thomas Jefferson. Also, gifts of $100,000 were to be shared among certain of the World's writers and personal secretaries. There was an equally large sum for his valet Dunningham, and a smaller sum for George Hosmer. Kate outlived her husband by almost sixteen years. Residing mostly in Europe, she spent her time helping young artists and musicians and supporting charities such as the Red Cross. She died in Deauville, France, in 1927. For years after her death, the family brought John Singer Sargent's portrait of her to Chatwold to be with them during the summer. The portrait of Joseph remained in St. Louis. Ralph divorced Frederica and later married Margaret Leech, a talented writer who won two Pulitzer prizes for history. For a number of years Ralph took the helm of the World, although his youngest brother, Herbert, earned the largest share of its income while doing little or nothing in the way of work. Ralph died in 1939. Herbert had his opportunity to manage the World for a brief time in 1930, but it held little interest for him. Rather than journalism, his main passions were hunting big game in Africa and fishing near his home in Palm Beach. He died in 1957. Joseph, the one brother to inherit his father's journalistic talent, remained in St. Louis, where he guided the Post-Dispatch. Under his rule, his father's original paper flourished as one of the nation's most important and profitable newspapers. His wife, Elinor, died in 1925 in an automobile accident. He later was remarried to Elizabeth Edgar. He died in 1955. In 2005, the descendants sold the Post-Dispatch. It continues today as a shell of its once distinguished self. Edith married William Scoville Moore, grandson of the author of "Twas the Night before Christmas." Constance married William Gray Elmslie, who had once been Herbert's tutor. She died in 1938 after spending most of her life in Colorado Springs. Edith was the last living child of Kate and Joseph when she died in 1975. In the early morning of February 27, 1931, a group of the World's editors and writers gathered around the city desk. The news was glum. Nineteen years after Pulitzer's death, the paper was facing its own mortality. With its circulation getting hammered by new morning tabloids on the one hand, and losing the battle as a news leader to Ochs's invigorated New York Times and the newly merged Herald-Tribune on the other, the World seemed at a loss as to where to find a place for itself on the newsstands. Briefly in the 1920s, it had flared like a comet when the editor Herbert Bayard Swope filled its pages with the writing of men like Walter Lippmann, Heywood Broun, and Franklin P. Adams. But without Joseph and his brilliant editor Frank Cobb, who died in 1923, Ralph and Herbert were ill-equipped to run the newspaper. The blame rested as much on their father as on the two sons. As an absentee owner, Joseph had refused to cede sufficient control so that a corporate management structure could be built. The internal disunion at the paper was aggravated by his system of keeping his managers competing and spying on each other. Until the end, Joseph had remained the keystone in the arch of management. After 1911, "the Pulitzer building was a haunted house," said one of the World's writers. When the Depression came in 1929, the World's losses mounted. Ralph, Herbert, and Joe agreed that maintaining the paper was a lost cause. The reporters and editors at the city desk that morning had taken part in a last-ditch effort to persuade the brothers to sell the paper to the staff. Instead, the three sons surrendered the World and Evening World to Scripps-Howard for $5 million after obtaining a judge's consent to break their father's enjoinment that the paper never be sold. The resulting New York World-Telegram carried only the name of the paper. Joseph Pulitzer's World was gone. The city editor James Barrett had just put the final edition carrying the announcement of the sale to bed. "Everyone found a paper cup, or two," said one of the reporters. "And the bottles weren't filled with water, because what they were filled with took the wax off the cups and curdled." Suddenly, Barrett slapped the desk and burst into song. To the tune of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," the men belted out, "J.P.'s body lies a-mouldering in the grave, but the staff goes marching on." At three in the morning, they decided to move their wake to Daly's, a speakeasy popular with newspapermen. They left the Pulitzer Building, went into the chilly night, and marched down Park Row singing. ## ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The idea for this book belongs to my editor Tim Duggan. At first, I was unconvinced there was a need for a new biography of Joseph Pulitzer. The last serious one had been written in 1967 by W. A. Swanberg, whose books first got me interested in biography. However, after some modest research, I found that Swanberg had missed a great deal and that a new look at Pulitzer was long overdue. So, I remain thankful to Duggan for his clairvoyance and to the literary agent Mark Reiter, then with PFD New York, who negotiated the contract and supported the project from the start. At HarperCollins, I also owe thanks to assistant editor Allison Lorentzen and copyeditor Susan Gamer for shepherding the manuscript to publication. Like most authors, I live in fear of not properly thanking the many who made this book possible. But, here to the best of my ability, is my supporting cast. The description of the Pulitzer family genealogy and of their life in Makó would not be so complete were it not for the work of historian András Csillag, a professor of American Civilization at Szeged University, Szeged, Hungary. Since the 1980s, he has doggedly pursued research into the family's history. The tour he provided me of Makó, Pulitzer's birthplace, was of enormous help. I was also assisted in Makó by Laszlo Molnar, Adrienn Nagy, and Marton Eacsedi, caretaker of the Jewish Cemeteries. In Budapest, Gyorgyi Haraszti, of the Institute of History of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Victor Karady, in the Jewish Studies Department of Central European University, and Mátyás Gödölle, of the Hungarian National Museum answered my many questions about Pest when Pulitzer lived there as a child. Istvan Deak, at Columbia University, also provided helpful guidance. The bulk of Pulitzer's papers and those of the World are kept at the Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Columbia University. Director Michael Ryan, Jennifer B. Lee, Tara C. Craig, Kevin O'Connor, and the entire staff provided exceptional assistance. The second largest holding of Pulitzer papers is the Manuscript Division of the Library of Congress, where Jeffrey M. Flannery was a constant help. At the Missouri Historical Society, Jason D. Stratman not only assisted me during my many visits but responded for years to my e-mail queries. Eric P. Newman, founder of the Eric P. Newman Numismatic Education Society in St. Louis, graciously made me a copy of a loan from Preetorius to Pulitzer to buy shares of the Westliche Post. Pat and Leslie Fogarty, who discovered a cache of previously unknown Pulitzer documents, kindly let me examine them for the preparation of this book. Journalist Eric Fettmann shared with me a letter from Nannie Tunstall to Pulitzer. It played a pivotal role in being able to properly date the romantic relationship between the two. The late Muriel Pulitzer, a remarkable artist, permitted me to use her grandfather's memoirs. Her nephew Nicholas W. Wood, of Arlington, Texas, made it possible for me to meet Muriel. I also owe a great deal of thanks to Emily Rauh Pulitzer and James V. Maloney, Chief Financial Officer of the Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts, for their assistance and interest in the project. Roman scholar Susanna Braund helped me try to track down an important allusion made by David Graham Phillips. Alexandra Villard de Borchgrave permitted me to use her files relating to Henry Villard. Dr. Edward Okum, who had treated Joseph Pulitzer's grandson for eye troubles, sorted out important questions regarding Pulitzer's blindness. Dr. Edwin Carter once again provided me with important psychological insights into my subject. Eric Homberger, author of Mrs. Astor's New York: Money and Social Power in a Gilded Age, gave me important advice on dealing with the anti-Semitism that confronted Pulitzer in New York City. Jason Baker did yeoman's work in translating German documents for me. I am also grateful for his insights about Pulitzer's work at the Westliche Post. Baker was assisted by Rick Strudell, who managed to decipher nineteenth-century German penmanship. Cornelia Brooke Gilder helped me with research in the Berkshires. Jude Webre completed important fact-checking in the Columbia University holdings of Pulitzer papers. Elizabeth Elliott chased down elusive information on Tunstall in Lynchburg, Virginia. Charles Litchfield and Nancy Ross, two high school students, served as editorial interns in 2004 and 2005. Tripp Jones, archivist, the Church of the Epiphany, went out of his way to provide me with insights into both the role of his church at Joseph and Kate's wedding as well as that of Joseph's relationship with the Episcopal Church as a whole. David G. Hardin and Keitha Leonard, both attorneys, assisted me in interpreting estate and business matters. The law firm of Ropes & Gray represented me pro bono in my Freedom of Information dispute with the Department of Justice, and Stephen M. Underhill, a graduate student from the University of Maryland working at the National Archives, helped locate the 1909–1910 Pulitzer prosecution records. A large cast of people in libraries, archives, and universities from Budapest to St. Louis went out of their way to assist me. Specific individuals include: Jill Abraham, at the National Archives, who helped locate military records on Pulitzer, whose name was spelled several different ways, making it hard to locate some of the items; Wanda Adams, Leavenworth Public Library; Marisa Bourgoin of the Corcoran Art Gallery; Christine M. Beauregard, New York State Library; Joseph Fred Benson, Supreme Court of Missouri; Stephen Bolhafner, St. Louis Post-Dispatch; Frederick W. Brunello, New York Times Corporate Records; Michael DeArmey, University of Southern Mississippi; Jill Gage, Newberry Library; Judy Garrett, Berkshire Historical Society; James Good, Lone Star College–North Harris; Suzanne Hahn, Indiana Historical Society; Linda Hartman, Santa Fe Public Library; Mike Klein, Library of Congress; Shaun J. Kirkpatrick, United States Army War College and Carlisle Barracks; William Massa, Sterling Library, Yale University; Shirley McGrath, Greene County Historical Society; Katie McMahon, Newberry Library; Barbara Miksicek, St. Louis Police Library; Janie Morris, Duke University Library; James P. Niessen, Alexander Library, Rutgers University; Jenny Olmsted, Jekyll Island Museum; Janet Parks, Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library, Columbia University; Donald Ritchie, U.S. Senate Historical Office; Nicholas B. Scheetz, Georgetown University Library; Wendy Schnur, G. W. Blunt Library of the Mystic Seaport Museum; Christina Shedlock, Charleston County Public Library; David A. Smith, New York Public Library; James M. Smith, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Ohio State University; William T. Stolz, Senior Manuscript Specialist, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia; Allen E. Wagner, University of Missouri–St. Louis; Andrew Walker, St. Louis Art Museum; Travis Westly, Library of Congress; Clive Wilmer, Cambridge University, England; Kenneth H. Winn, Missouri State Archives. I also want to acknowledge the permitted use of materials from the Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Columbia University; Columbia University Oral History Research Office Collection; Midwest Manuscript Collection at the Newberry Library; Special Collections, Georgetown University Library; Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University; and other institutions in the United States, Great Britain, and Hungary. David O. Stewart, author of Impeached, was my constant literary companion during this project. He read every word I wrote and his comments greatly improved the manuscript. Editor Veronika Hass diligently reviewed my final drafts, frequently saving me from mortifying errors. David Garrow, author of Bearing the Cross, read large sections of the manuscript and provided valuable guidance. Others who read portions of the work include author Kenneth Ackerman; Zohar Kadman Sella, a student at Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism; Howard N. Lupovitch, of Colby College; Robert Priddy, broadcaster and independent historian in Missouri; and Richard Zacks, author of a forthcoming book on Theodore Roosevelt as police commissioner. Friends Jim Percoco and Dean Sagar helped me sort out Pulitzer's role in the Civil War and worked to help me overcome my prejudices about the war. Friend and author Linda Lear gave me the idea for the subtitle to this book. A research fellowship provided by Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History greatly defrayed my travel costs to New York City. A grant from the Richard S. Brownlee Fund of the Missouri State Historical Society helped fund my travels to Missouri. Its executive director Gary Kremer also provided useful guidance on Jefferson City in the 1870s. I am especially honored by support I received from the T/EL&DS, especially from its 2008 director J. Revell Carr, who was busy supervising the construction of the society's new headquarters. Last, members of my family in New York—Christopher and Elissa Morris and Helen and Martin Scorsese—gave me lodging and meals during my many research trips. My children, Stephanie, Benjamin, and Alexander, probably wondered if their father would ever finish this project and my wife, Patty, put up with long absences while I conducted my research and with long absences when I was home but locked away in my office. ## Notes To conserve space, the endnotes contain abbreviations for frequently cited sources and a more numeric dating system. ARCHIVAL COLLECTIONS OR REPOSITORIES ABF Brisbane Family. Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University ABF–2001 2001 Addition to Brisbane Family, Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University AB-LC Arthur Brisbane File, Lake County Historical Society, OH AJHS American Jewish Historical Society, New York, NY BLMC British Library Manuscript Collection, London CAG Corcoran Art Galley, Washington, DC CDP Chauncey Depew Papers, Sterling Library, Yale University CJB Charles Joseph Bonaparte Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress CS Carl Schurz Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress DCS-NYPL Don Carlos Seitz Papers, New York Public Library EBW E. B. Washburne Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress EFJC Eric Fettmann Journalism Collection (privately held) EHP Earl Harding Papers, Special Collection, Georgetown University Library HR Hermann Raster Papers, Newberry Library, Chicago, IL HSP Henry Stimson, Manuscript and Archive, Sterling Library, Yale University HW Henry Watterson, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress JA Julian Allen Scrapbook, #13-z, Southern Historical Collection, Wilson Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill JB James Broadhead Papers, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis JBE J. B. Eads Papers, Missouri Historical Society JC James Creelman, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Ohio State University JJJ John Joseph Jennings Collection, Beinecke Library, Yale University JNP-MHS John W. Norton Papers, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis JP-CU Joseph Pulitzer, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University JP-LC Joseph Pulitzer, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress JPII-LC Joseph Pulitzer Jr. (1885–1955), Manuscript Division, Library of Congress JP-MHS Joseph Pulitzer Collection, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis JP-NYSL Joseph Pulitzer, correspondence, New York State Library, Albany LB Louis Benecke Family Papers, 1816–1989, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia, MO LS Louis Starr Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University MHS Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis MSA Missouri State Archives, Jefferson City, MO MMW McKim, Mead, and White Collection, New-York Historical Society NARA National Archives, Washington, DC NARA-MD Department of Justice, Record Group 60, file #10963–02, National Archives, College Park, MD NARA-NY US v. Press Publishing Files, National Archives, New York City NT-DU Nannie Tunstall Papers, Duke University Library N-YHS New-York Historical Society NYTA New York Times Corporate Archives PDA Archival material on file in the library of the Post-Dispatch, St. Louis, MO. The paper held files of miscellaneous letters, articles, and photographs all mixed in with personal affairs of Joseph Pulitzer II and Joseph Pulitzer III. PLFC Pat and Leslie Fogarty Collection (privately held) SB Samuel Bowles Papers, Manuscript and Archive, Sterling Library, Yale University SSMHS Sylvester Scovel Papers, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis SLPA Microfilms made by the St. Louis Post-Dispatch containing miscellaneous Pulitzer correspondence. One copy is owned by the paper; the other is on file at the St. Louis Public Library. SLPDL St. Louis Police Department Library, St. Louis StLi American Committee of the Statue of Liberty, New York Public Library TD Thomas Davidson. Manuscript and Archive, Yale University TRP Theodore Roosevelt Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress UB Udo Brachvogel Papers, New York Public Library WCP-DU William W. Corcoran Papers, Special Collection Library, Duke University WHMC Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia, MO WHS-IHS William H. Smith Papers, Indiana Historical Society WG-CU William Grosvenor. Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University WP-CU World Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University WR-LC Whitelaw Reid Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress WSP William Speer Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University PERSONAL NAMES AB Alfred Butes ABi Arthur Billings BM Bradford Merrill DC Dumont Clarke DCS Don Carlos Seitz DGP David Graham Phillips FC Frank Cobb FDW Florence D. White GHL George H. Ledlie GWH George W. Hosmer HS Henry Stimson JAS J. Angus Shaw JN John Norris JP Joseph Pulitzer JPII Joseph Pulitzer Jr. JWC James W. Clarke KP Kate Pulitzer MAM Maud Alice Macarow NT Norman Thwaites PB Pomeroy Burton RHL Robert H. Lyman RP Ralph Pulitzer TR Theodore Roosevelt WHM William H. Merrill FREQUENTLY CITED BOOKS OR MANUSCRIPTS AI Alleyne Ireland. Joseph Pulitzer: Reminiscence of a Secretary. New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1914. APM Albert Pulitzer. "Memoirs." Unpublished memoir written by Albert Pulitzer in 1909 and edited and annotated by his son Walter Pulitzer between 1909 and probably 1913. In author's possession. On deposit in the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University. DCS-JP Don C. Seitz. Joseph Pulitzer: His Life and Letters. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1924. GJ George Juergens. Joseph Pulitzer and the New York World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1966. JLH John L. Heaton. The Story of a Page: Thirty Years of Public Service and Public Discussion in the Editorial Columns of the New York World. New York: Harper, 1913. JSR Julian S. Rammelkamp. Pulitzer's Post-Dispatch, 1878–1883. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967. JWB James Wyman Barrett. Joseph Pulitzer and His World. New York: Vanguard, 1941. WRR William Robinson Reynolds. "Joseph Pulitzer." PhD diss., Columbia University, 1950. WAS W. A. Swanberg, Pulitzer. New York: Scribner, 1967. NEWSPAPERS Readers may note the appearance of smaller newspapers in some of the endnotes. This is because they made extensive use of wire copy and often contained valued reports about New York journalism and politics. AtCo Atlanta Constitution BoGl Boston Globe BrEa Brooklyn Eagle ChTr Chicago Tribune DeFr Detroit Free Press EvPo St. Louis Evening Post GlDe St. Louis Globe-Democrat (including issues when it was the St. Louis Globe) LAT Los Angeles Times MoDe Missouri Democrat MoRe Missouri Republican NYA New York American NYH New York Herald NYEJ New York Evening Journal NYEW New York Evening World NYMJ New York Morning Journal (later succeeded by the New York American) NYS New York Sun NYT New York Times NYTr New York Tribune NYW New York World SeDe Sedalia Democrat StLoDi St. Louis Dispatch PD St. Louis Post-Dispatch StLoPo St. Louis PostThJo The Journalist TT Town Topics WaPo Washington Post WP Westliche Post WSJ Wall Street Journal Note: When citing Pulitzer letters and other documents located at either Columbia University or the Library of Congress, I have chosen to limit the citation to the date of item and collection, unless more information would be needed for its retrieval. For instance, some correspondence and other items were not filed chronologically or sometimes are incorrectly filed. In those cases, I have provided the box and file folder information. Additionally, finding aids I developed in conjunction with the research for this book have been deposited at the Rare Book and Manuscript Room of Columbia University and the Manuscript Room of the Library of Congress. Last, the endnote appears at the point at which I begin using the source. So quotations in subsequent paragraphs stem from the same source unless otherwise specified. PROLOGUE: HAVANA 1909 On the afternoon: Descriptions of Havana harbor are drawn from Robert T. Hill, Cuba and Porto Rico with the Other Islands of the West Indies (New York: The Century Co., 1898) and photographs in the G. W. Blunt Library of Mystic Seaport. The length of: AI, 28. Sarawak is today one of the two Malaysian states on the island of Borneo. And it was talked about: Data calculated using data from the twenty-fifth anniversary issue of World, 5/10/1903, copy contained in May 1903 Folder, WP-CU. "The World should": JP and Clark B. Firestone conversation, transcript, undated, undated folder 1910, JP-LC, Box 9. "I think God": JP and Firestone conversation, transcript, 8/5/1908, WP-CU. At last the small boat: WRR, 711. CHAPTER 1: HUNGARY A note about family names: I have chosen to keep Joseph Pulitzer's ancestors and family names in their original spelling, such as Mihály (instead of Michael), Fülöp (instead of Phillip). But as Jószef Pulitzer would become known by the American spelling of his name, I instead refer to him as "Joseph." By the time: Moravia is now located in the eastern third of the modern Czech Republic. When I visited the Jewish cemetery in Makó in 2006, I found graves for Pulitzers with all three spellings: "Politzer," "Puliczer," and "Pulitzer." András Csillag, "The Hungarian Origins of Joseph Pulitzer," Hungarian Studies, Vol. 3, No. 1–2 (1987), 193; Peter I. Hidas, "A Brief Outline of the History of Jews of Hungary," delivered December 13, 1992 at the Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom, Westmount, Canada (unpublished, in author's possession); Lupovitch, Jews at the Crossroads, xviii–xix; András Csillag, Pulitzer József makói származásáról (Makó: Makó Múseum, 1985), 13–14. In Makó, the Pulitzers: Csillag, "Hungarian Origins," 194–196. When Joseph's father: Ibid., 198; APM, 16; Csillag, Pulitzer József makói származásáról, 13. Following Jewish custom: Birth Recorders Book, Makó, Israelitic Religious Birth Registrar's Office, Vol. 36.16, JPII-LC. The copy is accompanied by a translation, which, however, fails to translate the Hungarian word körülmetélö (circumcision.) The translation was done for the Pulitzer family in 1937 (possibly later). The birth of Pulitzer is also noted in the listing of Jewish births in Makó on microfilm #0642780 of the Family History Center for the Mormon Church. Nonetheless, as Jews: The percentage was determined using estimated population figures but it matched that provided by Marton Eacsedi, caretaker of the Jewish Cemeteries in Makó, in an interview with the author, January 21, 2006. A city plan of 1815 described the crooked streets of the Jewish settlement: Toth, "History," 4. Despite the revolution's: The strength of Hungarian nationalism among Jews is described in Alexander Maxwell, "From Wild Carpathians to the Puszta: The Evolution of Hungarian National Landscapes," in Ruth Buettner and Judith Peltz, eds., Mythical Landscapes Then and Now (Yerevan, Macmillan, 2006); Gyorgyi Haraszti, of the Institute of History of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, interview with author, January 24, 2006; APM, 4. The end of: Jewish Encyclopedia, Vol. 8 (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1901), 273. Pulitzer attended the Hebrew school in Makó, according to his childhood friend Adolph Reiner, The Journal of Temesvar, June 21, 1913 (translation in JPII-LC.); Patai, The Jews of Hungary, 284–285; Lopovitch, Jews at the Crossroads, 240–243. There was nothing modern: APM, 12. In the spring: Csillag, Pulitzer József makói származásáról, 19; McCagg, Habsburg Jews, 135. Unlike Buda, which: The descriptions of Pest and Buda are drawn from prints in the Hungarian National Museum and from Beattie, The Danube; and Parsons, The City of Magyar. The Pulitzers' wagon: Komoróczy, ed., Jewish Budapest; Csillag, "Hungarian Origins," #199. Fülöp was no stranger to the Jewish quarter. On his business journeys he had lodged in the enormous Orczy House, which was so immense it was regarded as a kind of shtetl, or little Jewish town, in and of itself. The move to Pest: Csillag, "Hungarian Origins," 199–201; Victor Karady, professor in the Department of History and Nationalism Studies Program at Central European University, interview with author, January 17, 2006. Because of the family's: APM, 11–12. This tale has all the markings of a family legend and may be only an exaggeration. Years later, though, one of Joseph's childhood friends cryptically reported that he "did beat his teacher." If Joseph didn't: APM, 20, 46; Less than six years later, Joseph Pulitzer would meet the American philosopher Denton J. Snider. Upon learning that Snider was teaching a course in philosophy, Pulitzer said, "What good can you get from that?" (Denton J. Snider, The St. Louis Movement, 163.) For Joseph, Pest: Kósa, The Old Jewish Quarter of Budapest, 14. Leaving the market: APM, 16. Any exploration of: Beattie, The Danube, 181–182. See also Paget, Hungary and Transylvania; and Parsons, The City of Magyar. The wealth, success: Today Temple Emanu-El in New York City is larger than this synagogue but does not seat more people; Komoróczy, Jewish Budapest, 110; Patai, The Jews of Hungary, 298–301. Most, if not all, of the Pulitzer death records and gravestones in Hungary recognize the family as Neologs. Despite having secured: In all the couple had nine children. Lajos, born in 1840, lived sixteen years; Borbála, born in 1842, five years; Breindel, born in 1845, one year; Anna, born in 1849, eleven years; Gábor, born in 1853, two years; and Arnold, born in 1856, less than one year. The birth and death dates of one child, Helene, are not known, but she died before 1858. Only Joseph and his brother Albert, who was born on July 10, 1851, lived into adulthood. (Csillag, "Hungarian Origins," 197.) Four years older than Albert: See John Bowlby, Attachment and Loss; Wass and Corr, eds., Childhood and Death; Silverman, Never Too Young to Know: Death in Children's Lives. As an additional: Fülöp's will was probated in Pest, and an account of its contents is found in Csillag, "Hungarian Origins," 202–203 (a portion of the will is reproduced on 201). "Thus was my mother": APM, 16. Financial relief appeared: JP to Nannie Tunstall, May 2, 1878, EFJC. Albert never mentions Frey in his memoir, and Joseph seems never to have talked about Frey to his friends or family. His absence from their recollections is striking, especially in comparison with how much they both discussed their affection for their mother. The deaths and: APM, 19; Temesvar Hirlap, June 21, 1913, translation in JP-LC, Box 12, folder 3. Going to the: Komoróczy, Jewish Budapest; 104; Patai, The Jews of Hungary, 286. Pulitzer had grown: Pulitzer later told friends that he traveled to Paris and London in hopes of joining an army; but this seems doubtful, considering the cost of such travel and his family's financial condition at the time. Events in the: Geary, We Need Men, 103; Boston Daily Courier, September 1, 1864, 1; Murdock, One Million Men, 188; Papers Relating to Foreign Affairs (38, Congress, 2nd Session, House Executive Document No. 1, vol. 3, Serial 1218, Washington, 1865), 177. Allen was established in Hamburg in early March: Julian Allen Scrapbook, #13-z, Southern Historical Collection, Wilson Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Allen set up: Foreign Affairs, 184–185; Boston Courier, 9/1/1864, 1. The contract the recruits signed required turning over any bonus they received to Allen. His promise to pay all travel expenses from the recruit's home is one of the reasons I believe that Pulitzer did not come to Hamburg by happenstance but rather responded to Allen's advertisements. It was unlikely, considering the financial condition of his family, that Pulitzer would have embarked on a three-capital tour of Europe; Foreign Affairs, 178. In early summer: Adolf Zedlinski to JP, 8/13/1903, JP-CU. Among those who once frequented the restaurant was the poet Joseph von Eichendorff, who had died in 1857. There Pulitzer located: Boston Courier, 9/1/1864; New York Evening Post, 8/10/1864 and New York Evening Express, 8/10/1864 (copies of both are in Allen's scrapbook). A copy of the contract is reproduced in Foreign Affairs, 185. See also ChTr, 8/16/1864, 3. An article also appeared in the Springfield Republican that was reprinted in NYT, 8/19/1864; ChTr, 8/11/1864, 1. Pulitzer was among: "Copy of report and list of passengers taken on board the Garland of Hamburg," National Archives, Washington, DC. Pulitzer was among the last two dozen to board; Galignani's Messenger, date unknown, in Allen's scrapbook; Foreign Affairs, 179. CHAPTER 2: BOOTS AND SADDLES Pulitzer remained closemouthed about the details of his service. Unlike other Civil War veterans, he never participated in commemorative events and never even told battle tales. The official records are also incomplete. There is, for instance, no information in his military service file to account for his whereabouts between January and May 1865. All the muster calls for these months are missing. Many such records were lost, so the disappearance of Pulitzer's is not suspicious; but it is nevertheless frustrating to historians. After nearly six: The Lizzie Homans, the City of Limerick, and the Etna all reported seeing icebergs on their voyages across the Atlantic from Liverpool, England. Even as late as August, while Pulitzer was seaborne, a ship reached Boston with tales of seeing large quantities of ice in Iceberg Alley. NYT, 8/16/1864, 8; 8/22/1864, 8; 8/23/1864, 8; 9/1/1864, 8. Boats bearing federal: Article in Courier de Lyon, which was sent to Secretary of State William Seward by Consul William L. Dayton in Paris, 10/17/1864. It appears, translated, in Foreign Affairs, 165. Pulitzer knew the: Pulitzer later told friends that he slipped over the ship's railing at night and swam ashore so as to collect his own bounty. This tale has long been considered a myth. The ship never came close to a Boston dock. But the discovery that Pulitzer was among those in Allen's recruiting scheme gives the tale new credibility. In fact, the waterway separating Deer Island from the mainland was only about 300 feet wide at its narrowest point and a dozen feet deep. In the end, it may be that Pulitzer only embellished his escape from the clutches of the Massachusetts recruiters. Instead of thrashing about in the polluted harbor water of the docks, leaving all his personal belongings behind, he and a dozen or two dozen men probably easily traversed the channel at low tide. I compared the ship's manifest with the rolls of Massachusetts regiments and found that almost all the men I looked up did, in the end, join the Union forces. The channel between Deer Island and the mainland was filled in by a hurricane during the twentieth century. The width and depth of the channel when Pulitzer arrived were estimated from nautical charts on deposit at the Library of Congress. Reaching New York: One could earn $300 from the county, $75 from the state, and $300 from the federal government (Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, 3/19/1864, 404). Advertisements in NYH listed bounties of $400 for aliens and $600 for men willing to be substitutes. See NYH, 5/27/1864, 6/3/1864, 6/7/1864; NYT, 1/30/1864, 8. Despite such efforts: NYT, 8/2/1864, 3. Lieutenant Colonel R. W. Winfield Simpson and Captain R. McNichol, from Kingston, ran a regular advertisement in New York newspapers. Typical of them was one that can be found in NYT, 9/29/1864, when Pulitzer was in the city; NYT, 8/7/1864. NYT, 2/4/1865, 8; NYT, 9/24/1864, 1. Information on Henry Vosburgh drawn from Descriptive Book of Drafted, Draft Register for the 13th District Headquarters in Kingston, National Archives, 159, as well as cemetery and census records provided by the Greene County (NY) Historical Society. At the Kingston tent: Pulitzer's military service record, NARA. (Note: His service records are sometimes hard to locate because his name is variously spelled as "Pullitzer" and "Politzer.") Geary, We Need Men, 145. Ironically, Vosburgh's luck in obtaining Pulitzer's services as a substitute did not ward off an early death. He died within a year of natural causes. (Headstone at Colleburgh Cemetery, headstone inventory, Greene County Historical Society, Coxsackie, NY.) With money in: The ring, along with letters telling its story, is stored in the Library of Congress among the collection of Joseph Pulitzer II papers. The younger Pulitzer acquired the coin in 1938, when relatives in Hungary mailed it to him. (Polgar Gyulane to JPII, 4/18/1938.) A few days: Bill Twoney, "Hart Island—Part 1" Bronx Times Reporter, 11/24/1994; NYT, 12/12/1867, 7; NYT, 8/7/1864, 2; NYT, 1/10/1865, 4. Pulitzer also avoided: NYT, 8/27/1864, 3 and 11/20/1864, 5. Pulitzer's story is consistent with the fact that the cavalries were also becoming less selective about recruits. See, for instance, the poster with five charging cavalrymen in New-York Historical Society Civil War Treasures Collection, PR–055–3–207; DCS-JP, 43. On November 12, 1864: Starr, The Union Cavalry in the Civil War, Vol., 2, 322–333. Pulitzer was assigned: Descriptive Book, Companies B-M, 1st New York Lincoln Cavalry, NARA. Stevenson, Boots and Saddles, 320. Later in Pulitzer's life, when he was famous, several of his wartime acquaintances contacted him. One of them, the German-born John See, who recalled being his tent mate, was seeking financial assistance in 1910. One of Pulitzer's staff members checked to make sure this was the case before Pulitzer sent a check. (Witherbee memo to Seitz, undated but in May–June, 1910, folder, JP-LC, Box 9.) Although it was a relief: McPherson, For Cause and Comrades, 115. A less significant: NYT, 11/11/1864, 5, and 11/12/1864, 1; Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 453. President Lincoln proclaimed the last Thursday of each November as Thanksgiving Day in the fall of 1863. For the remainder: Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 452; Illustrated London News, Vol. 45, No. 1291 12/10/1864, 574. Pulitzer's pain and: Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 456–457 Warfare resumed with: John G. Steele to JP, 9/8/1885, JP-CU. Previous biographies of Pulitzer placed him in Sheridan's raids when they resumed in late February, specifically attacks on Waynesboro on March 2 and Beaver Dam Station on March 15. Afterward it was believed that Pulitzer escaped hazardous duty by being assigned as an orderly to Major Richard J. Hinton, who was in the valley on special duty. But the records do not bear out this account. Hinton was a British-born American journalist whose strong abolitionist sentiments led him to move to Kansas, where he became a leading advocate of a slave-free state and a follower of John Brown. For most of the war he served as a recruiter and an officer of black soldiers in Kansas. His military records do not include service in the Shenandoah Valley. But one cannot be certain that he didn't come east, because at the beginning of the war he conducted some secret missions to the South (significant enough so that he was thanked by President Lincoln). Yet, if he had been conducting secret work, one would think that he would hardly select a soldier who took orders only in German. Furthermore, Hinton spent the remainder of his life as a journalist, writer, and public official; and his limited correspondence with Pulitzer, when the latter became a well-known publisher, made no reference to having known him before: (DCS-JP, 46; JWB, 14; WRR, 5; WAS, 4). What may have occurred is that Pulitzer's first biographer confused two Hintons. This biographer wrongly assumed, when Pulitzer said that he had served under a Major Hinton, that this was the better-known Richard, unaware of Chalmers A. Hinton, a captain in the First Lincoln. Chalmers Hinton was detached and assigned to tend prisoners of war at City Point, Virginia. There is, however, no record that Pulitzer was detached to work for this Hinton, either. What other military records and a fragment of correspondence dating from many years after the war do reveal is that Pulitzer remained far from harm's way during the final months of the war. When his name surfaces in the records of June 1865, it is on a muster-out roll of a detachment from Company L in the First Regiment of the New York Cavalry. The group of six was under the command of Franz Passeger, a Viennese major. During January, February, March, and possibly April, Passeger served as a bodyguard for and then on the staff of General H. Chapman. The general had just returned to service after being wounded in the fall of 1864 and was assigned to Camp Averell, near Winchester. April 1865 brought: Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 511–512. Promptly at nine: NYT and ChTr, 5/24/1864; DCS-JP, 47. For years Pulitzer apparently believed that he had seen Lincoln, but he realized, after considering the facts, that he could never have. The reviews over: NYT, 6/1/1865, 1. When Pulitzer's turn: Pulitzer's military service record, NARA; Pulitzer's discharge, JP-MHS. On June 26: NYH, 6/29/1865, 3. Peace had its: In June and July, alone, the city provided meals, lodging, and what the newspapers called "extra delicacies" to 60,000 men. Illustrated London News, 8/12/1865, 128; NYT, 10/1/1865, 5; Ida Tarbel, "Disbanding Union Army at the End of the Civil War," BoGl, 5/26/1907, 5; NYT, 7/16/1865, 5, 8/9/1865, 3, 8/12/1865, 8, 9/13/1865, 9, 9/28/1865, 2. Bewildered, alone, and: WaPo, 9/28/1890, 9. One day, as: James Barnes, "Joseph Pulitzer, a Dominant Personality: Some Personal Reminiscences," Colliers, 11/18/1911. Pulitzer shared similar details with New York Graphic, reprinted in Evening Gazette (Cedar Falls, IA), 1/20/1887, 3. At last, the: Various biographers have offered differing reasons for Pulitzer's move to St. Louis but none have been backed by any evidence. One version often repeated, but certainly not true, appeared in American Heritage. "Mustered out, Pulitzer asked around about where he might settle in the United States: he wanted a place where German was not spoken, so that he could improve his English. A practical joker, it is said, sent him to St. Louis, which had a colony large enough to make a sizable town in Germany." (David Davidson "What Made the 'World' Great?" American Heritage, Vol. 33, No. 6 [Oct/Nov 1982]); Henry Charles Hummel, who joined the Lincoln Cavalry on the same day as Pulitzer and served on the same detachment, may have moved to St. Louis with him. A river man named Charles Hummel begins appearing in the St. Louis city directory the same year as Pulitzer does: Pulszky and Pulszky, White, Red, Black, 167–174. During the fall, when Pulitzer was vainly seeking work in New York, a newspaper reporter watched Germans debark from ships including, in particular, a "phlegmatic Teuton who paid for 'ten through tickets to St. Louis by the 5 o'clock train." As a rule, concluded the reporter, German immigrants arrived with a plan of operation. "They strike at once for the West.... their first query is for the ticket office, where they purchase the necessary documents, and then wait anxiously for the departure of the train." (NYT, 9/12/1865, 1.) Certainly Pulitzer would have learned about the large German communities in St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Milwaukee from other German-speaking soldiers in his regiment, especially during the two-week encampment outside Washington, when they discussed plans for civilian life. CHAPTER 3: THE PROMISED LAND When Pulitzer got: The exact date of his arrival is unknown. Previous biographers accepted October 10, 1865, a date Pulitzer himself probably used. At the same time Seitz claimed Pulitzer was superstitious when it came to numbers and attributed special significance to the number 10, the date of his birth. "He made the superstition something of a fad and used the numerals always when he could," said Seitz, (DCS, 11). Pulitzer's superstition about the number also makes the dating of his arrival suspicious. In fact, his description of the cold weather did not match weather records for the day. Nor do the facts in another recollection related to his arrival bear up under scrutiny. So while it is unlikely that an exact date can be determined, it seems certain that Pulitzer arrived sometime in the fall of 1865. The data on ferry traffic are drawn from Scharf, History of Saint Louis City and County, Vol. 2; DCSJP, 50. Through the darkness: DCS-JP, 51. It was like coming home: The similarities between the Pest riverbank and that of St. Louis struck me while I was examining nineteenth-century prints in the Hungarian National Museum. Except for minor differences I thought I was looking at the photo St. Louis Levee by Thomas Easterly in the collection of the Missouri Historical Society. Ernst D. Kargau's 1893 work St. Louis in früheren jahren. Ein gedenkbuch für das deutschthum was translated and published as The German Element in St. Louis, 9. The names of the establishments, however, are taken from the original German edition (St. Louis, MO: A. Wiebusch, 1893), 12. St. Louis was: Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 525; Thérèse Yelverston, Teresina in America, 115. Despite its foul: "In no American city, not even in Cincinnati, although more Germans, in proportion, live there than in St. Louis, have I found the German element so preponderant," noted Friedrich Gerstäker, a German traveler: Friedrich Gerstäcker, Gerstäcker's Travels. Olson, "St. Louis Germans, 1850–1920." He found work: Kargau, German Element, 124–125; Snider, St. Louis Movement, 145. For the first: MoRe, 9/5/1865, 3; DCS-JP, 52; ChTr, 5/24/1883, 10; MoRe, 1/1/1877, 6. A "Joseph P. Pullitzer" was listed in the 1866 city directory as a coachman; the family that employed Pulitzer as a coachman may have been the Weinhagens. In 1866 Pulitzer: WRR, 6. Despite Pulitzer's inability: Udo Brachvogel, "Episoden aus Joseph Pulitzers St. Louis Jahren," Rundschau zweier welten, January 1912. As with his experiences in the Civil War, Pulitzer almost never talked about his first years in St. Louis. When he did tell tales, he would invariably cut them short and complain that the listener had unfairly countenanced the reminiscence. "As soon as a man gets in the habit of talking about his past adventures," Pulitzer said on one such occasion, "he might as well make up his mind that he is growing old and that his intellect is giving way." But in a rare moment late in life, Pulitzer did recount several stories from this time. While cruising the Mediterranean in 1911, Pulitzer shared some with Alleyne Ireland, who was one of the last in a long string of personal secretaries and who would later serve as his companion. "He was generally more willing to talk when we took our meals at the large round table on deck, for he loved the sea breeze and was soothed by it," Ireland recalled (AI, 168, 174–175). One time Pulitzer: AI, 171–172. The various jobs: DCS-JP, 53. The services provided by the organization were sorely needed. Six thousand German immigrants arrived in St. Louis in 1866 (Kargau, German Element, 206–208). In Pulitzer's case: Adalbert Strauss to Joseph Pulitzer Jr., 6/11/1913, JPII-LC. Strauss was not alone in being "introduced" to Elize. Charles P. Johnson, who met Pulitzer around this time, had a similar experience. "One of the most attractive traits of his character to me was his admiration and abiding love for his mother," said Johnson. "She was his guiding star" ("Remarks of Gov. Chas. P. Johnson, Birthday Anniversary Dinner," April 10, 1907, PDA). Pulitzer paid the $2: Pulitzer's entry is written in his own hand in the July 18, 1866, membership ledger. He listed his occupation as clerk at "Theo Strauss & Co, 19th & Franklin." The occupations of other members were determined by examining the pages adjoining Pulitzer's entry. Record Group 12—membership, Mercantile Library Archives, St. Louis, MO; Annual Report of the St. Louis Mercantile Library Association, 1866, 12–13; Taylor and Crooks, Sketch Book of Saint Louis, 66–67. He approached the: JP to RP, 3/23/1903 JP-CU; Annual Report of the St. Louis Mercantile Library Association, 1866, 14; Clarence Miller, "Exit Smiling, Part II," Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. 6, No. 2 (January 1950), 188. His hours in: Leidecker, Yankee Teacher, 317–320; Snider, The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy, 7, 139. The men who formed the society also ended up as characters in a novel, The Rebel's Daughter, by John Gabriel Woerner. Professor Altrue is a representation of Harris, Dr. Taylor is Dr. Schneider (a play on the German word Schneider, "tailor"), and Brockmeyer appears as Rauhenfels. See Woerner, Woerner, 103. When he wasn't studying: Clarence Miller, "Exit Smiling, Part II," Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. VI, 2, Jan. 1950, 188; E. F. Osborn to JPII, 6/15/1913, PD. Chess was a popular game in Hungary. In fact, victories by a Hungarian in a correspondence match between Pest and Paris in the 1840s had created a popular opening strategy called the "Hungarian defense." Pulitzer quit his post: William Kelsoe to Carlos Seitz, undated but part of series of correspondence in 1921–1922, PDA; A. S. Walsh to JPII, June 1913, PDA. According to A. S. Walsh, the teenager who worked in the drugstore, "Joe used to often come into the store to have a chat and compare notes and during the epidemic his visits seems to be more frequent than usual" (A. S. Walsh to JP II, June 1913. PD). In late summer cholera returned to St. Louis. Twice before, the disease had ravaged the city; this time its destruction was far less, though still considerable. In its fourth week as many as 140 people were dying each day. The drugstore remained open twenty-four hours a day. Joseph Nash McDowell, an eminent doctor and founder of a medical school, had an office above the drugstore. When the city turned to him for help in managing the epidemic, he reportedly hired Pulitzer to work at Arsenal Island, where the sick were quarantined and the dead were buried. The epidemic subsided after September. By November the number of reported deaths was down to four, and Pulitzer returned to work in Patrick's office. I made an extensive search in St. Louis records for any information about Pulitzer's service on Arsenal Island, but I failed to uncover anything. By the spring of 1867: Pulitzer's notary public certificate, JPII-LC; W. A. Kelsoe to Seitz, undated (written between 1913 and 1920), PDA. Pulitzer continued working: DCS-JP, 55; AI, 221; JP to William James, 6/21/1867, 7/13/1867, Wortham James Collection, 1820–1891, folder 2211, WHMC. Surviving correspondence—which are his earliest existing letters—while routine and historically insignificant reveals that Pulitzer had begun to acquire some command of English. He may have used form letters, but the transactions could not have been completed by someone lacking understanding of the language. After a few months: See White, The German-Language Press in America; Trefousse, Carl Schurz, 162. Schurz to Margarethe Schurz, 7/16/1867, Intimate Letters of Carl Schurz; DCS-JP, 61. Circulation figures are notoriously inaccurate in this period. But to bid for the city's legal advertising and printing, the owners of the newspapers had to submit circulation statements signed under oath. These "official" circulation figures for 1867 were published in ChTr, 6/5/1867, 2. Prosperous and growing: Trefousse, Schurz, 162. Seitz suggests that Pulitzer was hired through his acquaintance with Preetorius and Willich. One Associated Press dispatch from St. Louis, published at the time of Pulitzer's death, makes mention of the connection between the paper and the immigration society: "Willich found Mr. Pulitzer's methods of obtaining information unique, likewise his treatment of individual cases, and a word from his obtained for Pulitzer a place as a reporter on the Westliche Post, a German daily." AP dispatch, 10/29/1911, JP-LC, Box 12. Just how Pulitzer, with no training or experience in journalism, obtained a job as a reporter on the Westliche Post is shrouded in mystery and legend. Pulitzer knew Preetorius through the Mercantile Library. Perhaps he had also met another owner, but he probably had not met Schurz. Pulitzer is said to have credited his experience when he and forty other men were bamboozled by the dishonest employment agent promising work downriver. A reporter got wind of the tale and persuaded Pulitzer to write it up for the Westliche Post, according to Ireland. The resulting work attracted Preetorius's eye and earned his admiration, and Pulitzer was offered a position on the paper. However, the article itself has never surfaced. Numerous remembrances of Pulitzer at this time offer an alternative scenario, crediting chess with introducing him to men who would provide him with his first newspaper job. Unfortunately, the accounts vary considerably in consistency and reliability, often reducing the tale to one epic match. As with reports of Pulitzer's swim in Boston harbor, it is hard to discern the actual contours of what happened. Typical of the accounts told when Pulitzer was still alive was one that appeared in the magazine Current Literature in 1909: "After performing various sorts of work he found himself one day in a restaurant looking on at a game of chess, a game in which he was said to have genius. A suggestion that he made to one of the players proved to be the little pivot on which his whole subsequent career turned. The player was Dr. Emil Preetorius, who with Carl Schurz was directing the Westliche Post. The acquaintance thus begun led to Pulitzer's entry upon the stage which he has never left." A decade after Pulitzer's death, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch's editor William A. Kelsoe sought out a few St. Louisans who were still alive and who might have remembered such a game. "I have found no one who can locate positively the saloon or restaurant in which that historic game was played," Kelsoe said. Two or three old-timers told Kelsoe they thought it might have been played in the Rheinische Weinhalle. Others mentioned Wagner's Restaurant, a meeting place popular with both German and non-German politicians, businessmen, and lawyers. Even if there was no single match, it could well have been that Pulitzer's chess skills, which had served him in Civil War camps, helped him gain attention at the Mercantile Library and other gathering places (AI, 171–172). The inclusion of Schurz's name in the anecdote suggests that if the chess game was actually played, it occurred in 1867, when Schurz had joined the Westliche Post. It is the same year Pulitzer began working for the newspaper: Kelsoe to Seitz, undated, PDA. "I could not": DCS-JP, 58. Preetorius and Willich: Saalberg, "The Westliche Post of St. Louis," 195. It wasn't long: DCS-JP, 58–60. In fact, reporters for English-language newspapers referred to German reporters derogatorily as "Schnorrers," a humorous Yiddish term for a type of beggar who, in contrast to an ordinary beggar, disguises his purpose, has pretensions at being a gentleman, and acts indignant when offered the assistance he seeks. If Pulitzer believed: MoRe, 10/30/1911. While Pulitzer honed: APM, 26. Reaching the United States: Built in 1865, the 2,695-ton Allemannia was capable of a speed of twelve knots: APM, 27–31. Although the reunion: The Chicago Tribune reported that "the city is full of men out of employ, most of them young men from the East, who have white hands and want some clerical work to do" (ChTr, 4/23/1867, 2); APM, 36. Settled at last: APM, 33, 39. For Joseph the: According to his friend Anthony Ittner, Pulitzer regarded Anna Preetorius as "one of the most kind-hearted, agreeable accompanied ladies that it was his good fortune to have ever met" (Anthony Ittner to JPII, June 11, 1913, PD). Edward Preetorius recalled that when he was a baby, Pulitzer "was a frequent and welcomed visitor at my parents' house and they have told me of the numerous kindnesses [Pulitzer] visited upon me" (Edward Preetorius to JP, March 4, 1903, JP-CU). Pulitzer was comfortable: Snider, St. Louis Movement, 167. Pulitzer attended a few: Ibid., 118; The significance of the Journal of Speculative Philosophy in the history of American philosophy has been widely described. Perry, The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy, 10; James A. Good, "'A World-Historical Idea': The St. Louis Hegelians and the Civil War," Journal of American Studies, Vol. 34, No. 1 (December 2000), 447–464; Snider, St. Louis Movement, 32. A nomadic philosopher: Record Book of the St. Louis Philosophical Society, MHS. In contrast to: Knight, Memorials of Thomas Davidson, 107–108. See also Fagan, "Thomas Davidson: Dramatist of the Life of Learning." It's not clear when and how Pulitzer met Davidson. Considering Pulitzer's avowed pursuit of education, he may well have attended one of Davidson's popular meetings. The Scot's charms: Thomas Davidson to Kate Bindernagel, 8/10/1870, TD. The eight-year engagement came to an end when Davidson was in St. Louis. Davidson never did marry. After his death, his friend William James offered an explanation. He said Davidson told him that he had been tempted twice to marry but he demurred because of his first relationship. "'When two persons have known each other as we did,' he said, 'neither can ever fully belong to a stranger, so it wouldn't do! It wouldn't do! It wouldn't do!' He repeated as we lay on the hillside in a tone so musically tender that it chimes in my ears still, as I write down his confession" (Knight, Memorials of Thomas Davidson, 118). See also The National Cyclopaedia of American Biography, 312. The same kind of allusion was made at a commemorative service for the St. Louis Movement: "Davidson had an exceptional sympathy with young fellows who seemed to be moving along a path that beckoned toward social renovation," said one of the speakers. A Brief Report of the Meeting Commemorative of the Early Saint Louis Movement, January 14, 15, 1921, Vanderweart's Music Hall, St. Louis, Missouri, 60, MHS. If Davidson was: Homosexuality was not kept hidden from shame or fear, though each played a role. Rather, in a world devoid of discussions of sex, one's sexuality preference would have not been considered an element of identity that one could or should divulge. "Sexuality was not considered a determining feature of social identity," explained the historian Graham Robb. Further, the intimate relationships that men and women often had with their friends of the same gender could mask something that in retrospect seemed evident. "Many people," said Robb, "discovered their homosexuality only when the person they had loved had gone away or died" (Robb, Strangers, 127–139). Also Isaac Rossetti to Thomas Davidson, June 12, 1867, TD. Five years earlier: Samuel Rowell to Thomas Davidson, January 1862, TD. Davidson himself confessed: Thomas Davidson to Kate Bindernagel, 8/14/1870, TD. It's obviously hard to determine what emotional state Davidson may have been in during those years. But one man who was a student recalled that his fellow students used to recount finding Davidson walking the halls, glassy-eyed, in an apparent "drugged condition, spouting Greek." The student's conclusion was "that he was a secret or perhaps periodic drinker" (William Clark Breckenridge to Robert L. Calhoun, 8/25/1871, MHS). Pulitzer fell under: DCS, 56, 38. James Barrett, who wrote an unreliable biography in 1941—with which the family did not cooperate—expanded Seitz's description of Pulitzer and Davidson sharing quarters. "The fact that JP dressed and undressed complacently in the presence of his learned friend was proof enough of the serenity of his life with Davidson.... No other man ever won from him so warm a token of regard. The mere thought of being even without a collar in the presence of other men was enough to throw JP into paroxysm of annoyance" (JWB, 32). As when Davidson: JP to Davidson, undated but certainly from June 1874, TD. Davidson ignored this: JP to Davidson, 7/11/1874, TD. Ten days later: JP to Davidson, 7/21/1874, TD. Fascinatingly, Pulitzer embellishes his letters with an increasing number of exclamation marks that match their chronological progression. Specifically the first letter in the series opens with "Tom!" the next with "Tom!!" and the last with "Tom!!!" In the end: Without doubt, men of the era expressed friendship through words and gestures that a century later would be interpreted as homosexual. Men were permitted a kind of romantic friendship that is no longer possible. The only surviving letters from Davidson to Pulitzer offer little help in gauging the scope of their friendship. They date from years after Pulitzer was married. The letters say nothing about the pair's time together in St. Louis, though they do offer a small hint of past intimacy. In New York society, laced with formality, Pulitzer was addressed even by his closest friends as "My dear Pulitzer." Davidson was among only one or two correspondents who wrote to him as "Dear Joe." On his part, Pulitzer closed his letters "Your affectionate friend," "As ever your friend," and "Your old friend." But, as he was blind by then and dictated his letters, Pulitzer might have felt restrained in what he could say, though the closings he did use were very untypical. "The friendship with Davidson," said Seitz, "remained Mr. Pulitzer's closest relationship until the wise and kindly Professor left life at Cambridge, Mass., September 14, 1900" (DCS-JP, 56). CHAPTER 4: POLITICS AND JOURNALISM Politics and journalism: Johnson, "Birthday Anniversary Dinner," 4/10/1907, PDA. The keystone of: Foner, Reconstruction, 41–42; Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 191; Primm, Lion of the Valley, 261–268. Schurz placed the: Memorial service for Schurz, 10/10/1906, JP-CU. Pulitzer not only: Johnson, "Birthday Anniversary Dinner" 4/10/1907, PDA; WP, 8/10/1868, 3; Saalberg, "The Westliche Post," 196. A New Englander of: NYH, 4/29/1872; NYT, 7/21/1900, 7. His maneuver gave: Trefousse, Schurz, 173. Preetorius and Pulitzer: WP, 1/13/1869 (weekly edition), 3. Schurz's election altered: Schurz to Preetorius, 3/12/1869, Intimate Letters, 473. The vacuum at: Charles E. Weller letter, 7/28/1919, PDA. Weller, who was one of the first people in St. Louis to own a typewriter, is sometimes wrongly credited with having composed the phrase "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party," known to anyone who has taken a typing course. Pulitzer even took: William Fayel remembrance, reprinted in DCS-JP, 60–61. It wasn't long: Charles E. Weller letter, 7/28/1919; and A. S. Walsh to JPII, June 1913, PDA. Reporters poked fun: Fayel in DCS-JP, 60–61. For good reason: Johnson, "Birthday Anniversary Dinner," 4/10/1907, PDA. Although Johnson admired: Anthony Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA. In the summer: Hyde and Conrad, Encyclopedia of the History of St. Louis, Vol. 2 (New York: Southern History, 1899), 1097; PD, 4/21/1879, 4. From the pages: WP, 7/21/1869, 3. Under this withering: WP, 7/23/1869, 3. In battling the: Theodore Welge to JPII, 6/6/1913. PDA. In October 1869: Saalberg, "The Westliche Post," 200. Despite the interminable: Weller letter, 7/28/1919, PDA; unknown author to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA. At night, Pulitzer: Kargau, The German Element, 53–54. Joseph's brother Albert: Albert's name appears in a list of German teachers in the 14th Annual Report of the Public School Board of St. Louis (St. Louis, MO: Plate, Olshausen, 1868), lxiii; APM, 41–42, 48–49, 59–60. In November 1869: The election call was made on November 10, 1869: Writ of Elections, Gov. McClurg, Missouri State Archives, Jefferson City, MO. The Missouri Republican supported John Daily; the St. Louis Times pushed it own editor, Stilson Hutchins, for the nomination: MoDe, 12/14/1869, 2. The Republicans held: Eichhorst, "Representative and Reporter: Joseph Pulitzer as a Missouri State Representative," 20; WP, 12/14/1869, 3. The next morning: WP, 12/14/1869, 3; MoDe, 12/15/1869, 4. The wishful thinking: MoRe, 12/19 and 12/21/1869, 2; Constitution of the State of Missouri, 1865, Art. IV, Sec. 3. The Democrat picked up Pulitzer's charge; the Republican and the Times defended their candidate and accused Pulitzer of failing to pay taxes, one of the requirements for being a candidate. But in the end, the difficulty in fielding a candidate, lingering questions about the latest candidate's eligibility, and squabbling between the Republican and the Times left the Democratic Party ill-prepared for the election. MoRe, 12/21/1869, 2; MoDe, 12/20/1869, 3; StLoTi, 12/21/1869, 1. With three days: Original in Oaths of Loyalty 1869, Series XIV, Sub Series B, Dexter Tiffany Collection. MHS; WP, 12/18/1869, 3. According to Jason Baker, who assisted the author in translating German documents, "At no point in the letter does he claim to be anyone other than Pulitzer, but referring to himself in the third person allows the reader to think so. He never perjures himself, but there is a certain level of deception at play." Further, Baker said, the rhetorical devices and phrases as well as a trademark comical note leave little doubt that the letter is the work of Pulitzer. Not a day: WP, 12/19 and 12/20/1869, 3. On election day: The election results were published in all the newspapers, as well as the weather conditions. Turnout was estimated by using election results from other years. "We doubt that": WP, 12/22/1869, 3. CHAPTER 5: POLITICS AND GUNPOWDER Shortly after New Year's Day: PD, 2/15/1870, 2. Advertisements announcing that Missouri Pacific and other railroads were honoring passes for legislators traveling to Jefferson City for the legislative session were published in newspapers. For a reference to this practice see PD, 2/8/1870, 2; and Eichhorst, "Representative and Reporter," 31. The state paid $50 for a round trip from St. Louis. Copies of Pulitzer's per diem forms are on file in the MSA, General Assembly Records for 1870 Adjournment Session, Record Group 550, Box 94, folder 28, Jefferson City, MO. The state capital: A measure to move the capital to St. Louis was introduced on January 18, 1870. NYT, 1/20/1870: 1. Pulitzer, who was still imbued with the ideals of the "St. Louis movement," offered a bill to set aside land in St. Louis for the national capitol: Twenty-Fifth General Assembly House Journal, Adjournment Session, 1870, 72. (Hereafter cited as House Journal.) Bringing with them: Anthony Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA; Kremer, Heartland History, 69; Bruns, Hold Dear, as Always, 14–15. On January 5: House Journal, 4. Pulitzer was assigned to the Committee on Banks and Corporations. In Jefferson City: ChTr, 1/15/1870, 4; House Journal, 49. Pulitzer's fellow Radical Republicans: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 170; Tusa, "Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency," 133. A Democrat and former state official writing to a friend in the summer of 1869 asked, "What the devil is this generally abnormal condition of things, politically, to result in? My opinion is it can't stand at what it is." (B. F. Massey to J. F. Snyder, July 15, 1869, quoted in Barclay, The Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 183.) Suffrage was the: The legislature had ratified the Fifteenth Amendment during its prior session but had failed to include in its vote the second portion of the amendment; accordingly, the secretary of state had not issued a formal notification to the federal government. Its passage in this session was a foregone conclusion: ChTr, 1/7/1870, 1 and 1/10/1870, 4. See also Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri; and Tusa "Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency," 133. The state's constitution: Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 186–187. From the start: Walter Gruelle in StLoDi, 1/6/1870, 2. On a Sunday: MoRe, 1/26/1869, 2; WP, 1/26/1869, 3. The new week: Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 3/8/1870, 2. In Pulitzer's eyes: WP, January 25, 1870, 3. Among the arriving: Kargau, German Element, 139; One Hundred Years in Medicine and Surgery in Missouri (St. Louis, MO: St. Louis Star, 1900), 79–80; PD, 4/21/1879, 4; MoDe, 4/24/1869; StLoTi, 2/28/1870, 1; Ittner to JPII 6/13/1913, PDA. Before boarding the: Theodore Welge to JPII, 6/6/1913, PDA. The city-county: MoRe, 11/26/1869; William N. Cassella Jr., "City-County Separation: The 'Great Divorce' of 1876," Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. 15, No. 2 (January 1959), 88. Specifically, Pulitzer's bill: Saalberg, "The Westliche Post," 197–198; WP, 9/24/1869. A summary of Pulitzer's bill appeared in MoRe, 3/11/1870, 2. See also Thomas Eichhorst, "Representative and Reporter," 49. The critics weren't entirely wrong. It was a common practice for politicians to steer both official advertising and printing business to papers that favored them. Although Pulitzer's bill: MoDe, 1/27/1870, 1; WP, 1/30/1870, 3. The next morning: WP, 2/28/1870, 3. Pulitzer also described the passage in the Missouri House of the Richland County project, a kind of redistricting scheme to create a new county. "The land wildcatters, lobbyists, and other gentlemen interested in the project held a banquet that same evening to celebrate the House's passage of the bill, in Schmidt's new hotel, at which almost all legislators who voted for the project were in attendance, and the champagne, whiskey, and so forth flowed in streams until late in the evening, or better, early in the morning. It is being said that the passage of the bill 'cost' $35,000." That evening the: The description of the events in Schmidt's Hotel on January 27, 1870, is drawn from the following newspapers: StLoTi, MoDe, MoRe, and PD, published on 1/28/1870. Other sources are noted separately. See also WP, 1/30/1870, 3; MoDe, 1/31/1870, 3. Back at the boardinghouse: Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA. "I want to": There is little doubt Augustine used the word. Judge Cady, who was standing by his side, said Augustine called Pulitzer a "pup." Ittner, who was: Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA; St. Louis Times, 1/28/1870, 1. By the time: MoRe, 1/29/1870, 2. Seizing the moment: MoRe, 1/28/1870; House Journal, 305–306; StLoT, 1/28/1870, 1. The papers often ran verbatim accounts of the speeches but did not put quotation marks around the words and sometimes changed first person to third person. The quotations from this debate were compared with those appearing in several newspapers. The House probe: MoDe, 1/29/1870, 1 and 2/2/1870, 1; Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 1/30/1870, 2; ChTr, 1/29/1870, 4. The clamor impelled: WP, 1/30/1870, 3. He called Augustine: Late in life, Pulitzer pulled back his hair to show what he claimed were the scars from Augustine's brass knuckles. The Cole County grand jury: State of Missouri v. Joseph Pulitzer, No. 1182 P.H., No. 16, Circuit Court of Cole County, MO, MSA. Pulitzer's arrest was also noted in newspapers such as the Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 2/19/1870, 2; MoDe, 1/21/1870, 1 and 2/4/1870, 2. This was not: MoRe, 2/11/1870, 1; House Journal, 431–432. Pulitzer's choice of: Since 1864, German language instruction for all students had been part of the public school curriculum, and it would remain so until 1887, when the German faction lost control of the school board: MoDe, 3/1/1870, 1; Eichhorst, "Representative and Reporter," 59; Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 3/2/1870, 2. Pulitzer immediately moved: MoDe, 3/11/1870, 1; House Journal, 821. The debate created a problem for Pulitzer the reporter. While arguing over the fate of the accused legislator, the House adopted a resolution prohibiting members of the press from publishing any part of the plan until it granted permission. Since the measure was adopted on a voice vote, the view of the future press lord on freedom of the press was not recorded. The legislative session: MoRe, 2/25/1870, 2; House Journal, 577. On March 10: MoRe, 3/11/1870, 2. Seven of the eleven representatives at the meeting were opposed to the measure. The plan almost worked: MoDe, 3/17 and 3/18/1870. As the first: Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 3/15/1870, 2; St. LoDi, 3/15/1870, 2. CHAPTER 6: LEFT BEHIND Pulitzer's tenure as an elected state representative is an important component of the "making" of Pulitzer the newspaper publisher. Remarkably even his two most scrupulous biographers did not explore why his tenure in the Missouri general assembly ended. Swanberg closed his chapter on the episode with the phrase "on March 24 his lone term in the legislature ended" (19). Reynolds wrote, "Thus his experience as a state legislator ended, an experience to which he often looked back with satisfaction" (23). Maybe my own experience as a journalist made me skeptical that Pulitzer would simply walk away from a prized elective office. A quick look at Missouri newspapers that fall revealed that his retirement was not voluntary at all. Among the serendipitous joys of research are the odd little connections one finds between figures in history. In researching the life of Gratz Brown for this chapter, I found that he was the grandfather of Margaret Wise Brown, an author familiar to all twentieth-century parents: she wrote Goodnight Moon and other classics of children's literature. The prospect of: Theodore Welge to JPII, 6/6/1913, PDA. The trial was: General Assembly Records for 1870 Adjournment Session, Record Group 550, Box 94, folder 28, MSA; NYT, 5/25/1870; JP passport application, NARA. While in the mayor's office Pulitzer met Julian Kune, a Hungarian who had fled to the United States following the revolution of 1848 and was also back on his first visit home: Kune, Reminiscences, 130. By mid-July: Ciberia passenger manifest, 7/13/1870, NARA. A former U.S. senator: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 176; NYH, 4/29/1872; NYT, 7/21/1900, 7. Though it remained the state's premier Republican newspaper, the Democrat had already turned against President Grant after he ignored the owner William McKee's candidates for federal patronage jobs. Now it was ready to turn against the state's governor. Five days following: MoDe, 8/31/1870, and MoRe, 9/1/1870, both quoted in Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 234–235 (footnotes). "Upon this question": Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 243; The actual vote was 439 2/3 to 342 5/6, according to the convention's method of counting. Once resettled on: Pulitzer's dispatches in the Westliche Post revealed clearly that he had moved into the inner circle of the renegades. His pieces predicted each move of the party split with the clarity only an insider could have. See, for instance, WP, 9/2/1870, 3. Meanwhile, in the House: ChTr, 9/5/1870, 2; Mountain Democrat, 9/17/1870, 2. With the conventions: MoDe, 9/21/1870, 4. As exciting as: MoDe, 11/8/1870, 1; Christensen, "Black St. Louis," 205–206; WP, 9/3/1870, 3. On their side: MoDe, 2/19/1870; ChTr, 7/4/1872, 4. Grosvenor did his: MoDe, 11/5/1870, 2, and 11/8/1870, 2. On November 3: MoDe, 11/3/1870, 4; original in Oaths of Loyalty 1869, Series XIV, Sub Series B, Dexter Tiffany Collection, MHS. See also MoDe, 11/8/1870, 1. All the rhetoric: MoRe, 11/8/1870, 2. In the morning: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 188. In Pulitzer's ward: MoRe, 11/11/1870, 2; WP, 11/10/1870, 3. The Anzeiger des Westens had a different take on the results. It attributed the Democratic victory to the split in the Republican Party. Pulitzer asked if the editor didn't realize that this was a loss for Germans. "Is he not aware that it was German-haters, the dyed-in-the-wool McClurgians, the French, and the Negroes that defeated the Liberal Republican county ticket, which was supported by the majority of Germans, through their total defections and in some cases desertion to the Democrats?" The vote totals, particularly in the Third and Fifth wards, the latter being Pulitzer's, show that it was not the Germans who elected the Democrats. It was the Irish, said Pulitzer. "They, the Irish, played this role in the Tuesday election as well, and the entire glory in which the Anzeiger may sun itself is an Irish-French-Negro victory. He may do this if he wishes, but he should call a spade a spade" (WP, 11/11/1870, 3). Pulitzer's friend Joseph Keppler: Frau und Frei (St. Louis, MO: undated but certainly November 1870), MHS. Out of office: Avery and Shomemaker, Messages and Proclamations of the Governors of the State of Missouri, Vol. 15, 14. Not quite. Schurz: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 207. Pulitzer did not share: Hutchins declined to be the Democratic candidate against Pulitzer in the 1869 election. I suspect it was his friendship with Pulitzer that caused him to wait for another year to run. He did run eventually, and won a seat in the legislature. Any concern about: ChTr, 2/2/1871, 2; Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 191–197; Grosvenor to Schurz, 2/16/1871, CS. The growing movement: Receipts for payments to Pulitzer for service to the committee from January 11 until March 1 and signed by Benecke may be found in the Accounts of the Twenty-Sixth General Assembly, First Session, MSA. When the legislative session: Quoted in Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 198. But that too: ChTr, 4/22/1871, 2; Every Saturday, 10/28/1871, 418. Members of the: Missouri Staats-Zeitung, undated clipping, WG-CU, Box 2. Pulitzer's patron, State Senator Benecke: Louis Benecke to Pulitzer, 10/26/1871, LB. One wonders if Benecke harbored some doubt about how Pulitzer had handled the committee vote. "If I understand and remember that proxy rule right," Benecke said to Pulitzer, "you were simply authorized to act as this proxy in order to have a quorum and did not attempt to cast a vote for this till all members present voted. Am I correct?" Charles Johnson came: Hill was a colorful fellow and was loved by the press for that reason. By the time of Pulitzer's trial he had been married twice; his second marriage was in a divorce court when his wife drowned while in Europe. A few years later he arranged for the division of Peter Lindell's $6 million land estate by inviting in from the streets a crippled boy beggar. He had the boy draw lots of equal size from a hat. "The blindfolded boy was released, and bright tears glistened in his eyes as 10 golden half-eagles were dropped into his hands, and he was told that he completed the division of the great Lindell estate to the satisfaction of all the heirs then present": ChTr, 2/13/1879, 2. The charge was: It's not clear to what offense Pulitzer may have pleaded guilty, or if he did plead guilty at all. The court records do not reveal the case's final disposition. Johnson's diary is no help, either, recording only the cryptic note, "Settled case $100 fine" (Johnson, Diary, 11/20/1871, WRR, 19), 11/18/1871, WRR, 19. Pulitzer borrowed money to pay for legal fees and the fine from Henry C. Yaeger, a miller in St. Louis. Others—such as Daniel G. Taylor, a former mayor of St. Louis; and Edwin O. Standard, who was lieutenant governor when Pulitzer served in the legislature—may also have loaned money. Why Yaeger was so generous is not really known. But at some point that year or the following year, Pulitzer rendered him a personal favor. Yaeger wanted Governor Brown to pardon a friend. "Joe Pulitzer assisted me in the matter, and the very day the Governor received my letter, I received a telegram that my request had been granted," Yaeger recalled many years later. (Henry C. Yaeger to Governor David R. Francis, 4/25/1892, Francis Papers, MHS.) Yaeger's name is misspelled "Yeager" in some records, but clearly the same person is meant. A seat on: Johnson, Diary, 1/15/1872, WRR, 23. Amazingly, as of 2006, the governor of Missouri still appointed the police commissioners in St. Louis; and even more remarkably, they still earned $1,000 a year for their service. The conservative Anzeiger: Anzeiger Des Westens, 1/18/1872, translated in MoDe, 1/23/1872, 3; Western Celt quoted in MoDe, 1/18/1872, 2. The grumbling by the press: MoDe, 1/19/1872, 1. One of the five senators from St. Louis voted against Pulitzer. His identity was not publicly disclosed, because only the delegation's total vote was leaked to the press, but certainly Pulitzer knew who it was. CHAPTER 7: POLITICS AND REBELLION In writing about the 1872 convention there is a danger of adopting Henry Watterson's view that it was a gathering of cranks with little chance of succeeding against Grant. The reality of politics at the time probably did doom the Liberal Republican effort no matter who it nominated, but to the conventiongoers it was a serious affair, an act of rebellion against what they perceived as crimes against democracy. That said, the convention did generate some wonderfully hilarious coverage. My favorite is a little book called That Convention; Or Five Days a Politician self-published by Fletcher G. Welch and illustrated (profusely) by Frank Beard. In late January: MoDe, 12/18/1871, 2. As these: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 206; Grand Duke Alexis's arrival in New York City a few months earlier was covered by Albert Pulitzer, who was then working for the New York Sun. As Liberal Republican: MoDe, 12/18/1871, 2, and 1/24/1872, 1. McCullagh was among: Dreiser, Newspaper Days, 107. McCullagh also became the subject of a poem by Eugene Field called "Little Mack." On his first: MoDe, 1/25/1872, 1. The microfilm for this edition is almost unreadable. Copies of the original paper at the Library of Congress don't include this particular date, but a clipping from the edition may be found in the Grosvenor Papers, Columbia University. That night Pulitzer: Grosvenor's remark was contained in a letter published in an unidentified newspaper, 2/15/1872, WG-CU, Box II. Grosvenor ascended the: SeDe, 2/27/1872, 2. Benecke was given a seat on the committee for a permanent organization, and he and Johnson were assigned to the resolutions committee. (People's Tribune, 1/31/1872, 3.) Their work complete: MoDe, 1/25/1872, 1. Grosvenor and Pulitzer were keenly: NYT, 4/24/1872, 1. The New York Times's effort to "correct" the Associated Press's coverage of the convention was a dispatch from St. Louis that appeared on 1/27/1872, 3. "The Associated Press report of the so-called Liberal Republican Convention, at Jefferson City, on the 24th, was a gross exaggeration of the importance of the whole affair," it read in part. See Ross, The Liberal Republican Movement, 151–152, for a discussion of personal abuse and misrepresentation in the press during the 1872 campaign. The Times's articles on Liberal Republicans were so poisonous that the paper lost much of the reputation it had gained in 1871 when it brought down Boss Tweed by publishing evidence of his corruption. In the short span: Unidentified 1872 newspaper clipping in WG-CU, Box II; MoDe, 1/26/1872, WG-CU. Pulitzer's public profile was sufficient that he was among the targets of a fraudulent telegram supposedly from President Grant but concocted by Grant's opponents. Printed on the front page of the Sedalia Daily Democrat, the telegram, purportedly to the chair of the Radical Convention, read: "Return my thanks to the Republicans of Missouri for the confidence reposed in me. Will defeat the plans of Sumner and Schurz. Show this to Brown, Pulitzer and Charley Johnson." (SeDe, 2/27/1872, 1.) When he got back: Scharf, History of Saint Louis City and County, Vol. 1, 743–744; Morris, The Police Department of St. Louis. The police commission: Minutes of the St. Louis Police Commission, 8/30/1872, 347–352, SLPDL. For the first few months: Minutes, 3/5/1872, 287–290, SLPDL. Pulitzer's association with this led to two myths about him. His biographer Seitz claimed that Pulitzer "warred with the local gambling ring," but an anonymous biographer, who published a political tract intended on thwarting Pulitzer's bid for the U.S. Senate, claimed that he had been on the take: Tusa, "Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency," 188. Pulitzer was absent from the police commission meetings for the first time on 3/30/1872 (Minutes); Brown to Grosvenor, 2/17/1782 WG-CU. Pulitzer's March trip to the East is mentioned in MoDe, 3/13/1872, 2. As the Cincinnati convention: MoDe, undated but weeks before the convention, Clippings files, Box II, WG-CU. On an April evening: Johnson, undated April diary entry, WRR, 26. Pulitzer and Grosvenor left: Croffut, An American Procession, 142. Pulitzer was actually twenty-five at the time. Reaching Cincinnati in: Chamberlin, The Struggle of '72, 334. Not only did the convention put Pulitzer: King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 77. The group agreed: Henry Watterson, "The Humor and Tragedy of the Greeley Campaign," Century Magazine, Vol. 85 (November 1912), 29–33. This account also appears in Watterson's memoirs, but the version published by Century is of greater value because it is accompanied by letters from Horace White and Whitelaw Reid, who read and commented on it. See also NYT, 5/1/1872, 1. On May 1: Watterson, Henry Marse: An Autobiography, Vol. 1, 242–243. Appropriately, the hall to which the delegates made their way was built over a potter's field that had been used by the Commercial Hospital and Lunatic Asylum. At noon, Grosvenor: The Philadelphia Inquirer erroneously reported his appointment as "Joseph Pulitzer, of Wisconsin." Evidently Pulitzer's fame as a warrior in the Liberal Republican cause had not yet reached the City of Brotherly Love. (Philadelphia Inquirer, 5/3/1872, 8.) The next day: Proceedings of the Liberal Republican Convention, 9–10. Schurz's speech concluded: Newspaper clipping, unknown paper and undated, Box II, WG-CU. When the bleary-eyed delegates: Lena C. Logan, "Henry Watterson and the Liberal Convention of 1872," Indiana Magazine of History, Vol. 40, No. 4 (December 1944), 335. Watterson, who had: Watterson, "The Humor and Tragedy," 39. The contest narrowed: An excellent account of the convention may be found in Matthew T. Downey, "Horace Greeley and the Politicians: The Liberal Republican Convention in 1872," Journal of American History, Vol. 53, No. 4 (March 1967), 727–750. Despite all of: Watterson, "The Humor and Tragedy," 39. Back in St. Louis: Looking back at the convention at the end of the year, Schurz called it "the 'slaughter house' of the most splendid opportunities of our time."(Schurz to Grosvenor, December 25, 1872, WG-CU.) "Schurz about an hour ago finally agreed to recede from his Cincinnati speech and adopt the popular word of 'anybody to beat Grant.'" And, in fact, Schurz wrote an editorial in which he repudiated or, in the words of the Missouri Democrat, "ate" his previous condemnation. Of concern to: JP to Reid, 6/12/1872 and Reid to JP 6/17/1872, WR-LC. A sense of optimism: ChTr, 6/22/1872, 4. But Pulitzer's work: ChTr, 7/15/1872, 6. After New York: Minutes of the St. Louis Police Board, August 14–December 3, 1872, SLPDL; DCS-JP, 74; ChTr, 7/22/1872, 2; MoDe, 9/20/1872, 2. Police commission work: JP to Schurz, 9/24/1872, CS. As fall approached: Wolf, The Presidents I Have Known, 84–85. The campaign produced: Schurz mentioned acquiring a larger number of shares in the paper at about this time, in a letter to his parents. (Schurz to parents, 11/14/1872, CS; JP to St. Clair McKelway, NYW, 11/7/1913.) The potential changes: MoDe, 9/19/1872. Within a week: The original note is in the possession of Eric P. Newman of St. Louis: Pulitzer to Schurz, 9/24/1872, CS. Typically, Pulitzer also claims that because of his efforts "our newspaper is already much better!" The Indianapolis Sentinel saw Pulitzer's purchase as "evidence that he will continue on that journal the fine service,which has heretofore been the strong point of his reputation": JP to St. Clair McKelway, NYW, 11/7/1913. The evidence suggests that the "proprietors" to whom Pulitzer refers did not include Schurz. He did not believe that the election had damaged the paper. "We did not suffer during the campaign," Schurz wrote to his parents after its disastrous conclusion. (Schurz to parents, 11/14/1872, CS.) While Pulitzer's stock: JP to Schurz, 9/24/1872, CS. CHAPTER 8: POLITICS AND PRINCIPLE Pulitzer mounted a campaign: Letters of support quoted in subsequent paragraphs may be found in Woodson Governor, Box 25, Folder 6, MSA, unless otherwise indicated. Preetorius was opposed: Preetorius to Grosvenor, 2/27/1873. WG-CU. Woodson's appointments: JP to Louis Benecke, 3/5/1873, LB. Pulitzer's career in journalism: One assumes some inflation in the price paid to Pulitzer from the retelling of the tale over the years. But the paper itself was certainly worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. The Missouri Democrat, with a circulation only slightly higher than that of Westliche Post, changed hands the same week for $456,100. Date of note redemption is marked on the note itself. Note in private possession of Edwin P. Newman. Pulitzer immediately sought: Weldge to JPII, 6/6/1913, PDA. Freed from the: MoDe, 9/19/1872; Unser Blatt, 12/7/1872, also cited in WRR, 103–104; "Remarks of Gov. Chas. P. Johnson, Birthday Anniversary Dinner," 4/10/1907, PDA. In December his friend Keppler had drawn a cartoon of Pulitzer's shadow falling on a map of New York, with the caption "Coming Events Cast Their Shadows before Them." On his way: APM, 61–62. Albert arrived in: Ibid., 82–83. At the time: To come up with the necessary $175,000 to purchase the Sun Dana enlisted several friends, including Senator Roscoe Conkling, who would later become one of Joseph Pulitzer's close friends, and Senator Edwin D. Morgan. See Turner, When Giants Ruled, 84; Sun editorial quoted in Emery and Emery, The Press and America, 217. By 1876 the newspaper had a circulation of more than 130,000 copies. Under Dana's regime: APM, 84–85. The editor was John B. Wood, who was called the "great condenser." Walter Rosebault, a Jewish reporter from Savannah, who like Albert was only twenty, remembered that Albert "spoke with a slight, but not unpleasant, foreign accent." (APM, 88.) The editor decided: NYS, 8/24/1871, 2. It is also quoted in WAS, 22. One wonders if the "friend in New York" referred to in the article might have been Albert. Albert rose rapidly: APM, 90–93; NYT, 7/7/1871, 5. "The work Pulitzer did on that trial gave him a big reputation among Newark reporters of the seventies, and put him in the class with Julian Ralph, Frank Patten, Johnnie Green and other talented New York reporters of the day." (Newark Advertiser, quoted in APM, 92.) The fit was: APM, 128, 130. After the brotherly: Watterson, Marse Henry, Vol. 1, 210–211. In the fall: A copy of the menu may be found at the MHS. It was printed, with the paper's compliments, by the Missouri Democrat, which had so strongly opposed Pulitzer and Grosvenor's efforts with the Liberal Republicans a year earlier. Pulitzer resumed his: Interview with John Johnson, in Kelsoe, undated letter, PDA; "Birthday Anniversary Dinner," 4/10/1907, PDA. Membership in AP gave: The third owner, George Fishback, won the auction by bidding $456,100, or $100 more than the pair's final offer. (Hart, A History of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 113.) McCullagh, who remained with the Missouri Democrat, attacked the new rival paper, dubbing it "Robbers' Roost" for supposedly stealing news items from the Western Associated Press. Neither McKee nor Houser: GlDe, 1/8/1874, 4. The owner of the Democrat: The papers loved insulting each other. Responding to an item in the Democrat that factiously suggested the Globe was published in German, McKee and Houser wrote, "For all the influence it has, the Democrat might as well be printed in Scandinavian." (GlDe, 1/8/1874, 4.) The legal maneuvering: One person recalled that Pulitzer earned $47,500 from the deal, but this figure seems high. (Rosewater, History of Cooperative News-Gathering, 181.) In the spring: ChTr, 7/5/1874, 1. Built at a cost of more than $10 million, the bridge rested on a masonry foundation sunk deep into the riverbed, using caissons filled with pressurized air. A dozen of the 352 men who worked in these underwater air chambers died. Pulitzer confessed that he: Eads to JP, 1/19/1885, JP-CU. Pulitzer's friend Whitelaw Reid declined Eads's invitation to invest in the Mississippi project. Reid to Eads, 3/2/1875. JBE. After turning the money: It was Papin Street, off Chouteau Avenue, DCS-JP, 77; Dubuque Herald, 10/28/1873, 1; Freeborn County Standard, 8/17/1892, 2; A. S. Walsh to JPII, undated but probably June 1913, PDA. T. Saunders Foster, who knew Pulitzer around this time, recalled that "he was very fond of riding, and owned a fine saddle horse on which he took long morning rides." (George S. Johns, "Joseph Pulitzer in St. Louis," Missouri Historical Review, XXV, No. 3. April 1931, 415.) Also JP to Schurz, 6/3/1874, CS; Ed Harris, memo to JPII, 2/29/1942, JPII. Financial freedom also: JP to EP, 5/25/1905, JP-CU. A copy of the illustration reproduced in early editions of DCS-JP, between 78–79; Charles Nagel, A Boy's Civil War Story, 397. Nagel eventually becomes a cabinet member in the Taft administration. Katherine Lindsay Franciscus, "Social Customs of Old St. Louis," originally published in PD, 12/9/1928, and reprinted in Bulletin of Missouri Historical Society, Vol. 10, No. 2, 157–166; JP to Davidson, 1/15/1875, TD. Playing Mephistopheles was a minor frivolity for Pulitzer. But interestingly, in his life yet to come Pulitzer would be repeatedly identified publicly and privately with this character. Those who were present when his anger rapidly surged, or who felt his hot temper or listened as he eviscerated an editor, would more often than not reach for Mephistophelian metaphors to describe what they witnessed. Finally feeling prepared: Pulitzer took his bar exam before Judge Napton; MoRe, 7/2/1874, 8. The treatment the bolters received: Galveston Daily News, 8/28/1874, 1. On September 2: The interview, real or not, was the work of McCullagh, who had left the Missouri Democrat to join his old bosses at the St. Louis Globe. McCullagh had probably learned of Pulitzer's disillusionment with the People's Party directly from him and chose to report it as a reconstructed interview; GlDe, 9/6/1874, 1. For Pulitzer, the: MoRe, 9/7/1874, 2. Drawn into civic life: Undated clipping, GlDe, 9/1873, WG-CU. The Missouri Democratic Party: SeDe, 10/9/1874, 4. Not an eyebrow: Liberal Republicans also failed to recognize the threat to Black Americans. Grosvenor referred to the "phantom of a Ku-Klux excitement" and Brown said, "The Ku Klux Klan has been magnified a hundredfold in order to furnish capital for the hungry carpetbaggers that infest the South." (ChTr, 4/22/1871, 2; Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 201.) After Sedalia, it: Versailles Weekly Gazette, 10/14/1874, 3; Warrensburg Standard, October 9, 1874, 2; Kansas City Journal of Commerce, 10/16/1874. Pulitzer's nose, ridiculed by the reporter, became an object of admiration among his supporters. One reader of the Sedalia Daily Democrat complained of criticism about Pulitzer's nose. Claiming it had "perfect Grecian symmetry," the letter writer said he would prefer to have "one like Pulitzer's than a dozen such purple-hued smellers" as that found on the face of a particular critic. (SeDe, 10/16/1874, 2.) The highlighting of: MoDe, 9/20/1872, 2; Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, 14. It was reported that when Pulitzer and Keppler used to while away the hours at cafés in St. Louis, Keppler would end the evening with the comment, "Well, Joey, there's only one thing left to do. I'll go back to the office and draw your nose." (DCS JP, 2–3). The nose became: The nose, according to the historian Sander Gilman, became "the central [locus] of difference in seeing the Jew" Gilman, The Jew's Body, 169–193. From Knob Noster: Boonville Advertiser, 10/16/1874, 2; Boonville Weekly Eagle, 10/23/1874, 3. A few weeks: WP, 1/27/1875. CHAPTER 9: FOUNDING FATHER On the evening: ChTr, 2/22/1875. Hesing's words were: JP to Governor Hardin, 1/14/1875, Folder 15402, Charles Hardin Papers, MSA. With his political fortunes: MoRe, 3/10/1875, 5. Actually, Pulitzer was wrong. The only recorded monument to Eads in St. Louis is a medallion on a pedestal in Forest Park. Eads's bridge, however, was designated a national monument and still stands. Leaving the committee: DCS-JP, 87. By the 1870s: Wharton, Old New York, 240. Two of the: "When others abandoned a cause as hopeless, when the last ray had been extinguished, then it was that Bowman would clench his hand, bring all the devious methods of his intellect to bear, and ultimately triumph over his enemies." ChTr, 10/22/1883, 1. After setting down: MoRe, 3/23/1875, 8. "Just returning from": The press in St. Louis got wise to Pulitzer's dishonesty. By 1879, one reporter referred to this habit as "old tactics that have puzzled many a news-gatherer." (GlDe, 8/19/1879, 5.) The paper was correct: Hutchins also offered misinformation at the trial. Speaking of Pulitzer's appointment to the police board, he said, "I know that Joseph Pulitzer was, to my surprise, appointed police commissioner, without any agency of mine and without my knowledge that he was an applicant." As the two worked closely on Liberal Republican affairs and spent time together with Charles Johnson, who helped Pulitzer get the seat on the commission, Hutchins's testimony was hardly credible. But Bowman did not challenge it. Testimony was published in MoRe, 3/12/1875, 8. The seats in the courtroom: MoDe, 3/24/75, 2; MoRe, 3/24/1875, 1; GlDe, 3/24/1875, 4. "Not for everybody": Two weeks later, Bowman sued Hutchins for libel, for comments about the trial published in the Dispatch, a struggling afternoon newspaper that Hutchins ran in addition to the St. Louis Times. Hard feelings put aside: NYT, 3/29/1875, 7. In early May: SeDe, 5/6/1875, 1; Isidor Loeb, Introduction, Missouri Constitutional Convention, Vol. 1, 60–67; biographical account of the personnel of the convention by Floyd C. Shoemaker, Missouri Constitutional Convention, Vol. 1; Gary Kremmer, "Life in Post-Civil War Missouri" presented at Arrow Rock, Missouri, on 9/17/2000. At age twenty-eight: The style of hat Pulitzer wore is a later variation of the slouch, known as an Antietam, with a higher, flatter crown. Pulitzer had done: Loeb and Shoemaker, Debates of the Missouri Constitutional Convention of 1875, Vol. 1, 245, 249. The war of words: Ibid., 94–96. As the summer heat: Broadhead to his wife, 7/4/1875, JB. Pulitzer's style: Debates, Vol. 1, 402–403. Behind closed doors: Ibid., Vol. 5, 412. In the end: In defense of Pulitzer, it should be noted that not until long after his lifetime would the detrimental effects of home rule in St. Louis become apparent. For a complete history of the issue, see William N. Cassella Jr., "City-County Separation: The 'Great Divorce' of 1876," Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. 15, No. 2 (January 1959). As the convention: Debates, Vol. 5, 86–87. In July the: On October 30, 1875, voters gave their approval. The constitution would remain the state's highest law until 1945. A sense of failure: JP to Hermann Raster, 9/27/1875 and 6/24/1875, HR. The only good news: See Timothy Rives, "Grant, Babcock, and the Whiskey Ring," Prologue Vol. 32, No. 3 (Fall 2000). In December a grand jury: Ibid.; and ChTr, 2/8/1876, 1 and 2/11/1876, 5. During his first year: APM, 142, 135–138. At the Herald: Ibid., 104, 142, 148: Helena Independent, 12/12/1883, 6. When he received: "Testimony before the Select Committee Concerning the Whisky Frauds," 7/25/1876, House of Representatives, 44th Congress, 1st Session, Mis. Doc. 186, 43. In April, Pulitzer's: John Henderson to Elihu Washburne, 4/12/1876; JP to Elihu Washburne, 5/9/1876, EBW. In Germany, Pulitzer: Indianapolis Daily Sentinel, 9/4/1876, 2. CHAPTER 10: FRAUD AND HIS FRAUDULENCY The presidential campaign: NYT, 7/26/1876, 8. By his absence: Official Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, St. Louis, MO, June 27, 28, 29, 1876, 21. The Democrats were the first party to hold a national convention west of the Mississippi. Pulitzer was elated: The campaign plans of leading Democrats were carried in newspapers. See, for instance, SeDe, 10/6/1876, 2. After 1885 only a few small states, such as Maine, continued to hold elections in October. In early September: Indianapolis Daily Sentinel, 9/4/1876, 2. For more than: DCS, 29; Galveston Daily News, 9/14/1876, 1. Several newspapers commented on Pulitzer's English and his way of talking. Typical was one in Zanesville, Ohio, which said, "Mr. Pulitzer, though of German birth, has in his speech little or no foreign accent." ("Schurz Shattered," Mesker Scrapbook, Vol. 3, 45, MHS.) Fresh from his: "Schurz Shattered," 45; Portsmouth Times, 9/9/1876, 3; JP to George Alfred Townsend, 9/19/1876. PDA; Cincinnati Enquirer, 11/2/1876, 2, quoted in King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 81. In mid-September: JP to George Alfred Townsend, 9/19/1876, PDA. The next day: "Schurz Shattered," 47. In another article, from an unidentified newspaper, Pulitzer compares the alliance of Morton and Schurz to the Mississippi and Missouri rivers. "As the muddy waters of the Mississippi absorb the clear waters of the Missouri, Morton will soon enough have entirely absorbed the spirit of Schurz. And they will both be as muddy as the Mississippi." To the delight: NYT, 9/13/1876, 1; StLoTi, 9/4/1876, quoted in WAS, 40. Though he did not consent to meet Pulitzer, Schurz wrote a five-column rebuttal that was published in the New York Staats-Zeitung. The sympathetic New York Sun gave Pulitzer space to respond. (Edwardsville Intelligencer, 8/20/1876, 2.) Although Schurz remained: WP, translated in Decatur Daily Republican, 9/28/1876, 1; NYT, 8/7/1876, 4. Pulitzer sought to: "Schurz Shattered," 46. As in his other speeches: DeFr, 10/18/1876, 1. At the end: NYT, 10/26/1876, 5 and 10/31/1876, 10; WaPo, 12/24/1885, 4. Pulitzer's work in the campaign not only pleased the Democratic Party but also, as he had hoped, attracted attention. The following year the New York Tribune said that Pulitzer was so frenetic as a campaigner "that old Mr. Tilden couldn't make out for a while whether he or Pulitzer was running for the Presidency, and never has been entirely clear about it since Pulitzer first burst on the scene." (NYTr, 3/14/1877, 4.) Bringing his assault: NYS, 11/1/1876, 1. Almost thirty years later, Pulitzer wrote to a friend that his speeches during the campaign "attracted a good deal of attention and gave me a greater reputation than that I have now." (JP to FDW, 10/13/1903, SLPA.) The New York Sun: Turner, When Giants Ruled, 95; Allen Churchill, Park Row (New York: Rinehart, 1958), 12. The famous editor's office: Don Carlos Seitz, Newspaper Row: Some Account of a Journey along the Main Street of American Journalism (unpublished, American Heritage Center), 98; Smythe, The Gilded Age Press, 10. Pulitzer told the men: Mitchell, Memoirs of an Editor, 264; John Schumaker to JP, 10/29/1887, JP-CU. The nation's partisan press: StLoTi, 11/11/1876, 4 and 11/16/1876, 4. In New York: Mitchell, Memoirs of an Editor, 265; Harper's Weekly, 12/30/1876, 1055; Young, The American Statesman, 1593. As a member: NYS, 12/30/1876, 3. By this point: NYS, 12/29/1876, 3. Pulitzer did not limit: ChTr, 1/9/1877, 1. The New York Times described Pulitzer's "fiery talk" as being "on the order which was current among German students of 1848" (NYT, 1/9/1877, 1). Watterson found his speech hard to live down. "I became the target for every kind of ridicule and abuse. Nast drew a grotesque cartoon of me, distorting my suggestion for the assembling of 100,000 citizens, which was both offensive and libelous.... For many years afterward I was pursued by this unlucky speech, or rather by the misinterpretation given to it alike by friend and foe. Nast's first cartoon was accepted as a faithful portrait, and I was accordingly satirized and stigmatized, though no thought of violence ever had entered my mind, and in the final proceedings I had voted for the Electoral Commission Bill and faithfully stood by its decisions. Joseph Pulitzer, who immediately followed me on the occasion named, declared that he wanted my 'one hundred thousand' to come fully armed and ready for business; yet he never was taken to task or reminded of his temerity." (Watterson, Henry Marse, 303.) On March 2: The end of Reconstruction was not, of course, such a simple matter. For a more complete story, see Foner, Reconstruction; or Lemann, Redemption. See also Turner, When Giants Ruled, 96. The loss stung: Galveston Daily News, 3/10/1877, 1. In St. Louis: ChTr, 4/12/1877, 1; NYT, 4/12/1877, 1. On April 10: MoRe, 4/12/1877, 4. Reynolds, in "Joseph Pulitzer," believed it was a "tea party," given by Mrs. Dan Morrison, that Pulitzer attended. The only thing known with certainty is that Pulitzer returned to his hotel at midnight. The fire engines: ChTr, 4/12/1877, 1. One fireman, Phelim O'Toole, saved a dozen people from the fire and inspired a song, the second stanza of which is: "To save helpless women, at the word of command,/He bravely came forward, for duty he strives;/Ascending the ladder, his life in his hand,/Defying the fire fiend, while hope now survives./Brave Phelim O'Toole mounts higher and higher,/And reaches the high elevation at last;/He bears fainting women from torturing fire/Down the perilous ladder the danger is past." Pulitzer was the first witness: MoRe, 4/17/1877, 4. On April 27: ChTr, 4/28/1877, 2; NYT, 4/28/1877, 5. A month later: NYT, 4/27/1877, 8. Albert's itinerary is reprinted in APM, 152–153. The letter from Fannie Pulitzer is reprinted in APM, 154–157. Pulitzer found the aging editor: Ohio Democrat, New Philadelphia, OH, 7/12/1877. With a flourish: The article in the Sun, which appeared during August, was reprinted in the Washington Post, 1/22/1878, 2, shortly after Bowles's death. It carried the byline "J. P." Pulitzer sprained his ankle: WRR, 54–55. The account of this month is based on Johnson's diary. CHAPTER 11: NANNIE AND KATE Much of this chapter revolves around the story told in six surviving love letters by Pulitzer. Three of them have been long known because they are reprinted in full in Seitz's 1924 biography. The originals seem to have been lost in the years since then. They are remarkable in how honest and prescient Pulitzer was in warning Davis of the kind of life they would lead after their marriage. Two of the other three letters, the ones to Tunstall, have also been publicly available since they were donated to the American Jewish Historical Society. But as they were undated, and in fact incorrectly cataloged, anyone examining them would not have known that they were written during the same time period when Pulitzer was courting Davis. Fortunately, I was able to date them because Eric Fettmann, a remarkable collector of artifacts of American journalism, had purchased a letter from Pulitzer to Tunstall dated May 2, 1878. With this letter, one is able to correctly date the other two as having been written between February and May 1878. As 1877 ended: JP to KP, DCS-JP, 91. St. Louis grew: Quoted in Roberts, The Washington Post, 1. Field was not: Ibid., 7. It's unclear to what extent, if any, Pulitzer participated in the launching of the Post. He had been a regular contributor to the St. Louis Times when Hutchins ran it. But a search of early editions of the Washington Post turns up only one article clearly written by Pulitzer, a reprint of one from the New York Sun in the summer of 1877. Journalism, however, was: GlDe, 1/03/1878, 3; ChTr, 11/19/1876, 2, 11/22/1876, 1, 11/18/1876, 1, 10/31/1877, 2. Seitz claims that Pulitzer studied for and passed the bar examination in the District of Columbia. A check of the record of the bar, now in the archives of the University of District of Columbia, found no attorneys standing for the bar in 1877 or 1878, so there was no way to determine if Pulitzer was admitted to practice in Washington. It would not, however, have been a requirement for appearing before the elections committee. Pulitzer was still ambiguous about his career path. He listed himself in the Washington city directory as a correspondent, probably because of his loose connection with the New York Sun. The Committee on Elections: Minute Book, Records of Committee on Elections, 45th Congress, 1/30/1878, NARA; WaPo, 1/30/1878, 1; BoGl, 2/14/1878, 1. Though at first glance this might seem like a late date to decide an election of 1876, it was not. During the nineteenth century Congress often took a year before holding its first session, so only a few days of lawmaking had elapsed when the case of who should represent the Third District of Missouri came before the House. If the Committee: WaPo, 2/12/1878, 2. The editorial had: Minute Book, Records of Committee on Elections, 45th Congress, 2/20 and 2/21/1878, NARA. Despite this loss: WaPo, 1/24/1878, 1; 1/29/1878, 4; 2/25/1878, 4; 2/26/1878, 4. Pulitzer did not lack: WaPo, 1/24/1878, 1, and 1/30/1878, 4; Gallagher, Stilson Hutchins, 26. On January 12: WaPo, 1/14/1878, 4; Washington Star, 6/20/1878; Stevens Point Journal, Stevens Point, WI, 6/29/1878, 1. But to Davis's parents: Pitzman's New Atlas of the City and County of Saint Louis, Missouri, 1878 shows Pulitzer, Hutchins, and Brockmeyer's lots. Pulitzer owned 3.4 acres of land; Hutchins owned an adjacent acre; and Brockmeyer had almost four acres nearby. Trying to hide: The Jewish practice of circumcision was not introduced as a medical practice in the United States until 1870 and did not become widely practiced among Christians until the 1900s. See David L. Gollaher, "From Ritual to Science: The Medical Transformation of Circumcision in America," Journal of Social History, Vol. 28, No. 1 (1994). Throughout his life, and long into the twentieth century, Pulitzer's contention that his mother was not Jewish remained unchallenged. For instance, The Hebrews in America, published in 1888, reported, "The Messrs. Pulitzer, however, are not being classed among the chosen people, their father being a Hebrew and their mother a Christian lady of Vienna." Ironically, Kate Davis was a strong-willed, independent-minded woman and might not have been deterred if Pulitzer had been honest. Davis was not: WaPo, 1/14/1878, 4. Born in a: Morris, The First Tunstalls. William Corcoran, one: Corcoran wrote to Tunstall that she was expected in January 1878. Corcoran to Tunstall, 12/14/1877, WCP-DU; WaPo, 2/24/1888, 2; Corcoran, A Grandfather's Legacy, 490. Tunstall certainly filled: William MacLeod, Private Journal, 4/16/1888, CAG; Corcoran to Tunstall, 12/22/1885, WCP-DU. Governor Kemper of Virginia, a distant cousin, once sent her a bouquet for the New Year, writing, "If these flowers were all gold and diamonds, they would more worthily express your merits and my appreciation": (James Lawson Kemper to Nannie Tunstall, 1/1/1876, NT-DU.) Tunstall was well-educated: Nannie Tunstall to Virginia Tunstall Clay, 3/21/1884, NT-DU. In February, while: NYT, 2/17/1878, 2. Unless otherwise indicated, the quotations from the letters of JP to Tunstall are drawn from the Joseph Pulitzer Letters, AJHS. "Is there no": JP to Tunstall, 5/2/1878, EFJC. On a spring day: WaPo, 3/6/1878, 4, and 3/22/1878, 2. Indeed, Pulitzer was: House Journal, March 3, 731; Constitutional Convention, Vol. 4, 123; SeDe, 6/5/1875, 3. Pulitzer longed not: JP to KP, undated but probably April 1878, reprinted in DCS JP, 91–92. "You can now see": JP to KP, undated but probably June 1878, reprinted in DCS-JP, 93. McCullough was in Washington, appearing in the theater, in early June. He was also, indeed, scheduled to sail to Europe on June 15 (WaPo, 5/31/1878, 2) as Pulitzer noted in his letter. Thus this letter to Davis was written in the first week of June 1878. "I must have business": JP to KP, June 1878, reprinted in DCS-JP, 94–95. The ceremony actually: "Large, roomy and with an air of sober reliability about it, one feels the sentiment of respect for it," wrote a newspaper reporter who had passed through its iron gates in search of newsworthy items only a month before; Tripp Jones, archivist, interview with author, Church of the Epiphany, Washington, DC, August 4, 2005. Examples of Washington luminaries who were members of the parish in 1878 would include Secretary of the Treasury John Sherman and Chief Justice Morrison Waite. "A Notable Church," WaPo, 5/11/1878, 2. The newlyweds, whose union: Pulitzer told this tale to a neighbor in St. Louis. George S. John, "Joseph Pulitzer: Early Life in St. Louis and His Founding and Conduct of the Post-Dispatch up to 1883," Missouri Historical Review (January 1931), 67. The Reverend John H. Chew: As H. L. Mencken observed, "Most Americans when they accumulate money climb the golden spires of the nearest Episcopal Church." Quoted in Collier, The Rockefellers, 36–37. The stained-glass window has since been moved to the front wall of the church: Jones, interview. CHAPTER 12: A PAPER OF HIS OWN This chapter, as well as subsequent ones, benefits greatly from internal Post-Dispatch documents that came to light in 2008, when the Fogarty Papers became known. For more information, see page 12. In the early morning: At Hudnut's pharmacy downtown, the temperature had hit ninety-two degrees the afternoon before. The Pulitzers may have been lucky and avoided much of the heat by staying for several days along the ocean at Long Branch, New Jersey, where Joseph held reservations at the West End hotel, which opened for the summer season the day following their wedding. With each passing year, Long Branch was becoming an increasingly popular destination for the wealthy seeking a cool spot for the summer. It had a safe blue-blooded pedigree. As one hotel operator told the New York Times that June, he had "not received a single application for rooms from a Jew this year, while at the same time last year he had many." (NYT, 6/11/1878, 1.) Having spent all: NYS, 10/20/1878, 3. When Joseph and Kate: NYS, 10/6/1878, 3. The socialists were the demagogues and were dangerous, admitted Pulitzer. But the despotic solution chosen by Bismarck was equally, if not more, dangerous. "To Germany it is a choice between the Scylla and the Charybdis," said Pulitzer, referring to a mythical Greek sea monster and a whirlpool whose positions in a narrow channel meant that fleeing from one put one in danger of the other. In Paris, Kate: KP to JP, 10/2/1904, JP-CU. The two-month honeymoon: NYT, 9/12/1878, 2. The Pulitzers' European: NYS, 9/6/1878. Because Pulitzer hated: Ibid., 3. Pulitzer's friends Hutchins and Cockerill, at the Washington Post, likewise viewed the incident as further evidence of the illegitimacy of the administration and found it sufficiently noteworthy for an editorial. (WaPo, 10/7/1878, 2.) At the Sun: NYS, 9/22, 10/6, 10/13. 10/19, 10/20, and 10/27/1878. The most singular: NYS, 10/27/1878, 3. Although long-winded: NYS, 9/22/1878, 3. The St. Louis: W. H. Bishop, "St. Louis," Harper's New Monthly Magazine, quoted in JSR, 21; "Remarks of Gov. Chas. P. Johnson," Birthday Anniversary Dinner," 4/10/1907, 20–21, PDA. Encouraged, Pulitzer went: JN to JP, 3/10/1900, JP-CU. In the early morning: It was so cold that winter that ice closed the Mississippi River for forty-six days. The account of the auction and Pulitzer's taking possession of the Dispatch is based on reports in the GlDe, 12/10/1878, 1; MoRe, 12/10/1878, 1; and Evening Post, 12/09/1878, 1 and 12/10/1878, 4. Arnold raised his bid: The receipt for $2,500 for the purchase of the Dispatch was made out to Arnold. (PLFC) It is not inconceivable that the unknown bidder, like Arnold, was working for Pulitzer, who was far wilier in business than he ever let on. During the confusion: GlDe, 12/10/1878, 1. McCullagh may have had a hand in writing the comment. The following day: Evening Post, 12/10/1878, 1; Clayton, Little Mack, 132. The answer was: Pulitzer continued this strategy of deception for so long that later a reporter for the Globe-Democrat complained about "his old tactics that have puzzled many a news-gatherer": GlDe, 8/19/1879, 5. Pulitzer's antics gained: GlDe, 12/11/1878, 4. St. Louisans already: The size of Allen's investment was disclosed when the paper went bankrupt five months later. See PD, 5/10/1879, 1. Dillon's Evening Post: Further, the Post was wrongly perceived as a pawn of the Globe-Democrat because of Dillon's identification with McCullagh and his use of the Globe-Democrat's presses. The Post did have a similar look, but it hardly deserved to be called an "illegitimate offspring," the description given to it by the unfriendly Republican. For these and other reasons, the Post had not yet found a readership large enough to sustain it. Although the flagging: For the first time since the panic of 1873, being a newspaper publisher was looking again financially attractive. There were 718 daily newspapers published that year in the United States, a number that had remained relatively stable for four years. With improved economic conditions, the number was beginning to rise again. Nearly 100 new dailies were being launched, a 13 percent increase in the number of papers. This was part of an upward trend. Within a decade the total number of papers would more than double: George P. Rowell & Company Data on the Number of Newspapers and Periodicals: 1868–1908, reprinted in Lee, The Daily Newspaper in America, app., table X, 720–721; Douglas, The Golden Age of the Newspaper, 132. Pulitzer openly professed: PD, 12/21/1878, 2. Pulitzer's timing was: ChTr, 9/13/1872, 4. The two men: The merger agreement and accompanying documents, PLFC. The new paper: PD, 12/13/1878, 2; JSR, 65. The declaration was: Merger agreement, PLFC. Anyone who knew: GlDe, 12/13/78, 4. CHAPTER 13: SUCCESS Before the Post and Dispatch: Figures for the actual press runs are contained in the Fogarty Collection. In the following weeks: The purchase from Hoe marked the beginning of a long and important relationship between Pulitzer and this manufacturer of printing presses. Within a few years, Hoe would push his engineers to their limits in creating larger and faster presses to meet Pulitzer's demands at the New York World. Years before, when: PD, 12/19/1878, 2, quoted in JSR, 45. He was on to something: Pulitzer's return to St. Louis coincided with a period when the leadership of the city was changing from an older, conservative group to a younger, more progressive one. See Moehle, "History of St. Louis, 1878–1882." Like an editorial Paul Revere: PD, 1/30/1879, and 1/31/1879, 2. As the campaign: The series began in PD, 2/15/1879, 1. McCullagh, in particular, was singled out because he earned $30,000 in stock in addition to his salary, and owned diamonds and watches. When citizens file: PD, 3/1/1879, 8 and 3/21/1879, 2, for an example of the tax oath; PD, 2/17/1879, 2; JSR, 52. Pulitzer concluded that: PD, 2/24/1879, 2; JSR, 55. Documents in the Fogarty Collection confirm the increases in circulation claimed publicly by the paper. Pulitzer was a rare publisher in that the circulation figures he announced matched those kept in the actual books. There was hardly anything: PD, 1/2/1879, 1 and 2. Pulitzer's staff would fall prey to the same journalistic prank twenty years later, when he was competing with William Randolph Hearst. The Post and Dispatch: PD, 3/28/1879, 2 and 2/21/1879, 1. Pulitzer was not easily: JSR, 55–56. On Tuesday: PD, 2/18/1879, 1. For days, the: PD, 2/19/1879, 1. After weeks of delay: PD, 05/26/1879, 2; PD, 3/11/1879; JSR, 63. Despite the paper's: DCS-JP, 197. After concluding his: Stealey, 130 Pen Pictures of Live Men, 345–347. The street urchins: William Smith to JP, 10/26/1902, JP-CU. On April 21, 1879: PD, 4/21/1879, 4, and 4/22/1879, 4. Pulitzer didn't have time: WAS, 60. Neither Dillon nor: The terms of the loan were cleverly written. There were three parties to the agreement. The Post-Dispatch turned over title to its property to Gottschalk for $1. In turn, he lent the money to Pulitzer, who provided it to the paper. Then a series of postdated checks were written for the interest on the loan, to be cashed at intervals, and for the final balance. Should the checks not clear, Gottschalk would have recourse to sell the assets of the corporation. PLFC. Lawyers who researched: William Smith to Joseph Medill, 2/18/1880, M 0258, Box 3, Folder 2, WHS-IHS. With his new: PD, 3/5/1879, quoted in JSR, 69. Nothing was too: JSR, 70. Watching with dismay: PD, 5/14/1879, 1; GlDe, 5/14/1879, 8. The original sale agreement with the name of Theodore Lemon, PLPC. Joseph settled the pregnant Kate: Corbett and Miller, Saint Louis in the Gilded Age, 72; Eberle, Midtown, 13. See JSR, 292, and WRR, 102, for discussion of whether Kate Pulitzer was snubbed by St. Louis society. Usually Kate, with: Galveston Daily News, 5/31/1883, 7; Stealey and Johnson diary entries, quoted in WRR, 103. Dillon agreed to sell: GlDe, 11/30/1879, also reprinted in PD, 12/05/1879, 4. The actual cost of buying out Dillon is unknown, although several sources cite $40,000. Joseph reorganized the: JP to Dillon, Reel II, SLPA, 3/21/1905. That night, Cockerill: WP, 12/22/1879, 2; King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 92–93. The challenge that: In fact, the postage bill for mailing the Globe Democrat to out-of-town newspapers exceeded that of all other St. Louis papers combined; Clayton, Little Mack, 106–107. CHAPTER 14: DARK LANTERN Chambers put his: PD, 12/17/1879, 4; MoRe, 12/12/1879, 3. After a week's: On the day appointed for the auction, about 150 curious onlookers and newspapermen gathered at the courthouse. After waiting thirty minutes past the announced starting time, a man showed up and announced that the sale had been postponed: MR, 1/1/1880, 8, and 1/7/1880, 5; PD, 1/7/1880, 4; ChTr, 1/8/1880, 5. Rather than a funeral: William Henry Smith, the general agent for the Western Associated Press, acquitted Pulitzer of any deception and ruled that the certificate could not rightfully belong to the mortgage holders. (W. Henry Smith to Joseph Medill, 2/18/1880, WHS-IHS.) His exuberance stemmed: PD, 1/7/1880, 4. At home, his: Information about servants obtained from 1880 census records. Two of the women who worked for the Pulitzers were Irish-born; MoRe, 12/16/1880, 3. Unencumbered by financial: SeDe, 1/8/1880, 1. By one o'clock: WaPo, 1/13/1880, 4; GlDe, 1/23/1880, 1. Awakened with the news: PD, 1/23/1880, 1 and 4; GlDe, 1/23/1880, 1. In New York: ChTr, 1/28/1880, 11; WaPo, 1/26/1880, 2. Reports from Cockerill: Church records on file at the Diocesan Archive at Washington Episcopal Cathedral. "Now damn you": GlDe, 3/2/1880, 4; PD, 3/2/1880. Pulitzer admitted the following day that he had drawn a gun but said he was so blind without his glasses that he could have done no damage. One of the bystanders picked up the weapon and placed a notice in the newspaper that if the owner wanted to retrieve it, he could do so at the bystander's house. Early in the race: PD, 2/15/1879, 4. Pulitzer stuck fast to his opposition to Tilden. See, for instance, PD, 2/12/1881, 4. Pulitzer's early interest in determining the Democrats' 1880 candidate led Hutchins at the Washington Post to suggest that Pulitzer's efforts could save the expense and trouble of a convention. (WaPo, 7/14/1879, 2.) If Pulitzer could: PD, 4/28/1880, 4. Missouri Democrats gathered: Stealey, 130 Pen Pictures, 347; WaPo, 5/28/1878, 1. The convention, which: See Official Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, 1880; Watterson, Marse Henry, Vol. 2, 249–250. Pulitzer face a quandary: WaPo, 6/25/1880, 1; JP to English, 6/27/1880, N-YHS. The Democrats' choice: JSR, 133–134 On his return: ChTr, 6/27/1880, 2; JP to Smith, 6/27/1880, N-YHS. The Evening Chronicle's: JSR, 110–111. Pulitzer was comforted: Ibid., 105–106; PD, 4/30/1880, 4. On August 8: Johnson, Diary, 8/8/1880, and subsequent entries, WRR 98–99. To get the nomination: Edward C. Rafferty, "The Boss Who Never Was: Colonel Ed Butler and the Limits of Practical Politics in St. Louis, 1875–1904," Gateway Heritage (Winter 1992), 54–73. Butler had a simple: For a discussion of Pulitzer's payment of the fee, see JSR, footnote 36, 151. Rammelkamp believed that there was some dispute over whether Pulitzer actually paid a fee. It was, however, a common practice and was required of all candidates at the time. Furthermore the Globe-Democrat, edited by the rather scrupulous McCullagh, said that Pulitzer had paid. (GlDe, 9/26/1880, 6.) Believing that his nomination: JP to Smith, 7/21/1880, N-YHS. Pulitzer was pleased: Ibid. On the evening of August 14: Indiana Sentinel, 8/15/1880. "A masterly effort," said the Washington Post; "a disheartening failure," said the New York Times. Late in life, Pulitzer thought it one of the best speeches he ever delivered. (JP to FDW, 10/13/1903, SLP.) As the primary: PD, January 10, 1879, 2. Pulitzer even went so far as to cancel a speech in Indiana so as to see to his own election. (Fort Wayne Daily Sentinel, 9/14/1880, 4.) With Allen's entry: GlDe, 9/26/1880, 6. Calling Pulitzer a demagogue: For a description of the 1879 Senate race, see JSR, 45–47; PD, 9/24/1880, 4; MoRe, 9/24/1880, 1, 4. The Republican greeted: MR, 9/25/1880, 4; results from GlDe, 9/26/1880, 6; Johnson, Diary, 9/25/1880; WRR, 99. When Pulitzer lost: Johnson, Diary, 9/27/1880, WRR, 99. Pulitzer wasted no time: DCS-JP gives Lucille's birth date as September 30, 1880, but St. Louis's birth records give it as October 3. In either case, Joseph was in New York at the time: NYT, 9/30/1881, 5; BrEa, 9/30/1880, 4. Following the party leaders': AtCo, 10/5/1880, 1; BoGl, 10/01/1880, 1. Pulitzer had one: Indianapolis Sentinel, 10/8/1880, copy in JP-LOC, Box 1, October 1880 folder. Despite the size: Ohio Democrat, 10/28/1880, 2. Pulitzer the journalist: JSR, 138. When Election Day came: Not all the elections that year were unfavorable. On November 23, Pulitzer was elected vice president of the Western Associated Press: NYT, 11/24/1880, 5. CHAPTER 15: ST. LOUIS GROWS SMALL On many nights: William Gentry Jr., "The Case of the Church Bells," Bulletin Missouri Historical Society, Vol. 10, No. 2 (January 1954), 183; Dacus and Buel, A Tour of St. Louis, 116. Neither the Post-Dispatch: St. Louis Spectator, 12/24/1881, MHS. A few printers: PD, 5/12/1881, quoted in JSR, 198–199. Eventually, after Pulitzer moved to New York, the Post-Dispatch permitted a closed shop. Pulitzer claimed that: ThJo, 10/23/1886, quoted in JSR, 196. Pulitzer talked Daniel Houser into: NYT, 6/19/1881, 5. There was one paper: ThJo, 12/20/1884, 6; JN to JP, 3/10/1900. Almost as if: WRR, 74. In September, the president: ChTr, 9/10/1881, 1; WaPo, 9/10/1881, 1. When his turn: PD, 9/10/1881, 1; George Barnes Pennock letter, NYW, 11/3/1911. At the beginning: PD, 9/12/1881, 1. However, Pulitzer became so nervous about being alone in his negative predictions that he resorted to filing a few encouraging dispatches. Within days, though, he was back in his role as a doomsayer. On September 15: PD, 9/15/1881, 1; WaPo, 9/16/1881, 1; NYT, 9/16/1881, 1. The tide of: NYT, 9/17/1881, 1; PD, 9/17/1881, 1. On Monday morning: PD, 9/19/1881, 1, quoted in WRR, 75; Ackerman, Dark Horse, 427. The day after: PD, 9/20/1881, 4. The success of: Circulation figures, PLFC. Pulitzer trumpeted the: PD, 6/1/1882, quoted in JSR, 206. As a consequence: WaPo, 1/23/82, 2. The hostility grew: ChTr, 3/25/82, 5; also see JSR, 292. In March, on: WaPo, 3/22/1882, 2; PD, 3/16/1882, 4. Perhaps inspired by: APM, 167–177. During his years: ThJo, 12/20/1884, 6. If the railroad: PD, 10/14/1880, 4; NYW, 5/13/1883, 1. Gould became Pulitzer's: PD, 3/18/1882, 4 and 7. Broadhead aroused the: Donald F. Brod, "John A. Cockerill's St. Louis Years," Bulletin, Vol. 26, No. 3 (April 1970), MHS, 232. In his office: Compiled press accounts. See, for instance, ChTr, 10/16/1882. News of the shooting: Daily Kennebec Journal, 10/16/1882, 2. Slayback's friend Clopton: Sarah Lane Glasgow to William Glasgow, 10/18/1882, William Carr Lane Collection, MHS. On October 18: Harper's Weekly, 11/4/1882 quoted in JSR, 289; circulation figures, FP. As part of: ChTr, 10/19/1882, 3; Janesville Daily Gazette, 10/24, 1882, 2; JSR, 292, note 26. By November, Pulitzer: St. Louis Spectator, 11/11/1882, MHS. One of the men: Turner, When Giants Ruled, 105; ThJo, 1/15/87, 12. A few hours later: Julius Chambers, quoted in APM, 231. CHAPTER 16: THE GREAT THEATER One of the most persistent myths about Pulitzer was that he purchased the New York World while in New York with Kate preparing to board a ship for Europe. In fact, Pulitzer had been stalking the paper for months. See, for example, the Springfield Republican, 2/19/1883, 4. On April 7: NYT, 4/4/1883; Klein, The Life and Legend of Jay Gould, 315–319. He decided to: NYW, 5/13/1883, 1. "The only changes I can suggest would cost money," one of the paper's managers had written a few months earlier—hardly glad tidings to bring to the boss (Elmer Speed to William Hurlbert, 1/15/1883, WP CU). In January, Gould: WaPo, 1/28/1878, 2; ChTr, 1/25/1883, 3; PD, 4/11/1883, quoted in JSR, 297. On the day: R. L. Cotteret to Edwin H Argent, 3/3/1883, JP-CU. For a sample of the reporting sheet, see January–June 1883 folder, JP-CU, Box 4. On the way: WaPo, 4/7/1883, 4; Smith to JP, 8/6/1887, WP-CU. This purchase, unlike: ThJo, 4/19/84, 4; ChTr, 4/16/1883, 5. Pulitzer did not: Renehan, The Dark Genius of Wall Street, 3. On April 28: The original contract is among the JPII-LC Papers. Conkling later billed Pulitzer for the services; see JP to Conkling, 12/19/1885, WP-CU. His role as Pulitzer's lawyer in the purchase is detailed in Atchison Daily Globe, 11/19/1887, 1. He confessed his anxiety: JSR, 302. Later in life, Joseph often credited Kate with giving him the resolve to go through with the deal. See RP to John C. Milburn, of Carter, Ladyard & Milburn, 1/5/1912, JP-CU. Pulitzer's friends Watterson and Melville Stone, who co-owned the Chicago Daily News, both later claimed that he asked them to become partners in the World after he bought it. That seems highly unlikely, as Pulitzer never wanted a real partner in any enterprise. Word of the: GlDe, 05/06/1883, 6. On May 9: The New York Herald, which printed the Journal, disclosed that it was running off 50,000 copies a day: NYT, 5/23/1883, 8; APM, 205–210. At the Fifth Avenue Hotel: NYH, 5/10/1883, 8. Escorting Pulitzer around: DCS-JP, 135–136. While Joseph made: APM, 205–206. There may have been: Herald editorial, reprinted in NYT, 5/23/1883, 8. A few weeks: APM, 210. For those who had watched: Charles Gibson to JP, 5/14/1883, JP-CU; John H. Holmes to JP, undated but certainly between May and June 1883, JP-CU, Box 5. Taking from his bag: NYW, 5/12/1883, 1. Then—also as he: Stephen Richardson, JP-LC, Box 11, Folder 8. What they found: In Albert's unpublished memoir, he makes mention of having been the first to introduce ears. But as the Journal from those months no longer exists, the claim cannot be confirmed. But if the new World: NYT, 11/5/1911, SM3. During the following days: Walt McDougall, "Old Days on the World," American Mercury (January 1925) 22. As the staff: NYW, 5/10/1908. Finished with the city room: NYS, reprinted in GlDe, 5/27/1883, 10; GJ, 303. The paper abandoned: NYW, 5/31/1883, 1. The New York Times opted for DEAD ON THE NEW BRIDGE. If the headline: JP memo, 1899 or 1900, quoted in GJ, 48, footnote. Pulitzer had an uncanny: NYW, 5/29/1883, 1. The World's stories: NYW, 1/25/1884, 4, quoted in GJ, 34. As was inaccuracy: AI, 111. In his first weeks: NYW, 5/29/1883, 4 and 5/30/1883, 8. The Pulitzers moved: ChTr, 7/31/1883, 1. Even though work: Among the guests were General Grant and Schurz: NYT, 6/8/1883, 5; WAS, 89–91, Hirsh, William C. Whitney, 227; Rocky Mountain News, 11/8/1883, 4. The club permitted entry to the Republican Roscoe Conkling. Pulitzer even found time: The telegraphs and invitations for the boat ride may be found in JP-CU, Box 5. Pulitzer may have taunted: NYW, 9/30/1883, 4. In August, Pulitzer: ChTr, 8/6/1883, 2. By the end of August: Circulation was 27,620 on August 12, 1883, according to the notarized statements that Pulitzer began publishing in the paper; see GJ, 332. Also NYW, 8/11/1883, 4. On August 28: NYT, 8/29/1883, 2 and 8/30/1883, 8. Pulitzer knew several of his traveling companions, such as August Belmont Jr., the son of the eminent banker, and the journalists Herbert Bridgman and Noah Brooks. Pulitzer was surprised: NYW, 9/9/1883, 4 and 9/10/1883, 8. During Pulitzer's absence: Davenport Gazette, 09/08/1883, 2; BrEa, 9/30/1883, 2. The rumors were: NYW, 9/26/1883, 4. As the World's circulation: NYW, 5/17/1883. When he returned: NYT, 9/25/1883, 2; Oshkosh Northwestern, 08/26/1883, 3; Bismarck Daily Tribune, 9/28/83, 10. Weeks later, as: NYT, 11/1/1883, 5. In November, Pulitzer: A review of internal memos from the period confirms that the published circulation figures were quite accurate. CHAPTER 17: KINGMAKER Despite his triumphant: J. W. Buell to JP, 12/19/1883, WP-CU; NYT, 5/10/1884, 5. Characteristically, Pulitzer made: Cunard telegram, 5/19/1884; William D. Curtis to JP, 6/18/1884, JP-CU. As the convention broke up: NYW, 6/7/1884, quoted in Morris, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, 267. A Republican who: NYW, 7/24/1884, 4 and 8/26/84, 4. Although Blaine had: Pulitzer was pestered by attorneys representing disgruntled persons threatening to sue. One such case involved a college professor who felt that an article about students' wild antics had injured him and the college. See Scott to JP, 4/2 and 4/3/1884, WP-CU; WAS, 103. Pulitzer also regularly praised Conkling in his editorials. See, for instance, NYW, 9/5/1883, 4. That Conkling was the author of the anonymous pieces for the World was common knowledge, reported in the Tribune and other newspapers. Pulitzer could hardly: PD, 11/8/1882, 4; NYW, 10/14/1884. With each passing day: In March, the circulation had been 40,000: ThJo, 3/29/1884, 7; 4/5/1884, 5; and 5/31/1884, 3. By midsummer: ThJo, 6/14/1884, 2. Nothing his competitors: ThJo, 6/7/1884, 1. In July, sitting: Quoted in JWB, 85. Pulitzer not only attended the Chicago convention but, as he had done for the Post-Dispatch, filed signed articles. (See NYW, 7/9/1884–7/12/1884.) Years later, Pulitzer unrealistically boasted, "If it had not been for the action of the World at this stage, he could not have been nominated." (JP to James Creelman, JC, folder 74.) On July 29: ChTri, 7/30/1884, 1; NYT, 7/30/1884, 1. Cleveland also carried: "There is a story in circulation concerning a record made by him 'in youth's hot blood'—a story which The World will never under any circumstances print—which may find its way into the channels of public gossip, if this lowest type of campaign tactics is to be adopted by the Blaine organization": NYW, 7/25/1884, 4. Pulitzer was only: JWB, 89. The next day: "I did not tell him that the cartoon looked like the crab's eyebrows, without proper reduction to refine its coarse lines." (McDougall, "Old Days on the World," 22.) Pulitzer had wanted: An illustration of a man accused in the Phoenix Park murders ran in NYW, 5/26/1883, 8. The story of the apprehension in Montreal is told in GJ, 95–96; ThJo, 1/10/1885, 3. Not all the reading public: ThJo, 6/7/1884, 3, quoted in GJ, 111. Pulitzer enlisted McDougall's: GJ, 99, note. Pulitzer had no interest: ChTr, 6/29/1882, 12; NYW, 9/29/1884, 4. The maliciousness of: Smith to JP, 11/28/1884, WP-CU. Pulitzer interrupted his: WRR, 206; Henry, Editors I Have Known since the Civil War, 273–274. As the campaign: NYT, 9/30/1884, 5. As he spoke: NYW, 10/30/1884, 2. The paper devoted more than an entire page to the evening rally. The crowd roared: ChTr, 10/4/1884, 10. The fall campaign: NYT, 10/07/1884, 2; 10/22/1884, 2. E. A. Grozier, Pulitzer's secretary in 1884, later described how reluctant Pulitzer was to accept the nomination. (Grozier to DCS, 12/10/1917, DCS-NYPL.) The nomination was: ThJo, 10/11/1884, 5 and 10/18/1884, 2. On October 16: NYT, October 16, 1884, 5; Hirsch, William C. Whitney, 238–239. For a while it seemed as if Pulitzer might have contributed $5,000 to the Republicans. What had happened was that Pulitzer had written a check to R. Hoe & Company as payment toward a new press. Hoe had given the check to the Republican Party, leading to the rumor that Pulitzer was also supporting the Republicans. See Milwaukee Sentinel, 4/28/1886, 3. Pulitzer was not done yet: NYW, 10/30/1884, 4. The "Royal Feast": NYW, 11/10/1884, 4. November 4, 1884: Figures ibid. The World began: NYW, 11/6/1884, 4. Pulitzer basked in: JP to James Creelman, JC, Folder 74; ChTr, 1/1/1885, 3. Pulitzer capped off: ChTr, 1/1/1885, 3. Remarkably, newspapers reported on the check's progress through clearing houses. So much for financial privacy. CHAPTER 18: RAISING LIBERTY Piled on Pulitzer's desk: Correspondence Box 7, WP-CU. It was all: ThJo, 11/14/1885, 1; James Scott to JP, 3/18/1885, WP-CU; Pulitzer's friend Gibson was making inquiries for Pulitzer to determine if anyone in St. Louis would buy the Post-Dispatch for $500,000 or more; see Gibson to JP, 1/5/1885. The news management: ThJo, 1/30/1886, 5. His election to Congress: Correspondence in Box 5, JP-CU; Silas W. Bart to JP, 4/14/1885, JP-CU; LAT, 1/21/1885; NYT, 1/21/1885, 1. In early February: AtCo, 2/4/1885, 5. Politics seemed even less: ChTr, 2/6/1885, 2; NYT, 2/6/1885, 5; WES, 120–121. Pulitzer expected: WRR, 199; NYW, 3/16/1885, 4. Cleveland didn't share: WaPo, 3/9/1885, 1; GD, 3/14/1885; NYT, 3/24/1885, 1 and 4/19/1885, 3; WRR, 186–187. But Pulitzer was: NYW, 8/6/1884, 4. When the dust settled after the election, Pulitzer resumed promoting the project, arguing that Cleveland's victory removed the fund-raisers' last excuse for failure. "Perhaps it has been thought hitherto that a Statue of Liberty erected in the chief harbor of a Republic virtually controlled by monopolists, corruptionists, and self-created aristocrats was both unnecessary and undesirable," Pulitzer wrote. "This is all at an end now. The people have vindicated their capacity to govern themselves and the life of the Republic has been saved." (NYW, 11/21/1884, 4.) The scattered editorials: NYW, 3/14/1885, 4. The following Monday: NYW, 3/16/1885, 1. By the next morning: NYW, 3/17/1885. Rather than start: At about the same time, other groups were raising money for the Washington Monument in the capital. But it received congressional funding and the public's donations were led not by a newspaper but rather by private organizations. The public service: NYW, 6/8/1885, 4. The long hours: The children stayed at the Thorn Mountain House resort in Jackson, NH. BoGl, 8/9/1885, 3. While Kate shopped: Pulitzer traveled with letters of introduction from George Childs. Henry Moore to John Norton, 5/29/1895, JNP-MHS; ThJo, 6/20/1885, 2; S. P. Daniell to JP, 6/1/1885, JP-CU. Usually Pulitzer's transatlantic: Fragment of an undated rough draft of JP letter, quoted in WRR, 134. The European sojourn: JPII to JP, 3/21/1908, MHS; Johns, Times of Our Lives, 61. At home it: WAS, 131. One friend understood: Dillon to JP, 7/8/1885, JP-CU. On the morning of December 3: NYT, 12/4/1885, 3 and 7; ChTr, 12/4/1885, 2; ThJo, 11/28/1885, 5. "All right, but": JP to Conkling, 12/19/1885, WP-CU; Theron Crawford to JP, 12/9/1885 and 12/14/1885, WP-CU. Pulitzer and the House: NYT, 12/8/1885, 4; AtCo, 1/8/1886, 1. To maintain this schedule: He "took very little interest in his Congressional office, and was very irregular in his attendance in Washington" (Edwin A. Grozier to Seitz, 12/10/1917); WaPo, 3/4/1886, 2; Amos J. Cummings in WaPo, 4/18/1886, Dana's Sun harped on Pulitzer's poor attendance in Congress. Walt McDougall claimed that one night when he was in Washington with his boss, Pulitzer was almost arrested for drunkenness. "He was lit up to seventh magnitude by a few cocktails," he said. (Walt McDougall, "Funniest Memories of a Famous Cartoonist," WaPo, 8/22/1926, SM3.) Pulitzer found: Edwin A. Grozier to Seitz, 12/10/1917, DCS-NYPL; BoGl, 2/16/1886, 5. Many of Pulitzer's colleagues: NYT, 2/27/1886, 2; ChTr 2/27/1886, 1. When a committee: NYT, 3/13/1886, 3; WaPo, 3/13/1886, 1. The gentleman in question: JP to Crawford, 2/11/1886, WP-CU. The committee members: An examination of the Congressional Record may be seen in WRR, 184; WaPo, 3/4/1886, 1; WaPo, 6/28/1886, 2. When Pulitzer was nominated for: Gibson to JP, 10/10/1884, JP-CU. Full resignation letter appeared in BrEa, 4/11/1886, 1. The World's Washington correspondent: Crawford to JP, 4/13/1886, WP-CU. Pulitzer's congressional career: JP to Board of New York Press Club, April 1886, JP-CU, Box 6; WaPo, 3/23/1886, 2; Medical Record, 3/27/1886, 366. Pulitzer also mistakenly sent his letter to the New York secretary of state instead of to the speaker of the house thereby delaying the effective date of his resignation until May. (Interview with Donald Ritchie, associate historian of the U.S. Senate Historical Office, 1/17/2008.) In late June: The landlord, who was not consulted, was not happy. See John Hoey to JP, 9/24/1886, and 10/25/1886, JP-CU. Since Kate could not: Thomas Davidson to William T. Harris, 10/7/1884, Harris Papers, MHS. Pulitzer was most frustrated: WHM to JP, 7/28/1886, quoted in WRR, 121. Next Pulitzer dashed: NYW, 10/28/1886, and 10/29/1886. Not being among: NYW, 10/28/1886, 4. As one of: Depew, My Memories, 392. "Well, gentlemen": Depew was also willing to curry favor with Pulitzer. On the evening of the festivities honoring the Statue of Liberty, he attended a dinner the Pulitzers gave for the celebrated sculptor Bartholdi in the new residence which they had rented at 9 East Thirty-Sixth Street. During the dinner, Bartholdi's declaring an interest in seeing Niagara Falls prompted Pulitzer to ask Depew for a New York Central private railcar to convey Bartholdi and the Pulitzer family there. Depew submitted a $500 bill to Pulitzer for the ride, adding that the amount should be "strong enough to pulverize the most enlightened anti-monopolist." Hewitt was a: JP to Davidson, 9/24/1886, TD. In the end: Davidson to JP, 10/7/1886, JP-CU. On Election Day: TR told Robert Underwood; Morris, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, note 70, 800. The double triumphs: Edwin Argent to W. A. R. Robertson, 10/14/1886, WP-CU. Most vexing was: Masy le Doll to JP, 12/11/1886, WP-CU; Walter Hammond to JP, 12/4/1886, JP-CU. Work and tension: JP to Emile Grevillot, 11/23/1886, JP-CU; Philadelphia Press interview with Pulitzer, reprinted in Bismarck Daily Tribune, 12/07/1886; George Childs to KP, 11/27/1886, JP-CU. CHAPTER 19: A BLIND CROESUS Joe Howard, one: McDougall, This Is the Life! 110; NYH, 2/9/1887, 1; ChTr, 2/9/1887, 1; Milwaukee Daily Journal, 2/9/1887, 1. Howard was not: Churchill, Park Row, 151. Bennett's wrath was: Daily Inter-Ocean, 11/27/1887. The interview was conducted by Foster Coates, who would eventually become an editor for Pulitzer. Smith was a Kentuckian: ThJo, 5/10/1884, 5. Although Smith cut: Smith to JP, 1886, WP-CU, Box 8. With Cockerill overseeing: Turner to JP, 2/25/1887, WP-CU. While Pulitzer waited to: George Olney to JP, 1/27/1887, WP-CU. In the meantime: Clippings from Public Ledger and Daily Transcript, 2/7 and 2/8/1887, WP-CU, Box 9. Also ThJo, 3/26/1887, 10; 4/7/1887, 8; and 9/10/1887, 10. For years Hearst: Nasaw, The Chief, 54–55, 70–72. In late March: NYT, 3/22/1887, 8; ChTr, 3/23/1887, 3. Lawyers who knew: BoGl, 4/1/1887, 8. Pulitzer was soon: BoGl, 4/1/1887, 8; Childs to JP, 4/13/1887, JP-CU; Lucille and Ralph, letters to JP and KP, 6/9/1887, JP-CU; Childs to JP, 4/13/1887, JP-CU. After a stopover: WaPo, 5/2/1887 and 5/23/1887, 4; WAS, 156. The Pulitzers took: BoGl, 6/29/1887, 8; ThJo, 1/9/1886, 5. An enterprising American: Philadelphia Times correspondent in Paris, reprinted in several papers, including Capital (MD), 6/28/87, 1. Joseph and Kate: T. C. Crawford did the investigating for Pulitzer. See Crawford to JP, 8/12/1887, WP-CU. Nothing came of: Junius Morgan to JP, 6/4/1887, JP-NYSL. Gladstone, dressed in: Morning Post, 7/11/1887, 2, 5; Daily Telegraph, 7/11/1887, 2; PD, Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Number, 12/11/1903, 4. While the ceremony: Ford, Forty-Odd Years in the Literary Shop, 148. Unaware of the: Evening Standard, 7/11/1887, 5; Mary Gladstone, diary entry for July 9, 1887, 46, 262, Vol. 44, December 10, 1885, to Feburary 15, 1893, BLMC. By August the Pulitzers: Smith to JP, 8/6 and 8/25, 9/7 and 9/10/1887, WP-CU; JP to Smith, 9/1/1887, WHS-IHS. Abandoning business and: The Pulitzers rented Windhurst, owned by General John Rathbone. Childs to JP, 8/12/1887, JP-CU; Gleaner, 2/16/1887; Frank K. Paddock to JP, 12/24/1887, JP-CU. The Pulitzers returned: BoGl, 10/01/1887, 3; ThJo, 9/11/1886, 1. It was, indeed: Strouse, Morgan, 225–226. While negotiating for: Platt and Bowers to trustees of Mary Grace Hoyt, 12/22/1887, JP-CU. He invested in: ThJo, 4/16/1887, 13; Blackeslee to JP, 12/2 and 12/3/1886, JP-CU; Paul S. Potter to JP, 4/10/1887, JP-CU; bill of sale for Paris paintings in JP-CU, Box 7; JP to Goupil's Picture Gallery, 1/14/1887, JP-CU; Fearing to JP, 1/16/1884, JP-CU; H. A. Spalding to JP (in Paris) 5/14/1887, JP-CU; John Hoey to JP, 10/25/1886, JP-CU. Payroll records show that the Pulitzers employed a chef, a kitchen staff, and cleaning women in addition to nannies; see JP-CU, Box 8. While waiting to move to Fifty-Fifth Street, the Pulitzers and their growing retinue of servants remained at 9 East Thirty-Sixth Street, having happily left behind the Fifth Avenue house with its allegedly bad plumbing, to the fury of the landlord. The landlord claimed that prospective renters had fled because the cleaning women the Pulitzers employed were spreading rumors that the plumbing was unhealthy. Pulitzer developed a: JP to Metropolitan Telephone and Telegraph, 10/18/1886, WP-CU; WaPo, 4/17/1887, 6; ThJo, 11/14/1885, 1. Money bought the Pulitzers: NYT, 12/30/1885, 5. The ball was held: NYT, 12/30/1885, 5. The Pulitzers' rising status: WaPo, 12/19/1886, 1. In particular, Joseph: Homberger, Mrs. Astor's New York, 176. "J.P. always cherished": McDougall, This Is the Life! 165. Pulitzer did not simply: Newton Finney, one of the club's original founders, reluctantly sold two of his shares to Pulitzer when the project neared a critical deadline and had not obtained a sufficient number of subscribers. Kate's charm helped ease the owner's hesitancy about including Pulitzer. (McCash and McCash, The Jekyll Island Club, 10–11.) Despite distaste for: Homberger, Mrs. Astor's New York, 143, 175. Up until now: Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 1087–1088. "To decide a bet": Julius Esch to editor of World, 12/11/1885, WP-CU. "In all the multiplicity": ThJo, 7/12/1884, 1. "Any man can": ThJo, 7/19/1884, 2 and 6; 10/11/1884, 6. Pulitzer banned: LAT, 4/28/1891, 12. Jews, according to the newspaper, possessed untold wealth and influence. "The two Pulitzers—though they are estranged—command more circulation than all the other journals combined." The rivalry between: ThJo, 6/20/1885, 4; NYT, 4/13/1942, 15. "We have withdrawn": NYS, 10/18–11/8, 1887. Dana's words hit: McDougall, "Old Days on the World," 23. Pulitzer had reached: Childs to JP, undated but most likely fall of 1887, JP-CU, Box 7. In 1887, optometrists: Wells, A Treatise on the Disease of the Eye, 536. Which eye had failed was deduced from Dr. Hermann Pagenstecher's later comments. Pulitzer's doctors were: JP to FC, 1/26/1909, JP-LC. "I am absolutely": JP to Varina Davis, 11/30/1887, JP-CU. Congressman Walter Phelps: Walter Phelps to JP, 4/19/1888, JP-CU. CHAPTER 20: SAMSON AGONISTES On a moonlit: LAT, 2/28/1888, 3 and 3/1/1888, 6. Pulitzer's doctors in New York: Manton Marable to KP, 1/14/1888, JP-CU, quoted in WRR, 217. The journey drained: Details regarding the Pullman car may be found in April 1888 personal ledger, JP-CU, Box 7. The Pulitzers had come: Cashin, First Lady of the Confederacy, 247–250; Jefferson Davis, Private Letters, 553. For the next several weeks: Landmark, 3/1/1888, 4. During the blizzard: Walter Phelps to JP, 4/19/1888, JP-CU; Conkling to JP, 3/16/88, JP-CU; WAS, 173; Pulitzer nixed the idea: ThJo, 5/12/1888, 3; Smith to JP, 5/18/1888, WP-CU. The family reached: NYW, 5/10/1888, 1. Home again, Pulitzer: WaPo, 6/17/1888, 1; NYT, 6/10/1888, 16, and 7/8/1888, 16. Once across the: Among the doctors Pulitzer saw were Sir Andrew Clarke; Dr. Jean-Martin Charcot, one of the founders of neurology; and Dr. Charles-Edward Brown-Séquard. (See DCS-JP, 171; and WAS, 175.) Still smarting from: Manuscript fragments, JP-LC, Box 11. Resigned to his exile: ChTr, 9/16/1888, 12; Mansfield Times, 1/18/1889, 2. Infirm but not: Number of employees was derived using the World directory left in the cornerstone of the building that went up that year. It may be found in WP-CU, Box 10; JWB, 133; Turner to JP, 6/7/1888, WP-CU. Aside from creating: When a letter was read to its recipient, a report would be sent back to Pulitzer on the person's reaction. For example, in one such case, Seitz wrote to Pulitzer, "He received it in an agreeable and appreciative way." One wonders how else the recipient was to react. DCS to JP, 11/20/1900, WP-CU. Also see JP to DCS, 8/17/1900, JP-LC. For years, Pulitzer: Chambers, News Hunting on Three Continents, 307. By similar means: JP to Chambers, 2/10/1889, reprinted in Chambers, News Hunting, 333. While Pulitzer was in California: NYT, 11/14/1886, 3; DCS-JP, 169. Pulitzer recounted his early connection to French's Hotel several times in stories published in the World. The architect George Brown: Post to Barlow, 4/11/1888, WP-CU. From Paris, Pulitzer: September/December 1888, Folder, WP-CU, Box 10. Over the winter: JP to Turner, 4/19/1889, WP-CU. Money, of course: JP to Turner, 3/19/1889, WP-CU. Pulitzer still considered: JP to Turner, 3/19/1889, WP-CU. After Post's visit: JP to John Jennings, 3/11/1889, JJJ. Pulitzer took time: NYT, 4/27/1889, 4. An editor from: WaPo, 5/13/1889, 4. On May 15: Turner to Post, 5/15/1889, WP-CU. Pulitzer did his resolute best: JP to KP, 6/11/1889, JP-CU. "Well," he added: Ponsonby also wrote to Kate. He reported, "I am sure you will be glad to hear that he scarcely ever alludes to his health": Ponsonby to KP, 6/21/1889, JP-CU. In a decade: AtCo, 4/21/1889, 18; NYT, 7/3/1889, 4; WaPo, 6/4/1890, 4. Pulitzer also increased: NYT, 9/20/1889; Wilson, ed., The Memorial History of the City of New York, Vol. 5, 594–595. By 1940, 551 boys, mostly immigrant children, had gone on to become engineers, lawyers, doctors, journalists, and authors. See Time, 1/1/1940. In the fall: NYT, 10/27/1889, 13; WaPo, 9/14/1889, 5. Pulitzer also donated $50,000 to try to attract the 1892 World Fair to New York City. Nothing about the project: JP to Davis, 11/23/1889, JP-LC. On October 10: BoGl, 10/11/1889, 2; WaPo, 10/11/1889, 4; ChTr, 10/20/1889, 26. Taylor used to tell Pulitzer that "he would have no appetite for breakfast if he did not see blood running down the column rules on the editorial paper of the morning World." (Morgan, Charles H. Taylor, 140.) Inside the cornerstone: The recording, one of the earliest of a human voice, remained hidden in the box until 1955, when the building was torn down. The box fell out of a clamshell bucket and was recovered. The recording, which was transferred to a reel-to-reel format, is among the World's papers at Columbia. The men were right about the New York Giants, who went on to defeat the Dodgers in the championships. They wrongly predicted, however, that New York would get the World Fair in 1892. It went to Chicago. Many of the nation's: NYT, 10/11/1889, 2. Back again in Paris: NYT, 10/20/1889, 12; Cashin, First Lady of the Confederacy, 270–271. Every day the sad group: Winnie Davis to Jefferson Davis, Jefferson Davis: Private Letters, 582–583. He sent detailed: JP to Davis, 11/23/1899, JP-LC. Just before Christmas: JP to KP, 12/23/1889, JP-MHS. "He is certainly": Ponsonby to KP, 12/23/1889, JP-MHS. Crossing the Arabian: JP to KP, 1/14/1890, JP-MHS. Shortly after mailing: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 53–54. CHAPTER 21: DARKNESS That spring, the stacks: JP to WHM, 7/23/1890, WP-CU. Earlier in the year: Pulitzer's return to France may be dated by a canceled check signed by Pulitzer in Paris, 3/26/1889, PLFC. But over the succeeding: JWB, 137. On October 2: Pulitzer's ship and the City of New York, which left half an hour earlier, raced each other across the ocean in an intercompany competition. Passengers on each ship joined betting pools, and the two oceanliners remained within sight of each other for most of the crossing. The Teutonic, carrying the Pulitzer party, lost the race by an hour. The Teutonic completed its voyage in five days, twenty-two hours, and nineteen minutes. (NYT, 10/9/1890, 5.) Joseph settled into: Stanford White to KP, 8/29/1891, JP-CU; bills, JP-CU, Box 1889–1898; NYT, 11/17/1890, 5; WaPo, 12/7/1890, 9, and 11/30/1890, 14. In such circumstances: JP to WHM, 7/23/1890, WP-CU. The gigantic high-speed: "The World, Its History, Its New Home," Scientific American (12/20/1890), 384. Kate and Hosmer: Garrison, An Introduction to the History of Medicine, 578. As he struggled: Koestler, The Unseen Minority, 4; Selin, Medicine Across Cultures, 320. News of Pulitzer's abdication: NYH, 10/17/1890, 4. The final price: NYW, 12/11/1890; Fort Wayne Sentinel, 1/17/1891, 9. For almost four months: JWB, 143. The yacht cruised along the Spanish coast, crossed over to Africa, and then took them east to Greece and Turkey. Pulitzer defied Mitchell: Middletown Daily Press, 6/27/1891, 2; Newark Daily Advocate, 5/21/1891; Galveston Daily News, 6/21/1891, 8; AtCo, 5/1/1890, 1. Bennett had once told Cockerill that "the life of a managing editor is only five years." Leaving Kate in Paris: NYT, 6/11/1891, 8. Ballard Smith, the: BoGl, 6/11/1891, 10. Pulitzer's solution to: WaPo, 6/19/1891, 4; Johnson, George Harvey, 36. A heat wave: WaPo, 6/19/1891. A few weeks: Nasaw, The Chief, 88, 90–91. Pulitzer's emergency trip: JWB, 144; NYT, 6/16/1891, 5; WaPo, 8/16/1891, 13. Pulitzer shared most: NYT, 12/27/1909, 1. Unlike many of the elite: JP memo (probably to FC), 9/19/1907, WP-CU. As 1891 closed: JWB, 144. Again, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell: S. Weir Mitchell to JP, 12/15/1891, JP-MHS. One of the men: John Cockerill, Pulitzer's former editor, disclosed the proposed deal in the Democratic Standard (Coshocton, OH), 5/2/1892. In February, the Pulitzers: JP to Smith, 2/28/1892, WP-CU; McCash, The Jekyll Island Club; AtCo, 3/9/1892, 4. It was Pulitzers first visit: McCash, The Jekyll Island Club, 18; WaPo, 4/14/1892, 5, and 4/15/1892, 4; NYT, 4/28/1883, 1. In April Pulitzer returned to New York to catch the Teutonic, bound for Liverpool. In addition to the servants and secretaries, the Pulitzers' traveling party grew even larger with the addition of a companion for Kate, Mattie Thompson, traveling with her own personal French maid. Her father was the former representative Phillip "Little Phil" Thompson, of Kentucky, best-known for having shot to death a man he accused, quite probably wrongly, of having slept with his wife. "That man took my wife to Cincinnati and debauched her," he said while still holding his smoking gun. "I swore to kill him on sight." The jury acquitted him, agreeing with Pulitzer's friend Henry Watterson's estimation, "The forfeit of the life of the wife-seducer to the vengeance of the husband is accepted as unwritten, but inexorable, law." See Kotter, Southern Honor and American Manhood, 45. Mattie Thompson later married Kate's brother William Davis, whom she may have met while in Kate's company. Their assumption made: NYW, 2/2/1884, 4, quoted in GJ, 294. In St. Louis: NYW, 3/14/1885, 4, quoted in GJ, 309. Pulitzer—who now: NYW, 7/12/1892, 4. Angry about his paper's: J. Errol, "A Visit to Professor Dr. Hermann Pagenstecher," London Society, Vol. 63 (January–June, 1893). Pagenstecher and Pulitzer had actually first met in their youth. Udo Brachvogel had introduced them over beers at the Schalks Salon on Broadway in New York when Pulitzer was working for the Westliche Post. "We sat together sipping beers and talking," said Pagenstecher, recalling the moment to his patient. "I was greatly fascinated by your original ideas and carried away an impression of my new acquaintance that I shall never forget." (Pagenstecher to JP, 12/12/1900, JP-CU.) Pagenstecher was more: Pagenstecher to KP, 10/30/1892, JP-CU. Pulitzer rejoined his family: Hirsch, William C. Whitney, 376. With the coming: DCS-JP, 190. CHAPTER 22: CAGED EAGLE It took the: NYW, 1/13/1884, quoted in WRR, 145–146. The Majestic, one: NYT, 5/11/1893, 12; DCS-JP, 188. Bennett admired Pulitzer: Kluger, The Paper, 162–163; DCS, 182. The publishers disembarked: DCS-JP, 192. Harvey drank and toasted a bit too much. His twenty-fifth toast was to the King irritating Pulitzer. "Oh, damn it. No Kings! No Kings!" Pulitzer said. Despite the good cheer: JP to Harvey in Johnson, George Harvey, 45. Pulitzer, for his part: Filler, Voice of the Democracy, 32; DCS to JP, 1/17/1901, WP-CU. Phillips received an invitation: Marcosson, David Graham Phillips, 141–142. Pulitzer was so completely: DGP to JP, reprinted ibid., 165–166. No one on the staff: DCS-JP, 193. Seitz, who wrote the first biography of Pulitzer, began working that year at the highest levels of the paper. Much of what he describes in his book, from this point on, consists of events he witnessed himself. "It was soon": DCS, 194; Johnson, George Harvey, 58. Amid the managerial confusion: "The position of a London correspondent is extremely desirable under some circumstances but under other circumstances extremely undesirable," a frustrated Phillips wrote to Pulitzer. "It means that a man may make a reputation for himself if he can supplement energy with ability, and has the privilege of signing his name to his letters. If he has not that privilege, he is simply wasting energy, ability, and time." (DGP to JP and DGP to Jones, reprinted in Marcosson, Phillips, 168–169.) Pulitzer was unconvinced: Pulitzer was stingy with bylines, which were not then a common practice. He once told another correspondent that a byline "is a privilege, but not a right." (Memorandum for James Creelman, 1896, JC.) Phillips consented to remain: Marcosson, Phillips, 169. Leaving the paper: LAT, 12/24/1893, 25; ChTr, 11/26/1893, 25. DCS-JP, 13–14. Pulitzer suffered from: It is risky to try to identify psychological problems in historical figures. Still, "Blindness and deafness have both been recognized as causal agents in mental illness," according to Anthony Storr, Solitude, 51. Hyperesthesia is a real effect, not hypochondriacal, according to Edwin N. Carter, a clinical psychologist in private practice. "The peripheral nervous system," Carter says, "has an exaggerated response eliciting sympathetic nervous activity at the expense of parasympathetic activity." A common hyperesthesia can be found in children who feel that clothing is scratching no matter how soft it is, or too tight no matter how loose it is. (Carter to author, 10/24/2008.) His condition, in any case: JP to Adam Politzer, quoted in WRR, 255–256. As if his own health: Doctor's report of RP, 3/10/1893, JP-CU, Box 8. The older Pulitzer children: RP to LP, 2/1/1894, JP-CU. All winter Joseph: JP to KP, 4/27/1893, JP-CU; GWH to JP, 4/28/1894. In reporting his findings on Colorado Springs, Hosmer added, "I have not yet said any mention of this to Mrs. Pulitzer." Also JP to KP, 4/28/1894, JP-CU. In New York: JP to Depew, 5/17/1894, CDP. Jones's ineptitude at: AtCo, 12/10/1893, 18. With the problem of Jones: ChTr, 6/7/1894, 2. Unlike the coterie: ABF–2001, Box 3. Upon arriving in New York: BoGl, 6/24/1894, 23. Senator David Hill: McClellan, The Gentleman and the Tiger, 99–100. When he arrived for their appointment at the Normandy Hotel, McCellan found Hill talking with George Harvey, whom he met during a short stint working at the World, and who was now doing political work for Pulitzer's friend Whitney. On his return: AtCo, 12/29/1894, 3. Jones's contract: DCS-JP, 199. The terms of the contract described by Seitz are confirmed by a document in the Fogarty Collection. For Pulitzer, Jekyll Island's: AtCo, 1/11/1895, 3. One of the few witnesses: Correspondence of Felix Webber, 9/27/1894; 12/9/1894; 1/2/1895, JP-MHS. Kate had certainly: JP to KP, JP-CU, Box 8. This letter was partially burned, probably in a house fire. Her separation from Joseph: "H." to KP, Saturday, 10/10/1895 and 10/18/1895. AB-LC. In May, Pulitzer: Moray Lodge, on Campden Hill, next to Holland Park; JP to TD, 6/30/1895, TD. That summer the remodeled: BoGl, 1/10/1895, 8. The "tower of silence": Cobb, Exit Laughing, 131. Roosevelt's claim that: JLH, 108. Reading the editorial: Morris, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, 504–505; Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 1, 497. Indeed, Roosevelt's ambitions: ChTr, 2/23/1896, 11. The rebuff drew: NYT, 12/18, 1895, 1; ChTr, 12/18/1895, 1; AtCo, 12/18/1895, 1. Pulitzer refused to: Quoted in DCS-JP, 203. Pulitzer had long feared: NYS, 10/6/1878, 3. Pulitzer now expanded: JLH, 119. In England, the telegrams: NYW, 12/26 and 12/27, 1895, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 1, 503–505. Under such headlines: Eggleston, Recollections, 328–330. Eggleston based his account on notes he wrote that evening before returning to New York. Pulitzer dismissed his men: JLH, 137. Pulitzer won: NYT, 1/8/1896, 2. A senator asked Chandler if he would read one of the telegrams from the World. He said he couldn't, because the paper was now in the hands of Senator Hill of New York, arousing laughter in the chamber. The men looked over at Hill, who only months before had been currying favor with Pulitzer. "Whatever else the Senator from New York may be," Hill told his colleagues, "he is not, at this time, the defender of Mr. Pulitzer. I leave that to other gentlemen." Pulitzer mounted his: JLH, 122. A few days later: DCS-JP, 209. Roosevelt, in this: NYT, 3/19/1896, 8. CHAPTER 23: TROUBLE FROM THE WEST In February 1895: APM, 322. At the beginning: APM, 285. From its origin: APM, 272. The Journal's circulation: Henry Kellett Chambers, "A Park Row Interlude: Memoir of Albert Pulitzer," Journalism Quarterly (Autumn 1963), 542. Also NYT, 11/24/1909, 3. But his years: Morning Journal, 4/15/1895 quoted in APM, 323–324. At long last: AtCo, 7/26/1896, 23. Pulitzer's men at: DCS-JP, 211. The Examiner's office was located in suite 186 in the Pulitzer Building in 1894–1895, according to Trow's City Directory. Pulitzer found out: AtCo, 1/22/1896, 3; JP to James Creelman, 1/18/1896, JC. After two years: JP to James Creelman, 2/18/1896, JC. While the party: DCS-JP, 212–213. "The news of": ChTr, 2/9/1898, 3. "The immediate effect": DCS-JP, 213–214; Nasaw, The Chief, 104; Ochs to JP, quoted in Brown, The Correspondents' War, 28. Hearst's entry into: DCS-JP, 217; Nasaw, The Chief, 105. With his newspaper's supremacy: AtCo, 1/17/1897, 7. On Jekyll Island: King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 295–304. Pulitzer found tranquillity: ChTr, 7/12/1896, 14. Its pleasures were: WaPo, 6/6/1896, 9; ChTr, 6/6/1896, 2. The entire speech is reprinted in DCS-JP, 218–224. Before returning to: JP to Norris, 6/15/1896, JP-LC; various telegrams, JP-LC, Box 1. The strength of the silver movement: ChTr, 7/12/1896, 14; Kazin, A Godly Hero, 61. Pulitzer summoned the World's: Eggleston, Recollections, 325–326. When Eggleston delivered: "He had a wonderful judgement at prophesying and forecasting the elections," recalled Joseph Pulitzer Jr. "I can remember being impressed by that. It was uncanny the way he could do that": The Reminiscences of Joseph Pulitzer Jr., October 7, 1954, transcript, p. 67, the Oral History Collection of Columbia University. Eggleston and Pulitzer: NYW, 8/11/1896. "You can, if": JP to James Creelman, 11/4/1896, JC; Milton, The Yellow Kids, 107. The beauty of the setting: AB to KP, 1/11/1897, JP-CU (misdated as 1896). Efforts to relieve: JP to KP, 1/14/1897, JP-CU; AB to KP, 1/11/1897, JP-CU (misdated as 1896). Compounding the council's woes: JP to DCS, 9/2/1897, JP-CU. The door consumed several letters between Bar Harbor and New York. As the day neared: AB to DCS, 1/15/1897, JP-LC; BM to JP, 2/16/1903, WP-CU. What had been called: See Campbell, Yellow Journalism, 25–49. Clubs and libraries: NYT, 3/4/1897, 3. Pulitzer knew nothing: McDougall, This Is the Life! 242. Pulitzer now realized: JP to JN, 8/21/1897, JP-LC; JP to DCS, 8/28/1897, JP-LC. In a state of: AtCo, 3/18/1897, 1. The paper claimed that the previous year, Morgan had bypassed Jekyll and gone to Florida when he learned that Pulitzer was on the island (AtCo 1/17/1897, 7). After a month's rest: Pulitzer added a glass conservatory to the back of the house that he could use as a study and where he could tend to what he called "matters of state": DCS-JP, 232; WP, 3/31/1897, 7; Eau Claire Leader, 5/20/1897, 11. Among those who came: JP to James Creelman, 11/4/1896, JC; JP to DCS, 4/28/1897, JP-LC; DCS-JP, 232–233. Almost as soon: Jones to JP, March 5, 1896, PLFC. Jones grew tired: JP to JN, 6/26/1897, JP-LC; JP to BM, 6/30/1897, JP-LC. A copy of the signed agreement is in the Fogarty Papers. With the Jones episode: Letters and telegrams, August 1897, JP-LC. No one was exempt: KP to AB, date unknown, 1897, JP-CU. In August 1897: AB to KP, 3/3/1896, AB-LC. In the fall of 1897: For a discussion of the various versions of Brisbane's departure, see Carlson, Brisbane, 110–111. Elizabeth Jordan, a journalist who worked with Brisbane at the World, told one person that she heard many rumors as to the reasons but she concluded he was asked to leave because Pulitzer was not getting his money's worth from him. Reid to Sparkes, 2/28/1938, London 1886–1897 Folder, Box 2, AB. The social season: ChTr, 8/1/97, 33; Lowell Sun, 12/18/1897, 2. Lucille made a: Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 1/3/1898, 4; BoGl, 1/1/1898, 12; NYT, 1/2/1898, 7; and 1/5/1898, 4. In October there was: JP to TD, 10/13/1897, 12/8/1897, and 12/14/1897. It was left to Butes: AB to JN, 12/31/1897, JP-LC. CHAPTER 24: YELLOW In the early morning: NYT, 1/22/1899, 3. Rainsford had been picked by J. P. Morgan for the post. The moment didn't: WaPo, 2/18/1898, 7; NYT, 10/28/1898, 1. Meanwhile, Joseph remained: KP to JP, undated but dated by other elements to the spring of 1898, JP-CU, Box 8. The warmth between: GWH to KP, 3/29/1898, JP-CU. Five hundred miles: Milton, The Yellow Kids, 218–220. His boss already knew: Nasaw, The Chief, 130–131. Within twenty-four hours: NYW, 2/17/1898, 1; and 2/20/1898, 1. The staff struggled: Ledlie to JP, 2/15/1898, JP-CU; DC to JP, 4/15/1898, JP-CU. The epic battle: Chapin, Charles Chapin's Story, 179. No more stinging: The complete story may be found in Procter, William Randolph Hearst: The Early Years, 124. In April, when: TT, 4/7/1898, 12, quoted in Nasaw, The Chief, 132. From the command post: GHL to KP, 4/8/1898, JP-CU. Trying once more: JP to DCS, 5/23/1897, JP-LC; JP memo, April 1898, JP-LC. Pulitzer joined the chorus: JP to DCS, 2/15/1897, and 3/27/1897, JP-LC. "If we are": NYW, 4/10/1898. Upon completing his: GHL to KP, 4/8/1898, JP-CU; WaPo, 4/20/1898, 8; CP to JP, 5/21/1898, JP-CU. On his return: KP letter, 1898, JP-CU, Box 8; NYT, 8/28/1898, 13. The "Journal's war": Morris, Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, 615, 629. By the war's end: JN to JP, 9/11/1899, WP-CU. At least the Post-Dispatch was making money. Its 1898 profits were better than all but two previous years. Also coming to Narragansett: KP to CP, 1989, JP-CU. Box 8; NYT, 7/23/1898; AtCo, 7/23/1898, 1. The trip through the South: Cashin, First Lady, 290. On September 21, 1898: NYT, 9/22/1898, 4. The World was desperate: WaPo, 10/10/1898, 6, and 10/14/1898, 6; John Norris, "Journal and World Revenues Compared," 11/14/1898, WP-CU. Norris, along with Seitz: Memo, 1898, JP-CU, Box 8; DCS to JP, 11/18/1898, WP-CU. The typewriters were still: Memo, 11/28/1898, JP-CU. Pulitzer assigned the business manager: JP to JN, 1/31/1899, JP-CU; Noted in February 8–14, 1900 Folder, JP-CU, Box 10. A year later, Norris hinted that he thought the reason the deal to sell the Post-Dispatch failed was Pulitzer's inability to understand the financing arrangements. (JN to JP, 3/13/1900, JP-CU.) Kate was also: JN to JP, 2/17/1899, WP-CU; AB to KP, 3/14/1899, JP-CU. Pulitzer told his staff: JP to DCS, 5/4/1899, JP-LC; JP to KP, 5/31/1899, JP-CU. In Britain: Walter Leyman to JP, 10/9/1899, JP-CU, quoted in WES, 298–299. Pulitzer headed back: LAT, 5/3/1899, 5. That summer Pulitzer: NYT, 5/27/1899, 2. The builder eventually sued to get his payment. His house in New York: NYT, 1/10/1900, 2; personal ledger for April 1899 shows expenses and descriptions of items, JP-CU. Kate joined Joseph: JAS to KP, 8/1/1899, JP-CU. CHAPTER 25: THE GREAT GOD SUCCESS One icy night: NYT, 2/15/1891, 5. Jacob Riis reported the story in his Children of the Poor but gave the children different names. Newsies, as boys: Charles Dickens's fictional Martin Chuzzlewit encountered them when he disembarked in New York. '"Here's this morning's New York Sewer!' cried one. 'Here's this morning's New York Stabber! Here's the New York Family Spy!...Here's full particulars of the patriotic locofoco movement yesterday, in which the whigs was so chawed up; and the last Alabama gouging case; and the interesting Arkansas dooel with Bowie knives; and all the Political, Commercial, and Fashionable News. Here they are! Here they are! Here's the papers, here's the papers!'" (Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit, 267.) Since most copies: The headline, though it may be apocryphal, is said to have been written by Charles Chapin and appears twice in works by Irwin Cobb. See Exit Laughing, 140, and his novel Alias Ben Alibi, 126. The newsies became: There is no existing record as to which of the two newspapers raised its wholesale price first. However, only the World's managers were under orders to cut costs. Hearst was still spending money in hopes of beating the World and establishing his own paper. It makes sense that he would have matched the World's price increase but not instigated it. The newsies demanded: David Nasaw, "On Strike with the Newsboy Legion, 1899," Big Town, Big Time: A New York Epic: 1898–1998 (New York: Sports Publishing, 1998), 1839; DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike," July 27, 1899, WP-CU; NYT, 7/22/1899, 4. The strike exacted: Pulitzer had left England on the Majestic on July 12, 1899, and a special train car had brought him and the family to Bar Harbor on July 20, 1899. See Lowell Sun, 7/10/1899, 19, and Daily Kennebec Journal, 7/21/1899; DCS to JP, 7/22/1899, WP-CU; John M. Quinn, Anaconda Standard, 8/6/1899, 3. But enemies with: DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike. 7/22/1899, WP-CU. As Seitz left the Journal's office he spotted Hearst with four leaders of the newsboys. They had come from his office and had promised to call off the strike against the Journal if Hearst agreed to lower the price to 50 cents per 100. The meeting set off a rumor that he would give in. "I cannot believe he will be so foolish," Merrill wired to Pulitzer. "The boys cannot last many days—in spite of encouragement the other papers are giving." Advertisers abandoned the papers: DCS, "Memorandum on the Newsboys Strike," 7/25/1899, WP-CU. Using homeless men: DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike," 7/27/1899, WP-CU. As the strike continued: David Nasaw, "Dirty-Faced Davids and the Twin Goliaths," American Heritage, Vol. 36, No. 3 (1985), 46; NYT, 7/27/1899, 3. A clever ruse: The compromise broke the strike but was recognized by others as a loss for the newsboys. For example, newsdealers who had supported the boys withdrew their support, declaring the strike a failure: NYT, 8/1/1899, 4. Facing the resolute partnership: DCS to JP, 7/26/1899, WP-CU; DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike." 7/27/1899. WP-CU Seitz also told Pulitzer he had paid no bribes: NYT, 7/28/1899, 4. This was no longer: DCS to JP, 7/26/1899, WP-CU. When David Graham Phillips: JP to GWH, 12/22/1910 reprinted in DCS-JP, xii–xiii. The pressure was: JP to Merrill, quoted in DCS, 246. One could never: JP to WHM, reprinted in DCS, 247. Despite the outburst: JP to DGP, 8/17/1899, JP-LC. Pulitzer, however, was: Maurice, The New York of the Novelists, 139; Marcosson, David Graham Phillips and His Times, 208. In Phillips's novel: Phillips, The Great God Success, 11. Following the settlement: DCS to JP, 10/5/1899, WP-CU; DCS, "Memorandum for Mr. Pulitzer on Los," 7/31/1899, WP-CU. The two managers: DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Mr. Seitz' Conversation with Los," 8/14/1899, WP-CU. Proposals for a peace treaty: Nasaw, The Chief, 110; JP to BM, 8/29/1898, JP-LC; DCS to JP, October 4, 1898, JP-LC; memo, 12/19/1898, JP-LC; see also Nasaw, The Chief, 148–149. The squabble over the wire service would not die. Hearst enraged Pulitzer when he started using wire copy from the Journal in his Evening Journal. Pulitzer sued. Faced with the threat of being personally dragged into court, Hearst vowed to terminate the negotiations and resume his attacks on Pulitzer in the paper, "making it as personal and as powerful as he can," Carvalho warned. Keenly aware of: JP to DCS, 7/24/1899, JP-LC. Combination instead of: JP to DGP, 8/23/1902, The Sherman act specified, "Every contract, combination in the form of trust or otherwise, or conspiracy, in restraint of trade or commerce among the several States, or with foreign nations, is declared to be illegal. Every person who shall make any contract or engage in any combination or conspiracy hereby declared to be illegal shall be deemed guilty of a felony." Remaining in Bar Harbor: JP to DCS, 8/19/1899, JP-LC. Pulitzer placed high hopes: JP to DCS, 8/25/1899, JP-LC. Like a nervous suitor: JP to DCS, 9/4/1899, and 9/5/1899, JP-LC. Upon finally sitting: DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Mr. Seitz' Conversation with Los," 8/14/1899, WP-CU. From the start, both: DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Los and Treaty," 8/3/1899, WP-CU. "By the way," said Carvalho, "Mr. Pulitzer is taking a great deal of my time and much of our money in fighting an Associated Press suit against the Journal, in which he will be beaten on several important points. It seems to me that any agreement ought to be preceded by the abandonment of that suit." Seitz tried to keep the issue off the table by arguing that it would resolve itself in court. His view prevailed, and he and Carvalho decided to draft a contract to bring to Hearst and Pulitzer. "Of course," Seitz told Pulitzer, "I could see that a treaty of peace was hardly feasible while an active war went on." While the men negotiated: JN to JP, 8/8/1899, WP-CU. Pulitzer pledged: JP to DCS, 9/23/1899, JP-LC. The proposed contract may be found in WP-CU, Box 12, 9/1–15/1899. When Norris reviewed: JN to JP, 9/7/1899, and BM to JP, 9/14/1899, WP-CU. Pulitzer ignored both: JP to DCS, 9/2/1899, JP-LC; DCS, "Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Mr. Seitz' Conversation with Los," 8/14/1899. As with crushing: JP to DCS, 9/23/1899, JP-LC. The negotiations dragged: DCS to JP, 11/23/1899, WP-CU. "I cannot get over": Marcosson, Phillips, 98–99. With the arrival of winter: Phillips, The Great God Success, 170, 274, 278–279. CHAPTER 26: FLEEING HIS SHADOW Muffled sounds of screaming: NYT, 1/10/1900, 3; WaPo, 1/10/1900, 3; BrEa, 1/9/1900, 18; NYH, 1/10/1900; James W. McLane to JP, 1/14/1900, JP-CU. Kate and the children: ChTr, 2/21/1900, 4; NYC Fire Department Chief and Police Chief Clerk letters to DCS, 3/5/1900, JP-CU. As Pulitzer's fifty-third birthday: NYT, 4/13/1900, 9; 1899 Expenditures, in January 1–7, 1900, Folder, JP-CU, Box 10. Kate had not yet: Dr. McLane to JP, 5/7/1900, JP-CU; JAS to JP, 5/7/1900, JP-CU. At the World: JP telegram, 1/5/1900, JP-LC. Since January: JN to JP, 4/2/1900, JP-CU; Berger, The Story of the New York Times, 127; ChTr, 10/17/1902, 12. Phillips was also: DGP to JP, 4/5/1900, JP-CU; BM to JP, 4/5/1900, WP-CU; JAS to JP, 4/14/1900, JP-CU. When Phillips returned, he got into a fight with Pulitzer over the cost of the trip. After more than a decade: Transcript of JP talk, 1900 Folder, WP-CU, Box 14. The telegrams tested: ABi to AB, 2/29/1901, JP-CU. People in competitive: The only known surviving copy of the codebook once belonged to H. A. Jenks, JP-CU. Here is a sample of a coded telegram, followed by the decoded version. Coded: "Would unhesitatingly give atlas of angers aroma for arm on second art agony especially if I were anxious to get rid of management of amour." Decoded: "Would unhesitatingly give approval of Knapp's proposition for arbitration on second-class security especially if I were anxious to get rid of management of Post-Dispatch." JP to AB, 2/22/1899, JP-CU. This 5,000-entry book: Sometimes Pulitzer's choice of codes must have raised an eyebrow or two. One must wonder what a telegraph operator in the 1890s made of a message that spoke of "vagina" ($27,500 in advertising for a week) or "vaginal" ($28,000). Pulitzer organized his lexicon by letter groupings. Codes for cash balances, for instance, were all words that began with H. "Ha" stood for $1,000; "hypocrite" meant $400,000. For his private bank balance, Pulitzer used a term that many people looking at their own checkbooks could relate to: "hysterics." The complex code was rendered even more cumbersome by the addition of codes within coded messages. When Pulitzer sought to have checks sent out in his name, his requests were supposed to include one of five names from a list of cities found in the annual World Almanac. Without the name, no payment was authorized. To stay out of trouble: The memo dated 2/23/1910, is bound in Jenks's codebook, JP-CU. For himself, Pulitzer: In 2005, when the Pulitzer family announced the intention of selling the Post-Dispatch, a group of employees made a last-ditch effort to purchase it. They named their attempt the "Andes Project": Guild Reporter, 2/11/2005, 1. In late June 1900: NYT, 6/26/1900, 6; RP to JP, 6/15/1900, JP-CU. Like most of: Ralph did not want Butes to bring the matter up with his father. "I judge that the paper is worrying him considerably and I hate to talk money with him, as you know": RP to AB, 8/1899, JP-CU. Ralph's fifteen-year-old brother: JPII to JP, 3/12/1901, JP-CU. It was not until: Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 32. Seven years later, Joseph Jr. was present when his father received an appeal from a worker who had been fired after his parents refused to let him come to work on Rosh Hashanah. "I appeal to you, being that you are a Jew (otherwise, I would not appeal)," wrote Isaac Feigenbaum. Joseph Jr. told Seitz that his father said, "If this chap really has a sincere religious conviction, that fact should be considered. He leaves the matter with you." (Feigenbaum to JP, 9/27/1907, JP-LC.) Pulitzer supervised the children's: JP to DCS, 10/30/1900, JP-LC. Pulitzer had even: DWP, 33; JP to KP, 11/24–29/1901, dictation in notebook, JP-CU, Box 16, Folder 5. Pulitzer took less interest: JP to KP, 12/4/1900, JP-CU. Pulitzer's attitude toward his daughters was typical of fathers at the time. At his death, he left his daughters each a fraction of his estate but no interest in any of the newspapers. Joseph endlessly expressed: JP to KP, 1/14/1897, JP-CU; Adam Politzer to JP, 10/19/1900, JP-CU. As her time: DGP to JP, 11/22/1900, WP-CU. The passage to which Phillips alludes may have been Horace, Epistles, Book 1, Poem 1, lines 81–93. When one of the governesses: Ledlie to JP, 6/29/1900, JP-CU; KP to JP, no date, probably 6/29/1900, June Folder, JP-CU, Box 11; KP to JP, 7/18/1900 and 7/19/1900; JP to KP, 7/21/1900; KP to JP, 7/22/1900, KP to JP, 7/25/1900, JP-CU; JAS to JP, 8/1/1900, JP-CU. It was not a good time: JP to KP, 10/22/1899, JP-CU. After Davidson's death: J. Clark Murray to JP, 9/16/1900, and W. R. Warren to JP, 9/21/1900, JP-CU. In the fall of 1900: JC to JP, no date, in 1900 folder, WP-CU, Box 14. Backing Bryan put: Kazin, A Godly Hero, 105. In the early morning: ChTr, 10/10/1900, 1. "In the few moments": GHW to KP, 10/15/1900, JP-CU. The new century: Details of the war between the large retailers and the World may be found in WP-CU, Box 18. An upturn in: The modern securities laws were years away. What Pulitzer was doing was not illegal. For instance, his banker obtained confidential information about his bank's forthcoming dividends and purchased shares for Pulitzer to benefit from the higher price the stock would fetch. (DC to JP, 10/14/1904, JP-CU.) Pulitzer invested in: In 1902 and 1904, Pulitzer asked Clarke to sell railroad and steel stocks because he was uncomfortable owning them. In one instance, Clarke replied, "It would seem a pity to make the sacrifice simply because your sense of what is right and just is not complied with" (DC to JP, 9/2/1902, JP-CU); JP to DC, undated, JP-CU, Box 8. All the income: DuVivier and Company to KP, 4/5/1901; Gebrüder Simon to JP, 12/5/1900; GWH to KP, 2/21/1901, JP-CU. The new mansion: William Mead to Hughmon Hawley, 12/14/1900, MMW. Just when matters: Stanford White to JP, 2/11/1902, MMW. In the circulation war: DCS to JP, 9/17/1891, WP-CU. Earlier in the year, when giving instructions to his editors, Pulitzer used an example that eerily came to pass, "Not even if McKinley is assassinated."(JP comment, in Merrill summary upon return from Jekyll, 3/8–10/1901 WP-CU.) For the first: WAS, 324; BM memo, 10/21/1901, WP-CU. On the other hand: PB to JP, 9/10/1901, WP-CU. The combination of: Two years later the Wall Street Journal, which regularly commented on the city's journalism, noted the change. "The World has in the past few years retained all the more desirable attributes of the 'yellow' journalism, [but] it has abandoned many of the methods of degraded demagoguery which have made the Journal a stench in the nostrils of people who are able to think." (WSJ, 5/11/1903, 1.) The calm that Pulitzer: Figures contained in 1902 Folder, JP-CU, Box 19. In choosing art: GHL to JP, 3/24/1902, JP-CU. Kate was willing: JP to KP, 4/16/1902, JP-CU. In fairness, Joseph also included tender words about how much he was thinking of her. But these may well have been written to make her feel better or may have been the idea of Butes, who would have taken the dictation. Kate, however, did not: GHL to AB, 5/23/1902, JP-CU. "I not only": DCS-JP, 254. Joseph left Kate: Dr. Bounus to JP, 7/3/1902, JP-CU; KP to GHL, 7/27/1902, JP-CU. Alone in Maine: GHL to AB, 8/9/1902 and AB to GHL, 8/10/1902, JP-CU. In September, John Dillon: BoGl, 10/16/1902, 4; ChTr. 10/17/1902, 12. For an additional: JP to FDW, 10/16/1902. Bills, letters, and drawings, 10/29/1902; prepaid voucher, 10/29/1902, JP-CU; JP dictation to White Star, 8/28/1905, LS Folder, 1903–1905; JP to White Star, 11/17/1900, JP-CU. White Star kept the mats in storage for times when Pulitzer booked passage. See AI, 196–197. Years before, while running: PD, 5/30/1879, 2. The meeting was the Thirteenth Annual Session of the Missouri Press Association, held at Columbia, MO, May 27 and 28, 1879; Chicago Inter-Ocean, 11/27/1887. See also NYW, 4/4/1887, quoted in WRR, 754. By the 1890s: Life, 9/8/1898, 189. Henry Luce would later buy this magazine and turn it into the famous weekly of the twentieth century. While he was at rest: Correspondence, 8/12/1902, JP-CU, indicates that a lawyer came to Maine to revise the will. For an example of press figures with whom Pulitzer discussed his ideas, see H. W. Steed to JP, 7/6/1904, BLMC; "Rough Memorandum," 1902, JP-CU. Although his idea: Franklin Prentiss to JP, 11/26/1887, and "Christmas Prizes Offered by Mr. Pulitzer," 11/3/1899, JP-CU; November memo, 1899, JP-LC, Box 2. Pulitzer assigned Hosmer: JP to KP, 5/20/1904, JP-CU. On the train: JP to GWH, 8/11/1902, JP-CU; DCS-JP, 435; AtCo, 2/3/1903, 5. Ignoring Seitz's opinion: JP to GWH, 8/11/1902, JP-CU. On Sunday, February 22: Volo and Volo, Family Life in Nineteenth-Century America, 196. Pulitzer let loose: JP telegram, 2/26/1903; WP-CU, DCS to JP, 2/27/1903; JP memorandum, 2/27/1903; JP memo to DCS, 2/28/1903; Council notes, 3/2/1903, WP-CU. Pulitzer replied that: Gale was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1921, for a play based on her novel Miss Lulu Bett. For more on her work at the World, see Morris, The Rose Man of Sing Sing, 155–156. When Edith arrived: BoGl, 5/9/1903, 20; Edith Pulitzer to JP, 5/1903, JP-CU; NYT, 5/9/1903, 8. Pulitzer took great joy: Draft of letter in July 3–6, 1903 Folder, JP-CU, as well as numerous other items in the files. In fact, not long after: James Tuohy to JP, 7/17/1903, JP-CU. I have chosen not to use the man's name, as there is no way to ascertain his side of the story. There exists one letter in which the man is said to deny the charges. One reader in particular: JWC to JP, February 1903, WP-CU. Writing to Joseph: KP to JP, 6/21/1903, JP-CU. CHAPTER 27: CAPTURED FOR THE AGES In early 1904: JWB, 183–185. For Kate, the winter: KP to JP, 2/19/1904; KP to JP, 2/4/1904; JP to KP, 2/22/1904; KP to JP, 2/23/1904; KP to JP, 3/1/1904, JP-CU. Remaining in New York: JPII to JP, 4/7/1904; JP to AB, 1/29/1904, JP-CU. Harvard decided that: JPII to JP, 2/15/1904, JP-CU. After her time: KP to JP, 5/4/1904, KP to JP, 5/13/1904, JP-CU. J. P. Morgan was also resting in Aix-les-Bains. "If you two get together there will be an interesting time," said Pulitzer's banker Dumont Clarke (DC to JP, 5/6/1904, JP-CU). "In all my planning": JP, "The College of Journalism," North American Review (May 1904), 680. However, in the year: DCS-JP, 457. Butler consented but: Butler to George L. Rives, 8/15/1903, quoted in Boylan, Pulitzer's School, 15. Realizing that the story: NYT, 8/16/1903, 6; TR to Robert Underwood Johnson, 12/17/1908, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 6, 1428. None of the public praise: DCS-JP, 460. In Aix-les-Bains: JP to KP, 5/25/1904 (misdated as 1905), JP-CU. Joseph didn't rest: Transcripts of Pulitzer's Pitman Shorthand Notebooks, 1903–1905, LS. When Pulitzer's mood: JP to JPII, 5/23/1904 (misdated as 1905), JP-CU. None of Pulitzer's secretaries: JP to KP, transcripts of Pulitzer's Pitman Shorthand Notebooks, 1903–1905, LS. His cruelty stung: KP to JP, 9/15/1904, JP-CU. The elections of 1904: AB to SW, 1/1/1904, WP-CU. Ralph dutifully reported: RP to JP, 1/4/1904, and JP to RP, 1/25/1904, JP-CU. Roosevelt's interest in seeing Pulitzer is also noted in a letter from the president to Harvey on January 22, 1904. (Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 3, 702.) Roosevelt extended his invitation: TR to J. E. Smith in DCS memo to JP, 9/19/1899, WP-CU. Pulitzer sent Williams: "Bryan Statement," 2/25/1904, JP-CU. As the Democrats settled: WSJ, 6/28/1904, 3; JP to DCS, 5/6/1904, WP-CU. Pulitzer was elated: WAS, 356. See also Stoddard, As I Knew Them, 56–57; Morris, Theodore Rex, 341. Morris believed Parker was swayed by the New York Times's opposition to the silver standard. See also Kazin, A Godly Hero, 166–120. From Bar Harbor: JP to WHM, 8/1904, JP-LC. Pulitzer had long sought: JP editorial memo, September 1904, WP-CU. The ten questions: J. W. Slaght to BM, 10/20/1904, WP-CU; Klein, Life and Legend of E. H. Harriman, 364. Roosevelt considered the attacks: TR to Henry Cabot Lodge, 10/31/1904, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 4, 1006–1007; JP, draft of editorial, JP-CU, Box 31. As 1905 began: David Francis to JP, 2/22/1905; JP to FDW, 3/18/1905; JP to Francis, 3/1/1905; Francis to JP, 3/2/1905, JP-CU. When Francis returned: JP to Francis, 3/3/1905; JP to FDW, 3/10/1905, JP-CU. "Mr. Pulitzer is alone": ChTr, 2/3/1905, 6. On April 10: KP to JP, 4/11/1905; JP to RP, 5/25/1905, JP-CU. Newspaper management was: GWH took down the conversation. See November 1904, JP-CU, Box 31. Kate had mailed: JT to JP, 3/12/1902; JP to GWH, 4/15/1903, JP-CU. Finally the painter consented: KP to JP, 4/11/1905. By mid-May: KP to JP, 5/8/1905; notes on undated sheet, 5/15/1905, JP-CU. Her portrait complete: MAM to JP, 5/21/1905, JP-CU. Kate wanted to leave: JP to Edith Pulitzer, 5/12/1905; see also JP dictation, May 9–14 Folder, Box 34; JP to KP, 5/14/1905; JP dictation to KP, 5/25/1905, JP-CU. Almost in a pique: JP to EP, 6/1/1905, and EP to JP, 6/2/1905, JP-CU. Unaware of her husband's: KP to JP, 6/16/1905, JP-CU. Pulitzer took his turn: James Tuohy to JP, 4/4/1905; JT to JP, 4/26/1905, JP-CU. Accompanying Pulitzer to London: JP to Bettina Wirth, undated June Folder, 1904, JP-CU, Box 30; JP to Dr. Van Noorden, 10/1906, JP to AB, 6/18/19093, JP-CU. When Thwaites first: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 51–53; Mortimer to JP, 1/19/1902, JP-CU. On this trip: KP to JP, 5/8/1905, JP-CU; Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 51–53. CHAPTER 28: FOREVER UNSATISFIED The story had surfaced: Beard, After the Ball, 171–178. The World aggressively: DCS-JP, 275. The staff usually: JP to FC, DCS-JP, 280. How to please: Memo to JP, probably written by Samuel Williams, 10/1907, WP-CU. Within a month: JP to DCS, 8/28/1905, JP-LC. Merrill was wounded: WHM to JP, 9/14/1905, WP-CU. Worried that he might: AB to WHM, 11/14/1905; WM to AB, 11/20/1904, WP-CU. Four years later, Pulitzer instructed Seitz to buy letters that Pulitzer had written to Townsend in the 1870s. (See JP to DCS, 4/2/1909, JP-LC.) It is unlikely that any of these letters contained anything particularly scandalous. Rather, Pulitzer probably felt that his frank comments about political figures would be embarrassing if quoted. Ralph finally screwed up his courage: RP to JP, 7/28/1904, and Nolan and Loeb to JP, 1/9/1905, JP-CU. Money was of little concern: RP to JP, 6/6/1905, JP-CU; KP to Sally, 9/20/1905, JP-MHS. On October 14: WaPo, NYT, BoGl, 10/8/1905; KP to JP, 7/2/1905; and KP to JP, 7/12/1905, JP-CU. For a brief moment: RP to JP, 10/14/1905, quoted in WAS, 374. The father expressed: JP to RP, 10/5/1905, JP-CU. Joseph decided that: Walker, City Editor, 6. See also Morris, The Rose Man of Sing Sing. In April, Joseph called: Chapin, Charles Chapin's Story, 216. His father's continued harshness: JPII to JP, 12/12/1906. The Reminiscences of Joseph Pulitzer Jr., October 7, 1954, transcript, p. 15, the Oral History Collection of Columbia University. For the full story of JPII's rise, see Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II. After Joe was banished: Telegraph notes, 5/15/1906; KP to JP, 11/24/1906, JP-CU. Kate, her companion: KP to JP, 5/16/1906, JP-CU. In London, Kate: KP to JP, 5/7/1906, and 5/20/1906, JP-CU. After Paris, the group: Edith Pulitzer to JP, 5/24/1906, JP-CU. Kate returned to: KP to JP, 8/28/1906, JP-CU. After consecutive failed bids: KP to JP, 10/28/1906, JP-CU; Nasaw, The Chief, 156–158. Of all of Hearst's enemies: WAS, 383; JP editorial memo, 9/1904, WP-CU. Hearst, however, knew: ChTr, 10/28/1906, 1. In the end: WaPo, 11/18/1906, 11. Three decades after: The Reminiscences of Joseph Pulitzer Jr., October 7, 1954, transcript, p. 39, the Oral History Collection of Columbia University. Kate was proud: KP to JP, 11/18/1906 and 11/11/1906, JP-CU. Reaching age seventy-five: GWH to JP, 12/25/1906, JP-CU. She stayed in New York: KP to JP, 12/24/1906; JP to AB, 12/23/1906, JP-CU. Shortly after New Year's Day: KP to JP, 1/12/1907, JP-CU. "You would be": KP to JP, 2/5/1907, JP-CU. To her pleasure: Stephen MacKenna to JP, 3/6/1907, JP-CU; WRR, 562. "As to the sittings": Butler, Rodin, 408. Pulitzer's French: NYW, 10/31/1911. The sittings with Rodin: Doods, Journal and Letters of Stephen MacKenna, 32. On April 10: WaPo, 4/12/1907, 4; ChTr, 4/11/1907, 7; NYT, 4/11/1907, 5. There still was no truce: JP to JPII, 5/27/1907, JP-CU. Joseph's somber mood: Marcosson, Phillips, 134–135. That Butes went: AB to DCS, 2/27/1904. In the fall: Undated, unsigned report, filed in December 1908 Folder, JP-CU, Box 58. The $1.5 million Liberty: JP, May 1906 Folder, Box 39, JP-CU. As a result: JP to GWH, 4/1907, JP-CU. On a Sunday morning: The visit was on July 26, 1908. A copy boy, Alexander L. Schlosser, who later became an editor, recorded the events of Pulitzer's visit to the World. See JWB, 208–214. Clarke smiled but: GWH and DCS agree on the number of visits Pulitzer had made to the building since its construction. The truth was: JP and Clark Firestone, conversation transcript, 8/5/1908, WP-CU. Two months before: NYW, 5/10/1908; BoGl, 5/10/1908, 13; WaPo, 5/2/1908, 2, AI 28. In August, Pulitzer: FC to JP, 2/8/1908, WP-CU. In fact, Bryan's: Ibid. Pulitzer instructed Cobb: JP to FC, quoted in DCS-JP, 328. Pulitzer's efforts were: Notes 7/6/1908, WP-CU. Without knowing Pulitzer's motives: DCS-JP, 340. CHAPTER 29: CLASH OF TITANS On the evening: NYT, 10/2/1908, 3. According to rumors: Frank Cobb, "How the Story Came into the Office," 3, EHP, Folder 21. The story had immense appeal: Roosevelt, Autobiography, 553. Speer left his office: NYT, 2/23/1915, 13; JP to Adolph Ochs, 3/26/1908, NYTA. After listening to: DCS-JP, 352. Around ten o'clock: Frank Cobb, "How the Story Came into the Office" DCS-JP, 353. As soon as: Whitley later claimed that he had told Van Hamm the article was untrue. But the World wisely kept the copy of the proof that Whitley marked up. According to Frank Cobb, "It shows that Mr. Whitley scratched out the name of Charles P. Taft and substituted Henry W. Taft. Then he erased the name of Henry W. Taft and restored the name of Charles P. Taft." (Cobb, "How the Story Came into the Office," 1–2.) "But for Mr. Cromwell": Ibid., 4. Over the next: JP telegram, 10/2/1909, quoted in DCS-JP, 343; NYW, 10/14/1908, 1, and 10/21/1908, 1. The articles, while conceding: Indianapolis News, 11/2/1908. Pulitzer was sailing: JP to FC, 11/3/1908, JP-LC; DCS-JP, 349. With the election over: TR to William D. Foulke, 12/1/1908, reprinted in ChTr, 12/8/1908, 1. An astonished Pulitzer: WaPo, 12/7/1908, 2; DCS-JP, 356. Roosevelt had not mentioned: Cobb, "How the Story Came into the Office," 9. By the time the Liberty: NYW, 12/8/1908. "I do not know": JP conversation notes, 8/27/1908, JP-LC. "When I was": TR to HS, 12/9/1908, HSP. Roosevelt wanted revenge: Alfred H. Kelly, "Constitutional Liberty and the Law of Libel: A Historian's View," American Historical Review, Vol. 74, No. 2 (December 1968), 429–452. Stimson found the envelope: HS to TR, 12/10/1908, HSP. To begin his research in a stealthy manner, Stimson had to obtain the Attorney General's permission to requisition $10 to buy old issues of the World. "No source is open to me to read the files of the World for that month in connection with the Panama matter without possible danger of arousing interest and publicity": HS to AB, 12/21/1908, NARA MD. Impatient, Roosevelt looked: Rhodes, The McKinley and Roosevelt Administrations, 271. "It seems to me": TR to Knox, 12/10/1908, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 6, 1418–1419. Next, Roosevelt composed: WaPo, 1/17/1909, 1. On December 15: ChTr, 12/16/1908, 2. Two minutes into the message: NYT, 12/16/1908, 1. While Roosevelt was seeking: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 57–58. Pulitzer also summoned: Van Hamm to JP, 1/7/1909, WP-CU. This didn't satisfy: JP to DCS, 12/16/1908. WP-CU. There was nothing: JP memo, phoned to Cobb, 12/15/1908, JP-LC. By nightfall, Pulitzer: Mr. Pulitzer's statement, 12/15/1908, JP-LC. It was a half-truth: Memo written on board Liberty, 6/26/1908; JP to Williams, 9/12/1908, JP-LC. Aid came from: ChTr, 12/7/1908, 6. Bryan also wrote a supportive note to Cobb. Bryan to FC, 12/19/1908, WP-CU. Pulitzer believed prison: JP note to Robert P. Porter, 12/15/1908, JP-LC; Notes, 12/16/1908, JP-LC; DCS to JP, 12/17/1908, WP-CU. The Liberty's southerly course: WaPo, 12/20/1908, 2; ChTr, 12/20/1908, 2; JP to Cobb, 12/18/1908, and Notes of Mr. Pulitzer's Conversations, 12/19–20/1908, JP-LC. Summoned, Cobb raced: JP to DCS, 12/19/1908, and Confidential memo to Cobb, 12/23/1908, JP-LC. Legally, Pulitzer's guess: HS to Bonaparte, 1/15/1909, CJB. Despite Stimson's hesitance: Butt, The Letters of Archie Butt, 314. Later that night: RHL to JP, 2/7/1909, WP-CU. Earl Harding reported Roosevelt's words as follows: "As to the men I'm bringing libel suit against, I will cinch them. I will cinch them in Federal Courts, if I can. If I cannot cinch them there, I will cinch them in the State Courts. But the one sure thing is we will cinch them." Harding, The Untold Story of Panama, 97; WRR, 710; WaPo, 1/31/1909, 1. With the clock ticking: DCS-JP, 373; JP told DCS "get into the habit of using the cipher as much as necessity requires." (Notes dictated 2/10/1909, JP-LC); Davis to DCS, 1/18/1909, JP-LC; Notes 2/1/1909, JP-LC. Pulitzer could not restrain: JP to FC, 1/26/1909; JP undated notes, JP-LC, Box 8. The Justice Department's attorneys: BoGl, 1/17/1909, 12. Stimson was convinced: NYT, 1/17/1909, 1 and 1/19/1908, 3. Ralph, who feared: NYT, 1/21/1909, 1. Stimson was infuriated: HS to Bonaparte, 1/21/1909, CJB. Cobb seized the: "Freedom of the Press," NYW, 2/6/1909. Amusingly, a compositor changed "persecution" to "prosecution" in setting the editorial into type. FC to JP, 2/6/1909, WP-CU. In the legal proceedings: WaPo, 2/2/1909, 1. "Thus far, we": HS to Bonaparte, 2/8/1909, CJB; TR to HS, 1/28/1909, HSP. The following morning: NYT, 1/30/1909, 3. "To put it": Cobb, Exit Laughing, 156–161. "Even so," Jerome continued: Stimson had feared this might be the case. He wrote to Bonaparte that Jerome's "personal relations with the New York World have naturally made him reluctant to push forward under a charge of officiousness and a desire for personal revenge." (HS to Bonaparte, 1/28/1909, CJB.) Stimson remained firmly: Ibid. and HS to Bonaparte, 2/8/1909, and 2/10/1909, CJB. Bonaparte brought the: Bonaparte to HS, 2/9/1909, CJB; TR to HS, 2/10/1909, HSP. Stimson did not cower: HS to TR, 2/11/1909, HSP. On his yacht: Reporters' notes on grand jury, WP-CU, Box 46; JP dictation, 2/10/1908, and JP notes 2/5/1909, JP-LC; WaPo, 2/18/1906, 1. Frank Cobb was ready: NYW, 2/18/1909. Arrest warrants were: JP to FC, 3/1909, JP-LC. McNamara consulted the attorney general: 2/9/1909, CJB; 2/15/1909, 5/7/1910, NARA-MD; TR to HS, 2/13/1909, HSP; NYT, 2/24/1909, 2; FDW to JP, 2/26/1909, JP-CU. Meanwhile, the grand jury: HS to George Wickersham, 3/5/1909, NARA-MD. These indictments, like: A copy of the applicable statute can been seen in Barrows, New Legislation Concerning Crimes, Misdemeanors, and Penalties. The single copy sent to the federal building was not to a subscriber. Rather, it was a copy sent for inspection as required by postal laws. By the time the Liberty steamed: WaPo, 3/6/1909, 1. His nerves agitated: Notes, 3/8/1909, JP-LC; GWH to JP, undated but written shortly after his 4/l8/1909 grand jury appearance, in April 1909 folder, JP-CU; Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act IV, Scene 1. Clearing Sandy Point: Pulitzer's staff was always prepared for such an event. In February, money had been given to Tuohy in London for the payroll for the ship's crew should the Liberty suddenly be overseas. (AB to Davis, 2/9/1909, JP-CU.) JAS to JP, 4/6/1909, JP-CU; DCS-JP, 376–377. Pulitzer spent the summer: AT to FC, 9/3/1909, JP-LC. Each side believed: McNamara to George Wickersham, 7/27/1909, NARA-MD; Harding, The Untold Story of Panama, 61. Harding was among: Harding, Untold Story, 67–70. Harding decided: Guyol report, EHP. When Harding and Guyol: The officials reported to Washington that Harding and Guyol told Colombians they were there "to right the great wrong done Colombia by the United States and restore Panama to its former state." (Huffington to Attorney General, 12/11/1909, NARA-MD.) Harding concluded: Huffington to Attorney General, 12/11/1909, NARA-MD, Quoted in Guyol report, EHP, Folder 38. Choral hydrate is one of the oldest known sleep inducing drugs and is still used today for the purpose of date rape. Harding took matters: Huffington to attorney general, 12/11/1909. NARA-MD. Seitz did not seem to believe the letter from the legation. "Harding was waylaid in Colombia in the belief that he carried certain documents of value—which he did not": DCS-JP, 377–378. CHAPTER 30: A SHORT REMAINING SPAN After disagreeable stays: NT to DCS, 10/1/1909, JP-LC. Albert had also: JWB, 256. Fanny Barnard Pulitzer died 6/24/1909, in New York, at age fifty-three: NYT, 6/26/1909, 7. Over time, Albert's behavior: The Call, 3/10/1909, 1. Albert's passion for the city's oysters also gave rise to a tale republished for weeks in American newspapers. A companion at luncheon recommended that Albert put horseradish on his oysters. Uncertain if his Viennese physician allowed him to eat this condiment, Albert telegraphed home. He promptly received permission. The high cost of the telegrams provided an irresistible feast of merriment for reporters, such as one who began his story with the lead, "For the privilege of eating horseradish, Albert Pulitzer paid $40." (LAT, 3/10/1909, 13.) While he was in San Francisco: Oakland Tribune, 10/17/1909, 4; NYT, 4/6/1909, 1; ChTr, 11/6/1909, 13. By fall, his memoir: NYT, 10/5/1909, 4; ChTr, 10/05/1909, 5. Eulogy reprinted in APM. Joseph learned of: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 65–66. Several days later: Adam Politzer to JP, 10/16/1909, JP-CU. Joseph was mentioned in Albert's will of 1881. It provided that he should receive Albert's gold Waltham watch and chain, gold cufflinks, and turquoise shirt studs and asked that he watch over Albert's son Walter. But the will in effect when Albert died made no mention of Joseph. (See JWB, 254–255.) As winter set in: DCS-JP, 392–393. Contributing to Pulitzer's melancholy: JAS to JP, 12/28/1909, JP-CU; JP notes for RP, 1/26/1910, JP-LC. Pulitzer's loneliness was: JP to JPII, 5/27/1907, JP-CU. Kate did her best: KP to JP, 9/24/1902, JP-CU. His twenty-nine-year-old son: JPII to JP, 1/4/1910, MHS. Once again, Pulitzer revised: JP to Edward Sheppard, 4/25/1910, JP-CU. Hughes apparently declined to be a trustee, but Pulitzer kept him in the will nonetheless: JP to KP, 5/5/1910, JP-CU. See also NT to DCS, 1/25/1910, JP-LC. "I am of": ChTr, 10/13/1909, 8. On January 25: NYT, 1/27/1910, 3. The law was intended: The Roosevelt Panama Libel Case, 98; NYT, 1/26/1910, 8; WaPo, 1/26/1910, 4; The History of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, 12. The only party: NYT, 2/26/1910, 8. In March, Joe: Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 107. Even Wickham had: JP to Elinor Wickham, 8/31/1909, quoted in Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 104. In person, Joseph: JPII to JP, 3/18/1910, JP-MHS, quoted in Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 107–108. The children gone: NYT, 11/14/1911, 1. Roosevelt's prosecution of: NYT, 10/25/1910; WaPo, 10/25/1910, 11. Pulitzer's attorney once again: Harding, Untold Story, 87. Ten weeks later: Harding, Untold Story, 77. Pulitzer got word: NYW, 1/4/1911; Harding, Untold Story, 82. As Phillips neared: NYT, 1/24/1911, 1; WaPo, 1/24/1911, 1; ChTr, 1/24/1911, 1. Funeral services were held: JP to RP, 3/10/1911; telegram, 4/11/1911; NT to RP, 3/12/1911; KP to RP, 5/28/1911, JP-LC. One of Pulitzer's many doctors: Dr. Heinbrand to JP, June 1911, JP-CU; Wood, Pharmacology and Therapeutics for Students and Practitioners of Medicine, 103. In the summer: JP to Emma Cunlifee-Owens, 3/4/1911, WP-CU. Pulitzer and Cobb: Notes of conversation, 6/22/1911, in June 17–21 folder, WP-CU, Box 51. Pulitzer was an unabashed fan of Wilson's. He telegraphed Wilson after Wilson's election victory of 1910, urged Cobb to promote Wilson continually, and even proposed publishing a campaign pamphlet. (JP conversation with FC, undated 1910 Folder, JP-LC, Box 9; JP to FC, 11/21/1910, JP-LC.) Concluding his meeting: NYT, 7/2/1911, X4, and 6/11/1911, X4. Joseph spent time: AI, 213–214. Joseph's favorite indulgence: Transcript of conversation written by Firestone, 8/5/1911, WP-CU. Wallace C. Sabine: Wallace C. Sabine to McKim et al., 5/13/1902, JP-CU. The house's proximity: JP memo for RP, 10/5/1911, WP-CU; JP to JPII, 10/9/1911, JP-CU. If his employees: Gaynor, quoted in RHL to JP, 10/8/1911, WP-CU. Roosevelt never let up: JP notes, 10/5/1911, JP-CU. Of the three men: WRH to JP, 10/9/1911, WP-CU. CHAPTER 31: SOFTLY, VERY SOFTLY On the second day: AI, 234–236. The following day: Syracuse Herald, 10/20/1911, 11. Pulitzer's German reader: Christopher Hare, The Life of Louis XI: The Rebel Dauphin and the Statesmen King (New York: Scribners, 1907). The book's last words, which Pulitzer did not hear, were, "The France of Louis XII is the justification of Louis XI" taken from Stanley Leathes, Cambridge Modern History, Vol. 1, The Reformation (London, MacMillan, 1904). The following day: Colorado Springs Gazette, 10/30/1911, 1. When they reached: JP to GWH, January 7, 1911, quoted in DCS-JP, x; New York American, 10/30/1911. Pulitzer's death was: Death certificate, South Carolina Room, Charleston County Main Library. So many former: Elizabeth Jordan, "The Passing of the Chief," New Yorker, 12/18/1947. 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Unpublished, Missouri Historical Society, 1919. Morris, Edmund. The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt. New York: Ballantine, 1979. —. Theodore Rex. New York: Random House, 2001. Morris, James McGrath. The Rose Man of Sing Sing: A True Tale of Life, Murder, and Redemption in the Age of Yellow Journalism. New York: Fordham University Press, 2004. Morris, Whitmore. The First Tunstalls in Virginia and Some of Their Descendants. San Antonio, TX, 1950. Murdock, Eugene Converse. One Million Men. Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1971. Nagel, Charles. A Boy's Civil War Story. St. Louis, MO: Eden, 1935. Nasaw, David. The Chief: The Life of William Randolph Hearst. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2000. Official Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, St. Louis, MO, June 27, 28, 29, 1876. St. Louis: Woodward, Tiernan, and Hale, 1876. Official Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, 1880. Dayton, OH: Dickinson, 1882. Paget, John. Hungary and Transylvania. 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Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. The Roosevelt Panama Libel Case against the New York World and Indianapolis News. NewYork: New York World, 1910. Roosevelt, Theodore. An Autobiography. New York: MacMillan, 1913. —. The Letters of Theodore Roosevelt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1951. Rosewater, Victor. History of Cooperative News-Gathering in the United States. New York: Appleton, 1930. Ross, Earle Dudley. The Liberal Republican Movement. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1910. Scharf, J. Thomas. History of Saint Louis City and County, Vols. 1 and 2. Philadelphia, PA: Louis H. Evert, 1883. Schurz, Carl. Intimate letters of Carl Schurz, 1841–1869. Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin. Seitz, Don C. Joseph Pulitzer: His Life and Letters. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1924. Selin, Helaine, and Hugh Shapiro. Medicine across Cultures: History and Practice of Medicine in Non-Western Cultures. New York: Springer, 2003. Shoemaker, Floyd C., ed. Journal Missouri Constitutional Convention of 1875. Jefferson City, MO: Hugh Stevens, 1920. Silverman, Phyllis Rolfe. Never Too Young to Know: Death in Children's Lives. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. Smythe, Ted Curtis. The Gilded Age Press: 1865–1900. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2003. Snider, Denton. The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy, Literature, Education, Psychology with Chapters of Autobiography. St. Louis, MO: Sigma, 1920. Starr, Stephen Z. The Union Cavalry in the Civil War, Vol. 2. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1981. Stealey, O. O. 130 Pen Pictures of Live Men. Washington, DC: Privately published, 1910. Stevenson, James H. Boots and Saddles: A History of the First Volunteer Cavalry of the War. New York: Patriot Publishing, 1879. Stoddard, Henry L. As I Knew Them. New York: Harper, 1927. Storr, Anthony. Solitude: A Return to Self. New York: Free Press, 1988. Strouse, Jean. Morgan: American Financier. New York: Random House, 1999. Sugar, Peter F., ed. A History of Hungary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990. Swanberg, W. A. Pulitzer. New York: Scribner, 1967. Taylor, J. N., and M. O. Crooks, Sketch Book of Saint Louis. St. Louis, MO: George Knapp, 1858. Thwaites, Norman. Velvet and Vinegar. London: Grayson and Grayson, 1932 Trefousse, Hans Louis. Carl Schurz: A Biography. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1982. Turner, Hy. When Giants Ruled: The Story of Park Row. New York: Fordham University Press, 1999. Twain, Mark. Life on the Mississippi. Boston, MA: James L. Osgood, 1883—. Adventures of Tom Sawyer. New York: Harper, 1903. Volo, James M., and Dorothy Denneen Volo. Family Life in Nineteenth-Century America. Greenwich, CT: Greenwood, 2007. Walker, Stanley. City Editor. New York: F. A. States, 1935. Wass, Hannelore, and Charles A. Corr, eds. Childhood and Death. New York: Hemisphere, 1984. Watterson, Henry. Henry Marse: An Autobiography, Vol. 1. New York: George Doran, 1919. Wells, John Soelberg. 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"Black St. Louis: A Study in Race Relations 1865–1916." PhD diss., University of Missouri, 1972. Eichhorst, Thomas. "Representative and Reporter." MA thesis, Lincoln University, 1968. Fagan, Susan R. "Thomas Davidson: Dramatist of the Life of Learning." PhD diss., Rutgers University, 1980. Miradli, Robert. "The Journalism of David Graham Phillips." PhD diss., New York University, 1985. Moehle, Oden. "History of St. Louis, 1878–1882. MA thesis, Washington University, 1954. Olson, Audrey Louis. "St. Louis Germans, 1850–1920: The Nature of an Immigrant Community and Its Relation to the Assimilation Process." PhD diss., University of Kansas, 1970. Reynolds, William Robinson. "Joseph Pulitzer." PhD diss., Columbia University, 1950. Saalberg, Harvey. "The Westliche Post of St. Louis: A Daily Newspaper for German-Americans, 1857–1938." PhD diss., University of Missouri, 1967. Tritter, Thorin Richard. "Paper Profits in Public Service: Money Making in the New York Newspaper Industry, 1830–1930." PhD diss., Columbia University, 2000. Tusa, Jacqueline Balk. "Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency: The Liberal Republican Movement: 1869–1872." PhD diss., Pennsylvania State University, 1970. Viener, John V. "A Sense of Obligation: Henry Stimson as United States Attorney, 1906–1909." Honor thesis, Yale University, 1961. ## Searchable Terms Note: Entries in this index, carried over verbatim from the print edition of this title, are unlikely to correspond to the pagination of any given e-book reader. However, entries in this index, and other terms, may be easily located by using the search feature of your e-book reader. "Abide with Me," 459 Acme Commodity and Phrase Code, 364–65 "Act to Protect the Harbor Defense and Fortifications Constructed or Used by the United States from Malicious Injury, and for Other Purposes," 435 Adams, Charles Francis, 84, 85, 87, 88–89 Adams, Franklin P., 462 Adams, John Quincy, 84 African Americans, 46, 57, 58, 73, 74, 95, 107–9, 142, 180, 478n, 493n agriculture, 105, 272, 293 Alien and Sedition Acts (1798), 422–24, 447, 450 Allemannia, 37, 71 Allen, Julian, 18–19, 20, 476n Allen, Thomas, 51, 158, 186–88, 198 American Wine Co., 101 "Andes Project," 520n anti-Semitism, 47, 108–9, 248–49, 252, 260–63, 265, 324, 395, 499n Anzeiger des Westens, 51, 79, 488n Arnold, Simon J., 155, 500n Around the World in Eighty Days (Verne), 282 Arthur, Chester A., 182, 194 Ashkenazi Jews, 10 Associated Press (AP), 82, 102, 103, 153, 154, 160, 170–71, 175–76, 198, 227, 256, 339, 355, 358, 481n–82n, 490n, 518n asthma, 196, 205, 292, 294, 301, 304, 343 Astor House, 274, 290 Atalanta, 204 Atherton, Gertrude, 442 Atlanta Constitution, 305, 314 Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, 35 Augustine, Edward, 59–66, 70–71, 77–78, 97, 116, 169–70, 200, 373, 487n, 489n Babcock, Orville E., 121 Baker, Daniel W., 433 Baker, Jason, 485n ballot boxes, 139 Balmer, Bertha, 104 Balmer, Charles, 103–4 Baltic, 391 Baltimore Gazette, 173 Barère de Vieuzac, Bertrand, 422 Barnard, Fanny, 121, 135, 254, 320, 441–42 Barnard College, 337 Barney, Charles, 257 Barnum, P. T., 137 Barrett, James, 463, 484n Bartholdi, Frédéric-Auguste, 150, 235–37, 508n "Battle Cry of Freedom, The," 25 "Battle Hymn of the Republic, The," 463 Beauharnais, Eugène de, 442 Beauvoir mansion, 269–70 Bedloe Island, 235, 245 Bell, Alexander Graham, 150 Belletristisches Journal, 112, 130 Belmont, August, 128, 259, 260 "Belshazzar's Feast" cartoon, 230–31, 245, 259 Benecke, Louis, 76, 77, 96, 489n Bennett, James Gordon, Jr., 208, 249, 274, 281, 284, 288–89, 299–300, 319 Bennett, James Gordon, Sr., 98, 192, 197, 210 Benton, Thomas Hart, 62 Benton military barracks, 31 Berger, Wilhelm, 17–18, 27 Bible, 2, 66n, 459 Billings, Arthur, 412, 413, 454, 459 Bismarck, Otto von, 150, 294, 314, 329, 499n Blaine, James, 188, 222–23, 225–28, 229, 231–32, 245, 259, 506n Blair, Francis, 87–88, 154 "blue laws," 312–13 Bly, Nellie, 282 Bonaparte, Charles, 428, 429, 431, 432–33, 435, 526n Bonnat, Léon, 310, 412 Book of Common Prayer, 337 Boonville Advertiser, 109 Boonville Weekly Eagle, 109 Booth, Edwin, 137 Boston Globe, 279 Boston Herald, 174, 244, 401 Bothnia, 124 Botts, George "Charcoal," 99 bounty hunters, 20, 21, 23, 476n Bowers, John, 429, 430 Bowles, Samuel, 76, 85–86, 136–37, 143 Bowman, Frank J., 113, 115, 175, 494n Brachvogel, Udo, 51, 140, 141, 369, 513n Brigands, Les (Offenbach), 100 Brisbane, Arthur, 305–6, 310–11, 323, 326, 334, 335, 339, 516n Britannic, 149 British Guiana, 313–15 Brit Milah, 10 Broadhead, James, 95, 110, 115, 122, 198, 199, 202 Brockmeyer, Henry C., 34, 39, 101, 110, 118 Brockway, Zebulon Reed, 306–7 bronchitis, 284–85 Brooklyn, N.Y., 227, 250–51, 331, 345 Brooklyn Bridge, 212 Brooklyn Eagle, 219 Brooks Brothers, 343 Broun, Heywood, 462 Brown, B. Gratz, 45, 71, 72, 74, 75, 78–79, 80, 81, 82, 83–84, 87–88, 89, 91, 93, 108, 111, 154, 155, 170, 487n, 489n Brown, John, 478n Brown, Margaret Wise, 487n–88n Bryan, William Jennings, 150, 309, 326, 327–28, 332, 348, 353, 359, 365, 369–70, 384, 389–91, 415–16, 417, 419, 426, 452, 455 Buchanan, James, 85 Buda, Hungary, 10, 13, 71 Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, 14 Bureau of Corporations, U.S., 392–93 Burnes, James, 234 Burr, Aaron, 121 Butes, Alfred, 328–29, 330, 333–34, 336, 338, 346–47, 364, 366, 374, 375, 385, 388, 397, 401, 404, 408, 411, 521n Butler, Ben, 227 Butler, Ed, 184, 187 Butler, Nicholas Murray, 379, 386–87, 394, 458 Caine, Hall, 290 California, 265, 269–71, 272 capitalists, 186–89, 198–99, 205, 208–9, 217–18, 220, 245, 259, 293–98, 299–300, 371, 399–400 Carnegie, Andrew, xi, 296 Carter, Edwin N., 514n Carteret, George, 414 Carvalho, Solomon S., 261–62, 300, 302, 322, 323–24, 339, 351, 355–57, 519n Cedric, 399, 400 Celtic, 376 Chambers, B. M., 175–76 Chambers, Julius, 274, 321 Chapin, Charles, 340–41, 403–4, 517n Chapman, H., 479n Charleston News & Courier, 456 Chew, John H., 146 Chicago, 52, 98, 165, 182, 224, 482n–83n Chicago Daily News, 504n Chicago Evening Post, 52 Chicago Herald, 233–34 Chicago Times, 256, 363 Chicago Tribune, 72, 76, 84, 85, 159, 193, 229, 313–14, 323, 482n–83n Childs, George, 247, 253–54, 263–64, 279, 295 chloral hydrate, 439, 527n Choate, Joseph, 368 cholera, 59–60, 481n Christian Brothers College, 171 Christianity, 11, 15 Christmas, 191, 295, 314–15, 328, 335–36, 408 Church of the Epiphany, 145–46, 178, 499n Cincinnati, Ohio, 84–90, 126, 178–79, 181–83 Cincinnati Commercial, 76, 85, 86 Cincinnati Enquirer, 85, 126, 204, 217, 320–21 Civil Rights Act (1871), 108 Civil War, U.S., 18–27, 35, 37, 39–40, 44, 45–46, 75, 89, 108, 129, 274, 288, 332, 458, 476n, 478n–79n, 480n Clark, John Bullock, Jr., 140, 178 Clarke, Arthur, 413–14 Clarke, Dumont, 294, 317, 333, 365, 371, 381–82, 431, 444–45, 446, 520n–21n Clarke, James W., 353 Cleveland, Grover, 223, 224–25, 228, 229–30, 234–35, 242, 276, 293, 308–9, 313–17, 332, 390, 391, 393, 507n Clopton, William, 200, 201 Cobb, Frank, 383–84, 388, 400–401, 415–16, 419, 425, 426, 427, 428–29, 430, 431, 447, 450, 452, 453, 462, 525n, 528n Cobb, Irvin, 431–32 Cockerill, John A., 85, 126, 138, 292, 293, 302, 364, 384, 499n death of, 324 as St. Louis Post and Dispatch editor, 173–74, 176, 177, 178, 194, 198, 199–202, 206 Pulitzer's firing of, 290–91, 293, 301 Slayback shot by, 200–202, 263 as World editor, 207–8, 212, 218, 225, 226, 234, 239, 249, 250, 253, 263, 265, 270, 273, 274, 279, 284, 290–91 codebooks, 2, 364–65, 428, 444, 519n–20n Colombia, 438, 439, 459 Columbia University School of Journalism, 4, 337, 376–79, 386–87, 389, 394, 446, 458, 461 Commoner, 426 Comstock, Anthony, 261 Conkling, Roscoe, 188, 192–93, 206, 223, 242–43, 244, 270–71, 492n, 506n Constitution, U.S., 45, 57, 125, 143, 183, 430–31, 446–47, 486n Constitutional History (Hallam), 457 Conway, Patrick, 83 Cooper Union, 128–29, 219 Corcoran, William, 142 Corsair (Morgan's yacht), 1 Cortelyou, George, 391–93, 425 Cox, Samuel Sullivan "Sunset," 140 Crane, Stephen, 339–40 Creelman, James, 322, 328, 362, 459 Crime and Punishment (Dostoyevsky), 375 Croffut, William A., 84 Cromwell, William Nelson, 417–20, 424, 425, 434, 437, 438–39, 446 Cuba, 325, 338–39, 341, 343, 359 Current Literature, 482n Custer, George A., 25 Czolgosz, Leon, 372 Dana, Charles, 98–99, 129–33, 151–52, 192, 208, 216, 219, 224, 261–63, 265, 276, 280, 294, 300, 306, 326, 333, 434 Danube River, 15, 30 Dark Lantern, 184, 187 Daudet, Alphonse, 367 Davenport Demokrat, 90 Davidson, Thomas, 40–42, 67, 126, 243–44, 246, 311, 335, 367, 369, 380, 382, 483n–84n Davis, Catherine Worthington, 140–41, 396 Davis, Clara, 141, 178 Davis, David, 84, 85, 86 Davis, Jefferson, 140, 145, 259, 270 Davis, Kate, see Pulitzer, Kate Davis, Mattie Thompson, 512n, 513n Davis, Richard Harding, 321, 339–40 Davis, Varina, 270, 285, 344 Davis, William H., 238, 253, 273, 278, 279, 281, 284, 291, 513n Davis, William Worthington, 140–41, 265, 281 Davis, Winnie, 259, 270, 271, 280–81, 338, 343–44 Day, Benjamin Henry, 98 Deer Island, 20, 477n Delmonico's restaurant, 216, 230, 258, 259, 298, 300, 410 Democratic National Committee, 128 Democratic National Convention: of 1856, 85 of 1876, 124 of 1880, 178–79, 181–83 of 1884, 224 of 1888, 269 of 1896, 326–27 of 1904, 390–91 Democratic Party, 4, 44, 47, 52, 53, 58, 67, 71–77, 84, 85–86, 91, 93, 95, 96, 106–12, 116, 124–33, 139–40, 161, 165, 178–79, 181–89, 192, 199, 204, 210–11, 216, 217, 219–32, 241, 246, 259, 262, 269, 271–72, 285–86, 293, 307, 326–28, 332–33, 348, 369–70, 388–93, 406–7, 415–16, 417, 418–19, 451–52, 456, 506n see also specific elections Demosthenes, 255 Depew, Chauncey, 245–46, 259, 276, 278, 279, 305, 324, 508n Detroit Free Press, 383–84 Deutsche Gesellschaft (German Immigrant Aid Society), 32, 35–36 Dewey, George, 342–43, 369 Dickens, Charles, 51, 54, 98, 214, 455, 517n Dillon, Blanche, 158, 160 Dillon, John A., 154, 156, 158, 160–61, 167, 173, 202, 207, 239, 300, 304, 328, 333, 347, 353, 363, 365, 375–76, 382, 500n Dohány synagogue, 15 Dorsheimer, William, 216 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 277, 375 Drake, Charles, 45–46 Dreiser, Theodore, 81 Drexel, Joseph, 254 duels, 62, 199n, 200 Dunningham, Jabez, 5, 456, 457, 461 Dyer, David P., 122 Eads, James B., 103, 112, 115–16, 141, 146, 153, 158 Eads Bridge, 153, 158, 491n, 494n Edgar, Elizabeth, 462 Edison, Thomas, 150, 279, 280 Eggleston, George, 274, 280, 316, 326–27, 353, 354 Eider, 276 elections, U.S.: of 1856, 85 of 1858, 178 of 1868, 180 of 1869, 52–69, 75, 488n–89n of 1870, 71–77, 87, 105, 187 of 1872, 58, 77, 78, 80–94, 95, 104, 105, 111, 120, 138, 152, 181, 184, 225, 229 of 1874, 104–10 of 1876, 122, 123, 124–33, 138, 139–40, 152, 179, 182, 185, 216, 225, 228 of 1878, 178 of 1879, 186–87 of 1880, 177–81, 184–88, 219, 225, 229, 232 of 1884, 219–32, 236, 246, 261, 262–63, 326, 332 of 1886, 246 of 1888, 269, 271–72, 276, 293 of 1890, 285–86, 293 of 1892, 293 of 1894, 306–7 of 1896, 15, 309, 326–28, 332–33, 353, 390, 391, 415 of 1900, 347–48, 369–70, 391 of 1904, 388–93 of 1906, 406–7 of 1908, 415–16, 417, 419, 420 of 1910, 528 of 1912, 451–52, 456 electoral college, 130–32, 189, 231–32, 327, 391 Electoral Commission, U.S., 132, 496n electric light, 159, 258, 279, 282, 348 elevators, 112, 287, 289, 413, 454 Eliot, Charles, 366 Eliot, George, 290, 291 Ellis, John Ezekiel, 145 Elmira state reformatory, 306–7 Elmslie, Constance Helen Pulitzer, see Pulitzer, Constance Helen Elmslie, William Gray, 462 English, William, 182 Episcopal Church, 141, 146, 178, 260, 261, 366, 402–3 Equitable Life Insurance Co., 197, 399–400 Etruria, 237–38, 271 Evarts, William, 259, 276 Every Saturday, 76–77 Exposition Universelle (1878), 150, 235 Ezekiel, Moses, 142 Faust, Tony, 31, 169 Fearing, Charles, 282 Federalist Party, 450 Feigenbaum, Isaac, 520n Fettmann, Eric, 497n Field, Cyrus W., 259 Field, Eugene, 104, 138 Fifteenth Amendment, 45, 57, 486n Fifth Amendment, 430–31 Fifth Avenue Hotel, 112–13, 124, 135, 137, 177, 192, 206, 207, 229–30 Finney, Newton, 510n Firestone, Clark B., 453–54 First Volunteer Cavalry, U.S., 4, 343 Fishback, George, 492n–93n "five nightingales," 103–4, 138 Florida, 130–31 Fogarty, Leslie, xii Fogarty, Pat, xii Foster, Gade, and Graham, 454 Francis, David, 393–94 Freedom of Information Act (FOIA), xii Freedom Triumphant in War and Peace, 25 free silver movement, 293–94, 301, 307, 309, 315, 326, 328, 332–33, 348, 384, 391 Free Soil Democrats, 71 Frémont, John, 154 French's Hotel, 27, 274 Frey, Elize Berger Pulitzer, see Pulitzer, Elize Berger Frey, Max, 16–17, 23 Frick, Henry Clay, 296–98 Frost, Richard Graham, 139 Gale, Zona, 380, 389, 522n gambling, 83, 195, 306, 439, 490n Gardarino, John, 349 Garfield, James, 182, 189, 192–97, 225 Garland, 19, 20 Garland, Augustus, 242 Gartenlaube, Die, 38 Gaynor, William J., 455 General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, 331 Gentry, William, 105 George, Henry, 246 "German Diet," 56 German Emigration Society, 54 Germania Club, 104 Gibson, Eustace, 241–42, 243 Gilmore, Patrick S., 137 Gladstone, William, 255–56, 314, 325 Gobelin tapestries, 362 Godkin, Edwin Lawrence, 192, 315 Goethe, Johannes Wolfgang von, 42, 106 gold standard, 181, 293–94, 309, 315, 391, 415 Gordon, John Brown, 145 Gotham Hotel, 458–59 Gottschalk, Lewis, 115, 116–17, 170, 501n Gould, Jay, 198–99, 204–6, 216, 218–19, 230, 231, 232, 274, 293–94, 394, 412 Goupil's Picture Gallery, 258 Grace, William R., 240 Graham, Margaret, 213–14 Grand Army of the Republic, 458 Grand Union Hotel, 260 Grant, Ulysses S., 24, 26, 44, 72, 73, 74, 75–76, 80, 82, 84, 87, 91, 92, 104, 106, 108, 120–22, 125, 130, 131, 137, 180, 218, 225, 488, 489n, 490n, 491n Grant & Ward, 240 Great Depression, 462 Great God Success, The (Phillips), 303, 354, 359–60, 374–75, 381 Greeley, Horace, 21, 84, 88–94, 98, 111, 125, 126, 192, 208, 231 Gribayedoff, Valerian, 230–31 Grosvenor, William M., 45, 71, 72, 73–77, 80, 81–83, 86–88, 96, 101, 104, 106, 108, 120, 492n Guiteau, Charles, 192–93, 196–97 Guyol, Edwin Warren, 438–40 habeas corpus, 183 Halévy, Ludovic, 100 Hall, Oakey, 121, 128 Hallam, Henry, 457 Halstead, Murat, 76, 85–86, 175–76, 229 Halstead, O. S. "Pet," 99 Hamburg, Germany, 18, 37 Hamlet (Shakespeare), 137 Hammond, Walter, 247 Hammonia, 135 Hancock, E. C., 207 Hancock, Winfield, 182–83, 189 Harding, Earl, 437–40, 526n, 527n Hare, Christopher, 457, 528n Harper's Weekly, 179, 202, 226 Harrison, Benjamin, 272, 276, 285 Hart Island, 22 Harvard University, 251, 321, 338, 361, 366, 379, 385, 403, 407, 454, 461 Harvey, George B. M., 291, 300, 302, 389, 458, 513n, 514n Hay, John, 439 Hayes, Rutherford B., 125–33, 136, 151, 152, 179, 225 Házmán, Ferenc, 71 Hearst, William Randolph: ambition of, 251–52, 291–92, 318, 321–32, 333, 355–59 background of, 3–4, 251–52 congressional campaign of, 390 gubernatorial campaign of (1906), 406–7 inheritance of, 251–52, 291–92, 321, 323 McKinley's assassination and, 372–73, 407 in New York City, 291–92, 318, 321–32, 333 as New York Journal publisher, 3–4, 321–32, 334, 338–41, 343, 372–73, 388, 517n, 518n, 519n political influence of, 338–43, 372–73, 390–91, 406–7 as presidential candidate, 390–91 Pulitzer as rival of, 3–4, 151, 251–52, 291–92, 321–32, 333, 365, 372–73, 406–7, 441, 455, 458, 517n, 518n, 519n Pulitzer's agreement with, 355–59, 370, 377, 518n, 519n reputation of, 372–73, 377, 390–91, 406–7 salaries paid by, 321, 322 in San Francisco, 251–52, 321 sensationalism used by, 330–31, 338–41, 372–73, 377 Spanish-American War supported by, 338–43, 388 staff hired by, 321, 322–24, 330–31, 334, 339, 341, 353 "yellow journalism" of, 330–31, 372–73, 377 Hebrews in America, The, 498n Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 34, 39–40, 51, 67, 89 Henderson, John, 122–23 Hendricks, Thomas, 228 Hesing, A. C., 111–12 Hevrah Kadisha, 10 Hewitt, Abram, 246 Hill, Britton A., 78, 113, 489n Hill, David, 279, 293, 306–7, 390, 391, 514n–15n Hill, Edward B., 437 Hinton, Chalmers A., 478n Hinton, Richard J., 479n Hobbes, Thomas, 314 Hoe printing presses, 162, 167, 171, 177, 194–95, 286, 340, 415, 500n, 506n "Hogan's Alley," 330–31 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 449 Homer, 255 home rule charters, 118, 495n Homestead Strike (1892), 296–98 homosexuality, 380–81, 483n–84n Honor, 408 Hood, John, 338 Hooker, Isabella Beecher, 143 Horace, 368 Hosmer, George W., 284, 285, 287, 290, 291, 292, 294, 300, 301, 305, 338, 364, 370, 372, 376, 377, 378, 395, 407, 408, 413, 436, 461 Hotel Bristol, 254, 272 Hotel Cap Martin, 328–29 Hough, Charles, 447 House Committee on Elections, 139 House of Representatives, U.S., 131–32, 139, 234, 240–43, 423–24, 508n Houser, Daniel, 102, 153, 173, 192, 493n Howard, Joe, 248–49 Hudnut's Pharmacy, 291, 499n Hughes, Charles Evans, 407, 446 Hummel, Henry Charles, 479n Hungary, 4, 9–19, 35, 55, 71, 108, 116, 135–36, 146, 253, 382, 474n, 476n, 481n Hunt, Richard Morris, 274 Hutchins, Stilson, 53, 75, 76–77, 84, 95, 96, 101, 102–3, 113–15, 120, 121, 122, 124, 137, 138, 145, 146, 153, 173–74, 178, 195, 196–97, 488n–89n, 494n, 499n, 502n Hyde, James Hazen, 399–400 Hyde, William, 82, 154, 164, 165, 178–79, 181, 184, 186–87, 198, 201, 301 hyperesthesia, 303–4, 514n Illinois-St. Louis Bridge Co., 158 Illinois Staats-Zeitung, 52, 98, 111, 120, 122 immigration, 181, 214, 225, 236, 271, 278, 287, 350, 482n income tax, 219, 327 Indiana, 89, 124–25, 128, 130, 182, 183, 185, 188, 189 Indianapolis News, 420–21, 434, 435 Indianapolis Sentinel, 125, 126, 491n–92n Injuries of Nerves and Their Consequence (Mitchell), 288 Ireland, 255 Ireland, Alleyne, 452–53, 457, 465, 480n, 482n Iron Mountain Railway, 51, 186 Ittner, Anthony, 56, 62, 63–64, 68–69, 74, 140, 483n James, William, 483n Jay Cooke and Co., 101, 103 Jefferson, Thomas, 461 Jellett, Morgan, 362 Jerome, Leonard, 259 Jerome, William, 427, 428, 430, 431, 432, 526n Jewish Emigration Society (Pest), 17 Jews, Judaism, xiii, 4, 9–11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 47, 66n, 108–9, 141, 146, 178, 248–49, 252, 253, 260–63, 265, 288, 324, 366, 395, 443, 474n, 498n, 499n, 520n John Romer, 22, 28 Johnson, Andrew, 26, 81, 84, 121 Johnson, Charles P., 43, 48, 61, 66, 77–78, 82, 95, 96, 98, 101, 104, 137, 153, 172–73, 184, 187–88, 200, 480n, 489n Jones, Charles H., 301–2, 305, 307–8, 332–33 Jordan, Elizabeth, 458–59, 516n Journalist, 223–24, 261 J. P. Morgan & Co., 417 Julius Caesar (Shakespeare), 202, 436 Jump, Edward, 104 Justice Department, U.S., xii, 4–5, 421–24, 426, 428, 429–36, 446–50, 525n, 526n Kansas City Journal, 65 Kealing, Joseph, 435 Keller, Helen, 288 Kelsoe, William A., 482n Keppler, Joseph, 75, 108, 494n Klunder, Charles, 258 Knapp, Charles, 186, 195, 198, 346, 393 Knapp, George, 154, 195, 198 Knapp, John, 154 Knott, James Proctor, 140 Know-Nothing movement, 225 Knox, Philander Chase, 423 Kossuth, Lajos, 11, 12, 116 Ku Klux Klan, 108, 493n labor movement, 183–84, 190–91, 212, 272, 293, 296–98 Laclede Hotel, 166–67 Lake to Gulf Waterways Association, 423 Lamar, Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus, 140, 145 "land sharks," 27–28 Langtry, Lillie, 229 Lathan, Robert, 456 Ledlie, George H., 304, 341, 373–74, 375, 396, 454, 459 le Doll, Masy, 247 Lee, Robert E., 24 Leech, Margaret, 461 Lemps brewery, 60 Leo X, Pope, 73 Leslie, Miriam, 254 Leviathan (Hobbes), 314 Lexow, Rudolph, 112 Liberal Republican Convention (1872), 80–94, 105, 126, 138, 173, 181, 489n–90n Liberal Republicans, 57–58, 69, 71–77, 78, 80–94, 95, 97, 100, 104–6, 112, 120, 125, 126, 127, 128, 136, 138, 140, 173, 175–76, 181, 488n, 489n–90n, 492n, 493n, 494n Liberty (Pulitzer's yacht), 1–2, 5, 412–13, 415, 416, 420, 421, 424, 426, 427, 433, 434, 436–37, 444, 446, 452, 456–57 Life, 377, 521n Life of Louis XI, The (Hare), 457, 528n Liggett, Dolly, 171 Lincoln, Abraham, 22, 23, 24, 84, 103, 123, 128, 154 Lindell, Peter, 489n Lindell Hotel, 153, 176, 200–201 Lippmann, Walter, 462 Livy, 12 Lodge, Henry Cabot, 313, 315, 316–17 London Evening Standard, 256 Los Angeles Times, 261 Louis-Philippe I, King of France, 11 Louis XI, King of France, 457, 528n Louisiana, 32, 130–31 Louisville Courier-Journal, 76, 85, 178, 249 Low, Seth, 377, 379, 458 loyalty oaths, 43–44, 53, 57, 74 Lucas, Charles, 62 Luce, Henry, 521n Lucille Pulitzer Scholarship, 337 Luther, Martin, 73 Lyman, Robert, 413–14, 434 lynchings, 107–8 Lyon, Nathan, 67 McAllister, Ward, 241, 258 Macarow, Maud Alice, 396, 404, 405, 408 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 422, 457 McClellan, Brinton, 306 McClellan, George, 306–7, 514n McClurg, Joseph, 71, 72, 73, 74 McCullagh, Joseph, 80–82, 111, 156, 157, 158, 161, 164, 173, 174, 177, 184, 201, 493n, 500n, 502n McCullough, John, 144, 202, 499n McDougall, Walt, 225–28, 230–31, 248, 259, 263, 296 McDowell, Joseph Nash, 481n Mackay, Katherine, 379–80, 389, 399 McKee, William, 102–3, 120, 488n, 493n MacKenna, Stephen, 405, 409, 410 McKim, Mead, and White, 257, 362–63, 371–72 McKinley, William, 327–28, 338, 339, 342, 359, 369–70, 372–73, 389, 407, 521n McKinley Tariff Act (1890), 285–86, 296 McLane, James W., 264, 271, 458 McLane, Robert, 254 McLean, John, 204, 217, 320–21 McNamara, Stewart, 433, 434, 437 McReynolds, James, 449 Madison Square Garden, 137, 209, 406 Maine sinking (1898), 3, 338–39 Majestic, 290, 291, 343, 374 Makó, Moravia, 9–12, 14, 15–16, 17, 474n, 475n Manhattan Club, 128, 216 Manlius, Titus, 12 Mann, Friedrich, 457, 459 "Map of Bryanism: Twelve Years of Demagogy and Defeat—An Appeal of Independent Democratic Thought, by the New York World, The," 415 Marable, Manton, 263 Marie Antoinette, 278 Marine Bank, 240 Marmaduke, John, 153 Martin Chuzzlewit (Dickens), 517n Mary Stuart, 353 Maximilian I, Emperor of Mexico, 17–18, 26 Meilhac, Henri, 100 Mendelssohn, Moses, 14 Mephistopheles, 154, 493n Mercantile Library (St. Louis), 32–33, 39, 51, 126, 202, 482n Merrill, Bradford, 300, 312, 341–42, 345, 348, 358, 386–87, 388, 391–92, 394, 459 Merrill, William H., 244, 250, 253, 265, 296–98, 335, 353–54, 383, 400–401 Metcalfe, Lyne, 139 Metropolitan Museum of Art, 461 Metropolitan Opera House, 258, 399 Military Academy, U.S., 435 Mill on the Floss, The (Eliot), 290 Mississippi River, 29–30, 103, 112, 480n, 496n Missouri, 43–46, 70, 74, 82, 97, 106–10, 115, 116–19, 120, 130, 139–40, 144, 199, 220, 229, 332 Missouri Constitutional Convention (1875), 109–10, 115, 116–19, 120, 144 Missouri Democrat, 43, 45, 65, 71, 73–76, 77, 80–81, 83–84, 92, 102, 120, 154, 346, 485n, 488n, 492n, 493n Missouri Grange, 105 Missouri Pacific Railroad, 56, 106, 297, 485n Missouri Republican, 43, 74, 82, 102, 106, 114, 164, 165, 166, 178, 184, 187, 198, 201, 202, 346, 485n Missouri River, 56, 401–2, 496n Missouri Staats-Zeitung, 77 Miss Vinton's School for Girls, 380 Mitchell, Edward P., 130 Mitchell, S. Weir, 287–88, 290, 294–95, 376 monopolies, 102, 162–63, 171, 176, 198–99, 208, 217–18, 219, 220, 225, 230–31, 246, 271, 296–98, 356, 371, 389, 392–93, 399–400, 454, 507n, 518n Monroe Doctrine, 26, 313 Montgomery, Elizabeth, 362 Moore, Edith Pulitzer, see Pulitzer, Edith Moore, William Scoville, 462 Moravia, 9–12, 14, 15–16, 17, 474n, 475n Moray Lodge, 324–25 Morgan, Edwin D., 492n Morgan, J. Pierpont, xi, 1, 254, 258, 259–60, 290, 315–17, 331, 391, 401, 405–6, 417, 434 mortgages, 155, 160, 170–71, 175–76, 257, 289, 293 Morton, Anna, 260 Morton, Levi P., 126, 127, 259, 260, 313, 496n Mountain Democrat, 72 Mount Desert Island, 271, 337 Munkácsy, Mihály, 259 Nast, Thomas, 231, 496n National Associated Press, 160 National Grange, 105 Navy, U.S., 338, 342–43 Neolog reform movement, 11, 15 Neuda, Max, 442 Neue Anzeiger, 55 Newark Advertiser, 99 Newman, Eric P., xii newspaper boys ("newsies"), 169, 183–84, 191, 226, 238, 349–54, 355, 358, 518n newspapers: afternoon, 157–58, 162, 171, 172, 273 auctions of, 101–3, 153–57, 172, 175–76 circulation of, 195, 203, 207, 261–62, 320–22, 343, 344–45, 481n comics published in, 330–31 compositors for, 190–91, 198, 208, 209 counting rooms of, 167, 169 crime stories in, 166, 213–14, 226–27, 321 "ears" design in, 211 editorial staff of, 85–86, 90–93, 129–30, 138, 173 evening, 153, 157–58, 159, 168, 261–62, 273, 349–53, 424 "extras" of, 350 finances of, 173, 197–98, 500n free speech protections for, 118–19, 150, 426–27, 429, 434, 449–50 German, 31, 44, 61, 90–93, 101–2, 482n, 491n headlines of, 165, 321 illustrations in, 76–77, 225–28, 230–31, 245, 259, 296, 321, 496n, 506n independent, 159, 161, 192, 195, 208–9, 217, 231, 461 management of, 173, 197–98 mergers of, 156, 160–61, 170, 206–7 morning, 159, 321, 350, 355, 414, 462 newsstand price of, 183–84, 211, 219, 224, 289, 322, 323, 325–26, 349–53, 355, 357, 517n, 518n paper used for, 12, 159, 237, 326, 350, 454 Park Row headquarters of, 21, 27, 98, 129–30, 191–92, 205, 206 penny, 98, 203, 320, 321, 322, 323, 325–26, 350, 357 political cartoons in, 225–28, 230–31, 245, 259, 296, 496n, 506n printing presses for, 154, 159, 162, 167–68, 171, 175, 177, 194–95, 198, 286, 340, 415, 500n, 506n "Pulitzer formula" for, 213–14, 251–52 sensationalism used by, 3–4, 209, 213–15, 251–52, 253, 260, 261–62, 273, 297, 320, 330–31, 338–41, 345–46, 357, 372–73, 377, 403, 453, 521n society pages of, 171, 203, 320 style of, 98–99, 138, 203, 213–14, 251–52 subscriptions for, 160, 162 tabloid, 462 two-cent, 320, 322, 323, 355, 357 typography of, 2, 154, 175, 190–91, 287, 341, 379 wholesale price of, 224, 350–53, 355, 357, 517n women readers of, 197, 203 see also specific newspapers New Testament, 66n, 459 New Year's Day (Wharton), 112–13 New York, N.Y., 21–22, 27–28, 37, 90–91, 112–14, 124, 128–30, 135–36, 137, 145, 151, 153, 177–78, 189, 201, 202, 206–40, 242, 244–53, 269, 272, 276, 290–91, 299, 305–8, 312–13, 391, 411, 421, 424–26, 429–36, 446–47, 449, 452, 454–55, 456 New York American and Journal, 372–73, 418 New York Central Railroad, 245 New York Commercial Advertiser, 274 New York Evening Journal, 334, 349–53, 357–58, 518n New York Evening Mail, 453 New York Evening Post, 192, 224, 315, 320 New York Evening World, 261–62, 323, 334, 349–53, 357–58, 380, 403–4, 431–32 New York First Cavalry Regiment ("Lincoln Regiment"), 22–27, 44, 478n–79n New York Herald, 98, 99–100, 121, 135, 174, 192, 197, 198, 208, 219, 223, 224, 232, 249, 252, 274, 284, 288–89, 299–300, 303, 313, 319, 321, 324, 355 New York Herald-Tribune, 462 New York Journal, 3–4, 321–32, 334, 338–41, 343, 372–73, 388, 517n, 518n, 519n New York Journal of Commerce, 74 New York Mail, 145 New York Morgen Journal, 321 New York Morning Advertiser, 292, 355 New York Morning Journal, 197–98, 202–3, 206–7, 208, 209–10, 211, 215, 220, 223, 226, 229, 254, 292, 319–21, 441 New York Press, 341 New York Society for the Suppression of Vice, 261 New York Staats-Zeiting, 130, 228, 496n New York State, 130, 185, 189, 219–20, 222–23, 231–32, 272, 306–7, 389, 406–7 New York Sun, 98–100, 129–33, 136, 138, 151–52 (Pul), 153, 192, 198, 208, 216, 223, 224, 226, 232, 261–63, 280, 294, 300, 303, 306, 314, 321, 326, 333, 342, 496n, 498n New York Times, 86, 98, 127, 192, 193–94, 197, 217, 219, 223, 224, 249, 275, 278, 280, 317, 321, 331, 355, 357, 363, 380, 387, 411, 418, 429, 430, 452, 459, 462, 490n, 499n New York Tribune, 84, 90–91, 98, 129, 177–78, 192, 198, 202, 208, 219, 230, 321, 355, 458, 506n New York World, see World New York World-Journal, 207–8 New York World-Telegram, 462 Niagara Falls, 508n Nicoll, De Lancey, 253, 262–63, 429, 430, 435, 446–47 Niederwiester, Tony, 31 Nobel, Alfred, xi, 378 Nolan, Kate, 134–35 Norris, John, 323, 325–26, 336, 343, 344–45, 346, 357, 363, 365, 459 Northcliffe, Alfred Harmsworth, Baron, 411 Oceanic, 368, 370 Ochs, Adolph, 323, 357, 363, 380, 387, 418, 462 Offenbach, Jacques, 100, 140 Ohio, 124–25, 128, 188, 189, 217 Orezy House, 475n Orthodox Jews, 10–11, 12 O'Toole, Phelim, 497n Outcault, Richard F., 330–31 Pagenstecher, Hermann, 298, 513n Panama Canal, 4, 417–40, 446–50, 455, 525n, 526n Pan-American Exposition (1901), 372 Pan-Electric Telegraph Co., 241–42 Paris Opera, 280–81 Parker, Alton B., 390, 393 Parsons, John E., 259 Patriarch Ball, 258 Patrick, William, 83, 101, 157, 160, 173, 481n patronage, political, 78–79, 83–84, 94–97, 224, 234–35 Patti, Carlotta, 183 Peninsular, 282–83 Penny Lunch Room, 140 People's Party, 105 Pest, 10, 11, 12–17, 71, 480n Petöfi, Sándor, 12 Phelan, William, 65 Phelps, Walter, 265 Philadelphia Ledger, 174, 279 Philadelphia Times, 126 Philharmonic Society, 461 Philippines, 342–43, 359 Phillips, David Graham, 300–303, 311, 344, 353, 354, 356, 359–60, 365, 374–75, 381, 450–51, 513n Pickwick Papers, The (Dickens), 51 Pike, Albert, 140 Pilgrims of the Rhine, The (Bulwer-Lytton), 14 Plato, 14 Pliny the Elder, 277 pneumonia, 221, 300, 302 Politzer, Adam, 367–68, 443 Pollard, Harold Stanley, 411–12, 444, 446 poll books, 139 Ponsonby, Claude, 272–73, 276, 277, 278, 281, 282, 283, 285, 290, 291, 292, 297, 300, 301, 307 Populist Party, 293–94 Post, George Brown, 274–75, 276, 286 Preetorius, Anna, 483n Preetorius, Emil, 34, 35, 36, 39, 44, 45, 46, 49, 70, 74, 76, 93, 96, 101, 104, 119, 164, 173, 481n, 482n, 483n press, freedom of the, 118–19, 150, 426–27, 429, 434, 449–50 Press Publishing company, 434, 435 Progress and Poverty (George), 246 prussic acid, 443 Puck, 226 Pulitzer, Albert: ambition of, 144, 197–98, 206–7, 254, 319 birth of, 476n childhood of, 12, 13–14, 16, 17 divorce of, 320, 441–42 funeral of, 443 health of, 319, 527n as immigrant, 36–39, 51–52, 71, 321 Jewish background of, 443 love affairs of, 254, 442 memoir of, xii, 442, 505n as Morning Journal publisher, 197–98, 202–3, 206–7, 208, 209–10, 211, 215, 223, 226, 229, 254, 292, 319–21, 441 in New York, 197–98, 202–3, 206–7, 254, 319–21 in Paris, 254, 319, 320 personality of, 51–52, 198, 319–20, 442–43 physical appearance of, 319, 442 Pulitzer's estrangement from, 210, 254, 382, 441–44, 527n Pulitzer's rivalry with, 144, 197–98, 206–7, 209–10, 223, 229 as reporter, 98–100, 112, 121, 128, 137, 197, 198, 319–20, 492n in San Francisco, 442, 527n suicide of, xii, 442–44 in Vienna, 320, 442–43 wealth of, 254, 319, 321, 441, 527n will of, 527n Pulitzer, Baruch Simon, 10 Pulitzer, Constance Helen, 272, 280, 285, 343, 361, 367, 395, 396, 445, 457, 459–60, 461, 462 Pulitzer, Edith, 244, 265, 278, 280, 361, 367, 380, 387–88, 395, 396, 405–6, 445, 457, 459–60, 461, 462 Pulitzer, Elinor Wickham, 448, 452, 462 Pulitzer, Elizabeth Edgar, 462 Pulitzer, Elize Berger, xiii, 9, 10, 12–17, 21–22, 23, 32, 37, 41, 51, 62, 98, 135–36, 141, 191, 210, 397, 444, 480n, 498n Pulitzer, Fanny Barnard, 121, 135, 254, 320, 441–42 Pulitzer, Frederica Webb, 394–95, 401–3, 406, 461 Pulitzer, Fülöp, 9–10, 12–17, 41, 210, 444, 474n, 475n Pulitzer, Herbert, 361, 367, 368, 387–88, 445, 452, 457, 460, 461, 462 Pulitzer, Joseph: accent of, 109, 141 age misrepresented by, 22, 35, 57, 71, 74 in Aiken, S.C., 198 in Aix-les-Bains, 238, 254, 343, 363, 366, 374, 375, 385, 391, 396, 441 in Albany, N.Y., 192–93, 224–25 in Alexandria, Va., 25 ambition of, 32, 35–36, 116, 159–61, 166, 171–72, 184, 186, 187–88, 205–9, 273, 355–59 "Andes" as codename for, 365, 520n angina of, 458 in Antwerp, 19 anxiety of, 303–4 arrest of, 66 arrest warrants for, 240, 426, 446 art collection of, 238, 241, 254, 257, 258, 362, 373–74 assembly election campaign of (1869), 52–69, 75, 488n–89n assembly election campaign of (1870), 73–77 as assemblyman, 52–69, 71–75, 97, 143, 485n–87n assimilation by, 10–11, 15, 109, 141, 146, 152 Associated Press (AP) membership of, 102, 153, 154, 160, 170–71, 175–76, 355, 358, 518n auctions attended by, 101–3, 153–57, 172 in Baden-Baden, 298 in Bad Homburg, 380–81 in Bad Kissingen, 238 bail set for, 66, 240 in Berlin, 441, 443, 444 biographies of, xi–xiii, 478n, 479n–80n, 481n, 484n, 487n, 490n, 497n birthday of, 133, 362, 379, 394, 395, 410, 479n birth of, 9–11, 475n, 476n, 479n in Bismarck, S.Dak., 218 in Bladensburg, Va., 25 blindness of, 1, 4, 17, 263–65, 269–304, 309–10, 312, 329, 359, 409–10, 413–14, 427, 428–29, 444, 452–53, 484n, 514n Bonnat's portrait of, 310 in Boonville, Mo., 109 in Boston, 18, 20–21, 188, 476n "breach of peace" fine against, 64–65 bronchitis contracted by, 284–85 in Brunswick, Ga., 295, 331 byline of, 132, 152 California trip of, 265, 269–71, 272 campaign tours of, 84–189, 106–7, 124–33, 138, 208, 224, 225, 228–29, 230 capitalists opposed by, 186–89, 198–99, 205, 208–9, 217–18, 245, 259, 293–98, 299–300, 371 at Cap Martin, 328–29, 407–9, 441, 444–46, 448 cards played by, 173, 306 caricatures of, 75, 101, 104, 108, 307, 377 as cavalry officer, 22–27, 44, 478n–79n in Charleston, S.C., 420, 456–57 at Chatwold estate (Bar Harbor), 301, 302, 306–7, 312, 326–27, 332–36, 337, 343, 348, 354, 355–59, 371, 372, 373, 375–76, 377, 383–84, 391, 400, 401, 404, 410–11, 449, 452–54, 461 chess played by, 34, 306, 481n, 482n in Chicago, 224 childhood of, xii, 11–17, 135–36, 337, 382 in Cincinnati, Ohio, 84–90, 126, 181–83 circumcision (Brit Milah) of, 10, 475n, 498n as city editor, 50, 90, 91–93, 96, 97, 119, 127 as Civil War veteran, 18–27, 35, 44, 108, 274, 458, 476n, 478n–79n, 480n as clerk for legislative committee, 76 as clerk for lumberyard, 32, 33, 35, 381n in Cleveland, Ohio, 188–89 club memberships of, 216, 509n codebooks used by, 2, 364–65, 428, 444, 519n–20n coffin of, 457–60 in Cologne, Germany, 370 Columbia University School of Journalism endowed by, 4, 337, 376–79, 386–87, 389, 394, 446, 458, 461 congressional campaign of (1880), 177–81, 184–88, 229, 232 congressional campaign of (1884), 229, 232 congressional term served by, 234, 240–43, 508n Cooper Union speech of (1876), 128–29 correspondence of, 2, 5, 17, 41–42, 114, 126, 142–43, 153, 215, 239, 247, 263–64, 272–73, 275–76, 277, 281, 282–83, 285, 302, 310, 325–26, 335, 346–47, 364, 367, 374, 375, 382, 384–88, 389, 394, 401, 404–9, 445, 448, 451, 481n, 484n, 497n, 511n, 523n corruption opposed by, 3, 4–5, 47–50, 59–68, 74, 106, 125–26, 151, 162–64, 184, 195, 199, 209–10, 222–23, 228, 241–42, 262 in Cuba, 221 death certificate of, 458 death feared by, 15–16, 221 death of, 376–77, 455–56, 462 debts of, 155, 160, 170–71, 175–76, 205–6, 210, 232, 257, 289 Deer Island escape of, 20, 477n as Democrat, 4, 106–12, 116, 124–33, 139–40, 161, 165, 181–89, 192, 199, 216, 217, 219–32, 241, 246, 262, 269, 285–86, 293, 369–70, 388–93, 406–7, 415–16, 417, 451–52, 456 democratic ideals of, 25, 57, 58, 106, 123, 125, 149–52, 186, 208–9, 294, 308–9, 314, 499n depressions of, 263–65, 269–83, 288, 298, 303–4, 305, 328–29, 336, 337, 340, 343, 346–47, 369, 376, 387–88, 407–11, 431, 436, 444–46, 451, 458 in Detroit, Mich., 128 as Deutsche Gesselschaft secretary, 35–36 dictation by, 277, 282–83, 364, 448, 484n diet of, 306 as Eads Bridge investor, 103 economic views of, 3, 10, 11, 16, 57, 118, 120, 164, 165, 219, 235, 246, 293–94, 301, 307, 309, 315–17, 326, 327, 328, 332–33, 348, 384, 391, 485n education of, 12, 13–14, 32–33, 35, 50, 64, 101 enemies of, 4–5, 61–66, 70–71, 73–74, 95–97, 110, 126–27, 173, 174, 175–76, 179–80, 185, 186–87, 194, 196, 199, 201–2, 222–23, 224, 227, 228–29, 241–42, 245, 246, 261–63, 265, 276, 280, 297, 316–18, 387, 389, 404, 406–7, 416, 421–40, 446–50, 455, 526n in England, 2, 149–50, 151, 152, 238, 254–56, 271–72, 277, 289, 290, 292, 300–301, 312, 324–25, 343, 344, 347–48, 366, 368, 370, 381, 397–98, 411, 441 English spoken by, 27, 30, 32, 35, 48, 109, 126, 136, 152, 481n engravings of, 76–77 essays written by, 61–66, 151–52, 153 European autocracy as viewed by, 123, 125, 149–52, 294, 314, 426–27, 499n European trips of, 97–98, 100, 122–23, 124, 125, 144, 149–51, 221, 235, 237–38, 243–44, 250, 253–56, 271–85, 289–301, 303–5, 324–25, 363–65, 441, 512n eyeglasses worn by, 18, 134, 179, 211, 249, 413 family business of, 10, 12–13, 16 as father, 42, 170, 172–73, 176, 188, 195–96, 198, 215, 221, 243, 244, 253, 256, 265, 278, 304–5, 309–10, 311, 333, 335–38, 340, 343, 361, 366–68, 371, 382, 387–88, 394–95, 402–3, 410, 444–46, 448, 457, 462 as ferryman, 29–30, 103 fictional portrayal of, 303, 354, 359–60, 374–75, 381 final illness of, 456–57, 458 finances of, 2, 13–14, 16, 17, 21–22, 26–28, 34, 56, 68–69, 78, 91, 93, 97, 101–3, 112, 116, 141, 150, 153–55, 160, 170–71, 173, 175–76, 190, 197–98, 205–6, 210, 232, 257, 289, 293–94, 340, 444, 489n, 519n–21n free silver movement opposed by, 293–94, 301, 307, 309, 315, 326, 328, 332–33, 348, 384, 391 on French Riviera, 276, 280–81, 328–29 French spoken by, 14, 31, 32, 409 friendships of, 32, 39–42, 50, 56, 62, 63–64, 95, 100–101, 103, 108, 126–27, 128, 137, 202, 224, 228–29, 239, 243–44, 245, 246, 247, 253–54, 259–60, 270–73, 295, 322, 369, 374–76, 381–82, 401, 404, 411, 444–45, 483n–84n, 513n funeral of, 457–60 funerals avoided by, 16, 135, 324, 344, 369, 376, 404, 443, 451 gallstones of, 458 generosity of, 140, 191, 202, 227, 247, 278, 376–79, 455, 461 as German American, 9, 28, 30–31, 35–36, 39–40, 43, 54, 56, 57, 65, 67, 71, 73, 81, 89, 90–91, 96, 102, 107, 109, 125, 129, 130, 141, 185, 188, 228, 260, 482n–83n, 488n German spoken by, 14, 23, 28, 30–31, 32, 35–36, 57, 122, 126, 130, 398, 457 Gramercy Park house of, 216, 221 as grandfather, 406, 452–53 grave site of, 460 in Greece, 408 in Hamburg, Germany, 18, 476n handkerchief ring ordered by, 21–22, 136, 478n handwriting of, 34, 201, 272, 277 in Havana, 1–2 health of, 1–2, 32, 190, 221, 237–39, 243, 246–47, 250, 254, 255, 256, 263–65, 269–88, 290, 292, 294–95, 298, 303–4, 309–10, 311, 312, 319, 325, 328–29, 335, 343, 359–60, 370, 376, 384–85, 389, 394, 407–9, 425, 428–29, 436, 451, 454, 456–57, 458, 514n heir of, 301, 454–55, 462 in Helena, Mont., 218 homecoming banquet for (1873), 100–101 honeymoon of, 144, 149–51 honorable discharge of, 26–27 horseback riding by, 103, 173, 271, 306, 375–76, 398, 411 horse named after, 307 hotel accommodations of, 112–16, 120, 124, 126, 133–35, 137, 140, 192, 207, 216, 254, 270, 272, 277, 282, 295, 303, 304, 325, 328–29 hotel fire survived by, 133–35, 177, 348 Hungarian background of, xii, 4, 9–19, 35, 55, 71, 108, 116, 135–36, 146, 253, 382, 474n, 476n, 481n Hungarian emigration of, 17–19, 476n as immigrant, 4, 17–19, 28, 29, 30–31, 35, 136, 141, 146, 479n–82n in Indianapolis, Ind., 125–26 185–186 India trip cancelled by, 282–83, 284 insomnia of, 1–2, 190, 237, 282, 290, 294, 328, 409, 451, 456–57, 458 interviews given by, 105, 155–56, 177–78, 270, 308–9 investments of, 97, 101–3, 112, 116, 141, 159–60, 294, 333, 340, 365, 371, 406–7, 444 in Jefferson City, Mo., 45, 56–69, 72–73, 75, 77–78, 80–84, 86, 105–6, 116–19, 120, 140, 179, 485n on Jekyll Island, 2, 259–60, 290, 295–96, 297, 308–11, 318, 323, 324, 331–32, 333, 336, 337–38, 343, 346–47, 348, 364, 371, 373, 376, 379–80, 384, 389, 393, 411, 456, 509n Jewish background of, xiii, 4, 9–11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 47, 66n, 108–9, 141, 146, 178, 248–49, 252, 253, 260–63, 265, 288, 324, 366, 395, 443, 474n, 498n, 499n, 520n as journalist, xi, 35–36, 61–66, 120, 130, 131–33, 136–37, 138, 139, 151–52, 157, 160–61, 170, 173, 182–83, 186–87, 241, 260, 308–9, 330–31, 354, 376–79, 453–54, 458–59, 461, 481n–82n Justice Department investigation of, xii, 4–5, 421–24, 426, 428, 429–36, 446–50, 525n, 526n in Kensington, England, 324–25, 347 in Kingston, N.Y., 21 in Knob Noster, Mo., 108–9 labor unions as viewed by, 183–84, 190, 212, 296–98 in Lakewood, N.J., 314, 316, 361, 362, 363 last words of ("Leise, ganz leise"), 457 as law clerk, 35, 210 as lawyer, 120, 138–40, 153, 184, 497n–98n legal representation of, 66, 70–71, 77–78, 101–3, 257, 316–17, 332, 428–38, 440, 446–50, 489n legal studies of, 64, 101, 103, 104 legislation proposed by, 57, 60–61, 67–68, 69 in Le Havre, France, 272 in Lenox, Mass., 221, 244, 256, 301 libel suits against, 119, 183, 223 as Liberal Republican, 57–58, 69, 71–77, 78, 80–94, 95, 97, 100, 104–6, 112, 120, 125, 126, 127, 128, 136, 138, 140, 173, 175–76, 181, 488n, 489n–90n, 491n, 492n, 493n, 494n library of, 2, 14, 272–73, 290, 292, 398, 456–57 in London, 2, 238, 254–56, 271–72, 277, 312, 344, 366, 368, 370, 381, 397–98, 441 in Long Branch, N.J., 137, 193–94, 499n in Los Angeles, 270 love life of, 103–4, 137, 138–46, 497n loyalty to, 302–3, 374–75, 384, 400–401 in Lucerne, 285 in Makó, Moravia, 9–12, 14, 15–16, 17, 474n, 475n mansion of (East Seventy-third Street), 362–63, 371–72, 373, 385, 389, 403, 424, 454, 458, 461 medical advice for, 264, 269–83, 287–88, 294–95, 298, 325, 329, 335, 376, 456–57 Mediterranean cruises of, 281–83, 289–90, 310, 407–8, 444, 449, 480n in Menton, France, 289, 409–10 Mephistopheles identified with, 493n at Missouri constitutional convention (1874), 109–10, 115, 116–19, 120, 144 at Monte Carlo, 328 moral values of, 169–70, 366, 373, 379–81, 406–7, 520n–21n mortgages of, 155, 160, 170–71, 175–76, 257, 289 mother's portrait given to, 397 as mule tender, 31 musical interests of, 100, 103–4, 137, 258, 277 in Naples, 281 at Narragansett Pier, R.I., 343–44 in New Orleans, 269–70 in Newport, R.I., 307 in New York, N.Y., 21–22, 27–28, 90–91, 112–14, 124, 128–30, 135–36, 137, 145, 151, 153, 177–78, 189, 201, 202, 206–40, 242, 244–53, 269, 276, 290–91, 299, 305–8, 312–13, 391, 411, 421, 424–26, 452, 454–55, 456 in Nice, France, 415 noise avoided by, 1–2, 299, 303–4, 311, 324, 328, 348, 376, 397, 412–13, 424, 441, 442, 454 in Norfolk, Va., 427, 434 as notary public, 35 obituaries for, 458 optometrists consulted by, 264 Pacific voyage proposed for, 270, 271 in Paris, 100, 122–23, 150–51, 238, 254, 271, 277, 280–81, 289, 290, 296–300, 306, 344, 441 parliamentary skills of, 116–17, 127 passport of, 71 personality of, 4, 14, 17, 32, 41–42, 47, 61–66, 78–79, 101, 116, 135–36, 141, 150, 170, 187–88, 206, 212, 227, 263–65, 269–83, 303–4, 359–60, 379–80, 398, 402–3, 493n, 514n personal staff of, 2, 247, 272–73, 276, 277, 278, 300–301, 304, 305–6, 309, 330, 338, 347, 364, 379, 380–81, 388, 397–98, 399, 407–8, 410–12, 444, 452–53, 456–57, 459, 460, 461, 480n, 484n in Pest, 12–17 philosophy studied by, 34, 39–42, 67 photographs of, 229, 310, 385, 404 physical appearance of, 18, 37, 47, 70–71, 75, 76–77, 85, 101, 104, 108–9, 116, 141, 146, 307, 310, 335, 377, 385, 397–98, 409–12 physical assaults against, 179–80, 195 physical complaints of, 1–2, 221, 243, 256, 263–65, 269–83, 287–88, 294–95, 298, 303–4, 309–10, 311, 325, 329, 335, 359–60, 376, 384–85, 454, 456–57, 514n pistol carried by, 179, 502n as police commissioner, xii, 78–79, 82, 83, 91, 95–97, 101, 166, 494n political career and influence of, 2–5, 23, 39–40, 43–50, 52–75, 80–97, 105–20, 123, 124–33, 137, 151–52, 160–61, 174, 176–89, 208, 216, 219–32, 234, 257, 262–63, 269, 271–72, 296–98, 347–48, 359, 369–70, 381–82, 388–93, 404, 414–16, 515n portraits of, 310, 362 press coverage of, 53–55, 62–63, 65, 73–74, 79, 82–84, 92–93, 105, 106, 108–9, 110, 113–15, 125, 126, 127, 129, 141, 155–57, 177–78, 188, 201, 206, 207–8, 217, 218–19, 228–29, 249, 255–56, 261–63, 270, 307, 308–9, 347–48, 387, 426, 428, 429, 430, 458, 491n–92n private train of, 331, 337, 376–77, 402, 456–57 as publisher, 1–5, 85, 93, 97, 99, 101–3, 119, 130, 144–45, 153–68, 173, 174, 175–76, 192, 204–10, 254–55, 256, 487n, 491n–92n Pulitzer Prize and, xi, 4, 376–77, 380, 461, 522n racial views of, 107–8 railroad journeys of, 217–18, 269–70, 282, 331, 337, 370, 376–77, 402, 456–57 readers hired by, 272–73, 290, 292, 398, 456–57 reading by, 2, 14, 32–33, 35, 50 reference works used by, 250 as reformer, 3, 4, 45, 80–94, 105–6, 107, 125–27, 133, 140, 150, 160, 184, 187, 198–99, 222–23, 224, 245, 246, 293–94, 305, 359–60, 381–82, 406–7, 416 religious convictions of, 4, 260 as reporter, 35–36, 39, 43–50, 52, 56, 61–66, 70, 75, 77, 78, 82–83, 101, 121–22, 127, 131–33, 151–52, 160, 192–94, 481n–82n, 487n, 498n Republicans attacked by, 106–7, 125–29, 130, 131, 161, 185–86, 188–89 Republicans supported by, 43–46, 50, 51–55, 57, 71–77, 128, 130 reputation of, xi, 1, 3–5, 35–36, 46–47, 52–53, 61–66, 76–79, 81, 82–83, 89, 106–7, 108, 110, 113–15, 116, 120–23, 125–29, 131–33, 141, 146, 155–57, 185–86, 217–19, 241–42, 246–47, 249, 253, 255–63, 286–89, 290, 320, 325, 329, 376–79, 380, 386–87, 421–40, 458–59 respiratory problems of, 284–85, 343, 436 retinal damage of, 264, 271, 283, 284, 287–89 as riverboat deck hand, 31 Rodin's bust of, 405, 409–12 rooms rented by, 30, 38, 50–51, 56, 62–63, 70–71, 98, 101, 103, 108 in St. Louis, 28, 29–56, 58, 59–60, 66, 70–72, 73, 76–77, 83, 92–98, 99, 100–105, 109, 114–16, 118, 119–22, 133–35, 136, 137, 138, 140, 153–206, 244, 271, 298, 328, 479n–84n, 486n, 495n, 501n in St. Moritz, 277–78, 280, 305, 386 in San Diego, Calif., 269 in Santa Barbara, Calif., 270 in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., 260 sarcasm of, 116, 118, 125–27, 220, 453–54 Sargent's portrait of, 396, 397–98, 399, 405, 461 in Scotland, 254 in Sedalia, Mo., 106–7 servants of, 361–62, 509n, 512n sexuality of, 41–42, 483n–84n in Shelburne, Vt., 402–3 shooting incident of, 61–66, 70–71, 77–78, 97, 113, 169–70, 179, 201, 407, 487n, 489n social life of, 32, 39–42, 103–4, 138–44, 172–73, 176, 195–96, 216–17, 241, 245, 247, 249, 255–61, 278, 290, 292, 334–35 speeches of, 66, 91, 106–9, 125–26, 128–29, 132, 181, 185–86, 188–89, 208, 225, 228–29, 242, 255 in Springfield, Mass., 136–37 as stevedore, 31 stocks owned by, 333, 340, 371, 406–7, 460, 520n–21n stomach ailments of, 294, 451, 454, 456–57, 458 superstitions of, 479n–80n telegrams of, 2, 5, 114, 153, 177, 178–79, 189, 193, 226, 233–34, 238, 244, 272, 273, 274, 279, 290, 291, 298, 314, 316–17, 325, 326, 333, 338, 353–54, 357, 363, 364–65, 368, 372, 375, 376, 384, 387, 408–9, 410, 415, 428, 444, 519n–20n temper of, 14, 61–66, 101, 150, 170, 234–38, 248–49, 253, 277, 309–10, 346–47, 370, 386–88, 394–97, 398, 400–401, 404, 407, 408–11, 444, 445, 448, 493n in Texas, 270 theater as interest of, 104, 137 "tower of silence" of, 312, 348, 452 townhouses of, 256–57, 285, 300, 308, 333, 337–38, 348, 361–62, 509n train wreck survived by, 58–59 transatlantic voyages of, 2, 19, 20, 71, 97–98, 122, 250, 276, 281–83, 285, 289–90, 299, 300, 311, 347–48, 366, 368, 370, 371–72, 376, 399, 400, 404, 420, 436–37, 512n transcontinental trips of, 217–18, 265, 271 trial of, 66, 77–78, 97, 201, 489n in Trouville, France, 285 as U.S. citizen, 35, 109 in Utica, N.Y., 180–81 Venezuelan crisis as viewed by, 313–17, 325 Veronal taken by, 451, 456–57, 458 in Vienna, 18 voting restrictions opposed by, 57–58, 72, 74 as waiter, 31, 169 as ward secretary, 52–53 in Washington, D.C., 25–26, 131, 137, 138–46, 178, 191, 196–97, 240–43, 295, 497n–98n Washington Avenue home of, 195–96 wealth of, 97, 146, 176, 190, 216–17, 228, 232, 256–58, 265, 273, 274–78, 286, 289, 293–98, 301, 303, 332, 333, 335, 362–63, 366, 371–74, 376–79, 401–2, 406–7, 416, 444, 460, 509n, 519n–21n wedding of, 144–46, 173, 206 as Westliche Post owner, xii, 93, 97, 127, 137 on Westliche Post staff, 35–36, 39, 43–50, 52, 90, 91–93, 96, 97, 119, 127, 160, 162, 481n–82n, 488n westward journey of, 28, 29–30, 479n–80n in White Sulphur Springs, Va., 137 in Wiesbaden, Germany, 276–77, 279, 280, 292, 298, 325–26, 370, 419, 451 will of, 376–77, 446, 448, 460–61 in Winchester, Va., 24 women's suffrage as viewed by, 143–44 work ethic of, 36, 173, 206, 215, 238–40, 241, 246–47, 497n yachts owned or rented by, 1–2, 5, 228, 257, 291, 299, 412–13, 415, 416, 420, 421, 424, 426, 427, 433, 434, 436–37, 444, 446, 452, 456–57 "yellow journalism" of, 3–4, 330–31, 345–46, 373, 377, 403, 521n Pulitzer, Joseph, Jr., 238, 265, 278, 279–80, 361, 367, 385, 388, 403–4, 445, 448, 452, 454–55, 457, 460, 461–62, 515n, 520n Pulitzer, Kate Davis: in Aix-en-Bains, 363, 368, 375, 382 background of, 140–42 in Bar Harbor, 335–38, 348, 452 in California, 265, 269, 272 correspondence of, xiii, 282–83, 310, 311, 328–29, 333–34, 346–47, 368, 369, 374, 375, 382, 384–88, 394, 396–97, 404–5, 407–9, 445, 451, 456, 497n death of, 461 in Divonne-les-Bains, France, 396, 404–6 in Egypt, 338, 344 as Episcopalian, 141, 146, 260, 366 European trips of, 149–51, 237–38, 253–56, 276, 277–78, 281–83, 284–85, 289, 292, 333, 363, 404–5, 408–9, 445, 461, 512n extramarital affair of, xiii, 310–11, 334 finances of, 310, 333–34, 335, 340, 348, 368, 373–74, 375, 384, 461 as grandmother, 406 health of, 221, 280, 337–38, 363, 375, 388, 404–5 honeymoon of, 144, 149–51 at Jekyll Island, 295, 308, 332, 384–85 jewelry of, 254, 257–58, 362 J. P. Morgan's meeting with, 405–6 in London, 309, 395–96, 405 as mother, 172–73, 176, 195–96, 198, 221, 244, 253, 256, 265, 311, 333, 335–38, 361–62, 366, 367, 387–88, 462 at Mount Desert Island, 271 in New Orleans, 269–70 in New York City, 205, 206, 309, 310–11, 328–29, 333, 348, 361–62, 368, 373–74, 385, 404, 406, 407–9 in Paris, 276, 280–81, 289, 290, 309, 368, 388, 405 personality of, 244, 309–11, 334, 396 portraits of, 362, 395–96, 398, 405, 461 pregnancies of, 188, 221, 238, 243, 272, 311 Pulitzer's blindness and, 265, 269, 281, 282–83, 287, 328–29, 412 Pulitzer's career and, 173, 202, 206, 215, 243, 244, 247, 255, 497n, 504n Pulitzer's courtship of, 140–46, 497n Pulitzer's death and, 456–57 Pulitzer's marriage to, 2, 42, 149–51, 153, 155, 173, 202, 206, 215, 243, 244, 247, 255, 265, 269, 281, 282–83, 287, 309–11, 328–29, 334, 346–47, 348, 366, 382, 384–88, 394, 396–97, 404–5, 407–9, 412, 445, 452, 497n, 498n, 504n, 509n as Pulitzer's widow, 461 in St. Moritz, 277–78 Sargent's portrait of, 395–96, 398, 405, 461 social life of, 175, 195–96, 249, 256–59, 278, 280–81, 285, 309, 334–35, 401, 452 in townhouse fire, 361–62, 363, 397 in Washington, D.C., 140–46, 178, 205, 265, 295 wedding of, 144–46, 173, 206 Pulitzer, Katherine Ethel, 198, 221, 243 Pulitzer, Lucille Irma, 188, 195–96, 238, 243, 253, 256, 265, 305, 309–10, 335–38, 340, 343, 362, 402, 460 Pulitzer, Margaret Leech, 461 Pulitzer, Mihály, 10, 14, 17, 23, 37, 474n Pulitzer, Muriel, xii Pulitzer, Ralph, 265, 325, 341, 347, 389, 399, 404, 406, 429, 432, 451, 452, 454, 457, 460, 462 childhood of, 172, 178, 195–96, 198, 205, 221, 238, 265 at Harvard, 338, 361, 366 health issues of, 195–96, 198, 205, 301, 304, 367 marriage of Frederica Webb and, 394–95, 401–3, 461 as president of Pulitzer Publishing, 410, 415, 445, 461 at St. Moritz, 280, 304, 305, 367 Pulitzer, Ralph, Jr., 406, 452–53 Pulitzer, Walter, 135, 320, 442, 527n Pulitzer Building, 274–75, 276, 278–80, 286–87, 289, 299, 302, 322–23, 331, 340, 345, 353, 365, 379, 409, 413–14, 415, 417, 458, 462, 463, 511n "Pulitzer formula," 213–14, 251–52 Pulitzer Prize, xi, 4, 376–77, 380, 461, 522n Quadrilateral, 85–86, 88, 100 racism, 107–9, 493n Radical Republicans, 43–46, 54, 57, 58–59, 71–73, 74, 77, 111, 116, 490n railroads, 29, 35, 67–68, 103, 105, 185–86, 199, 204, 217–18, 222, 225, 245, 294, 371, 406–7, 485n, 520n–21n Rainsford, William Stephen, 337 Ralph, Julian, 321 Raster, Hermann, 120 rate cards, 344–45 Raymond, Henry J., 192 Reconstruction, 43–46, 53, 54, 57–58, 133, 179, 496n recounts, election, 139–40 Red Cross, 461 Reid, Whitelaw, 90, 208, 276, 281, 295 Remount Camp, 22–23 Republican National Committee, 126 Republican National Convention: of 1876, 125 of 1880, 182 of 1884, 221–22 of 1896, 326 of 1904, 390 Republican Party, 4, 43–46, 50, 51–55, 57, 71–77, 106–7, 111, 120–22, 125–29, 130, 131, 139–40, 155, 161, 177–78, 185–86, 188–89, 192, 204, 206, 222–28, 245, 246, 272, 276, 285–86, 293, 369–70, 381, 407, 451–52, 506n see also Liberal Republicans; Radical Republicans; specific elections revolution of 1848, 11–12, 35 Richardson, Leander, 261 Rickey (Pulitzer's dog), 362 Riggs House, 140 Robb, Graham, 483n Robinson, Corinne Roosevelt, 428 Robinson, Douglas, 419, 425, 428, 431, 434 Rockefeller, William, xi, 259–60, 333 Rockwood Hall, 333 Rodin, Auguste, 405, 409–12 Roeslein, Fritz, 50 Romola (Eliot), 291 Roosevelt, Theodore: at Gridiron dinner, 428 as New York City police commissioner, 312–13, 317, 389, 422 as New York State governor, 389 Panama Canal project of, 4, 417–40, 446–50, 455, 526n as president, xi, 4–5, 372, 407, 416, 428 presidential campaign of (1904), 388–93 presidential campaign of (1912), 451–52 Pulitzer as enemy of, 4–5, 222–23, 246, 276, 297, 316–18, 387, 389, 421–40, 446–50, 455, 526n Pulitzer prosecuted for libel by, xii, 4–5, 421–40, 446–50, 526n Pulitzer's views on, 325, 365, 369, 384, 388–93, 416 as reformer, 150, 222–23, 246, 312–13, 389 Rough Riders led by, 4, 343 vice-presidential campaign of (1900), 369–70 World's attacks against, 4, 222–23, 297, 312–13, 315, 316, 317–18, 388–93, 416, 417–40 Root, Elihu, 434 Rosebault, Walter, 492n Rosenblatt, Meyer, 155, 156–57 Rosh Hashanah, 520n Rothschild family, 315 Rough Riders, 4, 343 "Royal Feast of Belshazzar," 230–31, 245, 259 Russia, 135, 256, 260 Russia, 151 Sabbath, 15, 312–13 Sabine, Wallace C., 454 Sage, Russell, 205 St. Croix, Marquis Alexander de, 438–40 St. George's Church, 309, 451 St. Louis, 28, 29–56, 58, 59–60, 66, 70–72, 73, 76–77, 83, 92–98, 99, 100–105, 109, 114–16, 118, 119–22, 133–35, 136, 137, 138, 140, 153–206, 244, 271, 298, 328, 479n–84n, 486n, 495n, 501n St. Louis County, Mo., 48–50, 59–66, 68, 74, 96, 118 St. Louis Dispatch, 95, 153–61, 162, 192, 205, 206 St. Louis Evening Chronicle, 183 St. Louis Evening Post, 154, 156, 157–58, 160–61, 207 St. Louis Gas-Light Co., 163–64 St. Louis Globe, 102, 105, 111, 120 St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 153, 156, 157, 158, 161, 162, 174, 177, 184, 190, 192, 201, 206, 346, 493n–94n, 500n, 502n St. Louis Journal, 154 St. Louis Movement, 40, 483n, 485n–86n St. Louis Philosophical Society, 34, 39–42 St. Louis Police Commission, xii, 46–47, 78–79, 83, 91, 95–97, 101, 166, 494n St. Louis Post and Dispatch: Associated Press (AP) certification of, 175–76, 407 building of, 177, 183, 244, 407 circulation of, 157–58, 162–63, 167, 172, 174, 176, 183–84, 194, 195, 201–2, 205 competition of, 174, 183–84 as Democratic paper, 178–79 editorial staff of, 165, 166–69, 171–72, 202, 301–2, 332–33, 403, 404 finances of, 184, 205, 206, 356 fire at, 177, 183 Joseph Pulitzer Jr. as publisher of, 403, 404, 407, 445, 454–55, 461–62 libel suits against, 183 management of, 165, 166–69, 184, 202, 205, 206, 301, 356 newsboys strike against, 183–84 newsstand price of, 183–84 offices of, 177, 183, 194–95 payroll of, 191, 301 printing presses of, 194–95 Pulitzer as editor of, 182–83, 186–88, 189, 190, 192–94, 198, 201–2, 223, 271, 341, 403, 404 Pulitzer as publisher of, xii, 173–76, 183–84, 190–91, 197, 205, 206, 217, 223, 233, 271, 291, 293, 298, 301, 308, 329, 332, 346, 356, 363, 377, 393, 404, 410, 459, 500n, 501n, 502n reputation of, 174, 183, 192, 195, 217 sale of, 346, 393, 462, 520n sensationalism of, 162–64, 183, 194, 200–202 Slayback killing at, 199–202 trustees appointed for, 460 typographical union of, 190–91 World compared with, 205, 206, 217, 223, 233 St. Louis Republic, 305, 393 St. Louis Spectator, 202 St. Louis Staats-Zeitung, 101–3, 154, 157, 205 St. Louis Star, 156, 157–58, 160, 172, 341 St. Louis Times, 65, 95, 120, 121–22, 127, 131, 138, 175, 485n, 497n St. Louis Union, 154 St. Mark's School, 366, 367, 385 St. Moritz, 277–78, 280, 304, 305, 386 St. Thomas Church, 260, 402, 458–59 San Francisco Examiner, 251–52, 291–92, 321, 322–23 San Juan Hill charge, 4, 343 Sargent, John Singer, 395–98, 399, 405, 461 scarlet fever, 253–54 Schmidt's Hotel, 56, 60, 61–63, 486n Schurz, Carl, 22, 35, 39, 44–46, 70, 72, 75, 76–77, 81, 83, 84, 85–87, 88, 89, 90, 92–93, 97, 101, 103, 104, 106, 108, 111–12, 119, 120, 126–27, 128, 137, 173, 185, 186, 196, 224, 228–29, 404, 482n, 492n, 496n Schweninger, Ernst, 329 Scott, James, 233–34 Scott, Walter, 292 Scripps, Edward W., 183 Scripps-Howard, 462 Sedalia Daily Democrat, 490n, 494n See, John, 478n Seitz, Don Carlos, 302, 322, 323, 324, 330–33, 344–46, 351, 355–59, 365, 367, 372, 373, 375, 378–79, 387, 393, 401, 411, 413, 415, 420, 421, 425, 426, 427, 437, 441, 444, 479n–80n, 481n, 484n, 490n, 497n, 511n, 519n, 520n, 523n Seligman, Joseph, 260 Semiramis, 289 Senate, U.S., 131–32, 158, 418 septicemia, 193–94 Seymour, Horatio, 180–81 Shafer, Ira, 253 Shakespeare, William, 47, 51, 98, 104, 137, 202, 436 Shaw, George Bernard, 244 Shaw, J. Angus, 333, 348, 363, 366, 431, 444, 458 Shenandoah Valley, 23–24, 478n Sheridan, Philip, 23–24, 478n Sherman, William T., 26, 188 Sherman Anti-Trust Act (1890), 356, 358, 518n silver, 251, 289, 293–94, 301, 307, 309, 315, 326, 328, 332–33, 348, 384, 391 Sitting Bull, 218 Sixteenth Amendment, 143 slavery, 46, 95, 107, 142, 478n Slayback, Alonzo W., 115, 124, 199–202, 206, 263 Sloane, Henry T., 362 Smith, Ballard, 249–50, 253, 256, 258, 265, 290–91, 292, 296, 298, 303, 315, 364 Smith, Delavan, 420–21, 434 Smith, William Henry, 205, 227, 256 socialism, 84, 150, 246, 297, 369, 499n Southern Hotel, 100–101, 111, 112, 114, 115–16, 120, 126, 133–35, 348 Spanish-American War, 3, 4, 325, 338–43, 345, 347, 350, 359, 369, 373, 388 Speer, William, 391, 417, 418, 419, 421 Spinoza, Baruch, 442 Springfield Republican, 76, 85, 136–37, 143 Stallo, John, 89 Standard, Edwin O., 489n State Savings Institution, 97 Statue of Liberty, 150, 235–37, 238, 244–46, 251, 276, 287, 507n, 508n steel industry, 296–98, 371, 520n–21n Stevens, J. F., 134 Stimson, Henry L., 421–24, 426, 428, 429–36, 446–50, 525n, 526n Stires, Ernest, 459, 460 stock market, 176, 242, 297, 363, 406–7, 520n–21n Stone, Melville, 504n Storr, Anthony, 514n Strauss, Adalbert, 32 Strauss, Theo, 32, 33, 481n sugar plantations, 32 Supreme Court, U.S., 447–50 Swope, Herbert Bayard, 462 synagogues, 10–11, 15, 141 Taft, Charles P., 419, 425, 434, 525n Taft, William Howard, 416, 417, 419, 420, 434, 448, 449, 451–52, 525n Talmud, 288 Tammany Hall, 129, 229, 262 tariffs, 87, 181, 186, 219, 272, 285–86, 309 taxation, 3, 10, 11, 16, 57, 118, 120, 164, 165, 219, 235, 246, 327, 333, 485n Taylor, Charles, 279 Taylor, Daniel C., 489n telegraph, 2, 5, 100, 102, 114, 130, 135, 153, 159, 256, 315–16, 456, 459, 527n telephone, 150, 258, 410, 459 temperance movement, 84, 90, 225, 228, 312–13 Teutonic, 285, 289, 311, 512n Thackeray, William, 290 Thaw, Harry K., 431 Thayer, William Sydner, 376 Thompson, Mattie, 512n, 513n Thompson, Phillip "Little Phil," 512n–13n Thoreau, Henry David, 34 Thwaites, Norman G., 397–98, 408, 411, 424–25, 432, 441, 443, 459 Tiffany & Co., 257–58 Tilden, Samuel J., 124–33, 152, 179–80, 181, 182, 216, 228, 279, 496n Tilden-Hendricks Reform Club, 132 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 152 Tom Sawyer (Twain), 108 Torah, 15 Townsend, George Alfred, 126, 137, 211–12, 523n Town Topics, 324, 341, 399 transcendentalists, 40 Treasury, U.S., 121 Trinity Church, 129, 402 Trollope, Anthony, 292 Trumbull, Lyman, 84, 85, 88 Truth, 192 tuberculosis, 16, 304 Tunstall, Nannie, 141–44, 497n Tuohy, James, 381, 395, 397, 410, 412 Turner, George, 250, 273, 275–76, 284, 290, 291, 293, 302 Twain, Mark, 30, 108 Tweed, William Marcy "Boss," 121, 124, 130, 231, 392, 490n typhoid fever, 335–38 Union Club, 260 United Labor Party, 246 United Press, 355 UPI, 355 utilities, public, 163–64, 371 Van Benthuysen, William, 345, 346 Vanderbilt, Cornelius, III, 389, 394 Vanderbilt, Grace, 389 Vanderbilt, William H., xi, 230, 238, 245, 259–60 Van Hamm, Caleb, 413–14, 418–19, 425, 434, 435, 446, 459, 525n Vanity Fair (Thackeray), 290 Varieties Theater, 113 Venezuela, 313–17, 325, 342 Verne, Jules, 282 Victoria, Queen of England, 254 Victoria Hotel, 234–35 Viking, 228 Villard, Henry, 217–18 Vosburgh, Henry, 21 voter registration, 43–44 Wagner, Richard, 277 Walker, Stanley, 403 Wall Street Journal, 521n Washburne, Elihu, 122–23 Washington, D.C., 25–26, 131, 137, 138–46, 178, 191, 196–97, 240–43, 295, 429–36, 446, 497n–98n, 507n Washington Monument, 507n Washington Post, 138, 139, 140, 142, 173, 181, 193–94, 499n Watterson, Henry, 76, 85–86, 88, 89, 100, 132, 136, 178, 181, 249, 489n, 491n, 496n, 504n, 513n Waudran, Alfred, 76–77 wax-cylinder recorders, 280 Webb, Frederica, 394–95, 401–3, 406, 461 Webber, Felix, 309 "Weir Mitchell treatment," 288 Welge, Theodore, 50, 60, 70–71, 97 Wells, Ida B., 108 Western Associated Press, 102 Western Celt, 79 Western Union, 193, 205, 315–16, 364 Westliche Post, xii, 34, 35–37, 39, 43–50, 52, 60, 65–66, 70, 73, 74, 75, 77, 83, 90, 91–93, 96, 97, 110, 114, 119, 127, 137, 146, 156, 157, 160, 162, 481n–82n, 488n, 492n whaling industry, 27–28 Wharton, Edith, 112–13 "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," 137 Whiskey Ring, 120–22 White, Edward Douglas, 449 White, Florence D. "Flory," 171–72, 376, 435 White, Horace, 76, 85–86 White, Stanford, 285, 299, 372, 399, 431 Whitley, Jonas, 418–19, 525n Whitney, William C., 216, 228, 230, 257, 369 Wickersham, George W., 437 Wickham, Elinor, 448, 452, 462 Wiggins Ferry Co., 29–30, 103 Williams, Charles, 434 Williams, Samuel L., 383–84, 390 Willich, Louis, 35–36, 46, 50, 481n, 482n Wilson, Mary S., 99 Wilson, Robert, Jr., 456, 457, 458 Wilson, Woodrow, 416, 452, 528n Wise, Henry, 447 Wolbrecht, George, 31, 71 Wolf, Simon, 92 Wood, John B., 492n Woodlawn Cemetery, 337, 460 Woodson, Silas, 95–97 World: accuracy of, 215, 345–46, 363, 373, 400 advertising in, 223–24, 239, 251, 261, 287, 326, 344–45, 347, 351, 357–58, 365, 370 budget cuts in, 333, 340, 343 business staff of, 233–34, 250, 273, 275, 290, 292, 301–2, 317, 321–24, 329–30, 340, 343, 344–45, 347, 349–59, 365, 400–401, 403–4 bylines in, 301, 302–3, 334, 513n circulation of, 2, 3–4, 204, 207, 210, 211, 213, 215, 217, 219, 220, 223, 225, 226, 227, 231–32, 233, 236, 237, 250–51, 261, 270, 271, 274, 286, 290, 305, 321–22, 323, 330, 340, 343, 344, 347, 349–53, 357, 415, 420, 449, 462, 505n city room of, 211, 212, 339, 413–14 classifieds in, 239, 326, 365 color printing used by, 326, 330–31, 340 comics published by, 330–31 commemorative coin issued for, 251 competition of, 3–4, 249, 274, 275, 321–32, 334, 338–41, 343, 372–73, 388, 462–63, 517n, 518n, 519n compositors for, 212, 287 copy desk of, 413–14 cornerstone laid for, 280, 415, 511n corruption attacked by, 208–9, 219, 222–23, 225, 230–31, 253, 306–7, 399–400, 414–15, 417–19, 507n counting room of, 212 crime stories in, 213–14, 226–27, 253 decline of, 321–22, 340–41, 394, 462–63 as Democratic paper, 204, 210–11, 216, 217, 219–32, 259, 269, 271–72, 307, 326–28, 332–33, 348, 388–93, 406–7, 417, 418–19, 451–52, 506n editorial page of ("the Page"), 208–9, 212, 218, 236–37, 240, 244, 245, 257, 263, 285–86, 296–98, 312–13, 316, 323, 327, 342, 343, 353, 371, 372–73, 381–82, 383, 388–93, 399–401, 414–16, 417, 419–21, 424–27, 436, 451–52, 453–54, 455 editorial staff of, 4, 207, 208, 211–12, 228, 239, 240, 244, 245, 248–51, 253, 258, 265, 270, 272, 273–74, 287, 290–91, 296–98, 300, 301–3, 305, 307–8, 322–24, 331, 333, 340–42, 345–46, 353, 363, 364, 379–80, 381, 383–84, 399–401, 403–4, 406–7, 413–19, 427, 458–59, 460, 462–63 evening edition of, 258, 261–62, 300, 323, 334, 349–53, 357–58, 380, 403–4, 414, 418, 431–32 fifth anniversary of, 271 final edition of, 463 finances of, 2, 219, 232, 233–34, 289, 294, 333, 340, 343, 370, 379, 458, 462–63 front page of, 209, 211, 213, 226, 235–36, 249, 252, 271, 273, 314–15, 350, 400, 419, 424–25 gilded dome as symbol of, 287, 331, 340, 345, 353, 365, 417 Gould's ownership of, 199, 204–6, 218–19, 232, 274, 293–94 headlines of, 211, 213, 249, 252, 273, 314–15, 350, 400, 424–25 illustrations in, 225–28, 230–31, 236, 253, 259, 340, 379–80, 455, 506n innovations at, 208–12, 213, 225–28, 251–52, 458 labor organization at, 212, 296–98 length of, 211, 325–26, 357, 380 libel suits against, 183, 223, 330, 506n library ban of, 331 London bureau of, 254–55, 301, 302–3, 306, 353, 380, 395, 513n management of, 2, 208, 211, 249–50, 252, 253, 258, 273–74, 284, 290, 292, 298, 301–3, 307–8, 321–24, 329–30, 340, 341, 343, 344–45, 347, 349–59, 363–65, 370, 400–401, 403–4, 460–63 masthead of, 209, 211, 235–36 monopolies attacked by, 217–18, 219, 220, 225, 230–31, 271, 296–98, 356, 371, 389, 392–93, 399–400, 507n newsboys ("newsies") and, 226, 238, 349–54, 355, 358, 518n newsboys' strike against, 349–54, 355, 358, 518n newsprint paper used for, 2, 237, 326, 350, 454 newsstand price of, 211, 219, 224, 289, 322, 323, 325–26, 349–53, 355, 357, 517n, 518n "New York" dropped from title of, 209 New York Journal as rival of, 3–4, 321–32, 334, 338–41, 343, 372–73, 388, 517n, 518n, 519n Panama Canal program criticized by, 4, 417–40, 525n, 526n Park Row building designed for (Pulitzer Building), 274–75, 276, 278–80, 286–87, 289, 299, 302, 322–23, 331, 340, 345, 353, 365, 379, 409, 413–14, 415, 417, 458, 462, 463, 511n Park Row offices of, 2, 3, 206, 208, 215, 220, 232, 241, 245, 249, 256, 274, 288, 290, 323, 328, 339, 350–51, 353, 403–4, 413–14 payroll of, 212, 226, 244, 274, 292, 333 photographs published in, 379–80, 455 political cartoons in, 225–28, 230–31, 245, 259, 296, 506n political influence of, 210–11, 216, 219–32, 251, 262–63, 269, 271–72, 273, 275, 276, 285–86, 305–6, 308–9, 326–28, 331, 332–33, 338–43, 347–48, 381–82, 388–93, 414–16, 458 press coverage of, 210–11, 218–19, 223–24, 249, 282, 288–89, 340, 415, 420–21, 426, 428, 429, 430, 521n printing presses of, 208, 212, 226, 231–32, 250–51, 286, 326, 330–31, 340, 500n, 506n promotional tactics of, 165, 210–11, 226–27, 235–37, 244–45, 250, 251, 255–56, 271, 282 proof pages of, 215, 287 Pulitzer as absentee owner of, 249–50, 255–56, 258, 265, 270, 271, 273–74, 278–80, 281, 284, 285–89, 290, 292, 294–98, 301–3, 305, 307–8, 320, 321–27, 329–33, 334, 340–41, 343, 353–59, 363–65, 379–80, 394, 399, 410, 413–14, 420–21, 425–26, 427, 428–29, 462 Pulitzer as editor of, 208–65, 285–89, 300–301, 328, 329–33, 334, 340–42, 343, 353–54, 379–80, 381–84, 388–93, 399–401, 406–7, 413–16, 424–27, 453–54, 455, 460–61, 462 Pulitzer as publisher of, 2, 204–65, 285–89, 308–9, 435, 458–61, 462, 463, 504n Pulitzer's office at, 211–12, 239, 263, 265, 287 Pulitzer's purchase of, 204–10, 232, 257, 292, 504n Pulitzer's statement of principles for, 208–9, 271, 279, 356, 358, 359–60, 406–7 reform promoted by, 285–86, 381–82, 406–7, 455 reporters of, 208, 212, 213–15, 248–49, 300, 302–3, 341, 345–46, 350, 363, 378, 389, 393, 400, 403–4, 413–14, 417–19, 425, 431–32, 462 Republicans attacked by, 222–28, 285–86, 381, 506n reputation of, 2, 3–5, 95, 271, 274–75, 278–80, 286–87, 323, 330–31, 340–41, 358–59, 363, 372–73, 379–82, 388–89, 420–40, 458–59, 521n Roosevelt attacked by, 4, 222–23, 297, 312–13, 315, 316, 317–18, 388–93, 416, 417–40 St. Louis Post and Dispatch compared with, 205, 206, 217, 223, 233 sale of, 462–63 sensationalism used by, 3–4, 209, 213–15, 251–52, 253, 260, 261–62, 273, 297, 320, 330–31, 339–41, 345–46, 357, 372–73, 377, 403, 453, 521n society news in, 227, 379–80, 399–400 staff lost by, 248–49, 290–91, 298, 301, 322, 324, 330–31, 334, 353, 375 Statue of Liberty campaign of, 235–37, 238, 244–46, 251, 276, 507n, 508n Sunday edition of, 224, 237, 300, 322, 323, 326, 330–31, 344, 345 tenth anniversary of, 299, 300 time capsule for, 280, 511n twentieth anniversary of, 380, 381 twenty-fifth anniversary of, 415 typography of, 2, 287, 341, 379 upper class criticized by, 185–86, 195, 216–17, 220, 257, 259–60, 290, 399–400 in Venezuelan crisis, 313–17, 325, 342 working class readers of, 213–14, 233, 235–37, 246, 285–86, 312–13, 400 "yellow journalism" of, 3–4, 330–31, 345–46, 373, 377, 403, 521n World Almanac, 250, 520n Yaeger, Henry C., 489n "yellow journalism," 3–4, 330–31, 345–46, 373, 377, 403, 521n "Yellow Kid," 330–31 Young Men's Christian Association (YMCA), 331 Zentralfriedhof cemetery, 443. ## About the Author JAMES McGRATH MORRIS is the author of The Rose Man of Sing Sing: A True Tale of Life, Murder, and Redemption in the Age of Yellow Journalism, which was selected as a Washington Post Best Book of 2004. He is the editor of the monthly Biographer's Craft, and his writing has appeared in the Washington Post, the New York Observer, and the Baltimore Sun. Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. ## Credits Jacket design by Richard Ljoenes Jacket photograph © Culver pictures Inc./SuperStock ## Copyright PULITZER. Copyright © 2010 by James McGrath Morris. All rights reserved. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Morris, James McGrath. Pulitzer: a life in politics, print, and power / James McGrath Morris. p. cm. Summary: "Comprehensive biography of media mogul Joseph Pulitzer"— Provided by publisher. ISBN 978-0-06-079869-7 (hardback) 1. Pulitzer, Joseph, 1847–1911. 2. Journalists—United States—Biography. I. Title. PN4874.P8M67 2010 070'.92—dc22 [B] 2009027501 EPub Edition © January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-196950-8 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 ## About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com Confusingly to modern readers, the Republican was the Democratic paper and the Democrat was, yes, the Republican paper. Pulitzer's use of this analogy is interesting, as his religious upbringing did not include the New Testament. In the nineteenth century, the term "card" referred to a brief pesonal note published in a newspaper, similar to a modern letter to the editor. Cards containing strong language were sometimes a preliminary to a dual. The spelling in Pulitzer's time was "Jekyl." The second "l" was added in 1929. It was then customary for the U.S. Navy to paint its ships white during peacetime. Later replaced by the "telephone game." *Roosevelt, insultingly, was comparing Pulitzer to Bertrand Barère de Vieuzac, the historian Thomas Macaulay's favorite whipping boy. Barère was an advocate of the guillotine during the French Revolution. Typical of the comments made by Macaulay was one in an essay of 1844. "Barère approached nearer than any person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to the idea of consummate and universal depravity. In him the qualities which are the proper objects of hatred, and the qualities which are the proper object of contempt, preserve an exquisite and absolute harmony." (Thomas Babington Macaulay, Complete Works of Lord Macaulay [London: Longmans, Green, 1898], 170.) ## Photographic Insert Migrating Jewish families found economic opportunity in Mako, the Hungarian farming village where Joseph Pulitzer was born in 1847. Landowners, eager for the services of merchants and tradesmen, enlisted the newcomers to market the products of their estates. Members of the Paskesz family, whose business may be seen on the right-hand side of this nineteenth-century photo, later migrated to the United States and opened a Kosher confectionery in Brooklyn. Pulitzer was devoted to his mother, Elize, seen here with his sister Anna, who died not long after the photograph was taken. In fact, all but one of his eight siblings died before Pulitzer reached his teenage years. Merchant shops of Mako. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Pulitzer's mother and sister. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph Pulitzer's four-year-younger brother, Albert, was a consummate reader, idealistic, and ambitious. In 1867, with a twenty-dollar coin tucked under his shirt in a tiny cotton bag hung around his neck, Albert sailed for the United States and joined his brother in St. Louis. This rare moment of brotherly togetherness was probably captured by a New York photographer in the spring of 1873. Joseph visited Albert on his way to Europe after selling his shares in the Westliche Post. Albert had just started working at the New York Herald. Albert Pulitzer standing with books. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph and Albert in 1873. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) German immigrant and American politician Carl Schurz was a role model for Pulitzer in St. Louis. Pulitzer followed Schurz into the Liberal Republican movement. When the rebellion was defeated, Schurz returned to the Republican Party, but Pulitzer became a Democrat. Carl Schurz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Pulitzer Liberal Republican cartoon. (Author's collection.) With his success as a reporter and the additional income he earned as a state legislator, Pulitzer improved his dress by 1869 when this photograph was taken. During his term as a state legislator, Pulitzer's notorious temper got the best of him and he tried to shoot a lobbyist. The scene was captured by well-known cartoonist Joseph Keppler. Pulitzer profile 1869. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Cartoon of Pulitzer in fight with lobbyist that appeared in the February 5, 1870 edition of Die Vehme. (Courtesy of the Missouri History Museum.) (Above 1st)By the mid-1870s, Pulitzer added facial hair to his look. In 1878, he courted two women while living in Washington, D.C. Kate Davis(above 2nd) and Nannie Tunstall(above). In the end, Tunstall spurned Pulitzer's affections, and he married Davis. The drawing of Tunstall was done by sculptor Moses J. Ezekiel. Joseph Pulitzer and Kate Davis. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Nannie Tunstall. (Courtesy of the Virginia Military Institute Archives.) In December 1878, Pulitzer purchased the St. Louis Dispatch at a bankruptcy sale on the steps of the courthouse. In this cartoon Pulitzer is seen packing up his new paper a few days later to merge it with the St. Louis Post, a move alluded to in the comment "set the whole up on a sound Post," at the center of the drawing. The cartoon appeared in the German-language Die Laterne. Within a year of creating the Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer persuaded John Cockerill to come to St. Louis to take charge of the news operation of the paper. The two men met at the 1872 Liberal Republican convention. In the years since, Cockerill had worked as an editor at several newspapers, including the newly launched Washington Post. With their innovative style and aggressive reporting, Pulitzer and Cockerill changed the face of journalism. Cartoon of Pulitzer purchasing the Dispatch. (Author's collection.) Illustration of John Cockerill. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) When Pulitzer purchased the New York World from Jay Gould in 1883, he also agreed to lease for a decade Gould's Park Row building that housed the paper. But within six years, Pulitzer had made such a success of the World that he built the tallest building on the globe(above), without incurring a cent of debt. The thirteen-story building, topped with a gilded dome that reflected light forty miles out to sea, became an important symbol of Pulitzer's financial success and how he changed the landscape of journalism. The first sight of the New World for immigrants entering New York's harbor was not a building of commerce, banking, or industry. Rather, it was a temple of America's new mass media. New York World building owned by Jay Gould. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Pulitzer building (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Don Carlos Seitz was Pulitzer's longest-serving business manager. He was one of the few working for Pulitzer who found a way to survive under his management style. Thirteen years after Pulitzer's death, Seitz became his first biographer. Arthur Brisbane, one of Joseph Pulitzer's most brilliant news editors, was Kate Pulitzer's lover for several years. In 1897, after Kate called off the relationship, he left the World to work for Hearst, where he remained for thirty-nine years and became the nation's highest-paid editor and one of its best-read columnists. Joseph Pulitzer hoped that David Graham Phillips might be trained to lead the World after his death. Unfortunately, Phillips had literary aspirations and left the paper to write novels and muckraking articles for leading magazines. Pulitzer was wounded when he discovered that the corrupt publisher portrayed in Phillips's first novel was based, in great part, on himself. Don Carlos Seitz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Arthur Brisbane. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) David Graham Phillips. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Two publishers and two politicians challenged Pulitzer's power. Charles Dana(above 1st), who twice hired Pulitzer to write for his New York Sun, grew bitter when the World stole his circulation, and he wrote a series of anti-Semitic editorials attacking Pulitzer. William Randolph Hearst(above 2nd) bought the paper that Albert Pulitzer had started and engaged in a crippling circulation war with Joseph Pulitzer's World that almost bankrupted both newspapers. Theodore Roosevelt(above 3rd) feuded with Pulitzer for almost a quarter of century and sought to use the power of the presidency to put Pulitzer in prison. William Jennings Bryan(above) turned bitter when Pulitzer refused to support his early presidential bids and told the publisher "that the trouble with him is that he has too much money." Charles Dana, William Randolph Hearst, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Jennings Bryant. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) When the Pulitzer building was torn down in 1955, the cornerstone was recovered. It contained copies of the World and other newspapers, a wax-cylinder voice recording, and photographs of Pulitzer and his family, several of which are reproduced here for the first time since they were encased in the building. One of the last photographs taken of Joseph Pulitzer before he began to lose his vision. His increasing blindness and tormenting mental and health problems would test Kate Pulitzer's patience and love. Opening the cornerstone. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Joseph and Kate Pulitzer. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.) Ralph(above 1st), the oldest, poses with a rifle at age ten. Joe and his sister Edith(above 2nd) wear clothes often favored by wealthy parents. Constance(above 3rd) was the only child of the Pulitzers born outside the country; she was born in Paris. Lucille(above), Joseph Pulitzer's favorite, died of typhoid in 1897, eight years after this photograph was taken. Kate Pulitzer had two other children. Katherine, born in 1882, who died at age two, and Herbert, who would be born in 1895, six years after these photographs were taken. Pulitzer children. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.) (Above 1st)After becoming almost completely blind, Joseph Pulitzer avoided public appearances and became a recluse. It often fell to his oldest son Ralph to fill in for his ailing father or to accompany him on the rare times he was in New York. Usually Pulitzer(above 2nd) wore goggles to protect his eyes from light and to hide the deterioration visible to others. He increasingly became obsessed with his health and traveled to visit Europe's best doctors and spas accompanied by a large retinue of personal aides. Joseph Pulitzer walking with son Ralph, Pulitzer wearing goggles, and Pulitzer seated outside with blanket. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Joseph Pulitzer's brother Albert sold his New York Journal in 1895 for nearly $1 million and spent the remainder of his life mostly in Europe. He committed suicide in 1909, only a few years after this photograph was taken. Although Joseph was only a short train ride away, he chose not to come to the funeral. Albert is buried in the Jewish section of Vienna's Zentralfriedhof cemetery. In 1911, Pulitzer spent part of his last spring alive in Southern France. This photograph of Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo with his daughter Edith and his aide Harold Pollard was taken less than seven months from his death. He complained extensively about his health and began that June to take Veronal, a new sedative with dangerous side effects that were not yet known; its use may have lead to Pulitzer's death in October. Albert Pulitzer walking by canal. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Pulitzer used his wealth to build expensive houses in hopes of finding within their walls an escape from business pressures and a shelter from noise. With the decline of his vision, Pulitzer became tormented by sounds of all sorts. For his New York mansion on East Seventy-third Street(above 1st), he hired a Harvard acoustical expert to help create a bedroom insulated from all outside sound. At his palatial estate, Chatwold, on Mt. Desert Island, Maine(above), Pulitzer constructed a special wing of stone that aides nicknamed the "Tower of Silence." Pulitzer was never satisfied by the measures taken to guard him from noise. Pulitzer's East Seventy-Third Street house and Chatwold. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) (Above 1st)Ultimately, Pulitzer came closest to finding a refuge on his yacht, The Liberty. The length of a football field, it contained a gymnasium, a library, drawing and smoking rooms, an oak-paneled dining room quarters for its forty-five-man crew, and twelve elegant staterooms. The ship carried sufficient coal to cross and recross the Atlantic Ocean without refueling. Pulitzer also favored wintering in his house on Jekyll Island(above), a private island off the coast of Georgia where the Gilded Age's wealthiest industrialists and financiers vacationed. Liberty. (Courtesy of the St. Louis-Post Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) The Jekyll Island House. (Courtesy of the Jekyll Island Museum Archives.) When he died, Pulitzer used his wealth to create two institutions that have ensured his name would live on. A century later, his Pulitzer Prizes for journalism, the literary arts, and music are announced each spring at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, which he endowed. Many felt the creation of the school and the prizes were late-in-life attempts to improve his legacy after years of reckless so-called "Yellow Journalism." For his part, Pulitzer said his goal was to help professionalize his trade. His last will and testament offered his personal motivation, words that remain engraved in the front hall of his school. Columbia Journalism School. (Courtesy of Columbia University Archive.) Floor engraving. (Courtesy of the author.)	{'title': 'Pulitzer-Morris'}
Produced by Emmy, MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) YOUNG AMERICAN READERS OUR HOME AND PERSONAL DUTY BY JANE EAYRE FRYER AUTHOR OF “THE MARY FRANCES STORY-INSTRUCTION BOOKS” ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDNA A. COOKE AND FROM PHOTOGRAPHS [Illustration] _In these vital tasks of acquiring a broader view of human possibilities the common school must have a large part. I urge that teachers and other school officers increase materially the time and attention devoted to instruction bearing directly on the problems of community and national life._—WOODROW WILSON. THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO COPYRIGHT 1918 BY THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CIVICS FOR AMERICAN CHILDREN The notion of what constitutes adequate civics teaching in our schools is rapidly changing. The older idea was based on the theory that children were not citizens—that only adults were citizens. Therefore, civics teaching was usually deferred to the eighth grade, or last year of the grammar school, and then was mostly confined to a memorizing of the federal constitution, with brief comments on each clause. Today we recognize that even young children are citizens, just as much as adults are, and that what is wanted is not training _for_ citizenship but training _in_ citizenship. Moreover, we believe that the “good citizen” is one who is good for something in all the relationships of life. HABIT FORMATION Accordingly, a beginning is being made with the early school years, where an indispensable foundation is laid through a training in “morals and manners.” This sounds rather old-fashioned, but nothing has been discovered to take its place. Obedience, cleanliness, orderliness, courtesy, helpfulness, punctuality, truthfulness, care of property, fair play, thoroughness, honesty, respect, courage, self-control, perseverance, thrift, kindness to animals, “safety first”—these are the fundamental civic virtues which make for good citizenship in the years to come. Of course, the object is to establish right habits of thought and action, and this takes time and patience and sympathy; but the end in view justifies the effort. The boy or girl who has become habitually orderly and courteous and helpful and punctual and truthful, and who has acquired a fair degree of courageous self-control, is likely to become a citizen of whom any community may well be proud. DRAMATIZATION The best results are found to be secured through stories, poems, songs, games, and the dramatization of the stories found in books or told by the teacher. This last is of great value, for it sets up a sort of brief life-experience for the child that leaves a more lasting impression than would the story by itself. Most of the stories told in this reader, emphasizing certain of the civic virtues enumerated above, will be found to lend themselves admirably to simple dramatization by the pupils, the children’s imagination supplying all deficiencies in costumes, scenery, and stage settings. Moreover, the questions following the text will help the teacher to “point the moral” without detracting in the slightest degree from the interest of the story. COMMUNITY SERVANTS The basis for good citizenship having been laid through habit-formation in the civic virtues, the next step is for the children to learn how these virtues are being embodied in the people round about them who are serving them and their families. The baker, the milkman, the grocer, the dressmaker, the shoemaker, the carpenter, the plumber, the painter, the physician, the druggist, the nurse—these are the community servants who come closest to the life-experience of the children. How dependent each member of a community—especially an urban community—is on all the rest, and how important it is that each shall contribute what he can to the community’s welfare, are illustrated by the stories of the Duwell family. Here a typical though somewhat ideal American family is shown in its everyday relations, as a constant recipient of the services rendered by those community agents who supply the fundamental need of food, clothing, shelter, and medical attendance. The children in the class will learn, with the Duwell children, both the actual services that are rendered and the family’s complete dependence on those services. Moreover, they will acquire the splendid working ideals of interdependence and coöperation. And, finally, they will discover that the adult citizens who are rendering them these services are embodying the very civic virtues in which they themselves have been so carefully trained. PUBLIC SERVANTS The pupils are now ready to follow the services rendered by public servants such as the policeman, the fireman, the street cleaner, the ashes and garbage collector, the mail carrier; and by those who furnish water, gas, electricity, the telephone, the trolley, etc.; and these are presented in civics readers that follow this one. The civic virtues previously considered are again found exemplified to a marked degree; and the threefold idea of dependence, interdependence, and coöperation through community agencies finds ample illustration. TRAINING FOR CITIZENSHIP But it is not enough for the pupils to stop with finding out what the community is doing for them. The essential thing in this citizenship-training is for the young citizens to find out what they can do to help things along. Civic activities are suggested both in the stories, poems, etc., in these books, and in the suggestive questions at the close of each chapter. Like all texts or other helps in education, these civics readers cannot teach themselves or take the place of a live teacher. But it is believed that they can be of great assistance to sympathetic, civically minded instructors of youth who feel that the training of our children in the ideals and practices of good citizenship is the most imperative duty and at the same time the highest privilege that can come to any teacher. J. LYNN BARNARD. Philadelphia School of Pedagogy. April 1, 1918. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Special thanks are due to Doctor J. Lynn Barnard of the Philadelphia School of Pedagogy, for valuable suggestions and helpful criticism in the making of this reader; also to Miss Isabel Jean Galbraith, a demonstration teacher of the Philadelphia School of Pedagogy, for assistance in preparing the questions on the lessons. For kind permission to use stories and other material, thanks are due to the following: The Ohio Humane Society for “Little Lost Pup,” by Arthur Guiterman; Mrs. Huntington Smith, President Animal Rescue League of Boston, for “The Grocer’s Horse,” and to her publishers, Ginn and Company; Mary Craige Yarrow for “Poor Little Jocko”; Houghton Mifflin Company for “Baking the Johnny-cake”; The American Humane Education Society for selection by George T. Angell; and to the Red Cross Magazine for several photographs. [Illustration: THE CHILD OBEDIENCE CLEANLINESS ORDERLINESS COURTESY HELPFULNESS KINDNESS TO ANIMALS PUNCTUALITY TRUTHFULNESS CARE OF PROPERTY FAIR PLAY THOROUGHNESS HONESTY RESPECT COURAGE SELF CONTROL THRIFT PERSEVERANCE PATRIOTISM FAMILY FATHER MOTHER BROTHERS SISTERS COMMUNITY DOCTOR TEACHER BAKER MILKMAN SHOEMAKER TAILOR COALMAN GROCER PUBLIC SERVANTS FIREMAN POLICEMAN STREET CLEANER POSTMAN PUBLIC UTILITIES ELECTRICITY WATER GAS TELEPHONE PARK LIBRARY PLAYGROUNDS SCHOOL COMMUNITY INDUSTRIES AND OCCUPATIONS AGRICULTURE INDUSTRY COMMERCE PROFESSIONS ELEMENTS OF WELFARE CIVIC BEAUTY EDUCATION RECREATION HEALTH PROTECTION OF LIFE AND PROPERTY CHARITIES CORRECTION WEALTH COMMUNICATION TRANSPORTATION A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF THE PLAN OF THE YOUNG AMERICAN READERS] It may be said that a child’s life and experience move forward in ever widening circles, beginning with the closest intimate home relations, and broadening out into knowledge of community, of city, and finally of national life. A glance at the above diagram will show the working plan of the Young American Readers. This plan follows the natural growth and development of the child’s mind, and aims by teaching the civic virtues and simplest community relations to lay the foundations of good citizenship. See Outline of Work on page 231. CONTENTS PART I CIVIC VIRTUES Stories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect, Patriotism, Kindness to Animals. _Thoroughness_ PAGE THE LITTLE PRAIRIE DOGS AND OLD MR. WOLF 3 DON’T GIVE UP, _Phœbe Cary_ 8 THE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER 9 THE THOUGHTFUL BOY 16 GRANDFATHER’S STORY 17 _Honesty_ HONEST ABE 23 I. THE BROKEN BUCK-HORN 23 II. THE RAIN-SOAKED BOOK 24 III. THE YOUNG STOREKEEPER 26 DRY RAIN AND THE HATCHET 28 I. HOW DRY RAIN GOT HIS NAME 28 II. DRY RAIN GOES TRADING 29 THE SEVEN CRANBERRIES 32 THE DONKEY’S TAIL 36 HURTING A GOOD FRIEND 39 _Respect_ A SCHOOL WITHOUT A TEACHER 42 OUR FLAG 47 SCOUT’S PLEDGE 48 MY GIFT 49 FLAG DAY 49 HOW OUR FLAG DEVELOPED 52 THE FLAG OF THE U. S. A. 54 THE AMERICAN FLAG, _Joseph Rodman Drake_ 55 _Kindness to Animals_ THE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY 56 I. THE DOG AND THE POLICEMAN 56 II. THE POLICEMAN’S STORY 57 III. CHEESEY’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS 58 THE CHAINED DOG 60 LITTLE LOST PUP, _Arthur Guiterman_ 62 PICTURE OF RED CROSS ARMY DOGS 64 THE HUNTING PARTY 66 THE LOST KITTY, _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_ 67 MY PECULIAR KITTY 68 POOR LITTLE JOCKO 69 ROBIN REDBREAST 74 WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN? 75 MY FRIEND, MR. ROBIN 77 IF ALL THE BIRDS SHOULD DIE, _George T. Angell_ 78 FURRY 80 THE GROCER’S HORSE (adapted), _Mrs. Huntington Smith_ 83 I. THE CARELESS DRIVER 83 II. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE BARN 86 A LETTER FROM A HORSE 88 PLEA FOR THE HORSE 89 PART II COMMUNITY OCCUPATIONS Stories about People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs. _People Who Provide Us with Food_ THE BAKER 95 I. AN EARLY CALL 95 II. THE STAFF OF LIFE 99 III. A VISIT TO THE BAKERY 101 IV. WHERE THE WHEAT COMES FROM 107 BAKING THE JOHNNY-CAKE 111 THE MILKMAN 115 I. BEFORE THE SUN RISES 115 II. MILK, FROM FARM TO FAMILY 119 THE GROCER 122 I. THE OLD-TIME GROCER 122 II. THE MODERN GROCER 125 _People Who Help Clothe Us_ THE TAILOR 127 I. THE ACCIDENT 127 II. AT THE TAILOR SHOP 129 III. WHAT THE TAILOR SAVED THE DUWELL FAMILY 132 THE DRESSMAKER 134 I. AN INVITATION TO A PARTY 134 II. A DISAPPOINTMENT 136 III. AT THE DRESSMAKER’S 137 IV. THE PARTY 142 THE SILK DRESS 144 THE SHOEMAKER 145 I. THE WORN SHOES 145 II. SHOEMAKERS WHO BECAME FAMOUS 150 III. AT THE SHOEMAKER’S SHOP 152 _People Who Supply Us with Shelter_ THE CARPENTER 154 I. A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY 154 II. THE SAWMILL 158 III. THE CARPENTER 161 IV. THE WOLF’S DEN 163 V. THE CAVE DWELLERS 165 THE BRICKLAYER 168 I. THE FALLEN CHIMNEY 168 II. THE BRICKLAYER 172 III. AFTER SCHOOL 173 THE PLUMBER, THE PLASTERER, THE PAINTER 176 I. A VISIT TO A LITTLE TOWN 176 II. AT HOME 178 III. THE NEW KITCHEN 179 _People Who Supply Us with Fuel_ THE COAL MAN AND THE MINER 181 I. BLACK DIAMONDS 181 II. IN A COAL MINE 183 _People Who Care for Our Health_ THE DENTIST 187 I. WHY RUTH WAS AFRAID 187 II. AT THE DENTIST’S 190 THE DRUGGIST, THE NURSE, AND THE DOCTOR 192 I. THE SICK BABY 192 II. THE DRUGGIST 194 III. THE TRAINED NURSE 196 IV. THE DOCTOR, A HERO 199 E FOR ALL AND ALL FOR ONE (a play) 201 PART III THE AMERICAN RED CROSS Junior Membership and School Activities. THE JUNIOR RED CROSS 209 THE PRESIDENT’S PROCLAMATION 210 THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF PEACE 211 THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF WAR 215 BEFORE THE DAYS OF THE RED CROSS 215 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE 216 HOW THE RED CROSS CAME TO BE 219 HOW I CAN HELP THE RED CROSS 222 THE LADY OF THE LAMP (a play) 224 ACT I. THE SICK DOLL 224 ACT II. GOOD OLD CAP 225 ACT III. THE LADY OF THE LAMP 227 YOU AND I AND ALL OF US 228 PART I CIVIC VIRTUES Stories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect, Patriotism, Kindness to Animals These stories also teach, incidentally, the co-ordinate virtues of obedience, cleanliness, orderliness, courtesy, helpfulness, punctuality, truthfulness, care of property, and fair play. [Illustration] THE LITTLE PRAIRIE DOGS AND OLD MR. WOLF I. Once upon a time, three fat little prairie dogs lived together in a nice deep burrow, where they were quite safe and warm and snug. These little prairie dogs had very queer names. One was Jump, another was Bump, and another was Thump. Well, they lived very happily together until one day Jump said, “I believe I would rather live up on top of the ground than in this burrow.” “I believe I would, too,” said Bump. “I believe I would!” said Thump. “I’ll tell you what we can do! Let us each build a house!” “Let us!” cried Jump and Bump, and away they all scampered up out of the burrow. Each one ran in a different direction to hunt for something to use in building a house. Jump gathered some straws. “These will do,” he thought. “I shall not bother to look for anything else. Besides, they are very light and easy to carry.” So Jump built a little straw house. Bump gathered some sticks. “These will make a nice house. They are quite good enough,” he said. So Bump built a little stick house. Thump saw the straw and the sticks, but thought he might find something better. Pretty soon he came to a pile of stones. “My, what a fine strong house they would make!” he thought. “They are heavy to move, but I will try to use them.” So he carried and carried and worked and worked, but finally he had a stone house. II. The next morning when old Mr. Prairie Wolf awoke and stretched himself, he saw the three little houses in the distance. “What can they be?” wondered old Mr. Wolf. “Maybe I can get breakfast over there.” So he started toward them. The first house he came to was the straw one. He peeped in the window and saw little Jump. He knocked on the door. “Mr. Jump, let me come in,” said he. “Oh, no, by my bark—bark—bark! you cannot come in,” barked little Jump, pushing with all his might against the door with his little paws. “Then I’ll blow your house over with one big breath!” growled old Mr. Prairie Wolf. So he blew one mighty breath, and blew the house over, and ate up poor little Jump. On his way home, old Mr. Wolf stopped to look in the window of the little stick house. He saw little Bump. “My, what a good breakfast I shall have to-morrow!” he thought to himself. The next morning he came early and knocked on the door of the little stick house. “Mr. Bump, Mr. Bump,” said he, “let me come in.” “Oh, no, by my bark—bark—bark! you cannot come in,” barked little Bump, standing on his hind legs with his back braced against the door. “Then I’ll throw your house over with one blow of my paw,” growled old Mr. Prairie Wolf. And he did, and ate up poor little Bump. III. On his way home, he stopped to look in the window of the little stone house. Thump sat by the fireplace toasting his feet. “My, my!” chuckled old Mr. Wolf, smacking his lips, “he is the fattest one of all. What a fine breakfast I shall have to-morrow!” The next morning he came earlier than ever, and knocked on the door of the little stone house. “Mr. Thump, let me come in,” said he. “All right,” called little Thump, “when my feet get warm.” So old Mr. Prairie Wolf sat down to wait. By and by, old Mr. Wolf knocked on the door again. “Aren’t your feet warm yet, Mr. Thump?” he growled. “Only one,” called Thump; “you will have to wait until the other one is warm.” So old Mr. Wolf sat down to wait. After a few minutes had passed, he knocked on the door again. “Isn’t your other foot warm yet, Mr. Thump?” he growled. “Yes,” called Thump, “but the first one is cold now.” “See here, Mr. Thump,” growled old Mr. Wolf, “do you intend to keep me waiting all day while you warm first one foot and then the other? I am tired of such foolishness. I want my breakfast. Open the door, or I’ll knock your house over!” “Oh, all right,” barked little Thump, “and while you are doing it, I shall eat my breakfast.” That made old Mr. Prairie Wolf very angry, and he kicked at the little stone house with all his might; but little Thump knew he could not move a stone. [Illustration] After a long while the noise stopped, and little Thump peeped out of the window. He saw old Mr. Wolf limping painfully off; and that was the way he always remembered him, for he never never saw him again. This story, which is built on the framework of the old classic, “The Three Pigs,” lends itself readily to dramatization. Let the four characters take their parts as they remember the story. By no means have them memorize the words. QUESTIONS Which little prairie dog worked hardest to build his house? The others had an easy time, didn’t they? But which one was happiest in the end? Why? DON’T GIVE UP If you’ve tried and have not won, Never stop for crying; All that’s great and good is done Just by patient trying. Though young birds, in flying, fall, Still their wings grow stronger; And the next time they can keep Up a little longer. If by easy work you beat, Who the more will prize you? Gaining victory from defeat, That’s the test that tries you! —_Phœbe Cary._ [Illustration] THE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER I. Once upon a time, a mother loved her little boy so well that she made the mistake of offending one of his good fairies. This was the fairy of carefulness. The mother made the mistake of trying to do everything for her little son. She even put his toys away when he was tired of playing. [Illustration] After the boy grew older and went to school, she did many of his lessons for him. His daily marks in arithmetic were good, for much of his work was done by his mother at home. Of course his teacher did not know this for the boy copied his mother’s work. Now, just as you would expect, this made the boy very careless. But he was really a bright boy, and even though he did not do well, he managed to pass his examinations. “If you would only be more careful,” his teachers would say, “you would have the highest marks.” When his mother saw his reports, she would say: “Oh, isn’t this too bad, son; I know you will have better marks next time.” So, when the boy became a man he did everything in the same careless manner, forgetting that other people would not excuse him as his mother had done. Now the good fairy of carefulness was very much offended at the way in which the mother spoiled her little son. So she said to herself, “I must, I must teach that boy a lesson!” II. When he was little, this boy was very fond of playing at building bridges. After he was grown up, he became a builder of real bridges. At first, he built only small bridges over the brooks and little streams, but one day an order was given him to build an important bridge over a large river. Just as you might guess, this pleased the man very much, and he was glad to begin the work at once. Soon his men were busy, putting in the piers for the new bridge, and he was hurrying them as fast as he could, in order to get the bridge built on time. Every day he sat in a rowboat calling to his men. They were about to begin work on the middle pier when the foreman of the workers came to him. “Mr. Builder,” he said, “I think we shall have to wait for more material if we go down to the right depth for this pier.” “Nonsense, man,” said the builder, “we have no time to wait. There is a pretty good bottom under that place. Don’t go so deep. Get along with the material you have.” “But, sir,—” began the man. “Do as I tell you,” ordered the builder. “All right, sir,” replied the foreman; “you may order that done, but one of the other men will have to do the job.” “Very well,” was the angry reply of the builder, “Jim Nevermind will take your place.” The foreman slowly drew on his jacket. “Somebody will pay for such carelessness,” he muttered. “I hope it will not be—” but the rest of the sentence was drowned by the orders of the new foreman. III. In a very short time the bridge was finished and the inspector came to look it over. “It looks all right,” he said. “Are you sure the piers are sound? I haven’t time to examine them, but I know that a man who has built as many bridges as you, would make them right.” “I am glad you are pleased, sir,” replied the builder. “You have certainly made record time,” continued the inspector, “and I shall carry back a good report.” “Thank you very much,” said the builder; but his pleasure was somewhat spoiled because of the shallow pier. “It is all nonsense,” he thought, “to be so particular; besides, the current in that river is so slow that there is no danger.” And it seemed true, for three years later, the bridge appeared to be as firm and strong as when it was first built. IV. But one day in the early part of the fourth year there came a great flood. The slow-moving current became a raging torrent, sweeping everything in its way and blocking large timbers and trees against the bridge. It so happened that a party of young people were riding along in a big hay wagon drawn by four beautiful bay horses. When they came to the bridge the driver stopped. “Shall we cross?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” the children shouted, “it will be fun.” “It looks safe enough,” said one of the two grown people who were with them. So with a “Gee-up, boys,” to the horses, the driver started across the bridge. Just—ah, you know, don’t you? Just as they reached the middle pier, there came a creak and a rumble, a moment’s swaying, and a crash. The bridge had caved in, and the hay wagon, full of terror-stricken children, together with the frightened horses, was swept into the water. “Don’t jump!” shouted the driver to the children, trying to guide the swimming horses shoreward; but that was impossible. For a full minute, which seemed like hours, they were swept onward. Then,—maybe the good fairy of carefulness had planned it—they rested on a little island the top of which was just covered with water. The white-faced driver counted the children, “All here! Thank God!” he said. The little folks cried and hugged each other, and called aloud for their mothers and fathers. They had to stay there all night, cold and frightened and hungry. That was dreadful enough, but it was nothing compared with the fear that the water might rise higher still. But slowly and steadily it went down, and by early morning all of the little island was uncovered. All the party were then quickly rescued with boats. V. The builder started, as the heading in the evening paper caught his eye—“Terrible Bridge Accident—Who is to Blame?” “Why, why, it’s the bridge of the shallow pier!” he exclaimed. “People will find out that I am the one to blame!” “Shall I run away?” he wondered, and sat for hours with his head in his hands. Suddenly he threw back his shoulders and said aloud, “No, I will not run away. I will stay and do what I can to make the bridge right and never neglect my duty again!” Do you wonder that the good fairy of carefulness, and thoroughness, smiled and whispered, “I wish he could have learned his lesson more easily!” [Illustration] MEMORY GEM If a task is once begun Never leave it till it’s done; Be the labor great or small Do it well, or not at all. —_Phœbe Cary._ QUESTIONS The careless little boy had a very easy time both at home and at school, didn’t he? But, what kind of man did he grow to be? It did not seem as if just one shallow pier would matter, did it? But if he had been honest and thorough in his work when he was little, do you think he would have been content to be paid for such a carelessly built bridge? How do you suppose he felt when he heard about the accident? Can you remember some time when you felt like being careless, but decided to do your very best? THE THOUGHTFUL BOY “Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy, “Moment by moment I’ll well employ; Learning a little every day, Not spending all my time in play; And still this rule in my mind shall dwell, ‘Whatever I do, I’ll do it well’.” “Little by little, I’ll learn to know The treasured wisdom of long ago, And one of these days perhaps we’ll see The world made better for having me.” And do you not think that this simple plan Made him a wise and a useful man? —_Selected._ [Illustration] GRANDFATHER’S STORY I. Charles was fastening the lid on a box of Christmas presents which his little brothers were going to send to their cousins. “If I were you, I’d put another nail on each side,” said grandfather. “Oh, I think these will hold,” Charles replied, giving the box a little shake. “There are three, on each side.” “Four would be better,” grandfather said. “Oh, grandpa, don’t you think three will do?” asked the boy. “I—I haven’t any more.” “So that is the trouble,” said the old gentleman, laughing. “Very well, here is some money. When you get back from the store I will tell you how the history of a whole great nation was changed for want of a few horseshoe nails!” “A few horseshoe nails!” exclaimed Charles. “Is it true, grandpa?” “It is true,” answered grandfather. “Now hurry up if you want to hear how it came about.” “Oh, thank you!” Charles cried, as he started out of the door. He was so delighted with the promise of one of grandfather’s stories that he was back in less time than if he had gone for candy! “Well done!” grandfather greeted him. “Now sit down, and while you get your breath, I will tell you the story. II. “Many, many years ago, when King Richard was ruler of England, he owned a beautiful horse which he rode whenever he went into battle. “One day word came that Henry, the Earl of Richmond, was on his way to attack the king’s men. “King Richard ordered his favorite horse brought to him, and turned to talk to the officers of his army. “Now the groom who had charge of the king’s horses suddenly noticed that this horse needed shoeing. “So he hurried to the nearest smithy. “‘Shoe this horse quickly,’ he said to the blacksmith. ‘His Majesty has called for him. The enemy is near!’ “The blacksmith worked with all his might, and soon had four horseshoes ready. “When he had nailed on two shoes, he found he had not nails enough for the other two. Suddenly the bugles sounded. “‘Hurry!’ cried the groom. ‘The soldiers are gathering!’ “‘Shall I make more nails?’ asked the blacksmith. “‘How many have you?’ asked the groom. “‘I have only eight,’ replied the smith. ‘It would not take very long to hammer out eight more.’ “‘You will have to make eight do,’ said the groom. “‘If you could only wait a little while,’ urged the smith, working away. “‘I suppose I might,—but it would be a risk! Won’t four nails hold a horseshoe?’ “‘Well, that depends on how hard the horse is ridden,’ answered the blacksmith, driving the last of the eight nails in place. “The horse reached the king in good time, for it took quite a long while for the officers to make their plans. III. “Soon King Richard was riding among his men, cheering them on in the battle. “‘No other horse could carry a man as surely and swiftly,’ whispered the king, patting the horse’s neck. “He had not noticed that the horse had lost one shoe. Onward he urged him over a rocky hill. Another shoe flew off. “Suddenly the horse stumbled and fell, and the king was thrown to the ground. “Before he could rise, the horse, although lamed, had struggled to his feet and galloped away, dreadfully frightened. “Then the king shouted, ‘A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!’ “But there was no horse for him. When his men had seen him thrown, they had all turned and fled. “And so the battle was lost, and King Richard was killed, and the history of the great nation of England was changed, for Henry, Earl of Richmond, became king.” “And all for the want of a few horseshoe nails!”, finished Charles, as grandfather stopped speaking. “I will put two more nails into each side of the box lid, grandpa!” “While you are doing that, I will teach you a few lines that I learned when I was a boy,” said grandfather. “Try to remember them.” “For want of a nail the shoe was lost; For want of a shoe the horse was lost; For want of a horse the rider was lost; For want of a rider the battle was lost; For loss of a battle a kingdom was lost;— And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.” [Illustration] QUESTIONS How might the battle have ended if the groom had waited until the blacksmith had put the right number of nails in the horse’s shoes? Which do you think King Richard would rather have lost—a little time or his kingdom? How do you suppose the groom and the blacksmith felt when they learned the result of the battle? Do you know any careless people? What do you think of them? Can you remember ever doing something carelessly in order to finish more quickly? Tell about it. * * * * * If you’re told to do a thing, And mean to do it really; Never let it be by halves; Do it fully, freely! —_Phœbe Cary._ * * * * * He liveth long who liveth well; All else in life is thrown away; He liveth longest who can tell Of true things truly done each day. * * * * * What is worth doing at all is worth doing well. * * * * * Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise. HONEST ABE As a boy, Abraham Lincoln was known as “Honest Abe.” Like other boys he sometimes did wrong, but never did he try to hide his wrongdoing. He was always ready to own up and tell the truth. So his neighbors called him “Honest Abe.” [Illustration] In this way he was like young George Washington. The American people are fond of that kind of boy. That is one of the reasons why Lincoln and Washington were each twice elected President of the United States. I. The Broken Buck-horn When he was fourteen years old, young Abraham attended a log cabin school during the winter. Nailed to one of the logs in the schoolhouse was a large buck’s head, high above the children’s reach. A hunter had shot a deer in the forest, and presented the head, when mounted, to the school. It had two unusually fine horns. One day the teacher noticed that one of the horns was broken off short. Calling the school to order he asked who had broken the horn. “I did it,” answered young Lincoln promptly. “I reached up and hung on the horn and it broke. I should not have done so if I had thought it would break.” He did not wait until he was obliged to own up, but did so at once. * * * * * Dare to be true; nothing can need a lie. A fault which needs it most grows two thereby. —_Herbert._ II. The Rain-soaked Book There were no libraries on the frontier in those early days. When the boy Lincoln heard of anyone who had a book, he tried to borrow it, often walking many miles to do so. He said later that he had read through every book he had heard of within fifty miles of the place where he lived. When living in Indiana he often worked as a hired boy for a well-to-do farmer named Josiah Crawford. Mr. Crawford owned a “Life of George Washington,” a very precious book at that time. The book-hungry boy borrowed it to read. One night he lay by the wood fire reading until he could no longer see, and then he climbed the ladder into the attic and went to bed under the eaves. Before going to sleep he placed the book between two logs of the walls of the cabin for safe-keeping. During the night a heavy rain-storm came up. When young Lincoln examined the book in the morning it was water soaked. The leaves were wet through and the binding warped. He dried the book as best he could by the fire and then in fear and trembling took it home to Mr. Crawford. After telling the story he asked what he might do to make good the damaged property. To his relief, Mr. Crawford replied: “Being as it’s you, Abe, I won’t be hard on you. Come over and shuck corn for three days and the book is yours.” Shuck corn for three days for such a book as that! It was nothing! He felt as if Mr. Crawford was making him a wonderful present. After reading the book he often talked about what he was going to do when he grew up. Mrs. Crawford, who was very fond of him, would ask, “Well, Abe, what do you want to be now?” “I’ll be president,” he would declare. She would laugh at him, and say, “You would make a pretty president with all your tricks and jokes, wouldn’t you?” “Oh, I’ll study and get ready, then the chance will come,” he would reply. * * * * * Truth is the highest thing a man may keep. —_Cervantes._ III. The Young Storekeeper At the age of twenty-one Abraham Lincoln became a store clerk for a short time. He was then six feet four inches tall and very strong. He could out-run, out-jump, out-wrestle, and out-fight any man in the rough pioneer country where he lived. While the people respected his great strength, they liked him still more for his honesty in little things. One evening, on reckoning up his accounts, he found that in making change he had taken six cents too much from a customer. On closing the store he immediately walked three miles to the farmhouse where the customer lived and returned the six cents. Then he walked the three miles back. On opening the store one morning, he discovered a four-ounce weight on the scales. He remembered that his last customer the evening before had purchased half a pound of tea. He saw at once that he had given her short weight. He measured out the four ounces still due, locked the store, took a long walk to the customer’s house, and explained the shortage. These were little things, but Honest Abe could not rest until he had made them right. * * * * * This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. —_Shakespeare._ [Illustration] DRY RAIN AND THE HATCHET I. How Dry Rain Got His Name In the Indian country there was once a great drought. The land was very dry. No rain had fallen for many weeks. The crops and cattle were suffering from thirst. Now, in one of the tribes there was a young Indian who had a very high opinion of himself. He pretended that he could foretell what was about to happen, long before it really did happen. So he foretold that on a certain day a high wind would blow up, bringing with it a great rain-storm with plenty of water for everybody. The day came. Sure enough a high wind did blow up, but it brought only a violent sand-storm without a drop of rain, and it left the land drier than before. So the Indians laughed at the young man who foretold before he knew and called him “Dry Rain.” Although he afterwards became a noted chief, he never lost his name. II. Dry Rain Goes Trading One day, when he was an old man, Dry Rain rode in from his village to the white man’s trading post. The old chief purchased a number of articles, among them some jack-knives and six hatchets. The hatchets were for his six grandsons. The trader packed all the purchases in a big bundle. Dry Rain paid for them, mounted his pony, and rode home to his village. When he opened his package, he noticed that the trader by mistake had put in seven hatchets. But Dry Rain said nothing. “That extra one will do for me,” he thought. “The white men stole the Indian’s land and never gave it back; I will keep the hatchet.” At the same time he did not feel that this would be doing just right. In his wigwam that night he lay half-asleep and half-awake, thinking about the hatchet. He seemed to hear two voices talking, in a tone so earnest that it sounded almost quarrelsome. “Take back the hatchet,” said one voice. “It belongs to the white man.” “No! do not take it back,” said the other voice. “It is right for you to keep it.” Back and forth the voices argued and argued, for hours it seemed to the old chief. “Take it back!” “Keep it!” “Take it back!” “Keep it!” “Take it back!” At last he could stand the dispute no longer, and sat up in bed wide awake. “Stop talking, both of you,” he commanded. “Dry Rain will take back the hatchet in the morning.” Then he lay down again, pulled the blanket over his head, and was soon fast asleep. At daylight he arose, mounted his pony, rode back to the trading post, and returned the hatchet to the trader. “Why did you bring it back?” asked the trader. “I had not missed it, and perhaps never should have known you had it.” “But Dry Rain would know,” replied the old chief. “The two men inside of him talked and quarreled about it all night! One said, ‘Take it back!’ the other said, ‘No, keep it.’ Now they will keep still and let him sleep.” QUESTIONS Do you think that most white men set the Indians a good example in being honest? Dry Rain wanted very much to have the extra hatchet, didn’t he? But was he comfortable when he decided to keep it? Do you think the white trader would ever have found out? But who would have known? Did two voices inside of you ever talk when you were tempted to keep something which didn’t belong to you? MEMORY GEMS Truth will ever rise above falsehood, like oil above water. * * * * * For whatever men say in their blindness, And spite of the fancies of youth, There is nothing so kingly as kindness, And nothing so royal as truth! [Illustration] THE SEVEN CRANBERRIES Mr. Dingle was not looking toward Helen. He was busy grinding coffee in another part of the store. How pretty the bright red cranberries looked! Helen wished she had some. Her little hand crept over the edge of the barrel, and very quickly seven bright shining cranberries were in Helen’s pocket. “What can I get for you, little girl?” asked the storekeeper. “A pound of butter, please,” Helen answered. She did not look him in the eye; instead, she looked out of the window. It took Helen but a short time to reach home. She laid the butter on the table and put the seven cranberries in a cup. “Aren’t they pretty!” she whispered. “I think I’ll play they are marbles.” She found a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the floor. Then she began the game. “What pretty bright cranberries!” exclaimed her mother coming into the room. “Where did you get them, dear?” How Helen wished that her mother had not asked that question. “Did Mr. Dingle give them to you?” her mother asked. How Helen wished she could say yes! “But after all,” she thought, “that was not stealing, so I’ll just tell mother. She knows I would not steal.” “No, mother,” she answered, shaking her head. “I took them out of the barrel.” “You did!” exclaimed her mother. “Why, my dear, did you not know that was wrong?” “I didn’t take many—only seven,” Helen said; “and Mr. Dingle had thousands and thousands of them!” “Come here, dear, and sit on my knee,” said her mother. “I want to ask you something.” When Helen came she asked, “When you took the cranberries, was Mr. Dingle looking toward you?” “No, he was busy,” answered Helen. “Would you have taken them if he had been looking at you?” Helen hung her head. “I do not think you would, dear,” said her mother. “Of course, you did not think for a moment of stealing from Mr. Dingle.” “I will never do such a thing again, mother,” promised the little girl. “I am sorry.” “Are you sorry enough to take those berries back, and tell Mr. Dingle what you did?” asked her mother. That was quite different from being sorry in their own kitchen. “Oh, mother, I don’t want to do that!” said Helen, tears coming into her eyes. “That is because you are ashamed, Helen,” said her mother; “but I hope you will always be brave enough to do the right thing.” “Will you go with me to the store, mother?” asked Helen. “No,” said her mother, “I want you to go by yourself. But I can help you this much: I can telephone Mr. Dingle that you are coming.” Helen sighed. “I wish I had been, and was back again,” she said, picking up the pretty berries. “Well, well!” said Mr. Dingle, when Helen handed him the berries, “it takes a pretty brave girl to own up. If you were a boy, little girl, I would ask you to come and work for me this next vacation.” QUESTIONS Why do you think Helen felt so uncomfortable when she was asking for the butter, and later when her mother asked her where she got the cranberries? Do you suppose Mr. Dingle would ever have known about the seven cranberries? But who would always have known? Why was it that Helen did not think taking the cranberries was really “stealing”? What did Helen’s mother think about it? What do you think about taking even the smallest thing that doesn’t belong to you? * * * * * We sow a thought and reap an act; We sow an act and reap a habit; We sow a habit and reap a character; We sow a character and reap a destiny. —_Thackeray._ [Illustration] THE DONKEY’S TAIL “Can you see?” asked Hilda Wells, as she tied the handkerchief over Fred Warren’s eyes. “You might make it a little tighter,” answered Fred. So Hilda tightened the blindfolder. “Now, we’ll turn you around three times, start you straight,—and you pin the tail on the donkey,” she said. The “donkey” was a large picture of that animal fastened to the wall at the opposite side of the room. It was minus its paper tail, which Fred held in his hand. “Don’t you peep!” cried all the children. “We’ll see if he can do better than I did!” declared Frank Bennett. So far the prize belonged to Frank. Fred’s turn came last. After being turned around three times, Fred walked straight up to the picture and pinned the tail exactly in place. “Oh, Frank, that is better than you did by two inches!” said Hilda. “Fred gets the prize!” cried the excited children, as Fred pulled off the handkerchief. Then little Marie, Hilda’s sister, handed him a pearl-handled penknife. Fred made little of his prize, and as soon as the children stopped examining it, slipped it into his pocket. After that, Mrs. Wells served ice-cream and cakes. Oh the way home Frank asked Fred to let him see the prize. “It is a beauty of a knife, Fred,” said he. “Until you tried, I thought I should be the winner.” Fred muttered something about having too many knives already. Frank opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Too many!” he exclaimed. “I wish I had too many! I’ve never had more than one, and that was father’s when he was a boy.” “Good night, Frank,” said Fred, suddenly swinging into a side street. “I am going to take a short cut home.” “Good night, Fred,” called Frank. “That’s a queer way for a fellow to act,” he thought, as he walked on alone. “I wonder what is the matter with him.” Suddenly he heard footsteps, and in a moment Fred had caught up with him. “Here, take it, I don’t want another knife,” he said, thrusting the prize into Frank’s hand. “Oh—oh, I don’t want your knife!” exclaimed Frank. “Well, I don’t want it, either!” said Fred. “It belongs to you, anyway; and I believe you know it! I am almost certain you could see me peeping from under that handkerchief!” “I was not quite sure,” said Frank; “not sure enough to say anything about it, anyway.” “Well, if you don’t keep the knife I’ll throw it into the river,” said Fred, running away as fast as he could. [Illustration] HURTING A GOOD FRIEND This is the story of a boy who ruined a good book. A good book is always a good friend. He did not mean to—oh, no! But what of that—he did it, as you may read. His name was Max Green. One day Max borrowed a book from Tom Brown, a fine new book with a picture of a submarine on the cover. Tom had just received it as a birthday present from his uncle. That night Max sat down in a corner to read it. Soon he came to the place where the submarine was getting ready to fire a torpedo. “Squeak!” went the book, as Max gave it a twist in his excitement. He did not hear the sound; he only saw the torpedo skimming through the water. “Crack!” went the book, as Max gave it a heavier twist. He did not notice that he was bending the covers farther back. He only knew that the torpedo was striking the bow of a big man-of-war. “Rip!” went the book down the middle, as Max gave it a harder twist with his hand. But Max read right on, for just then the man-of-war lurched over on its side as if it was getting ready to sink. In his excitement Max forgot all about what he was doing and twisted and bent the book back, cover to cover. “Stop—quick—oh! oh! It hurts! You have broken my back—broken my back! Oh!—oh!” cried the book. Suddenly Max woke up and saw what he had done—but it was too late. He had broken the glue and stitches apart and the covers hung limp. Just then his mother came in. “Look, mother—see what I have done to Tom Brown’s book,” he confessed. “I am so sorry. It is such a good book. Can’t we glue it together again?” “No,” said his mother, “it is ruined. Glue may help, but it will never be the same book.” “Oh, I am so sorry!” said Max. “Yes, Max, but being sorry will not make this book as good as it was when you borrowed it.” “I will make it right with Tom, mother. I will take my birthday money to buy him a new one.” “That is the right thing to do, Max,” answered his mother. QUESTIONS How is a good book a good friend? Suppose it had been his own book that Max ruined, would he have been treating it fairly? If you were a book, how would you want to be treated? Do you know what holds a book together? Tell what you know about the way a book is made. Why should we be so careful of books? MEMORY GEM For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, try to find it; If there be none, never mind it. [Illustration] A SCHOOL WITHOUT A TEACHER What Might Happen if Books and Bells Could Talk The little schoolhouse was painted white, with green shutters. Over the front gable was a little old-fashioned belfry. In it swung a little old-fashioned school bell, for this was a country district school, with scarcely a house in sight. One bright September morning, the opening day of school, forty or fifty noisy children were drawn up in line, waiting for the bell to stop ringing. When the bell stopped, the children marched inside and took their seats facing the teacher’s desk. “Order!” tapped the desk bell, and the room was suddenly still. The pupils looked to see who had tapped the bell, for the teacher was nowhere to be seen. They saw the new school-books piled on the platform and on the teacher’s desk—but where was the teacher? “I am the new Spelling Book, full of hard words,” said the top book of the pile of spellers on the right-hand side of the platform. “I am the new Reader, full of good stories,” announced the top one of a stack of readers on the left-hand side of the platform. The pupils were startled. It was so quiet you could hear the clock tick. “I am the new Arithmetic, full of problems harder to crack than the hickory nuts in the woods,” spoke up a book on the teacher’s desk; “but why don’t you find your teacher?” No one answered. The children only sat half-frightened, wondering what would happen next. “I am the new Language Book,” declared another book in the row on the teacher’s desk; “but who will teach you your mother tongue?” Everyone was still. Only the clock ticked on. “I am the Geography; in my pages are maps of all countries. Who will give you permission to look?” It was the largest book of all that asked this question. The pupils stared opened-eyed over the desk at the teacher’s empty chair. They saw nothing but a sunbeam coming in through the window—full of particles of shining dust. “There must be somebody hiding,” spoke up one boy who could stand the strain no longer. “I am going to see,” said another boy braver than the rest. Getting up, he looked behind the desk and in the closet, but nothing was to be seen, not even a mouse. “Let us go out and look for the teacher,” he cried. With one accord they ran pell-mell out the door into the playground. An automobile was coming up the road at top speed. “Good morning, boys and girls,” the new teacher called, as the machine pulled up. “Good morning, teacher,” they answered crowding about her. “I am sorry to be late the first day of school. There was some trouble at Rockland and the train was delayed. Mr. Jones drove me over.” “We are glad you are here,” said an older girl as the machine drove off. “We went in and took our seats at nine o’clock, thinking you would come at any minute. All at once something began to talk. ‘I am the Speller full of hard words; I am the Arithmetic; I am the Reader; I am the Geography; where is your teacher?’ the voices said. At first we thought somebody was hiding, but we could not find anyone. Then we got frightened and ran out.” “Well, isn’t that strange?” said the teacher laughing. “We will go in and see.” Together they trooped into the schoolroom. They looked everywhere; nothing had been moved; everything was just as usual. The teacher tapped the bell and everyone took a seat. “Well, children,” she said smiling, “we have already learned a very important lesson this morning, and that is that every school must have a teacher!” QUESTIONS { Teachers { Pupils What should a school have? { Books { Schoolhouse What other persons or things should a school have? Can you have a school without a teacher? Why is the teacher so important? { Obedient { Clean { Orderly What should the pupils be? { Courteous { Helpful { Punctual { Anxious to learn. What else should { Respectful to all connected with school. the pupils be? { Respectful to principal, to teacher, to { janitor, to other children. MEMORY GEMS One rule to guide us in our life Is always good and true; ’Tis, do to others as you would That they should do to you. * * * * * If wisdom’s ways you’d wisely seek, Five things observe with care; Of whom you speak, to whom to speak, And how, and when, and where. * * * * * Prize your friend for her own true heart, Though her dress be poor and mean; The years, like a fairy wand, may change Cinderella to a queen. OUR FLAG ’Tis the Star-Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. As you came to school this morning, did you look up at your flag floating from the top of the flag pole? Didn’t it look beautiful, waving and rippling in the sunshine against the blue sky? I wonder if you have ever thought about what it means? [Illustration] You know flags are signs or emblems, and they all have a meaning. There is no reading on our American flag, yet everyone knows what it means as certainly as if there were letters all over it. [Illustration] Our flag means that the United States of America is the Land of the Free, and our government stands for: Liberty and justice for everybody; Education for all children; Protection to all Americans at home or abroad. That is the reason so many people come to this country from countries where they do not have such help from the government. We Americans are very thankful for what our flag means. If we are good Americans we shall live up to every one of the following duties: To be true and faithful citizens; To do our part to carry out the laws of the government; To give, if necessary, our lives to protect our flag. SCOUTS’ PLEDGE I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the republic for which it stands; one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. [Illustration] MY GIFT I give my head, my heart, my hand to God and my country; one country, one language, one flag.[A] FLAG DAY June 14 is the anniversary of the adoption of the flag, and that date is celebrated in many states as Flag Day. We can honor our flag By living for it; By keeping our own honor bright; By being brave; (Red stands for valor.) By being clean; (White stands for purity.) By being just; (Blue stands for justice.) By being loyal; By being ready to die for it, if we are called upon. Our state has one star in the blue of the flag. How shall we honor our star? How shall we show respect for our country and our flag? Since our flag means so much to us, we should respect it and love it with all our hearts. When the flag passes in a parade, people should, if walking, halt; or if sitting, rise and stand at attention and uncover. [Illustration] The flag should never be allowed to drag on the ground nor be left out after dark. Did you know that it must never be used as an old rag? You see no matter how old or torn a flag becomes, it is still our flag and must be loved and honored always. * * * * * My country! ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died! Land of the Pilgrim’s pride! From every mountain side Let freedom ring! * * * * * “America is another name for Opportunity.” What do you understand by that? [Illustration: WHAT DOES THIS PICTURE OF AN OPEN GATEWAY BRING TO YOUR MIND?] FOOTNOTE: [A] At the word flag give the salute by raising the right hand to the forehead. [Illustration] HOW OUR FLAG DEVELOPED The thirteen stripes in our flag represent the thirteen original colonies. Every star in the field of blue represents a state—“A star for every state, and a state for every star.” The flag brings a picture to our minds of all the things we are grateful for in our history, and of all the things we want our country and ourselves to be. QUESTIONS What does our flag mean? Are you not glad that you live in a country where all the people rule, instead of any one person or just a few people? Can you repeat the Scouts’ Pledge? (Standing.) Who was Betsy Ross? Can you form a tableau like the picture of Betsy Ross sewing the American Flag? Isn’t it almost as brave to live up to the red, white, and blue as to die for our colors? Why is our nation’s flag always hung higher in this country than the flag of any other nation? Will you bring pictures of the flags of some other countries to class? Do you think any other flag more beautiful than ours? Will you try to do all you can to honor our flag, and never to let the star of your state grow dimmer because of any act of yours? * * * * * Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by! —_H. H. Bennett._ THE FLAG OF THE U. S. A. [Illustration] I belong to this flag; This flag belongs to me, Because brave men have lived and died To set its people free; There are other flags in other lands, And more upon the sea, But the flag to-day of the U. S. A. Is the flag for you and me. If I belong to this flag, And this flag belongs to me, I’ll live or die, if there is need, To keep its people free; No other flag has braver men, Either on land or sea, Than the flag to-day of the U. S. A.— The flag for you and me. —_J. E. F._ THE AMERICAN FLAG When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there: She mingled with her gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land! * * * * * Flag of the free heart’s hope and home! By angel hands to valor given! Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet, And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us! —_Joseph Rodman Drake._ STORIES TEACHING KINDNESS TO ANIMALS [Illustration] THE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY I. The Dog and the Policeman One snowy day shortly after Christmas, when carefully picking my way over the crossing at Market Street Ferry in Philadelphia, I almost ran into a big policeman. Just back of the big policeman was a little dog, and just back of the little dog was a little dog-house, and just back of the dog-house was a beautiful Christmas tree. Wouldn’t it have made you stop in surprise to see a dog-house in the middle of the busiest street in your city or town? Wouldn’t you have wondered why the big policeman had the little dog, and why the little dog had such a nice house there? And wouldn’t you have wondered and wondered whether the Christmas tree belonged to the dog or to the big policeman? It made me so curious that I did just as you would have liked to do—I asked the policeman to tell me the story. II. The Policeman’s Story “Good morning, Mr. Burke,” I said, for I knew the officer’s name. “Will you tell me about the little dog?” “Why,” answered the policeman with a smile, “don’t you know about Cheesey? Come here, Cheesey, the lady wants to see you!” Cheesey looked up at the speaker and wagged his tail. “Cheesey was born on Race Street pier,” went on the policeman. “Nobody knows how he got his living after his mother died; but one thing is sure, he was not treated very kindly by the men who loaded the boats and swept the wharves. To this day Cheesey growls at the sight of one of those men. “After a while Cheesey found a little playmate, but the playmate was run over by a fire engine. All night long Cheesey lay in the spot where his little mate had been killed. “Weary and lonely and hungry, he crept back to the old cheerless corner of Race Street pier, which was the only place he knew as home. “There he lay with his head on his paws, not noticing anything until one of the men kicked him out of the way. “Cheesey ran out of the pier and down Delaware Avenue, not knowing where he was going; but he went just the right way, for he ran into Officer Weigner, one of the four of us who watch this crossing. “He spoke kindly to the little fellow, and gave him something to eat. “From that time, Cheesey seemed to think he belonged to the policemen on this crossing. Then we gave him his name.” III. Cheesey’s Christmas Presents “Cheesey had no place to sleep,” went on the policeman after seeing some people safely across the street, “except on a pile of bags in the ferry house. He seemed so cold that I asked Charley, one of the workmen in the ferry, if he could not knock together some packing boxes for the little fellow. “Charley did the best he could, but I must say he made a sorry looking dog-house. “One day, just before Christmas while I was on duty, Mr. Sheip, of the Sheip Box Factory, happened to notice the box Charley had knocked together. “‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘is that the best you fellows can do?’ “‘Why, Mr. Sheip,’ I replied, ‘we are not box-makers, you know.’ “‘That’s so!’ he said. ‘I’ll have a dog-house made in the factory!’ and on Christmas day this beauty of a dog-house came. Have you noticed the label on it?” I read the painted black letters on the large white label: +----------------------------+ \| \| \| Merry Christmas \| \| to \| \| Cheesey \| \| from \| \| Officers Burke, Dougherty, \| \| Kunzig, and Weigner. \| \| \| +----------------------------+ “It pleased us so,” went on the officer, “that we bought a Christmas tree and many people helped us trim it. “A good many people brought presents for Cheesey. One lady from Camden brought a feather pillow; another lady brought a piece of meat. That dog could have seventeen meals a day if he could hold them—couldn’t you, Cheesey?” The little dog wagged his tail, turned around twice, then went into his house. After thanking the officer I went on my way, made happier for all my life because of the true story of Cheesey. THE CHAINED DOG ’Twas only a dog in a kennel, And little the noise he made, But it seemed to me, as I heard it, I knew what that old dog said: “Another long day to get over! Will nobody loosen my chain, Just for a run in the meadow, Then fasten me up again?” —_Selected._ Through life it’s been a comfort to me— My little dog’s loving sympathy. QUESTIONS Do you think the officers were repaid by knowing they had made Cheesey happy? Does Cheesey remind you a little of Cinderella? Who were the fairies in Cheesey’s life? What might have happened to Cheesey if the officers had not been kind? Did you ever own a dog? Can you tell some story showing your dog’s intelligence or bravery? What is the kindest thing to do for an animal which is suffering if you cannot take care of it or feed it? Do you know the address of the S. P. C. A. in your city? Did you know that sometimes dogs are thought to be mad when they are only very thirsty? Sometimes dogs have been treated unfairly and are cross; so it is best not to pat a strange dog’s head. Do you realize that a dog is the only animal which makes people its companions and playmates? How should we treat dogs? * * * * * MEMORY GEM If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin to its nest again, I shall not live in vain. [Illustration] LITTLE LOST PUP He was lost!—not a shade of doubt of that; For he never barked at a slinking cat, But stood in the square where the wind blew raw, With drooping ear and a trembling paw, And a mournful look in his pleading eye, And a plaintive sniff at the passerby, That begged as plain as tongue could sue, “Oh, mister, please may I follow you?” A lorn wee waif of tawny brown Adrift in the roar of a heedless town. Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in. Well, he won my heart (for I set great store On my own red Brute—who is here no more), So I whistled clear, and he trotted up, And who so glad as that small pup? Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed, And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread. Then, if things go wrong, as they sometimes do, And the world is cold and I’m feeling blue, He asserts his rights to assuage my woes With a warm red tongue and a nice cold nose, And a silky head on my arm or knee, And a paw as soft as a paw can be. When we rove the woods for a league about, He’s as full of pranks as a school let out; For he romps and frisks like a three-months’ colt And he runs me down like a thunder bolt. Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair Is a gay little pup with his tail in the air! —_Arthur Guiterman._ [Illustration] [Illustration: PICTURE OF RED CROSS ARMY DOGS—WONDERFUL DOGS OF MERCY. SUCH DOGS HAVE RESCUED THOUSANDS OF WOUNDED AND HELPLESS SOLDIERS. HOW SHOULD INTELLIGENT ANIMALS LIKE THESE BE TREATED?] [Illustration: CAN YOU TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS BRAVE DOG?] [Illustration: WHAT WOULD THE BIG DOG SAY IF HE COULD TALK? WRITE A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE.] THE HUNTING PARTY Mrs. Pussy, sleek and fat, With her kittens four, Went to sleep upon a mat By the kitchen door. Mrs. Pussy heard a noise; Up she sprang in glee. “Kittens, maybe it’s a mouse— Let us go and see.” Creeping, creeping, soft and low, Silently they stole, But the little mouse had crept Back into its hole. “Well,” said Mrs. Pussy then, “Homeward let us go; We shall find our supper there, That I surely know.” Home went hungry Mrs. Puss With her kittens four, Found their supper on a plate By the kitchen door. —_Selected._ QUESTIONS What do you think of people who do not care for and feed the cats they own? Do you know that a cat that is well cared for, and kept in the house at night is not likely to catch birds, because cats catch birds in the early morning and at twilight? What do you think of people who move away from a place and leave their cats behind? What will become of the cats? What should people do with cats they do not care to take away? Do you know where the nearest S. P. C. A. office is? What good service does the cat do for people? Why are rats and mice dangerous to our health? How many toes has a cat on front paws? On back paws? Which way does the fur lie on the under side of the legs? THE LOST KITTY Stealing to an open door, craving food and meat, Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street; Tortured, teased, and chased by dogs, through the lonely night, Homeless little beggar cat, sorry is your plight. —_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ QUESTIONS If you cannot care for or feed a stray cat, what is the kindest thing to do? How does it save the birds to see that stray cats either are given a home or are taken to a cat refuge? MY PECULIAR KITTY [Illustration] I have a little kitty, Just as cute as she can be; But my! she is peculiar! For she _eats_ her catnip tea! After every meal she eats She tidies up her head, And washes carefully enough;— But she never makes her bed! I’m told a kitty cannot talk, But my kitty every day Tells me that she loves me When we are at our play! Yes, she tells me very plainly And I will tell you how,— I ask, “Who thinks a lot of me?” She answers, “Me! Me—ow!” —_J. E. F._ POOR LITTLE JOCKO I. On the porch of a comfortable old house, shaded by fine trees, a group of young girls were gathered around a small table, sewing. Suddenly the harsh notes of a hand-organ came to their ears, disturbing the peaceful stillness of the summer afternoon. Marion Johnson, who was visiting her cousins, laid aside her work and listened. “Why, I do believe it is the very same man that came to our town a week ago,” she exclaimed. “He had with him a poor, miserable looking monkey, which he called Jocko.” Just then they saw the organ-grinder, with the monkey perched on the, organ, coming up the village street. Seeing the girls on the porch, he turned up the walk. “I think I shall call Aunt Kate,” remarked Marion, rising and going into the house. Aunt Kate could always be depended upon to help any dumb creature needing a friend. Aunt Kate’s face lost its usual look of quiet good humor, as she glanced over the porch railing and saw a tall swarthy man at the foot of the steps, carelessly turning the handle of a small squeaky organ. Keeping time to the music, a weak little monkey danced very wearily. When his steps dragged he was brought up quickly with a sharp jerking of the chain which was fastened to his collar. A cap was held on his head by a tight rubber band which passed under the chin. His gaudy dress was heavy and warm and seemed to weigh down his tired limbs. Now and then, when he dared, Jocko laid a tiny brown hand on the tugging chain in an effort to ease it. With an appealing look he glanced up at his master, as if trying to make him understand how painfully the collar was cutting his thin neck. II. Aunt Kate’s mild blue eyes almost flashed as she motioned to the organ-grinder to stop playing. “You no lika music?” he asked brokenly, glancing up at her in some surprise. “Yes, that is right,” she answered, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “We do not like the music; and we do not like to see that poor monkey dance; and, above all, we do not like to see you hurting his neck by pulling that chain.” [Illustration] The look of sullen anger which came over the man’s face quickly disappeared when he saw the coin in Aunt Kate’s hand. “I will give you this,” she said, holding up the piece of money, “if you will stay here and let Jocko rest for one hour.” The organ-grinder smiled and sat down on the steps as a sign of agreement. At first, Jocko could scarcely believe that he might rest his weary little legs and feet. After a while, however, he threw himself at full length upon the porch floor as some worn out child might have done. Marion was left on guard to see that he was not disturbed when the others went to get food. When they returned they found Jocko resting on a soft cushion, a comfort his little body had never known before. Only after being promised more money did the organ-grinder permit Marion to take off Jocko’s hard leather collar, underneath which she had discovered sores. She bandaged the tiny neck with soft linen spread with salve. She took off his cap, too, with its tight-cutting band. When water was brought, Jocko drank with pitiful eagerness. Many hours had passed since he had had a drink, and his throat and lips were parched. He ate the food they offered him like a wild creature, for he was very hungry. Every once in a while he would glance at the organ-grinder as though he feared punishment. When the hour was up, the organ-grinder would stay no longer. As his master led him away, Jocko lifted his hat, just as if he wanted to thank Aunt Kate and the girls for their kindness. “I never knew before,” said Marion, “how cruel it is to expect little monkeys to live such unnatural lives. I do hope the man will be more kind to Jocko after this.” —_Mary Craige Yarrow—Adapted._ QUESTIONS Why didn’t the girls and their aunt like to see the little monkey dance? What did they enjoy seeing it do? Have you ever been very, very tired? Can you imagine how you would feel if some giant would not let you rest? What kind of life is natural for monkeys? Did you ever give a penny to an organ-grinder with a monkey? If everyone stopped giving money to men who use monkeys for begging, how would it help the little monkeys? ROBIN REDBREAST “Cheer up! Cheer up!” sings Robin Redbreast every morning. “Listen to me! Listen to me! Oh, excuse me! I see, I see a feast!” and down he hops, hops, hops to the spot where he sees a nice fat worm wiggling out of the ground. Perhaps it is an earthworm, perhaps it is a worse worm; but if it is an earthworm, you will have fun watching Robin. He seizes the worm with his bill, then braces his feet against the earth, and pulls and pulls with all his might. Out comes the worm with such a jerk that Robin almost topples over; but he doesn’t. He either eats the worm or flies away with it to his hungry little birdies. Down he drops it into one of the wide open mouths in the nest. Do you know how many earthworms one baby robin can eat in one day? A man who loves birds once counted the worms that one pair of robins fed to their little ones, and found that each little robin ate sixty-eight earthworms in one day. Sixty-eight earthworms if placed end to end would measure about fourteen feet. Just think what busy lives Mr. and Mrs. Robin Redbreast live, and how they love their little ones. Robins eat many other kinds of worms besides earthworms, and they eat insects, too. They work hard to feed their babies, and in this way they do a wonderful thing for us, for the insects they eat would destroy the plants which we need. You know bread really grows on tall grasses called wheat and rye, and oatmeal grows on a grass called oats. There are millions of insects which like wheat and rye and oats as much as we do, and they would eat up all the crops if it were not for the birds that eat the insects. Now you can see why we call the birds our friends. WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN? Who killed Cock Robin? No; it was not the sparrow with a bow and arrow. No—more likely a boy with an air rifle killed him, or a man with a gun who did not know what a wicked thing he was doing. He did not know that he had killed one of his best friends. He did not know that without the work of beautiful Robin Redbreast and other birds the world might go hungry. What if robins do eat a few cherries? They like mulberries better. A wise farmer plants a Russian mulberry tree for the robins, and the mulberries save the cherries. QUESTIONS Do you know that millions of men and boys hunt and kill birds “for fun” every year? Do you know that millions of birds are killed each year to be used in trimming women’s hats? How many different birds can you name? Can you tell the kinds of food each of them eats? Do you know what kinds of nests they build? What do you think of people who kill robins? Have you ever placed food in a sheltered place for birds in winter when it is hard for them to find a living? [Illustration] MY FRIEND, MR. ROBIN When I was only about six years of age, a Robin Redbreast that we used to feed got so tame that he would fly in through the window to our breakfast table. In the spring he delighted us by bringing a small family of Roblings to the window sill of the room as if to introduce them to the people who had helped him through the hard winter! Another special bird that I remember was a one-legged sparrow that used to be among the birds that came when we were living in Bucking-ham-shire. We always called him “Timber-toes.” He came to us for two or three winters, so that, even with but one leg, he must have picked up a living somehow. —_Little Folks._ +-------------------------------------------------+ \| A WINTER MENU FOR BIRDS \| \| \| \| Crumbs of bread swept off the breakfast table. \| \| \| \| Morsels of fish and meat. \| \| \| \| Bones hung on strings from tree branches. \| \| \| \| Strips of bacon rind cut up into small bits. \| \| \| \| Small seeds of any kind. (These may be gathered \| \| in summer and saved.) \| +-------------------------------------------------+ QUESTIONS Did you ever make a house for a little house wren? Little Jenny Wren is looking for a house every spring. She is a very friendly neighbor. Why not make her a house with a doorway too small for Mrs. Sparrow to squeeze through? Make the opening only one inch wide. * * * * * The meadow lark is one of our very helpful birds. Do you know the colors of the meadow lark’s feathers? IF ALL THE BIRDS SHOULD DIE Now, I want to tell you something that is worth knowing. It is this. If all the birds in the world should die, all the boys and girls in the world would have to die also. There would not be one boy or girl left alive; they would all die of starvation. And the reason is this. Most small birds live on insects; they eat millions and millions of insects. If there were no birds, the insects would increase so that they would eat up all vegetation. The cattle, and horses, and sheep, and swine, and poultry would all die, and we should have to die also. Now, what I want all of you to remember, is that every time you kill one of these little insect-eating birds, it means that thousands of insects the bird would have eaten are going to live to torment us; and every time you take an egg from one of these little birds’ nests, that means one less bird to eat the insects. I do not like mosquitoes and insects. I think it is better that the birds should live and eat the insects, than that the birds should die and the insects eat us. —_George T. Angell._ QUESTIONS If a bird in a cage could speak, what do you think it would say? Can it tell you when it has no drinking water? Do you know that thirst is worse than hunger? Do you know that a person can do without food much longer than without water? What do birds do for farmers? What do they do for you? Don’t you think it would be foolish to destroy them? Do you think it right to keep wild birds in cages? Why not? Did you ever notice the beautiful doves or pigeons in the city? Why are they so tame? * * * * * Don’t rob the birds of their eggs, boys, ’Tis cruel and heartless and wrong; And remember, by breaking an egg, boys, We may lose a bird with a song. [Illustration] FURRY My house is in a little grove of oak trees. Every winter I feed several gray squirrels with nuts. Every day about noon a big father squirrel comes and scratches on my kitchen window. There he sits on the sill, watching with bright eyes until I open the window and throw out some nuts. The more timid squirrels are seated on the ground looking up at the window. They catch the nuts and scamper away with them up to the tops of the trees. But not Furry. He takes nuts from my hands, and holding them in his little finger-claws, gnaws away the shell faster than I can count ten. He acts quite like a little pig sometimes, for he asks for more than he needs. What do you think he does with them? He jumps down with one in his mouth and starts to dig. As soon as the hole is deep enough to suit him he buries the nut, packing the earth carefully over it to make it look as though the ground had not been disturbed. Then back he comes for another nut. If all the nuts he plants were acorns and he should forget to come and find half of them when he is hungry—how big my oak forest would be! [Illustration] QUESTIONS I. Have you ever fed a squirrel? Where have you seen the largest number together? Why were they not afraid? How do mother squirrels carry their babies from one place to another? How do mother cats carry their babies? If mothers did not love their babies so much, what would happen to all animals and people? Do we have to thank squirrels for some of our trees? Why? II. Did you ever wish your doll or rocking horse were alive? Could anyone make them live? Isn’t being alive the most wonderful thing you can think of? Doesn’t it make you glad to think of the little wild things living in the out-of-doors? Name some of the animals living in the woods. Would the country be as pleasant without them? Why should you dislike to hurt any of them? III. Do you know that if people do not stop hunting wild ducks, mountain sheep, deer, and other animals they may all be killed? Did you ever see a reindeer? Did you notice its beautiful eyes? Would it be fun to fight a baby? Are not many animals as helpless as babies when they are hunted? Don’t you think it is cowardly to shoot little helpless animals “for fun”? [Illustration] THE GROCER’S HORSE I. The Careless Driver It was the week before Christmas. Everybody was ordering all sorts of good things to be sent home “just as soon as possible.” The grocer’s boy, John, was on duty early. Soon many baskets were filled with orders to be delivered. The horse was hurried out of the stable before he had quite finished his breakfast, and John soon had the baskets piled into the wagon. “Be lively, now,” the grocer said. “Get back as soon as you can.” John jumped on the wagon, seized the whip and gave the horse a sharp cut to begin the day with. John kept the whip in his hand. If the horse held up his pace a minute to give himself a chance to breathe, another snap of the whip kept him on the run. At the different houses where he left the groceries John rushed in and out as quickly as possible. In several places he was given fresh orders for articles that were needed. So the morning passed, and dinner time arrived. As John put the horse in the stable he could not help seeing that his breath came hard and fast, and that he was wet with sweat. “I guess it won’t do to give him any water, he is so hot,” John said, as he hurriedly put a scanty allowance of dry feed into the manger. The worn-out horse, trembling in every nerve with the fatigue of going hard all the morning, was almost choking with thirst. When John hurried in to his dinner, the first thing he asked for was something warm to drink. His mother gave him a cup of hot cocoa, and a good dinner, which he ate rapidly. Then off he started for the afternoon’s work. “Hurry up,” said the grocer as soon as John appeared. “Get out the horse and take these baskets; they are all rush orders.” “I went to Mrs. Bell’s twice this morning,” said John. “I should think she might give all her order at one time and not keep us running there all day.” “I can’t help it. She is a good customer. Hurry up,” answered the grocer. John ran out to the barn. He certainly had meant to give the horse water before he started out again, but being hurried, he forgot it. In a few minutes, whip in hand, he was urging the tired, thirsty horse again over the road. Toward the close of the afternoon the horse began to hang his head. When John touched him up with the whip he did not go any faster. When he stopped for the third time at Mrs. Bell’s house his legs were trembling and he closed his eyes as if he were going to sleep. Mrs. Bell looked out of the window and said to her Aunt Sarah, who was visiting her, “I think it is a shame for Mr. Rush to let that boy race his horse so all day. Every time he comes here the horse is in a sweat, and now he looks as if he would drop. It is wicked to work a horse so!” Her aunt replied, “Yes, the horses have to suffer for man’s thoughtlessness, and woman’s, too. He’s been here three times to-day, hasn’t he?” But Mrs. Bell did not see the point of the reply. II. What Happened in the Barn It was seven o’clock before John put the horse in the stable. He remembered then that he had given him no water all day. As he did not want to be obliged to go out to the barn again he gave him a pail of ice-cold water, which the horse drank greedily. Then he put his supper before him and left him. He did not stop to rub down the aching legs or to give the faithful, exhausted creature any further attention. He just threw a blanket over him and closed the barn for the night. When John came to the store the next morning a very angry looking grocer met him at the door. “You can go home as soon as you like. I won’t have a boy that drives my horse to death,” he said. “Is the horse dead?” asked John, turning pale. “It is not your fault if he is not dead. I have been up nearly all night with him, and I must get another horse to take his place until he is well.” “You told me to hurry every time I went out,” answered John. “Well, if you had any sense, you would know when a horse is used up and rest him,” replied the grocer. The horse died that day; and the grocer, the boy driver, and Mrs. Bell were all to blame. The grocer ought not to have trusted a boy who had no sympathy for animals. Such a boy is not fit to drive and care for a horse. John was too selfish to give the horse time to breathe or to eat, and he did not care whether he was made comfortable in the stable or not. Mrs. Bell was thoughtless in giving her orders; so she made the horse take many unnecessary trips to her house. So a willing, patient animal was neglected and worked to death, when with good care he might have lived many years and done faithful work. This all happened because the man, the boy, and the woman had never learned to be thoughtful and kind. —_Mrs. Huntington Smith—Adapted._ QUESTIONS What do you think of a man who is cruel to horses? Do you think people respect such a person? Did you ever hear that “cruelty is the meanest crime”? How would you treat a pony? A horse? Did you ever read “Black Beauty”? Which should you like better for a friend—a man who is kind to animals or a man who does not care how they are treated, just so that he gets his work done? When you are hurt, or sick, what do you do? Can a horse or any animal tell a friend when he is sick? A LETTER FROM A HORSE To the Lady of the House: Please order your supplies for the day early in the morning and all in one order. One daily trip to your door is enough. Two trips will wear me out twice as fast. Telephoning in an extra order doubles the work for the sales clerk and bookkeeper as well as for the driver and horse. This adds to the cost of all you buy. Hurry up orders make whippings for me. Please think of those who serve you, both people and horses. Your obedient servant, The Delivery Horse. P. S. Some boys play with a whip over my back, not meaning to hurt me, but I cannot see the fun. It makes me nervous, and I get so tired by night from being worried that I tremble all over. I know boys do not think about that part. T. D. Horse. A PLEA FOR THE HORSE Every horse will work longer and better if given three ample meals daily; plenty of clean, fresh water; proper shoes, sharpened in slippery weather; a blanket in cold weather; a stall six feet by nine feet or room enough to lie down; a fly net in summer and two weeks’ vacation each year. Do not use the cruel, tight check rein, or closely fitting blinders which cause blindness. SPARE THE WHIP QUESTIONS I. Wouldn’t you have much more work to do if there were no horses? Have you ever been very tired? Have you ever been very thirsty? Could you ask for a drink of water? Can a horse ask? Don’t you suppose animals suffer terribly with thirst? What would a horse say if he could talk? Can you drive? Did you ever stop to think that it is because a horse’s mouth is so tender that the great strong animal does what the driver wishes? What do you think about jerking the reins? Should we have as nice and comfortable houses or food or clothing if we had no horses? II. Is the horse a laborer? Has he a right to wages? What should they be? How many meals a day should a horse have? Can you imagine how it would seem if you were very, very hungry to be taken into a place where tables were spread with tempting food, and be driven past them without a bite? How do hungry horses feel when they see and smell apples and grass? Can you run as fast when you carry a heavy load as you can with a light load? Can a horse? Did you ever burn your mouth? Did you know that the steel bit, if put very cold in the horse’s mouth, will burn off the skin of the tongue and make the mouth sore—and perhaps prevent the horse from eating? Could the bit be easily warmed by dipping it into hot water, or breathing on it to take out the frost? Did you ever stop to think that every creature that is alive can suffer? III. Did you ever see a driver stop on a cold day and go into a restaurant for a bowl of warm soup or a cup of coffee? Did he put a blanket on the horse? Did you ever see a horse taken into a stable and given a warm meal on a cold day? Did you ever see non-skid chain-shoes for horses? Do you know that burlap tied on the horses’ hoofs answers the same purpose, and costs only a little time and forethought? * * * * * The driver can best help this horse to get up by spreading a blanket or carpet over the icy roadway under his feet. [Illustration] PART II COMMUNITY OCCUPATIONS Stories About People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs These stories develop very simply, the fundamental ideas of service, dependence and interdependence, and reciprocal duties. They also teach incidentally the civic virtues of thoroughness, honesty, respect, etc., which form the subject matter of Part I of this book. STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO PROVIDE US WITH FOOD THE BAKER I. An Early Call “Good morning, children,” said Mrs. Duwell, with a bright smile—so bright that it seemed as if the oatmeal she was stirring smiled too. “Good morning, mother,” said Ruth. “My, but we are early this morning; it is only seven o’clock.” “Good morning, mother,” said Wallace, sleepily. “May I go back to bed again?” “Yes—after supper to-night,” replied his mother. “But I am glad you are up, for I am expecting a caller to knock at the door any moment.” “Who is it?” asked Ruth. “Oh, he is a very important man,” said her mother. “The strange part of it is that he never rings the front door bell, but always comes to the kitchen door and knocks.” “Please tell us who he is!” cried both the children. [Illustration: TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE] [Illustration: THE NEXT TIME A LOAF OF BREAD COMES TO YOUR HOUSE, WILL YOU LOOK INTO IT AND SEE IF YOU CAN FIND PICTURES LIKE THE ONES IN THE LOAF ON THIS PAGE? HERE YOU WILL FIND PICTURES OF HARVESTING, GRAIN ELEVATOR, BAKERS AT WORK, AND BAKER WAGON.] “Yes,” went on Mrs. Duwell, “he is going to bring us the most useful and wonderful article sold in any store in this city.” “Oh, mother, tell us what it is,” begged the children. Just then there came a heavy knock at the kitchen door. “There he comes with it now, I believe,” whispered Mrs. Duwell. “Wallace, you may open the door.” Wallace ran quickly to the door and opened it, and there stood—the bread man. “Oh, mother,” exclaimed Wallace, “it’s only the bread man!” “Wallace,” said his mother, “speak more politely. Say ‘good morning,’ and take a loaf of bread and a dozen rolls.” “Now, mother, tell us who it is you expect, and what he is going to bring,” coaxed Ruth as soon as the door was closed. “Sit down and eat your breakfast, children, and I will tell you all about it.” When the children had been served, she went on: “The man I spoke about has just gone—he is the bread man. Isn’t a loaf of bread the most useful and wonderful article sold in any store in the city?” “Why, mother, you are joking!” exclaimed Wallace. “No, indeed, I am not. Tell me, children, what must you have in order to live?” “Food,” replied Ruth. “Correct; and what article of food do we most need?” “Bread,” replied Ruth. “I believe that is so,” said Wallace, after thinking a moment. “I am going to talk with father about it when he comes home to-night.” “That is right; I think he will tell you something about wheat fields and bake ovens,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Now run along to school or you will be late.” II. The Staff of Life “Father,” said Wallace, as the family sat about the supper table that evening, “a very important man called at the door this morning before we went to school.” “He did! Who was he?” asked Mr. Duwell. “Guess who,” said Ruth. “He left us the most wonderful and useful article sold in any store in this city.” “Who was he? What was it?” Mr. Duwell pretended to be very curious. “Guess! See if you can guess!” “Let me see—oh, yes, it must have been the mayor with a pound of butter.” “Guess again,” shouted the children. “A policeman, with a bottle of ink.” “No, guess again!” “I give it up.” “The bread man with that loaf of bread,” cried the children, pointing to the loaf on the table. “Well, well, I believe you are right, children,” said their father. “I certainly ought to have guessed, although I never thought of the bread man as a very important man before.” “Mother explained it to us this morning and said that you would tell us about the wheat fields and bake ovens,” spoke up Ruth. “I certainly will, children,” said their father, looking pleased. “Let me see; what is this made of?” he asked, picking up a piece of bread. “Flour.” “Yes, what kind?” “Wheat flour.” “Correct; so this is wheat bread. What other kinds of bread are there?” “Rye bread, bran bread, graham bread.” “Yes; and in Europe bread is often made of oats and barley.” “Bread is sometimes called by another name,” said their mother; “did you ever hear of it? The staff——” “The staff of life,” finished the children. “I have an idea,” cried their father suddenly. “The Spotless Bakery is about three squares up the street. It is open in the evening. I know the manager. Let us go up there to see how they make bread.” “Hurrah for dad! Fine, come on!” cried Wallace. “I wish mother could go,” Ruth said. Her mother shook her head; “No, dear, I’ll not go this time, but thank you for thinking of it.” “We won’t be long, mother, and we’ll tell you about everything when we get home,” said Wallace, as the three left the house. III. A Visit to the Bakery Soon they came to a big square building that seemed to be all windows, blazing with light. Over the door was a sign which read: THE SPOTLESS BAKERY The children had often seen the building before but had never been inside. They entered and their father asked to see the manager. Soon he came bustling in—a round smiling little man, dressed in a spotless white suit. “Good evening, Mr. Duwell,” he said, shaking hands. “Good evening, Mr. Baker,” replied Mr. Duwell. “This is Ruth, and this is Wallace. They want to see how bread is baked, if you are not too busy for visitors.” “I shall be delighted to show you,” said Mr. Baker, smiling and shaking hands with both children; “this way, please.” Up a narrow winding stair they climbed to the sifting room on the fourth floor. “Every bit of flour starts on its journey through these sifters,” said the manager, pointing to a row of box-like sifting machines. On the floor stood a huge pile of bags of flour. “Each one of these bags holds one hundred and forty pounds,” he explained. Passing down the stairway they saw the store-room piled high with more bags of flour. “There are more than a thousand of them,” said the manager. Then they came to the mixing room. Everything was white—the huge mixers were white; the walls were white; the bakers were dressed in white with odd round white caps; the dough trays were white—everything was white and spotless. “The flour from the sifters above comes through an opening in the floor into the mixers. Then the yeast and other things are added. The electric power is started. The great iron arms of the mixers turn, and twist, and mix until the whole mass becomes dough,” Mr. Baker explained. Along the wall were the dough trays in which the dough is set to rise. These trays remind one of huge white bath tubs on wheels, a little wider and deeper and about twice as long as the ones in our houses. “How much will each one of those hold?” asked Wallace, pointing to the trays full of creamy dough. “Enough to make eleven hundred loaves,” answered the manager. “Why, there must be over forty of them,” said Wallace, looking down the long line. “How many loaves do you bake in a day?” “We have two more bakeries like this, and in the three we bake about one hundred thousand loaves a day—besides rolls and cakes.” “Why, I didn’t know there was so much bread in the world,” said Wallace. “Yes, my boy, there are bakeries almost everywhere. We supply only a small part of the bread needed in our large city.” As they went down the next stairway to the baking room, the pleasant odor of fresh-baked bread came up to meet them. “Here they are!” cried Ruth. “Look, Wallace, here are the bake ovens!” All that could be seen on one side of the room was a long row of black oven doors, set in a low white-tiled wall. On the other side of the room were large oblong tables, around which the white-uniformed bakers were busily working. The dough was piled high on the tables. One baker cut it into lumps. Another made the lumps into pound loaves, weighing them on a scale. Another shaped the loaves and put them into rows of pans, which were slipped into large racks and wheeled to the oven door. “Look,” said Wallace, “they are going to put them in!” A baker put four loaves on a long-handled flat shovel; then quickly opened the oven door and slipped them inside. “Look at the loaves!” cried Wallace, peeping into the open door. “Hundreds of them. How many will that oven hold?” “Six hundred,” said the baker, closing the door. “Look,” cried Ruth, “they are taking them out of that other oven. There comes our loaf for breakfast, Wallace.” Farther down the room a baker was lifting out of an oven the nut-brown loaves, bringing with them the sweet smell of fresh bread. “Isn’t it wonderful!” said Mr. Duwell, who was almost as excited as the children. “Notice how all the men work together, everyone doing his part to help the others.” “What are the baking hours?” he asked the manager. “From twelve o’clock, noon, till midnight, the ovens are kept going as you see them now,” said the manager. “We will go down one more flight to the shipping room,” he added, leading the way. There the finished loaves were coming down from the floor above on great racks to wait for shipping time. The space in front of the shipping platform was crowded with wagons and automobiles. [Illustration] “Why, look!” said Wallace, “there are more wagons than automobiles. I should think you would use automobiles entirely.” “No,” replied the manager, “the automobiles are better for long distances; but for short distances, where the driver has to start and stop, horses are much better. When the driver serves bread along a street he calls, ‘Come Dolly,’ or whatever the horse’s name is, and the horse follows. The horse is alive; the automobile isn’t.” “When does the delivery start?” asked Mr. Duwell. “Soon after midnight.” After thanking the manager for his kindness, shaking hands all around, and bidding him good-night, the little party hurried home. All that night Wallace dreamed that he was putting loaves of bread into a big oven and lifting them out, brown and crisp, on the end of a long-handled shovel, loading them into a delivery wagon, and driving all over the city, so that the people could have fresh bread for breakfast. IV. Where the Wheat Comes From At the table the next evening the children were still talking about their visit to the bakery. “Well, children,” said their father, “we followed the flour through the bakery to the loaf on our table. What do you say if we take a little journey to the place where the wheat comes from.” “Fine!” cried Wallace. “When can we start?” “Right now, son, but it will be a stay-at-home journey,” said Mr. Duwell; and everybody laughed. “Let us see,” Mr. Duwell went on; “where did the thousand bags of flour we saw in the bakery come from?” “I know,” said Ruth. “I read ‘Minn.’ on one of the bags.” “Good, Ruth,” said her father. “That is what I call using your eyes. What does ‘Minn.’ stand for?” “Min-ne-so-ta,” answered Wallace quickly. “Correct! Minnesota has great wheat fields, and so have North and South Dakota, Kansas, and many other states; but the wheat in our loaf grew in Minnesota. “Wallace, step over to the bookcase and bring me the large book marked ‘W.’” Wallace brought it in a moment. Mr. Duwell opened the book and found some colored pictures. “Here we are,” said he. “What does it say under the first picture, Ruth?” “‘Reaping and Binding Wheat,’” read Ruth, bending over the book. “Right! There is our loaf growing, and there is the machine cutting the wheat and tying it into bundles. What does it say under this picture, Wallace?” “‘Threshing by Steam,’” read Wallace. “Yes—taking the wheat from the straw and chaff. What comes next, Ruth?” “‘Grain El-e-va-tor,’” read Ruth. “What is a grain elevator?” asked Mr. Duwell. “Why, the place where the wheat is stored until needed.” “Yes,” said Mr. Duwell, “some elevators are so large that they will hold nearly two million bushels of wheat.” “Plenty large enough to hold our loaf,” added Mrs. Duwell. “Now read again, Wallace.” “‘In-te-ri-or of Flour Mill,’” read Wallace. “Yes, that is where they grind the wheat into white flour and remove the bran.” “Bran is the outside coat, isn’t it?” asked Ruth. “Yes, that’s it! Now read again.” “‘Train Being Loaded with Flour,’” read Ruth. “Yes, that must be a picture of the fifteen car loads of flour used every week by the Spotless Bakery.” “I never would have believed it took so many people to make a loaf of bread,” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell. “Let me see: the plowman, the sower, the reaper,—go on, Wallace.” “The thresher, the miller, the train-men, the baker—” added Wallace. “And the baker’s horses,” finished Ruth. QUESTIONS Have you ever visited a bakery? Tell about it. The Duwell family had a splendid time finding out things about their bread and rolls, didn’t they? Why don’t you try it with some of the other things you eat? Can you think of some ways of helping this very useful man, the baker? Suppose company had come unexpectedly to see your great-grandmother when she did not have bread enough baked. How would she have gotten bread for her guests? What would your mother do if the same thing happened to her? * * * * * Praise God for wheat, so white and sweet, Of which we make our bread! Praise God for yellow corn, with which His waiting world is fed! —_Edward Everett Hale._ [Illustration] BAKING THE JOHNNY-CAKE Little Sarah stood by her grandmother’s bed, “Now what shall I get for your breakfast?” she said. “You may get me a johnny-cake. Quickly go make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.” [Illustration] So Sarah went to the closet to see If yet any meal in the barrel might be. The barrel had long been as empty as wind, And not a speck of corn meal could she find. But grandmother’s johnny-cake, still she must make it, In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it. [Illustration] She ran to the store, but the storekeeper said, “I have none. You must go to the miller, fair maid, For he has a mill, and he’ll put the corn in it, And grind you some nice yellow meal in a minute. Now run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it, In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?” [Illustration] Then Sarah she ran every step of the way, But the miller said, “No, I have no meal to-day. Run, quick, to the cornfield, just over the hill, And if any corn’s there, you may fetch it to mill. Run, run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it, In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?” [Illustration] She ran to the cornfield—the corn had not grown, Though the sun in the blue sky pleasantly shone. “Pretty sun,” cried the maiden, “please make the corn grow.” “Pretty maid,” the sun answered, “I cannot do so.” “Then grandmother’s johnny-cake, how shall I make it, In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?” [Illustration] But Sarah looked round, and she saw what was wanted; The corn could not grow, for no corn had been planted. She asked of the farmer to sow her some grain, But the farmer laughed till his sides ached again. “Ho! ho! for the johnny-cake, how can you make it, In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?” [Illustration] The farmer he laughed, and he laughed very loud— “And how can I plant till the land has been plowed? Run, run, to the plowman, and bring him with speed; He’ll plow up the ground and I’ll fill it with seed.” Away, then, ran Sarah, still hoping to make it, In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it. The plowman he plowed, and the grain it was sown, And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown. It was ground at the mill, and again at her bed These words to kind Sarah the grandmother said, “Please get me a johnny-cake—quickly go make it, In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.” _From “Child Life: A Collection of Poems,” Edited by John Greenleaf Whittier._ [Illustration] THE MILKMAN I. Before the Sun Rises “What do you think one of our lessons was about to-day, mother?” asked Ruth, coming in from school one afternoon. “I couldn’t guess,” said her mother. “What was it about?” “The milkman.” “The milkman,” repeated Mrs. Duwell in surprise; “that must have been interesting.” “Yes, we just talked. Teacher asked questions; she asked if we liked bread and milk or cereal and milk, and said that they made an excellent breakfast. “What do you think, mother,” Ruth went on; “teacher told us that not many years ago the milkman came around with big cans of milk and measured whatever you wanted, a pint or a quart, into your pitcher or milk pail.” “Yes, that is true,” said Mrs. Duwell. “That is the way they did when I was a little girl. How did they come to change? Did your teacher tell you?” “People found that it was not san-i-ta-ry, teacher said. The milk was not always kept clean; so the milkmen put it into pint and quart bottles, with paper caps to keep out flies and germs.” [Illustration: TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE.] [Illustration: THE NEXT TIME YOU DRINK A GLASS OF MILK THINK ABOUT WHAT A LONG JOURNEY IT HAS TAKEN. THE MILK IN THE BOTTLE IN THIS PICTURE CAME IN A BIG CAN FROM THE COW TO THE RAILROAD STATION, ON THE TRAIN TO THE CITY DAIRY WHERE IT WAS BOTTLED AND TESTED. IT WAS THEN SENT OUT IN A LARGE AUTO TRUCK TO THE DELIVERY WAGON WHICH TOOK IT TO THE DUWELL FAMILY. DOES THE MILK WHICH YOU USE TAKE AS LONG A JOURNEY AS THAT?] “Did you find out where the milk comes from?” “Oh yes, from the farms. Teacher showed us pictures of cows; some with tan and white coats—Jerseys; and some with black and white coats—Holsteins, I think she said. I should love to see real cows.” “So you shall, dear, the next time we go into the country. “I remember,” continued Mrs. Duwell, “hearing your grandfather say that when he was a boy he had to be out of bed before daylight, sometimes as early as three o’clock, and go out into the cold barn to milk the cows.” “Three o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Wallace, who had just come in. “Yes; then he had to hurry into the kitchen for breakfast, then out again, hitch up old Dobbin, load the milk cans on the wagon and drive to the nearest station to catch the milk train. He had to do all this by six o’clock—before most people in the city think of getting up.” “My, there wasn’t much fun in that,” said Wallace. “No, indeed. You remember the deep snow in March last winter. I asked our milkman what time he started on his rounds. What do you think he said?” “Six o’clock,” replied Wallace. “Earlier than that, son,” said Mrs. Duwell. “He laughed and said, ‘I have to load up and start by three o’clock to serve all my customers before breakfast.’” “Yes,” added Ruth, “teacher told us about that and asked what would happen if the driver overslept and did not get over the route before breakfast.” “What did you answer?” “Why, that we might have to do without milk for breakfast.” “Or we might have to wait for breakfast until eleven o’clock,” said Wallace. “Oh, Wallace,” cried Ruth, “I didn’t say that! If we waited for breakfast until eleven o’clock we would be dreadfully late for school.” “And dreadfully hungry, too,” said Wallace. “I’m glad our milkman gets up on time.” II. Milk, from Farm to Family “Well, what I want to know is, where the Clover Leaf Dairy gets our milk from,” said Wallace. [Illustration] “It is this way. The dairy wagon meets the milk train and takes the cans of milk to the dairy. There they test the milk to see if it is pure and fresh. “Next they empty the milk into a big white tank and heat it to kill the disease germs. After quickly cooling the milk, they put it into bottles, and it saves the babies’ lives,” said Ruth almost without stopping to take breath. Her mother smiled and asked, “Did your teacher tell you the name of that work?” “Yes; but it was a long word, and I have forgotten it,” answered Ruth. “Pas-teur-i-zing.” Her mother said it for her. “Yes, that’s it—pasteurizing. I could not think. It kills all the bad germs so that the milk is safe for even the weakest babies. “Teacher told us about a good man in New York,” Ruth went on, “named Mr. Straus, who was sorry because so many babies died from drinking impure milk. He made it so that poor babies in New York could have pasteurized milk; and then less than half as many died as before.” “Wasn’t that a noble thing to do,” said her mother. “Yes; our teacher says that almost everybody uses pasteurized milk now, and in this way thousands of babies’ lives have been saved. She says that we ought to be grateful.” “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Duwell; “we ought to be grateful to the milkman, the farmer, and everybody that helps to bring us pure milk.” QUESTIONS Would you like to get up long before daylight, on cold winter mornings to deliver milk for people’s breakfast? Tell some of the things you like that you could not have to eat if the milkman did not come. Have you ever visited a big dairy? Tell about it. Imagine you own a herd of cows in the country, and tell some of the things you would do in order to be sure to send good, pure, clean milk to the dairy. [Illustration] THE GROCER I. The Old-time Grocer “Wallace, light another candle, please. I cannot see very well,” said Mr. Duwell as he sat smiling at the head of the dining table, with carving knife lifted ready to carve the roast. Wallace turned on another electric light, and everybody laughed. “That’s a good guess, son,” said his mother. “On my grandfather’s farm they always burned candles, and grandmother made them herself.” “Made them herself!” exclaimed Ruth. “Yes,” replied her mother. “I have often seen the candle moulds. They looked like a row of tin tubes fastened together. The wicks were hung in the middle of the tubes, and the melted tallow was poured in around them. When the candles were hard and cold, they were slipped out ready for use.” “Your grandmother must have been smart. What relation was she to me?” asked Ruth. “Your great-grandmother, dear. She was ‘smart,’ indeed. She made not only candles, but soap.” “Soap!” said Ruth in surprise. “Yes, and butter,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Your great-grandfather was ‘smart,’ too,” said Mr. Duwell. “Why, Wallace, he butchered a pig or two, and sometimes a cow in the fall for the winter’s meat.” “Weren’t there any grocers or butchers?” asked Wallace. “Yes, indeed; your great-grandmother was the grocer, and your great-grandfather was the butcher for the family.” “But weren’t there any stores?” “Yes, the stores were in the big kitchen pantry, the cellar, and the ice-house.” “I mean grocery stores like Parker’s, and Wiggin’s,” explained Wallace. “No, until the towns and villages sprang up there were no stores such as we have now,” said Mr. Duwell. “You see, there were not many people to buy things in the early days, and they lived on farms many miles apart, so it did not pay anyone to keep a store. “Why is the grocery so useful to everybody?” he asked. “Because it sells food.” “That is it. You see, when enough people lived in one place to make a village or town, some one opened a store. Now, how did he get flour to sell?” “From the miller.” “Right—and potatoes?” “From the farmer.” “Yes, the miller brought flour and the farmer brought potatoes to the grocer for him to sell.” “And when grandma made more butter than she could use she sent it to the grocer,” added Mrs. Duwell. “Where did the grocer get his stock of brooms, Ruth?” asked her father. “From the broom-maker.” “That is the idea. All who grew or made more things than they could use brought them to the grocer to be sold. So the grocer helped them and they helped him, and the people went to the store for their supplies. “You must remember, children,” went on Mr. Duwell, “the old-fashioned country store was very different from Parker’s grocery around the corner. Besides groceries, it sold harness, horse blankets, hardware, shoes, and everything people needed.” II. The Modern Grocer “Suppose Wallace were a grocer, Ruth, how would you like his store to be kept?” asked her mother. “Clean—oh, so clean!” replied Ruth. “Yes, what else?” “Full of shelves with all the packages and bottles and other things in their places.” “How would you treat the people, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell. “I would be very polite, and try to have every article they wanted fresh and good.” “That is right, and I know you would be honest and truthful.” “If you were that kind of grocer, Wallace,” said Mr. Duwell, “you would be of real service to the people.” “What kind of customers would you like to have, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell. “Oh, people who paid their bills on time and didn’t find too much fault,” answered Wallace. “Well,” said Ruth, “if you were anything like that, your customers would certainly call you The Spotless Grocer.” [Illustration] QUESTIONS Think of all the extra work your mother and father would have to do if there were no grocery stores. Is there one near your house? Are you glad? What kind of grocery store do you like? What kind of grocer do you like to deal with? Try playing store, and pretend that your customers will not pay their bills and that the men from whom you buy come to insist on your paying them. What will happen? If you were a real grocer, would you like that to happen? Can you think of some other ways you can help the grocer besides paying your bills promptly? STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO HELP CLOTHE US THE TAILOR I. The Accident Wallace was very proud of the new suit of clothes his father had just bought him. He wanted to wear it to school the first day after it came home. “If I were you I should keep it for best for a while, Wallace,” said his mother. “Your old suit is good enough for school for some time.” “But Tom Dolittle is going to wear his new suit to-day; he told me so.” “It doesn’t seem wise to me, Wallace—but wear it if you think best.” “All right, mother,” said Wallace as he skipped away to put it on. A few minutes later his mother stood watching a very happy boy running down the street. “Mother!” called Wallace, walking slowly upstairs when he came in from school. “Here I am, boy, in the sitting room,” answered his mother. “Just see what has happened to my new suit!” “Have you torn your jacket?” “No, it’s not torn,” he said, coming into the room. “It is worse than that. I’m afraid it is ruined. Look! Look!” “Why, child,” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell, “how did this happen? Let us go into the bathroom to wipe off a little of the mud. That may prevent stains.” She hardly knew the mud-splashed boy who stood before her, so very unlike the spick and span Wallace of the morning. “Well, dear, don’t worry too much,” she said. “We will see what the tailor can do for us.” “Do you suppose he can make it clean enough for me to wear?” asked the boy eagerly. “I think that he can make it look very well,” said his mother. “Put on your other suit and we will take this one around to the tailor’s shop. But you haven’t told me what happened.” “Why, it was this way: I was chasing some of the boys, and just as I reached the corner an automobile came speeding out of West Street. It skidded into the curb, and splashed the mud over me from head to foot. The whole thing happened in less than a minute. You ought to have heard the boys laugh!” “I am thankful you were not hurt,” said his mother. “I will put on my wraps and we will go at once.” II. At the Tailor Shop “Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Duwell to the tailor as they entered the shop. “Good afternoon,” said the tailor. “What can I do for you to-day?” “We want to see if you can make this suit of clothes look like new,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Let me look at it,” said the man, untying the parcel, and examining the mud-splashed clothing. “Well, that is pretty bad, but I guess we can do a good job.” “How much will you charge?” asked Wallace anxiously. “Seventy-five cents, if you call for it,” said the tailor, taking out a tag. “What name, please?” “Give your name, son,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Wallace Duwell,” said the boy. “When may I come?” “Day after to-morrow,” replied the tailor. “We will do our best to make it look like new.” “Thank you,” answered Wallace, smiling for the first time since the accident. [Illustration: TELL THE STORY OF THIS PICTURE. IF YOU LOOK AT YOUR COAT CAREFULLY YOU WILL FIND A STORY ABOUT SHEEP SHEARING, SPINNING, WEAVING, AND TAILORING JUST LIKE THE STORY SHOWN IN THE PICTURES IN THE COAT ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE.] [Illustration: DO YOU EVER THINK OF THE MANY PEOPLE WE HAVE TO THANK FOR OUR NICE WARM CLOTHING?] “Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Duwell, as they left the shop. “Good-by,” answered the tailor; “come again.” “Mother,” said Wallace, after they had walked a few minutes, “it was my fault that this accident happened, and I want to pay for having the suit cleaned. I have the money Aunt Mary gave me for Christmas.” “That will please your father, Wallace. We will tell him the whole story this evening.” III. What the Tailor Saved the Duwell Family When Wallace finished telling about the accident his father said, “I wonder how much money the tailor is saving us by doing this work?” “I never thought about that,” admitted Wallace. “Let me see. We paid seven dollars and a half for that suit, didn’t we, mother?” asked Mr. Duwell. “Yes, I think that was the amount,” answered Mrs. Duwell. “Well, if the suit couldn’t be cleaned it would mean that we should have to buy another in its place. Mother can clean a suit well, but even she could not make as sorry a looking suit as yours look like new. Now do a little problem in arithmetic.” Wallace promptly pulled pad and pencil from his pocket, and wrote: +--------------------------------------+ \| Cost of suit $7.50 \| \| Tailor’s charge for cleaning, .75 \| \| ----- \| \| Saved $6.75 \| +--------------------------------------+ “Six dollars and seventy-five cents! I didn’t think it would be that much!” he exclaimed in surprise. “Be sure to thank the tailor when you go after your suit,” said Mr. Duwell. “I certainly will,” said Wallace. QUESTIONS Do you ever visit the tailor’s? Tell about his shop. Do you think his work is easy? Could you do it? If you were a tailor and had worked hard to do good, prompt work, how would you like to be treated in return? If your suit could talk about all the things that happened to it before it came to you, it would tell a very interesting story. Pretend you are a suit and tell all about yourself. THE DRESSMAKER I. An Invitation to a Party “Mother,” said Ruth, coming in from school a few days later, “Mildred Maydole has invited me to her birthday party. She wrote the invitations herself on the prettiest little note paper. Here is mine.” Mrs. Duwell read:. Dear Ruth, It will give my mother and me much pleasure if you will come to my birthday party from three to six o’clock, Saturday afternoon, January twenty-eighth. Your friend, Mildred Maydole. “Oh, mother, please say I may go!” cried Ruth excitedly, jumping up and down on tiptoe. “Mildred wants an answer soon, so that her mother can make her plans.” “Why, my dear, I think you may go,” said her mother, “if I can get your new dress made by the twenty-eighth. You have grown so fast that I have not been able to keep up with you in sewing.” “I am so happy with the thought of going,” exclaimed Ruth, “that I can scarcely wait for the day. You know, mother, Mildred is older than I, and it is a great honor to be invited to her party.” “Yes, indeed, it is,” agreed her mother. “Naturally Mildred could not invite all the children in your grade at school; so if I were you I would not talk about the party before the other children. You see, it might hurt the feelings of some who were not invited.” “That’s just what Mildred said, mother; she asked us to keep it a secret for that reason.” “Well, dear, if you do keep it secret, do not make a mystery of it, whispering among the fortunate ones and letting the others wonder why you all say, ‘Hush,’ when they happen to come near.” “Why, mother! how did you know?” asked Ruth flushing. “Now that I think of it, that is just what we did do.” “Instead of just telling Mildred that you will come,” said her mother, “I think it would be better to write a note accepting the invitation.” “I’ll do it right away!” exclaimed Ruth, running to her little desk. “Will you help me with the words?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Duwell. “How would it do to say this: Dear Mildred, My mother is very much pleased with the kind invitation to your birthday party, and says that I may come on Saturday afternoon. Your friend, Ruth Duwell.” When Ruth had finished writing, she sealed the envelope. “I shall hand this to Mildred after school is dismissed at noon,” she said. “Thank you for helping me, mother.” II. A Disappointment Mrs. Duwell had been unusually busy for several days after the conversation about the party. One day she said, “Ruth, dear child, I cannot seem to find time to make your new dress. I wonder if Miss Fells could make it before the twenty-eighth. Why not run over and ask her?” “Yes, mother, why not? I think that is a good idea,” agreed Ruth. “I do, too,” said her mother. “Here is the material that grandma sent you. Run along, and do not forget to thank Miss Fells if she will agree to make your dress.” “No, indeed, mother, I won’t,” said Ruth. III. At the Dressmaker’s “Good afternoon, Miss Fells,” said Ruth, when she entered the door of the dressmaker’s house. “Good afternoon, Ruth,” said Miss Fells, who knew the little girl. Then, noticing the package, she added, “Oh, I hope you are not going to ask me to make you a dress any time soon.” Ruth’s heart sank. “I was going to, Miss Fells,” she admitted. “How soon?” asked the dressmaker. “By January the twenty-eighth.” Then she told about the party and her mother’s disappointment. “I don’t see how I can do it—” began Miss Fells. Then seeing the tears in Ruth’s eyes, she said, “But let me look at the goods, Ruth.” The little girl spread the material out on the table. “Isn’t it pretty!” exclaimed Miss Fells. “Perhaps I can get some extra help. Come for a fitting to-morrow at four o’clock, and we’ll see what can be done.” “Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss Fells!” Ruth exclaimed. Then she ran all the way home to tell the good news. [Illustration: WHAT IS RUTH ASKING THE DRESSMAKER?] [Illustration: THE “BUTTERFLIES” ON THIS PAGE ARE THE MOTHS OF TWO OF OUR AMERICAN SILKWORMS. IN OLDEN DAYS, SPINNING WAS DONE AT HOME. TODAY WE HAVE GREAT SPINNING AND WEAVING MACHINES, AND MUCH OF OUR CLOTHING IS MADE IN FACTORIES.] “Now we see, Ruth,” said her mother, “how glad we should be that different people do different things for us. A person who studies and works in one special line must do better than one who works at it only once in a while—the way I do dressmaking.” “Why, that is true, mother,” exclaimed Ruth, “I never thought of it before, though.” “There are many more things to be learned about dressmakers,” went on her mother. “Let us talk about some of them this evening.” “Mother, I suppose father will ask a lot of questions—just as he did about the tailor.” “I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Duwell, “and I am glad that you are interested. I have heard my grandmother say that when she was young, there were no ready-made paper patterns.” “Why, mother, how could people make dresses then?” asked Ruth. “It was done in this way. A seamstress or some one who liked to make dresses would cut out and fit a dress for somebody in her family or neighborhood. If the dress was pretty, the pattern would be borrowed and used by almost the entire village.” “Didn’t people mind if other dresses were made just like theirs?” asked Ruth. “No,” said her mother, “styles did not change quickly in those days. Indeed, the getting of a new dress was a great event in the life of a girl, and it was chosen most carefully. [Illustration] “You see, it served first as a best dress; then, being turned, it often served as second best. After that, perhaps it would be handed down to a younger child to be worn as long as it had been by its first owner.” “My,” cried Ruth. “I am glad I didn’t live in the days when new dresses were so scarce.” Mrs. Duwell smiled. “Children to-day have more of everything than children ever had before. They have more clothes and playthings, and better chances for ed-u-ca-tion—but here comes your father, Ruth. You may run and tell him of our plan for the evening.” Mr. Duwell was very much pleased with the plan. When the evening came he asked and answered many questions. He then showed the children pictures of silkworms in a large book marked “S.” “By the way,” he asked, “do you know that we have silkworms right here in America? The American silkworms spin silk as strong and beautiful as that of the Chinese silkworms. But the people here do not have the time or patience to grow silkworms.” IV. The Party Ruth’s dress was not finished until an hour before the party began. As soon as the last stitch was taken, Miss Fells herself carried it to the Duwell home. Ruth was “on pins and needles” for fear it would not be done in time, and she was delighted to see the dressmaker. “Oh, Miss Fells, I cannot thank you enough for getting it done!” she cried. “Hurry and put your dress on,” said Miss Fells. “I want to see how it fits.” In less time than it takes to tell, Ruth was dressed. “It fits perfectly,” said Miss Fells, who was almost as happy as Ruth herself. “It certainly does,” said Mrs. Duwell. “It is just right.” Mildred was very glad when Ruth arrived at the party, for she knew of her worry about the dress. “It is beautiful, Ruth,” she said, looking with sparkling eyes at the pretty smocking on the waist and skirt. “Miss Fells told me she was going to surprise you,” she added. “She surely did surprise me. Wasn’t she kind!” replied Ruth. The party was a delight. One of the games was a contest in needle threading. Ruth threaded her needle in the shortest time and won the prize, a pretty silver thimble. “Perhaps the new dress helped you to win,” said Mildred. “Won’t Miss Fells be pleased when she hears about it,” said Ruth. QUESTIONS Does your mother ever sew for a long time without resting? How does her back feel when she stops? Do you think dressmaking is easy work? Can you tell some of the things dressmakers need in their work? If you have ever visited a silk or woolen or cotton mill, tell about it. Where do the mill owners get their materials? Where do the stores get ready-made clothing? Could you or the shoemaker or the baker make as beautiful and comfortable clothing as the dressmaker? Why can she do it so well? How can we make her work easier? THE SILK DRESS “My dress is pretty,” a little girl said. “Did you make it?” I asked. She shook her head. “No, I didn’t make it,” she laughed in glee. “It took lots of people to make it,” said she. “I’ll tell you about it, because I know What my mother told me is truly so. “The silkworms grew it, and after a while Men unraveled it into a pile; Girls spun it and wove it and sent it away, And my mother bought it for me one day; And the dressmaker cut it and sewed it for me— These are the reasons I love it,” said she. THE SHOEMAKER I. The Worn Shoes “Where now, Wallace?” asked Mr. Duwell as he met his son one bright afternoon. The boy was carrying a bundle under his arm. “Mother sent me over to the shoemaker’s,” replied the boy. “I am glad I ran across you,” said Mr. Duwell; “I have an errand over in that direction; I’ll walk along with you.” “Oh, all right, father. Mother said she wished she could ask you about my shoes. We could not make up our minds whether they were worth half-soling or not.” “Why not talk the matter over with the shoemaker?” said Mr. Duwell. “I suppose I shouldn’t have let them get so worn before taking them to Mr. Shoemaker’s,” remarked Wallace. “As mother says, ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’” remarked Mr. Duwell. “By the way, father,” continued Wallace, “isn’t Mr. Shoemaker’s name a good one for a cobbler?” Mr. Duwell smiled. “Very good, indeed; but really it isn’t so strange as it seems. Many years ago, when people did not have two names, they became known by the names of the trades they followed. For instance, John the baker became John Baker, and later Mr. Baker; so also the tailor became Mr. Taylor; the mason, Mr. Mason; the carpenter, Mr. Carpenter.” “And the blacksmith, Mr. Smith; and the cook, Mr. Cook,” added Wallace. “Yes,” said his father, “and we could think of many more such names; but here we are at Mr. Shoemaker’s. Suppose you attend to this little matter of business by yourself, while I do my errand.” This made Wallace look pleased and important as he stepped into the shop. “Good afternoon, Mr. Shoemaker,” he said. “Good afternoon,” replied the shoemaker; “what can I do for you to-day?” Wallace handed him the parcel, which he opened. “Do you think it would pay to put half-soles and new heels on these shoes?” asked the boy. “Pretty good uppers,” replied the shoemaker, examining them carefully. “I think it would almost double the length of life of these shoes to mend them, but I would not wear the next pair quite so long before having them mended.” “I think you are right,” said Wallace. “How much will you charge?” “A dollar and a quarter for soles and heels,” replied the man. “Isn’t that a good deal?” asked Wallace. “Not too much if we use the best quality of leather, and it doesn’t pay to use any other.” “All right, Mr. Shoemaker,” agreed Wallace. “When shall I call for them?” “On Saturday,” he replied, writing Wallace’s name on a tag. “Very well, good afternoon.” “Good-by,” said the shoemaker. Outside the door Wallace was joined by his father. “I do not know whether I did right to leave my shoes, father,” said Wallace. “Mr. Shoemaker said the charge would be a dollar and a quarter. Doesn’t that seem a big price?” “It does,” replied Mr. Duwell, “but I think you did right. A new pair of such shoes would cost three dollars and seventy-five cents.” “And three dollars and seventy-five cents, less one dollar and a quarter, equals two dollars and a half saved,” finished Wallace. “That is true, my boy,” said Mr. Duwell, “if they last as long as a new pair.” [Illustration: TELL THE STORY OF THIS PICTURE.] [Illustration: CAN YOU TELL SOMETHING ABOUT TANNING AND FINISHING LEATHER? HAVE YOU EVER VISITED A SHOE FACTORY?] [Illustration: IT SEEMS STRANGE TO THINK THAT THE LEATHER IN OUR SHOES WAS ONCE WORN BY ANIMALS, DOESN’T IT?] “I suppose we ought to be very much obliged to the shoemaker, even though we do pay him for his work,” mused the boy aloud. “So we should,” said his father. “Everyone who does good work helps the world along, whether he is paid for it or not.” “But I shouldn’t want to be a shoemaker,” went on Wallace. “Why not, Wallace?” “Oh, I hardly know, father.” “Shoemaking is very interesting, and it requires skill, my boy. Of course, the making of new shoes does not require the skill it did years ago because so much of the work is done by machines.” “Did you ever hear of a shoemaker who became a great man?” asked Wallace. “Oh, that is the question, is it?” said Mr. Duwell with a smile. “I have heard of several, and this evening I shall be glad to talk about them.” II. Shoemakers Who Became Famous That evening, when the family was seated around the library table, Mr. Duwell brought out a book and took up Wallace’s question. “Here is a book,” he said, “that tells many facts about shoemakers who became noted men. Let me read about some of them. “‘One of our most famous American poets, John Greenleaf Whittier, in early life, was a shoemaker. Whittier never forgot the lessons he learned while working at the shoemaker’s bench. His book of poems, called Songs of Labor, printed in 1850, contains a stirring poem about shoemakers.’ “Here are two other famous men,” said Mr. Duwell, turning the page he was reading. “‘Among noted Americans who were shoemakers was Roger Sherman, of Con-nec-ti-cut. He was a member of the Congress of 1774. Sherman was one of the brave men who signed the Dec-lar-a-tion of In-de-pen-dence. “‘At least one vice-president of the United States was a shoemaker—Henry Wilson, who was made vice-president when General Grant became president in 1872. He was often called “the Na-tick Cobbler,” because he was once a shoemaker in the town of Natick.’ “So you see, Wallace,” Mr. Duwell went on after a little pause, “the kind of work you do doesn’t matter so much. It is how well you do it that makes the difference.” * * * * * “I think I do see, father,” said Wallace. “Maybe, after all, I’ll be a shoemaker. Then, perhaps, I’ll become a poet or vice-president of the United States.” Everybody laughed. “Wouldn’t you rather be a tailor?” asked Ruth. “I don’t believe I should stand as good a chance then,” replied Wallace. “I am not so sure,” said Mr. Duwell laughing. “Andrew Johnson was a tailor, and he became President of the United States; but all mother and I hope for, son, is that you will become a useful, well-educated man.” III. At the Shoemaker’s Shop When he called for his shoes on Saturday, Wallace looked at the shoemaker with new respect. “Good morning, Mr. Shoemaker,” said Wallace. “Are my shoes ready?” “Good morning,” replied the shoemaker. “Yes, here they are.” “They look fine!” exclaimed the boy. “Thank you for doing such a good job. Here is the money—a dollar and a quarter—is that right?” “Yes, thank you,” replied the shoemaker. “It isn’t every day that a customer thanks me for doing a good job. Most people don’t give a thought to anything but finding fault if the work isn’t right—especially boys.” QUESTIONS Is there a shoemaker’s shop near your home? Did the shoemaker ever save you or your family any money? Can you tell about him and his shop? What kind of customers do you think he likes? See if you can make a list of the people whom you have to thank for a new pair of shoes. * * * * * Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap! Rings the shoemaker’s hammer; He’s making old shoes look quite new With swift and merry clamor. Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap! List to the shoemaker’s song; By mending shoes he does his part To help the world along. STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO SUPPLY US WITH SHELTER [Illustration] THE CARPENTER I. A Trip into the Country “It’s just possible that I may be home very early, perhaps in time for twelve o’clock lunch,” remarked Mr. Duwell, one Saturday morning as he was starting for business. “Oh, wouldn’t that be fine!” exclaimed the children. “We’ll be looking for you.” Even before the noon whistles had ceased blowing, three eager faces were peering out of the windows, for Mrs. Duwell was as interested as Ruth and Wallace. “Oh, I do hope father will come soon!” exclaimed Ruth. “I am sure to see him first,” said Wallace with a superior air. “I can see farther than you!” “You can’t see father any better than I can,” replied Ruth, “for I see him this minute.” “You do? Where?” asked Wallace. “I certainly do—may I run to meet him, mother?” “Oh, I see him!” cried Wallace. “I am going, too!” “Yes, run!” said Mrs. Duwell. “You both have better eyes than I have.” Almost before she had finished speaking, the children were racing toward a carriage. As the driver drew rein, they climbed in. “Well, here we are!” Mr. Duwell sang out, as they drove up in front of the door. “What does the Duwell family say to a ride this pleasant afternoon?” “What a grand surprise!” called Mrs. Duwell, who was now standing on the top step. “I am going to get an apple for the horse,” cried Wallace, and away he ran. In a moment he returned. “How does that taste, old fellow?” he asked, rubbing the horse’s soft nose as he munched the apple. “He isn’t really hungry,” said Mr. Duwell. “He had his dinner just before we left the livery stable, and the stable man gave me a bag of grain for his supper; but I guess he doesn’t often get apples.” It didn’t take long to eat lunch that day, the family were so excited. “Where are we going, father?” asked Wallace. “Just into the country,” said Mr. Duwell. “It has been so long since we have seen the green fields that I thought a trip would do us all good.” Soon they left the city streets behind, and came to a beautiful country road, along which they drove for several miles. “Oh, see that funny-looking house!” exclaimed Ruth suddenly. “It looks like a cage!” “That isn’t a house, yet,” said Mr. Duwell; “it is only the frame-work.” “Oh,” exclaimed Wallace, “is that the way wooden houses are built?” “It is, little city people,” replied Mr. Duwell. “No wonder you are not familiar with such a sight. City houses are not built of wood, because of the danger of fire.” “I should like to see that house closer,” said Wallace. “We’ll drive over there,” his father agreed, turning the horse’s head. As they drew near, Wallace exclaimed, “Why, there’s Mr. Emerson on the porch; he is my teacher. I wonder what he is doing here.” At that moment Mr. Emerson saw the boy. “Good afternoon, Wallace,” he said, lifting his hat and bowing to the party as he came toward the carriage. “Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson,” said Wallace, lifting his cap; “I should like to have you meet my mother and father.” Mr. Emerson bowed, and shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Duwell. “And this is Wallace’s sister, Ruth,” said Mr. Duwell. “I am glad to know you, Ruth,” Mr. Emerson said. “Are you thinking of moving into the country?” he asked after a minute. “If so; I hope you will be my neighbors.” “Do you live here, Mr. Emerson?” asked Wallace. “Not yet,” replied Mr. Emerson, smiling; “but we hope to when the new house is finished.” “What a comfortable home it will be,” said Mr. Duwell. Mr. Emerson looked pleased. “Won’t you come in and see the plan?” he asked. “Thank you, we shall be delighted to,” said Mr. Duwell. II. The Sawmill After they had gone all over the house, they bade Mr. Emerson good-by and drove away. “Won’t it be fine! How I should love to live there!” The children were still talking about the new house. “Where do you suppose Mr. Emerson got the wood?” questioned Ruth. “I know,” answered Wallace; “at the lumber yard.” [Illustration] “Did he, father? Couldn’t he have just chopped down some of those trees over there?” asked Ruth, pointing to a wooded hill to the right. “I hardly think so,” replied Mr. Duwell. “Before trees can be used in building they have to be—” “Sawed into boards and planks,” finished Wallace. “Good!” said his father. “And where is that done?” “At the sawmill,” said the boy. “That reminds me—” said Mrs. Duwell; “there is a sawmill over at the bottom of that hill. Mr. Emerson told me about it. Some of his lumber came from there.” “Then this road must lead to it,” said Mr. Duwell, pulling up at a cross-road that ran through the woods towards the hill. “What does that sign-post say, Wallace?” Wallace jumped out and examined the dingy sign, which was hardly readable. “Sawmill Road; this is the right way!” he cried. They had not driven far along the shady road when a peculiar, whistling sound met their ears. “There’s the saw, now, I believe!” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell. “So it is,” said Mr. Duwell. “Trot along, boy!” he urged the horse. At a turn in the road they came upon the old sawmill, nestling at the foot of the hill. The smooth mill pond shone brightly in the sun. As the water fell over the dam, it tumbled into a noisy little brook which ran under a bridge and away down the valley. The refreshing odor of pine and cedar filled the air. Several men were busy sawing the trunk of a pine tree into long, clean planks. The children watched the circular saw with wonder as its sharp teeth ate into the sweet-smelling wood. Its shrill music delighted them. “Yes, sir,” the foreman replied to a question of Mr. Duwell’s, “most sawmills are run by steam power. Very few old-fashioned water wheels are left in this part of the country. Let me show you our wheel.” “This is the sluice-way,” he explained, pointing to a long narrow canal full of flowing water. “The sluice-way leads the water from the pond to the top of the wheel.” Going down a flight of steps on the outside of the building, they stood right beside the old moss-covered wheel. It was a huge wooden framework with shelves or buckets all around the wide rim to catch the water. The water poured out of the sluice-way over the wheel, turning it slowly and steadily. As the wheel turned, the water kept falling with noisy splashes into the stream below. “What makes it go round?” asked Wallace eagerly. “The force and weight of the water pouring over it,” replied the foreman. “That is what we call water power.” “Think of it, children!” said Mr. Duwell. “That old wheel helped to build Mr. Emerson’s house.” “Yes,” said the foreman, “it has helped to build many houses besides Mr. Emerson’s. That old water wheel has been sawing wood just as you see it now for over a hundred years.” III. The Carpenter On the way home the little party talked about their adventures. “Mr. Emerson must have had help to build a house like that,” remarked Ruth after a pause. “Oh, he didn’t build it, goosey,” said Wallace. “Who did, then, Mr. Know-it-all?” “Why, the carpenter, of course,” Wallace replied. “Oh, I see,” exclaimed Ruth. “The carpenter builds the house for Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Emerson has time to teach you boys.” “That is exactly right, little girl,” said her father. “Besides, no one person can do many things well. Perhaps Mr. Emerson is a better teacher for not trying to do too many things,” Mrs. Duwell added. “I think a carpenter is wonderful, don’t you?” said Wallace. “The greatest man that ever lived was a carpenter,” said his mother. “Whoa, boy!” exclaimed Mr. Duwell, drawing up the reins sharply. “Don’t get frightened at a piece of paper, when you’ve done so well. Whoa, there, boy!” The horse seemed to understand the quiet gentle voice, and settled down to an even trot. “He will go well enough now,” said Mrs. Duwell. “He knows we are headed for home.” “So we are! I wish we were headed the other way,” said Wallace. “What makes a good time so short?” he asked, so seriously that everybody laughed. IV. The Wolf’s Den “Mother, I may be late in getting home from school this afternoon,” said Wallace on Monday at noon. “Mr. Emerson said he was going to take us for a walk after school to-day. He told us to ask if it would be all right. Will it, mother?” “Yes, Wallace, but try to be home before dark.” “I’ll tell you all about our trip at supper time,” said Wallace. “Good-by.” Wallace bounded in just as supper was being put on the table. “Good evening, everybody. Oh, it was fine!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Emerson took us for a long walk in the park—to a part I have never seen before.” “That was splendid,” said his mother. “Now, tell us all about your trip,” said his father, when Wallace had partly satisfied his hunger. Wallace began: “We walked until we reached the wild part of the park. Soon we came to a steep hill and a great pile of high rocks covered with trees and bushes. “‘How many of you boys have ever been in a real cave?’ Mr. Emerson asked. Only three of us had, and we were very much excited. “‘Well,’ he said, ‘right above that big granite rock there is a natural cave. It was found only a few days ago. The opening was covered with bushes, so nobody knew it was there. It must have been the den of some wild animal years ago. The opening is so small that only one boy can go in at a time.’ “He divided us into four sections and made me the leader of section one. “One at a time we climbed up until all five boys of my section were on top of the rock. There was the cave, a dark opening in the rocks about as big around as a barrel. Being the leader, I had to go in first.” “Weren’t you scared?” asked Ruth. “Well—it was exciting,” admitted her brother. “I got down on my hands and knees and looked in, but could see nothing. Then I crawled in. It was as dark as a pocket. I tried to stand up and bumped my head, the ceiling was so low. “In a minute or two I could see better. The walls of the cave were nothing but rocks. The floor was covered with sand and dry leaves. There was just room enough to turn around in, so I turned around and crawled out.” “Well, I call that pretty brave, Wallace, to go in first,” his mother said. “There wasn’t anything to be afraid of, mother,” said Wallace. After a moment he continued, “Well, after the boys in my group had all been in, we climbed down, and the other sections went up and did the same thing. Every boy went in, although some of the little fellows looked pretty white when they came out. Then we sat on the rocks, and Mr. Emerson talked about the homes of wild animals and the early savages. “‘What animal do you suppose lived in this cave?’ Mr. Emerson asked us. Some guessed wolves and some, bears. We finally decided to name it The Wolf’s Den. V. The Cave Dwellers “Mr. Emerson said that wild animals live in just the same way to-day as they always did. They live in caves and holes in the ground or in hollow trees, where they can hide and keep warm. “One boy spoke up, ‘How about dogs, Mr. Emerson?’ “‘Well,’ Mr. Emerson said, ‘dogs are tame animals now, although they used to be wild. But even the dog’s house is a wooden cave which his master builds for him.’ “He told us that a long time ago people lived in caves which they dug in the earth like animals. They were cave dwellers or cave men. The reason we have better homes now is that we have greater minds than animals and have learned to use our hands and brains to build houses. “He said that the cave men must have thought it wonderful when they found they could make stone hatchets sharp enough to cut down small trees. With them they learned to make huts out of wood, which were larger and more comfortable than caves and just as safe from storms. “As time went on, men paid more attention to building. They learned to make houses of stone and clay and brick. They kept on studying and improving until they were able to build great cities such as we have to-day.” “Listen!” exclaimed Ruth, clapping her hands as Wallace finished his story. “Wouldn’t Wallace make a good teacher! That sounded exactly like the way Mr. Emerson talks.” “Nothing like so interesting, though,” said Wallace. “He promised to show us his new house when it is finished.” “Wouldn’t I like to go with you!” said Ruth. QUESTIONS Are there any houses being built near you? Have you ever watched the carpenter at work? Tell about some of his tools. In the early days in this country men had to build their own houses. Were these log cabins as comfortable and well built as our houses are to-day? How is it that the carpenter can do so much better work than you could? Where does the carpenter get his lumber? Have you ever visited a sawmill? Wouldn’t you like to ask at the library for some books that tell about cave men and cliff dwellers? about lumbering? [Illustration] THE BRICKLAYER I. The Fallen Chimney All day long the rain came pouring down. By night the wind rose with a shriek and a roar, banging unfastened shutters and rattling windows in their casings. “Oh, dear, what an awful night!” exclaimed Ruth. “How glad I am that Fluffy is safe indoors!” and she stroked the little cat lying on a cushion on the sewing machine. “And how glad I am that Harry Teelow found that lost puppy to-day,” said Wallace. “Pretty bad, isn’t it?” Mr. Duwell said, looking up from his paper. “I don’t suppose the bricklayer came to mend the chimney to-day. He couldn’t have worked in such a storm.” “No, he did not come,” replied Mrs. Duwell with a troubled look. “Do you suppose there is any danger of its tumbling down?” “Well, I can’t say,” replied Mr. Duwell, shaking his head doubtfully. “I wish I had stopped to see Mr. Bricklayer a week ago when I first discovered how loose the bricks were, instead of waiting until—” But he did not finish the sentence, for bang! even above the terrific noise of the storm came the sound of falling bricks and broken glass. The family rushed into the little kitchen, which was built on the end of the house. What a sight met their eyes! Water was pouring through a hole in the ceiling where the roof had given way. Rain splashed in great gusty dashes through the window where the bricks had broken through. Already there was a little lake on the floor. Ruth was the first to speak. “If it keeps on,” she said, half laughing and half crying, “it will be quite deep enough for Alice and the mouse and the Dodo to swim in!” She was thinking of Alice in Wonderland, you know. That made everybody laugh, and all began to work. They placed tubs and pails where they would catch the water, and stuffed old cloths into the broken window panes. It was fully an hour before the family were settled down again in the living room. “Well, children, you can now understand the saying, ‘Never put off till to-morrow what should be done to-day,’” remarked Mr. Duwell. “It is a lesson none of us will soon forget,” added Mrs. Duwell. [Illustration] [Illustration: THIS PICTURE SHOWS A CLAY PIT, A KILN, BRICKMAKERS, BRICK ROADWAY, CULVERT, CHIMNEY, BRIDGE, MEN LAYING BRICKS.] “Could you and I have mended the broken chimney, father?” asked Wallace. “Not very well, my boy,” replied Mr. Duwell. “‘Every man to his trade,’ you know. By the way, I hope Mr. Bricklayer will be here before you children start to school in the morning. Run to bed now so that you can be up early to see him begin his work.” II. The Bricklayer The next day dawned bright and sunny, with only a merry little breeze to remind one of yesterday’s storm. The bricklayer did not come before the children started to school in the morning, but just after lunch. They had only time to watch him and his helper climb to the roof. “I am going to get home from school early,” said Wallace; “maybe they will not be through by that time.” “I am, too,” Ruth chimed in. “I wonder what bricks are,” she added. “Bricks? Why, don’t you know?” asked Wallace. “Our manual training teacher told us that bricks are a sort of imitation stone made of moistened clay and sand mixed together, and shaped as we see them. They are baked in an oven-like place, called a kiln, or dried in the sun.” “Oh, I didn’t know that. I wonder who first thought of making them. They are something like sun-baked mud-pies,” said Ruth. “Our teacher said that bricks three thousand years old have been found in Egypt, some with writing on them.” “Oh, I remember that the Bible tells about bricks. Why, Wallace, men must have been bricklayers for thousands of years!” “It is lucky for us they haven’t forgotten how to make them, for what could we do without a chimney?” said Wallace. “Hello, there is Harry! I want to see him about the ball game;” and away he ran. III. After School Wallace brought Harry, and Ruth brought Mildred Maydole home after school to watch the bricklayer work. “Why, how straight and true the bricks must be!” exclaimed Harry. “A bricklayer has to be very careful, doesn’t he?” “Indeed he does,” replied Wallace. “Do you know what the mortar is made of?” “Yes; I think I do. It is lime and sand and—something else,” Harry said. That made them all laugh. “I think the most wonderful brick work I ever saw,” said Mildred, “was in the arch of a big sewer. I couldn’t tell why the bricks didn’t all fall down. My father said the mortar held them.” “Why, if it weren’t for bricklayers, and cement workers, and stone masons, we should be without lots of things!” exclaimed Harry. “Just imagine it, if you can.” “That’s so,” said Wallace. “Let’s count what we know of that they build for us—sewers, bridge piers,—go on, Mildred.” “Pavements,” added Mildred. “Houses and chimneys,” said Ruth. “Foundations for houses,” said Harry. “Here comes father!” cried Ruth suddenly; and all the children ran to meet him. “We’ve been talking about how it would be if there were no bricklayers, or stone masons, or cement workers, father,” said Wallace. “I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr. Duwell. “I was thinking very much the same thing as I walked home so soon after such a heavy rain without getting my feet wet. “I remember what Benjamin Franklin wrote,” he went on, “about the streets of Philadelphia in his day. He said the mud after a storm was so deep that it came above the people’s shoe-tops. It was Benjamin Franklin himself who first talked of paving the streets.” “I’m glad they aren’t as bad as they were in Benjamin Franklin’s time,” said Mildred. QUESTIONS Have you ever watched a bricklayer working? What was he doing? Could you have done it? Where do you suppose he got his bricks? Have you ever seen bricks being made? Are bricklayers, cement workers, and stone masons more needed in the city or in the country? Why? * * * * * Do you know how our city grew, Its lofty buildings raising? Its pavements, parks, and bridges, too— Whose labors are they praising? Just the workmen who every day Did their work in the very best way. [Illustration] THE PLUMBER, THE PLASTERER, THE PAINTER I. A Visit to a Little Town “I have an errand to do just outside the city limits,” said Mr. Duwell one pleasant Saturday morning. “Would you like to go with me, Wallace?” “I certainly should,” said the boy. In a few minutes father and son were on the electric car, speeding toward Oldtown. When there, they walked up the main street, which was lined with rows of shabby houses, badly in need of paint. Little pools of standing water lay in the gutters. “What an awful smell! I should think it would make people sick! And look at the flies!” exclaimed Wallace. “I have no doubt it does make people sick,” said Mr. Du well. “Flies and mosquitoes breed very rapidly in such places.” “Flies and mosquitoes carry disease germs, Mr. Emerson says,” observed Wallace. “So they do; they are more dangerous to health than poi-son-ous snakes,” his father said. “Why don’t the people clean their gutters?” asked Wallace. “I suppose they do sometimes,” replied his father; “but Oldtown will never be clean and healthy while the dirty water from the houses is drained into the streets and alleys. Waste water must be carried off by means of pipes into a sewer. That is the work of the plumber. A good plumber is a health officer.” “What a lot of people it takes to keep things going right, father! This town certainly does need a plumber,” remarked Wallace. This remark seemed to please Mr. Duwell very much. “How would you like to move to Oldtown, Wallace?” asked his father when their errand was finished and they were riding home. “I shouldn’t mind,” said Wallace, “if I were a plumber.” II. At Home When Ruth saw them coming, she ran to meet them. “What do you think, father!” she exclaimed; “the plasterer came while you were gone, and mended the kitchen ceiling. Mother is so pleased! Come and look at it!” “That’s very well done,” said Mr. Duwell, examining the neat patch over the large hole which the falling chimney had made. “But it makes the whole room look as if it needed a new coat of paint. What do you think, mother?” “I think it would make me a better cook to have a nice clean kitchen,” said Mrs. Duwell, smiling. “You couldn’t be a better cook, mother!” Wallace said, eyeing the good meal which was ready to be put on the dining table. “That is what we all think, Wallace,” said his father; “and we think, too, that such a good cook deserves a better kitchen. So on Monday I will ask the painter to see about doing the walls and woodwork.” III. The New Kitchen When the men had finished their work the kitchen was so changed that it scarcely knew itself, as Wallace said. Instead of dim walls and dull-gray paint, everything was white and blue. A shining white sink with two bright nickel spigots was standing proudly in one corner of the room. Mrs. Duwell had just finished hanging a white dotted muslin curtain at the window over the sink when Ruth entered. “Oh, mother, doesn’t that look lovely!” she exclaimed. “I thought such a bright clean kitchen deserved a clean new curtain,” said her mother. “Isn’t the kitchen beautiful!” Ruth went on. “It seems like living in a fairy tale—as though we had wakened up to find things changed by magic.” “It does, in a way,” agreed her mother; “but, really, they were every-day fairies who brought about these changes and turned ugliness into beauty.” “I think I know their names,” Ruth said, laughing; “Mr. Plumber, Mr. Plasterer, and Mr. Painter.” “Why, how did you guess?” said her mother. QUESTIONS Did the plumber ever come to your house? What did he do? What would have happened if you could not have found a plumber? None of us would like to live in a town where there are no plumbers. Why not? Shut your eyes and try to imagine how the Duwell family’s kitchen looked before the workmen began to work; now imagine that they have finished their work. Tell how different it looks. Have workmen ever made such changes in your home? Can you name some other people besides the carpenter, the bricklayer, the plumber, the plasterer, and the painter who help give us shelter? [Illustration] STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO SUPPLY US WITH FUEL THE COAL MAN AND THE MINER I. Black Diamonds “How are the black diamonds holding out, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell. Wallace had just brought up coal from the cellar. [Illustration] “Only a few more scuttlefuls in the bin, mother,” answered Wallace. “On your way from school you may stop at the coal yard and ask Mr. Carr to send a ton to-morrow.” [Illustration] “All right, mother, I won’t forget. But tell me, why do they call coal black diamonds?” “I haven’t time to talk about it now. Perhaps Mr. Carr will tell you. You have just ten minutes to get to school.” On his way home Wallace stepped into the little office of the big coal yard. “How are you, my boy; what can I do for you to-day?” asked Mr. Carr, who was a rather tall man with a bent back and one shoulder higher than the other. “How do you do, Mr. Carr?” replied Wallace. “Mother wants you to send a ton of coal to-morrow—the same kind as the last you sent.” Wallace waited until the coal man entered the order in the book and then asked, “Mr. Carr, will you tell me why they call coal black diamonds?” Mr. Carr smiled pleasantly. “Certainly, son, certainly. You see, coal shines like diamonds, and then, it’s worth more.” “Worth more? Why, I thought diamonds were worth more than anything else.” “No, indeed! If there weren’t any coal in the ground, all the diamonds in the world wouldn’t heat a house, cook a meal, pull a railway train, or run a machine.” “Well, I never thought of that,” said Wallace. “You certainly could not burn diamonds in a cook-stove.” “No, indeed!” said Mr. Carr, who seemed much pleased at Wallace’s interest. II. In a Coal Mine “Were you ever down in a coal mine, Mr. Carr?” asked Wallace. “Was I ever down in a coal mine?” repeated Mr. Carr. “Yes, sir, I was a miner for years in the coal regions, and would have been in a mine yet, probably, if it hadn’t been for this,” pointing to his shoulder and bent back. “Is it very dangerous work?” asked Wallace, with wide-open eyes. “Well, if the roof doesn’t fall on you, and if the mine doesn’t catch fire, and if the gas doesn’t choke you, or explode and blow you up, it isn’t dangerous; it is perfectly safe.” “But how did it get hurt—your shoulder, I mean?” asked Wallace. “Oh, that! I’ll tell you. One day we were getting out coal at the far end of a tunnel. Suddenly, before we had time to run, the roof came tumbling down and buried us. When they pulled us out, my helper was dead, and my back was as you see it now.” “What makes mining so dangerous?” asked Wallace, in surprise. “Well, you see, it’s this way. When you step into the cage, that is the elevator, you leave the sunlight behind. The cage sinks down, down into pitch darkness, sometimes hundreds of feet. At the bottom of the shaft it is like an under-ground city. Street-like tunnels, with car tracks laid on them, run out in every direction. The coal cars are drawn by mules or by electricity. “As you go up the tracks you see cross tunnels and the miners’ little lamps shining in dark holes that look like black caves. Here the miners work, blasting out the coal, and loading it on cars to be drawn to the mouth of the mine and hoisted up into daylight. “Sometimes the walls and roof are not properly braced. Then they cave in and great lumps of coal fall down on the men. Sometimes gas or fire-damp collects. Then there is danger of choking or of being blown up. Sometimes, in blasting, the coal catches fire, so that the whole mine burns.” [Illustration: CAN YOU TELL A STORY ABOUT THE JOURNEY OF A TON OF COAL FROM THE TIME THE MINER DIGS IT OUT OF THE MINE, AND BOYS SORT OUT THE SLATE, UNTIL IT IS PUT INTO THE FURNACE IN A HOUSE?] “Why, miners must be as brave as soldiers,” said Wallace. “Yes, I suppose they are brave. People do not know how much they owe to the miners. They risk their lives every time they go down into the mines. But they don’t think much about the danger. That is part of their work.” “Thank you for telling me about it,” said Wallace. “You are welcome, my boy; good-by.” “Good-by, Mr. Carr.” Wallace hurried home with a new respect for Mr. Carr and the men who work in the dark mines under the ground. QUESTIONS How does the coal man bring the coal to your house? From whom does he buy it? Pretend you are a piece of coal and tell the story of your life. Name some of the things which we would have to do without if there were no miners or coal men. Do you burn anything else at your house besides coal? Are the men who supply us with these things our helpers too? Where does the wood man get kindling and firewood? Where does the oil man get oil? Will you ask for a book about pḗ-trō´lḗ-ŭm, or coal oil, when you go to the library next time? Can you think of any other people who supply us with fuel? STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO CARE FOR OUR HEALTH [Illustration] THE DENTIST I. Why Ruth Was Afraid “Oh, dear!” sobbed Ruth. “O—h, dear!” She was sitting in her little rocking-chair in the living-room. “Why, what’s the matter?” asked Wallace, coming in to look for his books. “Are you hurt?” “No;” Ruth shook her head. “Well, then, what is it?” “Oh, Wallace, I am so afraid I’m going to be hurt. Mother says there is a dark spot on one of my teeth. She is getting ready to take me to Doctor Harrison’s. I have never had a tooth filled.” “Well, of all the silly things I ever heard of,” exclaimed Wallace, “that’s the silliest! What makes you think the dentist will hurt you?” Ruth looked up in surprise. “Haven’t you ever heard the boys and girls talk of how they were hurt when they had teeth filled?” she asked. “Oh, I have heard some boys talk,” Wallace admitted; “but they were boys who never cleaned their teeth—” “And who did not see a dentist until they had a toothache,” added Mrs. Duwell, overhearing Wallace’s remark as she entered the room. “What, crying?” she asked, noticing Ruth’s swollen eye-lids. “Why, my dear little girl, the dentist is one of your best friends.” “I guess some of the girls and boys would like him better if he didn’t hurt them so much, mother,” said Ruth. “That isn’t the dentist’s fault, children,” said Mrs. Duwell. “If boys and girls had their teeth examined once or twice a year, the dentist would catch the trouble in time and save them much pain.” “I don’t suppose dentists ever want to hurt anyone,” Ruth said. “No, indeed. I think they are very kind to be willing to do so in order to save teeth. It is dreadful to have bad teeth. Nothing tastes just right; and worse than that, bad teeth mean bad health. Good teeth are a grist mill to grind our food. Without good teeth we cannot have good health.” “That is so,” said Wallace. “Even horses aren’t worth much after their teeth are gone.” “Why can’t they wear false ones?” asked Ruth with such seriousness that Wallace burst out laughing. “I wish they could, poor things,” said her mother; “but come, dear, we must start.” [Illustration] II. At the Dentist’s “Ah, here is a little girl whose mouth looks as though she brushed her teeth regularly,” said Doctor Harrison, as he raised the big comfortable arm chair in which Ruth was sitting. “She certainly is good about that, doctor,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Even so,” said the doctor, “I think I shall give her one of my little picture cards.” Ruth looked so pleased that he handed her two. “One is for Wallace,” Ruth said. “That picture is to remind forgetful children,” said the doctor. “Now let us look at the twenty-odd pearls in your mouth, little girl.” * * * * * “Oh, Wallace, Doctor Harrison didn’t hurt me a bit,” cried Ruth, running into the living-room after they had reached home. “He said that he didn’t often hurt people who came to him in time. Here is a card, he gave me for you.” “Thank you,” said Wallace, looking at the card. “Oh, it’s to remind me to brush my teeth. I wonder if he thought I needed it.” “No, Doctor Harrison didn’t say that, Wallace; but he did say that we wouldn’t want to eat anything with dirty hands, and that really dirty teeth are worse than dirty hands.” [Illustration: THE ROAD TO HEALTH.] QUESTIONS Do you have your teeth examined once or twice a year? The dentist is one of your best friends. Why? Do you think that the people in the United States would be as well as they are, if there were no dentists? Why not? Suppose you had a toothache and there was no dentist to whom you could go. What would happen? Aren’t you glad that there are men who have studied, so that they can help you take care of your teeth? * * * * * Suppose we children had to live Without the help of others— I mean, suppose we had to grow Without the help of mothers; Suppose there were no groceryman, No milkman, doctor, baker, No tailor who could make our coats, And there were no dressmaker; Suppose no people ever did The things that they could do To help each other in this world— I wouldn’t want to live, would you? [Illustration] THE DRUGGIST, THE NURSE, AND THE DOCTOR I. The Sick Baby “Ruth, I wish you would stop at Doctor Marcy’s office on your way to school,” said Mrs. Duwell a few days later, “and ask him to come to see the baby. The little thing has a high fever.” “Oh, dear, I hope baby won’t be sick!” exclaimed Ruth, kissing her mother good-by. All the morning she remembered her mother’s troubled look. At noon she did not stop to talk with the girls, but hurried home as fast as she could. Wallace was there before her, though, having run all the way. He met her at the door. “Ruth,” he whispered, “I met Doctor Marcy as he came out, and he says that the baby has pneumonia,[B] and it is a bad case. Mother doesn’t know I am home. Can’t we get some lunch ready to take to her?” “Yes, indeed,” replied Ruth, tiptoeing into the kitchen. “You put the kettle on the fire and I’ll make some tea and milk toast.” Mrs. Duwell looked very pale and weary when the children appeared with the lunch tray. “I didn’t know you were home, Ruth,” she whispered, stepping into the hall. “How quietly you must have worked, children.” “Is there anything else we can do to help?” asked Wallace. “Why, yes, there is, Wallace. You may take this pre-scrip-tion to the drug store to be filled. Ask the druggist to send the medicine over as soon as possible.” Just then the baby gave a pitiful little moan, which made the mother turn again to the crib. The children stole softly downstairs. [Illustration] “I’ll run right over to the drug store, Ruth,” Wallace said, forgetting his own lunch. II. The Druggist “Good morning, Mr. Jones,” he said breathlessly as he entered the store. “Baby is very ill, and mother wishes this prescription filled. She told me to ask if you would please send the medicine over just as soon as possible.” “Baby sick? How sorry I am, Wallace,” said Mr. Jones. “Of course we will send it soon. I will see to it at once.” “Oh, thank you.” Wallace drew a sigh of relief. “How much will it be, please?” The druggist examined the queer Latin words of the doctor’s prescription. “This calls for one very expensive medicine, Wallace,” he said; “so we shall have to charge seventy-five cents.” “That will be all right,” said Wallace. When he reached home Ruth had a nice lunch spread for him. “I am not going to school this afternoon, Wallace,” she told him. “I’m going to tidy up the house, and help mother.” “Look at the clock, Ruth!” exclaimed Wallace suddenly, “I must start right away—the medicine will be seventy-five cents.” “I will have the money ready,” said Ruth. “Good-by.” The druggist’s boy came with the medicine a few minutes after Wallace left, and the baby was given the first dose at once. When their father came the children had supper ready, but no one ate much. “I am glad you can be so helpful, children,” he said. III. The Trained Nurse For five days the whole family did everything they knew to help save the baby’s life. Mr. Duwell was worried not only about the baby but about the children’s mother. “I agree with the doctor that it would be much wiser to have a trained nurse,” he said on Saturday afternoon. “But mother cannot bear the thought of letting anyone else take care of the baby,” said Ruth. “I know that mother is a splendid nurse,” Mr. Duwell continued; “but a trained nurse knows all the best new methods of nursing, and could give much relief to mother, who is tired out.” Just then the bell rang. “It is the doctor,” said Ruth. Mr. Duwell went to the door, followed by the little girl. The doctor was not alone. With him was a young lady. Ruth liked her at once; she seemed so quiet and strong, and looked so kind. [Illustration: DO YOU THINK THIS IS THE RIGHT KIND OF BED FOR A SICK BABY? WHY NOT?] “How do you do, sir?” said Doctor Marcy to Mr. Duwell. “This is Miss Foster, a trained nurse. I am taking matters in my own hands, you see. That good wife of yours is entirely worn out.” “I am pleased to meet Miss Foster and I am very much obliged to you for bringing her, doctor,” Mr. Duwell replied. “It seems to me to be the very best thing to do. I have tried to persuade Mrs. Duwell to see things that way,” said the doctor. “Oh, come upstairs, doctor,” called Mrs. Duwell, hearing the doctor’s voice; “I think baby is scarcely breathing.” “Come,” said the doctor to the nurse, leading the way. Mrs. Duwell was standing near the crib as they entered. “This is the nurse I was talking about,” the doctor said, introducing Miss Foster, and turning to look at the baby. “I am very glad—” Mrs. Duwell started to speak, but she fainted away before she could finish the sentence. The nurse did not seem frightened. She laid Mrs. Duwell flat on the floor. After sprinkling cold water on her face, she held some smelling salts to her nose. In a minute or two Mrs. Duwell opened her eyes. “I must have fainted,” she said; “I am so glad you were here, nurse. Doctor, how is baby?” “About as I expected,” the doctor replied. “I believe the worst will be over to-night. Now, I want you to take this medicine which Miss Foster will give you, and lie down for a while. I expect to come back about ten o’clock to-night. Good-by; please obey Miss Foster’s orders,” he added. “It is such a relief to my mind, doctor,” said Mr. Duwell, meeting him at the foot of the stairs, “to know that the nurse is here.” “It is a relief,” replied the doctor. “If the strain had kept on much longer, Mrs. Duwell would have had a long term of illness.” IV. The Doctor, a Hero The doctor and nurse watched by the baby’s bedside until the danger was passed. Both wore happy smiles when the doctor assured the tired Duwell family that the baby would live. “Oh, doctor, money cannot pay you for your kindness,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Through rain and snow storms, at midnight and at daybreak, you have come to help us. How tired you must often be.” “It is true, doctor,” Mr. Duwell added; “you risk your life as willingly as a soldier does, every time you go into danger.” “We doctors don’t think anything about that,” replied Doctor Marcy modestly. “We are so anxious to have people get well.” “Why, doctors are heroes like soldiers!” exclaimed Wallace, looking at the doctor with new respect. “I never thought of that before!” “Nurses are, too,” whispered Ruth; but Doctor Marcy overheard. “That is right, Ruth,” he said. “Nurses are, too.” QUESTIONS The Druggist How long does a druggist have to study in order to fill prescriptions? Would it be safe to let those who have not studied handle medicines? Why not? How near is a drug store to your home? Can you imagine how it would be to live ten miles from a drug store? The Nurse Can you give some reasons why a trained nurse can care for a sick person better than an untrained one? Do you know any trained nurses? How long does a trained nurse study before graduation? The Doctor Did you ever need a doctor at your house? How did you let him know? Did he come quickly? What might have happened if he had not come? Pretend, you are a country doctor and tell about some of your long drives. Do you think doctors are heroes? Why? FOOTNOTE: [B] Pronounced nū-mō´nē-ā. ONE FOR ALL AND ALL FOR ONE A Play Parts to be taken by Pupils _Section I_ Baker Milkman Butcher Grocer or others who supply food _Section II_ Tailor Dressmaker Shoemaker Milliner or others who supply clothing _Section III_ Bricklayer Carpenter Painter Plumber or others who supply shelter _Section IV_ Coal man Miner Wood man Oil man or others who supply fuel _Section V_ Doctor Druggist Nurse or others who help keep us well _Teacher to Sec. I._ What do you do? _Baker._ I am the baker; I bake bread. _Milkman._ I am the milkman; I supply the milk. _Butcher._ I am the butcher; I supply the meat. _Grocer._ I am the grocer; I sell groceries. _Teacher._ Do you make clothing or build houses? _Baker._ No, we supply food for all; that is our part. * * * * * _Teacher to Sec. II._ What do you do? _Tailor._ I am the tailor; I make the clothing. _Dressmaker._ I am the dressmaker; I make dresses. _Shoemaker._ I am the shoemaker; I make shoes. _Milliner._ I am the milliner; I make the hats. _Teacher._ Do you supply food or fuel? _Tailor._ No, we make clothing for all; that is our part. * * * * * _Teacher to Sec. III._ What do you do? _Bricklayer._ I am the bricklayer; I lay the bricks. _Carpenter._ I am the carpenter; I build the houses. _Painter._ I am the painter; I paint the houses. _Plumber._ I am the plumber; I fit the pipes. _Teacher._ Do you make clothes or attend the sick? _Bricklayer._ No, we build houses for all; that is our part. * * * * * _Teacher to Sec. IV._ And what do you do? _Coal man._ I am the coal man; I deliver the coal. _Miner._ I am the miner; I dig the coal. _Wood man._ I am the wood man; I cut the wood. _Oil man._ I am the oil man; I supply oil. _Teacher._ Do you supply food or clothing? _Coalman._ No, we furnish fuel; that is our part. * * * * * _Teacher to Sec. V._ And what do you do? _Doctor._ I am the doctor; I heal the sick. _Druggist._ I am the druggist; I sell medicines. _Nurse._ I am the nurse; I help the doctor. _Teacher._ Do you build houses or furnish fuel? _Doctor._ No, we keep people well, or aid them when they are ill; that is our part. * * * * * _All recite:_ One works for all and all for one, And so the work of the world gets done. [Illustration: ONE FOR ALL ALL FOR ONE.] PART III THE AMERICAN RED CROSS Junior Membership and School Activities [Illustration] THE JUNIOR RED CROSS In September, 1917, President Wilson sent out a letter from the White House in Washington to the school children of the United States. He told them that the President of the United States is the President of the American Red Cross, and he said that the Red Cross people wanted the children to help them in their work. Their work, you know, is to help all those who are suffering or in need. Such work is so beautiful that it is really doing golden deeds. Now read for yourself this letter from the President of the United States which belongs to every school child in America. A PROCLAMATION _To the School Children of the United States_: The President of the United States is also President of the American Red Cross. It is from these offices joined in one that I write you a word of greeting at this time when so many of you are beginning the school year. The American Red Cross has just prepared a Junior Membership with School Activities in which every pupil in the United States can find a chance to serve our country. The School is the natural center of your life. Through it you can best work in the great cause of freedom to which we have all pledged ourselves. Our Junior Red Cross will bring to you opportunities of service to your community and to other communities all over the world and guide your service with high and religious ideals. It will teach you how to save in order that suffering children elsewhere may have a chance to live. It will teach you how to prepare some of the supplies which wounded soldiers and homeless families lack. It will send to you through the Red Cross Bulletins the thrilling stories of relief and rescue. And best of all, more perfectly than through any of your other school lessons, you will learn by doing those kind things under your teacher’s direction to be future good citizens of this great country which we all love. And I commend to all school teachers in the country the simple plan which the American Red Cross has worked out to provide for your coöperation, knowing as I do that school children will give their best service under the direct guidance and instruction of their teachers. Is not this perhaps the chance for which you have been looking to give your time and efforts in some measure to meet our national needs? (Signed) WOODROW WILSON, _President._ September 15, 1917. How do you suppose the school children of the United States felt when they read this letter from the President? It is a wonderful letter. It does not read like a letter from a great man to little children. It is different from most of the letters which grown people write to children, for the President writes to the children asking for their help, just as if they were grown up. Indeed, when the grown people read the letter they wished that they could be school children again, because there was no Junior Red Cross when they were young, and they had to wait to grew up before they could help the Red Cross do golden deeds. You see, when they were young, everybody thought, “When the children are grown up they will help us.” Then they waited for them to grow. Are you not glad that you are able, while a child, to do helpful work for your country? Now let us think about some of the golden deeds which the Red Cross does. THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF PEACE Of course, in times of war the Red Cross is very busy helping the soldiers, but do you think that it is idle in times of peace? No, indeed. The Red Cross is always listening for a call of distress, and is ready to aid any people who are suffering. One day in 1912 the Red Cross heard the people who lived along the banks of the Mississippi River calling for help, for the river had been so swollen by rains that it had risen high and overflowed its banks in a dangerous flood. [Illustration: _Picture from a photograph_] Do you know what happens during a flood? Name all the different things you see on the little island in this picture. Why do you suppose the people are all staying there instead of rowing off in the boats? Because they are expecting the relief launch of the Red Cross to come and take them to a safe place. The water is flowing too swiftly for the little boats to cross in safety. They would probably be carried against a tree and upset. Many houses have been carried down the river during this flood, so you can understand how glad the people will be to see help coming. In this next picture you will see how the Red Cross answered the people’s cry for help. [Illustration: _Picture from a photograph_] This picture shows a Carnegie Library which was used by the Red Cross as a relief station during the Mississippi flood. The Red Cross spent thousands of dollars during this flood, saving many lives and helping hundreds of flood victims. Can you name some of the things the people needed? What do you suppose they think of the Red Cross? Imagine that a great wind storm or cyclone should come very suddenly whirling through your city, tearing down houses, uprooting trees, and leaving thousands of people homeless—who would be the first to help the people who were hurt? This is just an example of the way the Red Cross is standing ready to help in time of need. If you read the _Red Cross Magazine_ you will learn about hundreds of golden deeds which the Red Cross is doing, for the work of the Red Cross in times of peace and at all times is to help people in distress and need. [Illustration] THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF WAR The work of the Red Cross during war is First. To care for and nurse the wounded among our own soldiers and sailors, and even the wounded of the enemy who fall into the hands of the Red Cross. Of course, in order to do this, millions of people who are not doing the nursing can make the articles needed for that purpose. What can the Junior Red Cross do to help? Second. To care for the families of the soldiers and sailors who have given their services to their country. How can the Junior Red Cross help? BEFORE THE DAYS OF THE RED CROSS Do you suppose that people always felt that they should help everybody in such ways? No; the Red Cross is not yet sixty years old. War is thousands of years old. In olden days when soldiers fought, there were no kind Red Cross nurses to care for the wounded. There were no faithful Red Cross dogs to search for wounded soldiers after the battle was over. Often the suffering men died of neglect when proper nursing would have saved their lives. But no one ever thought of sending a band of women nurses to wars to help the soldiers, before the days of Florence Nightingale. Florence Nightingale Florence was a little English girl who always said that when she grew up she would be a nurse. She felt sorry to see any living creature suffer and always tried to help it. Sometimes it was a bird with a broken wing or an injured rabbit that she tended. All the neighbors brought their sick pets to her. The little nurse finally had so many patients that her father gave her a corner of the greenhouse for a hospital. The animals learned to love her and she had many friends among them as you may imagine. When she was a young woman nursing in a London hospital, England’s soldiers were sent to war with Russia’s soldiers. They had to travel in ships all the way to the Crimea in Russia. You see, they were a great distance from home. News of their terrible sufferings reached Florence Nightingale in the hospital. Taking a band of nurses with her she went to nurse the wounded soldiers in that far off land. When the nurses arrived there, they found thousands of sick and wounded men lying on the hospital floors with no one to help them. At once the brave nurses began to take care of the soldiers as kindly as your mother takes care of you when you are ill. Do you wonder that many who would have died, lived and were grateful all their lives to he nurses? Of course there were no gas or electric lights in the rough hospitals of those days, so that Miss Nightingale always carried a lighted lamp when she made her good-night rounds. The weary soldiers looked for the gleam of the lamp in the darkness and were made happy by her words of encouragement. That is how she came to be called “The Lady of the Lamp.” The story of Florence Nightingale and her brave band spread far and near. It touched the hearts of people everywhere, and made them think about what could be done to relieve suffering even before the days of the Red Cross. [Illustration: _Copyright and reproduced by courtesy of “The Ladies’ Home Journal”_ TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE] HOW THE RED CROSS CAME TO BE Among those who heard the story of what Florence Nightingale and her brave nurses did for the soldiers, was Henri Du-nant, a kind-hearted Swiss gentleman. He remembered it several years afterward when he was present at a terrible battle between the soldiers of Austria and those of France and Sardinia. He saw thousands of wounded soldiers dying almost without help. In a book which he wrote about their sufferings, he asked the question, “Why could not the people of all countries make plans to care for the sick and wounded during wars?” And from his question came the great Red Cross work in which we all have a part. The Red Cross is more wonderful than any war, for it comes from the kindness in people’s thoughts. We hope that long years from now there will be no war. But we cannot expect to have wars cease until the _people_, and not the _kings_, of the great countries of the world make their own laws. Henri Dunant and Florence Nightingale were like the children of to-day when they were little. They liked to play the same kinds of games that you do. When Florence played nurse with her dolls she did not dream of the great good she would do for the whole world. It may be that some of the boys and girls who are now reading this story will be like Henri Dunant and Florence Nightingale, and will grow up to do great and noble work for others. QUESTIONS I What do you think of people who help other people in trouble? What do you think of people who do not help people who are in need of help? Do you realize that the work of the Red Cross is entirely the helping of people who need help? Did a good neighbor ever come to your house and help your people in time of illness or trouble? You would be glad to help other people in just some such way, wouldn’t you? Are you not glad that the Junior Red Cross gives you a chance to pass such kindness along? II Mention some of the good deeds which you know the Junior Red Cross has done. Have you ever sold Red Cross Christmas seals? What does the Red Cross do with the money made from the sale of Christmas seals? How old is the Junior Red Cross? It is a pretty young baby to have accomplished so much, isn’t it? But do you know how fast it has grown? When you see a person wearing a Red Cross button, you know many things about that person. Here are a few of the things that are shown: 1. Kindness. 2. Helpfulness. 3. Love of one’s country. Can you name others? [Illustration: _Copr. Underwood & Underwood_ THIS LITTLE DOG’S MISTRESS SAYS THAT HE IS TOO YOUNG TO ENLIST NOW, BUT WHEN HE GROWS UP HE WANTS TO BE A RED CROSS ARMY DOG.] HOW I CAN HELP THE RED CROSS IN TIME OF WAR AND IN TIME OF PEACE 1. By belonging to the Red Cross and trying to get others to belong. 2. By learning to save in order that suffering children elsewhere may have their share of food and clothing. 3. By helping to prepare some of the supplies that wounded soldiers and homeless families are in need of. 4. By reading stories of relief and rescue so that I can tell others about the Red Cross. 5. By learning to be a good citizen of my country even before I grow up. The Junior Members of the Red Cross try to share their good things with those who do not have them. [Illustration] [Illustration] The members of the American Red Cross have two flags. This boy has two flags. Why? Do you have two flags? Do you wear a Red Cross button? Has your school an American Red Cross School Auxiliary banner? Do you know that the American Red Cross serves the government of the United States, and that the members of the Red Cross are the best citizens of our country? The Red Cross means being good neighbors—working together. THE LADY OF THE LAMP A PLAY Characters: Florence Nightingale, the nurse Frances, her sister Flossie, her doll Harry Miller, Doctor Make-believe Old Roger, the shepherd Captain, the hurt dog Mr. Vicar, the minister Soldiers, doctors, and other nurses Act I. The Sick Doll Scene. In an English Garden. _Frances._ Come on! Let’s play tag, Florence. _Florence._ I can’t, Frances. Flossie is too sick. Won’t you play you are the doctor, and come see her? _Frances._ Oh, no; you always want to play the same thing! Your dolls are always sick! I believe you love the broken ones better than the others. _Florence._ Yes, I do. I’m going to be a nurse when I grow up. Well, if you don’t want to play that you are the doctor, I am going to ask Harry Miller to play that he is. (_Goes to the hedge and calls._) Oh, Harry, come on over, and play you are the doctor for my sick dolls. _Frances._ Come on, Harry, I am going to be the druggist. _Harry._ All right, girls; I’ll be over in a minute. _Florence._ Don’t forget your medicine case. _Harry_ (_entering_). Good morning, madam. Is your little child ill? * * * * * Act the rest of the story yourselves. Act II. Good Old Cap Scene. In an English Village Street. (_Florence is riding on her little pony. With her on horseback is Mr. Vicar, the minister of the village church._) _Mr. Vicar._ What a lovely day, Florence. _Florence._ It is a beautiful day, Mr. Vicar. I am so glad we are going to call to see old Mrs. Williams. I hope she is better than when mother last saw her. _Mr. Vicar._ I have not heard from her for some days. _Florence_ (_looking off in the distance_). Oh, there is old Roger trying to gather his sheep together. Why, I wonder where his dog is. (_They ride up._) _Mr. Vicar._ Good morning, Roger. You seem to be having trouble. _Roger._ That I am, sir. Good morning, miss. _Florence._ Why, where is your good dog, Cap? _Roger._ Some boys threw stones at him and broke his leg. I am afraid he will never be able to run again. _Florence._ Oh, how dreadful! _Roger._ Yes, I miss him so much. He was such a help. _Florence_ (_to Mr. Vicar, in a whisper_). I wonder if we could see the dog. We might be able to do something for him. _Mr. Vicar._ Where is your dog; Roger? _Roger._ At home, beside the fire. (_Mr. Vicar and Florence ride to the cottage. They find that Cap’s leg is not broken, but is sprained. Florence asks for hot water, and bathes and bandages the leg. In a few days the dog recovers and helps Roger with the sheep._) Act out the rest of the story yourselves. Act III. The Lady of the Lamp Scene. In a hospital. Soldiers are lying on cots and chairs. Florence Nightingale comes in with a lamp in her hand. _First Soldier._ Hush, here comes the Angel of Mercy to look after us poor fellows. How tired she must be after working all day. _Second Soldier._ Yes, the Lady of the Lamp. _Third Soldier._ She has done more for our country than all the soldiers during this terrible war. _All the Soldiers._ That she has. May Heaven bless her brave heart! * * * * * America! America! Thy loyal children we! Dear Mother Land, our lives we pledge In service unto thee. YOU and I And ALL of US TOGETHER Will make this WORLD of OURS Sorry and Sad— [Illustration] IF YOU and I And ALL of US TOGETHER Do not DO RIGHT. BUT YOU and I And ALL of US TOGETHER Will make THIS WORLD of OURS HAPPY and GLAD— [Illustration] BECAUSE YOU and I And ALL of US TOGETHER WILL DO RIGHT! We Will Be GOOD CITIZENS, FOR WE LOVE OUR COUNTRY AND OUR FLAG. * * * * * Transcriber’s Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The table of contents uses the œ ligature in Phœbe Cary’s name. In the text it’s italic and the transcriber assumes that the printer didn’t have an italic ligature. As we’re not constrained by that, all instances of Phœbe Cary’s name now have the ligature. Page xi, “DRESMAKER’S” changed to “DRESSMAKER’S” (AT THE DRESSMAKER’S) Page 166, the pronunciation key for petroleum uses a dot and macron combination above the two es in the text. As this is not a character available to us, the macron and acute have been substituted: ḗ. End of Project Gutenberg's Our Home and Personal Duty, by Jane Eayre Fryer ***	{'short_book_title': 'Our Home and Personal Duty by Jane Eayre Fryer', 'publication_date': 1918, 'url': 'http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53653'}
_The Boxcar Children Mysteries_ The Boxcar Children Surprise Island The Yellow House Mystery Mystery Ranch Mike's Mystery Blue Bay Mystery The Woodshed Mystery The Lighthouse Mystery Mountain Top Mystery Schoolhouse Mystery Caboose Mystery Houseboat Mystery Snowbound Mystery Tree House Mystery Bicycle Mystery Mystery in the Sand Mystery Behind the Wall Bus Station Mystery Benny Uncovers a Mystery The Haunted Cabin Mystery The Deserted Library Mystery The Animal Shelter Mystery The Old Motel Mystery The Mystery of the Hidden Painting The Amusement Park Mystery The Mystery of the Mixed-Up Zoo The Camp-Out Mystery The Mystery Girl The Mystery Cruise The Disappearing Friend Mystery The Mystery of the Singing Ghost Mystery in the Snow The Pizza Mystery The Mystery Horse The Mystery at the Dog Show The Castle Mystery The Mystery of the Lost Village The Mystery on the Ice The Mystery of the Purple Pool The Ghost Ship Mystery The Mystery in Washington, DC The Canoe Trip Mystery The Mystery of the Hidden Beach The Mystery of the Missing Cat The Mystery at Snowflake Inn The Mystery on Stage The Dinosaur Mystery The Mystery of the Stolen Music The Mystery at the Ball Park The Chocolate Sundae Mystery The Mystery of the Hot Air Balloon The Mystery Bookstore The Pilgrim Village Mystery The Mystery of the Stolen Boxcar The Mystery in the Cave The Mystery on the Train The Mystery at the Fair The Mystery of the Lost Mine The Guide Dog Mystery The Hurricane Mystery The Pet Shop Mystery The Mystery of the Secret Message The Firehouse Mystery The Mystery in San Francisco The Niagara Falls Mystery The Mystery at the Alamo The Outer Space Mystery The Soccer Mystery The Mystery in the Old Attic The Growling Bear Mystery The Mystery of the Lake Monster The Mystery at Peacock Hall The Windy City Mystery The Black Pearl Mystery The Cereal Box Mystery The Panther Mystery The Mystery of the Queen's Jewels The Stolen Sword Mystery The Basketball Mystery The Movie Star Mystery The Mystery of the Pirate's Map The Ghost Town Mystery The Mystery of the Black Raven The Mystery in the Mall The Mystery in New York The Gymnastics Mystery The Poison Frog Mystery The Mystery of the Empty Safe The Home Run Mystery The Great Bicycle Race Mystery The Mystery of the Wild Ponies The Mystery in the Computer Game The Mystery at the Crooked House The Hockey Mystery The Mystery of the Midnight Dog The Mystery of the Screech Owl The Summer Camp Mystery The Copycat Mystery The Haunted Clock Tower Mystery The Mystery of the Tiger's Eye The Disappearing Staircase Mystery The Mystery on Blizzard Mountain The Mystery of the Spider's Clue The Candy Factory Mystery The Mystery of the Mummy's Curse The Mystery of the Star Ruby The Stuffed Bear Mystery The Mystery of Alligator Swamp The Mystery at Skeleton Point The Tattletale Mystery The Comic Book Mystery The Great Shark Mystery The Ice Cream Mystery The Midnight Mystery The Mystery in the Fortune Cookie The Black Widow Spider Mystery The Radio Mystery The Mystery of the Runaway Ghost The Finders Keepers Mystery The Mystery of the Haunted Boxcar The Clue in the Corn Maze The Ghost of the Chattering Bones The Sword of the Silver Knight The Game Store Mystery The Mystery of the Orphan Train The Vanishing Passenger The Giant Yo-Yo Mystery The Creature in Ogopogo Lake The Rock 'n' Roll Mystery The Secret of the Mask The Seattle Puzzle The Ghost in the First Row The Box That Watch Found A Horse Named Dragon The Great Detective Race The Ghost at the Drive-In Movie The Mystery of the Traveling Tomatoes The Spy Game The Dog-Gone Mystery The Vampire Mystery Superstar Watch The Spy in the Bleachers The Amazing Mystery Show The Clue in the Recycling Bin Monkey Trouble The Zombie Project The Great Turkey Heist The Garden Thief The Boardwalk Mystery The Mystery of the Fallen Treasure The Return of the Graveyard Ghost # The Return of the Graveyard Ghost ## A Boxcar Children Mystery ### Gertrude Chandler Warner ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY # Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 # Chapter 1 In the Cemetery "I think it's going to rain," twelve-year-old Jessie Alden told her younger brother, Benny. "We need to walk faster if we're going to beat the storm," she said. Jessie gently tugged on Watch's leash. The wire-haired terrier trotted between Benny and Jessie, keeping pace with their quick steps. "I'm going as fast as I can," Benny replied. "The wind keeps pushing me backward." He looked ahead toward his ten-year-old sister, Violet, and fourteen-year-old brother, Henry. Violet was struggling with the zipper on her jacket and Henry's hat kept flying away in the strong gusts. "It's too cold," Henry complained as he swooped his hat off the ground for the fifth time and set it firmly over his short brown hair. "Taking Watch for a walk seemed like a good idea an hour ago—" "It was warmer then," Violet responded with a shiver. Her two high pigtails whipped back in the wind. She gave up on the zipper and wrapped the jacket around her instead. "We should have stayed closer to home." Violet shoved her hands into her pockets. "Nothing to do about it now," Jessie said as she and Benny caught up with their siblings. Benny was breathing heavily. "This is crazy strong wind. If you tied a string to me, I'd be a six-year-old kite." Jessie took Benny's hand in hers and squeezed it tight. "I'll make sure you don't blow away," she said, holding him firmly. "I have an idea." Henry pointed to the nearby gate of the Greenfield Cemetery. "There's a shortcut this way." "Shortcut?" Benny stared past the tall, ornate iron gate toward the moss-covered tombstones. "Sounds good to me. Let's go!" He rushed forward. "Hang on." Jessie put a hand on Benny's shoulder. "Cemeteries are spooky." Jessie was very brave, but she was also cautious. "Are you sure it's okay with you, Benny?" "I'm not a chicken." Benny put his hands on his hips. "I don't believe in ghosts." "Once we get to Main Street, we can stop at a shop and call Grandfather for a ride," Henry told them. "The quicker we get home, the faster we can eat!" At that, Benny's stomach rumbled. "My tummy says it's almost dinner time." "It's only four o'clock," Henry told Benny after checking his watch. "Hmmm." Benny pat his belly. "Feels like dinner time. My tummy needs a snack." "You always need a snack!" Henry laughed. Jessie looked to Violet. Violet often kept quiet about things. Jessie wanted to make sure Violet got a vote before they decided to go through the graveyard. "Are you scared, Violet?" Jessie asked. "A little," Violet admitted. "I don't know if I believe in ghosts or not. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't..." Violet's voice tapered off. "I suppose if everyone else wants to go that way, it's all right." "Great!" Benny pushed open the gate. "We all agree. Come on." Jessie held Watch's leash as they stepped onto the cobblestone path. The sky grew darker with each step they took. Violet moved close to Jessie. Henry walked ahead with Benny. They were checking out the gravestones, taking turns reading the names and dates out loud. Greenfield Cemetery was built on a hillside. The wind howled through a thick grove of trees planted in the oldest section. Tombstones in that part dated as far back as the late 1700s. "There's a lot of history around us," Jessie remarked. Benny pointed at a tombstone. He sounded out the engraved word. "Soldier." "The soldier died in 1781. That means he probably fought in the American Revolution," Henry told Benny. "I'll read you a book about the war when we get to the house." Jessie, Violet, Henry, and Benny lived with their grandfather. After their parents died, they ran away and hid in a railroad boxcar in the woods. They had heard that Grandfather Alden was mean. Even thought they'd never met him, they were afraid. But when he finally found the children, they discovered he wasn't mean at all. Now the children lived with him, and their boxcar was a clubhouse in the backyard. Watch was the stray dog they'd found on their adventures. As the first drops of rain began to fall in the cemetery, Watch barked toward a far-off building. It was along another stone pathway past the trees. "Is that a house?" Benny asked, squinting his eyes. Drops of rain speckled his thick dark-brown hair. "I think that's the main office," Henry replied, tilting his head to study a squat, brown building. "There's a sign out front. I can't read it, but there's also a parking lot. That's a good clue it's where Mrs. Radcliffe works." Mrs. Radcliffe was the caretaker of the cemetery. The children had only met her once when they were out with Grandfather. Grandfather Alden had been born in Greenfield and knew practically everyone. "You're looking the wrong way." Benny tugged on Henry's arm and pointed to the right. He asked again, "I meant is that a house?" Not very far away, tucked among the gravestones, stood a stone structure, much taller than anything else. It was made of white marble, with carved columns and a triangle roof. The building looked like an ancient Greek temple. Several bouquets of white lilies were lying on the front steps. "It's not a house," Jessie told Benny. "That's called a mausoleum." "Maus-a-what?" Benny asked. Violet began to explain. "It's a fancy kind of grave where—" She was about to tell Benny more, when suddenly, lightning flashed. In the glow, the children saw something move by the mausoleum. "Who's that?" Violet asked. A shadowy figure emerged from behind the building. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was had on a black jacket with a hood and was moving fast around the tombstones. The figure stopped and stood near the big mausoleum. An instant later, a flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky and the figure disappeared. Watch snarled. Benny stepped back and put a hand on Watch's head. "Watch is scared," he said, leaning in toward the dog. "He thinks we saw a ghost." Jessie looked at the nervous expression on Benny's face and said, "We should get out of here." There was a small wall around the back of the mausoleum. They could easily jump over it. Just past that was a café where they could warm up and wait for Grandfather. Watch barked as the rain began to pour down in heavy sheets. Thunder rattled soon after the lightning. As the children began to run, Henry glanced back over his shoulder. "Odd," he mumbled, staring at the spot where the cloaked figure had disappeared. "Something strange is going on in Greenfield Cemetery." # Chapter 2 The Greenfield Ghost Randy's Café was packed with people who had also been caught in the rain. Mr. Randy was standing by the front door, handing out towels and helping hang up jackets. While Violet called Grandfather to let him know where they were, Henry and Benny searched for seats. Jessie crossed the café to say hello to a girl she knew. "Hi, Vita." Jessie pointed at the camera in Vita Gupta's hand. "Out taking pictures of the storm?" Vita's nature photos were blue ribbon prizewinners. "No. I'm changing focus," Vita said. Her short dark hair shook when she giggled at her own pun. "I'm going to make a movie instead of taking pictures. Miss Wolfson asked me to help make a short film about Greenfield using old photographs from the historical society." Vita indicated the older woman at the table and asked Jessie, "Do you know Martha Wolfson?" "Of course," Jessie said. She turned to Miss Wolfson. "Hello," Jessie greeted her. "Nice to see you again." "I met Jessie when she came to visit me at the historical society last summer," Miss Wolfson told Vita. She smoothed some loose strands from her gray hair into her bun with one hand. "Jessie interviewed me for a project about old buildings in Greenfield." Looking around, Miss Wolfson asked, "Is Watch with you?" She smiled. "He's a wonderful dog." "Watch is over there with Benny and Henry." Jessie pointed to her brothers. "They're looking for a place where we can all sit together. Mr. Randy was very nice to let Watch come into the café during this rainstorm." "You can join us," Vita said. There were three empty places at the table and something dark on the fourth seat. It was Miss Wolfson's jacket, lying out to dry. "Hang my jacket on the hook behind you," Miss Wolfson told Jessie. "Then there will be plenty of room for you all." She pointed at an empty spot on the floor near her feet and smiled. "Watch can sit by me. I'll pet him." Jessie set the jacket on a hook near a large, rain-splattered and steamy window. She waved to get Henry's attention. Benny came to the table and eyed Miss Wolfson's cookie with a tilted grin. "Would you like half?" Miss Wolfson asked. Benny's eyes lit up. "Oh yes, thank you!" he said. He waited patiently as she broke the cookie then ate his half quickly. Miss Wolfson chuckled and gave Benny the other piece, saying, "Don't spoil your dinner." "Don't worry," Violet assured her. "Benny's stomach is never full." Miss Wolfson laughed again. "Would you like to see a few of the photographs Vita and I have selected for the film so far?" Miss Wolfson brought out a stack of pictures from her purse. "I love old pictures." Henry leaned in closer. All the photographs were in black and white. There was one of Greenfield Elementary School, back when it was in a one-room building. There were ten students with a teacher standing in front. Violet pointed at one of the girls in the picture. "She looks familiar." Violet glanced up at Miss Wolfson. "Is that you?" Miss Wolfson laughed. "Goodness, no. This was taken before I was born," she told Violet. "But you made a good guess...That's my mom." "Your mom!" Benny exclaimed. "She's so little." "She was about your age when this picture was taken," Miss Wolfson told him. She smiled. "Mom's a whole lot older now." Benny chuckled. Jessie pointed at another girl about the same age wearing an old-fashioned dress. "Who's that?" "Patty Wilson," Miss Wolfson said. "She was my mom's best friend." Miss Wolfson pulled out a different picture taken when Patty was in high school. Her blond hair was tucked under a sleek hat and she was wearing a ruffled skirt. Patty Wilson was standing in front of a dress shop on Main Street. "Patty worked at Madame LaFonte's Dress Shop. It was the fanciest store in town." Miss Wolfson put that photograph away and showed Violet another one. "This is Greenfield Children's Hospital," she said, "taken right after it opened, almost a hundred years ago." "I like that picture the best," Vita said. "Did you know Miss Wolfson volunteers at the new hospital building and donates money to families with sick children?" she asked Jessie. "That's very nice of you," Jessie told Miss Wolfson. Miss Wolfson said, "It's a worthy cause." "I think we should put the hospital images on the movie poster," Vita said. "I'd like to print the two pictures side by side; this one from then and a new one to show what the building looks like now. We can sell the posters to help the hospital raise money." "The hospital always needs money," Miss Wolfson said, considering it. "I do what I can to help, but it's never enough." "I'll add music to the movie," Vita said. "And we can interview families about the hospital." While Vita and Miss Wolfson talked about the hospital pictures, Henry handed Jessie another old photograph. This one was of the cemetery's front gate. It was taken so many years earlier hardly any moss was growing on the tombstones. With the sun shining, the cemetery looked like a beautiful park, not a scary place for ghosts to lurk. "There was someone spooky in the cemetery today." Benny told Miss Wolfson about the figure they'd seen. "They were by the moose-e-lum," he said. "Mausoleum, you mean?" Miss Wolfson asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think it was a ghost," Jessie said. "There were flowers on the steps. I've been thinking that whoever we saw probably was there to leave the bouquets." "Hmm." Miss Wolfson pressed her lips together. "The LaFonte family had that monument specially built." She glanced away from Benny toward the window. "But there are no LaFonte family members left in Greenfield. I don't know who might have left flowers—" She paused to consider. "You know, some people say the cemetery is haunted." "Really?" Violet's eyes widened. "I don't believe in ghosts," Benny told Miss Wolfson. "Watch was scared though." "Is that so?" Miss Wolfson asked, glancing down at the terrier. The door to the café burst open with the wind. A young man wearing a black jacket and hood was standing in the doorway. After a long look around at the faces in the shop, the boy marched over to Miss Wolfson and introduced himself. "I'm Marcus Michelson," he said. "I'm a new student at the university. Are you Miss Wolfson?" "I am," she said. Benny stood and let Marcus have his place. He sat back down, sharing the edge of Violet's seat. "I think Marcus is the figure we saw in the cemetery," Henry whispered to Jessie. "He's the right height and he has the right color jacket." "I'm interested in Greenfield history," Marcus Michelson told Miss Wolfson. He pushed back his coat's hood to reveal short blond hair. "Is that why you were in the cemetery?" Henry interrupted. Marcus turned to face him. "We saw you standing by the LaFonte mausoleum." "It couldn't have been me. I never went into the cemetery," Marcus insisted. His green eyes grew wide. "I was outside the gate when I saw a strange figure all dressed in black. I thought it was very suspicious, so I followed—" He looked around the coffee shop. "I was certain whoever it was ducked in here." Marcus shook his head. "I looked around but didn't see anyone who might fit the description. Then I noticed Miss Wolfson." He caught her eye and said, "I've been meaning to call you." "How can I help you?" Mrs. Wolfson asked. "Well, I—" Marcus began when suddenly the lights in the coffee shop flickered off. The room plunged into darkness. Watch jumped onto Jessie's lap. Benny gave Violet a hug and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll protect you." "I'll protect you too," Violet said, hugging him back. When the lights came back on a few moments later, a woman screamed. Her husband, pale and shaken, pointed to the window behind Henry's head. A single lily lay across the windowsill. The raindrops on the window glittered on the glass, making the flower shine eerily. Vita pressed a button on her camera. "Scoot over, please, Jessie," she said, holding the lens to her eye. "I want to record this." "What's going on?" Jessie asked Miss Wolfson. Miss Wolfson stared at the flower. She studied the frightened faces of the people in the café. Then she looked directly into the lens of Vita's camera and announced, "The LaFonte ghost has returned." # Chapter 3 The LaFonte Mausoleum "Who's the LaFonte ghost?" Henry asked Miss Wolfson. "A g-g-ghost?" Benny asked. "There's a real ghost in Greenfield?" "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts," Jessie said. Benny raised his shoulders. "That was before we saw something in the cemetery and the lights went out and...that!" He pointed at the flower. "I've changed my mind." Benny shivered and whispered in Watch's ear, "Ghosts. Yikes." People in the café gathered around Miss Wolfson as she began to share a bit of history. "Today is the seventy-fifth anniversary of the death of Madame Jacqueline LaFonte," she told the crowd. "She was the dressmaker." Jessie picked up the historic photograph of the LaFonte shop on Main Street. "Yes." Miss Wolfson went on, saying, "Women would come to have dresses made, then stay for tea and conversation." With a small smile she added, "Madame LaFonte was known to give very good advice. Some people even say Jacqueline was a fortune-teller." "Very interesting," Jessie said, setting the photo on the table and taking a notebook out of her small purse. Jessie wrote down Madame Jacqueline LaFonte's name as a reminder to see if she could find any information about her online. Jessie liked to research interesting people. "Ever since the first anniversary of her death, people in Greenfield have believed that Jacqueline LaFonte's ghost haunts the cemetery," Miss Wolfson said. "Ooh," Vita said, recording the café conversation. "A ghost story is way more interesting than a historical society film." She stood on a chair to get a good view of the room through her camera. She focused her lens on the most frightened expressions. The door to the café opened and Grandfather Alden walked in. "Looks like I'm interrupting an important meeting," he remarked as he closed his umbrella. He walked over to Henry and asked, "What's going on?" Henry pointed to the windowsill. "Ah," Grandfather said, stepping over to Miss Wolfson. "It's the three-day warning?" The historian nodded. At Jessie's questioning look, Grandfather explained, "Every year around Halloween, white lilies are placed on the LaFonte grave. After that, a lily appears somewhere in town. It's said that lilies were Jacqueline LaFonte's favorite flower. But some people also believe that lilies are a symbol of death." Grandfather said. He continued. "After the flower shows up, everyone has three days to bring gifts to the LaFonte mausoleum. Those who leave gifts get a year of good fortune. Those who ignore the warning receive nothing but bad luck all year." Miss Wolfson clarified. "Gifts can be food, silver, money, jewelry—anything to make Jacqueline's ghost happy." Benny got up and moved to stand near Grandfather. There were goose bumps along his arms. "I like gifts," he said in a shaky voice. "So does the ghost," Miss Wolfson told Benny. "Nonsense," Grandfather Alden cut in. "I've known this ghost story my whole life. There's no LaFonte ghost. Bad things happen to people sometimes—that's just the way life is. Good things happen too. It doesn't matter whether or not someone leaves presents in the cemetery." "You're wrong. The ghost is real." A well-dressed woman in the back of the room stood up. She looked directly at Grandfather and asked, "Ever hear of Patricia Wilson? Patty didn't heed the warning, never left a gift, and she...disappeared!" Several people in the room gasped. "That's an old made-up rumor from the year after Jacqueline's death," Mr. Randy said from behind the cash register. "Patricia Wilson didn't disappear. My mother was a child back then and knew her." Miss Wolfson pointed out Mr. Randy's mother in the photo taken in front of the old school house, a girl who looked to be about Violet's age. "Mama knew Patty," Mr. Randy said in a booming voice that filled the café. "She told me that Patty left town on her own." The woman turned to face Mr. Randy. "Believe what you want," she said, gathering her coat and scarf. "I won't risk having a year of bad luck. I'm going to put a gift at the cemetery tomorrow." "What do you think?" Henry asked Jessie as people in the café began to discuss whether or not they were going to set out gifts for the ghost. Jessie looked down at her notebook where she'd written Jacqueline LaFonte's name. On the next line, she wrote Patricia Wilson. And below that she drew a giant question mark. "I'd like to learn more about the ghost," Jessie replied. "And the gifts," Benny chimed in. "We should go back to the cemetery," Henry suggested as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky outside the café. "Can we go tomorrow?" Benny asked, patting his belly. "Now it really is dinner-time, and I'm starved! I'm extra brave when my tummy's full." He shivered again. "Ghosts. Yikes." "The cemetery won't be so creepy in the daylight," Violet agreed. Henry looked at the white lily and its reflection in the window glass. "We'll start ghost hunting tomorrow morning," he said. Jessie quickly peeked over at Benny and added, "Right after breakfast." "Perfect!" Benny grinned as they followed Grandfather to the car for the ride home. # Chapter 4 Gifts for Ghosts "Isn't that Marcus Michelson?" Violet pointed toward the cemetery gate. She was walking with Jessie and her brothers. Marcus was coming straight toward them. Jessie checked the time. They'd left home just after breakfast as planned. "He's out early," she remarked. "I wonder what he's doing here." It wasn't raining anymore, but it was still cold. Marcus was wearing the same dark jacket as the evening before, but now his hood was down. In his hands he carried a cardboard box. Benny was holding Watch's leash. When Watch saw Marcus, he tugged forward, pulling out of Benny's hand and running down the sidewalk. Marcus wasn't paying attention and stumbled backward when Watch jumped up to greet him. "Whoa!" Marcus said, dropping the box as Watch's leash tangled around his ankles. The lid on the box popped open and the contents spilled out. Two silver candlesticks lay on the sidewalk. Henry rushed after the dog. "Sorry," he told Marcus. "Watch just wants to make a new friend," Benny said. "He's a happy dog." Henry unwound the leash then handed the end to Jessie. "Are you all right?" Violet asked. Marcus seemed distracted. His eyes were darting around the area, not focusing on any one thing. "I'm fine. I have to go." Marcus collected the candlesticks and set them carefully back into the box. "Now we'll see," he muttered to himself and then, without another word to the Aldens, he stomped through the cemetery gates. Jessie watched him go. "I think we should follow him," Henry suggested. "It looks like he's going to the LaFonte mausoleum." "Do you think the candlesticks are a gift for the ghost?" Benny asked. "Do you think we should leave a gift too?" "Grandfather said it's all made up," Henry reminded Benny. "No such thing as the LaFonte ghost." "Lots of people believe the ghost is real." Benny lowered his voice and added, "And Patty Wilson disappeared..." "She might have just left town," Jessie said. "I agree with Benny," Violet admitted. "Until we know for sure what happened to Patty Wilson, I think we should leave a gift too." "When we get home, I'll find a nice present for the ghost. Just in case she's real," Benny told Violet. "We don't want any bad luck." The children entered the cemetery and stayed hidden in a grove of trees near the mausoleum. They watched as Marcus set down his box and removed the candlesticks. He carefully arranged them near a column then picked up the empty box and walked away. "What do you think is going to happen to Marcus's gift?" Violet asked Henry. "I think someone will come and get it," Henry replied. "Then we will know who is pretending to be the ghost." "Isn't that stealing?" Jessie asked. "I mean, if someone invented a ghost to scare people into leaving food and silver and jewelry, then sneak in and collect it all—that seems like stealing to me." "Right," Henry agreed. "The person who is doing this is definitely a thief." "It's a ghost," Benny argued. "Not a thief." "Where would the ghost put all those presents?" Henry asked. "The ghost makes them magically disappear," Benny said. "Magically disappear to where?" Henry pressed Benny to think about his answer. "People have been leaving things for the LaFonte ghost for seventy-four years. That's a lot of gifts." "Not too many," Benny replied. "If I got presents on my birthday and at Christmas every year, I'd never run out of places to put all my gifts," Benny said. "They could all fit in the toy box and under the bed and in the closet." He smiled. "I have plenty of room for a hundred years of presents." "You're funny," Henry said. "But ghosts don't have beds and closets. I think we need to stay here all day to see who's taking the gifts and prove there is no ghost." "Maybe we can find out where the thief is putting the presents and return them to their owners," Jessie suggested. "If we catch a person pretending to be a ghost, I won't believe in ghosts," Violet said very practically. "And if we see a real ghost, then I will believe in them." "Ghosts. Yikes," Benny said as they searched for a better place to hide. Jessie and Violet found a good spot in the old grove of trees where they could keep an eye on Marcus's candlesticks. Benny climbed up one of the trees for a better view. Since they were going to be there all day, Henry ran home to take Watch back and pick up a pair of binoculars. He returned right away. Hours later, Violet was bored. Besides Marcus, no one else had come to leave gifts at the mausoleum and Marcus's candlesticks were still sitting there. "I am beginning to think there's no ghost and no thief," she said. "Nothing interesting is going on." "I'm cold," Jessie said. She'd left her hat at home and forgotten to ask Henry to pick it up when he went back. Violet sneezed. "I'm cold too." "And I'm hungry," Benny called down from the tree branch where he was camped out. "I brought you lunch," Henry said, looking up at his brother. "But that was hours ago," Benny said. "And I brought snacks." Henry pointed at a trash bag filled with empty granola bar wrappers. "We ran out ten minutes ago," Benny said with a sigh. "I ate them all." "Hang in there," Henry told his siblings. "We can't give up yet. Something is going to happen—" Just then, he saw movement near the mausoleum. Henry put the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus. "What do you see?" Benny asked, sitting up straight and leaning forward. "Is it the ghost?" "Or a person?" Jessie squinted in the direction Henry was looking. Henry said, "I saw someone behind a tree. But just his or her arm—a black coat sleeve. Then it disappeared." "A ghost," Benny said surely. "A person," Jessie said, also certain. Violet didn't take a side. She sneezed again instead. "Get out!" A spooky voice called through the trees. "Ghost!" Benny leapt down from the tree, knocking down Jessie. "Person," Jessie said, getting up and turning him around to face Mrs. Radcliffe, the graveyard caretaker. "Leave!" Mrs. Radcliffe pointed her long bony finger to the exit gate. "You are not welcome in my cemetery." Hunched over, wearing a black cloak, Mrs. Radcliffe looked like the wicked witch in the Hansel and Gretel story. "We're watching for the LaFonte ghost," Henry said. "We're going to prove she's fake." Mrs. Radcliffe shook her head. "Ghosts are supposed to scare people..." She muttered, "I've already chased someone else away. Now you all need to go too." "Someone was hiding in the cemetery?" Violet asked. "Who?" "I wish you'd all go away!" Mrs. Radcliffe said. "Everyone is leaving trash around, trampling on my grass, stepping on the flowers..." She didn't answer Violet's question. "I have to clean up. More work for me." She led them to the gate and warned, "Stay outside the cemetery. I don't want you traipsing all over the place and climbing my trees! Leave my ghosts alone!" "Ghosts?" Violet asked after Mrs. Radcliffe was gone. "Like more than one?" "I don't think she really means that the cemetery is full of ghosts," Jessie said. "I think she's just trying to scare us away." "It worked. I don't want to go back to the cemetery ever!" Benny gritted his teeth. "That lady is scarier than a ghost!" "She's scary for sure," Violet agreed. "But how are we going to find out if there's a ghost or a thief without going back into the cemetery?" Henry pointed to a tree outside the property. "Benny, can you climb up there and see if the candlesticks are still at the mausoleum?" he asked. Then to Violet, "Maybe we can investigate from here." "I feel safer out here." Benny quickly climbed the tree and surveyed the graveyard with Henry's binoculars. "Uh-oh. There's trouble," he reported. "You know how Marcus was the only one who left a gift today?" "Yes," Jessie said, encouraging him to go on. "Well, people must have been waiting till they were done with work—" Benny slid down the tree trunk. "Lots and lots of people are coming toward the cemetery now. And they're all carrying boxes." Violet looked past Benny with the binoculars. "I see Vita. She's hiding in the bushes with her video camera." She handed the binoculars to Henry, saying, "If Mrs. Radcliffe spots her, she'll be chased out here with us." Jessie shook her head. "Mrs. Radcliffe will never be able to chase everyone out of the cemetery." "Let me see." Henry climbed up the tree to the branch where Benny had been. "There are a lot of people. I see Vita. There's the mausoleum. And—" He put down the binoculars with a surprised look on his face. "Marcus Michelson's candlesticks are gone!" # Chapter 5 Spooky Suspects and Creepy Clues "How about this?" Benny held up one of Jessie's dolls from the toy bin in the boxcar clubhouse. She was dirty, had matted hair and a missing an arm, and wore only one shoe. "I don't think you should give Beautiful Betsy to the ghost." Violet frowned. "She's not so beautiful anymore. That doll looks like she's had a lot of bad luck." "There was no bad luck. Betsy was my favorite." Jessie defended her doll. "Grandfather gave her to me when we first came to live here. I used to take her everywhere with me." "Still...Violet's right," Benny said with a frown. "The ghost would want something nicer." Benny put Betsy back in the toy box and searched around for something else. "How about this?" He held up one of Henry's old baseball gloves. It smelled bad. "Maybe not," he said, plugging his nose and tossing the glove back in the bin. "You're not going to need a gift," Jessie assured Benny. "There's no ghost." Jessie was at her desk, staring at the computer screen as a web page loaded. Henry was standing over her shoulder. "There," he said. "Click on Jacqueline LaFonte's name." He scanned the source. "This is what the local newspaper said about her after she died." Jessie read the page silently to herself then described what it said. "The whole article is about how Jacqueline was a kind woman who loved Greenfield." Jessie pinched her lips together. "I don't think Jacqueline LaFonte would haunt this town. It says here that she gave a lot of money to charity." "Nice ghosts can be scary," Benny said. "Jacqueline gave her money away," Henry said. "She didn't take anything from others." He glanced at the shiny plastic bead necklaces Benny was now holding. "It doesn't sound like she was the kind of person who'd want other people's jewelry and candlesticks." "Then why do people leave gifts for her?" Violet asked. "There must be a reason." "I don't know how it started," Jessie said as she flipped through a few more web sites. "I can't find anything about the beginning, but it says here that after her death people avoided her family because of the bad luck rumors. No one went to their businesses. The dress shop had to close. People were scared of the ghost and that made them scared of the LaFontes." She shook her head. "The family was run out of town. It's a shame." Henry was using the Internet on his cell phone to help Jessie find out more information. "Hey, look here," he said, turning the phone screen around toward the others. "There's an old house on the hill behind the cemetery. It used to be their family home. No one's lived there for a long time. It's all run down now." Henry marked the web site photo. "We should check it out." "I'll need a whole lot of snacks if I'm going to be brave enough to visit an abandoned house," Benny said, stretching as far as he could into the toy bin. Violet gave him a playful push. Benny fell forward, toppling into the box. He was laughing as he dug himself out. "Maybe I should share my snacks with the ghost instead of giving her our old toys." He quickly changed his mind. "Nah." Benny ducked back into the bin. "I want the food. The ghost can have some toys." Jessie opened her notebook and wrote a note to visit the old LaFonte house. Then she turned to a fresh page. "Let's imagine we are catching a gift thief," she said. "Who are the suspects?" "The ghost," Benny's muffled voice came from the bottom of the toy chest. "The ghost is the first suspect." Jessie didn't argue. She wrote it down. "Marcus Michelson." Violet said. "He's new to town and has a black coat. We've seen him near the cemetery a couple times, which means he could be the one stealing the gifts. When we saw him at the café, he looked just like the spooky figure we'd seen near the mausoleum." Jessie wrote his name down, along with all of Violet's reasons. "But we also saw him putting his own gift out for the ghost," Henry said. "Maybe I'm wrong," Violet admitted. "Until we know more, he should be a suspect." "Okay. Let's find out what we can about Marcus," Jessie said, turning in her chair. She was rubbing her chin. Jessie did that when she was thinking really hard. "He could easily have set the flower on the café window." Benny popped up. "That means the ghost was in the café! Yikes." "The person pretending to be the ghost was in the café," Henry corrected. He nodded toward Jessie's list. "Marcus Michelson is a suspect. But then, so is Miss Wolfson." Jessie wrote down the historian's name, saying, "She was closest to the window when the lights went out. She had a black coat hanging on a hook. And it was wet. And she knows the most about the LaFonte ghost." "Put Mrs. Radcliffe on the list too," Benny said, crawling out of the toy box with a handful of possible gifts. "But she wasn't in the café," Violet argued. "It doesn't matter if she was there or not. I think she's creepy," Benny replied, shaking his head. "That's not a good reason to think someone is a thief," Henry said. "We can't just put her on the list because she looks like a witch and yells at children—" "What if..." Jessie interrupted. "What if Mrs. Radcliffe invented the ghost to keep people out of the cemetery?" "Her cloak is black," Violet said. "She could have turned off the café lights, sneaked in, placed the flower, and left before anyone noticed," Henry added. "If she wants to scare people away, her plan's not working," Benny said, reminding them of the big crowd that was going to the cemetery with gifts. "Let's put her on the suspect list," Henry told Jessie. "Just in case." "Okay." Jessie wrote down Mrs. Radcliffe's name. "We have three possible gift-stealing thieves." "And one ghost," Benny added. "Don't forget there is still the possibility the ghost is real." "Right." Jessie checked the list. "Anyone else to consider?" The room fell silent as everyone thought about who they'd seen lurking around the cemetery. "Vita, maybe," Violet said. "Maybe she invented the ghost. She decided really fast to make a movie about it. An exciting scary movie could make her famous, right?" "It's possible," Jessie said. "And she was inside the café—" "Wait!" Henry suddenly interrupted. "We have a problem." He breathed a heavy sigh and said, "A big problem." "What?" everyone asked at the same time. "The ghost was first spotted a year after Madame LaFonte died," Henry said. "That means whoever has been taking the gifts from the cemetery has been doing it for seventy-four years! No one on our list is old enough to have been there at the beginning." "Oh." Jessie leaned back in her chair. "That is a problem," she admitted. "A big problem," Violet echoed, tapping her foot. "There's only one answer then." Benny found a roll of wrapping paper and began to wrap the toys he'd selected. "The LaFonte ghost is real!" He shuddered and added, "Yikes!" # Chapter 6 Patty Wilson "We need to talk to the people on our suspect list," Jessie said. Henry agreed. "Even though no one has been around for more than seventy-four years, maybe one of them still holds a clue to this ghost-thief mystery." He called Vita Gupta. Vita told him that she was headed to the cemetery to film Miss Wolfson talking about the legend of Jacqueline's ghost. Vita said they could meet there. "I couldn't sleep last night," Jessie told the others as they walked to the cemetery. "What did you do?" Benny asked. "Read? Watch TV? Din-eakfast?" He grinned at his new word. "That's the meal between dinner and breakfast." "None of those," Jessie said with a small giggle. "I went to the boxcar and did some research. I found out what happened to Patty Wilson." "Really?" Violet stepped up next to Jessie. "What'd you learn? I'm curious." "So did she leave town on her own?" Henry asked. He dropped his voice to a spooky growl. "Or did the ghost get her?" Sneaking behind Violet, he tapped her on the shoulder. "Augh!" Violet jumped. They all laughed. "This whole ghost thing still scares me a little," Violet admitted. "And me a lot," Benny said, reaching into his jean pocket. He pulled out a squished granola bar in a crinkled plastic bag. "Want a snack for bravery?" He held the bar out to Violet. "No, thanks," she said, eyeing the flattened honey-coated nut mixture. "I'll eat it then." Benny peeled a piece of the bar away from the plastic. He tapped his other pocket. "I have another one in case I get scared later." Benny looked at Violet. "You can share it if you feel nervous." Violet ruffled his brown hair and winked. "You're a good little brother." Changing the subject back to Jessie's research, Henry asked, "What did you find out?" Jessie handed Henry a page she'd printed from the Internet. It was an old newspaper article. "Patty's sister was sick. She left town to help the family," Jessie said as Benny tugged hard on the cemetery gate to open it. "In those days, small newspapers used to run brief news articles about people in town. I'm guessing that no one thought to search other towns around Greenfield for information about her. I checked old newspaper records and found something from the town of Beacon Crest." "I've never heard of Beacon Crest," Henry said. "It doesn't exist now," Jessie told him. "When Silver Spring grew bigger, Beacon Crest became part of it. But seventy-five years ago, it was its own town." "Clever, Jessie," Violet complimented her. Jessie smiled. "Thanks." Henry read the short newspaper notice out loud: "Mrs. Laura Thompson was visited this week by her sister, Miss Patricia Wilson of Greenfield. Mrs. Thompson is at home, resting from her illness. "I knew it," Henry said as he led the way toward the mausoleum. "No ghostly bad luck." "Or maybe it was the ghost's bad luck that got her sister sick," Benny suggested. "I mean, if she didn't leave Jacqueline LaFonte a gift, it's possible." "Good point." Henry shrugged. "I guess I'm going to have to work harder to show you that the ghost doesn't exist." "Try your best," Benny said. "Until you prove it to me, I'm going to eat granola bars. Just in case you're wrong." Violet wrapped her clean fingers around Benny's sticky ones. "We're protecting each other," she said with a wink. "Yes, we are," Benny replied. There was a big crowd at the LaFonte mausoleum. Miss Wolfson was in the center of the group, standing on a small step stool, talking in a loud voice. "It all began one year after Jacqueline LaFonte died..." Miss Wolfson was saying. "Looks like we didn't miss much," Henry whispered. Marcus Michelson was near the front, hands in his black jacket pockets, listening intently. Vita was there too. Her camera scanned the crowd and then focused on Miss Wolfson. The Aldens stayed near the back of the crowd to listen. "On the first anniversary of Madame LaFonte's death, Patricia Wilson found a lily near the LaFonte dress shop window. Frightened, Patty ran down the street and found my mother at the bakery, working behind the counter. Patty was the assistant to Jacqueline at the dress shop. Patty said that before she died, Jacqueline announced that she planned to 'return' on her anniversary and that people should bring gifts to her grave or she'd bring bad luck." A man near Marcus put his arm around his wife. She was holding a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Together they stepped forward and set the items on the steps of the mausoleum. "My mother immediately left a gift. Patty meant to, she said she would, but she forgot." Miss Wolfson squinted her eyes and peered slowly across the faces of the audience. "Patricia Wilson disappeared before the three days passed." "That's not exactly true," Jessie blurted out. All eyes turned to face her. She blushed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," Jessie told Miss Wolfson. She reached into her coat pocket and took out the article. "Last night I discovered that Patty Wilson had been visiting her sick sister." She held up the page. "Exactly seventy-four years ago this time of year. Which means she left on her own. It wasn't a ghost that got her. She didn't really disappear." Vita turned her camera on the Aldens. Henry stood tall and said, "Maybe Patricia Wilson didn't tell anyone she was leaving. We think it was an emergency. Then she probably stayed in Beacon Crest and didn't come back." "Look. There's more." Jessie held up a second sheet of paper and said, "I found more newspaper items about Patricia. She married and became Patricia Haverford and then she died in Silver City. Here's her death notice. Patty Wilson lived to be ninety-two years old. She had children and grandchildren." People began to mutter and whisper to each other. It was as if no one had listened to Jessie. "I heard about a man whose business went bankrupt," a lady reported. "And a girl who broke her arm." "Well, I heard about a boy who got food poisoning. And one time, a man didn't leave a gift and a big storm came. A tree fell on the man's car." Everyone had a bad luck story to tell about what had happened to someone who hadn't left Jacqueline LaFonte's ghost a present. "That's all normal stuff," Henry said in a loud voice. "Bad stuff happens to everyone, but so does good stuff." That was exactly what Grandfather had told the children at the café when they saw the lily appear. "It's the ghost's curse," someone said from deep inside the crowd. Violet stood on her tiptoes but couldn't see who said it. A nervous hush came over the people at the mausoleum. A little boy quickly walked to the pillars and set down a box of crayons near the name plaque. Three young girls put down home baked treats. A man set out candles and a woman carefully set down a pretty potted plant. As the gifts piled up, Jessie turned to Henry, Violet, and Benny. She waved the articles. "I don't understand," she said. "I have proof that Patricia Wilson didn't disappear, but no one believes it." Henry frowned. "Let's go talk to Miss Wolfson. She's a historian. She has to believe the facts." Because he was the smallest, Benny got through the crowd first. Miss Wolfson was talking to Marcus Michelson. Vita was recording their conversation. "I've changed my mind," Vita was telling Miss Wolfson. "Instead of the historical society film, I'm making a ghost documentary," Vita said. "I'm going to show the entire town coming out to leave gifts for the ghost. I've already talked to a big-time producer about making a spooky cemetery movie. She thinks I might become a famous director." Miss Wolfson smiled and waved to the camera. "Hello, Hollywood," she said with a grin. Then Miss Wolfson sneezed. "Excuse me," she told Vita. "I think I might be getting a cold." Violet reached forward and handed Miss Wolfson a tissue. "Me too," she said with a sneeze. Miss Wolfson took the tissue. "Thank you," she said. Then turned, "Jessie, can I see your pages?" Jessie handed her the pages. Miss Wolfson took a quick glance before handing them back. "Good luck," she told Jessie. "With what?" Violet asked. Miss Wolfson was acting strange. "With convincing people that there is no ghost," Miss Wolfson said, putting her hands on her hips. "People believe what they want to believe. Remember my mom in the old school picture? Now, she's ninety-five years old. Just yesterday, she told me that even if Patty Wilson herself walked into the cemetery right now and declared she hadn't been cursed, no one would believe her. The ghost and the gifts and the story about bad luck are part of Greenfield's history. Nothing you do will change that." She added, "We all might as well make the best of it." Bending down, Miss Wolfson told Benny, "Bring some toys. I'm sure the ghost would especially like to have a few stuffed animals and some board games." Marcus Michelson's face became very red. "It's time for people to know the truth." He stomped his foot, then put the hood of his black coat over his head and shouted at Mrs. Wolfson, "For all the trouble that ghost has caused, those gifts should be mine!" With that, Marcus stormed out of the cemetery. He left just in time because a few minutes later Mrs. Radcliffe appeared. She was carrying a broom and swinging it like a weapon. "Get out," she shrieked, sweeping at people's feet. "Out of my cemetery. Stay off the grass. Don't trample the flowers." People moved aside, but no one left. Finally in frustration, Mrs. Radcliffe muttered, "The LaFonte ghost isn't scary enough to keep people away. This cemetery needs a zombie!" With an angry huff, she stomped back to her office. # Chapter 7 Movie Magic "Is there a zombie in Greenfield?" Benny asked at breakfast the next morning. "Mrs. Radcliffe said the cemetery needed a zombie." The children were sitting at the dining room table, which was laid out with bowls and spoons. Violet came in from the kitchen carrying a box of cereal and a carton of milk. "Mrs. Radcliffe is just trying to frighten people away from the cemetery," Violet told Benny. "Ghosts maybe. Zombies...no way." "A zombie would be scarier than a ghost," Benny said while pouring a bowl of crunchy flakes. "But know what would be even scarier?" "What?" Jessie asked. "Grrr," Benny snarled, showing his teeth. "A werewolf." Jessie laughed. "Or a vampire." She covered her neck with two hands. "That would scare me." "Mrs. Radcliffe scares me," Henry said with a wink. "I think she can chase people away from the cemetery all on her own!" Everyone agreed. "Good morning," Grandfather greeted the children as he brought his coffee cup and joined them at the table. "How's the ghost hunt going?" "After last night, our suspects are all now more suspicious," Henry replied. "It's day three," Jessie said. "The last day for people to bring gifts to the mausoleum." "Or get bad luck." Benny trembled. "A whole year of bad luck." Violet said to Grandfather, "If we don't find a person acting like the ghost today, we might have to admit that the ghost is real." "Or wait till next year to search around again," Henry said, shaking his head. "So what's your plan for today?" Grandfather Alden asked as they finished their cereal. "Are you going back to the cemetery?" "Maybe we should hide again and see if we can catch the person gathering the gifts," Henry suggested. Jessie opened her notebook. "Remember when Henry found out about the old LaFonte house on the hill? I think we should go there," she said. "Maybe we can find a clue in the house." Benny took his empty bowl and got up to go into the kitchen. "I'm going to need a lot of snacks if we're visiting a spooky haunted house." He patted his empty pockets. "Lots and lots of snacks." "That reminds me," Jessie said, getting up from the table, "Watch is probably hungry too." She called to the dog. "Watch! Come here, Watch!" Usually Watch came running at the sound of Jessie's voice. But not today. "Watch!" she called again. "Where's that dog?" Henry asked, going to search the bedrooms. "I bet he's sleeping, or—" Just then Benny came running in from the kitchen. "Watch is gone!" "What do you mean?" Violet asked, hurrying to Benny's side. She looked worried. "When I came downstairs this morning, Watch wanted to go outside. So I tied his leash to the patio table. Now Watch is gone." Benny's eyes were wide. "I knew it! We should have brought a gift to the mass-o-lume." "Mausoleum," Jessie corrected as she came back into the dining room. "There's no ghost." "Then how do you explain this?" Benny held up Watch's leash. "Watch escaped. We have bad luck! We have bad, bad luck!" Benny ran from the room and came back a second later, still in his pajamas and his morning hair sticking up to the sky. He was holding a big bag of toys. "Gifts for the ghost. We have to deliver them right now so Watch will come back. Hurry, Jessie. Hustle, Henry. Come on, Violet." He slipped on his tennis shoes. "Let's go to the..." he said it slowly to be sure he said it right, "...mausoleum." * * * Watch wasn't at the cemetery. But plenty of people were there, and the area around the LaFonte mausoleum was piled high with gifts. Benny walked carefully through the crowd until he reached one of the columns. He set down his bag of toys and began to put them on the ground one at a time near the mausoleum steps. "Wait!" Vita rushed to him. "Can you take them back and do it again? I want to record you for my movie." Benny waited for his siblings to catch up. He asked Henry, "Is it bad luck to take them back? We've had enough bad luck already." "I think it's all right," Henry assured Benny. "You really don't have to give gifts at all." "Yes, we do! We have to save our dog!" Glancing down at his pajama bottoms, Benny told Vita, "We're kind of in a hurry to get these presents to the ghost." He asked, "Have you seen Watch? He's missing." "That's terrible!" Vita said. "How about this? After I record you putting out the gifts, I'll help you find your dog. Filming will only take a couple minutes." Benny agreed and took back his presents, putting them into the bag. Vita asked him to move into the crowd while she framed the shot. She wanted the old grove of trees behind him and the LaFonte house on the hill in the distance. Looking through her lens, Vita shouted, "Action!" Benny wove his way through the people around the mausoleum toward the column again. He took the gifts out one by one and set them down. He had ten different wrapped packages. Then Benny turned to Vita's camera and said, "We don't want any bad luck. We just want our dog back." Vita put down the lens. "That was perfect," she told Benny. "I'll quickly review it to make sure I got everything and that it's in focus. Then we can search for Watch." Benny said, "I'm worried about our dog. Thanks for helping us." "Thanks to you too," Vita replied. She switched the camera into playback mode. "Did you know about the ghost story before you decided to make the movie?" Jessie asked Vita. "No," Vita said. "I found out the same way you did. The lights went out at Randy's Café and then the lily appeared. That was the beginning." She looked at the small screen on her camera and rewound the part she'd filmed with Benny. Violet took Jessie aside. "It doesn't sound like Vita is a suspect anymore." "She didn't make up the ghost for her movie," Jessie agreed, taking out her notebook and crossing off Vita's name. "It was a coincidence that she was at the café that night." Jessie closed the notebook and everyone huddled around Vita's camera to see the bit with Benny. There he was, standing in the crowd. Then she moved out to the trees. "Wait till I add spooky music," Vita said. "This is going to be awesome!" From the trees, her lens panned up to the old house on the hill and then down to focus on Benny... Suddenly, Vita gasped. She pressed the stop button on the camera and then pushed the footage back a few frames. "What do you see?" Henry asked. "Is it the ghost?" Benny shivered. She zoomed in toward the house. "Look at this." Vita turned the tiny screen toward Henry and Jessie. Violet and Benny squeezed in to see. "There's something moving. There—" Vita's eyes went wide. "Near the front porch. By the steps." "That's not a ghost!" Jessie gasped. She jumped up and started to run toward the house on the hill. "It's Watch!" # Chapter 8 Haunted House "Don't worry." Benny untied the cord that held Watch to the splintered wooden stake in front of the LaFonte house. "We gave the ghost presents. Lots of presents. No more bad luck for the Aldens!" "Watch didn't run away," Henry said, hooking Watch's leash to his collar. "Someone took him. On purpose." "I wonder why," Jessie said, bending down to hug her dog. "Is someone trying to scare us away?" Violet looked up at the old house and wrinkled her forehead. "Maybe whoever is pretending to be the ghost wanted us to come here." "I don't think anyone wanted us to come here," Benny said. "In fact, I think we should leave. Fast as we can." The LaFonte house was dark and dusty. When a gust of wind blew, the enormous house swayed. It was hard to imagine what it had been like when Jacqueline LaFonte lived there. It must have been beautiful, but now the windows were all broken. The fence had toppled down and was rotten. The garden was a field of weeds. Jessie saw a rat scurry under the porch. Violet glanced over her shoulder. "I want to go inside," she said. "Come on, Violet." Vita was right behind her, camera held high. "We have a mystery to solve." She added, "This is going to be the best movie ever." The children entered through a side door with broken hinges. The door led into a small kitchen area, where rusted appliances sat covered with silken spider webs and thick dust. "I don't like it in here," Benny said, squeezing himself between Henry and Jessie. Benny took a granola bar out of his pocket but didn't eat it. He held it in his hand to give him courage. The living room was in better shape than the kitchen, but barely. Antique furniture had been covered with sheets. The chandeliers were black with tarnish. The ceiling beams appeared sturdy, but birds had nested in the wide cracks. "Okay," Violet said with a quick look around. "Nothing to see. No clues to who might be pretending to be a ghost." She crossed her arms and hugged herself. "No gifts. Let's go." Henry insisted they take a peek in the dining room and a small parlor across the hall before they could leave. "No one would be foolish enough to try those stairs." He indicated that the only way to the second floor was a narrow stairway with wilted boards and a broken handrail. "A dead end. This is disappointing," Jessie said. "I hoped that the answer to who was playing the LaFonte ghost and what was happening to the gifts would be in this old house." Henry headed to the front door. "We can leave this way." Reaching out, Henry said, "I'll unlock—" The knob rattled. "It's the ghost!" Benny exclaimed. "Yikes." "We've gotta run." Violet was shaking. When the knob rattled again, Henry jumped back, colliding with Violet and Jessie. Benny crashed into Vita, knocking the camera out of her hands. It skidded across the floor and hit a wall at the far end of the living room. In the middle of the wall was a door that the children hadn't noticed during their quick look around. The door was covered with the same peeling wallpaper as the rest of the room. Had it not been for a small latch and the gap near the floor, the door would have completely blended into the wall. "Whoa," Vita said, scooping up her camera. "What's this?" She reached out to tug the latch. "Let's go back out through the kitchen," Violet said, hurrying in that direction. "I don't want to know what's in there." "Just a quick look." Henry stepped next to Vita at the door. "It'll just take a second." Violet cautiously stepped back into the room. "No such thing as ghosts," she told herself. The door creaked as the hinges gave way and the door opened to reveal a closet. Crash! A vase fell off a tilted shelf and shattered on the living room floor. Just then, the front door of the house opened with a bang. A figure wearing a black jacket, face obscured with a hood, stomped into the room. It was too late to run. Vita slowly turned around and raised her camera lens to her eye. "If I'm going to face a ghost, I should film it," she said, breathing deeply. "A good director would never run away." Henry, Violet, Jessie, and Benny stared at the figure. Watch growled. Marcus Michelson pushed back his hood, revealing his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded to know. "I—" Vita was so nervous that she had a hard time forming words. "We came to get our dog," Benny boldly told Marcus. "He was dog-napped." "What are you doing here?" Henry asked. "This is my family's house." Marcus dangled the door key. "And you are trespassing. I should call the police—" He stared at the Aldens and then at Vita. Behind her, the closet door was wide open and the broken vase lay on the floor. Marcus walked forward with large steps. "Look. There are my candlesticks!" He gasped. Marcus took a flashlight out of his coat pocket and shone the beam inside the closet. The light glittered on his gift to the ghost. The closet was deep. Henry and the others leaned forward to get a good look inside. Shelves ran floor to ceiling and they were packed full. Boxes sat on top of other boxes, piled high. Everything the children had seen left at the LaFonte mausoleum was in this closet. And there was plenty of room for today's final offerings. "That's where my presents will go." Benny pointed to a big empty shelf near the back. Henry turned toward Marcus. "You have a black coat like the one we saw in the cemetery. You were inside the café when the lily showed up. We saw you at the mausoleum. And we found the gifts in your family house." He scratched his forehead and ran a hand through his hair. "Everything seems to tell us that you are the thief. But I don't understand. Why would you steal your own candlesticks?" "I promise you I didn't take my own candles," Marcus insisted. He looked over Henry's shoulder. "I've been to this old house a few times since I moved to town but never noticed that closet." "It was hidden," Vita said. She shut the door to show him how the wallpaper perfectly matched up, making the door disappear into the wall. "If you aren't the one pretending to be the ghost," Jessie said, opening her notebook and looking at Marcus's name on the suspect's page. "Who do you think it is?" Vita was busy filming everything. She turned her camera to face the suspect. "What do you have to say, Mr. Michelson?" "I don't—" "Wait a second." Benny peered into Marcus's face. "Did you steal our dog?" "I'm not the LaFonte ghost," Marcus said honestly. "But yes, I did take your dog." # Chapter 9 Who Is Greenfield's Ghost? "You took our dog!" Benny stomped his feet. "That wasn't nice." "I gave him water and food," Marcus assured Benny. "I did it because I wanted to get you out of the way." The college student looked from Benny to Jessie, to Violet and Henry. "I'm trying to find out who is pretending to be the ghost, and you children are always around, asking questions. You're ruining my investigation." "We're searching for the same thing," Henry explained. "We could help each other." "No," Marcus said. "I don't want help. I need to solve this mystery by myself." "But we—" Henry began then changed his mind about what he was going to say. He looked to his siblings. "I just realized something important. Marcus is Madame LaFonte's grandson," Henry said. "He is?" Violet asked. "How'd you know?" "This is his family's house. He has the key," Henry explained. He asked Marcus, "You put out the candlesticks at the mausoleum so that you could see who took them, right?" "Yes," Marcus said. Jessie understood what had happened. She said, "When Mrs. Radcliffe said she chased someone else out of the cemetery that first night, it was Marcus. He was hiding to watch the candlesticks. Then, just like us, when he looked back from outside the cemetery—they were already gone." "I missed seeing the thief and it's your fault. If I'd been the only one in the cemetery, Mrs. Radcliffe wouldn't have been so upset!" Marcus said, "I have to find out who ruined my family name. I want to prove there is no bad luck. And I have to do it on my own." "But we're good helpers—" Violet began. "No!" Marcus growled at her. "I'm close to finding the truth. If you kids mess this up, I'll have to wait another year until Jacqueline LaFonte's next anniversary. I need to find out who started the rumor so that my parents and cousins can move back to town. I want to rebuild this house, open a business again, and start a fresh life here." He turned to Henry. "Please stop getting in my way. Let me find the thief." "How do you know your grandmother is not really a ghost?" Benny asked. "Grandmother LaFonte would never have stolen gifts. She was a kind and charitable person," Marcus said. "Did you know she gave money to the children's hospital? "Did she give money to families with sick children too?" Jessie asked. She drew her eyebrows together as the answer became clear. "Yes," Marcus said. "How'd you know?" "Oh," Henry said, putting a hand on Jessie's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure that we just figured out who the ghost is. There's someone living in Greenfield today who gives money and volunteers at the children's hospital, just like your grandmother did." "I get it!" Benny said. "I know who the ghost is." "Who?" Violet sneezed. "I'm not sure who you are talking about." She sneezed again. "Violet's cold is a clue too," Benny said. "The ghost also has a cold." "I got the cold the first night—" Violet's eyes grew wide as she realized what Benny had figured out. "Whew. I'm glad there's no real ghost." Violet whispered the answer to Vita. "Who is it?" Marcus Michelson asked, following the children outside. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I've treated you all badly. I was wrong." "You need to apologize to Watch," Benny said. "You dog-napped him." Marcus got down on one knee to pet Watch on the head. "Sorry, boy," he said. "I won't dog-nap any dog ever again." Benny gave Marcus a long, hard look. "Promise?" "Promise," Marcus agreed. He stood up and faced the children. "You all are very good detectives and I made a mistake thinking I could solve this mystery on my own." He went on, saying, "I really do need your help." "Miss Wolfson is pretending she's the LaFonte ghost," Henry told him. "I thought it might be her," Marcus said, thinking about it. "She has a black coat. And she knows a lot about the ghost and has been encouraging people to bring gifts to the mausoleum." "She was also in the café when the flower appeared," Violet said. "And her coat was wet," Jessie reminded everyone. "When Violet sneezed, I remembered that Miss Wolfson also has a cold," Benny said. "I think that they both got sick being in the cemetery late at night in the rain." "It seems possible, but Miss Wolfson couldn't have been the ghost for the last seventy-four years," Marcus said. "No way. She's not old enough." "That is a problem," Violet admitted. "Miss Wolfson is the ghost now..." Henry said. "But," Jessie finished Henry's thought, "maybe she wasn't the original LaFonte ghost." # Chapter 10 Trick or Treat Mrs. Arlene Wolfson was sitting in a rocking chair near the front window of the nursing home's recreation center. She was alone, knitting a purple scarf. Her gray hair shone in the sunlight and she had a smile on her face. "Visitors!" Mrs. Wolfson exclaimed. Her smile broadened as the Aldens, Marcus, and Vita entered the room. "I love visitors." "Hi," Benny said. He walked directly to her and asked, "Were you the first LaFonte ghost?" Mrs. Wolfson nodded. "So, you found me out." She winked and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm ninety-five years old, you know. For a very long time I've hoped someone would figure it out. But no one ever came to see me." She rocked back and forth in her chair. "I remembered that your daughter, Miss Wolfson, volunteers at the children's hospital," Jessie said. "And gives money to families with sick children." "So did my grandmother," Marcus said, introducing himself. "It looks like you've carried on with Jacqueline LaFonte's work," Violet said to Mrs. Wolfson. "Yes. Yes. The hospital was important to Jacqueline. We've given a lot of money in her honor over the last seventy-four years," Mrs. Wolfson said, still knitting. "Every year, I collected the gifts and then sold them. Every cent went to charity. I also donated any food gifts and flowers to people who really needed them." She raised her head and looked at the children. "When I got too old, my daughter took over the job." "I think what you've done is nice," Violet said. "But taking gifts from others is stealing." She frowned. "You're kind of a generous thief." "I know," Mrs. Wolfson replied, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. "That's the part that I feel terrible about. I never wanted to steal from anyone. Really. It's strange how it all worked out. I never meant for this to happen." "How did it begin?" Marcus wanted to know. "I've spent my whole life wondering why people here are afraid of my family." "I'm very sorry about that. Everything got out of control too quickly. The rumors spread like fire. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the flames." Mrs. Wolfson told the children to bring chairs over from a nearby table. "Let me tell you a story." After asking for permission, Vita turned on her camera. "It started as a joke," Mrs. Wolfson said. "After Jacqueline LaFonte died, we thought it would be funny to play a Halloween prank on the town. A little trick. Everyone used to do Halloween tricks back then. Much more fun than getting treats." She told Marcus, "Your grandmother had such a great sense of humor. She'd passed away the year before, but still, we thought she'd love to be part of the prank." Marcus gave a small smile. "Yes. My mother told me how Grandma LaFonte used to play practical jokes on everyone. Once she put a live turtle in my mom's bathtub. Another time she replaced all the flowers in the house with fake ones. Silly little things like that." Mrs. Wolfson laughed. "Once, at the dress shop, she sewed a man's trouser legs together. He fell over when he tried to put them on. We laughed about it for days!" "What did you do for the Halloween prank?" Violet asked. "On the anniversary of her death, we put the lilies on her mausoleum, then set one in a shop in town. Patty made a big show of screaming in horror. She told everyone that before she died, Jacqueline said that anyone who didn't bring a present to her grave would have bad luck. "The bad luck part was my idea," Mrs. Wolfson snickered. "It was very funny at first. Everyone was in a panic. Even people who didn't believe in ghosts or bad luck were bringing gifts—just in case." Her eyes clouded as she went on. "Patty and I thought it was the best joke ever played in Greenfield history. Better than when those boys put a cow in the mayor's office! Or the kids who dumped bubbles in the Main Street fountain." In a soft voice, she added, "We planned to give all the gifts back at the end of the three days." "But Patty left town before it was over." Jessie knew that part of the story. "Her sister got sick and needed help with her children. It was an emergency. Patty took the train the same day she heard the news." Mrs. Wolfson sighed. "Someone started a rumor that Patty had forgotten to leave a gift and disappeared." Her old shoulders sank. "Patty wrote me a letter that she wasn't coming back. Her sister needed her to stay. So, on my own, I went out to give back the gifts, but no one wanted them. They told me the ghost would harm them if they took back their presents." Mrs. Wolfson stared out the window. "I tried and tried to explain. I talked until my voice hurt. No one wanted their things back. Finally, I gave up and donated the gifts to the hospital. I figured that Jacqueline would have liked hat." "What happened next?" Marcus wanted to hear more. "The following year, I didn't say anything about the ghost. No jokes. No pranks. No flowers. Nothing." Mrs. Wolfson raised her hands. "I couldn't believe it! The gifts piled up anyway." She shrugged. "I didn't know what to do. Again, I tried to give things back, but no one would take them. So once more, I donated them all." "People started thinking my family brought bad luck." Marcus bit his bottom lip. "It was bizarre. If a kid got the measles, they said it was the ghost. A dog got fleas. A man tripped on a curb..." Mrs. Wolfson said. "All anyone could talk about was the ghost's bad luck." Violet let out a breath. She'd been holding it during the whole story. "This is terrible," she said. "Rumors can be very bad." "After a few years, the LaFonte family moved away, and still the gifts kept coming on Jacqueline's anniversary. So I kept collecting them. I put them in the old empty house until I could send them to the hospital or sell them for money to give to families who needed it." Vita moved in for a tight shot of Mrs. Wolfson's face. "When I moved here to the nursing home, my daughter took over." She glanced out the window. Henry could see the cemetery in the distance. "You made something good come from something bad," Violet said. "You're not really a thief, are you?" Mrs. Wolfson hesitated as she considered how to answer. "I don't know. Yes. No. Sort of—" The door to the room opened. "Hello," Miss Wolfson greeted her mother's visitors as she stepped inside. "Did Mom tell you the truth?" she asked the Aldens. "Yes," Jessie said. "It's a crazy story." "I know!" Miss Wolfson took off her jacket and threw it over the back of an empty chair. "I'm so glad you children believe there's no ghost," she said. "I wish we could convince the rest of the town." "There must be something we can do," Jessie said. "Let's just tell people the history," Marcus said. "After we share the truth, my family will move back to Greenfield. It'll be over." "It's not that easy," Violet told him. "Remember when Jessie brought proof that Patty Wilson didn't disappear because of the ghost's bad luck? She told everyone standing by the grave that Patty lived a long time. No one believed her." "Just like no believed me all those years ago," Mrs. Wolfson said. "I'd have ended it seventy-four years ago if I could have." "Well," Henry said, "we are going to have to make them believe us. No more bad luck. No more gifts." Jessie thought about the words Mrs. Wolfson had used and said, "It's time to finally put out this fire." "I definitely want the ghost story to end, but please don't forget about the hospital." Mrs. Wolfson was concerned. "The money, the flowers, and the food go to people who need it." "Hmm," Marcus said. "That does make things complicated." Vita lowered her camera. "Maybe..." she began. She turned the camera so that Henry could watch her whole movie from the beginning. "We can have a charity event for the hospital and get rid of the ghost at the same time." "Leave it to us," Henry assured Miss Wolfson, Mrs. Wolfson, and Marcus. "We'll take care of everything!" # Chapter 11 Ghosts Gone? The first annual Greenfield Halloween Charity Carnival took place in the cemetery parking lot. "I knew there wasn't a real ghost," Benny said surely. "I knew it all along." He was standing in line for the Ferris wheel with Violet. "So why are your pockets stuffed with granola bars?" Violet asked. "In case I get hungry, of course," Benny said. He grinned and whispered, "Or in case we run into Mrs. Radcliffe. She still scares me." He shivered. When Henry and Jessie went to the cemetery office to explain about the LaFonte ghost, they'd asked Mrs. Radcliffe if they could have the charity benefit in the cemetery. "People are used to bringing gifts here," Henry had told her. "We simply want to take away the scary ghost part. They can donate whatever they want to the hospital." Then Grandfather called Mrs. Wolfson at the nursing home and the younger Miss Wolfson at the historical society. He called the hospital to tell them about the charity carnival, and he called all his friends to come help. Mrs. Wolfson and Miss Wolfson had set up the Greenfield Historical Society booth by the path to the cemetery. They entertained visitors with stories about Halloween pranks from Greenfield's town history. From the top of the Ferris wheel, Benny could see that the place was packed. There were booths for games, a few fun rides, and in the center of it all stood the Children's Hospital LaFonte Donation Table. "Bring your gifts here!" Jessie called out through a megaphone. There was a crowd of adults and children surrounding her. One by one, Jessie handed the gifts to Henry, who stood behind her. "Drop off your donations to the children's hospital," Henry announced. He was piling the presents on a table. Grandfather and Marcus Michelson were also standing at the table, wrapping the gifts in colored paper. "Did you meet Marcus's mother?" Violet asked Benny as their swinging chair looped over the top of the wheel and began to sink back to earth. "She's very nice," Benny said. "She makes dresses just like her mom did." "I know!" Violet said. "She promised to make me something special. I can't wait. I picked out the fabric already. It's going to be purple to match the scarf Mrs. Wolfson made for me." She tightened the knitted scarf around her neck. "I'm so glad we solved this mystery," Violet said as the owner of the café opened the gate and let her and Benny off the ride. "It worked out for everyone. The rumors have stopped. The hospital gets presents. The LaFonte family can move back to town." "Vita is showing her movie," Benny said. He checked the time. "We better hurry." At the back of the parking lot a big white tent had been set up. The tent had long flaps to keep it dark inside. Benny and Violet rushed to the front entrance. "We're here," Violet told Vita. "Just in time." Vita pointed to the line of people who'd come to see the movie. She told Violet where to stand. "Your job is to sell tickets. They cost a dollar. All the money will go to families with sick children." Violet picked up a roll of tickets to sell. She was surprised when people gave her five or ten dollar bills and told her to keep the change. "It's for charity," a woman said. "It's good luck to give money to a good cause," a man said with a wink. "Thanks!" Violet said, putting the money away and welcoming them into the tent. Vita walked with Benny to another spot. "This is where you'll hand out popcorn," she told him. Smiling she added, "The popcorn was donated. It's free." "Free food! My favorite kind." Benny stuffed a handful into his mouth. "Save some for us, Benny," Henry said. He and Jessie entered the tent with Marcus and Grandfather. Behind them, the Wolfsons had also come to see the film. "I hear I am going to be a celebrity," Mrs. Wolfson said. "You sure are." A tall woman wearing a beautiful green suit stepped up to the group. "I'm Leanne Phuong. I came all the way from Hollywood to see Vita's movie. I'm a producer of ghost shows." "You know there wasn't really ever a ghost," Miss Wolfson said, taking a bag of popcorn from Benny. "It was my mom. Then me." "We know," Ms. Phuong assured her. "And we think it's a fabulous twist! A ghost story without a ghost. We are going to show this movie in film festivals all over the country." Vita beamed. "Will you give all the ticket sales to local hospitals?" Vita asked. "That's an important part of the story." "Of course!" Ms. Phuong agreed. "My first movie." Vita was very happy. "You better get started on a second film project," Henry told her. "I've been thinking I'll make that one about the historical society next," Vita said. "The one I started before all this happened. There's a lot of history in Greenfield." She waved her hand outside the tent toward Main Street. "Ohhh!" Benny was so excited he nearly dropped a bag of popcorn. "Please, Vita," he said. "I want to be the star of your movie!" Everyone laughed. The Aldens sat together in the front row of the tent theater. Suddenly, the lights flickered and went off. "Oh no," Benny said, jumping up from his chair. "Could there be another ghost in the cemetery? Yikes." He took a granola bar out of his pocket and began to unwrap it. "Maybe this time it's a zombie! Double yikes." Jessie put a hand on Benny's shoulder. "No ghost. No zombie. Not even a vampire. That was just Vita turning off the lights. The movie is starting." A single lily sitting on a windowsill appeared on the screen. "I don't believe in ghosts," Benny said firmly. Then he sat back to watch the movie. All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. 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_About Anarchism_ Nicolas Walter All contributions © 2019 the respective authors This edition © 2019 PM Press All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. ISBN: 978–1–62963–640–5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018948959 Cover by John Yates / www.stealworks.com Interior design by briandesign 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 PM Press PO Box 23912 Oakland, CA 94623 www.pmpress.org Printed in the USA. # Contents Preface Introduction to the 2002 Edition Note on the 2002 Edition Introduction What Anarchists Believe How Anarchists Differ What Anarchists Want What Anarchists Do About the Authors # Preface # By David Goodway _About Anarchism_ appeared originally in June 1969 as the hundredth number of Colin Ward's celebrated _Anarchy_ , a periodical to which Nicolas Walter was a frequent contributor. Freedom Press then immediately proceeded to bring it out as a booklet. The rest of its publication history is explained by Natasha Walter in her "Introduction" below. It was translated into many other languages, and it is said that its popularity led some anarchist parents to name their boys "Nicolas". By the way, readers should note the correct spelling of "Nicolas": it regularly appears with an erroneous "h". When my daughter Emma told him one of her names is 'Nicola', he enquired after its spelling, responding instantly, "Yes, that's the best way!" Something of the considerable influence _About Anarchism_ exerted is revealed by Peter Marshall in his autobiography _Bognor Boy: How I Became an Anarchist_ (2018). He believes that the key factors in his becoming an anarchist were the events of May 1968 in Paris, together with reading both Wilde's _The Soul of Man under Socialism_ and _About Anarchism_. Nicolas wrote a mass of anarchist journalism, but _About Anarchism_ was the most sustained (as well as successful) anarchist publication of his lifetime. _The Anarchist Past_ and _Damned Fools in Utopia_ are selections from his articles and pamphlets that I edited posthumously in 2007 and 2011 respectively. _About Anarchism_ continues to read freshly after fifty years. It's succinct, straightforwardly written—even lucid—comprehensive and astonishingly non-sectarian. I warm particularly to the way in which, after distinguishing between philosophical anarchism, individualism and egoism, mutualism and federalism, collectivism and communism, and syndicalism, he observes that these differences have become less important, "more apparent than real" and "artificial differences of emphasis", rather than "serious differences of principle". I doubt this is true, whether in 1969 or 2019, but I wish that it were! Nicolas Hardy Walter was born in 1934, in South London, where his father was researching at the Maudsley Hospital, and was rightly proud of his dissenting family background over several generations. His paternal grandfather, Karl Walter (1880–1965), a journalist, had as a young man been an anarchist, had known Peter Kropotkin and Edward Carpenter, and with Tom Keell was one of the two English delegates to the International Anarchist Congress at Amsterdam in 1907. Three years before he had married Margaret Hardy, an American woman he had met in Italy; and between 1908 and the First World War they lived in the States, where he worked on the _Kansas City Star_. In the 1930s, they settled in Italy, Karl Walter as a sympathizer of fascism; but in old age he returned to both anarchism and London, and in the last years of his life was writing occasionally for _Freedom_ at the same time as his grandson. Nicolas's father W. Grey Walter (1910–1977) was a brilliant neurologist who created ingenious electro-mechanical robots, wrote _The Living Brain_ (1953)—widely read in its Pelican edition—was Director for many years of the Burden Neurological Institute in Bristol and appeared on television in the BBC's _The Brains Trust_. Nicolas's maternal grandfather was S.K. (Samuel Kerkham) Ratcliffe (1868–1958), another journalist, who had also known Kropotkin and Carpenter (at whose funeral he was a mourner) and had served on the executive of the Fabian Society alongside Charlotte Wilson (whose anarchist essays his grandson was to edit). Although acting editor of the daily _Statesman_ of Calcutta, 1903–1906, and editor of the _Sociological Review_ , 1910–1917, he was essentially a freelance journalist—and a rationalist liberal rather than a socialist—but he was also a formidable lecturer, undertaking no fewer than twenty-eight lecture tours of the USA and Canada. He served for forty years as "an appointed lecturer" of the South Place Ethical Society, the history of which he was to write, and Nicolas followed him in this role from 1978. S.K.'s brother William Ratcliffe became a painter and was a member of the Camden Town Group. Nicolas's mother Monica had been one of Ninette de Valois's dancers at Sadler's Wells. Grey Walter (who was three times married) and Monica Walter divorced when Nicolas was nine or ten, and he was brought up by his mother and her second husband, A.H.W. (Bill) Beck, who was to become Professor of Engineering at Cambridge. Nicolas was sent to private schools in the Bristol area and then boarded at a minor and semi-progressive public school, Rendcomb College, Cirencester (to which E.D. Morel and John Middleton Murry had sent sons). On leaving school he did his two years' National Service in the RAF as a Junior Technician in Signals Intelligence. He was one of those bright young men who were taught Russian as part of the Cold War effort; and it was on Russia, second only to British history and anarchism, that he was to write most extensively and percipiently—for a considerable period he was contemplating a biography of Kropotkin. In 1954, he went up to Exeter College, Oxford, to read Modern History. At Oxford he was a member of the Labour Club—he had been "brought up more or less as a Labour Party supporter—an extreme left-wing Labour Party supporter"1—but in the autumn of 1956 the twin upheavals of the Suez Crisis and the Hungarian Revolution jolted him to question the accepted ideologies. On graduating in 1957, he left for London where he was to spend his entire working life, initially as a schoolteacher—among his first pupils was Christine Barnett, nine years his junior, who would later become his second wife—but soon moving on to political research, publishing and journalism. He participated in the political and cultural ferment of the first New Left, frequenting the Partisan Coffee House in Carlisle Street, and advocating nuclear disarmament before the actual formation of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) in 1958. Late in 1958, Karl Walter was responsible for introducing him to Lilian Wolfe, who had been Tom Keell's companion and continued to live at Whiteway colony but during the week worked for Freedom Press, then in Red Lion Street. Nicolas began to visit the Freedom Bookshop and to attend the London Anarchist Group's weekly meetings. From 1959, he became a contributor to _Freedom_ , an association only terminated by his death. When in the autumn of 1960 dissatisfaction with CND's legal methods and constitutional agitation spawned within it the direct-action Committee of 100, Nicolas had his first letter published in the _Times_ defending the dissidents, and as a consequence was invited to become a member of the Committee to help round up the well-known names to the all-important figure of one hundred. As he was to write: "I was never at all important in the Committee of 100, but it was very important to me".2 The Committee of 100 was the leading anarchist—or at least near anarchist—political organization of modern Britain. The events of 1960–1962 led Nicolas to spend as much time as possible during the winter of 1961–1962, outside of work and his considerable political activity, in the Reading Room of the British Museum attempting with considerable success, to work out the historical lineage and above all the political theory of the Committee of 100, in "Damned Fools in Utopia" for the _New Left Review_ and especially two _Anarchy_ essays, "Direct Action and the New Pacifism" and "Disobedience and the New Pacifism". The _Anarchy_ essays won him the greatly valued friendship of Alex Comfort, whom he properly concluded was "the true voice of nuclear disarmament, much more than Bertrand Russell or anyone else" and who was their principal theoretical influence, alongside the novelist Colin MacInnes.3 For many years he intended to write a history of the Committee of 100, and of all his unrealized books this is the one I most regret. In June 1961, Nicolas had resigned from the Committee because of disagreement with its rhetoric and tactics, which had worried him from the outset. The failure of the demonstration at the Wethersfield airbase on December 9 led the following year to the decentralization of the Committee into thirteen regional Committees (several of which were already existent). Although there was a nominal National Committee of 100, the dominant body now became the London Committee of 100, which Nicolas joined at its inaugural meeting in April 1962. Another member was the twenty-year-old Ruth Oppenheim, a microbiologist at Sainsbury's, who also worked whenever she could in the Committee's Goodwin Street premises. Barbara Smoker remembers that at the meetings Nicolas and Ruth always sat together at the front—and in September they married. The long, harsh winter of 1962–1963, one of the century's worst, saw renewed crisis, now acted out in the London Committee. The radicals, mainly from or close to _Solidarity_ , circulated the arrestingly titled discussion document _Beyond Counting Arses_ , advocating radical, subversive action: "We must attempt to hinder the warfare state in every possible way".4 It was essentially this group, joined by Nicolas and Ruth, that constituted the Spies for Peace, locating and breaking into the Regional Seat of Government at Warren Row, producing the pamphlet _Danger! Official Secret: RSG-6_ and, thereby, diverting many of us on the Aldermaston March of Easter 1963 to explore the sinister surface buildings of the subterranean bunker. The disclosure of the preparations to rule the country through fourteen RSGs in the event of nuclear war represented, of course, "a substantial breach of official secrecy" and caused, as one had assumed, Harold Macmillan's ministry real concern.5 Nicolas, the only member of the Spies for Peace ever to have declared himself publicly, did so unambiguously as early as 1968, remarkably, and on the radio at that—his account of 1973 in _Inside Story_ , "The Spies for Peace Story", was unattributed and continued to be so in 1988 in "The Spies for Peace and After" (reprinted in _Damned Fools in Utopia_ ). At the time of the Spies of Peace Ruth was pregnant with their first child, Susannah; and a second daughter, Natasha, followed shortly. Considerably influenced by her increasingly proud father, Natasha Walter is now a prominent literary journalist and author. In 1963, he became Deputy Editor of _Which?_ and a staff writer for the _Good Food Guide_ , and from 1965 Press Officer for the British Standards Institution. It was while working for the British Standards Institution that he underwent his only period of imprisonment. The Labour Party Conference was held in Brighton in 1966, as the Vietnam War grew in intensity, as did the Labour government's complicity, and the Vietnam Action Group planned to disrupt the traditional pre-conference service at the Dorset Road Methodist Church. Demonstrators were issued with admission tickets forged by Pat Pottle and Terry Chandler's Stanhope Press. Terry thought it a good idea to print more tickets than had been asked for, and Nicolas was among those he let have one. So it was that Nicolas initiated cries of "Hypocrite!" too early, while George Brown, the deputy prime minister, was speaking, and when Harold Wilson mounted the pulpit to read the second lesson "pandemonium broke loose". Nicolas and Jim Radford were charged with indecent behaviour in church under the Ecclesiastical Courts Jurisdiction Act, 1866, and each sentenced to two months in Brixton. Nothing was to give Nicolas more satisfaction than to read in Wilson's memoirs the admission that this was "one of the most unpleasant experiences of my premiership".6 In 1968, he became chief sub-editor of the _Times Literary Supplement_ (TLS), under the admired editorship of Arthur Crook, who made a series of impressive appointments. This was a job for which Nicolas was ideally suited and which he relished. He did not, however, approve of the TLS changing from anonymous to signed reviews and so moved to the Rationalist Press Association (RPA), first as editor of the _New Humanist_ , from 1975 to 1985, and then as Director of the RPA until his retirement at the end of 1999. Work at the RPA enabled him to be paid for propagating the dual cause of atheism and rationalism—together with anarchism, the passions of his intellectual life—and this in part by writing letters to the press. This latter was the capacity in which Nicolas was known to the wider public. It was estimated in 1994 that he had written fourteen thousand letters to newspapers and periodicals with a success rate of some two thousand published (or one or two a week). These appeared not only under his own name but under a variety of pseudonyms: Arthur Freeman, Anna Freeman, Mary Lewis, Jean Raison and others. ("MH" in _Freedom_ was originally the abbreviation for the collaborative "Many Hands", but was later used by Nicolas exclusively.) This enormous body of letters, frequently correcting trivial errors, gave the impression of a pernickety and pedantic obsessive; and on retiring as editor of the _Spectator_ , Charles Moore included Nicolas in the select group of bores whom he certainly would not miss. The astringency of his extensive book reviewing, from _Freedom_ to the _London Review of Books_ , contributed to an erroneous public persona of a desiccated and negative crank. The man in reality was the exact reverse: warm, generous, humorous, loved by children, a wonderful friend. In the 1960s alone, Nicolas had had several contracts from commercial publishers, advances were paid, but the books were never written and the advances were refunded—even though his young family could have done with the money. It was a mystery to admirers such as myself why he did not produce the books that his great gifts and immense energy amply equipped him for. The explanation seems to lie in his perfectionism: he completed innumerable articles to his personal satisfaction, yet he was unable to do this at book-length. The contract that resulted in _Anarchy in Action_ was passed on from Nicolas to Colin Ward, but Colin here—and even more in other books—incorporated and built on existing work; Paul Goodman, Alex Comfort and George Woodcock were also obvious exemplars of those who were highly successful in recycling already published material. During the first half of the 1970s Nicolas was drawn into working on Wynford Hicks's attractive papers _Inside Story_ and _Wildcat_ ; collaboration was something he particularly enjoyed and was good at, for he was a social and sociable person. It was in 1983 that he first came into contact with the German anarchist historian Heiner Becker, and by the end of the decade such was their rapport that all Nicolas's scholarly output on anarchist and historical subjects was in effect jointly written with Heiner. When Peter Marshall and myself withdrew (presciently as matters worked out) from involvement in Freedom Press's projected new quarterly publication, Heiner stepped in, conceived the _Raven_ , and in association with Nicolas brought out a run of seven outstanding issues (1987–1989). In 1974, Nicolas had been diagnosed as having testicular cancer. One testicle was extracted, he was treated with radiotherapy and for a while all seemed fine. Then he began to have problems with his digestive system, he constantly vomited and his weight plummeted from twelve to eight stone [168 to 112 pounds]. It was eventually realized that excessive doses of radiation had damaged the adjoining area of his body. A considerable length of intestine was removed, and he began to recover his health. In 1983, however, it became apparent that his spine and the upper muscles of his thighs had also been affected and progressive disablement set in. As he announced in a letter to the _Guardian_ : I contracted cancer in my thirties, began to suffer from the long-term side-effects of radiotherapy in my forties, and am now suffering from progressive paralysis and other complications in my fifties.7 First he had to use crutches, but by 1997 this formerly fit and very vigorous man was confined to a wheelchair. When asked in 1994 why he did not sue the NHS, he retorted: Why should I? It was just bloody bad luck. I'm not complaining. I have only got praise for the people working in hospitals and the social services, even though they are all exhausted and the hospitals are filthy. If I sued the NHS for negligence and won, it would mean there was less money for other people.8 Ruth and Nicolas had divorced in 1982. He had the good sense and great fortune to marry Christine Morris (née Barnett), like Ruth Oppenheim a secular Jew, in 1987. Their way of life was to live during the week in the flat on the top storey of 88 Islington High Street above the RPA offices, where Christine also worked for five years, and to spend weekends at her house in Leighton Buzzard. At the end of 1999, Nicolas retired, Christine took redundancy from Relate and they withdrew to live full-time in Leighton Buzzard, from where Nicolas would be able to take the train to St Pancras and work in the new British Library. At just this time, though, the cancer returned; squamous cell carcinoma was diagnosed, and at the beginning of 2000 pronounced terminal. This prognosis he confronted with the fortitude that had characterized his entire life; and in March he was to die at the age of sixty-five. _David Goodway_ _March 2019_ 1 Richard Boston, "Conversations about Anarchism", _Anarchy_ no. 85 (March 1968): 75. 2 Nicolas Walter, _Damned Fools in Utopia: And Other Writings on Anarchism and War Resistance_ , David Goodway, ed. (Oakland, CA: PM Press, 2011), 5. 3 The description of Comfort appears in "Disobedience and the New Pacifism", _Anarchy_ no. 14 (April 1962): 112. 4 _Solidarity_ 2, no. 11 (1963) reprinted the text of _Beyond Counting Arses_. The sentence quoted appears on page 12. 5 Peter Hennessy, _The Secret State: Whitehall and the Cold War_ (London: Allen Lane-Penguin Books, 2002), 101 ff _._ , 169. 6 Harold Wilson, _The Labour Government, 1964–1970: A Personal Record_ (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson and Michael Joseph, 1971), 288. 7 _Guardian_ , September 16,1993. 8 Hunter Davies, "O Come All Ye Faithless", _Independent_ , December 20, 1994. # Introduction to the 2002 Edition # by Natasha Walter # _About Anarchism_ : Why Now? Anybody who has observed or participated in any recent protest against global inequality can testify that an energetic social movement has surfaced over the last few years. Yet to some people, this movement has one particularly negative side. After protests in Gothenburg during the European Union summit in 2001, the British prime minister termed the protesters an "anarchist travelling circus" and poured scorn on their methods and dreams. As I walked through the crowds on another protest in London later in 2001, I saw that one group of people was carrying a black banner with red writing on it. "Anarchist travelling circus" read the flag. It certainly wasn't the first time that anarchists have used the words of their enemies as a label of pride, and this time it looked like a particularly neat joke. But anarchism is often seen only as a joke, and even many of its sympathisers seem to have real problems taking it seriously. Anarchists in the current movement are blamed for its most violent or chaotic moments, even by their friends. Certainly, anarchism can just be a sudden protest, a shout of "No!", a clenched fist, a raised banner, but any dissent worth its salt does not just entail a momentary disruption of everyday life. It also attempts to transform everyday life, day to day. Nicolas Walter always attempted to communicate the positive aspects of anarchism. He saw anarchism as a realistic way of transforming people's lives, and with its emphasis on the pragmatic elements of anarchist thought, _About Anarchism_ sets up many resonances for the contemporary movement against global capitalism. Ever since the collapse of the experiment in state communism, many experts have concluded that there really is no alternative to the existing way of organising society, but anarchists have never stopped believing in an alternative. Immediately [after] the Russian Revolution took place, anarchists dissented from its authoritarian character, and they are still demanding the freedom that state communism denied, as well as the equality that global capitalism denies. Anarchism is the one current of political thought that yokes freedom and equality. So anarchists differ from socialists, who put the emphasis on equality, and liberals, who put the emphasis on freedom, because anarchists see that freedom and equality are, in practice, the same thing. Even though many of its participants wouldn't use the label anarchist, this insight that freedom and equality are indivisible is the characteristic insight of the current movement against global inequality, whose members use anti-authoritarian methods, working without hierarchies or leaders to build up their protests, and whose demands are both for a more equitable economic system and for greater freedom for every member of society. That's not to say that this movement is necessarily anarchist, through and through. Those people who are looking to win freedom and equality today tend not to take the state as their primary target, as most anarchists did in the past. Instead they see capitalism, especially as embodied in the multinational corporation, as the target. This emphasis on the corporation as the great enemy has led some of the most prominent spokespeople for the current resistance movement to argue that the state, in contrast to the corporation, must be benign, since they believe it is the state, and only the state, that can reign back the corporation's most malign effects on individuals' lives. Many writers who support the antiglobalisation movement have argued that the best way forward is for governments to pass laws to reform corporations' behaviour and for more international regulation of global trade by groups of states acting together. They argue, in fact, that the way forward is for the state to take back the power it has ceded to the corporation. Certainly, governments have often managed to limit the power of corporations—states have instituted minimum wage legislation, outlawed child labour, ensured health and safety standards and so on, and even anarchists are able to see that a state can have benign functions. As Walter says, "we have the liberatory state and the welfare state, the state working for freedom and the state working for equality". But, he adds, "The essential function of the state is to maintain the existing inequality". This last statement might give those people in the current resistance movement who put all their faith in the state pause for thought. What are governments for? Can they be pushed to bring about equality and freedom, or will they protect equality and freedom only so far as those rights do not conflict with wealth and power, and no further? Look at the behaviour of our own governments [in the West], who announce their intentions to forgive Third World debt and then encourage arms sales to developing countries, financed by more debt; who announce the benefits of free trade and then hold on to tariffs and subsidies that protect domestic corporations. These apparent contradictions are hardly surprising if the anarchist analysis of the state is correct; that the protection of existing inequality provides that state's very reason to exist. In this way _About Anarchism_ offers a useful critique of some of the arguments that are often heard from the antiglobalisation movement. Nicolas Walter does not argue that those who work for reform of government institutions are misguided, because his pragmatism leads him to understand that it is often the only route forward, but he does argue that to bring about freedom and equality more than reform of the state will be necessary. And in this way his thought chimes in with much of what is being heard from activists, because although those who have only read the literature of the antiglobalisation movement will often find arguments in favour of state power, those who have actually listened to antiglobalisation activists on the street will hear a thoroughgoing scepticism about the behaviour of governments. It is not a coincidence that the rise of [this] new political activism has occurred at the same time as a decline in voting and a cynicism, especially among the young, about the promises of the state. The reason why people have taken to the streets and to organising in non-governmental organisations, rather than lobbying their MPs and organising for parliamentary elections, is because they feel that the conventional political process will not bring them what they desire. But if governments will not act, who will? The tradition that Nicolas Walter draws on in _About Anarchism_ —the tradition of anarchists from William Godwin to Peter Kropotkin, Emma Goldman to Flores Magon—is another narrative of possible action, of individuals or groups acting without reference to outside authority. This is the kernel of anarchism. As Walter says, the essence of anarchism, the thing without which it is not anarchism, is the negation of authority over anyone by anyone. This negation of authority is a tough concept to get one's head around right now. Most people have utterly lost faith in the idea that anyone can achieve anything without the support either of the state or of the corporation, without either institutional power or the power created by the market. The inability to see beyond these agencies has infected all aspects of political debate. Look, for instance, away from the antiglobalisation movement and to the current debate about social policy, which is always now posted as a conflict between public and private provision. Yet anarchists might say that in its present guise, this would be better phrased as a conflict between state and corporation, since the truly public sphere, the sphere that is controlled not by the government but by the people, never gets a look in. There is another way to envisage a welfare society in which ordinary people do not only work in hospitals and schools but also organise them. Many anarchists have emphasised the idea of mutualism—that the desire for cooperation is as basic a human drive as the desire for authority. But with the rise of state welfare in the early twentieth century, all the old traditions of mutualism that already existed in a country like Britain—the cooperative societies, the community hospitals, the insurance societies—were discredited. Perhaps now, if both state and corporate provision are looking unsatisfactory in their own ways, it is time not just to try out ever more complex amalgams of the two but also to reconsider what Peter Kropotkin called _Mutual Aid_ —the principle that people can organise to provide their own welfare. Another way in which this booklet provides an interesting contribution to the current debates lies in Nicolas Walter's optimistic synthesis of various types of anarchist and socialist and libertarian action. He allows for difference, but because he has such a pragmatic and straightforward view of anarchism, he is also good at picking out what unites all the different strands of anarchist thought and action and how each strand can weave into each other rather than pull apart. That is particularly useful in the current situation. What we are looking at in the movement for global equality is clearly not a united movement. It would be absurd to pretend that the Zapatista National Liberation Army, which mobilised to fight for the rights of indigenous people in Mexico, and Reclaim the Streets, which organises day-long street parties, were similar organisations. It would be nonsensical to suggest that a self-reliant community in England, like the cooperative at Tinker's Bubble in Somerset, and the movement to take over land by the landless in Brazil, used identical strategies. And yet there are also obviously strands of thinking that now cross boundaries. Many of the most apparently diverse people and organisations share certain basic goals. They can unite around their commitment to anti-authoritarianism; around their belief that people do act for reasons other than the will to power or the desire for profit; around their desire to see economic organisation based on cooperation and social organisation based on mutual aid; and around their faith in non-violent direct action as a means to bring about a new society. All these ideas are characteristic of these new organisations and have been characteristic of anarchists for more than a century. Nicolas Walter's approach to difference is honest but also peculiarly inclusive. He sees links between those who use the label anarchist and those who do not, but who embody the anarchist temperament. He sees links between different kinds of anarchist thought. And he sees links between all the different types of action—from propaganda by word and deed to direct action. His ability to see diversity as a series of links rather than a series of fissures may be over-optimistic, but it may also help us to see that, sometimes, what pulls people together is more important than what drives them apart. One of the most hopeful sentences of this hope-filled booklet is this one. "In practice most disputes between reformist and revolutionary anarchists are meaningless, for only the wildest revolutionary refuses to welcome reforms and only the mildest reformist refuses to welcome revolutions, and all revolutionaries know that their work will generally lead to no more than reform, and all reformists know that their work is generally leading to some kind of revolution." # About Nicolas Walter _About Anarchism_ was written in 1968. Nicolas Walter's second daughter, myself, was born the previous year. Night after night, Nicolas sat at the kitchen table in a little house in an ugly, nondescript suburb of north London. With one foot and then the other, he rocked the pram back and forth, back and forth, with his grumbly baby inside it. At the same time he wrote—in his huge, looping handwriting, in black fountain pen—the first draft of the booklet, which was first published in 1969 as a special edition of the magazine _Anarchy_. _About Anarchism_ was a labour of love and the fruit of long study of the anarchist movement. Nicolas was startled when it was not only immediately reprinted as a pamphlet by Freedom Press, going through five editions by 1977, but was also translated into many languages, including Japanese, Serbo-Croat, Greek, German, Chinese, Polish and Russian, and developed a reputation in many places, not just among European and North American activists. After it fell out of print for the last time, in the early eighties, fellow anarchists at Freedom Press wanted to reprint the booklet, but Nicolas resisted. He always insisted that he needed to revise the text before it was reprinted and said that he would add sections on feminism and environmentalism, the most important new directions in the ideology of dissent. These could have been powerful additions. Nicolas had found both challenge and inspiration in the growth of feminist movement. And although he was an urban man through and through, he had an unforced disdain for mere consumerism and a deep connection with the beauty of the countryside. Could this have impelled him to write something valuable about how a more cooperative society might have a kinder relationship with the environment? But these revisions, although they were started, were never completed, and this is the first reprint of this classic work since 1980. That means that _About Anarchism_ , for all its contemporary relevance, is very much a work of its times, shot through with all the idealism of the Sixties. "In the Sixties I did think that everything could be changed for the better", Nicolas told an interviewer from _The Independent_ in the Nineties. Indeed, _About Anarchism_ was born out of a lifetime's commitment not just to anarchist ideas but also to action. Five years before he wrote _About Anarchism_ Nicolas had made a stab at trying to pull Britain away from the road of authoritarianism and militarism on which it seemed set. In 1962, Nicolas, his wife Ruth and six of their friends, all active in the peace movement, had become frustrated with the direction of contemporary protests. Mass marches and illegal sit-downs were all very well and led to high-profile press reports and many arrests, but what real effect were they having on the growing militarism of the government? Nicolas and his friends started looking for a way to challenge the power of the state more directly, and over the course of months they debated various ideas. Then one of them remembered that a friend of a friend had once mentioned working at a "secret bunker" near Reading. On the off-chance that they could find out what that secret bunker was all about, he and three others set off for Reading in February 1963. They drove for hours over ice-covered roads and tramped for hours over snow-covered fields, without having much idea what they were looking for. It was a long shot, an absurd idea, really, but it bore fruit. At the east end of a village called Warren Row, they found a fenced off hill with a padlocked wooden gate and an unmarked hut. They climbed over the gates to find a brick boiler house and a wide concrete ramp leading into the hillside. Wireless aerials stood a little way off, their cables leading into the hill. One of them tried the doors of the boiler house and found them unlocked. They piled in. Another door inside was also unlocked, and swung open to reveal a steep staircase leading into an underground office complex. They ran down the stairs, their feet clattering in the silence, and snatched what papers they could from the desks. Then they rushed out again and drove away. Examination of the papers showed the group that they had stumbled on a grand secret. They had walked straight into a secret government headquarters called the Regional Seat of Government (RSG) Number 6, built to house government officials in the event of nuclear war. At the time, the British public were being kept entirely in the dark about the plans its own government was making for the survival not of the ordinary people but of a political elite. Nicolas and his friends, who now called themselves the Spies for Peace, were in possession of a secret that they hoped could change the secret militarism of the government. First of all, four members of the group returned to Warren Row in order to find out more about the secret headquarters. They went there on a Saturday and arrived after midnight. This time, the boiler house door was locked. Standing there in the freezing dark, they carefully picked it, and spent several hours in the installation. Each took on a different task. One took photographs. One copied documents. One traced maps. One ransacked every room, going through every drawer and every cabinet. Then they left with a suitcase full of copied papers and a camera full of photographs. The group then typed up and duplicated three thousand leaflets explaining what they had found. In the days before the internet or desktop computers, this posed surprising problems of resources and organisation. Secrecy was paramount. They stuffed envelopes with their leaflets in the night, wearing gloves, posted them from post boxes all over London, burnt all their own documents, posted the original photographs to sympathisers and threw the typewriter that they had used into a river. As Nicolas wrote twenty-five years after the event, on the night of Wednesday April 10, 1963, "A secret had escaped, and so had the Spies for Peace". Telling it now, it sounds rather like a game, but to those eight individuals it meant rather more. All young, all with their lives ahead of them, they were running the risk of long prison sentences for doing what they believed to be right. The immediate effect was explosive. Those thousands of leaflets were posted to newspaper offices and to the houses of celebrities, MPs and protestors, and although the government had slapped a D-notice on any disclosure of the RSG system,1 the newspapers decided to ignore that warning. By that Saturday the story was splashed over every national newspaper. Thousands of protesters, who were moving through the area on yet another Aldermaston March, immediately came to demonstrate at Warren Row. That day, April 13, also happened to be Ruth Walter's twenty-first birthday. She sat outside Warren Row with Nicolas, drinking cheap red wine in the thin spring sunshine, singing "We Shall Overcome" with the rest of the crowd. "It was the most magical day", she said later, "We suddenly realised that we had got away with it". Most people seemed to believe that only an insider could have leaked such sensitive and unsettling information. The _Sunday Telegraph_ was sure of it, and wrote on April 21: "It would not be surprising if investigation does not bring to light a shrewd political mind directing this brilliant subversive operation", and, on May 19, they wrote about "a mastermind behind the Spies for Peace", a "Jekyll and Hyde character" who was thought to be "a brilliant man who may be doing an important job". Despite—or because of—such feverish speculation, the real spies were never caught or imprisoned. What did the Spies for Peace achieve in the long term? In a way, very little—the government remained set on its belief that it could fight and survive nuclear war, and the action of the Spies for Peace did not snowball into mass revolutionary activity, as some of them had certainly hoped. In a way, an enormous amount—the idea that people should be informed about the secret military preparations of their government found fertile ground in a changing society. Together with the duplicity exposed by the Profumo case later in the year,2 the story helped to break down the unquestioning respect that had characterised the British people's relationship with their government. The individual spies were both heartened and dismayed by this mixture of success and failure. As the years went by, Nicolas experienced the characteristic loss of illusion of revolutionaries and understood that, although he may have helped society to change, the future he had once believed in wasn't going to arrive—at least not in his lifetime. But for Nicolas, the loss of belief in a revolutionary future only surfaced occasionally. Most of the time he went on as he always had done, fiercely protesting against government secrecy, against militarism, for free speech and for peace. Only once was he actually imprisoned. In October 1966, he had taken part in a protest against Britain's policy on the Vietnam War by interrupting a church service in Brighton where Harold Wilson read a lesson. "Hypocrite!" he shouted, "How can you use the word of God to justify your policies?" In 1967, just after I was born, he was sentenced to two months in prison for his role in the protest. I still have the photograph, printed on the front page of the _Sun_ (in the days when the _Sun_ was a serious newspaper), of the four of us—my parents, my sister and myself at six months—looking quizzically into the camera, just before he was jailed. Many anarchists are drawn to anarchism because of their personal rebelliousness. And Nicolas was no exception. He was a natural anarchist, with a low tolerance for authority and great reserves of anger. Sent to boarding school as a child, then straight from school to National Service, then straight to Oxford University, he learnt to distrust authority despite—or because of—this traditional background. But, oddly, his own family traditions included anarchism. Karl Walter, his grandfather, was one of two British delegates to the first International Anarchist Congress in Amsterdam in 1907. Although Nicolas gave up much of his protest activity in his last years, partly because of growing physical disability, he never stopped writing for the anarchist press and speaking at anarchist gatherings. A pamphlet he published in 1986 about the significance of May Day has been credited with inspiring the revival of the First of May as a popular day of protest for anarchists in Britain; and his edition of essays by Charlotte Wilson, an anarchist who helped to found _Freedom_ , was even published after his death in 2000. He was interested in the way that a new generation was laying hold of anarchist ideas—although their lack of historical awareness and the absence of a concrete goals for the future often infuriated him. It is sad that he didn't live to see this reprint of his own early work, but his words live on, and in this booklet his voice sounds as those who knew him remember it—fierce and uncompromising, but with a great hopefulness and humanity always flickering away in the background. _Natasha Walter_ _April 2002_ 1 An official request to news media editors not to publish or broadcast items on specified subjects for reasons of national security. The system is still in use in the United Kingdom, but is now called a DSMA-Notice (Defence and Security Media Advisory Notice). [editor] 2 A British political scandal that originated with a brief sexual relationship in 1961 between John Profumo, the Secretary of State for War in Harold Macmillan's Conservative government, and Christine Keeler, a nineteen-year-old would-be model. It contributed to the resignation of Macmillam in 1963 and the defeat of the Conservative government at the 1964 general election. # Note on the 2002 Edition This is a new edition of _About Anarchism_ , based on the text published in 1969 by Freedom Press, and including previously unpublished revisions which Nicolas Walter prepared in the 1980s, which were kept by Heiner Becker. Thanks are also due to Christine Walter, Ruth Walter and Colin Ward. # Introduction The modern anarchist movement is now a hundred years old, counting from when the Bakuninists entered the First International, and in this country there has been a continuous anarchist movement for ninety years (the Freedom Press has been going since 1886). Such a past is a source of strength, but it is also a source of weakness—especially in the printed world. The anarchist literature of the past weighs heavily on the present and makes it hard for us to produce a new literature for the future. And yet, though the works of our predecessors are numerous, most of them are out of print, and the rest are mostly out of date; moreover, the great majority of anarchist works published in English have been translations from other languages. This means there is little that we can call our own. What follows is an attempt to add to it by making a fresh statement of anarchism. Such a statement is necessarily an individual view, for one of the essential features of anarchism is that it relies on individual judgement; but it is intended to take account of the general views prevailing in the anarchist movement and to interpret them without prejudice. It is expressed in simple language and without constant reference to other writers or to past events, so that it can be understood without difficulty and without any previous knowledge. But it is derived from what other people have said in the past and does not purport to be original. Nor is it meant to be definitive; there is far more to say about anarchism than can be fitted into these pages, and this summary will no doubt soon be superseded like nearly all that have preceded it. Above all, I make no claim to authority, for another essential feature of anarchism is that it rejects the authority of any spokesperson. If my readers have no criticism to make, I have failed. What follows is simply a personal account of anarchism drawn from the experience of fifteen years reading anarchist literature and discussing anarchist ideas, and of ten years taking part in anarchist activities and writing in the anarchist press. _May 1969_ # What Anarchists Believe The first anarchists were people in the English and French revolutions of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who were given the name as an insult to suggest that they wanted anarchy in the sense of chaos or confusion. But from the 1840s, anarchists were people who accepted the name as a sign to show that they wanted anarchy in the sense of absence of government. The Greek word _anarkhia_ , like the English word "anarchy", has both meanings; people who are not anarchists take them to come to the same thing, but anarchists insist on keeping them apart. For more than a century, anarchists have been people who believe not only that absence of government need not mean chaos and confusion, but that a society without government will actually be better than the society we live in now. Anarchism is the political elaboration of the psychological reaction against authority which appears in all human groups. Everyone knows the natural anarchists who will not believe or do something just because someone tells them to, and everyone can imagine circumstances in which virtually everyone will disagree or disobey. Throughout history the practical tendency towards anarchy is seen among individuals and groups rebelling against those who rule them. The theoretical idea of anarchy is also very old; thus, the description of a past golden age without government may be found in the thought of ancient China and India, Egypt and Mesopotamia, and Greece and Rome, and in the same way the wish for a future utopia without government may be found in the thought of countless religious and political writers and communities. But the application of anarchy to the present situation is more recent, and it is only in the anarchist movement of the nineteenth century that we find the demand for a society without government here and now. Other groups on both left and right want to get rid of government in theory, either when the market is so free that it needs no more supervision or when the people are so equal that they need no more restraint, but the measures they take seem to make government stronger and stronger. It is the anarchists, and the anarchists alone, who want to get rid of government in practice. This does not mean that anarchists think all human beings are naturally good or identical or perfectible or any romantic nonsense of that kind. It means that anarchists think almost all human beings are sociable and similar and capable of living their own lives and helping each other. Many people say that government is harmful, because no one can be trusted to look after anyone else. If all people are so bad that they need to be ruled by others, anarchists ask, how can anyone be good enough to rule others? Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. At the same time the wealth of the earth is the product of the labour of humanity as a whole, and every human being has an equal right to take part in continuing the labour and enjoying the product. Anarchism is an ideal type which demands at the same time total freedom and total equality. # Liberalism and Socialism Anarchism may be seen as a development from either liberalism or socialism, or from both liberalism and socialism. Like liberals, anarchists want freedom; like socialists, anarchists want equality. But we are not satisfied by liberalism alone or by socialism alone. Freedom without equality means that the poor and weak are less free than the rich and strong, and equality without freedom means that we are all slaves together. Freedom and equality are not contradictory but complementary; in place of the old polarisation of freedom versus equality—according to which we are told that more freedom equals less equality and more equality equals less freedom—anarchists point out that in practice you cannot have one without the other. Freedom is not genuine if some people are too poor or too weak to enjoy it, and equality is not genuine if some people are ruled by others. The crucial contribution to political theory made by anarchists is this realisation that freedom and equality are in practice the same thing. Anarchism also departs from both liberalism and socialism in taking a different view of progress. Liberals see history as a linear development from savagery, superstition, intolerance and tyranny to civilisation, enlightenment, tolerance and emancipation. There are advances and retreats, but the true progress of humanity is from a bad past to a good future. Socialists see history as a dialectical development from savagery through despotism, feudalism and capitalism to the triumph of the proletariat and the abolition of the class system. There are revolutions and reactions, but the true progress of humanity is again from a bad past to a good future. Anarchists see progress quite differently, in fact they often do not see progress at all. We see history not as a linear or a dialectical development in one direction but as a dualistic process. The history of all human society is the story of a struggle between the rulers and the ruled, between the haves and the have-nots, between the people who want to govern and be governed and the people want to free themselves and their fellows; the principles of authority and liberty, of government and rebellion, of state and society, are in perpetual opposition. This tension is never resolved; the movement of human society in general or of a particular human society is now in one direction now in another. The rise of a new regime or the fall of an old one is not a mysterious break in development or an even more mysterious part of development but is exactly what it seems to be. Historic events are welcome only to the extent that they increase freedom and equality for the whole people; there is no hidden reason for calling a bad thing good because it is inevitable. We cannot make any useful predictions of the future, and we cannot be sure that the world is going to get better. Our only hope is that, as knowledge and consciousness increase, people will become more aware that they can live their own lives without any need for authority. Nevertheless, anarchism does derive from liberalism and socialism both historically and ideologically. Liberalism and socialism came before anarchism, and anarchism arose from their complementarities and contradictions; most anarchists still begin as either liberals or socialists, or both. The spirit of revolt is seldom born fully grown, and it generally grows into rather than within anarchism. In a sense, anarchists always remain liberals and socialists, and whenever they reject what is good in either they betray anarchism itself. On one hand, we depend on freedom of speech, assembly, movement, behaviour, and especially on the freedom to differ; on the other hand, we depend on equality of possessions, on human solidarity, on the practice of mutual aid, and especially on the sharing of power. We are liberals but more so and socialists but more so. Yet anarchism is not just a mixture of liberalism and socialism; that is social democracy or welfare capitalism, the system which prevails in this country.1 Whatever we owe to and however close we are to liberals and socialists, we differ fundamentally from them—and from social democrats—in rejecting the institution of government. Both liberals and socialists depend on government—liberals ostensibly to preserve freedom but actually to prevent equality, socialists ostensibly to preserve equality but actually to prevent freedom. Even the most extreme liberals and socialists cannot do without government, the exercise of authority by some people over other people. The essence of anarchism, the one thing without which it is not anarchism, is the negation of authority over anyone by anyone. # Democracy and Representation Many people oppose undemocratic government, but anarchists differ from them in also opposing democratic government. Some people oppose democratic government as well, but anarchists differ from them in doing so not because they fear or hate the rule of the people, but because they believe that democracy is not the rule of the people—that democracy is in fact a logical contradiction, a physical impossibility. Genuine democracy is possible only in a small community where everyone can take part in every decision; and then it is not necessary. What is called democracy and is alleged to be the government of the people by the people for the people is in fact the government of the people by elected rulers and would be better called "consenting oligarchy". Government by rulers whom we have chosen is different from and generally better than government by rulers who have chosen themselves, but it is still government of some people by other people. Even the most democratic government still depends on someone making someone else do something or stopping someone else doing something. Even when we are governed by our representatives we are still governed, and as soon as they begin to govern us against our will they cease to be our representatives. Most people now agree that we have no obligation to a government which we have not chosen; anarchists go further and insist that we have no obligation to a government we have chosen. We may obey it because we agree with it, or because we are too weak to disobey it, but we have no obligation to obey it when we disagree with it and are strong enough to disobey it. Most people now agree that those who are involved in any change should be consulted about it before any decision is made; anarchists go further and insist that they should themselves make the decision and go on to put it into effect. So anarchists reject the idea of a social contract and the idea of representation. In practice, no doubt, most things will always be done by a few people—by those who are interested in a problem and are capable of solving it—but there is no need for them to be selected or elected. They will always emerge anyway, and it is better for them to do so naturally. The point is that leaders and experts do not have to be rulers, that leadership and expertise are not necessarily connected with authority. And when representation is convenient, that is all it is. The only true representatives are the delegates or the deputies who are mandated by those who send them and who are subject to instant recall by them. In some ways the ruler who claims to be a representative is worse that the ruler who is obviously a usurper, because it is more difficult to grapple with authority when it wrapped up in fine words and abstract arguments. The fact that we are able to vote for our rulers once every few years does not mean that we have to obey them for the rest of the time. If we do, it is for practical reasons not on moral grounds. Anarchists are against government, however it is constructed or defended. # State and Class Anarchists have traditionally concentrated their opposition to authority on the state—that is, the institution which claims the monopoly of power within a certain area. This is because the state is the supreme example of authority in a society and also the source or confirmation of the use of authority throughout it. Moreover, anarchists have traditionally opposed all kinds of state—not just the obvious tyranny of a king, dictator or conqueror but also such variations as enlightened despotism, progressive monarchy, feudal or commercial oligarchy, parliamentary democracy, soviet communism and so on. Anarchists have even tended to say that all states are the same, and that there is nothing to choose between them. This is an oversimplification. All states are certainly authoritarian, but some states are just as certainly more authoritarian than others, and every normal person would prefer to live under a less authoritarian rather than a more authoritarian one. To give a simple example, this statement of anarchism could not have been published under many states of the past, and it still could not be published under many states of both left and right, in both East and West, both North and South; I would rather live where it can be published and so would most of my readers. Few anarchists still have such a simplistic attitude to an abstract thing called "the state", and anarchists concentrate on attacking the central government and the institutions which derive from it not just because they are part of the state, but because they are the extreme examples of the use of authority in society. We contrast the state with society, but we no longer see it as alien to society, as an artificial growth; instead we see it as part of society, as a natural growth. Authority is a normal form of behaviour, just as aggression is; but it is a form of behaviour which may and should be controlled and grown out of. This will not be done by trying to find ways of institutionalising it but only by finding ways of doing without it. Anarchists object to the obviously repressive institutions of government—officials, laws, police, courts, prisons, armies and so on—and also to those which are apparently benevolent—subsidised bodies and local councils, nationalised industries and public corporations, banks and insurance companies, schools and universities, press and broadcasting, and all the rest. Anyone can see that the former depend not on consent but on compulsion and ultimately on force; anarchists insist that the latter have the same iron hand, even if it does wear a velvet glove. Nevertheless, the institutions which derive directly or indirectly from the state cannot be understood if they are thought of as being merely bad. They can have a good side, in two ways. They have a useful negative function when they challenge the use of authority by other institutions, such as cruel parents, greedy landlords, brutal bosses, violent criminals; and they have a useful positive function when they promote desirable social activities, such as public works, disaster relief, communication and transport systems, art and culture, medical services, pension schemes, poor relief, education, broadcasting. Thus, we have the liberatory state and the welfare state, the state working for freedom and the state working for equality. The first anarchist answer to this is that we primarily have the oppressive state—that the main function of the state is in fact to hold down the people, to limit freedom—and that all the benevolent functions of the state can be exercised and often have been exercised by voluntary associations. Here the modern states resembles the medieval church. In the Middle Ages the church was involved in all the essential social activities, and it was difficult to believe that the activities were possible without it. Only the church could baptise, marry and bury people, and they had to learn that it did not actually control birth, love and death. Every public act needed an official religious blessing—many still have one—and people had to learn that the act was just as effective without the blessing. The church interfered in and often controlled those aspects of communal life which are now dominated by the state. People have learnt to realise that the participation of the church is unnecessary and even harmful; what they now have to learn is that the domination of the state is equally pernicious and superfluous. We need the state just as long as we think we do, and everything it does can be done just as well or even better without the sanction of authority. The second anarchist answer is that the essential function of the state is to maintain the existing inequality. Few anarchists agree with Marxists that the basic unit of society is the class, but most agree that the state is the political expression of the economic structure, that it is the representative of the people who own or control the wealth of the community and the oppressor of the people who do the work which creates the wealth. The state cannot redistribute wealth fairly, because it is the main agency of the unfair distribution. Anarchists agree with Marxists that the present system must be destroyed, but they do not agree that the future system can be established by a state in different hands; the state is a cause as well as a result of the class system, and a classless society which is established by a state will soon become a class society again. The state will not wither away—it must be deliberately abolished by people taking power away from the rulers and wealth away from the rich; these two actions are linked, and one without the other will always be futile. Anarchy in its truest sense means a society without either powerful or wealthy people. # Organisation and Bureaucracy This does not mean that anarchists reject organisation, though here is one of the strongest prejudices about anarchism. People can accept that anarchy may not mean just chaos or confusion, and that anarchists want not disorder but order without government, but they are sure that anarchy means order which arises spontaneously and that anarchists do not want organisation. This is the reverse of the truth. Anarchists actually want much more organisation, though organisation without authority. The prejudice about anarchism derives from a prejudice about organisation; people cannot see that organisation does not depend on authority, that it actually works best without authority. A moment's thought will show that when compulsion is replaced by consent there will have to be more discussion and planning, not less. Everyone who is involved in a decision will be able to take part in making it, and no one will be able to leave the work to paid officials or elected representatives. Without rules to observe or precedents to follow, every decision will have to be made afresh. Without rulers to obey or leaders to follow, we shall all have to make up our own minds. To keep all this going, the multiplicity and complexity of links between individuals will be increased, not reduced. Such organisation may be untidy and inefficient, but it will be much closer to the needs and feelings of the people concerned. If something cannot be done without the old kind of organisation, without authority and compulsion, it probably isn't worth doing and would be better left undone. What anarchists do reject is the institutionalisation of organisation, the establishment of a special group of people whose function is to organise other people. Anarchist organisation would be fluid and open; as soon as organisation becomes hardened and closed, it falls into the hands of a bureaucracy, becomes the instrument of a particular class and reverts to the expression of authority instead of the coordination of society. Every group tends towards oligarchy, the rule of the few, and every organisation tends towards bureaucracy, the rule of the professionals; anarchists must always struggle against these tendencies, in the future as well as the present, and among themselves as well as among others. # Property Nor do anarchists reject property, though we have a peculiar view of it. In one sense property is theft—that is, the exclusive appropriation of anything by anyone is a deprivation of everyone else. This does not mean that we are all communists; what it means is that any particular person's right to any particular thing depends not on whether that person made it or found it or bought it or was given it or is using it or wants it or has a legal right to it, but on whether that person needs it—and, more to the point, whether that person needs it more than someone else. This is a matter not of abstract justice or natural law but of human solidarity and obvious common sense. If I have a loaf of bread and you are hungry, it is yours not mine. If I have a coat and you are cold, it belongs to you. If I have a house and you have none, you have the right to use at least one of my rooms. But in another sense property is liberty—that is, the private enjoyment of goods and chattels in a sufficient quantity is an essential condition of the good life for the individual. Anarchists are in favour of the private property which cannot be used by one person to exploit another—those personal possessions which we accumulate from childhood and which become part of our lives. What we are against is the public property which can be used only to exploit people—land and buildings, instruments of production and distribution, raw materials and manufactured articles, money and capital. The principle at issue is that people may be said to have a right to what they produce by their own labour but not to what they obtain from the labour of others; they have a right to what they need and use but not to what they do not need and cannot use. As soon as some people have more than enough, it either goes to waste or it stops other people having enough. This means that rich people have no right to their property, for they are rich not because they work a lot, but because a lot of people work for them; and poor people have a right to rich people's property, for they are poor not because they work little, but because they work for others. Indeed, poor people almost always work longer hours at duller jobs in worse conditions than rich people. No one ever became rich or remained rich through their own labour, only by exploiting the labour of others. We may have a house and a piece of land, the tools of our trade and good health all our lives, and we may work as hard as we can as long as we can—we will produce enough for our families but little more; and even then we shall not be really self-sufficient, for we shall depend on others to provide some of our materials and to take of our produce in exchange. Public property is not only a matter of ownership but also one of control. It is not necessary to possess property to exploit others. Rich people have always used other people to manage their property, and now that anonymous corporations and state enterprises are replacing individual property owners, managers are becoming the leading exploiters of other people's labour. In both developed and developing2 countries, both capitalist and communist states, a tiny minority of the population still owns or otherwise controls the overwhelming proportion of public property. Despite appearances, this is not an economic or legal problem. What matters is not the distribution of money or the system of land tenure or the organisation of taxation or the method of taxation or the law of inheritance, but the basic fact that some people will work for other people, just as some people will obey other people. If we refused to work for the rich and powerful, property would disappear—in the same way that, if we refused to obey rulers, authority would disappear. For anarchists, property is based on authority and not the other way round. The point is not how peasants put food into the landowners' mouths or how workers put money into the bosses' pockets but why they do so, and this is a political point. Some people try to solve the problem of property by changing the law or the government, whether by reform or by revolution. Anarchists have no faith in such solutions, but they do not all agree on the right solution. Some anarchists want the division of everything among everyone, so that we all have an equal share in the world's wealth, and a _laissez-faire_ commercial system with freed credit to prevent excessive accumulation. But most anarchists have no faith in this solution either and want the expropriation of all public property from those who have more than they need, so that we all have equal access to the world's wealth, and the control is in the hands of the whole community. But at least it is agreed that the present system of property must be destroyed together with the present system of authority. # God and the Church Anarchists have traditionally been anticlerical and also atheist. The early anarchists were opposed to the church as much as to the state, and most of them have been opposed to religion itself. The slogan "Neither God nor master" has often been used to sum up the anarchist message. Many people still take the first step towards anarchism by abandoning their faith and becoming rationalists or humanists; the rejection of divine authority encourages the rejection of human authority. Nearly all anarchists today are probably atheists, or at least agnostics. But there have been religious anarchists, though they are usually outside the mainstream of the anarchist movement. Obvious examples are the heretical sects which anticipated some anarchist ideas before the nineteenth century and groups of religious pacifists in Europe and North America during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, especially Tolstoy and his followers at the beginning of the twentieth century and the Catholic Worker movement in the United States since the 1930s. The general anarchist hatred of religion has declined as the power of the church has declined, and most anarchists now think of it as a personal matter. They would oppose the discouragement of religion by force, but they would also oppose the revival of religion by force. They would let anyone believe and do what they want, so long as it affects only themselves; but they would not let the church have any more power. # War and Violence Anarchists have always opposed war, but not all have opposed violence. They are anti-militarists but not necessarily pacifists. For anarchists, war is the supreme example of authority outside a society, and at the same time a powerful reinforcement of authority within society. The organised violence and destruction of war are an enormously magnified version of the organised violence and destruction of the state, and war is the health of the state. The anarchist movement has a strong tradition of resistance to war and to preparations for war. A few anarchists have supported some wars, but they have always been recognised as renegades by their comrades, and this total opposition to national wars is one of the great unifying factors among anarchists. But anarchists have distinguished between national wars between states and civil wars between classes. The revolutionary anarchist movement since the late nineteenth century has called for a violent insurrection to destroy the state, and anarchists have taken an active part in many armed risings and civil wars, especially those in Russia and Spain. Though they were involved in such fighting, however, they were under no illusions that it would itself bring about the revolution. Violence might be necessary for the work of destroying the old system, but it was useless and indeed dangerous for the work of building a new system. A people's army can defeat a ruling class and destroy a government, but it cannot help the people to create a free society, and it is no good winning a war if you cannot win the peace. Many anarchists have in fact doubted whether violence plays any useful part at all. Like the state, it is not a neutral force whose effects depend on who uses it, and it will not do the right things just because it is in the right hands. Of course, the violence of the oppressed is not the same as the violence of the oppressor, but even when it is the best way out of an intolerable situation it is only a second best. It is one of the most unpleasant features of present society, and it remains unpleasant however good its purpose; moreover, it tends to destroy its purpose, even in situations where it seems appropriate—such as revolution. The experience of history suggests that revolutions are not guaranteed by violence; on the contrary, the more violence, the less revolution. All this may seem absurd to people who are not anarchists. One of the oldest and most persistent prejudices about anarchism is that anarchists are above all men of violence. The stereotype of the anarchists with a bomb under his cloak is more than a century old, but it is still going strong. Many anarchists have indeed favoured violence, some have favoured the assassination of public figures, and a few have even favoured terrorism of the population, to help destroy the present system. There is a dark side to anarchism, and there is no point denying it. But it is only one side of anarchism, and a small one. Most anarchists have always opposed any violence except that which is really necessary—the inevitable violence which occurs when the people shake off their rulers and exploiters—though they may have been reluctant to condemn the few anarchists who have resorted to violence for sincere reasons. The main perpetrators of violence have been those who maintain authority, not those who attack it. The great killers have not been the tragic bombers driven to desperation in southern Europe a century ago, but the military machines of every state in the world throughout history. No anarchist can rival the Blitz and the Bomb, no individual assassin can stand beside Hitler or Stalin. We would encourage workers to seize their factory or peasants to seize their land, and we might break fences or build barricades; but we have no soldiers, no aeroplanes, no police, no prisons, no camps, no firing squads, no gas chambers, no executioners. For anarchists, violence is the extreme example of the use of power by one person against another, the culmination of everything we are against. In some cases anarchists have moved towards pacifism and pacifists have moved towards anarchism. this has had beneficial results for both sides, anarchists learning from pacifism and pacifists learning from anarchists. Some anarchists have been especially attracted by the militant type of pacifism advocated by Tolstoy and Gandhi and by the use of non-violence as a technique of direct action, and many anarchists have taken part in anti-war movements and have sometimes had a significant influence on them. But many anarchists—even those who are closely involved—find pacifism too wide in its rejection of all violence by all people in all circumstances, and too narrow in its belief that the elimination of violence alone will make a fundamental difference to society. Where pacifists see authority as a weaker version of violence, anarchists see violence a stronger version of authority. Some anarchists are also repelled by the moralistic side of pacifism, the asceticism and self-righteousness, and by its tender-minded view of the world. To repeat, they are anti-militarists but not necessarily pacifists. # The Individual and Society The basic unit of society is the individual human being. Nearly all individuals live in society, but society is nothing more than a collection of individuals, and its only purpose is to give them a full life. Anarchists do not believe that people have natural rights, but this applies to everyone; an individual has no right to do anything, but no other individual has a right to stop that individual doing anything. There is no general will, no social norm to which we should conform. We are equal but not identical. Competition and cooperation, aggression and tenderness, intolerance and tolerance, violence and gentleness, authority and rebellion—all these are natural forms of social behaviour, but some help and others hinder the full life of the individuals. Anarchists believe that the best way to guarantee it is to secure equal freedom for every member of society. We therefore have no time for morality in the traditional sense, and we are not interested in what people do in their own lives. Let all individuals do exactly what they want, within the limits of their natural capacity, provided they let everyone else do exactly what _they_ want. Such things as dress, appearance, speech, manners, acquaintance and so on, are matters of personal preference. So is sex. We are in favour of free love, but this does not mean that we advocate universal promiscuity; it means that all love is free, except prostitution and rape, and that people should be able to choose (or reject) forms of sexual behaviour and sexual partners for themselves. Extreme indulgence may suit one person, extreme chastity another—though most anarchists feel that the world would be a better place if there had been a lot less fussing and a lot more fucking. The same principle applies to such things as drugs. People can intoxicate themselves with alcohol or caffeine, cannabis or amphetamines, tobacco or opiates, and we have no right to prevent them, let alone punish them, though we may try to help them. Similarly, individuals can worship in their own way, so long as they let other individuals worship in their own way or not worship at all. It doesn't matter if people are offended, what does matter is if people are injured. There is no need to worry about differences in personal behaviour; the thing to worry about is the gross injustice of authoritarian society. Anarchists have always opposed every form of national, social, racial or sexual oppression and have always supported every movement for national, social, racial or sexual emancipation. But they tend to differ from their allies in the movements by seeing all forms of oppression as being political in nature and in seeing all victims of oppression as individual human beings rather than as members of a nationality, class, race or sex. The main enemy of the free individual is the overwhelming power of the state, but anarchists are also opposed to every other form of authority which limits freedom—in the family, in the school, at work, in the neighbourhood—and to every attempt to make the individual conform. However, before considering how society may be organised to give the greatest freedom to its members, it is necessary to describe the various forms anarchism has taken according to the various views of relationship between the individual and society. 1 Here the author refers to the UK in the 1980s. [editor] 2 Original text read "advanced and backwards". [editor] # How Anarchists Differ Anarchists are notorious for disagreeing with each other, and in the absence of leaders and officials, hierarchies and orthodoxies, punishments and rewards, policies and programmes, it is natural that people whose fundamental principle is the rejection of authority should tend to perpetual dissent. Nevertheless, there are several well-established types of anarchism from which most anarchists have chosen one to express their particular view. # Philosophical Anarchism The original type of anarchism was what is now called _philosophical_ anarchism. This is the view that the idea of a society without government is attractive but not really desirable or desirable but not really possible, at least not yet. Such an attitude dominates all apparently anarchist writing before the 1840s, and it helped to prevent anarchic popular movements from becoming a more serious threat to governments. It is an attitude which is still found among many people who call themselves anarchists but remain outside any organised movement, and also among some people inside the anarchist movement. It is anarchism in the head but not in the heart, in theory but not in practice. Quite often it seems to be an almost unconscious attitude that anarchism, like the kingdom of God, is within you. It reveals itself sooner or later by some such phrase as, "Of course, I'm an anarchist, but..." Active anarchists tend to despise philosophical anarchists, and this is understandable, though unfortunate. So long as anarchism is a minority movement, a general feeling in favour of anarchist ideas, however vague, creates a climate in which anarchist propaganda is listened to and the anarchist movement can grow. On the other hand, an acceptance of philosophical anarchism can inoculate people against an appreciation of real anarchism; but it is at least better than complete indifference. As well as philosophical anarchists, there are many people who are close to us but refuse to call themselves anarchists and some who refuse to call themselves anything at all. These all have their part to play, if only to provide a sympathetic audience and to work for freedom in their own lives. # Individualism, Egoism, Libertarianism The first type of anarchism which was more than merely philosophical was _individualism_. This is the view that society is not an organism but a collection of autonomous individuals who have no obligation towards one another. This view existed long before there was any such thing as anarchism, and it has continued to exist quite separately from anarchism. But individualism always tends to assume that the individuals who make up society should be free and equal, and that they can become so only by their own efforts and not through the action of outside institutions; and any development of this attitude obviously brings mere individualism towards real anarchism. The first person who elaborate a recognisable theory of anarchism—William Godwin, in his _Enquiry Concerning Political Justice_ (1793)—was an individualist. In reaction against the opponents and also the supporters of the French Revolution, he postulated a society without government and with as little organisation as possible, in which the sovereign individuals should beware of any form of permanent association; despite many variations, this is a view of humanity which makes sense as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough to deal with the real problems of society, which surely need social rather than personal action. Alone, we may save ourselves, but others we cannot save. A more extreme form of individualism is _egoism_ , especially in the form expressed by Max Stirner in _Der Einzige und sein Eigentum_ (1844)—usually translated as _The Ego and His Own_ , though a better rendering would be _The Individual and His Property_. Like Marx or Freud, Stirner is difficult to interpret without offending all his followers; but it is perhaps acceptable to say that his egoism differs from individualism in general by rejecting such abstractions as morality, justice, obligation, reason and duty, in favour of an intuitive recognition of the existential uniqueness of each individual. It naturally opposes the state, but it also opposes society, and it tends towards nihilism (the view that nothing matters) and solipsism (the view that only oneself exists). It is clearly anarchist, but in a rather unproductive way, since any form of organisation beyond a temporary "union of egoists" is seen as the source of new oppression. This is an anarchism for poets and tramps, for people who want an absolute answer and no compromise. It is anarchy here and now, if not in the world, then in one's own life. A more moderate tendency which derives from individualism is _libertarianism_. This is in its simplest sense the view that liberty is a good thing; in a stricter sense it is the view that freedom is the most important political goal. Thus, libertarianism is not so much a specific type of anarchism as a milder form of it, the first stage on the way to complete anarchism. Sometimes it is actually used as a synonym or euphemism for anarchism in general, when there is some reason to avoid the more emotive word; but it is more generally used to mean the acceptance of anarchist ideas in a particular field without the acknowledgement of anarchism as a whole. Individualists are libertarian by definition, but libertarian socialists or libertarian communists are those who bring to socialism or communism a recognition of the essential value of the individual. # Mutualism and Federalism The type of anarchism which appears when individualists begin to put their ideas into practice is _mutualism_. This is the view that, instead of relying on the state, society should be organised by individuals entering into voluntary agreements with each other on a basis of equality and reciprocity. Mutualism is a feature of any association which is more than instinctive and less than official, and it is not necessarily anarchist, but it was historically important in the development of anarchism, and nearly all anarchist proposals for the reorganisation of society have been essentially mutualist. The first person who deliberately called himself an anarchist—Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, in _What is Property?_ (1840)—was a mutualist. In reaction against the utopian and revolutionary socialists of the early nineteenth century, he postulated a society made up of cooperative groups of free individuals exchanging the necessities of life on the basis of labour value and exchanging free credit through a people's bank. This is an anarchism for craftsmen and artisans, for smallholders and shopkeepers, professionals and specialists, for people who like to work on equal terms but stand on their own two feet. Despite his disclaimers, Proudhon had many followers, especially among the skilled working class and the lower middle class, and his influence was considerable in France during the second half of the nineteenth century; mutualism also had a particular appeal in North America, and to a lesser extent in Britain. It later tended to be taken up by the sort of people who favour currency reform or self-sufficient communities—measures of a kind which promise quick results but do not affect the basic structure of society. This is a view of humanity which makes sense as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough to deal with such things as industry and capital, the class system which dominates them or—above all—the state. Mutualism is of course the principle of the cooperative movement, but cooperative societies are run on democratic rather than anarchist lines. A society organised according to the principle of anarchist mutualism would be one in which communal activities were in effect in the hands of cooperative societies without permanent managers or elected officials. Economic mutualism may thus be seen as cooperativism minus bureaucracy, or as capitalism minus profit. Mutualism expressed geographically rather than economically becomes _feudalism_. This is the view that society in a wider sense than the local community should be coordinated by a network of councils which are drawn from the various areas and which are themselves coordinated by councils covering wider areas. The essential feature of anarchist federalism is that the members of such councils would be delegates without any executive authority, subject to instant recall, and that the councils would have no central authority, only a simple secretariat. Proudhon, who first elaborated mutualism, also first elaborated federalism—in _The Federal Principle_ (1863)—and his followers were called federalists as well as mutualists, especially those who were active in the labour movement; thus the figures in the early history of the First International and in the Paris Commune who anticipated the ideas of the modern anarchist movement mostly described themselves as federalists. Federalism is not so much a type of anarchism as an inevitable part of anarchism. Virtually all anarchists are federalists but virtually none would define themselves only as federalists. Federalism is after all a common principle which is by no means confined to the anarchist movement. There is nothing utopian about it. The international systems for coordinating railways, shipping, air traffic, postal services, telegraphs and telephones, scientific research, famine relief, disaster operations and many other worldwide activities are essentially federalist in structure. Anarchists simply add that such systems would work just as well within as they do between countries. After all, this is already true of the overwhelming proportion of voluntary societies, associations and organisations of all kinds which handle those social activities which are not financially profitable or politically sensitive. # Collectivism, Communism, Syndicalism The type of anarchism which goes further than individualism or mutualism and involves a direct threat to the class system and the state is what used to be called _collectivism_. This is the view that society can be reconstructed only when the working class seizes control of the economy by a social revolution, destroys the state apparatus and reorganises production on the basis of common ownership and control by associations of working people. The instruments of labour would be held in common, but the products of labour would be distributed on the principle of the slogan used by some French socialists during the 1840s, "From each according to his ability, to each according to his work". The first modern anarchists—the Bakuninists in the First International—were collectivists. In reaction against the reformist mutualists and federalists and also against the authoritarian Blanquists and Marxists, they postulated a simple form of revolutionary anarchism—the anarchism of the class struggle and the proletariat, of the mass insurrection of the poor against the rich and the immediate transition to a free and classless society without any intermediate period of dictatorship. This is an anarchism for class-conscious workers and peasants, for militants and activists in the labour movement, for socialists who want liberty as well as equality. This anarchist or revolutionary collectivism must not be confused with the better-known authoritarian and reformist collectivism of the Social Democrats and Fabians—the collectivism which is based on common ownership of the economy but also on state control of production and distribution. Partly because of the danger of this confusion, and partly because it is here that anarchists and socialists come closest to each other, a better description of this type of anarchism is libertarian socialism—which includes not only anarchists who are socialists but also socialists who lean towards anarchism but are not quite anarchists. The type of anarchism which appears when collectivism is worked out in more detail is _communism_. This is the view that it is not enough for the instruments of labour to be held in common, but that the products of labour should also be held in common and distributed on the principle of the slogan used by other French socialists during the 1840s, "From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs". The communist argument is that, while people are entitled to the full value of their labour, it is impossible to calculate the value of any individual's labour, for the work of each is involved in the work of all, and different kinds of work have different kinds of value. It is therefore better for the entire economy to be in the hands of society as a whole and for the wage and price system to be abolished. Almost all the leading figures of the anarchist movement at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century—such as Kropotkin, Malatesta, Reclus, Grave, Faure, Goldman, Berkman, Rocker and so on—were communists. Going on from collectivism and reacting against Marxism, they postulated a more sophisticated form of revolutionary anarchism—the anarchism containing the most carefully considered criticism of present society and proposals for future society. This is an anarchism for those who accept the class struggle but have a wider view of the world. If collectivism is revolutionary anarchism concentrating on the problem of work and based on the workers' collective, then communism is revolutionary anarchism concentrating on the problem of life and based on the people's commune. Since the 1870s, the principle of communism has been accepted by most anarchist organisations favouring revolution. The main exception was the movement in Spain, which retained the principle of collectivism because of strong Bakuninists influence; but, in fact, its aims were scarcely different from those of other movements, and in practice the " _comunismo libertario_ " established during the Spanish Revolution in 1936 was the most impressive example of anarchist communism in history. This anarchist or libertarian communism must of course not be confused with the much better-known communism of the Marxists—the communism which is based on the common ownership of the economy and state control of production, distribution and consumption, and also of party dictatorship. The historical origin of the modern anarchist movement in the dispute with the Marxists in the First and Second Internationals is reflected in the ideological obsession of anarchists with authoritarian communism, and this has been reinforced since the Russian and Spanish revolutions. As a result, many anarchists seem to have called themselves communists not so much from definite conviction but more from a wish to challenge the Marxists on their own ground and outdo them in the eyes of public opinion. One may suspect that anarchists are seldom really communist, partly because they are always too individualist and partly because they would not wish to lay down elaborate plans for a future which must be free to make its own arrangements. The type of anarchism which appears when collectivism or communism concentrates exclusively on the problem of work in _syndicalism_. This is the view that society should be based on the trade unions, as the expression of the working class, reorganised so as to cover both occupations and areas, and reformed so as to be in the hands of the rank and file, so that the whole economy is managed according to the principle of workers' control. Most anarchist collectivists and many communists during the nineteenth century were syndicalists by implication, and this was particularly true of the anarchists in the First International. But anarcho-syndicalism was not developed explicitly until the rise of the French syndicalist movement at the end of the century. (The English word "syndicalism" comes from the French word _syndicalisme_ , which simply means trade unionism.) When the French trade union movement divided into revolutionary and reformist sections in the 1890s, the revolutionary syndicalists became dominant, and many anarchists joined them. Some of these, such as Fernand Pelloutier and Emile Pouget, became influential, and the French syndicalist movement, though never fully anarchist, was a powerful force for anarchism until the First World War and the Russian Revolution. Anarcho-syndicalist organisations were also strong in the labour movements of Italy and Russia just after the First World War, in Latin America and above all in Spain until the end of the Civil War in 1939. This is an anarchism for the most class-conscious and militant elements in a strong labour movement. But syndicalism is not necessarily anarchist or even revolutionary; in practice anarcho-syndicalists have tended to become authoritarian or reformist, or both, and it has proved difficult to maintain a balance between libertarian principles and the pressures of the day-to-day struggle for better pay and conditions. This is not so much an argument against anarcho-syndicalism as a constant danger for anarcho-syndicalists. The real argument against anarcho-syndicalism and against syndicalism in general is that it overemphasises the importance of work and the function of the working class. The class system is a central political problem, but the class struggle is not the only political activity for anarchists. Syndicalism is acceptable when it is seen as one aspect of anarchism but not when it obscures all other aspects. This is a view of humanity which makes sense as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough to deal with life outside work. # Not So Different It must be said that the differences between various types of anarchism have become less important in recent years. Except for dogmatists at each extreme, most anarchists tend to see the old distinctions as more apparent than real—as artificial differences of emphasis, even of vocabulary, rather than as serious differences of principle. It might in fact be better to think of them as not so much types as aspects of anarchism which depend on the direction of our interests. Thus in our private lives we are individualists, doing our own things and choosing our companions and friends for personal reasons; in our social lives we are mutualists, making free agreements with each other and giving what we have and getting what we need by equal exchanges with each other; in our working lives we would mostly be collectivists, joining our colleague in producing for the common good—and in the management of work we would mostly be syndicalists, joining our colleagues in deciding how the job should be done; in our political lives we would mostly be communists, joining our neighbours in deciding how the community should be run. This is of course a simplification, but it expresses a general truth about the way anarchists think nowadays. # What Anarchists Want It is difficult to say what anarchists want, not just because they differ so much, but because they hesitate to make detailed proposals about a future which they are neither able nor willing to control. After all, anarchists want a society without government, and such a society would obviously vary widely from time to time and from place to place. The whole point of the society anarchists want is that it would be what its members themselves want. Nevertheless, it is possible to say what most anarchists would like to see in a free society, though it must always be remembered that there is no official line and also no way of reconciling the extremes of individualism and communism. # The Free Individual Most anarchists begin with a libertarian attitude towards private life and want a much wider choice for personal behaviour and for social relationships between individuals. But if the individual is the atom of society, the family is the molecule, and family life would continue even if all the coercion enforcing it were removed. Nevertheless, though the family may be natural, it is no longer necessary; efficient contraception and intelligent division of labour have released humanity from the narrow choice between celibacy and monogamy. There is no need for a couple to have children, and children may be brought up by more or less than two parents. People may live alone and still have sexual partners and children or live in communes with no permanent partnerships or official parenthood at all. No doubt most people will go on practising some form of marriage and most children will be brought up in a family environment, whatever happens to society, but there could be a great variety of personal arrangements within a single community. The fundamental requirement is that women should be freed from the oppression of men, and that children should be freed from the oppression of parents. The exercise of authority is no better in the microcosm of the family than in the macrocosm of society. Personal relationships outside the family would be regulated not by arbitrary laws or economic competition but by the natural solidarity of the human species. Almost all of us know how to treat other people—as we would like them to treat us—and self-respect and public opinion are far better guides to action that fear or guilt. Some opponents of anarchism have suggested that the moral oppression of society would be worse than the physical oppression of the state, but a greater danger is surely the unregulated authority of the vigilante group, the lynch mob, the robber band or the criminal gang—the rudimentary forms of the state which come to the surface when the regulated authority of the real state is for some reason absent. But anarchists disagree little about private life, and there is not much of a problem here. After all, a great many people have already made their own new arrangements, without waiting for a revolution or anything else. All that is needed for the liberation of the individual is the emancipation from old prejudices and the achievement of a certain standard of living. The real problem is the liberation of society. # The Free Society The first priority of a free society would be the abolition of authority and the expropriation of property. In place of government by permanent representatives who are subject to occasional election and by career bureaucrats who are virtually unmoveable, anarchists want coordination by temporary delegates who are subject to instant recall and by professional experts who are genuinely accountable. In such a system, all those social activities which involve organisation would probably be managed by free associations. These might be called councils or cooperatives or collectives or communes or committees or unions or syndicates or soviets or anything else—their title would be irrelevant; the important thing would be their function. There would be work associations from the workshop or smallholding up the largest industrial or agricultural complex to handle the production and transport of goods, decide conditions of work and run the economy. There would be area associations from the neighbourhood or village up to the largest residential unit to handle the life of the community—housing, streets, refuse, amenities. There would be associations to handle the social aspects of such activities as communications, culture, recreation, research, health and education. One result of coordination by free association rather than administration by established hierarchies would be extreme decentralisation on federalist lines. This may seem an argument against anarchism, but we would say that it is an argument for it. One of the oddest things about modern political thought is that wars are often blamed on the existence of many small nations when the worst wars in history have been caused by a few large ones. Governments are always trying to create larger and larger administrative units when observation suggests that the best ones are small. The breakdown of big political systems would be one of the greatest benefits of anarchism, and countries could become cultural entities once more, while nations would disappear. The association concerned with any kind of wealth or property would have the crucial responsibility of either making sure that it was fairly divided among the people involved or else of holding it in common and making sure that the use of it was fairly shared among the people involved. Anarchists differ about which system is best, and no doubt the members of a free society would also differ; it would be up to the people in each association to adopt whichever method they preferred. There might be equal pay for all or pay according to need or no pay at all. Some associations might use money for all exchange, some just for large or complex transactions and some might not use it at all. Goods might be bought or hired or rationed or free. If this sort of speculation seems absurdly unrealistic or utopian, it may be worth remembering just how much we already hold in common and how many things may be used without payment. In Britain, the community owns some heavy industries, air and rail transport, ferries and buses, broadcasting systems, water, gas and electricity, though we pay to use them; but roads, bridges, rivers, beaches, parks, libraries, playgrounds, lavatories, schools, universities, hospitals and emergency services are not only owned by the community but may be used without payment. The distinction between what is owned privately and what is owned communally and between what may be used for payment and what may be used freely is quite arbitrary. It may seem obvious that we should be able to use roads and beaches without payment, but this was not always the case, and the free use of hospitals and universities has come only during this century. In the same way, it may seem obvious that we should pay for transport and fuel, but this may not always be the case, and there is no reason why they should not be free. One result of the equal division or free distribution of wealth rather than the accumulation of property would be the end of the class system based on ownership. But anarchists also want to end the class system based on control. This would mean constant vigilance to prevent the growth of bureaucracy in every association, and above all it would mean the reorganisation of work without a managerial class. # Work The first need of every human being is for food, shelter and clothing, which make life liveable; the second is for the further comforts, which make life worth living. The prime economic activity of any human group is the production and distribution of the things which satisfy these needs; and the most important aspect of a society—after the personal relations on which it is based—is the organisation of the necessary work. Anarchists have two characteristic ideas about work: the first is that most work may be unpleasant but could be organised to be more bearable and even pleasurable; and the second is that all work should be organised by the people who actually do it. Anarchists agree with Marxists that work in present society alienates workers. It is not their life but what they do to be able to live; their life is what they do outside work, and when they do something they enjoy they do not call it work. This is true of most work for most people in all places, and it is bound to be true of a lot of work for a lot of people at all times. The tiring and repetitive labour which has to be done to make plants grow and animals thrive, to run production lines and transport systems, to get to people what they want and take from them what they do not want, could not be abolished without a drastic decline in the material standard of living; and automation, which can make it less tiring, makes it even more repetitive. But anarchists insist that the solution is not to condition people into believing that the situation is inevitable but to reorganise essential labour so that, in the first place, it is normal for everyone who is capable of it to take a share in doing it and for no one to spend more than a few hours a day on it; and so that, in the second place, it is possible for everyone to alternate between different kinds of boring labour, which would become less boring through greater variety. It is a matter not just of fair shares for all but also of fair work for all. Anarchists also agree with syndicalists that work should be run by the workers. This does not mean that the working class—or the trade unions or a working-class party (that is, a party claiming to represent the working class)—runs the economy and has ultimate control of work. Nor does it mean the same thing on a smaller scale, that the staff of a factory can elect managers or see the account. It means quite simply that the people doing a particular job are in direct and total control of what they do, without any bosses or managers or inspectors at all. Some people may be good coordinators, and they can concentrate on coordination, but there is no need for them to have power over the people who do the actual work. Some people may be lazy or inefficient, but they are already. The point is to have the greatest possible control over one's own work, as well as one's own life. This principle applies to all kinds of work—in fields as well as factories, in large concerns as well as small, in unskilled as well as skilled occupations, and in dirty jobs as well as liberal professions—and it is not just a useful gesture to make workers happy but a fundamental principle of any kind of free economy. An obvious objection is that complete workers' control would lead to wasteful competition between different workplaces and to production of unwanted things; an obvious answer is that complete lack of workers' control leads to exactly the same things. What is needed is intelligent planning, and despite what most people seem to thing, this depends not on more control from above but on more information from below, on horizontal rather than vertical communication. Most economists have been concerned with production rather than consumption—with the manufacture of things rather than their use. Right-wingers and left-wingers both want workers to produce more, whether to make the rich richer or to make the state stronger, and the result is "overproduction" alongside poverty, growing productivity together with growing unemployment, higher blocks of offices at the same time as increasing homelessness, greater yields of crops per acre when more acres are left uncultivated. Anarchists are concerned with consumption rather than production—with the use of things to satisfy the needs of the whole people instead of to increase the profits and power of the rich and strong. # Necessities and Luxuries A society with any pretension to decency cannot allow the exploitation of basic needs. It may be acceptable for luxuries to be bought and sold, since we have a choice whether we use them or not, but necessities are not mere commodities, since we have no choice about using them. If anything should be taken off the commercial market and out of the hands of exclusive groups, it is surely the land we live on, the food which grows on it, the homes which are built on it and those essential things which make up the material basis of human life—clothes, tools, amenities, fuel and so on. It is also surely obvious that when there is plenty of any necessity everyone should be able to take what is needed; but that when there is a scarcity, there should be a freely agreed system of rationing so that everyone gets a fair share. It is clear that there is something wrong with any system in which waste and want exist side by side, in which some people have more than they need while other people have less. Above all it is clear that the first task of a healthy society is to eliminate the scarcity of necessities—such as the lack of food in undeveloped countries and the lack of housing in advanced countries—by the proper use of technical knowledge and of social resources. If the available skill and labour in Britain were used properly, for instance, there is no reason why enough food could not be grown and enough homes could not be built to feed and house the whole population. It does not happen now because present society has other priorities, not because it cannot happen. At one time it was assumed that it was impossible for everyone to be clothed properly, and poor people always wore rags; now there are plenty of clothes, and there could be plenty of everything else too. Luxuries, by a strange paradox, are also necessities, though not basic necessities. The second task of a healthy society is to make luxuries freely available as well, though this may be a place where money would still have a useful function—provided it were not distributed according to the ludicrous lack of system in capitalist countries or the even more ludicrous system in communist ones. The essential point is that everyone should have free and equal access to luxury. But man does not live by bread alone, or even by cake. Anarchists would not like to see recreational, intellectual, cultural and other such activities in the hands of society—even the most libertarian society. But there are other activities which cannot be left to individuals in free associations but must be handled by society as a whole. These are what may be called welfare activities—mutual aid beyond the reach of family and friends and outside the place of residence or work. Let us consider three of these. # The Welfare Society Education is very important in human society, because we take so long to grow and take so long learning facts and skills necessary for social life, and anarchists have always been much concerned about the problems of education. Many anarchist leaders have made valuable contributions to educational theory and practice, and many educational reformers have had libertarian tendencies—from Rousseau and Pestalozzi to Montessori and Neill. Ideas about education which were once thought of as utopian are now a normal part of the curriculum both inside and outside the state educational systems in Britain, and education is perhaps the most stimulating area of society for practical anarchists. When people say that anarchy sounds nice but cannot work, we can point to a good school or college, or a good adventure playground or youth club. But even the best educational system is still under the control of people in authority—teachers, administrators, governors, officials, inspectors and so on. The adults concerned in any educational process are bound to dominate it to some extent, but there is no need for them—let alone people not directly concerned in it at all—to control it. Anarchists want the current educational reforms to go much further. Not only should strict discipline and corporal punishment be abolished—so should all imposed discipline and all penal methods. Not only should educational institutions be freed from the power of outside authorities, but students should be freed from the power of teachers or administrators. In a healthy educational relationship the fact that one person knows more than another is no reason for the teacher to have authority over the learner. The status of teachers in present society is based on age, strength, experience and law; the only status teachers should have would be based on their knowledge of a subject and their ability to teach it, and ultimately on their capacity to inspire admiration and respect. What is needed is not so much student power—though that is a useful corrective to teachers' power and bureaucrats' power—as workers' control by all the people involved in an educational institution. The essential point is to break the link between teaching and governing and to make education free. This break is actually nearer in health than in education. Doctors are no longer magicians, and nurses are no longer saints, and in many countries—including Britain—the right of free medical treatment is accepted. What is needed is the extension of the principle of freedom from the economic to the political side of the health system. People should be able to go to hospital without any payment, and people should also be able to work in hospitals without any hierarchy. Once again, what is needed is workers' control by all the people involved in a medical institution. And just as education is for students, so health is for patients. The treatment of delinquency has also progressed a long way, but it is still far from satisfactory. Anarchists have two characteristic ideas about delinquency: the first is that most so-called criminals are much the same as other people, just poorer, weaker, sillier or unluckier; the second is that people who persistently hurt other people should not be hurt in turn but should be looked after. The biggest criminals are not burglars but bosses, not gangsters but rulers, not murderers but mass murderers. A few minor injustices are exposed and punished by the state, while the many major injustices of present society are disguised and actually perpetuated by the state. In general punishment does more damage to society than crime does; it is more extensive, better organised and much more effective. Nevertheless, even the most libertarian society would have to protect itself against some people, and this would inevitably involve some compulsion. But proper treatment of delinquency would be part of the education and health system and would not become an institutionalised system of punishment. The last resort would not be imprisonment or death but boycott or expulsion. # Pluralism This might work the other way. Some individuals or groups might refuse to join or insist on leaving the best possible society; there would be nothing to stop them. In theory it is possible for us to support ourselves by our own efforts, though in practice we would depend on the community to provide some materials and to take some products in exchange, so it is difficult to be literally self-sufficient. A collectivist or communist society should tolerate and even encourage such pockets of individualism. What would be unacceptable would be independent individuals trying to exploit other people's labour by employing them at unfair wages or exchanging goods at unfair prices. This should not happen, because people would not normally work or buy for someone else's benefit rather than their own; and while no law would prevent appropriation, no law would prevent expropriation either—you could take something from someone else, but they could take it back again. Authority and property could hardly be restored by isolated individuals. A greater danger would come from independent groups. A separate community could easily exist within society, and this might cause severe strains; if such a community reverted to authority and property, which might make it stronger and richer, there would be a temptation for people to join the secession, especially if society at large were going through a bad time. But a free society would have to be pluralist and put up with not only minor differences of opinion about how freedom and equality should be put into practice but also with major deviations from the theory of freedom and equality altogether. The only condition would be that no people are forced to join such tendencies against their will, and here some kind of authoritarian pressure would have to be available to protect even the most libertarian society. But anarchists want to replace mass society by a mass of societies, all living together as freely as the individuals within them. The greatest danger to the free societies that have been established has been not internal regression but external aggression, and the real problem is not so much how to keep a free society going as how to get it going in the first place. # Revolution or Reform Anarchists have traditionally advocated a violent revolution to establish a free society, but some have rejected violence or revolution or both—violence is so often followed by counter-violence and revolution by counter-revolution. On the other hand, few anarchists have advocated mere reform, realising that while the system of authority and property exists superficial changes will never threaten the basic structures of society. The difficulty is that what anarchists want is revolutionary, but a revolution will not necessarily—or even probably—lead to what anarchists want. This is why anarchists have tended to resort to desperate actions or to relapse into hopeless inactivity. In practice most disputes between reformist and revolutionary anarchists are meaningless, for only the wildest revolutionary refuses to welcome reforms and the mildest reformists refuses to welcome revolutions, and all revolutionaries know that their work will generally lead to no more than reform, and all reformists know that their work is generally leading to some kind of revolution. What most anarchists want is a constant pressure of all kinds, bringing about the conversion of individuals, the formation of groups, the reform of institutions, the rising of the people and the destruction of authority and property. If this happened without trouble, we would be delighted, but it never has, and it probably never will. In the end, it is necessary to go out and confront the forces of the state in the neighbourhood, at work and in the streets—and if the state is defeated it is even more necessary to go on working to prevent the establishment of a new state and to begin the construction of a free society instead. There is a place for everyone in this process, and all anarchists find something to do in the struggle for what they want. # What Anarchists Do Anarchists begin by thinking and talking. Few people begin as anarchists, and becoming an anarchist tends to be a confusing experience which involves a considerable emotional and intellectual upheaval. Being a conscious anarchist is a continuously difficult situation (rather like being, say, an atheist in medieval Europe); it is difficult to break through the thought barrier and persuade people that the necessity for government (like the existence of God) is not self-evident but may be discussed and even rejected. An anarchist has to work out a whole new view of the world and a new way of dealing with it; this is usually done in conversation with people who are anarchists or are near to anarchism, especially within some left-wing group or activity. Afterwards, even the most single-minded anarchist has contact with non-anarchists, and such contract is inevitably an opportunity for spreading anarchist ideas. Among family and friends, at home and at work, any anarchists who are not entirely philosophical in their convictions are bound to be influenced by them. It is not universal but it is usual for anarchists to be less worried than other people about such things as faithfulness in their spouses, obedience in their children, conformity in their neighbours or punctuality in their colleagues. Anarchist employees and citizens are less likely to do what they are told, and anarchist teachers and parents are less likely to make others do what they are told. Anarchism which does not show in personal life is pretty unreliable. Some anarchists are content with making up their own minds and confining their opinions to their own lives, but most want to go further and influence other people. In conversation about social or political matters they will put the libertarian point of view, and in struggles over public issues they will support the libertarian solution. But to make a real impact it is necessary to work with other anarchists or in some kind of political group on a more permanent basis than chance encounter. This is the beginning of organisation, leading to propaganda, and finally to action. # Organisation and Propaganda The initial form of anarchist organisation is a discussion group. If this proves viable, it will develop in two ways—it will establish links with other groups, and it will begin wider activity. Links with other groups may eventually lead to some sort of federation which can coordinate activity and undertake more ambitious enterprises. Anarchist activity normally begins with some form of propaganda to get across the basic idea of anarchism itself. There are two main ways of doing this— _propaganda by word_ and _propaganda by deed_. The word may be written or spoken. Nowadays the spoken word is heard less than it used to be, but public meetings—whether indoors or in the open—are still a valuable method of reaching people directly. The final stage in becoming an anarchist is normally precipitated by some kind of personal contact, and a meeting is a good opportunity for this. As well as holding specifically anarchist meetings, it is also worth attending other meetings to put an anarchist point of view, whether by taking part in the proceedings or by interrupting them. The most sophisticated vehicle for the spoken word nowadays is of course radio and television, and anarchists have occasionally managed to get a hearing on some programmes. But broadcasting is in fact a rather unsatisfactory medium for propaganda, because it is unsuitable for conveying unfamiliar ideas, and anarchism is still an unfamiliar idea for most listeners and viewers: it is also unsuitable for conveying explicit political ideas, and anarchism is probably broadcast most effectively in the form of implicit morals to stories. The same is true of such media as the cinema and the theatre, which can be used for extremely effective propaganda in skilful hands. In general, however, anarchists have not been able to make as much of these channels of communication as one might hope. Anyway, however effective propaganda by speech may be, the written word is necessary to fill out the message, and this has been and still is by far the most common form of propaganda. The idea of society without government may have existed underground for centuries and occasionally come to the surface in radical popular movements, but it was first brought out into the open for thousands of people by the books of the such writers as Paine, Godwin, Proudhon, Stirner and so on. And when the idea took root and was expressed by organised groups, there began that flood of periodicals and pamphlets which is still the main method of communication in the anarchist movement. Some of these publications have been very good; most have been rather bad; but they have all been essential in making sure that the movement has not turned in on itself but has maintained a constant dialogue with the external world. Again, as well as producing specifically anarchist works, it is also worth contributing to non-anarchist periodicals and writing non-anarchist books to put an anarchist point of view to non-anarchist readers. But the spoken and written word, though necessary, are never sufficient. We can talk and write in general term as much we like, but by itself that will get us nowhere. It is also necessary to move beyond mere propaganda in two ways—to discuss particular issues at such a time and in such a manner as to have an immediate effect or to win publicity by something more dramatic than mere words. The first way is agitation, the second is propaganda by deed. Agitation is the point at which a political theory encounters political reality. Anarchist agitation becomes suitable when people are made especially receptive to anarchist ideas because of some kind of stress in the state system—during national or civil wars, industrial or agrarian struggles, campaigns against oppression or public scandals—and it consists essentially of propaganda brought down to earth and made practicable. In a situation of growing consciousness, people are not so much interested in general speculation as in specific proposals. This is the opportunity to show in detail what is wrong with the present system and how it could be put right. Anarchist agitation has sometimes been effective, especially in France, Spain, parts of Latin America and the United States before the First World War, in Russia, Italy and China after it, and in Spain during the 1930s; it has occasionally been effective in Britain, in the 1880s, in the early 1940s and again from the 1960s. The idea of propaganda by deed is often misunderstood, by anarchists as well as their enemies. When the phrase was first used (during the 1870s) it meant demonstrations, riots and risings which were thought of as symbolic actions designed to win useful publicity rather than immediate success. The point was that the propaganda would consist not just of talk about what could be done but of news about what had been done. It did not originally and does not necessarily mean violence, let alone assassination; but after the wave of outrages by individual anarchists during the 1890s, propaganda by deed became popularly identified with personal acts of violence, and this image has not yet faded. For most anarchists nowadays, however, propaganda by deed is more likely to be non-violent, or at least un-violent, and to be against bombs rather than with them. It has in fact reverted to its original meaning, though it now tends to take rather different forms—sit-downs and sit-ins, organised heckling and unorthodox demonstrations. Propaganda by deed need not be illegal, though it often is. Civil disobedience is a special type of propaganda by deed which involves the open and deliberate breaking of a law to gain publicity. Many anarchists dislike it, because it also involves the open and deliberate invitation of punishment, which offends anarchist feelings about any kind of voluntary contact with the authorities; but there have been times when some anarchists have found it a useful form of propaganda. Agitation, especially when it is successful, and propaganda by deed, especially when it is illegal, both go further than mere propaganda. Agitation incites action, and propaganda by deed involves action; it is here that anarchists move into the field of action and that anarchism begins to become serious. # Action The change from theorising about anarchism to putting it into practice means a change in organisation. The typical discussion or propaganda group, which is open to easy participation by outsiders and easy observation by the authorities, and which is based on all members doing what they want to do and not doing what they don't want to do, will become more exclusive and more formal. This is a moment of great danger, since an attitude which is too rigid leads to authoritarianism and sectarianism, while one which is too lax leads to confusion and irresponsibility. It is a moment of even greater danger, since when anarchism becomes a serious matter, anarchists become a serious threat to the authorities and real persecution begins. The most common form of anarchist action is for agitation over an issue to become participation in a campaign. This may be reformist, for something which would not change the whole system, or revolutionary, for a change in the system itself; it may be legal or illegal or both, violent or non-violent or just un-violent. It may have a chance of success, or it may be hopeless from the start. The anarchists may be influential or even dominant in the campaign, or they may be only one of many groups taking part. It does not take long to think of a wide variety of possible fields of action, and for a century anarchists have tried them all. The form of action with which anarchists have been happiest and which is most typical of anarchism is _direct action_. The idea of direct action is also often misunderstood, by anarchists as well as their enemies, again. When the phrase was first used (during the 1890s) it meant no more than the opposite of "political"—that is, parliamentary—action; and in the context of the labour movement it meant "industrial" action, especially strikes, boycotts and sabotage, which were thought of as preparations for and rehearsals of revolution. The point was that the action is applied not indirectly through representatives but directly by the people most closely involved in a situation and directly on the situation, and it is intended to win some measure of success rather than mere publicity. This would seem clear enough, but direct action has in fact been confused with propaganda by deed, and especially with civil disobedience. The technique of direct action was actually developed in the French syndicalist movement in reaction against the more extreme techniques of propaganda by deed; instead of getting sidetracked into dramatic but ineffective gestures, the trade unionists got on with the dull but effective work—that at least was the theory. But as the syndicalist movement grew and came into conflict with the system in France, Spain, Italy, the United States and Russia, and even Britain, the high points of direct action began to take on the same function as acts of propaganda by deed. Then, when Gandhi began to describe as direct action what was really a non-violent form of civil disobedience, all three phrases were confused and came to mean much the same—more or less any form of political activity which is against the law or otherwise outside the accepted rules of constitutional etiquette. For most anarchists, however, direct action still has its original meaning, though as well as its traditional forms it also takes new ones—invading military bases or taking over universities, squatting in houses or occupying factories. What makes it particularly attractive to anarchists is that it is consistent with libertarian principles and also with itself. Most forms of political action by opposition groups are mainly designed to win power; some groups use the techniques of direct action, but as soon as they win power they not only stop using such techniques but prevent any other groups using them either. Anarchists are in favour of direct action at all times, they see it as normal action, as action which reinforces itself and grows as it is used, as action which can be used to create and also to sustain a free society. But there are some anarchists who have no faith in the possibility of creating a free society, and their action varies accordingly. One of the strongest pessimistic tendencies in anarchism is _nihilism_. Nihilism was the word which Turgenev coined (in his novel _Father and Sons_ ) to describe the sceptical and scornful attitude of the young populists in Russia a century ago, but it came to mean the view which denies the value not only of the state or of prevailing morality but of society and of humanity itself; for the strict nihilist nothing is sacred, not even himself—so nihilism is one step beyond the most thorough egoism. An extreme form of action inspired by nihilism is _terrorism_ for its own sake rather than for revenge or propaganda. Anarchists have no monopoly of terror, but it has sometimes been fashionable in some sections of the movement. After the frustrating experience of preaching a minority theory in hostile or often indifferent society, it is tempting to attack society physically. It may not do much about the hostility, but it will certainly end the indifference; let them hate me, so long as they fear me, is the terrorist's line of thought. But if reasoned assassination has been unproductive, random terror has been counterproductive, and it is not too much to say that nothing has done more damage to anarchism than the streak of psychopathic violence which always ran and still runs through it. A milder form of action inspired by nihilism is _bohemianism_ , which is a constant phenomenon, though the name seems to change for each manifestation. This too has been fashionable in some sections of the anarchist movement, and, of course, far outside as well. Instead of attacking society, bohemians drop out of it—though, while living without conforming to the values of society, they usually live in and on society. A lot of nonsense is talked about this tendency. Bohemians may be parasites, but that is true of many other people. On the other hand, they don't hurt anyone except themselves, which is not true of many other people. The best thing that can be said about them is that they can do some good by enjoying themselves and challenging received values in an ostentatious but harmless way. The worst thing that can be said about them is that they cannot really change society and may divert energy from trying to do this, which for most anarchists is the whole point of anarchism. A more consistent and constructive way of dropping out of society is to leave it and set up a new self-sufficient community. This has at times been a widespread phenomenon, among religious enthusiasts during the Middle Ages, for instance, and among many kinds of people more recently, especially in North America. Anarchists have been affected by this tendency in the past but not much nowadays; like other left-wing groups, they are more likely to set up their own informal community, based on a network of people living and working together within society, than to secede from society. This may be thought of as the nucleus of a new form of society growing inside the old forms, or else as a viable form of refuge from the demands of authority which is not too extreme for ordinary people. Another form of action which is based on pessimistic view of the prospects for anarchism is _permanent protest_. According to this view, there is no hope of changing society, of destroying the state system and of putting anarchism into practice. What is important is not the future, the strict adherence to a fixed ideal and the careful elaboration of a beautiful utopia but the present, the belated recognition of a bitter reality and the constant resistance to an ugly situation. Permanent protest is the theory of many former anarchists who have not given up their beliefs but no longer hope for success. It is also the practice of many active anarchists who keep their beliefs intact and carry on as if they still hoped for success but who know—consciously or unconsciously—that they will never see it. What most anarchists have been involved in during the last century may be described as permanent protest when it is looked at with hindsight; but it is just as dogmatic to say that things will never change as to say that things are bound to change, and no one call tell when protest might become effective and the present might suddenly turn into the future. The real distinction is that permanent protest is thought of as a rearguard action in a hopeless cause, while most anarchist activity is thought of as the action of a vanguard or at least of scouts in a struggle which we may not win and which may never end but which is still worth fighting. The best tactics in this struggle are all those which are consistent with the general strategy of the war for freedom and equality, from guerrilla skirmishes in one's private life to set battles in major social campaigns. Anarchists are almost always in a small minority, so they have little choice of battlefield but have to fight wherever the action is. In general, the most successful occasions have been those when anarchist agitation has led to anarchist participation in wider left-wing movements—especially in the labour movement, but also in anti-militarist or even pacifist movement in countries preparing for or fighting in wars, anticlerical and humanist movements in religious countries, movements for national or colonial liberation, for racial or sexual equality, for legal or penal reform, or for civil liberties in general. Such participation inevitably means alliance with non-anarchist groups and some compromise of anarchist principles, and anarchists who become deeply involved in such action are always in danger of abandoning anarchism altogether. On the other hand, refusal to take such a risk generally means sterility and sectarianism, and the anarchist movement has tended to be influential only when it has accepted a full part. The particular anarchist contribution to such occasions is twofold—to emphasise the goal of libertarian society, and to insist on libertarian methods of achieving it. This in in fact a single contribution, for the most important point we can make is not just that the end does not justify the means, but that the means determines the end—that means _are_ ends in most cases. We can be sure of our own actions but not of the consequences. In the old days the greatest opportunities for really substantial movement towards anarchism were in militant syndicalist episodes in France, Spain, Italy, Latin, America, the United States and Russia, and above all in revolutionary movements in France, Mexico, China, Russia and Spain. More recently such opportunities have arisen not so much in the violent and authoritarian revolutions of Asia, Africa and South America as in such non-sectarian movements as the Committee of 100 in Britain, the 22 March Movement in France, the SDS in West Germany, the Provos and Kabouters in the Netherlands, the Zengakuren in Japan and the various movements for civil rights, resistance to conscription, student power, women's liberation, squatters, and the Green movement in many parts of the West. But the most stirring episodes of all have been the more radical insurrectionary upheavals such as those of Hungary in 1956, France and Czechoslovakia in 1968, Portugal in 1974, Poland in 1980—and Britain when? # About the Authors Nicolas Walter (1934–2000) was one of the best-known and most widely read anarchist writers of the last half century. His _About Anarchism_ has been translated into many languages, including Russian, Greek, Turkish, Chinese and Japanese. His immense output was otherwise overwhelmingly journalism for the libertarian press. An edited collection of his writings was published by PM Press in 2011 as _Damned Fools in Utopia: And Other Writings on Anarchism and War Resistance_. Natasha Walter is a British feminist writer and human rights activist. She is the author of a novel, _A Quiet Life_ , and two works of feminist non-fiction, _Living Dolls: The Return of Sexism_ and _The New Feminism_. She is also the founder of the charity Women for Refugee Women. David Goodway is a British social and cultural historian who for thirty years has written principally on anarchism and libertarian socialism. He is the author of _Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow: Left-Libertarian Thought and British Writers from William Morris to Colin Ward_ and editor of _For Anarchism_ , _Herbert Read Reassessed_ , _The Letters of John Cowper Powys and Emma Goldman_ , and collections of the writings of Alex Comfort, Herbert Read, Maurice Brinton and Nicolas Walter. # ABOUT PM PRESS PM Press was founded at the end of 2007 by a small collection of folks with decades of publishing, media, and organizing experience. PM Press co-conspirators have published and distributed hundreds of books, pamphlets, CDs, and DVDs. Members of PM have founded enduring book fairs, spearheaded victorious tenant organizing campaigns, and worked closely with bookstores, academic conferences, and even rock bands to deliver political and challenging ideas to all walks of life. 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Or until our efforts succeed in bringing the revolution around. Or the financial meltdown of Capital makes plastic redundant. Whichever comes first. # ABOUT FREEDOM PRESS The oldest anarchist publishing house in the English-speaking world, Freedom Press was founded in London by a group of volunteers including Charlotte Wilson and Peter Kropotkin in 1886. The Press has repeatedly been the target of state repression, from crackdowns in the 1890s to raids during World War I and most famously, at the end of World War II. The 1945 free speech case, which saw four editors of its journal _War Commentary_ arrested for causing "disaffection in the armed forces," prompted support from many famous names including Herbert Read, George Orwell, Benjamin Britten, and E.M. Forster. Three were jailed. Despite this and many other threats, from fascists to organised crime, for over a century Freedom has regularly published works on the philosophy and activities of anarchists, and produced its _Freedom Newspaper_ for the best part of a century. Freedom now maintains an anarchist-focused news site, www.freedomnews.org.uk, and publishes a biannual free journal. Freedom runs Britain's largest anarchist bookshop at its home of more than 50 years in Whitechapel, in the heart of London. The upper floors of the Freedom building are home to a number of anarchist organisations, and the venue regularly hosts talks, meetings, and events for the wider movement. About the Freedom Press Library Series Freedom Press has partnered with PM Press to republish titles from Freedom's back catalogue, bringing important works back into circulation with new introductions and additional commentary. _About Anarchism_ is part of this series. Freedom Press 84b Whitechapel High St London, E1 7QX www.freedompress.org.uk www.freedomnews.org.uk # _Damned Fools in Utopia: And Other Writings on Anarchism and War Resistance_ Nicolas Walter Edited by David Goodway ISBN: 978-1-60486-222-5 304 pages Nicolas Walter was the son of the neurologist W. Grey Walter, and both his grandfathers had known Peter Kropotkin and Edward Carpenter. However, it was the twin jolts of Suez and the Hungarian Revolution while still a student, followed by participation in the resulting New Left and nuclear disarmament movement, that led him to anarchism himself. His personal history is recounted in two autobiographical pieces in this collection as well as the editor's introduction. During the 1960s he was a militant in the British nuclear disarmament movement—especially its direct-action wing, the Committee of 100—he was one of the Spies for Peace (who revealed the State's preparations for the governance of Britain after a nuclear war), he was close to the innovative Solidarity Group and was a participant in the homelessness agitation. Concurrently with his impressive activism he was analyzing acutely and lucidly the history, practice and theory of these intertwined movements; and it is such writings—including 'Non-violent Resistance' and 'The Spies for Peace and After'—that form the core of this book. But there are also memorable pieces on various libertarians, including the writers George Orwell, Herbert Read and Alan Sillitoe, the publisher C.W. Daniel and the maverick Guy A. Aldred. 'The Right to be Wrong' is a notable polemic against laws limiting the freedom of expression. Other than anarchism, the passion of Walter's intellectual life was the dual cause of atheism and rationalism; and the selection concludes appropriately with a fine essay on 'Anarchism and Religion' and his moving reflections, 'Facing Death'. Nicolas Walter scorned the pomp and frequent ignorance of the powerful and detested the obfuscatory prose and intellectual limitations of academia. He himself wrote straightforwardly and always accessibly, almost exclusively for the anarchist and freethought movements. The items collected in this volume display him at his considerable best. _"[Nicolas Walter was] one of the most interesting left intellectuals of the second half of the twentieth century in Britain."_ —Professor Richard Taylor, University of Cambridge # _Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow: Left-Libertarian Thought and British Writers from William Morris to Colin Ward_ David Goodway ISBN: 978-1-60486-221-8 420 pages From William Morris to Oscar Wilde to George Orwell, left-libertarian thought has long been an important but neglected part of British cultural and political history. In _Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow_ , David Goodway seeks to recover and revitalize that indigenous anarchist tradition. This book succeeds as simultaneously a cultural history of left-libertarian thought in Britain and a demonstration of the applicability of that history to current politics. Goodway argues that a recovered anarchist tradition could—and should—be a touchstone for contemporary political radicals. Moving seamlessly from Aldous Huxley and Colin Ward to the war in Iraq, this challenging volume will energize leftist movements throughout the world. _"_ Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow _is an impressive achievement for its rigorous scholarship across a wide range of sources, for collating this diverse material in a cogent and systematic narrative-cum-argument, and for elucidating it with clarity and flair... It is a book that needed to be written and now deserves to be read."_ — _Journal of William Morris Studies_ _"Goodway outlines with admirable clarity the many variations in anarchist thought. By extending outwards to left-libertarians he takes on even greater diversity."_ —Sheila Rowbotham, _Red Pepper_ _"A splendid survey of 'left-libertarian thought' in this country, it has given me hours of delight and interest. Though it is very learned, it isn't dry. Goodway's friends in the awkward squad (especially William Blake) are both stimulating and comforting companions in today's political climate."_ —A.N. Wilson, _Daily Telegraph_ # _Lessons of the Spanish Revolution: 1936–1939_ Vernon Richards with an Introduction by David Goodway ISBN: 978-1-62963-647-4 272 pages It was the revolutionary movement in Spain which took up Franco's challenge in July 1936, not as supporters of the Popular Front Government but in the name of the Social Revolution, and this book soberly examines the many ways in which Spain's revolutionary movement contributed to its own defeat. Was it too weak to carry through the Revolution? To what extent was the purchase of arms and raw materials from outside sources dependent upon the appearance of a constitutional government inside Republican Spain? What chances had an improvised army of guerrillas against a trained fighting force? These were some of the practical problems facing the revolutionary movement and its leaders. But in seeking to solve these problems, the anarchists and revolutionary syndicalists were also confronted with other questions which were fundamental to the whole theoretical and moral bases of their organisation. Could they collaborate with political parties and reformist unions? Given the circumstances, was one form of government to be supported against another? Should the revolutionary impetus of the first days of resistance be halted in the interests of the armed struggle against Franco or be allowed to develop as far as the workers were able and prepared to take it? Was the situation such that the social revolution could triumph and, if not, what was to be the role of the revolutionary workers? Originally written as a series of weekly articles in the 1950s and expanded, republished, and translated into many languages over the years, Vernon Richards's analysis remains essential reading for all those interested in revolutionary praxis. _"The revolution that accompanied the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War was a high point in the history of working-class creativity, internationalism and self-activity. If it is to be a resource for present and future struggles, we must assess the strengths and weaknesses of the movement that propelled it. In this regard, the early endeavours of Vernon Richards remain indispensable."_ —Danny Evans, author of _Revolution and the State: Anarchism in the Spanish Civil War, 1936–1939_ # _Anarchy in Action_ Colin Ward ISBN: 978-1-62963-238-4 192 pages The argument of this book is that an anarchist society, a society which organizes itself without authority, is always in existence, like a seed beneath the snow, buried under the weight of the state and its bureaucracy, capitalism and its waste, privilege and its injustices, nationalism and its suicidal loyalties, religious differences and their superstitious separatism. Anarchist ideas are so much at variance with ordinary political assumptions and the solutions anarchists offer so remote, that all too often people find it hard to take anarchism seriously. This classic text is an attempt to bridge the gap between the present reality and anarchist aspirations, "between what is and what, according to the anarchists, might be." Through a wide-ranging analysis—drawing on examples from education, urban planning, welfare, housing, the environment, the workplace, and the family, to name but a few—Colin Ward demonstrates that the roots of anarchist practice are not so alien or quixotic as they might at first seem but lie precisely in the ways that people have always tended to organize themselves when left alone to do so. The result is both an accessible introduction for those new to anarchism and pause for thought for those who are too quick to dismiss it. For more than thirty years, in over thirty books, Colin Ward patiently explained anarchist solutions to everything from vandalism to climate change—and celebrated unofficial uses of the landscape as commons, from holiday camps to squatter communities. Ward was an anarchist journalist and editor for almost sixty years, most famously editing the journal _Anarchy_. He was also a columnist for _New Statesman_ , _New Society_ , _Freedom_ , and _Town and Country Planning_. _"It is difficult to match the empirical strength, the lucidity of prose, and the integration of theory and practical insight in the magnificent body of work produced by the veteran anarchist Colin Ward."_ — _Prospect_ # _The Slow Burning Fuse: The Lost History of the British Anarchists_ John Quail with an Afterword by Constance Bantman and biographical sketches by Nick Heath ISBN: 978-1-62963-582-8 416 pages In the accounts of the radical movements that have shaped our history, anarchism has received a raw deal. Its visions and aims have been distorted and misunderstood, its achievements forgotten. The British anarchist movement during the years 1880–1930, while borrowing from Europe, was self-actuated and independent, with a vibrant tale all its own. In _The Slow Burning Fuse_ , John Quail shows a history largely obscured and rewritten following 1919 and the triumph of Leninist communism. The time has arrived to resurrect the works of the early anarchist clubs, their unsung heroes, tumultuous political activities, and searing manifestos so that a truer image of radical dissent and history can be formed. Quail's story of the anarchists is one of utopias created in imagination and half-realised in practice, of individual fights and movements for freedom and self-expression—a story still being written today. _"_ The Slow Burning Fuse _is a meticulous, accessible and riveting account of the British anarchist movement. John Quail introduces us to the anarchists of the Socialist League, explores the early history of the Freedom group, describes the murky world of police spies and agents provocateurs, and shows how small groups of anarchists in London and Sheffield animated working-class movements at the turn of the twentieth century. Quail's rich history is also an unflinching reflection on anarchist organising. Examining the personal feuds that plagued the movement and the political disagreements generated by the incidence of violence in France, Quail shows how internal divisions exacerbated the problems created by systematic police repression. Anarchist utopian aspirations are easily romanticised or mocked. Quail avoids both and instead invites us to weigh up the value of spectacular actions and consider the effectiveness of strategic initiatives. The result is a passionate but sober defence of anarchist politics and movement building."_ —Ruth Kinna, author of _Kropotkin: Reviewing the Classical Anarchist Tradition_ # _What Is Anarchism?: An Introduction_ _Second Edition_ Donald Rooum, edited by Vernon Richards with a foreword by Andrej Grubačić ISBN: 978-1-62963-146-2 160 pages Anarchists believe that the point of society is to widen the choices of individuals. Anarchism is opposed to states, armies, slavery, the wages system, the landlord system, prisons, capitalism, bureaucracy, meritocracy, theocracy, revolutionary governments, patriarchy, matriarchy, monarchy, oligarchy, and every other kind of coercive institution. In other words, anarchism opposes government in all its forms. Enlarged and updated for a modern audience, _What Is Anarchism?_ has the making of a standard reference book. As an introduction to the development of anarchist thought, it will be useful not only to propagandists and proselytizers of anarchism but also to teachers and students of political theory, philosophy, sociology, history, and to all who want to uncover the basic core of anarchism. This useful compendium, compiled and edited by the late Vernon Richards of Freedom Press, with additional selections by Donald Rooum, includes extracts from the work of Errico Malatesta, Peter Kropotkin, Max Stirner, Emma Goldman, Charlotte Wilson, Michael Bakunin, Rudolf Rocker, Alexander Berkman, Colin Ward, Albert Meltzer, and many others. Author and Wildcat cartoonist Donald Rooum gives context to the selections with introductions looking at "What Anarchists Believe," "How Anarchists Differ," and "What Anarchists Do" and provides helpful and humorous illustrations throughout the book. _"_ What Is Anarchism? _is a classic. It brings together a marvellous selection of inspiring texts with a clear, comprehensive introduction—now updated—to provide a brilliant account of the cares, concerns and commitments that animate anarchist politics and activities of British anarchists since 1945."_ —Ruth Kinna, author of _Anarchism: A Beginner's Guide_ 1. Cover 2. Title Page 3. Copyright 4. Contents 5. Preface 6. Introduction to the 2002 Edition 7. Note on the 2002 Edition 8. Introduction 9. What Anarchists Believe 10. How Anarchists Differ 11. What Anarchists Want 12. What Anarchists Do 13. About the Authors ## Landmarks 1. Cover 2. Title Page 3. Table of Contents 4. Start of Content	{'title': 'About Anarchism - Walter, Nicolas'}
The Cambridge Companion to Stravinsky Stravinsky's work spanned the major part of the twentieth century and engaged with nearly all its principal compositional developments. This Companion reflects the breadth of Stravinsky's achievement and influence in essays by leading international scholars on a wide range of topics. It is divided into three parts dealing with the contexts within which Stravinsky worked (Russian, modernist and compositional), with his key compositions (Russian, neoclassical and serial) and with the reception of his ideas (through performance, analysis and criticism). The volume concludes with an interview with the leading Dutch composer Louis Andriessen and a major re-evaluation of 'Stravinsky and us' by Richard Taruskin. JONATHAN CROSS is University Lecturer in Music and Tutorial Fellow of Christ Church, Oxford. He is author of _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge, 1998) and _Harrison Birtwistle: Man, Mind, Music_ (London, 2000), and is Editor of the journal _Music Analysis_. Cambridge Companions to Music Composers The Cambridge Companion to Bach Edited by John Butt The Cambridge Companion to Bartók Edited by Amanda Bayley The Cambridge Companion to Beethoven Edited by Glenn Stanley The Cambridge Companion to Benjamin Britten Edited by Mervyn Cooke The Cambridge Companion to Berg Edited by Anthony Pople The Cambridge Companion to Berlioz Edited by Peter Bloom The Cambridge Companion to Brahms Edited by Michael Musgrave The Cambridge Companion to John Cage Edited by David Nicholls The Cambridge Companion to Chopin Edited by Jim Samson The Cambridge Companion to Debussy Edited by Simon Trezise The Cambridge Companion to Handel Edited by Donald Burrows The Cambridge Companion to Ravel Edited by Deborah Mawer The Cambridge Companion to Schubert Edited by Christopher Gibbs The Cambridge Companion to Stravinsky Edited by Jonathan Cross Instruments The Cambridge Companion to Brass Instruments Edited by Trevor Herbert and John Wallace The Cambridge Companion to the Cello Edited by Robin Stowell The Cambridge Companion to the Clarinet Edited by Colin Lawson The Cambridge Companion to the Organ Edited by Nicholas Thistlethwaite and Geoffrey Webber The Cambridge Companion to the Piano Edited by David Rowland The Cambridge Companion to the Recorder Edited by John Mansfield Thomson The Cambridge Companion to the Saxophone Edited by Richard Ingham The Cambridge Companion to Singing Edited by John Potter The Cambridge Companion to the Violin Edited by Robin Stowell Topics The Cambridge Companion to Pop and Rock Edited by Simon Frith, Will Straw and John Street The Cambridge Companion to Jazz Edited by Mervyn Cooke and David Horn The Cambridge Companion to Blues and Gospel Music Edited by Allan Moore The Cambridge Companion to the Orchestra Edited by Colin Lawson The Cambridge Companion to STRAVINSKY ................. EDITED BY Jonathan Cross CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521663304 © Cambridge University Press 2003 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2003 Reprinted 2005 _A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library_ ISBN 978-0-521-66330-4 hardback ISBN 978-0-521-66377-9 paperback Transferred to digital printing 2008 Contents _Notes on the contributors_ _Chronology of Stravinsky's life and career_ Anthony Gritten _Preface and acknowledgements_ Part I • Origins and contexts 1 Stravinsky's Russian origins _Rosamund Bartlett_ 2 Stravinsky as modernist _Christopher Butler_ 3 Stravinsky in context _Arnold Whittall_ Part II • The works 4 Early Stravinsky _Anthony Pople_ 5 Russian rites: _Petrushka_ , _The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_ _Kenneth Gloag_ 6 Stravinsky's neoclassicism _Martha M. Hyde_ 7 Stravinsky's theatres _Jonathan Cross_ 8 Stravinsky the serialist _Joseph N. Straus_ Part III • Reception 9 Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky _Nicholas Cook_ 10 Stravinsky as devil: Adorno's three critiques _Max Paddison_ 11 Stravinsky in analysis: the anglophone traditions _Craig Ayrey_ 12 Stravinsky and the critics _Stuart Campbell_ 13 Composing with Stravinsky _Louis Andriessen and Jonathan Cross_ 14 Stravinsky and us _Richard Taruskin_ _Chronological list of works_ _Notes_ _Select bibliography_ _Index of names and titles_ Contributors Louis Andriessen is one of the most distinguished living Dutch composers. He teaches composition at the Koninklijk Conservatorium Den Haag. Craig Ayrey is Lecturer in Music Theory and Analysis at Goldsmiths College, University of London. Rosamund Bartlett is Lecturer in Russian and Music History at the University of Durham. Christopher Butler is Professor of English at the University of Oxford and Tutorial Fellow of Christ Church. Stuart Campbell is Honorary Senior Research Fellow in the Institute of Central and Eastern European Studies and the Department of Music at the University of Glasgow. Nicholas Cook is Research Professor in Music at the University of Southampton. Jonathan Cross is University Lecturer in Music and Tutorial Fellow of Christ Church, Oxford. Kenneth Gloag is Lecturer in Music at Cardiff University. Anthony Gritten is Lecturer in Music at the University of East Anglia. Martha M. Hyde is Professor of Music at the State University of New York at Buffalo. Max Paddision is Professor of Music at the University of Durham. Anthony Pople is Professor of Music at the University of Nottingham. Joseph N. Straus is Professor of Music at Queens College and the Graduate Center, City University of New York. Richard Taruskin is Professor of Music at the University of California at Berkeley. Arnold Whittall is Professor Emeritus of Music Theory and Analysis at King's College London. ANTHONY GRITTEN Chronology of Stravinsky's life and works _Notes:_ 1 Works are listed in the year of their completion. 2 Dates of premieres are of the first public complete performance of the principal version of the work. Preface and acknowledgements Born in the nineteenth century, Stravinsky became one of the dominant creative figures of the twentieth, and his influence is still strongly felt into the twenty-first. The contributions to this volume reflect the range of Stravinsky's impact on many aspects of current musical and musicological life. They offer a broad spectrum of historical, critical and interpretative approaches to the composer and his music: Stravinsky the Russian, the modernist, the neoclassicist, the serialist, the dramatist. The chapters also look at the fascinating ways in which Stravinsky and his ideas have been received by performers, critics, analysts and composers. The final chapter proposes that the twentieth century was indeed 'Stravinsky's century' and that a 'Stravinskian' attitude pervades much recent musical thought and practice. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Kathryn Puffett for her support; indeed, without her help, the Companion might never have appeared at all. I am also immensely grateful for her expert setting of many of the music examples. Michael Downes gave invaluable editorial advice during the final stages of the preparation of this volume. Thanks, too, to Penny Souster at CUP, who has, as always, encouraged and cajoled in equal measure, and to Anthony Gritten for his assistance with the chronological work list. Above all, thanks to Emma who has been there throughout and who makes it all worthwhile. I gratefully acknowledge the generous financial assistance of the University of Bristol Faculty of Arts Research Fund towards the cost of preparing the music examples. The music examples from Stravinsky's scores are reproduced by permission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers (London), Ltd., with the exception of the excerpts from the Symphony in C, _Scherzo fantastique_ and _Fireworks_ , which are reproduced by permission of Schott and Co., Ltd., and the _Piano-Rag-Music_ , which is reproduced by permission of J & W Chester/Edition Wilhelm Hansen, London, Ltd. The facsimile of the sketches for Stravinsky's Cantata are reproduced by permission of the Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel. The excerpt from Debussy's _Nocturnes_ is reproduced by permission of Editions Joubert, Paris/United Music Publishers Ltd. PART I Origins and contexts 1 ROSAMUND BARTLETT Stravinsky's Russian origins 'A man has one birthplace, one fatherland, one country – he _can_ have only one country – and the place of his birth is the most important factor in his life.' These words were uttered by Stravinsky at a banquet held in his honour in Moscow on 1 October 1962. The eighty-year-old composer had returned to his homeland after an absence of fifty years. In the intervening period he had acquired first French and then American citizenship, and developed an increasingly hostile attitude towards his native country and its culture. This hostility had been fully reciprocated by the Soviet musical establishment. Now, as the guest of the Union of Composers, Stravinsky was seemingly performing a complete _volte-face_ by wholeheartedly embracing his Russian identity. For Robert Craft, his assistant and amanuensis, this was nothing short of a 'transformation', and he was astonished, not only to witness Stravinsky and his wife suddenly taking 'pride in everything Russian', but to observe at close hand how 'half a century of expatriation' could be 'forgotten in a night'. Craft's diary of the famous visit contains many revealing comments about a composer who was a master of mystification. Like his younger contemporary Vladimir Nabokov, with whom there are some intriguing biographical parallels, Stravinsky did not care to be pigeon-holed or linked with any particular artistic trend after he left Russia. Above all, because of a sense of cultural inferiority which stemmed from the fact that Russia's musical tradition was so much younger than that of other European nations, he came to disavow his own musical heritage, which necessitated embroidering a complex tapestry of lies and denials. So proficient was Stravinsky in creating an elaborate smoke-screen about who he really was, in fact, that the highly controlled image he projected of his artistic independence remained largely intact for over two decades following his death in 1971. It is an achievement of the painstaking scholarship of Richard Taruskin and Stephen Walsh that in the twenty-first century we can now look behind Stravinsky's cosmopolitan façade to see the carefully concealed but manifestly Russian identity that lies behind it. The extent of the obfuscations and contradictions of Stravinsky's musical persona can be judged from the sheer scale of Richard Taruskin's efforts in unravelling them: his study runs to 1,757 pages, and does not explore works written after 1922. Stravinsky's habit of falsifying his own life story means that we must clearly treat all his pronouncements with circumspection, but his highly emotional and apparently involuntary reaction in 1962 to being back on Russian soil (which he claimed even had a particular smell), nevertheless speaks volumes about the continuing importance of his native origins. Stravinsky was born on the cusp of two distinct eras, at a pivotal point in Russian cultural history. In 1881, the year before his birth, not only was Alexander II assassinated, but Dostoevsky and Musorgsky died, thus symbolically bringing to a close the era of the Great Reforms, Realist novels and Populism. Alexander II's reign (particularly the earlier part of it) had been a time of relative liberalism compared with the oppressive regime of Nicholas I which had preceded it. The reforms Alexander II had introduced in the 1860s, most notably the long-awaited Emancipation of the Serfs in 1861, had given rise to an upsurge of energy and optimism that was reflected across all sections of Russian society over the course of the following decade. The young radical intelligentsia believed at last the time had come for action (not for nothing was Nikolai Chernyshevsky's 1863 novel of political emancipation entitled _What is to be Done?_ ), and the arts were dominated throughout the 1860s and 1870s by a preoccupation with ideas of social change and questions of national identity. This was the age of the great novels of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Turgenev, and the ideologically charged canvases of the 'Wanderers' – nationalist painters who wished to highlight Russia's acute social problems. This was also a vibrant time for Russian music. As a result of the efforts of Anton Rubinstein, a Conservatoire had finally opened in St Petersburg in 1862, enabling Russian musicians to acquire professional status for the first time (all-important in a society where social position was still defined by a notorious Table of Ranks). Tchaikovsky was one of its first graduates. And at the same time that the Populist-minded artists of the 'Wanderers' group were rebelling against the Western and classical orientation of the St Petersburg Academy of Arts, a nucleus of nationalist composers was already turning its back on the Western and classical orientation of the new Conservatoire. Rather than be trained according to the German model set up by Rubinstein, the five members of the Balakirev circle opted to teach themselves, out of a belief that Russian music should follow its own course. One of those composers was Rimsky-Korsakov, later to become Stravinsky's teacher. Their spokesman was the prolific critic Vladimir Stasov, who waged an unceasing and often cantankerous campaign on behalf of Russian nationalist art from 1847 to 1906, the year of his death. By the time of Alexander II's violent death, however, Russian culture was already beginning to undergo a sea-change as former radicals and non-conformists amongst the artistic community began to become part of the establishment. Rimsky-Korsakov had been appointed to teach at the St Petersburg Conservatoire in 1871, for example, and the Wanderers later became stalwart representatives of the Academy of Arts. Russia had embarked on a programme of rapid industrialisation and urbanisation, but the pace of reform had slowed, and social unrest consequently increased. When the peaceful attempts of the Populists failed to convince the peasantry of the need for urgent political action, the Revolutionary intelligentsia began to turn its attention to the new working-class organisations that were beginning to spring up in cities across the Russian empire. And their new terrorist methods began to achieve results. Conservative anyway by nature, Alexander III responded to the assassination of his father by bringing to a halt the wheels of progress and by tightening instruments of repression. Thus Stravinsky was born at a time of widespread despondency amongst the Russian population. The new tsar's chauvinistic policies resulted in the persecution of Jews and other religious minorities, but there was one aspect of his Russification policies that had positive consequences, namely his active promotion of native culture. A century and a half of imperial patronage of Western art forms at the expense of Russian traditions (long considered unsophisticated by comparison, and associated with peasants, therefore inferior) had led to a huge explosion of national consciousness amongst Russian artists in the middle of the nineteenth century. Alexander III was the first Russian tsar to recognise and support native achievements. It was due to his efforts that the first government-sponsored collection of Russian art (now housed in the Russian Museum) was put on public display in St Petersburg in 1898, and he was clearly in favour of the 'revivalist' architecture which quickly became popular. The first major public building project of his reign was the oniondomed Church of the Resurrection, begun in 1882, the year of Stravinsky's birth. Built on the spot where Alexander II was assassinated, its pastiche of medieval Russian styles sits oddly amongst the stately neoclassicism of most of the rest of St Petersburg's eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century buildings, which had of course been specifically designed to emulate the European style and make a deliberate break with Muscovite tradition. This sort of retrogressive orientation was closely allied to Alexander III's reactionary and Slavophile political beliefs. Of far greater value were his services to Russian music. Alexander's decision, also in 1882, to end the monopoly on theatrical production held by the Imperial Theatres and to close down the Italian Opera were to have far-reaching consequences for the performing arts in Russia. As a singer at the Russian Opera in St Petersburg (where he was principal bass), Stravinsky's father was a direct beneficiary of this policy. Stravinsky's own musical development was also indirectly affected as a result. The two most important operas premiered in the year of Stravinsky's birth were Wagner's _Parsifal_ , staged in Bayreuth, and Rimsky-Korsakov's _The Snow Maiden_ , the latter performed at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg, with Fyodor Stravinsky creating the role of Grandfather Frost. Nicholas I had installed an Italian company in the main opera house in St Petersburg in 1843 (as much for political as for artistic reasons), and lavish sums from the imperial purse were invested in promoting it. Very much second-class citizens, the composers and performers involved with the Russian Opera did not even have a proper stage of their own until the Mariinsky Theatre was built in 1860. It must be said that the repertoire was still not very large at this stage, nor of consistently high quality (with the obvious exceptions of Glinka's operas, of course), but the Russian government had equally done nothing to encourage its subjects to become composers. The fortunes of the Russian Opera started to prosper in earnest only after the accession of Alexander III, when it became the sole company in St Petersburg, and thus the country's premier stage. Fyodor Stravinsky had joined the Russian Opera in 1876, having begun his singing career in Kiev, and it was in the 1880s that he began to receive his greatest acclaim, not only for his powerful voice, but also for his dramatic talents. By the time he stopped performing in 1902, he had developed a repertoire of sixtyfour roles, most but not all of which were in Russian opera. He also knew composers like Musorgsky, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov, as well as other prominent musicians and critics, many of whom must have come to visit the singer at home. The young Igor Stravinsky thus grew up in an environment which was steeped in Russian music. Stasov and Dostoevsky also paid calls. Apart from his fine voice, Fyodor Stravinsky was famous for his extensive library of valuable books and scores (held to be one of the largest private collections in Russia), and for the painstaking way in which he researched his roles. All of this inevitably rubbed off on his son, who would have probably heard his father rehearse at home and who also had the benefit of being able to attend operatic performances at the Mariinsky on a regular basis from a young age. It is not surprising that the theatre became something of a second home for Stravinsky while he was growing up, as his family's apartment was situated right next door to it. The 1890s and early 1900s were the Mariinsky Theatre's golden years: operas by Russian composers had become its staple repertoire, and there was now, for the first time, an impressive roster of performers, producers and set designers to stage them. Stravinsky was able to become closely acquainted with what are now the classic masterpieces of Tchaikovsky, Glinka, Borodin, Musorgsky and, of course, Rimsky-Korsakov. 'Sitting in the dark of the Mariinsky Theatre, I judged, saw, and heard everything at first hand', he later recalled, 'and my impressions were immediate and indelible'. He would subsequently have a direct involvement with Rimsky-Korsakov's last operas. Stravinsky's family came from the nobility, but it is important to recognise that this was a class that differed from its Western European counterpart by encompassing small-scale landowners without titles and (by the end of the nineteenth century) _haute-bourgeoisie_ as well as Counts and Princesses. Only in Russia could one automatically join the nobility by being promoted to a certain position in the Table of Ranks (as happened with Dostoevsky's father). Stravinsky's social background was relatively privileged without being particularly aristocratic. While the young Nabokov was driven to school by a chauffeur from the family mansion, for example, Stravinsky walked across town from a rented apartment. His parents also rented their summer dachas; although the family was able to stay at the country estates of their relatives and were later affluent enough to travel abroad, they had no property of their own, however modest, to retreat to at the end of the season. It is also worth pointing out that pursuing a career on the stage as a singer in Russia had only begun to acquire social respectability at the end of the nineteenth century. Both Shaliapin and Ershov, two of Russia's other great pre-revolutionary male singers, were of lowly origins, and Fyodor Stravinsky had originally planned to join the Civil Service, following a training in law. It is indicative that he and his wife also wanted their son Igor to become a lawyer rather than a professional musician, and he studied law at St Petersburg University from 1901 to 1906. But as with Tchaikovsky, who half a century earlier had been destined for a career in the Ministry of Justice, the urge to write music proved ultimately too strong to resist. Stravinsky had his first piano lessons in 1891, when he was nine years old. This was also the year in which he met his first cousin Ekaterina Nosenko, who was later to become his wife. Then, when he was a university student, he began to study music theory privately. Musically speaking, however, the pivotal year for Stravinsky was 1902, the date of his earliest surviving compositions. At university Stravinsky had become friends with Rimsky-Korsakov's son Vladimir, and through him met the composer while they were on holiday in Germany that summer. After Stravinsky's father died of cancer at the end of 1902 at the age of fifty-nine, Rimsky-Korsakov – just one year younger – became a kind of father figure to him. There was something of an inevitability to this development. Fyodor Stravinsky studiously recorded details of the cost of each of Igor's music lessons, along with every other family expense, and his son seems to have inherited his love of precision, sending dutiful letters to his parents during summer vacations when they were apart. Stravinsky did not, however, have a particularly affectionate relationship with his father (he was closer to his mother, though that relationship was difficult too), and neither of his parents encouraged his musical ambitions. Rimsky-Korsakov did not formally become Stravinsky's composition teacher until 1905, having persuaded him that enrolling at the Conservatoire, where Rimsky had now been teaching for thirty years, would at this point be counter-productive. In the meantime, however, Stravinsky started to receive informal tuition from him, and to attend the musical soirées at his apartment which became a weekly fixture from 1905 onwards. Cultural life in St Petersburg by 1905 had undergone another sea-change since the time of Stravinsky's childhood. He was not exaggerating when he later remembered the city as a stimulating and exciting place in which to have grown up, as his coming of age coincided with the birth of Russian Modernism – the movement to which he himself was to make such an enormous contribution. Alexander III's Russification policies had positive consequences for the fortunes of Russian opera in the 1880s, and the abolition of the Imperial Theatres' monopoly had led to the foundation of important new companies such as Savva Mamontov's Private Opera in 1885, and later the Moscow Arts Theatre, directed by Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko. In general, however, the reign of Alexander III was one of the bleaker periods in Russian culture, typified more by repression and stagnation than by innovation and dynamism. The apathy and disillusionment of the period is captured well in the short stories of Chekhov, the very modesty of their form indicating the diminution of the intelligentsia's hopes and dreams following the era of the great reforms. The Russian musical scene also lacked dynamism and innovation. The main symphony concert series, which had been inaugurated by the Russian Musical Society in 1859, was now becoming increasingly reliant on the classical repertoire, for example, and was beginning to lack freshness. The wealthy art patron Mitrofan Belyayev promoted contemporary composers at the 'Russian Symphony Concerts' he founded in 1885, an enterprise of inestimable value in consolidating a national musical tradition that was now well and truly established, but Arensky, Lyadov, Glazunov and Rachmaninov hardly belonged to the avant garde. As Walsh has commented, the enterprise succeeded, ironically, in truly institutionalising Russian music, which had hitherto prided itself on its anti-establishment stance. As a bastion of the musical establishment, and now the _éminence grise_ of the St Petersburg Conservatoire where he had been professor since 1882, Rimsky-Korsakov certainly did not use his position as Belyayev's main adviser to change its orientation. Everything was to change after the death of Alexander III in 1894, although his successor Nicholas II was hardly less reactionary. The cultural revival that was now instigated was prompted to a certain extent by a desire to escape from a depressing political reality that was clearly going to worsen and partly by the simple and inevitable need to strike out in a new direction. Music was in fact the last art form to be affected by the winds of change that now began to sweep through Russian cultural life, but ironically it was music which – through the agency of Stravinsky – was to contribute Russia's most significant contribution to the Modernist movement. Signs of the dawning of a new age in the arts came with the production of Tchaikovsky's operatic masterpiece _The Queen of Spades_ , premiered in 1890 at the Mariinsky. A loyal subject of Alexander III, Tchaikovsky willingly conformed to the dictates of the Imperial Theatres, which commissioned the opera, and _The Queen of Spades_ represents, in many ways, the apotheosis of the Russian 'imperial style'. It is also, however, a work whose hallucinatory subject-matter, nostalgic mood and stylistic pastiche align it with the preoccupations of the new generation of artists that emerged in the closing years of the nineteenth century. Their rebellion against old forms and their championing of the new were accompanied by an explosion of creative talent across all the arts on an unprecedented scale at the beginning of the twentieth century and is now rightly regarded as a kind of Russian 'Renaissance'. Stravinsky, of course, was at the epicentre of this movement, which saw Russian artists for the first time becoming leaders of the avant garde. Along with Kandinsky, Malevich and, to a lesser extent, Skryabin and perhaps Bely, he was one of the key Russian figures of the period who was destined to change the very language of art. Russian Modernism began in the middle of the 1890s as a reaction against the relentless utilitarianism that had dominated all the arts in the preceding period in favour of aestheticism. Concern with ideology was jettisoned to be replaced by an interest in individual experience and beauty, which was expressed at first in small, lyrical forms rather than the grand canvases of the Realist period. The narrow Russian focus of much of what was produced earlier was exchanged for a new cosmopolitan outlook. There was also, in the aftermath of Nietzsche and the 'death of God', a liberation from the stifling Victorian mores of the 1880s and a cultivation of amorality and the occult. The earliest practitioners were a group of poets who called themselves Symbolists, but who were quickly labelled Decadents by their detractors. Led in Moscow by Valery Bryusov and Konstantin Bal'mont, they drew their inspiration from French writers such as Baudelaire and Verlaine. In St Petersburg the leader of the new movement was the writer Dmitry Merezhkovsky, who published an influential article in 1893 that pinned the blame for the general decline in literary quality at the time on the didacticism of the Populist age and called for culture to be revived through a concern with metaphysical idealism and spiritual experience. The torchbearers for this artistic renewal were the eclectic young artists and sexually liberated aesthetes of the 'World of Art' group, also based in St Petersburg, who wished precisely to bring Russian culture out of the doldrums. Convinced that the quality of modern Russian art was now on a parity with that of Western Europe, their leader, Sergey Diaghilev, organised a series of international exhibitions beginning in 1898, which the ageing Stasov was quick to condemn as decadent. Diaghilev had anticipated this reaction. When soliciting work for his first exhibition, he had addressed the problem directly: 'Russian art at the moment is in a state of transition', he wrote to prospective exhibitors. 'History places any emerging trend in this position when the principles of the older generation clash and struggle with the newly developing demands of youth.' Later in 1898, the group launched a lavishly illustrated and expensively produced journal under the title _The World of Art_ which acted, amongst other things, as the first major platform for the Symbolists. Diaghilev, Benois and their colleagues had eclectic tastes also where music was concerned. They worshipped Tchaikovsky, but they were also the first non-musicians in Russia to champion Wagner in the pages of their journal, regarding him as a founder of the Modernist movement in Russia, as he had been elsewhere. As well as publishing articles on Wagner's artistic ideas and methods, Diaghilev began to review the first Russian stagings of his music dramas at the Mariinsky Theatre, and Benois was invited to design the first production of _Götterdämmerung_. In the initial period, the members of the World of Art group focused mainly on the visual arts. At first, Diaghilev had attempted to forge a career in music, but after being discouraged by Rimsky-Korsakov when he showed him his compositions, and having been turned down as a member of the august Russian Music Society, whose dull concert programmes he had hoped to revitalise, he decided to focus in the immediate term on art. In the meantime, two other members of the group, Alfred Nurok and Walter Nouvel, took up the challenge of bringing music under the World of Art canopy by founding the 'Evenings of Contemporary Music' in 1901. The aim was to acquaint the St Petersburg public with new music, consciously espousing a more radical programme than the rival Chamber Music Society. As Taruskin has pointed out, the music that was performed at the concerts was hardly the most outré, since the most popular composers were Franck, D'Indy and Reger, while the most avant-garde Russian composers represented were Vasilenko, Senilov, Rebikov and Catoire. Other living Russian composers whose works were performed included Rachmaninov, Tcherepnin and Glazunov. The Moscow-based Skryabin, who had most in common with the aesthetics of the Symbolist movement, was largely ignored. It was nevertheless here that music by Ravel, Fauré and Strauss was first introduced to Russian audiences and composers, while Debussy, Schoenberg and Reger were invited personally to attend performances of their works. And it was here that Stravinsky's music was publicly performed for the first time, on 27 December 1907. The nineteen-year-old Stravinsky had, in fact, taken part in the very first concert of the Evenings of Contemporary Music, on 20 December 1901, according to a notice in a contemporary music journal, and from then on he attended at least some of the concerts organised each season, but his loyalties lay very much with Rimsky-Korsakov's circle after he was welcomed into its midst the following year. For this group, the Evenings of Contemporary Music represented the opposition. Rimsky-Korsakov attended their concerts when music by his pupils was performed, but he was in general hostile to the whole enterprise and its modernist and dilettante outlook, particularly since he had no direct involvement. Nurok did not, for his part, conceal his low regard for Rimsky-Korsakov's conventionality, the conservatism of the Belyayev concerts, and their already somewhat ossified aesthetic position. A kind of half-way house was provided by the important new concert series founded by the conductor Aleksandr Ziloti in 1903, which premiered music by Strauss, Mahler and Schoenberg, amongst others. In 1909 Ziloti also conducted the first performances of Stravinsky's _Scherzo fantastique_ and _Fireworks_ at one of his concerts. Nevertheless, the contemporary music scene in St Petersburg in the early 1900s was certainly not as vibrant as, say, activities in literature at the time. Just as Stravinsky was beginning his official tuition with Rimsky-Korsakov in 1905, his teacher began to host weekly musical soirées every Wednesday. These meetings provided an important forum for Stravinsky to meet other musicians, discuss ideas and hear informal performances of new compositions, including his own. In 1905 the ideas discussed were inevitably dominated by politics, as the year began with the infamous 'Bloody Sunday', when a peaceful demonstration by workers was greeted with gunfire and over a hundred people were killed. Stravinsky remained largely unaffected by the 1905 Revolution (this was also the year he became engaged to his cousin), but his teacher became directly caught up in the turbulent events. Amid public outcry, Rimsky-Korsakov was dismissed from his post for supporting Conservatoire students who had gone on strike to call for reform. Although musically he represented the forces of conservatism, Rimsky-Korsakov occupied a relatively left-wing position politically, and he was eventually successful in demanding autonomy for the Conservatoire administration. Despite the political factors, the atmosphere of the Rimsky-Korsakov 'Wednesdays' was still extremely tame by comparison with the infamous _jours-fixes_ held across town on the same night by the Symbolist poet Vyacheslav Ivanov, which also started in 1905. These attracted a broad spectrum of St Petersburg's leading modernists (including Walter Nouvel and several other musicians), who would congregate at midnight in Ivanov's orotund top-floor apartment (known by all as 'The Tower') and sit up until dawn participating in learned discussions on mysticism, poetry readings and impromptu musical and theatrical performances. Stravinsky was only two years younger than one of the salon's most celebrated habitués, the poet Alexander Blok. Another of its regular attendants, however, was Sergey Gorodetsky, two years younger than Stravinsky and a poet who first came to public attention with a collection of poetry published in St Petersburg in 1907 entitled _Yar_ '. Gorodetsky in some ways provides a point of intersection between the opposing worlds of Rimsky-Korsakov and the World of Art, with which Stravinsky became irrevocably associated in 1910. Stravinsky chose to set two of the poems from Gorodetsky's collection to music in 1907 and 1908, and it is these two songs for mezzo-soprano and piano ( _Two Songs_ , Op. 6) which first exhibit signs of the direction the composer would later follow. Rimsky-Korsakov instinctively recognised this embryonic gesture towards musical independence by condemning the first song, set to the poem 'Spring', as 'contemporary decadent-impressionist lyricism' which contained 'pseudo-folksy Russian lingo'. Gorodetsky later went on to become a decidedly conformist member of the Soviet literary establishment (in the 1920s, for example, he completed a new translation of the libretto of _Die Meistersinger_ ), but in 1907 he was part of an 'experimental spiritual and sexual collective' at the Tower, and one of the more adventurous members of the avant-garde community in St Petersburg. His collection _Yar_ ' contains some of the first modernist poetry to be inspired both thematically and stylistically by Slavic mythology and folklore, as exemplified in the two poems chosen by Stravinsky, whose settings partially match Gorodetsky's achievement. As Taruskin points out, folklore in Russian music had traditionally been regarded as an intrinsic part of a work's content. To establish a musical style based on folklore was unprecedented, and 'to borrow artistic elements created by the people so as to create an art that was unintelligible to them seemed an implicit mockery'. With these two Gorodetsky songs, Stravinsky unconsciously made his first tentative steps into the unknown. It was with the first of these songs that he made his public debut at the Evenings of Contemporary Music in December 1907. Until Rimsky-Korsakov's death in 1908, Stravinsky remained a relatively docile pupil who was not yet fully aware of the artistically sterile environment in which he was serving his musical apprenticeship. Apart from the time he spent in his teacher's apartment, he regularly accompanied him to opera performances at the Mariinsky and shared at that point his antipathy towards ballet. At the end of the following year, however, Stravinsky was already at work on the _Firebird_ , his first ballet commission for Diaghilev. It soon became apparent that the sophisticated and cosmopolitan milieu which Diaghilev and his associates inhabited, mostly abroad in Paris, was a more natural Russian environment for Stravinsky. Like Diaghilev and the other key members of the World of Art group, Stravinsky identified strongly with the city he grew up in precisely because of its international and aristocratic character. It is telling that Diaghilev had to cajole Rimsky-Korsakov into taking part in his 'historical concerts' in Paris. Apart from the memories of some unfortunate concerts he had conducted there in 1889, Rimsky-Korsakov had no wish to associate himself with anything decadent, and had no desire to meet any of the latest French composers. Stravinsky soon relished being part of the European avant garde, but he never relinquished his love for his native city. 'St Petersburg is so much a part of my life that I am almost afraid to look further into myself, lest I discover how much of me is still joined to it', he confessed in _Expositions and Developments_. 'It is dearer to my heart than any other city in the world'. When considering Stravinsky's Russian origins it is significant that he grew up in imperial St Petersburg. Like Vladimir Nabokov, he never once visited Moscow when he was growing up, and first saw the city on his celebrated return to Russia in 1962. Old Slavonic Moscow had remained a quiet provincial backwater throughout the nineteenth century, and it was only at the end of the first decade of the twentieth century that it suddenly began to vie with St Petersburg as a centre of the Russian artistic avant garde. Stravinsky also adored his native city, of course, because of its physical beauty. As Mikhail Druskin has commented, there is a correlation between the 'bright, solemn, spacious' proportions of its neoclassical architecture and the economy and simplicity of the neoclassical style Stravinsky was later to adopt. By the beginning of the twentieth century, St Petersburg could match any other European capital for elegance and refinement. Its cultural life was greatly enriched by contact with Paris, Vienna and Berlin, cities to which there were fast train connections, and Russian society opened up still further following the 1905 Revolution, which led to an easing of censorship. The ascendancy at this time of the Mariinsky Theatre, which was beginning to hold its own with the world's leading opera houses, with appearances by singers and conductors from abroad and a superb native company, is emblematic. From 1906 onwards, Diaghilev began triumphantly to export Russia's cultural legacy to the West before striding boldly into history by commissioning the unknown Igor Stravinsky to write scores which drew from, transformed and transcended the Russian background he had been brought up in. As Richard Taruskin has so amply demonstrated, it was only when Stravinsky came into contact with the World of Art circle that he first started to consider Russian folklore as source material for his music. A small but important role here was played by his friend Stepan Mitusov, who became the librettist of his first opera _The Nightingale_. Four years older than his friend, Mitusov was a well-read 'intelligent amateur', in the words of Stravinsky, who followed the latest artistic trends in Europe with a keen eye. He was also a good friend of the Rimsky-Korsakov family: his own family lived in the same building and he had studied at the university with the composer's sons. Mitusov got to know Stravinsky when he was sent by Rimsky-Korsakov to study harmony and counterpoint with Vasily Kalafati. The two first met in 1898, but their friendship began properly in 1903, and the two met regularly at the Rimsky-Korsakov apartment. As an amateur enthusiast, Mitusov was not bound by the same loyalties as Stravinsky, and according to one Russian critic it was he who took Stravinsky clandestinely to attend Evenings of Contemporary Music concerts. It was also at his apartment in 1904 that Stravinsky made the important acquaintance of the painter, archaeologist and writer Nikolai Rerikh (Roerich), who had been a friend of Mitusov since 1899. Six years later Stravinsky and Rerikh began to collaborate in the creation of the epoch-making _The Rite of Spring_ , first performed in 1913. In _The Rite of Spring_ Stravinsky presented Russian folk life with a greater authenticity than any other composer before him. It was the apotheosis of the neo-nationalist style cultivated by the artists and aesthetes of the World of Art group that so captivated Western audiences. Unlike the nostalgic and conservative aesthetic fostered by Alexander III, which had produced such backward-looking buildings as the Church of the Resurrection (a _faux_ St Basil's which was completed in 1907), the neo-nationalism of the Russian avant garde was inspired by the desire to create something new. It had begun in the 1870s, as a desire to preserve native crafts in the face of encroaching capitalism and urbanisation, at the artists' colony set up at Abramtsevo, the estate of Savva Mamontov, a merchant who had made his millions building railways in Russia. The first neo-nationalists, in fact, were artists linked to the Wanderers movement. Soon, however, particularly at the other important artists' colony set up by Princess Tenisheva in the 1890s at her estate in Talashkino, native folklore came to be seen more as a stylistic resource with which to regenerate art and infuse it with a vigour and energy that was commonly felt to have been lost. Stravinsky was the first Russian composer to turn to folklore as a source for stylistic renewal and experimentation, but it was only some time after he began working with Diaghilev and the World of Art group in Paris that he started consciously exploiting its potential. In so doing he moved abruptly away from the 'academic' and 'de-nationalised' style of composition that characterised much of the Russian music written at that time. Ethnographic colour – as artistic content – had been the cornerstone of nationalist aesthetics of the 1870s, but by this time had come to be regarded as distinctly outmoded. It was Diaghilev's genius to perceive that native style, made part of a modernist aesthetic, was an essential ingredient if Russia was to come into its own and contribute something new to world culture, and this was a vital factor in the creation of the Ballets Russes, in whose success Stravinsky was to become such a linchpin. And, after his first commission to write the score to _Firebird_ in 1909, it inspired the development of a neo-nationalist orientation in Stravinsky's music that would later explode with _The Rite of Spring_ and culminate in the composition of _Les Noces_ , the representation of the Russian peasant wedding, where even the intricate oral rules followed by folk singers are scrupulously replicated. For _Firebird_ , Stravinsky wrote music to a scenario already planned by Fokine which fused several Russian fairy tales involving mythical firebirds. The resulting score was an assimilation of 'contemporary Russian idioms' which was perceived as Russian-influenced in France and as French-influenced in Russia. It was almost the last composition Stravinsky wrote in Russia and was still quite conventional in its treatment of native folklore. _Petrushka_ , Stravinsky's second ballet for Diaghilev, premiered in 1911, was a transitional work, and the composer had much more of a hand in its planning through his collaboration with Alexander Benois. Although Petrushka had part-Italian origins in Pulcinella (he became Punch in England), and in the ballet became a _commedia dell'arte_ Pierrot figure, he was based on the Russian puppet-show character who was traditionally part of the time-honoured Shrovetide festivities. Stravinsky contributed to the creation of authenticity in the representation of the Shrovetide revelries by suggesting the introduction of traditional Russian mummers, even though his knowledge of them almost certainly came only from seeing his father perform in Serov's _The Power of the Fiend_ at the Mariinsky Theatre when he was growing up. The opera features a Russian Shrovetide scene with mummers in its fourth act. It was with the score of _Petrushka_ that Stravinsky found the way forward out of the musical _cul de sac_ in which he had found himself as a protegé of Rimsky-Korsakov. It teems with borrowed urban and rural folksongs from a wide array of collections, and also – more significantly – the first examples of Stravinsky's deliberate adoption of folkloric style to create something entirely new and distinctive of his own. An important role here was played by musical ethnographers, in particular Yuly Melgunov and Evgeniya Lineva, who undertook to collect folksongs in a much more rigorous and authentic manner than had been the case before, by attempting to transcribe the complete performances of songs as performed by entire groups rather than by individuals. Lineva's use of the phonograph in the three collections of transcriptions she published between 1904 and 1909 for the first time enabled the study of the musical form of Russian folksong, and revealed the depersonalised nature and simplicity of its performance. Her work, which followed on from Melgunov's pioneering methods in exploring the counterpoint of folksongs through their _podgoloski_ (the harmonically variant reproductions of the main tune performed by the chorus), undoubtedly exerted a major influence on Stravinsky. The neo-nationalist approach that Stravinsky took in the composition of the score of _Petrushka_ was unprecedented in Russian music, and was to lead to an abrupt and irrevocable break with the upholders of the Rimsky-Korsakov school, who henceforth viewed Stravinsky as an apostate. In a review of the score's Russian premiere in 1913, Rimsky-Korsakov's son Andrey condemned the work as 'deliberate and cultivated pseudo-nationalism'. In July 1911, after the successful premiere of _Petrushka_ in Paris, Stravinsky resumed work on the score that would become _The Rite of Spring_ , and travelled to Talashkino to work with Rerikh on its scenario. Rerikh, a close friend of Princess Tenisheva, was one of the artists associated with the World of Art movement, and had achieved international prominence when invited by Diaghilev to design the sets and costumes for the _Polovtsian Dances_ (the second act of Borodin's _Prince Igor_ ), which were presented as part of the first Ballets Russes season in Paris in 1909. In keeping with the interest amongst the Russian literary and artistic avant garde in pagan Russian culture which had, amongst other things, produced Gorodetsky's _Yar_ ' in 1907, Rerikh was fascinated by the ancient past of the Slavic peoples, and their rites and customs were the inspiration behind most of his painting and essays at this time. When Stravinsky had started planning _The Rite of Spring_ in 1910, it was therefore natural for him to ask Rerikh to become his collaborator. In characteristic fashion, and out of an intense desire to dissociate himself from his Russian background and ally himself instead to the European avant garde, Stravinsky later denied the presence of authentic folk material in the score, but these scenes of pagan Russia, which celebrate the sacrifice of a young maiden, were from the beginning intended to be as ethnographically accurate as possible. Appropriate folksongs were assiduously researched in published collections (including the 1877 anthology compiled by his former teacher Rimsky-Korsakov), noted down from singers or gathered from friends like Stepan Mitusov and then absorbed into Stravinsky's compositional processes. What finally emerged was a musical texture whose sources are not immediately recognisable in the score. Stravinsky's great innovation was thus to combine Russian elements from his musical upbringing with the essential stylistic features of native folklore, in order to approach nationalism from a modernist standpoint. The result was the composition of scores whose structure is consistently based on the principles of _drobnost_ ' (the idea of a work being the sum of its parts rather than driven by an overarching idea), _nepodvizhnost_ ' (the accumulation of 'individualized static blocks in striking juxtapositions') and _uproshcheniye_ (the reduction of any organic development between the different sections of a work, producing an impression of immobility). Stravinsky successfully broke with the linear progression and logical development of Germanic musical tradition by deliberately turning his back on it. He had, in the words of Artur Lur'ye (Arthur Lourié), stopped trying to pour Russian wine into German bottles, and cut his ties with Europe. Russian composers had in fact traditionally balked at the concept of complying with German symphonic form, but the phenomenon has its counterpart in the other arts. A refusal to adhere to traditional 'Western' genres is, after all, a hallmark of Russian literature, which begins with Pushkin, author of a novel in verse. Tolstoy regarded Russian literature as being totally different from Western literature and after his crisis rejected traditional Western genres in favour of creating his own. Perhaps there is even a correlation with the quality of _nepodvizhnost_ ', furthermore, in a novel like _War and Peace_ , constructed by the accumulation of dozens of discrete short chapters in which the work's central ideas are often repeated. As 'verbal icons' of his religious view, as Richard Gustafson has so compellingly argued them to be, the thematic structure of Tolstoy's literary works is often far from linear. The same is true of the works of Nikolai Gogol, especially his novel (which he called a 'poema') _Dead Souls_. It is interesting in this regard to recall the seminal ideas of the theologian and art historian Pavel Florensky about the 'reverse perspective' of icons, which Mikhail Druskin brings into his discussion of Stravinsky's treatment of time and space. Druskin draws an analogy between the structure of Stravinsky's works and the simultaneous multidimensionality of Cubism. In identifying the replacement of a linear process of development in his music with the 'mutual relating of different planes and volumes, the single vanishing point by a multiplicity of "horizonlevels", unicentral, object-centred composition by multicentral', Druskin also demonstrates a fundamental similarity with the system of reverse perspective that is a cornerstone of the icon-painting tradition in Russia. Boris Uspensky defines it thus: the system of reverse perspective arises from the viewer's (i.e. the artist's) adopting a number of different positions. That is to say, it is connected with the dynamic of the viewer's gaze and the consequent total impression obtained . . . the opposition between linear and reverse perspective can be connected with either the immobility, or on the other hand, with the dynamism of the viewer's position. Florensky observed that reverse perspective is 'multi-central', in contrast to 'linear' perspective, which is 'unicentral'. Surely much fruitful enquiry could be conducted into the impact of folkloric style on Russian art and literature coterminous with or preceding Stravinsky's most 'Russian' works. Similarly, a more detailed exploration of the impact of such cardinal aesthetic principles as reverse perspective on Stravinsky's works, perhaps in the context of Russian literature, might further help to define what is intrinsically Russian about them. The sense of Russia as being fundamentally 'different', neither European nor Asian, fuelled Stravinsky's creation of a new musical language, and it also underpins the ideology of the Eurasian movement to which the composer was close in the early 1920s. It was a movement that arose out of the acute sense of loss felt by the first generation of Russian emigrants. The basic idea of Eurasianism was that Russia had erred by following a process of Westernisation with Peter the Great's reforms. World War I and the 1917 Revolution were the inevitable consequences of the 'identity crisis' that naturally followed as soon as Russia had started on a path that was alien to her destiny. But, in typical Slavophile fashion, the Eurasianists believed Russia had a unique mission to rescue the degraded and corrupt West, because of its 'healthy barbarism'. Russian Orthodoxy lay at the heart of Eurasianism, and the final element of Stravinsky's Russian origins that must be considered is his religious orientation. Stravinsky was baptised into the Russian Orthodox faith, but like most members of the Russian intelligentsia did not have a particularly devout upbringing. It was only when he was in emigration in the 1920s that he turned back to his mother church. In a famous letter written to Diaghilev in April 1926, Stravinsky claimed not to have fasted for twenty years but that he now felt a 'mental and spiritual need' to do so. He had lived next to the Russian Orthodox church in Biarritz in the early 1920s, and started dating his compositions according to the festivals in the Orthodox church calendar. He started to wear a crucifix and collect icons. Stravinsky's friendship with the Eurasian Pyotr Suvchinsky (Pierre Souvtchinsky) reinforced his new religiosity, which was accompanied by regular attendance at mass and regular fasting. As Walsh has argued, there was a strong linguistic reason for Stravinsky's reconversion to the Orthodox Church, which first resulted musically in a setting of the Lord's Prayer in 1926. Stravinsky maintained that Russian had always been the language of prayer for him, but more generally it was increasingly the strongest link he had with the country he could no longer visit – that is to say, the Russia of his pre-revolutionary St Petersburg. In a newspaper interview during his visit to the Soviet Union in 1962, he perhaps unwittingly revealed how deep his Russian origins lay by drawing an important connection between the language in which he thought and spoke and the language in which he expressed himself in his music. 2 CHRISTOPHER BUTLER Stravinsky as modernist One way of characterising the modernist period might be to say that it was the age of Picasso, Stravinsky and Joyce: geniuses who brought about revolutionary changes in the procedures for their arts and publicised them from Paris, so contributing to the myth that it was the avant-garde capital of Europe at that time. Other capitals were home to great geniuses as well – Kandinsky, Schoenberg, Mann – people who, while quite different from Stravinsky, were also very influential modernists and were well out of his cultural range. Indeed, to understand them, we would be moved towards modernist considerations to which Stravinsky was deeply antipathetic. His 'rivalry' with Schoenberg (whether it was actual or invented by defenders of the atonal, such as Adorno) is not nearly so important as his intellectual differences from him, including his refusal to write the kind of music that 'develops', as it does within the German tradition. But it is the modernist tradition in France – that of Debussy, Proust and Matisse – which influenced at least the early Stravinsky. This was a world that grew out of the Symbolist tendencies so strongly supported by Diaghilev and his circle in Russia and one that produced works such as _Fireworks_ , _Zvezdolikiy_ , _The Firebird_ and, most obviously, _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ , influenced as it was by Debussy, Ravel and Dukas. It is this belonging to a particular tradition which is most important for understanding Stravinsky as a modernist: as we shall see, there were plenty of inspiring modernist ideas, and Stravinsky was highly resistant to many of them (to the potential of the unconscious and the irrational, for example). Stravinsky, very like T. S. Eliot, was immensely conscious of the past, and exceptionally well placed to be aware of contemporary avant-garde activity in all the arts, but he nevertheless selected a very conservative tradition in which to work. He is a conservative innovator. This seems paradoxical only if you think, wrongly, that a socially critical, leftist avant garde is central to modernism, and forget the contribution of conservative modernists such as Pound, Eliot and Lewis in England, and Valéry, Cocteau and Claudel in France. These differences do not seem to have mattered much to Stravinsky, whose commitments (to a sense of Russia, to orthodox religion) lay well outside the worldly politics that sometimes gripped friends of his, such as Picasso. In any case, his composing life, as it most dramatically came into contact with the public, was formed in the context of a hardly radical or critical institution, the Diaghilev ballet. Those critics of modernism who use 'bourgeois' as a term of criticism or disapprobation should see the dandified and obsessively money-conscious Stravinsky as a prime target. There is a well-known drawing of Stravinsky by Picasso, made in May 1920, which depicts him in the style of Ingres. The composer of _The Rite of Spring_ is shown here in anything but a primitivist or avant-gardist mode. He looks like the conformist that he is. But Picasso has chosen the right mode in which to portray him. For both artists changed their styles in the 1920s, after revolutionising the languages for their arts before the War with their most radically avant-garde works. They moved on, from the invention of Cubism (on the part of Picasso and Braque) and the startling rhythmic complexities and violence of _The Rite of Spring_ , to a new, neoclassical style. Quite apart from their everyday friendship and co-operation (on _Pulcinella_ , for example), it is this willingness to change styles which unites them. This stylistic metamorphosis after radical beginnings is the sign of the extraordinary fashionability of modernism after the war, and signifies for many observers the compromise of artistic by social values. Stravinsky was perpetually sensitive, in many ways, and not just as a man of the theatre, to the demands of patrons and of audiences. He was always inclined to communicate his position, his intentions, and his nationalist and religious commitments to an audience, and with some clarity, whether in the concert hall, the lecture theatre (through Roland-Manuel) or in conversation (through the person of Robert Craft). His very lucidity, even if occasionally borrowed from others, is a great disguiser of any internal conflict. He is at the opposite pole from the Expressionist artists of his time, such as Kandinsky and Schoenberg. Like Picasso and Joyce, he is a great shape changer and, like them, he uses Greek mythology as one of his central justificatory escapes from orthodox religion to public drama. After _The Rite_ , the solitary, isolated, self-imposed attempt to revolutionise the very language of music from within was not for him. Indeed, it took him a long time to show any sympathy for such aims as they manifested themselves in Schoenberg and, more discreetly, in Webern, who no doubt seemed to be far less Expressionist in his aims, and in his 'language less heavily founded in the most turgid and graceless Brahms'. Schoenberg's (self) portrait, with its great red glare of the visionary in the eyes, is the kind of act of self-exposure that Stravinsky would have found inexcusable. And, so far as I know, he never shows much sympathy for Expressionist art, despite the violence of _The Rite_ , and perhaps comes near to it only in thinking of Chagall as a possible designer for a revival of _Les Noces_ and in his early reactions to _Pierrot lunaire_. He is not, to that extent, a dedicated avant-garde artist. By upbringing, training and perhaps inclination a man of the theatre, Stravinsky was what we would call a dedicated networker, whose talents once he came to Paris were immediately recognised in the triumph of _The Firebird_. He then plays through _The Rite_ on the piano with Debussy; his close friends include the musicians Ravel, Satie, Schmitt and de Falla, the writers Cocteau, Gide, Claudel and Valéry, the painters Picasso, Léger and Derain. And they work with or for him: hence, for example, Picasso's design for the cover of _Ragtime_ comes about through the mediation of Cendrars for the Éditions de la Sirène. His many conversations with Craft, which until the recent publications of Taruskin and Walsh have very much controlled the image that Stravinsky wanted to project of himself, are often anecdotal memories of closely knit groups of his friends. And with fame, the metropolitan, modernist, cultural village of Paris was opened to him (offering opportunities undreamt of in the feuding and provincial St Petersburg). Some of these opportunities were rather unlikely ones, such as when Blaise Cendrars asked him to write music for a proposed film about Quixote directed by Abel Gance, and when in 1922 Picabia wanted him to set his play _Les Yeux chauds_. But Stravinsky generally avoided any connection with movements like Futurism (while being amused by it) and Surrealism. This modernist metropolitanism meant that Stravinsky, as an already well-read and sophisticated artist, continued to be closely and discriminatingly aware (at least by his later account) of French developments in all the major arts. A close attention to the visual arts was one of the advantages of working for Diaghilev, and Stravinsky co-operated with some of the greatest artists of his time in staging his works, from the designs of Golovine and the Bakst costumes for _Firebird_ and the Benois décor and costumes for _Petrushka_ , to the Matisse designs for _The Nightingale_ (which he did not like). Benois describes Stravinsky as being deeply interested in painting, architecture and sculpture. But the stage designs with which he was most familiar were rarely avant-garde, and his co-operation with writers such as Cocteau and Gide also kept clear of real avant-garde aesthetic considerations (despite Cocteau's impresario-like activities) and has an air of compromise. He never set avant-garde poetry, for example, in contrast to a composer such as Poulenc. His most advanced text is probably that for _Les Noces_ , which he compares to the work of Joyce: he tells us that it is 'a suite of typical wedding episodes told through quotations of typical talk . . . As a collection of clichés and quotations of typical wedding sayings it might be compared to one of those scenes in _Ulysses_ in which the reader seems to be overhearing scraps of conversation without the connecting thread of discourse.' He was well aware of the politics of some of the advanced writing of his time. But then it is typical of modernist artists that they often worked within quite closely knit groups, as did the circles round Picasso and Braque, Gertrude Stein in her Paris apartment, Virginia Woolf in Bloomsbury, and Pound and Lewis in London at the time of the Vorticist movement. On the other hand, Stravinsky never belonged to a modernist movement such as Imagism or Dada or Surrealism, or Schoenberg's Society for Private Musical Performances; and in his neoclassical period he did not need to ally himself to Les Six. On the other hand, the Ballets Russes as a whole should be seen as a modernist group, even if it is less obviously experimental than, say, Futurist theatre groups. And, of course, Stravinsky was making a living. Students of modernism have recently become (rather too disapprovingly) interested in its economic underpinnings; and it is important for our understanding of Stravinsky that he had to make a transition from a considerable dependence upon a famous, aristocratic, extravagant and very well-advertised, if not always solvent, institution, which attracted extraordinary patronage (Diaghilev, for example, playing off Misia Sert and Coco Chanel), towards another source of patronage. He finally found this, like so many others, in the United States, a country described by Auden as 'so large, / So friendly, and so rich'. Thanks to Diaghilev and his extraordinary talent for bringing together a unified 'team' right across the arts, Stravinsky became, with _The Firebird_ , 'a major figure in the world of music overnight'. To achieve this, it is necessary to work in an artistic mode that thrives on publicity. That is exactly what Stravinsky had. As a man of the theatre and later of the concert hall, he developed a career that could always be based upon the pragmatic needs of a particular audience in a particular place, and on giving pleasure. (The situation was very different for Schoenberg and his followers.) His early music had characteristics, well adapted to the theatre, that – much modified – were to be sustained after his recognition as a major composer; that is to say, he had an extraordinary stylistic adaptability. Of course, _The Firebird_ and _Petrushka_ are unique; but they show an extraordinary eclecticism in their influences. This is, perhaps, what you would expect in a ballet and opera tradition that embraced the work of Borodin, Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and (even) Glazunov. Stravinsky developed his language by working through such influences and metamorphosing them (Picassolike) within masterpieces, but he only really begins to come within the modernist rather than the symbolist paradigm in the (to me, doubtful) early montage techniques of _Petrushka_. Here, folk influences combine with the popular mixture of high and low art (in his inclusion of Viennese and popular urban tunes) which is so typical of later modernism. We are close to the world of Toulouse-Lautrec, Seurat, Satie, Debussy, early Picasso and others. As Glenn Watkins puts it, 'Stravinsky's techniques in _Petrushka_ differ from Satie's only in detail; both imply vernacular and pseudo-vernacular sources projected by overlap and intercut, and both embrace a nostalgia without tears'. Stravinsky's career as a composer of expensive-to-produce ballets as well as of concert music has to be understood, then, as driven by the need for a popular adaptability, for serious patronage and for large fees, as well as by independent aesthetic considerations (hence, for example, the piano concerto that he wrote for himself to play in exclusivity for five years). But it is nevertheless difficult to show in other than banal cultural materialist terms exactly when or how such monetary considerations affected his aesthetic decisions, for he was a composer whose inner artistic convictions were to prove to be very far from worldly, even as he maintained a way of life and an outer appearance that were entirely fashionable and, indeed, dandified. Stravinsky's relationship with money requires quite a deep psychological explanation, which is offered without Freudian oversimplification by Walsh. Stravinsky as revolutionary? The rich Parisian network sketched above (which could be paralleled elsewhere, though with less _éclat_ ) ensured that you could be a modernist by association (in the way that figures such as Cocteau, Anna de Noailles, Gleizes and Metzinger, Auric and Tailleferre were). These 'fashionable' modernists could promote and adapt styles invented by others. Stravinsky is a genuine revolutionary (much as he disliked the idea), but only up to a point. That is what makes him like Picasso, Schoenberg, Apollinaire and Joyce, who also moved through the extraordinarily successful adaptation of available late-nineteenth-century or symbolist modes (such as Picasso's post-Impressionist and Blue Period paintings, Schoenberg's _Pelleas und Melisande_ , Apollinaire's more symbolist poems, and Joyce's Chekhovian _Dubliners_ ), to the production of a startlingly innovatory work, which revealed completely new possibilities for the basic techniques of their art. Picasso did this with the _Demoiselles d'Avignon_ (1907), Joyce with the opening pages of _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ (1914), Schoenberg with the last movement of his Second String Quartet (1908), and Stravinsky with _The Rite of Spring_ (1913). He thus came through to the prototypically modernist avant-garde 'scandal' of _The Rite_ , which was in its way as unpredictable as the other examples cited above (though Stravinsky's implausible 'I was the vessel through which _Le Sacre_ passed' has all the marks of a fashionable, anachronistic, post-Surrealist explanation which transfers the impulse for innovation into the unconscious or the dreaming faculty). Nor was _The Rite_ really scandalous, despite the noisy manifestations at its first performance, which were vital side-taking publicity of a kind that has done yeoman service for many more or less 'avant-garde' works. This kind of row was what Futurists counted on; but shocking your rivals, the bourgeoisie, or the merely ignorant, does not get you very far. For success and later influence, you need to impress an artistically informed intelligentsia, and that is exactly what the Ballets Russes, and _The Rite of Spring_ – which was very soon widely performed as a concert work – could do. It was soon applauded and accepted everywhere, and it had to be, precisely because it presented something new, which, however much it might have been detested by conservatives, would have seemed to any well-informed consumer of contemporary art to demand precisely the same kind of attention as the other works that were even then seen as part of the artistic avant garde. This is for precisely the same reasons as apply to Picasso, Joyce and Schoenberg; for the _Rite_ was like nothing else in 1913. It would be clear that something had changed irrevocably, and a newly available technique would become apparent (as it was to Eliot, in proclaiming a new post-Einsteinian 'mythical method' for literature after reading Joyce, which he adapted for 'Gerontion' and _The Waste Land_ ). Stravinsky had taken apart the very basics of the language of the art involved, as is most obvious in the still extraordinary treatment of rhythm in the _Rite_. In it, dissonance for once does not rob music of movement. The need for harmonic movement is overridden. Where a chord is so dissonant that the ear cannot sense a possible resolution, the music stands still. Stravinsky's achievement, and it was unprecedented, was to give a crucial structural importance to rhythm instead of harmony, and to use the tension of dissonance to fuel this powerful engine still further. This development in the _Rite_ was as radical as the taking apart of perspectival relationships in Cubist painting, and the disruption of logical ordering and 'normal' syntax in the newly disjunctive writing of such as Apollinaire, Marinetti and other Futurists, Joyce and Eliot, whose 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' (written 1909, published 1915/17), was the work by which Pound in 1914 recognised that Eliot had 'modernised himself all on his own' – just as Stravinsky had. But it is important to note that Stravinsky later emphasised that his work was not so much revolutionary, as an extension of the past. in music advance is only in the sense of developing the instruments of the language – we are able to do new things in rhythm, in sound, in structure, we claim greater concentration in certain ways and therefore contend that we have evolved, in this one sense, progressively. But a step in this evolution does not cancel the one before. There is, of course, more to be said about _The Rite_ ; but the internal, technical nature of Stravinsky's 'revolution' needs to be emphasised – finely adapted though it may have been to an orgiastic ritual in the theatre – with yet another erotically engaging sacrifice of the female, to succeed those in _Salome, Elektra_ and Schmitt's _Tragédie de Salomé_. For Stravinsky was not one of those artists and intellectuals who, in being affected by the widespread late-nineteenth-century propaganda against past lies in favour of the 'Modern', were encouraged (by Nietzsche among others) to see themselves as _critics_ , and so divorced from and marginal to the society in which they lived. It is not clear that Stravinsky as a good, landowning bourgeois with an extraordinary loyalty to a large dependent family, however cranky or useless or reactionary (not surprising given their position after 1917), would have had much time for that modernist strain that runs from Flaubert through Ibsen and Freud, which lays bare bourgeois self-deceptions. (There are no significant references to Freud that I can find in any of Stravinsky's extant writings or conversations. An amazing omission.) In _The Rite_ , Stravinsky is not trying to say something radically new and challenging about sex or women or the social order; it was always intended to be a viscerally exciting work, with all the attendant sensationalism involved in its post-Polovtsian (if more clumsily choreographed) group uproar round the human sacrifice of an attractive young girl. But he might well have been aware of the strong relationship between Roerich's treatment of the scenario and fashionable modernist ideas of myth, primitivism and tribal art, and so _The Rite_ is one of the key works for the modernist interest in the 'primitive'. It comes after the _Demoiselles_ , and it is the contemporary of Lawrence's _The Rainbow_ , with its lyrical appraisal of the sexual appeal of an African statue; its thirteen pictures or stations, plus two preludes, enact, not for the last time in Stravinsky's work, a public ritual of a kind which, many were coming to think in this period, must be the primitive basis and origin of drama as a genre. This radically new language is not really exploited by Stravinsky to the same extent in later works: the nearest he comes to it is in the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ of 1914, although again the second movement looks back to the turn of the century, in that it is inspired by the movements of the clown Little Tich. Even here there is a connection to the world of Toulouse-Lautrec and Debussy. Not a few attempts have been made to see these _Three Pieces_ (and other works of Stravinsky) as somehow related to other movements in the arts of the time – the obvious radical innovation being that of Cubism. So Watkins sees the first of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ as 'a virtual demonstration piece, a _reductio_ of Cubist premises'. But this is a typical example of the attempt to make what are no more than analogies, between ambiguous referentiality in painting and its apparent counterpart in music, and music without text does not even attempt to refer to particulars in the real world. Similarly analogical is the claim that this music superimposes three essential layers, which are allowed to be independent (like the conflicting points of view in a Cubist painting) through 'different phraseological lengths, variable periodicity, and independent tonal orientation . . . until they locate a logical terminating point'. Stravinsky certainly knew about some versions of Cubism, in the work of Goncharova, Laryonov, Malevich, Picasso and others. But the Russian artists associated with Diaghilev did not have any 'shared commitment to the premises of Cubo-Futurism' in anything but a very selective sense. The argument for the Cubist character of any of Stravinsky's work thus depends upon some pretty loose analogies – we can see, for example, that Cubism and _The Rite_ and 'Prufrock' are all disruptive of previously acceptable single types of ordering, as in narrative; that they juxtapose rather than put in logical order; and that they (perhaps) also contest the idea of a single ordered viewpoint on the world, though how a piece of music can express that without text is difficult to explain (the analogy between a conflict of keys and a conflict of 'viewpoints' is popular). Watkins is nevertheless surely right to say that the 'conscious movement towards simultaneous non-alliance in matters of harmony, rhythm, phraseology and cadence appears as an increasingly observable fact of musical life' in Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Ives, Debussy and Ravel. For him and for many others, this is like the 'relativity' of time and space in Cubism, where we have conflicting points of view of the same object, which are 'simultaneous', at least in the sense that they are to be seen together on the same two-dimensional surface). This lack of a background narrative order (for which the most obvious musical analogy is harmonic progression) is most obvious in the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , which certainly comes closest to a collage-like juxtaposition of its musical sections. Stravinsky as traditionalist After _The Rite_ , Stravinsky quickly developed into another kind of modernist, typical of the post-war period, in which there was a change from the pre-war avant-garde formal experiments (which established the techniques of atonality, Cubism and the juxtapository stream of consciousness) to an adaptation of modernist technique to the production of a whole variety of socially acceptable, indeed fashionable, styles. Picasso, for example, was much berated by John Berger for giving in to this socialisation, and we can see in the work of such figures as Dufy, Derain and the Delaunays a kind of 'jazz modern' style whereby modernism became acceptable to the luxury consumer. The trajectory of the Diaghilev ballet after _Les Noces_ – in producing work like _Les Biches_ , _Le Train bleu_ and _Les Matelots_ – can be seen in the same light. Modernist techniques were superimposed, in an allusively sophisticated kind of way, to quite obvious and often popular subject-matter: as, for example, in much of the work of Stravinsky's friend Cocteau, who was a talented modernist imitator and trivialiser (his addition of a little trail of 'cubes' to his sketch of Stravinsky playing _The Rite_ on the piano shows the extreme adaptability of 'modernist' styles of representation to the popular caricature or cartoon). Goncharova's backcloth for the 1926 revival of _The Firebird_ is similarly well adapted, to look like an easily legible Klee cityscape, with some Slavonic onion domes thrown in. The Diaghilevian theatre as spectacle thus democratised, popularised and synthesised a number of available modernist styles. The most obvious example of Stravinsky's own mixture of styles and rapprochement between high and low in art is perhaps his _Ragtime_. It is a descendant of Debussy's 'Golliwogg's Cake-Walk'; and jazz themes recur in Stravinsky through to the _Ebony Concerto_ of 1945. This adaptation of a popular music which was easily to be heard in Paris in this period, is also to be found in works by Poulenc, Milhaud and others. Given the extraordinary celebrity of Josephine Baker and her colleagues in the famous _Revue nègre_ , Stravinsky might well have thought that he was producing an amusing essay on a different kind of 'primitivism', that of the 'negro'. Stravinsky thought he had 'the idea of creating a composite portrait of this new dance music' in a concert piece, as other composers had done for the waltz, and his phrase reveals the way in which his music can be thought of as a parallel to the juxtapository construction of collage in much contemporary painting. This putting bits of things together into 'constructions' (rather than developing them, by harmonic progression or by extended narrative) is typical of the arts of the twenties. For Adorno this is an 'infantile phase' of Stravinsky's composition. In the _Piano-Rag-Music_ , 'anxiety before dehumanisation is recast into the joys of revealing such dehumanisation, and, in the final analysis, into the pleasures of that same death wish whose symbolism was prepared by the much hated _Tristan_ '. It is a ' _danse macabre_ ' round the 'fetish character' of consumer goods. This ludicrous judgement is a fine example of the incongruities that arise if you try to ensnare Stravinsky – and his putative intentions and subconscious motivations – in a mixture of Freud and Marx. _Ragtime_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ , _Pulcinella_ and _Mavra_ reflect the stylistic pluralism, and the interest in the popular arts, that existed in the 1920s. Stravinsky is very like Picasso in the same period, who moved from the pre-war primitivism of the _Demoiselles_ and the 'analytic' or 'hermetic' cubist style, through collage towards (by 1915) a far more accessible 'synthetic' mode, full of Harlequins and clowns, and then beyond that, to an Ingreslike reproductive classicism (just as in _Pulcinella_ ), which can be seen in his portrait of Stravinsky – and in his portraits of Diaghilev ballerinas, one of whom (Olga Kokhlova) he married. Stravinsky's surprising contribution to this regressive Harlequinade (once more to meet the theatrical demands of Diaghilev) was the (re)composition of _Pulcinella_ from work originally attributed to Pergolesi, with costume designs by Picasso. It was classical, clear, not at all Russian, and French rather than Germanic, and so came perilously close to the mere pastiche of other ballets of the period, which were also spiced-up arrangements of previous music, such as Respighi–Rossini's _La boutique fantasque_ and Tommasini–Scarlatti's _The Good-Humoured Ladies_. Constant Lambert (himself not above the popular style) hated this development: a composer with no creative urge and no sense of style can take medieval words, set them in the style of Bellini, add 20th century harmony, develop both in the sequential and formal manner of the 18th century, and finally score the whole thing for jazz band . . . These scrapbook ballets were of course only a more grandiose and theatrical presentation of the scrapbook taste which is considered so modern and 'amusing' when applied to interior decoration. Lambert saw the Stravinsky of _Pulcinella_ as 'like a child delighted with a book of eighteenth-century engravings, yet not so impressed that it has any twinges of conscience about reddening the noses, or adding moustaches and beards in thick black pencil'. The result, for Lambert, is 'a complete confusion between the expressive and the formal content of the eighteenth-century style . . . like a savage standing in delighted awe before those two symbols of an alien civilisation, the top hat and the _pot de chambre_ , [Stravinsky] is apt to confuse their functions'. These later critical reactions did not of course prevent _Pulcinella_ from being of immense importance for a change in Stravinsky's aesthetic – the point at which he thought he had taken on a quite new kind of motivating idea – for he called it his 'discovery of the past, the epiphany through which the whole of [his] late work became possible'. What saves _Pulcinella_ from being mere pastiche and puts it into the mainstream of Stravinsky's modernist works is an astringency, an irony and detachment which are already characteristic of his works from _Petrushka_ on, and which extends itself into all the stylistic parodies of this period. As Walsh puts it: In 1917 it would still have been possible to look at Stravinsky's work and grade it as, on the one hand, the 'real' Stravinsky of the _Pribaoutki_ and the Russian ballets, and on the other the casual derivative Stravinsky of the easy pieces. In 1918 it no longer makes sense to separate these styles; they have all become part of the essential artist, the mixing up of tonal and modal allusions every bit as much as the jostling of modern popular dances, archetypal marches and folk ditties . . . The ironic effect of these colliding planes, so different from the calm objectivity of _The Wedding_ , is directly associated with the work's moralising tendency. As we listen to the 'Chorale' in the _Soldier's Tale_ , it is hard to resist that sense of superior knowledge carefully avoided in _The Wedding_ , which comes from the parodying of a solemn observance. This detachment and humour is a formal and emotional characteristic which is shared by modernists in other arts, notably in the tradition through Laforgue and Apollinaire to Eliot, who in 1920 temporarily abandoned free verse for neoclassically strict quatrains in adapting Gautier. Stravinsky is at his most witty and charming, and his most obviously neoclassical, in the Octet. He uses a visual analogy for this work: 'My Octet is a musical object. This object has a form and that form is influenced by the musical matter with which it is composed. The differences of matter determine the difference of form. One does not do the same with marble that one does with stone.' In this and later works one can hear Bach given the inflections of jazz, Handelian slow introductions, toccata-like passages and so on. All this has the self-conscious, academic, reactionary (but not in this case as in so many others in France, nationalist) sense of the wish to go back to a better order for inspiration. Stravinsky in this period becomes more and more like T. S. Eliot, as a classicist and then as a Christian. Both men 'reconverted' in 1926, partly for reasons that are consistent with their (declared) conservative aesthetic. And Stravinsky, in writing music that is extremely allusive, was also preoccupied with the thought that even when a composer follows earlier forms and is anti-Expressionist and anti-Romantic, he can still have, as Eliot put it, 'a personality to express': 'In borrowing a form already established and consecrated, the creative artist is not in the least restricting the manifestations of his personality. On the contrary, it is more detached and stands out better, when it moves within the limits of a convention.' It thus came about that the idea of a European canon was tied to a general modernist technique of allusion, and of an interrelationship between pictures, texts and music which was central to the thinking of many modernists. When Eliot tells us, in his famous essay on 'Tradition and the individual talent', that 'we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of [a poet's] work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously', he could be speaking for Stravinsky, Picasso, Joyce, Schoenberg and many others. In the post-war period, this aesthetic meant for Stravinsky a joining of a European tradition (and to some extent, the temporary exclusion or suppression of Russian influences). As his immensely cultivated and allusive later conversations show, he would rather have prided himself on this newly extended 'historical sense' as prescribed by Eliot, which involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional. This does not mean succumbing to any 'influence', a word which can too often give a false impression of passivity. It is really a matter of paradigm adaptation, and that is exactly what neoclassicism involved, in music and in painting. Eliot (much influenced by current conservative French thought) asserted in his rather later 'The function of criticism' (1923) that classicists 'believe that men can not get on without giving allegiance to something outside themselves'. This kind of doctrine was immensely influential in Europe after the war, though it was prepared for by writers like T. E. Hulme well before it: Here is the root of all romanticism: that man the individual is an infinite reservoir of possibilities; and if you can so rearrange society by the destruction of oppressive order then these possibilities will have a chance and you will get Progress. One can define the classical quite clearly as the exact opposite to this. Man is an extraordinarily fixed and limited animal whose nature is absolutely constant. It is only by tradition and organisation that anything decent can be got out of him. This something outside (easily compatible, too, with the Christian view of 'original sin') could also secure a kind of impersonality in art, and was for many modernists in England and France a peculiar mixture of inherited myth and orthodox religion, both conceived as belonging to the society represented in the work of art. Stravinsky is no exception here. He creates rituals in his works which seem to take place quite independently of his own subjective position; indeed, he uses alienation effects (such as the pianos on stage in _Les Noces_ and the narrator in _Oedipus Rex_ ) to secure this detachment. He took pride in the fact that the former work is 'perfectly homogeneous, perfectly impersonal, and perfectly mechanical'. The peasant band of earlier versions has given way to something far more traditional and abstracted. This aim at a basic archetype, rather than at nineteenth-century local detail and sentiment, is typically modernist. (It can also express nostalgia for a lost communitarian unity, and this, for Stravinsky, was only to be reconstructed, at some cost, in Orthodox religion.) After _Les Noces_ this sense of permanence was to be found in the revival of Greek myth in detached, Apollonian modernist modes. Like Joyce, Stravinsky prefers the myth of timeless repetition, basic human beliefs, and some none too forcefully expressed, rather purified emotions in these later ballets. (Thus _The Fairy's Kiss_ hardly rises to the full Tchaikovskian passion, though _Apollon musagète_ brilliantly implies it.) _Oedipus Rex_ fits into a French modernist tradition of its own. (For example, Milhaud had provided music for Claudel to _Agamemnon_ (1913–14), _Les Choephores_ (1915) and the _Eumenides_ (1917–22).) _Oedipus_ completes one trilogy, with _The Rite_ and _Les Noces_ , and leads towards another, from _Apollon musagète_ through _Orpheus_ to _Agon_. Its use of formulae from Handel oratorios, crowd scenes from the Bach Passions and so on is as suppressed as are its echoes of Verdi. It is a curiously creaky work, in which the narrator's explanations are peculiarly condescending, the use of Latin no doubt _très catholique_ (old style, another 'universal authority') – but all the same a huge barrier to comprehension (though its meaning in English is often bathetic) – and the orchestration odd (one can sympathise at times with Schoenberg's thought in 1928 that it is 'a Stravinsky imitation by Krenek'). Stravinsky's literary discrimination failed him here, as it was later to do with Gide, but he had admired Cocteau's _Antigone_ and so asked him to do the libretto for _Oedipus_ , which was then put into Latin by Jean Daniélou. It is a work which, partly because of its allusions to other works, parades its own restraint. Stravinsky makes a rather teasing general remark about his ideals in this respect in his _Poetics of Music_ : What is important for the lucid ordering of the work – for its crystallisation – is that all the Dionysian elements which set the imagination of the artist in motion and make the life-sap rise must be properly subjugated before they intoxicate us, and must finally be made to submit to the law; Apollo demands it. This third sacrifice is at the opposite extreme to that of the _Rite_ , and it leads on to similar restraints in _Apollon musagète_ , the _Symphony of Psalms_ and _Perséphone_. Stravinsky and Picasso and many others, in all the arts and in all the main capitals of modernism, thus became traditionalist, conservative modernists, and turned away from the experiments of Cubism and Futurism and early Expressionism to neoclassicism. Paul Dermé and Pierre Reverdy indicate some of the considerations that were involved, the former claiming that 'a period of exuberance and force must be followed by a period of organisation, stocktaking, and science, that's to say a classicist age', and the latter that 'the moment came [in 1916] when one could talk about aesthetics . . . because the period was concerned with organisation, with the mustering of ideas, because _fantasy gave way_ to a greater need for structure'. This post-1918 reappraisal of the artist's relationship to the past opened up a new aesthetic – of allusion, of relativistic contrast between cultures, and of the combination of their values – in an attempt to reconcile the apparent chaos of the modern world to a classical order; hence the kind of historical reconstruction we find in Joyce's _Ulysses_ , which is at once a compendium of eighteen available experimental styles, and (for Eliot and others) an attempt to bring order through myth to 'the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history'. This was, of course, only one tendency within modernism in general. It is clear from the fortunes of Dada after the war and Surrealism from at least 1922 on that the attempt to transform consciousness through various forms of Expressionism and the anarchism of fantasy was not going to go away. Picasso was soon drawn into these movements; Stravinsky kept well clear. There are many conflicting causal explanations for this shift away from what could be seen as a dominant Cubist aesthetic. Kenneth E. Silver, for example, depends on the idea that the reaction against effects of the war included a turn towards a conservative defensive nationalism, which expressed itself in the adaptation of earlier styles. He says of Picasso, for example, that he turned to neoclassicism to escape criticism of his non-participation in the war, and so distanced himself from Cubism and aligned himself with values associated with the Mediterranean tradition. But this fails to notice his continued Cubism during the war, notably in the _Seated Man_ of 1916; his exhibition of the _Demoiselles_ in 1916; and most particularly his Cubist costumes for _Parade_ in 1917, let alone the animated Cubism of his work for _Le tricorne_ in 1919. Convincing though Silver's view may be for many French artists, it hardly applies to the fast-becoming-French but expatriate figure of Stravinsky, whose move towards classicism of all kinds must, I think, be explained in terms of a religious conservatism. Other, more severe, leftist critics see these changes as a failure of nerve, as we move from revolutionary Cubism to pastiche to neoclassicism as the 'counterfeit Other' of the truly modern. Hence, also, Adorno's attack on Stravinsky for retaining tonality in a mutilated form, in contrast to Schoenberg's heroic pioneering of the twelve-note technique. For Marxist critics like Rosalind Krauss, Stravinsky's music and Picasso's neoclassical work are equally 'fake', a 'borrowed music of the pastiche'. This makes it difficult to rationalise Schoenberg's reliance upon classical models as well in this period. And, although the contrast between linguistic radicalism and stylistic accommodation may well be a valid one, it takes some very odd assumptions about art, and distorted views of the historical development of modernism, to see the latter as a betrayal of the former, particularly when one considers the major works (including Schoenberg's own) that attempt a synthesis of the two. Stravinsky and Picasso both compromised, much to the benefit of the enjoyability and intelligibility of their work. For some others who took the same route – Chirico, Severini, Derain – the same could not be said. Nevertheless, for some interpreters of modernism the invention of new ('bourgeois-free') systems of meaning is of the essence, and any retreat from that is a betrayal of what they see as 'the modernist project': _the_ modernist project, as if there could be one, except as prescribed by them. Liberal pluralists tend to retort that there can and should be no such thing as 'the' modernist movement or 'the' inner (progressive) tendency of an epoch. One can give the impression that there is such a tendency only if one also takes on a good deal of implausible Hegelian Marxist baggage. Claims to have discovered, or attempts to defend, a 'central' or essential tradition in modernism are no more than politickings _with_ modernism, and have very little to do with the making of an empirically well-founded historical analysis of its very various manifestations. In the cases of Stravinsky and Picasso, we have two modernist geniuses who expressed themselves by taking more than one approach to art. And their changes of style were just as provocative to those who thought that there should be a modernist orthodoxy in the 1920s as they are to those who hanker after the same kinds of doctrinal certainty today. A third phase? As Stephen Walsh points out, much of Stravinsky's work in America was consolidatory. After the Second World War, Stravinsky addresses the legacy of the past in two ways: both involve consolidation. In _The Rake's Progress_ he summarises the neoclassical method in a moralising masterpiece, and then (for whatever reason to do with the presence or absence of Schoenberg, and/or of Robert Craft) he goes back to look at another stylistic path not followed, into serialism, by yet again constructing his own – Webernian, medievalising, scrupulously clear – tradition in which to work. As he does so, he finds that he can use the once new twelve-note language of the 1920s in a way that manages to be extraordinarily conservative, and to offer no consolation whatsoever to the progressivist camp, who had always so much disapproved of him. His position as a modernist, by the time he came to write _The Rake_ , was an equivocal one, as was that of his collaborator. Both had left far more radical experimental works behind them, such as Auden's _Orators_ (1932). Though they hardly knew one another to begin with, they had both returned to orthodox religious belief under the pressure of politics, and both had an equivocally accepting and critical relationship to the American culture in which they were honoured and often well-remunerated guests. What could they say, in 1948, in the wiser, post-war phases of both their careers? It had been their fate as modernist classicists to become classics themselves. They both could play with tradition, make some comment on modernism, look for a final internal _rappel à l'ordre_ and try to make some kind of moral statement – of a more or less disguisedly theological kind – by putting the Devil into Hogarth, and making his Rake a Don Giovanni, as we can see in the graveyard scene and in the moralising limericks of the final quintet. Stravinsky here follows Mozart, after using Bach for _Dumbarton Oaks_ and other works, and even Beethoven in his Symphony in C. _Agon_ makes a Greek trilogy with _Apollon musagète_ and _Orpheus_ , as Balanchine wished. It makes an appraisal of the history of music, tonal and atonal, and dancing, side by side. Like _Ulysses_ (and like _Wozzeck_ ), it is a kind of encyclopaedia: twelve-note series and diatonic scalic patterns, ostinato, Baroque dance types, canon, ritornello are all here. The 'plot' is no more than a game or contest – there is no story, and the dancers' rehearsal costume emphasises the different disciplines of its parts, which are required for a competition before the gods. It moves from one style to another as its technique changes towards serialism. (It is rather like the comparative narrative ease and realism of _Ulysses'_ opening episodes, whose elements are then combinatorially disrupted in the later ones.) In Lincoln Kirstein's original proposal, suggesting that Stravinsky look at the _Apologie de la danse_ by de Lauze (1623), he asks for a competition of 'historic dances' before the gods, in which 'the dances which began quite simply in the sixteenth century took fire in the twentieth and exploded'. Watkins cites Luciano Berio as seeing _Agon_ as 'a "short history of music" that performs a lucid, but tragic autopsy on itself under the pretext of a game'. All this – the lack of a controlling narrative, the game-like construction and the self-conscious self-referentiality, the assembly of a 'funhouse' of available techniques – could be thought to be quite postmodern. _Agon_ makes a wonderful contribution to the canon of abstract ballet by adapting neoclassical disciplines within a serialist environment. Stravinsky likes the economy of Schoenberg's method, although he allows repetition and uses rows shorter than the prescribed twelve notes, but he likes even more the economy of Webern's sound world, which fits with his earlier compositional methods. Eliot similarly uses the abstract, musically derived structures of _Four Quartets_ to make his own combinatorial _art poétique_. Even as Stravinsky is, so to speak, working from inside, in one modernist tradition of utopian formalism (following a language alone into its combinatorial possibilities), he is also, like Schoenberg and Berg, looking to classical forms to hold the whole thing together – not Brahms but French ballet music, which also emancipates him into the rhythmic drive and interest that so often eluded the second Viennese school. Stravinsky, then, is three types of modernist. Firstly, he is an avant-garde scandal-maker who produces an initially unintelligible discordant masterpiece which provokes all sorts of outraged reactions, is immediately recognised for its originality and its contemporaneity, exerts a huge influence, and now sounds positively tuneful. Secondly, he is a fashionable style-changer who can also be austerely traditionalist, in the sense defined by a key figure such as T. S. Eliot. He is a composer who can transform any style in all sorts of ways, from minor melodic and harmonic modification (as he did for Pergolesi) to imitation (in _Apollon musagète_ and _The Fairy's Kiss_ ) to total transfiguration by moving from one musical language to another (to serialism in _Agon_ ). This makes for a level of allusion and deviation that allies him to many other literary modernists, and to many painters, notably Picasso, who paraphrased works from the past. Thirdly, he is possibly a belated progressive, influenced perhaps by the new sound world of composers such as Boulez, who takes on serialism after the death of Schoenberg. Adorno was right – at least about Stravinsky's social conformity, if that can be thought of as something which is not just disablingly 'bourgeois', but a pragmatic response to the disciplines of the ballet or the ritual demands of religion. It is these external demands which made it impossible for Stravinsky to follow the excessively self-centred methodical obsessions of so many of his rivals. He could not see himself as an avant gardist devoted to the 'new language' approach and to 'progress'. If we put aside the political premises upon which Adorno and his allies base their arguments, we can see that there are _two_ traditions within modernism here, of a kind that liberals (rather than Marxists) would be inclined to tolerate, indeed encourage, for producing their own dialectic. One centres on a 'progressive' avant garde, where 'progressive' is understood to have some of the Hegelian Marxist overtones of an historical progress towards social emancipation, whose true nature can be revealed to the initiated in philosophy or theory or the relevant technical language. Artists in this tradition are like those utopian philosophers who want to clean up ordinary language, making it more logical, more 'scientific'. Other artists see the different languages of art as inherently social, as Wittgensteinian language games, and even as competing discourses of power related to particular institutions. For this group, innovation will have a great deal to do with the untidy historical development of all those institutions and their rivalries and co-operations. Who would have thought, looking at the secularist emancipatory aims of so many in the modernist avant garde of the 1890s, that so many undoubtedly innovatory modernists would have turned out to be Christians or fascists? Like Stravinsky, they looked to something bigger outside themselves, whereas artists in the other tradition are far more inclined (and most particularly since the advent of postmodernism) to obey the theoretical imperatives of the critical guardians of avant-garde orthodoxy. Their results are often brilliantly innovatory. But Stravinsky was never one of these. And so he has very little to teach postmodernists that they want to hear. 3 ARNOLD WHITTALL Stravinsky in context Stravinsky as context The eloquent conclusion of Richard Taruskin's monumental study of _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ has quickly become the most widely quoted, generally accepted declaration of Stravinsky's significance for twentieth-century compositional practice: To the extent that terms like _stasis, discontinuity, block juxtaposition, moment_ or _structural simplification_ can be applied to modern music – a very great extent – and to the extent that Stravinsky is acknowledged as a source or an inspiration for the traits and traditions they signify – an even greater extent – the force of his example bequeathed a _russkiy slog_ [Russian manner] to the whole world of twentieth-century concert music. To that world Stravinsky was not related by any 'angle.' He was the very stem. Taruskin's purpose is to assert that once, in _Petrushka_ , 'Stravinsky at last became Stravinsky' by transforming his own defining Russian context, he could be seen as 'one of music's great centripetal forces, the crystallizer and definer of an age', whose 'work possessed a strength of style, and his oeuvre a unity, that could accommodate an endless variety of surfaces'. It is a powerful argument, and its appeal might even have been strengthened by Taruskin's subsequent emphasis on the deplorable morality of Stravinsky's sympathy for fascism and anti-semitism – a general lack of democratic fervour that allegedly infiltrates even the exuberant rituals and ultimate sublimity of _Les Noces._ Just as a warts-and-all Wagner can be deemed even more fundamentally central to the cultural life of the nineteenth century if the canker at the heart of the later music dramas is conceded, so an 'all-too-human' Stravinsky (to complement that modernist Stravinsky who 'stressed the ritual at the expense of the picturesque') has a redoubled claim to provide the ultimate frame of reference for all that matters most in the music of the modern age. Yet is it really credible that any one composer should merit such lofty pre-eminence? Is it not in the nature of twentieth-century music that it has many different stems? The need to complement the Stravinskian _russkiy slog_ with other stimuli, other traditions, when seeking to account for the richness and variety of twentieth-century music, is acknowledged by many commentators. For example, Jonathan Cross concludes that 'it is important to remind ourselves that Stravinsky and modernism are not synonymous – it is, at the very least, inappropriate to view the entire century through Stravinsky-tinted spectacles'. But not only are Stravinsky and modernism not synonymous. It cannot be the case that the purely formal factors to which Taruskin refers in his grand peroration represent the whole Stravinsky. Taruskin's emphasis on features of structural design seems to imply that the expressive, transnational consequences of such procedures are relatively unimportant when it comes to defining Stravinsky's musical identity, the source of his greatness and influence. Yet, as the later stages of this essay will argue, it is difficult to consider such aspects of Stravinsky's creative world as his relation to longestablished genres like lament and tragedy, or his concern with the aesthetic polarities symbolised by Apollo and Dionysus, in ways that give a _russkiy slog_ any kind of unchallenged priority. A very different 'stem' for essential aspects of twentieth-century modernism is celebrated by Schoenberg in his essay 'National music' (1931). Here the emphasis is on continuity with past masters of art music, something utterly different from that 'whole, bizarre notion of inventing a new, hypermodern style out of the fragmented elements of an antique folk music' which Stephen Walsh attributes to Stravinsky at the time of _Renard_ (1915–16). The 'teachers' celebrated by Schoenberg were Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Wagner, Mahler, Strauss and Reger. 'My originality comes from this: I immediately imitated everything I saw that was good.' But, crucially, imitation promoted transformation: 'If I saw something I did not leave it at that; I acquired it, in order to possess it; I worked on it and extended it, and it led me to something new.' And Schoenberg ended the essay with an eloquent plea for recognition as a progressive legitimised by his sensitive and creative relation to the past. 'I am convinced that eventually people will recognize how immediately this "something new" is linked to the loftiest models that have been granted us. I venture to credit myself with having written truly new music which, being based on tradition, is destined to become tradition.' The tendency to regard the two distinct traditions – the Russian and the Austro-German – as enforcing a polarisation between Stravinsky and Schoenberg has played a significant role in twentieth-century musical historiography. But the main point of this essay is that – at least after 1918 – the two traditions promoted shared aesthetic attitudes to modernism. To put it another way, the importance of Stravinsky within the 'whole world' of twentieth-century composition is enhanced when we not only consider him in relation to Russian traditions – central though those undoubtedly were, especially in the earlier years – but acknowledge Viennese, Austro-German traditions as well, and the ways in which these also explore the fundamental modernist continuum between extremes of connection and disconnection. (That further off-shoots from the central tree of modernism appear later in the twentieth century is not directly relevant to the discussion that follows.) Conversations and comparisons It is tempting to conclude that Stravinsky sought to divert attention from the predispositions, especially with respect to compositional genres, which he shared with modernists from other musical traditions, by the apparent clarity and openness of his comments on those predispositions. Some sense of his awareness of ways in which German and Russian polarities might converge can therefore be read into his treatment of aesthetic topics at a time when neoclassicism was making the subject of associations between old and new a very immediate one. The possible relevance to Stravinsky of Nietzsche's ideas about the conflict between Apollonian discipline and Dionysian anarchism – first mentioned in his ghosted _Autobiography_ – can be downplayed if those ideas are regarded merely as a means of reinforcing proto-modernist precepts (especially about structural discontinuity and textural stratification) which Stravinsky inherited from the Russian past. Nor does the mere mention of Nietzsche as the source of the Apollo/Dionysus metaphor justify any claim that Stravinsky's music begins to display explicitly Germanic expressive qualities as a result. There would always be a stylistic gulf between Stravinsky's Russian way of ritualising exotic, symmetrical modality by passing it through those 'fragmented elements of an antique folk music', and the Germanic impulse to intensify, at times to expressionistic extents, the increasingly chromatic tendencies embodied in that Bach-to-Reger tradition to which Schoenberg referred. What is intriguing, when comparisons between Stravinsky and his German contemporaries are attempted, is the very allusiveness and ambiguity of relations between their different approaches to parallel generic, expressive contexts: yet, as we shall see, there are technical similarities, as well as stylistic disparities, in the way these composers deal with archetypal emotional states such as loss and regret. In the _Poetics of Music_ lectures (1939), Stravinsky was content with the lofty assertion that Schoenberg was 'a composer evolving along lines essentially different from mine, both aesthetically and technically'. More considered comparisons between himself and his Austro-German contemporaries had to wait until those later years when the role of oracle or sage (as opposed to active antagonist or collaborator) came more naturally. But the Stravinsky–Craft enterprise, offering the composer the chance to 'comment on the popular notion of Schoenberg and Stravinsky as thesis and antithesis', was little more than a disingenuous premise to set up the idea that 'the parallelisms are more interesting'. After tabulating a series of thirteen alleged 'differences' between himself and Schoenberg (including such evidently absurd over-simplifications as 'Stravinsky: diatonicism / Schoenberg: chromaticism'), _Dialogues_ focuses on the 'more interesting' parallelisms. These include 'the common belief in Divine Authority', 'the common exile to the same alien culture, in which we wrote some of our best works', and the point that 'both of us are devoted to The Word'. It is difficult to see how any of these parallels, not least those indicating Stravinsky's belief that his attitude to serial composition owed more to Schoenberg than to Webern, are anything more than a mischievous attempt to reinforce the 'arbitrary' thesis/antithesis notion they are apparently meant to undermine. Such uneasiness could well have its origins in Stravinsky's irritation with the kind of arguments about convergence with Schoenberg promoted by critics as early as 1914. In a review of that year, N. Y. Myaskovsky declared: the foundations of his harmony apparently have much in common with the harmonic thinking of Arnold Schoenberg. The latter, of course, is a German, is far more intricate, the texture of his work is considerably more complex and refined, but on the other hand Stravinsky has the edge in his powerful blaze of temperament. One circumstance deriving from this parallel is absorbing: travelling different paths – Schoenberg from Wagner, touching Mahler in passing; Stravinsky from Rimsky Korsakov and Scriabin by way of the French – the two have come nevertheless by almost identical results. Having quoted these comments, Taruskin cannot resist a footnote observing that 'justification (or condemnation) of Stravinsky's music by superficial comparison with Schoenberg's has been a persistent strand in twentieth-century critical and analytical thinking', a pretext for repeating his hostility to Allen Forte's account of the atonal components of _The Rite of Spring_. The possible existence of 'superficial' comparisons of Stravinsky and Schoenberg does not automatically justify the rejection of all comparisons – especially less superficial ones. Even so, it is only after 1918 that the varieties of convergence between Stravinsky and his Austro-German contemporaries considered here become salient. Taruskin would probably claim that Pierre Boulez's views are no more adequate than Forte's. Boulez discusses the sense in which, though Stravinsky and Schoenberg had very different attitudes to tradition, 'the result is the same: both composers reinstate dead forms, and because they are so obsessed with them they allow them to transform their musical ideas until they too are dead. Their musical invention has been virtually reshaped by old forms to the point where it suffers and dries up.' For Boulez, as for Taruskin, it is matters of form which are decisive, and – for Boulez, at least – there can be no possibility of worthwhile musical expression being built on such flawed foundations. (It is worth noting the sediment of a Cageian experimental aesthetic in Boulez's draconian polarisation of forces in musical history. For Cage, no less than for Boulez, neoclassicism was a betrayal of the progressive impulse, not the fulfilment of something fundamental to modernist aesthetics.) For Boulez, there is no doubt that, after such early masterworks as _Erwartung_ and _The Rite of Spring_ , both Schoenberg and Stravinsky allowed consciousness of History to inhibit the continuation of true progressiveness. Boulez could find no validity in a neoclassical modernism that played off old against new, despite his willingness to concede that, in Berg's case, 'a sense of continuous development with an enormous degree of ambiguity' is to be admired rather than deprecated. Boulez asserts that 'Stravinsky also largely deprived himself of the resources provided by the evolution of the musical language, and he therefore found himself on a more primitive plane of invention with virtually no access, more importantly, to the formal complexities characteristic of the late-romantic period.' This inability to discover any ambiguity, any complexity, in Stravinsky's music after the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ (at least until the serial years), and therefore to find any relevance for such works as context for post-war 'new music', tells us more about Boulez's own creative hang-ups than Stravinsky's. But it also demonstrates the incompleteness of concepts of modernity which deal solely with matters of form: as if, in the case of _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , its significance were wholly coextensive with its anticipations of Stockhausen's 'Momentform'. It can certainly be argued that, in his suppression of Dionysian, expressionist qualities in his more Apollonian neoclassical works of the 1920s and 1930s, Stravinsky was at his most distant from the Schoenbergian mainstream, in which the two complementary qualities – Apollonian order with regard to form, Dionysian intensity with regard to expression – strove to achieve a sustainable equilibrium. Schoenberg's avoidance of the explicitly chant-like or chorale-like materials often used by Stravinsky was a vital element in his preservation of an expressionist dimension during the inter-war decades, and Apollonian serenity is extremely rare. Perhaps Schoenberg comes closest to its spirit in 'Verbundenheit', the sixth of the _Pieces for Male Chorus_ , Op. 35, composed in 1929, just at the time of Stravinsky's own most wholehearted 'sacrifice to Apollo'. Even when such obvious differences of emphasis are acknowledged, however, it is important to realise that very different expressive qualities can be embodied in similar compositional techniques and textures, and it is through such technical similarities that a degree of shared expressive atmosphere between Stravinsky and his contemporaries can be sensed. A modern _espressivo_ Given Stravinsky's fabled capacity for appropriating elements of other composers' principles and procedures, it is always instructive to analyse his expressions of lack of empathy. None is more understandable – or relevant to my present argument – than this: If I were able to penetrate the barrier of style (Berg's radically alien emotional climate) I suspect he would appear to me as the most gifted constructor of form of the composers of this century. He transcends even his own most overt modelling. In fact, he is the only one to have achieved large-scale development-type forms without a suggestion of 'neo-classic' dissimulation. His legacy contains very little on which to build, however. He is at the end of a development (and form and style are not such independent growths that we can pretend to use the one and discard the other) whereas Webern, the Sphinx, has bequeathed a whole foundation, as well as a contemporary sensibility and style. The fact that so much music composed since 1960 refutes Stravinsky's sweeping claim that Berg's legacy 'contains very little on which to build' is powerful evidence for the partial nature of Stravinsky's own importance to music since his death. The 'otherness' of Berg clearly struck deeply, and in another comment Stravinsky was more specific about his personal resistance. He singled out the 'direct expression of the composer's own feelings' in the 'orchestral flagellation' of _Wozzeck_ 's 'D minor' Interlude, declaring that 'what disturbs me about this great masterpiece and one that I love, is the level of its appeal to "ignorant" audiences'. In one of his most artfully revealing comments on his own expressive ideals, Stravinsky continued as follows: 'Passionate emotion' can be conveyed by very different means than these, and within the most 'limiting conventions'. The Timurid miniaturists, for example, were forbidden to portray facial expression. In one moving scene, from the life of an early Zoroastrian king, the artist shows a group of totally blank faces. The dramatic tension is in the way the ladies of the court are shown eavesdropping, and in the slightly discordant gesture of one of the principal figures. In another of these miniatures, two lovers confront each other with stony looks, but the man unconsciously touches his finger to his lips, and this packs the picture with, for me, as much passion as the _crescendo molto_ of _Wozzeck_. As I have argued elsewhere, Stravinsky could hardly have been expected, in the 1960s, to recognise that the alternative modernity of Berg (compounded of constructivism and expressionism) might provide a no less valid legacy than his own devotion to 'the most limiting conventions'. Others had similar problems of perception, and the fact that Boulez (for one) advanced from reservations about Berg, which parallel Stravinsky's, to an acceptance of Berg's importance as an authentically modern voice provides further support for the view that Stravinsky's would be one legacy among several within a late-century context of pluralities and polarities. At the same time, however, this contextualising of Stravinsky invites consideration of the degree to which his own music undermines assumptions about its incompatibility with Austro-German modernism. To this extent, the composer was perfectly correct in suggesting to Craft that the similarities ('parallelisms') between himself and Schoenberg were 'more interesting' than those 'thesis/antithesis' oppositions. From polarity to convergence In addition to reminding us that 'Stravinsky and modernism are not synonymous', Jonathan Cross notes the dangers of proposing an 'opposition between the non-developmental, non-narrative objectivity of Stravinsky and the subjective, Expressionist continuity with the Romantic tradition in Schoenberg'. But no less problematic is any implication that Stravinsky himself, after 1914, lost all contact with subjectivity, continuity and other remnants of traditions very different from those with which his later style was most directly concerned. It is not the case that, after _The Rite of Spring_ , Apollo entirely eliminates Dionysus, or that (neo)classicism promotes synthesis at the expense of continuing, unresolved dialectic. Rather, the Stravinskian context – the ways in which his compositional style evolved over more than half a century between _Petrushka_ and _Requiem Canticles_ – intersects with those of other composers, and is not absolutely, inherently different. The reasons for this circumstance are complex, and much to do with that pervasive aesthetic polarity between divergence and convergence in relation to tonal, harmonic centres which is outlined in the _Poetics of Music_. Although _Poetics_ appears to confine the relevance of polarity to the realm of purely musical 'language', its role is no less salient when matters of form and genre are brought into play. It has long been a commonplace of twentieth-century music histories to note that the pre-1914, avant-garde formal initiatives of such compositions as Schoenberg's _Erwartung_ and Webern's sets of orchestral pieces, Op. 6 and Op. 10, were not followed up with significant determination until the appearance of a new avant garde after 1945. But it is one thing to note the extent to which, between 1918 and 1945, Stravinsky, Bartók, Hindemith, Schoenberg, Berg and others dedicated themselves to preserving the formal attributes of traditional genres – symphony, concerto, string quartet and so on – leaving it to Webern and Varèse to carry more radical attitudes forward; it is something else to demonstrate that these 'conservative' attitudes had lost all contact with the progressive modernism that preceded them. They had not. Not only do Stravinsky's various vocal and instrumental works – even those called symphony or concerto – 'remake the past' in ways that help to define their inherent modernity; they allude to past modes of expression (and with as much pleasure as anxiety) in ways that reinforce their generic links with tradition, at the same time as they proclaim, stylistically, their distance from tradition. Broken chords and lyric tragedy While an essentially 'linguistic' study of this phenomenon in Stravinsky could focus on such continuity-establishing factors as the presence of broken chords or outlined triads – comparing the ending of _Petrushka_ with the Postlude from _Requiem Canticles_ , for example – a generic traversal of the same ground will highlight the composer's resourceful exploitation of allusions to dance and song, and to contrasts between dynamic and lyric _topoi_. Stravinsky believed that melody was 'the summit of the hierarchy of elements that make up music', and the Stravinskian melodic style never abandoned that element of formality which remained his greatest defence against the fierce explosiveness of Germanic Expressionism. Stravinskian lyric expressiveness is never more formal, or more deeply felt, than in the context of lament. Nevertheless, it is when sorrow and regret are presented in ways that distance them from the formalised ceremonies of the liturgy that 'order' – which, Walsh declares, was 'the watchword in his life and in his music' – is most forcefully challenged. No composition is more crucial in demonstrating the range of Stravinskian lyricism than _Oedipus Rex_ , and Walsh's commentary on the opera-oratorio suggests what some of the useful terms for a comparison with other dramas might be: he writes, for example, of the work's opening as 'a gesture of panic and despair', and of its final stages that 'the atmosphere is one of terror and theatrically real catastrophe, not the commemorative or prophylactic disaster of the Stations of the Cross or the Burial Service'. As Walsh demonstrates, such features are not inconsistent with the use of chant-derived thematic material, not least because at the opening of _Oedipus_ such material can be felt to establish a further allusion, to Verdi. But the emotional language of Walsh's interpretation – 'the numbed anguish of the plague-ridden Theban people', 'the image of Oedipus's moral blindness could hardly be more poignant', coupled with references to the composer's achievement of 'a more disturbing irony', and to the 'dramatically telling picture of self-assurance gradually undermined by the Truth' – offers ample evidence of the vital respects in which this work invites interpretation and understanding in terms no less relevant to music dramas whose style and aesthetic context could not be more different. Most striking of all is Walsh's discussion of the first scene of Act 2, with Jocasta's aria brilliantly conveying 'the richness and complexity of the drama of great souls brought low by human frailty', and of 'the fear and even panic', the 'sense of suppressed violence', of Jocasta's duet with Oedipus. If all this does little more than underline the sense of Dionysian forces at work in what is often categorised as a stylised and statuesque ritual, it serves its purpose. The nearest Stravinsky comes in _Oedipus_ to the luminously restrained, Apollonian lyricism he employs in several subsequent works is the famous moment of the King's acknowledgement of the terrible truth, 'Lux facta est', with its descending B minor arpeggio. Walsh neatly touches on the sense of multiple meaning – ambiguity, enrichment? – at this moment, and this is an important nuance, since the 'sacrifice to Apollo' which can be found in _Oedipus_ 's immediate successor, the ballet _Apollon musagète_ , does not involve replacing tension and divergence, with resolution and convergence along the lines of the kind of simplistic tabulation employed in _Dialogues_. Rather, the tensions and divergences are less Dionysian, less assertive, less disruptive. It was the ending of _Apollon_ , not that of _Oedipus_ , which was provocatively described by the composer many years later as the nearest he ever came to the truly tragic: if a truly tragic note is sounded anywhere in my music, that note is in _Apollo_. Apollo's birth is tragic, I think, and the Apotheosis is every bit as tragic as Phèdre's line when she learns of the love of Hippolyte and Aricie – 'Tous les jours se levaient clairs et sereins pour eux' – though, of course, Racine and myself were both absolutely heartless people, and cold, cold. Tragic or not, that ending certainly reshapes those very ambiguities – between D major and B minor – which embody the terrible enlightening truth in the opera-oratorio. The ending of _Apollon musagète_ will be discussed in more detail later on. For the moment, it is enough to observe that these passages in _Oedipus_ and _Apollon_ both indicate the degree to which certainty, tinged with sorrow, summons up a musical expression in which celebration and lamentation co-exist. Those comments from _Dialogues_ suggest above all that, for Stravinsky, 'tragic' implies a state of unknowing innocence, a peculiarly human kind of vulnerability in which hope and optimism, both destined to be confounded, are at their most pure. If this is so, then I would be encouraged to reinforce my own reading of a tragic dimension in the otherwise barbaric 'Sacrificial dance' of _The Rite_ , a reading scorned by Taruskin as missing the main point of this musical celebration of the 'subhuman'. I would also see this aspect as evidence of the way in which Stravinsky's still very Russian music can be aligned with wider aesthetic as well as formal concepts in the stillevolving vortex of musical modernism. By the time we get to _Oedipus_ and _Apollon musagète_ , of course, the modernist context is very different from what it had been in 1912, and to compare the ending of _Oedipus_ with that of _Wozzeck_ – the most powerful near-contemporary Austro-German demonstration of the tragic vulnerability of innocent optimism – is certainly not to discover startling evidence of absolute stylistic or formal convergence. The parallelism is in the shared generic allusion, and the reliance of both composers on the particular emotional impact of ostinato. Seekers after similarity might also be struck by the role of G as a concluding centre for both _Wozzeck_ and _Oedipus_ , although Berg's post-tonal stratification is very different from Stravinsky's more homogenous modality. This comparison, blending formal and hermeneutic aspects, highlights the open-ended play of difference and similarity that such interpretative discourse facilitates. The similarities of _Affekt_ between the two works, and the degree to which the spirit of loss and regret is conveyed through focus on ostinato, do not override the complementary differences of texture and style, or of dramatic context. Neither differences nor similarities are absolute, but interdependent, interactive. Forming laments To the extent that Stravinsky, even at the height of his neoclassical phase, does not shy away from such representations of loss and regret, he shares fundamental aesthetic contexts with Schoenberg, Berg, Janáček, Bartók and Britten – to name only the most obvious near-contemporaries. It is not that Stravinsky stands for different things; rather, he expresses similar things in different ways. In my judgement, it is his capacity for what Walsh, in connection with the 'Lacrimosa' from _Requiem Canticles_ , terms 'intense lyrical outpouring' that does most to establish significant links between Stravinsky and other composers who have nothing to do with Russia and its specific musical traditions. At the same time, however, consideration of this topic takes us back to what is most personal to Stravinsky, namely the very individual way in which his view of 'the spirit of lamentation' is inextricably bound up with 'monotony – the sense of perpetual recurrence . . . and the simple inevitability of the cycle of birth, life and death'. On this matter, Walsh's comparison of _Les Noces_ and _Threni_ , brief though it is, is especially important. Most other scholars, working from within the established traditions of theory-based analysis, have shared Taruskin's preference for what amounts to an essentially formal context (though normally without the detailed perspectives on the music's Russian aura which are Taruskin's speciality). For example, both Martha Hyde and Chandler Carter make stimulating observations, but they do not extend beyond the refinement of our understanding of Stravinsky's modernist techniques. Hyde, writing about the start of the slow movement of the Octet, homes in on a central Stravinskian characteristic, that 'allusion to a dominant-tonic cadence' which is allusive rather than actual simply because octatonic structures intrude and block an authentic tonal cadence; octatonicism here remains superimposed over a D-minor tonality, both octatonicism and tonality maintaining their identities despite their superimposition. The inevitable ambiguities this superimposition creates are essential features of the theme. The clash of diatonic and octatonic elements creates an equilibrium that resists fusion or synthesis. Similarly, Carter, in his telling analysis of the 'Duettino' from Act III, scene 3 of _The Rake's Progress_ , demonstrates that 'the subtle play and inherent ambiguity between the tonal and the non-tonal can be sensitively gauged without dismissing or ignoring the role of either'. Such music demands 'a pluralistic analytical approach . . . to unlock the mysteries and delights of works in which play with style substitutes for play within a style'. Both Hyde and Carter have much more to say about these topics, but a quite different way of exploring modernist ambivalence is found in the following: In surprising ways [the work] seems to _remember_ and then abandon the musical language of its historical antecedents. Passages that employ harsh, strident dissonance give way to ones that evoke the sweetness of tonality, only to reemerge and begin the process again. Passages where the shape of musical phrases have only the most tenuous connection to [the composer's] precursors give way to ones whose phrase shapes have clear connections to the past . . . In sum, within the [work] a radically new musical discourse confronts a host of historical references. This statement could obviously be applied to a wide range of twentieth-century works, but the fact that Michael Cherlin is writing about Schoenberg's String Trio of 1946 naturally raises the question of whether the kind of analytical contexts he establishes for this composer might also prove relevant to Stravinsky. Cherlin develops a pair of rhetorical tropes – _imperfection_ and _distraction_ – in order to bring an expressive dimension to bear on the 'old/new' dialectic of his initial formulation. ' _Distraction_ . . . describes the ways in which an anticipated musical trajectory, such as phrase completion or thematic continuation, is disrupted, and the dramatic and emotional sense of that disruption as well. _Imperfection_ . . . conveys a sense of incompletion, which in our context is the result of a _distraction_. Thus the two tropes, distraction and imperfection, work as a pair, with the former leading the latter.' Cherlin believes that these tropes 'generalize well and can be used to inform interpretations of most of Schoenberg's music, as well as that of other composers'. This is undoubtedly true, and it is clear that their propensity for generalisation is due in large part to their comprehensiveness. Both _imperfection_ and _distraction_ , as defined above, embody oppositions, while also – from a more Stravinskian perspective – acknowledging the Schoenbergian tendency to give Dionysus priority over Apollo. It would indeed be absurd to argue that the technical parameters and expressive qualities of such 'distraction' and 'imperfection' as we might detect in Stravinsky are identical to Schoenberg's. Yet Chandler Carter's discussion of 'subtle play . . . between the tonal and non-tonal' is evidence of strategies that link the two composers, and the specific consequences of the type of rhetorical play discussed by Cherlin, creating (in Schoenberg's String Trio, and many other pieces) 'an equilibrium that is suggested and negated throughout the work', is very much the kind of modernist dialogue in which Stravinskian and Schoenbergian qualities begin to converge. Marking the genre Full exploration of the analytical consequences of this topic would therefore proceed from form to rhetoric. In the area of form, Cherlin's comment, with respect to Schoenberg's Trio, that 'the evocations of tonality, built into the tone row, imply and then deny closure', might seem to rule out parallels with any of Stravinsky's works before the mid 1950s. Yet we need only recall Hyde's analysis of the Octet movement, or look at other discussions of Stravinskian closure which observe the inherent ambiguity of the processes at work (as in Rehding's study of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_), to be aware that the basic principle of calling tonality (as a means of ensuring satisfyingly unambivalent completion) into question is fundamental in both instances, however different the atmosphere or style of the works cited. It is nevertheless precisely to that difference of atmosphere, of style, that the rhetorical or hermeneutic analysis must most decisively address itself. For Cherlin, the expressive character of Schoenberg's Trio is determined, in large part, by the way the composer treats one particular generic allusion, to the waltz. Building on what is known about the autobiographical impulse behind the Trio – Schoenberg's near-death from a heart attack and his avowed intention of embodying this experience in the composition – Cherlin argues that the musical imagery in general, and the waltz allusions in particular, reflect the recognition of an ultimately plural if not ambiguous sense that, in the ultimate human struggle between life and death, both states can be associated with peace and fulfilment. 'With the emergence of the waltz, the listener first apprehends the potential for repose and balance that the returning fragments will cumulatively suggest as the work unfolds'; and it is 'the contrast of those fragments with the other musical material in which they are embedded' that 'brings the tropes of distraction and imperfection into particular relief'. Cherlin believes that 'Schoenberg's music exemplifies the kind of art that gains density of meaning through conflicting forces'. To the extent that those forces have no need to move from coherent equilibrium to integration, synthesis or unambiguous closure, Schoenberg's 'kind of art' is modernist; and so is Stravinsky's. Nevertheless, Schoenberg makes use of old/new dialogues to explore aspects of more lyrical, more regular, more traditionally tonal and romantic allusions as set against the expressionistic disruptions of music that places such allusions into the most powerful relief. Stravinsky (at least after _The Rite of Spring_ ) uses old/new dialogues in a more restrained, Apollonian fashion. Yet in a work contemporary with the Schoenberg Trio – the ballet _Orpheus_ – the culminating progression from the violent 'Pas d'action', in which 'the Bacchantes attack Orpheus, seize him and tear him to pieces', to the serene 'Apotheosis' in which Apollo 'appears . . . wrests the lyre from Orpheus and raises his song heavenwards', shows that the contrast between Dionysian disruption and Apollonian order is still palpable. Though Stephen Walsh argues of _Orpheus_ that 'even its violent episodes are played with restraint', and that 'the killing and apotheosis of Orpheus stand for the taming and ordering of those orgiastic elements which music took over from the Dionysian rituals of primitive culture', Daniel Albright discusses the work in terms of its 'desperation, ecstasy' and 'madness'. Even if 'expressionistic disruptions' are replaced with 'objective' mechanistic patterning, this is set against a kind of lyric expression, and a concern to allude to matters of life and death, as potent in its way as Schoenberg's, or Berg's. Conflicting forces Writing of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , Stephen Walsh says that the work 'had distilled the ethnic style into a kind of pure formal essence, of which it really did seem true to say that "the play of musical elements is the thing"'. Walsh refers to 'Stravinsky's image of a music that ruthlessly excludes anecdote and nuance, a music which, so to speak, proves the primacy of form by refusing to admit anything not demonstrably (and in the most primitive sense of the word) "formal"'. The distillation which the _Symphonies_ represents does not exclude certain very palpable generic allusions – to song, dance, celebration, lament – whose presence, far from the accidental results of the composer's failure to enforce his own logic of abstraction, are essential aspects of the music's integration of form and content. Even in the _Symphonies_ we can sense Apollo constraining Dionysus, not ensuring his total absence, and this remains Stravinsky's governing 'tone' thereafter. If _The Rite of Spring_ is Stravinsky's most explicit demonstration of a conjunction between Dionysus and modernism, then such later works as _Orpheus_ exemplify, not so much a whole-hearted rejection of modernism, as a refined and complex conjunction between modernising and classicising impulses. In the light of the comments about the Apollonian principle that occur in Stravinsky's _Autobiography_ , we might expect the ballet _Apollon musagète_ to offer unambiguous illustrations of the composer's preference for 'studied conception over vagueness, the rule over the arbitrary, order over the haphazard'. In spirit, the ballet's concluding movement, 'Apothéose', in which Apollo is led by the Muses to Parnassus, is indeed worlds away from the corybantic frenzy of _The Rite of Spring_ 's 'Sacrificial dance'. Yet, as the _Poetics_ confirms, Stravinsky's understanding of Apollonian classicism did not require him to abandon the techniques of polarisation, and of dialogue between convergence and divergence, which had served the Dionysian spirit of _Petrushka_ and _The Rite_ so well. Apollo's demand, the lectures state, is that 'for the lucid ordering of the work . . . all the Dionysian elements which set the imagination of the artist in motion must be properly subjugated before they intoxicate us, and must finally be made to submit to the law', with the consequence that 'variety is valid only as a means of attaining similarity'. This would appear to rule out modernist multiplicity, and yet the music of _Apollon musagète_ , while obviously much smoother in rhythm and more consonant in harmony than that of _The Rite_ , as well as less 'nationalist' in melodic character, indicates very clearly that Stravinskian similarity need not mean _stability_ , in the sense of traditionally classical unity and resolution. Polarity in the 'Apothéose' (Ex. 3.1) is represented most basically by the tonal centres of D and B which are both implied by the two-sharp key signature, and it is as unsatisfactory to interpret what happens as a clear-cut progression from D major to B minor as it is to argue that the two tonics are irreconcilable opposites. The final chord, certainly, is one of B minor, but the context in which it occurs renders its status as tonic less stable than would be the case if that context were more conventionally diatonic. Another, no less important aspect of the dialogue between convergence and divergence here is the interaction, and also the preserved separation, between the various textural strata. This is of considerable importance to the character of the final section of the 'Apothéose', from one bar before fig. 101. In the upper stratum, the first violins, doubled two octaves lower by the first cellos, repeat the final motivic unit of the main melody, whose lyric character is fundamental to the grave serenity of the musical atmosphere – Stravinsky's uniquely 'cool' spirit of tragic vulnerability and loss. This motive decorates the central B with notes which, if considered as arpeggiating a chord, create a sense of dissonance, even though, separately, both F♯ and G find consonant support in the lower voices. The lowest stratum (which could be subdivided) comprises the ostinatos in second cello (with its initial six-beat pattern) and in double bass (with its initial four-beat pattern). Although these lines finally converge on an agreed progression from G to B, they spend most of the six bars in question offering distinct perspectives on their shared Ds and Bs. The second cellos retain the D-supporting As and F♯s, while the basses have only a G which, in a conventional diatonic context, would support D as tonic more strongly than B. The third, central stratum, in second violins and violas, begins in step with the four-beat ostinato in the bass. While its principal pitches – D and F♯ – have obvious relevance to the prevailing polarities, the linear unfolding of the actual ostinato figures, in which the upper and lower neighbours of F♯ are prominent, contributes significantly to the special, destabilised harmony. This third stratum also supports the opposition between symmetric (B/F♮) and asymmetric (B and F♯) features at the end, something to which Stravinsky could have recourse even when his music was not officially octatonic. So far this analysis has followed through the implications of a Taruskinstyle formal stock-taking. But switching to a more Cherlinesque view of rhetoric allows us to note the expressive force of the contrast between the 'mechanistic' ostinatos of the lower strata and the fined-down lyrical melody of the upper stratum. The mood is not as ritualistically funereal as in several other Stravinsky finales – for example, that of _Requiem Canticles_ , discussed below – and there are less explicit generic allusions behind this processional music than for the earlier movements of the ballet. But it would be wholly inadequate to speak of 'a kind of pure formal essence', in which 'the play of the musical elements is the thing' and we willingly exclude – joyfully or otherwise – the kind of nuances of expression which derive from the associations which the music sets up with those precedents and precursors it cannot hope to escape. It was, after all, this closing section of _Apollon musagète_ that provoked the greatest admiration in some of the composer's most sceptical critics. For Boris Asaf'yev, 'the hymn is itself justification for the whole work. Listening to it, one forgets the motley mosaic and eclecticism of the other pages of the score'; and Prokofiev declared that, 'on the very last page of the work . . . he has shone and managed to make even his disgusting main theme sound convincing'. As Walsh notes, 'in _Oedipus Rex_ and _Apollo_ , neoclassicism was openly making its peace with the irrational, with passion and fear, and, at the end of _Apollo_ , with a mysterious, otherworldly purity that Schloezer was quick to see as an intimation of the sacramental.' Ex. 3.1 _Apollon musagète,_ 'Apothéose' Schloezer's view was that, after _Apollon musagète_ , Stravinsky 'can no longer give us anything but a Mass'. Nevertheless, one does not have to reach for association with the genres of sacred music to find a sufficiently resonant context for an ending whose processional solemnity reaches back through features of the Serenade in A and Piano Concerto to memories of the majestic, march-like transitions in _Parsifal_. The models of Stravinsky's two earlier B-centred conclusions – _The Firebird_ and _Les Noces_ – establish a link between that tonality and solemn processional music, though both are far more conclusive in their cadencing than the 'Apothéose'. There is indeed a 'sacramental' quality to the 'mysterious . . . purity' of _Apollon_ 's ending: and this might even be felt to reinforce the fundamental quality of separation between celebrants (dancers) and spectators. It is the spectators' sense of loss which the sorrowing quality of the music depicts, while at the same time it represents the transfiguring apotheosis of Apollo and his attendant Muses. However, given the particular spirit that Stravinsky associated with the dithyramb – as most explicitly in the finale of the _Duo concertant_ , which is more Apollonian than Dionysian – it is perhaps this elusive yet numinous genre which fits most closely with the qualities to be heard in _Apollon_ 's 'Apothéose'. This analysis, as far as it goes, only hints at the kind of topics that could be involved in an appropriately detailed study of those musical elements which connect Stravinsky to his contemporaries. For example, the fining-down of thematic content, supported by various ostinatos, in the 'Apothéose' suggests the closural technique defined by Schoenberg as 'liquidation', and the _dolce_ ending of Schoenberg's String Quartet No. 3 (1927) – contemporary with _Apollon_ – is by no means remote in technique or character from the Stravinsky work, despite its twelve-note basis. Both the thematic fining-down and the ostinato-based accompaniment effect an ending which is far from decisively closural in the traditional, classical sense. Such similarities are far from invariable, of course, and the ways in which these composers create endings that are more decisive than dissolving (Schoenberg's Variations for Orchestra, Stravinsky's _Symphony of_ _Psalms_ ) also reinforce differences of tone and spirit. As already pointed out, Schoenberg's contrapuntal propensities ensured that he only rarely fined down his textures to the chorale-like simplicity which was so important to Stravinsky. Although the wistful mood of the Third Quartet's ending is comparable to the regretful sublimity of _Apollon_ 's 'Apothéose', for an instance of Schoenberg's ability to embody expressions of loss and sorrow in ways quite different from Stravinsky's, one need look no further than the overtly emotional ending of _Moses und Aron_ (Act 2). Cherlin's consideration of that 'density of meaning through conflicting forces' in Schoenberg is no less relevant to a music of preserved polarities rather than resolving synthesis, like that of _Apollon_. It is nevertheless worth repeating my earlier comment at this point: 'what is intriguing, when comparisons are attempted between Stravinsky and his German contemporaries, is the very allusiveness and ambiguity of relations between their different approaches to parallel generic, expressive contexts'. Nor do 'allusiveness and ambiguity' diminish when Stravinsky's later, twelve-note compositions are brought into the picture. Ritual and regret The similarity/difference relation of Stravinsky to Schoenberg is arguably never more resonant than in Stravinsky's last twelve-note movement, the Postlude to the _Requiem Canticles_ , and the specific allusions to lyrical and ritual celebration that it embodies. Much interest has already been shown in the generic and semiotic aspects of this music, especially its associations with chorale and dirge. But it is no less salient to suggest that, even in this relatively simple structure, the funereal character of the music has binary rather than singular connotations. In particular, I do not hear the sustained horn line as especially integrative or supportive. To me, it has an almost romantic tone, an echo of lyric lament against the impersonal, ritual bell sounds, and we can hear both the opposition and the interaction, a specifically modernist sense of order as structurally relevant to the circumstances Stravinsky had established in this work. Some will prefer the interaction, even perhaps to the extent of feeling that the movement resolves in favour of a single, F-based sonority. Others will prefer the preserved equilibrium between incompatible strategies, promoted by the mediation of the chords in harp, piano and flutes. The Postlude is the ultimate demonstration of Stravinsky's rejection of Austro-German _espressivo_ in all its fractured and frantic glory. The blend of the lyrical and ritualistic in the Postlude, its combination of a sense of regret with quiet celebration of eternal Christian truths, recalls that concluding, 'cold' apotheosis of _Apollon musagète_ which, for Stravinsky, best represented his own personal sense of the tragic spirit, and the feature which, above all, defined his distance from Schoenbergian rhetoric. The post-expressionist trope of 'imperfection and distraction' might therefore appear to have little power here. Yet that basic sense of tension between the centrifugal and the centripetal which underpins Cherlin's reading of Schoenberg's language in the String Trio is a factor in Stravinsky's Postlude as well, as the horn's outlined F minor triad unfolds against the atonal processional chords. Once again, comparable techniques serve radically different styles of expression. So, while it will not do to fine down the complex and intriguing interactions between these composers to a slogan like Mikhail Druskin's – Stravinsky's 'ideal was . . . "unstable stability", as opposed to Schoenberg's which might equally be described as "stable instability"' – the rewards of considering the two in terms of what they share as well as of what divides them are undeniable. This chapter has argued that it is valuable to consider Stravinsky in a context that does not focus exclusively on his Russian past, or his personal, self-determined 'present', but on the possibility of dialogues, between him and other major composers, that point to a shared nexus – flexible, multivalent, interactive – of 'topical' and generic associations. There is a no less fundamental sense of composers coming after Stravinsky building on features directly relevant to those dialogues: composers like Carter, Maxwell Davies and many others, whose debts to Stravinsky seem to facilitate an engagement with that wider ethos of stylistic attributes in which what is opposed yet complementary invites and stimulates further exploration – amounting, it might even appear, to a late-century mainstream. And even with composers for whom Stravinsky's tone of voice seems to have little relevance – Ligeti, Kurtág – connections can be traced by way of comparable generic concerns, with lyric lamentation, for example. Like the Table of Comparisons with Schoenberg in _Dialogues_ , such 'connections' might be felt to offer little more than a rudimentary sense of difference. But they are important nevertheless as a means of guarding against any tendency to categorise composers solely by means of their 'individual' traits within an otherwise open-endedly 'plural' culture. In the end, Stravinsky is a great composer because he survives these comparisons with his individuality enhanced, and not because his individuality renders comparisons irrelevant. PART II The works 4 ANTHONY POPLE Early Stravinsky When one examines the earliest works of a great composer, it is almost inevitably with hindsight that one does so. Hearing the earlier works through the portal that the later, more well-known works supply can be a strange experience, through which hindsight often hardens into self-reassurance. Does one hear a familiar foretaste of this here, a pre-echo of that there? Is there a discernible quality to the early works that is evident to us today, but which contemporary listeners seem to have overlooked? Such questions are easy to ask and carry a hint of smugness, but, conversely, is anything to be gained by turning the presumptions around – by dwelling, for example, on the ordinariness that allowed the composer's contemporaries to remain unaware of the genius in their midst? Surely not: for such inversion merely preserves the same impoverished agenda in negative. Questions of style impinge on the assessment of 'early' works in ways that demand examination in the present context. Consider the early works of Mozart as an alternative case to those of Stravinsky: as Charles Rosen has famously argued, the received idea of the 'classical style' is defined for us today by the mature works of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, rather than by the music of their many accomplished contemporaries. It is not that Mozart's music is recognised as similar to that of, say, J. C. Bach, Kozeluch and Kraus, and can be measured against it, revealing Mozart's 'superiority'. On the contrary, in fact: the works of these other composers, and many more, are liable to be heard against the yardstick that our familiarity with Mozart's work provides, and so to be regarded as inferior. Listening to Mozart's own earliest, childhood works provides much the same experience, for the same reason. One important distinction between Mozart's and Stravinsky's eras, however, is the comparative homogeneity of style in the former period, as opposed to the evident diversity of the early twentieth century. The sheer variety of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century music means that hearing Stravinsky's early works in relation to those of his contemporaries and predecessors, and of course in relation to his own later compositions, is a complex business. Add to this the fact that the mature Stravinsky is well known as a magpie consumer and purveyor of musical styles, and the plot thickens further. One factor which emerges as much from the study of his earlier works as from the late ones is his persistent use of other music as models: in doing so, he managed – by and large – to avoid resorting to _self_ -parody in the way that many less impressive composers of the twentieth century were inclined to do. The seeds of this were certainly sown in his early twenties. Family beginnings Before that, Stravinsky's very earliest compositions constitute no more than a modest trace of his constant but unambitious engagement with the art of music – an engagement that was conditioned above all by family circumstances. Music naturally formed part of the leisured life of a member of the landowning class to which the Stravinskys belonged; but as the son of the most feted Russian operatic bass of the day, the young Igor Fyodorovich's musical life was fuller than most. He attended the opera 'five or six nights a week', and also went to rehearsals; he got to know the performers, was well placed to meet prominent composers, and became familiar with both the standard Russian repertoire and the latest trends. But one must not imagine that this was a professionalised sphere of activity to which Stravinsky gained easy access at an early age: on the contrary, the strain of amateurism that was ingrained in nineteenth-century Russian musical life was still very much apparent, and the young Stravinsky's own activities as a musician were dilettantish – rooted for the time being in the leisured world of his mother's family rather than in his father's work. His first surviving composition, the fragmentary _Tarantella_ for piano (1898), seems to have resulted from an attempt to write down one of many improvisations which the enthusiastic but untutored teenager made at the piano. As he explained ten years later, 'I improvised endlessly and enjoyed it immensely, [but] I was unable to write down what I played. I ascribed this to my lack of theoretical knowledge.' Considerably more accomplished technically is the Pushkin song 'Storm Cloud', dated 25 January 1902 (OS), which is well shaped and makes coherent if rather obsessive use of enharmonic progressions. A harmonic summary of part of the song's central section is given in Ex. 4.1: note the progression in bars 23–5, initially from an A minor triad to an F minor triad, whose A♭ is enharmonically reinterpreted as G♯ in the following diminished seventh chord, which in turn resolves to another A minor triad; the same pattern is immediately repeated in sequence from bar 27. The basic outline of this progression has, in fact, already been heard in the tonic key of E minor within the principal material of the song (at bars 8ff) and is hinted at in the accompaniment to the opening melody (bar 5) – all of this suggesting not so much that Stravinsky was using the progression as a device to unify the song, but that he was using the song as an opportunity to practise using the progression. The distance in accomplishment between the _Tarantella_ and 'Storm Cloud' reflects the fact that Stravinsky had been taking tuition in harmony since November 1901 with Fyodor Akimenko, a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov. Stravinsky would later write that 'Until I began to take lessons in harmony from Akimenko, you might say that I ripened in ignorance.' Ex. 4.1 'Storm Cloud' (1902), bars 23–38, harmonic summary Richard Taruskin's opinion that Akimenko would have taught Stravinsky using Rimsky-Korsakov's _Practical Course in Harmony_ is surely justified, and indeed it was not long before Rimsky himself was offering encouragement to the young Stravinsky, whose music ('Storm Cloud' perhaps included) he saw for the first time in the summer of 1902. But he was not yet ready to offer tuition, even to the son of the great opera singer: for the time being, Stravinsky continued his studies under Vasily Kalafati, another Rimsky pupil, who (according to Stravinsky's later recollection) demanded 'the usual exercises' of him and was 'scornful of the "interesting new chords" that young composers care about most'. One may surmise that it was for the painstaking but conservative Kalafati that Stravinsky composed the Scherzo in G minor for piano (1902) – an undistinguished work, somewhat reminiscent of Tchaikovsky, which occupies but a single page of manuscript. At home with the Korsakovs After his father's death in November 1902, the Rimsky-Korsakov circle became Stravinsky's home from home, not least because relations with his mother became strained on account of her disapproval of his musical activities. He had got to know the fifty-eight-year-old composer's sons, Andrey and Vladimir, at university, and became a regular attender of the fort-nightly musical evenings held in the Rimsky-Korsakov household. Stravinsky's role in these gatherings seems often to have been that of court jester: he later recalled that 'In my University years . . . I composed many comic songs', and these were certainly appreciated by V. V. Yastrebtsev, a devotee of the musical evenings, who noted on 6 March 1903 (OS) that 'Stravinsky entertained us with very charming and witty musical jokes of his own invention'. Also into this category fall the so-called Cantata for the sixtieth birthday of Rimsky-Korsakov (1904) and the song 'Conductor and Tarantula' (1906). Another song, 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War' (1904), acquired in Taruskin's view particular significance as a souvenir of these early days for the aged Stravinsky, containing as it does a multitude of references to his father's vocal repertoire – and yet it is also reasonable to observe that the song's stylistic borrowings from Musorgsky, Borodin and others (including Rimsky-Korsakov himself) were in the first instance part and parcel of a humorous approach taken for the benefit of an audience steeped in knowledge of the musical originals. With hindsight, this aspect of Stravinsky's musical apprentice years seems rather more exciting, by and large, than the fruits of his formal studies. Yet at the time it must have been more important to him that his serious work was successful. The Piano Sonata in F♯ minor (1903–4) and Symphony in E♭ (1905–7) record this stage in his development. The Sonata marked the culmination of his work with Kalafati, though according to Stravinsky it also incorporated 'many suggestions by Rimsky-Korsakov'. In contrast to the older styles parodied in 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War', its principal models were the contemporary Russian heavyweights Glazunov and Skryabin. In Taruskin's words, 'The sonata's high-gloss finish is little short of amazing only five or six years after the _Tarantella_ ', yet in old age the composer could not – or more likely _would_ not – recall his youthful work in favourable terms, famously calling it 'fortunately lost' and feigning a belief that it had been an 'inept imitation of late Beethoven'. Only the fact that the whereabouts of the manuscript were at that time (1962) unknown allowed Stravinsky to publish these comments unchallenged; but when the work resurfaced in Russia a few years later and was printed after the composer's death, it became clear that his characterisation of it had been false. The work is in four movements, the third and fourth of which are played without a pause – and, as Taruskin points out, both this feature and the tempo pattern of the four movements is taken from another sonata in F♯ minor, Skryabin's Third (1898). But as one frequently finds in Glazunov's music, form and content seem to arise separately: in terms of its musical substance, Stravinsky's sonata seems little more than an imitation (inept or not) of Glazunov and Tchaikovsky. This was not, then, a student work engaging in parody of classical models so as to gain basic technical competence, but a serious attempt to work in the contemporary Russian manner. By showing proficiency in the Glazunovian style, however superficially, Stravinsky was establishing himself in a way that promised to satisfy a deep emotional need. Glazunov was half a generation older than Stravinsky: precocious and fabulously gifted, he had responded to Rimsky's teaching by picking up the musical traits of his teacher's generation and deploying them in a fluent succession of works, many of which were cast in conventional forms. Though history has been unkind to Glazunov, his successful career was a beacon for the younger Rimsky pupils – far more so than that of the indolent Anatol Lyadov – and Rimsky evidently saw the makings of a musical dynasty in the succession from himself to Glazunov to those of Stravinsky's age. The prospect of admittance to this dynasty at the head of the 'young Korsakovians' was alluring for Stravinsky, whose own family relationships were far from close, except with his younger brother Goury. The Symphony in E♭ promised to be the work with which Stravinsky would establish these credentials. Completed under Rimsky's tuition, it was his designated Op. 1 – though it took so long to appear that Op. 2 was actually finished first. Stravinsky's private lessons with Rimsky took place weekly, beginning in the autumn of 1905 and ending only with the older man's death in June 1908; prior to this, in the summer of 1904, Stravinsky had studied orchestration with Rimsky – who used the simple but profound technique of giving pupils his own music in short score and, in due course, having them compare their orchestrations with his. The Symphony was, in fact, sketched between these dates, probably during the first nine months or so of 1905. Perhaps Stravinsky thought he could make quick progress on his own: the account he gives in his _Autobiography_ of his studies with Rimsky-Korsakov seems intended to suggest a constructive and well-ordered progression. However, as Taruskin has established, when Rimsky saw the draft of the Symphony, he instigated far-reaching changes. These affected the first movement in particular: Stravinsky's stilted opening theme was over the course of several laborious attempts turned into something that at least had the potential to set in train a symphonic argument, though both the theme and the movement as a whole remain far from inspired, even in the final version. Comparing this music with Glazunov's (particularly his Eighth Symphony, in the same key) serves to emphasise that the older man was a master of the idiom he had established – his ear, his technique and his orchestration far outshine Stravinsky's. None the less, many passages in the young composer's Op. 1 possess considerable charm – the second movement, a scherzo, is the high point – and this was a quality appreciated by its earliest audiences. What is more, Glazunov's expressed opinion was that the work was 'very nice, very nice'. A voice of his own In guiding Stravinsky's revision of the Symphony in E♭ , Rimsky-Korsakov seems to have constantly encouraged Stravinsky to improve on his own weakest inventions by following specific models. Thus, it might at first sight seem strange to read in Yastrebtsev's reminiscences, in an entry dated 4 November 1907 (OS), that: In Rimsky-Korsakov's opinion, Igor Stravinsky's talent has not yet become sufficiently defined. For example, in the fourth movement of his First Symphony, he is still imitating Glazunov too much, and in his new songs (to words by Gorodetsky) he has embraced modernism too zealously. What are we to make of this? For one thing, it confirms the inordinately slow progress of Stravinsky's Symphony, which had only recently been completed, for the Gorodetsky songs were to be his Op. 6 – and that is not to say that all the intervening works had been finished either! Above all, it indicates that Stravinsky was, now, by no means Rimsky's star pupil in the older man's eyes, though he might at one stage have seemed the natural leader of the 'young Korsakovians'. This position had been taken over in the meanwhile by Maximilian Steinberg (1883–1946), whose role as the 'creative heir' of Rimsky-Korsakov was symbolised by his marriage to Rimsky's daughter, Nadezhda, in the summer of 1908; within a few months, Glazunov and Steinberg would be to the 'Korsakovians' what Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov had been before Rimsky's death. Glazunov certainly felt that Stravinsky had some basic deficiencies in ability and technique, but one wonders whether Rimsky might have kept faith with Stravinsky if he had been a quicker pupil. In fact, despite the slow progress of his Symphony, Stravinsky continued with a sequence of assignments akin to those undertaken by composition students at the St Petersburg Conservatoire – which is to say that his Sonata and Symphony were to be followed by vocal music and opera. His Op. 2 was a cycle of three songs for mezzo-soprano and orchestra to words by Pushkin, _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ (1906). Once again the debt to Glazunov is inescapable – the opening of the first song seems to have been virtually lifted. Certainly this first song, and to some extent the second, come across today as more tender and successful essays than the Symphony in essentially the same contemporary Russian vein. But there is also a hint, in the unmistakable Wagnerisms of the third song, that Rimsky's ambivalence towards Stravinsky was beginning to be matched by the pupil's developing interest in styles beyond the models approved by his teacher. Indeed, the first of the Gorodetsky songs – the one which, in Rimsky's view, 'embraced modernism too zealously' – is striking in its expansion of Stravinsky's harmonic thinking. In response to the poet's highly charged religious-erotic image of a novice nun – a bell-ringer's daughter – lamenting her lost love at the cloister gates, the piano begins with a crazed imitation of pealing bells. The phrase leading to the first vocal entry is shown in Ex. 4.2: as the left hand descends through a cycle of perfect fourths, the busy right-hand figuration rises in contrary motion to suggest an alternation of dominant ninth chords and bitriadic combinations at a major third's distance (e.g. D major underpinned by B♭). The freedom of the harmonic progressions throughout the outer sections of the song is evidence that these advanced harmonic archetypes were merely a background to Stravinsky's invention; in contrast, the song's central section uses mock folksong to embrace a pastoral mood, still with religious-erotic overtones. This was certainly not music for a comfortable 'at home' with the Korsakovs. Ex. 4.2 'Spring', Op. 6, no. 1, bars 9–11 The second song – composed in August the following year, after Rimsky's death – confirms Stravinsky's modernism by exploring a musical vein that one finds a few years later in some of the early songs of, for example, Lourié and Prokofiev. Wistful in tone, it is less strikingly adventurous than the first song but oozes confidence on the part of the composer. Often the music focuses on a pedal note, and many of its haunting sonorities result from adding a minor sixth to the major triad, or a raised leading note to the minor triad. Sometimes these combinations are reversed, and in general the use of major harmony as _variant_ of the minor – developing the mood without relieving it – lends the music a particular piquancy. Strangely, the Four Studies for piano, Op. 7, which seem to have been completed in the autumn of 1908, are backward-looking by comparison: their reliance on Skryabin's early style as a model is far from convincing. Almost hidden amidst Stravinsky's early output of shorter pieces is one which sounds uncannily like something he might have written twenty years later: the _Pastorale_ for vocalise (wordless voice) and piano. This brief song without words was composed for Nadezhda Rimsky-Korsakov in October 1907. Its engaging lightweight manner and lack of an opus number tell us that it belongs with Stravinsky's extra-curricular music – the 'very charming and witty musical jokes of his own invention' that amused Yastrebtsev and the others. Taruskin suggests that the _Pastorale_ was written in playful imitation of some of the harpsichord music in French Baroque style that Stravinsky probably heard Wanda Landowska perform in St Petersburg earlier that year. Many commentators have remarked on the apparently prophetic nature of this piece: certainly it gives food for the thought that in working his way towards his neoclassical manner through the humour of _Renard_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ and _Pulcinella_ , the later Stravinsky may to some extent have returned, virtually unnoticed, to that side of his earliest musical personality with which the 'Korsakovians' were most comfortable. _Scherzo fantastique_ , Op. 3 (1907–8), _Fireworks_ , Op. 4 (1908) In the two orchestral works that followed the belated completion of his Symphony, Stravinsky achieved an early plateau of style that points firmly in the direction of _The Firebird_. Both the _Scherzo fantastique_ and _Fireworks_ are showy, programmatic pieces, with strong rhythmic characterisation and a sense of energetic movement. Unless one imagines that _The Firebird_ came from nowhere, then these two scores, particularly the _Scherzo_ , must be understood as the ballet's musico-dramatic point of departure. But it suited Stravinsky's purpose to disguise this: he sought to cover up, or at least occlude, the programmatic basis of the _Scherzo fantastique_ in Maeterlinck's book _La Vie des abeilles_ (The life of bees) even before the work's first performance early in 1909 – though the inspiration he took from the play is evident from his letters to Rimsky-Korsakov. Whereas critics in the decades around the turn of the twentieth century argued endlessly about the comparative merits of 'absolute' and 'programme' music, many composers hedged their bets, as the young Stravinsky did here. The music was composed with a programmatic basis but presented to the public under a classically generic musical title ('scherzo'), qualified by the suggestion that the work embodies 'fantasy' – which was evidently a quality to be admired – and without divulging the composer's reliance on an existing source. It was a method which also removed the obligation to give credit to the author of his inspiration – in this case, Maurice Maeterlinck. None the less, the _Scherzo fantastique_ was firmly associated with bees a few years later when it served as the score for a ballet entitled _Les Abeilles_ that was produced at the Paris Opéra in 1917. On this occasion, since neither Stravinsky nor Maeterlinck had given his permission for the adaptation, both could appear to be outraged. The score was then published with a prefatory note that seems to correspond with the ballet's scenario – which was derived, as it happens, from Maeterlinck's _La Vie des abeilles_ – but again without acknowledging Maeterlinck explicitly. After all this, one can perhaps forgive the older Stravinsky's attempts to deny that Maeterlinck's book had ever played a part in the work. Taruskin has characteristically sought to restore the original detail to this picture, by outlining correspondences between the book and the music, but so strong is the musical imagery that even the score's prefatory note – later disowned by Stravinsky – is enough to guide the listener. After a brief introduction, the busy string music that opens the first main section of the work is easy to associate with the buzzing of bees around the hive. As the music develops, Stravinsky unveils many of the characteristic devices that would reappear in _The Firebird_. Chief amongst these is the artificial scale of alternating whole tones and semitones, known today as the octatonic scale: for example C–D♭ –E♭ –E–F♯– G–A–B♭ (other versions begin on C♯ and D, but the next higher example, on E , turns out to be exactly the same as the version on C, owing to the internal symmetry of the scale itself). The word 'octatonic' could, in principle, be applied to _any_ eight-note collection, but present-day usage signals the fact that in the intervening years this particular scale has come to be so widely shared by musicians that no other eight-note configuration is likely to be confused with it. In the early twentieth century, on the other hand, non-diatonic collections with a well-defined musical character tended to go under various names alluding to their use by certain composers, or their supposed origins in non-Western musical exotica. In Russian musical circles of this time, what we now call the octatonic collection was known as the 'Rimsky-Korsakov scale'; and by this was understood not only the bald eight notes but also a whole repertoire of usages, most if not all of which were imbibed by his pupils through his harmony text. Indeed, other enharmonic devices were included under this rubric, the common feature being the division of the octave into equal intervals: two tritones, three major thirds or four minor thirds. The use by Debussy and other French composers of the scale of six equal whole tones was a further step in this direction. It was typical of Rimsky-Korsakov that those passages in his works that invoked these devices tended to use them relentlessly in sequence, and that they would be set against a generally more conventional background of the kind that was absorbed and developed by Glazunov. Thus, in Rimsky's music, they generally remain tricks of the trade: the idea of bringing them into a modernist framework was not what he had in mind. Nor indeed was it yet in Stravinsky's, although the ingredients were in place. Keeping contrasted elements separate was something he would famously return to in the block-like architecture of, say, the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , but at this stage in his career it served to delay a linguistic synthesis that would become fully evident for the first time in _The Rite of Spring_. The octatonic scale includes many conventional sonorities – four each of major and minor triads, dominant, diminished and half-diminished sevenths – and it was common practice to cycle through these in upward or downward sequence. Stravinsky had learned the additional effectiveness that was to be gained from combining upward and downward sequences within a complex orchestral texture, as shown in Ex. 4.3: here the horns (later trumpets) move upwards in tritones, whilst the flutes and celesta move downwards in figures that outline successive major triads. Other sources are apparent in the contrasting middle section of the work, particularly Wagner in his _Meistersinger_ vein. The work, then, is something of an odd mixture, but as even the aged Stravinsky was forced to acknowledge, it is 'a promising opus three'. Ex. 4.3 _Scherzo fantastique_ , fig. 7 In his dedication of _Fireworks_ to Maximilian and Nadezhda Steinberg, one can see Stravinsky with his Op. 4 still clinging to a place in the Korsakov circle. The work is both shorter, and simpler in structure, than the _Scherzo fantastique_ : its hyperactive outer sections buzz even more than the _Scherzo_ 's 'bees', and in much the same style – though here perhaps it is the incessant spitting and popping of small incendiary devices that is meant. As in the _Scherzo_ , much of the substance lies in the orchestration: indeed, when Stravinsky illustrates louder explosions, rockets and so forth, the effect is so onomatopoeic as to be almost comical. The central section of the work again moves beyond the Rimskyan orbit, this time looking not towards Germany but to France, and specifically to Paul Dukas, a composer whose influence was far wider among his contemporaries than his present-day profile might lead one to expect. The opening figures of his tone-poem _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_ (1897) clearly provided a model for the slower music that interrupts the fireworks (fig. 9 of the score); the scintillating yet still relaxed music that follows (Ex. 4.4) is perhaps the most accomplished musical passage Stravinsky had composed to date. Ex. 4.4 _Fireworks_ , fig. 13 Stravinsky had earlier interrupted the composition of _Fireworks_ to compose a short orchestral piece in memory of Rimsky-Korsakov. Completed within the space of a few weeks after Rimsky's death in the summer of 1908, the _Chant funèbre_ , Op. 5, was performed after some delay on 17 January 1909 (O.S.) and reviewed sympathetically in the press. Assessing extant accounts of Stravinsky's work in the context of other funereal tributes by Glazunov and Steinberg (together with an earlier example by Rimsky-Korsakov himself), Taruskin has suggested that the _Chant funèbre_ is likely to have quoted both from the Orthodox liturgy and from Rimsky's own work. The combined presentation of these two elements – liturgical chanting and melodic tributes – was indeed described by Stravinsky in his _Autobiography_ : 'all the solo instruments of the orchestra filed past the tomb of the master in succession, each laying down its own melody as its wreath against a deep background of tremolo murmurings simulating the vibrations of bass voices singing in chorus'. Unfortunately, the music of the _Chant funèbre_ was never published, and the subsequent disappearance of the manuscript sources leaves us with no way of knowing very much about a piece that Stravinsky in old age was to recall as 'the best of my works before the _Firebird_ , and the most advanced in chromatic harmony'. _The Nightingale_ , Act 1 (1908–9) After vocal music in Stravinsky's student curriculum came opera, in the shape of a proposed three-act work based on Hans Christian Andersen's tale _The Nightingale_. As one might have expected, Stravinsky's work was conceived firmly within the genre represented by Rimsky-Korsakov's fantastical operas – so much so that Stravinsky and his librettist, Stepan Mitusov, actually developed their scenario under the direct tutelage of Vladimir Bel'sky, who had written the librettos of Rimsky's most recent operas, _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh_ (1903–5) and _The Golden Cockerel_ (1906–7). The outline of Andersen's story is well known: the Emperor of China, having learned of the beauty of the nightingale's voice, sends his courtiers to fetch the bird to his palace so that it may sing to him, but is then persuaded by a group of Japanese envoys to prefer the warblings of a mechanical bird which they present to him; as he lies mortally ill, however, the Emperor finds strength through his renewed appreciation of the loyal nightingale, and through this change of heart he is saved from certain death. Although it seems likely that Stravinsky was able to show some musical sketches to Rimsky before the latter's death, the composition of the first act did not begin in earnest until the latter part of 1908, and was completed in Ustilug in 1909, before Diaghilev's urgent commission for _The Firebird_ caused the opera to be put to one side and changed the course of Stravinsky's career for ever. In line with principles developed by Rimsky in his own operas, there is an underlying duality in the music of the _The Nightingale_ , Act 1. The exotic and the magical – personified in Stravinsky's opera by the Chinese courtiers and the nightingale's wondrous voice – are given chromatic music that frequently centres on the octatonic scale, whereas the down-to-earth human sphere – represented by the peasant fisherman – is associated with diatonic, folksong-like materials. Although this brief description risks oversimplifying a remarkably rich musical language, the basic distinction it outlines is useful to bear in mind as one traces Stravinsky's development from this point through the famous Diaghilev ballets. In _The Firebird_ , the fairy-tale characters inhabit a world of princesses, demons and magical creatures entirely in line with Rimskyan subject-matter and are treated accordingly; in _Petrushka_ , the puppet characters magically come to life against the backdrop of an Easter fair busy with humanity of all kinds, allowing these same musical archetypes to mingle and interact variously; in _The Rite of Spring_ , the scenario of a pagan fertility rite endows the human characters themselves with magical and mysterious qualities – a synthesis to which Stravinsky responds by transforming diatonic folksong material into that work's richly chromatic, often dissonant sound-world. Whilst the Rimskyan influence is certainly strong in _The Nightingale_ , other sources of Stravinsky's inspiration are also very apparent. As one might expect, the non-Rimskyan traits in _The Nightingale_ 's music are most evident in those sections which, though chromatic, are not octatonic. Most famous among these is the very opening (Ex. 4.5a), which is akin to the opening of Debussy's 'Nuages' (from _Nocturnes_ , 1897–9, Ex. 4.5b) – though this in turn appears to have been lifted more or less directly from a song in Musorgsky's cycle _Sunless_ (1874, Ex. 4.5c). As Taruskin has noted in detail, Debussy's work also seems to be the source of some of Stravinsky's orchestration in the opening pages of the opera. Further points of reference beyond Stravinsky's earlier models are Tcherepnin – whose style Taruskin identifies as providing Stravinsky with a musical entrée into the artistic circles where he would shortly find Diaghilev – and some very obvious debts to Skryabin. The Skryabin in question, however, was not at all that of the somewhat insipid early- and middle-period music Stravinsky had drawn on in composing his Piano Sonata and Four Studies, but the theo-sophically charged and musically advanced Skryabin of _The Poem of Ecstasy_ (1905–8). By this time it is clear that Stravinsky was abreast of his older contemporary's most adventurous musical developments – a familiarity, even admiration, that would last at least until Skryabin's death in 1915. In _The Nightingale_ the influence is fresh and undigested: towards the end of the nightingale's first burst of song, the music of the orchestra is so close to a passage in _Ecstasy_ as to suggest plagiarism (see Ex. 4.6). In contrast, the diatonic Fisherman's song – a recurring musical frame that characterises the rustic scene inhabited by 'simple' people who treasure the nightingale as a living example of nature's magic – represents the other pole of the human– magical, diatonic–chromatic double axis on which the opera's approach to musical dramaturgy is based. Ex. 4.5 a Stravinsky, _The Nightingale_ , opening b Debussy, 'Nuages' ( _Nocturnes_ ), opening c Musorgsky, 'The useless, noisy day has ended' ( _Sunless_ ), bars 16–17 Ex. 4.6 Stravinsky, _The Nightingale_ , Act 1, fig. 23 _The Firebird_ (1909–10) Stravinsky's future was sealed at the first performance of the _Scherzo fantastique_ , which was given under the baton of Alexander Siloti on 24 January 1909 (OS) in St Petersburg. The impressario Sergei Diaghilev (1872–1929) was present and, like the conductor and several critics, was evidently impressed by Stravinsky's score. Diaghilev had been a central figure in the artistic circles that surrounded and supported his journal _Mir isskustva_ (The World of Art) for more than a decade; he had honed his extraordinary talent as an impressario in the annual presentations of Russian arts, music, opera and ballet to Parisian audiences that started in 1906. In these he used the best talent available to bring Russian art based on Russian folk culture to Western audiences: even the inevitable aesthetic compromises implied by such an enterprise produced works significantly different from the self-consciously Westernised art of, say, Tchaikovsky. Diaghilev needed some orchestrations for his next season, i.e. the summer of 1909, and he commissioned Stravinsky and Steinberg, among others, to provide them. He intended his creative team – flexible in its membership, but with some favourite key players: the choreographer Mikhail Fokine and the designer Alexander Benois, for example – to put together a ballet based on the folk legends of the firebird and the evil magician Kastchei for the 1910 season. The music was to be composed by Tcherepnin, who actually began work on the score before withdrawing. At this point, Diaghilev commissioned the score instead from Lyadov, whose recent tone-poems _Baba-yaga_ (1904), _The Enchanted Lake_ and _Kikimora_ (both 1909) give ample evidence that he could, in principle, have composed something along the lines that Stravinsky would eventually provide. But Lyadov in turn, and not untypically for him, failed to deliver – he may never even have responded to Diaghilev's letter – and Diaghilev, with time fast running out, had to look elsewhere. It seems likely that others were sounded out; likely, too, that Stravinsky, by coincidence, showed the completed first act of _The Nightingale_ to Diaghilev at around this time in an attempt to interest him in that work, and that the two of them may have discussed the 'firebird' project at that stage. At any rate, Stravinsky began work on the score in the autumn of 1909, possibly making use of material originally sketched for Act 2 of _The Nightingale_ , and shortly afterwards received the formal commission for it. The commission made Stravinsky's difficulties with Korsakovians irrelevant and allowed him to escape from reliance on their support, bringing him firmly into a new circle of colleagues, many of whom collaborated on _The Firebird_. Among these, in addition to Fokine, Benois and Diaghilev himself, were the folklorist Alexei Remizov, the designer Leon Bakst and the painter Alexander Golovine. The scenario was adapted from a number of folk tales: in the garden of Kastchei's castle, the firebird's beautiful flight attracts the attention of the prince Ivan Tsarevich, who chases the bird, entering inadvertently into Kastchei's domain. The firebird asks to retain her freedom in exchange for a feather, which will bring him luck. As he is about to leave, thirteen princesses enter the garden, where they play by night with the golden apples that are to be found there. As dawn rises they rush away, and the thirteenth princess, with whom the prince is now in love, warns him not to follow, or Kastchei will turn him to stone like twelve other knights before him. Undeterred, he enters the kingdom of Kastchei, and is inevitably captured; remembering the feather, he summons the firebird, who entrances Kastchei and his subjects and lulls them to sleep. Then the firebird shows the prince an egg, which if broken will kill Kastchei; as he does so, the monstrous kingdom disappears, the twelve suitors return to life and Ivan Tsarevich and his princess are united. There are a number of recurring musical figures, the most pervasive of these being the motive that begins the work (see Ex. 4.7). This motive spans the tritone – an interval at the heart of Rimskyan exotic harmony – and is sufficiently malleable to find a place in octatonic, whole-tone and even diatonic contexts, according to the articulation of its chromatic group of three notes. It is frequently presented in conjunction with its inversion, and is often, though not exclusively, associated with the firebird herself. The prince is assigned folksong-like materials (some genuine folksongs are included), and the princesses also inhabit an essentially diatonic world, albeit with chromatic inflections. Kastchei and his fearful subjects are presented through the full panoply of post-Rimskyan chromaticisms and interval cycles, though their music is quite different in character from that of the also magical firebird – a distinction that is embodied above all in the orchestration. The firebird's dance provides a glittering example: the musical substance is again close to Skryabin's _Poem of Ecstasy_ in its core of dominantquality chords held above a bass that constantly moves by tritone, but the orchestration dances far more effectively than Skryabin's, with fluttering divisi strings, pointillistic high woodwind figures (including piccolo and D clarinet), brassy effects on horns and trumpets, artificial harmonics in the strings, three harps and celesta all making their mark. The entire dance is an intricate tapestry of small figures – it scarcely holds together in Stravinsky's own recording – which forms a remarkable complement to the sight of a prima ballerina apparently on the verge of flight. Ex. 4.7 _The Firebird_ , opening motive The music of _The Firebird_ is often heard in one of the three suites that Stravinsky drew from the score. The first was prepared in 1911 simply by extracting suitable sections; in 1919 more music from the ballet was included and the whole suite arranged for reduced forces; the 1945 suite is again longer and once more re-orchestrated. Stravinsky later said that these reorchestrations amounted to his own 'criticisms' of the original, but there is little doubt that his principal motive in making the 1945 suite, at least, was an attempt to earn royalties from a version that would be subject to international copyright laws. The ballet score deserves to be known in its entirety: some of the music that was omitted from the suites – notably the apparition of Kastchei's subjects, which has more than a hint of _The Rite_ about it – is at least as strong as the material that was included. Stravinsky himself, however, seems never to have conducted the full ballet score in live performance. _Two Poems of Verlaine_ , Op. 9 (1910), _Two Poems of Bal'mont_ (1911), _Zvezdolikiy_ (1911–12) Some comment on the smaller works composed at the time of the Diaghilev ballet scores is in order. The two pairs of songs to words by Paul Verlaine (Op. 9, 1910) and Konstantin Bal'mont (1911) are less significant in Stravinsky's development than the Gorodetsky songs had been, but to some extent served as bridges respectively from _The Firebird_ to _Petrushka_ , and from _Petrushka_ to _The Rite_. The Verlaine songs developed Stravinsky's fluency in moving between the diatonic and chromatic spheres – the latter category frequently represented by chords of the ninth, giving the harmony a French flavour in keeping with the poetry. The Bal'mont settings, on the other hand, pursue the modernism of the first Gorodetsky song to a point where one can glimpse the combinations of tendril-like woodwind melodies against ostinato backgrounds that would feature so strongly in the slower dances of _The Rite_ ; indeed, the symbolism of Bal'mont's words seems to have been subordinated to this musical development. Standing between these settings and _The Rite_ itself is an imposing short work for male-voice chorus and large orchestra, also to words by Bal'mont. _Zvezdolikiy_ , together with _The Rite of Spring_ , represents Stravinsky's deepest involvement with the neo-Slavic symbolist movement represented not only by Gorodetsky and Bal'mont but most potently by his collaborator in _The Rite_ , Nicolas Roerich. The title of this work is generally translated into French as _Le Roi des étoiles_ and from there into English as _The King of the Stars_ ; the personage in question is the sun-god to whom the chosen maiden sacrifices herself in _The Rite of Spring_. The work opens with an octatonic– diatonic motto theme for unaccompanied voices (Ex. 4.8), which reappears in yet richer harmony, and in monumental orchestration for woodwind and brass, several times as the work proceeds. Stravinsky dedicated the score to Debussy, who accepted the dedication graciously while noting (correctly) that the music would be extraordinarily difficult to perform. Reminiscing about this in his seventies, Stravinsky suggested that _Zvezdolikiy_ 'remains in one sense my most "radical" and difficult composition'. Ex. 4.8 _Zvezdoliki_ , motto theme _The Nightingale_ , Acts 2 and 3 (1913–14), _The Song of the Nightingale_ (1917) In conclusion, we should note that when Stravinsky returned to _The Nightingale_ after working on the three famous Diaghilev ballets, he was inevitably faced with a problem of stylistic continuity. To some extent this was minimised by the change of scene from the Russian countryside (Act 1) to the Chinese court (Act 2), whose splendours would always have demanded a glittering musical response. This was something he could now provide on a more lavish scale than he might earlier have envisaged: the opera's second act bursts onto the stage with immense energy, and the music of the mechanical Japanese nightingale – which, perhaps surprisingly, bears little relation to the _Three Japanese Lyrics_ (1912–13) – is as intricate as clockwork itself. Stravinsky sought to preserve some musical connection with the first act by using the Fisherman's song as a concluding refrain to both Acts 2 and 3. It is stretching the point only a little to say that the extended gestation period of the _Nightingale_ music was not quite over even now, for a few years later still, in 1916–17, Stravinsky conjured from the score of the opera a symphonic poem, _The Song of the Nightingale_. The issue of the opera's stylistic fault-line was sidestepped in the symphonic poem by the simple expedient of basing it solely on the music of the second and third acts – though the Fisherman's song, in orchestral guise, ends the symphonic work also. One illuminating aspect of the later acts of the opera, and thus also of the symphonic poem, can best be understood with reference to the extended gestation of another piece, the ballet _Les Noces_ , on which Stravinsky began work in 1914. This production was to have followed directly in line from _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ in being based on Russian folkloric custom – in this case a peasant wedding ceremony – and was also at first intended to extend Stravinsky's orchestral palette beyond even that of _The Rite_. Suffice it to say that war intervened, and that after a number of attempts to find a more modest but at the same time convincing medium for the music, Stravinsky eventually (in 1923) allowed _Les Noces_ to emerge with a characteristic scoring of voices, four pianos and percussion. This ensemble was far removed from the 'super- _Sacre_ ' orchestra he had at first imagined, and which Diaghilev would surely have given him in peacetime circumstances. The result is that the opening of Act 2 of _The Nightingale_ (and thus also of _The Song of the Nightingale_ ) remains the best indication we have of the immediate consequences of _The Rite_ for Stravinsky's orchestral technique. Thus, taken together, the opera and its companion-piece trace for us the young composer's journey from Korsakovian magic to the powerfully glittering modernism that was his to command by the time he left Russia for good. 5 KENNETH GLOAG Russian rites: _Petrushka, The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_ The development of Stravinsky's musical language from _Petrushka_ through _The Rite of Spring_ to _Les Noces_ represents Stravinsky's emergence as a modernist composer. In these three works, definitive Russian subject-matter and content is articulated in an increasingly radical language. The expression of Stravinsky's Russian inheritance within the context of modernism – common ground shared by these three works – is the subject of this chapter. _Petrushka_ _Petrushka_ , as is well known, was conceived in the aftermath of the success of _The Firebird_ and repeated the earlier work's collaborative context: it was written for Diaghilev's Ballets Russes. Following the public success of _The Firebird_ , _Petrushka_ provides what Richard Taruskin describes as 'Stravinsky's process of self-discovery'. This self-discovery takes the form of a recently acquired technical confidence in conjunction with a new-found modernism. Stephen Walsh has written that 'the emergence of Stravinsky as a modernist, with an individual manner unlike any other, can be dated with some precision to his early work on _Petrushka_ '. This 'individual manner' consists largely in the adaptation of borrowed materials, a process which immediately suggests a relationship between past and present and sets up points of reference. At the same time, however, the redefinition of this material generates a sense of distance from its original context. This is evident in the opening moments of the score. The initial gesture of the first of the four tableaux consists of the 'Street vendors' cries' in the flutes, a gesture that is directly invoked by the ballet scenario. This, the first of many borrowings and recollections, is defined by the rising fourth between A and D, but this gesture forms part of a common currency rather than reflecting a specific source. As Taruskin suggests, 'There is no reason to think that Stravinsky would have needed to consult a scholarly tome to obtain appropriate vendors' cries for setting the fairgrounds scene at the opening of the first tableau.' In extra-musical terms, this simple opening gesture evokes the fairground context of the ballet scenario, while its musical function is to establish D as the focal point of the harmony. This is supported by the D minor key signature. At fig. 1 the cellos join the texture with a theme that begins on B♮ and rises through D to E. While this rising gesture echoes the initial rise of A to D, this focus on B♮ and E goes some way to undermining the implied stability of D minor. The co-existence of the two thematic statements, along with the two distinct points of implied harmonic focus, are an early indication of juxtaposition, but it also challenges the seeming simplicity of the initial A–D gesture by putting it in an unfamiliar context. Such moments help generate the ongoing sense of tension that pervades the work. At fig. 2 the first overt reference to a recognised folk-based source occurs, with the lower strings presenting a thematic idea derived from the 'Song of the Volochnobiki', a folksong with which Stravinsky would have been familiar from Rimsky-Korsakov's published collection, and the first of several such references in this first tableau (Ex. 5.1). As Ex. 5.1 demonstrates, the lower strings focus on G, signifying a departure from D and providing a point of textural contrast to the flute of the 'Street vendors' cries'. This new focus on G cannot be viewed as a modulation from the initial D; neither pitch is surrounded by any sort of functional harmonic movement that could be equated with the conventions of the tonal tradition, though they do enjoy a sense of priority that provides a certain reflection of that tradition. These thematic and textural juxtapositions provide the first evidence of Stravinsky's concern with a quite basic formal discontinuity, which is reinforced by the return of the 'Street vendors' cries' (fig. 2+3, flutes) before the more extended realisation of the folk-based material from fig. 2 on its return at fig. 3. Ex. 5.1 _Petrushka_ , first tableau, fig. 2 These opening moments can be seen to put in place certain factors that are paradigmatic for the work as a whole: formal, textural and thematic juxtapositions, the focus on specific pitches rather than on functional tonal relationships, the redefinition of historical materials. These factors, both in isolation and in interaction with each other, substantiate the definition of this music as identifiably modernist. They reflect the dislocation between Stravinsky's relationship to inherited Russian tradition and the context within which he was now working, though a line cannot be drawn between the two. What is most notably radical about this music is the extent to which the modernity of the material is formed on an appropriation and reinterpretation of the past. The second tableau confirms the paradigm described above, but here there is no overt borrowing of identifiable historical material (Russian folksong and popular elements). The absence of such material tends to emphasise the modernity of this section of the score and goes some way to differentiating it from the work as a whole. But, as Taruskin's analysis demonstrates, the entire tableau can be analysed through reference to octatonic collections, a construct which can be seen to form an integral part of Stravinsky's Russian inheritance. The opening moments of this tableau provide the most notable and widely discussed event in the work, with the collision between C major and F♯ major triads providing a moment of dramatic tension, as well as a unique and significant structural event. It is the C major element that is established in the eight-bar introduction, which effectively resolves onto the C major triad (Ex. 5.2a). However, at fig. 95 the C and F♯ triads are sounded simultaneously, in a moment that has often been used to illustrate the notion of polytonality (Ex. 5.2b). In a seminal essay, 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky', Arthur Berger demonstrates that both these elements can easily be subsumed within a single octatonic collection; the implications of such an interpretation are treated extensively by both van den Toorn and Taruskin. However, this interpretation, based on hearing the two elements as emerging from a common source – while it does dispense with the dubious concept of polytonality – tends to ignore the unarguable tension that results from the individual identities of the elements and the collision between them, the significance of which is extra-musical. As the tableau unfolds the C and F♯ major triads exert an ongoing influence on the surrounding material. Indeed, their relationship seems to be of precisely the sort to which Stravinsky was referring in an often-quoted remark about polarity: Ex. 5.2 _Petrushka_ , second tableau a our chief concern is not so much what is known as tonality as what one might term the polar attraction of sound, of an interval, or even a complex of tones . . . it is easy to see that the drawing together and separation of poles of attraction in a way determine the respiration of music. The subsequent musical material is largely defined by C and F♯ as 'poles of attraction', with the music gravitating towards one or the other of these two poles or, in some instances, both. Whether or not one chooses to hear these poles as situated within an octatonic framework, what is most relevant is that these triads – whose identity reflects past conventions and traditions – are at one and the same time octatonic subsets and residual emblematic reflections of common-practice tonality. They are now conceptually distinct from the functions and purpose that gave a precise meaning to such elements within an earlier tonal context. The tableau subdivides into four sections. The first, as already indicated, is defined initially by the clarification of C at fig. 94+3, with the working out of C and F♯ extending to fig. 101+4. At fig. 102 there is a direct change of texture and the introduction of a D major key signature, though the focus on D that is implied by the key signature and the repetitions of the D/A dyad in the piano part is subverted by the repetition of G♯ in the upper range of the piano in conjunction with the piccolo. As in the first tableau, changes of texture are significant in the simultaneous confirmation and denial of a pitch centre. At fig. 104 there is another sudden change of texture and the introduction of a key signature of one sharp; the extended repetition of E in the bass indicates an E minor tonality. However, as with the previous tonal implications, there is no sense of tonal progression or preparation. After a great deal of movement the music finally arrives on F♯ (at fig. 118+2) as the concluding event of the tableau. These four points can now be seen to have punctuated the tableau, the most dramatic changes of texture coinciding with a new focus on a specific pitch. As Taruskin's analysis shows clearly, they combine to form a 'progression' from C through D and E to F♯: Although this chain of moments of focus could be conceived as providing a source of unification for the tableau, the fact that each moment exists in its own right rather than as a direct consequence of the previous moment subverts this possibility. We see and hear this chain as providing a path and, by implication, a sense of coherent structure across a series of largely discontinuous moments, rather than as forming points of connection that draw all the moments together within a unified whole. In the third tableau, material is absorbed from a distinctly different source; here Stravinsky borrows from the waltzes of Joseph Lanner. This now complicates the process of borrowing, which, up to this point, has been concerned specifically with Russian folk-based material. Nevertheless, the Russianness of the previous borrowings helps lend a sense of 'otherness' to this moment, with a wonderful sense of irony which is effective at this particular stage of the ballet scenario. This moment of otherness relates back to the earlier challenge of tonal function. In this instance, although the sound world of the Lanner waltz is seen as the 'other' in relation to the Russian context, the Russian identity itself is challenged through its close proximity to the very different material of the Lanner waltzes. The fourth and final tableau provides a return to specifically Russian materials; here Taruskin has identified six specific borrowings from folk sources. Perhaps the most striking example is the melody played by the oboe in the 'Wet-nurses' dance' (see Ex. 5.3). This is one of the most literal uses of a folk melody in the work. Although there is a distinct sense of melody and accompaniment, Stravinsky surrounds the melody with an orchestral texture which is rich in detail and motion. The sense of movement implied by the orchestration is, however, effectively suspended by repetitions of A (in the cello) and C (in the viola) as the bass of the texture, and the harmony is, in effect, static. The texture is further complicated by the fact that the folk melody, though set quite literally and thus immediately identifiable, is nevertheless subjected to a process of fragmentation. The first statement (fig. 171–171+2) breaks off at fig. 172, the horn enters at fig. 173+1 with another, shorter, fragment of the melody, and it is not until fig. 174+2 that the melody is finally expanded, both durationally and texturally. Ex. 5.3 Folk source for the melody in _Petrushka_ , 'Wet-nurses' dance' Although in his analysis of the second tableau Taruskin demonstrates the importance of the octatonic collection, van den Toorn's discussion of the work makes it clear that it is possible to hear large sections from other parts of the score as being basically diatonic. The 'Danse russe' from the first tableau, for example, is clearly defined through a diatonic framework, while at the same time generating its own internal sense of polarity. This will become clear through the consideration of Ex. 5.4a and Ex. 5.4b, which provides a reduction of the beginning and concluding harmonic events of the 'Danse russe'. Ex. 5.4 The sense of polarity evident within this section of the score is generated by the large-scale shift from the initial vertical harmony F, G, A, B, D – the diatonic triads of G major and D minor, with G clearly functioning as the 'root' of the harmony (Ex. 5.4a) – to the concluding vertical statement of C, E, G, and A, a harmony which is also based upon the convergence of triads, in this instance A minor and C major, though it is C which now clearly provides the harmonic bass (Ex. 5.4b). This shift implies a large-scale movement from G to C with the accompanying tonal implication of a progression from V to I in C. It is also possible, however, to see C and G as poles of attraction and the movement from beginning to end as a shift from one pole to another. This polarity, and its tonal implications, provide a framework for much of the diatonic-based material that is evident within this section of the score. Enclosed within the two poles provided by the initial and concluding vertical harmonies are other pitch centres that enjoy localised priority but which, as the music unfolds, exist in parentheses to the main poles of attraction. These salient pitch centres, which are defined through their prominent placement in the texture and often reinforced through timbral and durational emphasis, are combined and interpreted in various ways, but they continually highlight the structural and syntactic significance of the diatonic collection (in Allen Forte's nomenclature, set 7-35), with the A♯ at fig. 69 being the only element foreign to this collection. Not only does the projection of this set reinforce the significance of the diatonic collection, it is also a G major scale. This G implication can now be related to the implied shift from G to C as part of a general diatonic framework. The melodic contour of the 'Danse russe' is also of interest, as it illustrates Stravinsky's concern with the emphasis of specific pitches; in this instance the initial melodic material continually returns to B within a repeating circular melody (Ex. 5.4c). This melodic focus on B connects with the G-based harmonic context to reinforce the diatonic framework. Other sections of the score reflect a diatonic framework as well. For example, the trumpet solo from fig. 135 of the third tableau is built on an F major scale, eventually leading to the E♭ of the Lanner waltz at fig. 140 (see Ex. 5.5). Ex. 5.5 _Petrushka_ , figs. 134–7, trumpet solo Although these moments of sustained diatonicism suggest a certain conventional harmonic vocabulary, there is little direct relationship to functional tonality. While it is possible to suggest a harmonic model that effectively leads from the trumpet's F scale (fig. 134) via a dominant seventh (fig. 139) to the E♭ tonality of the waltz (fig. 140), the aural realisation of such a model is subverted by the change of texture and the resulting sense of distance. Any hint of a conventional harmonic progression is further complicated by the temporary nature of the E♭ , which is quickly followed by the change of key signature to B major at fig. 143 and the introduction of the second waltz segment. This brief discussion of _Petrushka_ has centred on certain aspects that imply a questioning of the coherence of the work as a whole. The appropriation of borrowed material has a tendency to give a hybrid identity to the musical materials, while the juxtaposition of textural and pitch events tends to question continuity, as well as the unity of form and content that one would normally assume. But Stravinsky gives his diverse materials a sense of coherence. Even if there is little sense of formal continuity, one feels a logic and inevitability in the sequence of events, with even the most surprising departure seeming, retrospectively, to find its place in that sequence. If this seems to suggest a coherence founded as much on difference as on similarity, it is the mediation between the two – a process that emerged from the interplay of past and present and that is suggested by the ballet scenario – that becomes the defining characteristic of this highly individual work. _The Rite of Spring_ The third of Stravinsky's ballets for Diaghilev's Ballets Russes Paris seasons, _The Rite of Spring_ , enjoyed an initial reception which immediately situated the work at the forefront of the new challenging epoch of modernism. While much recent writing on the work has tended to reveal substantial continuities with the Russian tradition, the work still has a unique aura, one that resonates with images of innovation and change while simultaneously reconstituting a historical Russian mythology. Although this interaction between past and present was clearly present in _Petrushka_ , it is intensified in _The Rite of Spring_. As a result, _The Rite of Spring_ defines itself in relation to _Petrushka_ , but the relationship between the two works has to do with their differences from each other as much as with any pattern of stylistic continuity. The distance between _Petrushka_ and _The Rite_ can be most clearly seen through a consideration of form and structure. _Petrushka_ is a sectionalised score, with each of the four tableaux containing clearly defined divisions and subdivisions that question the presumed continuity of musical form. _The Rite of Spring_ , while ultimately resisting the drift towards the incoherent, takes the preference of the discontinuous over the continuous to a new extreme. Each of the two parts of the ballet, 'Adoration of the earth' and 'The sacrifice', consists of several distinct parts, each of which has its own descriptive title and identity. This sectionalisation challenges any notion of continuity. This is clearly evident from the opening moments of Part One of the score. The Introduction, with its evocative bassoon solo, states a readily identifiable folk source; the implications of this borrowing are discussed by both Morton and Taruskin (Ex. 5.6a and Ex. 5.6b). The 'Augurs of spring' section, which follows (fig. 13), provides a dramatic contrast to the slowmoving Introduction. After the initial bassoon solo, the texture of the Introduction expands and the movement increases, so that by fig. 11 the music seems to be moving towards a climax. However, the Introduction effectively ends when the music stops at fig. 12. Here Stravinsky inserts a short transitional passage that both recalls the bassoon solo and anticipates the 'Augurs of spring' ostinato pattern (fig. 12+3). While this moment of recollection and anticipation is effective, it tends to negate the impact of the 'Augurs of spring' and provides a connection – a continuity – between the two sections. Ex. 5.6a Folk source for the opening melody of _The Rite of Spring_ Ex. 5.6b _The Rite of Spring_ , opening bassoon melody The 'Augurs of spring', with the famous chord combining F♭ major and a dominant seventh chord built on E♭ , is generally accepted as being the first musical idea Stravinsky put down for the work. The significance of this section is in its repeated statements of this chord, which establish the importance of repetition and the harmonic stasis that results. Although the Introduction and the 'Augurs of spring' are sharply contrasting in character, a sense of harmonic stasis was present already in the earlier section. The initial bassoon melody revolves around A and C, with the first accompaniment consisting of C♯ rising to D in the horn. It is not until fig. 7 that an effective bass to this fluid yet static material emerges. At this point the solo cello has a repeated C, which is later replaced by the sustained B in the double bass at fig. 8. Following the sudden change of texture at fig. 9, B is now repeated as the bass of the texture (fig. 10, double bass) and continues towards fig. 12 and the recollection of the bassoon solo. These three pitches – C, B , B – provide moments of localised focus and reference and indicate a certain harmonic context, but it is difficult to identify a specific function for them within some larger progression. B is not the goal of a linear motion that began with C; it is merely the point on which the Introduction effectively stops. The opening of Part Two (Introduction) reaffirms the idea of a static harmonic framework. The simple oscillation of harmonies prevents a forward momentum. Again there is a sense of focus on a specific pitch (D), which provides some degree of harmonic reference (see fig. 80ff). The main thematic idea of the section that follows, 'Mystic circles of the young girls' (fig. 80+2, fig. 81+1/2 etc.), is anticipated in the Introduction, but this seems to be more a repetition than a transformation. Although the second version is at a new pitch level, its identity remains intact. There is, however, a distinct change of function. In the Introduction, the first fragmentary statement of this material interrupts the static harmonic texture, and there is a clear sense of juxtaposition, with fig. 82 bringing a return to the texture of fig. 80. In contrast, in the 'Mystic circles' section, the material is expanded (but not necessarily transformed) into a recognisable melodic shape, which makes its folk-like quality more apparent. The importance of contrast and juxtaposition is reinforced once again at the end of the 'Mystic circles' section, where the repeated chord of the famous concluding bar in 11/4 seems to bear very little relationship to either what has come before or what comes next. The following section, 'Glorification of the chosen one', is marked by a _vivo_ tempo indication, and the resulting sense of energy and momentum is in sharp contrast to the static nature of the opening moments of both the Introduction and the 'Mystic circles'. However, the latter concludes with an accelerando and an ascending scale passage, both of which seem to anticipate the section to come. The 11/4 bar interrupts this anticipation. The opening of the 'Glorification of the chosen one' is marked by pitch repetitions; these produce a static harmonic bass, in contrast to the sense of momentum that is implied by both the tempo and the orchestration. Here it is A that is repeated as the bass, but the focus on G elsewhere in the texture combines with this to create a distinct image of a dominant seventh harmony on A (a harmonic configuration that can be understood to originate from the octatonic collection; see Ex. 5.7). However, given the radical nature of both context and material here, it is no surprise that this harmonic implication does not progress to a resolution on D. Rather, it is repeated throughout the section without any sense of movement or progression, and the next section, 'Evocation of the ancestors', focuses on D♯ rather than D♮ as the sustained bass of a new texture. Ex. 5.7 _The Rite of Spring_ , 'Glorification of the chosen one', figs. 104–5 Given the heightened use of juxtaposition and discontinuity, clearly the question of closure is rendered somewhat problematic. This is evident from the final moments of both Part One and Part Two. The conclusion to Part One is defined by the sudden cessation of the music during a crescendo, but this signifies neither harmonic arrival nor closure. The material simply stops on a vertical harmony, seemingly at random, a gesture which suggests interruption rather than closure. While this provides a dramatic, accumulative and therefore climactic gesture, the ending of Part Two seems to provide a rather arbitrary concluding gesture to the work as whole, providing neither the drama of interruption nor the satisfaction of resolution. Although it is entirely feasible to accept _The Rite of Spring_ as defined through these sudden changes of texture and juxtapositions of material, and therefore to consider the resulting discontinuity on its own terms, particularly as this can relate to the wider fragmentary nature of modernist culture, there has always been, and perhaps always will be, a seemingly irresistible impulse to seek out possible underlying consistencies and continuities that could bring the work together and reduce the significance of the discontinuous to the level of the musical surface. This impulse, somewhat paradoxically, emphasises the extent to which the 'urge to fragmentation' is ultimately resisted in much modernist culture and thought. The search for consistency leads van den Toorn to state that 'the vocabulary of _The Rite_ consists in large part of 0–2 whole-step reiterations, (0 2 3 5) tetrachords, major and minor triads, dominant-seventh chords, and 0–11 or majorseventh vertical interval spans'. All of these constructs can be generated from an octatonic collection. Thus, this suggestion provides an octatonic consistency which, by implication, resonates with the work's Russian background. Taruskin shares this perspective with van den Toorn and, following an extended survey of the work and its background, revisits the problems surrounding the absence of a harmonic and/or thematic unity, concluding that: This harmonic cell [0 5 11 / 0 6 11] functions in _The Rite_ as another veritable _Grundgestalt_. It is in fact the closest thing one can nominate to a global unifier of this tonally enigmatic score. And such a nominee is indeed an analytical necessity; for while no obvious surface harmony, no theme, no progression, no key can be said to unify _The Rite_ over its entire span, its tonal coherence and integrity are impressively evident to the naivest ear. This configuration 0 5 11 / 0 6 11] is derived from the octatonic collection, consisting of the 'outer notes of the upper tetrachord plus the lowest note of the lower one: (0 6 11); or, reciprocally, the outer notes of the lower plus the topmost note of the higher: (0 5 11), the inversion'. Taruskin provides a convincing selection of examples to demonstrate the operation of this configuration in various contexts. Among these, his Ex. 12.31 (my [Ex. 5.8) provides an illustration of its linear deployment. But do his examples signify the existence of a _Grundgestalt_ , a concept and terminology appropriated from the theoretical vocabulary of Schoenberg and one that implies derivation and transformation as much as it does repetition? In this instance, it is clear that there is a certain process of repetition in operation, but this does not necessarily suggest that there is an ongoing development of this material across the work. While Taruskin indicates that any such consistency need not imply a unity, his passing reference to a 'tonal coherence' is surely provocative, suggesting as it does some form of tonal background to the work as a whole, a suggestion that raises fundamental questions concerning the most appropriate historical and theoretical location for the work. Ex. 5.8 Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ (1996), Ex. 12.31 The tonal/atonal dichotomy, which is most clearly expressed in the polemical exchange between Taruskin and Forte, raises issues concerning the recurring themes of this brief discussion, which has tended to highlight seemingly simplistic binary oppositions such as unity/fragmentation, continuity/discontinuity and past/present, all of which effectively restate the same problem: the relationship between modernism and tradition. The addition of tonal/atonal to this sequence merely adds another dimension to this recursive paradox. However, Arnold Whittall has suggested a concept that would appear to have the potential to unlock the seeming circularity of these binary oppositions. His interpretation provides for an approach centring on the role of conflict as represented most crucially by 'focused dissonance'. To view dissonance as the conceptual and perceptual opposite of consonance would seem to be merely to restate another binary opposition, but by privileging dissonance over consonance it is possible to view the perceptually dissonant framework of the work as normative, with consonance shifted to a role which, while subordinate, effectively complements the newly privileged status of dissonance. While consonance is decentralised, it retains a meaningful relationship to dissonance, though not necessarily its historical one, where its function was the resolution of dissonance. As Whittall says, 'The "norm" of _Le Sacre_ is not one in which predominant dissonances imply unheard consonant resolutions – and it follows that such "imagined" resolutions are unnecessary.' This remark can be related back to Ex. 5.7 from the 'Glorification of the chosen one'. In this instance the dissonant 'dominant seventh' on G does not resolve to the conventional consonance on D, nor does it 'imply unheard consonant resolutions'. It follows that the shift in the perceived relationship between consonance and dissonance allows for an interpretation that could perhaps correspond more closely to initial responses to the work, thus highlighting its modernity over its relationship to tradition without necessarily losing sight of the value of its traditional background. While it may be difficult to know exactly what Stravinsky meant in his claim that 'very little immediate tradition lies behind _The Rite of Spring_ ', the work is still a powerful reflection of the Russian tradition, partly, of course, because of the evocative subject-matter of the ballet, but also because of the appropriation of musical materials from that tradition. As already indicated, in its appropriation of folk materials into a distinctively modernist context, _The Rite of Spring_ tends to question rather than to synthesise the relationship between past and present. This is a process it shares with _Petrushka_ but develops in its own way. The identification of folk sources, first indicated in relation to the opening bassoon solo, has become a major concern within research on _The Rite of Spring_. The identification of specific sources provides a framework for situating the work, allowing us to view its radical identity as emerging from a specific tradition rather than as representing unmediated opposition to that tradition. As Arnold Whittall has written, ' _Le Sacre_ may be one of the most crucially radical modern masterpieces, but it needs the perspective of tradition for its nature as well as its effect to be comprehended.' This view of a background of tradition is further emphasised by Taruskin: Stylistically, it scarcely needs to be emphasized, _The Rite_ is hardly retrospective. All the same, the echoes are a reminder that the ballet was written out of – not against – a tradition, and that its stylistic innovations relate to and extend that tradition. On a technical level, we can hear the work's normative dissonance as constructing a difference from traditional conventions, but in order to give meaning to this departure we must retain some image of the tradition from which it departs. In other words, the innovative radical modernism of this work has to be seen to emerge from a background that includes Stravinsky's Russian inheritance, which sustained its own problematic relationship with convention and tradition. _Les Noces_ Like _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ , _Les Noces_ is based on definitively Russian subject-matter, with much of its musical material also having been derived from Russian folk sources. The public ritual of the wedding ceremony provides a certain parallel to the public setting of _Petrushka_ , but the image of sacrifice implicit in this latest ritual also provides a certain resonance with _The Rite of Spring_. In contrast to the two ballets, however, _Les Noces_ is defined as 'Russian choreographic scenes'. Also in contrast to the earlier works, the compositional process of _Les Noces_ was more extended and problematic. It was begun in 1914 and therefore could be seen to follow directly on from _The Rite of Spring_. However, because of difficulties involved in defining the instrumental ensemble, the work did not receive its first performance until 1923. In retrospect, the final ensemble of four pianos and percussion now seems inevitable, but in fact the process towards this decision was far from straightforward. As Stravinsky himself later recalled: I began the composition of _Les Noces_ in 1914 (a year before _Renard_ ) in Clarens [Switzerland]. The music was composed in short score form by 1917, but it was not finished in full score until three months before the premiere, which was six years later. No work of mine has undergone so many instrumental metamorphoses. I completed the first tableau for an orchestra the size of that of _Le Sacre du printemps_ , and then decided to divide the various instrumental elements – strings, woodwinds, brass, percussion, keyboard (cimbalom, harpsichord, piano) – into groups and to keep these groups separate on the stage. In still another version I sought to combine pianolas with bands of instruments that included saxhorns and flügelhorns. Then, one day in 1921 . . . I suddenly realized that an orchestra of four pianos would fulfil all my conditions. It would be at the same time perfectly homogeneous, perfectly impersonal, and perfectly mechanical. Homogeneous, impersonal and mechanical: three qualities that become definitive for the work. The homogeneous is reflected in the sense of collective identity in the subject-matter and in its representation through the choral writing. The impersonal is reflected by the fact that 'individual roles do not exist in _Les Noces_ , but only solo voices that impersonate now one type of character and now another', while the mechanical is represented by Stravinsky's latest deployment of ostinato effects and rhythmic impetus. The work consists of four tableaux. However, although these are intended to follow each other without a pause, the recurring concerns of juxtaposition and discontinuity are again in evidence. In the opening of the first tableau the notion of juxtaposition is evident in the simple alternation of thematic materials (see Ex. 5.9): Ex. 5.9 _Les Noces_ , first tableau, thematic materials This process of repetition, in which the initial material returns, obviously brings to mind the conventions of a rondo pattern. However, rather than resulting in a process of addition or accumulation, the refrain-like treatment of the material actually interrupts any meaningful sense of forward momentum. The initial theme (A) is identified by Taruskin, as is much of the work's material, as being derived from a folk-based source. As well as forming part of a long-range process of repetition, this theme also contains its own internal repetitions, with the repeated returns to E providing a certain focus on this pitch. The repetition of the B–D–B gesture further generates a degree of familiarity. The simple nature of the work's materials is evident as well in the second theme (B), which is also marked by the repetition of E, but now preceded by F♯–F♮ . The focus on repeated pitches is reinforced by emphatic rhythmic repetitions. Theme B, for example, consists of a constantly repeated rhythm that disallows any sense of forward momentum. Theme C (fig. 9) also features its own internal repetitions, the initial E–C♯ gesture always returning in the same rhythm. Although the continued focus on E implies a continuity throughout all the themes, there is also a striking sense of contrast, which is reinforced by the change of texture and accompaniment. The thematic material of the later stages of the score retains many of the musical characteristics of the opening gestures. The fourth tableau begins with a clear focus on D♭, as the music circles round and turns back onto this note (figs. 87–90), providing a parallel to the concentration on E in the first tableau. This D♭ is reinterpreted as C♯ at the conclusion of the vocal line in the final moments of the work (fig. 134). The D♭ /C♯ focus provides a degree of continuity throughout the final tableau, though, as in the first, this continuity is often called into question by the many changes of texture and thematic material. Rhythm and metre were clearly a significant factor in both _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ , but _Les Noces_ elevates this dimension to a new level, defined through simplification. This simplification reflects the work's Russian folk origins, but its austerity also generates a modernist sense of being different. Rhythm and metre now become structural in their own right, and rhythm can be defined as structural on its own terms. As Stephen Walsh suggests, 'where _The Rite of Spring_ had laid stress on rhythm as something extraordinaryandsensational, _The Wedding_ [ _Les Noces_ ]assertsthenormality of rhythm as a medium for musical expression and structure'. The themes discussed above would be unimaginable separated from their characteristic rhythms, while the rhythms have the potential to function independently of the other musical parameters. Although _Les Noces_ may at times seem to be overshadowed by _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ and remains a highly idiosyncratic work, it still forms an integral part of Stravinsky's Russian period. In its own way, it remains definitive of this stage of his career, redefining its Russian identity in the aftermath of the earlier ballets and providing an effective summation of Stravinsky's Russian style. As van den Toorn concludes: however novel or exceptional we choose to consider the instrumentation or the 'cantata-ballet' scheme of _Les Noces_ , there can be little doubt that its musical substance is decisively 'Russian'. Indeed, without _Les Noces_ , a 'Russian' period becomes scarcely imaginable . . . 6 MARTHA M. HYDE Stravinsky's neoclassicism Introduction: neoclassicism In his homage to Stravinsky, Milan Kundera explains that Stravinsky's experience of forced emigration triggered a change in his musical style no less reactionary than irrevocable. Also an émigré, Kundera sees emigration as a wound – the 'pain of estrangement: the process whereby what was intimate becomes foreign'. Stravinsky, like any émigré artist, suffered estrangement from the 'subconscious, memory, language – all the understructure of creativity' formed in youth. Leaving the place to which his imagination was bound caused a kind of ripping apart. Kundera believes that emigration erased Russia for Stravinsky. After that, his homeland became the historical landscape of music, and his compatriots were the composers that populate that history. Kundera describes the advent of Stravinsky's neoclassical style as a metaphorical recognition – and achievement – of a new home with the 'classics' of European music: He did all he could to feel at home there: he lingered in each room of that mansion, touched every corner, stroked every piece of the furniture; . . . [from] the music of . . . Pergolesi to [that of] Tchaikovsky, Bach, Perotin, Monteverdi . . . to the twelve-tone system . . . in which, eventually, after Schoenberg's death (1951), he recognized yet another room in his home. Where Kundera sees reverence in Stravinsky's appropriation of history, Stravinsky himself described it as more compulsive and aggressive – a 'rare form of kleptomania'. Whatever attitude we ascribe to it, Stravinsky's appropriation of the past was a genuine artistic engagement, seeking to create modern works by reconstructing or accommodating past styles in a way that maintained his own integrity and identity in the history of music. In the following discussion, I want to explore four principal strategies that Stravinsky employed in his neoclassical works to accommodate the past. The task is made difficult, first, by the number and variety of works Stravinsky composed during his neoclassical period (roughly from 1920 to 1951) and, second, by confusion about the term 'neoclassicism', in the context of early twentieth-century music and in Stravinsky's own work. Consider, for example, the differences in scholarly accounts of the origins of neoclassicism. Some scholars attribute the ambiguities of the term to semantic change, nationalistic prejudices, and the polemical torsion inevitable among composers vying to create a niche for themselves in the overpopulated state of the repertoire. Others believe that neoclassicism evolved as a reactionary ploy triggered by the social and political convulsions of the Weimar Republic. Still others – taking a Freudian and formalistic stance – adapt Harold Bloom's 'anxiety of influence' to revise radically the term's usual meaning. No less confusing are scholarly accounts of what constitutes the 'essence' of Stravinsky's neoclassical style. Too often the confusion results from squabbling about first sightings – when and where Stravinsky first uses triads and major scales, tonal bass lines and dominant–tonic cadences, tonal centres or classical forms. Such sightings clearly have a role in a full description of Stravinsky's neoclassicism, but remain inconclusive if not interpreted in a broader context. The necessary context emerges, I argue, when one recognises that these technical devices almost always concern imitation in some sense of the word: imitation of classical rhythm, phrase structure, harmonic progressions, tonal centres and the like. Analyses of Stravinsky's neoclassical works have tended to isolate specific features, but to lack a theory of imitation that would help identify and categorise imitative resources and effects – that would, in other words, help us to give content to the term 'neoclassical'. Whenever any kind of secular canon-formation occurs – whenever any choice is made of authorities or models for new artistic creation – T. S. Eliot's question 'What is a classic?' becomes inescapable. A classic is a past work that remains or becomes relevant and available as a model, or can be made so through various techniques of accommodation. Stravinsky's neoclassical pieces invoke earlier classics in a much broader sense than merely music in the style of Haydn or Mozart. What makes a classic in this broader sense is being _chosen_ as a model for some sort of anachronistic engagement, some manner of imitative crossing of the distance that divides the new work from its model. This act of choosing is precisely what Kundera portrays by picturing Stravinsky wandering in the mansion of musical styles, choosing which objects to appropriate and which rooms to inhabit. Perhaps we can agree at the outset that neoclassicism, in any of the arts, involves an impulse to revive or restore an earlier style that is separated from the present by some intervening period. The Renaissance created itself by breaking one historical continuity in order to repair another broken continuity. That is, the Renaissance created the Middle Ages by recognising that the Middle Ages had broken or fallen away from 'classical antiquity'. Any neoclassicism does the same, rejecting a prevailing period style in the name of restoring an earlier, more authentic, still relevant – and therefore classic – style. That is precisely what happened when early twentieth-century French composers (joined later by Stravinsky) repudiated Romantic music because, in their view, it had abandoned the classical virtues to revel in Teutonic excess, obscurity and subjectivity. A neoclassical aesthetic thus reaches across a cultural and chronological gap and tries to recover or revive a past model. By doing so, it clears ground for modern artists by devaluing intervening styles. To speak very broadly, there are two modes of returning to the classics, two routes giving access to models acknowledged as classical. The first is philological or antiquarian and the second – and for the history of the arts the more important – is translation or accommodation. Translation and accommodation both grapple with anachronism because they cannot avoid the incongruities that arise from linking different times or periods. Reading our own concerns and needs into the classics, we recognise the classics advancing to meet us on the path we are following. There are several modes of accommodation – modes of accessing the past – but for Stravinsky the most important is what, for lack of a better term, I call 'metamorphic anachronism'. This specific mode of accommodation involves various kinds or strategies of imitation. A brief digression may help to clarify what I mean by anachronism. As I use it, the term does not imply any kind of failure or mistake. Musical anachronism is rooted in the recognition that history affects period style and that period style affects composition. This is not controversial; we are all willing to assume that pieces are datable on internal evidence. But this recognition of historical change also suggests that pieces will become 'dated' in the negative sense, that is, that they will eventually sound 'out of date'. Music, like the other arts, can incorporate or exploit this capacity for datedness, but only by juxtaposing or contrasting at least two distinct styles. This contrast or clash of period styles or historical aesthetics is the simplest definition of anachronism. Anachronism can be used in art in a number of different ways, but the type of anachronism most relevant to a neoclassical aesthetic is one that 'confronts and uses the conflict of period styles self-consciously and creatively to dramatize the itinerary, the diachronic passage out of the remote past into the emergent present.' This is the type I call 'metamorphic anachronism', borrowing from geology where metamorphic rocks fuse or compress the old into the new. In music, metamorphic anachronism deliberately dramatises a historical passage – bringing the present into a relationship with a specific past and making the distance between them meaningful. When anachronism – that is, the conflict between period elements in a piece of music – is meaningful, then a phoenix springs from the ashes. When it is not, then only a corpse emerges, shrunken and mummified from the tomb, though perhaps ornamented with modern trinkets. The main question is not whether anachronism has been avoided, but whether it has been controlled. If not, then no itinerary between past and present is opened, no genuine renewal occurs, and the impulse to revive the past is abortive or trivial. One mode of controlled anachronism – parody – is usually distinct from a genuine neoclassical impulse, but is nonetheless relevant to several of Stravinsky's works that are sometimes mistakenly described as his earliest experiments in neoclassicism. Composed between 1917 and 1920, just as Stravinsky began to explore compositional techniques that later mark his neoclassical style, these pieces include 'Three dances' from _The Soldier's Tale_ (Tango, Waltz, Ragtime), _Ragtime_ for eleven instruments, and _Piano-Rag-Music._ While these pieces are Stravinsky's first to be based on contemporary popular dances and do feature more prominently the usual major and minor scales, they nonetheless seem better described as parodies or satires, for their effect derives from making that which has become too familiar appear unfamiliar – or at least barely recognisable. In these pieces, Stravinsky seeks not to revive a past tradition, but playfully to mock popular conventions. Stravinsky's _Piano-Rag-Music_ bears out this view, especially in its ending, which surely pokes fun at contemporary infatuation with jazz improvisation and rags (see Ex. 6.1). Building up to an extended climax of improvisatory flourishes, the piece suddenly subsides to an exhausted, motoric vamp that abruptly breaks off for no apparent reason, as if the performer abandons the piece for lack of inspiration or interest. Particularly surprising is how Stravinsky uses irregularly spaced dotted lines in place of bar lines, for it throws into question the regular metrical patterns of the rag form. Poking fun at the fashion of combining improvisation with a metrically rigid form, Stravinsky concludes with a spent motivic fragment – as if asking a question that, as yet, has no answer. Such parodic or satiric imitation deliberately teases our expectations, replacing the familiar with an absurdly distorted reconstruction, and is ordinarily – though perhaps not categorically – incompatible with neoclassicism. Ex. 6.1 _Piano-Rag-Music_ (1919 edition), ending If anachronism is controlled and not parodic, if the impulse to revive is successful, how are we to describe the imitative process? I find it useful to identify four broad strategies of imitation that Stravinsky employs in his neoclassical works, each of which controls anachronism in a different manner while implicitly portraying one perspective on history. Eclectic imitation Stravinsky's first and most frequent type of imitation in his neoclassical works is what I call 'eclectic imitation'. This characterises works in which allusions, echoes, phrases, techniques, structures and forms from an unspecified group of earlier composers and styles all jostle with each other indifferently. Such an eclectic mingling features prominently in Stravinsky's early neoclassical works, which often use both diatonic and octatonic pitch structures and self-consciously imitate classical phrase structure, simple dance patterns, various tonal forms and baroque contrapuntal textures. Eclectic imitation treats the musical past as an undifferentiated stockpile to be drawn on at will, and it permits the kind of brilliant manipulation of new and old that produced a number of Stravinsky's most important works, including the Octet, Concerto for piano and wind instruments, Sonata for piano, Concerto in D for violin and orchestra and _Oedipus Rex_. Stravinsky himself acknowledged the eclecticism of this mode of imitation, borrowing a term from Kurt Schwitters to describe _Oedipus_. 'Much of the music is a _Merzbild_ [construction of random materials], put together from whatever came to hand.' _Oedipus_ included 'such little games as . . . the Alberti-bass horn solo accompanying the Messenger', as well as 'the fusion of such widely divergent types of music as the _Folies Bergères_ tune' that occurs when 'the girls enter, kicking' and frequent use of 'Wagnerian 7th chords'. Stravinsky defends this procedure by asserting that 'I have made these bits and snatches my own, I think, and of them a unity. "Soule is form", Spenser says, "and doth the bodie make."' Stravinsky's allusion to Spenser, who wrote the first English epic in a made-up language designed to seem archaic, highlights his own playfully serious use of anachronism. Eclectic imitation is a process by which sources and models are compiled. Rather than a well-organised museum, tradition becomes a warehouse whose contents can be rearranged and plundered without damage or responsibility. At its weakest, of course, this kind of eclectic imitation simply sports with anachronism or wallows in it, but when used precisely and deliberately it can create a vocabulary of a new and higher power – a power that gains strength from rhetorical skill, although not necessarily from a unified or integrated vision. Octet The Octet for wind instruments, written in 1922 and often cited as Stravinsky's first neoclassical masterpiece, is a particularly successful example of eclectic imitation. Its effect derives from a rhetorical confrontation between various classical forms – set forth in Baroque-like textures – and the composer's idiomatic use of diatonic and octatonic pitch structures. Stravinsky pointed towards these historical models when he commented that the Octet was influenced by the terseness and lucidity of Bach's two-part Inventions and by his own rediscovery of sonata form. Of the numerous imitative strategies at work in this piece, the most telling is the clash of diatonic and octatonic pitch structures to create an analogue for tonal closure (or cadence). One clear example occurs at the opening of the second movement ('Theme and Variations'), whose form features a theme and an initial variation that recurs in a rondo-like design. Ex. 6.2 shows an abridged reduction of the complete variation theme. The theme's first part, presented by the flute and clarinet at fig. 24, uses seven of eight pitches from an octatonic scale and stresses A as the central pitch class. The octatonic scale, labelled Collection III, appears at the bottom of Ex. 6.2. Typical of octatonic structures in Stravinsky's neoclassical works, this theme exploits the [0,1,3,4] tetrachord which here structures the initial contour of the theme, using the pitches A, B♭, C, C♯ . The second part of the theme, presented by the second trumpet at fig. 25, begins with a transposition of this same tetrachord on C, thereby making use of D♯, the last remaining pitch of Collection III. The theme then continues with the tetrachord's return to the central pitch A by the first trombone three bars before fig. 26. Ex. 6.2 Octet (1952 version), 'Tema con Variazioni': reduction and analysis from van den Toorn (1983) However, beneath the theme (beginning at fig. 24) there appears an accompaniment that unambiguously alludes to a diatonic structure that stresses D and implies a kind of pseudo D minor reference. The bassoons' ascending bass line moves stepwise up from D to an implied dominant, A, and then returns to D, suggesting a I–II–V–I harmonic progression. But neither D nor the tonic triad (D, F, A) is part of Collection III, the octatonic collection that structures the theme. Consequently, among other ambiguities Stravinsky forges a bond between the variation theme and its accompaniment that creates the _allusion_ to a dominant–tonic relation. The allusion is consummated in the final bar (fig. 25+6) by what sounds like a cadential dominant-to-tonic resolution on D, in which the variation theme's last pitch, F♯ , neatly unites Collection III with a traditional Picardy-third closure of the implied D minor tonality. Apart from the 'Theme and Variations' form and its conventional texture of melody plus accompaniment, the imitative strategies in the Octet that one can call neoclassical derive from the joining of diatonic and octatonic structures. The bond is loose, with only some elements held in common, but the overall effect alludes to a dominant–tonic cadence that delineates the form of the theme and hence that of the movement. However, the allusion is only approximate, for octatonic structures intrude and block an authentic tonal cadence; octatonicism here remains superimposed on a D minor tonality, with both octatonicism and tonality maintaining their identities, despite their superimposition. The ambiguities that inevitably result are essential features of the theme. The clash of diatonic and octatonic elements creates an equilibrium that resists fusion or synthesis. No definite meaning emerges from the superimposition since, for their effect, both must maintain their independence; here, clashing elements function primarily as rhetorical counters. In the variations that follow, Stravinsky varies his means of exploiting the clash between tonal allusions and octatonic collections, but continues to use them as rhetorical counters. For instance, in the final variation (Var. E), a stunning finale to the movement and reportedly the composer's favourite, Stravinsky creates a fugato texture in which the theme, still consisting of pitches from Collection III but now with an angular Baroque contour, is answered at the dominant G♯ by pitches from Collection I (suggesting a 'real' rather than 'tonal' answer) (see Ex. 6.3). Here the tonal allusion relies not on a bass line (as in the theme), but merely on a single note, the implied dominant that initiates the fugal 'answer'. Ex. 6.3 Octet (1952 version), 'Tema con Variazioni', Variation E Eclectic imitation in the Octet extends well beyond the clash between tonal and octatonic vocabularies. Indeed, Stravinsky employs extraordinarily varied means to sustain a delicate rhetorical balance between tonal allusion and reality. In the first movement, for instance, he dispenses with the octatonic collection and instead manipulates texture to mimic the sections of a classical sonata form. He then constructs contrapuntal progressions that join these sections together in a way that significantly alters the form. Essential to the altered form, however, is that its meaning resides only in the relationship it creates with the classical model that has been evoked. Eclectic imitation in the Octet works in several ways. First, no synthesis between old and new is sought, since their effect relies on a precise balance between them; the new is superimposed on the old, and both function as rhetorical counters by maintaining their independence. Second, the anachronisms introduced so freely – jumbling together features of baroque and classical styles – work to create only the illusion of various tonal structures. Keys, cadences, modulations, and the like all lack essential tonal elements that would provide the organic or developmental integrity of form required in 'authentic' classical pieces. While non-organic or non-teleological forms characterise Stravinsky's neoclassical pieces, they also characterise pieces from his earlier Russian period, although these earlier pieces seldom use tonal imitations. Commonly termed 'moment form' and often cited as Stravinsky's most significant innovation in his early Russian works, these forms exploit fragmentation, discontinuity, and abrupt changes in textures and rhythms. The discrete sections or moments are often marked by ostinatos or short motives whose repetitions vary, but rarely develop in a traditional or 'classical' manner. Perhaps by 1917, when Stravinsky was living in Switzerland and unable to return to Russia, he found it futile to extend moment form beyond its achievement in such pieces as _The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_. In any case, Stravinsky's new reliance on imitating tonal procedures also coincides with greater formal continuity than in his Russian works; more regular or periodic phrase structures appear, coupled with far fewer abrupt discontinuities in texture and rhythm. But because the tonal imitations supported by this greater continuity still remain allusive – not quite whole – Stravinsky's neoclassical forms still lack the organic or teleological development typical of authentic classical pieces. In his neoclassical forms, just as in his Russian works, discrete sections seem to begin and end without the compelling internal logic that we take for granted in classical compositions. While greater continuity is a feature of Stravinsky's earliest neoclassical works, these works also rely on new means of articulation. In place of sharply defined, but disconnected _vertical_ moments, Stravinsky's more continuous textures now comprise simultaneous, but sharply defined _horizontal_ layers. More importantly, these horizontal layers – like the earlier vertical 'moments' – often seem to achieve their rhythmic or harmonic effect only to the extent that they remain disconnected from or independent of one another. As in tonal music, Stravinsky's neoclassical pieces usually allow the bass to govern overall harmonic direction. However, in this case the bass does not strictly control the internal structure or movement of the higher voices or lines. That is, the higher lines progress in the same general direction as the bass, but do so independently. And when the various lines do become momentarily aligned or synchronised, the effect usually signals a formal event such as the beginning or end of an extended phrase or section. _Mavra_ In his neoclassical works, Stravinsky invents new means of articulating independent lines or strata above what we can only loosely call a functional bass line. One early and particularly successful instance appears in the opening aria from _Mavra,_ completed one year before the Octet. Dedicating _Mavra_ to Pushkin, Glinka and Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky for the first time explicitly identifies the past classical tradition that he seeks to revive or re-engage. He believes this tradition to have been prematurely cut off by those responsible for Russian modernism, the Russian Five, and in particular by his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov. Whether for professional, artistic or political reasons, Stravinsky associated Russian modernism with German culture, the atrocities of the First World War, and the revolutions that forced him into exile. In his public statements, Stravinsky aligned himself with Tchaikovsky, the 'Latin-Slav culture' and the 'Austrian Catholic Mozart' against the 'German Protestant Beethoven, inclined toward Goethe'. Musical evidence of this new alignment first becomes explicit in Parasha's aria, the Russo-Italian bel canto aria that opens _Mavra_ (see Ex. 6.4). Ex. 6.4 _Mavra_ , Parasha's aria (piano-vocal score) The aria presents Parasha, the young heroine, dreaming of her lover, Mavra, as she sits at the window embroidering. Most striking in this aria – especially in the light of Stravinsky's earlier Russian works – is what appears to be a functional (tonal) bass line (cello, double bass, tuba), which uses a rigid four-beat ostinato pattern alternating between three beats of tonic and one beat of dominant (3+1: TTTD). Such a banal ostinato, no doubt, is meant to suggest both the repetitive nature of Parasha's task and her distracted sense of confinement. Above the bass, off-beat chords (horns) appear to accompany the bass, but in fact unfold a tonic–dominant ostinato that spans six beats (3+3: TDD+TDT), thereby contradicting the bass's four-beat tonic-dominant pattern. Against these two conflicting out-ofphase strata, the melody unfolds a third – an asymmetrical pattern that complements the alternating notated metres of 3/4 and 5/8, meant to portray Parasha's uncontrolled romantic fantasies. Most importantly, the asymmetrical melody uses a bel canto style, infused with Russian gypsy folk gestures and mixing together old and new stylistic features. What is old – yet new to Stravinsky – is the appearance of a tonal B minor scale with a functional leading note that can accommodate an authentic tonal cadence. What is new is how Stravinsky articulates form by joining these three non-aligned, independent strata in a way that blocks or delays cadential resolution of the dominant until the end of the aria's first section (two beats before fig. 3). Only at this single point does the leading note (melody) finally become aligned with the bass's dominant, thereby signalling an upbeat/downbeat cadential resolution to the following tonic. (Immediately after this cadence, the second section begins with an abrupt modulation to G minor.) In Ex. 6.4, the cadential alignment both articulates form and confirms that among the three conflicting strata or lines, the bass line – as in classical tonality – is primary. The technique of constructing textures by layering simultaneous but independent strata creates a striking effect that Stravinsky continues to refine and develop in later neoclassical works. In textures that rely on tonal formulas or gestures, the effect often involves making the familiar sound foreign – but not so much as to block recognition of the tonal allusion or gesture. Typically, simultaneous but dissociated strata vary in the way they relate to one another. As Jonathan Cross argues, Stravinsky de-familiarised the familiar, not by removing 'past music . . . from its original context – that much is self-evident; rather, by placing familiar objects in new contexts he enables us to see them in new ways.' But these new ways 'have the effect of changing tonality, with its associated phenomena of rhythm, phrasing and harmony, from a process into a system of gestures which constantly alludes to, but does not pursue, the logic which the listener expects of them.' Most importantly, Stravinsky's technique of layering strata enables him to sustain or re-create in a neoclassical idiom the rhythmic vitality of movement that so characterises his earlier Russian works. In Parasha's aria, for example, the teasing delay of metrical alignment among the three strata creates a voluble, buoyant metrical effect whose eventual synchronised resolution mimics the kind of build-up and release of tension common to tonal music – but that nonetheless avoids the authentic metrical and harmonic structures on which tonal music relies. In his larger neoclassical forms, Stravinsky's method of co-ordinating independent strata to sustain long-range rhythmic structures often assumes a more allusive and complex form. Concerto in D In the Concerto in D for violin and orchestra, Stravinsky articulates discrete textural layers through new and varied means. Most often, layers are identified by one or more unique features, such as a distinct combination of motive, interval, pattern of chords, rhythm, register, instrumentation, collection of pitches or pitch centre. While Stravinsky still delineates forms by synchronising constituent layers so as to converge on a single event or sonority, the layers now proceed with greater internal independence. In other words, layers have greater temporal dissociation and fewer points of synchronisation. To create a particularly dramatic effect, such as a climax or formal reprise, Stravinsky often intensifies the temporal dissociation of the layers by intensifying the conflict among their implied metres. One good example occurs in the three-part form of the Concerto's first movement, where temporal dissociation and metrical conflict among textural layers create a climax that signals the end of the movement's first part and the beginning of its second. Reverential imitation Similar techniques for creating continuity, rhythmic movement and layered articulation characterise – but perhaps to a lesser extent – a second, quite different type of imitation that I term 'reverential imitation'. In some of Stravinsky's earliest and most famous neoclassical works, reverential imitation follows the classical model with a fastidiousness arising from consciousness of historical discontinuity. In one sense, the imitation proceeds as if it were reverently transcribing a hallowed text, but nonetheless adorns it with modern affectations. The most obvious candidate is _Pulcinella_. Unlike the Octet or the Violin Concerto, _Pulcinella_ relies not merely on borrowed styles, but on borrowed music: two _opere buffe_ and several instrumental pieces that Stravinsky incorrectly assumed were composed solely by Pergolesi. _Pulcinella_ Except for the borrowed popular idioms used in the ragtime pieces and dance movements of _The Soldier's Tale_ , _Pulcinella_ represents Stravinsky's first major composition based on pre-existing material. For this reason critics have seen it as signalling the onset of his neoclassical style. Despite this common view, much of the borrowed material is left unchanged, rather than recomposed in a modern idiom, and Stravinsky's additions resemble an elegant gloss more than an original composition. Some have therefore convincingly argued that _Pulcinella_ is best described as an arrangement – even given its vitality and immense popularity. In other words, because _Pulcinella_ fails to present a genuine conflict of period styles, failing also to control musical anachronism, it more closely resembles an artful arrangement than an authentic neoclassical piece. The lack of a genuine conflict of styles arises from Stravinsky's reproducing the original harmonies largely intact, along with their implied tonal progressions and voice leading. Onto this classically tonal structure, Stravinsky superimposes modern ornaments and orchestral effects, adding devices such as diatonic dissonances, extended ostinatos, brilliant orchestration, altered phrase lengths, and so on. However dazzling, these devices seldom threaten the original tonal idiom. _The Fairy's Kiss_ A better illustration of Stravinsky's reverential imitation is _The Fairy's Kiss_ , an allegorical ballet inspired by the music of Tchaikovsky. Taking the opportunity to pay 'heartfelt homage to Tchaikovsky's wonderful talent', Stravinsky organised the ballet around borrowings from Tchaikovsky's piano and vocal music. But unlike _Pulcinella_ , these borrowings are extensively re-composed and often strung together by lengthy passages wholly of Stravinsky's making. _The Fairy's Kiss_ sounds less a pastiche than it might, because Stravinsky faithfully reproduces Tchaikovsky's style in seamless blending of borrowed materials with their newly composed surroundings. Originality here serves to evoke the older composer, to impersonate his style almost with reverence and fidelity. Stravinsky, in fact, mimics both strengths and weaknesses in Tchaikovsky's style. Re-creating Tchaikovsky's distinctive orchestration, for example, Stravinsky also adopts his often rigid phrase structures. This reverential stance has caused some critics to argue that the ballet lacks all irony, and hence the stylistic jostling between old and new that neoclassical works require. This assessment seems misguided, but it does respond to the mode of imitation employed in the piece, which seeks to recreate reverentially the classical model. Confronted with a short excerpt from _The Fairy's Kiss_ , most listeners would guess Tchaikovsky as the composer, but any extended excerpt introduces doubt. One reason is that exact repetition – a stylistic fetish in Tchaikovsky's music – is assiduously avoided. In _The Fairy's Kiss_ , themes rarely repeat without variation. Ex. 6.5 shows one of Stravinsky's borrowings, from Tchaikovsky's 'Zimniy vecher' ('Winter Evening'), Op. 54, no. 7. Tchaikovsky repeats this passage three times, without alteration, to separate the song's stanzas. In _The Fairy's Kiss,_ the passage serves as the primary borrowing for the D minor Allegro sostenuto that makes up most of Tableau I. Ex. 6.6 shows two of its repetitions, both varied with an imaginative abandon rarely, if ever, found in Tchaikovsky. Whether Stravinsky is offering a gentle critique of Tchaikovsky's music, or merely succumbing to personal preference, is of little consequence, for Stravinsky's stylistic alterations still respect the boundaries of Tchaikovsky's tonal style. Anachronism may ruffle the surface, but the essential style remains intact. In this piece, reverential imitation allows Stravinsky to celebrate rather than control anachronism, as though any major alteration of the model might damage its integrity. Ex. 6.5 Tchaikovsky, 'Zimniy vecher' (Winter evening), Op. 54, no. 7, bars 34–44 Ex. 6.6 a _Divertimento_ (arrangement of _The Fairy's Kiss_ , trans. for violin and piano by Stravinsky and Druskin), 'Sinfonia', bars 79–85 b _Divertimento_ , 'Sinfonia', bars 121–6 There is, however, a potential defect in _The Fairy's Kiss_ that frequently surfaces in reverential imitations. This defect results from viewing the model as accessible, but beyond significant alteration or criticism, and may be heard as a lack of irony. This kind of reverent reproduction of a model has difficulty functioning transitively, for the reproduction almost always succumbs at least occasionally to idioms that are alien or unbecoming to the original, and whose violations of the original's norms threaten to break out of artistic control. Consider, for example, the newly composed passage that Stravinsky uses to conclude Tableau I, shown in Ex. 6.7. Few would hear Tchaikovsky as the composer of this music. With its clashing dissonances, irregular phrasing, truncated repetitions and, most important, an ambiguous tonality that seems to balance two competing tonal centres, A and D, this passage is quintessential Stravinsky. As if Stravinsky's impersonation of the earlier composer drops away momentarily (perhaps deliberately), this example exposes the abyss that separates the modern composer from his model. Just this sort of momentary lapse in style often breaks loose in reverential imitations. Uncontrolled, such lapses seem to violate essential norms of the model. In this instance, the recreated tonal Tableau must accommodate – or at least co-exist with – an ending whose structure is antithetical to tonality, which will invariably startle an attentive listener. Ex. 6.7 _Divertimento_ , 'Sinfonia', bars 239–56 (ending) The authenticity of Stravinsky's return to Tchaikovsky bears historical scrutiny, for 1928 marked the year that Stravinsky spoke most vehemently against modernism, which he believed was implicated in the social upheavals and destructions of World War I. In an article published in 1928, Arthur Lourié, Stravinsky's associate in the 1920s, describes Stravinsky as the 'conservative and reactionary element' in contemporary music, who seeks 'to affirm unity and unalterable substance' amidst the ceaseless flux and disintegration of modern culture. While 'the order to return to Bach', he continues, has only recently been the vogue, it has had its day. 'The musical heritage of the nineteenth century, so recently rejected, has acquired new recognition, it is being called upon to influence contemporary music.' It becomes clear, in fact, that Lourié is describing Stravinsky's re-engagement with Tchaikovsky, Russia's most 'classical' composer and the premier composer of imperial Russia. This re-engagement began with _Mavra_ in the early 1920s and now continues with _The Fairy's Kiss._ Lourié describes _The Fairy's Kiss_ as 'a natural reaction against modernism', but Taruskin more aptly intuits that 'this gentle music was the fruit of crises, of disillusion, and, it seemed, of exhaustion'. The crisis passed by the end of the decade and bore fruit in the 1930s with a new creative vitality that consolidated the innovations of the previous decade. While the works of the 1930s may seem less radical, many none the less represent Stravinsky's most refined neoclassical style. Heuristic imitation A third type of imitation which I call 'heuristic imitation' characterises a number of Stravinsky's neoclassical works that often follow most closely specific classical or baroque forms. Perhaps because heuristic imitation seems to emerge from eclectic imitation, it is sometimes difficult to judge which label better describes the imitative mode of a particular piece. Not infrequently, different movements from a single piece make use of different types. Difference here is one of degree. Stravinsky's eclectic imitations usually do not achieve a cultural or historical continuity that transcends the anachronisms so freely introduced. Because their past is fragmented, jumbled and, in effect, de-historicised, they have difficulty mediating between past and present. They tend to ignore the problem of anachronism or to play with it within a hospitable texture, but seldom confront it directly. Thus, Stravinsky's eclectic imitations seldom arrive at a deeper, more dramatic conflict and engagement with the past. When a deeper engagement does occur, I call it heuristic imitation. Stravinsky uses heuristic imitation to accentuate rather than conceal the specific link he forges with the past. Heuristic imitation advertises its dependence on an earlier model, but in a way that forces us to recognise the disparity, the anachronism, of the connection being made. Heuristic imitation dramatises musical history by relying on the datedness of musical styles for aesthetic effect. Stravinsky uses heuristic imitation to position himself within a specific culture and tradition, thereby opening a transitive dialogue with the past that allows him to take – and take responsibility for – his place in music history. Symphony in C The Symphony in C places itself squarely within the classical symphonic tradition by reproducing – at least at the outset – essential features of a classical symphony. The more obvious of these features are the title (which implies a C tonality), four movements following the traditional order, a classical orchestra, diatonic harmonies with only modest dissonance, metric regularity, relatively simple textures and – most importantly – a first movement whose sections mimic those of a classical sonata form (i.e. an exposition with two themes, a development and a recapitulation). By using such recognisable features, Stravinsky advertises his classical model, but does so without actual thematic quotation. The success of heuristic imitation, which necessarily juxtaposes two clashing styles, lies in Stravinsky's ability concisely to mimic formulae that instantly evoke classical genres. The economy and strength of these formulae can then absorb or accommodate stylistic elements that clash or seem foreign to it. A good example is to be found in the first theme of the Symphony's first movement, which advertises not only its classical model but a likely composer as well. Ex. 6.8 compares the first theme of Stravinsky's Symphony with that of Beethoven's First Symphony (also in C). Notice how Stravinsky's theme, like Beethoven's, consists of a repeating motive comprising the same three notes (C, G, B) with only an occasional occurrence of a fourth note (E) to fill out the triadic harmony. Moreover, in both themes the rhythmic pacing of the repeating motive intensifies in the middle of the theme and then subsides towards the end. The stylistic imitation continues in the following phrase, where Stravinsky, like Beethoven, repeats the theme one step higher, on D, to round off the movement's first period. Ex. 6.8 a Beethoven, Symphony no. 1 in C major, movement I b Stravinsky, Symphony in C, movement I Stravinsky continues to imitate the style and form of a classical symphony but, as the movement progresses, the listener increasingly senses elements that disrupt its classical purity. These elements work in two ways: first, they advertise the datedness of the older model; and second, they recast or translate the older model into a modern vernacular. In other words, the disruptive elements work together to create an integrated style that not only competes with or challenges the original, but also updates it. Through this process, Stravinsky reveals a particular historical perspective – a specific route from past to an emerging present; as the disruptive, modern elements become more integrated, they also become more powerful and gradually weaken the classical structures from which they derive. To illustrate how this process works, we need to return to the beginning of the first movement, which opens with a stately 'Beethovenesque' introduction, one that presents the three-note motivic cell (B–C–G) which Stravinsky uses to generate the movement's first theme (see Ex. 6.9). While the listener probably hears the opening in the key of C major, there is none the less a subtle dissonance or ambiguity of key that makes itself felt. First, the motive could articulate E minor as well as C major. Three features create this ambiguity: 1) since the motive, played in unison, is not harmonised, pitch C does not appear in the bass; 2) pitch B (and not C) is repeated and occurs on the single downbeat, while pitch C occurs only once as a quaver off-beat; and 3) the placement of pitch B on the downbeat allows it to be heard either as an embellishing pitch (an appoggiatura to C) or as a harmonic pitch (itself embellished by C as an incomplete neighbour note). Consequently, the pitch B can function in either of two important ways: either as the leading note of C major or as the dominant of E minor. Notice that the tonal ambiguity between C major and E minor intensifies in bars 3–4 where the second bassoon starts as if to end the phrase with an expected bass motion from the tonic to the dominant of C major, but is cut off prematurely by the timpani's repeating B in the lowest register. Moreover, both the tonic and dominant chords are clouded by their own leading notes in the first bassoon and horns. As a result, the phrase ends in bar 4 with a dominant chord on G that includes F♯ , the one pitch that differentiates the scale of E minor from that of C major. Ex. 6.9 Symphony in C, first movement, bars 1–10 On the surface, the twenty-five-bar introduction seems to unfold in a typically classical fashion. The principal motive appears in varied forms, suggesting conventional thematic development, and a dramatic crescendo (repeating ascending scales) creates an extended upbeat that leads as a downbeat into the beginning of the first theme. But, below the surface, various details in the introduction continue to undermine C major and work together to further the suggestion of E minor. For example, the three-note motive is transposed to E at bar 7 (D–E–B); the concluding scales that lead into the first theme all contain an F♯; and the dominant chord that precedes the first theme contains both F♮ and F♯ (bars 24–5). One might anticipate that the introduction's tension between C major and E minor will be resolved by the principal theme, but it is not. As shown by Ex. 6.10, the first theme (as in the introduction) excludes C from the bass, relying instead on a quaver ostinato consisting of only two notes, E and G, the only notes held in common between a C major and an E minor triad. Notice, too, how often motivic gestures that seem to articulate a C major triad are subtly undermined by accompanying figures that strongly imply an E minor triad (for example, compare violins 1 and oboe 1 in bars 29–33). The first theme, then, not only fails to resolve the tonal ambiguity, but significantly nourishes it. By this point, the attentive listener will suspect that what at first seemed a mild tonal dissonance in fact represents an essential component of the movement's thematic material. Ex. 6.10 Symphony in C, first movement, bars 24–33 Lack of convincing harmonic progression is another means by which Stravinsky undermines classical tonality in the Symphony, thereby creating an effect of tonal immobility or stasis. For example, the first period of the exposition (bars 26–52) seems conventionally structured by a large-scale harmonic progression of I–II–V–I. But this progression resides only on the motivic surface. Rather than one harmony progressing to the next, the harmonies seem merely to follow in largely unprepared and unmotivated series of static blocks whose boundaries are smoothed over by inconsequential motivic gestures. Consider, for example, the bridge passage (bars 38–42) that supports the harmonic 'progression' from C major (I) to D minor (II). This passage hardly functions as a bridge, for it does not actually bring about a convincing tonicisation of D minor. As Jonathan Cross argues, 'though the descending lines might smooth over the edges separating the two harmonic areas, the two statements [of the principal theme] are essentially juxtaposed without any mediation'. Only the surface gestures suggest a transition, while the harmonic progression itself seems dysfunctional. The passage mimics the rhetoric of a tonal form, but lacks an authentic sense of harmonic motion. Instead of progressing, the harmonic areas remain self-contained, not unlike the discrete harmonic blocks that structured Stravinsky's earlier moment forms. Lack of convincing harmonic progression – with the resulting harmonic stasis – destabilises other essential components of a classical sonata form, in particular a coherent thematic development. Sonata form requires that the contest between the two key areas in the exposition be resolved through thematic development; motives and themes cannot merely vary, they must develop organically or teleologically. If there is no convincing thematic development, then the recapitulation of themes in the sonata's final section cannot effectively resolve the form's dramatic contest between key areas. But tonal themes cannot develop effectively without coherent harmonic progression; they may vary, but the variations will not (as a group) develop organically. This is precisely the effect Stravinsky creates in the Symphony's first movement. Most of the movement's thematic material does derive from the initial three-note motive, but harmonic stasis prevents development and creates instead the effect of an arbitrary or undirected succession of motivic variations. Just as Stravinsky undermines the thematic development that is characteristic of sonata form, so too does he tamper with the ordering of its sections. Again, formal deviations become more prominent as the movement progresses. The first deviation comes in the bridge section that introduces the second key area of the exposition. Consisting of two distinct parts, _a_ and _b_ , the bridge section ends with a strong emphasis on D major (V of V), which lures the listener into expecting the traditional second key area of the dominant – in this case, G major. But instead of G major, the second theme enters abruptly and without preparation in F major, the subdominant. Coherent harmonic progression is blocked, but this time the unexpected goal also disrupts the dramatic rhetoric of the form itself. Other formal surprises intrude (such as an oddly abbreviated development section), but the key deviation – the one that makes coherent those that have preceded it – occurs in the recapitulation. Now, the second part of the bridge section ( _b_ ) comes at the end of the second theme. Its dramatic rhetoric here serves to introduce the coda, a section that is not essential to sonata form. Moreover, the coda comprises two discrete sections ( _x_ and _y_ ), whose combined length approaches that of the development section. The dramatic character of the bridge's _b_ section, as well as the unusual length of the coda, both work to create a competing form for Stravinsky's 'sonata' movement – a balanced arch with strict temporal proportions. As shown by Ex. 6.11, the durations of the form's sections and their constituent parts form a symmetry: A–A′–B–C–D–C–B–A′–A. The repositioning of the bridge's _b_ section in the recapitulation, then, is the key to this temporal symmetry. Unlike classical sonata form, this form highlights the development section as centre or fulcrum. Ex. 6.11 Durational symmetry and form in the Symphony in C, movement I How can we be sure that these progressive alterations in form are part of Stravinsky's design? The most convincing answer comes in the middle of the development section (bar 181), exactly halfway through the movement, where the principal theme reappears for the first time with a tonally _unambiguous_ accompaniment squarely in E minor. The accompaniment now omits F and includes both F♯ and D♯ , the leading note of E minor. In conventional terms, the listener probably hears this premature reappearance of the theme as a false recapitulation; but, from our perspective, the theme with its new E minor accompaniment provides a large-scale thematic articulation of the movement's basic polarity between C major and E minor. Rather than the decisive resolution of tonal conflict that occurs in classical sonata form, Stravinsky's form produces its effects by blocking tonal resolution; C major and E minor do compete, but in the end they maintain a static equilibrium or polarity that is temporally balanced and made convincing in an elegantly symmetrical form. In updating the classical symphony, Stravinsky has invented a new means of achieving the classical values of order, clarity, balance and formal beauty. No longer controlled by the demands of functional tonality, organic development, and the resolution of tonal conflict, Stravinsky's new symphony achieves formal elegance by balancing absolute temporal durations – perceived and measured by blocking the progressions of functional tonality – and by sustaining a delicate equilibrium between conflicting tonalities. The first movement of Stravinsky's Symphony in C has a twofold dramatic function: 1) to advertise the piece's historical model, and 2) to portray the passage of this model through time, leading the listener by progressive stages from a tonally uncontested classical sonata form to Stravinsky's idiomatic neoclassical vernacular. This miniature historical journey progresses, as does the form itself, from mere traces of tonal ambiguity within a seemingly conventional sonata form to whole-scale tonal polarity within a temporally symmetrical form. The Symphony's first movement singles out a classical model, one separated from Stravinsky by a cultural divide, and then reinvents it. The movement thus invites specific comparison of two traditions; it proclaims an inheritance that it puts to a new use. The movement enacts a historical and cultural journey from a specified past into an emerging present. Through this acting out of passage, what I call heuristic imitation exhibits its own cultural awareness and creative memory. Because this imitative strategy defines itself in relationship to a specific model, it sketches far more explicitly than eclectic imitation its own etiology, its own historical passage and artistic emergence. By invoking the past so explicitly, however, Stravinsky also makes the work vulnerable to comparison with the past and to criticism for being merely derivative. Indeed, many of Stravinsky's critics during the 1920s and 30s did make just this sort of criticism of his new neoclassical style. Stravinsky's use of heuristic imitation has, however, a unique tension or ambivalence. While each type of imitation nourishes some ambivalences more than others, heuristic imitation is most vulnerable in the fictive nature of its diachronic passage. Stravinsky takes sonata form as his model, but succeeds only to the extent that we can accept the historical itinerary he follows. This kind of neoclassical piece does not compete against its model; it pretends to be a direct descendant of the model, the natural heir to its cultural authenticity. The strength of heuristic imitation is its ambition to enact a specific historical and cultural journey, but its distinctive limitation is an incompleteness or fictiveness in the purported relationship between the simpler model and the more complex contemporary one – that is, between cultures too distant or estranged for their relationship to be entirely free of make-believe. Dialectical imitation A fourth and final type of imitation that characterises Stravinsky's neo-classical works can be termed 'dialectical imitation'. This type of imitation remedies the lack of exchange or contest in heuristic imitation through a more aggressive dialogue between a piece and its model. Dialectical imitation is often historically and culturally aware, acknowledging anachronism but exposing in its model a defect, irresolution or naivety. At the same time, dialectical imitation invites and risks reciprocal treatment – a two-way dialogue, a mutual exchange of criticism, a contest between specific composers, pieces and traditions. Dialectical imitation implicitly criticises or challenges its authenticating model, but in so doing leaves itself open to the possibility of unfavourable comparison. How can a piece imitate and sustain a dialogue with another piece or a past tradition? How can a piece enter a contest with its model? Or, put differently, how can a piece reveal an artist making sense of – telling the story of – his or her place in the history of music? In poetry the devices are better understood, but nonetheless require interpretation. Poets can use echoes or allusions to earlier poems or traditions that they both invoke and transform. The echo invites the reader to notice how changed that tradition is from what it was in the earlier poem. This technique is repeatable; poetic echoes can recall earlier echoes, initiating a sequence of traditions and transformations. In each instance, the echo or allusion suggests the newer poem's place in a history of styles, modes and values. But the imitation is dialectical because the older poem seems to demand – and be granted – a say in locating the newer one. _The Rake's Progress_ Stravinsky's most successful use of dialectical imitation is in his last neoclassical composition and his only full-length opera, _The Rake's Progress_. _The Rake_ enjoys a unique position among Stravinsky's neoclassical works for several reasons. With one short exception, it is the only music Stravinsky composed with a text on romantic love. Absorbing most of the composer's creative energy over a period of three years (1948–51), it is also Stravinsky's longest work and among the very few that did not originate in a commission or a clear prospect of performance. Its libretto, written largely by W. H. Auden, represents one of the most literary texts in all opera. Stravinsky took his title and inspiration from a series of eight engravings published by William Hogarth in the 1730s. These moralising tableaux depict the progress of a rake from self-indulgent hedonism to degradation, madness and death. Stravinsky and Auden changed the order of Hogarth's tableaux, reinterpreted their detail, and added much new material, including significant allusions, both literary and musical, to Goethe's _Faust_ and Mozart's _Don Giovanni_. Largely through these allusions Stravinsky engages in a transitive dialogue, a dialectical exchange, with his chosen classical models. The opera depicts Tom Rakewell, who unexpectedly receives a sizeable inheritance and leaves his fiancée, Anne Trulove, in the country to pursue fortune and adventure in London. He is accompanied until almost the end by a Mephistopheles character, Nick Shadow, who represents the Jungian darker side of Tom's character. After a series of ill-fated adventures, which include whoring, marrying a bearded circus freak, and squandering the last of his money on a machine to manufacture bread from stone, Tom owes his soul to Nick Shadow. Supported by Anne's faithful love, Tom outwits Nick in a game of cards and survives. But Nick's final curse as he sinks into Hell causes Tom to lose his sanity. Anne visits Tom in Bedlam, surrounded by madmen, and discovers that he responds only to the name Adonis. After a climactic love duet, Anne sings Tom to sleep with a lullaby, bids him a final farewell and departs. Tom awakes to find that his Venus has vanished; he dies, presumably of a broken heart, tormented and mourned by the madmen. In a programme note written in 1965, Stravinsky explains that he 'chose to cast _The Rake_ in the mould of an eighteenth-century "number" opera, one in which the dramatic progress depends on the succession of separate pieces – recitatives and arias, duets, trios, choruses, instrumental interludes'. He continues by identifying specific composers that he imitates, and one that he does not: In the earlier scenes the mould is to some extent pre-Gluck in that it tends to crowd the story into the secco recitatives, reserving the arias for the reflective poetry, but then, as the opera warms up, the story is told, enacted, contained almost entirely in song – as distinguished from so-called speech-song, and Wagnerian continuous melody. Beyond this general description, Stravinsky says little about the many classical allusions that he and Auden insert into the opera, nor about their intended meaning. We do know that Stravinsky and Auden worked together closely in shaping the libretto and that Stravinsky was highly satisfied with Auden's work. He chose Auden as his librettist because of his gift for versification, but they proved to have a much deeper rapport. '[A]s soon as we began to work together', Stravinsky wrote, 'I discovered that we shared the same views not only about opera, but also on the nature of the Beautiful and the Good. Thus, our opera is indeed, and in the highest sense, a collaboration.' That _The Rake_ concerns itself with the meaning of 'the beautiful and the good' is beyond doubt, but the richness and complexity of that meaning, created largely by its allusions to past works and traditions, has generated a lack of consensus among critics about what exactly the meaning is. This lack of consensus is clearest in the fact that, for almost fifty years since _The Rake_ 's premiere in 1950, critics have debated the fate of its hero, Tom Rakewell. Like Goethe's Faust, Tom employs a satanic servant as he pursues a life of debauchery, but then at the last moment seems to avoid damnation. Unlike Faust, whom angels carry aloft to heaven, Tom ends his life in Bedlam among madmen, believing himself to be the mythical Adonis, lover of Venus. Where _Faust_ makes us ask _why_ Faust is saved after all the harm he has done to others, _The Rake_ makes us ask whether Tom, though clearly saved from damnation, is redeemed and, if so, in what sense. This question can be explored in a number of ways, but here I choose only one, which illustrates the interpretative uses of the idea of dialectical imitation. I want to explore Tom's redemption, first by showing how, at the end of the opera, Stravinsky employs time as a symbol for the rake's progress, and second by suggesting how the libretto reveals Tom's fate by placing time in the context of Goethe's _Faust. The Rake_ 's engagement with _Faust_ sets the stage for dialogue between these two great works – that is, for Stravinsky and Auden's neoclassical masterpiece of dialectical imitation. In large measure, the meaning of the opera hinges on the final scene and particularly on Tom's fantasy that he and Anne are Adonis and Venus. Should Tom's mythologisation of himself and Anne be understood as an episode of syphilitic madness or as a transcendent identification with the divine? The scene gives strong support for both interpretations. Like the final Hogarth engraving, the final scene of _The Rake_ depicts the horrors of eighteenth-century asylums, with hallucinating men taunting one another and dying of syphilis. Even though Tom asks for forgiveness and repents of his 'madness', he dies apparently without understanding his own life. Unsurprisingly, many critics argue that any redemption in this context can only be ironic. Joseph Kerman, reviewing the opera's American premiere, recommended that unless Auden and Stravinsky intended to deny Tom's redemption, they should re-compose the ending to make Tom's fate clearer. Geoffrey Chew finds the final scene clear enough, but only by superimposing the context of twentieth-century Christian existentialism. A common approach to interpreting Tom's final fate has been to follow his 'progress' in earlier scenes – to ask what motivates him, what he learns from his adventures, and how his character develops. Again, contradictory interpretations seem plausible, mainly because Stravinsky and Auden relentlessly invoke earlier models that sharpen Tom's character through ironic contrast. The Faust legend, for example, diminishes Tom. Faust's bargain with the devil figures, not his evil, but his striving to transcend the limits of human desire. Tom Rakewell, by contrast, is weak, indecisive, and so naive that he fails to recognise his demonic servant until the last moment. Stravinsky invokes classical models in the music to achieve similar contrasts. As Joseph Straus has shown, when Tom confronts his fate in the graveyard, Stravinsky imitates key features of the music that sends Mozart's Don Giovanni to hell. The allusion reminds an audience how irresolute and cowardly Tom has been when compared with Don Giovanni, whose insatiable desires drive him resolutely on to the end. Tom typically responds to his escapades with astonishment, boredom or remorse – responses that could equally reflect enlightenment or confusion. Trying to interpret Tom's 'progress', then, leads to a similar question: is it a path of enlightenment to some sort of redemption or a path of degradation to some sort of purgatory? Given the apparent weakness of Tom's character and the fact that his repentance occurs in the context of his insanity, it seems safe to say that an argument for Tom's redemption involves a leap of faith. The most compelling reason for making that leap is that the final scene contains some of Auden's most beautiful verses set to music conveying a convincing sense of fulfilment. In Tom's imagination, the final love duet takes place in a mythological paradise, the gardens of Adonis, where their communion will be complete and eternal: Rejoice, beloved: in these fields of Elysium Space cannot alter, nor Time our love abate; Here has no words for absence or estrangement Nor Now a notion of Almost or Too Late. The music half convinces us – against our better judgement – that this imagined paradise is as real as the walls of Bedlam and that the relationship between hero and heroine is ultimately made good, redeemed by a love that transcends the sordid facts of this world. But, at the same time, we have the sense of being duped by beauty. Modernists like Auden and Stravinsky, we think, would never seriously accept this sort of nineteenth-century operatic cliché. Still, the music gives us hope where the drama offers none. How does Stravinsky create the extraordinary musical effect of the final scene? One unique feature of the final two scenes is that, for the first time, themes begin to reappear. Earlier, except for a few short echoes of previous tunes, Stravinsky – true to his Mozartian model – avoids repeating themes. Significantly, the only two repeated themes recur together, and one of these structures the final, ecstatic love duet between Anne and Tom. The other, the one that Stravinsky labels a Ballad, is remarkable solely for its banality. These two themes transform one another in successive repetitions to portray a transformation of Tom's character, a transformation that gains meaning largely through its imitative dialogue with _Faust_. The Ballad appears first using its most conventional accompaniment. On stage, the auction of Tom's possessions is ending, and the voices of Tom and Nick are heard from the street. Having lost all of his money on the bread machine, Tom and Nick throw to the wind their few remaining cares and responsibilities. Tom's progressive escape from duty seems to have reached its most absurd end; both Stravinsky and Auden echo this existential predicament by indulging in extremes. Auden's silly verses, in strict iambic metres, are metrically repetitive and mechanical: If boys had wings and girls had stings And gold fell from the sky, If new-laid eggs wore wooden legs I should not laugh or cry. Stravinsky's little tune is equally silly – the most metrically rigid and harmonically predictable in the entire opera. The Ballad returns in the next scene, in the graveyard, when Nick sings alone to demand his wages or Tom's soul (see Ex. 6.12). Only now does Tom begin to wonder about his servant's identity and intentions. But just before Nick sings the Ballad and Tom acknowledges his suspicions comes a four-bar introduction that presents the second theme which Stravinsky significantly reuses to structure the final love duet. I will call this the 'flutter' motive, and here its changing, irregular metre suggests Tom's growing apprehension and fear. Ex. 6.12 _The Rake's Progress_ , Act 3, scene 2, 'Duet', figs. 163–166+3 Were it not for its banal memorability, we would scarcely recognise that Nick is singing the same tune that he last sang for the jaunty street song. In fact, much of the chilling effect results from the ironic tension between the triviality of the tune and the ultimate seriousness of Nick's claim: A year and a day have passed away Since first to you I came. All things you bid, I duly did And now my wages claim. The Ballad now appears exactly transposed to G major, but important changes occur in the accompaniment, where Stravinsky subtly undermines the metre of the passage. What before had been bar-length arpeggiations are now gradually expanded and repeated without regard to metre. The Ballad recurs a final time at the next dramatic climax, just after Nick descends to hell, having lost the card game and therefore Tom's soul. But as Nick descends, he condemns Tom to madness. Tom, now insane, sings the Ballad the following morning (see Ex. 6.13). It is spring, and his open grave is covered with a green mound upon which Tom sits smiling like an innocent child, putting grass on his head and proclaiming himself as Adonis. The dramatic effect gains force by the close juxtaposition of the Ballad, first portraying Nick's evil and now Tom's innocence. Again, Stravinsky creates this new effect by recomposing the accompaniment, replacing the rolling arpeggiations of the earlier settings with the flutter motive that haunted Tom's entrance into the graveyard. Each phrase of the Ballad that Tom sings is interrupted at irregular intervals by various repetitions of the flutter motive, thereby undermining the clear metrical structure of the Ballad. Ex. 6.13 _The Rake's Progress_ , Act 3, scene 2, 'Aria', figs. 206–9 Thus, with each recurrence of the Ballad, the sense of metre progressively dissipates. As the curtain slowly falls, the flutter motive repeats at irregular intervals. Just as Tom has lost the ability to measure time with his loss of sanity, so too does the Ballad tune lose its metre. A new sense of time takes over, both dramatically and musically. I want to return to how Stravinsky uses time and metre to convey dramatic meaning, but first need to discuss the climactic love duet that follows in the final scene. While Stravinsky's music changes the way we perceive time in Tom's final presentation of the Ballad, Auden waits to create the same effect until the ecstatic reunion of Tom and Anne in Bedlam (see Ex. 6.14). His verses, quoted above, portray a new sense of time: no longer rigidly measured by Nick's year and a day, time now enjoys a sense of immediacy or fullness, one that rejects the notions of almost or too late, of absence or estrangement. Time is no longer cyclic and repetitive, but linear, non-cyclic and ever-evolving: 'Here has no words for absence or estrangement / Nor Now a notion of Almost or Too Late.' For a brief moment, Tom and Anne seem to be joined as fate intended them to be. The music highlights the connection between Tom's insanity and this ever-evolving, utopian vision by again using the metrically unpredictable flutter motive, this time with the lovers themselves joining the accompanying wind instruments. This is when Tom falls asleep and Anne leaves, making it clear that she will not return. Ex. 6.14 _The Rake's Progress_ , Act 3, scene 2, 'Duet', figs. 249–52 Several things seem clear about time as a symbol in these passages. First, the Ballad, with its rigid, repetitive metre, is associated with Nick Shadow. As Nick gradually loses his hold on Tom, the Ballad gradually loses its metrical effect. Once Nick has disappeared, the Ballad is never heard again. Second, as Tom's sense of dread and fear intensifies, so does his awareness of repentance, and both are linked to the growing dominance of the flutter theme, which culminates in Tom and Anne's final love duet. Dramatically, Stravinsky uses the flutter theme to contrast and compete with the Ballad; musically, he uses metre to portray this contrast or competition. Perhaps in response to the text, which speaks of a fullness or abundance of time, the love duet itself seems metrically rich or complex, overflowing with a sense of metrical possibilities. It sustains a sense of immediacy by delaying any clear sense of downbeat; the music seems to balance precariously on a continuous upbeat, which never finds its anticipated downbeat. The effect is not an absence of metre, but the opposite; one hears the theme structured by an ever-changing abundance of metrical paths. And exactly this sense of abundance, of sustained anticipation, creates a sense of immediacy unique to the dramatic climax of the opera. Most listeners quickly grasp how contrasting themes portray competing impulses in Tom Rakewell's character and how time or metre comes to symbolise the outcome of the competition. But what does that symbol mean, and how does it relate to Stravinsky's chosen classical model? Here one of Auden's essays, 'Balaam and his ass', written while he was working with Stravinsky, may help. Auden takes up the traditional issue of why Faust is saved. Faust's redemption depends on Goethe's ideas of cyclic, repetitive time versus non-cyclic, linear or progressive time. Goethe describes Mephistopheles as a spirit of denial, who expresses and acts upon his sense of the ultimate futility of being. In the final climax of the work, Mephistopheles declares that time is a series of meaningless and empty circles: What use these cycles of creation! Or snatching off the creatures to negation! 'It is gone by!' – and we can draw the inference: If it had not been, it would make no difference; The wheel revolves the same, no more, no less. I should prefer eternal emptiness. [11598–603] Thus, for Mephistopheles time is meaningless because it is repetitive rather than creative. No progress can occur in any direction; to go round in a circle is to go nowhere. If evil is understood as a process of negation, then it is both destroying and denying, and the ultimate good becomes creativity, bringing into existence things that did not exist before. Faust's restless striving towards the infinite implies linear movement through time. When making his deal with Mephistopheles, Faust stipulates when his soul will be forfeited: If ever I stretch myself on a bed of ease: Then I am finished! Is that understood? . . . If ever I say to the passing moment 'Linger a while! Thou art so fair!' [1692–3; 1699–1700] Faust's stipulation, at bottom, turns on the different ways of understanding time – immediate and endlessly becoming versus repetitive and cyclic. If ever Faust ceases striving and wants time to stop, if ever he wants to halt its linear flow, then his time is up: 'The clock may stop, its hands may fall, / And that be the end of time for me!' (1705–6). The root question of Goethe's _Faust_ is 'Whose view of time will triumph – Mephistopheles's or Faust's?' In 'Balaam and his ass', Auden opens his discussion of _Faust_ with the phrase, 'Das verfluchte Hier' [the accursed present], and then gives his own interpretation of the nature of Faust's indefatigable striving that generations of critics have seen as the reason for his eventual redemption: The story of Faust is precisely the story of a man who refuses to be anyone and only wishes to become someone else . . . [What Faust strives to reject] is that immediate actual moment, the actual concrete world now, . . . and [what he strives for is] the same world seen by memory and imagination as possible . . . All value belongs to possibility, the actual here and now is valueless, or rather the value it has is the feeling of discontent it provokes . . . Faust escapes Mephisto's clutches because he is careful to define the contentment of his last moment in terms of anticipation. To Mephistopheles, the spirit of denial, creation is most hateful, even the anticipation of creation. In Auden's view, Faust escapes damnation not only because he strives relentlessly, driven by dissatisfaction, but because his striving is coupled with anticipation – by engaging the world by memory and imagination, as 'what might have been once and may be yet'. Auden's comments on _Faust_ help resolve the ambiguity of the progress of his and Stravinsky's _Rake_. The conventional association of Mephistopheles with cyclic, repetitive time suggests one reason why Stravinsky chose to give Nick Shadow music to sing that is metrically rigid and repetitive and why Auden gives his spirit of denial the nonsense lines, 'If new-laid eggs wore wooden legs, I should not laugh or cry.' Without too much effort, we also can see how the flutter theme that comes to represent Tom's fate can represent a transcendence of repetition and cyclical time. But what about the idea that Faust saves himself not through mere striving, but through striving motivated by anticipation and imagination? Here it will be useful to return to the original outline of the opera that Stravinsky and Auden prepared together over a ten-day period in the autumn of 1947. While many details were added later, the initial shape of the opera hardly changed in the final version, perhaps because of the extraordinary rapport between the composer and librettist. In the crucial graveyard scene, where the Ballad and flutter motive first appear together, the original outline calls for the Hero (Tom) and Villain (Nick) to play dice on a grave. After the Hero declares that he is bored, the Villain asks him what more he desires – Pleasure? Glory? Power? The hero rejects each of these and declares instead he desires the Past. The Villain is pleased with this response, for the Hero seems to know what Nick makes explicit at this point in the final libretto, that 'return' to the past – that is, repetition – is impossible: The simpler the trick, the simpler the deceit; That there is no return, I've taught him well, And repetition palls him; The Queen of Hearts again shall be for him the Queen of Hell. In the original outline, the Villain then commands the Hero to continue playing the game which the Hero loses. Just as the Villain declares that the Hero's time is up, Anne's voice is heard in the distance. The Hero declares with great excitement: 'No, there is still another thing – the future!' and he then commands the Villain to play again. The Villain refuses and proceeds to lose the game, as well as Tom's soul. In this first draft, the reason that Tom escapes damnation is made explicit: at the crucial moment, he, like Faust, does not want to return to the past; he wants the future to resume or repeat 'what might have been once and may be yet'. In the final version, the reason is less explicit, for Tom's lines are: 'Return! and Love! / The banished words torment.' Nick then declares: 'You cannot now repent.' Again Tom cries, 'Return O love.' But Tom is interrupted by Anne singing in the distance: 'A love that is sworn before Thee can plunder Hell of its prey.' Tom then continues: 'I wish for nothing else. / Love, first and last, assume eternal reign; / Renew my life, O Queen of Hearts, again.' And on that line, Tom wins the game. Because Auden deleted the word 'future' in the final text, most critics have gone astray by interpreting Tom's line, 'I wish for nothing else', to mean either 'I wish for nothing at all' or 'I wish for nothing else than to have Hell plundered of its prey' (that is, his soul). But a third meaning is more consistent with the original text: 'I wish for nothing else' than for 'love to assume eternal reign, and thereby to renew my life'. This interpretation points to Auden's understanding of why Faust is saved – because 'he is careful to define the contentment of his last moment in terms of anticipation, . . . the same world seen by memory and imagination as possible.' Some might object to the parallel with Faust, since this is not Tom's last moment. He still has one more scene to go and appears to be insane for the whole of it. Auden's imitation of the Faust legend ends when Tom defeats Nick. Everything following has no obvious literary precedent. What dramatic function, then, does the final scene serve? Why should the music of the last scene convey so strong a sense of fulfilment? And if fulfilment suggests redemption, why does Tom – unlike Faust – nonetheless suffer a tragic fate? The answers to these questions are crucial, for if the view presented here of Stravinsky and Auden's imitative strategy is correct, then _The Rake_ 's final departure from Faust accommodates and furthers a dialectical exchange – a two-way dialogue that promotes mutually critical reflection on both _The_ _Rake_ and _Faust_. The final love duet, as described above, speaks of a fullness or abundance of time in music that seems metrically rich or complex, overflowing with a sense of metrical possibilities. With the text in mind, the significance of its most remarkable feature – that all possible metres (2/8, 3/8, 4/8) seem equally plausible – becomes clearer. The duet locks our attention with a sense of presentness or immediacy; while we sense metre, we cannot grasp the metrically repeating downbeats we need to define a specific metre. In Auden's words, Faust is saved because he strives for a world 'seen by memory and imagination as possible', as 'what might have been once and may be yet'. Tom's tragedy, then, depends on his sentence to insanity because it robs him of memory and therefore the ability to bring the past into an anticipated present. We can now understand how the love duet portrays musically this tragic dilemma. It promises or anticipates multiple metres, but falters in its 'memory' of the past metrical events needed to define any one metre. In other words, the metrical past never satisfies an anticipation of a metrical present. This view of the interrelated literary and musical features of the final duet explains why Anne leaves Tom and why Tom dies singing a final melody that alludes to Monteverdi's _Orfeo_. That allusion, of course, furthers the dialectical exchange with Faust by evoking another work in which tragedy lies in the inability both to return and to progress. Conclusion Stravinsky's neoclassical style culminates in _The Rake's Progress_. Perhaps sensing that he could never surpass _The Rake_ 's accomplishment, Stravinsky abandoned his neoclassical style in 1951 and, until his death in 1971, used primarily serial procedures. And perhaps because of this abrupt change, historical assessment of Stravinsky's neoclassical works has been and remains mixed. By the time he had completed _The Rake_ , critics were labelling Stravinsky's neoclassical style as reactionary, in opposition to Schoenberg's serialism, which they thought more progressive. Stravinsky found it increasingly difficult to ignore this assessment. With greater historical perspective, more recent critics have significantly revised this appraisal by judging Stravinsky's neoclassical style as the harbinger of musical postmodernism. Like the earlier assessment that rested on simplistic opposition between Schoenberg and Stravinsky, the current view distorts unless carefully qualified. In general, critics who find here the origins of musical postmodernism point to Stravinsky's use of pastiche, which many identify as the signature of the postmodern across every art form. Others use the term 'collage', which seems not to differ significantly from 'pastiche' (in Fredric Jameson's usage) as the most powerful and unifying device in twentieth-century art. This notion that Stravinsky's use of pastiche or collage provides some sort of continuity between musical modernism and postmodernism is not implausible, but can easily lead to a false conclusion – that because postmodern collage or pastiche revels in ambiguity, diversity, and ahistoricism, its seeming presence earlier in Stravinsky's neoclassical works _necessarily_ serves the same ends and should be interpreted in the same way. _The Rake_ should provide a reasonable test case for this argument, both because it is his final and richest neoclassical piece and because its extravagant musical and literary allusions have led critics to cite it as Stravinsky's clearest use of pastiche. If we understand pastiche as Jameson does (the random imitation or cannibalisation of dead styles, using all the masks and voices stored up in an imaginary museum of a now global culture), then surely _The Rake_ seems a plausible candidate. Few pieces of twentieth-century music contain as many literary and musical allusions. While I have focused mainly on the allusions to Goethe's _Faust_ and Monteverdi's _Orfeo_ , a complete list would include _The Beggar's Opera_ , _Don Giovanni_ , _Così fan Tutte_ , _Don Pasquale_ , philosophical themes plucked from Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, as well as a mixture of Classical and Baroque harmonic and contrapuntal forms. On one level, then, _The Rake_ seems to exemplify a definition of pastiche as the random imitation or cannibalisation of dead styles and works. The key element in the usual definition of postmodern collage or pastiche, however, is randomness. Random juxtaposition of allusions scrambles any sustained historical reference, creating instead a surface best described as synchronic or ahistorical. In superficial reaction against modernism's negation of history, postmodernism revels in a facile nostalgia that deploys multiple historical styles and allusions to create diverse and contradictory meanings. Here, too, _The Rake_ might be judged a likely candidate because even a cursory glance at its critical history shows a persistent debate about its coherence, and in particular about the meaning of its final scene. But, as I have shown, stylistic pastiche in _The Rake_ does not end in joyful ambiguity and irresolution, as it would if Stravinsky were really a postmodernist _avant la lettre_. Clearly, Stravinky's dialogue with _Faust_ creates less ambiguity and more integration of meaning than could be characterised as postmodern. I hope also that, at this stage of my argument, no one would willingly assume that the echo of Monteverdi is just one more element of a playful pastiche. An analysis of _The Rake_ that merely lists echoes and allusions is misleading, not so much about Stravinky's importance as a progenitor of musical postmodernism, which is undeniable, but because of a natural tendency to interpret causes in terms of their effects. If we rest content with a postmodern view of the play of allusions in _The Rake's Progress_ , then we will miss its serious and sustained engagement with models in our musical and literary tradition. We will, in short, underestimate its 'neoclassicism'. 7 JONATHAN CROSS Stravinsky's theatres _. . ._ good or bad, All men are mad; All they say or do is theatre. BABA, 'EPILOGUE', _THE RAKE'S PROGRESS_ In his Bloch Lectures given at the University of California at Berkeley in 1995, the British composer Jonathan Harvey presented his ideas on _The Rake's Progress_ , a work he described as being 'aware of its own derivativeness'. _The Rake_ , he argued, is 'the most explicit manifestation of selfeffacement', its meaning deriving 'not from authorship, but from formal pattern-play and ingenuity'. While such a view determinedly underlines the 'proto-postmodern' tendencies in Stravinsky, it is also interesting that it echoes strongly Stravinsky's own aesthetic as articulated in the 1930s (via his various ghost writers) in such public statements as the _Autobiography_ and the Harvard lectures. In the _Poetics of Music_ , Stravinsky proclaims that 'It is through the unhampered play of its functions . . . that a work is revealed and justified.' With specific regard to _The Rake_ , Stravinsky observed that it is . . . emphatically, an opera – an opera of arias and recitatives, choruses and ensembles. Its musical structure, the conception of the use of these forms, even to the relations of tonalities, is in the line of the classical tradition. The 'line of the classical tradition' is extended back as far as early Italian opera in the Prelude, to Bach and Handel in the Bedlam scene and as far forward as echoes of Donizetti and Verdi. And Mozart is heard everywhere: _Cosìfan tutte_ and _Don Giovanni_ , especially. _The Rake_ thus alludes to virtually the whole of operatic history. Indeed, whatever the main narrative themes of the work (love, greed, power, loss of innocence, madness and so on), _The Rake's Progress_ is, at heart, an opera about opera ('aware of its own derivativeness'). Harvey concluded that 'because no-one is telling us anything, what it means (and many of us probably register that it has deeper meaning than most twentieth-century operas) seems objective, immutable, above merely individual opinion'. This goes some way in explaining why rite, ritual, myth and formal theatres of all kinds were so attractive to Stravinsky. He was drawn to theatres where the collective was emphasised over the individual, where objective representation was preferred over subjective expression. In terms of his theatre, this concept is most succinctly articulated in a comment he made about the character Oedipus: 'My audience is not indifferent to the fate of the person, but I think it far more concerned with the person of the fate, and the delineation of it which can be achieved in music.' In _Oedipus Rex_ he focused 'the tragedy not on Oedipus himself and the other individuals, but on the "fatal development" that, for me, is the meaning of the play'. The role of music in the theatre, for Stravinsky, was therefore not one of reinforcing emotions (he claimed he abhorred verismo) but of articulating a framework, of helping to universalise individuals' actions and experiences. Greek tragedy was one important source of such thinking. In Aristotle's analysis, 'The plot . . . is the first essential of tragedy, its life-blood, so to speak, and character takes the second place.' Igor Stravinsky virtually grew up in the theatre. His father Fyodor was one of the greatest operatic bass-baritones of his day and, as Stephen Walsh points out, Fyodor's twenty-six-year career coincided with a flowering of Russian opera. He made his debut at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg in April 1876, and took roles to great acclaim in, among other works, Musorgsky's _Boris Godunov_ , Glinka's _Ruslan and Lyudmila_ , Borodin's _Prince Igor_ , Rimsky-Korsakov's _The Snow Maiden_ and Tchaikovsky's _Enchantress_ , as well as in the major non-Russian repertoire from Mozart to Bizet. Igor had access to all his father's opera scores. He was taken to the Mariinsky from a very young age to see ballet and opera, and it made a deep impression on him. He would sit in his father's box and he was 'soon in the theatre five or six evenings a week. The Mariinsky Theatre was for him almost a "second home".' Another key influence was that of Rimsky-Korsakov and his circle. Aside from composition lessons with Rimsky-Korsakov, Stravinsky also assisted him with his later operas – for example, he helped with the score of Act 3 of Rimsky's opera _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh_ , premiered at the Mariinsky in February 1907. It should hardly be surprising, therefore, that Stravinsky's first major public work for the stage – the ballet _The Firebird_ , premiered at the Paris Opéra on 25 June 1910 by Diaghilev's Ballets Russes – was such a theatrical success for a young and relatively inexperienced composer. Throughout his creative life, from his early lyric tale _The Nightingale_ to the late musical play _The Flood_ , by way of numerous ballets, dance scenes, burlesques, an opera buffa, an opera-oratorio and a fully-fledged opera, not to mention abortive dalliances with film and a never-to-be stage project with Dylan Thomas, Stravinsky engaged with a broad range of dramatic genres. He collaborated with some of the most important writers (as librettists), artists (as set designers), directors and choreographers of his time: among them, W. H. Auden, Jean Cocteau, André Gide, Léon Bakst, Henri Matisse, Pablo Picasso, George Balanchine and Mikhail Fokine. And even in his non-stage works one finds a deep-rooted fascination with the dramatic dimension of ritual, whether in the religious rituals of the _Symphony of Psalms_ and _Canticum Sacrum_ , or the ritualised formality of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_. Indeed, in the case of the latter two examples, critics have proposed interpretations based on concrete dramatic/ritual models: the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ as direct response to Cocteau's ideas for his aborted _David_ ballet project, and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ (in memoriam Claude Debussy) as a stylised representation of the _panikhida_ , the Russian Orthodox office of the dead. In order to explore further the nature of Stravinsky's theatre and to provide an interpretative context, I adopt here two categories borrowed from Peter Brook: 'rough' theatre and 'holy' theatre. Rough theatre Brook identifies with popular, folk and street theatre, circus, pantomime and cabaret. Such theatre was clearly of fundamental importance to Stravinsky: puppetry and the _commedia dell'arte_ ( _Petrushka_ , _Pulcinella_ ), Russian itinerant folk entertainers ( _Renard_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ ), rustic Russian rituals ( _Les Noces_ ). Its roughness results in an immediacy lacking from more institutionalised kinds of theatre, and it is characterised by a boldness and directness of presentation; a breakdown of the distinction between actors and audience; a utilisation of a wide range of performing spaces, often open-air, and rooted in the community; it dispenses with the paraphernalia of formal theatre, working with the minimum of props, costumes, set and so on; it is usually ritualised and stylised in presentation; and actors, singers, dancers and musicians are usually in constant view. In other words, rough theatre represents a continuity with a much older tradition of pre-literate theatre. An interest in such theatre was endemic in the earlier years of the twentieth century, as was a looking outwards to oriental theatre, particularly that of Indonesia and Japan. Artaud, Brecht, Cocteau, Jarry, Meyerhold and Pirandello, for example, were all exploring new kinds of immediate, non-naturalistic, non-narrative theatre by drawing, in part, on ancient, folk and non-Western sources. Stravinsky's collaboration with Cocteau is especially significant in this regard. The other category from Brook that I adopt is that of holy theatre. The theatre, Brook argues, 'is the last forum where idealism is still an open question: many audiences all over the world will answer positively from their own experience that they have seen the face of the invisible through an experience on the stage that transcended their experience in life'. He gives Artaud's 'Theatre of Cruelty', alongside Happenings and the work of Samuel Beckett, as twentieth-century examples of holy theatre. Artaud's theory of the theatre shares many aspects with the rough theatre: for example, his interest in Balinese theatre; his prescription that stage and auditorium should be abandoned to enable direct contact between actors and audience; his rejection of narrative, realistic theatre. But Artaud also proposed moving away from a theatre dependent on text and towards one more concerned with myth, ritual and magic, with something metaphysical, sublime. This is why Balinese theatrical productions offered Artaud an important model: there 'is something of a religious ritual ceremony about them, in the sense that they eradicate any idea of pretence, a ridiculous imitation of real life, from the spectator's mind.' A holy theatre, by Brook's definition, 'not only presents the invisible but also offers conditions that make its perception possible.' This ritual dimension clearly underlies many of Stravinsky's works and is at its most obvious in major stage works spanning his entire creative life: _The Rite of Spring_ , _Les Noces_ , _Oedipus Rex_ , _Agon_. Ritual is concerned with the expression of the collective, of the community, as in ancient ceremonies and acts of religious worship; it transcends the mundane through repeated and repetitive actions; it is symbolic rather than representational; it is stylised and is often associated with a special place and language separate from the everyday. For these reasons, ritual is not primarily concerned with linear time or narratives and it cannot easily represent contemporary events. Myth (broadly defined) thus becomes an important part of many rituals because it represents a collective heritage – in Jungian terms, myths and their archetypal characters express directly the collective unconscious. Stravinsky's general musical characteristics of repeating rhythms, regular pulse, ostinatos, static pedal points and symmetries, of limited melodies and non-developmental structures, are ideally matched to the presentation of ritual. The two categories of the 'rough' and the 'holy' intersect and overlap in fascinating ways. But, to begin with, I shall look in closer focus at three of Stravinsky's stage works that seem to embody these categories in 'pure' form: 'The Tale About the Fox, the Cock, the Tomcat and the Ram' (later a 'Goat' in C. F. Ramuz's French translation) – better known simply as the burlesque _Renard_ – _The Soldier's Tale_ and the opera-oratorio _Oedipus Rex_. _Renard_ was composed in Switzerland 1915–16, and is as direct as Stravinsky's rough theatre gets: _Renard_ is sheer, unadulterated Russian folk art as reimagined by an unwilling exile who had persuaded himself that the future of music, if not the world, depended on tapping down to the deepest roots of a culture which, as a matter of fact, he himself did not know at first hand and which perhaps had never even actually existed. Certainly no such vibrantly, ebulliently, richly uncouth musical idiom ever had. The work began, as Richard Taruskin shows us in detail, merely as a 'compost of children's songs and nonsense jingles', Stravinsky initially setting songs from 'The Cat, the Cock and the Fox' out of Afanasyev's collection of Russian tales, and only later deciding to work with the whole story. The result, subtitled 'a merry performance', is a kind of pantomime and calls for clowns, dancers or acrobats, preferably on a trestle stage with the orchestra placed behind it . . . The players remain all the time on the stage . . . The roles are dumb. The singers (two tenors and two basses) are in the orchestra. The orchestra is a sort of peasant band of largely solo woodwind, brass and strings plus percussion and a cimbalom, the latter instrument imitating the _gusli_ , a 'kind of fine, metal-stringed balalaika'. Stravinsky uses it to represent the goat: 'Part of the fun in _Renard_ is that this extremely nimble-fingered instrument should be played by the cloven-hooved goat.' The _gusli_ 's origins lie with ancient Russian troupes of _skomorokhi_ who performed mocking or satirical plays in public squares. Or, at least, it is possible that they did: Taruskin argues that Stravinsky drew and adapted from a variety of folkloristic sources to produce 'a putative picture of life in pre-Petrine Russia that is "realer than the real"' (compare with Walsh's reference above to a 'reimagined' art that had perhaps never actually existed). Real or invented, its 'rough' credentials are nonetheless clear for all to appreciate: 'an imaginary quasi-improvised performance by strolling players'. The stage characters only mime or dance. The four singers are not specifically identified with any one of the four characters and are seated with the band. (Compare this with _Les Noces_ , where, for example, the Bridegroom is represented by different voices on different occasions.) But they speak or sing in a stylised way on behalf of the animals on the stage, making their noises, engaging in witty dialogue. Because they are distanced from the characters, they can also occasionally take on a 'chorus' function, commenting on the action. This a highly effective narrative device that has the effect of stylising the theatre – or, rather, it means that the audience is alienated, is constantly made aware that what it is watching is merely a tale, nothing but a piece of theatre. This is affirmed at the very end when the singers announce the conclusion of the play to the audience ('Et si l'histoir' vous a plu, / Payez-moi c'qui m'est dû!' – 'Now the story is done, / You must pay for your fun!') as well as by the musical framing device of the rough March that serves the function of getting the performers in and out of the acting space. The relationship between music and text in this work is fascinating and complex. Taruskin explores the forging of the text and how it relates to the music in exhaustive detail, concluding that in _Renard_ Stravinsky succeeded 'in making the words of his "merry performance" literally and indispensably a part of the music'. The extraordinary exuberance and vitality of this piece springs primarily from the accentual and metrical character of the texts; in Stravinsky's setting, the accented syllables, musical metre and ostinatos interact in vibrant ways, resulting in a music of engaging immediacy. Taruskin – for once – is prepared to confirm one of Stravinsky's own observations: 'The music of _Renard_ begins in the verse.' _Renard_ 's 'companion piece' is _The Soldier's Tale_ , which was also composed in Switzerland in 1918. The French text was written by C. F. Ramuz, with whom Stravinsky had first worked on the French translation of _Renard_ , and later as the translator into French of Russian folksong texts as well as _Les Noces_. The origins of the tale lie again in Afanasyev; wartime economies and the fact that both artists were cut off from their principal sources of income resulted in what Stravinsky described as a ' _théâtre ambulant_ ', a small-scale work that could in theory be performed in any location, indoor or outdoor. _The Soldier's Tale_ shares other rough characteristics with _Renard_ : a small ensemble (three pairs of high and low woodwind, brass and strings plus a percussionist, representing a stylised version of a jazz band); role-play where a specific character is associated with a musical instrument (the violin with the soldier, representing the soldier's soul, though Taruskin interprets it instead as 'a kind of liberating and health-giving _élan vital_ that is in the end perverted and made the instrument of enslavement'); the fact that the seven instrumentalists, the three speakers and the dancer are present and visible all of the time; and the tale's subject-matter of an ordinary soldier points – in theory at least – to the work's rough credentials, removed from the ideals of bourgeois theatre. According to Brook, rough theatre 'deals with men's actions, . . . it is down to earth and direct . . . [and, unlike the Holy Theatre] it admits wickedness and laughter'. This is clearly appropriate to _The Soldier's Tale_. It should be noted, however, that for many commentators those 'rough' aspects of this piece of theatre are less convincing than _Renard_ 's. Walsh quotes Hermann Scherchen (the conductor of, among other things, Pirandello's production of _The Soldier's Tale_ in Rome in Stravinsky's presence in 1926), who referred to Ramuz's 'symbolic-dramatic romantic-yearning', while Taruskin describes Ramuz's text as 'a trite and schoolmasterly Everyman spiel, for the purposes of which a number of very dull contemporary allusions and genteel grotesqueries are introduced'. 'It is the music alone', he concludes, 'that rewards close examination'. But there is one key 'rough' device employed in this work and that is the central role given to the narrator, 'adopted to satisfy the need for a two-way go-between: that is, for someone who is an illusionist interpreter between the characters themselves, as well as a commentator between the stage and the audience.' The narrator thus fulfils a chorus-like role. His most important function is one of distancing the audience from the tale. As a member of the audience at a performance of _The Soldier's Tale_ , you are involved with the theatre from the start because you share the performing space, you witness the costume changes, you can see the musicians at work – you respond as much, as Stravinsky wanted, to 'the scrape of the violin and the punctuation of the drums' as to the music itself. Though a narrative is presented, the very presence of the alienating narrator allows for the disruption and fragmentation of that narrative: hence, the appropriateness of Stravinsky's musical 'collage'. In theatre works where there is no attempt at presenting a linear narrative, the result is a heightened sense of ritual (as in _Les Noces_ ). In such cases, rough merges with holy. The eclectic musical materials in _The Soldier's Tale_ include a reworking of ragtime alongside a mix of dances (a tango and a waltz), a Royal March that alludes to nineteenth-century opera, and two pseudo-Lutheran chorales. In many senses, it offers as much a critique of the chosen musical 'objects' as Stravinsky was to present two years later in _Pulcinella_. Just as he appears to distance himself from the jazz elements he uses (he 'reinvents' ragtime in the same way he was, in subsequent neoclassical works, to 'reinvent the past'), so the audience is made to distance itself from the subject-matter. The very presence of popular and folk musics helps reinforce the work's roughness, its 'street' character. The paradigm of Stravinsky's 'holy' theatre, I suggest, is his opera-oratorio _Oedipus Rex_. He had been looking for a universal plot, and eventually settled on Sophocles's telling of the Oedipus myth: 'I wished to leave the play, as play, behind, thinking by this to distil the dramatic essence and to free myself for a greater degree of focus on a purely musical dramatization.' One way in which this is achieved is by the fact that the chorus and the protagonists sing Jean Cocteau's text in Latin. As Stravinsky imagined it, a statuesque chorus of tenors and basses, masked and in costume, would be ranked in full view at the front of the stage, commenting on the action. Another distancing element is Cocteau's introduction of the Speaker, detached from the drama and introducing the work's events in the language of the audience: he 'expresses himself like a conferencier, presenting the story with a detached voice'. Wearing evening dress and standing in front of the proscenium, he appears both as one of the audience and as an intermediary between auditorium and stage, just like the narrator in _The Soldier's Tale_ , or a chorus figure in a Greek tragedy. Other aspects of production specified in the preface to the score serve to reinforce the work's stylisation: bold, rough and two-dimensional décor; the use of masks; a stylised acting style where only arms and heads move. The conflict between the Speaker and the actors and singers, which disrupts narrative continuity and naturalistic representation, is matched by the music which, in a more extreme way than in _The Soldier's Tale_ , is a self-confessed ' _Merzbild_ ' (collage). Even though individual moments, such as Jocasta's Act 2 aria in the nineteenth-century Italian operatic manner, might seem to invite narrative interpretation, they are not connected with other moments in the work, each of which is individually characterised, so that the musical as a whole takes on a 'monumental' static aspect. Just as the structure of the plot is overtly signalled by the Speaker, so through various devices of repetition, the music signals its own functions as structural punctuation and frame (in an almost baroque way). Music here _is_ ritual; this is what defines it as 'holy'. Aside from his opera-oratorio, Stravinsky only designated two works 'opera': the one-act opera buffa _Mavra_ and the three-act opera _The Rake's Progress_. Beyond the surface allusions to other operatic traditions (old Russian opera and Italian bel canto in _Mavra_ ; Mozart, principally, in _The Rake_ ), both achieve a distancing, an anti-naturalism, by adopting a number structure of arias, duets, recitatives, choruses and other familiar set pieces. What interested Stravinsky in opera, then, was not so much its dramatic-expressive possibilities (he was resolutely anti-Wagnerian) as its formalism. _The Rake_ is framed by a Monteverdian Prelude (' _on va commencer_ ') and a Mozartiancum-vaudeville Epilogue. The graveyard scene in Act 3 of _The Rake_ – the work's dramatic turning-point where Tom Rakewell and Nick Shadow confront each other – is a masterpiece of invention where Stravinsky adopts the rhetoric (the framework) of – for example – recitative but invests it with a new musical and dramatic power all its own. The completion of _The Rake's Progress_ saw Stravinsky abandon neoclassicism and begin to explore the serial method. While he developed his serial thinking in one important stage work, the ballet _Agon_ (discussed below), the only fully serial piece of theatre to emerge from Stravinsky's last years was the musical play _The Flood_. Its heterogeneity and concomitant stylisation were a result of the fact that it was written specially for television, a medium which, unlike the conventional stage, allowed instantaneous cutting from one scene to another. Its text was fashioned by Robert Craft from sources explicitly both rough and holy: the York Miracle Plays _The Creation and Fall of Lucifer_ and _The Fall of Man_ , and the Chester Miracle Play _Noah's Flood_ , along with brief quotations from Genesis. Stravinsky's compositional techniques may be new in this work, but they are put to theatrical ends similar to many of his other pieces. The drama is framed at start and finish by a mixed chorus singing in Latin the opening verses of the _Te Deum_ (the text is in a kind of reverse order – or retrograde – at the end). These are the only times the chorus is heard: it stands outside the drama. Again, Latin reinforces this distancing, while a ritual mode is established through the chorus's chanting – Stravinsky himself described it as 'Byzantine'. The other framing device is a purely musical one: a twelve-note chord heard at the very start of the Prelude, the 'Representation of Chaos', an unexpectedly symmetrical formation, out of which emerge two versions of the basic twelve-note row of the work, a rising figure Stravinsky described as a 'musical Jacob's Ladder'. This passage is repeated exactly, just before the end, ominously prefacing the words of Satan, who has also survived the flood ('The forbidden act will forever disobey . . . '). 'Jacob's Ladder' closes the work, as the words of the _Te Deum_ fade away. As always in Stravinsky, musical and dramatic structures are intimately intertwined. There are long purely instrumental moments in _The Flood_ ('The Building of the Ark' and 'The Flood') which are danced, and which Stravinsky himself originally planned carefully with his long-time collaborator George Balanchine. There is also a spoken narrator who comments, links events and recites the only extended Biblical passage in the piece. In fact, there is throughout a clear division between the characters who speak and those who sing ('the celestials should sing while the terrestrials should merely talk' ): all solo parts except for God (two basses) and Lucifer/Satan (a tenor) are spoken, for the most part delivered in a highly stylised manner. The stylisation of the role of God is underlined by the fact that it is sung _simultaneously_ by two basses. God is unchanging: always slow, always 'other-worldly', and also always presenting together two forms of the row in rhythmic unison. The other key stage work from Stravinsky's serial period is _Agon_. It was his last ballet score, and it is a summation of his work in the ballet since _Pulcinella_. A commission from Lincoln Kirstein and Balanchine for the New York City Ballet, it had a long gestation period. It was begun in December 1953, interrupted for the composition of _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ and the _Canticum Sacrum_ , and not completed until April 1957. It involved a close collaboration between Stravinsky and Balanchine and demonstrates fascinating connections between the structures of music and dance. _Agon_ 's audacity, its geometric precision, virtuosity and energy, suggest that Stravinsky had in later life found a new musical direction, a new, much more rarefied kind of neoclassicism, an even more refined stylisation of past forms and traditions. Furthermore, its adoption of aspects of serial technique indicates an accommodation between what had formerly been perceived as irreconcilable poles: Stravinskian neoclassicism and Schoenbergian/Webernian dodecaphony. But what is particularly fascinating about this work is the way in which the 'twelveness' of the pitch structure is also built into the patterning of the dances. There are twelve dances arranged into interlocking cycles and twelve dancers arranged in various combinations of one, two, three and four. The result is a kind of abstract Greek drama in keeping with the work's title (literally, a 'contest' or 'game'). The _pas de quatre_ and coda form the dramatic frame, the sequence of French seventeenth-century dances ( _pas de trois_ ) resembles a series of 'episodes', while everything turns on the central _pas de deux_. Stravinsky's models came, in part, from two sources that Kirstein brought to his attention: de Lauze's dance manual, _Apologie de la danse_ (1623), and Mersenne's _Harmonie universelle_ (1636). But these ancient dances were transformed into something uniquely Stravinskian. In the 'Gailliarde', for example, French Baroque scoring is refracted through Stravinsky's sonic imagination. In Michael Oliver's words, we 'seem to be hearing a consort of lutes, viols and recorders, but from a great distance': a canon between harp and mandolin (plus low flute) is accompanied by viola and three cellos, two flutes and two double basses in harmonics. In the 'Bransle Gay', the characteristic dance patterns are rhythmically reworked: the castanets maintain a 3/8 ostinato throughout, while the rest of the music is mainly in bars of 7/16 and 5/16. By such means, Stravinsky was able to achieve the reinvention of an archaic past in a music with a time _less_ quality. And this distancing was reinforced in the original production by dressing the dancers in rehearsal costume only: a drama with no narrative, an abstract painting, or, as Stravinsky himself described it, a Mondrian composition. Just as _The Rake's Progress_ might be understood to be an opera about opera, so _Agon_ might be understood to be, in essence, a dance about dance. Balanchine first worked with Stravinsky on a production of _The Song of the Nightingale_ in Paris in 1925. He later wrote that 'Stravinsky's effect on my own work has been always in the direction of control, of simplification and quietness.' The first work on which they genuinely collaborated was the European premiere by the Ballets Russes in 1928 of _Apollon musagète_. For Balanchine, _Apollon_ was a revelation, the epitome of Stravinsky's neo-classical aesthetic: ' _Apollon_ I look back on as the turning-point of my life. In its discipline and restraint, in its sustained oneness of tone and feeling the score was a revelation. It seemed to tell me that I could dare not to use everything, that I, too, could eliminate.' Stravinsky himself considered it a ' _ballet blanc_ ', one of his most 'pure' and unified scores. It attempts to eschew contrast (as discussed later in the _Poetics_ ) by such means as the paring down of the scoring to strings only and the employment of an almost exclusively diatonic harmony. Walsh sees it as the companion to the statuesque _Oedipus_ : 'a paradox of immobility rendered mobile'. This highly stylised ballet score (in some senses pointing forward to _Agon_ ) was matched by Balanchine's 'abstract, non-anecdotal' choreography; once again, the audience is distanced from the 'plot' as music and dance work in tandem to produce a work of measured 'holiness'. ' _Apollon_ is sometimes criticized for not being "of the theatre". It's true there is no violent plot . . . But the technique is that of classical ballet which is in every way theatrical and it is here used to project sound directly into visible movement.' Music and dance in this work are equal partners. Other collaborations between Stravinsky and Balanchine included the premieres of _Jeu de cartes_ (New York, 1937) and _Orpheus_ (New York, 1948), as well as the first American production of _The Fairy's Kiss_ (New York, 1937). _Jeu de cartes_ is an exuberant score that alludes to a wealth of other music ( _Merzbild_ would again seem to be an appropriate label); the music's playfulness is literally present in the dance sequences where the characters are the chief cards in a game of poker. The scenario is divided into three 'deals', the repetition of the introduction to each deal providing the music with a frame. _Orpheus_ was the first piece into which Balanchine had direct input: he worked very closely with Stravinsky throughout and, Craft tells us, he even influenced its shape by inducing the composer 'to extend the return of the F major string music in the _pas de deux_ '. Like _Apollon musagète_ , _Orpheus_ tells a classical story in a stylised manner through a sequence of closed forms – dances, airs and interludes. Like _Apollon_ , too, the music achieves a 'pure', hieratic character through its sense of control and through the use of such devices as fugue. One other mid-period theatre work based on classical subject-matter should be mentioned here: _Perséphone_ , a 'melodrama in three scenes' to a text by André Gide. In the _Dialogues_ , Stravinsky called it 'a masque or dancepantomime co-ordinated with a sung and spoken text'. In this respect, it can usefully be compared with _Oedipus_. The part of Perséphone is shared by two performers (mime and speaker) and Stravinsky's account of his own ideal production emphasises, once again, his desire to achieve a kind of alienation through stylisation: The speaker Perséphone should stand at a fixed point antipodal to Eumolpus, and an illusion of motion should be established between them. The chorus should stand apart from and remain outside the action. The resulting separation of text and movement would mean that the staging could be worked out entirely in choreographic terms. Stravinsky's friend, the French poet Paul Valéry, certainly felt he had achieved this. Following the premiere, he wrote to Stravinsky: 'the divine detachment of your work touched me . . . The point is, to attain purity through the will.' Valéry clearly recognised that in _Perséphone_ Stravinsky had created a 'holy' theatre. I conclude by looking back to the 'roughness' of Stravinsky's earliest theatre pieces, all of which have their origins in folk story and mythology. _The Nightingale_ (a lyric tale based on 'The Emperor and the Nightingale' by Hans Christian Andersen), _The Firebird_ (his first ballet for Diaghilev, based on a Russian folk tale) and _Petrushka_ (a burlesque derived from the Russian version of the _commedia dell'arte_ tradition) share certain narrative similarities. _The Nightingale_ concerns itself with the rivalry between a real and a mechanical bird; _The Firebird_ tells of both natural and supernatural creatures; Petrushka is half puppet, half human. In all three cases, taking his cue from his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov (most particularly from his last opera, _The Golden Cockerel_ ), Stravinsky composes these dramatic oppositions into the score. Human characters are cast – in general terms – in a diatonic world; supernatural characters occupy an altogether more chromatic or octatonic realm. Sometimes the two worlds come together, musically and symbolically, as in the famous 'Petrushka motif', or in the more advanced musical language of _The Rite of Spring_ , whose synthesising of the diatonic and chromatic reflects the mysterious and ritualistic dimension of the human characters. This musico-dramatic fusion was recognised even at the time of the works' premieres: Walsh writes of the initial Parisian reception of _The Firebird_ , which acknowledged 'the integration of music, dance, and design, into what Henri Ghéo, writing in the _Nouvelle Revue française_ , called "the most exquisite marvel of equilibrium that we have ever imagined between sounds, movements, and forms", a "danced symphony"'. Daniel Albright has suggested that the opposition of natural and mechanical in _The Nightingale_ lies symbolically at the heart of Stravinsky's aesthetic as a whole: This, I think, is what Stravinsky's music is 'about': the deep equivalence of the natural and the artificial. At the center of his dramatic imagination is the desire to juxtapose in a single work two competing systems – one which seems natural, tasteful, approved alike by man and God, the other of which seems artificial, abhorrent, devilish – and to subvert these distinctions as best he can. Given such an interpretation, it does seem extraordinary that Stravinsky should have worked so hard in later years to promote his early ballet scores as concert works when their very origins were in and of the theatre. From _The Nightingale_ to _The Flood_ , from _The Firebird_ to _Agon_ , Stravinsky demonstrated an unerring sense of what kinds of music were right for the theatre, and what kinds of theatre were appropriate to his music. His ideas of how the two should work together were original and persuasive. He generally eschewed nineteenth-century narrative forms for new kinds of formalised, stylised theatres articulated through his own non-narrative, often ritualised musical structures. Formal, objectified, often simple in essence, his works nonetheless carry an enormous expressive weight, representing something primitive, powerful, immutable. Whether through the elemental directness of _The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_ , the formal purity of _Apollon musagète_ and _Agon_ , or the self-conscious playfulness of _The Rake's Progress_ , Stravinsky's work never fails to have an impact in the theatre. 8 JOSEPH N. STRAUS Stravinsky the serialist Introduction By the spring of 1952, Stravinsky had reached the end of a compositional road he had travelled since _Pulcinella_ in 1920. His brilliant Mozartian opera _The Rake's Progress_ had been premiered the previous year to general acclaim. But, for Stravinsky, it marked not only a culmination of his musical neo-classicism, but a decisive turning-point as well. He had become aware of the low value placed on his music by outspoken members of the younger generation of avant-garde composers and had begun, for the first time, to acquaint himself with the music of Schoenberg and Webern, to whom younger composers were unfavourably comparing him. In the aftermath of those twin shocks, he turned in a new compositional direction. Robert Craft, Stravinsky's amanuensis throughout his later years, describes the growing sense of strain, the crisis and its immediate consequences: _The Rake's Progress_ was received by most critics as the work of a master but also a throwback, the last flowering of a genre. After the premiere, conducting concerts in Italy and Germany, Stravinsky found that he and Schoenberg were everywhere categorized as the reactionary and the progressive. What was worse, Stravinsky was acutely aware that the new generation was not interested in the _Rake_. While in Cologne, he heard tapes of Schoenberg's Violin Concerto . . . and of 'The Golden Calf ' (from _Moses und Aron_ ); he listened attentively to both, but without any visible reaction . . . In contrast, a few days later, in Baden-Baden, when a recording of Webern's orchestra Variations was played for him, he asked to hear it three times in succession and showed more enthusiasm than I had ever seen from him about any contemporary music . . . . . . Then, on 24 February 1952 at the University of Southern California, I conducted a performance of Schoenberg's Septet-Suite (in a programme with Webern's Quartet, Opus 22), with Stravinsky present at all the rehearsals as well as the concert. This event was the turning-point in his later musical evolution. On March 8, he asked to go for a drive to Palmdale, at that time a small Mojave Desert town . . . On the way home he startled us, saying that he was afraid he could no longer compose and did not know what to do. For a moment, he broke down and actually wept . . . He referred obliquely to the powerful impression that the Schoenberg piece [Septet-Suite] had made on him, and when he said that he wanted to learn more, I knew that the crisis was over; so far from being defeated, Stravinsky would emerge a new composer. Stravinsky himself described the episode several years later in more dispassionate terms: I have had to survive two crises as a composer, though as I continued to move from work to work I was not aware of either of them as such, or, indeed, of any momentous change. The first – the loss of Russia and its language of words as well as of music – affected every circumstance of my personal no less than my artistic life, which made recovery more difficult . . . Crisis number two was brought on by the natural outgrowing of the special incubator in which I wrote _The Rake's Progress_ (which is why I did not use Auden's beautiful _Delia_ libretto; I could not continue in the same strain, could not compose a sequel to _The Rake_ , as I would have had to do). The crisis led Stravinsky to a dramatic stylistic reorientation. From this point onwards, his music engaged, tentatively at first and then with growing individuality and confidence, the serial and twelve-note thinking of Schoenberg and Webern, which provided a starting-point for a remarkable voyage of artistic discovery. Far from merely imitating his Viennese predecessors, Stravinsky sought new ways of writing music in the serial idiom, and created a small body of astonishingly original and powerful serial music. I can think of no other major composer, at a comparably advanced age and at the pinnacle of recognition and success, who so thoroughly altered his compositional approach, or whose late works differ so greatly from his earlier ones. While there is some truth in the cliché that Stravinsky always sounds like Stravinsky – and I will explore some of the links between early and late Stravinsky later in this chapter – none the less the late works differ radically from the earlier ones at every level, from their deep modes of musical formation to the rhythmic and intervallic details of the musical surface. Furthermore, Stravinsky's late works are not only radically different from the earlier ones, but are highly individuated from each other as well. There is no major work in this period in which Stravinsky did not try something new. The result was an astonishing outpouring of music, remarkable for its sheer quantity as well as its ceaseless innovation, and all the more remarkable as the product of a man who was seventy years old at the time of the Cantata, the first of the late works, and eighty-five at the time of the _Requiem Canticles_ , his last major work. And, while the quality is uneven in certain respects, the late works include some of the finest that Stravinsky ever wrote and thus some of the finest works ever written. _Agon, Movements_ and _Requiem Canticles_ are towering artistic achievements. _Abraham and Isaac_ and _Introitus_ , while less powerful, are nonetheless vivid and evocative. Even the comparably minor compositions of the period, such as the _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ and _Epitaphium_ , are small gems. Stravinsky's serial turn Before discussing the music in detail, it is worth considering for a moment why Stravinsky took his serial turn. The central figure in the drama is Robert Craft, who lived with Stravinsky throughout the period, handled the complex logistics of his career, rehearsed orchestras in preparation for concerts and recordings, and increasingly acted as Stravinsky's artistic alter ego. Craft's most important initial contribution, however, was to introduce Stravinsky to the music of Schoenberg and Webern. Until Craft arrived on the scene, Stravinsky had known virtually nothing of their music. Craft, however, was an important early exponent of the music of Schoenberg and Webern in the United States and, through him, Stravinsky experienced the shock of contact with music of extraordinary interest and power. The shock propelled him along the compositional path he followed for the rest of his life. In Craft's words: When I met Stravinsky in the spring of 1948, his fortunes were at a low ebb. Most of his music was not in print, he was not recording, and concert organizations wanted him to conduct only _Firebird_ and _Petrushka_. More important, he was becoming increasingly isolated from the developments that extended from Arnold Schoenberg and had attracted the young generation. Stravinsky was aware of this despite the acclaim for _Orpheus_ , his latest composition, and if he wanted to understand the other music, he did not know how to go about it. I say in all candor that I provided the path and that I do not believe Stravinsky would ever have taken the direction he did without me. The music that he would otherwise have written is impossible to imagine. Initially, Stravinsky may have been motivated in part by a desire to seem stylistically _au courant_ , to do what the young people were doing and, if possible, to impress them in the process. But I think this aspect has been greatly exaggerated. A desire to impress Boulez, Stockhausen, Babbitt et al. may have been among the factors that sparked Stravinsky's initial interest but is wholly insufficient to account for his persistence in his new compositional approach, over a period of fifteen years and in the face of general indifference from the very composers whose favour he is presumed to have been cultivating. Long after Boulez, in particular, had lost all interest in Stravinsky's late music and relations between them had soured, Stravinsky continued along his serial path. Evidently the serial approach meant a good deal more to him than simply a means of achieving social or artistic acceptance in avant-garde circles. Throughout his career, Stravinsky sought various kinds of limitations on his field of activity, strictures and rules to give the enterprise shape and definition: The creator's function is to sift the elements he receives from [the imagination], for human activity must impose limits upon itself. The more art is controlled, limited, worked over, the more it is free . . . My freedom consists in my moving about within the narrow frame that I have assigned myself for each one of my undertakings. I shall go even further: my freedom will be so much the greater and more meaningful the more narrowly I limit my field of action and the more I surround myself with obstacles. Whatever diminishes constraint, diminishes strength. The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self of the chains that shackle the spirit. Stravinsky approached musical composition as a game, one which made sense only in obedience to explicit, strict rules. Unlike more familiar kinds of games, however, in this one the player is also the inventor of the rules. Indeed, devising appropriate constraints was, for Stravinsky, an integral part of the compositional or, more properly, pre-compositional process. Throughout his career, he imposed many different kinds of constraints, obstacles and limits upon his field of compositional action. I think the principal attraction of the serial enterprise for him was its well-articulated sense of necessary points of departure and ways of regulating the compositional flow. Stravinsky turned to serial composition not in spite of, but precisely because of, the strict discipline it promised. Serialism was immediately attractive to Stravinsky as a way of organising the flow of notes and intervals. He had always composed with ostinatos and repeated groups of notes, and the series represented a kind of apotheosis of the ostinato. In addition, he had, in his own words, 'always composed with intervals', and the series embodied a selection of chosen intervals, which would be repeated and varied in predictable ways as the series was transformed. Stravinsky quickly recognised that the series could provide him with a useful point of departure, a way of regulating the musical flow, a set of rules and constraints to accept, struggle with, or evade as he saw fit. It provided at least the beginning of a path into a new musical world. Like his carefully chosen texts – most of the works in the late period are text settings – the serial idea permitted Stravinsky to contain and give shape to his creative impulses. Schoenberg and Webern It is important to understand what Stravinsky learned, and did not learn, from Schoenberg and Webern. Stravinsky began almost immediately to adopt the essential Schoenbergian principle of serial ordering. That is, in the absence of the traditional organising power of tonality (with its major and minor scales, its orientation towards a key, its commitment to resolution of dissonance) music can be organised instead with respect to a predetermined arrangement of notes, an arrangement that will differ from work to work. Works that draw their motivic, melodic and harmonic substance from a pre-composed ordering of notes (that is, a series) are serial works. When the series in question consists of all twelve notes, each represented only once, the work is a twelve-note serial work. Stravinsky's early serial works employ series that consist of either fewer than twelve notes (Cantata, Septet (first movement), 'Musick to heare' and 'Full fadom five' from _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , _pas de quatre_ from _Agon_ ) or more than twelve (the second and third movements of the Septet). Only in portions of _Canticum Sacrum_ and _Agon_ , and then in the entire vast expanse of _Threni_ does Stravinsky begin to rely exclusively on twelve-note series. Whatever the length of the series, Stravinsky also begins immediately to adopt another Schoenbergian principle: that the series, when presented in transposition, inversion, retrograde or retrograde inversion, retains its basic intervallic identity, and that series related by these transformations can be understood to constitute a homogeneous class. For Stravinsky, as for Schoenberg, the series class, or row class, provides the basic pitch material for a composition. More specifically, Stravinsky accepted from the outset the Schoenbergian idea that four members of the series class, bound together by some particular musical relationship, might function as a referential norm, somewhat in the manner of a tonic region in a tonal composition. So not only the idea of a series, and a series class, but also the possibility of establishing a kind of tonic area within the series class, came directly from Schoenberg. But while Stravinsky adopted Schoenberg's points of departure, he moved immediately in very different musical directions. In doing so, he developed his own highly original serial style and at the same time offered a strong, if implicit, critique of Schoenbergian serialism. From the outset, Stravinsky simultaneously invokes and satirises Schoenberg. The Schoenbergian aggregate itself is the subject of Stravinsky's implicit critique. Schoenberg's twelve-note music treats the aggregate, the total collection of the twelve notes, as a basic structural unit. It creates aggregates within the series, between series forms and across wider musical spans. Stravinsky's early serial music and even his later twelve-note music, in contrast, are generally unconcerned with the aggregate. Indeed, Stravinsky employs a variety of compositional strategies to ensure intensive repetition of some notes and exclusion of others at all levels of structure. Equally striking, Stravinsky persistently identifies his series with a theme – he gives it a distinctive melodic shape and keeps it in a single instrumental voice. Schoenberg, in contrast, makes use of sophisticated partitioning schemes in which the series is often divided up among the instrumental voices. Stravinsky's approach represents a significant and deliberate simplification. Despite his interest in Schoenberg's music, Stravinsky never warmed to what he considered its emotional bombast and self-indulgent excess. It is this aesthetic distaste that motivates Stravinsky's transformation of Schoenberg. Stravinsky's early serial music engages with Schoenberg in direct and demonstrable ways. Schoenberg provided him with a vital challenge and stimulus, a starting-point and a useful framework for compositional inquiry. Later, as Stravinsky's style coalesced into what became a standard operating procedure for him, the sense of engagement with Schoenberg diminished to the vanishing point. Stravinsky ultimately achieved the same artistic independence from Webern, although the stylistic affinities and structural debts are deeper. Compared with Schoenberg, the shock of Stravinsky's initial contact with Webern was at least as profound – and its effects longer lasting. In the years between 1952 and 1955 no composer can have lived in closer contact with the music of Webern. Stravinsky was familiar with the sound of the Webern Cantatas and of the instrumental songs at a time when some of these works had not yet been performed in Europe. The challenge of Webern has been the strongest in his entire life. It has gradually brought him to the belief that serial technique is a possible means of musical composition. Comments about Webern, pro and con, but mostly pro, permeate Stravinsky's writings and interviews throughout the 1950s and 1960s. The music obviously meant a great deal to him. Whereas Stravinsky basically rejected or ignored most of the stylistic and structural elements of Schoenberg's music, he overtly incorporates salient aspects of Webern's music. Webern's pointillistic textures are rarely duplicated in Stravinsky, but his spareness, his transparency, his relative contrapuntal simplicity often are. And three of the most characteristic features of Webern's musical structure find vivid, if distorted, reflections in Stravinsky's music. The first of these is canon. Like Webern, Stravinsky initially identified the series with a canonic subject, and its serial transformations (transposition, inversion, retrograde, retrograde inversion) as canonic imitations. Stravinsky's early serial music is usually contrapuntal/imitative in texture. Later, the canons go underground, absorbed into the special kind of arrays on which Stravinsky based his later twelve-note music. A second shared feature is an interest in inversional balance and symmetry. In Webern's twelve-note music, a series and its inversion are often poised against each other. In Stravinsky's music an interest in inversional symmetry finds a variety of compositional expressions. A mutual focus on small motivic cells from which larger structures are generated by various compositional combinations is a third point of contact. Stravinsky's musical critique of Webern is much less pointed than his critique of Schoenberg. His music evinces a deep and sincere engagement with Webern rather than the more distant, ironic treatment of Schoenberg. None the less, even in his early serial period, when Stravinsky borrowed most overtly and extensively from Webern, there is always a strong sense of transformation. Webern's materials are present, but recontextualised and filtered through Stravinsky's distinctive sensibility. Later, as his music became thoroughly twelve-note and abandoned entirely the persistent diatonic references of the early serial music, it paradoxically became less rather than more Webernian. As with the influence of Schoenberg, the principal impact of Webern was to shake Stravinsky free of many old compositional habits, and to suggest a new way of thinking about basic musical materials. Schoenberg and Webern provided a new framework for the compositional enterprise and new rules for the game, and had an immense initial impact. But as Stravinsky increasingly found his own way and created his own distinctive musical world, their presence gradually diminished and finally seemed to vanish almost entirely. Stravinsky had specific, concrete ideas of what kinds of sounds he wanted to write, and he appropriated, or invented, ways of doing so. Serialism presented itself to him as a set of musical possibilities, some well understood, some only partly understood, and some creatively misunderstood. He took what he wanted, and invented the rest. Stravinsky, early and late In recent Stravinsky scholarship, accounts of the late music have emphasised its connection with the earlier music. One of the side effects has been to value the late music primarily for whatever qualities it shares with the earlier music, and thus to undervalue his late music for being insufficiently like his earlier music. From the opposite point of view, twelve-note scholarship has devalued Stravinsky's late music as insufficiently sophisticated: in short, insufficiently Schoenbergian. In this view Stravinsky was, at best, a weakly derivative imitator of his Viennese forebears. I would like to counter both of these views by insisting on Stravinsky's independence from compositional models, including his own earlier music – an independence that was earned with a considerable struggle. The late music is neither a falling away from an earlier greatness nor a slavish capitulation to an alien power. Rather, it is a willed, adventurous voyage of compositional exploration. Stravinsky's music in this late period can be roughly assigned to five stylistic categories, as shown in Fig. 8.1. Fig. 8.1 Five stylistic categories in Stravinsky's late music To some extent, these categories embody an evolutionary chronology, with the early serial works (diatonic and non-diatonic) giving way first to the twelve-note works and eventually to the twelve-note works based on rotational arrays. In practice, however, the categories overlap, even within individual works. _Agon_ , for example, probably Stravinsky's most heterogeneous work, incorporates diatonic, serial and twelve-note elements, and these often co-exist as distinct layers in individual movements. Later, when Stravinsky adopted a consistent approach based on rotational arrays for his major works, he continued to use a more classical kind of twelve-note serialism for his smaller, minor works. Diatonicism (non-serial) Despite Stravinsky's description of a compositional 'crisis', his turn to serialism was gradual. At the outset, not only are the serial ideas themselves diatonic, but they often appear in company with diatonic non-serial music that would not have been out of place in earlier works. In the beginning of the first movement of the Septet, for example, a six-note series drawn from the notes of an A major or A minor scale is elaborated amid non-serial diatonic lines (see Ex. 8.1). The series, A–E–D–C/C♯–B–A, is presented in the clarinet and, simultaneously, in rhythmic augmentation in the bassoon, and, in inversion and rhythmic augmentation, in the horn. The series and this particular inversion, A–D–E–F♯–G♯–A, share the same first three notes. Stravinsky's desire to maintain centric focus amid serial elaboration is thus present from the outset, and remains in force throughout his later serial music as well. At the end of the passage the series is heard in stretto, leading to a cadence on A. Throughout the passage the series is treated as a theme, a line of pitches rather than pitch classes, with its contour preserved (or exactly reversed). The remaining instrumental parts thicken the contrapuntal texture and reinforce a sense of A-centred diatonicism, but are not themselves serial. In this way, Stravinsky's serialism emerges within a prevailing diatonic frame. Ex. 8.1 Septet, movement I, bars 1–7 Diatonic serialism In his earliest serial works, Stravinsky often uses series that are entirely diatonic, or nearly so. In 'Full fadom five', the second of the _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , for example, his first compositional sketch was a simple E♭ minor scale (see Ex. 8.2a). The scale establishes a concrete starting point, providing material to be shaped into a series. The second sketch (Ex. 8.2b) takes the seven notes of the scale and arranges them into an eight-note melody (the D♭ occurs twice) to set the first line of text, 'Full fadom five thy Father lies'. The widely spaced melody, with its exclusive use of perfect fourths, perfect fifths and minor sevenths, is designed to evoke the tolling of funeral bells referred to at the end of the text. In the third sketch (Ex. 8.2c), Stravinsky takes the seven notes of the E minor scale and presents them in a different ordering to set the second line of text, 'Of his bones are Corrall made'. This seven-note melody functions as the seven-note series on which most of the rest of the song is based. The sketch reveals Stravinsky's intention to set the third line of text with the retrograde of the series (which Stravinsky calls 'canon'), the fourth line of text with the inversion (which Stravinsky calls 'inverse'), and the fifth line of text with the inversion of the retrograde (or the 'inverse' of the 'canon'). Ex. 8.2 Compositional sketches for 'Full fadom five' from _Three Shakespeare Songs_ , bars 1–11 The series E♭–D♭–G♭–F–B♭–C♭–A♭ is arranged symmetrically around A and is designed as a wedge to converge on A♭ . As a result, the 'inverse of the canon' (i.e. the IR form), which begins on A♭ , wedges symmetrically outwards from that note and contains exactly the same seven notes as the original series, namely the notes of the E♭ minor scale. In this way Stravinsky reveals his understanding of the inversional symmetry of any diatonic scale and his commitment to inversional symmetry as a basic compositional resource in his serial music. Ex. 8.3 shows the score for the first thirteen bars of the song. The melodic line follows the compositional sketches closely. Ex. 8.3 'Full fadom five' from _Three Shakespeare Songs_ , bars 1–13, with analytical markings In fact, Stravinsky composed the vocal melody in its entirety before adding accompanying parts. This suggests his essentially contrapuntal conception of music in this period of his compositional life. The lines of a polyphonic fabric are understood as integral, self-sufficient and musically comprehensible in themselves. Each line has its own serial and musical justification. The combination of lines into a polyphonic whole is a separate issue, one that is addressed later in the compositional process. Stravinsky still imagines his series as a theme, but now one that is susceptible to octave displacements. Within the vocal line, contour is usually preserved, but in the accompanying parts the series is increasingly understood as a line of pitch classes rather than simply a line of pitches. To his melody, Stravinsky adds other members of the row class as imitative counterpoints. There are a few notes that do not participate in any complete row statement; generally, these either duplicate the pitch-class content of the melody, or differ from it only slightly. In bars 2–3, for example, the original series in the melody is accompanied by its imitation at the octave in the viola and by IR in the clarinet. All three of these series have the same content, namely the seven notes of the E♭ minor scale. That scale thus comprises both a source of serial ordering and a distinctive harmonic area, a point of departure for 'modulations' to other diatonic scales. The music is a dense, intricate contrapuntal web that leaves a diatonic, or nearly diatonic, wash in its wake. Non-diatonic serialism Over the course of the early and mid 1950s, Stravinsky's serial music became more chromatic, less obviously based on diatonic scales. _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ is based on the five-note series E♮–E♭–C♮–C♯–D, which Stravinsky labels 'theme' in the first bar of the score (see Ex. 8.4). Like the series for 'Full fadom five', the series for _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ is constructed as a wedge, with the initial descending semitone, E–E♭, balanced by the ascending semitone, C–C♯, both pointing to the concluding D, around which the wedge balances. The first four notes, E♮–E♭–C♮–C♯, describe a familiar tetrachord type from Stravinsky's earlier music. The D fills the gap and asserts the entirely chromatic nature of the series. Ex. 8.4 _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , Prelude ('Dirge-canons'), bars 1–5 In the passage that begins the work, a quartet of trombones deploys melodic lines based on series forms stitched together. The series are identified by Stravinsky on the score. This kind of serial self-analysis is characteristic of Stravinsky's music throughout the period, though usually the labels are erased before the manuscript is sent to the printer. As Stravinsky moves through a musical world that is new to him, he wants to know where he is, and study of the compositional sketches reveals that the more complicated the serial derivations, the more intense the self-analysis becomes. The music is polyphonic and imitative, and often canonic. The leading voice, in tenor trombone II, begins with the 'theme', the last note of which becomes the first note of an 'inversion' (this kind of series overlap is typical throughout the period). An additional, transposed statement of the theme is adjoined at the end. Trombone IV follows in canon at the octave and trombone I at the tritone. Trombone III contributes a 'riversion' (retrograde) and a retrograde inversion. The series retains its contour (in the closest possible spacing) throughout this passage, but in the song to which this passage is part of a prelude, the series is treated freely, as a line of pitch classes with frequent octave displacements. Amid the dense contrapuntal weave, the vertical harmonies are probably best understood as mere by-products. The cadence of the passage, however, on an E major triad (spelled F♭ major) was part of Stravinsky's conscious design from the outset (see Ex. 8.5). Ex. 8.5 _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , first compositional sketch In the bass Stravinsky presents a five-note idea, E–F–F♯–E♭–D, followed by its retrograde. The bass line thus begins and ends on E. The two upper voices consist only of approaches to E from a semitone above and below. Stravinsky apparently wanted a cadence on E and planned to work out later which series forms would end appropriately, with either D♯–E or F–E. The central idea, then, is a serial passage that centres and cadences on E, and the cadence on an E major chord in the final, published version of the passage represents an elaboration of this initial impulse. A desire to maintain a clear sense of pitch focus thus remains intact in this chromatic serial work, as throughout Stravinsky's last compositional period. Twelve-note serialism Stravinsky's first completely twelve-note movement was 'Surge, aquilo', the setting of a passage from the biblical Song of Solomon, in _Canticum Sacrum_. The final bars are reprinted as Ex. 8.6b. The series ends C–B–A, creating a sense of arrival on A that Stravinsky exploits at many points in the movement, including its final cadence. It moves primarily by small intervals and contains a number of intervallic and motivic repetitions. Of these the most important involve transposition by T8(eight semitones), as indicated. The concluding passage begins with bell-like chords in the harp and double basses. These present a statement of the series in which its three tetrachords are verticalised. Stravinsky rarely writes chords during this period, because he has not yet discovered a satisfactory way of doing so with a convincing serial motivation. For the most part, the harmonies of his early serial music are best understood as by-products of the contrapuntal activity, except at cadences, where some real compositional control is often exerted. These verticalised series segments are a striking but rare occurrence in Stravinsky's serial music. There follows immediately a three-voice canon in rhythmic augmentation. The voice leads with T1I; the flute follows at the transposition of T8(the series is T9I) in rhythmic values twice as long; and the harp follows T8 away from the flute (the series is T5I), again doubling the rhythmic values. These T8 transpositional levels fully exploit the internal resources of the series and produce a large number of invariant segments. That is, many melodic fragments are shared among the three canonic lines, as shown in Ex. 8.6c. As a general rule, Stravinsky's serial music encourages repetition and duplication of pitch, giving shape and focus to the flow of the twelve notes. The last and slowest of the three canonic voices, in the harp, concludes with its tenth note, A. That permits a strong final cadence on the perfect fifth, A–E. Even in Stravinsky's twelve-note music, the perfect fifth retains its cadential force. Twelve-note serialism based on rotational arrays Beginning with _Movements_ , Stravinsky based all of his remaining large-scale works ( _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ , _The Flood_ , _Abraham and Isaac, Variations, Introitus_ , _Requiem Canticles_ ) on a special kind of twelve-note construction known as a 'rotational array'. During this period, Stravinsky restricts himself to what he considered the four basic forms of the series: an original, or prime, form (P), its inversion starting on the same note (I), its retrograde (R) and the inversion of the retrograde (IR). With a few isolated exceptions these basic forms are not transposed. In this way, Stravinsky turns his back on the approach of Schoenberg and Webern, which depends on wide-ranging exploration of the entire row class. These four basic forms are sometimes heard in their entirety. More commonly, however, each is divided into its two hexachords, and each of the resulting eight hexachords is used to generate a rotational array. Ex. 8.7 shows how these arrays are created. Ex. 8.6 _Canticum Sacrum_ , 'Surge, aquilo' a series Ex. 8.7 Writing a rotational array Stravinsky begins with a hexachord (Ex. 8.7 illustrates this, using hexachords from _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ and _Abraham and Isaac_ ). Each hexachord has a distinctive intervallic profile. The hexachord is then rotated systematically to create an array of six rows, all of which contain the same six notes, beginning in turn on each of them. At this stage the arrays embody a kind of six-voice canon at the unison, with each row beginning its canonic statement one note ahead of the row above it and one note later than the row below it. Finally, the rows of the array are transposed so that all begin on the first note of the first row. Stravinsky constructs arrays like these at a very early stage in the compositional process for all of his works from _Movements_ onwards. The six-voice canon is still preserved, but it is no longer at the unison. Now the intervals of canonic imitation are the same as the complements of the intervals of the hexachord itself, as shown at the bottom of Ex. 8.7. In this way the array can be understood as a large-scale expression of the intervals of the hexachord that generates it. The rows of the array are no longer identical in content, but there are potentially lots of repetitions of notes from row to row. Most obviously, all of the rows have the same first note, but they have lots of other notes in common as well. The rows of these rotational arrays are the source of most of Stravinsky's melodies in his later music, and when he writes melodies derived from these arrays he thoroughly exploits the properties of canonic transposition and common-note repetitions. Exx. 8.8 and 8.9 give two reasonably typical examples, based on the arrays from Ex. 8.7. In Ex. 8.8 the tenor is the leading voice in a kind of two-part canon. It traverses the first rotational array in Ex. 8.7 from top to bottom, beginning with the second row of the array (the notes of each row may be stated in order either from first to last or from last to first). The alto follows by traversing the same array, beginning on the first row. Many notes are shared in common by the hexachords, most obviously the E♭ with which each of them begins or ends, but other notes as well, emphasised by occasional unisons between the parts. The melody in Ex. 8.9 is organised in a similar way, as a pass through a rotational array from top to bottom (the instrumental accompaniment is based on complete series statements). Stravinsky's melodies are not always as systematic as this, but they generally involve purposeful motions among the rows of his arrays. Ex. 8.8 _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ , bars 227–38, alto and tenor solo only: two sweeps through a rotational array Ex. 8.9 _Abraham and Isaac_ , bars 73–9: one sweep through a rotational array Within both passages, all of the hexachords contain the same intervals and are related by transposition. Furthermore, the intervals within each hexachord are reflected in the intervals of transposition that connect them. And the relationships among the hexachords are further intensified by their shared notes. This is twelve-note music in a deep sense, but it shows no concern whatsoever with creating aggregates of all twelve notes. On the contrary, the melodies are organised to maximise repetitions of interval and pitch. The melodies give the feeling almost of ostinatos, based as they are on recurring cells of notes and intervals, and in that sense relate more closely to Stravinsky's own earlier music than to the twelve-note music of Schoenberg or Webern. Serial harmony His rotational arrays also provided Stravinsky with a way of writing serial harmonies, particularly in chordal or chorale textures. His serial and twelve-note music was generally contrapuntal in conception, with seriesforms or rows of the arrays layered against each other melodically. But Stravinsky also wanted to be able to write true serial harmonies that were more than mere by-products of the counterpoint. His principal, and theoretically most impressive, response to this need involved the use of columns or 'verticals' of his rotational arrays (see Ex. 8.10). In this passage from _The Flood_ , the voice of God is represented by a duet of bass soloists, one of whom (doubled by piano) sings the P-form of the series and the other (doubled by harp) the I-form. These two forms are related by inversion around G♯ , their mutual first note, and the symmetrical balance they create together may suggest here a divine attribute. Ex. 8.10 _The Flood_ , bars 180–90 Some of the same sense of inversional symmetry around G♯ also shapes the accompanying chords, which move systematically through the rotational array generated from the first hexachord of the P-form. Arrays of this kind have many interesting properties. The first vertical always contains six instances of a single note, and that note will occur nowhere else in the array. Stravinsky often emphasises this note as a kind of pitch centre in passages based on these arrays. No other vertical is as redundant as that one, but usually many will contain at least some doubling of notes. Stravinsky often reflects this doubling in his instrumental settings, as in the chords of Ex. 8.10. Here, as in other aspects of his serial approach, Stravinsky welcomes the possibility of stressing some notes as a way of shaping the musical flow. The array verticals also have an inversionally symmetrical arrangement created by the rotational-transpositional structure of the array, and independent of the particular generating hexachord. The note in the first vertical defines an axis of symmetry for the array as a whole. Around that axis, vertical 2 balances vertical 6, vertical 3 balances vertical 5, and vertical 4 balances itself. The chords thus express, in a subtle way, the same sense of inversional balance around G♯ that exists in the melodies. In addition to the rotational arrays, Stravinsky uses what are called 'four-part arrays' to create serial harmony, particularly in chordal passages. In arrays of this kind he lines up his four basic series forms – a prime, its inversion beginning on the same note, its retrograde and the inversion of the retrograde, beginning on the same note – and extracts twelve four-note chords as vertical slices through the array. The passage in Ex. 8.11 begins with twelve chords, which simply work through the four-part array from last to first. Like the rotational arrays, the four-part arrays have many interesting properties. They consist of two pairs of inversionally related forms: P and I, related by inversion around their shared first note (in this case F), and R and IR, related by inversion around their shared first note (in this case A♯ ). There is thus a kind of skewed inversional symmetry embodied in these arrays, as in the rotational arrays. The four-part arrays have a surprising propensity to generate whole-tone harmonies: all of the chords indicated with an asterisk are subsets of the whole-tone scale. Whole-tone harmony is not normally associated with Stravinsky, but it occurs consistently in chorale passages derived from four-part arrays like this one. Ex. 8.11 _Requiem Canticles_ , 'Exaudi', bars 71–80 After sweeping through the four-part array, this movement concludes with an instrumental chorale based on a rotational array (derived from the first hexachord of the R-form of the series). In this passage, then, Stravinsky's two principal methods for writing twelve-note harmony are gently conjoined. Expression In much of the foregoing discussion I have emphasised the technical aspects of Stravinsky's late music. And, indeed, those aspects are remarkable in themselves. The rotational and the four-part arrays are theoretically powerful and original constructions. More generally, Stravinsky's serial music as a whole bespeaks an impressive degree of technical innovation and integration. In the final years of his compositional life, Stravinsky forged a distinctive and original compositional language, one that was new for him, and new also for the musical world. At the same time, the late music is not only structurally rich but movingly expressive as well. Stravinsky abhorred what he considered to be the self-indulgent bombast of heightened Romantic self-expression, but his music, particularly his late music, is replete with static symbolic representations. Musical symbols are built up by an extensive network of cross-references, both to traditional musical models and to his own works. Stravinsky's music, taken as a whole, deploys a reasonably consistent gestural language, one which he uses to give expressive shape both to his dramatic or narrative works and to his instrumental works. In fact, Stravinsky's music vividly represents a wide range of human emotions and experiences. _Agon_ , for example, although it is an abstract ballet with no definite plot, employs many of the expressive devices that give meaning to Stravinsky's explicitly dramatic works. It was written over a period of several years during which Stravinsky's style was evolving rapidly. Its opening scene is essentially diatonic, but it quickly becomes more chromatic, then intermittently serial, and finally twelve-note serial. It comes as a stunning shock, then, when at the end of the ballet, the twelve-note discourse is suddenly interrupted by a recapitulation of the opening diatonic music. The dramatic impact of this moment draws part of its power from its invocation of a familiar contrast in Stravinsky's music between the diatonic and the chromatic (or octatonic). In his earliest music, this dichotomy is a way of differentiating between the human and the fantastic worlds by associating the human with the diatonic and the fantastic with the chromatic, and often with the octatonic. In _The Firebird_ , for example, this opposition is maintained in the contrast between the fantastic world of Kastchei and the firebird, and the human world of Ivan and the princesses. In _The Rake's Progress_ , some forty years later, the same contrast is seen between the dark, painful reality of Tom Rakewell's 'progress' and the bright illusions of his dreams and his madness. Of course, the interaction between diatonic and chromatic (often octatonic) elements is a central feature of the music of Stravinsky's first and second periods, one that is scarcely reducible to a simple mapping of diatonic onto human and chromatic onto fantastic. None the less, it remains a significant dramatic resource. Like life, _Agon_ ends with a bright blankness. At the end of _Agon_ , the bright, clear, hard diatonicism emerges as a sharp shock of clarification from a dark, twisting, permeable chromaticism. The sudden shift from the serial to the diatonic seems to connote a movement from a dark, intricate dream of life to an awakening into death. As in _The Rake's Progress_ , the moment of final clarification, of definitive diatonic emergence, is also the moment of death. The Postlude of the _Requiem Canticles_ bears some of the same expressive impact, but in a more intense, concentrated way. This was Stravinsky's last major work, written when he was eighty-five years old and in failing health, in full consciousness of the imminence of his own death. The movement consists mainly of solemn four-voice chorales punctuated before, between and after by five widely spaced chords that are sometimes referred to as 'chords of death'. The chorales – which are derived from four-part arrays – are scored for celeste, tubular bells and vibraphone. The evocation of funeral bells is unmistakable and creates a solemn, devotional atmosphere. The 'chords of death', derived from the verticals of the rotational arrays, describe a progression that leads to a surprising diatonic conclusion. The first four chords are large, complex and chromatic, with five, six, seven or eight different notes. The final chord is a diatonic tetrachord: B♭–C–D♭–F. This progression, like the large-scale motion in _Agon_ , is thus one of sudden simplification and clarification, of emerging from a darkly rich chromatic night into a bright diatonic day. It comes as an awakening from a rich, complex dream of life into the hard reality of death. Conclusion Once Stravinsky embarked on his serial course, he persisted in it with extraordinary fidelity and intensity for the remainder of his compositional life. He was deeply committed to the pre-compositional serial designs he created for each of his works. From the time of _Threni_ , his first entirely twelve-note work, every note has an explicit and demonstrable serial explanation. There are no 'free passages' or 'free notes'. Rather, everything falls within the constraints that Stravinsky has chosen to impose upon himself. The pre-compositional designs are themselves the product of inspiring creativity and originality and provided Stravinsky with a welcome and essential framework for compositional play. They rejuvenated him, liberated him and enabled him to produce, in the last decades of his long life, a succession of works of unsurpassed vitality, expressive power, structural richness and youthful energy. PART III Reception 9 NICHOLAS COOK Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky All truly modern musical performance (and of course that includes the authenticist variety) treats the music performed as if it were composed – or at least performed – by Stravinsky. TARUSKIN The years 1928–9, when Stravinsky first recorded his Russian ballets, have not yet passed beyond living memory. And yet, when it comes to the history of performance (and especially of orchestral performance, since recording so large a group of musicians became possible only with the development of electrical recording around 1925), this is a remote and only just recoverable past. It is true that the pianola versions of _The Firebird_ , _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ push the horizon back to the early 1920s, but the ballets' premieres, from the last years before the First World War, lie altogether within the long, silent, initial phase of music history. Stravinsky recorded each of them on a number of occasions (he recorded _The Rite_ , for instance, in 1929, 1940 and 1960), and in this way the history of these works unfolded, as Peter Hill puts it, 'exactly in tandem with the emerging record industry'. Successive developments in recording technology represent one of the reasons why Stravinsky recorded many of his works several times: the 78 gave way to the LP in 1948 and to the stereo LP in 1957. ('Last year's record is as _démodé_ as last year's motor car,' Stravinsky wryly observed.) But there were further reasons. One was Stravinsky's financial dependence on recording and more generally on conducting, as a result of the drying up of his Russian royalties following the 1917 Revolution; there is a terrible irony in the fact that Stravinsky's career as neoclassical and serial composer was bankrolled by nearly a thousand performances of _The Firebird_. The other reason takes longer to explain, for it opens up the whole issue of Stravinsky's intentions as a recording artist. Stravinsky's attutide towards recording was formed largely by his experience with the pianola or player-piano. He first encountered the instrument in 1914, and composed an Étude for it in 1917. But it was only in the 1920s, when he held successive contracts with Pleyel (1921–4) and Aeolian (1924–9), that he created arrangements of his Russian ballets: 'created' rather than 'recorded', because many of them, including that of _The Rite_ , were not taken from live performance but rather cut into the roll by hand, under the composer's more or less close direction. Stravinsky stressed that this made the pianola versions just that: _versions_ of the music rather than 'recordings' in any normal sense. In 1925 he referred to them as 'Not a "photograph of my playing", as Paderewski has made of his . . . but rather a "lithograph", a full and permanent record of tone combinations that are beyond my ten poor fingers to perform'; three years later he explained in an interview that he saw the pianola as 'not an instrument to _reproduce_ my works but one that could _reconstitute_ them'. Such statements – along with Stravinsky's later claim that the pianola's metronomic quality, its 'absence of tempo nuances', influenced his compositional style in the 1920s – must make problematic any claim that the pianola versions provide a direct guide to the original performance practice of the Diaghilev ballets. Stravinsky carried this thinking over into sound recording. In the same 1928 interview, he said that 'the gramophone produces the image of an image and not simply a transferral', and stressed the non-naturalistic circumstances under which early, non-editable recordings took place ('one's weariness accumulates, and when nerves are about to snap, the violinists' arms to succumb, and the mind to go blank with the monotony of the task, that is the moment when one must be perfect for the "take" which is to be recorded.') Paradoxically, however, he saw the introduction of editing technology in the 1950s as only furthering the separation between live and recorded performance: 'Natural balance, natural dynamics, natural echo, natural colour, natural human error', he told _Seventeen_ magazine, 'have been replaced by added echo and reverberation, by a neutralizing dynamic range, by filtered sound, by an engineered balance . . . The resulting record is a super-glossy, chem-fab music-substitute never heard on sea or land, or even in Philadelphia.' Add to all this 'the carelessness, the tension, and incompetence which usually pervade recording enterprises', as a jaundiced Claudio Spies put it, and it is hard to know how far Stravinsky's recordings can be taken as a guide to his conception of the music, or even to the reality of contemporary concert performance. An early recording is not a kind of fly on the wall or historical surveillance technology. It is a historical document, presenting as many difficulties of interpretation (though different ones) as any other kind of documentary evidence. The first recording Stravinsky ever made was a private one (intended presumably for his own study purposes), now lost: it was of his Octet, and was made in Paris in 1923, shortly after he premiered the work at one of Koussevitsky's Symphony Concerts. This was the first time Stravinsky had ever premiered one of his works as a conductor, and it was in an article entitled 'Some ideas about my _Octuor'_ that he first set out the philosophy of performance which he reiterated and elaborated in his _Autobiography_ and _Poetics of Music_ , as well as in some of the conversation books with Robert Craft. Central to this philosophy was his distrust of conductors and 'their notorious liberty, . . . which prevents the public from obtaining a correct idea of the author's intentions'; this, he said, is what drove him first to the pianola and then to the gramophone. (Age did not soften his opinion of conductors: even at the end of his life, in 'On conductors and conducting', he described them as 'a tremendous obstacle to music-making'.) Such views were not, of course, exactly unique: Schoenberg was hardly less cutting ('Does not the author, too, have a claim to make clear his opinion about the realization of his work, even though no conductor of genius will neglect to override the author's opinion when the performance comes?'), while Ravel's maxim, 'I do not ask for my music to be interpreted, but only for it to be played', sounds almost more Stravinskian than Stravinsky. But there are three ways in which Stravinsky went beyond a merely conventional expression of this chronic composer's complaint. First, in the Octet essay, but more systematically in the _Poetics_ , Stravinsky rationalised his distrust in terms of a distinction between 'execution' and 'interpretation': the former (corresponding to Ravel's 'playing') was to be understood as a strict and faithful realisation of the music itself and hence a characteristically modernist sweeping away of the Romantic indulgences of the latter. (The ethically charged vocabulary is an integral part of the message: interpretation 'is at the root of all the errors, all the sins, all the misunderstandings that interpose themselves between the musical work and the listener and prevent a faithful transmission of its message'.) Second, Stravinsky translated his distrust of interpreters into action by performing his music himself. His conducting career took off rapidly after the Octet premiere, while his serious pianistic career as an exponent of his own music (which lasted about fifteen years) began after Koussevitsky suggested that he take the solo part in his Concerto in 1924; in his _Autobiography_ Stravinsky commented that 'the prospect of creating my work for myself, and thus establishing the manner in which I wished it to be played, greatly attracted me'. But third, and perhaps most intriguingly, he made a conscious attempt to build his distrust of performers into his music by making it, in effect, interpretation-proof. This meant more than simply transcribing rubato passages into strict rhythmic notation, so that a literal performance would produce a flexible effect, though Stravinsky did on occasion do this. Traditionally, he explained in the Octet essay, it is the nuance which forms the 'emotive basis' of music,24 and because of the difficulty of specifying nuance in the score such music is open to deformation (that is, 'interpretation'). By contrast, he says, the emotive content of the Octet has been built into the play of the musical materials, into the 'musical architecture': it has been drawn out of the performance and into the work itself. The music is, so to speak, pre-interpreted. The performer's contribution, then, is already determined by the music itself: 'to the executant', Stravinsky continued in the Octet essay, 'belongs the presentation of [the] composition in the way designated to him by its own form', while in the _Poetics_ he was even more emphatic, referring to 'the great principle of submission' and explaining that 'The secret of perfection lies above all in [the performer's] consciousness of the law imposed on him by the work he is performing.' This is not exactly to say that there is only one way in which a given work may be legitimately performed, but it limits the scope of performance variance to essentially technical issues of presentation: creative revelations of new and perhaps unforeseen aspects of the music are apparently precluded. (Here there is an unlikely but close parallel with Schenker's contemporaneous theory on performance, which could quite reasonably be seen as another product of the 'new objectivity' that pervades the Octet essay.) And once performance is seen as bound in this intimate manner to composition, it follows that recordings can be no less definitive of the musical work than scores. Stravinsky reiterated this principle over a period of more than thirty years: 1928: 'the phonograph is currently the best instrument through which the masters of modern music can transmit their thoughts.' 1935 (of his Columbia recordings from 1928): 'far better than with piano rolls, I was able to express all my intentions with real exactitude. Consequently these records . . . have the importance of documents which can serve as guides to all executants of my music . . . [E]veryone who listens to my records hears my music free from any distortions of my thought, at least in its essential elements.' 1954: 'When I conduct, the music is presented pretty nearly the way I want it. That is why I've been conducting recording sessions of most of my music. In the future there will be no doubt as to how it should be played.' 1959: 'I regard my recordings as indispensable supplements to the printed music.' In short, Stravinsky saw his recordings as establishing an authoritative performance tradition and in this sense as an extension of the compositional process. As usual, his aesthetics masked commercial acumen, for this represented the perfect sales pitch for a relatively inexperienced conductor competing with the likes of Monteux (the original conductor of _The Rite_ , whose own recording was apparently made just a few weeks after Stravinsky's) and Stokowski (whose recording appeared in 1930). And by emphasising the authority which only he could bring to the performance of his own music, Stravinsky succeeded in establishing the framework within which his concerts and recordings were received throughout his lifetime; hence the 'Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky' slogan which CBS employed to publicise their exclusive contractual relationship with the composer, which lasted from 1951 to the end of Stravinsky's life, and which included not only new recordings of the earlier works but more or less timely issues of new compositions. (In the early 1970s it emerged that some of these recordings should in fact have been labelled 'Craft conducts Stravinsky', and Sony now market the recordings under the more discreet title 'Igor Stravinsky Edition'.) Indeed, something like a standard Stravinsky record-review format emerged. First, you summarised the nature, historical significance, and/or aesthetic premise of the music. Then you acknowledged Stravinsky's technical shortcomings as a conductor, optionally contrasting his performances with those of other conductors, but turning this round into a recognition of the composer's special authority. ('Stravinsky is not a great conductor', wrote a reviewer of the 1940 _Rite_ , 'but he manages to get results.' By 1960 this has turned into 'At least we can be sure that when a composer conducts his own music the essentials are right, even if the inessentials give him trouble; as a result we get a directness of impact that we may look for in vain from more polished but less understanding performances.') A few complimentary comments on the quality and character of Stravinsky's performance follow ('The rhythms are sharp and savage still,' Edward Greenfield wrote of the 1960 _Rite_ , 'enough to make this as much a physical experience as ever, but more satisfying in purely musical terms'; there is a general assumption of both technological and interpretative progress). And finally you reiterate the indispensable nature of Stravinsky's own recordings: 'Traditions do not live by scores alone,' proclaimed the _Gramophone_ reviewer, 'and every scrap of evidence about how the greatest composer of our day wants his music to sound is invaluable.' All this assured a remarkably favourable critical response; a summary, published in _Notes_ , of fourteen reviews of the 1960 double issue of _The Rite_ and _Petrushka_ reveals that thirteen rated it as excellent, one as adequate, and none as inadequate. But the account of Stravinsky's conducting which most strikingly evokes the spirit in which his performances were received comes from the pianist Leo Smit, referring to a 1960 concert performance of _Les Noces_ in which Smit took part: Stravinsky started conducting with great energy and confidence. Gradually, imperceptibly the pace began to slacken and his interest seemed to shift from the players and singers to the score itself. By the time the basso had finished his concluding solo and the final piano-bell-cymbal chords were reverberating through space, Stravinsky's bent head was hovering just above the open pages, his motionless arms outstretched like some prehistoric bird mantling its helpless prey. We held the last clang for a very long time while Stravinsky seemed lost in an ancient dream. The hall had been completely silent for what felt like minutes, when someone, far away, applauded, breaking the spell. Stravinsky looked up as though surprised to find himself in public . . . The resonances with Beethovenian mythology, and with the subjectivity central to the Romantic construction of genius, are unmistakable and revealing. Smit's account vividly conveys the manner in which the reception of Stravinsky was moulded by the judgement which the _Gramophone_ reviewer makes of him in the manner of a simple statement of fact: 'the greatest composer of our time'. If Stravinsky's claim that his recordings 'express all my intentions with real exactitude' was in this way a highly effective rhetorical ploy, then it goes without saying that it invoked a thoroughly problematic concept: the concept of compositional intentionality falls to pieces as soon as there is any variance in its expression. (If Stravinsky plays _The Rite_ one way and then another, which expresses his 'real' intentions? If we cannot answer that question, what does the concept of 'intention' add to a simple statement that he played it one way and then another?) However, Robert Fink gives the argument an interesting twist when he demonstrates how many of the most characteristic features of _The Rite_ emerged over a period of years, sometimes through a process of negotiation between Stravinsky and Monteux. An example of the former is the repeated downbows at the beginning of 'The augurs of spring', which first appear as a pencil marking in Stravinsky's copy of the 1922 full score, and of the latter the interaction between the ways Stravinsky and Monteux parsed the rhythms of the 'Sacrifical dance', the outcome of which was the 'revised first edition' of 1929 (itself revised in 1943). As Fink puts it, it was only the experience of the music under Monteux's baton, and from 1926 his own, that showed Stravinsky what 'he "had always wanted"', which is a way of saying that he had not always wanted it at all. That is, he wanted it played one way, and then another. Fink's demonstration forms part of a larger project, the purpose of which was to attack the assumption that _The Rite_ was always associated with the metronomic strictness, the absence of 'interpretation' in Stravinsky's pejorative sense, that generally characterises present-day performances of it (and to a greater or lesser degree everything else). From around 1920, Stravinsky went to extraordinary lengths to rewrite the history of _The Rite_ , claiming at one time or another that Nijinsky's choreography was a travesty, that the dances were in any case no more than a 'pretext' for the music, that his original conception of the work had been a purely musical one, and that apart from the opening bassoon solo there was no folk material in it. All these claims controvert Stravinsky's earlier statements, or the known facts, or both: their purpose was to legitimise _The Rite_ in the context of the aesthetic of autonomous music to which Stravinsky pinned his colours in the 1920s, for example in the Octet essay ('My Octuor is a musical object . . . I consider that music is only able to solve musical problems; and nothing else, neither the literary nor the picturesque, can be in music of any real interest'). To these revisions of history we can now add, as a result of Fink's researches, Stravinsky's invocation of _The Rite_ as a prime example of music that requires only execution, not interpretation: 'the _chef d'orchestre_ is hardly more than a mechanical agent, a time-beater who fires a pistol at the beginning of each section but lets the music run by itself'. Through an exhaustive study not only of the early recordings but also of the documentary evidence that predates them, Fink shows how early performances of _The Rite_ involved the kind of large-scale tempo modification that we nowadays associate with Romantic interpretative traditions. This is a matter not just of local nuance (audible, for example, in the coupled crescendos and accelerandi of Stravinsky's 1929 performance of the opening bars of the 'Spring rounds'), but of what might be termed structural nuance, or the differentiating of structural sections in accordance with their rhythmic or melodic nature: Monteux's 1929 interpretation [ _sic_ ] of the 'Sacrifical dance', generally assumed to be the closest we can get to what the 1913 audience heard, begins at a vertiginous ♩ = 160 but is full of unnotated tempo changes, and their traces are also to be heard in Stravinsky's and Stokowski's earliest recordings. The 'metronomic strictness, no _rubato_ ' and 'mechanical regularity' which Stravinsky himself saw as fundamental characteristics of his music were not, then, always there in _The Rite_ : they were created over a period of years and retrospectively imputed to it as part of Stravinsky's 'back to basics' ideology. And so the subsequent performance history of _The Rite_ unfolds, as illustrated by Stravinsky's later performances and by those of virtually all other conductors, involving what Hill calls an increasingly 'monolithic' approach to the 'Sacrificial dance', with steadily maintained tempos adapted to the clear rendition of orchestral detail. In this way, 'now, finally', as Fink puts it, 'Stravinsky sounds like Stravinsky'. The danger in all this is of replacing one myth by another. Certainly Stravinsky became an influential exponent of a 'strict' performance style, to borrow his own word, applying it not only to his own music but also to mainstream repertoire, on the relatively rare occasions when he performed it. And certainly a comparison of Stravinsky's 1928 and 1960 performances of _Petrushka_ reveals an increasingly monolithic conception, with the abrupt generic shifts of the earlier recording (for instance between the 'real' and the 'mechanical' music) being replaced by the continuity and orchestral sheen of the later one, in which the piece is well on the way to acquiring its present status as a benchmark for the latest hi-fi gear. But the real picture is more complicated, and in particular Stravinsky's views on performance tempos were more complex than a cursory reading of the polemics of the 1920s and 1930s might suggest. (A more careful reading might, for example, ponder the significance of Stravinsky's statement in his _Autobiography_ that recording 'enabled me to determine for the future the relationships of the movement ( _tempos_ ) and the nuances in accordance with my wishes', given that this is the composer who supposedly shunned nuance.) The key text in this context is a section called 'The performance of music' from the _Conversations_ in which, instead of simply saying that music should be executed and not interpreted (and, as in the _Poetics_ , that interpretation is inherently sinful), Stravinsky draws a distinction between two musical traditions. On the one hand, there is the Romantic tradition represented by Berg, which 'depends strongly on mood or interpretation. Unless mood dominates the whole, the parts do not relate, the form is not achieved, detail is not suffused, and the music fails to say what it has to say.' Accordingly, the aim should be not a 'strict or correct' performance, but an 'inspired' one, and this means that 'considerable fluctuations in tempo are possible in a "romantic" piece . . . "freedom" itself must be conveyed by the performer'. On the other hand, there is the 'classic' tradition, which 'eliminates the conductor', which requires execution instead of interpretation – and, Stravinsky adds, 'I am speaking of my music', as if it were not already obvious. The complaint, then, is not that interpreters interpret as such, but that they interpret music that should not be interpreted, such as Stravinsky's, or for that matter Mozart's. ('Isn't this', Stravinsky asks rhetorically, 'why Mozart concertos are still played as though they were Tchaikovsky concertos?') What the Stravinsky of 1959 is doing here is rehabilitating the idea, which his own polemics of the 1920s and 30s had done more than anything to undermine, that different music should be played in different ways. Rubato is no longer a sin: it is a technique appropriate to certain genres or styles (including opera, which Stravinsky described as 'the field of the elastic beat'), but not others. Similarly the mainstream (Germanic) conducting style represented by 'the silver-haired Karajan' represents not so much the work of the devil as an approach inappropriate to Stravinsky's music: 'I doubt whether _The Rite_ can be satisfactorily performed in terms of Herr von Karajan's traditions . . . I do not mean to imply that he is out of his depths, however, but rather that he is in my shallows . . . There are simply no regions for soul-searching in _The Rite of Spring_.' And what would be the principle of a performance style that eschews soul-searching? Stravinsky spelled out the answer when, with immediate reference to _Pulcinella_ , he said that eighteenth-century music is, in one sense, _all_ dance music. Performance tradition ignores this. For example, in the famous recording of an eminent conductor rehearsing the _Linz_ Symphony, he is continually heard inviting the orchestra to 'sing', while he never reminds it to 'dance'. The result of this is that the music's simple melodic content is burdened with a thick-throated late-nineteenth-century sentiment that it cannot bear, while the rhythmic movement remains turgid. In this way the distinction between the tradition of Tchaikovsky and Berg, on the one hand, and that of Mozart and Stravinsky, on the other, becomes one of subjectivity and sentiment versus objectivity and physicality. Or, to go back to the terms of the Octet essay, whereas in Romantic music the expression has to be brought out through an exercise of subjectivity, Mozart and Stravinsky compose the expression into the music itself, thereby rendering it interpretation-proof. This conjunction of Mozart's and Stravinsky's names might be seen as a further example of the latter's astute image management, but there is also a theoretical point behind the distinction Stravinsky is making. It would be hard to think of a conductor whose aesthetics and performance style were more different from Stravinsky's than Mahler (though we should remember that the youthful Stravinsky heard Mahler in St Petersburg, and described him as 'the conductor that impressed me the most'). One of Mahler's contemporaries, Natalie Bauer-Lechner, quotes him as calling for 'a continual elimination of the bar . . . so that it retreats behind the melodic and rhythmic content' of the music. One could translate this into the terminology of another of his contemporaries, Heinrich Schenker, and say that nuance – especially what I called structural nuance – comes from the middleground. (That is, one might think of it as a means whereby the musical surface is interpreted in the light of the middleground.) And what Robert Philip describes as the 'evening out of traditional expressive nuances' that became more or less general in orchestral conducting after the 1930s is the correlate in performance of what Schenker attacked as the foreground (read: shallow) nature of Stravinsky's compositional style. Rather than invoke Schenker's elaborate, and not entirely relevant, argument at this point, I shall quote another attack on Stravinsky's music, this time by Cecil Gray, who wrote in 1927 that The _Sacre du Printemps_ , so far from being the triumphant apotheosis of rhythm, the act of restoration to its rightful supremacy of the most important and essential element of musical expression, is the very negation and denial of rhythm . . . Strip the music [of the 'Sacrificial dance'] of the bar-lines and time-signatures, which are only a loincloth concealing its shameful nudity, and it will at once be seen that there is no rhythm at all. Rhythm implies life, some kind of movement or progression at least, but this music stands quite still, in a quite frightening immobility. Many writers have commented on the way in which Stravinsky's music is built up from the combination and juxtaposition of single beats: that is the source of its rhythmic vitality. But Gray does not hear the rhythmic vitality of the music's surface: he tries to hear _through_ the surface to a rhythmic vitality that lies behind it and, being unable to do so, assumes that there is none. And this provides a context in which we can understand Stravinsky's apparently strange remark about Karajan being not out of his depths, but in Stravinsky's shallows. It should follow from all this that Stravinsky conducted in a Stravinskian manner, so to speak, only music of the 'classic' tradition (including his own). What is the evidence of his recordings of Romantic music? There is an obvious problem here: he conducted little music by others (generally, as he explained, concertos for soloists with whom he was working, though the first two symphonies of Tchaikovsky were also in his repertoire), and recorded none. There is a commercially released extract from a 1963 rehearsal of Tchaikovsky's _Sleeping Beauty_ , in which he can be heard lovingly crafting the minutiae of articulation and texture.70 More to the point, however, are the extensive passages of Tchaikovsky's music (sometimes unalloyed but generally reminted) in _The Fairy's Kiss_ : in particular the 'Scène', based on Tchaikovsky's song 'Ah! qui brûla d'amour', incorporates phrase-based rhythmic patterns co-ordinated with harmonic and cadential structure and building to a fully Romantic climax. Stravinsky's 1965 recording perfectly embodies the Romantic tradition of structural nuance: he takes the whole of the introduction at a flexible tempo centring on ♩ = 50, way below the notated ♩ = 76, making a drastic but unnotated change to around the notated tempo at rehearsal number 207. He then uses tempo to shape the successive phrases, developing the notated caesuras into arch-shaped tempo profiles but at the same time highlighting the sequential organisation around rehearsal number 208. And he gives the sudden undercutting of the climax at rehearsal number 211 a positively Mahlerian interpretation, the effect being magnified by the registrally exposed counterpoint and high solo horn of the following bars. Are we meant to hear this 'straight', as conveying a degree of identification with the Romantic tradition that dangerously reduces the critical distance between Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky? Or is the intention to parody the Romantic performance style along with the music itself ? It is difficult to see how the question could be decided one way or the other. If there is a particular musical style that forms a bridge between the _fin-desiècle_ Russian Romanticism of Stravinsky's earliest works and the foundation works of twentieth-century modernism, it is the 'changing background' variation technique. 'The princesses' _khorovod_ (round dance)' of _The Firebird_ , which corresponds to the 'Rondo ( _khorovod_ )' of the 1945 Suite, is unmistakably in the tradition of Glinka's _Karaminskaya_ ; it is even structured the same way, around two contrasting folk melodies, each of which has its own tempo. The resulting notated tempo changes are shown by the squares in Fig. 9.1 ( ♩ = 72 and 92 for the respective tunes, and 58 for the coda). Fig. 9.1 Tempos in the 'Princesses' round dance'. The graphs superimpose on this the tempos of three of Stravinsky's recordings, from 1929, 1961 and 1967, and should lay to rest once and for all any misconception that Stravinsky only knew how to conduct metronomically. Particularly striking is the overall similarity of the profiles (the major difference is the anticipation of the slower tempo of the coda in the two later versions), while the tempo modifications are always co-ordinated with the phrase and sectional structure. All three performances, in other words, embody similar interpretations; on the basis of Fig. 9.1, it would be hard to argue for any consistent chronological evolution in the manner in which Stravinsky performed this music. Rather than the 'Spring _khorovod_ (round dance)' of _The Rite_ (now usually abbreviated to 'Spring rounds'), it is the Introduction to Part Two, leading into the 'Mystic circles', that most clearly represents Stravinsky's modernist updating of the changing background technique: there are again contrasted folkloristic ideas which recur against different textures, though they are more fragmentary and the patterns of repetition less regular, and the cross-cutting form is underlined by alternations between ♩ = 48 and 60. How might this interpolation of a Romantic compositional technique within a modernist ('classic') context be reflected in terms of performance style? In many respects, performance practice in _The Rite_ seems to have converged by the time of the early sound recordings; in the Introduction to Part One, for instance, there is a considerable degree of consistency in conception and even sonority between the first recordings of Stravinsky, Monteux and Stokowski (and the same goes for the somewhat bowdlerised recording that Stokowski made for Disney's _Fantasia_ at the end of the 1930s). But the same cannot be said of the Introduction to Part Two, where Monteux starts at ♩ = 42, way below the 48 of the 1921 and subsequent published scores, whereas Stravinsky takes off at something approaching ♩ = 80. This fast tempo, though wildly inconsistent with the score, allows for a streamlined and relatively unnuanced (in this sense literal) performance. The 1960 recording, by contrast, begins at ♩ = 50, close to the notated tempo, but anyone expecting a literal execution out of the ageing composer is in for a rude shock. Already at the end of the second bar there is a marked though unnotated _Luftpause_ in the best Romantic tradition, and Stravinsky underlines the phrase junctions at rehearsal numbers 80, 81 and 82 in the same way. The same effect reappears on a larger scale with a ritardando down to about ♩ = 45 in the bars up to the flute and violin solo at rehearsal number 83. And while the kind of structural tempo change Fink notes in early recordings of the 'Sacrifical dance' is effectively composed into the Introduction to Part Two, Table 9.1 shows how Stravinsky's performance at once contradicts his own score and further develops the tempo-change principle embodied in it: at the trumpet duet (two bars before number 85), instead of continuing at the opening tempo, Stravinsky shifts gears to ♩ = 62, returning to this tempo instead of the notated 'Tempo I' at 90. The faster tempos of the 1921 score – ♩ = 60 at 89, and 80 at 93 – are also shifted up a notch, resulting in an interpretation (no other word will do) that adheres to the original constructive values but realises them in terms of four rather than three distinct tempos. Table 9.1. Stravinsky, 'Sacrificial dance': comparison of tempos in score and recording _Luftpausen_ , structural tempo changes and disregard of the score: Stravinsky's 1960 performance of the Introduction to Part Two goes a long way towards rehabilitating Romantic performance traditions and, in so doing, rendering audible the very continuity between _The Rite_ and the traditions of Russian Romanticism that, perversely, he was to deny just two years later, when he claimed that 'very little immediate tradition lies behind _Le Sacre du printemps_ '. It is equally hard to square this passage, at least, with Fink's description of the 1960 recording as 'grimly geometric', and this illustrates the danger to which I referred of replacing an old myth by a new one: Fink recounts the story of how Stravinsky came to sound like Stravinsky, but here we have an example of a Stravinsky who no longer sounds like Stravinsky at all. And, in truth, trying to create any grand narrative out of Stravinsky's successive recordings is a recipe for frustration. After discussing Stravinsky's 1929 recording of _The Rite_ at some length and charting the discrepancies between it and the 1921 piano roll, Hill concludes that Monteux's 1929 recording is a safer bet as a 'guide to Stravinsky's earliest intentions'. Add Stravinsky's 1940 and 1960 recordings, he continues with mounting exasperation, and the picture becomes not clarified but more confused. Attempt a comparison of all the Stravinsky sources – his own recordings, the various editions of the score . . . and Stravinsky's written views on how the work should be performed – and one finds that all frequently contradict one another. Moreover, it is often on matters on which Stravinsky is most insistent that he differs most in his own recordings. Certainly a tabulation of the tempos for each of Stravinsky's three performances (Fig. 9.2) proves a poor basis for any kind of generalisation. (As in the case of Fig. 9.1, the squares represent notated metronome markings.) It is a general principle in the history of twentieth-century performance that the range of tempo both within and between movements is smaller in the second than in the first half of the century, and that the effect is more marked in the case of fast tempos, in line with the modern practice of setting tempos so as to allow clear articulation of the shortest note values. It follows that in general one should expect a lower average tempo and a higher degree of tempo convergence in more recent performances. But it is difficult to see any respect in which Stravinsky's successive recordings of _The Rite_ conform to this picture: on average, the fastest tempos are found in 1940, and the slowest in 1929 (largely as a result of the cautious tempo of the 'Sacrifical dance'). Even more tellingly, it is the 1929 recording that has the lowest standard deviation between its tempos: the history of Stravinsky's recordings of _The Rite_ is one of divergence, not convergence. The conclusion to be drawn, perhaps, is that overall trends in the history of performance represent the sum of an indefinite number of micro-histories: individual works and even individual movements may have their own, largely independent, historical trajectories. Fig. 9.2 Tempos in _The Rite of Spring_ As Hill suggests, the discrepancies between Stravinsky's scores, recordings and pronouncements about performance are notorious, and it is easy to make fun of them. In the course of the series of 'reviews' of _The Rite_ that he published in the two final conversation books, for example, Stravinsky criticised Boulez's 1963 performance of 'The sage' as 'more than twice too fast', and adds rhetorically, 'if there were an Olympic Games for speedy conductors . . . '. He might have finished the sentence, 'then he would have come in third', for Boulez's ♩ = 52, a mere ten metronome points above the notated 42, trails well behind Stravinsky's 1929 recording. Then again, Karajan is criticised for performing the 'Ritual action' at the notated ♩ = 52 (unlike Stravinsky, who successively recorded it at ♩ = 58, 69 and 63), though here Stravinsky at least evinces a trace of embarrassment: 'Whether or not metronomically correct, this _tempo di hoochie-koochie_ is definitely too slow . . . duller than Disney's dying dinosaurs'. What this goes to show, of course, is the limited value of measuring tempo when divorced from the other, generally non-notatable factors involved in performance: rhythmic articulation, sonority and the acoustic properties of the hall, for example. But then, where does that leave Stravinsky's insistence that, in performing _The Rite_ , he was 'particularly anxious to give the bars their true metric value, and to have them played exactly as they were written'? Or where does it leave his claim that 'any musical composition must necessarily possess its unique tempo . . . the variety of tempi comes from performers who often are not very familiar with the composition they perform or feel a personal interest in interpreting it'? Stravinsky appears to have found such questions unanswerable, for in the last decade or so of his life he began to dismantle the certainties of his pre-war philosophy of performance. One has the impression that the process was not an easy one. A page after the statement I have just quoted, he is already qualifying it: 'a tempo can be metronomically wrong but right in spirit, though obviously the metronomic margin cannot be very great'. And later, on the same page, there is a further slippage. He repeats that his music requires execution, not interpretation, and continues, 'But you will protest, stylistic questions in my music are not conclusively indicated by the notation; my style requires interpretation. That is true . . . But that isn't the kind of "interpretation" my critics mean.' He goes on to explain that the sort of interpretation they mean is whether or not a particular passage signifies 'laughter'. But this kind of hermeneutic commentary has nothing to do with the issue of interpretation versus execution that Stravinsky started out talking about, and so the statement about performance interpretation remains unchallenged. It is as if Stravinsky felt the need to backtrack on the whole issue of execution, but having done so, wanted to cover his tracks. Nine years later, the retrenchment has become quite explicit, and he no longer ascribes to metronome markings the same absolute value that he once did: If the speeds of everything in the world and in ourselves have changed, our tempo feelings cannot remain unaffected. The metronome marks one wrote forty years ago were contemporary forty years ago. Time is not alone in affecting tempo – circumstances do too, and every performer is a different equation of them. I would be surprised if any of my own recent recordings follows the metronome markings. And by the time of the final conversation book he confesses that I have changed my mind . . . about the advantages of embalming a performance in tape. The disadvantages, which are that one performance presents only one set of circumstances, and that mistakes and misunderstandings are cemented into traditions as quickly and canonically as truths, now seem to me too great a price to pay. The Recording Angel I am concerned with is not CBS, in any case, but the One with the Big Book. 'One performance represents only one set of circumstances': at last, it seems, Stravinsky recognises the indispensability as well as the inevitability of difference between one performance and another, and hence the necessity of performance interpretation. It hardly comes as a surprise when, towards the end of the book, we find him mocking the very principle on which he had insisted for half a century: speaking of Koussevitsky's conducting, he refers to 'execution – firing-squad sense'. If Stravinsky did not in the end conform to his own prescriptions about performance, then he was at least conforming to an established pattern of composers who say one thing and do another; among his contemporaries, Elgar and Rachmaninov are illustrious examples. Maybe there is a basic incommensurability between saying and doing, such that you talk most about what you are least sure how to do: that would explain why, as Hill complained, it is just where he is most insistent that Stravinsky's recordings differ the most. But what is perhaps surprising is the extent to which, though Stravinsky did not do what he said, others did. Whatever reservations one may have about premature grand narratives in performance history, it is clear that after the 1920s and 1930s there was in orchestral performance as a whole a progressive 'evening out of traditional expressive nuances', to repeat Philip's phrase, a pursuit of clarity in rhythmic detail and strictness in execution – in short, a move towards making _everything_ sound like Stravinsky (or 'Stravinsky', as we should perhaps say, to distinguish the critical construction from the man who died in 1971). And here there is a paradox. Richard Taruskin has persuasively demonstrated the affinities between Stravinsky's concept of 'execution' and what he calls 'authenticist performance': early-music spokesmen such as Norrington and Hogwood appropriated Stravinsky's values and rhetoric in opposition to what they saw as the onesize-fits-all philosophy of mainstream performance. Yet that mainstream was largely moulded by the same rhetoric and values and, as I previously suggested, it was Stravinsky's polemics of the 1920s and 1930s that crucially undermined the idea that different music should be played in different ways, and so created the idea of a 'mainstream' in the first place. The recent history of performance, then, can be seen as revolving around the collision of two successive waves of Stravinskian modernism. And this reflection prompts another. If Stravinsky's rhetorical question of 1959 could now be rephrased, 'Isn't this why Mozart concertos are still played as though they were Stravinsky concertos?', then we may need to rethink the composer's importance for twentieth-century music. 'Stravinsky's performance style gained an enormous prestige among progressive musicians in the 1920s and 30s', writes Taruskin. But perhaps even more influential was the series of writings, beginning in 1920s Paris and culminating in the Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Harvard, through which Stravinsky disseminated a fashionable philosophy of music that encapsulated the 'new objectivity' of the inter-war years – but that formulated it in absolute terms and so gave a quality of self-evidence and permanence to an aesthetic that in other arts rapidly became as _démodé_ as last year's recording. (The records changed, that is to say, but the philosophy endured.) In which case, maybe Stravinsky's most effective legacy was not the modernist scores through which he adumbrated a new musical future, nor the neoclassical scores with their incorporation of old styles into new contexts, but his fusion of the power of the baton and the word (even the ghost-written word) to create, through performance, a new musical past. 10 MAX PADDISON Stravinsky as devil: Adorno's three critiques Introduction Adorno's _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ was published in 1949, at a decisive turning-point for music in the mid-twentieth century. In this highly influential book, Adorno put forward a dialectical reading of the New Music in the form of a critique of its two most extreme representatives, Schoenberg and Stravinsky. The effects were dramatic, providing a rallying cry for the generation of new composers emerging in the immediate post-war years, and who were to become associated both with the rejection of neoclassicism and with the espousal of the multiple serialism of the Darmstadt School. The reception of Adorno's critique by the two protagonists themselves was in some respects contrary to expectations. Schoenberg, who disliked Adorno, saw it primarily as an attack on himself, thus going directly against the general view, which regarded Adorno as the great advocate of the Second Viennese School. But at the same time Schoenberg also sprang to Stravinsky's defence, annoyed by Adorno's treatment of his old adversary. Stravinsky, on the other hand, remained silent – in public, at least – thus making it difficult to gauge the extent to which Adorno's critique of his music may have played any determining role in the composer's own spectacular change of direction in the early 1950s, when he himself abandoned neoclassicism and turned to serialism. This has, naturally enough, prompted speculation. Célestin Deliège, for instance, has argued: Publicly, Stravinsky would make no mention of T.W. Adorno's criticism, but it is highly improbable that it could have left him indifferent, even if he was conscious of the weak points in the argument and disagreed with a philosophical approach whose materialistic tendencies could only disturb him . . . It has often been remarked that Stravinsky was very open to influence – at least, until he stepped into his study – and could not remain indifferent to a well-formulated argument. The acuity of his judgement warned him when the alarm bell really sounded. Apart from Robert Craft's dismissive and not very comprehending article 'A bell for Adorno', there was little response from Stravinsky's immediate circle. Adorno himself, however, was perfectly clear as to his own influence on the larger course of events, when he later wrote that 'my discussion of Stravinsky [in _Philosophy of New Music_ ] is commonly deemed to have played its part in causing the demise of neo-classicism'. It is understandable that most critical attention concerning Adorno's interpretation of Stravinsky's music has been directed at _Philosophy of New Music_ , precisely because it was a book which, without trying, coincided so exactly with the historical moment it had anticipated. Some commentators, such as Carl Dahlhaus and Peter Bürger, have criticised its claims through seeing them in relation to Adorno's later reading of Stravinsky from the early 1960s, the essay 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait' (1962). To these two readings I add another: Adorno's early view of Stravinsky dating from the late 1920s and early 1930s. I shall consider some recurring themes from each of these three Stravinsky critiques in turn, using a cluster of key concepts taken from Adorno's philosophy of music history, and with particular emphasis on the concept of irony. It seems to me that, out of the contradictions, changing judgements, but also continuities of these three critiques, a convergence emerges which helps make sense of the immensely difficult and much misunderstood hermeneutic task Adorno had set himself. A commonly held view has been that Adorno simply sanctified Schoenberg and demonised Stravinsky. This is certainly a crude simplification. What he did do was to put forward a philosophical evaluation of the truth or untruth of their music in terms of the interaction of subjectivity and objectivity and of their alienation within the musical work: a problematical and contentious project criticised by, among others, Jean-François Lyotard in his essay 'Adorno as the devil', on the grounds that the concept of the 'subject' itself remains unquestioned, and is easily equated with the 'expression' theory of art. Schoenberg himself was not fooled by Adorno's apparently positive reading of his work, clearly recognising a criticism of his serial music when he saw it. As for Stravinsky, nothing is quite what it seems when it comes to the devil. An underlying theme of this essay is therefore Adorno's presentation of Stravinsky as devil, particularly in his repeated references to _The Soldier's Tale_. It needs to be remembered that Adorno's writing comes from a long German literary tradition of using the extremes and the rhetoric of exaggeration, irony and the grotesque, as strategies for revealing underlying truths. It goes back to E. T. A. Hoffmann, finds its greatest exponent in Nietzsche, and its most accomplished twentieth-century master in Thomas Mann (Adorno's own cameo appearance as the devil in intellectual guise in Mann's _Doctor Faustus_ , delivering whole passages lifted straight out of an early draft of _Philosophy of New Music_ , neatly reinforces the point). Stravinsky's diabolical aspect needs therefore to be seen as a necessary part of Adorno's scheme, and the 'inauthenticity' of his music as an aspect of its truth. The first critique: Stravinsky, stabilisation and the social situation of music The first of Adorno's Stravinsky critiques is to be seen in two main sources, dating from 1928 and 1932, neither of which is exclusively on Stravinsky. First, in an article called 'Die stabilisierte Musik' from 1928 (although only published posthumously), Adorno argued that by the late 1920s music had become 'stabilised', in the sense that there had already been a retreat from the advanced position reached by the musical avant garde before 1914 (i.e. as represented by the Second Viennese School). He identifies two dominant tendencies – neoclassicism and folklorism – which are characterised by stabilisation. However, although he identifies Stravinsky with both neoclassicism and folklorism, and argues that those composers within the category of 'stabilised music' are reactionary, he does not at this stage see Stravinsky entirely in these terms. While _Oedipus Rex_ is regarded as the most representative work of neoclassicism to that point – a work which takes the use of masks and the return to forms and styles of the past to extremes, and which is also striking in its absence of irony – he also singles out for special mention _Renard_ and _The Soldier's Tale_ as 'authentic' works. These themes are continued in the second of these articles, the important essay 'Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik' of 1932. While the concept of 'stabilised music' itself is dropped, probably because of its crudity as a means of categorising the main tendencies in the music of the period, its place is taken by a more sophisticated set of dialectical concepts. Adorno now talks of the opposed categories of 'commodity music' and 'avant-garde music'. Historically music has become autonomous, in the process losing its historically associated social functions and acquiring instead a new function, that of the commodity. This leads to the alienation and fetishisation of art music, and drives it in one of two directions: either towards assimilation by market forces, to the point where all that music does is to affirm its commodity character; or towards critical self-reflection, where music becomes aware of itself as a form of cognition in relation to its handed-down materials, and of critical negation of its commodity character. 'Assimilated' music accepts its function as commodity, conceals alienation, and becomes entertainment, embracing market forces; 'critical' music rejects its commodity character, does not conceal alienation, and is considered by Adorno to be 'authentic' and 'true' in its relations to its material. As I have outlined elsewhere, Adorno identifies four distinct types of music within this second category, that of critical, 'authentic' music. As we shall see, Adorno includes Stravinsky within two of these four types of 'authentic music'. The first type, however, is distinctly non-Stravinskian. It refers to a music that crystallises the contradictions of society immanently, within its own structure, and purely in terms of its relation to handed-down material. Furthermore, it does so without being necessarily conscious of the social and political context within which it finds itself. It is represented for Adorno by Schoenberg. The second type recognises alienation, but does so through trying to deal with it by turning to styles and formal types of the past, in the belief that these can reconstitute a lost sense of harmony, totality and community. Adorno labels this 'objectivism', and returns to his 1928 article on stabilised music, maintaining that in capitalist societies neoclassicism constitutes 'objectivism', while in the largely pre-capitalist, agrarian societies of south-eastern Europe, as well as in those countries under fascist regimes, it is folk music which provides its material. For Adorno, Stravinsky represents this type in both its forms. Likewise, the third type: this Adorno calls 'surrealist' music. He maintains that this type is socially conscious, and draws on the material of both art music and consumer/popular music as fragments, clichés and cultural residues, and employs montage techniques which both serve to emphasise the fragmentary character of musical material today as well as pointing to social fragmentation. Stravinsky, particularly of the period of _The Soldier's Tale_ , also represents this type, as does Weill in the music he wrote in collaboration with Brecht. Finally, the fourth type: this is a type which recognises social alienation, but tries to do something about it directly through intervention and engagement, but in the process, Adorno argues, sacrifices the integrity of its form. While critical of this music as 'utility music' ( _Gebrauchsmusik_ ), which he argues simply ends up serving the market, Adorno sees some virtue in its _Gemeinschaftsmusik_ version, which developed out of neoclassicism, and is represented for him by Eisler and to some extent Hindemith. Stravinsky is not included under this type. We can see, therefore, that in his first critique, Adorno is relatively positive towards Stravinsky's music, at least towards certain works, which are included in his category of 'authentic music'. Stravinsky is seen, however, as part of a typology. It is hardly a dialectical critique as such, although it does identify elements that are taken up later. What is clear, however, is that the theoretical approach at this stage allows for a diversity of musics under the category of 'authentic music'. This is very much also in keeping with the diversity and tolerance of the experimental cultural and political milieu of Weimar Germany at this point, something which Adorno's typology seems to reflect, even though it remains distinctly weighted in favour of Schoenberg's music. In seeing Stravinsky as a 'surrealist' composer, Adorno reads his use of montage, the juxtaposition of fragments (which also include elements of popular music), as an example of the Brechtian _Verfremdungseffekt avant la lettre_ (it is certainly true that Weill was influenced by _The Soldier's Tale_ ). He also focuses here on one of the important themes of his writings from the 1920s: _irony_. In this way, _The Soldier's Tale_ is seen as a landmark work of the early twentieth century. Adorno's complaint with the recently composed _Oedipus Rex_ , however, is that the work is dominated by the use of stylistic montage in the absence of irony. For Adorno at this stage, therefore, the concept of irony in works of art may serve to fulfil the requirement for the necessary level of critical self-reflection in the structure of the work. Irony – saying the opposite of what is really intended – stands for an absent or distanced subjectivity. The seeming capitulation to 'objectivity', the 'way things are', is only apparent. Irony thus indicates the survival of the subject through marking the place where the subject _should_ be. The second critique: Stravinsky, Schoenberg and the _Philosophy of New Music_ Adorno's second Stravinsky critique – that of _Philosophy of New Music_ of 1949 – differs fundamentally from the first, in that it sets out to use Schoenberg and Stravinsky antagonistically, as extremes, employing the dialectical method Adorno had derived from Walter Benjamin, although, unlike Benjamin's, his approach is highly polemical in character. The key themes are the regression to myth and archaism, and the disintegration of the bourgeois principle of individuation, as regression to a pre-bourgeois, premodern condition. The sacrifice of the individual, as subject, and the identification with the collectivity, the apparent 'objectivity' of 'that which is', is what characterises Stravinsky's music for Adorno. His music fixes a state of fragmentation as the norm, the reification of a state of shock and alienation as the essentially static repetition and permutation of that which is too painful to be experienced by subjectivity. As Adorno puts it: 'In its own material, his music registers the disintegration of life and, simultaneously, the alienated state of the consciousness of the subject.' Adorno's approach in _Philosophy of New Music_ also draws heavily on psychoanalytical terminology (in particular Otto Fenichel's _The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis_ , New York, 1945), arguing that the concern of Stravinsky's music is 'to dominate schizophrenic traits through the aesthetic consciousness'. Adorno maintains that Stravinsky's music is characterised by the grotesque and meaningless sacrifice of the subject: the sacrificial victim in _The Rite of Spring_ submits passively as an offering to the interests of the tribe. Stravinsky's delight in the grotesque, the suspension of individual identity, the assumption of roles and the recourse to masks – all of which contribute towards the suppression of expression and subjectivity – brings us to a consideration of the significance Adorno attaches to the figure of the tragic clown, in the contrasting forms of Stravinsky's _Petrushka_ and Schoenberg's _Pierrot lunaire_. Adorno suggests that, with _Pierrot_ , 'everything is based upon that lonely subjectivity which withdraws into itself', and reflects upon itself. He points out that the entire last part of _Pierrot lunaire_ is a return journey, a voyage home, and that the whole work is in effect a voyage of self-discovery. The subject transcends itself and achieves a kind of liberation. Pierrot, through anticipating anxieties and sufferings while at the same time retaining his capacity as subject to reflect upon and experience them, transcends them, and is transformed in the rarefied atmosphere of 'O alter Duft aus Märchenzeit' at the end of the work. In Stravinsky's ballet _Petrushka_ , however, even though the central character, Petrushka himself, also shows certain subjective traits, the process and its outcome are quite different. Whereas in _Pierrot lunaire_ the music itself is the suffering, conflict and final transcendence of Pierrot, in Stravinsky's piece, Adorno argues, the music takes instead the part of those who torment and ridicule Petrushka. The subject is sacrificed, while the music itself does not identify with the victim but rather with those who destroy him. The music is either indifferent to the sufferings of the subject – who after all is only a puppet – or cruelly parodies him. It plays the part of the crowd, regarding everything as entertainment, a distraction from its own emptiness. Adorno remarks that the whole orchestra in the ballet is made to sound like a gigantic fairground organ – rather like one who submerges himself in the tumult to rid himself of his own psyche. Even the 'immortality' of Petrushka at the end is in the nature of a tormented spirit condemned to return and haunt its tormentors. Stravinsky's music, as revealed through Adorno's analysis, takes the part of the object, the collectivity that grinds the subject pitilessly within its machinery; Stravinsky's subject exhibits only the most pathetic tatters of humanity, expressed through a mocking sentimentality. 'Authenticity' in Stravinsky's sense could therefore be seen as reflecting a pitiless reality without hope of redemption, where the only way out is to evade suffering by repression and a soulless mimesis of the mechanics of suffering in the absence of a subject able to suffer. 'Authenticity is gained surreptitiously through the denial of the subjective pole,' Adorno claims; only the object is left. It is instructive to pick up here again the concept of irony, so important in Adorno's first Stravinsky critique. In _Philosophy of New Music_ the concept of irony can be seen to be replaced largely by the concept of the _grotesque_. In his commentary on _Petrushka_ , for instance, Adorno argues that 'the element of individuation appeared under the form of the grotesque and was condemned by it'. He suggests that the use of the grotesque in modern art serves to make it acceptable to society: the bourgeois wishes to become involved with modern art if, 'by means of its form', it 'assures him it is not meant to be taken seriously'. By the 1940s, and certainly by the closing years of the Second World War, Adorno came to see the liquidation of the individual not only as something enciphered within the monadic, closed world of the work of art; it was now a reality in the world after Auschwitz. For him at this stage, such extremes of horror mean not only the end of lyric poetry, as that most intensely individual form of expression, but also the demise of irony, humour and the grotesque as possible means of psychological defence against the shocks of the real world. I have reduced Adorno's interpretation of Stravinsky as it occurs in _Philosophy of New Music_ to the core of his argument regarding the fate of the subject, as Adorno himself considered this to be central to his critique. In drawing the extremes so sharply, and making his value judgements so explicit and condemnatory, Adorno employs the dialectic in such a way that the extremes appear to become fixed, and no further interaction occurs between them. This has something of the polemics of a political pamphlet, designed rhetorically to sway us, in this case, from authoritarianism towards autonomy and freedom. The fact that Adorno began the Schoenberg essay in 1941, in the dark days of the Second World War, himself the victim of political intolerance, is significant. The Stravinsky essay came later, and was not part of the original conception, which was to be a 'dialectical image' of Schoenberg. He was undoubtedly aware of Stravinsky's flirtations with Italian fascism in the late 1920s and early 1930s, and this meant that, in spite of his later refutation of the _ad hominem_ accusation, Stravinsky is to a considerable extent pressed into service as representing the regression to myth and archaism and the rejection of historical responsibility which were so much a feature of the fascists' psychotic reaction to the complexities and ambiguities of the modern world. The third critique: Stravinsky – a dialectical image In his third critique, that in the essay 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait' of 1961, Adorno begins by fielding criticisms of his earlier critique in _Philosophy of New Music_. Having dismissed his critics for misunderstanding his philosophical interpretation, he proceeds to offer his own self-critique: My critics make me want to begin by giving them a helping hand. Even a straightforward text-based criticism might have found more damaging objections to my Stravinsky chapter. If it is true that his music represents an objectively false consciousness, ideology, then conscientious readers might argue that his music was more than simply identical with reified consciousness. They might insist that his music went beyond it, by contemplating it wordlessly, silently allowing it to speak for itself. The spirit of the age is deeply inscribed in Stravinsky's art with its dominant gesture of 'This is how it is'. A higher criticism would have to consider whether this gesture does not give it a greater share in the truth than music which aims to give shape to an implicit truth which the spirit of the age denies and which history has rendered dubious in itself. In this significant passage Adorno is not only telling his critics what they could have identified quite justifiably as lacking in his earlier Stravinsky critique; he is, in effect, laying out the programme for his third critique. He also goes on to acknowledge that his previous reading of Stravinsky's essentially static, non-developmental temporality against the yardstick of Schoenberg's organic-developmental model was inappropriate and misleading: By opposing the static ideal of Stravinsky's music, its immanent timelessness, and by confronting it with a dynamic, emphatically temporal, intrinsically developing music, I arbitrarily applied to him an external norm, a norm which he rejected. In short, I violated my own most cherished principle of criticism. Thus, in his third Stravinsky critique, via such deflecting self-criticism, Adorno returns to some of the features of the first critique, and avoids the polemical character of the second. Bürger, in particular, sees the two readings – _Philosophy of New Music_ and 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait' – as incompatible, and considers the latter to be the superior one, arguing that: Whereas the polemical interpretation proceeds in a globalizing fashion, understanding neo-classicism as a unitary movement, the [later] interpretation seeks differentiation. It leaves open at least the possibility of seeing more in neo-classical works than a sheer relapse into a reactionary thinking of order. But Adorno still insists that there is, as he puts it, 'quelque chose qui ne va pas' with Stravinsky's music. This remains, in spite of his self-criticisms concerning inappropriate values applied in his second critique, the problem of non-developmental temporal succession in Stravinsky. He writes: 'As a temporal art, music is bound to the fact of succession and is hence as irreversible as time itself. By starting, it commits itself to carrying on, to becoming something new, to developing.' In this way, music points beyond itself, and protests against the eternal repetition of myth. Stravinsky's repetitions and permutations negate the temporality and progression of musical events. They constitute a kind of 'marking time', and this has implications, of course, for the identity of the subject. It was precisely this aspect of Adorno's Stravinsky critique that had so irritated Dahlhaus, who had complained of Adorno's dogmatism in considering the only valid mode of temporal progression to be developmental. Jonathan Cross also takes this view, arguing: The corollary of Adorno's position – that any music which does not display the developmental characteristic of 'becoming' is dangerous because, like the products of the culture industry, it serves to subjugate the freedom of the individual subject, to bring about the dissolution of individual identity – would now seem, from our present perspective, generally untenable. Cross considers that, in denying him his modernist credentials in relation to temporal succession and the disintegration of the subject, Adorno has, in effect, 'turned Stravinsky into a _postmodernist_ '. But in his first critique, as we have seen, Adorno places Stravinsky firmly in the modernist category, as 'authentic' music which opposes and negates music's commodity character and the effects of the culture industry. Stravinsky's music is typified as 'objectivist' and, in certain works which Adorno clearly considers both typical and highly significant (in particular _The Soldier's Tale_ , but also other works like _Ragtime_ and _Renard_ ), as 'surrealist'. I argue that, while Adorno does not deviate from this assessment of Stravinsky as an 'authentic modernist' (all appearances to the contrary!), he recognises both the radical character of 'objectivism' and 'surrealism', and also their problematical character. That is to say, while the denial of subjectivity and of expression, the ironic play with the displaced fragments of 'second-hand' material, the rejection of developmental progression and temporal continuity in favour of the juxtaposition of montage structures, are all defining features of important tendencies within modernism, they at the same time carry with them the attendant perils of becoming identical to the world from which they are drawn. They risk losing their critical edge in their regression either to a mythic past through distancing from the real world, or to a cartoon-like mimicking of an unacceptable reality as protection from it. This, it seems to me, is the difficult task Adorno sets himself in his second critique, _Philosophy of New Music_ : to explore the philosophical implications of this knife-edge balancing act. Thus, the question posed by Adorno becomes the criterion of 'authenticity' in Stravinsky's music: to what extent does Stravinsky hold fast to his insight into ultimate emptiness and lack of meaning? The judgement in the second critique – by now distinctly existentialist, and having certain affinities with Adorno's later critique of Heidegger in _Jargon of Authenticity_ – is that Stravinsky's music recoils from this recognition, and regresses into archaism and myth 'as image[s] of eternity, of salvation from death', through the barbaric suppression of subjectivity and as a defence mechanism against fear. In this context, it is again instructive to return to the theme of irony. In Adorno's third critique of Stravinsky it is not irony as the place-holder for an absent self-reflecting subjectivity, but instead the concept of _clowning_ (which we have also noted in _Philosophy of New Music_ ). In 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', Adorno writes: 'This is the element of mimicry, of clowning – of constantly busying himself with something important that turns out to be nothing at all, strenuously working at something without any result.' But this was, of course, also the nub of Adorno's criticism of Stravinsky in his second critique. What constitutes a significant shift in Adorno's position on Stravinsky in the third critique lies precisely in his changed interpretation of this aspect of clowning. It is seen to have an ironic relationship to an absent subjectivity, the lack of meaning to an absent meaning, but with the added dimensions now of an implied infinite regress, as an intolerable ambiguity: perhaps the ultimate irony is that there is no subject left to suffer, there is no meaning, nor was there ever any meaning in the absence of illusion and myth. The key to understanding this shift in interpretation is to be found, I suggest, in the fact that between his second and third critiques of Stravinsky Adorno had discovered the work of Samuel Beckett. Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Beckett: convergence in Adorno's late critique Adorno's interest in Beckett dates from the mid 1950s, and in the plays and novels Adorno came to see the ultimate _reductio ad absurdum_ of the human condition, Walter Benjamin's 'dialectics at a standstill'. He admired Beckett's work greatly, and also came to know him personally, discussing his work with him, particularly in the autumn of 1958 in Paris. From this came the substantial essay on Beckett, 'Trying to understand _Endgame_ ', which Adorno published in 1961 – the year before his third Stravinsky critique. The similarities between the two essays are striking, and the revised assessment of Stravinsky from 1962 is clearly the result of his reading of Beckett. Indeed, it is through his Beckett interpretation that Adorno comes to see a kind of reconciliation of Stravinsky and Schoenberg, as opposed to the polemics of _Philosophy of New Music_. Concerning Beckett he writes: 'Not the least of the ways in which Beckett converges with the most contemporary trends in music is that he, a Western man, amalgamates features of Stravinsky's radical past, the oppressive stasis of a continuity that has disintegrated, with advanced expressive and constructive techniques from the Schoenberg school.' The influence of Beckett on his third critique is particularly clear in his further interpretation of _The Soldier's Tale_ , where the account of the work at times could easily be transferred to Beckett's _Endgame_. He describes the work now as 'music built out of ruins in which nothing survives of the individual subject but his truncated stumps and the tormented awareness that it will never end.' That is to say, he now concedes that something of the subject seems to survive, however bleakly. And conversely, what he writes of _Endgame_ could equally be applied to Stravinsky's music: 'Understanding it can mean only understanding its unintelligibility, concretely reconstructing the meaning of the fact that it has no meaning.' But the full import of this thought, which pervades his writing throughout the 1960s and underlies much of his last work, the unfinished _Aesthetic Theory_ (which he had intended dedicating to Beckett), is easy to miss. I can perhaps give it added emphasis by restating it another way: 'meaninglessness' – and indeed the resistance to interpretation – becomes itself a structuring principle of the avant-garde work, presenting itself as a formal problem which demands interpretation and understanding, but which at the same time refuses to allow the contradictions presented by its form to be reconciled. This principle, which Adorno had previously applied to Schoenberg, he now applies to Stravinsky. However, having recognised the possibility that Stravinsky can also be understood in this way, as a kind of 'positive negativity', reservations regarding the composer's consistency in realising it in practice remain. Adorno's final verdict on Stravinsky's music is that, in its identification with the object and in its negation of subjectivity, Stravinsky compels absolute negativity 'to appear as if it were the truth'. The triumph of taste and technical accomplishment convinces us of its validity, and distracts us, as if by a sleight of hand. But as the soldier realises in _The Soldier's Tale_ , 'if the devil did not lie, he would cease to be himself'. For Adorno, the false consciousness of Stravinsky's music _is_ its truth, in that it tells us how the world is, while at the same time urbanely convincing us that this is the only way it can be. It is, of course, only when he lies that the devil tells the truth – something that could be seen to apply as well to Adorno as to Stravinsky. For as Adorno said of psychoanalysis, 'nothing is true except the exaggerations'. 11 CRAIG AYREY Stravinsky in analysis: the anglophone traditions I When _Chroniques de ma vie_ was published in 1935, Stravinsky sanctioned what has become his most famous remark: 'Music is powerless to _express_ anything at all.' Even if he capitulated to the ventriloquism of his ghost writer Walter Nouvel on that occasion, Stravinsky's faith in the precept of objectivity, 'perhaps the overriding feature of Stravinsky's modernism', pervades his aesthetic manifesto, _Poetics of Music_ (1942), to the extent that his 'explanation of music as I conceive it' is egoistically declared not to be 'any the less objective for being the fruit of my own experience and my personal observations'. Objectivity, and its ascendance over what he called 'the subjective prism', was, or became, Stravinsky's distinctive habit of mind, an aesthetic and compositional position maintained in relation to any musical material, including his own free inventions. 'What is important for the lucid ordering of the work – for its crystallisation –', he wrote in _Poetics_ , 'is that all the Dionysian elements which set the imagination of the artist in motion and make the life-sap rise must be properly subjugated before they intoxicate us, and must finally submit to the law: Apollo demands it.' Stravinsky's identification with the Apollonian – order, selection, construction, logic and unity – exemplifies the rationalising tendency within modernism and dominates, but does not expel, the Dionysian – freedom, fantasy, emotion, expressivity and irrationality. Yet although this ostensibly black-and-white personification of the relation of objective and subjective as Apollo/Dionysus often seems all too neatly to map onto the oppositions mind/body and thought/emotion in _Poetics_ , the Apollonian in Stravinsky essentially describes a process of expressive refinement aiming at the transcendence of such conflicts. As he explained later, in conversation with Robert Craft: music is suprapersonal and superreal and as such beyond verbal meanings and verbal descriptions . . . A composer's work _is_ the embodiment of his feelings and, of course, it may be considered as expressing or symbolizing them . . . More important is the fact that the composition is something entirely new _beyond_ what can be called the composer's feelings . . . A new piece of music _is_ a new reality. Too late, perhaps. By 1962, when these second thoughts were published, the stark image forged in his pre-1945 writings of Stravinsky as a formalist composer and thinker committed to the (neo)classical values of autonomy, universality and 'the music itself' was already fixed as a given in reception history and even in his self-reflection. Richard Taruskin argues that Stravinsky's adoption, as early as the 1920s, of the ideology of the 'purely musical' was 'a creative swerve that colored all the rest of his career', evidenced by his revisions of the history and genre of _The Rite of Spring_ : claiming (in 1920) a musical rather than mythological inspiration for _The Rite_ and reinventing (in 1962) the work as a concert piece, Stravinsky intended to conceal its 'prehuman or sub-human reality' and emphasised the dimension of 'civilized consciousness [that] cloaks but does not replace' the subhuman. The composer's revisionary acts of decontextualisation are, according to Taruskin, signs of his collusion with the modernist myth of 'the music itself', a phrase and ideology picked up by Stravinsky in the United States – that is to say, from an anglophone, formalist and positivist intellectual environment sustained by a professional, technical and academic discursive climate. Taruskin's association of these critical conditions with Stravinsky's aesthetic attitudes (as defensive reactions to the descent from humanism to 'biologism' – to the politics of nationalism and modern primitivism foreshadowed by _The Rite_ in its first incarnation) is an argument for the complicity of the American Stravinsky with the dominant style of post-war music analysis and theory. This is undeniable, and cuts both ways: Stravinsky's sanction of musical autonomy in _Poetics of Music_ (a concise, accessible, decisive aesthetic statement by a major composer) can hardly have failed to stimulate and validate rationalist, non-contextual, abstract modes of criticism. Authentically Stravinskian effects of _Poetics_ first appeared in three essays from the 1960s that decisively established the formalist mode of Stravinsky analysis. Cone's theory of form (1962), Berger's theory of pitch structure (1963) and the English translation of Boulez's analysis of rhythm (1968) addressed Stravinsky's Apollonian complexity parametrically, a characteristically formalist tactic highly appropriate to Stravinsky's containment of pitch, rhythm and form in autonomous, interactive schemes. These studies provided the seminal technical analyses of formal discontinuity, pitch centricity and octatonic pitch structure that underpin Stravinsky's distinctive types of harmonic conflict, integration and structural cohesion, and they consolidated the cornerstones of the formalist Stravinsky canon: _Petrushka_ (often reduced critically to the structure and structural effects of the C/F major tritone relation in the 'Petrushka chord'), _The Rite of Spring_ (as a treatise on rhythm) and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ (as the paradigmatic work of formal discontinuity). Although Stravinsky's foregrounding of rhythm, the parameter popularly considered to be the main site of his revolutionary procedures, is sometimes acknowledged by the American theorists, their focus on pitch structure in the composer's 'new realities' sustains the classically modernist privileging of pitch, as evident in Schoenberg's theoretical writings as in the symptomatically cursory treatment of rhythm in _Poetics_. Boulez's revelation of an apparently independent and systematic rhythmic structure in _The Rite_ springs clearly from the neo-modernist concerns crucial to Boulez in the early 1950s – the aesthetic death of Schoenberg, the desire to find a precursor in the systematic organisation of rhythm to match Webern's pre-eminence as the seer of genuinely new possibilities of twelve-note serialism and the extension of serial principles to nonpitch parameters in integral serialism – but they are also given a personal configuration in the non-Viennese procedures of Stravinsky's serial music that demanded technical explication and received it in exemplary formalist engagements with contemporary music of the time, the analyses by Milton Babbitt (1964) and Claudio Spies (1965–7) of three products of Stravinsky's serial maturity ( _Threni_ , _Abraham and Isaac_ and the _Variations_ ). II Some major discoveries in these theoretical enquiries are confirmed by Taruskin's monumental, recontextualising restoration of Stravinsky to his Russian origins. Berger's identification and designation of the octatonic scale (previously classified in non-Russian theory as Messiaen's second 'mode of limited transposition') was instigated by the formalist imperative to uncover unity in Stravinsky's chromatically transformed diatonicism, a unity resisting explanation in terms other than local hybrid scales or non-functional bitonal combinations that often fail to support contextually defined pitch foci. Analysing some extended passages of _Les Noces_ , Berger refers their total pitch content to 'a single referential collection of eight pitch classes with a few exceptions so marginal as to scarcely require mention (some dozen tones, mainly ornamental . . . )', now firmly demonstrated by Taruskin to be the 'tone-semitone scale' that Stravinsky imbibed from Rimsky-Korsakov's theory and practice. Ascending by alternating semitones and tones (or descending by alternating tones and semitones), the three non-identical transpositions of the octatonic scale (beginning, for instance, on C♯, D♮ and E♭) have an alchemical capacity for interaction with many diatonic and chromatic constituents of tonality (major and minor triads, diminished and 'dominant' seventh chords, 'French' augmented sixths) and with the whole-tone scale (four pitch classes are held in common with the octatonic). Where Rimsky-Korsakov exploited the scale as a means of creating harmonic consistency for various types of tonally controlled chromatic progression, both Berger and Pieter van den Toorn (the most thorough-going analyst of Stravinsky before Taruskin) demonstrate the function of Stravinsky's octatonicism as a harmonic ground that, bounded by the extremities of tonality and serialism, can be oriented toward the diatonic or the chromatic. One such tonal-octatonic intersection is Stravinsky's trademark major-minor tetrachord (for example, Cx–E♭–E♮–G), which informs the harmonic structure of a large number of Stravinsky's middle-period works as a referential 'neoclassical' collection; it also has a constant presence in all Stravinsky's 'styles' via the 'major-minor third emphasis' of its trichord subsets (for example, C–E♭–E♮; or E♭–E♮–G). Like all symmetrical scales, though, the octatonic lacks inherent pitch functions, a condition that disposes of arguments (intrinsically weak in any context) for structural unity according to a 'referential scale' alone. Extrapolating from Berger, van den Toorn's strategy is to emphasise, according to style, either the structural effects of the distinctive properties of the ascending and descending forms ('Models A and B') and the three transpositions ('Collections I–III') or residual tonal functions (the 'dominant–tonic relation' and dominant seventh progressions) in order to produce complete analyses of pitch coherence in small- or medium-range spans. Although he does not seriously question the assumption of unity in any work, the type of Stravinskian coherence demonstrated by van den Toorn is local rather than global. 'Coherence' alone does not satisfy all the requirements of large-scale unity: van den Toorn's approach (and Taruskin's after him) suggests that unity must take the form of a complex, multi-centered amalgamation of structural forces not susceptible to totalitarian explanations. This view of Stravinsky's music as a partially demonstrable synthetic balance of tensions, variably weighted according to style, is reflected in the procedures of conservatively modernist composition and also persists as a received critical consensus that prefers to accept a dimension of failure in the formalist enterprise and (wary of a single-minded response to Stravinsky's belief that 'the One precedes the Many') to close the apparently intractable issue of global unity. Such scepticism underlies the stormy reception history of Allen Forte's monograph (1978) on _The Rite_ , an analysis that attempts a global account of harmonic organisation while deliberately excluding 'tonality, large-scale linear connections, register and orchestration'. Taruskin's attacks on Forte's approach to this work appear to equate lack of comprehensiveness with a failure of comprehension, as if a theory of global unity could only arise from an analytical synthesis of parameters; but Forte's strategically restricted investigation of 'underlying harmonic units, . . . unordered pc sets, considered quite apart from the attributes of specific occurrences' is comprehensive in a deeper and wider sense, showing a hyper-formalist faith in universals that allows him to risk suggesting that, in its sub-surface harmonic consistency, _The Rite_ 'resembles the extraordinary early atonal works of Schoenberg and his students . . . and has more in common with those works than with the later works of its composer'. Although Forte's modernist impulse to scrutinise subintentional, or pre-conscious, harmonic consistency through the objective prism of abstract theory might indeed seem designed to invite an antiformalist's rejection, the analysis yields results compatible with van den Toorn's (generally approved of by Taruskin). The major-minor tetrachord (Forte's set 4-17 [0, 3, 4, 7]), for example, emerges as a significant harmony that 'plays a supportive, secondary role' indicated by its presence in all the networks ('set complexes') available to it and by the wide representation of its trichord subsets within the twelve-note chromatic pitch universe. And while no set theorist would be surprised that these functions foreshadow van den Toorn's similar description of the role of this tetrachord in the more exclusive octatonic pitch fields, the interpretative neutrality in Forte's associative classification of harmonic relations (among sets that are frequently octatonic) promotes the forensic discovery of a depth of non-functional consistency that is foreclosed by van den Toorn's pre-selection of significant collections in the service of an intentionally directed, more overtly functional outcome. Interpretations of specifically Stravinskian, rather than pan-modernist, large-scale structure are facilitated when global unity is located in the control of multiple oppositions by repetitive schemata. Cone's formal triad for the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ – stratification–interlock–synthesis – proposes that formal discontinuity inheres in blocks of similar material separated by the interruption of different (often opposed) material, progresses to the interlocking of the similar blocks ('the delayed satisfaction' of the suspended 'resumption and completion' of each one), and then to unification by reduction, transformation or assimilation. The appropriately non-teleological type of closure dependent on radical simplification described in this process is a formal manifestation of Taruskin's stylistic triad gleaned from the Russian critical tradition: a complex of intersecting stylistic features and states, _drobnost_ ' (splinteredness, formal disunification, sum-of-parts), _nepodvizhnost_ ' (immobility, stasis, non-developmental form) and _uproshcheniye_ (simplification) overlap and intersect with Cone's theory sufficiently to suggest that Cone both captures and demonstrates their formal, processive function. Subsequent developments of Cone, primarily Jonathan Kramer's durable theory of 'moment form' and proportion in the _Symphonies_ , leave aside Stravinsky the Russian in order to assimilate him into the central traditions of modernism (originating in the 'non-linear' temporal structure of Beethoven's late music) and their post-war continuation. Stravinsky finds himself in company with composers for whom Time is a 'multi-directional' compositional variable – Stockhausen (inventor of the concept of moment form) and _Kontakte_ (1960), the modernist Debussy ( _Jeux)_ , and Messiaen ( _Chronochromie_ ) – and who could be said to show the influence of his oppositionally configured 'block forms'. 'Discontinuity', the process of formal disunity inherent in the as yet unrecognised _drobnost'_ , becomes the cardinal structural principle of Stravinsky analysis, valued both as surface shock (it can therefore be 'a profound musical experience') and as the generator of new, proportional modes of 'global coherence': time shaped in proportionally related blocks presents a cohesion that can bind discontinuous material into a higher unity with no need of harmonic or other teleology (though these are not axiomatically obstructed) and facilitates formal processes based on principles of recurrence, circularity and rotation. The burden of large-scale structure is therefore carried by perceived associations in temporal succession, a process Stravinsky located in 'ontological time' (the 'normal flow' of 'real time'), which activates similarity rather than contrast, unity rather than variety, and opposed to 'psychological time', the developmental–teleological conception of music. This distinction in the _Poetics_ serves to draw a line in the sand of aesthetic ideology (primarily, Stravinsky against Schoenberg, for whom 'repetition alone often gives rise to _monotony_. Monotony can only be overcome by _variation_ '); but its rather glib metaphysics also exemplifies Stravinsky's 'third-hand Bergsonian' ideas, received here from Pierre Souvtchinsky (another ghost writer). 'Ontological' and 'psychological' time clearly misread and recast Bergson's concepts of _temps espace_ (measured or 'clock' time) and _temps durée_ (time as experiential duration), pervasively influential in early modernist aesthetics. Bergsonian _temps espace_ , 'a fourth dimension of space, . . . homogeneous time', is 'real' only in the sense that it can be divided and measured using spatial descriptions (number, division, 'blocks') and therefore cannot host similarity or unity (musical or otherwise) without the intervention of perception and psychological experience; but what can be retrieved from Stravinsky's self-alignment with 'ontological' time is precisely that essentially Stravinskian illusion of objective reality in which identity and difference within temporal process are grasped by spatial metaphors. III Rotation, one such metaphor, has a claim to be Stravinsky's transcendent principle. Its structural and historical manifestations are transparently evident in _Requiem Canticles_ , his final large work, particularly in the 'Lacrimosa', where three interdependent contexts of rotation – formal, serial and harmonic – are constructed as an organisational technique for the succession of blocks of material. Formally, there is a rotation of four distinct timbral groups – A (voice), B (piccolo, flutes, harp, double bass), C (strings), D (trombones) – in which groups A and B always occur simultaneously, followed by C and D. The distribution of the rotation is unequal in relation to the text (there are two rotations in the first line, 'Lacrimosa dies illa', forming discrete musical phrases), and in the second 'stanza' ('Pie Jesu') the rotation is transformed by the elision of groups A, B and C, resulting in a delay of D for cadential purposes ( see Table 11.1). Table 11.1 'Lacrimosa' text and timbral groups Rotational transformation therefore installs a formal marker between the 'Lacrimosa' section and the 'Pie Jesu' (often a separate movement in extended settings of the Requiem), but is otherwise only partially determined by the form of the text: while the end of both 'Lacrimosa' phrases (and the 'Amen') is marked by the statement of group D, the content of groups B, C and D is rotated largely independently of the voice-group A. This structural isolation of the voice is implicit both in the absence of any rotation or features of recurrence in the text (except for the end-rhyme pairs in lines 1–4) and in its discursive progression towards the plea for eternal rest ('requiem'). Rotational structures are anti-discursive: but when in 'Pie Jesu' the instrumental scheme is broken, a sense of evolution and discursive progression arises to complement the voice's lapidary declamation of discrete blocks of text in a heightened style of hieratic chant. A rapprochement of the discursive and repetition occurs in this exchange of properties: the discursive nature of the linguistic is made discrete while the instrumental rotations are turned away from recurrence towards the linearly progressive. Where Taruskin hears the echo of _Zvezdolikiy_ in the texture and harmonic organisation of the first phrase of the 'Lacrimosa' (one of the multiple signs of Stravinsky's 'Russian manner' in _Requiem Canticles_ ), I also hear a Verdian presence in the style and timbre of the vocal line – not the _Requiem_ , probably consulted during the composition of Stravinsky's _Requiem_ , but Azucena's music in _Il Trovatore_ (particularly the ballad, 'Stride la vampa'). Non-direct stylistic allusion, though subjectively intertextual, is consistent with Stravinsky's constant habit of 'stylistic' rotation (which applies equally within his own music) and in this case adds to his allusive pantheon of popular composers of late nineteenth-century stage music (if Rimsky-Korsakov in _The Firebird_ and Tchaikovsky in _The Fairy's Kiss_ , why not Verdi?). Such stylistic refashioning exemplifies rotational thinking as transformative historical recurrence ('remaking the past' in Joseph Straus's phrase). Stravinsky's way with pre-formed stylistic material, however, remains his own. In the neoclassical music, primarily, the harmonic techniques of the common-practice period are detoured from functional progression towards the repetition of mildly dissonant collections (often with free contrapuntal elaboration). To persuade an autonomous, theoretically ramified system to come into the orbit of a Franco-Russian technical personality is a trick repeated in his appropriation of serial technique, in which the principle of rotation transforms the pre-formalised system into a mechanism for generating both a consistent rotation of sets among the row forms and an array of harmonically related chords. The 'Lacrimosa' uses series 1 of _Requiem Canticles_ divided into two hexachords. In the IR forms, which are given priority in the movement, hexachords are generated by beginning IR1a-5a with pcs 2–6 of the first hexachord (IR0a) transposed to A♯, the first note of IR0a, and displaying in order the subsequent pcs at the new transposition level. Once the same principle is applied to IR0b, twelve hexachords are produced, six beginning on A♯ (IRa), six on G (IRb) (Table 11.2). Table 11.2. 'Lacrimosa' series (from Claudio Spies, 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings', p. 236, Ex. 11) Each hexachord belongs to set class 6-2, and within this hexachordal frame six pentachords, eight tetrachords and nine trichords rotate symmetrically through IRa and b (Table 11.3). These set rotations are presented contiguously in the vocal line (group A), which is constituted of all 12 hexachords in a 'spiral' rotation (Table 11.4), determined partly by the desire to connect vocal phrases or row forms by the common pitch classes G and A♯, as shown in Ex. 11.1 below (see group A). The trichord content of the series is structurally activated in harmonic configuration of the Ia hexachords in group D (trombones: see Ex. 11.1), and although internal serial ordering is maintained, whenever G appears it is placed as the final bass note of each statement, consolidating the limited priority, as inaugural or cadential pitch, of the vocal line's Gs. This correspondence points to the interaction of IR (group A) and Ia forms (group D) that has a clear formal function in the first four phrases of the movement (bars 229–49): as summarised in Table 11.5, the pc-identical pairs IR5b/I1a, I0a/IR3b and IRb/I2a respectively frame, connect and cadence these phrases, a formal consistency that seems to have determined group D's order of Ia rotation (I1a-0a, 3a-2a, 5a-4a). Similarly, in groups B and C, the non-systematic choice of normal or retrograde order in the sequential progression of the Ra forms from Ra0 seems determined by the requirement to complete the total chromatic collection in all phrases except the 'Huic ergo' and 'Amen'. The rotation of instrumental groups A–D therefore conforms to the essential serial rotation of all twelve pcs, with the proviso that repetitions promote the typically Stravinskian focus on referential pitches. Table 11.3. Set rotations in the IR hexachords _Note:_ (1) Read from left to right. (2) Each hexachord contains two pentachords, three tetrachords and four trichords. (3) These subsets are obtained by segmenting each hexachord as follows: for pentachords, beginning at the first and second pcs (i.e., 1–5, 2–6); for tetrachords, beginning at the first, second and third pcs; for trichords, beginning at the first, second, third and fourth pcs. (4) The rotation of subsets shows recurrences within each set type (pentachords, tetrachords, trichords): like the rotation itself,these recurrences are distinctive to Stravinsky's serial technique and are not a feature of traditional serialism. Table 11.4. 'Spiral' rotation of hexachords in the vocal line Ex. 11.1 'Lacrimosa', synoptic analysis Table 11.5. 'Lacrimosa', synopsis of series, verticals and sets _Note:_ (1) Set names identify collections that have similar interval content (although their pc content may be transposed or inverted). Non-tonal harmonic consistency depends on this type of abstract similarity. (2) Each IR, R and I hexachord expresses set class 6-2; pcs are shown in order of appearance. (3) The pc content of all other sets is shown in normal order and is included here to reveal repetitions of pcs within set classes and between dissimilar sets (for example, phrase 4, 5-Z38 and I2a [6-2], both of which contain [1, 4, 7]). (4) [O] = octatonic set; [WT] = whole-tone set. (5) In phrase 6, set class 4-2 is the transposed complement of set 8-2 (i.e., each 4-2 contains the four pcs, in transposition, required by 8-2 to complete the total chromatic). The content of the rotational scheme contains a clear dimension of becoming, redolent of the evolutionary and memorial transformations of perception (inherent in both Bergson's _temps durée_ and Souvtchinsky's 'psychological time'). Each group contains similar pitch material differently configured and each rotation transforms its predecessor: as the temporal distance from the source rotation ('Lacrimosa') increases, the transformation of the later rotations is correspondingly distant in content (as if in memory), preserving only the normative G cadences of group D and the high-register woodwind chords of group B. These chords form a second level of rotation formed pre-compositionally (and therefore abstractly) from the progression through twelve verticals derived from the stack of the IR forms of the 'Lacrimosa' series (see Table 11.2). Ex. 11.2 shows the verticals in their 'Lacrimosa' ordering (Vb2–6, 1; Va2–6, 1 omitted), in which the content of the woodwind chords (treble clef) are identical to the pitch-class content of the abstract derivations in Table 11.2; pitch classes provided by group C instruments (bass clef) create larger sets. Important features of Stravinsky's distinctive modes of pitch structure are exemplified in this array of chords (Stravinsky in 1959: 'I compose vertically and that is, in one sense at least, to compose tonally' – 'one sense' can be taken to mean to compose harmonically), most obviously harmonic consistency, opposition and an additional definition of pitch centricity. Eleven of the twelve verticals extracted from the serial stack are used: Va1 (unison A♯) is discarded, thus isolating the remaining unison G as the harmonic exception, a singularity heightened by the removal of G from the systematic rotation of the verticals and relocating it centrally (bar 243); these pre-compositional manipulations already indicate the centric role envisaged for G (see below). Shaping the twelve verticals in this way produces two five-chord arrays (Vb2–6, Va2–6) with obvious potential for systematic organisation according to set type (informally, according to different scales). The chords in group B exhibit an organisation dominated by the octatonic character of four chords in each array (Table 11.6): Table 11.6. Verticals in group B (woodwind) Although the whole-tone chord (Va4, the anomaly in array Va) is centrally placed, this is not the case in array Vb (the diatonic/chromatic Vb3 is left of centre), an asymmetry that was corrected in Stravinsky's configuration of these chords in the score, where a more developed, systematic function is elaborated for this raw serial product. When the pitch classes of group B (bass clef) and group C are combined with the raw verticals, the array of set types in Vb is made palindromic: Va, on the other hand, extends the diatonic/chromatic and returns to the octatonic set 4-Z29 in Va6 (see Ex. 11.2 and Table 11.7). Ex. 11.2 'Lacrimosa', set content of the verticals Table 11.7. Chords, groups B and C The opposition of set types within this palindromic rotation reveals several types of harmonic consistency. In Vb the first and last chords belong to the same set class (5-19), while the non-octatonic chords always express set class 5-Z38, the location of which remains constant in array Va. Comparison with the raw verticals (Ex. 11.2, group B) illustrates that 5-Z38 is often formed by adding a pc to an octatonic tetrachord (formally, O+1); since each 5-Z38 in Table 11.7 contains one tetrachord of octatonic collection III (3,4,6,7,8,9,10, 0,1), this diatonic-chromatic set is significantly infused with octatonic content. Va2 (6-Z25) and Va4 (5-30) contain subsets of octatonic collection II (2,3,5,6,8,9,11,0), thus relating them closely (as O+1) to the octatonic sets of collection II (5-16, 5-19 and 4-Z29) which acts as the harmonic ground of the composition. This collection is activated structurally in the first rotation ('Lacrimosa', bars 229–34) where the octatonicism of the first raw vertical (set 4-9) is projected at first harmonically in the pentachord 5-19 (Vb2) then laterally to encompass the whole of bars 229–32, with the exception of C (double bass) and G (voice), the latter again isolated in the immediate harmonic context. Octatonic consistency is both inherent in the series and constructed from it. Each form of the series contains at least one octatonic tetrachord or pentachord, a property projected by the strictly linear display of serial forms in the vocal line, but only two of the four octatonic sets (4-3, 4-10, 4-Z15, 5-10) are structurally active harmonically. One of these, set 4-Z15, completes the octatonic organisation of the 'judicandus' (group B, bars 245–7, bass clef); the other, set 4-3, is the only linear set also generated as a raw vertical (Vb4). All other verticals are constructed from intersecting hexachords and are not simply products of a single linear series, guided (firmly in phrases 1–3, more loosely in phrases 4–7) by the octatonic imperative that seems to have determined both the choice of the retrograde forms in the lower instruments of groups B (double bass, harp) and C (strings) and the precise disposition of the R-forms' pitch classes. IV Such constant presence of the octatonic realises Stravinsky's invocation of 'the logic of the ear' in a statement (contemporaneous with the composition of _Requiem Canticles_ ) that catches him in death-defying mode: 'I continue to believe in my taste buds and to follow the logic of my ear, quaint expressions which will seem even quainter when I add that I require as much hearing at the piano as I ever did before; and this, I am certain, is not because of age, is not a sign of dotage.' The full context indicates that the 'logic of the ear' was for Stravinsky an _a priori_ subsisting beneath his existential dislocations as the guarantor of structural coherence and stylistic continuity. Rhetorically, the figure is an Apollonian bid for permanence – in retrospect, as the constant that makes consistent sense of the past, in prospect, as the projection of that constancy into the future in works made into monumental artefacts through the consistency of their aural logic. Taruskin's contextualisation of _Requiem Canticles_ in the Russian traditions 'revisited' relies heavily on the persistence of the octatonic in Stravinsky's ear, on the harmonic logic that endures intermittently in the progression of stylistic and structural determinants – Russian/chromatic, neoclassical/triadic, serial – in Stravinsky's music. This aural logic is not only conservative: Babbitt asserts, positivistically and also transcendentally, the absolute necessity of the 'logic of the ear' as the organ of construction in Stravinsky's 'new serial combinations' that extracts music from abstract serial relations: as for those who seize upon ['the logic of the ear'] to intimate that the music is less 'out of ear' than 'out of mind', let them – instead – contemplate Stravinsky's mode of affirming that the 'ear' is at least as theory laden as the eye and mind, and that only the mind's ear and the ear's mind can provide the now so necessary sorting, selecting and censoring. If serial technique heightens the importance of the ('now so necessary') selection and rejection of possibilities present in the pre-compositional material, the 'theory-laden ear' must discern new structural forms in the tensional space between its residual burden of theory and the potential suggested by the material for new types of logic. Although octatonicism is one of the potentialities exploited in the 'Lacrimosa', its limited capacity for projection as a structural principle means that it remains only a standard of consistency, subject to constructive forces activated from elsewhere. Prior to seeking a relational logic of diverse harmonies in the 'Lacrimosa', Stravinsky's pursuit of the aural logic of consistency and similarity crystallises in other types of structural singularity, primarily pitch centres. He has much to say in the _Poetics_ about 'the eternal necessity of affirming the axis of our music and to recognise the existence of certain poles of attraction'. Composition, defined even pre-serially as an act of selection and ordering, entails 'a search for a centre upon which the series of sounds in my undertaking should converge': if a centre is given, I shall have to find a combination that converges upon it. If, on the other hand, an as yet unoriented combination has been found, I shall have to determine the centre towards which it should lead. The discovery of this centre suggests to me the solution of my problem. To the teleological ear, Stravinsky's 'centres' may often appear as minimal manifestations of non-teleological singularity, the type of stasis scornfully rejected by Adorno as 'hypostatisation', ungenerated by structural processes and extruded from the musical material as the outcome of a pre-compositional quest for pivotal, unifying features. But what, for Adorno, is the sign of the absence of intention and a non-reflective absolutisation of the event is, for Stravinsky, the definition of the intentional will to consistency: the 'logic of the ear' is a poietic rationale for the integrity and rightness of singular events that, in opposition to Schenkerian teleological logic or Schoenbergian developmental logic of form and structure, supports the extended structural immobility of _nepodvizhnost_ ' and may at once underpin and undermine structural unity. These harmonic and formal ambiguities were sensed in the first, Schenker-inspired analyses of Stravinsky's tonal procedures – by Adele Katz (1947), Felix Salzer (1952) and Allen Forte (1955) – an issue newly invigorated by the neoclassical works of 1920–40 (which these writers did not always assume uncritically to be masterpieces). In an attempt to discover a consistent theoretical basis for extended tonality – a conservative and ideologically (if not theoretically) Schoenbergian enterprise perpetuating the nineteenth-century belief in the progressive and radical functions of tradition – the coherence of Stravinsky's music was assimilated in the continuation of contrapuntally based tonal practice (together with that of Debussy, Bartók, Hindemith and Schoenberg's early atonal works) and implicated in a modernist revision of Schenker's aggressively anti-modernist theoretical concepts. That this assimilation could only be achieved by recognising various dimensions of rupture is illustrated by Salzer's analysis of the _Symphony in Three Movements_ in which prolongation on the surface levels is abandoned in favour of static 'chord blocks' established by 'repeating and circling around a chord in lieu of thematic development and chord prolongation'. Salzer's intuition of the structurally radical nature of pitch centricity, however, is immediately compensated by a perception of goal-directed motions in the deeper levels, asserting teleology (the primary function of prolongation in Schenker) as hierarchically fundamental and rescuing the prolongationally deprived foreground from structural immobility. Driving teleology into the structural depths of Stravinsky's music, Salzer intends to demonstrate both the persistent stylistic vitality of tonality and its capacity for original renewal as manifested in Stravinsky's innovatory surface configurations. This results in a dilution of the concept of contrapuntal hierarchy to one of relatively independent strata lacking the binding connections of the Schenkerian system of grounds, the issue addressed by Schenker himself in his notorious analytical critique of Stravinsky's 'inability to create tension by means of appropriate linear progressions' in the Piano Concerto in which dissonances 'substitute for [contrapuntal] content and cohesion'. Salzer's analysis of intra-parametrical dissociation in the _Symphony'_ s pitch structure therefore treads a critical high-wire: at the same time, it partly accepts the terms of Schenker's critique, conforms to the classically modernist position (articulated most cogently by Schoenberg and Adorno) in which the modern is rooted in, advances and transforms tradition, and pinpoints crucial antagonisms between linear conceptions of structure and Stravinsky's harmonic syntheses. Identifying as tonic 'a polytonal chord on G with D as a secondary chord of fusion' in the _Symphony_ , Salzer defines a synthetic referential dissonance (G, B, D♭, F, A♭) that 'in no way implies two tonalities which would be contradictory to the unity-creating essence of tonality, regardless of style', and is composed out by projecting the elements of the D triad in the upper voices and G/B in the lower ones (he ignores the significant interference of B as a goal in the upper voice that also creates the conditions for the tonicity of the G major-minor triad). In the analysis of the opening section (bars 1–38), 'fusion' in fact occurs rarely – at the beginning (bars 1–3) and at the approach to the dominant (bars 22, 25) when the triadic elements coincide as simultaneities: otherwise, the analysis demonstrates a projected co-existence of G and D♭ held in a horizontal polarity, the disunifying bifurcation Salzer hoped to avoid. This tonic sonority exemplifies the importance of Arnold Whittall's subtle (and determinedly Stravinskian) concept of 'focused dissonance', a fusion of traditional consonant and dissonant elements that forces a re-evaluation of the nature and function of this essential tonal polarity. In _The Rite_ , focused dissonances may 'override (but do not eliminate) their absorbed tonal and triadic segments, [and] drive the music into a peculiarly intense state of explosive energy'. Salzer's G/D♭ tonic (an insecure fusion of consonances creating a dissonant sonority) has such energising potential, but in contrast to the procedures of the earlier work, it deflects intensity, regularly expelling its dissonant elements (to expose purely diatonic elements or a unison G) or transferring them to other sonorities in which their role is less triadically disruptive (for example, the synthetic D/A dominant (bar 38) – D, F♯ , A, C♯ , E – in which the D♭ of the tonic sonority is held invariant, as C♯). Furthermore, prolongation of the _Symphony'_ s synthetic G/D♭ tonic is achieved only by loosening the rules of contrapuntal writing so that structural counterpoint may progress freely as 'dissonant voice leading', a category of 'greater freedom and elasticity' in which linear motions both unfold dissonantly and connect dissonant sonorities. A compensation for the severe reduction in the capacity for linear cohesion that this loosening entails appears in Roy Travis's analysis of the Introduction to _The Rite_ where the 'dissonant tonic sonority' (A♭, D♭, C) is prolonged by saturating the texture; as Whittall and others have realised, this amounts to little more than a definition of harmonic consistency (the same chord or set repeated in transposition), a necessary but insufficient condition for grounding linear processes congruent with non-tonal chromatic verticals. The demise of a common theoretical practice condemns the tonicity of a dissonant sonority to be defined and prolonged contextually, and therefore uniquely, most often by repetition or the recursively static neighbouring-note structure. Katz's earlier willingness to reserve judgement on the structural implications of Stravinsky's 'new techniques' ('bitonality' and 'polytonality'), rather than to yoke the issue of dissonant prolongation to the perpetuation of tradition, now seems more sensitive structurally than Salzer's conviction that linear processes in a dissonant context are directed (at least on the higher levels of structure). But even when Katz defends the dissonant linearity of imitative 'linear counterpoint' in the Octet (in which 'the integrity of the melodic line is not sacrificed to harmonic considerations' and the horizontal takes precedence over the vertical), the devices of structural stability remain unintegrated or stubbornly static: imitation (horizontalising the principle of repetition), a high degree of harmonic immobility and repeated pitch centres. Recent voice-leading theory, less enthralled by teleological thinking (and, to that degree, less narrowly formalist than the earlier prolongation theorists) has accepted that the various images of tonal stasis in Stravinsky radically transform or petrify prolongational models, and has explored the ramifications of 'attraction to' rather than 'prolongation of' Stravinsky's centres. To return to our example, we know that Stravinsky 'discovered' G as a potential centrum for the 'Lacrimosa' in the first pc of each IR form of the series and in the isolation of this pc in the array of verticals. Naturally, then, G is prominent in the composition – in the vocal line from the end of the opening phrase ('lacrimosa', bar 232) to the mid-point (bar 243), after which it is emphasised durationally in bar 254 ('dona') and bar 263 ('Amen'), and as the final pitch class of four of the six cadential segments (group D, trombones) ending each phrase, including the last (bars 264–5). Is G a tonic? Like the _Symphony in Three Movements_ , the 'Lacrimosa' gives priority to G but now elaborates it with distinct splinteredness. Its regular cadential location obviously defines a minimal centricity as a pitch that provides a structural focus and serves the formal function of tonicity (without, in this serial context, engaging the harmonic or contrapuntal processes of common-practice tonality). But when Stravinsky fixes the harmonic centrality of G natural by stating it in four octaves at the durational centre of the movement (bar 234), he performs a modernist act opposed to the normative beginning–end locations of pre-modernist tonics that has far-reaching consequences for the status of the cadential Gs. As the only structural downbeat in the movement, the centrum both focuses and destablises the material that precedes and follows it, weakening the cadential function of the other Gs (which sound perfunctorily formal) while at the same time activating their pitch priority – a process that epitomises the centrum's function as a 'pole of attraction'. An interpretation of the ways in which G attracts different pcs is presented in the voice-leading analysis of the 'Lacrimosa' in Ex. 11.1 and summarised in Ex. 11.3, where the centrum orients the serial surface and creates small-scale spans of prolongation that can be associated in larger constellations. My method incorporates Joseph Straus's theory of associative voice-leading in Stravinsky, based on the principle that the middleground relation of sonorities or individual pcs replicates similar associative complexes in the foreground without achieving the large-scale linear cohesion essential to prolongation. Two versions of set class 3-3, a simple focused dissonance, end the first phrase (bar 234) as 7, 8, 11], the third (bars 243–4) and the last (bar 265) as [4, 7, 8] and function as a tonic sonority extending the vertical range of the centrum ([Ex. 11.3, stratum b3). These G-focused octatonic trichords are inversionally (and therefore symmetrically) related in that they hold the dyad G–G invariant with the third pc at ic3 above or below (Ex. 11.4). They also sum to set 4-17 4, 7, 8, 11], the definitive major-minor tetrachord, which functions here as a referential set splintered into the trichord expressions of the tonic sonority. Furthermore, the first trichord (bar 234) is approached from the C at the fourth above (ic5+); having attracted this pc, the bass G projects ic5 symmetrically – in phrase 2, D–G (ic5–), and phrase 3, C–G (ic5–) – after which the interval contracts in phrase 4, E–G (ic3+), phrase 5, D –C natural (ic3–), and phrase 7, A–G (ic2–). (See [Ex. 11.3, strata b and c). Phrase 6 sustains C below the final G (phrase 7) in a larger-scale expression of ic5– paired with a top-voice symmetry (see below). This process – symmetries followed by and (in phrases 6 and 7) encapsulating contractions to ic2 – is elaborated by various subsidiary chromatic pcs: but its essential feature is G's attraction of a limited number of diatonic pcs (C, D, E, A), thus producing discrete blocks of succession emptied of the goal-directed functions of tonal progressions, even when their resemblances remain. Ex. 11.3 'Lacrimosa', summary of linear structure (see also Ex. 11.1) Ex. 11.4 'Lacrimosa', symmetrical formations of set class 3–3 The top voice (carried by the piccolo in phrases 1–6, then in the voice in phrase 7) engages some of the bass voice's pcs and intervals, but is distinguished from the processes of that voice (Ex. 11.3, stratum b1). Repeating a large-scale linear projection of the octatonic set 4-Z29 7, 8, 10, 2], the top voice both defines a formal boundary (phrases 1–3, and phrases 5–7) and connects the content of the linear process to the penultimate cadential function of 4-Z29, the set class of Va6 which ends the 'Pie Jesu'. Since 4-Z29 is also a (transposed) subset of four of the other nine verticals (those belonging to set classes 6-Z25, 5-16 and 5-19), it is the only set that can be said with theoretical certainty to be projected through the structure. First projected linearly in phrases 1–3, the set displays a new version of the ic5 relation, D (bar 229) above G (bar 243) (ic5+), providing the symmetrical inversion pairing the cadential ic5– (C–G) in the bass voice (bars 255–65) – that is to say, balancing the fifths above and below G. The same linear structure, shorn of elaboration, is repeated in phrases 5–7 (with a closing registral descent of A♯ and G) preceded by the only goal-directed motion in the piece, C–C♯–D (phrase 4), which re-establishes the structural role of D, first and provisionally suggested by its inaugural position (bar 229). The two projections therefore polarise the G centrum within the octatonic tetrachord. However, the top-voice D and G (elaborated in the first statement of 4-Z29 by the neighbouring notes E and F♯) are separated by the pc pair G♯–A♯ ([8, 10], phrases 2, 6–7) widely disseminated in the voice-leading detail of each section (see [Ex. 11.1) as the constant chromatic interference with the G centrum, an interference that refers to the G♯ of the tonic sonority (set 3-3). The prominent role of G♯ in the top voice implies no specific or functional connection with G♯s elsewhere in the structure: connection, and therefore priority, inheres not in the (mere) repetition of G♯ (a technique reserved for the centrum) but in the constant presence of G♯ in various configurations within the voice-leading strata. These instrumental processes operate largely independently of the pitch structure of the vocal line, which unfolds a two-part linear motion converging on the final pc of phrases 1–3; subsequently, separation becomes the norm, culminating in the non-integration of the motions A♯–G and B–A in the final phrase 7 necessitated structurally by the non-participation of the instrumental music in the closure of the top-voice structure. The extremities of each vocal phrase, however, may condition a partial integration of vocal and instrumental structure if the vocal pcs and the bass are related in a progression of vertical interval classes (Ex. 11.3, strata b2–3): beginning with ic5, F/B (bar 229), the two strata proceed, a little irregularly, through contracting interval classes until ic1 is reached in bar 262, soon repeated in the final trombone chord as G♯/G♮. The relative independence of the voice (reflecting its distinct textural, rhythmic and verbal character) confirms the non-organic, stratified and non-hierarchical nature of the linear organisation, a structurally disruptive effect intensified in the serial context by the strong tonal implications of vertical intervals of phrases 1–3 (see Ex. 11.1). Phrase 1's opening tritone, F/B, may be heard to imply a resolution to the major third C/E present in split form when the bass progresses to C (bar 232) and the strings arrive on E (bar 233); this potential reference to C major is confirmed by the vocal G (bar 232). While such a tonal hearing is strongly contradicted by the tetrachord 4-20 (bar 233) and by the G♯–F♯ repetition in the voice (bar 230), the latter figure also raises the ghost of E-based harmony, represented in the linear analysis (Ex. 11.1, stratum 3, and Ex. 11.3, stratum b3) by the implied E in the bass, so that an ambiguous and disorienting tonal ambience shrouds the whole of the first phrase. The possibility of more direct aural privileging of tonal forms occurs in phrase 3, bar 239 (bass C, voice E) and bar 241 (bass C♯, voice E♯), but in so far as tonal implications weaken in force approaching the G centrum (after which the G-based trombone cadences take priority), one strategy of Stravinsky's compositional intention may be to neutralise them. If the tonal intervals are not heard as octatonic dyads (or if we do not learn to hear them this way), they can only disrupt the dissonant consistency of atonality, allusively turning it toward the tonal without producing a tonal existence: even though local connections could be proposed, these triadic forms resist systematic explanation and cannot be heard, at least by the ear attuned to Stravinsky's octatonic logic, as functionally connected. V Beneath the various types of recurrence – rotations, repetitions and pitch centricity – the 'Lacrimosa' can be heard to sustain a dynamic process formed from the differences within the repetitions, animating formal stasis and proceeding non-teleologically towards a unit of completion (the final major-minor tetrachord subset 3–3). This sense of an ending for the blockarticulated linear process is articulated by the group D music (trombones), the only material with a specifically rhythmic character: the six segments present a series of composite durational patterns (Ex. 11.5) delineating a process of statement and transformation in which, from the second half of the sequence (bar 249), long values gradually predominate. Ex. 11.5 'Lacrimosa', rhythmic organisation of group D Repetition in the first three segments, followed by processive transformation, replicates the design of the pitch processes of the movement (in particular the structure of the verticals in Ex. 11.2) and is similarly marked by the three statements of set 3-3 (bars 234, 244, 265) the formal function of which is now clearly evident. The subtle non-insistence of these pitch processes makes them seem almost accidental, as givens emanating from the pre-compositional manipulation of the series accepted into the structure and gently brought to life by the group D rhythmic pulsations. Objectivity, already the product of Apollonian refinement, is further purged here as 'the objectification of all anxiety'. Such transcendental objectivity arrests time and distances subjective, 'psychological' temporality, but the installation of an essentially spatial conception within time cannot avoid setting in motion the potential for becoming inherent in general temporality. Adorno's view, in paraphrase, that Stravinsky composed against the temporal nature of music entails that Stravinsky's music resists temporality but does not escape from it. For all Stravinsky's efforts to constrain the listener's or interpreter's experience, his music (the late music in particular) – conflicted and splintered by its projection of rational order into temporal becoming – is unusually vulnerable to the listener's subjectivity (as the work of Marianne Kielian-Gilbert demonstrates), and is particularly receptive to diverse theoretical representations, not least because the music revels in the potential of various types of contradiction, narrating the process of contrast–dispersal–synthesis in a spatialised presentation of units that seem strongly impelled to unification in our perception of their temporal succession. The analyst who, like the prolongation theorists, hears unification as a process may respond too readily to the temporal element in which Stravinsky's constructions are placed and remain deaf to the spatially transformed time that, in _Poetics_ , masquerades as the (mis)conception of 'real' time. Schenker's judgement, handed down from teleological formalism, that Stravinsky is 'unmusical' is therefore as apposite as the focus on Stravinsky's music in the theoretical systems of Cone, Berger, Forte and van den Toorn, informed as they are by spatial and abstract conceptions of musical structure – networks, centres, collections, strata, sets: his music and ideas were actively implicated, as partial instigation and testing ground, in the concretisation of such spatial metaphors that (with the exception of Chandler Carter's analysis of _The Rake's Progress_ , and the later work of Kielian-Gilbert) have all but lost their figurative power in their reification as the constitutive concepts of modern music theory. There are, then, signs of theoretical renovation in Stravinsky studies. But having so conscientiously prolonged the formalist moment in musical culture so that it achieved a Stravinskian dynamic stasis, Stravinsky has had a compositional rather than conceptual after-life in theory, as traced in Kramer's alignment of Stravinsky with 'new temporalities' (time split by the reversible and multiple referentiality of musical material), in Cross's examination of the 'Stravinsky legacy' eliding him with the second, post-Second World War phase of modernism, and in Andriessen and Schönberger's proto-postmodern Stravinsky: in compositional practice, they write, 'the true influence of Stravinsky has only just begun. It is an influence that can do without Stravinskianisms.' This recommendation might also sustain the nascent liberation of analytical Stravinsky interpretation from its all-too-appropriate Stravinskian ideology. 12 STUART CAMPBELL Stravinsky and the critics Introduction R.C.: What do you mean when you say that critics are incompetent? I.S.: I mean that they are not even equipped to judge one's grammar. They do not see how a musical phrase is constructed, do not know how music is written; they are incompetent in the technique of the contemporary musical language. Critics misinform the public and delay comprehension. Because of critics many valuable things come too late. In this exchange with Robert Craft, Stravinsky testified to the generic hostility felt by composers toward critics. As we shall see, however, this attitude on the part of this composer concealed a much more complicated relationship with the supposed enemy. For the purposes of this chapter, 'critic' is broadly defined. The tasks of the critic include discriminating between good and bad – with all the intermediate gradations – in composition and performance; discerning continuities and discontinuities between new and older work (again, in both composition and performance), whether of the recent or the more remote past; informing the readership about current issues in the world of the arts. A critic in practice serves as an intermediary between consumer and creator (that is, between listener and composer, or listener and performer), helping both sides by creating an intellectual environment where the former understands better the work of the latter. Critics' activities are informed by the work of historians and analysts, though the character of their output is different. Criticism may take any form from brief newspaper reviews to book-length studies; in some cases humble journalistic endeavour facilitates the development of ideas that later find full expression in a monograph. But both are species of criticism. Besides giving a taste of the reception that Stravinsky's music has met at different times, this chapter aims to tease out ideas about it which have been at the centre of debate. How Stravinsky's compositions fitted into the general musical picture, and which composers he was compared and contrasted with, are also incorporated in the remit. Stravinsky presented critics with several distinctive challenges. The length of his creative life was not unique, but his successive immersion in several different cultures is unusual among front-rank composers. After copying the compositional practice of a St Petersburg guild, Stravinsky later gave free rein to his imagination, at first within the guild's framework and later beyond it, before several times turning in other directions – first in France and later in the USA. Critics seeking to do justice to all the composer's work must ideally be attuned to Russian music of the Silver Age, the French musical world of the 1920s and 30s, and the German–American currents flowing strongly in the Craft-influenced American years. Whilst Stravinsky certainly traversed a broad territory of compositional styles, his music also covers a long distance as regards aesthetic character. Ballet, opera and hybrid theatrical genres, Russian folklore and literature, Greek myth, Orthodox and Catholic ritual – these must all be within the range of the ideal critic. Some of the most revealing insights into Stravinsky's music come from colleagues who, like him, belonged to 'Russia abroad' ( _russkoye zarubezh'ye_ ) – Russians who emigrated from their homeland during its troubled twentieth century (Lourié, Nabokov, Schloezer, Souvtchinsky). Composer and critic commonly clash when the composer's attention is concentrated on his most recent composition, while the critic is struggling with the one before. It is not always possible to hear works in chronological order. Nikolay Myaskovsky understood the evolution of Stravinsky's harmonic language between _The Firebird_ and _The Rite of Spring_ only when he looked into the intervening works, the songs and the cantata _Zvezdolikiy_. Later, too, shorter pieces illuminated the path between the more substantial ones. _Les Noces_ is a particular problem because its abnormally long gestation period made it seem atypical when it finally emerged from the womb. There can be difficulties also when an early composition establishes itself so securely in the repertory (as with _The Firebird_ , Rachmaninov's C minor Prelude or Schoenberg's _Verklärte Nacht_ or _Pierrot lunaire_ ) as to entrench a particular view of its creator. All subsequent works have to contend with this view, and at first are usually adjudged to fall short of the earlier achievement. This problem afflicted Stravinsky's music several times, with _Petrushka_ and _The Rite,_ like _The Firebird,_ winning recognition and impeding response to subsequent works. Those who had accommodated their thinking to (say) the _Symphony of Psalms_ were confounded by _Canticum Sacrum_. Part of the critic's task is to convey to his readership that a composer's activities are a dynamic process demanding a shift of focus from one work to another, rather than a production line where every unit resembles its neighbours as closely as possible. At some stage Stravinsky himself concluded that his music would speak more clearly if he helped it by giving interviews and publishing open letters, articles and entire books, even if some were ghost-written. One motivation was probably simple self-promotion: he saw the advantages of his work being discussed in influential publications. Another motivation was to create a climate more congenial for new compositions, in particular to change the criteria by which his music was judged – to escape being typecast as a composer of Russian ballets. It probably did not matter greatly to him whether the words were actually written by himself or formulated by a critic using his ideas. But a critic could not always be trusted to preserve the purity of the composer's thought, any more than a conductor could be kept from developing the composer's wishes in accordance with his own creative will – hence the ups and downs in relationships between Stravinsky and individual critics and conductors. Scott Messing describes the first half of the 1920s, with Ansermet, Edwin Evans, Roland-Manuel and Schloezer: A symbiotic relationship seems to have been reached between Stravinsky and several sympathetic critics; advocates could enjoy an intimacy with a musician of vast creative and intellectual gifts while he could rely on their conveying his thoughts and keeping his name in the vanguard of contemporary art. By Stravinsky's time, it was rather the norm than the exception for composers to write about music for publication. For that reason, several composer-authors are mentioned in this chapter (Auric, Poulenc, Boulez). The professional critic is supposed to be detached from what he is writing about, though it is a moot point whether the detached critic is any more of a reality than the dispassionate historian. The major professional composer-turned-critic will be read for any light he sheds on his own music. If Stravinsky's aim as pianist and conductor was to establish a performance tradition free of the distortions allegedly caused by the interposing of the personalities of professional pianists and conductors, then his aim in writing was also to impose his own intellectual interpretation of his works upon readers who might otherwise fall victim to misunderstandings wrought by ill-informed or uncomprehending interpreters. Stravinsky was not simply developing his musical language from one work to the next – he tried at several stages to show himself in a light which comprehensively misrepresented his thinking when he had composed earlier works. This is most obvious in the _Chronicle of my Life_ (1936) and _Poetics of Music_ (lectures delivered in 1939–40), where he sought to make out that his opinions in the mid 1930s coincided with his earlier ones. A critic's work is not made easier by propaganda barrages from interested parties. Stravinsky and critics in Russia The first Russian critics to comment on Stravinsky's music in the press, such as Yuly Engel' (Joel Engel), Vyacheslav Karatïgin and Nikolay Myaskovsky, had a thorough grounding in music. They knew the music of Stravinsky's teacher Rimsky-Korsakov and his Belyayev circle, and could divine the developing relationship between the compositions of the mentors and their disciple. They were also conscious of newer European styles propagated by the Evenings of Contemporary Music, where Stravinsky found further friends and associates. That group included many of the art connoisseurs (and Diaghilev associates) who as librettists, designers and musicians bridged Stravinsky's St Petersburg and Paris years. These critics felt musical currents from outside their homeland, and Karatïgin in particular pinpointed what the young Stravinsky had learned from his French near-contemporaries, particularly Debussy. A frequent motive in early Russian Stravinsky reception was admiration for the 'invigorating' character of his music. The technical accomplishment of his orchestral conceptions was also praised ('extraordinary gorgeousness of orchestral hues', for example), though there were sometimes hints that this aspect acquired a disproportionate virtuosity of its own. While noting the historic importance of _The Rite of Spring_ ('a monument to the impressionist phase in Russian music'), Karatïgin's extended review of its Russian premiere conducted by Koussevitzky in 1914 concludes that the work itself contains too many superficially clever tricks repeated excessively without further invention; the same applies to its harmonic asperity. As Stravinsky advanced beyond the principles of the Belyayev group, his membership in it lapsed, personal relationships with old friends in the wider Rimsky-Korsakov family soured, and their sympathy changed to antipathy. Artistic divergence turning into jealousy and suspicion is voiced by Leonid Sabaneyeff: Stravinski's fame is based not only on his musical gifts . . . but chiefly on his virtuosity in making full use of musical conditions and taking full accounts of fashions and fads . . . It depends least of all on the magnitude of endowments, but more on the composer's technical and even 'commercial experience'. Stravinsky is nevertheless 'the recognised master of minds and the supreme leader in the field of musical creative art, only Richard Strauss and Schoenberg, perhaps, sharing this hegemony with him'. One of the most perceptive accounts of Stravinsky's music was written and published in Russia, even if it had to wait for over fifty years to be translated into English. Boris Asaf'yev's _Book about Stravinsky_ , published in 1929, is the work of the most influential music theorist and historian of Soviet Russia. It kept Russian readers abreast of the glittering career unfolding abroad and introduced works such as _Oedipus Rex_ and _Apollon musagète_. To the non-Russian reader, Asaf'yev presents a Stravinsky who belongs, on the one hand and in certain compositions, to the tradition of Russian music exemplified by the Mighty Handful and their heirs and, on the other hand, in different pieces, to the line which includes Glinka, Varlamov, Dargomïzhsky and Tchaikovsky. The discussion of _Mavra_ is particularly enlightening. The book is informed by the ideas that Asaf'yev was developing concurrently, which are set out in his _Muzïkal'naya forma kak protsess_ (Musical form as a process), published in two volumes in 1930 and 1947. During much of the Soviet period, Stravinsky's music was little discussed in public and less heard in Russia. As one who had opted out of his country's historic destiny as the test bed for Marxism, and had advertised his strong disapproval of what took place there, any influence over his compatriots could only have been reckoned harmful by the increasingly controlling authorities. From about 1930 until Stalin's death in 1953, little that was worthy of the name criticism appeared there. During the Khrushchev era, the climate softened sufficiently for Stravinsky to visit his homeland in 1962, and for his music to be removed from the proscribed list. In itself, this did not lead to any great rush of performances – partly because in the minds of concert organisers a policy newly relaxed could always be tightened again, and, partly because his most recent work attracted hostility on stylistic grounds. The most interesting subsequent study of Stravinsky's work as a whole to be published in Russia was that of Mikhail Druskin; this appeared in 1974. Druskin was an eminent St Petersburg Conservatoire professor who in the 1920s and 30s had had his finger on the musical pulse, and his book helped restore Russians' links with their own past. Viktor Varunts has recently done invaluable work by assembling the Russian documents (criticism included) of Stravinsky's past. Stravinsky's years in France The French musical community was, in general, well disposed towards Russian music in the period before the First World War. This benevolence was part of a wider sympathy that had political and financial as well as cultural resonances. Against the background of Parisians' introduction to works by Balakirev, Borodin, Musorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, beginning substantially in 1878 and climaxing in the seasons of concerts, ballet and opera that Diaghilev began offering in 1906, Stravinsky seemed a natural extension of the school. _The Firebird_ established this perception convincingly in 1910, and for some listeners the process continued through the following two ballets. But French perceptions did not necessarily coincide with Russian ones. As Schloezer wrote later, What [Westerners] look for first and foremost in Russian art is precisely that which is different from theirs; it is a certain 'barbaric' aspect – rough, untutored and, in a word, Asiatic. This Asiatic face of Russia, they think, is Russia's true face. Writing after _The Rite of Spring_ , Pierre Lalo pronounced Stravinsky 'the spiritual son of Rimsky-Korsakov, and the sole true heir of the generation of composers represented by the Five'. To Florent Schmitt, that score marked the 'climactic point not just of [Diaghilev's] Russian Season [of 1913] but also of Russian music' (and added ' – and perhaps of music _tout court_ '); much later Pierre Souvtchinsky, whose connections with Stravinsky lasted longer than anyone else's, beginning in Russia and continuing until the composer's death, observed that Stravinsky had raised Russian music to 'universal rank'. The rhythmic dislocations and the dissonance of _The Rite_ 's harmony were cited by early critics as defining its status as a landmark in music history. It was repeatedly said (by Schmitt, Lalo, Karatïgin and Jean Marnold) that Stravinsky's harmony went further even than that of Richard Strauss. Writing in August 1913, Jacques Rivière made a bold claim for _The Rite_ : 'It marks a significant date not only in the history of dance and music but also in that of all the arts.' To him it represented a work 'which changes everything, which alters the very source of all our aesthetic judgments, and which must at once be counted among the very greatest'. In November he claimed historical primacy for it as the first masterpiece which could be set against those of Impressionism; as Adorno put it in 1948, 'ever since _Sacre_ [Stravinsky] had been proclaimed as the anti-pope to Impressionism'. It is legitimate to wonder how much the first-night audience were able to concentrate on the music. For one thing, Nijinsky's choreography drew the attention. For another, the _scandale_ at the premiere made hearing the music at all difficult, and assessing it all but impossible – at least for those without access to a score. Describing what he called this 'Massacre du printemps', Léon Vallas observed that the usual Parisian ballet audience showed better judgement when using its eyes than when using its ears, and was inherently incapable of accepting such a challenging score. Pierre Lalo observed that the music emerged in greatly altered perspective when Pierre Monteux conducted a concert performance in April 1914. Where the reviews from the theatre had emphasised primitivism, rhythmic complexity and harmonic audacity, Lalo could now hear that much of the score was gentle and not in the least barbarous or ugly. We cannot be certain, of course, that other things were equal: Lalo's ears may in the interim have become better attuned, or the orchestra's performance in the concert hall may have been significantly better. At any rate, Louis Laloy agreed with his colleague when he reported that the injustice done to _The Rite_ in spring 1913 had been made good by a triumph the following year. Fault lines opened up rapidly. Senior English critics found Stravinsky's work problematic. For Ernest Newman, writing in 1921, _Petrushka_ appeared to be the summit of Stravinsky's work, with the talking-up of _The Rite of Spring_ by unnamed diehard supporters 'the most farcical imposture in the music of our time'. E. J. Dent, more sympathetic to contemporary music than Newman, was none the less unable to accept what he thought the 'silliness' contained in some of Stravinsky's works after _The Rite_ : Possibly their jokes are intelligible to people who have been brought up in a Russian nursery or have frequented certain social circles in Paris. If that is the point of view which the listener is expected to take, it seems rather inappropriate – to use no harsher word – to perform them in London. The view that Stravinsky's music was a fashion accessory for some in-crowd was expressed by several critics. For some, the peak of Diaghilev's creative success, the moment when the ideal match of sound, picture and movement was achieved, coincided with the period of the three great Stravinsky ballets; thereafter, it was downhill for both impresario and composer. In 1926 Schloezer was lamenting the loss by the Ballets Russes of 'that spirit of invention, that free imagination, that taste for risk and adventure, that continual renunciation [of what they had done before]' which had characterised their work earlier. Whatever music Stravinsky was writing, he came to hold an influential position among the younger generation of French composers. Jacques Rivière noted this in 1920: The extraordinary freedom, of which our young composers of today avail themselves with taste, talent and discretion, they owe . . . to Stravinsky, to that frail Samson who, making an easy gesture and behaving as if very drowsy, has moved back the walls of music's temple from all quarters.26 The young composers of Les Six, with Erik Satie as mascot and Jean Cocteau as herald, joined Stravinsky in rejecting Romanticism with its pre-dominantly German heritage and in seeking something new. They shared the light-hearted tone, sense of parody of established musical styles and small-scale operation of, for example, _Renard_ or _The Soldier's Tale_ – even before the notion of 'neoclassicism' shortened the distance between Stravinsky and these admirers. Certain of Stravinsky's works found readier press championship from these younger French composers than among professional critics. Some of Les Six spoke out vociferously in support of works of the late 1910s and early 1920s. _Pulcinella_ played an important role in this development, as Paul Collaer pointed out: It is not surprising that it should have been _Pulcinella_ which allowed Stravinsky's influence to hold sway over the younger generations. The specific character of _The Rite_ or _Les Noces_ did not permit any 'follow-up'. The universality of _Pulcinella_ 's language allowed it to be assimilated by other composers. _Pulcinella_ lent impetus to a large part of young French music. To Schaeffner, on the other hand, 'the young musicians attached an importance to _Pulcinella_ which overstated that which the ballet actually had in Stravinsky's art'; perhaps the composer himself was guilty of this error (see the discussion of 'neoclassicism' below). Francis Poulenc and Georges Auric lavished praise in particular on _Mavra_ , the work most beloved by its composer and least understood by people outside his immediate entourage. Auric wrote of: a work that, after Satie, bearing the precious imprint of the young music of France, conveys to our hearts and minds its unforgettable pages, bound together like a bouquet whose fragrance will grow from day to day, far from all scholastic prejudice, esthetic argument, false bravado, or the cant of base disciples. Jean Cocteau expressed part of Stravinsky's problem at this stage: What could be more admirable than the spectacle of this hard man being begged by an amorous public to be brutal to them and deal still more blows – and then offering them lace. So graceful a gift perplexes them. They understood the blows better. This remark demonstrates how the generality of French opinion lost enthusiasm for Stravinsky once his music had parted company with their ideas of what was 'Russian'. 'Neoclassicism' was a central term in musicography of the interwar period, and Scott Messing has recounted the origins and development of the term. While its use did not originate in descriptions of Stravinsky's works, it became indissolubly associated with them, and they to be viewed as classic representatives of the phenomenon. It was regarded as embodying Latin cultural values (especially French and Italian) in opposition to Teutonic culture. The first to apply the term to Stravinsky was Boris de Schloezer in 1923, though in reviewing _The Rite_ in 1914 Karatïgin had discerned 'a gravitation towards classical clarity and elegance', a striving for simplicity in opposition to the previous dominant trend of impressionism. In his article of 1923 Schloezer observed of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ that: This genial work is only a system of sounds, which follow one another and group themselves according to purely musical affinities; the thought of the artist places itself only in the musical plan without ever setting foot in the domain of psychology. Emotions, feelings, desires, aspirations – this is the terrain from which he has pushed his work. The art of Stravinsky is nevertheless strongly expressive; he moves us profoundly and his perception is never formularized; but there is one specific emotion, a musical emotion. This art does not pursue feeling or emotion; but it attains grace infallibly by its force and by its perfection. Schloezer also expounded what was becoming the standard view – that Stravinsky was in most respects the antithesis of such 'German' composers as Schoenberg, whose music continued within a framework laid down by Wagner. Arthur Lourié was from 1924 to 1931 'one of the two or three most important associates in Stravinsky's life'. He wrote a number of articles that closely reflect the composer's opinions by anticipating ideas that Stravinsky was to express in _Chronicle of my Life_ or _Poetics of Music_. In _Neogothic and Neoclassic_ Lourié asserted that in 'the esthetic approach of artists . . . neoromantic emotionalism is giving way to classical intellectualism'. Neogothic is equivalent to neoromantic, the present-day continuation of which is represented by Expressionism, identified with Schoenberg. 'To make a generalization, one may locate the contemporary musical camps as to their relative positions in the following way: at the extreme left, the expressionists; at the extreme right, the neoclassicists; with the adherents of impressionism in the center.' Stravinsky frequently uttered words with connotations of the right wing in politics (order, discipline) and often gave vent to his detestation of Bolshevism, an extreme form of left-wing politics. This was coupled with a claim to detest modernism in art. While such attitudes resonated favourably in influential quarters during the 1920s and 1930s, by the end of the 1940s they were increasingly a liability, as a new generation of European artistic modernists influenced by the political left occupied the musical stage. To Lourié also fell the honour of introducing the Stravinskian idea of the _forme-type_ 'which results from primary general conceptions'; the idea reappears in Schloezer, who refers to a series of _oeuvres-types_ beginning with _The Soldier's Tale_.37 This is linked with the notion that classical means typical. In 1928, as if on Stravinsky's behalf, Lourié set aside any idea that music could be a surrogate for religion, or that any part of its purpose involved sexual arousal. Two works have contended for the position of the first Stravinskian demonstration of 'neoclassicism': _Pulcinella_ and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_. Whatever the experimental gains made through the ballet, it is the _Symphonies_ which have the stronger claim as the earliest convincing demonstration of radical thought. The composer himself, however, in hindsight, wrote about the role of _Pulcinella_ in his creative evolution: _Pulcinella_ was my discovery of the past, the epiphany through which the whole of my late work became possible. It was a backward look, of course – the first of many love affairs in that direction – but it was a look in the mirror, too. A related, though different, view of _Pulcinella_ was expressed by Boulez, reflecting post-Adornian opinions, in 1971: Stravinsky's way of 'discovering' history or tradition was initially by means of anecdote. His handling of Pergolesi [Boulez refers to _Pulcinella_ ] suggests a chance visit to a museum by a wandering visitor, quite unprepared for what he finds . . . This chance visit whetted his appetite and he soon began to vary his itineraries, exploring other museums that aroused his curiosity but without any serious purpose. Stravinsky would surely have agreed with Schloezer when he wrote in 1928: Music has broken its last ties with reality; it remains no less disturbing, capable of upsetting the listener to the extent of tears; but this emotion is something quite particular, of absolute purity, unable to be reduced to our daily psychological experience, however profound or subtle it might be. And that is precisely the quality of the music of _Apollon musagète_ which contains not even an ounce of the real As early as 1913, in the context of _The Rite_ , Rivière had argued that 'Stravinsky upheld clarity, simplicity, precision, and above all he sought the elimination of all superfluous and gratuitous elements in his expression'. These sentiments accorded with the wish of Rivière, who was first and foremost a _littérateur_ , to see the same qualities – part of the later stock-intrade of 'neoclassicism', supposedly traditional in French art – restored in new literature: Stravinsky's music served as welcome additional support. Rivière's successor as music critic of the _Nouvelle Revue française_ was Boris de Schloezer. As a consequence of his Russian birth, his residence in the Russian capitals between 1903 and 1918 and his Franco-Belgian education, Schloezer was in an almost uniquely favourable position to understand Stravinsky's compositions. He earned the composer's disapproval with his notice about _Mavra_ , of which he wrote: 'the subject is too thin, too fragile, and the Italo-Russian and black-American styles do not mix'. A monograph published in 1929 couples a portrayal of Stravinsky as a cultural phenomenon with some technical discussion of his music. It is unusual in aiming 'not to consider the development of these works in time but rather to examine the different aspects and characteristic features which this art offers us, as it presents itself to us as a whole today'. It is divided into chapters entitled 'The Russian and the European', 'Technique', 'The problem of style' and 'A classical art'. After an extensive exposition of the idea that Russian art is European art with additional features rather than some primitive antithesis of it, Schloezer argues that Stravinsky's art develops not progressively but by means of discontinuity, with the relationship between parameters moving in a zigzag pattern rather than a straight line. Schloezer singles out certain works, finding _Petrushka_ especially impressive, not least as the first work to challenge Wagnerian harmonic thought. _The Rite of Spring_ is important, but it is atypical of its composer. _Pulcinella_ , on the other hand, 'marks an important date in Stravinsky's production – I'd say in the history of modern music itself', as a turning-point in the composer's style; until then his role among composers of the younger generation had been to help in cleansing their palates (and, indeed, their palettes), but now 'the composer acquired a profound and fruitful [positive] influence upon them'. Schloezer's opinion of Stravinsky's latest work is evident from his book review: Reading [Stravinsky's] _Chroniques_ is somewhat like listening to one of his recent compositions: clean, precise, dry . . . with emotion scattered here and there but in carefully rationed terms. From 1912 to 1938 Louis Laloy was a faithful champion and friend of the composer, while on occasion expressing reservations about specific works. The following passage from 1934 shows a critic eventually able to grasp Stravinsky's changes of direction: Monsieur Stravinsky attains in this work [ _Perséphone_ ] a simplicity which can be called Classical although it does not recall – or rather because it does not in any way recall – the procedures consecrated before his time by the practice of the masters to achieve that effect. He has been striving towards it for a long time, restraining at all costs the dazzling ardour which so seduced us in _L'Oiseau de feu_ , _Petrouchka_ and _Le Sacre du printemps_. We were able to admire unreservedly certain works in this second manner, like _Le Rossignol_ and _Histoire du soldat_ , in which the reform had not yet been carried to its furthest point and so left him his freedom of movement, and his richness of colour. But other works betrayed a voluntary abstention and from time to time donned borrowed forms. He continued, however, deaf to our cries of alarm, digging in stony ground, plunging into the night, and he was certainly right, for he is now coming out of the tunnel into the light, into another land where his wishes are fulfilled. In 1930 Paul Collaer, who had helped arrange Stravinsky's Belgian concerts, brought out a study generously illustrated with music examples. Some of the key Stravinskian terms and ideas of this period occur ('objectivisme','objectivité intégrale', and 'classicisme'), and the author incorporates an article by Ernest Ansermet on _The Soldier's Tale_. On the other hand, while _Oedipus Rex_ , the Octuor, and the Serenade are recognised as the equals of _Mavra_ (the most recent work considered at length), [t]he _Concerto for Piano_ . . . makes us think too much of Bach. The balance between the old elements and Stravinsky's personal contribution, so agreeable in _Mavra_ or _Oedipus Rex_ , is here disrupted in favour of Bach and to the detriment of Stravinsky. The idea of the grand division between the musical cultures of Germany, on the one hand, and France and Russia on the other is also explored here; this was not incompatible, however, with learning from the music of J. S. Bach, for 'German' music meant principally that of Wagner and Strauss. André Schaeffner's book-length study of the composer published in 1931 considers Stravinsky's compositions in the context of contemporary French music. It was written with the objective of 'reproducing as exactly as possible the course to date of the life and work of Igor Stravinsky' at a time when 'a good many legends about Stravinsky are already spreading'. (Stravinsky himself complained that 'in numerous interviews I have given, my thoughts, my words, and even facts have often been disfigured to the extent of becoming absolutely unrecognizable'.) The writer acknowledges the 'spontaneous help' given to him by the composer, and uses the composer's words – but only when corroboration was available. In spite of the likelihood, given this framework, of promulgating the composer's views as they were at the beginning of the 1930s rather than at the specific periods when earlier works were composed, Schaeffner offers some interesting _aperçus_ – for instance, when he notes a peculiarly Parisian practice of surrounding events in the theatre with a huge _scandale_ (mentioning the premiere of Victor Hugo's play _Hernani_ in 1830). While noting Stravinsky's penchant for appropriating the styles of other composers, he concludes by pointing to the progress of 'one and the same art of which eventually, probably, the unity, manifold and wandering, will be underlined'. Stravinsky wrote of this book on 2 July 1931 to one of his publishers that 'Schaeffner's documentation is precise . . . '. Stravinsky reception in European countries other than France was to a degree dependent on performances by the Ballets Russes. In countries that they visited – notably Britain, Spain and Italy – there was some awareness of Stravinsky's music; these tended to be countries where there was some political sympathy with Russia before 1914. Switzerland was, of course, exposed to some of Stravinsky's works during wartime, but this meant that, on the whole, the pieces written then became known in Switzerland before their larger-scale predecessors. The same was true of Germany and Austria. There is little evidence of performances before 1914, and still less, for obvious reasons, between 1914 and 1918. Even after the end of the war, it was some time before musical life was restored. And for such a period the shorter, small-scale compositions of Stravinsky's Swiss years were ideal. A decisive moment was the ISCM concert in Berlin on 19 November 1922, when Ansermet gave _The Rite of Spring_ its German premiere. Just as Paris and London took the young Stravinsky as an unmistakably Russian figure, so did Berlin – except that for Germans of that generation Russia meant a somewhat menacing nearby power still identified with aspects of barbarism. This is evident in Adolf Weissmann's reaction to the work: Stravinsky is a product of his race and of our time . . . Stravinsky is certainly not a musician of culture. An element of barbarism still throbs within him and he does not shy away from declaring it openly. In that respect he is absolutely Russian. This view is symptomatic of an attitude to Russian music still sometimes encountered among countrymen of Bach, Beethoven and Wagner, whose understandable devotion to their own tradition deafens them to their neighbours' music. A variant of this view, intensified by the strong emotions left by the humiliating Versailles treaty, was voiced by Alfred Heuss in 1923, after the Gewandhaus's _Rite_ premiere: Should Stravinsky, that Russian torturer, be performed in Germany? Even now, everyone does as he wants. We have gradually sunk so low that particularly musicians who set the tone approach what they perform thinking only about whether it will create a great sensation. Foxtrots, Negro songs [ _Niggersongs_ ], Russian peasant hideosities and other such things. The first German book on Stravinsky appeared in 1931, by which time Klemperer, Scherchen and other conductors had introduced the composer's newer music to Weimar Republic audiences. The author was the otherwise unknown Herbert Fleischer, but the publisher was one that was important to the composer: Edition russe de musique, founded by Serge Koussevitzky, operating from its Berlin office as Russischer Musikverlag. The aim was to see Stravinsky 'as representative of the culture of his era, as the leader of a generation, as a person of our time'. Surprisingly, the book does not seem strongly influenced by the composer in major matters, though there is one good anecdote where Stravinsky claims that a bell-ringer's limited room for rhythmic or expressive manoeuvre in performance makes him the prototype of an ideal conductor. Among the book's noteworthy features are the detailed discussion, in descriptive vein, of a small number of large-scale works ( _Petrushka_ , _The Rite of Spring_ , _Les Noces_ , _Oedipus Rex_ and the _Symphony of Psalms_ ), accompanied by 194 music examples. It is also the first text which, while showing awareness of the composer's Russian and French background, considers his work in the light of musical developments in the German-speaking world. Thus Schoenberg, Hindemith and Weill are mentioned, and in one place also Mahler (the Third and Tenth Symphonies and _Das Lied von der Erde_ ). The most extended comparison (though it is not pursued far) is between Stravinsky and Schoenberg. What a difference between Schoenberg's pure, abstract constructivism and Stravinsky's most natural music-making using earth soaked in blood! Stravinsky proves that the _most stringent, almost mathematical construction and the most natural idea are not mutually exclusive opposites_ : at least, not for the creative artist of our time. During the pre-war Hitler years, it was not certain whether Stravinsky was to be regarded officially as a link in a sinister chain joining Bolshevik and Jewish conspiracies or as a right-thinking, safe composer. It is a sign of how much the German marketplace meant to Stravinsky that he gave Willy Strecker (of the music publisher Schott) so much evidence (through an exchange of letters) establishing that his music did not belong in a 'Degenerate Art' exhibition and that he was not of Semitic descent. Stravinsky's American years One of the most influential critiques of Stravinsky's work is that of Theodor Adorno. His interpretation is generally understood to place Stravinsky and Schoenberg as the opposite poles in twentieth-century music. His _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ , first published in 1949 (and, as _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , in 1973) was, however, neither the first nor the last to propound this view. He was, in fact, teasing out in his own way a strand that had run through criticism for a long time. In 1914 Myaskovsky had discerned much in common between the harmonic thinking of Schoenberg and that of Stravinsky, with similar results achieved by composers proceeding by two different routes: Schoenberg from Wagner by way of Mahler, and Stravinsky from Rimsky-Korsakov via Skryabin and certain French composers. Schloezer, teeth gritted on behalf of the patriotic readership of the _Nouvelle Revue française_ , recognised that by 1924 European musical leadership was in the hands of those two composers. The point was repeated in Vienna (by Julius Korngold and Paul Stefan) when _The Rite of Spring_ arrived there in 1925; if this was those critics' first encounter with _The_ _Rite_ , we cannot be sure what they knew of developments in Schoenberg's aesthetics and language since 1913. Adorno's critique – just like all the rest, of course – is a product of its author's time and milieu. The present-day reader perceives that, for the Adorno of the 1940s, there was something inevitable about the Second Viennese School's work. For all Adorno's insights into Stravinsky, however, the Russo-French composer stood for something rather outside his range. The greater space is devoted to Schoenberg, who is considered first, thus prompting the reader to regard his work as somehow normative, whereas Stravinsky's is not. This reading enjoyed a deep resonance among the western European avant garde in its heyday in the 1950s. Boulez, Stockhausen and their Darmstadt followers recognised a kindred spirit in the Viennese composer who composed with manifest rigour, disdaining popular success and therefore avoiding any danger of consequent commercialisation. Stravinsky's work, by contrast, represented the musical establishment, when they were looking for fresh excitement from newer sources. They sought a 'renewed modernism', as G. W. Hopkins called it (in the 'Boulez' entry in the _New Grove_), whereas Stravinsky was accepted at his own pre-war valuation as an anti-modernist. Boulez held certain works, especially _The Rite of Spring_ , in great respect; his 1953 essay 'Strawinsky demeure' is devoted to an examination of its rhythm, and elsewhere Boulez made clear that he most prized the older composer as an innovator in rhythm. As a conductor, Boulez included Stravinsky selectively among the twentieth-century composers he championed. Yet the ideals of Boulez as composer admitted only certain works: it is impossible to avoid asking questions with a degree of anguish about the Stravinsky 'case'. How can one explain the speeded-up exhaustion which shows itself, after _Les Noces_ , in a sclerosis in all spheres – in harmony and melody, where one ends up with a faked academicism, and even rhythmically, where one sees a painful atrophy appearing? It was, then, the 'neoclassical' works that Boulez found impossible to accept, with their 'reworkings' of fragments drawn from previous music (see Boulez on _Pulcinella_ above). The later Boulez knew the works of Stravinsky's final period, when Schoenberg and Webern were added to the Russian composer's armoury. In his final phase, Stravinsky presented perhaps his greatest challenge to listeners and critics. In the words of Massimo Mila, writing in 1956: between the wars Stravinsky was the personification of neo-classicism; in him it achieved a depth and a splendour not found in any of its other exponents. Now that the age of neo-classicism is over . . . Stravinsky . . . has edged closer and closer to the opposite extreme of contemporary musical sensibility of which he was for so long the antithesis. A number of old friends and admirers failed to follow him in his embrace of twelve-note serialism, so great did the change of direction appear. Yet a few years later, and with the experience of works from _Threni_ to the _Requiem Canticles_ , the perspective had changed: It becomes clearer every day that figures like Debussy, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Berg and Webern, far from being mutually exclusive, were needed in their different ways to forge what we see today as the new universal language of music in its various dimensions and its varied aspects. The seemingly inevitable division and segregation into watertight compartments of the different outlooks and movements which appeared as if they were leading twentieth-century music along different paths is at present disappearing; indeed, in retrospect the apparent antagonism seems like a figment of the imagination rather than concrete fact. Stravinsky took a dim view of many critics who worked in his final homeland, considering Virgil Thomson and Olin Downes in particular as long-term foes. Nicolas Nabokov wrote on 13 October 1943 to ask Stravinsky to send him 'any particularly stupid reviews that you may happen to have, Downes's for example'. Stravinsky's resentment against some critics is evident in the following observation from 1962: As for Brother Criticus, I do not wish to spoil my temper, and my book, by speaking of _him_ here. A footnote follows: The open-door policy to new music in England in the last few years was made possible to a great extent by the accession of an intelligent younger generation in the musical press. In consequence, London has become a great capital of contemporary music. New York could and should be such a capital, too, for it boasts a greater number of fine instrumentalists than any city in the world. But New York must clean its journalistic house first. Some composers and performers make it a point of honour not to dispute with critics who they think have done them down. This attitude allows them to occupy higher ground than the lowly hacks. Posterity, they reckon, will see matters in their true light, and right the wrongs of the detestable present. This approach is taken by Ernst Krenek in writing to Stravinsky on 21 January 1962: Naturally, your angry refutation of [Albert] Goldberg's misstatements [in a review of _The Rake's Progress_ in the _Los Angeles Times_ ] is entirely justified, and so is your exasperation with his general attitude toward new music. Unfortunately, the vagueness of the subject matter and the standards prevailing in our society make it very difficult for the artist to take exception to unfair criticism because the critic can always claim that his judgment was based on subjective opinion (which Mr. Goldberg predictably has done immediately). That, again unfortunately, reduces the controversy in the public eye to a conflict of disadvantage because the artist is suspected of having an axe to grind, while the critic is basking in the light of the (however unwarranted) assumption that he is unbiased. Thus it is usually a thankless task for the artist to reply to his critics. Perhaps silent contempt is the best punishment, although one's patience frequently is taxed to the breaking point. Stravinsky's reply of 7 February indicates that he too subscribed to the principle but offers an explanation for behaving differently in this case: Your letter gave me much satisfaction. I share your attitude towards the critics and if I did not keep silence this time it is because I wanted to help the young generation to act. I have nothing to lose with the Goldbergs of the world: too old for that. A feeling of moral superiority warms the heart, but a dash of controversy is better for the box office (not to mention the royalties). Stravinsky's replies to several notices in the _Los Angeles Times_ (in 1962 and 1970) and the _New York Times_ (in 1965, 1970 and 1971) illustrate his intense interest in how his work was viewed. (Correspondence with M. D. Calvocoressi from London provides evidence of this interest much earlier, in 1913.) Stravinsky protested about various statements made by Albert Goldberg and Martin Bernheimer in the west-coast newspaper, and Harold Schonberg and Clive Barnes in the east-coast one. The virtuosity in using the English language suggests Robert Craft's hand, but the zest – flowing, presumably from the composer himself – was equal to that evident when squibs were launched earlier in Stravinsky's career. Recent critics have tended to find common ground where their predecessors saw only sharp antagonisms. Thus wrote Charles Rosen in 1975: Neoclassicism and serialism (or twelve-tone music) are often considered polar opposites. The enmity between Vienna and Paris, between the school of Schoenberg and the school of Stravinsky, is a fact of history . . . This opposition has long since broken down: not only have the two 'schools' drawn closer together, but their differences – even at the height of the crossfire in the late 1920s – no longer seem significant. A sense of the fundamentally Stravinskian quality of Stravinsky's music, of its basic unity in spite of the many evident differences, is now frequently expressed. Conclusion Audiences in the present like their picture of contemporary art to be limned in vivid colours, with heroes and villains embodying opposing parties. It is in the interest of composers too, as they forge ahead of colleagues less musically gifted (or simply less publicity-conscious) to claim their work as more new, radical and challenging than that of predecessors or coevals. Many of these claims will be couched in simple phrases that try to encapsulate much larger ideas. Milton Babbitt wrote in 1971 about what he considered a slick, meaningless catchphrase: To Stravinsky, 'back to Bach' was just that, an alliteratively catchy slogan, which had no pertinence to professional activity or professional discourse. It was there, permitted to be concocted, like 'neoclassicism', to be talked about by those who could not and should not talk about the music, who didn't even bother to hear the music, but who, when they bandied about the catch words, were 'talking about Stravinsky'. One of the functions critics perform, in the guise of sifting good from less good, is to present the views of one composer or another, one camp or another, to the musical community. They thereby help spread awareness of the issues involved. The work of a great composer will not lend itself to crude pigeon-holing, but will take a route that is unpredictable and (in the strict sense) peculiar because prompted by the composer's genius. Critics' attempts to connect specific works with specific models or assign them to particular traditions will be hampered by a great composer's idiosyncratic selection of his own methods and style. As Jonathan Cross has put it: Whereas Adorno tried to evaluate Stravinsky in an Austro-German context, for Taruskin the enormity of Stravinsky's achievement and, indeed, the very root of his modernity are a result of his willingness . . . to be an out-and-out Russian composer. The attempt to identify conjunctions and affiliations is none the less valid, and whether composers like or dislike the results, the process is established and probably ineradicable. Though Stravinsky thought that critics gave him a hard time, he would have had a harder time without them. 13 LOUIS ANDRIESSEN AND JONATHAN CROSS Composing with Stravinsky The true influence of Stravinsky has only just begun. ANDRIESSEN AND SCHÖNBERGER , 1989 Stravinsky into the twenty-first century JONATHAN CROSS There was a time when the course of twentieth-century music was charted almost exclusively in terms of Austro-German modernism. While certain key non-Teutonic early-modern works were recognised for their revolutionary status – among them, Debussy's _Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune_ , Ives's 'Concord' Sonata, Bartók's _Miraculous Mandarin_ and, of course, Stravinsky's _The Rite of Spring_ – the development of the avant garde was constructed in general in relation to a line starting with Schoenberg and his two most famous pupils, and projecting itself through its Darmstadt manifestations (Boulez, Stockhausen) into the future. And this is precisely how Schoenberg himself imagined history would turn out when, on developing his twelve-note method of composition, he declared: 'Today I have discovered something that will ensure the supremacy of German music for the next hundred years.' In 1951, Pierre Boulez attempted to perpetuate Schoenberg's myth by proclaiming that 'since the discoveries of the Viennese School, all non-serial composers are _useless'_ (not a view he would necessarily hold today). Led in the 1940s by Theodor Adorno (most notably in _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ ) – a highly influential figure at Darmstadt – Schoenberg and Stravinsky were pitted against each other as polar opposites: Schoenberg the Progressive, Stravinsky the Regressive. It became fashionable to dismiss Stravinsky as a mere neoclassicist (as if Schoenberg, too, were not guilty of such a charge). It was only when, following the death of Schoenberg in 1951, Stravinsky himself turned towards serialism, that he was seen to have joined the 'mainstream' (Adorno expressed his 'pleasure' in 'Stravinsky's departure from the reactionary camp'). In fact, what happened to Stravinsky in the 1950s is an extraordinary and virtually unprecedented phenomenon: having inspired a younger generation of composers early in the century, he was later in life to be influenced himself by those younger generations. It seems Stravinsky was fascinated by the goings-on at Darmstadt and was present at – among other things – the premiere of Boulez's _Structures_ , as well as being deeply affected by Robert Craft's American performances of Webern. Of course, it requires greater effort to learn from one's juniors . . . But when you are seventy-five and your generation has overlapped with four younger ones, it behoves you not to decide in advance 'how far composers can go', but to try to discover whatever new thing it is makes the new generation new. Stravinsky's own _Movements_ for piano and orchestra of 1958–9 is a clear response to the Webern-inspired experiments of his younger colleagues. Yet Stravinsky went on to develop his own brand of (not necessarily dodecaphonic) serialism that anticipated the re-evaluation of the twelve-note method that took place in the last few decades of the twentieth century. In this regard, the slightly earlier _Agon_ is fascinating. Cited by figures as diverse as Birtwistle, Boulez, Carter and Tavener, its influence on younger composers has proved to be as much a result of its formal structure, its acutely heard orchestration, and its balancing of diatonic, chromatic and twelve-note materials, as of its serial organisation _per se_. But – to introduce a theme explored by Louis Andriessen in the conversation that follows – how is Stravinsky still a revolutionary figure for the twenty-first century? We can certainly say that Stravinsky's legacy to the whole of the twentieth century has been enormous. This has only gradually become clear as Stravinsky emerged from Schoenberg's dominant shadow, as the history of modernism has been rewritten to take account of a far wider network of influences. There have, of course, been composers who have directly imitated aspects of Stravinsky's musical language, from contemporaries such as Varèse and Antheil, through Poulenc, Orff and Copland (the 'Brooklyn' Stravinsky), to countless contemporary film composers (listen to John Williams's music for Steven Spielberg's _Jaws_ and you will hear _The Rite of Spring_ at almost every turn). But Stravinsky's influence has also been far more subtle and far-reaching than these examples might at first suggest. Take just one work: _The Rite_. It has certainly had its imitators. But the power of its rhythmic and metric innovations, its block structures and simultaneous layering of musical ideas, its phenomenal orchestration, its sheer elemental energy – all these radical features have ensured that _The Rite_ has cast a strong shadow over the entire century. Varèse's _Amériques_ , Messiaen's _Turangalîla-symphonie_ , Xenakis's _Metastasis_ , Carter's Double Concerto for piano and harpsichord (which Stravinsky himself described as a 'masterpiece'), and Birtwistle's _Earth Dances_ are all modelled in fascinating ways on aspects of _The Rite of Spring_. Other works by Stravinsky have proved to be equally influential. The unrelenting rhythmic energy of _Les Noces_ is, if anything, even more powerful than that of _The Rite_ , and certainly more sustained – a feature that was picked up and pushed to extremes in Antheil's extraordinary _Ballet mécanique_. And its ritualised concluding bells ring right across the twentieth century into the spiritual rituals of, for example, Arvo Pärt. In purely structural terms, Stravinsky's most influential work has undoubtedly been the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_. Its aesthetic is described by Taruskin using the Russian word _drobnost_ ', which he defines as '"splinteredness"; the quality of being formally disunified, a sum-of-parts'. This can be related to the cut-and-paste techniques of film production. In the _Symphonies_ this manifests itself as a mosaic-like organisation whose consequences can be heard echoed in the 'episodic' organisation of music as diverse as Messiaen's _Cantéyodjayâ_ and _Couleurs de la cité céleste_ , Tippett's Piano Sonata no. 2 and his opera _King Priam_ , Stockhausen's _Momente_ , Andriessen's _De Staat_ , everywhere in Birtwistle and Xenakis, even – in places – in Ferneyhough. This is not to say that block structures are not found elsewhere in Stravinsky (they are certainly also clearly present in _Petrushka_ and _The Rite_ ), and indeed in the music of other composers such as Debussy (most notably in _Jeux_ ). But the _Symphonies_ is the boldest expression of _drobnost_ ': its confident anti-organic stance sets it in stark opposition to contemporary through-composed German music, and it remains – even almost a hundred years on – one of the freshest and most imaginative works of the twentieth century. One of the defining features of Stravinsky's music that distinguishes it most clearly from other strands of modernism is its sense of ritual. It was to this dimension of his music, among other things, that Stravinsky was referring when he famously wrote in his _Autobiography_ that music is powerless to express anything at all. It is not that this music is without emotion: rather, it is concerned with an expression of communal, collective experiences; it is symbolic and stylised rather than representational; it taps into ancient, timeless ceremonies and acts of worship. This is variously evident in such stage works as _The Rite_ , _Oedipus Rex_ and _The Flood_ , and also in the almost Brechtian 'alienation' achieved in such works as _Renard_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ and _The Rake's Progress_. But it is evident in so many of his concert works too: the ritualised final chorale of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , the folk rituals of _Les Noces_ , the religious rituals of the _Symphony of Psalms_ and _Requiem Canticles_ , the instrument role-play of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_. While it is true that many playwrights were also exploring ritualised, non-narrative theatres at the same time, Stravinsky's brand of musical ritual has proved a fruitful model for composers as diverse as Berio and Reich, Maxwell Davies and Henze. Finally, Stravinsky has become increasingly important to us because of the ways in which he anticipates so many of the concerns of our postmodern age. The breaking down of the barriers between so-called 'high' and 'low' art by means of his free use of popular musical materials ( _Ragtime,_ the _Ebony Concerto_ , even aspects of the _Symphony in Three Movements_ ) pre-echoes the thinking of many of today's 'crossover' artists. The boundaries between 'classical', 'experimental', 'rock', 'pop' and 'jazz' have been infinitely stretched, as demonstrated by (in the Netherlands) Andriessen and his work with De Volharding, or (in the USA) Michael Gordon, or (in the UK) Steve Martland and Michael Nyman. And where would so many minimal and post-minimal composers be without Stravinsky (Reich, Adams, Torke, Fitkin, etc.)? Not only their attitudes to the materials that they use, not only the rhythmic vitality of their music, but their very sound-world is deeply indebted to Stravinsky. (Just compare the opening of Adams's frequently performed _Short Ride in a Fast Machine_ with the opening of _Petrushka._ ) Stravinsky was never a postmodernist; he was 'essentially a pre-postmodern composer'. But by placing past music and contemporary popular musics in new contexts he enabled us to see them in new ways, he suggested rich compositional possibilities. The past becomes a part of the present. This is why _The Rake's Progress_ is such an important work, because it can be understood on so many different levels, from pastiche Mozart to a powerful critique of the whole of operatic history. If Schoenberg's legacy to the century was his method, then Stravinsky's legacy was his attitude. Arnold Schoenberg dominated the first half of the twentieth century. It could be said that John Cage dominated the second half. But increasingly it is being acknowledged that, in so many different ways, the twentieth century was Stravinsky's century. And it is only in recent decades that composers of so many persuasions have felt able wholeheartedly to acknowledge their indebtedness to Stravinsky. While it might be argued that the possibilities suggested by serialism and aleatoricism have been exhausted, composers today are still freely working with the ideas and even the materials bestowed by Stravinsky. At the beginning of a new century, it will be fascinating to see how far Andriessen's assertion holds up: the true influence of Stravinsky has only just begun. Composing with Stravinsky LOUIS ANDRIESSEN IN CONVERSATION WITH JONATHAN CROSS Jonathan Cross _You have often said that you believe the music of Stravinsky to be important for the twenty-first century as well as for the twentieth. Further, you wrote in your book that the 'true influence of Stravinsky keeps_ _beginning all over again'._ _Do you still stand by these statements? In what ways do you think they are still true today?_ Louis Andriessen There was a great deal of wishful thinking in those statements! I hope that they're still true and I don't have any strong reason to feel that the situation has changed very much. In the first place, it has to do not with Stravinsky's attitude to musical material, which is a philosophical subject, but more with the social element in his music, its social character. By this I mean Stravinsky's idea of the anti-hierarchical nature of musical sources and materials. I think that was Stravinsky's most important step forward compared with what Schoenberg did, who had tried to democratise only the pitches. It looks as if I might be right: with the advent of what is called postmodernism, modernism (complex chromatic music) seems no longer to be the future of music but more like the final dead-end of German Romanticism. I already had my doubts about it in the late 1950s/early 1960s, and many more people are on my side now. I do think that young composers – America is a good example – have turned away from what they call Eurocentric thinking. They have started to understand that there are all kinds of other musics that can be very important to study and to use in the development of their musical languages. Of course, there is also a neo-colonial side to American culture which I hate, which they call 'world music'. That is all disgusting. JC _This is not democratic at all, then?_ LA On the contrary. It is a kind of capitalist colonialism. But there is this other side. Steve Reich is probably an elegant example. Precedents for such thinking can be found in Stravinsky's music, even in the early works. That is what I meant by Stravinsky's influence. JC _Do you think, in that case, that Schoenberg and Webern have had their day, that their influence has run its course?_ LA Well, the problem is that history is not one line. But I think it's true: certainly for Schoenberg it's true. But since Schoenberg created late Webern, we get into difficulty, because late Webern has something to do with a non-developmental form which is very traditional and classical, not Romantic at all, and which is much closer to Josquin. From there we get back to Stravinsky. And probably also Morton Feldman, whom I regard as a very important composer. So with geniuses like Anton Webern – and Schoenberg – it's very difficult to pin them down historically. And it's the same when you talk more generally about serialism. Of course, there is an enormous amount of very stupid and muddy music written in the style, but there are also the masterpieces of Stockhausen and Boulez, who are very important composers. They were historically necessary. On the other hand, serial thinking itself, when you abstract it from the acute twelve-note works, is extremely strong, a very important way out of all the silly optimistic music which was written before and after the Second World War. All those Sinfoniettas for String Orchestra, all the Carl Orff stuff, and all that second-hand music. JC _So, serial thought remains important, even though the influence of Schoenberg himself has declined?_ LA The funny thing is that when Boulez and Stockhausen did what they did in the late 1940s, they didn't think for one minute that it had anything to do with German Romanticism. They had no idea. Stockhausen worked in studios. He was busy finding completely new sounds and (he thought) new musical ideas. I remember a conference on electronic music in Venice in 1958. Nono was there, Berio, Germans also: I met a lot of impressive people. And then Holland showed up with a little octatonic, optimistic piece for violin and electronics by Henk Badings. The music really offended people like Nono who believed you should not combine old musical material with new media. The new medium meant, for them, new musical thinking. JC _Boulez, it seems to me, is a very interesting figure because, on the one hand, we immediately think of him as part of that Darmstadt generation of the late 1940s who reinterpreted Webern, but, on the other hand, he's a very Stravinskian composer._ LA Yes, he would admit that. JC _Not just as a result of his famous analysis of_ The Rite of Spring _but because of the kind of compositional attitude he has: an interest in ritual, in building large structures out of relatively limited material, constantly reviewing ideas rather than their being developed in a Schoenbergian sense._ LA He's not a Romantic or an Expressionist composer at all. In the best French tradition, he's an _artisanat_ composer. He would not have read Maritain much, but on the philosophical level he's much more a Stravinskian than a Schoenbergian. In fact, he was one of the first to say that Schoenberg was dead. JC _Can you remember the first piece of Stravinsky you ever heard?_ LA No! What I remember very strongly were the 78 rpm records we had of _The Rite of Spring_. It was a very good recording (I think it was Telefunken: Eduard van Beinem with the Concertgebouw Orchestra) which was one of the few records we had in the house in the early 1950s. We also played a lot of piano for four hands as a family. I suppose I must have heard other Stravinsky before that, but this is my strongest, longest love. There was a score in the house too, though not a piano four hands version. JC _So was Stravinsky – and_ The Rite _in particular – important to your father as a composer?_ LA In 1950 – I was ten years old then – we moved from Utrecht to Den Haag. I remember the score of _Oedipus Rex_ was in the house, and the _Symphony of Psalms_. There was also a recording of the _Symphony of Psalms_. My father always talked of it with much admiration. His only criticism was that he found the choral writing too stiff, too square. It was a recurrent theme of his: as a Catholic composer, he was deeply rooted in brilliant choral writing (all those Masses in the French or Italian style). JC _You have also said of_ The Rite _that it is a key work for the twenty-first century. Clearly it was an influential work in its day and you can easily see the shadow that_ The Rite _has cast on the twentieth century. But what leads you to say that even for the twenty-first century it's a revolutionary work?_ LA I think it still makes sense to say this. What we and the next age have to learn from _The Rite_ is not, in the first place, the development of rhythm, but the magical combination of diatonic melodic material and chromatic harmonic material. That's a key point that Stravinsky never talked about. It's very clear. It's the crux of the piece, much more than the 'oompa-oompa-oompa'. I think the strange combination of very simple melodies with very refined harmony is still a secret. We all try to find how it works and nobody will ever find the answer: that's the magic of _The Rite_ , I suppose. I think that's the idea of crossing the borders of highbrow and lowbrow music. JC _In what way, precisely – the high and the low working together?_ LA Well, the melodies are just little pop songs, basically! But the harmonies are linked much more closely to what happened at that time in the most advanced music of Skryabin, Ravel – that is, the people he was really influenced by. JC _And Rimsky-Korsakov, of course._ LA Yes. Always Rimsky. JC _I find that very interesting. We know all those pieces from the 1920s and 1930s that imitate the most obvious rhythmic features of Stravinsky (you mentioned Carl Orff). One tires of it so quickly. But what is so exciting to me about a work like_ Les Noces _is precisely that its harmonic complexity is virtually impossible to imitate._ LA And the combination [of harmony and rhythm]. The harmonies were already used in part by Ravel and Debussy. But then it's still only the harmonies. Stravinsky seems to be different. JC _In what sense have you worked consciously with Stravinsky? What have you as a composer drawn from Stravinsky?_ LA I would probably now say different things from what I said in _The Apollonian Clockwork_. Basically, a lot of that book is about what I did. It's my homage to composing. But the way I think of it now is that what I call an 'attitude towards material' is by far the most important thing. I also find this same attitude in other arts and I make connections with them. Nabokov is a very good example in literature; Picasso in the visual arts. We give some examples of composers in the book. It has to do with what I call alienation. You start at a distance. Distance is necessary to protect your vulnerability as a composer. Irony has to do with protecting your sentiments. And then you are freed for composing. I don't mean irony in the sense of saying the opposite of what you mean. It is a very profound form of philosophy in art. I discovered in recent years that the word irony was used by German philosophers around the time of Hegel. Schlegel spoke of dramatic irony. This was the start of Romanticism. This early Romantic period is also very interesting in music, I think: Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Chopin are very important. Later there is no irony; they fall into sentimentality. There's a big difference. JC _Do you think that was what Stravinsky was getting at in his much misquoted and misunderstood statement about music being powerless to express anything at all? Some take this simply as a credo of art for art's sake, but could it in fact have something to do with this ironic distancing?_ LA I think ultimately it has to do with his love for early or non-Romantic music. You should realise that, at that time, Romantic music was all you heard. That was musical life in Europe. There was no new practice, no Baroque practice, there was no contemporary music. That was what Stravinsky criticised: an angry young man railing against this bourgeois practice. However, it is a little bit more precise and profound than that: you see in his Harvard lectures that he must have discussed the whole _artisanat_ philosophy with Roland-Manuel . . . JC _Yes. But it is a problem that much of_ Poetics of Music _wasn't actually written by Stravinsky._ LA But they [Stravinsky, Alexis Roland-Manuel and Pierre Souvtchinsky] must have had discussions. Stravinsky said what he wanted to say. JC _And he kept on saying it, and it became more and more rigidified. You are very engaged politically as a musician, not just in the music you write but in the way you wish your music to be understood, the context within which it is to be played. How do you relate to that aspect of Stravinsky who – at least on the surface – seemed totally disengaged politically? Is that problematic for you?_ LA No. The person has very little to do with his work. As I said in the heat of political struggle in the 1960s and 70s, a good communist is not necessarily a good composer, and vice versa. Stravinsky's music crosses social and geographical borders. Stravinsky opposed the class-based society in Europe of the early twentieth century. JC _Could we talk a little more about the specifics of Stravinsky's music? The Stravinsky 'sound' is something I hear in your music: an acute attention to the way in which voices move, how they're placed, and so on . . ._ LA It certainly has something to do with voice leading. There's what we call in the book the 'unison as utopia'. There's a kind of voice leading which is completely 'wrong' from one voice to another, all the time. And this 'wrongness' in his music after 1920 he stole from Bach. In the book we talk about playing the 'Brandenburg' Concertos for four hands – there you see how Bach has very funny voice leading all the time. In Stravinsky it's completely different: in every bar there's one note out of place, completely wrong. But it sounds _almost_ right; that's so funny. That's very typical for Stravinsky, I think. His instrumentation is ultimately of lesser importance. And there are a lot of other things, like his harmonic rhythm, which is very strange. I gave a lesson today to a young composer who works with Ligeti-like development of little musical 'quarks'. Today I criticised the fact that he likes to write in 4/4; he changes the tempo, but 4/4 is easy for him to do. And then I told him of the possibility of a dialectical situation with the bass seeming to be rhythmical but which is sometimes on and sometimes off the beat. Stravinsky achieves this with time-signature changes. Why does he do that? The melody is extremely important for him but he makes the bass sometimes syncopated, sometimes not. It becomes very light: that's what he wants. You show this to your pupils to make them looser or more flexible. But they should not imitate. JC _What fascinates me is Stravinsky's theatre and the different kinds of theatres he's built. We've talked about alienation, but ritual is also important and, it seems to me, it's an important part of what you do in your theatre pieces too. Is the Stravinskian idea of theatre something you keep coming back to?_ LA I think theatre is absolutely essential. Diaghilev must have had an incredible influence on Stravinsky. Boulez once asked what would have happened had Stravinsky and Brecht worked together. JC _But Brecht always wanted his audience to remain disengaged from the action, which I'm not convinced Stravinsky did._ LA But that is later, much later. In the 1920s I think what he wanted to do with _Oedipus Rex_ was very Brechtian. Brecht was one of the first to study non-Western theatre: he knew everything about Noh theatre; he studied Chinese things. It's the same attitude, I think. JC _Do you think about Brecht when you're making your theatre pieces?_ LA I had a lot of experience working for a theatre group in the 1970s – _Baal_ it was called, which is also the title of Brecht's first play. They were completely crazy! The little operas we did (with a lot of spoken dialogue) made me the theatre man I became. Before that I had already done film and theatre music, I worked with dance people; I had even done puppet theatre music by the time I was fifteen. Yes, I feel very much that Brecht is there. JC _What about film? This was a medium Stravinsky didn't really work in at all. One would imagine that the kind of music he wrote would have worked very well with film._ LA At that time, film was only a commercial attraction. It had nothing really to do with any art form at all, with a few exceptions. There was some avant-garde film-making in the 1920s in Europe, and of course there was Bu˜nuel. Nobody knew this work in the 20s. Hollywood meant only third-rate art . . . and money. Sometimes Stravinsky tried it, and he got a commission [for _Jane Eyre_ , with Orson Welles as Rochester]. Of course, they thought it crazy music. They couldn't use it and they asked somebody else [Bernard Herrmann]. But they paid him. Nowadays, with video, it's different. You can do crazy things. But in Stravinsky's time the medium was not interesting; theatre was much more advanced. JC _How do you view the current situation of new music in the Netherlands, both through your own pupils and other composers around you? It's often said anecdotally that Stravinsky has always been very important for post-Second World War Dutch composers. Would you say this is still true?_ LA I still believe it's true. I suppose the fact that we were liberated by Canadians and Americans means that the influence of American culture in general – both positively and negatively – has been much stronger in Holland than even in England and certainly than in Germany and France. I think the influence of American film culture and American jazz was extremely strong. That's why the musical scene here since the 1960s has been different – in general more Stravinsky- or Varèseoriented . . . American-oriented, I would say. Stravinsky could almost have been considered an American composer by then. Perhaps it's also because we don't have mountains: the land is flat, the light is sharp. People say it has to do with Calvinism. There's a lot of very strong reformed Protestantism in Holland and many composers like to be very rigid . . . like Mondrian, as an example in art. But I think it's amazing how many things are possible here, and I think this is why Stravinsky is supposedly very important. It has also to do with jazz music, improvisational music, which is very strong in Holland. This is also close to American culture. Thinking of Schoenberg or Webern and jazz is totally impossible. The big advantage [of the presence of strong jazz departments in all the major Dutch conservatoires] for what I'm doing, and for the future, is the emancipation of so-called lowbrow instruments like guitar or saxophone or percussion. Nowadays, Dutch saxophone players can play everything. They can improvise fantastically, they play all the bebop changes; but they can also play all my music. I need that kind of saxophone player, not the French-style elegance. The guitar's the same. When I wrote the very difficult bass guitar part in _De Staat_ in 1976 there was one brilliant guy who could do a reasonably good job. Nowadays several players can do it. But there is this Dutch sound. Cornelis de Bondt, for instance, is very Dutch: his is a really new approach to Stravinsky. Totally new. JC _You've spent a fair amount of time in America where your music is very popular. What do you see there? Is it possible to generalise about what young composers in America are doing now?_ LA In general, you should not generalise. JC _But are there certain trends you observe?_ LA I think that, in general, composers in America are less historically aware; in Europe we have much more the feeling that there is this profound support from history. I suppose Americans like me because my music shows both aspects. It's very Americanised – at least my music from the 1970s and early 80s is. In university teaching of composition in America there were some fortresses of modernism – let's say Columbia, Yale, Princeton. But those things have changed completely now. In almost all good universities there are teachers who know everything about, say, Charlie Parker. JC _How do you see other European countries . . . Germany? Britain?_ LA I think in other European countries contemporary music often consists only of playing complex twelve-note stuff, and only fifty well-dressed bourgeois people come to hear it. It's always the same people: a totally closed circle. In Holland, and specifically in Amsterdam, it's different. One of my German composer friends, Heiner Goebbels, has the same attitude as me: he writes a kind of music that is quite intelligent and sharp but not _too_ much like Brian Ferneyhough. Berlin seems to be very active and we hope that there will be some crossovers there. Britain I cannot judge. I suppose it's somewhat closer to Holland than it is to France and Germany. However, the diversity in England is also very clear. You have your elegant [George] Benjamin kind of composers. And the Finnissy kind. There is not one line: nowadays that's probably true only for very small countries. And then I think there's a kind of optimistic Stravinskian writing which I find also in some Irish composers such as Gerald Barry. Colin Matthews, Julian Anderson I like, many neo-Stravinskian composers. There are several thirty-fiveyear-olds like them. And don't underestimate a composer like Harry Birtwistle. He's not simply a Schoenbergian or a Stravinskian (though he's more Stravinskian than Schoenbergian). He's a very good composer. JC _What are you working on at the moment?_ LA I finished my second opera with Peter Greenaway [ _Writing to Vermeer_ , 1999], which was a completely different kind of music for me. Ravel was the person I thought of when I wrote the music. But that's not so far away from Stravinsky. Now what I'm very interested in is the combination of sound and image, so I work a lot with visual artists. Of course, I have been incredibly spoilt with Greenaway: he's a genius. Now I work with another film maker in New York, Hal Hartley, whom I like very much. We did one little video [ _The New Math(s)_ , 2001], and we will do another one I hope. And we will probably do a live theatre work in 2003. But at the moment I'm writing a kind of double concerto. JC _Are you aware, even now, of the shadow of Stravinsky falling over you when you're sitting at your desk composing?_ LA Well, above my grand piano, on the right-hand side is a little picture of my wife, and on the left-hand side is the incredible picture of Balanchine looking over Stravinsky's shoulder. It's an amazing photo. I don't know. He's like a friend. My father is, of course, closer just because he was my father. [ _Pointing to his bookcases_ ] This is all the Stravinsky literature for the book – there's even languages I cannot read like Finnish and Russian. There are all the scores and the piano scores. I discussed with Craft the possibility of writing an orchestral suite from _The Rake's Progress_ , but I think I will not do it, because I need trombones. When you take out the voices you need some more instruments, and I find that too difficult because there are no trombones in the original orchestra. I can't do it. I'm probably too puritanical to do that. 14 RICHARD TARUSKIN Stravinsky and us When, at the dawn of the third millennium, we use the word 'Stravinsky', we no longer merely name a person. We mean a collection of ideas – ideas embodied in, or rather construed out of, a certain body of highly valued musical and literary texts that acquired enormous authority in twentieth-century musical culture. That authority and its consequences are what have been preoccupying my thoughts about Stravinsky since completing _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , which, though published in 1996, was not as recent a study as it seemed. It had spent almost seven years in press, during which time my thinking about the bundle of notions called 'Stravinsky' underwent considerable change. In keeping with the scholarly tradition in which I was trained, my book was almost wholly concerned with the production of those texts, and with determining their place within the historical context contemporaneous with them. My thinking since has been more concerned with the relationship between those texts, and the ideas construed from them, and the contexts in which they have existed since the time of their production, up to their present contexts, including this book. Just as in _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ I considered the reciprocal manner in which Stravinsky received influences from his surroundings and influenced those surroundings in turn, so I continue to be interested in that reciprocity of influence in the period since his death. As I hope to demonstrate, Stravinskian ideas have been so influential that one could almost say that twentieth-century European and Euro-American musical culture has been created in the image of Stravinsky. But at the same time, as Stravinsky reminded us over and over again, an influence is (or can be) something we choose to submit to. And we can be very choosy indeed about what we value and make our own in what is offered to us. So one could say with equal justice that we have created Stravinsky in our image. This reciprocity is what I have taken for my theme: the mutually defining relationship, Stravinsky and us. This text is a speech, not a book chapter, although in its slightly modified printed form it has been provided with references. It was commissioned by Nicholas Kenyon for the BBC and delivered at the Royal College of Music in August 1996 as the inaugural BBC Proms Lecture. Thereafter it served for five years as its author's lecture-platform Bucephalus, at venues ranging from The Hague to Melbourne. Its last oral delivery took place as the Faculty Research Lecture at the University of California at Berkeley in April 2001. I am grateful to my many audiences for points raised at question time, often leading to improvements. The meanings and values arising out of that relationship fundamentally structured our beliefs and our behaviour as twentieth-century musicians, music lovers and human beings. Some of them, I believe, are overdue for re-examination now that we have become inhabitants of the twenty-first century. In 1966, which turned out to be the last year of Igor Stravinsky's active creative life, his musical and literary assistant Robert Craft summed up the composer's position in the history of twentieth-century music by observing that 'he is one of the representative spokesmen of 1966 as he was of '06, '16, '26, and so on'. Indeed he was far more than that. By 1966 he did not merely represent the history of twentieth-century music; he practically constituted it. The story of his career had been generalised into the story of twentieth-century music. But in the process of that generalisation it had been turned into a myth – or rather, into a congeries of myths, some of them of Stravinsky's own devising, others myths to which he had willingly submitted, still others myths to which his work had been assimilated without his direct participation. The first work of Stravinsky's to achieve mythical status was, of course, _The Rite of Spring_ , the ballet first performed under the title _Le Sacre du printemps_. Stravinsky conceived the work (as 'The Great Sacrifice') in 1910; began composing it in 1911; endured the riotous fiasco of the May 1913 premiere; experienced through it, shortly before his thirty-second birthday the next year, the triumph of his career ('such as _composers_ rarely enjoy', as he bragged in old age); and spent the rest of his long life telling lies about it. In 1920 he told a reporter that the ballet had been originally conceived as a piece of pure, plotless instrumental music ('une oeuvre architectonique et non anecdotique'). In 1931 he told his first authorised biographer that the opening bassoon melody was the only quoted folk song in the score. In 1960 he asserted through Craft that the work was wholly without tradition, the product of intuition alone. 'I heard and I wrote what I heard', he declared. 'I am the vessel through which _Le Sacre_ passed.' These allegations and famous words have long since passed into the enduring folklore of twentieth-century music. Now we know that the ballet's scenario is a highly detailed and (but for the culminating human sacrifice) an ethnographically accurate pair of 'Scenes of Pagan Russia', as the ballet's oft-suppressed subtitle proclaims. It was planned in painstaking detail, by the composer in collaboration with the painter and archaeologist Nicholas Roerich, before a note was written. The score contains nine identifiable folk songs, all of them selected with the same eye towards ethnographic authenticity as governed the assembling of the scenario. And finally, in its technique of composition, the music magnificently embodied and extended a very specific immediate and local tradition – a repertoire of harmonic devices based on an 'artificial' scale of alternating whole tones and semitones, which Stravinsky's teacher Rimsky-Korsakov had educed from the music of Liszt and passed along to all his pupils. So the myth of _The Rite of Spring_ incorporated at least two big truths at variance with the ascertainable facts: first, that the music was 'pure', abstract, unbeholden to any specific time and place for its inspiration; and second, that it represented a violent stylistic rupture with the past, when all the while it was conceived as an exuberantly maximalistic celebration of two pasts – the remote past of its subject and the more recent past of its style. And yet myths are not merely lies. They are explanatory fictions, higher truths – enabling or empowering narratives that take us _a realibus ad realiora_ , 'from the real to the more real', to quote Vyacheslav Ivanov, the symbolist poet who was counting on the artists of the early twentieth century, and the musicians above all, to usher in a new mythological age. Stravinsky gave tacit acknowledgement of Ivanov's idea when, in conversation with Robert Craft, he tried to improve upon his famous fighting words of the 1930s – that music 'is incapable of _expressing_ anything at all' – by remarking that 'music is supra-personal and super-real and as such beyond verbal meanings and verbal descriptions', and that instead of depicting ordinary reality, 'a new piece of music _is_ a new reality'. This mythographic or mythopoetic sense of music is one of the essential Stravinskian truths. In the first instance, the myth or 'new reality' of _The Rite of Spring_ empowered Stravinsky. Having first made his name, courtesy of Sergey Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, as the protagonist and beneficiary of the greatest craze for Russian music ever to possess the West (as a result of which it was widely, if briefly, acknowledged that Russia had inherited the musical leadership of Europe), but having renounced Russia in the wake of the 1917 revolution and the ensuing Bolshevik _coup d'état_ , Stravinsky wished frantically not only to attach himself to the Western – or 'panromanogermanic' – musical mainstream, as nationalistic émigrés like him understood it, but to keep up his status as its leader. He rejected the parochial lore of his birthright and embraced an aggressively cosmopolitan ideology of absolute music – music without a passport, without a past, without 'extramusical' content of any kind. At the same time this myth of _The Rite_ was a powerful enabler for others as well. Detached from their national background and their motivating subject-matter, the neo-primitivist musical innovations in _The Rite_ – its fragmentedness, its 'staticness', its radical structural simplifications – provided its legions of imitators with a quick, very necessary bath in the river Lethe at a time when the European tradition seemed over. That is why there _were_ so many imitators. And that, by the way, is what 'neoclassicism', at least at first, was all about. It had nothing to do, at first, with stylistic retrospectivism or revivalism, with 'returning to Bach' or with vicarious imperial restorations. It had everything to do with a ' _style dépouillé_ ', a stripped-down, denuded style, and with the same neo-primitivist, anti-humanistic ideals that had already motivated _The Rite_ and the other masterworks of Stravinsky's late 'Russian period', especially _Svadebka_ ( _The Wedding_ , first performed as _Les Noces_ ). This much we may read in the very first journalistic essay to attach the N-word to Stravinsky – the very first essay, in fact, to apply the word without irony to modern music. It was written in 1923, the year in which Stravinsky's Octet for wind instruments (the first 'back to Bach' piece) was performed, but several months earlier. The man who wrote it was Boris de Schloezer, like Stravinsky a Russian émigré, who is best known for his writings on Skryabin, his brother-in-(common)-law. The most revealing aspect of Schloezer's early exposition of Stravinsky's neoclassicism is the work that inspired it: not _Pulcinella_ , not the Octet, but the _Symphonies d'instruments à vent_ , a work we now tend to look upon (and that Stravinsky surely looked upon then) as the composer's valedictory to his 'Russian period'. Nothing could be more critical than this unexpected circumstance to our understanding of Stravinsky's neoclassicism. What made the _Symphonies_ 'neoclassical' for Schloezer, thence for many others, was the assumption that it was only a system of sounds, which follow one another and group themselves according to purely musical affinities; the thought of the artist places itself only in the musical plan without ever setting foot in the domain of psychology. Emotions, feelings, desires, aspirations – this is the terrain from which he has pushed his work. These words might seem quite irrelevant to the poetic conception underlying the _Symphonies_ (a memorial for Debussy that is actually cast in the form of an Orthodox funeral service), but Stravinsky lost no time in appropriating Schloezer's view. As early as the next year, he was looking back on the _Symphonies_ as the first of his 'so-called classical works'. Schloezer had, in effect, revealed to the composer the underlying, indeed profound relationship between his earlier rejection of personal 'emotions, feelings, desires and aspirations' in ritualistic works such as _The Rite_ and _The Wedding_ , and the new aesthetic of abstraction that attracted not only Stravinsky but any number of modernist artists to the postwar 'call to order' (Cocteau's famous phrase) – a call they heeded in the name of a resurgent, reformulated 'classicism'. From this perspective the _Symphonies_ was indeed a turning-point – or could be one if its 'extramusical' content were purged. And so, in a programme note that accompanied performances of the _Symphonies_ in the late 1920s and 1930s, Stravinsky went one better than Schloezer, describing the work as entirely formalist and transcendent: an arrangement of 'tonal masses . . . sculptured in marble . . . to be regarded objectively by the ear'. The Bachian resonances that we now associate with 'neoclassicism' came later, as a metaphor for that transcendence and that objectivity. They have about as much to do with the historical Johann Sebastian Bach as the new line about _The Rite of Spring_ had to do with the historical Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky and his original expressive aims. But no matter! We are dealing here not with facts but with myths, not with _realia_ but with _realiora_ , not with the real but with the realer, and the fundamental formalist commitment is the great Stravinsky myth, the great Stravinsky idea, the great Stravinsky truth – the precept or edict (shall we call it the ukase?) that has been regulating the behaviour of twentieth-century (and now twenty-first-century) musicians ever since. Ever since the 1920s, in other words, a commitment to formalist aesthetics has been the great distinguishing feature of panromanogermanic classical music. The purity and absoluteness of Stravinsky's music remains an article of faith to many. I have become quite inured over the years to hearing from colleagues and reviewers that the investigations I have made into the sources and backgrounds of Stravinsky's Russian-period work are interesting enough but quite irrelevant aesthetically. And it is certainly true, as Pieter van den Toorn says on the very first page of his important book, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , that 'for the greater part of this century our knowledge and appreciation of _The Rite of Spring_ have come from the concert hall and recordings'. To that extent, the myth of _The Rite_ has come true, for the music has become quite happily detached from its original scenario and mise-en-scène. For many, if not for most spectators, visual exposure to the work as a ballet comes after years of tremendous stagings before the mind's eye under the stimulus of the powerful noises that it makes, and seeing it is often disappointing. Even Nicholas Roerich, the original designer and co-scenarist, admitted that 'we cannot consider "Sacre" as Russian, nor even Slavic – it is more ancient and pan-human'. To insist that _The Rite_ still means what it originally meant – that it is nothing more and nothing less than a pair of 'scenes of pagan Russia' – would surely limit and diminish its full human significance, and I for one would never wish my findings about the ballet to diminish it so. But it may still be worth asking whether that full human significance is well or adequately described by the phrase 'architectonique et non anecdotique'. The phrase still sounds like a Pandora's box, and one has to wonder what is being locked up within, just as I still wonder why, despite his ample and detailed knowledge of the historical circumstances in which Stravinsky developed his ostensibly radical musical style (knowledge he does not hesitate in the least to share with his reader), van den Toorn nevertheless subtitled his book 'The _Beginnings_ of a Musical Language' (emphasis added). This willed amnesia, I would suggest, is an example of behaviour regulated by the Stravinsky myth. Is there any harm in that? Van den Toorn says not, in no uncertain terms. He sees nothing but gain. Propositional knowledge, especially historical knowledge, can only interfere, in his view, with aesthetic bonding. He quotes (or rather, slightly paraphrases) a remark from one of Stravinsky's books of 'conversations' with Craft: The composer works through a perceptual, not a conceptual process. He perceives, he selects, he combines, and is not in the least aware at what point meanings of a different sort and significance grow into his works. All he knows or cares about is the apprehension of the contours of form, for form is everything. There you have it: _form is everything_. You could not get more categorical than that in declaring formalist principles. Van den Toorn's move, unanticipated by Stravinsky, perhaps, but clearly regulated by his principles, is to apply the composer's description of composerly behaviour to the listener. 'One need only substitute listener for composer in the above quotation', he writes, 'and the reasoning becomes impregnable'. We need not dwell on distinctions here: what van den Toorn calls reasoning is pretty clearly a tautology, I think, but what of that? Its purpose and effect are what count for Stravinsky and for van den Toorn, not its logical status. The purpose, simply, is pleasure, aesthetic rapture. 'The source of the attraction', van den Toorn writes, the source of our conscious intellectual concerns, is the passionate nature of the relationship that is struck. But this relationship is given immediately in experience and is not open to the inquiry that it inspires. Moments of esthetic rapport, of self-forgetting at-oneness with music, are immediate. The mind, losing itself in contemplation, becomes immersed in the musical object, becomes one with that object. The trouble is that, as Stravinsky actually concedes, 'meanings of a different sort and significance grow into his works', whether or not he knows or cares about them. The aesthetic rapture van den Toorn seeks demands, once again, a willed ignorance, a willed blindness. Directing attention resolutely away from content and focusing entirely on form is hardly an 'immediate' response to art. It is no one's first response. (Why else, after all, is a taste for 'absolute music' the most notoriously 'cultivated' of all artistic tastes?) It is a learned response – learned from Stravinsky. It has its costs. To explore these costs, I want to focus the rest of this discussion on one of Stravinsky's best known and surely most written-about late works, the Cantata. One reason I want to focus on it is because it is one work about which I have some new research findings, albeit modest ones, to report. But that research was not, I confess, 'disinterested'. What interested me about the Cantata was the way it problematised the congeries of ideas we call 'Stravinsky'. The Cantata was the first composition to follow _The Rake's Progress_ , Stravinsky's longest work. At first, it was to have followed _The Rake_ quite directly and unproblematically. It was, in effect, a second collaboration between Stravinsky and W. H. Auden, the _Rake_ co-librettist, who had just published, with Norman Holmes Pearson, a five-volume school anthology, _Poets of the English Language_ (New York: Viking Press, 1950), and made Stravinsky a present of it. From a letter from Auden to Robert Craft one gathers that Stravinsky was planning a song cycle for mezzo soprano and small instrumental ensemble on texts from the anthology. In the end, not only the Cantata, but Stravinsky's next vocal composition as well, _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , were mined from the contents of Auden's collection. (One can tell that this was Stravinsky's Shakespeare source because he retained all of the quaint spellings that most editors remove but that Auden and his co-editor lovingly restored.) The first item from _Poets of the English Language_ to be set, in July 1951, was 'The maidens came', one of six poems grouped under the rubric 'Anonymous Lyrics and Songs' in Vol. I (Fig. 14.1). The setting is in a sort of period style, both as regards prosody and as regards texture. Stravinsky had been hearing a great quantity of renaissance and baroque music at the so-called Evenings on the Roof Concerts in Los Angeles, at which Craft had become a frequent conductor. At the first such concert he attended, in 1944 (four years Before Craft), he heard Elizabethan virginals music and some keyboard works of Purcell, both for the first time. Later he heard Dowland lute songs and Elizabethan madrigals and much more. 'The maidens came' is full of the Lombard or 'Scotch snap' rhythms characteristic of Purcellian text declamation. They must have struck Stravinsky's ear as especially fresh, even though he did not grasp – or characteristically chose to ignore – the distinctive relationship of the Lombard pattern to the English short stress. The setting is also full of short stretches of canonic writing, often by inversion, such as one finds in early keyboard and consort fantasias. Fig. 14.1 _Poets of the English Language_ In his letter of September 1951, Auden sent Craft a rather long list of additional suggestions from his anthology for inclusion in the cycle, mainly Elizabethans like Sidney, Jonson and Campion, but also Pope, Blake, Burns, even Christina Rossetti. By the time Stravinsky returned to the composition, however, in February 1952, he had decided to cast the work for a more complex medium including a small women's chorus and two solo singers, the original mezzo and also a tenor, each of whom sings solos, now called 'ricercars', and who then combine for a duet. And, possibly because he wanted to maintain the archaic period flavour of the original setting, he decided to confine the texts to the little group of anonymous lyrics from which he had taken 'The maidens came', setting the group to music practically _in toto_ (omitting only the second and third items as listed), as many readers will already have noticed after glancing at Fig. 14.1. He gave the Cantata an elegant overall shape by using one of the longer items, 'A lyke-wake dirge', as a kind of choral refrain, its successive verses intercalated around and between the solo items. The longest item in the group, the carol 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', was set as a tenor solo to form the Cantata's centrepiece. Now 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day' is not only the longest and most elaborately composed piece in the Cantata; it is also one of the most revered items in the later Stravinsky catalogue, owing to the circumstances of its creation, which entail an important creative crisis. No biography of the composer or critical study of his work fails to cite it, usually with at least one music example. On the face of it, the setting does not seem very different from 'The maidens came'. Like its predecessor, it uses canonic textures of a rather archaic sort, admitting cancrizans writing alongside inversion to its repertoire of contrapuntal devices. Unlike 'The maidens came', however, and especially in view of its length, the composition is severely limited in its melodic material. The eleven-note canonic subject on which the entire piece is based is a complex derivation from a phrase, seemingly selected at random, from 'The maidens came' (see Ex. 14.1). Ex. 14.1 Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', derivation of subject As Craft has testified, immediately on fashioning this little theme, Stravinsky drew a chart on the back of a sheet of stationery from 'La boutique', his wife's art gallery on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles (Ex. 14.2), which shows, as Craft put it, 'the four orders – original, retrograde, inverted, retrograde inverted – of his eleven-note "series"'. As can be seen from Ex. 14.2, the cancrizans is so arranged as to produce a harmonic closure on its starting point – a traditional pendular (there-and-back) motion with an implied tonic–dominant/dominant–tonic harmony, the old 'binary form' we have all studied at school. The inversion is contrived so as to produce the same progression. Its pitch level is chosen so that its opening pair of notes reproduces the pitches of the original phrase with exchanged positions. In formal terms this would be described as a transposition down a major third (in more formal terms, transposition by eight semitones, or – in still more formal terms, those of the theory journals – 't8'), but I am sure that Stravinsky did not think of it as a transposition at all – quite the opposite, in fact. He must have thought of it not in purely pitch or intervallic terms, but in harmonic terms, according to which the inversion changes as little as possible. Ex. 14.2 Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', sketch Now, although the material in the second Ricercar, and its handling, might well seem just as archaistic as in the first ('The maidens came'), the second Ricercar is radically separated in the historical, biographical, analytical and critical literatures from the rest of the Cantata and attached to a different story altogether. Craft put it very succinctly when he wrote that the second Ricercar in the Cantata 'marks the first effect on Stravinsky of Schoenberg's serial principle', and most of the succeeding literature on the piece has been more or less a gloss on that little sentence. Realising that the internal evidence for such an assertion is slim, Craft elaborated with some historical reportage of a kind that he, not only a witness but an actual participant on the scene, was uniquely qualified to give: 'Although cancrizans of the kind found in this Ricercar were [ _sic_ ] employed centuries before', he wrote, 'Stravinsky came to them there by way of his contemporary' – his recently deceased contemporary and neighbour, one should add, Schoenberg having died in Los Angeles the year before, as it happened, while Stravinsky was hard at work on 'The maidens came' – and Craft added as further corroboration that Stravinsky 'heard some of the Viennese master's music, as well as much discussion about it, in Europe in the autumn of 1951' when he returned to the old world for the first time after the war to conduct the _Rake_ premiere. Craft went on to record the fact that while working on the second Ricercar, Stravinsky attended several rehearsals of a performance Craft was then preparing at UCLA of Schoenberg's Septet-Suite, Op. 29, and was full of questions about Schoenberg's technique. Once one knows this, it makes some sense to relate the manipulations of the eleven-note motive in the second Ricercar to the so-called twelve-note technique, since like a tone row the motive is treated as an entirely abstract ordered succession of pitches – or rather, pitch classes, as Milton Babbitt would christen them a few years later. Unlike the canons in 'The maidens came', the ones in the second Ricercar are entirely free as to rhythm and octave register. Evidence of another sort comes from a touching entry in Craft's diary, describing an occurrence Craft first made public in a centennial lecture published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ , and, in characteristic fashion, retold subsequently with a great deal of exasperating variation in the details. I quote it here in its latest, and in some ways most plausible (because least sensational) incarnation, from the revised _Chronicle of a Friendship_ (pp. 72–3). The date is 8 March 1952, four days after the second Ricercar had been completed: We drive to Palmdale for lunch, spareribs in a cowboy-style restaurant, Bordeaux from I.S.'s thermos. A powdering of snow is in the air, and, at higher altitudes, on the ground: Angelenos stop their cars and go out to touch it. During the return, I.S. startles us, saying he fears he can no longer compose; for a moment he actually seems ready to weep. V. gently, expertly, assures him that whatever the difficulties, they will soon pass. He refers obliquely to the Schoenberg Septet and the powerful impression it has made on him. After 40 years of dismissing Schoenberg as 'experimental,' 'theoretical,' ' _démodé_ ,' he is suffering the shock of recognition that Schoenberg's music is richer in substance than his own. Craft's interpretation here is a little different from those he has offered elsewhere, which have centred on the perhaps more telling fact that Stravinsky was becoming aware that younger musicians, especially in Europe, were more interested just then in Schoenberg than in himself. At any rate, it is clear that Stravinsky was suffering a crisis of confidence, one brought on, as far as I can read the circumstances, precisely because he realised that, as the second Ricercar demonstrated, even when emulating Schoenberg's serial procedures, he found himself still tied willy-nilly to his older harmonic thinking, his deeply ingrained habits of the ear. He was evidently afraid that he himself might be becoming 'démodé'. It was a frightening thought indeed to one who had become so used to the role of defining, at times fairly dictatorially, what would be 'à la mode'. More evidence of Stravinsky's crisis mentality can be found in the printed documents surrounding the Cantata – namely, the published score, and a programme note that Stravinsky wrote (or at least signed) for the premiere performance in Los Angeles in November 1952. I quote a little of the latter. First, he notes the general circumstances of the composition: 'After finishing _The Rake's Progress_ I was persuaded by a strong desire to compose another work in which the problems of setting English words to music would reappear, but this time in a purer, non-dramatic form.' Following a description of the Dirge and the first Ricercar, he comes to 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day'. It is, he says, also a Ricercar in the sense that it is a canonic composition. Its structure is more elaborate than that of 'The Maidens Came'. The piece begins with a one-bar introduction by the flutes and cello, the statement of the canonic subject which is the subject of the whole piece. This subject is repeated by the tenor, over a recitative style accompaniment of oboes and cello, in original form, retrograde (or cancrizans, which means that its notes are heard in reverse order – in this case, in a different rhythm), inverted form, and finally, in retrograde inversion. Then comes a music example, showing the voice part of the opening stanza with the four forms, taken as if exactly from Ex. 14.2, marked off with brackets (Ex. 14.3). What is truly surprising is that the published score incorporates these brackets, not only in the opening or expository section Stravinsky quoted in the note, but throughout the piece, showing every single permutation of the eleven-note motive, as Stravinsky cumbersomely attempted to describe them in prose, as the note continues: Ex. 14.3 Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', The fourth and sixth canons are nine bars long, the others are twelve bars long. The instrumentation of all the canons is two oboes and cello. In the first canon, the second oboe proposes the original subject and the first oboe takes it up at the minor third above, while the tenor sings it in inverted form. The second canon begins with the voice singing the Cantus in cancrizans form, a minor third below; the cello is in original form a fourth below. The third canon is identical with the first. In the fourth canon the first oboe follows the second at the interval of a second while the voice transposes the Cantus in inverted form down a minor third to A. In the three last bars, the cello, which has been accompanying with a new rhythmic figure, plays the Cantus in F, original form, while the voice and first oboe play it in A, original form. The fifth canon is identical with the first. The sixth begins with the Cantus in the voice in original form _. . ._ And so on – and on and on. And what makes this programme note particularly noteworthy, over and above what I believe it is fair to call its obsession with technical detail, is the fact that this was only the second time in his career that Stravinsky ever offered a technical analysis of any of his compositions. (The other, very brief, concerned _The Firebird_ , composed forty-two years earlier.) One begins to get a feel for what Craft described in his memoir as the 'substance' that Stravinsky had begun to envy in Schoenberg, and the way it jibed with the older versions of the Stravinsky myth. A more explicit indication of this tie-in, and of its relationship to the Cold War artistic temper, came in an interview Stravinsky gave a Paris reporter on 28 April 1952, about seven weeks after that tense moment in the car that Craft so hauntingly described. Craft's description of this occasion is very droll. Stravinsky was returning to Europe for the first time since _The Rake_ , and was touching down in Paris, his home for almost twenty years, for the first time since before the war. It was just a touching-down: Stravinsky was actually on his way to Geneva, and the plane was refuelling. His friend Nicolas Nabokov, the newly-appointed Secretary-General of the Congress for Cultural Freedom, was waiting with a gaggle of paparazzi, whom he hustled into the waiting-room for what we would now call a 'photo opportunity'. Here is what Stravinsky told the reporter from the Congress's own organ, _Preuves_ , during that hectic stopover, in response to what was by then an inevitable question: The twelve-tone system? Personally I have enough to do with seven tones. But the twelve-tone composers are the only ones who have a discipline I respect. Whatever else it may be, twelve-tone music is certainly pure music. Of course he was describing his second Ricercar, which appropriated the twelve-note discipline and applied it to seven (well, eight) notes. The discipline was what he wished to claim, and relate to his old notions of 'pure' music – something that Schoenberg never did, because he never had that notion. Quite the contrary: Schoenberg always refused to offer technical descriptions of his music, and claimed to despise them. To Rudolf Kolisch, his brother-in-law, who had worked out an exemplary formalistic analysis of Schoenberg's Third Quartet very much on the order of Stravinsky's analysis of his Cantata, Schoenberg addressed one of his most famous missives: 'I can't utter too many warnings against overrating these analyses, since after all they only lead to what I have always been dead set against: seeing how it is _done_ ; whereas I have always helped people to see: what it _is_!' Stravinsky, on the contrary, seemed only to be interested in showing how it was done. And so have been almost all the later commentators on the Cantata, of whom there have been so many. Meanwhile, he embarked on the task of expanding from seven to twelve. He did it the way countless other students were doing it at the time. He got hold of _Studies in Counterpoint_ (1940) by Ernst Krenek, one of his California neighbours, only the second practical primer in twelve-note composition ever published, and began working his way through the exercises in it. You can see some of them right on the surface of _Threni_ , Stravinsky's first completely dodecaphonic construction, composed in 1957–8. On the way to that piece there had been several others that used rows containing more or less than twelve notes, and a couple of larger works that were intermittently twelve-note ( _Canticum Sacrum_ , _Agon_ ). The trajectory by which Stravinsky zeroed in on the new discipline is one of the most orderly and trackable processes of its kind in the history of music, and so, of course, it has been traced very frequently in the literature, especially after Milton Babbitt's seminal exposition, 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky', first given as 'a lecture under the auspices of the Santa Fe Opera as part of its Festival in honour of Igor Stravinsky's 80th birthday', that is, in 1962, and published two years later in _Perspectives of New Music_. Babbitt set the tone for these surveys by looking back on Stravinsky's quest from the perspective of its completion, thus comparing Stravinsky's serial practice at every stage with the fully elaborated twelve-note technique he finally embraced – which made for some very tortuous descriptions. Here is how the analysis of the second Ricercar from the Cantata begins: The serial unit here consists of eleven ordered pitch elements, but only six different pitch elements. Since there are, then, non-immediate repetitions of pitch elements within the unit, the serial characterization, in terms of the relation of temporal precedence among pitches, requires that each occurrence of a pitch element which occurs multiply be differentiated ordinally; more concisely, if it is agreed to represent a pitch element of a serial unit by an ordered pair signifying the element's order number and pitch number, then the collection of such ordered pairs associated with the twelve-tone set necessarily defines a biunique, one-to-one function, while that of a serial order with repetitions cannot. This latter collection defines a function, but not a biunique one, and the inverse, therefore, is not a single-valued function. And here is another pertinent excerpt: Whereas the operations in the twelve-tone system necessarily result in permutations of the elements of the set, in a non twelve-tone serial unit, they do not. Indeed, if the serial unit is not inversionally symmetrical, as it is not in the Cantata, the effect of inversion can never be to permute, but rather to adjoin pitches which are not present in the original unit. So, whereas an inversion of a twelve-tone set can be so identified only by virtue of order, in the case of such a serial structure as that of the Cantata, it can be identified by pitch content alone. Here, then, is combinational rather than permutational serialism, since each form of the serial unit represents a selection from the twelve pitch classes rather than a particular ordering of these classes. I said that these were pertinent excerpts, and I meant it, but what are they pertinent to? Not the Cantata, because Babbitt is saying only what Stravinsky did not do in composing that piece, and sheds no light at all on what he did do. Why then, despite that impertinence and despite its extreme tortuousness, has Babbitt's telling of this tale become so influential? It has been influential because it effectively turns the story of Stravinsky's late career into a teleology, a quest narrative, and in so doing it assimilates the story to yet another myth, one of the great myths of the twentieth century, that of the general teleology according to which the structure of music, and the compositional practices that produce that structure, have been said to evolve by stages, and inevitably, from tonal to atonal, finally to serial. Because Stravinsky underwent this evolution late, presumably, he was allowed to bypass the middle term and evolve directly from tonal to serial. But this discrepancy does not prevent his career from assuming a kind of paradigmatic status, by which his ontogeny recapitulates the phylogeny of twentieth-century music. By doing so, Stravinsky's career can be subsumed into a progress narrative, progress being the most potent form that myth has taken in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. So we end up with an assimilation of one powerful myth, the Stravinskian myth of purity, to an even more powerful myth, the positivistic myth of progress. Like any myth, but doubly so, this double myth has functioned as a regulator of belief and behaviour. It has immense authority, an authority that has only recently, with great difficulty, and against strong resistance, begun to be challenged. What has been the chief regulation? I have already hinted at it: the resolute deflection of musical consciousness from 'what it is', as Schoenberg would say, to 'how it's done'. Often, and very misleadingly, it is expressed as an exclusion of 'extramusical' ideas from consideration of 'the music itself'. And this taboo, to reiterate, has cost us very dear. To return to the second Ricercar: it can hardly have escaped notice that Stravinsky's description, to say nothing of Babbitt's, has entirely avoided any mention of what the piece _is_. At its most basic level, it is a setting of a carol that narrates the life of Christ. How is it that this fact is thought to be irrelevant to a description of the piece, especially as we know Stravinsky to have been, or at any rate to have professed being, a religious believer? Could the subject really have played no part in the selection of the text? Was it only 'problems of setting English words' that mattered to Stravinsky, not the words he set? Let us look closely at a part of the piece, the last part for which I quoted Stravinsky's description above, namely the fourth canon (Ex. 14.4). We may see all the things to which Stravinsky called attention, underscored by his use of brackets, to which I have added identifications of the serial forms employed using the standard music-theory representational mode. First there is the beautifully worked out canon in the voice and the two oboes in which three different transpositions of the inverted form of the theme are combined. Then the voice shifts over to the original form of the 'riverso cancrizans', as Stravinsky called it on his chart (Ex. 14.2), or the retrograde inversion as it is called in standard terminology. Finally, as Stravinsky pointed out, the original eleven-note 'serial unit', as Babbitt puts it, is enunciated by the voice and first oboe in A major, while the cello plays it in F major. All of this is worked out ingeniously and beautifully. Contemplating the musical construction one can indeed experience, with van den Toorn, a 'moment of esthetic rapport, of self-forgetting at-oneness with music', in which 'the mind, losing itself in contemplation, becomes immersed in the musical object, becomes one with that object'. Ex. 14.4 Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', fourth canon But there is something else in Ex. 14.4 besides what Stravinsky, Babbitt or van den Toorn would recognise as the 'musical object'. There is something 'extramusical' as well – something never alluded to by Stravinsky, by Babbitt, by van den Toorn, by Colin Mason, by Heinrich Lindlar, by Henry Cowell, by André Boucourechliev, by Robert Morgan, by Paul Griffiths, by Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger, by Stephen Walsh, by Joseph Straus, or by any of the other musician-commentators who have offered detailed descriptions of the Cantata in print. There is also this, which you may not have noticed yet: The Jews on me they made great suit, And with me made great variance; Because they lov'd darkness rather than light. Is it necessary to point out that this is a deplorable text, even if a venerable one, rehearsing as it does the old guilt-libel against the Jews as children of darkness and as deicides, a libel that has caused rivers of Jewish blood to be spilled? And does it surprise you that it could strike someone like me, your academic colleague, as incomprehensible that a great composer, whose prestige must inevitably lend it respectability, would choose such a text to set, seven years after Hitler? But I want to emphasise at the outset, and as forcefully as I know how, that Stravinsky's motives in setting this text are not the issue I am addressing. His anti-Semitism is not my present subject, nor is anyone's. My subject is blindness to its presence, a blindness that innumerable performers and commentators have shared with Stravinsky, and that is the most urgent aspect of what I see as the issue of 'Stravinsky and us' – taking 'Stravinsky' now in the sense I originally announced, to mean a set of regulative ideas and premises, and taking 'us' to mean those whose beliefs and behaviours have been so regulated. For purposes of the present discussion I am perfectly willing to grant that Stravinsky was blind – or, if you prefer, insensitive – to the import of the words he was setting. This for him was a longstanding habit. From his earliest modernist days he claimed to be interested in words only for their sounds, not their meaning. There is evidence that this was the case in the Cantata, both in his explicit remark that the verses he chose for it 'attracted me not only for their great beauty and their compelling syllabification, but for their construction which suggested musical construction', and also in a hilarious entry in Craft's diary in which Auden, after the Cantata has been performed and is in the process of publication, finally explains to Craft and Stravinsky what the words of the 'Lyke-wake dirge' actually mean. Stravinsky set them without knowing, probably without caring. It was not the first time. More than one piece from the Russian period – _Svadebka_ for one, or (for a particularly piquant instance) the _Zapevnaya_ or 'counting game' from the _Quatre chants russes_ of 1919 – contain Russian peasant words and phrases that even Pyotr Kireyevsky, the compiler of the anthology of folk verses on which Stravinsky relied, and a legendary connoisseur, found incomprehensible. He marked such texts in his anthology with little question marks and ellipses that seem to have attracted Stravinsky to them as honey attracts a bear. More evidence of Stravinsky's lack of concern for the words in his second Ricercar is the fact that he was inattentive to the form of the poem even as he was setting it. As can be seen in the text that Auden printed (Fig. 14.2), the poem is a carol, and like all carols it has a burden, which Auden printed once in full and once abbreviated to show that it should follow every stanza. Stravinsky set the poem exactly as it was printed, not the way it should be performed. (He did not actually set the words 'Sing, oh! etc.', but he set the burden only the two times Auden printed it.) Yet more evidence of his unconcern: he gave an inscribed copy of the Cantata score to Otto Klemperer, a Hitler refugee, whom I cannot think he meant to insult. So it was not that Stravinsky sought out a text to set libelling the Jews. It simply did not matter to him. Fig. 14.2 Other people's texts, however, did matter to him at times. About Schoenberg he once remarked, 'Nearly all of his texts are appallingly bad, some of them so bad as to discourage performance of the music.' He no doubt had _Die glückliche Hand_ in mind, or some other embarrassing expressionistic effusion like that. But all that this shows is that Stravinsky's artistic sensibilities were more acute than his moral ones. Here is another manifestation of the dichotomy. It is a letter from Stravinsky to Craft, or rather a passage from a letter from Stravinsky to Craft, dated 8 October 1948, that has been silently expunged from both purportedly complete documentary publications of the letter. The subject of comment is a demonstration against Serge Lifar, Diaghilev's last _premier danseur_ , on account of his wartime collaboration with the Germans in occupied Paris. Stravinsky writes: If there were some intelligent Jews picketing before Lifar not for his 'fascism' (or, later on, 'communism', about which they are silent of course), but for his quite obvious want of talent, I would gladly change my mind about Jews. The expression here is gratuitously vulgar and malicious, and for that reason repellent on its face, but the actual sentiments expressed are not unrelated, I would argue, to the blindnesses and exclusions I have been describing, and that we all practise to some extent, even those of us who are trying to shed them. We all operate under pressure to put what we call 'artistic' considerations front and centre in any discussion of art, and to resist – indeed, to disdain – considerations of any other kind. Nowadays that pressure and that resistance are most easily seen, in the musical world, in the ongoing debate about Wagner. Not content to print one, the editors of the _Musical Times_ recently printed two separate hostile critiques of a single book, Marc Weiner's _Richard Wagner and the Anti-Semitic Imagination_ , in a single issue. The one that shocked and depressed me was the one that prefaced any consideration of the author's arguments with an elaborate ritual in which the reviewer crossed himself, spat in all directions, and calumniated in advance all who raise the very issue of 'Richard Wagner's racist and antisemitic theories' in the context of his art. Such people are prejudged as 'careerist journalists and musicologists' who 'pander' to fashion and aim merely to present themselves as 'trendily anti-establishment'. In the critique that followed, much was made of the fact that Prof. Weiner and others who have tackled these problems are not professional musicians and are therefore unqualified to write about music. But of course it is inevitable that these 'extramusical' questions will be broached from the standpoint of disciplines that are not regulated by the Stravinsky myth. And that, of course, is the reason why the only discussion I have ever seen of the anti-Semitic text in Stravinsky's Cantata appeared not in a musical or musicological publication, but in a Jewish-interest periodical called _Midstream_. The author, a painter and literary anthologist named Jacob Drachler, described his persistent efforts to lodge an effective protest at Stravinsky's setting of lines so offensive to Jews, efforts that culminated in a letter to Robert Craft, posted on 15 April 1971 (the date was poorly chosen, being that of Stravinsky's funeral). The reply came not from Craft but from Lillian Libman, Stravinsky's personal manager: [Mr. Craft] says that Mr. Stravinsky, of course, was not thinking about 'the holocaust of modern European Jewry' when he set those lines of 15th century verse. In fact, he got quite a jolt from the lines himself when he first heard the piece, and he had changed the text, substituting, I think, 'my foes' or 'my enemies' (we can't remember exactly) – but in any case the words were definitely changed, and the music amended, but again we don't know exactly when. If and when a new edition of the score comes out, Mr. Craft will see to it personally that the change is made. It will probably not surprise you to learn that this was never done, and I think it is clear that Ms Libman's letter was just an offhand attempt to dispose of a nuisance. But how should we deal with the question, if we agree that there is a problem? Ought moral sensibilities, as much as artistic ones, discourage performance of excellent music? Stravinsky's answer, I believe, has been sufficiently implied. What should ours be? The dichotomy normally invoked in such discussions, between 'the music itself' and 'the extramusical', can be easily unmasked in this particular case. For if the music itself – what van den Toorn calls 'the musical object' – is alone what engages 'esthetic rapport', and the extramusical is altogether to be excluded from a proper aesthetic response, then we should have no problem with the second Ricercar. We can perform and enjoy it as an instrumental solo, or a vocalise. But of course this would not be an acceptable solution. Why? Because it would violate the integrity of the musical text as the composer left it. In more casual language, it would make the performance 'unauthentic'. The composer's intentions, as we normally construe them, would not be carried out, and that would breach the most fundamental ethical obligation of 'classical music' as practised in the twentieth century. Of course, this too is an ethical constraint we owe in large part to the myth-making authority of Stravinsky, who inveighed constantly against the performer's right to any exercise of subjective judgement. The snooty 'neoclassical' sermon in the last of his Harvard lectures of 1939, published under the title _Poetics of Music_ , transfers the objectivist aesthetic identified by Schloezer in Stravinsky's composerly attitudes to a performance practice, the most influential set of performerly precepts ever explicitly enunciated in the twentieth century. The insistence in that lecture on the distinction between _execution_ – selfless submission to 'an explicit will that contains nothing beyond what it specifically commands' – and _interpretation_ – which lies 'at the root of all the errors, all the sins, all the misunderstandings that interpose themselves between the musical work and the listener' – has been, much more than any earlier historical precedent, the driving force behind 'authentic' performance, manifested not only in 'Early Music', but in all performances that adhere to the ethic of scrupulous submission, which means just about all performances one will hear today. But how ethical are such ethics, if they cause us to value the integrity of works of art above humane concerns? How ethical is an ethic that obliges us, when the Cantata is on the programme, to lend our unprotesting presence to an execration of the Jews, and thus become complicit in it, and even more than that, to maintain a pretence that nothing of the sort is taking place? How ethical is an ethic implying that artistic excellence or beautiful form redeems ugly or objectionable content, as so many have argued of late in the case of T. S. Eliot? What is the difference between saying that and saying that artistic excellence excuses objectionable content of any kind? And if we allow this much, then what prevents art from becoming for all of us, as it undoubtedly is for some of us, a means for secretly gratifying our inner bigot? How ethical, finally, is an ethic that holds artists and art lovers to be entitled by their artistic commitment to moral indifference, and that _the greater the artist, the greater the entitlement_? The truth of this last corollary, I think, can be confirmed by a thought experiment. As many readers surely know, Gustav Holst also made a setting, in his case for mixed chorus, of 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', the carol that furnished the text for Stravinsky's second Ricercar. It is an attractive piece. Unlike Stravinsky's setting, it was written long before the Holocaust, in 1916. I would wager, though, that performers would be far more likely to think twice before performing Holst's setting than they evidently are before performing Stravinsky's, and that audiences hearing Holst's setting would be far more likely to notice and protest about the meaning of the words. The only reason I can think of for the difference is the differing stature of the composers. It is Stravinsky, not Holst, who has been classified as an unassailable great. Hence the dispensation he is granted, and hence the distress my words may be causing some readers. But is great art ennobled by this attitude? Are we? Or are we not debased and diminished, both as artists and as human beings, by such a commitment to 'abstract' musical worth? And for a final disquieting thought, has that commitment got nothing to do with the catastrophic decline that the prestige of classical music – and of high art in general – has suffered in our time? So what, you may finally wonder, do I think we should do about the Cantata? Certainly not suppress it; although I personally would not be opposed to instrumental performance of the second Ricercar or some modification of the text, especially if it is not done 'silently', à la Dr Bowdler, which evades the problem, but rather with an accompanying announcement or explanation that exposes and confronts it. I hope and trust that it is clear to one and all that inviting performers to consider such a course is not the same as decreeing that they do, and that an appeal to discretion is a far cry from censorship. But even without modification, exposure of the problem is very much to be encouraged, I believe; and that is what I have sought to make of my opportunity here. In an unfortunately acidulous exchange with me about the Cantata in the _New York Review of Books_ some years ago, Robert Craft made the claim (later included in the expanded _Chronicle of a Friendship_ ) that in his own first Los Angeles performance he substituted 'my enemies' for 'the Jews on me' in the first line of the fourth canon, and that for this he was reproached by Auden. '"By any definition _The Merchant of Venice_ is anti-Semitic," [Auden] said, "but we can't change it".' Modifying a performance does not change the work; and in any case we are not called upon to change it. But we _are_ called upon to face the issue and talk about it, I believe; and we had better. That is the very least we can do if we want to escape from the counterproductive complacency on which the Stravinsky myth insists, and keep high art kosher. Chronological list of works _Tarantella_ , for piano (1898) 'Storm Cloud' ('Tucha'), for soprano and piano (Russian text: Alexander Pushkin) (1902) Scherzo, for piano (1902) Sonata in F♯ minor, for piano (1903–4) Cantata (for Rimsky-Korsakov's sixtieth birthday), for mixed choir and piano (presumed lost) (1904) 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War', song for bass and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1904) Symphony in E♭ , Op. 1, for orchestra (1905–7) 'Conductor and Tarantula', for voice and piano (text: Kosma Prutkov) (presumed lost) (1906) _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ ( _Favn i pastushka_ , _Faune et bergère_ ), Op. 2, suite for mezzo-soprano and orchestra (Russian text: Alexander Pushkin) (1906) _Pastorale_ , for soprano (without words) and piano (1907). Arr. for soprano and four wind instruments (1923) and for violin and piano, or violin and four wind instruments (1933) _Two Songs_ ( _Romances_ ), Op. 6, for mezzo-soprano and piano (Russian text: Sergey Gorodetsky) (1907–8) _Scherzo fantastique_ , Op. 3, for orchestra (1907–8) _Chant funèbre_ (in memoriam Rimsky-Korsakov), Op. 5, for wind instruments (presumed lost) (1908) _Four Studies_ , Op. 7, for piano (1908) _Fireworks_ , Op. 4, for orchestra (1908) Nocturne in A♭ and _Grande valse brillante_ in E♭ (Chopin), orchestrated for the ballet _Les sylphides_ (1909) _Song of the Flea_ (Beethoven and Musorgsky), arr. for bass and orchestra (text: Goethe in Russian translation) (1909) _The Firebird (L'Oiseau de feu, Zhar-ptitsa)_ , 'fairy tale' ballet in two scenes for large orchestra (1909–10). Concert suites: (a) 1910; (b) 1919 (rev. for reduced orchestra); (c) 'ballet suite', 1945 (as 1919 but with additional music). Piano reduction by Stravinsky _Kobold_ (Grieg), arr. for orchestra for the ballet _Les orientales_ (1910) _Two Poems of Verlaine_ , Op. 9, for baritone and piano (1910). Rev. for orchestra (1910); rev. for baritone and small orchestra (1951–2) _Petrushka_ , 'burlesque' in four scenes for large orchestra (1910–11; rev. 1946, published 1947). Piano reduction (four hands) by Stravinsky. Transcribed as _Three Movements_ for piano (1921, see below) _Two Poems of Bal'mont_ , for high voice and piano (text in Russian) (1911). Rev. and transcribed for soprano and small orchestra (1954) _Zvezdolikiy_ ( _The King of the Stars_ , _Le Roi des étoiles_ ), for male chorus and large orchestra (Russian text: Konstantin Balmont) (1911–12) _The Rite of Spring_ ( _Le Sacre du printemps_ ), 'scenes of pagan Russia', ballet in two parts for large orchestra (1911–13; rev. 1943). Reduction for piano (four hands) by Stravinsky _Three Japanese Lyrics_ , for soprano and piano or chamber orchestra (Japanese text: anon.) (1912–13) _Khovanshchina_ (Musorgsky), orchestration of Shaklovitïy's aria and completion of final scene from the opera (1913) _Three Little Songs_ ('Recollections of my Childhood'), for voice and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1913). Rev. and transcribed for voice and small orchestra (1929–30) _The Nightingale_ ( _Solovey_ , _Le Rossignol_ ), 'musical fairy tale' in three acts for soloists, chorus and orchestra (Russian text: Stravinsky and Stepan Mitusov, after Hans Christian Andersen) (1908–9, 1913–14) _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ (1914; rev. 1918). Transcribed for orchestra as nos. 1–3 of _Four Studies_ (see below); arr. for piano duet _Pribaoutki_ ( _Chansons plaisantes_ ), for medium voice and eight instruments (text: trad. Russian) (1914) _Valse des fleurs_ , for piano duet (1914) _Three Easy Pieces_ , for piano duet (1914–15) March, arr. of _Three Easy Pieces_ , no. 1, for twelve instruments (1915) _Souvenir d'une marche boche_ , for piano (1915) _Cat's Cradle Songs_ ( _Berceuses du chat, Kolïbel'nïye_ ), for medium voice and three clarinets (text: trad. Russian) (1915) _Renard_ ( _Baika_ ), 'burlesque in song and dance' for two tenors, two basses and fifteen instruments (text: Stravinsky, after Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev) (1915–16) _Trois histoires pour enfants_ ( _Three Tales for Children_ ), for voice and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1916–17). No. 1 rev. and transcribed for voice and orchestra (1923), nos. 1 and 2 transcribed as nos. 3 and 4 of _Four Songs_ (1954, see below) _Valse pour les enfants_ , for piano (1916 or 1917) _Five Easy Pieces_ , for piano duet (1917) _Song of the Nightingale_ ( _Pesnyas Solov'ya_ , _Chant du rossignol_ ), symphonic poem / ballet for orchestra, derived from parts of Acts 2 and 3 of _The Nightingale_ (1917) _Song of the Volga Boatmen_ , arr. for wind and percussion (1917) _Four Russian Peasant Songs_ ( _Podblyudnïye_ : 'Saucers'), for female voices a cappella (text: trad. Russian) (1914–17). Rev. for equal voices and four horns (1954) _Les Noces_ ( _Svadebka, The Wedding_ ), 'Russian choreographic scenes' in four tableaux for four soloists, SATB, four pianos and percussion (text: Stravinsky, after Alexander Afanasyev Pyotr Vasilyevich Kireyevsky) (begun 1914 ; short score completed 1917; final scoring completed 1922–3) _Canons for Two Horns_ (presumed lost) (1917) Étude, for pianola (1917) _Berceuse_ , for voice and piano (Russian text: Stravinsky) (1917) _Lied ohne Name_ , for two bassoons (1917 or 1918) _Ragtime_ , for eleven instruments (1917–18). Transcribed for solo piano by Stravinsky _The Soldier's Tale_ ( _L'Histoire du soldat_ ), 'to be read, played and danced', in two parts, for three actors, female dancer and seven instrumentalists (French text: C. F. Ramuz) (1918). Suites: (a) for original ensemble of seven players (1920), (b) for violin, clarinet and piano (1919) _Three Pieces_ , for clarinet solo (1918) _Boris Godunov_ (Musorgsky), arr. of a chorus from the Prologue for piano (1918) _Quatre chants russes_ ( _Four Russian Songs_ ), for voice and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1918–19). Nos. 1 and 4 transcribed as nos. 1 and 2 of _Four Songs_ (see below) _Piano-Rag-Music_ , for piano (1919) _La Marseillaise_ , transcribed for solo violin (1919) _Pulcinella_ , 'ballet with song' in one act, for soprano, tenor, bass and chamber orchestra (1919–20). Suites: (a) for chamber orchestra (1922), (b) for violin and piano (1925), (c) _Suite italienne_ for cello and piano (1932), and (d) for violin and piano (c. 1933) (see below) _Concertino_ , for string quartet (1920). Transcribed for twelve players (1952, see below) _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ ( _Symphonies d'instruments à vent_ ), for twenty-four wind players (1920; rev. 1947 for twenty-three instruments) Suite no. 2, for small orchestra, arr. of _Three Easy Pieces_ and 'Galop' from _Five Easy Pieces_ (1915–21) _Les cinq doigts_ , easy pieces for piano (1921) _Sleeping Beauty_ (Tchaikovsky), arr. of Aurora's variation and Act 2 Entr'acte for violin and orchestra (1921) _Three Movements_ from _Petrushka_ , for piano (1921) _Mavra_ , 'opéra bouffe' in one act for four soloists and orchestra (Russian text: Boris Kochno, after Pushkin) (1921–2) Octet (Octuor), for wind instruments (1922–3; rev. 1952) Concerto, for piano, wind instruments, timpani and double basses (1923–4; rev. 1950) Sonata, for piano (1924) Serenade in A, for piano (1925) Suite no. 1, for small orchestra, transcribed from the first four of the _Five Easy Pieces_ (1917–25) _Otche nash_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text in Slavonic) (1926). Rev. 1949 as _Pater Noster_ with Latin text _Oedipus Rex_ , opera-oratorio in two acts for speaker, soloists, chorus and orchestra (text: Jean Cocteau, after Sophocles, trans. into Latin by Jean Daniélou, with narration in language of audience) (1926–7; rev. 1948) _Apollon musagète_ ( _Apollo_ ), ballet in two scenes for string orchestra (1927–8; rev. 1947) _The Fairy's Kiss_ ( _Le Baiser de la fée_ ), 'allegorical ballet' in four scenes for orchestra, after songs and piano pieces by Tchaikovsky (1928; rev. 1950). Suite: _Divertimento_ (1934, see below). _Divertimento_ , for violin and piano, transcribed by Stravinsky and Samuel Dushkin (1932) _Four Studies_ ( _Quatre études_ ), arr. for orchestra of _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ and the _Étude_ for pianola (1928–9; rev. 1952) _Capriccio_ , for piano and orchestra (1928–9; rev. 1949) _Symphony of Psalms_ , for SATB chorus and orchestra (Latin text: Bible: Psalms 38, 39, 150) (1930; rev. 1948) Concerto in D, for violin and orchestra (1931) _Duo concertant_ , for violin and piano (1932) _Suite italienne_ , transcribed from _Pulcinella_ (a) by Stravinsky and Gregor Piatigorsky for cello and piano (1932); (b) by Stravinsky and Samuel Dushkin for violin and piano (1932) _Simvol verï_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text in Slavonic) (1932). Rev. 1949 as _Credo_ with Latin text. _Perséphone_ , melodrama in three scenes for female speaker, tenor, chorus and orchestra (French text: André Gide) (1933–4; rev. 1949) _Bogoroditse devo_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text in Slavonic) (1934 ). Rev. 1949 as _Ave Maria_ with Latin text _Divertimento_ , 'symphonic suite' for orchestra (from _The Fairy's Kiss_ ) (1934; rev. 1949) Concerto, for two solo pianos (1932, 1934–5) _Jeu de cartes_ , 'ballet in three deals' for orchestra (1936) _Praeludium_ , for jazz ensemble (1936–7; rev. 1953) _Petit Ramusianum harmonique_ , 'three quatrains' for solo voice (French text: Stravinsky and Charles-Albert Cingria) (1937) Concerto in E♭ , 'Dumbarton Oaks', for chamber orchestra (1937–8) Symphony in C, for orchestra (1938–40) _Tango_ , for piano (1940). Transcribed for nineteen instruments (1953) _The Star-Spangled Banner_ (John Stafford Smith), transcribed for orchestra and mixed choir (1941) _Sleeping Beauty_ (Tchaikovsky), 'Bluebird' _pas de deux_ transcribed for small orchestra (1941) _Danses concertantes_ , for chamber orchestra (1940–42) _Circus Polka (for a young elephant)_ , for piano (1941–2). Transcribed by Avid Raksin for wind band (circus band) (1942). Version for symphony orchestra (1942) _Four Norwegian Moods_ , for orchestra (1942) _Ode_ , 'elegiac chant' in three parts for orchestra (1943) _Scherzo à la russe_ , for jazz band (1943–4). Transcribed for orchestra (1945) Sonata, for two pianos (1943–4) _Babel_ , cantata for male chorus, male narrator and orchestra (English text: Bible: Genesis 11, 1–9) (1944) _Scènes de ballet_ , for orchestra (1944) _Elegy_ , for solo viola or violin (1944) _Symphony in Three Movements_ , for orchestra (1942–5) _Ebony Concerto_ , for clarinet and jazz band (1945) Concerto in D, ' "Basle" Concerto', for string orchestra (1946; rev. 1947) _Petit Canon pour la fête de Nadia Boulanger_ , for two tenors (French text: Jean de Meung) (1947) _Orpheus_ , ballet in three scenes for orchestra (1947) Mass, for SATB chorus and ten wind instruments (1944–8) _The Rake's Progress_ , opera in three acts for soloists, chorus and orchestra (English text: W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman) (1947–51) Cantata, for soprano, tenor, female chorus and five instruments (text: anon. fifteenthand sixteenth-century English verse) (1951–2) Septet, for clarinet, bassoon, horn, string trio and piano (1952–3) _Concertino_ , arr. of string quartet original for twelve instruments (1952) _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , for mezzo-soprano, flute, clarinet and viola (1953) _Four Songs_ , for voice, flute, harp and guitar, transcribed from nos. 1 and 4 of _Four Russian Songs_ and nos. 1 and 2 of _Three Tales for Children_ (1954) _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , 'dirge canons and song' for tenor, string quartet and four trombones (text: Dylan Thomas) (1954) _Greeting Prelude_ , 'for the eightieth birthday of Pierre Monteux', arr. of 'Happy Birthday to You', for orchestra (1955) _Canticum Sacrum ad honorem Sancti Marci nominis_ , for tenor, baritone, chorus and orchestra (Latin text: Vulgate Bible) (1955) _Chorale Variations on 'Von Himmel hoch'_ (J. S. Bach), transcribed and arr. for chorus and orchestra (text in German) (1955–6) _Agon_ , 'ballet for twelve dancers' for orchestra (1953–7) _Threni: id est Lamentationes Jeremiae prophetae_ , for six solo voices, chorus and orchestra (Latin text: Vulgate Bible) (1957–8) _Movements_ for piano and orchestra (1958–9) _Epitaphium (Für das Grabmal des Prinzen Max Egon zu Fürstenberg)_ , for flute, clarinet and harp (1959) _Double Canon (Raoul Dufy in memoriam)_ , for string quartet (1959) _Tres sacrae cantiones_ (Gesualdo), completed for SATB chorus a cappella (1957–9) _Monumentum pro Gesualdo di Venosa (ad CD annum)_ , three madrigals by Gesualdo, recomposed for instruments (orchestra) (1960) _A Sermon, a Narrative and a Prayer_ , cantata for alto and tenor soloists, speaker, chorus and orchestra (English text: Bible: Romans, Hebrews and Acts; and Thomas Dekker) (1960–61) _Eight Instrumental Miniatures_ , for fifteen players, transcribed and recomposed from _Les cinq doigts_ (1962) _The Flood_ , 'musical play' for soloists, speakers, chorus and orchestra (English text: Robert Craft, after the Bible and the York and Chester mystery plays) (1961–2) _Anthem 'The dove descending breaks the air'_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text: T. S. Eliot, _Little Gidding_ ) (1962) _Abraham and Isaac_ , 'sacred ballad' for baritone and chamber orchestra (Hebrew text: Bible) (1962–3) Canzonetta for strings (Sibelius), transcribed for eight instruments (1963) _Elegy for J. F. K_., for medium voice and three clarinets (text: W. H. Auden) (1964) _Fanfare for a New Theatre_ , for two trumpets (1964) _Variations (Aldous Huxley in memoriam)_ , for orchestra (1963–4) _Introitus (T. S. Eliot in memoriam)_ , for male chorus and chamber ensemble (Latin text from Requiem Mass) (1965) _Canon (on a Russian Popular Tune)_ , 'Concert Introduction or Encore' (on a theme from _The Firebird_ ) for orchestra (1965) _Requiem Canticles_ , for contralto and bass soloists, chorus and orchestra (Latin text from Requiem Mass) (1965–6) _The Owl and the Pussycat_ , for soprano and piano (text: Edward Lear) (1966) Two Sacred Songs (Wolf), transcribed for mezzo-soprano and ten instruments (texts: anon. Spanish in German translation by Paul Heyse and Emmanuel Geibel) (1968) Four Preludes and Fugues (from _Das wohltemperirte Clavier_ ) (J. S. Bach), transcribed for strings and woodwind (1969) Notes 1 Stravinsky 's Russian origins Robert Craft, _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948–71_ (London: Alfred A. Knopf, 1972), 295. See, for example, his fifth Harvard lecture, 'The avatars of Russian music', in _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947). Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 185, 183. Both Stravinsky and Nabokov grew up in St Petersburg and emigrated after the 1917 Revolution, first to France and then to the United States. The works of both are renowned for their apparent stylistic independence. Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996); Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882–1934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999). Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 195. Mikhail Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ , trans. Martin Cooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 2. See Appendix 3 in Rosamund Bartlett, _Wagner and Russia_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 304–5, which shows the percentage of Russian works in the repertoire each season between 1890 and 1914. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 66. See Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 53. I. F. Stravinsky, _Perepiska s russkiimi korrespondentami: materialy k biografii_ , ed. Viktor Varunts, 2 vols. (Moscow: Kompozitor, 1997, 2000), Vol. 1. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 66. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 65. V. Kamensky (ed.), _The World of Art Movement in Early 20th-Century Russia_ (Leningrad: Aurora, 1991), 20. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 375. Ibid., 376, 377. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 108. _Russkaya muzykal'naya gazeta_ , 51/52 (1901), col. 1334; cited in Varunts, _Perepiska s russkiimi korrespondentami_ , vol. 1, 110. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 74. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 376–7. Ibid., 352. John E. Malmstad and Nikolay Bogomolov, _Mikhail Kuzmin: a Life in Art_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 126. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 355. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 543. It is interesting that Stravinsky felt aristocratic taste, such as that of Tchaikovsky, was no less Russian than what was 'peasant-like'. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1533. For further details, see ibid., 524–5. See also Rosamund Bartlett, 'Diaghilev as musician and concert organizer', in Ann Kodicek (ed.), _Diaghilev, Creator of the Ballets Russes: Art, Music, Dance_ (London: Barbican Art Gallery/Lund Humphries, 1996), 49–52. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 524–5. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 34–5. Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 15. Stravinsky and Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 29. L. Belyakaeva-Kazanskaya, 'Stepan Mitusov. 2: Khronika neomrachennoi druzhby: Stravinskii i Mitusov', in _Ekho serebryannogo veka_ (St Petersburg: Kanon, 1998), 36. L. Belyakaeva-Kazanskaya, 'Stepan Mitusov. 1: ryadom s Rerikhom', in _Ekho serebryannogo veka_ , 24. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , vol. 1, 502–18; and Beverly Whitney Kean, _All the Empty Palaces: the Merchant Patrons of Pre-Revolutionary Russia_ (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1983), for a history of neo-nationalism in the Russian arts. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 497–502, for a discussion of the process of denationalisation in Russian music. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 615. See ibid., 692–3. For an extended survey of the musical sources for _Petrushka_ , see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 695–737. Cited in ibid., 764. See ibid., 851–2. See ibid., 849–966, for a comprehensive history of the work's composition. Ibid., 18. Ibid., 954. Ibid., 1449–1502. Ibid., 1133. Richard Gustafson, _Leo Tolstoy, Resident and Stranger: a Study in Fiction and Theology_ , (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), xiii. Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , chap. 10. Ibid., 133. B. A. Uspensky, _Semiotika ikona_ (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1971), cited in Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 128 (no page reference given). Pavel Florensky, 'Obratnaya perspektiva', _Trudy po znakovym sisteman_ 3 (1967), 402; cited in Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 128. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1126–34. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 329. Ibid., 433. Ibid., 434. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 13. 2 Stravinsky as modernist See Richard Taruskin's monumental study of the Russian Stravinsky: _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). But I am primarily concerned here with the Parisian Stravinsky. There are many other portraits of Stravinsky. See Glenn Watkins's account of portraits of Stravinsky from 1913–16 in his _Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky to the Postmodernists_ (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994), 243ff. See Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 103ff. The quotation is from p. 122f. Ibid., 73ff. Stravinsky had read M. Teste before 1914, and asked Valéry to comment on his _Poetics of Music_. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , and Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882–1934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999). _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , ed. and with commentaries by Robert Craft, 3 vols (London: Faber and Faber, 1982–5), vol. 2, 189. He grew up with a big library, read and spoke German and French, and in his early twenties read Wilde, Hoffmann and Maeterlinck, and saw Chekhov and Ostrovsky, Tolstoy, Gorky and Shakespeare. See Michael Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Phaidon, 1995), 25. _Stravinsky in Conversation with Robert Craft_ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962), 108. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 115. Diaghilev was interested in performing Balla's _Macchina tipografica_ (1914); he was impressed by Futurist events in London; he mooted an alliance with Marinetti in 1915; and with Stravinsky he planned a restaging of _Feux d'artifice_ (which had previously been performed by Löıe Fuller) by Giacomo Balla, to be performed in Paris in 1917. But the first performance was a fiasco. Diaghilev dropped _Feux d'artifice_ and cancelled plans for a Futurist version of _The Nightingale._ See the account in Gunter Berghaus, _Italian Futurist Theatre_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 253ff. See, for example, Lawrence Rainey, _Institutions of Modernism_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998). W. H. Auden, 'On the circuit', in _Collected Poems_ , ed. Edward Mendelson (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), 549. Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 35, echoing the general view. Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ , 321. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ ( _passim_ ). Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 60. _Stravinsky in Conversation_ , 138ff. For a brief account of this in the early period, see Christopher Butler, _Early Modernism_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 106–23. See also William Rubin (ed.), _Primitivism in Twentieth Century Art: Affinity of the Tribal and the Modern_ (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1984), and Jill Lloyd, _German Expressionism: Primitivism and Modernity_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991). Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ , 255. Ibid., 262. Ibid., 231. Ibid., 216. John Berger, _Success and Failure of Picasso_ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965), 90ff. See Nancy Perloff, _The Art of the Everyday: Popular Entertainment and the Circle of Erik Satie_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991). Stravinsky, _Chronicle of My Life_ (London: Victor Gollancz, 1936), 130; Roman Vlad, _Stravinsky_ , trans. Frederick and Ann Fuller, 2nd edn. (London: Oxford University Press, 1967), 56. Theodor W. Adorno, _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Sheed and Ward, 1973), 170, 171. Constant Lambert, _Music Ho!_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1934; repr. 1966), 74–6. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 113. Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 96. This statement comes from an article published in New York in a journal called _The Arts_ ; cited in Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 24. See Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 431ff, discussing the influence of Lourié and Maritain. Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 217, citing the _Chronicle_. T. S. Eliot, 'Tradition and the individual talent', in _The Sacred Wood_ (London: Methuen, 1920; repr. 1960), 48. Ibid., 49. T. E. Hulme, in Karen Csengeri (ed.), _The Collected Writings of T. E. Hulme_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 61. _Expositions and Developments_ , 118. Schoenberg, diary entry 1928, in _Style and Idea_ , ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 482. Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947; repr. 1998), 80ff. Dermé,'Quand le symbolisme fut mort', a programmatic statement for his _North South_ , cited in Peter Nicholls, _Modernisms_ (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1995), 243. Cited in Nicholls, _Modernisms_ , 245. T. S. Eliot, 'Ulysses, order, and myth', _Dial_ , 65/5 (November 1923), 483. 'Without the capacity for adaptation of a Picasso – who, having lost if temporarily his iconoclastic fervor, retreated into a highly productive self involvement – or the social utopianism of a Léger (or the Purists), most of the pre-war members of the Parisian avant garde had little to fall back on . . . the unqualified optimism of the pre-war period was an outmoded point of view. Henceforth a desperate effort to resuscitate a fading vision of a hegemonic "West" would compel attention in French cultural circles.' Kenneth E. Silver, _Esprit de Corps: the Art of the Parisian Avant Garde and the First World War, 1914–1935_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 360. You had to be a classicist or a _constructeur_ , and 'the world of the Parisian avant garde was left with a bankrupt social identity' (ibid., 361). In its latest form in her _The Picasso Papers_ (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1999). For a recent elegy from this point of view, see T. J. Clark, _Farewell to an Idea_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999). Clark comments on modernism – which 'had two great wishes', just as if it were one person – as 'tied to, and propelled by, one central process: the accumulation of capital' (7). He adds, 'if I cannot have the proletariat as my chosen people any longer, at least capitalism remains my Satan' (8). This orientation does not seem to prevent the brilliant interpretation of particular works in the rest of the book – but it does select them. Walsh, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ , 168–78. Letter of 31 August 1953, in _Selected Correspondence_ , vol. 1, 287. Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ , 365. See Judith Mackrell, _Reading Dance_ (London: Michael Joseph, 1997), 53ff. 3 Stravinsky in context Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1675. Ibid., 662. Ibid., 1675. Richard Taruskin, 'Stravinsky and the subhuman. A myth of the 20th century: _The Rite of Spring_ , the tradition of the new, and "the music itself " ', in _Defining Russia Musically_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), especially 460–65. See also Taruskin's 'Stravinsky and us' in this volume. See the arguments summarised in Marc A. Weiner, _Richard Wagner and the Anti-Semitic Imagination_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1995). Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882–1934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999), 376. Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 239. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 260. Arnold Schoenberg, _Style and Idea_ , ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 174. This polarisation is at its most highly charged in Adorno's _Philosophy of Modern Music_ : 'Schoenberg and progress', 'Stravinsky and restoration'. For a much more recent formulation of essential difference not predicated on the argument that Schoenberg is good, Stravinsky bad, see Pieter C. van den Toorn, 'Neoclassicism and its definitions', in James M. Baker, David W. Beach and Jonathan W. Bernard (eds.), _Music Theory in Concept and Practice_ , (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997), 154–5. Igor Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ (New York: Steuer, 1958), 100. (First published in French, two volumes, 1935–6.) Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 260. Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (New York: Vintage, 1947), 14. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), p. 107. Arthur Lourié was an early proponent of the idea that 'Schönberg may be considered the _Thesis_ and Stravinsky the _Antithesis_. Schönberg's thesis is an egocentric conception dominated by personal and esthetic elements which assume the significance of a fetish . . . Stravinsky's whole aim, on the other hand, is to overcome the temptations of fetishism in art, as well as the individualistic conception of a self-imposed esthetic principle.' ('Neogothic and neoclassic', _Modern Music_ 5 (1928), cited in Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 461.) Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 108. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1022. Ibid. Allen Forte, _The Harmonic Organization of 'The Rite of Spring'_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978). See also _Music Analysis_ 5/2–3 (1986), 313–37. Pierre Boulez, _Conversations with Célestin Deliège_ (London: Eulenberg, 1976), 31. See _The Boulez–Cage Correspondence_ , ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Robert Samuels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). Boulez, _Conversations_ , 17. Pierre Boulez, _Orientations_ , ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Martin Cooper (London: Faber and Faber, 1986), 355. See the critical discussion of this topic in Jonathan Kramer, _The Time of Music_ (New York: Schirmer, 1988), and Alexander Rehding, 'Towards a "logic of discontinuity" in Stravinsky's _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ : Hasty, Kramer and Straus reconsidered', _Music Analysis_ 17/1 (1998), 39–63. In a brief note written towards the end of his life, Schoenberg referred to 'a turn – perhaps you would call it to the Apollonian side – in the Suite for Seven Instruments, Op. 29 [1925–6]'; _Style and Idea_ , 110. The reference is to the title of Eric Walter White's early study, _Stravinsky's Sacrifice to Apollo_ (London: Hogarth Press, 1939). Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 71–2. Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 124–5. See Arnold Whittall, 'Berg and the twentieth century', in Anthony Pople (ed.), _The Cambridge Companion to Berg_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 247–58. Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , 16. See _Poetics_ , 'The phenomenon of music' (Lecture 2). _Poetics_ , 43. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 249–50. Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: Oedipus Rex_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 65. Ibid., 36, 39. Ibid., 43, 45. Ibid., 46. Ibid., 61–3. Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 34. See Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice', _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 33–53; Whittall, 'Defusing Dionysus? New perspectives on _The Rite of Spring_ ', _Music Analysis_ 21/1 (2002), 87–103; Taruskin, _Defining Russia Musically_ , 375–6. Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 275. Ibid., 238. Martha M. Hyde, 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses in twentieth-century music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 18 (1996), 214. The analytical example from the Octet that Hyde discusses is taken from Pieter C. van den Toorn _, The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 334. Chandler Carter, 'Stravinsky's "special sense": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19 (1997), 77–8, 80. Michael Cherlin, 'Memory and rhetorical trope in Schoenberg's String Trio', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 51 (1998), 559. Ibid., 563. Ibid., 564. Ibid., 573. Ibid., 589. See n. 23 above. Cherlin, 'Memory and rhetorical trope', 595. Michael Cherlin, 'Schoenberg and _Das Unheimliche_ : spectres of tonality', _The Journal of Musicology_ 11 (1993), 370. Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 202; Daniel Albright, _Stravinsky: the Music Box and the Nightingale_ (New York: Gordon and Breach, 1989), 41. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 376. Stravinsky, _Autobiography_ , 100. Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 83, 34. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 376. Boris Asaf 'yev, _A Book About Stravinsky_ , trans. Richard F. French (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), 278. Letter of 9 July 1928, as translated in Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 455. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 500. See ibid., 469, quoting Boris de Schloezer, 'Chronique musicale', _Nouvelle revue française_ (1 July 1928), 104–8. The dithyramb is 'an ancient Greek choric hymn, vehement and wild in character' ( _Shorter Oxford Dictionary_ ). For some sense of the difficulties of interpreting the scant surviving evidence as to the content of these hymns to Dionysus, see A. Pickard-Cambridge, _Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), and Andrew Barker, _Greek Musical Writings_ , vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). Arnold Schoenberg, _Fundamentals of Musical Composition_ , ed. Gerald Strang and Leonard Stein (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), 58–62. See also 'Reduction (ii)' in Ian Bent and William Drabkin, _The New Grove Handbooks in Music: Analysis_ (London: Macmillan, 1987), 128–30. See above, p. 39. Most of this paragraph appears, in a different context, in my article 'Fulfilment or betrayal? Twentieth-century music in retrospect', _Musical Times_ 140 (Winter 1999), 11–21. Mikhail Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ , trans. Martin Cooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 122. 4 Early Stravinsky Charles Rosen, _The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven_ , rev. edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), 19–23 and _passim_. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 43. For a description of Stravinsky's family music-making from the mid 1890s to c.1901, see Richard Taruskin _, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 94. Brief passages of the _Tarantella_ are given as music examples in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 96. Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in Vera Stravinsky and Robert Craft (eds.), _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ (London: Hutchinson, 1979), 21–2. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 99. Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 21–2. _Expositions and Developments_ , 43. The manuscript is reproduced in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 101. See Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 24, and Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 109–10. Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 21–2. V. V. Yastrebtsev, _Reminiscences of Rimsky-Korsakov_ , ed. and trans. F. Jonas (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 328. See ibid., 340 and 523, n. 9. The word 'conductor' in the title is to be understood in the sense of the conductor of a train or horse-drawn carriage, rather than an orchestra! Taruskin renders the Russian word _Konduktor_ as 'driver' in his translation of the poem; _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 112–13. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 150–61. Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 21–2. Direct parallels between Stravinsky's Sonata and works by Glazunov, Skryabin and Tchaikovsky are charted by Taruskin in _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 115–33. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 133. _Memories and Commentaries_ , 22, 28. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 116. _Memories and Commentaries_ , 20–22. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 171. Stravinsky, _An Autobiography (1903–1934)_ (London: Marion Boyars, 1975), 21; Yastrebtsev, _Reminiscences_ , 344. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 172–3. Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 20–24. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 175–222. See ibid., 225–6. _Memories and Commentaries_ , 59. Yastrebtsev, _Reminiscences_ , 421. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 391–4. As detailed in a letter from Rimsky-Korsakov to Alfred Bruneau, quoted and translated in ibid., 172. From Glazunov's ballet _The Seasons_ (1899). See ibid., 241–2. For suggested correspondences between the Four Studies and particular passages in Skryabin's music, see ibid., 380. For details of the chronology, see p. 334. Ibid., 365–8. See Herbert Schneider's introduction to the 1990 Eulenburg edition. In Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 40. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 318–23. Strictly speaking, just as one of the tritones is a diminished fifth and the other an augmented fourth, so one of the 'major thirds' has to be spelled as a diminished fourth and one of the 'minor thirds' as an augmented second; the whole arrangement assumes enharmonic equivalence in these cases. See Edward T. Cone's famous discussion of this technique: 'Stravinsky: the progress of a method', in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 156–64. The classic discussion of octatonicism in Stravinsky's music is Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983). _Conversations_ , 41, n. 1. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 400–401 (performance), 407–8 (reviews). Ibid., 401–2. Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 24. _Memories and Commentaries_ , 59. According to Robert Craft, writing in _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , 3 vols (New York: Knopf, 1982–5), vol. 2, 432; the first draft of the opera's scenario is given in English translation on pp. 433–5. These sketches are described and reproduced in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 469–73. Ibid., 474–5. Ibid., 450–62. See Anthony Pople, _Skryabin and Stravinsky 1908–1914: Studies in Theory and Analysis_ (New York: Garland, 1989). See also Stephen Walsh's comments on this musical correspondence in a review of this book in _Music Analysis_ 9/3 (1990), 342. Diaghilev later attended the premiere of _Fireworks_. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 418, n. 113. Ibid., 574–5. Ibid., 576–7. Ibid., 579. Ibid., 481–6. See Stravinsky's letter of 29 March 1929 to C. G. Païchadze, quoted in V. Stravinsky and Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 58, and I. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 96. Recorded in 1961; reissued on CD in 1991 (Sony SM3K 46 291). _Expositions and Developments_ , 132. Though there is no 'Op. 8', it seems likely that this designation was at one stage intended for _The Nightingale_. Letter from Debussy to Stravinsky (18 August 1913), in _Conversations_ , 51. _Conversations_ , 51, n. 1. See also Simon Karlinsky, 'Igor Stravinsky and Russian preliterate theater', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 3–15. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 198. Stravinsky identifies _Nightingale_ -like traits in _Les Noces_ on p. 199. 5 Russian rites: _Petrushka, The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_ This discussion of _Petrushka_ is based on the revised 1947 version of the score. Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 662. Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 24. Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 695. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, _Sto russkikh naraodnïkh pesen_ (St Petersburg: Bessel, 1877), no. 47. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 696. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 737–59. For a concise definition of octatonicism, see Anthony Pople, 'Early Stravinsky', this volume, p. 66. Further discussions of octatonicism can be found in this volume in the chapters by Martha Hyde and Craig Ayrey. Arthur Berger, 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky', in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (rev. edn New York: Norton, 1972), 123–54. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 737–59, and Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 31–3. For an introduction to some of the theoretical problems involved in the concept of polytonality, see Jonathan Dunsby and Arnold Whittall, _Music Analysis in Theory and Practice_ (London: Faber, 1988), 112–13. Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 36. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 746, Ex. 10.20. Joseph Lanner, _Streyerische Tänze_ , Op. 165, and _Die Schönbrunner_ , Op. 200, in _Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Oesterreich_ , vol. 65 (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1926), 78, 107. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 697. Taruskin identifies this melody as 'Along the road to Piter' ( _vdol' po piterskoy_ ), a.k.a. 'I was out at a party early last night' ( _ya vechor mlada vo piru bila_ ) from P. I. Tchaikovsky, _50 naradnïkh russkikh pesen, obrabotka dlya fortep'yano v 4 ruki_ (Moscow: Jurgenson, 1869); or Tertiy Filippov, _40 naradnïkh pesen s soprano-zhdeniyem fortepiano garmonizannikh N. Rimskim-Korsakovïm_ (Moscow: Jurgenson, 1882); see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 697. Sternfeld describes this melody as 'Dance song'; see Fredrick W. Sternfeld, 'Some Russian folk songs in Stravinsky's _Petrouchka_ ', in Charles Hamm (ed.), _Petrushka: an Authoritative Score of the Original Version_ (New York: W. W. Norton, 1967), 211. Van den Toorn, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 73–90. See Craig Ayrey, 'Stravinsky in analysis', in this volume, n. 25, for a brief explanation of Forte's terminology. This melody has been identified as no. 157 from Anton Juszkiewicz, _Melodie ludowe litewskie_ (Cracow: Wydawn Akademji Umiejetno'sci, 1900). For commentary on this source see Lawrence Morton, 'Footnotes to Stravinsky studies: _Le Sacre du Printemps_ ', _Tempo_ 128 (1978), 9–16; Richard Taruskin, 'Russian folk melodies in _The Rite of Spring_ ', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 33 (1980), 501–43, and _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 891–923. For a chronology of the compositional process see Pieter C. van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': the Beginnings of a Musical Language_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 22–38. See also Robert Craft, 'Genesis of a masterpiece' and 'Commentary to the sketches', in Igor Stravinsky, _The Rite of Spring Sketches 1911–1913_ (London: Boosey and Hawkes, 1969). This introductory solo has received detailed commentary in the analytical literature. See Adele T. Katz, _Challenge to Musical Tradition_ (London: Putnam, 1947), 321–2; Roy Travis, 'Towards a new concept of tonality', _Journal of Music Theory_ 3 (1959), 262; Allen Forte, 'New approaches to the linear analysis of music', _Journal of the American Musicological Association_ 41 (1988), 317–22; Anthony Pople, _Skryabin and Stravinsky 1908–1914: Studies in Theory and Analysis_ (New York: Garland, 1989), 257–68. Van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 141. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 939. Ibid. The term _Grundgestalt_ is generally translated and understood as 'basic shape'. According to Walter Frisch, 'In his critical and theoretical writings Schoenberg often stresses that a motivic or thematic idea must have generative power – that all the events of a piece must be implicit in, or foreseen in, the basic shape, or _Grundgestalt_ , presented at the opening.' Walter Frisch, _The Early Works of Arnold Schoenberg_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 206. _Music Analysis_ 5/2–3 (1986), 313–20 and 321–37. Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice', _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 43–4. Clearly the use of the consonance/dissonance terminology is problematic, as it appropriates the language of common-practice tonality, a language which is some distance from that of the sound world of _The Rite of Spring_. Nevertheless, its use in this context provides a useful point of reference and helps retain a background of tradition/convention. However, the difference between the views held by Taruskin and those held by Forte indicate the problems involved in defining this work as either tonal or atonal. See _Music Analysis_ 5/2–3. Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science?', 45. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London, Faber and Faber, 1962), 147. Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science?', 51. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 937. For a summary of these sources see ibid., 1423–46. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 118. Ibid., 115. Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 78. Van den Toorn, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 177. 6 Stravinsky's neoclassicism Milan Kundera, _Testaments Betrayed_ , trans. Linda Asher (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 95–8. Ibid., 97. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (New York: Doubleday, 1960), 104. Scott Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music from the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_ (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988); Stephen Hinton, _The Idea of Gebrauchsmusik: a Study of Musical Aesthetics in the Weimar Republic (1919–1933) with Particular Reference to the Works of Paul Hindemith_ (New York: Garland, 1989); Joseph N. Straus, _Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Tradition_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990); Richard Taruskin, 'Revising revision', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 46 (1993), 114–38, and 'Back to whom? Neoclassicism as ideology', _19th-Century Music_ 16 (1993), 286–302. For a more detailed discussion of these issues, see my 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses in twentieth-century music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 18 (1996), 200–35. The following discussion borrows passages and summarises key arguments from this article. T. S. Eliot, 'What is a classic?', in _On Poetry and Poets_ (New York: Noonday Press, 1968), 52–74. Frank Kermode, _The Classic_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 40. Kermode defines the second mode, accommodation, somewhat differently: 'any method by which the old document may be induced to signify what it cannot be said to have expressly stated'. _The Classic_ rewards close reading for those interested in the vagaries of musical 'classics'. Thomas Greene offers a fuller account of anachronism and its use in literary texts in 'History and anachronism', in _The Vulnerable Text: Essays on Renaissance Literature_ (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 218–35. Ibid., 221. Thomas Greene, _The Light in Troy: Imitation and Discovery in Renaissance Poetry_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), 37–8. Ex. 6.1 uses the first edition of _Piano-Rag-Music_ , published in 1919. This early group of pieces based on contemporary popular dances, while more parodic than neoclassical, nonetheless provides excellent examples of stylistic features that become more fully developed in Stravinsky's later neoclassical works. Greene, _The Light in Troy_ , 28–53. In the following discussion, I draw upon Greene's work which, though focused on Renaissance poetry, develops several generally useful categories of imitation. 'Octatonic pitch structures' refers to any group of pitch classes that represents a subset of an octatonic collection. An octatonic collection contains eight pitch classes that can be arranged in an ascending scalar pattern of alternating semitones and whole tones. The octatonic scale is highly symmetrical and has only three distinct forms, which are referred to as Collections I, II and III. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ (New York: Doubleday, 1963), 11. Greene, _The Light in Troy_ , 39. _Dialogues_ , 71. The analysis here follows Pieter C. van den Toorn's discussion of this passage in _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 333–6. This book provides many useful analyses of Stravinsky's neoclassical works. While a precise definition of moment form remains allusive, Stockhausen's concept of the 'moment' is often cited in reference to Stravinsky's works. G. W. Hopkins gives the following definition: 'Each individually characterized passage in a work is regarded as an experiential unit, a "moment", which can potentially engage the listener's full attention and can do so in exactly the same measure as its neighbours. No single "moment" claims priority, even as a beginning or ending; hence the nature of such a work is essentially "unending" (and, indeed, "unbeginning"),' in Stanley Sadie (ed.), _The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ (London: Macmillan, 1980), s.v. 'Stockhausen, Karlheinz', vol. 18, 152. Many critics have drawn parallels between Stravinsky's moment forms and contemporary cubist painting, both of which cultivate a concise pattern of repeating varied shapes that omit smooth transitions, emphasising instead abrupt movement from one shape to the next. In both, form is constructed by means of opposition, discontinuity and stratification. The Russian Five, sometimes called the 'Mighty Five', were a group of nationalist composers made up of César Cui, Mily Balakirev, Alexander Borodin, Modest Musorgsky and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. Richard Taruskin has powerfully explained why Stravinsky tried to distance himself from the Russian tradition that he so publicly embraced prior to World War I: '[L]ike so many other artists in the aftermath of the Great War, Stravinsky became outwardly conservative, allying himself volubly and vehemently with the elite culture of the Western past, seeking to defend its purity against all that threatened to defile it, including his own early work.' See Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1513. Cited passages come from a letter by Stravinsky that appears in a programme book reproduced in Robert Craft (ed.), _Igor and Vera Stravinsky: a Photograph Album (1921–1971)_ (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982), 54. For a detailed discussion of why Stravinsky switched historical allegiances after the First World War and the influence of politics, see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1507–38. The piano reduction is by the composer; the verse libretto, originally in Russian and written by Boris Kochno, appears in an English translation. Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 13. Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 119. For a detailed discussion of how Stravinsky organises texture into highly differentiated and harmonically independent layers, see Lynne Rogers, 'Stravinsky's break with contrapuntal tradition: a sketch study', _Journal of Musicology_ 13 (1955), 476–507. Stravinsky borrowed music for _Pulcinella_ from two of Pergolesi's _opere buffe, Il Flaminio_ and _Lo frate' nnamorato_ , together with a cantata and various instrumental sonatas that scholars no longer believe are by Pergolesi. Igor Stravinsky, _Stravinsky: an Autobiography_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1936), 229. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1614. Arthur-Vincent Lourié, 'Neogothic and neoclassic', _Modern Music_ 5/3 (1928), 5; cited in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1610. _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1618. For a similar evaluation, see Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky,_ 160–63. For a more detailed discussion of heuristic imitation and its use by Bartók, see my 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses', 214–22. For a more detailed discussion of this topic, see Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 170–79. There are several excellent analyses of the Symphony in C which reward close reading. See especially Edward T. Cone, 'The uses of convention: Stravinsky and his models', _Musical Quarterly_ 48 (1962), 287–99; Paul Johnson, 'Cross-collectional techniques of structure in Stravinsky's centric music', and Joseph N. Straus, 'Sonata form in Stravinsky', in Ethan Haimo and Paul Johnson (eds), _Stravinsky Retrospectives_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 55–75, 148–55; and Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , 198–211. Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , 210. Just as the progression from I to II lacks conviction in this large-scale I–II–V–I progression, so too does the progression from V to I (see bars 48–53). Johnson, 'Cross-collectional techniques', 60. For a more detailed discussion of the durational intricacies in Stravinsky's form, see Cone, 'The uses of convention', 287–95. Here 'dialectical' is not used in the Hegelian sense of continuous unification of opposites, but in the Platonic sense of critically examining the truth of an opinion through discussion or debate or dialogue. This dialogue occurs between at least two voices or positions and involves their indirect or oblique comparison. In preparing the libretto, Auden accepted assistance from Chester Kallman, without informing Stravinsky, an arrangement that Stravinsky at first accepted only reluctantly. The programme note was written for a BBC television documentary on Auden (Hollywood, 5 November 1965), cited in Paul Griffiths, _Igor Stravinsky: The Rake's Progress_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 2. Ibid., 4. Kerman's review appears in his _Opera as Drama_ (New York: Random House, 1956), 234–49. This version, however, omits his original suggestion to revise the ending. The original review appeared as 'Opera à la mode', _The Hudson Review_ ( Winter 1954), 560–77. Geoffrey Chew, 'Pastoral and neoclassicism: a reinterpretation of Auden's and Stravinsky's _Rake's Progress_ ', _Cambridge Opera Journal_ 5 (1993), 239–63. Straus, _Remaking the Past_ , 155–61. For a more detailed account of the musical analysis that follows, see Chandler Carter, 'Progress and timelessness in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _The Opera Journal_ 28 (1995), 15–25. I borrow here Carter's perceptive analysis of the transformation of the recurring Ballad theme (as well as some phrasing); his interpretation of its meaning, however, differs somewhat from my own. W. H. Auden, 'Balaam and his ass', in _The Dyer's Hand and Other Essays_ (New York: Random House, 1962), 107–45. I have found two essays particularly helpful in summarising the principal themes and interpretative problems in Goethe's _Faust:_ Walter Kaufmann's 'Introduction' to his translation of _Faust_ (New York: Anchor Books, 1963), 3–56; and Fred J. Nichols, ' _Faust_ ', in Michael Seidel and Edward Mendelson (eds.), _Homer to Brecht: the European Epic and Dramatic Traditions_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 292–316. I have used the Louis MacNeice translation of _Faust_ (New York: Oxford University Press, 1960). Auden, 'Balaam and his ass', 115–16. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 167–76. 7 Stravinsky's theatres Jonathan Harvey, _In Quest of Spirit: Thoughts on Music_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 16. For a fuller discussion of _The Rake's Progress_ , see Martha Hyde, 'Stravinsky's neoclassicism', in this volume. Stravinsky on the American premiere of _The Rake's Progress_ , quoted in Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_ , 2nd edn. (London: Faber and Faber, 1979), 452. Ibid., 18. Stravinsky, in Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), 24. Aristotle, 'On the art of poetry', in _Classical Literary Criticism_ , trans. T. S. Dorsch (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965), 40. Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882–1934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999), 10. As reported by Valeriy Smirnov, quoted by Walsh in ibid., 28. See Rosamund Bartlett, 'Stravinsky's Russian origins', in this volume, for a fuller account of Stravinsky's relationship with Rimsky-Korsakov. See Glenn Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky to the Postmodernists_ (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994), 256–64. See Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1486–99. Peter Brook, _The Empty Space_ (London: Pelican, 1972). I discuss this at greater length in chap. 4 of _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). For a fuller account of Stravinsky's familiarity with such theatrical thinking, see Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ ; parallels between Stravinsky and Meyerhold are explored in Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: Oedipus Rex_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), especially 11–22. Brook, _The Empty Space_ , 47–8. Antonin Artaud, _The Theatre and its Double_ , trans. Victor Corti (London: Calder, 1993), 42. _The Empty Space_ , 63. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 259. _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1247. Stravinsky, quoted in Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky_ , 240. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 119–20. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1246. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 258. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1292 (his emphasis). _Expositions and Developments_ , 120. _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1298. _The Empty Space_ , 80. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 413. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1300, 1301. _Expositions and Developments_ , 91. Ibid., 92. Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 22. Both works are given substantial coverage by Martha Hyde in her chapter 'Stravinsky's neoclassicism' in this volume. _The Nightingale_ , though to all intents and purposes an opera, is designated by Stravinsky a 'musical fairy tale'. _Expositions and Developments_ , 125. Ibid., 124. _Dialogues_ , 72. _Expositions and Developments_ , 123. Michael Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Phaidon, 1995), 190. See Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky_ , 496. George Balanchine, 'The dance element in Stravinsky's music', in Minna Lederman (ed.), _Stravinsky in the Theatre_ (New York: Da Capo, 1949), 81. Indeed, it was the 'real premiere', as Stravinsky had had nothing to do with the Washington production. See Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 455. 'The dance element in Stravinsky's music', 81. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 451. Ibid., 467. Balanchine, 'The dance element in Stravinsky's music', 82. _Dialogues_ , 78, n. 1. Ibid., 36. Ibid., 37. See also Anthony Pople, 'Stravinsky's early music', in this volume. Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 142–3. Daniel Albright, _Stravinsky: the Music Box and the Nightingale_ (New York: Gordon and Breach, 1989), 4. 8 Stravinsky the serialist Robert Craft, 'Influence or assistance?', in _Present Perspectives_ (New York: Knopf, 1984), 251–3; reprinted in _Stravinsky: Glimpses of a Life_ (London: Lime Tree, 1992), 38–9. Craft gave a slightly different version of the story in 1994: see _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948–1971_ , rev. and expanded edn (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1994). This alternative version, although it omits the actual shedding of tears, is even more emphatic than the earlier one in its assessment of the impact of Schoenberg's music. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 23. 'We have been working together for twenty-three years . . . [Craft] introduced me to almost all of the new music I have heard in the past two decades . . . and not only to the new music but to the new everything else. The plain truth is that anyone who admires my _Agon_ , my _Variations_ , my _Requiem Canticles_ , owes some gratitude to the man who has sustained my creative life these last years.' Letter to the Music Editor of the _Los Angeles Times_ (23 June 1970); reprinted in _Themes and Conclusions_ , 216. Craft, 'A centenary view, plus ten', in _Stravinsky: Glimpses of a Life_ , 16–17. The history of the Boulez–Stravinsky relationship is detailed in Craft, 'Boulez in the lemon and limelight', in _Prejudices in Disguise_ (New York: Knopf, 1974), 207–13. Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 63–5. Personal communication from Stravinsky to Milton Babbitt. Cited in Babbitt, _Words about Music_ , ed. Stephen Dembski and Joseph N. Straus (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), 20. For a basic discussion of partitioning in Schoenberg's twelve-note music, see Ethan Haimo, _Schoenberg's Serial Odyssey: the Evolution of his Twelve-note Method, 1914–1928_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 17–26. 'Schoenberg's work has too many inequalities for us to embrace it as a whole. For example, nearly all of his texts are appallingly bad, some of them so bad as to discourage performance of the music. Then too, his orchestrations of Bach, Handel, Monn, Loewe, Brahms differ from the type of commercial orchestration only in the superiority of craftsmanship: his intentions are no better . . . His expressionism is of the naïvest sort . . . his late tonal works are as dull as the Reger they resemble, or the César Franck'. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 70–71. The Stravinsky/Webern relationship has been extensively discussed. See, for example, Henri Pousseur, 'Stravinsky by way of Webern', _Perspectives of New Music_ 10/2 (1972), 13–51 and 11/1 (1972), 112–45; Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); Susannah Tucker, 'Stravinsky and his sketches: the composing of _Agon_ and other serial works of the 1950s', PhD diss., Oxford University, 1992. Craft, 'A personal preface', _The Score_ 20 (1957), 11–13. The following comment is reasonably typical: '[Webern] is the discoverer of a new distance between the musical object and ourselves and, therefore, of a new measure of musical time; as such he is supremely important . . . he is a perpetual Pentecost for all who believe in music.' Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960; repr. edn Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 103–5. See, for example, van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky,_ and Richard Taruskin, 'The traditions revisited: Stravinsky's _Requiem Canticles_ as Russian music', in Christopher Hatch and David W. Bernstein (eds.), _Music Theory and the Exploration of the Past_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 525–50. No. 114–0737. Throughout this chapter, sketch and manuscript materials will be identified by their microfilm numbers in the Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel. The text is a passage from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_ in which Ariel claims (falsely) that Ferdinand's father has drowned. Craft refers to this opening melody as the 'bells motive' (Craft, _Avec Stravinsky_ (Monaco: Editions du Rocher, 1958), 149). In the final version of the song, this melody is accompanied by canons in the viola (in augmentation at the unison) and clarinet and viola (at the perfect fifth above). It is notable that Stravinsky composes the melody in its entirety first and adds accompanying parts later. Stravinsky considered these four forms – which I shall normally refer to as P (prime), I (for its inversion beginning on the same note), R (retrograde) and IR (inversion of the retrograde) – as the basic forms of the series throughout the remainder of his compositional life. 109–0694. The five-note idea in the sketch, E–E–F –E –D, is related by retrograde inversion to what later emerged as the series (Theme) for the piece, E–E –C–C –D. Both versions thus begin on E and end on D, and the same musical motion is composed-out over a large musical span in the relationship between the Prelude and the Postlude. There is an extensive literature on these arrays, including Claudio Spies, 'Some notes on Stravinsky's _Abraham and Isaac_ ', _Perspectives of New Music_ 3/2 (1965), 104–26; 'Some notes on Stravinsky's _Variations_ ', _Perspectives of New Music_ 4/1 (1965), 62–74, and 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings', _Perspectives of New Music_ 5/2 (1967), 98–123; John Rogers, 'Some properties of non-duplicating rotational arrays', _Perspectives of New Music_ 7/1 (1968), 80–102; Charles Wuorinen, _Simple Composition_ (New York: Longman, 1979); Milton Babbitt, 'Order, symmetry, and centricity in late Stravinsky', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 247–61, and 'Stravinsky's verticals and Schoenberg's diagonals: a twist of fate', in Ethan Haimo and Paul Johnson (eds), _Stravinsky Retrospectives_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 15–35; Robert Morris, 'Generalizing rotational arrays', _Journal of Music Theory_ 32/1 (1988), 75–132. He occasionally uses also the retrograde of the inversion (RI). Stravinsky's source for rotational arrays was undoubtedly Ernst Krenek. See Catherine Hogan, ' _Threni_ : Stravinsky's debt to Krenek', _Tempo_ 141 (1982), 22–9. Stravinsky's use of the arrays, however, differs greatly from Krenek's. See Joseph N. Straus, 'Stravinsky's "construction of twelve verticals": an aspect of harmony in the serial music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 21/1 (1999), 231–71. For discussion of the apparent misprints in chords 10 and1, see Joseph N. Straus, 'Stravinsky's serial "mistakes", _Journal of Musicology_ 19/1 (1977), 55–80. On _The Firebird_ , see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 275. On _The Rake_ , see Chandler Carter, 'Stravinsky's "special sense": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19/1 (1977), 55–80. The serial derivation of these chords is clarified in Karen Lesley Grylls, 'The aggregate re-ordered: a paradigm for Stravinsky's _Requiem Canticles_ ', PhD diss., University of Washington, 1993. The derivation offered in Richard Taruskin, 'The traditions revisited', 525–50, is incorrect. 9 Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky Richard Taruskin, _Text and Act: Essays on Music and Performance_ (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 114. For the most comprehensive discography of Stravinsky's conducting, also including details of his many unpublished live recordings from 1930 on, see Philip Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky – The Composer in the Recording Studio: a Comprehensive Discography_ (New York: Greenwood Press, 1991). By far the most accessible source of Stravinsky's recordings is 'The recorded legacy', first issued as a thirty-one-record set in 1982 to mark the centenary of Stravinsky's birth (for a list of contents see Stuart, pp. 62–4), and reissued with small changes by Sony Classical on 22 CDs (SX22K 46290). This set does not however include key early recordings, such as the 1928 _Petrushka_ (no. 6 in Stuart, reissued on Pearl GEMM CD 9329) and the 1928 _Firebird_ and 1929 _Rite_ (nos 7 and 9 in Stuart, both reissued on Pearl GEMM CD 9334). Peter Hill, _Stravinsky: the Rite of Spring_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 118. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 110. Ibid., 133. The authoritative general introduction is Rex Lawson, 'Stravinsky and the pianola', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 284–301; expanded version published in _The Pianola Journal_ 1 (1987), 15–26 and 2 (1989), 3–16. Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_ , 2nd rev. and expanded edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1979), 619. Vera Stravinsky and Robert Craft (eds.), _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ (London: Hutchinson, 1979), 165. Interview of Stravinsky by Florent Fels, _Les nouvelles littéraires_ , 8 December 1928, quoted in V. Stravinsky and Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 164. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 70. Interview with _Seventeen_ magazine, in Igor Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 87; see also Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 123. Claudio Spies, 'Notes in his memory', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1 (1971), 155. As a pianist he premiered his _Four Studies for Piano_ in 1908. In his _Autobiography_ , Stravinsky records that his first attempt at conducting was a 'reading' of his Symphony in E at one of Ansermet's rehearsals in 1914 (Igor Stravinsky, _An Autobiography (1903–1934)_ (London: Victor Gollancz, 1936), 52; see also White, _Stravinsky_ , 177), and refers to conducting, 'for the first time in public', selections from _Firebird_ in Geneva and Paris in 1915 ( _An Autobiography_ , 59). Although this was followed by abortive discussions concerning a contract for Stravinsky to conduct his own works at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, his conducting skills were clearly underdeveloped at the time; it was probably not long after this that Otto Luening (then a member of the Tonhalle Orchestra, Zurich) rehearsed _Fireworks_ under him, noting that 'He was so nervous that he was not in control of the situation', while in _An Autobiography_ Stravinsky admits that, at the time of the Octet premiere, 'I was only just beginning my career as a conductor, I had not yet got the necessary technique, which I acquired later only with practice' (Otto Luening, (untitled), _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1, 131; Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 109). English version (from _The Arts_ 6/1 ( January 1924)) reprinted in White, _Stravinsky_ , 574–7. I shall not enter into the question of how far these books were the work of Stravinsky or of ghost-writers (respectively, Walter Nouvel and Roland-Manuel). Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 101. Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 223. Arnold Schoenberg, _Style and Idea_ , rev. edn, ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1984), 342 (but written in 1926). Robert Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style: Changing Tastes in Instrumental Performance, 1900–1950_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 11–12, citing Margaret Long, _Au piano avec Maurice Ravel_ (Paris, 1971), 36. Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 122–3. Ibid., 122. Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 113. See for example Richard Hudson's account ( _Stolen Time: a History of Tempo Rubato_ (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 387–8) of the successive notations of the Magician's motive from _Petrushka_. The section of Hudson's book devoted to Stravinsky (381–400) offers an exhaustive account of the surprisingly frequent indications of rubato, explicit or implicit, to be found in Stravinsky's scores of all periods, together with some comparisons from his recordings. 24 White, _Stravinsky_ , 576. Ibid., 575. Ibid., 576. Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 127. Heinrich Schenker, _The Art of Performance_ , ed. Heribert Esser, trans. Irene Schreier Scott (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). From the Florent Fels interview (see n. 9 above) as quoted in Robert Craft, _Igor and Vera Stravinsky: A Photograph Album (1921–1971)_ (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982), 20. Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 150, 152. From the _Seattle Post-Intelligencer_ , 5 March 1954 (quoted in Vera Stravinsky and Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 308). Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 119 Hill, _The Rite_ , 159, contradicting Robert Fink, ' " _Rigoroso_ ( ♩ = 126)": _The Rite of Spring_ and the forging of a modernist performing style', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 52 (1999), 335; Hill quotes some of the competing promotional material issued by the respective record companies. Monteux's recording (reissued on Pearl GEMM CD 9329) outsold Stravinsky's – possibly because, though actually a few seconds longer than Stravinsky's ( 31'50" as against 31'18"), it was squeezed on to four discs instead of five, and therefore cheaper; Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 8. Stuart discusses what he calls the 'Craft problem' at some length ( _Igor Stravinsky_ , 14–16); the scandal broke following Lillian Libman's revelation that CBS had included takes by Craft in recordings released under Stravinsky's sole name. _American Music Lover_ 7/2 (October 1940), 58. _The Gramophone_ 38 (1961), 533. _Musical Times_ 102 (1961), 369. _The Gramophone_ 38 (1961), 534. 'Index of record reviews with symbols indicating opinions of reviewers, compiled by Kurtz Myers and Donald L. Leavitt', _Notes_ 18 (1960–61), 625. The first issue of the volume summarises two other recordings of _The Rite_ , with less favourable outcomes: Dorati scores two as excellent, four as adequate and two as inadequate, while Goossens scores three, one and one respectively (p. 118). The following volume, 19 (1961–2), 666–7, summarises reviews of four works conducted by Stravinsky and three conducted by others; every Stravinsky recording gets a better rating than any of the others. Leo Smit, 'A card game, a wedding, and a passing', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1 (1971), 92–3. It sounds as if Smit had been watching _Fantasia_ , but images of birds proliferate in later accounts of Stravinsky's stage presence: see, for instance, George Rochberg, (untitled), _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1 (1971), 32–3, and J. K. Randall, 'Stravinsky in person', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1 (1971), 134. Something of this quality can be seen in the many published photographs of Stravinsky conducting, but perhaps most eloquently in Milein Cosman's drawings (Hans Keller and Milein Cosman, _Stravinsky Seen and Heard_ (London: Toccata Press, 1982)). Taruskin ( _Text and Act_ , 97–8) elaborates a similar argument, again in relation to _The Rite_ , further developed in Fink, '" _Rigoroso_ "', 323–4. Fink, '" _Rigoroso_ "', 317, 318–23. The date is given in Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 129, but contradicted in Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 144–5, where Stravinsky says that he first conducted _The Rite_ in 1928 for the Columbia recording, and in concert in 1929. Both accounts place the first concert performance in Amsterdam. Fink, '" _Rigoroso_ "', 324. These two sentences are condensed from Nicholas Cook, _Analysing Musical Multimedia_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 196–202, where references may be found, but for the authoritative account see Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), chaps. 12–13; for a more concise one, see Hill, _The Rite_ , especially chap. 7. White, _Stravinsky_ , 574, 577. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 145. In direct contravention of the stipulations in _Poetics of Music_ : 'The sin against the spirit of the work always begins with a sin against its letter and leads to the endless follies which an ever-flourishing literature in the worst taste does its best to sanction. Thus it follows that a _crescendo_ , as we all know, is always accompanied by a speeding up of movement . . .' (124). This recording was made with the Walther Straram Orchestra (Toscanini's favourite orchestra when in Paris). See the tables in Hill, _The Rite_ , 124, and, for more detail, Fink, '" _Rigoroso_ "', 356. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , enlarged edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1968), 108. Hill, _The Rite_ , 123. Fink, '" _Rigoroso_ "', 347. The 1960 recording of _Petrushka_ (Stuart's no. 92) is available as part of the 'Recorded legacy' set (Sony Classical SMK 46293). Philip's comparison of recordings from the 1920s and 1930s by Stravinsky, Coates, Malko and Stokowski does, however, show that Stravinsky's range of tempo variation, even in 1928, was lower than that of his contemporaries; Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 31–3. Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 101. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 117–23. Ibid., 118. Ibid., 119. Ibid., 20. Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 226. This expression, Stravinsky explains, has 'attained a myth-like status comparable to "the rosy-fingered dawn" in Homer' (ibid., 131). Some of Stravinsky's other references to Karajan were less kind. Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 90. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 113. The reference is presumably to Bruno Walter, whose rehearsal of movements 1–3 of Mozart's 'Linz' Symphony, K. 425, was included on the two-LP set 'The birth of a performance', Philips ABL 3161–2. Ibid., 56; see also Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 38. Other conductors whom Stravinsky heard in St Petersburg include Nikisch and Richter, while in Berlin he heard Weingartner, who became 'a near idol of mine in my youth' (Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 225). Natalie Bauer-Lechner, _Erinnerungen an Gustav Mahler_ (Vienna: E. P. Tal, 1923), 46, quoted in translation by Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 37. Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 233. From Gray's _A Survey of Contemporary Music_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1927), quoted in Hill, _The Rite_ , 100–1. The best formulation, quoted by Taruskin ( _Text as Act_ , 117n.), comes from Nicolas Nabokov ('Stravinsky now', _Partisan Review_ 11 (1944), 332): 'Look at any one of [Stravinsky's] bars and you will find that it is not the measure closed in by bar lines (as it would be in Mozart, for example), but the monometrical unit of the measure, the single beat which determines the life of his musical organism.' Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 87–8, where Stravinsky not only lists his repertoire but also registers an unrealised ambition to conduct Beethoven's Symphonies 1–4 and 8, and _Fidelio_. Live recordings of music by other composers are included in Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ , Appendix C. 70 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Symphonies' (Sony Classical SM2K 46294). Curiously, Stravinsky suggested recording _The Sleeping Beauty_ in 1929 within the terms of his Columbia contract, but the offer was not taken up; see Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 8. 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Ballets vol. II', SM3K 46292. Respectively, nos. 7, 99 and 182 in Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ ; reissued as 'Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring and The Firebird' (Pearl GEMM CD 9334), 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Ballets vol. I' (Sony Classical SM3K 46291), and 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Ballet Suites' (Sony Classical SMK 46293). Fig. 9.1, which is adapted to take account of the two different openings, is based on an average tempo for each section (not on beat-by-beat analysis); it should be noted that this method conflates the effects of tempo proper with those of caesurae. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 147. Fink, '" _Rigoroso_ "', 313. Hill, _The Rite_ , 137. Tempos are taken from Hill's chart (ibid., 124), but with the metronome marking at rehearsal number 57 corrected from 168 to 166. Hill points out that any such values can only be approximate (ibid., 120), because they depend in part on the method of measurement; for consistency I have therefore left his values for the 1960 performance of the Introduction to Part 2 unchanged, despite the divergence between them and Table 9.1. Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 234. Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 82–90, and Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 234–41. Concert Hall CM 2324 (stereo LP). According to Hill's chart, the winner, by a wide margin, is Craft's 1962 recording, of which Stravinsky inexplicably writes, 'The tempo is correct' ( _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 85). Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 137. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 118. A sense of this transformation is conveyed by Soulima Stravinsky in Ben Johnston, 'An interview with Soulima Stravinsky', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1 (1971), 15–27. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 119. Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 122. Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 139. Ibid., 228. Taruskin, _Text and Act_ , 129. Ibid., 117. 10 Stravinsky as devil: Adorno's three critiques T. W. Adorno, _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1949), in _Gesammelte Schriften_ (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1975) vol. 12, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Klaus Schultz. Eng. edn: _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Sheed and Ward, 1973). Schoenberg in a letter to Rufer in 1949 wrote: 'it is disgusting, by the way, how he treats Stravinsky. I am certainly no admirer of Stravinsky, although I like a piece of his here and there very much – but one should not write like that.' Cited in H. H. Stuckenschmidt, _Schoenberg: His Life, World and Work_ , trans. Humphrey Searle (London: Calder, 1977), 508. Célestin Deliège, 'Stravinsky–ideology – language', _Perspectives of New Music_ 26/1 (Winter 1988), 83. Robert Craft, 'A bell for Adorno', in _Prejudices in Disguise_ (New York: Knopf, 1974), 91–102. T. W. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', in _Quasi una fantasia_ , trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1992), 147. Carl Dahlhaus, 'Das Problem der "höheren Kritik": Adornos Polemik gegen Strawinsky', in _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_ 148/5 (1987), 9–15. Peter Bürger, 'The decline of the modern age', trans. David J. Parent, _Telos_ 62 (Winter 1984–5), 117–30. Jean-François Lyotard, 'Adorno as the devil' [1973], trans. Robert Hurley, _Telos_ 19 (1974/5), 127–8. See Thomas Mann, _Doctor Faustus_ , trans. H. T. Lowe-Porter (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), 231–7. T. W. Adorno, 'Die stabilisierte Musik' [1928], _Gesammelte Schriften_ , vol. 18, ed. Rolf Tiedemann (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1984), 721–8. T. W. Adorno, 'Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik' [1932], in _Gesammelte Schriften_ , vol. 18, 729–77. English version: 'On the social situation of music', trans. Wesley Blomster, _Telos_ 35 (Spring 1978), 128–64. See my _Adorno's Aesthetics of Music_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 102–5. T. W. Adorno, 'Die stabilisierte Musik' [1928], p. 725 (my translation). At the beginning of _Philosophy of New Music_ Adorno cites a significant passage from Walter Benjamin's _The Origin of German Tragic Drama_ : 'Philosophical history as the science of origins is that form which, from the most far-flung extremes and apparent excesses of development, allows the emergence of the configuration of the Idea, characterized as the totality of all possibilities for a meaningful juxtaposition of such opposites.' _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ , 13 (my translation). _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , 181. Ibid., 171. Ibid., 142. Ibid., 144. Ibid., 159. Ibid., 173. Ibid., 157n. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 148–9. Ibid., 150. Bürger, 'The decline of the modern age', 119. 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 150–51. Dahlhaus, 'Das Problem der "höheren Kritik"'. Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 234. Ibid., 234–5. Adorno, _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , 216–17. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 152. Apparently Beckett had reservations about Adorno's interpretation of his _Endgame_. See James Knowlson, _Damned to Fame: the Life of Samuel Beckett_ (London: Bloomsbury, 1996), 478–9. T. W. Adorno, 'Trying to Understand _Endgame_ ', in _Notes to Literature_ , vol. 1, trans. Shierry Weber Nicholsen (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 268. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 173. Adorno, 'Trying to Understand _Endgame_ ', 243. See my essay, 'Adorno's aesthetics of modernism', in _Adorno, Modernism and Mass Culture: Essays on Critical Theory and Music_ (London: Kahn and Averill, 1996), 51. 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 174. Ibid., 174. T. W. Adorno, _Minima Moralia_ [1951], trans. Edmund Jephcott (London: Verso/New Left Books, 1974), 49. 11 Stravinsky in analysis: the anglophone traditions Igor Stravinsky, _Chroniques de ma vie_ (Paris: Denoël and Steel, 1935–6). Trans. anon. as _An Autobiography_ (New York: Steuer, 1958); repr. with corrections by Eric Walter White (London: Marion Boyars, 1975), 53. Stravinsky's italics. Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 14. Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music, in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 6. _Poetics_ , 80–1. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 101–2. Their italics. Richard Taruskin, 'Stravinsky and the subhuman. A myth of the 20th century: _The Rite of Spring_ , the tradition of the new, and "the music itself "', in _Defining Russia Musically_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 360–85; 382. Ibid., 379. Ibid., 367. The influence of Stravinsky's objectivity and its relation to Schoenberg's ideal of structural autonomy is discussed in Rose Rosengard Subotnik, _Deconstructive Variations: Music and Reason in Western Society_ (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 148–76. Edward T. Cone, 'Stravinsky: the progress of a method' [1962], in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (rev. edn New York: Norton, 1968), 155–64; Arthur Berger, 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky' [1963], in Boretz and Cone, _Perspectives_ , 123–54; Pierre Boulez, 'Stravinsky remains', in _Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship_ , trans. Stephen Walsh (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 55–110. Boulez's essay, written in 1951, was first published in French as 'Stravinsky demeure', in Pierre Souvtchinsky (ed.), _Musique russe_ , 2 vols (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953), vol. 1, 155–224, and first appeared in English in 1968. Declared by Boulez in 'Schoenberg is dead [1952]', in _Stocktakings_ , 209–14. Milton Babbitt, 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky' [1964], and Claudio Spies, 'Notes on Stravinsky's _Abraham and Isaac_ ' [1965], 'Notes on Stravinsky's Variations' [1965], and 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings' [1967], all in Boretz and Cone, _Perspectives_ : 165–85, 186–209, 210–22, 223–49 respectively. Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). The case for a wider European context for Stravinsky is put by Pieter C. van den Toorn in _Music, Politics, and the Academy_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), chap. 7 ('A case in point: context and analytical method in Stravinsky'), 179–219. Olivier Messiaen, _The Technique of my Musical Language_ , trans. John Satterfield (Paris: Alphonse Leduc, 1956), vol. 1, 59–60; vol. 2, Exx. 312–28. Berger, 'Problems of pitch organisation', 132. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 266. A concise discussion of octatonicism in Stravinsky and Rimsky-Korsakov is contained in Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork: on Stravinsky_ , trans. Jeff Hamburger (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 228–35. See also Anthony Pople, 'Early Stravinsky', this volume, p. 66. A full explanation of the basics of octatonic theory is given in Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 31–72. Van den Toorn is 'inclined to agree with Arthur Berger that the Stravinskian stamp is advantageously defined with reference to the octatonic pitch collection, whether inferred singly or in terms of some kind of octatonic-diatonic penetration', ibid., 41. See ibid., chap. 10, 271–320. Stravinsky's interest in the sonority and symmetrical properties of the major-minor tetrachord is reported in Allen Forte, _The Harmonic Organization of 'The Rite of Spring'_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978), 33, n. 7, and is associated with the trope of the bell in Andriessen and Schönberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 272–4. See, for example, Taruskin's discussion of Rimsky-Korsakov's 'harmonic exploitation' of the octatonic scale, in particular chromatic chord progressions ascending and descending in minor thirds (i.e. through the diminished tetrachord). _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 255–306. Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 32. Forte, ' _The Rite of Spring_ ', 29. Notably in the correspondence between Forte and Taruskin published in _Music Analysis_ , 5/2–3 (1986), 313–37. Forte is also implicated in Taruskin's rejection of formalist approaches to _The Rite_ by Elliott Antokoletz, _Twentieth-Century Music_ (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1991) and Pieter C. van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': the Beginnings of a Musical Language_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). The conflicts and similarities of the views of Forte, van den Toorn and Taruskin are discussed in Anthony Pople, 'Misleading voices: contrasts and continuities in Stravinsky studies', in Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist (eds.), _Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretation: Essays in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 271–87; 271–7. Forte, ' _The Rite of Spring_ ', 28. For precision and concision, pitch-class (pc) collections are designated throughout this chapter using Forte's set names, as listed in _The Structure of Atonal Music_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), Appendix 1, 179–81. In this case, set 4–17, '4' indicates that the set is a tetrachord, '17' simply that it is seventeenth in the list of tetrachords; the pc list [0,3,4,7] expresses the basic form of the set using the numerical notation of pcs (C = 0, C ♯ = 1, etc.) and indicates that in its (abstractly defined) prime form this set comprises C, E♭, E♮ and G. In an actual composition, of course, the set would usually appear in transposition and inversion, while retaining its identity as the major-minor tetrachord. Forte, ' _The Rite of Spring_ ', 32. Similarly, Forte analyses extracts from Stravinsky's works (up to the _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ ) alongside music by Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, Bartók, Busoni, Ives, Ruggles, Skryabin and Varèse. Any one of the three distinct forms (van den Toorn's Collections I–III) of the octatonic scale naturally selects eight of the twelve chromatic pcs; if the pc content of a passage can be accounted for by a single collection, then a relatively exclusive harmonic focus is in operation. Any two collections cover the total chromatic, holding invariant a diminished tetrachord (set 4–28 [0,3,6,9]); potentially, then, any passage in which twelve pcs are present may be described as octatonic, but this becomes a structural description only when the two collections can be shown to be (a) discrete and (b) interactive (as, for example, when chords belonging to separate collections alternate and are perhaps connected by their invariant diminished tetrachord). In a very general sense, this is van den Toorn's procedure in _Stravinsky_. See Cone, 'Stravinsky', 156. These concise definitions are taken from the glossary of Taruskin's _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 1677–9. The principles are considered at length on 951–66. Jonathan Kramer, 'Moment form in twentieth-century music', _Musical Quarterly_ 64 (1978), 177–94; 'Discontinuity and proportion in the music of Stravinsky', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 174–94; and _The Time of Music: New Meanings, New Temporalities, New Listening Strategies_ (New York: Schirmer, 1988), 221–85. Kramer's approach is the point of departure for two original, structurally sensitive studies by Marianne Kielian-Gilbert: (1) 'The rhythms of form: correspondence and analogy in Stravinsky's designs', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 9 (1987), 42–66 (centred on the second of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ and the 'Soldier's March' from _The Soldier's Tale_ ); and (2) 'Stravinsky's contrasts: contradiction and discontinuity in his neoclassic music', _Journal of Musicology_ 9 (1991), 448–80 (on the _Concertino_ for string quartet, the first movement of the Symphony in C and the Octet). See also Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 2 ('Block forms'), 17–79, which traces this Stravinskian formal inheritance in Varèse, Messiaen, Stockhausen, Tippett and Birtwistle. Kramer, 'Moment form', 177–88 _passim_. Proportional analysis is an essential mode of relation in Kielian-Gilbert's 'The rhythms of form' and is developed further in Akane Mori's 'Proportional exchange in Stravinsky's early serial music', _Journal of Music Theory_ 41 (1997), 227–59, which applies and extends Kramer's concepts to formal design, the relation of voices and text setting in _Canticum Sacrum_. Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 30–32. Arnold Schoenberg, _Fundamentals of Musical Composition_ , ed. Gerald Strang and Leonard Stein (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), 8. Schoenberg's conception of structure gives priority to 'developing variation', a more profound conception of transformation than Stravinsky's 'similarities': for the teleological theorist, the latter would correspond to Schoenberg's 'variants' ('changes of subordinate meaning, which have no special consequences', p. 8). Taruskin, 'Stravinsky and the subhuman', 366. See also Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1125–6, on Stravinsky's reception of the ideas of Bergson and Souvtchinsky. See Stephen Kern, _The Culture of Time and Space 1800–1918_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); Mark Antliff, _Inventing Bergson: Cultural Politics and the Parisian Avant-garde_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); and Martin Jay, _Downcast Eyes: the Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century Thought_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 186–209. Bergson, _Time and Freewill: an Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness_ [1889], trans. F. L. Pogson (London: Allen and Unwin, 1910), 109. Following Boulez's 'Stravinsky remains', theoretical treatments of rhythmic and metrical structure in Stravinsky customarily begin by consolidating spatial conceptions in the play of even and odd durations (Boulez's 'rational' and 'irrational' values), symmetry and dissymmetry, and layered rhythmic structures, in which separate rhythms unfold in various strata of a composition. Cross's survey of analyses of rhythmic innovations in _The Rite_ by Boulez, van den Toorn ( _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 137–43) and Taruskin ( _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 958–64) emphasises the flexibility and 'exchange' of rhythmic cells in the work, the interplay of ostinato and repetitive asymmetrical or syncopated rhythms, and the vertical opposition of rhythmic regularity over a regular metre; see _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 3 ('Structural rhythms'), 81–104. Van den Toorn's _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ contains the most developed theoretical account of Stravinsky's rhythmic practices, divided in two 'dimensions': (1) 'the repetition of a single reiteration, fragment, line or part'; (2) 'the registrally fixed repetition of fragments, lines or parts which repeat according to _varying_ and hence "separate" or "independent" rhythmic-metric patterns' (p. 216, his italics). Countering the received idea of Stravinsky's rhythm as a fully emancipated parameter of music, van den Toorn focuses on the ways in which rhythmic invention, while discretely organised, interacts with pitch structure. This is also the intention of Jonathan Kramer's analysis of _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ in which 'moments' and 'submoments', constructed from integrated cells of pitch and rhythmic material, are controlled by a diatonic-chromatic linear progression ( _The Time of Music_ , 221–85). However, the conflict of immobility and process in the rhythmic organisation itself and between the two parameters (rhythm and linear pitch structures) is difficult to resolve if integration is the analytical goal. Alexander Rehding's 'Towards a "logic of discontinuity" in Stravinsky's _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ : Hasty, Kramer and Straus reconsidered', _Music Analysis_ 17/1 (1998), 39–67, perceptively explores this problem in Kramer, alongside analyses by Joseph N. Straus, from 'The problem of prolongation in post-tonal music', _Journal of Music Theory_ 31/1 (1987), 1–21, and _Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Traditions_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), and Christopher Hasty, from 'On the problem of succession and continuity in twentieth-century music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 8 (1986), 58–74. Rehding seeks a logic of discontinuity that avoids the stylistically dissonant 'organicist' approach of László Somfai ('Symphonies of Wind Instruments (1920): observations of Stravinsky's organic construction', _Studia musicologia Academiae Scientarum Hungaricae_ 14 (1972), 355–83) while proposing various modes of 'overall coherence', culminating in the syntheses of the final chorale. The primary stylistic feature to emerge from these studies is that Stravinsky's 'block forms' contain initial cellular fusions of pitch and rhythmic variables which can be distributed and transformed separately in subsequent 'blocks' and eventually achieve a re-synthesis or, to adapt a phrase from _Poetics_ , convergence in a state of repose. Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1648–75. Spies, 'Stravinsky's Requiem settings', 237, n. 6. My evidence is biographical and circumstantial. Andriessen and Schönberger emphasise the importance to Stravinsky of some Italian music (especially Gabrieli) and of Venice, the city in which he is buried ( _Apollonian Clockwork_ , 7–10). They also hear unspecified 'reference to other Requiems from musical history' (8). Stravinsky himself referred to echoes of _Il Trovatore_ heard by some in _Apollon musagète_ and _Perséphone_ , neither accepting nor rejecting these associations; see Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), 34. Joseph N. Straus, _Remaking the Past_. Straus applies a version of Harold Bloom's Freudian theory of the 'anxiety' of poetic influence to a wide range of modernist music, including Stravinsky's, in order to reveal a dimension of reinterpretation in relation to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century tonal models. Primarily, the issue bears on Stravinsky's neoclassical music. See also van den Toorn, _Music, Politics and the Academy_ , chap. 6 ('Neoclassicism revised'), 143–78, in which Straus's arguments are reviewed in the context of recent literature on the topic, and Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 6 ('A fresh look at Stravinsky analysis'), 193–225, for analyses of the Symphony in C and the Symphony in Three Movements in the light of Straus and theories of the 'moment'. _Requiem Canticles_ is based on two series (see Spies, 'Stravinsky's Requiem settings', 233–7). Stravinsky's serial procedures are discussed in: van den Toorn, _The music of Stravinsky_ , 427–55; Milton Babbitt, 'Stravinsky's verticals and Schoenberg's diagonals: a twist of fate', in Ethan Haimo and Paul Johnson (eds), _Stravinsky Retrospectives_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 15–35, and 'Order, symmetry and centricity in late Stravinsky', in Pasler, _Confronting Stravinsky_ , 247–61; Charles Wourinen and Jeffrey Kresky, 'On the significance of Stravinsky's last works', in ibid., 262–70; Paul Schuyler Phillips, 'The enigma of _Variations_ : a study of Stravinsky's final work for orchestra', _Music Analysis_ 3/1 (1984), 69–89; and Joseph N. Straus, _Stravinsky's Late Music_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). See also Straus, 'Stravinsky the serialist', in this volume. Since Stravinsky's technique of rotation is applied to the hexachords, not to the complete row, pitch repetitions are produced between the a and b hexachords of all the IR forms except IR0a and IR0b, which are mutually complementary (as in traditional serialism). These two exceptions are produced by Stravinsky's deployment of the hexachords and verticals. The absence of G♮ (pc 7) in _Huic ergo_ (bars 250–54) is compensated by the presence of this pc as the last note of bar 249 and in the vertical (Vb5) in bar 255. Similarly, the absence of D♮ and E♭ (pcs 2 and 3) in the _Amen_ is mitigated by the presence of these pcs at the end of phrase 6 (bars 260–61). It is clear, though, that Stravinsky's serial logic is directed towards the system created by the rotation of hexachords and verticals and does not insist axiomatically on the (Schoenbergian) requirement to keep all twelve pcs in play. The verticals are labelled according to the hexachord from which they are derived. 'Vb1' refers to the first vertical generated from IRb, and so on (see Table 11.4). Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 24. Stravinsky goes on to say that 'I hear harmonically, of course, and I compose in the same way I always have' (25). Taruskin's view is that Stravinsky's 'late serial music is probably the most essentially harmonic – in the literal, vertical, chordal sense of the word – of any that may be found within the borders of the dodecaphonic realm' ( _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1652–3); but this is true only literally, vertically and chordally. In their different ways, Berg and Webern, for example, construct and exert a tight control on the vertical dimension of their serial music (the Scherzo of Webern's String Quartet, Op. 28, is a classic instance of an 'essentially harmonic' conception). The most recent considerations of Stravinsky's serial harmonic logic are Joseph N. Straus's indispensable essay on this topic, 'Stravinsky's "construction of the twelve verticals": an aspect of harmony in the serial music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 21 (1999), 43–73, his chapter 'Harmony', in _Stravinsky's Late Music_ , 141–82, and 'Stravinsky the serialist' in this volume. Straus argues that 'the evolution of solutions to the problem of writing serial harmony during this period can be understood, at least in part, in terms of evolving solutions to the problem of writing serial harmony' ('Stravinsky's "construction"', 43). He identifies Stravinsky's most original contributions to serial theory as (1) the 'Lacrimosa'-type 'verticals of rotational arrays' (authoritatively theorised in Babbitt's 'Stravinsky's verticals', and 'Order, symmetry, and centricity'); and (2) the verticals in four-part arrays, 'a layering of four series from which twelve chords are created as vertical slices through the array' (45). The construction of this doubled five-verticals array foreshadows the five-chord arrays in the Postlude of _Requiem Canticles_ , in which five different chords (piccolo, flutes, piano, harp) alternate with other chord sequences (celesta, bells, vibraphone), three of which contain five verticals. As noted above, the whole-tone scale intersects with the octatonic collections, but its distinctive character tends to dominate its octatonic content. Table 11.7 reveals that Stravinsky seems intent on avoiding the anomalous whole tone: in the music (bars 250–53) 4-25 is split into set 3-8 (bar 250) and the dyad F♯/C (bar 253); when the dyad D♯/A♯ (bar 250) is placed beneath 3-8, this whole-tone trichord is incorporated into the diatonic/chromatic set 5-30. For example, the 5-Z38 (10, 1, 4, 5, 6) of Vb3 (bar 233) contains A♯, C♯, E, F, F♯, of which the segment A♯, C♯, E, F (10, 1, 4, 6) belongs to octatonic collection III. This segment can also be interpreted as an F♯7chord, but no priority is given to this tonal formation here. In _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1661–2 and Ex. 20, Taruskin analyses the C♮ and G♮ (bar 232) as the point of transition from octatonic collection II (bars 229–31). Although this is broadly accurate, the presence of E♯ in bar 233 (Vb3, 5-Z38) lies outside collection III and transforms the sonority. It is an exaggeration to claim that 'the harmony produced is nothing other than a _Petrushka_ chord (excepting the E sharp . . . )' (1662), since the chord sounds nothing like the (octatonic) _Petrushka_ chord: the theoretical explanation here is reductive in the sense that it does not address the aural effect of the chord in bar 233, nor the difference within the octatonic similarity of the chords compared. Taruskin also claims that the 'Lacrimosa' progresses regularly through simultaneities of collections II and III; again, this is reductively true, but the multiple of instances of foreign notes generated by the interaction of the various rotational schemes means that the movement is not quite as systematically controlled as Taruskin's brief analysis makes it appear. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, 'Change of life', in _Themes and Episodes_ (New York: Knopf, 1966), 23–4. Milton Babbitt, 'Stravinsky's verticals', 16. Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 35. Ibid., 37. Stravinsky encapsulates the function of pitch centres in the concept of 'polarity' which may apply to a sound, an interval or a 'complex of tones'; see _Poetics_ , 36. The structural processes implicit in polarity were explored initially in Berger's 'Problems of pitch organisation', 135–41, in particular the contradiction inherent in the concept that if a sonority (Stravinsky's 'complex of tones') is to be polarised then single-pitch polarity would have to be either withheld or polarised within the sonority. Further ramifications of Berger's discussion are considered in Marianne Kielian-Gilbert, 'Relationships of symmetrical pitch-class sets and Stravinsky's metaphor of polarity', _Perspectives of New Music_ 21 (1982–3), 209–40, and pursued in extracts from the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ , _The Rite of Spring_ (Introduction) and the Octet ('Tema con variazione'). She argues that polarity exists when two or more versions of a pc set class exhibit a structure symmetrical around a pc or dyad that remains invariant when one or more of the sets is transposed (for example, C–D–F–G [0, 2, 5, 7] and F–G–B♭–C [5, 7, 10, 0]); this creates 'inversional balance or complementation'. Under these conditions, polarity of a sonority (a set class) can co-exist with single-pitch polarity, as long as the single pitch is the invariant centre of symmetry for the various transpositions and configurations of the sonority. Kielian-Gilbert's conception of polarity theorises a particular ('inversional') configuration of Straus's analysis of harmonic polarity in Stravinsky's centric music according to a theory of 'tonal axis', defined as 'a nucleus of pitches' that (a) consists of overlapping major and minor triads (for example, E–G–B–D), (b) must function as a referential sonority, and (c), in contradistinction to a 'unified' major or minor seventh chord, must embody a conflict or polarity between its two constituent triads (e.g. E–G–B and G–B–D). These latter triads, for example, fulfil Kielian-Gilbert's conditions for inversional complementation ([4, 7, 11] and [7, 11, 2]). See Joseph N. Straus, 'Stravinsky's tonal axis', _Journal of Music Theory_ 26 (1982), 261–90. See Theodor Adorno, _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Seabury Press, 1973), 138–40. The structural and aesthetic effects of hypostatisation are considered at length in Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 7 ('Conclusions: Stravinsky, Adorno, and the problem of non-development'), 227–41. Adele T. Katz, 'Stravinsky', in _Challenge to Musical Tradition: Toward a New Concept of Tonality_ (London: Putnam, 1947), 294–349; Felix Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ (New York: Charles Boni, 1952; corrected edition, New York: Dover, 1962); and Allen Forte, _Contemporary Tone Structures_ (New York: Columbia University Bureau of Publications, 1955), 25–38, 128–38, 150–53, 187–92. Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ , 219 and Ex. 427. Heinrich Schenker, 'Further considerations of the Urlinie II', in William Drabkin (ed.), _The Masterwork in Music_ , vol. 2, 17–18. See especially 17, Fig. 31. Some ramifications of Schenker's analysis are discussed in Robert Morgan, 'Dissonant prolongations: theoretical and compositional precedents', _Journal of Music Theory_ 20 (1976), 49–91. Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ , 194. Ibid., 218. Ibid., Ex. 472. Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice', _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 33–53; 51. The function of dissonance in Stravinsky is explored further in 'Tonality and the emancipated dissonance: Schoenberg and Stravinsky', in Jonathan Dunsby (ed.), _Models of Musical Analysis: Early Twentieth Century Music_ (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), 1–19. Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ , 191. Roy Travis, 'Towards a new concept of tonality?', _Journal of Music Theory_ 3 (1959), 257–84. On this theoretical issue, see Joseph N. Straus, 'The problem of prolongation', and 'Voice-leading in atonal music', in James Baker, David Beach and Jonathan Bernard (eds), _Music Theory in Concept and Practice_ (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997), 237–74; see also Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science?', 41–9. Katz, 'Stravinsky', 337. Ibid., 340; see also 341–7. Katz addresses the issue that concerned Schoenberg in the early 1930s, in reaction to Ernst Kurth's _Grundlagen der lineare Kontrapunkt_ (Bern, 1917). Both Katz and Schoenberg argue against the notion that counterpoint in extended tonality, atonality or serialism can proceed entirely 'linearly' without harmonic logic or control. See Schoenberg, 'Linear counterpoint' and 'Linear counterpoint: linear polyphony', in _Style and Idea_ , ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 289–95 and 295–7 respectively. In _Contemporary Tone Structures_ (1955), Forte's analysis of the 'Larghetto' from _Les cinq doigts_ and the whole of _Petrushka_ also produces linear structures (generated by 'specific single tones') unfolding independently and dissonantly, a technique that 'results in tensions between the individual lines, thus providing a compositional resource of great potential' (137). Like Katz, Forte rejects the implication that such lines exemplify so-called 'linear counterpoint' and maintains that 'vertical coincidence at important structural points is manifestly an important consideration' (137). This harmonic logic, which takes the form of departure from and return to referential sonorities, does, however, remain somewhat attenuated in the analyses. The tension between the linear and vertical is an unresolved theoretical problem in _Contemporary Tone Structures_ , but finds a radical solution in Forte's pc set theory (see above) predicated on the Schoenbergian-atonal concept of the 'unity [or parametrical identity] of musical space'. Subsequently, Forte extended the scope of pc set theory to admit the linear projection of pc sets, a type of non-tonal prolongation applied to sections of _The Rite_ and _Petrushka_ : see Allen Forte, 'New approaches to the linear analysis of music', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 41 (1988), 315–48. See Joseph N. Straus, 'A principle of voice-leading in the music of Stravinsky', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 4 (1982), 106–24, 'The problem of prolongation', and 'Voice-leading in atonal music'; Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis: descriptions and distinctions' (Inaugural lecture in the Faculty of Music, King's College London, 1982); Anthony Pople, 'Misleading voices', 277–87. My term 'centrum' is intended to differentiate Stravinsky's pitch centres from the tonic function in common-practice tonality. See Straus, 'The problem of prolongation', 13–21. In 'Voice-leading in atonal music', Straus refines the associational model, adopting David Lewin's principle of transformational networks in order to define more precisely the relationship of the associative sonorities. In their prime forms, set classes 6-Z25, 5-16 and 5-19 are supersets of 4-Z29, as follows: 6-Z25 [5,6,8,0,11,3] contains 4-Z29 as [5,6,8,0] requiring a theoretical transposition down five semitones to the prime form of 4-Z29 [0,1,3,7]; 5-16 [0,1,3,4,7] contains 4-Z29 [0,1,3,7]; 5-19 [0,1,3,6,7] contains 4-Z29 [0,1,3,7]. Although it is difficult to hear the linear projection of 4-Z29 in the high piccolo register, I would maintain that the linear 4-Z29 is a structural event, projected in this case both horizontally and registrally, and that its inaudibility is a striking image of structural alienation; see Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', in _Quasi una fantasia_ , trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1992), 145–75; 146. The association of the G♮s in the voice (bar 263) and trombone (bar 265) is strong but disturbed by the final vocal A♮ and the trombone's G♮. As I hear the passage, there is no structural closure on the G♮ unison (ic0) but a cadential reiteration of ic1 (G♮/G♮) that keeps in play the chromatic interference with the centrum. See also Jeffrey Perry, 'A "requiem for the requiem": on Stravinsky's _Requiem Canticles_ ', _College Music Symposium_ 33–4 (1993–4), 237–56, for a culturally-nuanced discussion of the tension between tonal implication and serially-controlled centricity in the work (especially the 'Libera me'). The complexity of incipient tonal structure in a short serial work by Stravinsky ( _Anthem_ : 'The dove descending breaks the air' [1962]) is analysed and demonstrated in Arnold Whittall's 'Music analysis: descriptions and distinctions' and Anthony Pople's 'Misleading voices'. The types of harmonic duality and ambiguity they identify are also present, though differently balanced and configured, in Stravinsky's later neoclassical music. Kofi Agawu's 'Stravinsky's _Mass_ and Stravinsky analysis', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 11 (1989), 139–63, isolates a 'residue of conflict' even at the deepest levels of tonal structure of the Kyrie of the Mass (1948) and concludes that a dual hearing of tonal process is necessary, specifically 'an underlying tonal structure of G, which then refers back to a more surface phenomenon, the "arpeggiated" tetrachord, 4-23' (161). This duality of structure is strikingly similar to that of the 'Lacrimosa' (the G♮ centrum and projected chromatic set), except that in the later work the duality of the constituents achieves a greater degree of integration (or 'unity') since G♮ is polarised _within_ set 4-Z29. Agawu's case for 'the benefit of [ . . . ] two essentially contradictory perspectives in order to gain the richest sense of structural procedure in the piece' (161) is confirmed in a recent, harmonically sensitive study by Chandler Carter, 'Stravinsky's "special sense": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19 (1997), 55–80. Carter's methodologically pluralist analysis of four sections of the _The Rake_ 's _Progress_ – using voice-leading and motivic analysis, pc set theory and post-tonal linear theory – seeks the mediating features of the diverse tonal 'styles' within the opera but resists the temptation to resolve such conflict formalistically into a synthesis or harmonic consistency. With the aid of theoretical formulations that begin to revitalise the metaphors of pitch focus and tonal perspective in Stravinsky, Carter proposes (and demonstrates convincingly) that tonality in the work is used 'to create the opera's décor', a context inhabited by 'the play of a variety of musical impulses – tonal, bitonal, motivic, chromatic, set-class transformational – all sounding within the context of tonal backgrounds of varying degrees of aural immediacy' (78–9). Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 174. See n. 30. See n. 76. Andriessen and Schönberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 6. See also Andriessen in chap. 13 of this volume. 12 Stravinsky and the critics Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 107. François Lesure, _Igor Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps. Dossier de presse_ (Geneva: Minkoff, 1980), 90–91. Scott Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_ (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988), 134. Leonid Sabaneyeff, _Modern Russian Composers_ , trans. Judah A. Joffe (New York: International, 1927), 71. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 85. Sabaneyeff, _Modern Russian Composers_ , 65. Ibid., 64. Boris Asaf 'yev, _Kniga o Stravinskom_ [A Book about Stravinsky] (Leningrad: Triton, 1929; repr. Muzyka, 1977); English translation by Richard F. French (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982). Mikhail Druskin, _Igor' Stravinskiy: lichnost', tvorchestvo, vzglyadï_ (Leningrad: Sovetskiy kompozitor, 1974); English translation by Martin Cooper as _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). Viktor Varunts, ed., _I. Stravinskiy – publitsist i sobesednik_ [I. Stravinsky as publicist and conversationalist] (Moscow: Sovetskiy kompozitor, 1988). _I. F. Stravinsky_ , _Perepiska s russkimi korrespondentami. Materialï k biografii_ [I. F. Stravinsky. Correspondence with Russian correspondents. Materials for a biography], ed. Viktor Varunts, vol. 1: 1882–1912, vol. 2: 1913–1922 (Moscow: Kompozitor, 1997, 2000); both volumes contain as Appendix II notices and critical articles in the Russian press about works by Stravinsky for the appropriate years. Two further volumes are in preparation. Boris de Schloezer, _Igor Stravinsky_ (Paris: Claude Aveline, 1929), 191. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 34. Ibid., 23. Pierre Souvtchinsky, 'Introduction: Domaine de la musique russe', in Pierre Souvtchinsky (ed.), _Musique russe_ , 2 vols (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953), vol. 1, 21. Jean Marnold in Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 37. David Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the "NRF" (1910–20)', _Music and Letters_ 53/3 (1972), 277. Ibid. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , p. 38. Theodor W. Adorno, _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ (Tübingen: Mohr, 1949); Eng. trans. as _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (New York: Seabury Press, 1973), 188. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 27–8. Ibid., 49. Ibid., 51. Ibid., 74–5. Ibid., 71. Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the "NRF" (1920–29)', _Music and Letters_ 55/3 (1974), 267. 26 Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the "NRF" (1910–20)', 283. Paul Collaer, _Strawinsky_ (Brussels: Équilibres, 1930), 135. André Schaeffner, _Stravinsky_ (Paris: Rieder, 1931), 91. Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1598. Jean Cocteau, _A Call to Order_ , trans. Rollo H. Myers (London: Faber and Gwyer, 1926), 62. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 81. Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music_ , 130. Igor Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , ed. with commentaries by Robert Craft, 3 vols (London: Faber and Faber, 1982–5), vol. 1, 217n. Arthur Lourié, 'Neogothic and neoclassic', _Modern Music_ 5/3 (1928), 3. Ibid., 4. Arthur Lourié, 'La Sonate pour piano de Strawinsky', _Revue musicale_ 6/10 (1925), 101. 37 Schloezer, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 110. Lourié, 'Neogothic and neoclassic', 7. Artur Lur'ye [Arthur Lourié], 'Dve operï Stravinskogo' [Two operas by Stravinsky], _Vyorstï_ 3 (1928), 125. Arthur Lourié, 'Le _Capriccio_ de Strawinsky', _Revue musicale_ 11/103 (1930), 355. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 113. Pierre Boulez, _Orientations_ , ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Martin Cooper (London: Faber, 1986), 355–6. Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the "NRF" (1920–29)', 270. Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the "NRF" (1910–20)', 279. Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 1/157. Schloezer, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 9. Ibid., 36. Ibid., 144. Ibid., 78. Ibid., 108–9. Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/497. Deborah Priest, ed., _Louis Laloy (1874–1944) on Debussy, Ravel and Stravinsky_ (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 306. Collaer, _Strawinsky_ , 52. Ibid., 61. Ibid., 108, 129–30. Ibid., 115–22. Ibid., 163. Ibid., 33. André Schaeffner, _Stravinsky_ (Paris: Rieder, 1931), 5–6. Igor Stravinsky, _Chronicle of my Life_ (London: Gollancz, 1936), Foreword. Schaeffner, _Stravinsky_ , 91. Ibid., 101. Ibid., 118. _Selected Correspondence_ , 3/227. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 105. Ibid., 110. Herbert Fleischer, _Strawinsky_ (Berlin: Russischer Musikverlag, 1931), 'Vorwort'. Ibid., 42–3. Ibid., 111–12. _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/271–2. For a qualification of this view and a fuller account of Adorno's understanding of Stravinsky, see Max Paddison's chapter in this volume. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 91. Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the "NRF" (1920–29)', 261. Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 151. Ibid., 153. G. W. Hopkins and Paul Griffiths, 'Boulez, Pierre', in Stanley Sadie (ed.), _The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ , 2nd edn. (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. 4, 98. Boulez, _Orientations_ , 18. Boulez, 'Strawinsky demeure', in Souvtchinsky, _Musique russe_ , vol. 1, 221. Roman Vlad, _Stravinsky_ (Rome, 1958); trans. Frederick and Ann Fuller (London: Oxford University Press, 1960; 2nd edn 1967), 178. Ibid., 224. Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/376n. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 111. Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/343. Ibid., 344. Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 202–5, 214–17. Ibid., 209–14, 219–20. Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/99–101. Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music_ , 154. Ibid., 193. Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 103–4. 13 Composing with Stravinsky Louis Andriessen and Elmer Schönberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork: on Stravinsky_ , trans. Jeff Hamburg (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 6. A version of this essay was first published in Dutch under the title 'Met Stravinsky naar de eenentwintigste eeuw' in the programme book of the Vlaams-Brabant Festival 2000, 19–21. Arnold Schoenberg to Josef Rufer, quoted in Malcolm MacDonald, _Schoenberg_ , p/b edn (London: Dent, 1987), 29. Pierre Boulez, 'Schoenberg is dead', in _Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship_ , trans. Stephen Walsh (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 214. T. W. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', in _Quasi una Fantasia_ , trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1992), 172. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 133 This idea is more fully explored in Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1677. Stephen Walsh, 'Stravinsky', in Stanley Sadie (ed.), _The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ , rev. edn (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. 24, 557. 'Stravinsky's influence can be seen . . . in a specific _attitude_ towards already existent material.' Andriessen and Schönberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 100. The conversation took place at the home of Louis Andriessen in Amsterdam on 12 February 2001. Andriessen and Schönberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 101. 14 Stravinsky and us Robert Craft, 'Introduction: a master at work', in Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Retrospectives and Conclusions_ (New York: Knopf, 1969), 3. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 164. Michel Georges-Michel, 'Les deux Sacres du Printemps', _Comoedia_ (11 December 1920), cited in Truman C. Bullard, 'The first performance of Igor Stravinsky's _Sacre du Printemps_ ', PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1971, vol. 1, 3. See André Schaeffner, _Strawinsky_ (Paris: Éditions Rieder, 1931), 43, n.1; also 'Table des planches', 217, Pl. 21. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 169 See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), chaps. 4 and 12. See Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, 'The transmutation of the symbolist ethos: mystical anarchism and the revolution of 1905', _Slavic Review_ 36 (1977), 616. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 114–15; the original 'overpublicized bit about expression' (as it is described there) is from Stravinsky's autobiography ( _Chroniques de ma vie_ ) in its anonymous English translation as _An Autobiography_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1936), 83. The term _panromanogermanic_ comes from Prince Nikolai Sergeyevich Trubetskoy's Eurasianist tract _Yevropa i chelovechestvo_ (Sofia: Rossiysko-Bolgarskoye Knigoizdatel'stvo, 1920), a book published by Stravinsky's friend Pyotr Suvchinsky (Pierre Souvtchinsky). Boris de Schloezer, 'La musique', _La Revue contemporaine_ (1 February 1923); quoted in Scott Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_ (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988), 130. See _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1486–93. Letter to Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz (23 July 1924), in Robert Craft (ed.), _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , 3 vols (New York: Knopf, 1985), vol. 3, 83. As embodied in the title to his collected essays, _A Call to Order_ , trans. Rollo H. Myers (London: Faber and Gwyer, 1926). Quoted in Deems Taylor, 'Sound – and a Little Fury' (review of the American premiere under Leopold Stokowski), reprinted in _Of Men and Music_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1937), 89–90. Pieter C. van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': The Beginnings of a Musical Language_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 1. 'Sacre', in N. K. Roerich, _Realm of Light_ (New York: Roerich Museum Press, 1931), 188. Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , p. 115; quoted in van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 18. In the last sentence, where van den Toorn quotes Stravinsky as saying 'form', the original text, on both occasions, has 'the form'. Van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 19. Van den Toorn, 'Politics, feminism, and music theory', _Journal of Musicology_ 9 (1991), 276. Letter received 20 September 1951; printed in Robert Craft, _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948–71_ , rev. and expanded edn (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1994), 65. Dorothy Lamb Crawford, _Evenings On and Off the Roof: Pioneering Concerts in Los Angeles, 1939–1971_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 64. Vera Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978), 422. Ibid. The lecture was first published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ (December 1982) under the title 'On a misunderstood collaboration: assisting Stravinsky'; this version was reprinted (under the title 'Influence or assistance?') in Robert Craft, _Present Perspectives_ (New York: Knopf, 1984), 246–64 (the anecdote in question appearing on pp. 252–3). A second version, set down in a letter to Joan Peyser, was published by the latter in 'Stravinsky–Craft, Inc.', _American Scholar_ 52 (1983), 513–22. As reprinted in Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), 430–31. First published in 1928 directly on the Aeolian piano roll of the ballet, this analysis is discussed in _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 587–98. Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 75. 'Rencontre avec Stravinsky', _Preuves_ 2/16 (1952), 37. Letter of 27 July 1932, in Arnold Schoenberg, _Letters_ , ed. Erwin Stein, trans. Eithne Wilkins and Ernst Kaiser (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 164. Milton Babbitt, 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky', as reprinted in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 171. Ibid. Programme note on the Cantata, as reprinted in White, _Stravinsky_ , 429 These words are a virtual paraphrase of Stravinsky's explanation, in _Chroniques de ma vie_ , of his fascination with Russian folk verses during the years of the First World War: 'What fascinated me in this verse was not so much the stories, which were often crude, or the pictures and metaphors, always so deliciously unexpected, as the sequence of the words and syllables, and the cadence they create, which produces an effect on one's sensibilities very closely akin to that of music' (Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 83). These are the words that immediately precede the famous sermon ('that overpublicized bit') on music and expression. Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 89 (entry for 26 December 1952). See the Alain Nicolas auction catalogue _Autographes–Livres–Documents_ (Paris: Librairie Les Neuf Muses, 1993), lot no. 196. Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1959), 78. ' "Dear Bob(sky)" (Stravinsky's letters to Robert Craft, 1944–49)', _Musical Quarterly_ 65 (1979), 412–13; Craft, _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , vol. 1, 346–7. A facsimile of the uncensored letter was displayed, and the quoted passage read aloud, by Charles M. Joseph in 'Ellipses, exclusions, expurgations: what do Stravinsky's letters really say?', a paper presented at the 58th Annual Meeting of the American Musicological Society in Pittsburgh, 7 November 1992. David Allenby, 'Judge for yourselves', _Musical Times_ 137 (June 1996), 25. Quoted in Jacob Drachler, 'The case of the Stravinsky Cantata', _Midstream_ (August/September 1971), 37. Its substance was incorporated into a footnote on p. 304 of Lillian Libman, _And Music at the Close: Stravinsky's Last Years_ (New York: Norton, 1972). Pieter van den Toorn relied on this evidence, as well as the passage to which it was appended, in which Libman characterised reports of Stravinsky's anti-Semitism as 'ridiculous fiction' that 'could hardly have entered the scope of his thought', in declaring the matter unworthy of pursuit. See van den Toorn, 'Will Stravinsky survive Postmodernism?', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 22 (2000), 121. I know of no comparable case, at least in the refereed professional literature, where the word of a press agent is invoked in order to justify the foreclosure of inquiry. Such subscholarly credulity is impressive testimony to the continuing regulative force of the Stravinsky myth, and its deleterious effect on scholarship. See Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947; repr. 1970), 163. The situation is admittedly somewhat complicated by the fact that Holst's setting, unlike Stravinsky's, is used in Anglican services, where a different set of audience expectations, and a different set of premises regulating audience behaviour, are in force. For a discussion of them, see Harold Copeman, _Singing the Meaning_ (Oxford: published by the author, 1996). But at an Anglican service there would also presumably be no Jewish ears to offend. In his 1995 recording of the Cantata for Music Masters, Robert Craft did change 'The Jews on me' to 'My enemies', according to the suggestion embodied in Lillian Libman's letter to Jacob Drachler. The change was silent, however, and the problem unaddressed. See 'Jews and geniuses: an exchange', _New York Review of Books_ (15 June 1989), 58; _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 107–8 (entry for 16 March 1954). 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Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982. Originally published under the name Igor Glebov, as _Kniga o Stravinskom_. Leningrad: Triton, 1929; repr. under Asaf 'yev's name, Muzyka, 1977 Babbitt, Milton. 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky' [1964]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 165–85 Berger, Arthur. 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky' [1963]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 123–54 Boretz, Benjamin, and Edward T. Cone (eds.). _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968. Rev. edn, New York: Norton, 1972 Boulez, Pierre. 'Strawinsky demeure' [1951]. In Pierre Souvtchinsky (ed.), _Musique russe_ , 2 vols. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953. Vol. 1, 155–224. Trans. Stephen Walsh, as 'Stravinsky remains', in _Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship_. Oxford: Clarendon, 1991, 55–110 Carter, Chandler. 'Stravinsky's "special sense": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ '. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19 (1997), 55–80 Chew, Geoffrey. 'Pastoral and neoclassicism: a reinterpretation of Auden's and Stravinsky's _Rake's Progress_ '. _Cambridge Opera Journal_ 5 (1993), 239–63 Cone, Edward T. 'Stravinsky: the progress of a method' [1962]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 156–64 —. 'The uses of convention: Stravinsky and his models'. _Musical Quarterly_ 48 (1962), 287–99 Craft, Robert. _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948–1971_. New York: Alfred A. Knopf,1972. Rev. and expanded edn, Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press,1994 —. _Igor and Vera Stravinsky: a Photograph Album (1921–1971)_. London: Thames and Hudson, 1982 —. _A Stravinsky Scrapbook 1940–1971_. London: Thames and Hudson, 1983 —. _Present Perspectives_. New York: Knopf, 1984 —. _Stravinsky: Glimpses of a Life_. London: Lime Tree, 1992 Cross, Jonathan. _The Stravinsky Legacy_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998 Druskin, Mikhail. _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ , trans. Martin Cooper. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Originally published as _Igor' Stravinskiy: lichnost', tvorchestvo, vzglyadï_. Leningrad: Sovetskiy Kompozitor, 1974 Fink, Robert. '" _Rigoroso_ ( ♩ = 126)": _The Rite of Spring_ and the forging of a modernist performing style'. _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 52 (1999), 299–362 Forte, Allen. _The Harmonic Organization of 'The Rite of Spring'_. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978 Griffiths, Paul. _Igor Stravinsky: The Rake's Progress_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982 —. _Stravinsky_. London: Dent, 1992 Haimo, Ethan, and Paul Johnson (eds.). _Stravinsky Retrospectives_. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987 Hill, Peter. _Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000 Hyde, Martha M. 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses in twentieth-century music'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 18 (1996), 200–35 Johnston, Ben. 'An interview with Soulima Stravinsky'. _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2–10/1 (1971), 15–27 Keller, Hans, and Milein Cosman. _Stravinsky Seen and Heard_. London: Toccata Press, 1982 Kielian-Gilbert, Marianne. 'The rhythms of form: correspondence and analogy in Stravinsky's designs'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 9 (1987), 42–66 —. 'Stravinsky's contrasts: contradiction and discontinuity in his neoclassic music'. _Journal of Musicology_ 9 (1991), 448–80 Lederman, Minna (ed.). _Stravinsky in the Theatre_. New York: Da Capo, 1949 Lesure, François. _Igor Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps. Dossier de presse_. Geneva: Minkoff, 1980 Libman, Lillian. _And Music at the Close: Stravinsky's Last Years: a Personal Memoir_. New York: Norton, 1972 Messing, Scott. _Neoclassicism in Music from the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988 Oliver, Michael. _Igor Stravinsky_. London: Phaidon, 1995 Pasler, Jann (ed.). _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986 Pople, Anthony. _Skryabin and Stravinsky 1908–1914: Studies in Theory and Analysis_. New York: Garland, 1989 —. 'Misleading voices: contrasts and continuities in Stravinsky studies'. In Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist (eds.), _Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretation:_ _Essays in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, 271–87 Rehding, Alexander. 'Towards a "logic of discontinuity" in Stravinsky's _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ : Hasty, Kramer and Straus reconsidered'. _Music Analysis_ 17/1 (1998), 39–67 Schaeffner, André. _Strawinsky_. Paris: Éditions Rieder, 1931 Schloezer, Boris de. _Igor Stravinsky_. Paris: Claude Aveline, 1929 Claudio Spies. 'Notes on Stravinsky's _Abraham and Isaac_ ' [1965], 'Notes on Stravinsky's Variations' [1965], and 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings' [1967]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 186–209, 210–22, 223–49 Straus, Joseph N. 'A principle of voice-leading in the music of Stravinsky'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 4 (1982), 106–24 —. 'Stravinsky's tonal axis'. _Journal of Music Theory_ 26 (1982), 261–90 —. _Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Tradition_. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990 —. 'Stravinsky's "construction of twelve verticals": an aspect of harmony in the serial music'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 21/1 (1999), 231–71 —. _Stravinsky's Late Music_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001 Stravinsky, Igor. _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947. Originally published as _Poétique musicale_. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942 —. _Chroniques de ma vie_ , 2 vols. Paris: Denoël & Steel, 1935–6. Trans. anon. as _Chronicle of my Life_. London: Victor Gollancz, 1936. Repr. as _An Autobiography (1903–1934)_. New York: Steuer, 1958. Repr. with corrections by Eric Walter White. London: Marion Boyars, 1975 —. _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_. Ed. and with commentaries by Robert Craft, 3 vols. London: Faber and Faber, 1982–5 Stravinsky, Igor, and Robert Craft. _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_. London: Faber and Faber, 1959 —. _Memories and Commentaries_. London: Faber and Faber, 1960 —. _Stravinsky in Conversation with Robert Craft_. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962 —. _Expositions and Developments_. London: Faber and Faber, 1962 —. _Dialogues and a Diary_. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1963. Enlarged edn, London: Faber and Faber, 1968 —. _Themes and Episodes_. New York: Knopf, 1966 —. _Retrospectives and Conclusions_. New York: Knopf, 1969 —. _Themes and Conclusions_. London: Faber and Faber, 1972 (combined repr. of _Themes and Episodes_ and _Retrospectives and Conclusions_ ) —. _Dialogues_. London: Faber and Faber, 1982 (reissue of 'Dialogues' from _Dialogues and a Diary_ ) Stravinsky, Vera, and Robert Craft (eds.). _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_. London: Hutchinson, 1979 Stuart, Philip. _Igor Stravinsky – The Composer in the Recording Studio: a Comprehensive Discography_. New York: Greenwood Press, 1991 Taruskin, Richard. _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996 —. _Defining Russia Musically_. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997 Van den Toorn, Pieter C. _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983 —. _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': the Beginnings of a Musical Language_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987 —. 'Context and analytical method in Stravinsky'. In _Music, Politics, and the Academy_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995 —. 'Neoclassicism and its definitions'. In James M. Baker, David W. Beach and Jonathan W. Bernard (eds.), _Music Theory in Concept and Practice_. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997 Vlad, Roman. _Stravinsky_ , trans. Frederick and Ann Fuller. London: Oxford University Press, 1960. 2nd edn, 1967; enlarged 3rd edn, 1978. Originally published in Italian (Rome: 1958) Walsh, Stephen. _The Music of Stravinsky_. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993 —. _Stravinsky: Oedipus Rex_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993 —. 'Stravinsky's symphonies: accident or design?'. In Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist (eds.), _Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretation: Essays in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, 35–71 —. _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882–1934_. London: Jonathan Cape, 1999 —. _The New Grove Stravinsky_. London: Macmillan, 2002 Watkins, Glenn. _Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky to the Postmodernists_. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994 White, Eric Walter. _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_. London: Faber and Faber, 1966. 2nd rev. and expanded edn, 1979 Whittall, Arnold. 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice'. _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 33–53 Index of names and titles Adams, John > _Short Ride in a Fast Machine_ Adorno, Theodor , , , , –, , , , , , –, , Afanasiev, Alexander , Akimenko, Fyodor Albright, Daniel , Alexander II , Alexander III , , , , Andersen, Hans Christian , Anderson, Julian Andriessen, Louis , , , , > _The New Math(s)_ > > _De Staat_ , > > _Writing to Vermeer_ Ansermet, Ernest , , Antheil, George > _Ballet mécanique_ Apollinaire, Guillaume , , Arensky, Anton Aristotle Artaud, Antonin – Asaf'yev, Boris , – Auden, W. H. , –, –, , , , , > 'Balaam and his ass' – > > _Orators_ Auric, Georges , , > _Les Matelots_ Babbitt, Milton , , , , , , , Bach, Johann Christian Bach, Johann Sebastain , , , –, , , , , , , , , , > 'Brandenburg' Concertos Badings, Henk Baker, Josephine Bakst, Leon , , Bal'mont, Konstantin , – Balakirev, Mily , Balanchine, George , , –, Barnes, Clive Barry, Gerald Bartók, Béla , , > _Miraculous Mandarin_ Baudelaire, Charles Bauer-Lechner, Natalie Beckett, Samuel , , > _Endgame_ – Beethoven, Ludwig van , , , , , , , , > Symphony No. 1 _Beggar's Opera, The_ Beinem, Eduard van Bel'sky, Vladimir Bellini, Vincenzo Bely, Andrey Belyayev, Mitrofan , , Benjamin, George Benjamin, Walter , Benois, Alexander , , , , Berg, Alban , –, , , , > _Wozzeck_ , , Berger, Arthur , , –, Berger, John Bergson, Henri , Berio, Luciano , , Berlioz, Hector Bernheimer, Martin Birtwistle, Harrison , , > _Earth Dances_ Bizet, Georges Blake, William Blok, Alexander Bloom, Harold Bondt, Cornelis de Borodin, Alexander , , , > _Polovtsian Dances_ (from _Prince Igor_ ) > > _Prince Igor_ Boucourechliev, André Boulez, Pierre , –, , –, , , , , , –, –, > _Structures_ Brahms, Johannes , , Braque, Georges , Brecht, Bertold , , , – > _Baal_ Britten, Benjamin Brook, Peter –, Bryusov, Valery Bu˜nuel, Luis Bürger, Peter , Burns, Robert Cage, John , Calvocoressi, M. D. Campion, Thomas Carter, Chandler –, Carter, Elliott , > Double Concerto for Piano and Harpsichord Catoire, Georgy Cendrars, Blaise Chagall, Marc Chanel, Coco Chekhov, Anton Cherlin, Michael –, , – Chernyshevsky, Nikolai > _What is to be Done?_ Chew, Geoffrey Chirico, Giorgio de Chopin, Frédéric Claudel, Paul , > _Agamemnon_ > > _Les Choephores_ > > _Eumenides_ Cocteau, Jean , , , , –, , , , > _Antigone_ Collaer, Paul , Cone, Edward T. , , Copland, Aaron Cowell, Henry Craft, Robert , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , –, , , –, , , > _Chronicle of a Friendship_ –, Cross, Jonathan , , , , , , Dahlhaus, Carl , Daniélou, Jean Dargomïzhsky, Alexander Davies, Peter Maxwell , Debussy, Claude , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , , > 'Golliwogg's Cake-Walk' > > _Jeux_ , > > _Nocturnes_ – > > _Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune_ Delaunay, Robert and Sonia de Lauze, Françoise > _Apologie de la danse_ , Deliège, Célestin Dent, Edward J. Derain, André , , Dermé, Paul Diaghilev, Sergey –, –, , –, –, –, –, , , , , , , –, , , D'Indy, Vincent Disney, Walt > _Fantasia_ Donizetti, Gaetano > _Don Pasquale_ Dostoevsky, Fyodor , , Dowland, John Downes, Olin Drachler, Jacob Druskin, Mikhail , , , , Dufy, Raoul Dukas, Paul , > _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_ Eisler, Hans Elgar, Edward Eliot, T. S. , , –, , –, , > _Four Quartets_ > > 'The function of criticism' > > 'Gerontion' > > 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' , > > _The Waste Land_ Engel', Yuly [Joel Engel] Ershov, Ivan Vasil'yevich Evans, Edwin Falla, Manuel de > _Le tricorne_ Fauré, Gabriel Feldman, Morton Fenichel, Otto > _The Psychoanalytical Theory of Neurosis_ Ferneyhough, Brian , Fink, Robert –, – Finnissy, Michael Fitkin, Graham Flaubert, Gustave Fleischer, Herbert Florensky, Pavel Fokine, Mikhail , , , Forte, Allen , , , –, , Franck, César Freud, Sigmund , Gance, Abel Gautier, Théophile Ghéo, Henri Gide, André , , , Glazunov, Alexander , , , –, – > Symphony No. 8 Gleizes, Albert Glinka, Mikhail , , > _Karaminskaya_ > > _Ruslan and Lyudmila_ Gluck, Christoph Willibald Goebbels, Heiner Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von , > _Faust_ –, , – Gogol, Nikolai > _Dead Souls_ Goldberg, Albert Golovine, Alexander , Goncharova, Natalya , Gordon, Michael Gorodetsky, Sergey , > _Yar'_ , Gray, Cecil Greenaway, Peter Greenfield, Edward Griffiths, Paul Gustafson, Richard Handel, George Frideric , , Hartley, Hal Harvey, Jonathan Haydn, Franz Joseph , Hegel, G. W. F. Heidegger, Martin Henze, Hans Werner Herrmann, Bernard Heuss, Alfred Hill, Peter , , , , Hindemith, Paul , , , Hitler, Adolf , , Hoffmann, E. T. A. Hogarth, William , , Hogwood, Chrisopher Holst, Gustav > 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day' Homer Hopkins, G. W. (Bill) Hugo, Victor > _Hernani_ Hulme, T. E. Hyde, Martha – Ibsen, Henrik Ingres, Jean-Auguste Dominique , Ivanov, Vyacheslav , Ives, Charles > 'Concord' Sonata Jameson, Fredric Janáček, Leoš Jarry, Alfred Jonson, Ben Josquin des Prez Joyce, James , , –, , > _Dubliners_ > > _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ > > _Ulysses_ , , Kalafati, Vasily , – Kandinsky, Vasily , , Karajan, Herbert von , Karatïgin, Vyacheslav –, , Katz, Adele , Kenyon, Nicholas Kerman, Joseph Kielian-Gilbert, Marianne – Kierkegaard, Sren Kireyevsky, Pyotr Kirstein, Lincoln , – Klee, Paul Klemperer, Otto , Kokhlova, Olga Kolisch, Rudolf Korngold, Julius Koussevitsky, Serge , , , , Kozeluch, Leopold Kramer, Jonathan , Kraus, Joseph Krauss, Rosalind Krenek, Ernst , – > _Studies in Counterpoint_ Krushchev, Nikita Kundera, Milan – Kurtág, György Laforgue, Jules Lalo, Pierre Laloy, Louis , Lambert, Constant Landowska, Wanda Lanner, Joseph –, Laryonov, Mikhail Lawrence, D. H. > _The Rainbow_ Léger, Fernand Lewis, Wyndham , Libman, Lillian Lifar, Serge Ligeti, György , Lindlar, Heinrich Lineva, Evgeniya Liszt, Franz Lourié, Arthur [Artur Lur'ye] , , –, , Lyadov, Anatoly , , – > _Baba-yaga_ > > _The Enchanted Lake_ > > _Kikimora_ Lyotard, Jean-François Maeterlinck, Maurice – > _La Vie des abeilles_ – Mahler, Gustav , , , , , > _Das Lied von der Erde_ > > Symphony No. 3 > > Symphony No. 10 Malevich, Kazimir , Mamontov, Savva , Mann, Thomas , > _Doctor Faustus_ Marinetti, Emilio Maritain, Jacques Marnold, Jean Martland, Steve Marx, Karl Mason, Colin Matisse, Henri , , Matthews, Colin Melgunov, Yuly Mendelssohn, Felix Merezhkovsky, Dmitry Mersenne, Marin _Harmonie universelle_ Messiaen, Olivier , > _Cantéyodjayâ_ > > _Chronochromie_ > > _Couleurs de la cité céleste_ > > Turangalîla-symphonie Messing, Scott , Metzinger, Jean Meyerhold, Vsevolod Mila, Massimo – Milhaud, Darius , > _Le Train bleu_ Mitusov, Stepan –, , Mondrian, Piet , Monteux, Pierre , –, –, Monteverdi, Claudio , , > _Orfeo_ – Morgan, Robert Morton, Lawrence Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus , , , , , , , –, , > _Così fan Tutte_ , > > _Don Giovanni_ , , , > > 'Linz' Symphony Musorgsky, Modest , , , > _Boris Godunov_ > > _Sunless_ – Myaskovsky, Nikolai , , , Nabokov, Nicolas , Nabokov, Vladimir , , , , Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir Newman, Ernest Nicholas I , Nicholas II Nietzsche, Friedrich , , , , Nijinsky, Vaslav , Noailles, Anna de Nono, Luigi Norrington, Roger Nosenko, Ekaterina [Katya Stravinskaya – wife] Nouvel, Walter , , Nurok, Alfred – Nyman, Michael Oliver, Michael Orff, Carl , , Paderewski, Ignacy Parker, Charlie Pärt, Arvo Pearson, Norman Holmes Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista , , , Perotin Peter the Great Philip, Robert , Picabia, Francis > _Les Yeux chauds_ Picasso, Pablo –, , –, , –, –, , , > _Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_ , , , > > _Seated Man_ Pirandello, Luigi , _Poets of the English Language_ (ed. Auden and Holmes Pearson) – Pope, Alexander Poulenc, Francis , , , , > _Les Biches_ Pound, Ezra , , Prokofiev, Sergey , Proust, Marcel Purcell, Henry Pushkin, Alexander , , , Rachmaninov, Sergey , , > Prelude in C♯ minor Racine, Jean Ramuz, C. F. Ravel, Maurice , , , , , , Rebikov, Vladimir Reger, Max , – Rehding, Alexander Reich, Steve , , Remizov, Alexei Respighi, Ottorino Reverdy, Pierre Rimsky-Korsakov, Andrey , Rimsky-Korsakov, Nadezhda , , Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai , , –, –, , , –, –, , , , , , , –, , , > _The Golden Cockerel_ , > > _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh_ , > > _Practical Course in Harmony_ > > _The Snow Maiden_ , Rimsky-Korsakov, Vladimir , Rivière, Jacques , , Roerich, Nicholas [Nikolai Rerikh] , , , , , Roland-Manuel (Alexis Manuel-Lévy) , , Rosen, Charles , Rossetti, Christina Rossini, Gioachino Rubinstein, Anton Sabaneyeff, Leonid Salzer, Felix – Satie, Erik , , , > _Parade_ Scarlatti, Domenico Schaeffner, André , Schenker, Heinrich , , –, Scherchen, Hermann , Schlegel, Friedrich Schloezer, Boris de , –, , , –, , –, –, Schmitt, Florent , > _Tragédie de Salomé_ Schoenberg, Arnold , , , , , –, , , –, –, –, , –, –, , , , , –, , , , –, , , , , , , , –, –, , –, , , , , , , > _Erwartung_ , > > _Die Glückliche Hand_ > > _Moses und Aron_ , > > 'National music' > > _Pelleas und Melisande_ > > _Pierrot lunaire_ , , > > Septet-Suite, Op. 29 –, , > > Six Pieces for Male Chorus, Op. 35 > > String Quartet No. 2 > > String Quartet No. 3 –, > > String Trio, Op. 45 –, > > Variations for Orchestra > > _Verklärte Nacht_ > > Violin Concerto Schonberg, Harold Schönberger, Elmer , , Schubert, Franz Schwitters, Kurt Senilov, Vladimir Serov, Alexander _The Power of the Fiend_ Sert, Misia Seurat, Georges Severini, Gino Shakespeare, William > _The Merchant of Venice_ Shaliapin, Fyodor Sidney, Philip Siloti, Alexander Silver, Kenneth Skryabin, Alexander , , , , , , , , > Piano Sonata No. 3 > > _Poem of Ecstasy_ , Smit, Leo – Sophocles Souvtchinsky, Pierre [Pyotr Suvchinsky] , , , , , Spenser, Edmund Spielberg, Steven > _Jaws_ Spies, Claudio , , Stalin, Joseph Stanislavsky, Konstantin Stasov, Vladimir , , Stefan, Paul Stein, Gertrude – Steinberg, Maximilian , Stockhausen, Karlheinz , , , , > _Kontakte_ > > _Momente_ Stokowski, Leopold , , Straus, Joseph , , , Strauss, Richard , , , , , > _Elektra_ > > _Salome_ Stravinsky, Fyodor (father) –, Stravinsky, Goury (brother) Stravinsky, Igor > MUSIC > > _Abraham and Isaac_ , , , , , > > _Agon_ , , , , –, , , , , –, , > > _Anthem 'The dove descending breaks the air'_ > > _Apollon musagète_ , , , –, –, –, , > > Cantata (1904) > > Cantata (1951–2) , , , – > > _Canticum Sacrum_ , , , , –, , > > _Chant funèbre_ , Op. 5 , > > Concerto for piano and wind instruments , , , > > Concerto in D , – > > Concerto in E , 'Dumbarton Oaks' > > 'Conductor and Tarantula' > > _Divertimento_ – > > Double Canon > > Duo concertant > > _Ebony Concerto_ , > > _Elegy for J. F. K_ > > _Epitaphium_ , > > _The Fairy's Kiss_ , , –, ,, > > _Fanfare for a New Theatre_ > > _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ , Op. 219, – > > _Firebird_ , , , , , , , , –, –, , , –, , , , –, , , , , > > _Fireworks_ , Op. 4 , , – > > _The Flood_ , –, , , , –, > > _Four Studies_ , Op. 7 , > > 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War' > > _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , , , , – > > _Introitus_ , , > > _Jeu de cartes_ > > _Mavra_ , –, , , , > > _Movements_ , , , , > > _The Nightingale_ , , –, , –, > > _Les Noces_ , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , , –, , , > > Octet , –, –, –, , , , , > > _Oedipus Rex_ –, –, , –, , , , –, , , , , , , , > > _Orpheus_ , , –, , > > _The Owl and the Pussycat_ > > _Pastorale_ > > _Perséphone_ , , > > _Petrushka_ –, , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , > > _Piano-Rag-Music_ , – > > _Pribaoutki_ > > _Pulcinella_ , –, , –, , , , , , , , , , > > _Quatre chants russes_ > > _Ragtime_ , , , , > > _The Rake's Progress_ –, , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , > > _Renard_ , , , –, , , , > > _Requiem Canticles_ –, , , –, –, , , –, –, –, , > > _The Rite of Spring_ –, –, –, , –, , , –, , , –, , –, , , , , , , –, –, , –, , , , , , , , , , –, , –, –, – > > _Scherzo fantastique_ , Op. 3 , – > > Scherzo for piano > > Septet , – > > Serenade in A , > > _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ , , – > > _The Soldier's Tale_ , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , –, > > Sonata for piano > > Sonata in F♯ minor for piano , , > > _The Song of the Nightingale_ , > > 'Storm Cloud' – > > _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , , , , , , , , , , , – > > Symphony in C , – > > Symphony in E♭ – > > _Symphony in Three Movements_ –, , > > _Symphony of Psalms_ , –, , , , , > > _Tarantella_ , > > _Three Japanese Lyrics_ > > _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ , , > > _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , , –, –, > > _Threni_ , , , , , , > > _Two Poems of Bal'mont_ – > > _Two Poems of Verlaine_ , Op. 9 – > > _Two Songs_ , Op. 6 , –, > > _Variations_ , , > > _Zvezdolikiy_ , –, , > > WRITINGS > > _Autobiography_ [ _Chroniques de ma vie, Chronicle of my Life_ ] , , , , , , , , , , , , > > _Conversations_ (with Robert Craft) > > _Dialogues_ (with Robert Craft) , –, , > > _Expositions and Developments_ (with Robert Craft) > > _Poetics of Music_ , , , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , Stravinsky, Vera (wife) , Strecker, Willy Tailleferre, Germaine Taruskin, Richard , , , , , –, –, –, –, –, , , , –, , –, , , –, , , , –, , , , > _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , , Tavener, John Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , > _Enchantress_ > > _The Queen of Spades_ > > _Sleeping Beauty_ > > 'Zimniy vecher' ('Winter Evening'), Op. 54, No. 7 – Tcherepnin, Alexander , , Tenisheva (Princess) , Thomas, Dylan Thomson, Virgil Tippett, Michael > _King Priam_ > > Piano Sonata No. 2 Tolstoy, Leo , > _War and Peace_ Tommasini, Vincenzo Torke, Michael Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de , Travis, Roy Turgenev, Ivan Uspensky, Boris Valéry, Paul , , Vallas, Léon Van den Toorn, Pieter C. , , , , , –, , –, , Varèse, Edgard , , > _Amériques_ Varlamov, Alexander Varunts, Viktor Vasilenko, Sergey Verdi, Giuseppe , , , > Requiem > > _Il Trovatore_ Verlaine, Paul , Wagner, Richard , , , , , , , , , , > _Götterdämmerung_ > > _Die Meistersinger_ , > > _Parsifal_ , > > _Tristan und Isolde_ Walsh, Stephen , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , Watkins, Glenn , –, Webern, Anton , , , , , , –, , , , –, , –, > Five Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 10 – > > Quartet, Op. 22 > > Six Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 6 – Weill, Kurt , Weiner, Marc > _Richard Wagner and the Anti-Semitic Imagination_ Weissmann, Adolf Welles, Orson Whittall, Arnold –, Williams, John Woolf, Virginia Xenakis, Iannis > _Metastasis_ Yastrebtsev, Vasily , , Ziloti, Aleksandr	{'title': 'The Cambridge Companion to Stravinsky - Jonathan Cross'}
## A LUCÍA BARFIELD _Querida Lucía_ , _Escribí esta historia para ti, sin darm e cuenta de que las niñas crecen más rápido que los libros. El resultado es que ya estás dem asiado grande para cuentos de hadas, y cuando éste se imprima serás mayor aún. Sin embargo, algún dia llegarás a la edad en que nuevam ente gozarás de los cuentos de hadas. Entonces podrás sacarlo de la repisa más alta, desem polvarlo y darm e tu opinión solore él. Probablem ente, yo estaré dam asiado sordo para escucharte y dam asiado viejo para comprender lo que dices. Pero aún seré tu padrino que te quiere mucho_. C. S. LEWIS ## ÍNDICE Cubierta Portada A Lucía Barfield 1. Lucía investiga en el ropero 2. Lo que Lucía encontró allí 3. Edmundo y el ropero 4. _Delicias turcas_ 5. De regreso a este lado de la puerta 6. En el bosque 7. Un día con los Castores 8. Lo que sucedió después de la comida 9. En casa de la Bruja 10. El hechizo comienza a romperse 11. Aslan está cerca 12. La primera batalla de Pedro 13. Magia Profunda del Amanecer del Tiempo 14. El triunfo de la Bruja 15. Magia Profunda anterior al Amanecer del Tiempo 16. Lo que sucedió con las estatuas 17. La caza del Ciervo Blanco Acerca del Autor Otros Libros Créditos Página Legal Acerca del Publicador ## CAPÍTULO 1 ## LUCÍA INVESTIGA EN EL ROPERO HABÍA UNA VEZ CUATRO NIÑOS CUYOS nombres eran Pedro, Susana, Edmundo y Lucía. Esta historia relata lo que les sucedió cuando, durante la guerra y a causa de los bombardeos, fueron enviados lejos de Londres a la casa de un viejo profesor. Éste vivía en medio del campo, a diez millas de la estación más cercana y a dos millas del correo más próximo. El profesor no era casado, así es que un ama de llaves, la señora Macready, y tres sirvientas atendían su casa. (Las sirvientas se llamaban Ivy, Margarita y Betty, pero ellas no intervienen mucho en esta historia.) El anciano profesor tenía un aspecto curioso, pues su cabello blanco no sólo le cubría la cabeza sino también casi toda la cara. Los niños simpatizaron con él al instante, a pesar de que Lucía, la menor, sintió miedo al verlo por primera vez, y Edmundo, algo mayor que ella, escondió su risa tras un pañuelo y simuló sonarse sin interrupción. Después de ese primer día y en cuanto dieron las buenas noches al profesor, los niños subieron a sus habitaciones en el segundo piso y se reunieron en el dormitorio de las niñas para comentar todo lo ocurrido. –Hemos tenido una suerte fantástica –dijo Pedro–. Lo pasaremos muy bien aquí. El viejo profesor es una buena persona y nos permitirá hacer todo lo que queramos. –Es un anciano encantador –dijo Susana. –¡Cállate! –exclamó Edmundo. Estaba cansado, aunque fingía no estarlo, y esto lo ponía siempre de un humor insoportable–. ¡No sigas hablando de esa manera! –¿De qué manera? –preguntó Susana–. Además ya es hora de que estés en la cama. –Tratas de hablar como mamá –dijo Edmundo–. ¿Quién eres para venir a decirme cuándo tengo que ir a la cama? ¡Eres tú quien debe irse a acostar! –Mejor será que todos vayamos a dormir –interrumpió Lucía–. Si nos encuentran conversando aquí, habrá un tremendo lío. –No lo habrá –repuso Pedro, con tono seguro–. Éste es el tipo de casa en la que a nadie le preocupará lo que nosotros hagamos. En todo caso, ninguna persona nos va a oír. Estamos como a diez minutos del comedor y hay numerosos pasillos, escaleras y rincones entremedio. –¿Qué es ese ruido? –dijo Lucía de repente. Ésta era la casa más grande que ella había conocido en su vida. Pensó en todos esos pasillos, escaleras y rincones, y sintió que algo parecido a un escalofrío la recorría de pies a cabeza. –No es más que un pájaro, tonta –dijo Edmundo. –Es una lechuza –agregó Pedro–. Éste debe ser un lugar maravilloso para los pájaros... Bien, creo que ahora es mejor que todos vayamos a la cama, pero mañana exploraremos. En un sitio como éste se puede encontrar cualquier cosa. ¿Vieron las montañas cuando veníamos? ¿Y los bosques? Puede ser que haya águilas, venados... Seguramente habrá halcones... –Y tejones –dijo Lucía. –Y zorros –dijo Edmundo. –Y conejos –agregó Susana. Pero a la mañana siguiente caía una cortina de lluvia tan espesa que, al mirar por la ventana, no se veían las montañas ni los bosques; ni siquiera la acequia del jardín. –¡Tenía que llover! –exclamó Edmundo. Los niños habían tomado el desayuno con el profesor, y en ese momento se encontraban en una sala del segundo piso que el anciano había destinado para ellos. Era una larga habitación de techo bajo, con dos ventanas hacia un lado y dos hacia el otro. –Deja de quejarte, Ed –dijo Susana–. Te apuesto diez a uno a que aclara en menos de una hora. Por lo demás, estamos bastante cómodos y tenemos un montón de libros. –Por mi parte, yo me voy a explorar la casa –dijo Pedro. La idea les pareció excelente y así fue como comenzaron las aventuras. La casa era uno de aquellos edificios llenos de lugares inesperados, que nunca se conocen por completo. Las primeras habitaciones que recorrieron estaban totalmente vacías, tal como los niños esperaban. Pero pronto llegaron a una sala muy larga con las paredes repletas de cuadros, en la que encontraron una armadura. Después pasaron a otra completamente cubierta por un tapiz verde y en la que había un arpa arrinconada. Tres peldaños más abajo y cinco hacia arriba los llevaron hasta un pequeño zaguán. Desde ahí entraron en una serie de habitaciones que desembocaban unas en otras. Todas tenían estanterías repletas de libros, la mayoría muy antiguos y algunos tan grandes como la Biblia de una iglesia. Más adelante entraron en un cuarto casi vacío. Sólo había un gran ropero con espejos en las puertas. Allí no encontraron nada más, excepto una botella azul en la repisa de la ventana. –¡Nada por aquí! –exclamó Pedro, y todos los niños se precipitaron hacia la puerta para continuar la excursión. Todos menos Lucía, que se quedó atrás. ¿Qué habría dentro del armario? Valía la pena averiguarlo, aunque, seguramente, estaría cerrado con llave. Para su sorpresa, la puerta se abrió sin dificultad. Dos bolitas de naftalina rodaron por el suelo. La niña miró hacia el interior. Había numerosos abrigos colgados, la mayoría de piel. Nada le gustaba tanto a Lucía como el tacto y el olor de las pieles. Se introdujo en el enorme ropero y caminó entre los abrigos, mientras frotaba su rostro contra ellos. Había dejado la puerta abierta, por supuesto, pues comprendía que sería una verdadera locura encerrarse en el armario. Avanzó algo más y descubrió una segunda hilera de abrigos. Estaba bastante oscuro ahí adentro, así es que mantuvo los brazos estirados para no chocar con el fondo del ropero. Dio un paso más, luego otros dos, tres... Esperaba siempre tocar la madera del ropero con la punta de los dedos, pero no llegaba nunca hasta el fondo. –¡Éste debe de ser un guardarropa gigantesco! –murmuró Lucía, mientras caminaba más y más adentro y empujaba los pliegues de los abrigos para abrirse paso. De pronto sintió que algo crujía bajo sus pies. "¿Habrá más naftalina?", se preguntó. Se inclinó para tocar el suelo. Pero en lugar de sentir el contacto firme y liso de la madera, tocó algo suave, pulverizado y extremadamente frío. "Esto sí que es raro", pensó y dio otros dos pasos hacia adelante. Un instante después advirtió que lo que rozaba su cara ya no era suave como la piel sino duro, áspero e, incluso, hincaba. –¿Cómo? ¡Parecen ramas de árboles! –exclamó. Entonces vio una luz frente a ella; no estaba cerca del lugar donde tendría que haber estado el fondo del ropero, sino muchísimo más lejos. Algo frío y suave caía sobre la niña. Un momento después se dio cuenta de que se encontraba en medio de un bosque; además era de noche, había nieve bajo sus pies y gruesos copos caían a través del aire. Lucía se asustó un poco, pero a la vez se sintió llena de curiosidad y de excitación. Miró hacia atrás y entre la oscuridad de los troncos de los árboles pudo distinguir la puerta abierta del ropero e incluso la habitación vacía desde donde había salido. (Por supuesto, ella había dejado la puerta abierta, pues pensaba que era la más grande de las tonterías encerrarse uno mismo en un guardarropa.) Parecía que allá era de día. "Puedo volver cuando quiera, si algo sale mal", pensó, tratando de tranquilizarse. Comenzó a caminar _–cranch-cranch–_ sobre la nieve y a través del bosque, hacia la otra luz, delante de ella. Cerca de diez minutos más tarde, Lucía llegó hasta un farol. Se preguntaba qué significado podría tener éste en medio de un bosque, cuando escuchó unos pasos que se acercaban. Segundos después, una persona muy extraña salió de entre los árboles y se aproximó a la luz. Era un poco más alta que Lucía. Sobre su cabeza llevaba un paraguas todo blanco de nieve. De la cintura hacia arriba tenía el aspecto de un hombre, pero sus piernas, cubiertas de pelo negro y brillante, parecían las extremidades de un cabro. En lugar de pies tenía pezuñas. En un comienzo, la niña no advirtió que también tenía cola, pues la llevaba enrollada en el brazo que sostenía el paraguas para evitar que se arrastrara por la nieve. Una bufanda roja le cubría el cuello y su piel era también rojiza. El rostro era pequeño y extraño pero agradable; tenía una barba rizada y un par de cuernos a los lados de la frente. Mientras en una mano llevaba el paraguas, en la otra sostenía varios paquetes con papel de color café. Éstos y la nieve hacían recordar las compras de Navidad. Era un fauno. Y cuando vio a Lucía, su sorpresa fue tan grande que todos los paquetes rodaron por el suelo. –¡Cielos! –exclamó el Fauno. ## CAPÍTULO 2 ## LO QUE LUCÍA ENCONTRÓ ALLÍ –BUENAS TARDES –SALUDÓ LUCÍA. PERO el Fauno estaba tan ocupado recogiendo los paquetes que no contestó. Cuando hubo terminado le hizo una pequeña reverencia. –Buenas tardes, buenas tardes –dijo. Y agregó después de un instante–: Perdóname, no quisiera parecer impertinente, pero ¿eres tú lo que llaman una Hija de Eva? –Me llamo Lucía –respondió ella, sin entenderle muy bien. –Pero ¿tú eres lo que llaman una niña? –¡Por supuesto que soy una niña! –exclamó Lucía. –¿Verdaderamente eres humana? –¡Claro que soy humana! –respondió Lucía, todavía un poco confundida. –Seguro, seguro –dijo el Fauno–. ¡Qué tonto soy! Pero nunca había visto a un Hijo de Adán ni a una Hija de Eva. Estoy encantado. Se detuvo como si hubiera estado a punto de decir algo y recordar a tiempo que no debía hacerlo. –Encantado, encantado –repitió luego–. Permíteme que me presente. Mi nombre es Tumnus. –Encantada de conocerle, señor Tumnus –dijo Lucía. –Y se puede saber, ¡oh, Lucía, Hija de Eva!, ¿cómo llegaste a Narnia? –preguntó el señor Tumnus. –¿Narnia? ¿Qué es eso? –Ésta es la tierra de Narnia –dijo el Fauno–, donde estamos ahora. Todo lo que se encuentra entre el farol y el gran castillo de Cair Paravel en el mar del este. Y tú, ¿vienes de los bosques salvajes del oeste? –Yo llegué..., llegué a través del ropero que está en el cuarto vacío –respondió Lucía, vacilando. –¡Ah! –dijo el señor Tumnus con voz melancólica–, si hubiera estudiado geografía con más empeño cuando era un pequeño fauno, sin duda sabría todo acerca de esos extraños países. Ahora es demasiado tarde. –¡Pero si ésos no son países! –dijo Lucía casi riendo–. El ropero está ahí, un poco más atrás..., creo... No estoy segura. Es verano allí ahora. –Ahora es invierno en Narnia; es invierno siempre, desde hace mucho... Pero si seguimos conversando en la nieve nos vamos a resfriar los dos. Hija de Eva, de la lejana tierra del Cuarto Vacío, donde el eterno verano reina alrededor de la luminosa ciudad del Ropero, ¿te gustaría venir a tomar el té conmigo? –Gracias, señor Tumnus, pero pienso que quizás ya es hora de regresar. –Es a la vuelta de la esquina, nomás. Habrá un buen fuego, tostadas, sardinas y torta –insistió el Fauno. –Es muy amable de su parte –dijo Lucía–. Pero no podré quedarme mucho rato. –Agárrate de mi brazo, Hija de Eva –dijo el señor Tumnus–. Llevaré el paraguas para los dos. Por aquí, vamos. Así fue como Lucía se encontró caminando por el bosque del brazo de esta extraña criatura, igual que si se hubieran conocido durante toda la vida. No habían ido muy lejos aún, cuando llegaron a un lugar donde el suelo se tornó áspero y rocoso. Hacia arriba y hacia abajo de las colinas había piedras. Al pie de un pequeño valle el señor Tumnus se volvió de repente y caminó derecho hacia una roca gigantesca. Sólo en el momento en que estuvieron muy cerca de ella, Lucía descubrió que él la conducía a la entrada de una cueva. En cuanto se encontraron en el interior, la niña se vio inundada por la luz del fuego. El señor Tumnus cogió una brasa con un par de tenazas y encendió una lámpara. –Ahora falta poco –dijo, e inmediatamente puso la tetera a calentar. Lucía pensaba que no había estado nunca en un lugar más acogedor. Era una pequeña, limpia y seca cueva de piedra roja con una alfombra en el suelo, dos sillas ("una para mí y otra para un amigo", dijo el señor Tumnus), una mesa, una cómoda, una repisa sobre la chimenea, y más arriba, dominándolo todo, el retrato de un viejo fauno con barba gris. En un rincón había una puerta; Lucía supuso que comunicaba con el dormitorio del señor Tumnus. En una de las paredes se apoyaba un estante repleto de libros. La niña miraba todo mientras él preparaba la mesa para el té. Algunos de los títulos eran _La vida y las cartas de Sileno, Las ninfas y sus costumbres, H ambres, monjesy departistas, Estudio de la leyenda popular, ¿Eselhambreun mito?_ , y muchos más. –Hija de Eva –dijo el Fauno–, ya está todo preparado. Y realmente fue un té maravilloso. Hubo un rico huevo dorado para cada uno, sardinas en pan tostado, tostadas con mantequilla y con miel, y una torta espolvoreada con azúcar. Cuando Lucía se cansó de comer, el Fauno comenzó a hablar. Sus relatos sobre la vida en el bosque eran fantásticos. Le contó acerca de bailes en la medianoche, cuando las ninfas que vivían en las vertientes y las dríades que habitaban en los árboles salían a danzar con los faunos; de las largas partidas de cacería tras el Venado Blanco, en las cuales se cumplían los deseos del que lo capturaba; sobre las celebraciones y la búsqueda de tesoros con los enanos rojos salvajes, en minas y cavernas muy por debajo del suelo. Por último, le habló también de los veranos, cuando los bosques eran verdes y el viejo Sileno los visitaba en su gordo burro. A veces llegaba a verlos el propio Baco y entonces por los ríos corría vino en lugar de agua y el bosque se transformaba en una fiesta que se prolongaba por semanas sin fin. –Ahora es siempre invierno –agregó taciturno. Entonces para alegrarse tomó un estuche que estaba sobre la cómoda, sacó de él una extraña flauta que parecía hecha de paja y empezó a tocar. Al escuchar la melodía, Lucía sintió ansias de llorar, reír, bailar y dormir, todo al mismo tiempo. Debían haber transcurrido varias horas cuando despertó bruscamente, y dijo: –Señor Tumnus, siento interrumpirlo, pero tengo que irme a casa. Sólo quería quedarme unos minutos... –No es bueno _ahora_ ,tú sabes –le dijo el Fauno, dejando la flauta. Parecía acongojado por ella. –¿Que no es bueno? –dijo ella, dando un salto. Asustada e inquieta agregó–: ¿Qué quiere decir? Tengo que volver a casa al instante. Ya deben de estar preocupados. Un momento después, al ver que los ojos del Fauno estaban llenos de lágrimas, volvió a preguntar: –¡Señor Tumnus! ¿Cuál es realmente el problema? El Fauno continuó llorando. Las lágrimas comenzaron a deslizarse por sus mejillas y pronto corrieron por la punta de su nariz. Finalmente se cubrió el rostro con las manos y comenzó a sollozar. –¡Señor Tumnus! ¡Señor Tumnus! –exclamó Lucía con desesperación–. ¡No llore así! ¿Qué es lo que pasa? ¿No se siente bien? Querido señor Tumnus, cuénteme qué es lo que está mal. Pero el Fauno continuó estremeciéndose como si tuviera el corazón destrozado. Aunque Lucía lo abrazó y le prestó su pañuelo, no pudo detenerse. Solamente tomó el pañuelo y lo usó para secar sus lágrimas que continuaban cayendo sin interrupción. Y cuando estaba demasiado mojado, lo estrujaba con sus dos manos. Tanto lo estrujó, que pronto Lucía estuvo de pie en un suelo completamente húmedo. –¡Señor Tumnus! –gritó Lucía en su oído, al mismo tiempo que lo sacudía–. No llore más, por favor. Pare inmediatamente de llorar. Debería avergonzarse. Un fauno mayor, como usted. Pero dígame, ¿por qué llora usted? –¡Oh!, ¡oh!, ¡oh! –sollozó–, lloro porque soy un fauno malvado. –Yo no creo eso. De ninguna manera –dijo Lucía–. De hecho, usted es el fauno más encantador que he conocido. –¡Oh! No dirías eso si tú supieras –replicó el señor Tumnus entre suspiros–. Soy un fauno malo. No creo que nunca haya habido uno peor que yo desde que el mundo es mundo. –Pero, ¿qué es lo que ha hecho? –preguntó Lucía. –Mi viejo padre –dijo el Fauno–jamás hubiera hecho una cosa semejante. ¿Lo ves? Su retrato está sobre la chimenea. –¿Qué es lo que no hubiera hecho su padre? –Lo que yo he hecho –respondió el Fauno–. Servir a la Bruja Blanca. Eso es lo que yo soy. Un sirviente pagado por la Bruja Blanca. –¿La Bruja Blanca? ¿Quién es? –¡Ah! Ella es quien tiene a Narnia completamente en sus manos. Ella es quien mantiene el invierno para siempre. Siempre invierno y nunca Navidad. ¿Te imaginas lo que es eso? –¡Qué terrible! –dijo Lucía–. Pero ¿qué trabajo hace usted para que ella le pague? –Eso es lo peor. Soy yo el que rapta para ella. Eso es lo que soy: un raptor. Mírame, Hija de Eva. ¿Crees que soy la clase de Fauno que cuando se encuentra con un pobre niño inocente en el bosque, se hace su amigo y lo invita a su casa en la cueva, sólo para dormirlo con música y entregarlo luego a la Bruja Blanca? –No –dijo Lucía–. Estoy segura de que usted no haría nada semejante. –Pero lo he hecho –dijo el Fauno. –Bien –continuó Lucía, lentamente (porque quería ser muy franca, pero, a la vez, no deseaba ser demasiado dura con él)–, eso es muy malo, pero usted está tan arrepentido que estoy segura de que no lo hará de nuevo. –¡Hija de Eva! ¿Es que no entiendes? –exclamó el Fauno–. No es algo que yo haya hecho. Es algo que estoy haciendo en este preciso instante. –¿Qué quiere decir? –preguntó Lucía, poniéndose blanca como la nieve. –Tú eres el niño –dijo el señor Tumnus–. La Bruja Blanca me había ordenado que si alguna vez encontraba a un Hijo de Adán o a una Hija de Eva en el bosque, tenía que aprehenderlo y llevárselo. Tú eres la primera que yo he conocido. Fingí ser tu amigo, te invité a tomar el té y he esperado todo el tiempo que estuvieras dormida para llevarte hasta ella. –¡Ah, no! Usted no lo hará, señor Tumnus –dijo Lucía–. Realmente usted no lo hará. De verdad, no debe hacerlo. –Y si yo no lo hago –dijo él, comenzando a llorar de nuevo–, ella lo sabrá. Y me cortará la cola, me arrancará los cuernos y la barba. Agitará su vara sobre mis lindas pezuñas divididas por la mitad y las transformará en horribles y sólidas, como las de un desdichado caballo. Pero si ella se enfurece más aún, me convertirá en piedra y seré sólo una estatua de Fauno en su horrible casa, y allí me quedaré hasta que los cuatro tronos de Cair Paravel sean ocupados. Y sólo Dios sabe cuándo sucederá eso o si alguna vez sucederá. –Lo siento mucho, señor Tumnus –dijo Lucía–. Pero, por favor, déjeme ir a casa. –Por supuesto que lo haré –dijo el Fauno–. Tengo que hacerlo. Ahora me doy cuenta. No sabía cómo eran los humanos antes de conocerte a ti. No puedo entregarte a la Bruja Blanca; no ahora que te conozco. Pero tenemos que salir de inmediato. Te acompañaré hasta el farol. Espero que desde allí sabrás encontrar el camino al Cuarto Vacío y al Ropero. –Estoy segura de que podré. –Debemos irnos muy silenciosamente. Tan callados como podamos –dijo el señor Tumnus–. El bosque está lleno de _sus espias_. Incluso algunos árboles están de su parte. Ambos se levantaron y, dejando las tazas y los platos en la mesa, salieron. El señor Tumnus abrió el paraguas una vez más, le dio el brazo a Lucía y comenzaron a caminar sobre la nieve. El regreso fue completamente diferente a lo que había sido la ida hacia la cueva del fauno. Sin decir una palabra se apresuraron todo lo que pudieron y el señor Tumnus se mantuvo siempre en los lugares más oscuros. Lucía se sintió bastante reconfortada cuando llegaron junto al farol. –¿Sabes cuál es tu camino desde aquí, Hija de Eva? –preguntó el Fauno. Lucía concentró su mirada entre los árboles y en la distancia pudo ver un espacio iluminado, como si allá lejos fuera de día. –Sí –dijo–. Alcanzo a ver la puerta del ropero. –Entonces corre hacia tu casa tan rápido como puedas –dijo el señor Tumnus–. ¿Podrás perdonarme alguna vez por lo que intenté hacer? –Por supuesto –dijo Lucía, estrechando fuertemente sus manos–. Espero de todo corazón que usted no tenga problemas por mi culpa. –Adiós, Hija de Eva. ¿Sería posible, tal vez, que yo guarde tu pañuelo como recuerdo? –¡Está bien! –exclamó Lucía y echó a correr hacia la luz del día, tan rápido como sus piernas se lo permitieron. Esta vez, en lugar de sentir el roce de ásperas ramas en su rostro y la nieve crujiente bajo sus pies, palpó los tablones y de inmediato se encontró saltando fuera del ropero y en medio del mismo cuarto vacío en el que había comenzado toda la aventura. Cerró cuidadosamente la puerta del guardarropa y miró a su alrededor mientras recuperaba el aliento. Todavía llovía. Pudo escuchar las voces de los otros niños en el pasillo. –¡Estoy aquí! –gritó–. ¡Estoy aquí! ¡He vuelto y estoy muy bien! ## CAPÍTULO 3 ## EDMUNDO Y EL ROPERO LUCÍA SALIÓ CORRIENDO DEL CUARTO vacío y en el pasillo se encontró con los otros tres niños. –Todo está bien –repitió–. He vuelto. –¿De qué hablas, Lucía? –preguntó Susana. –¡Cómo! –exclamó Lucía asombrada–. ¿No estaban preocupados por mi ausencia? ¿No se han preguntado dónde estaba yo? –Entonces, ¿estabas escondida? –dijo Pedro–. Pobre Lu, ¡se escondió y nadie se dio cuenta! Para otra vez vas a tener que desaparecer durante un rato más largo, si es que quieres que alguien te busque. –Estuve afuera por horas y horas –dijo Lucía. –Mal –dijo Edmundo, golpeándose la cabeza–. Muy mal. –¿Qué quieres decir, Lucía? –preguntó Pedro. –Lo que dije –contestó Lucía–. Fue precisamente después del desayuno, cuando entré en el ropero, y he estado afuera por horas y horas. Tomé té y me han sucedido toda clase de acontecimientos. –No seas tonta, Lucía. Hemos salido de ese cuarto hace apenas un instante y tú estabas allí –replicó Susana. –Ella no se está haciendo la tonta –dijo Pedro–. Está inventando una historia para divertirse, ¿no es verdad, Lucía? –No, Pedro. No estoy inventando. El armario es mágico. Adentro hay un bosque, nieve, un fauno y una bruja. El lugar se llama Narnia. Vengan a ver. Los demás no sabían qué pensar, pero Lucía estaba tan excitada que la siguieron hasta el cuarto sin decir una palabra. Corrió hacia el ropero y abrió la puerta de par en par. –¡Ahora! –gritó–. ¡Entren y compruébenlo ustedes mismos! –¡Cómo! ¡Eres una gansa! –dijo Susana, después de introducir la cabeza dentro del ropero y apartar los abrigos–. Éste es un ropero común y corriente. Miren, aquí está el fondo. Todos miraron, movieron los abrigos y vieron –Lucía también– un armario igual a los demás. No había bosque ni nieve. Sólo el fondo del ropero y los colgadores. Pedro saltó dentro y golpeó sus puños contra la madera para asegurarse. –¡Menuda broma la que nos has gastado, Lu! –exclamó al salir–. Realmente nos sorprendiste, debo reconocerlo. Casi te creímos. –No era broma. Era verdad –dijo Lucía–. Era verdad. Todo fue diferente hace un instante. Les prometo que era cierto. –¡Vamos, Lu! –dijo Pedro–. ¡Ya, basta! Estás yendo un poco lejos con tu broma. ¿No te parece que es mejor terminar aquí? Lucía se puso roja y trató de hablar, a pesar de que ya no sabía qué estaba tratando de decir. Estalló en llanto. Durante los días siguientes se sintió muy desdichada. Podría haberse reconciliado fácilmente con los demás niños, en cualquier momento, si hubiera aceptado que todo había sido sólo una broma para pasar el tiempo. Sin embargo, Lucía decía siempre la verdad y sabía que estaba en lo cierto. No podía decir ahora una cosa por otra. Los niños, que pensaban que ella había mentido tontamente, la hicieron sentirse muy infeliz. Los dos mayores, sin intención; pero Edmundo era muy rencoroso y en esta ocasión lo demostró. La molestó incansablemente; a cada momento le preguntaba si había encontrado otros países en los aparadores o en los otros armarios de la casa. Lo peor de todo era que esos días fueron muy entretenidos para los niños, pero no para Lucía. El tiempo estaba maravilloso; pasaban de la mañana a la noche fuera de la casa, se bañaban, pescaban, se subían a los árboles, descubrían nidos de pájaros y se tendían a la sombra. Lucía no pudo gozar de nada, y las cosas siguieron así hasta que llovió nuevamente. Ese día, cuando llegó la tarde sin ninguna señal de cambio en el tiempo, decidieron jugar a las escondidas. A Susana le correspondió primero buscar a los demás. Tan pronto los niños se dispersaron para esconderse, Lucía corrió hasta el ropero, aunque no pretendía ocultarse allí. Sólo quería dar una mirada dentro de él. Estaba comenzando a dudar si Narnia, el Fauno y todo lo demás había sido un sueño. La casa era tan grande, complicada y llena de escondites, que pensó que tendría tiempo suficiente para dar una mirada en el interior del armario y buscar luego cualquier lugar para ocultarse en otra parte. Pero justo en el momento en que abría la puerta, sintió pasos en el corredor. No le quedó más remedio que saltar dentro del guardarropa y sujetar la puerta tras ella, sin cerrarla del todo, pues sabía que era muy tonto encerrarse en un armario, incluso si se trataba de un armario mágico. Los pasos que Lucía había oído eran los de Edmundo. El niño entró en el cuarto en el momento preciso en que ella se introducía en el ropero. De inmediato decidió hacer lo mismo, no porque fuera un buen lugar para esconderse, sino porque podría seguir molestándola con su país imaginario. Abrió la puerta. Estaba oscuro, olía a naftalina, y allí estaban los abrigos colgados, pero no había un solo rastro de Lucía. "Cree que es Susana la que viene a buscarla –se dijo Edmundo–; por eso se queda tan quieta". Sin más, saltó adentro y cerró la puerta, olvidando que hacer eso era una verdadera locura. En la oscuridad empezó a buscar a Lucía y se sorprendió de no encontrarla de inmediato, como había pensado. Decidió abrir la puerta para que entrara un poco de luz. Pero tampoco pudo hallarla. Todo esto no le gustó nada y empezó a saltar nerviosamente hacia todos lados. Al fin gritó con desesperación: –¡Lucía! ¡Lu! ¿Dónde te has metido? Sé que estás aquí. No hubo respuesta. Edmundo advirtió que su propia voz tenía un curioso sonido. No había sido el que se espera dentro de un armario cerrado, sino un sonido al aire libre. También se dio cuenta de que el ambiente estaba extrañamente frío. Entonces vio una luz. –¡Gracias a Dios! –exclamó–. La puerta se tiene que haber abierto por sí sola. Se olvidó de Lucía y fue hacia la luz, convencido de que iba hacia la puerta del ropero. Pero en lugar de llegar al cuarto vacío, salió de un espeso y sombrío conjunto de abetos a un claro en medio del bosque. Había nieve bajo sus pies y en las ramas de los árboles. En el horizonte, el cielo era pálido como el de una mañana despejada de invierno. Frente a él, entre los árboles, vio levantarse el sol muy rojo y claro. Todo estaba en silencio como si él fuera la única criatura viviente. No había ni siquiera un pájaro o una ardilla entre los árboles, y el bosque se extendía en todas direcciones, tan lejos como alcanzaba la vista. Edmundo tiritó. En ese momento recordó que buscaba a Lucía. También se acordó de lo antipático que había sido con ella al molestarla con su "país imaginario". Ahora se daba cuenta de que en modo alguno era imaginario. Pensó que no podía estar muy lejos y llamó: –¡Lucía! ¡Lucía! Estoy aquí también. Soy Edmundo. No hubo respuesta. –Está enojada por todo lo que le he dicho –murmuró. A pesar de que no le gustaba admitir que se había equivocado, menos aún le gustaba estar solo y con tanto frío en ese silencioso lugar. –¡Lu! ¡Perdóname por no haberte creído! ¡Ahora veo que tenías razón! ¡Ven, hagamos las paces! –gritó de nuevo. Tampoco hubo respuesta esta vez. "Exactamente como una niña –se dijo–. Estará enfurruñada por ahí y no aceptará una disculpa". Miró a su alrededor: ese lugar no le gustaba nada. Decidió volver a la casa cuando, en la distancia, oyó un ruido de campanas. Escuchó atentamente y el sonido se hizo más y más cercano. Al fin, a plena luz, apareció un trineo arrastrado por dos renos. El tamaño de los renos era como el de los _panies_ de Shetland, y su piel era tan blanca que a su lado la nieve se veía casi oscura. Sus cuernos ramificados eran dorados y resplandecían al sol. Sus arneses de cuero rojo estaban cubiertos de campanillas. El trineo era conducido por un enano gordo que, de pie, no tendría más de tres pies de altura. Estaba envuelto en una piel de oso polar, y en la cabeza llevaba un capuchón rojo con un largo pompón dorado en la punta; su enorme barba le cubría las rodillas y le servía de alfombra. Detrás de él, en un alto asiento en el centro del trineo, se hallaba una persona muy diferente: era una señora inmensa, más grande que todas las mujeres que Edmundo conocía. También estaba envuelta hasta el cuello en una piel blanca. En su mano derecha sostenía una vara dorada y llevaba una corona sobre su cabeza. Su rostro era blanco, no pálido, sino blanco como el papel, la nieve o el azúcar. Sólo su boca era muy roja. A pesar de todo, su cara era bella, pero orgullosa, fría y severa. Mientras se acercaba a Edmundo, el trineo presentaba una magnífica visión con el sonido de las campanillas, el látigo del enano que restallaba en el aire y la nieve que parecía volar a ambos lados del carruaje. –¡Detente! –exclamó la Dama, y el enano tiró tan fuerte de las riendas que por poco los renos caen sentados. Se recobraron y se detuvieron mordiendo los frenos y resoplando. En el aire helado, la respiración que salía de sus hocicos se veía como si fuera humo. –¡Por Dios! ¿Qué eres tú? –preguntó la Dama a Edmundo. –Soy... soy..., mi nombre es Edmundo –dijo el niño con timidez. La Dama puso mala cara. –¿Así te diriges a una reina? –preguntó con gran severidad. –Le ruego que me perdone, su Majestad. Yo no sabía... –¿No conoces a la Reina de Narnia? –gritó ella–. ¡Ah! ¡Nos conocerás mejor de ahora en adelante! Pero..., te repito, ¿qué eres tú? –Por favor, su Majestad –dijo Edmundo–, no sé qué quiere decir usted. Yo estoy en el colegio..., por lo menos, estaba... Ahora estoy de vacaciones. ## CAPÍTULO 4 ## _DELICIAS TURCAS_ –PERO, ¿QUÉ ERES TÚ? –PREGUNTÓ LA Reina otra vez–. ¿Eres un enano superdesarrollado que se cortó la barba? –No, su Majestad. Nunca he tenido barba. Soy un niño –dijo Edmundo, sin salir de su asombro. –¡Un niño! –exclamó ella–. ¿Quieres decir que eres un Hijo de Adán? Edmundo se quedó inmóvil sin pronunciar palabra. Realmente estaba demasiado confundido como para entender el significado de la pregunta. –Veo que eres idiota, además de ser lo que seas –dijo la Reina–. Contéstame de una vez por todas, pues estoy a punto de perder la paciencia. ¿Eres un ser humano? –Sí, Majestad –dijo Edmundo. –¿Se puede saber cómo entraste en mis dominios? –Vine a través de un ropero, su Majestad. –¿Un ropero? ¿Qué quieres decir con eso? –Abrí la puerta y... me encontré aquí, su Majestad –explicó Edmundo. –¡Ah! –dijo la Reina más para sí misma que para él–. Una puerta. ¡Una puerta del mundo de los hombres! Había oído cosas semejantes. Eso puede arruinarlo todo. Pero es uno solo y parece muy fácil de manipular... Mientras murmuraba estas palabras, se levantó de su asiento y con ojos llameantes miró fijamente a la cara de Edmundo. Al mismo tiempo levantó su vara. Edmundo tuvo la seguridad de que ella iba a hacer algo espantoso, pero no fue capaz de moverse. Entonces, cuando él ya se daba por perdido, ella pareció cambiar sus intenciones. –Mi pobre niño –le dijo con una voz muy diferente–. ¡Cuán helado pareces! Ven a sentarte en el trineo a mi lado y te cubriré con mi manto. Entonces podremos conversar. Esta solución no le gustó nada a Edmundo. Sin embargo, no se hubiera atrevido jamás a desobedecerle. Subió al trineo y se sentó a los pies de la Reina. Ella desplegó su piel alrededor del niño y lo envolvió bien. –¿Te gustaría tomar algo caliente? –le preguntó. –Sí, por favor, su Majestad –dijo Edmundo, cuyos dientes castañeteaban. La Reina sacó de entre los pliegues de su manto una pequeñísima botella que parecía de cobre. Entonces estiró el brazo y dejó caer una gota de su contenido sobre la nieve, junto al trineo. Por un instante, Edmundo vio que la gota resplandecía en el aire como un diamante. Pero, en el momento que tocó la nieve, se produjo un ruido leve y allí apareció una taza adornada de piedras preciosas, llena de algo que hervía. Inmediatamente el enano la tomó y se la entregó a Edmundo con una reverencia y una sonrisa; pero no fue una sonrisa muy agradable. Tan pronto comenzó a beber, Edmundo se sintió mucho mejor. En su vida había tomado una bebida como ésa. Era muy dulce, cremosa y llena de espuma. Sintió que el líquido lo calentaba hasta la punta de los pies. –No es bueno beber sin comer, Hijo de Adán –dijo la Reina un momento después–. ¿Qué es lo que te apetecería comer? _–Delicias turcas_ , por favor, su Majestad –dijo Edmundo. La Reina derramó sobre la nieve otra gota de su botella y al instante apareció una caja redonda atada con cintas verdes de seda. Edmundo la abrió: contenía varias libras de las mejores _delicias turcas_. Eran dulces y esponjosas. Edmundo no recordaba haber probado jamás algo semejante. Mientras comía, la Reina no dejaba de hacerle preguntas. Al comienzo, Edmundo trató de recordar que era vulgar hablar con la boca llena. Pero luego se olvidó de todas las reglas de educación y se preocupó únicamente de comer tantas _delicias turcas_ como pudiera. Y mientras más comía, más deseaba seguir comiendo. En ningún momento le pasó por la mente preguntarse por qué su Majestad era tan inquisitiva. Ella consiguió que él le contara que tenía un hermano y dos hermanas y que una de éstas había estado en Narnia y había conocido al Fauno. También le dijo que nadie, excepto ellos, sabía nada sobre Narnia. La Reina pareció especialmente interesada en el hecho de que los niños fueran cuatro y volvió a ese punto con frecuencia. –¿Estás seguro de que ustedes son sólo cuatro? Dos Hijos de Adán y dos Hijas de Eva, ¿nada más ni nada menos? Edmundo, con la boca llena de _delicias turcas_ , se lo reiteraba. "Sí, ya se lo dije", repetía olvidando llamarla "su Majestad". Pero a ella eso no parecía importarle ahora. Por fin las _delicias turcas_ se terminaron. Edmundo mantuvo la vista fija en la caja vacía con la esperanza de que ella le ofreciera algunas más. Probablemente la Reina podía leer el pensamiento del niño, pues sabía –y Edmundo no– que esas _delicias turcas_ estaban encantadas y que quien las probaba una vez, siempre quería más y más. Y si le permitía continuar, no podía detenerse hasta que enfermaba y moría. Ella no le ofreció más; en lugar de eso, le dijo: –Hijo de Adán, me gustaría mucho conocer a tus hermanos. ¿Querrías traérmelos hasta aquí? –Trataré –contestó Edmundo, todavía con la vista fija en la caja vacía. –Si tú vuelves, pero con ellos por supuesto, podré darte _delicias turcas_ de nuevo. No puedo darte más ahora. La magia es sólo para una vez, pero en mi casa será diferente. –¿Por qué no vamos a tu casa ahora? –preguntó Edmundo. Cuando Edmundo subió al trineo, había sentido miedo de que ella lo llevara muy lejos, a algún lugar desconocido desde el cual no pudiera regresar. Ahora parecía haber olvidado todos sus temores. –Mi casa es un lugar encantador –dijo la Reina–. Estoy segura de que te gustará. Allí hay cuartos completamente llenos de _delicias turcas_. Y, lo que es más, no tengo niños propios. Me gustaría tener un niño bueno y amable a quien yo podría educar como príncipe y que luego sería Rey de Narnia, cuando yo falte. Y mientras fuera príncipe, llevaría una corona de oro y podría comer _delicias turcas_ todo el día. Y tú eres el joven más inteligente y buen mozo que yo conozco. Creo que me gustaría convertirte en príncipe... algún día..., cuando hayas traído a tus hermanos a visitarme. –¿Y por qué no ahora? –insistió Edmundo. Su cara se había puesto muy roja, y sus dedos y su boca estaban muy pegajosos. No se veía buen mozo ni parecía inteligente, aunque la Reina lo dijera. –¡Ah! Si te llevo ahora a mi casa –dijo ella–, yo no conocería a tu hermano ni a tus hermanas. Realmente quiero que traigas a tu encantadora familia. Tú serás príncipe y, con el tiempo, rey; eso está claro. Deberás tener cortesanos y nobles. Yo haré duque a tu hermano y duquesas a tus hermanas. –No hay nada de especial en ellos –dijo Edmundo–, pero de cualquier forma los puedo traer en el momento que quiera. –¡Ah, sí! Pero si hoy te llevo a mi casa, podrías olvidarte de ellos por completo. Estarías tan feliz que no querrías molestarte en ir a buscarlos. No. Tienes que ir a tu país ahora y regresar junto a mí otro día, pero _con ellos_ , entiéndelo bien. No te servirá de nada volver sin ellos. –Pero yo ni siquiera conozco el camino de regreso a mi país –rogó Edmundo. –Es muy fácil. ¿Ves aquel farol? –dijo la Reina, mientras apuntaba con la varilla. Edmundo miró en la dirección indicada. Entonces vio el mismo farol bajo el cual Lucía había conocido al Fauno. –Derecho, más allá, está el Mundo de los Hombres –continuó la Reina. Luego señaló en dirección opuesta y agregó–: Dime si ves dos pequeñas colinas que se levantan sobre los árboles. –Creo que sí –dijo Edmundo. –Bien, mi casa está entre esas dos colinas. La próxima vez que vengas, sólo tendrás que encontrar el farol, buscar las dos colinas y atravesar el bosque hasta llegar a mi casa. Pero recuerda..., debes traer a tus hermanos. Me enfureceré de verdad, tanto como yo puedo enfurecerme, si vuelves solo. –Haré lo que pueda –dijo Edmundo. –Y, a propósito... –agregó la Reina–, no necesitas hablarles de mí. Será mucho más divertido guardar el secreto entre nosotros. Les daremos una sorpresa. Sólo tráelos hacia las colinas con cualquier pretexto; a un niño inteligente como tú se le ocurrirá alguno fácilmente. Y cuando llegues a mi casa, podrás decirles, por ejemplo: "Veamos quién vive aquí" o algo por el estilo. Estoy segura de que eso será lo mejor. Si tu hermana ya conoce a uno de los faunos, puede haber oído historias extrañas acerca de mí. Cosas malas que pueden hacerle sentir temor de mí. Los faunos dicen cualquier cosa, ¿sabes? Vete ahora. –¡Por favor, por favor! –rogó Edmundo–. ¿Puede darme una _delicia turca_ para comer durante el regreso a casa? –¡Oh, no! –dijo la Reina con una sonrisa sardónica–. Tendrás que esperar hasta la próxima vez. Mientras hablaba hizo una señal al enano para indicarle que se pusiera en marcha. Antes de que el trineo se perdiera de vista, la Reina agitó la mano para decir adiós a Edmundo, al mismo tiempo que gritaba: –¡Hasta la vista! ¡No te olvides! ¡Vuelve pronto! Edmundo miraba todavía como desaparecía el trineo cuando oyó que alguien lo llamaba. Dio media vuelta y divisó a Lucía que venía hacia él desde otro punto del bosque. –¡Oh, Edmundo! –exclamó–. Tú también viniste. Dime si no es maravilloso. –Bien, bien –dijo Edmundo–. Tenías razón después de todo. El armario es mágico. Te pediré perdón, si quieres... Pero ¿me puedes decir dónde te habías metido? Te he buscado por todas partes. –Si hubiera sabido que tú también estabas aquí, te habría esperado –dijo Lucía. Estaba tan contenta y excitada que no advirtió el tono mordaz con el que hablaba Edmundo, ni lo extraña y roja que se veía su cara–. Estuve almorzando con el querido señor Tumnus, el Fauno. Está muy bien y la Bruja Blanca no le ha hecho nada por haberme dejado en libertad. Piensa que ella no se ha enterado, así es que todo va a andar muy bien. –¿La Bruja Blanca? –preguntó Edmundo–. ¿Quién es? –Es una persona terrible –aseguró Lucía–. Se llama a sí misma Reina de Narnia, a pesar de que no tiene ningún derecho. Todos los faunos, dríades y náyades, todos los enanos y animales –por lo menos los buenos– simplemente la odian. Puede transformar a la gente en piedra y hacer toda clase de maldades horribles. Con su magia mantiene a Narnia siempre en invierno; siempre es invierno, pero nunca llega la Navidad. Anda por todas partes en un trineo tirado por renos, con su vara en la mano y la corona en la cabeza. Edmundo comenzaba a sentirse incómodo por haber comido tantos dulces. Pero cuando escuchó que la Dama con quien había hecho amistad era una bruja peligrosa, se sintió mucho peor todavía. Pero aun así, tenía ansias de comer _delicias turcas_. Lo deseaba más que cualquier otra cosa. –¿Quién te dijo todo eso acerca de la Bruja Blanca? –preguntó. –El señor Tumnus, el Fauno –contestó Lucía. –No puedes tomar en serio todo lo que los faunos dicen –dijo Edmundo, dándose aires de saber mucho más que Lucía. –Y a ti, ¿quién te ha dicho una cosa semejante? –preguntó Lucía. –Todo el mundo lo sabe –dijo Edmundo–. Pregúntale a quien quieras. Además es una tontería que sigamos aquí, parados sobre la nieve. Vamos a casa. –Vamos –dijo Lucía–. ¡Oh, Edmundo, estoy tan contenta de que tú hayas venido también! Los demás tendrán que creer en Narnia, ahora que ambos hemos estado aquí. ¡Qué entretenido será! Pero Edmundo pensaba secretamente que no sería tan divertido para él como para ella. Debería admitir ante los demás que Lucía tenía razón. Por otra parte, estaba seguro de que todos estarían de parte de los faunos y los animales. Y ya estaba casi totalmente del lado de la Bruja. No sabía qué iba a decir, ni cómo guardaría su secreto cuando todos estuvieran hablando de Narnia. Habían caminado ya un buen trecho cuando de pronto sintieron alrededor de ellos el contacto de las pieles de los abrigos, en lugar de las ramas de los árboles. Un par de pasos más y se encontraron fuera del ropero, en el cuarto vacío. –¡Edmundo! Te ves muy mal –dijo Lucía, al mirar detenidamente a su hermano–. ¿No te sientes bien? –Estoy muy bien –respondió Edmundo, pero no era verdad. Se sentía realmente enfermo. –Vamos, entonces, muévete. Busquemos a los otros –dijo Lucía–. ¡Imagínate todo lo que tenemos que contarles! ¡Y qué maravillosas aventuras nos esperan ahora que todos estaremos juntos en esto! ## CAPÍTULO 5 ## DE REGRESO A ESTE LADO DE LA PUERTA LUCÍA Y EDMUNDO TARDARON ALGÚN tiempo en encontrar a sus hermanos, ya que continuaban jugando a las escondidas. Cuando por fin estuvieron todos juntos (lo que sucedió en la sala larga donde estaba la armadura), Lucía estalló: –¡Pedro! ¡Susana! Todo es verdad. Edmundo también lo vio. Hay un país al otro lado del ropero. Nosotros dos estuvimos allá. Nos encontramos en el bosque. ¡Vamos, Edmundo, cuéntales! –¿De qué se trata esto, Edmundo? –preguntó Pedro. Y aquí llegamos a una de las partes más feas de esta historia. Hasta ese momento, Edmundo se sentía enfermo, malhumorado y molesto con Lucía porque ella había tenido razón. Todavía no decidía qué actitud iba a tomar, pero cuando de pronto Pedro lo interpeló, resolvió hacer lo peor y lo más odioso que se le pudo ocurrir: dejar a Lucía en mal lugar ante sus hermanos. –Cuéntanos, Ed –insistió Susana. Edmundo, como si fuera mucho mayor que Lucía (ellos tenían solamente un año de diferencia), se dio aires de superioridad, y en tono despectivo dijo: –¡Oh, sí! Lucía y yo hemos estado jugando, como si todo lo del país al otro lado del ropero fuera verdad... Sólo para entretenernos, por supuesto. Lo cierto es que allá no hay nada. La pobre Lucía le dio una sola mirada y salió corriendo de la sala. Edmundo, que se transformaba por minutos en una persona cada vez más despreciable, creyó haber tenido mucho éxito. –Allí va otra vez. ¿Qué será lo que le pasa? Esto es lo peor de los niños pequeños; ellos siempre... –¡Mira, tú! –exclamó Pedro, volviéndose hacia él con fiereza–. ¡Cállate! Te has portado como un perfecto animal con Lu desde que ella empezó con esta historia del ropero. Ahora le sigues la corriente y juegas con ella sólo para hacerla hablar. Pienso que lo haces simplemente por rencor. –Pero todo esto no tiene sentido... –dijo Edmundo, muy sorprendido. –Por supuesto que no –respondió Pedro–; ése es justamente el asunto. Lu estaba muy bien cuando dejamos nuestro hogar, pero, desde que estamos aquí, está rara, como si algo pasara en su mente o se hubiera transformado en la más horrible mentirosa. Sin embargo, sea lo que fuere, ¿crees que le haces algún bien al burlarte de ella y molestarla un día para darle ánimos al siguiente? –Pensé..., pensé... –murmuró Edmundo, pero la verdad fue que no se le ocurrió qué decir. –Tú no pensaste nada de nada –dijo Pedro–. Es sólo rencor. Siempre te ha gustado ser cruel con cualquier niño menor que tú. Ya lo hemos visto antes, en el colegio... –¡No sigan! –imploró Susana–. No arreglaremos nada con una pelea entre ustedes. Vamos a buscar a Lucía. No fue una sorpresa para ninguno de ellos cuando, mucho más tarde, encontraron a Lucía y vieron que había estado llorando. Tenía los ojos rojos. Nada de lo que le dijeron cambió las cosas. Ella se mantuvo firme en su historia. –No me importa lo que ustedes piensen. No me importa lo que digan. Pueden contarle al Profesor o escribirle a mamá. Hagan lo que quieran. Yo sé que conocí a un fauno y... desearía haberme quedado allá. Todos ustedes son unos malvados. La tarde fue muy poco agradable. Lucía estaba triste y desanimada. Edmundo comenzó a darse cuenta de que su plan no caminaba tan bien como había esperado. Los dos mayores temían realmente que Lucía estuviese mal de la cabeza, y se quedaron en el pasillo hablando muy bajo hasta mucho después de que ella se fue a la cama. A la mañana siguiente, ambos decidieron que le contarían todo al Profesor. –Él le escribirá a papá si considera que algo anda mal con Lucía –dijo Pedro–. Esto no es algo que nosotros podamos resolver. Está fuera de nuestro alcance. De manera que se dirigieron al despacho del Profesor y llamaron a la puerta. –Entren –les dijo. Se levantó, buscó dos sillas para los niños y les dijo que estaba a su disposición. Luego se sentó frente a ellos, con los dedos entrelazados, y los escuchó sin hacer ni una sola interrupción hasta que terminaron toda la historia. Después carraspeó y dijo lo último que ellos esperaban escuchar. –¿Cómo saben ustedes que la historia de su hermana no es verdadera? –¡Oh!, pero... –comenzó Susana, y luego se detuvo. Cualquiera podía darse cuenta, con sólo mirar la cara del anciano, que él hablaba en serio. Susana se armó de valor nuevamente y continuó–: Pero Edmundo dijo que ellos sólo estaban imaginando... –Ése es un punto –dijo el Profesor– que, ciertamente, merece consideración. Una cuidadosa consideración. Por ejemplo, me van a disculpar la pregunta, la experiencia que ustedes tienen, ¿les hace confiar más en su hermano o en su hermana? ¿Cuál de los dos es más sincero? –Precisamente, eso es lo más curioso, señor –dijo Pedro–. Hasta ahora, yo habría dicho que Lucía, siempre. –¿Qué piensa usted, querida? –preguntó el Profesor, volviéndose hacia Susana. –Bueno –dijo Susana–, en general, yo diría lo mismo que Pedro; pero este asunto no puede ser verdad; todo esto del bosque y del Fauno... –Esto es más de lo que yo sé –declaró el Profesor–. Acusar de mentirosa a una persona en la que siempre se ha confiado es algo muy serio. Muy serio, ciertamente –repitió. –Nosotros tememos que a lo mejor ella ni siquiera está mintiendo –dijo Susana–. Pensamos que algo puede andar mal en Lucía. –¿Locura, quieren decir? –preguntó fríamente el Profesor–. ¡Oh! Eso pueden descartarlo muy rápidamente. No tienen más que mirarla para darse cuenta de que no está loca. –Pero entonces... –comenzó Susana. Se detuvo. Ella nunca hubiera esperado, ni en sueños, que un adulto les hablaría como lo hacía el Profesor. No supo qué pensar. –¡Lógica! –dijo el Profesor como para sí–. ¿Por qué hoy no se enseña lógica en los colegios? Hay sólo tres posibilidades: su hermana miente, está loca o dice la verdad. Ustedes saben que ella no miente y es obvio que no está loca. Por el momento, y a no ser que se presente otra evidencia, tenemos que asumir que ella dice la verdad. Susana lo miró fijamente y por su expresión pudo deducir que, en realidad, no se estaba riendo de ellos. –Pero, ¿cómo puede ser cierto, señor? –dijo Pedro. –¿Por qué dice eso? –Bueno, en primer lugar –contestó Pedro–. Si esa historia fuera real, ¿por qué no encontramos ese país cada vez que abrimos el ropero? No había nada allí cuando fuimos todos a ver. Incluso Lucía reconoció que no había nada. –¿Qué tiene que ver eso con todo esto? –preguntó el Profesor. –Bueno, señor, si las cosas son reales, deberían estar allí todo el tiempo. –¿Están? –dijo el Profesor. Pedro no supo qué contestar. –Pero ni siquiera hubo tiempo –interrumpió Susana–. Lucía no tuvo tiempo de haber ido a ninguna parte, aunque ese lugar existiera. Vino corriendo tras de nosotros en el mismo instante en que salíamos de la habitación. Fue menos de un minuto y ella pretende haber estado afuera durante horas. –Eso es, precisamente, lo que hace más probable que su historia sea verdadera –dijo el Profesor–. Si en esta casa hay realmente una puerta que conduce hacia otros mundos (y les advierto que es una casa muy extraña y que incluso yo sé muy poco sobre ella); si, como les digo, ella se introdujo en otro mundo, no me sorprendería en absoluto que éste tuviera su tiempo propio. Así, no tendría importancia cuánto tiempo permaneciera uno allá, pues no tomaría nada de _nuestro_ tiempo. Por otro lado, no creo que muchas niñas de su edad puedan inventar una idea como ésta por sí solas. Si ella hubiera imaginado toda esa historia, se habría escondido durante un tiempo razonable antes de aparecer y contar su aventura. –¿Realmente usted piensa que puede haber otros mundos como ése en cualquier parte, así, a la vuelta de la esquina? –preguntó Pedro. –No imagino nada que pueda ser más probable –dijo el Profesor. Se sacó los anteojos y comenzó a limpiarlos mientras murmuraba para sí–: Me pregunto, ¿qué es lo que enseñan en estos colegios? –Pero ¿qué vamos a hacer nosotros? –preguntó Susana. Ella sentía que la conversación comenzaba a alejarse del problema. –Mi querida jovencita –dijo el Profesor, mirando repentinamente a ambos niños con una expresión muy penetrante–, hay un plan que nadie ha sugerido todavía y que vale la pena probar. –¿De qué se trata? –preguntó Susana. –Podríamos tratar todos de preocuparnos de nuestros propios asuntos. Y ése fue el final de la conversación. Después de esto las cosas mejoraron mucho para Lucía. Pedro se preocupó especialmente de que Edmundo dejara de molestarla y ninguno de ellos –Lucía, menos que nadie– se sintió inclinado a mencionar el ropero para nada. Éste se había transformado en un tema más bien inquietante. De este modo, por un tiempo pareció que todas las aventuras habían llegado a su fin. Pero no sería así. La casa del Profesor, de la cual él mismo sabía muy poco, era tan antigua y famosa que gente de todas partes de Inglaterra solía pedir autorización para visitarla. Era el tipo de casa que se menciona en las guías turísticas e, incluso, en las historias. En torno a ella se tejían toda clase de relatos. Algunos más extraños aun que el que yo les estoy contando ahora. Cuando los turistas solicitaban visitarla, el Profesor siempre accedía. La señora Macready, el ama de llaves, los guiaba por toda la casa y les hablaba de los cuadros, de la armadura y de los antiguos y raros libros de la biblioteca. A la señora Macready no le gustaban los niños, y menos aún, ser interrumpida mientras contaba a los turistas todo lo que sabía. Durante la primera mañana de visitas había dicho a Pedro y a Susana (además de muchas otras instrucciones): "Por favor, recuerden que no deben entrometerse cuando yo muestro la casa". –Como si alguno de nosotros quisiera perder la mañana dando vueltas por la casa con un tropel de adultos desconocidos –había replicado Edmundo. Los otros niños pensaban lo mismo. Así fue cómo las aventuras comenzaron nuevamente. Algunas mañanas después, Pedro y Edmundo estaban mirando la armadura. Se preguntaban si podrían desmontar algunas piezas, cuando las dos hermanas aparecieron en la sala. –¡Cuidado! –exclamaron–. Viene la señora Macready con una cuadrilla completa. –¡Justo ahora! –dijo Pedro. Los cuatro escaparon por la puerta del fondo, pero cuando pasaron por la pieza verde y llegaron a la biblioteca, sintieron las voces delante de ellos. Se dieron cuenta de que el ama de llaves había conducido a los turistas por las escaleras de atrás en lugar de hacerlo por las de delante, como ellos esperaban. ¿Qué pasó después? Quizás fue que perdieron la cabeza, o que la señora Macready trataba de alcanzarlos, o que alguna magia de la casa había despertado y los llevaba directo a Narnia... Lo cierto es que los niños se sintieron perseguidos desde todas partes, hasta que Susana gritó: –¡Turistas antipáticos! ¡Aquí! Entremos en el cuarto del ropero hasta que ellos se hayan ido. Nadie nos seguirá hasta este lugar. Pero en el momento en que estuvieron dentro de esa habitación, escucharon las voces en el pasillo. Luego, alguien pareció titubear ante la puerta y entonces ellos vieron que la perilla daba vuelta. –¡Rápido! –exclamó Pedro, abriendo el guardarropa–. No hay ningún otro lugar. A tientas en la oscuridad, los cuatro niños se precipitaron dentro del ropero. Pedro sostuvo la puerta junta, pero no la cerró. Por supuesto, como toda persona con sentido común, recordó que uno jamás debe encerrarse en un armario. ## CAPÍTULO 6 ## EN EL BOSQUE –OJALÁ LA SEÑORA MACREADY SE apresure y se lleve pronto de aquí a toda esa gente –dijo Susana, poco después–. Estoy terriblemente acalambrada. –¡Qué fuerte olor a alcanfor hay aquí! –exclamó Edmundo. –Seguro que los bolsillos de estos abrigos están llenos de bolas de alcanfor para espantar las polillas –repuso Susana. –Algo se me está clavando en la espalda –dijo Pedro. –Además hace un frío espantoso –agregó Susana. –Ahora que tú lo dices, está muy frío, y también mojado. ¿Qué pasa en este lugar? Estoy sentado sobre algo húmedo. Esto está cada minuto más húmedo –dijo Pedro y se puso de pie. –Salgamos de aquí –dijo Edmundo–. Ya se fueron. –¡Oh!, ¡oh! –gritó Susana, de repente; y, cuando todos preguntaron qué le pasaba, ella exclamó–: ¡Estoy apoyada en un árbol!... ¡Miren! Allí está aclarando. –¡Santo Dios! –gritó Pedro–. ¡Miren allá... y allá! Hay árboles por todos lados. Y esto húmedo es nieve. De verdad creo que hemos llegado al bosque de Lucía después de todo. Ahora no había lugar a dudas. Los cuatro niños se quedaron perplejos ante la claridad de un frío día de invierno. Tras ellos colgaban los abrigos en sus perchas; al frente se levantaban los árboles cubiertos de nieve. Pedro se volvió inmediatamente hacia Lucía. –Perdóname por no haberte creído. Lo siento mucho. ¿Me das la mano? –Por supuesto –dijo Lucía, y así lo hizo. –Y ahora –preguntó Susana–, ¿qué haremos? –¿Que qué haremos? –dijo Pedro–. Ir a explorar el bosque, por supuesto. –¡Uf! –exclamó Susana, golpeando sus pies en el suelo–. Hace demasiado frío. ¿Qué tal si nos ponemos algunos de estos abrigos? –No son nuestros –dijo Pedro, un tanto dudoso. –Estoy segura de que a nadie le importará –replicó Susana–. Esto no es como si nosotros quisiéramos sacarlos de la casa. Ni siquiera los vamos a sacar del ropero. –Nunca lo habría pensado así –dijo Pedro–. Ahora veo, tú me has puesto en la pista. Nadie podría decir que te has llevado el abrigo mientras lo dejes en el lugar en que lo encontraste. Y yo supongo que este país entero está dentro de este ropero. Inmediatamente llevaron a cabo el plan de Susana. Los abrigos, demasiado grandes para ellos, les llegaban a los talones. Más bien parecían mantos reales. Pero todos se sintieron muy cómodos y, al mirarse, cada uno pensó que se veían mucho mejor en sus nuevos atuendos y más de acuerdo con el paisaje. –Imaginemos que somos exploradores árticos –dijo Lucía. –A mí me parece que la aventura ya es suficientemente fantástica como para imaginarse otra cosa –dijo Pedro, mientras iniciaba la marcha hacia el bosque. Densas nubes oscurecían el cielo y parecía que antes de anochecer volvería a nevar. –¿No creen que deberíamos ir más hacia la izquierda si queremos llegar hasta el farol? –preguntó Edmundo. Olvidó por un instante que debía aparentar que jamás había estado antes en aquel bosque. En el momento en que esas palabras salieron de su boca, se dio cuenta de que se había traicionado. Todos se detuvieron, todos lo miraron fijamente. Pedro lanzó un silbido. –Entonces era cierto que habías estado aquí, como aseguraba Lucía –dijo–. Y tú declaraste que ella mentía... Se produjo un silencio mortal. –Bueno, de todos los seres venenosos... –dijo Pedro, y se encogió de hombros sin decir nada más. En realidad no había nada más que decir y, de inmediato, los cuatro reanudaron la marcha. Pero Edmundo pensaba para sus adentros: "Ya me las pagarán todos ustedes, manada de pedantes, orgullosos y vanidosos". –¿Hacia dónde vamos? –preguntó Lucía, sólo con la intención de cambiar de tema. –Yo pienso que Lu debe ser nuestra guía –dijo Pedro–. Bien se lo merece. ¿Hacia dónde nos llevarás, Lu? –¿Qué les parece si vamos a ver al señor Tumnus? Es ese fauno tan encantador de quien les he hablado. Todos estuvieron de acuerdo. Caminaron animadamente y pisando fuerte. Lucía demostró ser una buena guía. En un comienzo ella tuvo dudas. No sabía si sería capaz de encontrar el camino, pero pronto reconoció el árbol viejo en un lugar y un arbusto en otro y los llevó hasta el sitio donde el sendero se tornaba pedregoso. Luego llegaron al pequeño valle y, por fin, a la entrada de la caverna del señor Tumnus. Allí los esperaba una terrible sorpresa. La puerta había sido arrancada de sus bisagras y hecha pedazos. Adentro, la caverna estaba oscura y fría. Un olor húmedo, característico de los lugares que no han sido habitados por varios días, lo invadía todo. La nieve amontonada fuera de la cueva, poco a poco había entrado por el hueco de la puerta y, mezclada con cenizas y leña carbonizada, formaba una espesa capa negra sobre el suelo. Aparentemente, alguien había tirado y esparcido todo en la habitación, y luego lo había pisoteado. Platos y tazas, la vajilla..., todo estaba hecho añicos en el suelo. El retrato del padre del Fauno había sido cortado con un cuchillo en mil pedazos. –Este lugar no sirve para nada –dijo Edmundo–. No valía la pena venir hasta aquí. –¿Qué es esto? –dijo Pedro, agachándose. Había encontrado un papel clavado en la alfombra, sobre el suelo. –¿Hay algo escrito? –preguntó Susana. –Sí, creo que sí. Pero con esta luz no puedo leer. Vamos afuera, al aire libre. Salieron hacia la luz del día y todos rodearon a Pedro mientras él leía las siguientes palabras: El dueño de esta morada, Fauno Tumnus, está bajo arresto y espera ser juzgado por el cargo de Alta Traición contra su Majestad Imperial Jadis, Reina de Narnia, Señora de Cair Paravel, Emperadora de las Islas Solitarias, etc. También se le acusa de prestar auxilio a los enemigos de su Majestad, de encubrir espías y de hacer amistad con humanos. Firmado _M augrim_ , Capitán de la Policía Secreta, ¡VIVA LA REINA! Los niños se miraron fijamente unos a otros. –No sé si me va a gustar este lugar, después de todo –dijo Susana. –¿Quién es esta reina, Lu? –preguntó Pedro–. ¿Sabes algo de ella? –No es una verdadera reina; de ninguna manera –contestó Lucía–. Es una horrible bruja, la Bruja Blanca. Toda la gente del bosque la odia. Ella ha sometido a un encantamiento al país entero y, desde entonces, aquí es siempre invierno y nunca Navidad. –Me pregunto si tiene algún sentido seguir adelante –dijo Susana–. Éste no parece ser un lugar seguro, ni tampoco divertido. Cada minuto hace más frío y no trajimos nada para comer. ¿Qué les parece si regresamos? –No podemos. Realmente no podemos –dijo Lucía–. ¿No ven lo que ha pasado? No podemos ir a casa después de todo esto. El Fauno está en problemas por mi culpa. Él me escondió de la Bruja Blanca y me mostró el camino de vuelta. Ése es el significado de "prestar auxilio a los enemigos de la Reina y hacer amistad con los humanos". Debemos tratar de rescatarlo. –¡Como si nosotros pudiéramos hacer mucho! –exclamó Edmundo–. Ni siquiera tenemos algo para comer. –¡Cállate! –le contestó Pedro, que todavía estaba enojado con él–. ¿Qué crees tú, Susana? –Tengo la horrible sospecha de que Lucía tiene razón –dijo Susana–. No quisiera avanzar un solo paso más. Incluso desearía no haber venido jamás. Sin embargo, creo que debemos hacer algo por el señor no-sé-cuánto..., quiero decir el Fauno. –Eso es también lo que yo siento –dijo Pedro–. Me preocupa no tener nada para comer. Les propongo volver y buscar algo en la despensa, aunque, según creo, no hay ninguna seguridad de que se pueda regresar a este país una vez que se lo abandona. Bueno, creo que debemos seguir adelante. –Yo también lo creo así –dijeron ambas niñas al mismo tiempo. –Si solamente supiéramos dónde fue encerrado ese pobre fauno. Estaban todavía sin saber qué hacer cuando Lucía exclamó: –¡Miren! ¡Allí hay un pájaro de pecho rojo! Es el primer pájaro que veo en este país. Me pregunto si aquí en Narnia ellos hablarán. Parece como si quisiera decirnos algo. Entonces la niña se volvió hacia el Petirrojo y le dijo: –Por favor, ¿puedes decirme dónde ha sido llevado el señor Tumnus? Lucía dio unos pasos hacia el pájaro. Inmediatamente éste voló, pero sólo hasta el próximo árbol. Desde allí los miró fijamente, como si hubiera entendido todo lo que Lucía le había dicho. De forma casi inconsciente, los cuatro niños avanzaron uno o dos pasos hacia el Petirrojo. De nuevo éste voló hasta el árbol más cercano y volvió a mirarlos muy fijo. (Seguro que ustedes no han encontrado jamás un petirrojo con un pecho tan rojo ni ojos tan brillantes como ése.) –¿Saben? Realmente creo que pretende que nosotros lo sigamos –dijo Lucía. –Yo pienso lo mismo –dijo Susana–. ¿Qué crees tú, Pedro? –Bueno, podemos tratar de hacerlo. El pájaro pareció entender perfectamente el asunto. Continuó de árbol en árbol, siempre unos pocos metros delante de ellos, pero siempre muy cerca para que pudieran seguirlo con facilidad. De esta manera los condujo a la parte de abajo de la colina. Cada vez que el Petirrojo se detenía, una pequeña lluvia de nieve caía de la rama en la que se había posado. Poco después, las nubes en el cielo se abrieron y dieron paso al sol del invierno; alrededor de ellos la nieve adquirió un brillo deslumbrante. Llevaban poco más de media hora de camino. Las dos niñas iban adelante. Edmundo se acercó a Pedro y le dijo: –Si no te crees todavía demasiado grande y poderoso como para hablarme, tengo algo que decirte y será mejor que me escuches. –¿Qué cosa? –¡Silencio! No tan fuerte. No sería bueno asustar a las niñas –dijo Edmundo–. ¿Te has dado cuenta de lo que estamos haciendo? –¿Qué? –preguntó Pedro nuevamente en un murmullo. –Estamos siguiendo a un guía que no conocemos. ¿Cómo podemos saber de qué lado está ese pájaro? Perfectamente podría conducirnos a una trampa. –¡Qué idea tan desagradable! –dijo Pedro–. Es un petirrojo. Son unos pájaros buenos en todas las historias que he leído. Estoy seguro de que un petirrojo no se equivoca de lado. –Y ahora que hablamos de eso, ¿cuál es el lado bueno? ¿Cómo podemos saber con certeza que los faunos están en el lado bueno y la Reina (sí, ya sé que nos han dicho que es una bruja) en el lado malo? Realmente no sabemos nada de ninguno. –El Fauno salvó a Lucía. –Él _dijo_ que lo había hecho. Pero ¿cómo podemos saber que es así? Además, otra cosa. ¿Alguno de nosotros tiene la menor idea de cuál es el camino de vuelta desde aquí? –¡Caramba! No había pensado en eso –dijo Pedro. –Y tampoco tenemos ninguna posibilidad de comer –agregó Edmundo. ## CAPÍTULO 7 ## UN DÍA CON LOS CASTORES LOS DOS HERMANOS HABLABAN EN secreto cuando, de pronto, las niñas se detuvieron. –¡El Petirrojo! –gritó Lucía–. ¡El Petirrojo! ¡Se ha ido! Y así era... El Petirrojo había volado hasta perderse de vista. –¿Qué vamos a hacer ahora? –preguntó Edmundo, mientras miraba a Pedro con cara de "¿qué te había dicho yo?". –¡Chsss! ¡Miren! –exclamó Susana. –¿Qué? –preguntó Pedro. –Algo se mueve entre los árboles... por allí, a la izquierda. Todos miraron atentamente, ninguno de ellos muy tranquilo. –¡Allí está otra vez! –dijo Susana. –Esta vez yo también lo vi –dijo Pedro–. Todavía está ahí. Desapareció detrás de ese gran árbol. –¿Qué es? –preguntó Lucía, tratando por todos los medios de que su voz no reflejara su nerviosismo. –No sé –dijo Pedro–, pero en todo caso es algo que se está escabullendo; algo que no quiere ser visto. –Vámonos a casa –murmuró Susana. Entonces, aunque nadie lo dijo en voz alta, en ese momento todos se dieron cuenta de que estaban perdidos, tal como Edmundo le había dicho en secreto a Pedro. –¿A qué se parece? –preguntó Lucía, volviendo a fijar su atención en aquello que se movía. –Es una especie de animal –dijo Susana–. ¡Miren! ¡Rápido! ¡Allí está! Esta vez todos lo vieron. Una cara barbuda los miraba desde detrás de un árbol. Pero ahora no desapareció inmediatamente. En lugar de eso, el animal acercó las garras a la boca, en un gesto idéntico al de los humanos que ponen los dedos en los labios cuando quieren que alguien guarde silencio. Luego se escondió de nuevo. Los niños se quedaron inmóviles, conteniendo la respiración. Momentos más tarde, el extraño ser reapareció tras el árbol. Miró hacia todos lados, como si temiera que alguien lo estuviese observando, y dijo "silencio", o algo parecido. Después hizo unas señales a los niños como para indicarles que se reunieran con él en lo más espeso del bosque, y desapareció otra vez. –Ya sé qué es –dijo Pedro–. Es un castor. Le vi la cola. –Quiere que nos acerquemos a él –dijo Susana–, y nos ha prevenido para que no hagamos el menor ruido. –Así me parece –dijo Pedro–. ¿Qué haremos? ¿Vamos con él o no? ¿Qué piensas tú, Lucía? –Yo creo que es un buen castor –dijo ésta. –Sí, pero ¿cómo podemos saberlo? –replicó Edmundo. –Tendremos que arriesgarnos –dijo Susana–. Por otra parte, no ganamos nada con seguir parados aquí, pensando en que tenemos hambre. El Castor se asomó nuevamente detrás del árbol y, con gran ansiedad, comenzó a hacerles señas con la cabeza. –Vamos –dijo Pedro–. Démosle una oportunidad. Pero tenemos que mantenernos muy unidos frente al Castor, por si resulta ser un enemigo. Los niños, muy juntos unos a otros, caminaron hacia el árbol. Efectivamente, tras él encontraron al Castor. Éste retrocedió aún más y con voz ronca murmuró: –Más acá, vengan más acá. ¡No estaremos a salvo en este espacio tan abierto! Sólo cuando los hubo conducido a un lugar oscuro, en el que había cuatro árboles tan juntos que sus ramas entrecruzadas cerraban incluso el paso a la nieve y en el suelo se veían la tierra café y las agujas de los pinos, se decidió a hablar. –¿Son ustedes los Hijos de Adán y las Hijas de Eva? –Sí. Somos algunos de ellos –dijo Pedro. –¡Chsss! –dijo el Castor–. No tan alto, por favor. Ni siquiera aquí estamos a salvo. –¿Por qué? ¿A quién le tiene miedo? –preguntó Pedro–. En este lugar no hay nadie más que nosotros. –Están los árboles –dijo el Castor–. Están siempre oyendo. La mayoría de ellos está de nuestro lado, pero hay algunos que nos traicionarían ante _ella_... Saben a quién me refiero, supongo –agregó. –Si estamos hablando de tomar partido, ¿cómo podemos saber que usted es un amigo? –dijo Edmundo. –No queremos parecer mal educados, señor Castor –dijo Pedro–, pero, como usted ve, nosotros somos extranjeros. –Está bien, está bien –dijo el Castor–. Aquí está mi distintivo. Con estas palabras levantó hacia ellos un objeto blanco y pequeño. Todos se quedaron mirándolo sorprendidos, hasta que Lucía exclamó: –¡Oh! ¡Por supuesto! Es mi pañuelo... el que le di al pobre señor Tumnus. –Exactamente –dijo el Castor–. Pobre amigo... le llegó el anuncio del arresto un poco antes de que lo apresaran. Me dijo que si algo le sucedía, debía encontrarme contigo y llevarte a... Aquí la voz del Castor se transformó en silencio e inclinó una o dos veces la cabeza de un modo muy misterioso. Luego hizo una seña a los niños para que se acercaran a él, tanto que casi los rozó con sus bigotes mientras murmuraba: –Dicen que Aslan se ha puesto en movimiento... Quizás ha aterrizado ya. En ese momento sucedió una cosa muy curiosa. Ninguno de los niños sabía quién era Aslan, pero en el mismo instante en que el Castor pronunció esas palabras, cada uno de ellos experimentó una sensación diferente. A lo mejor les ha pasado alguna vez en un sueño que alguien dice algo que uno no entiende, pero siente que tiene un enorme significado... Puede ser aterrador, lo cual transforma el sueño en pesadilla. O bien, encantador, demasiado encantador para traducirlo en palabras. Esto hace que el sueño sea tan hermoso que uno lo recuerda durante toda la vida y siempre desea volver a soñar lo mismo. Una cosa así sucedió ahora. El nombre de Aslan despertó algo en el interior de cada uno de los niños. Edmundo tuvo una sensación de misterioso horror. Pedro se sintió de pronto valiente y aventurero. Susana creyó que alrededor de ella flotaba un aroma delicioso, a la vez que escuchaba algunos acordes musicales bellísimos. Lucía experimentó un sentimiento como el que se tiene al despertar una mañana y darse cuenta de que ese día comienzan las vacaciones o el verano. –¿Y qué pasa con el señor Tumnus? –preguntó Lucía–. ¿Dónde está? –¡Chsss! –dijo el Castor–. No está aquí. Debo llevarlos a un lugar donde realmente podamos tener una verdadera conversación y, también, comer. Ninguno de los niños, excepto Edmundo, tuvo dificultades para confiar en el Castor; pero todos, incluso él, se alegraron al escuchar la palabra "comer". Siguieron con estusiasmo a este nuevo amigo, que los condujo, durante más de una hora, a un paso sorprendentemente rápido y siempre a través de lo más espeso del bosque. De pronto, cuando todos se sentían muy cansados y muy hambrientos, comenzaron a salir del bosque. Frente a ellos los árboles eran ahora más delgados y el terreno comenzó a descender de forma abrupta. Minutos más tarde estuvieron bajo el cielo abierto y se encontraron contemplando un hermoso paisaje. Estaban en el borde de un angosto y escarpado valle, en cuyo fondo corría –es decir, debería correr si no hubiera estado completamente congelado– un río medianamente grande. Justo debajo de ellos había sido construido un dique que lo atravesaba. Cuando los niños lo vieron, recordaron de pronto que los castores siempre construyen enormes diques y no les cupo duda de que ése era obra del Castor. También advirtieron que su rostro reflejaba cierta expresión de modestia, como la de cualquier persona cuando visita un jardín que ella misma ha plantado o lee un cuento que ella ha escrito. De manera que su habitual cortesía obligó a Susana a decir: –¡Qué maravilloso dique! Y esta vez el Castor no dijo "silencio". –¡Es sólo una bagatela! ¡Sólo una bagatela! Ni siquiera está terminado. Hacia el lado de arriba del dique estaba lo que debió haber sido un profundo estanque, pero ahora, por supuesto, era una superficie completamente lisa y cubierta de hielo de color verde oscuro. Hacia el otro lado, mucho más abajo, había más hielo, pero, en lugar de ser liso, estaba congelado en espumosas y ondeadas formas, tal como el agua corría cuando llegó la helada. Y donde ésta había estado goteando y derramándose a través del dique, había ahora una brillante cascada de carámbanos, como si ese lado del muro que contenía el agua estuviera completamente cubierto de flores, guirnaldas y festones de azúcar pura. En el centro y, en cierto modo, en el punto más importante y alto del dique, había una graciosa casita que más bien parecía una enorme colmena. Desde su techo, a través de un agujero, se elevaba una columna de humo. Cuando uno la veía (especialmente si tenía hambre), de inmediato recordaba la comida y se sentía aún más hambriento. Esto fue lo que los niños observaron por encima de todo; pero Edmundo vio algo más. Río abajo, un poco más lejos, había un segundo río, algo más pequeño, que venía desde otro valle a juntarse con el río más grande. Al contemplar ese valle, Edmundo pudo ver dos colinas. Estaba casi seguro de que eran las mismas dos colinas que la Bruja Blanca le había señalado cuando se encontraban junto al farol, momentos antes de que él se separara de ella. Allí, sólo a una milla o quizás menos, debía estar su palacio. Pensó entonces en las _delicias turcas_ , en la posibilidad de ser rey ("¿Qué le parecería esto a Pedro?", se preguntó) y en varias otras ideas horribles que acudieron a su mente. –Hemos llegado –dijo el Castor–, y parece que la señora Castora nos espera. Yo los guiaré... ¡Cuidado, no vayan a resbalar! Aunque el dique era suficientemente amplio, no era (para los humanos) un lugar muy agradable para caminar porque estaba cubierto de hielo. A un costado se encontraba, al mismo nivel, esa gran superficie helada; y al otro veíase una brusca caída hacia el fondo del río. Mientras marchaban en fila india, dirigidos por el Castor, a través de toda esta ruta, los niños pudieron observar el largo camino del río hacia arriba y el largo y descendente camino del río hacia abajo. Cuando llegaron al centro del dique, se detuvieron ante la puerta de la casa. –Aquí estamos, señora Castora –dijo el Castor–. Los encontré. Aquí están los Hijos e Hijas de Adán y Eva. Lo primero que al entrar atrajo la atención de Lucía fue un sonido ahogado y lo primero que vio fue a una anciana castora de mirada bondadosa, que estaba sentada en un rincón, con un hilo en la boca, trabajando afanada ante su máquina de coser. Precisamente de allí venía el extraño sonido. Apenas los niños entraron en la casa, dejó su trabajo y se puso de pie. –¡Por fin han venido! –exclamó, con sus arrugadas manos en alto–. ¡Al fin! ¡Pensar que siempre he vivido para ver este día! Las papas están hirviendo; la tetera, silbando, y me atrevo a decir que el señor Castor nos traerá pescado. –Eso haré –dijo él y salió de la casa, llevando un balde (Pedro lo siguió). Caminaron sobre la superficie de hielo hasta el lugar donde el Castor había hecho un agujero, que mantenía abierto trabajando todos los días con su hacha. El Castor se sentó tranquilamente en el borde del agujero (parecía no importarle para nada el intenso frío), y se quedó inmóvil, mirando el agua con gran concentración. De pronto hundió una de sus garras a toda velocidad y antes de que uno pudiera decir "amén", había agarrado una hermosa trucha. Una y otra vez repitió la misma operación hasta que consiguió una espléndida pesca. Mientras tanto las niñas ayudaban a la señora Castora. Llenaron la tetera, arreglaron la mesa, cortaron el pan, colocaron las fuentes en el horno, pusieron la sartén al fuego y calentaron la grasa gota a gota. También sacaron cerveza de un barril que se encontraba en un rincón de la casa, y llenaron un enorme jarro para el señor Castor. Lucía pensaba que los Castores tenían una casita muy confortable, aunque no se asemejaba en nada a la cueva del señor Tumnus. No se veían libros ni cuadros y, en lugar de camas, había literas adosadas a la pared, como en los barcos. Del techo colgaban jamones y trenzas de cebollas. Y alrededor de la habitación, contra las paredes, había botas de goma, ropa impermeable, hachas, grandes tijeras, palas, llanas, vasijas para transportar materiales de construcción, cañas de pescar, redes y sacos. Y el mantel que cubría la mesa, aunque muy limpio, era áspero y tosco. En el preciso momento en que el aceite chirriaba en la sartén, el Castor y Pedro regresaron con el pescado ya preparado para freírlo. El Castor lo había abierto con su cuchillo y lo había limpiado antes de entrar en la casa. Pueden ustedes imaginar qué bien huele mientras se fríe un pescado recién sacado del agua y cuánto más hambrientos estarían los niños antes de que la señora Castora dijera: –Ahora estamos casi listos. Susana retiró las papas del agua en la que se habían cocido y las puso en una marmita para secarlas cerca del fogón, mientras Lucía ayudaba a la señora Castora a disponer las truchas en una fuente. En pocos segundos cada uno tomó un banquillo (todos eran de tres patas, sólo la señora Castora tenía una mecedora especial cerca del fuego) y se preparó para ese agradable momento. Había un jarro de leche cremosa para los niños (el Castor prefería su cerveza), y, en el centro de la mesa, un gran trozo de mantequilla, para que cada uno le pusiera a las papas toda la que quisiese. Los niños pensaron –y yo estoy de acuerdo con ellos– que no había nada más exquisito en el mundo que un pescado recién salido del agua y cocinado al instante. Cuando terminaron con las truchas, la señora Castora retiró del horno un inesperado, humeante y glorioso bizcocho con mermelada. Al mismo tiempo, movió la tetera en el fuego para preparar el té. Así, después del postre, cada uno tomó su taza de té, empujó su banquillo para arrimarlo a la pared, y volvió a sentarse cómodo y satisfecho. –Y ahora –dijo el Castor, empujando lejos su jarro de cerveza ya vacío y acercando su taza de té–, si ustedes esperan sólo a que yo encienda mi pipa, podremos hablar de nuestros asuntos. Está nevando otra vez –agregó, volviendo los ojos hacia la ventana–. Me parece espléndido, porque así no tendremos visitas; y si alguien ha tratado de seguirnos, ya no podrá encontrar ninguna huella. ## CAPÍTULO 8 ## LO QUE SUCEDIÓ DESPUÉS DE LA COMIDA –CUÉNTENOS AHORA, POR FAVOR, QUÉ le pasó al señor Tumnus –dijo Lucía. –¡Ah, eso está mal! –dijo el Castor, moviendo la cabeza–. Es un asunto muy, muy malo. No hay duda alguna de que se lo llevó la policía. Lo supe por un pájaro que estuvo presente cuando lo apresaron. –Pero _¿a_ dónde lo llevaron? –preguntó Lucía. –Bueno, ellos iban rumbo al norte la última vez que los vieron. Todos sabemos lo que eso significa. –Nosotros no –dijo Susana. El Castor movió la cabeza con desaliento. –Temo que lo llevaron a la casa de _ella_. –Pero ¿qué le harán, señor Castor? –insistió Lucía, con ansiedad. –No se puede saber con certeza. No son muchos los que han regresado después de haber sido llevados allá. Estatuas... Dicen que ese lugar está lleno de estatuas. En el jardín, en las escalinatas, en el salón... Gente que ella ha transformado... (se detuvo y se estremeció), transformado en piedra. –Pero, señor Castor –dijo Lucía–, nosotros podemos..., mejor dicho, debemos hacer algo para salvarlo. Es demasiado espantoso que todo esto sea por mi culpa. –No me cabe duda de que tú lo salvarías si pudieras, cariño –dijo la señora Castora–. Sin embargo, no hay ninguna posibilidad de entrar en esa casa contra la voluntad de ella, ni menos de salir con vida. –¿No podríamos planear alguna estratagema? –preguntó Pedro–. Como disfrazarnos o fingir que somos... buhoneros o cualquier cosa..., o vigilar hasta que ella salga... o... ¡Caramba! Tiene que haber una manera. Este fauno se arriesgó para salvar a mi hermana. No podemos permitir que se convierta..., que sea..., que hagan eso con él. –Eso no serviría para nada, Hijo de Adán –dijo el Castor–. Tu intento sería muy complicado para todos y no serviría para nada. Pero ahora que Aslan está en movimiento... –¡Oh, sí! Cuéntenos de Aslan –dijeron varias voces al mismo tiempo. Otra vez los invadió ese extraño sentimiento..., como si para ellos hubiera llegado la primavera, como si hubieran recibido muy buenas noticias. –¿Quién es Aslan? –preguntó Susana. –¿Aslan? ¡Cómo! ¿Es que ustedes no lo saben? Es el Rey. Es el Señor de todo el bosque, pero no viene muy a menudo. Jamás en mi tiempo, ni en el tiempo de mi padre. Sin embargo, corre la voz de que ha vuelto. Está en Narnia en este momento y pondrá a la Reina en el lugar que le corresponde. Él va a salvar al señor Tumnus; no ustedes. –¿Y no lo transformará en piedra? –preguntó Edmundo. –¡Por Dios, Hijo de Adán! ¡Qué simpleza dices! –dijo el Castor y rió a carcajadas–. ¿Convertirlo _a él_ en piedra? Si ella logra sostenerse en sus dos piernas y mirarlo a la cara, eso será lo más que pueda hacer y, en todo caso, mucho más de lo que yo creo. No, no. Él pondrá todo en orden, como dicen estos antiguos versos: _Elmalse trocará en bien, cuando Aslan_ _[aparezca_. _Ante el sonido de su rugido, las penas_ _[desaparecerán_. _Cuando descubra sus diente, el invierno_ _[encontrará su muerte_. _Y cuando agite su melena, tendrem os_ _[nuevam enteprim avera_. –Entenderán todo cuando lo vean –concluyó el Castor. –Pero ¿lo veremos? –preguntó Lucía. –Para eso los traje aquí, Hija de Eva. Los voy a guiar hasta el lugar adonde se encontrarán con él. –¿Es..., es un hombre? –preguntó Lucía, dudando. –¡Aslan, un hombre! –exclamó el Castor, con voz severa–. Ciertamente, no. Ya les dije que es el Rey del bosque y el hijo del gran Emperador-de-Más-Allá-del-Mar. ¿No saben quién es el Rey de los Animales? Aslan es un león... _El León_ , el gran León. –¡Oh! –exclamó Susana–. Pensé que era un hombre. Y él..., ¿se puede confiar en él? Creo que me sentiré bastante nerviosa al conocer a un león. –Así será, cariño –dijo la señora Castora–. Eso es lo normal. Si hay alguien que pueda presentarse ante Aslan sin que le tiemblen las rodillas, o es más valiente que nadie en el mundo, o es, simplemente, un tonto. –Entonces, es peligroso –dijo Lucía. –¿Peligroso? –dijo el Castor–. ¿No oyeron lo que les dijo la señora Castora? ¿Quién ha dicho algo sobre peligro? ¡Por supuesto que es peligroso! Pero es bueno. Es el Rey, les aseguro. –Estoy deseoso de conocerlo –dijo Pedro–. Aunque sienta miedo cuando llegue el momento. –Eso está bien, Hijo de Adán –dijo el Castor, dando un manotazo tan fuerte sobre la mesa que hizo cascabelear las tazas y los platillos–. Lo conocerás. Corre la voz de que ustedes se reunirán con él, mañana si pueden, en la Mesa de Piedra. –¿Dónde queda eso? –preguntó Lucía. –Les mostraré el camino –dijo el Castor–. Es río abajo, bastante lejos de aquí. Los guiaré hacia él. –Pero, entretanto, ¿qué pasará con el pobre señor Tumnus? –dijo Lucía. –El modo más rápido de ayudarlo es ir a reunirse con Aslan –dijo el Castor–. Una vez que esté con nosotros, podemos comenzar a hacer algo. Pero esto no quiere decir que no los necesitemos a ustedes también. Hay otro antiguo poema que dice así: _Cuando la came de Adán y los huesos de Adán se sienten en el Trono de Cair Paravel, losmalos tiempos para siem prepartirán_. –Por esto –agregó el Castor–, deducimos que todo está cerca del fin: él ha venido y ustedes también. Nosotros sabíamos de la venida de Aslan a estos lugares desde hace mucho tiempo. Nadie puede precisar cuándo. Pero nunca uno de la raza de ustedes se había visto antes por aquí, jamás. –Eso es lo que yo no entiendo, señor –dijo Pedro–. La Bruja, ¿no es un ser humano? –Eso es lo que ella quiere que creamos –dijo el Castor–. Y precisamente en eso se basa ella para reclamar su derecho a ser reina. Pero ella no es Hija de Eva. Viene de Adán, el padre de ustedes... (aquí el Castor hizo una reverencia) y de su primera mujer, que ellos llaman Lilith. Ella era uno de los _Jinn_. Esto es por un lado. Por el otro, ella desciende de los gigantes. No, no. No hay una gota de sangre humana en la Bruja. –Por eso ella es tan malvada –agregó la señora Castora. –Verdaderamente –asintió el Castor–. Puede haber dos tipos de personas entre los humanos (sin pretender que esto sea una ofensa para quienes nos acompañan), pero no hay dos tipos para lo que parece humano y no lo es. –Yo he conocido enanos buenos –dijo la señora Castora. –Yo también, ahora que lo mencionas –dijo su marido–, aunque bastante pocos, y éstos eran los menos parecidos a los hombres. Pero, en general (oigan mi consejo), cuando conozcan algo que va a ser humano pero todavía no lo es, o que era humano y ya no lo es, o que debería ser humano y no lo es, mantengan los ojos fijos en él y el hacha en la mano. Por eso es que la Bruja siempre está vigilando que no haya humanos en Narnia. Ella los ha estado esperando por años, y si supiera que ustedes son cuatro, se tornaría mucho más peligrosa. –¿Qué tiene que ver todo esto con lo que hablamos? –preguntó Pedro. –Es otra profecía –dijo el Castor–. En Cair Paravel (el castillo que está en la costa, en la desembocadura de este río y donde tendría que estar la capital del país, si todo fuera como debería ser) hay cuatro tronos. En Narnia, desde tiempos inmemoriales, se dice que cuando dos Hijos de Adán y dos Hijas de Eva ocupen esos cuatro tronos, no sólo el reinado de la Bruja Blanca llegará a su fin sino también su vida. Por eso debíamos ser tan cautelosos en nuestro camino. Si ella supiera algo de ustedes cuatro, sus vidas no valdrían ni siquiera un pelo de mi barba. Los niños estaban tan concentrados en lo que el Castor les estaba contando, que nada fuera de esto llamó su atención por un largo rato. Entonces, en un momento de silencio que siguió a las últimas palabras del Castor, Lucía preguntó sobresaltada: –¿Dónde está Edmundo? Hubo una pausa terrible y luego todos comenzaron a preguntar: "¿Quién había sido el último que lo vio? ¿Cuánto tiempo hacía que no estaba allí? ¿Estaría fuera de la casa?". Corrieron a la puerta. La nieve caía espesa y constantemente. Toda la superficie de hielo verde había desaparecido bajo un grueso manto blanco y desde el lugar donde se encontraba la pequeña casa, en el centro del dique, difícilmente se divisaba cualquiera de las dos orillas del río. Salieron y dieron vueltas alrededor de la casa en todas direcciones, mientras se hundían hasta las rodillas en la suave nieve recién caída. "¡Edmundo, Edmundo!", llamaron hasta quedar roncos. Pero el silencioso caer de la nieve parecía amortiguar sus voces y ni siquiera un eco les respondió. –¡Qué horror! –exclamó Susana, cuando por fin volvieron a entrar desesperados–. ¡Cómo me arrepiento de haber venido! –¡Dios mío!... ¿Qué podemos hacer, señor Castor? –dijo Pedro. –¿Hacer? –dijo el Castor, que ya se estaba poniendo las botas para la nieve–. ¿Hacer? Debemos irnos inmediatamente, sin perder un instante. –Mejor será que nos dividamos en cuatro –dijo Pedro–, y así todos iremos en distintas direcciones. El que lo encuentre, deberá volver aquí de inmediato y... –¿Dividirnos, Hijo de Adán? –preguntó el Castor–. ¿Para qué? –Para encontrar a Edmundo, por supuesto –dijo Pedro, un tanto alterado. –No vale la pena buscarlo a él –contestó el Castor. –¿Qué quiere decir? –preguntó Susana–. No puede estar muy lejos y tenemos que encontrarlo. Pero ¿qué quiere decir usted con eso de que no servirá de nada buscarlo? –La razón por la que les digo que no vale la pena buscarlo es porque todos sabemos dónde está. Los niños lo miraron sorprendidos. –¿No entienden? –insistió el Castor–. Se ha ido con ella, con la Bruja Blanca. Nos traicionó a todos. –¡Oh..., imposible! Él no puede haber hecho eso –exclamó Susana. –¿No puede? –dijo el Castor mirando duramente a los tres niños. Todo lo que ellos querían decir murió en sus labios. Cada uno tuvo, de pronto, la certeza de que era eso, exactamente, lo que Edmundo había hecho. –Pero ¿conocerá siquiera el camino? –preguntó Pedro. El Castor contestó con otra pregunta: –¿Había estado aquí antes? ¿Había estado alguna vez él solo aquí? –Sí –dijo Lucía, casi en un murmullo–; me temo que sí. –¿Y les contó lo que había hecho o con quién se había encontrado? –No, no lo hizo –dijo Pedro. –Tomen nota de mis palabras entonces –dijo el Castor–. Conoció a la Bruja Blanca, está de su parte, y sabe dónde vive. No quise mencionar esto antes (después de todo él es hermano de ustedes), pero en el momento en que puse mis ojos en ese niño, me dije a mí mismo: "Es un traidor". Tenía la mirada de los que han estado con la Bruja Blanca y han probado su comida. Si uno ha vivido largo tiempo en Narnia, los distingue de inmediato. Hay algo en sus ojos, en su modo de mirar. –Igual tenemos que buscarlo –dijo Pedro con voz ahogada–. Es nuestro hermano, a pesar de todo, aunque esté actuando como una pequeña bestia. Es sólo un niño. –¿Ir a casa de la Bruja? –dijo la señora Castora–. ¿No ven que la única manera de salvarlo a él o de salvarse ustedes es permanecer lejos de ella? –¿Qué quiere decir, señora Castora? –dijo Lucía. –Todo lo que ella desea en este mundo es atraparlos a ustedes, a los cuatro. Ella siempre está pensando en esos cuatro tronos de Cair Paravel. Una vez que se encuentren dentro de su casa, su trabajo estará concluido..., y habrá cuatro nuevas estatuas en su colección, antes de que ustedes puedan siquiera hablar. En cambio, ella mantendrá vivo a su hermano, mientras sea el único que ella tiene, porque lo usará como señuelo, como carnada para atraparlos a todos. –¡Oh! ¿Y nadie podrá ayudarnos? –Sólo Aslan –dijo el Castor–. Tenemos que ir a su encuentro de inmediato. Es nuestra única posibilidad. –A mí me parece importante, queridos amigos –dijo la señora Castora–, saber en qué momento escapó Edmundo. Lo que pueda informarle a ella depende de cuánto haya oído. Por ejemplo, ¿habíamos hablado de Aslan antes de que se fuera? Si no lo oyó, estaríamos bien, pues ella no sabe que Aslan ha venido a Narnia, ni que planeamos encontrarnos con él. Así la cogeremos completamente desprevenida en ese sentido. –No recuerdo si él estaba aquí cuando hablamos de Aslan... –comenzó a decir Pedro, pero Lucía lo interrumpió. –¡Oh, sí! Estaba –dijo sintiéndose realmente enferma–. ¿No te acuerdas de que fue él quien preguntó si la Bruja podría transformar a Aslan en piedra? –¡Claro que sí! –dijo Pedro–. Exactamente la clase de cosas que él dice, por cierto. –De mal en peor –dijo el Castor–. Y luego está este otro punto: ¿Se acuerdan de si él estaba aquí cuando hablamos de encontrar a Aslan en la Mesa de Piedra? Nadie supo cuál era la respuesta a esa pregunta. –Porque si él estaba –continuó el Castor–, entonces ella se dirigirá en su trineo en esa dirección y se interpondrá entre nosotros y la Mesa de Piedra. Nos descubrirá en el camino y de hecho, imposibilitará nuestro encuentro con Aslan. –No es eso lo que ella hará primero –dijo la señora Castora–. No, si la conozco bien. En el preciso instante en que Edmundo le cuente que ustedes están aquí, saldrá a buscarlos; esta misma noche. Como él debe haber partido hace ya cerca de media hora, ella llegará en unos veinte minutos más. –Tienes razón –dijo su marido–. Tenemos que salir todos de aquí inmediatamente. No hay un minuto que perder. ## CAPÍTULO 9 ## EN CASA DE LA BRUJA AHORA, POR SUPUESTO, USTEDES quieren saber qué le había sucedido a Edmundo. Había comido de todo en la casa del Castor, pero no pudo gozar de nada, porque durante ese tiempo sólo pensó en las _delicias turcas_ , y no hay nada que eche a perder más el gusto de una buena comida como el recuerdo de otra comida mágica pero perversa. También había escuchado la conversación, la cual tampoco le agradó mucho porque él seguía convencido de que los demás no lo tomaban en cuenta ni le hacían ningún caso. A decir verdad, no era así, pero lo imaginaba. Escuchó lo que hablaban hasta el momento en que el Castor se refirió a Aslan y a los preparativos para encontrarlo en la Mesa de Piedra. Fue entonces cuando comenzó a avanzar muy despacio y disimuladamente hacia la cortina que colgaba sobre la puerta. El nombre de Aslan le provocaba un sentimiento misterioso de horror, así como en los demás producía sólo sensaciones agradables. Cuando el Castor les repetía el verso sobre _La carne de Adán y los huesos de Adán_ , justo en ese momento Edmundo daba vuelta silenciosamente a la manija de la puerta. Antes de que el Castor les relatara que la Bruja no era realmente humana, sino mitad gigante y mitad _Jinn_ , Edmundo salió de la casa, y con el mayor cuidado cerró la puerta tras él. A pesar de todo, ustedes no deben pensar que Edmundo era tan malvado como para desear que sus hermanos fueran transformados en piedra. Lo que sí quería era comer _delicias turcasy_ llegar a ser príncipe (y, más tarde, rey) y, también, desquitarse con Pedro por haberlo llamado "animal". En cuanto a lo que la Bruja pudiera hacer a los demás, no quería que fuera muy amable con sus hermanos –no quería, por supuesto, que los pusiera a la misma altura que a él–, pero creía, o trataba de convencerse de que ella no les haría nada especialmente malo. "Porque –se dijo– todas esas personas que hablan mal de ella y cuentan cosas horribles, son sus enemigos. A lo mejor ni siquiera la mitad de lo que dicen es verdad. Fue muy encantadora conmigo, mucho más que todos ellos. Confío en que ella es, verdaderamente, la Reina legítima. ¡De todas maneras, debe de ser mejor que el temible Aslan!". Al fin, ésa fue la excusa que elaboró en su propia mente. Sin embargo no era una buena excusa, pues en lo más profundo de su ser sabía que la Bruja Blanca era mala y cruel. Cuando Edmundo salió, lo primero que vio fue la nieve que caía alrededor de él; se dio cuenta entonces de que había dejado su abrigo en casa del Castor y, por supuesto, ahora no tenía ninguna posibilidad de volver a buscarlo. Ése fue su primer tropiezo. Luego advirtió que la luz del día casi había desaparecido. Eran cerca de las tres de la tarde en el momento en que se habían sentado a comer, y en el invierno los días son muy cortos. No había contado con este problema; tendría que arreglárselas lo mejor que pudiera. Se subió el cuello y caminó por el dique (afortunadamente no estaba tan resbaladizo desde que había nevado) hacia la lejana ribera del río. Cuando llegó a la orilla, las cosas se pusieron peores. Estaba cada vez más oscuro, y esto, junto a los copos de nieve que caían a su alrededor como un remolino, no lo dejaba ver a más de tres pies delante de él. Tampoco existía un camino. Se deslizó muy profundamente por montones de nieve, se arrastró por lodazales helados, tropezó con árboles caídos, resbaló en la ribera del río, golpeó sus piernas contra las rocas... hasta que estuvo empapado, muerto de frío y completamente magullado. El silencio y la soledad eran aterradores. Realmente creo que podría haber olvidado su plan y regresado para recuperar la amistad de los demás, si no se le hubiera ocurrido decirse a sí mismo: "Cuando sea rey de Narnia, lo primero que haré será construir buenos caminos". Por supuesto, la idea de ser rey y de todas las cosas que podría hacer, le dio bastante ánimo. En su mente decidió qué clase de palacio tendría, cuántos autos; pensó con lujo de detalles en cómo sería tener su propia sala de cine; por dónde correrían los principales trenes; las leyes que dictaría contra los castores y sus diques... Estaba dando los toques finales a algunos proyectos para mantener a Pedro en su lugar, cuando el tiempo cambió. Primero dejó de nevar. Luego se levantó un viento huracanado y sobrevino un frío intenso que congelaba hasta los huesos. Finalmente las nubes se abrieron y apareció la luna. Había luna llena y brillaba de tal forma sobre la nieve que todo se iluminó como si fuera de día. Sólo las sombras producían cierta confusión. Si la luna no hubiera aparecido en el momento en que llegaba al otro río, Edmundo nunca habría encontrado el camino. Ustedes recordarán que él había visto (cuando llegaron a la casa del Castor) un pequeño río que, allá abajo, desembocaba en el río grande. Ahora había llegado hasta allí y debía continuar por el valle. Pero éste era mucho más abrupto y rocoso que el que acababa de dejar. Estaba tan lleno de matorrales y arbustos, que si hubiera estado oscuro no habría podido avanzar. Incluso así, el niño se empapó porque debía caminar inclinado para pasar bajo las ramas y éstas estaban cargadas de nieve, y la nieve se deslizaba continuamente y en grandes cantidades sobre su espalda. Cada vez que esto sucedía, pensaba más y más en cuánto odiaba a Pedro..., como si realmente todo lo que le pasaba fuera culpa de él. Al fin llegó a un lugar en el que la superficie era más suave y lisa, y donde el valle se abría. Allí, al otro lado del río, bastante cerca de él, en el centro de un pequeño plano entre dos colinas, vio lo que debía de ser la casa de la Bruja Blanca. La luna alumbraba ahora más que nunca. La casa era en realidad un castillo con una infinidad de torres. Pequeñas torres largas y puntiagudas se alzaban al cielo como delgadas agujas. Parecían inmensos conos o gorros de bruja. Brillaban a la luz de la luna y sus largas sombras se veían muy extrañas en la nieve. Edmundo comenzó a sentir miedo de esa casa. Pero era demasiado tarde para pensar en regresar. Cruzó el río sobre el hielo y se dirigió al castillo. Nada se movía; no se oía ni el más leve ruido en ninguna parte. Incluso sus propios pasos eran silenciados por la nieve recién caída. Caminó y caminó, dio la vuelta a una esquina tras otra de la casa, pasó torrecilla tras torrecilla... Tuvo que rodear el lado más lejano antes de encontrar la puerta de entrada. Era un inmenso arco con grandes rejas de hierro que estaban abiertas de par en par. Edmundo se acercó cautelosamente y se escondió tras el arco. Desde allí miró el patio, donde vio algo que casi paralizó los latidos de su corazón. Dentro de la reja se encontraba un inmenso león; estaba encogido sobre sus patas como si estuviera a punto de saltar. La luz de la luna brillaba sobre el animal. Oculto en la sombra del arco, Edmundo no sabía qué hacer. Sus rodilias temblaban y continuar el camino lo asustaba tanto como regresar. Permaneció allí tanto rato que sus dientes habrían castañeteado de frío si no hubieran castañeteado antes de miedo. ¿Por cuántas horas se prolongó esta situación? Realmente no lo sé, pero para Edmundo fue como una eternidad. Por fin se preguntó por qué el león estaba tan inmóvil. No se había movido ni una pulgada desde que lo descubrió. Se aventuró un poco más adentro, pero siempre se mantuvo en la sombra del arco, tanto como le fue posible. Ahora observó que, por la posición del león, no podía haberlo visto. ("Pero ¿y si volviera la cabeza?", pensó Edmundo.) En efecto, el león miraba fijamente hacia otra cosa..., miraba a un pequeño enano que le daba la espalda y que se encontraba a poco más de cuatro pies de distancia. –¡Ajá! –murmuró Edmundo–. Cuando el león salte sobre el enano, yo tendré la oportunidad de escapar. Sin embargo, el león no se movió y tampoco lo hizo el enano. Y ahora, por fin, Edmundo se acordó de lo que le habían contado: la Bruja Blanca transformaba a sus enemigos en piedra. A lo mejor éste no era más que un león de piedra. Y tan pronto como pensó en esto, advirtió que la espalda del animal, así como su cabeza, estaba cubierta de nieve. ¡Efectivamente era una estatua! Ningún animal vivo se habría quedado tan tranquilo mientras se cubría de nieve. Entonces, muy lentamente y con el corazón latiendo como si fuera a estallar, Edmundo se arriesgó a acercarse al león. Casi no se atrevía a tocarlo, hasta que, por fin, rápidamente puso una mano sobre él. ¡Era sólo una fría piedra! ¡Había estado aterrado por una simple estatua! El alivio fue tan grande que, a pesar del frío, Edmundo sintió que una ola de calor lo invadía hasta los pies. Al mismo tiempo acudió a su mente una idea que le pareció la más perfecta y maravillosa: "Probablemente, éste es Aslan, el gran León. Ella ya lo atrapó y lo convirtió en estatua de piedra. ¡Éste es el final de todas esas magníficas esperanzas depositadas en él! ¡Bah! ¿Quién le tiene miedo a Aslan?". Se quedó ahí, rondando la estatua, y repentinamente hizo algo muy tonto e infantil. Sacó un lápiz de su bolsillo y dibujó unos feos bigotes sobre el labio superior del león y un par de anteojos sobre sus ojos. Entonces dijo: –¡Ya! ¡Aslan, viejo tonto! ¿Qué tal te sientes convertido en piedra? ¿Te creías muy poderoso, eh? A pesar de los garabatos, la gran bestia de piedra se veía tan triste y noble, con su mirada dirigida hacia la luna, que Edmundo no consiguió divertirse con sus propias burlas. Se dio media vuelta y comenzó a cruzar el patio. Ya traspasaba el centro cuando advirtió que en ese lugar había docenas de estatuas: sátiros de piedra, lobos de piedra, osos, zorros, gatos monteses de piedra..., todas inmóviles como si se tratara de las piezas en un tablero de ajedrez, cuando el juego está a mitad de camino. Había figuras encantadoras que parecían mujeres, pero eran, en realidad, los espíritus de los árboles. Allí se encontraban también la gran figura de un centauro, un caballo alado y una criatura larga y flexible que Edmundo tomó por un dragón. Se veían todos tan extraños parados allí, como si estuvieran vivos y completamente inmóviles, bajo el frío brillo de la luz de la luna. Todo era tan misterioso, tan espectral, que no era nada fácil cruzar ese patio. Justo en el centro había una figura enorme. Aunque tan alta como un árbol, tenía forma de hombre, con una cara feroz, una barba hirsuta y una gran porra en su mano derecha. A pesar de que Edmundo sabía que ese gigante era sólo una piedra y no un ser vivo, no le agradó en absoluto pasar a su lado. En ese momento vio una luz tenue que mostraba el vano de una puerta en el lado más alejado del patio. Caminó hacia ese lugar. Se encontró con unas gradas de piedra que conducían hasta una puerta abierta. Edmundo subió. Atravesado en el umbral yacía un enorme lobo. –¡Está bien! ¡Está bien! –murmuró–. Es sólo otro lobo de piedra. No puede hacerme ningún daño. Alzó un pie para pasar sobre él. Instantáneamente el enorme animal se levantó con el pelo erizado sobre el lomo y abrió una enorme boca roja. –¿Quién está ahí? ¿Quién está ahí? ¡Quédate quieto, extranjero, y dime quién eres! –gruñó. –Por favor, señor –dijo Edmundo; temblaba de tal forma que apenas podía hablar–; mi nombre es Edmundo y soy el Hijo de Adán que su Majestad encontró en el bosque el otro día. Yo he venido a traerle noticias de mi hermano y mis hermanas. Están ahora en Narnia..., muy cerca, en la casa del Castor. Ella..., ella quería verlos. –Se lo diré a su Majestad –dijo el Lobo–. Mientras tanto, quédate quieto aquí, en el umbral, si en algo valoras tu vida. Entonces desapareció dentro de la casa. Edmundo permaneció inmóvil y esperó con los dedos adoloridos por el frío y el corazón que martillaba en su pecho. Pronto, el lobo gris, Maugrim, el jefe de la policía secreta de la Bruja, regresó de un salto y le dijo: –¡Entra! ¡Entra! Eres el afortunado favorito de la Reina... o quizás no tan afortunado. Edmundo entró con mucho cuidado para no pisar las garras del lobo. Se encontró en un salón lúgubre y largo, con muchos pilares. Al igual que el patio, estaba lleno de estatuas. La más cercana a la puerta era la de un pequeño fauno con una expresión muy triste. Edmundo no pudo menos que preguntarse si éste no sería el amigo de Lucía. La única luz que había allí provenía de una pequeña lámpara, tras la cual estaba sentada la Bruja Blanca. –He regresado, su Majestad –dijo Edmundo, adelantándose hacia ella. –¿Cómo te atreves a venir solo? –dijo la Bruja con una voz terrible–. ¿No te dije que debías traer a los otros contigo? –Por favor, su Majestad –dijo Edmundo–, hice lo que pude. Los he traído hasta muy cerca. Están en la pequeña casa, en lo más alto del dique sobre el río, con el señor y la señora Castor. Una sonrisa lenta y cruel se dibujó en el rostro de la Bruja. –¿Ésas son todas tus noticias? –No, su Majestad –dijo Edmundo, y le contó todo lo que había escuchado antes de abandonar la casa del Castor. –¡Qué! ¿Aslan? –gritó la Reina–. ¿Aslan? ¿Es cierto eso? Si descubro que me has mentido... –Por favor..., sólo repito lo que ellos dijeron –tartamudeó Edmundo. Pero la Reina, que ya no lo escuchaba, dio una palmada. De inmediato apareció el mismo enano que Edmundo había visto antes con ella. –Prepara nuestro trineo –ordenó la Bruja–, y usa los arneses sin campanas. ## CAPÍTULO 10 ## EL HECHIZO COMIENZA A ROMPERSE AHORA DEBEMOS VOLVER DONDE EL señor y la señora Castor y los otros tres niños. Tan pronto como el Castor dijo: "No hay tiempo que perder", todos comenzaron a ponerse sus abrigos, excepto la señora Castora. Ella tomó unos sacos y los dejó sobre la mesa. –Ahora, señor Castor –dijo–, bájame ese jamón. Aquí hay un paquete de té, azúcar y fósforos. Si alguien quiere, puede tomar dos o tres panes de esa vasija, allá, en el rincón. –¿Qué hace, señora Castora? –preguntó Susana. –Preparo una bolsa para cada uno de nosotros, cariño –dijo con voz serena–. ¿Ustedes no han pensado que estaremos afuera durante una jornada sin nada que comer? –¡Pero no tenemos tiempo! –replicó Susana, abotonando el cuello de su abrigo–. Ella puede llegar en cualquier momento. –Eso es lo que yo digo –intervino el Castor. –Adelántate con todos ellos –le dijo calmadamente su mujer–. Pero piénsalo con tranquilidad: ella no puede llegar hasta aquí por lo menos hasta un cuarto de hora más. –Pero ¿no es mejor que tengamos la mayor ventaja posible –dijo Pedro– para llegar a la Mesa de Piedra antes que ella? –Usted tiene que recordar eso, señora Castora –dijo Susana–. Tan pronto como ella descubra que no estamos aquí, se irá hacia allá con la mayor velocidad. –Eso es lo que ella hará –dijo la señora Castora–. Pero nosotros no podremos llegar antes que ella, hagamos lo que hagamos, porque ella viajará en su trineo y nosotros iremos a pie. –Entonces..., ¿no tenemos ninguna esperanza? –preguntó Susana. –¡Por Dios! ¡No te pongas nerviosa ahora! –exclamó la señora Castora–. Toma inmediatamente media docena de pañuelos de ese cajón... ¡Claro que tenemos esperanzas! Es imposible llegar antes que ella, pero podemos mantenernos a cubierto, avanzar de una manera inesperada para ella y, a lo mejor, logramos llegar. –Muy cierto, señora Castora –dijo su marido–. Pero ya es hora de que salgamos de aquí. –¡No empieces tú también a molestar! –dijo ella–. Así está mejor. Aquí están las bolsas. La más pequeña, para la menor de todos nosotros. Ésa eres tú, cariño –agregó mirando a Lucía. –¡Oh! ¡Por favor, vamos! –dijo Lucía. –Bien, estoy casi lista –contestó la señora Castora, y al fin permitió que su marido la ayudara a ponerse las botas para la nieve–. Me imagino que la máquina de coser es demasiado pesada para llevarla... –Sí, lo es –dijo el Castor–. Mucho más que demasiado pesada. No pretenderás usarla durante la fuga, supongo... –No puedo siquiera soportar la idea de que esa Bruja la toque –dijo la señora Castora–, o la rompa o se la robe..., lo crean o no. –¡Oh, por favor, por favor, por favor! ¡Apresúrese! –exclamaron los tres niños. Por fin salieron y el Castor echó llave a la puerta ("Esto la demorará un poco", dijo) y se fueron. Cada uno llevaba su bolsa sobre los hombros. Había dejado de nevar y la luna salía cuando ellos comenzaron la marcha. Caminaban en una fila..., primero el Castor; lo seguían Lucía, Pedro y Susana, en ese orden. La última era la señora Castora. El Castor los condujo a través del dique, hacia la orilla derecha del río. Luego, entre los árboles y a lo largo de un sendero muy escabroso, descendieron por la ribera. Ambos lados del valle, que brillaban bajo la luz de la luna, se elevaron sobre ellos. –Lo mejor es que continuemos por este sendero mientras sea posible –dijo el Castor–. Ella tendrá que mantenerse en la cima, porque nadie puede conducir un trineo aquí abajo. Habría sido una escena magnífica si se la hubiera mirado a través de una ventana y desde un cómodo sillón. Incluso, a pesar de las circunstancias, Lucía se sintió maravillada en un comienzo. Pero como luego caminaron..., caminaron y caminaron, y el saco que cargaba a su espalda se le hizo más y más pesado, empezó a preguntarse si sería capaz de continuar así. Se detuvo y miró la increíble luminosidad del río helado, con sus caídas de agua convertidas en hielo, los blancos conjuntos de árboles nevados, la enorme y brillante luna, las incontables estrellas..., pero sólo pudo ver delante de ella las cortas piernas del Castor que iban _–pad-pad-pad-pad–_ sobre la nieve como si nunca fueran a detenerse. La luna desapareció y comenzó nuevamente a nevar. Lucía estaba tan cansada que casi dormía al mismo tiempo que caminaba. De pronto se dio cuenta de que el Castor se alejaba de la ribera del río hacia la derecha y los llevaba cerro arriba por una empinada cuesta, en medio de espesos matorrales. Tiempo después, cuando ella despertó por completo, alcanzó a ver que el Castor desaparecía en una pequeña cueva de la ribera, casi totalmente oculta bajo los matorrales y que no se veía a menos que uno estuviera sobre ella. En efecto, en el momento en que la niña se dio cuenta de lo que sucedía, ya sólo asomaba la ancha y corta cola de Castor. Lucía se detuvo de inmediato y se arrastró después de él. Entonces, tras ella oyó ruidos de gateos, resoplidos y palpitaciones, y en un momento los cinco estuvieron adentro. –¿Qué lugar es éste? –preguntó Pedro con voz que sonaba cansada y pálida en la oscuridad. (Espero que ustedes sepan lo que yo quiero decir con eso de una voz que suena pálida.) –Es un viejo escondite para castores, en malos tiempos –dijo el señor Castor–, y un gran secreto. El lugar no es muy cómodo, pero necesitamos algunas horas de sueño. –Si todos ustedes no hubieran organizado ese tremendo e insoportable alboroto antes de partir, yo podría haber traído algunos cojines –dijo la Castora. Lucía pensaba que esa cueva no era nada agradable, menos aún si se la comparaba con la del señor Tumnus... Era sólo un hoyo en la tierra, seco, polvoriento y tan pequeño que, cuando todos se tendieron, se produjo una confusión de pieles y ropa alrededor de ellos. Pero, a pesar de todo, estaban abrigados y, después de esa larga caminata, se sentían allí bastante cómodos. ¡Si sólo el suelo de la cueva hubiera sido más blando! En medio de la oscuridad, la Castora tomó un pequeño frasco y lo pasó de mano en mano para que los cinco bebieran un poco... La bebida provocaba tos, hacía farfullar y picaba en la garganta; sin embargo uno se sentía maravillosamente bien después de haberla tomado... Y todos se quedaron profundamente dormidos. A Lucía le pareció que sólo había transcurrido un minuto (a pesar de que realmente fue horas y horas más tarde) cuando despertó. Se sentía algo helada, terriblemente tiesa y añoraba un baño caliente. Le pareció que unos largos bigotes rozaban sus mejillas y vio la fría luz del día que se filtraba por la boca de la cueva. Instantes después ella estaba completamente despierta, al igual que los demás. En efecto, todos se encontraban sentados, con los ojos y las bocas muy abiertos, escuchando un sonido..., precisamente el sonido que ellos creían (o imaginaban) haber oído durante la caminata de la noche anterior. Era un sonido de campanas. En cuanto las escuchó, el Castor, como un rayo, saltó fuera de la cueva. A lo mejor a ustedes les parece, como Lucía pensó por un momento, que ésta era la mayor tontería que podía hacer. Pero, en realidad, era algo muy bien pensado. Sabía que podía trepar hasta la orilla del río entre las zarzas y los arbustos, sin ser visto, pues, por encima de todo, quería ver qué camino tomaba el trineo de la Bruja. Sentados en la cueva, los demás esperaban ansiosos. Transcurrieron cerca de cinco minutos. Entonces escucharon voces. –¡Oh! –susurró Lucía–. ¡Lo han visto! ¡Ella lo ha atrapado! La sorpresa fue grande cuando, un poco más tarde, oyeron la voz del Castor que los llamaba desde afuera. –¡Todo está bien! –gritó–. ¡Salga, señora Castora! ¡Salgan, Hijos e Hijas de Adán y Eva! Todo está bien. No es _suya_. Por supuesto que eso era un atentado contra la gramática, pero así hablan los castores cuando están excitados; quiero decir en Narnia..., en nuestro mundo ellos no hablan... La señora Castora y los niños se atropellaron para salir de la cueva. Todos pestañearon a la luz del día. Estaban cubiertos de tierra, desaliñados, despeinados y con el sueño reflejado en los ojos. –¡Vengan! –gritaba el Castor, que casi bailaba de gusto–. ¡Vengan a ver! ¡ Éste es un golpe feo para la Bruja! Parece que su poder se está desmoronando. –¿Qué quiere decir, señor Castor? –preguntó Pedro anhelante, mientras todos juntos trepaban por la húmeda ladera del valle. –¿No les dije –respondió el Castor– que ella mantenía siempre el invierno y no había nunca Navidad? ¿No se lo dije? ¡Bien, vengan a mirar ahora! Todos estaban ahora en lo alto y vieron... _Era_ un trineo y _eran_ renos con campanas en sus arneses. Pero éstos eran mucho más grandes que los renos de la Bruja, y no eran blancos sino de color café. En el asiento del trineo se encontraba una persona a quien reconocieron en el mismo instante en que la vieron. Era un hombre muy grande con traje rojo (brillante como la fruta del acebo), con un capuchón forrado de piel y una barba blanca que caía como una cascada sobre su pecho. Todos lo conocían porque, aunque a esta clase de personas sólo se las ve en Narnia, sus retratos circulan incluso en nuestro mundo..., en el mundo a _este lado_ del armario. Pero cuando ustedes los ven realmente en Narnia, es algo muy diferente. Algunos de los retratos de Papá Noel en nuestro mundo muestran sólo una imagen divertida y feliz. Pero ahora los niños, que lo miraban fijamente, pensaron que era muy distinto..., tan grande, tan alegre, tan real. Se quedaron inmóviles y se sintieron muy felices, pero también muy solemnes. –He venido por fin –dijo él–. Ella me ha mantenido fuera de aquí por un largo tiempo, pero al fin logré entrar. Aslan está en movimiento. La magia de ella se está debilitando. Lucía sintió un estremecimiento de profunda alegría. Algo que sólo se siente si uno es solemne y guarda silencio. –Ahora –dijo Papá Noel–, sus regalos. Aquí hay una máquina de coser nueva y mejor para usted, señora Castora. Se la dejaré en su casa, al pasar. –Por favor, señor –dijo la Castora haciendo una reverencia–, mi casa está cerrada. –Las cerraduras y los pestillos no tienen importancia para mí –contestó Papá Noel–. Usted, señor Castor, cuando regrese a su casa encontrará su dique terminado y reparado, con todas las goteras arregladas. También le colocaré una nueva compuerta. El Castor estaba tan complacido que abrió la boca muy grande y descubrió entonces que no podía decir ni una palabra. –Tú, Pedro, Hijo de Adán –dijo Papá Noel. –Aquí estoy, señor. –Estos son tus regalos. Son herramientas y no juguetes. El tiempo de usarlos tal vez se acerca. Consérvalos bien. Con estas palabras entregó a Pedro un escudo y una espada. El escudo era del color de la plata y en él aparecía la figura de un león rampante, rojo y brillante como una fresa madura. La empuñadura de la espada era de oro, y ésta tenía un estuche, un cinturón y todo lo necesario. Su tamaño y su peso eran los adecuados para Pedro. Éste se mantuvo silencioso y muy solemne mientras recibía sus regalos, pues se daba perfecta cuenta de que éstos eran muy importantes. –Susana, Hija de Eva –dijo Papá Noel–. Éstos son para ti. Y le entregó un arco, un carcaj lleno de flechas y un pequeño cuerno de marfil. –Tú debes usar el arco sólo en caso de extrema necesidad –le dijo–, porque yo no pretendo que luches en batalla. Éste no falla fácilmente. Cuando lleves el cuerno a los labios y soples, dondequiera que estés, alguna ayuda vas a recibir. Por último dijo: –Lucía, Hija de Eva. Lucía se acercó a él. Le dio una pequeña botella que parecía de vidrio (pero la gente dijo más tarde que era de diamante) y una pequeña daga. –En esta botella –le dijo– hay una bebida confortante, hecha del jugo de la flor del fuego que crece en la montaña del sol. Si tú o alguno de tus amigos es herido, con unas gotas se restablecerá. La daga es para que te defiendas cuando realmente lo necesites. Porque tú tampoco vas a estar en la batalla. –¿Por qué no, señor? –preguntó Lucía–. Yo pienso..., no lo sé..., pero creo que puedo ser suficientemente valiente. –Ése no es el punto –le contestó Papá Noel–. Las batallas son horribles cuando luchan las mujeres. Ahora –de pronto su aspecto se vio menos grave–, aquí tienen algo para este momento y para todos. Sacó (yo supongo que de una bolsa que guardaba detrás de él, pero nadie vio bien lo que él hacía) una gran bandeja que contenía cinco tazas con sus platillos, un azucarero, un jarro de crema y una enorme tetera silbante e hirviente. Entonces gritó: –¡Feliz Navidad! ¡Viva el verdadero rey! Hizo chasquear el látigo en el aire, y él y los renos desaparecieron de la vista de todos antes de que nadie se diera cuenta de su partida. Pedro había desenvainado su espada para mostrársela al Castor, cuando la señora Castora dijo: –Ahora, pues..., no se queden ahí parados mientras el té se enfría. ¡Todos los hombres son iguales! Vengan y ayuden a traer la bandeja, aquí, abajo, y tomaremos el desayuno. ¡Qué acertada estuve al acordarme de traer el cuchillo del pan! Descendieron por la húmeda ribera y volvieron a la cueva; el Castor cortó el pan y el jamón para unos emparedados y la señora Castora sirvió el té. Todos se sintieron realmente contentos. Pero demasiado pronto, mucho antes de lo que hubieran deseado, el Castor dijo: –Ya es tiempo de que nos pongamos en marcha. Ahora. ## CAPÍTULO 11 ## ASLAN ESTÁ CERCA MIENTRAS TANTO, EDMUNDO VIVÍA momentos de gran desilusión. Cuando el enano salió para preparar el trineo, creyó que la Bruja se comportaría amablemente con él, igual que en su primer encuentro. Pero ella no habló. Por fin Edmundo se armó de valor y le dijo: –Por favor, su Majestad, ¿podría darme algunas _delicias turcas?_ Usted..., usted..., dijo... –¡Silencio, mentecato! Luego ella pareció cambiar de idea y dijo como para sus adentros: –Tampoco me servirá de mucho que este rapaz desfallezca en el camino... Dio otra palmada y otro enano apareció. –Tráele algo de comer y de beber a esta criatura humana –ordenó. El enano se fue y volvió rápidamente. Traía un tazón de hierro con un poco de agua y un plato, también de hierro, con una gruesa rebanada de pan duro. Sonrió de un modo repulsivo, puso todo en el suelo al lado de Edmundo, y dijo: _–Delicias turcas_ para el principito. ¡Ja, ja, ja! –Lléveselo –dijo Edmundo, malhumorado–. No quiero pan duro. Pero repentinamente la Bruja se volvió hacia él con una expresión tan fiera en su rostro que Edmundo comenzó a disculparse y a comer pedacitos de pan, aunque estaba tan añejo que casi no lo podía tragar. –Deberías estar muy contento con esto, pues pasará mucho tiempo antes de que pruebes el pan nuevamente –dijo la Bruja. Mientras todavía masticaba, volvió el primer enano y anunció que el trineo estaba preparado. La Bruja se levantó y, ordenando a Edmundo que la siguiera, salió. Nuevamente nevaba cuando llegaron al patio, pero ella, sin fijarse siquiera, indicó a Edmundo que se sentara a su lado en el trineo. Antes de partir, llamó a Maugrim, quien acudió dando saltos como un perro y se detuvo junto al trineo. –¡Tú! Reúne a tus lobos más rápidos y anda de inmediato hasta la casa del Castor –dijo la Bruja–. Mata a quien encuentres allí. Si ellos se han ido, vayan a toda velocidad a la Mesa de Piedra, pero no deben ser vistos. Espérenme allí, escondidos. Mientras tanto yo debo ir muchas millas hacia el oeste antes de encontrar un paso para cruzar el río. Pueden alcanzar a estos humanos antes de que lleguen a la Mesa de Piedra. ¡Ya saben qué hacer con ellos si los encuentran! –Escucho y obedezco, ¡oh, Reina! –gruñó el Lobo. Inmediatamente salió disparado, tan rápido como galopa un caballo. En pocos minutos había llamado a otro lobo y momentos después ambos estaban en el dique y husmeaban la casa del Castor. Por supuesto, la encontraron vacía. Para el Castor, su mujer y los niños habría sido horroroso si la noche se hubiera mantenido clara, porque los lobos podrían haber seguido sus huellas... con todas las posibilidades de alcanzarlos antes de que ellos llegaran a la cueva. Pero ahora había comenzado nuevamente a nevar y todos los rastros y pisadas habían desaparecido. Mientras tanto el enano azotaba a los renos y el trineo salía llevando a la Bruja y a Edmundo. Pasaron bajo el arco y luego siguieron adelante en medio del frío y de la oscuridad. Para Edmundo, que no tenía abrigo, fue un viaje horrible. Antes de un cuarto de hora de camino estaba cubierto de nieve... Muy pronto dejó de sacudírsela de encima, pues en cuanto lo hacía, se acumulaba nuevamente sobre él. Era en vano y estaba tan cansado... En poco rato estuvo mojado hasta los huesos. ¡Oh, qué desdichado era! Ya no creía, en absoluto, que la Reina tuviera intención de hacerlo rey. Todo lo que ella le había dicho para hacerle creer que era buena y generosa y que su lado era realmente el lado bueno, le parecía estúpido. En ese momento habría dado cualquier cosa por juntarse con los demás..., ¡incluso con Pedro! Su único consuelo consistía en pensar que todo esto era sólo un mal sueño del que despertaría en cualquier momento. Y como siguieron adelante hora tras hora, todo llegó a parecerle como si efectivamente fuera un sueño. Esto se prolongó mucho más de lo que yo podría describir, aunque utilizara páginas y páginas para relatarlo. Por eso, prefiero pasar directamente al momento en que dejó de nevar cuando llegó la mañana, y ellos corrían velozmente a la luz del día. Los viajeros seguían adelante, sin hacer ningún ruido, excepto el perpetuo silbido de la nieve y el crujido de los arneses de los renos. Y entonces, al fin, la Bruja dijo: –¿Qué tenemos aquí? ¡Alto! Y se detuvieron. Edmundo esperaba con ansias que ella dijera algo sobre la necesidad de desayunar. Pero eran muy diferentes las razones que la habían hecho detenerse. Un poco más allá, a los pies de un árbol, se desarrollaba una alegre fiesta. Una pareja de ardillas con sus hijos, dos sátiros, un enano y un viejo zorro estaban sentados en el suelo alrededor de una mesa. Edmundo no alcanzaba a ver lo que comían, pero el aroma era muy tentador. Le parecía divisar algo como un pudín de ciruelas y también decoraciones de acebo. Cuando el trineo se detuvo, el Zorro, que era evidentemente el más anciano, se estaba levantando con un vaso en la mano como si fuera a pronunciar unas palabras. Pero cuando todos los que se encontraban en la fiesta vieron el trineo y a la persona que viajaba en él, la alegría desapareció de sus rostros. El papá ardilla se quedó con el tenedor en el aire y los pequeños dieron alaridos de terror. –¿Qué significa todo esto? –preguntó la Reina. Nadie contestó. –¡Hablen, animales asquerosos! ¿O desean que mi enano les busque la lengua con su látigo? ¿Qué significa toda esta glotonería, este despilfarro, este desenfreno? ¿De dónde sacaron todo esto? –Por favor, su Majestad –dijo el Zorro–, nos lo dieron. Y si yo me atreviera a ser tan audaz como para beber a la salud de su Majestad... –¿Quién les dio todo esto? –interrumpió la Bruja. –P-P-Papá Noel –tartamudeó el Zorro. –¿Qué? –gruñó la Bruja. Saltó del trineo y dio grandes zancadas hacia los aterrados animales–. ¡Él no ha estado aquí! ¡No puede haber estado aquí! ¡Cómo se atreven...! ¡Digan que han mentido y los perdonaré ahora mismo! En ese momento, uno de los pequeños hijos de la pareja de ardillas contestó sin pensar. –¡Ha venido! ¡Ha venido! –gritaba golpeando su cucharita contra la mesa. Edmundo vio que la Bruja se mordía el labio hasta que una gota de sangre apareció en su blanco rostro. Entonces levantó la vara. –¡Oh! ¡No lo haga! ¡Por favor, no lo haga! –gritó Edmundo; pero mientras suplicaba, ella agitó su vara y, en un instante, en el lugar donde se desarrollaba la alegre fiesta había sólo estatuas de criaturas (una con el tenedor a medio camino hacia su boca de piedra) sentadas alrededor de una mesa de piedra, con platos de piedra y un pudín de ciruelas de piedra. –En cuanto a ti –dijo la Bruja a Edmundo, dándole un brutal golpe en la cara cuando volvió a subir al trineo–, ¡que esto te enseñe a no interceder en favor de espías y traidores! ¡Continuemos! Edmundo, por primera vez en el transcurso de esta historia, tuvo piedad por alguien que no era él. Era tan lamentable pensar en esas pequeñas figuras de piedra, sentadas allí durante días silenciosos y oscuras noches, año tras año, hasta que se desmoronaran o sus rostros se borraran. Ahora avanzaban constantemente otra vez. Pronto Edmundo observó que la nieve que salpicaba el trineo en su veloz carrera estaba más derretida que la de la noche anterior. Al mismo tiempo advirtió que sentía mucho menos frío y que se acercaba una espesa niebla. En efecto, minuto a minuto aumentaba la neblina y también el calor. El trineo ya no se deslizaba tan bien como unos momentos antes. Al principio pensó que quizás los renos estaban cansados, pero pronto se dio cuenta de que no era ésa la verdadera razón. El trineo avanzaba a tirones, se arrastraba y se bamboleaba como si hubiera chocado con una piedra. A pesar de los latigazos que el enano propinaba a los renos, el trineo iba más y más lentamente. También parecía oírse un curioso ruido, pero el estrépito del trineo con sus tirones y bamboleos, y los gritos del enano para apurar a los renos, impidieron que Edmundo pudiera distinguir qué clase de sonido era, hasta que, de pronto, el trineo se atascó tan fuertemente que no hubo forma de seguir. Entonces sobrevino un momento de silencio. Y en ese silencio, Edmundo, por fin, pudo escuchar claramente. Era un ruido extraño, suave, susurrante y continuo... y, sin embargo, no tan extraño, porque él lo había escuchado antes. Rápidamente, recordó. Era el sonido del agua que corre. Alrededor de ellos, por todas partes aunque fuera de su vista, los riachuelos cantaban, murmuraban, burbujeaban, chapoteaban y aun (en la distancia) rugían. Su corazón dio un gran salto (a pesar de que él no supo por qué) cuando se dio cuenta de que el hielo se había derretido. Y mucho más cerca había un _drip-drip-drip_ desde las ramas de todos los árboles. Entonces miró hacia uno de ellos y vio que una gran carga de nieve se deslizaba y caía y, por primera vez desde que había llegado a Narnia, contempló el color verde oscuro de un abeto. Pero no tuvo tiempo de escuchar ni de observar nada más porque la Bruja gritó: –¡No te quedes ahí sentado con la mirada fija, tonto! ¡Ven a ayudar! Por supuesto, Edmundo tuvo que obedecer. Descendió del trineo y caminó sobre la nieve –aunque realmente ésta era algo muy blando y muy mojado– y ayudó al enano a tirar del trineo para sacarlo del fangoso hoyo en el que había caído. Lo lograron por fin. El enano golpeó con su látigo a los renos con gran crueldad y así consiguió poner el trineo de nuevo en movimiento. Avanzaron un poco más. Ahora la nieve estaba derretida de veras y en todas direcciones comenzaban a aparecer terrenos cubiertos de pasto verde. A menos que uno haya contemplado un mundo de nieve durante tanto tiempo como Edmundo, difícilmente sería capaz de imaginar el alivio que significan esas manchas verdes después del interminable blanco. Pero entonces el trineo se detuvo una vez más. –Es imposible continuar, su Majestad –dijo el enano–. No podemos deslizarnos con este deshielo. –Entonces, caminaremos –dijo la Bruja. –Nunca los alcanzaremos si caminamos –rezongó el enano–. No con la ventaja que nos llevan. –¿Eres mi consejero o mi esclavo? –preguntó la Bruja–. Haz lo que te digo. Amarra las manos de la criatura humana a su espalda y sujeta tú la cuerda por el otro extremo. Toma tu látigo y quita los arneses a los renos. Ellos encontrarán fácilmente el camino de regreso a casa. El enano obedeció. Minutos más tarde, Edmundo se veía forzado a caminar tan rápido como podía, con las manos atadas a la espalda. Resbalaba a menudo en la nieve derretida, en el lodo o en el pasto mojado. Cada vez que esto sucedía, el enano echaba una maldición sobre él y, a veces, le daba un latigazo. La Bruja, que caminaba detrás del enano, ordenaba constantemente: –¡Más rápido! ¡Más rápido! A cada minuto las áreas verdes eran más y más grandes, y los espacios cubiertos de nieve disminuían y disminuían. A cada momento los árboles se sacudían más y más de sus mantos blancos. Pronto, hacia cualquier lugar que mirara, en vez de formas blancas uno veía el verde oscuro de los abetos o el negro de las espinosas ramas de los desnudos robles, de las hayas y de los olmos. Entonces la niebla, de blanca se tornó dorada y luego desapareció por completo. Cual flechas, deliciosos rayos de sol atravesaron de un golpe el bosque, y en lo alto, entre las copas de los árboles, se veía el cielo azul. Así se sucedieron más y más acontecimientos maravillosos. Repentinamente, a la vuelta de una esquina, en un claro entre un conjunto de plateados abedules, Edmundo vio el suelo cubierto, en todas direcciones, de pequeñas flores amarillas... El sonido del agua se escuchaba cada vez más fuerte. Poco después cruzaron un arroyo. Más allá encontraron un lugar donde crecían miles de campanitas blancas. –¡Preocúpate de tus propios asuntos! –dijo el enano cuando vio que Edmundo volvía la cabeza para mirar las flores, y con gesto maligno dio un tirón a la cuerda. Pero, por supuesto, esto no impidió que Edmundo pudiera ver. Sólo cinco minutos más tarde observó una docena de azafranes que crecían alrededor de un viejo árbol..., dorado, rojo y blanco. Después llegó un sonido aún más hermoso que el ruido del agua. De pronto, muy cerca del sendero que ellos seguían, un pájaro gorjeó desde la rama de un árbol. Algo más lejos, otro le respondió con sus trinos. Entonces, como si ésta hubiera sido una señal, se escucharon gorjeos y trinos desde todas partes y en el espacio de cinco minutos el bosque entero estaba lleno de la música de las aves. Hacia dondequiera que Edmundo mirara, las veía aletear en las ramas, volar en el cielo y aun disputar ligeramente entre ellas. –¡Más rápido! ¡Más rápido! –gritaba la Bruja. Ahora no había rastros de la niebla. El cielo era cada vez más y más azul, y de tiempo en tiempo algunas nubes blancas lo cruzaban apresuradas. Las prímulas cubrían amplios espacios. Brotó una brisa suave que esparció la humedad de los ramos inclinados y llevó frescas y deliciosas fragancias hacia el rostro de los viajeros. Los árboles comenzaron a vivir plenamente. Los alerces y los abedules se cubrieron de verde; los ébanos de los Alpes, de dorado. Pronto las hayas extendieron sus delicadas y transparentes hojas. Y para los viajeros que caminaban bajo los árboles, la luz también se tornó verde. Una abeja zumbó al cruzar el sendero. –Esto no es deshielo –dijo entonces el enano deteniéndose de pronto–. Es la _primavera_. ¿Qué vamos a hacer? Su invierno ha sido destruido. ¡Se lo advierto! Esto es obra de Aslan. –Si alguno de ustedes menciona ese nombre otra vez –dijo la Bruja–, morirá al instante. ## CAPÍTULO 12 ## LA PRIMERA BATALLA DE PEDRO MIENTRAS EL ENANO Y LA BRUJA Blanca hablaban, a millas de distancia los Castores y los niños seguían caminando, hora tras hora, como en un hermoso sueño. Hacía ya mucho que se habían despojado de sus abrigos. Ahora ni siquiera se detenían para exclamar "¡Allí hay un martín pescador!", "¡Miren cómo crecen las campanitas!", "¿Qué aroma tan agradable es ése?" o "¡Escuchen a ese tordo!"... Caminaban en silencio aspirándolo todo; cruzaban terrenos abiertos a la luz y el calor del sol, y se introducían en frescos, verdes y espesos bosquecillos, para salir de nuevo a anchos espacios cubiertos de musgo a cuyo alrededor se alzaban altos olmos muy por encima del frondoso techo; luego atravesaban densas masas de groselleros floridos y espesos espinos blancos, cuyo dulce aroma era casi abrumador. Al igual que Edmundo, se habían sorprendido al ver que el invierno desaparecía y el bosque entero pasaba, en pocas horas, de enero a mayo. Por cierto, ni siquiera sabían (como lo sabía la Bruja) que esto era lo que debía suceder con la llegada de Aslan a Narnia. Sin embargo, todos tenían conciencia de que eran los poderes de la Bruja los que mantenían ese invierno sin fin. Por eso cuando esta mágica primavera estalló, todos supusieron que algo había resultado mal, muy mal, en los planes de la Bruja. Después de ver que el deshielo continuaba durante un buen tiempo, ellos se dieron cuenta de que la Bruja no podría utilizar más su trineo. Entonces ya no se apresuraron tanto y se permitieron descansos más frecuentes y algo más largos. Estaban muy cansados, por supuesto, pero no lo que yo llamo exhaustos...; sólo lentos y soñadores, tranquilos interiormente, como se siente uno al final de un largo día al aire libre. Sólo Susana tenía una pequeña herida en un talón. Antes ellos se habían desviado del curso del río un poco hacia la derecha (esto significaba un poco hacia el sur) para llegar al lugar donde estaba la Mesa de Piedra. Y aunque ése no hubiera sido el camino, no habrían podido continuar por la orilla del río una vez que empezó el deshielo. Con toda la nieve derretida, el río se convirtió muy pronto en un torrente –un maravilloso y rugiente torrente amarillo–, y dentro de poco el sendero que seguían estaría inundado. Ahora que el sol estaba bajo, la luz se tornó rojiza, las sombras se alargaron y las flores comenzaron a pensar en cerrarse. –No falta mucho ya –dijo el Castor, mientras los guiaba colina arriba, sobre un musgo profundo y elástico (lo percibían con mucho agrado bajo sus cansados pies), hacia un lugar donde crecían inmensos árboles, muy distantes entre sí. La subida, al final del día, los hizo jadear y respirar con dificultad. Justo cuando Lucía se preguntaba si realmente podría llegar a la cumbre sin otro largo descanso, se encontraron de pronto en la cima. Y esto fue lo que vieron. Estaban en un verde espacio abierto desde el cual uno podía ver el bosque que se extendía hacia abajo en todas direcciones, hasta donde se perdía la vista..., excepto hacia el este: muy lejos, algo resplandecía y se movía. –¡Gran Dios! –cuchicheó Pedro a Susana–. ¡Es el mar! Exactamente en el centro del campo, en lo más alto de la colina, estaba la Mesa de Piedra. Era una inmensa y áspera losa de piedra gris, suspendida en cuatro piedras verticales. Se veía muy antigua y estaba completamente grabada con extrañas líneas y figuras, que podían ser las letras de una lengua desconocida. Cuando uno las miraba, producían una rara sensación. En seguida vieron una bandera clavada a un costado del campo. Era una maravillosa bandera –especialmente ahora que la luz del sol poniente se retiraba de ella– cuyos bordes parecían ser de seda color amarillo, con cordones carmesí e incrustaciones de marfil. Y más alto, en un asta, un estandarte, que mostraba un león rampante de color rojo, flameaba suavemente con la brisa que soplaba desde el lejano mar. Mientras contemplaban todo esto, escucharon a su derecha un sonido de música. Se volvieron en esa dirección y vieron lo que habían venido a ver. Aslan estaba de pie en medio de una multitud de criaturas que, agrupadas en torno a él, formaban una media luna. Había Mujeres-Árbol y Mujeres-Vertiente (Dríades y Náyades como antes las llamaban en nuestro mundo) que tenían instrumentos de cuerda. Ellas eran las que tocaban la música. Había cuatro centauros grandes. Su mitad caballo se asemejaba a los inmensos caballos ingleses de campo, y la parte humana, a un gigante severo pero hermoso. También había un unicornio, un toro con cabeza de hombre, un pelícano, un águila y un perro grande. Al lado de Aslan se encontraban dos leopardos: uno transportaba su corona, y el otro, su estandarte. En cuanto a Aslan mismo, los Castores y los niños no sabían qué hacer o decir cuando lo vieron. La gente que no ha estado en Narnia piensa a veces que una cosa no puede ser buena y terrible al mismo tiempo. Y si los niños alguna vez pensaron así, ahora fueron sacados de su error. Porque cuando trataron de mirar la cara de Aslan, sólo pudieron vislumbrar una melena dorada y unos ojos inmensos, majestuosos, solemnes e irresistibles. Se dieron cuenta de que eran incapaces de mirarlo. –Adelante –dijo el Castor. –No –susurró Pedro–. Usted primero. –No, los Hijos de Adán antes que los animales. –Susana –murmuró Pedro–. ¿Y tú? Las señoritas primero. –No, tú eres el mayor. Y mientras más demoraban en decidirse, más incómodos se sentían. Por fin Pedro se dio cuenta de que esto le correspondía a él. Sacó su espada y la levantó para saludar. –Vengan –dijo a los demás–. Todos juntos. Avanzó hacia el León y dijo: –Hemos venido..., Aslan. –Bienvenido, Pedro, Hijo de Adán –dijo Aslan–. Bienvenidas, Susana y Lucía. Bienvenidos, Castor y Castora. Su voz era ronca y profunda y de algún modo les quitó la angustia. Ahora se sentían contentos y tranquilos y no les incomodaba quedarse inmóviles sin decir nada. –¿Dónde está el cuarto? –preguntó Aslan. –Él ha tratado de traicionar a sus hermanos y de unirse a la Bruja Blanca, ¡oh Aslan! –dijo el Castor. Entonces algo hizo a Pedro decir: –En parte fue por mi culpa, Aslan. Yo estaba enojado con él y pienso que eso lo impulsó hacia un camino equivocado. Aslan no dijo nada; ni para excusar a Pedro ni para culparlo. Solamente lo miró con sus grandes ojos dorados. A todos les pareció que no había más que decir. –Por favor..., Aslan –dijo Lucía–. ¿Hay algo que se pueda hacer para salvar a Edmundo? –Se hará todo lo que se pueda –dijo Aslan–. Pero es posible que resulte más difícil de lo que ustedes piensan. Luego se quedó nuevamente en silencio por algunos momentos. Hasta entonces, Lucía había pensado cuín majestuosa, fuerte y pacífica parecía su cara. Ahora, de pronto, se le ocurrió que también se veía triste. Pero, al minuto siguiente, esa expresión había desaparecido. El León sacudió su melena, golpeó sus garras ("¡Terribles garras –pensó Lucía– si él no supiera cómo suavizarlas!"), y dijo: –Mientras tanto, que se prepare un banquete. Señoras, lleven a las Hijas de Eva al Pabellón y provéanlas de lo necesario. Cuando las niñas se fueron, Aslan posó su garra –y a pesar de que lo hacía con suavidad, era muy pesada– en el hombro de Pedro y dijo: –Ven, Hijo de Adán, y te mostraré a la distancia el castillo donde serás rey. Con su espada todavía en la mano, Pedro siguió al León hacia la orilla oeste de la cumbre de la colina, y una hermosa vista se presentó ante sus ojos. El sol se ponía a sus espaldas, lo cual significaba que ante ellos todo el país estaba envuelto en la luz del atardecer..., bosques, colinas y valles alrededor del gran río que ondulaba como una serpiente de plata. Más allá, millas más lejos, estaba el mar, y entre el cielo y el mar, cientos de nubes que con los reflejos del sol poniente adquirían un maravilloso color rosa. Justo en el lugar en que la tierra de Narnia se encontraba con el mar –en la boca del gran río– había algo que brillaba en una pequeña colina. Brillaba porque era un castillo y, por supuesto, la luz del sol se reflejaba en todas las ventanas que miraban hacia el poniente, donde se encontraba Pedro. A éste le pareció más bien una gran estrella que descansaba en la playa. –Eso, ¡oh Hombre! –dijo Aslan–, es el castillo de Cair Paravel con sus cuatro tronos, en uno de los cuales tú deberás sentarte como rey. Te lo muestro porque eres el primogénito y serás el Rey Supremo sobre todos los demás. Una vez más, Pedro no dijo nada. Luego un ruido extraño interrumpió súbitamente el silencio. Era como una corneta de caza, pero más dulce. –Es el cuerno de tu hermana –dijo Aslan a Pedro en voz baja, tan baja que era casi un ronroneo, si no es falta de respeto pensar que un león pueda ronronear. Por un instante Pedro no entendió. Pero en ese momento vio avanzar a todas las otras criaturas y oyó que Aslan decía agitando su garra: –¡Atrás! ¡Dejen que el Príncipe gane su espuela! Entonces comprendió y corrió tan rápido como le fue posible hacia el pabellón. Allí se enfrentó a una visión espantosa. Las Náyades y Dríades huían en todas direcciones. Lucía corrió hacia él tan veloz como sus cortas piernas se lo permitieron, con el rostro blanco como un papel. Después vio a Susana saltar y colgarse de un árbol, perseguida por una enorme bestia gris. Pedro creyó en un comienzo que era un oso. Luego le pareció un perro alsaciano, aunque era demasiado grande... Por fin se dio cuenta de que era un lobo..., un lobo parado en sus patas traseras con sus garras delanteras apoyadas en el tronco del árbol, aullando y mordiendo. Todo el pelo de su lomo estaba erizado. Susana no había logrado subir más arriba de la segunda rama. Una de sus piernas colgaba hacia abajo y su pie estaba a sólo dos pulgadas de aquellos dientes que amenazaban con morder. Pedro se preguntaba por qué ella no subía más o, al menos, no se afirmaba mejor, cuando cayó en la cuenta de que estaba a punto de desmayarse, y si se desmayaba, caería al suelo. Pedro no se sentía muy valiente; en realidad se sentía enfermo. Pero esto no cambiaba en nada lo que tenía que hacer. Se abalanzó derecho contra el monstruo y, con su espada, le asestó una estocada en el costado. El golpe no alcanzó al Lobo. Rápido como un rayo, éste se volvió con los ojos llameantes y su enorme boca abierta en un rugido de furia. Si no hubiera estado cegado por la rabia, que sólo le permitía rugir, se habría lanzado directo a la garganta de su enemigo. Por eso fue que –aunque todo sucedió demasiado rápido para que él lo alcanzara a pensar– Pedro tuvo el tiempo preciso para bajar la cabeza y enterrar su espada, tan fuertemente como pudo, entre las dos patas delanteras de la bestia, directo en su corazón. Entonces sobrevino un instante de horrible confusión, como una pesadilla. Él daba un tirón tras otro a su espada y el Lobo no parecía ni vivo ni muerto. Los dientes del animal se encontraban junto a la frente de Pedro y alrededor de él todo era pelo, sangre y calor. Un momento después descubrió que el monstruo estaba muerto y que él ya había retirado su espada. Se enderezó y enjugó el sudor de su cara y de sus ojos. Sintió que lo invadía un cansancio mortal. En un instante Susana bajó del árbol. Ella y Pedro estaban trémulos cuando se encontraron frente a frente. Y no voy a decir que no hubo besos y llantos de parte de ambos. Pero en Narnia nadie piensa nada malo por eso. –¡Rápido! ¡Rápido! –gritó Aslan–. ¡Centauros! ¡Águilas! Veo otro lobo en los matorrales. ¡Ahí, detrás! Ahora se ha dado la vuelta. ¡Síganlo todos! Él irá donde su ama. Ahora es la oportunidad de encontrar a la Bruja y rescatar al cuarto Hijo de Adán. Instantáneamente, con un fuerte ruido de cascos y un batir de alas, una docena o más de veloces criaturas desaparecieron en la creciente oscuridad. Pedro, aún sin aliento, se dio la vuelta y se encontró con Aslan a su lado. –Has olvidado limpiar tu espada –dijo Aslan. Era verdad. Pedro enrojeció cuando miró la brillante hoja y la vio toda manchada con la sangre y el pelo del Lobo. Se agachó y la restregó y la limpió en el pasto; luego la frotó y la secó en su chaqueta. –Dámela y arrodíllate, Hijo de Adán –dijo Aslan. Cuando Pedro lo hubo hecho, lo tocó con la hoja y añadió–: Levántate, Caballero Pedro, Terror de los Lobos. Pase lo que pase, nunca olvides limpiar tu espada. ## CAPÍTULO 13 ## MAGIA PROFUNDA DEL AMANECER DEL TIEMPO AHORA DEBEMOS VOLVER A EDMUNDO. Después de haberlo hecho caminar mucho más de lo que él imaginaba que alguien podía caminar, la Bruja se detuvo por fin en un oscuro valle ensombrecido por los abetos y los tejos. El niño se dejó caer y se tendió de cara contra el suelo, sin hacer nada y sin importarle lo que sucedería después con tal de que lo dejaran tendido e inmóvil. Se sentía tan cansado que ni siquiera se daba cuenta de lo hambriento y sediento que estaba. El enano y la Bruja hablaban muy bajo junto a él. –No –decía el enano–. No tiene sentido ahora, oh Reina. A estas alturas tienen que haber llegado a la Mesa de Piedra. –A lo mejor el Lobo nos encuentra con su olfato y nos trae noticias –dijo la Bruja. –Si lo hace no serán buenas noticias –replicó el enano. –Cuatro tronos en Cair Paravel –dijo la Bruja–. Y ¿qué tal si se llenaran sólo tres de ellos? Eso no se ajustaría a la profecía. –¿Qué diferencia puede suponer eso, ahora que _él_ está aquí? –preguntó el enano, sin atreverse, ni siquiera ahora, a mencionar el nombre de Aslan ante su ama. –Puede que él no se quede aquí por mucho tiempo. Entonces podríamos dejarnos caer sobre esos tres en Cair Paravel. –Aún puede ser mejor –dijo el enano– mantener a éste (aquí dio un puntapié a Edmundo) y negociar. –¡Sí!... Para que pronto lo rescaten –dijo la Bruja, desdeñosamente. –Si es así –dijo el enano–, será mejor que hagamos de inmediato lo que tenemos que hacer. –Yo preferiría hacerlo en la Mesa de Piedra –dijo la Bruja–. Ése es el lugar adecuado y donde siempre se ha hecho. –Pasará mucho tiempo antes de que la Mesa de Piedra pueda volver a cumplir sus funciones –dijo el enano. –Es cierto –dijo la Bruja. Y agregó–: Bien. Comenzaré. En ese momento, con gran prisa y en medio de fuertes aullidos, apareció un lobo. –¡Los he visto! –gritó–. Están todos en la Mesa de Piedra con _él_. Han matado a mi capitán Maugrim. Yo estaba escondido en los arbustos y lo vi todo. Uno de los Hijos de Adán lo mató. ¡Vuelen! ¡Vuelen! –No –dijo la Bruja–. No hay necesidad de volar. Ve rápido y convoca a toda mi gente para que venga a reunirse aquí, conmigo, tan pronto como pueda. Llama a los gigantes, a los lobos, a los espíritus de los árboles que estén de nuestro lado. Llama a los Demonios, a los Ogros, a los Fantasmas y a los Minotauros. Llama a los Crueles, a los Hechiceros, a los Espectros y a la gente de los Hongos Venenosos. Pelearemos. ¿Acaso no tengo aún mi vara? ¿No se convertirán ellos en piedra en el momento en que se acerquen? Ve rápido. Mientras tanto, yo tengo que terminar algo aquí. El inmenso bruto agachó su cabeza y partió al galope. –¡Ahora! –dijo ella–. No tenemos mesa..., déjame ver... Sería mejor colocarlo contra el tronco del árbol. Edmundo se vio de pronto rudamente obligado a levantarse. Entonces, con la mayor celeridad, el enano lo hizo apoyarse en el tronco y lo amarró. Él vio que la Bruja se quitaba su manto. Sus brazos estaban desnudos y horriblemente blancos. Y porque eran tan blancos, los podía ver, aunque no podía ver mucho más. Estaba todo tan oscuro en esa llanura, bajo los negros árboles... –Prepara a la víctima –ordenó la Bruja. El enano desabotonó el cuello de la camisa de Edmundo, y lo abrió. Luego agarró al niño del cabello y le echó la cabeza hacia atrás, de manera que tuvo que levantar el mentón. Después, Edmundo oyó un extraño ruido: _güizz-güizz-güizz_. Por un momento no pudo imaginar qué era, pero de repente se dio cuenta: era el sonido de un cuchillo al ser afilado. En ese preciso momento escuchó fuertes gritos y ruidos que venían de todas direcciones: un tamborileo de pisadas..., un batir de alas..., un grito de la Bruja..., una total confusión alrededor de él. Entonces sintió que lo desataban y que unos fuertes brazos lo rodeaban. Oyó voces compasivas y cariñosas: –¡Déjalo recostarse! Denle un poco de vino... –decían–. Bebe..., estarás bien en un minuto. Acto seguido escuchó voces que no se dirigían a él, sino a otras personas. –¿Quién capturó a la Bruja? –Yo creí que tú la tenías. –No la vi después de que le arrebaté el cuchillo de la mano. –Yo estaba persiguiendo al enano... –¡No me digas que ella se nos escapó! –Un muchacho no puede hacerlo todo al mismo tiempo... Pero ¿qué es eso?... ¡Oh! Lo siento, es sólo un viejo tronco. Edmundo se desmayó en ese instante. Entonces centauros y unicornios, venados y pájaros (eran parte del equipo de rescate enviado por Aslan en el capítulo anterior), todos regresaron a la Mesa de Piedra llevando a Edmundo con ellos. Pero si hubieran visto lo que sucedió en el valle después de que se alejaron, yo pienso que su sorpresa habría sido enorme. Todo estaba muy quieto cuando asomó una brillante luna. Si ustedes hubieran estado allí, habrían podido ver que la luz de la luna iluminaba un viejo tronco de árbol y una enorme roca blanca. Pero si ustedes hubieran mirado detenidamente, poco a poco habrían comenzado a pensar que había algo muy extraño en ambos, en la roca y en el tronco. Y en seguida habrían advertido que el tronco se parecía de manera notable a un hombre pequeño y gordo, agachado sobre la tierra. Y si hubieran permanecido ahí durante más tiempo todavía, habrían visto que el tronco caminaba hacia la roca, ésta se sentaba y ambos comenzaban a hablar, porque, en realidad, el tronco y la roca eran simplemente el enano y la Bruja. Parte de la magia de ella consistía en que podía hacer que las cosas parecieran lo que no eran y tuvo la presencia de ánimo para recordar esa magia y aplicarla en el preciso momento en que le arrebataron el cuchillo de la mano. Ella también había logrado mantener su vara firmemente, de modo que ahora la guardaba a salvo. Cuando los tres niños despertaron a la mañana siguiente (habían dormido sobre un montón de cojines en el pabellón), lo primero que oyeron –la señora Castora se lo dijo– fue la noticia de que su hermano había sido rescatado y conducido al campamento durante la noche. En ese momento estaba con Aslan. Inmediatamente después de tomar el desayuno, los tres niños salieron. Vieron a Aslan y a Edmundo que caminaban juntos sobre el pasto lleno de rocío. Estaban separados del resto de la corte. No hay necesidad de contarles a ustedes qué le dijo Aslan a Edmundo (y nadie lo supo nunca), pero ésta fue una conversación que el niño jamás olvidó. Cuando los tres hermanos se acercaron, Aslan se dirigió hacia ellos llevando a Edmundo con él. –Aquí está su hermano –les dijo–, y... no es necesario hablarle sobre lo que ha pasado. Edmundo les dio la mano a cada uno y les dijo: –Lo siento mucho... –Todo está bien –respondieron. Y los tres quisieron entonces decir algo más para demostrar a Edmundo que volvían a ser amigos, algo sencillo y natural, pero a ninguno se le ocurrió nada. Antes de que tuvieran tiempo de sentirse incómodos, uno de los leopardos se acercó a Aslan y le dijo: –Señor, un mensajero del enemigo suplica que le des una audiencia. –Deja que se aproxime –dijo Aslan. El leopardo se alejó y volvió al instante seguido por el enano de la Bruja. –¿Cuál es tu mensaje, Hijo de la Tierra? –preguntó Aslan. –La Reina de Narnia, Emperatriz de las Islas Solitarias, desea un salvoconducto para venir a hablar contigo –dijo el enano–. Se trata de un asunto de conveniencia tanto para ti como para ella. –¡Reina de Narnia! ¡Seguro! –exclamó el Castor–. ¡Qué descaro! –Tranquilo, Castor –dijo Aslan–. Todos los nombres serán devueltos muy pronto a sus verdaderos dueños. Entretanto no queremos disputas... Dile a tu ama, Hijo de la Tierra, que le garantizo su salvoconducto, con la condición de que deje su vara tras ella, junto al gran roble. El enano aceptó. Dos leopardos lo acompañaron en su regreso para asegurarse de que se cumpliera el compromiso. –Pero _¿y_ si ella transforma a los leopardos en estatuas? –susurró Lucía al oído de Pedro. Creo que la misma idea se les había ocurrido a los leopardos; mientras se alejaban, en todo momento la piel de sus lomos permaneció erizada, como también sus colas..., igual que cuando un gato ve un perro extraño. –Todo irá bien –murmuró Pedro–. Aslan no los hubiera enviado si no fuera así. Pocos minutos más tarde la Bruja en persona subió a la cima de la colina. Se dirigió derechamente a Aslan y se quedó frente a él. Los tres niños, que nunca la habían visto, sintieron que un escalofrío les recorría la espalda cuando miraron su rostro. Se produjo un sordo gruñido entre los animales. Y, a pesar de que el sol resplandecía, repentinamente todos se sintieron helados. Los dos únicos que parecían estar tranquilos y cómodos eran Aslan y la Bruja. Resultaba muy curioso ver esas dos caras –una dorada y otra pálida como la muerte– tan cerca una de la otra. Pero la Bruja no miraba a Aslan exactamente a los ojos. La señora Castora puso especial atención en ello. –Tienes un traidor aquí, Aslan –dijo la Bruja. Por supuesto, todos comprendieron que ella se refería a Edmundo. Pero éste, después de todo lo que le había pasado y especialmente después de la conversación de la mañana, había dejado de preocuparse de sí mismo. Sólo miró a Aslan sin que pareciera importarle lo que la Bruja dijera. –Bueno –dijo Aslan–, su ofensa no fue contra ti. –¿Te has olvidado de la Magia Profunda? –preguntó la Bruja. –Digamos que la he olvidado –contestó Aslan gravemente–. Cuéntanos acerca de esta Magia Profunda. –¿Contarte a ti? –gritó la Bruja, con un tono que repentinamente se hizo más y más chillón–. ¿Contarte lo que está escrito en la Mesa de Piedra que está a tu lado? ¿Contarte lo que, con una lanza, quedó grabado en el tronco del Fresno del Mundo? ¿Contarte lo que se lee en el cetro del Emperador-de-Más-Allá-del-Mar? Al menos tú conoces la magia que el Emperador estableció en Narnia desde el comienzo mismo. Tú sabes que todo traidor me pertenece; que, por ley, es mi presa, y que por cada traición tengo derecho a matar. –¡Oh! –dijo el Castor–, así es que eso fue lo que la llevó a imaginarse que era Reina..., porque usted era el verdugo del Emperador. Ya veo... –Tranquilo, Castor –dijo Aslan, con un gruñido muy suave. –Por lo tanto –continuó la Bruja–, esa criatura humana es mía. Su vida está en prenda y me pertenece. Su sangre es mía. –¡Ven y llévatela, entonces! –dijo el Toro con cabeza de hombre, en un gran bramido. –¡Tonto! –dijo la Bruja, con una sonrisa salvaje, que casi parecía un gruñido–. ¿Crees realmente que tu amo puede despojarme de mis derechos por la sola fuerza? Él conoce la Magia Profunda mejor que eso. Sabe que, a menos que yo tenga esa sangre, como dice la Ley, toda Narnia será destruida y perecerá en fuego y agua. –Es muy cierto –dijo Aslan–. No lo niego. –¡Ay, Aslan! –susurró Susana al oído del León–. No podemos... Quiero decir, usted no lo haría, ¿verdad? ¿Podríamos hacer algo con la Magia Profunda? ¿No hay algo que usted pueda hacer contra esa Magia? –¿Trabajar contra la magia del Emperador? –dijo Aslan, volviéndose hacia ella con el ceño fruncido. Nadie volvió a sugerir nada semejante. Edmundo se encontraba al otro lado de Aslan y le miraba siempre a la cara. Se sentía sofocado y se preguntaba si debía decir algo. Pero un instante después tuvo la certeza de que no debía hacer nada, excepto esperar y actuar de acuerdo con lo que le habían dicho. –Vayan atrás, todos ustedes –dijo Aslan–. Quiero hablar con la Bruja a solas. Todos obedecieron. Fueron momentos terribles..., esperaban y, a la vez, tenían ansias de saber qué estaba pasando. Mientras tanto, la Bruja y el León hablaban con gran seriedad y en voz muy baja. –¡Oh, Edmundo! –exclamó Lucía y empezó a llorar. Pedro se quedó de pie dando la espalda a los demás y mirando el mar en la lejanía. Los castores permanecieron apoyados en sus garras, con las cabezas gachas. Los centauros, inquietos, rascaban el suelo con las pezuñas. Al fin todos se quedaron tan inmóviles que podían escucharse aun los sonidos más leves, como el zumbido de una abeja que pasó volando, o los pájaros allá abajo, en el bosque, o el viento que movía suavemente las hojas. La conversación entre Aslan y la Bruja continuaba todavía... Por fin se escuchó la voz de Aslan. –Pueden volver –dijo–. He arreglado este asunto. Ella renuncia a reclamar la sangre de Edmundo. En la cumbre de la colina se escuchó un ruido como si todos hubieran estado con la respiración contenida y ahora comenzaran a respirar nuevamente, y luego el murmullo de una conversación. Los presentes empezaron a acercarse al trono de Aslan. La Bruja ya se daba la vuelta para alejarse de allí con una expresión de feroz alegría en el rostro, cuando de pronto se detuvo y dijo: –¿Cómo sabré que la promesa será cumplida? _–¡Grrrr!_ –gruñó Aslan, levantándose de su trono. Su boca se abrió más y más grande y el gruñido creció y creció. La Bruja, después de mirarlo por un instante con sus labios entreabiertos, recogió sus largas faldas y corrió para salvar su vida. ## CAPÍTULO 14 ## EL TRIUNFO DE LA BRUJA EN CUANTO LA BRUJA SE ALEJÓ, ASLAN dijo: –Debemos dejar este lugar de inmediato porque será ocupado en otros asuntos. Esta noche tendremos que acampar en los Vados de Beruna. Por supuesto, todos se morían por preguntarle cómo había arreglado las cosas con la Bruja; pero el rostro de Aslan se veía muy severo y en todos los oídos aún resonaba su rugido, de manera que nadie se atrevió a preguntar nada. Después de un almuerzo al aire libre, en la cumbre de la colina (el sol era ya muy fuerte y secaba el pasto), bajaron la bandera y se preocuparon de empacar sus cosas. Antes de las dos ya marchaban en dirección noreste. Iban a paso lento, pues no tenían que llegar muy lejos. Durante la primera parte del viaje, Aslan explicó a Pedro su plan de campaña. –En cuanto termine lo que tiene que hacer en estos lugares –dijo–, es casi seguro que la Bruja, con su banda, regresará a su casa y se preparará para el asedio. Ustedes pueden ser o no ser capaces de atajarla y de impedir que ella alcance sus propósitos. Luego el León trazó dos planes de batalla: uno para luchar con la Bruja y sus partidarios en el bosque y otro para asaltar su castillo. Pero, a la vez, continuamente aconsejaba a Pedro acerca de la forma de conducir las operaciones con frases como éstas: "Tienes que situar a los centauros en tal y tal lugar" o "Debes disponer vigías para observar que ella no haga tal cosa", hasta que por fin Pedro dijo: –Usted estará ahí con nosotros, Aslan, ¿verdad? –No puedo prometer nada al respecto –contestó el León, y continuó con sus instrucciones. En la última parte del viaje, Lucía y Susana fueron las que estuvieron más cerca de él. Aslan no habló mucho y a ellas les pareció que estaba triste. La tarde no había concluido aún cuando llegaron a un lugar donde el valle se ensanchaba y el río era poco profundo. Eran los Vados de Beruna. Aslan ordenó detenerse antes de cruzar el agua, pero Pedro dijo: –¿No sería mejor acampar en el lado más alejado?... Ella puede intentar un ataque nocturno o cualquier otra cosa. Aslan, que parecía pensar en algo muy diferente, se levantó y, sacudiendo su magnífica melena, preguntó: –¿Eh? ¿Qué dijiste? Pedro repitió todo de nuevo. –No –dijo Aslan con voz apagada, como si se tratara de algo sin importancia–. No. Ella no atacará esta noche. –Entonces suspiró profundamente y agregó–: De todos modos, pensaste bien. Ésa es la manera en la que un soldado debe pensar. Pero eso no importa ahora, realmente. Entonces procedieron a instalar el campamento. La melancolía de Aslan los afectó a todos aquella tarde. Pedro se sentía inquieto también ante la idea de librar la batalla bajo su propia responsabilidad. La noticia de la posible ausencia de Aslan lo alteró profundamente. La cena de esa noche fue silenciosa. Todos advirtieron cuán diferente había sido la de la noche anterior o incluso el almuerzo de esa mañana. Era como si los buenos tiempos, que recién habían comenzado, estuvieran llegando a su fin. Estos sentimientos afectaron a Susana de tal forma que no pudo conciliar el sueño cuando se fue a acostar. Después de estar tendida contando ovejas y dándose vueltas una y otra vez, oyó que Lucía suspiraba largamente y se acercaba a ella en la oscuridad. –¿Tampoco tú puedes dormir? –le preguntó. –No –dijo Lucía–. Pensaba que tú estabas dormida. ¿Sabes...? –¿Qué? –Tengo un presentimiento horroroso..., como si algo estuviera suspendido sobre nosotros... –A mí me pasa lo mismo... –Es sobre Aslan –continuó Lucía–. Algo horrible le va a suceder, o él va a tener que hacer una cosa terrible. –A él le sucede algo malo. Toda la tarde ha estado raro –dijo Susana–. Lucía, ¿qué fue lo que dijo sobre no estar con nosotros en la batalla? ¿Tú crees que se puede escabullir y dejarnos esta noche? –¿Dónde está ahora? –preguntó Lucía–. ¿Está en el pabellón? –No creo. –Susana, vamos afuera y miremos alrededor. Puede que lo veamos. –Está bien. Es lo mejor que podemos hacer en lugar de seguir aquí tendidas y despiertas. En silencio y a tientas, las dos niñas caminaron entre los demás que estaban dormidos y se deslizaron fuera del pabellón. La luz de la luna era brillante y todo estaba en absoluto silencio, excepto el río que murmuraba sobre las piedras. De repente Susana cogió el brazo de Lucía y le dijo: –¡Mira! Al otro lado del campamento, donde comenzaban los árboles, vieron al León: caminaba muy despacio y se alejaba de ellos internándose en el bosque. Sin decir una palabra, ambas lo siguieron. Tras él, las niñas subieron una empinada pendiente, fuera del valle del río, y luego torcieron ligeramente a la derecha..., aparentemente por la misma ruta que habían utilizado esa tarde en la marcha desde la colina de la Mesa de Piedra. Una y otra vez él las hizo internarse entre oscuras sombras para volver luego a la pálida luz de la luna, mientras un espeso rocío mojaba sus pies. De alguna manera él se veía diferente del Aslan que ellas conocían. Su cabeza y su cola estaban inclinadas y su paso era lento, como si estuviera muy, muy cansado. Entonces, cuando atravesaban un amplio claro en el que no había sombras que permitieran esconderse, se detuvo y miró a su alrededor. No había una buena razón para huir, así es que las dos niñas fueron hacia él. Cuando se acercaron, Aslan les dijo: –Niñas, niñas, ¿por qué me siguen? –No podíamos dormir –le dijo Lucía, y tuvo la certeza de que no necesitaba decir nada más y que Aslan sabía lo que ellas pensaban. –Por favor, ¿podemos ir con usted, dondequiera que vaya? –rogó Susana. –Bueno... –dijo Aslan, mientras parecía reflexionar. Entonces agregó–: Me gustaría mucho tener compañía esta noche. Sí; pueden venir si me prometen detenerse cuando yo se lo diga y, después, dejarme continuar solo. –¡Oh! ¡Gracias, gracias! Se lo prometemos –dijeron las dos niñas. Siguieron adelante, cada una a un lado del León. Pero ¡qué lento era su caminar! Llevaba su gran y real cabeza tan inclinada que su nariz casi tocaba el pasto. Incluso tropezó y emitió un fuerte quejido. –¡Aslan! ¡Querido Aslan! –dijo Lucía–. ¿Qué pasa? ¿Por qué no nos cuenta lo que sucede? –¿Está enfermo, querido Aslan? –preguntó Susana. –No –dijo Aslan–. Estoy triste y abatido. Pongan las manos en mi melena para que pueda sentir que están cerca de mí y caminemos. Entonces las niñas hicieron lo que jamás se habrían atrevido a hacer sin su permiso, pero que anhelaban desde que lo conocieron: hundieron sus manos frías en ese hermoso mar de pelo y lo acariciaron suavemente; así, continuaron la marcha junto a él. Momentos después advirtieron que subían la ladera de la colina en la cual estaba la Mesa de Piedra. Iban por el lado en el que los árboles estaban cada vez más separados a medida que se ascendía. Cuando estuvieron junto al último árbol (era uno a cuyo alrededor crecían algunos arbustos), Aslan se detuvo y dijo: –¡Oh niñas, niñas! Aquí deben quedarse. Pase lo que pase, no se dejen ver. Adiós. Las dos niñas lloraron amargamente (sin saber en realidad por qué), abrazaron al León y besaron su melena, su nariz, sus manos y sus grandes ojos tristes. Luego él se alejó de ellas y subió a la cima de la colina. Lucía y Susana se escondieron detrás de los arbustos, y esto fue lo que vieron. Una gran multitud rodeaba la Mesa de Piedra y, aunque la luna resplandecía, muchos de los que allí estaban sostenían antorchas que ardían con llamas rojas y demoníacas y despedían humo negro. Pero ¡qué clase de gente había allí! Ogros con dientes monstruosos, lobos, hombres con cabezas de toro, espíritus de árboles malvados y de plantas venenosas y otras criaturas que no voy a describir porque, si lo hiciera, probablemente los adultos no permitirían que ustedes leyeran este libro... Eran sanguinarias, aterradoras, demoníacas, fantasmales, horrendas, espectrales. En efecto, ahí se encontraban reunidos todos los que estaban de parte de la Bruja, aquellos que el Lobo había convocado obedeciendo la orden dada por ella. Justo al centro, de pie cerca de la Mesa, estaba la Bruja en persona. Un aullido y una algarabía espantosa surgieron de la multitud cuando aquellos horribles seres vieron que el León avanzaba paso a paso hacia ellos. Por un momento, la misma Bruja pareció paralizada por el miedo. Pronto se recobró y lanzó una carcajada salvaje. –¡El idiota! –gritó–. ¡El idiota ha venido! ¡Átenlo de inmediato! Susana y Lucía, sin respirar, esperaron el rugido de Aslan y su salto para atacar a sus enemigos. Pero nada de eso se produjo. Cuatro hechiceras, con horribles muecas y miradas salvajes, aunque también (al principio) vacilantes y algo asustadas de lo que debían hacer, se aproximaron a él. –¡Átenlo, les digo! –repitió la Bruja. Las hechiceras le arrojaron un dardo y chillaron triunfantes al ver que no oponía resistencia. Luego otros –enanos y monos malvados– corrieron a ayudarlas, y entre todos enrollaron una cuerda alrededor del inmenso León y amarraron sus cuatro patas juntas. Gritaban y aplaudían como si hubieran realizado un acto de valentía, aunque con sólo una de sus garras el León podría haberlos matado a todos si lo hubiera querido. Pero no hizo ni un solo ruido, ni siquiera cuando los enemigos, con terrible violencia, tiraron de las cuerdas en tal forma que éstas penetraron su carne. Por último comenzaron a arrastrarlo hacia la Mesa de Piedra. –¡Alto! –dijo la Bruja–. ¡Que se le corte el pelo primero! Otro coro de risas malvadas surgió de la multitud cuando un ogro se acercó con un par de tijeras y se agachó al lado de la cabeza de Aslan. _Snip-Snip-Snip_ sonaron las tijeras y los rizos dorados comenzaron a caer y a amontonarse en el suelo. El ogro se echó hacia atrás, y las niñas, que observaban desde su escondite, pudieron ver la cara de Aslan, tan pequeña y diferente sin su melena. Los enemigos también se percataron de la diferencia. –¡Miren, no es más que un gato grande, después de todo! –gritó uno. –¿De _eso_ estábamos asustados? –dijo otro. Y todos rodearon a Aslan y se burlaron de él con frases como "Misu, misu. Pobre gatita", "¿Cuántos ratones cazaste hoy, gato?" o "¿Quieres un platito de leche?". –¡Oh! ¿Cómo pueden? –dijo Lucía mientras las lágrimas corrían por sus mejillas–. ¡Qué salvajes, qué salvajes! Pero ahora que el primer impacto ante su vista estaba superado, la cara desnuda de Aslan le pareció más valiente, más bella y más paciente que nunca. –¡Pónganle un bozal! –ordenó la Bruja. Incluso en ese momento, mientras ellos se afanaban junto a su cara para ponerle el bozal, un mordisco de sus mandíbulas les hubiera costado las manos a dos o tres de ellos. Pero no se movió. Esto pareció enfurecer a esa chusma. Ahora todos estaban frente a él. Aquellos que tenían miedo de acercarse, aun después de que el León quedó limitado por las cuerdas que lo ataban, comenzaron ahora a envalentonarse y en pocos minutos las niñas ya no pudieron verlo siquiera. Una inmensa muchedumbre lo rodeaba estrechamente y lo pateaba, lo golpeaba, le escupía y se mofaba de él. Por fin, la chusma pensó que ya era suficiente. Entonces volvieron a arrastrarlo amarrado y amordazado hasta la Mesa de Piedra. Unos empujaban y otros tiraban. Era tan inmenso que, después de haber llegado hasta la Mesa, tuvieron que emplear todas sus fuerzas para alzarlo y colocarlo sobre la superficie. Allí hubo más amarras y las cuerdas se apretaron ferozmente. –¡Cobardes! ¡Cobardes! –sollozó Susana–. ¡Todavía le tienen miedo, incluso ahora! Una vez que Aslan estuvo atado (y tan atado que realmente estaba convertido en una masa de cuerdas) sobre la piedra, un súbito silencio reinó entre la multitud. Cuatro hechiceras, sosteniendo cuatro antorchas, se instalaron en las esquinas de la Mesa. La Bruja desnudó sus brazos, tal como los había desnudado la noche anterior ante Edmundo en lugar de Aslan. Luego procedió a afilar su cuchillo. Cuando la tenue luz de las antorchas cayó sobre éste, las niñas pensaron que era un cuchillo de piedra en vez de acero. Su forma era extraña y diabólica. Finalmente, ella se acercó y se situó junto a la cabeza de Aslan. La cara de la Bruja estaba crispada de furor y de pasión; Aslan miraba el cielo, siempre quieto, sin demostrar enojo ni miedo, sino tan sólo un poco de tristeza. Entonces, unos momentos antes de asestar la estocada final, la Bruja se detuvo y dijo con voz temblorosa: –Y ahora ¿quién ganó? Idiota, ¿pensaste que con esto tú salvarías a ese humano traidor? Ahora te mataré a ti en lugar de a él, como lo pactamos, y así la Magia Profunda se apaciguará. Pero cuando tú hayas muerto, ¿qué me impedirá matarlo también a él? ¿Quién podrá arrebatarlo de mis manos entonces? Tú me has entregado Narnia para siempre. Has perdido tu propia vida y no has salvado la de él. Ahora que ya sabes esto, ¡desespérate y muere! Las dos niñas no vieron el momento preciso de la muerte. No podían soportar esa visión y cubrieron sus ojos. ## CAPÍTULO 15 ## MAGIA PROFUNDA ANTERIOR AL AMANECER DEL TIEMPO LAS NIÑAS AÚN PERMANECÍAN escondidas entre los arbustos, con las manos en la cara, cuando escucharon la voz de la Bruja que llamaba: –¡Ahora! ¡Síganme! Emprenderemos las últimas batallas de esta guerra. No nos costará mucho aplastar a esos insectos humanos y al traidor, ahora que el gran Idiota, el gran Gato, yace muerto. En ese momento, y por unos pocos segundos, las niñas estuvieron en gran peligro. Toda esa vil multitud, con gritos salvajes y un ruido enloquecedor de trompetas y cuernos que sonaban chillones y penetrantes, marchó desde la cima de la colina y bajó la ladera justo por el lado de su escondite. Las niñas sintieron a los Espectros que, como viento helado, pasaban muy cerca de ellas; también sintieron que la tierra temblaba bajo el galope de los Minotauros. Sobre sus cabezas se agitaron, como en una ráfaga de alas asquerosas, buitres muy negros y murciélagos gigantes. En cualquier otra ocasión ellas habrían muerto de miedo, pero ahora la tristeza, la vergüenza y el horror de la muerte de Aslan invadían sus mentes de tal modo que difícilmente podían pensar en otra cosa. Apenas el bosque estuvo de nuevo en silencio, Susana y Lucía se deslizaron hacia la colina. La luna alumbraba cada vez menos y ligeras nubes pasaban sobre ellas, pero aún las niñas pudieron ver los contornos del gran León muerto con todas sus ataduras. Ambas se arrodillaron sobre el pasto húmedo, y besaron su cara helada y su linda piel –lo que quedaba de ella– y lloraron hasta que las lágrimas se les agotaron. Entonces se miraron, se tomaron de las manos en un gesto de profunda soledad y lloraron nuevamente. Otra vez se hizo presente el silencio. Al fin Lucía dijo: –No soporto mirar ese horrible bozal. ¿Podremos quitárselo? Trataron. Después de mucho esfuerzo (porque sus manos estaban heladas y era ya la hora más oscura de la noche) lo lograron. Cuando vieron su cara sin las amarras, estallaron otra vez en llanto. Lo besaron, le limpiaron la sangre y los espumarajos lo mejor que pudieron. Todo fue mucho más horrible, solitario y sin esperanza, de lo que yo pueda describir. –¿Podremos desatarlo también? –dijo Susana. Pero los enemigos, llevados sólo por su feroz maldad, habían amarrado las cuerdas tan apretadamente que las niñas no lograron deshacer los nudos. Espero que ninguno que lea este libro haya sido tan desdichado como lo eran Lucía y Susana esa noche; pero si ustedes lo han sido –si han estado levantados toda una noche y llorado hasta agotar las lágrimas–, ustedes sabrán que al final sobreviene una cierta quietud. Uno siente como si nada fuera a suceder nunca más. De cualquier modo, ése era el sentimiento de las dos niñas. Parecía que pasaban las horas en esa calma mortal sin que se dieran cuenta de que estaban cada vez más heladas. Pero, finalmente, Lucía advirtió dos cosas. La primera fue que hacia el lado este de la colina estaba un poco menos oscuro que una hora antes. Y lo segundo fue un suave movimiento que había en el pasto a sus pies. Al comienzo no le prestó mayor atención. ¿Qué importaba? ¡Nada importaba ya! Pero pronto vio que eso, fuese lo que fuese, comenzaba a subir a la Mesa de Piedra. Y ahora –fuesen lo que fuesen– se movían cerca del cuerpo de Aslan. Se acercó y miró con atención. Eran unas pequeñas criaturitas grises. –¡Uf! –gritó Susana desde el otro lado de la Mesa–. Son ratones asquerosos que se arrastran sobre él. ¡Qué horror! Y levantó la mano para espantarlos. –¡Espera! –dijo Lucía, que los miraba fijamente y de más cerca–. ¿Ves lo que están haciendo? Ambas se inclinaron y miraron con atención. –¡No lo puedo creer! –dijo Susana–. ¡Qué extraño! ¡Están royendo las cuerdas! –Eso fue lo que pensé –dijo Lucía–. Creo que son ratones amigos. Pobres pequeñitos..., no se dan cuenta de que está muerto. Ellos piensan que hacen algo bueno al desatarlo. Estaba mucho más claro ya. Las niñas advirtieron entonces cuán pálidos se veían sus rostros. También pudieron ver que los ratones roían y roían; eran docenas y docenas, quizás cientos de pequeños ratones silvestres. Al fin, uno por uno todos los cordeles estaban roídos de principio a fin. Hacia el este, el cielo aclaraba y las estrellas se apagaban... todas, excepto una muy grande y muy baja en el horizonte, al oriente. En ese momento ellas sintieron más frío que en toda la noche. Los ratones se alejaron sin hacer ruido, y Susana y Lucía retiraron los restos de las cuerdas. Sin las ataduras, Aslan parecía más él mismo. Cada minuto que pasaba, su rostro se veía más noble y, como la luz del día aumentaba, las niñas pudieron observarlo mejor. Tras ellas, en el bosque, un pájaro gorjeó. El silencio había sido tan absoluto por horas y horas, que ese sonido las sorprendió. De inmediato otro pájaro contestó y muy pronto hubo cantos y trinos por todas partes. Definitivamente era de madrugada; la noche había quedado atrás. –Tengo tanto frío –dijo Lucía. –Yo también –dijo Susana–. Caminemos un poco. Caminaron hacia el lado este de la colina y miraron hacia abajo. La gran estrella casi había desaparecido. Todo el campo se veía gris oscuro, pero más allá, en el mismo fin del mundo, el mar se mostraba pálido. El cielo comenzó a teñirse de rojo. Para evitar el frío, las niñas caminaron de un lado para otro, entre el lugar donde yacía Aslan y el lado oriental de la cumbre de la colina, más veces de lo que pudieron contar. Pero ¡oh, qué cansadas sentían las piernas! Se detuvieron por unos instantes y miraron hacia el mar y hacia Cair Paravel (que recién ahora podían descubrir). Poco a poco el rojo del cielo se transformó en dorado a todo lo largo de la línea en la que el cielo y el mar se encuentran, y muy lentamente asomó el borde del sol. En ese momento las niñas escucharon tras ellas un ruido estrepitoso..., un gran estallido..., un sonido ensordecedor, como si un gigante hubiera roto un vidrio gigante. –¿Qué fue eso? –preguntó Lucía, apretando el brazo de su hermana. –Me da miedo darme la vuelta –dijo Susana–. Algo horrible sucede. –¡Están haciéndole algo todavía peor a _él_ –dijo Lucía–. ¡Vamos! Se dio la vuelta y arrastró a Susana con ella. Todo se veía tan diferente con la salida del sol –los colores y las sombras habían cambiado–, que por un momento no vieron lo que era importante. Pero pronto, sí: la Mesa de Piedra estaba partida en dos; una gran hendidura la cruzaba de un extremo a otro. Y allí no estaba Aslan. –¡Oh, oh! –gritaron las dos niñas, corriendo velozmente hacia la Mesa. –¡Esto es demasiado malo! –sollozó Lucía–. No debieron haberse llevado el cuerpo... –Pero ¿quién hizo esto? –lloró Susana–. ¿Qué significa? ¿Será magia otra vez? –Sí –dijo una voz fuerte a sus espaldas–. Es más magia. Se dieron la vuelta. Ahí, brillando al sol, más grande que nunca y agitando su melena (que aparentemente había vuelto a crecer), estaba Aslan en persona. –¡Oh Aslan! –gritaron las dos niñas, mirandolo con ojos dilatados de asombro y casi tan asustadas como contentas. –Entonces no está muerto, querido Aslan –dijo Lucía. –Ahora no. –No es... no es un... –preguntó Susana con voz vacilante, sin atreverse a pronunciar la palabra _fantssna_. Aslan inclinó la cabeza y con su lengua acarició la frente de la niña. El calor de su aliento y un agradable olor que parecía desprenderse de su pelo, la invadieron. –¿Lo parezco? –preguntó. –¡Es real! ¡Es real! ¡Oh Aslan! –gritó Lucía, y ambas niñas se abalanzaron sobre él y lo besaron. –Pero ¿qué quiere decir todo esto? –preguntó Susana cuando se calmaron un poco. –Quiere decir –dijo Aslan– que, a pesar de que la Bruja conocía la Magia Profunda, hay una magia más profunda aún que ella no conoce. Su saber se remonta sólo hasta el amanecer del tiempo. Pero si a ella le hubiera sido posible mirar más hacia atrás, en la oscuridad y la quietud, antes de que el tiempo amaneciera, hubiese podido leer allí un encantamiento diferente. Y habría sabido que cuando una víctima voluntaria, que no ha cometido traición, es ejecutada en lugar de un traidor, la Mesa se quiebra y la muerte misma comienza a trabajar hacia atrás. Y ahora... –¡Oh, sí!, ¿ahora? –exclamó Lucía, saltando y aplaudiendo. –Niñas –dijo el León–, siento que la fuerza vuelve a mí. ¡Niñas, alcáncenme si pueden! Permaneció inmóvil por unos instantes, sus ojos iluminados y sus extremidades palpitantes, y se azotó a sí mismo con su cola. Luego saltó muy alto sobre las cabezas de las niñas y aterrizó al otro lado de la Mesa. Riendo, aunque sin saber por qué, Lucía corrió para alcanzarlo. Aslan saltó otra vez y comenzó una loca cacería que las hizo correr, siempre tras él, alrededor de la colina una y mil veces. Tan pronto no les daba esperanzas de alcanzarlo como permitía que ellas casi agarraran su cola; pasaba veloz entre las niñas, las sacudía en el aire con sus fuertes, bellas y aterciopeladas garras o se detenía inesperadamente de manera que los tres rodaban felices y reían en una confusión de piel, brazos y piernas. Era una clase de juego y de saltos que nadie ha practicado jamás fuera de Narnia. Lucía no podía determinar a qué se parecía más todo esto: si a jugar con una tempestad de truenos o con un gatito. Lo más extraño fue que cuando terminaron jadeantes al sol, las niñas no sintieron ni el más mínimo cansancio, sed o hambre. –Ahora –dijo luego Aslan–, a trabajar. Siento que voy a rugir. Sería mejor que se pongan los dedos en la oídos. Así lo hicieron. Aslan se puso de pie y cuando abrió la boca para rugir, su cara adquirió una expresión tan terrible que ellas no se atrevieron a mirarlo. Vieron, en cambio, que todos los árboles frente a él se inclinaban ante el ventarrón de su rugido, como el pasto de una pradera se dobla al paso del viento. Luego dijo: –Tenemos una larga caminata por delante. Ustedes irán montadas en mi lomo. Se agachó y las niñas se instalaron sobre su cálida y dorada piel. Susana iba adelante, agarrada firmemente de la melena del León. Lucía se acomodó atrás y se aferró a Susana. Con esfuerzo, Aslan se levantó con toda su carga y salió disparado colina abajo y, más rápido de lo que ningún caballo hubiera podido, se introdujo en la profundidad del bosque. Para Lucía y Susana esa cabalgata fue, probablemente, lo más bello que les ocurrió en Narnia. Ustedes, ¿han galopado a caballo alguna vez? Piensen en ello; luego quítenle el pesado ruido de los cascos y el retintín de los arneses e imaginen, en cambio, el galope blando, casi sin ruido, de las grandes patas de un león. Después, en lugar del duro lomo gris o negro del caballo, trasládense a la suave aspereza de la piel dorada y vean la melena que vuela al viento. Luego imaginen que ustedes van dos veces más rápido que el más veloz de los caballos de carrera. Y, además, éste es un animal que no necesita ser guiado y que jamás se cansa. Él corre y corre, nunca tropieza, nunca vacila; continúa siempre su camino y, con habilidad perfecta, sortea los troncos de los árboles, salta los arbustos, las zarzas y los pequeños arroyos, vadea los esteros y nada para cruzar los grandes ríos. Y ustedes no cabalgan en un camino, ni en un parque, ni siquiera por las colinas, sino a través de Narnia, en primavera, bajo imponentes avenidas de hayas, y cruzan asoleados claros en medio de bosques de encinas, cubiertos de principio a fin de orquídeas silvestres y guindos de flores blancas como la nieve. Y galopan junto a ruidosas cascadas de agua, rocas cubiertas de musgos y cavernas en las que resuena el eco; suben laderas con fuertes vientos, cruzan las cumbres de montañas cubiertas de brezos, corren vertiginosamente a través de ásperas lomas y bajan, y bajan, y bajan otra vez hasta llegar al valle silvestre para recorrer enormes superficies de flores azules. Era cerca del mediodía cuando llegaron hasta un precipicio, frente a un castillo –un castillo que parecía de juguete desde el lugar en que se encontraban– con una infinidad de torres puntiagudas. El León siguió su carrera hacia abajo, a una velocidad increíble, que aumentaba cada minuto. Antes de que las niñas alcanzaran a preguntarse qué era, estaban ya al nivel del castillo. Ahora no les pareció de juguete sino, más bien, una fortaleza amenazante que se elevaba frente a ellas. No se veía rostro alguno sobre los muros almenados y las rejas estaban firmemente cerradas. Aslan, sin disminuir en absoluto su paso, corrió directo como una bala hacia el castillo. –¡La casa de la Bruja! –gritó–. Ahora, ¡afírmense fuerte, niñas! En los momentos que siguieron, el mundo entero pareció girar al revés y las niñas experimentaron una sensación que era como si sus espíritus hubieran quedado atrás, porque el León, replegándose sobre sí mismo por un instante para tomar impulso, dio el brinco más grande de su vida y saltó –ustedes pueden decir que voló, en lugar de saltó– sobre la muralla que rodeaba el castillo. Las dos niñas, sin respiración pero sanas y salvas en el lomo del León, cayeron en el centro de un enorme patio lleno de estatuas. ## CAPÍTULO 16 ## LO QUE SUCEDIÓ CON LAS ESTATUAS –¡QUÉ LUGAR TAN EXTRAORDINARIO! –gritó Lucía–. Todos estos animales de piedra... y gente también. Es... es como un museo. –¡Cállate! –le dijo Susana–. Aslan está haciendo algo. En efecto, él había saltado hacia el león de piedra y sopló sobre él. Sin esperar un instante, giró violentamente –casi como si fuera un gato que caza su cola– y sopló también sobre el enano de piedra, el cual (como ustedes recuerdan) se encontraba a pocos pies del león, de espaldas a él. Luego se volvió con igual rapidez a la derecha para enfrentarse con un conejo de piedra y corrió de inmediato hacia dos centauros. En ese momento, Lucía dijo: –¡Oh, Susana! ¡Mira! ¡Mira al león! Supongo que ustedes habrán visto a alguien acercar un fósforo encendido a un extremo de un periódico, y luego colocarlo sobre el enrejado de una chimenea apagada. Por un segundo parece que no ha sucedido nada, pero de pronto ustedes advierten una pequeña llama crepitante que recorre todo el borde del periódico. Lo que sucedió ahora fue algo similar: un segundo después de que Aslan sopló sobre el león de piedra, éste se veía aún igual que antes. Pero luego un pequeño rayo de oro comenzó a bajar por su blanco y marmóreo lomo..., el rayo se esparció..., el color dorado recorrió completamente su cuerpo, como la llama lame todo un pedazo de papel... y, mientras sus patas traseras eran todavía de piedra, el león agitó la melena y toda la pesada y pétrea envoltura se transformó en ondas de pelo vivo. Entonces, en un prodigioso bostezo, abrió una gran boca roja y vigorosa... y luego sus patas traseras también volvieron a vivir. Levantó una de ellas y se rascó. En ese momento divisó a Aslan y se abalanzó sobre él, saltando de alegría y, con un sollozo de felicidad, le dio lengüetazos en la cara. Las niñas lo siguieron con la vista, pero el espectáculo que se presentó ante sus ojos fue tan portentoso que olvidaron al león. Las estatuas cobraban vida por doquier. El patio ya no parecía un museo, sino más bien un zoo. Las criaturas más increíbles corrían detrás de Aslan y bailaban a su alrededor, hasta que él casi desapareció en medio de la multitud. En lugar de un blanco de muerte, el patio era ahora una llamarada de colores: el lustroso color castaño de los centauros; el azul índigo de los unicornios; los deslumbrantes plumajes de las aves; el café rojizo de zorros, perros y sátiros; el amarillo de los calcetines y el carmesí de las capuchas de los enanos. Y las niñas-abedul recobraron el color de la plata, las niñas-haya un fresco y transparente verde, las niñas-alerce un verde tan brillante que era casi un amarillo... Y en vez del antiguo silencio de muerte, el lugar entero retumbaba con el sonido de felices rugidos, rebuznos, gañidos, ladridos, chillidos, arrullos, relinchos, pataleos, aclamaciones, hurras, canciones y risas. –¡Oh! –exclamó Susana en un tono diferente–. ¡Mira! Me pregunto..., quiero decir, ¿no será peligroso? Lucía miró y vio que Aslan acababa de soplar en el pie del gigante de piedra. –No teman, todo está bien –dijo Aslan alegremente–. Una vez que las piernas le funcionen, todo el resto seguirá. –No era eso exactamente lo que yo quería decir –susurró Susana al oído de Lucía. Pero ya era muy tarde para hacer algo; ni siquiera si Aslan la hubiera escuchado. El rayo ya trepaba por las piernas del Gigante. Ahora movía sus pies. Un momento más tarde, levantó la porra que apoyaba en uno de sus hombros y se restregó los ojos. –¡Bendito de mí! Debo de haber estado durmiendo. Y ahora, ¿dónde se encuentra esa pequeña Bruja horrible que corría por el suelo? Estaba en alguna parte..., justo a mis pies. Cuando todos le gritaron para explicarle lo que realmente había sucedido, el Gigante puso la mano en el oído y les hizo repetir todo de nuevo hasta que al fin entendió; entonces se agachó y su cabeza quedó a la altura de un almiar. Llevó la mano a su gorro repetidamente ante Aslan, con una sonrisa radiante que llenaba toda su fea y honesta cara (los gigantes de cualquier tipo son ahora tan escasos en Inglaterra y más aún aquellos de buen carácter, que les apuesto diez a uno a que ustedes jamás han visto un gigante con una sonrisa radiante en su rostro. Es un espectáculo que bien vale la pena contemplar). –¡Ahora! ¡Entremos en la casa! –dijo Aslan–. ¡Dense prisa, todos! ¡Arriba, abajo y en la cámara de la señora! No dejen ningún rincón sin escudriñar. Nunca se sabe dónde pueden haber ocultado a un pobre prisionero. Todos corrieron al interior de la casa. Y por varios minutos, en ese negro, horrible y húmedo castillo que olía a cerrado, resonó el ruido del abrir de las puertas y ventanas y de miles de voces que gritaban al mismo tiempo: –¡No olviden los calabozos! –¡Ayúdenme con esta puerta! –¡Encontré otra escalera de caracol! –¡Oh, aquí hay un pobre canguro pequeñito! –¡Puf! ¡Cómo huele aquí! –¡Cuidado al abrir las puertas! ¡Pueden caer en una trampa! –¡Aquí! ¡Suban! ¡En el descanso de la escalera hay varios más! Pero lo mejor de todo sucedió cuando Lucía corrió escaleras arriba gritando: –¡Aslan! ¡Aslan! ¡Encontré al señor Tumnus! ¡Oh, venga rápido! Momentos más tarde el pequeño Fauno y Lucía, tomados de la mano, bailaban y bailaban de felicidad. El Fauno no parecía mayormente afectado por haber sido una estatua; en cambio, estaba muy interesado en todo lo que la niña tenía que contarle. Pero al fin terminó el registro de la fortaleza de la Bruja. El castillo quedó completamente vacío, con las puertas y ventanas abiertas, y todos aquellos rincones oscuros y siniestros fueron invadidos por esa luz y ese aire de la primavera que requerían con tanta urgencia. De vuelta en el patio, la multitud de estatuas liberadas se agitó. Fue entonces cuando alguien (creo que Tumnus) preguntó primero: –Pero ¿cómo vamos a salir de aquí? Porque Aslan había entrado de un salto y las puertas estaban todavía cerradas. –Todo irá bien –dijo Aslan; se levantó sobre sus patas traseras y gritó al Gigante–: ¡Oye, tú! ¡Allá arriba! ¿Cómo te llamas? –Gigante Rumblebuffin, su señoría –dijo el Gigante, llevando la mano a la gorra una vez más. –Bien, Gigante Rumblebuffin –dijo Aslan–. ¿Podrás sacarnos de este lugar? –Por supuesto, su señoría, será un placer –contestó el Gigante–. ¡Apártense de las puertas todos ustedes, pequeños! Se aproximó de una zancada hasta las rejas y les dio un golpe..., otro golpe..., y otro golpe con su enorme porra. Al primer golpazo, las puertas rechinaron; al segundo, se rompieron estrepitosamente; y al tercero, se hicieron astillas. Entonces el Gigante embistió contra las torres, a cada lado de las puertas, y, después de unos minutos de violentos estrellones y sordos golpes, ambas torres y un buen pedazo de muralla cayeron estruendosamente convertidas en una masa de desechos y de piedras inservible; y cuando la polvareda se dispersó y el aire se aclaró, para todos fue muy raro encontrarse allí, en medio de ese seco y horrible patio de piedra y ver, a través del boquete, el pasto, los árboles ondulantes, los espumosos arroyos del bosque, las montañas azules más atrás y, más allá de todo, el cielo. –Estoy completamente bañado en sudor –dijo entonces el Gigante–. Creo que no estaba en muy buenas condiciones físicas. ¿Alguna de las damas tendrá algo así como un pañuelo? –Yo tengo uno –dijo Lucía, empinándose en la punta de sus pies y alzando el pañuelo tan alto como pudo. –Gracias, señorita –dijo el Gigante Rumblebuffin, agachándose. Y siguió un momento más bien inquietante para Lucía, pues se vio suspendida en el aire, entre el pulgar y los demás dedos del Gigante. Pero cuando ella se encontró cerca de su enorme cara, éste se detuvo repentinamente y, con toda suavidad, volvió a dejarla en el suelo. –¡Bendito! ¡He levantado a la niña! Perdóneme señorita, creí que _era_ el pañuelo. –¡No, no! –dijo Lucía, riendo–. ¡Aquí está el pañuelo! Esta vez el Gigante se las arregló para tomarlo sin equivocarse; pero, para él, un pañuelo era del mismo tamaño que una pastilla de sacarina para ustedes. Por eso, cuando Lucía vio que, con toda solemnidad, él frotaba su gran cara roja una y otra vez, le dijo: –Temo que ese pañuelo no le servirá de nada, señor Rumblebuffin. –De ninguna manera. De ninguna manera –dijo el Gigante cortésmente–. Es el mejor pañuelo que jamás he tenido. Tan fino, tan útil... No sé cómo describirlo. –¡Qué gigante tan encantador! –dijo Lucía al señor Tumnus. –¡Ah, sí! –dijo el Fauno–. Todos los Buffins lo han sido siempre. Es una de las familias más respetadas de Narnia. No muy inteligentes quizás (yo nunca he conocido a un gigante que lo sea), pero una antigua familia, con tradiciones..., tú sabes. Si hubiera sido de otra manera, ella nunca lo habría transformado en estatua. En ese momento, Aslan golpeó las garras y pidió silencio. –El trabajo de este día no ha terminado aún –dijo–, y si la Bruja ha de ser derrotada antes de la hora de dormir, tenemos que dar la batalla de inmediato. –Y espero que nos uniremos, señor –agregó el más grande de los centauros. –Por supuesto –dijo Aslan–. ¡Y ahora, atención! Aquellos que no pueden resistir mucho –es decir, niños, enanos y animales pequeños– tienen que cabalgar a lomo de los que sí pueden –o sea, los leones, centauros, unicornios, caballos, gigantes y águilas–. Los que poseen buen olfato, deben ir adelante con nosotros los leones, para descubrir el lugar de la batalla. ¡Ánimo y mucha suerte! Con gran alboroto y vítores, todos se organizaron. El más encantado en medio de esa muchedumbre era el otro león, que corría de un lado para otro aparentando estar muy ocupado, aunque en realidad lo único que hacía era decir a todo el que encontraba a su paso: –¿Oyeron lo que dijo? _N osotros, los leanes_. Eso quiere decir " _él y yo". Nosotros, los leanes_. Eso es lo que me gusta de Aslan. Nada de personalismos, nada de reservas. _N osotros, los leones;_ él y yo. Y siguió diciendo lo mismo mientras Aslan cargaba en su lomo a tres enanos, una dríade, dos conejos y un puerco espín. Esto lo calmó un poco. Cuando todo estuvo preparado (fue un gran perro ovejero el que más ayudó a Aslan a hacerlos salir en el orden apropiado), abandonaron el castillo saliendo a través del boquete de la muralla. Delante iban los leones y los perros, que olfateaban en todas direcciones. De pronto, un gran perro descubrió un rastro y lanzó un ladrido. En un segundo, los perros, los leones, los lobos y otros animales de caza corrieron a toda velocidad con sus narices pegadas a la tierra. El resto, una media milla más atrás, los seguía tan rápido como podía. El ruido se asemejaba al de una cacería de zorros en Inglaterra, sólo que mejor, porque de vez en cuando el sonido de los ladridos se mezclaba con el gruñido del otro león y algunas veces con el del propio Aslan, mucho más profundo y terrible. A medida que el rastro se hacía más y más fácil de seguir, avanzaron más y más rápido. Cuando llegaron a la última curva en un angosto y serpenteante valle, Lucía escuchó, sobre todos esos sonidos, otro sonido... diferente, que le produjo una extraña sensación. Era un ruido como de gritos y chillidos y de choque de metal contra metal. Salieron del estrecho valle y Lucía vio de inmediato la causa de los ruidos. Allí estaban Pedro, Edmundo y todo el resto del ejército de Aslan peleando desesperadamente contra la multitud de criaturas horribles que ella había visto la noche anterior. Sólo que ahora, a la luz del día, se veían más extrañas, más malvadas y más deformes. También parecían ser muchísimo más numerosas que ellos. El ejército de Aslan –que daba la espalda a Lucía– era dramáticamente pequeño. En todas partes, salpicadas sobre el campo de batalla, había estatuas, lo que hacía pensar en que la Bruja había usado su vara. Pero no parecía utilizarla en ese momento. Ella luchaba con su cuchillo de piedra. Luchaba con Pedro... Ambos atacaban con tal violencia que difícilmente Lucía podía vislumbrar lo que pasaba. Sólo veía que el cuchillo de piedra y la espada de Pedro se movían tan rápido que parecían tres cuchillos y tres espadas. Los dos contrincantes estaban en el centro. A ambos lados se extendían las líneas defensivas y dondequiera que la niña mirara sucedían cosas horribles. –¡Desmonten de mi espalda, niñas! –gritó Aslan. Las dos saltaron al suelo. Entonces, con un rugido que estremeció todo Narnia, desde el farol de occidente hasta las playas del mar de oriente, el enorme animal se arrojó sobre la Bruja Blanca. Por un segundo Lucía vio que ella levantaba su rostro hacia él con una expresión de terror y de asombro. El León y la Bruja cayeron juntos, pero la Bruja quedó bajo él. Y en ese mismo instante todas las criaturas guerreras que Aslan había guiado desde el castillo se abalanzaron furiosamente contra las líneas enemigas: enanos con sus hachas de batalla, perros con feroces dientes, el Gigante con su porra (sus pies también aplastaron a docenas de enemigos), unicornios con su cuerno, centauros con sus espadas y pezuñas... El cansado batallón de Pedro vitoreaba y los recién llegados rugían. El enemigo, hecho un guirigay, lanzó alaridos hasta que el bosque respondió el eco con el ruido ensordecedor de esa embestida. ## CAPÍTULO 17 ## LA CAZA DEL CIERVO BLANCO LA BATALLA TERMINÓ POCOS MINUTOS después de que ellos llegaron. La mayor parte de los enemigos había muerto en el primer ataque de Aslan y sus compañeros; y cuando los que aún vivían vieron que la Bruja estaba muerta, se entregaron o huyeron. Lucía vio entonces que Pedro y Aslan se estrechaban las manos. Era extraño para ella mirar a Pedro como lo veía ahora..., su rostro estaba tan pálido y era tan severo que parecía mucho mayor. –Edmundo lo hizo todo, Aslan –decía Pedro en ese momento–. Nos habrían arrasado si no hubiera sido por él. La Bruja estaba convirtiendo nuestras tropas en piedra a derecha y a izquierda. Pero nada pudo detener a Edmundo. Se abrió camino a través de tres ogros hacia el lugar en que ella, en ese preciso momento, convertía a uno de los leopardos en estatua. Cuando la alcanzó, tuvo el buen sentido de apuntar con su espada hacia la vara y la hizo pedazos, en lugar de tratar de atacarla a ella y simplemente quedar convertido él mismo en estatua. Ésa fue la equivocación que cometieron todos los demás. Una vez que su vara fue destruida, comenzamos a tener algunas oportunidades..., si no hubiéramos perdido a tantos ya. Edmundo está terriblemente herido. Debemos ir a verlo. Un poco más atrás de la línea de combate encontraron a Edmundo: lo cuidaba la señora Castora. Estaba cubierto de sangre; tenía la boca abierta y su rostro era de un feo color verdoso. –¡Rápido, Lucía! –llamó Aslan. Entonces, casi por primera vez, Lucía recordó el precioso tónico que le habían obsequiado como regalo de Navidad. Sus manos tiritaban tanto que difícilmente pudo destapar el frasco. Pero se dominó al fin y dejó caer unas pocas gotas en la boca de su hermano. –Hay otros heridos –dijo Aslan, mientras ella aún miraba ansiosamente el pálido rostro de Edmundo para comprobar si el remedio hacía algún efecto. –Sí, ya lo sé –dijo Lucía con tono molesto–. Espere un minuto. –Hija de Eva –dijo Aslan severamente–, otros también están a punto de morir. ¿Es necesario que muera _más_ gente por Edmundo? –Perdóneme, Aslan –dijo Lucía, y se levantó para salir con él. Durante la media hora siguiente estuvieron muy ocupados..., la niña atendía a los heridos, mientras él revivía a aquellos que estaban convertidos en piedra. Cuando por fin ella pudo regresar junto a Edmundo, lo encontró de pie, no sólo curado de sus heridas: se veía mejor de lo que ella lo había visto en años; en efecto, desde el primer semestre en aquel horrible colegio, había empezado a andar mal. Ahora era de nuevo lo que siempre había sido y podía mirar de frente otra vez. Y allí, en el campo de batalla, Aslan lo invistió caballero. –¿Sabrá Edmundo –susurró Lucía a Susana– lo que Aslan hizo por él? ¿Sabrá realmente en qué consistió el acuerdo con la Bruja? –¡Cállate! No. Por supuesto que no –dijo Susana. –¿No debería saberlo? –preguntó Lucía. –¡Oh, no! Seguro que no –dijo Susana–. Sería espantoso para él. Piensa en cómo te sentirías tú si fueras él. –De todas maneras creo que debe saberlo –volvió a decir Lucía; pero, en ese momento, las niñas fueron interrumpidas. Esa noche durmieron donde estaban. Cómo Aslan proporcionó comida para ellos, es algo que yo no sé; pero de una manera u otra, cerca de las ocho, todos se encontraron sentados en el pasto ante un gran té. Al día siguiente comenzaron la marcha hacia oriente, bajando por el lado del gran río. Y al otro día, cerca de la hora del té, llegaron a la desembocadura. El castillo de Cair Paravel, en su pequeña loma, sobresalía. Delante de ellos había arenales, rocas, pequeños charcos de agua salada, algas marinas, el olor del mar y largas millas de olas verde-azuladas, que rompían en la playa desde siempre. Y, ¡oh el grito de las gaviotas! ¿Lo han oído ustedes alguna vez? ¿Pueden recordarlo? Esa tarde, después del té, los cuatro niños bajaron de nuevo a la playa y se sacaron los zapatos y los calcetines para sentir la arena entre sus dedos. Pero el día siguiente fue más solemne. Entonces, en el Gran Salón de Cair Paravel –aquel maravilloso salón con techo de marfil, con la puerta del oeste adornada con plumas de pavo real y la puerta del este que se abre directo al mar–, en presencia de todos sus amigos y al sonido de las trompetas, Aslan coronó solemnemente a los cuatro niños y los instaló en los cuatro tronos, en medio de gritos ensordecedores: –¡Que viva por muchos años el rey Pedro! ¡Que viva por muchos años la reina Susana! ¡Que viva por muchos años el rey Edmundo! ¡Que viva por muchos años la reina Lucía! –Una vez rey o reina en Narnia, eres rey o reina para siempre. ¡Séanlo con honor, Hijos de Adán! ¡Séanlo con honor, Hijas de Eva! –dijo Aslan. A través de la puerta del este, que estaba abierta de par en par, llegaron las voces de los tritones y de las sirenas que nadaban cerca del castillo y cantaban en honor de sus nuevos Reyes y Reinas. Los niños sentados en sus tronos, con los cetros en sus manos, otorgaron premios y honores a todos sus amigos: a Tumnus el Fauno, a los Castores, al Gigante Rumblebuffin, a los leopardos, a los buenos centauros, a los buenos enanos y al león. Esa noche hubo un gran festín en Cair Paravel, regocijo, baile, luces de oro, exquisitos vinos... Y como en respuesta a la música que sonaba dentro del castillo, pero más extraña, más dulce y más penetrante, llegaba hasta ellos la música de la gente del mar. Mas en medio de todo este regocijo, Aslan se escabulló calladamente. Cuando los reyes y reinas se dieron cuenta de que él no estaba allí, no dijeron ni una palabra, porque el Castor les había advertido. "Él estará yendo y viniendo", les había dicho. "Un día ustedes lo verán, y otro, no. No le gusta estar atado... y, por supuesto, tiene que atender otros países. Esto es rigurosamente cierto. Aparecerá a menudo. Sólo que ustedes no deben presionarlo. Es salvaje: ustedes lo saben. No es como un león domesticado y dócil." Y ahora, como ustedes verán, esta historia está cerca (pero no enteramente) del final. Los dos reyes y las dos reinas de Narnia gobernaron bien y su reinado fue largo y feliz. En un comienzo, ocuparon la mayor parte del tiempo en buscar y destruir los últimos vestigios del ejército de la Bruja Blanca. Y, ciertamente, por un largo período hubo noticias de perversos sucesos furtivos en los lugares salvajes del bosque...: un fantasma aquí y una matanza allá; un hombre lobo al acecho un mes y el rumor de la aparición de una bruja, el siguiente. Pero al final toda esa pérfida raza se extinguió. Entonces ellos dictaron buenas leyes, conservaron la paz, salvaron a los árboles buenos de ser cortados innecesariamente, liberaron a los enanos y a los sátiros jóvenes de ser enviados a la escuela y, por lo general, detuvieron a los entrometidos y a los aficionados a interferir en todo, y animaron a la gente común que quería vivir y dejar vivir a los demás. En el norte de Narnia atajaron a los fieros gigantes (de muy diferente clase que el Gigante Rumblebuffin), cuando se aventuraron a través de la frontera. Establecieron amistad y alianza con países más allá del mar, les hicieron visitas de estado y, a la vez, recibieron sus visitas. Y ellos mismos crecieron y cambiaron con el paso de los años. Pedro llegó a ser un hombre alto y robusto y un gran guerrero, y era llamado rey Pedro el Magnífico. Susana se convirtió en una esbelta y agraciada mujer, con un cabello color azabache que caía casi hasta sus pies; los reyes de los países más allá del mar comenzaron a enviar embajadores para pedir su mano en matrimonio. Era conocida como reina Susana la Dulce. Edmundo, un hombre más tranquilo y más solemne que su hermano Pedro, era famoso por sus excelentes consejos y juicios. Su nombre fue rey Edmundo el Justo. En cuanto a Lucía, fue siempre una joven alegre y de pelo dorado. Todos los príncipes de la vecindad querían que ella fuera su reina, y su propia gente la llamaba reina Lucía la Valiente. Así, ellos vivían en medio de una gran alegría, y siempre que recordaban su vida en este mundo era sólo como cuando uno recuerda un sueño. Un año sucedió que Tumnus (que ya era un fauno de mediana edad y comenzaba a engordar) vino río abajo y les trajo noticias sobre el Ciervo Blanco, que una vez más había aparecido en los alrededores... El Ciervo Blanco que te concedía tus deseos si lo cazabas. Por eso los dos reyes y las dos reinas, junto a los principales miembros de sus cortes, organizaron una cacería con cuernos y jaurías en los Bosques del Oeste para seguir al Ciervo Blanco. No hacía mucho que había comenzado la cacería cuando lo divisaron. Y él los hizo correr a gran velocidad por terrenos ásperos y suaves, a través de valles anchos y angostos, hasta que los caballos de todos los cortesanos quedaron agotados y sólo ellos cuatro pudieron continuar la persecución. Vieron al ciervo entrar en una espesura en la cual sus caballos no podían seguirlo. Entonces el rey Pedro dijo (porque ellos ahora, después de haber sido durante tanto tiempo reyes y reinas, hablaban de una forma completamente diferente). –Honorables hermanos, descendamos de nuestros caballos y sigamos a esta bestia en la espesura, porque en toda mi vida he cazado una presa más noble. –Señor –dijeron los otros–, aun así permítenos hacerlo. Desmontaron, ataron sus caballos en los árboles y se internaron a pie en el espeso bosque. Y tan pronto como entraron allí, la reina Susana dijo: –Honorables hermanos, aquí hay una gran maravilla. Me parece ver un árbol de hierro. –Señora –dijo el rey Edmundo–, si usted lo mira con cuidado, verá que es un pilar de hierro con una linterna en lo más alto. –¡Válgame Dios, qué extraño capricho! –dijo el rey Pedro–. Instalar una linterna aquí en esta espesura donde los árboles están tan juntos y son de tal altura, que si estuviera encendida no daría luz a hombre alguno. –Señor –dijo la reina Lucía–. Probablemente, cuando este pilar y esta linterna fueron instalados aquí había árboles pequeños, o pocos, o ninguno. Porque el bosque es joven y el pilar de hierro es viejo. Por algunos momentos permanecieron mirando todo esto. Luego, el rey Edmundo dijo: –No sé lo que es, pero esta lámpara y este pilar me han causado un efecto muy extraño. La idea de que yo los he visto antes corre por mi mente, como si fuera en un sueño, o en el sueño de un sueño. –Señor –contestaron todos–, lo mismo nos ha sucedido a nosotros. –Aun más –dijo la reina Lucía–, no se aparta de mi mente el pensamiento de que si nosotros pasamos más allá de esta linterna y de este pilar, encontraremos extrañas aventuras o en nuestros destinos habrá un enorme cambio. –Señora –dijo el rey Edmundo–, el mismo presentimiento se mueve en mi corazón. –Y en el mío, hermano –dijo el rey Pedro. –Y en el mío también –dijo la reina Susana–. Por eso mi consejo es que regresemos rápidamente a nuestros caballos y no continuemos en la persecución del Ciervo Blanco. –Señora –dijo el rey Pedro–, en esto le ruego a usted que me excuse. Pero, desde que somos reyes de Narnia, hemos acometido muchos asuntos importantes, como batallas, búsquedas, hazañas armadas, actos de justicia y otros como éstos, y siempre hemos llegado hasta el fin. Todo lo que hemos emprendido lo hemos llevado a cabo. –Hermana –dijo la reina Lucía–, mi real hermano habla correctamente. Me avergonzaría si por cualquier temor o presentimiento nosotros renunciáramos a seguir en una tan noble cacería como la que ahora realizamos. –Yo estoy de acuerdo –dijo el rey Edmundo–. Y deseo tan intensamente averiguar cuál es el significado de esto, que por nada volvería atrás, ni por la joya más rica y preciada en toda Narnia y en todas las islas. –Entonces en el nombre de Aslan –dijo la reina Susana–, si todos piensan así, sigamos adelante y enfrentemos el desafío de esta aventura que caerá sobre nosotros. Así fue como estos reyes y reinas entraron en la espesura del bosque, y antes de que caminaran una veintena de pasos, recordaron que lo que ellos habían visto era el farol, y antes de que avanzaran otros veinte, advirtieron que ya no caminaban entre ramas de árboles sino entre abrigos. Y un segundo después, todos saltaron a través de la puerta del ropero al cuarto vacío, y ya no eran reyes y reinas con sus atavíos de caza, sino sólo Pedro, Susana, Edmundo y Lucía en sus antiguas ropas. Era el mismo día y la misma hora en que ellos entraron al ropero para esconderse. La señora Macready y los visitantes hablaban todavía en el pasillo; pero afortunadamente nunca entraron en el cuarto vacío y los niños no fueron sorprendidos. Éste hubiera sido el verdadero final de la historia si no fuera porque ellos sintieron que tenían la obligación de explicar al Profesor por qué faltaban cuatro abrigos en el ropero. El Profesor, que era un hombre extraordinario, no exclamó "no sean tontos" o "no cuenten mentiras", sino que creyó la historia completa. –No –les dijo–, no creo que sirva de nada tratar de volver a través de la puerta del ropero para traer los abrigos. Ustedes no entrarán nuevamente a Narnia por _ese_ camino. Y si lo hicieran, los abrigos ahora ya no sirven de mucho. ¿Eh? ¿Qué dicen? Sí, por supuesto que volverán a Narnia algún día. Una vez rey de Narnia, eres rey para siempre. Pero no pueden usar la misma ruta otra vez. Realmente _no traten,_ de ninguna manera, de llegar hasta allá. Eso sucederá cuando menos lo piensen. Y _no_ hablen demasiado sobre esto, ni siquiera entre ustedes. No se lo mencionen a nadie más, a menos que descubran que se trata de alguien que ha tenido aventuras similares. ¿Qué dicen? ¿Que cómo lo sabrán? ¡Oh! Ustedes lo _sabrán_ con certeza. Las extrañas cosas que ellos dicen –incluso sus apariencias– revelarán el secreto. Mantengan los ojos abiertos. ¡Dios mío!, ¿qué les enseñan en esos colegios? Y éste es el verdadero final de las aventuras del ropero. Pero si el Profesor estaba en lo cierto, éste sólo sería el comienzo de las aventuras en Narnia. ## ACERCA DEL AUTOR CLIVE STAPLES LEWIS , Jack para sus amigos, nació en 1898. Lewis y su buen amigo J. R. R. Tolkien, el autor de la trilogía _El señor de los anillos_ , formaban parte de los Inklings, un club de escritores que se reunía informalmente en una taberna para discutir sus ideas sobre historias. La fascinación de Lewis con cuentos de hadas, mitologías y leyendas antiguas, unida al estímulo que recibió durante su niñez, lo inspiraron a escribir EL LEÓN, LA BRUJA Y EL ROPERO, uno de los libros más apreciados de todos los tiempos. Seis libros siguieron a éste hasta formar la popular serie _Las Crónicas de Narnia_. El último volumen de la serie, LA ÚLTIMA BATALLA, ganó la Medalla Carnegie, uno de los más prestigiosos premios a la literatura infantil. Visita www.AuthorTracker.com para obtener información exclusiva de sus autores favoritos HarperCollins. ## OTROS LIBROS OTROS LIBROS EN LA SERIE DE El Sobrino del Mago La Travesía del _Viajero del Alba_ El Caballo y el Muchacho El Príncipe Caspian La Silla de Plata La Última Batalla ## CRÉDITOS Ilustración de la cubierta por Pauline Baynes ## PÁGINA LEGAL EL LEÓN, LA BRUJA Y EL ROPERO. Copyright © 1950 por C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Traducción © 2000 por Editorial Andrés Bello. Traducción por Margaret Valdés E. y Editorial Andrés Bello. Traducción corregida por Teresa Mlawer. Copyright de la traducción corregida (c) 2002 por HarperCollins Publishers. Ilustraciones de Pauline Baynes © 1950 por C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Todos los derechos reservados. Impreso en los Estados Unidos de América. Se prohíbe reproducir, almacenar o transmitir cualquier parte de este libro en manera alguna ni por ningún medio sin previo permiso escrito, excepto en el caso de citas cortas para críticas. Para recibir información, diríjase a: HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022. Libros de HarperCollins pueden ser adquiridos para uso educacional, comercial o promocional. Para recibir más información, diríjase a: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022. Las Crónicas de Narnia®, Narnia® y todos los títulos de los libros, los personajes y los lugares originales a la serie de Las Crónicas de Narnia son marcas registradas por C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Está estrictamente prohibido utilizar este material sin permiso. Library of Congress ha catalogado la edición en inglés. ISBN-10: 0-06-008661-0 EPub Edición © SEPTIEMBRE 2012 ISBN: 9780062246615 Version 02212014 [1. Fantasy. 2. Spanish language materials.] I. Title. PZ73.L487 2002 \| 2001051738 ---\|--- [Fic]—dc21 \| CIP \| AC * * * 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 First Harper Trophy Edition, 2002 Visit us on the World Wide Web! www.harperchildrens.com ## ACERCA DEL PUBLICADOR Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia <http://www.harpercollins.com.au> Canada HarperCollins Canada 2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada <http://www.harpercollins.ca> New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand <http://www.harpercollins.co.nz> United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK <http://www.harpercollins.co.uk> United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 <http://www.harpercollins.com>	{'title': 'El Leon, la Bruja y el Ropero - C'}
Copyright © 2012 by Melissa Leapman Photographs copyright © 2012 by Potter Craft All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Potter Craft, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. www.pottercraft.com www.crownpublishing.com POTTER CRAFT and colophon is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Leapman, Melissa. Knitting the perfect fit / by Melissa Leapman.—1st ed. p. cm. 1. Knitting. 2. Tailoring (Women's) I. Title. TT825.L388176 2012 746.43'2—dc23 2011042936 eISBN: 978-0-307-96572-1 Photographs by Heather Weston Technical illustrations by Joni Coniglio Charts and schematic illustrations by Melissa Leapman Technical editing by Charlotte Quiggle Thanks to the Craft Yarn Council of America (www.yarnstandards.com) for its [Standard Yarn Weight system chart](Leap_9780307965721_epub_bm4_r1.htm#bm4a). v3.1 # Acknowledgments Special thanks go to the following knitters for their help testing the patterns and creating the samples for this project: Mink Barrett, Diane Bloomer, Patricia Bluestein, Didi Bottini, Meg Croft, Marie Duquette, Lynn Gates, Jessy Henderson, Susan Hope, Tom Jensen, Cheryl Keeley, Robin May, Joan Murphy, Candace Musmeci, Holly Neiding, Dawn Penny, Judy Seip, and Angie Tzoumakas. I am grateful to Cascade Yarn Company for providing all the yarn used in the Designer Workshops. With great stitch definition and a million and one colors, their Cascade 220 is a pleasure to design with! Once again, I've been fortunate to surround myself with the best folks in the business: Thank you, Charlotte Quiggle, for all you do for the team. I've enjoyed our daily lunches immensely! And to Joni Coniglio: I am one very lucky author to have been able to work with you again. I'm sure my readers will gladly agree.... # Introduction Basics Get Your Knitting into Shape: Fully Fashioned How-Tos Decreases Increases Knitting as a Foreign Language: Knitting Charts 101 A Short Grammar Lesson The Vocabulary List Abbreviations Knitting to Flatter Step Away from the Edge Designer Workshop: Making Simple Stockinette Garments Look Extraordinary Aster Stripes Jacqueline Ooh-La-La Skirt Aberdeen Designer Details Designer Workshop: Enrich Your Knits! Orvieto Cables 'n' Ribs The Weekender Candace's Shell Winter White Merino Magic Marilyn's Crossover Top Figure Flatterers Designer Workshop: Knit a Fine Figure Marie Glamour Girl Angled Ribs Charlie Jen Sydney Trompe l'Oeil Angie General Knitting Techniques Finishing Techniques Sweater Assembly Yarn Choice and Substitution Resources Index # Introduction It's all in the details! The use of what designers call fully fashioned shaping marks the difference between an ordinary ho-hum sweater and an undeniably spectacular fashion garment. Using mirrored increases and decreases—slanting certain stitches toward the left or the right to create design details can easily give a garment a couture touch. It is the construction difference between an $80 J.Crew cashmere V-neck sweater and the one that sells for $200 in the same catalog. Though both are knitted out of the same soft yarn, the less expensive sweater is usually made by assembling front, back, or sleeve pieces cut from huge bolts of machine-knit fabric and then sewn with a serger, while the more expensive sweater is created with hand-manipulated, machine-made knitting stitches. Many handknitters already use shaping details in their garments: decreases for armholes, necklines, or sleeve caps and increases for sleeves. We don't cut our pieces into shape, we knit them into shape! But most knitters do not understand how shaping works or how to use simple increases and decreases to add visual interest to their garments. I've taught these techniques to hundreds of knitters, and during my workshop they begin to look at their knitting in a whole new way. I still remember that exciting aha! moment when a student in one of my classes worked her first fully fashioned V neckline a few years ago. "It's so neat and perfect," she proudly proclaimed. In these pages we will explore simple fully fashioned techniques and how to apply them to create interesting designer elements and flattering shaping details in garments for any body shape. You will learn that just adding a few extra details can take any project to an entirely new level of sophistication. Chapter 1 of this book is a refresher course on all the basics any knitter will need to master, from different increase and decrease methods, to Knitting Charts 101, and the dos and don'ts of figure flattery. Chapter 2 illustrates simple ways to incorporate fully fashioned shaping in stockinette garments. Included are four wearable—and knittable!—projects to get your needles clicking as you practice these basic shaping techniques. Chapter 3 provides ways of using fully fashioned shaping for designer details such as decorative raglan seams and figure-flattering vertical lines. Many of the projects include incorporated neckbands and armbands to make the finishing of the garment faster and easier. Chapter 4 delves into exciting ways to use strategically placed increases and decreases to create figure-flattering sweaters. Some of the projects in this section even use fully fashioned details to fool the eye and create the illusion of shape: You don't have to have a perfect hourglass shape to look great! Throughout the book, you'll discover little body shape icons that will direct you to garments that are specifically designed for your individual figure type. Diagonal lines will draw attention to certain sections of the garment—and of your body. If you're going to take the time—and spend the money—to make custom garments, you might as well knit flattering ones! You'll have fun experimenting with fully fashioned designer details—and using your knitting prowess to create knockout pieces that fit and flatter. Let's get started.... CHAPTER 1 Basics No matter your skill level, superbly knit and figure-flattering garments can be made by anyone. If you're going to spend your free time (not to mention your precious yarn budget!) to create a sweater, the result ought to be as beautiful on you as possible. In this chapter, you'll learn the ins and outs of increases, decreases, knitting charts, and the simple abbreviations you'll encounter throughout the book. What Makes a Garment Fully Fashioned? Have you ever wondered why some ready-to-wear sweaters cost so much more than others, even when they are machine-knit? Less expensive garments are cut and sewn out of huge bolts of machine-knit fabric: using a template similar to a sewing pattern, the front, back, and sleeves are stamped and cut to size and stitched together using a serger. Fully fashioned pieces, in contrast, are knitted to the size and shape of the individual sweater components, with the shaping details as clearly visible features of the design. Get Your Knitting into Shape: Fully Fashioned How-Tos Knitters usually try to conceal their increases and decreases as best they can, but in fully fashioned knits we actually want to show off these details. Following are some of the essential skills every knitter should have in her or his repertoire. Later in the book, we'll explore ways to use these simple techniques to create sweaters that are beautiful, figure-flattering, and best of all, fun to knit! Decreases Reducing the number of stitches changes the shape of a piece of knitting and makes it narrower. Each decrease technique results in a different look. Some decreases take on the texture of knit stitches, for example; others look like purl stitches. Also, some decreases slant toward the right while others lean to the left, depending on which direction the top stitch points, since it's the most visible one. Designers often pair mirrored decreases opposite each other on a piece of knitting for a decorative effect. More on that subject later. Knit Stitch Decreases Knit 2 Together (decreases one stitch and slants toward the right; abbreviated k2tog) When this method of decreasing is used, the resulting stitch leans toward the right. It's easy: Just insert the right-hand needle into two stitches at once as if they're a single stitch! To do: With the working yarn toward the back, insert the right-hand needle from front to back, knitwise, into the first two stitches on the left-hand needle as if they were a single stitch, and wrap the yarn around the right-hand needle as you would for a knit stitch (illustration 1). Pull the yarn through both stitches, and slip both stitches off the left-hand needle at once. One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch slants to the right. Slip, Slip, Knit (decreases one stitch and slants toward the left; abbreviated ssk) This knit decrease requires an extra step, but it creates a mirror image of the k2tog decrease described above. To do: With the working yarn toward the back, insert the right-hand needle from the left to the right, knitwise, into the first and second stitches on the left-hand needle, one at a time, and slip them onto the right-hand needle (illustration 2). Then, insert the tip of the left-hand needle into the fronts of both slipped stitches (illustration 3) and knit them together from this position, through their back loops. One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch slants to the left. Knit 3 Together (decreases two stitches and slants toward the right; abbreviated k3tog) This decrease is worked the same way as the k2tog decrease above, except the right-hand needle is inserted into three stitches at once, instead of two. In this case, two stitches are decreased, with the resulting stitch slanting toward the right. Slip, Slip, Slip, Knit (decreases two stitches and slants toward the left; abbreviated sssk) This decrease uses the same method as the ssk decrease above except three stitches are slipped rather than two stitches, one at a time, from the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle. The usual method is to slip each of the three stitches knitwise, but some knitters prefer slipping the first stitch knitwise and the next two stitches purlwise in order to achieve a more perfect mirror image to the k3tog, as described for the modified ssk. It's the knitter's choice. Purl Stitch Decreases Purl 2 Together (decreases one stitch and slants toward the right on the knit side of the fabric; abbreviated p2tog) This type of decrease is most often done on wrong-side rows to combine two purl stitches, mimicking the look of a k2tog on the knit side of the fabric. Sometimes, though, designers use it on the right side to cleverly decrease along a purl "valley" as in Orvieto. To do: With the working yarn toward the front, insert the tip of the right-hand needle into the first two stitches on the left-hand needle from right to left, purlwise, as if they were a single stitch, and wrap the yarn around the right-hand needle as you would for a purl stitch (illustration 4). Pull the yarn through both stitches, then slip both stitches off the left-hand needle at once. One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch slants to the right on the knit side of the fabric. Slip, Slip, Purl (decreases one stitch and slants toward the left on the knit side of the fabric; abbreviated ssp) This technique is often used on wrong-side rows to mimic the left-slanting look of the ssk decrease on the knit side of the fabric. To do: With the working yarn toward the front, slip the first two stitches knitwise, one at a time, from the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle. Then slip these two stitches back to the left-hand needle in their twisted position. Finally, insert the tip of the right-hand needle into the back loops of these two stitches, going into the second stitch first, and then the first stitch), and purl them together through their back loops as if they were a single stitch (illustration 5). One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch leans toward the left on the knit side of the fabric. Purl 3 Together (abbreviated p3tog) This decrease is worked the same as the p2tog decrease above, except the right-hand needle is inserted into three stitches at once, instead of two. Here, two stitches are decreased, with the resulting stitch slanting toward the right on the knit side of the fabric. Slip, Slip, Slip, Purl (abbreviated sssp) This decrease is worked the same as the ssp decrease above, except three stitches are slipped, one at a time, instead of two. Here, two stitches are decreased, the resulting stitch slanting toward the left on the knit side of the fabric. Give It the Slip For some knitters, the ssk decrease worked the typical way does not mirror the k2tog decrease perfectly. If you are among them and would like to make your left-leaning decrease look smoother and less like stair steps, try this method: Slip the first stitch knitwise and the second stitch purlwise from the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle (illustration 6). Slipping the first stitch knitwise keeps it from twisting at the bottom, producing a smoother and neater stitch; slipping the second stitch purlwise seems to help some knitters achieve a straighter, less choppy line toward the left. Then insert the left-hand needle into the fronts of both slipped stitches (illustration 7) and knit them together from this position, through their back loops. Keeping Your Directional Slants Straight Many knitters find it difficult to remember which decrease slants which way. Here's a simple trick to help you remember which leans to the left and which leans to the right. Write down the name of the decreases "k2tog" and "ssk." Then draw a diagonal line through the right slant in the 2 and the left slant in the s as shown. The diagonal lines match the slant of the decreases: The k2tog decrease slants to the right and the ssk decrease slants toward the left. How's that for an easy way to keep them straight? Keep It Simple When viewed from the purl side, the p2tog decrease and the ssp decrease look surprisingly similar. Neither one slants noticeably toward the left or the right. That's why the p2tog technique is used without a matching ssp decrease in Jacqueline. Working ssp decreases to mirror the p2tog decreases isn't worth the effort in such a case. No sense slowing down the precious knitting when no one (not even the designer!) will notice the tiny detail. Increases Knitters have many methods for adding width to a piece of fabric. Each technique has a different effect, from making decorative holes to adding various amounts of texture, to barely there increases that are nearly invisible. Subtle Increases Lifted Increases This type of increase is made by working into a stitch in the row below the stitch that is currently on the needle, and also working into the stitch the regular way. Although nearly invisible, it is handy to be able to perform the lifted increase slanting to either the left or to the right, depending on the desired effect. To do a lifted increase slanting to the left: Insert the left-hand needle into the back of the first stitch on the right-hand needle, just below the stitch just knit (illustration 8), and knit it (illustration 9). For a lifted increase slanting to the right: Knit into the back of the stitch (into its purl "bump") in the row directly below the stitch on the left-hand needle (illustration 10). For a lifted purl increase, work the same as the knit version, except purl instead of knit. Easy! Raised Increases (commonly known as "make one" increases) This method of adding stitches uses the horizontal strand of yarn that hangs between the knitting needles. The knitter works into the strand, carefully twisting it to prevent a hole. As with the lifted increases above, raised increases can slant to the right and to the left. Here's how: For a raised knit increase slanting to the left (abbreviated M1-L): Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand that's hanging between the needles from front to back, and knit the strand through its back loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in your fabric (illustration 11). For a raised knit increase slanting to the right (abbreviated M1-R): Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand that is hanging between the needles from back to front, and knit the strand through its front loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in the work (illustration 12). Note: If no direction is specified, use the M1-L increase. Sometimes raised increases are worked as purl stitches, such as when increases are made on wrong-side rows as follows. For a raised purl increase that slants to the right on the right side of the fabric: Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand between the needles from back to front, then purl the strand through its front loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in your fabric (illustration 13). For a raised purl increase that slants to the left on the right side of the fabric: Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand between the needles from front to back, then purl the strand through its back loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in your fabric. However, M1 purlwise increases are usually worked on right-side rows whenever a purl stitch is needed, and in these cases, the difference between left- and right-slanting stitches is hardly visible; no directional raised purl increases are necessary. Just use whichever version is easier for you. Decorative Increases Sometimes, especially when working fully fashioned shaping, you'll want to feature increased stitches prominently in a design. Following are some techniques. Bar Increases This type of increase adds a bit of horizontal texture that looks very much like a purl bump. It is easy to work and is often used when knitting ribbings, since it serves to incorporate new stitches into the pattern quickly. To do in a knit stitch (abbreviated k1f&b): First, insert the right-hand needle into the indicated stitch knitwise, wrap the working yarn around the needle the regular way to knit up a stitch but don't remove the original stitch off the left-hand needle (illustration 14). Then, reinsert your right-hand needle knitwise into the back of the same stitch, wrap the yarn around the needle to knit up a stitch (illustration 15), then slip the original stitch off. Two stitches are made out of one stitch. To do in a purl stitch (abbreviated plf&b): Insert the right-hand needle into the indicated stitch purlwise, wrap the working yarn around the regular way to purl a stitch but don't remove the original stitch off the left-hand needle; then, purl through the back loop of the same stitch; finally, slip the original stitch off the left-hand needle. Two stitches are made out of one stitch. Yarn Over Increases This method of increasing places an eyelet hole in the fabric just below the new stitch. The technique is different depending on whether the stitch following the yarn over is a knit or a purl stitch. To make a yarn over before a knit stitch: Bring the working yarn to the front, between the tips of the two knitting needles (illustration 16). As you knit the next stitch, the yarn will go over the right-hand needle to create the extra stitch. To make a yarn over before a purl stitch: Bring the working yarn to the front, between the tips of the knitting needles, and then wrap it completely around the right-hand needle and back to the front (illustration 17). Simply bringing the yarn to the front does not add a new stitch; the yarn must go all the way around the right-hand needle to make the increase before a purl stitch. These increases and decreases are used in various ways throughout the projects in the book. The included Designer Workshop sections highlight many ways of including these techniques in fully fashioned shaping to create flattering knits. Knitting as a Foreign Language: Knitting Charts 101 Charts are visual representations of knitted fabric. When I teach workshops around the country, I tell my students that the charts and symbols are just another foreign language, complete with a vocabulary list (the symbols) and syntax (the graphic layout). They're easy to translate, and using them (instead of long black-and-white paragraphs of text) will make your knitting easier, faster, and much more fun. A Short Grammar Lesson Charts are set up on a grid. Each square of the grid represents one stitch and each row of squares represents one row of stitches. Because the stitch pattern is being created from the bottom up, the first row is at the bottom of the chart, and the last row is at the top. Right-side rows are read from right to left. The following illustration shows the order in which stitches will be knit for Row 1, a right-side row, in the chart. At the end of this first row, you'll flip your knitting so that the wrong side of the fabric faces you. The first stitch of a wrong-side row is the same physical stitch as the last stitch of the previous right-side row. Thus, wrong-side rows are read from left to right. In all the patterns in this book, the first row knit is a right-side row, and so all right-side rows are odd-numbered rows. I've numbered them on the right-hand side of each chart to keep you oriented. The Vocabulary List Each symbol indicates the way a stitch or group of stitches will be worked; the arrangement of the symbols on the chart determines the stitch pattern. Of course, every book and magazine seems to use a different set of symbols to represent the same knitting maneuvers. Usually, the symbols resemble the way the resulting stitches will appear once knit on the right side of the fabric. The symbol for a knit stitch, for example, is a blank box, mimicking the flat appearance of the knit stitch itself; the dot symbol for a purl stitch depicts the bumpy appearance of a purled stitch. All rows are shown on the chart as they appear on the public side of the fabric. Therefore, symbols mean different things on right-side and wrong-side rows. If a symbol is used on both right- and wrong-side rows, the stitch key near the chart will tell you which knitting maneuver to use where. Usually, wrong-side rows are pretty simple: you just knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as they present themselves to you on the knitting needle. Many students in my classes call them "rest rows"! Scan the entire chart before you begin to see if that's the case. If so, you can zip along those wrong-side rows reading your knitting rather than the chart! In some charts, bold vertical lines indicate the stitch repeat, and if extra stitches are required on each side to center the pattern on the fabric, they are shown to the left and right of the repeat. Glossary of Symbols \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = No stitch \| \| = K through back loop on RS; p through back loop on WS \| \| = Yarn over \| \| = K2tog on RS; p2tog on WS \| \| = Ssk on RS; ssp on WS \| \| = P2tog on RS; k2tog on WS \| \| = Ssp on RS; ssk on WS \| \| = Slip 2 sts at once knitwise; k1; p2sso \| \| = Insert needle into the 2nd and 1st sts as if to p2tog through back loops; slip these 2 sts onto the RH needle in this position; p1; p2sso \| \| = Right Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k1; k1 from cn OR k2tog, leaving them on LH needle; insert point of RH needle between these 2 sts and k the first one again \| \| = Left Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; k1; k1 from cn OR skip first st and k next st in back loop; then k the skipped st; slip both sts off LH needle together \| \| = Knot = K into (front, back, front) of next st, turn; p3, turn; slip 2 sts at once knitwise, k1, p2sso \| \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k next st through back loop; p1 from cn \| \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; p1; k1 from cn through back loop \| \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k2; p1 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; p1; k2 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; p2 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; p2; k2 from cn \| \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k3; p1 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in front; p1; k3 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k3; p2 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in front; p2; k3 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in back; k3; k3 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in front; k3; k3 from cn Abbreviations Following is a list of abbreviations used in the projects and charts of this book. Many of the techniques are discussed in the General Knitting Techniques section. beg \| \| beg(inning) ---\|---\|--- cm \| \| centimeter(s) cn \| \| cable needle g \| \| gram(s) k \| \| knit k1f&b \| \| knit into the front and back of a stitch (increase) k1-tbl \| \| knit next stitch through its back loop k2tog \| \| knit the next 2 stitches together; this is a right-slanting decrease k3tog \| \| knit the next 3 stitches together; this is a right-slanting double decrease LH \| \| left-hand MB \| \| Make a bobble m \| \| meter(s) mm \| \| millimeter(s) M1 \| \| make 1 (increase) M1-L \| \| make 1 left (increase) M1-R \| \| make 1 right (increase) oz \| \| ounce(s) p \| \| purl p1b&f \| \| purl into back and front of a stitch (increase) p1-tbl \| \| purl next stitch through its back loop p2sso \| \| pass 2 slipped stitches over p2tog \| \| purl the next 2 stitches together; this is a right-slanting decrease RH \| \| right-hand rnd(s) \| \| round(s) rpt \| \| repeat RS \| \| right side (of work) s2kp2 \| \| centered double decrease = slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch ssk \| \| slip the next 2 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, insert the left-hand needle tip into the fronts of both slipped stitches to knit them together from this position; this is a left-slanting decrease ssp \| \| slip the next 2 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, return both stitches to left-hand needle and insert the right-hand needle into them from left to right and from back to front, to purl them together through their back loops; this is a left-slanting decrease sssk \| \| slip the next 3 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, insert the left-hand needle tip into the fronts of all three slipped stitches to knit them together from this position; this is a left-slanting double decrease sssp \| \| slip the next 3 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, return all three stitches to left-hand needle and insert the right-hand needle into them from left to right and from back to front, to purl them together through their back loops; this is a left-slanting double decrease st(s) \| \| stitch(es) WS \| \| wrong side (of work) yd(s) \| \| yard(s) * \| \| repeat instructions after asterisk or between the asterisks across the row or for as many times as instructed () \| \| alternate measurements and/or instructions for different sizes; also, repeat the instructions within parentheses for as many times as instructed [] \| \| repeat the instructions within bracket for as many times as instructed; these brackets also indicate the separation between imperial and metric measurements in the pattern text Knitting to Flatter Often, knitters are attracted to sweater projects that look fun and interesting to knit but forget that the final product must be wearable and, hopefully, flattering. Obviously, not every garment is appropriate for everyone. Here's how to determine your figure type and choose the designs best suited to you. Body Type Most women's bodies fall into five basic shapes: triangle, inverted triangle, round, rectangle, or hourglass. What shape are you? First, you'll need to take some body measurements. It's best to do so while wearing a good, supportive bra, and it's probably a smart idea to enlist a friend to help you, so you're sure the measuring tool doesn't dip down in the back, giving you inaccurate measurements. Also, since we tend to subconsciously round our measurements up or down, I suggest that all measurements be taken using a length of nonstretchy yarn or ribbon and then use a ruler. Linen or mercerized cotton yarn is best; stay away from most wools and silks. Measure your bust at its fullest area, your waist at its narrowest spot (usually just above the navel), and your hips and rear end at their fullest spot, keeping the yarn close to the body but not too tight or too loose. It's the ratio of these three measurements to each other that determines body type, as shown in the table opposite. Each project in this book is designed to flatter specific body types, so be sure to look for the body shape icons for each pattern in this book. And the entire Designer Workshop in chapter 4 is devoted to ways to make every figure type look great. After all, the goal is to design garments that have designer details which are not only fun to knit, but flattering as well. Fit Ease is the difference between the actual measurements of the finished garment and your physical body measurements. More ease provides a roomier fit; less ease creates a tighter fit. Negative ease describes a sweater that is smaller than the body; the fabric is meant to stretch to fit to create flattering, body-conscious lines. Here are the fits and eases referred to in the projects in this book. Very close-fitting: Actual body measurements or smaller (negative ease) Close-fitting: Actual body measurement + 1–2"/[2.5–5cm] Standard-fitting: Actual body measurement + 2–4"/[5–10cm] Loose-fitting: Actual body measurement + 4–6"/[10–15cm] Oversized: Actual body measurement + 6"/[15cm] or more SHAPE ICON \| Body Type \| Relative relationship between physical measurements \| Wardrobe Tips \| Sweater Dos \| Sweater Don'ts ---\|---\|---\|---\|---\|--- \| Triangle \| Hip measurement larger than both waist and bust \| Distract attention from the hips; emphasize the chest and neckline \| Interesting necklines; pattern interest in the upper third of the design \| Close-fitting ribbings at hips; strong horizontal lines in the lower third of the design; tops that end at the widest place on the hips \| Inverted Triangle \| Bust measurement larger than both waist and hips \| Distract attention from shoulder and upper body; draw attention to slender hips and waist \| Set-in sleeves, deep necklines; interesting stitch patterns in the lower half of the design; flared silhouettes \| Heavy drop shoulders; giant lapels or collars; puffed sleeves \| Round \| Waist measurement larger than both hips and bust \| De-emphasize the waist \| Empire waists; deep necklines or other design details in the upper third of sweaters \| Boxy silhouettes; high necklines; heavy cabled fabrics \| Rectangle \| Hip, waist, and bust measurements are just about equal \| Create the illusion of curves \| Cinch in the waist; add bust darts; define the shoulders and upper body area; flowy, feminine A-line silhouettes \| Boxy silhouettes \| Hourglass \| Hip and bust measurements are relatively equal, with a much narrower waist measurement \| Highlight curves \| Add waist shaping; belted looks \| Loose, straight silhouettes CHAPTER 2 Step Away from the Edge Typically, knitters go to great lengths to make their increases and decreases as invisible as possible. (Could this be because they haven't effectively perfected their technique?) Fully fashioned shaping, a technique used in the fashion industry, deliberately puts these elements on display, creating exquisite garments that are beautiful and polished-looking. Designer Workshop Making Simple Stockinette Garments Look Extraordinary As we discovered in chapter 1, knitters have several methods to choose from when shaping garments. Each technique adds a different design element to a piece of knitting, especially when worked in a fully fashioned way. Let's start exploring the options. Fully fashioned shaping occurs when increases and decreases are worked one or two—and sometimes even more!—stitches away from the edge of the fabric. This designer approach creates a frame, usually stockinette, which outlines the shape of the piece of fabric. This easy technique—simply moving the increases and decreases toward the interior of the knitting—adds a vertical element to the garment. Placed near side seams, these vertical lines draw the eye up and have a slimming effect; used along raglan seams, the lines point toward the face, putting the focus where you want it (and away from where you don't). And, without the extra bulk and fabric strain often experienced when shaping is worked right at the edge of garments, seams are neater and easier to sew, since the increases and decreases are moved away from selvedge edges. Bonus! Fully fashioned shaping can also make your conventional neckbands easier to finish, since stitches are more easily picked up between plain stockinette stitches rather than along awkwardly shaped decreased edges. Simply put, smoother edges make for neater finishing. Of course, even if a pattern doesn't specifically call for fully fashioned increases and decreases, you can add them yourself! It will make the difference between an ordinary sweater and a knockout. Decreases the Fully Fashioned Way Choose one of the following methods of decreasing, depending on the effect you'd like to achieve. Increases and decreases that slant with the shape of the fabric will blend in, creating an organic look to your design; for highest contrast, you'll want to choose ones that slant against the grain of the fabric. Smooth Lines Placing left-slanting decreases on the right-hand side of the fabric and right-slanting ones on the left-hand side creates subtle and neat vertical lines along the edges. The swatch shows mirrored decreases worked this way. Here, a left-slanting ssk decrease is used to combine the fifth and sixth stitches on the right-hand side and a right-slanting k2tog decrease is used to combine the fifth and sixth stitches on the left-hand side. Each decrease is leaning toward the interior of the fabric, leaving a subtle stockinette stitch frame on the outer edges. Aster Stripes uses smooth fully fashioned decreases worked one stitch away from the edge. When your main fabric has a pattern stitch, it's often a good idea to work all shaping with smooth fully fashioned lines. If you keep the first 4 stitches (or 2 or 10 or whatever) in plain stockinette, you'll decrease or increase just inside the stockinette frame you're creating. Then, once you have enough stitches for a full repeat of your stitch pattern, it will be simple to incorporate the new stitches into pattern. Easy! Swatch It Up Give it a try! Here's how to knit a sample with smooth fully fashioned decreases: cast on 35 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work a decrease row every 4 rows until 21 stitches remain. If your Decrease Row is worked on the right side: K4, ssk, knit to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, k4. If your Decrease Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, p2tog, purl to the last 6 stitches, ssp, p4. One stitch has been decreased each side of the Decrease Row; two stitches have been decreased each row in total. Feathered Lines When the decreases slant away from the interior of the fabric and toward the sides, another effect is achieved. The swatch below shows right-slanting k2tog decreases on the right-hand side of the fabric and left-slanting ssk decreases on the left-hand side, each worked five stitches in from the edge. Here, the decreases appear as little diagonal "blips" pointing away from center. They're a focal point of the fabric. Feathered decreases are used in Aberdeen for a very different reason: it's easier to maintain the color pattern when decreasing this way. Swatch It Up Try it yourself. To knit a sample swatch with feathered fully fashioned decreases: Cast on 35 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work a decrease row every 4 rows until 21 stitches remain. If your Decrease Row is worked on the right side: K4, k2tog, knit to the last 6 stitches, ssk, k4. If your Decrease ROW is worked on the wrong side: P4, ssp, purl to the last 6 stitches, p2tog, p4. One stitch has been decreased each side of the Decrease Row. Living on the Edge Of course, fully fashioned decreasing describes any time shaping is worked away from the selvedges, but different effects are achieved depending where the decreases are positioned relative to the edge of the fabric. The swatch shows smooth decreases worked five stitches from the edge. For comparison, the top swatch on this box has the mirrored decreases worked three stitches in, and the bottom swatch shows them placed seven stitches in. The former will have a subtle effect while in the latter, the shaping will become the forefront of the design. Like most things in knitting, it's fun (and useful) to be able to choose the effect you want. Increases the Fully Fashioned Way As with decreasing, knitters have the choice of several different methods for increasing, from quite subtle to more decorative and ornate. Directional Stranded Increases (commonly known as M1 increases) To add stitches while affecting the tension or texture of stitches that are already on the needles in a very subtle way, stranded increases are usually used. This type of increase borrows a bit of yarn from the stitches on either side of the new stitch. Different effects are achieved when the increases lean toward the selvedge edges or toward the center of the fabric. Let's take a look: The swatch above shows directional M1 increases slanting toward the interior of the fabric. Here, M1-L is worked near the beginning of rows, and M1-R is worked near the end of rows. Notice how the stockinette frame going up the sides appears distinct from the main part of the knitting. Fully fashioned increases are worked this way in Aster Stripes. On the other hand, the swatch below shows what happens when M1 increases slant toward the selvedge edges. In this case, the little diagonal "blips" formed by the increases slant with the grain of the fabric, blending in. Swatch It Up Try it! To knit a sample with stranded increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle. For a strong effect (see swatch): If your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, M1-L, knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-R, k4. If your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, M1-R purlwise, purl to the last 4 stitches, M1-L purlwise (this page), p4. One stitch is increased on each side of the Increase Row. For a subtle effect (see swatch): If your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, M1-R, knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-L, k4. If your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, M1-L purlwise, purl to the last 4 stitches, M1-R purlwise, p4. One stitch has been increased on each side of the Increase Row. Of course, it is the knitter's choice which version to use, depending on the desired effect. The important thing is that all M1 increases slant toward one direction on one edge of the fabric and toward the other direction on the other edge. Stacking the increases this way adds a cohesive look to a design. Decorative Yarn Over Increases Using a yarn over increase a few stitches in from the side selvedges makes a delicate line of holes that can accentuate the shape of the knit piece. The swatch above shows this type of increase worked 4 stitches away from the edges. Although yarn over increases are not directional increases, when abutted next to each other as in a seam, they're quite beautiful. The swatch below shows fully fashioned yarn over increases worked on either side of a seam. Swatch It Up Give it a go! To knit a sample with fully fashioned yarn over increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle. This method is best used 2 or more stitches away from the edge. If your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, yarn over, k4. One stitch has been increased each side. If your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, yarn over, purl to the last 4 stitches, yarn over, p4. One stitch has been increased each side. Note that it is important to always wrap the working yarn around the right-hand needle in the same direction each time: in between the tips of the two knitting needles toward the front, then up around the top of the right-hand needle to the back. Wrapping the yarn around the needle in the opposite direction creates a smaller hole. In Fine Feather For more dramatic feathered decreases, work paired double decreases. Use the right-slanting k3tog on the right-hand side of the fabric and the left-slanting sssk on the left-hand side for symmetry. The swatch below shows double feathered decreases. Notice how even though the shaping is worked every 8 rows (instead of every 4 rows as in the previous examples), those little diagonal blips truly stand out and become a design element of their own. Of course, fully fashioned details show up really well on either side of a seam. The swatch below reveals the beauty of double feathered decreases mirrored along a seam. Here, the left-slanting sssk decrease and the right-slanting k3tog decrease each point toward the center seamline. Imagine how dramatic this technique would look along the diagonal line of a raglan! Swatch It Up Give it a whirl! To knit a sample with double feathered fully fashioned decreases, cast on 35 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work a decrease row every 8 rows until 19 stitches remain. This method is best used 3 or more stitches away from the edge. If your Decrease Row is worked on the right side: K4, k3tog, knit to the last 7 stitches, sssk, k4. If your Decrease Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, sssp, purl to the last 7 stitches, p3tog, p4. Two stitches have been decreased each side of each Decrease Row—that's four stitches decreased each row. Lifted Increases Lifted increases pull up stitches from the row below and can lean toward the left or right, just like stranded increases. Different looks are achieved depending on which way the new stitches slant. The swatch above shows left-leaning lifted increases near the beginning of rows and right-leaning ones near the end of rows. The swatch below shows the increases reversed, with the right-leaning ones near the beginning of rows and the left-leaning ones near the end. It's the knitter's choice which way to go, but it is essential to be consistent once the line is set up. Swatch It Up Try it! To knit a sample with mirrored fully fashioned lifted increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle. For an Increase Row with left-slanting increases near the beginning of rows and right-slanting ones near the end of rows: K4, make a left-slanting lifted increase, knit to the last 4 stitches, make a right-slanting lifted increase, k4. One stitch has been increased each side. For an Increase Row with right-slanting increases near the beginning of rows and left-slanting ones near the end of rows: K4, make a right-slanting lifted increase, knit to the last 4 stitches, make a left-slanting lifted increase, k4. One stitch has been increased each side. Beaded Increases Worked 2 or more stitches away from the selvedge, this type of increase creates tiny textured dots that sit on top of the fabric. The increases are made by purling and knitting into a single stitch. The swatch below shows beaded increases worked 4 stitches away from the edge. These increases are beautiful worked on either side of a seam, as seen in the swatch below. As a bonus, the purl bumps are easy to see, which makes it easier to keep track of how many increases have been worked. Swatch It Up Check it out! To knit a sample with fully fashioned beaded increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle. If your Increase ROW is worked on the right side: K4, [knit and then purl] into the next stitch, knit to the last 5 stitches, [purl and then knit] into the next stitch, k4. If your Increase ROW is worked on the wrong side: P4, [purl and then knit] into the next stitch, purl to the last 5 stitches, [knit and then purl] into the next stitch, p4. A Variation on Beaded Increases Knitters can use bar increases to create neat fully fashioned increases. Like the previous example, two stitches are worked into a single stitch, but in this case, the increase is made by knitting into the front and then the back of a stitch (see swatch). Because the two new stitches are made in different "legs" of the original stitch, the yarn is stretched less, yielding a neater result. For symmetrical increases, be sure to work the bar increases one stitch closer to the edge on the right edge of the fabric. Swatch It Up Go for it! To knit a sample of this variation on beaded increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle. If your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, [knit into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, knit to the last 6 stitches, [knit into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, k5. If your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, [purl into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, purl to the last 6 stitches, [purl into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, p5. In this example, the textured "blip" is five stitches in from the edge on each side. Be sure to experiment with each of these different fully fashioned increases and decreases so you can choose which ones you'd like to incorporate in your next knitting project. Just because a pattern doesn't specify this sort of detail doesn't mean you can't add it! Aster Stripes Aster Stripes This sporty wardrobe basic makes a great layering piece with its tapered, flattering silhouette and a high, ribbed turtleneck. It's the perfect choice as an in-between season essential. Of course, if you prefer a crewneck, work your neckband for 1" /[2.5cm] and then bind off. Basic knit and purl decreases are used in the design, making it a good opportunity to practice fully fashioned shaping! Skill Level Advanced Beginner Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52, 56)" /[81 (91, 101.5, 112, 122, 132, 142)cm] Length: 23 (23½, 24, 24, 24½, 24½, 25)" /[58.5 (59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62, 63.5)cm] Materials • Cascade Yarns' Ultra Pima (3-light/DK weight; 100% pima cotton; each approximately 3½ oz/[100g] and 220 yds/[200m]): 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 4, 5) hanks of Orchid #3709 (A), 1 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3) hanks of Spring Moss #3745 (B), 1 (1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 2) hanks of Chartreuse #3746 (C), 2 (2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 3) hanks of Iris #3708 (D), and 1 (1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 2) hanks of Buttercup #3748 (E) Light • Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles • Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 22 stitches and 30 rows = 4" /[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K2, p2, k2; repeat from the across. ROW 2: P2, k2, p2; repeat from the across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit across. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for pattern. Stripe Pattern (over 64 rows) Working in stockinette stitch, work 8 rows each of B, C, A, D, B, E, D, A; repeat from the for the pattern. Notes • The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. • For fully fashioned armhole and sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, k1, ssk, knit to the last 3 stitches, k2tog, k1; on wrong-side rows, p3, p2tog, purl to the last 5 stitches, ssp, p3. • For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, knit to 3 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, k1; on the left-hand side of the neck, k1, ssk, knit to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned increases: On right-side rows, k4, M1-L (this page), knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-R, k4; on wrong-side rows, p4, M1 purlwise (this page), purl to the last 4 stitches, M1 purlwise, p4. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery Don't let these horizontal stripes scare you! The tapered shape of the body of this sweater prevents extra fabric from settling at the waist. And the short sleeves keep the look light. Back With the smaller needles and A, cast on 82 (90, 102, 114, 124, 134, 146) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 3¼" /8.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 purlwise technique ([this page) to increase 0 (1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1) stitch after the first stitch and before the last stitch of the last row—82 (92, 104, 114, 126, 136, 148) stitches. Change to the larger needles and B; begin stockinette stitch and the Stripe Pattern, and work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 6 rows 4 times—90 (100, 112, 122, 134, 144, 156) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 14½" /[37cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Make a note of which row of the Stripe Pattern you ended with. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 4 (5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) every row 0 (0, 2, 4, 8, 12, 16) times, every other row 0 (3, 5, 6, 5, 3, 2) times, then every 4 rows 3 (2, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—72 (74, 76, 78, 80, 82, 84) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 21½ (22, 22½, 22½, 23, 23, 23½)" /[54.5 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK K19 (20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25), join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 34 stitches, knit to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) on the next right-side row—18 (19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24) stitches remain each side. Work both sides even with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 22 (22½, 23, 23, 23½, 24)" /[56 (57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 61)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 4 (5 5, 5, 5, 6, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 6 (4, 5, 6, 7, 5, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Front Work the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 20 (20½, 21, 21, 21½, 21½, 22)" / [51 (52, 53.5, 53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK K29 (30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35); join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 14 stitches, knit to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 5 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 3 stitches at each neck edge once; work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) at each neck edge every right-side row 3 times—18 (19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to the shoulders. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work same as for the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles and A, cast on 58 (58, 62, 62, 66, 66, 74) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Change to the larger needles and B; begin stockinette stitch and the Stripe Pattern, and work fully fashioned sleeve increases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 2, 8, 6) times, every other row 0 (2, 2, 8, 7, 4, 5) times, every 4 rows 1 (3, 3, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—64 (68, 72, 78, 84, 90, 96) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 4" /[10cm] from the beginning, ending after the same row of the Stripe Pattern as the Front and Back to the armholes. SHAPE CAP Bind off 4 (5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 2 (3, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2) times, then every other row 13 (13, 13, 15, 17, 19, 21) times—26 stitches remain. Bind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—18 stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the left shoulder seam. Neckband With right side facing, smaller needles, and A, pick up and knit 110 stitches around the neck. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the neckband measures approximately 9" /[23cm] from the beginning, or to the desired length. Bind off in the pattern. Sew the right shoulder seam, including the side of the neckband. Set in the sleeves. Sew the sleeve seams. Sew the side seams. Jacqueline Jacqueline Knit this classic jacket for the office and beyond. Since the fabric is reverse stockinette, purl decreases and increases create the shaping details. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust (buttoned): 34½ (38½, 42½, 46½, 50½, 54½)" /[87.5 (98, 108, 118, 128.5, 138.5)cm] Length: 21½ (21½, 22, 22½, 23, 23)" /[54.5 (54.5, 56, 57, 58.5, 58.5)cm] Materials • Knit One Crochet Too's Wrapunzel (4-medium/worsted weight; 70% superwash wool/30% acrylic; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 93 yds/[85m]): 10 (11, 12, 13, 14, 15) balls of Poppy Gold #411 Medium • Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles • Size 8 (5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 4 stitch holders • 5 (5, 5, 5, 6, 6) stitch markers • 5 (5, 5, 5, 6, 6) buttons, 1¼" /[32mm] (JHB International's Stitched Wave Style #83119 buttons were used on sample garment) • Blunt-end yarn needle • Pointed sewing needle Gauge 17 stitches and 24 rows = 4" /[10cm] in reverse stockinette stitch with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Seed Stitch (multiple of 2 + 1 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K1, p1, k1; repeat from the across. PATTERN ROW: As Row 1. Reverse Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Purl across. ROW 2: Knit across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Fit Close-fitting Figure Flattery With its slightly shaped waist, this little jacket will flatter almost any body type. And the knit-in lapels draw the eye upward, focusing attention right where you want it. Notes • For fully fashioned decreases on the Back and sleeve caps: On right-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, p2tog, p2. • For fully fashioned decreases on the Left Front: On right-side rows, p2, p2tog, work in the established pattern to the end; on wrong-side rows, work in the established pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. • For fully fashioned decreases on the Right Front: On right-side rows, work in the established pattern to the last 4 stitches, p2tog, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, k2tog, work in the established pattern to the end. • For fully fashioned increases: p2, M1 purlwise (this page), work to the last 2 stitches, M1 purlwise, p2. • Make buttonholes on the Right Front opposite markers on right-side rows as follows: Work 2 stitches in seed stitch, bind off 3 stitches purlwise, work in pattern to the end of the row; on the subsequent row, use the cable cast-on method to cast on 3 stitches above the bound-off stitches of the previous row. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Back With the smaller needles, cast on 73 (81, 89, 97, 107, 115) stitches. Begin working seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Change to the larger needles; begin reverse stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2½" /[6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAIST Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 more times—65 (73, 81, 89, 99, 107) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 8" /[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every other row 3 more times—73 (81, 89, 97, 107, 115) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12½" /[32cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, bind off 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 1 (1, 2, 1, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 3, 2, 2) times—55 (59, 63, 67, 71, 75) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 20½ (20½, 21, 21½, 22, 22)" /[52 (52, 53.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows, then bind off 5 (7, 7, 7, 7, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows—25 stitches remain. Bind off. Pocket Linings (Make 2) With the larger needles, cast on 21 sts. Begin reverse stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 4½" /[11.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Slip the stitches onto a holder. Left Front With the smaller needles, cast on 41 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches. Begin working seed stitch; work even until the piece measures approximately 1" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Change to the larger needles; work reverse stockinette stitch to the last 7 stitches, then continue seed stitch across 7 stitches. Continue even in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 2½" /[6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAIST Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 more times, and at the same time, when 38 (42, 46, 50, 54, 58) stitches remain and the piece measures approximately 5½" /[14cm] from the beginning, place the pocket lining as follows on a right-side row: P8 (10, 13, 15, 17, 19), slip the next 21 stitches onto a holder, purl across 21 stitches from pocket lining holder (with the purl side up), work to the end of the row. Once all waist decreases are completed, 37 (41, 45, 49, 53, 57) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 8" /[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every other row 3 more times—41 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12½" /[32cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLE Bind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the armhole edge once, bind off 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the armhole edge once, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge every other row 1 (1, 2, 1, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 3, 2, 2) times, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 13½ (13½, 14, 14½, 15, 15)" /[34.5 (34.5, 35.5, 37, 38, 38)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, place a marker between the seed stitch buttonband and the reverse stockinette stitches, and shape the lapel as follows: SHAPE LAPEL LAPEL INCREASE ROW (RS): Work to the marker, slip the marker, M1 knitwise or purlwise as needed to maintain the seed stitch pattern, work in seed stitch to the end of the row. Repeat the Lapel Increase Row every 10 rows 3 more times, working new stitches in seed stitch as they accumulate—36 (38, 40, 42, 43, 45) stitches. Remove the marker, and continue even until the piece measures approximately 18½ (18½, 19, 19½, 20, 20)" /[47 (47, 48.5, 49.5, 51, 51)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. SHAPE NECK Bind off 8 (8, 8, 8, 7, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next row, then bind off 6 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 3 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 2 stitches at the neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at the neck edge every row twice—15 (17, 19, 21, 23, 25) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 20½ (20½, 21, 21½, 22, 22)" /[52 (52, 53.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 8) stitches at the armhole edge twice. Work one row even. Bind off 5 (7, 7, 7, 7, 9) stitches. Place markers for 5 (5, 5, 5, 6, 6) buttons, making the first 1" /[2.5cm] from the lower edge, the last ½" / [1.5cm] from beginning of the lapel, with the others evenly spaced in between. Right Front With the smaller needles, cast on 41 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches. Begin working seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Change to the larger needles; make the first buttonhole as you work seed stitch across the first 7 stitches (see Notes), and work reverse stockinette stitch to the end of the row. Continue even in the patterns as established until the piece measures approximately 2½" /[6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAIST Making buttonholes opposite the markers on the Left Front, work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 times, and at the same time, when 38 (42, 46, 50, 54, 58) stitches remain and the piece measures approximately 5½" /[14cm] from the beginning, place the pocket lining as follows on a right-side row: Work across the first 9 (11, 14, 16, 18, 20), stitches, slip the next 21 stitches onto a holder, purl across 21 stitches from pocket lining holder (with the purl side up), purl to the end of the row. Once all waist decreases are completed, 37 (41, 45, 49, 53, 57) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 8" /[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every other row 3 times—41 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12½" /[32cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLE Bind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the armhole edge once, bind off 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the armhole edge once, work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge every other row 1 (1, 2, 1, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 3, 2, 2) times, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 13½ (13½, 14, 14½, 15, 15)" /[34.5 (34.5, 35.5, 37, 38, 38)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, place a marker between the seed stitch buttonband and the reverse stockinette stitches, and shape the lapel as follows: SHAPE LAPEL LAPEL INCREASE ROW (RS): Work in seed stitch to the marker, M1 knitwise or purlwise as needed to maintain the seed stitch pattern, slip the marker, work to the end of the row. Repeat the Lapel Increase Row every 10 rows 3 more times, working new stitches in seed stitch as they accumulate—36 (38, 40, 42, 43, 45) stitches. Remove the marker, and continue even until the piece measures approximately 18½ (18½, 19, 19½, 20, 20)" /[47 (47, 48.5, 49.5, 51, 51)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Bind off 8 (8, 8, 8, 7, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next row, then bind off 6 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 3 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 2 stitches at the neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at the neck edge every row twice—15 (17, 19, 21, 23, 25) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 20½ (20½, 21, 21½, 22, 22)" /[52 (52, 53.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 8) stitches at the armhole edge twice. Work one row even. Bind off 5 (7, 7, 7, 7, 9) stitches. Sleeves (Make 2) FIRST PIECE OF CUFF With the smaller needles, cast on 19 stitches. Begin working seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2½" /6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 increase ([this page) to increase 1 stitch at the beginning of the row—20 stitches. Slip the stitches onto a holder. SECOND PIECE OF CUFF Work as for the first piece, but on the last row, use the M1 increase to increase 1 stitch at the end of the row—20 stitches. JOIN CUFF With the right sides facing and the larger needles, purl across 20 stitches from the first side of the cuff, then purl across 20 stitches from the second piece of cuff—40 stitches. Continue working reverse stockinette stitch, and work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every other row 0 (0, 0, 0, 2, 2) times, every 4 rows 0 (0, 5, 11, 13, 13) times, every 6 rows 0 (8, 6, 2, 0, 0) times, then every 8 rows 7 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—54 (58, 62, 66, 70, 70) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12½" /[32cm] from the beginning, or to the desired length to the underarm, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 1) time, every other row 11 (10, 12, 13, 16, 14) times, then every row 1 (3, 2, 2, 0, 0) times—22 stitches remain. Bind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—14 stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. COLLAR With the smaller needles, cast on 73 stitches. Begin seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2" /[5cm] from the beginning. Decrease 1 stitch each side every row 10 times—53 stitches remain. Bind off in the pattern. Sew shoulder seams. With the right side of the collar facing to the right side, sew the bound-off stitches of the collar to the neckline, leaving approximately 2" /[5cm] unsewn. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. POCKET EDGINGS With the right side facing and using the smaller needles, pick up and knit 21 stitches from one pocket holder. Begin seed stitch, and work even until the edging measures approximately 1" /[2.5cm]. Bind off in pattern. Repeat for the other pocket holder. Sew pocket linings to the wrong side of Fronts. Sew sides of pocket edgings to the right side of Fronts. Sew on the buttons where marked. Ooh-La-La Skirt Ooh-La-La Skirt Worked almost entirely in the round, this flirty fit 'n' flare skirt is easy to knit and fun to wear. Careful placement of stitch markers means you won't have to count every stitch as you go. Since this design is worked in the round, only simple knit decreases are used for shaping. Go for it! Skill Level Advanced beginner Sizes Extra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Waist (before elastic): 28 (30½, 34, 38, 42, 46, 49)" /[71 (77.5, 86, 96.5, 106.5, 117, 124.5)cm] Hip: 33¾ (37½, 41, 44½, 48, 55, 58½)" /[85.5 (95.5, 104, 113, 122, 139.5, 149)cm] Length: 24" /[61cm] Materials • JCA/Artful Yarns' Lustro (4-medium/worsted weight; 36% viscose/25% acrylic/20% mohair/19% nylon; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 148 yds/[135.5m]): 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10) balls of Emerald #3903 Medium • Size 8 (5mm) 36" /[90cm] circular knitting needle or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 6 (4mm) 36" /[90cm] circular knitting needle • 17 stitch markers (1 in a contrasting color for the beginning of rounds) • Elastic, ¾" /[2cm] wide, cut to fit waist • Zipper, 6" /[15cm] • Blunt-end yarn needle • Pins • Thread in contrast color for basting zipper • Sharp sewing needle • Thread to match the yarn color Gauge 18 stitches and 26 rounds = 4" /[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needle. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Pattern Stockinette Stitch Worked in the Round (any number of stitches) ROUND 1 (RS): Knit around. PATTERN ROUND: As Round 1. Special Abbreviation S2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip the next 2 stitches as if to k2tog, k1, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch. Notes • This skirt is made in the round in one piece from the bottom up. • Use a different colored marker for the beginning of the round. • To work the pattern as established, knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them. • The knit waist circumference has approximately 4" / [10cm] of ease and will be gathered in by the elastic for a perfect fit. Fit Close-fitting Figure Flattery Think you can't wear a knit skirt? Nonsense! Fun flounces add movement and grace to this design, and a smooth waistband makes it sleek. It's easy to adjust the length of the elastic for a flattering custom fit. Subtle vertical lines magically elongate the body. Skirt With the larger needle, loosely cast on 408 (408, 424, 440, 456, 488, 520) stitches. Place a marker to indicate the beginning of the round; join, being careful not to twist the stitches. ROUND 1 (RS): K11 (11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 18), p29, k22 (22, 24, 26, 28, 32, 36); repeat from the around, ending the round with p29, k11 (11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 18). Work 1 round in the established pattern. DECREASE ROUND 1: K10 (10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 17), place a marker, ssk, p27, k2tog, place a marker, k20 (20, 22, 24, 26, 30, 34) stitches; repeat from the around, ending the round with place a marker, ssk, p27, k2tog, place a marker, k10 (10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 17)—392 (392, 408, 424, 440, 472, 504) stitches remain. Work 1 round even. DECREASE ROUND 2: Knit to the first marker, slip the marker, ssk, purl to 2 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the around—376 (376, 392, 408, 424, 456, 488) stitches remain. Repeat the last 2 rounds 11 more times—200 (200, 216, 232, 248, 280, 312) stitches remain. Work 1 round even. DECREASE ROUND 3: Knit to the first marker, slip the marker, ssk, k1, k2tog, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the around—184 (184, 200, 216, 232, 264, 296) stitches remain. Knit 1 round. DECREASE ROUND 4: Knit to the first marker, slip the marker, s2kp2, slip the marker; knit to the next marker; repeat from the around—168 (168, 184, 200, 216, 248, 280) stitches remain. NEXT ROUND: Knit to the first marker, slip the marker, slip 1 purlwise, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the around. Knit 1 round. Repeat the last 2 rounds until the piece measures approximately 9 (18, 18, 18, 18, 18, 9)" /[23 (45.5, 45.5, 45.5, 45.5, 45.5, 23)cm] from the beginning, ending after a plain knit round. FOR SIZES EXTRA SMALL AND 3X ONLY NEXT ROUND: Repositioning markers as necessary so that they are on either side of the decrease stitch, knit to 1 stitch before the next slipped stitch, s2kp2; repeat from the around—152 (___, ___, ___, ___, ___, 264) stitches remain. NEXT ROUND: Knit to the first marker, slip the marker, slip 1 purlwise, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the around. Knit 1 round. Repeat the last 2 rounds until the piece measures approximately 18 (__, __, ___, ___, ___, 18)" /[45.5 (__, __, __, __, __, 45.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a plain knit round. FOR ALL SIZES Remove all markers. Begin working stockinette stitch back and forth in rows, continuing to slip the slipped stitches on right-side rows and purling all stitches on wrong-side rows. Work even until the piece measures approximately 19½" /[49.5cm] from the beginning. NEXT ROW (RS): Knit to 1 stitch before the next slipped stitch, s2kp2; repeat from the to the end of the row—136 (152, 168, 184, 200, 232, 248) stitches remain. Continuing to slip the slipped stitches on right-side rows, work even until the piece measures approximately 23" /[58.5cm] from the beginning, ending after completing a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAISTBAND NEXT ROW (RS): Knit across, and use the k2tog method to decrease 10 (14, 15, 13, 11, 25, 28) stitches evenly across—126 (138, 153, 171, 189, 207, 220) stitches remain. WAISTBAND Change to the smaller needle, and work even until the waistband measures approximately 2" /[5cm]. Bind off loosely. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block the piece to the finished measurements. Fold the waistband in half to the wrong side, insert the elastic, and loosely whipstitch into place. Secure elastic, and sew the opening closed. Sew in zipper at side seam. Aberdeen Aberdeen Practice stranded colorwork technique as you knit this showstopper. It is worked entirely in the round with steeks at the neckline and sleeve caps, with single purl stitches at the sides to give the appearance of seams. Skill Level Experienced Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for the other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 34¼ (38, 4½, 46½, 50, 53½)" /[87 (96.5, 105.5, 118, 127, 136)cm] Hip: 36 (39½, 43, 48¼, 53½, 55)" /[91 (100.5, 109, 122.5, 136, 139.5)cm] Length (hemmed): 20½ (21¼, 21½, 22, 22½, 23½)" /[52 (54, 54.5, 56, 57, 59.5)cm] Materials • Simply Shetland/Jamieson's Spindrift (1-super fine/fingering weight; 100% wool; each approximately 1 oz/[25g] and 115 yds/[105m]): 3 (3, 4, 4, 5, 5) balls of Lupin #629 (A), 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) balls each of #685 Delph (B), #676 Sapphire (C), #1010 Seabright (D), and #135 Surf (E), 3 (3, 3, 4, 4, 4) balls of #764 Cloud (F), 1 (1, 1, 1, 1, 2) balls of #350 Lemon (G), and 1 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3) balls of #365 Chartreuse (H) Super Fine • Size 1 (2.25mm) 29" /[74cm] circular needle • Size 1 (2.25mm) 24" /[60cm] circular needle • Size 1 (2.25mm) double-pointed needles (set of 4) • Size 3 (3.25mm) 29" /[74cm] circular needle, or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 3 (3.25mm) 24" /[60cm] circular needle, or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 3 (3.25mm) 16" /[40cm] circular needle, or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 3 (3.25mm) double-pointed needles (set of 4) • 8 stitch markers (1 in a different color from the others to mark the beginning of rounds) • Blunt-end yarn needle • Size B/1 (2.25mm) crochet hook for crocheted steek (optional) Gauge 28 stitches and 32 rounds = 4" /[10cm] in stranded 2-color stockinette stitch with the larger needle. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Lower Hem Pattern (multiple of 12 stitches) See chart. Peaked Fair Isle Pattern (multiple of 12 stitches) See chart. Notes • This sweater is worked entirely in the round from the bottom up, using steeks for the armhole and neck shapings; the sleeves are worked in the round separately from the body, using a steek to shape the sleeve cap. • The 9-stitch steeks are worked in a vertical stripe pattern as follows: k1 with the background color of the round, k1 with the pattern color of the round; repeat from 3 times, k1 with the background color. On color-change rounds, change colors in the middle of the first steek. • The steek stitches are not included in the stitch counts; it is the knitter's choice if she wants to use a different-sized steek. • When casting on for the steeks, use the e-wrap cast-on, alternating colors to match the steek stripe pattern. • To increase within the pattern, use the lifted increase technique (this page) in the color needed to maintain the pattern. • The sweater is designed so that the patterns on the body and sleeves will line up at the armhole. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery This is not your typical Shetland ski sweater! Body-conscious waist shaping makes this piece flatter many body types. The diamond shading within the colorwork pattern lessens its stripey effect, and a deep scoop neckline draws attention upward. Perfect! Body With the smaller circular needle and A, use the provisional cast-on to cast on 256 (280, 304, 340, 376, 388) stitches. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join, being careful not to twist the stitches. HEM Beginning the Lower Hem Pattern where marked for your desired size, work Round 1 of the pattern across the first 127 (139, 151, 169, 187, 193) stitches, place a marker, p1 in the background color for the "seam stitch," place a marker; repeat from the once more. Continue in the pattern, purling the "seam stitches" in the background color, until Round 12 is completed. TURNING ROUND FOR HEM: Change to the larger needle; continuing with A and slipping markers, * slip 1 with the yarn in front, p1; repeat from the * around. SET UP MAIN PATTERN Beginning the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern where marked for your desired size and slipping markers, work Round 1 of the pattern to the marker, p1 in the background color; repeat from the once more. Continue in the pattern, purling the "seam stitches" in the background color, until the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern section measures the same as the length of the hem to the Turning Round. FOLD UP HEM Carefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the smaller needle as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the smaller needle behind the main knitting needle. With both needles in your left hand, continue the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern and k2tog (1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the smaller needle) all the way around to close the hem. Work 1 round in the pattern. SHAPE WAIST NEXT (DECREASE) ROUND: K2tog, knit to 2 stitches before the first marker, ssk, slip the marker, p1, slip the marker; repeat from the once—252 (276, 300, 336, 372, 384) stitches remain. Repeat the Decrease Round every other round 2 (7, 7, 8, 12, 7) more times, then every 4 rounds 8 (6, 6, 6, 4, 7) times—212 (224, 248, 280, 308, 328) stitches remain. Work even until the piece measures approximately 6½ (6¾, 7, 7, 7¼, 7¾)" /[16.5 (17, 18, 18, 18.5, 19.5) cm] from the beginning. NEXT (INCREASE) ROUND: Work a right lifted increase (this page), knit to the marker, work a left lifted increase (this page), slip the marker, p1, slip the marker; repeat from the once—216 (228, 252, 284, 312, 332) stitches. Repeat the Increase Round every 4 rounds 7 (5, 4, 5, 5, 4) more times, then every other round 0 (5, 6, 6, 5, 7) times—244 (268, 292, 328, 352, 376) stitches, with 122 (134, 146, 164, 176, 188) stitches each, Front and Back. Work even until the piece measures approximately 13 (13½, 13½, 14, 14, 14½)" /[33 (34.5, 34.5, 35.5, 35.5, 37)cm] from the beginning, ending 10 (13, 14, 17, 21, 25) stitches before the end of the round. Break the pattern color. Make a note of which pattern round you end with. ESTABLISH ARMHOLE STEEKS AND SHAPE ARMHOLES NEXT ROUND: Removing markers as you come to them, bind off 19 (25, 27, 33, 41, 49) stitches with the background color; rejoin the pattern color and work to 9 (12, 13, 16, 20, 24) stitches before the next marker, break the pattern color, bind off 19 (25, 27, 33, 41, 49) stitches with the background color, rejoin the pattern color, work to the end of the round—103 (109, 119, 131, 135, 139) stitches remain for both the Front and the Back. NEXT ROUND: Alternating colors (see Notes), cast on 4 stitches for the armhole steek, place a marker for the beginning of the round, cast on 5 more stitches for the armhole steek, place a marker, work to the 2nd set of bound-off stitches, place a marker, cast on 9 stitches for the armhole steek, place a marker, work to the end of the round. NEXT (DECREASE) ROUND: Work the steek stitches, slip the marker, k2tog, work to 2 stitches before the next marker, ssk, slip the marker; repeat from the once, then work the 4 remaining steek stitches—101 (107, 117, 129, 133, 137) stitches remain for both the Front and the Back. Repeat the Decrease Round every other round 2 (2, 8, 12, 11, 10) times, then every 4 rounds 3 (3, 1, 0, 0, 0) times—91 (97, 99, 105, 111, 117) stitches remain for the Back when the armhole decreases are complete. At the same time, when the armholes measure ½ (¾, 1, 1, 1½, 2)" /[1.5 (2, 2.5, 2.5, 4, 5)cm], place markers on either side of the 19 center front stitches. ESTABLISH FRONT NECK STEEK AND SHAPE FRONT NECK NEXT ROUND: Work to the marked center front stitches and break the pattern color; using the background color and removing the markers, bind off 19 stitches for the front neck; rejoin the pattern color and work to the end of the round. NEXT ROUND: Work around and cast on 9 stitches for the front neck steek over the bound-off stitches, placing a marker before and after the new set of cast-on stitches. NEXT (NECK DECREASE) ROUND: Slipping markers as you come to them, work to 2 stitches before the front neck steek, ssk, work the front neck steek, k2tog, work to the end of the round. Repeat the Neck Decrease Round every round 5 more times, every other round 6 times, then every 4 rounds twice—22 (25, 26, 29, 32, 35) Front stitches remain each side of the front neck steek. Work even until the armholes measure approximately 6 (6¼, 6½, 6½, 7, 7½)" /[15 (16, 16.5, 16.5, 18, 19)cm]. ESTABLISH BACK NECK STEEK AND SHAPE BACK NECK NEXT ROUND: Slipping the markers as you come to them, work to 24 (27, 28, 31, 34, 37) stitches past the second armhole steek and break the pattern color; using the background color, bind off the next 43 stitches for the back neck; rejoin the pattern color and work to the end of the round. NEXT ROUND: Work around and cast on 9 stitches over the bound-off stitches for the back neck steek, placing a marker before and after the new set of cast-on stitches. NEXT (NECK DECREASE) ROUND: Slipping markers as you come to them, work to 2 stitches before the first back neck steek marker, ssk, work the back neck steek, k2tog, work to the end of the round—23 (26, 27, 30, 33, 36) Back stitches remain each side of the back neck steek. Repeat the Neck Decrease Round once more—22 (25, 26, 29, 32, 35) Back stitches remain each side. Work even until the armholes measure approximately 7½ (73¾, 8, 8, 8½, 9)" /[19 (19.5, 20.5, 20.5, 21.5, 23)cm]. With the background color, bind off all stitches. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller double-pointed needles and A, using the provisional cast-on technique, cast on 67 (67, 79, 79, 91, 91) stitches; place a marker for the beginning of the round and join, being careful not to twist the stitches. HEM Beginning the Lower Hem Pattern where marked for your desired size, work Round 1 of the pattern to the last stitch, place a marker, p1 in the background color for the "seam stitch." Continue working the pattern, purling the "seam stitches" in the background color, until Round 12 is completed. TURNING ROUND FOR HEM: Change to the larger double-pointed needles; continuing with A, slip the next stitch with the yarn in front, p1; repeat from the around. SET UP MAIN PATTERN Beginning the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern where marked for the sleeves, work Round 1 of the pattern to marker, slip the marker, p1 for the "seam stitch" in the background color. Continue in the pattern, purling the "seam stitches" in the background color, until the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern section measures the same as the length of the hem to the Turning Round. FOLD UP HEM Carefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the smaller double-pointed needles as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the smaller needles behind the main needles. Holding smaller and larger needles in your left hand, continue the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern and k2tog (1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the smaller needle) all the way around to close the hem. NEXT (INCREASE) ROUND: Work a right lifted increase, then continue in pattern to the marker, make a left lifted increase, slip the marker, p1 for the "seam stitch" in the background color—69 (69, 81, 81, 93, 93) stitches. Repeat the Increase Round every 8 rounds 0 (5, 0, 0, 0, 1) times, every 10 rounds 5 (4, 0, 7, 0, 8) times, every 12 rounds 2 (0, 0, 1, 2, 0) times, every 14 rounds 0 (0, 4, 0, 4, 0) times, every 16 rounds 0 (0, 1, 0, 0, 0) times, changing to a circular needle as the stitches accumulate—83 (87, 91, 97, 105, 111) stitches. Work even until the piece measures approximately 13 (13½, 13½, 14, 14, 14½)" /[33 (34.5, 34.5, 35.5, 35.5, 37) cm], ending 10 (13, 14, 17, 21, 25) stitches before the end of the round, ending after the same pattern round as the body up to the armhole. ESTABLISH SLEEVE CAP STEEKS AND SHAPE CAP NEXT ROUND: Break the pattern color; with the background color, bind off 19 (25, 27, 33, 41, 49) stitches; rejoin the pattern color and work to the end of the round—64 (62, 64, 64, 64, 62) stitches remain. NEXT ROUND: Cast on 4 stitches for the sleeve cap steek, place a marker for the beginning of the round, cast on 5 more sleeve cap steek stitches, place a marker, work to the end of the round. NEXT (SLEEVE CAP DECREASE) ROUND: Slipping the markers as you come to them, work 5 steek stitches, k2tog, work to the last 2 sleeve stitches, ssk, work the 4 remaining steek stitches—62 (60, 62, 62, 62, 60) sleeve stitches remain. Repeat the Sleeve Cap Decrease Round every 4 rounds 0 (1, 2, 2, 5, 9) times, every other round 18 (18, 18, 18, 14, 8) times, then every round 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, changing to double-pointed needles as necessary—22 (22, 22, 22, 24, 26) sleeve stitches remain. With the background color, bind off. Finishing Secure Front neck, Back neck, and armhole steeks. Cut the steeks (this page). Block the pieces to the finished measurements. Use mattress stitch to sew the shoulder seams. NECKBAND With the right side facing, larger 16" /[40cm] circular needle, and 2 strands of A held together, pick up and knit 116 stitches around the neckline. Purl 5 rounds. Bind off purlwise, allowing the neckband to roll to the wrong side. Set in the sleeves. Trim the steeks as necessary; fold back and tack to wrong side. NOTE Measurements in the schematic illustrations are finished measurements, not including steek stitches. CHAPTER 3 Designer Details Now that we've seen how easy it is to add fully fashioned shaping to any pattern, let's take a look at ways to use these elements to create knockout knits. Designer Workshop Enrich Your Knits! If you'd like to add a special detail to your knitting, include some of the following decorative applications of fully fashioned shaping. They're great along raglan and other armhole shaping, as well as on either side of sleeve caps—even waist shaping! As a bonus, some of these design elements are noncurling, so they're ideal for incorporated neckbands and armhole bands, as in The Weekender. That way, you don't have to go back and pick up stitches later to finish the sweater. Hoorah! The examples all use decreases, but increases could easily be used as well. Just substitute one of the increase methods inside the ornamental edges. Garter Ridges Here's an easy way to accentuate the shaped areas of a design with a bit of texture. Horizontal ridges of garter stitch are worked on 3 stitches just outside of the decreases as seen in the swatch below. Swatch It Up Give it a try! Knit up a sample with garter ridges defining the fully fashioned shaping. Just a little bit of texture can go a long way! Note that each 4-row repeat decreases 1 stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): Knit. Row 2: K3, purl to the last 3 stitches, k3. Row 3: K3, ssk, knit to the last 5 stitches, k2tog, k3. Row 4: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Dropped Stitches Knitters bend over backwards trying to prevent dropping their stitches, but this fully fashioned option allows you to intentionally drop them! It's a fun and novel way to draw attention to shaped areas. Prior to the shaping, one stitch is added by making a yarn over a few stitches in from the edge of the fabric; when all shaping is completed, the extra stitch is dropped from the needle and gently coaxed to "run" all the way down. Take a look at the "deconstructed" results in the swatch below. Swatch It Up Have a go at it: try a sample piece with intentionally dropped stitches. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases 1 stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Set-Up Row (RS): K2, yarn over, knit to the last 2 stitches, yarn over, k2. Row 1 (WS): Purl. Row 2: Knit. Row 3: As Row 1. Row 4: K3, ssk, knit to the last 5 stitches, k2tog, k3. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. ending after a wrong-side row. Final Row (RS): K2, remove the next stitch from the left-hand needle and unravel it down to the original yarn over in the Set-up Row, knit to the last 3 stitches, remove the next stitch from the left-hand needle and unravel it down to the original yarn over, k2. Doing the Twist Here's a way to add lots of vertical lines to your knitting, each of them drawing the eye upward to create a flattering effect as seen in the swatch below. And it's so easy: just work a handful of stitches in a twisted rib pattern, knitting or purling in the back loops as you go. Fully fashioned decreases are worked in purl valleys so they are inconspicuous. Swatch It Up Try it: Here's a sample swatch with fully fashioned decreases worked just inside twisted rib panels. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): [K1 through the back loop, p1] 4 times, knit to the last 8 stitches, [p1, k1 through the back loop] 4 times. Row 2: [P1 through the back loop, k1] 4 times, purl to the last 8 stitches, [k1, p1 through the back loop] 4 times. Row 3 (Decrease Row): Work the first 7 stitches in the established pattern, p2tog, knit to the last 9 stitches, p2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row. Row 4: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Multicolor Bands It's fun to incorporate color into knits, and here's a novel approach: Work narrow Fair Isle bands just outside the fully fashioned shaping as seen in the swatch below. Swatch It Up Give it a spin! Knit a sample piece with Fair Isle bands accentuating the fully fashioned shaping. Of course, any Fair Isle chart can be used; the pattern in this example is 5 stitches wide. It's best to use opposite colors for the background in the solid sections and in the charted areas to provide high contrast. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches with the main color. Row 1 (RS): Knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern; with the main background color, knit to the last 5 stitches; knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern. Row 2: Purl 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern; with the main background color, purl to the last 5 stitches; purl 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern. Row 3 (Decrease Row): Knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern; with the main background color, ssk, knit to the last 7 stitches, k2tog; knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern. Row 4: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Horizontal Barred Stitches For a bold fully fashioned effect, use slip stitch technique to create horizontal "floats" on the right side of the fabric as seen in the swatch below. Just be sure the working yarn is brought toward the knit side before slipping the stitches, and remember to return it to the back after slipping. Swatch It Up You'll be surprised at how easy it is to achieve this effect. Give it a try! Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): K1, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, knit to the last 4 sts, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, k1. Row 2: Purl. Row 3 (Decrease Row): K1, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, ssk, knit to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, k1. Row 4: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Simple Cables Sometimes little cables along shaped areas are all a design needs to stand out. Look at the swatch below. In that swatch, fully fashioned decreases are worked within cables on each side of the fabric. Wow! Swatch It Up Have a go at it: Try a swatch with cables along the fully fashioned shaping. In this example, each cable twists toward the selvedges. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): Knit. Row 2: Purl. Row 3 (Decrease Row): K2, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k1, ssk the stitches on the cable needle to combine them, knit to the last 5 stitches, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in front, k2tog, k1 from the cable needle, k2. Row 4: Purl. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Raised Cables For more stitch definition as seen in the swatch below, try this version of fully fashioned cabling. Swatch It Up Here's how to work fully fashioned shaping with pronounced cabled stitches twisting toward the interior of the fabric. This method would be quite flattering for raglan decreases, since all design elements would be pointing toward the neckline. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): K1, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in front, k2, k1 from the cable needle, knit to the last 4 stitches, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k1, k2 from the cable needle, k1. Row 2: Purl. Row 3 (Decrease Row): K1, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in front, ssk to combine the next 2 stitches on the left-hand needle, k1 from the cable needle, knit to the last 4 stitches, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k1, k2tog the 2 stitches on the cable needle to combine them, k1. Row 4: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Exaggerated Cables We can cross elongated stitches to create even more definition during fully fashioned shaping. In this case, one intentionally loose stitch on each side edge of the fabric is slipped for a few rows before cabling it. As seen in the swatch below, the twists slant toward the interior of the fabric and are loose, looking almost like hand embroidery. Try this technique on your next raglan sweater or sleeve cap. Swatch It Up Practice knitting fully fashioned decreases with elongated cable stitches as seen above. You'll need two safety pins to hold the slipped stitches. To work the elongated stitches on Row 1, first insert the right-hand needle purlwise into the stitch on the left-hand needle, then wrap the yarn around the right-hand needle three times as you purl the stitch. It's easy! Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (WS): P1, purl the next stitch wrapping the yarn 3 times around the needle as you make the stitch, purl to the last 2 stitches, purl the next stitch wrapping the yarn 3 times around the needle as you make the stitch, p1. Row 2: K1, slip the next stitch onto a safety pin and allow it to hang to the front, knit to the last 2 stitches, slip the next stitch onto a safety pin and allow it to hang to the front, k1. Row 3: Purl across, leaving the stitches on the safety pins hanging and unworked. Row 4 (Decrease Row): K4, transfer the stitch from the safety pin to the left-hand needle, ssk, knit to the last 6 stitches (including the stitch on the safety pin), slip the next stitch to the right-hand needle, transfer the stitch from the safety pin to the left-hand needle, then slip the first stitch on the right-hand needle back onto the left-hand needle, k2tog, k4. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Cables and Eyelets For a beautiful effect on women's and kids' knits, incorporate this fully fashioned detail. It combines cable twists with lace, as seen in the swatch below. Swatch It Up Give this interesting fully fashioned technique a whirl. It uses both cables and eyelets to attract attention to the shaped area. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): Knit. Row 2: Purl. Row 3 (Decrease Row): K1, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in back, k2tog, k1 from the cable needle, yarn over, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k1, ssk to combine the 2 stitches on the cable needle, knit to the last 7 stitches, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in back, k2tog, k1 from the cable needle, yarn over, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k1, ssk to combine the 2 stitches on the cable needle, k1. Row 4: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–4 until 21 stitches remain. Honeycomb Cables Here's a lovely way to highlight fully fashioned shaping! Half of a honeycomb cable is worked on each side of the fabric (just outside the shaping) as seen in the swatch below. Once the seams are sewn, the two halves meet to create a beautiful honeycomb cable (see swatch, below right). I used this designer detail in a raglan sweater in my book entitled Cables Untangled (Potter Craft, 2006). Swatch It Up Swatch a bit of fully fashioned shaping using honeycomb cables. Here, the decreases occur in the purl "valleys" that frame the cabled sections. Note that each 8-row repeat decreases two stitches on each side. To begin, cast on 35 stitches. Row 1 (RS): K1, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k2, k2 from the cable needle, p2, knit to the last 7 stitches, p2, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k2, k2 from the cable needle, k1. Row 2 and all even rows: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them. Row 3 (Decrease Row): K5, p1, p2tog, knit to the last 8 stitches, ssp, p1, k5. Row 5: K1, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k2, k2 from the cable needle, p2, knit to the last 7 stitches, p2, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k2, k2 from the cable needle, k1. Row 7 (Decrease Row): As Row 3. Repeat Rows 1–8 until 19 stitches remain. It's fun to explore different ways to add visual interest to fully fashioned shaping. Practice with the swatches in this section and then incorporate these details into your knitting. Of course, you don't have to limit your use of fully fashioned techniques to shaping waistlines; you can use them to add beautiful designer touches, from integrated V-necklines to cabled raglan elements. You, too, can be a designer! Orvieto Orvieto In this great topper, braided cables travel along the raglan seams. They extend all the way down the side seams, too, creating a beautiful—and slimming!—effect. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Extra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust (buttoned): 34 (37¼, 41, 42¼, 46, 48½, 51½)"/[86 (94.5, 104, 107.5, 117, 123, 131)cm] Length: 19¾"/[50cm] Materials • Lion Brand Yarn's Alpine Wool (5-bulky weight; 77% wool; 15% acrylic, 8% rayon; each approximately 3 oz/[85g] and 93 yds/[85m]): 9 (10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15) balls of Chili #115 Bulky • Size 10 (6mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 10½ (6.5mm) knitting needles • Cable needle • 2 buttons, 1⅝"/[41mm] (JHB International's Arles Style #51105 were used on sample garment) • Blunt-end yarn needle • Pointed sewing needle Gauge 13 stitches and 22 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Box Stitch Pattern with the smaller needles. The 9-stitch Cable Panels each measure 1¾"/[4.5cm] across with the smaller needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Box Stitch Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K2, p2, k2; repeat from the across. ROW 2: P2, k2, p2; repeat from the across. ROW 3: As Row 2. ROW 4: As Row 1. Repeat Rows 1–4 for the pattern. Right Cable Panel (over 9 stitches) See chart. Left Cable Panel (over 9 stitches) See chart. Notes • The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. • For fully fashioned raglan decreases: On right-side rows, work 8 stitches in pattern, ssp, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, p2tog, work 8 stitches in pattern; on wrong-side rows, work 8 stitches in pattern, k2tog, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, ssk, work 8 stitches in pattern. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction. Back With the smaller needles, cast on 64 (68, 72, 76, 80, 88, 92) stitches. SET UP THE PATTERNS Working Row 1 of each pattern, work the Right Cable Panel across 9 stitches; work the Box Stitch Pattern over 46 (50, 54, 58, 62, 70, 74) stitches; work the Left Cable Panel across 9 stitches. Continue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10½, 10, 9½, 9, 8½, 8½)"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Work fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) every row 0 (0, 0, 1, 2, 8, 12) times, every other row 17 (20, 22, 23, 24, 22, 20) times, then every 4 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time—28 stitches remain. Work 1 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even. Bind off in pattern, working k2tog over the sixth and seventh stitches of the Right Cable Pattern and ssk over the third and fourth stitches of the Left Cable Pattern to avoid cable splay. Left Front With the smaller needles, cast on 43 (43, 47, 47, 51, 55, 55) stitches. SET UP THE PATTERNS Working Row 1 of each pattern, work the Right Cable Panel across 9 stitches; work the Box Stitch Pattern to the end of the row. Continue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10½, 10, 9½, 9, 8½, 8½)"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN AND NECK Work fully fashioned raglan decreases at the armhole edge every row 0 (0, 0, 1, 2, 8, 12) times, every other row 17 (20, 22, 23, 24, 22, 20) times, then every 4 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately ½"/[1.5cm] less than the Back, ending after a right-side row, shape the neck as follows: Bind off 14 (12, 14, 12, 14, 14, 12) stitches at the neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at the neck edge twice. Once all raglan decreases are completed, work 1 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even on remaining 9 stitches. Bind off in pattern, working k2tog over the sixth and seventh stitches of the Right Cable Pattern and ssk over the third and fourth stitches of the Left Cable Pattern to avoid cable splay. Fit Close-fitting Figure Flattery A relaxed double-breasted front closure makes this jacket easy for many figure types to wear. Lots of design features draw the eye to the face, from the upward-pointing cables to the collar. Right Front With the smaller needles, cast on 43 (43, 47, 47, 51, 55, 55) stitches. SET UP THE PATTERNS Working Row 1 of each pattern, work the Box Stitch Pattern across 34 (34, 38, 38, 42, 46, 46) stitches; work the Left Cable Panel across 9 stitches. Continue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10½, 10, 9½, 9, 8½, 8½)"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN AND NECK Work fully fashioned raglan decreases at the armhole edge every row 0 (0, 0, 1, 2, 8, 12) times, every other row 17 (20, 22, 23, 24, 22, 20) times, then every 4 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 16½"/ [42cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, make 2 buttonholes as follows: Work 4 stitches in pattern, bind off 2 stitches, work to the last 6 stitches, bind off 2 stitches, work to the end of the row. On the subsequent row, use the cable cast-on technique to cast on 2 stitches over the bound-off stitches of the previous row. Complete same as the Left Front. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles, cast on 56 stitches. SET UP THE PATTERNS Working Row 1 of each pattern, work the Right Cable Panel across 9 stitches; work the Box Stitch Pattern across 38 stitches; work the Left Cable Panel across the last 9 stitches. Continue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10½, 10, 9½, 9, 8½, 8½)"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Work fully fashioned raglan decreases each side every other row 17 (16, 14, 13, 11, 10, 10) times, then every 4 rows 1 (2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8) times—20 stitches remain. Work 1 (1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0) row even. Bind off in pattern, working k2tog over the sixth and seventh stitches of the Right Cable Pattern and ssk over the third and fourth stitches of the Left Cable Pattern to avoid cable splay. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the raglan seams. COLLAR With the wrong side facing and using the smaller needles, beginning and ending approximately 1¾/ [4.5cm] from the Front edge, pick up and knit 54 stitches along the neckline. Beginning with Row 2 of the pattern, work the Box Stitch Pattern until the collar measures approximately 3½"/9cm] from the beginning, and at the same time, on wrong-side rows, increase as follows, working new stitches into the established pattern: Work 2 stitches in pattern, Ml knitwise or purlwise ([this page), depending on what the next stitch in the pattern is, work to the last 2 stitches, Ml knitwise or purlwise (depending on what the next stitch in the pattern is), work 2 stitches in pattern. Change to the larger needles, and continue increasing on wrong-side rows as before until the collar measures approximately 5½"/[14cm]. Bind off in pattern. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Sew on the buttons opposite the buttonholes. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn Cables 'n' Ribs Cables 'n' Ribs This slightly fitted pullover will hug you in all the right places. Fully fashioned decreases at the raglan seams create a perfectly seamless look. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Extra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 32 (35, 39, 42, 45, 49, 52)"/[81 (89, 99, 106.5, 114, 124.5, 132) cm] Length: 21½ (22¾, 23¾, 24¼, 24¾, 25½, 26½)"/[54.5 (58, 60.5, 61.5, 63, 65, 67.5)cm] Materials • Classic Elite Yarns' Portland Tweed (4-medium/worsted weight; 50% virgin wool/25% alpaca/25% viscose; each approximately 13/4 oz/[50g] and 120 yds/[132m]): 9 (10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15) balls of Tidal Foam #5004 Medium • Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles • Size 7 (4.5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Cable needle • 2 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 24 stitches and 26 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Rib Pattern, unstretched, with the larger needles. 30 stitches and 26 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Cable Pattern with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Rib Pattern (multiple of 5 + 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K2, p3, k2; repeat from the across. ROW 2: P2, k3, p2; repeat from the across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Cable Pattern (multiple of 30 + 26 stitches) See chart. Notes • For a perfect close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself. • For fully fashioned body decreases: Work 11 (16, 21, 26, 31, 36, 41) stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 13 (18, 23, 28, 33, 38, 43) stitches, k2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned body increases: Work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in pattern, M1 purlwise (this page), work in pattern to the last 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches, M1 purlwise, work in pattern to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned raglan decreases: For right-side rows, work 6 stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, k2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row; for wrong-side rows, work 6 stitches in pattern, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, ssp, work in pattern to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned sleeve increases: Work 7 stitches in pattern, M1 knitwise (this page) or purlwise, depending on what the new stitch will be when incorporated into the Rib Pattern, work in pattern to the last 7 stitches, M1 knitwise or purlwise, depending on what the new stitch will be when incorporated into the Rib Pattern, work in pattern to the end of the row. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction. Fit Close-fitting Figure Flattery Let the elongating power of vertical ribs work their magic! Especially flattering for petite figures, dozens of lines in this design direct the eye upward, drawing attention right where it belongs. Back With the larger needles, cast on 110 (120, 130, 140, 150, 160, 170) stitches. SET UP BORDER PATTERNS ROW 1 (RS): Work Row 1 of the Rib Pattern over the first 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, k4, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, k4, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, then work Row 1 of the Ribbed Pattern over 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches to end the row. ROW 2 (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches. ROW 3: Work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in pattern, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, slip 2 stitches to a cn and hold in back, k2, k2 from the cn, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, k4, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in pattern. ROW 4: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches. ROWS 5 AND 6: Repeat Rows 1 and 2. SET UP MAIN PATTERNS ROW 7: Working Row 1 of each pattern, work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in the Rib Pattern, place a marker, work the Cable Pattern over the next 86 stitches, place a marker, work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in the Rib Pattern. DECREASE FOR WAIST Continue the established patterns, and at the same time, work fully fashioned body decreases (see Notes) every 10 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 3) times, every 8 rows 3 (3, 3, 4, 4, 2, 1) times, then every 6 rows 1 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) time—102 (112, 122, 132, 142, 152, 162) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 6½ (6½, 6¾, 7, 7, 7¼, 7½)"/[16.5 (16.5, 17, 18, 18, 18.5, 19)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Continue the established patterns, and at the same time, work fully fashioned body increases (see Notes) every 6 rows 1 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, every 8 rows 3 (3, 3, 4, 4, 2, 1) times, then every 10 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 3) times, working the new stitches into the Rib Pattern—110 (120, 130, 140, 150, 160, 170) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 13 (13¾, 13¾, 13¾, 14, 14½, 15½)"/[33 (35, 35, 35, 35.5, 37, 39.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Work fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) every other row 18 (13, 11, 6, 7, 2, 3) times, then every row 10 (20, 26, 36, 38, 48, 50) times—54 (54, 56, 56, 60, 60, 64) stitches remain. Bind off in pattern. Front Work same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 18 (19¼, 20¾, 20¼, 21¼, 22, 23)"/ [45.5 (49, 51.5, 52.5, 54, 56, 58.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Continue working the fully fashioned raglan decreases same as for the Back, and at the same time, bind off the middle 20 (20, 22, 22, 26, 26, 30) stitches. Continue working the fully fashioned raglan decreases same as for the Back, and at the same time, bind off 7 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 5 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 3 stitches at each neck edge once; decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge every row twice. Sleeves (Make 2) With the larger needles, cast on 47 (47, 57, 57, 57, 57, 57) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Work fully fashioned sleeve increases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 6, 5) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 6, 14, 15) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 9, 0, 0) times, every 10 rows 8 (6, 6, 6, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 12 rows 2 (4, 4, 4, 0, 0, 0) times, working new stitches into the Rib Pattern as they accumulate—67 (67, 77, 77, 87, 97, 97) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 18 (18½, 18½, 18½, 18½, 18½, 19)"/[45.5 (47, 47, 47, 47, 47, 48.5)cm] from the beginning or to the desired length to the underarm, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Work fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 21 (21, 18, 18, 17, 12, 16) times, then every row 4 (4, 12, 12, 18, 28, 24) times—17 stitches remain. Bind off in pattern. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew 3 of the 4 raglan seams, leaving the back left seam unsewn. NECKBAND With the right side facing and smaller needles, pick up and knit 92 (92, 97, 97, 102, 102, 107) stitches around the neck. Begin with a wrong-side row, and work the Rib Pattern until the neckband measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm]. Bind off loosely in pattern. Sew the last raglan seam, including the side of the neckband. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Stitch Key \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|--- • \| = P on RS; k on WS \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k2; p1 from cn \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; pi; k2 from cn \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in baco; k2; p2 from cn \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front p2; n2 from cn The Weekender The Weekender Fully fashioned shaping is essential to this tunic: It's used to create a shapely silhouette, a deep neckline, and perfect-fit sleeve caps. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 33 (36½, 40, 43, 46, 49, 52½)"/[84 (92.5, 101.5, 109, 117, 124.5, 133.5)cm] Length: 29 (29½, 29½, 30, 30, 30½, 30½)"/[74 (75, 75, 76, 76, 77.5, 77.5)cm] Materials • Lion Brand Yarn's Superwash Merino Cashmere (4-medium/worsted weight; 72% superwash merino wool/15% nylon/13% cashmere; each approximately 1.4 oz/[40g] and 87 yds/[80m]): 19 (19, 21, 22, 23, 25, 26) balls of Olive #174 Medium • Size 8 (5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 2 stitch markers • 2 stitch holders • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 20 stitches and 28 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Textured Pattern. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Pattern Textured Pattern (multiple of 4 + 5 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K1 (selvedge stitch), p3, k1, p3; repeat from the to the last stitch, k1 (selvedge stitch). ROW 2: P1 (selvedge stitch), k3, p1, k3; repeat from the to the last stitch, p1 (selvedge stitch). ROW 3: Knit across. ROW 4: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1–4 for the pattern. Notes • The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. For ease in finishing, work the selvedge stitches in stockinette stitch, knitting them on right-side rows and purling them on wrong-side rows. • For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, k1 (selvedge stitch), work 3 stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, work 3 stitches in pattern, k1 (selvedge stitch); on wrong-side rows, p1 (selvedge stitch), work 3 stitches in pattern, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, ssp, work 3 stitches in pattern, p1 (selvedge stitch). • For fully fashioned increases, work the selvedge stitch, work 4 stitches in pattern, M1-L (this page), work to the last 5 stitches, M1-R (this page), work 4 stitches in pattern, work the selvedge stitch; on subsequent rows, work the new stitches into the established Textured Pattern. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery Dozens of vertical lines make this a visually interesting—and figure-flattering—tunic. Add the deep crossover neck, a tiny bit of waist shaping, and a self-belt to accentuate the positive! Back Cast on 85 (93, 101, 109, 117, 125, 133) stitches. Begin the Textured Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 11¾"/[30cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAIST Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 more times—77 (85, 93, 101, 109, 117, 125) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 17"/[43cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 6 rows 3 more times—85 (93, 101, 109, 117, 125, 133) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 20½"/[52cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 8, 12, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Re-establishing the selvedge stitches at each edge, work fully fashioned decreases each side every other row 1 (8, 0, 7, 7, 6, 6) times, then every 4 rows 3 (0, 4, 1, 1, 2, 2) times—69 (69, 77, 77, 85, 85, 93) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures 28 (28½, 28½, 29, 29, 29½, 29½)"/[71 (72, 72, 74, 74, 75, 75)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows—35 stitches remain. Bind off in pattern. Front Work the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 18½ (19, 19, 19½, 19½, 20, 20)"/[47 (48.5, 48.5, 49.5, 49.5, 51, 51)cm] from the beginning, ending after Row 4 of the Textured Pattern. Place a marker on each side of the middle 13 stitches. SHAPE NECK Work to 1 stitch before the first marker, slip the next stitch on the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle, remove the first marker, slip the same stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand needle, replace the marker, k2tog, work in the established pattern to the next marker; join a second ball of yarn and using the cable cast-on, cast 13 stitches onto the left-hand needle; starting with k1, p3, work Row 1 of the Textured Pattern across the first 12 of these newly cast-on stitches, ssk, place a marker, work in pattern to the end of the row—48 (52, 56, 60, 64, 68, 72) stitches each side. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work even at the neck edge for 13 rows and at the same time, when the piece measures the same as the Back to underarms, shape armholes same as for Back. NEXT (NECK-SHAPING) ROW (RS): Work to 1 stitch before the first marker, slip the next stitch on the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle, remove marker, slip the same stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand needle, replace the marker, k2tog, work 12 stitches in pattern; with the second ball of yarn, work 12 stitches in pattern, slip the next stitch on the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle, remove marker, slip the same stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand needle, ssk, replace the marker, work to the end of the row. Continue shaping the armholes and repeat the last 14 neck-shaping rows twice more—37 (37, 41, 41, 45, 45, 49) stitches remain each side. Work both sides even until the piece measures approximately 26 (26½, 26½, 27, 27, 27½, 27½)"/ [66 (67.5, 67.5, 68.5, 68.5, 70, 70)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. NEXT ROW (RS): Work to the marker, then slip the next 13 stitches onto a holder; with the second ball of yarn, work 13 stitches and place them on a holder, remove the marker, work to the end of the row—24 (24, 28, 28, 32, 32, 36) stitches remain each side. Work 1 row even. Bind off 3 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 2 stitches at each neck edge once; then decrease 1 stitch each neck edge every row twice—17 (17, 21, 21, 25, 25, 29) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to shoulders. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work same as for the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) Cast on 65 (65, 69, 69, 69, 69, 69) stitches. Work 2 rows of the Textured Pattern. Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row and then every 6 rows 7 more times—49 (49, 53, 53, 53, 53, 53) stitches remain. Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, and then every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 7) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 7, 8) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 9, 4, 0) times, every 10 rows 7 (7, 7, 7, 0, 0, 0) times—65 (65, 69, 69, 73, 77, 85) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 18½"/[47cm] from the beginning or the desired sleeve length, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 8, 12, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 14 (12, 8, 7, 11, 5, 13) times, then every 4 rows 0 (2, 4, 5, 3, 7, 3) times—29 stitches remain. Work 0 (0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1) row even. Bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—17 stitches remain. Bind off in pattern. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. NECKBAND Transfer the 26 front neck stitches from the holders to a knitting needle. With the right side facing and beginning at the right neck edge, work 13 stitches in pattern, pick up and knit 59 stitches around the neckline, work 13 stitches in pattern. Continue in the established Textured Pattern until the neckband measures approximately 1½"/[4cm]. Bind off in pattern. With the right edge under the left edge for a crossover V-neck, whipstitch the 13 cast-on stitches at the bottom of the neck opening to the wrong side of the Front. Set in the sleeves. Sew the sleeve seams. Leaving the lower 6"/[15cm] open for side slits, sew the side seams. BELT (OPTIONAL) Cast on 11 stitches. Work even in the Textured Pattern (omitting the selvage stitches) until the piece measures approximately 44"/[112cm], ending after Row 2 of the pattern. Bind off in the pattern. Candace's Shell Candace's Shell This summertime top is, literally, a breeze to make! Its neck and armhole treatments are incorporated into the knitting of the pieces. And all those vertical lines will make anyone look taller and thinner! Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 31 (34, 37, 39, 42, 45, 47)"/[79 (86, 94, 99, 106.5, 114, 119.5)cm] Length: 23 (23½, 23½, 24, 24, 24½, 24½)"/58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62)cm] Materials • Muench Yarns/Lana Grossa's Linea Pura Taglia (6-super bulky weight; 100% mako cotton; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 99 yds/[90m]): 6 (7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10) balls of Violet #5 Super Bulky • Size 13 (9mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 3 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 12 stitches and 20 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Fisherman's Rib. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Pattern Fisherman Rib (multiple of 2 + 1 stitches) ROW 1 (WS): Knit across. ROW 2: P1, k1 in the row below, p1; repeat from the across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Notes • For a perfect close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself. • The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery This body-conscious design flatters most everyone: its incorporated V-neck and all those vertical ribs seem to elongate the figure. You'll appear taller—and slimmer. Back Cast on 49 (53, 57, 61, 65, 69, 73) stitches. Begin the Fisherman's Rib, and work even until the piece measures approximately 15y2"/[39.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 2 (4, 4, 6, 6, 6, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows—45 (45, 49, 49, 53, 57, 57) stitches remain. NEXT ROW (WS): K5, p1, knit to the last 6 stitches, p1, k5. NEXT ROW: [P1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, sssk, work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, k3tog, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1—41 (41, 45, 45, 49, 53, 53) stitches remain. NEXT ROW: Knit across. NEXT ROW: P1, k1 in the row below, p1; repeat from the across. Repeat the last 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3) more times—33 (33, 37, 37, 41, 41, 41) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 20 (20½, 20½, 21, 21, 21½, 21½)"/[51 (52, 52, 53.5, 53.5, 54.5, 54.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. SHAPE NECK ROW 1 (WS): K11 (11, 13, 13, 15, 15, 15), p1, k4, k1f&b (this page), k4, p1, k11 (11, 13, 13, 15, 15, 15)—34 (34, 38, 38, 42, 42, 42) stitches. ROW 2 (RS): Work 9 (9, 11, 11, 13, 13, 13) stitches in pattern, k3tog, place a marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; join a second ball of yarn and [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, place a marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row—15 (15, 17, 17, 19, 19, 19) stitches remain each side. ROW 3: Work even. ROW 4 (DECREASE ROW): Work in pattern to 3 stitches before the first marker, k3tog, slip the marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; for the second side of the neck, with the other ball of yarn, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, slip the marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row—13 (13, 15, 15, 17, 17, 17) stitches remain each side. Repeat the Decrease Row every other row 3 more times—7 (7, 9, 9, 11, 11, 11) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 22 (22½, 22½, 23, 23, 23½, 23½)"/[56 (57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 2 (2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 4) stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows, then bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Front Work same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 15½ (16, 16, 16½, 16½, 17, 17)"/[39.5 (40.5, 40.5, 42, 42, 43, 43)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. Place a marker on the middle stitch. SHAPE NECK ROW 1 (WS): Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, work to 5 stitches before the marked center stitch, p1, k4, k1f&b, k4, p1, knit across to the end of the row. ROW 2 (RS): Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, work in pattern to 8 stitches before the center, k3tog, place a marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; join a second ball of yarn and [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, place a marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row. ROWS 3–9: Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, continue the armhole shaping same as for the Back, and work 7 rows even at the neck edges. ROW 10 (DECREASE ROW): Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, work in pattern to 3 stitches before the first marker, k3tog, slip the marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; for the second side of the neck, with the other ball of yarn, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, slip the marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row. Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, repeat the Decrease Row every 8 rows 3 more times—7 (7, 9, 9, 11, 11, 11) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 22 (22½, 22½, 23, 23, 23½, 23½)"/[56 (57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work same as for the Back. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block both pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. Sew the side seams. Winter White Winter White This design uses fully fashioned cabled decreases along the raglan seams. This detail helps draw the eye up to the wearer's face while the cable elongates the torso to create an especially face-flattering sweater. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 34 (38, 42, 46, 50, 54, 58)"/[86 (96.5, 106.5, 117, 127, 137, 147.5)cm] Length: 22¼ (22¾, 22¾, 23¾, 23¾, 23¾, 23¾)"/56.5 (58, 58, 59, 59, 60.5, 60.5)cm] Materials • Cascade Yarns' Eco Cloud (5-bulky weight; 70% undyed merino wool/30% undyed baby alpaca; each approximately 3½ oz/[100g] and 164 yds/[150m]): 7 (8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) hanks of Creme #1801 Bulky • Size 10 (6mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 10 (6mm) 16"/[40cm] circular needle • Size 8 (5mm) 16"/[40cm] circular needle • 2 cable needles • 2 stitch holders • 4 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 16 stitches and 24 rows = 4"/[10cm] in reverse stockinette stitch with the larger needles. The 22-stitch Cable Panel = 3"/[7.5cm] with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): P1, k2, p1; repeat from the across. ROW 2: K1, p2, k1; repeat from the across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Reverse Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Purl across. ROW 2: Knit across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for pattern. Cable Panel (over 22 stitches) See the chart. Notes • The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. • For fully fashioned waist decreases: On right-side rows, p2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, ssk, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. • For raglan pattern: On right-side rows, p2, slip 2 onto a cn and hold in back, k1, k2 from the cn; work in pattern to the last 5 stitches; slip 1 onto a cn and hold in front, k2, k1 from the cn, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, p3, work in pattern to the last 5 sts; p3, k2. • For fully fashioned raglan decreases: On right-side rows, do the cable twists while decreasing as follows: p2, slip 2 onto a cn and hold in back, k1, k1 from the cn, ssk to combine the second stitch from the cn with the first stitch on the left-hand needle; work in pattern to the last 6 stitches; slip 1 onto cn #1 and hold in back, slip 1 onto cn #2 and hold in front, k2tog to combine the next stitch on the left-hand needle with the stitch on cn #1, k1, k1 from cn #2, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, p2, p2tog; work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, ssp, p2, k2. • For fully fashioned increases, work 4 stitches in pattern, M1 purlwise (this page), work to the last 4 stitches, M1 purlwise, work 4 stitches in pattern. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery Bold central cable panels make this sweater especially flattering. Their vertical lines, along with the dimensional decreases at the raglan seams, point directly to the face (and away from anything that might be less than perfect below)! Back With the larger needles, cast on 78 (86, 94, 102, 110, 118, 126) stitches. Working Row 1 for each pattern, work the Rib Pattern across 28 (32, 36, 40, 44, 48, 52) stitches, work the Cable Panel across the middle 22 stitches, work the Rib Pattern to the end of the row. Work even in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 1½"/[4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 1 stitch at the beginning and the end of the row—80 (88, 96, 104, 112, 120, 128) stitches. Begin working reverse stockinette stitch on each side of the Cable Panel, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2"/[5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAIST Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row and then every 8 rows 3 more times—72 (80, 88, 96, 104, 112, 120) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 8"/[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row and then every 6 rows 3 more times—80 (88, 96, 104, 112, 120, 128) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12½ (12¾, 12¾, 13, 13, 13¾, 13¾)"/[32 (32.5, 32.5, 33, 33, 33.5, 33.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then begin the raglan pattern (see Notes) and at the same time work fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 5 (3, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every other row 14 (19, 25, 26, 23, 23, 20) times, then every row 0 (0, 0, 2, 8, 11, 17) times—34 (36, 36, 38, 38, 40, 40) stitches remain. Work 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even. Place the stitches on a holder. Make a note of which Cable Panel row you ended with. Front Work same as the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the larger needles, cast on 36 (36, 36, 40, 40, 40, 40) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1½"/4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 1 stitch at the beginning and the end of the row—38 (38, 38, 42, 42, 42, 42) stitches. Begin working reverse stockinette stitch, and work fully fashioned increases each side every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 6, 14) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 10, 6, 0) times, every 10 rows 0 (0, 8, 8, 0, 0, 0) times, every 12 rows 0 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 14 rows 0 (4, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 18 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, then every 20 rows 3 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—46 (50, 54, 58, 62, 66, 70) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 16 (16½, 16½, 16½, 16½, 17, 17)"/[40.5 (42, 42, 42, 42, 43, 43)cm] from the beginning or to the desired length to underarm, ending after a right-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then begin the raglan pattern and at the same time work fully fashioned raglan decreases each side every other row 0 (1, 3, 5, 7, 10, 12) times, every 4 rows 9 (12, 11, 11, 10, 9, 8) times, then every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—16 stitches remain. Work 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1) row even. Bind off all stitches as they present themselves. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the 4 raglan seams. NECKBAND With right side facing and larger circular needle, beginning at the Cable Panel on the Back, work across the Cable Panel in pattern, p6 (7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9); pick up and knit 14 (16, 16, 14, 14, 16, 16) stitches across the Left Sleeve; work 34 (36, 36, 38, 38, 40, 40) Front stitches in pattern; pick up and knit 14 (16, 16, 14, 14, 16, 16) stitches across the Right Sleeve, p6 (7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) remaining Back stitches—96 (104, 104, 104, 104, 112, 112) stitches. Place markers on either side of the Cable Panel stitches on the Front and the Back. NECKBAND PATTERN ROUND: [Work the Cable Panel, p2, k2, p2; repeat from the to the next marker] twice. Repeat the last round until the neckband measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm]. Change to the smaller circular needle. Continue even for an additional 3½"/[9 cm]. Bind off loosely in the pattern. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Slip next stitch onto cn and hold in back; k3; p1 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in front; p1; k3 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 stitches onto cn and hold in back; k3; p2 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in front; p2; k3 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in back; k3; k3 from cn \| \| = Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in front; k3; k3 from cn Merino Magic Merino Magic In this pretty pullover, a line of delicate eyelets frame all the pieces, adding vertical elements which draw the eye upward to flatter nearly every body type. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 32½ (35, 38, 40½, 44, 47½, 51)"/[82.5 (89, 96.5, 103, 112, 120.5, 129.5)cm] Length: 22¾ (23, 23¾, 24¾, 24¾, 25¾, 25¾)"/[58 (58.5, 59, 61.5, 62, 64.5, 65)cm] Materials • Trendsetter Yarns' Merino 8 (4-medium/worsted weight; 100% superwash merino wool; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 98 yds/[89.5m]): 8 (9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14) balls of Butter #9940 Medium • Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles • Size 8 (5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 6 (4mm) 16"/[40cm] circular needle • 4 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 18 stitches and 24 rows = 4"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Border Pattern (multiple of 2 + 1 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit across. ROWS 2–4: As Row 1. ROW 5: K2, yarn over, k2tog; repeat from the to the last stitch, k1. ROWS 6–10: Purl across. Special Abbreviation S2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch. Notes • The instructions include one selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. • For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, k2, yarn over, s2kp2, knit to the last 5 stitches, s2kp2, yarn over, k2; on wrong-side rows, p3, p2tog, purl to the last 5 stitches, ssp, p3. • For fully fashioned increases: On right-side rows: k2, yarn over, k2tog, M1-R (this page), knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-L (this page), ssk, yarn over, k2. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery With its slightly shaped silhouette and deliberate designer details, this design can flatter every figure type. Vertical lines begin near the lower edge and continue in the diagonal raglan seams, making the wearer look taller and thinner. Back With the smaller needles, cast on 67 (73, 79, 85, 91, 97, 105) stitches. Work the 10-row Border Pattern, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 8 (8, 8, 8, 10, 12, 12) stitches evenly spaced across the row—75 (81, 87, 93, 101, 109, 117) stitches. SET UP PATTERNS ROW 1 (EYELET ROW) (RS): Change to the larger needles; k2, yarn over, k2tog, place a marker, knit to the last 4 stitches, place a marker, ssk, yarn over, k2. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 until the piece measures approximately 3"/[7.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. DECREASE FOR WAIST Continue the eyelets as established, and at the same time, work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 (8, 8, 6, 6, 6, 6) rows twice more—69 (75, 81, 87, 95, 103, 111) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 7"/[18cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 (8, 8, 6, 6, 6, 6) rows twice more—75 (81, 87, 93, 101, 109, 117) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 14½ (14½, 14½, 15, 15, 15½, 15½)"/[37 (37, 37, 38, 38, 39.5, 39.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN AND NECK Continue in the established pattern and work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 6, 12, 19) times, every other row 6 (11, 17, 20, 18, 16, 13) times, then every 4 rows 6 (4, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, and at the same time, when 57 (57, 61, 65, 65, 65, 65) stitches remain, shape the neck as follows: Mark the center 35 (35, 35, 37, 37, 37, 37) stitches. Continuing the fully fashioned decreases, work to the first marker; join a second ball of yarn and bind off to the next marker; work to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 2 stitches at each neck edge twice. Continue until all raglan decreases are completed—4 stitches remain on each side. Work 0 (0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0) row even. Bind off the stitches as they present themselves. Front Work same as the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles, cast on 41 (45, 49, 55, 59, 61, 65) stitches. Work the 10-row Border Pattern, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 6 (6, 6, 6, 6, 8, 8) stitches evenly spaced across the row—47 (51, 55, 61, 65, 69, 73) stitches. SET UP PATTERNS ROW 1 (RS): Change to the larger needles; k2, yarn over, k2tog, place a marker, knit to the last 4 stitches, place a marker, ssk, yarn over, k2. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 until the piece measures approximately 9"/[23cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE RAGLAN Continue in pattern and work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 5) times, every other row 8 (11, 15, 18, 21, 21, 20) times, then every 4 rows 5 (4, 2, 1, 0, 0, 0) times—21 (21, 21, 23, 23, 23, 23) stitches remain. Bind off purlwise. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the 4 raglan seams. NECKBAND With the right side facing and the circular needle, beginning at Back left raglan, pick up and knit 133 (133, 133, 145, 145, 145, 145) stitches. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join. ROUNDS 1, 3, AND 5: Purl around. ROUND 2: Knit around. ROUND 4: K2tog, yarn over; repeat from the around. ROUND 6: Knit, and use k2tog to decrease 20 (20, 20, 22, 22, 22, 22) stitches evenly around—113 (113, 113, 123, 123, 123, 123) stitches remain. ROUND 7: Purl around. Bind off knitwise. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Marilyn's Crossover Top Marilyn's Crossover Top Do you think long-sleeved pullovers can't be sexy? Well, think again. Here, intricate cable patterns and fully fashioned decreases are used to create a beautiful, graceful neckline. If you keep their attention near the top of a sweater, no one will notice what you are trying to camouflage below! Skill Level Experienced Sizes Small (Medium, Large/1X, 2X, 3X/4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 34 (40, 45, 51, 56½)"/[86 (101.5, 114, 129.5, 143.5)cm] Length: 22 (22½, 23, 23½, 23½)"/[56 (57, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] Materials • Classic Elite's Princess (3-light/DK weight; 40% merino/28% viscose/10% cashmere/7% angora/15% nylon; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 150 yds/[137m]): 9 (10, 11, 12, 13) balls of Pretty Peony #3422 Light • Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles • Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Cable needle • 2 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 20 stitches and 30 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Textured Pattern with the larger needles. The 20-stitch Cable Panel = 2½"/[6.5cm] wide with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Cabled Rib Pattern (multiple of 7 + 1 stitches) See chart. Textured Pattern (multiple of 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): P1, k1; repeat from the across. ROW 2: Knit across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Cable Panels A and B (over 20 stitches) See charts. Notes • For fully fashioned increases: work 8 stitches in the Cabled Rib Pattern, M1-R (this page), work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, M1-L (this page), work 8 stitches in the Cabled Rib Pattern. On the next row, incorporate new stitches into the pattern as established. • For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, p1, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 3 stitches, ssp, p1; on wrong-side rows, k1, ssk, work in pattern to the last 3 stitches, k2tog, k1. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Close-fitting Figure Flattery This sweater is a miracle worker: Vertical honeycomb cabled ribs lead up to a flattering empire waist and a face-framing crossover neckline. Whether you are petite, top-heavy, bottom-heavy, or straight up and down, this dramatic combo is a win-win! Back With the smaller needles, cast on 85 (99, 113, 127, 141) stitches. Begin the Cabled Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 10 (10, 10, 9½, 9½)"/[25.5 (25.5, 25.5, 24, 24)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Change to the larger needles, and begin the Textured Pattern. Continue even in the pattern until the piece measures approximately 13½"/[34.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 6 (8, 10, 10, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (3, 4, 6, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (2, 4, 8, 10) times, then every other row 2 (2, 2, 1, 0) times—65 (69, 73, 77, 81) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 19½ (20, 20½, 21, 21)"/[49.5 (51, 52, 53.5, 53.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK NEXT ROW (RS): Work 6 (8, 10, 12, 14) stitches in pattern; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 53 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge once—5 (7, 9, 11, 13) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 21 (21½, 22, 22½, 22½)"/[53.5 (54.5, 56, 57, 57) cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 1 (2, 2, 3, 3) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 2 (1, 3, 2, 4) stitch at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Front Work same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 10 (10, 10, 9½, 9½)"/[25.5 (25.5, 25.5, 24, 24)cm] from the beginning, ending after Row 4 of the Cabled Rib Pattern. DIVIDE FOR CROSSOVER NECK NEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; working Row 1 of each pattern, work the Textured Pattern across 43 (50, 57, 64, 71) stitches, work Cable Panel A across 20 stitches; join a second ball of yarn and use the cable cast-on technique to cast on 41 stitches, work Cable Panel B across the first 20 stitches just cast on, then work the Textured Pattern across 43 (50, 57, 64, 71) stitches—63 (70, 77, 84, 91) stitches each side. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work 1 row even in the established patterns and place markers to set off the first and last 44 (51, 58, 65, 72) stitches (the markers will be 1 stitch into each Cable Panel). DECREASE ROW (RS): Work in pattern to 2 stitches before the first marker, ssp, continue in pattern across this side; for second side, work in pattern to the next marker, p2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row. Continue the established patterns, and repeat the Decrease Row every other row 14 (12, 10, 7, 7) times, then every 4 rows 13 (15, 17, 20, 20) times, and at the same time, when piece measures the same as Back to armholes, shape the armholes same as the Back—25 (27, 29, 31, 33) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to shoulders. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work same as for the Back—20 stitches remain each side. Sew the shoulder seams. Continue even on the remaining 20 stitches each side until the neckbands, when slightly stretched, meet at the center back of the neck. Bind off. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles, cast on 50 stitches. Begin the Cabled Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2"/[5cm] from the beginning, ending after Row 4 of the pattern. SET UP PATTERNS NEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; continue the Cable Rib Pattern across 8 stitches, place a marker, work the Textured Pattern across 34 stitches, place a marker, continue the Cabled Rib Pattern across 8 stitches. Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 20) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 15, 0) times, every 10 rows 0 (0, 6, 0, 0) times, every 12 rows 0 (1, 5, 0, 0) times, every 18 rows 0 (6, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 24 rows 5 (0, 0, 0, 0) times, working new stitches into the Textured Pattern as they accumulate—60 (64, 72, 80, 90) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 18½"/[47cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 6 (8, 10, 10, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; continuing in the Textured Pattern only, work 1 row even, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 6 (8, 10, 6, 4) times, then every other row 5 (3, 3, 11, 16) times—26 stitches remain. Work 0 (0, 0, 0, 1) row even. Bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—14 stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the sides of neckbands to the back neckline. Sew the bound-off edges of neckbands together at the back of the Neck. Sew the cast-on stitches at the center front to the wrong side of the Front. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Right Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k1; k1 from cn OR k2tog, leaving them on LH needle; insert point of RH needle between these 2 sts and knit the first one again \| \| = Left Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; k1; k1 from cn OR skip first st and knit next st in back loop; then knit the skipped st; slip both sts off LH needle together \| \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; knit next st through back loop; p1 from cn \| \| = K through back loop on RS; p through back loop on WS K \| \| = Knot = Knit into (front, back, front) of next st, turn; p3, turn; slip 2 sts at once knitwise, k1, p2sso \| \| = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; p1; k1 from cn through back loop CHAPTER 4 Figure Flatterers As we've seen, knitters can use fully fashioned shaping to create unique designer elements such as incorporated necklines and armbands into sweaters. Now, let's learn designer tricks using these details to flatter the figure. Regardless of your body type, it is possible to knit to fit and flatter! Designer Workshop Knit a Fine Figure Let's explore ways to flatter every figure type using designer details, from form-fitting bust darts to cleverly positioned vertical elements to strategically placed increases and decreases that create the illusion of shape, even when the sweater silhouette is relatively boxy (read: comfortable)! Refer to the table to determine your body type. The Triangle Body Shape If you carry most of your weight around your hips and thighs, you'll want to emphasize other areas of your body, especially your face. Here are some designer tips: Vertical Lift Use vertical lines to draw the eye up as seen in the illustration below. All that eye movement upward makes the body look taller and slimmer. Most Aran-knit sweaters take advantage of the linear arrangement of cable panels in this way. And those two columns of vertical eyelets in Sydney have the same figure-flattering effect. Also, attract attention to a beautifully designed raglan line by incorporating one of the fully fashioned elements explored in Designer Workshop: Enrich Your Knits!. Notice how the special details in Merino Magic flatter so many figure types. Turn Your Knitting on Its Edge Everyone knows that horizontal stripes are anything but flattering. Incorporated into a sweater that is knit cuff to cuff, however, they take on a vertical appearance. Accentuate the Positive Create attention in areas other than the dreaded hip zone. The Ooh-La-La Skirt, for example, utilizes flirty flounces at the lower edge to draw the eye to the legs. Better to have folks staring at your sexy gait than at your hips! As mentioned, raglans are particularly flattering for Triangle-shapes. The diagonal lines point directly to the face and are a wonderful spot to highlight especially decorative fully fashioned decreases, as in Winter White. Know All the Angles To create especially figure-flattering styles, knit strategically placed diagonal lines or sections into your sweaters. They're easy and fun. Here's how: To create a diagonal going from left to right: You will be decreasing at the leading edge of the diagonal line or section of stitches and increasing just outside of the trailing edge. Place a marker one stitch to the left of where you want the leading edge of the diagonal line or section to be, and place another marker immediately to the left of where you want the section to end (the trailing edge). Then, on right-side rows, work in pattern to 2 stitches before the first marker, work a right-slanting decrease, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a left-slanting increase, work to the end of the row. On wrong-side rows, work in pattern to first marker, work a left-slanting increase, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a right-slanting decrease, work to the end of the row. The example seen in the swatch above has a right-slanting diagonal braided line six stitches wide with two purl stitches on each side for textural contrast. To create a diagonal going from right to left: Place a marker at the spot where you want the trailing edge of the diagonal section and place another marker one stitch to the right of where you want the leading edge to be. Then, on right-side rows, work in pattern to the first marker, make a right-leaning increase, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a left-slanting decrease, and work to the end of the row. On wrong-side rows, work in pattern to 2 stitches before the first marker, work a left-slanting decrease, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a right-slanting increase, work to the end of the row. Take a look at the sample swatch above, which has a left-slanting diagonal braided line six stitches wide with two purl stitches on each side for contrast. Any sort of knit section can be moved this way—from a column of eyelets to ribbing to a solid stockinette panel. Just place stitch markers on either side of the stitches that will be part of the diagonal line and work fully fashioned increases and decreases as described. Choose which directional increase and decrease you'd like to use from those described in the Designer Workshop: Making Simple Stockinette Garments Look Extraordinary. Flip Your Triangle Upside Down Well-placed diagonal lines can minimize the appearance of being bottom heavy. In the illustration below, the direction of the lines points up and away from the hip area. Trompe l'Oeil uses this designer trick to flatter the figure. Even though the body of the garment is unshaped, those diagonal lines create the illusion of a tapered silhouette. It's faux-shaping. The diagonals are created by working fully fashioned increases and decreases; for every increase there's a decrease on that same row. When the decrease comes first in the row, the diagonal points toward the right, and when the increase comes first, the diagonal slants to the left. A series of diagonal lines, with each set pointing up and away from the hips, as seen in the illustration below, is particularly attractive for pear-shaped women. Charlie uses these diagonal lines worked in textured stripes. The horizontal effect of the colorwork is broken up by the V at the center of the body. One common designer trick is to draw attention to the upper area of a garment by using a V-neck. With all the fully fashioned tricks you've learned so far, you can easily place diagonal lines on either side of the neck as seen in the illustration below. It, too, is featured in Trompe l'Oeil. Obviously, you'll want to avoid adding any horizontal lines in the lower section of a garment. Contrasting ribbings are definite no-nos. Instead, use a no-edge edge at lower borders. The hemmed detail in Aberdeen, for example, allows the colorwork pattern to go all the way to the edge and avoids undue attention to the hips. Another idea is to knit a tiny border that rolls to the wrong side. To do: With the public side of the fabric facing, pick up and knit stitches along the lower edge. Then, work a few rows of reverse stockinette, knitting on the wrong side and purling on the right side, before binding off. Also, avoid sleeves and lower-body edges that end at the widest part of your lower body. If you love a sweater design but need to modify its body or sleeve length, lengthen or shorten the piece before the armhole or sleeve cap shaping begins. Otherwise, you'll interfere with how the sleeves fit into the armholes, causing problems in the finishing. (Not to mention the overall fit!) Back in the Saddle Attract attention to the upper third of a sweater by adding saddle shoulders. They act as arrows pointing toward the wearer's face, deflecting emphasis down below. Puff It Up Use puffed sleeves to draw the eye up. To knit this type of sleeve cap, work the upper portion of the sleeve cap with few decreases, but be sure to knit to the correct sleeve cap height. Later, when setting in the sleeve, make pinch pleats with the extra fabric at the top or else simply gather it in. Another option is to make rapid decreases across the last few rows before binding off. The Inverted Triangle Body Shape If you have broad shoulders or a large bust, use design elements that attract attention to the upper body in a flattering way. If You've Got It, Flaunt It Busty women can draw attention to their curves by using fitted bust darts, as seen in Jen. Just choose your bra cup size and knit the garment to fit. In Marilyn's Crossover Top, heavily cabled panels frame the neck opening. Both designs have high empire waists to emphasize the narrow area just below the bust. Very sexy! Lighten Up Deep necklines, such as scoop necks and V-necks, tend to flatter busty women. Opening up the neckline in this way creates the illusion of less weight up top and balances broad shoulders or thick arms. Avoid large lapels. Jacqueline has enough of a fold-over lapel to highlight the face without drawing undue attention to the widest part of the body. Add Some Flare A-line silhouettes and flared sleeves and cuffs add balance and de-emphasize the upper body. See The Weekender, for example. Lengthen the Torso Women who carry their weight in their upper torso benefit from hemlines that hit lower on the body. Knit your sweaters—and your sleeves—to a longer length. Sweaters tend to be quite flattering if they end at the widest part of the hips, balancing the upper body. Round Body Shapes Women with round body types can use designer tricks to knit flattering sweaters, too. Paint on a Waist Use strategically placed increases and decreases to create the illusion of an hourglass figure, as seen here. Glamour Girl uses this designer trick. Here, subtle waist shaping is accentuated with cables, fooling the eye into seeing much more waist definition. Emphasize Your Narrowest Spot Use an empire waistline to draw attention someplace other than your midsection. See Marilyn's Crossover Top or Jen for examples of this sort of design. Straight and Narrow Obviously, round body shapes can benefit from vertical design elements. Cables 'n' Ribs uses columns of knit and purl stitches along the sides of the sweater to draw the eye up. Square It Off Add square elements, such as square necklines or simple patch pockets to create angular lines. Rectangular Body Shapes For boyish or athletic figure types, use designer details to flatter. Go with the Flow An A-line silhouette creates a feminine look as seen in Angie. In this design, fully fashioned decreases are neatly incorporated into the lace pattern. Fake It Create the illusion of a waist by adding a self-belt, as seen in The Weekender. Or knit in a faux hourglass motif as described on this page. The same tricks used to flatter a rounded shape also work here. The convergence of incorporated neckband and armbands in Candace's Shell emphasizes the upper body and creates a beautiful bustline, even if the wearer doesn't have one. (Knit this design for your favorite tween to get lots of brownie points!) Round It Up Add a scoop neck to soften the overall look. Hourglass Body Shapes Let's face it: Folks with hourglass figures don't need a lot of help to look good. Following are suggestions to improve on perfection. Curves Ahead • Obviously, designs with body-conscious style are ideal. Choose sweaters with waist shaping. Or add a belt to cinch in the waist. • Use fully fashioned increases and decreases to emphasize the waist as seen in Glamour Girl. Keep It Light Don't overwhelm the delicate hourglass shape by wearing garments that are droopy or bulky. Diversionary Tactics Although we tend to idealize the hourglass figure here in the West, folks with round or straight-up-and-down body shapes can get flattering results by attracting attention elsewhere. Lace ruffles on sleeves, for example, draw the eye to the cuffs and create flattering movement every time the wearer moves. Even a little lace motif near the neck can de-emphasize the waist, bringing attention to the face. And as we've already seen, an artificially high empire waist highlights the body's narrowest place, deflecting attention from wider areas below, as seen in Marilyn's Crossover Top and Jen. Special Design Considerations Plus-Size Body Types Larger women might have any of the body shapes listed in this book (triangle or inverted triangle, etc.) but on a bigger scale. Their sweaters possess a larger canvas and provide lots of opportunity for designer elements. • Use diagonal lines created by fully fashioned increases and decreases to paint an abstract geometric pattern as seen here. The pattern guides the eye to the face of the wearer, detracting from any figure flaws below. • The angular elements in Angled Ribs work the same way. There's lots of eye movement in the design. • For a plus-size jacket or cardigan, make sure your buttons aren't too small in circumference. Larger ones will balance the overall look. • Choose garments with design elements that bisect the body, such as Marie. The lace panels travel from the hips directly toward the V-neck opening, minimizing width. • The last thing a plus-size frame needs is more girth. For the most flattering results, choose lighter-weight yarns that knit at a smaller gauge. Think about it: Bulky yarns can add an inch or more to the circumference of a sweater! Petite Body Types With a more diminutive canvas to paint on, designer elements in petite garments must be diminished in size or else they might be overwhelming to the wearer. • Pocket widths in Jacqueline, for example, might be reduced to 17 stitches across instead of 21 stitches. • Collar sizes, too, should be reduced. In Orvieto, the jacket will flatter a petite frame better if the collar stops at 4½"/[11.5cm] rather than 5½"/[14cm]. • Of course, many petite figures have short waists, so sweaters must be shorter in length. Take care to remove the extra length below the armhole shaping. Otherwise, the sleeves won't fit into the armholes. • Add as many vertical elements as possible to elongate the body, from a V-neck to raglan shaping. Are you tired of knitting sweaters that don't suit your body? Would you like to knit to fit? Use fully fashioned details to create garments that work for you and your body type! The eight projects that follow are designed to fit and flatter many individual shapes. Just look for the style icon to choose the best ones for your figure. Marie Marie With its lace panels traveling across the stockinette ground, this design is interesting to look at both coming and going. And, since the Front and Back have different design details toward the top, it's lots of fun to knit. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 35 (39, 43, 47, 51, 55)"/[89 (99, 109, 119.5, 129.5, 139.5)cm] Length: 23 (23½, 24, 24½, 24½, 25)"/[58.5 (59.5, 61, 62, 62, 63.5)cm] Materials • Cascade Yarns' Sierra (4-medium/worsted weight; 80% pima cotton/20% wool; each approximately 3½ oz/[100g] and 191 yds/[174.5m]): 6 (7, 8, 9, 10, 11) hanks of Lilac #1215 Medium • Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles • Size 7 (4.5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 4 stitch markers • 2 stitch holders • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 18 stitches and 25 rows = 4"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles. 10-stitch Lace Panels = 1¾"/[4.5cm] wide with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Rib Pattern (multiple of 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K1, p1; repeat from the across. PATTERN ROW: As Row 1. Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit across. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for pattern. Lace Panel A (over 10 stitches) See chart. Lace Panel B (over 10 stitches) See chart. Notes • For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, k2, ssk, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2. • For fully fashioned increases, k2, M1-R, work in pattern to the last 2 stitches, M1-L, k2. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Loose-fitting Figure Flattery Here's a sweater that will flatter nearly everyone! Delicate lace panels travel diagonally toward the neckline, drawing the eye up toward the wearer's face and away from any figure flaws lurking below. Back With the smaller needles, cast on 84 (94, 102, 110, 120, 128) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1½"/[4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SET UP PATTERNS AND BEGIN INWARD ANGLES ROW 1 (RS): Change to larger needles; working Row 1 of each pattern, k5 (5, 5, 5, 5, 6), place a marker, work Lace Panel A across 10 stitches, place a marker, k54 (64, 72, 80, 90, 96), place a marker, work Lace Panel B across 10 stitches, place a marker, k5 (5, 5, 5, 5, 6). ROW 2: Work stockinette stitch outside the markers and the Lace Panels between them. ROW 3 (RS): Knit to the first marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work Lace Panel A, slip the marker, ssk, knit to 2 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work Lace Panel B, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the end of the row. Maintaining the established patterns, repeat Row 3 every 4 rows 19 (14, 10, 6, 1, 0) times, every other row 6 (16, 24, 32, 42, 47) times, then work even in stockinette stitch and the Lace Panels to the end; at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 14½"/[37cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, shape the armholes as follows: SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 4 (6, 7, 8, 9, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (2, 2, 3, 4, 4) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 2, 4) times, then every other row 6 (7, 8, 8, 7, 7) times—60 (64, 68, 72, 76, 80) stitches remain. Continue even in pattern until the piece measures approximately 21 (21½, 22, 22½, 22½, 23)"/[53.5 (54.5, 56, 57, 57, 58.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK K5 (7, 9, 11, 13, 15), join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 50 stitches, k5 (7, 9, 11, 13, 15). Work both sides at once with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 22 (22½, 23, 23½, 23½, 24)"/[56 (57, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5, 61)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 2 (2, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows, then bind off 1 (3, 3, 3, 5, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Front Work same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 17"/[43cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Note: All Inward Angles rows should be complete. SHAPE NECK DECREASE ROW (RS): Continuing armhole decreases if necessary, knit to 2 stitches before the first marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work 10 stitches in pattern, k1; join a second ball of yarn and k1, work 10 stitches in pattern, slip the marker, ssk, knit to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn and working 1 stitch at each neck edge in garter stitch, repeat the Decrease Row every other row 8 more times, then every 4 rows 5 times—16 (18, 20, 22, 24, 26) stitches remain each side. Continue even, if necessary, until the piece measures the same as the Back to shoulders, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work same as for Back—11 stitches remain each side. Put these stitches onto holders. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles, cast on 44 (44, 44, 48, 48, 48) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1½"/[4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SET UP PATTERNS NEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; k17 (17, 17, 19, 19, 19), place a marker, work Row 1 of Lace Panel A over 10 stitches, place a marker, knit to the end of the row. Working stockinette stitch outside the markers and Lace Panel A between them, work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 4) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 6, 14) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 8, 0) times, every 10 rows 0 (0, 10, 10, 0, 0) times, every 12 rows 0 (6, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 14 rows 0 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 16 rows 4 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 18 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—56 (60, 64, 68, 76, 84) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 18½"/[47cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 4 (6, 7, 8, 9, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (2, 3, 3, 0, 0) times, every other row 13 (11, 11, 12, 18, 18) times, then every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 4) times—22 stitches remain. Work 1 (1, 0, 1, 1, 0) row even. Bind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—14 stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. NECKBANDS Transfer the 11 Front neck stitches from each side to knitting needles; continue even on each side until the neckbands, when slightly stretched, meet at the center back of the neck. Sew the sides of neckbands to the back neckline. Sew the bound-off edges of neckbands together at the back of the neck. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Yarn over \| \| = K2tog \| \| = Ssk Glamour Girl Glamour Girl In this clever design, little rope cables create the illusion of an hourglass figure even if you don't have one of your own. Its picot hems are the perfect simple edge treatment, unobtrusive yet refined. Skill Level Experienced Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 33 (35, 37, 40, 44, 48, 52)"/[84 (89, 94, 101.5, 112, 122, 132)cm] Length: 19½ (20½, 20½, 21½, 22, 23, 23)"/[49.5 (52, 52, 54.5, 56, 58.5, 58.5)cm] Materials • Westminster Fibers/Nashua Handknits' Grand Opera (3-light/DK weight; 86% merino wool/9% viscose/5% metallized [sic] polyester; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 128 yds/[117m]): 8 (9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16) balls of Gold #5036 Light • Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 5 (3.75mm) 16"/[40cm] circular knitting needle • Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles • Size 3 (3.25mm) 16"/[40cm] circular knitting needle • Size 3 (3.25mm) 24"/[60cm] circular knitting needle • Cable needle • 4 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 24 stitches and 32 rows = 4"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit across. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Right Cable Panel (over 10 stitches) See chart. Left Cable Panel (over 10 stitches) See chart. Notes • For fully fashioned body decreases: Work to the second marker, slip the marker, k1, ssk, work to 3 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, k1, slip the marker, work to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned body increases: Work to the second marker, slip the marker, k1, M1-L (this page), work to 1 stitch before the next marker, M1-R (this page), k1, slip the marker, work to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned sleeve increases: K2, M1-R, knit to the last 2 stitches, M1-L, k2. • For fully fashioned armhole and sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, k2, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2. • For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, knit to the last 3 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, k1; on the left-hand side of the neck, k1, ssk, knit to the end of the row. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery Fully fashioned increases and decreases force the little rope cables on the front and back of this sweater in and out to create the illusion of an hourglass waist (whether you've actually got one or not!). And picot-hemmed edges are subtle and refined and do not attract attention where you don't need it. Back With the smaller needles, use the provisional cast-on method to cast on 99 (105, 111, 121, 133, 145, 157) stitches. Begin stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. TURNING ROW FOR HEM NEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; k1, yarn over, k2tog; repeat from the across. NEXT ROW: Continue stockinette stitch until the piece measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. FOLD UP HEM Carefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the 24" circular needle as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the circular knitting needle behind the main knitting needle. With both needles in your left hand, k2tog, combining 1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the circular knitting needle, all the way across the row. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 1¼"/[3cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. SET UP PATTERNS ROW 1 (RS): K15 (16, 18, 23, 28, 32, 38), place a marker, k1, p3, [k1, M1 knitwise] twice, p3, place a marker, k51 (55, 57, 57, 59, 63, 63), place a marker, p3, [k1, M1 knitwise] twice, p3, k1, place a marker, knit to the end of the row—103 (109, 115, 125, 137, 149, 161) stitches. ROW 2: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches. ROW 3: Working Row 1 of each Cable Panel, knit to the first marker, slip the marker, k1, work the Right Cable Panel across 10 stitches, slip the marker, knit to the next marker, slip the marker, work the Left Cable Panel across 10 stitches, k1, slip the marker, knit to the end of the row. ROW 4: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches. DECREASE FOR WAIST Work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) every other row 0 (2, 4, 4, 4, 8, 8) times, every 4 rows 4 (6, 5, 5, 6, 4, 4) times, then every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—91 (93, 97, 107, 117, 125, 137) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 4¾ (5½, 5½, 6, 6¼, 6½, 6¼)"/[12 (14, 14, 15, 16, 16.5, 17)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. INCREASE FOR BUST Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 4 rows 4 (6, 5, 5, 6, 4, 4) times, then every other row 0 (2, 4, 4, 4, 8, 8) times—103 (109, 115, 125, 137, 149, 161) stitches. NEXT ROW (RS): Work to the first marker, slip the marker, k1, p3, [k2tog] twice, work to the third marker, slip the marker, p3, [k2tog]twice, work to the end of the row—99 (105, 111, 121, 133, 145, 157) stitches. NEXT ROW (WS): Purl across, removing the markers. Continue even in stockinette stitch until the piece measures approximately 11½ (12, 12, 12½, 13, 13½, 13½)"/[29 (30.5, 30.5, 32, 33, 34.5, 34.5)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 6 (7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) every other row 0 (0, 0, 0, 4, 7, 10) times, every 4 rows 3 (2, 2, 4, 2, 1, 0) times, then every 6 rows 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—77 (81, 85, 89, 93, 97, 101) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 18 (19, 19, 20, 20½, 21½, 21½)"/[45.5 (48.5, 48.5, 51, 52, 54.5, 54.5)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK NEXT ROW (RS): K20 (22, 24, 26, 28, 30, 32), join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 37 stitches, knit to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work 1 row even. NEXT ROW: Work fully fashioned neck decreases at each neck edge—19 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side. Work both sides even until the piece measures approximately 18½ (19½, 19½, 20½, 21, 22, 22)"/ [47 (49.5, 49.5, 52, 53.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 4 (6, 5, 7, 6, 8, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Front Work the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 13 (14, 14, 15, 15½, 16½, 16½)"/ 33 (35.5, 35.5, 38, 39.5, 42, 42)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. Mark the middle 17 stitches. SHAPE NECK NEXT ROW (RS): Continue armhole decreases same as the Back, and at the same time, work to the marked stitches, join a second ball of yarn and bind off 17 stitches, work to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 4 stitches at each neck edge twice; bind off 2 stitches each neck edge once; work a fully fashioned neck decrease at each neck edge once—19 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side. Complete same as the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles, use the provisional cast-on method to cast on 57 (61, 65, 69, 75, 83, 89) stitches. Begin working stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. TURNING ROW FOR HEM NEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; k1, yarn over, k2tog; repeat from the across. NEXT ROW: Continue stockinette stitch until the piece measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. FOLD UP HEM Carefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the 16" circular needle as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the circular knitting needle behind the main knitting needle. With both needles in your left hand, k2tog, combining 1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the circular knitting needle, all the way across the row. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 1¼"/[3cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. Work fully fashioned sleeve increases (see Notes) each side every 12 rows 4 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 14 rows 2 (4, 0, 0, 0, 0, 2) times, every 16 rows 0 (0, 0, 3, 1, 0, 4) times, every 18 rows 0 (0, 0, 2, 4, 4, 0) times, then every 20 rows 0 (0, 4, 0, 0, 1, 0) times—69 (73, 73, 79, 85, 93, 101) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 11½ (12, 12, 12½, 13, 13½, 13½)"/[29 (30.5, 30.5, 32, 33, 34.5, 34.5)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 6 (7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases (see Notes) every 4 rows 4 (5, 6, 6, 5, 3, 0) times, then every other row 7 (7, 5, 7, 10, 15, 21) times—35 stitches remain. Bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—23 stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. NECKBAND With the right side facing, using the larger circular needle and beginning at the left back neck, pick up and knit 140 stitches evenly spaced around the neckline. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join. Knit 6 rounds. NEXT ROUND: K2tog, yarn over; repeat from the around. Change to the smaller circular needle, and knit 7 rounds. Fold neckband in half to the wrong side and loosely sew into place. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn \| \| = Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn Angled Ribs Angled Ribs Well-placed increases and decreases create this flattering sweater and make it especially interesting to knit. Use those stitch markers to your advantage, being careful to increase and make yarn overs where specified. Skill Level Experienced Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust (unstretched): 31½ (35½, 39, 43, 47, 50)"/[80 (90, 99, 109, 119.5, 127)cm] Length (at the side seam): 24 (24, 24½, 24½, 25½, 25½)"/[61 (61, 62, 62, 65, 65)cm] Materials • Skacel Collection/Zitron's Ecco (3-light DK weight; 100% merino wool; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 134 yds/[110m]): 13 (14, 15, 16, 17, 18) balls of Terracotta #137 Light • Size 4 (3.5mm) knitting needles • Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 4 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 34 stitches and 32 rows = 4 /[10cm] in the Rib Pattern, unstretched, with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K2, p2, k2; repeat from the across. ROW 2: P2, * k2, p2; repeat from the * across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Angled Rib Pattern ROW 1 (RS): Maintaining the established pattern, work 6 (14, 22, 30, 30, 38) stitches, place a marker, ssp, work to the first center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, yarn over, work to the last 8 (16, 24, 32, 32, 40) stitches, p2tog, place a marker, work to the end of the row. ROW 2: Maintaining the established pattern, work to 1 stitch before the first center marker, p1, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, p1, work to the end of the row. ROW 3: Maintaining the established pattern, work to the first side marker, slip the marker, k2tog, work to the first center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, yarn over, work to 2 stitches before the second side marker, ssk, slip the marker, work to the end of the row. ROW 4: As Row 2. ROW 5: As Row 3. ROW 6: Maintaining the established pattern, work to 1 stitch before the first center marker, k1, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, k1, work to the end of the row. ROW 7: As Row 1. ROW 8: As Row 6. Repeat Rows 1–8 for the pattern. Notes • For a close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself. • The stitch count will remain constant on every row until the armholes, and then it will remain constant until the beginning of the neck shaping. • For fully fashioned increases: K6, M1-R (this page), work to the last 6 stitches, M1-L (this page), k6. • The smaller needles are used only for the neckband. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for square indented drop-shoulder construction. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery With its clingy ribbed fabric and slimming center section, this design will flatter most shapes. If you're bottom-heavy and would like some lift, shorten your sweater before the armhole shaping. Back With the larger needles, cast on 134 (150, 166, 182, 198, 214) stitches. Work 2 rows of the Rib Pattern, placing a marker on either side of the middle 10 stitches. Begin Angled Rib Pattern, and work until the piece measures approximately 15½ (15½, 15½, 15½, 16, 16)"/[39.5 (39.5, 39.5, 39.5, 40.5, 40.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Continuing the established pattern, bind off 5 (13, 21, 29, 29, 37) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows—124 (124, 124, 124, 140, 140) stitches remain. Working the first and last stitches in stockinette stitch, continue even in the Angled Rib Pattern until the piece measures approximately 17 (17, 17½, 17½, 17½, 17½)"/[43 (43, 44.5, 44.5, 44.5, 44.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Move the center markers to either side of the middle 12 stitches. REVERSE THE ANGLED RIB PATTERN NEXT ROW (RS): K1, slip the marker, work the established decrease (ssp or k2tog), work to the first center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the last 3 stitches, work the established decrease (p2tog or ssk), k1. Continue working the Reverse Angled Rib Pattern, working yarn overs after the first center marker and before the second center marker on right-side rows and working new stitches into the pattern on wrong-side rows, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 23 (23, 23½, 23½, 24½, 24½)"/[58.5 (58.5, 59.5, 59.5, 62, 62)cm] from the beginning, shape the back neck as follows: SHAPE NECK Work the Reverse Angled Rib Pattern across 35 (35, 35, 35, 43, 43) stitches; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 54 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge once—34 (34, 34, 34, 42, 42) stitches remain each side. Continue even in pattern until the piece measures approximately 24 (24, 24½, 24½, 25½, 25½)"/[61 (61, 62, 62, 65, 65)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Bind off in pattern. Front Work the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 21 (21, 21½, 21½, 22½, 22½)"/ [53.5 (53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 57, 57)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK NEXT ROW (RS): Work the Reverse Angled Rib Pattern across 49 (49, 49, 49, 57, 57) stitches; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 26 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 4 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 3 stitches each neck edge twice; bind off 2 sts each neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge (working a k2tog at right neck edge and an ssk at left neck edge) every other row 3 times—34 (34, 34, 34, 42, 42) stitches remain each side. Complete same as the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the larger needles, cast on 70 (70, 78, 78, 86, 86) stitches. Begin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every other row 15 (18, 20, 24, 24, 28) times, then every 4 rows 17 (14, 12, 8, 8, 4) times, working new stitches into the pattern as they accumulate—134 (134, 142, 142, 150, 150) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 14 (14, 14½, 14½, 14½, 14½)"/[35.5 (35.5, 37, 37, 37, 37)cm] from the beginning or to the desired sleeve length to the shoulder, ending after a wrong-side row. Bind off in pattern. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the right shoulder seam. NECKBAND With the right side facing, beginning at the left shoulder, and using the smaller needles, pick up and knit 158 stitches evenly spaced along the neckline. Begin the Rib Pattern, matching the Rib Pattern as established in the garment; work even until the neckband measures approximately 1"/[2.5cm] from the beginning. Bind off in pattern. Sew the left shoulder seam, including the side of the neckband. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Charlie Charlie Use fully fashioned increases and decreases to take simple stripes to a totally new level! Instead of drawing attention to the widest part of the body, these angled stripes are actually quite flattering and are great fun to knit. Save the task of weaving in the ends for a mindless television project—or weave them in as you go. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 35 (39, 43, 47, 51, 55, 59)"/[89 (99, 109, 119.5, 129.5, 139.5, 150)cm] Length: 20¼ (20¾, 21¼, 21¾, 21¾, 22¾, 22¾)"/[51.5 (52.5, 54, 55, 55, 56.5, 56.5)cm] Materials • Brown Sheep Company's Naturespun Worsted (4-medium/worsted weight; 100% wool; each approximately 3½ oz/[100g] and 245 yds/[224m]): 2 (2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4) balls of Scarlet #N48 (A), 1 ball each of Peruvian Pink #N85 (B), Bougainvillea #105 (C), Salmon #145 (D), Mountain Purple #N80 (E), and Victorian Pink #N87 (F) Medium • Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles • Size 7 (4.5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 3 stitch markers, 1 of them removable for the center stitch • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 20 stitches and 28 rows = 4"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit across. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Stripe Pattern (22 rows) ROW 1 (RS): With B, knit across. ROW 2: With C, purl across. ROW 3: With C, knit across. ROW 4: With B, purl across. ROW 5: With D, knit across. ROW 6: With D, purl across. ROWS 7 AND 8: With E, purl across. ROW 9: With F, knit across. ROWS 10 AND 11: With A, same as Rows 2 and 3. ROW 12: With F, purl across. ROWS 13 AND 14: With B, same as Rows 5 and 6. ROWS 15 AND 16: With D, same as Rows 7 and 8. ROW 17: With E, same as Row 1. ROWS 18 AND 19: With A, same as Rows 2 and 3. ROW 20: With E, same as Row 4. ROWS 21 AND 22: With F, same as Rows 7 and 8. Repeat Rows 1–22 for the pattern. Special Abbreviation S2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch. Notes • When working the M1 increases on the Front and Back, make them knitwise or purlwise, depending on which row of the Stripe Pattern you are on. • For fully fashioned increases: On knit rows, work 2 stitches in pattern, M1-R (this page), work to the last 2 stitches, M1-L (this page), work the last 2 stitches in pattern; on purled rows, work 2 stitches in pattern, M1 purlwise, work to the last 2 stitches, M1 purlwise, work the last 2 stitches in pattern. • For fully fashioned decreases: On knit rows, work 2 stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, work the last 2 stitches in pattern; on purled rows, p2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Standard-fitting Figure Flattery Let the power of mitered angles make you look taller and slimmer! With its slightly tapered silhouette and myriad diagonal lines, all eyes will veer up when you're wearing this design. Back With the smaller needles and A, cast on 81 (91, 101, 111, 121, 131, 141) stitches. Place a removable marker in the center stitch. Row 1 (RS): K17 (22, 27, 32, 37, 42, 47), place a marker, M1-R (see Notes), knit to 1 stitch before the marked center stitch, s2kp2, k22, M1-L, place a marker, k17 (22, 27, 32, 37, 42, 47). Row 2: Knit across. ROWS 3–6: Repeat Rows 1 and 2 twice more. ROW 7 (RS) (CHEVRON ROW): Change to the larger needles and B, and begin the Stripe Pattern; work to the first marker, slip the marker, M1-R, work to 1 stitch before the marked center stitch, s2kp2, work to the next marker, M1-L, slip the marker, work to the end of the row. Continuing the Stripe Pattern, repeat the Chevron Row every right-side row, and at the same time, work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 18 rows 4 times—89 (99, 109, 119, 129, 139, 149) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12¾"/[32.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Make a note of which row of the Stripe Pattern you are on. SHAPE ARMHOLES Continuing the established patterns, bind off 5 (6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 6, 8, 14, 17) times, every other row 0 (3, 6, 4, 3, 1, 0) times, then every 4 rows 2 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—71 (75, 77, 79, 83, 85, 87) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 19¼ (19¾, 20¼, 20¾, 20¾, 21¼, 21¼)"/[49 (50, 51.5, 52.5, 52.5, 54, 54)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Work 12 (14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20) stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 47 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work even until the piece measures approximately 20¼ (20¾, 21¼, 21¾, 21¾, 22¼, 22¼)"/[51.5 (52.5, 54, 55, 55, 56.5, 56.5)cm] from the beginning, ending both sides after the same wrong-side row. Bind off in pattern. Front Work same as the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needles and A, cast on 40 (42, 42, 47, 47, 50, 54) stitches. Knit 6 rows, and increase 7 (7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) stitches evenly across the last row using the M1 technique (this page)—47 (49, 49, 55, 55, 59, 63) stitches. Change to the larger needles and B, beginning the Stripe Pattern; work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 4) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 6, 6, 6, 12, 10) times, every 8 rows 0 (2, 5, 5, 5, 0, 0) times, every 10 rows 4 (6, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 12 rows 3 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—61 (65, 71, 77, 77, 85, 91) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 12¾"/[32.5cm] from the beginning, ending after the same Stripe Pattern row that the Front and Back ended with just before the armhole shaping. SHAPE CAP Continuing the established patterns, bind off 5 (6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 1, 2, 0, 0) times, every other row 12 (13, 15, 19, 17, 23, 21) times, then every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 4) times—23 stitches remain. Work 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even. Bind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—15 stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the left shoulder seam. NECKBAND With the right side facing and using the smaller needles and A, pick up and knit 104 stitches evenly along the neckline. Place a marker on the center stitch on both the Front and the Back. ROW 1 (WS): Knit to 2 stitches before the first marked stitch, s2kp2, knit to 2 stitches before the second marked stitch, s2kp2, knit to the end of the row—100 stitches remain. ROW 2: Purl across. ROW 3: Repeat Row 1, and at the same time, bind off. Sew the right shoulder seam and neckband seam. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Jen Jen Here's the perfect feminine shell knit out of incredibly soft and luxurious cashmere yarn. Customize its fit with bust darts that match your bra cup size as described. Skill Level Experienced Sizes Extra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 28 (30, 33, 36, 39, 42, 45, 48)"/ [71 (76, 84, 91, 99, 106.5, 114, 122)cm] Length: 22 (22, 22½, 22½, 23, 23, 23½, 23½)"/[56 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] Materials • Jade Sapphire's 4-Ply Mongolian Cashmere (3-light/DK weight; 100% cashmere; each approximately 2 oz/[55g] and 200yds/[183m]): 4 (4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6) hanks of Rose Quartz #33 Light Note: Larger cup sizes will require slightly more yarn. • Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles, or size needed to obtain gauge • Size 4 (3.5mm) knitting needles, or size needed to obtain gauge • 5 stitch markers, 1 in a different color to mark the neck • 2 stitch holders • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 26 stitches and 32 rows = 4"/[10cm] in the Cabled Rib Pattern with the larger needles; 24 stitches and 32 rows = 4"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the smaller needles. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Cabled Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): P2, Left Twist, p2; repeat from the across. ROW 2: K2, Right Twist, k2; repeat from the across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Or see the chart on this page. Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit. ROW 2: Purl Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Special Techniques LEFT TWIST (RS): Skip the next stitch, then knit the following stitch in its back loop; knit the skipped stitch; slip both stitches off the left-hand needle together. RIGHT TWIST (WS): Skip the next stitch, then working in front of the skipped stitch, purl the following stitch; purl the skipped stitch; slip both stitches off the left-hand needle together. Notes • For a perfect close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself. • The instructions include bust shaping for a B-cup top; for other cup sizes, refer to the chart. • The instructions include one selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. • For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, Left Twist, p2, ssk, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, p2, Left Twist; on wrong-side rows, Right Twist, k2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, ssp, k2, Right Twist. • For fully fashioned bust increases: Work in pattern to the next marker, M1-R, slip the marker, k2, slip the marker, M1-L; repeat from the once more, then work in pattern to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned bust decreases: Work in pattern to 2 stitches before the next marker, ssk, slip the marker, k2, slip the marker, k2tog; repeat from the once more, then work in pattern to the end of the row. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery This wardrobe pleaser is a complete win-win: Its design details will make you look good and the luxurious cashmere yarn will make you feel good, too! Dozens of rickrack lines draw the eye up to the fitted empire waist, and custom-shaped bust darts will flaunt whatever you've got! If you don't dare to bare your upper arms, make simple short sleeves by picking up stitches along the armholes and work down a few inches. Back EMPIRE WAISTBAND With the larger needles, cast on 10 stitches. Begin the Cabled Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 14 (15, 16½, 18, 19½, 21, 22½, 24)"/[35.5 (38, 42, 45.5, 49.5, 53.5, 57, 61) cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. Bind off in pattern. LOWER BODY With the right side facing and using the larger needles, pick up and knit 90 (98, 110, 118, 126, 138, 146, 158) stitches along one long edge of the Empire Waistband. Beginning with Row 2 of the pattern, begin the Cabled Rib Pattern and work even until the Lower Body measures approximately 9¾"/[25cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Bind off in pattern. UPPER BODY With the right side facing and using the smaller needles, pick up and knit 84 (90, 102, 110, 118, 126, 138, 146) stitches along the other long edge of the Empire Waistband. Begin stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 15"/[38cm] from the bound-off edge of the Lower Body, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 6 (6, 12, 12, 18, 18, 24, 24) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then keeping first and last 4 stitches each side in the Cable Rib Pattern throughout, work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) every row 0 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every other row 0 (0, 0, 4, 0, 3, 0, 6) times, every 4 rows 2 (2, 3, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4) times, then every 6 rows 2 (2, 2, 0, 3, 0, 0, 0) times—64 (66, 68, 70, 72, 74, 76, 78) stitches remain. Continue even in pattern until the piece measures approximately 21 (21, 21½, 21½, 22, 22, 22½, 22½)"/[53.5 (53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 56, 56, 57, 57)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Work 11 (12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18) stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 42 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row. Work even on both sides at once with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 22 (22, 22½, 22½, 23, 23, 23½, 23½)"/56 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Bind off in pattern. Front Work same as the Back until the Upper Body measures approximately 10¾"/[27.5cm] from bound-off edge of the Lower Body, ending after a right-side row. Note: Instructions are for B cup. Other cup sizes begin their bust shaping at a different point; check the chart opposite. NEXT ROW (WS): P24 (26, 29, 31, 34, 36, 37, 40), place a marker, p2, place a marker, p32 (34, 40, 44, 46, 50, 60, 62), place a marker, p2, place a marker, p24 (26, 29, 31, 34, 36, 37, 40). SHAPE BUST For B cup, work fully fashioned bust increases (see Notes) every 4 rows 6 times; for all sizes, work 4 rows even; for B cup, work fully fashioned bust decreases (see Notes) every 4 rows 4 times, then every other row twice, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 15"/[38cm] from the bound-off edge of the Lower Body, ending after a wrong-side row, shape the armholes same as for the Back, and at the same time, shape the neck as follows. SHAPE NECK Place a different-colored marker between the 2 middle stitches. ROW 1 (RS): Continuing the bust shaping as established and beginning the armhole shaping, work in pattern to 6 stitches before the center marker, k2tog, p2, Left Twist; join a second ball of yarn, Left Twist, p2, ssk, work to the end of the row. ROW 2: Continuing the bust and armhole shapings, work in pattern to 6 stitches before the center marker, ssp, k2, Right Twist; with the second ball of yarn, Right Twist, k2, p2tog, work to the end of the row. Continuing the bust and armhole shapings, work fully fashioned neck decreases and Left/Right Twists as established on next row, then every other row 7 more times, then every 4 rows 7 times—15 (16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22) stitches remain each side when all shaping is complete. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 22 (22, 22½, 22½, 23, 23, 23½, 23½)"/[56 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Bind off 11 (12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows—4 stitches remain each side. Put these stitches on holders. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. NECKBANDS Transfer the 4 stitches on each side of the Front neck to a knitting needle. Continue even until the straps, when slightly stretched, meet at the center back of the neck. Bind off. Sew the sides of the neckbands to the back neckline. Sew the bound-off edges of the neckbands together at the back of the neck. Sew the side seams. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Left Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; k1; k1 from cn; OR skip first st and knit next st in back loop; then knit the skipped st; slip both sts off left-hand needle together \| \| = Right Twist on WS = Skip the first stitch, then working in front of the skipped stitch, purl the next st, purl the skipped stitch, then slip both stitches off the left-hand needle together Different Bra Cup Sizes Note: The B-cup size is given in the written pattern. CUP SIZE \| Length at Which to Begin Shaping Bust Darts \| Amount of Fabric Added for Cup Size \| Increase rate \| Decrease rate ---\|---\|---\|---\|--- AA \| 10¾"/[27.5cm] \| ½"/[1.5cm]= 2 stitches= 1 increase/decrease \| Every 20 rows once \| Every 16 rows once A \| 10¾"/[27.5cm] \| 1"/[2.5cm]= 6 stitches= 3 increases/decreases \| Every 8 rows 3 times \| Every 8 rows once, then every 6 rows twice B \| 10¾"/[27.5cm] \| 2"/[5cm]= 12 stitches= 6 increases/decreases \| Every 4 rows 6 times \| Every 4 rows 4 times, then every other row twice C \| 10¾"/[27.5cm] \| 3"/[7.5cm]= 18 stitches= 9 increases/decreases \| Every other row 6 times, then every 4 rows 3 times \| Every 4 rows once, then every other row 8 times D \| 10½"/[26.5cm] \| 4"/[10cm]= 24 stitches= 12 increases/decreases \| Every other row 8 times, then every 4 rows 4 times \| Every other row 12 times DD or E \| 10¼"/[26cm] \| 5"/[12.5cm]= 30 stitches= 15 increases/decreases \| Every other row 12 times, then every 4 rows 3 times \| Every 4 rows once then every other row 14 times Sydney Sydney Light as air, this mohair and silk tunic is a perfect transitional piece for autumn or spring. It's knit in the round until the armholes and has a beautiful incorporated neck treatment. Skill Level Experienced Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for the other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 31½ (35, 38¾, 42½, 46, 50, 53½)"/[80 (89, 98.5, 108, 117, 127, 136)cm] Hip: 55½ (59, 62¾, 66½, 70, 74, 77½)"/[141 (150, 159.5, 169, 178, 188, 197)cm] Length (at center front): 28 (28½, 29, 29½, 29½, 30, 30)"/[71 (72, 74, 75, 75, 76, 76)cm] Materials • Westminster Fibers/Rowan's Kidsilk Haze (2-fine/sport weight; 70% super kid mohair/30% silk; each approximately 1 oz/[25g] and 229 yds/[210m]): 7 (8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13) balls of Dewberry #600 Fine • Size 2 (2.75mm) 29"/[74cm] circular needle • Size 3 (3.25mm) 29"/[74cm] circular needle or size needed to obtain gauge • 8 stitch markers (1 in a different color than the others to mark the beginning of rounds) • Waste yarn to hold stitches • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 26 stitches and 38 rounds/rows = 4"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needle. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Garter Stitch (in the round; any number of stitches) ROUND 1 (RS): Knit. ROUND 2: Purl. Repeat Rounds 1 and 2 for the pattern. Garter Stitch (worked flat; any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit. PATTERN ROW: As Row 1. Stockinette Stitch (worked flat; any number of stitches) ROW 1 (RS): Knit. ROW 2: Purl. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Notes • The Body of this sweater is worked in the round from the bottom up to the armholes and then is divided, after which the Front and Back are worked flat. The sleeves are worked flat. • For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, k2, sssk, work in pattern to the last 5 stitches, k3tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2. • On the right-hand side of the neck, k2, ssk, knit to 7 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, yarn over, p5; on the left-hand side of the neck, p5, yarn over, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. On the subsequent row, purl across all stitches. • For fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, k2, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Close-fitting Figure Flattery With its A-line silhouette and rows of eyelets pointing upward, this design is universally flattering. The neckline is even framed with delicate eyelets! Body With the smaller needle, cast on 317 (338, 359, 380, 401, 422, 444) stitches. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join, being careful not to twist the stitches. Begin garter stitch in the round, and work even until the piece measures approximately ½"/[1.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a knit round. NEXT ROUND: Purl around, and use the M1 purlwise technique (this page) to increase 43 (46, 49, 52, 55, 58, 60) stitches evenly spaced—360 (384, 408, 432, 456, 480, 504) stitches. SET UP PATTERN NEXT ROUND: Change to the larger needle; k2, ssk, k71 (77, 83, 89, 95, 101, 107), yarn over, place a marker, k30, place a marker, yarn over, k71 (77, 83, 89, 95, 101, 107), k2tog, k2; place a marker; repeat from the to the ** once more. MAIN PATTERN ROUND 1: Knit around. MAIN PATTERN ROUND 2: K2, ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to 4 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, k2; repeat from the once more. MAIN PATTERN ROUND 3: Knit around. MAIN PATTERN ROUND 4 (DECREASE ROUND): K2, sssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to 5 stitches before the next marker, k3tog, k2; repeat from the once more—356 (380, 404, 428, 452, 476, 500) stitches remain. Repeat the last 4 rounds 38 more times, with each set of 4 rounds having 4 fewer stitches than the previous 4 rounds—204 (228, 252, 276, 300, 324, 348) stitches remain. Repeat Main Pattern Rounds 1 and 2 only until the piece measures approximately 20"/[51cm] from the beginning, measured at the center front, ending with Main Pattern Round 1, and 4 (6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16) stitches before the beginning of the round marker. SHAPE ARMHOLES Removing the beginning of round marker, bind off the next 8 (12, 16, 20, 24, 28, 32) stitches, k2, ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to 8 (10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20) stitches before the next marker, k2tog, k2; join a second ball of yarn and repeat from to ** once more, then knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. Slip the last 94 (102, 110, 118, 126, 134, 142) stitches onto waste yarn to hold for the Front. BACK ARMHOLE SHAPING ROW 1 (WS): Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8), purl to the end of the row—92 (100, 106, 114, 120, 128, 134) stitches remain. ROW 2: Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8), k2 (including the stitch on right-hand needle from the bind-off), ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2—90 (98, 102, 110, 114, 122, 126) stitches remain. Continuing in the established pattern, work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (1, 1, 1, 1, 3, 3) times, every other row 1 (2, 1, 4, 4, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2) times—84 (88, 92, 96, 100, 104, 108) stitches remain. Continue even in pattern (on right-side rows, working the decreases 2 stitches in from each side with the yarn overs on each side of the marked center stitches) until the piece measures approximately 24 (24½, 25, 25½, 26, 26, 26½, 26½)"/[61 (62, 63.5, 65, 66, 66, 67.5, 67.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. NEXT ROW (RS): K2, ssk, knit to the first marker, yarn over, slip the marker, p30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. NEXT ROW: Purl to the first marker, slip the marker, p30, slip the marker, purl to the end of the row. Repeat the last 2 rows 4 more times. SHAPE NECK ROW 1 (RS): K2, ssk, knit to 2 stitches before the marker, k2tog, yarn over, slip the marker, p5; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 20 stitches purlwise; p5, slip the marker, yarn over, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2—31 (33, 35, 37, 39, 41, 43) stitches remain each side. ROW 2: Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, purl across both sides. Work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 12 more times, ending after a wrong-side row—19 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side. SHAPE SHOULDERS ROW 1 (RS): Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7) stitches, knit to 2 stitches before the marker, k2tog, yarn over, slip the marker, p5; p5, slip the marker, yarn over, ssk, knit to the end of the row. ROW 2: Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7) stitches, purl across both sides—15 (17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 24) stitches remain each side. Repeat the last 2 rows twice more (eliminating the yarn over and decrease when there are no longer enough stitches to work them), then bind off 7 (9, 8, 10, 9, 8, 10) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. FRONT ARMHOLE SHAPING Slip the 94 (102, 110, 118, 126, 134, 142) Front stitches from the waste yarn to the larger needle. ROW 1 (WS): Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8), purl to the end of the row—92 (100, 106, 114, 120, 128, 134) stitches remain. ROW 2: Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts, k2 (including the stitch on right-hand needle from the bind-off), ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2—90 (98, 102, 110, 114, 122, 126) stitches remain. Continuing in pattern, work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (1, 1, 1, 1, 3, 3) times, every other row 1 (2, 1, 4, 4, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2) times, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 20½ (21, 21½, 22, 22, 22½, 22½)"/[52 (53.5, 54.5, 56, 56, 57, 57)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, work as follows: NEXT ROW (RS): Continuing armhole shaping as necessary, work to the first marker, yarn over, slip the marker, p30, slip the marker, yarn over, work to the end of the row. NEXT ROW: Continuing armhole shaping as necessary, purl across. Repeat the last 2 rows 4 more times. SHAPE NECK ROW 1 (RS): K2, ssk, knit to 2 sts before the marker, k2tog, yarn over, slip the marker, p5; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 20 stitches, p5, slip the marker, yarn over, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2—31 (33, 35, 37, 39, 41, 43) stitches remain each side. ROW 2: Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, purl across both sides. Work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 12 more times, ending after a wrong-side row—19 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work as for the Back. Sleeves (Make 2) With the smaller needle, cast on 68 (68, 73, 81, 86, 91, 97) stitches. Do not join. Begin garter stitch worked flat, and work even until the piece measures approximately ½"/1.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 purlwise technique ([this page) to increase 10 (10, 11, 11, 12, 13, 13) stitches evenly spaced across the row—78 (78, 84, 92, 98, 104, 110) stitches. Change to the larger needle and begin stockinette stitch; continue even until the piece measures approximately 4"/[10cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 4 (6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 1, 0, 2, 1) times, every other row 11 (13, 15, 13, 15, 11, 13) times, then every row 9 (5, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—30 (30, 36, 44, 44, 50, 50) stitches remain. Work 0 (0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1) row even. Bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—18 (18, 24, 32, 32, 38, 38) stitches remain. Bind off. Finishing Block the pieces to the finished measurements. Use mattress stitch to sew the shoulder seams. Set in the sleeves. Trompe l'Oeil Trompe l'Oeil Would you like to instantly shrink the size of your hips? This clever design uses diagonal lines to create the illusion of a tapered silhouette. Like other sweaters in this book, its integrated neckband makes it easy—and tons of fun!—to finish. Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Extra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 33 (36, 39, 44, 47, 52, 57)"/[84 (91, 99, 112, 119.5, 132, 145)cm] Length: 23 (23½, 23½, 24, 24, 24½, 24½)"/[58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62)cm] Materials • Zealana Yarns' Willow DK (3-light/DK weight; 70% merino wool/30% cashmere; each approximately 1¾ oz/[50g] and 140 yds/[128m]): 7 (8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 11) balls of Emerald #14 Light • Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 5 stitch markers • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 24 stitches and 32 rows = 4"/[10cm] in Garter Rib Pattern. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Garter Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K2, p2, k2; repeat from the across. ROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern. Diagonal Lines Pattern Work in established Garter Rib, working new stitches into the pattern as they accumulate. ROW 1 (RS): Work to 2 stitches before the first marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1-R (this page), work to the next marker, M1-L, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, ssk, work to the end of the row. ROW 2 AND ALL WRONG-SIDE ROWS: Purl across. ROW 3: Work in the established pattern. ROW 5: As Row 1. ROW 7: Work in the established pattern. ROW 9: Work to 2 stitches before the first marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1 purlwise (this page), work to the next marker, M1 purlwise, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, ssk, work to the end of the row. ROW 11: Work in the established pattern. ROW 13: As Row 9. ROW 15: Work in the established pattern. ROW 16: As Row 2. Repeat Rows 1–16 for the pattern. Notes • The instructions include one selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. • The stitch count will remain constant on every row until the armholes are shaped, after which it will remain constant until the beginning of the neck shaping. • For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, [k2, p2] 3 times, k1, ssk, work in pattern to the last 15 stitches, k2tog, k1, [p2, k2] 3 times; on wrong-side rows, p13, p2tog, purl to the last 15 stitches, ssp, purl to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, work to 16 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, k1, [p2, k2] 3 times, k1; on the left-hand side of the neck, k1, [k2, p2] 3 times, k1, ssk, work to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned sleeve increases: For the first 2 sets of increases, work to the first marker, M1-R, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1-L, work to the end of the row; for the next 2 sets of increases, work to the first marker, M1 purlwise, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1 purlwise, work to the end of the row. • For fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, [k2, p2] 2 times, k1, ssk, work in pattern to the last 11 stitches, k2tog, k1, [p2, k2] 2 times; on wrong-side rows, p9, p2tog, purl to the last 11 stitches, ssp, purl to the end of the row. • For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction. Fit Standard-fitting Figure Flattery Oodles of vertical lines make this design especially flattering. Its two diagonal lines at the hip and an open V-neck make this one a winner for everyone's figure! Back Cast on 102 (110, 118, 134, 142, 158, 174) stitches. Begin the Garter Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 4"/[10cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. NEXT ROW (WS): P17 (21, 25, 33, 37, 45, 53) stitches, place a marker, p13, place a marker, p42, place a marker, p13, place a marker, purl to the end of the row. BEGIN DIAGONAL LINES PATTERN Work the 16-row Diagonal Lines Pattern 4 times for Extra Small and 5 times for all other sizes. Continue even in Garter Rib, if necessary, until the piece measures approximately 15½"/[39.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 4 (4, 4, 8, 8, 12, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) every row 2 (8, 8, 14, 14, 12, 20) times, then every other row 6 (4, 4, 2, 2, 4, 0) times—78 (78, 86, 86, 94, 102, 102) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 20½ (21, 21, 21½, 21½, 22, 22)"/[52 (53.5, 53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Work 5 (5, 9, 9, 13, 17, 17) stitches in pattern; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 68 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row. Work a fully fashioned neck decrease (see Notes) at each neck edge on the next right-side row—4 (4, 8, 8, 12, 16, 16) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 23 (23½, 23½, 24, 24, 24½, 24½)"/[58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Bind off all stitches as they present themselves. Front Work same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 16 (16½, 16½, 17, 17, 17½, 17½)"/ [40.5 (42, 42, 43, 43, 44.5, 44.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Place a marker between the 2 center stitches for Front neck edge. SHAPE NECK Continue armhole decreases same as for the Back, and at the same time, work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) every other row 16 times, then every 4 rows 4 times, joining a second ball of yarn at the center marker on the first row, then using separate balls of yarn for Left and Right Fronts thereafter—19 (19, 23, 23, 27, 31, 31) stitches remain each side. Continue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to the shoulders. Bind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 12, 16, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows—15 stitches remain each side. Put these stitches on holders. Sleeves (Make 2) Cast on 62 (62, 70, 70, 78, 78, 78) stitches. Begin the Garter Rib Pattern and work even for 18 (12, 12, 10, 12, 14, 14) rows; on the last row, place markers after the first 12 stitches and before the last 12 stitches. Work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) on the next row, then every other row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 7, 7) times, every 4 rows 0 (3, 0, 11, 11, 8, 8) times, every 6 rows 0 (4, 7, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 10 rows 3 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times—70 (78, 86, 94, 102, 110, 110) stitches. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 7 (7, 7½, 7½, 8, 8, 8)"/[18 (18, 19, 19, 20.5, 20.5, 20.5)cm] from the beginning, or desired length to underarm, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE CAP Bind off 4 (4, 4, 8, 8, 12, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases (see Notes) every right-side row 13 (13, 9, 13, 9, 13, 17) times, then every row 7 (11, 19, 15, 23, 19, 11) times—22 stitches remain. Bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows—10 stitches remain. Bind off in the pattern. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. BACK NECKBAND Transfer the 15 stitches of one neckband to one of the knitting needles. Continue in pattern until the band, when slightly stretched, reaches the center back of the neck. Bind off. Repeat on the other side. Sew the sides of neckband to the back neckline. Sew the bound-off edges of neckband together at the back of the neck. Set in the sleeves. Sew the side and sleeve seams. Angie Angie Incorporated armholes and neck shaping make this design especially fun to knit—and easy to finish. It's ideal for hot-weather knitting! Skill Level Intermediate Sizes Small (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary. Finished Measurements Bust: 32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52)"/ [81 (91, 101.5, 112, 122, 132)cm] Lower Edge: 48 (54, 60, 66, 72, 78)"/[122 (137, 152.5, 167.5, 183, 198) cm] Length: 29 (29½, 29½, 30, 30, 30½)"/[74 (75, 75, 76, 76, 77.5)cm] Materials • Louet North America's Euroflax Fine (2-fine/sport weight; 100% linen; each approximately 3½ oz/[100g] and 270 yds/247m]): 4 (5, 5, 6, 6, 7) hanks of Steel Grey #68 Fine • Size 2 (2.75mm) knitting needles • Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge • 2 Size 2 (2.75mm) double-pointed needles • Blunt-end yarn needle Gauge 24 stitches and 32 rows = 4"/[10cm] with the larger needles in the Lace Pattern D after blocking. To save time, take time to check gauge. Stitch Patterns Lace Pattern A (multiple of 18 + 19 stitches) See chart. Lace Pattern B (multiple of 16 + 17 stitches) See chart. Lace Pattern C (multiple of 14 + 15 stitches) See chart. Lace Pattern D (multiple of 12 + 13 stitches) See chart. Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 1 stitches) ROW 1 (RS): K1, p3, k1; repeat from the across. ROW 2: P1, k3, p1; repeat from the across. Repeat Rows 1–2 for the pattern. Special Abbreviations S2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch. MB = Make a bobble = Knit into [front, back, front] of the next stitch, turn; p1, [p1, yarn over, p1] all into the same st, p1, turn; k5, turn; p2tog, p1, p2tog, turn; s2kp2. Notes • For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, [k1, p3] twice, ssk, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, k2tog, [p3, k1] twice; on wrong-side rows, [p1, k3] twice, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, ssp, [k3, p1] twice. • For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, work to the last 10 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, [p3, k1] twice; on the left-hand side of the neck, [k1, p3] twice, ssk, work to the end of the row. Fit Very close-fitting Figure Flattery In this linen tunic/dress, fully fashioned decreases are worked into the lace pattern. The A-line silhouette flatters everyone, no matter what their size or shape. Back With the smaller needles, cast on 145 (163, 181, 199, 217, 235) stitches. BOBBLE ROW (WS): K18, MB, k17; repeat from the to the last stitch, k1. NEXT ROW: Knit across. Change to the larger needles; begin Lace Pattern A, and work Rows 1–32 once, then work Rows 1–6. DECREASE ROW 1 (RS): P2tog, k7, p1, k7, s2kp2, k7, p1; repeat from the to the last 9 stitches, k7, ssp—129 (145, 161, 177, 193, 209) stitches remain. NEXT ROW (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them. Begin Lace Pattern B, and work Rows 1–32 once, then work Rows 1–6. DECREASE ROW 2 (RS): P2tog, k6, p1, k6, s2kp2, k6, p1; repeat from the to the last 8 stitches, k6, ssp—113 (127, 141, 155, 169, 183) stitches remain. NEXT ROW (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them. Begin Lace Pattern C, and work Rows 1–32 once, then work Rows 1–6. DECREASE ROW 3 (RS): P2tog, k5, p1, k5, s2kp2, k5, p1; repeat from the to the last 7 stitches, k5, ssp—97 (109, 121, 133, 145, 157) stitches remain. NEXT ROW (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them. Begin Lace Pattern D, and work Rows 1–26. Continue in the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 20¼"/[51.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE ARMHOLES Bind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 8, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (2, 2, 12, 20, 18) times, every other row 4 (8, 8, 8, 4, 6) times, then every 4 rows 4 (2, 2, 0, 0, 0) times—73 (77, 81, 77, 81, 85) stitches remain. Continue even until the piece measures approximately 27 (27½, 27½, 28, 28, 28½)"/[68.5 (70, 70, 71, 71, 72)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Work 17 stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 39 (43, 47, 43, 47, 51) stitches in the pattern, work to the end of the row. Work both sides at once with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 28 (28½, 28½, 29, 29, 29½)"/[71 (72, 72, 74, 74, 75)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Bind off 4 stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 5 stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Front Work same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 23 (23½, 23½, 24, 24, 24½)"/[58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE NECK Work 29 stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 15 (19, 23, 19, 23, 27) stitches in the pattern, work across to the end of the row. Work 1 row in pattern. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) at each neck edge every other row 6 times, then every 4 rows 6 times—17 stitches remain. Work both sides even until the piece measures approximately 28 (28½, 28½, 29, 29, 29½)"/[71 (72, 72, 74, 74, 75)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. SHAPE SHOULDERS Work same as for the Back. Finishing Darn in all remaining yarn tails. Block all pieces to the finished measurements. Sew the shoulder seams. ATTACHED I-CORD NECKBAND Using the e-wrap method, cast 3 stitches onto a double-pointed needle, then pick up and knit 1 stitch at the center back neck of the garment. Do not turn. Slide the 4 stitches to the right-hand tip of the double-pointed needle, k2, ssk, pick up and knit 1 stitch from the neckline of the garment; repeat from the around the neck opening. Bind off. Sew the ends of the I-Cord together. Sew the side seams. ATTACHED I-CORD ARMBAND Using the e-wrap method, cast 3 stitches onto a double-pointed needle, then pick up and knit 1 stitch at the center underarm of the garment. Continue working Attached I-Cord as for the neckband around the armhole. Repeat for the other armhole. Stitch Key \| \| = K on RS; p on WS ---\|---\|--- • \| \| = P on RS; k on WS \| \| = Yarn over \| \| = K2tog \| \| = Ssk \| \| = Ssp \| \| = P2tog \| \| = Insert needle into the second and first sts as if to p2tog-through-back loops; slip these 2 sts onto the RH needle in this position; p1; p2sso # General Knitting Techniques Attaching New Yarn Whenever possible, try to attach a new ball of yarn at the beginning of a row. To start a new color of yarn at the beginning of a knit row: Drop the old yarn, insert your right-hand needle into the first stitch of the row as if you are about to knit, grab the new yarn, and use it to knit the first stitch (illustration 18). Always begin and end every yarn with at least a 6"/[15cm] tail. Otherwise you won't have enough length to weave it in sufficiently. To start a new yarn at the beginning of a purl row: Drop the old yarn, insert your right-hand needle into that first stitch of the row as if you're about to purl rather than knit, and purl it. Bobbles Bobbles introduce wonderful surface texture (not to mention, playful whimsy) to fabrics. While some knitters find them time-consuming to knit, they are not difficult to do. To make a bobble, work several stitches into a single stitch, increasing the number of stitches in that area from one stitch to three, five, or more. Work several rows on these new stitches, turning the work after each successive row. Finally, decrease the stitches back to the original single stitch. There are several ways to knit a bobble, but here's my favorite. It's used in Angie: Knit into the (front, back, front) of a single stitch, turn; work into these same three stitches, p1, (p1, yarn over, p1) all into the next stitch, then p1, turn; knit the 5 stitches, turn; decrease from five stitches down to three stitches as follows: P2tog, p1, p2tog, turn. Finally, decrease from 3 stitches down to one stitch as follows: Slip 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, then pass the 2 slipped stitches from the right-hand needle over the last knit stitch as if you're binding them off. Cable Cast-On Here's my favorite cast-on technique: It's beautiful, easy, and quick to do. Plus, it's perfect when the first row worked is a right-side row. Start by making a slip knot on your knitting needle, then insert the tip of the right-hand needle knitwise into the loop that's sitting on the left-hand needle and knit up a stitch (illustration 19) but don't remove the original stitch from the left-hand needle; instead, transfer the new stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand one. One new stitch has been cast on. For each successive stitch to be cast on, insert the tip of the right-hand needle between the first 2 stitches on the left-hand needle to knit up a stitch (illustration 20). As before, do not remove the old stitch, rather slip the new one back onto the left-hand needle; repeat until you have cast on the required number of stitches. Cables Cables are created when stitches exchange places with other stitches within a knit row. One set of stitches is placed on a cable needle to keep them out of the way while another set of stitches is worked. Depending on whether those stitches are held to the front or to the back of the work, whether the cable uses two, three, or even seventeen stitches, and whether the stitches are ultimately knit or purled or any combination of the two, they create beautiful patterns. For a two-over-two right crossed stockinette cable, for example, slip 2 stitches onto a cable needle and hold them in back of the work; knit 2 stitches from the left-hand needle, then knit the 2 stitches from cable needle. For a two-over-two left crossed stockinette cable, slip 2 stitches onto a cable needle and hold them in front of the work; knit 2 stitches from the left-hand needle, then knit the 2 stitches from the cable needle. E-Wrap Cast-On Here's a quick cast-on method that is easy to do. It is not as stable as many other techniques. To do: Wrap the yarn from front to back around your left thumb, then insert the right-hand needle from front to back to catch the strand (illustration 21). Fasten Off To finish a piece of fabric securely once the knitting is completed, cut the yarn, leaving a tail at least 6"/ 15cm] long, and fasten off by drawing the loose tail through the remaining stitch on the knitting needle. Later, this [yarn tail can be used for seaming or else must be woven in. Knit a Stitch Through Its Back Loop (abbreviated k1-tbl) This technique twists a stitch. It is often used to make stitches appear embossed on top of fabric. To work this technique, just insert your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch from right to left and from front to back, and wrap the working yarn around the needle the regular way to knit the stitch (illustration 22). Knit in the Row Below This technique is used to create novelty stitch patterns, such as the Fisherman's Rib in Candace's Shell. To do: Simply insert the top of the right-hand needle into the stitch that's directly below the first stitch on the left-hand needle (illustration 23), and knit it. Slip off the left-hand needle. Knitwise Instructions will sometimes tell you to insert your knitting needle into a stitch knitwise. To do this, simply insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you were about to knit that stitch—in other words, from left to right and from front to back (illustration 24). If you're told to slip a stitch knitwise, insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you're about to knit it and slide that stitch off of the left-hand needle and onto the right-hand one, allowing the stitch to sit on the right-hand needle with its left "leg" in the front. Usually, stitches are slipped knitwise during a decrease. Provisional Cast-On Using smooth waste yarn in a highly contrasting color to your working yarn, crochet a loose chain that is 4 or 5 chains longer than the number of stitches you plan to cast on. Cut the yarn and pull the end through the last chain made to secure it. Tie a loose knot on this tail to mark it as the one you'll use to later unravel the chain. Turn the crocheted chain over and use a knitting needle to pick up and knit 1 stitch through the back loop of each crocheted chain (illustration 25) until you have cast on the appropriate number of stitches for your knit piece. To expose the live stitches later on, undo the last chain (the one nearest the knotted tail), gently unzip the chain (illustration 26), and transfer the stitches onto a knitting needle. Since you'll be knitting on the opposite side of the crocheted chain, to get the correct stitch count, you may need to create an extra stitch at one edge. Purl a Stitch Through Its Back Loop (abbreviated P1-tbl) Like knitting a stitch through the back loop, this technique twists a stitch. To work this technique, just insert your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch from left to right and from back to front, and wrap the working yarn around the needle the regular way to purl the stitch (illustration 27). Purlwise When instructed to insert your knitting needle into a stitch purlwise, simply insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you were about to purl that stitch—in other words, from right to left and from back to front (illustration 28). The convention in knitting is to always slip stitches purlwise unless told otherwise. When told to slip a stitch purlwise, insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you're about to purl it and slide that stitch off of the left-hand needle and onto the right-hand one, allowing the stitch to sit on the right-hand needle with its right "leg" in the front. Slip 2 Knit 1, Pass the 2 Slipped Stitches Over (abbreviated s2kp2) Here's a central double decrease that takes 3 stitches down to 1 stitch. To do it, slip 2 stitches at once knitwise (illustration 29), knit the next stitch (illustration 30), then pass the 2 slipped stitches over the stitch you just knit (illustration 31). Steeks Used primarily in stranded color knitting, steeks are extra stitches that are cast on and knit so the fabric can be worked completely in the round, making the colorwork easier to do; once the knitting is completed, the steek stitches are cut. For the steek, a bridge of stitches is cast on using the e-wrap cast-on technique (illustration 21) using alternating colors of yarn. Usually, the steek stitches are knit in a simple color pattern, either in the same one-by-one vertical stripe pattern already set up in the cast-on or else in a simple alternating check pattern. Usually, a marker is placed on either side of the steek stitches to set them off from the main knitting. After the knitting has been completed, unless the fabric has been worked in extremely sticky yarn such as Shetland wool, the steek edges are usually reinforced prior to cutting. I recommend using single crochet stitches to secure things before cutting. Use a crochet hook at least 1–2 sizes smaller than your main knitting needle. And choose a highly contrasting yarn that's thinner than your main knitting yarn. Single crochet stitches are worked to join the right-hand leg of one stitch to the left-hand leg of the adjacent stitch on either side of the cutting line. For example, let's look at a five-stitch steek and number the legs of each stitch (illustration 32). Make a slip knot. Then turn your piece of knitting sideways and use a single crochet stitch to join Legs 4 and 5 for one column of stitches and then Legs 6 and 7 for the second side. This is one leg of the center stitch and one leg of the adjacent stitch. Begin securing the steek by inserting your crochet hook from front to back to front through the two legs (illustration 33). Place the reinforcement yarn onto the hook, yarn over the hook, and draw the yarn through the two legs (illustration 34). Wrap the yarn over the hook, and draw it through the loop on the hook to complete a slip stitch. This maneuver attaches the crocheted chain to the knit fabric. Insert the crochet hook into the next pair of legs, wrap the yarn over the hook and pull up a loop (you'll have two loops on the hook; illustration 35), then yarn over again and draw it through both loops to make a single crochet stitch. Repeat this last step to the top of the steek (illustration 36). For the other side of the steek, turn your work in the other direction and, beginning at the bind-off row, work downward to join Legs 6 and 7. You will be joining the other leg of the center stitch with one leg of the adjacent stitch. Once both legs of the center stitch are crocheted, the stitch will be pulled in two directions, leaving horizontal ladders right down the center between the legs—you can see this in the middle of the center stitch in illustration 37. This is where the steek will eventually be cut. Once the steek has been secured, use the sharpest scissors you can find—in bright light, if possible—to cut the center of the steek. Be careful not to cut your crocheted reinforcing stitches! Stranded Technique In this color knitting technique, two colors are worked across each row, and when a color is not in use, it is carried loosely across the wrong side of the fabric, creating horizontal floats. Knitters can choose between 3 possible methods for holding the yarn: Holding One Color in Each Hand Here's the most efficient way to work stranded knitting: Hold one yarn in each hand, wrapping them around your fingers to control the tension the way you normally do (illustration 38). To work a stitch with the color from the right-hand yarn, insert the needle into the next stitch knitwise or purlwise according to your pattern, wrap the right-hand yarn around the needle to make either a knit or purl stitch; to make a stitch with the color of the yarn you're holding in your left hand, insert the needle into the next stitch knitwise or purlwise depending on your pattern, and wrap the left-hand yarn around the needle to complete the stitch. Holding Both Colors in the Right Hand If you're normally an American-style "thrower," you can put both yarns in your right hand and use the appropriate color to knit or purl each stitch. Knitters have two possible methods to choose from. METHOD 1: Loop both yarns around the right index finger (illustration 39). Use the bend of the top joint of your finger to keep the two yarns apart. METHOD 2: Hold one color yarn over the index finger and the other color yarn over the middle finger (illustration 40). Holding Both Colors in the Left Hand If you typically knit Continental-style, you can work with both yarns in your left hand. Again, knitters have two possible methods to choose from. With either method, the right-hand needle can easily "pick" the yarn called for in the color pattern. METHOD 1: Place both color yarns over the left index finger (illustration 41). Use the bend of the top joint of your finger to keep the two yarns apart. METHOD 2: Put one color yarn over the left index finger and the other color yarn over the middle finger (illustration 42). # Finishing Techniques Blocking Prior to seaming your knit pieces, take the time to block them into shape. You'll be surprised at how this simple process can improve the appearance of your projects and can tame even the most unruly stitches! To do it, follow the laundering instructions on the yarn label for the most delicate yarn in your project, then use rustless pins to shape the damp fabric to your desired measurements and allow it to dry. Or gently steam the pieces into shape by placing a damp cloth over them and then carefully wafting a hot steam iron just above the fabric. Don't actually touch the iron to the fabric or you'll risk flattening it. Hiding Yarn Tails Use a pointed-end yarn needle to make short running stitches on the wrong side of your fabric in a diagonal line for about one inch or so, piercing the yarn strands that comprise the stitches of your fabric. Then, work back again to where you began, working alongside your previous running stitches. Finally, to secure the tail, work a stitch or two and actually pierce the running stitches you just created. Be sure to work each tail individually, in opposite diagonal directions, and you will secure your yarn ends while keeping the public side of your fabric neat and beautiful. Mattress Stitch Seams Here's the neatest seam imaginable for stockinette stitch and most knit fabrics. Nearly invisible, it can be worked vertically or horizontally. For a Vertical Seam Lay your pieces flat, with the right sides of the fabric facing you, matching patterns and stripes, if applicable. Thread a blunt-end yarn needle with your sewing yarn, then bring the needle up from back to front through the left-hand piece of fabric, going in one stitch from the edge, leaving a 6"/[15cm] tail. Bring the yarn up and through the corresponding spot on the right-hand piece to secure the lower edges. Insert the needle from front to back into the same spot on the left-hand piece where the needle emerged last time and bring it up through the corresponding place of the next row of knitting. Insert the needle from front to back into the same spot on the right-hand piece where the needle emerged last time and bring it up through the corresponding place of the next row of knitting. Repeat the last two steps until you've sewn approximately 2"/[5cm], then pull firmly on the sewing yarn to bring the pieces of the fabric together, allowing the two stitches on the edges of each piece to roll to the wrong side. Continue this way until your seam is complete (illustration 43). For a Horizontal Seam Lay your pieces flat with the right sides of the fabric facing you and with the bound-off edges of the pieces together. Bring the needle up through the center of a stitch just below the bound-off edge on the lower piece of fabric, then insert it from front to back and from right to left around both legs of the corresponding stitch on the other piece of fabric. Bring the needle tip back down through the center of the same stitch where it first emerged. Continue this way until your seam is complete (illustration 44). Sewing in a Zipper Don't be afraid to add a zipper to a project! It's easy to do—and fun and convenient to wear. With the zipper closed and the right side of the garment pieces facing you, pin the zipper into place, keeping in mind that with hairier fabrics it might be best to allow more of the teeth to show, so the fibers don't get caught in the zipper's operation. Use contrasting sewing thread to baste the zipper into place (illustration 45). Remove the pins and, with matching sewing thread, whipstitch the tape to the wrong side (illustration 46). Finally, with the right side of the garment facing you, use backstitch to sew down the zipper tape neatly (illustration 47). Fold any excess zipper tape to the wrong side and tack it down. Whipstitch This type of seam is used to secure a knit-in hem. To do: Fold the facing of the hem to the wrong side of the fabric. Insert the tip of a blunt-tipped yarn needle into a stitch on the wrong side of the main fabric and then into the cast-on edge of the hem, drawing the yarn through (illustration 48). # Sweater Assembly Sweater pieces fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, with the type of armhole determining how the Front, Back, and Sleeves interlock. Refer to the illustrations below when assembling sweaters. # Yarn Choice and Substitution Each project in this book was designed for a specific yarn. Different yarns possess their own characteristics, which will affect the way they appear and behave when knit. To duplicate the projects exactly as photographed, I suggest that you use the designated yarns. Even so, you'll find that the nature of any handmade garment assures subtle differences and variances. However, if you would like to make a yarn substitution, be sure to choose one of similar weight to the one called for in the pattern. Yarn sizes and weights are usually located on the label, but for an accurate test, knit a swatch of stockinette stitch pattern using the recommended needle size, making it at least 4"/[10cm] square. Count the number of stitches in this 4"/[10cm] swatch and refer to the table below to determine the yarn's weight. Yarn Size and Weight \| Description \| Stitches per 4"/[10cm] in Stockinette Stitch ---\|---\|--- Super Fine \| Fingering weight \| 27 or more Fine \| Sport weight \| 23–26 sts Light \| DK weight \| 21–24 sts Medium \| Worsted weight \| 16–20 sts Bulky \| Bulky weight \| 12–15 sts Super Bulky \| Super Bulky weight \| 11 or fewer # Resources Materials I always recommend purchasing supplies at your local yarn shop. If there isn't one in your area, contact the appropriate wholesaler below for more information. Brown Sheep Company 100662 County Road 16 Mitchell, NE 69357 (308) 635-2198 www.brownsheep.com Cascade Yarns 1224 Andover Park E Tukwila, WA 98188 (206) 574-0440 www.cascadeyarns.com Classic Elite Yarns 122 Western Avenue Lowell, MA 01851 (978) 453-2837 www.classiceliteyarns.com GGH Yarns (See Muench Yarns) Jade Sapphire 148 Germonds Rd. West Nyack, NY 10995 (845) 623-9036 www.jadesapphire.com Jamieson's (See Simply Shetland) JCA, Inc. 35 Scales Lane Townsend, MA 01469 (978) 597-8794 www.jcacrafts.com JHB International, Inc. 1955 South Quince Street Denver, CO 80231 (303) 751-8100 www.buttons.com Knit One Crochet Too 91 Tandberg Trail, Unit 6 Windham, ME 04062 (207) 892-9625 www.knitonecrochettoo.com Lion Brand Yarn 135 Kero Road Carlstadt, NJ 07072 (800) 258-9276 www.lionbrand.com Louet North America 3425 Hands Road Prescott, ON, Canada K0E 1T0 (613) 925-4502 www.louet.com Muench Yarns 1323 Scott Street Petaluma, CA 94954 (707) 763-9377 www.muenchyarns.com Plymouth Yarn Company 500 Lafayette Street PO Box 28 Bristol, PA 19007 (215) 788-0459 www.plymouthyarn.com Reynolds Yarn (See JCA, Inc.) Rowan Yarn (See Westminster Fibers) Simply Shetland 18435 Olympic Avenue South Seattle, WA 98188 (877) 743-8526 <http://simplyshetland.net/> Skacel Collection PO Box 88110 Seattle, WA 98138 (425) 291-9600 www.skacelknitting.com Trendsetter Yarns 16745 Saticoy St., Suite 101 Van Nuys, CA 91406 (818) 780-5497 www.trendsetteryarns.com Westminster Fibers 165 Ledge St. Nashua, NH 03060 (603) 886-5041 www.westminsterfibers.com Yarn Sisters 475 Scrub Oak Circle Monument, CO 80132 (719) 481-2900 www.theyarnsisters.com Zealana Yarns (See Yarn Sisters) The Knitting Community To meet other knitters and to learn more about the craft, contact the following. I currently sit on the Advisory Board and can attest to the educational value—and the pure, knitterly fun—of this great group. The Knitting Guild Association 1100-H Brandywine Boulevard Zanesville, OH 43701-7303 (740) 452-4541 E-mail: [email protected] www.tkga.com To meet other knitters online, visit: www.ravelry.com # Index Abbreviations/symbols Attaching new yarn Barred stitches, horizontal Blocking Bobbles Body types angles for flattering determining diversionary tactics figure flattery Designer Workshop fits to flatter. See also Skirt; Sweaters/tops hourglass, 1.1, 4.1 icon shapes for, itr.1, 1.1 inverted triangle, 1.1, 4.1 measurements and, 1.1, 1.2 petite plus-size rectangular, 1.1, 4.1 round, 1.1, 4.1 sweater dos/don'ts by triangle, 1.1, 4.1 wardrobe tips Cables, 3.1, bm1.1 Cast-ons, bm1.1, bm1.2 Charts, knitting Cup sizes Decreases feathered lines, 2.1, 2.2 fully fashioned way, 2.1, 2.2 illustrated position relative to edge, 2.1, 2.2 slants smooth lines types of, 1.1, 1.2 Designer Workshops, 2.1, 3.1, 4.1 Details, designer about: Designer Workshop for Cables 'n' Ribs, 3.1 Candace's Shell, 3.1 Marilyn's Crossover Top, 3.1 Merino Magic, 3.1 Orvieto, 3.1 The Weekender, 3.1 Winter White, 3.1 Dropped stitches Fasten off Figure flattery. See Body types Finishing techniques Fully fashioned garments defined, illustrated how-tos,. See also Decreases; Increases Garter ridges Hourglass body types, 1.1, 4.1 Icons, body shape, itr.1, 1.1 Increases bar beaded decorative, 1.1, 2.1 directional stranded (M1) fully fashioned way illustrated lifted, 1.1, 2.1 raised subtle yarn over, 1.1, 2.1 Inverted triangle body types, 1.1, 4.1 Knit in row below Knit stitch through back loop (k1-tbl) Knitting charts Knitwise Mattress stitch seams Multicolor bands Petite body types Plus-size body types Purl stitch through back loop (P1-tbl) Purlwise Rectangular body types, 1.1, 4.1 Round body types, 1.1, 4.1 Shapes, body/icon Skirt, 2.1 Slip 2 knit 1, pass 2 slipped stitches over (s2kp2) Steeks Stockinette garments about: Designer Workshop, 2.1; fully fashioned decreases, 2.2, 2.3; fully fashioned increases, 2.4 Aberdeen, 2.1 Aster Stripes, 2.1 Charlie, 4.1 Glamour Girl, 4.1 Jacqueline, 2.1 Jen, 4.1 Marie, 4.1 Ooh-La-La Skirt, 2.1 Sydney, 4.1 Winter White, 3.1 Stranded technique Sweaters/tops Aberdeen, 2.1 about: assembling Angie, 4.1 Angled Ribs, 4.1 Aster Stripes, 2.1 Cables 'n' Ribs, 3.1 Candace's Shell, 3.1 Charlie, 4.1 Glamour Girl, 4.1 Jacqueline, 2.1 Jen, 4.1 Marie, 4.1 Marilyn's Crossover Top, 3.1 Merino Magic, 3.1 Orvieto, 3.1 Sydney, 4.1 Trompe l'Oeil, 4.1 The Weekender, 3.1 Winter White, 3.1 Symbols/abbreviations Techniques, finishing Techniques, general Terminology explained Triangle body types, 1.1, 4.1 Tunics, 3.1, 4.1 Twisted rib pattern Whipstitch Yarn attaching new choosing/substituting sizes/weights tails, hiding Zippers, sewing in	{'title': 'Knitting the Perfect Fit - Melissa Leapman'}
Published 2018 by Prometheus Books _First Comes Marriage: My Not-So-Typical American Love Story_. Copyright © 2018 by Huda Al-Marashi. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Cover illustration by Missy Chimovitz Cover design by Liz Mills Cover design © Prometheus Books Chapter 5: Beaten by Devotion adapted from Huda Al-Marashi, "Beaten by Devotion," in _Beyond Belief: The Secret Lives of Women in Extreme Religions_ , ed. Susan Tive and Cami Ostman (Berkeley, CA: Seal Press, 2013). Chapter 11: Lunch Company adapted from Huda Al-Marashi, "Is This a Date?" in _Hippocampus Magazine_ , May 1, 2014. Chapter 14: Say It Loud adapted from Huda Al-Marashi, "Otherwise Engaged," in _Love, InshAllah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women_ , ed. Ayesha Mattu and Nura Maznavi (Berkeley, CA: Soft Skull Press, 2012). Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Prometheus Books recognizes all registered trademarks, trademarks, and service marks mentioned in the text. Inquiries should be addressed to Prometheus Books 59 John Glenn Drive Amherst, New York 14228 VOICE: 716–691–0133 • FAX: 716–691–0137 WWW.PROMETHEUSBOOKS.COM 22 21 20 19 18 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Identifiers: LCCN 2018019607 (print) \| ISBN 9781633884472 (ebook) \| ISBN 9781633884465 (hardback) Printed in the United States of America _And among His Signs is this, that He created for you mates from among yourselves, that ye may dwell in tranquility with them, and He has put love and mercy between your (hearts): verily in that are Signs for those who reflect._ —Quran 30:21 Author's Note BOOK I Chapter 1: Husband Potential Chapter 2: Muslim Love Chapter 3: A Girl Like That Won't Stay Chapter 4: A Small Island of Unity Chapter 5: Beaten by Devotion Chapter 6: A Divine Crystal Ball Chapter 7: This American Rite of Passage Chapter 8: See Me at the Prom Chapter 9: A Big Family Secret Chapter 10: Marching Toward Marriage Chapter 11: Lunch Company Chapter 12: A Sudden Thrill of Control Chapter 13: The Engagement of Our Children Chapter 14: Say It Loud Chapter 15: Sins for No Good Reason Chapter 16: Every Choke, Sob, and Sniffle Chapter 17: The Sting of Regret Chapter 18: Women in Islam Chapter 19: A Day for Me and the Girls Chapter 20: The Proof of Our Youth Chapter 21: Crises A, B, and C Chapter 22: A Bride Is with Us Chapter 23: Love Her, Boy, Love Her Chapter 24: Biology BOOK II Chapter 25: A Big, Fat Arab Stereotype Chapter 26: Trying to Make a Life Chapter 27: The Aspiring Doctor's Wife Chapter 28: An Edible Identification Card Chapter 29: I Love Huda.doc Chapter 30: A Matter of Life and Death and God Himself Chapter 31: Shia Heretic Chapter 32: The Love I Missed Chapter 33: A Family of Three Chapter 34: How to Fix Hadi and Me Chapter 35: Fictions of Love Chapter 36: As If by Magic Acknowledgments I pored over my old journals and emails in writing this memoir, but what follows on these pages is still its own kind of fiction. A memoirist must make countless trade-offs between what moments to include and exclude, and this very deliberate negotiation creates its own version of the truth. I think this is one of the many reasons why memoirs are so particularly prickly for the people we share our lives with—our stories on the page look so very different from the day in and day out we experience together. My husband has his own memories of our early years together, and I am grateful not only that he carries around a considerably less angst-ridden version of these events but also that he encouraged me to share mine. At his request, I have changed his name and the names of those related to him. I also gave all other characters, with the exception of those I've lost touch with, the option of using their real names. However, for the sake of clarity, I created composite characters to represent my friends from college. Last, I relied on the descriptor "American" in many places where it would have been more accurate to specify that I was referring to the dominant American culture or its Anglo-American and Western influences. While I recognize that it is problematic to set myself apart from the American experience in this way, I wanted to use language that most closely resembled how my family and I thought or spoke at the time, and immigrant communities in the United States commonly use the shorthand of "American" to describe their host society. By extension, I also appreciate that no definable characteristics apply to the labels "Arab," "Muslim," or "Iraqi," but so as not to belabor the text with repeated reminders that these are generalizations, I chose, once again, to mirror what would have been most natural for me or one of my characters to have said or thought in each scene. I cannot remember a time when I didn't think of Hadi Ridha as a potential husband. The day my family first met the Ridhas, Mrs. Ridha took one look at me—six years old and my hair in braids—and my baby sister, Lina, and said, _"Mashallah, mashallah._ We don't need to look anymore. We found our pretty girls." At the time, I didn't know that my father and Dr. Ridha had gone to the same medical school in Baghdad. I didn't know that they'd found each other at an American Academy of Neurology meeting in San Diego and that Dr. Ridha had invited us to his home for dinner. I didn't know that the Ridhas were also Iraqi and Shia, because those were descriptors I still didn't know to apply to myself. All I knew that day was that the Ridhas were different in the same way we were different. They spoke Arabic with "ch" sounds, replacing the "k" sounds; they ate rice with stews called _marga_ ; and they kept their five daily prayers, even though Mrs. Ridha, like Mama, did not cover her hair with the hijab. These were my signs that of the two types of boys in the world—those who were possible to marry and those who were impossible—the Ridha boys belonged to the former, the small population of boys from which I'd be allowed to choose a husband. It was a remarkable discovery for the early 1980s. The only Arab community in our small, seaside Northern California town was a secular social group filled with a mix of Lebanese, Palestinians, Syrians, and a few Iraqis who had immigrated so long ago they spoke more English than Arabic. No one in my parents' small band of friends was quite like the Ridhas, whose dialect was still so fresh on their tongues, who knew so many other Iraqi immigrant families in the United States, and who matched our family not only in religion and level of devotion but also in ages and interests. The fathers got along. The mothers got along. The Ridha boys played well with my brother, Ibrahim, and Lina and I played well with their daughter, Jamila. In spite of the four-hundred-mile distance between our Northern and Southern California homes, our families clung to each other. When the Ridhas came to our house, we took day trips to Carmel Beach, Big Sur, and San Francisco. We came back dirty and tired, and waited in line for a turn in one of the two bathrooms in our small ranch home. When my family stayed with the Ridhas, they drove us to Los Angeles County, to their newly founded Islamic center or _masjid_ , and to events with the other Iraqi families gradually moving into the area. By the time my little sister, Lina, was four years old, she'd already intuited that the Ridha boys were the marriageable kind. After a picnic one sunny afternoon in Big Sur, she turned to Jamila Ridha, the oldest child among us, and said, "I'm full. Now can I have my wedding?" Lina had been gripped by wedding fever ever since she'd fallen asleep and missed her chance to be a flower girl in Jamila's aunt's wedding. Jamila had promised Lina she could have a pretend wedding just as soon as everyone was done eating. At home, we'd baked Lina a cake, using a box mix, while she put on her favorite summer dress, the one with the ruffles and the hula-dancer print, and then she stuck a comb with a short tulle veil in her mess of curly blond hair. Now Jamila brushed the potato-chip salt off her fingers, reached out for Lina's hand, and guided her off the bench of the picnic table. Together we walked down the poison-oak-lined trail to the creek where our brothers were building a dam. Jamila climbed to the top of a flat rock, cupped her mouth, and called out, "Guys, come here." I listened to her voice bellow and admired the ease with which she commanded our brothers. Jamila was thirteen years old, four years older than me, and I believed in her authority. The boys, however, were unimpressed. The three of them continued slapping down the rocks they'd chosen for their creek dam with a clank and a splash. "Guys," Jamila repeated. "We promised." My older brother, Ibrahim, waded out of the water, looking peeved. He hated it when Jamila tried to organize us. Down from the rock, Jamila said, "Ibrahim, you'll do the ceremony." Ibrahim shook his head. His eyes were green and his eyelashes so thick and bold that the girls at school teased that he wore mascara. "I'll do it for Lina," he said. "Not because you asked me to." "Well," Jamila said, turning to her two brothers who were approaching in their swim trunks, "which one of you is going to be the groom?" Without a word, the Ridha boys stepped into their sandals, which were left at the side of a nearby rock, and moved in behind Ibrahim. The sun had deepened the tone of the brothers' already dark skin. Amjad, the younger and shorter of the two, was wiry, pure flesh and bones, while Hadi was stockier with a small tummy and a waist that gave in on both sides to a slight crease. I crouched down so that Lina and I were the same height and said, "You don't need a boy to have a wedding. How about if you get married by yourself?" Lina dropped her chin so low it almost touched her chest, and pushed her lips into a frown. "But a bride has to have a husband," she said with such certainty it was clear that Lina already understood there were rules to getting married. "Just play along," Jamila said to Amjad, but he folded his arms and gave a firm no. She then turned to twelve-year-old Hadi. "You'll marry Lina, won't you? She's little. She doesn't understand what being married means. You don't want her to be disappointed, do you?" Hadi stood there with water dripping from his hair and listened to his sister's argument with his hands on his hips. He looked down and kicked the rock closest to his foot. He watched it scuttle across the ground. "Okay," he said. Surely Hadi knew there would be teasing—that our parents would laugh heartily at the memory of the little bride and her new husband for years to come—and yet he was willing to put up with this for my sister's happiness. From the front of the campground firepit, where I stood as Lina's maid of honor, I watched Lina walk down the dusty aisle between a run of benches, clutching a bunch of artificial flowers with one hand, the other hand trying to suppress a giggle. Our mothers looked on from a bench off to the side, squealing in pure delight at Lina's irrepressible joy, the fluff of golden hair peeking out from behind her veil. Mrs. Ridha called out to her sons, "Pay attention, boys. One day you will dream to marry such pretty girls." When Ibrahim opened his facetious wedding ceremony with, "Dearly beloved with the exception of Jamila," my gaze fell on Hadi standing at Lina's side, playing along with a sincerity I'd never seen in a boy. I took a snapshot of Hadi in my mind—still in his swim trunks and as tanned as a piece of overdone toast. I decided if I did, indeed, marry Hadi one day, this would be the moment I'd say I first fell in love with him. People can forgive you different food and customs; they can fall in love with your baklawa; and they can respect you for your long school uniform skirts and opaque tights, and for saying your daily prayers as fast as you can in a corner of your cabin during science camp. But saying you couldn't have a boyfriend or that you'd likely marry someone whom you had never gone on a date with, made you an alien. It made all the girls in your sixth-grade class circle around you during recess and ask why you couldn't just go with John; it wasn't as if he'd be your boyfriend or you had to kiss him or anything. It made the same girls corner you in the restroom at the spring social and ask why you couldn't just dance with Chris; you were making him so sad, and it was really so selfish and mean to keep saying no. It made the guy in the mall who just asked for your number tell you to go back to Kuwait where you came from. Not being allowed to date was the issue that plucked me out of the realm of exotic and interesting and planted me firmly into a sad documentary about people from other cultures, the kind that makes its audience walk away grateful to be themselves. In my peers' insistent questions, their shakes of the head, I could almost see them reflecting on how lucky they were to be holding the keys to their own love lives, when there were girls like me whose mom and dad were going to drive them to the door of their future relationship and take a seat inside. My peers' relief bothered me far more than the prohibition against dating itself. Deep down, I wanted to marry the Iraqi, Shia boy who would make my parents proud, someone who prayed and fasted, someone who knew as much Arabic as I did if not more, and someone who'd give our children Arabic names and take them to the masjid. I wasn't the trope of an immigrant's kid, prepared to reject her family's traditions in order to fit into mainstream culture. On the contrary, the contents of my mind deeply ashamed me. I could sing along to nearly every theme song on television, but my Arabic vocabulary was limited to words said around the house, my five daily prayers, and some of the shorter Quranic verses that I could recite but did not understand. I did not have a single memory of Iraq, not my mother's childhood home with the flat roof _satah_ where she slept outside on balmy nights, not the creamy _gaymar_ and freshly baked _samoun_ she used to eat for breakfast, not the gilded shrines she made pilgrimages to every Ashura with their massive Persian carpets and crystal chandeliers. I had been only two years old in 1979 when my family made their last trip to Iraq. An intense interrogation in the airport made Mama decide it wasn't worth going back anymore and that it was time to get the rest of her family out. There was no way I was going to sever what little ties I had to my culture and religion by marrying someone outside of it. My entire extended family consisted of couples who had barely known each other when they wed, couples who had been introduced via photographs or paired together from within the same clan. Mama and Baba were themselves distant relatives, something I never told any of my friends for fear they'd recoil with disgust and forever brand me the child of an incestuous union. Baba was from a branch of the Marashis that left Iraq in the 1920s and settled in the tropical island of Zanzibar. He was studying abroad in Canada when his sister sent him Mama's picture, a wallet size he blew up to poster proportions and proudly toted back to Iraq to gift to my grandfather as a stand-in for the daughter he was taking with him. Whenever he came across the original wallet-size photograph, he'd show it to me and my siblings and tell us, "Look here. See how your mummy was so pretty," his Arab–East African accent thick, dragging out the o's and pushing hard on the t's. Mama was, indeed, the quintessential pretty brunette—the kind who usually plays sidekick to a bombshell blond, the kind you wouldn't expect to find married to a short man, twenty years her senior, with thinning gray hair, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and the beginnings of a potbelly. People often mistook Mama for Baba's daughter, and Lina, Ibrahim, and me for his grandchildren, but Mama only wanted me to see the wisdom in her union and the folly in American dating. "The problem with the women in this country is they expect too much," Mama would often say to me while getting ready for work. "They want love, they want passion, and they want it to last forever. Your father is a good man; he encouraged me to go back to school. Not every man would put up with his wife working and studying. If you want to start believing in this country's what-about-me garbage, there's no end to it." When Mama arrived in the United States in 1972, she was eighteen years old. She didn't drive, speak English, or have a high school diploma. Baba urged her to go back to school right after my brother was born, and from then on, she'd always worked and studied, earning first her GED, then two different associate's degrees, then a bachelor's in nursing. Eventually she'd earn a master's and doctorate of nurse practice. She often said she would have gone to medical school had there been one in town. For years, Mama worked the 3:00 to 11:00 p.m. shift on a pediatrics floor. We got home from school after she left for work, and most nights, we were in bed before she got back. Days often passed without us seeing her, and so when Mama was home, she expected us to be available for parenting. One afternoon, while getting ready for her shift, she told me of a coworker, "That little twit-twit Sandy has only been married for two months, and she already wants a divorce. She slept with her husband, kissed him, and now she says she doesn't even know him. How much more does she want to know?" Standing in front of her dresser mirror, Mama swiped a padded applicator across a square of eye shadow and added, "People here tell me, 'You married a stranger.' What stranger? Someone your parents know and your family knows is a stranger? They think if they date someone and they kiss him and sleep with him, they know who they're marrying. What does that tell you about a person except for what they look like naked?" "Mama!" I said, from where I sat on her bed, with the sharp tone of surprise I believed was expected of a twelve-year-old. Mama ignored my theatrics. She'd always considered anything biological—pees and poops (Mama always referred to these in the plural), menstruation and sex—to be healthy topics of conversation. She unscrewed the cap from a tube of mascara and added, "That's how people think here. It's all about 'my feelings,' and 'do I love him?' But just because you don't love someone when you marry him, it doesn't mean you'll never love him. The important thing is to marry a good person, someone who shares your culture and religion, and then you'll fall in love with him later." "Is that how it was for you with Baba?" I asked. "You didn't love him, but now you do." "Things were different for me," Mama said, brushing the mascara wand along her top lashes. "I hadn't finished high school, and Jidu had just married Bibi." _Jidu_ and _Bibi_ are the Iraqi words for "grandfather" and "grandmother," but in this case, Bibi was Mama's stepmother and Jidu's third wife. Jidu's first wife, Mama's mother, had died tragically and suddenly in her twenties. He remarried, only for his new wife to meet the same fate, this time as a result of a cooking fire. When Jidu found himself alone with seven kids between Mama's fifteen years and her youngest brother's eighteen months, his father pressured him to marry a distant cousin—a spinster in her forties, who lived in a palatial home with her brother, servants, and black cat. Now Mama tossed the mascara back in her makeup box and continued, "Bibi didn't like having us all around the house, and she thought she was doing Jidu a great favor because she married off his daughters to doctors. So I just said okay because I always did what I was told, and I got lucky. Your father is a kind man, and I now have you beautiful kiddies to be grateful for." Mama affixed her name tag to her collar and kissed me on the cheek on her way out the door. As always, Mama was too busy to waste a moment on regret. She could have easily blamed Bibi for marrying her off to a man who was not just twice her age but also her complete opposite, a sickly, nearly humorless man, far too serious and literal for Mama's mischievous sense of humor, her boundless energy for exercise, dancing, and projects of all kinds. But Mama did not blame Bibi. Rather she moved her and Jidu into our tiny ranch home, putting me and Ibrahim in the same room until she could afford to build a house with a granny unit above the garage. And not only did Mama never dwell on how different she was from my father, but she also told me time and again what a good man he was, how he took in her family, how he encouraged her to go back to school, and how devoted he was to us kids. I believed this ability to embrace the relationship you were in was the upside to matchmade marriages. Muslim love was secure and uncomplicated, a decision entirely under a person's control, but American love was almost frighteningly fragile and mysterious. It had to be fallen into after a number of dates, and when couples on television and in movies finally uttered the L-word to each other, it was a grand moment, a surprise even to themselves. Maybe it was a frustrated, "Because I love you, all right," cried out in the midst of an argument. Or a tearful, "Now that I lost you, I know I love you." It was something that could befall them even when they were committed to other people. "We didn't mean for it to happen," the cheater might explain to his former beloved. I feared the fickleness of American love—the notion that someone could love you and still fall in love with someone else, or like you but not be in love with you, or love you for a time and then lose that spark—but like all delicate things, there was something special about this kind of love. In a love marriage, you knew the couple at the altar were drawn together by more than their matching culture, religion, or family ties. They shared a connection to each other. The bride was someone wholly unique and irreplaceable, someone who made the groom misty-eyed watching her walk down the aisle, someone he'd describe as his best friend while holding her hand and reciting the vows that he'd written. These couples got married in weddings they planned for a year, and hired photographers to capture every moment, photographers who would later assemble their pictures into thick, bound photo albums and into framed portraits. Mama, on the other hand, kept her wedding photographs in a manila envelope stuffed in the back of a half-empty photo album. The pictures weren't even taken at her wedding, but at a stopover in England at the request of my father's sister who lived in Newcastle and missed out on the actual wedding, which Mama had told me was really no more than a dinner with some family members at home and had ended with her washing the dishes. In these photos, Mama was wearing an A-line wedding gown made from white and silver lace thrown over an acetate lining. She wore a rhinestone crown out of which flew yards of tulle that pillowed at her feet. In her hands were a bunch of red carnations, and she looked uncomfortable, as if she was trying to suppress a giggle. Baba wore a navy blue suit, his hair and mustache a slightly darker gray. He looked at Mama with what my siblings and I call "Baba's proud face," lips forced closed as if to contain the beams of happiness shining inside him. In some of the pictures, Baba's four-year-old niece posed as the flower girl. Mama's dress still hung at the back of her closet but without any attempt at preservation. We were welcome to wear it, play in it, or do whatever we wanted with it. Her tiara, minus several rhinestones, was in my bedroom, left over from all the Halloweens that I'd dressed up as a princess. I wanted Mama's wedding things to be too special for me to use, but every time I'd offer to return the tiara to her room, she'd shrug and say there was no need. Sometimes she'd add, "I never really liked the things from my wedding. My uncle bought everything, and they just told me to wear it." Mama's wedding memorabilia told the story of resignation, loss, and acceptance that she didn't tell. Mama could have been the subject of one of those pity documentaries, albeit with an inspirational twist—the Story of How One Woman Overcame Her Heartbreaking Childhood and Arranged Marriage by Taking Pride in Her Children and Getting Lots of Education—but as remarkable as I knew Mama's example was, I didn't want to repeat it. I wanted a love story with the Iraqi, Shia man of my dreams. I wanted to be a Wakefield sister who found her Tarek at Sweet Valley High, a Scarlett O'Hara who met her Raheem without the depravation of war, a Juliet who lived into old age with her Rumi. I didn't need a string of boyfriends or affairs—just one grand, sweeping love story so fantastic that it was worth a lifetime of romantic adventures. Because, falling in love was a veritable jackpot. There was the bounty of the feelings themselves, the spiritual connection, the physical attraction, the thrill of having a handsome man devoted entirely to me, but it was also redemptive. It was life's way of saying, "Here, little Muslim girl, since you were so good and stayed away from boys before marriage, you will be rewarded with the perfect, Iraqi, Shia husband who is so awesome you don't have to learn to love him." And the story I had with this Mr. _Khair Inshallah_ , Mr. Good God Willing, would immediately banish all my American friends' pity and fear that I was getting married for the wrong reasons. "I love him," I'd say, and it wouldn't matter if I only met the guy once in my living room with my family all around me. Americans forgave everything in the name of love, and so would I. Moment 1: Hadi was bouncing my Silly Putty around before it turned a corner and dropped into the hall bathroom's toilet. I was seven, and he was ten. He apologized with a quick, "I'm sorry," before running off. Four years later, I was sitting on the edge of the bed in Jamila's room. He came in, handed me a paper bag, and said, "Here. I owe you this." He left before I opened the bag and found a brand-new Silly Putty inside. Moment 2: Hadi, Jamila, and Amjad had come to stay with us the summer before I started the eighth grade. They arrived with gifts in hand. We stood around, opening our presents, boys in one corner of the room, girls in another. As I pulled back the plastic bag, Jamila said, "I don't know why, but Hadi insisted on paying for this with his own money." Inside was an EZ Bake Oven, something I'd told Jamila I'd always wanted but never got. I looked over at Hadi. Our eyes met, but he quickly looked down. Moment 3: We were on a family trip to Disneyland later that same year. Hadi pulled a thick, veined leaf off a tree and said, "Keep this. It's a present for you." With exaggerated drama, I took it in my hands and said, "I'll treasure it always." For the remainder of the day, I kept the leaf in my pocket and then later guarded it in my wallet. If we became a couple, I'd want this leaf as a reminder that we'd been brought together by more than our families. Hadi had liked me all along. I treated these memories as if they were in a savings account—there in case I needed them later—but I hoped I wouldn't have to make a withdrawal. As kind as Hadi was, I didn't feel those jumpy feelings that romance novels described when I was around him, no butterflies in my stomach, no inability to eat or sleep. He sported a messy mullet, and while this was a completely fashion-forward move in the 1990s, it did not work for Hadi. Because his hair was curly, the longer hair in the back bunched up into a wild, fuzzy ball reminiscent of an animal tail. He'd gone from chubby to last-notch-on-his-belt skinny, and he dressed like such a schoolboy with his shirt buttoned up all the way to the top and securely tucked into his pants. I was only thirteen years old, but I understood that our family friendship afforded Hadi and me opportunities to get to know each other that I would not have with another suitor, someone who'd likely appear with his family as nothing more than an evening dinner guest. On some days, this was reason enough to like Hadi. Other days, I wished there was someone else out there for me, someone from within our small community who my parents approved of, who I didn't have to convince myself to like. One evening Mama asked me to follow her into her walk-in closet while she got ready for bed. Right away, I knew she had something she wanted to discuss with me privately. In a hushed voice, she got straight to telling me that Um Sadek, a close family friend of the Ridhas, had asked Mrs. Ridha about me, and Mrs. Ridha had told her, "Don't even think about it. She is ours." I stood there, holding the back of the chair that my mom usually tossed her clothes on, and tried not to show any reaction. Mama stepped out of a pair of pants, her voice brimming with pride. "And then Um Sadek told her, 'Be careful. If you want her, do something about it now. A girl like that won't stay.'" I gripped the chair harder. "So," Mama asked and pulled a T-shirt and pair of pajama pants out of her dresser drawer, "do you like Hadi?" My cheeks flushed with a mix of girlish flattery and a hot punch of frustration. Mama was asking me if I liked a boy when she'd always said feelings were irrelevant, that sensible girls put compatibility above all else. And I didn't know why she was telling me all this now. Had I just been spoken for as an eighth grader? "I don't know," I said. Mama pulled the shirt over her head and added, "Because if you don't like the idea, I should hint it to your Khala," referring to Mrs. Ridha as my aunt, a title of respect Iraqis applied liberally to any woman who was old enough to be their mother. "She is already worried that we will insist on somebody _seyyid_ , and I told her that the Al-Marashis usually marry within the family and we always take an _istikhara_ for this kind of thing." I nodded at the unpleasant reminder. Even in the impossibly small world of boys I might be allowed to marry, there were obstacles to marrying an Iraqi, Shia like Hadi. My family belonged to a clan that claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad, earning us the honorific title of seyyid. A man could marry a non-seyyid woman and still pass the title on to her children, but a woman could not. Since Hadi's family was not seyyid, our future children would lose their right to this distinction. Then, there was the custom of marrying cousins, both first and distant, or, at the very least, taking the permission of an aunt or an uncle before accepting a marriage offer from outside the family. And finally, there was the istikhara, the consultation of the Quran under the guidance of someone trained in the practice of interpreting its verses. According to my mother, no marriage in our family had taken place without one. "His mom may say all that to you," I said, "but he actually has to like me, too." "Hudie, the boy likes you. His eyes go wherever you go. And don't dismiss a mom liking you. A mom is more important than the boy." It meant something to Mama that of all the girls Mrs. Ridha knew, she wanted me for her son. Mrs. Ridha was the closest thing the Southern California Iraqi community had to a matchmaker. She kept track of all the unmarried girls in our community, their ages, and what they were studying so she could make recommendations when asked. Mrs. Ridha's approval didn't carry the same weight with me, but at the same time, I didn't want Mama to discourage Mrs. Ridha's interest. Hadi wasn't just another Iraqi Shia; he was someone born in America, someone raised on the same movies and television shows, someone who likely shared the same romantic notions about love. "Do you have to tell them anything now?" I asked. "Can't we just wait and see what happens?" "That's what I've been doing. I say, 'They're both young. Let's see how they feel when they get older.' You never know. The boy could change his mind about you, too." Mama's words tugged at me. As much as I wanted the space to consider other people, I took comfort in the idea that Hadi would be there, liking me. For as long as I could remember, I'd heard stories about our community's risky marriage market where the freshest, sweetest girls never sat on the shelf. Mrs. Ridha always had a cautionary tale about a girl whose shelf life was expiring. "You know, it's nice to want to go to school and study," she'd say, "but a girl becomes twenty-four, twenty-five, and that's it. The only people who come for her are older, or they have been married before. Like this girl, I don't want to mention her name, but she was so pretty. Everyone asked about her, but she insisted she wanted to be a dentist. In the end, she became a dentist, but she married someone fifteen years older than her who had two kids from his first marriage. See how the _qisma_ is." Almost every marriage story I'd overheard Mrs. Ridha telling Mama ended with qisma, destiny. It never occurred to me to question how the poor girl in the story could be blamed for insisting on school if this relationship had been her fate, or to wonder if the girl might have actually liked the man with the two children. All I heard then was the tone of pity in which her story was retold, and that pity settled into my mind as a series of warnings—don't be too picky; our community is too small for you to hold out for the one; be the best girl so someone picks you first. When Mama entered the conversation, it was often to add this much-repeated piece of wisdom: "School will always be there, but the time for marriage won't." Coming from grade-obsessed Mama, a woman who fell asleep surrounded by her textbooks and piles of flash cards, a woman who made everything wait until after finals, this notion that a good suitor was a gift of fate carried the weight of an irrefutable truth. "If you are motivated enough, you can do anything," Mama would say. "I used to bring you to class with me. Sit you down with a little coloring book. It was fun." Mama made it seem like a challenge—if you worked hard enough, there was no reason why you couldn't get married young and have a family and go to school and have a career. "A woman should always have a way to support herself," she'd tell me. "You never know what can happen." Our community of brain-drain Iraqis was filled with women just like Mama. Women who were doctors, dentists, pharmacists, and engineers: they got married young, had their children, and worked. Even the women who stayed at home with their children still whispered to their daughters, "Study. Study. Become something." In our Iraqi American community, mothers did not offer their daughters one path over the other—marriage, school, and careers were all tied together in a tight, little knot of what it meant to be successful. For the most part, this resonated with every definition of American success I'd grown up hearing, except for one important difference—love. In America, you had to fall in love. I went to an all-girls Catholic high school, settled in the middle of a neighboring agricultural town. My classmates were farmers' daughters, workers' daughters on scholarship, and commuters looking for a better alternative to the local public schools. For school events, the farming families would donate centerpieces made of colorful arrays of broccoli, cabbage, and cauliflower, and on free-dress days, many girls traded in their uniforms for their finest cowgirl gear—colorful denim pants without back pockets; plaid shirts with metal-tipped, pointy collars; and riding boots. When people questioned Mama's decision to send her Muslim children to a parochial school, she'd say, "Some religion is better than no religion." That there were no boys at this particular school was a bonus. "Less distraction," she'd add. At school, we began every class with a prayer and special intentions. With their hands folded on their desks, my classmates took turns praying for their sick dogs, dead grandmas, and fickle boyfriends. Praying for a boyfriend was something I never learned to accept. It sounded like praying for help with shoplifting or purchasing marijuana. For six periods a day, I listened to my peers ask God for variations of the following: "I'd like to offer a prayer of thanks for Ricky." "I wanna pray for Ricky because we're going through a really hard time right now." "I wanna pray that God will help me forgive Ricky for being such a big jerk." "I wanna thank God for helping me and Ricky get back together." Listening to my peers work through boyfriends and breakups, I was convinced of another upside to being a Muslim woman. I'd never waste valuable getting-into-a-good-college time on a pointless relationship. I'd never worry about finding a date to the Winter Ball or fret over wearing a bathing suit in public. Why a woman would want to go anywhere in what was nothing more than a made-for-water bra and underpants baffled me. I didn't want to introduce the world to the stretch marks that my first and only growth spurt had autographed on my thigh. At school I defended these ideas to my friends. Every year I gave talks to the world religions classes about Islam with the only other Muslim girl in school, Nadia Khan. Nadia had Pakistani parents, and she looked—and I say this while cursing Disney studios for getting the stereotype right—just like Princess Jasmine. When our classmates brought up the resemblance, we feigned great offense, but Nadia did, indeed, have thick black hair that hung down her petite, twig-thin body; full lips plumped up with Revlon's Toast of New York; and kohl-lined cat eyes. In those world religions classes, we repeated the same lines about the five pillars of Islam; the hijab and how even if Nadia and I didn't wear it, we still tried to be modest in our dress; and the differences between Sunnis and Shias. I'd start by saying, "So there are the two sects in Islam. The Shias believed that Imam Ali, the Prophet Muhammad's son-in-law, should have taken over after the Prophet died, and the Sunnis believed it should have been Abu Bakr. But the split didn't even happen until years after, when Imam Husayn, the Prophet's grandson, was killed. It was then that a group broke off and decided to follow the descendants of the Prophet's line." Nadia was my first Sunni Muslim friend. She folded her hands around her waist during certain parts of the five daily prayers while I kept my arms straight at my sides. She also recited her afternoon prayers separately instead of one after the other like I did. I used to feel as if those minor differences threatened our unity, the small island we inhabited in our sea of Catholic education. But whenever something came up about our dissimilarities, Nadia would say, "Oh, Hudie, like I care." It was enough for Nadia that we were both Muslims, and she was always quick to add this particular message to our classroom explanations. "That's the only difference," she'd say, brandishing a polished fingernail, her sentences coming fast and without a full breath between them. "It's purely historical. It's the same religion, the same beliefs. We all pray, we all fast, and we all go on our Haj pilgrimage together. No one even really cares about it. See. Look at me and Huda. We're both from different sects, but it doesn't matter. We're still the best of friends." Nadia was brilliant, but for some reason this made her less coherent rather than more. It was as if a genius creature lived inside her brain and made her speak as fast as it thought. But Nadia's genius had a big heart, and every time she made this last point, she put her arm around me for emphasis. It was my favorite part of our talk because it filled me with such hope. Nadia and I belonged to a new generation of Muslims in America, and we were painting a picture of Islam on what was essentially a blank canvas. Those two smoking towers of black wouldn't appear until almost seven years later, in 2001. The Gulf War was newly behind us, and we had the luxury of thinking our biggest problem was the movie _Not without My Daughter_ —which, judging by the number of girls in my school who had seen it, was the most important film of the entire decade. During every talk we gave, someone would raise her hand and ask how we could want to marry Muslim men when they were like the antagonist Moody, so overbearing and abusive. "Don't Muslim men beat their wives?" Rachel Lazar, the most outspoken girl in the class, once asked. "No," Nadia said, "I have a whole family full of Muslim men, and my dad and all my uncles have never hit their wives." Rachel was not satisfied with this answer, and her next question carried the tone of a challenge. "But what would you do if you fell in love with a guy who wasn't Muslim?" "That's easy," I said, striding toward the middle of the classroom. "I wouldn't fall in love with a guy who wasn't Muslim. How could I fall in love with someone who doesn't share the things that are most important to me?" My faith was the only security I had in what I'd already discovered to be a frightening and unpredictable world. Baba, a long-time sufferer from bronchiectasis, was often hospitalized for simple colds that turned into more stubborn infections or prolonged episodes of pneumonia. And then there was the arteriovenous malformation (AVM) found in Lina's mandible when she was eight years old and I was thirteen. For a year, my parents shuttled her back and forth to Stanford University and UCSF until her doctors settled on a treatment for the tangle of blood vessels lodged in her jaw, the location of her AVM so rare that her case was written up in medical journals. And through all that bone-rattling childhood fear, I carried prayer beads in my pocket and prayed until those prayers were answered. I wanted a future spouse who would help me hold up my world with his devotion—not draw punishment into my life for marrying someone outside of my religion. "I don't see how you can say that," Rachel argued. "You can't control who you're going to fall in love with." Here it was in real life—not spoken by some character in a book or in a film—that notion that you couldn't control who you love, that it was something that happened to you as accidentally as tripping. I wished Rachel could step into my world for just one moment and see the glaring contradiction in her reasoning. American culture extolled autonomy and personal power, but it accepted and even embraced complete helplessness when it came to love. I replied, "Yes, you can, if you don't let yourself consider people outside your religion, and that makes sense because you're going to have kids and raise a family with this person." In spite of the complete confidence I felt in my explanation, something in Rachel's face shook me. She looked over at her friends and rolled her eyes with such disdain that I almost heard her announcing that I was nothing to her, asexual and therefore unimportant. My mind flashed to Hadi. I was tempted to offer up my list of moments as proof that a boy liked me and maybe I liked him, too. But I would never discuss this unnamed thing that Hadi and I shared so casually in front of my class. Mama talked to me about Hadi, in private, behind closed doors, but we never discussed this topic in front of my siblings or father. Mama had warned me time and again to admit to no crush, no interest in any boy in front of anyone ever—not my closest girlfriends and certainly never the boy. "You may change your mind," she warned, "but you cannot control what people will think. In their mind, they will always remember you tied to that one boy's name." The snotty girl inside me wished I could walk over to Rachel and her friends, with my hands on my hips, and say, "You think you're so hot because you've been to every Winter Ball and prom with a different guy on your arm. Just watch. I'll be married before you've even had a steady boyfriend." I sincerely believed getting married beat having a boyfriend. I repeatedly told myself that the girls around me could have all their temporary boyfriends because one day soon a boy would want to be with me forever. We'd host dinner parties with delicate china and gleaming flatware, and my life would soon be far more mature and sophisticated than Rachel and her friends and their petty concerns about boys and dates. But every Friday, when my classmate Diana Marquez slept over, this built-up confidence got a thorough shaking. Diana and I would wrestle over our futures, this puzzle that did not have a single piece locked into place, and wonder how we were going to put together everything we wanted from life. We were the girls who had been plotting and planning our path to college since freshman year—running for student-body offices, joining clubs, studying for tests right through lunch, eyeing the valedictory crown, and grabbing every last possible point for our greedy above 4.0 GPAs. How were our degrees and careers going to fit with a boy loving us and marrying us and later with soft, chubby babies who chewed on our fingers with their smooth, toothless gums? We made lists of careers that made you look smart, so even if we stopped working to take care of our families, people would know that we'd been bright enough to become something else first. Medicine was too long a career path not to use, but maybe law or physical therapy. "But isn't it a waste to go through that much schooling if we aren't going to use it?" Diana would ask. "But we have to," I'd respond. "We can't have worked this hard to get all these As to be just moms." Diana and I had no evidence to complicate this image of motherhood. We'd grown up in the age of the supermom, Murphy Brown, and "We girls can do anything. Right, Barbie?" We merely accepted that being a stay-at-home mom came with the word _just_ firmly affixed to the front of it, and we moved on to creating scenarios for the perfect marriage proposal. I still remember one such daydream where Diana suggested, "Wouldn't it be great if your friends are like, 'Hey, can you drive us to the movies?' because they are in on it, too, and you go to open your car door and all these balloons fly out?" "Yes," I added, "but there is this one balloon that doesn't come out, so you go and pull on it, and attached is this little box with a really big ring in it—" "And then a limo pulls up," Diana said, "and you see him get out, wearing a tuxedo and holding flowers, and you say, 'Yes,' and you hug and cry—" "And that's when you get into the limo," I said, "and there's a dress waiting for you because you are going to change and go out to dinner at a place with an amazing ocean view, and then when you get there, your favorite song is playing and you dance." As Diana and I spun our fantasies, I admitted to no conflict. I rationalized that a surprise proposal just like this could indeed happen to me in spite of all my familial and cultural restrictions. Maybe a boy could ask my family for my hand without me knowing, and then he could arrange a proposal, if not as elaborate as this one then at least something similar. And after we were engaged, we could catch up on all the moments a Western couple may have had while they were dating. During the year that we were planning our wedding, my fiancé could whisk me away for a romantic birthday, Valentine's Day, and anniversary celebration of when we first became a couple. Diana and I had an entire soundtrack for every romantic event we imagined, but no song captivated our imagination like Chris de Burgh's rendering of "The Lady in Red." Every time we got together, we belted out its lyrics and danced in rehearsal for the night when we would be the Lady in Red in our own lives. When the song ended, we'd take turns dipping each other with dramatic flourish. One night, while mid-dip, we caught sight of ourselves in my mirrored closet door. Diana was in my arms, with one leg kicked up high into the air, her head back, hair fanning out of a messy bun, wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants and white socks, the latter stuffed into high heels. I wore the exact same ensemble. "We look so beautiful, right now," I said in the deepest, most dramatic voice I could muster. "It's the socks and the heels, isn't it?" Diana said in a flirty tone. And that was all I needed to drop her on the floor where we both crumbled into a fit of giggles. "Oh my God, I totally have to pee now," Diana said. I laughed even harder, tears streaming down my face. "If you don't stop laughing, I'm gonna pee on your head," Diana threatened while running out the door to the bathroom. I stayed stretched out on the floor, catching my breath. The laughter that had coursed through me moments ago gave way to a melancholic stillness. Diana may have been Mexican American, but we always joked that we were essentially the same person. At some point, we had both lived in tiny three-bedroom ranch homes, overcrowded with immigrating relatives. Our parents had been making us sign the permission slips that came home from school for as long as we could read ("You know my signature," Mama would say). They allowed us to watch inordinate amounts of television— _Three's Company, Silver Spoons, and The Facts of Life_ —and do our homework right in front of it. We'd eaten obscene amounts of candy and had the fillings to prove it. And we both understood that even though we talked to each other about marriage with age-inappropriate frequency, this was not a side of ourselves we wanted the outside world to see. Diana and I were far too driven; we were both the daughters of immigrants, and we had something to prove. But dancing to "The Lady in Red" undid some of the commonality that bound us together. No matter how much our worries and desires matched, only Diana would be allowed to dance with a boy before she was married. "Ready for another dance?" Diana asked as soon as she came back from the bathroom. "Always," I said and extended my hands toward Diana, toward the bittersweet joy of wanting what you could not have. In my junior year, I enrolled in Marriage and Parenting, a course required by our school's Religion Department. The first quarter was basically sexual education, complete with diagrams of genitals and a list of words we had to learn for a matching test. The words were familiar. Mama was the designated sex-talk giver in the family, and I'd already sat through at least three sex talks where I made a point of only half-listening (I believed in preserving the virginity of my mind). I'd gathered the basics: There were the penis and the testes and some business about hardening and shrinking and ejaculating sperm, but I thought it best to remain fuzzy on the specifics. If I had to guess, I would've said that the _belbool_ (Iraqi slang for "penis" because God knows I would've never been able to use the appropriate term) got really, really small and then slipped in the woman. I was equally befuddled by all the words for female parts. I'd heard about the vagina and clitoris, but I didn't know what word corresponded to what. Becoming-a-woman books always suggested studying yourself down there with a hand mirror, but that seemed a completely irrelevant exercise for a girl who grew up being warned that being too friendly with boys (i.e., casual chatting and laughing or, God forbid, flirtatious touching) was enough to ruin her reputation. Not knowing anything about sex seemed the best way to prove this thing that was so important to the people in my community. It said, "Look at me. I am so naïve and innocent, I must be a virgin." It wasn't a viewpoint Mama supported. Whenever I cried out, "Gross," or "Do we have to talk about this again?" she scolded, "It's not gross. It's beautiful, and it's science. This is one of Allah's great miracles. Now pay attention." But as much as my mother tried to teach me that sex was important in Islam, that it was the foundation of a marriage, I believed the risks of knowing too much too soon outweighed the benefits. Islam's healthy and positive attitudes toward sex didn't matter when the people in our community were the ones gossiping, either choosing you or casting you aside, and the consistent message I got was that it was _ayb_ or shameful for an unmarried girl to like a boy or to be excited about anything related to boys. In the fifth grade, I had a sleepover for my birthday (my parents' rule was that I could have friends over, but I couldn't spend the night at anyone's house). When the conversation turned to my friends' on-screen crushes, I wanted to shush them. In my household, there was nothing cute or innocent about girls discussing boys. It wasn't long before Mama picked up on the topic and called me out of the living room and into the kitchen to ask, "Are your friends talking about boys?" I nodded, mortified and ashamed, and then added, "But they're not real boys. Just actors." She didn't meet my gaze. "Already?" she said as if she was addressing herself. "These are eleven-year-old girls. What's the matter with this country?" That I could feel so much shame just being in the company of girls talking about boys made it clear—this was a taboo unlike any others. A _hababa_ , a good girl, was defined almost exclusively by what she didn't do. She didn't talk to boys. She didn't dance at parties. She didn't wear sleeveless dresses or wear short skirts. Show up at one party in the wrong dress, dance a little too long at a wedding, and that descriptor would be plucked from your name. However, these strict guidelines oddly comforted me. "Huda hababa," I'd hear one of the aunties in our community say, and it was as if she had patted me on the back and said, "Don't worry. You have been such a good girl. You will be picked by the best guy." It was that implied guarantee that made all the self-denial, all the careful guarding of my reputation, worth it. The best guy would pick me—maybe it would be Hadi, or maybe it would be someone else—and in that small space between getting engaged and married, my love story would begin. Since my family lived a six-hour driving distance away from the greater Los Angeles area's Iraqi community, our appearances at social gatherings and at the masjid were infrequent but regular. Every year, without fail, on the anniversary of Imam Husayn's martyrdom, a day known as Ashura, my extended family of eight would don black mourning clothes and squeeze into our seven-seater minivan to make the journey to a run-down 1960s South Central Los Angeles church that had been converted to a masjid. On our way there, Mama, Jidu, and my uncle would listen to tape recordings of religious services that made them weep, their shoulders bobbing up and down with each sob. My siblings and I did not cry. Not only was our Arabic vocabulary limited to the domestic, but also our family's tapes were garbled from use and full of words to which we'd had no exposure. Baba did not cry either. I'd only seen him cry once, when he found out one of his sisters had died, and that had been only a short, angry burst of tears. Bibi pulled her face behind her long, cloak-like _abaya_ because sometimes she cried, but sometimes she didn't, and holding back tears at a time like this was not a sign of strength. Shia Muslims believe the tears they shed in the name of their ill-fated Imams, those spiritual leaders they regard as the rightful successors of the Prophet Muhammad, are blessed and rewarded. My family traveled to this mosque precisely because the speaker, referred to as the _Seyyid_ , was a prominent religious scholar known for his ability to evoke the soul-cleansing cry my elders craved. At the masjid, the Seyyid's voice, amplified by a tinny microphone, rang out into the parking lot. I watched my father, grandfather, uncle, and brother enter the door to the church's former nave where the pews now lined the walls and an enormous chandelier, donated by the Iraqi owners of a crystal shop, hung in the center. A curtain stretched across the area that had been the altar and divided the men's section and the women's section into drastically disproportionate parts. Peering in from the door designated as the women's entrance, I balked at the space. The elders sat shoulder to shoulder on the pews pushed against the wall, and the floor was covered with women and children, sitting cross-legged, knee to knee. I pointed out the obvious. "There is no room for us." But Mama would not be swayed. We left our shoes at the growing mound by the door and waded through the sea of women and children, stopping to regain our footing in the spaces between their bodies. " _Sallemi_ ," Mama said and prodded me to bend down and greet her friends with the traditional "assalamu alaikum," followed by a kiss on each cheek. Mama's cousin Marwa had recently moved to the area and motioned for us to sit next to her. Space was made for Mama on the bench. Lina and I sat on the floor by her feet. Mama leaned in close and whispered translations of bits and pieces of the Seyyid's sermon, urging me to pay attention. "If you listen," she promised, "you'll understand." But I didn't understand. I just looked around me at all the new faces, so recently arrived from Iraq you could still see it on their faces and in their clothes, and I wondered about their stories. When they cried for Imam Husayn, stranded in the desert with his family, his children and siblings brutally murdered before he was beheaded and the tents of his surviving family set on fire, did they remember themselves? Did they think of all the times when they had to say goodbye, as a mother to her son, a daughter to her father, a wife to her husband, a sister to her brother? After the Gulf War, Southern California's Iraqi community doubled. With these new arrivals came customs that had long been forgotten. They reminded us of the different styles of black abayas, the open cloak and the pullover dress with trim of every color and design; of passing around trays heavy with saffron rice pudding and cups of cool, rose-water-sweetened sherbet; of the mourning ritual known as _lutmiyya_. The first year the women attempted the lutmiyya, I watched my mother as I had never seen her before. Standing in a circle, she slapped her face in time with a poetic _nauha_ about Imam Husayn's suffering that two women at the microphone took turns reciting. The women's hands on their cheeks made the sound of a unified clap. Their faces reddened, and their silky abayas flowed with their every movement, making their bodies appear as if they were dripping in sadness. When Mama motioned for me to join her, I shook my head. I couldn't stand there pretending that I understood, that I belonged. The following year, Mama took my hand and brought me into the circle from the beginning. My heart pounding, I watched her for a hint as to what I should do. When she started to move, I copied her, bending so that my hair spilled forward while slapping my forehead with both hands. The movement of my hair brought a moment of reprieve from the summertime heat, a small breeze on my now sweaty neck. The muscles in my back warmed and loosened as we moved in circles around the room. Bend, slap, stand, and step. On my third revolution around the room, something amazing happened. I understood. After years of attending services in an incomprehensible world, one line opened up my world. The speaker called out, " _Abd wallah, Ya Zahra. Ma ninsa Husayna_." At first it was nothing more than a tight knot of language, but soon that knot unraveled into distinct, entirely intelligible words: "I swear to God, Oh Zahra, we will not forget Husayn." Each time she said it, the cries of the group grew louder, and the women in the circle no longer stepped, but jumped, bringing their hands high up into the air and then pulling them right down on the top of their heads. I jumped with them, beating each side of my head with my hands, and before I knew it, I was crying with a mix of emotions. Relief to have understood, overwhelmed by the power of the words I was saying, the weight of their meaning. I was promising Fatima az-Zahra, Imam Husayn's mother, that I would not forget the death of her son. I looked at the women in the circle around me, and fragments of stories I'd heard—of families rounded up in the middle of the night and deported to Iran in their pajamas, of sisters and brothers disappearing from their schools for not joining the government's party, of fathers accidentally run over on sidewalks in broad daylight—flooded my mind. Soon this ritual that had bewildered me, maybe even embarrassed me, made so much sense. All atrocities deserved this much, for people to bear witness and cry, to vow they would not forget. I wished, with more regret than longing, that I was a little less American and a little more Iraqi. If only I spoke better Arabic, I could have understood the details of these stories rather than their outline. I could have told the world about the suffering contained within this room. Each time I brought my hands up to my face, I slapped myself a little harder. The tender skin on my face stung, but it was a good hurt, a small burn to remind me how lucky I was to only know such inconsequential pain. At times, I glanced at the women outside the circle, lightly beating their chests or sitting in the pews and crying quietly. Within our own tradition, these lamentation rituals were still the subject of some controversy, and I wondered if the women looking on thought the lutmiyya was too extreme. Suddenly I saw Diana and Nadia, and my teachers and classmates, in my mind. What would they think if they saw me here beating myself? And then Hadi appeared right next to them. It would be so much easier to marry a boy who understood this, who had stood on the other side of the curtain and beat his chest, too. When the lutmiyya was over, we fanned our abayas to cool down and moved about the room, exchanging hugs and kisses with the wish, "May God accept your prayers." I brought my hands to my lower back and stretched. This soreness was likely another reason why some of the women in the room did not participate. Mama smiled at me and said, "I am proud of you, hababa." One of the women who had stood in the circle next to Mama approached us and complimented Mama on her beautiful _lutm_ , on raising the kind of daughter who would stand in memory of the Imam. Mama and her new friend's approval wrapped me in such warmth that the tug to be more Iraqi overwhelmed me. In that moment, I would have gladly given up my accent-free English to have our dialect of Arabic take root in my mind. I would have given up my American place of birth to at least have a clear, defining mark of being from somewhere else stamped into my passport. How refreshing to abandon all my expectations of a relationship that looked American but followed Iraqi rules. It would be so much easier, I imagined, to be a foreigner clearly from another place, the owner of one set of values, rather than this life within a single body constantly toggling between two minds. As much as our mothers may have wanted Hadi Ridha and me to wind up together in the future, they didn't want to see us together until that appointed day. If Mama caught me talking to Hadi, she'd pull me aside and say it was unsuitable for a girl to talk to a boy. It made her look interested, and a girl should never appear interested in a boy. Mrs. Ridha would tell Hadi that it was inappropriate to approach a girl who was a guest in their home; it made him appear as if he was on the make. And neither one of us wanted our siblings to see us talking to each other either. Showing an interest in a member of the opposite sex was ayb, shameful. On the rare occasions we teased about an Al-Marashi kid being paired with a Ridha kid, it earned us a firm scolding, a lecture about how marriage was not a joking matter. But every now and then, Hadi and I paused in the hallway and exchanged a few words or continued to carry on a conversation after our siblings had gotten up from the couch. Other times, Hadi would come into Jamila's room under the pretense of having something to say to her and then he'd stay, chatting with me. When we talked, it was always about banal things—my sophomore and junior years in high school, his first couple of years in college, our summer jobs, and, most recently, our favorite cars. Hadi's first car was an old BMW, and ever since I'd told him I wanted my first car to be a zippy red BMW convertible, it became _the_ thing that we shared. Once when crossing paths in the hallway of his parents' house, Hadi stopped and said, "So yesterday I saw a red BMW 325, and I have to agree with you. It is a really nice car." "That's why it's my favorite," I said and leaned against the wall. I knew Hadi and I would talk until someone appeared, and we'd scatter like a pair of startled birds. But stealing these moments still felt like a necessary risk. Ever since Mama had asked me if I liked Hadi, I felt as if I were trying him on, as if he were a pair of shoes and I was wandering up and down the aisles of a store to see if he fit. Hadi added, "I know. Like I have the Nissan now, and it's a great car, but it's just not the same. A BMW is different." Hadi wore a pair of slightly shrunken white jeans and a denim shirt straight from the dryer. The top of his mullet was plastered down with mousse, its tail a black puff of frizzy hair that inspired me to self-pity. Of all the Iraqi families in California, my family had to grow close to the one whose son had a wild animal growing on his head. With frustration and boredom creeping into my voice, I said, "Yeah, well. I wouldn't know. Never driven one." "You could've driven mine," he said. "Right," I answered. "Hey, I offered." "You offered, and you also know why that would've never happened." Hadi was finally talking to me as if we did not belong to the kind of Muslim families who would've deemed my sitting in his car inappropriate, but I gave him no credit for the flirtatious hint. "I'll have to buy you one," he said. "You will?" "Yes, I will." "How would that work?" I asked. "I don't think your future wife would like you buying me a car." "She'd understand." "And why would she do that?" He paused, and I wondered if I had been too forward. But Hadi didn't seem frustrated by my question—only surprised. "She just would," he said with a smile. Standing there, with all the wisdom of my sixteen years of age, I resented Hadi for trying to be respectful, for trying to say something without saying anything at all. In my mind, the one thing Hadi had going for him was that our families' friendship afforded us these stolen moments to write the opening of our relationship together, and I wanted him to say something daring, something that proved that in spite of his unkempt hair and wrinkly clothes, Hadi could deliver a story that I could not have had with anyone else. Because although no one had come forward and officially asked for me yet, there'd been what I'd heard Mrs. Ridha call _haraka_ , or activity. There was the boy who met me at a dinner at a family friend's house. My siblings and I had gone with my father since my mother was working, and in her absence, this boy had chatted with me all evening. He'd asked me if he could stay in touch, and when I couldn't find the words to say no, I told him he could write me a letter but that he'd have to put a girl's name in the return address. As soon as I said the words, I heard how this one little act of deception made me complicit in his attention. I heard the gossipy aunties in my community whispering to each other, "How did he get her address unless she gave it to him?" I heard my reputation crumbling. As soon as I got home, I told my mother everything. She clucked her tongue and shook her head. "I knew I shouldn't have let you out of my sight," she said before calling our host and asking her to end things. Then there was the family friend who came to visit. The mother caught me on my way out of the bathroom, my hair still dripping wet from the shower, and asked me right there in the hallway to my bedroom if I liked Sylvester Stallone because she had a son who looked just like Sylvester Stallone. The question itself stunned me. No self-respecting Muslim girl would admit to an adult in the community that she liked a man even if he was an actor. Weeks later, she returned with the Arab Sylvester, who must have been in his twenties, but at the time, with his car and his full-time job, he seemed decades older than me. Later my mother learned through the community grapevine that our family friend's desperation had been driven by her son's American girlfriend. I was her last-ditch effort to introduce him to someone from a shared religion and culture. And months later, there would be the first boy I actually liked, from a family that matched ours in every way. His family had been visiting our seaside town for the weekend, and on the evening they joined us for dinner, the boy and I talked for hours about school and our classes. In that short visit, he was far more direct in suggesting that he liked me than Hadi ever was, but with email and cell phones years into the future and with letter-writing already having proven itself far too risky, there was no way we could stay in touch. I was content to wonder if one day this new boy might be another potential, but Mama was concerned. This boy was not Hadi, and his mother was not Mrs. Ridha. As soon as his family left our house, Mama appeared in my bedroom and sat down next to me on my bed. She told me Jidu had complained about our guests' son. "Is this the way people do things?" he'd said. "If they had wanted to come see Huda, they should have announced their intentions first." And Bibi had wanted to know, "Did they ask you for her, hah? Will you give her or not?" The only person who didn't think anything of our guests was Baba, and that was because he'd been too absorbed in his own socializing and storytelling to notice. When Mama finished reporting the news from downstairs, I was in a state of disbelief. "Are you serious? They said that? How come people can't talk in this house without everybody assuming things?" "What do you want me to tell you?" Mama said. "That's the way we do things." "I know," I replied, leaning back onto my bed. "But it isn't always a good way." "Maybe it isn't," Mama acknowledged. She ran her hand along my comforter for a moment and then asked, "So did he say anything to you?" "No," I said. "What could he say?" "I don't know. I'm just asking." "Did his mom say anything to you?" I asked in a voice I hoped conveyed only curiosity, no interest. "No." After a pause, Mama asked, "Do you like him?" I shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I didn't care either way. But I could tell by the jumpy way I felt inside that it was too late. I wanted Mama to like this boy better than she liked Hadi; I wanted to feel as if I had options. But just as that thought brightened in my mind, our friendship with the Ridhas clouded over it. "Anyway, let's see," Mama said as she got up to leave, but apparently by _see_ she meant, "Let's check in with you every few days to see if you are still interested in this new boy." To each inquiry, I'd answer, "I don't know. I barely even know him," partly because it was true, partly because I thought it was wrong to admit I liked him. One afternoon that conversation went in a direction that stunned me. She'd picked me up from school, and we were on our way home when she said, "I talked to Ibrahim about this situation, and he didn't like the idea. He thinks Hadi is a better person for you." "What?" I said, my voice sharp. "There is no situation yet. Nobody's even asked for me." "I know. We were just discussing things in general, and he said that Hadi's the kind of guy you'd want to marry your sister, and I thought you should know that." "What makes him think that?" "The same reasons I think that. He's kind, Hudie. He'd be good to you." I pressed into the headrest, quiet, confused. It was one thing for my mother to like Hadi and another thing for Ibrahim to like him. Growing up, Ibrahim had been so indifferent to me, his annoying middle sister, that it made me desperate for his approval. When we were kids, he traded me his broken, tired old things not for my belongings (those he just took) but for days of servitude. One time, he offered me a purple mechanical pencil in return for a month of me being his servant. Then there was the promise that he'd tell me the one thing that I actually did well if I served him for another month. I agreed to both miserable offers as if they were great deals, but at the first month's end, I found myself crying over a nonworking pencil, and at the end of the other month, I was left with a laughing older brother who claimed to have forgotten my only talent. And now my mother was telling me that this brother who was a whole foot taller than me, who picked me up off the ground to get me out of his way, thought about whom I should marry, that he cared that my future husband be a certain kind of person. Mama continued, "So after I talked to Ibrahim, I started praying, 'Dear God, you know best. My Hudie is the best girl, and she deserves the best person for her.' And then I started thinking maybe I should make an istikhara about whether I should encourage you to be with Hadi. Just for me to know if I'm doing the right thing." My stomach tightened. In the Shia tradition, the Quran can be consulted under the guidance of someone trained in interpreting its verses. Although most people only seek this kind of direction in matters of the utmost importance (if at all), my family sought it out regularly. Relatives at home and abroad would call Jidu and ask him to undertake an istikhara on their behalf before accepting a job, traveling to a new destination, or buying a car or a house. Because the practice was so commonplace among our relatives, I wouldn't question it for years. I wouldn't even think to ask Mama why she'd made an istikhara about a boy who hadn't even proposed to me yet, because all I could feel then was burning curiosity. I wanted to know what God wanted for me; I wanted one piece of the puzzle that was my future to fall into place. "Okay...," I said, straightening my back and staring out at the stretch of highway in front of me. With both hands on the steering wheel, she looked over at me and said, "It doesn't mean anything as far as you're concerned. I don't even have to tell you how it came out. I just wanted to know what I should do as a mother." An istikhara can only be solicited by the person who holds the _niya_ or intention. Since Mama couldn't request an istikhara on my behalf, she'd phrased the niya from her perspective. This, too, I did not question. "Okay...," I repeated uneasily. "So do you want to know how it came out?" she asked, her eyes returning to the road. I froze. Last night while I was doing my homework, God had been consulted about my future. I pictured Mama going up the stairs to Jidu and Bibi's room. She would've told Jidu she had a niya without divulging what it was about. Then Jidu would've said his evening prayers, and after checking to see if it was a favorable time of the day, he would've opened the Quran, read the verse he landed on, and interpreted whether its meaning fell under the category of good, very good, not so good, or not so bad. When Jidu advised her of the istikhara's outcome, certainly Mama would've told him what it was regarding. Now the two of them knew what God wanted for me, and I didn't. "Tell me," I said. God Himself delivered an opinion about my future, and I wanted to know what He'd said. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Just tell me." "It came out very good," she said, her voice ringing with a girlish squeal. "Really," I said with a slow nod. My mind reeled, trying to think of every possible reason why my mother, my brother, and now God liked Hadi, too. "But what about the whole Hadi-not-being-seyyid thing? You don't care anymore?" Mama quickly glanced over her shoulder as she merged onto the highway. "Of course I care," she said, "but we can't have everything. He's a good boy. We know his family. These are things you don't find every day." Dr. and Mrs. Ridha appeared in my mind, along with memories of their kind and generous hospitality over the years. I couldn't imagine disappointing them. Maybe this was what Mama meant all those times she talked about learning to love someone. You found someone like Hadi who came from a good family, you found a way to make him cut his hair, and then you made a decision to love him. I released a heavy sigh. Now that my curiosity had been satisfied, questions rushed into my mind about what this all meant: Was I supposed to marry Hadi now? Was my time on the marriage market already over at sixteen? "Why do you like him so much?" I asked with an ache in my voice. "Why did you even make the istikhara?" Mama shook her head as if she didn't know how to make me understand. "Hudie, every night I pray that God will bring you someone who sees your value. You don't see what I do. That boy loves you. He would treat you like a jewel." Mama's words pointed me back to reality: girls like me married the right boy and fell in love later. I just didn't expect to become that girl now, for Mama to have glimpsed into a divine crystal ball and shown me my future while I was a junior in high school. I felt pressure building in my nose and at the back of my eyes. I turned to look out the window before I started to cry. For months after the istikhara, I tried to think of reasons why God had picked Hadi. Maybe it was because we didn't know the other boy or his family as well as we knew the Ridhas. Or maybe it was because God knew the other boy had a girlfriend before me, and I believed I should only marry a guy who'd lived by the same strict code that I had (if I couldn't fight the double standard that let boys bend the rules before marriage without damage to their reputations, at least I wouldn't condone it). I kept a list of things that confirmed the istikhara's wisdom. 1. If I married Hadi, I wouldn't have to be set up with anyone. Over the summer, Jamila got married to a man she met over one weekend. Hadi had cut his hair for the wedding and wore a tuxedo. These two things—the arranged marriage I didn't want and the haircut I did—felt like signs. 2. If I married Hadi, at least Baba would be there for my wedding. With Baba's most recent hospitalization, his time on earth felt like a fragile thing. 3. If I married Hadi, I'd have more freedom. Mama had always clung to a tight travel policy: "If we fly, we fly together, so if we die, we die together." She often followed up this morbid sentiment by saying, "You can do that after you get married. Then it'll be your husband's job to worry about you." It made sense to get married and have more choices for school, for work, and for my future. I didn't catch that there was nothing on the list particular to Hadi himself. I'd grown up listening to people describe marriage prospects as if they were commodities, labeled by profession, age, family name, country of origin, religious sect, and it never occurred to me that I didn't know much about Hadi as a person. It was my senior year. I had just spent the last few years moving through high school as if it were a giant checklist marked "Get into a Good College," and for the most part, I'd been able to tick off every goal I'd set for myself. I'd gone to Girl's State that summer. I was student-body president. I'd won several local speech competitions, and I'd been on the homecoming court. All this in spite of being the girl from the different religion who wore dark tights and the longest skirt in school and who was seventeen going on eighteen and had never been kissed. And somehow I felt strengthened by these recognitions, as if they proved definitively that it was possible to meld the rules of being Muslim with an American lifestyle. This list of reasons to marry Hadi was just another part of all the organizing and planning I was doing in the rest of my life—filling out college applications, writing essays, studying for the SATs, and picking a husband. These thoughts were swirling around in my mind when Mama came to me in my bedroom and asked if I wanted my aunty Najma, who happened to live in Lebanon, to tailor me a dress. "You know, in case something should happen?" she added. "Like what?" I asked because I suspected she meant something to do with an engagement, but I wanted to hear her say it. "Are you going to go to your senior prom?" she asked. "You could always go with Hadi." The question surprised me. Mama had learned about proms from Mrs. Ridha who'd sent Jamila with Hadi during her senior year. I never thought Mama would care whether or not I attended this American rite of passage, but a part of me was relieved that she'd mentioned it. If I was going to be marrying Hadi in a matter of time, it didn't seem fair that I miss out on this last dance of my high school career, especially after spending years covering every shift at the student government's soda booth and listening to the parent chaperones cluck, "How come a pretty girl like you doesn't have a date?" But at the same time, I knew the rules about going out with a boy before marriage—that it was basically forbidden unless the purpose was for marriage, and even then it was best to have a chaperone. Mama's suggestion seemed impossible. "I don't see how that would work," I said, flipping the book in my lap shut. "What would you do? Pick up the phone and say to his mom, 'Will you please have your son take my daughter to her prom?'" "His mom already called me and asked me if you wanted him to take you." "And what did you tell her?" "I said I had to ask you." "Does it matter what I want? What would we say to Baba, Bibi, Jidu, the whole world?" "We could figure something out." I hugged my knees to my chest. "But what about it not being allowed?" "Well, yes, but I don't want you to be disappointed. Would you be disappointed?" "Maybe," I said, "but I'll get over it. I don't want to do something wrong just so I won't be disappointed." "Do you want me to make an istikhara?" I knew this suggestion was coming. Mama always looked to God for all her parenting decisions—camps, field trips, dances, parties—but in light of Mama's previous istikhara about Hadi, this question carried a different kind of charge. It was as if she was digging for confirmation from God, and this was something I needed, too. I wanted to hear again that Hadi was the one. "Okay," I said. "Do it." The next morning when Mama told me the istikhara came out good, she gushed, "And you know what else? I made another istikhara, about you and Hadi, to make sure I was doing the right thing to encourage you, and it came out good again." This was the third sign from God that He wanted Hadi and me to be together, and I felt not just commanded to listen but blessed. It was as if God was pointing to a path and saying, "Take this boy and have a good life." After dinner Mama, Lina, and I headed up to my room to flip through magazines and books to find pictures of dresses to fax to Aunty Najma. Lina knew why we were looking for dresses, and Mama didn't want her getting the wrong idea. Thumbing through a magazine, Mama said, "Now, just because Hudie is going to the prom, it doesn't mean that you can go to your prom too. If you have someone you'd consider marrying when you are in high school, that's a different story, but otherwise, it's a no." Lina shot Mama an insulted look and said, "I know that. I just don't want Hudie to get married." Something inside me sank. In all my eagerness to know this one thing that awaited me, I hadn't paused to consider all the ways in which marriage was tied to loss. My marriage would mean Lina and Baba having dinner alone while Mama was at work. It would mean Mama and Baba in their bedroom downstairs and Lina sleeping alone upstairs. It would mean that my bedroom would take on that same uninhabited feel that Ibrahim's had now that he'd gone off to college, except that I wouldn't return to my room the way he did on breaks. I'd have a husband, my own house. Marriage was a beginning, but it was also an end. "I'm not getting married," I said for Lina's benefit and mine. Hadi had no idea these istikharas had been made. He didn't know that if he wanted to love me, I was prepared to love him back. My life's only love story was starting, and so far the only characters in the scene were our mothers. Our mothers had told our respective families that Hadi was coming up to stay with us so he could attend a car show at the racetrack right by our house. Mrs. Ridha would accompany him, and when it came time for me to go to my "mandatory school function," she'd suggest that Hadi drop me off on his way out. I didn't take issue with the deceit as much as it bothered me that Hadi and I had never spoken to each other about going to my prom. I didn't want the first time we went out alone together to be awkward, for him to just show up at our house the night before and leave me to say, "So it looks like you're the lucky fella who gets to take me to my prom tomorrow." But the only way I could talk to Hadi before the prom was to ask for help with my math homework. Hadi was now a junior in college, but he'd been taking college-level math since high school. He had coached me through a number of sticky equations in the past, and I knew if I complained long enough, Mama would pick up the phone and tell Mrs. Ridha to tell Hadi to expect a phone call. Then my mother would dial his number at the on-campus apartment he shared with his roommates, get him on the phone, and pass it to me. All this to avoid the impropriety of me calling a boy. That night, after Hadi talked me through factoring a complicated equation, I brought up the prom, hoping to hear him say how much he wanted to go with me, how he'd longed his whole life for this opportunity. Stretched out on my bedroom floor, I prompted him with a series of negative statements that begged for correction, starting with, "I hope you don't feel like you have to go. It's just that I'm the student-body president, and it would be nice to finally go to an event instead of just setting it up and leaving." "No, that's fine. I don't mind," he said. "And, I have this red dress I've been wanting to wear that my aunt in Lebanon made for me. My friend Diana and I have this thing about being the Lady in Red." The dress Aunty Najma sent me hung at the back of my closet, not only reproduced from the photograph I faxed her but improved according to Middle Eastern standards of formal wear. Aunty Najma had tiny red sequins stitched onto every curve of lace along the entire body of the dress. Although she had known nothing about the prom, she knew the dress symbolized the possibility that something could happen soon, something worthy of a celebration. "I like that song too," Hadi said. "I have the tape." "I only have it recorded off the radio, and it's missing the first part." "I should make you a tape then. What other songs do you like?" Right away, I knew I wouldn't tell Hadi which songs I wanted to hear. I wanted to believe he would go searching for lyrics that best communicated his feelings for me. "Why don't you surprise me?" I said. "I can do that." "Well, I'm sure you're busy. I should let you get back to your work." "That's okay. I don't really have that much to do." "You're in college. How can you not have anything more important to do than talk to me?" A few seconds passed without Hadi saying anything, and I wanted my question back. "You don't have to answer that," I said. "No. It's fine." "Okay, then." "I guess I like talking to you." "How come?" Another long pause followed. I twirled my hair, sniffed the tip of one of my curls, flicked something out from under one of my fingernails, and then I couldn't take it any longer. "If you don't have an answer, that's fine. It just seemed like you didn't want to get off the phone." I waited a moment, heard nothing, and then added, "So either you really don't like talking to me that much, or it's hard to say." "It's that one," he said. "Which one?" "The last one." "Do you ever think it might be easier to say?" "Yeah." "When?" "I don't know. It's just hard over the phone." "You're going to see me at my prom." "Yeah." "Maybe you should tell me then why you like talking to me, or...tell me what you want me to be to you...." He paused for so long I thought we were disconnected. "Hello?" "Yeah, I'm here." "Okay, never mind everything I said. You don't have to tell me anything." "No. It's not that." "It's just hard?" I asked. "Yeah. It's hard." "Well, I'll let you off the hook for now, but by my prom, I'm going to be expecting an answer," I said, half-joking, half-threatening. "Do you think you can come up with an answer by then?" "Okay," he answered, but he sounded afraid. When we finally hung up the phone, I went unsteady with worry. If I was ever going to experience a moment out of Diana and my daydreams, it had to be now, inside this space our mothers had built for us. I couldn't afford to make allowances for Hadi's shyness or for the culture we'd both grown up in, because this opportunity to be alone with a boy before I married him would not likely come again. But now if Hadi did say something to me at my prom, I would always wonder whether it was because he sincerely felt it or if it was because I had been shamelessly pushy. And Hadi's phone presence concerned me. He paused for far longer than the socially accepted standard in a conversation, so much so that I'd wished I had a buzzer to signal that the time for a response had expired. This phone call had been our longest conversation, the first on any topic of substance. How unfortunate to be discovering what Hadi was like on the phone now, now that the istikharas had been made, now that my future had been decided. In the weeks leading up to the prom, I talked myself out of all my hesitations. There was no sense in missing out on yet another high school milestone if I was going to end up marrying Hadi anyway, and this was the perfect opportunity to start falling in love. Maybe Hadi would answer the questions I left him with at the end of our phone call as soon as we were alone in the car. Or maybe he would wait and ask the DJ to play "The Lady in Red" before he confessed how much he'd always loved me. Either way, by the end of the evening, we would be more than just a couple brought together by their families and shared religion. That morning, I got my hair done at the mall. Back at home, I did my _wudhu_ for my afternoon prayers, washing my face, arms, and feet while being careful not to disturb my updo at the second-to-the-last step, when a wet hand is run across the top of the head. After I prayed, I secured the hairs that had come loose under my head-covering, then put on nail polish and makeup. It wasn't until I came downstairs and discovered that Mrs. Ridha was occupying my grandparents in one room while Mama snuck me and Hadi out the door that the absurdity of going to the prom hit me. I was going through such an American rite of passage like such a Muslim, Arab girl. My prom was my first time out of the house with a boy, a boy who could be my future husband. In the car, I reached for my seat belt and said, "I feel bad sneaking out like that." "Sorry," Hadi said, and after an awkward pause added, "Your dress is nice." Some of the evening's anticipation went flat at the tepid compliment. Just my dress was nice? I had hoped Hadi would tell me that I was beautiful. "You look nice, too," I said, and I meant it. With a brand-new haircut, his face freshly shaven, and a crisp tuxedo, Hadi looked more handsome than I'd ever seen him before. Another pause, and then Hadi said, "I have something for you. Open the glove compartment." Already? I was sure it wasn't a ring, but maybe it was a piece of jewelry, something to promise us to each other. I lifted the latch and found a miniature BMW convertible in a clear, plastic box—the model I had told him I wished my first car would be. And it was red. "Thank you. That's really sweet," I said, my heart filling with warmth and a sudden jolt of nervousness. If Hadi had thought so far ahead as to buy me the toy car, then surely he had more planned. What if he answered my question from our phone conversation and asked me to marry him? That year the prom was being held at my top choice of future wedding venues, a historic naval building that had once been a grand hotel situated less than a mile away from downtown and the beach. Hadi opened my car door, and we walked up the steps to the ballroom side by side with plenty of space between us. At the door, I took in the high ceilings and arched windows, the heavy draperies and wrought-iron candelabras affixed to the walls. To the side of the dance floor stood Diana and her date, a guy she'd met at one of her college campus tours. In the weeks leading up to the prom, I'd described the extent of my relationship with Hadi in teenage detail, but I had made Diana swear repeatedly not to give me away. Under no circumstances could she mention the name Hadi, not in front of him or my parents or my siblings. It was an all-around Never Ever. Now I led Hadi over to our table, our hands at our sides and a sizeable distance between us. Diana played the part of ignorance well, accepting introductions and handshakes without the "I've heard so much about you" I feared. At our table, Nadia's place was unoccupied. We'd begged her to come with her brother, but she'd refused, saying a silly prom was not worth the sin. As I glanced around the room, Nadia's words returned to me along with a creeping sense of guilt. At neighboring tables, couples held hands, put their arms around each other, and leaned over in their chairs to kiss. Seeing Hadi in the chair next to me, his hands folded in his lap, I wondered why I had tried so hard to go to a dance. We didn't belong here. I waited for Hadi to strike up a conversation with Diana or at least with her date, but Hadi was quiet. I tried to make conversation for everyone, and all the while, my mind prepared excuses for him. He was a college student. He was above the immaturity of a high school prom. But as I blabbered, a foundation of disappointment was being poured. Tomorrow Diana would not call to tell me that Hadi was a great guy, that he was cute, or funny, or a good catch. I wasn't shy. I didn't want to marry a shy guy. We finished eating, the lights dimmed, and the music started. Diana got up to dance with her date. The other couples at our table followed. Soon Hadi and I were sitting alone. Over the thump of the music, I remarked about the food and the place, the people dancing around me, the songs being played, and then I gave up on conversation entirely. I realized Hadi wasn't going to break the rules and ask me to dance—that there would be no "Lady in Red" moment under a disco ball—and so instead, I suggested we go for a walk. First, we took the elevator upstairs to see the view of the city's lights and then downstairs to the tiled veranda. With our elbows resting along the adobe wall that surrounded the length of the veranda, we looked out at the moonlit lawn and the silhouette of rose bushes that stood along its edges. The cool night air traveled through the holes of my unlined lace sleeves, making me shiver. Hadi offered me his jacket. After an exchange of, "I'm fine" and "Please, take it," I took his jacket just to make the back-and-forth stop. He held it open for me while I slid in my arms, and right away, I blushed at the body heat we were sharing for the first time, the way the scent of his cologne now pressed upon my neck. I was pleased to discover Hadi's sleeves covered my hands. I'd always wished Hadi was more than three inches taller than me so that I'd feel small when I stood next to him. Now I knew that even if Hadi wasn't a big guy, he was big enough for me. I looked down to my side at the terra-cotta pots filled with geraniums, and then I looked up at the moon in the cloudless sky, all the while hoping that my silence would force Hadi to speak. It didn't. I turned around so that my back rested against the wall, folded my arms, and said, "So, kind of boring, huh? Sorry I dragged you out here." "I'm having fun." "How could you be having fun? All we're doing is watching other people have fun," I said and then immediately regretted such a shameless attempt to get Hadi to talk. "So is there anything you want to tell me?" I asked, trying to be more forthright. I waited a moment, expecting him to bring up our last phone conversation and tell me everything I'd been waiting to hear. But Hadi stood there staring at me. No words. Just an awkward smile that I couldn't even read for confirmation that he'd understood me. An anxious itch overcame me. After all this effort to make a dress and sneak out here, was it possible that he wouldn't say anything? I couldn't wait any longer. Without any attempt at subtlety, I asked, "Are you going to answer my question? The one from before, remember?" "I remember," he said, his eyebrows rising slightly, his mouth twisting in a crooked half smile. He fidgeted, straightened his back, and shifted his weight from foot to foot. I searched Hadi's face for a sign that he was about to speak, but his expression remained unchanged. I shook my head. What was this guy's problem? I couldn't stay quiet for that long if I tried. Maybe he didn't really like me. But he came all the way here. He bought me that stupid toy BMW. What if I'd taken this risk, put my reputation on the line to go out with him, and these insipid smiles and a model car were the best he had to offer? What if he was just waiting for his mother to do everything for him? She'd arranged this prom. She'd arrange our marriage. I looked down at the floor and at my shoes. Mama had used a hot-glue gun to attach a string of red sequins in a floral design along each shoe, but the sequins were not holding together. The loops that were meant to be petals flapped about, exposing white blobs of glue underneath. "You know what," I said, forcing a chipper tone, "you can take me home now. I'm done." "Are you sure?" Hadi asked, suddenly coming back to life. "I'm sure. Here, why don't you take your jacket?" "No, you keep it. I'm fine." I was too busy ranting inside my head to say any more. I declared us over. I didn't know how to make sense of the istikharas' positive results, but on that quiet walk back to the car, I preferred the uncertainty of my future prospects to a lifetime with someone I did not like. Only an unlikeable person would leave another person to flounder in such an awkward moment. Only an unlikeable person wouldn't recognize the vulnerability in an unanswered question. Or a shy person, and shy was no better. This had been my chance to go out alone with a boy without being engaged or married to him, to write the opening to a love story that didn't have our parents on every page, and he ruined it. At home I slipped on a T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and yanked out the army of bobby pins that had been fortifying my hair since the morning. I ran a brush through the hair that was still stiff with hair spray and opened the door. Hadi was in the hallway upstairs, leaning against the banister. "Getting ready for bed?" he asked. Our culture had to make everything so damn familial. I could get over the fact that a boy didn't drive to my house to pick me up because he was already staying there. I could get over not having my proud parents snap my picture before I stepped out the door because my stupid prom was a big family secret. But what American girl had to bring her bad date home and make polite conversation with him in her pajamas? What American girl had to wake up and help her mother serve him and his mother tea and breakfast the next morning? "Not yet," I said. "I'll probably do some of my homework. That's what every girl dreams of doing after her prom." Hadi did not react to my sarcastic tone. "I could help if you want," he said. I shrugged. "May as well." We worked through a few problems on the floor of my bedroom, the door wide open. A short while later, Baba came upstairs to say good night. "Hah," he said, surprised to see Hadi in my room. Then he registered the book open in front of us. "Oh, you are doing your homework. Okay. Good for you." He bent down and kissed my head, and I regretted sneaking out to go to the prom. The evening had not been worth the deceit. In the sweetest voice I could muster, I said, "I love you, Daddy." I watched Baba descend the stairs in his plaid, flannel pajamas, so innocent, so naïve to the plots his wife and child had cooked up behind his back. I had betrayed such a naïve, unsuspecting man, a man whose pajama pants never seemed to reach past his ankles. I looked over at Hadi next to me, and I wanted to make him pay for not being worth the lie. I thought of a hundred different ways to say, "You screwed up," until I settled on, "You missed an opportunity, you know." "If I did, I'm sorry." "Well, you did," I said without looking up from my textbook. "At least you got to be the Lady in Red." "No, I didn't." I pushed the paper toward him. "Tell me what to do." Step-by-step, Hadi walked me through the problem I'd copied out of my book. He never read the explanation, never flipped back to previous chapters to remind himself how to solve the equation. No matter what level of math I was in, ninth-grade algebra, tenth-grade geometry, eleventh-grade trigonometry, and now precalculus, Hadi knew the answers. I couldn't remember anything from one year to the next, but Hadi owned the math he knew. He could teach it, share it. This impressed me, but I didn't admit it. I worked by Hadi's side grumpily, and when he left the next day, I went up to my room and cried yesterday's tears. A few nights later, the phone in my room rang. I expected to hear Diana's voice on the other line. "Hi," Hadi said. "Hi," I answered and waited. I tried to keep busy wrapping the cord around my finger, but after a few seconds of listening to air, I grew antsy. "So did you call just to say hi?" "No. I wanted to call because I'm really sorry about everything that happened. I haven't been able to sleep or eat since. I wanted to call you earlier, but I didn't know what I would say if someone else answered the phone." "I'm fine." "I want to answer your question." "You don't have to." "I want to." I waited again. After a minute, I added, "Listen, if you don't want to, then don't." "No. I'm just not good with words. I need to think about what I'm going to say." I heard him taking a deep breath. Then he paused again before saying, "Whenever I see myself in the future, the only person I imagine myself with is you." I froze as if I were in a conversation with a deer on my lawn. If I moved, I feared he'd run away. "I think about you all the time, and when I dream about you, I don't want to wake up. I wanted to answer your question, but I kept telling myself that's not the kind of thing you should say to someone who is going to be somebody else's wife." A mix of tenderness and frustration overwhelmed me. "With all that talk about us, how could you assume I was going to marry someone else?" "You don't know what it's like to hear about all the families that ask my mom about you," Hadi said. "Why would I think you would marry a guy like me? I'm not the tallest. I'm not the smartest. I'm not the best-looking. I figured one day I'd hear that you were engaged to someone else, and I'd move away and try not to ever see you again." I pictured Hadi fretting over losing me to someone else, and I wanted to hear more. "But why would you plan on moving away? You would've met someone else and been happy with her." "I couldn't bear to watch you married to somebody else, having kids that should've been mine." I didn't know what to say. Diana and I had spent so much time picturing how we wanted a man to profess his love to us, but we never paused to consider what we'd say in return. "That's funny," I said. "You assumed I'd marry someone else, and I always felt like I couldn't marry anyone else." And then hearing how that sounded, I added, "And that's great, because I like you, too. You've always been so sweet to me. It just bothered me to think you were waiting around for your mom to—you know—fix us up." "I swear to you, I never thought that," Hadi said. "I just planned on spending the rest of my life dreaming about you." My heart swelled, and my stomach filled with a kind of queasiness I'd never felt before. Maybe Mama was right, and you could learn to love someone. Maybe knowing a guy loved you was enough to flip the switch in your heart that made you love him back. "But that's why I kept pushing you to say something to me," I said. "I gave you an opportunity to take matters into your own hands, and you didn't." "I just kept thinking about how you were going to marry somebody better than me, somebody with a job and a house who can give you all the things you deserve, and I thought it would make things harder if I told you how I felt." I liked the notion of Hadi being content to love me from afar. It was cinematic and tragic, and it filled me with a resolve to love him, too. "I'm not going to marry anybody else," I said. "So if you want me to have what I deserve, you better become the best." "I can do that if you'll help me." "I will," I said, suddenly excited by the challenge of fixing him. Everything I didn't like about Hadi, I'd change. This was the premise of every romantic comedy I loved, coming to life. It would be just like the movie _Pretty Woman_ except for the minor differences in the protagonist's gender and choice of profession. Hadi and I talked for a total of three hours that night. An hour into our conversation, Mama came upstairs to see what was keeping me in my room, and when I mouthed that I was on the phone with Hadi, she nodded and whispered that she'd guard the phone line. Hadi and I reviewed our childhoods together, what we were really thinking at the moments we both remembered. Nothing about our conversation struck me as off—not Hadi's lack of confidence or my misguided determination to change him. On the contrary, I got off the phone with Hadi feeling as if I'd arrived into one of the scenes that Diana and I dreamt up. It was nothing like I'd pictured. There were no balloons, limousines, or music, but it was only the beginning. Hadi could always plan something amazing for our proposal. The weekend of my high school graduation, houseguests occupied every corner of our home—Hadi and his entire family, his aunts, uncles, and cousins; and Mama's cousin Marwa and her children. Since there weren't enough bedrooms for individual families, we camped out according to gender. Women in the bedrooms, men on the floor in the living room and family room. At the ceremony, my extended family and the Ridha clan took up the entire first two rows of the auditorium. From where I sat on stage, I saw Mama, Lina, and Baba, grinning, holding up signs with my name on them. Whenever I looked at Mama, she clapped and blew me kisses. Whenever I looked over at Hadi, our eyes locked until I turned away. He looked better at my prom. His hair was big today, bushy and wavy, and his sideburns were growing over his ears. I doubted he'd cut his hair since then. The shirt he wore was wrinkly too, and the denim blazer he wore over it struck me as unfashionable. A train of self-pity chugged through me. This was my first time seeing Hadi since our phone conversation. I had expected that warmth I'd felt for Hadi on the phone to flood me as soon as I saw him, but here I was again picking on his clothes and his hair. And here I was, onstage at my high school graduation, struck by a shock of panic. If I didn't feel that kind of cinematic love for Hadi and we were marching toward marriage, then that meant I would never feel that kind of love for anyone, ever. I stopped myself. No. That wasn't how Mama or my aunts felt about their husbands. That kind of love wasn't essential to a good marriage. Our valedictorian took to the podium, and I writhed in my metal folding chair. In the end, I'd been denied the throne of academic excellence by the plague of every nerd's existence, physical education. In spite of four years of As and honor points, I could not undo the B plus that was caused by one measly skills test in volleyball when I did not serve the ball over the net—not even once. I watched our speaker's cheeks quiver with nerves, and I told myself that she could have this speech because this was the only one she had in high school. I'd stood behind a microphone at more assemblies than I could count, and our classmates had already voted me Most Likely to Never Be Forgotten and Most Likely to be President of the United States. But this last thought filled me with more longing than comfort. I wanted that microphone in my hand more than I wanted the title of valedictorian. Behind a microphone, it didn't matter that I was only eighteen and already working my way into a marriage. When my voice carried strong and unwavering through an auditorium, nobody could box me into the Muslim woman stereotype. Not even myself. After the ceremony, we stood outside the auditorium, taking pictures. When the fuss died down, Hadi wandered over to me and whispered, "You look cute." His words felt like their own kind of diploma, certifying that I was a grown woman with a man in her life now. Later that night, I went to my school's grad night celebration, but I couldn't bring myself to play laser tag and jump around in a sumo wrestler's suit when I knew I had my entire future to plan with Hadi. I called Mama and told her I wanted to come home early. She told me exactly what I wanted to hear—that she'd send Hadi to pick me up. This time when Hadi asked me if I wanted to go straight home, I said no. We drove to a restaurant across the street from school and slid into a booth covered in red vinyl. "It felt weird to say 'two' to that hostess," Hadi said. "It felt weird to hear it," I said, pressing my hand down on my stomach. The unsteady, queasy feeling I'd had when we were on the phone together had returned. I was alone in a restaurant with a boy for the first time in my life. "How did my mom send you without it looking suspicious?" "She made a point of announcing you needed to be picked up. Then my mom said to send me so that your mom wouldn't have to leave the house when she had so many guests, and then your mom said that if you weren't quite done, I should just wait for you in the car. And then at the door, she told me not to feel like we had to rush back." "Wow. You'd think they had a script." Our mothers facilitated our coupling so naturally I had to wonder if matchmaking was a maternal instinct. We didn't speak again until our food arrived. Hadi dipped a french fry in ketchup and said, "I'm so proud of you. You got so many awards today." "Good. I want you to be proud of me," I said and pulled two napkins out of the dispenser. I passed one to Hadi and tucked the other under my plate. "Because then you'll understand why I don't have any intention of giving up on school." I wanted an American love story so much, and yet I was the one who immediately slipped into the role of the Muslim woman being courted, secure in the presumption that the boy on the other side of the table was there for marriage, well versed in her rights and ready with demands. Although Mama had never sat me down and told me what to ask for as a woman in Islam, I'd prepared for the talks I'd given in those world religions classes. I knew my future spouse had to match if not improve the lifestyle I'd been accustomed to in my parents' home. I knew that I had a right to work and that my earnings belonged entirely to me and not to our household. I knew that I could request to be paid for childcare and housework. I knew that Hadi was the one who had to prove something to me. "Of course. I wouldn't want you to." "Because I have plans for myself," I said, still ignoring the plate of fries in front of me. "I don't know what I want to do yet, but I want to do something, and it's gonna be big. You only know the home-me, but the school-me is different." "You don't have to tell me how special you are." "I'm glad you think that because I plan on working like my mom," I said, now picking up a thick french fry and waving it at him. "I'm not the kind of girl who's going to stay home and make cakes. I'll make you cake, but only when I want to." Hadi dug a spoon into his sundae. "Well, thank you. I'm sure it will be very good cake." "Yes, it will," I said and bit into the fry that had been my pointer. "Now back to business. Since we both want to get advanced degrees, this should work out. My parents would never let me go to graduate school out of state, so we can apply together, and you can go to medical school, and I can go to whatever-I-decide school." Back in March, I'd been wait-listed at Stanford. I moped and cried for about a day. I'd only been allowed to apply to colleges within driving distance, and at the time, I believed Stanford was the only university in our area with the kind of reputation that would prove to people that I was smart. As much as the people in our community stigmatized late marriage, they also made assumptions about the girls who married young, that they were less focused on school and only interested in starting a family. No matter when I got married, nobody would assume those things about me if I had been admitted to Stanford. But when I didn't get pulled off the wait list, I accepted my admission to Santa Clara University. They'd given me a small scholarship and a certificate to say I'd been accepted with honors. A certificate with gold edging. I told myself that was a university that knew how to treat a girl, but if I was married, I could go to school anywhere. I pictured Hadi getting into a prestigious medical school and us getting married after my second year. Then I could transfer and still have a name-dropping degree. "You do want to go to medical school?" I added as an afterthought. It just occurred to me that I'd never asked Hadi myself. Hadi and I had known each other our entire lives, but the things we knew about each other were limited to what our mothers had told us and the few topics we'd discussed over the phone. Hadi swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and said, "If I get in." Hadi's lack of certainty was unexpected. "Why wouldn't you get in? You're smart," I said. I'd gone to his high school graduation; he'd been on the honor roll. He was probably like me, got upset over Bs. "It's really hard to get in." "But I'm sure if you do some research and get good letters of rec, you'll be fine." Hadi raised his eyebrows and shrugged. I didn't like his noncommittal attitude. Whenever I wanted something, I made plans, plots, and lists. I feared that Hadi did not share the same ambition, and I wondered if I should press the issue or if he was just being humble. Humility, after all, was a good quality in a husband. I went back to my fries, and I told Hadi we'd better hurry up and get home before our families wondered why we were gone so long. As we walked back to the car, I marveled at the foot of space we still left between us. I'd just spent a half hour discussing my future life with a boy whose hand I'd never held, a boy who had not even told me that he loved me. I thought of my classmates back at grad night, and I couldn't imagine telling anyone but Nadia and Diana about this. For the rest of the world, I'd need a different opening to this relationship; I'd need a better story. When we got back home at a little past midnight, the family room was still full of our pajama-clad relatives drinking tea, watching television, joking, and laughing. After changing into our pajamas, Hadi and I sat among them, at opposite ends of the bench seating surrounding the breakfast-nook table. One by one, those around us got up to get ready for bed, but we stayed seated. When we were the only ones left at the table, Hadi scooted around the bench until he was sitting so close to me that our legs touched. It was the closest I'd ever been to him since we were children, squeezed in next to each other in the back row of the family car or peering over the pages of a comic book we were all trying to read. I looked up at Hadi, wanting to feel some certainty that this warmth coursing through me was love. But his eyebrows were so full. One end seemed to be reaching out in an effort to join the other. I hoped it was okay for a guy to pluck, but even if it was, how would I suggest it? Hadi leaned in closer and smelled my hair. His chest pressed against the length of my arm, and I felt him breathe. I forbade myself any further study of his eyebrows, but Hadi was staring at me so intently and lovingly that I had to look down and fix my gaze on my hands folded in my lap. From the corner of my eye, I saw Hadi reaching for the curly piece of string, attached to a sheet of wrapping paper discarded on the table. He twirled it between two of his fingers, and then, without saying anything, he took my hand out of my lap and tied the string around my ring finger. I held my breath. _Please don't ask me to marry you now. It can't happen like this, with me in my pajamas, my hair a mess, no diamond ring, no audience._ "I want to spend the rest of my life with you," he said, placing his palm against mine, his way of holding my hand without holding it at all. "Is that supposed to be a question?" I asked and withdrew my hand back into my lap before anyone wandered into the kitchen. "I'm asking you if you'll spend the rest of your life with me." I stared down at my still-warm hand. Hadi's touch had been more remarkable than the question I'd spent night after night imagining. Those words did not slow time or cause music to erupt from the walls. They did not make fireworks burst from the sky or conjure up a crowd hooting congratulatory cheer. I didn't want to accept that such life-changing words could feel so ordinary, that this moment I'd been waiting for my entire life could already be over with such little ceremony. "Yes," I said and then added, "But this doesn't count, okay? You still have to ask me for real." Hadi nodded, and I was relieved. The string was a tender gesture without a doubt, but I needed a grander memory for the official proposal in my life's only love story. That fall, as soon as I moved into my dorm room, Hadi started calling me from his on-campus apartment at UC San Diego. These were secret phone calls—between Hadi, me, and my mother. I'd told Mama that Hadi had expressed his intention to marry me and that he wished to call, but in return, she'd given me only tacit consent. She did not want to be complicit in our conversing before Hadi's family officially approached us. These conversations could only be the behind-the-scenes work, the orchestrating of a relationship. If Hadi and I wanted to officially become a couple, all our parents would have to become involved, permission granted and hard, precious metal rings placed on our fingers. In the meantime, I took notes in a journal while we talked. Hadi: It would be nice to actually touch you. Huda: It may be a disappointment. Hadi: I haven't been disappointed so far. You would be about as disappointing as an ice-cold glass of water on a hot day. Hadi: Whatever you are, I like. If you were to tell me you had three arms, I'd think that was great. You could carry more stuff. I'd think that's the way everyone should be. I never scribbled down my feelings for Hadi or my thoughts about our impending engagement or marriage. All I wanted was a log of compliments that proved Hadi had said the kind of things to me that any Western woman might have fallen for, that we'd been brought together by more than family friendship and istikharas. I couldn't imagine a day when the omissions in those journals would speak more to my mind-set than the words they captured. At the time, I only wanted my flattery of the day recorded so I could get back to studying. I'd set a goal to graduate with a 4.0 GPA, and after an hour of talking, I looked for excuses to get off the phone. Sometimes I picked a fight. On one such occasion, Hadi asked me if any of the people in my study groups were guys. I said that none of them were, and he said that he preferred it that way, adding, "I can't imagine how anyone could spend time with you and not fall in love with you." I balked at the suggestion, called it ridiculous. Not only did Hadi sound jealous, but he was also making his feelings for me far too undiscriminating. "If I need to study with a guy to do well in a course," I added, "I will." It was a silly declaration because I didn't mean it. Ever since a boy in my dormitory asked me if I wanted to join him at dinner and I had to tell him that I was Muslim and not allowed to socialize with boys, I'd made up my own set of rules to avoid being put in that awkward position again. Never sit next to a boy in class. Never speak to a boy unless he speaks to you first. Give an excuse if a boy asks you to study. But three weeks into the quarter, I found myself struggling with my ethics class. Not only did Dr. Farber announce that she'd be giving us a multiple-choice midterm the following week (I preferred courses that required papers—I'd start them early, get feedback during office hours, and write and rewrite until I could almost guarantee myself an A), but the content of our class had also taken an uncomfortable turn. On the day we discussed sexual philosophy, Dr. Farber came to class bouncing a coiled black leather whip in her palm. She said we'd be exploring different cultural attitudes toward sex and that the ladies in the classroom would find Taoist sexual philosophy especially interesting. Taoist men, she explained, trained themselves to last. "That's why a Taoist man is _hard_ to find," she added as if delivering a punch line. The class had erupted in laughter, but I didn't get it. Last at what? After class the curly-haired, blond guy who sat two rows over motioned me to his desk. He introduced himself as Matt and the woman standing next to him as Jen and said, "We're getting a study group together. Interested?" "Sure," I said. I could use the help of what I figured to be a senior and a thirty-something on her second career. "Do you wanna grab some lunch?" I didn't. Matt and his mature friend seemed like boring lunch company, but it struck me as impolite to refuse now that they'd invited me to join their study group. "Okay," I said. We were headed for the cafeteria when Jen turned and walked away with a wave, and Matt started walking toward the parking lot. I stopped. "Isn't Jen coming with us?" "No, she always leaves right after class." "Then aren't we going to the cafeteria?" "I make it a policy not to eat there. I'll take you somewhere off campus." I had to say something. But what? I'd already said I'd go to lunch. Maybe I was making this too complicated. In college, boys and girls had lunch together, and it didn't mean anything. Matt opened the door of his run-down Datsun for me, and I sat down dizzy with regret. I remembered something Nadia had said: "When an unmarried boy and girl are alone together, the third person is the devil." Matt parked outside a diner that looked like a barn, its name printed in capital letters that appeared to be dripping paint. Inside, a sign asked us to wait to be seated, and my stomach turned. I wanted to stand in line for fast food, eat, and get out. At our table, I ordered a salad, and Matt frowned. "Don't tell me you're one of those girls who doesn't eat." I didn't feel like explaining this restaurant's menu was a festival of meat and I only ate halal—a term that referred to anything permissible under Islamic law. Given the circumstances, my concerns were a tad ironic. Meat or no meat, this lunch was certainly not halal. "I'm not that hungry," I said, which was true. I was so nervous and remorseful I'd lost my appetite. After an awkward pause, I brought up our ethics class. "It's hard to get through all the reading," I said, hoping Matt might impart some upperclassman advice that would justify this outing. "So don't read it," Matt said with a nonchalance that annoyed me. Why would I want to study with someone who didn't even do the reading? When the check came, Matt paid for lunch despite my protests. I didn't know much about guys, but I knew that paying for meals implied things. He drove me back to my dormitory and idled in the loading zone. "We should do that again sometime." "We really should get together with Jen and study." "Have you ever been to that amusement park around here? One of these weekends, we should go." I panicked. "This has nothing to do with you, but I can only study with a guy, and even that can't be one-on-one. In my religion, guys and girls don't really go out together." "What kind of a religion is that?" "I'm Muslim." Matt let his head fall back on the headrest with a thud. "You've got to be kidding me." "I'm so sorry," I said, suddenly certain that this entire exchange was my fault. He'd just wasted twenty bucks on lunch. "I've heard a lot of excuses from girls, but this is a first." "No. It's not like that. I'm really not allowed." Matt nodded dismissively. I apologized, got out of the car, and then sank into the bench at the front door of my dorm room. Mama had always said there was no such thing as a guy friend. I shuddered at the thought of what she and Hadi would think if they found out I'd gone out with a boy, and then I cursed the vagaries of American male-female relationships. At least in Islamic culture, a man secured a woman's consent to be pursued. For the first time, I saw a benefit to the directness I'd spent so many nights lamenting. Back in my dorm room, I pulled my course catalog off my shelf and ran my finger along the list of phone numbers printed on the inside cover. I probably couldn't yank an A out of that professor, and I never wanted to see Matt again. What was the number to dial to drop a class? Nadia called from UC Berkeley and told me of a girl in her Muslim Students' Association (MSA) who wore the niqab, a veil drawn across her face so that only her eyes showed. She was so attractive that covering her hair with a hijab was not enough to contain her beauty. Men would follow her home, relentless in their marriage proposals. Thoughts of this girl occupied my mind for days. I'd joined the MSA at the start of the school year, and for the first time in my life, I had a social circle made entirely of people who not only shared my religion but who were also more conservative. In our meetings, the women sat on one side of the room, the men on the other. We averted our gazes before addressing one of the guys with the title "brother" before his first name. And one of the girls was already engaged, the rest screening suitors. This meant that Mama and Mrs. Ridha were right. Your early twenties really was the time to get married. In my MSA friends' company, I felt remiss for being one of the three girls who didn't wear the hijab. "Inshallah, you will," my friend Amina had said to me in the library one afternoon. "You just have to be ready. When your _iman_ is strong enough, you'll do it." For Amina, the decision to wear the hijab was a sign that her faith could withstand the challenges of wearing a scarf in a Western country. She dealt with the stares, assumptions, and stereotypes because she cared more about earning the favor of Allah than she did about the opinion of others. And now there was this Super Muslima in my backyard, covering not just her hair but her face, too. Although I had no desire to cover my face, I pictured this girl, her life made rich by rituals, and felt as if I'd fallen behind in my faith. As one of two Muslim girls in my high school, I had considered myself observant. I fasted during Ramadan, I said my five daily prayers and kept up a steady stream of personal supplications for Baba and Lina, I only ate halal meat, and I wore thick tights to school under my uniform skirt. But in college, I feared I was losing a piety contest that I didn't know existed. I may have been getting As in school, but these girls were excelling in our religion. The very least I could do was stop talking with a boy to whom I was not officially engaged. The next time Hadi and I spoke, I confessed my concern. From my dorm room phone, I said, "After all these years of being told how it's wrong to talk to a boy you aren't engaged to, I feel bad that we're talking. I know I told my mom, but it's not my mom I'm worried about. It's more of a religious question." "I can understand that," Hadi answered as if he'd already given the matter some thought. "It's not that I don't want to talk to you. It's just that I don't know what you are to me for me to tell myself this is okay." "I know what I'd like to be to you." "You do?" I asked. "I do, and in order for me to become that person, we're going to have to get our parents involved." I sat up straighter in my desk chair. This would happen, and I felt a sudden thrill—not of love but of control. My life would follow the script I'd always imagined—engaged and married and with kids before the ripe, old age of twenty-five. Hadi waited for Mrs. Ridha to leave on a trip to Iran to visit an important Shia shrine with Mama and Lina, and then he talked to his father. Hadi knew that his father was far too religious to resist an appeal to his Islamic duty to get married. Nearly all Muslim scholars encourage parents to help their children marry. This, they teach, is the best way to keep them on a straight path. After a weekend with his father, Hadi called me in my dorm room and told me that his father planned to ask my father for my hand when they came to visit for the Thanksgiving holiday coinciding with Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha's return. As much as I wanted to share this news with Mama, I couldn't imagine shouting that kind of information into a crackly overseas telephone line, and so I spent the next few weeks holding onto this information with the pride of newfound adulthood instead. I walked around campus thinking how very grown-up of me it was to be getting engaged, how very mature of me it was to be so ready for marriage five months after graduating from high school. On the day of Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha's arrival, Baba picked me up from school on his way to the airport. My weekend visits had felt haunted by Mama and Lina's absence, and I couldn't wait to see them. But during the car ride home, I found myself regarding them all, with the exception of Lina, warily and with a pounding sense of guilt. I was not accustomed to knowing more about future events than the adults in the room, and this knowledge felt like some sort of betrayal. Dr. Ridha, Hadi, and his brother, Amjad, drove through the night and arrived at my parents' house before dawn on Thanksgiving morning. When I woke up, Dr. Ridha was leaning against the upstairs banister, waiting for his wife to finish up in the bathroom. He perked up when he saw me leaving my bedroom, as if I was what he had been waiting for all this time. With his head, he motioned for me to join him in Lina's bedroom, where he and Mrs. Ridha were staying. Even though Dr. Ridha was of slightly less than average height and build, he was an imposing man. When he spoke, it was as if he were a judge issuing a verdict. He cleared his throat, paused to think, and then gave his ruling on the matter at hand. Now the thought of being alone to receive one of his declarations made me nervous. Closing the door behind him, Dr. Ridha said, "You know why we are here today." His voice still rumbled with sleep, and his tone was too serious for his tousled hair and plaid pajamas. I nodded. "Do you have any objections?" A volcano of nerves erupted within me. Whenever I pictured how I'd become engaged, I imagined two steps: one, when the parents talked to each other, and two, when the boy asked me. I didn't expect Dr. Ridha to speak to me directly. I'd known Dr. Ridha my entire life, but as Hadi's sometimes stern, sometimes playful father. I had no idea how to act like an adult around him when the only person I'd ever been in his presence was a child. "No," I answered. "You know we love you," he said and kissed me on both of my cheeks, his bristly mustache brushing against my face. This token of affection reassured me. _See_ , I thought to myself, _the Ridhas are happy. I'm happy. It's good to marry family friends._ Shortly after Dr. Ridha and I spoke, I sought out my mother in the kitchen. I found her measuring rice into a bowl. A bubbling pot of lamb and eggplant stew simmered on the stove, and a pallid turkey thawed in the sink. I hovered close by, telling her about my conversation with Dr. Ridha. She didn't even have a chance to comment before Baba burst into the kitchen and hurried over to where we stood. "Come with me. I want to talk to both of you," he said, his face flushed. Mama and I exchanged a knowing glance. On the inside, I shook like a hit piñata. On the ground floor, the only unoccupied room was the master bedroom. As soon as Mama and I entered, Baba closed the door so forcefully it sounded as if he'd slammed it. I sat on my parents' pushed-together, adjustable twin beds and drew my knees up to my chest. What had I done? Baba was going to be sick. The color in his face had given way to a cloudy gray. "Are you all right, dear?" Mama asked. "Maybe you should sit down." "Huh?" he said, momentarily disoriented, and then, snapping back into the moment, he added, "No, I don't want to sit down. You see, Dr. Ridha asked us for Hudie, and I don't know what to tell him." Still holding my knees, I began to rock. I dreamt of rocking myself straight through the mattress and into the ground. I knew! I knew all along that this was going to happen, and I did not warn the poor man. But what could I have said? As much as our religion extolled marriage, in my father's presence, I felt as if saying you wanted to get married was equal to saying you wanted to live with a man and have sex. The very prospect chilled me with shame. I would never say those words to him. Never. "So how did you answer?" Mama asked Baba, a hand on her hip. "I said I would have to ask Huda. Let me ask you something, Hudie, do you want to marry this boy?" I squirmed. With so much shame suddenly called up to the surface of my skin, I could only lament that I was being asked directly for my opinion, again. Why weren't our fathers behaving like the trope of an Arab dad, making arrangements for my future without consulting me? My mother never told me that in order to get married, I'd have to give my consent to my father and future father-in-law. _Dear God_ , I prayed, _spare me this awkwardness. Let me close my eyes and wake up with a diamond the size of a grape on my finger._ "I don't know," I said. "You see, she's too young. She doesn't want to get married now. You don't want to get married, do you, Hudie?" But I did want to get married. I wanted the satisfaction of having been plucked out of the marriage market before I'd even arrived. I wanted to tell my MSA friends that I was engaged and discuss weddings with them in the library. I wanted the love story I had been waiting for all these years to finally start—to have the flowers and plush toys I had watched girls get from their boyfriends all through high school, to have my first date, maybe my first kiss. I just didn't want to say any of those things to Baba. Mama shot me a look as if to say, "You're not helping," but with my eyes, I pleaded, "You do something." "Okay, dear, let's think about this. I already had Ibrahim by the time I was her age, and it isn't like they'd be getting married tomorrow. He's a nice boy, and we know his family. I don't think we'll ever know another family this well." "Huh? But what about her cousin—" "No, Baba," I said, suddenly finding my voice. In the Arab world, marriage among cousins was common if not expected, but this was a custom I had no intention of honoring. It was enough to deal with being the non-dating Muslim girl whose parents were distant cousins. I didn't want to spend the rest of my married life embarrassed by my relationship. "Why not?" Baba asked, surprised. "No, Baba," I repeated. "How about if I tell him to give us more time?" he asked. "For what?" Mama said. "People ask for more time when they want to get to know more about the family. There is nothing more to know about these people. We've slept in their home. They've slept in ours." "So what do you want me to tell them?" "Why don't you say, ' _Inshallah bihal khair_ ,'" Mama said. God willing, it will be blessed. There was an ambiguity to this reply that eased Baba's tense shoulders, his furrowed brow. "Really, Hudie? Do you want me to tell them that?" Baba's eyes begged me for a definitive no, but I nodded. As much as I wanted to be Baba's little girl forever, I wanted to grow up, to finally be a woman with a man in my life, more. Before Baba could start carving the turkey, Dr. Ridha stood at the head of a dining table full of steaming dishes: eggplant stew; basmati rice topped with saffron; sweaty, stuffed grape leaves; hummus; baba ghanoush; glistening kibbeh; golden turkey; and mashed potatoes. He cleared his throat and said, "We've been friends with the Al-Marashi family for many years now, and we are so happy to announce the engagement of our children, Huda and Hadi." Over our guests' communal gasp of surprise, Dr. Ridha called Hadi and me up to the front of the room. There were pictures taken and a chorus of _Mabrook_ all around. All this, just as Baba's head was replaced by a tomato bearing his exact features. Even the bald spot on top of his head turned red. His jaw dropped open, and his face twisted as if he was in enough pain to cry. One by one, our guests tried to congratulate him, but his only response was, "Okay, all right. Do you want this turkey?" That night turned into an impromptu engagement party, and Baba turned into an impromptu madman. I was sitting at the breakfast nook table, catching up my friends on the details of the day, but my gaze was on Baba. Instead of sitting with the rest of the men in the living room, he repeatedly barged into the kitchen. He'd carry in a single plate filled with tangerine peels and set it in the sink, only to return moments later with a half-full, steaming teacup that looked as if it had been yanked from someone's hand. When I saw Baba pull Mama toward the laundry closet, I picked up a few abandoned glasses off the table and made my way into the kitchen. As I maneuvered the glasses into the overcrowded dishwasher, I listened to Baba's unintentionally loud whisper. "I don't know why Dr. Ridha had to make an announcement. I told him, 'Inshallah bihal khair.' That is not yes." "Shh," Mama said. "People can hear you. Inshallah bihal khair is the way people say yes." "Then why did you tell me to say that? I could've told them something else." "And what's the problem now that he told them? Eventually people were going to find out." "I thought we would at least wait for some time." "Dear, it's done. Your daughter just got engaged. Now go sit with the men." With Baba finally out of the room, Mrs. Ridha closed the door and slipped an Arabic music CD into the stereo. The women seated about the room clapped along to the rhythmic sounds of drums and tambourines. Mama tied a scarf around my hips and pulled me to the center of the room where I followed her every movement. Mama's hip-drops were delightfully subtle while mine were painfully deliberate, but dancing at Mama's side had convinced me—even if I was not ready to be a wife, I was ready to be a bride. The next morning, Hadi and I, our two mothers, and Lina piled into the Ridhas' minivan to go ring shopping. I'd been officially engaged for less than twenty-four hours, and there were already so few components of the storybook American proposal left. I still hoped that Hadi would get down on one knee and propose to me with a ring, but now he would not shout out a surprised and triumphant, "She said yes!" That answer was already known, first when he gave me the string and then again at last night's dinner. Soon we'd pick out a ring together, and my ring would not be a surprise either. Our one-day-old relationship was already looking so Arab, so Muslim, and as we drove to the jewelry shop, I couldn't help but sympathize with Baba's hesitation, that regret of having given up your one chance to have something done the way you want. The only way I knew to make those bitter feelings disappear was to believe that if I picked a ring today, then maybe Hadi would whisk me away before he left on Sunday and propose to me properly, the way I'd seen it done countless times on television and in movies, down on one knee, without any parents involved. When we arrived, Shireen Ahmadi, jeweler and family friend, was standing at the door of her boutique. She greeted us with a round of hugs and kisses, and another round of congratulatory ones when Mama told her my news. After ushering us into the store, Shireen led us to the display case of bridal sets. I took a quick scan of the gold and glitter enclosed and panicked. There was nothing there that I liked. The white gold and platinum craze had yet to take off, so I was hoping for something set in gold and tastefully gaudy. A huge diamond in the center and maybe two other slightly less huge diamonds at the side. But there was nothing similar to that in the case. If I was going to have a hand in picking my own ring, I wanted to buy it from Shireen. Years ago, I'd admired a ring in Shireen's shop, and she'd whispered into my ear, "When the time comes, we'll find you something even better." That time was now, and I had to find something I liked. I slipped on a solitaire. Too boring. A tension mount. Too modern. Courtesy of De Beers's commercials, I understood how serious a problem this was. A diamond was forever. Shireen walked over to another case and came back with a ruby ring with two small trillion-cut diamonds on either side and slipped it on my finger. She offered to swap out the ruby with a diamond and brought out two rounds for me to pick from, a half carat of excellent clarity and a three-quarter carat that was not quite as good. It seemed almost a moral dilemma. Deep down, I wanted the biggest diamond I could possibly get—a hunk of sparkly light brilliant enough to blind and heavy enough to require wearing a sling. But choosing a diamond because of its size reeked of a grubbiness I did not want my new fiancé or his mother to smell. Using tweezers, Shireen took turns holding each diamond over the ring's ruby center stone. I nodded as if I was carefully considering each option, but there was no question in my mind as to which I would choose. This was no longer an issue of aesthetics but of whether I was a quantity or a quality kind of girl. Hadi took my hand in his as if to examine the ring. Shireen followed my hand's movements with the tweezer-held diamond. "Which one do you like better?" he asked. "I think I like the half." "Yeah, me too," he answered. "It is a really nice diamond." Our mothers stood on either side of us, wordlessly waiting for us to come to a decision on our own. "So is this the one you want?" "I think so." I had wanted something with a center stone and two smaller diamonds on the side, and this was close enough. If I wanted something custom-made, I would have to give up the hope of a special proposal before Hadi left and I'd have to show up to school on Monday engaged but ringless. Mrs. Ridha wanted to be sure I was happy with my decision. Speaking in Arabic so our Persian jeweler would not understand, she said, "Are you sure, _habibti_? Don't feel like you have to buy something because this is your friend. The most important thing is that you choose something you like. We can look at other places. You don't have to pick something today." "No, I'm sure," I said. And it was true. I was sure I wanted to buy a ring that day, sure I wanted it from Shireen, and sure I wanted something I could start wearing right away. Shireen started preparing the invoice and said the ring would be ready in a few weeks. A few weeks! What good was buying a ring from a family friend if she couldn't get the guy with the rectangular binoculars and the flaming torch, working in the back, to pop in the stinking diamond right now? "You can't do it any sooner?" Mama asked. I wanted to kiss her for asking the question for me. "No, these prongs are for an oval-shaped stone. We have to make new prongs to hold a round." A wave of remorse washed over me. What was the point of rushing if I couldn't have the ring on Monday? But how could I change my mind after all this? But how ridiculous was it to buy a ring you didn't want because you didn't want to say that you didn't want it anymore? I had to say something. I had to tell Shireen I wanted to think about it. I had to do something besides nodding when Mama asked me, "Do you still want it?" While Shireen and our mothers discussed the details of the purchase, I convinced myself I had made the right choice. It would have been rude to tell her I didn't want the ring now, and the ring was going to look like a blur of sparkles anyway. Its style wasn't that important. We moved on to picking out a ring for Hadi. As customary, we'd both wear rings on our right hand and then switch it to the left when we got married. Since Muslim men do not wear gold, Hadi's ring would have to be custom-made in platinum. All we had to do was pick the style from the tray Shireen placed in front of us. I wanted Hadi to choose a classic band, but he kept looking at the rings that had small diamonds in the center. This bothered me. Diamonds were for girls. Hadi was supposed to want something bold and manly and cheap. My family would buy his ring, and he was supposed to want the most inexpensive thing to prove his humility. "You know I like these classic rings here. Maybe the one with a beveled edge?" I said. "That's nice, but I wanted something different. Something that nobody else would have." I nodded as if I got it, but on the inside, I clucked. Different? Guys aren't supposed to care about having something different. With her head, Mama gestured me over to the chairs in the corner of the shop where she and Lina had taken a seat. "Let him get what he wants," she said. "But he's looking at the more expensive rings." "So what? They're spending a lot more on you. It's not fair that they buy you a three-thousand-dollar ring, and we buy him something for five hundred dollars." "Why not? I'm the girl. He's the guy." Men were supposed to want the short end of the stick on everything. As self-sacrificing heads of households, they were supposed to be like Baba, rummaging around in the refrigerator for leftovers even when there was a hot, fresh dinner on the table. They were supposed to shave mold off bread and fruit and insist, "There's nothing wrong with it. I'll eat it." "Hudie, this has nothing to do with that. Go and help him pick something he likes." In the end, we settled on something with three small diamond chips in the center. "Do you like it?" Hadi asked. "Yeah," I said and smiled as if I truly did like it. "It's a nice ring." "You know what makes it so nice?" Hadi whispered. "What it symbolizes. That I get to spend the rest of my life with you." I smiled again, suppressing the urge to groan. After all this time waiting to hear someone say romantic things to me, I hated the way those loving words sounded coming from Hadi's mouth, so cloying, so confident when I was filled with so much doubt. I had just talked myself into buying a ring that I didn't really like for a proposal that wasn't even going to happen this weekend. I had just gotten engaged to a boy who wanted diamonds in the center of his ring as a way to make precious this symbol that he planned on treasuring for the rest of his life, while I was already wondering how soon I could change mine. And although I did not know it at the time, I was jealous of Hadi, jealous of his joy and his trust in his choices—me, our engagement, his ring. "Let's get it then," I said, pushing aside my regrets with a series of wishes. I wished that when Hadi did, indeed, get his hands on my ring, he would present it to me in a way so fantastic that it would destroy my every misgiving. I wished for Hadi to make me love what I did not love yet. Back at home that night, Hadi asked me if we could go out for a drive together. I brightened at the prospect of sharing a romantic moment to hold onto after he left, but when I asked Mama for permission, she shook her head uneasily. "Ayb," she said. "You just got engaged yesterday. It would look like you were waiting all this time just so you could run out with a boy." Our engagement announcement was nothing more than a verbal agreement between our two families, and even though this was not explicitly stated in the Quran, Islamic tradition still held that an unmarried man and woman could not spend time alone together. They could not touch each other or even look at one another. Only an _aqid_ , the Arabic word for a contract and also the Iraqi term for the Islamic marriage ceremony, could make our relationship halal or permissible, but when to perform the aqid ceremony was a delicate issue. Some families did the aqid right after the engagement so that the couple had permission to get to know one another before their wedding reception without the fear of sin, but other families believed the aqid granted far too much permission to tangle with before the wedding. As the actual marriage binding a man and woman together, the aqid removed the prohibition against premarital sex. If for some reason, things did not work out, the couple would be divorced and the girl's honor called into question. After dinner that evening, Hadi and I lingered at the breakfast nook table that opened up onto the living room. Mama and Mrs. Ridha, along with Mama's cousin Marwa and Marwa's mother, settled into sofas and chairs, teacups in hand. They went back and forth over when to hold our engagement party, and settled on a month from now, at Marwa's house during Christmas break. Next their conversation ventured onto when to perform our aqid. "Do it right away," Marwa's mother said. She sat in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a cotton chador, her hands resting on the curve of her cane. "Don't let them accumulate sins so early in their life." " _La_." Mrs. Ridha said no as if the suggestion itself was preposterous. "The beauty of a wedding is in watching a couple get married." "Beauty? What good is beauty when every time the boy wants to look at her or touch her hand, it is a sin?" Marwa's mother said. Mrs. Ridha gave the comment no regard. "Really, we live so far apart. When they see each other, we are with them. They aren't going to be alone enough for it to be an issue." I knew Mrs. Ridha's position before she even said it. I'd overheard Mrs. Ridha and Mama having this conversation in the context of other engaged couples, strangers who gave them the freedom to speak their minds. Over the years, I'd gathered that Mrs. Ridha saw the aqid as a green light for a couple to do whatever they wanted before their wedding, and in her mind, there was no point of spending so much money on a party to wrap up a bride and present her to a groom who'd already opened his gift. Although Mama shared Mrs. Ridha's reluctance to perform the aqid right after an engagement, it was not for the same reasons. Mama did worry about the sins I'd accumulate from looking at or touching my fiancé and the sins she'd accumulate as my accomplice, but she worried about the aqid's religious significance more. This was the only date of marriage God recognized; if things didn't work out between me and Hadi, she didn't want me to be an eighteen-year-old divorcée. But if those issues were on Mama's mind that night, she did not mention them. As the mother of the bride-to-be, Mama had to be careful how she voiced her opinions. Pushing for the aqid could be taken as an eagerness to have me married off. Not pushing for it could as easily be interpreted as a lack of concern for my honor. Instead, she simply nodded in Mrs. Ridha's direction with the words, "You are right. They aren't going to see each other for some time. We can discuss this later." Hadi and I watched the entire back-and-forth as spectators. No one asked for our opinion, nor did we attempt to offer one. My feelings on the aqid issue were just as mixed. I believed wedding ceremonies belonged on the same day as wedding receptions; television and movies were unanimous on this. That was where you got the best moments, the father walking the bride down the aisle, the groom waiting to receive his soon-to-be wife with tears in his eyes. However, without the permission to go out alone that the aqid granted, I didn't know how I'd be allowed the moments I'd been dreaming of, the kind of dates and outings that would make me fall in love. Even though I was living in the dorms, my parents expected me to come home every weekend. Since I didn't have my own car, Baba would make the seventy-mile trek to pick me up in his late 1980s Mercedes. If motor vehicles had rights, that poor car would have had Baba reported to Automobile Protective Services. The back seat and trunk were covered with papers and books. The cup holders were filled with coffee thermoses, Ziploc bags of mixed nuts, and gummy candies he called "sours." Sours, Baba claimed, helped keep him awake on long drives. Since Baba had been known to fall asleep behind the wheel, sours were probably as important to his safety as seat belts. Given Baba's record, I never let him drive me home. I'd throw my duffle bag on the paper mountain behind the driver's seat and slide in behind the wheel. I spoke little during our rides together. Baba was a storyteller, and he filled our time together with anecdotes—memories from his childhood in Zanzibar and tales from the life of the Prophet Yusuf. But that changed after my engagement to Hadi. "You know, Hudie," he'd say. "I never got a chance to ask you if you really like this boy." Baba always worded his question the exact same way, his voice never exceeding the volume of a loud whisper. It was almost as if he felt shy to ask, and he may have been. Baba wasn't in the habit of questioning our choices. He usually waited until my siblings and I had made our own decisions, and then he invariably voiced his support. It was a surprisingly effective parenting strategy. Because we knew Baba rarely opposed our choices, we only allowed ourselves things he would have approved of. "He's a nice boy," I'd answer. "I like him." In spite of the qualms niggling me, I knew better than to admit to any of them in front of Baba. I still hoped Hadi would make things right at our engagement party, but Baba had been looking for an excuse to back out of our commitment to the Ridhas ever since Thanksgiving. If he got a hold of any concern or worry on my part, he'd waste no time calling off my engagement. When Baba picked me up at the end of the semester, less than a week before my party, he added a more explicit statement to his list of questions: "You know, you don't have to marry this boy." "I know." "We could just tell them we changed our mind." "I don't want to do that." "What about your cousin Fa—" "No, Baba." "Why not? He is a seyyid." Mama loved Hadi too much to bring up that his family did not descend from the Prophet Muhammad. Baba loved being a seyyid too much not to mention it. "That's not so important to me, Baba," I said. "It's more important for me to marry someone I know." "Well, it will be a great honor to the Ridhas if you marry their son," he said with a pleased smile. "Now their grandchildren will be _mirza_. This is the name they give people whose mother is an _alwiya_. You know this is the word they use for the lady who is a seyyid?" I nodded. "You know our friend Abu Hassan is not seyyid, but he always calls his wife 'alwiya.' It is so nice." Baba dragged the "o" in _so_ , and I perceived a hint there, a tiny suggestion that it would be equally nice if Hadi called me alwiya. It was as if Hadi could make up for not being a seyyid by being overly appreciative that I was. I nodded again because that was what my siblings and I did around Baba. We listened and nodded regardless of what we were thinking. Now Baba looked out the window and sighed, a small, disappointed cluck escaping his lips. "It's just that I don't like to see you go. I know your mummy was the same age when she got married, but now I am feeling so sorry for what I did to your Jidu." My heart went to shreds. I wondered how a separation so painful—this rite of passage that took children from the homes they knew and loved and placed them in another—had become something so common, such a basic fact of life that the grief it inspired had no place in the midst of all the celebration. As soon as I heard the Arabic music blaring from the tape deck inside cousin Marwa's house, I knew its heavy, rhythmic beat was preparing our guests for our grand entrance. I felt a shot of nervous energy, and before I could calm my nerves, Mama opened the double front doors and gave us the signal to enter. Hadi and I walked through the foyer and into the living room with a generous amount of space between us, our hands deliberately unlinked. The women in our families sent their tongues to the roof of their mouths to welcome us with their ululating cry. Amid the joyful noise, I took in Hadi in his new double-breasted, pin-striped suit, me in my custom-made prom dress, now making its debut at our engagement party, and my mind bounced with hope and anxiety, with the questions of if, when, and how. I was still holding out for a charming pop-the-question story, one that looked as if it could have been scripted in Hollywood. I had been prodding Hadi over the phone with a series of "You know, you haven't really asked me yet," to which he'd immediately reply, "Will you marry me?" Each time I told him that asking me over the phone did not count, he followed by sending me that four-word question over email, fax, and greeting card. Not wanting Hadi to think these anticlimactic attempts had satisfied me, I picked up the phone after every effort to inform him that, although cute and flattering, these proposals still did not cut it. They were only making the official, with-a-ring moment less special. We sat on the loveseat parked in front of the fireplace, underneath a small balloon arch. Our families and guests had crowded in on the sofas and chairs around the living room, and from among them, Hadi's grandmother appeared to shower us in a mix of coins and colorfully wrapped hard candies. Dr. Ridha took the microphone plugged into the stereo, welcomed our guests, and announced that we'd be exchanging our rings. The decision to wait on our aqid had held, and this party was about nothing more than this moment, these rings, and—I hoped—a proposal. I took a deep breath. It had to be now. Oh my God. Yes. It was now. Hadi took the ring box off the gold tray his mother carried over to him, and he turned toward me. Wait a minute. Why wasn't he kneeling? _Get down on the floor, man. Please._ Hadi leaned in and whispered something about spending the rest of his life with me. Something I couldn't pay attention to, because I was suddenly so angry. Why was he whispering? "Say it loud," Baba called out from across the room. I smiled awkwardly and prayed. _Please, God, make him say it out loud._ "Say it loud," Baba called out again. " _Yella_ ," everybody chimed in. I shook with embarrassment. I needed Hadi to profess his undying devotion to me right here in front of our families so that I'd always have this proof that we'd had a love marriage. Then my aunts and uncles would understand why it didn't matter that Hadi wasn't seyyid or fair-skinned: his love for me was so beautiful and pure that it surpassed all other status-bolstering criteria. "Will you marry me?" he whispered. It was over. The words were spoken, and they could not be taken back. What now? Was I supposed to whisper too? "Yes," I said because there was no other answer to give at that point. I smiled so no one would suspect that I was unhappy, but I felt a burning in my nose that meant I was dangerously vulnerable to tears. _Stop_ , I spoke to myself firmly. _Your chance for a beautiful proposal may be gone, but your chance to have fun at your only engagement party is not. Smile and be happy now. You can be sad about the proposal later._ Hadi opened the velvet ring box. My ring. Yes. Everything would be fine as soon as I started wearing my ring. I watched Hadi slip the ring on my finger, and then I studied my hand, waiting for it to transform into the adorned hand of an engaged woman. But the ring was awful. I grinned like a beauty queen so no one would see my disappointment, but my mind raced. _No, no_. The two-trillion-cut diamonds sandwiching the dazzling round center stone had all the shine of dirty glass. _Stop it_ , I commanded myself. _You have to love it. Okay, I love it. Who am I trying to kid? I hate it! Try a different angle. A side view is better. Just look at it from the side, always the side._ I pushed Hadi's ring past the joint on his right ring finger, and the ladies in the room gave another ululating cry. Hadi's grandmother returned to shower us with an additional handful of coins and candy. Mama ushered us into the family room, bringing along the tape deck. As the music grew louder, the guests migrated about the house. Those who thought it was okay to listen to music and dance in mixed groups of men and women stood up and formed a circle around Hadi and me, clapping as if to cheer us on. Those who had no objection to music but frowned upon dancing in mixed groups stayed in the living room or mingled around the appetizer table set up in the hallway. Those who thought music was _haram_ , or forbidden, stepped outside, far away from the grasp of its sinful notes. Since we'd announced our engagement last month, Mama, Lina, and I had danced together on the weekends. There was an _aroosa_ , a bride, in our house now, and so there was a reason to play music and celebrate. Mama would tie a scarf tightly around my hips and coach me. Hadi had not received similar instruction. On the phone, Hadi had told me that he did not like dancing nor did he care to learn. I'd insisted it was because he didn't know how. I'd teach him, and he'd like it. Now, for my sake, he stood in front of me. I told him to extend his arms, but instead of picking up on the classic Arab male shoulder shimmy, he moved his arms up and down like a bird trying to take off in flight. But at least Hadi was trying, and so I danced on, believing that his dance moves would improve, pushing aside my proposal disappointment with a list of all the wonderful things about the day. I loved being the guest of honor, knowing that family had flown out just for me. I loved anticipating all the parties that were still to come, the bridal showers and the wedding, the joys of being the first to walk through the buffet line, the first to cut the cake, the person for whom the big stack of gifts was intended. After the party, Hadi drove Baba, Lina, and me back to our hotel. He dropped them off in front of the lobby so that we could be alone while he escorted me back to my family's room. Hadi opened the car door for me, then offered me his coat—a long, forest green leather overcoat that someone led him to believe was acceptable for a five feet seven inches twenty-one-year-old. I took it even though it made me look like a Christmas tree. We walked in silence until we stepped into the glass elevator on the face of the building. Hadi reached out for my hand, leaned over, and whispered, "I love you so much." This time his whispering didn't bother me. His voice was too sincere to judge and so heartfelt that I thought I detected the slightest hint of a crack. I put my head on his shoulder and said, "I love you, too." I meant it in the only way I was capable of meaning it then. I knew I didn't love him completely or unconditionally. I was too young to love anyone in that way. But I loved him for loving me, for playing the part of the groom while I played the role of the bride. "It's about time," I said to lighten a moment that suddenly felt heavy with emotion. "I've always felt it. For as long as I can remember, I've loved you. I was just waiting for us to be official before I said it out loud." The elevator doors opened, and we stepped into the open hall overlooking the parking lot. I paused and took in a breath. I'd been so preoccupied with how Hadi asked me to marry him and what my family thought of him that I'd paid little attention to what Hadi had said when he'd offered me my ring. Only now did it occur to me that I'd underestimated the sentiment behind his words, the time he must have spent considering them. "Why did you wait so long to tell me? It's not against the rules to love someone." Our hands still linked, Hadi answered, "Because that's the kind of thing that you should only say to your wife, so I wanted us to be officially together before I said it." I nudged Hadi forward with a slight swing of our hands. "So, if we didn't get engaged, you wouldn't love me." "No. I'd love you. I just wouldn't have ever told you." "I see," I said, stopping outside the hotel room door. "What? You think it's silly?" "No, I guess I'm surprised. I didn't know you had such strong feelings about this." "You know what else I have strong feelings about?" I wasn't ready to hear Hadi's answer. I had no idea how I'd reciprocate. "What?" I finally asked. When Hadi answered with the anticipated, "You," I smiled demurely and opened the door. The next day, my entire family was invited to join Hadi and his extended family for dinner at his parents' house, but only my parents came with me. The rest of our clan had gone to Universal Studios instead. After dinner, Hadi asked me if I wanted to watch the video of yesterday's party. I followed him out of the living room, waiting for one of our mothers or Hadi's aunts to stop us, to say that we should bring the video out for everyone to see, but no one said anything. We sat on the floor, the door to Hadi's room wide open, and huddled around the camera's small viewfinder. We appeared on the screen, walking in through Marwa's front door, our hands at our sides. "Cute couple," Hadi said and kissed me. Warm, wet lips upon mine. A lip's soft touch was so surprising, so tender, so natural—so not disgusting. I'd confided in Diana that kissing looked beautiful on television, but the exchange of saliva it involved struck me as terribly gross. It was like spitting inside another person's mouth. She shook her head at me with pitying eyes and said, "No, Hudie. It's nothing like that at all." It was this I then remembered, this my body now understood. What a complete form of communication kissing was. All this time I'd wanted some declaration of love from Hadi, but this kiss had made me feel it. Hadi pulled away and said, "I've wanted to do that for a long time." "What were you waiting for?" I asked. He touched the diamond on my ring. "For you to be officially mine," he said. Hadi's comment reminded me of him waiting to answer my question at the prom, then waiting to tell me he loved me, and now waiting to kiss me. It wasn't our religion's rules Hadi had been following, but they were his own. Neither one of us brought up that we had technically committed a sin. Nor did we close the door because that would have drawn attention to the fact that we were in his room alone. We just relied upon the entry's short hallway to obstruct our view, and we kissed again. And again. From deep within me, I felt a stirring, a pleasant but unsettling push of desire. Yesterday's disappointments seemed a distant memory. I wanted Hadi. Maybe that was all that had been missing from our relationship all along. This kiss that filled my mouth and my nose with his scent. With one hand I touched Hadi's cheek, and with the other I ran my fingers through his hair. Hadi's hands moved along the length of my hair, his fingers massaging the back of my head, my neck. I was kissing a boy. I was happy and nervous. Nervous that someone would walk in and see us kissing. Nervous that the moms, dads, aunts, and uncles outside assumed we were kissing. Nervous to face them when we left the room. They'd know. It would show on me. But these kisses were worth the risk. For the first time, Hadi Ridha was more than just a name in my life. For the first time, since I was a six-year-old girl, standing at the doorway of this house, our relationship didn't feel like the hope of wishful parents. It felt natural. It felt like my choice. I wanted these soft, warm lips on me, this skin under my hand. The sound of clapping, music, and conversation that had been playing in the background of our video cut off abruptly, and so did our embrace. "That's the best video I've ever seen," Hadi said. I smiled and said, "Good because I'm afraid to leave the room now. Curly hair expands on contact. One look at my hair and my mother will know we've been up to something." Hadi got up and passed me a baseball cap from his closet. "Anyone asks, say it was a gift from me to you." I pulled my hair into a ponytail that I slid through the slot in the back of the cap and wondered if it would be enough of a disguise. I could smell Hadi's cologne on me. I could still taste his fragrance on my lips. We decided I would exit Hadi's room first, as if by leaving his room as individuals we'd put to rest the suspicion that we'd been doing anything as a couple. Fortunately, I found my family distracted with getting ready for our own departure. We all gathered in the foyer, in front of the Ridhas' stained-glass double doors, for a classic Arab goodbye—another twenty minutes of chatter at the door; an exchange of thank-yous; apologies for any trouble from the guests; apologies for shortcomings in hospitality from the hosts; and finally, a round of kisses on both cheeks, exchanged only between women and women, men and men. One of Hadi's aunts said, "You look nice in Hadi's hat," and I couldn't tell if she was imagining us innocently watching our engagement video and trying on hats or if this was a hint that she knew. When Mrs. Ridha leaned in to kiss me goodbye, one of Hadi's aunts joked, "Somebody's jealous." Then as I kissed each of his aunts goodbye, they teased, "We'll hug her longer for you," "Hadi wishes he was me right now," "Let your eyes take their fill of her now. Soon she'll be gone, and you'll be crying." This banter struck the adults around us as terribly funny. Making light of unmarried couples' sexual frustrations was practically a pastime in itself. (Not too long ago, Mrs. Ridha was sitting next to Mama on a bumpy car ride. Leaning into Mama, she'd joked, "If we were an engaged couple, this would make us so happy.") I expected the teasing, but I didn't know my role in this. Was I supposed to look shocked and offended, or was I supposed to smile and joke along? I stood by the door with the plainest face I could summon, but Hadi had struck a particularly joyless pose. His mother offered, "You can at least shake Huda's hand." "No," Hadi said, his arms folded, the weight of his body shifted to one side. "Why?" Mrs. Ridha asked. "This is a chance for you." Hadi was adamant. "No. I will not shake my fiancée's hand. That's for people who are strangers, who don't mean anything to each other." Hadi wore the face of a sullen teen, and I felt as if I was witnessing an exchange I shouldn't have been. _Get it over with_ , I pleaded in my mind. _Shake my hand and make them happy._ "It's up to you," his mother surrendered with two hands in the air. Hadi offered nothing in return but the same pout, his arms still folded. Our families were waiting for our farewell, and it was clear that it wasn't going to come from Hadi. I waved and said, "Bye," like a sixth grader, leaving her crush at the end of a school day. Hadi waved back, then followed us out the door to our car. The disconnect between who we'd been in his room only minutes ago and who we were now, in front of our families, bewildered me. We'd gone from kisses and an embrace to one wave and a sulk. Into the cool night air, the closeness between us evaporated, the warmth of our kisses carried away by the chimney smoke seasoning the night sky. From inside the car, I waved at Hadi one last time, the cold leather seats pushing through the thin barrier of my long, satin skirt. A shiver went through me and with it the weight of my transgression. A man's lips had touched mine. There was no going back no matter how much Hadi's behavior unsettled me. Never again could I claim my pure, untouched innocence. After I got back on campus, at the start of winter quarter, the reactions to my engagement ring were mixed. 1. What? Let me see that ring! I'd expected my American dormmates to be shocked, to question how I got engaged and whether or not my marriage was arranged, but most of the girls on my floor ogled my ring and regarded me with a puzzled look that seemed to say, "Wait. Are we old enough to do this now?" A number of them even said, "You're so lucky. I wish I could marry my boyfriend, too." 2. You don't have to do this. I was discussing _Madame Bovary_ with my professor during office hours when I told her I was engaged and added, "Almost every woman in my family married her Charles. Maybe Emma expected too much from her 1850s world." She pulled out her calendar and said, "Let's find a time to have dinner and talk." Later that week, over soup and sandwiches, I told her how I was engaged to the son of our closest family friends. She told me about her young marriage, how difficult it had been, and then added, "You do know you don't have to do this?" as if she was just making sure I'd been informed. 3. Whoa! Okay! A handsome, blond guy approached me on my way out of the library. He said he'd been watching me in the library for weeks and had been trying to work up the nerve to ask me out. I held up my hand apologetically. "Sorry. I'm engaged." "Whoa," he said, "I never thought to look for a ring at our age." 4. Mashallah! Now let's talk about the wedding. My Muslim Students' Association (MSA) friends were the only ones I told every detail about my engagement party. I made light of all my disappointments, my ring with the cloudy diamonds, Hadi's commitment to whispering, and Baba's requests to "Say it loud." They comforted me with not just their laughter but also with their shared understanding of Muslim couples, of the way our families celebrate. However, it was precisely because of that shared knowledge that I didn't dare tell anyone about my unauthorized kiss. I couldn't risk my friends casting me off as the bad girl among them. As a group, we were almost all first generation, born in America to immigrant parents, and the majority of us were the oldest daughters in our families. We had no older cousins or sisters to look to for tales of their engagements or wedding nights—no generation before us to shine light on the gap between what parents say and what young people do, no internet to bring us the news of Muslims in other parts of the United States, let alone the rest of the world. All we had was our shared questions, our collective wedding-night innocence. Together we tried to imagine how one went about the business of commencing sex: Are you supposed to wear something sexy underneath your wedding dress and let him undress you, or do you go to the bathroom and change into one of those flowy gowns? What about your evening prayers? Do you say, "Wait, let's pray," and then take each other's clothes off? And then what about the manicure you spent all that money on? Do you believe your wudhu doesn't count if you're wearing nail polish? Maybe it's okay to make an exception for your wedding night, because how silly would it be to sit there taking off your nail polish before you prayed? How bad do you think it hurts? It doesn't seem like there's enough room to stick anything up there. Has anyone ever worn a tampon? Do you think it's really bloody? How embarrassing would it be to make such a mess on a guy? And then if you're in a hotel, do you leave it there on the sheet or do you wash it? What about the hair down there? Will you wax it? Ouch. These conversations with all their unknown answers lingered in my mind. Maybe it made for a more magical wedding night for it also to be the moment of your first kiss. And, if I had done too much and ruined our wedding night, then what was left to look forward to after we'd already had such a disappointing proposal? Were these memories good enough for the only love story I'd ever have? What if I rushed into committing myself to Hadi, and I could have had everything I wanted with someone else? I had a guy in my life who I'd kissed but I never saw. We had nightly phone conversations, but after a long day poring over my books in the library, this sometimes felt like another thing on my to-do list. Many nights we argued over why I was always the one who wanted to get off the phone. How come Hadi never said he had to study? How was he going to get into medical school if he had so much time to spend on the phone talking to me? The only way I could think to remedy this angst was to see Hadi again, to arrange for the moments that would make me fall for him. But planning for Hadi to visit felt like applying for an international travel visa. Before Hadi's metaphorical passport could be stamped, both sets of parents had to agree to the necessity and length of the journey and the itinerary (namely, how long we'd be alone together). I first planned a Valentine's Day visit, complete with an appointment for engagement pictures, dinner out, and tickets to the symphony. But a few days prior to his departure, Hadi called to tell me he'd come down with mononucleosis and had to cancel his trip. We made all the requisite jokes about who he'd been kissing. Then I hung up the phone and cried; our first Valentine's Day in our engaged lives was only adding to the list of disappointments I was trying to defeat. After another week of phone conversations, our families agreed to a fresh attempt at engagement photographs. On the first weekend in March, Hadi would take a cab from the airport to my campus. He'd wait for me until I finished school for the day, and then we'd take the bus to the mall to take our photographs. Mama would pick us up from the mall and take us back to my house where we'd spend the rest of the weekend. Sunday, she'd drop Hadi off at the airport and me back at school. Hadi knocked on the door to my dorm room early on Friday. Since our engagement party, we'd bickered so much over the phone that I wondered if we'd kiss again, wondered if we should. Maybe that first kiss was a passionate fluke, a transgression that now that we'd had more time to think about it, we wouldn't repeat. But as soon as I opened the door, Hadi's arms circled my waist and his lips met mine, and the only thought that occurred to me was a single "oh" of recognition. In that moment, I understood that kissing was going to be something we did now, and maybe it took away from our wedding-night mysteries but never mind. There would be other things to discover that night, and this—this was too good to delay. These kisses proved that when we saw each other, things were different, better. That morning, with the door to my room closed and locked, we kissed each other's lips, necks, ears. Because there was nowhere else to sit in my tiny dorm room, we sat on the edge of my bed. And then after a moment, we weren't sitting anymore. It was entirely functional—this movement from vertical to horizontal—and it never crossed my mind to worry that Hadi's hands would stray from where they rested on my waist. We'd already bent so many rules: I couldn't imagine we'd do more than kiss until we were married. When I left for class an hour later, I felt that our kisses had fixed everything. All of those labored phone conversations were a by-product of distance, and if we had to bend the rules a little to bring us closer together, so be it. By American standards, kissing was innocent, and maybe Americans had the right idea on this. These kisses were the only things that made me feel as if I was in love. For the first time, I walked across campus, with my makeup faded away, my hair a mess, my body warm. I passed the same adobe buildings, manicured lawns, and blooming rose bushes that marked my daily path, but everything seemed changed, as if my entire being and the buildings themselves throbbed with the knowledge of my secret. I had been kissing a boy. A boy was waiting for me in my room. When I returned an hour and a half later, Hadi was asleep in my room, his hands resting on his chest. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching his hands rise and fall with each breath. Hadi's fingers were long and thin but thick at the knuckles. The band he wore on his right hand had turned, the tapered bottom facing up. His lips were sealed with the weight of sleep, and in that instant, I knew I would kiss this boy in my room and wake him up. Hadi's eyes opened as soon as my lips left his. He smiled and said, "That's nice." "I know," I said to suppress the warm blush rising to my cheeks. We kissed again, our kisses taking on a force of their own, a power to draw our hands under our shirts and onto the marvel of skin. I wondered if I should resist, and then I did not wonder anymore. Wondering ruined everything. Hadi brought my head to his chest and held me there for a moment. "I have something for you," he said. "You do?" I asked and sat up. Hadi got up and bent down in front of the duffel bag, lying slump at the foot of my closet. When he turned around, he was holding a tiny velvet box. "Happy Valentine's Day," he said. I wasted no time with polite you-shouldn't-haves and went straight to lifting the box's lid. Inside were pearl stud earrings. Delicate, small, and exactly what I'd coveted. Finally I was getting all the little things that I believed proved love in a relationship: visits, kisses, hugs, and tiny trinkets. "I love them," I said, walking to the mirror over my wardrobe. I slid the gold hoops I was wearing into my jewelry box and put on the new earrings. Hadi stood behind me and looked at my reflection. "They look beautiful on you," he said before sliding his hands around my waist and kissing my neck. I turned around and kissed him deeper now, our hands on each other's backs. I could see myself slipping my hands up his shirt; I could imagine him doing the same to me. The desire shocked me. I'd always wondered how teenage girls wound up pregnant, why they couldn't just resist sex, but in a flash, I understood how getting too close made it far too easy to take too much. "We should get ready," I said to myself as much as to Hadi. He pretended not to hear me, and I liked that he wanted me too much to listen. I pushed him a hand's length away from me and said, "You know we'll be in big trouble if we don't take those pictures." I gathered my things and told Hadi he could use my room. I crossed the hall into the bathroom, where I dug into my makeup case, the taste of men's cologne still on my lips, and marveled at this sweet but dangerous problem we now had. We had not set our wedding date. In one day, I'd gone from thinking that kissing would be the only contact we'd have during our engagement to reaching under Hadi's shirt. I felt awash in shame and wondered what had come over me. A good Muslim girl was supposed to resist the boy, to be a reserved, proper lady until her wedding night. I thought of my MSA friends. I imagined them saving every act of intimacy until they were married. What did these kisses make me? Easy? Horny? The very thought made me cringe, but those kisses were the only time when all those noisy doubts about Hadi—his hair, eyebrows, clothes, and studies—finally went quiet. Back at my parents' house, I changed out of my dress and noticed something in my reflection in my mirrored closet doors. A tiny purplish spot above my collarbone. I leaned in closer and found a similarly colored spot on my earlobe, and then a tiny purple burst at the tip of the arch of one lip. I didn't feel unwell. Was it some kind of rash? No, it seemed more like a darkening of vessels, a bruise. Oh my God. Was this a hickey? No. It couldn't be. These marks were no bigger than the imprint of an infant's teeth, and hickeys were bigger, more welt-like. Or was that bruise-like? I couldn't bear the possibility. Hickeys were the stuff of juvenile romances, of the back seat of cars, and of television sitcoms. It was Samantha in _Who's the Boss?_ , hiding her love bite from Tony. Such an adolescent mark was unbefitting a woman involved in a mature and sophisticated relationship with her future husband. And the word itself was so disgusting. Pleasant words that described beautiful things never rhymed with _icky_. I leaned in closer and ran my finger over the mark on my neck, relieved it was too small to show up in the pictures, pressing down to see if it hurt like a bruise. No pain, but I took no comfort in this. Too many terms to describe intimacy were coming together with their meanings today, each one an unwelcome revelation. It was one thing to have shared a series of individual kisses, but quite another to have made out, to be marked by hickeys. The words made everything we'd done feel more sinful. When I came downstairs the next morning, the door to our guest room was closed with Hadi still asleep inside. The door to my parents' room was open, and there I found Mama in front of her desk, stuffing unwanted papers into the recycling bag she'd propped up on her chair. She turned around as soon as I'd entered. "Good. You're up." I stretched and plopped down on her unmade bed. "You never told me how your day went yesterday," she said, without looking up from the stack of medical journals in her hand. "It was fine," I said. "What did you do?" I shrugged. "He came, and I took him to class with me. Then we walked around campus, and I introduced him to my friends, and then it was time to go to the mall." Mama raised her eyebrows mischievously and asked, "Did he kiss you?" "No," I said with as much offense as I could muster, and then I searched her face to see if she knew I was lying. Maybe she'd seen the hickey. Maybe I had a kissed look. If Mama didn't believe me, she didn't say so. She stuffed a nursing journal in with the recycling and sat down on the bed next to me. Her expression practical and sober, Mama said, "At some point he's going to get tired of looking at you." "Mom," I said sharply, as if I'd never been more exasperated. Mama's face now seemed to say, "Grow up." "Hudie, if he hasn't kissed you yet, he's going to. And you kids are so good I'd hate to see you building up sins for no good reason." I hated it too, but there was nothing I could do about it now. The sin had been committed. I just wished I knew how bad of a sin this was. Was this one of the rules everybody broke, like listening to music and dancing, or was this a serious, day-of-judgment offense—the kind of thing where my hands and lips would awaken to confess against me? "I don't want that either," I said. "I know we haven't decided when to do your aqid, but I talked to Jidu, and if you want, he can do a little ceremony between the two of you, so you know, if the boy did decide to kiss you, at least, it wouldn't be a sin." I didn't know exactly what Mama meant by "a little ceremony." In the Shia tradition, there is the permanent marriage established with the aqid contract, and then there is the more controversial _mutah_ , a temporary marriage to render various kinds of liaisons between men and women halal or permissible. Engaged couples will sometimes undertake a mutah so that they can be alone together without a chaperone. Sometimes this comes with a caveat that the marriage will not be consummated until the permanent marriage ceremony is performed; sometimes it doesn't. I didn't know what Jidu intended to read for us, nor did I care to know. Mutah was on the fringe of acceptable religious practice. Not only was it an issue Sunnis often criticized us for, but there were also many Shias, Mrs. Ridha among them, who found the institution distasteful. They argued that it was an outdated custom that had outlived its historic purpose. During times of war and extended travel, when men were forced to spend long periods away from their wives, mutah protected women from love-'em-and-leave-'em type affairs. It entitled a woman to a dowry and guaranteed that all children born from said relationships would be legitimate, the financial responsibility of their fathers. But contemporary mutah was often seen as a misappropriation, a way for men to get away with fooling around before marriage, guilt-free. Mama knew this, probably even agreed with it, but in her mind, the religious necessity of sanctioning the time Hadi and I spent together trumped those concerns. When it came to sin, Mama believed it was better to be safe than sorry, and at the time, so did I. I could've clapped with relief. This was an out. A rescue from damnation. "O-kay," I said with feigned reluctance. I couldn't have Mama thinking I was eager to kiss my fiancé sin-free. Mama nodded as if she understood exactly the game I was playing. She stood up and placed a hand on her hip. "So you talk to Hadi first and see what he thinks because you didn't hear this from me. This is between you, Hadi, and your grandfather. I never suggested anything to you." Although Mama believed she had a moral responsibility to make me aware of my options, she didn't want to be involved in whatever we chose past that point. Advising me was one thing, but going against Mrs. Ridha's wishes was another. I nodded, and Mama placed her hands on my shoulders. "Now this doesn't mean you can have sex and come home pregnant." I rolled my eyes. "That's gross, Mom." "You say that now—" "All right. All right," I interrupted. "Let's not go there." As soon as Hadi woke up, I told him what was on my mind, as if the thought had come to me overnight, born of the events of the previous day. And then for good measure, I added, "I don't think either one of us got engaged so that we could sin." Hadi agreed to a ceremony immediately. The choice to simply not kiss again until we were married never occurred to either one of us. We'd been offered a morsel of divine permission, and we were taking it. Later that afternoon, without my having said anything to him, Jidu came downstairs, the Quran in his hands held open to a particular page with his index finger. We stood as was our custom when Jidu entered a room. He kissed us both on the cheek and inquired as to whether we were done eating our lunch. We said we were, and he gestured for us to follow him with his free hand. He led us into the downstairs guest room and closed the door behind him. We all knew exactly why we had gathered, but we did not acknowledge it directly. Jidu merely looked us both in the eye and asked, "You want this?" We nodded, and Jidu sat down on the edge of the bed. He opened the Quran to the marked page and read verses I didn't understand or recognize. I felt a flash of disappointment. I was supposed to teach myself to understand the Quran's classical Arabic before my wedding so that I wouldn't feel as I did now—like a child who needed her mother to translate her own marriage ceremony to her. Jidu asked Hadi to present me with something to symbolize my _maher_ or dowry. Hadi dug into his wallet and unearthed a collector's coin he'd picked up as a souvenir somewhere. Jidu looked at it curiously and then asked if I accepted this token. I did. I accepted both the token and, a moment later, the boy. My consent now given, Jidu motioned for us to bend down. He kissed us both on the forehead and said, "May Allah fulfill all your desires in this life and the next. May Allah keep you for each other and for your children." I bent down again and kissed Jidu's hand, grateful to be marrying someone my grandfather approved of, someone who spoke the same language, who shared the same religion and understood exactly why he had to _marry_ me before he married me. But still I walked out of the room feeling no more married to Hadi than when I'd entered it. Hadi and I had merely filed spiritual paperwork with our Lord. It may have exempted us from the sin of the lustful glance or the occasional touch, but it did little to ease the shame of having already kissed, the sense that we had betrayed Baba and Hadi's parents. At the end of spring quarter, one of my history professors scrawled at the bottom of my paper, underneath a big red A, "You should be considering a career in academics." It was as if he'd illuminated the obvious path for my future. Ibrahim was already in graduate school, pursuing a doctorate in Middle Eastern studies. He'd done the hard work of convincing my parents that there were legitimate careers outside of science and medicine, and after a childhood of sharing so little, I liked discussing my courses with Ibrahim over the phone, exchanging book titles and research topics. I could see myself following in my brother's footsteps. I enjoyed spending my days in the library, annotating assigned readings, researching term papers, and perusing the book stacks when I needed a break. The scholarly perspective on history had cast a spell on me. Historians handpicked the events we remembered; they penned the stories that lived on in our memories. As a Shia, I felt this pulling me right back to Ashura, to the lamentation rituals I performed with my mother. I wondered if I could bring a breath of that empathic spirit to other atrocities the world had forgotten. The only thing that struck me as more tragic than all the suffering humanity had endured was that people rarely remembered it, rarely talked about it, and rarely had any reservations about repeating it. The more direction I had in school, the more I wanted to talk to Hadi about his coursework. He planned on taking an extra year to complete a double major in psychology, and this concerned me. Taking more time in college spoke to a privileged, find-yourself view of education that the children of immigrants were not supposed to abide. Hadi's lost year was something to be lamented and mourned, but it frustrated me how little he seemed bothered by it. I wanted to know exactly when we were going to get married and what was going to happen to my undergraduate degree, if I would transfer to somewhere closer to his medical school or if I would finish here. I wanted to know where to research graduate schools, where to make connections with professors. That summer, every time we talked on the phone, I worked in questions about where he planned to apply, where he thought he was going to get in, if he had professors to write letters of recommendation, if he had started his essay. Hadi's answers were vague and indirect, and this too infuriated me. He had done well on his Medical College Admission Tests that spring. I couldn't understand why he wanted to delay graduating. And then one July afternoon, while staying at my parents' house for the summer, I pushed and Hadi relented. He confessed that his GPA was somewhere in the high 2.0s, and I responded with a shocked, "God no." I brought a hand up to my heart and held it there as if steadying myself. Tears spilled onto my face, and I was grateful for this proof of my hurt. I wanted Hadi to hear every choke, sob, and sniffle. I wanted him to crumble with regret for putting our academic futures in jeopardy. "See, that's why I didn't tell you. And that's why I have to do the double major. So I can bring up my GPA." "Do your parents know?" "No. That's why I need some time to fix this." I said nothing and reached for a tissue. Then I blew my nose into the phone and added, "But with those MCAT scores, I never imagined you were dealing with those kinds of grades." "It's all the bio classes. They're designed to weed people out." "But you're supposed to study so hard that you don't become one of those people." "I study." "No. I study. You go to class and poke around in your textbooks for what interests you, but that's not enough. You have to hustle to get good grades." This engagement was supposed to be about me marrying the right guy by our culture's standards, about him wooing me, and about me falling in love. Now I doubted our basic compatibility. I was a list-maker and a goal-setter, but Hadi was approaching his future with a passivity that repelled me. If Hadi were my friend, I would've been able to hear him out. I might've encouraged him to share what was holding him back, but I didn't have the luxury of emotional distance. His ship was sinking, and I was on it. After we hung up, I ran downstairs in search of Mama who I found cleaning her bathroom. As soon as I saw her, another round of tears choked me, and I fanned my face, trying to get enough air to talk. "Oh my God," she said, abandoning the toilet brush to the bowl. "What happened?" I took a deep breath but could not manage any words. "There's been a car accident. Is it Hadi? Is he okay?" "No. No car accident. It's just...It's just..." I covered my mouth and tried to suck back the tears. I knew in the grand scheme of life Hadi's GPA was a gnat-sized concern, but in the scheme of our relationship it changed everything. "It's his grades," I said. "He gets Cs." Mama uttered a pitying tsk. "Hababa, I thought somebody died the way you're crying. Cs aren't the best, but they aren't the worst." She put an arm around me, pulled my head down to her shoulder, and said, "It will be okay. Remember all the istikharas we made. Every one of them came out good." I let Mama's words comfort me. Who I married was the single most important decision of my life; there had to be a reason why God had guided me to this match. Now that Mama had seen me so upset, we had an official situation. Relatives at home and abroad were consulted. Aunty Najma told Mama not to worry. "Are you marrying the boy or his degree? His marks don't change the fact that he's a good boy." Mama then called Mrs. Ridha and told her about my concerns. Mrs. Ridha then talked to Dr. Ridha who spoke to Hadi, and then the cycle repeated in reverse, ending with Mama's report on Mrs. Ridha's latest phone call, her hope that her son's grades would improve by next year. I had no better alternative than to share this hope. Although religiously there was nothing preventing me from breaking off my engagement, the social consequences terrified me—the gossip, the tarnished reputation, the fact that we'd kissed. I turned to romantic comedies for comfort. They proved obstacles were a given in any relationship. We had merely arrived at the juncture in our relationship where the man takes drastic measures to prove he has become worthy of the woman's love. When Hadi called a few days later, I expected him to announce his strategy to win me back, but he said, "I'm sorry I hurt you," like a man who'd lost a fight. "You deserve better." Now Hadi told me his parents had taken away his car, his prized T-Top Nissan Z with the custom license plate frame that said, "All I want in life is my car and Huda." There was no going back from this. I was the one who'd ratted out my fiancé. Now Hadi's parents had to prove to my family that efforts were being made to bring everything back up to code. One part of me wanted to apologize. Another part of me was so mystified I couldn't resist saying, "You're kidding, right? What's taking away your car supposed to achieve?" "Yeah, well," Hadi said in a voice so flat I could almost see him throwing up his hands in the air. This problem was suddenly more disconcerting than grades. Dr. and Mrs. Ridha were punishing and rewarding Hadi as if he were a small child—get bad grades and lose your car. And Hadi took it, as if this was a state of affairs he was powerless to fight. This surprised me. I thought all children of immigrants reversed the parent-child relationship to some degree. In our household, my siblings and I navigated our educational careers entirely on our own. Ibrahim, Lina, and I got through homework and term papers, college and financial aid applications all by filling in our parents of our progress on a need-to-know basis. And because of this, our parents may have had every aspect of cultural and religious control over us but nothing disciplinary. The handful of times Mama or Baba declared us grounded, it sounded so foreign, so imitative of American television parents, we'd laughed until our sides ached and Mama stormed out of the room saying, "Go fly," or Baba gave up with a frustrated, "Okay, all right. Never mind." In all these years of friendship with the Ridhas, I never realized that Hadi did not have the same kind of relationship with his parents. I wondered if it was because Dr. Ridha had none of the helplessness that drove us to protect Baba. Nor was he a cutesy immigrant dad with a heavy accent. Dr. Ridha spoke American English like an actor performing a voice; he knew exactly which sounds to manipulate to erase all traces of an accent. Nobody looked to Hadi to explain what his father was saying, but it happened to me, Lina, and Ibrahim all the time. After a month of tense phone calls between Hadi and me, a community event brought my immediate family (including Ibrahim, home for summer break) to the Ridhas' house for a weekend. The day after we arrived, Dr. Ridha called Mrs. Ridha, my parents, Hadi, and me into the dining room. Closing the French doors behind him, he told us to take a seat at the table. My stomach lurched. I would never be able to speak honestly in front of Dr. and Mrs. Ridha; I didn't want to risk jeopardizing their opinions of me. Hadi sat next to me on one side of the table without once looking in my direction. Mama, Baba, and Mrs. Ridha sat opposite us without uttering a word. At the head of the table, Dr. Ridha cleared his throat and invoked the name of God: " _Bismillah ar-rahman ar-raheem_." He took a preparatory breath and said, "We are very happy and proud our son is engaged to such a good girl from such a good family. But I also understand that Huda has some concerns, and I think she should share those with us now so we can discuss them." Everyone in the room turned toward me. From across the table, Mrs. Ridha's lips stiffened with nervous anticipation. Mama gave me the go-ahead with a single, encouraging nod. Baba looked bewildered. He had no idea why we had gathered. Neither Mama nor I had told him. Not only because Baba would've gladly called off my engagement but also because he was the kind to hold a grudge, especially on behalf of his children. Baba still had not forgiven one of my cousins for pushing me and pulling my hair when we were both toddlers. My heart raced, and my breath thinned. I never thought I would be asked to speak for myself. I liked things better the way they were before, with me complaining to Mama and Mama repackaging those concerns into polite and acceptable terms. A childhood urge to whisper everything I wanted said into Mama's ear overwhelmed me. I was being asked to stab Hadi with my words, and he had never seemed more defenseless. It was past noon, and Hadi had just rolled out of bed. His hair was rumpled, his face unshaven, and he still wore last night's T-shirt and shorts. This was not a guy ready to fight for the love of his life, but a guy who didn't know what hit him. A guy who I did not want. Those words flashed in a dim corner of my mind like a glaring, neon sign. This was my chance to return Hadi to his family, to tell them, "My mom bought this guy for me, but he doesn't fit." But I'd been seized by a shot of inhibition that I would've required the assistance of narcotics to release. The thought was too radical, too dangerous to contemplate. The only thing I could do now was invest Dr. and Mrs. Ridha in my education. Then regardless of what happened with Hadi's schooling, nobody would expect me to sacrifice mine. I exhaled a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and pretended I was at school, talking to a professor. With all the confidence I could muster, I said, "I'm doing really well in school, and it's really important to me that I continue. But I understand that Hadi may not have the grades to get into medical school. If he has other interests, I'm willing to support him in that. But I think he should figure out what that is soon so that we're both able to continue with our educations." I searched Hadi's face for his reaction, but he didn't meet my gaze. He stared at the mirror hanging above the buffet table and said nothing to defend himself. Disgust now stained the sympathy I'd felt for him a few moments ago. Hadi had no fight in him, no plan. It was tragic, really. I knew plenty of girls who didn't care about school. Another woman might have taken Hadi's love and run with it, and another guy might've appreciated my ambition. We both might've been happier with other people. Dr. Ridha cleared his throat again and asked me exactly what I wanted to study. This worried me. My current interests in history and academics had no currency in our community. People were always telling Mama what a shame it was that Ibrahim wanted a PhD instead of an MD, and I feared Hadi's parents wouldn't find my educational goals worth protecting. The only thing I had going for me was that I planned to study Islamic societies, and anything related to Islam carried weight with Dr. Ridha. But beyond a nod, Dr. Ridha didn't respond to my answer. He merely turned to Hadi and asked if he had anything he wanted to say. Hadi shook his head, but his tense brow and buttoned lips gave me the impression that he was too frustrated to speak. Baba, on the other hand, was never one to stay quiet in a situation. Irrespective of circumstance or audience, Baba had an anecdote to share. Now he looked to Hadi and said, "In my opinion, there are many other things one can do. I know many chiropractors and physical therapists myself, and they are doing quite well. This fellow, who is the physical therapist, he is a Pakistani Muslim. He has a very nice office, close to mine. I can give you his number if you like to talk to him, but the important thing is one should never give up on their studies. In medical school, I had to repeat several classes myself. My father had died, and I was so sad, but somehow, I got through it. This is the life." No one commented on Baba's musings, and I was grateful that Baba had chosen to view Hadi's academic struggles with sympathy rather than recording it in memory as his first official complaint. Dr. Ridha turned to Mama for her input and caught her off guard. She tried to suppress an awkward smile and said, "It's important to me that Huda finishes her education, but I also think Hadi is a wonderful boy. I've always loved him like he was my own son, and I want to see him happy and doing well in whatever he chooses to do." Mrs. Ridha said the same of me. Now it was Dr. Ridha's turn to weigh in. After a contemplative pause, he said, "Hadi has to improve. Of course, we do not accept his grades, and we are very, very disappointed in him. I do not know about him doing other things, but I know he has to do better. Now, we would like nothing more than to see you and Hadi married and happy together, but I think you and your family should think about whether you want to continue with this engagement and we will discuss this again after dinner." Everything that came out of Dr. Ridha's mouth took me by surprise—his harsh disapproval of Hadi's grades, the ticking bomb of an option he'd dropped on the table, the detonator he'd placed in my hands. I had to get out of the room. The consequences of a broken engagement were dizzying, and I couldn't consider them—not now, not with everyone watching. I went looking for Ibrahim in Hadi's room. I closed the door behind me, settled down on the floor in front of him, and burst into tears. Ibrahim closed the Arabic grammar book he'd been toting around all summer and asked me what had happened; I summarized the conversation I'd just had. "So break it off," he said. It was a plea more than a suggestion. Ibrahim rarely gave me advice on anything outside of academics. Besides that brief moment on the phone where I told him about my engagement, we respected the boundaries of our sibling roles—his job was to tease me, and my job was to act exasperated. For Ibrahim to think the problems looming in my future were worth breaking the engagement that he'd believed in with such confidence, that said something. That said a lot. But even if my family supported my decision to break my engagement, I was far too worried about what people would think to do anything. I imagined the Iraqi mothers and grandmothers clucking and whispering about me in the corners of our masjids and dinner parties. I didn't want to accept that all the years I'd spent guarding my reputation had earned me nothing more than a broken engagement and a future filled with second-rate suitors. "I can't," I said with conviction. "Why?" Ibrahim asked. "Because of what a bunch of dumb, old Iraqi ladies think? Then you wouldn't have to worry about what you'll do about school. You could apply wherever I go to do my PhD and at least do your master's with me." Not even a year had passed since my engagement, but I found myself looking back on the months before I became committed to Hadi with the longing of an aging woman, pining over her lost youth. If only I hadn't been so hung up on getting married young and proving to the world how desirable I was, if only I'd ignored the istikhara's results, maybe this could've been my plan. I could've followed Ibrahim to a far-off place and met someone who liked to study as much as I did. But it was too late. This must be why all premarital touching was forbidden. It trapped you. Even if the ceremony Jidu performed for us was a dissolvable, temporary mutah, nothing could undo the kisses and embraces. Now I'd never be able to claim that I was a good girl to another man. Maybe worse, I'd never be able to remember the sweetness of those firsts without a sting of regret. I looked up, but my eyes only caught the top of Ibrahim's dark, curly hair. It was enough for him to broach the subject—too much for him to look at me while he was doing it. "I can't," I said, this time as an apology. "I didn't work this hard to get a good reputation to throw it all away." Ibrahim met my gaze, but his resolve to persuade me had been replaced by worry. He had no argument for this. Soon the future would offer us examples of Iraqi American friends who'd broken their engagements and married other people, who'd gotten married and divorced, who'd had a string of boyfriends and girlfriends and later chosen one to marry, but for now we had nothing but the rules we'd intuited from our parents and their immigrant friends. There was no greater Iraqi population to compare ourselves to, no sense of popular culture. Our Iraq was the one that lived on in our parents' memories, frozen at the moment of their 1970s departure, immune to time. Now I wanted to comfort Ibrahim, to convince him I knew what I was doing. "I'll be fine. If for some reason, I can't go to graduate school, it might turn out to be for the best. It's not like I can wait forever to have kids. And with Baba's health the way it is—at least this way, he'll have time with his grandkids." This reasoning resonated with me in a way I hadn't expected. The mere mention of Baba's health brought with it the pressure of tears and the dreadful images my mind kept at the ready. A fatherless bride. Grandfatherless grandchildren. I closed my eyes to block out any more. Hadi loved me. Nothing about our relationship was so bad that I'd leave it at the risk of never marrying, never having children. I decided that not only would I stay engaged but that I would also marry Hadi next summer. I needed access to Hadi if I wanted to fix him, but I didn't want to rush my wedding planning either. Since our engagement had left me with few memories that satisfied my dreams of a sweeping romance, at the very least, I wanted to look back on a beautiful wedding. That afternoon, I pulled Hadi into his room, knowing that the gravity of our problems had bought us the privacy to work out our concerns. We sat on the chairs pushed against the wall of his bedroom. Hadi looked down, his shoulders slumped. His body was prepared for me to tell him that I was leaving, and this posture of surrender sent a ripple of ire under my skin. My mind railed, _Fight for me, man! Where's your strength? Am I really going to tell you I want to marry you? You, who I want to throttle and shake?_ But with my mouth I said something else entirely. "I think the best thing we can do now is work together to figure out what you should do next, whether it's medical school or something else. But that means, this school year, you're going to have to study around the clock to bring up your grades. And then, I think, we should probably get married earlier rather than later so that I can help you stay on top of everything." Hadi looked up, and his face brightened. "I think that would really help," he said. A wave of relief washed over me. I had spared myself so much discomfort with nothing more than my simple acquiescence. Now I wouldn't have to tell Hadi I wanted to leave. I would not break his heart or disappoint his parents. My family would not have to deal with an awkward goodbye, the question of whether to pack up our bags and leave that day or whether to stay until the next morning and pretend that this was not the end to a decade of friendship with the Ridhas. I took Hadi's hand in mine, and his skin felt like a rescue from all the things I could not bear to confront. Then I leaned over and kissed him, both resenting and appreciating this kiss that adhered us together, that would not let us fall apart. Back at school that fall, I reunited with my MSA friends in the library and announced that I was getting married next summer, a few months after my twentieth birthday. Both Amina and our mutual friend Sura had shared that they'd gotten engaged over the summer, and I was grateful not to be mourning my past while my friends were looking forward to their futures, especially this quarter. My MSA sisters and I weren't merely studying together, but we were enrolled in the course on women in Islam, as well. We had agreed that we needed to be in that classroom as a group to deal with the stereotypes about women being forced to wear the hijab, genital mutilation, and nonconsensual arranged marriages. Six of us, including Amina and Sura, signed up to be there to raise our hands and object, "Not all Muslim women live like that. Look at us. We are Muslim women, too. How come nobody writes about Muslim women like us?" My MSA sisters were all high-achieving students. The majority were studying to be doctors and engineers just like their hardworking, professional mothers who'd overcome language barriers and carried on working as physicians and engineers in the United States. Only three other women, besides myself, had chosen majors in the humanities, but our unconventional choice only motivated us more. We had to prove to our immigrant communities that success was possible outside of the sciences. The day we watched a documentary about the feminists who threw off their veils in an Egyptian train station in the 1920s, Amina addressed our class first: "Those women were clearly responding to the hijab as some sort of symbol of patriarchy, but most of us wearing the hijab today do so for our faith. No one forced us to wear it. This was our choice, an expression of our freedom. You think women who walk around in a bathing suit, obsessing over their weight and cellulite, are free? We're the ones who are free from judgment and unreasonable beauty expectations." Then for emphasis, I added, "Just because I don't cover my hair, it doesn't mean I don't believe in it. I have always tried to live by my own standards of modesty even if I am not ready to wear the hijab yet. I don't wear sleeveless shirts, and I stay away from skirts that go above the knee." A week later when the topic of female circumcision arose, we exchanged exasperated looks. Sura took the lead with, "Look, you have to stop and consider the way religions work. You have a faith, and you have its practitioners. Islam can't stop its adherents from clinging to unfortunate cultural relics. Female circumcision predates Islam, and it is practiced almost exclusively in Africa. This is a horrible deviation from Islamic teaching." By way of proof, Amina explained, "In Islam, both men and women have an equal right to sexual pleasure." To the doubtful glances that followed, she said, "Yes. Islam is always being written off as a misogynistic religion when it is such a progressive faith in regards to female sexuality." Islamic teaching held that regular sex was essential to a healthy marriage, that you earned God's favor or _thawab_ for sleeping with your spouse, and that women had a right to experience an orgasm. When our wedding nights arrived, we would wear sexy lingerie of every color and style, wax every hair-covered surface, and know that the physical moments we shared with our spouses were halal, permissible and blessed in the eyes of God. When the discussion moved onto the topic of arranged marriages, Sura strategically rested a diamond-studded hand under her chin and said, "It is just so much more complicated than that. Like I just got engaged last month to my brother's roommate. I didn't know this, but he'd liked me for years. He was waiting until he finished college to tell me, and no, we didn't date before he proposed, but I don't feel like I needed to date him to know. And when he asked, it was really sweet. He cried. I cried." Our classmates nodded with interest, as if Sura was an exhibit at a museum. Without skipping a beat, Amina added, "I think most people in this room would think I'm having an arranged marriage because my parents introduced me to a guy a few months ago. We talked over the summer and got engaged a few weeks ago, but I would never consider myself as having an arranged marriage. I want to marry my fiancé. He is smart and good-looking. He's a total catch, and I hate that just because I'm Muslim, my parents can't just introduce me to someone without people thinking it was a setup." I chimed in, "Amina's totally right. I met my fiancé when I was six. We grew up together. We both liked each other, and he asked me to marry him before his parents asked for my hand." For the purposes of this course, my current ambivalence toward Hadi was irrelevant. We'd just finished reading _A Wife for My Son_ by Ali Ghalem, and the novel depicted the stereotypical arranged marriage, complete with a distasteful bloody sheet scene. Outside of class, my MSA friends and I criticized its author. What type of a Muslim would write stuff like this? So what if disgusting things like this happened? We needed literature that made us look like the normal people we were, with educated parents who asked their daughters' opinions on who they wanted to marry, and sent them to expensive private colleges, and would never dream of insulting them by checking their wedding-night sheets. With Ghalem confirming my classmates' worst assumptions about Muslims and Arabs, I had no choice but to keep my angst to myself. The last thing I wanted was to confirm the views my fellow Muslims and I were working so hard to discredit. It was the same reason why I never mentioned my Shia identity in class—image control. I didn't want to add sectarian differences to a conversation that was already so rife with misunderstanding, that years later still circled back to the movie _Not without My Daughter_. The irony of erasing my own individuality to challenge stereotypes was entirely lost on me. I may have only been nineteen years old, but I took seriously the responsibilities that came with representing my religion. This was not only a class but also an opportunity to change the way eighteen people thought about Muslims. Beneath every raised hand, every argument my MSA sisters and I made, I could hear us whispering this unspoken plea: "Remember us after this course ends and when you're listening to the news. Please remember us." A Lebanese sales associate named Samira ushered Mama, Mrs. Ridha, Lina, and me into a fitting room as big as my dorm room. While they got situated on the armchairs pushed up against the wall-to-wall mirrors, Samira asked me what kind of dresses I wanted to see. Amor was not the kind of store where customers were allowed to rifle through the dresses on their own. I told her not to bring anything sleeveless or strapless and that I liked full skirts, preferably tulle. It was winter break, and Mama, Lina, and I were staying with the Ridhas for the weekend while we went wedding-dress shopping. Because Wedding Dress Shopping Day was a special occasion, Lina and I had spent the better part of last week deciding what I would wear. I now slid out of my carefully chosen outfit, an angora top paired with a houndstooth pencil skirt. On the carpeted platform in the center of the room, I stood in suede heels, nude hosiery, and a matching set of lacy underwear because I didn't want Mrs. Ridha discovering that I was a cotton-granny-panty kind of gal. Now was her opportunity to get a peek at the body that her son was marrying, and I didn't want her to be disappointed—even if Hadi didn't want her seeing me undressed. Hadi hated that Islamic custom allowed any woman to see my body, while he, the soon-to-be husband, was literally stuck waiting in the car. If Hadi had it his way, Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha would be sitting in the waiting area outside. I'd stick an arm out of the fitting room and grab the oversized dresses, and the clothespins to secure them, right from Samira's hands. "Now that I am getting married, you may no longer see me in my undergarments," I'd call out. "Not even you, woman whose uterus was once my home!" In anticipation of this weekend, Hadi and I had reenacted the following telephone conversation nightly. He'd say, "How would you feel if you knew I was changing in front of other people?" "Be my guest," I'd reply. "Be free. Be naked if you want." _Just leave me alone._ Apparently my lack of interest in keeping Hadi's nakedness all to myself was hurtful. In a wounded tone, he'd say, "I don't see why you don't want our bodies to be something special, just between us." "I don't see why you are asking me to do something that our religion doesn't even ask of me. Even girls who wear the hijab do whatever they want in the company of other women." Sharing a fitting room with a girlfriend, sister, or mother was female bonding at its finest. This was the equivalent of me asking him not to watch sports with his male friends. Ever. "This has nothing to do with religion," he'd finally say. "I've always thought of our bodies as a symbol of the private life we share together. I know you're the only person I want to see me, and I thought you'd feel the same way." At the time, I could have gagged on Hadi's love and all the things that we were only going to share with each other. I had heard so much about boys and their different needs and indestructible reputations that I never stopped to consider what it might have felt like to be the kind of Muslim boy who had grown up eschewing such cultural double standards, holding onto our religion's ideals of the virgin couple through high school and then college. Surely, Hadi was carrying his own special brand of expectations into his first relationship with a woman, but I did not have the maturity to recognize that. His extraordinary sentimentality only baffled and frustrated me. While normally I wouldn't have given a second thought to being in my underwear in the company of other women, that morning I relished my small act of defiance. It was a day for me and the girls. We'd do what ladies did in fitting rooms—admire and gripe about our bodies. Samira came into the room and hooked a bundle of dresses on the door. She took one look at me and said to Mrs. Ridha in Arabic, "Congratulations. Your daughter-in-law has a beautiful body. Your son is very lucky." Mrs. Ridha laughed. "We are the lucky ones. What he wouldn't give to be seeing what we are seeing." This elicited laughs from everyone except Lina, who crinkled up her nose with disgust. "I hope he doesn't like big boobs, because what she has will barely fill a hand," Mama said. Her tone was light, and it set off another round of laughter, but this was not meant as a jab. Iraqis do not value directness. We say things we don't mean so that people will correct us, we refuse things we are offered to be polite, and we never ask for what we want without apologizing for it profusely. My big nose and small chest were marriage liabilities, and this was Mama's way of acknowledging this, of saying, "Now you've seen everything we have to offer." My MSA friends and I could argue all we wanted about how Islam shielded women from unforgiving standards of beauty, but Mama's comment reminded me how far the Western ideal of the slim but buxom femme had traveled, how universal it had become. On the few occasions when Mama had commented that my future husband might be disappointed by my small chest, I'd taken offense and said, "You're my mother. You're supposed to tell me that whoever marries me should accept me the way I am." She'd looked at me as if I was being naïve. "Men like boobs," she said. It was silly to pretend otherwise. Mrs. Ridha now made a shooing gesture with her hand to dismiss the topic. "You think anybody could ask him such a question? Hadi thinks everything about Huda is perfect. One time, I asked him, 'If Huda wanted to change her nose, would you accept it?' He got so angry. I told him, 'Don't worry. Nobody is trying to change her.'" This was another arena in which Hadi's love suffocated me. Among friends, I was used to moaning about my big nose and the way it leaned to one side, my dimply thighs, and my fleshy stomach. For the most part, these were invitations to contradiction, but Hadi objected to the practice entirely. He said things like, "Hey, I love your_____. You can't talk about it like that," and I'd follow with something I never expected to defend, my right to criticize myself. Samira slid a series of dresses over my head and clipped them closed. There were several nos, a couple of maybes, and then gasps. "Now this, this is something special," Mrs. Ridha said. The dress had a satin bodice with long sleeves and a skirt made of fine tulle whose underlayers were dotted with clear sequins that danced in the light while its top layer was intricately embroidered along the bottom edge and train. "Beautiful," Mama agreed. I smiled. I twirled. I did a little dance because that was what you did when you tried on a dress that you liked. You checked out how you looked while dancing in it. It had a lovely swish. No. Wait. It was too soon for this kind of excitement. My ring had taught me a valuable lesson about patience in shopping. "This is off the shoulder," I said to Samira. "We'll specify in your order that you want the sleeves on the shoulder." "Can that be done without pouffiness? I don't want any pouffiness." "Of course." "Do you guys really like it?" I asked Mama, Mrs. Ridha, and Lina. "You're beautiful," Mrs. Ridha answered, "so whatever you wear is nice. What matters is that you like it." "I like it, but how much is it?" I said, turning to Samira. Samira's lips moved with computational noises, and then she said aloud, "Three thousand for the dress, and then there will be additional fees for alteration and the custom sleeves." Now it was my turn to gasp. My ring had cost less. "Don't think about the price," Mrs. Ridha said. "The important thing is that you are happy." And I was happy in a way that surpassed the glee of finding the perfect dress. I'd been taught that it wasn't enough to marry a man because you loved him. You had to love his entire family. This moment felt like proof that I was making the right decision. I may have questioned how I felt about Hadi, but I loved Mrs. Ridha. Not because she was buying me the most expensive article of clothing I'd ever owned, but because she understood that I was not just a wife for her son but a girl with dreams, some reasonable, most not, but all aching to be made true. Samira gathered up my hair and fed it through the opening of a rhinestone tiara. Staring at my reflection, I felt content, not just with my dress but also with my choice. Life was so much easier when I thought only like an Arab girl, who was happy to be marrying into a good family, who was free to love her spouse before her wedding but under no obligation to do so, who knew her love didn't have to be ready yet. It hadn't had a chance to grow. Back at school, I felt as if I'd been cut in half with zigzag scissors. My sophomore year, I roomed with Aysar, one of two Iraqi American girls I'd met on campus (the other Iraqi girl happened to be Aysar's cousin and the person who introduced us). Aysar didn't hang out with the MSA crowd, and she wasn't looking to get married while still in college. In her company, I felt nostalgia for things I had not yet lost. My wedding date had been set for the summer, and seven more months of life as a single girl didn't feel like enough. I loved living with Aysar. We called the lone sink at the front of the room our kitchen. We brewed tea every night in a dormitory-violation Mr. Coffee and coordinated our bathroom trips so we could talk and visit with our neighbors as we walked down the hall. We danced to loud music, and rather than stop when we grew tired, we held onto the back of our desk chairs and moved only our behinds while saying breathlessly, "Must keep dancing." Aysar was exactly the kind of friend an obsessed-with-grades student needed. She made me write my term papers on her computer so that I wouldn't have to stand over my Brother word processor, loading its typewriter with paper and printing out one page at a time. She brought me soup when I was sick and insisted that I take the occasional study break to have dinner off campus or catch a movie. And whenever I got back from the library, Aysar was waiting for me with music on and tea brewing. I joked that Aysar was the best wife and that it was a shame I hadn't been born a man, because I would've made such a good husband. I wanted to be the one in the couple who worked, whose goals and ambitions determined where my future family lived. But instead, night after night, I sat on the sidelines and coached Hadi to find research projects that would lead to the kind of undergraduate publications I hoped would get him an acceptance into medical school. And while all this struck me as unfair, it didn't seem unbearably so until one evening when Aysar and I were stretched out on our beds, taking a moment to relax after dinner. "We should go to Europe for spring break," Aysar had said. "A girl trip before you get married." Aysar and I would've had an amazing time in Europe. She'd say, "Let's go to a club." And I'd say no, but then she'd insist and I'd have to go along with her because it wasn't safe to separate. By day, we'd sit in cafés and people-watch and laugh until we cried. "You may be beautiful and stylish," we'd say to the well-dressed passerby, "but you don't have any shops with the word 'mart' in it. You can't buy underwear, auto parts, and milk all in the same store." And we'd live on salads and bread and cheese, the kind of food that didn't fill Hadi but the kind that would make me feel so healthy, so light, so free. "I can't think of how I'd ever be able to do that," I said without looking at Aysar. This admission felt heavy, deadening. All this time, I'd believed getting engaged was my ticket to freedom, but I'd never felt so constrained. I'd merely gained another person to answer to, a third parent who had an opinion on who I studied with and changed in front of, whose career path would dictate where I would live and go to school. It was one thing to defend my culture and religion to my peers, to explain its principles and ideas in class after class, but it was quite another thing to own this fractured mind, to hear the American voice within me whisper, _You are too young, much too young to be tied down, to limit yourself for any man_ , and my Muslim voice console, _This is just fine. You are marrying the right guy. God Himself told you this._ If only I knew then that this dichotomy was confining me, too, cleaving my thoughts into two sides where my every misgiving was an American idea and therefore risky and dangerous, and my every reassurance was a Muslim idea and safe and good. Hadi blamed the physical distance between us for the tension during our phone conversations. He insisted that all we needed was one day out, one day to prove that our lives together could be fun. His mother was planning a reception to welcome his sister Jamila's new baby in January. Since my family would be coming for the occasion, he had asked his parents that we be allowed to go out alone the day before the party. I told him he had to plan everything, hoping that this day would capture my heart and, once and for all, quiet my mind's incessant chorus of regrets. It never occurred to me that this was too much to expect from one day, one moment, one man. Our wedding date had been set for the end of July, and I needed something to reassure me that my decision to stay with Hadi hadn't been a mistake, that even though Hadi still hadn't gotten any interviews to medical schools and I had no idea what he was going to do after he graduated in June, there was something so romantic and wonderful about us that we were meant to be together. My family and I arrived at Hadi's house on a Friday night. We would be taking over Hadi's room, my parents on the bed, Lina and I on a stack of blankets on the floor. That night, Hadi walked me to the door of his room and told me that he was looking forward to tomorrow and that I should dress casually. My body let go of tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Hadi had put thought into this. He'd planned. The next morning, I slid into the kind of outfit I rarely wore but Hadi said I looked cutest in—jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt—and then I repacked my bag because our families would stay at the Ridhas' beach house in San Diego that night. I expected to find Hadi waiting for me in the kitchen, but only our parents were seated at the marble slab table, sipping their tea, dipping pita bread in _lebne_ , or wrapping it around slices of Syrian cheese and bundles of mint. "Sit down and eat," Dr. Ridha said. And because Hadi was nowhere to suggest otherwise, I sat and felt some of the day's excitement fizzle. There were girls whose boyfriends picked them up from their homes and whisked them off to fancy brunches and dinners, and then there were girls like me, who had breakfast with their future in-laws on the day she had come to think of as her first and last date before getting married. When Hadi showed up in the kitchen a half hour later, he was dressed but not ready to leave. He whispered something in his mother's ear. A moment later, he was in the garage. Then he was out of the garage and saying, "It's not there." After more directions from his mom, Hadi went back into the garage and returned with a cooler in hand. He set it down on the counter and bent toward his mother's ear again. I stuffed a piece of cheese into a triangle of pita bread and watched Mrs. Ridha leave her chair and pull bread, mayonnaise, and cold cuts out of the refrigerator. When Hadi and his mother set to work, making sandwiches for our day out, I excused myself and headed to the hall bathroom. There I took a series of deep breaths so that I would not cry. This was the first date Hadi had planned for us, and he was packing us a picnic with his mommy. _Dear God_ , I prayed, _why can't we do anything that makes me feel like an adult who is old enough to be getting married?_ I wanted to call Mama into the bathroom, but I already knew what she'd say. That I expected too much from the boy. That I wanted to marry someone who'd never had a girlfriend but wanted him to act like a man who had been out with a thousand women. That I wanted an American-style date, but that we weren't Americans and Islamically we shouldn't have been going out alone anyway. That because I was born in America, I equated being an adult with doing things without parental involvement, but in Iraq, some people lived with their parents their whole lives and there was no shame in that. Listening to her imaginary talk was enough to send me back into the kitchen with a vow to be patient, to give Hadi a chance. He'd never taken a girl out before. He didn't know how pathetic this seemed. When I came back to the kitchen, Hadi was lining up our sandwiches next to two canned soft drinks in the cooler. He smiled at me. He was excited, proud of himself for the day he had planned. Hadi slid the cooler closed and announced that he was ready to leave. "Why are you leaving now?" his father asked, getting up from the breakfast table. "It will be time to pray in a half hour. Pray and then go." Hadi looked at the clock and then looked at me. This was the practicing Muslim's midmorning outing dilemma. When you only had less than an hour to the afternoon _dhuhr_ prayer to spare, you had to decide whether you wanted to wait and pray at home or leave and spend the day wondering if you should (a) find a quiet place where you could pray without drawing an audience; (b) miss your prayer, feel guilty about it, and make it up when you got home; or (c) rush home to squeeze in the prayer before sunset when the evening prayers would become due. But now that Hadi's father brought it up, the choice was no longer mine to make. Opting for anything but staying would have declared an indifference to my daily prayers and an eagerness to be alone with his son. "It's up to you," I said and then looked away, setting about clearing the breakfast table and helping with the dishes. No more discussion of our leaving followed, and so I finished in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom, where I took off my socks to make wudhu and covered my hair to pray, before finding Hadi in the hallway. "We're leaving," Hadi announced. This brought our families out of their rooms to bid us farewell. "Why are you in such a hurry?" Dr. Ridha called out from his bedroom doorway. "Wait until Jamila and Bashar leave." Hadi's sister and his brother-in-law were leaving their baby with Mrs. Ridha and spending the day at an amusement park. I couldn't understand what their departure had to do with ours and apparently neither did Hadi. "Why would we wait for them?" Hadi asked while approaching his father. "We're not going out together." "And what's wrong with you all leaving at the same time?" Dr. Ridha's voice was calm and level. I knew this tone; it made any inflection on the other end of the conversation sound unreasonable and defensive. "But we have our own car," Hadi said, involuntarily completing the effect. With the same evenness, Dr. Ridha answered, "There is no rush now. I said wait for them and go out together." The negotiations had ended. Any reply now would imply that we had some kind of inappropriate rush to be alone together, and so we waited and waited because the catch in all this was that Hadi's sister wasn't ready. She had a baby to nurse, milk that had to be expressed, a diaper to change, and a bag to pack because she and her husband would be spending the night together at a hotel before meeting us for the elaborate reception Mrs. Ridha had planned the next day. When our moment of departure finally arrived well over two hours later, our families gathered at the door and kissed us on the cheek as if we were leaving on a transatlantic journey. Hadi's mother reminded him that we'd all be going to the beach house that night, and then she gave Hadi something to return to the electronics store we'd be passing on the way. We settled into Hadi's brother's car, since Hadi's car was still grounded in the garage. The clock on the dash read close to three o'clock, and this alone made me feel as if our day was done before it even started. "Sorry about that," Hadi said. I didn't answer. "I'm happy to finally be with you," he said. An uneasiness had constricted my throat, and all I could offer in return was a tight thank-you. Hadi and I were children around his father, and children weren't supposed to get married. Adults got married. After a tense, quiet drive, we joined a winding two-lane road that I hoped signaled our arrival to our destination. When we still hadn't stopped thirty minutes later, I feared we were lost. "Where are we going?" I asked. "I'm sorry. I thought we would've been there by now." "Where is there?" "It's an old gold-mining town. I was going to take you there because I know how much you like history, but I think the friend who gave me directions might've made a mistake in telling me how far away it is." Of course, he made a mistake, I thought, because this day was doomed from its outset. "It'll be getting dark soon," I said. "What do you want me to do?" "I don't know, but it's almost four. Even if you found this place now, everything will be closing soon. And I'm hungry, and soon it's going to be too dark to have a picnic." "Should we stop and look at a map?" "I guess," I said. Hadi pulled into a wide turnout and parked to the side of a scraggly oak tree. He fanned out the map across the steering wheel. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I don't know exactly where we are right now, but it looks like we still have a ways to go. Even if we keep going, I don't know that we'll be able to make it down there before dark." I watched Hadi fold up the map, feeling terribly burdened by this truth: Hadi had no tricks up his sleeve, no rescue in the works. Our date was officially a bust, and this on the day when I'd seen such proof of our youth. Already reduced to a child, I didn't know if I could talk myself out of crying. Hadi stepped out of the car, got the cooler out of the trunk, opened the door on my side, and said, "Come on. You're hungry. There's more room in the back." After we'd settled into the bucket seats, the cooler between us, Hadi added, "This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out." "I know," I said. "Things are always supposed to turn out differently, but somehow they never do." "The day isn't over yet. We still have to get back to San Diego. We can return my mom's stuff, and then maybe we can have dinner on the way." "I don't know." I preferred to think we'd never gone on a date than to think our one date had gone so badly. "Let's go. I'll call my mom when we get to the store and tell her we're stopping for dinner." "Okay," I said and reached over and squeezed his hand. Maybe this would be one of those funny, romantic dates—the kind of day where everything goes wrong in the beginning but turns out right in the end. The gods of California traffic, however, had not smiled upon us. It took us over an hour to get to the electronics store. By the time we finished the return and arrived at the pay phones outside to call Mrs. Ridha, it was nearing seven o'clock. Seven on the day of my only date, and we still had not gone anywhere. I had pinned so much hope on this day, but to Hadi's parents this was just another day to sit down, have a family breakfast, run errands, and, for reasons beyond me, orchestrate a simultaneous departure with his sister. Hadi picked up the receiver and unraveled the tangled metal cord. "Wait," I said. "I'm having second thoughts about dinner." In spite of my protest, Hadi's fingers went to work, punching in his calling card number. "Hadi, we've been out too long, and our parents won't understand that we've spent the entire day in the car. All they'll think is that we had the whole afternoon together and still want more." "It's fine," he said, pulling the cord taut in his hand. "I'll talk to my mom." No one picked up at the beach house. Next he called home, and his mother answered. I listened to Hadi's side of the conversation, and when he hung up, he filled in the blanks. His mother decided she had too much to do before the party to go to the beach house. All the women were staying home that night, but our fathers were driving to San Diego with our things so that we wouldn't have to drive all the way back to his parents' house. "Let's go straight to the beach house then," I said. The last thing I wanted was to upset our fathers. "No, don't worry. My mom said it was okay, and besides our dads just left. They won't be at the house for another hour and a half." I was too nervous to have dinner at a restaurant with table service, and so I pointed to an Italian place in the strip mall across the street. After ordering at the counter, we sat in a booth where I picked at my airport-quality rigatoni, a ball of disappointment lodged in my throat. I'd been a fool to think I could have the Muslim American love story of my dreams. At the end of the day, we were just two Muslim kids from families who believed outings like this were just unnecessary opportunities for sin. "We are getting married in six months," I said, on the verge of tears, "but it was too much to ask for this one day. I just wanted us to have one special day to remember." With an almost panicked fervor, Hadi pleaded for one more stop. "The day isn't over yet. Let me take you to Coronado Island. The bridge is beautiful at night. We can walk along the beach, stop for ice cream." "There's no time." "Who cares about the time? They made us waste time at the beginning of the day, and if we get in trouble, I'll deal with it." "I don't think it's a good idea," I said without explicitly refusing. The allure of the day being made right was too irresistible. If we went to the beach house now, I didn't know what I'd tell myself about our engagement to make it tolerable. But back in the car, I could not take my eyes off the clock. "This is farther than I thought," I said. "It's getting late." Fear had conquered me. There was nothing Hadi could do in the next hour that would cancel out what had happened during the day, nothing that would be worth handling the questions about where we'd been. "Don't worry," Hadi insisted. "We'll be quick." We sat on a rock near the entrance to the beach on the Hotel Del Coronado's grounds for all of four minutes before I said we should go. Not only did the beach at night scare me, but also my stomach was cramping with anxiety. I could hear a clock ticking away in my mind; I could hear Dr. Ridha saying, "Where were you?" as soon as we walked through the door. I stood up. Hadi said, "Can I at least give you a hug before we leave?" I walked into Hadi's outstretched arms with my arms flat at my sides. He wrapped his arms around me, but I did not return his embrace. "I give up. Let's go." He stood, wiped the sand off the back of his pants, and said, "My ring." "What about your ring?" "It flew off my finger and into the sand," Hadi said, dropping to his knees, patting the ground around him. "You've got to be kidding me. We were supposed to be back a half hour ago." "You think I don't know that?" he said, digging around the periphery of the rock. "Oh my God." I brought my hands up to my mouth. "There's no way you'll find it. Nobody ever finds anything in the sand, and it's dark and it's late..." My voice trailed off, and instead of dropping to the ground and helping Hadi look, I leaned back against the rock and panicked. "We are so doomed. I knew we should've gone back. This is a sign. There's something wrong with us being together." Now we'd have to tell our parents we'd been to the beach at night. The beach of all places. They barely allowed us to go out alone, and we were at a place notorious for making out and sex. Oh the disgrace! "There is nothing wrong with us being together. It's cold. My fingers must've shrunk, and the ring was already loose to begin with. Let's go inside the hotel. I'll call home, and we'll see if they have a metal detector or flashlight or something." Hadi's suggestion filled me with dread. I hated how we appeared as a couple to people outside the Muslim community. What would the employees in the hotel think when Hadi said he lost his ring and we looked like teenagers? To the average American, we were two stupid kids, with the words _breakup_ and _future divorce_ written all over our foreheads. Leaning on the darkly stained wood-paneled front desk, Hadi told our story to the hotel night clerk. She sucked air through her teeth, the way people do when they are about to tell you the thing you've asked for is impossible, ridiculous even. She suggested we rent a metal detector and come back tomorrow. Between searching for the ring and walking back to the hotel, we'd lost another hour. It was now past ten. There was nothing left to do but call home and confess. At the pay phones by the lobby bathroom, Hadi called his mother. He explained what had happened and asked her to get the message to Dr. Ridha that we were going to be late. Hadi wasn't about to call his dad and get a sneak preview of the lecture that awaited us. We drove home over a lit bridge, an ocean of blackness below us, but the beauty of the view was lost on me. The entire drive home, I cried at the injustice of it all. This was an engagement I didn't want anymore, and now I was going to be given a lecture intended for a boy and girl who were in love, who'd stayed out too long, having fun. Now I was returning to a house full of men, with no moms to intervene. When we pulled into the driveway, I felt a blaze of shame go up within me followed by a desperate urge to run. I wasn't used to getting in trouble. I didn't know how to steel myself to face an angry adult. At the sound of the engine, Dr. Ridha opened the front door. As soon as we stepped out of the car, the lecture began. "This is absolutely unacceptable. You two should not even be out together alone, and then you were out so late. You made us both very, very worried." We walked into the house, our heads down. Dr. Ridha pointed to the stairs that led up from the entryway into the living room. We followed, and he continued. "I don't like this at all. I am very disappointed in you, Hadi. This is somebody's daughter, and you are responsible for her. This is a sign. You should not be going out together alone. That's it. No more of this." I had frozen in front of the couch, my eyes meeting Baba's as he stood by the dining room table. I knew instantly that he was not upset but confused. He looked shocked, as if he had not expected Dr. Ridha to be so angry. "I want everybody to go to bed now. We'll discuss this more tomorrow." I gave Baba a half smile and then rushed to the room where I'd be staying before anyone noticed that I'd started to cry. Before I had a chance to close the door, Baba appeared. "I'm sorry. I just asked Dr. Ridha why you were so late. I didn't know he would get so much angry." And then I got a flash of what this evening might have been like for Dr. Ridha. Without Mama around to keep Baba in check, his anxieties had gotten the best of him. Baba was the type of person who needed to know where every member of his family was every second of the day. He'd probably asked Dr. Ridha where we were and when we'd be back at least a dozen times. Dr. Ridha must have grown increasingly uncomfortable that he didn't have an answer, that it was his son who was causing my dad so much worry. "It's okay, Baba," I said through tears because there was no point in explaining otherwise. I knew that bewildered look he'd worn standing by the table a few minutes ago. It was the same did-I-do-something-wrong expression that transformed his anxious face whenever Mama snapped at him for calling her too much at work or for using the overhead paging system to find her in public places. I sat on the edge of the bed and blew my nose into the tissues I'd grabbed off the dresser. Baba could not stand to see me cry, but he never knew what to say to comfort me either. That night, he stood beside me awkwardly, his hands folded behind his back, and said, "I was so much worried, but I did not want to make you sad. I wish your mummy was here." He put his hand on my shoulder, and an urge to shelter Baba from my sadness overcame me. "I'm fine," I said. "I just feel bad, that's all. We weren't trying to be late, and I was having such a terrible time." Baba said, "You want to call your mummy?" I shook my head and said I'd go to bed instead. But I stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my own future pressing down on me, and could not fall asleep. This was not the life I wanted. Not the engagement I wanted. Not the boy or the kind of father-in-law I wanted. But I was too far into things to get out now. The hall had been booked, the date announced. How I wished the mattress would swallow me whole. The next morning, I got ready for Jamila's reception as slowly as possible. I camouflaged my puffy face with makeup, pinned my hair into a French twist, and painted the nails on my still-trembling hands. When I had nothing else left to do, I filled the hollow that yesterday's crying had left behind with a deep, steadying breath and went downstairs. Our fathers were seated at the dining table, eating pita bread with cheese. Hadi sat at the table too but without any food in front of him. "I'm glad you're here," Dr. Ridha said as soon as he saw me. "I have something very important I want to tell the both of you today, here in front of your father." He cleared his throat and continued. "After the dawn prayer, I woke up Hadi, and we went down to the beach where he lost the ring. I raised my hands and prayed to Allah, _subhanallah wa ta'ala_ , to help us find it. Then I started to pick up handfuls of sand, like this..." Dr. Ridha brought up both of his hands until they met to form a bowl shape. "I shook my hands so that only the sand could pour out. I did this again and again until I found this at the bottom of my hand." He reached into his pocket and produced Hadi's platinum band. I looked over at Hadi for confirmation, but his expression was hard to read, a mixture of frustration and helplessness. And who could blame him? Who on earth could find anything in the sand? Maybe Dr. Ridha did have some kind of direct line to God. "Now I'm going to keep this ring for a time because I think Allah, subhanallah wa ta'ala, has done this to remind us that a man and woman should not be alone before they are married." "But, Baba," Hadi said. "I bought tickets to a show tonight a long time ago. We were going to go with Jamila and Bashar so we wouldn't be alone. I asked Mom, and she said it was okay." "You'll have to give them away then. I told you, I do not think it is right that you two go out together anymore." Tickets. This was the first thing I'd heard about tickets. Hadi did have more planned for us. He was trying. I reached for a piece of bread. I needed something to stare at so no one would see my thoughts crushing me. Yesterday had been a punishment from God. Hadi did have another trick up his sleeve. Later he would tell me that he'd gotten us tickets to see _Cats_ , but the only thing I'd have to show for it would be the memory of its denial. What was this household, where one man could make a decision for everyone despite the person's wishes and wants? This imbalance of power felt foreign, alien. I didn't understand how two families, so similar in religion and culture, could be so different. After all these years of friendship, it never occurred to me that there would still be sides to the Ridhas I had not seen, family dynamics I'd never witnessed. I wondered how much of the Hadi I knew was colored by the role he played in his family; I wondered how he might have appeared to me had I known him as a man first and the Ridhas' son second. Now that Dr. Ridha had made his stand, Hadi and I only saw each other when our families visited for a weekend. Since we couldn't go out alone together anymore, we stole kisses and gropes, but once alone, I'd turn over each embrace in my mind, burning with the shame of sneaking around and the irony of it all. Our families were like the state of Iran, expending an extraordinary amount of effort to keep us from being an unmarried man and woman out in public only to leave us with nothing to do inside but make out. Back at school, I struggled to come to terms with this boy I never failed to kiss but wasn't sure I liked and the elaborate wedding we were planning. Almost nightly, Hadi and I bickered over the phone regarding three areas of disagreement. CRISIS A: IS IT MY BODY OR YOURS? This argument touched on several matters (whether or not I'd get a massage prior to our wedding, how I'd style my hair that day, who we'd spend time with before we left for our honeymoon), but the one that received the most argumentative attention was the question of who would see me first on the day of our wedding. I believed Hadi should wait for me at the end of an aisle, like a proper Hollywood groom, maybe shed a tear the first time he saw me. Hadi thought that we should exchange a private moment prior to our wedding. He likened waiting at the end of an aisle to being the last person to see a present intended for him. I accused him of treating me like an object and of being jealous and controlling. Hadi accused me of being unsentimental and being more interested in our wedding than our future. CRISIS B: YOU ARE TOO BORING. YOU ARE GOING TO RUIN MY WEDDING. In April, Hadi's aunt threw us a bridal shower in a Lebanese restaurant. For the entertainment, Mrs. Ridha hired a well-known Persian dance troupe led by an agile, somewhat elfin man in harem pants. During the final song, the spritely dancer pulled us both to the center of the dance floor. He motioned for us to follow him as he wove through the tables, shaking a tambourine, and although Hadi cooperated, his body was tense and tight. Since my vision of my wedding featured an excited, happy groom, Hadi's bridal-shower presence concerned me. During our nightly phone calls, I reminded him that he had to become an eager dancer before our wedding, whether it was natural to him or not. Hadi argued that not all people expressed joy by dancing or laughing or other more public displays of glee. Some people, he said, are happy quietly. This, I informed him, meant that he was dull. And for added measure, I told him he didn't make me laugh enough. He was not funny, and in his company, I was doomed to a humorless life. CRISIS C: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING TO BECOME OF US? By the end of spring, it was apparent that Hadi would not be going to medical school in the fall. He would be graduating in a few weeks, and he had no admission, no job, and, for the moment, none of my respect. The invitations had been sent out, and the thought of calling off the wedding at this point was anathema to me. The Ridhas were equally loath to accept Hadi's pursuing a different path, and so after discussing several options, our families decided that come September I'd overload on units so that I could graduate at the end of my third year. Meanwhile, Hadi and I would live together close to campus. Under my supervision, he would work, take more classes, and reapply. The following fall, we'd go off to graduate school together. Even though I'd been the one to suggest the plan, I made sure to let Hadi know how much I hated it. Where would he even find a job? How would I know which graduate school to apply to if I didn't know where he was going to get into medical school? I never told Hadi that I was so overly critical of his academic history, because I was terribly insecure about my own achievements. Although I could make As by studying around the clock, I could not bring in anything more than average scores on standardized tests. To me, this proved that I was an academic imposter who had duped her teachers through hard work. I wanted to marry someone who'd help me keep up the charade, a genius on whose intellectual coattails I could ride. Together we'd talk about smart things, keep smart company, and no one would ever know that I'd been raised on sitcoms. But now Hadi's situation had pegged us as an average couple, the kind of people who went to no-name schools. Since I blamed Hadi for crisis C, I decided that this made him ineligible to participate in the negotiations of crisis A or B. Whenever we argued, I paraphrased this finger-pointing tirade: "You didn't do your part so you have no right to make any demands on our wedding plans. Because of you, I have to go into my wedding with a black cloud of doubt hanging over my head. The least you can do is give me the party I've always wanted." As long as I had my dream wedding, I believed there was still hope for Hadi and me. Then I could cast off our engagement memories, plot down our ceremony and reception as the opening to our love story, and wait for our newlywed years to redeem us. First Valentine's Day, first birthdays, first anniversary—these moments would be the chapters of an even better story. In the weeks leading up to our wedding, the shopping alone was enough to make me think my strategy was working. Of course, I wanted to get married. Hadn't I picked the floral arrangements on gold stands; the tiered fondant cake; the flower girls' ribbon-and-pearl dresses; the bridesmaids' entire ensemble, from their blush dresses to their rhinestone tiaras and white gloves? The only thing left to covet now was the family reunion I had hoped my wedding would inspire. The last time Mama and her six siblings had been in the same place was her 1971 wedding, but I also knew just how unlikely this possibility was. With the exception of one sister who lived in the United States, Mama's siblings were spread between the United Kingdom and Lebanon. One of the sisters in Lebanon still had her Iraqi passport, and coordinating summer bookings and visas to the United States was always a tricky and fickle business. But then it started to happen. My aunts and uncles each called to say that they were coming. This, in itself, shone like an omen that Hadi and I were meant to be together. Our union was so blessed that a veritable miracle was taking shape in its honor. The concerns I had about marrying Hadi were irrelevant when I compared them to the sweet anticipation of Jidu's face that first moment when all his children were in the same room again. First, we'd cry. Then we'd stay up late, laughing, chatting, and reminiscing. At my wedding, my aunts, uncles, and cousins would dance and clap and make me feel as if I was the most important person in the world to have ever gotten married. Picturing all of this made me giddily happy. I could fix my relationship with Hadi later, but there was no way to go back in time to change a wedding. And right now, these visitors, flowers, favors, and dresses all made me feel as if a sorcerer's hand had gone to work, rendering my girlhood dreams into reality. Then one morning, when Mama and I were lingering at the table after breakfast, discussing how to coordinate trips to the airport, how many vans to rent to haul us down to Los Angeles for the wedding, she said, "I'm going to tell you something Jidu told me before I got married. You leave your house in your wedding dress and you come back in your _kiffin_." I felt a faded memory come into focus. I'd heard this from Mama before, during her marriage talk. Out the door in a big, puffy dress, only allowed back in a papery funeral shroud. I shook my head. Did she really think she needed to tell me this now? She sensed my annoyance. "It's only a way of saying that this family doesn't believe in divorce." "I grew up in this family. You think I don't know that?" I had crossed a line with my tone, but Mama didn't call me on it. "There's no need to get angry. If you know it, you know it," she said and moved on to asking me where I thought we should take everybody, Disneyland or Universal Studios. I gave an opinion while trying to name the rock of tension sitting in my gut. This was more than annoyance. This was umbrage that my mother felt the need to warn me of the finality of marriage. For the past year and a half, she had watched me accept and swallow a list of troubles. She, of all people, should have known just how much I understood the irreversibility of my commitment to Hadi. Leaving Hadi hadn't been an option when we were engaged, and it was no more of an option now. A week before my wedding, my family pulled up in two rented vans to Hadi's family's three-bedroom San Diego beach house and unloaded our cargo: twenty-six people, their luggage, and extra bedding. The beach house would serve as Bride's Family Headquarters until we relocated to the hotel where our reception was being held. As we went about the house, carrying in bags and boxes, we continued the happy noisemaking we'd begun in the car, the clapping, the tambourine banging, and the ululating whistle, because this too was a part of the wedding celebrations. The groom was being brought his bride. Mama assigned all women and children to the master bedroom. The men would sleep in the living room (Hadi among them until he left for his parents' full-time residence). And two couples would get the remaining two bedrooms: my grandfather and his wife, out of respect for their age, and my uncle and his English wife. It wouldn't be fair to expect an English woman to rough it Arab-style. Jidu was the last to get down from the van; he was at his heaviest and needed time to clear the gap between the step and the ground. Standing in the doorway, I held out a hand for him, smiling at an image of him during the drive. He'd encouraged us to play the cassette tapes my cousins had brought along even though he was too observant to listen to music on any other occasion. "A bride is with us," he'd said as if that was reason enough for merriment and music. From our seats, we'd shimmied our shoulders and sang along, and Jidu had clapped, his hands meeting together and separating in jaunty little bursts. I led Jidu through the door. Hadi stood in the foyer and greeted Jidu with a salaam that Jidu returned along with a warm, "Hello, Baba," and a kiss on the forehead. "I'll tell you something," he said to Hadi in a conspiratorial whisper. "We're giving you the best girl. This is _Hadeytallah_." Gift from God. That was Jidu's nickname for me. He took both our hands and said he wished us all the happiness in this life and the next; he wished for us to see our grandchildren and our grandchildren's children. And then letting go of Hadi's hand, he said to me, "I carried your mother and every one of my daughters on their wedding day, and inshallah, inshallah, if God gives me the strength, I will carry you." I kissed Jidu's hand and led him up the stairs, my heart warm with anticipation. Jidu would carry me, and I would join the ranks of his daughters, my mother and my aunts, women I admired. That night, after dinner, we played the same cassette tapes, this time from the living room tape deck. We danced. We jumped. We made conga lines around the couch and squeezed in for group pictures that had to be snapped at least a dozen times with different cameras because of closed eyes, missing photographers, and wiggly children. We did this night after night. Hadi never danced. He had to be coaxed into the pictures. Most evenings, he sat on the stairs and watched us, neither smiling nor unsmiling. Everything about my family being together was exactly how I'd pictured it except for him. I wanted Hadi to charm my aunts and uncles, to smile and laugh so heartily that my family would congratulate me on finding such a great guy. I hoped my family's approval could cure me of whatever conflict still lingered in my heart. Their arrival had already brought me such peace with getting married. It was precisely because of my wedding that these people, who had not been under the same roof at the same time for over twenty years, had come together, and I adored being a part of this huge, noisy clan. I just wished Hadi blended in with us better, too. On the third night of our stay, I approached Hadi on the last step, a castigatory hand on my hip. "Why are you just sitting here?" "This isn't my kind of thing." "What do you mean by 'this'? This is a celebration for your wedding, and you're the groom, and you're not even acting like you're happy." "I'm not a happy groom just because I'm not dancing and clapping?" I scoffed as if Hadi was being ridiculous. "Pretty much. That's how most people show they're happy." "Well, that's not how I show that I'm happy, and if I am not happy enough for you, I can go back to my parents' house early. I don't have to stay." Hadi's suggestion intrigued me. If Hadi wasn't going to impress my family, at least he could leave them with fewer reasons not to like him. And I would enjoy everyone's company more if he wasn't here looking so disinterested, trying to pull me away every chance he got to talk or kiss or sneak a hug, and it would be so much easier to show up to my wedding, convinced I was making the right decision, if I didn't have all this proof day after day of how much our personalities differed. "I don't want you to leave," I said with feigned reluctance, "but maybe you'd enjoy spending more time with your family before the wedding, too." Hadi knew exactly what I was implying without my saying it. Although he had planned on going home over the weekend, he left the next day. I knew he was hurt. After months of bickering, months of me worrying about school and telling Hadi he should have tried harder, now there was this proof that what I wanted most from our wedding was not him but the party, these people. But instead of sympathizing with my soon-to-be-husband, I blamed Hadi for being too available. He'd created no scarcity with his love, no sense that it was a precious commodity. I was doing Hadi a favor by hinting for him to leave. I was strengthening our love's economy by giving it room to grow. The day before my wedding, my entire clan and I filed out of our rental vans in front of the Regal Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. At the hair salon, I got a blowout from a stylist who gave me a piece of advice for my rehearsal dinner: "Drink as much as you want tonight. Just take two Tylenols before you go to bed. You won't even feel hungover the next day." I looked at the girl in the mirror—brunette, fair-skinned, hazel eyes. I could have been any girl, Italian, maybe Greek. I knew the hairdresser didn't see me—the twenty-year-old Muslim girl who'd never had a drink in her life. I smiled and nodded at his drinking tip. I would play the part of the Western bride as long as I sat in his chair. Today, the day before my wedding, I did not have the energy to convince anyone that Hadi and I were childhood sweethearts, nor did I want to answer any questions about our marriage being arranged or if I loved my future husband. When my hair was done, I took my smooth, curl-free locks upstairs to the suite all my aunts and girl cousins were sharing. There, I played a different part, the Arab girl bride who let her aunts tell her she needed bigger, flashier earrings and brighter lipstick to go with her long, black sequined gown, who used one of their fancy headscarves as a shawl to cover her exposed shoulders. Then I headed downstairs, eager to see the preparations in the ballroom. As I opened the hall's towering double doors, I squealed with true delight. The tables had been set with white and gold linens, and tall gold bases awaited their floral centerpieces. Diana, Nadia, and Aysar were already there, rushing toward me with arms open wide. I hadn't even finished hugging them when Hadi showed up in a pinstripe suit, his hair freshly trimmed, carrying a dozen long-stemmed red roses in a gold box. Listening to my friends' collective "Aww," I felt a surge of certainty. I wanted this boy in a suit giving me beautiful things. My friends seeing it. This hall filling up with our out-of-town guests, a mix of family and friends. I crumpled up our old story and threw it away. This wedding would set our love story free. With a comb in one hand and cigarette in the other, Dariush, proprietor and Beverly Hills stylist extraordinaire, transformed the giant ball of back-combed fuzz on my head into a sleek updo. "You're a very pretty girl," he said in a thick Persian accent. He stubbed out his cigarette and added, "You should have a nose job. Such a shame a nose like that on such a pretty face." I should've resented having my flaws pointed out to me on my wedding day, but I didn't. Dariush was a genius, and there was no sense in distracting him over something as small as my pride. Dariush secured my rhinestone headpiece and then got to work on my face, gluing on individual false eyelashes, painting a thick line of black eyeliner over the evidence, trimming my eyebrows, and filling in my lips with a shimmery neutral. When I looked into the mirror, I felt triumphant, transformed. This was not the subtle, natural beauty extolled in American bridal magazines. This was a look straight from satellite television, the dramatic-eyed Arab bride. Back at the hotel, in a staging room that had been set aside for us, Mama helped me slip into my dress. Then she stood, taking me in, tears in her eyes. "Such a princess," she said before leaving to get Hadi. I'd given up on my see-me-at-the-altar dream after I realized he was going to see me for the pictures anyway. When Hadi first laid eyes on me, it was nothing like the moment I imagined. He made no gasp, no jump for joy, or other cinematic gesture. He merely took my hands, his lips spreading in a wide smile, and said how he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with me. "Me, too," I said, and I meant it. I loved Hadi in a tuxedo, the way the coat jacket filled out his shoulders and the way his bronze skin stood out against the bright white of his dress shirt. Standing there, taking in my groom while embraced by sheets upon sheets of tulle, I felt as if I were wearing the brand-new pages of our story together. Still holding my hand, Hadi led me to the ballroom so we could pose for photographs. All the tables had been set; small gold boxes filled with chocolates sat at the top of every plate; and floral arrangements full of fragrant gardenias, white roses, and sweet peas were perched on every stand. Our multitiered cake stood in a corner balcony. And the family and friends who made up my eight bridesmaids, among them Jamila, Lina, Diana, Nadia, and Aysar, had lined up in front of the photographer, a vision of pink, sparkly tiaras and little white gloves. Everything was exactly as I'd imagined if not better. After their group picture, my bridesmaids stepped away from the photographer and circled me. They told me I looked beautiful, and I told them the same. I marveled at Lina's curly locks secured in a French twist, a rhinestone bracelet pinned into the curve. It was such a careful detail, something so small but so lovely that I felt myself expanding into the beauty that surrounded me, into this moment and place where everything was right. There was no room for nervousness. No space for regret. No time for doubt. Today was perfect, and the memory of all this wonderfulness would be the balm for my and Hadi's uncertain future. We took pictures for an hour, and then we lined up outside the closed doors of the adjoining hall where we'd be holding our ceremony. When the sound of the DJ playing an airy, jazzy tune drifted toward us, the flower girls entered, followed by my eight bridesmaids, then our grandparents, my mother and brother, and Hadi and his mother. For my grand moment, the doors closed and then reopened to the sound of the wedding march—not because any of this was customary in any way. It was just iconic, something I coveted for no other reason than that I wanted to feel as if I was living out a scene from the movie _Father of the Bride_. With Baba at my side, I walked down the aisle slowly, pausing for photographs, pressing down on Baba's arm when his pace quickened. I felt rooted by the attention of our family and friends, alive and centered. I wished the aisle was longer. I wished I could walk with the weight of a bouquet in my hands, my legs pushing along a petticoat and a dozen layers of tulle, for hours. Hadi met me at the end of the aisle and gave my father a kiss on each cheek before taking my arm. Before us was a raised platform holding our wedding _sufra_ , a decorative spread of various symbols: a mirror for our bright future, colorful spices to guard against the evil eye, painted eggs for fertility, a piece of flatbread for prosperity, and a bowl of honey and two large cones of hardened sugar for our life to be sweet. Now Hadi and I walked around the sufra and sat on the velvet loveseat his mother had shipped from Egypt. The Seyyid who was marrying us stood by the microphone to our side, wearing a black turban and a freshly pressed black robe that opened to reveal a long, white gown underneath. I could not concentrate on the marital advice the Seyyid offered our guests; the anticipation roaring through me was too loud, too distracting. But as soon as I heard him calling me by name, asking me to accept the terms upon which our families had agreed, my mind became focused. I kept quiet as I'd been trained, waiting until he'd asked me five times in honor of the Prophet Muhammad, his two grandsons, and their parents. The fifth time, Mama gave me a nod, and with words I'd been rehearsing since I was twelve, I told the Seyyid that he was my representative, " _Na'am, inta wakili_." The women brought their tongues up to the roofs of their mouths. Their ululating ring made it official. But a critical piece of Americana was missing. I had wanted a you-may-now-kiss-the-bride moment. It was just as iconic as the wedding march, just as necessary. Dr. Ridha approached the microphone to make an announcement to our guests about where they would be gathering to say the evening prayers, and Hadi took the opportunity to get his father's attention with a loud "psst." Dr. Ridha leaned over us. Then, back at the microphone, he said with a chuckle, "Hadi would like to kiss his bride." There was laughter, and I was peeved. This wasn't supposed to be a funny moment, something we had to nudge our families to remember. We pecked on the lips, and there was more ululating before our relatives lined up to present us with their gifts of twenty-two-karat gold necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and rings. Our evening went on like this, something American, something Arab. Shortly after the gift exchange, our entire bridal party stood behind closed doors again, this time waiting to walk into the reception hall. For this entry, we were pure Arab. The Lebanese band struck up a typically Middle Eastern tune, and in typical _zeffa_ -style, Hadi and I walked in first, a chain of our relatives behind us clapping, dancing, and shaking tambourines. We circled the dance floor several times before the band took a break, and we went back to being American for my first dance with Hadi, a father-daughter dance, a brief interlude of American pop music chosen by our American DJ. A little "Chicken Dance." Some Spice Girls. A curious choice of the Beastie Boys' "Brass Monkey." It was as if my daily waffling between two cultures, my uncertainty over why I picked one tradition to observe over another, had put on a dress and some makeup and decided to throw a party. It picked out music and food, trying to fix the regular hotel-fare chicken breast with appetizers of hummus, dolma, and baba ghanoush. Sometimes my two worlds blended for such beautiful effect. Sometimes they clashed. In between songs, the DJ took the microphone and called out, "Huda, how did you feel the first time Hadi asked you out?" I froze, my heart beating wildly. Would I have to take the microphone and explain to the DJ now in front of everyone that we did not date and Hadi had never asked me out? A second later, I heard the first few notes of _I Will Survive_ , then the lyrics describing the singer as afraid and petrified. I breathed a sigh of relief. All that had been a culturally insensitive lead-in to the next song. Our guests resumed dancing. Most of Hadi's family remained on the sidelines, some because they were not much for dancing, others out of a fear of sin and gossip. My family relied on the immunity that being at the wedding of a close relative afforded them (dancing at the wedding of a relative was a sign of affection and therefore understandable), but this was only a temporary reprieve. Regret would consume them later. My uncle would lecture my cousins for dancing while wearing the hijab and lament how we'd represented our family. My aunts would compare themselves to Hadi's aunts, who had steered clear of the dance floor, and beg me to edit them out of the video. After dinner, the band returned with their tablas and ouds and their Lebanese lead singer. I relaxed, knowing I'd squeezed in all the American things I'd wanted. Now I could enjoy my religiously excused opportunity to dance. It was exactly like I'd pictured—Lina, Diana, Nadia, and Aysar joining me on the dance floor, our heads thrown back, giggles erupting. But now Hadi was retreating toward the tables. I knew I should go after him, ask him what was wrong, but my legs would not follow. A half hour later, we cut our cake, I tossed my bouquet, and then I grabbed the photographer and went over to Jidu who was sitting at his table. He smiled when he saw me, and without a word, he stood and bent at the knees. He wrapped his arms around the width of my dress, and invoking the name of our first Imam with a strained " _Ya Ali_ ," he hoisted me up into the air. I planted a kiss on his cheeks. The photographer's bulb flashed, and he put me down. When it was time to hit the dance floor again, Hadi stayed back, talking to his cousins, but I marched straight into the shadow of the glimmering disco ball. As the night wore on, tired bodies drifted back to their seats, but my loyal friends and I kept going. I didn't listen to my aching feet and back. I wanted to take advantage of every minute, every second. Hadi tapped me on my shoulder. "My back really hurts. I'm ready to go." "It's too early," I said. "I'm not ready for the night to end." He looked at me agape. "How can you say no? I'm telling you I'm in pain." But I refused again because I didn't care about Hadi's sore back or the deed that awaited us. This was what I wanted. This poufy dress. This crown. I didn't want to take it off yet. I would never wear it again. I would never be a bride again. "If you go back out there, then we're not doing anything tonight," Hadi said. "Fine," I answered because I didn't believe him. Once we got upstairs, Hadi would change his mind. He was a guy after all. Wasn't sex all they wanted? I went back to the dance floor and joined the flower girls whose exhaustion had made them hyper. We were the only ones dancing, but this did not deter me. As the bride, I, alone, set the mood for this party. I owed it to my guests to dance, and this was not a responsibility I took lightly. When people started to leave, Mama pulled me away from the dance floor to take photographs with our guests and to say goodbye. By one in the morning, the only people left in the hall were our relatives, but the spirit of the party had not left them. They lined up behind Hadi and me, the tambourines and drums reappearing. They clapped and sang us all the way to the elevator. In Arabic, they sang, "Love her, boy, love her. Don't be afraid of her mother." And then much to my chagrin, one of my uncles got everyone chanting in English, "We know where you're going. We know where you're going." When the doors to the elevator closed, my ears buzzed after hours of dancing into the blare of the band. My head pulsed with the weight of my rhinestone crown. My feet throbbed from the tightness of my shoes. And my new husband of about seven hours was angry. He stayed in his corner of the elevator, his arms folded, without saying a word. Given the chance, I did not choose him. I did not prove to him that he was more important than the party. It was over. Still in bed, I turned and looked at my wedding dress draped across a chair, the skirt so full of fabric it practically sat up. All that planning, hoping, and dreaming had evaporated in a few short hours. I would never wear that dress again, never be the guest of honor at such a grand party. Sadness pressed down on me like a giant boulder—a boulder that grew heavier when I thought about how things had gone last night. Hadi was already in the shower. I leaned over his side of the bed and dialed Mama's room. She practically squealed she was so happy to hear from me. "I wanted to call you before we left," Mama said, "but I was afraid to wake you. How did everything go?" I knew what she was alluding to, but I didn't have time to get into details. "Fine," I lied, "but our suitcases got mixed up. I don't have anything to wear." "I wondered what happened to my bag. I didn't even realize you didn't have yours." Moments later, the doorbell to our suite rang. All I had to wear was my underpants from the night before—my dress had sported its own built-in bra. I dug into Mama's suitcase and pulled on her ratty, old brown housedress, the one I'd seen her mop the floors in hundreds of times. I opened the door, and she threw her arms around me. When she pulled away, she looked confused. "Why are you wearing that?" "Because I don't have anything else to wear." "You mean you didn't even wear your beautiful nightclothes?" "If I did, would I be wearing this?" My new bridal set was still sitting in the suitcase on the floor beside her. Searching my eyes, she asked, "Are you okay?" I shrugged. "Did you do it?" I shook my head. "That's okay. Not everybody does it the first night. But how come? What happened?" I picked up the suitcase in one hand, and with the other, I pulled her over to the loveseat in the living room portion of the suite. Then I closed the door to the bedroom in case Hadi came out of the bathroom. He wouldn't have liked me discussing this with my mom. I sat down next to Mama, but I couldn't bring myself to look at her before I said, "We tried, but we couldn't." "What do you mean 'couldn't'?" "You know... _couldn't_. I'm pretty sure that I don't have a hole. There's just no way _that_ can get in _there_." It seemed there'd been a misunderstanding on my part. It didn't shrink so as to slip in nicely without hurting anyone. It grew. Mama laughed. "I assure you. You have a hole, and that does get in there." "If that's how this is done, then I'd really prefer to have nothing to do with it." I stared at my hands, still too uncomfortable to meet Mama's gaze. Mama was having a wonderful time at my expense. She laughed until she saw the look I flashed her. Then she worked to suppress her grin. "I'm not laughing at you. You're so cute, that's all. Sex is wonderful. You just have to relax. Maybe you're so nervous that it's making you dry. You know, you could try a little lubricant, and then when you get really aroused, close to the point of orgasm, then he can try." "Mama!" I said as if the entire word was an expression of shock. "Come on. We talked about these things." Ever the clinician, Mama never shied away from frank discussions about the body. "Yes, but it was a long time ago and I wasn't listening." I reached for my suitcase, unsure what to make of all this information. After all the kisses and touches we'd exchanged, I was so confident that my wedding night would be just like the dimly lit, passionate tangle of bodies I'd seen in the movies and that somewhere in all the kissing and moving, the intercourse part happened. I assumed that was how teenagers got pregnant on accident because it was so easy for a penis to slide inside a woman. I had no idea that I would have to play such a conscious role in all of this, that I'd have to oil myself up like some sort of a machine. The entire process struck me as unromantic and far too deliberate. Sex had seemed so easy on film, so inevitable. I told Mama I'd get dressed and meet everyone downstairs. I set my suitcase on the bed and pulled out the outfit I'd planned for this very day. An off-white dress with pearls around the cuffs. A set of lace undergarments in the same color. We were supposed to check out of this hotel and into another in Newport Beach for the few days until we left on our honeymoon. I thought about tonight and the next night, and the weight of the deed in front of us bore down on me. I didn't get it. Did the whole world really go around doing this? Why did women talk about the size of _that_ as if it was good for it to be big? Wouldn't they want it to be small so it wouldn't have to pierce them to make its way in? And on top of everything, I was so tired. I thought making love rested you, that it was in its own way a kind of sleep. On television, people always looked so refreshed after staying up all night to have sex. But now it seemed that time was time. Sex was sex. And sleep was sleep. Nothing canceled the other out, and now I was tired and my head throbbed. Why did everything have to be so different from how I had imagined it? I'd heard people say the first time hurt, and then it got better. When we arrived at our suite in Newport Beach, I told myself that all we had to do was get this first time behind us. This, unfortunately, was easier thought than achieved. After a series of failed attempts, I was fed up. We were failing at something so basic, so fundamentally human that teenagers figured it out on their own and in cars. We'd been naked for almost two days in a huge king-size bed, and nothing. It was embarrassing. That night I resolved to take care of business. "You're gonna have to hurt me," I said. "Just don't look at my face, and get it in there." "I'd rather not do it at all than hurt you," Hadi answered. I found this declaration unnecessarily chivalrous. "You don't mean that. Eventually we'll want to have kids." We talked about the best position from which to proceed as if we were two naked coworkers assigned to the same project. "Remember," I said. "Do whatever it takes to get it in there." After a considerable amount of rearranging—me propped up on pillows, no pillows, on my side, on my stomach, on my back—there was a breakthrough, the sensation of being punctured, followed by pressure, fullness, stretching. I wanted him out, and I was going to say so until I saw his face. Such surprise. Wonder. Joy. I said nothing. He asked, "Are you okay? Does that feel all right?" I said, "Yes." A carefully chosen one-syllable word. All I could utter without a grimace, an inflection of pain. "Do you want me to get out?" "Up to you," I replied because I wanted him out, but I also wanted to have done this right, for Hadi to feel whatever he was supposed to. He pulled out, and my entire body relaxed. "Are you done?" I asked. "That's okay. I can tell it's bothering you." "No, just do it. We have to do it right this once." I had to reassure Hadi several times that this was what I wanted before he leaned over me and filled my lower body once again with pressure. Such pressure, such tightness that the entire exchange struck me as completely wrong. It didn't fit in there. It didn't belong. But then Hadi's back arched, his eyes closed, and witnessing his reaction, his movement quickening, I felt a distracting sense of awe. My body could do this to him. Hadi drew in a breath and then released a deep sigh. He rested his head on my chest. I tapped him on the shoulder with an "Are you done?" And to his very grateful reply, I added, "Can you get out then?" I marveled at the return to emptiness, the relaxation it brought to muscles I didn't know I had. "Is there blood?" "No," Hadi said, reaching for the box of tissues. "Really?" I asked, unsure of how to react, how he would react. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, you're fine. Not everyone bleeds." "How do you know?" "Biology," he said so plainly I wanted to cry. It was as if my entire body had been dunked in relief. We'd finally done it. And Hadi was Hadi, and I was me, and we lived in America, and nobody was waiting to see a bloody sheet, and I was married to a man who knew this was not a cause to question my honor. "Hadi, women have been divorced for this, and shamed for this, and I know it's weird to mention this now, but I can't help but think that could've been me." I threw my arms around Hadi. With all the things that had disappointed me over the last year and a half, in this monumental way he had not. If this was a kind of test, Hadi had passed. We had passed. "Are you okay?" Hadi asked. "Yes," I said. "But I think I'll take a bath." I wanted to soak away the soreness within me and think about all of this—the kind of man Hadi had shown himself to be, the couple we were, the sex we'd had. It hadn't looked or felt anything like I thought it would. There were no frantic movements, no passionate grunts, and none of the pleasure I'd experienced with Hadi before. This was a bodily function only shared with another person. At our wedding, Hadi's parents had surprised us with two tickets to Madrid and then to Málaga. It was a long-held dream come true. I had told Hadi about my fascination with Islamic Spain, the notion that East and West had intersected there long before it had become the defining dichotomy in our Muslim American lives, how the beauty of its architecture proved that the two worlds we straddled had always meant to be melded. What I didn't tell him was that I also had high hopes of looking fabulous there. I'd pictured myself with my hair tied in a bun, wearing big hoop earrings and a red flower behind my ear. We'd watch flamenco and, in doing so, pick up the dance naturally and easily. It was my first international flight that I was old enough to remember, and I was very impressed with the frequent snacks even in coach: little pieces of toast with cream cheese and olives, some with shaved cucumbers. Hadi and I kept busy playing card games and napping on each other, but as soon as we landed, I panicked. Standing in front of the luggage carousel, waiting to go through customs, I looked over at Hadi and decided we were too young to be traveling alone. The act of being married didn't suddenly turn us into capable adults. We were in a foreign country, and we needed our mommies and daddies. Fortunately airports are tailored to inexperienced travelers. We followed the signs and made our way through customs and into our shuttle effortlessly. When the Mercedes van finally neared the center of the city, my heart raced at the sight of the ornate colonial buildings, the narrow streets lined with compact cars on the ground and charming balconies above, and the main streets crowded with taxis waiting to be hailed and with pedestrians heading in and out of small shops. It was so different from suburban California, its parking lots and strip malls. Madrid had more character and personality than any of the heavily franchised cities I'd known. With my airport anxieties now behind me, I looked over at Hadi and itched with an unexpected restlessness, a longing to know the freedom of being on my own in a new place. In front of us sat a group of single women, all in their late twenties. Next to them, we were too young to be married. Dating maybe. But married? The image we presented to the world, outside of our small community, didn't make sense, and it was this image of us I couldn't shake. I felt as if I'd finally arrived to my life's most exciting destination, but I was no longer an exciting person. I was not single. I was not free. Hadi, on the other hand, went straight to the camcorder we'd borrowed from his parents. He set it up in our hotel room, and later he lugged it to Retiro Park and then on every city tour after. Every time he opened the viewfinder, he addressed our future children and asked me to say something to our unborn offspring. I hated that Hadi was already turning us into fuddy-duddy parent-tourists with a video camera, but admitting as much seemed to establish Hadi as the better parent prematurely. And so on camera, I protested wordlessly. I was grumpy, uncooperative, and sullen. It was a mood that soon came to color off-camera moments too. I'd expected the same religious immunity that applied to weddings to apply to our honeymoon. I'd packed an evening gown, hoping we'd go out dancing in Madrid. Even though neither one of us had ever set foot in a club before, the image of us dancing together had always defined my mind's picture of what it meant to be grown up and independent. During the four nights we spent in Madrid, we never went dancing, and I kicked myself for harboring the ridiculous fantasy that merely being in Spain would suddenly transform us into a pair of ballroom dancers. The gown stayed in the suitcase. We came back to our room almost every night around eleven, and even though we had sex on every one of those nights, I pitied myself because of it. I was tired of setting aside so much time every day, sometimes twice, to pleasure-seeking. I had a lifetime of sex ahead of me. What I really wanted to do was to see this country that would only be available for my eyes to see now. When we later arrived in Málaga, my aspirations for the evening gown transferred to the bathing suit at the bottom of our suitcase. The modest swimwear industry was still years into the future, and so I justified this purchase with thoughts of Jamila and the swimsuits Mrs. Ridha had bought her daughter for her honeymoon in Hawaii. How wrong could it be to bare a little skin, I rationalized, if Jamila's own mother, my mother-in-law, had purchased a bathing suit for her daughter? From our balcony, the views of the bougainvillea-laden trellis, the shapely pool below it, and the shimmering Mediterranean only a few footsteps beyond seduced me. It couldn't be possible that I'd been brought all this way only to be denied an opportunity to enjoy either body of water. I waited for Hadi to offer that we go for a swim, and when he didn't I hinted. "I bet you really want me to wear the bathing suit I packed so we can go swimming." "I do want you to wear it," he said, "but not to go swimming." "But why else would I wear it?" "For me. In here." My blood boiled. I had believed in the Islamic ideal of a woman's beauty belonging only to her husband. I had so ardently defended it to my classmates, arguing that it brought intimacy to a relationship. But now that I was the object of such singular attention, I chafed. I knew I didn't necessarily want to wear a swimsuit in public. I just wanted to break the rules on this one occasion, the way others before me had broken the rules. I wanted Hadi to condone my behavior, absolving me of my guilt, and then together we'd resume our religiously observant lives. But because Hadi was now denying me this one chance to bend, it was him I resented. Not wearing a bathing suit in public was no longer my choice, the way it had been when I was in high school. It was Hadi's decision, Hadi's fault. Bringing my hands up to my hips, I said, "We came all this way. You don't want to go to the beach?" "I'm fine." "But I'm not fine." "So we'll go." "We'll go, and what will we wear?" "Our clothes." "I didn't come all this way to stare at the Mediterranean Sea in my clothes." "You want to wear a bathing suit?" I shrugged because I couldn't bring myself to say yes. "Why would you want to now? You've never wanted to before." "Hadi, I haven't been in a hotel pool since I was nine. _Nine_. And it was fun, and I liked it, and I just want to feel that again. Your mother bought a bathing suit for your sister. She took her honeymoon break, and I want my break too." "That doesn't make sense to me. If something is wrong, then it's always wrong. You can't take breaks from rules. They're there for a reason." I never imagined I could have this kind of disagreement with Hadi. I'd assumed we shared such a similar background that our religion and culture were going to be the conflict-free areas of our lives, but here we were, one of us willing to break the rules, one of us not. "I don't even know what that reason is anymore, Hadi. Before we got married, I didn't wear a bathing suit, because I didn't want to show my body to other men, but now that we're married, what's the point? Nobody's going to look at me or ask me out." "I'm really not comfortable with you wearing a bathing suit." "I really resent that now that we're married, you get to decide this for me." "That's not how I see it. I don't want anyone but you to see me. I don't want to go to a pool and have other women look at me." _Other women, please._ And because it wasn't cruel enough to think it, I said, "I don't care if anyone sees your body, Hadi." He looked wounded, and this annoyed me so much I began to cry from frustration. Getting our parents out of the picture, dictating what we could and could not do, was supposed to save us. Our wedding was going to be the new opening to our love story, but here we were falling into our old patterns, losing a precious day in Spain arguing over such muddy issues—religion and privacy, control and love. Each issue felt like a falling tree, crashing into our lives, impossible to get around. Hours of discussion later, Hadi and I went down to the beach. Instead of a bathing suit, I wore Hadi's shorts that swung below my knees and his oversized T-shirt. I looked ridiculous, I felt ridiculous, and as we walked along the water, I pointed out every topless woman and every G-string and said, "You really think people would've been looking at me when there are people here like her?" But we got on with the afternoon. We walked in the sand and gathered the seashells that caught our eyes. Working together on a common task felt like a reconciliation, and we went back to our room with shells in our pockets and our hands linked. That night, however, I struggled to fall asleep. I wondered if this fight meant we were destined to spend our lives together arguing. I wondered why my mother promised me I'd have more independence after I got married when marriage had only added on a husband telling me what to do. The next day and for the rest of our trip, I did not give voice to any of the thoughts that troubled me. We still hadn't explored any parts of Andalusia, the inspiration behind this entire journey, and I didn't want to waste any more of our precious time bickering. When we finally took the all-day bus trips to Grenada and Cordoba, the architecture filled me with so much awe and wonder I felt too grateful to utter a single, negative comment about our relationship. It had brought me here. On those day trips, I'd rest my head on Hadi's shoulder on the way going and coming, and we'd take in the fields of sunflowers outside our windows, chuckling at our multilingual tour guide's adorable English and the antics of the tanned-to-rubber, chain-smoking senior citizens at the back of the bus. At the end of the day, we'd have late-night dinners at the Italian restaurant across the street from our hotel, the same overworked waiter serving us every night. And perhaps, sweetest of all, we'd buy sizzling-hot mini-donuts doused with a squirt of chocolate from the elderly couple with the cart on the main avenue. At the time, it never occurred to me that married life could be a continuation of this pattern. A little bliss. A little strife. Mismatched ideals and conflicting viewpoints. Big clashes and small resolutions. On our honeymoon, these arguments shook me. If we could not navigate our happy, carefree moments without tension, then I feared for our everyday lives, the struggles waiting for us when we returned. It was my first wedding anniversary, and instead of jetting off to Europe like Amina or loading up my car for a road trip to a rustic cabin like Sura, I was on an airplane, moving to Mexico. After overloading units to graduate a year early, I'd been nominated as the valedictorian of my graduating class, won the History Department's award for best senior thesis, and been accepted to a handful of graduate programs, some with tuition waivers and stipends. Hadi had been accepted into the medical school he applied to as a backup plan, the one in Guadalajara, Mexico. A flight attendant slid an omelet, the texture and color of a kitchen sponge, onto my open tray table. I picked at my food with a plastic fork. I couldn't cry and chew at the same time. "Why don't you try to eat something?" Hadi said, slicing into his bread as if he hadn't just uprooted my entire existence. "Maybe you'll feel better." At first, the suggestion that mere food could offer me some comfort insulted me, but after I sniffled through the first two bites, it appeared that Hadi was right. The omelet was warm, and it filled some of the hollowness inside me. Without intending to, I finished everything on my tray. Refreshed, I turned to the window and cried again. I had wished for so much of this. I had wanted the adult status that came with being a married woman. I had wanted to travel without heeding Mama's warning that we had to stay together so if we died, we died together. But I hadn't wanted to move to another country and put my education on hold. Hadi had offered to come with me to graduate school. He said he'd wait out another year, apply again, or maybe pursue a different career path. But I knew we couldn't survive another round of applications together. Hadi was a procrastinator, and I was a generous giver of helpful advice and reminders. We contemplated going our separate ways and meeting up during vacations to resume our married life, but this too would not do. I was carrying around a heavy bag of resentment with Hadi's name on it. Living with Hadi for almost a year had taught me two things about him: he was brilliant, but he also sabotaged himself. Hadi was a true problem-solver, someone who enjoyed troubleshooting all sorts of issues—be it a glitchy computer, a clogged pipe, or a flickering light—but when it came to school and applications, he never studied long enough or started anything early enough to have a real chance of success. I told myself that a few months of separation would turn my resentment into a rift too wide to bridge, but deep down, I also knew that I was afraid to go off to school alone. After years of Mama telling me I had to wait to get married to travel and live on my own, I believed it. I didn't know any Muslim girls who'd gone to school out of state, and now that I was married, it didn't feel very wifely either. The kind of wife I heard the aunties in our community extol was always dutiful and self-sacrificing. The type of woman who went to graduate school alone was independent, strong-willed, and indifferent to disapproving gossip. I had no idea how to pretend I was a woman like that. If I had I wouldn't have gotten married in the first place. The tissue in my hands had turned to shreds, so I reached for the coarse napkin on my breakfast tray. Less than two hours ago, I had waved goodbye to Mama and Lina wiping away their tears, and Baba standing awkwardly beside them, hands behind his back. At my feet was a bag with all of my acceptance letters to graduate school. Soon I'd have to write to these universities to tell them I wasn't coming, and those letters would be all I had left, each one a tiny diploma, a small salute to years of hard work. But just when it seemed that I'd reached a new depth of self-pity, a voice from within urged me to get a grip, reminding me that Mama had gone through far more, flying all the way from Iraq to the United States with a husband she barely knew. I was twenty-one years old. I had a college degree, and I was friends with my husband before I married him. Yes, I was moving to a different country, but I was only a three-hour flight away from home, and my family had already bought their plane tickets to see me in a month. _This will be over in a few years, the voice warned, and you'll be sorry you didn't have a nice anniversary. Make a good memory for today, and then you can be sad again tomorrow._ In the days before we left California, I'd entertained two competing and shamefully stereotypical images of what Mexico was going to be like. Either I'd find people in ponchos and sombreros, living in adobe houses with donkeys tethered outside, or they'd be dressed in flowing linen with flowers in the ladies' hair and residing in palatial villas with large balconies overlooking a flowered courtyard. As we drove from the airport to our hotel, it appeared that only one aspect of my vision had been correct. Guadalajara was a landscape of contrasts. We drove past brick houses with glassless windows and flat tin roofs; past modern buildings and an even greater number of charming, colonial ones; and, finally once into the suburbs, past tall concrete walls, some of them a block long, safeguarded with jagged, broken glass bottles. Every time a gate opened, I craned my neck to get a peek at the mysterious mansion inside, the surrounding walls seeming to imply the home within was too precious to be viewed. In the taxi, I no longer felt the urge to cry. My eyes were now busy searching out my surroundings for clues as to what my life would be like. Everything had to be taken in: The vendors ladling colorful juices out of large tubs into clear plastic bags they tied closed with a rubber band around the neck of a straw. The intersections where children begged, men wiped down windshields, and clowns juggled. The arch strangely reminiscent of France's Arc de Triomphe. The multilane roundabouts that spoke a language of toots and honks. Before I was ready for our drive to end, we arrived at our hotel. From our room, I called home to inform my parents of our arrival and then opened up my suitcase to change for dinner. On top was the evening gown and strappy, silver high-heeled shoes I'd lugged on my honeymoon and what was beginning to seem like a symbol of my relentless, impossible hope. Last night while packing my bag with Mama, I had imagined finding a fancy restaurant to celebrate our anniversary, that there in the glory of a romantic moment this unexpected move would be transformed into the grandest of adventures. How foolish this dream now seemed as I stood in front of all the clothes my mother helped me select and fold. Just thinking of Mama twisted my stomach with a tightness that proved the word homesick terribly apt. For the sake of posterity, I coaxed myself into a cotton summer dress and the same pair of flat, black sandals I'd worn on my honeymoon. I would want a better story of our first anniversary than an evening spent in our hotel room, crying. Outside, the weather was still warm and inviting even though the sun had begun to set. We walked until we came to an indoor shopping mall, the center of which was filled with children bouncing silver missile-shaped balloons. Instantly I felt my mood lift. The lack of rules inhibiting children's play struck me as very Arab. It reminded me of services at the masjid where all the children wandered about oblivious to the speaker behind the microphone, snacking on chips, climbing over the bodies seated on the floor. Maybe we would fit in here. Maybe we'd fit in here better than we did in the United States. The only restaurant options were an outdated Mexican diner and the Kentucky Fried Chicken we had passed on the way. Hadi asked me if I wanted to leave and keep walking, but it was getting late, and I was afraid we'd get lost or, worse, find nothing and wind up coming back to the same spot. But when he asked me which of the two places I preferred, I panicked. I could not have my first wedding anniversary dinner at either of those places. I tried to pass the choice back to Hadi. "I don't know. Where do you want to go?" "It doesn't matter to me." "You always say it doesn't matter. Today I need it to matter." "That's not what I meant. It's just that you care about where we spend special occasions more than I do." I started to say, "Let's just go to the di—" but then traveler's anxiety overcame me, and I suggested KFC. It took a lot more language to sit in a restaurant than it took to order fast food. We stood back before entering the line, staring at the lit-up menu. The options were limited enough to make the choices decipherable, but that still didn't solve the problem of what we would order. Up until that moment, Hadi and I had only eaten halal meat, but there wasn't going to be any halal food in Mexico. We hadn't discussed the issue. Were we going to be vegetarians, or were we going to start buying store-bought meat? I said, "If we aren't getting chicken, then that pretty much leaves biscuits and mashed potatoes. And the coleslaw, but you don't like that." "The gravy is probably meat-based, so you'll have to tell them to skip it." "Mmm. Mmm. What a dinner," I said. "I'm fine with that. Go ahead and order." "Me? Why me?" "You're the one who speaks Spanish." "I do not. I took Spanish in high school. Everybody knows that you don't actually speak the language you studied in high school." "But you still know more than I do." "Is that how it's going to be here, too? Me taking care of everything? Fine. I'll order." I stepped into the mazelike line, fuming. As the line thinned, I rehearsed, " _Puré de papas, bisquets_ ," but how do you say "gravy," and how do you say "I'd like"? Do I just say, " _Quiero_ , I want..." or should I say, " _Puedo tener_ , can I have..."? Standing in front of the cashier, my mouth went dry. A language barrier was all it took to make a teenager in a paper hat intimidating. I'd never actually produced Spanish words for another person's ears. In my mediocre Spanish classes, we read and took tests, but even our teacher spoke to us in English. Now this boy was going to think I was so stupid. " _Buenas tardes. ¿En qué le puedo servir?_ " I already didn't understand, but that was okay. All I had to do was tell him what I wanted. " _Quiero_ ," I said, " _purè de papas sin_ gravy." I prayed that he knew the word _gravy_ , but his expression was blank. At once, I grew uncomfortably warm. I took a deep breath and then tried another approach. " _¿Habla inglés?_ " He shook his head, and I searched for a thought basic enough to translate into Spanish while sweating through my dress. Gesturing to the bowl I created with my hand, I said, "I don't want the thing on the potatoes." "Ahh," he said as if he now understood. The flames of discomfort that had lit up around my ears cooled down. I carried our order back to the table where Hadi was sitting. Still standing, I peeled back the lid on the mashed potatoes. There was gravy all over it. I sank into our bench. "You didn't tell them we don't want gravy," Hadi said, surprised. "I thought I did." "Take it back," he suggested as if it was the simplest, most obvious solution. "I can't." "What do you mean, you can't?" "I just can't," I said, feeling tears sting my eyes for the hundredth time that day. How was I going to manage my life here? We couldn't even order dinner, and we still had to find a place to live, get around in taxis, buy housewares and maybe furniture. I felt as if someone had switched on the lights in a dark room, and suddenly I could see what it meant for my parents, Hadi's parents, and all our family friends to have moved to the United States. Had they really gone through moments like this and survived? I pushed a plastic spork through its wrapper. "Just scoop it off and eat around it. Please. If you really love me, you'll just eat it." On the way back to the hotel, I held Hadi's hand because the sky had grown dark and cloudy and the sidewalks were uneven. Hadi said, "Watch out for that crack." I looked down, and in that moment a fat rat scurried in front of us, its long tail sweeping the dusty sidewalk. I let go of Hadi's hand, then screamed and jumped up and down in place as if trying to shake off the rodent's memory. Then it started to rain. This was not a gentle rain that arrived with a soft, warning drizzle. This felt as if the sky broke open and poured its entire contents upon us. Hadi took my hand again, and we started to run, but my feet kept slipping out of my sandals. Hadi looked back and said, "You had to wear those shoes. You still haven't learned about the elements." There was a levity to his tone and a smile on his lips, and I knew exactly to what he was referring. On our honeymoon, every time a pebble rolled into my sandals or my toes got covered in dust, he'd say, "That's why I always wear closed-toed shoes. To protect my feet from the elements." He thought he was being cute bringing this up now, that this moment would remind me of happier times and lighten my mood. I didn't appreciate it. My mood was so heavy it would have taken wheels to make it budge. By the time we got back to our hotel, we were soaked, but still we stopped to look out the window. Jagged bolts of lightning cut through the night. Thunder roared. And through the window opposite us, rain pummeled its way through the space between the panels of the courtyard's clear glass roof, the fronds on the potted plants flattening from the pressure and the tile floor disappearing under water. "Oh my God. It's a hurricane," I said. This was it. The roof of the hotel was going to blow off, and we were going to die tonight. Hadi said, "It's just a summer thunderstorm. I'm sure everything will settle down in a bit." But the only thing that settled down that night was the storm. As soon as all our first anniversary deeds were done, gifts, kisses, and bodies exchanged, I started crying again, straight onto Hadi's bare arm. He tried to comfort me, promising me that things would get better as soon as we found a home, but I wasn't thinking that far ahead. I was feeling the full weight of what I'd lost. After all those years of encouragement from my professors, their assurances that I had great academic promise, I had followed my husband like a big, fat Arab stereotype. My mind pounded with a thought so seditious it frightened me. If only I'd waited, it said, I could've married someone else from our community, someone who wouldn't have pulled me out of school. I could have had my dream Muslim American love story and my career, too. The next two weeks passed as an odd amalgam of pleasure and pain, of feeling as if we were on vacation but not. Parts of our days were spent trying new restaurants, walking to the mall, and watching that summer's blockbusters from the plush leather recliners at the nearest cinema. There was a thrill to each of these activities, within them delightful moments of discovery. In Mexico, you could buy a drink and a big tub of popcorn at the movies without it costing more than your ticket, and you could eat avocados every day without it being expensive. _Nuez_ or nut ice cream and yogurt were now my favorite flavors, and the _bolillos_ at the grocery store, pulled straight from the oven, gave the notion of fresh bread new meaning. However, in the midst of all this loveliness, we still had to make daily trips to the university; wait in long lines to apply for Hadi's student visa; return with stacks of passport-sized photographs of Hadi from every angle and photocopies of every piece of paper that ever had his name on it; pay a slew of bills for his tuition, books, and supplies; and apartment hunt. Many days felt as if they were one long chain of Kentucky Fried Chicken moments. Every time we got into a taxi, ordered at a restaurant, or went to see an apartment, there was always one critical word I did not know and could not find in my dictionary. High school Spanish had not prepared me to say things such as the following: "Where is the water tank?" "Is it a gas or electric water heater?" "Are we responsible for filling up the gas tank?" "Does the apartment have a working telephone line?" That is until we met our new landlord Fernando. Fernando spoke perfect English, and for that we loved him. "So the utilities are included?" Hadi asked, finally taking the lead of our apartment hunt. "Yes, electricity, gas, and water are all included, and I think you will find our accommodations very comfortable. All the furniture is here for your convenience. My brother has a furniture factory, so that is why all our furnishings are very _de lujo_. I think you say 'of luxury.' And the bed coverings are new. All you have to do is bring your things." A segment of one of Guadalajara's obscenely large homes, Fernando's apartment had the original mansion's front door—an imposing stained-glass masterpiece—and the original kitchen, which was a large room with a six-burner gas stove, a tiny refrigerator, and a nearly bedroom-size pantry. A wall of smoky mirrors divided what must have once been an enormous living space, and to the side of that wall stood a bathroom and our only bedroom. But it was a move-in-ready place with an English-speaking landlord. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter that the rent was as much as our apartment in overpriced California. After a stressful two weeks of bickering with each other and changing hotels, this odd but beautiful apartment answered our prayers. A week later, Hadi left for his first day of school. I waved to him from the marble steps outside our front door and then returned to our apartment with a gnawing sense of loss. This was the first time since kindergarten that I was not attending school. My first week at home, I slept much more than I intended. In the mornings, I'd look at my clock and think I could've gone to two classes in the time it had taken me to wake up. Then I'd stare at the contents of my closet and wonder if it was worth getting dressed when I had nowhere to go. I'd conclude no and sit back down on my bed with the books I had assigned to myself. But reading alone, without tables full of other students at my side, was lonely, so quiet and pitiable that I'd turn on the television for company and then find myself sucked into episodes of _Santa Barbara_ dubbed in Spanish. On the days we needed groceries, I took a bus into town and bought whatever my hands could carry, including a newspaper to look for jobs. Soon my family's upcoming visit gave my shopping a different purpose. I needed mats for them to sleep on, bedding, and more towels. We'd been in Mexico for one month when Mama, Lina, and Ibrahim, who had another month of break before he started back up at school, arrived at my door in an airport taxi (Baba had decided to come in a few months to give me something to look forward to after they left). For the five days they camped out on the mats I'd laid out around our living room, that feeling of being on vacation returned. Hadi would leave in the morning for class, and we'd wake up at a leisurely pace; have a breakfast of bolillos, Oaxacan cheese, and some fruit; and then call a cab to take us to the tourist attractions in my _Lonely Planet Mexico_ travel guide. In their company, I didn't dread using what little Spanish I knew. As a part of his graduate studies, Ibrahim had been traveling all over Europe and the Middle East, perfecting his Arabic, picking up Italian and Turkish, and now I felt equally adventurous sharing how I, too, was making my own way in another country, picking up another language. Seeing Guadalajara through my family's eyes was validating: it was an exciting tourist destination, its unique _artesanías_ worthy of bringing back home as souvenirs, its architecture the perfect photo opportunity. I enjoyed my family's company so much I wished I still shared my daily life with them. Not this husband who didn't get my intellectual pursuits the way Ibrahim did, who didn't need my big sisterly advice the way Lina did, who didn't cook our meals and help wash our dishes and ask me how I was feeling the way Mama did. Now more than ever before, I wanted to talk to Mama. I knew the circumstances that had brought Mama to America, but I wanted to hear exactly how her heart felt, how she got used to missing her family, how she found the courage to continue her education in her second language. But we rarely had a moment to talk. The days blurred past, filled with shopping and sightseeing. On the last weekend of their trip, Hadi and I rented a small Nissan Tsuru to take Mama, Lina, and Ibrahim through the heavily forested, winding roads to Puerto Vallarata. Because Hadi was the only one among us who knew how to drive a stick shift, he drove the entire weekend, a roundtrip of over four hundred miles, but I did not repay his kindness with gratitude. I picked on him the whole time, for wearing socks and laced shoes to the beach, for keeping his shirt tucked into his pants, for being too stuffy. Mama tired of my attitude and scolded me to "back off the boy," but I couldn't escape the thought that soon she would be leaving with my brother and sister and that I had to stay in Mexico with Hadi—the man I was married to but who was not related to me, not my family. I belonged with them, too. After Mama, Lina, and Ibrahim left the following Monday, I cried alone in my apartment, choked by its emptiness, the memory of them at my breakfast table. This was what I had rushed into; this was my ticket to freedom and my grand, sweeping love story—eating breakfast alone in Guadalajara, not being enrolled in school. Our first year of marriage I had been so busy, overloading units so I could graduate early and go off to school with Hadi, that I hadn't felt the full weight of domestic life. Hadi had been the one with a more flexible schedule. He'd worked, shopped for groceries, cooked our meals, and done our laundry, but here the unrelenting cycle of shopping, meals, and dishes was all mine. Hadi had been the better housekeeper. To keep food fresher, he'd store it in a Ziploc bag that he'd close right up until the corner, where he'd insert a straw to suck out all the air. He folded all our socks in half so as not to tax the elastic, and he folded all our towels the same way so that they'd fit better in the closet. To me, these tasks were too inconsequential to be given any attention. I placed the toilet paper onto the roll whichever way it came into my hand. I closed the shampoo bottle without waiting for its shape to be restored. I sealed sandwich bags shut without squeezing out the excess air first and balled up our socks without any regard for their longevity. Hadi could not understand my haphazardness. He'd pause in front of a stack of folded clothes and ask curiously, "Is there a reason why you folded some of these shirts with the sleeves to the side and some with the sleeves behind?" "There's no reason, Hadi," I'd say. "Some people do things without thinking about them." "Okay," he'd say with his arms raised up in surrender. "Just trying to see if you'd found a better way of doing something." And this was the real kicker for me. I did have a better way of doing things when it came to school, but all last year, Hadi never asked me if there was a reason why I outlined every chapter I read or why I started my term papers weeks before. No. He just went to work and put towels and food storage first, and this was where it got us. Hadi was the student I had wanted to be, but he wasn't studying the way I would have studied. "Shouldn't you be doing something for school?" I'd ask every time I caught him without a book in front of him. But my constant reminders made us argue far more than they inspired Hadi to work. I knew I needed something to fill my time, something to get my mind off Hadi's study habits and my longing to be back in school. The following week, I took the bus to the local university and signed up for Level II Spanish classes, but being in a classroom made everything better and worse all at the same time. Tucked behind a wooden, one-armed desk, I missed the furious scribble of notes I'd had in college, the sense that I was fulfilling a calling. Now I was learning how to say "elbow" and "eyebrow" and describing my classmates as having very skinny elbows and very dark eyebrows. And while I valued the opportunity to learn a language, I wanted to leave the classroom with an idea worth contemplating and defending, something I could discuss over coffee with friends. Now my only classmates were sophomores and juniors in college, studying abroad. They attended classes by day and partied by night. They were living with Mexican families who gave them meals and a room. I had a husband. I paid rent in Mexico and shopped for groceries. I was not visiting; I was trying to make a life. We'd start the school day with a two-hour grammar course, followed by a two-hour conversation class in which Señora Gonzalez, a matronly woman with cropped hair and full cheeks, stood in front of the blackboard and posed a strange mix of both banal and thoughtful questions for each one of us to answer in Spanish. "What is your favorite sport and why?" "I like the basketball because the balls are very beautiful. Very orange." "Who is someone you admire?" "I admire my mother. She is a very good person. She is short and nice." "What will you tell your friends about Mexico?" "It is a country with very nice people and very good food." Then she turned to me and said, "Tell us about something important to you." "The history is very important. If we understand the history, we are going to be more sensitive people." "Why you don't say your husband? Your family?" the girl next to me interrupted in broken Spanish. Revealing a mouth full of shiny braces, she added, "You always giving big answers." "Yes, that too," I said and nervously seesawed my pencil against my thumb. Suddenly, I saw how my classmates viewed me. I was the annoying girl with the lofty ideas, trying to turn a Spanish class into a seminar. Hadi loved it when I visited him on campus, but I hated watching other students going on with their careers when I didn't know where I was going with mine. I hated being asked what I was doing to fill my time because taking Spanish classes sounded so small, so accessible, so unrevealing of my 4.0 GPA. And, most of all, I hated meeting the female medical students. They were aspiring doctors while I was the aspiring doctor's wife, and a handful of them, I soon discovered, were Muslims, one of them who wore the hijab. I had thought I had to get married so I could go to graduate school in another state, and these girls' parents had been willing to send them out of the country for the sake of their education. The day Hadi introduced me to Marjanne, an Iranian American woman in his class who also happened to be from California, I hit a new low. She was friendly and warm, but none of that made an impression on me. What stayed with me was her reply when I told her I'd been taking Spanish classes. "You know what you should do?" she asked, her eyes widening with excitement. "You should make sandwiches and bring them around during lunch. God knows, I'd buy them. The only thing close by is that taco stand, and I'm scared to eat there." "That's something to think about," I said in a tone Marjanne mistook for sincerity. Pulling her long, crinkly hair over one shoulder, Marjanne added, "I think that would go over really well. Don't you, Hadi? Bring some turkey or pastrami sandwiches in a little basket. People would buy that right up." Hadi was wise enough not to respond. I forced a smile, and we excused ourselves from Marjanne's company. Later that afternoon, Hadi and I walked home in a dangerous quiet, but as soon as Hadi closed our front door behind us, I exploded. "Do you see what I've been reduced to here? People think I'm some little wifey, sitting around at home, waiting to cook for everybody." I wouldn't have minded making sandwiches had I still been enrolled in a degree program. Then any of the cooking I did could have been something extra, an added talent, but here, the suggestion made me feel so provincial, so married off. I thought all of us Muslim sisters were on the marriage track together, and now Islam wasn't the excuse; it wasn't the reason. It was one thing to have sacrificed my education to uphold God's law and quite another to have clung to rules unique to my family. But then a few weeks after meeting Marjanne, an Indian American guy in Hadi's class introduced me to his wife, Zoya. They'd gotten married on one of his visits back to India. Zoya had been eighteen years old and right out of high school. They'd already had their first child, a chubby, blue-eyed toddler, so cute I had to keep myself from squeezing the rolls in her thigh when I first met them. This was more like it, I thought, during the first dinner we shared together. This was what I'd been taught to expect—marriage and kids first, school worked in later. But over an exquisitely prepared biryani and fresh roti, Zoya told me she was the youngest of three sisters and there'd been no pressure on her to marry. "I loved him," she said. "Otherwise, I would have never left my family back in India." I couldn't imagine declaring that I loved Hadi with such confidence. After so many years of being told it was ayb to be interested in a boy, it still felt shameful and wrong. And here was Zoya, raised among Muslims but so confident in her love for her husband. She wasn't running away from any stories about what Muslim love was or trying to prove she had an American love story. She'd married the man she wanted to marry and was going about her life, an amazing cook, a talented seamstress, and, later I would discover, a capable math tutor. I hadn't expected this move to Mexico to raise so many questions about my own culture and community. All of my MSA sisters from college had grown up with rules so similar to mine if not more, but the Muslim women I was meeting in Mexico had been raised with such different boundaries. I soon became good friends with the hijab-wearing medical student who told me her parents had few reservations about letting her study in another country. Now she was in her last year, planning on becoming a pediatrician. She'd mastered Spanish, and she showed me all around town with total confidence, bargaining down our taxi fares and answering jovially any questions about what order she belonged to when our drivers assumed she was a nun. Then, there was the student in Hadi's year who declared at the Friday afternoon prayers that she was heading to the airport to pick up her boyfriend, her white, American boyfriend, named Steve. She made the announcement plainly, without even a hint of secrecy or shame. Back at our home, I called Mama, confused. "I see all these Muslim girls in school here, and I don't understand why you didn't want more for me. Why didn't you want me to go off to school and become something?" "That's funny," she said, "I always compared myself to my cousins who were becoming doctors and wondered why Jidu didn't want us to finish school before we got married. But I really thought I was giving you more. I wanted you to marry someone younger. I wanted you to finish college. I just wanted to keep you safe, too." "Yes, I know, if we fly, we fly together, so if we die, we die together." "Of all the things I've told you, this is what you remember?" "That's the kind of thing that leaves a pretty big impression on a kid." "When you've seen as much death as I have at such a young age, you don't take life for granted. I guess it gave me some comfort to think if you were married, you'd always have another set of eyes watching over you." After we hung up that night, Mama's words stayed with me. I attributed so much to our religion and culture that I rarely allowed her the everyday motivations of instinct and fear. And she was right; no matter how confused I was about my feelings toward Hadi, I'd married someone I'd grown up with and considered a friend. I had an elaborate wedding and graduated from college. I'd already had more. I only wished there'd been less concern for my reputation and our friendship with the Ridhas, and less istikharas, so that this could have felt like enough. Baba arrived in Guadalajara with a small Middle Eastern grocery store inside his suitcase. Wrapped among his pajamas and undershirts were a sack of basmati rice; a vial of saffron strands; a couple of jars of grape leaves and tahini sauce; and a few bags of pita bread, bulgur, and pine nuts—everything I'd requested before he left. Although Hadi and I had found a rather large Lebanese restaurant in town, owned by a Lebanese immigrant family and appropriately named El Libanes, eating Middle Eastern food didn't feel as important as making it. I needed our apartment to be filled with the nutty smell of rice, the food on our table to act as an edible identification card, declaring who we were to our friends and visitors. I'd never felt so American and even more specifically Californian as I did living in Mexico. In this third space, it didn't matter where my parents or Hadi's parents were born. Since we spoke English, most Mexicans accepted us as American students, our names registering as foreign rather than particularly Arab. And, among the other American medical students, our shared spoken language and the common experience of having lived in the United States were enough to bond us to a community of expatriates we might not have had anything in common with stateside. Sharing our food, and even Baba himself, felt like a way to introduce our new friends to the people we'd been before we moved here. Even though Baba would only be in town for a few days, I'd invited all the Muslim medical students over for dinner—a mix of American-born Indians, Pakistanis, and Egyptians, and a few of our other American friends. In preparation, Baba and I took a taxi to an open-air market where Baba delighted in the reminders of his tropical island life. He drank coconut water straight from a fresh coconut and loaded up on papayas, guavas, mangos, and avocados. "You know in Zanzibar," Baba said, "we used to eat avocado like a dessert. We put the sugar and scoop it with a spoon." As we meandered through the dusty aisles, Baba spotted a familiar dry bean. With the scoop, he poured a few into his hand and said, "This is similar to the bean they used to make _mbaazi_ in Zanzibar. Let us make it for your guests." Baba paid for the beans and a few serrano peppers to season the coconut-milk-based stew, and I felt an unexpected stirring of pride. Being in Mexico had opened up a window into my father's memory; it had conjured up stories I may not have heard otherwise. After we got back home, Baba, Hadi, and I worked together to prepare the next day's dinner. Baba soaked the beans. I roasted eggplant for baba ghanoush. Hadi chopped the onions for a tomato-based marga and the rice I'd use to stuff the dolma. I marveled at how comfortably we worked together. In Mama's company, my heart stewed with a warring mix of blame and resignation. It was so easy to look at the istikharas Mama made and her affection for Hadi and make her responsible for my decision to get married. It was even easier to picture myself as Mama, a woman making the most of a relationship that was picked for her while striving to reach her educational goals. But here in Baba's company, I was forced to remember things I often forgot, that Baba had not wanted me to get married, that he'd repeatedly offered me an out and I was the one who had reassured him that this was what I wanted, that I'd been so caught up with the business of becoming a bride. It was a remarkably short-lived burst of awareness. Hadi's presence as a host began to annoy me as soon as our guests arrived for dinner the following evening. The assalamu alaikum he offered our Muslim friends was far too quiet to make them feel truly welcome, and instead of facilitating introductions between our guests, he left Baba alone to fill up all the conversational space in the room with his favorite stories from his medical school days in India and in Iraq. First, Hadi disappeared to set up the drinks and the ice chest. Now he was back in the kitchen again, leaning over me as I scooped rice onto a platter, asking me if I needed help even though several women were already standing around, waiting to do the same. "You need to go sit with everybody," I whispered. "I'm just trying to help," Hadi said in the same hushed volume. "The biggest way you can help me is by taking care of our guests," I said. As I watched Hadi walk out of the kitchen, his shoulders sagging from my rebuke, I tried to shake off a sense of extreme exasperation. I had been the one to strike up friendships with the wives of the medical students, to seek out the Muslim community at the Friday prayers held in one of the student's living rooms, and to make the calls inviting over these guests. All Hadi had to do was talk to our company, and now this dinner that was supposed to be about Baba's visit and this food was turning into another one of my assessments of Hadi, another occasion to simmer with regret. I had seen this shyness at my prom. It would have been so easy to let Hadi go then, to explain to Mama that we were not a match. I had wanted an outgoing spouse, someone at ease in a crowd, someone who could fill up a room with chatter like Baba. Throughout dinner, I glanced over at Hadi, trying to guess what impression he was making on our new friends. It appeared as if he'd made his way into a conversation with a few of our guests, but this didn't please me either. I thought about how slowly Hadi told stories, his habit of including every detail, and I feared that he was boring our company. I imagined our couple-friends going home and talking about us, wondering why I'd picked such a dull husband. It startled me that I could entertain such a horrible thought, so cruel and judgmental while flattering myself that I was somehow the better catch, but still I could not banish the idea from my mind until much later that night when all our guests had left and the dinner dishes were washed and then put away. Baba and I had settled onto the de lujo couch in our living room, and he said, "You are right, Hudie. This Hadi is a wonderful boy." I couldn't imagine how this evening that had irritated me so much had left Baba with such a positive impression. I prodded Baba to show me what my insecurity hadn't allowed me to see. "He's a bit shy though." "It's not bad to be shy," Baba said. "Imam Ali used to say, 'Speak only when your words are more beautiful than silence.'" "I've never heard that." "Oh, yes. Sometimes to have the good manners, one must say less." Hadi's introversion had always struck me as a burden, something that I had to compensate for with cheery conversation. I had never once considered the virtues of reticence or that people might appreciate Hadi's thoughtfulness and sincerity, the way he carefully weighed everything he said before he spoke. I didn't consider it, because I forgot that Hadi was his own person whenever we were around other people. He became an accessory, completing the look I wanted to project, subject to the same merciless scrutiny with which I studied myself in the mirror. I scooted in closer to Baba and rested my head on his shoulder. Our conversation drifted into the kind of long silences that I expected when I was with Baba but resented when I was sitting next to Hadi. I puzzled over this stark contrast—the judgment I reserved for my spouse and the clear, uncomplicated affection I held for my family, and I hoped that one day I'd learn to love Hadi with the same acceptance, the same forgiveness. I decided to take a break between Spanish II and Spanish III to enroll in a two-week certificate course, being held downtown, in teaching English as a foreign language. I hoped that I'd make friends in the class, maybe find a job after, but there was no real potential for companionship among my classmates. They'd all flown in for the course, their sights set on teaching posts in other countries. And I soon discovered that teaching a language had the same boring quality as learning one. It only put me on a different side of the desk. I knew I didn't want a job where I had to teach English, but I also didn't know what I'd do after I'd taken all the levels of Spanish if I didn't teach. Go back to watching _Santa Barbara_ dubbed in Spanish, to pretend reading the academic book I'd left marked at page fifteen for a month? Daily I left class feeling more alone than before I'd started. Coming downtown every day had only made me more aware of Guadalajara's largeness and my lack of a purpose within it. Here in the bustling _centro_ nothing was familiar, not the streets, the bus routes, the restaurants, or the shops. Because of the intimidating newness of the downtown, I'd arranged for a taxi driver from my neighborhood to give me rides. Some mornings, I had to call him to wake him up. Some afternoons, he didn't show up, and I had to call him from a phone booth along one of the downtown's quieter cobblestone side streets. On the Friday after my first week of class, I called my driver for the better part of an hour, but nobody picked up. A neatly dressed, teenaged delivery boy had seen me on the phone, on his way to drop off a package and again on his way out. He asked me if I needed help, and when I explained about my neighborhood taxi driver not showing up, he said that he had a delivery in my area and offered to take me home. I wrestled with the idea. I could take a ride from a clean-cut young man, with a friendly smile, who was a stranger, or I could take to the corner and try to flag down another man of undetermined age, size, and disposition who was also a stranger and who would probably rip me off. What was the difference, I rationalized, between riding home with this guy and a taxi driver? At least with this guy, I wouldn't have to haggle down the price or, more truthfully, accept whatever price he named. Even though I had been in Mexico for almost two months, I was still too timid to bargain. The most I could muster was a frown at the driver's fee, and after a reluctant " _bueno_ ," I'd invariably get in the car and spend the entire ride berating myself for my complete willingness to be had. It would be so nice to skip that inevitable sequence this one time. And this guy was cute. It seemed unlikely that such a handsome kid with dark brown wavy hair, neatly trimmed around the ears and neck, and a disarming smile could be capable of anything dangerous. Wasn't there some sort of psychological study that showed good-looking people didn't do bad things? Wait. No. It showed that women, like me, were more likely to think that good-looking men would not do bad things. I tapped one foot nervously and smoothed the front of my skirt. A few noisy, worn-out cars rumbled past along the rocky road. Maybe I should just ask him if he had any criminal intentions toward me. If I called him on it, he'd be way too embarrassed to try to rob or kill me later. So I said the only thing I knew how to say in my Level II Spanish. I asked, "Is it safe?" or at least that was what I thought I asked. I might have asked him, "Are you sure?" The word for "sure" and "safe" was the same, _seguro_ , and I couldn't remember if I had used the right form of the verb "to be" to convey the correct meaning. "Of course," he said, waving his hands in the air as if offended by the question. I knew then I had gotten the question right, but I also felt a sudden twinge of guilt for asking. He was a nice kid, fresh from his mother's hugs and kisses, washing and ironing, and I had just been an obnoxious traveler. That was when I got into his car and scooted along the fabric seat toward the door. I put my bag in my lap so I could beat him with it if necessary, clicked my seat belt into place, and then slid my hands around the door's slender handlebar. My hands were still there when he looked over at me and asked, "Are you always this nervous?" I eased my grip and said, "A little. But it is good to be careful, no?" " _Claro_ ," he replied. "I have sisters." " _Mira_. You understand," I said, my eyes fixed on the road. The part of me that feared for my safety relaxed, but another part of me stayed prickly with discomfort. As much as I'd rationalized taking this risk, it did not change the fact that I had little experience being in the company of men who were not related to me. At least I picked a good driver. I watched him maneuver his way through the downtown's cacophony of horns and checkerboard gridlock with ease. Not bad for somebody who could've only had his license a year or two at the most. I was terrified to drive in Mexico, but this kid kept one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear, while looking so calm he might as well have been driving a minicar around a track in an amusement park. He introduced himself as Antonio and asked me how I liked Mexico. "I like the people," I said. "They are very good. I like the architecture. It is very beautiful. I like the food. It is very delicious." I smoothed my skirt again, pulling it taut over my knees. I hated the flatness of my speech in Spanish, its toddler-like simplicity. We continued to have a typical local-meets-foreigner conversation, and I arrived home a half hour later unharmed but heavy with guilt. I couldn't tell Hadi I'd taken a ride home with a delivery boy I'd met on the street. Hadi came to the door, gave me a hug, and asked me about my class. My resolve not to mention the delivery guy did not waver, but I itched to pick a fight. I never would've done something like that had I not been put in this position of having to take taxis all over the place, of having to dig for ways to fill up my time. "Bad, like usual." "What's wrong? Did the taxi forget you again?" "Yes, but that's not what's wrong. What's wrong is that I'm taking these stupid classes to teach English instead of being in school, studying history." "Here we go again," Hadi said. "It's all my fault. I messed up in school, and I brought you here. Is that what you want to hear?" "No," I said with exaggerated offense. "I just want you to appreciate how hard it is to be here." "You always say that, but there's no way to make up for bringing you here. I could say thank you all day long, but it wouldn't change anything." For an hour, we went back and forth, with me insisting that this interruption in my schooling was the end of my career, and with Hadi insisting that things would work out. Our argument moved from the doorway to the bedroom to the bathroom. We argued as I washed my face and changed. And then, I gave up. I started the fight, and I was the one to walk away. I said I had to make dinner and left the room. We didn't talk the rest of the night. We'd had this argument so many times I should've tape-recorded one, labeled it "the Mexico Fight," and played it whenever the mood arrived. After Hadi went to bed, I sat down in front of our laptop, prepared to send an email full of complaints to a friend about my impossible life. Because our dial-up internet connection was so erratic, we wrote all of our emails in a word-processing program, before logging on and then sending off everything at once. There, I saw that the last saved file was titled "I love Huda.doc." Without contemplating whether or not I was invading Hadi's privacy, I opened it. Filling up an entire page was that one line over and over again. I love Huda. I love Huda. I had heard Hadi furiously typing while I was in the kitchen making dinner. I had assumed that he was sending an email, complaining about me. And this was what he was writing. If only Hadi had been merely my boyfriend—not a husband whose future was so tangled up in mine—this gesture might have melted me. I might have sought him out and covered him with kisses. All these years, I'd regarded the temporary nature of a boyfriend with such disdain, but now I understood the value of that kind of a relationship, its appeal. What a gift it was to be able to experience what you did not want in a relationship and then walk away. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I imagined myself married to a man whose ambitions equaled my own, our life together in a prestigious university, never having left the United States. At first it seemed a dream come true, the mutual achievements, the shared time reading, the interest in each other's research, but then I considered what it might be like to be married to someone who had expectations of my success, someone who resented me for holding him back, someone like me. I sat up in bed and looked over at Hadi. I watched his hand, resting flat on his chest, rising and falling with every breath, and I wondered if being married to me was not the grand gift he allowed me to believe it was. The following Monday, I sat on a bench in the Plaza de Armas, glancing up at the circular gazebo at its center, its intricate iron railings and Hershey's Kiss–shaped roof. Hungry pigeons pecked the surrounding grounds in a furious rush, trying to eat their fill before the children, running about, chased them away. In every tree-shaded corner, vendors grasped giant balloon bouquets or stood behind stalls, selling potato chips doused in a squirt of chili sauce and a spray of lime. A warm breeze pressed against my skin, the sun illuminating the tiny hairs along my arms. If it was possible to fall in love with a location's weather, then it was happening. In the two months we'd been here, the weather was rarely warm enough for me to break a sweat but still not cool enough to make an always chilly person like me uncomfortable. Even when the sky clouded over and burst with rain, it still didn't get cold enough for me to need a jacket. It hit me then that if it wasn't for the English course and if it wasn't for Hadi bringing us down here, I wouldn't be downtown right now, enjoying the sunshine's embrace, about to reach into the waxy paper bag in my lap and pull out a hot croissant stuffed with Mexico's creamy goat's milk caramel, _cajeta_. That was the problem with Mexico. Every time I tried to write it off as the cause of all my problems, it slapped me with a beauty that made me feel as if I should shut up and be grateful to be here, seeing its sights, tasting its food, feeling its weather. After I'd dusted the last few crumbs of croissant off my hands, I grabbed my bag, crossed a busy street lined with horse-drawn carriages awaiting tourists, and passed through the imposing doors of the cool and musky cathedral. The cathedral's yellow dome and pointed towers dominated the entire downtown. It was a symbol of Guadalajara, its silhouette painted on every taxi, and it was coming to dominate my entire experience of the downtown, too. There was something about the elements of my life that it fused together, giving me hope that there might be some reconciliation for me, an Iraqi American Shia Muslim, in Catholic Mexico. Inside, I felt at home in the warm glow of the candle light, surrounded by the smell of melting wax, comforted by the passionate whispering of prayers. When I'd first started going to Catholic schools, I'd struggled during Mass. Coming from a religious tradition that forbids iconography and the consumption of alcohol, it was startling to attend services with the image of a bloody, tortured Jesus pinned to a crucifix hanging above me, to watch my classmates taking sips from a large chalice of wine. But year by year, I grew accustomed to the Mass, and even though I never actively participated, there were certain songs that touched me, prayers that I had inadvertently memorized, homilies that spoke to values I knew Islam and Christianity shared. Now rather than Guadalajara's cathedral feeling strange to me, it felt familiar, and its statues, crucifixes, and artwork were things that I recognized. That afternoon, I stood in front of the glass case holding the statue of Santa Inocencia. She was dressed in a long, frilly communion dress and lying down along a bed of white satin covered in amulets, photographs, and written petitions. The older woman next to me bowed her head and whispered a prayer over her arthritic, interlocked hands. When she was finished, she turned to me and said, "She is a martyr. When she took her first communion, her father killed her because he didn't want her to accept Christ." I nodded solemnly, as if she were the first person to tell me this. "You can pray to her. Ask her for anything," she added, her hands still intertwined. I didn't want to disappoint her, so I lingered in front of the glass case a little bit longer, thinking about this woman and how those very same words could have been spoken by a member of my own family. I could hear my mother, my grandfather, my aunts and uncles referring to one of our Shia tradition's martyrs in the same way, saying, "Ask them for anything. God may be able to deny you and me something, but He cannot deny them." Now Santa Inocencia brought to mind the story of Ali al-Asghar, the Prophet Muhammad's six-month-old great-grandson. When his father, one of the Shia tradition's most revered saints, Imam Husayn and his army were surrounded in Karbala, they were cut off from their only source of water. Imam Husayn pleaded for a drop of water for his crying son, and the sight of this baby, the Prophet's own flesh and blood, withering away from dehydration made the opposing troops restless. To quell the impending mutiny, an arrow was sent flying into the baby's throat. Every year on the anniversary of his martyrdom, an empty crib is carried during the lamentation rituals in his honor. He, like Santa Inocencia, is a focal point for prayers, for mourning undeserved losses. A crowd formed around the glass, and I stepped away only to stop in front of a statue of a weeping Mary, robed in black. Imprinted on the placard beneath her was the title "La Dolorosa, the Sorrowful." She was the first mournful Mary I'd ever seen, and she reminded me of the stories of Fatima az-Zahra, Imam Husayn's mother. She is said to appear at every service where her son's name is mentioned. Fatima is our symbol of a bereaved mother, and in Mexico, Mary represented the same. I felt an affinity here that I hadn't even felt among my MSA sisters. During the winter semester of last year, the religious studies professor who specialized in Islam taught a class specifically on Shiism. Several of my Sunni Muslim friends had signed up, but I could no longer sustain the face of unity that had meant so much to me in our women in Islam class. When my friends raised their hands and argued that the Shia practice of taking to the street and beating your chest in the name of a martyred Imam wasn't true Islam, I had to raise my hand and explain that this was merely an attempt to experience the suffering of a beloved icon and hero. When they objected to the Shia use of human imagery in their art, I had to clarify that doing so was not a form of idolatry but of storytelling and commemorating. When they argued that the Shia regard for their saintlike Imams was incompatible with Allah's oneness, I had to suggest Imams were merely vessels through which one communicated with the divine. But I sensed that here, in this cathedral, no such explanations were necessary. I continued to wander around the edges of the cathedral, but my mind itched. Mexicans added a mournful streak to their faith that felt so familiar, so Shia. All my life, I had toggled between my school life and home life, feeling too Muslim and Arab in one and too American in the other. But here the dominant culture's rules were not the same ones I'd defined myself against for so long. Here a grandmother had told me to pray, and her devotion had felt like home. Over the next few months, Hadi and I fell into something of a Guadalajara groove. I finished Level III Spanish, and from it, I gained both confidence in going around the city and an unexpected sense of pride. While Hadi had not quite picked up Spanish yet, he was taking Spanish classes on the weekends and consistently scoring above average on his medical school exams. When he came home, he practiced his clinical skills on me, checking my ears and throat, palpating my abdomen, and listening to my chest. Although we both had diarrhea all the time, this became an ongoing joke between us, an experience we came to refer to as simply "explosion." And, finally, the time I spent with the American wives of medical students, grocery shopping together on the weekends and attending their monthly book club, opened my eyes to two important things: 1. Marriage was a great equalizer. For all their romantic dates and surprise proposals, these American women still wound up in Mexico, cooking, cleaning, food shopping, and doing laundry just like me. 2. Babies were the answer. The majority of the wives were mothers or soon-to-be mothers, and I didn't see them fretting over their stalled careers. I was certain these women spent their days cuddling their glorious babies, never lonely or bored. My own mother had said my brother had cured her loneliness after she came to America. It was so obvious that I should have a baby, too. But when I shared my plan with Hadi, he squashed it with unwelcome reason. "Our lives are so unsettled here," he said. "Do you really want to bring a baby into this? How would you feel if the baby had diarrhea and had to be taken to the hospital for dehydration?" I put my hands on my hips to further convey my indignation. "Just because our stomachs are weirdly sensitive, that doesn't mean our baby will be like that, too. There are plenty of people having babies here, and I only know of one woman who had to take her baby to the hospital with dehydration." Hadi looked at me as if he had concerns for my sanity. "You do know you're not supposed to have kids because other people are doing it?" In a childish, mocking tone, I said, "Yes, I know we are not supposed to have kids because other people are doing it," and because that wasn't immature enough, I accused Hadi of not letting me do anything. "It's like you're telling me, 'Don't go to school _and_ don't get a head start on having kids.' What is this purgatory?" In the weeks approaching winter break, Hadi and I revisited this argument several times, each time circling around my plans to go back to school, with Hadi saying he didn't want us to have a kid if we were going to put our child in day care in a few years, me arguing that my mom had gotten through school by bringing me to class with a little coloring book, and Hadi concluding with what was another issue entirely. "Is it really wise to bring a child into a relationship that we still haven't settled into yet?" he'd ask. "Most of the time, I'm not even sure you like me." This question was directly tied to another, more pressing, topic we'd been debating—how we'd divide our first trip back to California. I wanted to go straight to my parents' house and stay the entire break, maybe return to Guadalajara at the same time as Hadi so we could share a cab on our way home. Hadi, on the other hand, believed we should travel together and split the time between both our parents' houses. We were husband and wife, he argued, and that was what married people did. To drive the point home, he added, "And you want us to have kids? If we had a baby, would you take the baby away from me for a month, too?" Both discussions filled me with the urge to shake him, hard. The precise reason I wanted to go to my parents' house was because I needed a break from being married. If we actually had a baby, then we could talk about the fair way to split our vacation time, but for now, all I wanted was to shop with Lina, dance with Aysar, and giggle all night with Diana and Nadia at a sleepover. In the end, I agreed to fly back to Hadi's parents' house a week before we were scheduled to return to Mexico. Hadi tempted me with the possibility of packing up his brother's old car and driving it down to Guadalajara (Hadi didn't want to ruin his car on Mexico's potholed roads). We'd have to share the car, and I'd still take the bus to the Spanish classes I'd resumed taking at the local university, but at least there'd be no more hauling duffel bags of clothes to the Laundromat, no more plastic bags of groceries cutting off the circulation on my wrist while I gripped the pole on a crowded bus. My first few days home were a blissful show-and-tell. I showed off the haircut I'd gotten the day before I left, the clothes I'd purchased just for my arrival, my new Ricky Martin CD, and Spanish skills. But the days that followed brought no long-awaited respite from my irritable bowels. No joy in seeing how my friends had moved on with school, work, jobs, homes. No satisfaction when I visited my former professors without any research interests to share. I'd salivated over the idea of being home for weeks, and now that I was here, I felt buried under a heavy, stuporous funk, one that had turned particularly sour right after Mama's weekend phone call with Aunty Najma. Mama had passed along the news that two of my cousins who lived in Lebanon would be studying abroad, one at a university in Scotland, another in England. Although I went through the motions, visiting with friends at sleepovers and girls-only dance parties, I felt cooped up in my head for the remainder of the break, trying to unravel this mystery: if I was the one who was born in America, how had I wound up living the more culturally traditional life? At night, I'd lie in my bed, feeling as if my room did not belong to me. I was no longer the girl who'd chosen cherub throw pillows, a print of Victorian ladies in a café, and a wrought-iron bed. All through high school, I had been drawn to all things Victorian; it had been so easy to insert myself into Victorian love stories with all their restrained, unspoken love. But how foolish had I been to not realize that I would have never been the protagonist of one of these stories. I would have been the Mohammedan, the exotic Oriental, or the native savage. Now more than ever, I wished I was in school so a professor and a class discussion could help me analyze how familial, cultural, sociological, and religious forces had intersected to drive me to this choice I did not own. I wondered if I had an arranged marriage, a forced marriage, a working-things-out marriage, or a marriage reaching its end. The last possibility twisted me with heartache. If I attempted to undo my marriage now, the only future I saw for myself as a divorcée was manless, sexless, and childless. I questioned the wisdom of throwing away a life with a kind man and an equally promising father when all I really wanted was a do-over—to go back to being the girl who had lain in this same bed, filled with hope for her future—and to choose school over marriage, to choose to live my own life before agreeing to live my life for another. As my time at home approached its end, I dreaded seeing Hadi's family, but refusing to go would have required an explanation I was not capable of giving. On the appointed day, I took an hour-long flight to Southern California. Mrs. Ridha picked me up from the airport alone because we'd be going straight to a baby shower for a mutual friend. On our way, she told me that Reem Salaam had gotten divorced. Soraya Ahmed had broken off her engagement and was already engaged to someone else. I stared off into the crowded highway, my gaze blurring on the glint of sun that bounced off the car in front of us. Reem had gotten married the year before me. I had admired her beautiful dress, the way she'd danced and smiled the entire night. Soraya had announced her engagement six months ago. She must have been as unhappy as I had been, but instead of suffering through it, she'd had the courage to walk away. Now she had the chance to be happy again. Why did she have the strength to leave when I didn't? Did she value herself more? With my eyes still focused on the road, words left my mouth, words that surprised me. "I thought a girl with a broken engagement could never get remarried." "Why not? These things happen." "But the way we were taught, it seemed like a girl had only one chance." "No," Mrs. Ridha said, glancing in her side-view mirror as she changed lanes. "It's not like that. Because you young people were born here, we wanted you to understand the way our people think. We did not expect you to listen to everything we said." Mrs. Ridha's words pierced me. My engagement, my marriage, my life in Mexico suddenly felt like a tragic Shakespearean misunderstanding. I'd thought our community's code of conduct was a matter of life and death and God Himself, and the entire time, our parents knew that this wasn't necessarily the case, that they were saying things to keep us away from the dangers to which they assumed America made us vulnerable, but still understood that we might do something else, maybe even expected it. I wanted answers to a thousand other questions, but even more than that, I didn't want Mrs. Ridha to see me ruffled. So I waited, thinking of something I could say that would make her explain more without giving away the impact her words had on me. After a long pause, I said, "I don't know if you know this, but Hadi never said anything to me at my prom. He didn't even tell me I looked nice, but I felt like I had to marry him because we'd gone out together." Fearing that I'd gone too far, I added, "Not that it's a problem, but you know, then. That's how I felt." "Who thinks like that? Of course, we wished you'd marry Hadi. From the moment I met your family, I loved your mother, and I always thought that, mashallah, you're just like her—good in everything. But because I knew your family takes istikharas about these things, I understood that it didn't matter how much we loved you or Hadi loved you. It may not happen." I was quiet. Although Hadi's parents were so similar to mine on paper, they were different in practice. During this year that I'd spent as a part of their family, I was surprised by how seldom they turned to istikharas to make decisions. The Ridhas might have undertaken one a year if at all, but my family made several a day—if not by turning to the Quran, then by counting off on the _sibha_ or prayer beads my father kept in his pocket. They looked to the istikhara as if it were a divinely inspired coin toss. Should I stay home sick today? Should I accept this invitation? Should I take this medication, eat this food, buy this product? Marrying into the Ridha family had made me see my family's reliance on the istikhara as curious and idiosyncratic rather than devotional, and now it was forcing me to question something so much more painful to doubt—the istikharas that had determined my own marriage. They made me agree to Hadi before he'd even asked for me, before I'd even attempted to make a decision about him in my own heart. In that sense, those istikharas had violated the practice's most basic conditions—that those requesting it be torn by indecision, that they hold a question as an intention in their minds. From the outset, Mama had been clear that these istikharas were hers—that she'd framed the intention from her perspective—and yet I'd accepted their outcomes as if God Himself was speaking to me. I felt like a fool to be discovering now that the Ridhas never felt they had spoken for me; they had been aware the entire time that this relationship may not happen. To my silence, Mrs. Ridha added, "And yes, Hadi did tell me he never said anything to you at your prom, and I was really surprised. I thought you kids grew up here, you knew what to do." And right then, on a greater Los Angeles highway, a view of the world as Mrs. Ridha saw it crystallized in my mind—a world where a mother thought it would be great if her son married her best friend's daughter. It shamed me to think of how willing I'd been to stereotype not just my culture but Mrs. Ridha herself. I'd so willingly accepted this story of being claimed since childhood that I'd failed to see that the trope of the matchmaking mother didn't fit Mrs. Ridha at all. The truth was what it had always been—she truly and sincerely loved me. My talk with Mrs. Ridha quelled my restlessness for the rest of my stay. The first few days, Hadi and I gathered the things we didn't have in Guadalajara but wanted—a television for the living room, a stereo, a VCR, and a desktop computer—but when it came to actually packing his brother's four-seater hatchback, Hadi took over. He enjoyed the challenge of making things fit into tight spaces; it was a real-life brain teaser complete with rules he refused to break. No space allowed between objects. No items could go up front by the driver or the passenger. Nothing could block the rearview mirror. Nothing could be left behind. Before we set off the next morning, Hadi showed me around the car, proud of every nook and cranny he'd managed to utilize, and then we set off, Hadi's eyes fixed on the road ahead and my eyes fixed on a guidebook that warned of checkpoints, bandits, police officers looking to be paid off, and the general hazards of driving at night—wayward cows, unlit roads, and the lack of roadside assistance. For three days, we drove by day and stayed in hotels by night. Every threat we'd been warned of went unrealized, but the possibility of danger draped over us like a blanket that narrowed our world to each other, the cozy security of our car. Hadi and I got along in this world. Here our roles were simple and defined, our living space limited and undemanding. It was peaceful in the car. The views shushed me. Once again, I couldn't complain about living in Mexico when it had brought me to this terrain that wound us through wet, grassy flatlands; tree-studded mountains; lush rain forests; colorful roadside shrines; and small villages with cobblestone streets and brightly painted churches. But those days we spent in the car were only a passing reprieve. That winter semester, Hadi and I fell into a turbulent routine. We'd moved into a new apartment after Fernando surprised us with a sizable hike in the rent. We bought furniture, curtains, and a refrigerator—each one a challenge for my developing language skills. I took Level IV Spanish by day, tutored children in English after school, and taught adults at an English language institute at night. But having more to do didn't make me happy the way I thought it would. On the contrary, tutoring and teaching filled me with dread. I didn't want to coax six-year-olds out from under the table or lure them to learn with promises of a cookie. I didn't want to plan lessons for adults who rarely showed up to class and were too tired out by their day jobs to study. And I blamed Hadi for it all. I was a twenty-one-year-old, facing the monotony of married life without having known the wooing that was supposed to precede it. I was certain that if only the circumstances of my engagement had been different—had I been whisked off on exciting outings and been surprised with a storybook proposal—then maybe I would have been too in love to feel such regret. On Valentine's Day and a few months later on my birthday, my hopes rose that the perfect gift or outing would break the spell of constant rumination. But when each occasion opened with Hadi asking me what I wanted to do that day, I felt crushed, as if he was announcing that we were officially a boring married couple, news that was all the more disappointing because we'd never had the chance to be an exciting unmarried couple. I'd always imagined married life as the beginning of a newer, better me. I would become a woman straight out of the glossy images of a bridal magazine. I'd eat dinner at a table set with matching china and flowers, and this would be my new normal, not dressing up, not playing pretend. I'd load our dishes and clothes into their respective appliances, wearing cute, working-at-home clothes because I'd no longer be the type of person who put on her pajamas as soon as she got in the door. I'd go on vacations at Beaches Resorts, holding hands with my spouse as we emerged from the waves as if we were two gods of joy, casting light on the world with our shiny, toothy smiles. Even on ordinary weekends, I'd find these bullishly persistent hopes rising. Before we went to bed, I'd think that this was the weekend that we'd wake up early, dress in stylish clothes, and go out exploring. But no such shift ever arrived. Our weekends invariably disappeared into all the tasks of self-maintenance. We slept in, we did laundry, we grocery shopped, and we had sex. It puzzled me that this act of intimacy that had once seemed like the ultimate goal of marriage, its reward and its prize, had become part of the routine of living, a constant, like feeding and bathing ourselves. Before marriage, I'd pictured sex as a special event, the ending to a fancy night out, something that required its own attire of satin and lace. In reality, sex was more of a naked activity, ripe with fluids and smells, but unlike every bodily function I'd attended to in the past, this one was a team effort, requiring so much unexpected conversation: "I can't breathe," "Your elbow is on my hair," "You're squishing me." When I had been in school and too busy to pay much attention to our sex life, my eyes were always on the clock, my mind constantly calculating: _If this isn't going to go anywhere, then I've got to find an excuse to get out of this cuddle. If it is, then I've got to get things moving so I can be back to my books in under an hour._ Hadi had complained that I was pushing him away, but I ignored his concerns. I was the first crush, the first girlfriend, the first female body in his life. There was no way I'd ever be able to satisfy that much need, that much want. But now that time was no longer a constraint, I found myself marveling at the trickster that was desire. It pulled Hadi toward me even as I pushed him away. It had driven me to do too much with a boy too soon and then stranded me in a relationship and a life for which I was not ready. Maybe if I hadn't kissed Hadi before we got married, I would have broken off my engagement and stayed in college another year, rooming with Aysar, my future still a bright, blank page. What made even less sense to me was that I could be so riddled with regret and confusion and still wrap myself up in Hadi, day after day, week after week. How could I enjoy sex, linger in Hadi's arms after, and then moments later fold up in shame and accuse that same intimacy of trapping us together? Was I some kind of animal, using Hadi, and then released from desire, returning to my senses? Or was this alone some kind of proof that we were in love and always had been? Did my body know something I didn't? One Sunday morning that was quickly turning into the afternoon, I rested my head on Hadi's chest, wishing he would say something that would make me forget all the doubts I'd been having, something that would make me believe once and for all that our story together had been a tale of childhood sweethearts, that we'd been drawn together like magnets. "Tell me how you always loved me," I said. Hadi stroked my hair. "I've always loved you." "Even from that first time you saw me when I was only six years old?" "I don't know about that. That was before I'd even started to like girls, but I thought you were nice." I lifted up my head and looked up at Hadi with a disapproving glance. Our lives together could be crumbling, and he still wouldn't just tell me what I wanted to hear. Regardless of the circumstance, he stuck to the facts. "Okay, but as soon as you liked girls, you loved me, right?" "I did." "So when would that have been? Do you remember the exact moment?" "I know that summer when you guys stayed at our house while I was away at camp, I was jealous that everybody else got to be with you and I didn't." "So," I said, pausing to do the math. "That would've been when you were going into the eighth grade and I was going into fifth. You loved me then?" "All the boys loved you then." "And you wished that you could grow up and marry me?" "I wished it every day." "Did you have dreams about me?" "I did. I used to look forward to going to sleep so I could dream about you." For a brief moment, the present went quiet, and I could see Hadi the boy pretend-marrying Lina in the park, the small things he'd given me, the captivated way he used to look at me without ever saying a word. I leaned in and kissed Hadi as if to try on the idea that it had always been him. I plucked away the memories of our families and the pressure of their friendship. I pictured myself falling in love with Hadi of my own accord and willed this revised memory to stick, to become my reality. For our first Muharram as a married couple, living at a distance from our families, I wanted to do something that proved we were as committed to carrying on our religious traditions as our parents had been. The only Shia community I knew of was in Torreon, Mexico, over an hour away by plane. Ibrahim had stumbled upon a reference to the community in an academic paper, but I didn't have an address or a telephone number, and there was no trace of the Shia community's masjid on the relatively new internet. All I had found online was the number to an Islamic center in Mexico City and the name of the man who'd founded it. I was still so immersed in my conservative MSA's culture that I truly believed it would be more appropriate for Hadi to call. Hadi loathed making phone calls in English, let alone in his developing Spanish, but I insisted. "You're the man," I said. "I make all the other calls here, and I'm just asking you to make this one, little phone call when you are the one who is supposed to be doing the talking." Hadi didn't sigh as much as he exhaled forcefully before picking up the phone on his desk. I left the room so I wouldn't feel the urge to tell him what to say. Later, when he came to find me, he had not just the number but also a funny story. "The guy said, 'Brother, I must warn you that the community in Torreon is Shia.'" We laughed at this glimpse of how the wider Muslim community perceived our tiny sect, and we made all sorts of jokes about what Hadi could have, should have said. "I know, Brother! I'm a Shia heretic myself!" Or perhaps, "All the more reason to go, Brother! These people must be converted!" A few weeks later, Hadi and I boarded a small commuter jet to Torreon. After a short flight, we made our way to our hotel where the masjid's architect and founder met us in the lobby. I had to resist the urge to rush him with a hug. Standing before me was a Spanish-speaking Baba, the same height, the same build, the same thinning white hair, and a beard just like the one Baba grew after he came back from his Haj pilgrimage. He was surprised by us, too. He took in Hadi without any facial hair and me without a hijab and said, "I thought anyone who would fly all the way from Guadalajara to come to the masjid would be like the people you see in Iran." I remembered something he'd said on the telephone, how we were welcome to visit the masjid and remember Imam Husayn but that they were a community of Mexicans and that there would be no _golpeando_ , no hitting. Mama's yearly Ashura pilgrimages to Southern California had made traveling for this occasion feel like something ordinary and expected, the very least one could do, but only now did I see how our journey must have appeared to a man in this quiet Mexican town with a Shia community of less than a hundred people who, our host would later tell us, rarely attended the masjid. He must have assumed Hadi and I were spirited with extraordinary religious zeal, the kind of Shia he'd seen in images from Iran, beating our chests and demonstrating in the streets. He took us out to lunch where he introduced us to his wife and his unmarried daughter. Speaking in a mix of Spanish and English, he told us the story of his parents' immigration to Mexico in the early 1900s from Lebanon. Like Hadi and I, both he and his wife were born to Arabic-speaking, immigrant parents. They, too, had grown up with a handful of other families that shared their beliefs and found each other in this incredibly small pool of "people like us." He lamented that there were no similar prospects for his daughter in their shrinking community. He, himself, had not been particularly interested in religion until a serious car accident renewed his faith in God. During his recovery, he taught himself to read the Quran by following along while listening to recitations on cassette tapes. That night, we met again in the masjid, a simple but beautiful mosque, complete with arches, a dome, and a minaret. The building amazed me; it was so unlike any of the community centers, converted churches, and industrial buildings we had in California. It had taken a move all the way to Mexico for me to finally pray in a proper mosque. After reciting our evening prayers as a group, we sat in the large, open prayer space where I counted eight people besides Hadi and myself. We sat without any partition to separate the men from the women, and taking in the scarves loosely draped over the heads of the few women in attendance, their short-sleeve shirts and ankle-revealing skirts, I was glad I'd left my abaya back at the hotel. I was the only woman in the room to observe the Ashura custom of wearing head-to-toe black as a sign of mourning, and I already felt overdressed in my black scarf, blouse, and skirt. Our host gave a brief speech in Spanish on the significance of the day of Ashura. He told the story of the battle of Karbala and of Imam Husayn's martyrdom, and although the content of the retelling was the same, the story felt stripped down to its bones without the Seyyid's passionate and sorrowful reading, and his frequent pauses to sob into the microphone. Here there was no crush of crying bodies, sitting shoulder to shoulder; no rhythmic poetry following the sermon, set to the percussion of hands upon chests; no Styrofoam boxes piled high with rice and a saucy, lentil _qeema_ to be distributed after the services. Mama would have wanted me to pay attention to my prayers, my heart heavy with emotion for Imam Husayn, but absent of the rituals that had defined my experience of Muharram, I felt more longing than faith. Without Mama and these familiar traditions, I didn't know what to bring to this day, what feelings, what prayers. I feared that I had gotten married and left home before learning enough from Mama to pass on my language and religion. Even with our yearly pilgrimages to a community that received a steady stream of arrivals from abroad and that kept Arabic alive on our tongues, I knew less about the Quran than our host who'd grown up in such cultural isolation. What was to stop my kids from becoming just like his daughter, with even less Arabic words lingering around in the corners of their minds, perhaps even less committed to marrying someone who shared the labels that had once defined their grandparents? My gaze fell on Hadi seated on the floor, concentrating on our speaker, and I took comfort in our shared identity, in knowing that we'd work together to carry on these traditions. In all my doubts as a newlywed, I had questioned my insistence of marrying an Iraqi, Shia—surely marrying another Muslim would have been enough—but now I saw the wisdom of my youthful prejudice. Hadi and I were bound together by so much more than our shared childhood; we shared the same history. The next day, after the short flight that carried us back to Guadalajara, I spilled every memory of our short visit into a disorganized word-processing document. I wanted these scribbles to become my purpose in Mexico. I had an image of this community becoming my future dissertation, my time in Mexico taking on an instant and tangible source of value. But as soon as I reread my observations, the logistics of doing any further research daunted me. I didn't know anything about doing fieldwork, nor did I have the Spanish skills to conduct interviews, and it wasn't as if I could keep flying back to Torreon. Ibrahim could turn anything into research. He would have written a paper on just this weekend's visit, but truthfully, I hadn't wanted to reach for my notebook while I was there as much as I'd wanted to mull over what this visit had shown me about my own identity and all its layers. I wondered if this was a sign that I didn't have the same passion for history, but doubting yet another plan for my future felt as circular and painful as my marriage angst. I had to stay committed to this career path. I had to be certain about something. I'd found an even better purpose for my time in Mexico than research. Charity work. A wife of one of Hadi's classmates had told me about a woman who'd volunteered the entire time her husband had been in school and about how she'd done so much good before she left. I loved the sound of those words, "so much good." It was the perfect antidote to the sense of aimlessness that had beleaguered me since our trip to Torreon, a way for my time here to have meaning. It was the fall, after our first summer visiting California. I'd hung my head in shame when friends asked me what I'd been up to. I heard a voice in my head saying, "I flew to a mosque in Mexico and took some notes that I don't know what to do with," but just imagine if I could have said I had been caring for sick babies in a hospital, building low-income houses, or working with children in an orphanage. These commitments spoke of renunciation and thoughtful choice. They said, "Yes, you may be in graduate school, but that path is not for me. I've chosen to make a difference in the lives of the less fortunate." After weeks of phone calls, I found my way to the tall metal gates of an _internado_ outside Guadalajara where I'd offered to give English lessons to the girls who boarded there. Some of the girls were orphans, but most of them were children of poverty, taking their meals and going to school from the internado during the week and going home on the weekends. At the small, metal door to the side of the gate, the director, a brusque, unsmiling woman named Viviana, motioned for me to enter and led me straight to the homework room where twenty-three girls from ages five to thirteen sat hunched over notebooks. As soon as we entered, the girls stood up in front of their chairs and said, "Buenos días," in unison. They wore mismatched combinations of hand-me-down clothing. Their eyes covered the entire spectrum of brown, from nearly black all the way down to one pair of striking hazel, and their hair was uniformly cropped just under the ear. My heart swelled. I had never seen anything as beautiful as the faces before me. Gabriela was the first to walk away from her table and take my hand in hers. She looked up at me with deep brown eyes, a nose sprinkled with freckles at the bridge, and asked, " _¿Còmo te llamas?_ " I told her my name was Huda and nodded when she answered, "Joya?" I couldn't take the risk of children mishearing my name. I'd recently been informed by a mortified woman that my first name sounded distressingly similar to _joda_ , the command form of the verb _joder_ , "to fuck." Following Gabriela's move, the rest of the girls abandoned their notebooks on the tables in front of them and surrounded me. Their little hands reached out for my hands and up to feel my hair, and as I answered their questions about my curls, my laundry detergent, and my funny accent, I vowed to stay with these girls until the day I left Mexico. What I didn't know was what I was doing in the classroom with the girls. Not only was I an inexperienced teacher, but I also had no knowledge of how an internado ran, what the children were like, or how they learned. During my first week, every time I tried to organize the girls into games to teach vocabulary, they begged me to write things on the board so they could copy the words into their notebooks. When I relented and threw things up on the board, they pleaded with me to grade their notes and draw them pictures that they could color. But in spite of our slow starts, by the end of the week, English fever had swept the internado. There were exchanges in every corner of "What is my name?"; "How are you?"; and "Good morning." The alphabet song rang through the courtyard. And I was falling deeper and deeper in love with these girls who fought over my lap before class, cupped my chin in their hands, stroked my hair, and caressed my cheek; who performed choreographed dances for me before lunch; and who cried on my shoulder when they missed their families. At the end of each day, thoughts of the girls stayed with me. Some days these thoughts soothed my own disgruntled spirit, and I floated home thinking, _To hell with grad school. The work I am doing here is far more important_ , and other days, I came home feeling heavy and lost. I'd spend my evening hours picturing Mariana's broken soles, Lucia's wild cries after a weekend when her mother failed to come for her, chubby-cheeked Carla asking me if she could pretend I was her mother, and Ariana trying to tape her long, stringy locks of hair back onto her head after getting her hair sheared because of lice. Come nightfall, these images wrapped themselves around me tight, squeezing away all hope of sleep. But as much as my time at the internado unsettled me emotionally, it quieted me maritally. Being around so much deprivation made me question my right to complain about _anything_. Growing up, I'd shared a home with my parents, siblings, grandparents, and visiting relatives. I'd eaten meals at a dining room table, with family at my side. I'd been educated in private schools, I'd graduated from college, and I had a husband who loved me. I started to pay closer attention to the things Hadi did. I wondered if they were a kind of love that I had missed. Wasn't it love to irrigate my ears when they grew so clogged up with wax that I could barely hear? Wasn't it love to squeeze out the in-grown hairs on my leg as if we were a couple of grooming chimpanzees? Wasn't it love to wage war against the bands of invading cockroaches that crawled up our drains and into our showers and onto our countertops? Wasn't it love to deal with the cat-sized rat that had been living under our stove when it showed up in the kitchen in search of its next meal? In those weeks, my attitude toward Hadi softened enough for him to recognize the change. "It's like you hate me a little bit less," he said one evening after dinner. I laughed and feigned innocence. "What are you talking about? I never hated you." A breath of levity had been blown into our relationship, and with that, Hadi took on a new confidence, a willingness to make me laugh. That fall, we'd gotten new upstairs neighbors, an American medical student, his wife, and their three children. Right away, it was clear that we were not going to be instant friends. This couple embodied almost every stereotype about Americans that embarrassed me in Mexico. Rather than attempt to learn Spanish, they spoke English only at a higher volume. Their first order of business was to install a huge satellite on our roof so as not to interrupt their access to American football and reruns of _MAS*H_. And, in well-dressed Guadalajara, their children often ran around barefoot and without shirts. Our landlord once inquired, "Are your neighbors—what do you say? Okies?" Sound traveled so clearly between our two apartments it was as if both units were connected by giant megaphones. Because we did not want our new neighbors to hear us griping about them, Hadi and I took up something we'd never done as a couple before—speaking in Arabic. Until then Arabic had been a language solely reserved for parents, grandparents, and our parents' friends. Since we'd picked up the language entirely from our elders, our speech lacked youthfulness; we had no slang, no way to sound under fifty. The phrases that came out of our mouths felt as if they'd been lifted directly off our parents' tongues: "Black on my face" and "Long live the hands that prepared this meal." To avoid this sudden verbal aging, Hadi had started speaking Arabic with an American accent, and this had me in stitches. Rendering such an inflected, guttural language flat was hysterical. Every time a giggle escaped my lips, he'd say, "You're so cute when you laugh." Then he'd add, "See, I can be funny sometimes." Hadi grew so committed to keeping me laughing he agreed to spice up one boring Sunday by trying on all his misfit clothing, the too small, the too colorful, the clothes family members had brought back from abroad with random English words and American cartoon characters, such as Mickey Mouse and Wile E. Coyote. This was something he'd sworn off doing because of the giggling fit it had sent me into the last time we'd cleaned out his closet. Now Hadi tried them all on for me, the thin yellow golf shirt that showed his nipples, the too-tight Lakers sweats, the rip-off Members Only jacket from Iran, and he strutted around our room as if on a catwalk while I laughed so hard on our bed that my sides ached and my eyes watered. And since Hadi had taken up finding ways to make me laugh, the evening he sat me down in front of the television and told me he had a video for me to watch, I was certain it would be a comedy. He'd borrowed _Life of Brian_ from a friend last week, _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ the week before. But now he offered a preamble that confused me. "I thought this might help us, but you don't have to watch it if you don't want to." A blurry FBI warning later, a sex therapist appeared on the screen, a mousy woman in Sally Jessy Raphael glasses with a billowy poof of blond hair, speaking in hushed, soothing tones about becoming comfortable with one's body. I gave Hadi a curious look. He put up his hands as if to declare innocence and said, "It's up to you." I returned my gaze to the screen, perplexed. This man could barely coordinate his special occasion shopping, and he'd planned ahead and actually bought this the last time we were in California. My cheeks grew hot. Hadi had voiced his concerns over my lack of interest in sex, but I assumed the fact that we still managed to do it with some regularity made up for my reluctance. Merely considering otherwise rooted me in my place. I was no longer the sole proprietor of all the gripes and quibbles in this relationship, and to discover this just when I thought things were getting better between us was both novel and terrifying. I'd hinted to Hadi at the guilt I felt over the intimacy we'd shared before we got married. I'd asked him questions like, "Don't you think it's terrible what we did?" and "Doesn't it make you feel rotten that our parents think we were so good when we were so bad?" To his answers of "No. We loved each other, and we were getting married, if not already married in the eyes of God," I'd argue back, "Of course, you don't feel bad. You're a guy." Hadi had taken offense to my answer—he said it was as if I was implying men had no judgment when it came to sex and that I continuously discounted the ceremony we did with my grandfather when Hadi truly believed that had sanctioned our time together—but I didn't apologize and admit that the real problem was that I was ashamed. That I believed, as the woman, I should have been the one to push him away. I should have kept the big kiss the DJ requested at our wedding to a restrained peck. And, yet, even without me stating any of this, Hadi heard it all. That evening, listening to Dr. Susan discuss taboos and shame, I felt called out for clinging to things that I knew intellectually were not right. I did see my naked self as dirty. I did see sexual desire as something far more sinister than a natural biological drive. I did steal peeks at the clock to make sure Hadi hadn't spent too much time with my stinky _that_. And I never admitted to Hadi (or to myself for that matter) what I wanted or what I liked. Dr. Susan introduced us to three couples who'd be demonstrating the points she'd discussed. Taking a look at the average couples on the screen, I prepared myself to be disgusted by their nakedness but found that I was relieved. These people looked just like we did when we had sex. They changed positions and had bad haircuts, jiggly bellies, and splotchy thighs. This was fascinating, a revelation, the adult equivalent to the book _Everyone Poops_. I didn't make eye contact. I held onto a throw pillow, and Hadi fiddled with the tangled fringe on the chenille throw blanket draped over the couch's arm. After the video ended, Hadi said, "I hope you don't think I was trying to say anything with this video. I just thought it might be helpful." The idea that sex was something that could be "helped" overwhelmed me. I didn't want sex to become a point of discussion or an area for improvement. I wanted it to stay relegated to a small, tidy corner of my life where I ideally never had to confront any of my childhood hang-ups. "I don't know if you get what it's like to grow up hearing all these things about how a woman is supposed to be around a man," I said. "It's hard to go from being told not to talk to boys and not to be interested in sex to, 'Okay, everything is allowed now. Go have sex all the time.'" "I've never heard that." "Why would you?" I said, suddenly defensive. "You're a man." "No, that's not what I mean. I just think maybe you're confusing messages for unmarried women with those for married women. We're married. It's good for you to want to be with your husband." "I know that, but when you've been told 'no, no' for so long, it can be hard to switch that off." "Okay, but this isn't just about sex. I'd be happy if you touched me more. Anything. A hug, a pat on the hand. I know you care a lot about where we go and what we do, but for a guy, that's how we feel loved." This wasn't the first time Hadi had told me this, but I'd always dismissed the suggestion as irrelevant. What could touching him more really fix? Now I wondered what would happen if I listened to Hadi for a change, if I tried to offer him something other than steady proof of my unhappiness. I scooted in next to Hadi on the couch and rested my head on his shoulder. He brought up a hand to stroke my hair and said, "See, now this is the best. I just want you to let me love you." "I know," I said and prayed that I'd find the way to love him back. At the internado that winter, a few of the older girls approached me, first Natalia with her darkly stained two front teeth, then Miranda with her smooth white skin and baby-like whisper, and finally Rosa with her reddish-brown hair and freckled nose. They nudged each other until Rosa asked me, "We've started preparing for our confirmation. Will you be our sponsor?" I'd told the staff that I was not Catholic, but they simply chalked this up to another aspect of my foreignness. I was an American; I spoke English; and I was a Muslim, which was something like being Jewish, _verdad_? But I didn't know how these girls would take to discovering I was different from them in yet another way. I gathered up their hands in mine and said, "I would love to be your sponsor, but I can't, because I'm not Catholic." They nodded slowly, curiously. Then Rosa tilted her head and asked, "Then what are you?" " _Soy musulmána_ ," I answered, feeling the sense of oddity that had struck me many times before in the girls' company. In America, I was a minority, but here I was a symbol of the United States and the English language. "Do you believe in God?" Rosa asked. "Yes," I said, and this elicited no vocal reaction, just a shrug and a dash back to the homework room. Mama had asked me on more than one occasion if I had told anyone at the internado that I was Muslim. I'd told her that I'd mentioned it and that they didn't care. The internado may have been a Catholic institution with the girls going to chapel every day and nuns boarding with the girls, but our days were too busy to discuss the faith I practiced at home. "You should tell them again," Mama had said, "so they can see that there are good Muslims in this world." But what Mama didn't realize was that the internado wasn't a part of this world. Behind its tall gates, there was no television blabbing on about the ills of Islam, no internet, no newspapers. (That was until 9/11. Then even those tall gates wouldn't keep one of the girls from asking me during a return visit if all Muslims were terrorists.) At the time, however, I would've had to make the issue of my faith relevant because as far as the internado was concerned, I was just Joya, the _norteamericana_ who wore the same jeans, jacket, and tennis shoes every day because it made her feel guilty when the girls asked her how many shirts, shoes, and earrings she had. The internado had done exactly what I needed—it had filled my days and my thoughts with something other than myself. After realizing how behind the children were in their regular school classes, I scrapped English lessons in favor of working with them in small groups on math and reading. Some days, I stayed behind for bath time and for lunch, but this meant I was there long enough to see the director, Viviana, losing her temper and spanking the children or, on one occasion, threatening the girls who did not follow the rules with punishment by electric chair. I was there to watch their bodies freeze in terror while I looked on speechless. At night, I dreamed of the internado and confronting Viviana. Some nights, I'd see myself in the office, telling her that things had to change. Other nights, I saw the girls pleading with me to do something. In the mornings, guilt would unfurl inside my chest. I'd tell myself that the only way I could be more useless was by not showing up, but still I struggled to stay awake long enough to get up and get dressed. I was certain that I was unwell, plagued by some kind of worm or bitten by a traveling tsetse fly. When Hadi was home, I'd pick his brain with questions like, "Do you think I could have African sleeping sickness? How about chronic fatigue syndrome?" It never occurred to me that this sudden onset of overwhelming drowsiness might have had something to do with my failure to speak up, with the knowledge that I'd been presented with the first real moral dilemma of my adult life and chosen silence over action. Finally, I'd get out the door, the hilly walk to the bus becoming more and more taxing each day. A walk that used to take me fifteen minutes took thirty, and as I walked, I'd think about my decision to get married, to give up school, to remain silent in the face of Viviana's ridiculous threats, and these thoughts consumed me with an emotion I'd never had cause to feel before—pure self-loathing. At the bus stop, I'd struggle to catch my breath while an undercurrent of thought babbled below my awareness. _Get pregnant_ , it said. _Then you would have a reason to visit the internado less. The girls would love the baby. You could put the baby in one of those little backpack things and cut your visits to the girls down to twice a week._ Over the last few months, Hadi and I had gone through the last two tapes in Dr. Susan's video series, and although I'd never admit this to him, he was right. I'd needed someone to normalize sex—to separate it from the shame and guilt that had been such a part of my identity as a virgin. None of our issues disappeared—this wasn't a cure by any means—but now that our sex lives had improved, we argued with less tension, less defeatism. I wished somebody had told me to trust that if I gave in to my body more, my mind would get there later; that there was a direct correlation between the quality of our lives in and outside the bedroom; that the more sex we had, the better we'd get along. Around the same time, I reached the end of my tolerance for the adult acne that covered my face with hard, red welts. It had been a problem ever since I'd started taking birth control pills. Facial products hadn't helped. Switching brands of pills had not helped. I could pretend people didn't notice the red mounds on my face when I was back home because Americans, for the most part, refrain from commenting on a person's appearance. But, in Mexico, a culture where feminine beauty is paramount, maintaining this illusion was not an easy task. Some days I felt as if everyone, from Viviana to my Spanish teacher to women on the bus, had an opinion or a remedy for my affliction. Try oatmeal. Douse each pimple in alcohol. Why is your face still like this? Did you try the oatmeal? Wash your face with a _jabón neutro_. Go see the cosmetologist Maria Sánchez Villañueva at her clinic. I didn't try everything they suggested, but I did go see Maria Sánchez Villañueva. She happened to be conveniently located in the strip mall a short bus ride away from my house. She wore a lab coat, called her clients patients and her office a clinic, and offered a wide array of services from waxing to wrapping women in gauze to help them sweat off their weight. On our first meeting, she explained to me that cosmetology was much more advanced in Mexico, and I desperately wanted to believe her. But after a series of painful zit-squeezing facials with one of the clinic's many assistants, I began to question the merits of her treatment. I told Hadi I wanted to see if it would help to stop taking the pill. Months later I still had acne but less, and it delighted me to know that I had a chemical-free body that could now safely house a baby. I nursed the fat-chance hope that I could convince Hadi to try for a baby on Valentine's Day. That would be romantic, memorable. And it worked. All of it worked. After I found out I was pregnant, I felt as if my body was a sacred vessel nurturing my salvation. My days at the internado were more tolerable because I knew that soon I'd have reason to cut my hours. Hadi whispered to the baby every night while I applauded myself for choosing such a good father for my unborn child. I followed my baby's weekly development online, doodled little fetuses on paper, thought of names, and longed for the baby who would end all my loneliness, my struggle to find purpose. Two months later, I saw the first drops of blood that told me that all this specialness, hope, and relief were threatening to leave me. The results of the ultrasound were bleak—the technician found no signs of life, only an empty sac. The doctor said it was likely a blighted ovum, but still he advised bed rest, saying he'd seen stranger things happen. From my bed, I prayed fervently for a miracle, but every time I got up to use the bathroom, I was met with more blood. Two weeks later, my womb released a small sac that I eyed with horror. It was my twenty-third birthday, and my body had dropped what should have been my beloved in the toilet. Hadi tried to comfort me with science, with the cold, hard truth that we'd never really had a baby to lose, but this only made my grief feel unfounded and illegitimate. I was mourning who we had been when we were pregnant. For ten weeks, we'd been a family of three. My miscarriage happened before the start of Hadi's spring break, and we decided to keep our plans to visit our families in California. I wanted to get away from the sadness that had moved into our house, but it followed me on our trip. There was the loss of the good news we'd hoped to deliver, the loss of the baby as a topic of conversation between us, and the loss of the excitement over our new roles, Hadi as dad, me as mom. When we returned to our apartment a week later, the sadness was still there—in every place where I'd slept and sat, and where I lost the baby that never was and never would be—only now it was much worse. Before, my sadness had been tied to hope of a miracle. Now it had taken dread as its companion. I'd have to go back to the internado, to dealing with Viviana. When I'd started to miscarry, I'd called to say I wouldn't be coming in for a while, but I couldn't bring myself to explain why. Saying the words would've made me weep. Instead, I'd told Viviana I had hurt my back because it was also true. Bed rest had left me with a pinched nerve. Her reply stung like an unexpected slap on the face: "Don't deceive me, Joya." The night before I was supposed to go back to the internado, I lay in bed and wondered how I'd face Viviana. Would I finally find the words to talk to her about spanking the girls and her empty threats of dramatic punishments? I feared being disrespectful. Not only was she older than me (I had been raised to never talk back to my elders), but also the spanking issue felt like a murky gray area. As time went on, I'd seen everyone on the staff, except for the soft-spoken Madre, give a child a swift swat on the bottom for one reason or another, and although I had conversations with a few of the other staff members about alternatives to spanking, I didn't know if my role as a volunteer entitled me to do anything more than offer ideas. I bristled at the accounts of Western feminists traveling in Middle Eastern countries, trying to liberate their oppressed women, and I didn't want to be the one doing what I'd accused them of—disregarding cultural context, exporting values. In the dark of my room, contemplating all this, my heart did something it had never done before: it fluttered in a way that left me queasy. I got up to get Hadi and found that the few steps to our office had left me breathless. Hadi sat me down in his office chair, took my blood pressure, and listened to my chest. Hadi was not at the top of his class when it came to his coursework, but he excelled in anything applied, such as his clinical rotations and his surgery class. With the bulk of his academic coursework finally behind him, Hadi had a newfound sense of confidence. It was as if he'd been waiting for the chance to learn by doing, rather than reading, his entire life. This was something new for us—Hadi, the owner of a body of knowledge that I benefitted from; Hadi, the one who was helping me. All this time, I had been so preoccupied with what I gave up to come here that I rarely stopped to consider what I was gaining. One day soon Hadi would be a doctor, answering questions and comforting so many of our friends and family. Removing his stethoscope's ear tips from his ears, Hadi told me that my heart was racing and that I should skip going to the internado tomorrow and go see his cardiology professor instead. Three days later, after an in-office EKG, a twenty-four-hour engagement with a Holter monitor, and an echocardiogram, Doctora Gomez, with the strappy high heels and matching beaded necklaces, called me into her office and told me everything looked normal. " _¿No tiene angustia?_ " she asked. I thought for a minute and said, "No, no anxiety." Not one of the storms that had raged in my mind for the last two years occurred to me. Not my giving up graduate school or moving to Mexico. Not my marriage. Not the internado or the miscarriage or the unanswered prayers to save my pregnancy that made me question whether God was the wish-granter I'd believed Him to be. In my mind, anxiety was something a person was aware of, a conscious state of unrest. It had nothing to do with the unsettling, dissatisfied whispers that coursed through my body. That was just my life. That summer, I flew home for Lina's high school graduation, torn between a sense of pride and betrayal. She'd chosen to attend UC Berkeley, the same college where my mother had locked the car doors and turned around before my campus tour began. Only five years later and Mama's expectations had changed so much. Mama didn't talk to Lina about marriage or getting engaged with any regularity. If somebody asked of Lina's availability, Mama said things like, "What's the rush? She's still studying." As much as I wanted to be done with remorse, this shift in Mama boggled my mind. Lina had been granted the freedom that Mama had raised me to believe was only available through marriage. It was one thing to meet other Muslim women in Mexico, to see how differently they had been raised, but seeing the rules changing within my own family, and after such a relatively short period, filled me with a longing to go back in time. When Lina gave her valedictory address, all I could see was myself on the stage. Five years ago, my mind had been focused on the boy in the audience, on marriage, but it was because of marriage that today I had to smile and tell my former teachers what a wonderful experience living in Mexico was, how I loved the people, the language, when a different truth hounded me. I had earned a high school and college diploma to become a wife to a man whose career path had swallowed mine. I had nothing to show for my time, no advanced degree, no baby. Before I left Guadalajara, Hadi had found out that he had failed the first step of his medical boards by one point, and the news crushed me. No matter how much he excelled in his clinical work, the academics still kept him down. Now Hadi would have to retake the exam, and later when it came time to apply for residencies, he'd stand little chance of getting through the competitive selection process to get his first choice. Most likely, my graduate school plans would have to wait once again, but what hurt more was the overwhelming sense that progress was impossible for me. I took one step forward in accepting my marriage only for some news, a failed exam or Lina going off to Berkeley, to come along and set me even further back. That night as I struggled to fall asleep, a haze of unease cast itself over my room. It was an angst I had not yet learned to identify as anxiety. All I knew was that I felt misled. I'd thought following all the rules guaranteed me the scripted life I'd imagined for myself—the accomplished husband, the His and Her degrees, the bright and beautiful children. I had no idea that growing up was not so much the process of accruing a career, spouse, home, and child, as it was this particular journey to reconcile what you dreamed of with what you got. When I awoke, I did my best to disguise my restlessness with makeup and a hair-dryer, jeans and a new top. Diana and Nadia were coming to see me, and for one day, I needed to pretend I was still in college, to forget that I was married. That afternoon, Nadia and Diana filled the living room with the kind of laughter that drew their heads back, their long, black, flat-ironed hair falling behind their shoulders. They looked polished, beautiful, and happy. We hugged constantly; we squeezed each other's hands and reiterated how much we'd missed one another, how good it was to be together again. And then we had lunch. Nothing unusual. Just the rice, kabobs, and grilled tomatoes I'd prepared that morning, but it didn't sit well with me. For perhaps the tenth time since I'd arrived, I was hit with diarrhea. My stomach rebelled when I was in Mexico, and it retaliated when I left. I spent the rest of the evening in the bathroom, missing out on conversation, missing out on my one girl's night of the year. In between bathroom runs, I sat at the end of the sofa, my stomach cramping, my behind sore, and my nose unable to clear itself of that vile odor. "Oh, Hudie, are you okay?" Nadia and Diana took turns asking. "I'm fine," I insisted and tried to catch where we were in discussing Nadia's applications to medical school, Diana's choices of physical therapy schools, their engagements, and when they might start planning their weddings. My gaze landed on Nadia's and Diana's rings. Their rocks could've eaten mine and still had room for dessert. While it didn't surprise me that Diana had the kind of proposal we'd always dreamed of—the fancy dinner, the walk along the ocean, the boyfriend down on one knee while presenting her with a velvet box—I couldn't believe that Nadia, my sister in Islamic rules and limitations, had gotten her dream too. Nadia, the girl who'd been so focused on school, so resigned to consent to whomever her parents' chose, had met a Muslim boy through her Muslim community. And although they'd gotten engaged the traditional way, with both families meeting and consenting, Nadia was in love. "Oh, Hudie," she'd once sighed to me, "do you ever catch yourself thinking about the moment of Hadi's creation and just thanking God that he exists?" Listening to Nadia and Diana, I felt last night's thumping ache return. _This is where you should be_ , it nagged. _You should be in school. You should be falling in love and marrying someone now. You should be talking about dresses, and rings, and weddings in the present, not in the past. You should've never had the opportunity to get pregnant, let alone lose a baby._ When Nadia and Diana left a few hours later, I made another dash for the bathroom and then returned to the same spot on the couch, now next to Lina and Mama. Mama looked over at me and said, "Tummy still making you miserable?" That was all it took to beset me with tears that captured my voice. Lina brought tissues, and Mama stood above me, prodding and waiting until I finally sputtered, "All my friends are happy, and all I have is diarrhea." I heard how funny this sounded, and I released a loud, ugly snort that might've turned into a fit of laugh-crying but didn't. This was my life, my body that I could not trust. Over the last three years, I had been no stranger to self-pity, but tonight was a new low for me. Mama was usually the first person to laugh at an inopportune moment, but she did not so much as giggle. She rested her hands on her hips and released a low, long tsk. "I thought you were happy seeing your friends. Where is all this coming from?" I grabbed another tissue from where Lina sat on the floor, clutching the box in her lap, a stricken look on her face. "Mama, I haven't been happy in so long. I just can't take it anymore." "Can't take what?" "Him." "What about him?" "He's bringing me down. Look at Nadia and Diana. I'm just as smart, Mama. I should be in school just like they are. It's not fair. You let me get married so young, but this...this is the age I should've gotten married at." "But I thought you liked Hadi." "No, you liked him, and I listened to you. You made istikharas for me before I even had a chance to figure out if I liked him on my own." She sighed and brought a thoughtful fist up to her chin. "He was so young. I never imagined you'd have problems." I thought of Mama and Baba's almost twenty-year age gap. That was what had been important to my mother, youth. As long as she'd found me someone close to my age, she assumed I would be protected against the things she'd suffered from: the specter of early widowhood, a father who could not keep up with his children, a man who fell asleep at every back-to-school night. "Being young also comes with being immature," I said. Mama shook her head, and I took this gesture of sympathy as permission to say something bolder. "Since I can't get a divorce, sometimes I wish I'd just die or he'd die so at least one of us could start our life all over again." At this, Lina burst into tears. Mama looked over at her. "Why are you crying?" "I don't want Hudie to be this sad." Mama's lips twisted in a tight knot, and her eyes watered. She'd never seen this fatalistic side of me. "Nobody has to die. You can have a divorce." "What about, 'Out of this house in your wedding dress and only come back in your kiffin'?" Mama took the seat next to me on the sofa and let out a sad, slow tsk. "You kids always take everything we say so seriously. Parents say things to keep their children safe, to guide them to make the right choices, but I don't care about anything more than your well-being." It was the same sentiment Mrs. Ridha had expressed to me last year, and with it returned the same untethered feeling I'd had in Mrs. Ridha's company. I wished I'd understood the perils of basing my whole understanding of my culture on my parents and their immigrant friends before I got married. I had shaped an entire world from the things our older generation said, but their memories still held the experiences of an entire population of people. Even if those memories were frozen in time, at least they were of a diverse Iraq, filled with both the rich and the poor, law-abiding citizens and errant criminals, artists and scientists, the secular and the devout—whereas I only knew them. "I can talk to his parents," Mama now added, placing a gentle hand on my leg. "I don't want that. I don't want anyone to know until it's official. Not them. Not Baba. We may get over this somehow, but if they know we're having trouble, they'll never forget." "You don't have to go back. Just stay here." This suggestion snapped me back into the life I'd left behind, the stuff I had in my house in Mexico and the girls at the internado; even Hadi seemed entitled to some kind of an explanation. "No, I have to go back. The one thing I promised my girls was that I would not leave without saying goodbye." "If you are this unhappy, you really don't have to. You can send them something, call." "No," I said, the helplessness I'd felt only seconds ago giving way to a sense of purpose. The girls would not be back from their homes for over a month, but I needed that time to gather my things and talk to Hadi. "I'll go back and tie up loose ends, and then I will come home." "Do you want to make an istikhara?" Mama offered, her tone measured and careful. I thought another no would emerge from me, resounding and clear, but the prospect of having this decision taken out of my hands was so appealing that I paused. If the istikhara came out good to leave, I'd feel not just validated but vindicated—as if God Himself had given me permission to leave. But what if I got to Mexico and wanted to stay? Would I then blame any future obstacle in my life on my failure to heed the istikhara's warning? And, if it came out bad for me to leave, would I, forever, blame the istikhara for forcing me to stay? "No," I said with renewed certainty. This time, this decision had to be entirely mine. Mama, however, could not resist the pursuit of closure. Instead of consulting God, she confided in Jidu that I'd been struggling, and the next day, when we were alone in the car, she told me that Jidu didn't like the idea of me getting divorced. "That doesn't surprise me," I said coolly, my hands fixed on the steering wheel. "No one thinks divorce is a good idea." And as if to drive the point home, I added, "If Jidu thought divorce was a good idea, he wouldn't still be married to Bibi." Mama shrugged as if she was surrendering to me on this point and said, "I'm just letting you know. You make your own decision." I said that I would, but I could feel Jidu's disapproval taking root in my mind. An istikhara may not have been made, but still a judgment had been rendered, a judgment that I dreaded having to defy. How did a woman actually go about walking out on the man she'd been living and sleeping with for almost three years? Would I ask Hadi to take me to the airport for a tearful and sentimental goodbye, a nostalgic last kiss? Or would I gather up all my things in a fit of anger and call a taxi? During my last week in California, I'd thought almost exclusively about how to initiate our breakup. At first, I assigned myself homework. I read through a stack of self-help books on how to save a marriage that were directed to people who'd had previous relationships and gotten married for love and who still complained of infidelity, boring sex, and falling in and out of love with their spouses and in love with someone else. And then I decided to sort out my feelings on my own. Maybe I was meant to lose the baby because God knew we weren't staying together. Now I could go back to school, and even if I never remarried, I could always come back to the internado and adopt one of the girls who didn't have a family. Maybe I'd even meet someone at school, someone who'd accept me as a divorcée. From there, I documented all the reasons I wanted to leave. They reached back as long as we'd been a couple and covered all issues from the big, "You Have No Ambition," to the small, "You Need to Shave on Weekends." And it was current. Mama was so concerned by my outburst that she booked Lina on the flight back with me, and then she flew out to join us a few days later. Although their ten-day visit provided a much-needed distraction to ease me back into my life with Hadi, this did not keep me from updating my list throughout their stay. "You Have Poor Time Management Skills," I wrote when Hadi refused to drive Mama, Lina, and me to the beach. After all these years of not studying, now, when my family was visiting, he decided he had to study and would need to drop us off at the bus station instead. "You Are No Comfort to Me," I scribbled when Hadi's open arms were not enough to stop my tears the night after Mama and Lina left. Mama had asked me a number of times if I wanted to go back home with her, and I'd told her that Hadi and I still needed an opportunity to talk. But, reviewing my list, I could not think of any greater proof than this final point that we were not meant to be. Movies and television made it clear that your one true love was supposed to be the salve to your every hurt. I had no intention of showing this list to Hadi; its purpose was to organize my feelings so that I wouldn't lose my resolve during our breakup conversations. For weeks, after Mama and Lina's visit, I brought up the items on my list, one by one, as if they'd only just occurred to me in the course of us talking after dinner, or before bed, or on weekend mornings, but those conversations wound up being soliloquies rather than dialogues. Because of Hadi's passivity, I could not bring myself to say that I planned to leave, that I'd fallen apart during my last visit home, and that Mama was expecting me. It was on a Sunday morning when Hadi's quiet presence during these sessions became intolerable. I was sitting up in bed, and he was stretched out by my feet, his head propped up on a hand as he listened. No comments. No arguments. No solutions. And, most importantly, no anger. This both baffled and annoyed me. Hadi took so much abuse from me. Where was his self-esteem, his will to defend himself? I snapped because it was time. Somebody had to break. "What's the matter with you? Don't you get that I want to leave you? And you're just lying there." And then suddenly he wasn't. Without a word, Hadi got up and left the room. Anger rose within me. After all that, Hadi preferred to walk away rather than defend himself, rather than say something, anything, that could save us. Was it any wonder I wanted to leave? I had been so good, so patient for trying so damn hard to get through to someone so thick. I threw the covers off my lap, and in my nightgown I stormed into the hallway, calling out, "You do get that I want to leave?" "Yes," he said, turning to face me, his expression serious but dispassionate. "You realize that if I leave this time, I am never coming back?" "Yes," he repeated, his tone so even that I wanted to shake him. "So that's it. I tell you I'm leaving, and you don't care. You don't even want to stop me." Hadi took the steps down into the foyer, unlocked the sliding glass door to the patio, and walked out, slamming the door behind him. From the other side of the glass, I watched Hadi fill up a watering can from the spigot in the wall and carry it over to the plants. I opened the door and asked, "You're actually going to water the plants now?" At this, he put down the watering can, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut again so hard the glass shuddered. I stepped back. "What do you want me to do? You've been telling me for weeks how you're miserable, how it's all because of me. You want to go, so just go." I didn't know what to make of Hadi's tone. I'd never heard it before—this mix of insult and surrender. I brought my hand up to my mouth and cried because he was right. I had blamed him for everything that was not working in my life, and he was finally angry enough for me to see that I'd taken the most even-tempered person I knew and broken him. Hadi stood with his hands on his hips. He was not moved by my tears, and at this point, I didn't expect him to be. I took a deep breath, wiped my face, and said, "I didn't say that I was leaving tomorrow." In the weeks that followed, I made a number of different lists: Reasons to Stay. Things to Work on at the Internado. How to Fix Hadi and Me. Possible Places to Go for Weekly Date Nights. At the top of my list of reasons to stay in Mexico was the internado. I'd missed the girls over the summer, and quite selfishly, I missed the way being around them shrunk my problems down into the realm of the petty. During my first weeks back at the internado, the girls did not fail to deliver generous doses of perspective. First came Gabriela, asking me, "Joya, why don't you have a baby? You don't want one?" I had no intention of bringing up my own baby angst, and so I told her I was waiting until I was older so that I could keep coming there to be with them. Gabriela locked eyes with me from the old plastic patio table where we held our reading group and in one breath said, "My mom was sixteen when she had me, and she has four kids, and she is only twenty-eight, and she never got married." When I proposed the advantages of a different timeline, Gabriela was unfazed. "But the Virgin was only fifteen when she had Jesus." I tried to convince Gabriela that despite this very special example, teen pregnancy was not ideal, but as I watched Gabriela's attention wander, I realized there was nothing I could say that would undo the reality of a world where women got pregnant at sixteen. Gabriela was eleven years old now. Visible through her T-shirt were the signs of developing breasts. Soon she'd have her first period, and shortly after that, she'd reach the age where she said to herself that it was normal to have sex and babies. As I did this math, something clicked for me. In all these years of blaming Hadi, I hadn't given enough consideration to the sheer power of imitation. When I was in high school, I'd constantly calculated how many years I had left before I reached the age Mama was when she got married and then when she had my brother. After my engagement, I'd thought about those numbers again—married at seventeen, before finishing high school, and three kids by twenty-eight—and felt as if my timing was appropriate. I'd given myself more time to finish school but not too much time that I'd fall behind her in child-rearing. But the biggest dose of perspective would arrive the following week, when Elena, one of our new arrivals, ran away. After Mass one Sunday, she took off, charging down a highway full of reckless drivers, overloaded trucks, and speeding buses to an aunt's house. Now the internado would not take her back. The director believed it set a dangerous precedent for the other girls, but her aunt had called, concerned. She could not keep Elena. The director asked me to visit Elena and recommend that she stay with her aunt now that the internado was no longer an option, but as soon as I entered their compound of concrete apartment buildings, I realized how foolish this hope had been. Two small boys opened the door to their ground floor, two-bedroom apartment and pointed me toward the kitchen where their mother—Elena's aunt—who appeared no more than twenty-five years old was spoon-feeding her five-year-old developmentally disabled daughter in a high chair. Elena's aunt asked me to wait for her in the front room, where I sat on an aging loveseat under a framed glass box crookedly hanging on the wall. Inside the box was a faded wedding picture of a once carefree young woman and her equally hopeful husband. A yellowing headpiece and veil that had once been pinned alongside the photograph now pooled at the bottom of the frame, next to the pieces of two broken toasting glasses. This was not Mama's manila envelope, tidily resting at the back of a photo album, each picture still crisp from lack of exposure. This was not my poster-size wedding portrait, hanging above the fireplaces in both Mama and Mrs. Ridha's home, my dress, headpiece, and veil carefully stored in the closet of my childhood bedroom. The same hopes and dreams had inspired all our attempts at preservation, but our respective memorabilia had met such different ends. Even though I was surrounded by a tower of evidence as to why Elena could not stay, I still played the role I'd been assigned, asking if Elena could join their family of five and listening to her aunt explain why she could not as if it was not already painfully obvious. The next day, I went to the director, having spent all night rehearsing my plea for Elena to be taken back, only to be told that arrangements had already been made for Elena at an internado for _niñas caidas_ , fallen girls. For weeks, I turned over the images that had been seared into my memory that day in her aunt's apartment, the frame of shattered hopes and dreams on the wall, the bedroom with bunk beds where Elena and her two cousins had slept, the tender way Elena's aunt had fed her daughter, the way she avoided directly saying Elena could not stay but that she'd have to check with her husband. For so long, my thoughts had traveled down two channels, one for all that was Muslim and Arab, and one for everything I'd pegged American, but there was no geography, no identity that promised any kind of a life. All this time I'd been chasing down an American love story that followed Muslim rules when the idea itself was baseless. American culture was not the sole proprietor of any experience, but I'd given it total ownership over love and romance. The only thing that had ever been wrong with how Hadi and I met, or how he proposed, or even me following him to Mexico, was that it didn't meet my expectations, expectations I'd simply made up from years of hearing a single kind of story about love and success. I questioned whether I'd ever truly wanted to divorce Hadi or if I'd merely wanted to force an ending to the tiresome story I'd crafted about us. That concrete specific was something I felt as if I could tell Hadi—something I should. On our next date night, I sipped a cold sparkling _limonada_ and said, "I don't really think about leaving anymore." We sat in the courtyard to the side of a grand colonial building that had been recently converted into an upscale Italian restaurant. The tent raised above us was trimmed in white lights. Hadi nodded but did not meet my gaze. I ran a hand along the starched table linens and said, "I've been thinking that maybe I didn't go to grad school, but coming down here and really seeing what life is like in another country was probably way more important." Hadi reached across the table and squeezed my hand without saying a word. I added, "I don't say this enough, but I'm really proud of you. I may have pushed you to get here, but I've realized that I'm not the one in the room with you taking your tests or examining your patients. I'm not the one who got a perfect score in surgery. You're doing that all on your own." Now Hadi touched the tip of my wedding ring with his index finger and said, "But I wouldn't have even come down here if it wasn't for you." "Maybe, but that's not what I am trying to tell you. What I am trying to say is, yes, I helped you with your applications, and yes, I came down here with you, and yes, it was a kind of support, but it was also a burden. I feel like I blamed you for so long that I didn't leave you with any power to feel good about yourself when, really, the things that matter now you achieved on your own." Hadi brought a hand up to his chest. "But I don't want you to discount what you've done for me." "Okay, but I need to feel like I am lucky to be with you too. And I am lucky. Because you love me and this is just the beginning for you. You are going to be an amazing doctor. I know it. Your patients will be so lucky to have you, and I'm not saying that because I'm your wife. I'm saying that because you're smart. You remember stuff in a way I just don't. After three years of college and all those As, I remember nothing. And you went ahead and read what you wanted, and it all stuck." A waiter in a white dinner jacket slid two steaming platters in front of us, with tiny diced peppers scattered like confetti around their edges, and our conversation was suspended. Hadi and I could've never afforded to dine in a restaurant of this caliber in California. The dessert that arrived shortly after was even more stunning in presentation, three flavors of fruit sorbet nesting in a delicate and delicious sugar cage. I cracked into the shell of my sweet confection and thought about the contradiction I had been to Hadi, both a help and a hurt. How woefully unprepared for the task of marriage I'd been. Nobody ever warned me of the gravity of blending two lives together. Nobody ever told me I'd hold another person's sense of self in my hands, that I'd have the power to both build and destroy the life I now shared. It was New Year's Eve, and I was ovulating. Hadi and I were staying at his parents' house with our families—parents, grandparents, siblings, and, now that Jamila had two children, a niece and nephew. I didn't like having sex at Hadi's parents' house, but I liked it even less when it was this crowded. As a young married couple, we had our own room, but given the sheer number of people staying at the house, staying in one of the four bedrooms guaranteed little privacy. But still it had to be done. Now that I'd made the decision to stay with Hadi, I hadn't been able to get pregnant again. I talked to my doctor about our failure to conceive, but apparently a woman in her twenties had to have been trying for at least a year before anyone would take her fertility problems seriously. Sex was my new homework. I tracked my cycles and then pretended I was interested in sex at the end of every month. I'd have to feign desire while we were getting ready for the New Year's Eve party. It was the only opportunity we had to lock the doors and then shower, and everyone would understand that these were the actions of people who were getting dressed, not having sex. Hadi regarded my newfound enthusiasm for sex with patient bemusement. As soon as I closed the door behind him, he took a breath, puffed out his chest, and said, "I know. I know. You want my body." We started out on the bed, but even with the door to the hallway and the door to the shared bathroom locked, I felt too exposed; the bed was too noisy. "Get in the closet," I said. "Really?" "Do you not hear the bed squeaking?" Stretched out on the floor of the closet, I made the unfortunate discovery that its length was a tad shy of our five-and-a-half-foot average. The door stayed open. Above us, dress shirts, slacks, and coats lined the four walls. Our suitcases were crammed in the corner to the right of our heads. "Do you want to have a baby or suffocate us?" Hadi asked. "We're fine. Let's just do this." Lying there with the carpet pressed against my backside, I felt that this too was another one of life's milestones that had not lived up to its romantic image. Conceiving a baby on Valentine's Day, after our first time trying, would have been a memory to cherish, but no, it was my destiny to go about it like this, in the closet, rushed and hiding. This was not an act of love but of gardening. Hurry up now. Plant your seed. That night at the party, Ibrahim, Lina, and I settled at one of the folding tables set up in the living room. I watched Hadi from across the room as his mom called him back and forth to bring this, take that, repark this car, and so on. He'd grown a goatee over break, and he wore the kind of three-piece suit that was fashionable at the time. He was handsome, sexy even, but something about being in the Ridhas' living room made me restless. It was in this same living room where, as a six-year-old girl, I'd met Hadi, where I'd watched Jamila get engaged, where I'd sat after my first kiss. In Mexico, Hadi was just the man I was trying to make a life with, but here, in this living room, with our wedding picture hanging above the fireplace, so many memories of my engagement rushed back, all the dread and angst, the day when Dr. Ridha asked me if I wanted to leave. Why was I still here? Why hadn't I run when I had the chance? When the time for the countdown arrived, Hadi was standing on the other side of the room, talking to his cousin. I motioned him over to the table where I was sitting, but Hadi stopped behind the chair where his mother sat next to her friends. I waved at him again, but Hadi stood his ground, shaking his head. On the large television at the front of the room, the countdown began. At the stroke of midnight, I hugged my mother and father, sister and brother. During each one of their hugs, Mama asked, then Baba asked, and then Lina asked, "What's wrong with Hadi?" Only Ibrahim did not comment, and I could only shrug as an answer because I was confounded and speechless. Something had happened. I just didn't know what. It took every ounce of strength I had not to march over to Hadi and scream, "What's the matter with you?" For the next two hours, I forced a smile while waiting for our guests to leave and while tidying up with our families, but the entire time my mind shifted between anger, indignation, fear, and sadness. Knowing that I'd pushed Hadi away countless other times made the sting all the more bitter. Who knew that being rebuffed could hurt so much? When the door to our designated bedroom finally closed behind us at a little past two in the morning, my eyes burned and my body craved sleep, but first I asked, "What happened out there?" "Nothing," Hadi said. "You were over there with your family, so I thought I'd be over there with mine." My jaw dropped open. "Are you kidding me? What did you want me to do, get up and cross the room just to make the point that I left my family to come stand next to you?" Hadi sat down on the bed without comment. Memories of our engagement arguments, of his sulky possessiveness over things like who saw me first on our wedding day and what I wore on our honeymoon flooded over me and made me want to cry. "Why? Why did you have to pick today of all days to do this? It's a new year, a new century on top of that, and we just tried to have a baby. Did you ever think, 'Maybe now's not a good time to hurt my wife's feelings'? 'Maybe I can bring up my concerns to her later rather than make our mothers and sisters and God knows who else wonder if we are having marital troubles'?" I covered my face with my hands and groaned just imagining the rumors. Newly married couples in our community were minor celebrities. People watched the bride to see how she was holding up, they watched the couple and tried to guess if they were happy with each other, and, most importantly, they waited for news of their first baby. When I came home on break, people regularly asked me if I was expecting, and when I said no, they always asked why. To my stock answer of "It's in God's hands," an aunty once asked me, "Are you using something or not?" I could hear the rumors that would start after tonight, that I'd asked Hadi to stand next to me and he didn't, that our relationship was in trouble and that was why Hadi and I didn't have a baby yet. "You've got me thinking that we're just too messed up to be having kids," I said. Hadi took my hands off my face and pulled me next to him on the bed. "You don't have to take it to such an extreme. I just saw you over there, and I felt like you didn't make any effort to be with me. It's always me who has to come over to you." "Really, Hadi? I know I'm difficult about a lot of things, but you're difficult too. Look how much you read into that moment. I was just sitting there because that's where I was sitting." Hadi put his arm around me. This was one aspect of our lives that was less complicated in Mexico because we only had each other. There were no sides to retreat to where we could complain about our problems. Maybe we would have had more issues as a couple if we'd stayed here, negotiating our lives around our two families. "You could have come over to me," I said into the curve of his shoulder where my head now rested. "You could've said something, invited me to come be with you. Anything but just standing there, leaving me hanging." He kissed the top of my head. "I'm sorry." "Tell me, how come when I think things are better between us, they're not? When will our problems really be fixed?" It shook me to think that I'd made the decision to stay with Hadi and start a family, but that my renewed commitment had done so little to spare us conflict. "I don't know what you mean by 'fixed.' I think we're fine. People argue and get over it, and it doesn't have to mean anything." The possibility of an argument not having to mean anything about us as a couple had never occurred to me. I analyzed every conversation and fight we had, but I did not question my mind's constant dissection of our daily lives. That night, in spite of the late hour, it took me a while to fall asleep, my thoughts more troubled than angry. I hadn't realized that I'd replaced one ideal with another. I'd believed that accepting my marriage came with its own version of a happily ever after, a place where all our arguments were a thing of the past, where all our problems as a couple were resolved. I wondered how many other fictions of love still lurked in the corners of my mind. How liberating it would be to finally let them go. Guadalajara was the only place I'd ever lived where it was colder inside during the winter than it was outside. A chill clung to the mud walls and tile floors, but this nippy breeze didn't prevent life from carrying on as usual at the internado. The girls still showered and dressed in stalls with curtains that billowed in the wind. They still combed their wet hair in the courtyard. And I still got off the bus in a T-shirt, only to throw on a sweater after I arrived, to brave the draft. By April, the cold gave way to warmth. At the orphanage, the girls and I now sat without sweaters, toasty but nowhere near hot. I was making progress not just with the girls' lessons, but I also had finally found the courage to talk to Viviana about trying out different discipline methods. I still was not pregnant, but I was far too distracted to be concerned. Hadi had come home from school the week before and called me to the door, his tone as excited as if he had a dozen roses hidden behind his back. He told me he'd been given permission to do his last year of medical school at the General Hospital in Tijuana. We could move back to San Diego as soon as classes were over in June. In the fall, he'd commute across the border, and I could finally start taking classes again. There wouldn't be enough time for me to start a PhD program before he had to apply for his residency, but maybe I could squeeze in a master's. I'd listened to him with too-good-to-be-true skepticism. After three years of dealing with the university's inconsistent policies, I didn't believe this was any more likely to be happening now than when Hadi told me he was going to try to apply for it three months ago. But Hadi was not the type to get excited about anything before it was a sure thing, and he responded to my doubt with insistence. "This is happening. I'm not the only one going. Two other guys are doing it too." He dropped his backpack to the floor and added, "You can start packing and selling our stuff tomorrow if you want." "I'm having a hard time believing you." "I know." I stared at him for a second. "If this is true, I have to see if I can still apply to programs." "You should." I nodded thoughtfully, doubtfully. Hadi took my hands in his. "Just think. No more going to the grocery store to pay our bills at the register. No more disappearing electricity. No more roaches. No more diarrhea." Hadi was finally rescuing me, and the pride that lifted his voice was something new and endearing. He deserved to know he had made me happy. I believed this. I felt this, but when I opened my mouth, I said, "And no more niñas." I wanted the next thing out of my mouth to be, "We can't go. Let's just stay here for your last year so I can be with the girls," but I couldn't say it. To my surprise, Hadi offered it. "We could stay if you wanted." Hadi loved San Diego. He pined for its coastal highways and ocean views. It bothered me that given the chance to go home, Hadi was still so eager to please me that he couldn't see through the game I was playing with myself—this pretending I didn't want to go so I wouldn't have to admit how much I did. I released Hadi's hands after a gentle squeeze and said, "No, we should go." In the weeks that followed, everything that was once so intolerable became precious. Oh, you funny old bus driver you, passing me up on the street. Oh, you grouchy guy at the bank who never smiles at me when I change money. Oh, medical school that wanted a photocopy of Hadi's grade school report cards and junior high school diploma, you I will not miss, but to you I am most grateful. Thank you for giving my husband this opportunity, and for now finding me a way to go home, and yes, thank you for inviting us to your end-of-the-year dance. Even though your formal parties have always struck me as a bit sophomoric, now we'd be delighted to attend to say goodbye. The evening of the dance, Hadi and I went out to dinner with a few other couples before heading out to the university campus. As we took the steps up to the hall, I noted how formally dressed the Mexican students were. The women wore long cocktail dresses, and the men wore pressed suits. It reminded me of my prom, with my ostentatious custom-made dress and Hadi's rented tux. Now Hadi wore black slacks and a white button-up shirt with no tie. I wore a fitted top with a shiny skirt and open-toed heels. My hair was not stacked up on top of my head as it had been at my prom, but blow-dried straight and resting on my shoulders. We were a far cry from any "Lady in Red" fantasy, and this was a relief to me, a point of pride even. We'd finally grown up. As we walked in through the double doors, the pulsing Latin music blaring from the loudspeakers enveloped us. I spotted a Puerto Rican couple from Hadi's class, on the dance floor. The boyfriend spun his girlfriend around, and they laughed before resting their foreheads together. I felt a tug on my heart. They were so beautiful, their movements perfectly synchronous, but how foolish had I been to think Hadi and I could have danced like them, as if the magic of being young and newlyweds had the power to transform us from two children who'd grown up in households where dancing in public was practically forbidden into people whose bones had rhythm. We settled in with our group at a table off to the side of the dance floor. Waiters came around with beers and with shots of Tequila. Hadi and I were the only ones at our table who did not reach for a drink. As our friends sipped, I tried to resume our conversation as if nothing had changed, but I felt uneasy. I always felt uneasy around alcohol. A group of the wives got up to dance. "Come with us," my closest friend among them, Danette, said. I was about to say no when Hadi said, "Go." I looked at him and asked, "Really?" "Just go." I followed Danette onto the dance floor, but as soon as my feet landed on the waxy, wooden floor, they felt heavy, as awkward and as cumbersome as they would have felt in combat boots. Danette and the women with her formed a circle and started to clap and sway, but my legs wouldn't budge. I felt too exposed. After all this time dreaming about dancing, it finally dawned on me that I didn't want to dance in public spaces as much as I wanted to blame Hadi for not allowing it. I whispered an excuse to Danette and returned to our table. "You're back so soon?" Hadi asked. I shrugged. "I felt silly." He put an arm around me, and I felt cozy and secure, like I did during our quiet dinners together when we ate at the coffee table and watched movies on the couch. Now I understood what a good feeling that was. "Let's go," I said. "Are you sure?" "Yes," I said, knowing that soon we'd be home to our same couch and our same television, but that tonight would be different. I spent a week preparing for my last day at the internado. I wrote a letter to each girl, telling her how much I cared about her, everything I hoped for her future. I made cupcakes and goody bags filled with candies and small toys. On that day, each group had class at its scheduled time. While the rest of the group was busy inside with cupcakes and coloring, I called out the girls one by one to take a seat at one of the two patio chairs I'd set up outside the door. There, I gave each girl a goody bag and read her letter to her. Some of the girls blushed with pride, smiled, and gave me a tight hug. Some cried on my shoulder. And then there was Daniela. It would be too simple to say that she cried. When I started to tell her what a sweet and wonderful girl she was, how proud I was of all the progress she'd made, and how certain I was that she would succeed, her face lit up, and then it fell. She rested her head in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders bobbing up and down. I pulled her into my lap and told her I meant everything I wrote, that she was very special and that I would always remember and love her. And then she looked up at me and said, "Ay, Joya, who will love us like you?" The urge to stand up and say, "That's it. I've changed my mind. I'm not going," overwhelmed me. The girls would cheer, and I'd finally have a grand, cinematic resolution to at least one chapter of my life. But I knew this ending was not only impossible; it was also inaccurate. I'd never been the hero, saving these girls. They'd always been the ones rescuing me from romantic love's grip. By the time I finished saying my farewells to each girl, I felt heavy but empty all at the same time. I returned to my small classroom and stacked up all the white patio chairs in a corner. No one would be coming up here for a while. In the closet, I organized all the books, crayons, and notebooks, and then I said a little prayer that it wouldn't be long before they were used again. I gathered my backpack and my cupcake trays, took a deep breath, and walked out the door. No last look. No lingering in the doorway. I couldn't. As I neared the bottom of the staircase, I heard singing coming from the chapel, and as soon as I stepped into the courtyard, I saw pictures and letters taped to every post. To the background of the girls' voices, I walked the perimeter of the courtyard, pulling down each of their letters. Daniela had drawn me a diamond ring. Above it she wrote, Joya, I hope you will return very soon because I want to see your beautiful green eyes and I want to tell you more than anything that finally in my life, I found a heart full of love. I love you. Come back soon. When I had finally made my way around the courtyard, I was standing at the chapel door. The Madre, in her white linen habit, turned to the girls and said, "Let us raise our voices and thank Joya for all the love she has shared with us." I had barely made it past the doorway when the girls turned and surrounded me in my last group hug. I knew that I would not remember the words to their song but that the beauty of their voices and the touch of their hands would stay with me always. It was this thought of the girls no longer being in my present but shifting into my memories that unleashed the tears I'd been holding back all day. I looked around at the circle of arms that enveloped me, the mud walls, the small wooden pews, and the large cross standing at the head of the chapel and wondered what I could do with my life that would rival the fullness I knew now. Maybe I wouldn't start the master's program I'd been accepted to in San Diego. Maybe I would go back to school to get the skills to work with kids just like these. Maybe I would become a mother who no longer doubted that was enough of something to be. When I finally left, Hadi was waiting for me outside the internado gates. We went home and finished selling off our last few items of furniture, our bed, our desks, and our refrigerator. And then I stood back and let Hadi pack our remaining belongings. I watched him lay out everything we wanted to bring in the car, study their shapes, put some things in, and take others down. The process took two days, but now rather than fume over how long Hadi was taking to pack, I saw something in this, a gift for visualizing spaces. Hadi's mind held images—the inside of the car, a human body, a computer. My mind held only words; it made lists and told stories. And for the first time in our lives together, I understood that this was a good thing, that our different minds complemented each other. Hadi and I left Guadalajara at dawn on a Tuesday morning. He drove, and I read street names off the map because I could never find where we were until we'd already passed it. Somehow Hadi made sense of the clues I dropped him, and we got to where we were going. Together. I've always believed the best thing about being a writer is the company I get to keep. I am profoundly grateful to my writing community, the mentors and friends who have supported and encouraged me over the years. Susan Muaddi Darraj was my first writing teacher and the proof I needed that Arab women can, indeed, write. Neal Chandler taught me to treat my writing like a profession and founded the workshop that connected me to a wonderful group of early readers and to masterful editor Charles Oberndorf, whose feedback has been my personal master of fine arts. Developmental editor Jane Rosenman offered the definitive diagnosis on what was missing in this book and has been an ongoing source of advice and direction. My writing soulmates, Laura Maylene Walter and Jennifer Marie Donahue, are behind my every publication. Nothing is good enough until Laura and Jennifer read it, and I see them on every page of everything I write. Deonna Kelli Sayed has been a dear writing-friend and also a tremendous resource on bookselling and literary festivals. John Frank, Nouran Hashimi, Margari Hill, Narjes Misherghi, Tracy Niewenhous, and Lynn Ameen Rollins read early drafts and shared invaluable perspectives. Adrienne Brodeur, Saadia Faruqi, Bayley Freeman, Zareen Jaffery, Honorée Fanonne Jeffers, Soniah Kamal, Molly Nance, Aisha Saeed, Sabaa Tahir, and Jen Waite all offered much-needed encouragement and support at critical moments. Faith Adiele and Jasmin Darznik generously offered not just their time but also their names to my project. Ayesha Mattu and Nura Maznavi, editors of the anthology _Love, InshAllah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women_ , published the first excerpt of this memoir and also created the most supportive community for their writers. I hope this book will carry on the much-needed conversation they started. And, I am so very thankful to Aspen Words and Cuyahoga Arts and Culture, with the Community Partnership for Arts and Culture, for their generous gifts of fellowships. To the agent who finally chose me, Myrsini Stephanides, thank you for representing this book better than I could have myself. Your confidence in this book and in me as a writer has been nothing short of a dream come true. To Maile Beal and others at the Carol Mann Agency, thank you for all your tireless efforts on my behalf. Suzanne Kingsbury, thank you for teaching me how to articulate and share the message in my own work. Liz Psaltis, thank you for showing me how to navigate my way in the world of book marketing. Christina Morris, thank you for my beautiful new website design, and Missy Chimovitz and Mariana Velez, thank you for making my book cover a love story in itself. And, most importantly, thank you to Steven L. Mitchell and all the wonderful people at Prometheus Books, Bruce Carle, Jeffrey Curry, Hanna Etu, Mark Hall, Jill Maxick, Lisa Michalski, Liz Mills, and Catherine Roberts-Abel, for being the change-makers we need in the world. Whatever I hoped to say with this book would be nothing without the champions, like you, getting my work into readers' hands. Writing a memoir takes an entirely different kind of a toll on a family, and I would not have had the courage to send this book into the world were it not for the unwavering support of my parents and siblings, my in-laws, my husband, and most recently my children. (When they were younger, their support was only made possible through the assistance of many wonderful babysitters. For sticking with us the longest, I thank Emilie Sandham, Angie Allison, and Maggie Sabolik.) A special thank-you to my sister for cheering me on during our nightly chats and to my brother, the dynamic professor Ibrahim Al-Marashi, for not only marking up my drafts but for also always pushing me to situate my work into its wider historical context. To my dear husband, I owe a completely different kind of gratitude. This book has made him privy to thoughts no spouse should ever have to see let alone share with the world, and I thank him for embracing my purpose and vision for this project with such grace and generosity. I don't know many writers who were not blessed with wonderful teachers, and in this regard, I have been incredibly fortunate. Most notably, Rosanna Little, Dr. Sita Anantha Raman, and Dr. David Pinault laid the foundation for the work I was able to do here. Finally, I offer my deepest and most heartfelt thanks to my readers, for allowing my words space in your mind. We live in a busy world, chock-full of entertainment choices, and I am so honored that you chose to spend these hours with me. 1. Cover 2. Title Page 3. Copyright Page 4. Dedication Page 5. CONTENTS 6. Author's Note 7. BOOK I 1. Chapter 1: Husband Potential 2. Chapter 2: Muslim Love 3. Chapter 3: A Girl Like That Won't Stay 4. Chapter 4: A Small Island of Unity 5. Chapter 5: Beaten by Devotion 6. Chapter 6: A Divine Crystal Ball 7. Chapter 7: This American Rite of Passage 8. Chapter 8: See Me at the Prom 9. Chapter 9: A Big Family Secret 10. Chapter 10: Marching Toward Marriage 11. Chapter 11: Lunch Company 12. Chapter 12: A Sudden Thrill of Control 13. Chapter 13: The Engagement of Our Children 14. Chapter 14: Say It Loud 15. Chapter 15: Sins for No Good Reason 16. Chapter 16: Every Choke, Sob, and Sniffle 17. Chapter 17: The Sting of Regret 18. Chapter 18: Women in Islam 19. Chapter 19: A Day for Me and the Girls 20. Chapter 20: The Proof of Our Youth 21. Chapter 21: Crises A, B, and C 22. Chapter 22: A Bride Is with Us 23. Chapter 23: Love Her, Boy, Love Her 24. Chapter 24: Biology 8. BOOK II 1. Chapter 25: A Big, Fat Arab Stereotype 2. Chapter 26: Trying to Make a Life 3. Chapter 27: The Aspiring Doctor's Wife 4. Chapter 28: An Edible Identification Card 5. Chapter 29: I Love Huda.doc 6. Chapter 30: A Matter of Life and Death and God Himself 7. Chapter 31: Shia Heretic 8. Chapter 32: The Love I Missed 9. Chapter 33: A Family of Three 10. Chapter 34: How to Fix Hadi and Me 11. Chapter 35: Fictions of Love 12. Chapter 36: As If by Magic 9. Acknowledgments 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152. 153. 154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170. 171. 172. 173. 174. 175. 176. 177. 178. 179. 180. 181. 182. 183. 184. 185. 186. 187. 188. 189. 190. 191. 192. 193. 194. 195. 196. 197. 198. 199. 200. 201. 202. 203. 204. 205. 206. 207. 208. 209. 210. 211. 212. 213. 214. 215. 216. 217. 218. 219. 220. 221. 222. 223. 224. 225. 226. 227. 228. 229. 230. 231. 232. 233. 234. 235. 236. 237. 238. 239. 240. 241. 242. 243. 244. 245. 246. 247. 248. 249. 250. 251. 252. 253. 254. 255. 256. 257. 258. 259. 260. 261. 262. 263. 264. 265. 266. 267. 268. 269. 270. 271. 272. 273. 274. 275. 276. 277. 278. 279. 280. 281. 282. 283. 284. 285. 286. 287. 288. 289. 290. 291. 292. 293. 294. 295. 296. 297. 298. 299. 300. 301. 302. 303. 304. 1. Cover 2. Begin Reading 3. Copyright Page 4. Dedication Page 5. Contents 6. Acknowledgments	{'title': 'First Comes Marriage- Huda Al-Marashi'}
FRA KEELER Copyright © Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi, 2012 All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. First Edition ISBN: 978-0-9844693-4-5 Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9844693-6-9 Art on cover: dead tree © Elijah Burgher, 2012 Used with kind permission of the artist Design and composition by Danielle Dutton Printed on permanent, durable, acid-free recycled paper in the United States of America Distributed by Small Press Distribution Dorothy, a publishing project PO Box 300433, St. Louis, MO 63130 dorothyproject.com FRA KEELER AZAREEN VAN DER VLIET OLOOMI DOROTHY, A PUBLISHING PROJECT 1. "It's on the edge of a canyon," the realtor said, raising his eyebrows when I offered to buy the home without having looked at it first. "Fine," I said, though I wasn't sure exactly what the realtor meant. Then I didn't say anything for a long time because I was thinking of Fra Keeler's death. And it seemed the realtor wanted to repeat what he had just said, his eyebrows even more tense. "Some things aren't worth looking into," I said, and the realtor's eyebrows slackened a bit. Then I asked, "Where are the papers?" "Here they are," he said. "I'd like to sign them," I said, and he pushed them across the table with his middle finger. What an ugly finger, I remember thinking while I signed the papers, and then I got up and left. We are said to die of one thing on paper, but it is entirely of something different that we die, I thought as I left the realtor's office. And it is dangerous to take the discrepancy between the two for granted, what one actually dies of and what one is said to have died of on paper; there is hardly ever a correspondence. And I'm thinking now that some people's deaths need to be thoroughly investigated. I'm more than certain that I thought this then, too, as I left the realtor's office, but the thought wasn't as highly illuminated in my head. I'm thinking now, it isn't every day one comes across a death that is especially timely and magnificent, for example Fra Keeler's death. And then, one really has to wonder, one has to begin to think, to retrace the mental footsteps of the deceased person, e.g., Fra Keeler, since the chance that such a timely death would remain unexplained on paper is that much more significant. And it is true that certain events of the unfriendliest category are now unfolding. I cannot put my finger on these events; I cannot pinpoint the exact dimensions of their effect. The truth is, I haven't been the same since Fra Keeler's death. Some deaths are more than just a death, I keep thinking, and Fra Keeler's was exemplary in this sense. And it is the same thought since I left the realtor's office: some people's deaths need to be thoroughly investigated, and, Yes, I think then, Yes: I bought this home in order to fully investigate Fra Keeler's death. And now that I own it, the home Fra Keeler used to own, I'm beginning to witness certain events. I can't help but think: he died just in time, Fra Keeler, he must have known certain things to have known to die just in time. Some deaths can only be understood in relation to the events that proceed from them. People pretend it is the affairs that lead up to a person's death that are most important. That life accumulates up to a point, the point at which one does one's dying, and that nothing after that is relevant to the life one leads. But no, I think. And the word No moves across my mind the way the realtor's finger inched its way across the desk. Things are illuminated retrospectively, I keep saying to myself. And it is these unfriendly events that will tell me the most about Fra Keeler's death. Only, they are still forming, they are still taking shape. I am only beginning to put my finger on them, as directly as the realtor put his finger on the papers when he slid them across the desk. It is not for nothing that the reels in our minds start revolving at a speed we might find difficult to bear. And timely as it was, Fra Keeler's death raises questions unanswered by hospital records, or any other death-related paper there is. Hospital records do not reflect the whole truth, nothing close to it. How is one to make sense of the facts that are listed when the deceased person's place of birth and death are so distant from one another; how is one to know how the person got from one end of the earth to another? And more odd things are listed in the margins. Occupation at time of death—surgeon, butcher, logger, office clerk, etc.—listed on the one hand, and burial, cremation, removal, etc., on the other. It is not as if the person died in the midst of performing their job, or perhaps they did, perhaps they had a cardiac arrest while harvesting trees in the forest, and they looked up and thought, I am a logger, and then dropped dead. What an absurd list of facts. There are no complete sentences; how is one to conclude anything from a death certificate? And the reasons given for Fra Keeler's death are nothing short of nonsense, and if they do make sense, their sense is limited. Everything is listed as plainly as a chicken lays its eggs. All the death-related records indicate the same thing, they all point to the same condition. I have leafed through them all, traced Time and Place of Death with my finger—but who, I keep thinking, who would undertake such massive coordination, who would want to hide Fra Keeler's connection to the unfriendly events? Sheet after sheet the same thing is written, which means the same thing must be read: Fra Keeler died of lung cancer, cancer of the lungs, pulmonary cancer. And the handwriting is always the same, a low squiggly line resembling rolling hills with a dark horse or two traversing them. Cancer. Fra Keeler died of pulmonary cancer. And it's a squiggle, a line. Nothing else. But no: I lied. To be fair, I omitted, I didn't lie, there is one record that does not match the others. There is one discrepancy. And how could I not have seen it before? The unfriendly events cannot hide forever. I must look for incongruities; I must probe them with my finger. The truth always gives way; I have heard the saying—hovering beneath one's nose. And it is true. I found the truth in the drawer. I opened the drawer and it was simply there, a sheet of paper like any other sheet of paper. Except a little tarnished on the edges, a little yellowed here and there. The ink smudged in certain places, so that I could tell which keys, while the document was being written, had been held the longest on the typewriter. But the words can still be made out. One never needs all the letters to make out a word—the word is there in the brain, an image of it one can pull into the light, and ah, one thinks, ah, that is the word that is written there, Death Certificate, and then Palma de Mallorca next to Place of Death. Quite suddenly I am confused. Some things, I keep thinking, are unprecedented. And what can a person do? The name, Palma de Mallorca, as if it were a ghost, has taken hold of my tongue. Pal-ma, I keep saying, Pal-ma. The word lingers in my mouth, hums in my brain. I see myself opening the desk drawer as I opened it that day. I must have seen the paper and returned it to the drawer right away. Shut it out of my mind. Why else would it take hold of me this way? Things creep up on us when we deny their existence. And of all the papers, it is the only one that reads, Palma de Mallorca, Place of Death. The words peel off the page to sing brightly before my eyes. I must retrace. It was a few days after I had moved into the home, this home I had just bought thinking it belongs to Fra Keeler. Though I am now beginning to suspect that I am wrong, or that there are two Fra Keelers, the right one and the wrong one, and that the death certificate in the drawer belongs to one, and the rest of the papers to the other, but this is a matter for later. In any case, I had just moved in, I was grinding beans for my morning coffee when I spied from the kitchen window behind some trees a small, circular wooden cabin—a yurt. From where I was standing in the kitchen, behind the sink, looking through the window, it seemed the door to the yurt was unlatched. It was swinging to and fro against the wind. I decided to go and have a look. I crossed the yard and walked through the trees I had seen from the window. Their branches, interweaving, made a huge tapestry above me, and then, as if from nowhere, it was sky again: the trees were behind me and I was standing in a clearing with the yurt directly in front of me. It all seemed quite sudden, for when I was standing behind the sink and looking through the kitchen window the yurt seemed to be appearing from another time altogether, it was as though the yurt had traveled through time to make a momentary appearance and I couldn't reconcile this feeling with how close the yurt was to the house when I ventured toward it. There it was: right behind the cluster of trees. And the door to the yurt was creaking loudly, since the wind had picked up in the time it had taken me to walk toward it. I pushed the door all the way open and stepped in. It was pitch dark inside. No light from the world was creeping through. I still had a box of matches in my hand since right before spotting the yurt I had wanted to light the stove to make my coffee. I lit one, the wind blew. I lit another and held it right above my face, where one would hold a portable torch if one had one, and saw rows and rows of shelves on the walls. I wanted to walk toward them, but there was something obstructing my path—it looked like a wooden canoe, and then I saw an oar and the match blew out. I couldn't confirm anything. I lit another match and looked down at my feet. There was, in fact, a canoe, and I stepped into it and out of it on the other side, the wall side, and came close enough to the shelves that I was able to touch them. They were dusty. I was holding the match in my other hand, and I could see things only in small portions as I held the light of the match up to them. I must get out, I thought. And then the wind slowed and I could hear the leaves shuffle in the low breeze, outside, just beyond the yurt. "There is a reason for everything," I said to myself, "a reason for having come to the yurt." And then his name formed in my chest: "Fra Keeler," I murmured, I hummed, the wind picked up, "Fra Keeler," I said, and his name poured from my lips the way water pours from a fountain, in long streams, uninterrupted, and just as I said his name I was standing out in the clearing again. I noticed the leaves on the trees looked greener, as though the bark had bled into them. I didn't know how long I had been inside the yurt. The sky was heavier now, a morbid color; I could feel it pressing against the back of my neck, folding me down to the ground. I pressed back against it and walked as quickly as I could through the trees. The air grew cold, and then quite suddenly everything was wet with rain. It was as though a tap had opened in the sky. Water was dripping off the leaves, pouring in streams, the way his name was pouring from my lips, uncontrollably, when I stood in the yurt. Had I fumbled my way out of it without knowing? I turned around to look beyond the trees. I wanted to see it again, to confirm its existence. I looked hard through the clearing, to where the yurt had been. My boots were caked with mud from the rain. There was a streak of lightning. The yurt flashed before my eyes. I heard the door swing open. It blasted hard against something, the canoe, I thought, the hinges on the door must have loosened in the wind. I couldn't see clearly. I looked again through the trees. I was squinting in the wind. I looked down at my hands, to see if they were still dusty from the shelves, but they had been wiped clean by the rain. Water was pouring, violently coming down through everything. My face was burning now in the cold rain. The yurt flashed again before my eyes, silver and radiant in the lightning. But it was an image of the yurt, an instant, a flash, nothing else. It was I who was reproducing it there, an image of the yurt I kept projecting. Blood was swirling in my brain. I looked again, but this time nothing appeared, and I ran through the yard, toward the house. I pulled the storm door open. Inside, everything looked the same. Only it was a little dimmer than before, a dull, gray light had settled around the edges of things, and the countertops seemed heavier; all the machinery of the kitchen seemed older in the gray light, and rounder, more anchored into the ground. Inside, I rested against the sink. I was panting. I reached to turn on the tap; water gurgled, then flowed in steady streams. Everything was in order: the coffee grinder, the cup, the sponge with which I had wanted to wipe the counter. I looked again, through the window, to the other side of the trees, into the clearing that lay beyond them, but could see nothing. Only the wind thrashing the branches of the trees. And it was then his name rose again to my lips. "Fra Keeler," I said, though this time more exasperated than before; I was wheezing from the wind, and I could hear myself hissing his name under my breath, "Fra Keeler," I rasped, "Fra Keeler," I said again, until I was hissing like the wind. I awoke hours later. It was pitch dark and there were papers strewn all around me. I remembered standing by the sink, watching the trees thrash around in the wind. I looked on the floor. My clothes were scattered about here and there on the tiles. I had undressed myself. I sat up and reached across the floor. My clothes were still damp from the rain. There was a musty smell in the house, like something old had crept in and settled itself in the furniture, on the countertops, in the cabinets, between things. My head was throbbing. Any minute now, I thought to myself, it is going to explode. I couldn't remember falling asleep or undressing. The last visible point in my mind was the kitchen sink, myself standing over it, looking through the window for the yurt. I couldn't understand where all the papers had come from. I couldn't remember carrying anything back from the yurt. In fact, hadn't I looked down at my hands, weren't they empty? The papers did a wild dance around me, the room turned and turned. I closed my eyes. I drifted. I woke up again hours later. It was light now; a very clear day was coming. The sun's rays were bronze, that early morning orange color, and they were piercing through my window. I lifted my head. I saw the papers again. Certain words were illuminated by the light creeping through the window, and the rays of the light, firm as needles, were pointing out certain words to me, and I thought, this is a clue, this is a sign. I lifted my head off the ground a little more, and it was pulsing, as though two hearts were about to leap out of its sides, but it wasn't throbbing like before. The room was steady. I reached across for my clothes. They were dry now. I put them on and leaned over the pages. Propped up on my elbow, I was halfway off the floor. I looked at the words with the needles going through them: the Netherlands, I read, and I thought: the Netherlands, low lands, lower lands, under something. And in such a handwriting: a low squiggly line resembling rolling hills with a dark horse or two traversing them. I followed the handwriting back and forth across each page. The words cancer, pulmonary cancer, cancer of the lungs, poured out toward me. And there it was: next to the Netherlands, the words Place of Death. Fra Keeler, I thought: he died of cancer in the Netherlands. And I had to retrace again. The papers, how had they come to me? But then the doorbell rang. It made the sound of a large rock hitting against hollow metal and the sound was violent through my brain, and I had to get up because I couldn't chance it ringing again. I fumbled across the living room and down the hallway to the front door. It was the mailman. He looked pink and happy and I could tell that someone had just ironed his clothes, a very loyal wife, I thought. The creases were perfect, straight lines and angles down to his sleeves. I leaned against the door. "Hello," I said. I was still dizzy; my head was still throbbing a little. "Hello," he said back. And then he handed me a package. "Here you go," he said. "Good day, sir," he said. I said, "Yes," more in the form of a question than a statement. And then I took the package from him and saw that he looked slightly confused. And I was forced to say something. So I asked, "Do you hand deliver the mail every day?" "No, that's a special package," he said. "You have to sign for it." And right as he said the word special, he placed his hands on his hips, and puffed up his stomach, as if saying so gave him a feeling of buoyancy. I looked down at the package. It said EXPRESS in big, bold letters. "Oh," I said, "I see," and signed for the package. He turned to leave, a little less light in his eyes than when he had first announced himself, and I wondered, what have I done to deflate him? Just as I was thinking this, he stopped, not quite facing the post office truck and not quite facing me either. He tilted his head to one side and opened his mouth like a fish, to show that he was thinking. Then he sucked in some air and puckered his lips a bit, but nothing came out, only silence. I watched him, a bit stunned and a bit weary, until he prepared to leave again, placed one foot behind the other and rocked backward and forward, not in a cautionary way, but to suggest that he was still thinking, that what he had wanted to say was still on the tip of his tongue, that he was just turning it over in his head. Then he tapped the tip of his shoe on the pavement as though his whole body was an exclamation point and came out with it: "Those are some nice plants," he said. I was surprised. If that's what he had wanted to say why had it taken him so long to say it? Maybe he had wanted to say something else, something along the lines of you don't look so good, Mister, but had regretted it, shoved the thought and all the words that went along with it back into his head and said the thing about the plants instead. "Yes," I said without a pause because I didn't want him to know I was thinking all those things while I was watching him. "Cacti," I said, "they're my favorite." He walked down the driveway alongside the prickly plants, inspecting them sidelong. I took a step out of the doorway and thought, this is no ordinary mailman, and watched him some more. "They don't take much," I said as though I were speaking from my chin, because I was holding my head up high and looking down at him and it was difficult to move my lips while holding my face in that manner. But he didn't say much in return, so I said, "They're easy to take care of, especially in this weather." He just nodded his head yes, like he was still deep in thought, and I couldn't tell anymore if he was thinking about the plants or about the thing he had wanted to say but had never said. And then he climbed into his truck, and I caught a glimpse of his hand releasing the brake, of his foot pressing the gas, a limp foot on the accelerator. I saw his arm go up and I followed the crease of his shirt from his shoulder down to his hand. He was waving goodbye. What a fat hand, I thought from the doorway, because I had stepped backward into it now. With his limp foot he pressed on the accelerator and did an about-turn with the truck and left. "What a strange man," I said to myself, and closed the door and the living room darkened. I looked up at the ceiling, a high ceiling with a dusty skylight. I debated for a second whether I should dust the skylight or just let it be what it wanted to be: a surface for dust to settle on, a dust town. I decided it was better off the way it was and let it be. Anything that's been a certain way for long enough is difficult to alter, and any alterations to it could be interpreted as nothing short of a manipulation, either by the thing being altered or by the person doing the alteration, even if all you're talking about is dusting a skylight, I thought, and went back into the kitchen. The papers were still strewn about on the floor as they had been ten minutes ago when I had gotten up to open the door. I walked over them, one leg then the other, carefully; I didn't want to step on them. But then the room started to turn again, ever so slightly. Curse of the kitchen, I thought, or these papers, and then the blood rushed out of my brain and returned again, a mere second later. It occurred to me that this time I could have gone dizzy because of the skylight. Or more precisely because of my thoughts about the skylight. It always makes me queasy to think of manipulation as a general category, I thought, and bent over to pick up some of the papers. Maybe if I stack them, I thought, and managed to stack the papers without the blood swirling again in my brain. When I bent down to stack the papers, I thought the sensation I had had in my brain earlier was the same sensation I had once felt when I shook a pomegranate near my ear. Or, not exactly a sensation, but a sound. That when I shook the pomegranate it had made the same sound as the sound my blood made when it swiveled in my brain, and that both sounds led to the same sensation: of something having dissolved where it shouldn't have. I went over the memory, from when I picked up the pomegranate to when I shook it near my ear: I had squeezed the pomegranate by rolling it, had pressed into it with my thumbs, juiced it without cracking it open, because it's the only way to juice a pomegranate without any special machines. All the juice was swiveling about inside the shell of the pomegranate, channeling its way around the seeds the way river water channels itself around driftwood. When I put the pomegranate down I could still hear the juice working its way around the seeds that were dead without their pulp. I had squeezed the pomegranate till the pulp was dead. I could invent a machine to juice pomegranates, I thought, and not just pomegranates but persimmons too, some very basic, cheap tool people could use in their homes, and then I imagined a thousand people, all wearing their house slippers, juicing their pomegranates and persimmons for breakfast, and I thought, never mind, no doubt someone has already invented it. I took the stack of papers that I had collected off the floor, along with the package, and placed them on the counter. To one side, I thought, to one side to be done with them. I decided to open the package the mailman had delivered. I went over to the stove, because that's where I keep my butter knives, right next to the stove, and I wanted to use one so I wouldn't have to bother peeling the tape off the box, because it bothers me to watch the skin of the box come off with the tape. It's a death worse than the pomegranate's, to be skinned alive. But then again, it's just a box, I thought, and not a person, and if I wanted to I could go on like that forever, about all the different mechanisms of dying, all its nooks and crannies; I could create some kind of death pyramid, and there would be a pyramid for each object, and every kind of person too, and from top to bottom I would figure out the range of deaths each thing or person could suffer, from unlikeliest to likeliest cause of death and be done with it once and for all. Then I told myself either to shut up or drop dead and took a drink of water from the sink and looked out the window. But my heart stopped because it was a clear day and I could see the trees, very round and close. Somewhere in the back of my brain I heard the door of the yurt creak shut. Suddenly there was a faint smell of rust in the air and I could hear the hinges on the door creaking, but I couldn't see the yurt. Everything dimmed in the peripheries, the way everything dims when the sun gets blocked by clouds, and its rays are cut off, instantly. I looked around. There wasn't a rusty nail or old hinge anywhere near me and as soon as I thought this the smell faded, retreated back into whatever mystery it had emerged from. I was beginning to grow dizzy again, and thought, the oxygen in my brain is being sucked out by whatever is on the other side of that door, and then his name crept up, Fra Keeler, but I managed to push it down because I remembered the mailman looking at the plants sidelong, and then his name crept up and I managed to push it down, pink and happy as a shrimp that mailman, I thought, and then his name crept up again, sidelong, and I felt compelled to stare at the trees because in addition to oxygen trees are supposed to give you peace and quiet, and maybe that's what the mailman was thinking when he was staring at the plants sidelong. "They really do accomplish their objectives," I said to myself, those trees, and his name crept up, because the leaves on the branches are good to look at, bristling in the breeze, shivering—giving a small shudder and then staying still—and his name crept up, and I remembered the butter knife and grabbed it and walked back over to the package and pressed the knife against the tape just like I had wanted to, and sliced the tape through and the flaps opened and I pushed them down, wings of an underdeveloped bird, I thought, and his name crept up. Inside the package there was a bright pink flyer. Nothing pushes things out of the mind like reading, I thought, and read the flyer. Welcome to Ancestry.com, it said, his name didn't creep up, but something else did, something old and stale, a thing like a worm; not a worm itself, but shaped like a worm that had died inside me and that I needed to throw up. But I couldn't throw it up because I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was, and I thought the hell with this, the hell with the package and the flyer and decided to go out to buy some beans because one can never have enough beans in storage. I grabbed my jacket and stepped out, but the sky darkened in a strange flash and it was purple instead of blue and I thought I don't need the beans after all and turned around to go back inside. But just as I stepped through the doorway I heard the voice of the mailman behind me. He was saying something about the nature of plants, but I couldn't quite make it out—that they were sensitive or prickly or a combination of both—and I turned around to see what it was he was saying, but it was dark, because the sky had gone purple, and my eyes were still adjusting so I couldn't see anything. When my eyes adjusted I saw that no one was there; just pitch silence and the sky, vast and heavy as a rock. I stepped back inside, swung the door shut and turned the lock. I looked up at the skylight: it hadn't changed, not a trace of purple, and I thought, it's dirty... it's too dusty... but I didn't want to have any redundant thoughts so I didn't look at the skylight for long. I just stepped inside the kitchen, very matter-of-factly because that is how you move on. I went straight to the package and picked up the flyer and placed it face down on the countertop, and I thought it strange that a Web-based company would be using regular mail to introduce itself, and the thoughts about the skylight were gone. I dug further into the package. Under the flyer there was a series of instruction manuals. I flipped through the pages, not one by one, but the way you would shuffle a deck of cards, using your thumb and index finger, so that all the numbers go flying by and start to blend together because you see the six so quickly after the nine, or the jack of clubs so quickly after the queen of hearts, and so on. At any rate, I flipped through the first manual this way. How many manuals could the company need to explain its services, I thought. And out of the corner of my eyes I caught the words flying and put them together in my head to make a sentence because some words organize themselves predictably into sentences. What they were getting at was a list of suggestions. How to determine who would be the most lucrative person with whom to start your research. It seemed the ancestor with the most public life would yield the most information, because I saw the words public life so soon after the word yield, and by a public life it seemed they meant a life at the center of which there was a war, because then a list of wars flew by, right under my eyes, from the Civil War to the First and Second World Wars, and the Vietnam and Gulf Wars too, and I thought, these people, whoever they are, are obsessed, there's more to a public life than wars, and dumped the manual in the trash and closed the lid on it. 2. The phone rang persistently. I let it ring a few times. Imagine, I thought, the possibilities on the other end. Another seed, all of this leading to Fra Keeler. Fra Keeler, I thought, and his name did an about-turn in my mind. I reached for the receiver. Death, I thought, it is so sudden. I picked up the receiver. One minute, I thought, one is going along, "Hello," I said, and the next, there is nothing with which to do one's going along, because one is horizontal somewhere, or lying dead in a pit, "Hello," I said again, but there was no one on the other end, or floating downstream in a river, I said, "Hello," one minute, I thought, and the next; it must be the mailman, stubborn horse of a caller. But why would he be calling me? The mailman. I glanced over at the package. The wars, I thought, the mailman. And the wars spun in my brain like numbers in a lottery bowl, blasphemy, I thought, the mailman. He must have seen me throw the wars in the trashcan. And it wasn't only him who could see me, I thought, because with my mind's eye I could see him, sitting on a solitary chair holding the receiver with his fat hand. "Hello," I said, and thought, his hand is like a boiled lobster. "Are you calling about the wars," I thought to ask, but there was no one on the other end. Not a word out of his mouth. "Cat got your tongue," I said to him, "Mr. Mailman." And my ears got hot. I cursed him: "Dumb as a lobster," I said, "you are, Mr. Mailman," and hung up the receiver. A minute later the phone rang. This time I picked up right away, half a ring, nothing more, and heard a clicking noise on the other end. An automated voice came on: "Welcome to Ancestry.com," it said, and I said, "Thank you," and hung up the receiver. And then the phone rang. I picked up right away, half a ring, nothing more, a load of white noise on the other end, "Welcome," the voice said, and I felt my mouth fat and milky around my tongue. I thought goats, a thousand goats, walking across my mind, milk the goats, I thought, and they kept walking across my mind. "Welcome to Ancestry.com," said the voice, and I thought what the hell is this, and I threw the receiver against the wall and then the phone rang, two rings, nothing more. I picked up, "Welcome to Ancestry.com," the voice said, "Press one." I said, "You piece of shit mailman," and heard the words come out of my mouth. "Welcome to Ancestry.com," said the voice, I hung up, and then the phone rang. "How can we assist you?" It was a real person now. "Thank you," I said. The mailman, I thought, playing games with me now. "We would be happy to be of assistance if you have any questions," he said, "sir," he said, swallowing to smooth out his voice. "Assistance, sir," I said, "I think I'm fine." "In the event that your research is not progressing at an acceptable rate," he said, "sir," picking up force in his voice now. What madness is this, I thought. "Thank you," I said, and hung up the receiver. And then the phone rang, two rings, nothing more, "Press one," it said, the voice, and then the phone rang. And I thought, the mailman, the goats, the trashcan, the wars, and the voice started again, "Welcome to Ancestry.com." "Yes," I said. "Sir, thank you." It was a real person now. "We would be happy to be of assistance if you have any questions," he said, "sir," swallowing now. "Assistance, sir?" I asked. "Yes," he said, "in the event that," and he was getting ready to increase the force in his voice and then the phone rang. "Welcome to Ancestry.com," it said, and I thought what madness is this, and the wars started spinning faster in my brain, a long list of wars flattened against the sides of my brain. And I thought: it hurts: the words, and then the phone rang and my blood was boiling so I threw the phone against the wall and shattered the receiver, and I thought the hell with this, the hell with the seeds and the connections, and crawled onto the couch and went to sleep. In my dream I could see the receiver. At first it was huge, monumental. I felt my eyes were inside my brain, small as pearls. Then slowly my eyes got bigger. The size of marbles and then a pair of dice, they rolled back into my sockets, and it was as though my eyes had their backs to the receiver, so that the receiver got smaller and smaller, until it was tiny, curved like the tail of a lobster and I was very far away, with my eyes in the right place looking out of my brain. Then it faded. The receiver faded and my eyes rolling around the receiver faded and it was all world again and I was just a person in it looking out of my brain: I was in a theater. There was a woman on stage. There were red lights in the background; they cast a dull, pinkish hue over the stage. She said "Come closer," the woman on the stage, and I thought she said "Fra Keeler," but I couldn't be sure so I got up and walked closer. It was dark, even under the pink light in the theater, and an acid smell took over, then it was her face, and she said, "Come closer," and I thought she said "Fra Keeler," and I walked closer, and she said, "You did this," pointing at her face, and I said, "No, no I didn't," because I could see her face was burnt. Hardly anything left of it. And she said, "You did this," as she continued to point at her face, and I thought, this is a monologue, she is performing, and then again she said, "You did this," pointing at her face, and I said, "No, no I didn't, you did this to yourself," and then she covered her face with a black cloth and walked off stage, and I thought, it's mother talking to me in my dreams. I wanted the curtains to go down so I said "Curtains" but they wouldn't go down, and all I could hear was, "You did this, you were the one who did this to me," and I woke up and immediately drew the curtains and outside everything was as calm as a sparrow—the sun, the trees, the grass, the mailboxes: it was a new day. I opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The dream, it was a flash in the pan, just an instance. I stared at the sidewalk, the plants, all in a row in the soil. I thought of the mailman, his pink, happy face staring at the plants, and the word sidelong inched its way toward me like a worm. Plants, I remembered thinking, they are good to look at, and I had thought this ahead of him, the mailman, because he had said something to that effect shortly afterward. Ideas get in the air, I thought, and looked up and saw the mailman down the street knocking on someone's door. He knocked on the door for quite some time. I know because I stood there for a while, long enough for the word sidelong to inch its way toward my foot and crawl up my pant leg too. And for a moment there were two mailmen: the mailman as I remembered him staring at the plants, and the mailman knocking on the neighbor's door, until the first of the two images faded, and adjusted into one mailman, mailman supreme, with his fat lobster hand knocking on the neighbor's door. What a clear day, I thought, looking down the street toward the mailman. Any more sunlight and everything would have been whitewashed. I could see clearly. The mailman down the street, his boiled hand, and I took a step toward him, and I could have taken another hundred, and then someone answered his knocking, and the door swung wide open, and his hand did a cartwheel where the door was. I was still very disoriented from my dream—"you did this," her voice echoed, drumming against the sides of my brain—and then his hand came back down to rest by his side. I wasn't very far away down the block. I had taken a few steps and could have taken a few more. There was an old lady standing in the doorway where the mailman's hand had been. She was standing in the doorway holding a candle in broad daylight. I took a step closer, and with all my steps accumulated I was two thirds of the way down the block now. Her entire house was pitch dark, and I thought, it's the dark ages, it's the dark ages through her doorway. Her hand trembled. I took a step closer to see if there were any red lights in the background, but there weren't any, and I thought, upstairs, there could be a reddish light upstairs, and I leaned over to see. I could see the edge of her staircase. There was a glimmer of white light, then the old lady handed the candle to the mailman and with two free hands took the package in exchange. "You have to sign for it," said the mailman. "Yes, sir, I have to sign for it," she said, and put the package down by her feet. I could see the mailman was very pleased; his whole posture relaxed when she signed for it. Then he handed her the candle, "A shame to be out of lights," he said, and she said, "Yes, indeed." I could hear their entire exchange. With all my steps having accumulated I was very close behind them. The mailman turned around to take his leave so that suddenly we were two men face-to-face. I thought, what a great frame, the mailman with the door shut behind him, and the old lady on the other side of the door with her candle and her package by her feet. Then I looked straight at the mailman because there was no escaping the situation. "Hello," he said. "Hello," I said back. "It's a good day," he said. "Very clear day," I said. "Well then," he said. "Well then," I said, "it's a good day." "Yes," he said, and stepped aside to leave. And then I stepped aside. In the opposite direction. And we both did what we had to do: leave. I thought for a moment, that was the wrong mailman. Not the wrong mailman, just not the right one, or the usual one. I turned around to look at him again, but he was already in the postal truck, pulling out into the street, and all I could see was the back of his postal truck, square as a nun. Maybe he is sick, I thought, the usual mailman. Or on leave. Or I hadn't studied his facial features enough. I should have asked for his name. I walked down the sidewalk, through the row of plants, then right past them into my house. Inside, I looked up at the skylight. I thought, it's as dull as it was before, flat and dull as before, the skylight, even if it's a new day. There are certain surfaces from which nothing gets removed, nothing more accumulates. A steady humdrum of nothingness. And if anything accumulates it does so at an infinitesimal rate, so the next person to notice is a few lineages down, or not at all, I thought, because you'll never know if that person will stop to look up at the same surface, and if he does there would be no guarantee that he would have the same thought. But then thoughts get passed around from brain to brain, so that our thoughts are only ever a repetition of someone else's thoughts. A thought that came before us and planted itself in our brain as though it belonged to us, inextricable from our being. And that is exactly what the skylight is, I thought: inextricable. I thought of Fra Keeler polishing it, dusting it off, and then going to stand beneath it to see if the light shined through. Meanwhile the old lady in the dark with her candlestick, her package, and her near-death. Thoughts, you walk through them, they exist before you, I told myself, picking the thought up again, and by some trick of the mind you think it was your thought, and you drag it out, a thread as long as your DNA, and you push at it with your finger and you say, "Ah, yes: This is my thought," and it breathes back against your finger, and you are very satisfied, you and the thought together, you thinking the thought is yours and the thought thinking back at you, right up against your finger. What an idiotic thing to think about, I thought, as I slammed the door shut. I imagined the thought getting stuck in the doorway along with the finger I had imagined pressing against the thought. I walked into the kitchen and took a drink of water by the sink. Death unto both of them, I thought, the finger and the thought, and swirled the water in the glass a few times because I was trying to pause the thoughts or redirect them, the finger along with everything else slammed out of the house by the door slamming shut. I looked out the window. It was begging to rain. A drizzle, a light rain through the sky. Then a bit harsher, more temperamental. I saw the trees, their leaves ruffled in the wind. A thousand ants, I thought, and swirled the water in my glass some more. I could see the wind through the window, egging the clouds along in masses as though they were sheep, the clouds, in masses, dimming everything below. I took a drink of water. Someone has amputated the rays of the sun, I thought, cut them right off, because the light got sucked out of the window. Suddenly I was looking at myself, because with the light sucked out of the window, the window was less of a window. I swirled the water in my mouth. Some things are worth looking at double, I thought, and placed the glass on the counter so I could see it reflected in the window. I grinned, then went back over to the papers to leaf through them with my finger. With my finger, I thought, I will leaf through them one by one. And when I thought one by one I remembered the light coming through the window, illuminating the Netherlands, low lands, those under-lands, point of a needle. Fra Keeler, Time and Place of Death, I thought, and the sky clammed up. I could see through the window now. All the clouds had accumulated in one spot. Dirty avalanche, all those clouds rolled into one, and then the clouds released all their humid weight; the rain was torrential. I wanted to give out a laugh. To laugh at the water, the water I had swirled in my mouth near the window, the water falling from the sky in wide, cascading sheets. Yes, I thought: Yes! I could laugh at the light too! The dream, I thought. I wanted to laugh. I began to give out a light chuckle. I took a step toward the papers, and I wanted to take another, a hundred more, the needles, I thought, the Netherlands, but I couldn't get the other leg through, one leg and the other wouldn't follow, everything, I thought—the ground wobbled, and I had the distinct feeling of walking on the slant of a wave or a sand dune—and then I felt the blood rush out of my brain. How many steps had it taken me to get to the neighbor's door, to the yurt, etc.? I should have counted them, I thought. The room spun around me. How would my house, I thought, which was Fra Keeler's house... the skylight, I thought, dirty... after it was clean... position itself in relation to the yurt... the neighbor's home... the old lady in the dark? Now it was a cold, fast rain. I felt wet, drained to the bone even though I wasn't outside. A triangle, I thought, the neighbor's home, the yurt, Fra Keeler's home, and then the phone rang. I ran out into the garden and counted the trees. A triangle, a triangle of trees, I thought, I should go through them, through the trees. I thought: the dream: the old lady in the dark down the street—and the two things began to revolve around each other: the old lady holding the candle and my mother with her face burnt off, saying "You did this." And it was spinning, the room, and I thought, it's a good thing it's raining, there are some fires to be put out. Her face grew more and more burnt until it was paper-thin. I could see her sockets, her cheekbones, high as a horse's, I thought, and then her face revolved faster and faster until it was a charcoal grin. Then, it was as though I had my eyes closed or blinders on, because all I could see were the slim trunks of the trees. I was wet to the bone. I heard a door creaking, the wind whistling, sharpening itself on the hinges. The yurt, I thought, and it flashed before me like lightning, silver and radiant in the rain. I took a step, one leg then the other, and walked into the yurt. I leaned over, the bottom of this, I thought, I will get to it, but then I heard a banging. I thought, I can't handle this, a banging in addition to everything else, the distant echo of the phone, the wind sharpening, the phone ringing inside the house, but I couldn't get up, I was lying down, flat inside the canoe with my arm out, reaching for the oar, and I thought it's raining, it's raining, like the end of the world, and then I felt the canoe lift up to the surface of the water and drift away. 3. What madness is this, I thought, when I awoke in the midst of the woods. Not the woods per se, but the trees at the far end of the garden. Everything seems larger when you are looking at it from the bottom up, I thought, and since first looking to the side I could see the trunks, and then looking up how they branched out into trees, it was as though I awoke in the woods, when really it was in the garden that I awoke, at the far end beneath the trees. I thought, why am I lying here, hadn't it rained? And then I said to myself, "It has something to do with quantity," as though I were reading out loud from a page. I looked at the roots on the trees. They were mostly underground. But then again, I thought, the roots are not entirely underground. Only that they are more underground than overground, I concluded. My eyes were still adjusting. Because at first I couldn't open them, let alone see the trees. Open your eyes, I thought, and I thought I had opened them, but I couldn't see. Because a certain part of my brain was numb, the part that had to do with my eyes, and I knew it was numb because all around I could feel more than a normal amount of feeling. I thought, I am blind, or not exactly blind, but I couldn't open my eyes to see. And when I tried to pry them open with my fingers they would not open or they would open but it was only darkness around me so, I thought, I must be going blind, or I am already blind. I fell asleep and woke up blind, I thought. And then I tried to pry my eyes open. This time I saw my feet, but only vaguely, and more out of one eye than the other, and it was like I was seeing my feet at the bottom of a well, through the center of a ring of ripples on the surface of the water. I thought, I am blind, how can I be blind? Because when I fell asleep I certainly wasn't blind. And then I thought, perhaps I am not awake yet, and I let the question go, blind versus not blind, and surely half an hour later I was awake, because I opened my eyes and I could see the trees: first the trunks and then following the trunks upward I could see the leaves. And this is when I came to the question, Why am I lying here, hadn't it rained? which is the question I had asked myself when I opened my eyes and saw the leaves, but could not answer, so that instead of answering the question, Why am I lying here, hadn't it rained? the sentence, It has something to do with quantity kept reappearing in my head as though I were reciting it from a page. And to what, I wondered, is the sentence referring? Because certainly it wasn't clear to me. Then a wind passed through, and the leaves ruffled a bit overhead. Quantity, I thought. I thought, quality. That the two are inextricable from each other. And that you have to have enough of something in order to determine its exact quality. And then I thought, it must have rained yesterday, or some hours ago, some time before this point in time when I find myself lying here under the trees. Then the wind picked up again, and the leaves rustled even more loudly on the trees. It could have been only minutes ago, I thought, that it had rained. There is no way of knowing. But on the other hand, if a long time had passed since it had rained—days perhaps, or months—then there would positively be a way of knowing. Because a long time is more easily felt, I thought. Which is to say that I would know if a long time had passed between the two events: between me lying here under the trees as though in the woods, and the rain which has now passed, I thought. But what does all this have to do with blindness? With having gone to sleep one way and woken up another? Which is to say not blind and then blind, with no event in between except for sleep. But then again, I thought, I didn't wake up blind, I only thought I was blind in my sleep. And then it occurred to me that waking up inside a dream is the same thing as waking up in a place of nowhere, and that I only thought I was blind because in that space, in a place of nowhere, there is nothing to be seen. Just then I propped myself up on one elbow, and saw a puddle a few feet away. It had certainly rained. The fact that it had rained, and that I had suspected as much, gave me courage. I should get up, I thought, and then I thought the light from the sun is amber, even though when I was lying down it was more see-through gold, but now, propped up on my elbow, I thought to myself, I can see that it is amber, thick and dense as honeyed milk. But I couldn't get up, despite the light and all its tricks of color, because the realization that I could go to sleep not blind and wake up blind stirred in me a severe distrust. Because when something happens once, I thought to myself, there is no telling that it will not happen again. Because that something has carved a pathway for itself in the world, regardless of consequence or prior event. As in, an event can happen without any prerequisites, which is to say that one can go to sleep not blind and wake up blind. Which is to say there is such a thing as an event without predecessors, a phantom event, an event out of nowhere, I thought, and sealed my lips. I wanted to pick myself up off the ground completely, but then I began to think again. I thought, it cannot be: there is no such thing as a phantom event. There is always a sequence. One just has to come to be aware. All events happen in relation to other events. And if they don't happen in relation to other events, as in, if in the first instance of germinating an event doesn't happen apropos other events, it doesn't even matter. Because eventually every event will take its position in relation to other events. So that there is no such thing as an event out of nowhere. Surely, I thought, my going blind has to do with something that came before it. Only something very subtle, negligible, minuscule, hardly present. But in fact not at all negligible, only seemingly negligible at first. It isn't until you look back, I thought, picking myself up, that you see how each thing layers itself over the thing that came before it. In a few days even the event of my blindness will establish its relationship to the things that came before it. Not my permanent blindness, I corrected as I strained to get up, but my momentary blindness. Because it was only blindness in the midst of sleep, so at first I experienced the event of my blindness and later realized that what I had taken for blindness was in reality the nothingness I witnessed. In every situation, I thought, standing up now to feel my legs, there is a way to take advantage. A way to control how one situation lines up against another situation, how one event layers itself upon another. One event stands in relation to another in the same way that it is also in relation to a third event. And a fourth and fifth as well. So that your whole life is a string of events taking form in a backward manner. So what a lie it is, the present, because it doesn't even exist. There is only the moving forward of events and the moving backward of one's understanding over those events. To say there is a present, I thought, is to say there is a platform where events accumulate and then stop happening so one can evaluate their effect. It is what people do, I thought, feed themselves lies. Everything is a lie in the first instance. Then the lie is purified, smoothed out, turned into a truth, because the present is always cycling into the past, or transforming into a future moment. The notion of the present is a purified lie, because in the time it takes to say the word present the moment has already passed and you are just a fool running out of breath trying to pin down the moment to evaluate. What misery, I thought to myself, rocking back and forth on my legs. A whole system of lies, a whole system of belief. Even the trees are duplicitous, I thought, with their bark and their under-wood, and began to walk away from them. And if I think about it, I thought, both my blindness, and my walking away from the trees with no memory of having walked toward them, are marked by phantom events, events out of nowhere in between: my walk toward the trees, my walk away from the trees, the event in between. Just as I had two elongated moments of not being blind on either side of my being blind, which was in between. Then I thought, the hell with it. It is pure misery, the tracking of things. Because some things are willfully intractable, I thought, some things go against the grain. One moment, and then the next, I thought, with no event in between. I left the trees behind. Now I could see the kitchen window across the garden just a few yards away. It had grown opaque under the glimmering light of the sun and I could see myself on its glossy surface: I was just standing there, fresh out from under the trees. How odd, I thought, the window darkened from the intensity of the light, rather than brightened, and I took a step closer. I stumbled on something. I caught my reflection in the window as I collapsed to my feet. There was a weighty stick on the ground, and I thought, who would have planted this here, a stout stick? Or, thicker than a stout stick, because certainly it was less a stout stick than a club. I picked it up and walked closer to the window. I wanted to know if I could see through it, to the other side, to the kitchen sink. I pressed my face against the window. But it was only a vague outline that I could see: the kitchen sink immaterial, a sketch just beyond the glass and the light. I dropped the club and placed both hands like blinders against my face, and with both my hands blocking out the light I could see clearly through the window: the papers stacked on the counter across from the kitchen sink. For a moment, the papers did a wild dance, because the light was heavier one second than the next, and I thought, everything is this way, there is no escaping it, even the papers, one minute illuminated, twirling in the light, the next having died a sudden death. When I pushed away from the glass I could see my reflection in the window. I was holding the club. I thought, it isn't me holding the club, it is only my reflection in the window. Just as I was only blind in the space of my sleep, I am only holding the club in the space of the window. Clearly, I thought, the window is more alive than anything else, because one moment it is a flat surface full of reflections and the next it is as transparent as a translucent sheet of skin. As opposed to the skylight, I thought, the window. A flock of birds flew overhead and I thought, more alive than the flock of birds and the skylight, the window, and swung the club overhead, because I wanted to see if I could catch my reflection swinging the club toward the window. But the clouds were still there, sucking all the light out of the window, so I didn't see myself, and I thought, really the skylight is dead compared to the window. Because the window is always capturing the light and stirring it about in different directions, versus the skylight which is just there, unchanging and inextricable. Nothing should be inextricable, I thought, and grabbed the ladder, which was on the side of the house, to get up onto the roof. "Why not?" I asked. A moment later I found myself standing on the roof, staring down at the skylight with the club in my hand. Surely the skylight is dead, I thought, because it is the same as it was before; nothing removed, nothing more accumulated. I raised the club over the skylight just as I had raised it over my head near the window. I thought, everything is a lie; things evaporate, they should be made to show how easily they can evaporate. It is a lie when everything that is always about to evaporate gives the impression that it is doing the opposite, not evaporating at all. And the skylight is the epitome of all lies, I thought, because it goes on and on as though nothing were deteriorating, nothing were evaporating, as though things could be permanent. One minute you're blind, the next minute you're not. The duplicity of things is unbearable, I thought, and with the club gently tapped the skylight. Goat-skin, a sheer, light skin, I thought, and tapped the club a second time against the glass. Then I raised the club over my shoulder. I wanted to gather force in my swing, to come down onto the skylight. Everything accumulates strength just before it goes down, I thought, and tightened my grip on the club. Then I thought, what madness is this, because suddenly I remembered the old lady in the dark. And I thought, what was she doing there all alone in the dark? Surely she was up to something. I tightened my grip on the club. I am not going to let the skylight get away, I thought. Only the next moment someone was standing in the middle of the driveway, waving an arm up at me, saying, in the form of a question, "Hello, sir?" and not once, but over and over again so that I had to respond. I thought, the hell with this, the hell with trying to get anything done around here, and yelled down to the person whose hand was still mid-motion through a wave. I climbed back down, dropped the club at the foot of the ladder. How very impatient, I thought to myself, because when I walked into the house, the person who was standing in the middle of the driveway was already ringing the doorbell. I imagined a woman on the other side of the door saying "Yoohhoo, Yoohhoo, somebody let me in please," and I had a sudden urge to go back out and grab the club, but she kept ringing the doorbell and I walked quickly through the kitchen instead, into the living room, right up against the front door, and I thought, very quickly and one after the other: the plants, the mailman, the old lady in the dark, Fra Keeler, and opened the door to let her in. A broad-shouldered woman was standing there staring at me. Her face was stern and kind at the same time, I couldn't quite make it out, and she had a name-tag pinned to her blouse right below her left shoulder. I said "Hello." She said "Hello" right back at me, and asked if she could come in. "Yes," I said, "come in." Then I peered over her shoulder to see if the mailman was standing behind her. I thought, this woman and the mailman, they must be connected, and the pair of them to the old lady as well. But all I could see were the plants, sitting there, bored as light bulbs, sticking out of the ground, and I thought, they could use some water, the plants, only I must have said this out loud because the next moment the woman was saying, in the form of a question, "Excuse me, sir?" and I responded by saying, "There is no one there," like I was shrugging something off my shoulder. The woman quickly took her place in the middle of the living room, and I thought, who the hell is she? What is she doing here? But before the questions had occasion to close in my mind, she said, "The phone, sir." And I said, "Yes, the phone, what about it?" And she said, "The phone, sir, I am here because you asked for me over the phone." "For you," I asked, "in particular?" "No," she said, "not in particular." And I said "Oh" and looked over at the phone. It was sitting on top of the table, and I thought, the phone, and I remembered the dream and the ringing, high as a horse's, her cheekbones, and I thought why is the phone intact? Because certainly I remember having shattered it. "Would you like to further discuss the issue?" she asked. Discuss what? I wondered, because I couldn't remember having talked to her in the first place. "Sir, we could discuss your research," she said. "Discuss my research?" I asked. She is out of her mind about my research, I thought. And then I asked, "What research?" To which she replied, "You requested our services, sir." And I thought, how is the phone intact when surely I had shattered it. "Discuss my research," I said. "That would be good," I said, because I wasn't getting anywhere without lying to her. "Where would you like to start?" she asked. "Anywhere," I said. One moment you are on your roof, I thought—but then I turned over to address her because her eyes seemed to have widened, "Anywhere you would like to start," I repeated, "Very well then," she said, relaxing her eyes—and the next, I thought, you are standing in your living room with a broad-shouldered woman asking you questions about your research. She pulled out her clipboard. Things are getting serious, I thought. Then she repeated herself: "Very well then," she said, "I am going to ask you a string of questions." "A string of questions," I said. "Are you mocking me, sir?" she asked, and her eyes tightened into two little screws. Clearly, I thought, I had shattered the phone against the wall earlier. "How long have you been doing your research?" she asked, and her voice tightened to match the screws. "Research?" I asked, because I wanted to buy time to think about something else. A panoramic view, I thought. "Sir," she said. Because once one event takes shape the rest line up alongside it. "Sir," she repeated. "Yes," I said, "sir." Then I thought, have your thoughts quickly, speak your thoughts quickly or get out of here, but I didn't say this out loud because some thoughts are better kept private. "I am not a sir," she said. "Clearly," I said, looking at her, and I wanted to tell her more. You are a strange specimen, I wanted to say, but she had already walked out the door. I shut the door behind her and went over to the receiver. Hadn't it shattered? I thought. Hadn't I thrown it against the wall? The receiver. But there it was: whole, entire, not a part of anything else, but something in and of itself, and I thought, it is an act of rebellion, the receiver is acting out against its own death. And death, I thought, is more present than life. Because it is always near, right up against the edge of one's skin. Where one person's skin ends, I thought, that is where their death begins. And it is the same with tables, and telephones, I thought, picking up the receiver, because despite being objects they all have a finite existence. At any moment a table could break, at any point the telephone could shatter. Only it could not shatter then recompose itself, not of its own will, I thought. In this way objects are different from people, I thought. Because people could recompose themselves, if they wanted, although to what degree remains unclear. I put the receiver back down, and thought, objects decompose in stages, they inch slowly toward their own death. Only much slower than humans do, because most often objects outlive the people who own them, even though death, in every case—in the case of objects and in the case of people—is always very near. I leaned over to unplug the telephone line, and sitting on the floor stared at the stub of the cord for a moment. Because the world, I thought—blowing into the outlet to clear out any particles that might have been caught in it—by virtue of existing beyond us, is the space of our death. Only, not our exact death, but our potential death, I thought, and plugged the phone line back in. Because our exact death annuls our potential death, I thought, and got off the floor to check the telephone again. Our potential death becomes irrelevant once we've enacted our exact death, I thought. Nothing exists beyond itself. So that everything beyond our skin points to our eventual disappearance. As in, at every moment we are both here and not here, I thought, we are at the same time both present in the world and not present in the world, because the space that we occupy is limited. And it is not only limited, I thought, picking up the receiver a second time, because everything beyond the space that we occupy represents our death. So that we are doubly limited, I thought, listening to the dial tone. The space that we occupy is limited, and everything beyond the space that we occupy reinforces the fact that we are limited by virtue of containing our potential death. So that in every moment, at the same time that we exist, we also do not exist, because our potential death, and within it our exact death, is right up against us. We are continually disappearing, I thought. Evaporating, becoming more and more a part of our exact death, and less a part of ourselves. I put the receiver down. Then a large thought came to me, in a flash, and I surrendered to it the way the sky surrenders to lightning. I thought, life is not a movement toward death, as though death were a single, containable event waiting at the end of life to close down on everything, as though everything that came before one's death were a linear progression toward it. No, I thought, impossible, abominable stupidity, for death to be there, at the end, waiting in silence. Everything before it sound, everything after it silence. Ha! I thought. And how to explain the noise long after Fra Keeler's death? Because what we are doing, I thought, as I surrendered to the thought the way the sky surrenders to lightning, is a side-by-side living out of life right alongside our death. At every moment there is the moment of our living, and the moment of our potential death, I thought, right alongside the moment of our living, the moment of our potential death. Until the moment of our living is unable, in a particular situation, to evade the moment of our potential death, and our exact death takes over, like a hollow wave rising, curving, gathering force, I thought, the wave of our exact death. Our bodies, I thought. And next to our bodies, the lack of our bodies, I thought, because one is no longer able to put one's body in motion. Just like that, one moment and then the next. And it is the same for objects, I thought, coming back down from the large thought, because who can sustain lightning for very long? I moved away from the living room, from the front door, because when I came to I realized I was still standing there, senselessly under the skylight, frozen up after having checked and rechecked the receiver, the lady having gone, appeared and disappeared seemingly out of nowhere. Only then there was a knocking on the door, just as I had prepared to move away from it. And I heard her voice again, "Hello, I know you are in there," she said and I opened the door just as she was making a fist with her hand to knock again. "Hello," I said. And I wanted to add, It's you again, but I kept the words to myself. "I left my clipboard here," she said. "Yes," I said, "you did," looking at her clipboard on the table next to the receiver. Isn't that a sign? I wondered, her clipboard next to the receiver, and offered to let her in. She headed straight for the receiver and grabbed her clipboard like a creature in distress. "I will be on my way, then," she said, but just then one of her business cards fell away from her clipboard. She reached down to pick it up, and I thought, I should have that, it should be mine just in case. "Clearly there is a connection here," I said. "A connection?" she asked, and I realized immediately that I had given myself away. The mailman, her, I thought, the old lady down the street, the receiver, but it was difficult to review things in her presence. She is a nuisance, I thought to myself, only not altogether, just in that particular moment when I needed to review her connection to the rest of the events. "May I hold on to your business card?" I asked, ignoring her question. "In case I should have to make a phone call to you in the future," I added, "but for now you can be on your way." I faced the palm of my hand toward the door so as to motion her out of it. She walked out the door. Only, at the moment when she was two thirds of the way turned away from me, I could see the edge of her face had contorted. So much noise, I thought, Fra Keeler, even after the time and space of his death. And I thought, it's senseless to stand here under the skylight contemplating her departure, her fanfare and contorted face. Who is she, in any event, to have left her clipboard beside the receiver that had shattered then recomposed itself? I felt as though my brain were being drawn up by a series of strings. Some things, I thought, are to think about later. The receiver, the clipboard. Everything comes in pairs. And here I am, I thought, standing under the skylight by the door when clearly I have thought it senseless to stand under the skylight by the door, contemplating her departure. Only not senseless altogether because every piece should be put in its proper place: the clipboard, the receiver. But there is a time and a place for everything, and then I thought, I must extract myself! So that I did, from under the skylight, and thought: I will come back to this, one pair and then the other, I will retrace. But so much noise after a death, so much sound to a death, and it was calling me, the noise of it all, drawing me out from under the skylight and into the kitchen, beyond the kitchen into the garden, beyond the garden through the trees, and there I was again: the yurt brave and stout as a horse in front of me. And the skylight was so far, the woman with the contorted face farther, and I could see them revolving around each other, sheets of paper in the wind. I thought, I should go in, I must—there is information to be gathered. Pal-ma, I heard myself say, Pal-ma de Mallorca, and then the Netherlands, those under-lands, low lands, lower lands, and the handwriting: a low squiggly line, a hill with a dark horse or two traversing them. Another pair, I thought, another square in its place: Palma de Mallorca, the Netherlands. And the yurt flashed like a cloud, a misty white cloud, it billowed and went through me. I was standing inside, enveloped by the yurt. There was a strange light inside, the kind of light, I thought, that would come through the skylight if it were polished. A drained yellow bordering on soft white. I looked up. I looked around. There was nothing. I was entirely enclosed by the yurt. The light, I wondered, where could it be coming from? Infiltrating the walls as though they were not walls, but thin sheets of tracing paper exposed to a faint, comforting light. And I could see him: he was there, just beyond me, his two glassy eyes blue as ice: "Fra Keeler," I said, "Fra Keeler," he called back. And he was an old, frail man, all shriveled up, moving his wrist through the air. "Wars," he said, and I thought to myself perhaps he is explaining the strange light in the yurt, or comparing the light in the yurt to the light of wars, because just as the yurt is drenched in a particular light so are wars, with all the explosions and the fires that are endemic to them. I reached my arm out, Fra Keeler, soft as a dove toward him. I thought, either I will touch him or I will go through him, one or the other, and just as I reached toward him I was confronted with sheer emptiness. Just as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared. The world of the yurt closed down harshly on him. The yurt faded. Just as it appeared it faded. I must take a walk, I thought. Then I spied the yurt again beyond the trees. There it is again, I thought, impossible to go to it, impossible to leave. But alas, this lasted a mere second, because then I opened my eyes, and I was back in the house again, in the bedroom, with no recollection of having arrived there. The curtains were drawn, and the faintest light was filtering through them. This is dawn, I thought, because the birds were chirping and the light was a delicious faint wave of yellow trickling through the curtains, a silken soft white light falling onto me. I could see the birds beyond the curtains, their shadows flickering, I could hear them chirping. This is morning! I thought. This is a new day! But what, what was I doing in the bedroom? How did I get here, I thought, from the yurt, through the kitchen, up to the bedroom—when had I gone to bed? I sat there, upright and still for a moment. I turned away from the window and the birds. I spied an image of myself in the mirror as I turned away: sitting on the edge of the bed, the white morning light washing over me, the curtains, the sheets, the birds chirping in the trees. I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought, that is me, or that is not me, but a reflection of me according to the mirror. Suddenly I remembered standing by the window, swinging the club. A handsome figure, I thought, a handsome image, me standing by the window swinging the club. I got up and walked to the mirror and posed as though I were holding the club, the same way I had been holding it, practicing my swing in the mirror, then tapping the club to the skylight. Again, I thought, staring at myself in the mirror: the skylight is inextricable. One of those objects, passed down, owner to owner, I thought. So that Fra Keeler stood beneath it, just as I stand beneath it every time I open the door. The same inextricable object: the skylight above my head just as it was above Fra Keeler's head when he would go to the door. I bounced the club around from hand to hand a few times, I practiced my swing. Certain objects are interminable, I thought. Because just as you can take the legs off a table, I thought, as I found my grip, you can put them back on again. Or chop the table up, use the wood to make a new table, altogether new and exact in an entirely different way. Certainly a person cannot be made from a chopped up person, I thought, and released the imaginary club. Because even though I wasn't actually holding it, I thought that if I had been holding the club, by then I would have grown tired of its weight. I walked back over to the bed and sat down again. Ultimately, I thought, it is impossible to tell to what degree the skylight is my skylight, to what degree Fra Keeler's. And just as objects are passed around from person to person, one is handed thoughts from all sides, thoughts one asks for and thoughts one doesn't ask for, and they become inextricable from each other. One could destroy one's own thoughts, just as one could destroy one's own objects. And why shouldn't one choose to destroy oneself, when wars, I suddenly thought, are a massive choosing out of one's death, an entire mass of people choosing out their own death, only without knowing it, without fully being aware? War is a coward's death, I thought, and caressed the edge of the bed. A coward's suicide: war, that is all it is: a mass of people walking like sheep toward their own death. The whole world, I thought, full of decrepit corpses. Because war is everywhere, I thought. The war in our brains, and actual wars: over land, and by sea, and even through the air above the land, I thought, because one way of killing isn't enough, one gets bored of it, so many strategies, I thought, one must have tactics. I wanted to smash the mirror. To take the club to the mirror and smash it. Only not the invisible club, not the pretend formulation of a club I had been holding earlier, but the actual club. Shatter the mirror, I thought, because there is no other way to stop it from capturing so many images, doubling things where they don't need to be doubled—objects, I thought, myself. The whole world, I thought, standing up from the edge of the bed in a sudden gesture, devoid of persons. The whole earth! I went over the earth with my mind's eye as though I were a camera floating through the air. I saw landmass after landmass completely devoid of persons. On a mountain, a table. By the ocean, a chair. Just like that. Nothing else. I waved my hand through the air so as to say: Aha! I have made a circular motion with my hand, the same motion with my hand as I have made with my thoughts about death. Everything is mirrored. Thoughts coordinated with the motions of one's body, and vice versa: the motions of one's body coordinated with the thoughts in one's head. So that one is always synchronized. I walked to the curtains and split them open with my finger. I couldn't just stand there any longer between the mirror and the bed. One is compelled to do something. To take advantage of the things that don't make sense: the yurt, I thought, Fra Keeler, waking up in the bedroom as though all of a sudden. And to attempt to make sense in regards to all of this is senseless. Rather one must attempt to make senselessness. "Because senselessness," I whispered to myself, "is sense at its peak, sense when it can no longer bare itself." A flock of birds emerged from the top branches of the trees. They flooded the sky; the horizon disappeared behind their black bodies. It is a life I am retracing, I thought, as I watched the birds form a disc with their miniature bodies and fly back and forth between the trees. Then I remembered his wrist, his hand moving toward me soft as a dove in the yurt, disappearing. Fra Keeler, I thought, "Fra Keeler," I whispered, moving my wrist in circular patterns through the air. 4. Gathering of knowledge, I thought, is the only thing that makes the inevitability of one's death worthwhile. So that I should get to the bottom of this. Fra Keeler, I thought, the yurt. I was standing in the kitchen now. I should trace every event back to its source, because everything has a source, even if the source is hidden, rather than exposed to broad air. Because at the same time that it has a source, every event has a destination. Every event lands in a place. Through time and space it lands and makes a home for itself. So that every event is constantly in motion. Until each event gathers enough consequence and with consequence a destination as well. Like a giant hot air balloon the event lands, heavy with destination, heavy with consequence, and makes a home for itself. Comes home to roost, I thought, and chuckled to myself. A half-hearted chuckle, because it is only a slight pause, a temporary landing, the event making a ramshackle of a home for itself. There is no ceasing of things. No. No once-and-for-all of anything. Just event after event: one event landing, another setting off. So that one needs to gather knowledge. To trace every event back to its source, go through the source as one would go through a minefield, make a map of it. To say, "Aha, here is what this event will lead to once it has come home to roost!" Because folded within the entrails of each event is its own consequence, a source for a future event. An exact future event amid a thousand potential events, I thought, and laughed out loud to myself. Because at every point in time there are a thousand imminent events, just as there are a thousand potential deaths, waiting to roost as I have been roosting here—I looked around the kitchen—roosting to my heart's content. The past, I thought, versus the present, versus that which is imminent. Because perhaps the possibility exists: the present a brief moment, a pause, one event coming home to roost before setting another into motion. I shuffled through the recent events as one would shuffle through a deck of cards; at first slowly, then a little faster, until all the events flew past me, from one side of my mind to the other. So many events have gathered force, I thought, as I shuffled through them: the clipboard next to the receiver, the trees next to the yurt, the mailman handing me the package, the old lady down the street, the representative from Ancestry.com standing beneath the skylight, pointing at the phone. But I cannot think of the events now. I turned as though quickly away from my thoughts. I felt myself enter a rare pause: standing in the kitchen, broadening my shoulders, evaluating the events from a space of repose. A moment of respite, a rare pause: the space between events. I drew in a breath. Some events roosting while others are imminent, I thought. So that I should go for a walk. A walk in the canyon. If not now then when? A long pause, I thought, in total peacefulness I will take a walk. I reached for a slice of bread. An honest slice of bread, I thought, before a walk, and after a walk as well. Then it was as though my brain returned like a loyal dog to its thoughts, because all of a sudden I found myself saying, good little ducklings, all in a row, a source here, a consequence there, event after event. I moved my hand through the air as though I were tapping little ducklings on their heads. Because bread—I thought, coming back to my moment of repose—an honest slice of bread and a walk in the canyon must be among the greatest of morning rituals! And if not now, then when? I poured myself a glass of milk and dipped my bread in it. "But what must I think about while I walk through the canyon?" I asked out loud, because I wanted to hear the question take form between myself and the bread, the bread and the walls, the wall and the garden and the trees at the far end. Certainly I could use the walk to my advantage. One must make decisions for oneself, to be active in one's life process. Thinking is pure misery, a job assigned to the miserable and the wretched, to think each thought to its horrible and suffocating end. That is it, I thought, swallowing the moist bread. I stretched. I broadened my shoulders. The canyon awaits, now that I have had my morning bread. I must go to it, right at this moment before I am flooded with events that are now only imminent. The present, I thought, full of peacefulness, full of resolve. I grabbed my jacket and walked out the door and slammed it shut. The entry to the canyon was at the far end of the street, behind some barren bushes, hardly any leaves on them. There was a soft wire fence around the perimeter of the canyon, and a narrow opening, a narrow slit in the fence. It looked as though someone had clipped the fence and pried it open. I pushed through the opening, walked gingerly down into the canyon. A few rocks kicked up from under my feet. It was a warm day; I hardly needed my jacket. The sun was nearly at its zenith. I felt like a new person. This is fabulous, I thought, this is just great! A walk in the canyon after a slice of bread. Before my walk a slice of bread, and after my walk a slice of bread as well. Because this is how one lives against one's dying, I thought, and smiled kindly to myself. Clearly the sun is at its zenith, I thought, because every minute it was getting warmer. A flock of birds flew overhead. A few more rocks kicked up and I watched them roll down into the canyon. What a strange man, I thought, the realtor, for having warned me against the canyon. I remembered his eyebrows tensing, his unfriendly finger inching the papers across the desk. Poisonous finger, I thought, poisonous snake of a finger. Then I saw a hummingbird fly by, zapping its wings. This is life, I thought, this is peacefulness. I bent down to see if there were any snakes hidden under the bushes. I looked under one bush, but found nothing. Perhaps another bush, I thought, and kept on walking. I was nearly down into the canyon. Why haven't I done this before? A walk in the canyon, the whole sky above me. A puffy, white cloud floated by, followed by a much narrower one. Very snakelike, the second cloud. I gained courage that there might be snakes in the canyon, so I looked under a second bush, but found nothing. Just a few rocks, a spider crawling over them. I turned around to see how far I had walked. I thought to myself, it will be a steep ascent, a good climb back up to the street. But regardless, I thought, this is good, a wonderful idea to take a walk in the canyon after having eaten a slice of bread in the morning. Soon I was whistling, because I was fresh out of thoughts. I skidded a few times on the descent and almost took a fall, and each time it broke my whistle, then I started it up again. Because that is how one postpones death, I thought. Or entertains oneself while neglecting the idea of one's death, a harmless, peaceful whistle. I looked up a few times as I whistled. I scanned the sky from side to side, from one point of the horizon to another. Not the horizon exactly, but the points of the canyon—where the canyon reaches up and then dies out into the sky. The air was clear. Pure, white oxygen, and the sky was a broad, blue infinity above me. Nothing like it. Nothing like breathing in pure oxygen so early in the morning. Then I thought, I might get lost in the canyon. In the guts of the earth, wander until I've lost all sense of direction. It will be a new life. I had stopped whistling now. I was just ambling down the hill, very pleased with the day, very pleased with myself. Because surely, how one feels about the day is inseparable from how one feels about oneself, I thought, and stepped right off the hill and into the canyon. I was on flat land now, all the way down in the canyon. Not a very deep canyon, or a very wide one, but a canyon nonetheless. But who am I to judge it? I felt as though I were dangling from a thread. The blood was pulsing in my legs; I was slightly out of breath. My mind was as vast and infinite as the sky above, as though the sky had doubled itself inside my head. We are what we see, surely, I thought, that must be the case. Because now that I see the sky, I thought, my mind is another sky alongside it. What a miserable wretch—a miserable wretch I had been, thinking endlessly, one thought after another, because thoughts, I remembered I had been thinking, bleed into each other. For a moment I grew sleepy. No, I thought, and took in a deep breath. Life is this vast, blue expanse above me. It is simple, I thought, life, and the whole time I have been missing out on its simplicity. A pang went through my chest. I looked around at the bushes, some close to the belt of the canyon, others farther back amid the shrubbery. A crow darted from the branch of one tree to the branch of another, then took off, stooped low, glided over a row of bushes, caught air, lifted itself up again. It circled above the canyon: one ring, then another—or is it an eagle I am seeing? I wondered. No, they are two separate birds. The eagle circling high above, majestic, while the crow, its minor counterpart, flies deep inside the canyon, darting from one tree to the next. This is how one postpones one's death, I thought, by walking. I spotted a cactus a few feet away. The stems were bowing down toward the ground. Not like a light bulb, I thought, this cactus, and I walked one full circle around it. It is a green mass of death, I thought. I stood there for a while, the cactus occupying the whole space of my brain, just as the sky had occupied it a moment earlier. I mused over the shape of the cactus until a chubby, toothless old lady formed in its place. She stared at the horizon. She said, "Take a good look, because this is me now, this is me as I am dying." I felt a second pang go through my chest. I didn't know if it was the cactus talking, or the old lady. Weren't they one and the same, hadn't they emerged from the same entity? Then, I thought, what rot, the things in one's head. Because images just appear, an old lady out of nowhere, where the cactus had been. One minute, and then the next, and what is the use of these things? Suddenly everything was at a standstill; I felt myself light, lifting. I was near a stream. I turned to look at the cactus, but the light was blinding. I sat down near the stream. The image of the cactus burned in my mind. I had caught sight of a blinding light when I had turned around to see it. I leaned back against a large rock. Emptiness, I thought, and the image burned to ashes in my brain. Not a cactus, nothing. Only the pure, black light after something has burned to the ground, to whatever surface had held it up in the first place. I grew heavy with sleep. I caught a glimpse of the sky, blue and vast above me. Everything slowed down. There is a last time, I thought, for everything. I began to dream. In my dream, everything faded. A last moment, a last breath. The world closing down around the thing. A mouth closing around an object. The sky closing in on a body. Everything folds into darkness. People die, objects cease to exist, trees vanish. I felt my heart skip up to my throat in the space of my dream. I am choking, I thought. From my own heart, I am choking in my dream. My heart unleashing itself from its arteries, its plump, pink muscle rising through my chest, clogging my esophagus the way garbage clogs streams. I swallowed. I spun around in my dream with my arms extended like wings. I opened my mouth to the sky, I leaned my head back. Leap out! I said to my heart in the space of my dream. I am already dead, I thought, I am no longer dying. I made a few shapes with my mouth. Clouds rolled by. I grew cold in the shadow of my dream. I was lying down now, as though I had never been spinning. The ground was cold against my skin. I am in a steel coffin, I dreamed, the whole world is a coffin. I lay there, still as a block of ice. I could feel the dirt settling on my skin. I looked up. The sky was grim in sections, vibrant in others. Even in my coffin, I thought, even here I am haunted by her, because I could see her face spinning, her cheekbones—high as a horse's—the acrid smell of her skin burning. And it started again, "You did this to me," she said, and I said, "No, no I didn't," talking back to her in the space of my dream. Then I thought, what use is it? Now the sky was the color of a fire I had never seen. I am only a voice, I thought, a thread of words strung together the way particles line up to make a ray of light through the leaves of a tree. A thin voice stacking words together. "No, no I didn't," I said, gently now in the space of my dream. "Look," she answered, pointing at her face in total defeat. And I thought, Yes: "Yes," I said, because it was simple to see. Her eyes shifted from side to side as though they had come loose. I wondered, is there a person in there? Because it occurred to me that I could be speaking to a person who was dead. A non-person pointing at her face. "You did this to me," she said, "look what you did." Finally, I said, "Yes, it was me." A string of tears rolled down her face, and I thought, water, it is only molecules lining up a certain way, only atoms, I thought, a ray of light here, a sentence there, all pointing at the same thing. Blame. We are here to blame each other, to point at one another with blame. I came out of my dream. The sky was blue, though a little less light, a little less warmth to the vastness above me. My back was numb from leaning against the rock. There is nothing like the sound of water sliding over rocks. The light in the sky gave a shudder, clouds rolled in. It is cold, I thought, in a minute it will be raining. I grabbed my jacket. I put it on. I tucked my hands into my pockets, my elbows into my sides. I opened my mouth to take a deep breath, but my breath broke into pieces, it shuddered down my throat. I felt a slight sting at the base of my lungs. I thought, now I am walking. This is life, I thought, walking in a canyon, or on the street, under the sky, just walking under the open sky. In the shadow of the clouds I could see the colors of the canyon more clearly. The leaves in the brush were taut; there was no soft foliage. Just the tough, deep green of low leaves, bushes. I saw a rabbit dart across the path. It stopped halfway, frozen in place, mid-path. I could see the nervous ring of white around its eye. Terror, I thought, is a combined state. Because the rabbit was still as a rock, and yet I could see its body shivering, every half-second casting side-glances at me. All the confusion of motion, smoothed over with the stillness of death, I thought. Move! I wanted to say to the rabbit, because I couldn't stand for it to be there staring at me. Leap! I wanted to say, and suddenly the dream closed in on me. The sky dropped down against my chest, and I thought, no, not while I am walking, not her face again, because walking in a canyon under an open sky is supposed to be life-affirming. The rabbit darted all the way across the path, to the other side of the canyon. I watched it hop under some bushes. I felt myself fold over, drift away. I could feel the blood boiling in my legs somewhere far beneath me. Suddenly it occurred to me: wasn't it her, the old lady down the street? My mother's high cheekbones suddenly aligned themselves with the old lady's hand. The two began to revolve around each other, two parts of a single element: the old lady down the street, she from my dream. Surely they are somehow connected. I leaned against a tree. I remembered the old lady's hand shaking as she reached for the package through the darkened doorway. "Thank you," she had said meekly to the mailman, when she had placed the package between her legs, pretending her lights were out, because how could her lights have been out when all the other neighbors' lights were still on in their driveways? Then it came to me: it was the same size, the package, the same size as the package I had received from the mailman. My heart did an about-turn in my chest, like a small fish, my heart turned, head to tail in my chest. I could see clearly. I thought, how could I have not seen clearly before? The events, one after another, a whole constellation of events connecting. Her freckled hand shivering, her meek voice, it was hers—it came to me—the handwriting: a low squiggly line resembling rolling hills with a dark horse or two traversing them. I saw her hand move across the page, across the packages, it was her, I thought, the whole time, all this time, I thought, and wasn't it strange? The sky released a loud thunder, it started to rain. I dashed deeper into the side of the canyon, under a cluster of trees. A few drops rolled off the leaves. I was sweating. How? I thought again, and my breath bubbled upward, the wrong way around, breathing out when I should have been breathing in. I pulled my jacket over my head; I caught my breath. Clearly, I thought, there is a connection, and started running. The canyon was beginning to give off a suffocating smell in the rain. The loose earth on the surface was turning to dust. I started to run faster. It was hard to see. I spotted the cactus some hundred yards away; it cut through my brain as though it were a blade. Wouldn't it be funny, I thought, if I started to bleed from an image here in the middle of the canyon and the rain? I thought, perhaps if I saw the rabbit again I would laugh. If it crossed my path, dumb as a sausage. But the rabbit was nowhere to be seen. I stood for a moment, panting. The canyon was a reddish-brown haze in the rain. I thought to myself, I am lost, there is no emerging alive from this place. I was sure I was dying, the image of the old lady flashing in front of me, confusing itself with the image of my mother from my dream. And I wanted to laugh at myself, to slap my legs in the middle of the canyon, to roar with laughter. To be loose, I thought, to loosen my brain. I imagined a thousand threads spinning out of my brain. Tentacles, fingers drawn out, pointing to a thousand different things. And what would be a more proper response, I thought, than to let myself become unhinged? Because this is sheer madness, all along it's been madness, events hiding when they should have been seen. The rain lightened up a bit. Now that I am soaked! I thought. I stood there, acutely aware of having been soaked in the rain. How else, I thought—my clothes burdensome now, heavy against my skin—but with sheer madness could one explain? The old lady, thoroughly interconnected, yet making herself impossible to be seen. All along, I thought, if I had matched the madness of the events. All along I would have seen them the way they needed to be seen. Because just as one cannot discover a treasure without a map, one cannot use reason to find events that are maddening. I should have matched the madness, I thought, I should have maddened myself to match the madness—events hiding where they should have been seen. Proof of their unfriendliness, I thought, and began panting again in the rain. One needs madness in the mind, I thought, and chuckled to myself—a slight twitch, I thought, on my lips—in order to detect madness in the world where it needs to be seen. The thrill of madness, I thought, and began to walk again in the rain. I raised one hand to slap against my knee, but stopped myself, because the sun gave a light shudder behind the clouds, and the rain ceased, and I heard a bird or two chirping. Just like that, I thought. One minute it is raining—devilish sky!—the next the birds are chirping. "Imbecile birds," I said out loud to nothing, because I could hardly walk with my trousers sticking to me. Then I thought, no. Another thought inched itself into my brain. A spear of reason. I thought, one has a choice, in life one can choose between a mind of reason and a mind of madness, and which of the two will allow me to make the quickest sense of the unfriendly events? Madness versus reason, I stopped to weigh in my head. Suddenly I realized I had walked too far, that I would have to turn back and walk in the opposite direction. "Madness," I muttered, "versus reason," and turned around so that the ascent was ahead of me again. I felt time wasting away. I should walk a calculated walk so as not to pass the ascent again. I would not want to miss my mark just as the events line themselves up for my taking. At once, I thought, I must do something! And with a mind of reason, I thought, because as I turned to face the right direction the decision congealed inside of me. A mind of reason, and I repeated this calmly to myself to confirm the decision. I walked quietly, calmly, looking up for the ascent every few strides. Not to miss it again, I thought, because the old lady is there, down the street, due her proper portion of the blame. Yes, I thought, it was her the whole time, maneuvering the mailman, this way, that way, old maverick, I thought, old trickster. I could hear the stream. I looked over my shoulder. "Aha!" I said, because at once I saw the ascent. I stepped off the belt of the canyon, onto the incline, amid the bushes. I took one last look at the canyon, one last look, with a mind of reason. I scanned the bushes, the trees, the rocks near the stream. I looked overhead for birds. I saw a flock align itself slowly into a V, and thought, in every instance there is a leader, a decision maker, the precision of a mind sifting through time and all the events time has to offer. How helpful the slice of bread had been, the walk in the canyon! An honest slice of bread in the morning to keep the mind tethered, securely fastened to all its potential and logic. The birds disappeared into the eastern sky, beyond the canyon. Yes, I nodded, a very good decision, a slice of bread followed by a walk, and I began my ascent. Only I turned, turned and faced the canyon again. "One last look," I said, one last look, I thought. My clothes were damp against my skin. I was all calm, all logic. All laughter had evacuated itself. My chest was flat and level, nothing roaring inside it, and I thought this is life, this is peace of mind, when one is able to line up the events and point one's finger at them, draw a line—from here to there—and I drew my finger across my mind, a constellation, I thought, every event in relation to another, my finger going over the events as though over the shell of a snail on gravely terrain. I stood there staring at the canyon, balancing my form on the ascent, facing the canyon without taking anything in. Everything lines itself up, I thought, full of resolve and confidence. I tugged at my shirt. It peeled away from my chest, tightened at my armpits. I was beginning to grow cold. A clear sentence dashed through my mind like a strike of lightning. I wanted to read the sentence out loud. It was as though the sentence did not belong to me. I grew feverish. Greatness, I thought, comes at the strangest of moments. Because I was anxious to get up to the road, change my clothes, and further pursue my findings on the old lady. I grew impatient trying to recover the sentence that had dashed through my brain like lightning. I thought, if I don't recite it out loud it will burn a hole through my skull, and where would that leave me? A sparrow landed under the bushes, pecked the dirt for berries. I felt the ground give way underneath me. The canyon tipped to one side as though it were a giant ship sinking and then righted itself again. "Recite," I whispered to myself, calmly. So that I caught the tail end of the sentence, just as it finished its second dash through my brain. Greatest failure, I read, and I thought, if the sentence has anything to do with failure it should be known to me. The sun was strong now, after the rain. I could feel the back of my neck burning. What's this? I thought to myself, because my mind followed the sentence to its earlier scene, and I saw the whole phrase in my brain. Impossible, I thought to myself, how could it be? Because I read the sentence, recited it out loud, word for word and in total disbelief: the moment of our greatest impulses—I read, parsing out the words—is the moment of our greatest failure. I slapped the back of my neck so as to awaken myself from a dream. The sentence, I thought, is pure madness. I looked around the canyon to see if anything had changed. But everything was crystal clear, accentuated even; I focused on the tip of the sparrow's wing. It twitched, then the bird fluttered into flight, so that my eye followed it from tree to tree, then farther up to the edge of the canyon, its limit. Above the canyon, the clouds were disappearing into the western sky just as the flock of birds had disappeared into the east. Beautiful, I thought, the canyon, to see it in such a precise way. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. "This is beauty," I said, "this is persistence." I felt a weight drop down into the base of my chest. A mysterious thing, I thought, the sentence. The weight settled in my chest. The feeling congealed itself. Sadness? I asked. I investigated, but came up empty. I wanted to probe the feeling with my finger, to see what it would yield. Only more sadness, I thought, one layer of sadness giving way to another. I grew heavy; I slouched like a pear. I felt too weary to keep standing. Our failure, I thought, and lowered myself to the ground. Just on the other side of our success, our failure. That is what the sentence is saying. And not altogether wrongly, I thought. I picked up a few rocks, rolled them around in the palm of my hand as I sat there. At any moment now, I thought, I could burst out crying. Because our greatest impulses are the under-face of our worst, and vice versa too, our worst failures married to our greatest impulses. I wanted to burst out crying, except I couldn't. Not capable of shedding a tear, I thought. Miserable wretch, I said to myself, pitifully, so as to make myself cry, but my mind was racing away with thoughts, and the sadness was small as a rock at the base of the canyon compared to the vast sky above. Tears, I thought, not worth a thing. I was shivering. To hell with it, I thought, and stood up and took a step farther up the incline. It must be five o'clock, I thought, because the air was growing raw and cold, and the sky was dimming, slightly more gray than blue as the day surrendered to the evening. It is only a matter of neglecting my resources, I thought—the yurt, the trees—I could go back to them. No failure could ever be permanent. I felt the weight begin to lift from my chest. I felt I could begin to walk. Strange, the impact of a sentence. My mind had reeled itself in. I was thinking with a mind of reason now. I felt odd to have stood there for such a long time reflecting on a random sentence. One for that matter that was pointing at me with blame. After all, the canyon had helped me to gain perspective. I had seen a bird, a stream, a sparrow, slept leaning against a rock listening to the sound of trickling water. What more could a person want? Nothing. I hugged my elbows to my sides; I began walking. Back in the house I changed my clothes. Dusk had fallen. How, I wondered, had I gone for a walk in the canyon? I took a drink of water. It is not for nothing—I thought, leaning against the kitchen counter—that one has one's thoughts. All day in the canyon the events had lined themselves up. Now everything felt magnetic in the kitchen. I swirled the water around in the glass. The sediment rose, did a wild dance through the water, then settled again. Suddenly an image of the skylight flashed before my eyes, sliced through my skull like a razor. I stirred the water again. The sediment rose. A faint, evening light filtered through the window. The water appeared as a white cloud, a fine mist amid the kitchen's darkness. The light was trapped between the water particles. A thread of hope produced a warm sensation in my chest. A ray of light, I thought, responding to the hope with childish excitement. I thought, what if I were to hold a flashlight up against the skylight? To climb up onto the roof? I could leave the flashlight there, with the bulb against the glass, climb back down, walk through the kitchen, into the living room—my heart was racing now—and stand beneath the skylight and watch the light from the bulb filter through. Surely the light would break through the sediment-encrusted skylight, just as the sediment in the water appeared to expand, plump and golden under the light. I grinned with happiness. It is not for nothing, I thought again, that one has one's thoughts, not for nothing, all day in the canyon the events lining themselves up. This is peace and happiness, I thought, the humdrum of the everyday. Sorting through one's life, one's immediate past, sifting through one's life minute by minute. I leafed through my day at the canyon as though through a book, event after event, and felt very satisfied. Everybody—I nodded my head to reaffirm the thought—is in the midst of an investigation. A certain project. And if not a project, then to say the least in the midst of probing their lives. Melding them, molding them, one way or another bending their lives, stacking their days, straightening their hours, one minute and then the next, lining their seconds up, pointing them in a very specific direction. Only no one will admit it, I thought. So that suddenly I felt proud and honorable for admitting my own agenda. My own agenda, I thought, and his name floated through the room as the feathers of a bird would float through the air, very softly, very gently, tapping the ground. What pleasure, I thought, and his name rolled off my tongue, "Fra Keeler," I said, "Fra Keeler," I sang and ran over and stood under the skylight. I lifted my voice to the glass, I sang, I screamed, I thought, I will crack the glass with my pleasure—but suddenly the lights went out. I paused for a moment under the skylight. I was utterly disoriented, totally and utterly confused. Had I touched the light switch, flipped it by accident as I walked into the living room? Had I brushed up against the light switch as I ran under the skylight? But no, it couldn't be, I thought, because at all times I have been far away, equidistant from the walls. I stood there in grand amazement, his name drying on my tongue. Again the scene with the mailman flashed before my eyes. "The mailman," I screamed in the darkness beneath the skylight, he is in on it! "Indeed," she had said. "Trouble with the lights?" the mailman had asked. The whole time pretending to hand her a package, talking to her in a special tone so as to make it known to her that he was suppressing any knowledge of her plan. It wasn't I who had ordered the package. Infiltrating my research, I thought, the pair of them. I ran to the kitchen window, and pressed my face against the glass. It was difficult to see. I squinted, lifted my hands and cupped them against the sides of my face. The glass grew foggy, I wiped the moisture with my sleeve, I looked again. In the distance I could see the edges of the trees, but nothing beyond them, only a silhouette, I thought, the trees, their leaves bouncing on the branches in the breeze, nothing else. Life, I thought, and everything that goes with it, is nothing but trouble. Very troublesome, I thought, indeed. And without thinking, I grabbed my jacket and walked out the front door. Because in situations like this, I thought, pushing out my chest, one needs to do something, to pick oneself up by the bootstraps, to look people in the face, to face one's demons, to grab the bull by the horns, to push oneself to the edge of one's courage, to call it like it is. I stopped short just outside my door so as to pause respectfully at the end of my sentence. Then I shoved my hands into my pockets, leaned forward as though into a harsh wind, and walked down the sidewalk. The light, I thought, the package, chuckling. Imbecile of a lady, I thought, chuckling some more, because she couldn't even do her own job, using the mailman to infiltrate with a package. For a second I deliberated, then withdrew my hand from my pocket, made a fist and knocked harshly on her door. She must be deaf, I thought, because already a minute had passed and she hadn't answered the door. Suddenly my mind was running away again. Events—I paced back and forth by her front door—get in the way of knowledge, wedge themselves intrusively between oneself and one's knowledge, and not just that, I thought, pacing very rapidly back and forth. New events introduce themselves, become involved with other events. So that one morning you wake up and find yourself tangled up in them. Events become inextricable from you, you inextricable from them. Just as thoughts bleed into thoughts, events run amuck, in the most disorganized state. One event inextricable from the next, a past event indistinguishable from a future event, I thought. I was facing her door again. Just like that, I chuckled angrily to myself, one's knowledge is procrastinated, one's investigations left in suspense. I raised my fist—like splitting water, retracing events—and brought my hand down onto her door again. I knocked louder. Now she will see, I thought, calming myself. I took a deep breath, and as I took in the breath I witnessed a brilliant image: I saw myself sitting near the yurt, pulling event after event through the eye of a needle, as though life were a single continuous golden thread. "How can I help you?" she asked. It occurred to me that she could have been standing there for quite some time, staring at me with the door open. I took a curious look at her hand. She wasn't holding her candle. She is trying to pretend, I thought, that living in the dark comes naturally to her. I leaned in to take a peek over her shoulder. "Excuse me," she said, repositioning herself in the doorway, "Is there something I can do for you?" And I thought, really, I could shed a thousand tears for you. An old lady asking such inane questions, and I leaned in a little farther, because I had spotted a lamp around the corner. She shifted uneasily. I was close enough now that I was breathing down on her. Perhaps I should use a different strategy, I thought. "Hello," I said, trying to smooth things over. If she is going to pretend, I said to myself—I was standing on the steps now so as to give her more room—I should pretend as well, make the best of this little game. Then, without thinking, I said, "I was only wondering if you had any special antiques, and if you might have a mind to sell them." I had no idea how the thought had come to me, and was surprised myself for having uttered it without flinching the slightest bit. "Excuse me?" she asked, looking as though she was about to blow out a puff of air. I felt my eyes roll back in my head, because I was utterly at a loss for what to say next. An old anger boiled up inside me, the same feverish chill that had come over me in the canyon. She held the door open with one hand and nervously bunched her nightgown with the other. Now, I thought, is the time to muster up all my strength, because I couldn't—but I lost my train of thought, she interrupted me: "How can I help you?" she asked. "By letting me in," I said, very directly. Because it seemed to me she had ironed her voice, forced it straight, a narrow spear of a voice darting forth, out of her mouth to dangle in the air and frighten me. For a moment, I had the vague feeling of something crawling up the back of my neck. I felt an old shiver in my brain. Everything was drawn up as though by a hook or a bucket—feelings... anger, or something less... and there it was: sadness, as though from the bottom of a well. Because the old lady's cheekbones were impressing themselves upon me. My eyes began tearing. Something, I thought, has gone dead inside me. I looked at her. My thoughts shuddered in my brain. I felt utterly disoriented. What am I doing here? I thought. I looked around. How did I get here? The club, I thought, the skylight, and remembered the feeling of lying down amid the trees. I grew dizzy. I couldn't tell if I was lying down or standing, though I could clearly perceive her form in the doorway, turning her words over and over on her tongue, her "excuse me?" still lingering in the air. I took hold of myself. I watched her. I thought, ah, I have come to observe her. Because, knowingly or not, she is at the center of so many things. I felt a strange love sprout in my veins. Look at her, I thought to myself, shrugging my shoulders kindly. Because she was simply standing there, waiting with all her patience and her anger, holding the door with one hand and blocking the doorway with the other. What could I possibly say to her? I thought. Behind her I saw a cat jump from a bar stool to the edge of the couch. "Why," she asked—the cat positioned herself, stretched one paw out to its limit and began to lick herself clean—"should I let you in?" "Because I've seen you," I said, suddenly. The cat curled into a ball and went to sleep. "Excuse me?" she asked again. I had a strange feeling she was trying to get the upper hand. You love someone one moment, I thought, and the next they render themselves suspect. What would it have been like, I thought, if I had something to offer, some flowers, a gesture so that she would let me in—because certainly we had been intimate with one another, all along—and then quite suddenly my thoughts stacked one upon another more clearly than ever: she has been sending men and women to my door at all hours of the day to throw my research off course, I thought. I rode the wave of lucidity. I thought, it is she who planted the papers in my kitchen, she who twisted the mailman's arm, she who sponsored the phone calls from Ancestry.com. The mailman, I thought, puffing, the broad-shouldered lady with her fish-mouth and waving arm. I reached up one hand to lean against the doorway; I was sweating just thinking of her sowing her thoughts into plans and orchestrating them from her dark abode. The love drained from my heart. "Perhaps," she said, "you could be more specific as to where you've seen me," and she slackened her arms and stood straight as a pole in the doorway. I looked behind her. The cat was sleeping. Nice cat, I wanted to say, and noticed that a strange gray light filled her home, a plump, sad light had taken over her things—the couch, the chairs, the round of the cat's back. I didn't say anything, only stared at her. "In the garden," she continued in the softest of voices, "or perhaps checking the mail, because I do that often." I felt as though she could see through me, as though she was softening her voice to wrap around my sadness, because suddenly I had the distinct feeling of being transparent. Sweet old lady, I thought, I could love her, but something turned ever so slightly at the base of my chest—the love reeled itself back in—because it occurred to me that it was a strange suggestion, a distinct suggestion, not at all innocent—that I may have seen her checking her mail—because certainly, I thought, she has used the mail to interfere in my affairs. I grew nervous with anticipation. I swallowed a few times, shifted my position. I am done for, I thought. I felt his name rise up, and I wanted to push it down, but it rose again, shivering in my throat like a tiny bird. A tiny bird, I thought, tiny lump of bird, and I felt the tears well up in my eyes again. "Fra," I said, because I couldn't push it down; his name came out like a nervous shudder. I stopped myself. "What?" she asked. "Nothing," I said, and looked behind her. "Your cat," I said, "it isn't there. It was on the couch just a second ago, and now it isn't there." "Oh," she said, turning around to look for the cat. "There she is," she said, because she spotted the cat on the stool, in a new position, licking itself. "But just now," she said, "you said something else." "No, I didn't. I was just—" "Certainly you did," she interrupted, "I heard you," and she paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Fra," she said, "just now, I heard you say it." "Not exactly," I said, "that isn't"—but I couldn't finish because she interrupted me again, what a habit, I thought, she has of speaking over everyone else. "It's an old song," she said, and suddenly she was very invigorated, because a second later she was singing it, "Fra la la la, Fra la la, Fra Fra," she sang, "but I can't seem to remember the rest of it." Certainly, I thought, she has come undone in her head. And she must have noticed the expression on my face, because she stuttered. "I'm sorry," she said, "I used to be an opera singer, it seems I can't help myself," and I thought certainly, most definitely duplicitous, she is, and turned my face into a screw to examine her. We stood there for a moment staring at each other. "Would that be all?" she asked. Then she said, "It is getting late." She closed the door, but just before she shut the door I caught a glimpse of her twisted face: certainly, I thought, it is she who is behind it all. 5. I was standing there all alone. I thought, this is not the end of it: her singing a song, making a mockery of it all. I paced back and forth on her doorstep. I looked down at my hands, then quickly at the doorknob. My hands were cold. The skin around my knuckles was burning. I thought, I have to get in; I have to go through her door. And if not through her door then a window. I snapped my fingers at the thought. An image came to me of the lamp I had spotted at the end of the hallway. I imagined her cat curving around the lamp, her tail illuminated under the bulb. Warmth, I thought, and light. But I couldn't remember if the lamp was on when I had seen it, or if I had just imagined it to be—a soft, yellow light calling me through her door. The wind picked up. It was slightly colder than it had been all along. I rubbed my hands together. I stuck my hands into my pockets. I withdrew my hands. I touched one finger to my temple, then another. I looked up at the stars. They were flickering. There was a yellowish hue around the moon. A bird darted across the sky: slick and black and singular. The sky, I thought: infinitely deep, infinitely dark. I wanted to cup my hands around the stars, pluck them out of the sky once and for all. Suddenly, I remembered the dull, black surface of my dream. Everything burns to ashes. Lives out by whatever machinery, whatever injustice, then burns down to the very surface that held it up. The hand—I thought—the face in my dream! She was getting in the way of everything, her trembling form redoubling itself in my sleep. Wretched old lady, I thought, I will show her. Because in addition to putting up with her in life, I thought, I should not have to put up with her in my dreams. Better to take a walk around her house, I thought, to take a good look before going in. Certainly her house could be just as deceptive, just as duplicitous as she herself: one countenance on the outside, another altogether on the inside, with no connection between. I leaned over to scratch my ankles. There were mosquitoes everywhere, flying frantically in the wind. Just as I leaned over to persuade them away from my ankles, the blood drained from my brain. But it wasn't dizziness I experienced. Rather a feeling of disorientation, because just then an image of the club I had dropped in the yard behind my house appeared in front of my feet. How, I wondered, has it made an appearance so suddenly, and directly in front of my feet? But slowly, as I stood up, it all made sense: yes, I thought, the club—it is exactly what I need. I dashed over to my yard and grabbed the club. By now the wind had died down, the night was quiet and still. I thought, nothing could be more perfect than silence on a night like this; the stillness of dying, the silence of death, and a rush of excitement filled my veins. I returned to her doorstep. I practiced swinging the club. I swung with one arm, then the other. Definitely, I thought, my right arm is the stronger of the two. I was feeling more lighthearted than ever. This is joy, I thought, this is happiness, all my investigations taking form. With a decisive air I jumped off her front steps and turned the corner. I entered her backyard. There I saw a goose waddling away. A goose in her backyard, I thought: under the light of the moon, a goose waddling away! My blood froze. All I could think was: a goose in her backyard, stark in the middle of her yard, a goose. For a moment, I raised the club over my head. Perhaps the goose is an omen, I thought, and my blood started to move again. The bird waddled into the trees, which were slim and silver under the light of the moon. The goose released a loud honk. The sound returned my attention to the world. I found myself standing directly above the goose behind a row of trees. I placed the club down and leaned my weight into it as though it were a cane. I could ring its neck, I thought, looking at the goose. Then it occurred to me: I could spy into her house through the skylight on her roof. Now, in my distraction, the goose waddled away. That is what I'll do, I said to myself, maintaining a line of thought: I will climb directly onto her roof. And a moment later I was standing there, club in hand, staring down at her skylight as I stood on her roof. Was it real? I thought, and looked down at my hands. The cat walked cautiously by the wall. She arched her back, pointed her tail up to the sky. Her eyes narrowed into slits. She began to lick her right paw. The pale pink of her tongue makes a pleasant picture, I thought, against the soft pad of her paw. But the next moment she leaned away from the wall. She wound between my legs, rubbed her body against the club. One moment the cat is cool and distant, I thought, the next all warmth. I walked over to the kitchen counter. I had dropped the club. The cat followed me. I took a seat on one of the stools. The cat jumped onto the counter. From a distance she inspected my face. I looked out the window. A few leaves ruffled slightly in the wind, gave a small shudder. A bird gave out a low whistle, then took off into the night. Everything went still. Everything went silent. I looked around. The house was quiet, motionless except for the cat. I reached out to touch her and felt her breath against the palm of my hand. Could it be, I thought, and by whose hands? I looked at the club. I had left it leaning against the couch. I couldn't differentiate the club from my hands. Ten fingers, I thought, two hands. I inspected the furniture. Deep reds and browns, floral patterns. Ten fingers, I thought, as I looked at my hands. They could be performing any gesture: playing the keys of a piano, digging soil, folding a napkin. No, I thought. It couldn't have been. Because certain things are of a category that one remembers. Not a lot of time, I thought, has gone by. Minutes, organized into units. How many minutes had gone by? I wondered. An image of the shards came back to me. I watched the skylight shatter as I relived the memory. I looked up to where the skylight had been, then traced the rectangular chunk of sky down through the opening to the floor, where the shards were glistening with late-night rain. I shrugged my shoulders, puckered my lips. No matter, I thought. Because everything has already been done. Everything, I thought, in this room, and beyond this room, everything has already happened and been done with, dealt with. There is no doing, I thought, no matter, nothing left to do in this world. I felt my heart die down. Now the cat was walking among the shards. I thought, she must be taking pleasure, avoiding the sharp triangles, the pointed edges. Because she was extending her paws, licking them intermittently as she tiptoed around the shards. I looked back up at the skylight. One moment, I thought—and then my mind was a flood of memories, because I saw an image of myself standing over the skylight, staring at my reflection, which is to say: I saw myself twice. It was a slight pause in time, an interruption. Everything shattered: tiny bullets of glass flew through the night like shooting stars. Now I could see the shards, a few feet from where I was seated, scattered across her living room floor, and, seated on her stool, a version of myself reflected in the shards, just as I had seen myself, only whole, in the skylight as I stood on her roof. I walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway. In her bedroom everything looked wounded. There was a purplish hue on the walls, over her bed, on her furniture. I looked down at my hands. I felt my arms detach from my shoulders. I watched them float away. Could it have been? I thought, and imagined her gaping mouth form an answer. I saw a reflection of myself in the bedroom window. Couldn't I get away? I was standing in her doorway. Was it real? I wondered, and backed away. A moment later I was in the bathroom, kneeling on the tile floor. I turned the tap, stuck my head under the spigot, scrubbed my neck. Couldn't I have imagined it? The water ran over my head. Her two eyes: icy, blue lakes drifting farther and farther apart from each other as though her face were a humid land being stretched to its limits. I walked back into her bedroom. I left the water running in the bathroom. I turned her body over. A sudden urge. A mass of mangled branches. First to one side—I inspected her back—then the other. There was a streak of blood running from her mouth to her neck. I pulled up her hair. The blood, I thought—looking down at my hands—her wet flesh. I heard the water spill over the tub and spread across the bathroom floor. Lovely, I thought, in this moment, the sound of water pouring over a tub. I pulled the covers over her frame. I walked back to the couch. I left the water running. I thought, let the earth sink. A sedentary feeling grew at the base of my chest. The cat curled onto my lap. Everything faded. Was it me, I thought, wasn't it me? I heard the water trickle out of the bathroom. I imagined the water being absorbed by the bedroom carpet. Then, as though in the distance, I heard a door slam, I heard voices. I heard a man draw out a roll of tape. I stroked the cat. Everything, I thought again, has already happened, even the end. I heard a loud noise. I felt my body stiffen. The room turned. It spun around. Everything spun with it: Fra Keeler, I thought, the papers, her trembling hand. It was a mere instance. Because one moment—then I felt someone turn me over, clasp a cold thing around my hands—one moment, I thought, and then the next. The car drove quickly. I saw three park benches, a sparrow on a branch. The lights turned from green to red. Each time the car stopped, I counted the seconds. Up to forty, then back down again, until I was pushed down onto a metal chair. A heavy-set man stood in front of me. A few other men stood behind him. I heard: "Yes, Sir." I heard: "No, Sir." Then there was a clicking. The door slid open. The men left. Everyone except for the one heavy-set man, who by now had moved closer to me. How much time has gone by, I thought, since I have been here? Minutes, I counted, years. Anything in between. I looked down at my hands. I hardly recognized them. "Are you going to talk this time?" the man asked. Talk? I thought. Now versus when? I looked around the room. There was nothing familiar. A room, I thought, like any other. A plain room with a buzzing noise circling inside of it. He took a step closer. I felt something tighten at the back of my neck. Death, I thought, wars, it is all the same thing. Because wars—and I felt a blow hard against my face—wars—and just as I picked the word up, it trickled down my lip. The heavy-set man stepped back. He lit a cigarette, took a big puff, then let the cigarette hang between his lips. As I looked at him, I recalled the smell of burning flesh. I remembered the mosquitoes buzzing everywhere, settling on the corpses. His lips, they were sealed. He was silent. He turned around, but only halfway, then looked at me again. "Nothing?" he asked, hanging his head from his neck. "Nothing," I responded. He took a long, sweeping look at me, the same way he would have looked, I thought, at a good mass of garbage. "Now, how," he began to speak, but stopped himself. His voice, nothing but peeling bark, I assured myself. I watched him remove the cigarette from his lips. He lit another, and made a gesture as if to say this one is for you. "I don't smoke," I said. "A lot of refusal you got going," he responded. Son of a bitch, I said to him in my head. And I must have looked at him hatefully because the next moment he said: "If you're going to curse, you should really commit to cursing. Out loud," he said. The yurt flashed before my eyes. "You're putting up a good fight," he said. "No fight," I said. "That's not what I would call it," he sighed. "You're monosyllabic, you're silent; it's a fight. Like it or not that is what it is." "Yes," I said. "Sir," he responded, "there are ways of talking, and this isn't one of them." And I thought, really, he is quick to jump to conclusions. Perhaps I will receive another beating. I rolled my eyes into two tiny bullets. He took a step toward me. There was still a bit of blood trickling down my lip. I shifted. I looked away. "You're afraid," he said. "What are you afraid of?" he asked, having taken all the mockery in the world and stuffed it down his larynx. "Nothing," I said, and he took a step back and lit another cigarette. "Nothing?" he asked. "Nothing," I responded. "Not even your own death?" he asked and slid a stack of papers across the desk. "Take a look at these," he said, "and tell me what you think." He tapped his index finger against the papers, as if to say look here, and I spied near his finger something very familiar across the page. The death-related papers, I thought, forgery, murder, and the lights went out in my head. "No," I said, shrugging the feeling off, "not even my own death." I couldn't stand the way he was drumming his fingers against the papers. "Now we're talking," he said, drawing his hand to his hip. "No," I said. "No," he responded. And then he said: "Do you think this is some sort of a game?" "No," I said, "no game." And I felt the blood drain out of my legs. "How long have you been living there, in that house?" he asked. "An indeterminate period," I said. "Don't be a smart ass," he responded, and then he picked up the stack of papers and he left. A sudden departure. Truly, I thought, life is one fickle moment. I slid my hand across my lip. Blood, I thought, murder, the unfriendly events. Because, I thought, wasn't I already dead? I looked around the room. Hardly anything was making sense. I had the distinct feeling of having cut off various parts of myself. I am empty, I thought, my core is dead. For a moment the buzzing sound in the room died down, then resurfaced again. The door slid open. The detective walked in. Three other men walked in behind him. I remembered parts of a body scattered across an arid piece of land as though its trunk and limbs had always been separate elements. My eyes refocused. One of the three men stood behind the detective and fingered his belt. He had a gun tucked into his trousers, another hoisted on his belt. The detective walked over to the table. He put down a tape recorder, and a glass of water next to it. "Drink up," he said. And I lifted the glass of water and drank it. "Now," he said, and I saw the man behind him drag his finger across the gun he had hoisted on his belt. Death, I thought, another set of unfriendly events. I felt a blow across my head. The buzzing in the room subsided. My neck tensed. My head snapped back; everything faded. I felt some blood trickle down the side of my face. The blood crystallized, it made a distinct sound near my ear. This, I thought, must be the sound of death. The yurt reeled in front of my face, like a wild horse caught mid air. I walked in, one foot in front of the other. I stumbled across something: a body, I thought, and then I realized, no, it couldn't have been, because I suddenly remembered the canoe inside the yurt. Outside, the rain began falling, at first softly, then a bit more harshly. I lay down, I reached for the oar, I grabbed hold of it. The rain fell through the trees. The ground soaked up the water. I felt the canoe rise. A great body of water, I thought, above the earth. I watched the water gather. One moment, I thought, and then the next—and I couldn't tell if it was blood or water—I let everything drift away. ABOUT THE AUTHOR AZAREEN VAN DER VLIET OLOOMI is an Iranian-American writer of fiction and non-fiction. She received her MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University, and is a recipient of a Fulbright Grant to Catalonia, Spain. She is co-author of the Words without Borders dispatch series ArtistsTalk: Israel/Palestine and is at work on a second project entitled The Catalan Literary Landscape, an exploration of notions of journey and the intersections between landscape and literature. She currently teaches in the MFA program at the University of Notre Dame, and lives in Indiana with her husband. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Brian Evenson for his tireless guidance during the writing of Fra Keeler. Very special thanks to Robert Coover for his generosity and support. Deep gratitude to Michelle Latiolais and Carole Maso for their unwavering faith. A heartfelt thank you to my dearest friends and visionaries Claire Donato and Jeff Johnson. Thank you to the editors who previously published excerpts from Fra Keeler in Harp & Altar, Paul Revere's Horse, and Dewclaw. Very special thanks to Kate Johnson. Fra Keeler would not have been possible without the following constellation of films and books: César Aira How I Became a Nun, Attila Bartis Tranquility, Thomas Bernhard Three Novellas and The Loser, Roberto Bolaño Distant Star and By Night in Chile, Luis Buñuel Diary of a Chambermaid, Éric Chevillard Palafox and Crab Nebula, Brian Evenson The Open Curtain, Max Frisch Man in the Holocene, André Gide The Immoralist, Jean-Luc Godard Breathless, Nikolai Gogol Diary of a Madman, Witold Gombrowicz Cosmos, Knut Hamsun Hunger, Alfred Hitchcock Vertigo, Anna Kavan Ice, Imre Kertész Kaddish for an Unborn Child, Abbas Kiarostami Close-Up, Jim Krusoe Iceland, Patrice Leconte Monsieur Hire, Doris Lessing Memoirs of a Survivor, Clarice Lispector The Hour of the Star, Jean-Pierre Melville Le Circle Rouge, Marie Redonnet Hotel Splendid, Forever Valley and Rose Mellie Rose, Eric Rohmer Six Moral Tales, Daniel Paul Schreber Memoirs of My Nervous Illness, Muriel Spark The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Magdalena Tulli Dreams and Stones and Moving Parts, Lynne Tillman This Is Not It, Trajei Vesaas The Ice Palace, Diane Williams Romancer Erector. DOROTHY, A PUBLISHING PROJECT 1. Renee Gladman Event Factory 2. Barbara Comyns Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead 3. Renee Gladman The Ravickians 4. Manuela Draeger In the Time of the Blue Ball 5. Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi Fra Keeler 6. Suzanne Scanlon Promising Young Women DOROTHYPROJECT.COM	{'title': 'Fra Keeler - Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi (retail)'}
Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Introduction THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES THE HAPPY PRINCE THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE THE SELFISH GIANT THE DEVOTED FRIEND THE REMARKABLE ROCKET A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES THE YOUNG KING THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL THE STAR-CHILD AFTERWORD NOTE ON THE TEXTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS Selected Bibliography READ THE TOP 20 SIGNET CLASSICS An early leader of the Aesthetic Movement, which advanced the concept of "art for art's sake," Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) became a prominent personality in literary and social circles. His volume of fairy tales, _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ (1888), was followed by _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1891) and _A House of Pomegranates_ (1892). However, it was not until his play Lady _Windermere's Fan_ (1892) was presented to the public that he became widely famous. _A Woman of No Importance_ (1893) and _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (1895) confirmed his stature as a dramatist. In 1895, he brought libel action against the Marquis of Queensbury, who had accused him of the crime of sodomy. He lost, however, and was sentenced under the Criminal Law Amendment Act to two years' imprisonment with hard labor. Upon his release in 1897, he settled in France, where he wrote his most powerful and enduring poem, _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ (1898). Gyles Brandreth is a British novelist and biographer, an award-winning journalist and BBC broadcaster, a former member of the UK parliament and government, and the author of the acclaimed series of Oscar Wilde Murder Mysteries. A former Oxford scholar and specialist in Victorian theater and literature, he lives in London and Paris. Jack Zipes is professor of German at the University of Minnesota. The author of several books on fairy tales, including _Don't Bet on the Prince, Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion,_ and _Breaking the Magic Spell,_ he is the editor and translator of _The Complete Tales of the Brothers Grimm._ SIGNET CLASSICS Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Published by Signet Classics, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. First Signet Classics Printing, June 1990 First Signet Classics Printing (Brandreth Introduction), October 2008 Introduction copyright © Gyles Brandreth, 2008 Afterword copyright © Jack Zipes, 1990 All rights reserved REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. eISBN : 978-1-101-04248-9 <http://us.penguingroup.com> Introduction The playwright George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) said of Oscar Wilde: "He was incomparably the greatest talker of his time—perhaps of all time." The author Laurence Housman (1865-1959) claimed that Oscar Wilde was "the most accomplished talker" he had ever met and spoke of his friend's "smooth, flowing utterance, sedate and self-possessed, oracular in tone, whimsical in substance, carried on without halt, or hesitation, or change of word, with the queer zest of a man perfect at the game." The novelist and creator of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930), described his first encounter with Oscar Wilde as a "golden" experience. "His conversation left an indelible impression on my mind," Conan Doyle recalled. "He had a delicacy of feeling and tact.... He took as well as gave, but what he gave was unique. He had a curious precision of statement, a delicate flavour of humour, and a trick of small gestures to illustrate his meaning which were peculiar to himself. The effect cannot be reproduced." The effect cannot be reproduced, but I believe that its echo can be heard distinctly in _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ and _A House of Pomegranates,_ Wilde's two collections of fairy tales, first published in London in 1888 and 1892. Read these brilliant, beautiful, strange and haunting stories and hear the unique voice of Oscar Wilde. The fairy tales reflect Wilde's personality, his way of speaking and his way with words. They reflect his profound knowledge of the Bible and his classical education. They reflect the range and depth of his reading. As a young man, Oscar Wilde was not alone in having the works of Aristotle, Homer, Plato, Sophocles, Theocritus, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, Coleridge, Words-worth, Swinburne, Tennyson, Dante, Goethe, Rousseau, Gautier, Hugo, Balzac and Baudelaire on his library shelves. What was unusual about young Oscar was that he had read—and reread—these authors and taken elements of their genius to help shape his own. The nine stories in Wilde's two collections, being what they are, also, inevitably, reflect the great tradition of European fairy tale writing—especially the work of the Frenchman Charles Perrault (1628-1703); the German Brothers Grimm, Jacob (1785-1863) and Wilhelm Karl (1786-1859); and the nineteenth-century master fabulist, Hans Christian Andersen (1805-75). Beyond their shared ability to tell a striking tale, Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, Hans Andersen and Oscar Wilde had much in common: a love of language, an interest in philology, a fascination with the theatrical, the romantic and the grotesque, an obsession with physical beauty, a belief in transfiguration, streaks of sentimentality and melancholia, and a desire to understand the nature of suffering and love. All five men also had a deep-rooted feeling for the folkloric traditions of their country of birth. Each, in his own way, was keenly aware of—and consciously indebted to—his own cultural and literary heritage. Oscar Wilde traveled widely during his short life—from North America to North Africa and throughout much of Europe. He spent the majority of his adult years living in England. He spoke English, German, Italian, Greek and French. He lived his last years in France and died in Paris. But, by birth and heritage and upbringing, Wilde was an Irishman. It is something he never forgot. And when we consider him—as a conversationalist and a creator of fairy tales, as a playwright and as a man—it is something we should be sure to remember, too. His Irishness was part of his essence. Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born on October 16, 1854, at 21 Westland Row, Dublin. His father, Sir William Wilde, was a doctor and one of the most important aural surgeons and oculists of his day. He was also an authority on Irish folklore and published a definitive work titled _Irish Popular Superstitions_ in 1852. Oscar's mother, Jane Francesca Elgee, was a passionate patriot, polemicist and poetess who wrote under the name "Speranza." She, too, was an authority on Irish folklore, and her many books include _Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms_ , _and Superstitions of Ireland_ (1888) and _Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages of Ireland_ (1890). Oscar's very names reflect his Irish roots. Oscar and Fingal were respectively the son and father of Oisin, the third-century Celtic warrior-bard. The Wildes had three children. Oscar's older brother, Willie, was born in 1853. He and Oscar went to school and university together and had a relationship that was both fond and wary. Willie was destined to become an Irish lawyer, but, instead, moved to London and became a journalist. He drank too much and died four years before Oscar, in 1896, aged only forty-three. Oscar's younger sister, Isola, born in 1857, died of a fever, aged only ten. She was a golden child, the family favorite, and her loss affected Oscar deeply. Many years later he wrote one of his most affecting poems in her memory ("Requiescat") and her presence hovers over the fairy tales. To the end of his life, Oscar kept a lock of her hair in a little envelope that he decorated with their interlinked initials. As boys, Willie and Oscar Wilde heard their parents talk. Both Sir William and Lady Wilde were noted raconteurs and conversationalists. They were also friends with the leading members of Dublin's intellectual society, and when these friends came to call, either for lunch or dinner or for what Lady Wilde termed her weekly "conversazione" (every Saturday afternoon, between four p.m. and seven p.m.), the Wilde boys were encouraged to be in attendance—not so much to contribute themselves as to listen and learn from their elders and betters. Oscar was a fast learner and a brilliant child. At the age of ten, he was sent to Portora Royal at Enniskillen, a boarding school with a fine academic reputation. Willie was one year Oscar's senior, but at Portora Royal he and Oscar were in the same class. They went on to university together, too. In October 1871, when he was just seventeen, Oscar won an entrance scholarship to Trinity College, Dublin. At Trinity, Oscar won further scholastic distinctions, culminating in the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, the highest classical award obtainable at the college, and a scholarship to Magdalen College, Oxford. At Trinity College, Dublin, and at Oxford University, Oscar Wilde achieved every academic honor within his reach. He rounded off his undergraduate years by securing an Oxford "Double First" and winning the coveted Newdigate Prize, the university's chief prize for poetry. But what was his real ambition in life? "God knows," he said. "I won't be an Oxford don anyhow. I'll be a poet, a writer, a dramatist. Somehow or other I'll be famous, and if not famous, I'll be notorious. Or perhaps I'll lead the life of pleasure for a time and then—who knows?—rest and do nothing. What does Plato say is the highest end that man can attain here below? 'To sit down and contemplate the good.' Perhaps that will be the end of me too." Though in public he denied it, privately he considered the possibility of an academic career. He would have liked to have been offered a fellowship at his old college. It did not happen. Oscar was highly intelligent, witty, wonderfully charming, and he had the most perfect manners. He beguiled many people, but not everybody. There was something about him—his flowery turn of phrase, his quixotic turn of mind—that some found disconcerting and others disagreeable. It was at Oxford that Oscar began to formulate his philosophy of "art for art's sake" and to establish himself as the leader of the so-called "aesthetic cult." In 1878, when Oscar left Oxford, he had no settled career plan. Cushioned by a modest legacy from his father, who had died two years earlier, Oscar floated down to London, the capital of the British Empire, and made his mark on the metropolis with outlandish views and an outrageous appearance. "Only shallow people do not judge by appearance," he declared. In his first season in London he took to going out in a bottle green velvet smoking jacket edged with braid, wearing a cream-colored shirt with a scalloped collar and an overabundant orange tie, taffeta knee breeches, black silk stockings and silver-buckled shoes. He became a champion of Beauty and a self-styled "professor of aestheticism." "Beauty is the symbol of symbols," he declared. "Beauty reveals everything because it expresses nothing. When it shows us itself it shows us the whole fiery-colored world." Because of his charm, Oscar was invited everywhere. And everywhere he went, he made himself conspicuous. It was a matter of policy. "If you wish for reputation and success in the world," he advised, "take every opportunity of advertising yourself. Remember the Latin saying, 'Fame springs from one's own house.' " He was a master of self-advertisement. When he went to first nights at the theater, in the minutes before the curtain rose, he would appear, in rapid succession, in all parts of the house—in the stalls, in the dress circle, in the boxes on either side of the proscenium—attired in a flamboyant evening suit of his own design and sporting an unlikely flower in his buttonhole. The young Oscar Wilde was determined to be noticed. And he was. Soon after his arrival in London, the satirical magazines of the day started to publish spoofs and squibs at his expense. He began to feature in newspaper cartoons and caricatures. He was lampooned in music hall sketches, in stage farces and then, most famously, in April 1881, in Richard D'Oyly Carte's hugely successful production of W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan's comic operetta _Patience._ Oscar was at the first night and much amused. He recognized the piece for what it was: not a personal attack on him, but a pleasingly tuneful skit on the absurdities of the Aesthetic Movement. The success of _Patience_ changed Oscar's life. On September 30, 1881, he received a telegram from Colonel F. W. Morse, Richard D'Oyly Carte's business manager in New York, inviting him to undertake an American lecture tour to coincide with the operetta's American production. Oscar did not hesitate. On October 1, 1881, he wired his acceptance. The young poet was in want of money and exhilarated by the prospect of crossing an ocean and discovering a continent. Through 1882 he traveled across America, from east to west and north to south. He made two forays into Canada. He gave 140 lectures in 260 days. He developed his skills as a lecturer, performer and storyteller. He earned some useful money. He gained an international reputation. When he returned to England, at the beginning of 1883, aged twenty-eight, he was famous—but, essentially, he was famous for being famous. "Evidently I am 'somebody,' " he noted at the time, "but what have I done? I've been 'noticed.' That is something, I suppose. And I have published one book of poems. That doesn't amount to much." Wilde's collection of poems was published in 1881 and not especially well received. He was accused of plagiarism, a charge he did not particularly resent. "Plagiarism is the privilege of the appreciative man," he said. In 1883, he spent several months in Paris, working on a play, _The Duchess of Padua,_ and meeting, among others, Victor Hugo, Paul Verlaine and Emile Zola. As the 1880s proceeded, he extended his literary connections and, gradually, developed his literary ambitions. He worked on plays and poetry; he began to publish reviews and literary criticism; he took on the editorship of a women's magazine, _The Lady's World,_ which he retitled _The Woman's World._ According to Wilde's only grandchild, the writer Merlin Holland, "Wilde's time at _The Woman's World_ is sometimes regarded by his biographers as an interesting but unimportant interlude in his writing life." Merlin Holland maintains that it was more than that: "it gave him some of those 'finest, rarest moments' for 'literature,' effectively kick-starting him into the great creative years of his life." Holland sees the late 1880s as the years when "Wilde's childhood Ireland spilled out onto paper—'a Celtic world dominated by ghosts and God' as one of his compatriots described it. Folklore, superstition and the supernatural fill 'The Canterville Ghost,' 'Lord Arthur Savile's Crime' and his first collection of children's stories, _The Happy Prince and Other Tales._ " From the outset, Wilde maintained that the stories were not written specifically with children in mind. When the young poet George Herbert Kersley wrote to the author in June 1888, congratulating him on the tales and asking if he would autograph his copy for him, Wilde replied: "I am very pleased that you like my stories. They are studies in prose, put for Romance's sake into fanciful form: meant partly for children, and partly for those who have kept the childlike faculties of wonder and joy, and who find in simplicity a subtle strangeness." Wilde added that he would be "charmed" to sign the book for Kersley and invited him to come to tea "some Wednesday about 5:30 o'clock." Merlin Holland claims that his grandfather "hated the idea" that the stories "were to be for children at all" and referred to them as "written, not for children, but for childlike people from eight to eighty." That said, the writing of the fairy tales coincided exactly with the years when Oscar Wilde became the father of young children. On May 29, 1884, Oscar Wilde married Constance Lloyd, the daughter of an Irish QC, and together they set up home in London, at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea. It was a love match and the early years of their marriage were happy ones. Their sons, Cyril and Vyvyan, were born in 1885 and 1887. Oscar and Constance remained close for the remainder of their lives, but the true tragedy of Wilde's disgrace and imprisonment in 1895 was that, from that moment onward, he never saw nor heard from his sons again. Oscar Wilde may not have been an ideal husband, but he was certainly a devoted father. In his touching memoir, _Son of Oscar Wilde,_ Vyvyan Holland speaks of Oscar as "a real companion" to his sons: "He had so much of the child in his own nature that he delighted in playing our games." Vyvyan describes his father "down on all fours on the nursery floor, being in turn a lion, a wolf, a horse, caring nothing for his usually immaculate appearance." In the nursery and the dining room, and up and down the stairs at Tite Street, Oscar played "romping games" with his boys. He mended their toys. He gave them books to read. According to Vyvyan, "He was a great admirer of Jules Verne and [Robert Louis] Stevenson, and of [Rudyard] Kipling in his more imaginative vein. The last present that he gave me was _The Jungle Book."_ Oscar also entertained his sons by telling them stories: "He told us all his own written fairy stories suitably adapted for our young minds, and a great many others as well." The end of the 1880s saw the flowering of Oscar Wilde's literary genius. In 1889, Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle first met. They were brought together by an American publisher, J. M. Stoddart, who was in England commissioning material for _Lippincott's Magazine_. The upshot of the encounter was that Mr. Stoddart got to publish both Arthur Conan Doyle's second Sherlock Holmes story, _The Sign of Four,_ and Oscar Wilde's only novel, _The Picture of Dorian Gray._ (And a century later, incidentally, the same encounter inspired me to write the first of "The Oscar Wilde Murder Mysteries" featuring Wilde and Conan Doyle.) This was the golden age of Oscar Wilde. The first of his successful social comedies, _Lady Windermere's Fan,_ was produced in London in 1892, followed by three more plays: _A Woman of No Importance_ (1893), _An Ideal Husband_ (1895), and, most famously, _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (1895). This was also the era when Oscar Wilde began to explore his homosexuality. From the middle of the 1880s, he spent less time with his wife and family and more time cultivating the company of young men. Some were of his social class; some were not. "I want to eat of all the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world," he said. As the years went by, he took increasing risks. He relished "feasting with panthers," as he put it: "the danger was half the excitement." In 1891 Oscar Wilde met a twenty-year-old Oxford undergraduate, Lord Alfred Douglas, the third son of the eighth Marquess of Queensberry. Soon the pair became inseparable. In 1895, the young man's father, Lord Queensberry, left a card for Wilde at the Albemarle Club accusing Wilde of "posing Somdomite" _(sic)_ and provoking Wilde to sue Queensberry for criminal libel. The failure of the libel action led to Wilde's own prosecution on charges of gross indecency. On May 25, 1895, he was found guilty and sentenced to two years' imprisonment with hard labor. Released from jail on May 19, 1897, Wilde traveled immediately to France and spent the rest of his life in exile on the Continent. His poem _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ was published in 1898, and his confessional letter, _De Profundis,_ was published posthumously in 1905. Constance Wilde died in Genoa on April 7, 1898, following an operation on her spine. Oscar Wilde died in Paris on November 30, 1900. He was buried at Bagneux Cemetery. In 1909 his remains were moved to the French national cemetery of Père Lachaise. Inevitably, we view him now through the prism of his tragedy. Oscar Wilde's extraordinary biography overlies our reading of his work. We do not approach the nine stories in this book as a straightforward collection of Victorian fairy tales: we read them knowing that they are by Oscar Wilde. The author's very name adds a frisson to the experience of picking up the book. This is the work of a man who was leading a double life, an artist who felt at odds with much of the society that surrounded him, a homosexual who could not openly acknowledge his sexuality. These stones—rich in irony—are tales of love and sacrifice. In "The Happy Prince," the most famous story in the first collection, the Prince is far from happy. He is a Christ-like figure who finds fulfillment through self-sacrifice. And the Prince and the swallow, what are they but male lovers whose pure love transcends the vulgar values of the petty-minded town councilors? In "The Young King," the opening story in the second collection, the hero is a lad of sixteen. We first encounter him sighing, lying back on soft cushions, "wild-eyed and opened-mouthed, like a brown woodland Faun." This is far from the only homoerotic portrait in the collection. In each of the stories, in both collections, there is a highly charged undercurrent of physicality, a religious fervor and a sense of impending doom. You will find it difficult to read these tales without thinking of the life of the man who wrote them. I am, in some ways, blessed. I discovered Wilde's writings before I knew his story. In 1961, when I was twelve, I was given the _Complete Works of Oscar Wilde_ and read them from cover to cover—yes, all 1,118 pages. I cannot have understood much, but I relished the language and learned by heart his _Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young:_ "Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." I was simply bowled over by the fairy tales. I was on the brink of adolescence. These were powerful stories, with a heavy undercurrent of melancholy and romance. As a boy I felt especially close to Oscar Wilde because I happened to be a student at an English boarding school called Bedales, where Cyril, the older of the Wildes' two sons, had also been at school. The founder of Bedales, John Badley, was a friend of Oscar Wilde. Mr. Badley was still alive and living on the school grounds when I was a boy. He told me (in 1965, at around the time of his hundredth birthday): "Oscar Wilde could listen as well as talk. He put himself out to be entertaining. You know, he said, 'Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.' He was a delightful person, charming and brilliant, with the most perfect manners of any man I ever met. Because of his imprisonment and disgrace he is seen nowadays as a tragic figure. That should not be his lasting memorial. I knew him quite well. He was such fun." When I first read these fairy tales I knew next to nothing of the private life and tragic downfall of Oscar Wilde. I simply enjoyed them as wonderful works of the imagination. In 1900, when Oscar Wilde died, his son Vyvyan was at boarding school in England. The school's headmaster summoned Vyvyan to his study to break the news to him. The boy, who had not seen his father since 1895 and knew nothing of the circumstances of his disgrace, was shocked by the news. "I thought he died long ago," he said. "No," answered the headmaster, "he died two days ago in Paris." Vyvyan had so many questions he wanted to ask, but his courage failed him. The boy broke down and cried. The headmaster said simply: "He wrote beautiful stories." "Yes," replied Vyvyan, "I know." These are those beautiful stories. Enjoy. —Gyles Brandreth London, 2008 THE HAPPY PRINCE _AND OTHER TALES_ _TO_ _CARLOS BLACKER_ THE HAPPY PRINCE HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not. "Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything. " "I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. "He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. "How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one." "Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming. One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her. "Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. "It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away. After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also." "Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. "You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away. All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations." Then he saw the statue on the tall column. "I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince. "I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness." Then another drop fell. "What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away. But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw—Ah! what did he see? The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity. "Who are you?" he said. "I am the Happy Prince." "Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me." "When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep." "What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud. "Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move." "I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad. " "I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect." But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger." "Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince. So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town. He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!" "I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy." He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber. Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold." "That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy. When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand. "To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much. When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint." "I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?" "Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play." "Dear Prince," said the swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets. "I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy. The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea." "In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her." "I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing. Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always." "No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt." "I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet. All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies. "Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there." So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watch-man, and they wandered out into the rain. Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen. "I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy." Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried. Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice. The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings. But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?" "I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you." "It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?" And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet. At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said. "How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it. "The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than a beggar!" "Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors. "And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion. So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University. Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself. " "Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still. "What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying. "Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. "You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for ever-more, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me." THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE "SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose." From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered. "No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched." "Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow." "The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break." "Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers, what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold." "The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept. "Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. "Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. "Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. "He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale. "For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head. "My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want." So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song." But the Tree shook its head. "My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want." So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window. "Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song. " But the Tree shook its head. "My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year." "One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?" "There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you." "Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid." "If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine." "Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?" So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. "Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense." The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches. "Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone." So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar. When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. "She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished." So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished." So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. "Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. "Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it. Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. "You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you." But the girl frowned. "I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers." "Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it. "Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house. "What a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics." So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read. THE SELFISH GIANT EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other. One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden. "What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away. "My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED He was a very selfish Giant. The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to each other. Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice. "I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather." But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees. One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one comer it was still winter. It was the farthest comer of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny. And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's play-ground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done. So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen. All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye. "But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him. "We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away. "You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad. Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say. Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all." One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting. Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved. Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet. "Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him." "Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love." "Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child. And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise." And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms. THE DEVOTED FRIEND ONE morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water. "You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads," she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all. "What disobedient children!" cried the old Water-rat; "they really deserve to be drowned." "Nothing of the kind," answered the Duck, "every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient." "Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents," said the Water-rat; "I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship." "And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?" asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation. "Yes, that is just what I want to know," said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example. "What a silly question!" cried the Water-rat. "I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course. " "And what would you do in return?" said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings. "I don't understand you," answered the Water-rat. "Let me tell you a story on the subject," said the Linnet. "Is the story about me?" asked the Water-rat. "If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction." "It is applicable to you," answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend. "Once upon a time," said the Linnet, "there was an honest little fellow named Hans." "Was he very distinguished?" asked the Water-rat. "No," answered the Linnet, "I don't think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gillyflowers, and Shepherds'-purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell. "Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season. " 'Real friends should have everything in common,' the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas. "Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship. "So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then. " 'There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,' the Miller used to say to his wife, 'for when people are in trouble they should be left alone and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.' " 'You are certainly very thoughtful about others,' answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; 'very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.' " 'But could we not ask little Hans up here?' said the Miller's youngest son. 'If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.' " 'What a silly boy you are!' cried the Miller; 'I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly will not allow Hans' nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that.' " 'How well you talk'! said the Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; ''really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.' " 'Lots of people act well,' answered the Miller; 'but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also'; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him." "Is that the end of the story?" asked the Water-rat. "Certainly not," answered the Linnet, "that is the beginning." "Then you are quite behind the age," said the Water-rat. "Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered 'Pooh!' But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us." "Well," said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, "as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans. " 'Why, what a good heart you have!' cried his Wife; 'you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.' "So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm. " 'Good morning, little Hans,' said the Miller. " 'Good morning,' said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear. " 'And how have you been all the winter?' said the Miller. " 'Well, really,' cried Hans, 'it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.' " 'We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,' said the Miller, 'and wondered how you were getting on.' " 'That was kind of you,' said Hans; 'I was half afraid you had forgotten me.' " 'Hans, I am surprised at you,' said the Miller; friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!" " 'They are certainly very lovely,' said Hans, 'and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster's daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.' " 'Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don't mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!' " 'Well, the fact is,' said Hans, 'that I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.' " 'Hans,' said the Miller, 'I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.' " 'Well, really, that is generous of you,' said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. 'I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.' " 'A plank of wood!' said the Miller; 'why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.' " 'Certainly,' cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out. " 'it is not a very big plank,' said the Miller, looking at it, 'and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some _fl_ owers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.' " 'Quite full?' said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market, and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back. " 'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.' " 'My dear friend, my best friend,' cried little Hans, 'you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day'; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's basket. " 'Good-bye, little Hans,' said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand. " 'Good-bye,' said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow. "The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall. "There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back. " 'Dear little Hans,' said the Miller, 'would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?' " 'Oh, I am so sorry,' said Hans, 'but I am really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.' " 'Well, really,' said the Miller, 'I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.' " 'Oh, don't say that,' cried little Hans, 'I wouldn't be unfriendly for the whole world'; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders. "It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and at last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way. " 'It has certainly been a hard day,' said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, 'but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.' "Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed. " 'Upon my word,' said the Miller, 'you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don't like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.' " 'I am very sorry,' said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, 'but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing?' " 'Well, I am glad of that,' said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, 'for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.' "Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him. " 'Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?' he inquired in a shy and timid voice. " 'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.' " 'Oh! on no account,' cried little Hans; and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn. "He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on. " 'Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?' cried the Miller in a cheery voice. " 'It is quite mended,' answered little Hans, coming down the ladder. " 'Ah!' said the Miller, 'there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.' " 'It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,' answered little Hans, sitting down and wiping his forehead, 'a very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.' " 'Oh! they will come to you,' said the Miller, 'but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.' " 'Do you really think I shall?' asked little Hans. " 'I have no doubt of it,' answered the Miller, 'but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.' "Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight. " 'What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,' he said, and he went to work at once. "But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best friend. 'Besides,' he used to say, 'he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.' "So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar. "Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others. " 'It is some poor traveller,' said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door. "There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other. " 'Dear little Hans,' cried the Miller, 'I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.' " 'Certainly,' cried little Hans, 'I take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.' " 'I am very sorry,' answered the Miller, 'but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.' " 'Well, never mind, I will do without it,' cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off. "What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and knocked at the door. " 'Who is there?' cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window. " 'Little Hans, Doctor.' " 'What do you want, little Hans?' " 'The Miller's son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.' " 'All right!' said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller's house, little Hans trudging behind him. "But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage. "Everybody went to little Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner. " 'As I was his best friend,' said the Miller, 'it is only fair that I should have the best place'; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief. " 'Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,' said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes. " 'A great loss to me at any rate,' answered the Miller; 'why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.' " "Well?" said the Water-rat, after a long pause. "Well, that is the end," said the Linnet. "But what became of the Miller?" asked the Water-rat. "Oh! I really don't know," replied the Linnet; "and I am sure that I don't care." "It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature," said the Water-rat. "I am afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story," remarked the Linnet. "The what?" screamed the Water-rat. "The moral." "Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?" "Certainly," said the Linnet. "Well, really," said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, "I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said 'Pooh,' like the critic. However, I can say it now"; so he shouted out "Pooh" at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole. "And how do you like the Water-rat?" asked the Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. "He has a great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes." "I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him," answered the Linnet. "The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral." "Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do," said the Duck. And I quite agree with her. THE REMARKABLE ROCKET THE King's son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people wondered. "She is like a white rose!" they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies. At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand. "Your picture was beautiful," he murmured, "but you are more beautiful than your picture"; and the little Princess blushed. "She was like a white rose before," said a young Page to his neighbour, "but she is like a red rose now"; and the whole Court was delighted. For the next three days everybody went about saying, "White rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose"; and the King gave orders that the Page's salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette. When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a magnificent ceremony and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy. "It is quite clear that they love each other," said the little Page, "as clear as crystal!" and the King doubled his salary a second time. "What an honour!" cried all the courtiers. After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!" The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage. "What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she was walking on the terrace. "They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always answered questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must certainly see them." So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other. "The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices." "The King's garden is not the world, you foolish squib," said a big Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to see it thoroughly." "Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed a pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once—But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past." "Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest Court news." But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead," she murmured. She was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end. Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round. It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as to attract attention. "Ahem! ahem!" he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, "Romance is dead." "Order! order!" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use. "Quite dead," whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep. As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner. "How fortunate it is for the King's son," he remarked, "that he is to be married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but Princes are always lucky." "Dear me!" said the little Squib, "I thought it was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour." "It may be so with you," he answered; "indeed, I have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gun-powder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art." "Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean," said a Bengal Light; "I know it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister." "Well, I said Pylotechnic," answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance. "I was saying," continued the Rocket, "I was saying—What was I saying?" "You were talking about yourself," replied the Roman Candle. "Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that." "What is a sensitive person?" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle. "A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people's toes," answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter. "Pray, what are you laughing at?" inquired the Rocket; "I am not laughing. " "I am laughing because I am happy," replied the Cracker. "That is a very selfish reason," said the Rocket angrily. "What right have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears." "If you want to give pleasure to others," cried the Roman Candle, "you had better keep yourself dry." "Certainly," exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits; "that is only common sense." "Common sense, indeed!" said the Rocket indignantly; "you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married." "Well, really," exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, "why not? It is a most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride." "Ah! what a trivial view of life!" said the Rocket; "but it is only what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it." "But they have not lost their only son," said the Roman Candle; "no misfortune has happened to them at all." "I never said that they had," replied the Rocket; "I said that they might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very much affected." "You certainly are!" cried the Bengal Light. "In fact, you are the most affected person I ever met." "You are the rudest person I ever met," said the Rocket, "and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince." "Why, you don't even know him," growled the Roman Candle. "I never said I knew him," answered the Rocket. "I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one's friends." "You had really better keep yourself dry," said the Fire-balloon. "That is the important thing." "Very important for you, I have no doubt," answered the Rocket, "but I shall weep if I choose"; and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like raindrops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in. "He must have a truly romantic nature," said the Catherine Wheel, "for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about"; and she heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box. But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept saying, "Humbug! humbug!" at the top of their voices. They were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug. Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace. The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time. Then ten o'clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist. "Let the fireworks begin," said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole. It was certainly a magnificent display. Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round. Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. "Good-bye," cried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess laughed with pleasure. "I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion," said the Rocket; "no doubt that is what it means," and he looked more supercilious than ever. The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. "This is evidently a deputation," said the Rocket; "I will receive them with becoming dignity"; so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no notice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. "Hallo!" he cried, "what a bad rocket!" and he threw him over the wall into the ditch. "BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?" he said, as he whirled through the air; "impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and GRAND sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same"; and he fell into the mud. "It is not comfortable here," he remarked, "but no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require rest." Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat, swam up to him. "A new arrival, I see!" said the Frog. "Well, after all there is nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!" "Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket, and he began to cough. "What a delightful voice you have!" cried the Frog. "Really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer's house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard the farmer's wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular." "Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he could not get a word in. "A delightful voice, certainly," continued the Frog; "I hope you will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you." "Conversation, indeed!" said the Rocket. "You have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation." "Somebody must listen," answered the Frog, "and I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments." "But I like arguments," said the Rocket. "I hope not," said the Frog complacently. "Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance"; and the little Frog swam away. "You are a very irritating person," said the Rocket, "and very ill-bred. I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial." "There is no good talking to him," said a Dragon-fly, who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; "no good at all, for he has gone away." "Well, that is his loss, not mine," answered the Rocket. "I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying." "Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy," said the Dragon-fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky. "How very silly of him not to stay here!" said the Rocket "I am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However, I don't care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day"; and he sank down a little deeper into the mud. After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle. "Quack, quack, quack," she said. "What a curious shape you are! May I ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?" "It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country," answered the Rocket, "otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain." "I don't think much of that," said the Duck, "as I cannot see what use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something." "My good creature," cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, "I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of the opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do." "Well, well," said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, "everybody has different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here." "Oh! dear no," cried the Rocket. "I am merely a visitor, a distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world." "I had thoughts of entering public life once myself," remarked the Duck; "there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family." "I am made for public life," said the Rocket, "and so are all my relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one's mind from higher things." "Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!" said the Duck; "and that reminds me how hungry I feel": and she swam away down the stream, saying, "Quack, quack, quack." "Come back! come back!" screamed the Rocket, "I have a great deal to say to you"; but the Duck paid no attention to him. "I am glad that she has gone," he said to himself, "she has a decidedly middle-class mind"; and he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots. "This must be the deputation," said the Rocket, and he tried to look very dignified. "Hallo!" cried one of the boys, "look at this old stick! I wonder how it came here"; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch. "OLD Stick!" said the Rocket, "impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!" "Let us put it into the fire!" said the other boy, "it will help to boil the kettle." So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit the fire. "This is magnificent," cried the Rocket, "they are going to let me off in broad daylight, so that every one can see me." "We will go to sleep now," they said, "and when we wake up the kettle will be boiled"; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes. The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last, however, the fire caught him. "Now I am going off!" he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight. "I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high that—" Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air. "Delightful!" he cried, "I shall go on like this for ever. What a success I am!" But nobody saw him. Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him. "Now I am going to explode," he cried. "I shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole year." And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it. But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound asleep. Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch. "Good heavens!" cried the Goose. "It is going to rain sticks"; and she rushed into the water. "I knew I should create a great sensation," gasped the Rocket, and he went out. A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES TO CONSTANCE MARY WILDE THE YOUNG KING TO MARGARET, LADY BROOKE IT was the night before the day fixed for his coronation, and the young King was sitting alone in his beautiful chamber. His courtiers had all taken their leave of him, bowing their heads to the ground, according to the ceremonious usage of the day, and had retired to the Great Hall of the Palace, to receive a few last lessons from the Professor of Etiquette; there being some of them who had still quite natural manners, which in a courtier is, I need hardly say, a very grave offence. The lad—for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age—was not sorry at their departure, and had flung himself back with a deep sigh of relief on the soft cushions of his embroidered couch, lying there, wild-eyed and open-mouthed, like a brown woodland Faun, or some young animal of the forest newly snared by the hunters. And, indeed, it was the hunters who had found him, coming upon him almost by chance as, bare-limbed and pipe in hand, he was following the flock of the poor goatherd who had brought him up, and whose son he had always fancied himself to be. The child of the old King's only daughter by a secret marriage with one much beneath her in station—a stranger, some said, who, by the wonderful magic of his lute-playing, had made the young Princess love him; while others spoke of an artist from Rimini, to whom the Princess had shown much, perhaps too much honour, and who had suddenly disappeared from the city, leaving his work in the Cathedral unfinished—he had been, when but a week old, stolen away from his mother's side, as she slept, and given into the charge of a common peasant and his wife, who were without children of their own, and lived in a remote part of the forest, more than a day's ride from the town. Grief, or the plague, as the court physician stated, or, as some suggested, a swift Italian poison administered in a cup of spiced wine, slew, within an hour of her wakening, the white girl who had given him birth, and as the trusty messenger who bare the child across his saddle-bow, stooped from his weary horse and knocked at the rude door of the goatherd's hut, the body of the Princess was being lowered into an open grave that had been dug in a deserted churchyard, beyond the city gates, a grave where, it was said, that another body was also lying, that of a young man of marvellous and foreign beauty, whose hands were tied behind him with a knotted cord, and whose breast was stabbed with many red wounds. Such, at least, was the story that men whispered to each other. Certain it was that the old King, when on his death-bed, whether moved by remorse for his great sin, or merely desiring that the kingdom should not pass away from his line, had had the lad sent for, and, in the presence of the Council, had acknowledged him as his heir. And it seems that from the very first moment of his recognition he had shown signs of that strange passion for beauty that was destined to have so great an influence over his life. Those who accompanied him to the suite of rooms set apart for his service, often spoke of the cry of pleasure that broke from his lips when he saw the delicate raiment and rich jewels that had been prepared for him, and of the almost fierce joy with which he flung aside his rough leathern tunic and coarse sheepskin cloak. He missed, indeed, at times the fine freedom of his forest life, and was always apt to chafe at the tedious Court ceremonies that occupied so much of each day, but the wonderful palace— _Joyeuse,_ as they called it—of which he now found himself lord, seemed to him to be a new world fresh-fashioned for his delight; and as soon as he could escape from the council-board or audience-chamber, he would run down the great staircase, with its lions of gilt bronze and its steps of bright porphyry, and wander from room to room, and from corridor to corridor, like one who was seeking to find in beauty an anodyne from pain, a sort of restoration from sickness. Upon these journeys of discovery, as he would call them—and, indeed, they were to him real voyages through a marvellous land, he would sometimes be accompanied by the slim, fair-haired Court pages, with their floating mantles, and gay fluttering ribands; but more often he would be alone, feeling through a certain quick instinct, which was almost a divination, that the secrets of art are best learned in secret, and that Beauty, like Wisdom, loves the lonely worshipper. Many curious stories were related about him at this period. It was said that a stout Burgomaster, who had come to deliver a florid oratorical address on behalf of the citizens of the town, had caught sight of him kneeling in real adoration before a great picture that had just been brought from Venice, and that seemed to herald the worship of some new gods. On another occasion he had been missed for several hours, and after a lengthened search had been discovered in a little chamber in one of the northern turrets of the palace gazing, as one in a trance, at a Greek gem carved with the figure of Adonis. He had been seen, so the tale ran, pressing his warm lips to the marble brow of an antique statue that had been discovered in the bed of the river on the occasion of the building of the stone bridge, and was inscribed with the name of the Bithynian slave of Hadrian. He had passed a whole night in noting the effect of the moonlight on a silver image of Endymion. All rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for him, and in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many merchants, some to traffic for amber with the rough fisher-folk of the north seas, some to Egypt to look for that curious green turquoise which is found only in the tombs of kings, and is said to possess magical properties, some to Persia for silken carpets and painted pottery, and others to India to buy gauze and stained ivory, moonstones and bracelets of jade, sandalwood and blue enamel and shawls of fine wool. But what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his coronation, the robe of tissued gold, and the ruby-studded crown, and the sceptre with its rows and rings of pearls. Indeed, it was of this that he was thinking to-night, as he lay back on his luxurious couch, watching the great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth. The designs, which were from the hands of the most famous artists of the time, had been submitted to him many months before, and he had given orders that the artificers were to toil night and day to carry them out, and that the whole world was to be searched for jewels that would be worthy of their work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar of the cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, and a smile played and lingered about his boyish lips, and lit up with a bright lustre his dark woodland eyes. After some time he rose from his seat, and leaning against the carved penthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly-lit room. The walls were hung with rich tapestries representing the Triumph of Beauty. A large press, inlaid with agate and lapis-lazuli, filled one corner, and facing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels of powdered and mosaiced gold, on which were placed some delicate goblets of Venetian glass, and a cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were broidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from the tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the velvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like white foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing Narcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the table stood a flat bowl of amethyst. Outside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a bubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and down on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an orchard, a nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the open window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead, and taking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy eyelids drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had he felt so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery of beautiful things. When midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and his pages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring rose water over his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few moments after that they had left the room, he fell asleep. And as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream. He thought that he was standing in a long, low attic, amidst the whirr and clatter of many looms. The meagre daylight peered in through the grated windows, and showed him the gaunt figures of the weavers bending over their cases. Pale, sickly-looking children were crouched on the huge crossbeams. As the shuttles dashed through the warp they lifted up the heavy battens, and when the shuttles stopped they let the battens fall and pressed the threads together. Their faces were pinched with famine, and their thin hands shook and trembled. Some haggard women were seated at a table sewing. A horrible odour filled the place. The air was foul and heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with damp. The young King went over to one of the weavers, and stood by him and watched him. And the weaver looked at him angrily, and said, "Why art thou watching me? Art thou a spy set on us by our master?" "Who is thy master?" asked the young King. "Our master!" cried the weaver, bitterly. "He is a man like myself. Indeed, there is but this difference between us—that he wears fine clothes while I go in rags, and that while I am weak from hunger he suffers not a little from overfeeding." "The land is free," said the young King, "and thou art no man's slave." "In war," answered the weaver, "the strong make slaves of the weak, and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live, and they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. We tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and our own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men call us free." "Is it so with all?" he asked. "It is so with all," answered the weaver, "with the young as well as with the old, with the women as well as with the men, with the little children as well as with those who are stricken in years. The merchants grind us down, and we must needs do their bidding. The priest rides by and tells his beads, and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning, and Shame sits with us at night. But what are these things to thee? Thou are not one of us. Thy face is too happy." And he turned away scowling, and threw the shuttle across the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded with a thread of gold. And a great terror seized upon him, and he said to the weaver, "What robe is this that thou art weaving?" "It is the robe for the coronation of the young King," he answered; "what is that to thee?" And the young King gave a loud cry and woke, and lo! he was in his own chamber, and through the window he saw the great honey-coloured moon hanging in the dusky air. And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream. He thought that he was lying on the deck of a huge galley that was being rowed by a hundred slaves. On a carpet by his side the master of the galley was seated. He was black as ebony, and his turban was of crimson silk. Great earrings of silver dragged down the thick lobes of his ears, and in his hands he had a pair of ivory scales. The slaves were naked, but for a ragged loincloth, and each man was chained to his neighbour. The hot sun beat brightly upon them, and the negroes ran up and down the gangway and lashed them with whips of hide. They stretched out their lean arms and pulled the heavy oars through the water. The salt spray flew from the blades. At last they reached a little bay, and began to take soundings. A light wind blew from the shore, and covered the deck and the great lateen sail with a fine red dust. Three Arabs mounted on wild asses rode out and threw spears at them. The master of the galley took a painted bow in his hand and shot one of them in the throat. He fell heavily into the surf, and his companions galloped away. A woman wrapped in a yellow veil followed slowly on a camel, looking back now and then at the dead body. As soon as they had cast anchor and hauled down the sail, the negroes went into the hold and brought up a long rope-ladder, heavily weighted with lead. The master of the galley threw it over the side, making the ends fast to two iron stanchions. Then the negroes seized the youngest of the slaves, and knocked his gyves off, and filled his nostrils and his ears with wax, and tied a big stone round his waist. He crept wearily down the ladder, and disappeared into the sea. A few bubbles rose where he sank. Some of the other slaves peered curiously over the side. At the prow of the galley sat a shark-charmer, beating monotonously upon a drum. After some time the diver rose up out of the water, and clung panting to the ladder with a pearl in his right hand. The negroes seized it from him, and thrust him back. The slaves fell asleep over their oars. Again and again he came up, and each time that he did so he brought with him a beautiful pearl. The master of the galley weighed them, and put them into a little bag of green leather. The young King tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused to move. The negroes chattered to each other, and began to quarrel over a string of bright beads. Two cranes flew round and round the vessel. Then the diver came up for the last time, and the pearl that he brought with him was fairer than all the pearls of Ormuz, for it was shaped like the full moon, and whiter than the morning star. But his face was strangely pale, and as he fell upon the deck the blood gushed from his ears and nostrils. He quivered for a little, and then he was still. The negroes shrugged their shoulders, and threw the body overboard. And the master of the galley laughed, and, reaching out, he took the pearl, and when he saw it he pressed it to his forehead and bowed. "It shall be," he said, "for the sceptre of the young King," and he made a sign to the negroes to draw up the anchor. And when the young King heard this he gave a great cry, and woke, and through the window he saw the long grey fingers of the dawn clutching at the fading stars. And he fell asleep again, and dreamed, and this was his dream. He thought that he was wandering through a dim wood, hung with strange fruits and with beautiful poisonous flowers. The adders hissed at him as he went by, and the bright parrots flew screaming from branch to branch. Huge tortoises lay asleep upon the hot mud. The trees were full of apes and peacocks. On and on he went, till he reached the outskirts of the wood, and there he saw an immense multitude of men toiling in the bed of a dried-up river. They swarmed up the crag like ants. They dug deep pits in the ground and went down into them. Some of them cleft the rocks with great axes; others grabbled in the sand. They tore up the cactus by its roots, and trampled on the scarlet blossoms. They hurried about, calling to each other, and no man was idle. From the darkness of a cavern Death and Avarice watched them, and Death said, "I am weary; give me a third of them and let me go." But Avarice shook her head. "They are my servants," she answered. And Death said to her, "What hast thou in thy hand?" "I have three grains of corn," she answered; "what is that to thee?" "Give me one of them," cried Death, "to plant in my garden; only one of them, and I will go away." "I will not give thee anything," said Avarice, and she hid her hand in the fold of her raiment. And Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of water, and out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the great multitude, and a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her, and the water-snakes ran by her side. And when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat her breast and wept. She beat her barren bosom, and cried aloud. "Thou hast slain a third of my servants," she cried, "get thee gone. There is war in the mountains of Tartary, and the kings of each side are calling to thee. The Afghans have slain the black ox, and are marching to battle. They have beaten upon their shields with their spears, and have put on their helmets of iron. What is my valley to thee, that thou should'st tarry in it? Get thee gone, and come here no more. "Nay," answered Death, "but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will not go." But Avarice shut her hand, and clenched her teeth. "I will not give thee anything," she muttered. And Death laughed, and took up a black stone, and threw it into the forest, and out of a thicket of wild hemlock came Fever in a robe of flame. She passed through the multitude, and touched them, and each man that she touched died. The grass withered beneath her feet as she walked. And Avarice shuddered, and put ashes on her head. "Thou art cruel," she cried; "thou art cruel. There is famine in the walled cities of India, and the cisterns of Samarcand have run dry. There is famine in the walled cities of Egypt, and the locusts have come up from the desert. The Nile has not overflowed its banks, and the priests have cursed Isis and Osiris. Get thee gone to those who need thee, and leave me my servants." "Nay," answered Death, "but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will not go." "I will not give thee anything," said Avarice. And Death laughed again, and he whistled through his fingers, and a woman came flying through the air. Plague was written upon her forehead, and a crowd of lean vultures wheeled round her. She covered the valley with her wings, and no man was left alive. And Avarice fled shrieking through the forest, and Death leaped upon his red horse and galloped away, and his galloping was faster than the wind. And out of the slime at the bottom of the valley crept dragons and horrible things with scales, and the jackals came trotting along the sand, sniffing up the air with their nostrils. And the young King wept, and said: "Who were these men, and for what were they seeking?" "For rubies for a king's crown," answered one who stood behind him. And the young King started, and, turning round, he saw a man habited as a pilgrim and holding in his hand a mirror of silver. And he grew pale, and said: "For what king?" And the pilgrim answered: "Look in this mirror, and thou shalt see him." And he looked in the mirror, and, seeing his own face, he gave a great cry and woke, and the bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and from the trees of the garden and pleasaunce the birds were singing. And the Chamberlain and the high officers of State came in and made obseisance to him, and the pages brought him the robe of tissued gold, and set the crown and the sceptre before him. And the young King looked at them, and they were beautiful. More beautiful were they than aught that he had ever seen. But he remembered his dreams, and he said to his lords; "Take these things away, for I will not wear them." . And the courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, for they thought that he was jesting. But he spake sternly to them again, and said: "Take these things away, and hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will not wear them. For on the loom of Sorrow, and by the white hands of Pain, has this my robe been woven. There is Blood in the heart of the ruby, and Death in the heart of the pearl." And he told them his three dreams. And when the courtiers heard them they looked at each other and whispered, saying: "Surely he is mad; for what is a dream but a dream, and a vision but a vision? They are not real things that one should heed them. And what have we to do with the lives of those who toil for us? Shall a man not eat bread till he has seen the sower, nor drink wine till he has talked with the vinedresser?" And the Chamberlain spake to the young King, and said, "My lord, I pray thee set aside these black thoughts of thine, and put on this fair robe, and set this crown upon thy head. For how shall the people know that thou art a king, if thou hast not a king's raiment?" And the young King looked at him. "Is it so, indeed ?" he questioned. "Will they not know me for a king if I have not a king's raiment?" "They will not know thee, my lord," cried the Chamberlain. "I had thought that there had been men who were kinglike," he answered, "but it may be as thou sayest. And yet I will not wear this robe, nor will I be crowned with this crown, but even as I came to the palace so will I go forth from it." And he bade them all leave him, save one page whom he kept as his companion, a lad a year younger than himself. Him he kept for his service, and when he had bathed himself in clear water, he opened a great painted chest, and from it he took the leathern tunic and rough sheepskin cloak that he had worn when he had watched on the hillside the shaggy goats of the goatherd. These he put on, and in his hand he took his rude shepherd's staff. And the little page opened his big blue eyes in wonder, and said smiling to him, "My lord, I see thy robe and thy sceptre, but where is thy crown?" And the young King plucked a spray of wild briar that was climbing over the balcony, and bent it, and made a circlet of it, and set it on his own head. "This shall be my crown," he answered. And thus attired he passed out of his chamber into the Great Hall, where the nobles were waiting for him. And the nobles made merry, and some of them cried out to him, "My lord, the people wait for their king, and thou showest them a beggar," and others were wrath and said, "He brings shame upon our state, and is unworthy to be our master." But he answered them not a word, but passed on, and went down the bright porphyry staircase, and out through the gates of bronze, and mounted upon his horse, and rode towards the cathedral, the little page running beside him. And the people laughed and said, "It is the King's fool who is riding by," and they mocked him. And he drew rein and said, "Nay, but I am the King." And he told them his three dreams. And a man came out of the crowd and spake bitterly to him, and said, "Sir, knowest thou not that out of the luxury of the rich cometh the life of the poor? By your pomp we are nurtured, and your vices give us bread. To toil for a hard master is bitter, but to have no master to toil for is more bitter still. Thinkest thou that the ravens will feed us? And what cure hast thou for these things? Wilt thou say to the buyer, 'Thou shalt buy for so much,' and to the seller, 'Thou shalt sell at this price?' I trow not. Therefore go back to thy Palace and put on thy purple and fine linen. What hast thou to do with us, and what we suffer?" "Are not the rich and the poor brothers?" asked the young King. "Aye," answered the man, "and the name of the rich brother is Cain." And the young King's eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the murmurs of the people, and the little page grew afraid and left him. And when he reached the great portal of the cathedral, the soldiers thrust their halberts out and said, "What dost thou seek here? None enters by this door but the King." And his face flushed with anger, and he said to them, "I am the King," and waved their halberts aside and passed in. And when the old Bishop saw him coming in his goatherd's dress, he rose up in wonder from his throne, and went to meet him, and said to him, "My son, is this a king's apparel? And with what crown shall I crown thee, and what sceptre shall I place in thy hand? Surely this should be to thee a day of joy, and not a day of abasement." "Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?" said the young King. And he told him his three dreams. And when the Bishop had heard them he knit his brows, and said, "My son, I am an old man, and in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil things are done in the wide world. The fierce robbers come down from the mountains, and carry off the little children, and sell them to the Moors. The lions lie in wait for the caravans, and leap upon the camels. The wild boar roots up the corn in the valley, and the foxes gnaw the vines upon the hill. The pirates lay waste the sea-coast and burn the ships of the fishermen, and take their nets from them. In the salt-marshes live the lepers; they have houses of wattled reeds, and none may come nigh them. The beggars wander through the cities, and eat their food with the dogs. Canst thou make these things not to be? Wilt thou take the leper for thy bedfellow, and set the beggar at thy board? Shall the lion do thy bidding, and the wild boar obey thee? Is not He who made misery wiser than thou art? Wherefore I praise thee not for this that thou hast done, but I bid thee ride back to the Palace and make thy face glad, and put on the raiment that beseemeth a king, and with the crown of gold I will crown thee, and the sceptre of pearl will I place in thy hand. And as for thy dreams, think no more of them. The burden of this world is too great for one man to bear, and the world's sorrow too heavy for one heart to suffer." "Sayest thou that in this house?" said the young King, and he strode past the Bishop, and climbed up the steps of the altar, and stood before the image of Christ. He stood before the image of Christ, and on his right hand and on his left were the marvellous vessels of gold, the chalice with the yellow wine, and the vial with the holy oil. He knelt before the image of Christ, and the great candles burned brightly by the jewelled shrine, and the smoke of the incense curled in thin blue wreaths through the dome. He bowed his head in prayer, and the priests in their stiff copes crept away from the altar. And suddenly a wild tumult came from the street outside, and in entered the nobles with drawn swords and nodding plumes, and shields of polished steel. "Where is this dreamer of dreams?" they cried. "Where is this King, who is apparelled like a beggar—this boy who brings shame upon our state? Surely we will slay him, for he is unworthy to rule over us." And the young King bowed his head again, and prayed, and when he had finished his prayer he rose up, and turning round he looked at them sadly. And lo! through the painted windows came the sunlight streaming upon him, and the sunbeams wove round him a tissued robe that was fairer than the robe that had been fashioned for his pleasure. The dead staff blossomed, and bare lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed, and bare roses that were redder than rubies. Whiter than fine pearls were the lilies, and their stems were of bright silver. Redder than male rubies were the roses, and their leaves were of beaten gold. He stood there in the raiment of a king, and the gates of the jewelled shrine flew open, and from the crystal of the many-rayed monstrance shone a marvellous and mystical light. He stood there in a king's raiment, and the Glory of God filled the place, and the saints in their carven niches seemed to move. In the fair raiment of a king he stood before them, and the organ pealed out its music, and the trumpeters blew upon their trumpets, and the singing boys sang. And the people fell upon their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed their swords and did homage, and the Bishop's face grew pale, and his hands trembled. "A greater than I hath crowned thee," he cried, and he knelt before him. And the young King came down from the high altar, and passed home through the midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was like the face of an angel. THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA TO MRS. WILLIAM H. GRENFELL OF TAPLOW COURT IT was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of age, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace. Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so it was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that she should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine day it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass at the roses, and said: "We are quite as splendid as you are now." The purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet heavy perfume. The little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the old moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her birthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish children as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans of black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day. Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale little face, she had a beautiful white rose. From a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them. Behind him stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his confessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even than usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with childish gravity to the assembling courtiers, or laughing behind her fan at the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought of the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time before—so it seemed to him—had come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in the sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months after the birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds blossom twice in the orchard, or plucked the second year's fruit from the old gnarled fig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown courtyard. So great had been his love for her that he had not suffered even the grave to hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who in return for this service had been granted his life, which for heresy and suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men said, to the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier in the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her in on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month the King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand, went in and knelt by her side, calling out, "Mi reina! _Mi reina!"_ and sometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs every separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a King, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face. To-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle of Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she still younger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal Nuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow hair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage, hastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two countries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary celebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn _auto-da-fé_ , in which nearly three hundred heretics, amongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular arm to be burned. Certainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his country, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the New World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which he sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which she suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one beieft of reason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally abdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of which he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain, was notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen's death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her on the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the expiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained throughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his ministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself sent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of Bohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their master that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that though she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an answer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which soon after, at the Emperor's instigation, revolted against him under the leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church. His whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the terrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as he watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen's pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the same proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful _smile—vrai sourire de France_ indeed—as she glanced up now and then at the window, or stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange spices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint—or was it fancy?—the clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when the Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had retired. She made a little _moue_ of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders. Surely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the stupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where the candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to enter? How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for which the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the puppet show and the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were much more sensible. They had come out on the terrace, and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the hand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple silk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the other children following in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names going first. A procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as tore _adors,_ came out to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all the grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to a little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the arena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess—the Camerera-Mayor as she was called—a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips. It certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta thought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at Seville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father. Some of the boys pranced about on richly-caparisoned hobby-horses brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for the bull himself he was just like a live bull, though he was only made of wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of doing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so excited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs and cried out: _Bravo toro! Bravo toro!_ just as sensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored through and through, and their riders dismounted, the young Count of Tierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained permission from the Infanta to give the _coup de grace,_ he plunged his wooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head came right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de Lorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid. The arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead hobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and black liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French posture-master performed upon the tight rope, some Italian puppets appeared in the semi-classical tragedy of _Sophonisba_ on the stage of a small theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some of the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats, and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made simply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires, should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes. An African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered with a red cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he took from his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller and shriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange wedge-shaped heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant sways in the water. The children, however, were rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were much more pleased when the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear pretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the fan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into a blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight and amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the dancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was charming. The Infanta had never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes place every year at Maytime in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and in her honour; and indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered the great cathedral of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known only by hearsay of "Our Lady's Dance," as it was called, and it certainly was a beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of white velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were fringed with silver and surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling whiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight, being still more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair. Everybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved through the intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of their slow gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their performance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she acknowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made a vow that she would send a large wax candle to the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure that she had given her. A troop of handsome Egyptians—as the gipsies were termed in those days—then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a circle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to the tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the market-place at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as she leaned back peeping over her fan with her great blue eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was could never be cruel to anybody. So they played on very gently and just touching the cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and their heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly, with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their feet and whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then at another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay there quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound that broke the silence. After that they had done this several times, they disappeared for a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear by a chain, and carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes. The bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity, and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and went through a regular soldier's drill just like the King's own bodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success. But the funniest part of the whole morning's entertainment, was undoubtedly the dancing of the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the arena, waddling on his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen head from side to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight, and the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was obliged to remind her that although there were many precedents in Spain for a King's daughter weeping before her equals, there were none for a Princess of the blood royal making so merry before those who were her inferiors in birth. The Dwarf, however, was really quite irresistible, and even at the Spanish Court, always noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible, so fantastic a little monster had never been seen. It was his first appearance, too. He had been discovered only the day before, running wild through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have been hunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town, and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a surprise for the Infanta, his father, who was a poor charcoal-burner, being but too well pleased to get rid of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most amusing thing about him was his complete unconsciousness of his own grotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed quite happy and full of the highest spirits. When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as joyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance he made them each the funniest of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was really one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature, in some humorous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at. As for the Infanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not keep his eyes off her, and seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close of the performance, remembering how she had seen the great ladies of the Court throw bouquets to Caffarelli the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope had sent from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King's melancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the beautiful white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the Camerera, threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he took the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower to his rough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and sank on one knee before her, grinning from ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes sparkling with pleasure. This so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on laughing long after the little Dwarf had run out of the arena, and expressed a desire to her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it would be better that her Highness should return without delay to the Palace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared for her, including a real birthday cake with her own initials worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely silver flag waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly rose up with much dignity, and having given orders that the little dwarf was to dance again for her after the hour of siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for his charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the children following in the same order in which they had entered. Now when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a second time before the Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud that he ran out into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of pleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight. The Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude into their beautiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the walks, and waving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could not restrain their feelings any longer. "He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in any place where we are," cried the Tulips. "He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand years," said the great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry. "He is a perfect horror!" screamed the Cactus. "Why, he is twisted and stumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs. Really he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will sting him with my thorns." "And he has actually got one of my best blooms," exclaimed the White Rose-Tree. "I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday present, and he has stolen it from her." And she called out: "Thief, thief, thief!" at the top of her voice. Even the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves airs, and were known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up in disgust when they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that though he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they retorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and that there was no reason why one should admire a person because he was incurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf was almost ostentatious, and that he would have shown much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least pensive, instead of jumping about merrily, and throwing himself into such grotesque and silly attitudes. As for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable individual, and had once told the time of day to no less a person than the Emperor Charles V. himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarfs appearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long shadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white Peacock, who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that everyone knew that the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children of charcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it was absurd to pretend that it wasn't so; a statement with which the Peacock entirely agreed, and indeed screamed out, "Certainly, certainly," in such a loud, harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out of the water, and asked the huge stone Tritons what on earth was the matter. But somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in the forest, dancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the hollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself, who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned down to listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides, he had been kind to them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to look for food, he had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs out of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them whatever poor breakfast he had. So they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek with their wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him because she loved him. They did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier. The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they could. "Every one cannot be as beautiful as a lizard," they cried; "that would be too much to expect. And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him." The Lizards were extremely philosophical by nature, and often sat thinking for hours and hours together, when there was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too rainy for them to go out. The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour, and at the behaviour of the birds. "It only shows," they said, "what a vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has. Well-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do. No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the grass after dragon-flies. When we do want change of air, we send for the gardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is dignified, and as it should be. But birds and lizards have no sense of repose, and indeed birds have not even a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like the gipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same manner." So they put their noses in the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted when after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the grass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace. "He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural life," they said. "Look at his hunched back, and his crooked legs," and they began to titter. But the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds and the lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the most marvellous things in the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but then she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she loved him, and that made a great difference. How he wished that he had gone back with her! She would have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him, and he would have never left her side, but would have made her his playmate, and taught her all kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been in a palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could make little cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in, and fashion the long-jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew the cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the tree-top, or the heron from the mere. He knew the trail of every animal, and could track the hare by its delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled leaves. All the wind-dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with the autumn, the light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with white snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards in spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and once when a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up the young ones himself, and had built a little dovecot for them in the cleft of a pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed out of his hands every morning. She would like them, and the rabbits that scurried about in the long fern, and the jays with their steely feathers and black bills, and the hedge-hogs that could curl themselves up into prickly balls, and the great wise tortoises that crawled slowly about, shaking their heads and nibbling at the young leaves. Yes, she must certainly come to the forest and play with him. He would give her his own little bed, and would watch outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild horned cattle did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the hut. And at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they would go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a bit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white mule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their green velvet caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the falconers passed by, with hooded hawks on their wrists. At vintage time came the grape-treaders, with purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying dripping skins of wine; and the charcoal-burners sat round their huge braziers at night, watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves and made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful procession winding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks went in front singing sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of gold, and then, in silver armour, with match-locks and pikes, came the soldiers, and in their midst walked three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses painted all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in their hands. Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest, and when she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or carry her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was not tall. He would make her a necklace of red byrony berries, that would be quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her dress, and when she was tired of them, she could throw them away, and he would find her others. He would bring her acorn-cups and dew-drenched anemones, and tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair. But where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no answer. The whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the glare. He wandered all round looking for some place through which he might gain an entrance, and at last he caught sight of a little private door that was lying open. He slipped through, and found himself in a splendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was so much more gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great coloured stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues that looked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and strangely smiling lips. At the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black velvet, powdered with suns and stars, the King's favourite devices, and broidered on the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind that? He would try at any rate. So he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only another room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he had just left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras of needle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some Flemish artists who had spent more than seven years in its composition. It had once been the chamber of Jean _le_ Fou, as he was called, that mad King who was so enamoured of the chase, that he had often tried in his delirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to drag down the stag on which the great hounds were leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and stabbing with his dagger at the pale flying deer. It was now used as the council-room, and on the centre table were lying the red portfolios of the ministers, stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms and emblems of the house of Hapsburg. The little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half-afraid to go on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so swiftly through the long glades without making any noise, seemed to him like those terrible phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-bumers speaking—the Comprachos, who hunt only at night, and if they meet a man, turn him into a hind, and chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and took courage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell her that he too loved her. Perhaps she was in the room beyond. He ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No! She was not here either. The room was quite empty. It was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when the King, which of late had not been often, consented to give them a personal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had appeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their Queen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor's eldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt chandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the black and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls, stood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded with silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On the second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that again, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal Nuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King's presence on the occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal's hat, with its tangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple _tabouret_ in front. On the wall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in hunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip 11. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the other wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with plates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein's Dance of Death had been graved—by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself. But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would not have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white petal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see the Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away with him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air was close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the sunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside. There were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the flowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths in early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and grassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the gnarled roots of the oaktrees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and irises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the fox-gloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells. The chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid moons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her! She would come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would dance for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought, and he passed into the next room. Of all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The walls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with birds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in front of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with parrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed to stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under the shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a little figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure moved out also, and he saw it plainly. The Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had ever beheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but hunchbacked, and crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair. The little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned also. He laughed, and it laughed with him, and held its hands to its sides, just as he himself was doing. He made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low reverence. He went towards it, and it came to meet him, copying each step that he made, and stopping when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement, and ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster touched his, and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his hand across, and the monster's hand followed it quickly. He tried to press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of the monster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror. He brushed his hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at it, and it returned blow for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at him. He drew back, and it retreated. What is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest of the room. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its double in this invisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was repeated, and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that lay in the alcove by the doorway had its twin brother that slumbered, and the silver Venus that stood in the sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself. Was it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had answered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the voice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world? Could the shadows of things have colour and life and movement? Could it be that—? He started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he turned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own, petal for petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its heart with horrible gestures. When the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and fell sobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked, foul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster, and it was at him that all the children had been laughing, and the little Princess who he had thought loved him—she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness, and making merry over his twisted limbs. Why had they not left him in the forest, where there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was? Why had his father not killed him, rather than sell him to his shame? The hot tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to pieces. The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint petals in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at it, it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he should see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled, like some wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning. And at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions through the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands, in the most fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into shouts of happy laughter, and stood all round him and watched him. "His dancing was funny," said the Infanta; "but his acting is funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of course not quite so natural." And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded. But the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his side. And then he fell back again, and lay quite still. "That is capital," said the Infanta, after a pause; "but now you must dance for me." "Yes," cried all the children, "you must get up and dance, for you are as clever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous." But the little Dwarf made no answer. And the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who was walking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some despatches that had just arrived from Mexico where the Holy Office had recently been established. "My funny little dwarf is sulking," she cried, "you must wake him up, and tell him to dance for me." They smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped down, and slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered glove. "You must dance," he said, _"petit_ monstre. You must dance. The Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to be amused." But the little Dwarf never moved. "A whipping master should be sent for," said Don Pedro wearily, and he went back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt beside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And after a few moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and having made a low bow to the Infanta, he said: _"Mi bella Princesa,_ your funny little dwarf will never dance again. It is a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King smile." "But why will he not dance again?" asked the Infanta, laughing. "Because his heart is broken," answered the Chamberlain. And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty disdain. "For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts," she cried, and she ran out into the garden. THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL TO H.S.H. ALICE, PRINCESS OF MONACO EVERY evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and threw his nets into the water. When the wind blew from the land he caught nothing, or but little at best, for it was a bitter and black-winged wind, and rough waves rose up to meet it. But when the wind blew to the shore, the fish came in from the deep, and swam into the meshes of his nets, and he took them to the marketplace and sold them. Every evening he went out upon the sea, and one evening the net was so heavy that hardly could he draw it into the boat. And he laughed, and said to himself, "Surely I have caught all the fish that swim, or snared some dull monster that will be a marvel to men, or some thing of horror that the great Queen will desire," and putting forth all his strength, he tugged at the coarse ropes till, like lines of blue enamel round a vase of bronze, the long veins rose up on his arms. He tugged at the thin ropes, and nearer and nearer came the circle of flat corks, and the net rose at last to the top of the water. But no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror, but only a little Mermaid lying fast asleep. Her hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a thread of fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white ivory, and her tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was her tail, and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like sea-shells were her ears, and her lips were like sea-coral. The cold waves dashed over her cold breasts, and the salt glistened upon her eyelids. So beautiful was she that when the young Fisherman saw her he was filled with wonder, and he put out his hand and drew the net close to him, and leaning over the side he clasped her in his arms. And when he touched her, she gave a cry like a startled sea-gull and woke, and looked at him in terror with her mauve-amethyst eyes, and struggled that she might escape. But he held her tightly to him, and would not suffer her to depart. And when she saw that she could in no way escape from him, she began to weep, and said, "I pray thee let me go, for I am the only daughter of a King, and my father is aged and alone." But the young Fisherman answered, "I will not let thee go save thou makest me a promise that whenever I call thee, thou wilt come and sing to me, for the fish delight to listen to the song of the Sea-folk, and so shall my nets be full." "Wilt thou in very truth let me go, if I promise thee this?" cried the Mermaid. "In very truth I will let thee go," said the young Fisherman. So she made him the promise he desired, and sware it by the oath of the Sea-folk. And he loosened his arms from about her, and she sank down into the water, trembling with a strange fear. Every evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and called to the Mermaid, and she rose out of the water and sang to him. Round and round her swam the dolphins, and the wild gulls wheeled above her head. And she sang a marvellous song. For she sang of the Sea-folk who drive their flocks from cave to cave, and carry the little calves on their shoulders; of the Tritons who have long green beards, and hairy breasts, and blow through twisted conchs when the King passes by; of the palace of the King which is all of amber, with a roof of clear emerald, and a pavement of bright pearl; and of the gardens of the sea where the great filigrane fans of coral wave all day long, and the fish dart about like silver birds, and the anemones cling to the rocks, and the pinks bourgeon in the ribbed yellow sand. She sang of the big whales that come down from the north seas and have sharp icicles hanging to their fins; of the Sirens who tell of such wonderful things that the merchants have to stop their ears-with wax lest they should hear them, and leap into the water and be drowned; of the sunken galleys with their tall masts, and the frozen sailors clinging to the rigging, and the mackerel swimming in and out of the open portholes; of the little barnacles who are great travellers, and cling to the keels of the ships and go round and round the world; and of the cuttle-fish who live in the sides of the cliffs and stretch out their long black arms, and can make night come when they will it. She sang of the nautilus who has a boat of her own that is carved out of an opal and steered with a silken sail; of the happy Mermen who play upon harps and can charm the great Kraken to sleep; of the little children who catch hold of the slippery porpoises and ride laughing upon their backs; of the Mermaids who lie in the white foam and hold out their arms to the mariners; and of the sea-lions with their curved tusks, and the sea-horses with their floating manes. And as she sang, all the tunny-fish came in from the deep to listen to her, and the young Fisherman threw his nets round them and caught them, and others he took with a spear. And when his boat was well-laden, the Mermaid would sink down into the sea, smiling at him. Yet would she never come near him that he might touch her. Oftentimes he called to her and prayed of her, but she would not; and when he sought to seize her she dived into the water as a seal might dive, nor did he see her again that day. And each day the sound of her voice became sweeter to his ears. So sweet was her voice that he forgot his nets and his cunning, and had no care of his craft. Vermilion-finned and with eyes of bossy gold, the tunnies went by in shoals, but he heeded them not. His spear lay by his side unused, and his baskets of plaited osier were empty. With lips parted, and eyes dim with wonder, he sat idle in his boat and listened, listening till the sea-mists crept round him, and the wandering moon stained his brown limbs with silver. And one evening he called to her, and said: "Little Mermaid, little Mermaid, I love thee. Take me for thy bridegroom, for I love thee." But the Mermaid shook her head. "Thou hast a human soul," she answered. "If only thou would'st send away thy soul, then could I love thee." And the young Fisherman said to himself, "Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it. Surely I will send it away from me, and much gladness shall be mine." And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and standing up in the painted boat, he held out his arms to the Mermaid. "I will send my soul away," he cried, "and you shall be my bride, and I will be thy bridegroom, and in the depth of the sea we will dwell together, and all that thou hast sung of thou shalt show me, and all that thou desirest I will do, nor shall our lives be divided." And the little Mermaid laughed for pleasure, and hid her face in her hands. "But how shall I send my soul from me?" cried the young Fisherman. "Tell me how I may do it, and lo! it shall be done." "Alas! I know not," said the little Mermaid: "the Sea-folk have no souls." And she sank down into the deep, looking wistfully at him. Now early on the next morning, before the sun was the span of a man's hand above the hill, the young Fisherman went to the house of the Priest and knocked three times at the door. The novice looked out through the wicket, and when he saw who it was, he drew back the latch and said to him, "Enter." And the young Fisherman passed in, and knelt down on the sweet-smelling rushes of the floor, and cried to the Priest who was reading out of the Holy Book and said to him, "Father, I am in love with one of the Sea-folk, and my soul hindereth me from having my desire. Tell me how I can send my soul away from me, for in truth I have no need of it. Of what value is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it." And the Priest beat his breast, and answered, "Alack, Alack, thou art mad, or hast eaten of some poisonous herb, for the soul is the noblest part of man, and was given to us by God that we should nobly use it. There is no thing more precious than a human soul, nor any earthly thing that can be weighed with it. It is worth all the gold that is in the world, and is more precious than the rubies of the kings. Therefore, my son, think not any more of this matter, for it is a sin that may not be forgiven. And as for the Sea-folk, they are lost, and they who would traffic with them are lost also. They are as the beasts of the field that know not good from evil, and for them the Lord has not died." The young Fisherman's eyes filled with tears when he heard the bitter words of the Priest, and he rose up from his knees and said to him, "Father, the Fauns live in the forest and are glad, and on the rocks sit the Mermen with their harps of red gold. Let me be as they are, I beseech thee, for their days are as the days of flowers. And as for my soul, what doth my soul profit me, if it stand between me and the thing that I love?" "The love of the body is vile," cried the Priest, knitting his brows, "and vile and evil are the pagan things God suffers to wander through His world. Accursed be the Fauns of the woodland, and accursed be the singers of the sea! I have heard them at night-time, and they have sought to lure me from my beads. They tap at the window, and laugh. They whisper into my ears the tale of their perilous joys. They tempt me with temptations, and when I would pray they make mouths at me. They are lost, I tell thee, they are lost. For them there is no heaven nor hell, and in neither shall they praise God's name." "Father," cried the young Fisherman, "thou knowest not what thou sayest. Once in my net I snared the daughter of a King. She is fairer than the morning star, and whiter than the moon. For her body I would give my soul, and for her love I would surrender heaven. Tell me what I ask of thee, and let me go in peace." "Away! Away!" cried the Priest: "thy leman is lost, and thou shalt be lost with her." And he gave him no blessing, but drove him from his door. And the young Fisherman went down into the market- place, and he walked slowly, and with bowed head, as one who is in sorrow. And when the merchants saw him coming, they began to whisper to each other, and one of them came forth to meet him, and called him by name, and said to him, "What hast thou to sell?" "I will sell thee my soul," he answered: "I pray thee buy it off me, for I am weary of it. Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it." But the merchants mocked at him, and said, "Of what use is a man's soul to us? It is not worth a clipped piece of silver. Sell us thy body for a slave, and we will clothe thee in sea-purple, and put a ring upon thy finger, and make thee the minion of the great Queen. But talk not of the soul, for to us it is nought, nor has it any value for our service." And the young Fisherman said to himself: "How strange a thing this is! The priest telleth me that the soul is worth all the gold in the world, and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver." And he passed out of the market-place, and went down to the shore of the sea, and began to ponder on what he should do. And at noon he remembered how one of his companions, who was a gatherer of samphire, had told him of a certain young Witch who dwelt in a cave at the head of the bay and was very cunning in her witcheries. And he set to and ran, so eager was he to get rid of his soul, and a cloud of dust followed him as he sped round the sand of the shore. By the itching of her palm the young Witch knew his coming, and she laughed and let down her red hair. With her red hair falling around her, she stood at the opening of the cave, and in her hand she had a spray of wild hemlock that was blossoming. "What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack?" she cried, as he came panting up the steep, and bent down before her. "Fish for thy net, when the wind is foul? I have a little reed-pipe, and when I blow on it the mullet come sailing into the bay. But it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? A storm to wreck the ships, and wash the chests of rich treasure ashore? I have more storms than the wind has, for I serve one who is stronger than the wind, and with a sieve and a pail of water I can send the great galleys to the bottom of the sea. But I have a price, pretty boy, I have a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? I know a flower that grows in the valley, none knows it but I. It has purple leaves, and a star in its heart, and its juice is as white as milk. Should'st thou touch with this flower the hard lips of the Queen, she would follow thee all over the world. Out of the bed of the King she would rise, and over the whole world she would follow thee. And it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? I can pound a toad in a mortar, and make broth of it, and stir the broth with a dead man's hand. Sprinkle it on thine enemy while he sleeps, and he will turn into a black viper, and his own mother will slay him. With a wheel I can draw the Moon from heaven, and in a crystal I can show thee Death. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? Tell me thy desire, and I will give it thee, and thou shalt pay me a price, pretty boy, thou shalt pay me a price." "My desire is but for a little thing," said the young Fisherman, "yet hath the priest been wroth with me, and driven me forth. It is but for a little thing, and the merchants have mocked at me, and denied me. Therefore am I come to thee, though men call thee evil, and whatever be thy price I shall pay it." "What would'st thou?" asked the Witch, coming near to him. "I would send my soul away from me," answered the young Fisherman. The Witch grew pale, and shuddered, and hid her face in her blue mantle. "Pretty boy, pretty boy," she muttered, "that is a terrible thing to do." He tossed his brown curls and laughed. "My soul is nought to me," he answered. "I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it." "What wilt thou give me if I tell thee?" asked the Witch, looking down at him with her beautiful eyes. "Five pieces of gold," he said, "and my nets, and the wattled house where I live, and the painted boat in which I sail. Only tell me how to get rid of my soul, and I will give thee all that I possess." She laughed mockingly at him, and struck him with the spray of hemlock. "I can turn the autumn leaves into gold," she answered, "and I can weave the pale moonbeams into silver if I will it. He whom I serve is richer than all the kings of this world and has their dominions." "What then shall I give thee," he cried, "if thy price be neither gold nor silver?" The Witch stroked his hair with her thin white hand. "Thou must dance with me, pretty boy," she murmured, and she smiled at him as she spoke. "Nought but that?" cried the young Fisherman in wonder, and he rose to his feet. "Nought but that," she answered, and she smiled at him again. "Then at sunset in some secret place we shall dance together," he said, "and after that we have danced thou shalt tell me the thing which I desire to know." She shook her head. "When the moon is full, when the moon is full," she muttered. Then she peered all round, and listened. A blue bird rose screaming from its nest and circled over the dunes, and three spotted birds rustled through the coarse grey grass and whistled to each other. There was no other sound save the sound of a wave fretting the smooth pebbles below. So she reached out her hand, and drew him near to her and put her dry lips close to his ear. "To-night thou must come to the top of the mountain," she whispered. "It is a Sabbath, and He will be there." The young Fisherman started and looked at her, and she showed her white teeth and laughed. "Who is He of whom thou speakest?" he asked. "It matters not," she answered. "Go thou to-night, and stand under the branches of the hornbeam, and wait for my coming. If a black dog run towards thee, strike it with a rod of willow, and it will go away. If an owl speak to thee, make it no answer. When the moon is full I shall be with thee, and we will dance together on the grass." "But wilt thou swear to me to tell me how I may send my soul from me?" he made question. She moved out into the sunlight, and through her red hair rippled the wind. "By the hoofs of the goat I swear it," she made answer. "Thou art the best of the witches," cried the young Fisherman, "and I will surely dance with thee to-night on the top of the mountain. I would indeed that thou hadst asked of me either gold or silver. But such as thy price is thou shalt have it, for it is but a little thing." And he doffed his cap to her, and bent his head low, and ran back to the town filled with a great joy. And the Witch watched him as he went, and when he had passed from her sight she entered her cave, and having taken a mirror from a box of carved cedarwood, she set it up on a frame, and burned vervain on lighted charcoal before it, and peered through the coils of the smoke. And after a time she clenched her hands in anger. "He should have been mine," she muttered, "I am as fair as she is." And that evening, when the moon had risen, the young Fisherman climbed up to the top of the mountain, and stood under the branches of the hornbeam. Like a targe of polished metal the round sea lay at his feet, and the shadows of the fishing boats moved in the little bay. A great owl, with yellow sulphurous eyes, called to him by his name, but he made it no answer. A black dog ran towards him and snarled. He struck it with a rod of willow, and it went away whining. At midnight the witches came flying through the air like bats. "Phew!" they cried, as they lit upon the ground, "there is someone here we know not!" and they sniffed about, and chattered to each other, and made signs. Last of all came the young Witch, with her red hair streaming in the wind. She wore a dress of gold tissue embroidered with peacocks' eyes, and a little cap of green velvet was on her head. "Where is he, where is he?" shrieked the witches when they saw her, but she only laughed, and ran to the hornbeam, and taking the Fisherman by the hand she led him out into the moonlight and began to dance. Round and round they whirled, and the young Witch jumped so high that he could see the scarlet heels of her shoes. Then right across the dancers came the sound of the galloping of a horse, but no horse was to be seen, and he felt afraid. "Faster," cried the Witch, and she threw her arms about his neck, and her breath was hot upon his face. "Faster, faster!" she cried, and the earth seemed to spin beneath his feet, and his brain grew troubled, and a great terror fell on him, as of some evil thing that was watching him, and at last he became aware that under the shadow of a rock there was a figure that had not been there before. It was a man dressed in a suit of black velvet, cut in the Spanish fashion. His face was strangely pale, but his lips were like a proud red flower. He seemed weary, and was leaning back toying in a listless manner with the pommel of his dagger. On the grass beside him lay a plumed hat, and a pair of riding gloves gauntleted with gilt lace, and sewn with seed-pearls wrought into a curious device. A short cloak lined with sables hung from his shoulder, and his delicate white hands were gemmed with rings. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes. The young Fisherman watched him, as one snared in a spell. At last their eyes met, and wherever he danced it seemed to him that the eyes of the man were upon him. He heard the Witch laugh, and caught her by the waist, and whirled her madly round and round. Suddenly a dog bayed in the wood, and the dancers stopped, and going up two by two, knelt down, and kissed the man's hands. As they did so, a little smile touched his proud lips, as a bird's wing touches the water and makes it laugh. But there was disdain in it. He kept looking at the young fisherman. "Come! let us worship," whispered the Witch, and she led him up, and a great desire to do as she besought him seized on him, and he followed her. But when he came close, and without knowing why he did it, he made on his breast the sign of the Cross, and called upon the holy name. No sooner had he done so than the witches screamed like hawks and flew away, and the pallid face that had been watching him twitched with a spasm of pain. The man went over to a little wood, and whistled. A jennet with silver trappings came running to meet him. As he leapt upon the saddle he turned round, and looked at the young Fisherman sadly. And the Witch with the red hair tried to fly away also, but the Fisherman caught her by her wrists, and held her fast. "Loose me," she cried, "and let me go. For thou hast named what should not be named, and shown the sign that may not be looked at." "Nay," he answered, "but I will not let thee go till thou hast told me the secret." "What secret?" said the Witch, wrestling with him like a wild cat, and biting her foam-flecked lips. "Thou knowest," he made answer. Her grass-green eyes grew dim with tears, and she said to the Fisherman, "Ask me anything but that!" He laughed, and held her all the more tightly. And when she saw that she could not free herself, she whispered to him, "Surely I am as fair as the daughters of the sea, and as comely as those that dwell in the blue waters," and she fawned on him and put her face close to his. But he thrust her back frowning, and said to her, "If thou keepest not the promise that thou madest to me I will slay thee for a false witch." She grew grey as a blossom of the Judas tree, and shuddered. "Be it so," she muttered. "It is thy soul and not mine. Do with it as thou wilt." And she took from her girdle a little knife that had a handle of green viper's skin, and gave it to him. "What shall this serve me?" he asked of her wondering. She was silent for a few moments, and a look of terror came over her face. Then she brushed her hair back from her forehead, and smiling strangely she said to him, "What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul. Stand on the sea-shore with thy back to the moon, and cut away from around thy feet thy shadow, which is thy soul's body, and bid thy soul leave thee, and it will do so." The young Fisherman trembled. "Is this true?" he murmured. "It is true, and I would that I had not told thee of it," she cried, and she clung to his knees weeping. He put her from him and left her in the rank grass, and going to the edge of the mountain he placed the knife in his belt, and began to climb down. And his Soul that was within him called out to him and said, "Lo! I have dwelt with thee for all these years, and have been thy servant. Send me not away from thee now, for what evil have I done thee?" And the young Fisherman laughed. "Thou hast done me no evil, but I have no need of thee," he answered. "The world is wide, and there is Heaven also, and Hell, and that dim twilight house that lies between. Go wherever thou wilt, but trouble me not, for my love is calling to me." And his Soul besought him piteously, but he heeded it not, but leapt from crag to crag, being sure-footed as a wild goat, and at last he reached the level ground and the yellow shore of the sea. Bronze-limbed and well-knit, like a statue wrought by a Grecian, he stood on the sand with his back to the moon, and out of the foam came white arms that beckoned to him, and out of the waves rose dim forms that did him homage. Before him lay his shadow, which was the body of his soul, and behind him hung the moon in the honey-coloured air. And his Soul said to him, "If indeed thou must drive me from thee, send me not forth without a heart. The world is cruel, give me thy heart to take with me." He tossed his head and smiled. "With what should I love my love if I gave thee my heart?" he cried. "Nay, but be merciful," said his Soul: "give me thy heart, for the world is very cruel, and I am afraid." "My heart is my love's," he answered, "therefore tarry not, but get thee gone." "Should I not love also?" asked his Soul. "Get thee gone, for I have no need of thee," cried the young Fisherman, and he took the little knife with its handle of green viper's skin, and cut away his shadow from around his feet, and it rose up and stood before him, and looked at him, and it was even as himself. He crept back, and thrust the knife into his belt, and a feeling of awe came over him. "Get thee gone," he murmured, "and let me see thy face no more." "Nay, but we must meet again," said the Soul. Its voice was low and flute-like, and its lips hardly moved while it spake. "How shall we meet?" cried the young Fisherman. "Thou wilt not follow me into the depths of the sea?" "Once every year I will come to this place, and call to thee," said the Soul. "It may be that thou wilt have need of me." "What need should I have of thee?" cried the young Fisherman, "but be it as thou wilt," and he plunged into the water, and the Tritons blew their horns, and the little Mermaid rose up to meet him, and put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. And the Soul stood on the lonely beach and watched them. And when they had sunk down into the sea, it went weeping away over the marshes. And after a year was over the Soul came down to the shore of the sea and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep, and said, "Why dost thou call to me?" And the Soul answered, "Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I have seen marvellous things." So he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head upon his hand and listened. And the Soul said to him, "When I left thee I turned my face to the East and journeyed. From the East cometh everything that is wise. Six days I journeyed, and on the morning of the seventh day I came to a hill that is in the country of the Tartars. I sat down under the shade of a tamarisk tree to shelter myself from the sun. The land was dry, and burnt up with the heat. The people went to and fro over the plain like flies crawling upon a disk of polished copper. "When it was noon a cloud of red dust rose up from the flat rim of the land. When the Tartars saw it, they strung their painted bows, and having leapt upon their little horses they galloped to meet it. The women fled screaming to the waggons, and hid themselves behind the felt curtains. "At twilight the Tartars returned, but five of them were missing, and of those that came back not a few had been wounded. They harnessed their horses to the waggons and drove hastily away. Three jackals came out of a cave and peered after them. Then they sniffed up the air with their nostrils, and trotted off in the opposite direction. "When the moon rose I saw a camp-fire burning on the plain, and went towards it. A company of merchants were seated round it on carpets. Their camels were picketed behind them, and the negroes who were their servants were pitching tents of tanned skin upon the sand, and making a high wall of the prickly pear. "As I came near them, the chief of the merchants rose up and drew his sword, and asked me my business. "I answered that I was a Prince in my own land, and that I had escaped from the Tartars, who had sought to make me their slave. The chief smiled, and showed me five heads fixed upon long reeds of bamboo. "Then he asked me who was the prophet of God, and I answered him Mohammed. "When he heard the name of the false prophet, he bowed and took me by the hand, and placed me by his side. A negro brought me some mare's milk in a wooden dish, and a piece of lamb's flesh roasted. "At daybreak we started on our journey. I rode on a red-haired camel by the side of the chief, and a runner ran before us carrying a spear. The men of war were on either hand, and the mules followed with the merchandise. There were forty camels in the caravan, and the mules were twice forty in number. "We went from the country of the Tartars into the country of those who curse the Moon. We saw the Gryphons guarding their gold on the white rocks, and the scaled Dragons sleeping in their caves. As we passed over the mountains we held our breath lest the snows might fall on us, and each man tied a veil of gauze before his eyes. As we passed through the valleys the Pygmies shot arrows at us from the hollows of the trees, and at night time we heard the wild men beating on their drums. When we came to the Tower of Apes we set fruits before them, and they did not harm us. When we came to the Tower of Serpents we gave them warm milk in bowls of brass, and they let us go by. Three times in our journey we came to the banks of the Oxus. We crossed it on rafts of wood with great bladders of blown hide. The river-horses raged against us and sought to slay us. When the camels saw them they trembled. "The kings of each city levied tolls on us, but would not suffer us to enter their gates. They threw us bread over the walls, little maize-cakes baked in honey and cakes of fine flour filled with dates. For every hundred baskets we gave them a bead of amber. "When the dwellers in the villages saw us coming, they poisoned the wells and fled to the hill-summits. We fought with the Magadae who are born old, and grow younger and younger every year, and die when they are little children; and with the Laktroi who say that they are the sons of tigers, and paint themselves yellow and black; and with the Aurantes who bury their dead on the tops of trees, and themselves live in dark caverns lest the Sun, who is their god, should slay them; and with the Krimnians who worship a crocodile, and give it earrings of green glass, and feed it with butter and fresh fowls; and with the Agazonbae, who are dog-faced; and with the Sibans, who have horses' feet, and run more swiftly than horses. A third of our company died in battle, and a third died of want. The rest murmured against me, and said that I had brought them an evil fortune. I took a homed adder from beneath a stone and let it sting me. When they saw that I did not sicken they grew afraid. "In the fourth month we reached the city of Illel. It was night time when we came to the grove that is outside the walls, and the air was sultry, for the Moon was travelling in Scorpion. We took the ripe pomegranates from the trees, and brake them and drank their sweet juices. Then we lay down on our carpets and waited for the dawn. "And at dawn we rose and knocked at the gate of the city. It was wrought out of red bronze, and carved with sea-dragons and dragons that have wings. The guards looked down from the battlements and asked us our business. The interpreter of the caravan answered that we had come from the island of Syria with much merchandise. They took hostages, and told us that they would open the gate to us at noon, and bade us tarry till then. "When it was noon they opened the gate, and as we entered in the people came crowding out of the houses to look at us, and a crier went round the city crying through a shell. We stood in the market-place, and the negroes uncorded the bales of figured cloths and opened the carved chests of sycamore. And when they had ended their task, the merchants set forth their strange wares, the waxed linen from Egypt and the painted linen from the country of the Ethiops, the purple sponges from Tyre and the blue hangings from Sidon, the cups of cold amber and the fine vessels of glass and the curious vessels of burnt clay. From the roof of a house a company of women watched us. One of them wore a mask of gilded leather. "And on the first day the priests came and bartered with us, and on the second day came the nobles, and on the third day came the craftsmen and the slaves. And this is their custom with all merchants as long as they tarry in the city. "And we tarried for a moon, and when the moon was waning, I wearied and wandered away through the streets of the city and came to the garden of its god. The priests in their yellow robes moved silently through the green trees, and on a pavement of black marble stood the rose-red house in which the god had his dwelling. Its doors were of powdered lacquer, and bulls and peacocks were wrought on them in raised and polished gold. The tiled roof was of sea-green porcelain, and the jutting eaves were festooned with little bells. When the white doves flew past, they struck the bells with their wings and made them tinkle. "In front of the temple was a pool of clear water paved with veined onyx. I lay down beside it, and with my pale fingers I touched the broad leaves. One of the priests came towards me and stood behind me. He had sandals on his feet, one of soft serpent-skin and the other of birds' plumage. On his head was a mitre of black felt decorated with silver crescents. Seven yellows were woven into his robe, and his frizzed hair was stained with antimony. "After a little while he spake to me, and asked me my desire. "I told him that my desire was to see the god. " 'The god is hunting,' said the priest, looking strangely at me with his small slanting eyes. " 'Tell me in what forest, and I will ride with him,' I answered. "He combed out the soft fringes of his tunic with his long pointed nails. 'The god is asleep,' he murmured. " 'Tell me on what couch, and I will watch by him,' I answered. " 'The God is at the feast,' he cried. " 'If the wine be sweet I will drink it with him, and if it be bitter I will drink it with him also,' was my answer. "He bowed his head in wonder, and, taking me by the hand, he raised me up, and led me into the temple. "And in the first chamber I saw an idol seated on a throne of jasper bordered with great orient pearls. It was carved out of ebony, and in stature was of the stature of a man. On its forehead was a ruby, and thick oil dripped from its hair on to its thighs. Its feet were red with the blood of a newly-slain kid, and its loins girt with a copper belt that was studded with seven beryls. "And I said to the priest, 'Is this the god?' And he answered me, 'This is the god.' " 'Show me the god,' I cried, 'or I will surely slay thee.' And I touched his hand, and it became withered. "And the priest besought me, saying, 'Let my lord heal his servant, and I will show him the god.' "So I breathed with my breath upon his hand, and it became whole again, and he trembled and led me into the second chamber, and I saw an idol standing on a lotus of jade hung with great emeralds. It was carved out of ivory, and in stature was twice the stature of a man. On its forehead was a chrysolite, and its breasts were smeared with myrrh and cinnamon. In one hand it held a crooked sceptre of jade, and in the other a round crystal. It ware buskins of brass, and its thick neck was circled with a circle of selenites. "And I said to the priest, 'Is this the god?' And he answered me, 'This is the god.' " 'Show me the god,' I cried, 'or I will surely slay thee.' And I touched his eyes, and they became blind. "And the priest besought me, saying, 'Let my lord heal his servant, and I will show him the god. "So I breathed with my breath upon his eyes, and the sight came back to them, and he trembled again, and led me into the third chamber, and lo! there was no idol in it, nor image of any kind, but only a mirror of round metal set on an altar of stone. "And I said to the priest, 'Where is the god?' "And he answered me: 'There is no god but this mirror that thou seest, for this is the Mirror of Wisdom. And it reflecteth all things that are in heaven and on earth, save only the face of him who looketh into it. This it reflecteth not, so that he who looketh into it may be wise. Many other mirrors are there, but they are mirrors of Opinion. This only is the Mirror of Wisdom. And they who possess this mirror know everything, nor is there anything hidden from them. And they who possess it not have not Wisdom. Therefore is it the god, and we worship it.' And I looked into the mirror, and it was even as he had said to me. "And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a valley that is but a day's journey from this place have I hidden the Mirror of Wisdom. Do but suffer me to enter into thee again and be thy servant, and thou shalt be wiser than all the wise men, and Wisdom shall be thine. Suffer me to enter into thee, and none will be as wise as thou." But the young Fisherman laughed. "Love is better than Wisdom," he cried, "and the little Mermaid loves me." "Nay, but there is nothing better than Wisdom," said the Soul. "Love is better," answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the deep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes. And after the second year was over the Soul came down to the shore of the sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep and said, "Why dost thou call to me?" And the Soul answered, "Come nearer that I may speak with thee, for I have seen marvellous things." So he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head upon his hand and listened. And the Soul said to him, "When I left thee, I turned my face to the South and journeyed. From the South cometh everything that is precious. Six days I journeyed along the highways that lead to the city of Ashter, along the dusty red-dyed highways by which the pilgrims are wont to go did I journey, and on the morning of the seventh day I lifted up my eyes, and lo! the city lay at my feet, for it is in a valley. "There are nine gates to this city, and in front of each gate stands a bronze horse that neighs when the Bedouins come down from the mountains. The walls are cased with copper, and the watch-towers on the walls are roofed with brass. In every tower stands an archer with a bow in his hand. At sunrise he strikes with an arrow on a gong, and at sunset he blows through a horn of horn. "When I sought to enter, the guards stopped me and asked of me who I was. I made answer that I was a Dervish and on my way to the city of Mecca, where there was a green veil on which the Koran was embroidered in silver letters by the hands of the angels. They were filled with wonder, and entreated me to pass in. "Inside it is even as a bazaar. Surely thou should'st have been with me. Across the narrow streets the gay lanterns of paper flutter like large butterflies. When the wind blows over the roofs they rise and fall as painted bubbles do. In front of their booths sit the merchants on silken carpets. They have straight black beards, and their turbans are covered with golden sequins, and long strings of amber and carved peach-stones glide through their cool fingers. Some of them sell galbanum and nard, and curious perfumes from the islands of the Indian Sea, and the thick oil of red roses, and myrrh and little nail-shaped cloves. When one stops to speak to them, they throw pinches of frankincense upon a charcoal brazier and make the air sweet. I saw a Syrian who held in his hands a thin rod like a reed. Grey threads of smoke came from it, and its odour as it burned was as the odour of the pink almond in spring. Others sell silver bracelets embossed all over with creamy blue turquoise stones, and anklets of brass wire fringed with little pearls, and tigers' claws set in gold, and the claws of that gilt cat, the leopard, set in gold also, and earrings of pierced emerald, and finger-rings of hollowed jade. From the tea-houses comes the sound of the guitar, and the opium-smokers with their white smiling faces look out at the passers-by. "Of a truth thou should'st have been with me. The wine-sellers elbow their way through the crowd with great black skins on their shoulders. Most of them sell the wine of Schiraz, which is as sweet as honey. They serve it in little metal cups and strew rose leaves upon it. In the market-place stand the fruitsellers, who sell all kinds of fruit: ripe figs, with their bruised purple flesh, melons, smelling of musk and yellow as topazes, citrons and rose-apples and clusters of white grapes, round red-gold oranges, and oval lemons of green gold. Once I saw an elephant go by. Its trunk was painted with vermilion and turmeric, and over its ears it had a net of crimson silk cord. It stopped opposite one of the booths and began eating the oranges, and the man only laughed. Thou canst not think how strange a people they are. When they are glad they go to the bird-sellers and buy of them a caged bird, and set it free that their joy may be greater, and when they are sad they scourge themselves with thorns that their sorrow may not grow less. "One evening I met some negroes carrying a heavy palanquin through the bazaar. It was made of gilded bamboo, and the poles were of vermilion lacquer studded with brass peacocks. Across the windows hung thin curtains of muslin embroidered with beetles' wings and with tiny seed-pearls, and as it passed by a pale-faced Circassian looked out and smiled at me. I followed behind, and the negroes hurried their steps and scowled. But I did not care. I felt a great curiosity come over me. "At last they stopped at a square white house. There were no windows to it, only a little door like the door of a tomb. They set down the palanquin and knocked three times with a copper hammer. An Armenian in a caftan of green leather peered through the wicket, and when he saw them he opened, and spread a carpet on the ground, and the woman stepped out. As she went in, she turned round and smiled at me again. I had never seen anyone so pale. "When the moon rose I returned to the same place and sought for the house, but it was no longer there. When I saw that, I knew who the woman was, and wherefore she had smiled at me. "Certainly thou should'st have been with me. On the feast of the New Moon the young Emperor came forth from his palace and went into the mosque to pray. His hair and beard were dyed with rose-leaves, and his cheeks were powdered with a fine gold dust. The palms of his feet and hands were yellow with saffron. "At sunrise he went forth from his palace in a robe of silver, and at sunset he returned to it again in a robe of gold. The people flung themselves on the ground and hid their faces, but I would not do so. I stood by the stall of a seller of dates and waited. When the Emperor saw me, he raised his painted eyebrows and stopped. I stood quite still, and made him no obeisance. The people marvelled at my boldness, and counselled me to flee from the city. I paid no heed to them, but went and sat with the sellers of strange gods, who by reason of their craft are abominated. When I told them what I had done, each of them gave me a god and prayed me to leave them. "That night, as I lay on a cushion in the teahouse that is in the Street of Pomegranates, the guards of the Emperor entered and led me to the palace. As I went in they closed each door behind me, and put a chain across it. Inside was a great court with an arcade running all round. The walls were of white alabaster, set here and there with blue and green tiles. The pillars were of green marble, and the pavement of a kind of peach-blossom marble. I had never seen anything like it before. "As I passed across the court two veiled women looked down from a balcony and cursed me. The guards hastened on, and the butts of the lances rang upon the polished floor. They opened a gate of wrought ivory, and I found myself in a watered garden of seven terraces. It was planted with tulip-cups and moonflowers, and silver-studded aloes. Like a slim reed of crystal a fountain hung in the dusky air. The cypress-trees were like burnt-out torches. From one of them a nightingale was singing. "At the end of the garden stood a little pavilion. As we approached it two eunuchs came out to meet us. Their fat bodies swayed as they walked, and they glanced curiously at me with their yellow-lidded eyes. One of them drew aside the captain of the guard, and in a low voice whispered to him. The other kept munching scented pastilles, which he took with an affected gesture out of an oval box of lilac enamel. "After a few moments the captain of the guard dismissed the soldiers. They went back to the palace, the eunuchs following slowly behind and plucking the sweet mulberries from the trees as they passed. Once the elder of the two turned round, and smiled at me with an evil smile. "Then the captain of the guard motioned me towards the entrance of the pavilion. I walked on without trembling, and drawing the heavy curtain aside I entered in. "The young Emperor was stretched on a couch of dyed lion skins, and a ger-falcon perched upon his wrist. Behind him stood a brass-turbaned Nubian, naked down to the waist, and with heavy earrings in his split ears. On a table by the side of the couch lay a mighty scimitar of steel. "When the Emperor saw me he frowned, and said to me, 'What is thy name? Knowest thou not that I am Emperor of this city?' But I made him no answer. "He pointed with his finger at the scimitar, and the Nubian seized it, and rushing forward struck at me with great violence. The blade whizzed through me, and did me no hurt. The man fell sprawling on the floor, and, when he rose up, his teeth chattered with terror and he hid himself behind the couch. "The Emperor leapt to his feet, and taking a lance from a stand of arms, he threw it at me. I caught it in its flight, and brake the shaft into two pieces. He shot at me with an arrow, but I held up my hands and it stopped in mid-air. Then he drew a dagger from a belt of white leather, and stabbed the Nubian in the throat lest the slave should tell of his dishonour. The man writhed like a trampled snake, and a red foam bubbled from his lips. "As soon as he was dead the Emperor turned to me, and when he had wiped away the bright sweat from his brow with a little napkin of purfled and purple silk, he said to me, 'Art thou a prophet, that I may not harm thee, or the son of a prophet that I can do thee no hurt? I pray thee leave my city to-night, for while thou art in it I am no longer its lord.' "And I answered him, 'I will go for half of thy treasure. Give me half of thy treasure, and I will go away. " "He took me by the hand, and led me out into the garden. When the captain of the guard saw me, he wondered. When the eunuchs saw me, their knees shook and they fell upon the ground in fear. "There is a chamber in the palace that has eight walls of red porphyry, and a brass-scaled ceiling hung with lamps. The Emperor touched one of the walls and it opened, and we passed down a corridor that was lit with many torches. In niches upon each side stood great wine-jars filled to the brim with silver pieces. When we reached the centre of the corridor the Emperor spake the word that may not be spoken, and a granite door swung back on a secret spring, and he put his hands before his face lest his eyes should be dazzled. "Thou could'st not believe how marvellous a place it was. There were huge tortoise-shells full of pearls, and hollowed moonstones of great size piled up with red rubies. The gold was stored in coffers of elephant-hide, and the gold-dust in leather bottles. There were opals and sapphires, the former in cups of crystal, and the latter in cups of jade. Round green emeralds were ranged in order upon thin plates of ivory, and in one corner were silk bags filled, some with turquoise-stones, and others with beryls. The ivory horns were heaped with purple amethysts, and the horns of brass with chalcedonies and sards. The pillars, which were of cedar, were hung with strings of yellow lynx-stones. In the flat oval shields there were carbuncles, both wine-coloured and coloured like grass. And yet I have told thee but a tithe of what was there. "And when the Emperor had taken away his hands from before his face he said to me: 'This is my house of treasure, and half that is in it is thine, even as I promised to thee. And I will give thee camels and camel drivers, and they shall do thy bidding and take thy share of the treasure to whatever part of the world thou desirest to go. And the thing shall be done to-night, for I would not that the Sun, who is my father, should see that there is in my city a man whom I cannot slay.' "But I answered him, 'The gold that is here is thine, and the silver also is thine, and thine are the precious jewels and the things of price. As for me, I have no need of these. Nor shall I take aught from thee but that little ring that thou wearest on the finger of thy hand.' "And the Emperor frowned. 'It is but a ring of lead,' he cried, 'nor has it any value. Therefore take thy half of the treasure and go from my city.' " 'Nay,' I answered, 'but I will take nought but that leaden ring, for I know what is written within it, and for what purpose.' "And the Emperor trembled, and besought me and said, 'Take all the treasure and go from my city. The half that is mine shall be thine also.' "And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a cave that is but a day's journey from this place have I hidden the Ring of Riches. It is but a day's journey from this place, and it waits for thy coming. He who has this Ring is richer than all the kings of the world. Come therefore and take it, and the world's riches shall be thine." But the young Fisherman laughed. "Love is better than Riches," he cried, "and the little Mermaid loves me." "Nay, but there is nothing better than Riches," said the Soul. "Love is better," answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the deep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes. And after the third year was over, the Soul came down to the shore of the sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep and said, "Why dost thou call to me?" And the Soul answered, "Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I have seen marvellous things." So he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head upon his hand and listened. And the Soul said to him, "In a city that I know of there is an inn that standeth by a river. I sat there with sailors who drank of two different coloured wines, and ate bread made of barley, and little salt fish served in bay leaves with vinegar. And as we sat and made merry, there entered to us an old man bearing a leathern carpet and a lute that had two horns of amber. And when he had laid out the carpet on the floor, he struck with a quill on the wire strings of his lute, and a girl whose face was veiled ran in and began to dance before us. Her face was veiled with a veil of gauze, but her feet were naked. Naked were her feet, and they moved over the carpet like little white pigeons. Never have I seen anything so marvellous, and the city in which she dances is but a day's journey from this place." Now when the young Fisherman heard the words of his Soul, he remembered that the little Mermaid had no feet and could not dance. And a great desire came over him, and he said to himself, "It is but a day's journey, and I can return to my love," and he laughed, and stood up in the shallow water, and strode towards the shore. And when he had reached the dry shore he laughed again, and held out his arms to his Soul. And his Soul gave a great cry of joy and ran to meet him, and entered into him, and the young Fisherman saw stretched before him upon the sand that shadow of the body that is the body of the Soul. And his Soul said to him, "Let us not tarry, but get hence at once, for the Sea-gods are jealous, and have monsters that do their bidding." So they made haste, and all that night they journeyed beneath the moon, and all the next day they journeyed beneath the sun, and on the evening of the day they came to a city. And the young Fisherman said to his Soul, "Is this the city in which she dances of whom thou did'st speak to me?" And his Soul answered him, "It is not this city, but another. Nevertheless let us enter in." So they entered in and passed through the streets, and as they passed through the Street of the Jewellers the young Fisherman saw a fair silver cup set forth in a booth. And his Soul said to him, "Take that silver cup and hide it." So he took the cup and hid it in the fold of his tunic, and they went hurriedly out of the city. And after that they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman frowned, and flung the cup away, and said to his Soul, "Why did'st thou tell me to take this cup and hide it, for it was an evil thing to do?" But his Soul answered him, "Be at peace, be at peace." And on the evening of the second day they came to a city, and the young Fisherman said to his Soul, "Is this the city in which she dances of whom thou did'st speak to me?" And his Soul answered him, "It is not this city, but another. Nevertheless let us enter in." So they entered in and passed through the streets, and as they passed through the Street of the Sellers of Sandals, the young Fisherman saw a child standing by a jar of water. And his Soul said to him, "Smite that child." So he smote the child till it wept, and when he had done this they went hurriedly out of the city. And after that they had gone a league from the city the young Fisherman grew wrath, and said to his Soul, "Why did'st thou tell me to smite the child, for it was an evil thing to do?" But his Soul answered him, "Be at peace, be at peace. " And on the evening of the third day they came to a city, and the young Fisherman said to his Soul, "Is this the city in which she dances of whom thou did'st speak to me?" And his Soul answered him, "It may be that it is this city, therefore let us enter in." So they entered in and passed through the streets, but nowhere could the young Fisherman find the river or the inn that stood by its side. And the people of the city looked curiously at him, and he grew afraid and said to his Soul, "Let us go hence, for she who dances with white feet is not here." But his Soul answered, "Nay, but let us tarry, for the night is dark and there will be robbers on the way." So he sat him down in the market-place and rested, and after a time there went by a hooded merchant who had a cloak of cloth of Tartary, and bare a lantern of pierced horn at the end of a jointed reed. And the merchant said to him, "Why dost thou sit in the market- place, seeing that the booths are closed and the bales corded?" And the young Fisherman answered him, "I can find no inn in this city, nor have I any kinsman who might give me shelter." "Are we not all kinsmen?" said the merchant. "And did not one God make us? Therefore come with me, for I have a guest-chamber." So the young Fisherman rose up and followed the merchant to his house. And when he had passed through a garden of pomegrantes and entered into the house, the merchant brought him rose-water in a copper dish that he might wash his hands, and ripe melons that he might quench his thirst, and set a bowl of rice and a piece of roasted kid before him. And after that he had finished, the merchant led him to the guest-chamber, and bade him sleep and be at rest. And the young Fisherman gave him thanks, and kissed the ring that was on his hand, and flung himself down on the carpets of dyed goat's-hair. And when he had covered himself with a covering of black lamb's-wool he fell asleep. And three hours before dawn, and while it was still night, his Soul waked him, and said to him, "Rise up and go to the room of the merchant, even to the room in which he sleepeth, and slay him, and take from him his gold, for we have need of it." And the young Fisherman rose up and crept towards the room of the merchant, and over the feet of the merchant there was lying a curved sword, and the tray by the side of the merchant held nine purses of gold. And he reached out his hand and touched the sword, and when he touched it the merchant started and awoke, and leaping up seized himself the sword and cried to the young Fisherman, "Dost thou return evil for good, and pay with the shedding of blood for the kindness that I have shown thee?" And his Soul said to the young Fisherman, "Strike him," and he struck him so that he swooned, and he seized then the nine purses of gold, and fled hastily through the garden of pomegranates, and set his face to the star that is the star of morning. And when they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman beat his breast, and said to his Soul, "Why didst thou bid me slay the merchant and take his gold? Surely thou art evil." But his Soul answered him, "Be at peace, be at peace." "Nay," cried the young Fisherman, "I may not be at peace, for all that thou hast made me to do I hate. Thee also I hate, and I bid thee tell me wherefore thou hast wrought with me in this wise." And his Soul answered him, "When thou didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart, so I learned to do all these things and love them." "What sayest thou?" murmured the young Fisherman. "Thou knowest," answered his Soul, "thou knowest it well. Hast thou forgotten that thou gavest me no heart? I trow not. And so trouble not thyself nor me, but be at peace, for there is no pain that thou shalt not give away, nor any pleasure that thou shalt not receive." And when the young Fisherman heard these words he trembled and said to his Soul, "Nay, but thou art evil, and hast made me forget my love, and hast tempted me with temptations, and hast set my feet in the ways of sin." And his Soul answered him, "Thou hast not forgotten that when thou didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart. Come, let us go to another city, and make merry, for we have nine purses of gold." But the young Fisherman took the nine purses of gold, and flung them down, and trampled on them. "Nay," he cried, "but I will have nought to do with thee, nor will I journey with thee anywhere, but even as I sent thee away before, so will I send thee away now, for thou hast wrought me no good." And he turned his back to the moon, and with the little knife that had the handle of green viper's skin he strove to cut from his feet that shadow of the body which is the body of the Soul. Yet his Soul stirred not from him, nor paid heed to his command, but said to him, "The spell that the Witch told thee avails thee no more, for I may not leave thee, nor mayest thou drive me forth. Once in his life may a man send his Soul away, but he who receiveth back his Soul must keep it with him for ever, and this is his punishment and his reward." And the young Fisherman grew pale and clenched his hands and cried, "She was a false Witch in that she told me not that." "Nay," answered his Soul, "but she was true to Him she worships, and whose servant she will be ever." And when the young Fisherman knew that he could no longer get rid of his Soul, and that it was an evil Soul and would abide with him always, he fell upon the ground weeping bitterly. And when it was day the young Fisherman rose up and said to his Soul, "I will bind my hands that I may not do thy bidding, and close my lips that I may not speak thy words, and I will return to the place where she whom I love has her dwelling. Even to the sea will I return, and to the little bay where she is wont to sing, and I will call to her and tell her the evil I have done and the evil thou hast wrought on me." And his Soul tempted him and said, "Who is thy love that thou should'st return to her? The world has many fairer than she is. There are the dancing-girls of Samaris who dance in the manner of all kinds of birds and beasts. Their feet are painted with henna, and in their hands they have little copper bells. They laugh while they dance, and their laughter is as clear as the laughter of water. Come with me and I will show them to thee. For what is this trouble of thine about the things of sin? Is that which is pleasant to eat not made for the eater? Is there poison in that which is sweet to drink? Trouble not thyself, but come with me to another city. There is a little city hard by in which there is a garden of tulip-trees. And there dwell in this comely garden white peacocks and peacocks that have blue breasts. Their tails when they spread them to the sun are like disks of ivory and like gilt disks. And she who feeds them dances for their pleasure, and sometimes she dances on her hands and at other times she dances with her feet. Her eyes are coloured with stibium, and her nostrils are shaped like the wings of a swallow. From a hook in one of her nostrils hangs a flower that is carved out of a pearl. She laughs while she dances, and the silver rings that are about her ankles tinkle like bells of silver. And so trouble not thyself any more, but come with me to this city." But the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but closed his lips with the seal of silence and with a tight cord bound his hands, and journeyed back to the place from which he had come, even to the little bay where his love had been wont to sing. And ever did his Soul tempt him by the way, but he made it no answer, nor would he do any of the wickedness that it sought to make him to do, so great was the power of the love that was within him. And when he had reached the shore of the sea, he loosed the cord from his hands, and took the seal of silence from his lips, and called to the little Mermaid. But she came not to his call, though he called to her all day long and besought her. And his Soul mocked him and said, "Surely thou hast but little joy out of thy love. Thou art as one who in time of dearth pours water into a broken vessel. Thou givest away what thou hast, and nought is given to thee in return. It were better for thee to come with me, for I know where the Valley of Pleasure lies, and what things are wrought there." But the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but in a cleft of the rock he built himself a house of wattles, and abode there for the space of a year. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did she rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place of the sea could he find her, though he sought for her in the caves and in the green water, in the pools of the tide and in the wells that are at the bottom of the deep. And ever did his Soul tempt him with evil, and whisper of terrible things. Yet did it not prevail against him, so great was the power of his love. And after the year was over, the Soul thought within himself, "I have tempted my master with evil, and his love is stronger than I am. I will tempt him now with good, and it may be that he, will come with me." So he spake to the young Fisherman and said, "I have told thee of the joy of the world, and thou hast turned a deaf ear to me. Suffer me now to tell thee of the world's pain, and it may be that thou wilt hearken. For of a truth, pain is the Lord of this world, nor is there anyone who escapes from its net. There be some who lack raiment, and others who lack bread. There be widows who sit in purple, and widows who sit in rags. To and fro over the fens go the lepers, and they are cruel to each other. The beggars go up and down on the highways, and their wallets are empty. Through the streets of the cities walks Famine, and the Plague sits at their gates. Come, let us go forth and mend these things, and make them not to be. Wherefore should'st thou tarry here calling to thy love, seeing she comes not to thy call? And what is love, that thou should'st set this high store upon it?" But the young Fisherman answered it nought, so great was the power of his love. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did she rise out of the sea to meet him, not in any place of the sea could he find her, though he sought for her in the rivers of the sea, and in the valleys that are under the waves, in the sea that the night makes purple, and in the sea that the dawn leaves grey. And after the second year was over, the Soul said to the young Fisherman at night-time, and as he sat in the wattled house alone, "Lo! now I have tempted thee with evil, and I have tempted thee with good, and thy love is stronger than I am. Wherefore will I tempt thee no longer, but I pray thee to suffer me to enter thy heart, that I may be one with thee even as before." "Surely thou mayest enter," said the young Fisherman, "for in the days when with no heart thou didst go through the world thou must have much suffered." "Alas!" cried his Soul, "I can find no place of entrance, so compassed about with love is this heart of thine." "Yet I would that I could help thee," said the young Fisherman. And as he spake there came a great cry of mourning from the sea, even the cry that men hear when one of the Sea-folk is dead. And the young Fisherman leapt up, and left his wattled house, and ran down to the shore. And the black waves came hurrying to the shore, bearing with them a burden that was whiter than silver. White as the surf it was, and like a flower it tossed on the waves. And the surf took it from the waves, and the foam took it from the surf, and the shore received it, and lying at his feet the young Fisherman saw the body of the little Mermaid. Dead at his feet it was lying. Weeping as one smitten with pain he flung himself down beside it, and he kissed the cold red of the mouth, and toyed with the wet amber of the hair. He flung himself down beside it on the sand, weeping as one trembling with joy, and in his brown arms he held it to his breast. Cold were the lips, yet he kissed them. Salt was the honey of the hair, yet he tasted it with a bitter joy. He kissed the closed eyelids, and the wild spray that lay upon their cups was less salt than his tears. And to the dead thing he made confession. Into the shells of its ears he poured the harsh wine of his tale. He put the little hands round his neck, and with his fingers he touched the thin reed of the throat. Bitter, bitter was his joy, and full of strange gladness was his pain. The black sea came nearer, and the white foam moaned like a leper. With white claws of foam the sea grabbled at the shore. From the palace of the Sea-King came the cry of mourning again, and far out upon the sea the great Tritons blew hoarsely upon their horns. "Flee away," said his Soul, "for ever doth the sea come nigher, and if thou tarriest it will slay thee. Flee away, for I am afraid, seeing that thy heart is closed against me by reason of the greatness of thy love. Flee away to a place of safety. Surely thou wilt not send me without a heart into another world?" But the young Fisherman listened not to his Soul, but called on the little Mermaid and said, "Love is better than wisdom, and more precious than riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of men. The fires cannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it. I called on thee at dawn, and thou didst not come to my call. The moon heard thy name, yet hadst thou no heed of me. For evilly had I left thee, and to my own hurt had I wandered away. Yet ever did thy love abide with me, and ever was it strong, nor did aught prevail against it, though I have looked upon evil and looked upon good. And now that thou art dead, surely I will die with thee also." And his Soul besought him to depart, but he would not, so great was his love. And the sea came nearer, and sought to cover him with its waves, and when he knew that the end was at hand he kissed with mad lips the cold lips of the Mermaid, and the heart that was within him brake. And as through the fulness of his love his heart did break, the Soul found an entrance and entered in, and was one with him even as before. And the sea covered the young Fisherman with its waves. And in the morning the Priest went forth to bless the sea, for it had been troubled. And with him went the monks and the musicians, and the candle-bearers, and the swingers of censers, and a great company. And when the Priest reached the shore he saw the young Fisherman lying drowned in the surf, and clasped in his arms was the body of the little Mermaid. And he drew back frowning, and having made the sign of the cross, he cried aloud and said, "I will not bless the sea nor anything that is in it. Accursed be the Sea-folk, and accursed be all they who traffic with them. And as for him who for love's sake forsook God, and so lieth here with his leman slain by God's judgment, take up his body and the body of his leman, and bury them in the corner of the Field of the Fullers, and set no mark above them, nor sign of any kind, that none may know the place of their resting. For accursed were they in their lives, and accursed shall they be in their deaths also." And the people did as he commanded them, and in the corner of the Field of the Fullers, where no sweet herbs grew, they dug a deep pit, and laid the dead things within it. And when the third year was over, and on a day that was a holy day, the Priest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people the wounds of the Lord, and speak to them about the wrath of God. And when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and bowed himself before the altar, he saw that the altar was covered with strange flowers that never had he seen before. Strange were they to look at, and of curious beauty, and their beauty troubled him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils. And he felt glad, and understood not why he was glad. And after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the monstrance that was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people, and hid it again behind the veil of veils, he began to speak to the people, desiring to speak to them of the wrath of God. But the beauty of the white flowers troubled him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils, and there came another word into his lips, and he spake not of the wrath of God, but of the God whose name is Love. And why he so spake, he knew not. And when he had finished his word the people wept, and the Priest went back to the sacristy, and his eyes were full of tears. And the deacons came in and began to unrobe him, and took from him the alb and the girdle, the maniple and the stole. And he stood as one in a dream. And after that they had unrobed him, he looked at them and said, "What are the flowers that stand on the altar, and whence do they come?" And they answered him, "What flowers they are we cannot tell, but they come from the corner of the Fullers' Field." And the Priest trembled, and returned to his own house and prayed. And in the morning, while it was still dawn, he went forth with the monks and the musicians, and the candle-bearers and the swingers of censers, and a great company, and came to the shore of the sea, and blessed the sea, and all the wild things that are in it. The Fauns also he blessed, and the little things that dance in the woodland, and the bright-eyed things that peer through the leaves. All the things in God's world he blessed, and the people were filled with joy and wonder. Yet never again in the corner of the Fullers' Field grew flowers of any kind, but the field remained barren even as before. Nor came the Sea-folk into the bay as they had been wont to do, for they went to another part of the sea. THE STAR-CHILD TO MISS MARGOT TENNANT ONCE upon a time two poor Woodcutters were making their way home through a great pine-forest. It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they passed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her. So cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know what to make of it. "Ugh!" snarled the Wolf, as he limped through the brushwood with his tail between his legs, "this is perfectly monstrous weather. Why doesn't the Government look to it?" "Weet! weet! weet!" twittered the green Linnets, "the old Earth is dead, and they have laid her out in her white shroud." "The Earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress," whispered the Turtledoves to each other. Their little pink feet were quite frost-bitten, but they felt that it was their duty to take a romantic view of the situation. "Nonsense!" growled the Wolf. "I tell you that it is all the fault of the Government, and if you don't believe me I shall eat you." The Wolf had a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss for a good argument. "Well, for my own part," said the Woodpecker, who was a born philosopher, "I don't care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is so, and at present it is terribly cold." Terribly cold it certainly was. The little Squirrels, who lived inside the tall fir-tree, kept rubbing each other's noses to keep themselves warm, and the Rabbits curled themselves up in their holes, and did not venture even to look out of doors. The only people who seemed to enjoy it were the great homed Owls. Their feathers were quite stiff with rime, but they did not mind, and they rolled their large yellow eyes, and called out to each other across the forest, "Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! what delightful weather we are having!" On and on went the two Woodcutters, blowing lust- ily upon their fingers, and stamping with their huge iron-shod boots upon the caked snow. Once they sank into a deep drift, and came out as white as millers are, when the stones are grinding; and once they slipped on the hard smooth ice where the marsh-water was frozen, and their faggots fell out of their bundles, and they had to pick them up and bind them together again; and once they thought that they had lost their way, and a great terror seized on them, for they knew that the Snow is cruel to those who sleep in her arms. But they put their trust in the good Saint Martin, who watches over all travellers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at last they reached the outskirts of the forest, and saw, far down in the valley beneath them, the lights of the village in which they dwelt. So overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed aloud, and the Earth seemed to them like a flower of silver, and the Moon like a flower of gold. Yet, after they had laughed they became sad, for they remembered their poverty, and one of them said to the other, "Why did we make merry, seeing that life is for the rich, and not for such as we are? Better that we had died of cold in the forest, or that some wild beast had fallen upon us and slain us." "Truly," answered his companion, "much is given to some, and little is given to others. Injustice has parcelled out the world, nor is there equal division of aught save of sorrow." But as they were bewailing their misery to each other this strange thing happened. There fell from heaven a very bright and beautiful star. It slipped down the side of the sky, passing by the other stars in its course, and, as they watched it wondering, it seemed to them to sink behind a clump of willow-trees that stood hard by a little sheepfold no more than a stone's throw away. "Why! there is a crock of gold for whoever finds it," they cried, and they set to and ran, so eager were they for the gold. And one of them ran faster than his mate, and outstripped him, and forced his way through the willows, and came out on the other side, and lo! there was indeed a thing of gold lying on the white snow. So he hastened towards it, and stooping down placed his hands upon it, and it was a cloak of golden tissue, curiously wrought with stars, and wrapped in many folds. And he cried out to his comrade that he had found the treasure that had fallen from the sky, and when his comrade had come up, they sat them down in the snow, and loosened the folds of the cloak that they might divide the pieces of gold. But, alas! no gold was in it, nor silver, nor, indeed, treasure of any kind, but only a little child who was asleep. And one of them said to the other: "This is a bitter ending to our hope, nor have we any good fortune, for what doth a child profit to a man? Let us leave it here, and go our way, seeing that we are poor men, and have children of our own whose bread we may not give to another. " But his companion answered him: "Nay, but it were an evil thing to leave the child to perish here in the snow, and though I am as poor as thou art, and have many mouths to feed, and but little in the pot, yet will I bring it home with me, and my wife shall have care of it. " So very tenderly he took up the child, and wrapped the cloak around it to shield it from the harsh cold, and made his way down the hill to the village, his comrade marvelling much at his foolishness and softness of heart. And when they came to the village, his comrade said to him, "Thou hast the child, therefore give me the cloak, for it is meet that we should share." But he answered him: "Nay, for the cloak is neither mine nor thine, but the child's only," and he bade him Godspeed, and went to his own house and knocked. And when his wife opened the door and saw that her husband had returned safe to her, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and took from his back the bundle of faggots, and brushed the snow off his boots, and bade him come in. But he said to her, "I have found something in the forest, and I have brought it to thee to have care of it," and he stirred not from the threshold. "What is it?" she cried. "Show it to me, for the house is bare, and we have need of many things." And he drew the cloak back, and showed her the sleeping child. "Alack, goodman!" she murmured, "have we not children enough of our own, that thou must needst bring a changeling to sit by the hearth? And who knows if it will not bring us bad fortune? And how shall we tend it?" And she was wroth against him. "Nay, but it is a Star-Child," he answered; and he told her the strange manner of the finding of it. But she would not be appeased, but mocked at him, and spoke angrily, and cried: "Our children lack bread, and shall we feed the child of another? Who is there who careth for us? And who giveth us food?" "Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them," he answered. "Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter?" she asked. "And is it not winter now?" And the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold. And a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door, and made her tremble, and she shivered, and said to him: "Wilt thou not close the door? There cometh a bitter wind into the house, and I am cold." "Into a house where a heart is hard cometh there not always a bitter wind?" he asked. And the woman answered him nothing, but crept closer to the fire. And after a time she turned round and looked at him, and her eyes were full of tears. And he came in swiftly, and placed the child in her arms, and she kissed it, and laid it in a little bed where the youngest of their own children was lying. And on the morrow the Woodcutter took the curious cloak of gold and placed it in a great chest, and a chain of amber that was round the child's neck his wife took and set it in the chest also. So the Star-Child was brought up with the children of the Woodcutter, and sat at the same board with them, and was their playmate. And every year he became more beautiful to look at, so that all those who dwelt in the village were filled with wonder, for, while they were swarthy and black-haired, he was white and delicate as sawn ivory, and his curls were like the rings of the daffodil. His lips, also, were like the petals of a red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water, and his body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not. Yet did his beauty work him evil. For he grew proud, and cruel, and selfish. The children of the Woodcutter, and the other children of the village, he despised, saying that they were of mean parentage, while he was noble, being sprung from a Star, and he made himself master over them, and called them his servants. No pity had he for the poor, or for those who were blind or maimed or in any way afflicted, but would cast stones at them and drive them forth on to the highway, and bid them beg their bread elsewhere, so that none save the outlaws came twice to that village to ask for alms. Indeed, he was as one enamoured of beauty, and would mock at the weakly and ill-favoured, and make jest of them; and himself he loved, and in summer, when the winds were still, he would lie by the well in the priest's orchard and look down at the marvel of his own face, and laugh for the pleasure he had in his fairness. Often did the Woodcutter and his wife chide him, and say:"We did not deal with thee as thou dealest with those who are left desolate, and have none to succour them. Wherefore art thou so cruel to all who need pity?" Often did the old priest send for him, and seek to teach him the love of living things, saying to him: "The fly is thy brother. Do it no harm. The wild birds that roam through the forest have their freedom. Snare them not for thy pleasure. God made the blindworm and the mole, and each has its place. Who art thou to bring pain into God's world? Even the cattle of the field praise Him." But the Star-Child heeded not their words, but would frown and flout, and go back to his companions, and lead them. And his companions followed him, for he was fair, and fleet of foot, and could dance, and pipe, and make music. And wherever the Star-Child led them they followed, and whatever the Star-Child bade them do, that did they. And when he pierced with a sharp reed the dim eyes of the mole, they laughed, and when he cast stones at the leper they laughed also. And in all things he ruled them, and they became hard of heart, even as he was. Now there passed one day through the village a poor beggar-woman. Her garments were torn and ragged, and her feet were bleeding from the rough road on which she had travelled, and she was in very evil plight. And being weary she sat her down under a chestnut-tree to rest. But when the Star-Child saw her, he said to his companions, "See! There sitteth a foul beggar-woman under that fair and green-leaved tree. Come, let us drive her hence, for she is ugly and ill-favoured." So he came near and threw stones at her, and mocked her, and she looked at him with terror in her eyes, nor did she move her gaze from him. And when the Woodcutter, who was cleaving logs in a haggard hard by, saw what the Star-Child was doing, he ran up and rebuked him, and said to him: "Surely thou art hard of heart and knowest not mercy, for what evil has this poor woman done to thee that thou should'st treat her in this wise?" And the Star-Child grew red with anger, and stamped his foot upon the ground, and said, "Who art thou to question me what I do? I am no son of thine to do thy bidding. " "Thou speakest truly," answered the Woodcutter, "yet did I show thee pity when I found thee in the forest." And when the woman heard these words she gave a loud cry, and fell into a swoon. And the Woodcutter carried her to his own house, and his wife had care of her, and when she rose up from the swoon into which she had fallen, they set meat and drink before her, and bade her have comfort. But she would neither eat nor drink, but said to the Woodcutter, "Didst thou not say that the child was found in the forest? And was it not ten years from this day?" And the Woodcutter answered, "Yea, it was in the forest that I found him, and it is ten years from this day." "And what signs didst thou find with him?" she cried. "Bare he not upon his neck a chain of amber? Was not round him a cloak of gold tissue broidered with stars?" "Truly," answered the Woodcutter, "it was even as thou sayest." And he took the cloak and the amber chain from the chest where they lay, and showed them to her. And when she saw them she wept for joy, and said, "He is my little son whom I lost in the forest. I pray thee send for him quickly, for in search of him have I wandered over the whole world." So the Woodcutter and his wife went out and called to the Star-Child, and said to him, "Go into the house, and there shalt thou find thy mother, who is waiting for thee." So he ran in, filled with wonder and great gladness. But when he saw her who was waiting there, he laughed scornfully and said, "Why, where is my mother? For I see none here but this vile beggar-woman." And the woman answered him, "I am thy mother." "Thou art mad to say so," cried the Star-Child angrily. "I am no son of thine, for thou art a beggar, and ugly, and in rags. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thy foul face no more." "Nay, but thou art indeed my little son, whom I bare in the forest," she cried, and she fell on her knees, and held out her arms to him. "The robbers stole thee from me, and left thee to die," she murmured, "but I recognized thee when I saw thee, and the signs also have I recognized, the cloak of golden tissue and the amber chain. Therefore I pray thee come with me, for over the whole world have I wandered in search of thee. Come with me, my son, for I have need of thy love." But the Star-Child stirred not from his place, but shut the doors of his heart against her, nor was there any sound heard save the sound of the woman weeping for pain. And at last he spoke to her, and his voice was hard and bitter. "If in very truth thou art my mother," he said, "it had been better hadst thou stayed away, and not come here to bring me to shame, seeing that I thought I was the child of some Star, and not a beggar's child, as thou tellest me that I am. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thee no more." "Alas! my son," she cried, "wilt thou not kiss me before I go? For I have suffered much to find thee." "Nay," said the Star-Child, "but thou art too foul to look at, and rather would I kiss the adder or the toad than thee." So the woman rose up, and went away into the forest weeping bitterly, and when the Star-Child saw that she had gone, he was glad, and ran back to his playmates that he might play with them. But when they beheld him coming, they mocked him and said, "Why thou art as foul as the toad, and as loathsome as the adder. Get thee hence, for we will not suffer thee to play with us," and they drave him out of the garden. And the Star-Child frowned and said to himself, "What is this that they say to me? I will go to the well of water and look into it, and it shall tell me of my beauty." So he went to the well of water and looked into it, and lo! his face was as the face of a toad, and his body was scaled like an adder. And he flung himself down on the grass and wept, and said to himself, "Surely this has come upon me by reason of my sin. For I have denied my mother, and driven her away, and been proud, and cruel to her. Wherefore I will go and seek her through the whole world, nor will I rest till I have found her." And there came to him the little daughter of the Woodcutter, and she put her hand upon his shoulder and said, "What doth it matter if thou hast lost thy comeliness? Stay with us, and I will not mock at thee." And he said to her, "Nay, but I have been cruel to my mother, and as a punishment has this evil been sent to me. Wherefore I must go hence, and wander through the world till I find her, and she give me her forgiveness." So he ran away into the forest and calied out to his mother to come to him, but there was no answer. All day long he called to her, and when the sun set he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves, and the birds and the animals fled from him, for they remembered his cruelty, and he was alone save for the toad that watched him, and the slow adder that crawled past. And in the morning he rose up, and plucked some bitter berries from the trees and ate them, and took his way through the great wood, weeping sorely. And of everything that he met he made enquiry if perchance they had seen his mother. He said to the Mole, "Thou canst go beneath the earth. Tell me, is my mother there?" And the Mole answered, "Thou hast blinded mine eyes. How should I know?" He said to the Linnet, "Thou canst fly over the tops of the tall trees, and canst see the whole world. Tell me, canst thou see my mother?" And the Linnet answered, "Thou hast clipt my wings for thy pleasure. How should I fly?" And to the little Squirrel who lived in the fir-tree, and was lonely, he said, "Where is my mother?" And the Squirrel answered, "Thou hast slain mine. Dost thou seek to slay thine also?" And the Star-Child wept and bowed his head, and prayed forgiveness of God's things, and went on through the forest, seeking for the beggar-woman. And on the third day he came to the other side of the forest and went down into the plain. And when he passed through the villages the children mocked him, and threw stones at him, and the carlots would not suffer him even to sleep in the byres lest he might bring mildew on the stored corn, so foul was he to look at, and their hired men drave him away, and there was none who had pity on him. Nor could he hear anywhere of the beggar-woman who was his mother, though for the space of three years he wandered over the world, and often seemed to see her on the road in front of him, and would call to her, and run after her till the sharp flints made his feet to bleed. But overtake her he could not, and those who dwelt by the way did ever deny that they had seen her, or any like to her, and they made sport of his sorrow. For the space of three years he wandered over the world, and in the world there was neither love nor loving-kindness nor charity for him, but it was even such a world as he had made for himself in the days of his great pride. And one evening he came to the gate of a strong-walled city that stood by a river, and, weary and footsore though he was, he made to enter in. But the soldiers who stood on guard dropped their halberts across the entrance, and said roughly to him, "What is thy business in the city?" "I am seeking for my mother," he answered, "and I pray ye to suffer me to pass, for it may be that she is in this city." But they mocked at him, and one of them wagged a black beard, and set down his shield and cried, "Of a truth, thy mother will not be merry when she sees thee, for thou art more in-favoured than the toad of the marsh, or the adder that crawls in the fen. Get thee gone. Get thee gone. Thy mother dwells not in this city. " And another, who held a yellow banner in his hand, said to him, "Who is thy mother, and wherefore art thou seeking for her?" And he answered, "My mother is a beggar even as I am, and I have treated her evilly, and I pray ye to suffer me to pass that she may give me her forgiveness, if it be that she tarrieth in this city." But they would not, and pricked him with their spears. And, as he turned away weeping, one whose armour was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, came up and made enquiry of the soldiers who it was who had sought entrance. And they said to him, "It is a beggar and the child of a beggar, and we have driven him away." "Nay," he cried, laughing, "but we will sell the foul thing for a slave, and his price shall be the price of a bowl of sweet wine." And an old and evil-visaged man who was passing by called out, and said, "I will buy him for that price," and, when he had paid the price, he took the Star-Child by the hand and led him into the city. And after that they had gone through many streets they came to a little door that was set in a wall that was covered with a pomegranate tree. And the old man touched the door with a ring of graved jasper and it opened, and they went down five steps of brass into a garden filled with black poppies and green jars of burnt clay. And the old man took then from his turban a scarf of figured silk, and bound with it the eyes of the Star-Child, and drave him in front of him. And when the scarf was taken off his eyes, the Star-Child found himself in a dungeon, that was lit by a lantern of horn. And the old man set before him some mouldy bread on a trencher and said, "Eat," and some brackish water in a cup and said, "Drink," and when he had eaten and drunk, the old man went out, locking the door behind him and fastening it with an iron chain. And on the morrow the old man, who was indeed the subtlest of the magicians of Libya and had learned his art from one who dwelt in the tombs of the Nile, came into him and frowned at him, and said, "In a wood that is nigh to the gate of this city of Giaours there are three pieces of gold. One is of white gold, and another is of yellow gold, and the gold of the third one is red. To-day thou shalt bring me the piece of white gold, and if thou bringest it not back, I will beat thee with a hundred stripes. Get thee away quickly, and at sunset I will be waiting for thee at the door of the garden. See that thou bringest the white gold, or it shall go ill with thee, for thou art my slave, and I have bought thee for the price of a bowl of sweet wine." And he bound the eyes of the Star-Child with the scarf of figured silk, and led him through the house, and through the garden of poppies, and up the five steps of brass. And having opened the little door with his ring he set him in the street. And the Star-Child went out of the gate of the city, and came to the wood of which the Magician had spoken to him. Now this wood was very fair to look at from without, and seemed full of singing birds and of sweet-scented flowers, and the Star-Child entered it gladly. Yet did its beauty profit him little, for wherever he went harsh briars and thorns shot up from the ground and encompassed him, and evil nettles stung him, and the thistle pierced him with her daggers, so that he was in sore distress. Nor could he anywhere find the piece of white gold of which the Magician had spoken, though he sought for it from morn to noon, and from noon to sunset. And at sunset he set his face towards home, weeping bitterly, for he knew what fate was in store for him. But when he had reached the outskirts of the wood, he heard from a thicket a cry as of someone in pain. And forgetting his own sorrow he ran back to the place, and saw there a little Hare caught in a trap that some hunter had set for it. And the Star-Child had pity on it, and released it, and said to it, "I am myself but a slave, yet may I give thee thy freedom." And the Hare answered him, and said: "Surely thou hast given me freedom, and what shall I give thee in return?" And the Star-Child said to it, "I am seeking for a piece of white gold, nor can I anywhere find it, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me." "Come thou with me," said the Hare, "and I will lead thee to it, for I know where it is hidden, and for what purpose." So the Star-Child went with the Hare, and lo! in the cleft of a great oak-tree he saw the piece of white gold that he was seeking. And he was filled with joy, and seized it, and said to the Hare, "The service that I did to thee thou hast rendered back again many times over, and the kindness that I showed thee thou hast repaid a hundred fold." "Nay," answered the Hare, "but as thou dealt with me, so I did deal with thee," and it ran away swiftly, and the Star-Child went towards the city. Now at the gate of the city there was seated one who was a leper. Over his face hung a cowl of grey linen, and through the eyelets his eyes gleamed like red coals. And when he saw the Star-Child coming, he struck upon a wooden bowl, and clattered his bell, and called out to him, and said, "Give me a piece of money, or I must die of hunger. For they have thrust me out of the city, and there is no one who has pity on me." "Alas!" cried the Star-Child, "I have but one piece of money in my wallet, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me, for I am his slave." But the leper entreated him, and prayed of him, till the Star-Child had pity, and gave him the piece of white gold. And when he came to the Magician's house, the Magician opened to him, and brought him in, and said to him, "Hast thou the piece of white gold?" And the Star-Child answered, "I have it not." So the Magician fell upon him, and beat him, and set before him an empty trencher, and said, "Eat," and an empty cup, and said, "Drink," and flung him again into the dungeon. And on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, "If to-day thou bringest me not the piece of yellow gold, I will surely keep thee as my slave, and give thee three hundred stripes." So the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the piece of yellow gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at sunset he sat him down and began to weep, and as he was weeping there came to him the little Hare that he had rescued from the trap. And the Hare said to him, "Why art thou weeping? And what dost thou seek in the wood?" And the Star-Child answered, "I am seeking for a piece of yellow gold that is hidden here, and if I find it not my master will beat me, and keep me as a slave." "Follow me," cried the Hare, and it ran through the wood till it came to a pool of water. And at the bottom of the pool the piece of yellow gold was lying. "How shall I thank thee?" said the Star-Child, "for lo! this is the second time that you have succoured me." "Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first," said the Hare, and it ran away swiftly. And the Star-Child took the piece of yellow gold, and put it in his wallet, and hurried to the city. But the leper saw him coming, and ran to meet him, and knelt down and cried, "Give me a piece of money or I shall die of hunger." And the Star-Child said to him, "I have in my wallet but one piece of yellow gold, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me and keep me as his slave." But the leper entreated him sore, so that the Star-Child had pity on him, and gave him the piece of yellow gold. And when he came to the Magician's house, the Magician opened to him, and brought him in, and said to him, "Hast thou the piece of yellow gold?" And the Star-Child said to him, "I have it not." So the Magician fell upon him, and beat him, and loaded him with chains, and cast him again into the dungeon. And on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, "If to-day thou bringest me the piece of red gold I will set thee free, but if thou bringest it not I will surely slay thee." So the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the piece of red gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at evening he sat him down, and wept, and as he was weeping there came to him the little Hare. And the Hare said to him, "The piece of red gold that thou seekest is in the cavern that is behind thee. Therefore weep no more but be glad." "How shall I reward thee," cried the Star-Child, "for lo! this is the third time thou hast succoured me." "Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first," said the Hare, and it ran away swiftly. And the Star-Child entered the cavern, and in its farthest corner he found the piece of red gold. So he put it in his wallet, and hurried to the city. And the leper seeing him coming, stood in the centre of the road, and cried out, and said to him, "Give me the piece of red money, or I must die," and the Star-Child had pity on him again, and gave him the piece of red gold, saying, "Thy need is greater than mine." Yet was his heart heavy, for he knew what evil fate awaited him. But lo! as he passed through the gate of the city, the guards bowed down and made obeisance to him, saying, "How beautiful is our lord!" and a crowd of citizens followed him, and cried out, "Surely there is none so beautiful in the whole world!" so that the Star-Child wept, and said to himself, "They are mocking me, and making light of my misery." And so large was the concourse of the people, that he lost the threads of his way, and found himself at last in a great square, in which there was a palace of a King. And the gate of the palace opened, and the priests and the high officers of the city ran forth to meet him, and they abased themselves before him, and said, "Thou art our lord for whom we have been waiting, and the son of our King." And the Star-Child answered them and said, "I am no king's son, but the child of a poor beggar woman. And how say ye that I am beautiful, for I know that I am evil to look at?" Then he, whose armour was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, held up a shield, and cried, "How saith my lord that he is not beautiful?" And the Star-Child looked, and lo! his face was even as it had been, and his comeliness had come back to him, and he saw that in his eyes which he had not seen there before. And the priests and the high officers knelt down and said to him, "It was prophesied of old that on this day should come he who was to rule over us. Therefore, let our lord take this crown and this sceptre, and be in his justice and mercy our King over us." But he said to them, "I am not worthy, for I have denied the mother who bare me, nor may I rest till I have found her, and known her forgiveness. Therefore, let me go, for I must wander again over the world, and may not tarry here, though ye bring me the crown and the sceptre." And as he spake he turned his face from them towards the street that led to the gate of the city, and lo! amongst the crowd that pressed round the soldiers, he saw the beggar-woman who was his mother, and at her side stood the leper, who had sat by the road. And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he ran over, and kneeling down he kissed the wounds on his mother's feet, and wet them with his tears. He bowed his head in the dust, and sobbing, as one whose heart might break, he said to her: "Mother, I denied thee in the hour of my pride. Accept me in the hour of my humility. Mother, I gave thee hatred. Do thou give me love. Mother, I rejected thee. Receive thy child now." But the beggar woman answered him not a word. And he reached out his hands, and clasped the white feet of the leper, and said to him: "Thrice did I give thee of my mercy. Bid my mother speak to me once." But the leper answered him not a word. And he sobbed again, and said: "Mother, my suffering is greater than I can bear. Give me thy forgiveness, and let me go back to the forest." And the beggar-woman put her hand on his head, and said to him, "Rise," and the leper put his hand on his head, and said to him, "Rise," also. And he rose up from his feet, and looked at them, and lo! they were a King and a Queen. And the Queen said to him, "This is thy father whom thou hast succoured." And the King said, "This is thy mother, whose feet thou hast washed with thy tears." And they fell on his neck and kissed him, and brought him into the palace, and clothed him in fair raiment, and set the crown upon his head, and the sceptre in his hand, and over the city that stood by the river he ruled, and was its lord. Much justice and mercy did he show to all, and the evil Magician he banished, and to the Woodcutter and his wife he sent many rich gifts, and to their children he gave high honour. Nor would he suffer any to be cruel to bird or beast, but taught love and loving-kindness and charity, and to the poor he gave bread, and to the naked he gave raiment, and there was peace and plenty in the land. Yet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering, and so bitter the fire of his testing, for after the space of three years he died. And he who came after him ruled evilly. AFTERWORD Until 1887 Oscar Wilde had primarily published poems and essays about art and literature with a fair amount of success, but it was only after he started writing fairy tales that he developed confidence in his unusual talents as a prose writer. In fact, the fairy-tale form enabled him to employ his elegant style and keen wit to give full expression both to his philosophy of art and his critique of English high society. Therefore, it is not by chance that all his fairy tales, published between 1888- 91, coincided with the publication of his remarkable novel _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1891), perhaps his finest achievement in prose. However, his stories were not just decorative stepping-stones to this novel but more like finely chiseled gems that have been recognized as among the best of the fairy-tale genre. Moreover, they are almost prophetic in the manner that they depict the suffering that Wilde himself was to endure in the years to come because of his refusal to moderate his homosexual activities or to abandon his role as avant-garde writer. Born in Dublin on October 16, 1854, Wilde was steeped in Irish folklore and was apparently well acquainted with the tales of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen. Both his mother, Speranza, a passionate nationalist and poetess, and his father, William, a famous ear-and-eye physician, were known to be great raconteurs, and as a young boy Wilde himself learned a great deal about narrative style simply by listening to them tell stories. Even before Wilde was born, his father, who was also a remarkable folklorist, had published an important work titled _Irish Popular Superstitions_ (1852), while his mother wrote patriotic poems using Irish folk motifs. Throughout his youth at the Portora Royal School and Trinity College, Wilde was concerned with developing his own skills as a story- teller and poet. By the time he reached Oxford in 1874, he had become as talented as his mother and father as a raconteur and had begun publishing his poems in the _Dublin University Magazine and the Month and Catholic Review._ While at Oxford, 1874-79, he continued to write poetry and studied classical Greek and Roman literature. Under the influence of Walter Pater and John Ruskin, he also began writing essays about art and literature. After graduation from Oxford, he earned his living largely from lecture tours about the new aestheticism in England, traveling widely in America and Britain, and he tried his hand at writing dramas. After his marriage to Constance Lloyd in 1884, Wilde settled in London, assumed the editorship of the magazine _The Woman's World,_ and took an interest in writing prose fiction. Though there is no evidence as to why he suddenly started writing fairy tales in the mid-1880s, the fact that his wife, Constance, gave birth to their sons Cyril (1885) and Vyvyan (1886) may have played a role, since he enjoyed telling them tales. Yet Wilde did not write them explicitly for children. In fact, he composed _The Happy Prince_ as early as 1885 after entertaining some students in Cambridge, and later in 1888, in a letter to the poet George Herbert Kersley, he remarked, "I am very pleased you like my stories. They are studies in prose, put for Romance's sake into fanciful form: meant partly for children, and partly for those who have kept the childlike faculties of wonder and joy, and who find simplicity in a subtle strangeness." In general, there are several factors that led Wilde to turn his attention to the writing of fairy tales. For instance, there was a great renascence of fairy tales in England from 1865 to 1900, when, writers such as John Ruskin, William Makepeace Thackeray, Lewis Carroll, George MacDonald, Andrew Lang, and others made important contributions to the development of the genre. Wilde's wife herself was interested in fantasy literature and published two volumes of children's stories in 1889 and 1892, while his mother edited two important books on Irish folklore, _Ancient Cures, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions_ (1888) and _Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages of Ireland_ (1890). Moreover, Wilde reviewed William B. Yeats's _Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_ in 1889 and showed a great awareness of the fairy-tale tradition. In short, it was almost natural for Wilde at one time in his life to turn to the fairy tale as if it were his proper mode. And certainly his familiarity with traditional folklore and the literary fairy tale explains why he was able to be so innovative in his own tales, for each one of them plays with standard audience expectations and subverts the customary happy ending with questions that make the reader think about social problems and the role of the artist as innovator. What makes the tales even more striking is the manner in which Wilde weaves personal problems into his narratives, for it was during the mid-1880s that he became consciously aware of his homosexual inclinations and began having affairs with young men. To a certain extent, the symbolic nature of the fairy tale allowed him to write about his homoeroticism and link it to his aesthetic and social concerns in a veiled manner. In this light, both volumes of Wilde's stories, _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ (1888) and _A House of Pomegranates_ (1891) can be regarded as artistic endeav- ors on the part of Wilde to confront what he already foresaw as the impending tragedy of his life—self-sacrifice due to unrequited or unfulfilled love and avant-garde notions about art and society. Since he disliked the personal and first-person narrative, the fairy-tale form allowed him to depersonalize his own problems and expand them to include his unique ideas about Fabian socialism that were clearly articulated in his essay The _Soul of Man under Socialism_ (1891). In many respects, the fairy tales prepared the way for his social philosophy about the artist espoused in this essay—the artist as a Christlike figure representing true individualism, and true individualism as being only possible if there were equal distribution of the wealth in society along with natural love, tolerance, and humility. Like Freud, Wilde was interested in "civilization and its discontents," and his fairy tales assume the form of an artistic companion piece to Freud's psychological diagnosis about the causes of unhappiness brought about through the civilizing process. Just what were Wilde's artistic diagnoses? _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ an anthology about British civilization and its discontents, contained _The Happy Prince, The Nightingale and the Rose, The Selfish Giant, The Devoted Friend, and The Remarkable Rocket. The Happy Prince_ is perhaps the best known of all his tales, and the title already indicates the hall-mark of Wilde's style as fairy-tale author—irony. The prince is anything but happy. It is only after his death, when he stands high above the city and realizes how irresponsible he has been, that he chooses to compensate for his past carefree life. Ironically, the more he sacrifices himself, the more he becomes happy and fulfilled. As a Christlike figure, the prince represents the artist, whose task is to enrich other people's lives without expecting acknowledgment or rewards. On another level, the prince and the swallow are clearly male lovers, whose spiritual bond transcends the materialism and petty values of the town councillors. Implicit in this tale is the idea that society is not yet ready to appreciate the noble role of the artist, who seeks to transform crass living conditions and beautify people's souls through his gifts. This theme is continued in _The Nightingale and the Rose,_ which is an ironic comment on Andersen's _The Nightingale._ Whereas Andersen in his fairy tale portrays the nightingale as an artist and has him heal a king's sickness through his singing, Wilde is intent on revealing the shallow values of the student and his sweetheart and the vain efforts of the nightingale as artist to change them. However, not all Wilde's tales end on a note of fruitless sacrifice. For instance, _The Selfish Giant_ illustrates how a landowner becomes happy and grows spiritually by sharing his property with children, who gain a deep sense of pleasure when they experience his change of heart. These are indeed the "ideal" childlike readers Wilde had in mind when he wrote his tales, and the giant, like the happy prince, is the artist par excellence who learns to give freely of his wealth. The opposites of the prince and giant can be found in _The Devoted Friend_ and _The Remarkable Rocket._ Based on Andersen's tale _Little Claus and Big Claus, The Devoted Friend_ is a sardonic depiction of a ruthless miller who drives Hans, a poor farmer, to death. What is frightening about the tale is that the miller is not touched by Hans's death or even aware of how destructive he is. This same unawareness is the central theme in _The Remarkable Rocket_ with a slight variation. Here the rocket is a type of pompous artist, whose belief in his great talents and importance is deflated by the end of the tale. Throughout the stories in _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ there is a sense of impending doom. All the protagonists, the prince, the nightingale, the giant, Hans, and the rocket, die through a sacrifice either out of love for humanity or love for art. The tales in A _House of Pomegranates_ continue to explore the connections between love, art, and sacrifice, but Wilde abandoned the naive quality of the earlier tales as though he had become more painfully aware of the difficulties a "deviate" artist would encounter in British society, and his tales became more grave and less childlike than his earlier ones. Wilde's depiction of the sixteen-year-old lad in _The Young King_ is undoubtedly a homoerotic portrayal of an idealized lover, and the plot reveals Wilde's contempt for a society that wants a king designated by artificial apparel such as the robe, scepter, and crown. The derobing that the young king undertakes is an act of purification that lays bare the contradictions of his society. Though the "derobing" succeeds in this tale, it is entirely the opposite in _The Birthday of the Infanta,_ in which the spoiled and insensitive princess drives the dwarf to his death. If there is a "derobing," it is an unmasking of the brutal if not sadistic treatment of the dwarf as artist and lover. Whereas Wilde was concerned in depicting the crass indifference of people of the upper classes, whose commands cause suffering for those beneath them, he also showed there were possibilities for redemption. Thus, the prince in _The Star-Child_ pays for his pride, cruelty, and selfishness by undergoing a transformation and sacrificing himself to help others. Yet even here Wilde sounds an ominous note at the conclusion of the tale by stating that the beneficent reign of the star-child lasted but a short time and was followed by that of an evil ruler. Wilde was convinced that as long as society was intolerant, materialistic, and hypocritical, it would be impossible for love to develop. This conviction led him to reverse the theme of Andersen's _The Little Mermaid_ and Chamisso's _Peter Schlemihl_ in _The Fisherman and His Soul._ Instead of the usual sea nymph seeking a human soul, Wilde has the fisherman give up his soul to join the mermaid and to enjoy sensual pleasures and her natural love. Ironically, his soul and the institution of the church, represented by the priest, endeavor to destroy his wholesome love. Nevertheless, the fisherman recognizes that his "hedonistic" love is more holy than what society ordains as good, and he is reunited with the mermaid by the end of the tale in an act of rebellion against traditional morality. As in _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ the stories in A _House of Pomegranates_ end on an unresolved or tragic note. The star-child, the dwarf, and the fisherman all die because their love and sacrifices go against the grain of their societies. Only the young king survives, but it is evident that his future reign, based on humility and material equality, will encounter great obstacles. There will obviously be no paradise on earth until it is unnecessary to have martyrs who lead Christlike lives and die for the sake of humanity. Although Wilde did identify with the protagonists of his tales—the spurned artist and lover, the iconoclast, the innocent victim—he did not wallow in self-pity. Rather, he transcended his own problems in these tales and created symbolical analogues to the real contradictions between the avant-garde artist and British society of his time. Despite the fact that Wilde was often attacked by the upholders of civility as a decadent or degenerate during his lifetime, he revealed most poignantly in his tales how moral decadence was more often to be found among those who support law and order and are insensitive to the needs of the oppressed. For Wilde, the artist's role was to find the proper means to let the beautiful be illuminated against the harsh background of society's dark hues of regimentation. The lights in his fairy tales are thus glistening illuminations of sad conditions, and they beckon readers to contemplate the plight of his protagonists in reverence. In this respect, Oscar Wilde's fairy tales have a religious fervor to them that urges us to reconsider what has happened to the nature of humanity at the dawn of modern civilization. —Jack Zipes University of Minnesota NOTE ON THE TEXTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS This present collection of Wilde's narratives is based on the first editions of his fairy tales: _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ illustrated by Walter Crane and Jacomb Hood (London: David Nutt, 1888); and _A House of Pomegranates,_ illustrated by Charles Ricketts and Charles H. Shannon. (London: James R. Osgood, 1891). Two of the tales in the latter edition were published separately before being collected for book publication: _The Young King_ was printed in the Christmas 1888 issue of _Lady's Pictorial; The Birthday of the Infanta_ appeared simultaneously in English and French in the _Paris Illustré_ (March 30, 1889). Walter Crane (1845-1915), who did the three full-page plates for _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ was one of the most renowned illustrators of his time. He was particularly famous for his series of fairy-tale toybooks published during the 1860s and 1870s, and he also did the illustrations for _Grimm's Fairy Tales,_ which his wife, Lucy, translated. In addition to his work as an illustrator, Crane was a noted painter, played a prominent role in the Art Workers Guild as its president, and was a leader in the art education movement in England. Jacomb Hood (1857-1929) was a respected painter, etcher, and illustrator. He studied at the Slade School and in France, and upon his return to England, he settled in Chelsea, devoted most of his energies to book illustration, and worked for the art journal _The Graphic._ Charles Ricketts (1866-1931), sculptor, typographer, and set designer, and his lifelong companion Charles Shannon (1863-1937), portrait and subject painter, combined their talents to do the illustrations and designs for _A House of Pomegranates_ with Shannon doing full-page plates that were damaged during publication so that the larger illustrations in the book faded. Wilde was so impressed by Ricketts' work that Ricketts continued to do almost all the designs for Wilde's books. Aside from their collaboration with Wilde, Ricketts and Shannon founded the Vale Press (1896-1904), which was known for publishing unpretentious books with fine design. They also edited an avant-garde literary journal called _The Dial_ and were prominent figures in London's literary circles. Selected Bibliography Works by Oscar Wilde _Poems,_ 1881 _Vera,_ 1883 Play _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ 1888 _Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories,_ 1891 _The Picture of Dorian Gray,_ 1891 Novel _The Duchess of Padua,_ 1891 Play _Lady Windermere's Fan,_ 1892 Play _A House of Pomegranates,_ 1892 _A Woman of No Importance,_ 1893 Play _Salome,_ 1894 _Play (English Translation)_ _An Ideal Husband,_ 1895 _Play_ _The Importance of Being Earnest,_ 1895 Play _The Ballad of Reading Gaol,_ 1898 Poem Selected Biography and Criticism Beckson, Karl E. _Oscar Wilde: The Critical Heritage._ London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970. Ellman, Richard. _Oscar Wilde._ New York: Random House, 1987. Erickson, Donald H. _Oscar Wilde._ Boston: Twayne, 1977. Griswold, Jerome J. "Sacrifice and Mercy in Wilde's 'The Happy Prince.' " _Children's Literature_ 3 (1974): 103-6. Hyde, H. Montgomery. Oscar Wilde. London: Methuen, 1976. Holland, Merlin. _The Real Trial of Oscar Wilde._ New York: Harper Perennial, 2004. Martin, Robert K. "Oscar Wilde and the Fairy Tale: 'The Happy Prince' as Self-dramatization." _Studies in Short Fiction_ 16 (1979): 74-77. McKenna, Neil. _The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde._ New York: Basic Books, 2006. Mikhail, E. H. Oscar _Wilde: An Annotated Bibliography of Criticism._ Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1978. Nassaar, Christopher S. _Into the Demon Universe: A Literary Exploration of Oscar Wilde._ New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974. Pearce, Joseph. _The Unmasking of Oscar Wilde._ London: HarperCollins UK, 2001. Quintus, J. A. "The Moral Prerogative in Oscar Wilde: A Look at the Tales." _Virginia Quarterly Review_ 53 (1977): 708-17. Raby, Peter. _The Cambridge Companion to Oscar Wilde._ Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Shewan, Rodney. _Oscar Wilde._ New York: Barnes and Noble, 1977. Sullivan, Kevin. _Oscar Wilde._ New York: Columbia University Press, 1972. Worth, Katharine. _Oscar Wilde._ London: Macmillan, 1983. Zipes, Jack. "Inverting and Subverting the World with Hope: The Fairy Tales of George MacDonald, Oscar Wilde, and L. Frank Baum." _Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion: The Classical Genre for Children and the Process of Civilization._ New York: Methuen, 1983: 97-133. _SIGNET CLASSICS_ Classic Works by Oscar Wilde THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY & Other Stories Perhaps one of the most famous stories in English, this classic tale of good and evil has sent chills down the spines of readers for more than one hundred years. This volume also contains the well known allegories Lord Arthur Savile's Crime, The Happy Prince, and The Birthday of the Infanta. THE BEST OF OSCAR WILDE An extraordinary volume for fans and students alike, this collection showcases Wilde's brilliance and timeless wit. Includes _The Importance of Being Earnest, An Ideal Husband, A Woman of No Importance, Lady Windermere's Fan,_ and _Salomé._ Available wherever books are sold or at signetclassics.com SIGNET CLASSICS Classic Fairy Tales for All Ages Aesop's Fables _edited by Jack Zipes_ The exclusive Signet Classics edition contains over 200 of Aesop's most enduring and popular fables, translated into readable, modem English, and beautifully illustrated with 70 classic 19th-century woodcuts. Andersen's Fairy Tales _by Hans Christian Andersen_ For more than one hundred years, these _Fairy Tales_ have chamed and entertained audiences around the world. The forty-seven tales in this collection transport the reader into a magical world of kings and princesses, giants and mermaids, witches and fabulous beasts. Arabian Nights, Volume I: _The Marvels and Wonders of The Thousand and One Nights Translated by Sir Richard Francis Burton_ Full of mischief, valor, ribaldry, and romance, _The Arabian Nights_ has captivated readers for centuries. Night after night, Scheherazade—whose new husband, the king, has executed each of his wives after a single night of marriage—saves her own life by regaling her husband with these fantastical tales of genies, wishes, terror, and passion. Available wherever books are sold or atsignetclassics.com READ THE TOP 20 SIGNET CLASSICS 1984 BY GEORGE ORWELL ANIMAL FARM BY GEORGE ORWELL FRANKENSTEIN BY MARY SHELLEY THE INFERNO BY DANTE BEOWULF (BURTON RAFFEL, TRANSLATOR) HAMLET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE HEART OF DARKNESS & THE SECRET SHARER BY JOSEPH CONRAD NARRATIVE OF THE LIFE OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS BY FREDERICK DOUGLASS THE SCARLET LETTER BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE NECTAR IN A SIEVE BY KAMALA MARKANDAYA A TALE OF Two CITIES BY CHARLES DICKENS ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND & THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS BY LEWIS CARROLL. ROMEO AND JULIET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ETHAN FROME BY EDITH WHARTON A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE MACBETH BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE OTHELLO BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN BY MARK TWAIN ONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH BY ALEXANDER SOLZHENITSYN JANE EYRE BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE SIGNETCLASSICS.COM	{'title': 'Complete Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde (Signet Classics) - Oscar Wilde (retail)'}
Are you a resident of Pinnacle who owns a small business and operates from your home? Can you provide a service to your fellow residents of Pinnacle? If you've answered yes to both of these questions, supply your details below and we will list your business on our site. Residents of Pinnacle, support your local community by checking here first and seeing whether one of your neighbours can assist.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-20T11:17:15Z', 'url': 'https://www.pinnacleballarat.com.au/residents/service-directory', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
On October 27, 2016 GreenWorks led a tour for the College of Architecture and Landscape Architecture of Beijing University and staff of Landscape Architecture Frontiers publication. This tour group was particularly interested in technical issues related to: soil/vegetation approaches for water quality treatment; the ultra- violet finishing treatment that allows for human contact with the treated water; and soil capping issues for a former brownfield site. GreenWorks typically leads 4-6 tours per year since Tanner Springs Park opened in 2005. Tour groups have included national and international professional and environmental organizations and academic institutions. Visitors are interested in a variety of issues, including design inspiration, public involvement and outreach, and technical challenges. Couch Park comment forms for the playground and plaza improvements are due Thursday December 10th. GreenWorks was been hired by Portland Parks & Recreation to design the new playground, address accessibility issues in the plaza and install a new Portland Loo at Couch Park as part of the Parks Replacement Bond. We presented the three options below for the playground at an Open House on December 3rd . Online comments are due Thursday December 10th and can be found here: http://www.portlandoregon.gov/parks/68915. One of the top priorities for the playground is for it to be inclusive, which mean that it should be designed for children of all ages and abilities. We have been working closely with Mara Kaplan from Let Kids Play http://www.letkidsplay.com/ who is a national expert and advocate for inclusive playground design. Mara was brought on to the design team to help us design a playground that provides exceptional play opportunities for all children. GreenWorks met with the city of Astoria to present the Downtown Astoria Pedestrian Wayfinding Concept Plan. Those in attendance were city officials, focus group members, and Astoria community members. The presentation focused on distinct sign typologies that direct and inform pedestrians getting around downtown Astoria. Following the presentation was an interactive group discussion about sign locations, aesthetic preferences interpretive sign opportunities.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T07:14:19Z', 'url': 'https://greenworkspc.com/blog/category/Public+Outreach', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
For the rider who’s ready to learn it all, our value bundles offer you the benefit of all the DVDs for your Harley-Davidson® Touring model at our best prices. You’ll get the Maintenance DVDs Part 1 & 2, the Bolt-On Performance Edition, the Touring Rear Belt Replacement and Touring Oil Cooler Install DVD sets. That’s over 15 Hours of detailed procedures! This educational do-it-yourself Touring maintenance DVD covers all brands of Harley-Davidson® Touring motorcycles. From late 1984 – 2016 (Evo®, Twin Cam® 88, 96, 103, 110) we have your Road Kings, Ultras, Electras, and Road/Street Glides covered. This DVD will pay for itself with just one oil change. When we released the original Fix My Hog® maintenance DVDs, we couldn’t have anticipated the reaction from critics and customers alike-it went so far beyond our wildest expectations. Since then, letters, calls and e-mails have poured in from around the world suggesting additional topics we should cover, so that’s what we did. These follow up DVDs cover new procedures and technological advances (Twin Cam® 88, 96, 103, 110) and are a great complement to the original versions. A great way to Fix My Hog and save money in today’s economy. *Note we do not cover the Rushmore changes on this DVD set. This DVD series is designed to show riders how to enhance the look and performance of their Touring model motorcycles. Taped in a professional motorcycle repair shop, the trained mechanics perform and explain each procedure in detail. The Bolt-On Performance and Accessory DVDs feature footage of installations applicable to Evo®, Twin Cam® 88, 96, 103 & 110 motorcycles. This three-DVD set is crammed with more than six hours of valuable instruction, interviews and insider tips. The Form-A-Funnel easily molds, then holds its shape so you get every last drop of oil every time, no matter how obstructed the filter or plug. Molds into and holds any shape to create a leakproof channel for draining oil or fluid. Precise, reliable sealing from Loctite. Formulated to work like Loctite Hi-Tack Liquids, these wax-like sticks are less messy, have a low odor, and are solvent-free. Loctite Hi-Tack sticks set up quickly to a very tacky film, to seal and hold the heaviest gaskets in place. They resist gasoline, oil, and common shop fluids. Suggested applications include valve covers, fuel pumps, carburetors, and manifold gaskets.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T20:32:27Z', 'url': 'https://www.fixmyhog.com/product/touring-edition-maintenance-performance-8-dvd-set-2-free-gifts/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
France Music Charts List of all local music charts served by Popnable. Most viewed music videos from France, ranked on daily basis. Most viewed music videos from France, ranked on weekly, monthly and yearly basis. Most viewed artists from France, ranked on monthly and yearly basis. Most liked songs from France, ranked on weekly basis.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T22:26:14Z', 'url': 'https://popnable.com/france/charts?page=6', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
I am a conservation biologist and molecular ecologist, interested in understanding the ecological and evolutionary processes that generate and maintain diversity within and among populations. The primary motivation for my work is to apply this fundamental understanding of biology to solve pressing problems in conservation and management. Outreach: Dr. Meek is a member of the IUCN North American Conservation Genetics Specialist Group, Vice President of the Society for Conservation Biology Conservation Genetics Working Group, and a member of the Interagency Ecological Program Salmonid Genetics Project Work Team. Dr. Meek is on the editorial board of Conservation Science and Practice. My research focuses on the use of genetic tools to study population- and species-level relationships in marine and freshwater fishes. The primary motivation for this work is to improve our understanding of evolutionary processes in aquatic environments, and to provide practical information for management and conservation. Find out more about my work on my website. I am interested in conservation biology and the effects of climate change on populations. I completed my M.A. in Biology at Buffalo State College studying the metagenomic diversity of fungal communities in and outside of ant nests, and I am excited to study conservation genomics and diversity in the Meek lab. My research interests center around the population dynamics and genetics of aquatic species, as well as overall species diversity in aquatic environments. Specifically, I am interested in the mechanisms of population divergence and the barriers to gene flow. I am primarily concerned with how these patterns and processes are relevant for conservation and management. I study conservation genetics and am interested in small population conservation. My research centers around discovering impacts on populations from fragmentation, especially due to anthropogenic change. I hope to use my research to help inform future management actions and to create public outreach programs. I am an Integrative Biology master’s student at Michigan State University. I recently graduated from the University of Arizona, receiving a B.S. in Organismal Biology. While at the University of Arizona, I was involved in several projects working with human and plant pathogens, and was president of the Criminal Justice Association. I am a Department of Defense SMART Scholar, and will work for the U.S. Army Defense Forensic Science Center upon graduation. I am interested in the next generation sequencing applications to forensic science. Sierra is co-advised by Dr. Benbow in the Department of Entomology: https://ericbenbow.wixsite.com/website. Do not hesitate to contact Sierra with any questions: kaszubin[at]msu.edu. I’m a senior undergraduate at Michigan State University, majoring in zoology with a concentration in ecology, evolution, and organismal biology. My research interests are in the genetics and evolution of behavior, and my goal is to attend graduate school to pursue a PhD in evolutionary biology. Ellery studies the diversity of tastes in her environment and is on a quest to identify the most crinkly material in the world. She is also researching the ecology and behavior of the Giant Schnauzer. Chai’s research interests are in the behavioral ecology of small mammals, with a particular focus on trying to understand the adaptations that allow squirrels to successfully avoid canine predation.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-18T23:07:39Z', 'url': 'https://meeklab.com/people/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Dr Wiffen is a graduate of University of Queensland Medical School and trained in ophthalmology in Western Australia before undertaking two-year fellowships in cornea and refractive surgery at both the Corneo-Plastic Unit, East Grinstead, UK, and the Mayo Clinic, Rochester, Minnesota, USA. He was Director of the Corneo-Plastic Unit and Eye Bank in East Grinstead from 1993-1994. He has been a Consultant Ophthalmologist at Fremantle Hospital since 1997 and was Associate Professor in the Centre for Ophthalmology and Visual Science, UWA, from 1997-2014. He has been Director of the Lions Eye Bank of Western Australia since 1997. Dr Wiffen has held numerous other positions, including Head of Department of Ophthalmology Fremantle Hospital, Chair of the Qualifications and Education Committee of the WA Branch of RANZCO, Chair of Eye Banks Australia and New Zealand and Chair of the Cornea Standing Committee of the Transplantation Society of Australia and New Zealand. He has special expertise in corneal transplantation, pterygium and cataract surgery as well as refractive surgery. Fellowships at the Corneo-Plastic Unit, East Grinstead, UK, and at the Mayo Clinic, Rochester, Minnesota, USA. Ocular surface disorders, corneal and refractive surgery, anterior segment disorders & surgery.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T11:14:25Z', 'url': 'https://www.lei.org.au/about/our-people/staff/dr-steven-wiffen/?our_people=ophthalmologists', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Contact us by filling out the form below and we will contact you back shortly. HOW DID YOU FIND US ONLINE? Miami, FL 33222 USA Ana Jiménez Dermocosmética, SL.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T00:12:06Z', 'url': 'http://rejuvesse.es/EN/contact.asp', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Learn how to create a proactive infection prevention (IP) plan based on a comprehensive infection control (IC) risk assessment—a perpetual document that serves as the foundation of your program. Look at techniques for evaluating the actual risk factors for your population, the services you provide and geographic and community-based trends in your region. Return home with the know-how you need to conduct an IC risk analysis that can help you improve the effectiveness of your IP plan by better prioritizing your prevention strategies.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-25T20:35:54Z', 'url': 'https://www.ascaconnect.org/events/event-description?CalendarEventKey=118faa18-948b-4d2f-90db-841a64989875&Home=%2Fevents%2Fcalendar', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
1. Falken Tyre Fuel Promotion (the "Promotion") is open to all consumers who are UK residents aged 18 and over, except ALLCARZ (the "Promoter") employees, its agencies or anyone else connected with the creation and administration of this Promotion, or trade customers, including tyre dealer's employees. This offer is open to retail customers only making a qualifying purchase online. 5. This offer applies to the online purchase of 2 – 4 Falken Tyres between 06.02.19 and 31.03.19 online on www.oswestrytyrescentre.co.uk using the valid discount code FALKENFUEL. 13. ALLCARZ reserve the right to vary or amend these terms and conditions or to withdraw the promotion at any time.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T10:07:13Z', 'url': 'https://www.oswestrytyrescentre.co.uk/Content/Promotional/69690/Fuel+promotion+Terms+and+Conditions', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
How to Take Meeting Minutes General Overview of Meeting Minutes Generally, minutes begin with the name of the body (e.g. a committee) holding the meeting, place, date, list of people present, and the time that the chair called the meeting to order.... Structured vs. Informal. If your PTA follows Robert's Rules of Order-- a process of proposing, discussing and voting on motions -- you should find it much easier to take meeting minutes, as all major actions will be organized by motions and the resulting votes. Download our Meeting Minute Checklist for Associations and Nonprofits with sample minutes taken at a meeting and learn how to take better minutes. 3. The Minutes Writing Process... Taking minutes is important for virtually any meeting. Despite the importance of this task, it is not easy especially if you are not well prepared for it. Fortunately, with the following tips, anyone can effectively take minutes. Structured vs. Informal. If your PTA follows Robert's Rules of Order-- a process of proposing, discussing and voting on motions -- you should find it much easier to take meeting minutes, as all major actions will be organized by motions and the resulting votes.... How to Take Meeting Minutes General Overview of Meeting Minutes Generally, minutes begin with the name of the body (e.g. a committee) holding the meeting, place, date, list of people present, and the time that the chair called the meeting to order. Taking minutes is important for virtually any meeting. Despite the importance of this task, it is not easy especially if you are not well prepared for it. Fortunately, with the following tips, anyone can effectively take minutes.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T08:53:18Z', 'url': 'http://mleb.net/manitoba/how-to-take-minutes-sample.php', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
A forum member of ModMyI claims that he was not able to jailbreak his iPad that he had bought recently using Redsn0w. This has led to speculation that Apple might have patched the limera1n exploit that has been used in Redsn0w to jailbreak iOS 4.2.1 in newer iPhones, iPads and iPod Touches that are being shipped. The purpose of this guide is to provide Mac users step by step instructions to jailbreak iPad using limera1n. MuscleNerd of the iPhone Dev Team has just announced via Twitter that they’ve figured out a way to use the PwnageTool, limera1n exploit and Comex’s kernel hacks to jailbreak future firmwares (so iOS 4.2 and beyond) for all A4 chip based devices such as iPhone 4, iPod Touch 4G, iPad and new Apple TV. It looks like the cat and mouse game between Apple and the iPhone hacking community is going to be even more interesting with this breakthrough. Geohot has just released limera1n for Mac users that can jailbreak iPhone 3GS, iPhone 4, iPad, iPod Touch 3G and the new iPod Touch 4G. Geohot had released limera1n for Windows users over the weekend, which had become very popular with users. Geohot has just announced that limera1n is out of beta and limera1n RC1b is available for download. If you had problems jailbreaking your iPhone 3GS, iPhone 4, iPad, iPod Touch 3G and the new iPod Touch 4G using limera1n then try it again using the latest version of limera1n as many readers have reported that the new version has fixed the problems they were facing with the previous version (especially iPad users). Geohot who had abandoned the jailbreaking scene in July surprised everyone by releasing limera1n a day before greenpois0n was released by the Chronic Dev Team. iPhone Dev Team and Chronic Dev Team who were hit the hardest as they have been working hard to release greenpois0n have commented on Geohot’s limera1n.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-19T06:59:17Z', 'url': 'http://www.iphonehacks.com/limera1n', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Since the beginning, Sensory has been a pioneer in advancing AI technologies for consumer electronics. Not only did Sensory implement the first commercially successful speech recognition chip, but we also were first to bring biometrics to low cost chips, and speech recognition to Bluetooth devices. Perhaps what I am most proud of though, more than a decade ago Sensory introduced its TrulyHandsfree technology and showed the world that wakeup words could really work in real devices, getting around the false accept and false reject, and power consumption issues that had plagued the industry. No longer did speech recognition devices require button presses…and it caught on quickly! Let me go on boasting because I think Sensory has a few more claims to fame… Do you think Apple developed the first “Hey Siri” wake word? Did Google develop the first “OK Google” wake word? What about “Hey Cortana”? I believe Sensory developed these initial wake words, some as demos and some shipped in real products (like the Motorola MotoX smartphone and certain glasses). Even third-party Alexa and Cortana products today are running Sensory technology to wake up the Alexa cloud service. Sensory’s roots are in neural nets and machine learning. I know everyone does that today, but it was quite out of favor when Sensory used machine learning to create a neural net speech recognition system in the 1990’s and 2000’s. Today everyone and their brother is doing deep learning (yeah that’s tongue in cheek because my brother is doing it too! (http://www.cs.colorado.edu/~mozer/index.php). And a lot of these deep learning companies are huge multi-billion-dollar business or extremely well-funded startups. So, can Sensory stay ahead now and continuing pioneering innovation in AI now that everyone is using machine learning and doing AI? Of course, the answer is yes! Sensory is now doing computer vision with convolutional neural nets. We are coming out with deep learning noise models to improve speech recognition performance and accuracy, and are working on small TTS systems using deep learning approaches that help them sound lifelike. And of course, we have efforts in biometrics and natural language that also use deep learning. We are starting to combine a lot of technologies together to show that embedded systems can be quite powerful. And because we have been around longer and thought through most of these implementations years before others, we have a nice portfolio of over 3 dozen patents covering these embedded AI implementations. Hand in hand with Sensory’s improvements in AI software, companies like ARM, NVidia, Intel, Qualcomm and others are investing and improving upon neural net chips that can perform parallel processing for specialized AI functions, so the world will continue seeing better and better AI offerings on “the edge”. What Makes the Latest Version of TrulySecure so Different? A key measure of any biometric system is the inherent accuracy of the matching algorithm. Earlier attempts at face recognition were based on traditional computer vision (CV) techniques. The first attempts involved measuring key distances on the face and comparing those across images, from which the idea of the number of “facial features” associated with an algorithm was born. This method turned out to be very brittle however, especially as the pose angle or expression varied. The next class of algorithms involved parsing the face into a grid, and analyzing each section of the grid individually via standard CV techniques, such as frequency analysis, wavelet transforms, local binary patterns (LBP), etc. Up until recently, these constituted the state of the art in face recognition. Voice recognition has a similar history in the use of traditional signal processing techniques. Sensory’s TrulySecure uses a deep learning approach in our face and voice recognition algorithms. Deep learning (a subset of machine learning) is a modern variant of artificial neural networks, which Sensory has been using since the very beginning in 1994, and thus we have extensive experience in this area. In just the last few years, deep learning has become the primary technology for many CV applications, and especially face recognition. There have been recent announcements in the news by Google, Facebook, and others on face recognition systems they have developed that outperform humans. This is based on analyzing a data set such as Labeled Faces in the Wild, which has images captured over a very wide ranging set of conditions, especially larger angles and distances from the face. We’ve trained our network for the authentication case, which has a more limited range of conditions, using our large data set collected via AppLock and other methods. This allows us to perform better than those algorithms would do for this application, while also keeping our size and processing power requirements under control (the Google and Facebook deep learning implementations are run on arrays of servers). One consequence of the deep learning approach is that we don’t use a number of points on the face per se. The salient features of a face are compressed down to a set of coefficients, but they do not directly correspond to physical locations or measurements of the face. Rather these “features” are discovered by the algorithm during the training phase – the model is optimized to reduce face images to a set of coefficients that efficiently separate faces of a particular individual from faces of all others. This is a much more robust way of assessing the face than the traditional methods, and that is why we decided to utilize deep learning opposed to CV algorithms for face recognition. Sensory has also developed a great deal of expertise in making these deep learning approaches work in limited memory or processing power environments (e.g., mobile devices). This combination creates a significant barrier for any competitor to try to switch to a deep learning paradigm. Optimizing neural networks for constrained environments has been part of Sensory’s DNA since the very beginning. One of the most critical elements to creating a successful deep learning based algorithm such as the ones used in TrulySecure is the availability of a large and realistic data set. Sensory has been amassing data from a wide array of real world conditions and devices for the past several years, which has made it possible to train and independently test the TrulySecure system to a high statistical significance, even at extremely low FARs. It is important to understand how Sensory’s TrulySecure fuses the face and voice biometrics when both are available. We implement two different combination strategies in our technology. In both cases, we compute a combined score that fuses face and voice information (when both are present). Convenience mode allows the use of either face or voice or the combined score to authenticate. TrulySecure mode requires both face and voice to match individually. More specifically, Convenience mode checks for one of face, voice, or the combined score to pass the current security level setting. It assumes a willingness by the user to present both biometrics if necessary to achieve authentication, though in most cases, they will only need to present one. For example, when face alone does not succeed, the user would then try saying the passphrase. In this mode the system is extremely robust to environmental conditions, such as relying on voice instead of face when the lighting is very low. TrulySecure mode, on the other hand, requires that both face and voice meet a minimum match requirement, and that the combined score passes the current security level setting. TrulySecure utilizes adaptive enrollment to improve FRR with virtually no change in FAR. Sensory’s Adaptive Enrollment technology can quickly enhance a user profile from the initial single enrollment and dramatically improve the detection rate, and is able to do this seamlessly during normal use. Adaptive enrollment can produce a rapid reduction in the false rejection rate. In testing, after just 2 adaptations, we have seen almost a 40% reduction in FRR. After 6 failed authentication attempts, we see more than 60% reduction. This improvement in FRR comes with virtually no change in FAR. Additionally, adaptive enrollment alleviates the false rejects associated with users wearing sunglasses, hats, or trying to authenticate in low-light, during rapid motion, challenging angles, with changing expressions and changing facial hair. Comments Off on What Makes the Latest Version of TrulySecure so Different? Comments Off on Will passports one day be secured with biometrics? Rich Nass and Barbara Quinlan from Open Systems Media visited Sensory on their “IoT Roadshow”. I started our meeting off by talking about Sensory’s three products – TrulyHandsfree Voice Control, TrulySecure Authentication, and TrulyNatural large vocabulary embedded speech recognition. Although TrulyHandsfree is best known for its “always on” capabilities, ideal for listening for key phrases (like OK Google, Hey Cortana, and Alexa), it can be used a ton of other ways. One of them is for hands-free photo taking, so no selfie stick is required. To demonstrate, I put my camera on the table and took pictures of Barbara and Rich. (Normally I might have joined the pictures, but their healthy hair, naturally good looks, and formal attire was too outclassing for my participation). There’s a lot of hype about IoT and Wearables and I’m a big believer in both. That said, I think Amazon’s Echo is the perfect example of a revolutionary product that showcases the use of speech recognition in the IoT space and am looking forward to some innovative uses of speech in Wearables! Here’s the article they wrote on their visit to Sensory and an impromptu video showing TrulyNatural performing on-device navigation, as well as a demo of TrulySecure via our AppLock Face/Voice Recognition app. If you’re an IoT device that requires hands-free operation, check out Sensory, just like I did while I was OpenSystems Media’s IoT Roadshow. Sensory’s technology worked flawlessly running through the demo, as you can see in the video. We ran through two different products, one for input and one for security.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T21:00:35Z', 'url': 'https://www.sensory.com/category/security/biometrics-security/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
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VoiPAY prepay plan is the best complete unified VoIP communications package for you! Not only do you get Free Roaming and Free Incoming Calls, but you also can Earn Cashback from all incoming calls made to your VoiPAY 08 and 070 numbers, meaning you are accruing free call credit for making or diverting phone calls too! You can divert to standard landlines and mobiles as well, if you load call credit on to your online account with us, or just offset your call divert to landline or mobile with your accrued Free call credit you will be earning from all incoming calls to your VoiPAY number. The advantages of upgrading the to the VoiPAY prepay plan on 08 or 070 numbers. Download one of these recommended VoIP mobile apps from the App Store on either Android or iPhone (or use your preferred VoIP softphone) and then message us to upgrade your number. To upgrade your UK number account today or if you have any questions, please just give us a call on UK (+44) 0808-117-6736 or you can email us!	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T06:26:07Z', 'url': 'https://www.franzcom.co.uk/products-services/voipay-unified-voip-communications-prepay-plan-for-your-084-087-070-uk-numbers/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Clifton is located in New Jersey. Clifton, New Jersey 07012 has a population of 86,334. The median household income in Clifton, New Jersey 07012 is $68,096. The median household income for the surrounding county is $59,513 compared to the national median of $53,482. The median age of people living in Clifton 07012 is 37 years. I am interested in 34 ROWLAND Avenue, Clifton, NJ 07012.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-25T10:19:06Z', 'url': 'http://www.pattybadia.com/homes-for-sale/34-ROWLAND-Avenue-Clifton-NJ-07012-245918011', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
. . b . . Only one setup clearly differs from the rest by being well balanced: Tawlbwrdd Lewis cross! Last edited by Hagbard on Sun May 15, 2016 9:33 am, edited 3 times in total. That was taken from Lewis's 1940 article. In the original article it appears to be a version tidied up for print, rather than a facsimile of the original drawing. Until the National Library of Wales decides to digitise the Peniarth manuscript and put it on line, or one of us can make the trip to Aberystwyth, the exact drawing will have to remain a mystery. Bell shows the board without a central square marking, and the original source doesn't mention any special properties of the square. Ten starting setups for tawlbwrdd 11x11 was tournament tested, and the Tawlbwrdd Lewis cross 11x11 was found to be the distinctly only well balanced setup with no throne, balance -1.06 ( http://aagenielsen.dk/tawlbwrdd_summary.php ). Robert ip Ifan is the original source of information about the Welsh tawlbwrdd, and through F.R.Lewis we learn that ip Ifan describes the board as 11x11 with the only distinguished square being a throne in the center. So it appears that the Welsh Tawlbwrdd 11x11 indeed has a throne, the same as we know that has the Saami Tablut 9x9. Given the choice, the Tablut Lewis cross does appear somewhat "un-taflic" with its four double lines uncovered by the attackers. Usually lines uncovered by the attackers are single lines. (P.S. At the same time we also learn from the ip Ifan diagram that there exist no such thing as "attackers' base camps" as used in the Foteviken tafl). Last edited by Hagbard on Fri Mar 03, 2017 10:41 pm, edited 1 time in total. Two more test tournaments of the two Tawlbwrdd setups were done to find a best choice for the World Tafl Federation Championship Tournament 2016 round 1. Both setups were found to work all right, the game balances being -1.13 and -1.17, and both setups gave many good games. This attackers' setup fits well with the ap Ifan text "... twenty-four men seek to capture him [the king]. These are placed, six in the centre of each side of the board and in the six central positions." Gathering all attackers in edge center blocks and thus leaving eight open lines and maximum empty space in the corners, could make one believe that the defenders can slip through all this open space easily. The test games showed, however, that it's very hard for the defenders (white) to escape. I had a number of games against high rated players, and my experience was that for the defenders the game is very tight and slightly random, meaning that you might be lucky enough to early catch the opponent in a position where his moves can be forced all the rest of the game until white victory, and if you do just one white move differently it all falls apart and white loses. White's toolbox lacks the Millar Gambit with this setup (attacking f3 ao.), and one player mentioned that he misses it. This defenders' setup fits well with the ap Ifan text "... a king in the centre and twelve men in the places next to him ...". This setup allows for the Millar Gambit, and going through the games one finds a lot of interesting and varied game play. This is a game which can take many directions. The two setups could do with further testing, but for now it seems that the Bell setup would be the best choice for the Championship round 1. 2016-07-03 11:00:22 Tuireann: I think Tawlbwrdd 1 [Bell] creates more interesting games [...] and I have made some pretty unbelievable victories from behind on Tawlbwrdd 2 [Lewis cross] as black. 2016-07-05 18:51:14 Sigurd: Between Tawlbwrdd Bell & Lewis Cross it's close, but I'll go with Bell at this point. More games of each are needed though. I'm hoping they both hold up. May 22nd, Jarl Herjan on Facebook, photo of a fine tawlbwrdd board 11x11 with throne and no corners, and diamond-Bell setup, just as we recommend it here. This is my new Tawlbwrdd (Welsh Tafl) which I had designed. In addition I have come up with a set of rules for Tawlbwrdd that is in keeeping with its literal translation meaning "Throw Board" which suggests the possible use of dice in the game. What I have come up with following my research and playing various versions of Tawlbwrdd is a game that is fun and easy to play with an element of luck and a gamble that would have appealed to Vikings and the Welsh in the early medieval world. "Throw Board" is an old mistranslation of the word "Tawlbwrdd", Tawlbwrdd simply being the wellknown Scandinavian word Tavlbord = Game Board, in my opinion. But in any case Herjan has invented an interesting tawlbwrdd variant. How do one play this game?	{'timestamp': '2019-04-18T22:45:10Z', 'url': 'http://aagenielsen.dk/hnefataflforum/phpBB3/viewtopic.php?t=25&p=183', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
What happens to a pension in a Georgia divorce? On behalf of G. Morris Carr, LLC on Thursday, August 9, 2018. Other than custody of a minor child, asset division is probably the most contentious issue in any divorce. You and your ex likely don't agree on what is the best or most fair way to split up your possessions. This can lead to protracted battles in court. Spouses often fight most furiously over the assets that are worth the most. Many couples focus on the home, which often represents the most significant purchase from the marriage. Another asset that can cause a lot of conflict in a divorce is a pension. Georgia has its own unique approach to divorce, just like every other state. When it comes to splitting up the assets and debts from your marriage, they use the equitable distribution approach. For those unfamiliar with this term, equitable distribution involves looking at the circumstances of each spouse and other factors from the marriage to decide what is fair. Equitable does not always mean a 50/50 split, but rather a property division ruling based on the current and likely future circumstances of all parties. Typically, any assets acquired during the marriage, as well as any debts, are subject to division by the court. This includes assets that are only in the name of one spouse, such as a pension. The courts will look at deposits into the pension account that occurred during the marriage. This will include any matching amounts for employers, as this is also compensation earned during the marriage. Amounts accrued prior to the date of marriage may be exempt from division. In the case of standard retirement accounts, the court can simply issue a special order that requires the division of the retirement account. When it comes to pensions, however, it is often a benefit managed by an employer after retirement. In other words, there isn't an account to split at this time. The courts may need to be creative with how they handle a pension. In some cases, they may award other assets worth roughly the amount that the spouse who doesn't have a pension would receive. Other times, they may order spousal support equivalent to the appropriate percentage of the pension once it begins paying out. If you have a pension account, you should expect to share it with your spouse in a divorce or give away other assets to offset its value. If your spouse has a significant pension, you should seek a fair share of that account. In general, both spouses can expect to receive an equitable amount of the pension, as well as all other assets in a Georgia divorce.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T08:41:40Z', 'url': 'https://www.carrdowney.com/blog/2018/08/what-happens-to-a-pension-in-a-georgia-divorce.shtml', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
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that the special doesn’t match the puzzle. a bit of sense, or even better–please correct this problem! This topic was modified 3 months ago by jollyjelly. This problem is evidently too difficult to fix. surely do better than whoever’s in charge, right now! right now that something to do with the Beakman goats!	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T08:50:36Z', 'url': 'https://community.hsn.com/forums/hsn-arcade/todays-special-jigsaw-doesnt-match-actual-special/769904/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
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Low fertility among educated women threatens to lower the supply of high-skilled workers. While the world's population is still growing, there is already a serious shortage of babies in most developed countries. In Singapore, for example, the total fertility rate per woman stands at 1.4 children, far below the 2.1 children needed to replace its 4 million people. Even more worrisome, the few babies that do get born are disproportionately born to less educated and poorer mothers. In the U.S., for example, among women college graduates born 1960 - 1964, the average number of children born by age 40 is only 1.6. On the other hand, among women high-school dropouts, the equivalent number is 2.6. There may be other non-economic reasons involved for this disparate birth pattern. But there is no denying that the opportunity cost of having children is much higher for highly educated women than poorly educated women. The upward momentum of wages is thwarted no matter when a high-skilled educated woman has a child (See The Family Gap). For low-skilled women, their wages stay low anyway. There are little benefits in delaying motherhood or reducing the number of babies. Given that the chance of getting a good education is low for babies born to poorly educated women; this birth pattern bodes ill for the competitiveness of young workers in the developed countries. In an age where even knowledge-based jobs can be easily offshored to countries with cheap labor, developed countries can ill afford to have workers who are less educated than the developing countries to which skilled jobs have been outsourced. There are of course low-skilled jobs that are location-bound and cannot be easily outsourced to labor-abundant countries. But the oversupply of low-skilled workers for these low-skilled jobs makes it difficult to elevate their wages. Harvard Magazine. "Fertility and Destiny." March - April 2005. WSJ. 1/30/2003. "Cupid the Bureaucrat? Singapore Tries to Play Matchmaker."	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T21:51:43Z', 'url': 'http://opus1journal.org/articles/article.asp?docID=1', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
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>>> as anne just mentioned this oil is devastating people who live along the gulf coast among them residents of plaquemines parish . billy nungesser is the parish president . i know you're hearing it from the people who live in that parish. give me the sense of the range of emotions you're hearing on a daily basis. >> it's fear. it's disgust. it's -- you know, people in plaquemines parish aren't used to sitting around and waiting. we prepare for the worst and hope for the best. and we just don't see the efforts out there, number one. we told them it would come ashore. they said, no, it will be a few tar balls. it's come ashore. they're not equipped. there's no plan in place. the leadership is really lacking from all aspects of the coast guard and bp . seven skimmer boats in plack plaquemines parish as you see it takes them four or five days to get out there. it's just unacceptable. the people are disgusted, frustrated, as i am. and putting more troops on the ground is not the answer. we need a leader to step up and take charge and build this berm out there that the keep most of the oil out. >> mr. nungesser, would you say the frustration level is equal or equally shared between the federal government and bp or are the people in that area blaming one over the other? >> well, i think we're pointing the finger at both and they keep pointing the finger at each other. and the coast guard ultimately has the decision. they can direct bp to do anything. had they directed them to pay and build this berm 30 days ago, we would have over 20 miles of berm out the water receiving this oil on the beach. it's easy to clean it up off the beaches. you won't clean it up out of the marshes where it's destroying the habitat for the pelicans and all the wildlife in louisiana. it will destroy it for many years. and we told them that. it's now coming ashore. they need to admit they made a mistake, take a step back and let's get working out there, pull all stops out to protect our coastline. but they're still pointing the finger. more people on the ground is not the answer. organization, the equipment and building that berm to protect our coastline is the answer. we need to pull out all stops. >> we've got the memorial day weekend fast approaching here, mr. nungesser. obviously the traditional start to the tourism season. what impact are you expecting? >> all the tournaments, all the big fishing tournaments are canceled. all the festivals in this area have been canceled. we have no tourism. all we have is the workers here that are working on this spill. and it's pretty devastating. and we're talking about long, long-lasting effects in these marshlands. i'm so disappointed they won't spend $300 million to build a barrier island to protect us but i heard yesterday bp put up $500 million to check and research and study what's going to happen after the fact. we're not going to need that money because there's not going to be much left here to study. put that money up front. let's save the marsh while we still have a chance. we lost the battle. we haven't lost the war. it's time for a true leader to step up and let's make something happen. >> all right. plaquemines parish president billy nungesser. thank you for your time and our thoughts are with all of the good folks in your parish. >>> 7:12. once again here's meredith.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T17:14:34Z', 'url': 'http://www.nbcnews.com/id/37337727/ns/disaster_in_the_gulf/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
"There is no god but Allah; Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah" This creed is considered holy, and as such the flag should not be used on t-shirts or any other items. Saudi Arabia protested against its inclusion on a planned football to be issued by FIFA, bearing all the flags of the participants of the 2002 Football World Cup. Saudi officials said that kicking the creed with the foot was completely unacceptable. Since it bears the "Word of God", the flag is never lowered to half-mast as a sign of mourning. The green color of this and other Islamic flags is said to be derived from the fact that the Prophet Muhammad wore a green cloak. This page was last modified 23:51, 19 Jun 2005. This page has been accessed 1938 times.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T14:06:34Z', 'url': 'http://academickids.com/encyclopedia/index.php/Flag_of_Saudi_Arabia', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Principles and government policies in real estate education. MREA exams are supervised by an invigilator who is responsible for ensuring the exam procedures and rules are followed. Any individual caught cheating during the exam will face an automatic failure on the exam and may face disciplinary action from The Manitoba Securities Commission. The exam is three hours in length, however, you may leave once you have completed your exam. Students must attain a final mark of 70 per cent (minimum) to successfully pass the exam. Exam results are processed as soon as possible, and generally mailed/emailed to students within two weeks of their exam date, but may take longer if written in a rural location. Exam results will be emailed if students provide permission and verify their current email address, if included on the required Admit to Examination Slip. Marks will not be released by telephone due to privacy protocol. Do not phone The Manitoba Securities Commission or Manitoba Real Estate Association for your examination results. If a student does not pass their first examination, they have two additional opportunities to rewrite the examination for the corresponding course. The fee to rewrite an examination is $200 (plus GST) payable to the association prior to the examination rewrite. If a student does not attain a passing mark on the third attempt, the student must wait one year from the date of the third exam to re-enroll in the program. Rewrite examinations are worth 100 per cent with no credit for marks on previous examinations. Examination rewrites are not permitted for the following courses: Salesperson Challenge, Salesperson Interprovincial, Broker Challenge, or Broker Interprovincial. MREA is committed to providing an environment that is inclusive and free of barriers. Examination accommodation requests are assessed on a case-by-case basis to ensure equal opportunity for students to fully demonstrate their qualifications. Examination accommodations are granted on an individual basis and are dependent on the nature and extent of the request, documentation provided and requirements of the examination. However, submitting a request does not guarantee receiving accommodation. Students electing to write exams in Winnipeg are required to call the MREA office at 204.772.0405 to schedule an exam. MREA typically hosts examination sessions weekly on Tuesdays from 1:00 p.m. - 4:00 p.m., however, there are exceptions to these dates. When scheduling exams, please refer to the Examination Schedule provided to you upon enrollment. Students cancelling a scheduled exam within 24-hours of the scheduled exam time will be charged a short-notice cancellation fee of $25 plus GST. Students electing to write exams at one of the approved rural examination centres are required to first contact the local invigilator to schedule an exam. Once an exam date has been selected, students are required to advise MREA staff of the scheduled exam date and location. MREA requires, at minimum, two weeks’ notice of scheduled rural exams to allow sufficient time for delivery of the exam. Students residing outside of Manitoba may write their exam at an approved invigilation center in located in Canada. For more information on approved invigilation centers in Canada, contact the MREA education department at 204-772-0405 or Jane Walker at [email protected]. Students must present current government issued photo identification, such as a driver’s license, passport, or photo citizenship card at the examination centre. -Must not be expired. If the photo identification does not have an expiry date, it must have been issued within the last 10 years. Under no circumstances will a student be permitted to write any examination without producing current government issued photo identification. Students found to have left a cell phone on during the exam, will have their exam confiscated, will receive an automatic fail, and will be required to reschedule and pay a rewrite fee. In addition, the automatic fail will count towards the maximum number of examination writings allowed. We recommend students leave prohibited items in their vehicle to ensure no disturbance is caused during the writing of the examination. The module program examinations and RLE examinations are closed-book; encyclopedias and course materials are not permitted. Students using any course materials when writing a module or RLE examination, will have their examination confiscated, will receive an automatic fail, and will be required to reschedule and pay a rewrite fee. In addition, the automatic fail will count towards the maximum number of examination writings allowed. If a student is displaying behaviour that is a disturbance to other students, the invigilator will provide the student two warnings to stop the behaviour. If the student continues the behaviour beyond the second warning, the invigilator will confiscate the student’s examination, the student will receive an automatic failure, and will have to pay for and schedule a rewrite examination. Students are asked to arrive 30 minutes prior to their scheduled examination session. Students arriving after the examination session has begun, will not be permitted to write their examination, will be charged a short-notice cancellation fee of $25 plus GST, and will need to reschedule their examination. Examination seating arrangements (when writing in Winnipeg) are determined prior to the start of the examination, and are based on the type of examinations being written during the session. Students are directed to take a seat at a location which indicates the corresponding examination to be written. Students are not permitted to move examination place cards to different locations in the examination room. Office copies of reference encyclopedias for use during the examination are available at the examination centre. Student’s writing an “open book exam” may pick up these materials at the time of obtaining their examination from the invigilator. Students may be excused to use the washroom but are not permitted to use electronic devices or to exit the building. Students must review and sign the required Admit to Examination Slip, which provides MREA the authority to email examination results directly to students upon completion of processing. The front cover sheet of the examination is the only place where a student’s name should appear; do not write or indicate your name elsewhere on the examination. Please contact the education department with your accommodation request via email: [email protected] a minimum of three weeks prior to the scheduled examination.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T10:40:42Z', 'url': 'https://realestatemanitoba.com/course-guide/begin-your-career/education-policies/index.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
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Upload a picture of "Eaise haad" Add a YouTube Video for "Eaise haad" Someone who doesn't obey orders. (patois) Wah mek yu eaise so hard? (english) Why are you so stubborn?	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T14:42:52Z', 'url': 'http://jamaicanpatwah.com/term/Eaise-haad/974', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
It’s true for all of us individually, familiarly, and professionally. It is true for medicine – allopathic and alternative - too. It’s true for the knowledge of the disc and the spine it holds. Knowledge of Severna Park back pain keeps evolving, and one of the major milestones was rather recent in the history of man. Back And Neck Care Center discloses past and current discoveries about the disc and the back pain it brings about as well as the Severna Park chiropractic care that reduces that back pain. The knowledge of disc herniation as a compressive force on spinal nerves resulting in back pain and leg pain is a relatively new phenomenon. Keep in mind that the spine changes as it ages. The shape of the disc and the composition of it tissue changes. The disc’s center, nucleus pulposus, changes and gets smaller. (1) We know differently today, but in 1909, the disc herniation was thought to be a tumor. In 1930, a neurologist (T Alajouanine) and surgeon (D Petit-Dutaillis) explained their surgical experiences with disc herniations that were initially studied by a pathologist named CG Schmorl. But it was not until 1934 when WJ Mixter and JS Barr circulated the first report of surgically taking out disc herniations in 19 patients. (2) (Unless it is published, it didn’t happen…and you don’t get credit for it!) So it was less than a century ago that the disc herniation was named a disc herniation and recognized as such! Allopathy and alternative medicine like chiropractic have grown to the challenge in that time. Allopathic medicine is usually focused on the disease and tends to focus on symptom-specific treatment (usually pharmacological or invasive) to get rid of the cause of pain. Alternative medicine traditionally centered on a whole-body approach and has a tendency to focus on treatments that stimulate the body’s ability to heal itself (herbal supplements, Reiki, chiropractic, Tai chi, acupuncture, etc.) to reduce pain. (3) Nowadays, integrative medicine is escalating in its appreciation and use of the best of both. Chiropractic care is all-encompassing care for spine pain conditions. For the disc herniation resulting in low back pain, neck pain, leg pain and/or arm pain, gentle flexion distraction spinal manipulation is relieving. A new study states that horizontal traction was very helpful in producing a significant increase in average lumbar spine disc height and decrease in lumbar lordosis. (4) Such is available with the Cox Technic System of Spinal Pain Management causing long-y axis distraction. Back And Neck Care Center specializes in this treatment. Cox Technic is described as a non-thrust low velocity variable amplitude spinal manipulation that manages low back pain non-pharmacologically. It’s shown to reduce pain in chronic low back pain patients. (5) It reduces intradiscal pressure in the disc to as low as -192mmHg, widens the spinal canal area by 28%, and increases disc height by 17%. (6) Back And Neck Care Center eases back pain due to disc herniation very effectively. Schedule a non-surgical Severna Park chiropractic care appointment with Back And Neck Care Center today. Together, we’ll determine where you have been on your back pain journey and make a course of correction and control for its future with the most appropriate treatment possible.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-26T12:37:36Z', 'url': 'https://www.backandneckcarecenter.net/doctor/chiropractor/chiropractic-Severna-Park/spine-articles/severna-park-chiropractic-helps-disc-herniations', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Join The Second Floor for a 6 day workshop with the Little Medical School. Little Medical School brings medicine, science, and the importance of health to children in an entertaining, exciting, and fun way. Children learn and have fun as they dress up like doctors, learn how to use instruments doctors use, and understand how the body works! Class 1: What’s in the Doctor’s Bag? Students learn about instruments doctors use. Class 2: All about the Heart! Students learn about how the heart functions and get to listen using their own stethoscope. Class 3: All About the Lungs! Students get up and moving to learn how air enters and exits the body. Through an interactive exercise, students learn what happens when their bodies digest food. Class 5: Is there a Surgeon in the House? A face mask and gloves will make students feel like real surgeons as they learn to suture and tie knots! A fun review of the course! Students graduate from the Little Medical School and receive a diploma. Their educational enrichment programs provide a fun, innovative, and engaging curriculum. They create an opportunity to experience role playing using tools that real doctors use, and learn how the body works. By participating in these role-playing experiences, Little Medical School is inspiring tomorrow’s doctors today! For more information about their exciting programs, visit their website www.littlemedicalschool.com/pakistan and register today! No prerequisites required! Take their courses in any order! Event Name: Little Medical School Workshop: Tools, Heart, Lungs, & More!	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T05:00:11Z', 'url': 'http://dhatoday.com/little-medical-school-workshop-tools-heart-lungs-more-at-the-second-floor-faraar-gallery-t2f/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Sheng Mei Plastic Machinery Co., Ltd. is a foreign invested company in Guangdong. specialized in producing blow-molding machines. Her head-quarter company is KAI MEI Plastic Machinery Co.,Ltd. established in 1977. A wide range of machines are designed to produce containers from materials base on PE, PVC, PP, PETG and PU etc. Sheng Mei Machines can produce 5ml containers to 1000 liters, which are fully utilized by customers around the world. Sheng Mei’s R&D department constantly develops new machines, from single, double, triple quadruple to octuple die-head blow molding machines. Each machine is designed and engineered to fully meet market requirements. Various machines not only provide customers with a flexible choice, but also good cost efficiency. Our strong commitment of providing good machines for our customers is an important factor in Sheng Mei's leadership in Chinese blow molding machine industry. With reliable quality, high efficiency, strict quality control system combined with excellent technical support, Sheng Mei sells machines to countries around the world includes: Malaysia, South Africa, Argentina, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Brazil…etc.Sheng Mei machines win a good reputation worldwide.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-19T00:37:07Z', 'url': 'http://cdn.cens.com/cens/html/en/supplier/supplier_home_26976.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Shonen magazine is a Japanese weekly manga magazine. In 1970 one issue of the magazine was decorated by colored Escher's artwork Belvedere. The image was found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/the_moog_image_dump/8056003471/.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-20T01:08:25Z', 'url': 'https://im-possible.info/english/art/covers/comics-shonen.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
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We are surrounded by asymmetric information. Anyone who wants to advance and create a better life and career for themself, needs to be able to easily assess and evaluate asymmetric information. This video provides and easy but not much thought of technique to help develop this vital skill.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T20:40:56Z', 'url': 'http://www.learninganddevelopment.ca/learning/train-your-brain-to-faster-assess-and-evaluate-asymmetric-information', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Modernity and the Millennium. Juan R. I. Cole. Modernity and the Millennium : The Genesis of the Baha’i Faith in the Nineteenth-Century Middle East. Columbia University Press, 1998. “Some contemporary leaders of the Baha’i Faith have given answers increasingly similar to those of fundamentalists, stressing scriptural literalism, patriarchy, theocracy, censorship, intellectual intolerance, and denying key democratic values. While the values of the nineteenth-century Baha’i movement, which was far more tolerant, continue to exist as a minority view, by the late 1990s a different set of emphases prevailed” (196). “The rise of academic Baha’i scholarship has caused tension in the community, whose present-day leadership tends to be fundamentalist and antiliberal in orientation, and this has led to pressure on a number of prominent academics to resign or dissociate themselves from the movement” (201). These same forces of fundamentalist orthodoxy are evident on talk.religion.bahai and alt.religion.bahai on Usenet for impartial viewers to witness. They will be evident to all perceptive observers of whatever forum Bahais may be trying to control and influence. Both my and Cole’s websites provide essential documentation along these lines. It should be noted that the Universal House of Justice has actively worked through the BCCA (Bahai Computer and Communications Association) to suppress all links to websites with other than its own “comprehensive” point of view on such major portals as Yahoo.com, Excite.com, and other search engines. The UHJ has reportedly gone even further by advising Bahais to remove any link whatsoever to Professor Cole’s website. As a Bahai since 1976, I myself have always found especially repulsive the manner in which Bahai fundamentalists attempt to manipulate the institutions and leaders of government, the United Nations, and public opinion, while pretending to values they deride in private or at Bahai-only meetings. “These are effectual and sufficient proofs that the conscience of man is sacred and to be respected; and that liberty thereof produces widening of ideas, amendment of morals, improvement of conduct, disclosure of the secrets of the contingent world” (Abdu’l-Baha, A Traveler’s Narrative, 91). The Universal House of Justice, in Haifa, Israel, is also in the end responsible for inciting Baha’i fanatics and fundamentalists to attack other Bahais and non-Bahais merely for their views expressed on and off line in free forums of public discussion. Professor Cole’s Modernity and the Millennium will remain, for many years to come, the most important book available on the Baha’i Faith. His discussion of its historical development within the intellectual milieu of progressive 19th Century thought is particularly brilliant and insightful.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-20T15:12:12Z', 'url': 'https://fglaysher.com/TheGlobe/tag/modernity-and-the-millennium/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
From I-275 North, take exit 44. Merge onto North Ashley Drive toward Downtown-West. Turn left onto East Madison Street. Stichter, Riedel is located on the left side of the street. From I-275 South, take Exit 45A toward downtown. Keep right to take the Ashley Drive ramp toward Downtown West. Merge onto North Ashley Drive via the ramp. Turn left onto East Madison Street. Stichter, Riedel is located on the left side of the street. Take Exit 45A toward downtown. Keep right to take the Ashley Drive ramp toward Downtown West. Merge onto North Ashley Drive via the ramp. Turn left onto East Madison Street. Stichter, Riedel is located on the left side of the street.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T18:02:04Z', 'url': 'http://www.srbp.com/srbp/locations', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
England’s hopes in Auckland were over as soon as they were dismissed for 58 on the first day. Kane Williamson’s faultless hundred then ensured that England would have to bat exceptionally to make New Zealand bat again, a task thy fell just short of achieving despite a more concerted effort in the second innings. The match saw a record equalling 12th match away from home that England have failed to win. The previous bar was set between 1939-1948. New Zealland have won 3 of their last four tests at the venue and a year ago in beating Bangladesh Boult and Southee combined to take 15 wickets. The most likely outcome here is another New Zealand win, though much as ever depends on Williamson and Taylor with the bat but at odds against 11/10 with Bet365 New Zealand are certainly a backable proposition. March 26, 2018 - Offer valid as of date published. T&Cs apply.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T04:30:26Z', 'url': 'http://www.betpal.com/new-zealand-v-england-2nd-test-betting-preview', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
We may collect personal identification information from Users in a variety of ways, including, but not limited to, when Users visit our site, fill out a comment or contact form, and in connection with other activities, services, features or resources we make available on our Site. Users may be asked for, as appropriate, name, email address. Users may, however, visit our Site anonymously. We will collect personal identification information from Users only if they voluntarily submit such information to us. Users can always refuse to supply personally identification information, except that it may prevent them from engaging in certain Site-related activities. If User decides to opt-in to our mailing list, managed through MailChimp, they will receive emails that may include company news, updates, related product or service information, etc.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-25T02:07:51Z', 'url': 'https://laurieboris.com/privacy/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Silvretta Montafon, one of Austria’s biggest ski regions, has been an attraction richer since the end of November 2014 with the start-up of the new detachable gondola known as the Panorama lift. Winter sports enthusiasts can now reach the Kreuzjochsattel in just eight rather than the previous forty minutes while enjoying the comfort of modern 8-passenger gondolas. When they reach the top, they are greeted by a breathtaking 360-degree view of Montafon. The new gondola lift replaces two chairlifts and has 65 cabins to take guests up to an altitude of 2,400 m. Great emphasis was placed on comfort with this installation. In addition to heated seats and PA system, passengers can enjoy WLAN access during the trip. The project partners who helped to make that possible were Input, who develop experience concepts for tourist regions, and Loop 21.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-26T14:36:12Z', 'url': 'https://www.doppelmayr.com/en/products/references/8-mgd-panorama-bahn/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Inclusive finance is one of the most focused on issues for the Chinese government this year. In January, authorities issued a five-year plan for the development of inclusive finance in the country, and since then, the term has appeared multiple times in government reports and is still gaining traction. The concept is simple. There is an enormous rural population in China, as well as blue-collar workers and other lower income citizens spread throughtout the country. These groups are badly in need of banking services and financing, be it for crop insurance in farming regions or access to loans to buy seeds for growing, or sending their children for higher education. The need for financing is equally urgent in cities, where nearly 20 million SMEs (small medium enterprises) in China are searching for capital to expand. These groups have traditionally been underserved by banks. The Chinese government has recognized Fintech as a viable solution to solve this issue, and is eagerly encouraging this digital transformation. During a conference in Shanghai last month, chiefs from PBOC (People’s Bank of China), NIFA (National Internet Finance Association of China) praised the development of Fintech on the Mainland and promised more support for Inclusive Finance. The government support is a push in the right direction. Financial institutions typically focus on the top 20% of wealthy consumers who control 80% of the country’s wealth. The financial inclusion market is considered a blue ocean. Even so, difficulties such as the lack of credit records and the high cost of going rural have always put big financial institutions off. Fortunately, the development of the internet and other similar technologies is transforming the space. Financial affiliates of established players such as Credit Ease, Ant Financial, and JingDong Finance are already moving into inclusive finance. Alibaba’s Mybank said it would offer smaller loans than regular banks and focus on the everyday 'man-on-the-street' and SMEs. Yirendai.com under Credit Ease considers inclusive finance as a social responsibility. Guangzhou-based PPmoney.com is one of China’s most used online wealth management and lending platforms. Their client focus includes blue-collar workers in China. On the asset side of the platform, PPmoney has developed four products for their customers: mortgage for 3C (Computer, Communication, Consumer Electronics) products, mortgages for vehicles, leasing for trucks, and cash loans. The firm also developed a new risk management system that includes four core elements: Cloud approval, Robot learning, Big data and Anti-fraud. At a recent forum, Baoguo Chen, the CEO of PPmoney.com, who is also the official at Guangdong Internet Finance Association, urged banks and financial institutions to support innovation in banking to assist the low-income population. Cashbus is another good example of a startup focusing on micro cash loans. It provides small loans for clients in need of cash for a short period before getting their monthly salaries. They created an efficient credit checking process to quickly approval a loan and satisfy borrower’s urgent money needs. Borrowers need not hand the company any collateral and can take out loans with by just providing their identification card and a cellphone number. The loans are approved in 20 minutes. Should the firms above succeed, the development of inclusive banking services in the rural areas China is set to witness big change.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-25T15:53:06Z', 'url': 'https://www.kapronasia.com/china-capital-markets-research-category/developments-in-inclusive-finance-in-china.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Thank you for volunteering, Caroline! Many thanks to Caroline Latta for choosing Rescued Pets Movement as the subject of her Girl Scouts community service project! Not only did she explain what RPM does and talk about the importance of fostering with many members of her community, but she also made enrichment toys for the dogs and cats in our program, which you can find in the toy box Caroline made in our clinic lobby. Caroline sent the two tutorial videos below that show how you can make the toys for your fosters, or make more toys for the toy box. Thank you for being an awesome volunteer and foster, Caroline! All of our Fosters and Volunteers are Rock Stars, but some just truly embrace it! How long have you volunteered with RPM? I’ve been fostering for RPM since May of 2015. We moved to Houston in October of 2014. My friend Debbie introduced me to Peggy Wallace, who is very involved in RPM, before I even moved to Houston. She said “If you ever move to Houston I’m going to hook you up with an amazing rescue”. A year later we were living in Houston. What made you want to volunteer with RPM? I needed to get back into rescue and helping dogs and I’d heard so many good things about RPM and I loved the fact that they did things a little differently. What do you do as a volunteer for RPM? I foster mostly sick dogs, mangey dogs and orphaned bottle babies. What has been your favorite memory volunteering with RPM? My favorite memory… there lots of them. Not only saving the lives of some pretty sick dogs but the amazing friendships I have made in this awesome rescue community. What’s the best part about volunteering with RPM? The best part is: Saving lives. And saving myself. I moved here only knowing a few people. I felt lost. I believe RPM saved me and gave me a purpose while fostering and saving lives. What’s the most difficult part about volunteering with RPM? The most difficult part for me is seeing how much pain and suffering so many of these dogs have been through before being saved by RPM. But the flip side is the joy in watching them heal and blossom. What’s something you wish you would have known before you started volunteering with RPM? I wish I had known I’d be so involved and had moved closer instead of living so far south. If I lived closer I could help at the clinic and help with transporting. What would you say to those who are considering volunteering with RPM? I would tell them to definitely sign up to volunteer. If they can’t foster there are so many other things they can do. Do it for the dogs and do it for yourself. It’s so very rewarding.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T18:28:00Z', 'url': 'https://rescuedpetsmovement.org/category/uncategorized/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Kgosi is Khama’s close ally. One of Masisi’s first acts as president was to fire him as intelligence boss. The once feared head of Botswana’s Directorate of Intelligence Services (DIS), Isaac Kgosi, is in police custody after his arrest at Gaborone’s Sir Seretse Khama Airport on suspicion of tax evasion. The arrest sent shock waves through Botswana, amid fears that it could worsen tensions between President Mogweetsi Masisi and his predecessor, Ian Khama. During his arrest on Tuesday this week, he loudly threatened to topple the government. Though not yet charged, it is understood that Kgosi is being investigated in connection with alleged tax evasion. The DIS, the Botswana Police and the Botswana Revenue Services spent the better part of Wednesday searching his house in the affluent Gaborone suburb of Phakalane Estates. The once feared former spy chief was greeted with an arrest warrant and handcuffs on his return from a trip to Asia and the Middle East, accompanied by his wife and children. The arrest and raid on his house were coordinated by his successor, DIS director general Peter Magosi. Tempers flared at the airport as Kgosi demanded to know why he was being arrested in such a public way. As he was being handcuffed in the open lobby of the airport, he protested that the whole exercise was intended to embarrass him. He started hurling insults at his captors, declaring that he had always worked hard for Botswana. “You guys are driving me to do things I never thought I will do. I am going to topple the government, I’m telling you,” he said. His lawyer, Unoda Mack, dismissed the statement as “a flight of hyperbole”, saying that had been caught off guard. He said his client was calmer on Wednesday and cooperating with the authorities. Speaking to the media, Magosi said Kgosi would remain in custody while investigations continue. He said it was still too early to tell if he would finish up in court, as the investigation was in its infancy. “All we can say now is that there was a joint operation between us, the Botswana police and [the revenue service]. Our investigations required us to search his home,” he said. It is understood that Kgosi’s other properties, including another house in Gaborone and farms, will also be searched. Kgosi’s attorneys confirmed that he spent the night in custody. “From the document that we have seen, they are looking for documents or storage devices that could assist in an investigation regarding tax issues. That’s all the document discloses,” Mack said. Political analyst Leonard Sesa said that the manner of Kgosi’s arrest would only deepen the rift between Khama and Masisi. “I have long said that the war between the president and his predecessor is no ordinary conflict,” he said. “If it is not nipped in the bud, this thing is going to end up in civil war. “The revenue service had suspicions that there might be irregularities regarding tax and they have the right to investigate,” he said. “While it was very foolish for Kgosi to talk about toppling the government, I think it was only out of frustration because he is used to having so much power. He was trying to intimidate the arresting officers,” he said. The DISS was established amid controversy shortly after Khama assumed office in 2008. Money from the government’s Disaster Fund were diverted to help establish the organisation, amid strong resistance from opposition MPs and some backbenches from the ruling Botswana Democratic Party. Kgosi, at the time Khama’s private secretary, was appointed to head the new body. With presidential support he quickly turned it into the most powerful security organ in the country. Well-funded and largely unaccountable, the DIS was shielded by Khama – despite allegations of corruption against Kgosi and human rights abuses. This story was produced by the INK Centre for Investigative Journalism. The amaBhungane Centre for Investigative Journalism, an independent non-profit, provided this story. Like it? Be an amaB supporter to help it do more.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T14:01:23Z', 'url': 'https://mg.co.za/article/2019-01-18-botswana-arrests-ex-spy-boss', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Latitude and longitude coordinates are: 23.111567, 113.326889. Haixinsha is the name of a small district and an island in Tianhe area of Guangzhou city in China. The island is located on the Zhujland River and administratively it belongs to Haizhu district. It is connected with the city by two old bridges, Xinguag Bridge and Luoxi Bridge. There is a large park Hai Xin Sha Ya Yung Gon situated on the island, and it is an important landmark of the area. There is also a small marina where local ferries land, so it is possible to reach the island by ferries as well. There is a large sport facility on the island, with the capacity close to 35,000 places. It was constructed as a governmental facility after lasting litigation processes related to the land owners. The latitude of Haixinsha Island, Tianhe Qu, Guangzhou Shi, China is 23.111567, and the longitude is 113.326889. Haixinsha Island, Tianhe Qu, Guangzhou Shi, China is located at China country in the Islands place category with the gps coordinates of 23° 6' 41.6412'' N and 113° 19' 36.8004'' E. Haixinsha Island, Tianhe Qu, Guangzhou Shi, China elevation is 32000 meters height, that is equal to 104,987 feet. Coordinates of Haixinsha Island, Tianhe Qu, Guangzhou Shi, China is given above in both decimal degrees and DMS (degrees, minutes and seconds) format. The country code given is in the ISO2 format.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T12:47:30Z', 'url': 'https://www.latlong.net/place/haixinsha-island-tianhe-qu-guangzhou-shi-china-26168.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
X FREE SHIPPING WITH EVERY ORDER. CREATE YOUR 5-PC SUPERHERO MUM GIFT + 3 SAMPLES WITH $180 SPEND. Gifts for her! What women really want! Purchase $180 and create your 5-pc Superhero Mum Gift. Collect stamps as you navigate the journey to age-defying skin. The more stamps you collect the more rewards you bag home! Receive ONE bonus stamp when you purchase Double Serum + any Anti-Ageing Moisturiser. Targets fine lines, antioxidant day emulsion. An original and sensorial cooling gel-cream texture that instantly melts into the skin. A hydrating moisturiser adapted to Asian skin. Targets fine lines, antioxidant day cream. For a bare skin effect with hydration. UVA-UVB, The Anti-UV, Anti-Pollution, Anti-Age protector, Oil Free. Get the latest updates on exclusive offers and product news!	{'timestamp': '2019-04-26T00:03:08Z', 'url': 'https://www.clarins.com.sg/anti-pollution-products/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Today was a Pearl Jam Ten listening, Hemingway brooding, spending-too-much-time-inside-my-own-head kind of day. So today will be the first day I use the words of another to describe exactly what my day was and what the hell was going on inside of it. Today I will be celebrating another birthday. I will also be attempting to avoid seeing Frozen for the first time. I don’t want to see it. I love Disney movies, especially all the princess movies – but for some reason I want to go to the grave having never seen Frozen. Same with the Biebs – I want to go to the grave being able to say I have never heard a Justin Bieber song from start to finish – clips sure – but never a whole song. I feel like this will lend a certain distinction and credibility to my life that few others can claim. It is a beautiful day outside today. I am hungover however – please see yesterday’s post for further explanation – and for the first time on a nice day, all I want to do is take a nap. So I think I will.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-24T09:00:21Z', 'url': 'https://afistfulofcrazy.com/category/uncategorized/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
This article is about the German title. For other uses, see Führer (disambiguation). Führer (German pronunciation: [ˈfyːʁɐ], spelled Fuehrer when the umlaut is not available) is a German word meaning "leader" or "guide". As a political title it is associated with the Nazi dictator Adolf Hitler. Nazi Germany cultivated the Führerprinzip ("leader principle"), and Hitler was generally known as just der Führer ("the Leader"). Führer was the title demanded by Adolf Hitler to denote his function as the head of the Nazi Party; he received it in 1921 when, infuriated over party founder Anton Drexler's plan to merge with another antisemitic far-right nationalist party, he resigned from the party. Drexler and the party's Executive Committee then acquiesced to Hitler's demand to be made the chairman of the party with "dictatorial powers" as the condition for his return. It was common at the time to refer to leaders of all sorts, including those of political parties, as Führer. Hitler's adoption of the title was partly inspired by its earlier use by the Austrian Georg von Schönerer, a major exponent of pan-Germanism and German nationalism in Austria, whose followers commonly referred to him as the Führer, and who also used the Roman salute – where the right arm and hand are held rigidly outstretched – which they called the "German greeting". According to historian Richard J. Evans, this use of "Führer" by Schönerer's Pan-German Association, probably introduced the term to the German far right, but its specific adoption by the Nazis may have been influenced by the use in Italy of "Duce", also meaning "leader", as an informal title for Benito Mussolini, the Fascist Prime Minister, and later dictator, of that country. After Hitler's appointment as Reichskanzler (Chancellor of the Reich) the Reichstag passed the Enabling Act which allowed Hitler's cabinet to promulgate laws by decree. One day before the death of Reichspräsident Paul von Hindenburg, Hitler and his cabinet decreed a law that merged the office of the president with that of Chancellor, so that Hitler became Führer and Reichskanzler – although eventually Reichskanzler was quietly dropped. Hitler therefore assumed the President's powers without assuming the office itself – ostensibly out of respect for Hindenburg's achievements as a heroic figure in World War I. Though this law was in breach of the Enabling Act, which specifically precluded any laws concerning the Presidential office, it was approved by a referendum on 19 August. Hitler saw himself as the sole source of power in Germany, similar to the Roman emperors and German medieval leaders. He used the title Führer und Reichskanzler (Leader and Chancellor), highlighting the positions he already held in party and government, though in popular reception, the element Führer was increasingly understood not just in reference to the Nazi Party, but also in reference to the German people and the German state. Soldiers had to swear allegiance to Hitler as "Führer des deutschen Reiches und Volkes" (Leader of the German Reich and People). The title was changed on 28 July 1942 to "Führer des Großdeutschen Reiches" (Leader of the Greater German Reich). In his political testament, Hitler also referred to himself as Führer der Nation (Leader of the Nation). One of the Nazis' most-repeated political slogans was Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer – "One People, One Empire, One Leader". Bendersky says the slogan "left an indelible mark on the minds of most Germans who lived through the Nazi years. It appeared on countless posters and in publications; it was heard constantly in radio broadcasts and speeches." The slogan emphasized the absolute control of the party over practically every sector of German society and culture – with the churches being the most notable exception. Hitler's word was absolute, but he had a narrow range of interest – mostly involving diplomacy and the military – and so his subordinates interpreted his will to fit their own interests. According to the Constitution of Weimar, the President was Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces. Unlike "President", Hitler did take this title (Oberbefehlshaber) for himself. When conscription was reintroduced in 1935, Hitler created the title of Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, a post held by the Minister for War. He retained the title of Supreme Commander for himself. Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg, then the Minister of War and one of those who created the Hitler oath, or the personal oath of loyalty of the military to Hitler, became the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces while Hitler remained Supreme Commander. Following the Blomberg–Fritsch Affair in 1938, Hitler assumed the commander-in-chief's post as well and took personal command of the armed forces. However, he continued using the older formally higher title of Supreme Commander, which was thus filled with a somewhat new meaning. Combining it with "Führer", he used the style Führer und Oberster Befehlshaber der Wehrmacht (Leader and Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht), yet a simple "Führer" since May 1942. An additional title was adopted by Hitler on 23 June 1941 when he declared himself the "Germanic Führer" (Germanischer Führer), in addition to his duties as Führer of the German state and people. This was done to emphasize Hitler's professed leadership of what the Nazis described as the "Nordic-Germanic master race", which was considered to include peoples such as the Norwegians, Danes, Swedes, Dutch, and others in addition to the Germans, and the intent to annex these countries to the German Reich in 1933. Waffen-SS formations from these countries had to declare obedience to Hitler by addressing him in this fashion. On 12 December 1941 the Dutch fascist Anton Mussert also addressed him as such when he proclaimed his allegiance to Hitler during a visit to the Reich Chancellery in Berlin. He had wanted to address Hitler as Führer aller Germanen ("Führer of all Germanics"), but Hitler personally decreed the former style. Historian Loe de Jong speculates on the difference between the two: Führer aller Germanen implied a position separate from Hitler's role as Führer und Reichskanzler des Grossdeutschen Reiches ("Führer and Reich Chancellor of the Greater German Empire"), while germanischer Führer served more as an attribute of that main function. As late as 1944, however, occasional propaganda publications continued to refer to him by this unofficial title. Führer has been used as a military title (compare Latin Dux) in Germany since at least the 18th century. The usage of the term "Führer" in the context of a company-sized military subunit in the German Army referred to a commander lacking the qualifications for permanent command. For example, the commanding officer of a company was (and is) titled "Kompaniechef" (literally, Company Chief), but if he did not have the requisite rank or experience, or was only temporarily assigned to command, he was officially titled "Kompanieführer". Thus operational commands of various military echelons were typically referred to by their formation title followed by the title Führer, in connection with mission-type tactics used by the German military forces. The term Führer was also used at lower levels, regardless of experience or rank; for example, a Gruppenführer was the leader of a squad of infantry (9 or 10 men). Under the Nazis, the title Führer was also used in paramilitary titles (see Freikorps). Almost every Nazi paramilitary organization, in particular the SS and SA, had Nazi party paramilitary ranks incorporating the title of Führer. The SS including the Waffen-SS, like all paramilitary Nazi organisations, called all their members of any degree except the lowest Führer of something; thus confusingly, Gruppenführer was also an official rank title for a specific grade of general. The word Truppenführer was also a generic word referring to any commander or leader of troops, and could be applied to NCOs or officers at many different levels of command. The word Führerstand translates to a "driver's cab" In Germany, the isolated word "Führer" is usually avoided in political contexts, due to its intimate connection with Nazi institutions and with Hitler personally. However, the term -führer is used in many compound words. Examples include Bergführer (mountain guide), Fremdenführer (tourist guide), Geschäftsführer (CEO or EO), Führerschein (driver's license), Führerstand or Führerhaus (driver's cab), Lok(omotiv)führer (train driver), Reiseführer (travel guide book), and Spielführer (team captain — also referred to as Mannschaftskapitän). The use of alternative terms like "Chef" (a borrowing from the French, as is the English "chief", e.g. Chef des Bundeskanzleramtes) or Leiter (often in compound words like Amtsleiter, Projektleiter or Referatsleiter) is usually not the result of replacing of the word "Führer", but rather using terminology that existed before the Nazis. The use of Führer to refer to a political party leader is rare today and Vorsitzender (chairman) is the more common term. However, the word Oppositionsführer ("leader of the (parliamentary) opposition") is more commonly used. ^ "Means Used by the Nazi Conspiractors in Gaining Control of the German State (Part 4 of 55)". ^ Evans, Richard J. (2003) The Coming of the Third Reich. New York; Penguin. pp.43, 184. ISBN 0-14-303469-3. Schönerer also invented the "pseudo-medieval" greeting "Heil", meaning "Hail". "§ 1 The office of the Reichspräsident is merged with that of the Reichskanzler. Therefore the previous rights of the Reichspräsident pass over to the Führer and Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler. He names his deputy." ^ Shirer, William L. (1960). The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. New York: Simon & Schuster. pp. 226–27. ISBN 978-0-671-62420-0. ^ Thamer, Hans-Ulrich (2003). "Beginn der nationalsozialistischen Herrschaft (Teil 2)". Nationalsozialismus I (in German). Bonn: Federal Agency for Civic Education. Archived from the original on February 8, 2008. Retrieved 4 October 2011. ^ Winkler, Heinrich August. "The German Catastrophe 1933–1945". Germany: The Long Road West vol. 2: 1933–1990. pp. 38–39. ISBN 978-0-19-926598-5. Retrieved 28 October 2011. ^ "NS-Archiv : Dokumente zum Nationalsozialismus : Adolf Hitler, Politisches Testament". ^ Joseph W. Bendersky (2007). A Concise History of Nazi Germany: 1919–1945. Rowman & Littlefield. pp. 105–6. ^ De Jong, Louis (1974) (in Dutch). Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden in de tweede wereldoorlog: Maart '41 – Juli '42, p. 181. M. Nijhoff. ^ Bramstedt, E. K. (2003). Dictatorship and Political Police: the Technique of Control by Fear, pp. 92–93. Routledge. ^ a b c De Jong 1974, pp. 199–200. ^ Adolf Hitler: Führer aller Germanen. Storm, 1944.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T06:21:03Z', 'url': 'https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/F%C3%BChrer', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
If you’ve never played Forza games, they offer some of the best driving experiences around. As someone who’s been playing car games for nearly 20 years, there’s nothing like quality driving experience. Well, Turn 10 is now bringing the experience they’re known for to a completely new platform. This will mark the first time that Forza has been available on anything not Microsoft-branded. Before, it was only available on Windows 10 or Xbox platforms, so the addition of Android and iOS is welcomed. Forza Street is built to sync your settings and progress across multiple devices and platforms. Designed to let you race on-the-go, the controls are streamlined to focus on just the timing of gas, brake, and boost to secure your victory. You’ll find a legendary lineup of vehicles in this action-packed game. With those cars, you’ll compete in intense, cinematic races lasting from quick one-minute long matches to becoming engrossed in an in-depth story campaign. Each race gives a chance to earn a performance icon, allowing you to turn the already incredible cars into an expansive trophy case to show off to all of your friends. You’ll be able to download Forza Street on Windows 10 devices starting today, with the Android and iOS games coming later this year. It’s free to download and play, so if you’ve been bitten by the racing bug, be sure to give it a try. Whether you’re a seasoned veteran or newcomer to racing games, the experience provided by Forza Street is bound to bring you joy. I can’t wait to dive into this brand-new driving experience once it hits portable devices later this year. Are you a racing fan? Will you be enjoying Forza Street? Let us know on social media or in the comments below!	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T22:16:24Z', 'url': 'https://www.iphonefirmware.com/forza-street-for-windows-10-is-here-android-ios-to-follow-9to5toys/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Am I getting braver, or just getting accustomed to being terrified? If Miss Watson had told Huck what the Bible says about living in a resurrected body and being with people we love on a resurrected Earth with gardens and rivers and mountains and untold adventures-now that would have gotten his attention. Christians are God's delivery people, through whom he does his giving to a needy world. We are conduits of God's grace to others. Our eternal investment portfolio should be full of the most strategic kingdom-building projects to which we can disburse God's funds. A disciple does not ask, "How much can I keep?" but, "How much more can I give?" Whenever we start to get comfortable with our level of giving, it's time to raise it again. Wealth is a relational barrier. It keeps us from having open relationships. We should remember Christ's words, 'Let nothing be wasted,' when we look in our refrigerators and garbage cans and garages. If we can keep ourselves from interfering with the natural laws of life, mistakes can be our child's finest teachers. Yanked out of the present, Adam discovered the richness of the past in people's stories. ...if I try to make only enough money for my family' immediate needs, it may violate Scripture. ...Even though earning just enough to meet the needs of my family may seem nonmaterialistic, it's actually selfish when I could earn enough to care for others as well. [Nathan] wasn't blindly obsessed with a possession. He wasn't crazy. He was a hero-a father who'd risked his life to rescue his son. ..tithing isn't something I do to clear my conscience so I can do whatever I want with the 90 percent-it also belongs to God! I must seek his direction and permission for whatever I do with the full amount. I may discover that God has different ideas than I do. Given our abundance, the burden of proof should always be on keeping, not giving. Why would you not give? We err by beginning with the assumption that we should keep or spend the money God entrusts to us. Giving should be the default choice. Unless there is a compelling reason to spend it or keep it, we should give it. God doesn't make us rich so we can indulge ourselves and spoil our children, or so we can insulate ourselves form needing God's provision. God gives us abundant material blessing so that we can give it away, and give it generously.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-20T09:01:02Z', 'url': 'https://www.bestquotes4ever.com/authors/randy-alcorn-quotes', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
The power of the Doberman stands out against the rugged background of our antique gold finish dog ID tag. It is easy to see the energy and fearlessness of this popular breed. The dog ID tag has a blank back, making it ready for engraving. Add it to your dog`s collar or put it on your own keychain.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T16:28:47Z', 'url': 'https://tags4tails.com/collections/doberman/products/doberman-in-antique-gold-finish', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Our 3' x 5' Cambodia flag includes vivid colors and an accurate design screen-printed on a durable 100% polyester material. The flag features a white fabric header with two brass grommets on the 3' side for easy display. The flag is best used indoors but can withstand occasional outdoor use. The authentic design is based on information from official sources.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-20T12:59:29Z', 'url': 'https://www.flagline.com/flags/cambodia-3x5-polyester-flag?aid=9vista', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Living in residence is an integral part of the Marymount experience. The social and interpersonal experiences of residential life play a vital role in student development. All new first and second year students as well as lower division transfer students are required to live in residence. Students transferring to MCU with 29 or less credits are required to live in residence for two years. Students transferring in with 30-59 credits are required to live in residence for one year. Upper division transfer students, with 60 or more credits, are highly encouraged to live in residence, but are not required. To apply for residence click here. Marymount California University offers premier dining at Bistro by the Sea, the main Oceanview Campus Café. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served Monday through Thursday. Breakfast and lunch are available on Friday. Outtakes, the snack shop at the Villas offers supplies such as laundry detergent, school supplies, as well as snacks, coffee and other beverages, candy and an assortment of other snacks. All residential students are required to participate in a meal plan. There are a variety of options from which to choose, including plans that provide 14, 12 or 10 meals per week, as well as other flexible Café and Outtakes options. On Friday nights and weekends, students often prepare food in the kitchens at their residences or enjoy a rich variety of dining options in the Palos Verdes and San Pedro areas. Those who do not wish to cook or eat out may sign up for weekend boxed meals provided by the Café. Marymount’s shuttle service between the Oceanview campus and the residential communities runs hourly on weekdays from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. when classes are in session. In addition, shuttle drivers are happy to make stops at banks, grocery stores, fitness facilities and other service locations. MARRIAGE/PARTNERSHIP/DEPENDANT DOCUMENTATION You must provide a copy of your marriage license/domestic partnership or dependent’s birth certificate. In addition to clubs, student government, and volunteer and cultural opportunities, residential students form lifelong friendships and enjoy a rich variety of social activities, such as barbecues, study-break snacks, faculty-student dinners, comedy nights, volleyball tournaments, game nights and dances.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-25T14:08:17Z', 'url': 'https://www.marymountcalifornia.edu/residential-life/experience/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
An object with a mass of #6 kg# is on a plane with an incline of # - pi/4 #. If it takes #24 N# to start pushing the object down the plane and #9 N# to keep pushing it, what are the coefficients of static and kinetic friction? Opposing Frictional Force = u(static) Normal Force.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-21T00:12:48Z', 'url': 'https://socratic.org/questions/an-object-with-a-mass-of-6-kg-is-on-a-plane-with-an-incline-of-pi-4-if-it-takes--4', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Always ensure you are happy with your contract before you sign. The LMC can provide to members a basic contract checking service. We are not lawyers and cannot give a legal opinion. The BMA offers free to its members an extremely comprehensive contract checking service. Gp contracts vary hugely in their make-up and contents. It is well worth seeking a review to ensure you understand what you are signing. Practices should be happy to clarify points before posts are taken up and some points may be open to negotiation. Here are some useful resources to guide you.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-19T06:22:06Z', 'url': 'https://www.wessexlmcs.com/salariedemploymentterms', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Jean (Jeannie) passed away after a lengthy battle with Emphysema and Diabetes. She was surrounded by family and friends throughtout the last few days and nights. She joins her parents Rob and Annie Spooner, Brother Bobby, and Nephew Steve. We are sure that are all enjoying the Blue Jay’s Baseball games and curling matches together. Also, gone before, Jean’s first husband Terry MacDonald, Mother’s and Father’s in Law, Gladys & Charlie MacDonlad and Olive & Ben Blacklaw, Sister-in-law Shirley Chouinard, Nephews Randy & Henry Chouinard, and Brothers-in-law Stege & Ben Bjornson. Missing her already is her Husband Marvin, Sons Chuck (Terri), Joe (Jenylyn), Scott (Stacy), Ben (Twyla), Daughter Tanya (Greg), Sister Pat (Gord), Brothers Tom (Janet), Tim (Patti), Brother-in-law Stuart (Leona), Sisters-in-law Judy (Bill), Gay, Leigh, Glennis as well as 11 Grandchildren and numerous Nieces and Nephews. May 31, 2014 from 2-5 pm., with refreshments to follow. Diabetes, Heart & Stroke Foundation or the Canadian Cancer Society.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-18T16:33:28Z', 'url': 'https://www.quesnelobserver.com/obituaries/jennette-anne-blacklaw/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
The blogosphere has gained a new asset today. TV Week is one of our clients and it’s been really exciting watching Brent take to blogging like a true west dot coaster. To borrow one of Roland T‘s phrases, Go Brent Go.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T18:52:01Z', 'url': 'http://blog.bigsnit.com/2007/02/27/natural-born-blogger/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
It spreads like a wild fire. “It can never happen to me! I can’t get infected; I am protected. I have taken all the precautions necessary not to get infected.” No, we are not talking about a serious disease. We are talking about ransomware. A virus/malware that encrypts not only the data on your computer, but can reach out to any “drive” on your network that you have access to and encrypts that information as well. This encryption holds the data “hostage” with the sole purpose of extorting money from the victim by requesting payment in exchange for the decryption key that will restore their valuable data. Chances are that you know of a person or business that has suffered a ransomware attack. The virus does not discriminate, an outbreak can occur in small or large businesses, local municipalities (even police departments), school districts and hospitals. In fact, in February 2016, a California hospital (Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center) was hit with ransomware, as a result their network was offline for over a week. That means no access to email, patient data and other critical documentation that affected the daily operations of the hospital. What would the impact be if ransomware hit your business and you had little or no access to critical information for over a week? The global spread and impact of ransomware further indicates this is a pandemic! There are a number of ransomware threats that have become prevalent, including CryptoLocker or CryptoWall. These malwares have been linked to a number of different emails and/or links on websites. No matter how the infection took place, the result is the same, the malware gets downloaded to a PC and will scan all physical and network (logical) drives and encrypt certain file types. The virus can also attack USB thumb drives that are attached to the infected computer along with folders that are mapped to cloud storage solutions (e.g. Dropbox). Files that get encrypted are typically popular data format files including: Microsoft Office, Adobe programs, iTunes or other music players and photo viewers. The files are compromised using a combination of two different encryption schemes; 256-bit AES and 2048-bit RSA. This basically renders the files useless without the decryption key; brute force or other tools cannot break the encryption on these files. When the ransomware has finished encrypting files on the PC, the virus will typically display a screen regarding a payment program that prompts the user to send a ransom payment to decrypt the files. A user is then given a limited amount of time to pay the ransom (typically 72 hours) or it will delete the encryption key, making the encrypted files permanently inaccessible. Typically, the ransom must be paid using Bitcoins; an untraceable payment system. Once a payment is made and verified, the victim will then receive the decryption key in order to decrypt the files held for ransom. Once the ransomware virus has infiltrated a computer and a user takes notice, most of the damage has already been done. If a computer is infected with a ransomware virus, first disconnect the computer immediately from any wireless/wired networks. Although there are software tools that can remove the malware from a computer, once files have been encrypted, they cannot be decrypted without the decryption (private) key. Essentially, three options then exist; 1) pay the ransom, 2) restore any encrypted files from the most recent backup, or 3) assuming a good back-up does not exist, chalk this experience to a cyber-incident and format the hard drive to start from scratch (all too often even if the infected computer was “cleaned” from ransomware, remnants of the malware still exist and may cause problems later). The key here is having a useable and viable backup. Many times as a result of a ransomware infection, businesses learn that their backup is not effectively working or not backing up all files. In either situation, the user may have to resort to option 1 or 3; pay the ransom or format their computer resulting in lost/not retrievable files. Backup, Backup and Backup – Having a usable and viable backup (not just a copy of files) can substantially mitigate risks and protect your data. Make sure backup is performed daily and that all files are part of this process. Full daily backups will help ensure a smoother process if there is a ransomware attack. Make sure the backup process through a restore is effectively working. Restore files from backup on a monthly or quarterly basis to provide peace of mind. Don’t Open Emails From Strangers – One of the most common ways ransomware is transmitted is through email. Try to not open emails from people that you are not familiar with. DO NOT open attachments or click on links that are in non-familiar emails. Minimize Network Access – Perform an assessment to determine the level of access to information each user has on the network. As mentioned previously, ransomware can reach beyond the PC it originally encrypted to the files on the network, affecting the entire company. Limiting access to network files will help mitigate these risks. Patch, Patch and Patch – Patches to various software (operating systems, firewalls, application software) systems become available on a regular basis. Patches should be applied to the various software solutions your organization uses (weekly or monthly) in order to mitigate risks and give the attackers fewer options for infecting your system(s) with ransomware. Train Employees – More often than not, ransomware infections are a result of an employee accessing an email, opening an attachment or clicking on a link from an unknown source. Train employees on what to look for and how to avoid infected emails and/or websites. This will help mitigate risks with not only ransomware but other types of cyber-related issues (e.g. phishing attacks). Maintain An Endpoint Solution – Many of the various virus/malware protection solutions (endpoints) for PCs will detect ransomware and eliminate the threat. Having up-to-date endpoint solutions (similar to patches) is important to ensure that variants of ransomware will be detected and removed. Having different virus/malware solutions on servers, firewalls and PCs can also strengthen the threat detection and removal process. While we cannot eliminate the threat of ransomware, we can significantly mitigate the risk of an attack, and reduce the potential consequences. Organizations can no longer believe “it can’t happen to me,” because it can and most likely will. Start by understanding where your organization may have some areas of weakness and assessing where improvements can be made in systems, patches, employee training and most importantly in your backup solution.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-22T18:51:33Z', 'url': 'https://www.blumshapiro.com/insights/ransomware-cybersecurity-services-malware-ct-ma-ri/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Congrats indeed! You are the future boys! We love you Poole Town, we do!! Not forgetting my coaching and managing skills colin!	{'timestamp': '2019-04-26T02:39:08Z', 'url': 'http://pooletown.co.uk/thread/5866/poole-town-wessex-16s', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Selling a Home in San Antonio - The Rim Texas? Interested in selling your home? Fill out the personalized request form and connect with a local San Antonio - The Rim real estate professional with information regarding comparative market analysis, current home prices in your area, preparing your home for sale, and advice on how to sell your home.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-25T09:53:23Z', 'url': 'http://www.therim.sanantoniometrorealestate.com/selling/', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
We operate one of the most advanced 4 TB in sole datacenter capacity, complete with OVH based network and extensive DDoS protection. Our cloud platform offers a 99.99% uptime guarantee with full hardware and network redundancy to keep your services online. All datacenters are OVH based, certified and provide advanced fire and intrusion protection combined with enterprise networking hardware. Our network equipment across all locations is backed by enterprise grade DDoS protection gear to ensure your services stay online even in the event of an attack. All products are protected without additional charge. Our server network offers the best protection with the complete 980 Gbit mitigation capacity. You also have the possibility to order a dedicated DDoS protected IP address to reroute services outside of our network by setting up a GRE tunnel. Please contact our sales department for more details. Our uptime guarantee is provided on a best effort basis. Customers will peroid extension as an account credit should service availability fall below the given guarantee.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-23T06:07:55Z', 'url': 'https://shadownethost.com/features.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
Looking for ideal Ultrasonic Duckbill Mask Machine Manufacturer & supplier ? We have a wide selection at great prices to help you get creative. All the 2018 Automatic Duckbill Mask Making Machine are quality guaranteed. We are China Origin Factory of Automatic Ultrasonic Duckbill Mask Making Machine. If you have any question, please feel free to contact us.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-18T18:19:48Z', 'url': 'https://www.kydultrasonic.com/duckbill-mask-making-machine/56532970.html', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
A workers' struggle for their jobs and rights at Sinter Metal Đmalat Sanayi AŞ (located in the Dudullu Organized Industrial Zone, Turkey) has gone on for three months. I join with the IMF, EMF and Birlesik Metal-IS in demanding that Sinter Metal immediately stops and remedies violations of worker and trade union rights at the operation located in the Dudullu Organized Industrial Zone in Turkey. I am increasingly alarmed that such violations continue to undermine workers' rights to form and join a union and to collectively bargain, enshrined in ILO conventions 98 and 87. I demand that Sinter Metal management immediately reinstates the dismissed workers, stops violations of fundamental worker and trade union rights, and in good faith considers the workers' demands and starts negotiations to reach a fair and just settlement with the union.	{'timestamp': '2019-04-20T13:05:43Z', 'url': 'https://indymedia.org/en/2009/04/923104.shtml', 'language': 'en', 'source': 'c4'}
July Was Earth's Hottest Month on Record, European Scientists Conclude By Bob Henson July 2019 was the planet's warmest month on record, according to an initial analysis. The hottest regions on Earth relative to normal included western Europe and Alaska. The warmth occurred despite the absence of a strong El Niño event. In the wake of a massive heat wave across western and northern Europe, researchers at the Copernicus Climate Change Service have estimated that July 2019 was the planet’s warmest month on record, narrowly topping July 2016. The Copernicus group found the global temperature in July was about 0.04 degrees Celsius (0.07 degrees Fahrenheit) warmer than July 2016. July is typically the warmest month of the year globally, running about 3 to 4 degrees Celsius (5 to 7 degrees Fahrenheit) warmer than January. This is because most of the planet’s land area – which warms faster than oceans – is located in the Northern Hemisphere, so the northern summer coincides with the warmest global average. The Copernicus analyses extend back to 1979. Because of long-term global warming, this July’s record is effectively a record for at least the past century of global observation. Other groups that monitor monthly temperature, including NASA and NOAA, will be releasing their findings later in August. July 2019 was the planet's warmest month on record, according to the Copernicus Climate Change Service. Among the hottest spots relative to the 1981-2010 average were western Europe, central Asia, Alaska and most of Africa and Australia. (Copernicus/WMO) Most global heat records are set during or just after El Niño events, which bring warm undersea water to the surface across much of the tropical Pacific, thus warming the atmosphere above. This July’s record is especially striking because it occurred during a weak to marginal El Niño event. In contrast, the July 2016 record occurred at the tail end of one of the strongest El Niño events on record. While El Niño and La Niña tend to warm and cool the atmosphere for a year or two each, these events are happening on top of longer-term warming related to human-produced greenhouse gases, so the global warm spikes are getting warmer and the cool spikes less cool. “We have always lived through hot summers. But this is not the summer of our youth. This is not your grandfather’s summer,” said UN Secretary-General António Guterres, commenting last Thursday in New York on the likelihood of a new temperature record from Copernicus. “Preventing irreversible climate disruption is the race of our lives, and for our lives. It is a race that we can and must win,” he added. The Copernicus analyses are carried out by the European Center for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts (ECMWF), which operates weather forecast models and climate prediction models used around the world. Different analyses of monthly global temperature (such as those from NASA, NOAA and the Japan Meteorological Agency) can result in slightly different rankings, based on how groups account for data-sparse areas. The Copernicus analyses combine global temperature data from surface weather stations with background information from a forecast model that incorporates satellite and other data. The model analysis plays a larger role in regions with few weather stations. Global Hot Spots in July Dozens of European cities set new all-time high-temperature records in July, including Paris, France (108.7 degrees); Amsterdam, Netherlands (97.3 degrees); and Helsinki, Finland (91.8 degrees). Five nations saw their hottest temperatures ever recorded: Belgium: 107.2 degrees at Begijnendijk, July 25 Germany: 108.7 degrees at Lingen, July 25 Luxembourg: 105.4 degrees at Steinsel, July 25 Netherlands: 105.3 degrees at Gilze Rijen, July 25 United Kingdom: 101.7 degrees at Cambridge, July 25 Another part of the world with extreme warmth relative to July norms was Alaska. At least 13 Alaska locations chalked up their hottest month on record, and the state very likely hit such a mark as well, according to climatologist Dr. Brian Brettschneider. The Anchorage airport hit 90 degrees on July 4, breaking its all-time record by 5 degrees, and the city had its warmest month on record by far. The Alaskan heat has coincided with record-low sea-ice extent in the Chukchi Sea to the north, as well as across the entire Arctic. July was considerably cooler than average over parts of eastern Europe and western Russia. Much of eastern Canada and parts of the south-central U.S. were also cooler than average for July, with a dramatic cool spell in late July setting daily record lows across the South. However, several cities in New England – including Boston – had their hottest month on record. All-time high-temperature records have been broken this year in 13 of the world’s nations and territories, and tied in another. In contrast, no all-time national cold records have been broken thus far in 2019. The largest number of all-time national/territorial heat records set or tied in a single year was the 22 heat records that occurred in 2016, according to international records researcher Maximiliano Herrera. The runners-up are 2019 and 2017, each with 14 heat records.	{"pred_label": "__label__wiki", "pred_label_prob": 0.73360675573349, "wiki_prob": 0.73360675573349, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line401859"}
Bahrain comprises of more than 30 islands situated in the Persian Gulf. It’s a country that is steeped in history and Bahrain was once the centre of trade in ancient times. With rich heritage, including archaeological sites, royal tombs and temples, Bahrain is a country of mystery. But be warned, a large proportion of these islands consist of sandy desert and naturally the temperature during the day is hot and rather arid. For western visitors, Bahrain represents a gentle introduction to the Arabian Gulf and many Formula 1 enthusiasts flock here for the annual Bahrain Grand Prix. Only rich Middle Eastern countries can afford to build conventional grass golf courses, which naturally require significant quantities of water to survive in the desert heat. Bahrain is a small country with declining oil reserves but it does have one golf course that is not only sown with grass, but it’s also floodlit. Karl Litten knows a thing or two about desert golf and he was the original architect behind Bahrain’s only grass course – then known as Riffa Golf Club – but in 2007 the course closed and was redeveloped by European Golf Design with Colin Montgomerie, emerging in 2009 as the Royal Golf Club. Our Middle East rankings were last updated in March 2021. Click the link to read the story. Royal Golf Club (Montgomerie) Al Mazrowiah, Al-Muḥāfaẓat al-Janūbīyah Bahrain Top 100 Leaderboard	{"pred_label": "__label__cc", "pred_label_prob": 0.5491981506347656, "wiki_prob": 0.4508018493652344, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line1335850"}
HomeViral Video Helene Boudreau’s photos and videos were leaked on Twitter, Reddit, and social media. Helene Boudreau’s photos and videos were leaked on Twitter, Reddit, and social media. Hélène Boudreau went back to her old place of employment in order to finish the requirements for her Bachelor of Fine Arts and Media degree. When Boudreaux’s famed UQAM graduation photo was blown up in 2021, it catapulted him to the forefront of the public eye. Follow For More Updates at Rapiddnews.com It appears that in spite of all the attention and recognition she has received, she did not actually graduate from high school. The OnlyFans tycoon broke the news on her Instagram account, where she also provided an explanation for why, despite having taken her graduation photo, she did not receive the required number of credits to earn her degree. However, that is going to change. Helene Boudreau’s photos and videos Hélène recently announced her plans to return to school in an Instagram post, writing, “Today I found out I’m restarting my courses at UQAM to finally complete my bachelor’s degree.” “I began taking photographs in the year 2021, but the year 2022 was the one in which I finally received my diploma. After everything that has happened with UQAM, I am prepared to… oh yes.” Boudreau did not disclose whether or not she intended to attend classes in person or via the internet, but it is safe to say that people are looking forward to her coming back. One of your followers said that they were “looking forward to seeing you.” Another person remarked, “You are one of the few people who can declare that your studies have been worthwhile.” Boudreau also revealed her decision to return to school via Instagram Stories, adding that she had reached the point in her life when she wanted to finish what she had started. Leaked Video Ruby Salvo Viral on Twitter and TikTok, Link Full Video CCTV Film of Z-Ro and Trae Tha Truth Fighting Goes Viral On Twitter And YouTube A Toronto Couple Caught Engaging in S**ual Activity During a Blue Jays Game Goes Viral On Twitter, YouTube, and Reddit! Who is Kiera Hogan? Full Link to the Leaked and Viral Video on Twitter and Reddit!	{"pred_label": "__label__wiki", "pred_label_prob": 0.6806969046592712, "wiki_prob": 0.6806969046592712, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line666320"}
Lee Brice at NYCB Theatre at Westbury Lee Brice Tickets NYCB Theatre at Westbury \| Westbury, NY Time will stop as you indulge in the gorgeous voice of the rising star of country music, Lee Brice on July 11, 2013, 08:00 PM at the Westbury Music Fair in New York. You’ll be showered by his emotion-filled songs, stunning stage presence and ornately resonant, incredibly masculine vocals, could there be anything better than that? The man with a golden knack in song writing and singing, Lee Brice was a four-time nominee of the Academy of Country Music Award, nominated as the New Artist of the Year in 2012 CMA Awards and Top New Male Artist in 2013 ACM Awards. This American country music singer began writing songs for Jason Aldean, Cowboy Crush and Keith Gattis in 2007. He co-wrote Garth Brook’s single “More Than a Memory” which became the first single to debut at no. 1 in the history of Billboard Hot Country Songs chart. Lee emerged in the music scene as his major-label first studio album “Love Like Crazy” released on June 2010 and debuted at no. 9 on the US Billboard Top Country Albums chart. It charted three singles, “She Ain’t Right”, “Happy Endings” and “Upper Middle Class White Trash”. In October 2011, his sixth single “A Woman Like You” from the second album “Hard 2 Love” was released. The song stayed at no. 3 on the Hot Country Songs chart for 56 weeks making it the song with the longest run in chart’s history. The album spawned another two no. 1 singles, “Hard to Love” and “I Drive Your Truck”. His cohesive musical style has gained him a lot of praises from critics. This is something you should never miss. Ticket sales are going crazy, so you must secure yours ASAP!	{"pred_label": "__label__wiki", "pred_label_prob": 0.9775970578193665, "wiki_prob": 0.9775970578193665, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line163104"}
Chelsea look set to be one of the busiest Premier League clubs in the January transfer window. The Blues spent over £250million in the summer with the likes of Raheem Sterling, Wesley Fofana, Marc Cucurella and Kalidou Koulibaly all moving to Stamford Bridge. Sterling has struggled to have the same impact as he did at Manchester City since signing for Chelsea, whilst there is still a need for a capable back-up option for Reece James. James did not make the England World Cup squad after picking up a knee injury in the Blues’ match against AC Milan in October, forcing Cesar Azpilicueta and Ruben Loftus-Cheek having to fill in at right wing- back. Potter will be hoping to add players that fit into his style of play in January after inheriting Thomas Tuchel’s squad in September. Denzel Dumfries and Memphis Depay are two players that have been linked with a move to west London and both players have impressed at the World Cup. Chelsea opted to sign Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang ahead from Barcelona on Deadline Day in the summer instead of Depay, but continue to be linked with the Dutch forward. The 28-year-old wanted to fight for his place at Camp Nou despite their new signings, but with his contract set to expire next summer, he could be available for as little as £5million as per various reports . Dumfries was linked with a move to Stamford Bridge in the summer when Romelu Lukaku sealed a return to Inter Milan on loan, but a deal never materialised for the Dutch defender. Chelsea may look to go back in for the Netherlands international who is valued at €50million (£42million) by CIES Football Observatory . The 26-year-old plays at right wing-back for both club and country and has registered five goal contributions in 24 appearances so far this season. James’ injury came as a huge blow for the Blues with Potter not having a suitable option to replace him with, meaning a move for Dumfries could strengthen his squad’s depth and quality moving forward and not result in him changing formations when a key player is absent. Dumfries grabbed the assist for Depay’s goal which saw the Netherlands take the lead against the USA in their World Cup round of 16 tie. The Dutch defender burst down the right wing before cutting it back to Depay in the penalty box, with the Barca striker firing the ball past Matt Turner into the back of the net. Netherlands stars Denzel Dumfries and Matthijs de Ligt speak out on Chelsea interest	{"pred_label": "__label__wiki", "pred_label_prob": 0.8942691683769226, "wiki_prob": 0.8942691683769226, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line304938"}
In a world where blockbusters are about more than just movies, we proudly bring you our First Annual Summer Movie Blockbuster Trademark Extravaganza! Come for the fun trademark facts, stay for the trailers. In 2014, the Summer box office grossed over $4 billion. The top five grossing movies were: X-Men: Days of Future Past What do all of those movies have in common? Other than digital (and other – ahem) enhancements? Trademarks! And lots of them. You see, today’s tentpole movies are as much about brand-building as they are about entertaining. Sure, $100 million at the domestic box office is great, but it is nothing compared to the multipliers big Summer movie’s can experience via merchandising. That is where trademarks play an important role – a fact that is not lost on movie studios. As you will see, attorneys for the major studios have been hard at work pursuing trademark protection for this Summer’s potential blockbusters. Here are our top five to keep an eye on: 1. Avengers: Age of Ultron Studio: Marvel (a subsidiary of the Walt Disney Company) Marvel had two of its movies make it into the top five for the Summer movie box office in 2014. With Avengers: Age of Ultron, it is likely to continue the winning streak. To date, The Avengers is the third highest grossing move of all-time (not adjusting for inflation) with over $1.5 billion on box office receipts. Reports indicate that Marvel (and Disney) stacked up another $1 billion plus in receipts from selling merch related to The Avengers. Marvel and Disney, knowing where their bread is buttered, have 11 pending federal trademark applications for AVENGERS AGE OF ULTRON. Check out this Variety article if you want a longer read about Marvel’s plans for merchandising Avengers: Age of Ultron. Most Viewed Trailer: 70.7 Million views 2. Tomorrowland Studio: Walt Disney Pictures This movie is not about a future where George Clooney is no longer a bachelor. At least, we think. Even so, with Clooney involved, you know Disney has high expectations for this film. Disney has had federal protection for the mark TOMORROWLAND since 1970. Who doesn’t remember their first ride on Space Mountain? I didn’t scream once. I swear (Kevin wrote, as he trembled at his computer). In any event, with seven pending applications for the mark MILES FROM TOMORROWLAND, Disney appears prepared in the event Mr. Alamuddin’s movie captures the hearts and minds public. Most Viewed Trailer: 9.2 Million views 3. Jurassic World Studio: Ambling Entertainment and Legendary Pictures (in association with) Universal Pictures I loved Jurassic Park. It was the highest grossing film of 1993. I say, “Clever girl,” at least once a week. I love Chris Pratt. Last Summer, he led Guardians of the Galaxy to the top of the box office. This movie has the makings of a box office and merchandise juggernaut (Kevin said, pretending certain sequels do not exist). With eight pending federal trademark applications, everyone involved seems to believe that dinosaur-sized dollars are in the future. Most Viewed Trailer: 55 Million views 4. Inside Out Studio: Pixar Animation and Walt Disney Studios Last Summer, for the first time since 2005, we were deprived of a Pixar release. The last Pixar movie to top the Summer box office was 2010’s Toy Story 3. I am a sucker for Pixar movies and hope that Inside Out is a return to form. Even if it is not, Disney and Pixar certainly have reason to believe that their five pending federal trademark applications are certainly worth their weight in gold. Reports indicate that Disney has made over $10 billion from merchandise based on the Pixar franchise Cars despite the lukewarm reviews both Cars films received. 5. Minions Studio: Illumination Entertainment (Universal) This headline from USA Today, “At Universal, Minions ‘have become our Mickey Mouse,'” says it all. The popular characters from the highly successful Despicable Me franchise are taking center stage this summer, and they have big plans. Despicable Me was the fifth biggest movie of Summer 2010. Despicable Me 2 jumped up two spots to be the third biggest movie of Summer 2013. Minions looks to repeat that feat and become the biggest movie this Summer. If you have learned anything from this post, you already know how valuable the Minions are as a brand. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that there are six pending trademark applications for MINIONS. Every good movie has a moral. The moral of this blog post: Be like a studio executive and protect your trademarks. You never know when one could be worth billions of dollars! Written by Kevin Hartley	{"pred_label": "__label__wiki", "pred_label_prob": 0.6106107234954834, "wiki_prob": 0.6106107234954834, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line1856816"}
Video: CNN Clown Sparks OUTRAGE For "Bully" Tweet On Trump... by Kurt BREAKING: The NFL's Monday Night Football Ratings Are Officially TANKING... BOMBSHELL: FBI Now Believes Bill And Hillary Clinton Accepted Multi-Million $ Bribe From Russia Crime Syndicate! Breaking News, Clinton Cash, Featured, Hillary Clinton, Media, News, Politics, Popular, Scandal, Trending by Kurt 5 years ago 5 months ago The documentary “Clinton Cash” was panned as “Fake News” by the mainstream media, and ignored by most Americans. Now, it appears that the film has been vindicated…in the most chilling possible way. READ MORE: Colin Kaepernick Files Grievance Against NFL, Claims It’s Trump’s Fault He’s Not Playing! The FBI has found shocking eye-witness evidence that Russian nuclear officials routed millions of dollars to the U.S. in 2010, obtained through a racketeering scheme designed to benefit the Clinton Foundation and sway the Clintons into cooperating with the Russian atomic-energy program. Payment occurred around the time Secretary of State Hillary Clinton provided a favorable decision to Moscow regarding Vladimir Putin’s nuclear privileges, sources say. Law-enforcement officials believe that Russian nuclear kingpins were engaged in bribery, kickbacks, extortion and money laundering with which they gathered the funds to send to the Clintons. More from The Hill: Before the Obama administration approved a controversial deal in 2010 giving Moscow control of a large swath of American uranium, the FBI had gathered substantial evidence that Russian nuclear industry officials were engaged in bribery, kickbacks, extortion and money laundering designed to grow Vladimir Putin’s atomic energy business inside the United States, according to government documents and interviews. Federal agents used a confidential U.S. witness working inside the Russian nuclear industry to gather extensive financial records, make secret recordings and intercept emails as early as 2009 that showed Moscow had compromised an American uranium trucking firm with bribes and kickbacks in violation of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, FBI and court documents show. They also obtained an eyewitness account — backed by documents — indicating Russian nuclear officials had routed millions of dollars to the U.S. designed to benefit former President Bill Clinton’s charitable foundation during the time Secretary of State Hillary Clinton served on a government body that provided a favorable decision to Moscow, sources told The Hill. The racketeering scheme was conducted “with the consent of higher level officials” in Russia who “shared the proceeds” from the kickbacks, one agent declared in an affidavit years later. Rather than bring immediate charges in 2010, however, the Department of Justice (DOJ) continued investigating the matter for nearly four more years, essentially leaving the American public and Congress in the dark about Russian nuclear corruption on U.S. soil during a period when the Obama administration made two major decisions benefiting Putin’s commercial nuclear ambitions. The first decision occurred in October 2010, when the State Department and government agencies on the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States unanimously approved the partial sale of Canadian mining company Uranium One to the Russian nuclear giant Rosatom, giving Moscow control of more than 20 percent of America’s uranium supply. When this sale was used by Trump on the campaign trail last year, Hillary Clinton’s spokesman said she was not involved in the committee review and noted the State Department official who handled it said she “never intervened … on any [Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States] matter.” Wow. Just…wow. Stay connected with Trump News Email … FREE! Success! Great things coming your way soon...	{"pred_label": "__label__wiki", "pred_label_prob": 0.5731999278068542, "wiki_prob": 0.5731999278068542, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line1818638"}
Geography of Paris squares or plazas In a complex urban environment, each square will tend to be specialized toward a function rather another one: Square are not in competition but compliment each other. Hereafter is an essay on the geography of the Parisian squares: Identifying Le Louvre (Cour Napoleon) This place is not a people place, it doesn’t mean to be. This square is the heart of the French DNA. a 1000 years mille-feuille of History in the making. The headquarter of the old regime, transformed into a monument to the culture, is supposed to represent what French are or at least think they are, and it does quite well: Cour napoleon, where the Louvre’ s Pyramid sits – credit (11) Place de l’Étoile Like for the Louvre, this place is designed to have you overwhelmed by the “grandeur” of the State. The Arc de triomphe built by Napoleon is a monument crowning 500 year of planning of the Royal axis, originating from the Louvre. The hill where it sit on has been leveled, giving it a concave slope, enhancing the overwhelming presence of the Arc, sitting in the middle of a 240 meter diameter round place: Place de l’Étoile is a very large traffic circle. Going to the middle is usually done thru underpass – credit (2) Étoile-Concorde: Champs-Elysées En route from The Louvre (old regime) to the Arc (new regime), it happens to be the Concorde, where the last french king, Louis the XVI has been guillotined. Where French celebrates is on The Champs-Elysées, between the Concorde and Étoile, a vast public space able to contain one million people, with huge plazas, Etoile and the Concorde providing very comfortable overflow, and entry/exit point. The Champs-Elysées on New year Eve (here 2006) looking toward The Concorde – credit (5) The size and topography of the Champs-Elysées help people to appreciate the size of the crowd. The celebration like above suppose to close the 10 lanes of traffic the avenue is normally supporting: A celebration on the Champs-Elysées means not “business as usual”. Demonstrating République-Bastille-Nation Demonstrating is also part of the french DNA, and demonstrating supposes to walk, from one point to another: Those points are usually République-Bastille-Nation, in that order! Demonstration at Republique – credit (3) Place de la République one of the largest Parisian square is 283x119m is well suited to accommodate large crowds. Beside it, it is not a necessarily inviting place. It is currently under renovation: respecting its history, its current use as a place to vent social message, while making it a more inviting space, especially outside demonstration time, was one of the challenge the contestant had to address. A water mirror, is part of the answer: A water Mirror, as seen in Bordeaux, can “activate” large esplanade, while still leave it clear of encumbrance when needed – credit (1) Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville It is a “people place” per design, and the PPS editors like it [7], but this 155x82meter square is not a self-sufficient one, where people will intuitively go. they will go there only knowing the square is hosting some events, usually sponsored by the City: Paris- Hôtel-de-Ville is a place for programing; ice rink in winter, beach volley in summer, all sort of fair in between – credit (4) A plaza in word, a park in theory, this almost perfect square, is a hit with many urbanistas for good reasons.. like Rome’s Piazza Navona, reaching Place des Vosges requires journeying along minor, often hidden streets. Then away of the crowd and noise of the surrounding city, you find an intimate, secluded, and still comfortable place. The square dimension, 127×140 meters,as well as the building lining help it, contribute to it. It is surrounded by a street allowing a light amount of traffic contributing to a safety feeling at any time any season. Paris Place des Vosges, the oldest suqare of the city is requiring some effort to be found Place Dauphine dating of the same era work a bit differently- may be too small and carry an oppressive feeling. Place Vendôme, has been designed along the Place des Vosges model (same size), but again it is a colder place. In Paris, Palais Royal, offers almost a similar setting Place George Pompidou Better known as Place Beaubourg, or simply the Piazza, it has been created ex-nihilo by architect Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers and opened in 1977. In despite of its relatively novelty and use of modern architecture in a city full of heritage building, this square works very well at the difference of many other one created in the same period. Due to this, it makes it a very interesting case study: It is facing a Modern art museum known as Beaubourg built at the same time by the same architects. Like Sienna’s Piazza del Campo, the 170x65m square has a slight declivity along its narrow edge, which allow people to appropriate the space like it was a beach: it is not uncommon to see people sitting on the pavement, facing the museum, which happen to have corridors and stairs on its outside facades, offering continuous movement of people to watch from the square. Like Place des Vosges, this square is not obvious to find, and offers some respite, step away, of the capharnaum, the Halles can be: Paris Place George Pompidou, is a successful square created ex nihilo At the difference of Place Des Vosges, this square is fully pedestrian, and is surrounded by cafes and other shops. Fontaine des Innocents Place Joachim du Bellay is a name very few locals know, but no Parisian ignores its fountain: When they need to meet, Fontaine(fountain) des Innocents is the natural rendezvous. It is easy to understand why: It is strategically located [10] It is at the cross road of the main Parisian arteries. Today, it sits midway between the Parisian subway hub (Châtelet ) and the Regional Express Rail network hub (Les Halles) However, it is not directly on the way, rather on a “corner” of the intersection, so that the traffic doesn’t pass here. but, more important: the square’s size, 53x80m, is big enough to accommodate a substantiate activity making a good hangout, but small enough to be able to recognize a person in it (see the notion of social field of vision in [9]) and the square design is perfectly appropriate: Fontaine des Innocents IS the meeting point in Paris – credit (6) This square is also surrounded by Cafes. Concluding Paris’s Place Stravinsky, a “secondary” but still lovely place – credit (11) This geography is far to be exhaustive, Paris has many other squares, of various size, various features, some more interesting than other… what we have presented are what we see as the “staple” squares of Paris, and we can see some features emerging, noticeably regarding the size of the square: Different square size are needed in a big city, to accomodate the different function And still, the square where people feel comfortable to stay, will tend to be in the 120x120meter This size could be not purely arbitrary, and could have to do with our field of vision- we tend to not recognize people beyond this distance and from smaller distance, we tend to be able to describe people facial characteristic – the ~100 meter range lie in between [9]. [1] flickr user hisgett [2] flickr user ar56 [3] flickr user tofz4u [4] flickr user babicka2 [5] Franck prevel via Le Monde [6] Projet Les Halles [7] PPS page: Paris’Hotel de Ville (City Hall) [8] See for example: Squaring public space with human needs, Lisa Rochon, Globe and mail, Nov 25, 2011. Curiously enough Vancouver bloggers like Lewis n Villegas and Stephen Rees, will use this square to illustrate Vancouver specific problematic. For the record, architect Ricardo Boffil had a project to built a place inspired by Place des Vosges at Paris The Halles: Parisian didn’t like the idea, and their mayor, then Jacques Chirac, basically “chased” the architect… [9] Cities for people, Jan Gehl, 2010 [10] Paris, les Halles :introduction to its anatomy Filed in Paris, urbanism Tags: beaubourg, Fontaine des innocents, Place Charles-de-Gaulle, Place de l'Hôtel-de-Ville, Place de la République, place de l’Étoile, place des vosges, place Joachim du Bellay, Place Starvinsky Paris – Les halles – Introduction to its anatomy It is the center of Paris and was the site of the largest known wholesale market of its time. Since the market has moved away in 1969, the site, having received an underground shopping mall and a subway station seeing close to 1 million passengers a day, has become arguably the biggest urban conundrum of Paris. We gonna study it a bit- This first post layout some general context (at a level allowing me to classified my notes on the topic, so a bit heavier than necessary on the level of historic detail) The geographic context The very center of Paris Paris with its successive city walls. Les Halles are where the Montmartre road (blue line) meets the Paris "great cross" (red lines, the fine lines are the historic route, the thick ones have been layout circa 1850) The centre of Paris is at the center of the “great cross”: Historically, it was defined by rue St Honoré for the west branch, and rue St Denis (doubled by rus St Martin) for the North Branch. Mostly to resolve traffic issue, This cross will be doubled by the rue de Rivoli (West branch), and Boulevard de Sébastopol (north branch) [8]. In 1900 the cross will be doubled by the subway: line 1 for the East West axis, while the line 4 will roughly follow the North-South axis – they are respectively the first and second most used subway lines of the network. In 1977, the opening of the first lines, A and B, of the regional express subway (RER) will also follow this cross… The Montmartre road is coming from of the Montmartre hill following the terrain topography. A historically important road, but not necessarily for commercial reason, at the difference of the great cross roads: the meeting of Montmartre road with the great cross defines Les Halles – historically a triangular shape (between W and NW roads), as most of the medevial square sitting at the crossing of roads, used to be. It is important to note that the Halles has developed exclusively in the NW quadrant of the “active” great cross, basically almost never impeding the traffic on it. It was not the case of Montmartre street, since outside the market activities blocking the street, it was also the site of various celebration, and the pillory was here too: Left: Execution of Aymerigot Marcel, from Froissart's Chronical, Vol.IV, part 1, 1470 - Right: A "celebration" at the Halles by Philibert Louis Debucourt - It was to celebrate the birth of the French heir on January 21, 1782. The tower seen in the middle is the pillory Detail of the Halles district and market across the age, 1300, 1600, 1790 and 1830 - red line refer to the W and N branches of the historic great cross (rue St Honore and St Denis), and the blue line to the Montmartre road- credit (16) Thought a market was officially existing since Louis VI the fat, circa 1117 – which in fact was instituating a function already occurring on a necropolis site [5]– Les Halles history starts in 1183, when the King Philippe II Augustus decided to move a trade-fair on the site called the Champeaux. A history version suggests it was a Jew ghetto – Philippe II Augustus will have expelled them and seized their goods and houses in 1182 [2]-then build two covered market in 1183. They are thought to have been massive enough-100metres long and 10 height, with a vaulted ceiling, all in stones [5]– to have impressed their contemporaries: they will be called “Hala” (halles in french, the English term “hall” is poor translation, and we will keep the french term) and it is the beginning of the story. Left: Halles Champeaux (circa 1183) - right: Halla interior At first the market food trading is marginal. The market will start to flourish then will decline in the 14th and 15th centuries and the halles will fall in ruins. A Francis I reformation ordinance in 1543 will try to correct that. New halles will be erected to extend and replace the old ones circa 1551, that along market organization changes. The emergence of new trading usage (shop…) will make the market focusing increasingly on food trading. Soon enough it will be known as the largest market in Occident. Halle a la saline – circa 1784 Lot of things will change around, except 2 landmarks which today are still structuring the site- St Eustache Church and the Innocents Fountain-marked with a “red target” on all the maps to help the reader to contextualize the site: Les halles neighborhood, The halles today site and original site. St Eustache church and the Innocents Fountain landmarks highligted St Eustache Church It is a relatively unassuming Gothic style church, with an unfinished and at odd neoclassic frontage [9] – the kind of you can expect in many french cities. Its recognized best profile-highlighting its gothics features slighlty enhanced by some renaissance style details- is seen from its South East side, basically from the Innocents fountain. It is the obvious landmark of the neighborhood. Most of the photographs and paintings of the district include it whenever possible: When you see St Eustache, you know where you are. St Eustache church (in front the "Prouvaires" market): 24 barracks built between 1813-1818- circa 1850 (Photo Marville) The Innocents fountain Easy to find. On the way, more exactly on the historic Montmartre road axis- between the Halles and the “great cross” intersection- and dominating the middle of an unencumbered and well defined ~80mx60m square: a size big enough to accommodate a substantiate activity making a good hangout, but small enough to be able to recognize a person in it (see the notion of social field of vision in [7]): this unassuming structure is a landmark: it is “THE” meeting spot of the Halles. Notice the today square’s name, place Joachim du Bellay, is virtually unknown, overwhelmed it is by the “Innocents” fountain name everyone know. St Innocent fountain, and market. Notice the umbrellas in the forefront, they will play an important role in the Halles history- Photo Marville circa 1855 A bit of historic background for the Innocents fountain Innocents cemetery during the Middle ages The fountain- thought have been existing since 1274 [5][10]– has been a bit peripatetic. Originally this site was a cemetery, the St Innocents cemetery, and the fountain was sitting at the NE corner of it. A cenotaph was sitting in the middle of the cemetery. Odours The cemetery- an “overflowing” mass grave-the level was 2meters above natural level [5]– surrounded by an ossuary, has been closed circa 1785 under hygienist concern of the time and pressure of the neighborhood complaining about its “mephitic” odours [6] (the cemetery has been transferred into the catacombs) . The fountain has then replaced the cenotaph. Though merchants was conducting business in the cemetery before its closure, it became the regular market we see in the photo above in 1789-as planned by a 1750s plan. Project of conversion of the "Innocents" cemetery in a new market dated 1747 or 1767 (notice North is downward) before be surrounded by shelter for merchant, circa 1811-1813 [2], the Innocent market will receive 400 red parasols in 1800 [5], an anecdote which will eventually have a huge influence on the future of the site. The Innocents market will last up to 1858 when it will be relocated in the Halles Baltard, and give room partially to a park, an opportunity to relocate the fountain for the last time so far. "Innocents" market by Thomas Naudet circa 1800: 400 parasol had been installed to shelter the merchants (credit wikigallery) Some other building of interests The Halle au Blé The Halle au blé with the Médicis Column as it looks today from the Halles (credit wikipedia) In its today form, this building could have eventually been a landmark in a provincial city, but in the Parisian landscape, it looks like another official Parisian building… Its circular and repetitive from makes it a poor orientation helper. The lately added main entrance on its west side, make the building turning its back to the Halles site. It was a building to trade grain and flour. It has been built by Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières between 1763 and 1767, and was part of a larger neighborhood development following a circus layout. This building has been considerably altered in its history to the point it bears little relationship with its original design: Jacques-Guillaume Legrand and Jacques Molinos added a wooden framed dome in 1782, it will be destroyed by a fire in 1802 François-Joseph_Bélanger will rebuilt the dome with an iron frame and copper surfacing in 1806-1811 After another fire in 1854, the building will be closed in 1873, and radically transformed by Henri Blondel in 1885, to give its today appearance, and to host a commodity trade market. Nowadays, it is used by the Paris Chamber of commerce Original Halle au blé, as designed by Le Camus de Mézières (top). it will receive a wooden roof by Jacques Molinos and Legrand (middle) and will get a dramatic transformation by Blondel giving its today appearance(bottom) The surrounding buildings have followed a similar track. rue de Viarmes, circa 1885, left (photo Godefroy)- and now, right (credit wikipedia) The Médicis column It is the column seen next to the Halle au blé building. Commissioned by Catherine de’ Medici in 1574, it predates the building itself, but has always stand still there a bit at odd. Blondel was planning to demolish it in the context of its renovation work: Jean Charles Alphand, to whose Paris owns most of its most celebrated parks, will have intervened against such a fate. The Halle au Draps We mention this building because it was probably the traditional shape of the non food related Halles, and it relates to what have once been one of the most important and flagship trade activities of the medieval halles of Paris: drapery. The illustrated Halles, a 50x400foot building, has been built by Legrand and Molinos in 1786, it will lost its vaulted, wooden framed roof in a fire in 1855. following that, the then almost moribund drapery market, will be transferred to the Halle au ble. The building will be demolished in 1868. The advent of the department stores surrounding the halles, like Le Bon Marché, Samaritaine, the BHV or the Grands magasins du Louvre, will make them the place of choice to buy drapery The "halle aux draps" by Nicolle Victor Jean (circa 1830)- Probably a very traditional shape for the non-food "mortar" built Halle, it has been demolished in 1868 The market in 1850’s The Halles, for the food related market, are largely very medieval in their typology, and the last addition like the Prouvaires market built by Jean-Jacques-Marie Huvé between 1813-1818 (see photo above) or the halles for the fish and butter market, built in 1822 by Hubert Rohault de Fleury, don’t revisit this style, thought they are almost contemporary of the Covent garden market in London. In former time and in addition to Les Halles, Parisian houses in commercial districts had an open ground floor, where market activities was held. this form used to be called “Piliers” (from the building foundation pillars)-they form a 4meters wide gallery on the east side, and a 2meters wide one elsewhere [5], but in fact the market was sprawling in all the surrounding area. The Giuseppe Canella’s canvas below illustrates it: "les halles" circa 1830 and the Tonnellerie's "Piliers" - notice the roof shape of the covered market the market is the largest known central market of its time and live mostly at night: people, including 7162 counted sellers, start to come around 11pm, to serve an estimated 40,000+ customers, and are supposed by bylaw to have freed the street by 9am or 10am (in winter). The market roughly occupies 3.6 hectares -2.2hectares for flower, fruit and vegetable only- partitioned as following: 1 hectares of Halles (covered market) 0.6 hectares on open space 2 hectares on public street Traffic is a huge issue- there are counted 4,000 carts occupying an additional 2 hectares. handcart, basket storage, and livestock occupy an additional 0.5 hectares (number above from [11], [12] provides similar numbers, 5.5 hectares for the whole market). The area is a fertile ground for endemic prostitution and other activities associated with more or less shady nightlife [15]. The retail market is functioning all the day, making the area active 24hr a day. Adding to the picture the smell of the rotten food (odours have always been a strong marker of the site [15]), it doesn’t necessarily make a desirable place to live, and in fact the neighborhood, “unhealthy, badly built and crowded, is of a repulsive appearance” [14]: It is the “worst” slump of Paris where the living population density level has been reported at up to 100,000 people/km2 [1][15]. Diseases are widespread and the neighborood will be a nest of the 1832 cholera pandemic [13] Thought there were many men, for packing work- called fort des halles– many of the merchants were women, and the market was associated with a high level of gossiping and obscene language by the moral bourgeoisie of the time [13]. Eventually due to the market sprawl and ensuing disorganization, the government had little control on its activities, market stall allocation, tax collection..etc…. The government will try to get better control on it… It will be the object of another post: In this Marville photo (circa 1855), all the structuring edifices mentioned in this post are appearing. but what is the focus of the photo is the Halles Baltard: it will deserves a post of its own [1]The autumn of Central Paris, Anthony Sutcliffe, mc Gill Quueens Univeristy Press, 1970 [2] Mémoires de la Société de l’histoire de Paris et de l’Île-de-France, Volume 3, Paris, 1876 [3]it was kind of an European tradition when the government was in need of money. We refers to the June 24, 1182 expelling ordinance. It was called la “Juiverie des Champeaux”. This version doesn’t appear- neither is dismissed- in the recent literature (like [5]), but up to recently the literature was frequently referring to [2] to support this version. [4] Paris, ses organes, ses fonctions et sa vie dans la seconde moitie du XIXe siecle, Paris, 1874 (as translated in [13]) [5] Les halles de Paris et leur quartier (1137-1969), Anne Lombard Jourdan, 2010 [6] Histoire physique, civile et morale de Paris, Vol.6, Jacques Antoine Dulaure, 1837 [8] The Rue de Rivoli (street) has been opened in different stage between 1806 and 1835, for the Western part, and the last section completed in 1855 [1]. [9] It used to be chapel, St Agnès, built in the 13th century. The construction of the current church began in 1532, the work not being finally completed until 1637. Jean Hardouin-Mansart de Jouy has started to had a new neoclassic style frontage in 1754. The work will be continued but not finished by Pierre-Louis Moreau-Desproux up to 1772. [10] The original fountain with only 3 exposed faces- has been redone in its current style by Jean Goujon (sculptor) and Pierre Lescot (design)- 1546-1549. The fourth face has been added by Auguste pajou in 1788, when the fountain has been relocated in the middle of the place. [11] La politique Nouvelle, Juin, Juillet Aout 1851, Paris [12] Revue générale de l’architecture et des travaux publics: Volume 8, edited by César Daly, 1849, Paris [13] Urban Renovation, Moral Regeneration: Domesticating the Halles in Second-Empire Paris, Victoria E. Thompson, French Historical Studies, Vol. 20, No. 1, 1997. [14] “Question du déplacement de Paris,” Lanquetin, Prefecture de la Seine, Commission de Halles, April 1840 (as cited by [13]. [15] Les Halles: images d’un quartier, Jean-Louis Robert,Martine Tabeaud, 2004 [16] http://www.paris-atlas-historique.fr/ Filed in History, Les Halles, Paris, urbanism Tags: Aymerigot Marcel, Champeaux., Charles Marville, Fontaine des innocents, Fort des halles, François-Joseph_Bélanger, Giuseppe Canella, halle au blé, halle aux draps, Halles, Haussmann, Henri Blondel, Hubert Rohault de Fleury, Innocents, Jacques Molinos, Jacques-Guillaume Legrand, Jean-Jacques-Marie Huvé, Les halles, Louis VI, marché au beurre, marché des Prouvaires, Montmartre, Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières, Philibert Louis Debucourt, Philippe II Augustus, Piliers des halles, place Joachim du Bellay, rue de Rivoli, Saints Innocents Cemetery, St Eustache, Thomas Naudet	{"pred_label": "__label__cc", "pred_label_prob": 0.6800937652587891, "wiki_prob": 0.31990623474121094, "source": "cc/2023-06/en_head_0000.json.gz/line826218"}

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